THE UNSEEN WORLD AND OTHER ESSAYS

By John Fiske

Transcriber's Note: This reviews Draper's Science and Religion andcontrasts two Dante translations. 

 TO JAMES SIME. 

 MY DEAR SIME:

 Life has now and then some supreme moments of pure happiness, which in reminiscence give to single days the value of months or years. Two or three such moments it has been my good fortune to enjoy with you, in talking over the mysteries which forever fascinate while they forever baffle us. It was our midnight talks in Great Russell Street and the Addison Road, and our bright May holiday on the Thames, that led me to write this scanty essay on the "Unseen World, " and to whom could I so heartily dedicate it as to you? I only wish it were more worthy of its origin. As for the dozen papers which I have appended to it, by way of clearing out my workshop, I hope you will read them indulgently, and believe me

 Ever faithfully yours, JOHN FISKE. 

 HARVARD UNIVERSITY, February 3, 1876. 

CONTENTS. 

 I. THE UNSEEN WORLD II. "THE TO-MORROW OF DEATH" III. THE JESUS OF HISTORY IV. THE CHRIST OF DOGMA V. A WORD ABOUT MIRACLES VI. DRAPER ON SCIENCE AND RELIGION VII. NATHAN THE WISE VIII. HISTORICAL DIFFICULTIES IX. THE FAMINE OF 1770 IN BENGAL X. SPAIN AND THE NETHERLANDS XI. LONGFELLOW'S DANTE XII. PAINE'S "ST. PETER" XIII. A PHILOSOPHY OF ART XIV. ATHENIAN AND AMERICAN LIFE

ESSAYS. 

I. THE UNSEEN WORLD. 

PART FIRST. 

"What are you, where did you come from, and whither are you bound?"--thequestion which from Homer's days has been put to the wayfarer in strangelands--is likewise the all-absorbing question which man is ever askingof the universe of which he is himself so tiny yet so wondrous a part. From the earliest times the ultimate purpose of all scientific researchhas been to elicit fragmentary or partial responses to this question, and philosophy has ever busied itself in piecing together these severalbits of information according to the best methods at its disposal, inorder to make up something like a satisfactory answer. In old times thebest methods which philosophy had at its disposal for this purposewere such as now seem very crude, and accordingly ancient philosophersbungled considerably in their task, though now and then they camesurprisingly near what would to-day be called the truth. It was naturalthat their methods should be crude, for scientific inquiry had as yetsupplied but scanty materials for them to work with, and it was onlyafter a very long course of speculation and criticism that men couldfind out what ways of going to work are likely to prove successful andwhat are not. The earliest thinkers, indeed, were further hindered fromaccomplishing much by the imperfections of the language by the aid ofwhich their thinking was done; for science and philosophy have had tomake a serviceable terminology by dint of long and arduous trialand practice, and linguistic processes fit for expressing general orabstract notions accurately grew up only through numberless failures andat the expense of much inaccurate thinking and loose talking. As in mostof nature's processes, there was a great waste of energy before a goodresult could be secured. Accordingly primitive men were very wide of themark in their views of nature. To them the world was a sort of enchantedground, peopled with sprites and goblins; the quaint notions with whichwe now amuse our children in fairy tales represent a style of thinkingwhich once was current among grown men and women, and which is stillcurrent wherever men remain in a savage condition. The theories of theworld wrought out by early priest-philosophers were in great part madeup of such grotesque notions; and having become variously implicatedwith ethical opinions as to the nature and consequences of right andwrong behaviour, they acquired a kind of sanctity, so that any thinkerwho in the light of a wider experience ventured to alter or amend theprimitive theory was likely to be vituperated as an irreligious man oratheist. This sort of inference has not yet been wholly abandoned, even in civilized communities. Even to-day books are written about "theconflict between religion and science, " and other books are writtenwith intent to reconcile the two presumed antagonists. But when we lookbeneath the surface of things, we see that in reality there hasnever been any conflict between religion and science, nor is anyreconciliation called for where harmony has always existed. The realhistorical conflict, which has been thus curiously misnamed, has beenthe conflict between the more-crude opinions belonging to the science ofan earlier age and the less-crude opinions belonging to the science ofa later age. In the course of this contest the more-crude opinionshave usually been defended in the name of religion, and the less-crudeopinions have invariably won the victory; but religion itself, which isnot concerned with opinion, but with the aspiration which leads us tostrive after a purer and holier life, has seldom or never been attacked. On the contrary, the scientific men who have conducted the battle onbehalf of the less-crude opinions have generally been influenced bythis religious aspiration quite as strongly as the apologists of themore-crude opinions, and so far from religious feeling having beenweakened by their perennial series of victories, it has apparently beengrowing deeper and stronger all the time. The religious sense is as yettoo feebly developed in most of us; but certainly in no preceding agehave men taken up the work of life with more earnestness or with morereal faith in the unseen than at the present day, when so much of whatwas once deemed all-important knowledge has been consigned to the limboof mythology. 

The more-crude theories of early times are to be chiefly distinguishedfrom the less-crude theories of to-day as being largely the productsof random guesswork. Hypothesis, or guesswork, indeed, lies at thefoundation of all scientific knowledge. The riddle of the universe, likeless important riddles, is unravelled only by approximative trials, andthe most brilliant discoverers have usually been the bravest guessers. Kepler's laws were the result of indefatigable guessing, and so, ina somewhat different sense, was the wave-theory of light. But theguesswork of scientific inquirers is very different now from what it wasin older times. In the first place, we have slowly learned that a guessmust be verified before it can be accepted as a sound theory; and, secondly, so many truths have been established beyond contravention, that the latitude for hypothesis is much less than it once was. Nine tenths of the guesses which might have occurred to a mediaevalphilosopher would now be ruled out as inadmissible, because they wouldnot harmonize with the knowledge which has been acquired since theMiddle Ages. There is one direction especially in which this continuouslimitation of guesswork by ever-accumulating experience has manifesteditself. From first to last, all our speculative successes and failureshave agreed in teaching us that the most general principles of actionwhich prevail to-day, and in our own corner of the universe, have alwaysprevailed throughout as much of the universe as is accessible to ourresearch. They have taught us that for the deciphering of the past andthe predicting of the future, no hypotheses are admissible which are notbased upon the actual behaviour of things in the present. Once there wasunlimited facility for guessing as to how the solar system might havecome into existence; now the origin of the sun and planets is adequatelyexplained when we have unfolded all that is implied in the processeswhich are still going on in the solar system. Formerly appeals were madeto all manner of violent agencies to account for the changes which theearth's surface has undergone since our planet began its independentcareer; now it is seen that the same slow working of rain and tide, ofwind and wave and frost, of secular contraction and of earthquake pulse, which is visible to-day, will account for the whole. It is not longsince it was supposed that a species of animals or plants could be sweptaway only by some unusual catastrophe, while for the origination of newspecies something called an act of "special creation" was necessary; andas to the nature of such extraordinary events there was endless room forguesswork; but the discovery of natural selection was the discovery of aprocess, going on perpetually under our very eyes, which must inevitablyof itself extinguish some species and bring new ones into being. Inthese and countless other ways we have learned that all the rich varietyof nature is pervaded by unity of action, such as we might expect tofind if nature is the manifestation of an infinite God who is withoutvariableness or shadow of turning, but quite incompatible with thefitful behaviour of the anthropomorphic deities of the old mythologies. By thus abstaining from all appeal to agencies that are extra-cosmic, or not involved in the orderly system of events that we see occurringaround us, we have at last succeeded in eliminating from philosophicspeculation the character of random guesswork which at first ofnecessity belonged to it. Modern scientific hypothesis is so far frombeing a haphazard mental proceeding that it is perhaps hardly fair toclassify it with guesses. It is lifted out of the plane of guesswork, in so far as it has acquired the character of inevitable inference fromthat which now is to that which has been or will be. Instead of theinnumerable particular assumptions which were once admitted into cosmicphilosophy, we are now reduced to the one universal assumption whichhas been variously described as the "principle of continuity, " the"uniformity of nature, " the "persistence of force, " or the "law ofcausation, " and which has been variously explained as a necessary datumfor scientific thinking or as a net result of all induction. I am notunwilling, however, to adopt the language of a book which has furnishedthe occasion for the present discussion, and to say that this grandassumption is a supreme act of faith, the definite expression of atrust that the infinite Sustainer of the universe "will not put us topermanent intellectual confusion. " For in this mode of statement theharmony between the scientific and the religious points of view iswell brought out. It is as affording the only outlet from permanentintellectual confusion that inquirers have been driven to appeal tothe principle of continuity; and it is by unswerving reliance upon thisprinciple that we have obtained such insight into the past, present, andfuture of the world as we now possess. 

The work just mentioned [1] is especially interesting as an attempt tobring the probable destiny of the human soul into connection with themodern theories which explain the past and future career of the physicaluniverse in accordance with the principle of continuity. Its authorshipis as yet unknown, but it is believed to be the joint production oftwo of the most eminent physicists in Great Britain, and certainly theaccurate knowledge and the ingenuity and subtlety of thought displayedin it are such as to lend great probability to this conjecture. Someaccount of the argument it contains may well precede the suggestionspresently to be set forth concerning the Unseen World; and we shall findit most convenient to begin, like our authors, with a brief statement ofwhat the principle of continuity teaches as to the proximate beginningand end of the visible universe. I shall in the main set down onlyresults, having elsewhere [2] given a simple exposition of the argumentsupon which these results are founded. 

 [1] The Unseen Universe; or, Physical Speculations on a FutureState. [Attributed to Professors TAIT and BALFOUR STEWART. ] New York:Macmillan & Co. 1875. 8vo. Pp. 212. 

 [2] Outlines of Cosmic Philosophy, based on the Doctrine ofEvolution. Boston: J. R. Osgood & Co. 1875. 2 vols. 8vo. 

The first great cosmological speculation which has been raised quiteabove the plane of guesswork by making no other assumption than that ofthe uniformity of nature, is the well-known Nebular Hypothesis. Everyastronomer knows that the earth, like all other cosmical bodieswhich are flattened at the poles, was formerly a mass of fluid, andconsequently filled a much larger space than at present. It is furtheragreed, on all hands, that the sun is a contracting body, since thereis no other possible way of accounting for the enormous quantity of heatwhich he generates. The so-called primeval nebula follows as a necessaryinference from these facts. There was once a time when the earth wasdistended on all sides away out to the moon and beyond it, so that thematter now contained in the moon was then a part of our equatorialzone. And at a still remoter date in the past, the mass of the sun wasdiffused in every direction beyond the orbit of Neptune, and no planethad an individual existence, for all were indistinguishable parts of thesolar mass. When the great mass of the sun, increased by the relativelysmall mass of all the planets put together, was spread out in this way, it was a rare vapour or gas. At the period where the question is takenup in Laplace's treatment of the nebular theory, the shape of this massis regarded as spheroidal; but at an earlier period its shape may wellhave been as irregular as that of any of the nebulae which we now seein distant parts of the heavens, for, whatever its primitive shape, theequalization of its rotation would in time make it spheroidal. That theQUANTITY of rotation was the same then as now is unquestionable; for nosystem of particles, great or small, can acquire or lose rotation by anyaction going on within itself, any more than a man could pick himselfup by his waistband and lift himself over a stone wale So thatthe primitive rotating spheroidal solar nebula is not a matter ofassumption, but is just what must once have existed, provided there hasbeen no breach of continuity in nature's operations. Now proceeding toreason back from the past to the present, it has been shown that theabandonment of successive equatorial belts by the contracting solarmass must have ensued in accordance with known mechanical laws; and insimilar wise, under ordinary circumstances each belt must have partedinto fragments, and the fragments chasing each other around the sameorbit, must have at last coalesced into a spheroidal planet. Not onlythis, but it has also been shown that as the result of such a processthe relative sizes of the planets would be likely to take the orderwhich they now follow; that the ring immediately succeeding that ofJupiter would be likely to abort and produce a great number of tinyplanets instead of one good-sized one; that the outer planets would belikely to have many moons, and that Saturn, besides having the greatestnumber of moons, would be likely to retain some of his inner ringsunbroken; that the earth would be likely to have a long day and Jupitera short one; that the extreme outer planets would be not unlikely torotate in a retrograde direction; and so on, through a long list ofinteresting and striking details. Not only, therefore, are we driven tothe inference that our solar system was once a vaporous nebula, but wefind that the mere contraction of such a nebula, under the influence ofthe enormous mutual gravitation of its particles, carries with it theexplanation of both the more general and the more particular features ofthe present system. So that we may fairly regard this stupendous processas veritable matter of history, while we proceed to study it under somefurther aspects and to consider what consequences are likely to follow. 

Our attention should first be directed to the enormous waste of energywhich has accompanied this contraction of the solar nebula. The firstresult of such a contraction is the generation of a great quantity ofheat, and when the heat thus generated has been lost by radiation intosurrounding space it becomes possible for the contraction to continue. Thus, as concentration goes on, heat is incessantly generated andincessantly dissipated. How long this process is to endure dependschiefly on the size of the contracting mass, as small bodies radiateheat much faster than large ones. The moon seems to be alreadythoroughly refrigerated, while Jupiter and Saturn are very much hotterthan the earth, as is shown by the tremendous atmospheric phenomenawhich occur on their surfaces. The sun, again, generates heat sorapidly, owing to his great energy of contraction, and loses it soslowly, owing to his great size, that his surface is always kept in astate of incandescence. His surface-temperature is estimated at somethree million degrees of Fahrenheit, and a diminution of his diameterfar too small to be detected by the finest existing instruments wouldsuffice to maintain the present supply of heat for more than fiftycenturies. These facts point to a very long future during which the sunwill continue to warm the earth and its companion planets, but at thesame time they carry on their face the story of inevitable ultimatedoom. If things continue to go on as they have all along gone on, thesun must by and by grow black and cold, and all life whatever throughoutthe solar system must come to an end. Long before this consummation, however, life will probably have become extinct through therefrigeration of each of the planets into a state like the present stateof the moon, in which the atmosphere and oceans have disappeared fromthe surface. No doubt the sun will continue to give out heat a long timeafter heat has ceased to be needed for the support of living organisms. For the final refrigeration of the sun will long be postponed by thefate of the planets themselves. The separation of the planets from theirparent solar mass seems to be after all but a temporary separation. Sonicely balanced are they now in their orbits that they may well seemcapable of rolling on in their present courses forever. But this is notthe case. Two sets of circumstances are all the while striving, the oneto drive the planets farther away from the sun, the other to draw themall into it. On the one hand, every body in our system which containsfluid matter has tides raised upon its surface by the attraction ofneighbouring bodies. All the planets raise tides upon the surface of thesun and the periodicity of sun-spots (or solar cyclones) depends uponthis fact. These tidal waves act as a drag or brake upon the rotationof the sun, somewhat diminishing its rapidity. But, in conformity with aprinciple of mechanics well known to astronomers, though not familiar tothe general reader, all the motion of rotation thus lost by the sun isadded to the planets in the shape of annual motion of revolution, andthus their orbits all tend to enlarge, --they all tend to recede somewhatfrom the sun. But this state of things, though long-enduring enough, isafter all only temporary, and will at any rate come to an end whenthe sun and planets have become solid. Meanwhile another set ofcircumstances is all the time tending to bring the planets nearer to thesun, and in the long run must gain the mastery. The space through whichthe planets move is filled with a kind of matter which serves as amedium for the transmission of heat and light, and this kind of matter, though different in some respects from ordinary ponderable matter, isyet like it in exerting friction. This friction is almost infinitelylittle, yet it has a wellnigh infinite length of time to work in, andduring all this wellnigh infinite length of time it is slowly eating upthe momentum of the planets and diminishing their ability to maintaintheir distances from the sun. Hence in course of time the planets willall fall into the sun, one after another, so that the solar system willend, as it began, by consisting of a single mass of matter. 

But this is by no means the end of the story. When two bodies rushtogether, each parts with some of its energy of motion, and this lostenergy of motion reappears as heat. In the concussion of two cosmicalbodies, like the sun and the earth, an enormous quantity of motion isthus converted into heat. Now heat, when not allowed to radiate, or whengenerated faster than it can be radiated, is transformed into motion ofexpansion. Hence the shock of sun and planet would at once result in thevaporization of both bodies; and there can be no doubt that by the timethe sun has absorbed the outermost of his attendant planets, he willhave resumed something like his original nebulous condition. He willhave been dilated into a huge mass of vapour, and will have becomefit for a new process of contraction and for a new production oflife-bearing planets. 

We are now, however, confronted by an interesting but difficultquestion. Throughout all this grand past and future career of the solarsystem which we have just briefly traced, we have been witnessing amost prodigal dissipation of energy in the shape of radiant heat. Atthe outset we had an enormous quantity of what is called "energy ofposition, " that is, the outer parts of our primitive nebula had a verylong distance through which to travel towards one another in the slowprocess of concentration; and this distance was the measure of thequantity of work possible to our system. As the particles of our nebuladrew nearer and nearer together, the energy of position continually lostreappeared continually as heat, of which the greater part was radiatedoff, but of which a certain amount was retained. All the giganticamount of work achieved in the geologic development of our earth andits companion planets, and in the development of life wherever life mayexist in our system, has been the product of this retained heat. At thepresent day the same wasteful process is going on. Each moment the sun'sparticles are losing energy of position as they draw closer and closertogether, and the heat into which this lost energy is metamorphosed ispoured out most prodigally in every direction. Let us consider for amoment how little of it gets used in our system. The earth's orbit isa nearly circular figure more than five hundred million miles incircumference, while only eight thousand miles of this path are at anyone time occupied by the earth's mass. Through these eight thousandmiles the sun's radiated energy is doing work, but through the remainderof the five hundred million it is idle and wasted. But the case is farmore striking when we reflect that it is not in the plane of the earth'sorbit only that the sun's radiance is being poured out. It is not anaffair of a circle, but of a sphere. In order to utilize all the solarrays, we should need to have an immense number of earths arranged so asto touch each other, forming a hollow sphere around the sun, with thepresent radius of the earth's orbit. We may well believe ProfessorTyndall, therefore, when he tells us that all the solar radiance wereceive is less than a two-billionth part of what is sent flying throughthe desert regions of space. Some of the immense residue of course hitsother planets stationed in the way of it, and is utilized upon theirsurfaces; but the planets, all put together, stop so little of the totalquantity that our startling illustration is not materially altered bytaking them into the account. Now this two-billionth part of the solarradiance poured out from moment to moment suffices to blow every wind, to raise every cloud, to drive every engine, to build up the tissue ofevery plant, to sustain the activity of every animal, including man, upon the surface of our vast and stately globe. Considering the wondrousrichness and variety of the terrestrial life wrought out by the fewsunbeams which we catch in our career through space, we may wellpause overwhelmed and stupefied at the thought of the incalculablepossibilities of existence which are thrown away with the potentactinism that darts unceasingly into the unfathomed abysms of immensity. Where it goes to or what becomes of it, no one of us can surmise. 

Now when, in the remote future, our sun is reduced to vapour by theimpact of the several planets upon his surface, the resulting nebulousmass must be a very insignificant affair compared with the nebulous masswith which we started. In order to make a second nebula equal in sizeand potential energy to the first one, all the energy of position atfirst existing should have been retained in some form or other. Butnearly all of it has been lost, and only an insignificant fractionremains with which to endow a new system. In order to reproduce, infuture ages, anything like that cosmical development which is nowgoing on in the solar system, aid must be sought from without. We mustendeavour to frame some valid hypothesis as to the relation of our solarsystem to other systems. 

Thus far our view has been confined to the career of a single star, --oursun, --with the tiny, easily-cooling balls which it has cast off in thecourse of its development. Thus far, too, our inferences have beenvery secure, for we have been dealing with a circumscribed group ofphenomena, the beginning and end of which have been brought pretty wellwithin the compass of our imagination. It is quite another thing to dealwith the actual or probable career of the stars in general, inasmuchas we do not even know how many stars there are, which form parts ofa common system, or what are their precise dynamic relations to oneanother. Nevertheless we have knowledge of a few facts which may supportsome cautious inferences. All the stars which we can see are undoubtedlybound together by relations of gravitation. No doubt our sun attractsall the other stars within our ken, and is reciprocally attracted bythem. The stars, too, lie mostly in or around one great plane, as is thecase with the members of the solar system. Moreover, the stars are shownby the spectroscope to consist of chemical elements identical withthose which are found in the solar system. Such facts as these make itprobable that the career of other stars, when adequately inquiredinto, would be found to be like that of our own sun. Observation dailyenhances this probability, for our study of the sidereal universe iscontinually showing us stars in all stages of development. We findirregular nebulae, for example; we find spiral and spheroidal nebulae;we find stars which have got beyond the nebulous stage, but are still ata whiter heat than our sun; and we also find many stars which yield thesame sort of spectrum as our sun. The inference seems forced upon usthat the same process of concentration which has gone on in the caseof our solar nebula has been going on in the case of other nebulae. Thehistory of the sun is but a type of the history of stars in general. Andwhen we consider that all other visible stars and nebulae are coolingand contracting bodies, like our sun, to what other conclusion could wevery well come? When we look at Sirius, for instance, we do not seehim surrounded by planets, for at such a distance no planet could bevisible, even Sirius himself, though fourteen times larger than our sun, appearing only as a "twinkling little star. " But a comparative surveyof the heavens assures us that Sirius can hardly have arrived at hispresent stage of concentration without detaching, planet-forming rings, for there is no reason for supposing that mechanical laws out there areat all different from what they are in our own system. And the same kindof inference must apply to all the matured stars which we see in theheavens. 

When we duly take all these things into the account, the case of oursolar system will appear as only one of a thousand cases of evolutionand dissolution with which the heavens furnish us. Other stars, like oursun, have undoubtedly started as vaporous masses, and have thrown offplanets in contracting. The inference may seem a bold one, but it afterall involves no other assumption than that of the continuity of naturalphenomena. It is not likely, therefore, that the solar system willforever be left to itself. Stars which strongly gravitate toward eachother, while moving through a perennially resisting medium, must intime be drawn together. The collision of our extinct sun with one of thePleiades, after this manner, would very likely suffice to generate evena grander nebula than the one with which we started. Possibly the entiregalactic system may, in an inconceivably remote future, remodel itselfin this way; and possibly the nebula from which our own group of planetshas been formed may have owed its origin to the disintegration ofsystems which had accomplished their career in the depths of the bygoneeternity. 

When the problem is extended to these huge dimensions, the prospect ofan ultimate cessation of cosmical work is indefinitely postponed, butat the same time it becomes impossible for us to deal very securelywith the questions we have raised. The magnitudes and periods we haveintroduced are so nearly infinite as to baffle speculation itself: Onepoint, however, we seem dimly to discern. Supposing the stellar universenot to be absolutely infinite in extent, we may hold that the day ofdoom, so often postponed, must come at last. The concentration of matterand dissipation of energy, so often checked, must in the end prevail, so that, as the final outcome of things, the entire universe will bereduced to a single enormous ball, dead and frozen, solid and black, its potential energy of motion having been all transformed into heatand radiated away. Such a conclusion has been suggested by Sir WilliamThomson, and it is quite forcibly stated by the authors of "The UnseenUniverse. " They remind us that "if there be any one form of energyless readily or less completely transformable than the others, and iftransformations constantly go on, more and more of the whole energyof the universe will inevitably sink into this lower grade as timeadvances. " Now radiant heat, as we have seen, is such a lower gradeof energy. "At each transformation of heat-energy into work, a largeportion is degraded, while only a small portion is transformed intowork. So that while it is very easy to change all of our mechanical oruseful energy into heat, it is only possible to transform a portion ofthis heat-energy back again into work. After each change, too, theheat becomes more and more dissipated or degraded, and less and lessavailable for any future transformation. In other words, " our authorscontinue, "the tendency of heat is towards equalization; heat ispar excellence the communist of our universe, and it will no doubtultimately bring the system to an end. . . . . It is absolutely certain thatlife, so far as it is physical, depends essentially upon transformationsof energy; it is also absolutely certain that age after age thepossibility of such transformations is becoming less and less; and, sofar as we yet know, the final state of the present universe must be anaggregation (into one mass) of all the matter it contains, i. E. Thepotential energy gone, and a practically useless state of kineticenergy, i. E. Uniform temperature throughout that mass. " Thus ourauthors conclude that the visible universe began in time and will intime come to an end; and they add that under the physical conditions ofsuch a universe "immortality is impossible. "

Concerning the latter inference we shall by and by have something tosay. Meanwhile this whole speculation as to the final cessation ofcosmical work seems to me--as it does to my friend, Professor Clifford[3]--by no means trustworthy. The conditions of the problem sofar transcend our grasp that any such speculation must remain anunverifiable guess. I do not go with Professor Clifford in doubtingwhether the laws of mechanics are absolutely the same throughouteternity; I cannot quite reconcile such a doubt with faith in theprinciple of continuity. But it does seem to me needful, before weconclude that radiated energy is absolutely and forever wasted, that weshould find out what becomes of it. What we call radiant heat is simplytransverse wave-motion, propagated with enormous velocity through anocean of subtle ethereal matter which bathes the atoms of all visibleor palpable bodies and fills the whole of space, extending beyond theremotest star which the telescope can reach. Whether there are anybounds at all to this ethereal ocean, or whether it is as infiniteas space itself, we cannot surmise. If it be limited, the possibledispersion of radiant energy is limited by its extent. Heat and lightcannot travel through emptiness. If the ether is bounded by surroundingemptiness, then a ray of heat, on arriving at this limiting emptiness, would be reflected back as surely as a ball is sent back when thrownagainst a solid wall. If this be the case, it will not affect ourconclusions concerning such a tiny region of space as is occupied bythe solar system, but it will seriously modify Sir William Thomson'ssuggestion as to the fate of the universe as a whole. The radiancethrown away by the sun is indeed lost so far as the future of our systemis concerned, but not a single unit of it is lost from the universe. Sooner or later, reflected back in all directions, it must do work inone quarter or another, so that ultimate stagnation be comes impossible. It is true that no such return of radiant energy has been detected inour corner of the world; but we have not yet so far disentangled all theforce-relations of the universe that we are entitled to regard such areturn as impossible. This is one way of escape from the consummationof things depicted by our authors. Another way of escape is equallyavailable, if we suppose that while the ether is without boundsthe stellar universe also extends to infinity. For in this case thereproduction of nebulous masses fit for generating new systems of worldsmust go on through space that is endless, and consequently the processcan never come to an end and can never have had a beginning. We have, therefore, three alternatives: either the visible universe is finite, while the ether is infinite; or both are finite; or both are infinite. Only on the first supposition, I think, do we get a universe which beganin time and must end in time. Between such stupendous alternatives wehave no grounds for choosing. But it would seem that the third, whetherstrictly true or not, best represents the state of the case relativelyto our feeble capacity of comprehension. Whether absolutely infiniteor not, the dimensions of the universe must be taken as practicallyinfinite, so far as human thought is concerned. They immeasurablytranscend the capabilities of any gauge we can bring to bear on them. Accordingly all that we are really entitled to hold, as the outcome ofsound speculation, is the conception of innumerable systems of worldsconcentrating out of nebulous masses, and then rushing together anddissolving into similar masses, as bubbles unite and break up--nowhere, now there--in their play on the surface of a pool, and to thistremendous series of events we can assign neither a beginning nor anend. 

 [3] Fortnightly Review, April, 1875. 

We must now make some more explicit mention of the ether which carriesthrough space the rays of heat and light. In closest connection withthe visible stellar universe, the vicissitudes of which we have brieflytraced, the all-pervading ether constitutes a sort of unseen worldremarkable enough from any point of view, but to which the theory of ourauthors ascribes capacities hitherto unsuspected by science. The veryexistence of an ocean of ether enveloping the molecules of materialbodies has been doubted or denied by many eminent physicists, though ofcourse none have called in question the necessity for some interstellarmedium for the transmission of thermal and luminous vibrations. This scepticism has been, I think, partially justified by the manydifficulties encompassing the conception, into which, however, we neednot here enter. That light and heat cannot be conveyed by any of theordinary sensible forms of matter is unquestionable. None of the formsof sensible matter can be imagined sufficiently elastic to propagatewave-motion at the rate of one hundred and eighty-eight thousand milesper second. Yet a ray of light is a series of waves, and implies somesubstance in which the waves occur. The substance required is one whichseems to possess strangely contradictory properties. It is commonlyregarded as an "ether" or infinitely rare substance; but, as ProfessorJevons observes, we might as well regard it as an infinitely solid"adamant. " "Sir John Herschel has calculated the amount of force whichmay be supposed, according to the undulatory theory of light, to beexerted at each point in space, and finds it to be 1, 148, 000, 000, 000times the elastic force of ordinary air at the earth's surface, so thatthe pressure of the ether upon a square inch of surface must be about17, 000, 000, 000, 000, or seventeen billions of pounds. " [4] Yet at thesame time the resistance offered by the ether to the planetary motionsis too minute to be appreciable. "All our ordinary notions, " saysProfessor Jevons, "must be laid aside in contemplating such anhypothesis; yet [it is] no more than the observed phenomena of light andheat force us to accept. We cannot deny even the strange suggestion ofDr. Young, that there may be independent worlds, some possibly existingin different parts of space, but others perhaps pervading each other, unseen and unknown, in the same space. For if we are bound to admit theconception of this adamantine firmament, it is equally easy to admit aplurality of such. "

 [4] Jevons's Principles of Science, Vol. II. P. 145. The figures, which in the English system of numeration read as seventeen billions, would in the American system read as seventeen trillions. 

The ether, therefore, is unlike any of the forms of matter which wecan weigh and measure. In some respects it resembles a fluid, in somerespects a solid. It is both hard and elastic to an almost inconceivabledegree. It fills all material bodies like a sea in which the atoms ofthe material bodies are as islands, and it occupies the whole of what wecall empty space. It is so sensitive that a disturbance in any part ofit causes a "tremour which is felt on the surface of countless worlds. "Our old experiences of matter give us no account of any substance likethis; yet the undulatory theory of light obliges us to admit such asubstance, and that theory is as well established as the theory ofgravitation. Obviously we have here an enlargement of our experienceof matter. The analysis of the phenomena of light and radiant heat hasbrought us into mental relations with matter in a different state fromany in which we previously knew it. For the supposition that the ethermay be something essentially different from matter is contradicted byall the terms we have used in describing it. Strange and contradictoryas its properties may seem, are they any more strange than theproperties of a gas would seem if we were for the first time to discovera gas after heretofore knowing nothing but solids and liquids? I thinknot; and the conclusion implied by our authors seems to me eminentlyprobable, that in the so-called ether we have simply a state of mattermore primitive than what we know as the gaseous state. Indeed, theconceptions of matter now current, and inherited from barbarous ages, are likely enough to be crude in the extreme. It is not strange thatthe study of such subtle agencies as heat and light should oblige usto modify them; and it will not be strange if the study of electricityshould entail still further revision of our ideas. 

We are now brought to one of the profoundest speculations of moderntimes, the vortex-atom theory of Helmholtz and Thomson, in which theevolution of ordinary matter from ether is plainly indicated. Thereader first needs to know what vortex-motion is; and this has beenso beautifully explained by Professor Clifford, that I quote hisdescription entire: "Imagine a ring of india-rubber, made by joiningtogether the ends of a cylindrical piece (like a lead-pencil beforeit is cut), to be put upon a round stick which it will just fit with alittle stretching. Let the stick be now pulled through the ring whilethe latter is kept in its place by being pulled the other way on theoutside. The india-rubber has then what is called vortex-motion. Beforethe ends were joined together, while it was straight, it might have beenmade to turn around without changing position, by rolling it between thehands. Just the same motion of rotation it has on the stick, only thatthe ends are now joined together. All the inside surface of the ring isgoing one way, namely, the way the stick is pulled; and all the outsideis going the other way. Such a vortex-ring is made by the smoker whopurses his lips into a round hole and sends out a puff of smoke. Theoutside of the ring is kept back by the friction of his lips whilethe inside is going forwards; thus a rotation is set up all round thesmoke-ring as it travels out into the air. " In these cases, and inothers as we commonly find it, vortex-motion owes its origin to frictionand is after a while brought to an end by friction. But in 1858 theequations of motion of an incompressible frictionless fluid were firstsuccessfully solved by Helmholtz, and among other things he provedthat, though vortex-motion could not be originated in such a fluid, yetsupposing it once to exist, it would exist to all eternity and couldnot be diminished by any mechanical action whatever. A vortex-ring, forexample, in such a fluid, would forever preserve its own rotation, andwould thus forever retain its peculiar individuality, being, as it were, marked off from its neighbour vortex-rings. Upon this mechanical truthSir William Thomson based his wonderfully suggestive theory of theconstitution of matter. That which is permanent or indestructible inmatter is the ultimate homogeneous atom; and this is probably all thatis permanent, since chemists now almost unanimously hold that so-calledelementary molecules are not really simple, but owe their sensibledifferences to the various groupings of an ultimate atom which is alikefor all. Relatively to our powers of comprehension the atom endureseternally; that is, it retains forever unalterable its definite massand its definite rate of vibration. Now this is just what a vortex-ringwould do in an incompressible frictionless fluid. Thus the startlingquestion is suggested, Why may not the ultimate atoms of matter bevortex-rings forever existing in such a frictionless fluid filling thewhole of space? Such a hypothesis is not less brilliant than Huyghens'sconjectural identification of light with undulatory motion; and it ismoreover a legitimate hypothesis, since it can be brought to the testof verification. Sir William Thomson has shown that it explains a greatmany of the physical properties of matter: it remains to be seen whetherit can explain them all. 

Of course the ether which conveys thermal and luminous undulations isnot the frictionless fluid postulated by Sir William Thomson. The mostconspicuous property of the ether is its enormous elasticity, a propertywhich we should not find in a frictionless fluid. "To account for suchelasticity, " says Professor Clifford (whose exposition of the subject isstill more lucid than that of our authors), "it has to be supposed thateven where there are no material molecules the universal fluid is fullof vortex-motion, but that the vortices are smaller and more closelypacked than those of [ordinary] matter, forming altogether a more finelygrained structure. So that the difference between matter and etheris reduced to a mere difference in the size and arrangement of thecomponent vortex-rings. Now, whatever may turn out to be the ultimatenature of the ether and of molecules, we know that to some extentat least they obey the same dynamic laws, and that they act uponone another in accordance with these laws. Until, therefore, it isabsolutely disproved, it must remain the simplest and most probableassumption that they are finally made of the same stuff, that thematerial molecule is some kind of knot or coagulation of ether. " [5]

 [5] Fortnightly Review, June, 1875, p. 784. 

Another interesting consequence of Sir William Thomson's pregnanthypothesis is that the absolute hardness which has been attributed tomaterial atoms from the time of Lucretius downward may be dispensedwith. Somewhat in the same way that a loosely suspended chainbecomes rigid with rapid rotation, the hardness and elasticity of thevortex-atom are explained as due to the swift rotary motion of a softand yielding fluid. So that the vortex-atom is really indivisible, not by reason of its hardness or solidity, but by reason of theindestructibleness of its motion. 

Supposing, now, that we adopt provisionally the vortex theory, --thegreat power of which is well shown by the consideration justmentioned, --we must not forget that it is absolutely essential to theindestructibleness of the material atom that the universal fluid inwhich it has an existence as a vortex-ring should be entirely destituteof friction. Once admit even the most infinitesimal amount of friction, while retaining the conception of vortex-motion in a universal fluid, and the whole case is so far altered that the material atom canno longer be regarded as absolutely indestructible, but only asindefinitely enduring. It may have been generated, in bygone eternity, by a natural process of evolution, and in future eternity may come to anend. Relatively to our powers of comprehension the practical differenceis perhaps not great. Scientifically speaking, Helmholtz and Thomsonare as well entitled to reason upon the assumption of a perfectlyfrictionless fluid as geometers in general are entitled to assumeperfect lines without breadth and perfect surfaces without thickness. Perfect lines and surfaces do not exist within the region of ourexperience; yet the conclusions of geometry are none the less trueideally, though in any particular concrete instance they are onlyapproximately realized. Just so with the conception of a frictionlessfluid. So far as experience goes, such a thing has no more realexistence than a line without breadth; and hence an atomic theory basedupon such an assumption may be as true ideally as any of the theoremsof Euclid, but it can give only an approximatively true account ofthe actual universe. These considerations do not at all affect thescientific value of the theory; but they will modify the tenour ofsuch transcendental inferences as may be drawn from it regarding, theprobable origin and destiny of the universe. 

The conclusions reached in the first part of this paper, while we weredealing only with gross visible matter, may have seemed bold enough; butthey are far surpassed by the inference which our authors draw from thevortex theory as they interpret it. Our authors exhibit various reasons, more or less sound, for attributing to the primordial fluid some slightamount of friction; and in support of this view they adduce Le Sage'sexplanation of gravitation as a differential result of pressure, and Struve's theory of the partial absorption of light-rays by theether, --questions with which our present purpose does not require usto meddle. Apart from such questions it is every way probable that theprimary assumption of Helmholtz and Thomson is only an approximationto the truth. But if we accredit the primordial fluid with even aninfinitesimal amount of friction, then we are required to conceive ofthe visible universe as developed from the invisible and as destined toreturn into the invisible. The vortex-atom, produced by infinitesimalfriction operating through wellnigh infinite time, is to be ultimatelyabolished by the agency which produced it. In the words of our authors, "If the visible universe be developed from an invisible which is nota perfect fluid, then the argument deduced by Sir William Thomsonin favour of the eternity of ordinary matter disappears, since thiseternity depends upon the perfect fluidity of the invisible. In fine, if we suppose the material universe to be composed of a series ofvortex-rings developed from an invisible universe which is not a perfectfluid, it will be ephemeral, just as the smoke-ring which we developfrom air, or that which we develop from water, is ephemeral, the onlydifference being in duration, these lasting only for a few seconds, and the others it may be for billions of years. " Thus, as our authorssuppose that "the available energy of the visible universe willultimately be appropriated by the invisible, " they go on to imagine, "at least as a possibility, that the separate existence of the visibleuniverse will share the same fate, so that we shall have no huge, useless, inert mass existing in after ages to remind the passer-by ofa form of energy and a species of matter that is long since out of dateand functionally effete. Why should not the universe bury its dead outof sight?"

In one respect perhaps no more stupendous subject of contemplation thanthis has ever been offered to the mind of man. In comparison with thelength of time thus required to efface the tiny individual atom, theentire cosmical career of our solar system, or even that of the wholestarry galaxy, shrinks into utter nothingness. Whether we shall adoptthe conclusion suggested must depend on the extent of our speculativeaudacity. We have seen wherein its probability consists, but inreasoning upon such a scale we may fitly be cautious and modest inaccepting inferences, and our authors, we may be sure, would be thefirst to recommend such modesty and caution. Even at the dimensions towhich our theorizing has here grown, we may for instance discern thepossible alternative of a simultaneous or rhythmically successivegeneration and destruction of vortex-atoms which would go far to modifythe conclusion just suggested. But here we must pause for a moment, reserving for a second paper the weightier thoughts as to futuritywhich our authors have sought to enwrap in these sublime physicalspeculations. 

PART SECOND. 

UP to this point, however remote from ordinary every-day thoughts may bethe region of speculation which we have been called upon to traverse, wehave still kept within the limits of legitimate scientific hypothesis. Though we have ventured for a goodly distance into the unknown, we havenot yet been required to abandon our base of operations in the known. Ofthe views presented in the preceding paper, some are wellnigh certainlyestablished, some are probable, some have a sort of plausibility, others--to which we have refrained from giving assent--may possibly betrue; but none are irretrievably beyond the jurisdiction of scientifictests. No suggestion has so far been broached which a very littlefurther increase of our scientific knowledge may not show to be eithereminently probable or eminently improbable. We have kept pretty clear ofmere subjective guesses, such as men may wrangle about forever withoutcoming to any conclusion. The theory of the nebular origin of ourplanetary system has come to command the assent of all persons qualifiedto appreciate the evidence on which it is based; and the more immediateconclusions which we have drawn from that theory are only such asare commonly drawn by astronomers and physicists. The doctrine ofan intermolecular and interstellar ether is wrapped up in thewell-established undulatory theory of light. Such is by no means thecase with Sir William Thomson's vortex-atom theory, which to-day is insomewhat the same condition as the undulatory theory of Huyghens twocenturies ago. This, however, is none the less a hypothesis trulyscientific in conception, and in the speculations to which it leads uswe are still sure of dealing with views that admit at least of definiteexpression and treatment. In other words, though our study of thevisible universe has led us to the recognition of a kind of unseen worldunderlying the world of things that are seen, yet concerning the economyof this unseen world we have not been led to entertain any hypothesisthat has not its possible justification in our experiences of visiblephenomena. 

We are now called upon, following in the wake of our esteemed authors, to venture on a different sort of exploration, in which we must cutloose altogether from our moorings in the world of which we havedefinite experience. We are invited to entertain suggestions concerningthe peculiar economy of the invisible portion of the universe which wehave no means of subjecting to any sort of test of probability, eitherexperimental or deductive. These suggestions are, therefore, not to beregarded as properly scientific; but, with this word of caution, we mayproceed to show what they are. 

Compared with the life and death of cosmical systems which we haveheretofore contemplated, the life and death of individuals of the humanrace may perhaps seem a small matter; yet because we are ourselves themen who live and die, the small event is of vastly greater interest tous than the grand series of events of which it is part and parcel. Itis natural that we should be more interested in the ultimate fate ofhumanity than in the fate of a world which is of no account to us saveas our present dwelling-place. Whether the human soul is to come to anend or not is to us a more important question than whether the visibleuniverse, with its matter and energy, is to be absorbed in an invisibleether. It is indeed only because we are interested in the formerquestion that we are so curious about the latter. If we could dissociateourselves from the material universe, our habitat, we should probablyspeculate much less about its past and future. We care very little whatbecomes of the black ball of the earth, after all life has vanishedfrom its surface; or, if we care at all about it, it is only because ourthoughts about the career of the earth are necessarily mixed up with ourthoughts about life. Hence in considering the probable ultimate destinyof the physical universe, our innermost purpose must be to know whatis to become of all this rich and wonderful life of which the physicaluniverse is the theatre. Has it all been developed, apparently at almostinfinite waste of effort, only to be abolished again before ithas attained to completeness, or does it contain or shelter someindestructible element which having drawn sustenance for a while fromthe senseless turmoil of physical phenomena shall still survive theirfinal decay? This question is closely connected with the time-honouredquestion of the meaning, purpose, or tendency of the world. In thecareer of the world is life an end, or a means toward an end, or only anincidental phenomenon in which we can discover no meaning? Contemporarytheologians seem generally to believe that one necessary result ofmodern scientific inquiry must be the destruction of the belief inimmortal life, since against every thoroughgoing expounder of scientificknowledge they seek to hurl the charge of "materialism. " Their doubts, however, are not shared by our authors, thorough men of science as theyare, though their mode of dealing with the question may not be such aswe can well adopt. While upholding the doctrine of evolution, and allthe so-called "materialistic" views of modern science, they not onlyregard the hypothesis of a future life as admissible, but they even goso far as to propound a physical theory as to the nature of existenceafter death. Let us see what this physical theory is. 

As far as the visible universe is concerned, we do not find in it anyevidence of immortality or of permanence of any sort, unless it be inthe sum of potential and kinetic energies on the persistency of whichdepends our principle of continuity. In ordinary language "the stars intheir courses" serve as symbols of permanence, yet we have found reasonto regard them as but temporary phenomena. So, in the language of ourauthors, "if we take the individual man, we find that he lives his shorttale of years, and that then the visible machinery which connects himwith the past, as well as that which enables him to act in the present, falls into ruin and is brought to an end. If any germ or potentialityremains, it is certainly not connected with the visible order ofthings. " In like manner our race is pretty sure to come to an endlong before the destruction of the planet from which it now gets itssustenance. And in our authors opinion even the universe will by andby become "old and effete, no less truly than the individual: it is aglorious garment this visible universe, but not an immortal one; wemust look elsewhere if we are to be clothed with immortality as with agarment. "

It is at this point that our authors call attention to "the apparentlywasteful character of the arrangements of the visible universe. " Thefact is one which we have already sufficiently described, but we shalldo well to quote the words in which our authors recur to it: "All but avery small portion of the sun's heat goes day by day into what we callempty space, and it is only this very small remainder that is made useof by the various planets for purposes of their own. Can anything bemore perplexing than this seemingly frightful expenditure of the verylife and essence of the system? That this vast store of high-classenergy should be doing nothing but travelling outwards in space at therate of 188, 000 miles per second is hardly conceivable, especially whenthe result of it is the inevitable destruction of the visible universe. "

Pursuing this teleological argument, it is suggested that perhaps thisapparent waste of energy is "only an arrangement in virtue of which ouruniverse keeps up a memory of the past at the expense of the present, inasmuch as all memory consists in an investiture of present resourcesin order to keep a hold upon the past. " Recourse is had to the ingeniousargument in which Mr. Babbage showed that "if we had power to followand detect the minutest effects of any disturbance, each particle ofexisting matter must be a register of all that has happened. The trackof every canoe, of every vessel that has yet disturbed the surface ofthe ocean, whether impelled by manual force or elemental power, remainsforever registered in the future movement of all succeeding particleswhich may occupy its place. The furrow which is left is, indeed, instantly filled up by the closing waters; but they draw after themother and larger portions of the surrounding element, and these again, once moved, communicate motion to others in endless succession. " In likemanner, "the air itself is one vast library, on whose pages are foreverwritten all that man has ever said or even whispered. There in theirmutable but unerring characters, mixed with the earliest as well asthe latest sighs of mortality, stand forever recorded vows unredeemed, promises unfulfilled, perpetuating in the united movements of eachparticle the testimony of man's changeful will. " [6] In some such way asthis, records of every movement that takes place in the world are eachmoment transmitted, with the speed of light, through the invisibleocean of ether with which the world is surrounded. Even the moleculardisplacements which occur in our brains when we feel and think are thuspropagated in their effects into the unseen world. The world of ether isthus regarded by our authors as in some sort the obverse or complementof the world of sensible matter, so that whatever energy is dissipatedin the one is by the same act accumulated in the other. It is like thenegative plate in photography, where light answers to shadow and shadowto light. Or, still better, it is like the case of an equation in whichwhatever quantity you take from one side is added to the other with acontrary sign, while the relation of equality remains undisturbed. Thus, it will be noticed, from the ingenious and subtle, but quite defensiblesuggestion of Mr. Babbage, a leap is made to an assumption which cannotbe defended scientifically, but only teleologically. It is one thingto say that every movement in the visible world transmits a record ofitself to the surrounding ether, in such a way that from the undulationof the ether a sufficiently powerful intelligence might infer thecharacter of the generating movement in the visible world. It is quiteanother thing to say that the ether is organized in such a complex anddelicate way as to be like a negative image or counterpart of the worldof sensible matter. The latter view is no doubt ingenious, but it isgratuitous. It is sustained not by scientific analogy, but by the desireto find some assignable use for the energy which is constantly escapingfrom visible matter into invisible ether. The moment we ask how do weknow that this energy is not really wasted, or that it is not put tosome use wholly undiscoverable by human intelligence, this assumption ofan organized ether is at once seen to be groundless. It belongs not tothe region of science, but to that of pure mythology. 

 [6] Babbage, Ninth Bridgewater Treatise, p. 115; Jevons, Principles of Science, Vol. II. P. 455. 

In justice to our authors, however, it should be remembered that thisassumption is put forth not as something scientifically probable, but assomething which for aught we know to the contrary may possibly be true. This, to be sure, we need not deny; nor if we once allow this prodigiousleap of inference, shall we find much difficulty in reaching the famousconclusion that "thought conceived to affect the matter of anotheruniverse simultaneously with this may explain a future state. " Thisproposition, quaintly couched in an anagram, like the discoveries of oldastronomers, was published last year in "Nature, " as containing the gistof the forthcoming book. On the negative-image hypothesis it is not hardto see how thought is conceived to affect the seen and the unseen worldssimultaneously. Every act of consciousness is accompanied by moleculardisplacements in the brain, and these are of course responded to bymovements in the ethereal world. Thus as a series of conscious statesbuild up a continuous memory in strict accordance with physical laws ofmotion, [7] so a correlative memory is simultaneously built up inthe ethereal world out of the ethereal correlatives of the moleculardisplacements which go on in our brains. And as there is a continualtransfer of energy from the visible world to the ether, the extinctionof vital energy which we call death must coincide in some way withthe awakening of vital energy in the correlative world; so that thedarkening of consciousness here is coincident with its dawning there. In this way death is for the individual but a transfer from one physicalstate of existence to another; and so, on the largest scale, thedeath or final loss of energy by the whole visible universe has itscounterpart in the acquirement of a maximum of life by the correlativeunseen world. 

There seems to be a certain sort of rigorous logical consistency in thisdaring speculation; but really the propositions of which it consists areso far from answering to anything within the domain of human experiencethat we are unable to tell whether any one of them logically followsfrom its predecessor or not. It is evident that we are quite out of theregion of scientific tests, and to whatever view our authors may urge wecan only languidly assent that it is out of our power to disprove it. 

 [7] See my Outlines of Cosmic Philosophy, Vol. II. Pp. 142-148. 

The essential weakness of such a theory as this lies in the fact that itis thoroughly materialistic in character. It is currently assumed thatthe doctrine of a life after death cannot be defended on materialisticgrounds, but this is altogether too hasty an assumption. Our authors, indeed, are not philosophical materialists, like Dr. Priestley, --whonevertheless believed in a future life, --but one of the primarydoctrines of materialism lies at the bottom of their argument. Materialism holds for one thing that consciousness is a product ofa peculiar organization of matter, and for another thing thatconsciousness cannot survive the disorganization of the material bodywith which it is associated. As held by philosophical materialists, likeBuchner and Moleschott, these two opinions are strictly consistent witheach other; nay, the latter seems to be the inevitable inference fromthe former, though Priestley did not so regard it. Now our authors veryproperly refuse to commit themselves to the opinion that mind is theproduct of matter, but their argument nevertheless implies that somesort of material vehicle is necessary for the continuance of mind in afuture state of existence. This material vehicle they seek to supply inthe theory which connects by invisible bonds of transmitted energy theperishable material body with its counterpart in the world of ether. Thematerialism of the argument is indeed partly veiled by the terminologyin which this counterpart is called a "spiritual body, " but in thisnovel use or abuse of scriptural language there seems to me to be astrange confusion of ideas. Bear in mind that the "invisible universe"into which energy is constantly passing is simply the luminiferousether, which our authors, to suit the requirements of their hypothesis, have gratuitously endowed with a complexity and variety of structureanalogous to that of the visible world of matter. Their language is notalways quite so precise as one could desire, for while they sometimesspeak of the ether itself as the "unseen universe, " they sometimesallude to a primordial medium yet subtler in constitution and presumablymore immaterial. Herein lies the confusion. Why should the luminiferousether, or any primordial medium in which it may have been generated, beregarded as in any way "spiritual"? Great physicists, like less trainedthinkers, are sometimes liable to be unconsciously influenced by oldassociations of ideas which, ostensibly repudiated, still lurk undercover of the words we use. I fear that the old associations which ledthe ancients to describe the soul as a breath or a shadow, and whichaccount for the etymologies of such words as "ghost" and "spirit, "have had something to do with this spiritualization of the interstellarether. Some share may also have been contributed by the Platonic notionof the "grossness" or "bruteness" of tangible matter, --a notion whichhas survived in Christian theology, and which educated men of thepresent day have by no means universally outgrown. Save for some suchold associations as these, why should it be supposed that matter becomes"spriritualized" as it diminishes in apparent substantiality? Why shouldmatter be pronounced respectable in the inverse ratio of its densityor ponderability? Why is a diamond any more chargeable with "grossness"than a cubic centimetre of hydrogen? Obviously such fancies are purelyof mythologic parentage. Now the luminiferous ether, upon which ourauthors make such extensive demands, may be physically "ethereal"enough, in spite of the enormous elasticity which leads Professor Jevonsto characterize it as "adamantine"; but most assuredly we have not theslightest reason for speaking of it as "immaterial" or "spiritual. "Though we are unable to weigh it in the balance, we at least know it asa transmitter of undulatory movements, the size and shape of which wecan accurately measure. Its force-relations with ponderable matter arenot only universally and incessantly maintained, but they have thatprecisely quantitative character which implies an essential identitybetween the innermost natures of the two substances. We have seenreason for thinking it probable that ether and ordinary matter are alikecomposed of vortex-rings in a quasi-frictionless fluid; but whatever bethe fate of this subtle hypothesis, we may be sure that no theorywill ever be entertained in which the analysis of ether shall requiredifferent symbols from that of ordinary matter. In our authors' theory, therefore, the putting on of immortality is in no wise the passage froma material to a spiritual state. It is the passage from one kindof materially conditioned state to another. The theory thus appealsdirectly to our experiences of the behaviour of matter; and in derivingso little support as it does from these experiences, it remains anessentially weak speculation, whatever we may think of its ingenuity. For so long as we are asked to accept conclusions drawn from ourexperiences of the material world, we are justified in demandingsomething more than mere unconditioned possibility. We require somepositive evidence, be it ever so little in amount; and no theory whichcannot furnish such positive evidence is likely to carry to our mindsmuch practical conviction. 

This is what I meant by saying that the great weakness of the hypothesishere criticized lies in its materialistic character. In contrast withthis we shall presently see that the assertion of a future life which isnot materially conditioned, though unsupported by any item of experiencewhatever, may nevertheless be an impregnable assertion. But first Iwould conclude the foregoing criticism by ruling out altogether thesense in which our authors use the expression "Unseen Universe. "Scientific inference, however remote, is connected by such insensiblegradations with ordinary perception, that one may well question thepropriety of applying the term "unseen" to that which is presented to"the mind's eye" as inevitable matter of inference. It is true that wecannot see the ocean of ether in which visible matter floats; but thereare many other invisible things which yet we do not regard as part ofthe "unseen world. " I do not see the air which I am now breathing withinthe four walls of my study, yet its existence is sufficiently a matterof sense-perception as it fills my lungs and fans my cheek. The atomswhich compose a drop of water are not only invisible, but cannot in anyway be made the objects of sense-perception; yet by proper inferencesfrom their behaviour we can single them out for measurement, so that SirWilliam Thomson can tell us that if the drop of water were magnified tothe size of the earth, the constituent atoms would be larger than peas, but not so large as billiard-balls. If we do not see such atoms with oureyes, we have one adequate reason in their tiny dimensions, thoughthere are further reasons than this. It would be hard to say why theluminiferous ether should be relegated to the "unseen world" any morethan the material atom. Whatever we know as possessing resistanceand extension, whatever we can subject to mathematical processes ofmeasurement, we also conceive as existing in such shape that, withappropriate eyes and under proper visual conditions, we MIGHT see it, and we are not entitled to draw any line of demarcation between suchan object of inference and others which may be made objects ofsense-perception. To set apart the ether as constituting an "unseenuniverse" is therefore illegitimate and confusing. It introducesa distinction where there is none, and obscures the fact that bothinvisible ether and visible matter form but one grand universe in whichthe sum of energy remains constant, though the order of its distributionendlessly varies. 

Very different would be the logical position of a theory which shouldassume the existence of an "Unseen World" entirely spiritual inconstitution, and in which material conditions like those of the visibleworld should have neither place nor meaning. Such a world would notconsist of ethers or gases or ghosts, but of purely psychical relationsakin to such as constitute thoughts and feelings when our minds areleast solicited by sense-perceptions. In thus marking off the "UnseenWorld" from the objective universe of which we have knowledge, ourline of demarcation would at least be drawn in the right place. Thedistinction between psychical and material phenomena is a distinction ofa different order from all other distinctions known to philosophy, andit immeasurably transcends all others. The progress of modern discoveryhas in no respect weakened the force of Descartes's remark, that betweenthat of which the differential attribute is Thought and that of whichthe differential attribute is Extension, there can be no similarity, nocommunity of nature whatever. By no scientific cunning of experiment ordeduction can Thought be weighed or measured or in any way assimilatedto such things as may be made the actual or possible objects ofsense-perception. Modern discovery, so far from bridging over the chasmbetween Mind and Matter, tends rather to exhibit the distinction betweenthem as absolute. It has, indeed, been rendered highly probable thatevery act of consciousness is accompanied by a molecular motion in thecells and fibres of the brain; and materialists have found great comfortin this fact, while theologians and persons of little faith have beenvery much frightened by it. But since no one ever pretended that thoughtcan go on, under the conditions of the present life, without abrain, one finds it rather hard to sympathize either with theself-congratulations of Dr. Buchner's disciples [8] or with the terrorsof their opponents. But what has been less commonly remarked is thefact that when the thought and the molecular movement thus occursimultaneously, in no scientific sense is the thought the product of themolecular movement. The sun-derived energy of motion latent in the foodwe eat is variously transformed within the organism, until some ofit appears as the motion of the molecules of a little globule ofnerve-matter in the brain. In a rough way we might thus say that thechemical energy of the food indirectly produces the motion of theselittle nerve-molecules. But does this motion of nerve-molecules nowproduce a thought or state of consciousness? By no means. It simplyproduces some other motion of nerve-molecules, and this in turnproduces motion of contraction or expansion in some muscle, or becomestransformed into the chemical energy of some secreting gland. At nopoint in the whole circuit does a unit of motion disappear as motion toreappear as a unit of consciousness. The physical process is complete initself, and the thought does not enter into it. All that we can say is, that the occurrence of the thought is simultaneous with that part of thephysical process which consists of a molecular movement in the brain. [9] To be sure, the thought is always there when summoned, but itstands outside the dynamic circuit, as something utterly alien from andincomparable with the events which summon it. No doubt, as ProfessorTyndall observes, if we knew exhaustively the physical state of thebrain, "the corresponding thought or feeling might be inferred; or, given the thought or feeling, the corresponding state of the brainmight be inferred. But how inferred? It would be at bottom not a caseof logical inference at all, but of empirical association. You mayreply that many of the inferences of science are of this character; theinference, for example, that an electric current of a given directionwill deflect a magnetic needle in a definite way; but the cases differin this, that the passage from the current to the needle, if notdemonstrable, is thinkable, and that we entertain no doubt as to thefinal mechanical solution of the problem. But the passage from thephysics of the brain to the corresponding facts of consciousness isunthinkable. Granted that a definite thought and a definite molecularaction in the brain occur simultaneously; we do not possess theintellectual organ, nor apparently any rudiment of the organ, whichwould enable us to pass by a process of reasoning from the one to theother. They appear together, but we do not know why. " [10]

 [8] The Nation once wittily described these people as "people whobelieve that they are going to die like the beasts, and who congratulatethemselves that they are going to die like the beasts. "

 [9] For a fuller exposition of this point, see my Outlines ofCosmic Philosophy, Vol. II. Pp. 436-445. 

 [10] Fragments of Science, p. 119. 

An unseen world consisting of purely psychical or spiritual phenomenawould accordingly be demarcated by an absolute gulf from what we callthe material universe, but would not necessarily be discontinuous withthe psychical phenomena which we find manifested in connection with theworld of matter. The transfer of matter, or physical energy, or anythingelse that is quantitatively measurable, into such an unseen world, maybe set down as impossible, by reason of the very definition of such aworld. Any hypothesis which should assume such a transfer would involvea contradiction in terms. But the hypothesis of a survival of presentpsychical phenomena in such a world, after being denuded of materialconditions, is not in itself absurd or self-contradictory, though it maybe impossible to support it by any arguments drawn from the domain ofhuman experience. Such is the shape which it seems to me that, inthe present state of philosophy, the hypothesis of a future life mustassume. We have nothing to say to gross materialistic notions of ghostsand bogies, and spirits that upset tables and whisper to ignorant vulgarwomen the wonderful information that you once had an aunt Susan. Theunseen world imagined in our hypothesis is not connected with thepresent material universe by any such "invisible bonds" as would allowBacon and Addison to come to Boston and write the silliest twaddle inthe most ungrammatical English before a roomful of people who have neverlearned how to test what they are pleased to call the "evidence oftheir senses. " Our hypothesis is expressly framed so as to exclude allintercourse whatever between the unseen world of spirit unconditionedby matter and the present world of spirit conditioned by matter in whichall our experiences have been gathered. The hypothesis being framed insuch a way, the question is, What has philosophy to say to it? Canwe, by searching our experiences, find any reason for adopting such anhypothesis? Or, on the other hand, supposing we can find no such reason, would the total failure of experimental evidence justify us in rejectingit?

The question is so important that I will restate it. I have imagined aworld made up of psychical phenomena, freed from the material conditionsunder which alone we know such phenomena. Can we adduce any proof of thepossibility of such a world? Or if we cannot, does our failure raise theslightest presumption that such a world is impossible?

The reply to the first clause of the question is sufficiently obvious. We have no experience whatever of psychical phenomena save as manifestedin connection with material phenomena. We know of Mind only as a groupof activities which are never exhibited to us except through the mediumof motions of matter. In all our experience we have never encounteredsuch activities save in connection with certain very complicatedgroupings of highly mobile material particles into aggregates which wecall living organisms. And we have never found them manifested to avery conspicuous extent save in connection with some of those speciallyorganized aggregates which have vertebrate skeletons and mammary glands. Nay, more, when we survey the net results of our experience up to thepresent time, we find indisputable evidence that in the past historyof the visible universe psychical phenomena have only begun to bemanifested in connection with certain complex aggregates of materialphenomena. As these material aggregates have age by age become morecomplex in structure, more complex psychical phenomena have beenexhibited. The development of Mind has from the outset been associatedwith the development of Matter. And to-day, though none of us has anyknowledge of the end of psychical phenomena in his own case, yetfrom all the marks by which we recognize such phenomena in ourfellow-creatures, whether brute or human, we are taught that whencertain material processes have been gradually or suddenly brought to anend, psychical phenomena are no longer manifested. From first to last, therefore, our appeal to experience gets but one response. We have notthe faintest shadow of evidence wherewith to make it seem probable thatMind can exist except in connection with a material body. Viewed fromthis standpoint of terrestrial experience, there is no more reason forsupposing that consciousness survives the dissolution of the brainthan for supposing that the pungent flavour of table-salt survives itsdecomposition into metallic sodium and gaseous chlorine. 

Our answer from this side is thus unequivocal enough. Indeed, so uniformhas been the teaching of experience in this respect that even in theirattempts to depict a life after death, men have always found themselvesobliged to have recourse to materialistic symbols. To the mind of asavage the future world is a mere reproduction of the present, with itseverlasting huntings and fightings. The early Christians looked forwardto a renovation of the earth and the bodily resurrection from Sheol ofthe righteous. The pictures of hell and purgatory, and even of paradise, in Dante's great poem, are so intensely materialistic as to seemgrotesque in this more spiritual age. But even to-day the popularconceptions of heaven are by no means freed from the notion of matter;and persons of high culture, who realize the inadequacy of these popularconceptions, are wont to avoid the difficulty by refraining from puttingtheir hopes and beliefs into any definite or describable form. Notunfrequently one sees a smile raised at the assumption of knowledge orinsight by preachers who describe in eloquent terms the joys of a futurestate; yet the smile does not necessarily imply any scepticism as to theabstract probability of the soul's survival. The scepticism is aimed atthe character of the description rather than at the reality of the thingdescribed. It implies a tacit agreement, among cultivated people, thatthe unseen world must be purely spiritual in constitution. The agreementis not habitually expressed in definite formulas, for the reason that nomental image of a purely spiritual world can be formed. Much stressis commonly laid upon the recognition of friends in a future life; andhowever deep a meaning may be given to the phrase "the love of God, "one does not easily realize that a heavenly existence could be worth thelonging that is felt for it, if it were to afford no further scope forthe pure and tender household affections which give to the present lifeits powerful though indefinable charm. Yet the recognition of friendsin a purely spiritual world is something of which we can frame noconception whatever. We may look with unspeakable reverence on thefeatures of wife or child, less because of their physical beauty thanbecause of the beauty of soul to which they give expression, but toimagine the perception of soul by soul apart from the material structureand activities in which soul is manifested, is something utterly beyondour power. Nay, even when we try to represent to ourselves the psychicalactivity of any single soul by itself as continuing without the aidof the physical machinery of sensation, we get into unmanageabledifficulties. A great part of the contents of our minds consists ofsensuous (chiefly visual) images, and though we may imagine reflectionto go on without further images supplied by vision or hearing, touch ortaste or smell, yet we cannot well see how fresh experiences could begained in such a state. The reader, if he require further illustrations, can easily follow out this line of thought. Enough has no doubt beensaid to convince him that our hypothesis of the survival of consciousactivity apart from material conditions is not only utterly unsupportedby any evidence that can be gathered from the world of which we haveexperience, but is utterly and hopelessly inconceivable. 

It is inconceivable BECAUSE it is entirely without foundation inexperience. Our powers of conception are closely determined by thelimits of our experience. When a proposition, or combination of ideas, is suggested, for which there has never been any precedent in humanexperience, we find it to be UNTHINKABLE, --the ideas will not combine. The proposition remains one which we may utter and defend, and perhapsvituperate our neighbours for not accepting, but it remains none theless an unthinkable proposition. It takes terms which severally havemeanings and puts them together into a phrase which has no meaning. [11] Now when we try to combine the idea of the continuance of consciousactivity with the idea of the entire cessation of material conditions, and thereby to assert the existence of a purely spiritual world, wefind that we have made an unthinkable proposition. We may defend ourhypothesis as passionately as we like, but when we strive coolly torealize it in thought we find ourselves baulked at every step. 

 [11] See my Outlines of Cosmic Philosophy, Vol. I. Pp. 64-67. 

But now we have to ask, How much does this inconceivability signify?In most cases, when we say that a statement is inconceivable, wepractically declare it to be untrue; when we say that a statement iswithout warrant in experience, we plainly indicate that we consider itunworthy of our acceptance. This is legitimate in the majority of caseswith which we have to deal in the course of life, because experience, and the capacities of thought called out and limited by experience, areour only guides in the conduct of life. But every one will admit thatour experience is not infinite, and that our capacity of conceptionis not coextensive with the possibilities of existence. It is not onlypossible, but in the very highest degree probable, that there aremany things in heaven, if not on earth, which are undreamed of in ourphilosophy. Since our ability to conceive anything is limited by theextent of our experience, and since human experience is very far frombeing infinite, it follows that there may be, and in all probability is, an immense region of existence in every way as real as the region whichwe know, yet concerning which we cannot form the faintest rudiment of aconception. Any hypothesis relating to such a region of existence is notonly not disproved by the total failure of evidence in its favour, butthe total failure of evidence does not raise even the slightest primafacie presumption against its validity. 

These considerations apply with great force to the hypothesis of anunseen world in which psychical phenomena persist in the absence ofmaterial conditions. It is true, on the one hand, that we can bringup no scientific evidence in support of such an hypothesis. But on theother hand it is equally true that in the very nature of things nosuch evidence could be expected to be forthcoming: even were there suchevidence in abundance, it could not be accessible to us. The existenceof a single soul, or congeries of psychical phenomena, unaccompaniedby a material body, would be evidence sufficient to demonstrate thehypothesis. But in the nature of things, even were there a million suchsouls round about us, we could not become aware of the existence ofone of them, for we have no organ or faculty for the perception of soulapart from the material structure and activities in which it has beenmanifested throughout the whole course of our experience. Even our ownself-consciousness involves the consciousness of ourselves as partlymaterial bodies. These considerations show that our hypothesis is verydifferent from the ordinary hypotheses with which science deals. Theentire absence of testimony does not raise a negative presumption exceptin cases where testimony is accessible. In the hypotheses with whichscientific men are occupied, testimony is always accessible; and if wedo not find any, the presumption is raised that there is none. When Dr. Bastian tells us that he has found living organisms to be generated insealed flasks from which all living germs had been excluded, we demandthe evidence for his assertion. The testimony of facts is in this casehard to elicit, and only skilful reasoners can properly estimate itsworth. But still it is all accessible. With more or less labour it canbe got at; and if we find that Dr. Bastian has produced no evidence savesuch as may equally well receive a different interpretation from thatwhich he has given it, we rightly feel that a strong presumptionhas been raised against his hypothesis. It is a case in which we areentitled to expect to find the favouring facts if there are any, andso long as we do not find such, we are justified in doubting theirexistence. So when our authors propound the hypothesis of an unseenuniverse consisting of phenomena which occur in the interstellar ether, or even in some primordial fluid with which the ether has physicalrelations, we are entitled to demand their proofs. It is not enough totell us that we cannot disprove such a theory. The burden of proof lieswith them. The interstellar ether is something concerning the physicalproperties of which we have some knowledge; and surely, if all thethings are going on which they suppose in a medium so closely relatedto ordinary matter, there ought to be some traceable indications ofthe fact. At least, until the contrary can be shown, we must refuseto believe that all the testimony in a case like this is utterlyinaccessible; and accordingly, so long as none is found, especiallyso long as none is even alleged, we feel that a presumption is raisedagainst their theory. 

These illustrations will show, by sheer contrast, how different it iswith the hypothesis of an unseen world that is purely spiritual. Thetestimony in such a case must, under the conditions of the present life, be forever inaccessible. It lies wholly outside the range of experience. However abundant it may be, we cannot expect to meet with it. Andaccordingly our failure to produce it does not raise even the slightestpresumption against our theory. When conceived in this way, the beliefin a future life is without scientific support; but at the same time itis placed beyond the need of scientific support and beyond the range ofscientific criticism. It is a belief which no imaginable future advancein physical discovery can in any way impugn. It is a belief which is inno sense irrational, and which may be logically entertained withoutin the least affecting our scientific habit of mind or influencing ourscientific conclusions. 

To take a brief illustration: we have alluded to the fact that in thehistory of our present world the development of mental phenomena hasgone on hand in hand with the development of organic life, while at thesame time we have found it impossible to explain mental phenomena as inany sense the product of material phenomena. Now there is another sideto all this. The great lesson which Berkeley taught mankind was thatwhat we call material phenomena are really the products of consciousnessco-operating with some Unknown Power (not material) existing beyondconsciousness. We do very well to speak of "matter" in common parlance, but all that the word really means is a group of qualities which have noexistence apart from our minds. Modern philosophers have quite generallyaccepted this conclusion, and every attempt to overturn Berkeley'sreasoning has hitherto resulted in complete and disastrous failure. Inadmitting this, we do not admit the conclusion of Absolute Idealism, that nothing exists outside of consciousness. What we admit as existingindependently of our own consciousness is the Power that causes inus those conscious states which we call the perception of materialqualities. We have no reason for regarding this Power as in itselfmaterial: indeed, we cannot do so, since by the theory materialqualities have no existence apart from our minds. I have elsewheresought to show that less difficulty is involved in regarding this Poweroutside of us as quasi-psychical, or in some measure similar to themental part of ourselves; and I have gone on to conclude that this Powermay be identical with what men have, in all times and by the aid ofvarious imperfect symbols, endeavoured to apprehend as Deity. [12] Weare thus led to a view of things not very unlike the views entertainedby Spinoza and Berkeley. We are led to the inference that what we callthe material universe is but the manifestation of infinite Deity to ourfinite minds. Obviously, on this view, Matter--the only thing towhich materialists concede real existence--is simply an orderlyphantasmagoria; and God and the Soul--which materialists regard as merefictions of the imagination--are the only conceptions that answer toreal existences. 

 [12] See my Outlines of Cosmic Philosophy, Part I. Chap. IV. ;Part III. Chaps. III. , IV. 

In the foregoing paragraph I have been setting down opinions with whichI am prepared to agree, and which are not in conflict with anything thatour study of the development of the objective world has taught us. Inso far as that study may be supposed to bear on the question of a futurelife, two conclusions are open to us. First we may say that sincethe phenomena of mind appear and run their course along with certainspecialized groups of material phenomena, so, too, they must disappearwhen these specialized groups are broken up. Or, in other words, we maysay that every living person is an organized whole; consciousness issomething which pertains to this organized whole, as music belongs tothe harp that is entire; but when the harp is broken it is silent, andwhen the organized whole of personality falls to pieces consciousnessceases forever. To many well-disciplined minds this conclusion seemsirresistible; and doubtless it would be a sound one--a good Baconianconclusion--if we were to admit, with the materialists, that thepossibilities of existence are limited by our tiny and ephemeralexperience. 

But now, supposing some Platonic speculator were to come along andinsist upon our leaving room for an alternative conclusion; suppose hewere to urge upon us that all this process of material development, withthe discovery of which our patient study has been rewarded, may bebut the temporary manifestation of relations otherwise unknown betweenourselves and the infinite Deity; suppose he were to argue thatpsychical qualities may be inherent in a spiritual substance whichunder certain conditions becomes incarnated in matter, to wear it as aperishable garment for a brief season, but presently to cast it off andenter upon the freedom of a larger existence;--what reply should we bebound to make, bearing in mind that the possibilities of existence arein no wise limited by our experience? Obviously we should be bound toadmit that in sound philosophy this conclusion is just as likely to betrue as the other. We should, indeed, warn him not to call on us to helphim to establish it by scientific arguments; and we should remind himthat he must not make illicit use of his extra-experiential hypothesesby bringing them into the treatment of scientific questions that liewithin the range of experience. In science, for example, we make nouse of the conception of a "spiritual substance" (or of a "materialsubstance" either), because we can get along sufficiently well bydealing solely with qualities. But with this general understanding weshould feel bound to concede the impregnableness of his main position. 

I have supposed this theory only as an illustration, not as a theorywhich I am prepared to adopt. My present purpose is not to treat as anadvocate the question of a future life, but to endeavour to pointout what conditions should be observed in treating the questionphilosophically. It seems to me that a great deal is gained when we havedistinctly set before us what are the peculiar conditions of proof inthe case of such transcendental questions. We have gained a great dealwhen we have learned how thoroughly impotent, how truly irrelevant, isphysical investigation in the presence of such a question. If we get notmuch positive satisfaction for our unquiet yearnings, we occupy at anyrate a sounder philosophic position when we recognize the limits withinwhich our conclusions, whether positive or negative, are valid. 

It seems not improbable that Mr. Mill may have had in mind somethinglike the foregoing considerations when he suggested that there is noreason why one should not entertain the belief in a future life if thebelief be necessary to one's spiritual comfort. Perhaps no suggestionin Mr. Mill's richly suggestive posthumous work has been more generallycondemned as unphilosophical, on the ground that in matters of belief wemust be guided, not by our likes and dislikes, but by the evidencethat is accessible. The objection is certainly a sound one so far asit relates to scientific questions where evidence is accessible. To hesitate to adopt a well-supported theory because of some vaguepreference for a different view is in scientific matters the oneunpardonable sin, --a sin which has been only too often committed. Evenin matters which lie beyond the range of experience, where evidenceis inaccessible, desire is not to be regarded as by itself an adequatebasis for belief. But it seems to me that Mr. Mill showed a deeperknowledge of the limitations of scientific method than his critics, whenhe thus hinted at the possibility of entertaining a belief not amenableto scientific tests. The hypothesis of a purely spiritual unseenworld, as above described, is entirely removed from the jurisdiction ofphysical inquiry, and can only be judged on general considerations ofwhat has been called "moral probability"; and considerations of thissort are likely, in the future as in the past, to possess differentvalues for different minds. He who, on such considerations, entertainsa belief in a future life may not demand that his sceptical neighbourshall be convinced by the same considerations; but his neighbour is atthe same time estopped from stigmatizing his belief as unphilosophical. 

The consideration which must influence most minds in their attitudetoward this question, is the craving, almost universally felt, for someteleological solution to the problem of existence. Why we are here nowis a question of even profounder interest than whether we are to livehereafter. Unfortunately its solution carries us no less completelybeyond the range of experience! The belief that all things are workingtogether for some good end is the most essential expression of religiousfaith: of all intellectual propositions it is the one most closelyrelated to that emotional yearning for a higher and better life whichis the sum and substance of religion. Yet all the treatises onnatural theology that have ever been written have barely succeeded inestablishing a low degree of scientific probability for this belief. In spite of the eight Bridgewater Treatises, and the "Ninth" beside, dysteleology still holds full half the field as against teleology. Mostof this difficulty, however, results from the crude anthropomorphicviews which theologians have held concerning God. Once admitting thatthe Divine attributes may be (as they must be) incommensurably greaterthan human attributes, our faith that all things are working togetherfor good may remain unimpugned. 

To many minds such a faith will seem incompatible with belief in theultimate destruction of sentiency amid the general doom of the materialuniverse. A good end can have no meaning to us save in relation toconsciousness that distinguishes and knows the good from the evil. Therecould be no better illustration of how we are hemmed in than the veryinadequacy of the words with which we try to discuss this subject. Suchwords have all gained their meanings from human experience, and hence ofnecessity carry anthropomorphic implications. But we cannot help this. We must think with the symbols with which experience has furnishedus; and when we so think, there does seem to be little that is evenintellectually satisfying in the awful picture which science shows us, of giant worlds concentrating out of nebulous vapour, developing withprodigious waste of energy into theatres of all that is grand andsacred in spiritual endeavour, clashing and exploding again into deadvapour-balls, only to renew the same toilful process without end, --asenseless bubble-play of Titan forces, with life, love, and aspirationbrought forth only to be extinguished. The human mind, however"scientific" its training, must often recoil from the conclusion thatthis is all; and there are moments when one passionately feels that thiscannot be all. On warm June mornings in green country lanes, with sweetpine-odours wafted in the breeze which sighs through the branches, andcloud-shadows flitting over far-off blue mountains, while little birdssing their love-songs, and golden-haired children weave garlands of wildroses; or when in the solemn twilight we listen to wondrous harmoniesof Beethoven and Chopin that stir the heart like voices from an unseenworld; at such times one feels that the profoundest answer which sciencecan give to our questionings is but a superficial answer after all. Atthese moments, when the world seems fullest of beauty, one feels moststrongly that it is but the harbinger of something else, --that theceaseless play of phenomena is no mere sport of Titans, but an orderlyscene, with its reason for existing, its

 "One divine far-off event To which the whole creation moves. "

Difficult as it is to disentangle the elements of reasoning that enterinto these complex groups of feeling, one may still see, I think, thatit is speculative interest in the world, rather than anxious interest inself, that predominates. The desire for immortality in its lowest phaseis merely the outcome of the repugnance we feel toward thinking of thefinal cessation of vigorous vital activity. Such a feeling is naturallystrong with healthy people. But in the mood which I have above tried todepict, this feeling, or any other which is merely self-regarding, islost sight of in the feeling which associates a future life with somesolution of the burdensome problem of existence. Had we but faith enoughto lighten the burden of this problem, the inferior question wouldperhaps be less absorbing. Could we but know that our present livesare working together toward some good end, even an end in no wiseanthropomorphic, it would be of less consequence whether we wereindividually to endure. To the dog under the knife of the experimenter, the world is a world of pure evil; yet could the poor beast butunderstand the alleviation of human suffering to which he iscontributing, he would be forced to own that this is not quite true;and if he were also a heroic or Christian dog, the thought would perhapstake away from death its sting. The analogy may be a crude one; butthe reasonableness of the universe is at least as far above ourcomprehension as the purposes of man surpass the understanding of thedog. Believing, however, though as a simple act of trust, that the endwill crown the work, we may rise superior to the question which has hereconcerned us, and exclaim, in the supreme language of faith, "Though Heslay me, yet will I trust in Him!"

 July, 1875. 

II. "THE TO-MORROW OF DEATH. "

Few of those who find pleasure in frequenting bookstores can have failedto come across one or more of the profusely illustrated volumes in whichM. Louis Figuier has sought to render dry science entertaining to themultitude. And of those who may have casually turned over their pages, there are probably none, competent to form an opinion, who have notspeedily perceived that these pretentious books belong to the class ofpests and unmitigated nuisances in literature. Antiquated views, utter lack of comprehension of the subjects treated, and shamelessunscrupulousness as to accuracy of statement, are faults but ill atonedfor by sensational pictures of the "dragons of the prime that tare eachother in their slime, " or of the Newton-like brow and silken curls ofthat primitive man in contrast with whom the said dragons have beenlikened to "mellow music. "

Nevertheless, the sort of scientific reputation which thesediscreditable performances have gained for M. Figuier among anuncritical public is such as to justify us in devoting a few paragraphsto a book [13] which, on its own merits, is unworthy of any noticewhatever. "The To-morrow of Death"--if one were to put his trust in thetranslator's prefatory note--discusses a grave question upon "purelyscientific methods. " We are glad to see this remark, because it showswhat notions may be entertained by persons of average intelligence withreference to "scientific methods. " Those--and they are many--who vaguelythink that science is something different from common-sense, and thatany book is scientific which talks about perihelia and asymptotes andcetacea, will find their vague notions here well corroborated. Quitedifferent will be the impression made upon those--and they are yet toofew--who have learned that the method of science is the common-sensemethod of cautiously weighing evidence and withholding judgment whereevidence is not forthcoming. If talking about remote and difficultsubjects suffice to make one scientific, then is M. Figuier scientificto a quite terrible degree. He writes about the starry heavens as if hehad been present at the hour of creation, or had at least accompaniedthe Arabian prophet on his famous night-journey. Nor is his knowledge ofphysiology and other abstruse sciences at all less remarkable. But thesethings will cease to surprise us when we learn the sources, hithertosuspected only in mythology, from which favoured mortals can obtain aknowledge of what is going on outside of our planet. 

 [13] The To-morrow of Death; or, The Future Life according toScience. By Louis Figuier. Translated from the French by S. R. Crocker. Boston: Roberts Brothers. 1872. 

The four inner planets being nearly alike in size (?) and in length ofday, M. Figuier infers, by strictly scientific methods, that whatever istrue of one of them, as our earth, will be true of the others (p. 34). Hence, they are all inhabited by human beings. It is true that humanbeings must find Venus rather warm, and are not unlikely to be seriouslyincommoded by the tropical climate of Mercury. But we must rememberthat "the men of Venus and Mercury are made by nature to resist heat, as those of Jupiter and Saturn are made to endure cold, and those of theEarth and Mars to live in a mean temperature: OTHERWISE THEY COULD NOTEXIST" (p. 72). In view of this charming specimen of a truly scientificinference, it is almost too bad to call attention to the fact that M. Figuier is quite behind the age in his statement of facts. So far fromJupiter and Saturn being cold, observation plainly indicates that theyare prodigiously hot, if not even incandescent and partly self-luminous;the explanation being that, by reason of their huge bulk, they stillretain much of the primitive heat which smaller planets have morequickly radiated away. As for M. Figuier's statement, that polar snowshave been witnessed on these planets, it is simply untrue; no such thinghas ever been seen there. Mars, on the other hand, has been observedto resemble in many important respects its near neighbour, the Earth;whence our author declares that if an aeronaut were to shoot clear ofterrestrial gravitation and land upon Mars, he would unquestionablysuppose himself to be still upon the earth. For aerolites, it seems, aresomehow fired down upon our planet both from Mars and from Venus; andaerolites sometimes contain vegetable matter (?). Therefore, Mars hasa vegetation, and very likely its red colour is caused by its luxuriantautumnal foliage! (p. 47. ) To return to Jupiter: this planet, indeed, has inconveniently short days. "In his 'Picture of the Heavens, 'the German astronomer, Littrow (these Germans think of nothing butgormandizing), asks how the people of Jupiter order their meals in theshort interval of five hours. " Nevertheless, says our author, thegreat planet is compensated for this inconvenience by its equable anddelicious climate. 

In view, however, of our author's more striking and originaldisclosures, one would suppose that all this discussion of the physicalconditions of existence on the various planets might have been passedover without detriment to the argument. After these efforts at proving(for M. Figuier presumably regards this rigmarole as proof) that all themembers of our solar system are habitable, the interplanetary ether isforthwith peopled thickly with "souls, " without any resort to argument. This, we suppose, is one of those scientific truths which as M. Figuiertells us, precede and underlie demonstration. Upon this impregnablebasis is reared the scientific theory of a future life. When we die oursoul passes into some other terrestrial body, unless we have been verygood, in which case we at once soar aloft and join the noble fraternityof the ether-folk. Bad men and young children, on dying, must undergorenewed probation here below, but ultimately all pass away into theinterplanetary ether. The dweller in ether is chiefly distinguishedfrom the mundane mortal by his acute senses and his ability to subsistwithout food. He can see as if through a telescope and microscopecombined. His intelligence is so great that in comparison an Aristotlewould seem idiotic. It should not be forgotten, too, that he possesseseighty-five per cent of soul to fifteen per cent of body, whereas interrestrial man the two elements are mixed in equal proportions. Thereis no sex among the ether-folk, their numbers being kept up by theinflux of souls from the various planets. "Alimentation, that necessitywhich tyrannizes over men and animals, is not imposed upon theinhabitants of ether. Their bodies must be repaired and sustained by thesimple respiration of the fluid in which they are immersed, that is, ofether. " Most likely, continues our scientific author, the physiologicalfunctions of the ether-folk are confined to respiration, and that it ispossible to breathe "without numerous organs is proved by the fact thatin all of a whole class of animals--the batrachians--the mere bare skinconstitutes the whole machinery of respiration" (p. 95). Allowing forthe unfortunate slip of the pen by which "batrachians" are substitutedfor "fresh-water polyps, " how can we fail to admire the severity of thescientific method employed in reaching these interesting conclusions?

But the King of Serendib must die, nor will the relentless scythe ofTime spare our Etherians, with all their exalted attributes. They willdie repeatedly; and after having through sundry periods of probationattained spiritual perfection, they will all pour into the sun. Sinceit is the sun which originates life and feeling and thought upon thesurface of our earth, "why may we not declare that the rays transmittedby the sun to the earth and the other planets are nothing more nor lessthan the emanations of these souls?" And now we may begin to form anadequate conception, of the rigorously scientific character of ourauthor's method. There have been many hypotheses by which to account forthe supply of solar radiance. One of the most ingenious and probableof these hypotheses is that of Helmholtz, according to which thesolar radiance is due to the arrested motion of the sun's constituentparticles toward their common centre of gravity. But this is toofanciful to satisfy M. Figuier. The speculations of Helmholtz "havethe disadvantage of resting on the idea of the sun's nebulosity, --anhypothesis which would need to be more closely examined before servingas a basis for so important a deduction. " Accordingly, M. Figuierpropounds an explanation which possesses the signal advantage that thereis nothing hypothetical in it. "In our opinion, the solar radiation issustained by the continual influx of souls into the sun. " This, as thereader will perceive, is the well-known theory of Mayer, that the solarheat is due to a perennial bombardment of the sun by meteors, save that, in place of gross materialistic meteors, M. Figuier puts ethereal souls. The ether-folk are daily raining into the solar orb in untold millions, and to the unceasing concussion is due the radiation which maintainslife in the planets, and thus the circle is complete. 

In spite of their exalted position, the ether-folk do not disdain tomingle with the affairs of terrestrial mortals. They give us counselin dreams, and it is from this source, we presume, that our author hasderived his rigid notions as to scientific method. In evidence of thisdream-theory we have the usual array of cases, "a celebrated journalist, M. R----, " "M. L----, a lawyer, " etc. , etc. , as in most books of thiskind. 

M. Figuier is not a Darwinian: the derivation of our bodies from thebodies of apes is a conception too grossly materialistic for him. Oursouls, however, he is quite willing to derive from the souls of loweranimals. Obviously we have pre-existed; how are we to account forMozart's precocity save by supposing his pre-existence? He brought withhim the musical skill acquired in a previous life. In general, the soulsof musical children come from nightingales, while the souls of greatarchitects have passed into them from beavers (p. 247). We do notremember these past existences, it is true; but when we becomeether-folk, we shall be able to look back in recollection over the wholeseries. 

Amid these sublime inquiries, M. Figuier is sometimes notably obliviousof humbler truths, as might indeed be expected. Thus he repeatedlyalludes to Locke as the author of the doctrine of innate ideas (!!), [14] and he informs us that Kepler never quitted Protestant England (p. 336), though we believe that the nearest Kepler ever came to living inEngland was the refusing of Sir Henry Wotton's request that he shouldmove thither. 

 [14] Pages 251, 252, 287. So in the twenty-first century someavatar of M. Figuier will perhaps describe the late professor Agassiz asthe author of the Darwinian theory. 

And lastly, we are treated to a real dialogue, with quite a dramaticmise en scene. The author's imaginary friend, Theophilus, enters, "seatshimself in a comfortable chair, places an ottoman under his feet, abook under his elbow to support it, and a cigarette of Turkish tobaccobetween his lips, and sets himself to the task of listening with agrave air of collectedness, relieved by a certain touch of suspiciousseverity, as becomes the arbiter in a literary and philosophic matter. ""And so, " begins our author, "you wish to know, my dear Theophilus, WHERE I LOCATE GOD? I locate him in the centre of the universe, or, inbetter phrase, at the central focus, which must exist somewhere, of allthe stars that make the universe, and which, borne onward in a commonmovement, gravitate together around this focus. "

Much more, of an equally scientific character, follows; but in fairnessto the reader, who is already blaming us for wasting the preciousmoments over such sorry trash, we may as well conclude our sketch ofthis new line of speculation. 

 May, 1872. 

III. THE JESUS OF HISTORY. [15]

 [15] The Jesus of History. Anonymous. 8vo. Pp. 426. London:Williams & Norgate, 1869. 

Vie de Jesus, par Ernest Renan. Paris, 1867. (Thirteenth edition, revised and partly rewritten. )

In republishing this and the following article on "The Christ of Dogma, "I am aware that they do but scanty justice to their very interestingsubjects. So much ground is covered that it would be impossible to treatit satisfactorily in a pair of review-articles; and in particular theviews adopted with regard to the New Testament literature are ratherindicated than justified. These defects I hope to remedy in a futurework on "Jesus of Nazareth, and the Founding of Christianity, " forwhich the present articles must be regarded as furnishing only a fewintroductory hints. This work has been for several years on my mind, but as it may still be long before I can find the leisure needful forwriting it out, it seemed best to republish these preliminary sketcheswhich have been some time out of print. The projected work, however, while covering all the points here treated, will have a much widerscope, dealing on the one hand with the natural genesis of the complexaggregate of beliefs and aspirations known as Christianity, and onthe other hand with the metamorphoses which are being wrought in thisaggregate by modern knowledge and modern theories of the world. 

The views adopted in the present essay as to the date of the SynopticGospels may seem over-conservative to those who accept the ably-arguedconclusions of "Supernatural Religion. " Quite possibly in a moredetailed discussion these briefly-indicated data may require revision;but for the present it seems best to let the article stand as it waswritten. The author of "Supernatural Religion" would no doubt admitthat, even if the synoptic gospels had not assumed their present formbefore the end of the second century, nevertheless the body of traditioncontained in them had been committed to writing very early in thatcentury. So much appears to be proved by the very variations of textupon which his argument relies. And if this be granted, the value of thesynoptics as HISTORICAL evidence is not materially altered. With theirvalue as testimony to so-called SUPERNATURAL events, the present essayis in no way concerned. 

Of all the great founders of religions, Jesus is at once the best knownand the least known to the modern scholar. From the dogmatic point ofview he is the best known, from the historic point of view he is theleast known. The Christ of dogma is in every lineament familiar to usfrom early childhood; but concerning the Jesus of history we possessbut few facts resting upon trustworthy evidence, and in order to forma picture of him at once consistent, probable, and distinct inits outlines, it is necessary to enter upon a long and difficultinvestigation, in the course of which some of the most delicateapparatus of modern criticism is required. This circumstance issufficiently singular to require especial explanation. The case ofSakyamuni, the founder of Buddhism, which may perhaps be cited asparallel, is in reality wholly different. Not only did Sakyamuni livefive centuries earlier than Jesus, among a people that have at no timepossessed the art of insuring authenticity in their records of events, and at an era which is at best but dimly discerned through the mists offable and legend, but the work which he achieved lies wholly out ofthe course of European history, and it is only in recent times that hiscareer has presented itself to us as a problem needing to be solved. Jesus, on the other hand, appeared in an age which is familiarly and inmany respects minutely known to us, and among a people whose fortunes wecan trace with historic certainty for at least seven centuries previousto his birth; while his life and achievements have probably had alarger share in directing the entire subsequent intellectual and moraldevelopment of Europe than those of any other man who has ever lived. Nevertheless, the details of his personal career are shrouded in anobscurity almost as dense as that which envelops the life of the remotefounder of Buddhism. 

This phenomenon, however, appears less strange and paradoxical when wecome to examine it more closely. A little reflection will disclose tous several good reasons why the historical records of the life of Jesusshould be so scanty as they are. In the first place, the activity ofJesus was private rather than public. Confined within exceedingly narrowlimits, both of space and of duration, it made no impression whateverupon the politics or the literature of the time. His name does notoccur in the pages of any contemporary writer, Roman, Greek, or Jewish. Doubtless the case would have been wholly different, had he, likeMohammed, lived to a ripe age, and had the exigencies of his peculiarposition as the Messiah of the Jewish people brought him into relationswith the Empire; though whether, in such case, the success of his grandundertaking would have been as complete as it has actually been, maywell be doubted. 

Secondly, Jesus did not, like Mohammed and Paul, leave behind himauthentic writings which might serve to throw light upon his mentaldevelopment as well as upon the external facts of his career. Withoutthe Koran and the four genuine Epistles of Paul, we should be nearly asmuch in the dark concerning these great men as we now are concerning thehistorical Jesus. We should be compelled to rely, in the one case, uponthe untrustworthy gossip of Mussulman chroniclers, and in the othercase upon the garbled statements of the "Acts of the Apostles, " a bookwritten with a distinct dogmatic purpose, sixty or seventy years afterthe occurrence of the events which it professes to record. 

It is true, many of the words of Jesus, preserved by hearsay traditionthrough the generation immediately succeeding his death, have comedown to us, probably with little alteration, in the pages of the threeearlier evangelists. These are priceless data, since, as we shall see, they are almost the only materials at our command for forming even apartial conception of the character of Jesus' work. Nevertheless, evenhere the cautious inquirer has only too often to pause in face of thedifficulty of distinguishing the authentic utterances of the greatteacher from the later interpolations suggested by the dogmaticnecessities of the narrators. Bitterly must the historian regretthat Jesus had no philosophic disciple, like Xenophon, to record hisMemorabilia. Of the various writings included in the New Testament, theApocalypse alone (and possibly the Epistle of Jude) is from the pen ofa personal acquaintance of Jesus; and besides this, the four epistles ofPaul, to the Galatians, Corinthians, and Romans, make up the sum of thewritings from which we may expect contemporary testimony. Yet from thesewe obtain absolutely nothing of that for which we are seeking. The briefwritings of Paul are occupied exclusively with the internal significanceof Jesus' work. The epistle of Jude--if it be really written by Jesus'brother of that name, which is doubtful--is solely a polemic directedagainst the innovations of Paul. And the Apocalypse, the work ofthe fiery and imaginative disciple John, is confined to a propheticdescription of the Messiah's anticipated return, and tells us nothingconcerning the deeds of that Messiah while on the earth. 

Here we touch upon our third consideration, --the consideration whichbest enables us to see why the historic notices of Jesus are so meagre. Rightly considered, the statement with which we opened this articleis its own explanation. The Jesus of history is so little known justbecause the Christ of dogma is so well known. [16] Other teachers--Paul, Mohammed, Sakyamuni--have come merely as preachers of righteousness, speaking in the name of general principles with which their ownpersonalities were not directly implicated. But Jesus, as we shall see, before the close of his life, proclaimed himself to be something morethan a preacher of righteousness. He announced himself--and justly, fromhis own point of view--as the long-expected Messiah sent by Jehovah toliberate the Jewish race. Thus the success of his religious teachingsbecame at once implicated with the question of his personal nature andcharacter. After the sudden and violent termination of his career, itimmediately became all-important with his followers to prove that hewas really the Messiah, and to insist upon the certainty of his speedyreturn to the earth. Thus the first generation of disciples dogmatizedabout him, instead of narrating his life, --a task which to them wouldhave seemed of little profit. For them the all-absorbing object ofcontemplation was the immediate future rather than the immediate past. As all the earlier Christian literature informs us, for nearly a centuryafter the death of Jesus, his followers lived in daily anticipation ofhis triumphant return to the earth. The end of all things being so nearat hand, no attempt was made to insure accurate and complete memoirsfor the use of a posterity which was destined, in Christian imagination, never to arrive. The first Christians wrote but little; even Papias, at the end of a century, preferring second-hand or third-hand oraltradition to the written gospels which were then beginning to come intocirculation. [17] Memoirs of the life and teachings of Jesus were calledforth by the necessity of having a written standard of doctrine to whichto appeal amid the growing differences of opinion which disturbed theChurch. Thus the earlier gospels exhibit, though in different degrees, the indications of a modifying, sometimes of an overruling dogmaticpurpose. There is, indeed, no conscious violation of historic truth, butfrom the varied mass of material supplied by tradition, such incidentsare selected as are fit to support the views of the writers concerningthe personality of Jesus. Accordingly, while the early gospels throw astrong light upon the state of Christian opinion at the dates when theywere successively composed, the information which they give concerningJesus himself is, for that very reason, often vague, uncritical, andcontradictory. Still more is this true of the fourth gospel, writtenlate in the second century, in which historic tradition is moulded inthe interests of dogma until it becomes no longer recognizable, andin the place of the human Messiah of the earlier accounts, we have asemi-divine Logos or Aeon, detached from God, and incarnate for a briefseason in the likeness of man. 

 [16] "Wer einmal vergottert worden ist, der hat seine Mensetheitunwiederbringlich eingebusst. "--Strauss, Der alte und der neue Glaube, p. 76. 

 [17] "Roger was the attendant of Thomas [Becket] during hissojourn at Pontigny. We might have expected him to be very full on thatpart of his history; but, writing doubtless mainly for the monks ofPontigny, he says that HE WILL NOT ENLARGE UPON WHAT EVERY ONE KNOWS, and cuts that part very short. "--Freeman, Historical Essays, 1st series, p. 90. 

Not only was history subordinated to dogma by the writers of thegospel-narratives, but in the minds of the Fathers of the Church whoassisted in determining what writings should be considered canonical, dogmatic prepossession went very much further than critical acumen. Nor is this strange when we reflect that critical discrimination inquestions of literary authenticity is one of the latest acquisitions ofthe cultivated human mind. In the early ages of the Church the evidenceof the genuineness of any literary production was never weighedcritically; writings containing doctrines acceptable to the majority ofChristians were quoted as authoritative while writings which suppliedno dogmatic want were overlooked, or perhaps condemned as apocryphal. A striking instance of this is furnished by the fortunes of theApocalypse. Although perhaps the best authenticated work in the NewTestament collection, its millenarian doctrines caused it to becomeunpopular as the Church gradually ceased to look for the speedy returnof the Messiah, and, accordingly, as the canon assumed a definite shape, it was placed among the "Antilegomena, " or doubtful books, and continuedto hold a precarious position until after the time of the ProtestantReformation. On the other hand, the fourth gospel, which was quiteunknown and probably did not exist at the time of the Quartodecimancontroversy (A. D. 168), was accepted with little hesitation, and at thebeginning of the third century is mentioned by Irenaeus, Clement, andTertullian, as the work of the Apostle John. To this uncritical spirit, leading to the neglect of such books as failed to answer the dogmaticrequirements of the Church, may probably be attributed the loss of somany of the earlier gospels. It is doubtless for this reason that wedo not possess the Aramaean original of the "Logia" of Matthew, orthe "Memorabilia" of Mark, the companion of Peter, --two works to whichPapias (A. D. 120) alludes as containing authentic reports of theutterances of Jesus. 

These considerations will, we believe, sufficiently explain the curiouscircumstance that, while we know the Christ of dogma so intimately, we know the Jesus of history so slightly. The literature of earlyChristianity enables us to trace with tolerable completeness theprogress of opinion concerning the nature of Jesus, from the time ofPaul's early missions to the time of the Nicene Council; but upon theactual words and deeds of Jesus it throws a very unsteady light. Thedogmatic purpose everywhere obscures the historic basis. 

This same dogmatic prepossession which has rendered the data fora biography of Jesus so scanty and untrustworthy, has also untilcomparatively recent times prevented any unbiassed critical examinationof such data as we actually possess. Previous to the eighteenth centuryany attempt to deal with the life of Jesus upon purely historicalmethods would have been not only contemned as irrational, butstigmatized as impious. And even in the eighteenth century, thosewriters who had become wholly emancipated from ecclesiastic traditionwere so destitute of all historic sympathy and so unskilled inscientific methods of criticism, that they utterly failed to comprehendthe requirements of the problem. Their aims were in the main polemic, not historical. They thought more of overthrowing current dogmas than ofimpartially examining the earliest Christian literature with a view ofeliciting its historic contents; and, accordingly, they accomplished butlittle. Two brilliant exceptions must, however, be noticed. Spinoza, inthe seventeenth century, and Lessing, in the eighteenth, were men farin advance of their age. They are the fathers of modern historicalcriticism; and to Lessing in particular, with his enormous erudition andincomparable sagacity, belongs the honour of initiating that method ofinquiry which, in the hands of the so-called Tubingen School, has led tosuch striking and valuable conclusions concerning, the age and characterof all the New Testament literature. But it was long before any onecould be found fit to bend the bow which Lessing and Spinoza hadwielded. A succession of able scholars--Semler, Eichhorn, Paulus, Schleiermacher Bretschneider, and De Wette--were required to examine, with German patience and accuracy, the details of the subject, andto propound various untenable hypotheses, before such a work could beperformed as that of Strauss. The "Life of Jesus, " published by Strausswhen only twenty-six years of age, is one of the monumental works of thenineteenth century, worthy to rank, as a historical effort, along withsuch books as Niebuhr's "History of Rome, " Wolf's "Prolegomena, " orBentley's "Dissertations on Phalaris. " It instantly superseded andrendered antiquated everything which had preceded it; nor has any workon early Christianity been written in Germany for the past thirty yearswhich has not been dominated by the recollection of that marvellousbook. Nevertheless, the labours of another generation of scholars havecarried our knowledge of the New Testament literature far beyond thepoint which it had reached when Strauss first wrote. At that time thedates of but few of the New Testament writings had been fixed with anyapproach to certainty; the age and character of the fourth gospel, thegenuineness of the Pauline epistles, even the mutual relations of thethree synoptics, were still undetermined; and, as a natural result ofthis uncertainty, the progress of dogma during the first century was illunderstood. At the present day it is impossible to read the early workof Strauss without being impressed with the necessity of obtainingpositive data as to the origin and dogmatic character of the NewTestament writings, before attempting to reach any conclusions as to theprobable career of Jesus. These positive data we owe to the geniusand diligence of the Tubingen School, and, above all, to its founder, Ferdinand Christian Baur. Beginning with the epistles of Paul, of whichhe distinguished four as genuine, Baur gradually worked his way throughthe entire New Testament collection, detecting--with that inspiredinsight which only unflinching diligence can impart to originalgenius--the age at which each book was written, and the circumstanceswhich called it forth. To give any account of Baur's detailedconclusions, or of the method by which he reached them, would requirea volume. They are very scantily presented in Mr. Mackay's work on the"Tubingen School and its Antecedents, " to which we may refer the readerdesirous of further information. We can here merely say that twentyyears of energetic controversy have only served to establish most ofBaur's leading conclusions more firmly than ever. The priority of theso-called gospel of Matthew, the Pauline purpose of "Luke, " the secondin date of our gospels, the derivative and second-hand character of"Mark, " and the unapostolic origin of the fourth gospel, are pointswhich may for the future be regarded as wellnigh established bycircumstantial evidence. So with respect to the pseudo-Pauline epistles, Baur's work was done so thoroughly that the only question still leftopen for much discussion is that concerning the date and authorshipof the first and second "Thessalonians, "--a point of quite inferiorimportance, so far as our present subject is concerned. Seldom have suchvast results been achieved by the labour of a single scholar. Seldom hasany historical critic possessed such a combination of analytic andof co-ordinating powers as Baur. His keen criticism and his wonderfulflashes of insight exercise upon the reader a truly poetic effect likethat which is felt in contemplating the marvels of physical discovery. 

The comprehensive labours of Baur were followed up by Zeller's able workon the "Acts of the Apostles, " in which that book was shown to have beenpartly founded upon documents written by Luke, or some other companionof Paul, and expanded and modified by a much later writer with thepurpose of covering up the traces of the early schism between thePauline and the Petrine sections of the Church. Along with this, Schwegler's work on the "Post-Apostolic Times" deserves mention asclearing up many obscure points relating to the early developmentof dogma. Finally, the "New Life of Jesus, " by Strauss, adopting andutilizing the principal discoveries of Baur and his followers, andcombining all into one grand historical picture, worthily completes thetask which the earlier work of the same author had inaugurated. 

The reader will have noticed that, with the exception of Spinoza, everyone of the names above cited in connection with the literary analysisand criticism of the New Testament is the name of a German. Untilwithin the last decade, Germany has indeed possessed almost an absolutemonopoly of the science of Biblical criticism; other countries havingremained not only unfamiliar with its methods, but even grossly ignorantof its conspicuous results, save when some German treatise of more thanordinary popularity has now and then been translated. But duringthe past ten years France has entered the lists; and the writings ofReville, Reuss, Nicolas, D'Eichthal, Scherer, and Colani testify to therapidity with which the German seed has fructified upon her soil. [18]

 [18] But now, in annexing Alsace, Germany has "annexed" prettymuch the whole of this department of French scholarship, --a curiousincidental consequence of the late war. 

None of these books, however, has achieved such wide-spread celebrity, or done so much toward interesting the general public in this classof historical inquiries, as the "Life of Jesus, " by Renan. Thispre-eminence of fame is partly, but not wholly, deserved. From a purelyliterary point of view, Renan's work doubtless merits all the celebrityit has gained. Its author writes a style such as is perhaps surpassed bythat of no other living Frenchman. It is by far the most readable bookwhich has ever been written concerning the life of Jesus. And no doubtsome of its popularity is due to its very faults, which, from a criticalpoint of view, are neither few nor small. For Renan is certainly veryfaulty, as a historical critic, when he practically ignores the extrememeagreness of our positive knowledge of the career of Jesus, anddescribes scene after scene in his life as minutely and with as muchconfidence as if he had himself been present to witness it all. Againand again the critical reader feels prompted to ask, How do you know allthis? or why, out of two or three conflicting accounts, do youquietly adopt some particular one, as if its superior authority wereself-evident? But in the eye of the uncritical reader, these defects areexcellences; for it is unpleasant to be kept in ignorance when we areseeking after definite knowledge, and it is disheartening to read pageafter page of an elaborate discussion which ends in convincing us thatdefinite knowledge cannot be gained. 

In the thirteenth edition of the "Vie de Jesus, " Renan has correctedsome of the most striking errors of the original work, and in particularhas, with praiseworthy candour, abandoned his untenable position withregard to the age and character of the fourth gospel. As is well known, Renan, in his earlier editions, ascribed to this gospel a historicalvalue superior to that of the synoptics, believing it to have beenwritten by an eyewitness of the events which it relates; and from thissource, accordingly, he drew the larger share of his materials. Now, if there is any one conclusion concerning the New Testament literaturewhich must be regarded as incontrovertibly established by the labours ofa whole generation of scholars, it is this, that the fourth gospel wasutterly unknown until about A. D. 170, that it was written by someone who possessed very little direct knowledge of Palestine, that itspurpose was rather to expound a dogma than to give an accurate record ofevents, and that as a guide to the comprehension of the career ofJesus it is of far less value than the three synoptic gospels. Itis impossible, in a brief review like the present, to epitomize theevidence upon which this conclusion rests, which may more profitablybe sought in the Rev. J. J. Tayler's work on "The Fourth Gospel, " orin Davidson's "Introduction to the New Testament. " It must suffice tomention that this gospel is not cited by Papias; that Justin, Marcion, and Valentinus make no allusion to it, though, since it furnishes somuch that is germane to their views, they would gladly have appealedto it, had it been in existence, when those views were as yet underdiscussion; and that, finally, in the great Quartodeciman controversy, A. D. 168, the gospel is not only not mentioned, but the authority ofJohn is cited by Polycarp in flat contradiction of the view afterwardstaken by this evangelist. Still more, the assumption of Renan led atonce into complicated difficulties with reference to the Apocalypse. Thefourth gospel, if it does not unmistakably announce itself as the workof John, at least professes to be Johannine; and it cannot for a momentbe supposed that such a book, making such claims, could have gainedcurrency during John's lifetime without calling forth his indignantprotest. For, in reality, no book in the New Testament collection wouldso completely have shocked the prejudices of the Johannine party. John'sown views are well known to us from the Apocalypse. John was the mostenthusiastic of millenarians and the most narrow and rigid of Judaizers. In his antagonism to the Pauline innovations he went farther than Peterhimself. Intense hatred of Paul and his followers appears in severalpassages of the Apocalypse, where they are stigmatized as "Nicolaitans, ""deceivers of the people, " "those who say they are apostles and arenot, " "eaters of meat offered to idols, " "fornicators, " "pretendedJews, " "liars, " "synagogue of Satan, " etc. (Chap. II. ). On the otherhand, the fourth gospel contains nothing millenarian or Judaical; itcarries Pauline universalism to a far greater extent than Paul himselfventured to carry it, even condemning the Jews as children of darkness, and by implication contrasting them unfavourably with the Gentiles;and it contains a theory of the nature of Jesus which the EbionitishChristians, to whom John belonged, rejected to the last. 

In his present edition Renan admits the insuperable force of theseobjections, and abandons his theory of the apostolic origin of thefourth gospel. And as this has necessitated the omission or alterationof all such passages as rested upon the authority of that gospel, thebook is to a considerable extent rewritten, and the changes are such asgreatly to increase its value as a history of Jesus. Nevertheless, theauthor has so long been in the habit of shaping his conceptions of thecareer of Jesus by the aid of the fourth gospel, that it has becomevery difficult for him to pass freely to another point of view. He stillclings to the hypothesis that there is an element of historic traditioncontained in the book, drawn from memorial writings which had perhapsbeen handed down from John, and which were inaccessible to thesynoptists. In a very interesting appendix, he collects the evidencein favour of this hypothesis, which indeed is not without plausibility, since there is every reason for supposing that the gospel was written atEphesus, which a century before had been John's place of residence. Buteven granting most of Renan's assumptions, it must still follow that theauthority of this gospel is far inferior to that of the synoptics, andcan in no case be very confidently appealed to. The question is oneof the first importance to the historian of early Christianity. Ininquiring into the life of Jesus, the very first thing to do is toestablish firmly in the mind the true relations of the fourth gospel tothe first three. Until this has been done, no one is competent to writeon the subject; and it is because he has done this so imperfectly, that Renan's work is, from a critical point of view, so imperfectlysuccessful. 

The anonymous work entitled "The Jesus of History, " which we have placedat the head of this article, is in every respect noteworthy as the firstsystematic attempt made in England to follow in the footsteps of Germancriticism in writing a life of Jesus. We know of no good reason whythe book should be published anonymously; for as a historical essay itpossesses extraordinary merit, and does great credit not only to itsauthor, but to English scholarship and acumen. [19] It is not, indeed, a book calculated to captivate the imagination of the reading public. Though written in a clear, forcible, and often elegant style, itpossesses no such wonderful rhetorical charm as the work of Renan;and it will probably never find half a dozen readers where the "Vie deJesus" has found a hundred. But the success of a book of this sort isnot to be measured by its rhetorical excellence, or by its adaptation tothe literary tastes of an uncritical and uninstructed public, but ratherby the amount of critical sagacity which it brings to bear upon theelucidation of the many difficult and disputed points in the subject ofwhich it treats. Measured by this standard, "The Jesus of History" mustrank very high indeed. To say that it throws more light upon the careerof Jesus than any work which has ever before been written in Englishwould be very inadequate praise, since the English language has beensingularly deficient in this branch of historical literature. We shallconvey a more just idea of its merits if we say that it will bearcomparison with anything which even Germany has produced, save only theworks of Strauss, Baur, and Zeller. 

 [19] "The Jesus of History" is now known to have been written bySir Richard Hanson, Chief Justice of South Australia. 

The fitness of our author for the task which he has undertaken is shownat the outset by his choice of materials. In basing his conclusionsalmost exclusively upon the statements contained in the first gospel, heis upheld by every sound principle of criticism. The times and placesat which our three synoptic gospels were written have been, through thelabours of the Tubingen critics, determined almost to a certainty. Ofthe three, "Mark" is unquestionably the latest; with the exception ofabout twenty verses, it is entirely made up from "Matthew" and "Luke, "the diverse Petrine and Pauline tendencies of which it strives toneutralize in conformity to the conciliatory disposition of the Churchat Rome, at the epoch at which this gospel was written, about A. D. 130. The third gospel was also written at Rome, some fifteen years earlier. In the preface, its author describes it as a compilation from previouslyexisting written materials. Among these materials was certainly thefirst gospel, several passages of which are adopted word for word by theauthor of "Luke. " Yet the narrative varies materially from that of thefirst gospel in many essential points. The arrangement of events isless natural, and, as in the "Acts of the Apostles, " by the same author, there is apparent throughout the design of suppressing the olddiscord between Paul and the Judaizing disciples, and of representingChristianity as essentially Pauline from the outset. How far Paul wascorrect in his interpretation of the teachings of Jesus, it is difficultto decide. It is, no doubt, possible that the first gospel may have lentto the words of Jesus an Ebionite colouring in some instances, and thatnow and then the third gospel may present us with a truer account. To this supremely important point we shall by and by return. For thepresent it must suffice to observe that the evidences of an overrulingdogmatic purpose are generally much more conspicuous in the thirdsynoptist than in the first; and that the very loose manner in whichthis writer has handled his materials in the "Acts" is not calculated toinspire us with confidence in the historical accuracy of his gospel. The writer who, in spite of the direct testimony of Paul himself couldrepresent the apostle to the Gentiles as acting under the direction ofthe disciples at Jerusalem, and who puts Pauline sentiments into themouth of Peter, would certainly have been capable of unwarrantablygiving a Pauline turn to the teachings of Jesus himself. We aretherefore, as a last resort, brought back to the first gospel, which wefind to possess, as a historical narrative, far stronger claims upon ourattention than the second and third. In all probability it had assumednearly its present shape before A. D. 100, its origin is unmistakablyPalestinian; it betrays comparatively few indications of dogmaticpurpose; and there are strong reasons for believing that the speeches ofJesus recorded in it are in substance taken from the genuine "Logia" ofMatthew mentioned by Papias, which must have been written as early as A. D. 60-70, before the destruction of Jerusalem. Indeed, we are inclinedto agree with our author that the gospel, even in its present shape(save only a few interpolated passages), may have existed as early asA. D. 80, since it places the time of Jesus' second coming immediatelyafter the destruction of Jerusalem; whereas the third evangelist, whowrote forty-five years after that event, is careful to tell us, "Theend is NOT immediately. " Moreover, it must have been written while thePaulo-Petrine controversy was still raging, as is shown by the parableof the "enemy who sowed the tares, " which manifestly refers to Paul, andalso by the allusions to "false prophets" (vii. 15), to those who say"Lord, Lord, " and who "cast out demons in the name of the Lord" (vii. 21-23), teaching men to break the commandments (v. 17-20). There is, therefore, good reason for believing that we have here a narrativewritten not much more than fifty years after the death of Jesus, based partly upon the written memorials of an apostle, and in the maintrustworthy, save where it relates occurrences of a marvellous andlegendary character. Such is our author's conclusion, and in describingthe career of the Jesus of history, he relies almost exclusively uponthe statements contained in the first gospel. Let us now after this longbut inadequate introduction, give a brief sketch of the life of Jesus, as it is to be found in our author. 

Concerning the time and place of the birth of Jesus, we know next tonothing. According to uniform tradition, based upon a statement of thethird gospel, he was about thirty years of age at the time when he beganteaching. The same gospel states, with elaborate precision, thatthe public career of John the Baptist began in the fifteenth year ofTiberius, or A. D. 28. In the winter of A. D. 35-36, Pontius Pilate wasrecalled from Judaea, so that the crucifixion could not have taken placelater than in the spring of 35. Thus we have a period of about six yearsduring which the ministry of Jesus must have begun and ended; and if thetradition with respect to his age be trustworthy, we shall not be farout of the way in supposing him to have been born somewhere between B. C. 5 and A. D. 5. He is everywhere alluded to in the gospels as Jesusof Nazareth in Galilee, where lived also his father, mother brothers andsisters, and where very likely he was born. His parents' names aresaid to have been Joseph and Mary. His own name is a Hellenized form ofJoshua, a name very common among the Jews. According to the first gospel(xiii. 55), he had four brothers, --Joseph and Simon; James, who wasafterwards one of the heads of the church at Jerusalem, and the mostformidable enemy of Paul; and Judas or Jude, who is perhaps the authorof the anti-Pauline epistle commonly ascribed to him. 

Of the early youth of Jesus, and of the circumstances which guided hisintellectual development, we know absolutely nothing, nor have we thedata requisite for forming any plausible hypothesis. He first appearsin history about A. D. 29 or 30, in connection with a very remarkableperson whom the third evangelist describes as his cousin, and whoseems, from his mode of life, to have been in some way connected with orinfluenced by the Hellenizing sect of Essenes. Here we obtain our firstclew to guide us in forming a consecutive theory of the development ofJesus' opinions. The sect of Essenes took its rise in the time of theMaccabees, about B. C. 170. Upon the fundamental doctrines of Judaism ithad engrafted many Pythagorean notions, and was doubtless in the time ofJesus instrumental in spreading Greek ideas among the people of Galilee, where Judaism was far from being so narrow and rigid as at Jerusalem. The Essenes attached but little importance to the Messianic expectationsof the Pharisees, and mingled scarcely at all in national politics. They lived for the most part a strictly ascetic life, being indeed thelegitimate predecessors of the early Christian hermits and monks. Butwhile pre-eminent for sanctity of life, they heaped ridicule upon theentire sacrificial service of the Temple, despised the Pharisees ashypocrites, and insisted upon charity toward all men instead of the oldJewish exclusiveness. 

It was once a favourite theory that both John the Baptist and Jesus weremembers of the Essenian brotherhood; but that theory is now generallyabandoned. Whatever may have been the case with John, who is said tohave lived like an anchorite in the desert, there seems to have been butlittle practical Essenism in Jesus, who is almost uniformly representedas cheerful and social in demeanour, and against whom it was expresslyurged that he came eating and drinking, making no presence ofpuritanical holiness. He was neither a puritan, like the Essenes, nor aritualist, like the Pharisees. Besides which, both John and Jesus seemto have begun their careers by preaching the un-Essene doctrine of thespeedy advent of the "kingdom of heaven, " by which is meant the reign ofthe Messiah upon the earth. Nevertheless, though we cannot regard Jesusas actually a member of the Essenian community or sect, we can hardlyavoid the conclusion that he, as well as John the Baptist, had been atsome time strongly influenced by Essenian doctrines. The spiritualizedconception of the "kingdom of heaven" proclaimed by him was just whatwould naturally and logically arise from a remodelling of the Messianictheories of the Pharisees in conformity to advanced Essenian notions. Itseems highly probable that some such refined conception of the functionsof the Messiah was reached by John, who, stigmatizing the Pharisees andSadducees as a "generation of vipers, " called aloud to the people torepent of their sins, in view of the speedy advent of the Messiah, andto testify to their repentance by submitting to the Essenian rite ofbaptism. There is no positive evidence that Jesus was ever a discipleof John; yet the account of the baptism, in spite of the legendarycharacter of its details, seems to rest upon a historical basis; andperhaps the most plausible hypothesis which can be framed is, that Jesusreceived baptism at John's hands, became for a while his disciple, andacquired from him a knowledge of Essenian doctrines. 

The career of John seems to have been very brief. His stern puritanismbrought him soon into disgrace with the government of Galilee. He wasseized by Herod, thrown into prison, and beheaded. After the brief hintsgiven as to the intercourse between Jesus and John, we next hear ofJesus alone in the desert, where, like Sakyamuni and Mohammed, he mayhave brooded in solitude over his great project. Yet we do not find thathe had as yet formed any distinct conception of his own Messiahship. The total neglect of chronology by our authorities [20] renders itimpossible to trace the development of his thoughts step by step; butfor some time after John's catastrophe we find him calling upon thepeople to repent, in view of the speedy approach of the Messiah, speaking with great and commanding personal authority, but using nolanguage which would indicate that he was striving to do more thanworthily fill the place and add to the good work of his late master. TheSermon on the Mount, which the first gospel inserts in this place, wasperhaps never spoken as a continuous discourse; but it no doubt for themost part contains the very words of Jesus, and represents the generalspirit of his teaching during this earlier portion of his career. Inthis is contained nearly all that has made Christianity so powerful inthe domain of ethics. If all the rest of the gospel were taken away, or destroyed in the night of some future barbarian invasion, we shouldstill here possess the secret of the wonderful impression which Jesusmade upon those who heard him speak. Added to the Essenian scorn ofPharisaic formalism, and the spiritualized conception of the Messianickingdom, which Jesus may probably have shared with John the Baptist, wehave here for the first time the distinctively Christian conceptionof the fatherhood of God and the brotherhood of men, which ultimatelyinsured the success of the new religion. The special point oforiginality in Jesus was his conception of Deity. As Strauss well says, "He conceived of God, in a moral point of view, as being identical incharacter with himself in the most exalted moments of his religiouslife, and strengthened in turn his own religious life by this ideal. Butthe most exalted religious tendency in his own consciousness was exactlythat comprehensive love, overpowering the evil only by the good, whichhe therefore transferred to God as the fundamental tendency of Hisnature. " From this conception of God, observes Zeller, flowed naturallyall the moral teaching of Jesus, the insistence upon spiritualrighteousness instead of the mere mechanical observance of Mosaicprecepts, the call to be perfect even as the Father is perfect, theprinciple of the spiritual equality of men before God, and the equalduties of all men toward each other. 

 [20] "The biographers [of Becket] are commonly rather careless asto the order of time. Each. . . . Recorded what struck him most or whathe best knew, one set down one event and another; and none of them paidmuch regard to the order of details. "--Freeman, Historical Essays, 1stseries, p. 94. 

How far, in addition to these vitally important lessons, Jesus may havetaught doctrines of an ephemeral or visionary character, it is verydifficult to decide. We are inclined to regard the third gospel asof some importance in settling this point. The author of that gospelrepresents Jesus as decidedly hostile to the rich. Where Matthew has"Blessed are the poor in spirit, " Luke has "Blessed are ye poor. " Inthe first gospel we read, "Blessed are they who hunger and thirst afterrighteousness, for they will be filled"; but in the third gospel wefind, "Blessed are ye that hunger now, for ye will be filled"; and thisassurance is immediately followed by the denunciation, "Woe to you thatare rich, for ye have received your consolation! Woe to you thatare full now, for ye will hunger. " The parable of Dives and Lazarusillustrates concretely this view of the case, which is still furthercorroborated by the account, given in both the first and the thirdgospels, of the young man who came to seek everlasting life. Jesus heremaintains that righteousness is insufficient unless voluntary poverty besuperadded. Though the young man has strictly fulfilled the greatest ofthe commandments, --to love his neighbour as himself, --he is required, asa needful proof of his sincerity, to distribute all his vast possessionsamong the poor. And when he naturally manifests a reluctance to performso superfluous a sacrifice, Jesus observes that it will be easier for acamel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to sharein the glories of the anticipated Messianic kingdom. It is difficult toescape the conclusion that we have here a very primitive and probablyauthentic tradition; and when we remember the importance which, according to the "Acts, " the earliest disciples attached to theprinciple of communism, as illustrated in the legend of Ananias andSapphira, we must admit strong reasons for believing that Jesus himselfheld views which tended toward the abolition of private property. On this point, the testimony of the third evangelist singly is ofconsiderable weight; since at the time when he wrote, the communistictheories of the first generation of Christians had been generallyabandoned, and in the absence of any dogmatic motives, he could onlyhave inserted these particular traditions because he believed them topossess historical value. But we are not dependent on the third gospelalone. The story just cited is attested by both our authorities, and isin perfect keeping with the general views of Jesus as reported by thefirst evangelist. Thus his disciples are enjoined to leave all, andfollow him; to take no thought for the morrow; to think no more oflaying up treasures on the earth, for in the Messianic kingdom theyshall have treasures in abundance, which can neither be wasted norstolen. On making their journeys, they are to provide neither money, nor clothes, nor food, but are to live at the expense of those whomthey visit; and if any town refuse to harbour them, the Messiah, on hisarrival, will deal with that town more severely than Jehovah dealt withthe cities of the plain. Indeed, since the end of the world was to comebefore the end of the generation then living (Matt. Xxiv. 34; 1 Cor. Xv. 51-56, vii. 29), there could be no need for acquiring property or makingarrangements for the future; even marriage became unnecessary. Theseteachings of Jesus have a marked Essenian character, as well as hisdeclaration that in the Messianic kingdom there was to be no moremarriage, perhaps no distinction of sex (Matt. Xxii. 30). The sectof Ebionites, who represented the earliest doctrine and practice ofChristianity before it had been modified by Paul, differed from theEssenes in no essential respect save in the acknowledgment of Jesus asthe Messiah, and the expectation of his speedy return to the earth. 

How long, or with what success, Jesus continued to preach the comingof the Messiah in Galilee, it is impossible to conjecture. Hisfellow-townsmen of Nazareth appear to have ridiculed him in hisprophetical capacity; or, if we may trust the third evangelist, to havearisen against him with indignation, and made an attempt upon his life. To them he was but a carpenter, the son of a carpenter (Matt. Xiii. 55;Mark vi. 3), who told them disagreeable truths. Our author representshis teaching in Galilee to have produced but little result, but thegospel narratives afford no definite data for deciding this point. Webelieve the most probable conclusion to be that Jesus did attract manyfollowers, and became famous throughout Galilee; for Herod is said tohave regarded him as John the Baptist risen from the grave. To escapethe malice of Herod, Jesus then retired to Syro-Phoenicia, and duringthis eventful journey the consciousness of his own Messiahship seems forthe first time to have distinctly dawned upon him (Matt. Xiv. 1, 13; xv. 21; xvi. 13-20). Already, it appears, speculations were rife as tothe character of this wonderful preacher. Some thought he was John theBaptist, or perhaps one of the prophets of the Assyrian period returnedto the earth. Some, in accordance with a generally-received tradition, supposed him to be Elijah, who had never seen death, and had now at lastreturned from the regions above the firmament to announce the coming ofthe Messiah in the clouds. It was generally admitted, among enthusiastichearers, that he who spake as never man spake before must have somedivine commission to execute. These speculations, coming to the ears ofJesus during his preaching in Galilee, could not fail to excite in hima train of self-conscious reflections. To him also must have beenpresented the query as to his own proper character and functions;and, as our author acutely demonstrates, his only choice lay between aprofitless life of exile in Syro-Phoenicia, and a bold return toJewish territory in some pronounced character. The problem being thuspropounded, there could hardly be a doubt as to what that charactershould be. Jesus knew well that he was not John the Baptist; nor, however completely he may have been dominated by his sublime enthusiasm, was it likely that he could mistake himself for an ancient prophetarisen from the lower world of shades, or for Elijah descended fromthe sky. But the Messiah himself he might well be. Such indeed was thealmost inevitable corollary from his own conception of Messiahship. We have seen that he had, probably from the very outset, discarded thetraditional notion of a political Messiah, and recognized the truth thatthe happiness of a people lies not so much in political autonomy as inthe love of God and the sincere practice of righteousness. The peoplewere to be freed from the bondage of sin, of meaningless formalism, ofconsecrated hypocrisy, --a bondage more degrading than the payment oftribute to the emperor. The true business of the Messiah, then, was todeliver his people from the former bondage; it might be left to Jehovah, in his own good time, to deliver them from the latter. Holding theseviews, it was hardly possible that it should not sooner or later occurto Jesus that he himself was the person destined to discharge thisglorious function, to liberate his countrymen from the thraldom ofPharisaic ritualism, and to inaugurate the real Messianic kingdom ofspiritual righteousness. Had he not already preached the advent of thisspiritual kingdom, and been instrumental in raising many to loftierconceptions of duty, and to a higher and purer life? And might henot now, by a grand attack upon Pharisaism in its central stronghold, destroy its prestige in the eyes of the people, and cause Israel toadopt a nobler religious and ethical doctrine? The temerity of such apurpose detracts nothing from its sublimity. And if that purpose shouldbe accomplished, Jesus would really have performed the legitimate workof the Messiah. Thus, from his own point of view, Jesus was thoroughlyconsistent and rational in announcing himself as the expected Deliverer;and in the eyes of the impartial historian his course is fullyjustified. 

"From that time, " says the first evangelist, "Jesus began to show to hisdisciples that he must go to Jerusalem, and suffer many things fromthe elders and chief priests and scribes, and be put to death, and riseagain on the third day. " Here we have, obviously, the knowledge of thewriter, after the event, reflected back and attributed to Jesus. Itis of course impossible that Jesus should have predicted with suchdefiniteness his approaching death; nor is it very likely that heentertained any hope of being raised from the grave "on the third day. "To a man in that age and country, the conception of a return from thelower world of shades was not a difficult one to frame; and it may wellbe that Jesus' sense of his own exalted position was sufficiently greatto inspire him with the confidence that, even in case of temporaryfailure, Jehovah would rescue him from the grave and send him backwith larger powers to carry out the purpose of his mission. Butthe difficulty of distinguishing between his own words and theinterpretation put upon them by his disciples becomes here insuperable;and there will always be room for the hypothesis that Jesus had inview no posthumous career of his own, but only expressed his unshakenconfidence in the success of his enterprise, even after and in spite ofhis death. 

At all events, the possibility of his death must now have been often inhis mind. He was undertaking a wellnigh desperate task, --to overthrowthe Pharisees in Jerusalem itself. No other alternative was left him. And here we believe Mr. F. W. Newman to be singularly at fault inpronouncing this attempt of Jesus upon Jerusalem a foolhardy attempt. According to Mr. Newman, no man has any business to rush upon certaindeath, and it is only a crazy fanatic who will do so. [21] But such"glittering generalizations" will here help us but little. The historicdata show that to go to Jerusalem, even at the risk of death, wasabsolutely necessary to the realization of Jesus' Messianic project. Mr. Newman certainly would not have had him drag out an inglorious andbaffled existence in Syro-Phoenicia. If the Messianic kingdom was to befairly inaugurated, there was work to be done in Jerusalem, and Jesusmust go there as one in authority, cost what it might. We believe him tohave gone there in a spirit of grand and careless bravery, yet seriouslyand soberly, and under the influence of no fanatical delusion. Heknew the risks, but deliberately chose to incur them, that the will ofJehovah might be accomplished. 

We next hear of Jesus travelling down to Jerusalem by way of Jericho, and entering the sacred city in his character of Messiah, attended by agreat multitude. It was near the time of the Passover, when people fromall parts of Galilee and Judaea were sure to be at Jerusalem, and thenature of his reception seems to indicate that he had already secured aconsiderable number of followers upon whose assistance he might hopeto rely, though it nowhere appears that he intended to use other thanpurely moral weapons to insure a favourable reception. We must rememberthat for half a century many of the Jewish people had been constantlylooking for the arrival of the Messiah, and there can be little doubtthat the entry of Jesus riding upon an ass in literal fulfilment ofprophecy must have wrought powerfully upon the imagination of themultitude. That the believers in him were very numerous must beinferred from the cautious, not to say timid, behaviour of the rulersat Jerusalem, who are represented as desiring to arrest him, but asdeterred from taking active steps through fear of the people. We areled to the same conclusion by his driving the money-changers out of theTemple; an act upon which he could hardly have ventured, had not thepopular enthusiasm in his favour been for the moment overwhelming. Butthe enthusiasm of a mob is short-lived, and needs to be fed upon theexcitement of brilliant and dramatically arranged events. The calmpreacher of righteousness, or even the fiery denouncer of the scribesand Pharisees, could not hope to retain undiminished authority save bythe display of extraordinary powers to which, so far as we know, Jesus(like Mohammed) made no presence (Matt. Xvi. 1-4). The ignorant andmaterialistic populace could not understand the exalted conception ofMessiahship which had been formed by Jesus, and as day after day elapsedwithout the appearance of any marvellous sign from Jehovah, theirenthusiasm must naturally have cooled down. Then the Pharisees appearcautiously endeavouring to entrap him into admissions which mightrender him obnoxious to the Roman governor. He saw through their design, however, and foiled them by the magnificent repartee, "Render untoCaesar the things that are Caesar's, and unto God the things thatare God's. " Nothing could more forcibly illustrate the completelynon-political character of his Messianic doctrines. Nevertheless, weare told that, failing in this attempt, the chief priests suborned falsewitnesses to testify against him: this Sabbath-breaker, this derider ofMosaic formalism, who with his Messianic pretensions excited the peopleagainst their hereditary teachers, must at all events be put out of theway. Jesus must suffer the fate which society has too often had in storefor the reformer; the fate which Sokrates and Savonarola, Vaniniand Bruno, have suffered for being wiser than their own generation. Messianic adventurers had already given much trouble to the Romanauthorities, who were not likely to scrutinize critically the peculiarclaims of Jesus. And when the chief priests accused him before Pilateof professing to be "King of the Jews, " this claim could in Romanapprehension bear but one interpretation. The offence was treason, punishable, save in the case of Roman citizens, by crucifixion. 

 [21] Phases of Faith, pp. 158-164. 

Such in its main outlines is the historic career of Jesus, asconstructed by our author from data furnished chiefly by the firstgospel. Connected with the narrative there are many interesting topicsof discussion, of which our rapidly diminishing space will allow us toselect only one for comment. That one is perhaps the most important ofall, namely, the question as to how far Jesus anticipated the views ofPaul in admitting Gentiles to share in the privileges of the Messianickingdom. Our author argues, with much force, that the designs of Jesuswere entirely confined to the Jewish people, and that it was Paul whofirst, by admitting Gentiles to the Christian fold without requiringthem to live like Jews, gave to Christianity the character of auniversal religion. Our author reminds us that the third gospel is notto be depended upon in determining this point, since it manifestly putsPauline sentiments into the mouth of Jesus, and in particular attributesto Jesus an acquaintance with heretical Samaria which the first gospeldisclaims. He argues that the apostles were in every respect Jews, savein their belief that Jesus was the Messiah; and he pertinently asks, ifJames, who was the brother of Jesus, and Peter and John, who were hisnearest friends, unanimously opposed Paul and stigmatized him as aliar and heretic, is it at all likely that Jesus had ever distinctlysanctioned such views as Paul maintained?

In the course of many years' reflection upon this point, we have severaltimes been inclined to accept the narrow interpretation of Jesus'teaching here indicated; yet, on the whole, we do not believe itcan ever be conclusively established. In the first place it must beremembered that if the third gospel throws a Pauline colouring overthe events which it describes, the first gospel also shows a decidedlyanti-Pauline bias, and the one party was as likely as the other toattribute its own views to Jesus himself. One striking instance of thistendency has been pointed out by Strauss, who has shown that the versesMatt. V. 17-20 are an interpolation. The person who teaches men to breakthe commandments is undoubtedly Paul, and in order to furnish a textagainst Paul's followers, the "Nicolaitans, " Jesus is made to declarethat he came not to destroy one tittle of the law, but to fulfilthe whole in every particular. Such an utterance is in manifestcontradiction to the spirit of Jesus' teaching, as shown in the verysame chapter, and throughout a great part of the same gospel. He whotaught in his own name and not as the scribes, who proclaimed himselfLord over the Sabbath, and who manifested from first to last a more thanEssenian contempt for rites and ceremonies, did not come to fulfil thelaw of Mosaism, but to supersede it. Nor can any inference adverse tothis conclusion be drawn from the injunction to the disciples (Matt. X. 5-7) not to preach to Gentiles and Samaritans, but only "to the lostsheep of the house of Israel"; for this remark is placed before thebeginning of Jesus' Messianic career, and the reason assigned for therestriction is merely that the disciples will not have time even topreach to all the Jews before the coming of the Messiah, whose approachJesus was announcing (Matt. X. 23)

These examples show that we must use caution in weighing the testimonyeven of the first gospel, and must not too hastily cite it as proof thatJesus supposed his mission to be restricted to the Jews. When we come toconsider what happened a few years after the death of Jesus, we shallbe still less ready to insist upon the view defended by our anonymousauthor. Paul, according to his own confession, persecuted the Christiansunto death. Now what, in the theories or in the practice of the Jewishdisciples of Jesus, could have moved Paul to such fanatic behaviour?Certainly not their spiritual interpretation of Mosaism, for Paulhimself belonged to the liberal school of Gamaliel, to the views ofwhich the teachings and practices of Peter, James, and John might easilybe accommodated. Probably not their belief in Jesus as the Messiah, for at the riot in which Stephen was murdered and all the Hellenistdisciples driven from Jerusalem, the Jewish disciples were allowedto remain in the city unmolested. (See Acts viii. 1, 14. ) This markeddifference of treatment indicates that Paul regarded Stephen and hisfriends as decidedly more heretical and obnoxious than Peter, James, andJohn, whom, indeed, Paul's own master Gamaliel had recently (Acts v. 34)defended before the council. And this inference is fully confirmed bythe account of Stephen's death, where his murderers charge him withmaintaining that Jesus had founded a new religion which was destinedentirely to supersede and replace Judaism (Acts vi. 14). The Petrinedisciples never held this view of the mission of Jesus; and to thisdifference it is undoubtedly owing that Paul and his companions forboreto disturb them. It would thus appear that even previous to Paul'sconversion, within five or six years after the death of Jesus, there wasa prominent party among the disciples which held that the new religionwas not a modification but an abrogation of Judaism; and their name"Hellenists" sufficiently shows either that there were Gentiles amongthem or that they held fellowship with Gentiles. It was this whicharoused Paul to persecution, and upon his sudden conversion it was withthese Hellenistic doctrines that he fraternized, taking little heed ofthe Petrine disciples (Galatians i. 17), who were hardly more than aJewish sect. 

Now the existence of these Hellenists at Jerusalem so soon afterthe death of Jesus is clear proof that he had never distinctly andirrevocably pronounced against the admission of Gentiles to theMessianic kingdom, and it makes it very probable that the downfall ofMosaism as a result of his preaching was by no means unpremeditated. While, on the other hand, the obstinacy of the Petrine party in adheringto Jewish customs shows equally that Jesus could not have unequivocallycommitted himself in favour of a new gospel for the Gentiles. ProbablyJesus was seldom brought into direct contact with others than Jews, sothat the questions concerning the admission of Gentile converts didnot come up during his lifetime; and thus the way was left open for thecontroversy which soon broke out between the Petrine party and Paul. Nevertheless, though Jesus may never have definitely pronounced uponthis point, it will hardly be denied that his teaching, even as reportedin the first gospel, is in its utter condemnation of formalism far moreclosely allied to the Pauline than to the Petrine doctrines. In hishands Mosaism became spiritualized until it really lost its identity, and was transformed into a code fit for the whole Roman world. And we donot doubt that if any one had asked Jesus whether circumcision were anessential prerequisite for admission to the Messianic kingdom, he wouldhave given the same answer which Paul afterwards gave. We agree withZeller and Strauss that, "as Luther was a more liberal spirit thanthe Lutheran divines of the succeeding generation, and Sokrates a moreprofound thinker than Xenophon or Antisthenes, so also Jesus mustbe credited with having raised himself far higher above the narrowprejudices of his nation than those of his disciples who could scarcelyunderstand the spread of Christianity among the heathen when it hadbecome an accomplished fact. "

 January, 1870. 

IV. THE CHRIST OF DOGMA. [22]

 [22] Saint-Paul, par Ernest Renan. Paris, 1869. 

Histoire du Dogme de la Divinite de Jesus-Christ, par Albert Reville. Paris, 1869. 

The End of the World and the Day of Judgment. Two Discourses by the Rev. W. R. Alger. Boston: Roberts Brothers, 1870. 

The meagreness of our information concerning the historic career ofJesus stands in striking contrast with the mass of information whichlies within our reach concerning the primitive character of Christologicspeculation. First we have the four epistles of Paul, written fromtwenty to thirty years after the crucifixion, which, although they tellus next to nothing about what Jesus did, nevertheless give us veryplain information as to the impression which he made. Then we have theApocalypse, written by John, A. D. 68, which exhibits the Messianictheory entertained by the earliest disciples. Next we have the epistlesto the Hebrews, Philippians, Colossians, and Ephesians, besides the fourgospels, constituting altogether a connected chain of testimony to theprogress of Christian doctrine from the destruction of Jerusalem to thetime of the Quartodeciman controversy (A. D. 70-170). Finally, there isthe vast collection of apocryphal, heretical, and patristic literature, from the writings of Justin Martyr, the pseudo-Clement, and thepseudo-Ignatius, down to the time of the Council of Nikaia, when theofficial theories of Christ's person assumed very nearly the shape whichthey have retained, within the orthodox churches of Christendom, downto the present day. As we pointed out in the foregoing essay, while allthis voluminous literature throws but an uncertain light upon the lifeand teachings of the founder of Christianity, it nevertheless furnishesnearly all the data which we could desire for knowing what the earlyChristians thought of the master of their faith. Having given a briefaccount of the historic career of Jesus, so far as it can now bedetermined, we propose here to sketch the rise and progress ofChristologic doctrine, in its most striking features, during the firstthree centuries. Beginning with the apostolic view of the human Messiahsent to deliver Judaism from its spiritual torpor, and prepare itfor the millennial kingdom, we shall briefly trace the progressivemetamorphosis of this conception until it completely loses its identityin the Athanasian theory, according to which Jesus was God himself, theCreator of the universe, incarnate in human flesh. 

The earliest dogma held by the apostles concerning Jesus was that of hisresurrection from the grave after death. It was not only the earliest, but the most essential to the success of the new religion. Christianitymight have overspread the Roman Empire, and maintained its hold uponmen's faith until to-day, without the dogmas of the incarnation and theTrinity; but without the dogma of the resurrection it would probablyhave failed at the very outset. Its lofty morality would not alone havesufficed to insure its success. For what men needed then, as indeed theystill need, and will always need, was not merely a rule of life and amirror to the heart, but also a comprehensive and satisfactory theoryof things, a philosophy or theosophy. The times demanded intellectual aswell as moral consolation; and the disintegration of ancient theologiesneeded to be repaired, that the new ethical impulse imparted byChristianity might rest upon a plausible speculative basis. The doctrineof the resurrection was but the beginning of a series of speculativeinnovations which prepared the way for the new religion to emancipateitself from Judaism, and achieve the conquest of the Empire. Even thefaith of the apostles in the speedy return of their master the Messiahmust have somewhat lost ground, had it not been supported by theirbelief in his resurrection from the grave and his consequent transferfrom Sheol, the gloomy land of shadows, to the regions above the sky. 

The origin of the dogma of the resurrection cannot be determined withcertainty. The question has, during the past century, been the subjectof much discussion, upon which it is not necessary for us here tocomment. Such apparent evidence as there is in favour of the old theoryof Jesus' natural recovery from the effects of the crucifixion may befound in Salvador's "Jesus-Christ et sa Doctrine"; but, as Zeller hasshown, the theory is utterly unsatisfactory. The natural return ofJesus to his disciples never could have given rise to the notion of hisresurrection, since the natural explanation would have been the moreobvious one; besides which, if we were to adopt this hypothesis, weshould be obliged to account for the fact that the historic career ofJesus ends with the crucifixion. The most probable explanation, on thewhole, is the one suggested by the accounts in the gospels, that thedogma of the resurrection is due originally to the excited imaginationof Mary of Magdala. [23] The testimony of Paul may also be cited infavour of this view, since he always alludes to earlier Christophaniesin just the same language which he uses in describing his own vision onthe road to Damascus. 

 [23] See Taine, De l'Intelligence, II. 192. 

But the question as to how the belief in the resurrection of Jesusoriginated is of less importance than the question as to how it shouldhave produced the effect that it did. The dogma of the resurrection has, until recent times, been so rarely treated from the historical pointof view, that the student of history at first finds some difficultyin thoroughly realizing its import to the minds of those who firstproclaimed it. We cannot hope to understand it without bearing in mindthe theories of the Jews and early Christians concerning the structureof the world and the cosmic location of departed souls. Since the timeof Copernicus modern Christians no longer attempt to locate heaven andhell; they are conceived merely as mysterious places remote from theearth. The theological universe no longer corresponds to that whichphysical science presents for our contemplation. It was quite differentwith the Jew. His conception of the abode of Jehovah and the angels, andof departed souls, was exceedingly simple and definite. In the Jewishtheory the universe is like a sort of three-story house. The flat earthrests upon the waters, and under the earth's surface is the land ofgraves, called Sheol, where after death the souls of all men go, therighteous as well as the wicked, for the Jew had not arrived at thedoctrine of heaven and hell. The Hebrew Sheol corresponds strictly tothe Greek Hades, before the notions of Elysium and Tartarus were addedto it, --a land peopled with flitting shadows, suffering no torment, butexperiencing no pleasure, like those whom Dante met in one of the uppercircles of his Inferno. Sheol is the first story of the cosmic house;the earth is the second. Above the earth is the firmament or sky, which, according to the book of Genesis (chap. I. V. 6, Hebrew text), is a vastplate hammered out by the gods, and supports a great ocean like thatupon which the earth rests. Rain is caused by the opening of littlewindows or trap-doors in the firmament, through which pours the waterof this upper ocean. Upon this water rests the land of heaven, whereJehovah reigns, surrounded by hosts of angels. To this blessed land twoonly of the human race had ever been admitted, --Enoch and Elijah, thelatter of whom had ascended in a chariot of fire, and was destined toreturn to earth as the herald and forerunner of the Messiah. Heavenforms the third story of the cosmic house. Between the firmament and theearth is the air, which is the habitation of evil demons ruled by Satan, the "prince of the powers of the air. "

Such was the cosmology of the ancient Jew; and his theology was equallysimple. Sheol was the destined abode of all men after death, and notheory of moral retribution was attached to the conception. The rewardsand punishments known to the authors of the Pentateuch and the earlyPsalms are all earthly rewards and punishments. But in course oftime the prosperity of the wicked and the misfortunes of the good manfurnished a troublesome problem for the Jewish thinker; and after theBabylonish Captivity, we find the doctrine of a resurrection from Sheoldevised in order to meet this case. According to this doctrine--whichwas borrowed from the Zarathustrian theology of Persia--the Messiahon his arrival was to free from Sheol all the souls of the righteous, causing them to ascend reinvested in their bodies to a renewed andbeautiful earth, while on the other hand the wicked were to be punishedwith tortures like those of the valley of Hinnom, or were to be immersedin liquid brimstone, like that which had rained upon Sodom and Gomorrah. Here we get the first announcement of a future state of retribution. Thedoctrine was peculiarly Pharisaic, and the Sadducees, who were strictadherents to the letter of Mosaism, rejected it to the last. Bydegrees this doctrine became coupled with the Messianic theories ofthe Pharisees. The loss of Jewish independence under the dominion ofPersians, Macedonians, and Romans, caused the people to look ever moreearnestly toward the expected time when the Messiah should appear inJerusalem to deliver them from their oppressors. The moral doctrinesof the Psalms and earlier prophets assumed an increasingly politicalaspect. The Jews were the righteous "under a cloud, " whose sufferingswere symbolically depicted by the younger Isaiah as the afflictions ofthe "servant of Jehovah"; while on the other hand, the "wicked" were theGentile oppressors of the holy people. Accordingly the Messiah, on hisarrival, was to sit in judgment in the valley of Jehoshaphat, rectifyingthe wrongs of his chosen ones, condemning the Gentile tyrants to thetorments of Gehenna, and raising from Sheol all those Jews who had livedand died during the evil times before his coming. These were to findin the Messianic kingdom the compensation for the ills which they hadsuffered in their first earthly existence. Such are the main outlines ofthe theory found in the Book of Enoch, written about B. C. 100, and itis adopted in the Johannine Apocalypse, with little variation, save inthe recognition of Jesus as the Messiah, and in the transferrence tohis second coming of all these wonderful proceedings. The manner of theMessiah's coming had been variously imagined. According to an earlierview, he was to enter Jerusalem as a King of the house of David, andtherefore of human lineage. According to a later view, presented in theBook of Daniel, he was to descend from the sky, and appear among theclouds. Both these views were adopted by the disciples of Jesus, whoharmonized them by referring the one to his first and the other to hissecond appearance. 

Now to the imaginations of these earliest disciples the belief in theresurrection of Jesus presented itself as a needful guarantee of hisMessiahship. Their faith, which must have been shaken by his executionand descent into Sheol, received welcome confirmation by the springingup of the belief that he had been again seen upon the face of the earth. Applying the imagery of Daniel, it became a logical conclusion that hemust have ascended into the sky, whence he might shortly be expected tomake his appearance, to enact the scenes foretold in prophecy. Thatsuch was the actual process of inference is shown by the legend of theAscension in the first chapter of the "Acts, " and especially by thewords, "This Jesus who hath been taken up from you into heaven, willcome in the same manner in which ye beheld him going into heaven. " Inthe Apocalypse, written A. D. 68, just after the death of Nero, thissecond coming is described as something immediately to happen, andthe colours in which it is depicted show how closely allied were theJohannine notions to those of the Pharisees. The glories of the NewJerusalem are to be reserved for Jews, while for the Roman tyrantsof Judaea is reserved a fearful retribution. They are to be troddenunderfoot by the Messiah, like grapes in a wine-press, until the gushingblood shall rise to the height of the horse's bridle. 

In the writings of Paul the dogma of the resurrection assumes a verydifferent aspect. Though Paul, like the older apostles, held that Jesus, as the Messiah, was to return to the earth within a few years, yet tohis catholic mind this anticipated event had become divested of itsnarrow Jewish significance. In the eyes of Paul, the religion preachedby Jesus was an abrogation of Mosaism, and the truths contained init were a free gift to the Gentile as well as to the Jewish world. According to Paul, death came into the world as a punishment for thesin of Adam. By this he meant that, had it not been for the originaltransgression, all men escaping death would either have remainedupon earth or have been conveyed to heaven, like Enoch and Elijah, inincorruptible bodies. But in reality as a penance for disobedience, allmen, with these two exceptions, had suffered death, and been exiled tothe gloomy caverns of Sheol. The Mosaic ritual was powerless to free menfrom this repulsive doom, but it had nevertheless served a good purposein keeping men's minds directed toward holiness, preparing them, as aschoolmaster would prepare his pupils, to receive the vitalizing truthsof Christ. Now, at last, the Messiah or Christ had come as a secondAdam, and being without sin had been raised by Jehovah out of Sheoland taken up into heaven, as testimony to men that the power of sin anddeath was at last defeated. The way henceforth to avoid death and escapethe exile to Sheol was to live spiritually like Jesus, and with him tobe dead to sensual requirements. Faith, in Paul's apprehension, was notan intellectual assent to definitely prescribed dogmas, but, asMatthew Arnold has well pointed out, it was an emotional striving afterrighteousness, a developing consciousness of God in the soul, such asJesus had possessed, or, in Paul's phraseology, a subjugation of theflesh by the spirit. All those who should thus seek spiritual perfectionshould escape the original curse. The Messiah was destined to return tothe earth to establish the reign of spiritual holiness, probably duringPaul's own lifetime (1 Cor. Xv. 51). Then the true followers of Jesusshould be clothed in ethereal bodies, free from the imperfections of"the flesh, " and should ascend to heaven without suffering death, whilethe righteous dead should at the same time be released from Sheol, evenas Jesus himself had been released. 

To the doctrine of the resurrection, in which ethical and speculativeelements are thus happily blended by Paul, the new religion doubtlessowed in great part its rapid success. Into an account of the causeswhich favoured the spreading of Christianity, it is not our purposeto enter at present. But we may note that the local religions ofthe ancient pagan world had partly destroyed each other by mutualintermingling, and had lost their hold upon people from the circumstancethat their ethical teaching no longer corresponded to the advancedethical feeling of the age. Polytheism, in short, was outgrown. It wasoutgrown both intellectually and morally. People were ceasing to believein its doctrines, and were ceasing to respect its precepts. The learnedwere taking refuge in philosophy, the ignorant in mystical superstitionsimported from Asia. The commanding ethical motive of ancient republicantimes had been patriotism, --devotion to the interests of the community. But Roman dominion had destroyed patriotism as a guiding principle oflife, and thus in every way the minds of men were left in a sceptical, unsatisfied state, --craving after a new theory of life, and cravingafter a new stimulus to right action. Obviously the only theology whichcould now be satisfactory to philosophy or to common-sense was some formof monotheism;--some system of doctrines which should represent all menas spiritually subjected to the will of a single God, just as they weresubjected to the temporal authority of the Emperor. And similarly theonly system of ethics which could have a chance of prevailing must besome system which should clearly prescribe the mutual duties of all menwithout distinction of race or locality. Thus the spiritual morality ofJesus, and his conception of God as a father and of all men as brothers, appeared at once to meet the ethical and speculative demands of thetime. 

Yet whatever effect these teachings might have produced, if unaidedby further doctrinal elaboration, was enhanced myriadfold by theelaboration which they received at the hands of Paul. Philosophic Stoicsand Epicureans had arrived at the conception of the brotherhood of men, and the Greek hymn of Kleanthes had exhibited a deep spiritual sense ofthe fatherhood of God. The originality of Christianity lay not somuch in its enunciation of new ethical precepts as in the fact that itfurnished a new ethical sanction, --a commanding incentive to holinessof living. That it might accomplish this result, it was absolutelynecessary that it should begin by discarding both the ritualism and thenarrow theories of Judaism. The mere desire for a monotheistic creedhad led many pagans, in Paul's time, to embrace Judaism, in spite ofits requirements, which to Romans and Greeks were meaningless, and oftendisgusting; but such conversions could never have been numerous. Judaismcould never have conquered the Roman world; nor is it likely that theJudaical Christianity of Peter, James, and John would have been any moresuccessful. The doctrine of the resurrection, in particular, was notlikely to prove attractive when accompanied by the picture of theMessiah treading the Gentiles in the wine-press of his righteousindignation. But here Paul showed his profound originality Thecondemnation of Jewish formalism which Jesus had pronounced, Paulturned against the older apostles, who insisted upon circumcision. Withmarvellous flexibility of mind, Paul placed circumcision and the Mosaicinjunctions about meats upon a level with the ritual observances ofpagan nations, allowing each feeble brother to perform such works asmight tickle his fancy, but bidding all take heed that salvation was notto be obtained after any such mechanical method, but only by devotingthe whole soul to righteousness, after the example of Jesus. 

This was the negative part of Paul's work. This was the knocking down ofthe barriers which had kept men, and would always have kept them, fromentering into the kingdom of heaven. But the positive part of Paul'swork is contained in his theory of the salvation of men from deaththrough the second Adam, whom Jehovah rescued from Sheol for hissinlessness. The resurrection of Jesus was the visible token of theescape from death which might be achieved by all men who, with God'said, should succeed in freeing themselves from the burden of sin whichhad encumbered all the children of Adam. The end of the world was athand, and they who would live with Christ must figuratively die withChrist, must become dead to sin. Thus to the pure and spiritual ethicscontained in the teachings of Jesus, Paul added an incalculably powerfulincentive to right action, and a theory of life calculated to satisfythe speculative necessities of the pagan or Gentile world. To theeducated and sceptical Athenian, as to the critical scholar of moderntimes, the physical resurrection of Jesus from the grave, and his ascentthrough the vaulted floor of heaven, might seem foolishness or naivete. But to the average Greek or Roman the conception presented no seriousdifficulty. The cosmical theories upon which the conception was foundedwere essentially the same among Jews and Gentiles, and indeed were butlittle modified until the establishment of the Copernican astronomy. The doctrine of the Messiah's second coming was also received withoutopposition, and for about a century men lived in continual anticipationof that event, until hope long deferred produced its usual results;the writings in which that event was predicted were gradually explainedaway, ignored, or stigmatized as uncanonical; and the Church ended bycondemning as a heresy the very doctrine which Paul and the Judaizingapostles, who agreed in little else, had alike made the basis oftheir speculative teachings. Nevertheless, by the dint of allegoricalinterpretation, the belief has maintained an obscure existence even downto the present time; the Antiochus of the Book of Daniel and the Nero ofthe Apocalypse having given place to the Roman Pontiff or to the Emperorof the French. 

But as the millenarism of the primitive Church gradually died out duringthe second century, the essential principles involved in it lost none oftheir hold on men's minds. As the generation contemporary with Paul diedaway and was gathered into Sheol, it became apparent that the originaltheory must be somewhat modified, and to this question the author ofthe second epistle to the Thessalonians addresses himself. Instead ofliteral preservation from death, the doctrine of a resurrection from thegrave was gradually extended to the case of the new believers, who wereto share in the same glorious revival with the righteous of ancienttimes. And thus by slow degrees the victory over death, of which theresurrection of Jesus was a symbol and a witness, became metamorphosedinto the comparatively modern doctrine of the rest of the saints inheaven, while the banishment of the unrighteous to Sheol was madestill more dreadful by coupling with the vague conception of a gloomysubterranean cavern the horrible imagery of the lake of fire andbrimstone borrowed from the apocalyptic descriptions of Gehenna. Butin this modification of the original theory, the fundamental idea ofa future state of retribution was only the more distinctly emphasized;although, in course of time, the original incentive to righteousnesssupplied by Paul was more and more subordinated to the comparativelydegrading incentive involved in the fear of damnation. There can hardlybe a doubt that the definiteness and vividness of the Pauline theoryof a future life contributed very largely to the rapid spread of theChristian religion; nor can it be doubted that to the desire to be holylike Jesus, in order to escape death and live with Jesus, is duethe elevating ethical influence which, even in the worst times ofecclesiastic degeneracy, Christianity has never failed to exert. Doubtless, as Lessing long, ago observed, the notion of future rewardand punishment needs to be eliminated in order that the incentive toholiness may be a perfectly pure one. The highest virtue is that whichtakes no thought of reward or punishment; but for a conception of thissort the mind of antiquity was not ready, nor is the average mindof to-day yet ready; and the sudden or premature dissolution of theChristian theory--which is fortunately impossible--might perhaps entaila moral retrogradation. 

The above is by no means intended as a complete outline of the religiousphilosophy of Paul. We have aimed only at a clear definition of thecharacter and scope of the doctrine of the resurrection of Jesus, at thetime when it was first elaborated. We have now to notice the influenceof that doctrine upon the development of Christologic speculation. 

In neither or the four genuine epistles of Paul is Jesus describedas superhuman, or as differing in nature from other men, save in hisfreedom from sin. As Baur has shown, "the proper nature of the PaulineChrist is human. He is a man, but a spiritual man, one in whom spiritor pneuma was the essential principle, so that he was spirit as wellas man. The principle of an ideal humanity existed before Christ inthe bright form of a typical man, but was manifested to mankind in theperson of Christ. " Such, according to Baur, is Paul's interpretationof the Messianic idea. Paul knows nothing of the miracles, of thesupernatural conception, of the incarnation, or of the Logos. The Christwhom he preaches is the man Jesus, the founder of a new and spiritualorder of humanity, as Adam was the father of humanity after the flesh. The resurrection is uniformly described by him as a manifestation of thepower of Jehovah, not of Jesus himself. The later conception of Christbursting the barred gates of Sheol, and arising by his own might toheaven, finds no warrant in the expressions of Paul. Indeed, it wasessential to Paul's theory of the Messiah as a new Adam, that he shouldbe human and not divine; for the escape of a divine being from Sheolcould afford no precedent and furnish no assurance of the future escapeof human beings. It was expressly because the man Jesus had been rescuedfrom the grave because of his spirituality, that other men might hope, by becoming spiritual like him, to be rescued also. Accordingly Paul iscareful to state that "since through man came death, through man camealso the resurrection of the dead" (1 Cor. Xv. 21); a passage whichwould look like an express denial of Christ's superhuman character, were it probable that any of Paul's contemporaries had ever conceived ofJesus as other than essentially human. 

But though Paul's Christology remained in this primitive stage, itcontained the germs of a more advanced theory. For even Paul conceivedof Jesus as a man wholly exceptional in spiritual character; or, in thephraseology of the time, as consisting to a larger extent of pneuma thanany man who had lived before him. The question was sure to arise, Whence came this pneuma or spiritual quality? Whether the questionever distinctly presented itself to Paul's mind cannot be determined. Probably it did not. In those writings of his which have come down tous, he shows himself careless of metaphysical considerations. He ismainly concerned with exhibiting the unsatisfactory character of JewishChristianity, and with inculcating a spiritual morality, to which thedoctrine of Christ's resurrection is made to supply a surpassinglypowerful sanction. But attempts to solve the problem were not longin coming. According to a very early tradition, of which the obscuredtraces remain in the synoptic gospels, Jesus received the pneuma at thetime of his baptism, when the Holy Spirit, or visible manifestation ofthe essence of Jehovah, descended upon him and became incarnate in him. This theory, however, was exposed to the objection that it implieda sudden and entire transformation of an ordinary man into a personinspired or possessed by the Deity. Though long maintained by theEbionites or primitive Christians, it was very soon rejected by thegreat body of the Church, which asserted instead that Jesus had beeninspired by the Holy Spirit from the moment of his conception. From thisit was but a step to the theory that Jesus was actually begotten by orof the Holy Spirit; a notion which the Hellenic mind, accustomed tothe myths of Leda, Anchises, and others, found no difficulty inentertaining. According to the Gospel of the Hebrews, as cited byOrigen, the Holy Spirit was the mother of Jesus, and Joseph was hisfather. But according to the prevailing opinion, as represented in thefirst and third synoptists, the relationship was just the other way. With greater apparent plausibility, the divine aeon was substitutedfor the human father, and a myth sprang up, of which the materialisticdetails furnished to the opponents of the new religion an opportunityfor making the most gross and exasperating insinuations. The dominanceof this theory marks the era at which our first and third synopticgospels were composed, --from sixty to ninety years after the death ofJesus. In the luxuriant mythologic growth there exhibited, we may yettrace the various successive phases of Christologic speculation butimperfectly blended. In "Matthew" and "Luke" we find the originalMessianic theory exemplified in the genealogies of Jesus, in which, contrary to historic probability (cf. Matt. Xxii. 41-46), but inaccordance with a time-honoured tradition, his pedigree is traced backto David; "Matthew" referring him to the royal line of Judah, while"Luke" more cautiously has recourse to an assumed younger branch. Superposed upon this primitive mythologic stratum, we find, in the samenarratives, the account of the descent of the pneuma at the time ofthe baptism; and crowning the whole, there are the two accounts of thenativity which, though conflicting in nearly all their details, agreein representing the divine pneuma as the father of Jesus. Of these threestages of Christology, the last becomes entirely irreconcilable with thefirst; and nothing can better illustrate the uncritical character of thesynoptists than the fact that the assumed descent of Jesus from Davidthrough his father Joseph is allowed to stand side by side with theaccount of the miraculous conception which completely negatives it. Of this difficulty "Matthew" is quite unconscious, and "Luke, " whilevaguely noticing it (iii. 23), proposes no solution, and appearsundisturbed by the contradiction. 

Thus far the Christology with which we have been dealing ispredominantly Jewish, though to some extent influenced by Hellenicconceptions. None of the successive doctrines presented in Paul, "Matthew, " and "Luke" assert or imply the pre-existence of Jesus. At this early period he was regarded as a human being raised toparticipation in certain attributes of divinity; and this was as far asthe dogma could be carried by the Jewish metaphysics. But soon after thedate of our third gospel, a Hellenic system of Christology arose intoprominence, in which the problem was reversed, and Jesus was regardedas a semi-divine being temporarily lowered to participation in certainattributes of humanity. For such a doctrine Jewish mythology supplied noprecedents; but the Indo-European mind was familiar with the conceptionof deity incarnate in human form, as in the avatars of Vishnu, oreven suffering III the interests of humanity, as in the noble myth ofPrometheus. The elements of Christology pre-existing in the religiousconceptions of Greece, India, and Persia, are too rich and numerous tobe discussed here. A very full account of them is given in Mr. R. W. Mackay's acute and learned treatise on the "Religious Development of theGreeks and Hebrews{. }"

It was in Alexandria, where Jewish theology first came into contact withHellenic and Oriental ideas, that the way was prepared for the dogmaof Christ's pre-existence. The attempt to rationalize the conception ofdeity as embodied in the Jehovah of the Old Testament gave rise to theclass of opinions described as Gnosis, or Gnosticism. The significationof Gnosis is simply "rationalism, "--the endeavour to harmonize thematerialistic statements of an old mythology with the more advancedspiritualistic philosophy of the time. The Gnostics rejected theconception of an anthropomorphic deity who had appeared visibly andaudibly to the patriarchs; and they were the authors of the doctrine, very widely spread during the second and third centuries, that God couldnot in person have been the creator of the world. According to them, God, as pure spirit, could not act directly upon vile and gross matter. The difficulty which troubled them was curiously analogous to thatwhich disturbed the Cartesians and the followers of Leibnitz in theseventeenth century; how was spirit to act upon matter, withoutceasing, pro tanto, to be spirit? To evade this difficulty, the Gnosticspostulated a series of emanations from God, becoming successively lessand less spiritual and more and more material, until at the lowest endof the scale was reached the Demiurgus or Jehovah of the Old Testament, who created the world and appeared, clothed in material form, to thepatriarchs. According to some of the Gnostics this lowest aeon oremanation was identical with the Jewish Satan, or the Ahriman of thePersians, who is called "the prince of this world, " and the creation ofthe world was an essentially evil act. But all did not share in theseextreme opinions. In the prevailing, theory, this last of the divineemanations was identified with the "Sophia, " or personified "Wisdom, " ofthe Book of Proverbs (viii. 22-30), who is described as present withGod before the foundation of the world. The totality of these aeonsconstituted the pleroma, or "fulness of God" (Coloss. I. 20; Eph. I. 23), and in a corollary which bears unmistakable marks of Buddhistinfluence, it was argued that, in the final consummation of things, matter should be eliminated and all spirit reunited with God, from whomit had primarily flowed. 

It was impossible that such views as these should not soon be taken upand applied to the fluctuating Christology of the time. According to the"Shepherd of Hermas, " an apocalyptic writing nearly contemporary withthe gospel of "Mark, " the aeon or son of God who existed previous tothe creation was not the Christ, or the Sophia, but the Pneuma or HolySpirit, represented in the Old Testament as the "angel of Jehovah. "Jesus, in reward for his perfect goodness, was admitted to a share inthe privileges of this Pneuma (Reville, p. 39). Here, as M. Revilleobserves, though a Gnostic idea is adopted, Jesus is nevertheless viewedas ascending humanity, and not as descending divinity. The author of the"Clementine Homilies" advances a step farther, and clearly assumes thepre-existence of Jesus, who, in his opinion, was the pure, primitiveman, successively incarnate in Adam, Enoch, Noah, Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, Moses, and finally in the Messiah or Christ. The author protests, in vehement language, against those Hellenists who, misled by theirpolytheistic associations, would elevate Jesus into a god. Nevertheless, his own hypothesis of pre-existence supplied at once the requisitefulcrum for those Gnostics who wished to reconcile a strict monotheismwith the ascription of divine attributes to Jesus. Combining with thisnotion of pre-existence the pneumatic or spiritual quality attributedto Jesus in the writings of Paul, the Gnosticizing Christians maintainedthat Christ was an aeon or emanation from God, redeeming men from theconsequences entailed by their imprisonment in matter. At this stageof Christologic speculation appeared the anonymous epistle to the"Hebrews, " and the pseudo-Pauline epistles to the "Colossians, ""Ephesians, " and "Philippians" (A. D. 130). In these epistles, whichoriginated among the Pauline Christians, the Gnostic theosophy isskilfully applied to the Pauline conception of the scope and purposes ofChristianity. Jesus is described as the creator of the world (Coloss. I. 16), the visible image of the invisible God, the chief and ruler of the"throues, dominions, principalities, and powers, " into which, in Gnosticphraseology, the emanations of God were classified. Or, according to"Colossians" and "Philippians, " all the aeons are summed up in him, inwhom dwells the pleroma, or "fulness of God. " Thus Jesus is elevatedquite above ordinary humanity, and a close approach is made to ditheism, although he is still emphatically subordinated to God by being madethe creator of the world, --an office then regarded as incompatible withabsolute divine perfection. In the celebrated passage, "Philippians"ii. 6-11, the aeon Jesus is described as being the form or visiblemanifestation of God, yet as humbling himself by taking on the form orsemblance of humanity, and suffering death, in return for which he isto be exalted even above the archangels. A similar view is taken in"Hebrews"; and it is probable that to the growing favour with whichthese doctrines were received, we owe the omission of the miraculousconception from the gospel of "Mark, "--a circumstance which has misledsome critics into assigning to that gospel an earlier date thanto "Matthew" and "Luke. " Yet the fact that in this gospel Jesus isimplicitly ranked above the angels (Mark xiii. 32), reveals a laterstage of Christologic doctrine than that reached by the first and thirdsynoptists; and it is altogether probable that, in accordance with thenoticeable conciliatory disposition of this evangelist, the supernaturalconception is omitted out of deference to the Gnosticizing theories of"Colossians" and "Philippians, " in which this materialistic doctrineseems to have had no assignable place. In "Philippians" especially, manyexpressions seem to verge upon Docetism, the extreme form of Gnosticism, according to which the human body of Jesus was only a phantom. Valentinus, who was contemporary with the Pauline writers of the secondcentury, maintained that Jesus was not born of Mary by any processof conception, but merely passed through her, as light traverses atranslucent substance. And finally Marcion (A. D. 140) carried thetheory to its extreme limits by declaring that Jesus was the pure Pneumaor Spirit, who contained nothing in common with carnal humanity. 

The pseudo-Pauline writers steered clear of this extravagant doctrine, which erred by breaking entirely with historic tradition, and wasconsequently soon condemned as heretical. Their language, thoughunmistakably Gnostic, was sufficiently neutral and indefinite to allowof their combination with earlier and later expositions of dogma, andthey were therefore eventually received into the canon, where theyexhibit a stage of opinion midway between that of Paul and that of thefourth gospel. 

For the construction of a durable system of Christology, still furtherelaboration was necessary. The pre-existence of Jesus, as an emanationfrom God, in whom were summed up the attributes of the pleroma or fullscale of Gnostic aeons, was now generally conceded. But the relation ofthis pleroqma to the Godhead of which it was the visible manifestation, needed to be more accurately defined. And here recourse was had tothe conception of the "Logos, "--a notion which Philo had borrowedfrom Plato, lending to it a theosophic significance. In the Platonicmetaphysics objective existence was attributed to general terms, thesigns of general notions. Besides each particular man, horse, or tree, and besides all men, horses, and trees, in the aggregate, there wassupposed to exist an ideal Man, Horse, and Tree. Each particular man, horse, or tree consisted of abstract existence plus a portion ofthe ideal man, horse, or tree. Sokrates, for instance, consisted ofExistence, plus Animality, plus Humanity, plus Sokraticity. The visibleworld of particulars thus existed only by virtue of its participation inthe attributes of the ideal world of universals. God created the worldby encumbering each idea with an envelopment or clothing of visiblematter; and since matter is vile or imperfect, all things are more orless perfect as they partake more or less fully of the idea. The pureunencumbered idea, the "Idea of ideas, " is the Logos, or divine Reason, which represents the sum-total of the activities which sustain theworld, and serves as a mediator between the absolutely ideal God andthe absolutely non-ideal matter. Here we arrive at a Gnostic conception, which the Philonists of Alexandria were not slow to appropriate. TheLogos, or divine Reason, was identified with the Sophia, or divineWisdom of the Jewish Gnostics, which had dwelt with God before thecreation of the world. By a subtle play upon the double meaning of theGreek term (logos = "reason" or "word"), a distinction was drawn betweenthe divine Reason and the divine Word. The former was the archctypalidea or thought of God, existing from all eternity; the latter was theexternal manifestation or realization of that idea which occurred at themoment of creation, when, according to Genesis, God SPOKE, and the worldwas. 

In the middle of the second century, this Philonian theory was the onething needful to add metaphysical precision to the Gnostic and Paulinespeculations concerning the nature of Jesus. In the writings of JustinMartyr (A. D. 150-166), Jesus is for the first time identified with thePhilonian Logos or "Word of God. " According to Justin, an impassableabyss exists between the Infinite Deity and the Finite World; the onecannot act upon the other; pure spirit cannot contaminate itself bycontact with impure matter. To meet this difficulty, God evolves fromhimself a secondary God, the Logos, --yet without diminishing himself anymore than a flame is diminished when it gives birth to a second flame. Thus generated, like light begotten of light (lumen de lumine), theLogos creates the world, inspires the ancient prophets with their divinerevelations, and finally reveals himself to mankind in the person ofChrist. Yet Justin sedulously guards himself against ditheism, insistingfrequently and emphatically upon the immeasurable inferiority of theLogos as compared with the actual God (gr o ontws qeos). 

We have here reached very nearly the ultimate phase of New Testamentspeculation concerning Jesus. The doctrines enunciated by Justin becameeventually, with slight modification, the official doctrines of theChurch; yet before they could thus be received, some further elaborationwas needed. The pre-existing Logos-Christ of Justin was no longer thehuman Messiah of the first and third gospels, born of a woman, inspiredby the divine Pneuma, and tempted by the Devil. There was dangerthat Christologic speculation might break quite loose from historictradition, and pass into the metaphysical extreme of Docetism. Hadthis come to pass, there might perhaps have been a fatal schism in theChurch. Tradition still remained Ebionitish; dogma had become decidedlyGnostic; how were the two to be moulded into harmony with each other?Such was the problem which presented itself to the author of the fourthgospel (A. D. 170-180). As M. Reville observes, "if the doctrine of theLogos were really to be applied to the person of Jesus, it was necessaryto remodel the evangelical history. " Tradition must be moulded so asto fit the dogma, but the dogma must be restrained by tradition fromrunning into Docetic extravagance. It must be shown historically how"the Word became flesh" and dwelt on earth (John i. 14), how the deedsof Jesus of Nazareth were the deeds of the incarnate Logos, in whom wasexhibited the pleroma or fulness of the divine attributes. The author ofthe fourth gospel is, like Justin, a Philonian Gnostic; but he differsfrom Justin in his bold and skilful treatment of the traditionalmaterials supplied by the earlier gospels. The process of development inthe theories and purposes of Jesus, which can be traced throughout theMessianic descriptions of the first gospel, is entirely obliteratedin the fourth. Here Jesus appears at the outset as the creator of theworld, descended from his glory, but destined soon to be reinstated. The title "Son of Man" has lost its original significance, and becomesynonymous with "Son of God. " The temptation, the transfiguration, thescene in Gethsemane, are omitted, and for the latter is substituted aPhilonian prayer. Nevertheless, the author carefully avoids the extremesof Docetism or ditheism. Not only does he represent the human lifeof Jesus as real, and his death as a truly physical death, but hedistinctly asserts the inferiority of the Son to the Father (John xiv. 28). Indeed, as M. Reville well observes, it is part of the very notionof the Logos that it should be imperfect relatively to the absolute God;since it is only its relative imperfection which allows it to sustainrelations to the world and to men which are incompatible with absoluteperfection, from the Philonian point of view. The Athanasian doctrine ofthe Trinity finds no support in the fourth gospel, any more than in theearlier books collected in the New Testament. 

The fourth gospel completes the speculative revolution by which theconception of a divine being lowered to humanity was substituted forthat of a human being raised to divinity. We have here travelled a longdistance from the risen Messiah of the genuine Pauline epistles, orthe preacher of righteousness in the first gospel. Yet it does not seemprobable that the Church of the third century was thoroughly aware ofthe discrepancy. The authors of the later Christology did not regardthemselves as adding new truths to Christianity, but merely as giving afuller and more consistent interpretation to what must have been knownfrom the outset. They were so completely destitute of the historicsense, and so strictly confined to the dogmatic point of view, thatthey projected their own theories back into the past, and vituperated asheretics those who adhered to tradition in its earlier and simpler form. Examples from more recent times are not wanting, which show that we aredealing here with an inveterate tendency of the human mind. New factsand new theories are at first condemned as heretical or ridiculous; butwhen once firmly established, it is immediately maintained that everyone knew them before. After the Copernican astronomy had won the day, it was tacitly assumed that the ancient Hebrew astronomy was Copernican, and the Biblical conception of the universe as a kind of three-storyhouse was ignored, and has been, except by scholars, quite forgotten. When the geologic evidence of the earth's immense antiquity could nolonger be gainsaid, it was suddenly ascertained that the Bible had fromthe outset asserted that antiquity; and in our own day we have seenan elegant popular writer perverting the testimony of the rocks anddistorting the Elohistic cosmogony of the Pentateuch, until the twainhave been made to furnish what Bacon long ago described as "a hereticalreligion and a false philosophy. " Now just as in the popular thought ofthe present day the ancient Elohist is accredited with a knowledge ofmodern geology and astronomy, so in the opinion of the fourth evangelistand his contemporaries the doctrine of the Logos-Christ was implicitlycontained in the Old Testament and in the early traditions concerningJesus, and needed only to be brought into prominence by a freshinterpretation. Hence arose the fourth gospel, which was no more aconscious violation of historic data than Hugh Miller's imaginativedescription of the "Mosaic Vision of Creation. " Its metaphysicaldiscourses were readily accepted as equally authentic with the Sermonon the Mount. Its Philonian doctrines were imputed to Paul and theapostles, the pseudo-Pauline epistles furnishing the needful texts. TheEbionites--who were simply Judaizing Christians, holding in nearly itsoriginal form the doctrine of Peter, James, and John--were ejected fromthe Church as the most pernicious of heretics; and so completely wastheir historic position misunderstood and forgotten, that, in order toaccount for their existence, it became necessary to invent an eponymousheresiarch, Ebion, who was supposed to have led them astray from thetrue faith!

The Christology of the fourth gospel is substantially the same as thatwhich was held in the next two centuries by Tertullian, Clement ofAlexandria, Origen, and Arius. When the doctrine of the Trinity wasfirst announced by Sabellius (A. D. 250-260), it was formally condemnedas heretical, the Church being not yet quite prepared to receive it. In 269 the Council of Antioch solemnly declared that the Son was NOTconsubstantial with the Father, --a declaration which, within sixtyyears, the Council of Nikaia was destined as solemnly to contradict. The Trinitarian Christology struggled long for acceptance, and did notfinally win the victory until the end of the fourth century. Yet fromthe outset its ultimate victory was hardly doubtful. The peculiardoctrines of the fourth gospel could retain their integrity only so longas Gnostic ideas were prevalent. When Gnosticism declined in importance, and its theories faded out of recollection, its peculiar phraseologyreceived of necessity a new interpretation. The doctrine that God couldnot act directly upon the world sank gradually into oblivion as theChurch grew more and more hostile to the Neo-Platonic philosophy. Andwhen this theory was once forgotten, it was inevitable that the Logos, as the creator of the world, should be raised to an equality or identitywith God himself. In the view of the fourth evangelist, the Creatorwas necessarily inferior to God; in the view of later ages, the Creatorcould be none other than God. And so the very phrases which had mostemphatically asserted the subordination of the Son were afterwardinterpreted as asserting his absolute divinity. To the Gnostic formula, lumen de lumine, was added the Athanasian scholium, Deum verum de Deovero; and the Trinitarian dogma of the union of persons in a singleGodhead became thus the only available logical device for preserving thepurity of monotheism. 

 February, 1870. 

V. A WORD ABOUT MIRACLES. [24]

 [24] These comments on Mr. Henry Rogers's review of M. Renan'sLes Apotres, contained in a letter to Mr. Lewes, were shortly afterwardspublished by him in the Fortnightly Review, September 15, 1866. 

It is the lot of every book which attempts to treat the origin andprogress of Christianity in a sober and scientific spirit, to meetwith unsparing attacks. Critics in plenty are always to be found, who, possessed with the idea that the entire significance and value of theChristian religion are demolished unless we regard it as a sort ofhistorical monstrosity, are only too eager to subject the offendingwork to a scathing scrutiny, displaying withal a modicum of righteousindignation at the unblushing heresy of the author, not unmixed witha little scornful pity at his inability to believe very preposterousstories upon very meagre evidence. "Conservative" polemics of this sorthave doubtless their function. They serve to purge scientific literatureof the awkward and careless statements too often made by writers notsufficiently instructed or cautious, which in the absence of hostilecriticism might get accepted by the unthinking reader along with thetruths which they accompany. Most scientific and philosophical workshave their defects; and it is fortunate that there is such a thing asdogmatic ardour in the world, ever sharpening its wits to the utmost, that it may spy each lurking inaccuracy and ruthlessly drag it to light. But this useful spirit is wont to lead those who are inspired by it toshoot beyond the mark, and after pointing out the errors of others, to commit fresh mistakes of their own. In the skilful criticism of M. Renan's work on the Apostles, in No. 29 of the "Fortnightly Review"there is now and then a vulnerable spot through which a controversialshaft may perhaps be made to pierce. 

It may be true that Lord Lyttelton's tract on the Conversion of St. Paul, as Dr. Johnson and Dr. Rogers have said, has never yet beenrefuted; but if I may judge from my own recollection of the work, Ishould say that this must be because no competent writer ever thoughtit worth his pains to criticize it. Its argument contains about as muchsolid consistency as a distended balloon, and collapses as readily atthe first puncture. It attempts to prove, first, that the conversion ofSt. Paul cannot be made intelligible except on the assumption that therewas a miracle in the case; and secondly, that if Paul was converted by amiracle, the truth of Christianity is impregnable. Now, if the first ofthese points be established, the demonstration is not yet complete, forthe second point must be proved independently. But if the first point beoverthrown, the second loses its prop, and falls likewise. 

Great efforts are therefore made to show that no natural influencescould have intervened to bring about a change in the feelings ofPaul. He was violent, "thorough, " unaffected by pity or remorse; andaccordingly he could not have been so completely altered as he was, hadhe not actually beheld the risen Christ: such is the argument which Mr. Rogers deems so conclusive. I do not know that from any of Paul's ownassertions we are entitled to affirm that no shade of remorse had evercrossed his mind previous to the vision near Damascus. But waiving thispoint, I do maintain that, granting Paul's feelings to have been as Mr. Rogers thinks they were, his conversion is inexplicable, even on thehypothesis of a miracle. He that is determined not to believe, will notbelieve, though one should rise from the dead. To make Paul a believer, it was not enough that he should meet his Lord face to face he must havebeen already prepared to believe. Otherwise he would have easily foundmeans of explaining the miracle from his own point of view. He wouldcertainly have attributed it to the wiles of the demon, even as thePharisees are said to have done with regard to the miraculous curesperformed by Jesus. A "miraculous" occurrence in those days did notastonish as it would at present. "Miracles" were rather the order of theday, and in fact were lavished with such extreme bounty on all hands, that their convincing power was very slight. Neither side ever thoughtof disputing the reality of the miracles supposed to be performed on theother; but each side considered the miracles of its antagonist to be thework of diabolic agencies. Such being the case, it is useless to supposethat Paul could have distinguished between a true and a false miracle, or that a real miracle could of itself have had any effect in inducinghim to depart from his habitual course of belief and action. As faras Paul's mental operations were concerned, it could have made nodifference whether he met with his future Master in person, or merelyencountered him in a vision. The sole point to be considered is whetheror not he BELIEVED in the Divine character and authority of the eventwhich had happened. What the event might have really been was of nopractical consequence to him or to any one else. What he believed itto be was of the first importance. And since he did believe that he hadbeen divinely summoned to cease persecuting, and commence preaching thenew faith, it follows that his state of mind must have been more or lessaffected by circumstances other than the mere vision. Had he not beenripe for change, neither shadow nor substance could have changed him. 

This view of the case is by no means so extravagant as Mr. Rogers wouldhave us suppose. There is no reason for believing that Paul's characterwas essentially different afterwards from what it had been before. The very fervour which caused him, as a Pharisee, to exclude allbut orthodox Jews from the hope of salvation, would lead him, as aChristian, to carry the Christian idea to its extreme development, andadmit all persons whatever to the privileges of the Church. The samezeal for the truth which had urged him to persecute the Christians untothe death afterwards led him to spare no toil and shun no danger whichmight bring about the triumph of their cause. It must not be forgottenthat the persecutor and the martyr are but one and the same man underdifferent circumstances. He who is ready to die for his own faith willsometimes think it fair to make other men die for theirs. Men ofa vehement and fiery temperament, moreover, --such as Paul alwayswas, --never change their opinions slowly, never rest in philosophicdoubt, never take a middle course. If they leave one extreme for aninstant, they are drawn irresistibly to the other; and usually verylittle is needed to work the change. The conversion of Omar is astriking instance in point, and has been cited by M. Renan himself. Thecharacter of Omar bears a strong likeness to that of Paul. Previousto his conversion, he was a conscientious and virulent persecutorof Mohammedanism. [25] After his conversion, he was Mohammed'smost efficient disciple, and it may be safely asserted that fordisinterestedness and self-abnegation he was not inferior to the Apostleof the Gentiles. The change in his case was, moreover, quite as suddenand unexpected as it was with Paul; it was neither more nor lessincomprehensible; and if Paul's conversion needs a miracle to explainit, Omar's must need one likewise. But in truth, there is no difficultyin the case, save that which stupid dogmatism has created. Theconversions of Paul and Omar are paralleled by innumerable events whichoccur in every period of religious or political excitement. Far frombeing extraordinary, or inexplicable on natural grounds, such phenomenaare just what might occasionally be looked for. 

 [25] Saint-Hilaire: Mahomet et le Coran, p. 109. 

But, says Mr. Rogers, "is it possible for a moment to imagine thedoting and dreaming victim of hallucinations (which M. Renan's theoryrepresents Paul) to be the man whose masculine sense, strong logic, practical prudence, and high administrative talent appear in theachievements of his life, and in the Epistles he has left behind him?"M. Renan's theory does not, however, represent Paul as the "victim ofhallucinations" to a greater degree than Mohammed. The latter, asevery one knows, laboured during much of his life under almost constant"hallucination"; yet "masculine sense, strong logic, " etc. , werequalities quite as conspicuous in him as in St. Paul. 

Here, as throughout his essay, Mr. Rogers shows himself totally unableto comprehend the mental condition of men in past ages. If an Apostlehas a dream or sees a vision, and interprets it according to the ideasof his time and country, instead of according to the ideas of scientificEngland in the nineteenth century Mr. Rogers thinks he must needs bemad: and when according to the well-known law that mental excitementis contagious, [26] several persons are said to have concurred ininterpreting some phenomenon supernaturally, Mr. Rogers cannot see whyso many people should all go mad at once! "To go mad, " in fact is hisfavourite designation for a mental act, which nearly all the human racehave habitually performed in all ages; the act of mistaking subjectiveimpressions for outward realities. The disposition to regard all strangephenomena as manifestations of supernatural power was universallyprevalent in the first century of Christianity, and long after. Neithergreatness of intellect nor thoroughness of scepticism gave exemption. Even Julius Caesar, the greatest practical genius that ever lived, was somewhat superstitious, despite his atheism and his Vigorouscommon-sense. It is too often argued that the prevalence of scepticismin the Roman Empire must have made men scrupulous about acceptingmiracles. By no means. Nothing but physical science ever drives outmiracles: mere doctrinal scepticism is powerless to do it. In the ageof the Apostles, little if any radical distinction was drawn between amiracle and an ordinary occurrence. No one supposed a miracle to be aninfraction of the laws of nature, for no one had a clear idea thatthere were such things as laws of nature. A miracle was simply anextraordinary act, exhibiting the power of the person who performed it. Blank, indeed, would the evangelists have looked, had any one told themwhat an enormous theory of systematic meddling with nature was destinedto grow out of their beautiful and artless narratives. 

 [26] Hecker's Epidemics of the Middle Ages, pp. 87-152. 

The incapacity to appreciate this frame of mind renders the currentarguments in behalf of miracles utterly worthless. From the fact thatCelsus and others never denied the reality of the Christian miracles, it is commonly inferred that those miracles must have actually happened. The same argument would, however, equally apply to the miracles ofApollonius and Simon Magus, for the Christians never denied the realityof these. What these facts really prove is that the state of humanintelligence was as I have just described it: and the inference to bedrawn from them is that no miraculous account emanating from an authorof such a period is worthy of serious attention. When Mr. Rogerssupposes that if the miracles had not really happened they would havebeen challenged, he is assuming that a state of mind existed in whichit was possible for miracles to be challenged; and thus commits ananachronism as monstrous as if he had attributed the knowledge of somemodern invention, such as steamboats, to those early ages. 

Mr. Rogers seems to complain of M. Renan for "quietly assuming" thatmiracles are invariably to be rejected. Certainly a historian of thepresent day who should not make such an assumption would betray his lackof the proper qualifications for his profession. It is not considerednecessary for every writer to begin his work by setting out to prove thefirst principles of historical criticism. They are taken for granted. And, as M. Renan justly says, a miracle is one of those things whichmust be disbelieved until it is proved. The onus probandi lies onthe assertor of a fact which conflicts with universal experience. Nevertheless, the great number of intelligent persons who, even now, from dogmatic reasons, accept the New Testament miracles, forbids thatthey should be passed over in silence like similar phenomena elsewherenarrated. But, in the present state of historical science, the arguingagainst miracles is, as Colet remarked of his friend Erasmus's warfareagainst the Thomists and Scotists of Cambridge, "a contest morenecessary than glorious or difficult. " To be satisfactorily established, a miracle needs at least to be recorded by an eyewitness; and the mentalattainments of the witness need to be thoroughly known besides. Unlesshe has a clear conception of the difference between the natural and theunnatural order of events, his testimony, however unimpeachable on thescore of honesty, is still worthless. To say that this condition wasfulfilled by those who described the New Testament miracles, would beabsurd. And in the face of what German criticism has done for the earlyChristian documents, it would be an excess of temerity to assertthat any one of the supernatural accounts contained in them rests oncontemporary authority. Of all history, the miraculous part should beattested by the strongest testimony, whereas it is invariablyattested by the weakest. And the paucity of miracles wherever we havecontemporary records, as in the case of primitive Islamism, is a mostsignificant fact. 

In attempting to defend his principle of never accepting a miracle, M. Renan has indeed got into a sorry plight, and Mr. Rogers, incontroverting him, has not greatly helped the matter. By stirring M. Renan's bemuddled pool, Mr. Rogers has only bemuddled it the more. Neither of these excellent writers seems to suspect that transmutationof species, the geologic development of the earth, and other likephenomena do not present features conflicting with ordinary experience. Sir Charles Lyell and Mr. Darwin would be greatly astonished to be toldthat their theories of inorganic and organic evolution involved anyagencies not known to exist in the present course of nature. The greatachievement of these writers has been to show that all past changes ofthe earth and its inhabitants are to be explained as resulting fromthe continuous action of causes like those now in operation, and thatthroughout there has been nothing even faintly resembling a miracle. M. Renan may feel perfectly safe in extending his principle back to thebeginning of things; and Mr. Rogers's argument, even if valid against M. Renan, does not help his own case in the least. 

On some points, indeed, M. Renan has laid himself open to severecriticism, and on other points he has furnished good handles for hisorthodox opponents. His views in regard to the authorship of the FourthGospel and the Acts are not likely to be endorsed by many scholars; andhis revival of the rationalistic absurdities of Paulus merits in mostinstances all that Mr. Rogers has said about it. As was said at theoutset, orthodox criticisms upon heterodox books are always welcome. They do excellent service. And with the feeling which impels theirauthors to defend their favourite dogmas with every available weapon ofcontroversy I for one can heartily sympathize. Their zeal in upholdingwhat they consider the truth is greatly to be respected and admired. Butso much cannot always be said for the mode of argumentation theyadopt, which too often justifies M. Renan's description, when he says, "Raisonnements triomphants sur des choses que l'adversaire n'a pasdites, cris de victoire sur des erreurs qu'il n'a pas commises, rien neparait deloyal a celui qui croft tenir en main les interets de la veriteabsolue. "

 August, 1866. 

VI. DRAPER ON SCIENCE AND RELIGION. [27]

 [27] History of the Conflict between Religion and Science, byJohn William Draper, M. D. , LL. D. Fourth edition. New York: D. Appleton& Co. 1875. 12mo, pp. Xxii. , 373. (International Scientific Series, XII. )

Some twelve years ago, Dr. Draper published a bulky volume entitled"A History of the Intellectual Development of Europe, " in which hisprofessed purpose was to show that nations or races pass through certaindefinable epochs of development, analogous to the periods of infancy, childhood, youth, manhood, and old age in individuals. But whileannounced with due formality, the carrying out of the argument was leftfor the most part to the headings and running-titles of the severalchapters, while in the text the author peacefully meandered along downthe stream of time, giving us a succession of pleasant though somewhatthreadbare anecdotes, as well as a superabundance of detached andfragmentary opinions on divers historical events, having apparentlyquite forgotten that he had started with a thesis to prove. In thearrangement of his "running heads, " some points were sufficientlycurious to require a word of explanation, as, for example, when theearly ages of Christianity were at one time labelled as an epochof progress and at another time as an epoch of decrepitude. But theargument and the contents never got so far en rapport with each other asto clear up such points as this. On the contrary, each kept on the eventenour of its way without much regard to the other. From the titles ofthe chapters one was led to expect some comprehensive theory of Europeancivilization continuously expounded. But the text merely showed agreat quantity of superficial and second-hand information, servingto illustrate the mental idiosyncrasies of the author. Among theseidiosyncrasies might be noted a very inadequate understanding of thepart played by Rome in the work of civilization, a singular lack ofappreciation of the political and philosophical achievements of Greeceunder Athenian leadership, a strong hostility to the Catholic Church, a curious disposition to overrate semi-barbarous, or abortivecivilizations, such as those of the old Asiatic and nativeAmerican communities, at the expense of Europe, and, above all, anundiscriminating admiration for everything, great or small, that hasever worn the garb of Islam or been associated with the career of theSaracens. The discovery that in some respects the Mussulmans ofthe Middle Ages were more highly cultivated than their Christiancontemporaries, has made such an impression on Dr. Draper's mind that itseems to be as hard for him to get rid of it as it was for Mr. Dick tokeep the execution of Charles I. Out of his "Memorial. " Even in anessay on the "Civil Policy of America, " the turbaned sage figures quiteprominently; and it is needless to add that he reappears, as large aslife, when the subject of discussion is the attitude of science towardreligion. 

Speaking briefly with regard to this matter, we may freely admit thatthe work done by the Arabs, in scientific inquiry as well as in themaking of events, was very considerable. It was a work, too, the valueof which is not commonly appreciated in the accounts of European historywritten for the general reader, and we have no disposition to find faultwith Dr. Draper for describing it with enthusiasm. The philosophers ofBagdad and Cordova did excellent service in keeping alive the traditionsof Greek physical inquiry at a time when Christian thinkers were tooexclusively occupied with transcendental speculations in theology andlogic. In some departments, as in chemistry and astronomy, they madeoriginal discoveries of considerable value; and if we turn from abstractknowledge to the arts of life, it cannot be denied that the mediaevalMussulmans had reached a higher plane of material comfort than theirChristian contemporaries. In short, the work of all kinds done by thesepeople would furnish the judicious advocate of the claims of the Semiticrace with materials for a pleasing and instructive picture. Dr. Draper, however, errs, though no doubt unintentionally, by so presenting thecase as to leave upon the reader's mind the impression that all thisscientific and practical achievement was the work of Islamism, and thatthe Mohammedan civilization was of a higher type than the Christian. Itis with an apparent feeling of regret that he looks upon the oustingof the Moors from dominion in Spain; but this is a mistaken view. Asregards the first point, it is a patent fact that scientific inquiry wasconducted at the cost of as much theological obloquy in the Mohammedanas in the Christian world. It is true there was more actual tolerance ofheresy on the part of Moslem governments than was customary in Europe inthose days; but this is a superficial fact, which does not indicate anysuperiority in Moslem popular sentiment. The caliphate or emirate wasa truly absolute despotism, such as the Papacy has never been, and theconduct of a sceptical emir in encouraging scientific inquiry goesbut little way toward proving anything like a general prevalenceof tolerance or of free-thinking. And this brings us to the secondpoint, --that Mohammedan civilization was, on the whole, rather askin-deep affair. It was superficial because of that extreme severancebetween government and people which has never existed in Europeannations within historic times, but which has always existed among theprincipal races that have professed Moslemism. Nowhere in the Mohammedanworld has there ever been what we call a national life, and nowheredo we find in its records any trace of such an intellectual impulse, thrilling through every fibre of the people and begetting prodigiousachievements in art, poetry, and philosophy, as was awakened in Europein the thirteenth century and again in the fifteenth. Under the peculiarform of unlimited material and spiritual despotism exemplified in thecaliphate, a few men may discover gases or comment on Aristotle, but nogeneral movement toward political progress or philosophical inquiryis possible. Such a society is rigid and inorganic at bottom, whateverscanty signs of flexibility and life it may show at the surface. Thereis no better illustration of this, when well considered, than the factthat Moorish civilization remained, politically and intellectually, amere excrescence in Spain, after having been fastened down over half thecountry for nearly eight centuries. 

But we are in danger of forgetting our main theme, as Dr. Draper seemsto do, while we linger with him over these interesting wayside topics. We may perhaps be excused, however, if we have not yet made any veryexplicit allusion to the "Conflict between Religion and Science, "because this work seems to be in the main a repetition en petit of the"Intellectual Development of Europe, " and what we have said will applyas well to one as to the other. In the little book, as in the big one, we hear a great deal about the Arabs, and something about Columbus andGalileo, who made men accept sundry truths in the teeth of clericalopposition; and, as before, we float gently down the current of historywithout being over well-informed as to the precise didactic purpose ofour voyage. Here, indeed, even our headings and running-titles do notmaterially help us, for though we are supposed to be witnessing, or mayhap assisting in, a perennial conflict between "science" and"religion, " we are nowhere enlightened as to what the cause or characterof this conflict is, nor are we enabled to get a good look at either ofthe parties to the strife. With regard to it "religion" especially arewe left in the dark. What this dreadful thing is towards which "science"is always playing the part of Herakles towards the Lernaean Hydra, weare left to gather from the course of the narrative. Yet, in a book withany valid claim to clearsightedness, one would think such a point asthis ought to receive very explicit preliminary treatment. 

The course of the narrative, however, leaves us in little doubt as towhat Dr. Draper means by a conflict between science and religion. Whenhe enlarges on the trite story of Galileo, and alludes to the moremodern quarrel between the Church and the geologists, and does thisin the belief that he is thereby illustrating an antagonism betweenreligion and science, it is obvious that he identifies the cause ofthe anti-geologists and the persecutors of Galileo with the causeof religion. The word "religion" is to him a symbol which stands forunenlightened bigotry or narrow-minded unwillingness to look facts inthe face. Such a conception of religion is common enough, and unhappilya great deal has been done to strengthen it by the very persons to whomthe interests of religion are presumed to be a professional care. Itis nevertheless a very superficial conception, and no book which isvitiated by it can have much philosophic value. It is simply the crudeimpression which, in minds unaccustomed to analysis, is left by the factthat theologians and other persons interested in religion are usuallyalarmed at new scientific truths, and resist them with emotions sohighly wrought that they are not only incapable of estimating evidence, but often also have their moral sense impaired, and fight with foulmeans when fair ones fail. If we reflect carefully on this class ofphenomena, we shall see that something besides mere pride of opinion isinvolved in the struggle. At the bottom of changing theological beliefsthere lies something which men perennially value, and for the sake ofwhich they cling to the beliefs as long as possible. That which theyvalue is not itself a matter of belief, but it is a matter of conduct;it is the searching after goodness, --after a higher life than the meresatisfaction of individual desires. All animals seek for fulnessof life; but in civilized man this craving has acquired a moralsignificance, and has become a spiritual aspiration; and this emotionaltendency, more or less strong in the human race, we call religiousfeeling or religion. Viewed in this light, religion is not onlysomething that mankind is never likely to get rid of, but it isincomparably the most noble as well as the most useful attribute ofhumanity. 

Now, this emotional prompting toward completeness of life requires, ofcourse, that conduct should be guided, as far as possible, in accordancewith a true theory of the relations of man to the world in which helives. Hence, at any given era the religious feeling will always befound enlisted in behalf of some theory of the universe. At any time, whatever may be their shortcomings in practice, religious men will aimat doing right according to their conceptions of the order of theworld. If men's conceptions of the order of nature remained constant, noapparent conflict between their religious feelings and their knowledgeneed ever arise. But with the first advance in our knowledge of naturethe case is altered. New and strange theories are naturally regardedwith fear and dislike by persons who have always been accustomed tofind the sanction and justification of their emotional prompting towardrighteousness in old familiar theories which the new ones are seeking tosupplant. Such persons oppose the new doctrine because their engrainedmental habits compel them to believe that its establishment will in someway lower men's standard of life, and make them less careful of theirspiritual welfare. This is the case, at all events, when theologiansoppose scientific conclusions on religious grounds, and not simply frommental dulness or rigidity. And, in so far as it is religious feelingwhich thus prompts resistance to scientific innovation, it may be said, with some appearance of truth, that there is a conflict between religionand science. 

But there must always be two parties to a quarrel, and our statementhas to be modified as soon as we consider what the scientific innovatorimpugns. It is not the emotional prompting toward righteousness, itis not the yearning to live im Guten, Ganzen, Wahren, that he seeks toweaken; quite likely he has all this as much at heart as the theologianwho vituperates him. Nor is it true that his discoveries, in spite ofhim, tend to destroy this all-important mental attitude. It would beridiculous to say that the fate of religious feeling is really involvedin the fate of grotesque cosmogonies and theosophies framed in theinfancy of men's knowledge of nature; for history shows us quite thecontrary. Religious feeling has survived the heliocentric theory andthe discoveries of geologists; and it will be none the worse for theestablishment of Darwinism. It is the merest truism to say that religionstrikes its roots deeper down into human nature than speculativeopinion, and is accordingly independent of any particular set ofbeliefs. Since, then, the scientific innovator does not, eithervoluntarily or involuntarily, attack religion, it follows that therecan be no such "conflict" as that of which Dr. Draper has undertaken towrite the history. The real contest is between one phase of scienceand another; between the more-crude knowledge of yesterday and theless-crude knowledge of to-day. The contest, indeed, as presented inhistory, is simply the measure of the difficulty which men find inexchanging old views for new ones. All along, the practical question hasbeen, whether we should passively acquiesce in the crude generalizationsof our ancestors or venture actively to revise them. But as for thereligious sentiment, the perennial struggle in which it has been engagedhas not been with scientific inquiry, but with the selfish propensitieswhose tendency is to make men lead the lives of brutes. 

The time is at hand when the interests of religion can no longer besupposed to be subserved by obstinate adherence to crude speculationsbequeathed to us from pre-scientific antiquity. One good result of thedoctrine of evolution, which is now gaining sway in all departments ofthought, is the lesson that all our opinions must be held subjectto continual revision, and that with none of them can our religiousinterests be regarded as irretrievably implicated. To any one whohas once learned this lesson, a book like Dr. Draper's can be neitherinteresting nor useful. He who has not learned it can derive littlebenefit from a work which in its very title keeps open an old andbaneful source of error and confusion. 

 November. 1875. 

VII. NATHAN THE WISE. [28]

 [28] Nathan the Wise: A Dramatic Poem, by Gotthold EphraimLessing. Translated by Ellen Frothingham. Preceded by a brief accountof the poet and his works, and followed by an essay on the poem by KunoFischer. Second edition. New York: Leypoldt & Holt. 1868. 

Le Christianisme Moderne, etude sur Lessing. Par Ernest Fontanes. Paris:Bailliere. 1867. 

The fame of Lessing is steadily growing. Year by year he is valued morehighly, and valued by a greater number of people. And he is destined, like his master and forerunner Spinoza, to receive a yet larger share ofmen's reverence and gratitude when the philosophic spirit which he livedto illustrate shall have become in some measure the general possessionof the civilized part of mankind. In his own day, Lessing, though widelyknown and greatly admired, was little understood or appreciated. He wasknown to be a learned antiquarian, a terrible controversialist, and anincomparable writer. He was regarded as a brilliant ornament to Germany;and a paltry Duke of Brunswick thought a few hundred thalers well spentin securing the glory of having such a man to reside at his provincialcourt. But the majority of Lessing's contemporaries understood him aslittle perhaps as did the Duke of Brunswick. If anything were needed toprove this, it would be the uproar which was made over the publicationof the "Wolfenbuttel Fragments, " and the curious exegesis which wasapplied to the poem of "Nathan" on its first appearance. In order tounderstand the true character of this great poem, and of Lessing'sreligious opinions as embodied in it, it will be necessary first toconsider the memorable theological controversy which preceded it. 

During Lessing's residence at Hamburg, he had come into possession ofa most important manuscript, written by Hermann Samuel Reimarus, aprofessor of Oriental languages, and bearing the title of an "Apologyfor the Rational Worshippers of God. " Struck with the rigorous logicdisplayed in its arguments, and with the quiet dignity of its style, while yet unable to accept its most general conclusions, Lessingresolved to publish the manuscript, accompanying it with his owncomments and strictures. Accordingly in 1774, availing himself of thefreedom from censorship enjoyed by publications drawn from manuscriptsdeposited in the Ducal Library at Wolfenbuttel, of which he waslibrarian, Lessing published the first portion of this work, under thetitle of "Fragments drawn from the Papers of an Anonymous Writer. "This first Fragment, on the "Toleration of Deists, " awakened but littleopposition; for the eighteenth century, though intolerant enough, didnot parade its bigotry, but rather saw fit to disclaim it. A hundredyears before, Rutherford, in his "Free Disputation, " had declared"toleration of alle religions to bee not farre removed from blasphemie. "Intolerance was then a thing to be proud of, but in Lessing's time someprogress had been achieved, and men began to think it a good thing toseem tolerant. The succeeding Fragments were to test this liberalityand reveal the flimsiness of the stuff of which it was made. When theunknown disputant began to declare "the impossibility of a revelationupon which all men can rest a solid faith, " and when he began tocriticize the evidences of Christ's resurrection, such a storm burst outin the theological world of Germany as had not been witnessed sincethe time of Luther. The recent Colenso controversy in England was buta gentle breeze compared to it. Press and pulpit swarmed with"refutations, " in which weakness of argument and scantiness of eruditionwere compensated by strength of acrimony and unscrupulousness ofslander. Pamphlets and sermons, says M. Fontanes, "were multiplied, todenounce the impious blasphemer, who, destitute alike of shame and ofcourage, had sheltered himself behind a paltry fiction, in order to letloose upon society an evil spirit of unbelief. " But Lessing's artificehad been intended to screen the memory of Reimarus, rather than hisown reputation. He was not the man to quail before any amount of humanopposition; and it was when the tempest of invective was just at itsheight that he published the last and boldest Fragment of all, --on "theDesigns of Jesus and his Disciples. "

The publication of these Fragments led to a mighty controversy. The mosteminent, both for uncompromising zeal and for worldly position, of thosewho had attacked Lessing, was Melchior Goetze, "pastor primarius" at theHamburg Cathedral. Though his name is now remembered only because ofhis connection with Lessing, Goetze was not destitute of learning andability. He was a collector of rare books, an amateur in numismatics, and an antiquarian of the narrow-minded sort. Lessing had known himwhile at Hamburg, and had visited him so constantly as to draw forthfrom his friends malicious insinuations as to the excellence ofthe pastor's white wine. Doubtless Lessing, as a wise man, was notinsensible to the attractions of good Moselle; but that which he chieflyliked in this theologian was his logical and rigorously consistent turnof mind. "He always, " says M. Fontanes, "cherished a holy horror ofloose, inconsequent thinkers; and the man of the past, the inexorableguardian of tradition, appeared to him far more worthy of respect thanthe heterodox innovator who stops in mid-course, and is faithful neitherto reason nor to faith. "

But when Lessing published these unhallowed Fragments, the hour ofconflict had sounded, and Goetze cast himself into the arena with aboldness and impetuosity which Lessing, in his artistic capacity, couldnot fail to admire. He spared no possible means of reducing his enemy tosubmission. He aroused against him all the constituted authorities, the consistories, and even the Aulic Council of the Empire, and heeven succeeded in drawing along with him the chief of contemporaryrationalists, Semler, who so far forgot himself as to declare thatLessing, for what he had done, deserved to be sent to the madhouse. Butwith all Goetze's orthodox valour, he was no match for the antagonistwhom he had excited to activity. The great critic replied with pamphletafter pamphlet, invincible in logic and erudition, sparkling with wit, and irritating in their utter coolness. Such pamphlets had not been seensince Pascal published the "Provincial Letters. " Goetze found thathe had taken up arms against a master in the arts of controversy, andbefore long he became well aware that he was worsted. Having broughtthe case before the Aulic Council, which consisted in great part ofCatholics, the stout pastor, forgetting that judgment had not yet beenrendered, allowed himself to proclaim that all who do not recognizethe Bible as the only source of Christianity are not fit to be calledChristians at all. Lessing was not slow to profit by this unluckydeclaration. Questioned, with all manner of ferocious vituperation, byGoetze, as to what sort of Christianity might have existed prior toand independently of the New Testament canon, Lessing imperturbablyanswered: "By the Christian religion I mean all the confessions of faithcontained in the collection of creeds of the first four centuries of theChristian Church, including, if you wish it, the so-called creed ofthe apostles, as well as the creed of Athanasius. The content of theseconfessions is called by the earlier Fathers the regula fidei, or ruleof faith. This rule of faith is not drawn from the writings of the NewTestament. It existed before any of the books in the New Testament werewritten. It sufficed not only for the first Christians of the age of theapostles, but for their descendants during four centuries. And it is, therefore, the veritable foundation upon which the Church of Christ isbuilt; a foundation not based upon Scripture. " Thus, by a master-stroke, Lessing secured the adherence of the Catholics constituting a majorityof the Aulic Council of the Empire. Like Paul before him, he divided theSanhedrim. So that Goetze, foiled in his attempts at using violence, anddisconcerted by the patristic learning of one whom he had taken to be amere connoisseur in art and writer of plays for the theatre, concludedthat discretion was the surest kind of valour, and desisted from furtherattacks. 

Lessing's triumph came opportunely; for already the ministry ofBrunswick had not only confiscated the Fragments, but had prohibitedhim from publishing anything more on the subject without first obtainingexpress authority to do so. His last replies to Goetze were publishedat Hamburg; and as he held himself in readiness to depart fromWolfenbuttel, he wrote to several friends that he had conceived thedesign of a drama, with which he would tear the theologians in piecesmore than with a dozen Fragments. "I will try and see, " said he, "ifthey will let me preach in peace from my old pulpit, the theatre. " Inthis way originated "Nathan the Wise. " But it in no way answered to theexpectations either of Lessing's friends or of his enemies. Both the oneand the other expected to see the controversy with Goetze carried on, developed, and generalized in the poem. They looked for a satiricalcomedy, in which orthodoxy should be held up for scathing ridicule, orat least for a direful tragedy, the moral of which, like that of thegreat poem of Lucretius, should be

 "Tantum religio potuit suadere malorum. "

Had Lessing produced such a poem, he would doubtless have gratifiedhis free-thinking friends and wreaked due literary vengeance uponhis theological persecutors. He would, perhaps, have given articulateexpression to the radicalism of his own time, and, like Voltaire, mighthave constituted himself the leader of the age, the incarnation of itsmost conspicuous tendencies. But Lessing did nothing of the kind; andthe expectations formed of him by friends and enemies alike show howlittle he was understood by either. "Nathan the Wise" was, as we shallsee, in the eighteenth century an entirely new phenomenon; and itsauthor was the pioneer of a quite new religious philosophy. 

Reimarus, the able author of the Fragments, in his attack upon theevidences of revealed religion, had taken the same ground as Voltaireand the old English deists. And when we have said this, we havesufficiently defined his position, for the tenets of the deists are atthe present day pretty well known, and are, moreover, of very littlevital importance, having long since been supplanted by a more justand comprehensive philosophy. Reimarus accepted neither miracles norrevelation; but in accordance with the rudimentary state of criticism inhis time, he admitted the historical character of the earliest Christianrecords, and was thus driven to the conclusion that those writings musthave been fraudulently composed. How such a set of impostors as theapostles must on this hypothesis have been, should have succeeded ininspiring large numbers of their contemporaries with higher and granderreligious notions than had ever before been conceived; how they shouldhave laid the foundations of a theological system destined to holdtogether the most enlightened and progressive portion of human societyfor seventeen or eighteen centuries, --does not seem to have entered hismind. Against such attacks as this, orthodoxy was comparatively safe;for whatever doubt might be thrown upon some of its leading dogmas, the system as a whole was more consistent and rational than any ofthe theories which were endeavouring to supplant it. And the fact thatnearly all the great thinkers of the eighteenth century adopted thisdeistic hypothesis, shows, more than anything else, the crudeness oftheir psychological knowledge, and their utter lack of what is called"the historical sense. "

Lessing at once saw the weak point in Reimarus's argument, but hismethod of disposing of it differed signally from that adopted by hisorthodox contemporaries. The more advanced German theologians of thatday, while accepting the New Testament records as literally historical, were disposed to rationalize the accounts of miracles contained in them, in such a way as to get rid of any presumed infractions of the laws ofnature. This method of exegesis, which reached its perfection in Paulus, is too well known to need describing. Its unsatisfactory character wasclearly shown, thirty years ago, by Strauss, and it is now generallyabandoned, though some traces of it may still be seen in the recentworks of Renan. Lessing steadily avoided this method of interpretation. He had studied Spinoza to some purpose, and the outlines of Biblicalcriticism laid down by that remarkable thinker Lessing developed intoa system wonderfully like that now adopted by the Tubingen school. Thecardinal results which Baur has reached within the past generation werenearly all hinted at by Lessing, in his commentaries on the Fragments. The distinction between the first three, or synoptic gospels, and thefourth, the later age of the fourth, and the method of composition ofthe first three, from earlier documents and from oral tradition, areall clearly laid down by him. The distinct points of view from whichthe four accounts were composed, are also indicated, --the Judaizingdisposition of "Matthew, " the Pauline sympathies of "Luke, " thecompromising or Petrine tendencies of "Mark, " and the advanced Helleniccharacter of "John. " Those best acquainted with the results of moderncriticism in Germany will perhaps be most surprised at finding suchspeculations in a book written many years before either Strauss or Baurwere born. 

But such results, as might have been expected, did not satisfy thepastor Goetze or the public which sympathized with him. The valiantpastor unhesitatingly declared that he read the objections whichLessing opposed to the Fragmentist with more horror and disgust thanthe Fragments themselves; and in the teeth of the printed commentshe declared that the editor was craftily upholding his author in hisdeistical assault upon Christian theology. The accusation was unjust, because untrue. There could be no genuine cooperation between a mereiconoclast like Reimarus, and a constructive critic like Lessing. Butthe confusion was not an unnatural one on Goetze's part, and I cannotagree with M. Fontanes in taking it as convincing proof of the pastor'swrong-headed perversity. It appears to me that Goetze interpretedLessing's position quite as accurately as M. Fontanes. The latterwriter thinks that Lessing was a Christian of the liberal school sincerepresented by Theodore Parker in this country and by M. Reville inFrance; that his real object was to defend and strengthen the Christianreligion by relieving it of those peculiar doctrines which to thefreethinkers of his time were a stumbling-block and an offence. And, inspite of Lessing's own declarations, he endeavours to show that he wasan ordinary theist, --a follower of Leibnitz rather than of Spinoza. ButI do not think he has made out his case. Lessing's own confession toJacobi is unequivocal enough, and cannot well be argued away. In thatremarkable conversation, held toward the close of his life, he indicatesclearly enough that his faith was neither that of the ordinary theist, the atheist, nor the pantheist, but that his religious theory of theuniverse was identical with that suggested by Spinoza, adopted byGoethe, and recently elaborated in the first part of the "FirstPrinciples" of Mr. Herbert Spencer. Moreover, while Lessing cannot beconsidered an antagonist of Christianity, neither did he assume theattitude of a defender. He remained outside the theological arena;looking at theological questions from the point of view of a layman, orrather, as M. Cherbuliez has happily expressed it, of a Pagan. His mindwas of decidedly antique structure. He had the virtues of paganism:its sanity, its calmness, and its probity; but of the tenderness ofChristianity, and its quenchless aspirations after an indefinable ideal, of that feeling which has incarnated itself in Gothic cathedrals, massesand oratorios, he exhibited but scanty traces. His intellect was aboveall things self-consistent and incorruptible. He had that imperialgood-sense which might have formed the ideal alike of Horace and ofEpictetus. No clandestine preference for certain conclusions could makehis reason swerve from the straight paths of logic. And he examined andrejected the conclusions of Reimarus in the same imperturbable spiritwith which he examined and rejected the current theories of the Frenchclassic drama. 

Such a man can have had but little in common with a preacher likeTheodore Parker, or with a writer like M. Fontanes, whose whole book isa noble specimen of lofty Christian eloquence. His attribute was light, not warmth. He scrutinized, but did not attack or defend. He recognizedthe transcendent merits of the Christian faith, but made no attempt toreinstate it where it had seemed to suffer shock. It was therefore withthe surest of instincts, with that same instinct of self-preservationwhich had once led the Church to anathematize Galileo, that Goetze. Proclaimed Lessing a more dangerous foe to orthodoxy than the deistswho had preceded him. Controversy, he doubtless thought, may be keptup indefinitely, and blows given and returned forever; but before thesteady gaze of that scrutinizing eye which one of us shall find himselfable to stand erect? It has become fashionable to heap blame andridicule upon those who violently defend an antiquated order of things;and Goetze has received at the hands of posterity his full share ofabuse. His wrath contrasted unfavourably with Lessing's calmness; and itwas his misfortune to have taken up arms against an opponent who alwaysknew how to keep the laugh upon his own side. For my own part I amconstrained to admire the militant pastor, as Lessing himself admiredhim. From an artistic point of view he is not an uninteresting figureto contemplate. And although his attempts to awaken persecution werereprehensible, yet his ardour in defending what he believed to be vitaltruth is none the less to be respected. He had the acuteness to see thatLessing's refutation of deism did not make him a Christian, while thenew views proposed as a substitute for those of Reimarus were such asGoetze and his age could in no wise comprehend. 

Lessing's own views of dogmatic religion are to be found in his workentitled, "The Education of the Human Race. " These views have since sofar become the veriest commonplaces of criticism, that one can hardlyrealize that, only ninety years ago, they should have been regarded asdangerous paradoxes. They may be summed up in the statement that allgreat religions are good in their time and place; that, "as there isa soul of goodness in things evil, so also there is a soul of truthin things erroneous. " According to Lessing, the successive phases ofreligious belief constitute epochs in the mental evolution of the humanrace. So that the crudest forms of theology, even fetishism, now toall appearance so utterly revolting, and polytheism, so completelyinadequate, have once been the best, the natural and inevitable resultsof man's reasoning powers and appliances for attaining truth. Themere fact that a system of religious thought has received the willingallegiance of large masses of men shows that it must have supplied someconsciously felt want, some moral or intellectual craving. And themere fact that knowledge and morality are progressive implies that eachsuccessive system may in due course of time be essentially modified orfinally supplanted. The absence of any reference to a future state ofretribution, in the Pentateuch and generally in the sacred writingsof the Jews, and the continual appeal to hopes and fears of a worldlycharacter, have been pronounced by deists an irremediable defect inthe Jewish religion. It is precisely this, however, says Lessing, whichconstitutes one of its signal excellences. "That thy days may be longin the land which Jehovah thy God giveth thee, " was an appeal which theuncivilized Jew could understand, and which could arouse him to action;while the need of a future world, to rectify the injustices of this, notyet being felt, the doctrine would have been of but little service. But in later Hebrew literature, many magnificent passages revealed thedespair felt by prophet and thinker over the insoluble problem presentedby the evil fate of the good and the triumphant success of the wicked;and a solution was sought in the doctrine of a Messianic kingdom, untilChristianity with its proclamation of a future life set thequestion entirely aside. By its appeal to what has been aptly termed"other-worldliness, " Christianity immeasurably intensified humanresponsibility, besides rendering clearer its nature and limits. Butaccording to Lessing, yet another step remains to be taken; and here wecome upon the gulf which separates him from men of the stamp ofTheodore Parker. For, says Lessing, the appeal to unearthly rewardsand punishments is after all an appeal to our lower feelings;other-worldliness is but a refined selfishness; and we are to cherishvirtue for its own sake not because it will lead us to heaven. Here isthe grand principle of Stoicism. Lessing believed, with Mr. Mill, thatthe less we think about getting rewarded either on earth or in heaventhe better. He was cast in the same heroic mould as Muhamad Efendi, whowhen led to the stake exclaimed: "Though I have no hope of recompensehereafter, yet the love of truth constraineth me to die in its defence!"

With the truth or completeness of these views of Lessing we are not hereconcerned; our business being not to expound our own opinions, butto indicate as clearly as possible Lessing's position. Those who arefamiliar with the general philosophical spirit of the present age, as represented by writers otherwise so different as Littre andSainte-Beuve, will best appreciate the power and originality of thesespeculations. Coming in the last century, amid the crudities of deism, they made a well-defined epoch. They inaugurated the historical methodof criticism, and they robbed the spirit of intolerance of its onlyphilosophical excuse for existing. Hitherto the orthodox had beenintolerant toward the philosophers because they considered themheretics; and the philosophers had been intolerant toward the orthodoxbecause they considered them fools. To Voltaire it naturally seemedthat a man who could believe in the reality of miracles must be what inFrench is expressively termed a sot. But henceforth, to the disciple ofLessing, men of all shade of opinion were but the representativesand exponents of different phases in the general evolution of humanintelligence, not necessarily to be disliked or despised if they did nothappen to represent the maturest phase. 

Religion, therefore, from this point of view, becomes clearly demarcatedfrom theology. It consists no longer in the mental assent to certainprescribed formulas, but in the moral obedience to the great rule oflife; the great commandment laid down and illustrated by the Founderof the Christian religion, and concerning which the profoundest modernphilosophy informs us that the extent to which a society has learnedto conform to it is the test and gauge of the progress in civilizationwhich that society has achieved. The command "to love one another, " tocheck the barbarous impulses inherited from the pre-social state, whilegiving free play to the beneficent impulses needful for the ultimateattainment of social equilibrium, --or as Tennyson phrases it, to "moveupward, working out the beast, and letting the ape and tiger die, "--was, in Lessing's view, the task set before us by religion. The truereligious feeling was thus, in his opinion, what the author of "EcceHomo" has finely termed "the enthusiasm of humanity. " And we shall findno better language than that of the writer just mentioned, in which todescribe Lessing's conception of faith:--

"He who, when goodness is impressively put before him, exhibits aninstinctive loyalty to it, starts forward to take its side, trustshimself to it, such a man has faith, and the root of the matter isin such a man. He may have habits of vice, but the loyal and faithfulinstinct in him will place him above many that practice virtue. He maybe rude in thought and character, but he will unconsciously gravitatetoward what is right. Other virtues can scarcely thrive without a finenatural organization and a happy training. But the most neglected andungifted of men may make a beginning with faith. Other virtues wantcivilization, a certain amount of knowledge, a few books; but inhalf-brutal countenances faith will light up a glimmer of nobleness. The savage, who can do little else, can wonder and worship andenthusiastically obey. He who cannot know what is right can know thatsome one else knows; he who has no law may still have a master; he whois incapable of justice may be capable of fidelity; he who understandslittle may have his sins forgiven because he loves much. "

Such was Lessing's religion, so far as it can be ascertained from thefragmentary writings which he has left on the subject. Undoubtedly itlacked completeness. The opinions which we have here set down, thoughconstituting something more than a mere theory of morality, certainlydo not constitute a complete theory of religion. Our valiant knight hasexamined but one side of the shield, --the bright side, turned toward us, whose marvellous inscriptions the human reason can by dint of unweariedeffort decipher. But the dark side, looking out upon infinity, andcovered with hieroglyphics the meaning of which we can never know, he has quite forgotten to consider. Yet it is this side which genuinereligious feeling ever seeks to contemplate. It is the consciousnessthat there is about us an omnipresent Power, in which we live and moveand have our being, eternally manifesting itself throughout the wholerange of natural phenomena, which has ever disposed men to be religious, and lured them on in the vain effort to construct adequate theologicalsystems. We may, getting rid of the last traces of fetishism, eliminatearbitrary volition as much as we will or can. But there still remainsthe consciousness of a divine Life in the universe, of a Power which isbeyond and above our comprehension, whose goings out and comings in noman can follow. The more we know, the more we reach out for that whichwe cannot know. And who can realize this so vividly as the scientificphilosopher? For our knowledge being, according to the familiarcomparison, like a brilliant sphere, the more we increase it the greaterbecomes the number of peripheral points at which we are confrontedby the impenetrable darkness beyond. I believe that this restlessyearning, --vague enough in the description, yet recognizable by all who, communing with themselves or with nature, have felt it, --this constantseeking for what cannot be found, this persistent knocking at gateswhich, when opened, but reveal others yet to be passed, constitutes anelement which no adequate theory of religion can overlook. But of thiswe find nothing in Lessing. With him all is sunny, serene, and pagan. Not the dim aisle of a vast cathedral, but the symmetrical portico of anantique temple, is the worshipping-place into which he would lead us. 

But if Lessing's theology must be considered imperfect, it is none theless admirable as far as it goes. With its peculiar doctrines of loveand faith, it teaches a morality far higher than any that Puritanismever dreamed of. And with its theory of development it cuts away everypossible logical basis for intolerance. It is this theology to whichLessing has given concrete expression in his immortal poem of "Nathan. "

The central idea of "Nathan" was suggested to Lessing by Boccaccio'sstory of "The Three Rings, " which is supposed to have had a Jewishorigin. Saladin, pretending to be inspired by a sudden, imperious whim, such as is "not unbecoming in a Sultan, " demands that Nathan shallanswer him on the spur of the moment which of the three great religionsthen known--Judaism, Mohammedanism, Christianity--is adjudged by reasonto be the true one. For a moment the philosopher is in a quandary. If hedoes not pronounce in favour of his own religion, Judaism, he stultifieshimself; but if he does not award the precedence to Mohammedanism, hewill apparently insult his sovereign. With true Oriental tact he escapesfrom the dilemma by means of a parable. There was once a man, saysNathan, who possessed a ring of inestimable value. Not only was thestone which it contained incomparably fine, but it possessed themarvellous property of rendering its owner agreeable both to God and tomen. The old man bequeathed this ring to that one of his sons whom heloved the most; and the son, in turn, made a similar disposition ofit. So that, passing from hand to hand, the ring finally came into thepossession of a father who loved his three sons equally well. Unto whichone should he leave it? To get rid of the perplexity, he had two otherrings made by a jeweller, exactly like the original, and to each of histhree sons he bequeathed one. Each then thinking that he had obtainedthe true talisman, they began violently to quarrel, and after longcontention agreed to carry their dispute before the judge. But the judgesaid: "Quarrelsome fellows! You are all three of you cheated cheats. Your three rings are alike counterfeit. For the genuine ring is lost, and to conceal the loss, your father had made these three substitutes. "At this unexpected denouement the Sultan breaks out in exclamations ofdelight; and it is interesting to learn that when the play was broughtupon the stage at Constantinople a few years ago, the Turkish audiencewas similarly affected. There is in the story that quiet, stealthyhumour which is characteristic of many mediaeval apologues, and in whichLessing himself loved to deal. It is humour of the kind which hitsthe mark, and reveals the truth. In a note upon this passage, Lessinghimself said: "The opinion of Nathan upon all positive religions has fora long time been my own. " Let him who has the genuine ring show it bymaking himself loved of God and man. This is the central idea of thepoem. It is wholly unlike the iconoclasm of the deists, and, coming inthe eighteenth century, it was like a veritable evangel. 

"Nathan" was not brought out until three years after Lessing's death, and it kept possession of the stage for but a short time. In a dramaticpoint of view, it has hardly any merits. Whatever plot there is in it isweak and improbable. The decisive incidents seem to be brought in likethe deus ex machina of the later Greek drama. There is no movement, no action, no development. The characters are poetically but notdramatically conceived. Considered as a tragedy, "Nathan" would be weak;considered as a comedy, it would be heavy. With full knowledge of thesecircumstances, Lessing called it not a drama, but a dramatic poem; andhe might have called it still more accurately a didactic poem, forthe only feature which it has in common with the drama is that thepersonages use the oratio directa. 

"Nathan" is a didactic poem: it is not a mere philosophic treatisewritten in verse, like the fragments of Xenophanes. Its lessons areconveyed concretely and not abstractly; and its characters are not merelay figures, but living poetical conceptions. Considered as a poem amongclassic German poems, it must rank next to, though immeasurably below, Goethe's "Faust. "

There are two contrasted kinds of genius, the poetical and thephilosophical; or, to speak yet more generally, the artistic and thecritical. The former is distinguished by a concrete, the latter by anabstract, imagination. The former sees things synthetically, inall their natural complexity; the latter pulls things to piecesanalytically, and scrutinizes their relations. The former sees a treein all its glory, where the latter sees an exogen with a pair ofcotyledons. The former sees wholes, where the latter sees aggregates. 

Corresponding with these two kinds of genius there are two classes ofartistic productions. When the critical genius writes a poem or anovel, he constructs his plot and his characters in conformity tosome prearranged theory, or with a view to illustrate some favouritedoctrine. When he paints a picture, he first thinks how certainpersons would look under certain given circumstances, and paints themaccordingly. When he writes a piece of music, he first decides thatthis phrase expresses joy, and that phrase disappointment, and the otherphrase disgust, and he composes accordingly. We therefore say ordinarilythat he does not create, but only constructs and combines. It is fardifferent with the artistic genius, who, without stopping to think, sees the picture and hears the symphony with the eyes and ears ofimagination, and paints and plays merely what he has seen and heard. When Dante, in imagination, arrived at the lowest circle of hell, wheretraitors like Judas and Brutus are punished, he came upon a terriblefrozen lake, which, he says, --

 "Ever makes me shudder at the sight of frozen pools. "

I have always considered this line a marvellous instance of theintensity of Dante's imagination. It shows, too, how Dante composedhis poem. He did not take counsel of himself and say: "Go to, let usdescribe the traitors frozen up to their necks in a dismal lake, forthat will be most terrible. " But the picture of the lake, in all itsiciness, with the haggard faces staring out from its glassy crust, cameunbidden before his mind with such intense reality that, for the restof his life, he could not look at a frozen pool without a shudder ofhorror. He described it exactly as he saw it; and his description makesus shudder who read it after all the centuries that have intervened. So Michael Angelo, a kindred genius, did not keep cutting and chippingaway, thinking how Moses ought to look, and what sort of a nose heought to have, and in what position his head might best rest upon hisshoulders. But, he looked at the rectangular block of Carrara marble, and beholding Moses grand and lifelike within it, knocked away theenvironing stone, that others also might see the mighty figure. And soBeethoven, an artist of the same colossal order, wrote out for us thosemysterious harmonies which his ear had for the first time heard; andwhich, in his mournful old age, it heard none the less plainly becauseof its complete physical deafness. And in this way Shakespeare wrotehis "Othello"; spinning out no abstract thoughts about jealousy and itsfearful effects upon a proud and ardent nature, but revealing to usthe living concrete man, as his imperial imagination had spontaneouslyfashioned him. 

Modern psychology has demonstrated that this is the way in which thecreative artistic imagination proceeds. It has proved that a vastportion of all our thinking goes on unconsciously; and that the resultsmay arise into consciousness piecemeal and gradually, checking eachother as they come; or that they may come all at once, with all thecompleteness and definiteness of perceptions presented from without. Theformer is the case with the critical, and the latter with the artisticintellect. And this we recognize imperfectly when we talk of a geniusbeing "inspired. " All of us probably have these two kinds of imaginationto a certain extent. It is only given to a few supremely endowed personslike Goethe to possess them both to an eminent degree. Perhaps of noother man can it be said that he was a poet of the first order, and asgreat a critic as poet. 

It is therefore apt to be a barren criticism which studies the works ofcreative geniuses in order to ascertain what theory lies beneath them. How many systems of philosophy, how many subtle speculations, have wenot seen fathered upon Dante, Cervantes, Shakespeare, and Goethe! Yettheir works are, in a certain sense, greater than any systems. Theypartake of the infinite complexity and variety of nature, and no morethan nature itself can they be narrowed down to the limits of a preciseformula. 

Lessing was wont to disclaim the title of poet; but, as Goethe said, his immortal works refute him. He had not only poetical, but dramaticgenius; and his "Emilia Galotti" has kept the stage until to-day. Nevertheless, he knew well what he meant when he said that he was moreof a critic than a poet. His genius was mainly of the critical order;and his great work, "Nathan the Wise, " was certainly constructed ratherthan created. It was intended to convey a doctrine, and was carefullyshaped for the purpose. And when we have pronounced it the greatest ofall poems that have been written for a set purpose, and admit of beingexpressed in a definite formula, we have classified it with sufficientaccuracy. 

For an analysis of the characters in the poem, nothing can be betterthan the essay by Kuno Fischer, appended to the present volume. Thework of translation has been admirably done; and thanks are due to MissFrothingham for her reproduction of this beautiful poem. 

 June, 1868. 

VIII. HISTORICAL DIFFICULTIES. [29]

 [29] Historical Difficulties and Contested Events. By OctaveDelepierre, LL. D. , F. S. A. , Secretary of Legation to the King of theBelgians. 8vo. London: Murray. 1868. 

History, says Sainte-Beuve, is in great part a set of fables whichpeople agree to believe in. And, on reading books like the present, one certainly needs a good deal of that discipline acquired by longfamiliarity with vexed historical questions, in order to check thedisposition to accept the great critic's ironical remark in soberearnest. Much of what is currently accredited as authentic history is infact a mixture of flattery and calumny, myth and fable. Yet in this setof fables, whatever may have been the case in past times, people willno longer agree to believe. During the present century the criticismof recorded events has gone far toward assuming the developed andsystematized aspect of a science, and canons of belief have beenestablished, which it is not safe to disregard. Great occurrences, such as the Trojan War and the Siege of Thebes, not long ago faithfullydescribed by all historians of Greece, have been found to be part ofthe common mythical heritage of the Aryan nations. Achilleus and Helena, Oidipous and Iokasta, Oinone and Paris, have been discovered in Indiaand again in Scandinavia, and so on, until their nonentity has becomethe legitimate inference from their very ubiquity. Legislatorslike Romulus and Numa, inventors like Kadmos, have evaporatedinto etymologies. Whole legions of heroes, dynasties of kings, andadulteresses as many as Dante saw borne on the whirlwind, have vanishedfrom the face of history, and terrible has been the havoc in the openingpages of our chronological tables. Nor is it primitive history alonewhich has been thus metamorphosed. Characters unduly exalted or defamedby party spirit are daily being set before us in their true, or at leastin a truer, light. What Mr. Froude has done for Henry VIII. We know; andhe might have done more if he had not tried to do so much. HumpbackedRichard turns out to have been one of the handsomest kings that ever saton the throne of England. Edward I. , in his dealings with Scotland, isseen to have been scrupulously just; while the dignity of the patriothero Wallace has been somewhat impaired. Elizabeth is proved to havebefriended the false Mary Stuart much longer than was consistent withher personal safety. Eloquent Cicero has been held up as an object ofcontempt; and even weighty Tacitus has been said to owe much of hisreputation to his ability to give false testimony with a grave face. It has lately been suspected that gloomy Tiberius, apart from hisgloominess, may have been rather a good fellow; not so licentiousas puritanical, not cruel so much as exceptionally merciful, --a raregeneral, a sagacious statesman, and popular to boot with all hissubjects save the malignant oligarchy which he consistently snubbed, andwhich took revenge on him by writing his life. And, to crown all, evenCatiline, abuser of our patience, seducer of vestal nuns, and drinkerof children's blood, --whose very name suggests murder, incest, androbbery, --even Catiline has found an able defender in Professor Beesly. It is claimed that Catiline was a man of great abilities and averagegood character, a well-calumniated leader of the Marian party whichCaesar afterwards led to victory, and that his famous plot for burningRome never existed save in the unscrupulous Ciceronian fancy. And thosewho think it easy to refute these conclusions of Professor Beeslyhad better set to work and try it. Such are a few of the surprisingquestions opened by recent historical research; and in the face of themthe public is quite excusable if it declares itself at a loss what tobelieve. 

These, however, are cases in which criticism has at least made someshow of ascertaining the truth and detecting the causes of the prevalentmisconception. That men like Catiline and Tiberius should have had theircharacters blackened is quite easily explicable. President Johnsonwould have little better chance of obtaining justice at the hands ofposterity, if the most widely read history of his administration shouldhappen to be written by a radical member of the Rump Congress. But thecases which Mr. Delepierre invites us to contemplate are of a differentcharacter. They come neither under the head of myths nor under that ofmisrepresentations. Some of them are truly vexed questions which itmay perhaps always be impossible satisfactorily to solve. Others maybe dealt with more easily, but afford no clew to the origin ofthe popularly received error. Let us briefly examine a few of Mr. Delepierre's "difficulties. " And first, because simplest, we will takethe case of the Alexandrian Library. 

Every one has heard how Amrou, after his conquest of Egypt, sent toCaliph Omar to know what should be done with the Alexandrian Library. "If the books agree with the Koran, " said the Caliph, "they aresuperfluous; if they contradict it, they are damnable; in either case, destroy them. " So the books were taken and used to light the fires whichheated water for the baths; and so vast was the number that, used inthis way, they lasted six months! All this happened because John theGrammarian was over-anxious enough to request that the books might bepreserved, and thus drew Amrou's attention to them. Great has been theobloquy poured upon Omar for this piece of vandalism, and loud hasbeen the mourning over the treasures of ancient science and literaturesupposed to have been irrecoverably lost in this ignominiousconflagration Theologians, Catholic and Protestant, have been fond ofquoting it as an instance of the hostility of Mahometanism to knowledge, and we have even heard an edifying sermon preached about it. On seeingthe story put to such uses, one feels sometimes like using the adhominem argument, and quoting the wholesale destruction of paganlibraries under Valens, the burning of books by the Latin stormers ofConstantinople, the alleged annihilation of 100, 000 volumes by Genoesecrusaders at Tripoli, the book-burning exploits of Torquemada, thebonfire of 80, 000 valuable Arabic manuscripts, lighted up in the squareof Granada by order of Cardinal Ximenes, and the irreparable cremationof Aztec writings by the first Christian bishops of Mexico. Theseexamples, with perhaps others which do not now occur to us, might beapplied in just though ungentle retort by Mahometan doctors. Yet themost direct rejoinder would probably not occur to them: the AlexandrianLibrary was NOT destroyed by the orders of Omar, and the whole story isa figment!

The very pithiness of it, so characteristic of the excellent but bigotedOmar, is enough to cast suspicion upon it. De Quincey tells us that "ifa saying has a proverbial fame, the probability is that it was neversaid. " How many amusing stories stand a chance of going downto posterity as the inventions of President Lincoln, of which, nevertheless, he is doubtless wholly innocent! How characteristic wasCaesar's reply to the frightened pilot! Yet in all probability Caesarnever made it. 

Now for the evidence. Alexandria was captured by Armrou in 640. Thestory of the burning of the library occurs for the first time in theworks of Abulpharagius, who flourished in 1264. Six hundred years hadelapsed. It is as if a story about the crusades of Louis IX. Were to befound for the first time in the writings of Mr. Bancroft. The Byzantinehistorians were furiously angry with the Saracens; why did they, oneand all, neglect to mention such an outrageous piece of vandalism? Theirsilence must be considered quite conclusive. Moreover we know "that thecaliphs had forbidden under severe penalties the destruction" of Jewishand Christian books, a circumstance wholly inconsistent with this famousstory. And finally, what a mediaeval recklessness of dates is shownin lugging into the story John the Grammarian, who was dead and in hisgrave when Alexandria was taken by Amrou!

But the chief item of proof remains to be mentioned. The Saracens didnot burn the library, because there was no library there for them toburn! It had been destroyed just two hundred and fifty years before by arabble of monks, incited by the patriarch Theophilus, who saw in sucha vast collection of pagan literature a perpetual insult and menaceto religion. In the year 390 this turbulent bigot sacked the temple ofSerapis, where the books were kept, and drove out the philosophers wholodged there. Of this violent deed we have contemporary evidence, forOrosius tells us that less than fifteen years afterwards, while passingthrough Alexandria, he saw the empty shelves. This fact disposes of thestory. 

Passing from Egypt to France, and from the seventh century to thefifteenth, we meet with a much more difficult problem. That Jeanne d'Arcwas burnt at the stake, at Rouen, on the 30th of May, 1431, and herbones and ashes thrown into the Seine, is generally supposed to be asindisputable as any event in modern history. Such is, however, hardlythe case. Plausible evidence has been brought to prove that Jeanne d'Arcwas never burnt at the stake, but lived to a ripe age, and was evenhappily married to a nobleman of high rank and reputation. We shallabridge Mr. Delepierre's statement of this curious case. 

In the archives of Metz, Father Vignier discovered the followingremarkable entry: "In the year 1436, Messire Phlin Marcou was Sheriffof Metz, and on the 20th day of May of the aforesaid year came the maidJeanne, who had been in France, to La Grange of Ormes, near St. Prive, and was taken there to confer with any one of the sieurs of Metz, andshe called herself Claude; and on the same day there came to see herthere her two brothers, one of whom was a knight, and was called MessirePierre, and the other 'petit Jehan, ' a squire, and they thought that shehad been burnt, but as soon as they saw her they recognized her and shethem. And on Monday, the 21st day of the said month, they took theirsister with them to Boquelon, and the sieur Nicole, being a knight, gave her a stout stallion of the value of thirty francs, and a pair ofsaddle-cloths; the sieur Aubert Boulle, a riding-hood, the sieur NicoleGroguet, a sword; and the said maiden mounted the said horse nimbly, andsaid several things to the sieur Nicole by which he well understood thatit was she who had been in France; and she was recognized by many tokensto be the maid Jeanne of France who escorted King Charles to Rheims, and several declared that she had been burnt in Normandy, and she spokemostly in parables. She afterwards returned to the town of Marnelle forthe feast of Pentecost, and remained there about three weeks, and thenset off to go to Notre Dame d'Alliance. And when she wished to leave, several of Metz went to see her at the said Marnelle and gave herseveral jewels, and they knew well that she was the maid Jeanne ofFrance; and she then went to Erlon, in the Duchy of Luxembourg, whereshe was thronged, . . . . And there was solemnized the marriage of Monsieurde Hermoise, knight, and the said maid Jeanne, and afterwards the saidsieur Hermoise, with his wife, the Maid, came to live at Metz, in thehouse the said sieur had, opposite St. Seglenne, and remained thereuntil it pleased them to depart. "

This is surprising enough; but more remains behind. Dining shortlyafterwards with M. Des Armoises, member of one of the oldest families inLorraine, Father Vignier was invited to look over the family archives, that he might satisfy his curiosity regarding certain ancestors of hishost. And on looking over the family register, what was his astonishmentat finding a contract of marriage between Robert des Armoises, Knight, and Jeanne d'Arcy, the so-called Maid of Orleans!

In 1740, some time after these occurrences, there was found, in the townhall of Orleans, a bill of one Jacques l'Argentier, of the year 1436, inwhich mention is made of a small sum paid for refreshments furnishedto a messenger who had brought letters from the Maid of Orleans, and oftwelve livres given to Jean du Lis, brother of Jeanne d'Arc, to helphim pay the expenses of his journey back to his sister. Then come twocharges which we shall translate literally. "To the sieur de Lis, 18thOctober, 1436, for a journey which he made through the said city whileon his way to the Maid, who was then at Erlon in Luxembourg, and forcarrying letters from Jeanne the Maid to the King at Loicher, where hewas then staying, six livres. " And again: "To Renard Brune, 25th July, 1435, at evening, for paying the hire of a messenger who was carryingletters from Jeanne the Maid, and was on his way to William Beliers, bailiff of Troyes, two livres. "

As no doubt has been thrown upon the genuineness of these documents, itmust be considered established that in 1436, five years after the publicexecution at Rouen, a young woman, believed to be the real Jeanne d'Arc, was alive in Lorraine and was married to a M. Hermoises or Armoises. Shemay, of course, have been an impostor; but in this case it is difficultto believe that her brothers, Jean and Pierre, and the people ofLorraine, where she was well known, would not have detected theimposture at once. And that Jean du Lis, during a familiar intercourseof at least several months, as indicated in the above extracts, shouldhave continued to mistake a stranger for his own sister, with whom hehad lived from childhood, seems a very absurd supposition. Nor is itlikely that an impostor would have exposed herself to such a formidabletest. If it had been a bold charlatan who, taking advantage of thequite general belief, to which we have ample testimony, that there wassomething more in the execution at Rouen than was allowed to come to thesurface, had resolved to usurp for herself the honours due to the womanwho had saved France, she would hardly have gone at the outset to a partof the country where the real Maid had spent nearly all her life. Herinstant detection and exposure, perhaps a disgraceful punishment, wouldhave been inevitable. But if this person were the real Jeanne, escapedfrom prison or returning from an exile dictated by prudence, what shouldshe have done but go straightway to the haunts of her childhood, whereshe might meet once more her own friends and family?

But the account does not end here. M. Wallon, in his elaborate historyof Jeanne d'Arc, states that in 1436 the supposed Maid visited France, and appears to have met some of the men-at-arms with whom she hadfought. In 1439 she came to Orleans, for in the accounts of the town weread, "July 28, for ten pints of wine presented to Jeanne des Armoises, 14 sous. " And on the day of her departure, the citizens of Orleans, by aspecial decree of the town-council, presented her with 210 livres, "forthe services which she had rendered to the said city during the siege. "At the same time the annual ceremonies for the repose of her soul were, quite naturally, suppressed. Now we may ask if it is at all probablethat the people of Orleans, who, ten years before, during the siege, must have seen the Maid day after day, and to whom her whole appearancemust have been perfectly familiar, would have been likely to show suchattentions as these to an impostor? "In 1440, " says Mr. Delepierre, "thepeople so firmly believed that Jeanne d'Arc was still alive, and thatanother had been sacrificed in her place, that an adventuress whoendeavoured to pass herself off as the Maid of Orleans was ordered bythe government to be exposed before the public on the marble stone ofthe palace hall, in order to prove that she was an impostor. Whywere not such measures taken against the real Maid of Orleans, who ismentioned in so many public documents, and who took no pains to hideherself?"

There is yet another document bearing on this case, drawn from theaccounts of the auditor of the Orleans estate, in the year 1444, whichwe will here translate. "An island on the River Loire is restored toPierre du Lis, knight, 'on account of the supplication of the saidPierre, alleging that for the acquittal of his debt of loyalty towardour Lord the King and M. The Duke of Orleans, he left his country tocome to the service of the King and M. The Duke, accompanied by hissister, Jeanne the Maid, with whom, down to the time of her departure, and since, unto the present time, he has exposed his body and goods inthe said service, and in the King's wars, both in resisting the formerenemies of the kingdom who were besieging the town of Orleans, and sincethen in divers enterprises, ' &c. , &c. " Upon this Mr. Delepierre justlyremarks that the brother might have presented his claims in a muchstronger light, "if in 1444, instead of saying 'up to the time ofher departure, ' he had brought forward the martyrdom of his sister, ashaving been the means of saving France from the yoke of England. " Theexpression here cited and italicized in the above translation, mayindeed be held to refer delicately to her death, but the particularFrench phrase employed, "jusques a son absentement, " apparently excludessuch an interpretation. The expression, on the other hand, might wellrefer to Jeanne's departure for Lorraine, and her marriage, after whichthere is no evidence that she returned to France, except for briefvisits. Thus a notable amount of evidence goes to show that Jeanne wasnot put to death in 1431, as usually supposed, but was alive, married, and flourishing in 1444. Upon this supposition, certain allegeddifficulties in the traditional account are easily disposed of. Mr. Delepierre urges upon the testimony of Perceval de Cagny, that at theexecution in Rouen "the victim's face was covered when walking to thestake, while at the same time a spot had been chosen for the executionthat permitted the populace to have a good view. Why this contradiction?A place is chosen to enable the people to see everything, but the victimis carefully hidden from their sight. " Whether otherwise explicable ornot, this fact is certainly consistent with the hypothesis thatsome other victim was secretly substituted for Jeanne by the Englishauthorities. 

We have thus far contented ourselves with presenting and re-enforcingMr. Delepierre's statement of the case. It is now time to interpose alittle criticism. We must examine our data somewhat more closely, forvagueness of conception allows a latitude to belief which accuracy ofconception considerably restricts. 

On the hypothesis of her survival, where was Jeanne, and what was shedoing all the time from her capture before Compiegne, May 24, 1430, until her appearance at Metz, May 20, 1436? Mr. Delepierre reminds usthat the Duke of Bedford, regent of France for the English king, diedin 1435, and "that most probably Jeanne d'Arc was released from prisonafter this event. " Now this supposition lands us in a fatally absurdconclusion. We are, in fact, asked to believe that the English, whileholding Jeanne fast in their clutches, gratuitously went through thehorrid farce of burning some one else in her stead; and that, afterhaving thus inexplicably behaved, they further stultified themselves byletting her go scot-free, that their foolishness might be duly exposedand confuted. Such a theory is childish. If Jeanne d'Arc ever survivedthe 30th May, 1431, it was because she escaped from prison and succeededin hiding herself until safer times. When could she have done this? In asortie from Compiegne, May 24, 1430, she was thrown from her horse by aPicard archer and taken prisoner by the Bastard of Vendome, who sold herto John of Luxembourg. John kept her in close custody at Beaulieu untilAugust. While there, she made two attempts to escape; first, apparently, by running out through a door, when she was at once caught by theguards; secondly, by jumping from a high window, when the shock ofthe fall was so great that she lay insensible on the ground untildiscovered. She was then removed to Beaurevoir, where she remained untilthe beginning of November. By this time, Philip "the Good, " Duke ofBurgundy, had made up his mind to sell her to the English for 10, 000francs; and Jeanne was accordingly taken to Arras, and thence to Cotoy, where she was delivered to the English by Philip's officers. So far, all is clear; but here it may be asked, WAS she really delivered to theEnglish, or did Philip, pocketing his 10, 000 francs, cheat and defraudhis allies with a counterfeit Jeanne? Such crooked dealing would havebeen in perfect keeping with his character. Though a far more agreeableand gentlemanly person, he was almost as consummate and artistic arascal as his great-great-great-grandson and namesake, Philip II. OfSpain. His duplicity was so unfathomable and his policy so obscure, that it would be hardly safe to affirm a priori that he might not, forreasons best known to himself, have played a double game with his friendthe Duke of Bedford. On this hypothesis, he would of course keepJeanne in close custody so long as there was any reason for keeping histreachery secret. But in 1436, after the death of Bedford and the finalexpulsion of the English from France, no harm could come from settingher at liberty. 

But as soon as we cease to reason a priori, this is seen to be, afterall, a lame hypothesis. No one can read the trial of Jeanne at Rouen, the questions that were put to her and the answers which she made, without being convinced that we are here dealing with the genuine Maidand not with a substitute. The first step of a counterfeit Jeanne wouldhave naturally been to save herself from the flames by revealing hertrue character. Moreover, among the multitudes who saw her during hercruel trial, it is not likely that none were acquainted with the trueJeanne's voice and features. We must therefore conclude that Jeanned'Arc was really consigned to the tender mercies of the English. Aboutthe 21st of November she was taken on horseback, strongly guarded, fromCotoy to Rouen, where the trial began January 9, 1431. On the 21st ofFebruary she appeared before the court; on the 13th of March she wasexamined in the prison by an inquisitor; and on May 24, the Thursdayafter Pentecost, upon a scaffold conspicuously placed in the Cemetery ofSt. Ouen, she publicly recanted, abjuring her "heresies" and asking theChurch's pardon for her "witchcraft. " We may be sure that the Churchdignitaries would not knowingly have made such public display of acounterfeit Jeanne; nor could they well have been deceived themselvesunder such circumstances. It may indeed be said, to exhaust all possiblesuppositions, that a young girl wonderfully similar in feature and voiceto Jeanne d'Arc was palmed off upon the English by Duke Philip, andafterwards, on her trial, comported herself like the Maid, trustingin this recantation to effect her release. But we consider such anhypothesis extremely far-fetched, nor does it accord with the eventswhich immediately followed. It seems hardly questionable that it was thereal Jeanne who publicly recanted on the 24th of May. This was only sixdays before the execution. Four days after, on Monday the 28th, it wasreported that Jeanne had relapsed, that she had, in defiance of theChurch's prohibition, clothed herself in male attire, which had beenleft in a convenient place by the authorities, expressly to test hersincerity. On the next day but one, the woman purporting to be the Maidof Orleans was led out, with her face carefully covered, and burnt atthe stake. 

Here is the first combination of circumstances which bears a suspiciouslook. It disposes of our Burgundy hypothesis, for a false Jeanne, afterrecanting to secure her safety, would never have stultified herself bysuch a barefaced relapse. But the true Jeanne, after recanting, mightcertainly have escaped. Some compassionate guard, who before would havescrupled to assist her while under the ban of the Church, might havedeemed himself excusable for lending her his aid after she had beenabsolved. Postulating, then, that Jeanne escaped from Rouen betweenthe 24th and the 28th, how shall we explain what happened immediatelyafterward?

The English feared Jeanne d'Arc as much as they hated her. She had, byher mere presence at the head of the French army, turned their apparenttriumph into ignominious defeat. In those days the true psychologicalexplanation of such an event was by no means obvious. While the Frenchattributed the result to celestial interposition in their behalf, theEnglish, equally ready to admit its supernatural character, consideredthe powers of hell rather than those of heaven to have been the primeinstigators. In their eyes Jeanne was a witch, and it was at least theircue to exhibit her as such. They might have put her to death when shefirst reached Rouen. Some persons, indeed, went so far as to advise thatshe should be sewed up in a sack and thrown at once into the Seine; butthis was not what the authorities wanted. The whole elaborate trial, andthe extorted recantation, were devised for the purpose of demonstratingher to be a witch, and thus destroying her credit with the commonpeople. That they intended afterwards to burn her cannot for an instantbe doubted; that was the only fit consummation for their evil work. 

Now when, at the end of the week after Pentecost, the bishops andinquisitors at Rouen learned, to their dismay, that their victim hadescaped, what were they to do? Confess that they had been foiled, andcreate a panic in the army by the news that their dreaded enemy was atliberty? Or boldly carry out their purposes by a fictitious execution, trusting in the authority which official statements always carry, andshrewdly foreseeing that, after her recantation, the disgraced Maidwould no more venture to claim for herself the leadership of the Frenchforces? Clearly, the latter would have been the wiser course. We mayassume, then, that, by the afternoon of the 28th, the story of therelapse was promulgated, as a suitable preparation for what was to come;and that on the 30th the poor creature who had been hastily chosen tofigure as the condemned Maid was led out, with face closely veiled, toperish by a slow fire in the old market-place. Meanwhile the true Jeannewould have made her way, doubtless, in what to her was the effectualdisguise of a woman's apparel, to some obscure place of safety, outsideof doubtful France and treacherous Burgundy, perhaps in Alsace or theVosges. Here she would remain, until the final expulsion of the Englishand the conclusion of a treaty of peace in 1436 made it safe for her toshow herself; when she would naturally return to Lorraine to seek herfamily. 

The comparative obscurity in which she must have remained for the restof her life, otherwise quite inexplicable on any hypothesis ofher survival, is in harmony with the above-given explanation. Theingratitude of King Charles towards the heroine who had won him hiscrown is the subject of common historical remark. M. Wallon insists uponthe circumstance that, after her capture at Compiegne, no attempts weremade by the French Court to ransom her or to liberate her by a bold coupde main. And when, at Rouen, she appealed in the name of the Church tothe Pope to grant her a fair trial, not a single letter was written bythe Archbishop of Rheims, High Chancellor of France, to his suffragan, the Bishop of Beauvais, demanding cognizance of the proceedings. Nor didthe King make any appeal to the Pope, to prevent the consummation of thejudicial murder. The Maid was deliberately left to her fate. It is uponher enemies at court, La Tremouille and Regnault de Chartres, that wemust lay part of the blame for this wicked negligence. But it is alsoprobable that the King, and especially his clerical advisers, were attimes almost disposed to acquiesce in the theory of Jeanne's witchcraft. Admire her as they might, they could not help feeling that in her wholebehaviour there was something uncanny; and, after having reaped thebenefits of her assistance, they were content to let her shift forherself. This affords the clew to the King's inconsistencies. It maybe thought sufficient to explain the fact that Jeanne is said to havereceived public testimonials at Orleans, while we have no reason tosuppose that she visited Paris. It may help to dispose of the objectionthat she virtually disappears from history after the date of the tragedyat Rouen. 

Nevertheless, this last objection is a weighty one, and cannot easilybe got rid of. It appears to me utterly incredible that, if Jeanne d'Archad really survived, we should find no further mention of her thansuch as haply occurs in one or two town-records and dilapidatedaccount-books. If she was alive in 1436, and corresponding with theKing, some of her friends at court must have got an inkling of thetrue state of things. Why did they not parade their knowledge, to themanifest discomfiture of La Tremouille and his company? Or why did notPierre du Lis cause it to be proclaimed that the English were liars, hissister being safely housed in Metz?

In the mere interests of historical criticism, we have said all that wecould in behalf of Mr. Delepierre's hypothesis. But as to the facts uponwhich it rests, we may remark, in the first place, that the surname Arcor "Bow" was not uncommon in those days, while the Christian name Jeannewas and now is the very commonest of French names. There might have beena hundred Jeanne d'Arcs, all definable as pucelle or maid, just as wesay "spinster": we even read of one in the time of the Revolution. Wehave, therefore, no doubt that Robert des Hermoises married a Jeanned'Arc, who may also have been a maid of Orleans; but this does not proveher to have been the historic Jeanne. Secondly, as to the covering ofthe face, we may mention the fact, hitherto withheld, that it was by nomeans an uncommon circumstance: the victims of the Spanish Inquisitionwere usually led to the stake with veiled faces. Thirdly, the phrase"jusques a son absentement" is hopelessly ambiguous, and may as wellrefer to Pierre du Lis himself as to his sister. 

These brief considerations seem to knock away all the main props of Mr. Delepierre's hypothesis, save that furnished by the apparent testimonyof Jeanne's brothers, given at second hand in the Metz archives. Andthose who are familiar with the phenomena of mediaeval delusions willbe unwilling to draw too hasty an inference from this alone. Fromthe Emperor Nero to Don Sebastian of Portugal, there have been manyinstances of the supposed reappearance of persons generally believed tobe dead. For my own part, therefore, I am by no means inclined to adoptthe hypothesis of Jeanne's survival, although I have endeavoured to giveit tangible shape and plausible consistency. But the fact that so muchcan be said in behalf of a theory running counter not only to universaltradition, but also to such a vast body of contemporaneous testimony, should teach us to be circumspect in holding our opinions, andcharitable in our treatment of those who dissent from them. For thosewho can discover in the historian Renan and the critic Strauss nothingbut the malevolence of incredulity, the case of Jeanne d'Arc, dulycontemplated, may serve as a wholesome lesson. 

We have devoted so much space to this problem, by far the mostconsiderable of those treated in Mr. Delepierre's book, that we havehardly room for any of the others. But a false legend concerning Solomonde Caus, the supposed original inventor of the steam-engine, is soinstructive that we must give a brief account of it. 

In 1834 "there appeared in the Musee des Familles a letter from thecelebrated Marion Delorme, supposed to have been written on the 3dFebruary, 1641, to her lover Cinq-Mars. " In this letter it is statedthat De Caus came four years ago [1637] from Normandy, to inform theKing concerning a marvellous invention which he had made, being nothingless than the application of steam to the propulsion of carriages. "TheCardinal [Richelieu] dismissed this fool without giving him a hearing. "But De Caus, nowise discouraged, followed close upon the autocrat'sheels wherever he went, and so teased him, that the Cardinal, out ofpatience, sent him off to a madhouse, where he passed the remainderof his days behind a grated window, proclaiming his invention to thepassengers in the street, and calling upon them to release him. Mariongives a graphic account of her visit, accompanied by the famous LordWorcester, to the asylum at Bicetre, where they saw De Caus at hiswindow; and Worcester, in whose mind the conception of the steam-enginewas already taking shape, informed her that the raving prisoner wasnot a madman, but a genius. A great stir was made by this letter. Theanecdote was copied into standard works, and represented in engravings. Yet it was a complete hoax. De Caus was not only never confined in amadhouse, but he was architect to Louis XIII. Up to the time of hisdeath, in 1630, just eleven years BEFORE Marion Delorme was said to haveseen him at his grated window!

"On tracing this hoax to its source, " says Mr. Delepierre, "we findthat M. Henri Berthoud, a literary man of some repute, and a constantcontributor to the Musee des Familles, confesses that the letterattributed to Marion was in fact written by himself. The editor of thisjournal had requested Gavarni to furnish him with a drawing for a talein which a madman was introduced looking through the bars of his cell. The drawing was executed and engraved, but arrived too late; and thetale, which could not wait, appeared without the illustration. However, as the wood-engraving was effective, and, moreover, was paid for, theeditor was unwilling that it should be useless. Berthoud was, therefore, commissioned to look for a subject and to invent a story to which theengraving might be applied. Strangely enough, the world refused tobelieve in M. Berthoud's confession, so great a hold had the anecdotetaken on the public mind; and a Paris newspaper went so far even as todeclare that the original autograph of this letter was to be seen in alibrary in Normandy! M. Berthoud wrote again, denying its existence, andoffered a million francs to any one who would produce the said letter. "

From this we may learn two lessons, the first being that utterlybaseless but plausible stories may arise in queer ways. In the abovecase, the most far-fetched hypothesis to account for the origin of thelegend could hardly have been as apparently improbable as the reality. Secondly, we may learn that if a myth once gets into the popularmind, it is next to impossible to get it out again. In the Castle ofHeidelberg there is a portrait of De Caus, and a folio volume of hisworks, accompanied by a note, in which this letter of Marion Delorme isunsuspectingly cited as genuine. And only three years ago, at a publicbanquet at Limoges, a well-known French Senator and man of lettersmade a speech, in which he retailed the story of the madhouse for theedification of his hearers. Truly a popular error has as many lives asa cat; it comes walking in long after you have imagined it effectuallystrangled. 

In conclusion, we may remark that Mr. Delepierre does very scant justiceto many of the interesting questions which he discusses. It is to beregretted that he has not thought it worth while to argue his pointsmore thoroughly, and that he has not been more careful in makingstatements of fact. He sometimes makes strange blunders, the worst ofwhich, perhaps, is contained in his article on Petrarch and Laura. Hethinks Laura was merely a poetical allegory, and such was the case, hegoes on to say, "with Dante himself, whose Beatrice was a child who diedat nine years of age. " Dante's Beatrice died on the 9th of June, 1290, at the age of twenty-four, having been the wife of Simone dei Bardirather more than three years. 

 October, 1868. 

IX. THE FAMINE OF 1770 IN BENGAL. [30]

 [30] The Annals of Rural Bengal. By W. W. Hunter. Vol. I. TheEthnical Frontier of Lower Bengal, with the Ancient Principalities ofBeerbhoom and Bishenpore. Second Edition. New York: Leypoldt and Holt. 1868. 8vo. , pp. Xvi. , 475. 

No intelligent reader can advance fifty pages in this volume withoutbecoming aware that he has got hold of a very remarkable book. Mr. Hunter's style, to begin with, is such as is written only by men oflarge calibre and high culture. No words are wasted. The narrative flowscalmly and powerfully along, like a geometrical demonstration, omittingnothing which is significant, admitting nothing which is irrelevant, glowing with all the warmth of rich imagination and sympathetic genius, yet never allowing any overt manifestation of feeling, ever concealingthe author's personality beneath the unswerving exposition of thesubject-matter. That highest art, which conceals art, Mr. Hunter appearsto have learned well. With him, the curtain is the picture. 

Such a style as this would suffice to make any book interesting, inspite of the remoteness of the subject. But the "Annals of RuralBengal" do not concern us so remotely as one might at first imagine. The phenomena of the moral and industrial growth or stagnation of ahighly-endowed people must ever possess the interest of fascination forthose who take heed of the maxim that "history is philosophy teachingby example. " National prosperity depends upon circumstances sufficientlygeneral to make the experience of one country of great value to another, though ignorant Bourbon dynasties and Rump Congresses refuse to learnthe lesson. It is of the intimate every-day life of rural Bengal thatMr. Hunter treats. He does not, like old historians, try our patiencewith a bead-roll of names that have earned no just title to remembrance, or dazzle us with a bountiful display of "barbaric pearls and gold, " orlead us in the gondolas of Buddhist kings down sacred rivers, amid"a summer fanned with spice"; but he describes the labours and thesufferings, the mishaps and the good fortune, of thirty millions ofpeople, who, however dusky may be their hue, tanned by the tropical sunsof fifty centuries, are nevertheless members of the imperial Aryan race, descended from the cool highlands eastward of the Caspian, where, longbefore the beginning of recorded history, their ancestors and those ofthe Anglo-American were indistinguishably united in the same primitivecommunity. 

The narrative portion of the present volume is concerned mainly withthe social and economical disorganization wrought by the great famineof 1770, and with the attempts of the English government to remedy thesame. The remainder of the book is occupied with inquiries into theethnic character of the population of Bengal, and particularly with anexposition of the peculiarities of the language, religion, customs, andinstitutions of the Santals, or hill-tribes of Beerbhoom. A few remarkson the first of these topics may not be uninteresting. 

Throughout the entire course of recorded European history, from theremote times of which the Homeric poems preserve the dim tradition downto the present moment, there has occurred no calamity at once so suddenand of such appalling magnitude as the famine which in the spring andsummer of 1770 nearly exterminated the ancient civilization of Bengal. It presents that aspect of preternatural vastness which characterizesthe continent of Asia and all that concerns it. The Black Death of thefourteenth century was, perhaps, the most fearful visitation which hasever afflicted the Western world. But in the concentrated misery whichit occasioned the Bengal famine surpassed it, even as the Himalayasdwarf by comparison the highest peaks of Switzerland. It is, moreover, the key to the history of Bengal during the next forty years; and assuch, merits, from an economical point of view, closer attention than ithas hitherto received. 

Lower Bengal gathers in three harvests each year; in the spring, in theearly autumn, and in December, the last being the great rice-crop, theharvest on which the sustenance of the people depends. Through the year1769 there was great scarcity, owing to the partial failure of the cropsof 1768, but the spring rains appeared to promise relief, and in spiteof the warning appeals of provincial officers, the government was slowto take alarm, and continued rigorously to enforce the land-tax. But inSeptember the rains suddenly ceased. Throughout the autumn there ruled aparching drought; and the rice-fields, according to the description ofa native superintendent of Bishenpore, "became like fields of driedstraw. " Nevertheless, the government at Calcutta made--with onelamentable exception, hereafter to be noticed--no legislative attemptto meet the consequences of this dangerous condition of things. Theadministration of local affairs was still, at that date, intrusted tonative officials. The whole internal regulation was in the hands of thefamous Muhamad Reza Ehan. Hindu or Mussulman assessors pried into everybarn and shrewdly estimated the probable dimensions of the crops onevery field; and the courts, as well as the police, were still innative hands. "These men, " says our author, "knew the country, itscapabilities, its average yield, and its average requirements, with anaccuracy that the most painstaking English official can seldom hope toattain to. They had a strong interest in representing things to be worsethan they were; for the more intense the scarcity, the greater the meritin collecting the land-tax. Every consultation is filled with theirapprehensions and highly-coloured accounts of the public distress; butit does not appear that the conviction entered the minds of the Councilduring the previous winter months, that the question was not so much oneof revenue as of depopulation. " In fact, the local officers had cried"Wolf!" too often. Government was slow to believe them, and announcedthat nothing better could be expected than the adoption of a generouspolicy toward those landholders whom the loss of harvest had renderedunable to pay their land-tax. But very few indulgences were granted, and the tax was not diminished, but on the contrary was, in the monthof April, 1770, increased by ten per cent for the following year. Thecharacter of the Bengali people must also be taken into the account inexplaining this strange action on the part of the government. 

"From the first appearance of Lower Bengal in history, its inhabitantshave been reticent, self-contained, distrustful of foreign observation, in a degree without parallel among other equally civilized nations. Thecause of this taciturnity will afterwards be clearly explained; but noone who is acquainted either with the past experiences or the presentcondition of the people can be ignorant of its results. Local officialsmay write alarming reports, but their apprehensions seem to becontradicted by the apparent quiet that prevails. Outward, palpableproofs of suffering are often wholly wanting; and even when, as in 1770, such proofs abound, there is generally no lack of evidence on the otherside. The Bengali bears existence with a composure that neither accidentnor chance can ruffle. He becomes silently rich or uncomplainingly poor. The emotional part of his nature is in strict subjection, his resentmentenduring but unspoken, his gratitude of the sort that silently descendsfrom generation to generation. The passion for privacy reaches itsclimax in the domestic relations. An outer apartment, in even thehumblest households, is set apart for strangers and the transactionof business, but everything behind it is a mystery. The most intimatefriend does not venture to make those commonplace kindly inquiries abouta neighbour's wife or daughter which European courtesy demands from mereacquaintances. This family privacy is maintained at any price. Duringthe famine of 1866 it was found impossible to render public charityavailable to the female members of the respectable classes, and many arural household starved slowly to death without uttering a complaint ormaking a sign. 

"All through the stifling summer of 1770 the people went on dying. Thehusbandmen sold their cattle; they sold their implements of agriculture;they devoured their seed-grain; they sold their sons and daughters, tillat length no buyer of children could be found; they ate the leaves oftrees and the grass of the field; and in June, 1770, the Resident at theDurbar affirmed that the living were feeding on the dead. Day and nighta torrent of famished and disease-stricken wretches poured into thegreat cities. At an early period of the year pestilence had broken out. In March we find small-pox at Moorshedabad, where it glided throughthe vice-regal mutes, and cut off the Prince Syfut in his palace. Thestreets were blocked up with promiscuous heaps of the dying and dead. Interment could not do its work quick enough; even the dogs and jackals, the public scavengers of the East, became unable to accomplish theirrevolting work, and the multitude of mangled and festering corpses atlength threatened the existence of the citizens. . . . . In 1770, the rainyseason brought relief, and before the end of September the provincereaped an abundant harvest. But the relief came too late to avertdepopulation. Starving and shelterless crowds crawled despairinglyfrom one deserted village to another in a vain search for food, or aresting-place in which to hide themselves from the rain. The epidemicsincident to the season were thus spread over the whole country; and, until the close of the year, disease continued so prevalent as to forma subject of communication from the government in Bengal to the Courtof Directors. Millions of famished wretches died in the struggle to livethrough the few intervening weeks that separated them from the harvest, their last gaze being probably fixed on the densely-covered fields thatwould ripen only a little too late for them. . . . . Three months later, another bountiful harvest, the great rice-crop of the year, was gatheredin. Abundance returned to Bengal as suddenly as famine had swooped downupon it, and in reading some of the manuscript records of December itis difficult to realize that the scenes of the preceding ten months havenot been hideous phantasmagoria or a long, troubled dream. On Christmaseve, the Council in Calcutta wrote home to the Court of Directors thatthe scarcity had entirely ceased, and, incredible as it may seem, thatunusual plenty had returned. . . . . So generous had been the harvest thatthe government proposed at once to lay in its military stores for theensuing year, and expected to obtain them at a very cheap rate. "

Such sudden transitions from the depths of misery to the most exuberantplenty are by no means rare in the history of Asia, where the variouscentres of civilization are, in an economical sense, so isolatedfrom each other that the welfare of the population is nearly alwaysabsolutely dependent on the irregular: and apparently capricious bountyof nature. For the three years following the dreadful misery abovedescribed, harvests of unprecedented abundance were gathered in. Yet howinadequate they were to repair the fearful damage wrought by six monthsof starvation, the history of the next quarter of a century too plainlyreveals. "Plenty had indeed returned, " says our annalist, "but ithad returned to a silent and deserted province. " The extent of thedepopulation is to our Western imaginations almost incredible. Duringthose six months of horror, more than TEN MILLIONS of people hadperished! It was as if the entire population of our three or fourlargest States--man, woman, and child--were to be utterly swept awaybetween now and next August, leaving the region between the Hudson andLake Michigan as quiet and deathlike as the buried streets of Pompeii. Yet the estimate is based upon most accurate and trustworthy officialreturns; and Mr. Hunter may well say that "it represents an aggregateof individual suffering which no European nation has been called upon tocontemplate within historic times. "

This unparalleled calamity struck down impartially the rich and thepoor. The old, aristocratic families of Lower Bengal were irretrievablyruined. The Rajah of Burdwan, whose possessions were so vast that, travel as far as he would, he always slept under a roof of his own andwithin his own jurisdiction, died in such indigence that his son had tomelt down the family plate and beg a loan from the government in orderto discharge his father's funeral expenses. And our author gives othersimilar instances. The wealthy natives who were appointed to assess andcollect the internal revenue, being unable to raise the sums requiredby the government, were in many cases imprisoned, or their estates wereconfiscated and re-let in order to discharge the debt. 

For fifteen years the depopulation went on increasing. The children ina community, requiring most nourishment to sustain their activity, arethose who soonest succumb to famine. "Until 1785, " says our author, "the old died off without there being any rising generation to step intotheir places. " From lack of cultivators, one third of the surface ofBengal fell out of tillage and became waste land. The landed proprietorsbegan each "to entice away the tenants of his neighbour, by offeringprotection against judicial proceedings, and farms at very low rents. "The disputes and deadly feuds which arose from this practice were, perhaps, the least fatal of the evil results which flowed from it. Forthe competition went on until, the tenants obtaining their holdings athalf-rates, the resident cultivators--who had once been the wealthiestfarmers in the country--were no longer able to complete on such terms. They began to sell, lease, or desert their property, migrating to lessafflicted regions, or flying to the hills on the frontier to adopt asavage life. But, in a climate like that of Northeastern India, it takesbut little time to transform a tract of untilled land into formidablewilderness. When the functions of society are impeded, nature is swiftto assert its claims. And accordingly, in 1789, "Lord Cornwallis afterthree years' vigilant inquiry, pronounced one third of the company'sterritories in Bengal to be a jungle, inhabited only by wild beasts. "

On the Western frontier of Beerbhoom the state of affairs was, perhaps, most calamitous. In 1776, four acres out of every seven remaineduntilled. Though in earlier times this district had been a favouritehighway for armies, by the year 1780 it had become an almost impassablejungle. A small company of Sepoys, which in that year by heroicexertions forced its way through, was obliged to traverse 120 miles oftrackless forest, swarming with tigers and black shaggy bears. In 1789this jungle "continued so dense as to shut off all communication betweenthe two most important towns, and to cause the mails to be carried by acircuit of fifty miles through another district. "

Such a state of things it is difficult for us to realize; but themonotonous tale of disaster and suffering is not yet complete. Beerbhoomwas, to all intents and purposes, given over to tigers. "A beltof jungle, filled with wild beasts, formed round each village. " Atnightfall the hungry animals made their dreaded incursions carrying awaycattle, and even women and children, and devouring them. "The officialrecords frequently speak of the mail-bag being carried off by wildbeasts. " So great was the damage done by these depredations, that "thecompany offered a reward for each tiger's head, sufficient to maintain apeasant's family in comfort for three months; an item of expenditure itdeemed so necessary, that, when under extraordinary pressure it had tosuspend all payments, the tiger-money and diet allowance for prisonerswere the sole exceptions to the rule. " Still more formidable foes werefound in the herds of wild elephants, which came trooping along in therear of the devastation caused by the famine. In the course of a fewyears fifty-six villages were reported as destroyed by elephants, and ashaving lapsed into jungle in consequence; "and an official return statesthat forty market-towns throughout the district had been deserted fromthe same cause. In many parts of the country the peasantry did not dareto sleep in their houses, lest they should be buried beneath them duringthe night. " These terrible beasts continued to infest the province aslate as 1810. 

But society during these dark days had even worse enemies than tigersand elephants. The barbarous highlanders, of a lower type of mankind, nourishing for forty centuries a hatred of their Hindu supplanters, likethat which the Apache bears against the white frontiersman, seized theoccasion to renew their inroads upon the lowland country. Year by yearthey descended from their mountain fastnesses, plundering and burning. Many noble Hindu families, ousted by the tax-collectors from theirestates, began to seek subsistence from robbery. Others, consultingtheir selfish interests amid the general distress, "found it moreprofitable to shelter banditti on their estates, levying blackmail fromthe surrounding villages as the price of immunity from depredation, andsharing in the plunder of such as would not come to terms. Their countryhouses were robber strongholds, and the early English administrators ofBengal have left it on record that a gang-robbery never occurred withouta landed proprietor being at the bottom of it. " The peasants were notslow to follow suit, and those who were robbed of their winter's storehad no alternative left but to become robbers themselves. The thieveriesof the Fakeers, or religious mendicants, and the bold, though stealthyattacks of Thugs and Dacoits--members of Masonic brotherhoods, which atall times have lived by robbery and assassination--added to the generalturmoil. In the cold weather of 1772 the province was ravaged far andwide by bands of armed freebooters, fifty thousand strong; and to sucha pass did things arrive that the regular forces sent by Warren Hastingsto preserve order were twice disastrously routed; while, in Mr. Hunter'sgraphic language, "villages high up the Ganges lived by housebreaking inCalcutta. " In English mansions "it was the invariable practice for theporter to shut the outer door at the commencement of each meal, and notto open it till the butler brought him word that the plate was safelylocked up. " And for a long time nearly all traffic ceased upon theimperial roads. 

This state of things, which amounted to chronic civil war, inducedLord Cornwallis in 1788 to place the province under the direct militarycontrol of an English officer. The administration of Mr. Keating--thefirst hardy gentleman to whom this arduous office was assigned--isminutely described by our author. For our present purpose it is enoughto note that two years of severe campaigning, attended and followed byrelentless punishment of all transgressors, was required to put an endto the disorders. 

Such was the appalling misery, throughout a community of thirty millionpersons, occasioned by the failure of the winter rice-crop in 1769. In abridging Mr. Hunter's account we have adhered as closely to ouroriginal as possible, but he who would obtain adequate knowledge ofthis tale of woe must seek it in the ever memorable description of thehistorian himself. The first question which naturally occurs to thereader--though, as Mr. Hunter observes, it would have been one ofthe last to occur to the Oriental mind--is, Who was to blame? Towhat culpable negligence was it due that such a dire calamity was notforeseen, and at least partially warded off? We shall find reason tobelieve that it could not have been adequately foreseen, and thatno legislative measures could in that state of society have entirelyprevented it. Yet it will appear that the government, with the best ofintentions, did all in its power to make matters worse; and that to itsblundering ignorance the distress which followed is largely due. 

The first duty incumbent upon the government in a case like that ofthe failure of the winter rice-crop of 1769, was to do away with allhindrance to the importation of food into the province. One chief causeof the far-reaching distress wrought by great Asiatic famines has beenthe almost complete commercial isolation of Asiatic communities. In theMiddle Ages the European communities were also, though to a far lessextent, isolated from each other, and in those days periods of faminewere comparatively frequent and severe. And one of the chief causeswhich now render the occurrence of a famine on a great scale almostimpossible in any part of the civilized world is the increasedcommercial solidarity of civilized nations. Increased facility ofdistribution has operated no less effectively than improved methods ofproduction. 

Now, in 1770 the province of Lower Bengal was in a state of almostcomplete commercial isolation from other communities. Importation offood on an adequate scale was hardly possible. "A single fact speaksvolumes as to the isolation of each district. An abundant harvest, weare repeatedly told, was as disastrous to the revenues as a bad one;for, when a large quantity of grain had to be carried to market, thecost of carriage swallowed up the price obtained. Indeed, even if themeans of intercommunication and transport had rendered importationpracticable, the province had at that time no money to give in exchangefor food. Not only had its various divisions a separate currency whichwould pass nowhere else except at a ruinous exchange, but in thatunfortunate year Bengal seems to have been utterly drained of itsspecie. . . . . The absence of the means of importation was the more tobe deplored, as the neighbouring districts could easily have suppliedgrain. In the southeast a fair harvest had been reaped, except, incircumscribed spots; and we are assured that, during the famine, thispart of Bengal was enabled to export without having to complain of anydeficiency in consequence. . . . . INDEED, NO MATTER HOW LOCAL A FAMINEMIGHT BE IN THE LAST CENTURY, THE EFFECTS WERE EQUALLY DISASTROUS. Sylhet, a district in the northeast of Bengal, had reaped unusuallyplentiful harvests in 1780 and 1781, but the next crop was destroyed bya local inundation, and, notwithstanding the facilities for importationafforded by water-carriage, one third of the people died. "

Here we have a vivid representation of the economic condition of asociety which, however highly civilized in many important respects, still retained, at the epoch treated of, its aboriginal type oforganization. Here we see each community brought face to face with theimpossible task of supplying, unaided, the deficiencies of nature. Wesee one petty district a prey to the most frightful destitution, evenwhile profuse plenty reigns in the districts round about it. We find analmost complete absence of the commercial machinery which, by enablingthe starving region to be fed out of the surplus of more favouredlocalities, has in the most advanced countries rendered a great faminepractically impossible. 

Now this state of things the government of 1770 was indeed powerless toremedy. Legislative power and wisdom could not anticipate the inventionof railroads; nor could it introduce throughout the length and breadthof Bengal a system of coaches, canals, and caravans; nor could it all atonce do away with the time-honoured brigandage, which increased the costof transport by decreasing the security of it; nor could it in atrice remove the curse of a heterogeneous coinage. None, save thoseuninstructed agitators who believe that governments can make water runup-hill, would be disposed to find fault with the authorities in Bengalfor failing to cope with these difficulties. But what we are toblame them for--though it was an error of the judgment and not of theintentions--is their mischievous interference with the natural course oftrade, by which, instead of helping matters, they but added anotherto the many powerful causes which were conspiring to bring about theeconomic ruin of Bengal. We refer to the act which in 1770 prohibitedunder penalties all speculation in rice. 

This disastrous piece of legislation was due to the universal prevalenceof a prejudice from which so-called enlightened communities are not yetwholly free. It is even now customary to heap abuse upon those personswho in a season of scarcity, when prices are rapidly rising, buy up the"necessaries of life, " thereby still increasing for a time the cost ofliving. Such persons are commonly assailed with specious generalities tothe effect that they are enemies of society. People whose only ideasare "moral ideas" regard them as heartless sharpers who fatten upon themisery of their fellow-creatures. And it is sometimes hinted that such"practices" ought to be stopped by legislation. 

Now, so far is this prejudice, which is a very old one, from beingjustified by facts, that, instead of being an evil, speculation inbreadstuffs and other necessaries is one of the chief agencies by whichin modern times and civilized countries a real famine is rendered almostimpossible. This natural monopoly operates in two ways. In the firstplace, by raising prices, it checks consumption, putting every oneon shorter allowance until the season of scarcity is over, and thusprevents the scarcity from growing into famine. In the second place, byraising prices, it stimulates importation from those localities whereabundance reigns and prices are low. It thus in the long run does muchto equalize the pressure of a time of dearth and diminish those extremeoscillations of prices which interfere with the even, healthy course oftrade. A government which, in a season of high prices, does anything tocheck such speculation, acts about as sagely as the skipper of a wreckedvessel who should refuse to put his crew upon half rations. 

The turning-point of the great Dutch Revolution, so far as it concernedthe provinces which now constitute Belgium, was the famous siege andcapture of Antwerp by Alexander Farnese, Duke of Parma. The siege was along one, and the resistance obstinate, and the city would probablynot have been captured if famine had not come to the assistance of thebesiegers. It is interesting, therefore, to inquire what steps the civicauthorities had taken to prevent such a calamity. They knew that thestruggle before them was likely to be the life-and-death struggle ofthe Southern Netherlands; they knew that there was risk of their beingsurrounded so that relief from without would be impossible; they knewthat their assailant was one of the most astute and unconquerable ofmen, by far the greatest general of the sixteenth century. Thereforethey proceeded to do just what our Republican Congress, under suchcircumstances, would probably have done, and just what the New YorkTribune, if it had existed in those days, would have advised them todo. Finding that sundry speculators were accumulating and hoarding upprovisions in anticipation of a season of high prices, they hastilydecided, first of all to put a stop to such "selfish iniquity. " In theireyes the great thing to be done was to make things cheap. They thereforeaffixed a very low maximum price to everything which could be eaten, andprescribed severe penalties for all who should attempt to take more thanthe sum by law decreed. If a baker refused to sell his bread for a pricewhich would have been adequate only in a time of great plenty, his shopwas to be broken open, and his loaves distributed among the populace. The consequences of this idiotic policy were twofold. 

In the first place, the enforced lowness of prices prevented anybreadstuffs or other provisions from being brought into the city. It wasa long time before Farnese succeeded in so blockading the Scheldt asto prevent ships laden with eatables from coming in below. Corn andpreserved meats might have been hurried by thousands of tons into thebeleaguered city. Friendly Dutch vessels, freighted with abundance, werewaiting at the mouth of the river. But all to no purpose. No merchantwould expose his valuable ship, with its cargo, to the risk of beingsunk by Farnese's batteries, merely for the sake of finding a market nobetter than a hundred others which could be entered without incurringdanger. No doubt if the merchants of Holland had followed out the maximVivre pour autrui, they would have braved ruin and destruction ratherthan behold their neighbours of Antwerp enslaved. No doubt if they couldhave risen to a broad philosophic view of the future interests of theNetherlands, they would have seen that Antwerp must be saved, no matterif some of them were to lose money by it. But men do not yet sacrificethemselves for their fellows, nor do they as a rule look far beyond thepresent moment and its emergencies. And the business of government is tolegislate for men as they are, not as it is supposed they ought to be. If provisions had brought a high price in Antwerp, they would have beencarried thither. As it was, the city, by its own stupidity, blockadeditself far more effectually than Farnese could have done it. 

In the second place, the enforced lowness of prices prevented anygeneral retrenchment on the part of the citizens. Nobody felt itnecessary to economize. Every one bought as much bread, and ate it asfreely, as if the government by insuring its cheapness had insured itsabundance. So the city lived in high spirits and in gleeful defiance ofits besiegers, until all at once provisions gave out, and the governmenthad to step in again to palliate the distress which it had wrought. Itconstituted itself quartermaster-general to the community, and doledout stinted rations alike to rich and poor, with that stern democraticimpartiality peculiar to times of mortal peril. But this served only, like most artificial palliatives, to lengthen out the misery. At thetime of the surrender, not a loaf of bread could be obtained for love ormoney. 

In this way a bungling act of legislation helped to decide for the worsea campaign which involved the territorial integrity and future welfareof what might have become a great nation performing a valuable functionin the system of European communities. 

The striking character of this instructive example must be our excusefor presenting it at such length. At the beginning of the famine inBengal the authorities legislated in very much the same spirit as theburghers who had to defend Antwerp against Parma. 

"By interdicting what it was pleased to term the monopoly of grain, it prevented prices from rising at once to their natural rates. TheProvince had a certain amount of food in it, and this food had to lastabout nine months. Private enterprise if left to itself would havestored up the general supply at the harvest, with a view to realizinga larger profit at a later period in the scarcity. Prices would inconsequence have immediately risen, compelling the population to reducetheir consumption from the very beginning of the dearth. The generalstock would thus have been husbanded, and the pressure equally spreadover the whole nine months, instead of being concentrated upon the lastsix. The price of grain, in place of promptly rising to three half-pencea pound as in 1865-66, continued at three farthings during the earliermonths of the famine. During the latter ones it advanced to twopence, and in certain localities reached fourpence. "

The course taken by the great famine of 1866 well illustrates theabove views. This famine, also, was caused by the total failure of theDecember rice-crop, and it was brought to a close by an abundant harvestin the succeeding year. 

"Even as regards the maximum price reached, the analogy holds good, in each case rice having risen in general to nearly twopence, and inparticular places to fourpence, a pound; and in each the quoted ratesbeing for a brief period in several isolated localities merely nominal, no food existing in the market, and money altogether losing itsinterchangeable value. In both the people endured silently to the end, with a fortitude that casual observers of a different temperament andwidely dissimilar race may easily mistake for apathy, but which thosewho lived among the sufferers are unable to distinguish from qualitiesthat generally pass under a more honourable name. During 1866, when thefamine was severest, I superintended public instruction throughout thesouthwestern division of Lower Bengal, including Orissa. The subordinatenative officers, about eight hundred in number, behaved with asteadiness, and when called upon, with a self-abnegation, beyond praise. Many of them ruined their health. The touching scenes of self-sacrificeand humble heroism which I witnessed among the poor villagers on mytours of inspection will remain in my memory till my latest day. "

But to meet the famine of 1866 Bengal was equipped with railroads andcanals, and better than all, with an intelligent government. Far fromtrying to check speculation, as in 1770, the government did all in itspower to stimulate it. In the earlier famine one could hardly engagein the grain trade without becoming amenable to the law. "In 1866respectable men in vast numbers went into the trade; for government, bypublishing weekly returns of the rates in every district, rendered thetraffic both easy and safe. Every one knew where to buy grain cheapest, and where to sell it dearest, and food was accordingly brought fromthe districts that could best spare it, and carried to those which mosturgently needed it. Not only were prices equalized so far as possiblethroughout the stricken parts, but the publicity given to the high ratesin Lower Bengal induced large shipments from the upper provinces, andthe chief seat of the trade became unable to afford accommodation forlanding the vast stores of grain brought down the river. Rice pouredinto the affected districts from all parts, --railways, canals, and roadsvigorously doing their duty. "

The result of this wise policy was that scarcity was heightened intofamine only in one remote corner of Bengal. Orissa was commerciallyisolated in 1866, as the whole country had been in 1770. "As far back asthe records extend, Orissa has produced more grain than it can use. Itis an exporting, not an importing province, sending away its surplusgrain by sea, and neither requiring nor seeking any communication withLower Bengal by land. " Long after the rest of the province had begun toprepare for a year of famine, Orissa kept on exporting. In March, whenthe alarm was first raised, the southwest monsoon had set in, renderingthe harbours inaccessible. Thus the district was isolated. It wasno longer possible to apply the wholesome policy which was operatingthroughout the rest of the country. The doomed population of Orissa, like passengers in a ship without provisions, were called upon to sufferthe extremities of famine; and in the course of the spring and summer of1866, some seven hundred thousand people perished. 

 January, 1869. 

X. SPAIN AND THE NETHERLANDS. [31]

 [31] History of the United Netherlands: from the Death of Williamthe Silent to the Twelve Years' Truce, 1609. By John Lothrop Motley, D. C. L. In four volumes. Vols. III. And IV. New York. 1868. 

Tandem fit surculus arbor: the twig which Mr. Motley in his earliervolumes has described as slowly putting forth its leaves and rootless, while painfully struggling for existence in a hostile soil, has at lastgrown into a mighty tree of liberty, drawing sustenance from alllands, and protecting all civilized peoples with its pleasant shade. We congratulate Mr. Motley upon the successful completion of the secondportion of his great work; and we think that the Netherlanders of ourtime have reason to be grateful to the writer who has so faithfully andeloquently told the story of their country's fearful struggle againstcivil and ecclesiastical tyranny, and its manifold contributions to theadvancement of European civilization. 

Mr. Motley has been fortunate in his selection of a subject upon whichto write. Probably no century of modern times lends itself to thepurposes of the descriptive historian so well as the sixteenth. While onthe one hand the problems which it presents are sufficiently near forus to understand them without too great an effort of the imagination, onthe other hand they are sufficiently remote for us to study them withoutpassionate and warping prejudice. The contest between Catholicism andthe reformed religion--between ecclesiastical autocracy and the right ofprivate investigation--has become a thing of the past, and constitutesa closed chapter in human history. The epoch which begins where Mr. Motley's history is designed to close--at the peace of Westphalia--isfar more complicated. Since the middle of the seventeenth century adouble movement has been going on in religion and philosophy, societyand politics, --a movement of destruction typified by Voltaire andRousseau, and a constructive movement represented by Diderot andLessing. We are still living in the midst of this great epoch: thequestions which it presents are liable to disturb our prejudices as wellas to stimulate our reason; the results to which it must sooner orlater attain can now be only partially foreseen; and even its presenttendencies are generally misunderstood, and in many quarters whollyignored. With the sixteenth century, as we have said, the case is fardifferent. The historical problem is far less complex. The issues atstake are comparatively simple, and the historian has before him astraightforward story. 

From the dramatic, or rather from the epic, point of view, the sixteenthcentury is pre-eminent. The essentially transitional character of modernhistory since the breaking up of the papal and feudal systems is at noperiod more distinctly marked. In traversing the sixteenth century werealize that we have fairly got out of one state of things and intoanother. At the outset, events like the challenge of Barletta may makeus doubt whether we have yet quite left behind the Middle Ages. Thebelief in the central position of the earth is still universal, and thebelief in its rotundity not yet, until the voyage of Magellan, generallyaccepted. We find England--owing partly to the introduction of gunpowderand the consequent disuse of archery, partly to the results of therecent integration of France under Louis XI. --fallen back from thehigh relative position which it had occupied under the rule ofthe Plantagenets; and its policy still directed in accordance withreminiscences of Agincourt, and garnet, and Burgundian alliances. Wefind France just beginning her ill-fated career of intervention in theaffairs of Italy; and Spain, with her Moors finally vanquished and a newworld beyond the ocean just added to her domain, rapidly developinginto the greatest empire which had been seen since the days of the firstCaesars. But at the close of the century we find feudal life in castleschanged into modern life in towns; chivalric defiances exchanged forover-subtle diplomacy; Maurices instead of Bayards; a Henry IV. Insteadof a Gaston de Foix. We find the old theory of man's central position inthe universe--the foundation of the doctrine of final causes and of thewhole theological method of interpreting nature--finally overthrownby Copernicus. Instead of the circumnavigability of the earth, thediscovery of a Northwest passage--as instanced by the heroic voyage ofBarendz, so nobly described by Mr. Motley--is now the chief geographicalproblem. East India Companies, in place of petty guilds of weavers andbakers, bear witness to the vast commercial progress. We find England, fresh from her stupendous victory over the whole power of Spain, againin the front rank of nations; France, under the most astute of modernsovereigns, taking her place for a time as the political leader of thecivilized world; Spain, with her evil schemes baffled in every quarter, sinking into that terrible death-like lethargy, from which she hashardly yet awakened, and which must needs call forth our pity, though itis but the deserved retribution for her past behaviour. While the littlerealm of the Netherlands, filched and cozened from the unfortunateJacqueline by the "good" Duke of Burgundy, carried over to Austria asthe marriage-portion of Lady Mary, sent down to Spain as the personalinheritance of the "prudent" Philip, and by him intolerably tormentedwith an Inquisition, a Blood-Council, and a Duke of Alva, has after aforty years' war of independence taken its position for a time as thegreatest of commercial nations, with the most formidable navy and one ofthe best disciplined armies yet seen upon the earth. 

But the central phenomenon of the sixteenth century is the culminationof the Protestant movement in its decisive proclamation by Luther. Fornearly three hundred years already the power of the Church had beendeclining, and its function as a civilizing agency had been growingmore and more obsolete. The first great blow at its supremacy had beendirected with partial success in the thirteenth century by the EmperorFrederick II. Coincident with this attack from without, we find areformation begun within, as exemplified in the Dominican and Franciscanmovements. The second great blow was aimed by Philip IV. Of France, andthis time it struck with terrible force. The removal of the Papacy toAvignon, in 1305, was the virtual though unrecognized abdication of itsbeneficent supremacy. Bereft of its dignity and independence, fromthat time forth it ceased to be the defender of national unity againstbaronial anarchy, of popular rights against monarchical usurpation, andbecame a formidable instrument of despotism and oppression. Throughthe vicissitudes of the great schism in the fourteenth century, and therefractory councils in the fifteenth, its position became rapidly moreand more retrograde and demoralized. And when, in 1530, it joinedits forces with those of Charles V. , in crushing the liberties of theworthiest of mediaeval republics, it became evident that the cause offreedom and progress must henceforth be intrusted to some more faithfulchampion. The revolt of Northern Europe, led by Luther and Henry VIII. Was but the articulate announcement of this altered state of affairs. So long as the Roman Church had been felt to be the enemy of tyrannicalmonarchs and the steadfast friend of the people, its encroachments, asrepresented by men like Dunstan and Becket, were regarded with popularfavour. The strength of the Church lay ever in its democratic instincts;and when these were found to have abandoned it, the indignant protest ofLuther sufficed to tear away half of Europe from its allegiance. 

By the end of the sixteenth century, we find the territorial strugglebetween the Church and the reformed religion substantially decided. Protestantism and Catholicism occupied then the same respective areaswhich they now occupy. Since 1600 there has been no instance of a nationpassing from one form of worship to the other; and in all probabilitythere never will be. Since the wholesale dissolution of religiousbeliefs wrought in the last century, the whole issue between Romanismand Protestantism, regarded as dogmatic systems, is practically dead. M. Renan is giving expression to an almost self-evident truth, when he saysthat religious development is no longer to proceed by way of sectarianproselytism, but by way of harmonious internal development. The contestis no longer between one theology and another, but it is betweenthe theological and the scientific methods of interpreting naturalphenomena. The sixteenth century has to us therefore the interestbelonging to a rounded and completed tale. It contains within itselfsubstantially the entire history of the final stage of the theologicalreformation. 

This great period falls naturally into two divisions, the firstcorresponding very nearly with the reigns of Charles V. And Henry VIII. , and the second with the age of Philip II. And Elizabeth. The first ofthese periods was filled with the skirmishes which were to open thegreat battle of the Reformation. At first the strength and extent of thenew revolution were not altogether apparent. While the Inquisition wasvigorously crushing out the first symptoms of disaffection in Spain, itat one time seemed as if the Reformers were about to gain the whole ofthe Empire, besides acquiring an excellent foothold in France. Again, while England was wavering between the old and the new faith, the lasthopes of the Reform in Germany seemed likely to be destroyed by themilitary genius of Charles. But in Maurice, the red-bearded hero ofSaxony, Charles found more than his match. The picture of the rapidand desperate march of Maurice upon Innspruck, and of the great Emperorflying for his life at the very hour of his imagined triumph, has stillfor us an intenser interest than almost any other scene of that age; forit was the event which proved that Protestantism was not a mere localinsurrection which a monarch like Charles could easily put down, but agigantic revolution against which all the powers in the world might wellstrive in vain. 

With the abdication of Charles in 1556 the new period may be saidto begin, and it is here that Mr. Motley's history commences. Eventscrowded thick and fast. In 1556 Philip II. , a prince bred and educatedfor the distinct purpose of suppressing heresy, succeeded to the ruleof the most powerful empire which had been seen since the days of theAntonines. In the previous year a new era had begun at the court ofRome. The old race of pagan pontiffs, the Borgias, the Farneses, and theMedicis, had come to an end, and the papal throne was occupied by thepuritanical Caraffa, as violent a fanatic as Robespierre, and a foe offreedom as uncompromising as Philip II. Himself. Under his auspicestook place the great reform in the Church signalized by the rise of theJesuits, as the reform in the thirteenth century had been attendedby the rise of the Cordeliers and Dominicans. His name should not beforgotten, for it is mainly owing to the policy inaugurated by him thatCatholicism was enabled to hold its ground as well as it did. In 1557the next year, the strength of France was broken at St. Quentin, andSpain was left with her hands free to deal with the Protestant powers. In 1558, by the accession of Elizabeth, England became committed to thecause of Reform. In 1559 the stormy administration of Margaret began inthe Netherlands. In 1560 the Scotch nobles achieved the destruction ofCatholicism in North Britain. By this time every nation except France, had taken sides in the conflict which was to last, with hardly anycessation, during two generations. 

Mr. Motley, therefore, in describing the rise and progress of the unitedrepublic of the Netherlands, is writing not Dutch but European history. On his pages France, Spain, and England make almost as large a figure asHolland itself. He is writing the history of the Reformation during itsconcluding epoch, and he chooses the Netherlands as his main subject, because during that period the Netherlands were the centre of themovement. They constituted the great bulwark of freedom, and upon thesuccess or failure of their cause the future prospect of Europe and ofmankind depended. Spain and the Netherlands, Philip II. And William theSilent, were the two leading antagonists and were felt to be such bythe other nations and rulers that came to mingle in the strife. It istherefore a stupid criticism which we have seen made upon Mr. Motley, that, having brought his narrative down to the truce of 1609, he ought, instead of describing the Thirty Years' War, to keep on with Dutchhistory, and pourtray the wars against Cromwell and Charles II. , and thestruggle of the second William of Orange against Louis XIV. By so doinghe would only violate the unity of his narrative. The wars of the Dutchagainst England and France belong to an entirely different epoch inEuropean history, --a modern epoch, in which political and commercialinterests were of prime importance, and theological interests distinctlysubsidiary. The natural terminus of Mr. Motley's work is the Peaceof Westphalia. After bringing down his history to the time when theindependence of the Netherlands was virtually acknowledged, afterdescribing the principal stages of the struggle against Catholicism anduniversal monarchy, as carried on in the first generation by Elizabethand William, and in the second by Maurice and Henry, he will naturallygo on to treat of the epilogue as conducted by Richelieu and Gustavus, ending in the final cessation of religious wars throughout Europe. 

The conflict in the Netherlands was indeed far more than a merereligious struggle. In its course was distinctly brought into prominencethe fact which we have above signalized, that since the Roman Church hadabandoned the liberties of the people they had found a new defender inthe reformed religion. The Dutch rebellion is peculiarly interesting, because it was a revolt not merely against the Inquisition, but alsoagainst the temporal sovereignty of Philip. Besides changing theirreligion, the sturdy Netherlanders saw fit to throw off the sway oftheir legitimate ruler, and to proclaim the thrice heretical doctrineof the sovereignty of the people. In this one respect their views weredecidedly more modern than those of Elizabeth and Henry IV. These greatmonarchs apparently neither understood nor relished the republicantheories of the Hollanders; though it is hardly necessary for Mr. Motleyto sneer at them quite so often because they were not to an impossibledegree in advance of their age. The proclamation of a republic in theNetherlands marked of itself the beginning of a new era, --an era whenflourishing communities of men were no longer to be bought and sold, transferred and bequeathed like real estate and chattels, but were tohave and maintain the right of choosing with whom and under whom theyshould transact their affairs. The interminable negotiations for atruce, which fill nearly one third of Mr. Motley's concluding volume, exhibit with striking distinctness the difference between the old andnew points of view. Here again we think Mr. Motley errs slightly, incalling too much attention to the prevaricating diplomacy of the Spanishcourt, and too little to its manifest inability to comprehend thedemands of the Netherlanders. How should statesmen brought up underPhilip II. And kept under the eye of the Inquisition be expected tounderstand a claim for liberty originating in the rights of the commonpeople and not in the gracious benevolence or intelligent policy of theKing? The very idea must have been practically inconceivable by them. Accordingly, they strove by every available device of chicanery towheedle the Netherlanders into accepting their independence as a giftfrom the King of Spain. But to such a piece of self-stultification theclear-sighted Dutchmen could by no persuasion be brought to consent. Their independence, they argued, was not the King's to give. They hadwon it from him and his father, in a war of forty years, during whichthey had suffered atrocious miseries, and all that the King of Spaincould do was to acknowledge it as their right, and cease to molest themin future. Over this point, so simple to us but knotty enough in thosedays, the commissioners wrangled for nearly two years. And when theSpanish government, unable to carry on the war any longer without riskof utter bankruptcy, and daily crippled in its resources by the attacksof the Dutch navy, grudgingly a reed to a truce upon the Netherlanders'terms, it virtually acknowledged its own defeat and the downfall of theprinciples for which it had so obstinately fought. By the truce of1609 the republican principle was admitted by the most despotic ofgovernments. 

Here was the first great triumph of republicanism over monarchy; and itwas not long in bearing fruits. For the Dutch revolution, the settlementof America by English Puritans, the great rebellion of the Commons, theRevolution of 1688, the revolt of the American Colonies, and the generaloverthrow of feudalism in 1789, are but successive acts in the samedrama William the Silent was the worthy forerunner of Cromwell andWashington; and but for the victory which he won, during his life andafter his untimely death, the subsequent triumphs of civil liberty mighthave been long, postponed. 

Over the sublime figure of William--saevis tranquillus in undis--weshould be glad to dwell, but we are not reviewing the "Rise of the DutchRepublic, " and in Mr. Motley's present volumes the hero of tolerationappears no longer. His antagonist, however, --the Philip whom God forsome inscrutable purpose permitted to afflict Europe during a reign offorty-two years, --accompanies us nearly to the end of the present work, dying just in time for the historian to sum up the case against him, and pronounce final judgment. For the memory of Philip II. Mr. Motleycherishes no weak pity. He rarely alludes to him without commenting uponhis total depravity, and he dismisses him with the remark that "ifthere are vices--as possibly there are--from which he was exempt, itis because it is not permitted to human nature to attain perfection inevil. " The verdict is none the less just because of its conciseness. Ifthere ever was a strife between Hercules and Cacus, between Ormuzd andAhriman, between the Power of Light and the Power of Darkness, itwas certainly the strife between the Prince of Orange and the SpanishMonarch. They are contrasted like the light and shade in one of Dore'spictures. And yet it is perhaps unnecessary for Mr. Motley to say thatif Philip had been alive when Spinola won for him the great victory ofOstend, "he would have felt it his duty to make immediate arrangementsfor poisoning him. " Doubtless the imputation is sufficiently justifiedby what we know of Philip; but it is uncalled for. We do not care tohear about what the despot might have done. We know what he did do, andthe record is sufficiently damning. There is no harm in our giving theDevil his due, or as Llorente wittily says, "Il ne faut pas calomniermeme l'Inquisition. "

Philip inherited all his father's bad qualities, without any of his goodones; and so it is much easier to judge him than his father. Charles, indeed, is one of those characters whom one hardly knows whether to loveor hate, to admire or despise. He had much bad blood in him. Charles theBold and Ferdinand of Aragon were not grandparents to be proud of. Yetwith all this he inherited from his grandmother Isabella much that onecan like, and his face, as preserved by Titian, in spite of its frowningbrow and thick Burgundian lip, is rather prepossessing, while the faceof Philip is simply odious. In intellect he must probably be calledgreat, though his policy often betrayed the pettiness of selfishness. If, in comparison with the mediaeval emperor whose fame he envied, hemay justly be called Charles the Little, he may still, when compared toa more modern emulator of Charlemagne, --the first of the Bonapartes, --beconsidered great and enlightened. If he could lie and cheat moreconsummately than any contemporary monarch, not excepting his rival, Francis, he could still be grandly magnanimous, while the generosity ofFrancis flowed only from the shallow surface of a maudlin good-nature. He spoke many languages and had the tastes of a scholar, while his sonhad only the inclinations of an unfeeling pedagogue. He had an inklingof urbanity, and could in a measure become all things to all men, whilePhilip could never show himself except as a gloomy, impracticable bigot. It is for some such reasons as these, I suppose, that Mr. Buckle--nofriend to despots--speaks well of Charles, and that Mr. Froude is movedto tell the following anecdote: While standing by the grave of Luther, and musing over the strange career of the giant monk whose teachings hadgone so far to wreck his most cherished schemes and render his life afailure, some fanatical bystander advised the Emperor to have the bodytaken up and burned in the market-place. "There was nothing, " says Mr. Froude, "unusual in the proposal; it was the common practice of theCatholic Church with the remains of heretics, who were held unworthyto be left in repose in hallowed ground. There was scarcely, perhapsanother Catholic prince who would have hesitated to comply. But Charleswas one of nature's gentlemen. He answered, 'I war not with the dead. '"Mr. Motley takes a less charitable view of the great Emperor. Hisgenerous indignation against all persecutors makes him severe; and inone of his earlier volumes, while speaking of the famous edicts for thesuppression of heresy in the Netherlands, he somewhere uses the word"murder. " Without attempting to palliate the crime of persecution, Idoubt if it is quite fair to Charles to call him a murderer. We must notforget that persecution, now rightly deemed an atrocious crime, was oncereally considered by some people a sacred duty; that it was none otherthan the compassionate Isabella who established the Spanish Inquisition;and that the "bloody" Mary Tudor was a woman who would not wilfully havedone wrong. With the progress of civilization the time will doubtlesscome when warfare, having ceased to be necessary, will be thought highlycriminal; yet it will not then be fair to hold Marlborough or Wellingtonaccountable for the lives lost in their great battles. We still live inan age when war is, to the imagination of some persons, surrounded withfalse glories; and the greatest of modern generals [32] has still manyundiscriminating admirers. Yet the day is no less certainly at handwhen the edicts of Charles V. Will be deemed a more pardonable offenceagainst humanity than the wanton march to Moscow. 

 [32] This was written before the deeds of Moltke had eclipsedthose of Napoleon. 

Philip II. Was different from his father in capacity as a drudgingclerk, like Boutwell, is different from a brilliant financier likeGladstone. In organization he differed from him as a boor differs from agentleman. He seemed made of a coarser clay. The difference betweenthem is well indicated by their tastes at the table. Both were terriblegluttons, a fact which puritanic criticism might set down as equallyto the discredit of each of them. But even in intemperance there aredegrees of refinement, and the impartial critic of life and manners willno doubt say that if one must get drunk, let it be on Chateau Margauxrather than on commissary whiskey. Pickled partridges, plump capons, syrups of fruits, delicate pastry, and rare fish went to make up thediet of Charles in his last days at Yuste. But the beastly Philip wouldmake himself sick with a surfeit of underdone pork. 

Whatever may be said of the father, we can hardly go far wrong inascribing the instincts of a murderer to the son. He not onlyburned heretics, but he burned them with an air of enjoyment andself-complacency. His nuptials with Elizabeth of France were celebratedby a vast auto-da-fe. He studied murder as a fine art, and was asskilful in private assassinations as Cellini was in engraving on gems. The secret execution of Montigny, never brought to light until thepresent century, was a veritable chef d'oeuvre of this sort. Thecases of Escobedo and Antonio Perez may also be cited in point. Darksuspicions hung around the premature death of Don John of Austria, histoo brilliant and popular half-brother. He planned the murder of Williamthe Silent, and rewarded the assassin with an annuity furnished bythe revenues of the victim's confiscated estates. He kept a staff ofruffians constantly in service for the purpose of taking off Elizabeth, Henry IV. , Prince Maurice, Olden-Barneveldt, and St. Aldegonde. Heinstructed Alva to execute sentence of death upon the whole populationof the Netherlands. He is partly responsible for the martyrdoms ofRidley and Latimer, and the judicial murder of Cranmer. He firstconceived the idea of the wholesale massacre of St. Bartholomew, many years before Catharine de' Medici carried it into operation. Hisingratitude was as dangerous as his revengeful fanaticism. Those whohad best served his interests were the least likely to escape theconsequences of his jealousy. He destroyed Egmont, who had won for himthe splendid victories of St. Quentin and Gravelines; and "with minuteand artistic treachery" he plotted "the disgrace and ruin" of Farnese, "the man who was his near blood-relation, and who had served him mostfaithfully from earliest youth. " Contemporary opinion even held himaccountable for the obscure deaths of his wife Elizabeth and his sonCarlos; but M. Gachard has shown that this suspicion is unfounded. Philip appears perhaps to better advantage in his domestic than in hispolitical relations. Yet he was addicted to vulgar and miscellaneousincontinence; toward the close of his life he seriously contemplatedmarrying his own daughter Isabella; and he ended by taking for hisfourth wife his niece, Anne of Austria, who became the mother of hishalf-idiotic son and successor. We know of no royal family, unless itmay be the Claudians of Rome, in which the transmission of moral andintellectual qualities is more thoroughly illustrated than in thisBurgundian race which for two centuries held the sceptre of Spain. Theson Philip and the grandmother Isabella are both needful in order tocomprehend the strange mixture of good and evil in Charles. But thedescendants of Philip--two generations of idiocy, and a third ofutter impotence--are a sufficient commentary upon the organization andcharacter of their progenitor. 

Such was the man who for two generations had been considered the bulwarkof the Catholic Church; who, having been at the bottom of nearly all thevillany that had been wrought in Europe for half a century, was yetable to declare upon his death-bed that "in all his life he had neverconsciously done wrong to any one. " At a ripe old age he died of afearful disease. Under the influence of a typhus fever, supervening upongout, he had begun to decompose while yet alive. "His sufferings, " saysMr. Motley, "were horrible, but no saint could have manifested inthem more gentle resignation or angelic patience. He moralized on thecondition to which the greatest princes might thus be brought at last bythe hand of God, and bade the Prince observe well his father's presentcondition, in order that when he too should be laid thus low, he mightlikewise be sustained by a conscience void of offence. " What more isneeded to complete the disgusting picture? Philip was fanatical up tothe point where fanaticism borders upon hypocrisy. He was possessed witha "great moral idea, " the idea of making Catholicism the ruler of theworld, that he might be the ruler of Catholicism. Why, it may be said, shall the charge of fanaticism be allowed to absolve Isabella andextenuate the guilt of Charles, while it only strengthens the caseagainst Philip? Because Isabella persecuted heretics in order to savetheir souls from a worse fate, while Philip burnt them in order toget them out of his way. Isabella would perhaps have gone to the stakeherself, if thereby she might have put an end to heresy. Philip wouldhave seen every soul in Europe consigned to eternal perdition before hewould have yielded up an iota of his claims to universal dominion. He could send Alva to browbeat the Pope, as well as to oppress theNetherlanders. He could compass the destruction of the orthodox Egmontand Farnese, as well as of the heretical William. His unctuous pietyonly adds to the abhorrence with which we regard him; and his humilityin face of death is neither better nor worse than the assumed humilitywhich had become second nature to Uriah Heep. In short, take him forall in all, he was probably the most loathsome character in all Europeanhistory. He has frequently been called, by Protestant historians, an incarnate devil; but we do not think that Mephistopheles wouldacknowledge him. He should rather be classed among those creaturesdescribed by Dante as "a Dio spiacenti ed ai nemici sui. "

The abdication of Charles V. Left Philip ruler over wider dominions thanhad ever before been brought together under the sway of one man. In hisown right Philip was master not only of Spain, but of the Netherlands, Franche Comte, Lombardy, Naples, and Sicily, with the whole of North andSouth America; besides which he was married to the Queen of England. Inthe course of his reign he became possessed of Portugal, with all itsvast domains in the East Indies. His revenues were greater than those ofany other contemporary monarch; his navy was considered invincible, andhis army was the best disciplined in Europe. All these great advantageshe was destined to throw to the winds. In the strife for universalmonarchy, in the mad endeavour to subject England, Scotland, andFrance to his own dominion and the tyranny of the Inquisition, besidesre-conquering the Netherlands, all his vast resources were wasted. TheDutch war alone, like a bottomless pit, absorbed all that he could pourinto it. Long before the war was over, or showed signs of drawing to anend, his revenues were wasted, and his troops in Flanders were mutinousfor want of pay. He had to rely upon energetic viceroys like Farnese andthe Spinolas to furnish funds out of their own pockets. Finally, he wasobliged to repudiate all his debts; and when he died the Spanish empirewas in such a beggarly condition that it quaked at every approach of ahostile Dutch fleet. Such a result is not evidence of a statesmanlikeability; but Philip's fanatical selfishness was incompatible withstatesmanship. He never could be made to believe that his projects hadsuffered defeat. No sooner had the Invincible Armada been sent to thebottom by the guns of the English fleet and the gales of the GermanOcean, than he sent orders to Farnese to invade England at once with theland force under his command! He thought to obtain Scotland, when, afterthe death of Mary, it had passed under the undisputed control of theProtestant noblemen. He dreamed of securing for his family the crown ofFrance, even after Henry, with free consent of the Pope, had made histriumphal entry into Paris. He asserted complete and entire sovereigntyover the Netherlands, even after Prince Maurice had won back from himthe last square foot of Dutch territory. Such obstinacy as this canonly be called fatuity. If Philip had lived in Pagan times, he woulddoubtless, like Caligula, have demanded recognition of his own divinity. 

The miserable condition of the Spanish people under this terrible reign, and the causes of their subsequent degeneracy, have been well treated byMr. Motley. The causes of the failure of Spanish civilization are partlysocial and partly economical; and they had been operating for eighthundred years when Philip succeeded to the throne. The Moorish conquestin 711 had practically isolated Spain from the rest of Europe. In theCrusades she took no part, and reaped none of the signal advantagesresulting from that great movement. Her whole energies were directedtoward throwing off the yoke of her civilized but "unbelieving"oppressors. For a longer time than has now elapsed since the NormanConquest of England, the entire Gothic population of Spain was engagedin unceasing religious and patriotic warfare. The unlimited power thusacquired by an unscrupulous clergy, and the spirit of uncompromisingbigotry thus imparted to the whole nation, are in this way readilyaccounted for. But in spite of this, the affairs of Spain at theaccession of Charles V. Were not in an unpromising condition. TheSpanish Visigoths had been the least barbarous of the Teutonicsettlers within the limits of the Empire; their civil institutions wereexcellent; their cities had obtained municipal liberties at an earlierdate than those of England; and their Parliaments indulged in a libertyof speech which would have seemed extravagant even to De Montfort. Solate as the time of Ferdinand, the Spaniards were still justly proud oftheir freedom; and the chivalrous ambition which inspired the marvellousexpedition of Cortes to Mexico, and covered the soil of Italy withSpanish armies, was probably in the main a healthy one. But the forcesof Spanish freedom were united at too late an epoch; in 1492, the powerof despotism was already in the ascendant. In England the case wasdifferent. The barons were enabled to combine and wrest permanentprivileges from the crown, at a time when feudalism was strong. But theSpanish communes waited for combined action until feudalism had becomeweak, and modern despotism, with its standing armies and its control ofthe spiritual power, was arrayed in the ranks against them. The War ofthe Communes, early in the reign of Charles V. , irrevocably decided thecase in favour of despotism, and from that date the internal decline ofSpain may be said to have begun. 

But the triumphant consolidation of the spiritual and temporal powers ofdespotism, and the abnormal development of loyalty and bigotry, were notthe only evil results of the chronic struggle in which Spain had beenengaged. For many centuries, while Christian Spain had been but a fringeof debatable border-land on the skirts of the Moorish kingdom, perpetual guerilla warfare had rendered consecutive labour difficult orimpracticable; and the physical configuration of the country contributedin bringing about this result. To plunder the Moors across the borderwas easier than to till the ground at home. Then as the Spaniards, exemplifying the military superiority of the feudal over the sultanicform of social organization, proceeded steadily to recover dominion overthe land, the industrious Moors, instead of migrating backward beforethe advance of their conquerors, remained at home and submitted to them. Thus Spanish society became compounded of two distinct castes, --theMoorish Spaniards, who were skilled labourers, and the Gothic Spaniards, by whom all labour, crude or skilful, was deemed the stigma of aconquered race, and unworthy the attention of respectable people. As Mr. Motley concisely says:--

"The highest industrial and scientific civilization that had beenexhibited upon Spanish territory was that of Moors and Jews. When inthe course of time those races had been subjugated, massacred, or driveninto exile, not only was Spain deprived of its highest intellectualculture and its most productive labour, but intelligence, science, andindustry were accounted degrading, because the mark of inferior anddetested peoples. "

This is the key to the whole subsequent history of Spain. Bigotry, loyalty, and consecrated idleness are the three factors which havemade that great country what it is to-day, --the most backward region inEurope. In view of the circumstances just narrated, it is not surprisingto learn that in Philip II. 's time a vast portion of the real estate ofthe country was held by the Church in mortmain; that forty-nine noblefamilies owned all the rest; that all great estates were held in tail;and that the property of the aristocracy and the clergy was completelyexempt from taxation. Thus the accumulation and the diffusion of capitalwere alike prevented; and the few possessors of property wasted itin unproductive expenditure. Hence the fundamental error of Spanishpolitical economy, that wealth is represented solely by the preciousmetals; an error which well enough explains the total failure, in spiteof her magnificent opportunities, of Spain's attempts to colonize theNew World. Such was the frightful condition of Spanish society underPhilip II. ; and as if this state of things were not bad enough, the nextking, Philip III. , at the instigation of the clergy, decided to driveinto banishment the only class of productive labourers yet remaining inthe country. In 1610, this stupendous crime and blunder--unparalleledeven in Spanish history--was perpetrated. The entire Moorish populationwere expelled from their homes and driven into the deserts of Africa. For the awful consequences of this mad action no remedy was possible. Nosystem of native industry could be created on demand, to take the placeof that which had been thus wantonly crushed forever. From this epochdates the social ruin of Spain. In less than a century her people wereriotous with famine; and every sequestered glen and mountain pathwaythroughout the country had become a lurking-place for robbers. Whoeverwould duly realize to what a lamentable condition this beautifulpeninsula had in the seventeenth century been reduced, let him studythe immortal pages of Lesage. He will learn afresh the lesson, not yetsufficiently regarded in the discussion of social problems, that thelaws of nature cannot be violated without entailing a penalty fearfulin proportion to the extent of the violation. But let him carefullyremember also that the Spaniards are not and never have been adespicable people. If Spain has produced one of the lowest charactersin history, she has also produced one of the highest. That man was everyinch a Spaniard who, maimed, diseased, and poor, broken down by longcaptivity, and harassed by malignant persecution, lived neverthelessa life of grandeur and beauty fit to be a pattern for cominggenerations, --the author of a book which has had a wider fame than anyother in the whole range of secular literature, and which for delicatehumour, exquisite pathos, and deep ethical sentiment, remains to-daywithout a peer or a rival. If Philip II. Was a Spaniard, so, too, wasCervantes. 

Spain could not be free, for she violated every condition by whichfreedom is secured to a people. "Acuteness of intellect, wealth ofimagination, heroic qualities of heart and hand and brain, rarelysurpassed in any race and manifested on a thousand battle-fields, and inthe triumphs of a magnificent and most original literature, had not beenable to save a whole nation from the disasters and the degradation whichthe mere words Philip II. And the Holy Inquisition suggest to everyeducated mind. " Nor could Spain possibly become rich, for, as Mr. Motleycontinues, "nearly every law, according to which the prosperity of acountry becomes progressive, was habitually violated. " On turning tothe Netherlands we find the most complete contrast, both in historicalconditions and in social results; and the success of the Netherlands intheir long struggle becomes easily intelligible. The Dutch and Flemishprovinces had formed a part of the renovated Roman Empire of Charlesthe Great and the Othos. Taking advantage of the perennial contest forsupremacy between the popes and the Roman emperors, the constituentbaronies and municipalities of the Empire succeeded in acquiring andmaintaining a practical though unrecognized independence; and this isthe original reason why Italy and Germany, unlike the three westernEuropean communities, have remained fragmentary until our own time. By reason of the practical freedom of action thus secured, the Italiancivic republics, the Hanse towns, and the cities of Holland andFlanders, were enabled gradually to develop a vast commerce. Theoutlying position of the Netherlands, remote from the imperialauthorities, and on the direct line of commerce between Italy andEngland, was another and a peculiar advantage. Throughout the MiddleAges the Flemish and Dutch cities were of considerable politicalimportance, and in the fifteenth century the Netherland provinces werethe most highly civilized portion of Europe north of the Alps. Forseveral generations they had enjoyed, and had known how to maintain, civic liberties, and when Charles and Philip attempted to fasten uponthem their "peculiar institution, " the Spanish Inquisition, they wereripe for political as well as theological revolt. Natural laws werefound to operate on the Rhine as well as on the Tagus, and at the end ofthe great war of independence, Holland was not only better equipped thanSpain for a European conflict, but was rapidly ousting her from the EastIndian countries which she had in vain attempted to colonize. 

But if we were to take up all the interesting and instructive themessuggested by Mr. Motley's work, we should never come to an end. Wemust pass over the exciting events narrated in these last volumes;the victory of Nieuport, the siege of Ostend, the marvellous career ofMaurice, the surprising exploits of Spinola. We have attempted not somuch to describe Mr. Motley's book as to indulge in sundry reflectionssuggested by the perusal of it. But we cannot close without some remarksupon a great man, whose character Mr. Motley seems to have somewhatmisconceived. 

If Mr. Motley exhibits any serious fault, it is perhaps the naturaltendency to TAKE SIDES in the events which he is describing, whichsometimes operates as a drawback to complete and thoroughgoingcriticism. With every intention to do justice to the Catholics, Mr. Motley still writes as a Protestant, viewing all questions from theProtestant side. He praises and condemns like a very fair-mindedHuguenot, but still like a Huguenot. It is for this reason that hefails to interpret correctly the very complex character of Henry IV. , regarding him as a sort of selfish renegade whom he cannot quite forgivefor accepting the crown of France at the hands of the Pope. Now thisvery action of Henry, in the eye of an impartial criticism, must seem tobe one of his chief claims to the admiration and gratitude of posterity. Henry was more than a mere Huguenot: he was a far-seeing statesman. Hesaw clearly what no ruler before him, save William the Silent, hadeven dimly discerned, that not Catholicism and not Protestantism, but absolute spiritual freedom was the true end to be aimed at by arighteous leader of opinion. It was as a Catholic sovereign that hecould be most useful even to his Huguenot subjects; and he shapedhis course accordingly. It was as an orthodox sovereign, holding hisposition by the general consent of Europe, that he could best subservethe interests of universal toleration. This principle he embodied in hisadmirable edict of Nantes. What a Huguenot prince might have done, maybe seen from the shameful way in which the French Calvinists abusedthe favour which Henry--and Richelieu afterwards--accorded to them. Remembering how Calvin himself "dragooned" Geneva, let us be thankfulfor the fortune which, in one of the most critical periods of history, raised to the highest position in Christendom a man who was somethingmore than a sectarian. 

With this brief criticism, we must regretfully take leave of Mr. Motley's work. Much more remains to be said about a historical treatisewhich is, on the whole, the most valuable and important one yet producedby an American; but we have already exceeded our limits. We trust thatour author will be as successful in the future as he has been in thepast; and that we shall soon have an opportunity of welcoming the firstinstalment of his "History of the Thirty Years' War. "

 March, 1868. 

XI. LONGFELLOW'S DANTE. [33]

 [33] The Divine Comedy of Dante Alighieri. Translated by HenryWadsworth Longfellow. 3 vols. Boston: Ticknor & Fields, 1867. 

THE task of a translator is a thankless one at best. Be he never soskilful and accurate, be he never so amply endowed with the divinequalifications of the poet, it is still questionable if he can eversucceed in saying satisfactorily with new words that which has once beeninimitably said--said for all time--with the old words. "Psychologically, there is perhaps nothing more complex than an elaborate poem. Thesources of its effect upon our minds may be likened to a system offorces which is in the highest degree unstable; and the slightestdisplacement of phrases, by disturbing the delicate rhythmicalequilibrium of the whole, must inevitably awaken a jarring sensation. "Matthew Arnold has given us an excellent series of lectures upontranslating Homer, in which he doubtless succeeds in showing that somemethods of translation are preferable to others, but in which he provesnothing so forcibly as that the simplicity and grace, the rapidity, dignity, and fire, of Homer are quite incommunicable, save by the verywords in which they first found expression. And what is thus said ofHomer will apply to Dante with perhaps even greater force. With nearlyall of Homer's grandeur and rapidity, though not with nearly allhis simplicity, the poem of Dante manifests a peculiar intensity ofsubjective feeling which was foreign to the age of Homer, as indeed toall pre-Christian antiquity. But concerning this we need not dilate, as it has often been duly remarked upon, and notably by Carlyle, inhis "Lectures on Hero-Worship. " Who that has once heard the wail ofunutterable despair sounding in the line

 "Ahi, dura terra, perche non t' apristi?"

can rest satisfied with the interpretation

 "Ah, obdurate earth, wherefore didst thou not open?"

yet this rendering is literally exact. 

A second obstacle, hardly less formidable, hardly less fatal to asatisfactory translation, is presented by the highly complicated systemof triple rhyme upon which Dante's poem is constructed. This, which mustever be a stumbling-block to the translator, seems rarely to interferewith the free and graceful movement of the original work. The mightythought of the master felt no impediment from the elaborate artisticpanoply which must needs obstruct and harass the interpretation of thedisciple. Dante's terza rima is a bow of Odysseus which weaker mortalscannot bend with any amount of tugging, and which Mr. Longfellow hasjudiciously refrained from trying to bend. Yet no one can fail to remarkthe prodigious loss entailed by this necessary sacrifice of one of themost striking characteristics of the original poem. Let any one who hasduly reflected upon the strange and subtle effect produced on him bythe peculiar rhyme of Tennyson's "In Memoriam, " endeavour to realize thevery different effect which would be produced if the verses were tobe alternated or coupled in successive pairs, or if rhyme were to beabandoned for blank verse. The exquisite melody of the poem would besilenced. The rhyme-system of the "Divine Comedy" refuses equally to betampered with or ignored. Its effect upon the ear and the mind is quiteas remarkable as that of the rhyme-system of "In Memoriam"; and theimpossibility of reproducing it is one good reason why Dante must alwayssuffer even more from translation than most poets. 

Something, too, must be said of the difficulties inevitably arising fromthe diverse structure and genius of the Italian and English languages. None will deny that many of them are insurmountable. Take the third lineof the first canto, --

 "Che la diritta via era smarrita, "

which Mr. Longfellow translates

 "For the straightforward pathway had been lost. "

Perhaps there is no better word than "lost" by which to translatesmarrita in this place; yet the two words are far from equivalentin force. About the word smarrita there is thrown a wide penumbra ofmeaning which does not belong to the word lost. [35] By its diffuseconnotations the word smarrita calls up in our minds an adequate pictureof the bewilderment and perplexity of one who is lost in a tracklessforest. The high-road with out, beaten hard by incessant overpassingof men and beasts and wheeled vehicles, gradually becomes metamorphosedinto the shady lane, where grass sprouts up rankly between the ruts, where bushes encroach upon the roadside, where fallen trunks now andthen intercept the traveller; and this in turn is lost in crookedby-ways, amid brambles and underbrush and tangled vines, growingfantastically athwart the path, shooting up on all sides of thebewildered wanderer, and rendering advance and retreat alike hopeless. No one who in childhood has wandered alone in the woods can help feelingall this suggested by the word smarrita in this passage. How baldin comparison is the word lost, which might equally be applied to apathway, a reputation, and a pocket-book! [36] The English is no doubtthe most copious and variously expressive of all living languages, yetI doubt if it can furnish any word capable by itself of calling up thecomplex images here suggested by smarrita. [37] And this is but oneexample, out of many that might be cited, in which the lack of exactparallelism between the two languages employed causes every translationto suffer. 

 [35] See Diez, Romance Dictionary, s. V. "Marrir. "

 [36] On literally retranslating lost into Italian, we should getthe quite different word perduta. 

 [37] The more flexible method of Dr. Parsons leads to a moresatisfactory but still inadequate result:--

 "Half-way on our life's Journey, in a wood, From the right path I found myself astray. "

All these, however, are difficulties which lie in the nature ofthings, --difficulties for which the translator is not responsible; ofwhich he must try to make the best that can be made, but which he cannever expect wholly to surmount. We have now to inquire whether thereare not other difficulties, avoidable by one method of translation, though not by another; and in criticizing Mr. Longfellow, wehave chiefly to ask whether he has chosen the best method oftranslation, --that which most surely and readily awakens in the reader'smind the ideas and feelings awakened by the original. 

The translator of a poem may proceed upon either of two distinctprinciples. In the first case, he may render the text of his originalinto English, line for line and word for word, preserving as far aspossible its exact verbal sequences, and translating each individualword into an English word as nearly as possible equivalent in itsetymological force. In the second case, disregarding mere syntactic andetymologic equivalence, his aim will be to reproduce the inner meaningand power of the original, so far as the constitutional difference ofthe two languages will permit him. 

It is the first of these methods that Mr. Longfellow has followed in histranslation of Dante. Fidelity to the text of the original has been hisguiding principle; and every one must admit that, in carrying out thatprinciple, he has achieved a degree of success alike delightful andsurprising. The method of literal translation is not likely to receiveany more splendid illustration. It is indeed put to the test in sucha way that the shortcomings now to be noticed bear not upon Mr. Longfellow's own style of work so much as upon the method itself withwhich they are necessarily implicated. These defects are, first, thetoo frequent use of syntactic inversion, and secondly, the too manifestpreference extended to words of Romanic over words of Saxon origin. 

To illustrate the first point, let me give a few examples. In Canto I. We have:--

 "So bitter is it, death is little more; But of the good to treat which there I found, Speak will I of the other things I saw there";

which is thus rendered by Mr. Cary, --

 "Which to remember only, my dismay Renews, in bitterness not far from death. Yet to discourse of what there good befell, All else will I relate discovered there";

and by Dr. Parsons, --

 "Its very thought is almost death to me; Yet, having found some good there, I will tell Of other things which there I chanced to see. " [38]

 [38] "Tanto e amara, che poco e piu morte: Ma per trattar del teen ch' i' vi trovai, Diro dell' altre Bose, ch' io v' ho scorte. "

Inferno, I. 7-10. 

Again in Canto X. We find:--

 "Their cemetery have upon this side With Epicurus all his followers, Who with the body mortal make the soul";--

an inversion which is perhaps not more unidiomatic than Mr. Cary's, --

 "The cemetery on this part obtain With Epicurus all his followers, Who with the body make the spirit die";

but which is advantageously avoided by Mr. Wright, --

 "Here Epicurus hath his fiery tomb, And with him all his followers, who maintain That soul and body share one common doom";

and is still better rendered by Dr. Parsons, --

 "Here in their cemetery on this side, With his whole sect, is Epicurus pent, Who thought the spirit with its body died. " [39]

 [39] "Suo cimitero da questa parte hanno Con Epieuro tutti i suoi seguaci, Che l'anima col corpo morta fanno. " Inferno, X. 13-15. 

And here my eyes, reverting to the end of Canto IX. , fall upon a similar contrast between Mr. Longfellow's lines, --

 "For flames between the sepulchres were scattered, By which they so intensely heated were, That iron more so asks not any art, "--

and those of Dr. Parsons, --

 "For here mid sepulchres were sprinkled fires, Wherewith the enkindled tombs all-burning gleamed; Metal more fiercely hot no art requires. " [40]

 [40] "Che tra gli avelli flamme erano sparte, Per le quali eran si del tutto accesi, Che ferro piu non chiede verun' arte. " Inferno, IX. 118-120. 

Does it not seem that in all these cases Mr. Longfellow, and to aslightly less extent Mr. Cary, by their strict adherence to the letter, transgress the ordinary rules of English construction; and that Dr. Parsons, by his comparative freedom of movement, produces betterpoetry as well as better English? In the last example especially, Mr. Longfellow's inversions are so violent that to a reader ignorant of theoriginal Italian, his sentence might be hardly intelligible. In Italiansuch inversions are permissible; in English they are not; and Mr. Longfellow, by transplanting them into English, sacrifices the spiritto the letter, and creates an obscurity in the translation where all islucidity in the original. Does not this show that the theory of absoluteliterality, in the case of two languages so widely different as Englishand Italian, is not the true one?

Secondly, Mr. Longfellow's theory of translation leads him in mostcases to choose words of Romanic origin in preference to those of Saxondescent, and in many cases to choose an unfamiliar instead of a familiarRomanic word, because the former happens to be etymologically identicalwith the word in the original. Let me cite as an example the opening ofCanto III. :--

 "Per me si va nella eitti dolente, Per me si va nell' eterno dolore, Per me si va tra la perduta gente. "

Here are three lines which, in their matchless simplicity and grandeur, might well excite despair in the breast of any translator. Let uscontrast Mr. Longfellow's version. --

 "Through me the way is to the city dolent; Through me the way is to eternal dole; Through me the way among the people lost, "--

with that of Dr. Parsons, --, "Through me you reach the city of despair; Through me eternal wretchedness ye find; Through me among perdition's race ye fare. "

I do not think any one will deny that Dr. Parsons's version, while farmore remote than Mr. Longfellow's from the diction of the original, issomewhat nearer its spirit. It remains to seek the explanation of thisphenomenon. It remains to be seen why words the exact counterpart ofDante's are unfit to call up in our minds the feelings which Dante's ownwords call up in the mind of an Italian. And this inquiry leads tosome general considerations respecting the relation of English to otherEuropean languages. 

Every one is aware that French poetry, as compared with German poetry, seems to the English reader very tame and insipid; but the cause of thisfact is by no means so apparent as the fact itself. That the poetry ofGermany is actually and intrinsically superior to that of France, mayreadily be admitted; but this is not enough to account for all thecircumstances of the case. It does not explain why some of the verypassages in Corneille and Racine, which to us appear dull and prosaic, are to the Frenchman's apprehension instinct with poetic fervour. Itdoes not explain the undoubted fact that we, who speak English, areprone to underrate French poetry, while we are equally disposed torender to German poetry even more than its due share of merit. Thereason is to be sought in the verbal associations established inour minds by the peculiar composition of the English language. Ourvocabulary is chiefly made up on the one hand of indigenous Saxon words, and on the other hand of words derived from Latin or French. It ismostly words of the first class that we learn in childhood, and that areassociated with our homeliest and deepest emotions; while words of thesecond class--usually acquired somewhat later in life and employed insedate abstract discourse--have an intellectual rather than an emotionalfunction to fulfil. Their original significations, the physicalmetaphors involved in them, which are perhaps still somewhat apparent tothe Frenchman, are to us wholly non-existent. Nothing but the derivativeor metaphysical signification remains. No physical image of a manstepping over a boundary is presented to our minds by the wordtransgress, nor in using the word comprehension do we picture toourselves any manual act of grasping. It is to this double structureof the English language that it owes its superiority over every othertongue, ancient or modern, for philosophical and scientific purposes. Albeit there are numerous exceptions, it may still be safely said, ina general way, that we possess and habitually use two kinds oflanguage, --one that is physical, for our ordinary purposes, and one thatis metaphysical, for purposes of abstract reasoning and discussion. Wedo not say like the Germans, that we "begripe" (begreifen) an idea, butwe say that we "conceive" it. We use a word which once had the very samematerial meaning as begreifen, but which has in our language utterlylost it. We are accordingly able to carry on philosophical inquiriesby means of words which are nearly or quite free from those shadowsof original concrete meaning which, in German, too often obscure theacquired abstract signification. Whoever has dealt in English and Germanmetaphysics will not fail to recognize the prodigious superiority ofEnglish in force and perspicuity, arising mainly from the causes herestated. But while this homogeneity of structure in German injures it forphilosophical purposes, it is the very thing which makes it so excellentas an organ for poetical expression, in the opinion of those who speakEnglish. German being nearly allied to Anglo-Saxon, not only do itssimple words strike us with all the force of our own homely Saxon terms, but its compounds also, preserving their physical significationsalmost unimpaired, call up in our minds concrete images of the greatestdefiniteness and liveliness. It is thus that German seems to uspre-eminently a poetical language, and it is thus that we are naturallyinclined to overrate rather than to depreciate the poetry that iswritten in it. 

With regard to French, the case is just the reverse. The Frenchman hasno Saxon words, but he has, on the other hand, an indigenous stock ofLatin words, which he learns in early childhood, which give outletto his most intimate feelings, and which retain to some extent theirprimitive concrete picturesqueness. They are to him just as good as ourSaxon words are to us. Though cold and merely intellectual to us, theyare to him warm with emotion; and this is one reason why we cannot dojustice to his poetry, or appreciate it as he appreciates it. To makethis perfectly clear, let us take two or three lines from Shakespeare:--

 "Blow, blow, thou winter wind! Thou art not so unkind As man's ingratitude, Thy tooth is not so keen, " etc. , etc. ;

which I have somewhere seen thus rendered into French:

 "Souffle, souffle, vent d'hiver! Tu n'es pas si cruel Que l'ingratitude de l'homme. Ta dent n'est pas si penetrante, " etc. , etc. 

Why are we inclined to laugh as we read this? Because it excites in usan undercurrent of consciousness which, if put into words, might runsomething like this:--

 "Insufflate, insufflate, wind hibernal! Thou art not so cruel As human ingratitude. Thy dentition is not so penetrating, " etc. , etc. 

No such effect would be produced upon a Frenchman. The translation wouldstrike him as excellent, which it really is. The last line in particularwould seem poetical to us, did we not happen to have in our languagewords closely akin to dent and penetrante, and familiarly employed insenses that are not poetical. 

Applying these considerations to Mr. Longfellow's choice of words in histranslation of Dante, we see at once the unsoundness of the principlethat Italian words should be rendered by their Romanic equivalentsin English. Words that are etymologically identical with those in theoriginal are often, for that very reason, the worst words that could beused. They are harsh and foreign to the English ear, however homelikeand musical they may be to the ear of an Italian. Their connotations areunlike in the two languages; and the translation which is made literallyexact by using them is at the same time made actually inaccurate, or atleast inadequate. Dole and dolent are doubtless the exact counterpartsof dolore and dolente, so far as mere etymology can go. But when weconsider the effect that is to be produced upon the mind of the reader, wretchedness and despairing are fat better equivalents. The former maycompel our intellectual assent, but the latter awaken our emotionalsympathy. 

Doubtless by long familiarity with the Romanic languages, the scholarbecomes to a great degree emancipated from the conditions imposed uponhim by the peculiar composition of his native English. The concretesignificance of the Romanic words becomes apparent to him, and theyacquire energy and vitality. The expression dolent may thus satisfy thestudent familiar with Italian, because it calls up in his mind, throughthe medium of its equivalent dolente, the same associations which thelatter calls up in the mind of the Italian himself. [41] But this powerof appreciating thoroughly the beauties of a foreign tongue is in thelast degree an acquired taste, --as much so as the taste for olives andkirschenwasser to the carnal palate. It is only by long and profoundstudy that we can thus temporarily vest ourselves, so to speak, witha French or Italian consciousness in exchange for our English one. Theliterary epicure may keenly relish such epithets as dolent; but thecommon English reader, who loves plain fare, can hardly fail to bestartled by it. To him it savours of the grotesque; and if there is anyone thing especially to be avoided in the interpretation of Dante, it isgrotesqueness. 

 [41] A consummate Italian scholar, the delicacy of whose taste isquestioned by no one, and whose knowledge of Dante's diction is probablynot inferior to Mr. Longfellow's, has told me that he regards theexpression as a noble and effective one, full of dignity and solemnity. 

Those who have read over Dante without reading into him, and those whohave derived their impressions of his poem from M. Dore's memorableillustrations, will here probably demur. What! Dante not grotesque! Thattunnel-shaped structure of the infernal pit; Minos passing sentence onthe damned by coiling his tail; Charon beating the lagging shades withhis oar; Antaios picking up the poets with his fingers and lowering themin the hollow of his hand into the Ninth Circle; Satan crunching in hismonstrous jaws the arch-traitors, Judas, Brutus and Cassius; Ugolinoappeasing his famine upon the tough nape of Ruggieri; Bertrand de Bornlooking (if I may be allowed the expression) at his own dissevered head;the robbers exchanging form with serpents; the whole demoniac troop ofMalebolge, --are not all these things grotesque beyond everything elsein poetry? To us, nurtured in this scientific nineteenth century, theydoubtless seem so; and by Leigh Hunt, who had the eighteenth-century wayof appreciating other ages than his own, they were uniformly treatedas such. To us they are at first sight grotesque, because they are nolonger real to us. We have ceased to believe in such things, and they nolonger awaken any feeling akin to terror. But in the thirteenth century, in the minds of Dante and his readers, they were living, terriblerealities. That Dante believed literally in all this unearthly world, and described it with such wonderful minuteness because he believedin it, admits of little doubt. As he walked the streets of Verona thepeople whispered, "See, there is the man who has been in hell!" Truly, he had been in hell, and described it as he had seen it, with the keeneyes of imagination and faith. With all its weird unearthliness, thereis hardly another book in the whole range of human literature which ismarked with such unswerving veracity as the "Divine Comedy. " Nothingis there set down arbitrarily, out of wanton caprice or for the sake ofpoetic effect, but because to Dante's imagination it had so imposinglyshown itself that he could not but describe it as he saw it. In readinghis cantos we forget the poet, and have before us only the veracioustraveller in strange realms, from whom the shrewdest cross-examinationcan elicit but one consistent account. To his mind, and to themediaeval mind generally, this outer kingdom, with its wards of Despair, Expiation, and Beatitude, was as real as the Holy Roman Empire itself. Its extraordinary phenomena were not to be looked on with critical eyesand called grotesque, but were to be seen with eyes of faith, and to beworshipped, loved, or shuddered at. Rightly viewed, therefore, the poemof Dante is not grotesque, but unspeakably awful and solemn; and thestatement is justified that all grotesqueness and bizarrerie in itsinterpretation is to be sedulously avoided. 

Therefore, while acknowledging the accuracy with which Mr. Longfellowhas kept pace with his original through line after line, following the"footing of its feet, " according to the motto quoted on his title-page, I cannot but think that his accuracy would have been of a somewhathigher kind if he had now and then allowed himself a little more libertyof choice between English and Romanic words and idioms. 

A few examples will perhaps serve to strengthen as well as to elucidatestill further this position. 

"Inferno, " Canto III. , line 22, according to Longfellow:--

 "There sighs, complaints, and ululations loud Resounded through the air without a star, Whence I at the beginning wept thereat. "

According to Cary:--

 "Here sighs, with lamentations and loud moans Resounded through the air pierced by no star, That e'en I wept at entering. "

According to Parsons:--

 "Mid sighs, laments, and hollow howls of woe, Which, loud resounding through the starless air, Forced tears of pity from mine eyes at first. " [42]

 [42] "Quivi sospiri, pianti ed alti guai Risonavan per l' ner senza stelle, Perch' io al cominciar ne lagrimai. "

Canto V. , line 84:--

 LONGFELLOW. --"Fly through the air by their volition borne. " CARY. --"Cleave the air, wafted by their will along. " PARSONS. --"Sped ever onward by their wish alone. " [43]

 [43] "Volan per l' aer dal voler portate. "

Canto XVII. , line 42:--

 LONGFELLOW. --"That he concede to us his stalwart shoulders. " CARY--"That to us he may vouchsafe The aid of his strong shoulders. " PARSONS. --"And ask for us his shoulders' strong support. " [44]

 [44] "Che ne conceda i suoi omeri forti. "

Canto XVII. , line 25:--

 LONGFELLOW. -- "His tail was wholly quivering in the void, Contorting upwards the envenomed fork That in the guise of scorpion armed its point. " CARY. -- "In the void Glancing, his tail upturned its venomous fork, With sting like scorpions armed. "

 PARSONS. --"In the void chasm his trembling tail he showed, As up the envenomed, forked point he swung, Which, as in scorpions, armed its tapering end. " [45]

 [45] "Nel vano tutta sue coda guizzava, Torcendo in su la venenosa forca, Che, a guisa di scorpion, la punta armava. "

Canto V. , line 51:--

 LONGFELLOW. --"People whom the black air so castigates. CARY. --"By the black air so scourged. " [46]

 [46] "Genti che l' aura nera si gastiga. "

Line 136:--

 LONGFELLOW. --"Kissed me upon the mouth all palpitating. " CARY. --"My lips all trembling kissed. " [47]

 [47] "La bocca mi bacio tutto tremante. "

"Purgatorio, " Canto XV. , line 139:--

 LONGFELLOW. -- "We passed along, athwart the twilight peering Forward as far as ever eye could stretch Against the sunbeams serotine and lucent. " [48]

 [48] "Noi andavam per lo vespero attenti Oltre, quanto potean gli occhi allungarsi, Contra i raggi serotini e lucenti. "

Mr. Cary's "bright vespertine ray" is only a trifle better; but Mr. Wright's "splendour of the evening ray" is, in its simplicity, farpreferable. 

Canto XXXI. , line 131:--

 LONGFELLOW. --"Did the other three advance Singing to their angelic saraband. "

 CARY. --"To their own carol on they came Dancing, in festive ring angelical "

 WRIGHT. --"And songs accompanied their angel dance. "

Here Mr. Longfellow has apparently followed the authority of the Crusca, reading

 "Cantando al loro angelico carribo, "

and translating carribo by saraband, a kind of Moorish dance. The bestmanuscripts, however, sanction M. Witte's reading:--

 "Danzando al loro angelico carribo. "

If this be correct, carribo cannot signify "a dance, " but rather "thesong which accompanies the dance"; and the true sense of the passagewill have been best rendered by Mr. Cary. [49]

 [49] See Blanc, Vocabolario Dantesco, s. V. "caribo. "

Whenever Mr. Longfellow's translation is kept free from oddities ofdiction and construction, it is very animated and vigorous. Nothing canbe finer than his rendering of "Purgatorio, " Canto VI. , lines 97-117:--

 "O German Albert! who abandonest Her that has grown recalcitrant and savage, And oughtest to bestride her saddle-bow, May a just judgment from the stars down fall Upon thy blood, and be it new and open, That thy successor may have fear thereof:

 Because thy father and thyself have suffered, By greed of those transalpine lands distrained, The garden of the empire to be waste. 

 Come and behold Montecchi and Cappelletti, Monaldi and Filippeschi, careless man! Those sad already, and these doubt-depressed!

 Come, cruel one! come and behold the oppression Of thy nobility, and cure their wounds, And thou shalt see how safe [?] is Santafiore. 

 Come and behold thy Rome that is lamenting, Widowed, alone, and day and night exclaims 'My Caesar, why hast thou forsaken me?'

 Come and behold how loving are the people; And if for us no pity moveth thee, Come and be made ashamed of thy renown. " [50]

 [50] "O Alberto Tedesco, che abbandoni Costei ch' e fatta indomita e selvaggia, E dovresti inforcar li suoi arcioni, Giusto gindizio dalle stelle caggia Sopra il tuo sangue, e sia nuovo ed aperto, Tal che il tuo successor temenza n' aggia: Cheavete tu e il tuo padre sofferto, Per cupidigia di costa distretti, Che il giardin dell' imperio sia diserto. 

 Vieni a veder Montecchi e Cappelletti, Monaldi e Filippeschi, uom senza cura: Color gia tristi, e questi con sospetti. Vien, crudel, vieni, e vedi la pressura De' tuoi gentili, e cure lor magagne, E vedrai Santafior com' e oscura [secura?]. Vieni a veder la tua Roma che piagne, Vedova e sola, e di e notte chiama: Cesare mio, perche non m' accompagne? Vieni a veder la gente quanto s' ama; E se nulla di noi pieta ti move, A vergognar ti vien della tua fama. "

So, too, Canto III. , lines 79-84:--

 "As sheep come issuing forth from out the fold By ones, and twos, and threes, and the others standTimidly holding down their eyes and nostrils, And what the foremost does the others do Huddling themselves against her if she stop, Simple and quiet, and the wherefore know not. " [51]

 [51] "Come le pecorelle escon del chiuso Ad una, a due, a tre, e l' altre stanno Timidette atterrando l' occhio e il muso;

 E cio che fa la prima, e l' altre sanno, Addossandosi a lei s' ella s' arresta, Semplici e quete, e lo 'mperche non sanno. "

Francesca's exclamation to Dante is thus rendered by Mr. Longfellow:--

 "And she to me: There is no greater sorrow Than to be mindful of the happy time In misery. " [52]

 [52] "Ed ella a me: Nessun maggior dolore Che ricordarsi del tempo felice Nella miseria. "Inferno, V. 121-123. 

This is admirable, --full of the true poetic glow, which would have beenutterly quenched if some Romanic equivalent of dolore had been usedinstead of our good Saxon sorrow. [53] So, too, the "Paradiso, " CantoI. , line 100:--

 "Whereupon she, after a pitying sigh, Her eyes directed toward me with that look A mother casts on a delirious child. " [54]

 [53] Yet admirable as it is, I am not quite sure that Dr. Parsons, by taking further liberty with the original, has not surpassedit:--

 "And she to me: The mightiest of all woes Is in the midst of misery to be cursed With bliss remembered. "

 [54] "Ond' ella, appresso d'un pio sospiro, Gli occhi drizzo ver me con quel sembiante, Che madre fa sopra figlinol deliro. "

And, finally, the beginning of the eighth canto of the "Purgatorio":--

 "'T was now the hour that turneth back desire In those who sail the sea, and melts the heart, The day they've said to their sweet friends farewell; And the new pilgrim penetrates with love, If he doth hear from far away a bell That seemeth to deplore the dying day. " [55]

 [55] "Era gia l' ora che volge il disio Ai naviganti, e intenerisce il core Lo di ch' hen detto ai dolci amici addio; E che lo nuovo peregrin d' amore Punge, se ode squilla di lontano, Che paia il giorno pianger che si more. "

This passage affords an excellent example of what the method of literaltranslation can do at its best. Except in the second line, where "thosewho sail the sea" is wisely preferred to any Romanic equivalent ofnaviganti the version is utterly literal; as literal as the one theschool-boy makes, when he opens his Virgil at the Fourth Eclogue, and lumberingly reads, "Sicilian Muses, let us sing things a littlegreater. " But there is nothing clumsy, nothing which smacks of therecitation-room, in these lines of Mr. Longfellow. For easy grace andexquisite beauty it would be difficult to surpass them. They may wellbear comparison with the beautiful lines into which Lord Byron hasrendered the same thought:--

 "Soft hour which wakes the wish, and melts the heart, Of those who sail the seas, on the first day When they from their sweet friends are torn apart; Or fills with love the pilgrim on his way, As the far bell of vesper makes him start, Seeming to weep the dying day's decay. Is this a fancy which our reason scorns? Ah, surely nothing dies but something mourns!" [56]

 [56] Don Juan, III. 108. 

Setting aside the concluding sentimental generalization, --which is muchmore Byronic than Dantesque, --one hardly knows which version to callmore truly poetical; but for a faithful rendering of the originalconception one can hardly hesitate to give the palm to Mr. Longfellow. 

Thus we see what may be achieved by the most highly gifted oftranslators who contents himself with passively reproducing the dictionof his original, who constitutes himself, as it were, a conduit throughwhich the meaning of the original may flow. Where the differencesinherent in the languages employed do not intervene to alloy the result, the stream of the original may, as in the verses just cited, come outpure and unweakened. Too often, however, such is the subtle chemistry ofthought, it will come out diminished in its integrity, or will appear, bereft of its primitive properties as a mere element in some newcombination. Our channel is a trifle too alkaline perhaps; and that thetransferred material may preserve its pleasant sharpness, we may needto throw in a little extra acid. Too often the mere differences betweenEnglish and Italian prevent Dante's expressions from coming out in Mr. Longfellow's version so pure and unimpaired as in the instance justcited. But these differences cannot be ignored. They lie deep in thevery structure of human speech, and are narrowly implicated with equallyprofound nuances in the composition of human thought. The causes whichmake dolente a solemn word to the Italian ear, and dolent a queer wordto the English ear, are causes which have been slowly operating eversince the Italian and the Teuton parted company on their way fromCentral Asia. They have brought about a state of things which no cunningof the translator can essentially alter, but to the emergencies of whichhe must graciously conform his proceedings. Here, then, is the solepoint on which we disagree with Mr. Longfellow, the sole reason we havefor thinking that he has not attained the fullest possible measure ofsuccess. Not that he has made a "realistic" translation, --so far weconceive him to be entirely right; but that, by dint of pushing sheerliteralism beyond its proper limits, he has too often failed to be trulyrealistic. Let us here explain what is meant by realistic translation. 

Every thoroughly conceived and adequately executed translation ofan ancient author must be founded upon some conscious theory or someunconscious instinct of literary criticism. As is the critical spirit ofan age, so among other things will be its translations. Now the criticalspirit of every age previous to our own has been characterized by itsinability to appreciate sympathetically the spirit of past and bygonetimes. In the seventeenth century criticism made idols of its ancientmodels; it acknowledged no serious imperfections in them; it set themup as exemplars for the present and all future times to copy. Let thegenial Epicurean henceforth write like Horace, let the epic narratorimitate the supreme elegance of Virgil, --that was the conspicuous idea, the conspicuous error, of seventeenth-century criticism. It overlookedthe differences between one age and another. Conversely, when it broughtRoman patricians and Greek oligarchs on to the stage, it made thembehave like French courtiers or Castilian grandees or English peers. When it had to deal with ancient heroes, it clothed them in the garband imputed to them the sentiments of knights-errant. Then came therevolutionary criticism of the eighteenth century, which assumed thateverything old was wrong, while everything new was right. It recognizedcrudely the differences between one age and another, but it had a wayof looking down upon all ages except the present. This intolerance showntoward the past was indeed a measure of the crudeness with which it wascomprehended. Because Mohammed, if he had done what he did, in Franceand in the eighteenth century, would have been called an impostor, Voltaire, the great mouthpiece and representative of this style ofcriticism, portrays him as an impostor. Recognition of the fact thatdifferent ages are different, together with inability to perceive thatthey ought to be different, that their differences lie in the nature ofprogress, --this was the prominent characteristic of eighteenth-centurycriticism. Of all the great men of that century, Lessing was perhaps theonly one who outgrew this narrow critical habit. 

Now nineteenth-century criticism not only knows that in no preceding agehave men thought and behaved as they now think and behave, but it alsounderstands that old-fashioned thinking and behaviour was in its wayjust as natural and sensible as that which is now new-fashioned. It doesnot flippantly sneer at an ancient custom because we no longer cherishit; but with an enlightened regard for everything human, it inquiresinto its origin, traces its effects, and endeavours to explain itsdecay. It is slow to characterize Mohammed as an impostor, because ithas come to feel that Arabia in the seventh century is one thing andEurope in the nineteenth another. It is scrupulous about brandingCaesar as an usurper, because it has discovered that what Mr. Mill callsrepublican liberty and what Cicero called republican liberty are widelydifferent notions. It does not tell us to bow down before Lucretiusand Virgil as unapproachable models, while lamenting our own hopelessinferiority; nor does it tell us to set them down as half-skilledapprentices, while congratulating ourselves on our own comfortablesuperiority; but it tells us to study them as the exponents of an ageforever gone, from which we have still many lessons to learn, thoughwe no longer think as it thought or feel as it felt. The eighteenthcentury, as represented by the characteristic passage from Voltaire, cited by Mr. Longfellow, failed utterly to understand Dante. To theminds of Voltaire and his contemporaries the great mediaeval poet waslittle else than a Titanic monstrosity, --a maniac, whose ravings foundrhythmical expression; his poem a grotesque medley, wherein a fewbeautiful verses were buried under the weight of whole cantos ofnonsensical scholastic quibbling. This view, somewhat softened, wefind also in Leigh Hunt, whose whole account of Dante is an excellentspecimen of this sort of criticism. Mr. Hunt's fine moral nature wasshocked and horrified by the terrible punishments described in the"Inferno. " He did not duly consider that in Dante's time these fearfulthings were an indispensable part of every man's theory of the world;and, blinded by his kindly prejudices, he does not seem to haveperceived that Dante, in accepting eternal torments as part and parcelof the system of nature, was nevertheless, in describing them, inspiredwith that ineffable tenderness of pity which, in the episodes ofFrancesca and of Brunetto Latini, has melted the hearts of men in pasttimes, and will continue to do so in times to come. "Infinite pity, yet infinite rigour of law! It is so Nature is made: it is so Dantediscerned that she was made. " [57] This remark of the great seer of ourtime is what the eighteenth century could in no wise comprehend. The menof that day failed to appreciate Dante, just as they were oppressed ordisgusted at the sight of Gothic architecture; just as they pronouncedthe scholastic philosophy an unmeaning jargon; just as they consideredmediaeval Christianity a gigantic system of charlatanry, and were wontunreservedly to characterize the Papacy as a blighting despotism. Inour time cultivated men think differently. We have learned that theinterminable hair-splitting of Aquinas and Abelard has added precisionto modern thinking. [58] We do not curse Gregory VII. And Innocent III. As enemies of the human race, but revere them as benefactors. We canspare a morsel of hearty admiration for Becket, however strongly we maysympathize with the stalwart king who did penance for his foul murder;and we can appreciate Dante's poor opinion of Philip the Fair no lessthan his denunciation of Boniface VIII. The contemplation of Gothicarchitecture, as we stand entranced in the sublime cathedrals of Yorkor Rouen, awakens in our breasts a genuine response to the mightyaspirations which thus became incarnate in enduring stone. And thepoem of Dante--which has been well likened to a great cathedral--wereverently accept, with all its quaint carvings and hieroglyphicsymbols, as the authentic utterance of feelings which still exist, though they no longer choose the same form of expression. 

 [57] Carlyle, Heroes and Hero-Worship, p. 84. 

 [58] See my Outlines of Cosmic Philosophy, Vol. I. P. 123. 

A century ago, therefore, a translation of Dante such as Mr. Longfellow's would have been impossible. The criticism of that timewas in no mood for realistic reproductions of the antique. It eithersuperciliously neglected the antique, or else dressed it up to suitits own notions of propriety. It was not like a seven-league boot whichcould fit everybody, but it was like a Procrustes-bed which everybodymust be made to fit. Its great exponent was not a Sainte-Beuve, but aBoileau. Its typical sample of a reproduction of the antique was Pope'stranslation of the Iliad. That book, we presume, everybody has read;and many of those who have read it know that, though an excellent andspirited poem, it is no more Homer than the age of Queen Anne was theage of Peisistratos. Of the translations of Dante made during thisperiod, the chief was unquestionably Mr. Cary's. [59] For a man born andbrought up in the most unpoetical of centuries, Mr. Cary certainly madea very good poem, though not so good as Pope's. But it fell far shortof being a reproduction of Dante. The eighteenth-century note rings outloudly on every page of it. Like much other poetry of the time, itis laboured and artificial. Its sentences are often involved andoccasionally obscure. Take, for instance, Canto IV. 25-36 of the"Paradiso":

 [59] This work comes at the end of the eighteenth-century period, as Pope's translation of Homer comes at the beginning. 

 "These are the questions which they will Urge equally; and therefore I the first Of that will treat which hath the more of gall. Of seraphim he who is most enskied, Moses, and Samuel, and either John, Choose which thou wilt, nor even Mary's self, Have not in any other heaven their seats, Than have those spirits which so late thou saw'st; Nor more or fewer years exist; but all Make the first circle beauteous, diversely Partaking of sweet life, as more or less Afflation of eternal bliss pervades them. "

Here Mr. Cary not only fails to catch Dante's grand style; he doesnot even write a style at all. It is too constrained and awkward to bedignified, and dignity is an indispensable element of style. Withoutdignity we may write clearly, or nervously, or racily, but we havenot attained to a style. This is the second shortcoming of Mr. Cary'stranslation. Like Pope's, it fails to catch the grand style of itsoriginal. Unlike Pope's, it frequently fails to exhibit any style. 

It is hardly necessary to spend much time in proving that Mr. Longfellow's version is far superior to Mr. Cary's. It is usually easyand flowing, and save in the occasional use of violent inversions, always dignified. Sometimes, as in the episode of Ugolino, it even risesto something like the grandeur of the original:

 "When he had said this, with his eyes distorted, The wretched skull resumed he with his teeth, Which, as a dog's, upon the bone were strong. " [60]

 [60] "Quand' ebbe detto cio, eon gli occhi torti Riprese il teschio misero coi denti, Che furo all' osso, come d'un can, forti. " Inferno, XXXIII. 76. 

That is in the grand style, and so is the following, which describesthose sinners locked in the frozen lake below Malebolge:--

 "Weeping itself there does not let them weep, And grief that finds a barrier in the eyes Turns itself inward to increase the anguish. [61]

 [61] "Lo pianto stesso li pianger non lascia, E il duol, che trova in sugli occhi rintoppo, Si volve in entro a far crescer l' ambascia. " Inferno, XXXIII. 94. 

And the exclamation of one of these poor "wretches of the frozen crust"is an exclamation that Shakespeare might have written:--

 "Lift from mine eyes the rigid veils, that I May vent the sorrow which impregns my heart. " [62]

 [62] "Levatemi dal viso i duri veli, Si ch' io sfoghi il dolor che il cor m' impregna. " Ib. 112. 

There is nothing in Mr. Cary's translation which can stand a comparisonwith that. The eighteenth century could not translate like that. For here at last we have a real reproduction of the antique. In theShakespearian ring of these lines we recognize the authentic renderingof the tones of the only man since the Christian era who could speaklike Shakespeare. 

In this way Mr. Longfellow's translation is, to an eminent degree, realistic. It is a work conceived and executed in entire accordancewith the spirit of our time. Mr. Longfellow has set about making areconstructive translation, and he has succeeded in the attempt. In viewof what he has done, no one can ever wish to see the old methods ofPope and Cary again resorted to. It is only where he fails to be trulyrealistic that he comes short of success. And, as already hinted, itis oftenest through sheer excess of LITERALISM that he ceases to berealistic, and departs from the spirit of his author instead of comingnearer to it. In the "Paradiso, " Canto X. 1-6, his method leads him intoawkwardness:--

 "Looking into His Son with all the love Which each of them eternally breathes forth, The primal and unutterable Power Whate'er before the mind or eye revolves With so much order made, there can be none Who this beholds without enjoying Him. "

This seems clumsy and halting, yet it is an extremely literal paraphraseof a graceful and flowing original:--

 "Guardando nel suo figlio con l' amore Che l' uno e l' altro eternalmente spire, Lo primo ed ineffabile Valore, Quanto per mente o per loco si gira Con tanto ordine fe', ch' esser non puote Senza gustar di lui ehi cio rimira "

Now to turn a graceful and flowing sentence into one that is clumsyand halting is certainly not to reproduce it, no matter how exactly theseparate words are rendered, or how closely the syntactic constructionsmatch each other. And this consideration seems conclusive as againstthe adequacy of the literalist method. That method is inadequate, notbecause it is too REALISTIC, but because it runs continual risk of beingtoo VERBALISTIC. It has recently been applied to the translation ofDante by Mr. Rossetti, and it has sometimes led him to write curiousverses. For instance, he makes Francesca say to Dante, --

 "O gracious and benignant ANIMAL!"

for

 "O animal grazioso e benigno!"

Mr. Longfellow's good taste has prevented his doing anything like this, yet Mr. Rossetti's extravagance is due to an unswerving adherence to thevery rules by which Mr. Longfellow has been guided. 

Good taste and poetic genius are, however, better than the best ofrules, and so, after all said and done, we can only conclude that Mr. Longfellow has given us a great and noble work not likely soon tobe equalled. Leopardi somewhere, in speaking of the early Italiantranslators of the classics and their well-earned popularity, says, whoknows but Caro will live in men's remembrance as long as Virgil? "Labelie destinee, " adds Sainte-Beuve, "de ne pouvoir plus mourir, sinonavec un immortel!" Apart from Mr. Longfellow's other titles to undyingfame, such a destiny is surely marked out for him, and throughout theEnglish portions of the world his name will always be associated withthat of the great Florentine. 

 June, 1867. 

XII. PAINE'S "ST. PETER. "

For music-lovers in America the great event of the season has been theperformance of Mr. Paine's oratorio, "St. Peter, " at Portland, June 3. This event is important, not only as the first appearance of anAmerican oratorio, but also as the first direct proof we have had of theexistence of creative musical genius in this country. For Mr. Paine'sMass in D--a work which was brought out with great success several yearsago in Berlin--has, for some reason or other, never been performed here. And, with the exception of Mr. Paine, we know of no American hithertowho has shown either the genius or the culture requisite for writingmusic in the grand style, although there is some of the Kapellmeistermusic, written by our leading organists and choristers, which deserveshonourable mention. Concerning the rank likely to be assigned byposterity to "St. Peter, " it would be foolish now to speculate; andit would be equally unwise to bring it into direct comparison withmasterpieces like the "Messiah, " "Elijah, " and "St. Paul, " the greatnessof which has been so long acknowledged. Longer familiarity with the workis needed before such comparisons, always of somewhat doubtful value, can be profitably undertaken. But it must at least be said, as the netresult of our impressions derived both from previous study of the scoreand from hearing, the performance at Portland, that Mr. Paine's oratoriohas fairly earned for itself the right to be judged by the same highstandard which we apply to these noble works of Mendelssohn and Handel. 

In our limited space we can give only the briefest description ofthe general structure of the work. The founding of Christianity, asillustrated in four principal scenes of the life of St. Peter, suppliesthe material for the dramatic development of the subject. The overture, beginning with an adagio movement in B-flat minor, gives expressionto the vague yearnings of that time of doubt and hesitancy when the"oracles were dumb, " and the dawning of a new era of stronger anddiviner faith was matter of presentiment rather than of definite hope orexpectation. Though the tonality is at first firmly established, yetas the movement becomes more agitated, the final tendency of themodulations also becomes uncertain, and for a few bars it would seem asif the key of F-sharp minor might be the point of destination. But aftera short melody by the wind instruments, accompanied by a rapid upwardmovement of strings, the dominant chord of C major asserts itself, beingrepeated, with sundry inversions, through a dozen bars, and leadingdirectly into the triumphant and majestic chorus, "The time isfulfilled, and the kingdom of heaven is at hand. " The second subject, introduced by the word "repent" descending through the interval of adiminished seventh and contrasted with the florid counterpoint of thephrase, "and believe the glad tidings of God, " is a masterpiece ofcontrapuntal writing, and, if performed by a choir of three or fourhundred voices, would produce an overpowering effect. The divine callof Simon Peter and his brethren is next described in a tenor recitative;and the acceptance of the glad tidings is expressed in an aria, "Thespirit of the Lord is upon me, " which, by an original but appropriateconception, is given to the soprano voice. In the next number, thedisciples are dramatically represented by twelve basses and tenors, singing in four-part harmony, and alternating or combining with the fullchorus in description of the aims of the new religion. The poem endswith the choral, "How lovely shines the Morning Star!" Then follows thesublime scene from Matthew xvi. 14-18, where Peter declares hismaster to be "the Christ, the Son of the living God, "--one of the mostimpressive scenes, we have always thought, in the gospel history, andhere not inadequately treated. The feeling of mysterious and awfulgrandeur awakened by Peter's bold exclamation, "Thou art the Christ, " ispowerfully rendered by the entrance of the trombones upon the invertedsubdominant triad of C-sharp minor, and their pause upon the dominant ofthe same key. Throughout this scene the characteristic contrast betweenthe ardent vigour of Peter and the sweet serenity of Jesus is welldelineated in the music. After Peter's stirring aria, "My heart isglad, " the dramatic climax is reached in the C-major chorus, "The Churchis built upon the foundation of the apostles and prophets. "

The second scene is carried out to somewhat greater length, corresponding nearly to the last half of the first part of "Elijah, "from the point where the challenge is given to the prophets of Baal. In the opening passages of mingled recitative and arioso, Peter isforewarned that he shall deny his Master, and his half-indignantremonstrance is sustained, with added emphasis, by the voices of thetwelve disciples, pitched a fourth higher. Then Judas comes, witha great multitude, and Jesus is carried before the high-priest. Thebeautiful F-minor chorus, "We hid our faces from him, " furnishes themusical comment upon the statement that "the disciples all forsook himand fled. " We hardly dare to give full expression to our feelings aboutthis chorus (which during the past month has been continually singingitself over and over again in our recollection), lest it should besupposed that our enthusiasm has got the better of our sober judgment. The second theme, "He was brought as a lamb to the slaughter, yethe opened not his mouth, " is quite Handel-like in the simplicity andmassiveness of its magnificent harmonic progressions. With the sceneof the denial, for which we are thus prepared, the dramatic movementbecomes exceedingly rapid, and the rendering of the events in thehigh-priest's hall--Peter's bass recitative alternating its cravenprotestations with the clamorous agitato chorus of the servants--isstirring in the extreme. The contralto aria describing the Lord'sturning and looking upon Peter is followed by the orchestra with alament in B-flat minor, introducing the bass aria of the repentant andremorse-stricken disciple, "O God, my God, forsake me not. " As the laststrains of the lamentation die away, a choir of angels is heard, ofsopranos and contraltos divided, singing, "Remember from whence thouart fallen, " to an accompaniment of harps. The second theme, "He thatovercometh shall receive a crown of life, " is introduced in full chorus, in a cheering allegro movement, preparing the way for a climax higherthan any yet reached in the course of the work. This climax--delayedfor a few moments by an andante aria for a contralto voice, "The Lord isfaithful and righteous"--at last bursts upon us with a superb crescendoof strings, and the words, "Awake, thou that sleepest, arise from thedead, and Christ shall give thee light. " This chorus, which forreasons presently to be given was heard at considerable disadvantage atPortland, contains some of the best fugue-writing in the work, and isespecially rich and powerful in its instrumentation. 

The second part of the oratorio begins with the crucifixion andascension of Jesus. Here we must note especially the deeply patheticopening chorus, "The Son of Man was delivered into the hands of sinfulmen, " the joyous allegro, "And on the third day he rose again, " thechoral, "Jesus, my Redeemer, lives, " and the quartet, "Feed the flockof God, " commenting upon the command of Jesus, "Feed my lambs. " Thisquartet has all the heavenly sweetness of Handel's "He shall feedhis flock, " which it suggests by similarity of subject, though not bysimilarity of treatment; but in a certain quality of inwardness, orreligious meditativeness, it reminds one more of Mr. Paine's favouritemaster, Bach. The choral, like the one in the first part and the onewhich follows the scene of Pentecost, is taken from the LutheranChoral Book, and arranged with original harmony and instrumentation, inaccordance with the custom of Bach, Mendelssohn, and other composers, "of introducing into their sacred compositions the old popular choralmelodies which are the peculiar offspring of a religious age. " Thus thenoblest choral ever written, the "Sleepers, wake, " in "St. Paul, " wascomposed in 1604 by Praetorius, the harmonization and accompaniment onlybeing the work of Mendelssohn. 

In "St. Peter, " as in "Elijah, " the second part, while forming the truemusical climax of the oratorio, admits of a briefer description thanthe first part. The wave of emotion answering to the sensuously dramaticelement having partly spent itself, the wave of lyric emotion gathersfresh strength, and one feels that one has reached the height ofspiritual exaltation, while, nevertheless, there is not so much whichone can describe to others who may not happen to have gone through withthe same experience. Something of the same feeling one gets in studyingDante's "Paradiso, " after finishing the preceding divisions of his poem:there is less which can be pictured to the eye of sense, or left tobe supplied by the concrete imagination. Nevertheless, in the sceneof Pentecost, which follows that of the Ascension, there is no lack ofdramatic vividness. Indeed, there is nothing in the work more strikingthan the orchestration of the introductory tenor recitative, themysterious chorus, "The voice of the Lord divideth the flames of fire, "or the amazed query which follows, "Behold, are not all these who speakGalileans? and how is it that we every one hear them in our own tonguewherein we were born?" We have heard the opinion expressed that Mr. Paine's oratorio must be lacking in originality, since it suggests suchstrong reminiscences of "St. Paul. " Now, this suggestion, it seems tous, is due partly to the similarity of the subjects, independently ofany likeness in the modes of treatment, and partly, perhaps, to the factthat Mr. Paine, as well as Mendelssohn, has been a devoted student ofBach, whose characteristics are so strong that they may well have lefttheir mark upon the works of both composers. But especially it wouldseem that there is some real, though very general resemblance betweenthis colloquial chorus, "Behold, " etc. , and some choruses in "St. Paul, "as, for example Nos. 29 and 36-38. In the same way the scene in thehigh-priest's hall might distantly suggest either of these passages, orothers in "Elijah;" These resemblances, however, are very superficial, pertaining not to the musical but to the dramatic treatment ofsituations which are generically similar in so far, and only in so far, as they represent conversational passages between an apostle or prophetand an ignorant multitude, whether amazed or hostile, under the sway ofviolent excitement. As regards the musical elaboration of these terseand striking alternations of chorus and recitative, its originality canbe questioned only after we have decided to refer all originality onsuch matters to Bach, or, indeed, even behind him, into the Middle Ages. 

After the preaching of Peter, and the sweet contralto aria, "As forman, his days are as grass, " the culmination of this scene comes in theD-major chorus, "This is the witness of God. " What follows, beginningwith the choral, "Praise to the Father, " is to be regarded as anepilogue or peroration to the whole work. It is in accordance witha sound tradition that the grand sacred drama of an oratorio shouldconclude with a lyric outburst of thanksgiving, a psalm of praise to theGiver of every good and perfect gift. Thus, after Peter's laboursare ended in the aria, "Now as ye were redeemed, " in which the twelvedisciples and the full chorus join, a duet for tenor and soprano, "Singunto God, " brings us to the grand final chorus in C major, "Great andmarvellous are thy works, Lord God Almighty. "

The cadence of this concluding chorus reminds us that one of thenoteworthy points in the oratorio is the character of its cadences. The cadence prepared by the 6/4 chord, now become so hackneyed from itsperpetual and wearisome repetition in popular church music, seems to beespecially disliked by Mr. Paine, as it occurs but once or twice in thecourse of the work. In the great choruses the cadence is usually reachedeither by a pedal on the tonic, as in the chorus, "Awake, thou thatsleepest, " or by a pedal on the dominant culminating in a chord of themajor ninth, as in the final chorus; or there is a plagal cadence, as inthe first chorus of the second part; or, if the 6/4 chord is introduced, as it is in the chorus, "He that overcometh, " its ordinary effect iscovered and obscured by the movement of the divided sopranos. We do notremember noticing anywhere such a decided use of the 6/4 chord as ismade, for example, by Mendelssohn, in "Thanks be to God, " or in thefinal chorus of "St. Paul. " Perhaps if we were to confess our lingeringfondness for the cadence prepared by the 6/4 chord, when not toofrequently introduced, it might only show that we retain a liking forNew England "psalm-tunes"; but it does seem to us that a sense of finalrepose, of entire cessation of movement, is more effectually securedby this cadence than by any other. Yet while the 6/4 cadence mostcompletely expresses finality and rest, it would seem that the plagaland other cadences above enumerated as preferred by Mr. Paine have acertain sort of superiority by reason of the very incompleteness withwhich they express finality. There is no sense of finality whateverabout the Phrygian cadence; it leaves the mind occupied with the feelingof a boundless region beyond, into which one would fain penetrate; andfor this reason it has, in sacred music, a great value. Something ofthe same feeling, too, attaches to those cadences in which an unexpectedmajor third usurps the place of the minor which the ear was expecting, as in the "Incarnatus" of Mozart's "Twelfth Mass, " or in Bach's sublime"Prelude, " Part I. , No. 22 of the "Well-tempered Clavichord. " In a lessdegree, an analogous effect was produced upon us by the cadence with apedal on the tonic in the choruses, "The Church is built, " and "Awake, thou that sleepest. " On these considerations it may become intelligiblethat to some hearers Mr. Paine's cadences have seemed unsatisfactory, their ears having missed the positive categorical assertion of finalitywhich the 6/4 cadence alone can give. To go further into this subjectwould take us far beyond our limits. 

The pleasant little town of Portland has reason to congratulateitself, first, on being the birthplace of such a composer as Mr. Paine;secondly, on having been the place where the first great work of Americain the domain of music was brought out; and thirdly, on possessingwhat is probably the most thoroughly disciplined choral society in thiscountry. Our New York friends, after their recent experiences, willperhaps be slow to believe us when we say that the Portland choir sangthis new work even better, in many respects, than the Handel and HaydnSociety sing the old and familiar "Elijah"; but it is true. In theircommand of the pianissimo and the gradual crescendo, and in theprecision of their attack, the Portland singers can easily teach theHandel and Haydn a quarter's lessons. And, besides all this, they knowhow to preserve their equanimity under the gravest persecutions of theorchestra; keeping the even tenour of their way where a less disciplinedchoir, incited by the excessive blare of the trombones and the unduescraping of the second violins, would be likely to lose its presence ofmind and break out into an untimely fortissimo. 

No doubt it is easier to achieve perfect chorus-singing with a choir ofone hundred and twenty-five voices than with a choir of six hundred. But this diminutive size, which was an advantage so far as concerned thetechnical excellence of the Portland choir, was decidedly a disadvantageso far as concerned the proper rendering of the more massive choruses in"St. Peter. " All the greatest choruses--such as Nos. 1, 8, 19, 20, 28, 35, and 39--were seriously impaired in the rendering by the lack ofmassiveness in the voices. For example, the grand chorus, "Awake, thouthat sleepest, " begins with a rapid crescendo of strings, introducingthe full chorus on the word "Awake, " upon the dominant triad of D major;and after a couple of beats the voices are reinforced by the trombones, producing the most tremendous effect possible in such a crescendo. Unfortunately, however, the brass asserted itself at this point so muchmore emphatically than the voices that the effect was almost to disjointhe latter portion of the chord from its beginning, and thus todwarf the utterance of the word "Awake. " To us this effect was verydisagreeable; and it was obviously contrary to the effect intended bythe composer. But with a weight of four or five hundred voices, theeffect would be entirely different. Instead of entering upon the sceneas intruders, the mighty trombones would only serve to swell and enrichthe ponderous chord which opens this noble chorus. Given greater weightonly, and the performance of the admirable Portland choir would haveleft nothing to be desired. 

We cannot speak with so much satisfaction of the performance of theorchestra. The instrumentation of "St. Peter" is remarkably fine. Butthis instrumentation was rather clumsily rendered by the orchestra, whose doings constituted the least enjoyable part of the performance. There was too much blare of brass, whine of hautboy, and scraping ofstrings. But in condonation of this serious defect, one must admit thatthe requisite amount of rehearsal is out of the question when one'schoir is in Portland and one's orchestra in Boston; besides which theparts had been inaccurately copied. For a moment, at the beginning ofthe orchestral lament, there was risk of disaster, the wind instrumentsfailing to come in at the right time, when Mr. Paine, with fortunatepresence of mind, stopped the players, and the movement was begun overagain, --the whole occurring so quickly and quietly as hardly to attractattention. 

In conclusion we would say a few words suggested by a recent criticalnotice of Mr. Paine's work in the "Nation. " While acknowledging theimportance of the publication of this oratorio, as an event in theart-history of America, the writer betrays manifest disappointment thatthis work should not rather have been a symphony, [63] and thus havebelonged to what he calls the "domain of absolute music. " Now withregard to the assumption that the oratorio is not so high a form ofmusic as the symphony, or, in other words, that vocal music in generalis artistically inferior to instrumental music, we may observe, first, that Ambros and Dommer--two of the most profound musical critics nowliving--do not sustain it. It is Beanquier, we think, who suggests thatinstrumental music should rank above vocal, because it is "puremusic, " bereft of the fictitious aids of language and of the emotionalassociations which are grouped about the peculiar timbre of the humanvoice. [64] At first the suggestion seems plausible; but on analogousgrounds we might set the piano above the orchestra, because the pianogives us pure harmony and counterpoint, without the adventitious aid ofvariety in timbre. And it is indeed true that, for some such reason asthis, musicians delight in piano-sonatas, which are above all thingstedious and unintelligible to the mind untrained in music. Nevertheless, in spite of its great and peculiar prerogatives, it would be absurdto prefer the piano to the orchestra; and there is a kindred absurdityinvolved in setting the orchestra above that mighty union of orchestra, organ, and voices which we get in the oratorio. When the reason allegedfor ranking the symphony above the oratorio leads us likewise to rankthe sonata above the symphony, we seem to have reached a reductio adabsurdum. 

 [63] Now within two years, Mr. Paine's C-minor symphony hasfollowed the completion of his oratorio. 

 [64] These peculiar associations are no doubt what is chieflyenjoyed in music, antecedent to a properly musical culture. Persons ofslight acquaintance with music invariably prefer the voice to the piano. 

Rightly considered, the question between vocal and instrumental musicamounts to this, What does music express? This is a great psychologicalquestion, and we have not now the space or the leisure requisite fordiscussing it, even in the most summary way. We will say, however, thatwe do not see how music can in any way express ideas, or anything butmoods or emotional states to which the ideas given in language may adddetermination and precision. The pure symphony gives utterance to moods, and will be a satisfactory work of art or not, according as the composerhas been actuated by a legitimate sequence of emotional states, likeBeethoven, or by a desire to produce novel and startling effects, likeLiszt. But the danger in purely instrumental music is that it may runriot in the extravagant utterance of emotional states which are notproperly concatenated by any normal sequence of ideas associated withthem. This is sometimes exemplified in the most modern instrumentalmusic. 

Now, as in real life our sequent clusters of emotional states are ingeneral determined by their association with our sequent groups ofintellectual ideas, it would seem that music, regarded as an exponent ofpsychical life, reaches its fullest expressiveness when the sequence ofthe moods which it incarnates in sound is determined by some sequenceof ideas, such as is furnished by the words of a libretto. Not that thewords should have predominance over the music, or even coequal sway withit, but that they should serve to give direction to the succession offeelings expressed by the music. "Lift up your heads" and "Hallelujah"do not owe their glory to the text, but to that tremendous energyof rhythmic and contrapuntal progression which the text serves toconcentrate and justify. When precision and definiteness of directionare thus added to the powerful physical means of expression which we getin the combination of chorus, orchestra, and organ, we have attainedthe greatest sureness as well as the greatest wealth of musicalexpressiveness. And thus we may see the reasonableness of Dommer'sopinion that in order to restrain instrumental music from ruining itselfby meaningless extravagance, it is desirable that there should bea renaissance of vocal music, such as it was in the golden age ofPalestrina and Orlando Lasso. 

We are not inclined to deny that in structural beauty--in thesymmetrical disposition and elaboration of musical themes--the symphonyhas the advantage. The words, which in the oratorio serve to givedefinite direction to the currents of emotion, may also sometimeshamper the free development of the pure musical conception, just as inpsychical life the obtrusive entrance of ideas linked by association mayhinder the full fruition of some emotional state. Nevertheless, in spiteof this possible drawback, it may be doubted if the higher formsof polyphonic composition fall so very far short of the symphony incapability of giving full elaboration to the musical idea. The practicaltestimony of Beethoven, in his Ninth Symphony, is decidedly adverse toany such supposition. 

But to pursue this interesting question would carry us far beyond ourlimits. Whatever may be the decision as to the respective claims ofvocal and instrumental music, we have every reason for welcoming theappearance, in our own country, of an original work in the highestform of vocal music. It is to be hoped that we shall often have theopportunity to "hear with our ears" this interesting work; for as a rulegreat musical compositions are peculiarly unfortunate among works ofart, in being known at first hand by comparatively few persons. In thisway is rendered possible that pretentious kind of dilettante criticismwhich is so common in musical matters, and which is often positivelyinjurious, as substituting a factitious public opinion for one that isgenuine. We hope that the favour with which the new oratorio has alreadybeen received will encourage the author to pursue the enviable careerupon which he has entered. Even restricting ourselves to vocal music, there is still a broad field left open for original work. The secularcantata--attempted in recent times by Schumann, as well as by Englishcomposers of smaller calibre--is a very high form of vocal music; andif founded on an adequate libretto, dealing with some supremely grandor tragical situation, is capable of being carried to an unprecedentedheight of musical elaboration. Here is an opportunity for originalachievement, of which it is to be hoped that some gifted andwell-trained composer, like the author of "St. Peter, " may find it worthwhile to avail himself. 

 June, 1873. 

XIII. A PHILOSOPHY OF ART. [65]

 [65] The Philosophy of Art. By H. Taine. New York: Leypoldt &Holt. 1867. 

We are glad of a chance to introduce to our readers one of the worksof a great writer. Though not yet [66] widely known in this country, M. Taine has obtained a very high reputation in Europe. He is still quitea young man, but is nevertheless the author of nineteen goodly volumes, witty, acute, and learned; and already he is often ranked with Renan, Littre, and Sainte-Beuve, the greatest living French writers. 

 [66] That is, in 1868. 

Hippolyte Adolphe Taine was born at Vouziers, among the grand forestsof Ardennes, in 1828, and is therefore about forty years old. His familywas simple in habits and tastes, and entertained a steadfast beliefin culture, along with the possession of a fair amount of it. Hisgrandfather was sub-prefect at Rocroi, in 1814 and 1815, under the firstrestoration of the Bourbons. His father, a lawyer by profession, was thefirst instructor of his son, and taught him Latin, and from an uncle, who had been in America, he learned English, while still a mere child. Having gone to Paris with his mother in 1842, he began his studiesat the College Bourbon and in 1848 was promoted to the ecole Normale. Weiss, About, and Prevost-Paradol were his contemporaries at thisinstitution. At that time great liberty was enjoyed in regard tothe order and the details of the exercises; so that Taine, with hissurprising rapidity, would do in one week the work laid out for a month, and would spend the remainder of the time in private reading. In 1851he left college, and after two or three unsatisfactory attempts atteaching, in Paris and in the provinces, he settled down at Paris as aprivate student. He gave himself the very best elementary preparationwhich a literary man can have, --a thorough course in mathematics and thephysical sciences. His studies in anatomy and physiology were especiallyelaborate and minute. He attended the School of Medicine as regularly asif he expected to make his daily bread in the profession. In this way, when at the age of twenty-five he began to write books, M. Taine was areally educated man; and his books show it. The day is past when a mancould write securely, with a knowledge of the classics alone. We doubtif a philosophical critic is perfectly educated for his task, unless hecan read, for instance, Donaldson's "New Cratylus" on the one hand, andRokitansky's "Pathological Anatomy" on the other, for the sheer pleasureof the thing. At any rate, it was an education of this sort which M. Taine, at the outset of his literary career, had secured. By this soliddiscipline of mathematics, chemistry, and medicine, M. Taine becamethat which above all things he now is, --a man possessed of a centralphilosophy, of an exact, categorical, well-defined system, whichaccompanies and supports him in his most distant literary excursions. He does not keep throwing out ideas at random, like too many literarycritics, but attaches all his criticisms to a common fundamentalprinciple; in short, he is not a dilettante, but a savant. 

His treatise on La Fontaine, in 1853, attracted much attention, both thestyle and the matter being singularly fresh and original. He has sincerepublished it, with alterations which serve to show that he can bedocile toward intelligent criticisms. About the same time he preparedfor the French Academy his work upon the historian Livy, which wascrowned in 1855. Suffering then from overwork, he was obliged to makea short journey to the Pyrenees, which he has since described in acharming little volume, illustrated by Dore. 

His subsequent works are a treatise on the French philosophers ofthe present century, in which the vapid charlatanism of M. Cousin issatisfactorily dealt with; a history of English literature in fivevolumes; a humorous book on Paris; three volumes upon the general theoryof art; and two volumes of travels in Italy; besides a considerablecollection of historical and critical essays. We think that severalof these works would be interesting to the American public, and mightprofitably be translated. 

Some three or four years ago, M. Taine was appointed Professor in theecole des Beaux Arts, and we suppose his journey to Italy must have beenundertaken partly with a view to qualify himself for his new position. He visited the four cities which may be considered the artistic centresof Italy, --Rome, Naples, Florence, and Venice, --and a large part of hisaccount of his journey is taken up with descriptions and criticisms ofpictures, statues, and buildings. 

This is a department of criticism which, we may as well franklyacknowledge, is far better appreciated on the continent of Europe thanin England or America. Over the English race there passed, about twocenturies ago, a deluge of Puritanism, which for a time almost drownedout its artistic tastes and propensities. The Puritan movement, inproportion to its success, was nearly as destructive to art in the West, as Mohammedanism had long before been in the East. In its intense andone-sided regard for morality, Puritanism not only relegated the lovefor beauty to an inferior place, but contemned and spat upon it, assomething sinful and degrading. Hence, the utter architectural impotencewhich characterizes the Americans and the modern English; and hence thebewildered ignorant way in which we ordinarily contemplate picturesand statues. For two centuries we have been removed from an artisticenvironment, and consequently can with difficulty enter into thefeelings of those who have all this time been nurtured in love for art, and belief in art for its own sake. These peculiarities, as Mr. Mill hasably pointed out, have entered deep into our ethnic character. Even inpure morals there is a radical difference between the Englishman andthe inhabitant of the continent of Europe. The Englishman follows virtuefrom a sense of duty, the Frenchman from an emotional aspiration towardthe beautiful The one admires a noble action because it is right, theother because it is attractive. And this difference underlies the moraljudgments upon men and events which are to be found respectively inEnglish and in continental literature. By keeping it constantly in view, we shall be enabled to understand many things which might otherwisesurprise us in the writings of French authors. 

We are now slowly outgrowing the extravagances of Puritanism. It hasgiven us an earnestness and sobriety of character, to which much of ourreal greatness is owing, both here and in the mother country. It hasmade us stronger and steadier, but it has at the same time narrowedus in many respects, and rendered our lives incomplete. Thisincompleteness, entailed by Puritanism, we are gradually getting ridof; and we are learning to admire and respect many things upon whichPuritanism set its mark of contempt. We are beginning, for instance, torecognize the transcendent merits of that great civilizing agency, thedrama; we no longer think it necessary that our temples for worshippingGod should be constructed like hideous barracks; we are graduallypermitting our choirs to discard the droning and sentimental modern"psalm-tune" for the inspiring harmonies of Beethoven and Mozart; and weadmit the classical picture and the undraped statue to a high placein our esteem. Yet with all this it will probably be some time beforegenuine art ceases to be an exotic among us, and becomes a plant ofunhindered native growth. It will be some time before we cease to regardpictures and statues as a higher species of upholstery, and place themin the same category with poems and dramas, duly reverencing them asauthentic revelations of the beauty which is to be found in nature. Itwill be some time before we realize that art is a thing to be studied, as well as literature, and before we can be quite reconciled to thefamiliar way in which a Frenchman quotes a picture as we would quote apoem or novel. 

Artistic genius, as M. Taine has shown, is something which will developitself only under peculiar social circumstances; and, therefore, if wehave not art, we can perhaps only wait for it, trusting that when thetime comes it will arise among us. But without originating, we may atleast intelligently appreciate. The nature of a work of art, and themode in which it is produced, are subjects well worthy of careful study. Architecture and music, poetry, painting and sculpture, have in timespast constituted a vast portion of human activity; and without knowingsomething of the philosophy of art, we need not hope to understandthoroughly the philosophy of history. 

In entering upon the study of art in general, one may find manysuggestive hints in the little books of M. Taine, reprinted from thelectures which he has been delivering at the ecole des Beaux Arts. Thefirst, on the Philosophy of Art, designated at the head of this paper, is already accessible to the American reader; and translations of theothers are probably soon to follow. We shall for the present give a meresynopsis of M. Taine's general views. 

And first it must be determined what a work of art is. Leaving for awhile music and architecture out of consideration, it will be admittedthat poetry, painting, and sculpture have one obvious character incommon: they are arts of IMITATION. This, says Taine, appears at firstsight to be their essential character. It would appear that their greatobject is to IMITATE as closely as possible. It is obvious that a statueis intended to imitate a living man, that a picture is designed torepresent real persons in real attitudes, or the interior of a house, ora landscape, such as it exists in nature. And it is no less clear thata novel or drama endeavours to represent with accuracy real characters, actions, and words, giving as precise and faithful an image of them aspossible. And when the imitation is incomplete, we say to the painter, "Your people are too largely proportioned, and the colour of your treesis false"; we tell the sculptor that his leg or arm is incorrectlymodelled; and we say to the dramatist, "Never has a man felt or thoughtas your hero is supposed to have felt and thought. "

This truth, moreover, is seen both in the careers of individualartists, and in the general history of art. According to Taine, thelife of an artist may generally be divided into two parts. In thefirst period, that of natural growth, he studies nature anxiously andminutely, he keeps the objects themselves before his eyes, and strivesto represent them with scrupulous fidelity. But when the time for mentalgrowth ends, as it does with every man, and the crystallization of ideasand impressions commences, then the mind of the artist is no longerso susceptible to new impressions from without. He begins to nourishhimself from his own substance. He abandons the living model, andwith recipes which he has gathered in the course of his experience, heproceeds to construct a drama or novel, a picture or statue. Now, thefirst period, says Taine, is that of genuine art; the second is that ofmannerism. Our author cites the case of Michael Angelo, a man who wasone of the most colossal embodiments of physical and mental energy thatthe world has ever seen. In Michael Angelo's case, the period of growth, of genuine art, may be said to have lasted until after his sixtiethyear. But look, says Taine, at the works which he executed in his oldage; consider the Conversion of St. Paul, and the Last Judgment, paintedwhen he was nearly seventy. Even those who are not connoisseurs can seethat these frescos are painted by rule, that the artist, having stockedhis memory with a certain set of forms, is making use of them tofill out his tableau; that he wantonly multiplies queer attitudes andingenious foreshortenings; that the lively invention, the grandoutburst of feeling, the perfect truth, by which his earlier works aredistinguished, have disappeared; and that, if he is still superiorto all others, he is nevertheless inferior to himself. The careers ofScott, of Goethe, and of Voltaire will furnish parallel examples. Inevery school of art, too, the flourishing period is followed by one ofdecline; and in every case the decline is due to a failure to imitatethe living models. In painting, we have the exaggerated foreshortenersand muscle-makers who copied Michael Angelo; the lovers of theatricaldecorations who succeeded Titian and Giorgione and the degenerateboudoir-painters who followed Claucle and Poussin. In literature, wehave the versifiers, epigrammatists, and rhetors of the Latin decadence;the sensual and declamatory dramatists who represent the last stagesof old English comedy; and the makers of sonnets and madrigals, orconceited euphemists of the Gongora school, in the decline of Italianand Spanish poetry. Briefly it may be said, that the masters copynature and the pupils copy the masters. In this way are explained theconstantly recurring phenomena of decline in art, and thus, also, itis seen that art is perfect in proportion as it successfully imitatesnature. 

But we are not to conclude that absolute imitation is the sole andentire object of art. Were this the case, the finest works would bethose which most minutely correspond to their external prototypes. Insculpture, a mould taken from the living features is that which givesthe most faithful representation of the model; but a well-mouldedbust is far from being equal to a good statue. Photography is inmany respects more accurate than painting; but no one would rank aphotograph, however exquisitely executed, with an original picture. Andfinally, if exact imitation were the supreme object of art, the besttragedy, the best comedy, and the best drama would be a stenographicreport of the proceedings in a court of justice, in a family gathering, in a popular meeting, in the Rump Congress. Even the works of artistsare not rated in proportion to their minute exactness. Neither inpainting nor in any other art do we give the precedence to that whichdeceives the eye simply. Every one remembers how Zeuxis was said to havepainted grapes so faithfully that the birds came and pecked at them;and how, Parrhasios, his rival, surpassed even this feat by painting acurtain so natural in its appearance that Zeuxis asked him to pull itaside and show the picture behind it. All this is not art, but mereknack and trickery. Perhaps no painter was ever so minute as Denner. It used to take him four years to make one portrait. He would omitnothing, --neither the bluish lines made by the veins under the skin, northe little black points scattered over the nose, nor the bright spotsin the eye where neighbouring objects are reflected; the head seems tostart out from the canvas, it is so like flesh and blood. Yet who caresfor Denner's portraits? And who would not give ten times as much for onewhich Van Dyck or Tintoretto might have painted in a few hours? So inthe churches of Naples and Spain we find statues coloured and draped, saints clothed in real coats, with their skin yellow and bloodless, their hands bleeding, and their feet bruised; and beside them Madonnasin royal habiliments, in gala dresses of lustrous silk, adorned withdiadems, precious necklaces, bright ribbons, and elegant laces, withtheir cheeks rosy, their eyes brilliant, their eyelashes sweeping. Andby this excess of literal imitation, there is awakened a feeling, not ofpleasure, but always of repugnance, often of disgust, and sometimes ofhorror So in literature, the ancient Greek theatre, and the best Spanishand English dramatists, alter on purpose the natural current of humanspeech, and make their characters talk under all the restraints of rhymeand rhythm. But we pronounce this departure from literal truth a meritand not a defect. We consider Goethe's second "Iphigenie, " written inverse, far preferable to the first one written in prose; nay, it is therhythm or metre itself which communicates to the work its incomparablebeauty. In a review of Longfellow's "Dante, " published last year, weargued this very point in one of its special applications; the artistmust copy his original, but he must not copy it too literally. 

What then must he copy? He must copy, says Taine, the mutual relationsand interdependences of the parts of his model. And more than this, he must render the essential characteristic of the object--thatcharacteristic upon which all the minor qualities depend--as salientand conspicuous as possible. He must put into the background thetraits which conceal it, and bring into the foreground the traits whichmanifest it. If he is sculpturing a group like the Laocoon, he muststrike upon the supreme moment, that in which the whole tragedy revealsitself, and he must pass over those insignificant details of positionand movement which serve only to distract our attention and weaken ouremotions by dividing them. If he is writing a drama, he must not attemptto give us the complete biography of his character; he must depict onlythose situations which stand in direct subordination to the grand climaxor denoument. As a final result, therefore. Taine concludes that a workof art is a concrete representation of the relations existing betweenthe parts of an object, with the intent to bring the essential ordominating character thereof into prominence. 

We should overrun our limits if we were to follow out the admirablediscussion in which M. Taine extends this definition to architectureand music. These closely allied arts are distinguished from poetry, painting, and sculpture, by appealing far less directly to theintelligence, and far more exclusively to the emotions. Yet these artslikewise aim, by bringing into prominence certain relations of symmetryin form as perceived by the eye, or in aerial vibrations as perceived bythe ear, to excite in us the states of feeling with which these speciesof symmetry are by subtle laws of association connected. They, too, imitate, not literally, but under the guidance of a predominatingsentiment or emotion, relations which really exist among the phenomenaof nature. And here, too, we estimate excellence, not in proportion tothe direct, but to the indirect imitation. A Gothic cathedral is not, as has been supposed, directly imitated from the towering vegetation ofNorthern forests; but it may well be the expression of the dim sentimentof an unseen, all-pervading Power, generated by centuries of primevallife amid such forests. So the sounds which in a symphony of Beethovenare woven into a web of such amazing complexity may exist in differentcombinations in nature; but when a musician steps out of his way toimitate the crowing of cocks or the roar of the tempest, we regardhis achievement merely as a graceful conceit. Art is, therefore, animitation of nature; but it is an intellectual and not a mechanicalimitation; and the performances of the camera and the music-box arenot to be classed with those of the violinist's bow or the sculptor'schisel. 

And lastly, in distinguishing art from science, Taine remarks, thatin disengaging from their complexity the causes which are at work innature, and the fundamental laws according to which they work, sciencedescribes them in abstract formulas conveyed in technical language. Butart reveals these operative causes and these dominant laws, not in ariddefinitions, inaccessible to most people, intelligible only to speciallyinstructed men, but in a concrete symbol, addressing itself not only tothe understanding, but still more to the sentiments of the ordinary man. Art has, therefore, this peculiarity, that it is at once elevated andpopular, that it manifests that which is often most recondite, and thatit manifests it to all. 

Having determined what a work of art is, our author goes on to studythe social conditions under which works of art are produced; and heconcludes that the general character of a work of art is determinedby the state of intellect and morals in the society in which it isexecuted. There is, in fact, a sort of moral temperature which actsupon mental development much as physical temperature acts upon organicdevelopment. The condition of society does not produce the artist'stalent; but it assists or checks its efforts to display itself; itdecides whether or not it shall be successful And it exerts a "naturalselection" between different kinds of talents, stimulating some andstarving others. To make this perfectly clear, we will cite at somelength Taine's brilliant illustration. 

The case chosen for illustration is a very simple one, --that of a stateof society in which one of the predominant feelings is melancholy. Thisis not an arbitrary supposition, for such a time has occurred more thanonce in human history; in Asia, in the sixth century before Christ, andespecially in Europe, from the fourth to the tenth centuries of ourera. To produce such a state of feeling, five or six generations ofdecadence, accompanied with diminution of population, foreign invasions, famines, pestilences, and increasing difficulty in procuring thenecessaries of life, are amply sufficient. It then happens that men losecourage and hope, and consider life an evil. Now, admitting that amongthe artists who live in such a time, there are likely to be the samerelative numbers of melancholy, joyous, or indifferent temperamentsas at other times, let us see how they will be affected by reigningcircumstances. 

Let us first remember, says Taine, that the evils which depress thepublic will also depress the artist. His risks are no less than those ofless gifted people. He is liable to suffer from plague or famine, tobe ruined by unfair taxation or conscription, or to see his childrenmassacred and his wife led into captivity by barbarians. And if theseills do not reach him personally, he must at least behold those aroundhim affected by them. In this way, if he is joyous by temperament, hemust inevitably become less joyous; if he is melancholy, he must becomemore melancholy. 

Secondly, having been reared among melancholy contemporaries, hiseducation will have exerted upon him a corresponding influence. Theprevailing religious doctrine, accommodated to the state of affairs, will tell him that the earth is a place of exile, life an evil, gayetya snare, and his most profitable occupation will be to get ready todie. Philosophy, constructing its system of morals in conformity to theexisting phenomena of decadence, will tell him that he had better neverhave been born. Daily conversation will inform him of horrible events, of the devastation of a province, the sack of a town by the Goths, theoppression of the neighbouring peasants by the imperial tax-collectors, or the civil war that has just burst out between half a dozen pretendersto the throne. As he travels about, he beholds signs of mourning anddespair, crowds of beggars, people dying of hunger, a broken bridgewhich no one is mending, an abandoned suburb which is going to ruin, fields choked with weeds, the blackened walls of burned houses. Suchsights and impressions, repeated from childhood to old age (and we mustremember that this has actually been the state of things in what are nowthe fairest parts of the globe), cannot fail to deepen whatever elementsof melancholy there may be already in the artist's disposition. 

The operation of all these causes will be enhanced by that verypeculiarity of the artist which constitutes his talent. For, accordingto the definitions above given, that which makes him an artist is hiscapacity for seizing upon the essential characteristics and the salienttraits of surrounding objects and events. Other men see things in partfragmentarily; he catches the spirit of the ensemble. And in this wayhe will very likely exaggerate in his works the general average ofcontemporary feeling. 

Lastly, our author reminds us that a man who writes or paints does notremain alone before his easel or his writing-desk. He goes out, looksabout him, receives suggestions from friends, from rivals, from books, and works of art whenever accessible, and hears the criticisms of thepublic upon his own productions and those of his contemporaries. Inorder to succeed, he must not only satisfy to some extent the populartaste, but he must feel that the public is in sympathy with him. If inthis period of social decadence and gloom he endeavours to representgay, brilliant, or triumphant ideas, he will find himself left to hisown resources; and, as Taine rightly says, the power of an isolated manis always insignificant. His work will be likely to be mediocre. Ifhe attempts to write like Rabelais or paint like Rubens, he will getneither assistance nor sympathy from a public which prefers the picturesof Rembrandt, the melodies of Chopin, and the poetry of Heine. 

Having thus explained his position by this extreme instance, signifiedfor the sake of clearness, Taine goes on to apply such generalconsiderations to four historic epochs, taken in all their complexity. He discusses the aspect presented by art in ancient Greece, in thefeudal and Catholic Middle Ages, in the centralized monarchies of theseventeenth century, and in the scientific, industrial democracyin which we now live. Out of these we shall select, as perhaps thesimplest, the case of ancient Greece, still following our authorclosely, though necessarily omitting many interesting details. 

The ancient Greeks, observes Taine, understood life in a new andoriginal manner. Their energies were neither absorbed by a greatreligious conception, as in the case of the Hindus and Egyptians, norby a vast social organization, as in the case of the Assyrians andPersians, nor by a purely industrial and commercial regime, as in thecase of the Phoenicians and Carthaginians. Instead of a theocracy or arigid system of castes, instead of a monarchy with a hierarchy of civilofficials, the men of this race invented a peculiar institution, theCity, each city giving rise to others like itself, and from colonyto colony reproducing itself indefinitely. A single Greek city, forinstance, Miletos, produced three hundred other cities, colonizing withthem the entire coast of the Black Sea. Each city was substantiallyself-ruling; and the idea of a coalescence of several cities into anation was one which the Greek mind rarely conceived, and never was ableto put into operation. 

In these cities, labour was for the most part carried on by slaves. In Athens there were four or five for each citizen, and in places likeKorinth and Aigina the slave population is said to have numbered fouror five hundred thousand. Besides, the Greek citizen had little need ofpersonal service. He lived out of doors, and, like most Southern people, was comparatively abstemious in his habits. His dinners were slight, hisclothing was simple, his house was scantily furnished, being intendedchiefly for a den to sleep in. 

Serving neither king nor priest, the citizen was free and sovereign inhis own city. He elected his own magistrates, and might himself serveas city-ruler, as juror, or as judge. Representation was unknown. Legislation was carried on by all the citizens assembled in mass. Therefore politics and war were the sole or chief employments of thecitizen. War, indeed, came in for no slight share of his attention. Forsociety was not so well protected as in these modern days. Most of theseGreek cities, scattered over the coasts of the Aigeian, the BlackSea, and the Mediterranean, were surrounded by tribes of barbarians, Scythians, Gauls Spaniards, and Africans. The citizen must thereforekeep on his guard, like the Englishman of to-day in New Zealand, orlike the inhabitant of a Massachusetts town in the seventeenth century. Otherwise Gauls Samnites, or Bithynians, as savage as North AmericanIndians, would be sure to encamp upon the blackened ruins of his town. Moreover, the Greek cities had their quarrels with each other, and theirlaws of war were very barbarous. A conquered city was liable to be razedto the ground, its male inhabitants put to the sword, its women sold asslaves. Under such circumstances, according to Taine's happy expression, a citizen must be a politician and warrior, on pain of death. And notonly fear, but ambition also tended to make him so. For each city stroveto subject or to humiliate its neighbours, to acquire tribute, or toexact homage from its rivals. Thus the citizen passed his life inthe public square, discussing alliances, treaties, and constitutions, hearing speeches, or speaking himself, and finally going aboard of hisship to fight his neighbour Greeks, or to sail against Egypt or Persia. 

War (and politics as subsidiary to it) was then the chief pursuit oflife. But as there was no organized industry, so there were no machinesof warfare. All fighting was done hand to hand. Therefore, the greatthing in preparing for war was not to transform the soldiers intoprecisely-acting automata, as in a modern army, but to make eachseparate soldier as vigorous and active as possible. The leading objectof Greek education was to make men physically perfect. In this respect, Sparta may be taken as the typical Greek community, for nowhere else wasphysical development so entirely made the great end of social life. Inthese matters Sparta was always regarded by the other cities as takingthe lead, --as having attained the ideal after which all alike werestriving. Now Sparta, situated in the midst of a numerous conqueredpopulation of Messenians and Helots, was partly a great gymnasium andpartly a perpetual camp. Her citizens were always in training. Theentire social constitution of Sparta was shaped with a view to thebreeding and bringing up of a strong and beautiful race. Feeble orill-formed infants were put to death. The age at which citizens mightmarry was prescribed by law; and the State paired off men and women asthe modern breeder pairs off horses, with a sole view to the excellenceof the off-spring. A wife was not a helpmate, but a bearer of athletes. Women boxed, wrestled, and raced; a circumstance referred to in thefollowing passage of Aristophanes, as rendered by Mr. Felton:--

 LYSISTRATA. 

 Hail! Lampito, dearest of Lakonian women. How shines thy beauty, O my sweetest friend! How fair thy colour, full of life thy frame! Why, thou couldst choke a bull. 

 LAMPITO. Yes, by the Twain; For I do practice the gymnastic art, And, leaping, strike my backbone with my heels. 

 LYSISTRATA. In sooth, thy bust is lovely to behold. 

The young men lived together, like soldiers in a camp. They ateout-of-doors, at a public table. Their fare was as simple as that of amodern university boat-crew before a race. They slept in the openair, and spent their waking hours in wrestling, boxing, running races, throwing quoits, and engaging in mock battles. This was the way in whichthe Spartans lived; and though no other city carried this discipline tosuch an extent, yet in all a very large portion of the citizen's lifewas spent in making himself hardy and robust. 

The ideal man, in the eyes of a Greek, was, therefore not thecontemplative or delicately susceptible thinker but the naked athlete, with firm flesh and swelling muscles. Most of their barbarian neighbourswere ashamed to be seen undressed, but the Greeks seem to have feltlittle embarrassment in appearing naked in public. Their gymnastichabits entirely transformed their sense of shame. Their Olympicand other public games were a triumphant display of naked physicalperfection. Young men of the noblest families and from the farthestGreek colonies came to them, and wrestled and ran, undraped, beforecountless multitudes of admiring spectators. Note, too, as significant, that the Greek era began with the Olympic games, and that time wasreckoned by the intervals between them; as well as the fact that thegrandest lyric poetry of antiquity was written in celebration of thesegymnastic contests. The victor in the foot-race gave his name tothe current Olympiad; and on reaching home, was received by hisfellow-citizens as if he had been a general returning from a successfulcampaign. To be the most beautiful man in Greece was in the eyes ofa Greek the height of human felicity; and with the Greeks, beautynecessarily included strength. So ardently did this gifted people admirecorporeal perfection that they actually worshipped it. According toHerodotos, a young Sicilian was deified on account of his beauty, andafter his death altars were raised to him. The vast intellectual powerof Plato and Sokrates did not prevent them from sharing this universalenthusiasm. Poets like Sophokles, and statesmen like Alexander, thoughtit not beneath their dignity to engage publicly in gymnastic sports. 

Their conceptions of divinity were framed in accordance with thesegeneral habits. Though sometimes, as in the case of Hephaistos, theexigencies of the particular myth required the deity to be physicallyimperfect, yet ordinarily the Greek god was simply an immortal man, complete in strength and beauty. The deity was not invested with thehuman form as a mere symbol. They could conceive no loftier way ofrepresenting him. The grandest statue, expressing most adequately thecalmness of absolutely unfettered strength, might well, in their eyes, be a veritable portrait of divinity. To a Greek, beauty of form wasa consecrated thing. More than once a culprit got off with his lifebecause it would have been thought sacrilegious to put an end to sucha symmetrical creature. And for a similar reason, the Greeks, thoughperhaps not more humane than the Europeans of the Middle Ages, rarelyallowed the human body to be mutilated or tortured. The condemnedcriminal must be marred as little as possible; and he was, therefore, quietly poisoned, instead of being hung, beheaded, or broken on thewheel. 

Is not the unapproachable excellence of Greek statuary--that art neversince equalled, and most likely, from the absence of the needful socialstimulus, destined never to be equalled--already sufficientlyexplained? Consider, says our author, the nature of the Greek sculptor'spreparation. These men have observed the human body naked and inmovement, in the bath and the gymnasium, in sacred dances and publicgames. They have noted those forms and attitudes in which are revealedvigour, health, and activity. And during three or four hundred yearsthey have thus modified, corrected and developed their notions ofcorporeal beauty. There is, therefore, nothing surprising in the factthat Greek sculpture finally arrived at the ideal model, the perfecttype, as it was, of the human body. Our highest notions of physicalbeauty, down to the present day, have been bequeathed to us by theGreeks. The earliest modern sculptors who abandoned the bony, hideous, starveling figures of the monkish Middle Ages, learned their firstlessons in better things from Greek bas-reliefs. And if, to-day, forgetting our half-developed bodies, inefficiently nourished, becauseof our excessive brain-work, and with their muscles weak and flabby fromwant of strenuous exercise, we wish to contemplate the human form in itsgrandest perfection, we must go to Hellenic art for our models. 

The Greeks were, in the highest sense of the word, an intellectual race;but they never allowed the mind to tyrannize over the body. Spiritualperfection, accompanied by corporeal feebleness, was the invention ofasceticism; and the Greeks were never ascetics. Diogenes might scornsuperfluous luxuries, but if he ever rolled and tumbled his tub about asRabelais says he did, it is clear that the victory of spirit over bodyformed no part of his theory of things. Such an idea would have beenincomprehensible to a Greek in Plato's time. Their consciences were notover active. They were not burdened with a sense of sinfulness. Theiraspirations were decidedly finite; and they believed in securing themaximum completeness of this terrestrial life. Consequently they neverset the physical below the intellectual. To return to our author, theynever, in their statues, subordinated symmetry to expression, the bodyto the head. They were interested not only in the prominence of thebrows, the width of the forehead, and the curvature of the lips, butquite as much in the massiveness of the chest, the compactness of thethighs, and the solidity of the arms and legs. Not only the face, butthe whole body, had for them its physiognomy. They left picturesquenessto the painter, and dramatic fervour to the poet; and keeping strictlybefore their eyes the narrow but exalted problem of representing thebeauty of symmetry, they filled their sanctuaries and public places withthose grand motionless people of brass, gold, ivory, copper, and marble, in whom humanity recognizes its highest artistic types. Statuary wasthe central art of Greece. No other art was so popular, or so completelyexpressed the national life. The number of statues was enormous. Inlater days, when Rome had spoiled the Greek world of its treasures, theImperial City possessed a population of statues almost equal in numberto its population of human beings. And at the present day, after all thedestructive accidents of so many intervening centuries, it is estimatedthat more than sixty thousand statues have been obtained from Rome andits suburbs alone. 

In citing this admirable exposition as a specimen of M. Taine's methodof dealing with his subject, we have refrained from disturbing thepellucid current of thought by criticisms of our own. We think theforegoing explanation correct enough, so far as it goes, though it dealswith the merest rudiments of the subject, and really does nothing towardelucidating the deeper mysteries of artistic production. For this thereis needed a profounder psychology than M. Taine's. But whether histheory of art be adequate or not, there can be but one opinion as to thebrilliant eloquence with which it is set forth. June, 1868. 

XIV. ATHENIAN AND AMERICAN LIFE. 

IN a very interesting essay on British and Foreign Characteristics, published a few years ago, Mr. W. R. Greg quotes the famous letter ofthe Turkish cadi to Mr. Layard, with the comment that "it contains thegerm and element of a wisdom to which our busy and bustling existence isa stranger"; and he uses it as a text for an instructive sermon on the"gospel of leisure. " He urges, with justice, that the too eager andrestless modern man, absorbed in problems of industrial development, maylearn a wholesome lesson from the contemplation of his Oriental brother, who cares not to say, "Behold, this star spinneth round that star, andthis other star with a tail cometh and goeth in so many years"; whoaspires not after a "double stomach, " nor hopes to attain to Paradise by"seeking with his eyes. " If any one may be thought to stand in need ofsome such lesson, it is the American of to-day. Just as far as the Turkcarries his apathy to excess, does the American carry to excess hisrestlessness. But just because the incurious idleness of the Turk isexcessive, so as to be detrimental to completeness of living, itis unfit to supply us with the hints we need concerning the causes, character, and effects of our over-activity. A sermon of leisure, if itis to be of practical use to us, must not be a sermon of laziness. TheOriental state of mind is incompatible with progressive improvement ofany sort, physical, intellectual, or moral. It is one of the phenomenaattendant upon the arrival of a community at a stationary conditionbefore it has acquired a complex civilization. And it appearsserviceable rather as a background upon which to exhibit in relief ourmodern turmoil, than by reason of any lesson which it is itselflikely to convey. Let us in preference study one of the most eminentlyprogressive of all the communities that have existed. Let us take anexample quite different from any that can be drawn from Orientallife, but almost equally contrasted with any that can be found amongourselves; and let us, with the aid of it, examine the respectiveeffects of leisure and of hurry upon the culture of the community. 

What do modern critics mean by the "healthy completeness" of ancientlife, which they are so fond of contrasting with the "heated, ""discontented, " or imperfect and one-sided existence of moderncommunities? Is this a mere set of phrases, suited to some imaginarywant of the literary critic, but answering to nothing real? Are they tobe summarily disposed of as resting upon some tacit assumption of thatold-grannyism which delights in asseverating that times are not whatthey used to be? Is the contrast an imaginary one, due to the softened, cheerful light with which we are wont to contemplate classic antiquitythrough the charmed medium of its incomparable literature? Or is it areal contrast, worthy of the attention and analysis of the historicalinquirer? The answer to these queries will lead us far into thediscussion of the subject which we have propounded, and we shall bestreach it by considering some aspects of the social condition of ancientGreece. The lessons to be learned from that wonderful country are notyet exhausted Each time that we return to that richest of historicmines, and delve faithfully and carefully, we shall be sure to dig upsome jewel worth carrying away. 

And in considering ancient Greece, we shall do well to confine ourattention, for the sake of definiteness of conception, to a singlecity. Comparatively homogeneous as Greek civilization was, there wasnevertheless a great deal of difference between the social circumstancesof sundry of its civic communities. What was true of Athens wasfrequently not true of Sparta or Thebes, and general assertions aboutancient Greece are often likely to be collect only in a loose andgeneral way. In speaking, therefore, of Greece, I must be understoodin the main as referring to Athens, the eye and light of Greece, thenucleus and centre of Hellenic culture. 

Let us note first that Athens was a large city surrounded by pleasantvillage-suburbs, --the demes of Attika, --very much as Boston is closelygirdled by rural places like Brookline, Jamaica Plain, and the rest, village after village rather thickly covering a circuit of from tento twenty miles' radius. The population of Athens with its suburbs mayperhaps have exceeded half a million; but the number of adult freemenbearing arms did not exceed twenty-five thousand. [67] For every oneof these freemen there were four or five slaves; not ignorant, degradedlabourers, belonging to an inferior type of humanity, and bearing themarks of a lower caste in their very personal formation and in thecolour of their skin, like our lately-enslaved negroes; but intelligent, skilled labourers, belonging usually to the Hellenic, and at any rateto the Aryan race, as fair and perhaps as handsome as their masters, andnot subjected to especial ignominy or hardship. These slaves, of whomthere were at least one hundred thousand adult males, relieved thetwenty-five thousand freemen of nearly all the severe drudgery of life;and the result was an amount of leisure perhaps never since known on anequal scale in history. 

 [67] See Herod. V. 97; Aristoph. Ekkl. 432; Thukyd. II. 13;Plutarch, Perikl. 37. 

The relations of master and slave in ancient Athens constituted, ofcourse, a very different phenomenon from anything which the history ofour own Southern States has to offer us. Our Southern slaveholders livedin an age of industrial development; they were money-makers: they hadtheir full share of business in managing the operations for which theirlabourers supplied the crude physical force. It was not so in Athens. The era of civilization founded upon organized industry had not begun;money-making had not come to be, with the Greeks, the one all-importantend of life; and mere subsistence, which is now difficult, was theneasy. The Athenian lived in a mild, genial, healthy climate, in acountry which has always been notable for the activity and longevityof its inhabitants. He was frugal in his habits, --a wine-drinker andan eater of meat, but rarely addicted to gluttony or intemperance. Hisdress was inexpensive, for the Greek climate made but little protectionnecessary, and the gymnastic habits of the Greeks led them to esteemmore highly the beauty of the body than that of its covering. His housewas simple, not being intended for social purposes, while of what weshould call home-life the Greeks had none. The house was a shelter atnight, a place where the frugal meal might be taken, a place where thewife might stay, and look after the household slaves or attend to thechildren. And this brings us to another notable feature of Athenianlife. The wife having no position in society, being nothing, indeed, but a sort of household utensil, how greatly was life simplified! What adoor for expenditure was there, as yet securely closed, and which no onehad thought of opening! No milliner's or dressmaker's bills, no eveningparties, no Protean fashions, no elegant furniture, no imperiousnecessity for Kleanthes to outshine Kleon, no coaches, no ChateauMargaux, no journeys to Arkadia in the summer! In such a state ofsociety, as one may easily see, the labour of one man would support halfa dozen. It cost the Athenian but a few cents daily to live, and eventhese few cents might be earned by his slaves. We need not, therefore, be surprised to learn that in ancient Athens there were no paupers orbeggars. There might be poverty, but indigence was unknown; and becauseof the absence of fashion, style, and display, even poverty entailedno uncomfortable loss of social position. The Athenians valued wealthhighly, no doubt, as a source of contributions to public festivals andto the necessities of the state. But as far as the circumstances ofdaily life go, the difference between the rich man and the poor man wasimmeasurably less than in any modern community, and the incentives tothe acquirement of wealth were, as a consequence, comparatively slight. 

I do not mean to say that the Athenians did not engage in business. Their city was a commercial city, and their ships covered theMediterranean. They had agencies and factories at Marseilles, on theremote coasts of Spain, and along the shores of the Black Sea. Theywere in many respects the greatest commercial people of antiquity, and doubtless knew, as well as other people, the keen delights ofacquisition. But my point is, that with them the acquiring of propertyhad not become the chief or only end of life. Production was carriedon almost entirely by slave-labour; interchange of commodities was thebusiness of the masters, and commerce was in those days simple. Banks, insurance companies, brokers' boards, --all these complex instrumentsof Mammon were as yet unthought of. There was no Wall Street inancient Athens; there were no great failures, no commercial panics, no over-issues of stock. Commerce, in short, was a quite subordinatematter, and the art of money-making was in its infancy. 

The twenty-five thousand Athenian freemen thus enjoyed, on the whole, more undisturbed leisure, more freedom from petty harassing cares, than any other community known to history. Nowhere else can we find, on careful study, so little of the hurry and anxiety which destroys theeven tenour of modern life, --nowhere else so few of the circumstanceswhich tend to make men insane, inebriate, or phthisical, or prematurelyold. 

This being granted, it remains only to state and illustrate the obversefact. It is not only true that Athens has produced and educated arelatively larger number of men of the highest calibre and most completeculture than any other community of like dimensions which has everexisted; but it is also true that there has been no other community, ofwhich the members have, as a general rule, been so highly cultivated, or have attained individually such completeness of life. In proof ofthe first assertion it will be enough to mention such names as those ofSolon, Themistokles, Perikles, and Demosthenes; Isokrates and Lysias;Aristophanes and Menander; Aischylos, Sophokles, and Euripides; Pheidiasand Praxiteles; Sokrates and Plato; Thukydides and Xenophon: rememberingthat these men, distinguished for such different kinds of achievement, but like each other in consummateness of culture, were all producedwithin one town in the course of three centuries. At no other time andplace in human history has there been even an approach to such a fact asthis. 

My other assertion, about the general culture of the community in whichsuch men were reared, will need a more detailed explanation. When I saythat the Athenian public was, on the whole, the most highly cultivatedpublic that has ever existed, I refer of course to something more thanwhat is now known as literary culture. Of this there was relativelylittle in the days of Athenian greatness; and this was because there wasnot yet need for it or room for it. Greece did not until a later timebegin to produce scholars and savants; for the function of scholarshipdoes not begin until there has been an accumulation of bygone literatureto be interpreted for the benefit of those who live in a later time. Grecian greatness was already becoming a thing of the past, whenscholarship and literary culture of the modern type began at Rome andAlexandria. The culture of the ancient Athenians was largely derivedfrom direct intercourse with facts of nature and of life, and with thethoughts of rich and powerful minds orally expressed. The value of thismust not be underrated. We moderns are accustomed to get so large aportion of our knowledge and of our theories of life out of books, our taste and judgment are so largely educated by intercourse with theprinted page, that we are apt to confound culture with book-knowledge;we are apt to forget the innumerable ways in which the highestintellectual faculties may be disciplined without the aid of literature. We must study antiquity to realize how thoroughly this could be done. But even in our day, how much more fruitful is the direct influence ofan original mind over us, in the rare cases when it can be enjoyed, thanany indirect influence which the same mind may exert through themedium of printed books! What fellow of a college, placed amid the mostabundant and efficient implements of study, ever gets such a stimulus tothe highest and richest intellectual life as was afforded to Eckermannby his daily intercourse with Goethe? The breadth of culture and theperfection of training exhibited by John Stuart Mill need not surpriseus when we recollect that his earlier days were spent in the society ofJames Mill and Jeremy Bentham. And the remarkable extent of view, thecommand of facts, and the astonishing productiveness of such modernFrenchmen as Sainte-Beuve and Littre become explicable when we reflectupon the circumstance that so many able and brilliant men are collectedin one city, where their minds may continually and directly react uponeach other. It is from the lack of such personal stimulus that it isdifficult or indeed wellnigh impossible, even for those whose resourcesare such as to give them an extensive command of books, to keep up tothe highest level of contemporary culture while living in a village orprovincial town. And it is mainly because of the personal stimuluswhich it affords to its students, that a great university, as a seat ofculture, is immeasurably superior to a small one. 

Nevertheless, the small community in any age possesses one signaladvantage over the large one, in its greater simplicity of life and itsconsequent relative leisure. It was the prerogative of ancient Athensthat it united the advantages of the large to those of the smallcommunity. In relative simplicity of life it was not unlike the modernvillage, while at the same time it was the metropolis where the foremostminds of the time were enabled to react directly upon one another. In yet another respect these opposite advantages were combined. Thetwenty-five thousand free inhabitants might perhaps all know somethingof each other. In this respect Athens was doubtless much like a NewEngland country town, with the all-important difference that the sordidtone due to continual struggle for money was absent. It was like thesmall town in the chance which it afforded for publicity and communityof pursuits among its inhabitants. Continuous and unrestrained socialintercourse was accordingly a distinctive feature of Athenian life. And, as already hinted, this intercourse did not consist in eveningflirtations, with the eating of indigestible food at unseasonable hours, and the dancing of "the German. " It was carried on out-of-doors inthe brightest sunlight; it brooked no effeminacy; its amusements wereathletic games, or dramatic entertainments, such as have hardly sincebeen equalled. Its arena was a town whose streets were filled withstatues and adorned with buildings, merely to behold which was in itselfan education. The participators in it were not men with minds so dwarfedby exclusive devotion to special pursuits that after "talking shop" theycould find nothing else save wine and cookery to converse about. Theywere men with minds fresh and open for the discussion of topics whichare not for a day only. 

A man like Sokrates, living in such a community, did not need to writedown his wisdom. He had no such vast public as the modern philosopherhas to reach. He could hail any one he happened to pass in the street, begin an argument with him forthwith, and set a whole crowd thinkingand inquiring about subjects the mere contemplation of which would raisethem for the moment above matters of transient concern. For morethan half a century any citizen might have gratis the benefit of oralinstruction from such a man as he. And I sometimes think, by the way, that--curtailed as it is to literary proportions in the dialogues ofPlato, bereft of all that personal potency which it had when it flowed, instinct with earnestness, from the lips of the teacher--even to thisday the wit of man has perhaps devised no better general gymnastics forthe understanding than the Sokratic dialectic. I am far from saying thatall Athens listened to Sokrates or understood him: had it been so, thecaricature of Aristophanes would have been pointless, and the sublimeyet mournful trilogy of dialogues which pourtray the closing scenes ofthe greatest life of antiquity would never have been written. But themere fact that such a man lived and taught in the way that he didgoes far in proof of the deep culture of the Athenian public. Furtherconfirmation is to be found in the fact that such tragedies as theAntigone, the Oidipous, and the Prometheus were written to suit thepopular taste of the time; not to be read by literary people, or to beperformed before select audiences such as in our day listen to Ristorior Janauschek, but to hold spell-bound that vast concourse of all kindsof people which assembled at the Dionysiac festivals. 

Still further proof is furnished by the exquisite literary perfectionof Greek writings. One of the common arguments in favour of the studyof Greek at the present day is based upon the opinion that in the bestworks extant in that language the art of literary expression has reachedwellnigh absolute perfection. I fully concur in this opinion, so faras to doubt if even the greatest modern writers, even a Pascal or aVoltaire, can fairly sustain a comparison with such Athenians as Platoor Lysias. This excellence of the ancient books is in part immediatelydue to the fact that they were not written in a hurry, or amid theanxieties of an over-busy existence; but it is in greater part due tothe indirect consequences of a leisurely life. These books were writtenfor a public which knew well how to appreciate the finer beauties ofexpression; and, what is still more to the point, their authors livedin a community where an elegant style was habitual. Before a matchlessstyle can be written, there must be a good style "in the air, " as theFrench say. Probably the most finished talking and writing of moderntimes has been done in and about the French court in the seventeenthcentury; and it is accordingly there that we find men like Pascal andBossuet writing a prose which for precision, purity, and dignity hasnever since been surpassed. It is thus that the unapproachable literaryexcellence of ancient Greek books speaks for the genuine culture of thepeople who were expected to read them, or to hear them read. For one ofthe surest indices of true culture, whether professedly literary or not, is the power to express one's self in precise, rhythmical, and dignifiedlanguage. We hardly need a better evidence than this of the superiorityof the ancient community in the general elevation of its tastes andperceptions. Recollecting how Herodotos read his history at the Olympicgames, let us try to imagine even so picturesque a writer as Mr. Parkmanreading a few chapters of his "Jesuits in North America" before thespectators assembled at the Jerome Park races, and we shall the betterrealize how deep-seated was Hellenic culture. 

As yet, however, I have referred to but one side of Athenian life. Though "seekers after wisdom, " the cultivated people of Athens did notspend all their valuable leisure in dialectics or in connoisseurship. They were not a set of dilettanti or dreamy philosophers, and they werefar from subordinating the material side of life to the intellectual. Also, though they dealt not in money-making after the eager fashion ofmodern men, they had still concerns of immediate practical interest withwhich to busy themselves. Each one of these twenty-five thousand freeAthenians was not only a free voter, but an office-holder, a legislator, a judge. They did not control the government through a representativebody, but they were themselves the government. They were, one and all, in turn liable to be called upon to make laws, and to execute them afterthey were made, as well as to administer justice in civil and criminalsuits. The affairs and interests, not only of their own city, but of ascore or two of scattered dependencies, were more or less closely to belooked after by them. It lay with them to declare war, to carry it onafter declaring it, and to pay the expenses of it. Actually and not bydeputy they administered the government of their own city, both in itslocal and in its imperial relations. All this implies a more thorough, more constant, and more vital political training than that which isimplied by the modern duties of casting a ballot and serving on a jury. The life of the Athenian was emphatically a political life. From earlymanhood onward, it was part of his duty to hear legal questions arguedby powerful advocates, and to utter a decision upon law and fact; or tomix in debate upon questions of public policy, arguing, listening, andpondering. It is customary to compare the political talent of the Greeksunfavourably with that displayed by the Romans, and I have no wish todispute this estimate. But on a careful study it will appear that theAthenians, at least, in a higher degree than any other community ofancient times, exhibited parliamentary tact, or the ability to sit stillwhile both sides of a question are getting discussed, --that sort ofpolitical talent for which the English races are distinguished, and tothe lack of which so many of the political failures of the French areegregiously due. One would suppose that a judicature of the whole townwould be likely to execute a sorry parody of justice; yet justice wasby no means ill-administered at Athens. Even the most unfortunate anddisgraceful scenes, --as where the proposed massacre of the Mytilenaianswas discussed, and where summary retribution was dealt out to thegenerals who had neglected their duty at Arginusai, --even these scenesfurnish, when thoroughly examined, as by Mr. Grote, only the moreconvincing proof that the Athenian was usually swayed by sound reasonand good sense to an extraordinary degree. All great points in fact, were settled rather by sober appeals to reason than by intrigue orlobbying; and one cannot help thinking that an Athenian of the timeof Perikles would have regarded with pitying contempt the trick of the"previous question. " And this explains the undoubted pre-eminenceof Athenian oratory. This accounts for the fact that we find in theforensic annals of a single city, and within the compass of a singlecentury, such names as Lysias, Isokrates, Andokides, Hypereides, Aischines, and Demosthenes. The art of oratory, like the art ofsculpture, shone forth more brilliantly then than ever since, becausethen the conditions favouring its development were more perfectlycombined than they have since been. Now, a condition of society inwhich the multitude can always be made to stand quietly and listen to alogical discourse is a condition of high culture. Readers of Xenophon'sAnabasis will remember the frequency of the speeches in that charmingbook. Whenever some terrible emergency arose, or some alarming quarrelor disheartening panic occurred, in the course of the retreat of theTen Thousand, an oration from one of the commanders--not a demagogue'sappeal to the lower passions, but a calm exposition of circumstancesaddressed to the sober judgment--usually sufficed to set all things inorder. To my mind this is one of the most impressive historical lessonsconveyed in Xenophon's book. And this peculiar kind of self-control, indicative of intellectual sobriety and high moral training, which wasmore or less characteristic of all Greeks, was especially characteristicof the Athenians. 

These illustrations will, I hope, suffice to show that there is nothingextravagant in the high estimate which I have made of Athenian culture. I have barely indicated the causes of this singular perfection ofindividual training in the social circumstances amid which the Athenianslived. I have alleged it as an instance of what may be accomplished bya well-directed leisure and in the absence or very scanty development ofsuch a complex industrial life as that which surrounds us to-day. But Ihave not yet quite done with the Athenians. Before leaving this part ofthe subject, I must mention one further circumstance which tends tomake ancient life appear in our eyes more sunny and healthy and lessdistressed, than the life of modern times. And in this instance, too, though we are not dealing with any immediate or remote effects ofleisureliness, we still have to note the peculiar advantage gained bythe absence of a great complexity of interests in the ancient community. 

With respect to religion, the Athenians were peculiarly situated. Theyhad for the most part outgrown the primitive terrorism of fetishisticbelief. Save in cases of public distress, as in the mutilation of theHermai, or in the refusal of Nikias to retreat from Syracuse because ofan eclipse of the moon, they were no longer, like savages, afraid of thedark. Their keen aesthetic sense had prevailed to turn the horrors ofa primeval nature-worship into beauties. Their springs and groves werepeopled by their fancy with naiads and dryads, not with trolls andgrotesque goblins. Their feelings toward the unseen powers at workabout them were in the main pleasant; as witness the little story aboutPheidippides meeting the god Pan as he was making with hot haste towardSparta to announce the arrival of the Persians. Now, while this originalsource of mental discomfort, which afflicts the uncivilized man, hadceased materially to affect the Athenians, they on the other handlived at a time when the vague sense of sin and self-reproof which wascharacteristic of the early ages of Christianity, had not yet invadedsociety. The vast complication of life brought about by the extension ofthe Roman Empire led to a great development of human sympathies, unknown in earlier times, and called forth unquiet yearnings, desire foramelioration, a sense of short-coming, and a morbid self-consciousness. It is accordingly under Roman sway that we first come across charactersapproximating to the modern type, like Cicero, Seneca, Epictetus, andMarcus Aurelius. It is then that we find the idea of social progressfirst clearly expressed, that we discover some glimmerings of aconscious philanthropy, and that we detect the earliest symptoms of thatunhealthy tendency to subordinate too entirely the physical to the morallife, which reached its culmination in the Middle Ages. In the palmydays of the Athenians it was different. When we hint that they were notconsciously philanthropists, we do not mean that they were not humane;when we accredit them with no idea of progress, we do not forget howmuch they did to render both the idea and the reality possible; when wesay that they had not a distressing sense of spiritual unworthiness, wedo not mean that they had no conscience. We mean that their moral andreligious life sat easily on them, like their own graceful drapery, --didnot gall and worry them, like the hair-cloth garment of the monk. Theywere free from that dark conception of a devil which lent terror tolife in the Middle Ages; and the morbid self-consciousness which ledmediaeval women to immure themselves in convents would have been to anAthenian quite inexplicable. They had, in short, an open and childlikeconception of religion; and, as such, it was a sunny conception. Any onewho will take the trouble to compare an idyl of Theokritos with a modernpastoral, or the poem of Kleanthes with a modern hymn, or the Aphroditeof Melos with a modern Madonna, will realize most effectually what Imean. 

And, finally, the religion of the Athenians was in the main symbolizedin a fluctuating mythology, and had never been hardened into dogmas. TheAthenian was subject to no priest, nor was he obliged to pin his faithto any formulated creed. His hospitable polytheism left little roomfor theological persecution, and none for any heresy short of virtualatheism. The feverish doubts which rack the modern mind left himundisturbed. Though he might sink to any depth of scepticism inphilosophy, yet the eternal welfare of his soul was not supposed to hangupon the issue of his doubts. Accordingly Athenian society was notonly characterized in the main by freedom of opinion, in spite of theexceptional cases of Anaxagoras and Sokrates; but there was also none ofthat Gothic gloom with which the deep-seated Christian sense of infiniteresponsibility for opinion has saddened modern religious life. 

In these reflections I have wandered a little way from my principaltheme, in order more fully to show why the old Greek life impresses usas so cheerful. Returning now to the keynote with which we started, let us state succinctly the net result of what has been said about theAthenians. As a people we have seen that they enjoyed an unparalleledamount of leisure, living through life with but little turmoil andclatter. Their life was more spontaneous and unrestrained, lessrigorously marked out by uncontrollable circumstances, than the lifeof moderns. They did not run so much in grooves. And along with thiswe have seen reason to believe that they were the most profoundlycultivated of all peoples; that a larger proportion of men livedcomplete, well-rounded, harmonious lives in ancient Athens than inany other known community. Keen, nimble-minded, and self-possessed;audacious speculators, but temperate and averse to extravagance;emotionally healthy, and endowed with an unequalled sense of beauty andpropriety; how admirable and wonderful they seem when looked at acrossthe gulf of ages intervening, --and what a priceless possession tohumanity, of what noble augury for the distant future, is the fact thatsuch a society has once existed!

The lesson to be drawn from the study of this antique life will impressitself more deeply upon us after we have briefly contemplated thestriking contrast to it which is afforded by the phase of civilizationamid which we live to-day. Ever since Greek civilization was mergedin Roman imperialism, there has been a slowly growing tendency towardcomplexity of social life, --toward the widening of sympathies, themultiplying of interests, the increase of the number of things tobe done. Through the later Middle Ages, after Roman civilization hadabsorbed and disciplined the incoming barbarism which had threatened todestroy it, there was a steadily increasing complication of society, amultiplication of the wants of life, and a consequent enhancement of thedifficulty of self-maintenance. The ultimate causes of this phenomenonlie so far beneath the surface that they could be satisfactorilydiscussed only in a technical essay on the evolution of society. It willbe enough for us here to observe that the great geographical discoveriesof the sixteenth century and the somewhat later achievements of physicalscience have, during the past two hundred years, aided powerfullyin determining the entrance of the Western world upon an industrialepoch, --an epoch which has for its final object the complete subjectionof the powers of nature to purposes of individual comfort and happiness. We have now to trace some of the effects of this lately-begun industrialdevelopment upon social life and individual culture. And as we studiedthe leisureliness of antiquity where its effects were most conspicuous, in the city of Athens, we shall now do well to study the oppositecharacteristics of modern society where they are most conspicuouslyexemplified, in our own country. The attributes of American life whichit will be necessary to signalize will be seen to be only the attributesof modern life in their most exaggerated phase. 

To begin with, in studying the United States, we are no longer dealingwith a single city, or with small groups of cities. The city as apolitical unit, in the antique sense, has never existed among us, andindeed can hardly be said now to exist anywhere. The modern city ishardly more than a great emporium of trade, or a place where largenumbers of people find it convenient to live huddled together; not asacred fatherland to which its inhabitants owe their highest allegiance, and by the requirements of which their political activity is limited. What strikes us here is that our modern life is diffused or spread out, not concentrated like the ancient civic life. If the Athenian had beenthe member of an integral community, comprising all peninsular Greeceand the mainland of Asia Minor, he could not have taken life so easilyas he did. 

Now our country is not only a very large one, but compared to its vastterritorial extent it contains a very small population. If we go onincreasing at the present rate, so that a century hence we number fouror five hundred millions, our country will be hardly more crowded thanChina is to-day. Or if our whole population were now to be brought eastof Niagara Falls, and confined on the south by the Potomac, we shouldstill have as much elbow-room as they have in France. Politicaleconomists can show the effects of this high ratio of land toinhabitants, in increasing wages, raising the interest of money, andstimulating production. We are thus living amid circumstances whichare goading the industrial activity characteristic of the last twocenturies, and notably of the English race, into an almost feverishenergy. The vast extent of our unwrought territory is constantlydraining fresh life from our older districts, to aid in theestablishment of new frontier communities of a somewhat lower or lesshighly organized type. And these younger communities, daily springingup, are constantly striving to take on the higher structure, --tobecome as highly civilized and to enjoy as many of the prerogatives ofcivilization as the rest. All this calls forth an enormous quantityof activity, and causes American life to assume the aspect of alife-and-death struggle for mastery over the material forces of thatpart of the earth's surface upon which it thrives. 

It is thus that we are traversing what may properly be called theBARBAROUS epoch of our history, --the epoch at which the predominantintellectual activity is employed in achievements which are mainly of amaterial character. Military barbarism, or the inability of communitiesto live together without frequent warfare, has been nearly outgrownby the whole Western world. Private wars, long since made everywhereillegal, have nearly ceased; and public wars, once continual, havebecome infrequent. But industrial barbarism, by which I mean theinability of a community to direct a portion of its time to purposes ofspiritual life, after providing for its physical maintenance, --thiskind of barbarism the modern world has by no means outgrown. To-day, thegreat work of life is to live; while the amount of labour consumedin living has throughout the present century been rapidly increasing. Nearly the whole of this American community toils from youth to oldage in merely procuring the means for satisfying the transient wants oflife. Our time and energies, our spirit and buoyancy, are quite used upin what is called "getting on. "

Another point of difference between the structure of American and ofAthenian society must not be left out of the account. The time has goneby in which the energies of a hundred thousand men and women could beemployed in ministering to the individual perfection of twenty-fivethousand. Slavery, in the antique sense, --an absolute command of brainas well as of muscle, a slave-system of skilled labour, --we have neverhad. In our day it is for each man to earn his own bread; so that thestruggle for existence has become universal. The work of one class doesnot furnish leisure for another class. The exceptional circumstanceswhich freed the Athenian from industrial barbarism, and enabled him tobecome the great teacher and model of culture for the human race, havedisappeared forever. 

Then the general standard of comfortable living, as already hinted, hasbeen greatly raised, and is still rising. What would have satisfied theancient would seem to us like penury. We have a domestic life of whichthe Greek knew nothing. We live during a large part of the year in thehouse. Our social life goes on under the roof. Our houses are not mereplaces for eating and sleeping, like the houses of the ancients. Ittherefore costs us a large amount of toil to get what is called shelterfor our heads. The sum which a young married man, in "good society, "has to pay for his house and the furniture contained in it, would haveenabled an Athenian to live in princely leisure from youth to old age. The sum which he has to pay out each year, to meet the complicatedexpense of living in such a house, would have more than sufficed tobring up an Athenian family. If worthy Strepsiades could have got anAsmodean glimpse of Fifth Avenue, or even of some unpretending street inCambridge, he might have gone back to his aristocratic wife a sadder buta more contented man. 

Wealth--or at least what would until lately have been called wealth--hasbecome essential to comfort; while the opportunities for acquiringit have in recent times been immensely multiplied. To get money is, therefore, the chief end of life in our time and country. "Successin life" has become synonymous with "becoming wealthy. " A man who issuccessful in what he undertakes is a man who makes his employmentpay him in money. Our normal type of character is that of the shrewd, circumspect business man; as in the Middle Ages it was that of the hardywarrior. And as in those days when fighting was a constant necessity, and when the only honourable way for a gentleman of high rank tomake money was by freebooting, fighting came to be regarded as an enddesirable in itself; so in these days the mere effort to accumulate hasbecome a source of enjoyment rather than a means to it. The same truthis to be witnessed in aberrant types of character. The infatuatedspeculator and the close-fisted millionaire are our substitutes for themediaeval berserkir, --the man who loved the pell-mell of a contest sowell that he would make war on his neighbour, just to keep his hand in. In like manner, while such crimes as murder and violent robbery havediminished in frequency during the past century, on the other hand suchcrimes as embezzlement, gambling in stocks, adulteration of goods, andusing of false weights and measures, have probably increased. If DickTurpin were now to be brought back to life, he would find the New YorkCustom-House a more congenial and profitable working-place than theking's highway. 

The result of this universal quest for money is that we are always in ahurry. Our lives pass by in a whirl. It is all labour and no fruition. We work till we are weary; we carry our work home with us; it haunts ourevenings, and disturbs our sleep as well as our digestion. Our minds areso burdened with it that our conversation, when serious, can dwell uponlittle else. If we step into a railway-car, or the smoking-room ofa hotel, or any other place where a dozen or two of men are gatheredtogether, we shall hear them talking of stocks, of investments, ofcommercial paper, as if there were really nothing in this universe worththinking of, save only the interchange of dollars and commodities. Soconstant and unremitted is our forced application, that our minds aredwarfed for everything except the prosecution of the one universalpursuit. 

Are we now prepared for the completing of the contrast? Must we saythat, as Athens was the most leisurely and the United States is themost hurried community known in history, so the Americans are, as aconsequence of their hurry, lacking in thoroughness of culture? Or, since it is difficult to bring our modern culture directly into contrastwith that of an ancient community, let me state the case after adifferent but equivalent fashion. Since the United States presentonly an exaggerated type of the modern industrial community, since theturmoil of incessant money-getting, which affects all modern communitiesin large measure, affects us most seriously of all, shall it besaid that we are, on the whole, less highly cultivated than ourcontemporaries in Western Europe? To a certain extent we must confessthat this is the case. In the higher culture--in the culture of thewhole man, according to the antique idea--we are undoubtedly behind allother nations with which it would be fair to compare ourselves. Itwill not do to decide a question like this merely by counting literarycelebrities, although even thus we should by no means get a verdict inour favour. Since the beginning of this century, England has producedas many great writers and thinkers as France or Germany; yet the generalstatus of culture in England is said--perhaps with truth--to be lowerthan it is in these countries. It is said that the average Englishman isless ready than the average German or Frenchman to sympathize with ideaswhich have no obvious market-value. Yet in England there is an amount ofhigh culture among those not professionally scholars, which it wouldbe vain to seek among ourselves. The purposes of my argument, however, require that the comparison should be made between our own country andWestern Europe in general. Compare, then, our best magazines--not solelywith regard to their intrinsic excellence, but also with regard to theway in which they are sustained--with the Revue des Deux Mondes or theJournal des Debats. Or compare our leading politicians with men likeGladstone, Disraeli, or Sir G. C. Lewis; or even with such men asBrougham or Thiers. Or compare the slovenly style of our newspaperarticles, I will not say with the exquisite prose of the lamentedPrevost-Paradol, but with the ordinary prose of the French or Englishnewspaper. But a far better illustration--for it goes down to the rootof things--is suggested by the recent work of Matthew Arnold on theschools of the continent of Europe. The country of our time wherethe general culture is unquestionably the highest is Prussia. Now, inPrussia, they are able to have a Minister of Education, who is a memberof the Cabinet. They are sure that this minister will not appoint orremove even an assistant professor for political reasons. Only once, as Arnold tells us, has such a thing been done; and then public opinionexpressed itself in such an emphatic tone of disapproval that thedisplaced teacher was instantly appointed to another position. Nothingof this sort, says Arnold, could have occurred in England; but stillless could it occur in America. Had we such an educational system, there would presently be an "Education Ring" to control it. Nor can thisdifference be ascribed to the less eager political activity of Germany. The Prussian state of things would have been possible in ancient Athens, where political life was as absorbing and nearly as turbulent as in theUnited States. The difference is due to our lack of faith in culture, alack of faith in that of which we have not had adequate experience. 

We lack culture because we live in a hurry, and because our attention isgiven up to pursuits which call into activity and develop but one sideof us. On the one hand contemplate Sokrates quietly entertaining a crowdin the Athenian market-place, and on the other hand consider Broadwaywith its eternal clatter, and its throngs of hurrying people elbowingand treading on each other's heels, and you will get a lively notion ofthe difference between the extreme phases of ancient and modern life. Bythe time we have thus rushed through our day, we have no strength leftto devote to things spiritual. To-day finds us no nearer fruition thanyesterday. And if perhaps the time at last arrives when fruition ispracticable, our minds have run so long in the ruts that they cannot betwisted out. 

As it is impossible for any person living in a given state of societyto keep himself exempt from its influences, detrimental as well asbeneficial, we find that even those who strive to make a literaryoccupation subservient to purposes of culture are not, save in rarecases, spared by the general turmoil. Those who have at once theability, the taste, and the wealth needful for training themselves tothe accomplishment of some many-sided and permanent work are of coursevery few. Nor have our universities yet provided themselves with themeans for securing to literary talent the leisure which is essentialto complete mental development, or to a high order of productiveness. Although in most industrial enterprises we know how to work together sosuccessfully, in literature we have as yet no co-operation. We have notonly no Paris, but we have not even a Tubingen, a Leipsic, or a Jena, oranything corresponding to the fellowships in the English universities. Our literary workers have no choice but to fall into the ranks, andmake merchandise of their half-formed ideas. They must work withoutco-operation, they must write in a hurry, and they must write for thosewho have no leisure for aught but hasty and superficial reading. 

Bursting boilers and custom-house frauds may have at first sight nothingto do with each other or with my subject. It is indisputable, however, that the horrible massacres perpetrated every few weeks or mouths by ourcommon carriers, and the disgraceful peculation in which we allowour public servants to indulge with hardly ever an effective word ofprotest, are alike to be ascribed to the same causes which interferewith our higher culture. It is by no means a mere accidental coincidencethat for every dollar stolen by government officials in Prussia, atleast fifty or a hundred are stolen in the United States. This does notshow that the Germans are our superiors in average honesty, but itshows that they are our superiors in thoroughness. It is with them animperative demand that any official whatever shall be qualified for hispost; a principle of public economy which in our country is not simplyignored in practice, but often openly laughed at. But in a country wherehigh intelligence and thorough training are imperatively demanded, itfollows of necessity that these qualifications must insure for theirpossessors a permanent career in which the temptations to malfeasance ordishonesty are reduced to the minimum. On the other hand, in a countrywhere intelligence and training have no surety that they are tocarry the day against stupidity and inefficiency, the incentives todishonourable conduct are overpowering. The result in our own politicallife is that the best men are driven in disgust from politics, and thusone of the noblest fields for the culture of the whole man is givenover to be worked by swindlers and charlatans. To an Athenian such aseverance of the highest culture from political life would have beenutterly inconceivable. Obviously the deepest explanation of all thislies in our lack of belief in the necessity for high and thoroughtraining. We do not value culture enough to keep it in our employ or topay it for its services; and what is this short-sighted negligence butthe outcome of the universal shiftlessness begotten of the habit ofdoing everything in a hurry? On every hand we may see the fruits ofthis shiftlessness, from buildings that tumble in, switches that aremisplaced, furnaces that are ill-protected, fire-brigades that arewithout discipline, up to unauthorized meddlings with the currency, andrevenue laws which defeat their own purpose. 

I said above that the attributes of American life which we should findit necessary for our purpose to signalize are simply the attributesof modern life in their most exaggerated phase. Is there not a certainsense in which all modern handiwork is hastily and imperfectly done?To begin with common household arts, does not every one know that oldthings are more durable than new things? Our grandfathers wore bettershoes than we wear, because there was leisure enough to cure the leatherproperly. In old times a chair was made of seasoned wood, and its jointscarefully fitted; its maker had leisure to see that it was well puttogether. Now a thousand are turned off at once by machinery, out ofgreen wood, and, with their backs glued on, are hurried off to theirevil fate, --destined to drop in pieces if they happen to stand near thefireplace, and liable to collapse under the weight of a heavy man. Some of us still preserve, as heirlooms, old tables and bedsteads ofCromwellian times: in the twenty-first century what will have become ofour machine-made bedsteads and tables?

Perhaps it may seem odd to talk about tanning and joinery in connectionwith culture, but indeed there is a subtle bond of union holdingtogether all these things. Any phase of life can be understood only byassociating with it some different phase. Sokrates himself has taught ushow the homely things illustrate the grand things. If we turn to the artof musical composition and inquire into some of the differences betweenour recent music and that of Handel's time, we shall alight upon thevery criticism which Mr. Mill somewhere makes in comparing ancient withmodern literature: the substance has improved, but the form has insome respects deteriorated. The modern music expresses the results of aricher and more varied emotional experience, and in wealth of harmonicresources, to say nothing of increased skill in orchestration, it isnotably superior to the old music. Along with this advance, however, there is a perceptible falling off in symmetry and completeness ofdesign, and in what I would call spontaneousness of composition. Ibelieve that this is because modern composers, as a rule, do not drudgepatiently enough upon counterpoint. They do not get that absolutemastery over technical difficulties of figuration which was the greatsecret of the incredible facility and spontaneity of compositiondisplayed by Handel and Bach. Among recent musicians Mendelssohn is themost thoroughly disciplined in the elements of counterpoint; and it isthis perfect mastery of the technique of his art which has enabled himto outrank Schubert and Schumann, neither of whom would one venture topronounce inferior to him in native wealth of musical ideas. May wenot partly attribute to rudimentary deficiency in counterpoint theirregularity of structure which so often disfigures the works of thegreat Wagner and the lesser Liszt, and which the more ardent admirers ofthese composers are inclined to regard as a symptom of progress?

I am told that a similar illustration might be drawn from the modernhistory of painting; that, however noble the conceptions of the greatpainters of the present century, there are none who have gained such acomplete mastery over the technicalities of drawing and the handling ofthe brush as was required in the times of Raphael, Titian, and Rubens. But on this point I can only speak from hearsay, and am quite willingto end here my series of illustrations, fearing that I may alreadyhave been wrongly set down as a lavulator temporis acti. Not the idlepraising of times gone by, but the getting a lesson from them which maybe of use to us, has been my object. And I believe enough has been saidto show that the great complexity of modern life, with its multiplicityof demands upon our energy, has got us into a state of chronic hurry, the results of which are everywhere to be seen in the shape of lessthorough workmanship and less rounded culture. 

For one moment let me stop to note a further source of the relativeimperfection of modern culture, which is best illustrated in the case ofliterature. I allude to the immense, unorganized mass of literature inall departments, representing the accumulated acquisitions of past ages, which must form the basis of our own achievement, but with which ourpresent methods of education seem inadequate to deal properly. Speakingroughly, modern literature may be said to be getting into the statewhich Roman jurisprudence was in before it was reformed by Justinian. Philosophic criticism has not yet reached the point at which it mayserve as a natural codifier. We must read laboriously and expend adisproportionate amount of time and pains in winnowing the chaff fromthe wheat. This tends to make us "digs" or literary drudges; but Idoubt if the "dig" is a thoroughly developed man. Goethe, with all hisboundless knowledge, his universal curiosity, and his admirable capacityfor work, was not a "dig. " But this matter can only be hinted at: it istoo large to be well discussed at the fag end of an essay while otherpoints are pressing for consideration. 

A state of chronic hurry not only directly hinders the performance ofthorough work, but it has an indirect tendency to blunt the enjoyment oflife. Let us consider for a moment one of the psychological consequencesentailed by the strain of a too complex and rapid activity. Every onemust have observed that in going off for a vacation of two or threeweeks, or in getting freed in any way from the ruts of every-day life, time slackens its gait somewhat, and the events which occur are apta few years later to cover a disproportionately large area in ourrecollections. This is because the human organism is a natural timepiecein which the ticks are conscious sensations. The greater the number ofsensations which occupy the foreground of consciousness during the day, the longer the day seems in the retrospect. But the various groups ofsensations which accompany our daily work tend to become automatic fromcontinual repetition, and to sink into the background of consciousness;and in a very complex and busied life the number of sensations or statesof consciousness which can struggle up to the front and get attended to, is comparatively small It is thus that the days seem so short when weare busy about every-day matters, and that they get blurred together, and as it were individually annihilated in recollection. When we travel, a comparatively large number of fresh sensations occupy attention, thereis a maximum of consciousness, and a distinct image is left to loom upin memory. For the same reason the weeks and years are much longer tothe child than to the grown man. The life is simpler and less hurried, so that there is time to attend to a great many sensations. Now thisfact lies at the bottom of that keen enjoyment of existence which is theprerogative of childhood and early youth. The day is not rushed throughby the automatic discharge of certain psychical functions, but eachsensation stays long enough to make itself recognized. Now when once weunderstand the psychology of this matter, it becomes evident that thesame contrast that holds between the child and the man must hold alsobetween the ancient and the modern. The number of elements entering intoancient life were so few relatively, that there must have been farmore than there is now of that intense realization of life which we canobserve in children and remember of our own childhood. Space permitting, it would be easy to show from Greek literature how intense was thisrealization of life. But my point will already have been sufficientlyapprehended. Already we cannot fail to see how difficult it is to getmore than a minimum of conscious fruition out of a too complex and rapidactivity. 

One other point is worth noticing before we close. How is this turmoilof modern existence impressing itself upon the physical constitutionsof modern men and women? When an individual man engages in furiousproductive activity, his friends warn him that he will break down. Doesthe collective man of our time need some such friendly warning? Letus first get a hint from what foreigners think of us ultra-modernizedAmericans. Wandering journalists, of an ethnological turn of mind, who visit these shores, profess to be struck with the slenderness, the apparent lack of toughness, the dyspeptic look, of the Americanphysique. And from such observations it has been seriously argued thatthe stalwart English race is suffering inevitable degeneracy in thisforeign climate. I have even seen it doubted whether a race of men canever become thoroughly naturalized in a locality to which it is notindigenous. To such vagaries it is a sufficient answer that the Englishare no more indigenous to England than to America. They are indigenousto Central Asia, and as they have survived the first transplantation, they may be safely counted on to survive the second. A more carefulsurvey will teach us that the slow alteration of physique which isgoing on in this country is only an exaggeration of that which moderncivilization is tending to bring about everywhere. It is caused by thepremature and excessive strain upon the mental powers requisite to meetthe emergencies of our complex life. The progress of events has thrownthe work of sustaining life so largely upon the brain that we arebeginning to sacrifice the physical to the intellectual. We are growingspirituelle in appearance at the expense of robustness. Compare anytypical Greek face, with its firm muscles, its symmetry of feature, andits serenity of expression, to a typical modern portrait, with its moredelicate contour, its exaggerated forehead, its thoughtful, perhapsjaded look. Or consider in what respects the grand faces of thePlantagenet monarchs differ from the refined countenances of the leadingEnglish statesmen of to-day. Or again, consider the familiar pictures ofthe Oxford and Harvard crews which rowed a race on the Thames in 1869, and observe how much less youthful are the faces of the Americans. Bycontrast they almost look careworn. The summing up of countless suchfacts is that modern civilization is making us nervous. Our mostformidable diseases are of nervous origin. We seem to have got rid ofthe mediaeval plague and many of its typhoid congeners; but insteadwe have an increased amount of insanity, methomania, consumption, dyspepsia, and paralysis. In this fact it is plainly written that we aresuffering physically from the over-work and over-excitement entailed byexcessive hurry. 

In view of these various but nearly related points of difference betweenancient and modern life as studied in their extreme manifestations, itcannot be denied that while we have gained much, we have also lost agood deal that is valuable, in our progress. We cannot but suspect thatwe are not in all points more highly favoured than the ancients. And itbecomes probable that Athens, at all events, which I have chosen as myexample, may have exhibited an adumbration of a state of things which, for the world at large, is still in the future, --still to be remotelyhoped for. The rich complexity of modern social achievement is attainedat the cost of individual many-sidedness. As Tennyson puts it, "Theindividual withers and the world is more and more. " Yet the individualdoes not exist for the sake of society, as the positivists would have usbelieve, but society exists for the sake of the individual. And the testof complete social life is the opportunity which it affords for completeindividual life. Tried by this test, our contemporary civilizationwill appear seriously defective, --excellent only as a preparation forsomething better. 

This is the true light in which to regard it. This incessant turmoil, this rage for accumulation of wealth, this crowding, jostling, andtrampling upon one another, cannot be regarded as permanent, oras anything more than the accompaniment of a transitional stage ofcivilization. There must be a limit to the extent to which the standardof comfortable living can be raised. The industrial organization ofsociety, which is now but beginning, must culminate in a state of thingsin which the means of expense will exceed the demand for expense, inwhich the human race will have some surplus capital. The incessantmanual labour which the ancients relegated to slaves will in courseof time be more and more largely performed by inanimate machinery. Unskilled labour will for the most part disappear. Skilled labour willconsist in the guiding of implements contrived with versatile cunningfor the relief of human nerve and muscle. Ultimately there will beno unsettled land to fill, no frontier life, no savage races to beassimilated or extirpated, no extensive migration. Thus life will againbecome comparatively stationary. The chances for making great fortunesquickly will be diminished, while the facilities for acquiring acompetence by steady labour will be increased. When every one is ableto reach the normal standard of comfortable living, we must supposethat the exaggerated appetite for wealth and display will graduallydisappear. We shall be more easily satisfied, and thus enjoy moreleisure. It may be that there will ultimately exist, over the civilizedworld, conditions as favourable to the complete fruition of life asthose which formerly existed within the narrow circuit of Attika;save that the part once played by enslaved human brain and muscle willfinally be played by the enslaved forces of insentient nature. Societywill at last bear the test of providing for the complete development ofits individual members. 

So, at least, we may hope; such is the probability which the progress ofevents, when carefully questioned, sketches out for us. "Need we fear, "asks Mr. Greg, "that the world would stagnate under such a change?Need we guard ourselves against the misconstruction of being held torecommend a life of complacent and inglorious inaction? We think not. Wewould only substitute a nobler for a meaner strife, --a rational for anexcessive toil, --an enjoyment that springs from serenity, for one thatsprings from excitement only. . . . . To each time its own preacher, to eachexcess its own counteraction. In an age of dissipation, languor, andstagnation, we should join with Mr. Carlyle in preaching the 'Evangelof Work, ' and say with him, 'Blessed is the man who has found hiswork, --let him ask no other blessedness. ' In an age of strenuous, frenzied, . . . . And often utterly irrational and objectless exertion, we join Mr. Mill in preaching the milder and more needed 'Evangel ofLeisure. '"

Bearing all these things in mind, we may understand the remark ofthe supremely cultivated Goethe, when asked who were his masters: DieGriechen, die Griechen, und immer die Griechen. We may appreciate thesignificance of Mr. Mill's argument in favour of the study of antiquity, that it preserves the tradition of an era of individual completeness. There is a disposition growing among us to remodel our methods ofeducation in conformity with the temporary requirements of the agein which we live. In this endeavour there is much that is wise andpractical; but in so far as it tends to the neglect of antiquity, Icannot think it well-timed. Our education should not only enhance thevalue of what we possess; is should also supply the consciousness ofwhat we lack. And while, for generations to come, we pass toilfullythrough an era of exorbitant industrialism, some fragment of our timewill not be misspent in keeping alive the tradition of a state of thingswhich was once briefly enjoyed by a little community, but which, in thedistant future, will, as it is hoped, become the permanent possession ofall mankind. 

January, 1873.