{"collection":"philosophy-ethics","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_23640/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_23640","id":"gutenberg_23640","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/23640","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Biographies","Category: Philosophy & Ethics","Philosophers"],"text":"Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Annie McGuire and the Online\nDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nLITTLE JOURNEYS TO THE HOMES OF THE GREAT, VOLUME 8\n\nLittle Journeys to the Homes of Great Philosophers\n\nby\n\nELBERT HUBBARD\n\nMemorial Edition\n\nNew York\n\n1916.\n\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\n  SOCRATES\n  SENECA\n  ARISTOTLE\n  MARCUS AURELIUS\n  IMMANUEL KANT\n  SWEDENBORG\n  SPINOZA\n  AUGUSTE COMTE\n  VOLTAIRE\n  HERBERT SPENCER\n  SCHOPENHAUER\n  HENRY D. THOREAU\n\n\n\n\nSOCRATES\n\n\n     I do not think it possible for a better man to be injured by a\n     worse.... To a good man nothing is evil, neither while living nor\n     when dead, nor are his concerns neglected by the gods.\n\n                                               --_The Republic_\n\n[Illustration: SOCRATES]\n\n\nIt was four hundred seventy years before Christ that Socrates was born.\nHe never wrote a book, never made a formal address, held no public\noffice, wrote no letters, yet his words have come down to us sharp,\nvivid and crystalline. His face, form and features are to us\nfamiliar--his goggle eyes, bald head, snub nose and bow-legs! The habit\nof his life--his goings and comings, his arguments and wrangles, his\ninfinite leisure, his sublime patience, his perfect faith--all these\nthings are plain, lifting the man out of the commonplace and setting him\napart.\n\nThe \"Memorabilia\" of Xenophon and the \"Dialogues\" of Plato give us\nBoswellian pictures of the man.\n\nKnowing the man, we know what he would do; and knowing what he did, we\nknow the man.\n\nSocrates was the son of Sophroniscus, a stonecutter, and his wife\nPhaenarete. In boyhood he used to carry dinner to his father, and sitting\nby, he heard the men, in their free and easy way, discuss the plans of\nPericles. These workmen didn't know the plans--they were only privates\nin the ranks, but they exercised their prerogatives to criticize, and\nwhile working to assist, did right royally disparage and condemn. Like\nsailors who love their ship, and grumble at grub and grog, yet on shore\nwill allow no word of disparagement to be said, so did these Athenians\nlove their city, and still condemn its rulers--they exercised the\nlaborer's right to damn the man who gives him work.\n\nLittle did the workmen guess--little did his father guess--that this\npug-nosed boy, making pictures in the sand with his big toe, would also\nleave his footprints on the sands of time, and a name that would rival\nthat of Phidias and Pericles!\n\nSocrates was a product of the Greek renaissance. Great men come in\ngroups, like comets sent from afar. Athens was seething with thought and\nfeeling: Pericles was giving his annual oration--worth thousands of\nweekly sermons--and planning his dream in marble; Phidias was cutting\naway the needless portions of the white stone of Pentelicus and\nliberating wondrous forms of beauty; Sophocles was revealing the\npossibilities of the stage; AEschylus was pointing out the way as a\nplaywright; and the passion for physical beauty was everywhere an\nadjunct of religion.\n\nPrenatal influences, it seems, played their part in shaping the destiny\nof Socrates. His mother followed the profession of Sairy Gamp, and made\nher home with a score of families, as she was needed. The trained nurse\nis often untrained, and is a regular encyclopedia of esoteric family\nfacts. She wipes her mouth on her apron and is at home in every room of\nthe domicile from parlor to pantry. Then as now she knew the trials and\ntroubles of her clients, and all domestic underground happenings\nrequiring adjustment she looked after as she was \"disposed.\"\n\nEvidently Phaenarete was possessed of considerable personality, for we\nhear of her being called to Mythaeia on a professional errand shortly\nbefore the birth of Socrates; and in a month after his birth, a similar\ncall came from another direction, and the bald little philosopher was\nagain taken along--from which we assume, following in the footsteps of\nConan Doyle, that Socrates was no bottle-baby. The world should be\ngrateful to Phaenarete that she did not honor the Sairy Gamp precedents\nand observe the Platonic maxim, \"Sandal-makers usually go barefoot\": she\ngave her customers an object-lesson in well-doing as well as teaching\nthem by precept. None of her clients did so well as she--even though her\nprofessional duties were so exacting that domesticity to her was merely\nincidental.\n\nIt was only another case of the amateur distancing the professional.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nFrom babyhood we lose sight of Socrates until we find him working at his\nfather's trade as a sculptor. Certainly he had a goodly degree of skill,\nfor the \"Graces\" which he carved were fair and beautiful and admired by\nmany. This was enough: he just wanted to reveal what he could do; and\nthen to show that to have no ambition was his highest ambition, he threw\ndown his tools and took off his apron for good. He was then thirty-five\nyears old. Art is a jealous mistress, and demands that \"thou shalt have\nno other gods before me.\" Socrates did not concentrate on art. His mind\nwent roaming the world of philosophy, and for his imagination the\nuniverse was hardly large enough.\n\nI said that he deliberately threw down his tools; but possibly this was\nby request, for he had acquired a habit of engaging in much wordy\nargument and letting the work slide. He went out upon the streets to\ntalk, and in the guise of a learner he got in close touch with all the\nwise men of Athens by stopping them and asking questions. In physique he\nwas immensely strong--hard work had developed his muscles, plain fare\nhad made him oblivious of the fact that he had a stomach, and as for\nnerves, he had none to speak of.\n\nSocrates did not marry until he was about forty. His wife was scarcely\ntwenty. Of his courtship we know nothing, but sure it is Socrates did\nnot go and sue for the lady's hand in the conventional way, nor seek to\ngain the consent of her parents by proving his worldly prospects. His\napparel was costly as his purse could buy, not gaudy nor expressed in\nfancy. It consisted of the one suit that he wore, for we hear of his\nrepairing beyond the walls to bathe in the stream, and of his washing\nhis clothing, hanging it on the bushes and waiting for it to dry before\ngoing back to the city. As for shoes, he had one pair, and since he\nnever once wore them, going barefoot Summer and Winter, it is presumed\nthat they lasted well. One can not imagine Socrates in an opera-hat--in\nfact, he wore no hat, and he was bald. I record the fact so as to\nconfound those zealous ones who badger the bald as a business, who have\nrecipes concealed on their persons, and who assure us that baldness has\nits rise in headgear.\n\nSocrates belonged to the leisure class. His motto was, \"Know Thyself.\"\nHe considered himself of much more importance than any statue he could\nmake, and to get acquainted with himself as being much more desirable\nthan to know physical phenomena. His plan of knowing himself was to ask\neverybody questions, and in their answers he would get a true reflection\nof his own mind. His intellect would reply to theirs, and if his\nquestions dissolved their answers into nothingness, the supremacy of his\nown being would be apparent; and if they proved his folly he was equally\ngrateful--if he was a fool, his desire was to know it. So sincere was\nSocrates in this wish to know himself that never did he show the\nslightest impatience nor resentment when the argument was turned upon\nhim.\n\nHe looked upon his mind as a second party, and sat off and watched it\nwork. Should it become confused or angered, it would be proof of its\ninsufficiency and littleness. If Socrates ever came to know himself, he\nknew this fact: as an economic unit he was an absolute failure; but as a\ngadfly, stinging men into thinking for themselves, he was a success. A\nspecialist is a deformity contrived by Nature to get the work done.\nSocrates was a thought-specialist, and the laziest man who ever lived in\na strenuous age. The desire of his life was to live without\ndesire--which is essentially the thought of Nirvana. He had the power\nnever to exercise his power except in knowing himself.\n\nHe accepted every fact, circumstance and experience of life, and counted\nit gain. Life to him was a precious privilege, and what were regarded as\nunpleasant experiences were as much a part of life as the pleasant ones.\nHe who succeeds in evading unpleasant experiences cheats himself out of\nso much life. You know yourself by watching yourself to see what you do\nwhen you are thwarted, crossed, contradicted, or deprived of certain\nthings supposed to be desirable. If you always get the desirable things,\nhow do you know what you would do if you didn't have them? You exchange\nso much life for the thing, that's all, and thus do we see Socrates\nanticipating Emerson's Essay on Compensation.\n\nEverything is bought with a price--all things are of equal value--no one\ncan cheat you, for to be cheated is a not undesirable experience, and in\nthe act, if you are really filled with the thought, \"Know Thyself,\" you\nget the compensation by increase in mental growth.\n\nHowever, to deliberately go in search of experience, Socrates said,\nwould be a mistake, because then you would so multiply impressions that\nnone would be of any avail and your life would be burned out. To clutch\nlife by the throat and demand that it shall stand and deliver is to\nplace yourself so out of harmony with your environment that you will get\nnothing.\n\nAbove all things, we must be calm, self-centered, never anxious, and be\nalways ready to accept whatever the gods may send. The world will come\nto us if we only wait. It will be seen that Socrates is at once the\noldest and most modern of thinkers. He was the first to express the New\nThought. A thought, to Socrates, was more of a reality than a block of\nmarble--a moral principle was just as persistent as a chemical agent.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe silken-robed and perfumed Sophist was sport and game for Socrates.\nFor him Socrates recognized no closed season. If Socrates ever came near\nlosing his temper, it was in dealing with this Edmund Russell of Athens.\nGrant Allen used to say, \"The spores of everything are everywhere, and a\ncertain condition breeds a certain microbe.\" A period of prosperity\nalways warms into life this social paragon, who lives in a darkened room\nhung with maroon drapery where incense is burned and a turbaned Hindu\ncarries your card to the master, who faces the sun and exploits a\nprie-dieu when the wind blows east. Athens had these men of refined\nelegance, Rome evolved them, London has had her day, New York knows\nthem, and Chicago--I trust I will not be contradicted when I say that\nChicago understands her business! And so we find these folks who\ncultivate a pellucid passivity, a phthisicky whisper, a supercilious\nsmirk, and who win our smothered admiration and give us gooseflesh by\nimparting a taupe tinge of mystery to all their acts and words, thus\nproving to the assembled guests that they are the Quality and Wisdom\nwill die with them.\n\nThis lingo of meaningless words and high-born phrases always set\nSocrates by the ears, and when he could corner a Sophist, he would very\nshortly prick his pretty toy balloon, until at last the tribe fled him\nas a pestilence. Socrates stood for sanity. The Sophist represented\nmoonshine gone to seed, and these things, proportioned ill, drive men\ntransverse.\n\nExtremes equalize themselves: the pendulum swings as far this way as it\ndoes that. The saponaceous Sophist who renounced the world and yet lived\nwholly in a world of sense, making vacuity pass legal tender for\nspirituality, and the priest who, mystified with a mumble of words,\nevolved a Diogenes who lived in a tub, wore regally a robe of rags, and\nonce went into the temple, and cracking a louse on the altar-rail, said\nsolemnly, \"Thus does Diogenes sacrifice to all the gods at once!\" are\nbut two sides of the same shield.\n\nIn Socrates was a little jollity and much wisdom pickled in the scorn of\nFortune; but the Sophists inwardly bowed down and worshiped the fickle\ndame on idolatrous knees. Socrates won immortality because he did not\nwant it, and the Sophists secured oblivion because they deserved it.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nWe hear of Socrates going to Aspasia, and holding long conversations\nwith her \"to sharpen his mind.\" Aspasia did not go out in society much:\nshe and Pericles lived very simply. It is worth while to remember that\nthe most intellectual woman of her age was democratic enough to be on\nfriendly terms with the barefoot philosopher who went about regally\nwrapped in a table-spread. Socrates did not realize the flight of time\nwhen making calls--he went early and stayed late. Possibly prenatal\ninfluences caused him often to call before breakfast and remain until\nafter supper.\n\nJust imagine Pericles, Aspasia and Socrates sitting at table--with\nWalter Savage Landor behind the arras making notes! Doubtless Socrates\nand Mrs. Pericles did most of the talking, while the First Citizen of\nAthens listened and smiled indulgently now and then as his mind wandered\nto construction contracts and walking delegates. Pericles, the builder\nof a city--Pericles, first among practical men since time began, and\nSocrates, who jostles history for first place among those who have done\nnothing but talk--imagine these two eating melons together, while\nAspasia, gentle and kind, talks of spirit being more than matter and\nlove being greater than the Parthenon!\n\nSocrates is usually spoken of as regarding women with slight favor, but\nI have noticed that your genus woman-hater holds the balance true by\nreally being a woman-lover. If a man is enough interested in women to\nhate them, note this: he is only searching for the right woman, the\nwoman who compares favorably with the ideal woman in his own mind. He\nmeasures every woman by this standard, just as Ruskin compared all\nmodern painters with Turner and discarded them with fitting adjectives\nas they receded from what he regarded as the perfect type. If Ruskin had\nnot been much interested in painters, would he have written scathing\ncriticisms about them?\n\nIn several instances we hear of Socrates reminding his followers that\nthey are \"weak as women,\" and he was the first to say \"woman is an\nundeveloped man.\" But Socrates was a great admirer of human beauty,\nwhether physical or spiritual, and his abrupt way of stopping beautiful\nwomen on the streets and bluntly telling them they were beautiful,\ndoubtless often confirmed their suspicions. And thus far he was\npleasing, but when he went on to ask questions so as to ascertain\nwhether their mental estate compared with their physical, why, that was\nslightly different. It is good to hear him say, \"There is no sex in\nintellect,\" and also, \"I have long held the opinion that the female sex\nis nothing inferior to ours, save only in strength of body and possibly\nin steadiness of judgment.\" And Xenophon quotes him thus: \"It is more\ndelightful to hear the virtue of a good woman described than if the\npainter Zeuxis were to show me the portrait of the fairest woman in the\nworld.\"\n\nPerhaps Thackeray is right when he says, \"The men who appreciate woman\nmost are those who have felt the sharpness of her claws.\" That is to\nsay, things show up best on the darkest background. If so, let us give\nXantippe due credit. She tested the temper of the sage by railing on him\nand deluging him with Socratic propositions, not waiting for the\nanswers; she often broke in with a broom upon his introspective efforts\nto know himself; if this were not enough, she dashed buckets of\nscrubbing-water over him; presents that were sent him by admiring\nfriends she used as targets for her mop and wit; if he invited friends\nwith faith plus to dine, she upset the table, dishes and all, before\nthem--not much to their loss; she occasionally elbowed her way through a\ncrowd where her husband was entertaining the listeners upon the divine\nharmonies, and would tear off his robe and lead him home by the ear. But\nthese things never ruffled Socrates--he might roll his eyes in comic\nprotest at the audiences as he was being led away captive, but no\nresentment was shown. He had the strength of a Hercules, but he was a\nfar better non-resistant than Tolstoy, because he took his medicine with\na wink, while Fate is obliged to hold the nose of the author of \"Anna\nKarenina,\" who never sees the comedy of an inward struggle and an\noutward compliance, any more than does the benedict, safely entrenched\nunder the bed, who shouts out, \"I defy thee, I defy thee!\" as did\nMephisto when Goethe thrust him into Tophet.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe popular belief is that Xantippe, the wife of Socrates, was a shrew,\nand had she lived in New England in Cotton Mather's time would have been\na candidate for the ducking-stool. Socrates said he married her for\ndiscipline. A man in East Aurora, however, has recently made it plain to\nhimself that Xantippe was possessed of a great and acute intellect. She\nknew herself, and she knew her liege as he never did--he was too close\nto his subject to get the perspective. She knew that under right\nconditions his name would live as one of the world's great teachers, and\nso she set herself to supply the conditions. She deliberately sacrificed\nherself and put her character in a wrong light before the world in order\nthat she might benefit the world. Most women have a goodly grain of\nambition for themselves, and if their husbands have genius, their\nbusiness is not to prove it, but to show that they themselves are not\nwholly commonplace.\n\nNot so Xantippe--she was quite willing to be misunderstood that her\nhusband might live.\n\nWhat the world calls a happy marriage is not wholly good--ease is bought\nwith a price. Suppose Xantippe and Socrates had settled down and lived\nin a cottage with a vine growing over the portico, and two rows of\nhollyhocks leading from the front gate to the door; a pathway of\ncoal-ashes lined off with broken crockery, and inside the house all\nsweet, clean and tidy; Socrates earning six drachmas a day carving\nmarble, with double pay for overtime, and he handing the pay-envelope\nover to her each Saturday night, keeping out just enough for tobacco,\nand she putting a tidy sum in the AEgean Savings-Bank every month--why,\nwhat then?\n\nWell, that would have been an end of Socrates. Xantippe was big enough\nto know this and so she supplied the domestic cantharides and drove him\nout upon the streets--he grew to care very little for her, not much for\nthe children, nothing for his home. She drove him out into the world of\nthought, instead of allowing him to settle down and be content with her\nsociety.\n\nI once knew a sculptor--another sculptor--an elemental bit of nature,\noriginal and, better still, aboriginal. He used to sleep out under the\nstars so as to wake up in the night and see the march of the Milky Way,\nand watch the Pleiades disappear over the brink of the western horizon.\nHe wore a flannel shirt, thick-soled shoes, and overalls, no hat, and\nhis hair was thick and coarse as a horse's mane. This man had talent,\nand he had sublime conceptions, great dreams, and splendid aspirations.\nHis soul was struggling to find expression. \"Leave him alone,\" I said.\n\"He needs time to ripen. He is a Michelangelo in embryo!\"\n\nDid he ripen? Not he. He married a Wellesley girl of good family. She,\ntoo, had ideas about art--she painted china-buttons for shirtwaists,\nembroidered chasubles and sang \"The Rosary\" in a raucous Quinsigamond\nvoice. The big barbarian became respectable, and the last time I saw\nhim he wore a Tuxedo and was passing out platitudes and raspberry-shrub\nat a lawn-party. The Wellesley girl had tamed her bear--they were very\nhappy, he assured me, and she was preparing a course of lectures for him\nwhich he was to give at Mrs. Jack Gardner's. A Xantippe might have saved\nhim.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nA captious friend once suggested to Socrates this: \"If you prize the\nfemale nature so highly, how does it happen that you do not instruct\nXantippe?\"--a rather indelicate proposition to put to a married man. And\nSocrates, quite unruffled, replied: \"My friend, if one wants to learn\nhorsemanship, does he choose a tame horse or one with mettle and a hard\nmouth? I wish to converse with all sorts of people, and I believe that\nnothing can disturb me after I grow accustomed to the tongue of\nXantippe.\"\n\nAgain we hear of his suggesting that his wife's scolding tongue may have\nbeen only the buzzing of his own waspish thoughts, and if he did not\ncall forth these qualities in her they would not otherwise have\nappeared. And so, beholding her impatience and unseemliness, he would\nrealize the folly of an ill temper and thus learn by antithesis to curb\nhis own. Old Doctor Johnson used to have a regular menagerie of\nwrangling, jangling, quibbling, dissatisfied pensioners in his\nhousehold; and so far as we know he never learned the truth that all\npensioners are dissatisfied. \"If I can stand things at home, I can stand\nthings anywhere,\" he once said to Boswell, as much as to say, \"If I can\nstand things at home, I can stand even you.\" Goldsmith referred to\nBoswell as a cur; Garrick said he thought he was a bur. Socrates had a\nsimilar satellite by the name of Cheropho, a dark, dirty, weazened, and\nawfully serious little man of the tribe of Buttinsky, who sat\nbreathlessly trying to catch the pearls that fell from the ample mouth\nof the philosopher. Aristophanes referred to Cheropho as \"Socrates'\nbat,\" a play-off on Minerva and her bird of night, the owl. There were\nquite a number of these \"bats,\" and they seemed to labor under the same\nhallucination that catches the lady students of the Pundit Vivakenanda\nH. Darmapala: they think that wisdom is to be imparted by word of mouth,\nand that by listening hard and making notes one can become very wise.\nSocrates said again and again, \"Character is a matter of growth and all\nI hope to do is to make you think for yourselves.\"\n\nThat chilly exclusiveness which regards a man's house as his castle, his\nhome, the one sacred spot, and all outside as the cold and cruel world,\nwas not the ideal of Socrates. His family was his circle of friends, and\nthese were of all classes and conditions, from the First Citizen to\nbeggars on the street.\n\nHe made no charge for his teaching, took up no collections, and never\ninaugurated a Correspondence School. America has produced one man who\nhas been called a reincarnation of Socrates; that man was Bronson\nAlcott, who peddled clocks and forgot the flight of time whenever any\none would listen to him expound the unities. Alcott once ran his\nwheelbarrow into a neighbor's garden and was proceeding to load his\nmotor-car with cabbages, beets and potatoes. Glancing up, the\nphilosopher saw the owner of the garden looking at him steadfastly over\nthe wall. \"Don't look at me that way,\" called Alcott with a touch of\nun-Socratic acerbity, \"don't look at me that way--I need these things\nmore than you!\" and went on with the annexation.\n\nThe idea that all good things are for use and belong to all who need\nthem was a favorite maxim of Socrates. The furniture in his house never\nexceeded the exemption clause. Once we find him saying that Xantippe\ncomplained because he did not buy her a stewpan, but since there was\nnothing to put in it, he thought her protests ill-founded.\n\nThe climate of Athens is about like that of Southern California--one\ndoes not need to bank food and fuel against the coming of Winter. Life\ncan be adjusted to its simplest forms. From his fortieth to his fiftieth\nyear, Socrates worked every other Thursday; then he retired from active\nlife, and Xantippe took in plain sewing.\n\nSocrates was surely not a good provider, but if he had provided more for\nhis family, he would have provided less for the world. The wealthy Crito\nwould have turned his pockets inside out for Socrates, but Socrates had\nall he wished, and explained that as it was he had to dance at home in\norder to keep down the adipose. Aristides, who was objectionable because\nhe so shaped his conduct that he was called \"The Just\" and got himself\nostracized, was one of his dear friends. Antisthenes, the original\nCynic, used to walk six miles and back every day to hear Socrates talk.\nThe Cynic was a rich man, but so captivated was he with the preaching\nof Socrates that he adopted the life of simplicity and dressed in rags\nand boycotted both the barber and the bath. On one occasion Socrates\nlooked sharply at a rent in the cloak of his friend and said, \"Ah,\nAntisthenes, through that hole in your cloak I see your vanity!\"\n\nXenophon sat at the feet of Socrates for a score of years, and then\nwrote his recollections of him as a vindication of his character. Euclid\nof Megara was nearly eighty when he came to Socrates as a pupil, trying\nto get rid of his ill-temper and habit of ironical reply. Cebes and\nSimmias left their native country and became Greek citizens for his\nsake. Charmides, the pampered son of wealthy parents, learned pedagogics\nby being shown that, in households where there were many servants, the\nchildren got cheated out of their rightful education because others did\nall the work, and to deprive a child of the privilege of being useful\nwas to rob him of so much life. AEschines, the ambitious son of a\nsausage-maker, was advised by Socrates to borrow money of himself on\nlong time without interest, by reducing his wants. So pleased was the\nrecipient with this advice, that he went to publishing Socratic\ndialogues as a business and had the felicity to fail with tidy\nliabilities.\n\nBut the two men who loom largest in the life of Socrates are Alcibiades\nand Plato--characters very much unlike.\n\nAlcibiades was twenty-one years old when we find him first. He was\nconsidered the handsomest young man in Athens. He was aristocratic,\nproud, insolent, and needlessly rich. He had a passion for gambling,\nhorse-racing, dog-fighting, and indulged in the churchly habit of doing\nthat which he ought not and leaving undone that which he should have\ndone. He was worse than that degenerate scion of a proud ancestry, who\na-kneiping went with his lady friends in the Cincinnati fountain, after\nthe opera, on a wager. He whipped a man who admitted he did not have a\ncopy of the \"Iliad\" in his house; publicly destroyed the record of a\ncharge against one of his friends; and when his wife applied for a\ndivorce, he burst into the courtroom and vacated proceedings by carrying\nthe lady off by force. At banquets he would raise a disturbance, and\nwhile he was being forcibly ejected from one door, his servants would\nsneak in at another and steal the silverware, which he would give away\nas charity. He also indulged in the Mark Antony trick of rushing into\nhouses at night and pulling good folks out of bed by the heels, and then\nrunning away before they were barely awake.\n\nHis introduction to Socrates came in an attempt to break up a Socratic\nprayer-meeting. Socrates succeeded in getting the roysterer to listen\nlong enough to turn the laugh on him and show all concerned that the\nlife of a rowdy was the life of a fool. Alcibiades had expected Socrates\nto lose his temper, but it was Alcibiades who gave way, and blurted out\nthat he could not hope to beat his antagonist talking, but he would like\nto wrestle with him.\n\nLegend has it that Socrates gave the insolent young man a shock by\ninstantly accepting his challenge. In the bout that followed, the\nphilosopher, built like a gorilla, got a half-Nelson on his man, who was\na little the worse for wine, and threw him so hard, jumping on his\nprostrate form with his knees, that the aristocratic hoodlum was laid up\nfor a moon. Ever after Alcibiades had a thorough respect for Socrates.\nThey became fast friends, and whenever the old man talked in the Agora,\nAlcibiades was on hand to keep order.\n\nWhen war came with Sparta and her allies in the Peloponnesus they\nenlisted, Socrates going as corporal and Alcibiades as captain. They\noccupied the same tent during the entire campaign. Socrates proved a\nfearless soldier, and walked the winter ice in bare feet, often pulling\nhis belt one hole tighter in lieu of breakfast, to show the complaining\nsoldiers that endurance was the thing that won battles. At the battle of\nDelium, when there was a rout, Xenophon says Socrates walked off the\nfield leisurely, arm in arm with the general, explaining the nature of\nharmony.\n\nThrough the influence of Socrates, the lawless Alcibiades was tamed and\nbecame almost a model citizen, although his head was hardly large enough\nfor a philosopher.\n\n\"Say what you will, you'll find it all in Plato,\" said Emerson. If\nSocrates had done nothing else but give bent to the mind of Plato, he\nwould deserve the gratitude of the centuries. Plato is the mine to\nwhich all thinkers turn for treasure. When they first met, Plato was\ntwenty and Socrates sixty, and for ten years, to the day of Socrates'\ndeath, they were together almost constantly. Plato died aged eighty-one,\nand for fifty years he had lived but to record the dialogues of\nSocrates. It was curiosity that first attracted this fine youth to the\nold man--Socrates was so uncouth that he was amusing. Plato was\ninterested in politics, and like most Athenian youths, was intent on\nhaving a good time. However, he was no rowdy, like Alcibiades: he was\nsuave, gracious, and elegant in all of his acts. He had been taught by\nthe Sophists and the desire of his life was to seem, rather than to be.\nBy very gentle stages, Plato began to perceive that to make an\nimpression on society was not worth working for--the thing to do was to\nbe yourself, and yourself at your best. And we can give no better answer\nto the problem of life than Plato gives in the words of Socrates: \"It is\nbetter to be than to seem. To live honestly and deal justly is the meat\nof the whole matter.\"\n\nPlato was not a disciple--he was big enough not to ape the manners and\neccentricities of his Master--he saw beneath the rough husk and beyond\nthe grotesque outside the great controlling purpose in the life of\nSocrates. He would be himself--and himself at his best--and he would\nseek to satisfy the Voice within, rather than to try to please the\npopulace. Plato still wore his purple cloak, and the elegance and grace\nof his manner were not thrown aside.\n\nWouldn't it have been worth our while to travel miles to see these\nfriends: the one old, bald, short, fat, squint-eyed, barefoot; and the\nother with all the poise of aristocratic youth--tall, courtly and\nhandsome, wearing his robe with easy, regal grace! And so they have\nwalked and talked adown the centuries, side by side, the most perfect\nexample that can be named of that fine affection which often exists\nbetween teacher and scholar.\n\nPlato's \"Republic,\" especially, gives us an insight into a very great\nand lofty character. From his tower of speculation, Plato scanned the\nfuture, and saw that the ideal of education was to have it continue\nthrough life, for none but the life of growth and development ever\nsatisfies. And love itself turns to ashes of roses if not used to help\nthe soul in her upward flight. It was Plato who first said, \"There is no\nprofit where no pleasure's ta'en.\" He further perceived that in the life\nof education, the sexes must move hand in hand; and he also saw that,\nwhile religions are many and seemingly diverse, goodness and kindness\nare forever one.\n\nHis faith in the immortality of the soul was firm, but whether we are to\nlive in another world or not, he said there is no higher wisdom than to\nlive here and now--live our highest and best--cultivate the receptive\nmind and the hospitable heart, \"partaking of all good things in\nmoderation.\"\n\nIt takes these two to make the whole. There is no virtue in poverty--no\nmerit in rags--the uncouth qualities in Socrates were not a\nrecommendation. Yet he was himself. But Plato made good, in his own\ncharacter, all that Socrates lacked. Some one has said that Fitzgerald's\nOmar is two-thirds Fitzgerald and one-third Omar. In his books, Plato\nmodestly puts his wisest maxims into the mouth of his master, and just\nhow much Plato and how much Socrates there is in the \"Dialogues,\" we\nwill never know until we get beyond the River Styx.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nSocrates was deeply attached to Athens, and he finally became the best\nknown figure in the city. He criticized in his own frank, fearless way\nall the doings of the times--nothing escaped him. He was a\nself-appointed investigating committee in all affairs of state, society\nand religion. Hypocrisy, pretense, affectation and ignorance trembled at\nhis approach. He was feared, despised and loved. But those who loved him\nwere as one in a hundred. He became a public nuisance. The charge\nagainst him was just plain heresy--he had spoken disrespectfully of the\ngods and through his teaching he had defiled the youth of Athens. Ample\nwarning had been given to him, and opportunity to run away was provided,\nbut he stuck like a leech, asking the cost of banquets and making\nsuggestions about all public affairs.\n\nHe was arrested, bailed by Plato and Crito, and tried before a jury of\nfive hundred citizens. Socrates insisted on managing his own case. A\nrhetorician prepared an address of explanation, and the culprit was\ngiven to understand that if he read this speech to his judges and said\nnothing else, it would be considered as an apology and he would be\nfreed--the intent of the trial being more to teach the old man a lesson\nin minding his own business than to injure him.\n\nBut Socrates replied to his well-meaning friend, \"Think you I have not\nspent my whole life in preparing for this one thing?\" And he handed back\nthe smoothly polished manuscript with a smile. Montaigne says, \"Should\na suppliant voice have been heard out of the mouth of Socrates now;\nshould that lofty virtue strike sail in the very height of its glory,\nand his rich and powerful nature be committed to flowing rhetoric as a\ndefense? Never!\"\n\nSocrates cross-questioned his accusers in the true Socratic style and\nshowed that he had never spoken disrespectfully of the gods: he had only\nspoken disrespectfully of their absurd conception of the gods. And here\nis a thought which is well to consider even yet: The so-called \"infidel\"\nis often a man of great gentleness of spirit, and his disbelief is not\nin God, but in some little man's definition of God--a distinction the\nlittle man, being without humor, can never see.\n\nWhen Socrates had confounded his accusers, this time not giving them the\nsatisfaction of the last word, he launched out on a general criticism of\nthe city, and told where its rulers were gravely at fault. Being\ncautioned to bridle his tongue, he replied, \"When your generals at\nPotidaea and Amphipolis and Delium assigned my place in the battle I\nremained there, did my work, and faced the peril, and think you that\nwhen Deity has assigned me my duty at this pass in life I should,\nthrough fear of death, evade it, and shirk my post?\"\n\nThis man appeared at other times, to some, as an idle loafer, but now he\narose to a sublime height. He repeated with emphasis all he had ever\nsaid against their foolish superstitions, and arraigned the waste and\nfutility of the idle rich. The power of the man was revealed as never\nbefore, and those who had intended to let him go with a fine, now\nthought it best to dispose of him. The safety of the state was\nendangered by such an agitator--the question of religion is really not\nwhat has sent the martyrs to the stake--it is the politician, not the\npriest, who fears the heretic.\n\nBy a small majority, Socrates was found guilty and sentenced to death.\nLet Plato tell of that last hour--he has done it once for all:\n\n     When he had done speaking, Crito said, \"And have you any commands\n     for us, Socrates--anything to say about your children, or any other\n     matter in which we can serve you?\"\n\n     \"Nothing particular,\" he said; \"only, as I have always told you, I\n     would have you to look to your own conduct; that is a service which\n     you may always be doing to me and mine as well as to yourselves.\"\n     ...\n\n     \"We will do our best,\" said Crito. \"But in what way would you have\n     us bury you?\"\n\n     \"In any way that you like; only you must get hold of me, and take\n     care that I do not walk away from you.\" Then he turned to us, and\n     added with a smile: \"I can not make Crito believe that I am the\n     same Socrates who has been talking and conducting the argument; he\n     fancies that I am the other Socrates whom he will soon see, a dead\n     body--and he asks, 'How shall he bury me?' And though I have spoken\n     many words in the endeavor to show that when I have drunk the\n     poison I shall leave you and go to the joys of the blessed--these\n     words of mine, with which I comforted you and myself, have had, as\n     I perceive, no effect upon Crito. And therefore I want you to be\n     surety for me now, as he was surety for me at the trial: but let\n     the promise be of another sort; for he was my surety to the judges\n     that I would remain, but you must be my surety to him that I shall\n     not remain, but go away and depart; and then he will suffer less at\n     my death, and not be grieved when he sees my body being burned. I\n     would not have him sorrow at my hard lot, or say at the\n     burial,'Thus we lay out Socrates,' or, 'Thus we follow him to the\n     grave or bury him'; for false words are not only evil in\n     themselves, but they infect the soul with evil. Be of good cheer\n     then, my dear Crito, and say that you are burying my body only, and\n     do with that as is usual, and as you think best.\"\n\n     When he had spoken these words, he arose and went into the\n     bath-chamber with Crito, who bid us wait; and we waited, talking\n     and thinking of the subject of discourse, and also of the greatness\n     of our sorrow; he was like a father of whom we were being bereaved,\n     and we were about to pass the rest of our lives as orphans. When he\n     had taken his bath, his children were brought to him--and the women\n     of his family also came, and he talked to them and gave them a few\n     directions in the presence of Crito; and he then dismissed them and\n     returned to us.\n\n     Now the hour of sunset was near. When he came out, he sat down with\n     us again after his bath, but not much was said. Soon the jailer,\n     who was the servant, entered and stood by him, saying: \"To you,\n     Socrates, whom I know to be the noblest and gentlest and best of\n     all who ever came to this place, I will not impute the angry\n     feelings of other men, who rage and swear at me when, in obedience\n     to the authorities, I bid them drink the poison--indeed I am sure\n     that you will not be angry with me; for others, as you are aware,\n     and not I, are the guilty cause. And so fare you well, and try to\n     bear lightly what must needs be; you know my errand.\" Then bursting\n     into tears, he turned away, and went out.\n\n     Socrates looked at him and said, \"I return your good wishes, and\n     will do as you bid.\" Then turning to us, he said: \"How charming the\n     man is! Since I have been in prison, he has always been coming to\n     see me, and at times, he would talk to me, and was as good as could\n     be to me, and now see how generously he sorrows for me. But we must\n     do as he says, Crito; let the cup be brought.\"\n\n     \"Not yet,\" said Crito; \"the sun is still upon the hill-tops, and\n     many a one has taken the draft late, and after the announcement has\n     been made to him, he has eaten and drunk and indulged in sensual\n     delights; do not hasten then--there is still time.\"\n\n     Socrates said: \"Yes, Crito, and they of whom you speak are right in\n     doing thus, but I do not think that I should gain anything by\n     drinking the poison a little later; I should be sparing and saving\n     a life which is already gone: I could only laugh at myself for\n     this. Please then to do as I say, and not to refuse me.\"\n\n     Crito, when he heard this, made a sign to the servant; and the\n     servant went in, and remained for some time, and then returned with\n     the jailer carrying the cup of poison. Socrates said, \"You, my good\n     friend, who are experienced in these matters, shall give me\n     directions how I am to proceed.\" The man answered, \"You have only\n     to walk about until your legs are heavy, and then to lie down, and\n     the poison will act.\" At the same time, he handed the cup to\n     Socrates, who, in the easiest and gentlest manner, without the\n     least fear or change of color or feature, looking at the man with\n     his eyes, Echecrates, as his manner was, took the cup and said:\n     \"What do you say about making the libation out of this cup to any\n     god? May I, or not?\" The man answered, \"We only prepare, Socrates,\n     just so much as we deem enough.\" \"I understand,\" he said. \"Yet I\n     may and must pray to the gods to prosper my journey from this to\n     that other world--may this, then, which is my prayer, be granted to\n     me!\" Then holding the cup to his lips, quite readily and\n     cheerfully, he drank off the poison. And hitherto most of us had\n     been able to control our sorrow; but now we saw him drinking, and\n     saw, too, that he had finished the draft, we could no longer\n     forbear, and in spite of myself, my own tears were flowing fast; so\n     that I covered my face and wept over myself, for certainly I was\n     not weeping over him, but at the thought of my own calamity in\n     having lost such a companion. Nor was I the first, for Crito, when\n     he found himself unable to restrain his tears, had got up and moved\n     away, and I followed; and at that moment, Apollodorus, who had been\n     weeping all the time, broke out into a loud cry, which made cowards\n     of us all. Socrates alone retained his calmness. \"What is this\n     strange outcry?\" he said, \"I sent away the women mainly in order\n     that they might not offend in this way, for I have heard that a man\n     should die in peace. Be quiet, then, and have patience.\" When we\n     heard that, we were ashamed, and refrained our tears; and he\n     walked about until, as he said, his legs began to fail, and then he\n     lay on his back, according to directions, and the man who gave him\n     the poison, now and then looked at his feet and legs; and after a\n     while, he pressed his foot hard and asked him if he could feel; and\n     he said, \"No\"; and then his leg, and so upwards and upwards, and\n     showed us that he was cold and stiff. And he felt them himself, and\n     said, \"When the poison reaches the heart, that will be the end.\" He\n     was beginning to grow cold, when he uncovered his face, for he had\n     covered himself up, and said (they were his last words), \"Crito, I\n     owe a cock to Asclepius; will you remember to pay the debt?\"\n\n     \"The debt shall be paid,\" said Crito. \"Is there anything else?\"\n     There was no answer to this question; but in a minute or two, a\n     movement was heard, and the attendants uncovered him; his eyes were\n     set, and Crito closed his eyes and mouth.\n\n     Such was the end, Echecrates, of our friend, whom I may truly call\n     the wisest, the justest, and best of all the men whom I have ever\n     known.\n\n\n\n\nSENECA\n\n\n     If we wish to be just judges of all things, let us first persuade\n     ourselves of this: that there is not one of us without fault; no\n     man is found who can acquit himself; and he who calls himself\n     innocent does so with reference to a witness, and not to his\n     conscience.\n\n                                                --_Letters of Seneca_\n\n[Illustration: SENECA]\n\n\nTrue Americans and patriotic, who live in York State, often refer you to\nthe life of Red Jacket as proof that \"Seneca\" is an Iroquois Indian\nword. The Indians, however, whom we call the Senecas never called\nthemselves thus until they took to strong water and became civilized.\nBefore that they were the Tsonnundawaonas. The Dutch traders, intent on\npelts and pelf, called them the Sinnekaas, meaning the valiant or the\nbeautiful. Then came that fateful day when the Reverend Peleg Spooner,\nthe discoverer of the Erie Canal, journeyed to Niagara Falls, and having\ninfluence with the authorities at Washington, gave to towns along the\nway these names: Troy, Rome, Ithaca, Syracuse, Ilion, Manlius, Homer,\nCorfu, Palmyra, Utica, Delhi, Memphis and Marathon. He really exhausted\nGrote's \"History of Greece\" and Gibbon's \"Rome,\" revealing a most\ndepressing lack of humor. This classic flavor of the map of New York is\nas surprising to English tourists as was the discovery to Hendrik Hudson\nwhen, on sailing up the North River, he found on nearing Albany that the\nriver bore the same name as himself.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIn the eighteenth chapter of the Acts of the Apostles we read of Paul\nbeing brought before Gallio, Proconsul of Achaia. And the accusers,\nclutching the bald and bow-legged bachelor by the collar, bawl out to\nthe Judge, \"This fellow persuadeth men to worship God contrary to law!\"\n\nAnd the little man is about to make reply, when Gallio says, with a\ntouch of impatience: \"If indeed it were a matter of wrong or of wicked\nvillainy, O ye Jews, reason would that I should bear with you: but if\nthey are questions about words and names and your own law, look to it\nyourselves; I am not minded to be a judge of these matters!\" And the\naccount concludes, \"And he drove them from the judgment-seat.\"\n\nThat is to say, he gave Saint Paul a \"nolle pros.\" Had Gallio wished to\nbe severe, he might have put the quietus on Christianity for all time,\nfor Saint Paul had all there was of it stowed in his valiant head and\nheart.\n\nGallio was the elder brother of Seneca; his right name was Annaeus\nSeneca, but he changed it to Junius Gallio, in honor of a patron who had\nespecially befriended him in youth.\n\nGallio seems to have been a man of good, sturdy commonsense--he could\ndistinguish between right living and a mumble of words, man-made rules,\nlaws such as heresy, blasphemy, Sabbath-breaking and marrying one's\ndeceased wife's sister. The Moqui Indians believe that if any one is\nallowed to have a photograph taken of himself he will dry up in a month\nand blow away. Moreover, lists of names are not wanting with memoranda\nof times and places. In America there are yet people who hotly argue as\nto what mode of baptism is correct; who talk earnestly about the \"saved\"\nand the \"lost\"; and who will tell you of the \"heathen\" and those who are\n\"without the pale.\" They seem to think that the promise, \"Seek and ye\nshall find, knock and it shall be opened unto you,\" applies only to the\nCaucasian race.\n\nIn the earlier translations of Seneca there were printed various letters\nthat were supposed to have passed between Saint Paul and Seneca. Later\neditors have dropped them out for lack of authenticity. But the fact\nthat Saint Paul met Seneca's brother face to face, as well as the fact\nthat the brother was willing to discuss right living, but had no time to\nwaste on the Gemara and theological quibbles, is undisputed.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIt was the proud boast of Augustus that he found Rome a place of brick\nand left it a city of marble. Commercial prosperity buys the leisure\nupon which letters flourish. We flout the businessman, but without him\nthere would be no poets. Poets write for the people who have time to\nread. And out of the surplus that is left after securing food, we buy\nbooks. Augustus built his marble city, and he also made Vergil, Horace,\nOvid and Livy possible.\n\nAugustus reigned forty-four years, and it was in the twenty-seventh year\nof his reign that there was born in Bethlehem of Judaea a Babe who was to\nrevolutionize the calendar. The Dean of Ely subtly puts forth the\nsuggestive thought that if it had not been for Augustus we might never\nhave heard of Jesus. It was Augustus who made Jerusalem a Roman\nProvince; and it was the economic and political policy of Augustus that\nevolved the Scribes and Pharisees; and ill-gotten gains made the\nhypocrites and publicans possible; then comes Pontius Pilate with his\nreceding chin.\n\nJesus was seventeen years old when Augustus died--Augustus never heard\nof him, and the Roman's unprophetic mind sent no searchlight into the\nfuture, neither did his eyes behold the Star in the East.\n\nWe are all making and shaping history, and how much, none of us knows,\nany more than did Augustus.\n\nJulius Caesar had no son to take his place, so he named his nephew,\nAugustus, his heir. Augustus was succeeded by Tiberius, his adopted\nchild. Caligula, successor of Tiberius, was the son of the great Roman\nGeneral, Germanicus. Caligula revealed his good sense by drinking life\nto its lees in a reign of four years, dying without heirs--Nature\nrefusing to transmit either infamy or genius. Claudius, an uncle of\nCaligula, accepted the vacant place, as it seemed to him there was no\none else could fill it so well. Claudius had the felicity to be married\nfour times, and left several sons, but Fate had it that he should be\nfollowed by Nero, his stepson, who called himself \"Caesar,\" yet in whose\nveins there leaped not a single Caesarean corpuscle.\n\nThe guardian and tutor of Nero was Lucius Seneca, the greatest, best and\nwisest man of his time, a fact I here state in order to show the vanity\nof pedagogics. Harking back once more to Augustus, let it be known that\nbut for him Seneca would probably have never left his mark upon this\nbank and shoal of time. Seneca was a Spaniard, born in Cordova, a Roman\nProvince, that was made so by Augustus, under whose kindly and placating\ninfluence all citizens of Hispania became Roman citizens--just as, when\nCalifornia was admitted to the Union, every man in the State was\ndeclared a naturalized citizen of the United States, the act being\nperformed for political purposes, based on the precedents of Augustus,\nand never done before nor since in America.\n\nSeneca was four years old when his father's family moved from Cordova\nto Rome; this was three years before the birth of Christ. Years pass,\nbut the human heart is forever the same. The elder Seneca, Marcus\nSeneca, had ambitions--he was a great man in Cordova: he could memorize\na list of two thousand words. These words had no relationship one to\nanother, and Marcus Seneca could not put words together so as to make\ngood sense, but his name was \"Loisette\": he had a scheme of mnemonics\nthat he imparted for a consideration. He was also a teacher of\nelocution, and had compiled a yearbook of the sayings of Horace, which\nsecured him a knighthood. Augustus paid his colonists pretty\ncompliments, very much as England gives out brevets to Strathcona and\nother worthy Canadians, who raise troops of horse to fight England's\nbattles in South Africa when duty calls.\n\nMarcus Seneca made haste to move to Rome when Augustus let down the\nbars. Rome was the center of the art-world, the home of letters, and all\nthat made for beauty and excellence. There were three boys and a girl in\nthe Seneca family.\n\nThe elder boy, Annaeus, was to become Gallio, the Roman governor, and\nhave his name mentioned in the most widely circulated book the world has\never known; the second boy was Lucius, the subject of this sketch; the\nyounger boy, Mela, was to become the father of Lucan, the poet.\n\nThe sister of Seneca became the wife of the Roman Governor of Egypt. It\nwas at a time when the scheming rapacity of women was so much in\nevidence that the Senate debated whether it should not forbid its\nrepresentatives abroad to be accompanied by their wives. France has seen\nsuch times--England and America have glanced that way. Women, like men,\noften do not know that the big prizes gravitate where they belong;\ninstead, they set traps for them, lie in wait and consider prevarication\nand duplicity better than truth. When women use their beauty, their wit\nand their pink persons in politics, trouble lies low around the corner.\nBut this sister of Seneca was never seen in public unless it was at her\nhusband's side; she asked no favors, and presents sent to her personally\nby provincials were politely returned. The province praised her, and\nperhaps what was better, didn't know her, and begged the Emperor to send\nthem more of such excellent and virtuous women--from which we infer that\nvirtue consists in minding one's own business.\n\nIn making up a list of great mothers, do not leave out Helvia, mother of\nthree sons and a daughter who made their mark upon the times. It is no\nsmall thing to be a great mother!\n\nWomen of intellect were not much appreciated then, but Seneca dedicated\nhis \"Consolations,\" his best book, to his mother. The very mintage of\nhis mind was for her, and again and again he tells of her insight, her\ngentle wit, and her appreciation of all that was beautiful and best in\nthe world of thought. In a letter addressed to her when he was past\nforty, he says, \"You never stained your face with walnut-juice nor\nrouge; you never wore gowns cut conspicuously low; your ornaments were a\nloveliness of mind and person that time could not tarnish.\"\n\nBut the father had the knighthood, and he called his family to witness\nit at odd times and sundry.\n\nIn Rome, Marcus Seneca made head as he never did in Cordova. There he\nwas only Marcus Micawber: but here his memory feats won him the\ndistinction that genius deserves. There is a grave question whether a\nverbal memory does not go with a very mediocre intellect, but Marcus\nsaid this argument was put out by a man with no memory worth mentioning.\n\nRome was at her ripest flower--the petals were soon to loosen and\nflutter to the ground, but nobody thought so--they never do. Everywhere\nthe Roman legions were victorious, and commerce sailed the seas in\nprosperous ships. Power manifests itself in conspicuous waste, and the\nhabit grows until conspicuous waste imagines itself power. Conditions in\nRome had evolved our old friend, the Sophist, the man who lived but to\nturn an epigram, to soulfully contemplate a lily, to sigh mysteriously,\nand cultivate the far-away look. These men were elocutionists who\ngesticulated in curves, and let the thought follow the attitude. They\nwere not content to be themselves, but chased the airy, fairy fabric of\na fancy and called it life.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe pretense and folly of Roman society made the Sophists possible--like\nall sects they ministered to a certain cast of mind. Over against the\nSophists there were the Stoics, the purest, noblest and sanest of all\nancient cults, corresponding very closely to our Quakers, before Worth\nand Wanamaker threw them a hawse and took them in tow. It is a tide of\nfeeling produces a sect, not a belief: primitive Christianity was a\nrevulsion from Phariseeism, and a William Penn and a wan Ann Lee form\nthe antithesis of an o'ervaulting, fantastic and soulless ritual.\n\nThe father of Seneca hung upon the favor of the Sophists: he taught them\nmnemonics, rhetoric and elocution, and the fact that he was a courtly\nSpaniard was in his favor--we dote on a foreign accent and relish the\nthing that comes from afar.\n\nMarcus Seneca was getting rich. He never perceived the absurdity of a\nlife of make-believe; but his son, Lucius Seneca, heir to his mother's\ndiscerning mind, when nineteen years old forswore the Sophists, and\nsided with the unpopular Stoics, much to the chagrin of the father.\n\nSeneca--let us call him so after this--wore the simple white robe of the\nStoics, without ornament or jewelry. He drank no wine, and ate no meat.\nVegetarianism comes in waves, and it is interesting to see that in an\nessay on the subject, Seneca plagiarizes every argument put forth by\nColonel Ernest Crosby, even to mentioning a butcher as an \"executioner,\"\nhis goods as \"dead corpses,\" and the customers as \"cannibals.\"\n\nThis kind of talk did not help the family peace, and the father spoke of\ndisowning the son, if he did not cease affronting the Best Society.\n\nSoon after, the Emperor Tiberius issued an edict banishing all \"strange\nsects who fasted on feast-days, and otherwise displeased the gods.\" This\nwas a suggestion for the benefit of the Crosbyites. It is with a feeling\nof downright disappointment that we find Seneca shortly appearing in an\nembroidered robe, and making a speech wherein the moderate use of wine\nis recommended, also the flesh of animals for those who think they need\nit.\n\nThis, doubtless, is the same speech we, too, would have made had we been\nthere; but we want our hero to be strong, and defy even an Emperor, if\nhe comes between the man and his right to eat what he wishes and wear\nwhat he listeth, and we blame him for not doing the things we never do.\nBut Seneca was getting on in the world--he had become a lawyer, and his\nSophist training was proving its worth. Henry Ward Beecher, in reply to\na young man who asked him if he advised the study of elocution, said,\n\"Elocution is all right, but you will have to forget it all before you\nbecome an orator.\" Seneca was shedding his elocution, and losing himself\nin his work. A successful lawsuit had brought him before the public as a\nstrong advocate. He was able to think on his feet. His voice was low,\nmusical and effective, and the word, \"dulcis,\" was applied to him as it\nwas to his brother, Gallio. Possibly there was something in ol' Marcus\nMicawber's pedagogic schemes, after all!\n\nIn moderating his Stoic philosophy, Seneca gives us the key to his\ncharacter: the man wanted to be gentle and kind; he wished to affront\nneither his father nor society; so he compromised--he would please and\nplacate. Ease and luxury appealed to him, and yet his cool intellect\nstood off, and reviewing the proceeding pronounced it base. He succumbed\nto the strongest attraction, and attempted the feat of riding two horses\nat once.\n\nFrom his twentieth year, Seneca dallied with the epigram, found solace\nin a sentence, and got a sweet, subtle joy by taking a thought captive.\nLucullus tells us of the fine intoxication of oratory, but neither opium\nnor oratory imparts a finer thrill than successfully to drive a flock of\nclauses, and round up an idea, roping it in careless grace, with what my\nlord Hamlet calls words, words, words.\n\nThe early Christian Fathers spoke of him as \"our Seneca.\" His writings\nabound in the purest philosophy--often seemingly paraphrasing Saint\nPaul--and every argument for directness of speech, simplicity, manliness\nand moderation is put forth. His writings became the rage in Rome: at\nfeasts he read his essays on the Ideal Life, just as the disciples of\nTolstoy often travel by the gorge road, and give banquets in honor of\nthe man who no longer attends one; or princely paid preachers glorify\nthe Man who said to His apostles, \"Take neither scrip nor purse.\"\n\nSeneca was a combination of Delsarte and Emerson. He was as popular as\nHenry Irving, and as wise as Thomas Brackett Reed. His writings were in\ndemand; when he spoke in public, crowds hung upon his words, and the\nfamilies of the great and powerful sent him their sons, hoping he would\nimpart the secret of success. The world takes a man at the estimate he\nputs upon himself. Seneca knew enough to hold himself high. Honors came\nhis way, and the wealth he acquired is tokened in those five hundred\ntables, inlaid with ivory, to which at times he invited his friends to\nfeast. As a lawyer, he took his pick of cases, and rarely appeared,\nexcept on appeal, before the Emperor. The poise of his manner, the\nsurety of his argument, the gentle grace of his diction, caused him to\nbe likened to Julius Caesar.\n\nAnd this led straight to exile, and finally--death. To mediocrity,\ngenius is unforgivable.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThere are various statements to the effect that Claudius was a mental\ndefective, a sort of town fool, patronized by the nobles for their sport\nand jest. We are also told that he was made Emperor by the Pretorian\nGuards, in a spirit of rollicking bravado. Men too much abused must have\nsome merit, or why should the pack bay so loudly? Possibly it is true\nthat, in the youth of Claudius, his mother used to declare, when she\nwanted a strong comparison, \"He is as big a fool as my son, Claudius.\"\nBut then the mother of Wellington used exactly the same expression; and\nByron's mother had a way of referring to the son who was to rescue her\nfrom oblivion, and send her name down the corridors of time, as \"that\nlame brat.\"\n\nClaudius was a brother of the great Germanicus, and was therefore an\nuncle of Caligula. Caligula was the worst ruler that Rome ever had; and\nhe was a brother of Agrippina, mother of Nero. This precious pair had a\nmost noble and generous father, and their gentle mother was a fit mate\nfor the great Germanicus--these things are here inserted for the\nedification of folks who take stock in that pleasant fallacy, the Law of\nHeredity, and who gleefully chase the genealogical anise-seed trail.\n\nCaligula happily passed out without an heir, and Claudius, next of kin,\nput himself in the way of the Pretorian Guard, and was declared Emperor.\n\nHe was then fifty years old, a grass-widower--twice over--and on the\nlookout for a wife. He was neither wise nor great, nor was he very bad;\nhe was kind--after dinner--and generous when rightly approached. Canon\nFarrar likened Claudius to King James the First, who gave us our English\nBible. His comparison is worth quoting, not alone for the truth it\ncontains, but because it is an involuntary paraphrase of the faultless\nliterary style of the Roman rhetors. Says Canon Farrar: \"Both were\nlearned, and both were eminently unwise. Both were authors, and both\nwere pedants. Both delegated their highest powers to worthless\nfavorites, and both enriched these favorites with such foolish\nliberality that they remained poor themselves. Both of them, though of\nnaturally good dispositions, were misled by selfishness into acts of\ncruelty; and both of them, though laborious in the discharge of duty,\nsucceeded only in rendering royalty ridiculous. King James kept Sir\nWalter Raleigh, the brightest intellect of his time, in prison; and\nClaudius sent Seneca, the greatest man in his kingdom, into exile.\"\n\nNew-made kings sweep clean. The impulses of Claudius were right and\njust, a truthful statement I here make in pleasant compliment to a\nbrother author. The man was absent-minded, had much faith in others, and\nmoved in the line of least resistance. Like most students and authors,\nhe was decidedly littery. He secured a divorce from one wife because she\ncleaned up his room in his absence so that he could never find\nanything; and the other wife got a divorce from him because he refused\nto go out evenings and scintillate in society--but this was before he\nwas made Emperor.\n\nGod knows, people had their troubles then as now. To take this man who\nloved his slippers and easy-chair, and who was happy with a roll of\npapyrus, and plunge him into a seething pot of politics, not to mention\nmatrimony, was refined cruelty.\n\nThe matchmakers were busy, and soon Claudius was married to Messalina,\nthe handsomest summer-girl in Rome.\n\nFor a short time he bore up bravely, and was filled with the wish to\nbenefit and bless. One of his first acts was to recall Julia and\nAgrippina from exile, they having been sent away in a fit of jealous\nanger by their brother, the infamous Caligula.\n\nJulia was beautiful and intellectual, and she had a high regard for\nSeneca.\n\nAgrippina was beautiful and infamous, and pretended that she loved\nClaudius.\n\nBoth men were undone. Seneca's friendship for Julia, as far as we know,\nwas of a kind that did honor to both, but they made a too conspicuous\npair of intellects. The fear and jealousy of Claudius was aroused by his\nyoung and beautiful wife, who showed him that Seneca, the courtly, was\nplotting for the throne, and in this ambition Julia was a party. A\ncharge of undue intimacy with Julia, the beloved niece and ward of the\nEmperor, was brought against Seneca, and he was exiled to Corsica.\nImagine Edmund Burke sent to Saint Helena, or John Hay to the Dry\nTortugas, and you get the idea.\n\nThe sensitive nature of Seneca did not bear up under exile as we would\nhave wished. Unlike Victor Hugo at Guernsey, he was alone, and\nsurrounded by savages. Yet even Victor Hugo lifted up his voice in\nbitter complaint. Seneca failed to anticipate that, in spite of the\nbarrenness of Corsica, it would some day produce a man who would jostle\nhis Roman Caesar for first place on history's page.\n\nAt Corsica, Seneca produced some of his loftiest and best literature.\nExile and imprisonment are such favorable conditions for letters, having\ndone so much for authorship, that the wonder is the expedient has fallen\ninto practical disuse. Banishment gave Seneca an opportunity to put into\nexecution some of the ideas he had so long expressed concerning the\nsimple life, and certain it is that the experience was not without its\nbenefits, and at times the grim humor of it all came to him.\n\nRead the history of Greek ostracism, and one can almost imagine that it\nwas devised by the man's friends--a sort of heroic treatment prescribed\nby a great spiritual physician. Personality repels as well as attracts:\nthe people grow tired of hearing Aristides called the Just--he is\nexiled. For a few days there is a glad relief; then his friends begin to\nchant his praises--he is missed. People tell of all the noble, generous\nthings he would do if he were only here.\n\nIf he were only here!\n\nPetitions are circulated for his return.\n\nThe law's delay ensues, and this but increases desire. Hate for the man\nhas turned to pity, and pity turns to love, as starch turns to gluten.\n\nThe man comes back, and is greeted with boughs and bays, with love and\nlaurel. His homecoming is that of a conquering hero. If the Supreme\nCourt were to issue an injunction requiring all husbands to separate\nthemselves by at least a hundred miles from their wives, for several\nmonths in every year, it would cut down divorces ninety-five per cent,\nadd greatly to domestic peace, render race-suicide impossible, and\ngenerally liberate millions of love vibrations that would otherwise lie\ndormant.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nAs an example of female depravity, Valeria Messalina was sister in crime\nto Jezebel, Bernice, Drusilla, Salome and Herodias.\n\nDamned by a dower of beauty, with men at her feet whenever she so\nordered, her ambition knew no limit. This type of dictatorial womanhood\nstarts out by making conquests of individual men, but the conquests of\npretty women are rarely genuine. Women hold no monopoly on duplicity,\nand there is a deep vein of hypocrisy in men that prompts their playing\na part, and letting the woman use them. When the time is ripe, they toss\nher away as they do any other plaything, as Omar suggests the potter\ntosses the luckless pots to hell.\n\nWhen Julia and Agrippina were recalled, the act was done without\nconsulting Messalina; and we can imagine her rage when these two women,\nas beautiful as herself, came back without her permission. Messalina had\nnever found favor in the eyes of Seneca--he treated her with patronizing\npatience, as though she were a spoilt child.\n\nNow that Julia was back, Messalina hatched the plot that struck them\nboth. Messalina insisted that the wealth of Seneca should be\nconfiscated. Claudius at this rebelled.\n\nHistory is replete with instances of great men ruled by their barbers\nand coachmen. Claudius left the affairs of state to Narcissus, his\nprivate secretary; Polybius, his literary helper; and Pallas, his\naccountant. These men were all of lowly birth, and had all risen in the\nranks from menial positions, and one of them at least had been sold as a\nslave, and afterward purchased his freedom. Then there was Felix, the\nex-slave, another protege of Claudius, who trembled when Paul of Tarsus\ntold him a little wholesome truth. These men were all immensely rich,\nand once, when Claudius complained of poverty, a bystander said, \"You\nshould go into partnership with a couple of your freedmen, and then your\nfinances would be all right.\" The fact that Narcissus, Pallas and\nPolybius constituted the real government is nothing against them, any\nmore than it is to the discredit of certain Irish refugees that they\nmanage the municipal machinery of New York City--it merely proves the\nimpotence of the men who have allowed the power to slip from their\ngrasp, and ride as passengers when they should be at the throttle.\n\nMessalina managed her husband by alternate cajolings and threats. He was\nproud of her saucy beauty, and it was pleasing to an old man's vanity to\nthink that other people thought she loved him. She bore him two sons--by\nname, Brittanicus and Germanicus. A local wit of the day said, \"It was\nkind of Messalina to present her husband with these boys, otherwise he\nwould never have had any claim on them.\"\n\nBut the lines were tightening around Messalina, and she herself was\ndrawing the cords. She had put favorites in high places, banished\nenemies, and ordered the execution of certain people she did not like.\nNarcissus and Pallas gave her her own way, because they knew Claudius\nmust find her out for himself. They let her believe that she was the\nreal power behind the throne. Her ambitions grew--she herself would be\nruler--she gave it out that Claudius was insane. Finally she decided\nthat the time was right for a \"coup de grace.\" Claudius was absent from\nRome, and Messalina wedded at high noon with young Silius, her lover.\nShe was led to believe that the army would back her up, and proclaim her\nson, Brittanicus, Emperor, in which case, she herself and Silius would\nbe the actual rulers. The wedding festivities were at their height, when\nthe cry went up that Claudius had returned, and was approaching to\ndemand vengeance. Narcissus, the wily, took up the shout, and\npanic-stricken, Messalina fled for safety in one way and Silius in\nanother.\n\nNarcissus followed the woman, adding to her drunken fright by telling\nher that Claudius was close behind, and suggested that she kill herself\nbefore the wronged man should appear. A dagger was handed her, and she\nstabbed herself ineffectually in hysteric haste. The kind secretary\nthen, with one plunge of his sword, completed the work so well begun.\n\nA truthful account of Messalina's death was told to Claudius while he\nwas at dinner. He finished the meal without saying a word, gave a\npresent to the messenger, and went about his business, asking no\nquestions, and never again mentioned the matter.\n\nThe fact is worthy of note that the name of Messalina is never once\nmentioned by Seneca. He pitied her vileness and villainy so much he\ncould not hate her. He saw, with prophetic vision, what her end would\nbe; and when her passing occurred, he was too great and lofty in spirit\nto manifest satisfaction.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nScarcely had the funeral of Messalina occurred, when there was a pretty\nscramble among the eligible to see who should solace the stricken\nwidower. Among other matrimonial candidates was Agrippina, a beautiful\nwidow, twenty-nine in June, rich in her own right, and with only a small\nencumbrance in the way of a ten-year-old boy, Nero by name.\n\nAgrippina was a niece of Claudius, and such marriages were considered\nunnatural; but Agrippina had subtly shown that, the deceased Emperor\nbeing her brother, she already had a sort of claim on the throne, and\nher marriage with Claudius would strengthen the State. Then she\nmarshaled her charms past Claudius, in a phalanx and back, and so they\nwere married. There was much pomp and ceremony at the wedding, and the\nhigh priest pronounced the magic words--I trust I use the right\nexpression.\n\nVery soon after her marriage, Agrippina recalled Seneca from exile. It\nwas the infamous Messalina who had disgraced him and sent him away, and\nfor Agrippina, the sister of Julia, to bring him back, was regarded as a\ncertificate of innocence, and a great diplomatic move for Agrippina.\n\nWhen Seneca returned, the whole city went out to meet him. It is not at\nall likely that Seneca had a suspicion of the true character of\nAgrippina, any more than Claudius--which sort of tends to show the\nfutility of philosophy.\n\nHow could Seneca read her true character when it had not really been\nformed? No one knows what he will do until he gets a good chance. It is\nunkind condition that keeps most of us where we belong.\n\nAnd even while the honeymoon--or should we say the harvest-moon?--was at\nfull, Seneca was made the legal guardian and tutor of Nero, the son of\nthe Empress, and became a member of the royal household. This was done\nin gratitude, and to make amends, if possible, for the wrong of\nbanishment inflicted upon the man by scandalously linking his name with\nthat of the sister of the woman who was now First Lady of the Land.\n\nSeneca was then forty-nine years of age. He had fifteen years of life\nyet before him, and was to gain much valuable experience, and get an\ninsight into a side of existence he had not yet known.\n\nAgrippina was born in Cologne, which was called, in her honor, Colonia\nAgrippina, and now has been shortened to its present form. Whenever you\nbuy cologne, remember where the word came from.\n\nAgrippina, from her very girlhood, had a thirst for adventure, and her\naim was high. When fourteen, she married Domitius, a Roman noble, thirty\nyears her senior. He was as worthless a rogue as ever wore out his\nphysical capacity for sin in middle life, and filled his dying days with\ncrimes that were only mental. He knew himself so well that when Nero was\nborn he declared that the issue of such a marriage could only breed a\nbeing who would ruin the State--a monster with his father's vices and\nhis mother's insatiable ambition.\n\nAgrippina was woman enough to hate this man with an utter detestation;\nbut he was rich, and so she endured him for ten years, and then assisted\nNature in making him food for worms.\n\nThe intensity of Agrippina's nature might have been used for happy ends\nif the stream of her life had not been so early dammed and polluted. She\nloved her child with a clutching, feverish affection, and declared that\nhe would some day rule Rome. This was not really such a far-away dream,\nwhen we remember that her brother was then Emperor and childless. Her\nthought was more for her child than for herself, and her expectation was\nthat he would succeed Caligula. The persistency with which she told this\nambition for her boy is both beautiful and pathetic. Every mother sees\nher own life projected in her child, and within certain bounds this is\nright and well.\n\nGlimpses of kindness and right intent are shown when Agrippina recalled\nSeneca, and when she became the mother of the motherless children of\nClaudius. She publicly adopted these children, and for a time gave them\nevery attention and advantage that was bestowed upon her own son. Gibbon\nsays for one woman to mother another woman's children is a diplomatic\ncard often played, but Gibbon sometimes quibbles.\n\nGradually the fierce desire of Agrippina's heart began to manifest\nitself. She plotted and arranged that Nero should marry Octavia, the\ndaughter of Claudius. Octavia was seven years older than Nero, but the\nsooner the marriage could be brought about, the better--it would give\nher a double hold on the throne. To this end suitors for the hand of\nOctavia were disgraced by false charges, and sent off into exile, and\nthe same fate came to at least three young women who stood in the way.\n\nBut the one real obstacle was Claudius himself--he was sixty, and might\nbe so absurd as to live to be eighty. Locusta, a famous professional\nchemist, was employed, and the deed was done by Agrippina serving the\ndeadly dish herself. The servants carried Claudius off to bed, thinking\nhe was merely drunk, but he was to wake no more.\n\nBurrus, the blunt and honest old soldier, Captain of the Pretorian\nGuard, sided with Agrippina; Brittanicus, the son of Claudius, was kept\nout of the way, and Nero was proclaimed Emperor.\n\nHere Seneca seems to have shown his good influence, and sent home a\ndesire in the heart of Agrippina to serve her people with moderation and\njustice. She had attained her ends: her son, a youth of fifteen, was\nEmperor, and his guardian, the great and gentle Seneca, the man of her\nown choosing, was the actual ruler. She was the sister of one Emperor,\nwife of another, and now mother of a third--surely this was glory enough\nto satisfy one woman's ambition!\n\nThen there came to Rome the famed Quinquennium Neronis, when, for five\nyears, peace and plenty smiled. It is a trite saying that men who can\nnot manage their own finances can look after those of a nation, but\nSeneca was a businessman who proved his ability to manage his own\nprivate affairs and also succeeded in managing the exchequer of a\nkingdom. During his reign, gladiatorial contests were relieved of their\nsavage brutality, work was given to many, education became popular, and\npeople said, \"The Age of Augustus has returned.\"\n\nBut the greatest men are not the greatest teachers. Seneca's policy with\nhis pupil, Nero, was one of concession.\n\nA close study of the youth of Nero reveals the same traits that outcrop\nin one-half the students at Harvard--traits ill-becoming to grown-up\nmen, but not at all alarming in youth. Nero was self-willed and\noccasionally had tantrums--but a tantrum is only a little whirl-wind of\nmisdirected energy. A tantrum is life plus--it is better far than\nstagnation, and usually works up into useful life, and sometimes into\ngreat art. We have some verses written by Nero in his seventeenth year\nthat show a good Class B sophomoric touch. He danced, played in the\ntheatricals, raced horses, fought dogs, twanged the harp, and exploited\nvarious other musical instruments. He wasn't nearly so bad as\nAlcibiades, but his mother lavished on him her maudlin love, and allowed\nthe fallacy to grow in his mind concerning the divinity that doth hedge\na king. In fact, when he asked his mother about his real father, she hid\nthe truth that his father was a rogue--perhaps to shield herself, for it\nis only a very great person who can tell the truth--and led him to\nbelieve his paternal parent was a god, and his birth miraculous. Now,\nlet such an idea get into the head of the average freshman and what will\nbe the result? A woman can tell a full-grown man that he is the greatest\nthing that ever happened, and it does no special harm, for the man knows\nbetter than to go out on the street and proclaim it; but you tell a boy\nof eighteen such pleasing fallacies, and then have fawning courtiers\nback them up, and at the same time give the youth free access to the\nstrong box, and it surely would be a miracle if he is not doubly damned,\nand quickly, too. Agrippina would not allow the blunt old Burrus to\ndiscipline her boy, and Seneca's plan was one of concession--he loved\npeace. He hated to thwart the boy, because he knew that it would arouse\nthe ire of the mother, whose love had run away with her commonsense.\nLove is beautiful--soft, yielding, gentle love--but the common law of\nEngland upholds wife-beating as being justifiable and desirable on\ncertain occasions.\n\nThe real trouble was, the dam was out for Agrippina and Nero--there was\nno restraint for either. There was no one to teach them that the liberty\nof one man ends where the right of another begins. No more frightful\ncondition for any man or woman can ever occur than this: to take away\nall responsibility.\n\nWhen Socrates put the chesty Alcibiades three points down, and jumped on\nhis stomach with his knees, the youth had a month in bed, and after he\ngot around again he possessed a most wholesome regard for his teacher.\nIf Burrus and Seneca had applied Brockway methods to Agrippina and her\nsaucy son, as they easily might, it would have made Rome howl with\ndelight, and saved the State as well as the individuals.\n\nJulius Caesar, like Lincoln, let everybody do as they wished, up to a\ncertain point. But all realized that somewhere behind that dulcet voice\nand the gentle manner was a heart of flint and nerves of steel. No woman\never made Julius Caesar dance to syncopated time, nor did a youth of\neighteen ever successfully order him to take part in amateur theatricals\non penalty. Julius Caesar and Seneca were both scholars, both were\ngentlemen and gentle men: their mental attitude was much the same, but\none had a will of adamant, and the other moved in the line of least\nresistance.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nGradually, Nero evolved a petulance and impatience toward his mother and\nhis tutor, all of which was quite a natural consequence of his\neducation. Every endeavor to restrain him was met with imprecations and\ncurses. About then would have been a good time to apply heroic\ntreatment, instead of halting fear and worshipful acquiescence.\n\nThe raw stock for making a Nero is in every school, and given the\nconditions, a tyrant-culture would be easy to evolve. The endeavor to\nmake Nero wed Octavia caused a revulsion to occur in his heart toward\nher and her brother Brittanicus. He feared that these two might combine\nand wrest from him the throne.\n\nLocusta, the specialist, was again sent for and Brittanicus was gathered\nto his fathers.\n\nSoon after, Nero fell into a deep infatuation for Poppae Sabina, wife of\nOtho, the most beautiful woman in Rome. Sabina refused to accept his\nadvances so long as he was tied to his mother's apron-strings--I use the\nexact phrase of Tacitus, so I trust no exceptions will be taken to the\nexpression. Nero came to believe that the tagging, nagging, mushy love\nof his mother was standing in the way of his advancement. He had come to\nknow that Agrippina had caused the death of Claudius, and when she\naccused him of poisoning Brittanicus, he said, \"I learned the trick from\nmy dear mother!\" and honors were even.\n\nHe knew the crafty quality of his mother's mind and grew to fear her.\nAnd fear and hate are one. To secure Sabina he must sacrifice Agrippina.\n\nHe would be free.\n\nTo poison her would not do--she was an expert in preventives.\n\nSo Nero, regardless of expense, bargained with Anicetus, admiral of the\nfleet, to construct a ship so that, when certain bolts were withdrawn,\nthe craft would sink and tell no tale. This was a bit of daring deviltry\nnever before devised, and by turn, Nero chuckled in glee and had cold\nsweats of fear as he congratulated himself on his astuteness.\n\nThe boat was built and Agrippina was enticed on board. The night of the\nexcursion was calm, but the conspirators, fearing the chance might never\ncome again, let go the canopy, loaded with lead, which was over the\nqueen. It fell with a crash; and at the same time the bolts were\nwithdrawn and the waters rushed in. Several of the servants in\nattendance were killed by the fall of the awning, but Agrippina and\nAceronia, a lady of quality, escaped from the debris only slightly hurt.\nAceronia, believing the ship was about to sink, called for help, saying,\n\"I am Agrippina.\" She erred slightly in her diplomacy, for she was at\nonce struck on the head with an oar and killed. This gave Agrippina a\nclew to the situation and she was silent. By a strange perversity, the\nroyal scuttling patent would not work and the boat stubbornly refused to\nsink.\n\nAgrippina got safely ashore and sent word to her son that there had been\na terrible accident, but she was safe--the intent of her letter being to\nlet him know that she understood the matter perfectly, and while she\ncould not admire the job, it was so bungling, yet she would forgive him\nif he would not try it again.\n\nIn wild consternation, Nero sent for Burrus and Seneca. This was their\nfirst knowledge of the affair. They refused to act in either way, but\nBurrus intimated that Anicetus was the guilty party and should be held\nresponsible.\n\n\"For not completing the task?\" said Nero.\n\n\"Yes,\" said the blunt old soldier, and retired.\n\nAnicetus was notified that the blame of the whole conspiracy was on him.\nA big crime, well carried out, is its own excuse for being; but failure,\nlike unto genius, is unforgivable.\n\nAnicetus was in disgrace, but only temporarily, for he towed the\nobstinate, telltale galley into deep water and sank her at dead of\nnight. Then with a few faithful followers he surrounded the villa where\nAgrippina was resting, scattered her guard and confronted her with drawn\nsword.\n\nYears before, a soothsayer had told her that her son would be Emperor\nand that he would kill her. Her answer was, \"Let them slay me, if he but\nreign.\"\n\nNow she saw that death was nigh. She did not try to escape, nor did she\nplead for mercy, but cried, \"Plunge your sword through my womb, for it\nbore Nero.\"\n\nAnd Anicetus, with one blow, struck her dead.\n\nNero returned to Naples to mourn his loss. From there he sent forth a\nlengthy message to the Senate, recounting the accidental shipwreck, and\ntelling how Agrippina had plotted against his life, recounting her\ncrimes in deprecatory, sophistical phrase. The document wound up by\ntelling how she had tried to secure the throne for a paramour, and the\ntruth coming to some o'erzealous friends of the State, they had arisen\nand taken her life. In Rome there was a strong feeling that Nero should\nnot be allowed to return, but this message of explanation and promise,\nwritten by Seneca, downed the opposition.\n\nThe Senate accepted the report, and Nero, at twenty-two, found himself\nmaster of the world.\n\nYet what booted it when he was not master of himself!\n\nFrom this time on, the career of Seneca was one of contumely, suffering\nand disgrace. This was to endure for six years, when kindly death was\nthen to set him free.\n\nThe mutual, guilty knowledge of a great crime breeds loathing and\ncontempt. History contains many such instances where the subject had\nknowledge of the sovereign's sins, and the sovereign found no rest until\nthe man who knew was beneath the sod.\n\nSeneca knew Nero as only his Maker knew him.\n\nAfter the first spasm of exultation in being allowed to return to Rome,\na jealous dread of Seneca came over the guilty monarch.\n\nSeneca hoped against hope that, now that Nero's wild oats were sown and\nthe crop destroyed, all would be well. The past should be buried and\nremembrance of it sunk deep in oblivion.\n\nBut Nero feared Seneca might expose his worthlessness and the\nphilosopher himself take the reins. In this Nero did not know his man:\nSeneca's love was literary--political power to him was transient and not\nworth while.\n\nIt became known that the apology to the Senate was the work of Seneca,\nand Nero, who wanted the world to think that all his speeches and\naddresses were his own, got it firmly fixed in his head he would not be\nhappy until Seneca was out of the way. Sabina said he was no longer a\nboy, and should not be tagged and dictated to by his old teacher.\n\nSeneca, seeing what was coming, offered to give his entire property to\nthe State and retire. Nero would not have it so--he feared Seneca would\nretire only to come back with an army. A cordon of spies was put around\nSeneca's house--he was practically a prisoner. Attempts were made to\npoison him, but he ate only fruit, and bread made by his wife, Paulina,\nand drank no water except from running streams.\n\nFinally a charge of conspiracy was fastened upon him, and Nero ordered\nhim to die by his own hand. His wife was determined to go with him, and\none stroke severed the veins of both.\n\nThe beautiful Sabina realized her hopes--she divorced her husband, and\nmarried the Emperor of Rome. She died from a sudden kick given her by\nthe booted foot of her liege.\n\nThree years after the death of Seneca, Nero passed hence by the same\nroute, killing himself to escape the fury of the Pretorian Guard. And so\nended the Julian line, none of whom, except the first, was a Julian.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nFrom the death of Augustus on to the time of Nero there was for Rome a\nsteady tide of disintegration. The Emperor was the head of the Church,\nand he usually encouraged the idea that he was something different from\ncommon men--that his mission was from On High and that he should be\nworshiped. Gibbon, making a free translation from Seneca, says,\n\"Religion was regarded by the common people as true, by the philosophers\nas false, and by the rulers as useful.\" And Saint Augustine, using the\nsame smoothly polished style, says, in reference to a Roman Senator, \"He\nworshiped what he blamed, he did what he refuted, he adored that with\nwhich he found fault.\" The sentence is Seneca's, and when he wrote it he\ndoubtless had himself in mind, for in spite of his Stoic philosophy the\nlife of luxury lured him, and although he sang the praises of poverty he\ncharged a goodly sum for so doing, and the nobles who listened to him\ndoubtless found a vicarious atonement by applauding him as he played to\nthe gallery gods of their self-esteem, like rich ladies who go\na-slumming mix in with the poor on an equality, and then hasten home to\ndress for dinner.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nSeneca was one of the purest and loftiest intellects the world has ever\nknown. Canon Farrar calls him \"A Seeker after God,\" and has printed\nparallel passages from Saint Paul and Seneca which, for many, seem to\nshow that the men were in communication with each other. Every ethical\nmaxim of Christianity was expressed by this \"noble pagan,\" and his\ninfluence was always directed toward that which he thought was right.\nHis mistakes were all in the line of infirmities of the will. Voltaire\ncalls him, \"The father of all those who wear shovel hats,\" and in\nanother place refers to him as an \"amateur ascetic,\" but in this the\nauthor of the Philosophical Dictionary pays Seneca the indirect\ncompliment of regarding him as a Christian. Renan says, \"Seneca shines\nout like a great white star through a rift of clouds on a night of\ndarkness.\" The wonder is not that Seneca at times lapsed from his high\nestate and manifested his Sophist training, but that to the day of his\ndeath he saw the truth with unblinking eyes and held the Ideal firmly in\nhis heart.\n\n\n\n\nARISTOTLE\n\n\n     Happiness itself is sufficient excuse. Beautiful things are right\n     and true; so beautiful actions are those pleasing to the gods. Wise\n     men have an inward sense of what is beautiful, and the highest\n     wisdom is to trust this intuition and be guided by it. The answer\n     to the last appeal of what is right lies within a man's own breast.\n     Trust thyself.\n\n                                                --_Ethics of Aristotle_\n\n[Illustration: ARISTOTLE]\n\n\nThe Sublime Porte recently issued a request to the American Bible\nSociety, asking that references to Macedonia be omitted from all Bibles\ncirculated in Turkey or Turkish provinces. The argument of His Sublimity\nis that the Macedonian cry, \"Come over and help us!\" puts him and his\npeople in a bad light. He ends his most courteous petition by saying,\n\"The land that produced a Philip, an Alexander the Great and an\nAristotle, and that today has citizens who are the equal of these, needs\nnothing from our dear brothers, the Americans, but to be let alone.\"\n\nAs to the statement that Macedonia today has citizens who are the equals\nof Philip, Alexander and Aristotle, the proposition, probably, is based\non the confession of the citizens themselves, and therefore may be\ntruth. Great men are only great comparatively. It is the stupidity of\nthe many that allows one man to bestride the narrow world like a\nColossus. In the time of Alexander and Aristotle there wasn't so much\ncompetition as now, so perhaps what we take to be lack of humor on the\npart of the Sublime Porte may have a basis in fact.\n\nAristotle was born Three Hundred Eighty-four B.C., at the village of\nStagira in the mountains of Macedonia. King Amyntas used to live at\nStagira several months in the year and hunt the wild hogs that fed on\nthe acorns which grew in the gorges and valleys. Mountain climbing and\nhunting was dangerous sport, and it was well to have a surgeon attached\nto the royal party, so the father of Aristotle served in that capacity.\nNo doubt, though, but the whole outfit was decidedly barbaric, even\nincluding the doctor's little son \"Aristo,\" who refused to be left\nbehind. The child's mother had died years before, and boys without\nmothers are apt to manage their fathers. And so Aristo was allowed to\ntrot along by his father's side, carrying a formidable bow, which he\nhimself had made, with a quiver of arrows at his back.\n\nThose were great times when the King came to Stagira!\n\nWhen the King went back to the capital everybody received presents, and\nthe good doctor, by some chance, was treated best of all, and little\nAristo came in for the finest bow that ever was, all tipped with silver\nand eagle-feathers. But the bow did not bring good luck, for soon after,\nthe boy's father was caught in an avalanche of sliding stone and crushed\nto death.\n\nAristo was taken in charge by Proxenus, a near kinsman. The lad was so\nactive at climbing, so full of life and energy and good spirits, that\nwhen the King came the next year to Stagira, he asked for Aristo. With\nthe King was his son Philip, a lad about the age of Aristo, but not so\ntall nor so active. The boys became fast friends, and once when a\nstranger saw them together he complimented the King on his fine,\nintelligent boys, and the King had to explain, \"The other boy is\nmine--but I wish they both were.\"\n\nAristo knew where the wild boars fed in gulches, and where the stunted\noaks grew close and thick. Higher up in the mountains there were bears,\nwhich occasionally came down and made the wild pigs scamper. You could\nalways tell when the bears were around, for then the little pigs would\nrun out into the open. The bears had a liking for little pigs, and the\nbears had a liking for the honey in the bee-trees, too. Aristo could\nfind the bee-trees better than the bears--all you had to do was to watch\nthe flight of the bees as they left the clover.\n\nThen there were deer--you could see their tracks any time around the\nmountain marshes where the springs gushed forth and the watercress grew\nlush. Still higher up the mountains, beyond where bears ever traveled,\nthere were mountain-sheep, and still higher up were goats. The goats\nwere so wild that hardly any one but Aristo had ever seen them, but he\nknew they were there.\n\nThe King was delighted to have such a lad as companion for his son, and\ninsisted that he should go back to the capital with them and become a\nmember of the Court.\n\nNot he--there were other ambitions. He wanted to go to Athens and study\nat the school of Plato--Plato, the pupil of the great Socrates.\n\nThe King laughed--he had never heard of Plato. That a youth should\nrefuse to become part of the Macedonian Court, preferring the company of\nan unknown school-master, was amusing--he laughed.\n\nThe next year when the King came back to Stagira, Aristo was still\nthere. \"And you haven't gone to Athens yet?\" said the King.\n\n\"No, but I am going,\" was the firm reply.\n\n\"We will send him,\" said the King to Proxenus, Aristo's guardian.\n\nAnd so we find Aristo, aged seventeen, tall and straight and bronzed,\nstarting off for Athens, his worldly goods rolled up in a bearskin, tied\nabout with thongs. There is a legend to the effect that Philip went with\nAristo, and that for a time they were together at Plato's school. But,\nanyway, Philip did not remain long. Aristo--or Aristotle, we had better\ncall him--remained with Plato just twenty years.\n\nAt Plato's school Aristotle was called by the boys, \"the Stagirite,\" a\nname that was to last him through life--and longer. In Winter he wore\nhis bearskin, caught over one shoulder, for a robe, and his mountain\ngrace and native beauty of mind and body must have been a joy to Plato\nfrom the first. Such a youth could not be overlooked.\n\nTo him that hath shall be given. The pupil that wants to learn is the\nteacher's favorite--which is just as it should not be. Plato proved his\nhumanity by giving his all to the young mountaineer. Plato was then a\nlittle over sixty years of age--about the same age that Socrates was\nwhen Plato became his pupil. But the years had touched Plato\nlightly--unlike Socrates, he had endured no Thracian winters in bare\nfeet, neither had he lived on cold snacks picked up here and there, as\nProvidence provided. Plato was a bachelor. He still wore the purple\nrobe, proud, dignified, yet gentle, and his back was straight as that of\na youth. Lowell once said, \"When I hear Plato's name mentioned, I always\nthink of George William Curtis--a combination of pride and intellect, a\nman's strength fused with a woman's gentleness.\"\n\nPlato was an aristocrat. He accepted only such pupils as he invited, or\nthose that were sent by royalty. Like Franz Liszt, he charged no\ntuition, which plan, by the way, is a good scheme for getting more money\nthan could otherwise be obtained, although no such selfish charge should\nbe brought against either Plato or Liszt. Yet every benefit must be paid\nfor, and whether you use the word fee or honorarium, matters little. I\nhear there be lecturers who accept invitations to banquets and accept an\nhonorarium mysteriously placed on the mantel, when they would scorn a\nfee.\n\nPlato's Garden School, where the pupils reclined under the trees on\nmarble benches, and read and talked, or listened to lectures by the\nMaster, was almost an ideal place. Not the ideal for us, because we\nbelieve that the mental and the manual must go hand in hand. The world\nof intellect should not be separated from the world of work. It was too\nmuch to expect that in a time when slavery was everywhere, Plato would\nsee the fallacy of having one set of men to do the thinking, and another\ndo the work. We haven't got far from that yet; only free men can see the\nwhole truth, and a free man is one who lives in a country where there\nare no slaves. To own slaves is to be one, and to live in a land of\nslavery is to share in the bondage--a partaker in the infamy and the\nprofits.\n\nPlato and Aristotle became fast friends--comrades. With thinking men\nyears do not count--only those grow old who think by proxy. Plato had no\nsons after the flesh, and the love of his heart went out to the\nStagirite: in him he saw his own life projected.\n\nWhen Aristotle had turned twenty he was acquainted with all the leading\nthinkers of his time; he read constantly, wrote, studied and conversed.\nThe little property his father left had come to him; the King of Macedon\nsent him presents; and he taught various pupils from wealthy\nfamilies--finances were easy. But success did not spoil him. The\nbrightest scholars do not make the greatest success in life, because\nalma mater usually catches them for teachers. Sometimes this is well,\nbut more often it is not. Plato would not hear of Aristotle's leaving\nhim, and so he remained, the chief ornament and practical leader of the\nschool.\n\nHe became rich, owned the largest private library at Athens, and was\nuniversally regarded as the most learned man of his time.\n\nIn many ways he had surpassed Plato. He delved into natural history,\ncollected plants, rocks, animals, and made studies of the practical\nworkings of economic schemes. He sought to divest the Platonic teaching\nof its poetry, discarded rhetoric, and tried to get at the simple truth\nof all subjects.\n\nToward the last of Plato's career this repudiation by Aristotle of\npoetry, rhetoric, elocution and the polite accomplishments caused a\nschism to break out in the Garden School. Plato's head was in the clouds\nat times; Aristotle's was, too, but his feet were always on the earth.\n\nWhen Plato died, Aristotle was his natural successor as leader of the\nschool, but there was opposition to him, both on account of his sturdy,\nindependent ways and because he was a foreigner.\n\nHe left Athens to become a member of the Court of Hermias, a former\npupil, now King of Atarneus.\n\nHe remained here long enough to marry the niece of his patron, and\ndoubtless saw himself settled for life--a kingly crown within his reach\nshould his student-sovereign pass away.\n\nAnd the royal friend did pass away, by the dagger's route. As\nlife-insurance risks I am told that Kings have to pay double premium.\nRevolution broke out, and as Aristotle was debating in his mind what\ncourse to pursue, a messenger with soldiers arrived from King Philip of\nMacedon, offering safe convoy, enclosing transportation, and asking that\nAristotle come and take charge of the education of his son, Alexander,\naged thirteen.\n\nAristotle did not wait to parley: he accepted the invitation. Horses\nwere saddled, camels packed and that night, before the moon arose, the\ncavalcade silently moved out into the desert.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe offer that had been made twenty-four years before, by Philip's\nfather, was now accepted. Aristotle was forty-two years old, in the\nprime of his power. Time had tempered his passions, but not subdued his\nzest in life. He had the curious, receptive, alert and eager mind of a\nchild. His intellect was at its ripest and best. He was a lover of\nanimals, and all outdoor life appealed to him as it does to a growing\nboy. He was a daring horseman, and we hear of his riding off into the\ndesert and sleeping on the sands, his horse untethered watching over\nhim. Aristotle was the first man to make a scientific study of the\nhorse, and with the help of Alexander he set up a skeleton, fastening\nthe bones in place, to the mighty astonishment of the natives, who\nmistook the feat for an attempt to make a living animal; and when the\nbeast was not at last saddled and bridled there were subdued chuckles of\nsatisfaction among the \"hoi polloi\" at the failure of the scheme, and\nmurmurs of \"I told you so!\"\n\nEighteen hundred years were to pass before another man was to take up\nthe horse as a serious scientific study; and this was Leonardo da Vinci,\na man in many ways very much like Aristotle. The distinguishing feature\nin these men--the thing that differentiates them from other men--was the\ngreat outpouring sympathy with every living creature. Everything they\nsaw was related to themselves--it came very close to them--they wanted\nto know more about it. This is essentially the child-mind, and the\ncalamity of life is to lose it.\n\nLeonardo became interested in Aristotle's essay on the horse, and\ncontinued the subject further, dissecting the animal in minutest detail\nand illustrating his discoveries with painstaking drawings. His work is\nso complete and exhaustive that nobody nowadays has time to more than\nread the title-page. Leonardo's bent was natural science, and his first\nattempts at drawing were done to illustrate his books. Art was\nbeautiful, of course--it brought in an income, made friends and brought\nhim close to people who saw nothing unless you made a picture of it. He\nmade pictures for recreation and to amuse folks, and his threat to put\nthe peeping Prior into the \"Last Supper,\" posed as Judas, revealed his\ncontempt for the person to whom a picture was just a picture. The marvel\nto Leonardo was the mind that could imagine, the hand that could\nexecute, and the soul that could see.\n\nAnd the curious part is that Leonardo lives for us through his play and\nnot through his serious work. His science has been superseded, but his\nart is immortal.\n\nThis expectant mental attitude, this attitude of worship, belongs to all\ngreat scientists. The man divines the thing first and then looks for it,\njust as the Herschels knew where the star ought to be and then patiently\nwaited for it. The Bishop of London said that if Darwin had spent\none-half as much time in reading his Bible as in studying earthworms, he\nwould have really benefited the world, and saved his soul alive. To\nWalt Whitman, a hair on the back of his hand was just as curious and\nwonderful as the stars in the sky, or God's revelation to man through a\nprinted book.\n\nAristotle loved animals as a boy loves them--his house was a regular\nmenagerie of pets, and into this world of life Alexander was very early\nintroduced. We hear of young Alexander breaking the wild horse,\nBucephalus, and beyond a doubt Aristotle was seated on the top rail of\nthe paddock when he threw the lariat.\n\nAristotle and his pupil had the first circus of which we know, and they\nalso inaugurated the first Zoological Garden mentioned in history,\nbarring Noah, of course.\n\nSo much was Alexander bound up in this menagerie, and in his old teacher\nas well, that in after-life, in all of his travels, he was continually\nsending back to Aristotle specimens of every sort of bird, beast and\nfish to be found in the countries through which he traveled.\n\nWhen Philip was laid low by the assassin's thrust, it was Aristotle who\nbacked up Alexander, aged twenty--but a man--in his prompt suppression\nof the revolution. The will that had been used to subdue man-eating\nstallions and to train wild animals, now came in to repress riot, and\nthe systematic classification of things was a preparation for the\nforming of an army out of a mob. Aristotle said, \"An army is a huge\nanimal with a million claws--it must have only one brain, and that the\ncommander's.\"\n\nAlexander gave credit again and again to Aristotle for those elements in\nhis character that went to make up success: steadiness of purpose,\nself-reliance, systematic effort, mathematical calculation, attention to\ndetails, and a broad and generous policy that sees the end.\n\nWhen Aristotle argued with Philip, years before, that horse-breaking\nshould be included in the educational curriculum of all young men, he\nevidently divined football and was endeavoring to supplant it.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nI think history has been a trifle severe on Alexander. He was elected\nCaptain-General of Greece, and ordered to repel the Persian invasion.\nAnd he did the business once for all. War is not all\nfighting--Providence is on the side of the strongest commissariat.\nAlexander had to train, arm, clothe and feed a million men, and march\nthem long miles across a desert country. The real foe of a man is in his\nown heart, and the foe of an army is in its own camp--disease takes more\nprisoners than the enemy. Fever sniped more of our boys in blue than did\nthe hostile Filipinos.\n\nAlexander's losses were principally from men slain in battle; from this,\nI take it that Alexander knew a deal of sanitary science, and had a\nknowledge of practical mathematics, in order to systematize that mob of\nrestless, turbulent helots. We hear of Aristotle cautioning him that\nsafety lies in keeping his men busy--they must not have too much time to\nthink, otherwise mutiny is to be feared. Still, they must not be\nover-worked, or they will be in no condition to fight when the eventful\ntime occurs. And we are amazed to see this: \"Do not let your men drink\nout of stagnant pools--Athenians, city-born, know no better. And when\nyou carry water on the desert marches, it should be first boiled to\nprevent its getting sour.\"\n\nConcerning the Jews, Alexander writes to his teacher and says, \"They are\napt to be in sullen rebellion against their governors, receiving orders\nonly from their high priests, and this leads to severe measures, which\nare construed as persecution\"; all of which might have been written\nyesterday by the Czar in a message to The Hague Convention.\n\nAlexander captured the East, and was taken captive by the East. Like the\nmale bee that never lives to tell the tale of its wooing, he succeeded\nand died. Yet he vitalized all Asia with the seeds of Greek philosophy,\nturned back the hungry barbaric tide, and made a new map of the Eastern\nworld. He built far more cities than he destroyed. He set Andrew\nCarnegie an example at Alexandria, such as the world had never up to\nthat time seen. At the entrance to the harbor of the same city he\nerected a lighthouse, surpassing far the one at Minot's Ledge, or Race\nRock. This structure endured for two centuries, and when at last wind\nand weather had their way, there was no Hopkinson Smith who could erect\nanother.\n\nAt Thebes, Alexander paid a compliment to letters, by destroying every\nbuilding in the city except the house of the poet, Pindar. At Corinth,\nwhen the great, the wise, the noble, came to pay homage, one great man\ndid not appear. In vain did Alexander look for his card among all those\nhanded in at the door--Diogenes, the Philosopher, oft quoted by\nAristotle, was not to be seen.\n\nAlexander went out to hunt him up, and found him sunning himself,\npropped up against the wall in the Public Square, busy doing nothing.\n\nThe philosopher did not arise to greet the conqueror; he did not even\noffer a nod of recognition.\n\n\"I am Alexander--is there not something I can do for you?\" modestly\nasked the descendant of Hercules.\n\n\"Just stand out from between me and the sun,\" replied the philosopher,\nand went on with his meditations.\n\nAlexander enjoyed the reply so much that he said to his companions, and\nafterward wrote to Aristotle, \"If I were not Alexander, I would be\nDiogenes,\" and thus did strenuosity pay its tribute to\nself-sufficiency.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nAristotle might have assumed important affairs of State, but practical\npolitics were not to his liking. \"What Aristotle is in the world of\nthought I will be in the world of action,\" said Alexander.\n\nOn all of his journeys Alexander found time to keep in touch with his\nold teacher at home; and we find the ruler of Asia voicing that old\nrequest, \"Send me something to read,\" and again, \"I live alone with my\nthoughts, amidst a throng of men, but without companions.\"\n\nPlutarch gives a copy of a letter sent by Alexander wherein Aristotle is\nchided for publishing his lecture on oratory. \"Now all the world will\nknow what formerly belonged to you and me alone,\" plaintively cries the\nyoung man who sighed for more worlds to conquer, and therein shows he\nwas the victim of a fallacy that will never die--the idea that truth can\nbe embodied in a book. When will we ever learn that inspired books\ndemand inspired readers!\n\nThere are no secrets. A book may stimulate thought, but it can never\nimpart it.\n\nAristotle wrote out the Laws of Oratory. \"Alas!\" groans Alexander,\n\"everybody will turn orator now.\" But he was wrong, because Oratory and\nthe Laws of Oratory are totally different things.\n\nA Boston man of excellent parts has just recently given out the Sixteen\nPerfective Laws of Oratory, and the Nineteen Steps in Evolution.\n\nThe real truth is, there are Fifty-seven Varieties of Artistic Vagaries,\nand all are valuable to the man who evolves them--they serve him as a\nscaffolding whereby he builds thought. But woe betide Alexander and all\nrareripe Bostonians who mistake the scaffolding for the edifice.\n\nThere are no Laws of Art. A man evolves first, and builds his laws\nafterward. The style is the man, and a great man, full of the spirit,\nwill express himself in his own way.\n\nBach ignored all the Laws of Harmony made before his day and set down\nnew ones--and these marked his limitations, that was all. Beethoven\nupset all these, and Wagner succeeded by breaking most of Beethoven's\nrules. And now comes Grieg, and writes harmonious discords that Wagner\nsaid were impossible, and still it is music, for by it we are\ntransported on the wings of song and uplifted to the stars.\n\nThe individual soul striving for expression ignores all man-made laws.\nTruth is that which serves us best in expressing our lives. A rotting\nlog is truth to a bed of violets, while sand is truth to a cactus. But\nwhen the violet writes a book on \"Expression as I Have Found It,\" making\nlaws for the evolution of beautiful blossoms, it leaves the Century\nPlant out of its equation, or else swears, i' faith, that a cactus is\nnot a flower, and that a Night-Blooming Cereus is a disordered thought\nfrom a madman's brain. And when the proud and lofty cactus writes a\nbook it never mentions violets, because it has never stooped to seek\nthem.\n\nArt is the blossoming of the Soul.\n\nWe can not make the plant blossom--all we can do is to comply with the\nconditions of growth. We can supply the sunshine, moisture and aliment,\nand God does the rest. In teaching, he only is successful who supplies\nthe conditions of growth--that is all there is of the Science of\nPedagogics, which is not a science, and if it ever becomes one, it will\nbe the Science of Letting Alone, and not a scheme of interference. Just\nso long as some of the greatest men are those who have broken through\npedagogic fancy and escaped, succeeding by breaking every rule of\npedagogy, as Wagner discarded every Law of Harmony, there will be no\nsuch thing as a Science of Education.\n\nRecently I read Aristotle's Essays on Rhetoric and Oratory, and I was\npained to see how I had been plagiarized by this man who wrote three\nhundred years before Christ. Aristotle used charts in teaching and\nindicated the mean by a straight horizontal line, and the extreme by an\nupright dash. He says: \"From one extreme the mean looks extreme, and\nfrom another extreme the mean looks small--it all depends upon your\npoint of view. Beware of jumping to conclusions, for beside the\nappearance you must look within and see from what vantage-ground you\ngain the conclusions. All truth is relative, and none can be final to a\nman six feet high, who stands on the ground, who can walk but forty\nmiles at a stretch, who needs four meals a day and one-third of his time\nfor sleep. A loss of sleep, or loss of a meal, or a meal too much, will\ndisarrange his point of view, and change his opinions,\" And thus do we\nsee that a belief in \"eternal punishment\" is a mere matter of\nindigestion.\n\nA certain bishop, we have seen, experienced a regret that Darwin\nexpended so much time on earthworms; and we might also express regret\nthat Aristotle did not spend more. As long as he confined himself to\nearth, he was eminently sure and right: he was really the first man who\never used his eyes. But when he quit the earth, and began to speculate\nabout the condition of souls before they are clothed with bodies, or\nwhat becomes of them after they discard the body, or the nature of God,\nhe shows that he knew no more than we. That is to say, he knew no more\nthan the barbarians who preceded him.\n\nHe attempted to grasp ideas which Herbert Spencer pigeonholes forever as\nthe Unknowable; and in some of his endeavors to make plain the\nunknowable, Aristotle strains language to the breaking-point--the net\nbursts and all of his fish go free. Here is an Aristotelian proposition,\nexpressed by Hegel to make lucid a thing nobody comprehends: \"Essential\nbeing as being that meditates with itself, with itself by the negativity\nof itself, is relative to itself only as it is relative to another;\nthat is, immediate only as something posited and meditated.\" It gives\none a slight shock to hear him speak of headache being caused by wind on\nthe brain, or powdered grasshopper-wings being a cure for gout, but when\nhe calls the heart a pump that forces the blood to the extremities, we\nsee that he anticipates Harvey, although more than two thousand years of\nnight lie between them.\n\nSome of Aristotle reads about like this Geometrical Domestic Equation:\n\n_Definitions:_\n\nAll boarding-houses are the same boarding-houses.\n\nBoarders in the same boarding-house, and on the same flat, are equal to\none another.\n\nA single room is that which hath no parts and no magnitude.\n\nThe landlady of the boarding-house is a parallelogram--that is, an\noblong figure that can not be described, and is equal to anything.\n\nA wrangle is the disinclination to each other of two boarders that meet\ntogether, but are not on the same floor.\n\nAll the other rooms being taken, a single room is a double room.\n\n_Postulates and Propositions:_\n\nA pie may be produced any number of times.\n\nThe landlady may be reduced to her lowest terms by a series of\npropositions.\n\nA bee-line is the shortest distance between the Phalanstery and By\nAllen's.\n\nThe clothes of a boarding-house bed stretched both ways will not meet.\n\nAny two meals at a boarding-house are together less than one meal at the\nPhalanstery.\n\nOn the same bill and on the same side of it there should not be two\ncharges for the same thing.\n\nIf there be two boarders on the same floor, and the amount of the side\nof the one be equal to the amount of the side of the other, and the\nwrangle between the one boarder and the landlady be equal to the wrangle\nbetween the landlady and the other boarder, then shall the weekly bills\nof the two boarders be equal. For, if not, let one bill be the greater,\nthen the other bill is less than it might have been, which is absurd.\nTherefore the bills are equal.\n\n_Quod erat demonstrandum._\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe business of the old philosophers was to philosophize. To\nphilosophize as a business is to miss the highest philosophy. To do a\ncertain amount of useful work every day, and not trouble about either\nthe past or the future, is the highest wisdom. The man who drags the\npast behind him, and dives into the future, spreads the present out\nthin. Therein lies the bane of most religions. A man goes out into the\nwoods to study the birds: he walks and walks and walks and sees no\nbirds. But just let him sit down on a log and wait, and lo! the branches\nare full of song.\n\nThose who pursue Culture never catch up with her. Culture takes alarm at\npursuit and avoids the stealthy pounce. Culture is a woman, and a\ncertain amount of indifference wins her. Ardent wooing will not secure\neither wisdom or a woman--except in the case where a woman marries a man\nto get rid of him, and then he really does not get the woman--he only\nsecures her husk. And the husks of culture are pedantry and sciolism.\nThe highest philosophy of the future will consist in doing each day that\nwhich is most useful. Talking about it will be quite incidental and\nsecondary.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nAfter Alexander had completed his little task of conquering the world,\nit was his intention to sit down and improve his mind. He was going back\nto Greece to complete the work Pericles had so well begun. To this end\nAristotle had left Macedonia and established his Peripatetic School at\nAthens. Plato was exclusive, and taught in the Garden with its high\nwalls. Aristotle taught in the \"peripatos,\" or porch of the Lyceum, and\nhis classes were for all who wished to attend. Socrates was really the\nfirst peripatetic philosopher, but he was a roustabout. Nothing\nsanctifies like death--and now Socrates had become respectable, and his\nmethods were to be made legal and legitimate.\n\nSocrates discovered the principle of human liberty; he taught the rights\nof the individual, and as these threatened to interfere with the State,\nthe politicians got alarmed and put him to death. Plato, much more\ncautious, wrote his \"Republic,\" wherein everything is subordinated for\nthe good of the State, and the individual is but a cog in a most\nperfectly lubricated machine. Aristotle saw that Socrates was nearer\nright than Plato--sin is the expression of individuality and is not\nwholly bad--the State is made up of individuals, and if you suppress the\nthinking-power of the individual, you will get a weak and effeminate\nbody politic; there will be none to govern. The whole fabric will break\ndown of its own weight. A man must have the privilege of making a fool\nof himself--within proper bounds, of course. To that end learning must\nbe for all, and liberty both to listen and to teach should be the\nprivilege of every man.\n\nThis is a problem that Boston has before it today: Shall free speech be\nallowed on the Common? William Morris tried it in Trafalgar Square, to\nhis sorrow; but in Hyde Park, if you think you have a message, London\nwill let you give it. But this is not considered good form, and the\n\"Best Society\" listen to no speeches in the park. However, there are\nsigns that Aristotle's outdoor school may come back. Phillips Brooks\ntried outdoor preaching, and if his health had not failed, he might have\npopularized it. It only wants a man who is big enough to inaugurate it.\n\nAristotle had various helpers, and arranged to give his lectures and\nconferences daily in certain porches or promenades. These lectures\ncovered the whole range of human thought--logic, rhetoric, oratory,\nphysics, ethics, politics, esthetics, and physical culture. These\noutdoor talks were called exoteric, and there gradually grew up esoteric\nlessons, which were for the rich or luxurious and the dainty. And there\nbeing money in the esoteric lessons, these gradually took the place of\nthe exoteric, and so we get the genesis of our modern private school or\ncollege, where we send our children to be taught great things by great\nmen, for a consideration.\n\nWill the exoteric, peripatetic school come back?\n\nI think so.\n\nI believe that university education will soon be free to every boy and\ngirl in America, and this without going far from home. Esoteric\neducation is always more or less of a sham. Our public-school system is\npurely exoteric, only we stop too soon. We also give our teachers too\nmuch work and too little pay. Stop building warships, and use the money\nto double the teachers' salaries, making the profession respectable,\nraise the standard of efficiency, and the free university with the old\nGreek Lyceum will be here.\n\nAmerica must do this--the Old World can't. We have the money, and we\nhave the men and the women; all that is needed is the desire, and this\nis fast awakening.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nWhen Alexander died, of acute success, aged thirty-two, Aristotle's\nsustaining prop was gone. The Athenians never thought much of the\nMacedonians--not much more than Saint Paul did, he having tried to\nconvert both and failed.\n\nAthens was jealous of the power of Alexander: that a provincial should\nthus rule the Mother-Country was unforgivable. It was as if a Canadian\nshould make himself King of England!\n\nEverybody knew that Aristotle had been the tutor of Alexander, and that\nthey were close friends. And that a Macedonian should be the chief\nschool-teacher in Athens was an affront. The very greatness of the man\nwas his offense: Athens had none to match him, and the world has never\nsince matched him, either. How to get rid of the Macedonian philosopher\nwas the question.\n\nAnd so our old friend, heresy, comes in again. A poem was found, written\nby Aristotle many years before, on the death of his friend, King\nHermias, wherein Apollo was disrespectfully mentioned. It was the old\ncharge against Socrates come back--the hemlock was brewing. But life was\nsweet to Aristotle; he chose discretion to valor, and fled to his\ncountry home at Chalcis in Euboea.\n\nThe humiliation of being driven from his work, and the sudden change\nfrom active life to exile, undermined his strength, and he died in a\nyear, aged sixty-two.\n\nIn morals the world has added nothing new to the philosophy of\nAristotle: gentleness, consideration, moderation, mutual helpfulness,\nand the principle that one man's privileges end where another man's\nrights begin--these make up the sum. And on them, all authorities agree,\nand have for twenty-five hundred years.\n\nThe family relations of Aristotle were most exemplary. The unseemly\nwrangles of Philip and his wife were never repeated in the home of\nAristotle. Yet we will have to offer this fact in the interests of\nstirpiculture: the inconstant Philip and the termagant Olympias brought\ninto the world Alexander; whereas the sons of Aristotle lived their day\nand died, without making a ripple on the surface of history.\n\nAs in the scientific study of the horse, no progress was made from the\ntime of Aristotle to that of Leonardo, so Hegel says there was no\nadvancement in philosophy from the time of Aristotle to that of Spinoza.\n\nEusebius called Aristotle \"Nature's Private Secretary.\"\n\nDante spoke of him as the \"Master of those who know.\"\n\nSir William Hamilton said, \"In the range of his powers and perceptions,\nonly Leonardo can be compared with him.\"\n\n\n\n\nMARCUS AURELIUS\n\n\n     We are made for co-operation, like feet, like hands, like eyelids,\n     like the rows of the upper and lower teeth. To act against one\n     another then is contrary to Nature, and it is acting against one\n     another to be vexed and turn away.\n\n                                                --_The Meditations_\n\n[Illustration: MARCUS AURELIUS]\n\n\nAnnius Verus was one of the great men of Rome. He had been a soldier,\ngovernor of provinces, judge, senator and consul. Sixty years had passed\nover his head and whitened his hair, but the lines of care that were on\nhis fine face ten years before had now given way to a cherubic double\nchin, and his complexion was ruddy as a baby's. The entire atmosphere of\nthe man was one of gentleness, repose and kindly good-will. Annius Verus\nwas grateful to the gods, for the years had brought him much good\nfortune, and better still, knowledge. \"Being old I shall know ... the\nlast of life for which the first was made!\"\n\nReligion isn't a thing outside of a man, taught by priests out of a\nbook. Religion is in the heart of man, and its chief quality is\nresignation and a grateful spirit. Annius Verus was religious in the\nbest sense, and his life was peaceful and happy.\n\nAnd surely Annius Verus should have been content--he was a Roman Consul,\nrich, powerful, honored by the wisest and best men in Rome, who\nconsidered it a privilege to come and dine at his table. His villa was\non Mount Coelius, a suburb of Rome. The house was surrounded by a big\nstone wall enclosing a tract of about ten acres, where grew citron,\norange and fig trees, and giant cedars of Lebanon lifted their branches\nto the clouds.\n\nAt least it seemed to little Marcus, grandson of the Consul, as if they\nreached the clouds. There was a long ladder running up one of these big\ncedar trees to a platform or \"crow's-nest\" nearly a hundred feet from\nthe ground. No boy was allowed to climb up there until he was twelve\nyears old, and when Marcus was ten, time got stuck, he thought, and\nrefused to budge. But this was only little Marcus' idea, for he finally\ngot to be twelve years old, and then he climbed the long ladder to the\nlookout in the tree and looked down on the Eternal City that lay below\nin the valley and stretched away over the seven hills. Often the boy\nwould take a book and climb up there to read; and when the good\ngrandfather missed him, he knew where to look, and standing under the\ntree the old man would call: \"Come down, Marcus, come down and kiss your\nold grandfather--it is lonesome down here! Come down and read to your\ngrandfather who loves his little Marcus!\"\n\nSuch an appeal as this was irresistible, and the boy, slight, slim and\nagile, would clamber over the side of the crow's-nest and down the\nladder to the outstretched arms.\n\nThe boy's father had died when he was only three months old, and the\ngrandfather had adopted the child as his heir, and brought Lucilla, the\nwidowed mother, and her baby to live in his house.\n\nYears before, the Consul's wife had passed away, and Faustina, his\ndaughter, became the lady of the house. Lucilla and Faustina didn't get\nalong very well together--no house is big enough for two families, some\nman has said. Lucilla was gentle, gracious, spiritual, modest and\nrefined; Faustina was beautiful and not without intellect, but she was\nproud, domineering and fond of admiration. But be it said to the credit\nof the good old Consul, he was able to suffuse the whole place with\nlove, and even if Faustina had a tantrum now and then, it did not last\nlong.\n\nThere were always visitors in the household--soldiers home on furloughs,\ngovernors on vacations, lawyers who came to consult the wise and\njudicial Verus.\n\nOne visitor of note was a man by the name of Aurelius Antoninus. He was\nabout forty years old as Marcus first remembered him--tall and straight,\nwith a full, dark beard, and short, curly hair touched with gray. He was\na quiet, self-contained man, and at first little Marcus was a bit afraid\nof him. Aurelius Antoninus had been a soldier, but he showed such a\nstudious mind, and was so intent on doing the right thing that he was\nmade an under-secretary, then private secretary to the Emperor, and\nfinally he had been sent away to govern a rebellious province, and put\ndown mutiny by wise diplomacy instead of by force of arms.\n\nAurelius Antoninus was inclined towards the Stoics, although he didn't\ntalk much about it. He usually ate but two meals a day, worked with the\nservants, and wrote this in his diary, \"Men are made for each other:\neven the inferior for the superior, and these for the sake of one\nanother.\"\n\nThis philosophy of the Stoics rather appealed to the widow Lucilla,\nalso, and she read Zeno with Aurelius Antoninus. Verus did not object to\nit--he had been a soldier and knew the advantages of doing without\nthings and of being able to make the things you needed, and of living\nsimply and being plain and direct in all your acts and speech. But\nFaustina laughed at it all--to her it was preposterous that one should\nwear plain clothing and no jewelry when he could buy the costliest and\nbest; and why one should eschew wine and meat and live on brown bread\nand fruit and cold water, when he could just as well have spiced and\ncostly dishes--all this was clear beyond her. Various fetes and banquets\nwere given by Faustina, to which the young nobles were invited. She was\na beautiful woman and never for a moment forgot it, and by some mistake\nor accident she got herself betrothed to three men at the same time. Two\nof these fought a duel and one was killed. The third man looked on and\nhoped both would be killed, for then he could have the woman. Faustina\ngot this third man to challenge the survivor, and then by one of those\nstrange somersaults of fate the unexpected occurred.\n\nFaustina and Aurelius Antoninus were married.\n\nIt was a most queer mismating, for the man was plain, sincere and\nhonorable, and she was almost everything else. Yet she had wit and she\nhad beauty, and Aurelius had been living in the desert so long he\nimagined that all women were gentle and good. The Consul was very glad\nto unite his house with so fine and excellent a man as Aurelius; Lucilla\ncried for two days and more and little Marcus cried because his mother\ndid, and neither cried because Faustina had gone away.\n\nBut grief is transient.\n\nIn a little over a year Antoninus and Faustina came back to Rome, and\nbrought with them a little girl baby, Faustina Second. Marcus was very\nmuch interested in this baby, and made great plans about how they would\nplay together when she got older.\n\nAmong other visitors at the house of the old Consul often came the\nEmperor himself. Hadrian and Verus were Spaniards and had been soldiers\ntogether, and now Hadrian often liked to get away from the cares of\nState, and in the evening hide himself from the office-seekers and\nflattering parasites, in the quiet villa on Mount Coelius--he liked it\nhere even better than at his own wonderful gardens at Tivoli. And little\nMarcus wasn't afraid of him, either. Marcus would sit on the Emperor's\nknee and listen to tales about hunting wild boars and bears, or men as\nwild. Then they would play tag or I-spy among the bushes and trees; and\nonce Marcus dared the Emperor to climb the long ladder to the lookout in\nthe big cedar. Hadrian accepted the challenge and climbed to the\ncrow's-nest and cut his initials in the trunk of the tree.\n\nInstead of calling the boy Marcus Verus, the Emperor gave him the name\n\"Verissimus,\" which means \"the open-eyed truthful one,\" and this name\nstuck to Marcus for life.\n\nBetween Antoninus and Marcus there grew up a very close friendship.\nAntoninus could scale the ladder up the tall cedar, three rungs at a\ntime, and come down hand over hand without putting his foot on a rest.\n\nHe and Marcus built another crow's-nest thirty feet above the first.\nThey drew up the lumber by ropes, and Antoninus being sinewy and strong\nclimbed up first, and with thongs and nails they fixed the boards in\nplace, and made a rope ladder such as sailors make, that they could pull\nup after them so no one could reach them. When the kind old Emperor came\nto the villa they showed him what they had done. He said he would not\ntry to climb up now as he had a touch of rheumatism. But a light was\nfixed in the upper lookout, drawn up by a cord, so they could signal to\nthe Emperor down at the palace.\n\nThen Antoninus taught Marcus to ride horseback and pick up a spear off\nthe ground, with his horse at a gallop. This was great sport for the\nConsul and the Emperor, who looked on, but they did not try it then,\nbut said they would later on when they were feeling just right.\n\nAnd beside all this Aurelius Antoninus taught Marcus to read from\nEpictetus, and told him how this hunchback slave, Epictetus, who was\nowned by a man who had been a slave himself, was one of the sweetest,\ngentlest souls who had ever lived. Together they read the Stoic-slave\nphilosopher and made notes from him. And so impressed was Marcus that,\nboy though he was, he adopted the simple robe of the Stoics, slept on a\nplank, and made his life and language plain, truthful and direct.\n\nThis was all rather amusing to those near him--to all except Antoninus\nand the boy's mother. The others said, \"Leave him alone and he'll get\nover it.\"\n\nFaustina was still fond of admiration--the simple, studious ways of her\nhusband were not to her liking. He was twenty years her senior, and she\ndemanded gaiety as her right. Her delight was to tread the borderline of\nfolly, and see how close she could come to the brink and not step off.\nJulius Caesar's wife was put away on suspicion, but Faustina was worse\nthan that! She would go down to the city to masquerades, leaving her\nlittle girl at home, and be gone for three days.\n\nWhen she returned Aurelius Antoninus spoke no word of anger or reproof.\nHer father said to her, \"Beware! your husband's patience has a limit. If\nhe divorces you, I shall not blame him; and even if he should kill you,\nRoman law will not punish him!\"\n\nBut long years after, Marcus, in looking back on those days, wrote: \"His\npatience knew no limit; he treated her as a perverse child, and he once\nsaid to me: 'I pity and love her. I will not put her away--this were\nselfish. How can her follies injure me? We are what we are, and no one\ncan harm us but ourselves. The mistakes of those near us afford us an\nopportunity for self-control--we will not imitate their errors, but\nrather strive to avoid them. In this way what might be a great\nhumiliation has its benefits.'\"\n\nLet no one imagine, however, that the tolerance of Antoninus was the\nsoft acquiescence of weakness. After his death Marcus wrote: \"Whatsoever\nexcellent thing he had planned to do, he carried out with a persistency\nthat nothing could divert. If he punished men, it was by allowing them\nto be led by their own folly--his foresight, wisdom and calm\ndeliberation were beyond those of any man I ever knew.\"\n\nThe studious, direct and manly ways of Marcus were not cast aside when\nhe put on the toga virilis, as Faustina had predicted. In spite of the\ndifference in their ages, Antoninus and Marcus mutually sustained each\nother.\n\nLittle Faustina was much more like her father than her mother, and very\nearly showed her preference for her father's society. Marcus was her\nplaymate and taught her to ride a pony astride, just as her father had\ntaught him. The three would often ride over to the village of Lorium,\ntwelve miles from Rome, where Antoninus had a summer villa. At Lanuvium,\nnear at hand, the Emperor spent a part of his time, and he would\noccasionally join the party and listen to Marcus recite from Cicero and\nCaesar.\n\nWhen Marcus was sixteen, Hadrian appointed him prefect of festivities in\nRome, to take the place of the regular officer, a man of years, who was\nout of the city. So well did Marcus fill the place and make up his\nreport, that when they again met, the old Emperor kissed his cheek,\ncalling him, \"My brave Verissimus,\" and said, \"If I had a son, I would\nwant him just like you.\"\n\nNot long after this the Emperor was taken violently ill. He called his\ncounselors about his bedside and directed that Aurelius Antoninus should\nbe his successor, and that, further, Antoninus should adopt Marcus\nVerus, so that Marcus should succeed Aurelius Antoninus.\n\nHadrian loved Marcus for his own sake, and he loved him, too, for the\nsake of the grandfather, his old soldier comrade, Annius Verus; and\nbeside that he was intent on preserving the Spanish strain.\n\nIn a short time Hadrian passed away, and Aurelius Antoninus was crowned\nEmperor of Rome, and Marcus Verus, aged seventeen, slim, slender and\nstudious, took the name, Marcus Aurelius.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe new reign did not begin under very favorable auspices. There was a\nprejudice against the Spanish blood, and Hadrian had alienated some of\nthe aristocrats by measures they considered too democratic.\n\nAurelius Antoninus knew of these prejudices toward his predecessor and\nhe boldly met them by carrying the ashes of Hadrian to the Senate,\ndemanding that the dead Emperor should be enrolled among the gods. So\nearnest and convincing was his eulogy of the great man gone, that a vote\nwas taken and the resolution passed without a dissenting voice. This\ngives us a slight clew to the genesis of the gods, and also reveals to\nus the character of Antoninus. He so impressed the Senate that this\nhonorable body thought best to waive all matters of difference, and in\npretty compliment they voted to bestow on the new Emperor the degree of\n\"Pius.\" Antoninus Pius was a man born to rule--in little things,\nlenient, but firm at the right time. Faustina still had her little\nsocial dissipations, but as she was not allowed to mix in affairs of\nState, her pink person was not a political factor.\n\nMarcus Aurelius was only seventeen years old: his close studies had\nrobbed him of a bit of the robust health a youth should have. But\nhorseback-riding and daily outdoor games finally got him back into good\ncondition. He was the secretary and companion of the Emperor wherever he\nwent.\n\nGreat responsibilities confronted these two strong men. In point of\nintellect and aspiration they were far beyond the people they\ngoverned--so far, indeed, that they were almost isolated. There was a\nmultitude of slaves and consequently there was a feeling everywhere that\nuseful work was degrading. The tendency of the slave-owner is always\ntoward profligacy and conspicuous waste. To do away with slavery was out\nof the question--that was a matter of time and education--the ruler can\nnever afford to get much in advance of his people. The court was\ninfected with parasites in the way of informers and busybodies who knew\nno way to thrive except through intrigue. Superstitions were taught by\nhypocritical priests in order to make the people pay tithes; and\nattached to the state religion were soothsayers, fortune-tellers,\nastrologers, gamblers and many pretenders who waxed fat by ministering\nto ignorance and depravity. These were the cheerful parasites mentioned\nas \"money-changers\" a hundred years before, that infested the entrance\nto every temple.\n\nMany long consultations did the Emperor and his adopted son have\nconcerning the best policy to pursue. They could have issued an edict\nand swept the wrongs out of existence, but they knew that folly sprouts\nfrom a disordered brain, and so they did not treat a symptom: the\ndisease was ignorance, the symptom, superstition. For themselves they\nkept an esoteric doctrine, and for the many they did what they could.\n\nTwenty-three years of probation lay before Marcus Aurelius--years of\nstudy, work, and patient endeavor. He shared in all the honors of the\nEmperor and bore his part of the burden as well. Never did he thirst for\nmore power--the responsibilities of the situation saddened him--there\nwas so much to be done and he could do so little. Well does Dean Farrar\ncall him \"a seeker after God.\"\n\nThe office of young Marcus Aurelius at first was that of Questor, which\nliterally means a messenger, but the word with the Romans meant more--an\nemissary or an ambassador. When Marcus was eighteen he read to the\nSenate all speeches and messages from the Emperor; and in a few years\nmore he wrote the messages as well as delivered them. And all the time\nhis education was being carried along by competent instructors.\n\nOne of these teachers, Fronto, has come down to us, his portrait well\netched on history's tablets, because he saved all the letters written\nhim by Marcus Aurelius; and his grandchildren published them in order to\nshow the excellence of true scientific teaching. That old Fronto was a\ndear old dear, these letters do fully attest. When Marcus went away on a\nlittle journey, even to Lorium, he wrote a letter to Fronto telling\nabout the trip--the sheep by the wayside, the dogs that herded them, the\nshower they saw coming across the Campagna, and incidentally a little\nfreshman philosophy mixed in, for Fronto had cautioned his pupil always\nto write out a great thought when it came, for fear he would never have\nanother. Marcus was a sprightly letter-writer, and must have been a\nquick observer, and Fronto's gentle claims that he made the man are\nworthy of consideration. As a literary exercise the daily theme,\nprompted by love, can never be improved upon. The way to learn to write\nis to write. And Pronto, who resorted to many little tricks in order to\nget his pupil to express himself, was a teacher whose name should be\nwritten high. The correspondence-school has many advantages--Fronto\npurposely sent his pupil away or absented himself, that the carefully\nformulated or written thought might take the place of the free and easy\nconversation. In one letter Marcus ends: \"The day was perfect but for\none thing--you were not here. But then if you were here, I would not now\nhave the pleasure of writing to you, so thus is your philosophy proved:\nthat all good is equalized, and love grows through separation!\" This\nsounds a bit preachy, but is valuable, as it reveals the man to whom it\nis written: the person to whom we write dictates the message.\n\nFronto's habit of giving a problem to work out was quite as good a\nteaching plan as anything we have to offer now. Thus: \"An ambassador of\nRome visiting an outlying province attended a gladiatorial contest. And\none of the fighters being indisposed, the ambassador replied to a taunt\nby putting on a coat of mail and going into the ring to kill the lion.\nQuestion, was this action commendable? If so, why, and if not, why\nnot?\"\n\nThe proposition was one that would appeal at once to a young man, and\nthus did Fronto lead his pupils to think and express.\n\nAnother teacher that Marcus had was Rusticus, a blunt old farmer turned\npedagog, who has added a word to our language. His pupils were called\nRusticana, and later plain rustics. That Rusticus developed in Marcus a\ndeal of plain, sturdy commonsense there is no doubt. Rusticus had a way\nof stripping a subject of its gloss and verbiage--going straight to the\nvital point of every issue. For the wisdom of Marcus' legal opinions\nRusticus deserves more than passing credit.\n\nFor the youth who was destined to be the next Emperor of Rome, there was\nno dearth of society if he chose to accept it. Managing mammas were on\nevery corner, and kind kinsmen consented to arrange matters with this\nheiress or that. For the frivolities of society Marcus had no use--his\nhours were filled with useful work or application to his books. His\nfather and Fronto we find were both constantly urging him to get out\nmore in the sunshine and meet more people, and not bother too much about\nthe books.\n\nHow best to curtail over-application, I am told, is a problem that\nseldom faces a teacher.\n\nAs for society as a matrimonial bazaar, Marcus Aurelius could not see\nthat it had its use. He was afraid of it--afraid of himself, perhaps. He\nloved the little Faustina. They had been comrades together, and played\n\"keep house\" under the olive-trees at Lorium; and had ridden their\nponies over the hills. Once Marcus and Faustina, on a ride across the\ncountry, bought a lamb out of the arms of a shepherd, and kept it until\nit grew great curling horns, and made visitors scale the wall or climb\ntrees. Then three priests led it away to sacrifice, and Marcus and\nFaustina fell into each other's arms and rained tears down each other's\nbacks, and refused to be comforted. What if their father was an Emperor,\nand Marcus would be some day! It would not bring back Beppo, with his\ninnocent lamblike ways, and make him get down on his knees and wag his\ntail when they fed him out of a pail! Beppo always got on his knees to\neat, and showed his love and humility before he grew his horns and\nreached the age of indiscretion; then he became awfully wicked, and it\ntook three stout priests to lead him away and sacrifice him to the gods\nfor his own good!\n\nBut gradually the grass grew on Beppo's make-believe grave in the\ngarden, and Fronto's problems filled the vacuum in their hearts. Fronto\ngave his lessons to Marcus, and Marcus gave them to Faustina--thus do we\nkeep things by giving them away.\n\nBut problems greater than pet sheep grown ribald and reckless were to\nconfront Marcus and Faustina. They had both been betrothed to others,\nyears before, and this they now resented. They talked of this much, and\nthen suddenly ceased to talk of it, and each evaded mentioning it, and\npretended they never thought of it. Then they explosively began\nagain--began as suddenly to talk of it, and always when they met they\nmentioned it. Folks called them brother and sister--they were not\nbrother and sister, only cousins.\n\nFinally the matter was brought to Antoninus, and he pretended that he\nhad never thought about it; but in fact he had thought of little else\nfor a long time. And Antoninus said that if they loved each other very\nmuch, and he was sure they did, why, it was the will of the gods that\nthey should marry, and he never interfered with the will of the gods; so\nhe kissed them both and cried a few foolish tears, a thing an Emperor\nshould never do.\n\nSo they were married at the country seat at Lorium, out under the\norange-trees as was often the custom, for orange-trees are green the\nyear 'round, and bear fruit and flowers at the same time, and the\nflowers are very sweet, and the fruit is both beautiful and useful--and\nthese things symbol constancy and fruitfulness and good luck, and that\nis why we yet have orange-blossoms at weddings and play the \"Lohengrin\nMarch,\" which is orange-trees expressed in sweet sounds.\n\nMarcus was only twenty, and Faustina could not have been over\nsixteen--we do not know her exact age. There are stories to the effect\nthat the wife of Marcus Aurelius severely tried her husband's temper at\ntimes, but these tales seem to have arisen through a confusion of the\ntwo Faustinas. The elder Faustina was the one who set the merry pace in\nfrivolity, and once said that any woman with a husband twenty years her\nsenior must be allowed a lover or two--goodness gracious!\n\nAs far as we know, the younger Faustina was a most loyal and loving\nwife, the mother of a full dozen children. Coins issued by Marcus\nAurelius stamped with the features of his wife, and the inscription\nConcordia, Faustina and Venus Felix, attest the felicity, or \"felixity,\"\nof the marriage.\n\nTheir oldest boy, Commodus, was very much like his grandmother,\nFaustina, and a man who knows all about the Law of Heredity tells me\nthat children are much more apt to resemble their grandparents than\ntheir father and mother.\n\nI believe I once said that no house is big enough for two families, but\nthis truth is like the Greek verb--it has many exceptions. In the same\nhouse with Emperor Antoninus Pius dwelt Lucilla, mother of Marcus, and\nMarcus and his wife. And they were all very happy--but life was rather\nmore peaceful after the death of Faustina, the elder, which occurred a\nfew years after her husband became Emperor.\n\nShe could not endure prosperity.\n\nBut her husband mourned her death and made a public speech in eulogy of\nher, determined that only the best should be remembered of one who had\nbeen the wife of an Emperor and the mother of his children. As far as\nwe know, Antoninus never spoke a word concerning his wife except in\npraise, not even when she left his house to be gone for months.\n\nIt was Ouida, she of the aqua-fortis ink, who said, \"A woman married to\na man as good as Antoninus must have been very miserable, for while men\nwho are thoroughly bad are not lovable, yet a man who is not\noccasionally bad is unendurable.\" And so Ouida's heart went out in\nsympathy and condolence to the two Faustinas, who wedded the only two\nmen mentioned in Roman history who were infinitely wise and good.\n\nIn one of his essays, Richard Steele writes this, \"No woman ever loved a\nman through life with a mighty love if the man did not occasionally\nabuse her.\" I give the remark for what it is worth. However, Montesquieu\nsomewhere says that the chief objection to heaven is its monotony; so\npossibly there may be something in the Ouida-Steele philosophy--but of\nthis I really can't say, knowing nothing about the subject, myself.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nHappy is the man who has no history. The reign of Antoninus Pius was\npeaceful and prosperous. No great wars nor revulsions occurred, and the\ntimes made for education and excellence. Antoninus worked to conserve\nthe good, and that he succeeded, Gibbon says, there is no doubt. He left\nthe country in better condition than he found it, and he could have\ntruthfully repeated the words of Pericles, \"I have made no person wear\ncrape.\"\n\nBut there came a day when Antoninus was stricken by the hand of death.\nThe captain of the guard came to him and asked for the password for the\nnight. \"Equanimity,\" replied the Emperor, and turning on his side, sank\ninto sleep, to awake no more. His last word symbols the guiding impulse\nof his life. Well does Renan say: \"Simple, loving, full of sweet gaiety,\nAntoninus was a philosopher without saying so, almost without knowing\nit. Marcus was a philosopher, but often consciously, and he became a\nphilosopher by study and reflection, aided and encouraged by the older\nman. You can not consider the one man and leave the other out, and the\nearly contention that Antoninus was, in fact, the father of Marcus has\nat least a poetic and spiritual basis in truth.\"\n\nThere was much in Renan's suggestions. The greatest man is he who works\nhis philosophy up into life--this is better than to talk about it. We\nonly discuss that to which we have not attained, and the virtues we\ntalk most of are those beyond us. The ideal outstrips the actual. But\nit is no discredit that a man pictures more than he realizes--such a one\nis preparing the way for others. Marcus Antoninus has been a guiding\nstar--an inspiration--to untold millions.\n\nMarcus Aurelius was forty years old when he became Emperor of Rome. At\nthe age of forty a man is safe, if ever: character is formed, and what\nhe will do or become, can be safely presaged.\n\nMore than once Rome has repudiated the man in the direct line of\naccession to the throne, and before Marcus Aurelius took the reins of\ngovernment he asked the Senate to ratify the people's choice, and thus\nmake it the choice of the gods, and this was done.\n\nAs Emperor, we find Marcus endeavored to carry out the policy of his\npredecessor. He did not favor expansion, but hoped by peace and\npropitiation to cement the empire and thus work for education, harmony\nand prosperity.\n\nIt is interesting to see how Marcus Aurelius in the year One Hundred\nSixty-four was cudgeling his brains concerning problems about which we\nyet argue and grow red in the face. The Emperor was also Chief Justice,\nand questions were being constantly brought to him to decide. From him\nthere was no appeal, and his decisions made the law upon which all\nlesser judges based their rulings. And curiously enough we are dealing\nmost extensively in judge-made law even today.\n\nOne vexed question that confronted Marcus was the lessening number of\nmarriages, with a consequent increase in illegitimate births and a\ngradual dwindling of the free population. He seems to have disliked this\nword illegitimate, for he says, \"All children are beautiful\nblessings--sent by the gods.\" But people who were legally married\nobjected to this view, and said to recognize children born out of\nwedlock as entitled to all the privileges of citizenship is virtually to\ndo away with legal marriage. As a compromise, Marcus decided to\nrecognize all people as married who said they were married. This is\nexactly our common-law marriage as it exists in various States today.\n\nHowever, a man could put away his wife at will, and by recording the\nfact with the nearest pretor, the act was legalized. It will thus be\nseen that if a man could marry at will and put away his wife at will,\nthere was really no marriage beyond that of nature. To meet the issue,\nand prevent fickle and unjust men from taking advantage of women, Marcus\ndecided that the pretor could refuse to record the desired divorce, if\nhe saw fit, and demand reasons. We then for the first time get a divorce\ntrial, and on appeal to Marcus, he decided that if the man were in the\nwrong, he must still support the injured wife.\n\nThen, for the first time, we find women asking for a divorce. Now,\nnearly three-fourths of all divorces are granted to women; but at first,\nthat a woman should want marital freedom caused a howl of merriment.\nMarcus was the first Roman Emperor to allow women the right of petition,\nand the privilege, too, of practising law, for Capitolanus cites various\ninstances of women coming to ask for justice, and women friends coming\nwith them to help plead their case, and the Emperor of Rome, leaning his\ntired head on his arm, listening for hours with great patience. We also\nhear of petitions for damages being presented for failure to keep a\npromise to marry--the action being brought against the girl's father.\nThis would be thought a trifle strange, but an action against a woman\nfor breach of promise is quite in order yet.\n\nRecently the Honorable Henry Ballard of Vermont won heavy damages\nagainst a coy and dallying heiress who had played pitch and toss with a\ngood man's heart. The case was carried to the United States Supreme\nCourt and judgment sustained.\n\nThe question of marriage and divorce now in the United States is almost\nprecisely where it was in Rome in the time of Marcus Aurelius. No two\nStates have the same marriage-laws, and marriages which are illegal in\none State may be made legal in another. Yet with us, any court of\njurisdiction may declare any marriage illegal, or set any divorce aside.\nWhat makes marriage and what constitutes divorce are matters of opinion\nin the mind of the judge. We have gone a bit further than Marcus,\nthough, in that we allow couples to marry if they wish, yet divorce is\ndenied if both parties desire it. The fact that they want it is\nconstrued as proof that they should not have it. We meet the issue,\nhowever, by connivance of the lawyers, who are officers of the court,\nand a legal fiction is inaugurated by allowing a little bird to tell the\njudge what decision will be satisfactory to both sides. And in States or\ncountries where no divorce is allowed, marriage can be annulled if you\nknow how--see Ruskin versus Ruskin, Coleridge, J.\n\nOur zealous New Thought friends, who clamor to have marriage made\ndifficult and divorce easy, forget that the whole question has been\nthreshed over for three thousand years, and all schemes tried. The\nRomans issued marriage-licenses, but before doing so a pretor passed on\nthe fitness of the candidates for each other. This was so embarrassing\nto many coy couples that they just waived formal proceedings and set up\nhousekeeping. To declare these people lawbreakers, Marcus Aurelius said,\nwould put half of Rome in limbo, just as, if we should technically\nenforce all laws, it would send most members of the Legislature to the\npenitentiary. So the Emperor declared de-facto marriage de jure, and for\na short time succeeded in striking out the word illegitimate as applied\nto a person, on the ground that, in justice, no act of a parent could be\ncharged up against and punished in the offspring.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nMen who make laws have forever to watch most closely and dance\nattendance on Nature. Laws which fly in the face of Nature are gently\nwaived or conveniently forgotten. Should Chief Justice Fuller issue an\ninjunction restraining all men from coming within a quarter of a mile of\na woman, on penalty of death, we would all place ourselves in contempt\nin an hour; and should the army try to enforce the order, we would\nsmother Justice Fuller in his wool-sack and hang his effigy on a\nsour-apple tree. Law isn't worth the paper it is written on unless it\nembodies the will and natural tendencies of the governed. Where poaching\nis popular, no law can stop it. Marriage is easy, and divorce difficult,\nbecause this is Nature's plan. The natural law of attraction brings men\nand women together, and it is difficult to separate them. Natural things\nare easy, and artificial ones difficult. Most couples who desire freedom\nonly think they do: what they really want is a vacation; but they would\nnot separate for good if they could. It is hard to part--people who have\nlived together grow to need each other. They want some one to quarrel\nwith.\n\nCaesar Augustus, in his close study of character, introduced a limited\ndivorce. That is, in case of a family quarrel, he ordered the couple to\nlive apart for six months as a penalty. Quintilian says that usually\nbefore the expired time the man and woman were surreptitiously living\ntogether again, at which the court quietly winked, and finally this\nform of penalty had to be abandoned because it made the courts\nridiculous.\n\nMen and women do not get married because marriage is legal, nor do they\ncontinue living together because divorce is difficult. They marry\nbecause they desire to, and they do not separate because they do not\nwant to. The task that confronts the legislator is to find out what the\npeople want to do, and then legalize it.\n\nIn Rome, the custom of the parties divorcing themselves was prevalent,\nand the courts were called upon to ratify the act, just to give the\nmatter respectability. Below a certain stratum in society, the formality\nof legal marriage and divorce was waived entirely, just as it is\nlargely, now, among our colored population in the South. During the\nFrench Revolution, the same custom largely obtained in France. And about\nthe year One Hundred Fifty in Rome there was danger that the people\nwould overlook the majesty of the law entirely in their domestic\naffairs. This condition is what prompted Marcus Aurelius to recognize as\nlegal the common-law marriage and say if a couple called themselves\nhusband and wife, they were. And for a time, if they said they were\ndivorced, they were. But as a mortgage owned by a man on his own\nproperty cancels the debt, and legally there is no mortgage, so if the\npeople could get married at will and divorce themselves at their\nconvenience, there really was no legal marriage. Thus the matter was\nargued. So Marcus adopted the plan of making marriage easy and divorce\ndifficult, and this has been the policy in all civilized countries ever\nsince.\n\nIt is very evident, however, that Marcus Aurelius looked forward to a\ntime when men and women would be wise enough, and just enough, to\narrange their own affairs, without calling on the police to ratify\neither their friendships or their misunderstandings. He says: \"Love is\nbeautiful, and that a man and a woman loving each other should live\ntogether is the will of God, but if there comes a time when they can not\nlive in peace, let them part. To have no relationship is not a disgrace;\nto have wrong relations is, for disgrace means lack of grace, discord,\nand love is harmony.\"\n\nMarcus Aurelius tried the plan of probationary marriages; and to offset\nthis he also introduced the Augustinian plan of probationary\ndivorces--that is, the interlocutory decree. This scheme has recently\nbeen adopted in several States in America with the avowed intent of\npreventing fraud in divorce procedure, but actually the logic of the\nsituation is the same now as in the time of Marcus Aurelius--it\npostpones the final decree so as to prevent the couple from becoming the\nvictims of their own rashness, and to give them an opportunity to become\nreconciled if possible.\n\nSo anxious was Marcus Aurelius to decide justly with his people that he\nfound himself swamped with cases of every sort and description. He tried\nto pass upon each case by its merits, regardless of law and precedent.\nThen other judges construed his decisions as law, and the lesser courts\ncited the upper ones, until Gibbon says, \"There grew up such a mass of\njudge-made laws that a skilful lawyer could prove anything, and legal\npractise swung on the ability to cite similar cases and call attention\nto desired decisions.\"\n\nIn America we are now back exactly to the same condition. A lawyer in\nNew York State requires over fourteen thousand law-books if he would\ncover all the ground; and his business is to make it easy for the judge\nto dispense justice and not dispense with law. That is to say, before a\njudge can decide a case, he must be able to back up his opinion by\nprecedent. Judges are not elected to deal out justice between man and\nman; they are elected to decide on points of law. Law is often a great\ndisadvantage to a judge--it may hamper justice--and in America there\nmust surely soon come a day when we will make a bonfire of every\nlaw-book in the land, and electing our judges for life, we will make the\njudiciary free. We will then require our lawyers and judges to read, and\npass examinations on Browning's \"Ring and the Book,\" and none other. And\nif we would follow the Aurelian suggestion of remitting all direct taxes\nto every citizen who had not been plaintiff in a lawsuit for ten years,\nwe would gradually get something approaching pure justice. The people\nmust be educated to decide quietly and calmly their own disputes, and\nthis can be done only by placing an obvious penalty on litigation.\nProgress in the future will consist in having less law, and fulfilment\nwill be reached when we have no law at all--each man governing himself,\nand being willing that his neighbor shall do the same. Trouble arises\nlargely from each man regarding himself as his brother's keeper, and\nceasing to be his friend. Marcus Aurelius, the wise judge, saw that most\nlitigation is foolish and absurd--both parties are at fault, and both\nright. And to bring about the good time when men shall live in peace, he\nbegan earnestly to govern himself. His ideal was a state where men would\nneed no governing. Hence his \"Meditations,\" a book which Dean Farrar\nsays is not inferior to the New Testament in its lofty aim and purity of\nconception.\n\nEvery great book is an evolution: Marcus had been getting ready to write\nthis immortal volume for nearly half a century. And now in his\nfifty-seventh year he found himself in the desert of Asia at the head of\nthe army, endeavoring to put down an insurrection of various barbaric\ntribes. Later, the seat of war was shifted to the north. The enemy\nstruck and retreated, and danced around him as the Boers fought the\nEnglish in South Africa.\n\nBut Marcus Aurelius had time to think, and so with no books near and all\nmemoranda far away, he began to write out his best thoughts. At first he\nexpressed just for his own satisfaction, but later, as the work\nprogressed, we see that its value grew upon him, and it was his\nintention to put it in systematic form for posterity. And while working\nat this task, the exposures of field and camp, and the business of war,\nin which he had no heart, worked upon him so adversely that he sickened\nand died, aged fifty-nine.\n\nHis body was carried back to Rome and placed by the side of that of his\nbeloved adopted father, Antoninus Pius. And so he sleeps, but the\nprecious legacy of the \"Meditations,\" written during those last two\nyears of travel, turmoil and strife, is ours.\n\nA few quotations seem in order:\n\n     Remember, on every occasion which leads thee to vexation, to apply\n     this principle: not that this is a misfortune, but that to bear it\n     nobly is good fortune.\n\n     Things do not touch the soul, for they are eternal, and remain\n     immovable; but our perturbations come only from the opinion which\n     is within.... The Universe is transformation; life is opinion.\n\n     To the jaundiced, honey tastes bitter; and to those bitten by mad\n     dogs, water causes fear; and to little children, the ball is a fine\n     thing. Why then am I angry? Dost thou think that a false opinion\n     has less power than the bile in the jaundiced, or the poison in him\n     who is bitten by a mad dog?\n\n     How easy it is to repel and to wipe away every impression which is\n     troublesome and unsuitable, and immediately to be in all\n     tranquillity!\n\n     All things come from the universal Ruling Power, either directly or\n     by way of consequence. And accordingly the lion's gaping jaws, and\n     that which is poisonous, and every hurtful thing, as a thorn, as\n     mud, are after-products of the grand and beautiful. Do not\n     therefore imagine that they are of another kind from that which\n     thou dost venerate, but form a just opinion of the source of all.\n\n     Pass through the rest of life like one who has entrusted to the\n     gods, with his whole soul, all that he has, making himself neither\n     the tyrant nor the slave of any man.\n\n     Never value anything as profitable to thyself which shall compel\n     thee to break thy promise, to lose thy self-respect, to hate any\n     man, to suspect, to curse, to act the hypocrite, to desire anything\n     which needs walls and curtains.\n\n     I am thankful to the gods that I was subjected to a ruler and a\n     father who was able to take away all pride from me, and to bring me\n     to the knowledge that it is possible for a man to live in a palace\n     without wanting either guards or embroidered dresses, or torches\n     and statues, and such-like show; but that it is in such a man's\n     power to bring himself very near to the fashion of a private\n     person, without being, for this reason, either meaner in thought or\n     more remiss in action, with respect to the things which must be\n     done for the public interest in a manner that befits a ruler.\n\n     What more dost thou want when thou hast done a man a service? Art\n     thou not content that thou hast done something conformable to thy\n     nature, and dost thou seek to be paid for it? Just as if the eye\n     demanded a recompense for seeing, or the feet for walking. As a\n     horse when he has run, a dog when he has traced the game, a bee\n     when it has made the honey, so a man, when he has done a good act,\n     does not call out for others to come and see, but goes on to\n     another act, as a vine goes on to produce again the grapes in\n     season.\n\n     Accustom thyself to attend carefully to what is said by another,\n     and as much as it is possible, be in the speaker's mind.\n\n     Some things are hurrying into existence, and others are hurrying\n     out of it; and of that which is coming into existence, part is\n     already extinguished. Motions and changes are continually renewing\n     the world, just as the uninterrupted course of time is always\n     renewing the infinite duration of ages.\n\n     Understand that every man is worth just so much as the things are\n     worth about which he busies himself.\n\n     Wickedness does no harm at all to the universe--it is only harmful\n     to him who has it in his power to be released from it.\n\n     Nothing is more wretched than a man who traverses everything in a\n     round, and pries into the things beneath the earth, as the poet\n     says, and seeks by conjecture what is in the minds of his\n     neighbors, without perceiving that it is sufficient to attend to\n     the deity within him, and to reverence it sincerely.\n\n     The prayers of Marcus Aurelius to the gods are for one thing\n     only--that their will be done. All else is vain, all else is\n     rebellion against the universe itself. Our form of worship should\n     be like this: Everything harmonizes with me which is harmonious to\n     thee, O Universe. Nothing for me is too early nor too late, which\n     is in due time for thee. Everything is fruit to me which thy\n     seasons bring, O Nature: from thee are all things, in thee are all\n     things, to thee all things return.\n\n     In the morning when thou risest unwillingly, let this thought be\n     present--I am rising to the work of a human being. Why, then, am I\n     dissatisfied if I am going to do the things for which I exist, and\n     for which I was brought into the world? Or have I been made for\n     this, to lie in the bedclothes and keep myself warm? But this is\n     more pleasant. Dost thou exist, then, to take thy pleasure, and not\n     for action or exertion? Dost thou not see the little plants, the\n     little birds, the ants, the spiders, the bees, working together to\n     put in order their several parts of the universe? And art thou\n     unwilling to do the work of a human being, and dost thou not make\n     haste to do that which is according to thy nature?\n\n     Judge every word and deed which are according to Nature to be fit\n     for thee, and be not diverted by the blame which follows.... But if\n     a thing is good to be done or said, do not consider it unworthy of\n     thee.\n\n     Since it is possible that thou mayest depart from life this very\n     moment, regulate every act and thought accordingly.... Death\n     certainly, and life, honor and dishonor, pain and pleasure, all\n     these things equally happen to good men and bad, being things which\n     make us neither better nor worse. Therefore they are neither good\n     nor evil.\n\n     To say all in a word, everything which belongs to the body is a\n     stream, and what belongs to the soul is a dream and vapor; and life\n     is a warfare, and a stranger's sojourn, and after fame is oblivion.\n     What, then, is that which is able to enrich a man? One thing, and\n     only one--philosophy. But this consists in keeping the guardian\n     spirit within a man free from violence and unharmed, superior to\n     pains and pleasures, doing nothing without a purpose, nor yet\n     falsely, and with hypocrisy ... accepting all that happens and all\n     that is allotted ... and finally waiting for death with a cheerful\n     mind.\n\n     If thou findest in human life anything better than justice, truth,\n     temperance, fortitude, and, in a word, than thine own soul's\n     satisfaction in the things which it enables thee to do according to\n     right reason, and in the condition that is assigned to thee without\n     thy own choice; if, I say, thou seest anything better than this,\n     turn to it with all thy soul, and enjoy that which thou hast found\n     to be the best. But ... if thou findest everything else smaller and\n     of less value than this, give place to nothing else.... Simply and\n     freely choose the better, and hold to it.\n\n     Men seek retreats for themselves, houses in the country, seashores,\n     and mountains; and thou too art wont to desire such things very\n     much. But this is altogether a mark of the most common sort of men,\n     for it is in thy power whenever thou shalt choose to retire into\n     thyself. For nowhere either with more quiet or more freedom from\n     trouble does a man retire than into his own soul, particularly when\n     he has within him such thoughts that by looking into them he is\n     immediately in perfect tranquillity--which is nothing else than the\n     good ordering of the mind.\n\n     Unhappy am I, because this has happened to me? Not so, but happy am\n     I though this has happened to me, because I continue free from\n     pain; neither crushed by the present nor fearing the future.\n\n     Be cheerful, and seek no external help, nor the tranquillity which\n     others give. A man must stand erect, not be kept erect by others.\n\n     Be like the promontory against which the waves continually break,\n     but it stands firm and tames the fury of the water around it.\n\n     It is not fit that I should give myself pain, for I have never\n     intentionally given pain even to another.\n\n\n\n\nIMMANUEL KANT\n\n\n     The canons of scientific evidence justify us neither in accepting\n     nor rejecting the ideas upon which morality and religion repose.\n     Both parties to the dispute beat the air; they worry their own\n     shadow; for they pass from Nature into the domain of speculation,\n     where their dogmatic grips find nothing to lay hold upon. The\n     shadows which they hew to pieces grow together in a moment like the\n     heroes in Valhalla, to rejoice again in bloodless battles.\n     Metaphysics can no longer claim to be the cornerstone of religion\n     and morality. But if she can not be the Atlas that bears the moral\n     world she can furnish a magic defense. Around the ideas of religion\n     she throws her bulwark of invisibility; and the sword of the\n     skeptic and the battering-ram of the materialist fall harmless on\n     vacuity.\n\n                                                --_Immanuel Kant_\n\n[Illustration: IMMANUEL KANT]\n\n\nWe find that most men fit easily into types. You describe to me one\nDurham cow and you picture all Durham cows. So it is with men: they\nbelong to breeds, which we politely call denominations, sects or\nparties. Tell me the man's sect, and I know his dress, his habit of\nlife, his thought. His dress is the uniform of his party, and his\nthought is that which is ordered and prescribed. Dull indeed is the\nintellect which can not correctly prophesy the opinions to which this\nman will arrive on any subject.\n\nDurham cows are not exactly alike, I well know, but a trifle more length\nof leg, a variation in color, or an off-angle of the horn, and that cow\nis forever barred from exhibition as a Durham. She is fit only for beef,\nand the first butcher that makes a bid takes her, hide and horns.\n\nMembers of sects do not think exactly alike, but there are well-defined\nlimits of thought and action, beyond which they dare not stray lest the\nbutcher bag them. In joining a sect they have given bonds to uniformity,\nand have signed their willingness to think and act like all other\nmembers of the sect.\n\nHerbert Spencer deals with this \"jiner\" propensity in man, and describes\nit as a manifestation of the herding instinct in animals. It is a\ncombination for mutual protection--a social contract, each one waiving a\npart of his personality in order to secure a supposed benefit. A herd of\ncattle can stand against a pack of wolves, but a cow alone is doomed.\n\nFew men indeed can stand against the pack. Wise are the many who seek\nsafety in numbers! Think of those who have stood out alone and expressed\ntheir individuality, and you count on your fingers God's patriots dead\nand turned to dust.\n\nThe paradox of things is shown in that the entrenched many, having found\nsafety in aggregation, pay their debt of homage to the bold few who\nlived their lives and paid the penalty by death.\n\nAcross the disk of existence, each decade, there glide five hundred\nmillion souls, and disappear forever in the dim and dusk of the eternity\nthat lies behind. Out of the bare handful that are remembered, we\ncherish only the memories of those who stood alone and expressed their\nhonest, inmost thought. And this thought is, always and forever, the\nthought of liberty. Exile, ostracism, death, have been their fate, and\non the smoke of martyr-fires their souls mounted to immortality.\n\nFuture generations often confuse these men with Deity, the Maker of the\nWorlds. And thus do we arrive at truth by indirection, for in very fact\nthese were the Sons of God, vitalized by Divinity, part and parcel of\nthe Power that guides the planets on their way and holds the worlds in\nspace. Upon their tombs we carve a single word: _Savior_.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nKant was sixty years old before he was known to any extent beyond his\nnative town; but so fast then did his fame travel that at his death it\nwas recognized that the greatest thinker of the world had passed away.\nKant founded no school; but Fichte, Schelling, Hegel, Herde and\nSchopenhauer were all his children--and all but Schopenhauer showed\ntheir humanity by denouncing him, for men are prone to revile that which\nhas benefited them most. Kant marks an epoch and all thinkers who came\nafter him are his debtors. His philosophy has passed into the current\ncoin of knowledge.\n\nKant's lifelong researches revolve around four propositions:\n\n  1. Who am I?\n  2. What am I?\n  3. What can I do?\n  4. What can I know?\n\nThe answer to Number Four is that I can not know anything. That is to\nsay, the wise man is the man who knows that he does not know. And this\ndisposes of Number One and Number Two, leaving only Number Three for our\nconsideration. It took, however, a good many years and a vast amount of\nstudy and writing for Kant to thus simplify. For years he toiled with\nalgebraic formulas and syllogistic theorems before he concluded that the\nbest wisdom of life lies in simplification, not complexity.\n\n\"What can I do?\" resolves itself into, \"What must I do?\" And the answer\nis: You must do four things in order to retain your place as a normal\nbeing upon this earth: eat, work, associate with your kind, rest. Just\nfour things we must do, and outside of this everything is incidental,\naccidental, irrelevant and inconsequential. Then how to eat, work,\nassociate and rest wisely and best constitutes life. Every man should be\nfree to work out these four equations for himself, his freedom ending\nwhere another man's rights begin. To these four questions we should\nbring our highest reason, our ripest experience and our best endeavor.\nAs for himself we know that Kant made a schedule of life which evolved a\nsickly boy into a reasonably strong man who banished pain, sorrow and\nregret from his existence and lived a long life of deep, quiet\nsatisfaction, sane to the end, watching every symptom of approaching\ndissolution with keen interest, and at the last passing into quiet\nsleep, his spirit gliding peacefully away, perhaps to answer those two\ngreat questions which he said were unanswerable here: \"Who am I?\" \"What\nam I?\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nImmanuel Kant was born in Seventeen Hundred Twenty-four at the City of\nKonigsberg, in the northeastern corner of Prussia. There he received his\neducation; there he was a teacher for nearly half a century; and there,\nin his eightieth year, he died. He was never out of East Prussia and\nnever journeyed sixty miles from his birthplace during his whole life.\nProfessor Josiah Royce of Harvard, himself in the sage business, and\nperhaps the best example that America has produced of the pure type of\nphilosopher, says, \"Kant is the only modern thinker who in point of\noriginality is worthy to be ranked with Plato and Aristotle.\" Like\nEmerson, Kant regarded traveling as a fool's paradise; only Emerson had\nto travel much before he found it out, while Kant gained the truth by\nstaying at home. Once a lady took him for a carriage ride, and on\nlearning from the footman that they were seven miles from home he was so\ndispleased that he refused to utter a single orphic on the way back; and\nfurther, the story is that he never after entered a vehicle, and living\nfor thirty years was never again so far from the lodging he called home.\n\nIn his lectures on physical geography Kant would often describe\nmountains, rivers, waterfalls, volcanoes, with great animation and\naccuracy, yet he had never seen any of these. Once a friend offered to\ntake him to Switzerland, so he could actually see the mountains; but he\nwarmly declined, declaring that the man who was not satisfied until he\ncould touch, taste and see was small, mean and quibbling as was Thomas,\nthe doubting disciple. Moreover, he had samples of the strata of the\nAlps, and this was enough, which reminds us of the man who had a house\nfor sale and offered to send a prospective purchaser a sample brick.\n\nMind was the great miracle to Kant--the ability to know all about a\nthing by seeing it with your inward eye. \"The Imagination hath a stage\nwithin the brain upon which all scenes are played,\" and the play to Kant\nwas greater than the reality. Or, to use his own words: \"Time and Space\nhave no existence apart from Mind. There is no such thing as Sound\nunless there be an ear to receive the vibrations. Things and places,\nmatter and substance come under the same law, and exist only as mind\ncreates them.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe parents of Kant were very lowly people. His father was a day\nlaborer--a leather-cutter who never achieved even to the honors and\nemoluments of a saddler. There were seven children in the family, and\nnever a servant crossed the threshold. One daughter survived Immanuel,\nand in her eighty-fourth year she expressed regrets that her brother had\nproved so recreant to the teachings of his parents as practically to\nalienate him from all his relatives. One brother became a Lutheran\nminister and lived out an honored career; the others vanish and fade\naway into the mist of forgetfulness.\n\nSo far as we know, all the children were strong and well except this\none. At birth he weighed but five pounds, and his weakness was pitiable.\nHe was the kind of child the Spartans used to make way with quickly, for\nthe good of the State. He had a big, bulging head, thin legs, a weak\nchest, and one shoulder was so much higher than the other that it\namounted almost to a deformity.\n\nAs the years went by, the parents saw he was not big enough to work, but\nhope was not dead--they would make a preacher of him! To this end he was\nsent to the \"Fredericianium,\" a graded school of no mean quality. The\nmaster of this school was a worthy clergyman by the name of Schultz, who\nwas attracted to the Kant boy, it seems, on account of his insignificant\nsize. It was the affection of the shepherd for the friendless ewe lamb.\nA little later the teacher began to love the boy for his big head and\nthe thoughts he worked out of it. Brawn is bought with a price--young\nmen who bank on it get it as legal tender. Those who have no brawn have\nto rely on brain or go without honors. Immanuel Kant began to ask his\nschool-teacher questions that made the good man laugh.\n\nAt sixteen Kant entered Albertina University. And there he was to remain\nhis entire life--student, tutor, teacher, professor.\n\nHe must have been an efficient youth, for before he was eighteen he\nrealized that the best way to learn is to teach. The idea of becoming a\nclergyman was at first strong upon him; and Pastor Schultz occasionally\nsent the youth out to preach, or lead religious services in rural\ndistricts. This embryo preacher had a habit of placing a box behind the\npulpit and standing on it while preaching. Then we find him reasoning\nthe matter out in this way: \"I stand on a box to preach so as to impress\nthe people by my height or to conceal my insignificant size. This is\npretense and a desire to carry out the idea that the preacher is bigger\nevery way than common people. I talk with God in pretended prayer, and\nthis looks as if I were on easy and familiar terms with Deity. Is it\nlike those folks who claim to be on friendly terms with princes: If I do\nnot know anything about God, why should I pretend I do?\"\n\nThis desire to be absolutely honest with himself gradually grew until\nhe informed the Pastor that he had better secure young men for preachers\nwho could impress people without standing on a box. As for himself, he\nwould impress people by the size of his head, if he impressed them at\nall. Let it here be noted that Kant then weighed exactly one hundred\npounds, and was less than five feet high. His head measured twenty-four\ninches around, and fifteen and one-half inches over \"firmness\" from the\nopening of the ears. To put it another way, he wore a seven-and-a-half\nhat.\n\nIt is a great thing for a man to pride himself on what he is and make\nthe best of it. The pride of craftsman betokens a valuable man. We\nexaggerate our worth, and this is Nature's plan to get the thing done.\n\nKant's pride of intellect, in degree, came from his insignificant form,\nand thus do all things work together for good. But this bony little form\nwas often full of pain, and he had headaches, which led a wit to say,\n\"If a head like yours aches, it must be worse than to be a giraffe and\nhave a sore throat.\"\n\nYoung Kant began to realize that to have a big head, and get the right\nuse from it, one must have vital power enough to feed it.\n\nThe brain is the engine--the lungs and digestive apparatus the boiler.\nThought is combustion.\n\nYoung Kant, the uncouth, became possessed of an idea that made him the\nbutt of many gibes and jeers. He thought that if he could breathe\nenough, he would be able to think clearly, and headaches would be gone.\nLife, he said, was a matter of breathing, and all men died from one\ncause--a shortness of breath. In order to think clearly, you must\nbreathe.\n\nWe believe things first and prove them later; our belief is usually\nright, when derived from experience, but the reasons we give are often\nwrong. For instance, Kant cured his physical ills by going out of doors,\nand breathing deeply and slowly with closed mouth. Gradually his health\nbegan to improve. But the young man, not knowing at that time much about\nphysiology, wrote a paper proving that the benefit came from the fresh\nair that circulated through his brain. And of course in one sense he was\nright. He related the incident of this thesis many years after in a\nlecture, to show the result of right action and wrong reasoning.\n\nThe doctors had advised Kant he must quit study, but when he took up his\nbreathing fad, he renounced the doctors, and later denounced them. If he\nwere going to die, he would die without the benefit of either the clergy\nor the physicians.\n\nHe denied that he was sick, and at night would roll himself in his\nblankets and repeat half-aloud, \"How comfortable I am, how comfortable I\nam,\" until he fell asleep.\n\nNear his house ran a narrow street, just a half-mile long. He walked\nthis street up and back, with closed mouth, breathing deeply, waving a\nrattan cane to ward away talkative neighbors, and to keep up the\ncirculation in his arms. Once and back--in a month he had increased this\nto twice and back. In a year he had come to the conclusion that to walk\nthe length of that street eight times was the right and proper\nthing--that is to say, four miles in all. In other words, he had found\nout how much exercise he required--not too much or too little. At\nexactly half-past three he came out of his lodging, wearing his cocked\nhat and long, snuff-colored coat, and walked. The neighbors used to set\ntheir clocks by him. He walked and breathed with closed mouth, and no\none dare accost him or walk with him. The hour was sacred and must not\nbe broken in upon: it was his holy time--his time of breathing.\n\nThe little street is there now--one of the sights of Konigsberg, and the\ncab-drivers point it out as the Philosopher's Walk. And Kant walked that\nlittle street eight times every afternoon from the day he was twenty to\nwithin a year of his death, when eighty years old.\n\nThis walking and breathing habit physiologists now recognize as\neminently scientific, and there is no sensible physician but will\nendorse Kant's wisdom in renouncing doctors and adopting a regimen of\nhis own. The thing you believe in will probably benefit you--faith is\nhygienic.\n\nThe persistency of the little man's character is shown in the breathing\nhabit--he believed in himself, relied on himself, and that which\nexperience commended, he did.\n\nThis firmness in following his own ideas saved his life. When we think\nof one born in obscurity, living in poverty, handicapped by pain,\nweakness and deformity; never traveling; and then by sheer persistency\nand force of will rising to the first place among thinking men of his\ntime, one is almost willing to accept Kant's dictum, \"Mind is supreme,\nand the Universe is but the reflected thought of God.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nKant was great enough to doubt appearances and distrust popular\nconclusions. He knew that fallacies of reasoning follow fast upon\nactions--reason follows by slow freight. It is quite necessary that we\nshould believe in a Supreme Power, but quite irrelevant that we should\nprove it.\n\nTruth for the most part is unpopular, and the proof of this statement\nlies in the fact that it is so seldom told. Preachers tell people what\nthey wish to hear, and indeed this must be so as long as the\ncongregation that hears the preaching pays for it. People will not pay\nfor anything they do not like. Hence, preaching leads naturally to\nsophistication and hypocrisy, and the promise of endless bliss for\nourselves and a hell for our enemies comes about as a matter of course.\nWhat men will listen to and pay for is the real science of theology.\nThat is to say, the science of theology is the science of manipulating\nmen. Success in theology consists in finding a fallacy that is palatable\nand then banking on it. Again and again Kant points out that a\nclergyman's advice is usually worthless, because pure truth is out of\nhis province--unaccustomed, undesirable, inexpedient.\n\nAnd Kant thought this was true also of doctors--doctors care more about\npleasing their patients than telling them truth. \"In fact,\" he said, \"no\ndoctor with a family to support can afford to tell his patients that his\nsymptoms are no token of a disease--rather uncomfortable feelings are\nproof of health, for dead men don't have them.\" Most of the aches,\npains and so-called irregularities are remedial moves on the part of\nNature to keep the man well. Kant says that doctors treat symptoms, not\ndiseases, and often the treatment causes the disease; so no man can tell\nwhat proportion of diseases is caused by medicine and what by other\nforms of applied ignorance.\n\nAs for lawyers, our little philosopher considered them, for the most\npart, sharks and wreckers. A lawyer looks over an estate, not with the\nidea of keeping it intact, but of dissolving it, and getting a part of\nit for himself. Not that men prefer to do what is wrong, but\nself-interest can always produce sufficient reasons to satisfy the\nconscience. Lawyers, being attaches of courts of justice, regard\nthemselves as protectors of the people, when really they are the\nplunderers of the people, and their business is quite as much to defeat\njustice as to administer it. The evasion of law is as truly a lawyer's\nwork as compliance with law. Then our philosopher explains that if law\nand justice were synonymous, this state of affairs would be most\ndeplorable; but as it is, no particular harm is worked, save in the\nmoral degradation of the lawyers. The connivance of lawyers tames the\nrank injustices of law; hence, to a degree, we live in a land where\nthere is neither law nor justice--save such justice as can be\nappropriated by the man who is diplomat enough to do without lawyers and\nwise enough to have no property. Justice, however, to Kant is a very\nuncertain quantity, and he is rather inclined to regard the idea that\nmen are able to administer justice as on a par with the assumption of\nthe priest that he is dealing with God.\n\nKant once said, \"When a woman demands justice, she means revenge.\"\n\nA pupil here interposed, and asked the master if this was not equally\ntrue of men, and the answer was, \"I accept the amendment--it certainly\nis true of all men I ever saw in courtrooms.\"\n\n\"Does death end all?\"\n\n\"No,\" said Kant; \"there is the litigation over the estate.\"\n\nKant's constant reiteration that he had no use for doctors, lawyers and\npreachers, we can well imagine did not add to his popularity. As for his\nreasoning concerning lawyers, we can all, probably, recall a few\njug-shaped attorneys who fill the Kant requirements--takers of\ncontingent fees and stirrers-up of strife: men who watch for vessels on\nthe rocks and lure with false lights the mariner to his doom. But\nmatters since Kant's day have changed considerably for the better. There\nis a demand now for a lawyer who is a businessman and who will keep\npeople out of trouble instead of getting them in. And we also have a few\nphysicians who are big enough to tell a man there is nothing the matter\nwith him, if they think so, and then charge him accordingly--in inverse\nratio to the amount of medicine administered.\n\nAnd while we no longer refer to the clergyman as our spiritual adviser,\nexcept, perhaps, in way of pleasantry, he surely is useful as a social\npromoter.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe parents of Kant were Lutherans--punctilious and pious. They were\ndescended from Scotch soldiers who had come over there two hundred years\nbefore and settled down after the war, just as the Hessians settled down\nand went to farming in Pennsylvania, their descendants occasionally\nbecoming Daughters of the Revolution, because their grandsires fought\nwith Washington.\n\nThis Scotch strain gave a sturdy bias to the Kants--these Lutherans were\nreally rebels, and as every one knows, there are only two ways of\ndealing with a religious Scotchman--agree with him or kill him.\n\nMost people said that Kant was supremely stubborn--he himself called it\n\"firmness in the right.\" Once, when a couple of calumniators were\nthinking up all the bad things they could say about him, one of them\nexclaimed, \"He isn't five feet high!\"\n\n\"Liar!\" came the shrill voice of the Philosopher, who had accidentally\noverheard them, \"Liar! I am exactly five feet!\" And he drew himself up,\nand struck his staff proudly and defiantly on the ground.\n\nWhich reminds one of the story told of Professor Josiah Royce, who once\nrang up six fares on the register when he wished to stop a Boston\nstreet-car. When the conductor protested, the philosopher called him\n\"up-start,\" \"curmudgeon\" and \"nincompoop,\" and showed the fallacy of his\nclaim that thirty cents had been lost, since nobody had found it.\nMoreover, he offered to prove his proposition by algebraic equation, if\none of the gentlemen present had chalk and blackboard on his person.\n\nOnce Kant was looking at the flowers in a beautiful garden. But instead\nof looking through the iron pickets, he stooped over and was squinting\nthrough the key-hole of the lock. A student coming along asked him why\nhe didn't look through the pickets and thus get a perfect view.\n\n\"Go on, you fool,\" was the stern reply; \"I am studying the law of\noptics--the unobstructed vision reveals too much--the vivid view is only\ngotten through a small aperture.\"\n\nAll of which was believed to be a sudden inspiration in way of reply\nthat came to the great professor when caught doing an absent-minded\nthing. That Kant was not above a little pious prevarication is shown by\na story he himself tells. He was never inside of a church once during\nthe last fifty years of his life. But when he became Chancellor of the\nUniversity, one of his duties was to lead a procession to the Cathedral,\nwhere certain formal religious services were held. Kant tried to have\nthe exercises in a hall, but failing in this, he did his duty, and\nmarched like a pigmy drum-major at the head of the cavalcade.\n\n\"Now he will have to go in,\" the scoffers said.\n\nBut he didn't. Arriving at the church-door, he excused himself, pleading\nan urgent necessity, walked around to the back of the church,\nsacrificed, like Diogenes, to all the gods at once, and made off for\nhome, quietly chuckling to himself at the thought of how he had\ncircumvented the enemy.\n\nEvery actor has just so many make-ups and no more. Usually the\ncharacters he assumes are variations of a single one. Steele Mackaye\nused to say, \"There are only five distinct dramatic situations.\" The\nartist, too, has his properties. And the recognition of this truth\ncaused Massillon to say, \"The great preacher has but one sermon, yet out\nof this he makes many--by giving portions of it backwards, or beginning\nin the middle and working both ways, or presenting patchwork pieces,\ntinted and colored by his mood.\" All public speakers have canned goods\nthey fall back upon when the fresh fruit of thought grows scarce.\n\nThe literary man also has his puppets, pet phrases, and situations to\nhis liking. Victor Hugo always catches the attention by a blind girl, a\nhunchback, a hunted convict or some mutilated and maimed unfortunate.\n\nIn his lectures, Kant used to please the boys by such phrases as this,\n\"I dearly love the muse, although I must admit that I have never been\nthe recipient of any of her favors.\" This took so well that later he was\nencouraged to say, \"The Old Metaphysics is positively unattractive, but\nthe New Metaphysics is to me most lovely, although I can not boast that\nI have ever been honored by any of her favors.\"\n\nA large audience caused Kant to lose his poise--he became\nself-conscious--but in his own little lecture-room, with a dozen, or\nfifty at the most (because this was the capacity of the room), he was\ncharming. He would fix his eye on a single boy, and often upon a single\nbutton on this boy's coat, and forgetting the immediate theme in hand,\nwould ramble into an amusing and most instructive monolog of criticism\nconcerning politics, pedagogy or current events. In his writing he was\nexact, heavy and complex, but in these heart-to-heart talks, Herder, who\nattended Kant's lectures for five years, says, \"The man had a deal of\nnimble wit, and here Kant was at his best.\"\n\nSo we have two different men--the man who wrote the \"Critique\" and the\nman who gave the lectures and clarified his thought by explaining things\nto others. It was in the lectures that he threw off this: \"Men are\ncreatures that can not do without their kind, yet are sure to quarrel\nwhen together.\" This took fairly well, and later he said, \"Men can not\ndo without men, yet they hate each other when together.\" And in a year\nafter, comes this: \"A man is miserable without a wife, and is seldom\nhappy after he gets one.\" No doubt this caused a shout of applause from\nthe students, college boys being always on the lookout for just such\nthings; and coming from a very confirmed old bachelor it was peculiarly\nfetching.\n\nTo say that Kant was devoid of wit, as many writers do, is not to know\nthe man. About a year after the \"Critique of Pure Reason\" appeared, he\nwrote this: \"I am obliged to the learned public for the silence with\nwhich it has honored my book, as this silence means a suspension of\njudgment and a wise determination not to voice a premature opinion.\" He\nknew perfectly well that the \"learned public\" had not read his book, and\nmoreover, could not, intelligently, and the silence betokened simply a\nstupid lack of interest. Moreover, he knew there was no such thing as a\nlearned public. Kant's remark reveals a keen wit, and it also reveals\nsomething more--the pique of the unappreciated author who declares he\ndoesn't care what the public thinks of him, and thereby reveals the fact\nthat he does.\n\nHere are a couple of remarks that could only have been made in the reign\nof Frederick the Great, and under the spell of a college lecture: \"The\nstatement that man is the noblest work of God was never made by anybody\nbut man, and must therefore be taken 'cum grano salis.'\" \"We are told\nthat God said He made man in His own image, but the remark was probably\nironical.\"\n\nSchopenhauer says: \"The chief jewel in the crown of Frederick the Great\nis Immanuel Kant. Such a man as Kant could not have held a salaried\nposition under any other monarch on the globe at that time and have\nexpressed the things that Kant did. A little earlier or a little later,\nand there would have been no such person as Immanuel Kant. Rulers are\nseldom big men, but if they are big enough to recognize and encourage\nbig men, they deserve the gratitude of mankind!\"\n\n\n\n\nSWEDENBORG\n\n\n     When a man's deeds are discovered after death, his angels, who are\n     inquisitors, look into his face, and extend their examination over\n     his whole body, beginning with the fingers of each hand. I was\n     surprised at this, and the reason was thus explained to me:\n\n     Every volition and thought of man is inscribed on his brain; for\n     volition and thought have their beginnings in the brain, thence\n     they are conveyed to the bodily members, wherein they terminate.\n     Whatever, therefore, is in the mind is in the brain, and from the\n     brain in the body, according to the order of its parts. So a man\n     writes his life in his physique, and thus the angels discover his\n     autobiography in his structure.\n\n                                      --_Swedenborg's \"Spirit World\"_\n\n\n[Illustration: SWEDENBORG]\n\n\nA bucolic citizen of East Aurora, on being questioned by a visitor as to\nhis opinion of a certain literary man, exclaimed: \"Smart? Is he smart?\nWhy, Missus, he writes things nobody can understand!\"\n\nThis sounds like a paraphrase (but it isn't) of the old lady's remark on\nhearing Henry Ward Beecher preach. She went home and said, \"I don't\nthink he is so very great--I understood everything he said!\"\n\nPaganini wrote musical scores for the violin, which no violinist has\never been able to play. Victor Herbert has recently analyzed some of\nthese compositions and shown that Paganini himself could never have\nplayed them without using four hands and handling two bows at once. So\nfar, no one can play a duet on the piano; the hand can span only so many\nkeys, and the attempt of Robert Schumann to improve on Nature by\nbuilding an artificial extension to his fingers was vetoed by paralysis\nof the members. Two bodies can not occupy the same space at the same\ntime; mathematics has its limit, for you can not look out of a window\nfour and a half times. The dictum of Ingersoll that all sticks and\nstrings have two ends has not yet been disproved; and Herbert Spencer\ndiscovered, for his own satisfaction, fixed limits beyond which the\nmind can not travel. His expression, the Unknowable, reminds one of\nthose old maps wherein vast sections were labeled, Terra Incognita.\n\nIf we read Emanuel Swedenborg, we find that these vast stretches in the\ndomain of thought which Herbert Spencer disposed of as the Unknowable\nhave been traversed and minutely described. Swedenborg's books are so\nlearned that even Herbert Spencer could not read them: his scores are so\nintricate, his compositions so involved, that no man can play them.\n\nThe mystic who sees more than he can explain is universally regarded as\nan unsafe and unreliable person. The people who consult him go away and\ndo as they please, and faith in his prophecies weaken as his opinions\nand hopes vary from theirs. We stand by the clairvoyant just as long as\nhe gives us palatable things, and no longer, and nobody knows this\nbetter than your genus clairvoyant. When his advice is contrary to our\ndesires, we pronounce him a fraud and go our way. When enterprises of\ngreat pith and moment are to be carried through, we give the power into\nthe hands of the worldling infidel, rather than the spiritual seer.\n\nThe person on intimate terms with another world seldom knows much about\nthis, and when Robert Browning tells of Sludge, the Medium, he symbols\nhis opinion of all mediums. A medium, if sincere, is one who has\nabandoned his intellect and turned the bark of reason rudderless,\nadrift. This is entirely apart from the very common reinforcement of\nusual psychic powers with fraud, which, beginning in self-deception,\nputs out from port without papers and sails the sea with forged letters\nof marque and reprisal.\n\nThere are mediums in every city who tell us they are guided by\nShakespeare, Dante, Milton, Luther, Tennyson or Henry Ward Beecher. So\nwe are led to believe that the chief business of great men in the\nspiritual realm is to guide commonplace men in this, and cause them to\ntake pen in hand.\n\nAll publishers are perfectly familiar with these productions written by\npeople who think they are psychic when they are only sick. And I have\nnever yet seen a publisher's reader who had found anything in\ninspirational writing but words, words, words. High-sounding paraphrases\nand rolling sentences do not make literature; and so far as we know,\nonly the fallible, live and loving man or woman can breathe into the\nnostrils of a literary production the breath of life. All the rest is\nonly lifeless clay.\n\nThat mystery enshrouds the workings of the mind, and that some people\nhave remarkable mental experiences, none will deny. People who can not\nwrite at all in a normal mood will, under a psychic spell, produce\nhigh-sounding literary reverberations, or play the piano or paint a\npicture. Yet the literature is worthless, the music indifferent, and the\npicture bad; but, like Doctor Johnson's simile of the dog that walked\non its hind legs, while the walking is never done well, we are amazed\nthat it can be done at all.\n\nThe astounding assumption comes in when we leap the gulf and attribute\nthese peculiar rappings and all this ability of seeing around a corner\nto disembodied spirits. The people with credulity plus, however, always\nclose our mouths with this, \"If it isn't spirits, what in the world is\nit?\" And we, crestfallen and abashed, are forced to say, \"We do not\nknow.\"\n\nThe absolute worthlessness of spiritual communication comes in when we\nare told by the medium, caught in a contradiction, that spirits are\nawful liars. On this point all mediums agree: many disembodied spirits\nare much given to untruth, and the man who is a liar here will be a liar\nthere.\n\nSwedenborg was so annoyed with this disposition on the part of spirits\nto prevaricate that he says, \"I usually conduct my affairs regardless of\ntheir advice.\" When a spirit came to him and said, \"I am the shade of\nAristotle,\" Swedenborg challenged him, and the spirit acknowledged he\nwas only Jimmy Smith. This is delightfully naive and surely reveals the\nman's sanity: he was deceived by neither living nor dead: he accepted or\nrejected communications as they appealed to his reason: he kept his\nliterature and his hallucinations separate from his business, and never\ndid a thing which did not gibe with his reason. In this way he lived to\nbe eighty, earnest, yet composed, serene, steering safely clear from\nBedlam, by making his commonsense the court of last appeal.\n\nEmerson says that the critic who will render the greatest gift to modern\ncivilization is the one who will show us how to fuse the characters of\nShakespeare and Swedenborg. One stands for intellect, the other for\nspirituality. We need both, but we tire of too much goodness, virtue\npalls on us, and if we hear only psalms sung, we will long for the clink\nof glasses and the brave choruses of unrestrained good-fellowship. A\nslap on the back may give you a thrill of delight that the touch of holy\nwater on your forehead can not lend.\n\nShakespeare hasn't much regard for concrete truth; Swedenborg is devoted\nto nothing else. Shakespeare moves jauntily, airily, easily, with\ncareless indifference; Swedenborg lives earnestly, seriously, awfully.\nShakespeare thinks that truth is only a point of view, a local issue, a\nmatter of geography; Swedenborg considers it an exact science, with\nboundaries fixed and cornerstones immovable, and the business of his\nlife was to map the domain.\n\nIf you would know the man Shakespeare, you will find him usually in cap\nand bells. Jaques, Costard, Trinculo, Mercutio, are confessions, for\ninto the mouths of these he puts his wisest maxims. Shakespeare dearly\nloved a fool, because he was one. He plays with truth as a kitten\ngambols with a ball of yarn.\n\nSo Emerson would have us reconcile the holy zeal for truth and the swish\nof this bright blade of the intellect. He himself confesses that after\nreading Swedenborg he turns to Shakespeare and reads \"As You Like It\"\nwith positive delight, because Shakespeare isn't trying to prove\nanything. The monks of the olden time read Rabelais and Saint Augustine\nwith equal relish.\n\nPossibly we take these great men too seriously--literature is only\nincidental, and what any man says about anything matters little, except\nto himself. No book is of much importance; the vital thing is: What do\nyou yourself think?\n\nWhen we read Shakespeare in a parlor class there are many things we read\nover rapidly--the teacher does not stop to discuss them. The remarks of\nOphelia or the shepherd talk of Corin are indecent only when you stop\nand linger over them; it will not do to sculpture such things--let them\nforever remain in gaseous form. When George Francis Train picked out\ncertain parts of the Bible and printed them, and was arrested for\npublishing obscene literature, the charge was proper and right. There\nare things that need not to be emphasized--they may all be a part of\nlife, but in books they should be slurred over as representing simply a\npassing glimpse of nature.\n\nAnd so the earnest and minute arguments of Swedenborg need not give us\nheadache in efforts to comprehend them. They were written for himself,\nas a scaffolding for his imagination. Don't take Jonathan Edwards too\nseriously--he means well, but we know more. We know we do not know\nanything, and he never got that far.\n\nThe bracketing of the names of Shakespeare and Swedenborg is eminently\nwell. They are Titans both. In the presence of such giants, small men\nseem to wither and blow away. Swedenborg was cast in heroic mold, and no\nother man since history began ever compassed in himself so much physical\nscience, and with it all on his back, made such daring voyages into the\nclouds.\n\nThe men who soar highest and know most about another world usually know\nlittle about this. No man of his time was so competent a scientist as\nSwedenborg, and no man before or since has mapped so minutely the\nHeavenly Kingdom.\n\nShakespeare's feet were really never off the ground. His excursion in\n\"The Tempest\" was only in a captured balloon. Ariel and Caliban he\nsecured out of an old book of fables.\n\nShakespeare knew little about physics; economics and sociology never\ntroubled him; he had small Latin and less Greek; he never traveled, and\nthe history of the rocks was to him a blank.\n\nSwedenborg anticipated Darwin in a dozen ways; he knew the classic\nlanguages and most of the modern; he traveled everywhere; he was a\npractical economist, and the best civil engineer of his day.\n\nShakespeare knew the human heart--where the wild storms arise and where\nthe passions die--the Delectable Isles where Allah counts not the days,\nand the swamps where love turns to hate and Hell knocks on the gates of\nHeaven. Shakespeare knew humanity, but little else; Swedenborg knew\neverything else, but here he balked, for woman's love never unlocked for\nhim the secrets of the human heart.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nEmanuel Swedenborg was born at Stockholm, Sweden, in Sixteen Hundred\nEighty-eight. His father was a bishop in the Lutheran Church, a\nprofessor in the theological seminary, a writer on various things, and\nwithal a man of marked power and worth. He was a spiritualist, heard\nvoices and received messages from the spirit world. It will be\nremembered that Martin Luther, in his monkish days, heard voices, and\nwas in communication with both angels and devils. Many of his followers,\nknowing of his strange experiences, gave themselves up to fasts and\nvigils, and they, too, saw things. Abstain from food for two days and\nthis sense of lightness and soaring is the usual result. So strong is\nexample, and so prone are we to follow in the footsteps of those we\nlove, that one \"psychic\" is sure to develop more. Little Emanuel\nSwedenborg, aged seven, saw angels, too, and when his father had a\nvision, he straightway matched it with a bigger one.\n\nThen we find the mother of the boy getting alarmed, and peremptorily\nputting her foot down and ordering her husband to cease all celestial\nexcursions.\n\nEmanuel was set to work at his books and in the garden, and no more\nrappings was he to hear, nor strange white lights to see, until he was\nfifty-six years old.\n\nSweden is the least illiterate country on the globe, and has been for\nthree hundred years. Her climate is eminently fitted to produce one fine\nproduct--men. The winter's cold does not subdue nor suppress, but tends\nto that earnest industry which improves the passing hours. The\nScandinavians make hay while the sun shines; but in countries where the\nsun shines all the time men make no hay. In Florida, where flowers bloom\nthe whole year through, even the bees quit work and say, \"What's the\nuse?\"\n\nEmanuel Swedenborg climbed the mountains with his father, fished in the\nfjords, collected the mosses on the rocks, and wrote out at length all\nof their amateur discoveries. The boy grew strong in body, lithe of\nlimb, clear of eye--noble and manly.\n\nHis affection for his parents was perfect. When fifteen he addressed to\nthem letters of apostrophe, all in studied words of deference and\ncurious compliment, like, say, the letters of Columbus to Ferdinand and\nIsabella. His purity of purpose was sublime, and the jewel of his soul\nwas integrity.\n\nAt college he easily stood at the head of his class. He reduced calculus\nto its simplest forms, and made abstractions plain. Even his tutors\ncould not follow him. Once the King's actuary was called upon to verify\nsome of his calculations. This brought him to the notice of the King,\nand thereafter he was always on easy and familiar terms with royalty.\nThere is no hallucination in mathematics--figures do not lie, although\nmathematicians may, but this one never did.\n\nWe look in vain for college pranks, and some of those absurd and\nfoolish things in which young men delight. We wish he could unbend, and\nbe indiscreet, or even impolite, just to show us his humanity. But no,\nhe is always grave, earnest, dignified, and rebukingly handsome. The\ncollege \"grind\" with bulging forehead, round shoulders, myopic vision\nand shambling gait is well known in every college, and serves as the\nbutt of innumerable practical jokes. But no one took liberties with\nEmanuel Swedenborg either in boyhood or in after-life. His countenance\nwas stern, yet not forbidding; his form tall, manly and muscular, and\nhis persistent mountain-climbing and outdoor prospecting and botanizing\ngave him a glow of health which the typical grubber after facts very\nseldom has.\n\nThus we find Emanuel Swedenborg walking with stately tread through\ncollege, taking all the honors, looked upon by teachers and professors\nwith a sort of awe, and pointed out by his fellow students in subdued\nwonder. His physical strength became a byword, yet we do not find he\never exercised it in contests; but it served as a protection, and\ncommanded respect from all the underlings.\n\nAt twenty we find him falling violently in love, the one sole\nlove-affair of his lone life. Instead of going to the girl he placed the\nmatter before her father, and secured from him a written warrant for the\ndamsel, returnable in three years' time. This document he carried with\nhim, pored over it, slept with it under his pillow. As for the girl,\ntimid, sensitive, aged fifteen, she fled on his approach, and shook with\nfear if he looked at her. He made his love plain by logical formulas and\nproved his passion by geometrical permutations--by charts and diagrams.\nA seasoned widow might have broken up the icy fastness of his soul and\nmelted his forbidding nature in the crucible of feeling, but this poor\ngirl just wanted some one to hold her little hand and say peace to her\nfluttering heart. How could she go plump herself in his lap, pull his\nears and tell him he was a fool? Finally, the girl's brother, seeing her\ndistress, stole the precious warrant from Swedenborg's coat, tore it up,\nand Swedenborg knew his case was hopeless. He brought calculus to bear,\nand proved by the law of averages that there were just as good fish in\nthe sea as ever were caught.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nAt twenty-one Swedenborg graduated at the University of Upsala. He took\nthe degree of Doctor of Philosophy, and was sent on a tour of the\nEuropean capitals to complete his education. He visited Hamburg, Paris,\nVienna and then went to London, where he remained a year. He bore\nletters from the King of Sweden that admitted him readily into the best\nsociety, and as far as we know he carried himself with dignity, filled\nwith a zeal to know and to become.\n\nOne prime object in his travel was to learn the language of the country\nthat he was in, and so we hear of his writing home, \"In Hamburg I speak\nonly German; at Paris I talk and think in French; in London no one\ndoubts but that I am an Englishman.\" This not only reveals the young\nman's accomplishments, but shows that sublime confidence in himself\nwhich never forsook him.\n\nThe desire of his father was that he should enter the diplomatic service\nof the government, and the interest the King took in his welfare shows\nthat the way was opening in that direction. But in the various cities\nwhere he traveled he merely used his consular letters to reach the men\nin each place who knew most of mathematics, anatomy, geology, astronomy\nand physics. He hunted out the thinkers and the doers, and it seems he\nhad enough specific gravity of soul so he was never turned away.\n\nWhen big men meet for the first time, they try conclusions just as\nsurely as do the patriarchs of the herds. Instantly there is a mental\nduel, before scarcely a word is spoken, and the psychic measurements\nthen and there taken are usually about correct.\n\nThe very silence of a superior person is impressive. And knowing this,\nwe do not wonder that Swedenborg would sometimes call unannounced on men\nin high station, and forgetting his letters, would ask for an interview.\nThe audacity of the request would break down the barriers, and his calm,\nquiet self-possession would do the rest. The man wanted nothing but\nknowledge. Returning home at twenty-seven, he wrote out two voluminous\nreports of his travels, one for his father and one for the King. These\nreports were so complete, so learned, so full of allusion, suggestion\nand advice, that it is probable they were never read.\n\nHe was made Assessor of the School of Mines, an office which we would\ncall that of Assayer, and his business was to give scientific advice as\nto the value of ores and the best ways to mine and smelt them.\n\nAbout this time we hear of Swedenborg writing to his brother explaining\nthat he was working on the model of a boat that would navigate below the\nsurface of the sea, and do great damage to the enemy; a gun that would\ndischarge a thousand bullets a minute; a flying machine that would sail\nthe air like a gull; a mechanical chariot that would go twenty miles an\nhour on a smooth road without horses; and a plan of mathematics which\nwould quickly and simply enable us to compute and express fractions. We\nalso hear of his inventing a treadmill chariot, which carried the horse\non board the vehicle, but the horse once ran away and attained such a\nvelocity in the streets of Stockholm that people declared the whole\nthing was a diabolical invention, and in deference to popular clamor\nSwedenborg discontinued his experiments along this line.\n\nOne is amazed that this man in the early days of the Eighteenth Century\nshould have anticipated the submarine boat, and guessed what could be\ndone by the expansion of steam; prophesied a Gatling gun, and made a\nmotor-car that carried the horse, working on a treadmill and propelling\nthe vehicle faster than the horse could go on the ground; and if the\ninventor had had the gasoline he surely would have made an automobile.\n\nHis diversity of inventive genius was finally focalized on building\nsluiceways and canals for the government, and he set Holyoke an example\nby running the water back and forth in canals and utilizing the power\nover and over again.\n\nLater he was called upon to break a blockade by transferring ships\noverland a distance of fourteen miles. This he successfully did by the\nuse of a roller railway, and as a reward for the feat was duly knighted\nby the King.\n\nThe one idea that he worked out in detail and gave to the world, and\nwhich the world has not improved upon, is our present decimal system.\n\nAs the years passed, Swedenborg became rich. He lived well, but not\nlavishly. We hear of his having his private carriages and being attended\nby servants on his travels.\n\nHe lectured at various universities, and on account of his close\nassociation with royalty, as well as on account of his own high\ncharacter and strong personality, he was a commanding figure wherever he\nwent. His life was full to the brim.\n\nAnd we naturally expect that a man of wealth, with all the honors\nbelonging to any one person, should take on a comforting accumulation of\nadipose, and encyst himself in the conventionalities of church, state\nand society.\n\nAnd this was what the man himself saw in store, for at forty-six he\nwrote a book on science, setting forth his ideas and making accurate\nprophecies as to what would yet be brought about. He regrets that a\nmultiplicity of duties and failing health forbid his carrying out his\nplans, and further adds, \"As this is probably the last book I shall ever\nwrite, I desire here to make known to posterity these thoughts which so\nfar as I know have never been explained before.\"\n\nThe real fact was that at this time Swedenborg's career had not really\nbegun, and if he had then died, his fame would not have extended beyond\nthe country of his birth.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nMr. Poultney Bigelow, happening to be in Brighton, England, a few years\nago, was entertained at the home of a worthy London broker. The family\nwas prosperous and intelligent, but clung closely to all conventional\nand churchly lines. As happens often in English homes, the man does most\nof the thinking and sets metes and bounds to all conversation as well as\nreading. The mother refers to him as \"He,\" and the children and servants\nlook up to him and make mental obeisance when he speaks.\n\n\"I hear Herbert Spencer lives in Brighton--do you ever see him?\"\nventured the guest of the hostess, in a vain reaching 'round for a topic\nof mutual interest. \"Spencer--Spencer? Who is Herbert Spencer?\" asked\nthe good mother.\n\nBut \"He\" caught the run of the talk and came to the rescue: \"Oh, Mother,\nSpencer is nobody you are interested in--just a writer of infidelic\nbooks!\"\n\nThe next day Bigelow called on Spencer and saw upon his table a copy of\n\"Science and Health,\" which some one had sent him. He smiled when the\nAmerican referred to the book, and in answer to a question said: \"It is\nsurely interesting, and I find many pleasing maxims scattered through\nit. But we can hardly call it scientific, any more than we can call\nSwedenborg's 'Conjugal Love' scientific.\" And the author of \"First\nPrinciples\" showed he had read Mrs. Eddy's book, for he turned to the\nchapter on \"Marriage,\" calling attention to the statement that marriage\nin its present status is a permitted condition--a matter of\nexpediency--and children will yet be begotten by telepathic\ncorrespondence. \"The unintelligibility of the book recommends it to many\nand accounts for its vogue. Swedenborg's immortality is largely owing to\nthe same reason,\" and the man who once loved George Eliot smiled not\nunkindly, and the conversation drifted to other themes.\n\nThis comparison of Swedenborg with Mary Baker Eddy is not straining a\npoint. No one can read \"Science and Health\" intelligently unless his\nmind is first prepared for it by some one whose mind has been prepared\nfor it by some one else. It requires a deal of explanation; and like the\nPlan of Salvation, no one would ever know anything about it if it wasn't\nelucidated by an educated person.\n\nBooks strong in abstraction are a convenient rag-bag for your mental\nodds and ends. Swedenborg's philosophy is \"Science and Health\"\nmultiplied by forty. He lays down propositions and proves them in a\nthousand pages.\n\nYet this must be confessed: The Swedenborgians and the Christian\nScientists as sects rank above most other denominations in point of\nintellectual worth. In speaking of the artist Thompson, Nathaniel\nHawthorne once wrote: \"This artist is a man of thought, and with no mean\nidea of art, a Swedenborgian, or, as he prefers to call it, a member of\nthe New Church. I have generally found something marked in men who\nadopt that faith. He seems to me to possess truth in himself, and to aim\nat it is his artistic endeavor.\"\n\nSwedenborg's essay on \"Conjugal Love\" contains four hundred thousand\nwords and divides the theme into forty parts, each of these being\nsubdivided into forty more. The delights of paradise are pictured in the\nperfect mating of the right man with the right woman. In order to\nexplain what perfect marriage is, Swedenborg works by the process of\nelimination and reveals every possible condition of mismating. Every\nerror, mistake, crime, wrong and fallacy is shown in order to get at the\ntruth. Swedenborg tells us that he got his facts from four husbands and\nfour wives in the Spirit Land, and so his statements are authentic.\nEmerson disposes of Swedenborg's ideal marriage as it exists in heaven,\nas \"merely an indefinite bridal-chamber,\" and intimates that it is the\ndream of one who had never been disillusioned by experience.\n\nIn Maudsley's fine book, \"Body and Mind,\" the statement is made that\nduring Swedenborg's stay in London his life was decidedly promiscuous.\nFortunately the innocence and ignorance of Swedenborg's speculations are\nproof in themselves that his entire life was absolutely above reproach.\nSwedenborg's bridal-chamber is the dream of a school-girl, presented by\na scientific analyst, a man well past his grand climacteric, who\nimagined that the perpetuation of sexual \"bliss\" was a desirable thing.\n\nEmerson hints that there is the taint of impurity in Swedenborg's\nmatrimonial excursions, for \"life and nature are right, but closet\nspeculations are bound to be vicious when persisted in.\" Max Mueller's\nlittle book, \"A Story of German Love,\" showing the intellectual and\nspiritual uplift that comes from the natural and spontaneous friendship\nof a good man and woman, is worth all the weighty speculations of all\nthe virtuous bachelors who ever lived and raked the stagnant ponds of\ntheir imagination for an ideal.\n\nThe love of a recluse is not God's kind--only running water is pure; the\nliving love of a live man and woman absolves itself, refines, benefits,\nand blesses, though it be the love of Aucassin and Nicolete, Plutarch\nand Laura, Paola and Francesca, Abelard and Heloise, and they go to hell\nfor it.\n\nFrom his thirty-fourth year to his forty-sixth Swedenborg wrote nothing\nfor publication. He lectured, traveled, and advised the government on\nquestions of engineering and finance, and in various practical ways made\nhimself useful. Then it was that he decided to break the silence and\ngive the world the benefit of his studies, which he does in his great\nwork, \"Principia.\" Well does Emerson say that this work, purporting to\nexplain the birth of worlds, places the man side by side with Aristotle,\nLeonardo, Bacon, Selden, Copernicus and Humboldt.\n\nIt is a book for giants, written by one. Although the man was a nominal\nChristian, yet to him, plainly, the Bible was only a book of fables and\nfairy-tales. The Mosaic account of Creation is simply waived, as we\nwaive Jack the Giant-Killer when dealing with the question of capital\npunishment.\n\nThat Darwin read Swedenborg with minute care, there is no doubt. In the\n\"Principia\" is a chapter on mosses wherein it is explained how the first\nvestige of lichen catches the dust particles of disintegrating rock, and\nwe get the first tokens of a coming forest. Darwin never made a point\nbetter; and the nebular hypothesis and the origin of species are worked\nout with conjectures, fanciful flights, queer conceits, poetic\ncomparisons, far-reaching analogies, and most astounding leaps of\nimagination.\n\nThe man was warming to his task--this was not to be his last book--the\nheavens were opening before him, and if he went astray it was light from\nheaven that dazzled him. No one could converse with him, because there\nwas none who could understand him; none could refute him, because none\ncould follow his winding logic, which led to heights where the air was\ntoo rarefied for mortals to breathe. He speculated on magnetism,\nchemistry, astronomy, anatomy, geology and spiritism. He believed a\nthing first and then set the mighty machinery of his learning to bear to\nprove it. This is the universal method of great minds--they divine\nthings first. But no other scientist the world has ever known divined\nas much as this man. He reminds us of his own motor-car, with the horse\ninside running away with the machine and none to stop the beast in its\nmad flight. To his engine there is no governor, and he revolves like the\nscrew of a steamship when the waves lift the craft out of the water.\n\nThere is no stimulant equal to expression. The more men write the more\nthey know. Swedenborg continued to write, and following the \"Principia\"\ncame \"The Animal Kingdom,\" \"The Economy of the Universe,\" and more vast\nreaches into the realm of fact and fancy. His books were published at\nhis own expense, and the work was done under his own supervision at\nAntwerp, Amsterdam, Venice, Vienna, London and Paris. In all these\ncities he worked to get the benefit of their libraries and museums.\n\nPopularity was out of the question--only the learned attempted to follow\nhis investigations, and these preferred to recommend his books rather\nthan read them. And as for heresy, his disbelief in popular\nsuperstitions was so veiled in scientific formulas that it went\nunchallenged. Had he simplified truth for the masses his career would\nhave been that of Erasmus. His safety lay in his unintelligibility. He\nwas gracious, gentle, suave, with a calm self-confidence that routed\nevery would-be antagonist.\n\nIt was in his fifty-sixth year that the supreme change came over him. He\nwas in London, in his room, when a great light came to him. He was\nprostrated as was Saint Paul on the road to Damascus; he lost\nconsciousness, and was awakened by a reassuring voice. Christ came to\nhim and talked with him face to face; he was told that he would be shown\nthe inmost recesses of the Spirit World, and must write out the\nrevelation for the benefit of humanity.\n\nThere was no disturbance in the man's general health, although he\ncontinued to have visions, trances and curious dreams. He began to\nwrite--steadily, day by day the writings went on--but from this time\nexperience was disregarded, and for him the material world slept; he\ndealt only with spiritual things, using the physical merely for analogy,\nand his geology and botany were those of the Old Testament.\n\nReturning to Stockholm he resigned his government office, broke his\nengagements with the University, repudiated all scientific studies, and\ndevoted himself to his new mission--that is, writing out what the\nspirits dictated, and what he saw on his celestial journeys.\n\nThat there are passages of great beauty and insight in his work, is very\nsure, and by discarding what one does not understand, and accepting what\nseems reasonable and right, a practical theology that serves and\nbenefits can be built up. The value of Swedenborg lies largely in what\nyou can read into him.\n\nThe Swedish Protestant Church in London chose him as their bishop\nwithout advising with him. Gradually other scattering churches did the\nsame, and after his death a well-defined cult, calling themselves\nSwedenborgians, arose and his works were ranked as holy writ and read in\nthe churches, side by side with the Bible.\n\nSwedenborg died in London, March Twenty-ninth, Seventeen Hundred\nSeventy-two, aged eighty-four years. Up to the very day of his passing\naway he enjoyed good health, and was possessed of a gentle, kind and\nobliging disposition that endeared him to all he met. There is an idea\nin the minds of simple people that insanity is always accompanied by\nviolence, ravings and uncouth and dangerous conduct. Dreams are a\ntemporary insanity--reason sleeps and the mind roams the universe,\nuncurbed and wildly free. On awakening, for an instant we may not know\nwhere we are, and all things are in disorder; but gradually time,\nlocation, size and correspondences find their proper place and we are\nawake.\n\nShould, however, the dreams of the night continue during the day, when\nwe are awake and moving about, we would say the man was insane.\nSwedenborg could become oblivious to every external thing, and dream at\nwill. And to a degree his mind always dictated the dreams, at least the\nsubject was of his own volition. If it was necessary to travel or\ntransact business, the dreams were postponed and he lived right here on\nearth, a man of good judgment, safe reason and proper conduct.\n\nUnsoundness of mind is not necessarily folly. Across the murky clouds of\nmadness shoots and gleams, at times, the deepest insight into the heart\nof things. And the fact that Swedenborg was unbalanced does not warrant\nus in rejecting all he said and taught as false and faulty. He was\nalways well able to take care of himself and to manage his affairs\nsuccessfully, even to printing the books that contain the record of his\nravings. Follow closely the lives of great inventors, discoverers, poets\nand artists, and it will be found that the world is debtor to so-called\nmadmen for many of its richest gifts. Few, indeed, are they who can\nburst the bonds of custom and condition, sail out across the unknown\nseas, and bring us records of the Enchanted Isles. And who shall say\nwhere originality ends and insanity begins? Swedenborg himself\nattributed his remarkable faculties to the development of a sixth sense,\nand intimates that in time all men will be so equipped. Death is as\nnatural as life, and possibly insanity is a plan of Nature for sending a\nsearchlight flash into the darkness of futurity. Insane or not, thinking\nmen everywhere agree that Swedenborg blessed and benefited the\nrace--preparing the way for the thinkers and the doers who should come\nafter him.\n\n\n\n\nSPINOZA\n\n\n     Men are so made as to resent nothing more impatiently than to be\n     treated as criminal on account of opinions which they deem true,\n     and charged as guilty for simply what wakes their affection to God\n     and men. Hence, laws about opinions are aimed not at the base but\n     at the noble, and tend not to restrain the evil-minded but rather\n     to irritate the good, and can not be enforced without great peril\n     to the Government.... What evil can be imagined greater for a\n     State, than that honorable men, because they have thoughts of their\n     own and can not act a lie, are sent as culprits into exile! What\n     more baneful than that men, for no guilt or wrongdoing, but for the\n     generous largeness of their mind, should be taken for enemies and\n     led off to death, and that the torture-bed, the terror of the bad,\n     should become, to the signal shame of authority, the finest stage\n     for the public spectacle of endurance and virtue!\n\n                                                --_Benedict Spinoza_\n\n[Illustration: SPINOZA]\n\n\nThe word philosophy means the love of truth: \"philo,\" love; \"soph,\"\ntruth; or, if you prefer, the love of that which is reasonable and\nright. Philosophy refers directly to the life of man--how shall we live\nso as to get the most out of this little Earth-Journey!\n\nLife is our heritage--we all have so much vitality at our disposal--what\nshall we do with it?\n\nTruth can be proved in just one way, and no other--that is, by living\nit. You know what is good, only by trying. Truth, for us, is that which\nbrings good results--happiness or reasonable content, health, peace and\nprosperity. These things are all relative--none are final, and they are\ngood only as they are mixed in right proportion with other things.\nOxygen, we say, is life, but it is also death, for it attacks every\nliving thing with pitiless persistency. Hydrogen is good, but it makes\nthe very hottest fire known, and may explode if you try to confine it.\n\nProsperity is excellent, but too much is very dangerous to most folks;\nand to seek happiness as a final aim is like loving love as a\nbusiness--the end is desolation, death. Good health is best secured and\nretained by those who are not anxious about health. Absolute good can\nnever be known, for always and forever creeps in the suspicion that if\nwe had acted differently a better result might have followed.\n\nAnd that which is good for one is not necessarily good for another.\n\nBut there are certain general rules of conduct which apply to all men,\nand to sum these up and express them in words is the business of the\nphilosopher. As all men live truth, in degree, and all men express some\ntruth in language, so to that extent all men are philosophers; but by\ncommon assent, we give the title only to the men who make other men\nthink for themselves.\n\nWhistler refers to Velasquez as \"a painter's painter.\" John Wesley said,\n\"No man is worthy to be called a teacher, unless he be a teacher of\nteachers.\" The great writer is the one who inspires writers. And in this\nbook I will not refer to a man as a philosopher unless he has inspired\nphilosophers.\n\nPreachers and priests in the employ of a denomination are attorneys for\nthe defense. God is not found in a theological seminary, for very seldom\nis the seminary seminal--it galvanizes the dead rather than vitalizes\nthe germs of thought in the living. No man understands theology--it is\nnot intended to be understood; it is merely believed. Most colleges are\nplaces where is taught the gentle art of sophistication; and memorizing\nthe theories of great men gone passes for knowledge.\n\nWords are fluid and change their meaning with the years and according to\nthe mind and mood of the hearer. A word means all you read into it, and\nnothing more. The word \"soph\" once had a high and honorable distinction,\nbut now it is used to point a moral, and the synonym of sophomore is\nsoft.\n\nOriginally the sophist was a lover of truth; then he became a lover of\nwords that concealed truth, and the chief end of his existence was to\nbalance a feather on his nose and keep three balls in the air for the\nastonishment and admiration of the bystanders.\n\nEducation is something else.\n\nEducation is growth, development, life in abundance, creation.\n\nWe grow only through exercise. The faculties we use become strong, and\nthose we fail to use are taken away from us.\n\nThis exercise of our powers through which growth is attained affords the\nfinest gratification that mortals know. To think, reason, weigh, sift,\ndecide and act--this is life. It means health, sanity and length of\ndays. Those live longest who live most.\n\nThe end of college education to the majority of students and parents is\nto secure a degree, and a degree is valuable only to the man who needs\nit. Visiting the office of the \"Outlook,\" a weekly, religious newspaper,\nI noticed that the titles, Rev., Prof, and Dr., and the degrees, M. D.,\nD. D., LL. D., Ph. D., were carefully used by the clerks in addressing\nenvelopes and wrappers. And I said to the manager, \"Why this misuse of\ntime and effort? The ink thus wasted should be sold and the proceeds\ngiven to the poor!\" And the man replied, \"To omit these titles and\ndegrees would cost us half our subscription-list.\" And so I assume that\nman is a calculating animal, not a thinking one.\n\nAnd the point of this sermonette is that truth is not monopolized by\nuniversities and colleges; nor must we expect much from those who parade\ndegrees and make professions. It is one thing to love truth and it is\nanother thing to lust after honors.\n\nThe larger life--the life of love, health, self-sufficiency, usefulness\nand expanding power--this life in abundance is often taught best out of\nthe mouths of babes and sucklings. It is not esoteric, nor hidden in\nsecret formulas, nor locked in languages old and strange.\n\nNo one can compute how much the bulwarked learned ones have blocked the\npath of wisdom. Socrates, the barefoot philosopher, did more good than\nall the Sophists with their schools. Diogenes, who lived in a tub,\nsearched in vain for an honest man, owned nothing but a blanket and a\nbowl, and threw the bowl away when he saw a boy drinking out of his\nhand, even yet makes men think, and so blesses and benefits the race.\nJesus of Nazareth, with no place to lay his tired head, associating with\npublicans and sinners, and choosing his closest companions from among\nignorant fishermen, still lives in the affections of millions of people,\na molding force for good untold. Friedrich Froebel, who first preached\nthe propensity to play as a pedagogic dynamo, as the tides of the sea\ncould be used to turn the countless wheels of trade, is yet only\npartially accepted, but has influenced every teacher in Christendom and\nstamped his personality upon the walls of schoolrooms unnumbered. Then\ncomes Richard Wagner, the political outcast, writing from exile the\nmusic that serves as a mine for much of our modern composing, marching\ndown the centuries to the solemn chant of his \"Pilgrims' Chorus\";\nWilliam Morris, Oxford graduate and uncouth workingman in blouse and\noveralls, arrested in the streets of London for haranguing crowds on\nSocialism, let go with a warning, on suspended sentence--canceled only\nby death--making his mark upon the walls of every well-furnished house\nin England or America; Jean Francois Millet, starved out in art-loving\nParis, his pictures refused at the Salon, living next door to abject\nwant in Barbizon, dubbed the \"wild man of the woods,\" dead and turned to\ndust, his pictures commanding such sums as Paris never before paid; Walt\nWhitman, issuing his book at his own expense, publishers having refused\nit, this book excluded from the mails, as Wanamaker immortalized himself\nby serving a like sentence on Tolstoy; Walt Whitman, riding on top of a\nBroadway 'bus all day, happy in the great solitude of bustling city\nstreets, sending his barbaric yawp down the ages, singing paeans to those\nwho fail, chants to Death--strong deliverer--and giving courage to a\nfear-stricken world; Thoreau, declining to pay the fee of five dollars\nfor his Harvard diploma \"because it wasn't worth the price,\" later\nrefusing to pay poll-tax and sent to jail, thus missing, possibly, the\nchance of finding that specimen of Victoria regia on Concord\nRiver--Thoreau, most virile of all the thinkers of his day, inspiring\nEmerson, the one man America could illest spare; Spinoza, the\nintellectual hermit, asking nothing, and giving everything--all these\nworked their philosophy up into life and are the type of men who jostle\nthe world out of its ruts--creators all, one with Deity, sons of God,\nsaviors of the race.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nWashington Irving once spoke of Spain as the Paradise of Jews. But it\nmust be borne in mind that he wrote the words in Granada, which was\nessentially a Moorish province. The Moors and the Jews are both Semitic\nin origin--they trace back to a common ancestry. It was the Moslem Moors\nthat welcomed the Jews in both Venetia and Spain, not the Christians.\nThe wealth, energy and practical business sense of the Jews recommended\nthem to the grandees of Leon, Aragon and Castile. To the Jews they\ncommitted their exchequer, the care of their health, the setting of\ntheir jewels, and the fashioning of their finery. In this genial\natmosphere many of the Jews grew great in the study of science,\nliterature, history, philosophy and all that makes for mental\nbetterment. They increased in numbers, in opulence and in culture. Their\nthrift and success set them apart as a mark for hate and envy.\n\nIt was a period of ominous peace, of treacherous repose.\n\nA senseless and fanatical cry went up, that the Moors--the\ninfidels--must be driven from Spain. The iniquities and inhuman\nbarbarities visited upon the Mohammedan Moors would make a book in\nitself, but let it go at this: Ferdinand and Isabella drove the\nMohammedans from Spain. In the struggle, the Jews were overlooked--and\nanyway, Christians do not repudiate the Old Testament, and if the Jews\nwould accept Christ, why, they could remain!\n\nIt looked easy to the gracious King and Queen of Spain--it was really\ngenerous: two religions were unnecessary, and Christianity was beautiful\nand right. If the Jews would become Catholics, all barriers would be\nremoved--the Jews would be recognized as citizens and every walk of life\nwould be open to them.\n\nThis manifesto to the Jews is still quoted by Churchmen to show the\nexcellence, tolerance, patience and love of the Spanish rulers. Turn\nyour synagogues over to the Catholics--come and be one with us--we will\nall worship the one God together--come, these open arms invite--no\ndistinctions--no badges--no preferences--no prejudices--come!\n\nIn quoting the edict it is not generally stated that the Jews were given\nthirty days to make the change.\n\nThe Jews who loved their faith fled; the weak succumbed, or pretended\nto. If a Jew wished to flee the country he could, but he must leave all\nhis property behind. This caused many to remain and profess\nChristianity, only awaiting a time when their property could be turned\ninto gold or jewels and be borne upon the person. This fondness for\nconcrete wealth is a race instinct implanted in the Jewish mind by the\ninbred thought that possibly tomorrow he must fly.\n\nAfter attending service at a Catholic Church, Jews would go home and in\nsecret read the Talmud and in whispers chant the Psalms of David.\n\nLaws were passed making such action a penal offense--spies were\neverywhere. No secret can be kept long, and in the Province of Seville\nover two thousand Jews were hanged or burned in a single year. When\nFerdinand and Isabella gave Torquemada, Deza and Lucio orders to make\ngood Catholics of all Jews, they had not the faintest idea what would be\nthe result. Every Jew that was hurried to the stake was first stripped\nof his property.\n\nNo Jew was safe, especially if he was rich--his sincerity or insincerity\nhad really little to do in the matter. The prisons were full, the fagots\ncrackled, the streets ran blood, and all in the name of the gentle\nChrist.\n\nThen for a time the severity relaxed, for the horror had spent itself.\nBut early in the Seventeenth Century the same edicts were again put\nforth.\n\nFortunately, priesthood had tried its mailed hand on the slow and\nsluggish Dutch, with the result that the Spaniards were driven from the\nNetherlands. Holland was the home of freedom. Amsterdam became a Mecca\nfor the oppressed. The Jews flocked thither, and among others who, in\nSixteen Hundred Thirty-one, landed on the quay was a young Jew by the\nname of Michael d'Espinoza. With him was a Moorish girl that he had\nrescued from the clutch of a Spanish grandee, in whose house she had\nbeen kept a prisoner.\n\nBy a happy accident, this beautiful girl of seventeen had escaped from\nher tormentors and was huddling, sobbing, in an alley as the young Jew\ncame hurrying by on his way to the ship that was to bear him to\nfreedom. It was near day-dawn--there was no time to lose--the young man\nonly knew that the girl, like himself, was in imminent peril. A small\nboat waited near--soon they were safely secreted in the hold of the\nship. Before sundown the tide had carried the ship to sea, and Portugal\nwas but a dark line on the horizon.\n\nOther refugees were on board the boat; they came from their\nhiding-places--and the second day out a refugee rabbi called a meeting\non deck. It was a solemn service of thanksgiving and the songs of Zion\nwere sung, the first time for some in many months, and only friends and\nthe great, sobbing, salt sea listened.\n\nThe tears of the Moorish girl were now dried--the horror of the future\nhad gone with the black memories of the past. Other women, not quite so\npoor, contributed to her wardrobe, and there and then, after she had\nbeen accepted into the Jewish faith, she and Michael d'Espinoza, aged\ntwenty-two, were married.\n\nThe ship arrived at Amsterdam in safety. In a year, on November\nTwenty-fourth, Sixteen Hundred Thirty-two, in a little stone house that\nstill stands on the canal bank, was born Benedict Spinoza.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nBenedict Spinoza was brought up in the faith and culture of his people.\nBeyond his religious training at the synagogue, there was a Jewish High\nSchool at Amsterdam which he attended. This school might compare very\nfavorably with our modern schools, in that it included a certain degree\nof manual training. Besides this he had received special instruction\nfrom several learned rabbis. In matters of true education, the Jews have\never been in advance of the Gentile world--they bring their children up\nto be useful. The father of Benedict was a maker of lenses for\nspectacles, and at this trade the boy was very early set to work. Again\nand again in the writings of Spinoza, we find the argument that every\nman should have a trade and earn his living with his hands, not by\nwriting, speaking or philosophizing. If you can earn a living at your\ntrade, you thus make your mind free.\n\nThis early idea of usefulness led to a sympathy with another religious\nbody, of which there were quite a number of members in Holland: the\nMennonites. This sect was founded by Menno Simons, a Frieslander,\ncontemporary of Luther; only this man swung on further from Catholicism\nthan Luther and declared that a paid priesthood was what made all the\ntrouble. Religion to him was a matter of individual inspiration. When an\ninstitution was formed, built on man's sense of relation with his Maker,\nproperty purchased, and paid priests employed, instantly there was a\npollution of the well of life. It became a money-making scheme, and a\ngrand clutch for place and power followed: it really ceased to be\nreligion at all, so long as we define religion in its spiritual sense.\n\"A priest,\" said Menno, \"is a man who thrives on the sacred relations\nthat exist between man and God, and is little better than a person who\nwould live on the love-emotions of men and women.\"\n\nThis certainly was bold language, but to be exact, it was persecution\nthat forced the expression. The Catholics had placed an interdict on all\nservices held by Protestant pastors, and the deprivation proved to Menno\nthat paid preaching and costly churches and trappings were really not\nnecessary at all. Man could go to God without them, and pray in secret.\nSpirituality is not dependent on either church or priest.\n\nThe Mennonites in Holland escaped theological criticism by disclaiming\nto be a church, and calling their institution a college, and themselves\n\"Collegiants.\"\n\nAll the Mennonites asked was to be let alone. They were plain,\nunpretentious people, who worked hard, lived frugally, refused to make\noaths, to accept civil office, or to go to war. They are a variant of\nthe impulse that makes Quakers and all those peculiar people known as\nPrimitive Christians, who mark the swinging of the pendulum from pride\nand pretense to simplicity and a life of modest usefulness.\n\nThe sincerity, truthfulness and virtue of the Mennonites so impressed\nitself upon even the ruthless Corsican, that he made them exempt from\nconscription.\n\nBefore Spinoza was twenty, he had come into acquaintanceship with these\nplain people. His relationship with the rabbis and learned men of Israel\nhad given him a culture that the Mennonites did not possess; but these\nplain people, by the earnestness of their lives, showed him that the\nscience of theology was not a science at all. Nobody understands\ntheology: it is not meant to be understood--it is for belief. Spinoza\ncompared the Mennonites, who confessed they knew nothing, but hoped\nmuch, to the rabbis, who pretended they knew all. His praise of the\nMennonites, and his criticisms of the growing love for power in Judaism,\nwere carried to the Jewish authorities by some young men who had come to\nhim in the guise of learners. Moreover, the report was abroad that he\nwas to marry a Gentile--the daughter of Van den Ende, the infidel.\n\nOn order, he appeared at the synagogue, and defended his position. His\nability in argument, his knowledge of Jewish law, his insight into the\nlessons of history, were alarming to the assembled rabbis. The young man\nwas quiet, gentle, but firm. He expressed the belief that God might\npossibly have revealed Himself to other peoples beside the Jews.\n\n\"Then you are not a Jew!\" was the answer.\n\n\"Yes, I am a Jew, and I love my faith.\"\n\n\"But it is not all to you?\"\n\n\"I confess that occasionally I have found what seems to be truth\noutside of the Law.\"\n\nThe rabbis tore their raiment in mingled rage and surprise at the young\nman's temerity.\n\nSpinoza did not withdraw from the Jewish Congregation--he was thrust\nout. Moreover, a fanatical Jew, in the warmth of his religious zeal,\nattempted to kill him. Spinoza escaped, his clothing cut through by a\ndagger-thrust, close to the heart.\n\nThe curse of Israel was upon him--his own brothers and sisters refused\nhim shelter, his father turned against him, and again was the icy\nunkindness of kinsmen made manifest. The tribe of Spinoza lives in\nhistory, saved from the fell clutch of oblivion by the man it denied\nwith an oath and pushed in bitterness from its heart. Spinoza fled to\nhis friends, the Mennonites, plain market-gardeners who lived a few\nmiles out of the city.\n\nSpinoza had not meant to leave the Jews--the racial instinct was strong\nin him, and the pride of his people colored his character to the last.\nBut the attempts to bribe him and coerce him into a following of\nfanatical law, when this law did not appeal to his commonsense, forced\nhim into a position that his enemies took for innate perversity. When an\neagle is hatched in a barnyard brood and mounts on soaring pinions\ntoward the sun, it is always cursed and vilified because it does not\nremain at home and scratch in the compost. Its flight skyward is\nconstrued as proof of its vile nature.\n\nHow can people who do not think, and can not think, and therefore have\nno thoughts to express, sympathize with one whose highest joy comes from\nthe expression of his thought?\n\nDeprive a thinker of the privilege to think and you take from him his\nlife. The joy of existence lies in self-expression. What if we should\norder the painter to quit his canvas, the sculptor to lay aside his\ntools, the farmer to leave the soil? Do these things, and you do no more\nthan you do when you force a thinker to follow in the groove that dead\nmen have furrowed. The thirst for knowledge must be slaked or the soul\nsickens and slow death follows.\n\nIn Spinoza's time the literature of Greece and Rome was locked in the\nLatin language, which the Jews were forbidden to acquire. Young Spinoza\nlonged to know what Plato, Aristotle, Cicero, Seneca and Vergil had\ntaught, but these authors were considered anathema by the rabbinical\ncouncils. Spinoza desired to be honest, and so asked for a special\ndispensation in his favor, as he was to be a teacher--could he study the\nLatin language?\n\nAnd the answer was, \"Read your Joshua, first chapter and eighth verse,\n'This book of the law shall not depart out of thy mouth, but thou shalt\nmeditate therein day and night.'\"\n\nFrom this time on Spinoza was more or less under the ban, and rumors of\nhis heresy were rife. It is possible, if it had not been for one\nperson, that the growing desire for knowledge, the reaching out for\nbetter things, the dissatisfaction with his environment, might have\npassed in safety and the restless young rabbi slipped back into the\nconventional Jew. Youth always has its periods of unrest--sometimes\nmore, sometimes less.\n\nSpinoza had made the acquaintance of Van den Ende, a teacher of Greek\nand Latin, an erratic, argumentative rationalist, who had his say on all\ntopics of the time, and fixed his place in history by being shot as a\nrevolutionary, just outside the walls of the Bastile.\n\nBut at this time Van den Ende was fairly prosperous and Amsterdam was\nthe freest city in Christendom.\n\nVan den Ende had a daughter, Clara Maria, a little younger than Spinoza,\nwho surely was a most superior woman. She was the companion of her\nfather in his studies. It speaks well for the father and it speaks well\nfor the daughter that they were comrades and that his highest thought\nwas expressed to her. I can conceive of no finer joy coming to a man\nthan, as his hair whitens, to have a daughter who understands him at his\nbest, who enters into his life, sympathizes with his ideals, ministers\nto his mental needs, who is his companion and friend. Only a great man\never has such a daughter. Madame De Stael, who delighted in being called\n\"the daughter of Necker,\" was such a woman, and the splendor of her mind\nwas no less her father's glory than was the fact that he was the\ngreatest financier of his time.\n\nClara Van den Ende was her father's helper and companion, and when he\nwas busied in other tasks she took charge of his classes.\n\nAuerbach has written a charming story with Clara Van den Ende and\nSpinoza as a central theme. In the tale is pictured with skilful\npsychology the awakening of the sleeping soul of Spinoza as he was\nintroduced from a cheerless home, devoid of art and freedom, into the\nbeauties of undraped Greece and the fine atmosphere of a forum where\nnothing human was considered alien.\n\nFrom a love for Vergil, Cicero and Horace, to a love for each other, was\na very natural sequence. A growing indifference for the censure of\nJudaism was quite a natural result. Auerbach would have us believe that\nno man alone ever stood out against the revilings of kinsmen and the\nstupidity of sectarians: we move in the line of least resistance and\nonly a very great passion makes it possible for a man calmly to face the\ncontumely of an angry world.\n\nZangwill, in his vivid sketch, \"The Maker of Lenses,\" makes this single\nlove-episode in the life of Spinoza the controlling impulse of his life,\nprobably reasoning on the premise that men who mark epochs are ever and\nalways, without exception, those with the love nature strongly implanted\nin their hearts. So thoroughly does Zangwill believe in the one passion\nof Spinoza's life, that a score of years after the chief incident of it\nhad transpired, he pictures the philosopher trembling at mention of the\nwoman's name, coughing to conceal his agitation and clutching the\ndoorpost for support. And this a man who smilingly faced a mob that\nhowled for his life, and was only moved to philosophize on the nature of\nhuman intellect when a flying stone grazed his cheek!\n\nBut the lady had ambitions--the lens-maker was penniless, and probably\nalways would be--his passion was passive--he lacked the show and dash\nthat made other women jealous. And so Oldenburg, a rival with love and\njewels, won the heart that could not be won by love alone. That the lady\nsoon knew she had erred did not help her case--Spinoza loved his ideal,\nand he had thought it was the woman.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nFollow Zangwill's stories of the Ghetto and your heart is wrung by the\ninjustice, cruelty and inhumanity visited upon the Jews by the people\nwho worship a Jew as God and make daily supplications to a Jewess.\n\nBut read between the lines and you will see that Israel Zangwill, child\nof the Ghetto, knows that the Peculiar People are peculiar through\npersecution, and not necessarily so through innate nature. Zangwill\nknows that no religion is pure except in its stage of persecution, and\nthat Judaism, grown rich and powerful, would oppress and has oppressed.\nMartyr and persecutor shift places easily.\n\nThe Jew arrives in a city at night, and in the morning takes down the\nshutters and is doing business. The Jew winds his way into the life of\nevery city and becomes at once an integral part of it--a part, yet\nseparate and distinct, for his social and religious life is not colored\nby his environment.\n\nChildren imitate unconsciously. The golden rule is not natural to\nchildren: it has to be taught them. They do unto others as others have\ndone unto them, and have no question as to right or wrong. We are all\nchildren, and have to think hard before we are conscious of any feeling\nof the brotherhood of man. As soon as the Jews relaxed in Amsterdam--got\ntheir breath, and felt secure--they did unto others as they had been\ndone by--they persecuted.\n\nA Jew must be a Jew, and as they had been watched with suspicion in\nSpain and Portugal by the Christians, so now they watched each other for\nheresies. They compelled strictest obedience to every form and ceremony.\nTo the Jew the Law forms the firmament above and the earth beneath. All\nis law to him, and his part and work in this life is obedience to law.\n\nThe Jewish religion is a concrete, unbroken mass of laws. The Jew is\nbounded on the east by law; on the north by law; on the west by law; on\nthe south by law. There are set rules and laws that govern his getting\nup, his going to bed, his eating, drinking, sleeping, and praying. There\nis no phase of human relationship that is not covered by the Mishna and\nGemara. Being learned in the Law means being learned in the proper way\nto kill chickens, to dress ducks, wear your vestments, go to prayers,\nand what to say when you meet two Christians in an alley. If a Jew\nquarrels with a neighbor and goes to his Rabbi for advice, the learned\nman gets down his Talmud and finds the page. The relation of wife and\nhusband, child and parent, brother and sister, lover and sweetheart, are\ncovered by law, fixed, immovable. The learned men of Judah are men\nlearned in the Law, not learned in the science of life, and commonsense.\nWhen these learned men meet they argue for six days and nights together\nas to interpretations of the Law concerning whether it is right to make\na fire in your cook-stove on the Sabbath if a Christian is starving for\nfood on your doorstep, or what will become of you if you eat pork to\nsave your life.\n\nRational Jews are those who do what they think is right, but Orthodox\nJews are those who do what the Law prescribes. When Jesus plucked the\nears of corn on the Sabbath day, he proved himself a Rational Jew--he\nset his own opinion higher than Law and thereby made himself an outcast.\nJewish Law provides curdling curses for just such offenses.\n\nPlato's Republic was a scheme of life regulated absolutely by law; every\ncontingency was provided for. And Plato's plan was founded on the\nhypothesis that it is the duty of wise men to do the thinking and\nregulate the conduct of those who are supposed not to be wise enough to\nthink and to act for themselves. But Plato's idea lacked the \"Thus saith\nthe Lord,\" with which Moses and Aaron enforced their edicts. So Plato's\nRepublic is still on paper, for no set of rules minutely regulating\nconduct has ever been enforced except as the ruler made his subjects\nbelieve he received his instructions direct from God.\n\nYet all the Jewish Laws are founded with an eye to a sanitary and\nhygienic good--they are built on the basis of expediency. And that rule\nof the Gemara which provides that if you have gravy on the table, you\ncan not also have butter, without sin, seems more of a move in the\ndirection of economics than a matter of ethics. Laws are good for the\npeople who believe that a blind obedience to a good thing is better than\nto work your way alone and find out for yourself what is best and\nright. The Jewish Law is based, like all religious codes, on the\nassumption that man by nature is vile, and really prefers wrong to\nright.\n\nThe thought that all men prefer the good, and think at the moment they\nare doing what is best, no matter what they do, was first sharply and\nclearly expressed by Spinoza. Truth, he said, could only be reached\nthrough freedom--a man must even have the privilege of thinking wrong so\nlong as his actions do not jeopardize the life and immediate safety of\nothers.\n\nFor a people whose every act is governed by fixed laws there can be no\nprogression. Mistakes are the rungs of the ladder by which we reach the\nskies. The man who allows the dead to regulate his life, and accepts\ntheir thinking as final, satisfied to repeat what he is taught, remains\nforever in the lowlands. His wings are leaden.\n\nThe Jews--most law-bound and priest-ridden of all peoples--are at home\neverywhere because they have no home. They mix in the life of every\nnation and remain forever separate and apart. They will run with you,\nride with you, trade with you, but they will not eat with you nor pray\nwith you. They build no Altars to the Unknown God, out of courtesy to\nvisitors and guests from distant climes. Mohammedans recognize the\ndivinity of Jesus, the Buddhists look upon him as one of many Christs,\nthe Universalist sees good in every faith, but the Jew regards all other\nreligions than his own as pestilence. If by chance, or in the line of\nbusiness, he finds himself in a heathen temple or Christian Church, his\nGemara orders that he shall present himself at his own temple for\npurification.\n\nRead Leviticus, Numbers and Deuteronomy, and you behold on every page\ncurses, revilings, threats and bitter scorn for all outside the pale.\nOrders by Jehovah to burn, kill and utterly destroy are frequent. And we\nmust remember that every people make their god in their own image. A\nman's God is himself at his best; his devil is himself at his worst.\n\nThe very expression, \"The Chosen People,\" would be an insult to every\nman outside the pale, were it not such a petulant and childish boast\nthat its serious assumption makes us smile.\n\nWell does Moses Mendelssohn, the Jew, say: \"The Ghetto is an arrangement\nfirst contrived by Jews for keeping infidels out of a sacred precinct.\nWhen the infidels were strong enough they turned the tables and forbade\nthe Jews to leave their Ghetto except at certain hours. For the misery,\npoverty and squalor of the Ghetto the Jew is not to blame--if he could,\nhe would have the Ghetto a place of opulence, beauty and all that makes\nfor the good. Every undesirable thing he would bestow on the outsider.\nIn the twilight days of Jewish power, the Jew, with bigotry, arrogance\nand intolerance unsurpassed, regulated the infidels and fixed their\ngoings and comings as they now do his, and he would do it again if he\nhad the power. The Jew never changes--once a Jew always a Jew.\"\n\nThis was written by a man who was not only a Jew, but a man. He was a\nJew in pride of race--in racial instinct, but he was great enough to\nknow that all men are God's children, and that to set up a fixed,\ndogmatic standard regulating every act of life has its serious\npenalties. He was a Jew so big that he knew that the cruelty and\ninhumanity visited upon the Jews by Christians was first taught to these\nChristians by Jews--it is all in the Old Testament. The villainy you\nhave taught me I will execute. It shall go hard, but I will better the\ninstruction.\n\nThe Christians who had persecuted Jews were really orthodox Jews in\ndisguise, and were actuated more by the Jewish Law expressed in the Old\nTestament, than by the life of Jesus, who placed man above the Sabbath\nand taught that the good is that which serves.\n\nAnd so Benedict Spinoza, the Rabbi, gentle, spiritual, kind, heir to the\nJewish faith, learned in all the refinements of Jewish Law, knowing\nminutely the history of the race, knowing that for which the curses of\nJudaism were reserved, perceiving with unblinking eyes the absurdity and\nfolly of all dogmatic belief, gradually withdrew from practising and\nfollowing \"Law,\" preferring his own commonsense. There were threats,\nthen attempts to bribe, and again threats and finally excommunication\nand curses so terrible that if they were carried out, a man would walk\nthe earth an exile--unknown by brothers and sisters, shunned by the\nmother that gave him birth, a moral leper to his father, despised,\nrejected, turned away, spit upon by every being of his kind.\n\nAnd here is the document:\n\n     By the sentence of the angels, by the decree of the saints, we\n     anathematize, cut off, curse, and execrate Baruch Spinoza, in the\n     presence of these sacred books with the six hundred and thirteen\n     precepts which are written therein, with the anathema wherewith\n     Joshua anathematized Jericho; with the cursing wherewith Elisha\n     cursed the children; and with all the cursings which are written in\n     the Book of the Law; cursed be he by day, and cursed by night;\n     cursed when he lieth down, and cursed when he riseth up; cursed\n     when he goeth out, and cursed when he cometh in; the Lord pardon\n     him never; the wrath and fury of the Lord burn upon this man, and\n     bring upon him all the curses which are written in the Book of the\n     Law. The Lord blot out his name under heaven. The Lord set him\n     apart for destruction from all the tribes of Israel, with all the\n     curses of the firmament which are written in the Book of the Law.\n     There shall no one speak to him, no man write to him, no man show\n     him any kindness, no man stay under the same roof with him, no man\n     come nigh him.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nWhen the Jewish congregation had placed its ban upon Spinoza, he dropped\nthe Jewish name Baruch, for the Latin Benedictus. In this action he\ntokened his frame of mind: he was going to persist in his study of the\nLatin language, and his new name stood for peace or blessing, just as\nthe other had, being essentially the same as our word benediction. The\nman's purpose was firm. To perfect himself in Latin, he began a study of\nDescartes' \"Meditations,\" and this led to proving the Cartesian\nphilosophy by a geometrical formula. In his quiet home among the simple\nMennonites, five miles from Amsterdam, there gradually grew up around\nhim a body of students to whom he read his writings. The Cartesian\nphilosophy swings around the proposition that only through universal\ndoubt can we at last reach truth. Spinoza soon went beyond this and made\nhis plea for faith in a universal Good.\n\nFive years went by--years of work at his lenses, helping his friends in\ntheir farm work, and several hours daily devoted to study and writing.\nSpinoza's manuscripts were handed around by his pupils. He wrote for\nthem, and in making truth plain to them he made it clear to himself. The\nJews at Amsterdam kept track of his doings and made charges to the\nProtestant authorities to the effect that Spinoza was guilty of treason,\nand his presence a danger to the State. Spies were about, and their\npresence becoming known to the Mennonites, caused uneasiness. To\nrelieve his friends of a possible unpleasant situation, the gentle\nphilosopher packed up his scanty effects and moved away. He went to the\nvillage of Voorburg, two miles from The Hague.\n\nHere he lived for seven years, often for six months not going farther\nthan three miles from home. He studied, worked and wrote, and his\nwritings were sent out to his few friends who circulated them among\nfriends of theirs, and in time the manuscripts came back soiled and\ndog-eared, proof that some one had read them. Persecution binds human\nhearts, and at this time there was a brotherhood of thinkers throughout\nthe capitals and University towns of Europe. Spinoza's name became known\ngradually to these--they grew to look for his monthly contribution, and\nin many places when his manuscript arrived little bands of earnest\nstudents would meet, and the manuscript would be read and discussed. The\ninterdict placed on free thought made it attractive. Spinoza became\nrecognized by the esoteric few as one of the world's great thinkers,\nalthough the good people with whom he lived knew him only as a model\nlodger, who kept regular hours and made little trouble. Occasionally\nvisitors would come from a distance and remain for hours discussing such\nabstract themes as the freedom of the will or the nature of the\nover-soul. And these visitors caused the rustic neighbors to grow\ncurious, and we find Spinoza moving into the city and renting a modest\nback room. By a curious chance, his landlady, fifty years before, had\nbeen a servant in the household of Grotius, and once had locked that\ngreat man in a trunk and escorted him, right side up, across the border\ninto Switzerland to escape the heresy-hunters who were looking for human\nkindling. This kind landlady, now grown old, and living largely in the\npast, saw points of resemblance between her philosophic boarder and the\ngreat Grotius, and soon waxed boastful to the neighbors. Spinoza noticed\nthat he was being pointed out on the streets. His record had followed\nhim. The Jews hated him because he was a renegade; the Christians hated\nhim because he was a Jew, and both Catholics and Protestants shunned him\nwhen they ought not, and greeted him with howls when they should have\nlet him alone.\n\nHe again moved his lodgings to the suburbs of the city, where he lived\nwith the family of Van der Spijck, a worthy Dutch painter who smoked his\npipe in calm indifference to the Higher Criticism. For their quiet and\nstudious lodger Van der Spijck and his wife had a profound regard. They\ndid not understand him, but they believed in him. Often he would go to\nchurch with them and coming home would discuss the sermon with them at\nlength. The Lutheran pastor who came to call on the family invited\nSpinoza to join his flock, and they calmly discussed the questions of\nbaptism and regeneration by faith together; but genius only expresses\nitself to genius, and the pastor went away mystified. Van der Spijck\ndid not produce great art, yet his pictures are now in demand because he\nwas the kind and loyal friend of Spinoza, and his heart, not his art,\nfixes his place in history.\n\nIn his sketch, Zangwill has certain of his old friends, members of the\nVan den Ende family, hunt out the philosopher in his obscure lodgings\nand pay him a social visit. Then it was that he turned pale, and\nstammeringly tried to conceal his agitation at mention of the name of\nthe only woman he had ever loved.\n\nThe image of that one fine flaming up of divine passion followed him to\nthe day of his death. It was too sacred for him to discuss--he avoided\nwomen, kept out of society, and forever in his sad heart there burned a\nshrine to the ideal. And so he lived, separate and apart. A single\nlittle room sufficed--the work-bench where he made his lenses near the\nwindow, and near at hand the table covered with manuscript where he\nwrote. Renan says that when he died, aged forty-three, his passing was\nlike a sigh, he had lived so quietly--so few knew him--there were no\nearthly ties to break.\n\nThe worthy Van der Spijcks, plain, honest people, had invited him to go\nto church with them. He smilingly excused himself--he had thoughts he\nmust write out ere they escaped. When the good man and his wife returned\nin an hour, their lodger was dead.\n\nA tablet on the house marks the spot, and but a short distance away in\nthe open square sits his form in deathless bronze, pensively writing\nout an idea which we can only guess--or is it a last love-letter to the\nwoman to whom he gave his heart and who pushed from her the gift?\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nSpinoza had courage, yet great gentleness of disposition. His habit of\nmind was conciliatory: if strong opinions were expressed in his presence\nconcerning some person or thing, he usually found some good to say of\nthe person or an excuse for the thing. He was one of the most unselfish\nmen in history--money was nothing to him, save as it might minister to\nhis very few immediate wants or the needs of others.\n\nHe smilingly refused a pension offered him by a French courtier if he\nwould but dedicate a book to the King; and a legacy left him by an\nadmiring student, Simon de Vries, was declined for the reason that it\nwas too much and he did not wish the care of it. Later, he compromised\nwith the heirs by accepting an income of one hundred and twenty-five\ndollars a year. \"How unreasonable,\" he exclaimed, \"they want me to\naccept five hundred florins a year--I told them I would take three\nhundred, but I will not be burdened by a stiver more.\" If he was\nfinancially free from the necessity of earning his living at his trade,\nhe feared the quality of his thought might be diluted. You can not\nthink intently and intensely all of the time. Those who try it never are\nable to dive deep nor soar high.... Good digestion demands a certain\namount of coarse food--refined and condensed aliment alone kills. Man\nshould work and busy himself with the commonplace, rest himself for his\nflight, and when the moment of transfiguration comes, make the best of\nit.\n\nAll he asked was to be given the privilege to work and to think. As for\nexpressing his thoughts, he made no public addresses and during his life\nonly one of his books was printed. This was the \"Tractatus\nTheologico-Politicus,\" which mentioned \"Hamburg\" on the title page, but\nwith the author's name wisely omitted. Trite enough now are the\npropositions laid down--that God is everywhere and that man is brother\nto the tree, the rock, the flower. Emerson states the case in his\n\"Over-Soul\" and \"Spiritual Laws\" in the true, calm Spinozistic style--as\nif the gentle Jew had come back to earth and dictated his thought,\nrefined, polished and smooth as one of his own little lenses, to the man\nof Concord. Benedictus Concordia, blessing and peace be with thee!\n\nBut the lynx-eyed censors soon discovered this single, solitary book of\nSpinoza's, and although they failed to locate the author, Spinoza had\nthe satisfaction of seeing the work placed on the Index and a general\ninterdict issued against it by Christendom and Judea as well. It was\nreally of some importance. It was so thoroughly in demand that it still\ncirculated with false title pages. In the Lenox Library, New York, is a\ncopy of the first edition, finely bound, and lettered thus: \"A Treatise\non the Sailing of Ships against the Wind,\" which shows the straits\nbooksellers were put to in evading the censors, and also reveals a touch\nof wit that doubtless was appreciated by the Elect.\n\nHis modesty, patience, kindness and freedom from all petty whim and\nprejudice set Spinoza apart as a marked man. Withal he was eminently\nreligious, and the reference to him by Novalis as \"the God-intoxicated\nman\" seems especially applicable to one who saw God in everything.\n\nRenan said at the dedication of The Hague monument to Spinoza, \"Since\nthe days of Epictetus and Marcus Aurelius we have not seen a life so\nprofoundly filled with the sentiment of the divine.\"\n\nWhen walking along the streets of The Hague and coarse voices called\nafter him in guttural, \"Kill the renegade!\" he said calmly, \"We must\nremember that these men are expressing the essence of their being, just\nas I express the essence of mine.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nSpinoza taught that the love of God is the supreme good; that virtue is\nits own reward, and folly its own punishment; and that every one ought\nto love his neighbor and obey the civil powers.\n\nHe made no enemies except by his opinions. He was infinitely patient,\nsweet in temper--had respect for all religions, and never offended by\nparading his heresies in the faces of others.\n\nNothing but the kicks of scorn and the contumely that came to Spinoza\ncould possibly have freed him to the extent he was free from Judaistic\nbonds.\n\nHe had disciples who called him \"Master,\" and who taught him nothing but\npatience in answering their difficulties.\n\nOne is amazed at the hunger of the mind at the time of Spinoza. Men\nseemed to think, and dare to grasp for \"New Thought\" to a marvelous\nextent.\n\nSpinoza says that \"evil\" and \"good\" have no objective reality, but are\nmerely relative to our feelings, and that \"evil\" in particular is\nnothing positive, but a privation only, or non-existence.\n\nSpinoza says that love consecrates every indifferent particular\nconnected with the object of affection. Good is that which we certainly\nknow to be useful to us. Evil is that which we certainly know stands in\nthe way of our command of good.\n\nGood is that which helps. Bad is that which hinders our\nself-maintenance and active powers.\n\nA passage from Spinoza which well reveals his habit of thought and which\nplaced the censors on his track runs as follows:\n\n     The ultimate design of the State is not to dominate men, to\n     restrain them by fear, to make them subject to the will of others,\n     but, on the contrary, to permit every one, as far as possible, to\n     live in security. That is to say, to preserve intact the natural\n     right which is his, to live without being harmed himself or doing\n     harm to others. No, I say, the design of the State is not to\n     transform men into animals or automata from reasonable beings; its\n     design is to arrange matters that citizens may develop their minds\n     and bodies in security, and to make free use of their reason. The\n     true design of the State, then, is liberty. Whoever would respect\n     the rights of the sovereign ought never to act in opposition to his\n     decrees; but each has a right to think as he pleases and to say\n     what he thinks, provided that he limits himself to speaking and to\n     teaching in the name of pure reason, and that he does not attempt,\n     in his private capacity, to introduce innovations into the State.\n     For example, a citizen demonstrates that a certain law is repugnant\n     to sound reason, and believing this, he thinks it ought to be\n     abrogated. If he submits his opinion to the judgment of the\n     sovereign, to which alone it belongs to establish and to abolish\n     laws, and if, in the meantime, he does nothing contrary to law, he\n     certainly deserves well of the State as being a good citizen.\n\n     Let us admit that it is possible to stifle liberty of men and to\n     impose on them a yoke, to the point that they dare not even\n     murmur, however feebly, without the consent of the sovereign:\n     never, it is certain, can any one hinder them from thinking\n     according to their own free will. What follows hence? It is that\n     men will think one way and speak another; that, consequently, good\n     faith, so essential a virtue to a State, becomes corrupted; that\n     adulation, so detestable, and perfidy, shall be held in honor,\n     bringing in their train a decadence of all good and sound\n     habitudes. What can be more fatal to a State than to exile, as\n     malcontents, honest citizens, simply because they do not hold the\n     opinion of the multitude, and because they are ignorant of the art\n     of dissembling! What can be more fatal to a State than to treat as\n     enemies and to put to death men who have committed no other crime\n     than that of thinking independently! Behold, then, the scaffold,\n     the dread of the bad man, which now becomes the glorious theater\n     where tolerance and virtue blaze forth in all their splendor, and\n     covers publicly with opprobrium the sovereign majesty! Assuredly,\n     there is but one thing which that spectacle can teach us, and that\n     is to imitate these noble martyrs, or, if we fear death, to become\n     the abject flatterers of the powerful. Nothing hence can be so\n     perilous as to relegate and submit to divine right things which are\n     purely speculative, and to impose laws upon opinions which are, or\n     at least ought to be, subject to discussion among men. If the right\n     of the State were limited to repressing acts, and speech were\n     allowed impunity, controversies would not turn so often into\n     seditions.\n\n\n\n\nAUGUSTE COMTE\n\n\n     In the name of the Past and of the Future, the servants of\n     Humanity--both its philosophical and its practical servants--come\n     forward to claim as their due the general direction of the world.\n     Their object is to constitute at length a real Providence in all\n     departments--moral, intellectual and material.\n\n                                                --_Auguste Comte_\n\n[Illustration: AUGUSTE COMTE]\n\n\nA little city girl asked of her country cousin, when honey was the topic\nup for discussion, \"Does your papa keep a bee?\"\n\nLet the statement go unchallenged, that a single bee has neither the\ndisposition nor the ability to make honey.\n\nBees accomplish nothing save as they work together, and neither do men.\n\nGreat men come in groups.\n\nSix men, three living at the village of Concord, Massachusetts, and\nthree at Cambridge, fifteen miles away, supplied America really all her\nliterature, until Indiana suddenly loomed large on the horizon, and\nassumed the center of the stage, like the spirit of the Brocken.\n\nFive men made up the Barbizon school of painting, which has influenced\nthe entire art education of the world. And that those who have been\ninfluenced and helped most, deny their redeemer with an oath, is a\nnatural phenomenon psychologists look for and fully understand.\n\nGreece had a group of seven thinkers, in the time of Pericles, who made\nthe name and fame of the city deathless.\n\nRome had a similar group in the time of Augustus; then the world went\nto sleep, and although there were individuals, now and then, of great\ntalent, their lights went out in darkness, for it takes bulk to make a\nconflagration.\n\nFlorence had her group of thinkers and doers when Michelangelo and\nLeonardo lived only a few miles apart, but never met. Yet each man\nspurred the other on to do and dare, until an impetus was reached that\nsent the names of both down the centuries.\n\nBoswell gives us a group of a dozen men who made each other\npossible--often helped by hate and strengthened by scorn.\n\nThe Mutual Admiration Society does not live in piping times of peace,\nwhere glowing good-will strews violets; often the sessions of this\ninteresting aggregation are stormy and acrimonious, but one thing\nholds--the man who arises at this board must have something to say.\nStrong men, matched by destiny, set each other a pace. Criticism is full\nand free. The most interesting and the most successful social experiment\nin America owed its lease of life largely to its scheme of Public\nCriticism, a plan society at large will adopt when it puts off\nswaddling-clothes. Public Criticism is a diversion of gossip into a\nscientific channel. It is a plan of healthful, hygienic, social\nplumbing.\n\nEngland produced one group of thinkers that changed the complexion of\nthe theological belief of Christendom--Darwin, Spencer, Wallace, Huxley\nand Mill. But this group built on the French philosophers, who were\ntaught antithetically by the decaying and crumbling aristocracy of\nFrance. Rousseau and Voltaire loved each other and helped each other, as\nthe proud Leonardo helped the humble and no less proud peasant,\nMichelangelo--by absent treatment.\n\nVictor Hugo says that when the skulls of Voltaire and Rousseau were\ntaken in a sack from the Pantheon and tumbled into a common grave, a\nspark of recognition was emitted that the gravedigger did not see.\n\nVoltaire was patronized by Frederick the Great, who, though a married\nman, lived a bachelor life and forbade women his court, and protected\nKant with the bulging forehead and independent ways. Kant lived among a\ngroup of thinkers he never saw, but reached out and touched finger-tips\nwith them over the miles that his feet never traversed.\n\nTo Kant are we indebted for Turgot, that practical and farseeing man of\naffairs told of in matchless phrase in Thomas Watson's \"Story of\nFrance,\" the best book ever written in America, with possibly a few\nexceptions. Condorcet kept step with him, and Auguste Comte calls\nCondorcet his spiritual stepfather, and a wit of the time here said,\n\"Then Turgot is your uncle\"; and Comte replied, \"I am proud of the\nhonor, for if Turgot is my uncle, then indeed am I of royal blood.\"\n\nAuguste Comte is the one bright particular star amid that milky way of\nriotous thinkers which followed close upon the destruction of the French\nMonarchy.\n\nWhen Napoleon visited the grave of Rousseau, he mused in silence and\nthen said, \"Perhaps it might have been as well if this man had never\nlived.\"\n\nAnd Marshal Ney, standing near, said, \"It reveals small gratitude for\nNapoleon Bonaparte to say so.\" Napoleon smiled and answered, \"Possibly\nthe world would be as well off if neither of us had ever lived.\"\n\nAuguste Comte thought that Napoleon was just as necessary in the social\nevolution as Rousseau, and that both were needed--and he himself was\nneeded to make the matter plain in print.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nAuguste Comte was born at Montpelier, France, in Seventeen Hundred\nNinety-eight. His father was receiver of taxes, an office that carried\nwith it much leisure and a fair income. Men of leisure seldom have time\nto think--if you want a thing done it is safest and best not to pick a\npublican. Only busy men have time to do things. The men who have good\nincomes and work little are envied only by those with a mental\nimpediment.\n\nThe boy Auguste owed little to his parents for his peculiar evolution,\nsave as his father taught him by antithesis: the children of drunkards\nmake temperance fanatics, and shiftless fathers sometimes have sons who\nare great financiers.\n\nWhen nine years of age, the passion to know and to become was upon\nAuguste Comte. He was small in stature, insignificant in appearance, and\nhad a great appetite for facts. Comte is a fine refutation of the maxim\nthat infant prodigies fall victims to arrested development.\n\nAt twelve years of age he was filled with the idea that the social order\nwas all wrong. To the utter astonishment of his parents and tutors, he\nargued that the world could not be bettered until mankind was taught the\nlesson that history, languages, theology and polite etiquette were not\nlearning at all; and as long as educated men centered on these things,\nthere was no hope for the race.\n\nThe birch was brought in to disannex the boy from his foolishness, but\nthis only seemed to make him cling the closer to what he was pleased to\ncall his convictions.\n\nHe read books that wearied the brains of grown-ups, and took a hearty\ninterest in the abstruse, the obscure and the complex.\n\nAt thirteen, that peculiar time when the young turn to faith, this\nperverse rareripe was so filled with doubt that it ran over and he stood\nin the slop. He offered to publicly debate the question of Freewill with\nthe local cure; and on several occasions stood up in meeting and\ncontradicted the preacher.\n\nHis parents, thinking to divert his mind from abstractions to useful\neffort, sent him to the Polytechnic School at Paris, that excellent\ninstitution founded by Napoleon, which served America most nobly as a\nmodel for the Boston School of Technology, only the French\n\"Polytechnique\" was purely a government institution--a sample of the\nTwentieth Century sent for the benefit of the Nineteenth.\n\nBut institutions are never much beyond the people--they can not be, for\nthe people dilute everything until it is palatable. Laws that do not\nembody public opinion can never be enforced. No man who expresses\nhimself is really much ahead of his time--if he is, the times snuff him\nout, and quickly.\n\nIn Eighteen Hundred Fourteen, the Polytechnic School was well saturated\nwith the priestly idea of education, and the attempt was made to\nproduce an alumni of cultured men, rather than a race of useful ones.\n\nRevolt was rife in the ranks of the students. It is still debatable\nwhether revolution and riot in colleges are actuated by a passion for\ntruth or a love of excitement. Anyway, the \"Techs\" laid deep places to\nthe effect that when a certain professor appeared at chapel, a unique\nreception would be in store for him.\n\nHe appeared, and a fusillade of books, rulers and ink-wells shot at his\nlearned head from every quarter of the room. Other professors appeared\nand sought to restore order. Riot followed--seats were torn up, windows\nbroken, and there was much loud talk and gesticulation peculiarly\nGallic.\n\nIt was Ninety-three done in little.\n\nInstead of expelling the delinquents, the National Assembly took the\nmatter in hand and simply voted to close the school.\n\nAuguste Comte went home a hero, proud as a Heidelberg student, with a\nsweeping scar on his chin and the end of his nose gone. \"I have dealt\nthe Old Education its deathblow,\" he solemnly said, mistaking a\ncane-rush for a revolution.\n\nAgainst the direct command of his parents, he went back to Paris. He had\nnow reached the mature age of eighteen. He resolved to write out truth\nas it occurred to him, and incidentally he would gain a livelihood by\nteaching mathematics.\n\nAt Paris, the mental audacity of the youth won him recognition; he\npicked up a precarious living, and was a frequenter at scientific\nlectures and discussions, and in gatherings where great themes were up\nfor debate, he was always present.\n\nBenjamin Franklin was his ideal. In his notebook he wrote this:\n\"Franklin at twenty-five resolved he would become great and wise. I now\nvow the same at twenty.\" He had five years the start!\n\nFranklin, calm, healthy, judicial, wise--the greatest man America has\nproduced--worked his philosophy up into life. He did not think much\nbeyond his ability to perform. To him, to think was to do. And he did\nthings that to many men were miracles.\n\nComte once said, \"I would have followed the venerable Benjamin Franklin\nthrough the street, and kissed the hem of the homespun overcoat, made by\nDeborah.\" These men were very unlike. One was big, gentle, calm and\nkind; the other was small, dyspeptic, excitable and full of challenge.\nYet the little man had times of insight and abstraction, when he tracked\nreasons further than the big, practical man could have followed them.\n\nFranklin's habit of life--the semi-ascetic quality of getting your\ngratification by doing without things--especially pleased Comte. He\nlived in a garret on two meals a day, and was happy in the thought that\nhe could endure and yet think and study. The old monastic impulse was\nupon him, minus the religious features--or stay! why may not science\nbecome a religion? And surely science can become dogmatic, and even\ntyrannically build a hierarchy on a hypothesis no less than theology.\n\nA friend, pitying young Comte's hard lot, not knowing its sweet\nrecompense, got him a position as tutor in the household of a nobleman;\nlike unto the kind man who caught the sea-gulls roosting on an iceberg,\nand in pity, transferred them to the warm delights of a compost-pile in\nhis barnyard.\n\nComte held the place for three weeks and then resigned. He went back to\nthe garret and sweet liberty--having had his taste of luxury, but\nmiserable in it all--wondering how a gavotte or a minuet could make a\nman forget that he was living in a city where thirty thousand human\nbeings were constantly only one meal beyond the sniff of starvation.\n\nAt this time Comte came into close relationship with a man who was to\nhave a very great influence in his life--this was Count Henri of\nSaint-Simon, usually spoken of as Saint-Simon.\n\nSaint-Simon was rich, gently proud, and fondly patronizing. He was a\nsort of scientific Maecenas--and be it known that Maecenas was a poet and\nphilosopher of worth, and one Horace was his pupil.\n\nSaint-Simon was an excellent and learned man who wrote, lectured and\ntaught on philosophic themes. He had a garden-school, modeled in degree\nafter that of Plato. Saint-Simon became much interested in young Comte,\ninvited him to his classes, supplied him books, clothing, and tickets to\nthe opera. Part of the time Comte lived under Saint-Simon's roof, and\ndid translating and copying in partial payment for his meal-ticket. The\nteacher and the pupil had a fine affection for each other. What Comte\nneeded, he took from Saint-Simon as if it were his own.\n\nIn writing to friends at this time, Comte praises Saint-Simon as the\ngreatest man who ever lived--\"a model of patience, generosity, learning\nand love--my spiritual father!\" There was fifty years' difference in\ntheir ages, but they studied, read and rambled the realm of books\ntogether, with mutual pleasure and profit.\n\nThe central idea of the \"Positive Philosophy\" is that of the three\nstages through which man passes in his evolution. This was gotten from\nSaint-Simon, and together they worked out much of the thought that Comte\nafterward carried further and incorporated in his book.\n\nBut about this time, Saint-Simon, in one of his lectures, afterward\nprinted, made use of some of the thoughts that Comte had expressed, as\nif they were his own--and possibly they were. There is no copyright on\nan idea, no caveat can be filed on feeling, and at the last there is no\nsuch thing as originality, except as a matter of form.\n\nYoung Comte now proved his humanity by accusing his teacher of stealing\nhis radium. A quarrel followed, in which Comte was so violent that\nSaint-Simon had to put the youth out of his house.\n\nThe wrangles of Grub Street would fill volumes: both sides are always\nright, or wrong--it matters little, and is simply a point of view. But\nthe rancor of it all, if seen from heaven, must serve finely to dispel\nthe monotony of the place--a panacea for paradisiacal ennui.\n\nFrom lavish praise, Comte swung over to words of bitterness and\naccusation. Having sat at the man's table and partaken of his\nhospitality for several years, he was now guilty of the unpardonable\noffense of ridiculing and berating him.\n\nHe speaks of the Saint as a \"depraved quack,\" and says that the time he\nspent with him was worse than wasted. If Saint-Simon was the rogue and\npretender that Comte avers, it is no certificate of Comte's insight that\nit took him four years to find it out.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIn Eighteen Hundred Twenty-five Comte married. The ceremony was\nperformed civilly, on a sudden impulse of what Schopenhauer would call\n\"the genius of the genus.\" The lady was young, agreeable; and having no\nopinions of her own, was quite willing to accept his. Comte\ncongratulated himself that here was virgin soil, and he laid the\nflattering unction to his soul that he could mold the lady's mind to\nmatch his own. She would be his helpmeet. Comte had not read Ouida, who\nonce wrote that when God said, \"I will make a helpmeet for him,\" He was\nspeaking ironically.\n\nComte had associated but very little with women--he had theories about\nthem. Small men, with midget minds, know femininity much better than do\nthe great ones. Traveling salesmen, with checkered vests, gauge women as\nHerbert Spencer never could.\n\nComte's wife was pretty and she was astute--as most pretty women are.\nJohn Fiske, in his lecture on \"Communal Life,\" says that astute persons\nadd nothing of value to the community in which they live--their mission\nbeing to be the admired glass of fashion for the non-cogitabund. The\nvalue of astuteness is that it protects us from the astute.\n\nSamuel Johnson and his wife had their first quarrel on the way from the\nchurch, and Auguste Comte and his wife tiffed going down the steps from\nthe notary's. Comte had no use for ecclesiastical forms, and the lady\nagreed with him until after the notary had earned his fee. Then she\nsuddenly had qualms, like those peculiar ladies told of by Robert Louis\nStevenson, who turn the Madonna's face to the wall.\n\nThe couple went to Montpelier on their wedding-tour, to visit Comte's\nparents. The new wife agreed with the old folks on but one point--the\nmarriage should be solemnized by a priest. Having won them on this\npoint, they stood a solid phalanx against the husband; but the lady took\nexceptions to Montpelier on all other grounds--she hated it thoroughly\nand said so.\n\nInstead of molding her to his liking, Comte was being kneaded into\nanimal crackers for her amusement.\n\nThen we find him writing to a friend, confessing that his hopes were\nashes; but in his misery he grows philosophical and says, \"It is all\ngood, for now I am driven back to my work, and from now on my life is\ndedicated to science.\"\n\nNo doubt the lady was as much disappointed in the venture as was the\nhusband, but he, being literary, eased his grief by working it up into\nart, while her side of the story lies buried deep in silence glum.\n\nIn choosing the names of philosophers for this series, no thought was\ngiven in the selection beyond the achievements of the men. But it now\ncomes to me with a slight surprise that seven out of the twelve were\nunmarried, and probably it would have been as well--certainly for the\nwives--if the other five had remained bachelors, too. Xantippe would\nhave been the gainer, even if Socrates did miss his discipline.\n\nTo center on science and devote one's thought to philosophy produces a\nbeing more or less deformed. There is great danger in specialization:\nNature sacrifices the man in order to get the thing done. Abstract\nthought unfits one for domestic life; for, to a degree, it separates a\nman from his kind.\n\nThe proper advice to a woman about to marry a philosopher would be,\n\"Don't!\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe advantage of a little actual hardship in one's life is that it makes\nexistence real and not merely literary. Comte was inclined to thrive on\nmartyrdom. His restless, eager mind invented troubles, if there were no\nreal ones, but he was wise enough to know this, as he once said: \"The\ntrials of life are all of one size--imaginary pains are as bad as real\nones, and men who have no actual troubles usually conjure forth a few.\nThus far, happily, I am not reduced to this strait.\"\n\nWe thus see that the true essence of philosophy was there. Comte got a\ngratification by dissecting, analyzing and classifying his emotions. All\nwas grist that came to his mill.\n\nWhen he was twenty-eight the Positive Philosophy had assumed such\nproportions in his mind that he announced a course of twelve lectures on\nthe subject.\n\nHe was jealous of his discoveries, and was intent on getting all the\ncredit that was due him. Money he cared little for; power and reputation\nto him were the only gods worth appeasing. The thought of domestic joy\nwas forever behind, but philosophy came as a solace. A prospectus was\nsent out and tickets were issued. The landlady where he boarded offered\nher parlor and her boarder, second floor back, for the benefit of\nscience. Several zealous denizens of the Latin Quarter made a canvass,\nand enough tickets were sold so that the philosopher felt that at last\nthe world was really at his feet.\n\nWhen the afternoon for the first lecture arrived, no carriages blocked\nthe street, and as only about half of those who had purchased tickets\nappeared, the difficulties of the landlady and her nervous boarder were\nmuch lessened.\n\nThere was one man at this first lecture who was profoundly impressed,\nand if we had his testimony, and none other, we might well restrain our\nsmiles. That man was Alexander von Humboldt. In various passages\nHumboldt does Comte the honor of quoting from him, and in one instance\nsays, \"He has summed up certain phases of truth better than they have\never been expressed before.\"\n\nLittle did the landlady guess that her crusty, crabbed boarder was\nfiring a shot that would be heard 'round the world, and surely the\ngendarme on that particular beat never heard it--so small and\ncommonplace are the beginnings of great things!\n\nComte was so saturated with this theme--so immersed in it--that it\nconsumed him like a fever. Three lectures were given, but at the third,\nwithout warning, the man's nerves snapped--he stopped, sat down, and the\naudience filed out perplexed, thinking they had merely seen an\nexhibition of one of the eccentricities of genius. The philosopher's\nmind was a blank, and kind friends sent him away to a hospital.\n\nIt was two years before he regained his reason. The enforced rest did\nhim good. Nervous Prostration is heroic treatment on the part of Nature.\nIt is an intent to do for the man what he will never do for himself.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nUnkind critics, hotly intent on refuting the Positive Philosophy, seized\nupon the fact of Comte's mental trouble and made much of it. \"Look you!\"\nsaid they, \"the man is insane!\"\n\nThis is convenient, but not judicial. Comte's philosophy stands or falls\non its own merits, and what the author did before, after, or during the\nwriting of his theses matters not. Madmen are not mad all the time, and\nthe fact that Sir Isaac Newton was for a time unbalanced does not lessen\nour regard for the \"Principia,\" nor consign to limbo the law of\ngravitation. Ruskin's work is not the less thought of because the man\nhad his pathetic spells of indecision. Martin Luther had visions of\ndevils before he saw the truth, and Emerson's love for Longfellow need\nnot be disparaged because he looked down on his still, white face and\nsaid, \"A dear gentle soul, but I really can not remember his name.\"\n\nMen write on physiology, and then die, but this does not disprove the\ntruth they expressed, but failed, possibly, to fully live. The great man\nalways thinks further than he can travel--even the rest of us can do\nthat. We can think \"Chicago\" in a second, but to go there takes time,\nstrength and money.\n\nWhen Comte's mental trouble was at its height, and two men were required\nto care for him, Lamennais persuaded his wife to have their marriage\nsolemnized by the Church, and this was done. This performance was such\na violation of sanctity and decency that in after-years Comte could not\nbelieve it was true, until he consulted the church records. \"They might\nas well have had me confirmed,\" said Comte, grimly. And we can well\nguess that the action did not increase his regard for either his wife or\nthe Church. The trick seems quite on a par with that of the astute\ncolored gentleman who anxiously asks for love-powders at the corner\ndrugstore; or the good wives who purchase harmless potions from red-dyed\nrogues to place in the husband's coffee to cure him of the liquor habit.\n\nHowever, the incident gives a clew to the mental processes of Madame\nComte--she would accomplish by trickery what she had failed to do by\nmoral suasion, and this in the name of religion!\n\nTwo years of enforced rest, and the glowing mind of the philosopher\nawoke with a start. He rubbed his eyes after his Rip-Van-Winkle sleep,\nand called for his manuscripts--he must prepare for the fourth lecture!\n\nThe rest of the course was given, and in Eighteen Hundred Thirty the\nfirst volume of Positive Philosophy was issued.\n\nThe sixth and last volume appeared in Eighteen Hundred Forty-two--twelve\nyears of intense application and ceaseless work. This was the happiest\ntime of Comte's life; he had the whole scheme in his head from the\nstart, but he now saw it gradually taking form, and it was meeting with\nappreciation from a few earnest thinkers, at least. His services were\nin demand for occasional lectures on scientific subjects. In astronomy,\nespecially, he excelled, and on this theme he was able to please a\npopular assembly.\n\nThe Polytechnic School had now grown to large proportions, and the\ninstitution that Comte had helped to slide into dissolution now called\nhim back to serve as examiner and professor.\n\nThe constant misunderstandings with his wife had increased to such a\npoint that both felt a separation desirable. Married people do not\nseparate on slight excuse--they go because they must. That Comte thought\nmuch more of the lady when they were several hundred miles apart than\nwhen they were together, there is no doubt. He wrote to her at regular\nintervals, one-half of his income was religiously sent to her, and he\npractised the most painstaking economy in order that he might feel that\nshe was provided for.\n\nOne letter, especially, to his wife reveals a side of Comte's nature\nthat shows he had the instinct of a true teacher. He says, \"I hardly\ndare disclose the sweet and softened feeling that comes over me when I\nfind a scholar whose heart is thoroughly in his work.\"\n\nThe Positive Philosophy was taken up by John Stuart Mill, who wrote a\nfine essay on it. It was Mill who introduced the work to Harriet\nMartineau. Mr. and Mrs. Mill had intended to translate and condense the\nphilosophy of Comte for English readers, but when Miss Martineau\nexpressed her intention of attempting the task, they relinquished the\nidea, but backed her up in her efforts.\n\nMiss Martineau condensed the six volumes into two, and what is most\nstrange, Comte thought so well of the work that he wrote a glowing\nacknowledgment of it.\n\nThe Martineaus were of good old Huguenot stock, and the French language\ncame easy to Harriet. For the plain people of France she had a profound\nregard, and being sort of a revolutionary by prenatal instincts, Comte's\nwork from the start appealed to her. James Martineau had such a\nbristling personality--being very much like his sister Harriet--that\nwhen this sister wrote a review of a volume of his sermons, showing the\nfatuity and foolishness of the reasoning, and calling attention to much\nbad grammar, the good man cut her off with a shilling--\"which he will\nhave to borrow,\" said Harriet.\n\nJames hugged the idea to his death that his sister had insulted his\ngenius--\"But I forgive her,\" he said, which remark proves that he\nhadn't, for if he had, he would not have thought to mention the matter.\nJames Martineau was a great man, but if he had been just a little\ngreater he would have taken a profound pride in a sister who was so\nsharp a shooter that she could puncture his balloon. James Martineau was\na theologian; Harriet was a Positivist. But Positivity had a lure for\nhim, and so there is a long review, penned largely with aqua fortis, on\nMiss Martineau's translation, done by her brother for the \"Edinburgh\nReview,\" wherein Harriet is not once mentioned.\n\nWhen Robert Ingersoll's wife would occasionally, under great stress of\nthe servant-girl problem, break over a bit, as good women will, and say\nthings, Robert would remark, \"Gently, my dear, gently--I fear me you\nhaven't yet gotten rid of all your Christian virtues.\"\n\nThe Reverend Doctor James Martineau never quite got rid of his Christian\nvirtues, which perhaps proves that a little hate, like strychnin, is\nuseful as a stimulant when properly reduced, for Doctor Martineau died\nonly a few years ago, having nearly rounded out a century run.\n\nHarriet Martineau was in much doubt about how Comte would regard her\ncompleted work, but was greatly relieved when he gave it his unqualified\napproval. On his earnest invitation she visited him in Paris.\nFortunately, she did not have to resort to the Herbert Spencer expedient\nof wearing ear-muffs for protection against loquacious friends. She\nliked Comte first-rate, until he began to make love to her. Then his\nstock dropped below par.\n\nComte was always much impressed by intellectual women. His wife had\ngiven him a sample of the other kind, and caused him to swing out and\nidealize the woman of brains.\n\nSo that, when Harriet Martineau admired the Positive Philosophy, it was\nproof sufficient to Comte of her excellence in all things. She knew\nbetter, and started soon for Dover.\n\nMr. and Mrs. Mill had called on Comte a few months before, and given him\na glimpse of the ideal--an intellectual man mated with an intellectual\nwoman. But Comte didn't see that it was plain commonsense that made them\ngreat. Comte prided himself on his own commonsense, but the article was\nnot in his equipment, else he would not have put the blame of all his\ntroubles upon his wife. A man with commonsense, married to a woman who\nhasn't any, does not necessarily forfeit his own.\n\nMr. or Mrs. Mill would have been great anywhere--singly, separately,\ntogether, or apart. Each was a radiant center. Weakness multiplied by\ntwo does not give strength, and naught times naught equals naught.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nHaving finished the Positive Philosophy, Comte's restless mind began to\nlook around for more worlds to conquer.\n\nIn the expenditure of money he was careful, and in his accounts exact;\nbut the making of money and its accumulation were things that to him\ncould safely be delegated to second-class minds. A haughty pride of\nintellect was his, not unmixed with that peculiar quality of the prima\ndonna which causes her to cut fantastic capers and make everybody kiss\nher big toe.\n\nComte had done one thing superbly well. England had recognized his merit\nto a degree that France had not, and to his English friends he now made\nan appeal for financial help, so he could have freedom to complete\nanother great work he had in his mind. To John Stuart Mill he wrote,\noutlining in a general way his new book on a social science, to be\ncalled \"The Positive Polity.\" It was, in a degree, to be a sequel to the\nPositive Philosophy.\n\nMill communicated with Grote, the banker, known to us through his superb\nhistory of Greece, and with the help of George Henry Lewes and a mite\nfrom Herbert Spencer to show his good-will, a purse equal to about\ntwelve hundred dollars was sent to Comte.\n\nMatters went along for a year, when Comte wrote a brief letter to Mill\nsuggesting that it was about time for another remittance. Mill again\nappealed to Grote, and Grote, the man of affairs, wrote to his Paris\ncorrespondent, who ascertained that Comte, now believing he was free\nfrom the bread-and-butter bugaboo, was giving his services to the\nPolytechnic, gratis, and also giving lectures to the people wherever\nsome one would simply pay for the hall.\n\nTo advance money to a man that he might write a book showing how the\nnation should manage its finances, when the author could not look after\nhis own, reminded Grote of the individual who wrote from the Debtors'\nPrison to the Secretary of the Exchequer, giving valuable advice. All\npublishers are familiar with the penniless person who writes a book on\n\"How to Achieve Success,\" expecting to achieve success by publishing it.\n\nGrote wrote to Mill, expressing the wholesome truth that the first duty\nof every man was to make a living for himself--a fact which Mill states\nin \"On Liberty.\" Mill hadn't the temerity to pass Grote's maxim along to\nComte, and so sent a small contribution out of his own pocket. This was\nvery much like the Indian who, feeling that his dog's tail should be\namputated, cut it off a little at a time, so as not to hurt the animal.\nWe have all done this, and got the ingratitude we deserved.\n\nComte wrote back a most sarcastic letter, accusing Mill and Grote with\nhaving broken faith with him.\n\nHe now treated them very much as he had Saint-Simon; and in his lectures\nseldom failed to tell in pointed phrase what a lot of money-grubbing\nbarbarians inhabited the British Isles. To the credit of Mill be it\nsaid that he still believed in the value of the Positive Philosophy, and\ndid all he could to further Comte's reputation and help the sale of his\nbooks.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIn Eighteen Hundred Forty-five, when Comte was forty-seven years old, he\nmet Madame Clothilde de Vaux. Her husband was in prison, serving a\nlife-sentence for political offenses, and Comte was first attracted to\nher through pity. Soon this evolved into a violent attachment, and Comte\nbegan to quote her in his lectures.\n\nComte was now most busy with his \"Polity\" in collaboration with Madame\nDe Vaux. Her part of the work seems to have been to listen to Comte\nwhile he read her his amusing manuscript: and she, being a good woman\nand wise, praised the work in every part. They were together almost\ndaily, and she seemed to supply him the sympathy he had all of his life\nso much craved.\n\nIn one short year Madame De Vaux died, and Comte for a time was\ninconsolable. Then his sorrow found surcease in an attempt to do for her\nin prose what Dante had done for Beatrice in poetry. But the vehicle of\nComte's thoughts creaked. The exact language of science when applied to\na woman becomes peculiarly non-piquant and lacking in perspicacity and\nperspicuity. No woman can be summed up in an algebraic formula, and when\na mathematician does a problem to his lady's eyebrow, he forgets\nentirely that femininity forever equals _x_. Those who can write Sonnets\nfrom the Portuguese may place their loves on exhibition--no others\nshould. Sweets too sweet do cloy.\n\nFor the rest of his life, Comte made every Wednesday afternoon sacred\nfor a visit to the grave of Madame De Vaux, and three times every day,\nwith the precision of a Mussulman, he retired to his room, locked the\ndoor, and in silence apostrophized to her spirit. Comte now continued as\nindustrious as ever, but the quality of his writing lamentably declined.\nHis popular lectures to the people on scientific themes were always\ngood, and his work as a teacher was satisfactory, but when he endeavored\nto continue original research, then his hazards of mind lacked steady\nflight.\n\nThe Positive Polity degenerated into a dogmatic scheme of government\nwhere the wisest should rule. The determination of who was wisest was to\nbe left to the wise ones themselves, and Comte himself volunteered to be\nthe first Pope.\n\nThe worship of Humanity would be the only religion, and women would\nshine as the high priests. Comte thought it all out in detail, and\narranged a complete scheme of life, and actually wished to form a\npolitical party and overthrow the government, founding a gynecocracy on\nthe ruins. His ebbing mind could not grasp the thought that tyranny\nfounded on goodness is a tyranny still, and that a despotic altruism is\na despotism nevertheless. Slavery blocks evolution.\n\nSo thus rounded out the life of Auguste Comte--beginning in childhood,\nhe traversed the circle, and ended where he began.\n\nHe died in his sixtieth year. M. Littre, his most famous pupil,\ntouchingly looked after his wants to the last, ministered to his\nnecessities, advancing money on royalties that were never due. M. Littre\noccasionally apologized for the meagerness of the returns, and was\nclosely questioned and even doubted by Comte, who died unaware of the\nunflinching loyalty of a friendship that endured distrust and contumely\nwithout resentment. Such love and patience and loyalty as were shown by\nM. Littre redeem the race.\n\nThe best certificate to the worth of Auguste Comte lies in the fact\nthat, in spite of marked personal limitations and much petty\nquerulousness, he profoundly influenced such men as Littre, Humboldt,\nMill, Lewes, Grote, Spencer and Frederic Harrison.\n\nTo have helped such men as these, and cheered them on their way, was no\nsmall achievement. Comte's sole claim for immortality lies in the\nPositive Philosophy. The word \"positive,\" as used by Comte, is similar\nin intent to pose, poise--fixed, final. So, besides a positive present\ngood, Comte believed he was stating a final truth; to-wit: that which is\ngood here is good everywhere, and if there is a future life, the best\npreparation for it is to live now and here, up to your highest and best.\nComte protested against the idea of \"a preparation for a life to\ncome\"--now is the time, and the place is here.\n\nThe essence of Positive Philosophy is that man passes through three\nmental periods--the Theological or fictitious; the Metaphysical or\nabstract; the Positive or scientific.\n\nHence, there are three general philosophies or systems of conceptions\nconcerning life and destiny.\n\nThe Theological, or first system, is the necessary starting-point of the\nhuman intellect. The Positive, or third period, is the ultimate goal of\nevery progressive, thinking man; the second period is merely a state of\ntransition that bridges the gulf between the first and the third.\n\nMetaphysics holds the child by the hand until he can trust his feet--it\nis a passageway between the fictitious and the actual. Once across the\nchasm, it is no longer needed. Theology represents the child;\nMetaphysics the youth; Science the man.\n\nThe evolution of the race is mirrored in the evolution of the\nindividual. Look back on your own career--your first dawn of thought\nbegan in an inquiry, \"Who made all this--how did it all happen?\"\n\nAnd Theology comes in with a glib explanation: the fairies, dryads,\ngnomes and gods made everything, and they can do with it all as they\nplease. Later, we concentrate all of these personalities in one god,\nwith a devil in competition, and this for a time satisfies.\n\nLater, the thought of an arbitrary being dealing out rewards and\npunishments grows dim, for we see the regular workings of Cause and\nEffect. We begin to talk of Energy, the Divine Essence, and the Reign of\nLaw. We speak, as Matthew Arnold did, of \"a Power, not ourselves, that\nmakes for righteousness.\" But Emerson believed in a power that was in\nhimself that made for righteousness.\n\nMetaphysics reaches its highest stage when it affirms \"All is One,\" or\n\"All is Mind,\" just as Theology reaches its highest conception when it\nbecomes Monotheistic--having one God and curtailing the personality of\nthe devil to a mere abstraction.\n\nBut this does not long satisfy, for we begin to ask, \"What is this One?\"\nor \"What is Mind?\"\n\nThen Positivity comes in and says that the highest wisdom lies in\nknowing that we do not know anything, and never can, concerning a First\nCause. All we find is phenomena and behind phenomena, phenomena. The\nlaws of Nature do not account for the origin of the laws of Nature.\nSpencer's famous chapter on the Unknowable was derived largely from\nComte, who attempted to define the limits of human knowledge. And it is\nworth noting that the one thing which gave most offense in both Comte's\nand Spencer's works was their doctrine of the Unknowable. This, indeed,\nforms but a small part of the work of these men, and if it were all\ndemolished there would still remain their doctrine of the known. The\nbitterness of Theology toward Science arises from the fact that as we\nfind things out we dispense with the arbitrary god, and his business\nagent, the priest, who insists that no transaction is legal unless he\nratifies it.\n\nMen begin by explaining everything, and the explanations given are\nalways first for other people. Parents answer the child, not telling him\nthe actual truth, but giving him that which will satisfy--that which he\ncan mentally digest. To say, \"The fairies brought it,\" may be all right\nuntil the child begins to ask who the fairies are, and wants to be shown\none, and then we have to make the somewhat humiliating confession that\nthere are no fairies.\n\nBut now we perceive that this mild fabrication in reference to Santa\nClaus, and the fairies, is right and proper mental food for the child.\nHis mind can not grasp the truth that some things are unknowable; and he\nis not sufficiently skilled in the things of the world to become\ninterested in them--he must have a resting-place for his thought, so the\nfairy-tale comes in as an aid to the growing imagination. Only this: we\nplace no penalty on disbelief in fairies, nor do we make special offers\nof reward to all who believe that fairies actually exist. Neither do we\ntell the child that people who believe in fairies are good, and that\nthose who do not are wicked and perverse.\n\nComte admits that the theological and metaphysical stages are necessary,\nbut the sooner man can be graduated out of them the better. He brought\nvast research to bear in order to show the growth and death of\ntheological conceptions. Hate, fear, revenge and doubt are all\ntheological attributes, detrimental to man's best efforts. That moral\nideas were an afterthought, and really form no part of theology, Comte\nemphasized at great length, and shows from much data where these ideas\nwere grafted on to the original tree.\n\nAnd the sum of the argument is, that all progress of mind, body and\nmaterial things has come to man through the study of Cause and Effect.\nAnd just in degree as he has abandoned the study of Theology as futile\nand absurd, and centered on helping himself here and now, has he\nprospered.\n\nPositivism is really a religion. The object of its worship is Humanity.\nIt does not believe in a devil or any influence that works for harm, or\nin opposition to man. Man's only enemy is himself, and this is on\naccount of his ignorance of this world, and his superstitious belief in\nanother. Our troubles, like diseases, all come from ignorance and\nweakness, and through our ignorance are we weak and unable to adjust\nourselves to conditions. The more we know of this world the better we\nthink of it, and the better are we able to use it for our advancement.\n\nSo far as we can judge, the Unknown Cause that rules the world by\nunchanging laws is a movement forward toward happiness, growth, justice,\npeace and right. Therefore, the Scientist, who perceives that all is\ngood when rightly received and rightly understood, is really the priest\nor holy man--the mediator and explainer of the mysteries. As fast as we\nunderstand things they cease to be supernatural, for the supernatural is\nthe natural not yet understood. The theological priest who believes in\na god and a devil is the real modern infidel. Such a belief is\nfallacious, contrary to reason, and contrary to all the man of courage\nsees and knows.\n\nThe real man of faith is the one who discards all thought of \"how it\nfirst happened,\" and fixes his mind on the fact that he is here. The\nmore he studies the conditions that surround him, the greater his faith\nin the truth that all is well.\n\nIf men had turned their attention to Humanity, discarding Theology,\nusing as much talent, time, money and effort to wring from the skies the\nsecrets of the Unknowable, this world would now be a veritable paradise.\nIt is Theology that has barred the entrance to Eden, by diverting the\nattention of men from this world to another. Heaven is Here.\n\nAll religious denominations now dimly perceive the trend of the times,\nand are gradually omitting theology from their teachings and taking on\nethics and sociology instead. A preacher is now simply Society's walking\ndelegate. We are evolving theology out and sociology in. Theology has\never been the foe of progress and the enemy of knowledge. It has\nprofessed to know all and has placed a penalty on advancement. The Age\nof Enlightenment will not be here until every church has evolved into a\nschoolhouse, and every priest is a pupil as well as a teacher.\n\n\n\n\nVOLTAIRE\n\n\n     We are intelligent beings; and intelligent beings can not have been\n     formed by a blind, brute, insensible being. There is certainly some\n     difference between a clod and the ideas of Newton. Newton's\n     intelligence came from some greater Intelligence.\n\n                                        --_The Philosophical Dictionary_\n\n[Illustration: VOLTAIRE]\n\n\nThe man, Francois Marie Arouet, known to us as Voltaire (which name he\nadopted in his twenty-first year), was born in Paris in Sixteen Hundred\nNinety-four. He was the second son in a family of three children. During\nhis babyhood he was very frail; in childhood sickly and weak; and\nthroughout his whole life he suffered much from indigestion and\ninsomnia.\n\nIn all the realm of writers no man ever had a fuller and more active\ncareer, touching life at so many points, than Voltaire.\n\nThe first requisite in a long and useful career would seem to be, have\nyourself born weak and cultivate dyspepsia, nervousness and insomnia.\nWhether or not the good die young is still a mooted question, but\ncertainly the athletic often do. All those good men and true, who at\ngrocery, tavern and railroad-station eat hard-boiled eggs on a wager,\nand lift barrels of flour with one hand, are carried to early graves,\nand over the grass-grown mounds that cover their dust, consumptive,\ndyspeptic and neurotic relatives, for twice or thrice a score of years,\nstrew sweet myrtle, thyme and mignonette.\n\nVoltaire died of an accident--too much Four-o'Clock--cut off in his\nprime, when life for him was at its brightest and best, aged\neighty-three.\n\nThe only evidence we have that the mind of Voltaire failed at the last\ncame from the Abbe Gaultier and the Cure of Saint Sulpice. These good\nmen arrived with a written retraction, which they desired Voltaire to\nsign. Waiting in the anteroom of the sick-chamber they sent in word that\nthey wished to enter. \"Assure them of my respect,\" said the stricken\nman. But the holy men were not to be thus turned away, so they entered.\nThey approached the bedside, and the Cure of Saint Sulpice said: \"M. de\nVoltaire, your life is about to end. Do you acknowledge the divinity of\nJesus Christ?\"\n\nAnd the dying man stretched out a bony hand, making a gesture that they\nshould depart, and murmured, \"Let me die in peace.\"\n\n\"You see,\" said the Cure to the Abbe, as they withdrew, \"you see that he\nis out of his head!\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe father of Voltaire, Francois Arouet, was a notary who looked after\nvarious family estates and waxed prosperous on the crumbs that fell from\nthe rich man's table.\n\nHe was solicitor to the Duc de Richelieu, the Sullys, and also the\nDuchesse de Saint-Simon, mother of the philosopher, Saint-Simon, who\nmade the mistake of helping Auguste Comte, thus getting himself hotly\nand positively denounced by the man who formulated the \"Positive\nPhilosophy.\"\n\nArouet belonged to the middle class and never knew that he sprang from a\nnoble line until his son announced the fact. It was then too late to\ndeny it.\n\nHe was a devout Churchman, upright in all his affairs, respectable, took\nsnuff, walked with a waddle and cultivated a double chin. M. Arouet\npater did not marry until his mind was mature, so that he might avoid\nthe danger of a mismating. He was forty, past. The second son, Francois\nfils, was ten years younger than his brother Armand, so the father was\nover fifty when our hero was born. Francois fils used to speak of\nhimself as an afterthought--a sort of domestic postscript--\"but,\" added\nhe musingly, \"our afterthoughts are often best.\"\n\nOne of the most distinguished clients of M. Arouet was Ninon de Lenclos,\nwho had the felicity to be made love to by three generations of\nFrenchmen. Ninon has been likened for her vivacious ways, her flashing\nintellect, and her perennial youth, to the divine Sara, who at sixty\nplays the part of Juliet with a woman of thirty for the old nurse. Ninon\nhad turned her three-score and ten, and swung gracefully into the\nhome-stretch, when the second son was born to M. Arouet. She was of a\ndeeply religious turn of mind, for she had been loved by several\npriests, and now the Abbe de Chateauneuf was paying his devotions to\nher.\n\nNinon was much interested in the new arrival, and going to the house of\nM. Arouet, took to bed, and sent in haste for the Abbe de Chateauneuf,\nsaying she was in sore trouble. When the good man arrived, he thought it\na matter of extreme unction, and was ushered into the room of the\nalleged invalid. Here he was duly presented with the infant that later\nwas to write the \"Philosophical Dictionary.\" It was as queer a case of\nkabojolism as history records.\n\nDoubtless the Abbe was a bit agitated at first, but finally getting his\nbreath, he managed to say, \"As there is a vicarious atonement, there\nmust also be, on occasion, vicarious births, and this is one--God be\npraised.\"\n\nThe child was then baptized, the good Abbe standing as godfather.\n\nThere must be something, after all, in prenatal influences, for as the\nlittle Francois grew up he evolved the traits of Ninon de Lenclos and\nthe Abbe much more than those of his father and mother.\n\nWhen the boy was a little over six years old the mother died. Of her we\nknow absolutely nothing. In her son's writings he refers to her but\nonce, wherein he has her say that \"Boileau was a clever book, but a\nsilly man.\"\n\nThe education of the youngster seemed largely to have been left to the\nAbbe, his godfather, who very early taught him to recite the \"Mosiad,\" a\nmetrical effusion wherein the mistakes of Moses were related in churchly\nLatin, done first for the divertisement of sundry pious monks in idle\nhours.\n\nAt ten years of age Francois was sent to the College of Louis-le-Grand,\na Jesuit school where the minds of youth were molded in things sacred\nand secular.\n\nIn only one thing did the boy really excel, and that was in the matter\nof making rhymes. The Abbe Chateauneuf had taught him the trick before\nhe could speak plainly, and Ninon had been so pleased with the wee poet\nthat she left him two thousand francs in her will for the purchase of\nbooks. As Ninon insisted on living to be ninety, Voltaire discounted the\nlegacy and got it cashed on dedicating a sonnet to the divine Ninon. In\nthis sonnet Voltaire suggests that a life of virtue conduces largely to\nlongevity, as witness the incomparable Ninon de Lenclos, to which\nsentiment Ninon filed no exceptions.\n\nIn one of the school debates young Francois presented his argument in\nrhyme, and evidently ran in some choice passages from the \"Mosiad,\" for\nFather le Jay, according to Condorcet, left his official chair, and\nrushing down the aisle, grabbed the boy by the collar, and shaking him,\nsaid, \"Unhappy boy! you will one day be the standard-bearer of deism in\nFrance!\"--a prophecy, possibly, made after its fulfilment.\n\nYoung Francois remained at the college until he was seventeen years old.\nFrom letters sent by him while there, it is evident that the chief\ncharacteristic of his mind was already a contempt for the clergy. Of two\nof his colleagues who were preparing for the priesthood, he says, \"They\nhad reflected on the dangers of a world of the charms of which they were\nignorant; and on the pleasures of a religious life of which they knew\nnot the disagreeableness.\" Already we see he was getting handy in\npolishing a sentence with the emery of his wit. Continuing, he says: \"In\na quarter of an hour they ran over all the Orders, and each seemed so\nattractive that they could not decide. In which predicament they might\nhave been left like the ass, which died of starvation between two\nbundles of hay, not knowing which to choose. However, they decided to\nleave the matter to Providence, and let the dice decide. So one became a\nCarmelite and the other a Jesuit.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nArouet, at first intent on having his son become a priest, now fell back\non the law as second choice. The young man was therefore duly articled\nwith a firm of advocates and sent to hear lectures on jurisprudence. But\nhis godfather introduced him into the Society of the Temple, a group of\nwits, of all ages, who could take snuff and throw off an epigram on any\nsubject. The bright young man, flashing, dashing and daring, made\nfriends at once through his skill in writing scurrilous verse upon any\none whose name might be mentioned. This habit had been begun in college,\nwhere it was much applauded by the underlings, who delighted to see\ntheir unpopular teachers done to a turn. The scribbling habit is a\nvariant of that peculiar propensity which finds form in drawing a\nportrait on the blackboard before the teacher gets around in the\nmorning. If the teacher does not happen to love art for art's sake,\nthere may be trouble; but verses are safer, for they circulate secretly\nand are copied and quoted anonymously.\n\nThe thing we do best in life is that which we play at most in youth.\n\nRidicule was this man's weapon. For the benefit of the Society of the\nTemple he paid his respects to the sham piety and politics of\nVersailles. He had been educated by priests, and his father was a\npolitician feeding at the public trough. The young man knew the faults\nand foibles of both priest and politician, and his keen wit told truths\nabout the court that were so well expressed the wastebasket did not\ncapture them. One of these effusions was printed, anonymously, of\ncourse, but a copy coming into the hands of M. Arouet, the old gentleman\nrecognized the literary style and became alarmed. He must get the young\nman out of Paris--the Bastile yawned for poets like this!\n\nA brother of the Abbe de Chateauneuf was Ambassador at The Hague, and\nthe great man, being importuned, consented to take the youth as clerk.\n\nLife at The Hague afforded the embryo poet an opportunity to meet many\ndistinguished people.\n\nIn Francois there was none of the bourgeois--he associated only with\nnobility--and as he had an aristocracy of the intellect, which served\nhim quite as well as a peerage, he was everywhere received. In his\nmanner there was nothing apologetic--he took everything as his divine\nright.\n\nIn this brilliant little coterie at The Hague was one Madame Dunoyer, a\nwriter of court gossip and a social promoter of ability, separated from\nher husband for her husband's good. Francois crossed swords with her in\nan encounter of wit, was worsted, but got even by making love to her;\nand later he made love to her daughter, a beautiful girl of about his\nown age.\n\nThe air became surcharged with gossip. There was danger of an explosion\nany moment. Madame Dunoyer gave it out that the brilliant subaltern was\nto marry the girl. The Madame was going to capture the youth, either\nwith her own charms or those of her daughter--or combined. Rumblings\nwere heard on the horizon. The Ambassador, fearing entanglement, bundled\nyoung Arouet back to Paris, with a testimonial as to his character,\nquite unnecessary. A denial without an accusation is equal to a plea of\nguilty; and that the young man had made the mistake of making violent\nlove to the mother and daughter at the same time there is no doubt. The\nmother had accused him and he said things back; he even had shown the\natrocious bad taste of references in rhyme to the mutual interchange of\nconfidences that the mother and daughter might enjoy. The Ambassador had\nacted none too soon.\n\nThe father was frantic with alarm--the boy had disgraced him, and even\nhis own position seemed to be threatened when some wit adroitly accused\nthe parent of writing the doggerel for his son.\n\nM. Arouet denied it with an oath--while the son refused to explain, or\nto say anything beyond that he loved his father, thus carrying out the\nidea that the stupid old notary was really a wit in disguise, masking\nhis intellect by a seeming dulness. No more biting irony was ever put\nout by Voltaire than this, and the pathos of it lies in the fact that\nthe father was quite unable to appreciate the quip.\n\nIt was a sample of filial humor much more subtle than that indulged in\nby Charles Dickens, who pilloried his parents in print, one as Mr.\nMicawber and the other as Mrs. Nickleby. Dickens told the truth and\npainted it large, but Francois Arouet dealt in indiscreet fallacy when\nhe endeavored to give his father a reputation for raillery.\n\nA peculiarly offensive poem, appearing about this time, with the Regent\nand his daughter, the Duchesse de Berri, for a central theme, a rescript\nwas issued which indirectly testified to the poetic skill of young\nArouet. He was exiled to a point three hundred miles from Paris and\nforbidden to come nearer on penalty, like unto the injunction issued by\nPrince Henry against the blameless Falstaff. Rumor said that the father\nhad something to do with the matter.\n\nBut the exile was not for long. The young poet wrote a most adulatory\ncomposition to the Regent, setting forth his innocence. The Regent was a\nmild and amiable man and much desired peace with all his\nsubjects--especially those who dipped their quills in gall. He was\nmelted by the rhyme that made him out such a paragon of virtue, and made\nhaste to issue a pardon.\n\nThe elder Arouet now proved that he was not wholly without humor, for he\nwrote to a friend, \"The exile of my dear son distressed me much less\nthan does this precipitate recall.\"\n\nIn order to protect himself the father now refused a home to the son,\nand Francois became a lodger at a boarding-house. He wrote plays and\nacted in them, penned much bad poetry, went in good society and had a\nvery rouge time. Up to this period he knew little Latin and less Greek,\nbut now he had an opportunity to furbish up on both. He found himself an\ninmate of the Bastile, on the charge of expressing his congratulations\nto the people of France on the passing of Louis the Fourteenth. In\nAmerica libel only applies to live men, but the world had not then\ngotten this far along.\n\nIn the prison it was provided that Sieur Arouet fils should not be\nallowed pens and paper on account of his misuse of these good things\nwhen outside. He was given copies of Homer, however, in Greek and Latin,\nand he set himself at work, with several of the other prisoners, to\nperfect himself in these languages. We have glimpses of his dining with\nthe governor of the prison, and even organizing theatrical performances,\nand he was finally allowed writing materials on promise that he would\nnot do anything worse than translate the Bible, so altogether he was\nvery well treated.\n\nIn fact, he himself referred to this year spent in prison as \"a pious\nretreat, that I might meditate, and chasten my soul in quiet thought.\"\n\nHe was only twenty-one, and yet he had set Paris by the ears, and his\nname was known throughout France. \"I am as well known as the Regent and\nwill be remembered longer,\" he wrote--a statement and a prophecy that\nthen seemed very egotistical, but which time has fully justified.\n\nIt was in prison that he decided to change his name to Voltaire, a\nfanciful word of his own coining. His pretended reason for the change\nwas that he might begin life anew and escape the disgrace he had\nundergone of being in prison. There is reason to believe, however, that\nhe was rather proud of being \"detained,\" it was proof of his power--he\nwas dangerous outside. But his family had practically cast him off--he\nowed nothing to them--and the change of name fostered a mysterious noble\nbirth, an idea that he allowed to gain currency without contradiction.\nMoliere had changed his name from Poquolin--and was he not really\nfollowing in Moliere's footsteps, even to suffering disgrace and public\nodium?\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe play of \"Oedipe\" was presented by Voltaire at the Theater\nFrancaise, November Eighteenth, Seventeen Hundred Eighteen. This play\nwas written before the author's sojourn in prison, but there he had\nsandpapered its passages, and hand-polished the epigrams.\n\nIt was rehearsed at length with the help of the \"guests\" at the Bastile,\nand once Voltaire wrote a note of appreciation to the Prefect of Police,\nthanking him for his thoughtfulness in sending such excellent and\npure-minded people to help him in his work.\n\nThese things had been managed so they discreetly leaked out, and the\ncafes echoed with the name of Voltaire.\n\nVery soon after his release the play was presented to a crowded house.\nIt was a success from the start, for into its lines the audience was\nallowed to read many veiled allusions to Paris public characters. It ran\nfor forty-five nights, and was the furore. On one occasion when interest\nseemed to lag, Voltaire, on a sudden inspiration, dressed up as a\nbumpkin page, and attended the Pontiff, carrying his train, playing\nvarious and sundry sly pranks in pantomime, a la Francis Wilson.\n\nIn one of the boxes sat a famous beauty, the Duchesse de Villars. \"Who\nis this strange person who is intent upon spoiling the play?\" she asked.\nOn being told that he was the author of the drama, her censure turned to\napprobation and she sent for the young man. His appearance in her box\nwas duly noted. The Regent and his daughter, the Duchesse de Berri,\ncould not resist the temptation to attend the play, and see how much\nthey were satirized. Voltaire did his little train-bearing act for their\nbenefit, with a few extra grimaces, which pleased them very much, and\nseeing his opportunity, wrote a gracious letter of thanks to His\nHighness for having deigned to visit his play, winding up with thanks\nfor the years in the Bastile where, \"God wot, all of my evil\ninclinations were duly chastened and corrected.\"\n\nIt had the desired effect--each side feared the other. The Regent wanted\nthe ready writers on his side, and the playwright who was opposed by the\nparty in power could not hope for success. The Regent sent a present of\na thousand crowns to Voltaire and also fixed on him a pension of twelve\nhundred livres a year. At once every passage in the play that could be\nconstrued as bearing on royalty was revised into words of adulation, and\nall went merry as a marriage-bell. Financially the play was a success,\nand better yet was the pension and the good-will of the young King and\nhis Regent.\n\nThus at twenty-two did Voltaire have the world at his feet.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nWhen Voltaire was twenty-four, his father died. The will provided that\nthe property should be equally divided between his three children, but\nit was stipulated that the second son should not come into possession of\nhis share until he was thirty-five, and not then unless he was able to\nshow the Master in Chancery that he was capable of wisely managing his\nown affairs.\n\nThis doubt of the father concerning the son's financial ability has\noften been commented upon ironically, in view of the pronounced thrift\nshown by Voltaire in later life.\n\nBut who shall say whether the father by that provision in his will did\nnot drive home a stern lesson in economy? Commodore Vanderbilt had so\nmuch distrust of his son William's capacity for business that he exiled\nhim to a Long Island farm, on an allowance. Years after, when William\nhad shown his ability to outstrip his father, he rebuked a critic who\nvolunteered a suggestion to the effect that the father had erred in the\nboy problem. Said William, \"My father was right in this, as in most\nother things--I was a fool, and he knew it.\"\n\nVoltaire's vacation of a year in the Bastile had done him much good.\nThen the will of his father, with its cautious provisions, tended to\nsober the youth to a point where he was docile enough for society's\nneeds.\n\nA good deal of ballast in way of trouble was necessary to hold this man\ndown.\n\nMarriage might have tamed him. Bachelors are of two kinds--those who are\ninnocent of women, and those who know women too well. The second class,\nI am told, outnumbers the first as ten to one.\n\nVoltaire had been a favorite of various women--usually married ladies,\nand those older than himself. He had plagiarized Franklin, saying, fifty\nyears before the American put out his famous advice, \"If you must fall\nin love, why, fall in love with a woman much older than yourself, or at\nleast a homely one--for only such are grateful.\"\n\nIn answer to a man who said divorce and marriage were instituted at the\nsame time, Voltaire said: \"This is a mistake: there is at least three\ndays' difference. Men sometimes quarrel with their wives at the end of\nthree days, beat them in a week and divorce them at the end of a month.\"\n\nVoltaire was small and slight in stature, but his bubbling wit and\ngraceful presence more than made amends for any deficiency in way of\nform and feature. Had he desired, he might have taken his pick among the\nyoung women of nobility, but we see the caution of his nature in\nlimiting his love-affairs to plain women, securely married. \"Gossip\nisn't busy with the plain women--that is why I like you,\" he once said\nto Madame de Bernieres. What the Madame's reply was, we do not know, but\nprobably she was not displeased. If a woman knows she is loved, it\nmatters little what you say to her. Compliments by the right oblique\nare construed into lavish praise when expressed in the right tone of\nvoice by the right person.\n\nThe Regent had allowed Voltaire another pension of two thousand francs,\nat the same time intimating that he hoped the writer's income was\nsufficient so he could now tell the truth. Voltaire took the hint, so\nsubtly veiled, to the effect that if he again affronted royalty by\nunkind criticisms, his entire pension would be canceled.\n\nFrom this time on to the end of his life, he was full of lavish praise\nfor royalty. He was needlessly loyal, and dedicated poems and pamphlets\nto nobility, right and left, in a way that would have caused a smile\nwere not nobility so hopelessly bound in three-quarters pachyderm. He\nalso wrote religious poems, protesting his love for the Church. And here\nseems a good place to say that Voltaire was a member of the Catholic\nChurch to his death. Many of his worst attacks on the priesthood were\nput in way of defense for outrageous actions which he enumerated in\ndetail. He kept people guessing as to what he meant and what he would do\nnext.\n\nImmediately after the death of President McKinley there was a fine\nscramble among the editors of certain saffron sheets--to get in line and\nshake their ulsters free from all taint of anarchy. Some writers, in\norder to divert suspicion from themselves, hotly denounced other men as\nanarchists.\n\nThroughout his life Voltaire had spasms of repentance, prompted by\ncaution, possibly, when he warmly denounced atheists, and swore, i'\nfaith, that one object of his life was to purify the Church and cleanse\nit of its secret faults.\n\nIn his twenty-sixth year, when he was trying hard to be good, he got\ninto a personal altercation with the Chevalier de Rohan, an\ninsignificant man bearing a proud name. The Chevalier's wit was no match\nfor the other's rapier-like tongue, but he had a way of his own in which\nto get even. He had his servants waylay the luckless poet and chastise\nhim soundly with rattans.\n\nVoltaire was furious; he tried to get the courts to take it up, but the\nprevailing idea was that he had gotten what he deserved, and the fact\nthat the whole affair occurred after dark and the Chevalier did not do\nthe beating in person, made conviction impossible.\n\nBut Voltaire now quit the anapest and dactyl and devoted his best hours\nto taking fencing lessons. His firm intent was to baptize the soil with\nRohan's blood. Voltaire was of enough importance so the secret police\nknew of all his doings. Suddenly he found himself taking a post-graduate\ncourse in the Bastile. I am not sure that the fiery little man was\nentirely displeased with the procedure. It proved to the world that he\nwas a dangerous character, and it also gave him a respite from the\ntyranny of the fencing-master, and allowed him to turn to his first,\nlast and only love--literature. In Voltaire's cosmos was a good deal of\nthe Bob Acres quality.\n\nThere were plenty of reasons for locking him up--heresy and treason have\never been first cousins--and pamphlets lampooning Churchmen high in\noffice were laid at his door. No doubt some of the anonymous literature\nwas not his--\"I would have done the thing better or not at all,\" he once\nsaid in reference to a scurrilous brochure. The real fact was, that that\nparticular pamphlet was done by a disciple, and if Voltaire's writings\nwere vile, then was his offense doubled in that he vitalized a ravenous\nbrood of scribblers. They played Caliban to his Setebos.\n\nVoltaire's most offensive contributions were always attributed by him to\nthis bishop or that, and to various dignitaries who had no existence\nsave in the figment of his own fertile pigment.\n\nHe once carried on a controversy between the Bishop of Berlin and the\nArchbishop of Paris, each man thundering against the other with a\nmonthly pamphlet wherein each one gored the other without mercy, and\nrevealed the senselessness of the other's religion. They flung the\nliterary stinkpot with great accuracy. \"The other man's superstition is\nalways ridiculous to us--our own is sacred,\" said Voltaire, and so he\nallowed his controversialists to fight it out for his own quiet joy, and\nthe edification of the onlookers.\n\nThen his plan of printing an alleged sermon, giving some unknown prelate\ndue credit on the title-page, starting in with a pious text and a page\nof trite nothings and gradually drifting off into ridicule of the things\nhe had started in to defend--all this gives a comic tinge to his wail\nthat \"some evil-minded person is attributing things to me I never\nwrote,\" If an occasional sly Churchman got after him with his own\nweapon, writing things in his style more hazardous than he dare express,\nsurely he should not have complained.\n\nBut this was a fact--the enemy could not follow him long with a literary\nfusillade--they hadn't the mental ammunition.\n\nWell has Voltaire been called \"the father of all those who wear\nshovel-hats.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nA few months in the Bastile, and Voltaire's indeterminate sentence was\ncommuted to exile. He was allowed to leave his country for his country's\ngood. Early in the year Seventeen Hundred Twenty-six he landed in\nEngland, evidently knowing nobody there except one merchant, a man of no\nspecial prominence.\n\nVoltaire belonged to the nobility by divine right--as much as did\nDisraeli. Both had an inward contempt for titles, but they knew the\nhearts of the owners so well that they simply played a game of chess,\nand the \"men\" they moved were live knights, bishops, kings and queens,\nwith rollers under the castles. The pawns they pushed here and there\nwere the literary puppets of the time.\n\nThe first thing Voltaire had to master in England was the language, and\nthis he did passably inside of three months. He took Grub Street by\nstorm; dawdled at Dodsley's; met Dean Swift, and these worthies\nrespected each other's wit so much that they simply took snuff, grimaced\nand let it go at that; Pope came in for a visit, and the French poet\ncrossed Twickenham ferry and offered a handmade sonnet in admiration of\nthe \"Essay on Man,\" which he had probably never read. Gay gave Voltaire\n\"The Beggar's Opera,\" in private, and together they called on Congreve,\nwho interrupted the Frenchman's flow of flattery long enough to say that\nhe wished to be looked on as a gentleman, not a poet. And Voltaire\nreplied that there were many gentlemen but few poets, and if Congreve\nhad had the misfortune to be simply a gentleman he would not have\ntroubled to call on him at all. Congreve, who really regarded himself as\nthe peer of Shakespeare, was won, and sent Voltaire on his way with\nletters to Horace Walpole of Strawberry Hill. Thomson, who lived at\nHammersmith, and wrote his \"Seasons\" in a \"public\" next door to\nKelmscott, corrected and revised some of Voltaire's attempts at English\npoetry. Young evolved some of his \"Night Thoughts\" while on a visit with\nVoltaire at Bubb Dodington's.\n\nA call on the Duchess of Marlborough led to a dinner at Lord\nChesterfield's. Next he met Queen Caroline and assured her that she\nspoke French like a Parisian. King George the Second quite liked\nVoltaire, because Voltaire quite liked Lady Sandon, his mistress. Only a\nFrenchman could have successfully paid court to the King, Queen and Lady\nSandon at the same time, as Voltaire did. His great epic poem,\n\"Henriade,\" that he had been sandpapering for ten years, was now\npublished, dedicated to the Queen. The King headed the subscription-list\nwith more copies than he needed, at five guineas each, on agreement.\nVoltaire afterward said that he would not be expected to read the poem.\nThe Queen's good offices were utilized--she became for the time a royal\nbook-agent, and her signature and the author's adorned all deluxe\ncopies. A suggestion from the Queen was equal to an order, and the\nedition was soon worked off.\n\nVoltaire now spent three years in England. He had written his \"Life of\nCharles the Twelfth,\" several plays, an \"English Note-Book,\" and best of\nall, had gotten together a thousand pounds good money as proceeds of\n\"Henriade,\" a stiff and stilted piece of pedantic bombast, written with\nsweat and lamp-smoke.\n\nThe \"Letters on the English\" were published a few years later in Paris\nwith good results, considering it was only a by-product. It is a deal\nbetter-natured than Dickens' \"American Note-Book,\" and had more humor\nthan Emerson's \"English Traits.\" Among other things quite Voltairesque\nin the \"Letters\" is this: \"The Anglican Church has retained many of the\ngood old Catholic customs--not the least of which is the collection of\ntithes with great regularity.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe priestly habit of Voltaire's life manifested itself even to the\nsharp collecting from the world all that the world owed him.\n\nThe snug little sum he had secured in England would have shown his\nability, but there was something better in store, awaiting his return to\nFrance. It seems the Controller of Finance had organized a lottery to\nhelp pay the interest on the public debt. A considerable sum of money\nhad been realized, but there was still a large number of tickets unsold,\nand the drawing was soon to take place. Voltaire knew the officials who\nhad the matter in charge and they knew him. He organized a syndicate\nthat would take all tickets there were left, on guarantee that among the\ntickets purchased would be the one that called for the principal prize\nof forty thousand pounds. Just how it was known in advance what ticket\nwould win must be left to those good people who understand these little\nthings in detail. In any event, Voltaire put in every sou he had--and\nhis little fortune was then a matter of about ten thousand dollars.\nSeveral of his friends contributed a like sum.\n\nThe drawing took place, and the prize of forty thousand pounds was\ntheirs. It is said that Voltaire took twenty-five thousand pounds as his\nshare--the whole scheme was his anyway--and his friends were quite\nsatisfied with having doubled their money in a fortnight.\n\nImmediately on securing this money, Voltaire presented himself at the\noffice of the President of Accounts, and asked for the legacy left him\nby his father. As proof of his financial ability, and as a guarantee of\ngood faith, he opened a hand-satchel and piled on the President's table\na small mountain of gold and bank-notes. The first question of the\nastonished official was, \"Will M. de Voltaire have the supreme goodness\nto explain where he stole all this money?\"\n\nThis was soon followed by an apology, as the visitor explained the\nreason of his visit.\n\nThe father's legacy amounted to nearly four thousand pounds, and this\nwas at once paid over to Voltaire with a flattering letter expressing\nperfect faith in his ability to manage his own finances.\n\nThere is a popular opinion that Voltaire made considerable money by his\npen, but the fact is, that at no period of his life did literature\ncontribute in but a very scanty way to his prosperity.\n\nAfter the lottery scheme, Voltaire embarked in grain speculations,\nimporting wheat from Barbary for French consumption. In this he made a\nfair profit, but when war broke out between Italy and France, he entered\ninto an arrangement with Duverney, who had the army commissariat in his\nhands, to provision the troops. It was not much of a war, but it lasted\nlong enough, as most wars do, for a few contractors to make much moneys.\nThe war spirit is usually fanned by financiers, Kuhn, Loeb and Company\ngiving the ultimatum.\n\nVoltaire cleared about twenty thousand pounds out of his provision\ncontract.\n\nThus we find this thrifty poet at forty with a fortune equal to a\nhalf-million dollars. This money he loaned out in a way of his own--a\nway as original as his literary style. His knowledge of the upper\ncircles again served him well. Among the proud scions of nobility there\nwere always a few who, through gambling proclivities, and other royal\nqualities, were much in need of funds. Voltaire picked the men who had\nonly a life interest in their estates, and made them loans, secured by\nthe rentals. The loans were to be paid back in annuities as long as both\nmen lived.\n\nAll insurance is a species of gambling--the company offers to make you a\nbet that your house will burn within a year.\n\nIn life-insurance, the company's expert looks you over, and if your\nwaist measurement is not too great for your height, a bargain is entered\ninto wherein you agree to pay so much now, and so much every year as\nlong as you live, in consideration that the company will pay your heirs\nso much at your death.\n\nThe chief value of life-insurance lies in the fact that it insures a man\nagainst his own indiscretion, a thing supposedly under his own\ncontrol--but which never is. Voltaire's scheme banked on the man's\nweakness, and laid his indiscretion open before the world. It was\nlife-insurance turned wrong side out, and could only have been devised\nand carried out by a man of courage with an actuary's bias for\nmathematics.\n\nInstead of agreeing to pay the man so much at death, Voltaire paid him\nthe whole sum in advance, and the man agreed to pay, say, ten per cent\ninterest until either the lender or the borrower died. No principal was\nto be paid, and on the death of either party, the whole debt was\ncanceled.\n\nVoltaire picked only men younger than himself. It was a tempting offer\nto the borrower, for Voltaire looked like a consumptive, and it is said\nthat on occasion he evolved a wheezy cough that helped close the deal.\nThe whole scheme, for Voltaire, was immensely successful. On some of the\nrisks he collected his yearly ten per cent for over forty years, or\nuntil his death.\n\nOn Voltaire's loan of sixteen hundred pounds to the Marquis du Chatelet,\nhowever, it is known that he collected nothing either in way of\nprincipal or interest. This was as strange a piece of financiering as\nwas ever consummated; and the inside history of the matter, with its\npeculiar psychology, has never been written. The only two persons who\ncould have told that story in its completeness were Voltaire and the\nMadame du Chatelet, and neither ever did.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nMadame du Chatelet--the divine Emilie--was twenty-seven and Voltaire was\nthirty-nine when they first met.\n\nHe was living in obscure lodgings in Paris for prudential reasons, the\nexecutioner having just burned, in the public street, all the copies of\nhis last book that could be found.\n\nThe Madame called on him to express her sympathy--and congratulations.\nShe had written a book, but it had not been burned--not even read! She\nwas tall, thin, angular, far from handsome, but had beaming eyes and a\nface that tokened intellect. And best of all, her voice was low, finely\nmodulated, and was not exercised more than was meet.\n\nShe leaned her chin upon her hand and looked at him.\n\nShe had met Voltaire when she was a child--at least she said so, and he,\nbeing a gentleman, remembered perfectly. She read to him a little\nmanuscript she had just dashed off. It was deep, profound and full of\nreasons--that is the way learned women write--they write like professors\nof rhetoric. Really great men write lightly, suggestively, and with a\ncertain amount of indifference, dash, froth and foam. When women evolve\nliterary foam, it is the sweet, cloying, fixed foam of the charlotte\nrusse--not the bubbling, effervescent Voltaire article.\n\nCould M. de Voltaire suggest a way in which her manuscript might be\nlightened up so the public executioner would deign to notice it?\n\nM. de Voltaire responded by reading to her a little thing of his own.\n\nThe next day she called again.\n\nSome say that Madame called on Voltaire to secure a loan on her\nhusband's estate at Civey. No matter--she got the loan.\n\nDoubtless she did not know where she was going--none of us do. We are\nall sailing under sealed orders.\n\nThe Madame had been married eight years. She was versed in Latin and\nknew Italian literature. She was educated; Voltaire was not. She offered\nto teach him Italian if he would give her lessons in English.\n\nThey read to each other things they had recently written. When men and\nwomen read to each other and mingle their emotions, the danger-line is\nbeing reached. Literary people of the opposite sex do not really love\neach other. All they desire is to read their manuscript aloud to a\nreceptive listener.\n\nThus are the literary germs vitalized--by giving our thoughts to another\nwe really make them our own. Only well-sexed people produce\nliterature--poetry is the pollen of the mind. Meter, rhythm, lilt and\nstyle are stamen, pistil and stalk swaying in the warm breeze of\nspringtime.\n\nAn order for arrest was out for Voltaire. Pamphlets which he had been\nrefused permission to publish in Paris were printed at Rouen and were\nsetting all Paris by the ears.\n\nWith Madame du Chatelet he fled to Civey, where was the tumbledown\nchateau of the Marquis--the Madame's complaisant husband. Voltaire\nadvanced the Marquis sixteen hundred pounds to put the place in order,\nand then on his own account fitted up two sumptuous apartments, one for\nhimself and one for Madame. The Marquis went away with his regiment, and\noccasionally came back and lounged about the chateau. But Voltaire was\nthe real master of the place.\n\nVoltaire was neither domestic nor rural in his tastes, but the Du\nChatelet seemed to fill his cup to the brim, and made him enjoy what\notherwise would have been exile. He wrote incessantly--poems, essays,\nplays--and fired pamphlets at a world of fools.\n\nAll that he wrote during the day he read to Madame at night. One of her\nmaids has given us a vivid little picture of how Voltaire, at exactly\neleven o'clock each night, would come out of hiding, and entering the\nMadame's room, would partake of the dainty supper that was always\nprepared for him. The divine Emilie had the French habit of receiving\nher visitors in bed, and as her hours were much more regular than\nVoltaire's, she usually enjoyed a nap before he entered. After his\nsupper he would read aloud to her all he had written since they last\nmet. If the piece was dramatic he would act it out with roll of r's,\nstriding walk, grimace and gesticulations gracefully done, for the man\nwas an actor of rare talent.\n\nEmerson says, \"Let a man do a thing incomparably well, and the world\nwill make a path to his door, though he live in a forest.\" There was no\nlack of society at Civey--the writers, poets and philosophers found\ntheir way there. Voltaire fitted up a little private theater, where his\nplays were given, and concerts and lectures held from time to time.\n\nThe divine Emilie's forte was science and mathematics--and on these\nthemes she wrote much, competing for prizes and winning the recognition\nof various learned societies. It will be seen that the man and the woman\nwere not in competition with each other, which, perhaps, accounts, in\ndegree, for their firm friendship.\n\nYet they did quarrel, too, as true lovers will, I am told. But their\nquarreling was all done in English, so the servants and His Inertia, the\nMarquis, did not know the purpose of it. It is probable that the\naccounts of their misunderstandings are considerably exaggerated, as the\nrehearsal of a tragedy by this pair of histrions would be taken by the\nservants for a sure-enough fight.\n\nAnd they were always acting--often beginning breakfast with a \"stunt.\"\nThe Madame sang well, and her little impromptu arias pleased her thin\nlittle lover immensely and he would improvise and answer in kind, and\nthen take the part of an audience and applaud, calling loudly, \"Bravo!\nBravo!\"\n\nMornings they would ride horseback through the winding woods, or else\nhunt for geological and botanical specimens. About all of Voltaire's\nscience he got from the lady and this was true of languages as well.\n\nTo a nervous, irritable and intense thinker a certain amount of solitude\nseems necessary. Voltaire occasionally grew weary of the delicious quiet\nof Civey, and the indictment against him having been quashed, he would\ngo away to Paris or elsewhere. On these trips if he did not take Madame\nalong she would grow furious, then lacrimose and finally\nsubmissive--with a weepy protest. If he failed to write her daily she\ngrew hysterical. Two winters they spent together in Paris and another at\nBrussels.\n\nA lawsuit involving the estate of the Marquis du Chatelet, that had been\nin the courts for eighty years, was pushed to a successful issue by\nVoltaire and Madame. Four hundred fifty thousand dollars were secured,\nbut of this Voltaire, strangely enough, took nothing.\n\nThat the bond between Emilie and Voltaire was very firm is shown by the\nfact that, after they had been together ten years, he declined to leave\nher to accept an invitation to visit Frederick the Great at Berlin.\nFrederick was a married man, but his was a strictly bachelor court--for\nprudential reasons. Frederick and Emilie had carried on a spirited\ncorrespondence, but this was as close as he cared for her to come to\nhim. All of his communications with females were limited to letters,\nand Voltaire once said that that was the reason he was called Frederick\nthe Great.\n\nMadame du Chatelet died when she was forty-two; Voltaire was fifty-five.\nFor fifteen years this strange and most romantic friendship had\ncontinued, and to a degree it had worn itself out. Toward the last the\nlady had been exacting and dictatorial, and thinking that Voltaire had\nslighted her by not taking her more into his confidence, she had\naccepted another lover, a man ten years her junior. If she had thought\nto make Voltaire jealous, she had reckoned without her host--he was\nrelieved to find her fierce supervision relaxed.\n\nWhen she passed away he worked his woe up into a pretty panegyric,\nclosed up his affairs at Civey, and left there forever.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nSo far as the government was concerned, Voltaire seems to have passed\nhis days in accepting rewards and receiving punishments. Interdict,\nexile, ostracism were followed by honors, pension and office.\n\nHis one lasting love was the drama. About every two years a swirl of\nexcitement was caused at Paris by the announcement of a new play by\nVoltaire. These plays seemed to appeal mostly to the nobility, the\nclergy and those in public office. And the object in every instance was\nto get even with somebody, and place some one in a ridiculous light.\nInnocent historical dramas were passed by the censor, and afterward it\nwas found that in them some local bigwig was flayed without mercy. Then\nthe play had to be withdrawn, and all printed copies were burned in\npublic, and Voltaire would flee to Brussels or Geneva to escape summary\npunishment.\n\nHowever, he never fooled all of the people all of the time. There was\nalways a goodly number of dignitaries who richly enjoyed the drubbing he\ngave the other fellow, and these would gloat in inward glee over the\nVoltaire ribaldry until it came their turn. Then the other side would\nlaugh. The fact is, Voltaire always represented a constituency,\notherwise his punishment might have been genuine, instead of forty\nlashes with a feather, well laid on.\n\nAbout the time Madame du Chatelet passed away, Voltaire seemed to be\nenjoying a period of kingly favor. He had been made a Knight of the\nBedchamber and also Historiographer of France. The chief duty of the\nfirst office consisted in signing the monthly voucher for salary, and\nthe other was about the same as Poet Laureate--with salary in inverse\nratio to responsibility. It was considered, however, that the holder of\nthese offices was one of the King's family, and therefore was bound to\nindulge in no unseemly antics.\n\nOn June Twenty-sixth, Seventeen Hundred Fifty, Voltaire applied to the\nKing in person for permission to visit Frederick of Prussia.\n\nTradition has it that the King replied promptly, \"You may go--the sooner\nthe better--and you may remain as long as you choose.\"\n\nVoltaire pocketed the veiled acerbity without a word, and bowing himself\nout, made hot haste to pack up and be on his way before an order\nrescinding the permission was issued.\n\nFrederick was a freethinker, a scientist, a poet, and a wit well worthy\nof the companionship of Voltaire. In fact, they were very much alike.\nBoth had the dual qualities of being intensely practical and yet\niconoclastic. Both were witty, affable, seemingly indifferent and\ncareless, but yet always with an eye on the main chance. Each was small,\nthin and bony, but both had the intellect of the lean and hungry Cassius\nthat looked quite through the deeds of man.\n\nFrederick received Voltaire with royal honors. Princes, ministers of\nstate, grandees and generals high in office, knelt on one knee as he\npassed. Frederick tried to make it appear that France had failed to\nappreciate her greatest philosopher, and so he had come to Prussia--the\nhome of letters. His pension was fixed at twenty thousand francs a year,\nhe was given the Golden Key of Chamberlain, and the Grand Cross of the\nOrder of Merit. He was a member of the King's household, and was the\nnearest and dearest friend of the royal person.\n\nFrederick thought he had bound the great man to him for life.\n\nPersonality repels as well as attracts. Voltaire's viper-like pen was\nnever idle. He wrote little plays for the court, and these were\npresented with much eclat, the author superintending their presentation,\nand considerately taking minor parts himself, so as to divide the\nhonors. But amateur theatricals stand for heart-burnings and jealousy.\nThe German poets were scored, other writers ridiculed, and big\nscientists came in for their share of pen-pricking.\n\nVoltaire corrected the King's manuscript and taught him the secret of\nliterary style. Then they fell into a controversy, done in Caslon\nold-style, thundering against each other's theories in pamphlets across\nseas of misundertandings. Neither side publicly avowed the authorship,\nbut nobody was deceived. The King and Voltaire met daily at meals, and\ncarefully avoided the topics they were fighting out in print.\n\nVoltaire was rich and all of his wants were supplied, but he entered the\nfinancial lists, and taking advantage of his inside knowledge,\nspeculated in scrip and got into a disgraceful lawsuit over the proceeds\nwith a man he should never have known. Frederick was annoyed--then\ndisturbed. He personally chided Voltaire for his folly in mixing with\nthe King's enemies.\n\nVoltaire had tired of the benevolent assimilation--he craved freedom. A\nfriend who loves you, if he spies upon your every action, will become\nintolerable. Voltaire intimated to Frederick that he would like to go.\n\nBut Frederick had a great admiration for the man--he considered Voltaire\nthe greatest living thinker, and to have such a one in the court would\nhelp give the place an atmosphere of learning. He recognized that there\nwere two Voltaires--one covetous, quibbling, spiteful and greedy; and\nthe other the peerless poet and philosopher--the man who hated shams and\npretense, and had made a brave fight for liberty; the charming\ncompanion, the gracious friend. Frederick was philosopher enough to\nrealize that he could not have the one without the other--if he had the\nangel he must also tolerate the demon. This he would do--he must have\nhis Voltaire, and so he refused the passports asked for, and sought to\ninterest his literary lion in new projects. Finally, court life became\nintolerable to Voltaire, as life is to anybody when he realizes that he\nis being detained against his will. Voltaire packed his effects,\nsecured a four-horse carriage, and with his secretary, departed by\nnight, without leaving orders where his mail should be forwarded.\n\nWhen Frederick found that his singing bird had flown, he was furious.\nFear had much to do with the matter, for Voltaire had taken various\nmanuscripts written by the King, wherein potentates in high places were\nseverely scored. The first thought of Frederick evidently was that\nVoltaire had really been a spy in the employ of the French government.\nHe sent messengers after him in hot haste--the fugitive was overtaken,\nand arrested. His luggage was searched, and after being detained at\nFrankfort for three weeks he was allowed to depart for pastures new.\n\nThe news of his flight, arrest and disgrace became the gossip of every\ncourt of Christendom. Who was disgraced more by the arrest--Voltaire or\nFrederick--the world has not yet decided. Carlyle deals with the subject\nin detail in his \"Life of Frederick,\" and exonerates the King. But Taine\nsays Carlyle wrote neither history nor poetry, and certainly we do not\nconsider the sage of Cheyne Row an impartial judge.\n\nVoltaire took time to cool, and then wrote a history of the affair which\nis published in his \"My Private Life,\" that is one of the most delicious\npieces of humor ever written. That he should have looked forward to life\nat the Prussian Court as the ideal, and then after bravely enduring it\nfor three years, make his escape by night, was only a huge joke.\nNothing else could have been expected, he says. Men of fifty should know\nthat environment does not make heaven, and people who expect other\npeople to make paradise for them are forever doomed to wander without\nthe walls.\n\nVoltaire acknowledges that he got better treatment than he deserved, and\nmakes no apology for working the whole affair up into good copy. The\nfinal proof that Voltaire was a true philosopher is that he was able to\nlaugh at himself.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nWhen Voltaire left Prussia, it was voluntary exile. Paris was\nforbidden--all of France was for him unsafe; England he had hopelessly\noffended. By slow stages he made his way to Switzerland. But on the way\nthere his courage failed him and he wrote back to Frederick, suggesting\nreconciliation. But Frederick promptly reminded him that he had\nrepeatedly broken promises by writing about Frederick's personal\nfriends, and \"Voltaire and Frederick had better keep apart, that their\nlove for each other might not grow cold\"--a subtle bit of sarcasm.\n\nAt Geneva, where Calvin had instituted a little tyranny of his own,\nVoltaire was made welcome. Nominally no Catholics were allowed in\nGeneva, and when Voltaire wrote to the authorities, explaining that he\nwas a good Catholic, the matter was taken as a great joke. He bought a\nbeautiful little farm a few miles away, on the banks of the river Rhone,\noverlooking the city of Geneva and the lake. It was an ideal spot, and\nrightly he called it \"Delices.\" Here he was going to end his days amid\nflowers and birds and books and bees, an onlooker and possibly a\ncommentator on the times, but not a doer. His days of work were over. Of\nthe world of strife he had had enough--thus he wrote to Frederick.\n\nVisitors of a literary turn of mind at Geneva began to come his way. He\nestablished an inn, and later built a theater out of the ruins of an old\nchurch that he had bought and dismantled. \"This is what I am going to\ndo with all the churches in France,\" he explained with a smile.\n\nHis pen was never idle. He wrote plays that were presented at his own\nlittle theater, and on such occasions he would send word to his Geneva\nfriends not to come, as they could not be accommodated. Of course they\ncame.\n\nHe wrote a history of Peter the Great, and this brought him into\ncommunication with Queen Catherine of Russia, with whom he carried on\nquite an animated correspondence. This worthy widow invited him to Saint\nPetersburg, and he slyly wrote to Frederick for advice as to whether he\nshould go or not. It is said that Frederick advised him to go, pay court\nto the Queen, marry her, seize the throne, and get his head cut off for\nhis pains, thus achieving immortality and benefiting the world at one\nstroke.\n\nVoltaire had no intention of going to Saint Petersburg; he had created a\nlittle Court of Letters, of which he himself was the Czar, and for the\nfirst time in his life he was experiencing a degree of genuine content.\nHis flowers, bees, manuscripts and theater filled every moment of the\nday from six in the morning until ten at night. He had arrived in\nSwitzerland broken in health, with mind dazed, his frail body undone.\nThere at the little farm at Delices, overlooking the lake, health came\nback and youth seemed to return to this man of three-score.\n\nSome of the nobility in Paris, to whom he had loaned money, took\nadvantage of his exile to withhold payments, but Voltaire secured an\nagent to look after his affairs, so his losses were not great.\n\nHe bought the tumbledown chateau of Tournay, near at hand, which carried\nwith it the right to call himself Count Tournay. Frederick, with mock\nrespect, so addressed his letters.\n\nHis next financial venture, begun when he was sixty-eight, might well\nhave tested the strength of a much younger man. A few miles from Geneva,\nat Ferney, just over the border from Switzerland, Voltaire had bought a\nlarge tract of waste land, intending to use it for pasturage. Here he\nbuilt a cottage and lived a part of the time when visitors were too\npersistent at Delices. Ferney was on French soil, Delices in\nSwitzerland. Voltaire had criticized the Protestants of Geneva, and\ngiven it as his opinion that a Calvinistic tyranny was in no wise\npreferable to one built on Catholicism. Some then said, \"This man is\nreally what he professes--a Catholic.\" There had also been a\ndemonstration to drive him out of Switzerland, since it was pretty well\nknown that Voltaire's crowds of visitors were neither Catholic nor\nProtestant. \"Delices is infidelic,\" was the cry, and this doubtless had\nsomething to do with Voltaire's establishing himself at Ferney. If\nProtestant Switzerland drove this Catholic over to France, why, Catholic\nFrance would not molest him.\n\nEvery country, no matter how tyrannical its government, prides itself on\nbeing the home of the exile, just as every man thinks of himself as\nbeing sincere and without prejudice.\n\nIt is now believed that Voltaire had much to do with inciting the civil\nriots in Geneva against the Catholics. He had circulated pamphlets\npurporting to be written by a Catholic, upholding the Pope, and\nridiculing most unmercifully the pretenses of Protestantism, declaring\nit a compromise with the devil, made up of the scum of the Catholic\nChurch. This pamphlet declared Calvin a monster, and arraigned him for\nburning Servetus, and hinted that all Calvinists would soon be paid back\nin their own coin. No one else could have penned this vitriolic pamphlet\nbut Voltaire--he knew both sides. But since Geneva regarded Voltaire as\nan infidel, it never occurred to the authorities that he would take up\nthe cudgel of the Catholic Church that had burned his books. The real\nfact was, the pamphlet wasn't a defense of Catholicism--it was only a\ndrubbing of Calvinism, and the wit was too subtle for the Presbyterians\nto digest.\n\nVery soon another pamphlet appeared, answering the first. It arraigned\nthe Catholics in scathing phrase, suggested that they were getting ready\nto burn the city--hinted at a repetition of Saint Bartholomew, and\ndeclared the order had gone forth from Rome to scourge and kill. It was\nas choice an A.P.A. document as was ever issued by a relentless joker.\nThe result was that the workers in the watch-factory and silk-mills who\nwere Catholics found themselves ostracized by the Protestant workmen. I\ndo not find that the authorities drove the Catholics out of Geneva, it\nwas simply a species of labor trouble--Protestants would not work with\nCatholics.\n\nAt this juncture Voltaire comes in, and invites all persecuted Catholic\nwatch-workers and silk-weavers to move to Ferney. Here Voltaire laid out\na town--erected houses, factories, churches and schools. In two years he\nhad built up a town of twelve hundred people, and had a watch-factory\nand silk-mill in full and paying operation.\n\nThe problem of every manufacturer is to sell his wares--Voltaire knew\nhow to release purse-strings of friends and enemies alike. He sent\nwatches to all of his enemies in Paris, bishops, priests and potentates,\nexplaining that he had quit literature forever, and was now engaged in\nhelping struggling, exiled Catholics to get an honest living--he was\ndoing penance as foreman of a watch-factory--would the Most Reverend not\nhelp in this worthy work? Money flowed in on Ferney--Frederick ordered a\nconsignment of watches, Queen Catherine did the same, and the Bishop of\nParis sent his blessing and an order for enough silk to keep Voltaire's\nfactory going for six months.\n\nVoltaire really got the pick of the workmen of Geneva--the goods made\nwere of the best, and while at first Catholics only were employed, yet\nin five years Ferney was quite as much Protestant as Catholic. Voltaire\nrespected the religious beliefs of his workmen, and there was liberty\nfor all. He paid better wages and treated his workers better than they\nhad ever been treated in Geneva. Voltaire built houses for his people\nand allowed them to pay him in monthly instalments. And not only did he\nhimself make much money out of his Ferney investment, but he established\nthe town upon such a safe financial basis that its prosperity endures\neven unto this day.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIt was at Ferney, in his old age, that Voltaire first made open war upon\n\"revealed religion.\" All religions that professed a miraculous origin\nwere to him baneful in the extreme, the foes of light and progress, the\nenemies of mankind. He did not perceive, as modern psychology does, that\nthe period of supernaturalism is the childhood of the mind. Myths and\nfairy-tales are not of themselves base--the injury lies with the men who\nseek to profit by these things, and build up a tyranny founded on\ninnocence and ignorance--seeking to perpetuate these things, issuing\nthreats against growth, and offers of reward to all who stand still.\n\nVoltaire called superstition \"The Infamy,\" and he summoned the thinkers\nof the world to crush it beneath a heel of scorn. Letters, pamphlets,\nplays, essays, were sent out in various languages, by his own\nprinting-presses. The wit of the man--his scathing mockery--were weapons\nno one could wield in reply. The priests and preachers did not answer\nhim--they could not--they only grew purple with wrath and hissed.\n\nSays Victor Hugo, \"Jesus wept; Voltaire smiled.\" To which Bernard Shaw\nhas recently rejoined, \"Jesus wept; Voltaire smiled; William Morris\nworked.\"\n\nFrom the prosperity, peace and security of Ferney, Voltaire pointed a\nbony finger at every hypocrite in Christendom, and laughed his mocking\nsmile. The man expressed himself, and happiness lies in that and\nnothing else. Misery comes from lack of full, free self-expression, and\nfrom nothing else. The man who fights for freedom fights for the right\nof self-expression for himself and others--and immortality lies in\nnothing else.\n\nThere is no fight worth making--no struggle worth the while--save the\nstruggle for freedom.\n\nNo name is honored among men--no name lives--save the name of the man\nwho worked for liberty and light--who has fought freedom's fight.\n\nRun the list in your mind of the names that are immortal, and you will\nrecall only those of men who have widened the horizon for other men, and\nthat select number who are remembered in infamy because they linked\ntheir names with greatness by doubting, denying, betraying and\npersecuting it--deathless through disgrace.\n\nVoltaire sided with the weak, the defenseless, the fallen. He demanded\nthat men should not be hounded for their belief, that they should not be\narrested without cause and without knowing why, and without letting\ntheir friends know why. We realize his faults, we know his imperfections\nand limitations, yet, through his influence, life throughout the world\nbecame safer, liberty dearer, freedom a more sacred thing. His words\nwere a battery that eventually razed the walls of the Bastile, and best\nof all, freed countless millions from theological superstition, that\nBastile of the brain.\n\n\n\n\nHERBERT SPENCER\n\n\n     What knowledge is of most worth? The uniform reply is: Science.\n     This is the verdict on all counts. For direct self-preservation, or\n     the maintenance of life and health, the all-important knowledge\n     is--science. For that indirect self-preservation which we call\n     gaining a livelihood, the knowledge of greatest value is--science.\n     For the discharge of parental functions, the proper guidance is to\n     be found only in science. For the interpretation of national life,\n     past and present, without which the citizen can not rightly\n     regulate his conduct, the indispensable key is--science. Alike for\n     the most perfect production and present enjoyment of art in all its\n     forms, the needful preparation is still--science. And for purposes\n     of discipline--intellectual, moral, religious--the most efficient\n     study is, once more--science.\n\n                                                --_Essay on Education_\n\n[Illustration: HERBERT SPENCER]\n\n\nIn Derby, England, April Twenty-seventh, Eighteen Hundred Twenty,\nHerbert Spencer, the only child of his parents, was born. His mother\ndied in his childhood, so he really never had any vivid recollection of\nher, but hearsay, fused with memory and ideality, vitalized all. And\nthus to him, to the day of his death, his mother stood for gentleness,\npatience, tenderness, intuitive insight, and a love that never grew\nfaint. Man makes his mother in his own image.\n\nHerbert Spencer's father was a school-teacher, and in very moderate\ncircumstances. Little Herbert could not remember when he did not go to\nschool, and yet as a real scholar, he never went to school at all. The\nfamily lived over the schoolroom, and while the youngster yet wore\ndresses his father would hold him in his arms, and carry him around the\nroom as he instructed his classes. William George Spencer was both\nfather and mother to Herbert, and used to sing to him lullabies as the\nsun went down.\n\nAfter school there were always walks afield, and in the evening the\nbrother of the school-master would call, and then there was much\nargument as to Why and What, Whence and Whither.\n\nPeople talk gossip, we are told, for lack of a worthy theme. These two\nSpencers--one a school-master and the other a clergyman--found the time\ntoo short for their discussions. In their walks and talks they were\nalways examining, comparing, classifying, selecting, speculating.\nFlowers, plants, bugs, beetles, birds, trees, weeds, earth and rocks\nwere scrutinized and analyzed.\n\nWhere did it come from? How did it get here?\n\nI am told that lions never send their cubs away to be educated by a\ncubless lioness and an emasculated lion. The lion learns by first\nplaying at the thing and then doing it.\n\nA motherless boy, brought up by an indulgent father, one might prophesy,\nwould be sure to rule the father and be spoiled himself through omission\nof the rod. But in the boy problem all signs fail. The father taught by\nexciting curiosity and animating his pupils to work out problems and\nmake discoveries--keeping his discipline well out of sight. How well the\nplan worked is revealed in the life of Herbert Spencer himself; and his\nbook, \"Education,\" is based on the ideas evolved by his father, to whom\nhe gives much credit. No man ever had so divine a right to compile a\nbook on education as Herbert Spencer, for he proved in his own life\nevery principle he laid down.\n\nOn all excursions Herbert was taken along--because he couldn't be left\nat home, you know. He listened to the conversations and learned by\nhearing the older pupils recite.\n\nAll out-of-doors was fairyland to him--a curiosity-shop filled with\nwonderful things--over your head, under your feet, all around was\nlife--action, pulsing life, everything in motion--going somewhere,\nevolving into something else.\n\nThis habit of observation, adoration and wonder--filled with pleasurable\nemotions and recollections from the first--lasted the man through life,\nand allowed him, even with a frail constitution, to round out a long\nperiod of severe mental work, with never a tendency to die at the top.\n\nHerbert Spencer never wrote a thing more true than this: \"The man to\nwhom in boyhood information came in dreary tasks, along with threats of\npunishment, is unlikely to be a student in after-years; while those to\nwhom it came in natural forms, at the proper times, and who remember its\nfacts as not only interesting in themselves, but as a long series of\ngratifying successes, are likely to continue through life that\nself-instruction begun in youth.\"\n\nWhen thirteen years old Herbert went to live with his uncle, the\nReverend Thomas Spencer, at Bath. Here the same methods of education\nwere continued that had been begun at home--conversation, history in the\nform of story-telling, walks and talks, and mathematical calculations\ncarried out as pleasing puzzles. In mathematics the boy made rapid\nprogress, but the faculty of observation was the dominant one. Every\nphase of cloud and sky, of water and earth, rock and mountain, bird and\nbush, plant and tree, was curious to him. He kept a journal of his\nobservations, which had the double advantage of deepening his\nimpressions by recounting them, and second, it taught him the use of\nlanguage.\n\nThe best way to learn to write is to write. Herbert Spencer never\nstudied grammar until he had learned to write. He took his grammar at\nsixty, which is a good age to begin this interesting study, as by that\ntime you have largely lost your capacity to sin. Men who swim\nexceedingly well are not those who have taken courses in the theory of\nswimming at natatoriums from professors of the amphibian art--they were\nboys who just jumped in. Correspondence-schools for the taming of\nbroncos are as naught; and treatises on the gentle art of wooing are of\nno avail--follow Nature's lead. Grammar is the appendenda vermiformis of\npedagogics: it is as useless as the letter q in the alphabet, or as the\nproverbial two tails to a cat, which no cat ever had, and the finest cat\nin the world, the Manx cat, has no tail at all.\n\n\"The literary style of most university men is commonplace, when not\npositively bad,\" wrote Herbert Spencer in his old age. \"Educated\nEnglishmen all write alike,\" said Taine. That is to say, they have no\nliterary style, for style is character, individuality--the style is the\nman. And grammar tends to obliterate all individuality. No study is so\nirksome to everybody, except to the sciolists who teach it, as grammar.\nIt remains forever a bad taste in the mouth of the man of ideas, and has\nweaned bright minds innumerable from all desire to express themselves\nthrough the written word. Grammar is the etiquette of words, and the man\nwho does not know how to properly salute his grandmother on the street\nuntil he has consulted a book, is always so troubled about his tenses\nthat his fancies break through language and escape.\n\nOrators who keep their thoughts upon the proper way to gesticulate in\ncurves impress nobody. If poor grammar were a sin against decency, or an\nattempt to poison the minds of the people, it might be wise enough to\nhire men to protect the well of English from defilement. But a\nstationary language is a dead one--moving water only is pure--and the\nwell that is not fed by springs is a breeding-place for disease. Let men\nexpress themselves in their own way, and if they express themselves\npoorly, look you, their punishment shall be that no one will read them.\nOblivion, with her smother-blanket, waits for the writer who has nothing\nto say and says it faultlessly. In the making of hare-soup, I am told\nthe first requisite is to catch your hare. The literary scullion who has\nanything to offer a hungry world will doubtless find a way to fricassee\nit.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nWhen seventeen, Herbert Spencer was apprenticed to a surveyor on the\nLondon and Birmingham Railway. The pay was meager--board and keep and\nfive pounds for the first year, with ten pounds the second year \"if he\ndeserved it.\" However, school-teachers and clergymen are used to small\nreward, and to make a living for one's self was no small matter to the\nSpencers. The youth who has gotten his physical growth should earn his\nown living, this as a necessary factor in his further mental evolution.\n\nNeither William George Spencer, Herbert's father, nor Thomas, his uncle,\nseemed ever to anticipate that they were helping to develop the greatest\nthinker of his time. They themselves were obscure men, and quite happy\ntherein, and if young Herbert could attain to a fair degree of physical\nhealth, make his living as an honest surveyor or as a teacher of\nmathematics, it would be all one could reasonably hope for. And thus\nthey lived out the measure of their days, and passed away unaware that\nthis boy they claimed in partnership was to be the maker of an epoch.\n\nYoung Spencer began his surveying work by carrying a flag, and soon he\nwas advanced to \"chainman.\" His skill in mathematics made his services\nvaluable, and his willingness to sit up nights and work out the\nmeasurements of the day, so pleased his employer that the letter of the\ncontract was waived and he was paid ten pounds for his first year's\nwork, instead of five. He invented shorter methods for bridges and\nculverts, and I believe was the first engineer to build a cantilever\nrailroad-bridge in England.\n\nWhen he was twenty-one he had so thoroughly mastered the work that his\nemployers offered to place him in charge of a construction-gang at a\nsalary of two hundred pounds a year, which was then considered high pay.\nHe, however, loved liberty more than money, and his tastes were in the\ndirection of invention and science, rather than in working out an\nimmediate practical success for himself.\n\nHe returned home and invented a scheme for making type; and had another\nplan for watchmaking, which he illustrated with painstaking designs.\nHalf of his time was spent in the fields, and he made a large botanical\ncollection--indexing it carefully, with many notes and comments.\n\nHe also wrote articles for the \"Civil Engineers' and Artisans' Journal.\"\nFor these he received no pay, but the acceptance of manuscript gives a\ngreat glow to a writer's cosmos: young Spencer was encouraged in the\nbelief that he had something to offer the public. But his father and\nkinsmen saw only failure in these days of dawdling; and the money being\ngone, Herbert Spencer, aged twenty-two, went up to London to try to get\na renewal of the offer from his old employer.\n\nBut things had changed--chances gone are gone forever, and he was told\nthat opportunity knocks but once at each man's door. Sadly he returned\nhome--not disappointed in himself, but depressed that he should\ndisappoint others. His inventions languished--nobody was interested in\nthem.\n\nTo get a living was the problem, and writing seemed the only way. And so\nhe prepared a series of articles for \"The Non-Conformist,\" and there was\nenough non-conformity in them so he was paid a small sum for his work.\nIt proved this, though--he could get a living by his pen.\n\nIn these \"Non-Conformist\" articles, Spencer put forth a daring statement\nconcerning the evolution of the soldier, that straightway made him a few\nenemies, and gave his clerical uncle gooseflesh. His hypothesis was\nthis: When man first evolved out of the Stone Age, and began to live in\nvillages, the oldest and wisest individual was regarded as patriarch or\nchief. This chief appointed certain men to punish wrongdoers and keep\norder. But there were always a few who would not work and who, through\ntheir violence and contumacious spirit, were finally driven from the\ncamp. Or more likely they fled to escape punishment--which is the same\nthing--for they were outcasts. These men found refuge in the mountain\nfastnesses and congregated for two reasons--one, so they could avoid\ncapture, and the other so they could swoop down and \"secure their own.\"\nRobbery and commerce came hand in hand, and piracy is almost as natural\nas production.\n\nFinally, the robbers became such a problem to industry that terms were\nmade with them. Their tribute took the form of a tax, and to make sure\nthat this tax was paid, the robbers protected the people against other\nrobbers. And then, for the first time, the world saw a standing army. An\narmy has two purposes--to protect the people, and to collect the tax for\nprotecting the people.\n\nAt the headquarters of this army grew up a court, and all the\nmagnificent splendor of a capitol centered around the captains. In fact,\nthe word \"capitol\" means the home of the captain.\n\nHerbert Spencer did not say that a soldier was a respectable brigand,\nand that a lawyer is a man who protects us from lawyers, but he came so\nclose to it that his immediate friends begged him to moderate his\nexpressions for his own safety.\n\nSpencer also at the same time traced the evolution of the priest. He\nshowed how the \"holy man\" was one frenzied with religious ecstasy, who\nwent away and lived in a cave. Occasionally this man came back to beg,\nto preach and to do good. In order to succeed in his begging, he\nrevealed his peculiar psychic powers, and then reinforced these with\nclaims of supernatural abilities. These claims were not exactly founded\nupon truth, but once put forth were in time believed by those who\nadvanced them.\n\nThis priest, who claimed to have influence with the power of the\nUnseen, found early favor with the soldier--and the soldier and the\npriest naturally joined hands. The soldier protected the priest and the\npriest absolved the soldier. One dictated man's place in this world--the\nother in the next.\n\nThe calm way in which Herbert Spencer reasoned these things out, and his\nhigh literary style, which made him unintelligible to all those whose\nminds were not of scientific bent, and his emphatic statement that what\nis, is right, and all the steps in man's development mean a mounting to\nbetter things, saved him from the severe treatment that greeted, say,\nCharles Bradlaugh, who translated the higher criticisms for the hoi\npolloi.\n\nSpencer's first essays on \"The Proper Sphere of Government,\" done in his\nearly twenties for \"The Non-Conformist\" and \"The Economist,\" outlined\nhis occupation for life--he was to be a writer. He became assistant\neditor of the \"Westminster Review,\" and contributed to various literary\nand scientific journals.\n\nThese essays, enlarged, rewritten and revised, finally emerged in\nEighteen Hundred Fifty-one in the form of \"Social Statics, or the\nConditions Essential to Human Happiness.\"\n\nThis book, so bold in its radical suggestions, now almost universally\nadmitted, was printed at the author's expense--a fact that should put a\nquietus for all time upon all those indelicate and sarcastic allusions\nconcerning \"when the author prints.\" There was an edition of seven\nhundred fifty copies of the book, and it took every shilling the young\nman had saved, and a few borrowed pounds as well, to pay the bill.\n\nThe book made no splash in the literary sea--nobody read it except a\ndozen good people who did so as a matter of friendship.\n\nAfter six years there were still five hundred copies left, and the\nauthor wrote this slightly ironical line: \"I am glad the public is\ntaking plenty of time to fully digest my work before passing judgment\nupon it. Of all things, hasty criticisms are to be regretted.\"\n\nYet there was one person who read Herbert Spencer's first book with\nclose consideration and profound sympathy. This was a young woman, the\nsame age as Spencer, who had come up to London from the country to make\nher fortune. Her name was Mary Ann Evans.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIn \"Notes and Comments,\" Spencer's last book, published two years before\nhis death, are several quotations and allusions to George Eliot. No\nother woman is mentioned in the volume.\n\nHerbert Spencer and Mary Ann Evans first met at the house of the editor\nof the \"Westminster Review\" about the year Eighteen Hundred Fifty-one.\nTheir tastes, aptitudes and inclinations were much the same. They were\nborn the same year; both were brought up in the country; both were\nnaturalists by inclination, and scientists because they could not help\nit. \"Social Statics\" made a profound impression on George Eliot, and she\nprotested to the last that it was the best book the author ever wrote.\nHe had read her \"Essay on Spinoza,\" and remembered it so well that he\nrepeated a page of it the first time they met. They loved the same\nthings, and united, too, in their dislikes. Both were democrats, and the\ncards, curds and custards of society were to them as naught. In a few\nmonths after the first meeting, George Eliot wrote to a friend in\nWarwickshire: \"The bright side of my life, after the affection for my\nold friends, is the new and delightful friendship which I have found in\nHerbert Spencer. We see each other every day, and in everything we enjoy\na delightful comradeship. If it were not for him my life would be\nsingularly arid.\"\n\nThe Synthetic Philosophy was taking form in Spencer's mind, and\ntogether they threshed out the straw and garnered the grain. She was\ngetting to be a necessity to Spencer--and he saw no reason why the\nbeautiful friendship should not continue just this way for years and\nyears. Both were literary grubbers and lived in boarding-houses of the\nClass B variety.\n\nAnd here George Henry Lewes appeared upon the scene. Legend says that\nSpencer introduced Lewes to Miss Evans, and both Miss Evans and Mr.\nSpencer were a bit in awe of him, for he was a literary success, and\nthey were willing to be. Lewes had written at this time sixteen\nbooks--novels, essays, scientific treatises, poems, and a drama. He\nspoke five languages, had studied medicine, theology, and had been a\nlecturer and actor. He was small, had red hair, combed his whiskers by\nthe right oblique, and wore a yellow necktie. Thackeray says he was the\nmost learned and versatile man he ever knew, \"and if I should see him in\nPiccadilly, perched on a white elephant, I would not be in the least\nsurprised.\"\n\nNone of the various ventures of Lewes had paid very well, but he had\ngreat hopes, and money enough to ride in a cab. He gave advice, and\nradiated good-cheer wherever he went.\n\nIn Eighteen Hundred Fifty-four Lewes and Miss Evans disappeared from\nLondon, having gone to Germany, leaving letters behind, stating that\nthenceforward they wished to be considered as man and wife. Lewes was\nin his fortieth year, and slightly bald; George Eliot was thirty-six,\nand there were silver threads among the gold.\n\nThey had taken the philosophy of \"Social Statics\" in dead earnest.\n\nHerbert Spencer lost appetite, ceased work, roamed through the park\naimlessly, and finally fell into a fit of sickness--\"night air, and too\nclose confinement to mental tasks,\" the doctor said.\n\nSpencer was not a marrying man--he was wedded to science, yet he craved\nthe companionship of the female mind. Had he and Miss Evans married, he\nwould doubtless have continued his work just the same. He would have\nabsorbed her into his being--they would have lived in a garret, and\npossibly we might have had a better Synthetic Philosophy, if that were\npossible.\n\nBut we would have had no \"Adam Bede\" nor \"Mill on the Floss.\"\n\nWe often see mention, by the ready writers, of \"mental equals\" and\n\"perfect mates,\" but in all business partnerships, one man is the court\nof last appeal by popular acclaim. If power is absolutely equal, the\nengine stops on the center. Twins may look exactly alike, but one is the\nspokesman. In all literary collaboration, one does the work and the\nother looks on.\n\nWhen George Henry Lewes took Mary Ann Evans as his wife, that was the\nlast of Lewes. He became her inspiration, secretary, protector, friend\nand slave. And this was all beautiful and right.\n\nI believe it was Augustine Birrell who said, \"George Henry Lewes was the\nbusy drone to a queen bee.\" It probably is well that Mr. Spencer and\nMiss Evans did not marry--they were too much alike--they might have\ngotten into competition with each other.\n\nGeorge Eliot had a poise and dignity in her character that kept the\nversatile Lewes just where he belonged; and at the same time she lived\nher own life and preserved in ascending degree the strong and simple\nbeauties of her character. Truly was George Eliot \"a citizen of the\nsacred city of fine minds--the Jerusalem of Celestial Art.\" Lewes was\nthe tug that puffed and steamed and brought the majestic steamship into\nport.\n\nFor one book George Eliot received a sum equal to forty thousand\ndollars, and her income after \"Adam Bede\" was published was never less\nthan ten thousand dollars a year.\n\nSpencer lived out his days in the boarding-house, and until after he was\nseventy, had not reached a point where absolute economy was not in\norder.\n\nSpencer faced the Universe alone, and tried to solve its mysteries. Not\nonly did he live alone, with no close confidants or friends, but when he\ndied he left not a single living relative nearer than the fourth\ngeneration. With him died the name.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe leading note in \"Social Statics\" is a plea for the liberty of the\nindividual. That government is best which governs least. The liberty of\neach, limited only by the liberty of all, is the rule to which society\nmust conform in order to attain the highest development. Governments\nhave no business to scrutinize the life and belief of the individual.\nInterference should only come where one man interferes with the\nliberties of another.\n\nLiberty of action is the first requisite to progress, and the prime\nessential in human happiness. It is better that men have wrong opinions\nthan no opinions--through our blunders we reach the light.\n\nGovernment is for man, and not man for government. Men wish to do what\nis best for themselves, and eventually they will, if let alone, but they\ncan only grow through constant practise and frequent mistakes. Plato's\nplan for an ideal republic provided rules and laws for the guidance of\nthe individual. In the Mosaic Laws it is the same: every circumstance\nand complication of life is thought out, and the law tells the\nindividual what he shall do, and what he shall not do. That is to say, a\nfew men were to do the thinking for the many. And the argument that\nplain people should not be allowed to think for themselves, since the\nwise know better what is for their good, is exactly the argument used by\nslaveholders: that they can take better care of the man than the man can\nof himself.\n\nThere is a certain plausibility and truth in this proposition. It is all\na point of view.\n\nBut to Herbert Spencer there was little difference between enslavement\nof the mind and enslavement of the body. Both were essentially wrong in\nthis--they interfered with Nature's law of evolution, and anything\ncontrary to Nature must pay the penalty of pain and death. All forms of\nenslavement react upon the slaveholder, and a society founded on force\ncan not evolve--and not to evolve is to die. The wellsprings of Nature\nmust not be dammed--and in fact can not be dammed but for a day.\nOverflow, revolution and violence are sure to follow. This is the\ngeneral law; and so give the man liberty. One man's rights end only\nwhere another man's begin.\n\nThe idea of evolution, as opposed to a complete creation, was in the\nmind of Spencer as early as Eighteen Hundred Forty-eight. In that year\nhe said, \"Creation still goes forward, and to what supreme heights man\nmay yet attain no one can say.\"\n\nBy a sort of general misapprehension, Darwin is usually given credit for\nthe discovery and elucidation of the Law of Evolution, but the \"Origin\nof Species\" did not appear until Eighteen Hundred Fifty-nine, and both\nSpencer and Alfred Russel Wallace had stated, years before, that the\ntheological dogma of a complete creation had not a scintilla of proof\nfrom the world of nature and science, while there was much general\nproof that the animal and vegetable kingdom had evolved from lower\nforms, and was still ascending.\n\nThe usual idea of the clergy of Christendom was that if the account of\ncreation given by Moses were admitted to be untrue, then the Bible in\nall its parts would be declared untrue, and religion would go by the\nboard. Now that the theory of evolution is everywhere accepted, even in\nthe churches, we see how groundless were the fears. All that is\nbeautiful and best we still have in religion in a degree never before\nknown.\n\nIn an essay on \"Manners and Fashion,\" published in the \"Westminster\nReview\" of Eighteen Hundred Fifty-four, Herbert Spencer says: \"Forms,\nceremonies and even beliefs are cast aside only when they become\nhindrances--only when some finer and better plan has been formed; and\nthey bequeath to us all the good that was in them. The abolition of\ntyrannical laws has left the administration of justice not only\nunimpaired, but purified. Dead and buried creeds have not carried down\nwith them the essential morality they contained, which still exists,\nuncontaminated by the sloughs of superstition. And all that there is of\njustice, kindness and beauty embodied in our cumbrous forms will live\nperennially, when the forms themselves have been repudiated and\nforgotten.\"\n\nIn the year Eighteen Hundred Fifty-five, Spencer issued his \"Principles\nof Psychology,\" showing that the doctrine of evolution was then with him\na fixed fact. The struggle was on, and from now forward his life was\nenlisted to viewing this theory from every side, anticipating every\npossible objection to it, and restating the case in its relation to\nevery phase of life and nature.\n\nSpencer's income was small, but his wants were few, and a single room in\na boarding-house sufficed for both workshop and sleeping-room. To a\ndegree, he now largely ceased original investigations and made use of\nthe work of others. His intuitive mind, long trained in analytical\nresearch, was able to sift the false from the true, the trite from the\npeculiar, the exceptional from the normal.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe year Eighteen Hundred Sixty should be marked on history's page with\na silver star, for it was in that year that Herbert Spencer issued his\nfamous prospectus setting forth that he was engaged in formulating a\nsystem of philosophy which he proposed to issue in periodical parts to\nsubscribers. He then followed with an outline of the ground he intended\nto cover. Ten volumes would be issued, and he proposed to take twenty\nyears to complete the task.\n\nThe entire Synthetic Philosophy was then in his mind and he knew what he\nwanted to do. The courage and faith of the man were dauntless. Michael\nRossetti once said, \"Spencer, Darwin, Huxley, Tyndall and Wallace owe\nnothing to the universities of England, except for the scorn and\nopposition that have been offered them.\" But patriotic Americans and\ntrue are glad to remember that it was Professor E. L. Youmans of Yale\nwho made it possible for Spencer to carry out his great plan. Five years\nafter the prospectus was issued, Spencer was again penniless and was\nthinking seriously of abandoning the project. Youmans heard of this and\nreissued the prospectus, and sent it out among the thinking men of the\nworld, asking them to subscribe. The announcement was then followed up\nby letters, and Youmans forced the issue until the sum of seven thousand\ndollars was raised. This he took over to Europe in person and presented\nto Spencer, with a gold watch and a box of cigars. Youmans found\nSpencer at his boarding-house, and together they wandered out in the\npark, where Youmans presented the philosopher the box of cigars. The\ngreat man took out one, cut it in three parts and proceeded to smoke\none, then Youmans handed him the gold watch and the draft for the money.\n\nSpencer took the gifts of the watch and cigars and was much moved, but\nwhen it was followed by the draft for seven thousand dollars, he merely\ngasped and said: \"Wonderful! Magnificent! Magnificent! Wonderful!\" and\nsmoked his third of a cigar in silence. And when he spoke, it was to\nsay: \"I think I will have to revise what I wrote in 'First Principles'\non the matter of divine providence.\"\n\nThose who have read Spencer's will must remember that this watch,\npresented to him by his American friends, is given a special paragraph.\n\nSpencer once said to Huxley, \"From the day I first carried that watch,\nevery good thing I needed has been brought and laid at my feet.\"\n\n\"If I have succeeded in my art, it is simply because I have been well\nsustained,\" said Henry Irving in one of his modest, flattering, yet\ncharming little speeches.\n\nSir Henry might have gone on and said that no man succeeds unless well\nsustained, and happy is that man who has radioactivity of spirit enough\nto attract to him loving and loyal helpers who scintillate his rays.\n\nThe average individual does not know very much about Edward L. Youmans,\nbut no man ever did greater work in popularizing nature study in\nAmerica. And if for nothing else, let his name be deathless for two\nthings: he inspired John Burroughs with the thirst to see and know--and\nthen to write--and he introduced Herbert Spencer to the world. It is\neasy to say that Burroughs was peeping his shell when Youmans discovered\nhim, and that Spencer would have found a way in any event. We simply do\nnot know what would have happened if something else occurred, or hadn't.\n\nYoumans was born in a New York State country village, and very early\ndiscovered for himself that the world was full of curious and wonderful\nthings, just as most children do. He became a district school-teacher,\nand so far as we know, was the very first man to publicly advocate\nnature study as a distinctive means of child-growth. He taught his\nchildren to observe; then he gave lectures on elementary botany; he\nstudied and he wrote, and he worked at the microscope.\n\nAnd he became blind.\n\nDid the closest observer on the continent cease work and grow\ndiscouraged when sight failed? Not he.\n\nHe no more quit work than did Beethoven cease composing music when he no\nlonger was able to hear it.\n\nWe hear with the imagination, and we see with the soul. Youmans' sister,\nEliza Anne, became his guide and amanuensis; he saw the things through\nher eyes and inspected the wonders with his finger-tips.\n\nHe became professor of Physics and Natural History at Yale, and when the\nNew England Lecture Lyceum was at its height, he rivaled Phillips,\nEmerson and Beecher as a popular attraction. He made science a pleasure\nto plain people, and started Starr King off on that tangent of putting\nknowledge in fairylike and acceptable form. Youmans' lecture on \"The\nChemistry of a Sunbeam\" is one of the unforgettable things of a\ngeneration past, so full of animation and rare, radiant spirit of\ngood-cheer was the man. He founded the \"Popular Science Monthly,\" wrote\na dozen books on science, and several of these are now used in most of\nthe colleges and advanced schools of America and England.\n\nThe man had a head for business--he became rich.\n\nIt was about the year Eighteen Hundred Fifty-six that Youmans was in\nEngland on a business errand, introducing his books in the English\nschools, that he first met Herbert Spencer, having been attracted to him\nthrough a chance copy of \"Social Statics\" that his sister had read to\nhim. Youmans saw that Spencer was going right to the heart of things in\na way he himself could not. The men became friends, and of all Youmans'\nwonderful discoveries, he considered Herbert Spencer the greatest.\n\n\"Sir Humphry Davy discovered, and possibly evolved, Michael Faraday; but\nI didn't evolve Herbert Spencer, any more than Balboa evolved the\nPacific Ocean,\" said Youmans at a dinner given to Herbert Spencer when\nhe visited New York in Eighteen Hundred Eighty-one. The name of Youmans\nis not in the Hall of Fame as one of the world's great men, but as\nnaturalist, teacher, writer, lecturer and practical man of affairs, he\nreflects credit on his Maker. The light went out of his eyes, but it\nnever went out of his soul.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIn making payment to a publishing-house for sixty volumes of an American\nhistorical work, Speaker Cannon recently made this endorsement on the\nback of the check:\n\n\"This check is in full payment, both legal and moral, for sixty volumes\nof books. The books are not worth a damn--and are dear at that. We are\nnever too old to learn, but the way your gentlemanly agent came it over\nyour Uncle Joseph, is worth the full amount.\"\n\nWhen Speaker Cannon says the books are not worth a damn, he does not\nnecessarily state a fact about the books: he merely states a fact about\nhimself--that is, he gives his opinion. The value of the books is still\nundetermined.\n\nThe Speaker's discontent with the books seems to have arisen from the\none fact that he had to pay for them.\n\nThis condition is a classic one, and the world long ago has conceded to\nthe man who pays, the privilege of protest. When Herbert Spencer issued\nthat world-famous prospectus, announcing his intention to publish ten\nvolumes setting forth his Synthetic Philosophy, it was one of the most\ndaring things ever done in the realm of thought. Spencer was forty, and\nhe was penniless and obscure. He had issued two books at his own\nexpense, and it had taken twelve years to dispose of seven hundred fifty\ncopies of one, and most of the edition of the other was still on hand.\nEdward L. Youmans had such faith in Spencer that he sent out the\nprospectus, and followed it up with letters and personal solicitations,\nuntil seven thousand dollars was subscribed, and Herbert Spencer,\nrelieved from the uncertainties of finance, was free to think and write.\n\nAmong other subscribers secured by Youmans, was the Reverend Doctor\nJowett of Balliol. Spencer's books were issued in periodical parts.\nAfter paying for three years, Jowett sent a check to the publishers for\nthe full amount of the subscription, saying, in an accompanying note:\n\"To save myself the bother of periodical payments for Mr. Spencer's\nbooks, I herewith hand you check covering the full amount of my\nsubscription. I feel that I have already had full returns, for, while\nthe books are absolutely valueless, save as showing the industry of an\nuneducated and indiscreet person, yet the experience that has come to me\nin this transaction is not without its benefits.\"\n\nThis is the Oxford way of expressing the Illinois formula, \"Your books\nare not worth a damn--and are dear at that.\"\n\nBut the curious part of this transaction is that, after the death of\nDoctor Jowett, his library was sold at auction, and his set of the\nSynthetic Philosophy brought an advance of eight times its original\ncost.\n\nTruly my Lord Hamlet doth say:\n\n  Rashly,\n  And prais'd be rashness for it--let us know,\n  Our indiscretion sometimes serves us well,\n  When our deep plots do fail.\n\nNo one man's opinion concerning any book, or any man, is final. Speaker\nCannon is admired by one set of men and detested by others--all of equal\nintelligence, although on this point the Speaker might possibly file an\nexception.\n\nBooks are condemned offhand, or regarded as Bibles--it all depends upon\nyour point of view. Speaker Cannon may be right in his estimate of the\nnewly annexed sixty volumes of history that now grace his\nlibrary-shelves in Danville, proudly shown to constituents, or he may be\nwrong; but anyway, Cannon's judgment about books is probably worth no\nmore than was the Reverend Doctor Jowett's. Gladstone spoke of Jowett as\nthat \"saintly character\"; and Disraeli called him \"the bear of\nBalliol--erratic, obtuse and perverse.\" But Jowett, Gladstone and\nDisraeli all united in this: they had supreme contempt for the work of\nHerbert Spencer; while the Honorable Joseph Cannon is neutral, but\ninclined to be generous, having recently in a speech quoted from the\n\"Faerie Queene,\" which he declared was the best thing Herbert Spencer\nhad written, even if it was not fully up to date.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nAll during his life, Spencer was subject to attacks of indigestion and\ninsomnia. That these bad spells were \"a disease of the imagination\" made\nthem no less real. His isolation and lack of social ties gave him time\nto feel his pulse and lie in wait for sleepless nights.\n\nWith the old ladies of his boarding-house, he was on friendly terms, and\nhis commonplace talk with them never gave them a guess concerning the\nworldwide character of his work. Very seldom did he refer to what he was\ndoing and thinking--and then only among his most intimate friends.\nHuxley was his nearest confidant; and a recent writer, who knew him\nclosely in a business way for many years, says that only with Huxley did\nhe throw off his reserve and enter the social lists with abandon.\n\nNo one could meet Spencer, even in the most casual way, without being\nimpressed with the fact that he was in the presence of a most superior\nperson. The man was tall and gaunt, self-contained--a little aloof--he\nasked for nothing, and realized his own worth. He commanded respect\nbecause he respected himself--there was neither abnegation, apology nor\nabasement in his manner. Once I saw him walking in the Strand, and I\nnoticed that the pedestrians instinctively made way, although probably\nnot one out of a thousand had any idea who he was. No one ever affronted\nhim, nor spoke disrespectfully to his face; if unkind things were said\nof the man and his work, it was in print and at a distance.\n\nHis standard of life was high--his sense of justice firm; with pretense\nand hypocrisy he had little patience, while for the criminal he had a\nprofound pity.\n\nMusic was to him a relaxation and a rest. He knew the science of\ncomposition, and was familiar in detail with the best work of the great\ncomposers.\n\nIn order to preserve the quiet of his thoughts in the boarding-house, he\ndevised a pair of ear-muffs which fitted on his head with a spring.\n\nIf the conversation took a turn in which he had no interest, he would\nexcuse himself to his nearest neighbor and put on his ear-muffs. The\nplan worked so well that he carried them with him wherever he went, and\noccasionally at lectures or concerts, when he would grow more interested\nin his thoughts than in the performance, he would adjust his patent.\n\nSo well pleased was he with his experiment that he had a dozen pairs of\nthe ear-muffs made one Christmas and gave them to friends, but it is\nhardly probable they had the hardihood to carry them to a Four-o'Clock.\nSeldom, indeed, is there a man who prizes his thoughts more than a\npolite appearance.\n\nIn an address before the London Medical Society, in Eighteen Hundred\nSeventy-one, Spencer said, \"The man who does not believe in devils\nduring his life, will probably never be visited by devils on his\ndeathbed.\" Herbert Spencer died December Eighth, Nineteen Hundred\nThree, in his eighty-fourth year. Up to within two days of his death,\nhis mind was clear, active and alert, and he worked at his books with\npleasure and animation--revising, correcting and amending. He never lost\nthe calm serenity of life. He sank gradually into sleep and passed\npainlessly away. And thus was gracefully rounded out the greatest life\nof its age--The Age of Herbert Spencer.\n\nHe left no request as to where he should be buried, but the thinking\npeople who recognized his genius considered Westminster Abbey the\nfitting place--an honor to England's Valhalla. The Church of England\ndenied him a place there before it was asked, and the hallowed precincts\nwhich shelter the remains of Queen Anne's cook and John Broughton the\npugilist are not for Herbert Spencer. His dust does not rest in\nconsecrated ground.\n\nHerbert Spencer had no titles nor degrees--he belonged to no sect,\nparty, nor society. Practically, he had no recognition in England until\nafter he was sixty years of age. America first saw his star in the east,\nand long before the first edition of \"Social Statics\" had been sold, we\nwaived the matter of copyright and were issuing the book here. On\nreceiving a volume of the pirated edition, the author paraphrased\nByron's famous mot, and grimly said, \"Now, Barabbas was an American.\"\n\nHowever, Spencer was really pleased to think that America should steal\nhis book; we wanted it--the English didn't. It took him twelve years to\ndispose of the seven hundred fifty volumes, and most of these were given\naway as inscribed copies. They lasted about as long as Walt Whitman's\nfirst edition of \"Leaves of Grass,\" although Whitman had the assistance\nof the Attorney-General of Massachusetts in advertising his remarkable\nvolume.\n\nHenry Thoreau's first book fared better, for when the house burned where\nthe remnant of four hundred copies lingered long, he wrote to a friend,\n\"Thank God, the edition is exhausted.\"\n\nEngland recognized the worth of Thoreau and Whitman long before America\ndid; and so, perhaps, it was meet that we should do as much for Spencer,\nRuskin and Carlyle.\n\nOne of the most valuable of the many great thoughts evolved by Spencer\nwas on the \"Art of Mentation,\" or brain-building. You can not afford to\nfix your mind on devils or hell, or on any other form of fear, hate and\nrevenge. Of course, hell is for others, and the devils we believe in are\nnot for ourselves. But the thoughts of these things are registered in\nthe brain, and the hell we create for others, we ourselves eventually\nfall into; and the devils we conjure forth, return and become our\ninseparable companions. That is to say, all thought and all work--all\neffort--are for the doer primarily, and as a man thinketh in his heart,\nso is he. This sounds like the language of metaphysics, which Kant said\nwas the science of disordered moonshine. But Herbert Spencer's work was\nall a matter of analytical demonstration. And while the word\n\"materialist\" was everywhere applied to him, and he did not resent it,\nyet he was one of the most spiritual of men. A meta-physician is one who\nproves ten times as much as he believes; a scientist is one who believes\nten times as much as he can prove. Science speaks with lowered voice.\nBefore Spencer's time, German scientists had discovered that the cell\nwas the anatomical unit of life, but it was for Spencer to show that it\nwas also the psychologic or spiritual unit. New thoughts mean new\nbrain-cells, and every new experience or emotion is building and\nstrengthening a certain area of brain-tissue. We grow only through\nexercise, and all expression is exercise. The faculties we use grow\nstrong, and those not used, atrophy and wither away. This is no less\ntrue, said Spencer, in the material brain than in the material muscle. A\nnew thought causes a new structural enregistration. If it is the\nrepetition of thought, the cells holding that thought are exercised and\ntrained, and finally they act automatically, and repeated thought\nbecomes habit, and exercised habit becomes character--and character is\nthe man. It thus is plain that no man can afford to entertain the\nthought of fear, hate and revenge--and their concomitants, devils and\nhell--because he is enregistering these things physically in his being.\nThese physical cells, as science has shown, are transmitted to\noffspring; and thus through continued mind-activity and consequent\nbrain-cell building, a race with fixed characteristics is evolved.\nPleasant memories and good thoughts must be exercised, and these in time\nwill replace evil memories, so that the cells containing negative\ncharacteristics will atrophy and die. And when Herbert Spencer says that\nthe process of doing away with evil is not through punishment, threat or\ninjunction, but simply through a change of activities--thus allowing the\nbad to die through disuse--he states a truth that is even now coloring\nour whole fabric of pedagogics and penology. I couple these two words\nadvisedly, for fifty years ago, pedagogics was a form of penology--the\nboarding-school with its mentors, scheme of fines, repressions and\ndisgrace! And now we have lifted penology into the realm of pedagogics.\nI doubt me much whether the present penitentiary is a more unhappy place\nthan a boys' English boarding-school was in the time of Squeers.\n\nAll of our progress has come from replacing bad activities with the\ngood. Bad people we now believe are good folks who have misdirected\ntheir energies; and we all believe a deal more in the goodness of the\nbad than the badness of the good, with the result that \"total depravity\"\nand \"endless punishment\" have been shamed out of every pulpit where\nsane men preach. No devils danced on the footboard of Herbert Spencer's\nbed, because there were no devil-cells in his brain.\n\nAnother great discovery of Herbert Spencer's was that the emotions\ncontrol the secretions. And the quality of the secretions determines the\nchemical changes which constitute all cellular growth. Thus, cheerful,\nhappy emotions are similar to sunshine--they stand for health and\nharmony, and as such, are constructive. Good-will is sanitary; kindness\nis hygienic; friendship works for health. These happy emotions secrete a\nquality in the blood called anabolism, which is essentially vitalizing\nand life-producing.\n\nOn the other hand, fear, hate, and all forms of unkindness evolve a\ntoxin, katabolism, which tends to clog circulation, disturb digestion,\ncongest the secretions and stupefy the senses; and it tends to the\ndissolution and destruction of life. All that saddens, embitters and\ndisappoints produces this chemical change that makes for death. \"A\npoison,\" said Spencer, \"is only a concentrated form of hate.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nSpencer's discoveries in electricity have been most valuable, and it was\nby building on his suggestions and seeing with his prophetic eye that\nthe Crookes Tube, the Roentgen Ray, and the discovery of radium have\nbecome possible.\n\nThe distinguishing feature of radium is its radioactivity, brought about\nthrough its affinity for electricity. It absorbs electricity from the\natmosphere and gives it off spontaneously in the form of light and heat\nwithout appreciable loss of form or substance. Every good thing in life\nis dual, and through this natural and spontaneous marriage of radium and\nelectricity, we get very close to the secret of life. As the sun is the\ngiver of life and death, so by the use of the salts of radium have\nscientists vitalized certain forms of cell-life into growth and\nactivity, and by the same token, and the use of the radium-ray, do they\ndestroy the germs of disease.\n\nBy his prophetic vision, Spencer saw years ago that we would yet be able\nto eliminate and refine the substances of earth until we found the\nelement that would combine spontaneously with electricity, and radiate\nlife and heat. Among the very last letters dictated by Spencer, only a\nfew days before his death, was one to Madame Curie congratulating her on\nher discovery of radium, and urging her not to relax in her further\nefforts to seek out the secret of life. \"My only regret is,\" wrote the\ngreat man, \"that I will not be here to rejoice with you in the fulness\nof your success.\" Thus to the last did he preserve the eager, curious\nand receptive heart of youth, and prove to the scientific world his\ntheory that brain-cells, properly exercised, are the last organs of the\nbody to lose their functions.\n\n\n\n\nSCHOPENHAUER\n\n\n     Wherever one goes one immediately comes upon this incorrigible mob\n     of humanity. It exists everywhere in legions; crowding, soiling\n     everything, like flies in summer. Hence the numberless bad books,\n     those rank weeds of literature which extract nourishment from the\n     corn and choke it. They monopolize the time, money and attention\n     which really belong to good books and their noble aims; they are\n     written merely with a view to making money or procuring places.\n     They are not only useless, but they do positive harm. Nine-tenths\n     of the whole of our present literature aims solely at taking a few\n     shillings out of the public's pocket, and to accomplish this,\n     author, publisher and reviewer have joined forces.\n\n                                                --_Schopenhauer_\n\n[Illustration: SCHOPENHAUER]\n\n\nThe philosophy we evolve is determined by what we are; just as a nation\npasses laws legalizing the things it wishes to do. \"Where the artist is,\nthere you will find art,\" said Whistler. We will not get the Ideal\nCommonwealth until we get Ideal People; and we will not get an ideal\nphilosophy until we get an ideal philosopher. Place the mentally and\nmorally slipshod in ideal surroundings and they will quickly evolve a\nslum, just as did John Shakespeare, when at Stratford he was fined two\npounds ten for maintaining a sequinarium. All we can say for John is\nthat he was the author of a fine boy, who resembled his mother much more\nthan he did his father. This seems to prove Schopenhauer's remark\nconcerning a divine sonship: \"Paternity is a cheap office, anyway,\naccomplished without cost, care or risk, and of it no one should boast.\nA divine motherhood is the only thing that is really sacred.\"\n\nIt isn't his philosophy that makes a man--man makes his philosophy, and\nhe makes it in his own image. Living in a world of strife, where the\nmost savage beast that roams the earth is man, the Philosophy of\nPessimism has its place.\n\nSchopenhauer proved himself a true philosopher when he said: \"All we\nsee in the world is a projection from our own minds. I may see one\nthing, you another; and according to the test of a third party we are\nboth wrong, for he sees something else. So we are all wrong, yet all are\nright.\"\n\nHe was quite willing to admit that he had a well-defined moral squint\nand a touch of mental strabismus; but he revealed his humanity by\nblaming his limitations on his parents, and charging up his faults and\nfoibles to other people.\n\nIt is possible that Carlyle's famous remark about the people who daily\ncross London Bridge was inspired by Schopenhauer, who, when asked what\nkind of people the Berliners were, replied, \"Mostly fools!\"\n\n\"I believe,\" ventured the interrogator--\"I believe, Herr Schopenhauer,\nthat you yourself live at Berlin?\"\n\n\"I do,\" was the response, \"and I feel very much at home there.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nHeinrich Schopenhauer, the father of Arthur Schopenhauer, was a banker\nand shipping merchant of the city of Danzig, Germany. He was a\nsuccessful man, and, like all successful men, he was an egotist. Before\nthe world will believe in you, you must believe in yourself. And another\nnecessary element in success is that you must exaggerate your own\nimportance, and the importance of your work. Self-esteem will not alone\nmake you successful, but without a goodly jigger of self-esteem, success\nwill forever dally and dance just beyond your reach. The humble men who\nhave succeeded in impressing themselves upon the world have all taken\nmuch pride in their humility.\n\nHeinrich Schopenhauer was a proud man--as proud as the Merchant of\nVenice--and in his veins there ran a strain of the blue blood of the\nCastilian Jew. Too much success is most unfortunate. Heinrich\nSchopenhauer was proud, unbending, harsh, arbitrary, wore a full beard\nand a withering smile, and looked upon musicians, painters, sculptors\nand writers as court clowns, to be trusted only as far as you could\nfling Taurus by the tail. All good bookkeepers have, even yet, this\npitying contempt for those whose chief assets are ideas--the legal\ntender of the spirit. The Alameda smile is the smile of scorn worn by\nthe bookkeepers who prepare the balance-sheets for the great merchants\nof San Francisco. Alameda is young, but the Alameda smile is classic.\n\nWhen Heinrich Schopenhauer was forty he married a beautiful girl of\ntwenty. She had ideas about art and poetry, and was passing through her\nByronic stage, before Byron did, and taking it rather hard, when her\nparents gave her in troth to Heinrich Schopenhauer, the rich merchant.\nIt was regarded as a great catch.\n\nI wish that I could say that Heinrich and Johanna were happy ever after,\nbut in view of the well-known facts put forth by their firstborn child,\nI can not do it.\n\nBefore marriage the woman has her way: let her make the most of her\npower--she'll not keep it long! Shortly after their marriage Heinrich\nsaw symptoms of the art instinct creeping in, and players on sweet\nzither-strings, who occasionally called, compelled him to take measures.\nHe bought a country seat, four miles from the city, on an inaccessible\nroad, and sent his bride thither. Here he visited her only on Saturdays\nand Sundays, and her callers were the good folk he chose to bring with\nhim.\n\nMarital peace is only possible where women are properly\nsuppressed--lumity dee!\n\nIt was under these conditions that Arthur Schopenhauer was born, on\nFebruary Twenty-second--in deference to our George Washington--Seventeen\nHundred Eighty-eight.\n\nThe chief quality that Schopenhauer inherited from his father was the\nAlameda smile--and this smile of contempt was for all those who did not\nthink as he did. The mother never professed to have any love for her\nhusband, or the child either, and the child never professed to have any\nlove for his mother. He once wrote this: \"I was an unwelcome child, born\nof a mother in rebellion--she never wanted me, and I reciprocate the\nsentiment.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIn that troublous year of Seventeen Hundred Ninety-three, the Free City\nof Danzig fell under the sway of Prussia.\n\nHeinrich Schopenhauer, who loved freedom, jealous of his privileges,\nfearful of his rights, immediately packed up his effects, sold out his\nproperty--at great loss--and moved to the Free City of Hamburg.\n\nThat his fears for the future were quite groundless, as most fears are,\nis a fact relevant but not consequent.\n\nJohanna was vivacious and eminently social. She spoke French, German,\nEnglish and Italian. She played the harp, sang, wrote poetry and acted\nin dramas of her own composition. Around her there always clustered a\ngoodly group of men with long hair, dreamy eyes and pointed beards, who\nsoared high, dived deep, but seldom paid cash. This is the paradise to\nwhich most women wish to attain: to be followed by a concourse of\nartistic archangels--what nobler ambition! And let the great biological\nand historical fact here be written down--that there are no female\nangels.\n\nHeinrich did not settle down in Hamburg and go into business, as he\nexpected. He and his wife and boy traveled much--through England,\nFrance, Germany and Switzerland.\n\nThis man and his wife were trying to get away from themselves. Long\nyears after, their son wrote, \"When people die and wake up in hell they\nwill probably be surprised to find that they are just such beings as\nthey were when they were on earth.\"\n\nFor a year the lad was left at school with a clergyman at Wimbledon, in\nEngland. The strict religious discipline to which he was there subjected\nseemed to have had much to do with forming in him a fierce hatred of\nEnglish orthodoxy; but he learned the language and became familiar with\nthe great names in English literature. The King Arthur stories pleased\nhim, and he always took a peculiar satisfaction in the fact that the\nname Arthur was the same in English, German and French. He was a\nprenatal cosmopolitan.\n\nBoarding-schools are a great scheme for getting the children out of the\nway--it throws the responsibility upon some one else. When nine years of\nage, Arthur was placed in a French boarding-school, remaining for two\nyears. There he learned to speak French so fluently that when he\nreturned to Hamburg and tried to talk to his mother in German, his\nbroken speech threw that excellent woman into fits of laughter.\n\nWhen the mature man of affairs takes a young girl to wife, he expects to\nmold her to his nature, but he reckons without his host. Heinrich\nSchopenhauer's opposition to his wife's wishes was not strong enough to\ncrush her--it simply developed in her a deal of wilful, dogged strength.\n\nOne winter day in Eighteen Hundred Four the body of Heinrich\nSchopenhauer was found in the canal at Hamburg.\n\nArthur was then sixteen years of age--old for his years, traveled,\nclever--strong in body and robust in health.\n\nIn wandering with his parents, he had met Goethe, Wieland, Madame De\nStael, Lord Nelson and Lady Hamilton, and many other distinguished\npeople, for his mother was a famous lion-hunter, and wherever they went,\nthe great ones were tracked to their lairs. But however much Madame\nSchopenhauer indulged in hero-worship, she had no expectations or\nambitions for her son. She apprenticed him as a clerk and did her utmost\nto immerse him in commerce. What she desired was freedom for herself,\nand the popular plan to gain freedom is to enslave others. Madame\nSchopenhauer moved to Weimar and opened there a sort of literary salon.\nShe wrote verses, novels, essays, and her home became the center of a\ncertain artistic group. The fortune her husband had left was equal to\nabout forty thousand dollars, one-third of which was to go to Arthur\nwhen he was twenty-one. The mother had the handling of it all until that\ntime, and as the funds were well invested, her income was equal to about\ntwo thousand dollars a year.\n\nA handsome widow, under forty, with no encumbrances to speak of, and a\nfair income, is very fortunately situated. Indeed, a great writer has\nrecently written an essay showing that widows, discreetly bereaved, are\nthe happiest creatures on earth.\n\nYoung Schopenhauer, at his desk in Hamburg, grieved over the death of\nhis father. That which is lost becomes valuable--bereavement softens the\nheart. The only tenderness that is revealed in the writings of\nSchopenhauer refers to his father. He affirms the sterling honesty of\nthe man, and lauds the merchant who boldly states that he is in business\nto make money, and compares him with the philosophers who clutch for\npower and fame and yet pretend they are working for humanity. When\nSchopenhauer was past sixty, he dedicated his complete works to the\nmemory of his father. As nothing purifies like fire, so does nothing\nsanctify like death--the love we lose is the only love we keep.\n\nMathematics, bills and balance-sheets were odious to young Schopenhauer.\nHe reverenced the memory of his father, but his mother had endowed him\nwith a strong impulse for expression. He wrote little essays on the\nbacks of envelopes, philosophized over his bills, sneaked out of the\ncountingroom the back way to attend the afternoon lectures by the great\nDoctor Gall, and finally, boldly followed his mother to Weimar, that he\nmight bask in the shadow of the mighty Goethe. It was shortly after this\nthat he sat in a niche of Goethe's library, musing, sad and solitary,\nwhile a gay throng chattered by. Some young women, seeing him there,\nlaughed, and one asked, \"Is it alive?\" And Goethe, overhearing the\npleasantry, rebuked it by saying, \"Do not smile at that youth--he will\nyet eclipse us all.\"\n\nAt Weimar there was no greeting for Schopenhauer from his mother--she\nwelcomed all but her son. Unfortunately for her, she put herself on\nrecord by writing him letters. Scathing letters are all right, but they\nshould be directed and stamped, then burned just before they are trusted\nto the mails. To record unkindness is tragedy, for the unkind word lives\nlong after the event that caused it is forgotten. Here is one letter\nwritten by Madame Schopenhauer that this methodical son saved for\nposterity:\n\n\n     _My Dear Son:_\n\n     I have always told you it is difficult to live with you. The more I\n     get to know you, the more I feel this difficulty increase. I will\n     not hide it from you: as long as you are what you are, I would\n     rather bring any sacrifice than consent to be near you. I do not\n     undervalue your good points, and that which repels me does not lie\n     in your heart; it is in your outer, not your inner being; in your\n     ideas, your judgment, your habits; in a word, there is nothing\n     concerning the outer world in which we agree. Your ill-humor, your\n     complaints of things inevitable, your sullen looks, the\n     extraordinary opinions you utter, like oracles, none may presume to\n     contradict; all this depresses me and troubles me, without helping\n     you. Your eternal quibbles, your laments over the stupid world and\n     human misery, give me bad nights and unpleasant dreams....\n\n                                              Your Dear Mother, etc.,\n                                                  _Johanna Schopenhauer_\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe young man took lodgings at Weimar, at a goodly distance from his\nmother. Goethe held out a friendly hand, as he did to Mendelssohn, and\nall bright young men. They talked much, and Goethe read to Arthur his\nessay on the theory of colors (for Wolfgang Goethe was human and dearly\nloved the sound of his own voice). The reasoning so impressed the youth\nthat he devised a chromatic theory of his own--almost as peculiar.\nTheories are for the theorizer, so all theories are useful.\n\nAt the earnest importunity of his mother, who starved him to it, Arthur\nwent back to his clerkship, but soon returned and made terms, agreeing\nnot to call on his mother, in consideration of a pound a week. He took\nlessons in Greek and Latin of a retired professor, attended lectures,\nfell in love with an actress--vowed he would marry her, but, luckily for\nher, he didn't.\n\nWhen he was twenty-one, his mother turned over to him his patrimony,\namounting to about fourteen thousand dollars; and suggested that he\nleave Weimar and make his fortune elsewhere--the world was wide.\n\nHis money was invested so it brought him an income of seven hundred\ndollars a year. And here seems a good place to say that Schopenhauer's\nincome was never over a thousand dollars a year until after he was\nfifty-six years of age. Although he could not make money, yet he had\ninherited from his father an ability to care for it. Throughout his life\nhe kept exact books of account, never ran in debt, and never allowed\nhis expenditures to outrun his income, thus complying with Charles\nDickens' recipe for happiness.\n\nIn still another way he revealed that he could apply philosophy to daily\nlife: he exercised regularly in the open air, took long walks, was\nabsurdly exact about his cold baths, and like Kant, served the neighbors\nas a chronometer, so they set their clocks at three when they saw him\ngoing forth for a walk. And in the interests of truth, we will have to\nmake the embarrassing admission that the great Apostle of Pessimism was\nneither a dyspeptic nor an invalid--if he was ever aware that he had a\nstomach we do not hear of it.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe life of Schopenhauer is the life of a recluse--a visionary--a hermit\nwho lost himself amid the maze of city streets, and moved solitary in\nthe throng. Berlin, Dresden, Hamburg, Gottingen, Frankfort, engaged him,\nand from one to the other he turned, looking for the rest he never\nfound, and which he knew he would never find, so in the vain search\nthere was no disappointment. He was always happiest when most miserable,\nfor then were his theories proved.\n\nA single room in a lodging-house sufficed, and this room always had the\nappearance of being occupied by a transient. He had few books,\naccumulated no belongings in way of domestic ballast, persistently\ngiving away things that were presented to him, satisfied if he had a\nchair, a bed, and a table upon which to write; getting his own\nbreakfast, dining at the table d'hote of the nearest inn, with supper at\na \"Gast-Haus\"--so passed his days. He had no intimate friends, and his\nchief dissipation was playing the flute. His black poodle, named \"Homo\"\nin a subtle mood of irony, accompanied him everywhere, and on this dog\nhe lavished what he was pleased to call his love. He anticipated Rip Van\nWinkle concerning dogs and women, and when Homo died, he bought another\ndog that looked exactly like the first, and was just as good.\n\nIn a few instances Schopenhauer read his essays in public as lectures,\nbut his ideas were keyed to concert pitch and were too pronounced for\naverage audiences. He was offered a professorship at Gottingen and also\nat Heidelberg, if he would \"tone things down,\" but he scornfully\ndeclined the proposition, and said, \"The Universities must grow to my\nlevel before I can talk to them.\" By his caustic criticisms of\ncontemporaries he became both feared and shunned, and no doubt he found\na certain satisfaction in the fact that the so-called learned men of his\ntime would neither listen to his lectures, read his books, nor abide his\npresence. He had made himself felt in any event. \"Blessed are ye when\nmen shall revile you,\" is the sweet consolation of all persecuted\npersons--and persecution is only the natural resentment towards those\nwho have too much ego in their cosmos.\n\nHis opinions concerning love and marriage need not be taken too\nseriously. Ideas are the results of temperaments and moods. When a man\namplifies on the woman question he describes the women he knows best,\nand more especially the particular She who is in his head. Literature is\nonly autobiography, more or less discreetly veiled. Schopenhauer hated\nhis mother to the day of her death, and although during the last\ntwenty-four years of her life he never once saw her, her image could at\nany time be quickly and vividly thrown upon the screen. The women a\nstrong man has known are never forgotten--here is where time does not\ntarnish, nor the days grow dim.\n\nBetween his twenty-eighth and fortieth years, Schopenhauer had wandered\nthrough Italy--spent months at Venice, and dawdled away the days at Rome\nand Florence. He had dipped deep into life--and the wrong kind of life.\nAnd his experiences had confirmed his suspicions--it was all bitter--he\nwas not disappointed.\n\nUntil Schopenhauer was past thirty he was known as the son of Johanna\nSchopenhauer. And when he once told her that posterity would never\nremember her except as the mother of her son, she reciprocated by\ncongratulating him that his books could always be had cheap in the first\neditions.\n\nHe retorted, \"Mamma Dear, my books will be read when butchers are using\nyours for wrapping up meat.\" In some ways this precious pair were very\nmuch alike.\n\nIt is very probable that Schopenhauer's mother was not so base as he\nthought; and when he declared, \"Woman's morality is only a kind of\nprudence,\" he might have said the same of his own. He stood aloof from\nlife and said things about it. He had no wife, no child, no business, no\nhome--he dared not venture boldly into the tide of existence--he stood\nforever on the bank, and watched the current carrying its flotsam and\njetsam to the hungry sea.\n\nIn his love for the memory of his father, and in his tender care for his\ndog, we get a glimpse of depths that were never sounded. One side of his\nnature was never developed. And the words of the undeveloped man are\nworth what they are worth.\n\nSchopenhauer once said to Wieland, \"Life is a ticklish business--I\npropose to spend my time looking at it.\" This he did, viewing existence\nfrom every angle, and writing out his thoughts in terse, epigrammatic\nlanguage.\n\nAmong all the German writers on philosophy, the only one who had a\ndistinct literary style is Schopenhauer. Form was quite as much to him\nas matter--and in this he showed rare wisdom; although I am told that\nthe writers who have no literary style are the only ones who despise it.\nDishes to be palatable must be rightly served: appetite--literary,\ngastronomic or sexual--is largely a matter of imagination.\n\nSchopenhauer need not be regarded as final. The chief virtue of the man\nlies in the fact that he makes us think, and thus are we his debtors.\n\nIn this summary of Schopenhauer's philosophy I have had the valuable\nassistance of my friend and fellow-worker in the Roycroft Shop, George\nPannebakker, a kinsman and enthusiastic admirer of the great Prophet of\nPessimism.\n\nIn talking to Mr. Pannebakker, I am inclined to exclaim, \"Thou almost\npersuadest me to be a pessimist!\" It is unfortunate that our English\ntongue contains no word that stands somewhere between pessimism and\noptimism--that symbols a judicial cast of mind which sees the Truth\nwithout blinking and accepts it without complaint. The word Pessimist\nwas first flung in contempt at those who dared to express unpalatable\ntruth. It is now accepted by a large number of intellectuals, and if to\nbe a pessimist is to have insight, wit, calm courage, patience,\npersistency, and a disposition that accepts all Fate sends and makes the\nbest of it, then pity 'tis we haven't more.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe root of existence, the inmost kernel of all being, the original\nvitalizing power, the fundamental reality of the universe, is, according\nto Schopenhauer, \"WILL.\" What is Will? Will, in the usual sense, is the\nfaculty of our mind by which we decide to do or not to do. Will is the\npower to choose. In Schopenhauer's philosophy, Will is something less as\nwe know will, and something more than force. Will, connected with\nconsciousness, as peculiar to man, is, in a less developed form, the\nreal essence of all matter, of all things, organic or inorganic. Will is\nthe blind, irresistible striving for existence; the unconscious\norganizing power, the omnipotent creative force of Nature, pervading the\nwhole limitless universe; the endeavor to be, to evolve, to expand.\n\nThe whole world of phenomena is the objectivation or apparition of Will.\n\nWill, the same force which slumbers in the stone as inert gravity, forms\nthe crystals with such wonderful regularity.\n\nWill impels a piece of iron to move with ardent desire toward the\nmagnet. Will causes the magnet to point with unfailing constancy to the\nnorth. Will causes the embryo to cling as a parasite and feed on the\nbody of the mother. Will causes the mother's breast to fill that her\nbabe may be fed. Will fills the mother-heart with love that the young\nmay be cared for.\n\nThe same force urges the tender germ of the plant to break through the\nhard crust of the earth and, stretching toward the light, to enfold\nitself in the proud crown of the palm-tree. Will sharpens the beak of\nthe eagle and the tooth of the tiger and, finally, reaches its highest\ngrade of objectivation in the human brain. Want, the struggle for\nexistence, the necessity of procuring and selecting sufficient food for\nthe preservation of the individual and the species, has at last\ndeveloped a suitable tool, the brain, and its function, the intellect.\nWith the intellect appear consciousness and a realm of rational life\nfull of yearning and desires, pleasures and pain, hatred and love.\nBrothers slay their brothers, conquerors trample down the races of the\nearth, and tyrants are forging chains for the nations.\n\nThere is violence and fear, vexation and trouble. Unrest is the mark of\nexistence, and onward we are swept in the hurrying whirlpool of change.\nThis manifold restless motion is produced and kept up by the agency of\ntwo single impulses--hunger and the sexual instinct. These are the chief\nagents of the Lord of the Universe--the Will--and set in motion so\nstrange and varied a scene.\n\nThe Will-to-Live is at the bottom of all love-affairs. Every kind of\nlove springs entirely from the instinct of sex.\n\nLove is under bonds to secure the existence of the human race in future\ntimes. The real aim of the whole of love's romance, although the persons\nconcerned are unconscious of the fact, is that a particular being may\ncome into the world.\n\nIt is the Will-to-Live, presenting itself in the whole species, which so\nforcibly and exclusively attracts two individuals of different sex\ntowards each other.\n\nThis yearning and this pain do not arise from the needs of an ephemeral\nindividual, but are, on the contrary, the sigh of the Spirit of the\nSpecies.\n\nSince life is essentially suffering, the propagation of the species is\nan evil--the feeling of shame proves it.\n\nIn his \"Metaphysics of Love,\" Schopenhauer says: \"We see a pair of\nlovers exchanging longing glances--yet why so secretly, timidly and\nstealthily? Because these lovers are traitors secretly striving to\nperpetuate all the misery and turmoil that otherwise would come to a\ntimely end.\"\n\nWill, as the source of life, is the origin of all evil.\n\nHaving awakened to life from the night of unconsciousness, the\nindividual finds itself in an endless and boundless world, striving,\nsuffering, erring; and, as though passing through an ominous dream, it\nhurries back to the old unconsciousness. Until then, however, its\ndesires are boundless, and every satisfied wish begets a new one.\nSo-called pleasures are only a mode of temporary relief. Pain soon\nreturns in the form of satiety. Life is a more or less violent\noscillation between pain and ennui. The latter, like a bird of prey,\nhovers over us, ready to swoop down wherever it sees a life secure from\nneed.\n\nThe enjoyment of art, as the disinterested cognition devoid of Will, can\nafford an interval of rest from the drudgery of Will service. But\nesthetic beatitude can be obtained only by a few; it is not for the hoi\npolloi. And then, art can give only a transient consolation.\n\nEverything in life indicates that earthly happiness is destined to be\nfrustrated or to be recognized as an illusion. Life proves a continuous\ndeception, in great as well as in small matters. If it makes a promise,\nit does not keep it, unless to show that the coveted object was little\ndesirable.\n\nLife is a business that does not pay expenses.\n\nMisery and pain form the essential feature of existence.\n\nLife is hell, and happy is that man who is able to procure for himself\nan asbestos overcoat and a fire-proof room.\n\nLooking at the turmoil of life, we find all occupied with its want and\nmisery, exerting all their strength in order to satisfy its endless\nneeds and avert manifold suffering, without daring to expect anything\nelse in return than merely the preservation of this tormented individual\nexistence, full of want and misery, toil and moil, strife and struggle,\nsorrow and trouble, anguish and fear--from the cradle to the grave.\n\nExistence, when summed up, has an enormous surplus of pain over\npleasure.\n\nYou complain that this philosophy is comfortless! But Schopenhauer sees\nlife through Schopenhauer's eyes, and tells the truth about it as he\nsees it. He does not care for your likes and dislikes. If you want to\nhear soft platitudes, he advises you to go to a non-conformist\nchurch--read the newspapers, go somewhere else, but not to the\nphilosopher who cares only for Truth.\n\nAlthough Schopenhauer's picture of the world is gloomy and somber, there\nis nothing weak or cowardly in his writings, and the extent to which he\nis read, proves he is not depressing. Since a happy life is impossible,\nhe says the highest that a man can attain to is the fate of a hero.\n\nA man must take misfortune quietly, because he knows that very many\ndreadful things may happen in the course of life. He must look upon the\ntrouble of the moment as only a very small part of that which will\nprobably come.\n\nWe must not expect very much from life, but learn to accommodate\nourselves to a world where all is relative and no perfect state exists.\n\nLet us look misfortune in the face and meet it with courage and\ncalmness!\n\nFate is cruel and men are miserable. Life is synonymous with suffering;\npositive happiness a fata morgana, an illusion.\n\nOnly negative happiness, the cessation of suffering, is possible, and\ncan be obtained by the annihilation of the Will-to-Live.\n\nBut it is not suicide that can deliver us from the pains of existence.\n\nSuicide, according to Schopenhauer, frustrates the attainment of the\nhighest moral aim by the fact that, for a real release from this world\nof misery, it substitutes one that is merely apparent. For death merely\ndestroys the phenomenon, that is, the body, and never my inmost being,\nor the universal Will.\n\nSuicide can deliver me merely from my phenomenal existence, and not from\nmy real self, which can not die.\n\nHow, then, can man be released from this life of misery and pain? Where\nis the road that leads to Salvation?\n\nSlow and weary is the way of redemption.\n\nThe deliverance from life and its sufferings is the freedom of the\nintellect from its creator and despot, the Will.\n\nThe intellect, freed from the bondage of the Will, sees through the veil\nof selfhood into the unity of all being, and finds that he who has done\nwrong to another has done wrong to his own self. For selfhood--the\nasserting of the Ego--is the root of all evil.\n\nCovetousness and sensuality are the causes of misery.\n\nSympathy is the basis of all true morality, and only through\nrenunciation, through self-sacrifice, and universal benevolence, can\nsalvation be obtained.\n\nHe who has recognized that existence is evil, that life is vanity, and\nself an illusion, has obtained true knowledge, which is the reflection\nof reality. He is in possession of the highest wisdom, which is not\nmerely theoretical, but also practical perfection; it is the ultimate\ntrue cognition of all things in mass and in detail, which has so\npenetrated man's being that it appears as the guide of all his actions.\nIt illumines his head, warms his heart, leads his hand. We take the\nsting out of life by accepting it as it is. \"Drink ye all of it.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nArthur Schopenhauer very early in life contracted a bad habit of telling\nthe truth. He stated the thing absolutely as he saw it. He spared no\none's feelings, and conciliation was not in his bright lexicon of words.\nIf any belief or any institution was in his way, the pilot in charge of\nthe craft had better put his prow hard a' port--Schopenhauer swerved for\nnobody.\n\nShould every one deal in plain speaking on all occasions, the philosophy\nof Ali Baba--that this earth is hell, and we are now suffering for sins\ncommitted in a former incarnation--would be fully proved. Our friends\nare the pleasant hypocrites who sustain our illusions. Society is made\npossible only through a vast web of delicate evasions, polite\nsubterfuges, and agreeable falsehoods. The word person comes from\n\"persona,\" which means a mask. The reference is to one who plays a\npart--assumes a role. The naked truth is not pleasant to look upon, and\nthat is the reason it is so seldom put upon parade.\n\nThe man Schopenhauer would be intolerable, but the writer Schopenhauer\nis gaining ground in inverse ratio to the square of the distance we are\nfrom him. \"Where shall we bury you?\" a friend asked him a few days\nbefore his death.\n\n\"Oh, anywhere--posterity will find me!\" was the answer. And so on the\nmodest stone that marks his resting-place at Frankfort, are engraved the\ntwo words, ARTHUR SCHOPENHAUER, and nothing more. The world will not\nsoon forget the pessimist who had such undying optimism--such\nunquenchable faith--that he knew the world would make a path to his\ntomb.\n\nSchopenhauer was the only prominent writer that ever lived who\npersistently affirmed that life is an evil--existence a curse. Yet every\nman who has ever lived has at times thought so; but to proclaim the\nthought--or even entertain it long--would stagger sanity, befog the\nintellect and make mind lose its way.\n\nAnd yet we prize Schopenhauer the more for having said the thing that we\nsecretly thought; in some subtle way we get a satisfaction out of his\nstatement, and at the same time, we perceive the man was wrong.\n\nThe man who can vivisect an emotion, and lay bare a heart-beat in print,\nknows a subtle joy. The misery that can explain itself is not all\nmisery. Complete misery is dumb; and pain that is all pain is quickly\ntransformed into insensibility. Schopenhauer's life was quite as happy\nas that of many men who persistently depress us by requesting us to\n\"cheer up.\" Schopenhauer says, \"Don't try to cheer up--the worst is yet\nto come.\" And we can not refrain a smile. A mother once called to her\nlittle boy to come into the house. And the boy answered, \"I won't do\nit!\" And the mother replied, \"Stay out then!\" And very soon the child\ncame in.\n\nTruth is only a point of view, and when a man tells us what he sees, we\nswiftly take into consideration who and what the man is. Everybody does\nthis, unconsciously. It depends upon who says it! The garrulous man who\nhabitually overstates--painting things large--does not deceive anybody,\nand is quite as good a companion as the painstaking, exact man who is\nalways setting us straight on our statistics. One man we take gross and\nthe other net. The liar gross is all right, but the liar net is very\nbad.\n\nSchopenhauer was a talkative, whimsical and sensitive personality, with\na fine assortment of harmless superstitions of his own manufacture. He\nwas vain, frivolous, self-absorbed, but he had an eye for the subtleties\nof existence that quite escape the average individual. He lived in a\nworld of mind--alert, active, receptive mind--with a rapid-fire gun in\nway of a caustic, biting, scathing vocabulary at his command.\n\nThe test of every literary work is time. The trite, the commonplace, and\nthe irrelevant die and turn to dust. The vital lives. Schopenhauer began\nwriting in his youth. Neglect, indifference and contempt were his\nportion until he was over fifty years of age. His passion for truth was\nso repelling that the Mutual Admiration Society refused to record his\nname even on its waiting-list. He was of that elect few who early in\nlife succeed in ridding themselves of the friendship of the many. His\nenemies discovered him first, and gave him to the world, and after they\nhad launched his fame with their charges of plagiarism, pretense,\nbombast, insincerity and fraud, he has never been out of the limelight,\nand in favor he has steadily grown.\n\nNo man was ever more thoroughly denounced than Schopenhauer, but even\nhis most rabid foe never accused him of buying his way into popular\nfavor, or bribing the judges who sit on the bookcase.\n\nWe admire the man because he is such a sublime egotist--he is so\nfearfully honest. We love him because he is so often wrong in his\nconclusions: he gives us the joy of putting him straight.\n\nSchopenhauer's writing is never the product of a tired pen and ink\nunstirred by the spirit. With him we lose our self-consciousness.\n\nAnd the man who can make other men forget themselves has conferred upon\nthe world a priceless boon. Introspection is insanity--to open the\nwindows and look out is health.\n\n\n\n\nHENRY D. THOREAU\n\n\n  Seeing how all the world's ways came to nought,\n    And how Death's one decree merged all degrees,\n    He chose to pass his time with birds and trees,\n    Reduced his life to sane necessities:\n  Plain meat and drink and sleep and noble thought.\n    And the plump kine which waded to the knees\n    Through the lush grass, knowing the luxuries\n    Of succulent mouthfuls, had our gold-disease\n  As much as he, who only Nature sought.\n\n  Who gives up much the gods give more in turn:\n    The music of the spheres for dross of gold;\n  For o'er-officious cares, flame-songs that burn\n    Their pathway through the years and never old.\n  And he who shunned vain cares and vainer strife\n    Found an eternity in one short life.\n\n[Illustration: HENRY THOREAU]\n\n\nAs a rule, the man who can do all things equally well is a very mediocre\nindividual. Those who stand out before a groping world as beacon-lights\nwere men of great faults and unequal performances. It is quite needless\nto add that they do not live on account of their faults or\nimperfections, but in spite of them.\n\nHenry David Thoreau's place in the common heart of humanity grows firmer\nand more secure as the seasons pass; his life proves for us again the\nparadoxical fact that the only men who really succeed are those who\nfail.\n\nThoreau's obscurity, his poverty, his lack of public recognition in\nlife, either as a writer or lecturer, his rejection as a lover, his\nfailure in business, and his early death, form a combination of\ncalamities that make him as immortal as a martyr. Especially does an\nearly death sanctify all and make the record complete, but the death of\na naturalist while right at the height of his ability to see and\nenjoy--death from tuberculosis of a man who lived most of the time in\nthe open air--these things array us on the side of the man 'gainst\nunkind Fate, and cement our sympathy and love.\n\nNature's care forever is for the species, and the individual is\nsacrificed without ruth that the race may live and progress. This dumb\nindifference of Nature to the individual--this apparent contempt for the\nman--seems to prove that the individual is only a phenomenon. Man is\nmerely a manifestation, a symptom, a symbol, and his quick passing\nproves that he isn't the Thing. Nature does not care for him--she\nproduces a million beings in order to get one who has thoughts--all are\nswept into the dustpan of oblivion but the one who thinks; he alone\nlives, embalmed in the memories of generations unborn.\n\nOne of the most insistent errors ever put out was that statement of\nRousseau, paraphrased in part by T. Jefferson, that all men are born\nfree and equal. No man was ever born free, and none are equal, and would\nnot remain so an hour, even if Jove, through caprice, should make them\nso.\n\nThe Thoreau race is dead. In Sleepy Hollow Cemetery at Concord there is\na monument marking a row of mounds where a half-dozen Thoreaus rest. The\ninscriptions are all of one size, but the name of one alone lives, and\nhe lives because he had thoughts and expressed them. If any of the tribe\nof Thoreau gets into Elysium, it will be by tagging close to the only\nman among them who glorified his Maker by using his reason.\n\nNothing should be claimed as truth that can not be demonstrated, but as\na hypothesis (borrowed from Henry Thoreau) I give you this: Man is only\nthe tool or vehicle--Mind alone is immortal--Thought is the Thing.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nHeredity does not account for the evolution of Henry Thoreau. His father\nwas of French descent--a plain, stolid, little man who settled in\nConcord with his parents when a child; later he tried business in\nBoston, but the march of commerce resolved itself into a double-quick,\nand John Thoreau dropped out of line, and turned to the country village\nof Concord, where he hoped that between making lead-pencils and\ngardening he might secure a living.\n\nHe moved better than he knew.\n\nJohn Thoreau's wife was Cynthia Dunbar, a tall and handsome woman, with\na ready tongue and nimble wit. Her attentions were largely occupied in\nlooking after the affairs of the neighbors, and as the years went by her\nvoice took on the good old metallic twang of the person who discusses\npeople, not principles.\n\nHenry Thoreau was the third child in the family of seven. He was born in\nan old house on the Virginia Road, Concord, about a mile and a half from\nthe village. This house was the home of Mrs. Thoreau's mother, but the\nThoreaus had taken refuge there, temporarily, to escape a financial\nblizzard which seems to have hit no one else but themselves.\n\nJohn Thoreau was assisted in the pencil-making by the whole family. The\nThoreaus used to sell their pencils down at Cambridge, fifteen miles\naway, and Harvard professors, for the most part, used the Concord\narticle in jotting down their sublime thoughts. At ten years of age,\nThoreau had a furtive eye on Harvard, directed thither, they say, by his\nmother. All the best people in Concord, who had sons, sent them to\nHarvard--why shouldn't the Thoreaus? The spirit of emulation and family\npride were at work.\n\nHenry was educated principally because he wasn't very strong, nor was he\non good terms with work, and these are classic reasons for imparting\nclassical education to youth, aspiring or otherwise.\n\nThe Concord Academy prepared Henry for college, and when he was sixteen,\nhe trudged off to Cambridge and was duly entered in the Harvard Class of\nEighteen Hundred Thirty-seven. At Harvard, his cosmos seemed to be of\nsuch a slaty gray that no one said, \"Go to--we will observe this youth\nand write anecdotes about him, for he is going to be a great man.\" The\nvery few in his class who remembered him wrote their reminiscences long\nyears afterward, with memories refreshed by magazine accounts written by\npious pilgrims from Michigan.\n\nIn college pranks and popular amusements he took no part, neither was he\na \"grind,\" for he impressed himself on no teacher or professor so that\nthey opened their mouths and made prophecies.\n\nOnce safely through college, and standing on the threshold (I trust I\nuse the right expression), Henry Thoreau refused to accept his diploma\nand pay five dollars for it--he said it wasn't worth the money.\n\nIn his \"Walden,\" Thoreau expresses his opinion of college training this\nway: \"If I wished a boy to know something about the arts and sciences I\nwould not pursue the common course, which is merely to send him into the\nneighborhood of some professor, where everything is professed and\npractised but the art of life. To my astonishment, I was informed when I\nleft college that I had studied navigation! Why, if I had taken one turn\ndown the harbor I would have known more about it.\"\n\nIt is well to remember, however, that Thoreau had no ambitions to become\na navigator. His mission was simply to paddle his own canoe on Walden\nPond and Concord River. The men who really launched him on his voyage of\ndiscovery were Ellery Channing and Ralph Waldo Emerson--both Harvard\nmen. Had he not been a college man, it is quite probable he would never\nhave caught the speaker's eye. His efforts in working his way through\ncollege, assisted by his poverty-stricken parents, proved his quality.\nAnd as for his life in a shanty on the shores of Walden Pond, the\noccurrence is too commonplace to mention, were it not for the fact that\nthe solitary occupant of the shanty was a Harvard graduate who used no\ntobacco.\n\nHarvard prepares a youth for life--but here is a man who, having\nprepared for life, deliberately turns his back on life and lives in the\nwoods.\n\nA genuine woodsman is no curiosity, but a civilized woodsman is. The\ntendency of colleges is to turn men from Nature to books; from bonfires\nto stoves, steam-heat and cash-registers; but Thoreau, by reversing all\nrules, suddenly found himself, and others, explaining his position in\nprint.\n\nHarvard supplied him the alternating current; he influenced the people\nin his environment, and he was influenced by his environment.\n\nBut without Harvard there would have been no Thoreau. Having earned his\ndiploma, he had the privilege of declining it; and having gone to\ncollege, it was his right to affirm the emptiness of the classics. Only\nthe man with a goodly bank-balance can wear rags with impunity.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nJohn Thoreau made his lead-pencils and peddled them out, and we hear of\nhis saying, \"Pencils, I fear, are going out of fashion--people are\nbuying nothing but these miserable new-fangled steel pens.\" When called\nupon to surrender, Paul Jones replied, \"We haven't yet begun to fight.\"\nThe truth was, the people had not really begun to use pencils. Pencils\nweren't going out of fashion, but John Thoreau was. The poor man moved\nhere and there, evicted by rapacious landlords and taken in by his\nrelatives, who didn't care whether he was a stranger or not. If he owed\nthem ten dollars, they took fifty dollars' worth of pencils and called\nit square.\n\nThen they undersold John one-half, and he said times were scarce.\n\nThis, it need not be explained, was in Massachusetts.\n\nA hundred years ago, these men who whittled useful things out of wood\nduring the long winter days were everywhere in New England. The sons of\nthese men invented machines to make the same things, and thus were\nstarted the New England manufactories. It was brains against hands,\ncleverness against skill, initiative against plodding industry. And the\nman who can tell of the sorrow and suffering of all those industrious\nsparrows that were caught and wound around flying shuttles, or stamped\nbeneath the swift presses of invention, hadn't yet been born. God\ndoesn't seem to care for sparrows--three-fourths of all that are hatched\ndie in the nest or fall fluttering to the ground and perish, Grant\nAllen says.\n\nComparatively few persons can adjust themselves happily to new\nconditions: the rest are pushed and broken and bent--and die.\n\nWhen Dixon and Faber invented machines that could be fed automatically,\nand turn out more pencils in a day than John Thoreau could in a year,\nJohn was out of the game.\n\nJohn had brought up his children to work, and Henry became an expert\npencil-maker. Henry, we say, should have found employment with Faber and\nCompany, as foreman, or else evaded their patents and made a\npencil-machine of his own. Instead, however, he settled down and made\npencils just like his father used to make, and in the same way. He\npeddled out a few to his friends, but his business instinct was shown in\nthat he himself tells how one year he made a thousand dollars' worth of\npencils, but was obliged to sacrifice them all to cancel a debt of one\nhundred dollars.\n\nAnd yet there are people who declare that genius is not transmissible.\n\nJohn Thoreau failed at pencil-making, but Henry Thoreau failed because\nhe played the flute morning, noon and night, and went singing the\nimmunity of Pan. He fished, and tramped the woods and fields, looking,\nlistening, dreaming and thinking.\n\nAt Keswick, where the water comes down at Lodore, there is a\npencil-factory that has been there since the days of William the\nConqueror. The wife of Coleridge used to work there and get money that\nsupported her philosopher-husband and their children. Southey lived\nnear, and became Poet Laureate of England through the right exercise of\nKeswick pencils; Wordsworth lived only a few miles away, and once he\nbrought over Charles and Mary Lamb, and bought pencils for both, with\ntheir names stamped on them. The good old man who now keeps the\npencil-factory explained these things to me, and also explained the\ndirect relationship of good lead-pencils to literature, but I do not\nremember what it was.\n\nIf Henry Thoreau had held on a few years, until the pilgrims began to\narrive at Concord, he could have gotten rich selling souvenir pencils.\nBut he just dozed and dreamed and tramped and philosophized; and when he\nwrote he used an eagle's quill, with ink he himself distilled from\nelderberries, and at first, birch-bark sufficed for paper. \"Wild men and\nwild things are the only ones that have life in abundance,\" he used to\nsay.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nBrook Farm was a serious, sober experiment inaugurated by the Reverend\nGeorge Ripley with intent to live the ideal life--the life of useful\neffort, direct honesty, simplicity and high thinking.\n\nBut Thoreau could not be induced to join the community--he thought too\nmuch of his liberty to entrust it to a committee. He was interested in\nthe experiment, but not enough to visit the experimenters. Emerson\nlooked in on them, remained one night, and went back home to continue\nhis essay on Idealism.\n\nHawthorne remained long enough to get material for his \"Blithedale\nRomance.\" Margaret Fuller secured good copy and the cordial and lifelong\ndislike of Hawthorne, all through misprized love, alas! George William\nCurtis and Charles Dana graduated out of Brook Farm, and went down to\nNew York to make goodly successes in the great game of life.\n\nAt Brook Farm they succeeded in the high thinking all right, but the\nentrepreneur is quite as necessary as the poet--and a little more so.\nBrook Farm had no business head, and things unfit fall into natural\ndissolution. But the enterprise did not fail, any more than a rotting\nlog fails when it nourishes a bank of violets. The net results of Brook\nFarm's high thinking have passed into the world's treasury, smelted\nlargely by Emerson and Thoreau, who were not there.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nImmanuel Kant has been called the father of modern Transcendentalists:\nbut Socrates and his pupil Plato, so far as we know, were the first of\nthe race.\n\nNeither buzzing bluebottles nor the fall of dynasties disturbed them.\n\"The soul is everything,\" said Plato. \"The soul knows all things,\" says\nEmerson.\n\nIn every century a few men have lived who knew the value of plain living\nand high thinking, and very often the men who reversed the maxim have\npassed them the hemlock.\n\nAll those sects known as Primitive Christians represent variations of\nthe idea--Quakers, Mennonites, Communists, Shakers and Dunkards!\n\nA Transcendentalist is a Dukhobortsi with a college education. A Quaker\nwith an artistic bias becomes a Preraphaelite, and lo! we have News from\nNowhere, a Dream of John Ball, Merton Abbey, Kelmscott, and half a world\nis touched and tinted by the simplicity, sterling honesty and\ngenuineness of one man.\n\nGeorge Ripley, Bronson Alcott, and Ralph Waldo Emerson evolved New\nEngland Transcendentalism, and very early Henry Thoreau added a few bars\nof harmonious discords to the symphony. Horace Greeley once contended in\na \"Tribune\" editorial that Sam Staples, the bum bailiff who locked\nThoreau behind the bars, was an important factor in the New England\nrenaissance, and as such should be immortalized by a statue made of\npunk, set up on Boston Common for the delectation of bean-eaters. I fear\nme Horace was a joker.\n\nCalifornia quail are quite different from the quail of New York State,\nand naturalists tell us that this is caused by a difference in\nenvironment--quail being a product of soil and climate.\n\nAnd man is a product of soil and climate--for only in a certain soil can\nyou produce a certain type of man. As a whole, this world is better\nadapted for the production of fish than genius--most of the really good\nclimate falls on the sea. Christian Scientists are Transcendentalists\nwhose distinguishing point is that they secrete millinery--California\nquail with rainbow tints and topknots, Balboaic instincts well defined.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nLet this fact stand: it was Emerson who made Concord. He saw it\nfirst--he was on the ground, and the place was his by right of\ndiscovery, the title strengthened by the fact that four of his ancestors\nhad been Concord clergymen, and the most excellent and venerable Doctor\nRipley, a near kinsman.\n\nConcord and Emerson, as early as Eighteen Hundred Forty, when Emerson\nwas thirty-seven years old, were synonymous. He had defied the\ntraditions of Harvard, been excommunicated by his Alma Mater, published\nhis pantheistic Essay on Nature, and his thin little books and sermons\nhad been placed on the Boston Theological Index Expurgatorius.\n\nThrough it all he had remained gentle, smiling, sympathetic,\nunresentful.\n\nThe world can never spare the man who does his work and holds his peace.\nEmerson was being lifted up, and souls were being drawn unto him.\n\nIn Eighteen Hundred Forty, Bronson Alcott, the American Socrates, with\nhis interesting family, moved to Concord, drawn thither by the magnet of\nEmerson's personality. Louisa wore short dresses, and used to pick wild\nblackberries and sell them to the Emersons and get goodly reward in\nsilver, and kindly smiles, and pats on her brown head by the hand that\nwrote \"Compensation.\"\n\nAlcott was a great, honest, sincere soul, and a true anarch, for he\ntook his own wherever he saw it. He used to run his wheelbarrow into\nEmerson's garden and load it up with potatoes, cabbages or turnips, and\nonce in response to a hint that the vegetables were private property,\nthe old man somewhat petulantly exclaimed, \"I need them!--I need them!\"\n\nAnd that was all: anything that any man needed was his by divine right.\nAnd the consistency of Alcott's philosophy was shown in that he never\ntook anything or any more than he needed, and if he had something that\nyou needed, you were certainly welcome to it. If Alcott helped himself\nto the thrifty Emerson's vegetables, both Emerson and Thoreau helped\nthemselves to Alcott's ideas.\n\nOnce a wagonload of wood broke down in front of Alcott's house, and the\nfarmer unhitched his horses and went on to the village to procure a new\nwheel. Before he got back, Alcott had carried every stick of the\ncombustibles into his own wood-shed. \"Providence remembers us!\" he said.\nHis faith was sublime.\n\nWhen all the world reaches the Alcott stage, there will be no need of\nsoldiers, policemen, night-watchmen, or bolts, bars and locks.\n\nIn Eighteen Hundred Forty, Nathaniel Hawthorne came to Concord from\nSalem, where he had resigned his clerkship in the custom-house, that he\nmight devote all his time to literature. He moved into the Old Manse,\nwhich had just been vacated by Doctor Ripley, who had gone\na-Brook-Farming--the Old Manse where Emerson himself once lived.\nElizabeth Peabody, the talented sister of Hawthorne's wife, lived at a\nconvenient distance, and to her Hawthorne read most of his manuscript,\nfor I need not explain that literature is not literature until it is\nread aloud and reflected back by a sympathetic, discerning mind.\nLiterature is a collaboration between the reader and the listener.\n\nMargaret Fuller, with her tragic life-story still unwound, lived hard\nby, and Hawthorne had already worked her up into copy as \"Zenobia.\"\nMargaret's sister Ellen had married Ellery Channing, the closest,\nwarmest friend that Henry Thoreau ever knew. The gossips arranged a\ndoublewedding, with Henry and Margaret as the other principals; but when\ninterviewed on the theme, Henry had merely shaken his head and said, \"In\nthe first place, Margaret Fuller is not fool enough to marry me; and\nsecond, I am not fool enough to marry her.\"\n\nAn Irishman who saw Thoreau in the field making a minute in his notebook\ntook it for granted that he was casting up his wages, and inquired what\nthey came to. It was a peculiar farmhand who cared more for ideas than\nfor wages.\n\nGeorge William Curtis was also a farmhand out on the Lowell Road, but\ncame into town Saturday evenings--taking a swim in the river on the\nway--to attend the philosophical conferences at Emerson's house, and\nthen went off and made gentle fun of them.\n\nLittle Doctor Holmes occasionally drove out from Boston to Concord in a\none-horse chaise; James Russell Lowell had walked over from Cambridge;\nand Longfellow had invited all hands to a birthday fete on his lawn at\nCambridge, but Thoreau had declined for himself, saying he had to look\nafter his pond-lilies and the field-mice on Bedford flats.\n\nThoreau, at this time, was a member of Emerson's household, and in a\nletter Emerson says, \"He has his board for what labor he chooses to do;\nhe is a great benefactor and physician to me, for he is an indefatigable\nand skilful laborer, besides being a scholar and a poet, and as full of\npromise as a young apple-tree.\"\n\nAnd again, in a letter to Carlyle: \"One reader and friend of yours\ndwells in my household, Henry Thoreau, a poet whom you may one day be\nproud of--a noble, manly youth, full of melodies and invention. We work\ntogether day by day in my garden, and I grow well and strong.\"\n\nTo work and talk is the true way to acquire an education. All of our\nbest things are done incidentally--not in cold blood. Hawthorne says in\nhis Journal that most of Emerson's and Thoreau's farming was done\nleaning on the hoe-handles, while Alcott sat on the fence and explained\nthe Whyness of the Wherefore.\n\nBut we must remember that in Hawthorne's ink-bottle there was a goodly\ndash of tincture of iron. In his Journal of September First, Eighteen\nHundred Forty-two, he writes: \"Mr. Thoreau dined with us yesterday. He\nis a singular character--a young man with much of wild, original nature\nstill remaining in him; and so far as he is sophisticated, it is in a\nway and method of his own. He is as ugly as sin, long-nosed,\nqueer-mouthed, and with uncouth and somewhat rustic ways, though his\ncourteous manner corresponds very well with such an exterior. But his\nugliness is of an honest character and really becomes him better than\nbeauty.\" Little did Hawthorne's guests imagine they were being basted,\nroasted, or fricasseed for the edification of posterity.\n\nProsperity at this time had just begun to smile on Hawthorne, and among\nother extravagances in which he indulged was a boat, bought from\nThoreau--made by the hands of this expert Yankee whittler. Hawthorne\nquotes a little transcendental advice given to him by the maker of the\nboat: \"In paddling a canoe, all you have to do is to will that your boat\nshall go in any particular direction, and she will immediately take the\ncourse, as if imbued with the spirit of the steersman.\" Hawthorne then\nadds this sober postscript: \"It may be so with you, but it is certainly\nnot so with me.\"\n\nAdmiration for Thoreau gradually grew very strong with Hawthorne, and he\nquotes Emerson, who called Thoreau \"the young god Pan.\" And this lends\nmuch semblance to the statement that Thoreau served Hawthorne as a model\nfor Donatello, the mysterious wood-sprite in the \"Marble Faun.\"\n\nAs to the transformation of Thoreau himself, one of his classmates\nrecords this:\n\n     Meeting Mr. Emerson one day, I inquired if he saw much of my\n     classmate, Henry D. Thoreau, who was then living in Concord. \"Of\n     Thoreau?\" replied Mr. Emerson, his face lighting up with a smile of\n     enthusiasm. \"Oh, yes, we could not do without him. When Carlyle\n     comes to America, I expect to introduce Thoreau to him as the man\n     of Concord,\" and I was greatly surprised at these words. They set\n     an estimate on Thoreau which seemed to be extravagant.... Not long\n     after I happened to meet Thoreau in Mr. Emerson's study at\n     Concord--the first time we had come together after leaving college.\n     I was quite startled by the transformation that had taken place in\n     him. His short figure and general cast of countenance were, of\n     course, unchanged; but in his manners, in the tones of his voice,\n     in his modes of expression, even in the hesitations and pauses of\n     his speech, he had become the counterpart of Mr. Emerson. Thoreau's\n     college voice bore no resemblance to Mr. Emerson's, and was so\n     familiar to my ear that I could have readily identified him by it\n     in the dark. I was so much struck by the change that I took the\n     opportunity, as they sat near together talking, of listening with\n     closed eyes, and I was unable to determine with certainty which was\n     speaking. I do not know to what subtle influences to ascribe it,\n     but after conversing with Mr. Emerson for even a brief time, I\n     always found myself able and inclined to adopt his voice and manner\n     of speaking.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThoreau had tried schoolteaching, but he had to give up his position\nbecause he would not exercise the birch and ferule. \"If the scholars\nonce find out the teacher is not goin' to sting 'em up when they need\nit, that is an end to the skule,\" said one of the directors, and he spat\nviolently at a fly, ten feet away. The others agreeing with him, Thoreau\nwas asked to resign.\n\nWilliam Emerson, a brother of Ralph Waldo's, a prosperous New York\nmerchant, had lured Ralph Waldo's hired man away from him and taken him\ndown to Staten Island, New York. Here Thoreau acted as private tutor,\nand imparted the mysteries of woodcraft to boys who cared more for\nmarbles.\n\nStaten Island was about two hundred miles too far from Concord to suit\nThoreau.\n\nHis loneliness in New York City made Concord and the pine-trees of\nWalden woods seem paradise enow. There is no heart desolation equal to\nthat which can come to one in a throng.\n\nMargaret Fuller was now in New York City, working for Greeley on the\neditorial staff of the \"Tribune.\" Greeley was so much pleased with\nThoreau that he offered to set him to work as reporter, for Greeley had\nguessed the truth that the best city reporters are country boys. They\nobserve and hear--all is curious and wonderful to them: by and by they\nwill become blase--sophisticated--that is, blind and deaf.\n\nGreeley was a great talker, and he had a way of getting others to talk\nalso. He got Thoreau to talking about communal life and life in the\nwoods, and then Horace worked Henry's words up into copy--for that is\nthe way all good newspaper-writers evolve their original ideas.\n\nThoreau was amazed to pick up a number of the daily \"Tribune\" and find\nhis conversation of the day before, with Greeley, skilfully transformed\ninto a leader.\n\nFourierism had been the theme--the Phalanstery versus Individual\nHousekeeping. Greeley had prophesied that the phalanstery, with one\nkitchen for forty families, instead of forty kitchens for forty\nfamilies, would soon come about. Greeley's prophetic vision did not\nquite anticipate the modern apartment-house, which perhaps is a\ntransitional expedient, moving toward the phalanstery, but he quoted\nThoreau by saying, \"A woman enslaved by her housekeeping is just as much\na chattel as if owned by a man.\"\n\nThis was in Eighteen Hundred Forty-five, and Thoreau was now\ntwenty-eight years of age. He was homesick for the dim pine-woods with\ntheir ceaseless lullaby, the winding and placid river, and the great,\nmassive, sullen, self-sufficient boulders of Concord.\n\nHe was resolved to follow the example of Brook Farm, and start a\ncommunity of his own in opposition. His community would be on the shores\nof Walden Pond, and the only member of the genus homo who would be\neligible to membership would be himself; the other members would be the\nbirds and squirrels and bees, and the trees would make up the rest.\nBrook Farm was a retreat for transcendentalists--a place to meditate,\ndream and work--a place where one could exist close to Nature, and live\na simple, hardy and healthful life.\n\nThoreau's retreat would be the same, with the disadvantage of personal\ncontact eliminated.\n\nIt was in March, Eighteen Hundred Forty-five, that Thoreau began\nbuilding his shanty. The spot was in a dense woods, on a hillside that\ngently sloped down to the clear, cold, deep water of Walden Pond. The\nland belonged to Emerson, who obligingly gave Thoreau the use of it,\nrent free, with no conditions. Alcott helped in the carpenter work, and\ndiscussed betimes of the Wherefore, and when it came to the raising, a\ncouple of neighboring farmers were hailed and pressed into service. The\ncabin was twelve by fifteen, and cost--furnished--the sum of\ntwenty-eight dollars, good money, not counting labor, which Thoreau did\nnot calculate as worth anything, since he had had the fun of the\nthing--something for which men often pay high.\n\nThe furniture consisted of a table, a chair, and a bed, all made by the\nowner. For bedclothes and dishes the Emerson household was put under\ncontribution. On the door was a latch, but no lock.\n\nAnd Thoreau looked upon his work and pronounced it good.\n\nStripped of the fact that a man of culture and education built the\nshanty and lived in it, the incident is scarcely worth noting. Boys\npassing through the shanty stage, all build shanties, and forage through\ntheir mothers' pantries for provender, which they carry off to their\nrobbers' roost. Thoreau was an example of shanty-arrested development.\n\nBut as the import of every sentence depends upon who wrote it, and the\nworth of advice hinges upon who gave it, so does the value of every act\ndepend upon who did it. Thus when a man, who was in degree an\ninspiration of Emerson, takes to the woods, it is worth our while to\nfollow him afield and see what he does.\n\nThoreau set to work to clean up two acres of blackberry brambles for a\ngarden-patch. He did not work except when he felt like it. His plan was\nto go to bed at dusk, with window and door open, and get up at five\no'clock in the morning. After a plunge in the lake he would dress and\nprepare his simple breakfast. Then he would work in his garden, or if\nthe mood struck him, he would sit in the door of his shanty and\nmeditate, or else write. In the arrangement of his home he followed no\nsystem or rule, merely allowing the passing inclination to lead.\n\nHis provisions were gotten of friends in the village, and were paid for\nin labor. It was part of Thoreau's philosophy that to accept something\nfor nothing was theft, and that the giving or acceptance of presents\nwas immoral. For all he received he conscientiously gave an equivalent\nin labor; and as for ideas, he always considered himself a learner; if\nhe had thoughts they belonged to anybody who could annex them. And that\nEmerson and Horace Greeley were alike in their capacity to absorb,\ndigest and regurgitate, is everywhere acknowledged. To paraphrase\nEmerson's famous remark concerning Plato: Say what you will, you will\nfind everything mentioned by Emerson hinted at somewhere in Thoreau. The\nyounger man had as much mind as the elder, but he lacked the capacity\nfor patient effort that works steadily, persistently, and weighs, sifts,\ndecides, classifies and arranges. The voice was the voice of Jacob, but\nthe hand was the hand of Esau. That is to say, Thoreau lacked business\ninstinct. During the Winter at Walden Pond, all the work Thoreau had to\ndo was to gather firewood. There was plenty of time to think and write,\nand here the better part of \"Walden\" and \"A Week on the Concord and\nMerrimac Rivers\" were written. He had no neighbors, no pets, no\ndomesticated animals--only the squirrels on the roof, a woodchuck under\nthe floor, the scolding blue jays in the pines overhead, the wild ducks\non the pond, and the hooting owls that sat on the ridgepole at night.\n\nThoreau loved solitude more because he prized society--the society of\nsimple men who could talk and tell things. Thoreau was no hermit--at\nleast twice a week he would go to the village and meander along the\nstreet, gossiping with all or any. Often he would accept invitations to\nsupper, but on principle refused all invitations to remain overnight, no\nmatter what the weather. Indeed, as Hawthorne hints, there is a trace of\nthe theatrical in the man who leaves a warm fireside at nine or ten\no'clock at night and trudges off through the darkness, storm and sleet,\nfeeling his way through the blackness of the woods to a cold and\ncheerless shanty which he with unconscious humor calls home. Hawthorne\nhints that Thoreau was a delightful poseur--he posed so naturally that\nhe deceived even himself. On one particular visit to the village,\nhowever, he did not go back home for the night. It seems that he had\nbeen called upon by the local taxgatherer for his poll-tax, a matter of\na dollar and a quarter. Thoreau argued the question at length, and among\nother things, said, \"I will not give money to buy a musket, and hire a\nman to use this musket to shoot another.\" And also, \"The best government\nis not that which governs least, but that which governs not at all.\"\n\n\"But what shall I do?\" said the patient publican.\n\n\"Resign,\" said the philosopher.\n\nThoreau seemed to forget that officeholders seldom die and never resign.\nIn the argument the publican was worsted, but he was not without\nresource. He went back to town and told the other officials what had\nhappened. Their dignity was at stake. Alcott had been guilty of a like\ndefiance some time before, and now it was the belief that he was putting\nthe younger man up to insurrection.\n\nThe next time Thoreau came over to the village for his mail he was\narrested and lodged in the local bastile.\n\nEmerson, hearing of the trouble, hastened to the jail, and reaching the\npresence of the prisoner asked sternly, \"Henry, why are you here?\"\n\nAnd the answer was, \"Waldo, why are you not here?\" Emerson had no use\nfor such finespun theories of duty, and the matter was too near home for\na joke, so he turned away and let the culprit spend the night in limbo.\nThe next morning Thoreau was released, the tax having been paid by some\nunknown person--Emerson, undoubtedly. This was a tame enough ending to\nwhat was rather an interesting affair--the hope of the best citizens\nbeing that Thoreau would get a goodly sentence for vagrancy. The\ntownfolk looked upon Thoreau and Alcott with suspicious eyes. They both\ncame in for much well-deserved censure, and Emerson did not go\nunsmirched, since he was guilty of harboring and encouraging these\nne'er-do-wells.\n\nThoreau's cabin-life continued for two Summers and Winters. He had\nproved that two hours' manual work each day was sufficient to keep a\nman--twenty cents a day would suffice.\n\nThe last year in the woods he had many callers: Agassiz had been to see\nhim, Emerson had often called, Ellery Channing was a frequent visitor,\nand picnickers were constant. Lowell had made a few cutting remarks to\nthe effect that \"as compared with shanty-life, the tub of Diogenes was\npreferable, as it had a much sounder bottom,\" and Hawthorne had written\nof \"the beauties of conspicuous solitude.\"\n\nThoreau felt that he was attracting too much attention, and that perhaps\nHawthorne was right: a recluse who holds receptions is becoming the\nthing he pretends to despise. Besides that, there was plenty of\nprecedent for quitting--Brook Farm had gone by the board, and was but a\nmemory.\n\nThoreau's shanty was turned over to a utilitarian Scotchman with red\nhair. Later the immortal shanty was a useful granary. Thoreau went back\nto the village to live in a garret and work at odd jobs of boat-building\nand gardening.\n\nNow only a pile of boulders marks the place where the cabin stood. For\nsome years, each visitor to the spot threw a stone upon the heap, but\nrecently the proposition has been reversed, and each visitor takes a\nstone away, which reveals not a reversal in the sentiment toward the\nmemory of Thoreau, but a change in the quality of the Concord pilgrim.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThoreau's early death was the direct result of his reckless lack of\ncommon prudence. That which made him live, in a literary way, curtailed\nhis years. The man was improperly and imperfectly nourished, physically.\nMen who live alone do not cook any more than they have to: men and\nwomen, both, cook for emulation. That is to say, we work for each other,\nand we succeed only as we help each other.\n\nThoreau was such a pronounced individualist that he cared for no one but\nhimself, and he cared for himself not at all. It is wife, children and\nhome that teach a man prudence, and make him bank against the storm. \"At\nWalden no one bothered me but the State,\" said Thoreau. If Thoreau had\nhad a family and treated his household as he treated himself, that\nscorned thing, the State, would have stepped in and sent him to the\nworkhouse, and his children to the Home for the Friendless.\n\nIf he had treated dumb animals as he treated himself, the Society for\nthe Prevention of Cruelty to Animals would have interfered. The absence\nof social ties and of all responsibilities fixed in his peculiar\ntemperament an indifference to hunger, heat, cold, wet, damp, and all\nbodily discomfort that classes the man with the flagellants. He tells of\nwhole days when he ate nothing but berries and drank only cold water;\nand at other times of how he walked all day in a soaking rain and went\nto bed at night, supperless, under a pine-tree. Emerson records the fact\nthat on long tramps Thoreau would carry only a chunk of plum-cake for\nfood, because it was rich and contained condensed nutriment.\n\nThe question is sometimes asked, \"How can one eat his cake and keep it\ntoo?\" but this does not refer to plum-cake.\n\nA few years of plum-cake, cold mince-pie and continual wet feet will put\nthe petard under even the stoutest constitution.\n\nDuring his shanty-life Thoreau was imperfectly nourished, and for the\nvictim of malassimilation, tuberculosis hunts and needs no spyglass.\n\nIt is absurd for a man to make a god of his digestive apparatus, but it\nis just as bad to forget that the belly is as much the gift of God as\nthe brain.\n\nIn childhood, Thoreau was frail and weak. Outdoor life gradually\ndeveloped on his slight frame a splendid strength and a power to do and\nendure. He could outrun, outrow, outwalk any of his townsmen. In him\ndeveloped the confidence of the athlete--the confidence of the athlete\nwho dies young. Thoreau was an athlete, and he died as the athlete\ndieth. Irregular diet and continued exposure did their work--the vital\npowers became reduced, the man \"caught cold,\" bronchitis followed, and\nthe tuberculae laughed.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nDuring Thoreau's life he published but two volumes, and these met with\nscanty sale. Since his death ten volumes have been issued from his\nmanuscripts and letters, and his fame has steadily increased.\n\nBoston had no recognition for Thoreau as long as he was alive. Among the\nmost popular writers of the time, feted and feasted, invited and\nexalted, were George S. Hillard, N. P. Willis, Caroline Kirkland, George\nW. Green, Parke Godwin and Charles F. Briggs. These writers, who had the\nrun of the magazines, would have smiled in derision if told that the\nname and fame of uncouth Thoreau would outlive them all. They wrote for\nthe people who bought their books, but Thoreau dedicated his work to\ntime. He wrote what he thought, but they wrote what they thought other\npeople thought.\n\nIn the publication of \"The Dial,\" Thoreau took a hearty interest, and\nwas a frequent contributor. The official organ of the\ntranscendentalists, however, paid no honorariums--it was both sincere\nand serious, and died in due time of too much dignity. The \"Atlantic\nMonthly\" accepted one article by Thoreau, and paid for it, but as James\nRussell Lowell, the editor, used his blue pencil a trifle, without first\nconsulting the author, he never got an opportunity to do so again.\n\nHorace Greeley had interested himself in Thoreau's writings and gotten\nseveral articles accepted by Graham's and also Putnam's Magazine. \"The\nWeek\" had been published on the author's guaranty that enough copies\nwould be sold the first year to cover the cost. After four years, of the\nedition of one thousand copies only three hundred were disposed of, and\nthese were mostly given away. To pay the publisher for the expense\nincurred, Thoreau buckled down and worked hard at surveying for a year.\n\nThe only man he ever knew, of whom he stood a little in awe, was Walt\nWhitman. In a letter to Blake he says:\n\n     Nineteenth November, Eighteen Hundred Fifty-six.--Alcott has been\n     here, and last Sunday I went with him to Greeley's farm, thirty-six\n     miles north of New York. The next day Alcott and I heard Beecher\n     preach; and what was more, we visited Whitman the next morning, and\n     we were much interested and provoked. He is apparently the greatest\n     democrat the world has seen, kings and aristocracy go by the board\n     at once, as they have long deserved to. A remarkably strong though\n     coarse nature, of a sweet disposition, and much prized by his\n     friends. Though peculiar and rough in his exterior, he is\n     essentially a gentleman. I am still somewhat in a quandary about\n     him--feel that he is essentially strange to me, at any rate; but I\n     am surprised by the sight of him. He is very broad, but, as I have\n     said, not fine.\n\n     Seventh December, Eighteen Hundred Fifty-six.--That Walt Whitman,\n     of whom I wrote you, is the most interesting fact to me at present.\n     I have just read his second edition (which he gave me), and it has\n     done me more good than any reading for a long time. Perhaps I\n     remember best the poem of \"Walt Whitman an American\" and the\n     \"Sundown\" poem. There are two or three pieces in the book which are\n     disagreeable, to say the least, simply sensual.... As for its\n     sensuality--and it may turn out to be less sensual than it\n     appears--I do not so much wish that those parts were not written,\n     as that men and women were so pure that they could read them\n     without harm.\n\n     On the whole, it sounds to me very brave and American, after\n     whatever deductions. I do not believe that all the sermons, so\n     called, that have been preached in this land, put together, are\n     equal to it for preaching. We ought greatly to rejoice in him. He\n     occasionally suggests something a little more than human. You can't\n     confound him with the other inhabitants of Brooklyn. How they must\n     shudder when they read him!\n\n     To be sure, I sometimes feel a little imposed on. By his heartiness\n     and broad generalities he puts me into a liberal frame of mind,\n     prepared to see wonders--as it were, sets me upon a hill or in the\n     midst of a plain--stirs me well up, and then--throws in a thousand\n     of brick. Though rude and sometimes ineffectual, it is a great\n     primitive poem, an alarum or trumpet-note ringing through the\n     American camp. Wonderfully like the Orientals, too, considering\n     that, when I asked him if he had read them, he answered, \"No; tell\n     me about them.\"\n\n     Since I have seen him, I find that I am not disturbed by any brag\n     or egoism in his book. He may turn out the least of a braggart of\n     all, having a better right to be confident. Walt is a great fellow.\n\nA lady once asked John Burroughs this question: \"What would become of\nthis world if everybody in it patterned after Henry Thoreau?\" And Ol'\nJohn replied, \"It would be much improved.\"\n\nBut your Uncle John is a humorist--he knows that Henry Ward Beecher was\nright when he said, \"God never made but one Thoreau--that was enough,\nbut we are grateful for the one.\"\n\nThoreau was a poet-naturalist, and the lesson he taught us is that this\nis the most beautiful world to know anything about, and there are enough\ncurious and wonderful things right under our feet, and over our heads,\nand all around us, to amuse, divert, interest and instruct us for a\nlifetime. We need only a little.\n\nUse your eyes!\n\n\"How do you manage to find so many Indian relics?\" a friend asked\nThoreau. \"Just like this,\" he replied, and stooping over, he picked up\nan arrowhead under the friend's foot. At dinner once at a neighbor's he\nwas asked what dish he preferred, and his answer was, \"The nearest.\" To\nhim, everything was good--he uttered no complaints and made no demands.\n\nWhen asked by a clergyman why he did not go to church, he said, \"It is\nthe rafters--I can't stand them--when I look up, I want to gaze straight\ninto the blue sky.\" Then he turned the tables and asked the interrogator\na question: \"Did you ever happen, accidentally, to say anything while\nyou were preaching?\" Yet preachers of brains were always attracted to\nhim: Harrison Blake, to whom he wrote more letters than to any one\nelse, was a Congregational preacher. And when Horace Greeley took\nThoreau to Plymouth Church, Beecher invited him to sit on the platform\nand quoted him as one who saw God in autumn's every burning bush.\n\nThe wit of the man--his direct speech, and all of his beautiful\nindifference for the good opinion of those whom others follow after and\nlie in wait for--was sublime. Meanness, hypocrisy, secrecy and\nsubterfuge had no place in Thoreau's nature.\n\nHe wanted nothing--nothing but liberty--he did not even ask for your\napplause or approval. When walking on country roads, laborers would hail\nhim and ask for tobacco--seeing in him only one of their own kind.\nFarmers would stop and gossip with him about the weather. Children ran\nto him on the village streets and would cling to his hands and clutch\nhis coat, and ask where the berries grew, or the first spring flowers\nwere to be found. With children he was particularly patient and kind.\nWith them he would converse as freely as did George Francis Train with\nthe children in Madison Square. The children recognized in him something\nvery much akin to themselves--he would play upon his flute for them and\nwhittle out toy boats, regardless of the flight of time.\n\nImbeciles and mental defectives from the almshouse used occasionally to\nwander over to his cabin in the woods, and he would treat them with\ngentle consideration, and accompany them back home.\n\nHis lack of worldly prudence, Blake thought, tokened a courage which\nunder certain conditions would have made him as formidable as John\nBrown. Blake tells this: Once on a lonely road, two miles from Concord,\ntwo loafers stopped a girl who was picking berries, and began to bother\nher. Thoreau just then happened along, and seeing the young woman's\ndistress, he collared the rogues and marched them into the village,\nturning them over to that redoubtable transcendentalist, Sam Staples,\nwho locked them up. Thoreau's hook nose and features could be\ntransformed in rare instances into a look of command that no man dare\nquestion--it was the look of the fatalist--the benign fanatic--the look\nof Marat--the look of a man who has nothing but his life to lose, and\nplaces small store on that. \"A little more ambition, and a trifle less\nsympathy, and the world would have had a Caesar to deal with,\" says\nBlake.\n\nCowardice is only caution carried to an extreme. Thoreau exercised no\nprudence in making money, securing fame, preserving his health, holding\nhis friends or making new ones. This Spartan-like quality, that counts\nnot the cost, is essentially heroic.\n\nBut Thoreau was not given to strife; for the most part, he was\nnon-resistant. The chief thing he prized was equanimity, and this you\ncan not secure through struggle and strife. His game was all captured\nwith the spyglass, or carried home in his botanists' drum. For worldly\nwealth and what we call progress, he had small appreciation--this marks\nhis limitations. But his reasons are surely good literature:\n\n     They make a great ado nowadays about hard times; but I think that\n     the community generally, ministers and all, take a wrong view of\n     the matter. This general failure, both private and public, is\n     rather occasion for rejoicing, as reminding us whom we have at the\n     helm--that justice is always done. If our merchants did not most of\n     them fail, and the banks too, my faith in the old laws of the world\n     would be staggered. The statement that ninety-six in a hundred\n     doing such business surely break down, is perhaps the sweetest fact\n     that statistics have revealed--exhilarating as the fragrance of the\n     flowers in the Spring. Does it not say somewhere, \"The Lord\n     reigneth, let the earth rejoice\"? If thousands are thrown out of\n     employment, it suggests that they were not well employed. Why don't\n     they take the hint? It is not enough to be industrious; so are the\n     ants. What are you industrious about?\n\n     The merchants and company have long laughed at transcendentalism,\n     higher law, etc., crying, \"None of your moonshine,\" as if they were\n     anchored to something not only definite, but sure and permanent. If\n     there were any institution which was presumed to rest on a solid\n     and secure basis, and more than any other, represented this boasted\n     commonsense, prudence, and practical talent, it was the bank; and\n     now these very banks are found to be mere reeds shaken by the wind.\n\n     Scarcely one in the land has kept its promise. Not merely the Brook\n     Farm and Fourierite communities, but now the community generally\n     has failed. But there is the moonshine still, serene, beneficent\n     and unchanged.\n\nThoreau was no pessimist. He complained neither of men nor of\ndestiny--he felt that he was getting out of life all that was his due.\nHis remarks might be sharp and his words sarcastic, but in them there\nwas no bitterness. He made life for none more difficult--he added to no\none's burdens. Sympathy with Nature, pride, buoyancy, self-sufficiency,\nwere his prevailing traits. The habit of his mind was hopeful.\n\nHis wit and good-nature were his to the last, and when asked if he had\nmade his peace with God, he replied, \"I have never quarreled with Him.\"\n\nHe died, aged forty-four, in the modest home of his mother. The village\nschool was dismissed that the scholars might attend the funeral, and\nthree hundred children walked in the procession to Sleepy Hollow.\nEmerson made an address at the grave; Alcott read selections from\nThoreau's own writings; and Louisa Alcott read this poem, composed for\nthe occasion:\n\n  We sighing said, \"Our Pan is dead;\n    His pipe hangs mute beside the river,\n    Around it wistful sunbeams quiver,\n  But Music's airy voice is fled.\n  Spring mourns as for untimely frost:\n    The bluebird chants a requiem;\n    The willow-blossom waits for him;--\n  The Genius of the wood is lost.\"\n\n  Then from the flute, untouched by hands,\n    There came a low, harmonious breath:\n    \"For such as he there is no death;\n  His life the eternal life commands;\n  Above man's aims his nature rose.\n    The wisdom of a just content\n    Made one small spot a continent,\n  And turned to poetry life's prose.\n\n  \"To him no vain regrets belong,\n    Whose soul, that finer instrument,\n    Gave to the world no poor lament,\n  But wood-notes ever sweet and strong.\n  O lonely friend! he still will be\n    A potent presence, though unseen--\n    Steadfast, sagacious, and serene;\n  Seek not for him--he is with thee.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\n\n\nSO HERE ENDETH \"LITTLE JOURNEYS TO THE HOMES OF GREAT PHILOSOPHERS,\"\nBEING VOLUME EIGHT OF THE SERIES, AS WRITTEN BY ELBERT HUBBARD; EDITED\nAND ARRANGED BY FRED BANN; BORDERS AND INITIALS BY ROYCROFT ARTISTS, AND\nPRODUCED BY THE ROYCROFTERS, AT THEIR SHOPS, WHICH ARE IN EAST AURORA,\nERIE COUNTY, NEW YORK, MCMXXII.","title":"Little Journeys to the Homes of the Great Philosophers, Volume 8","tradition":"philosophy-ethics","translated_text":null,"word_count":90144}