{"collection":"philosophy-ethics","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_32151/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_32151","id":"gutenberg_32151","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/32151","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Essays, Letters & Speeches","Category: Philosophy & Ethics","Culture","Intellectual life","Self-culture"],"text":"Produced by Marius Masi, Juliet Sutherland and the Online\nDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nTranscriber's note:\n\n  The following typographical errors have been corrected:\n\n\n  Page 86: \"We bring ourselves, by its help, to face petty details that\n    are wearisome, and heavy tasks that are almost appalling.\"\n    'appalling' amended from 'appaling'.\n\n  Page 153: \"That which is truly, and deeply, and seriously an injury\n    to our intellectual life, is the foolishness of the too common\n    vanity.\" 'too' amended from 'two'.\n\n  Page 161: \"the child had the defects of children, but of children\n    born in the different countries where he lived.\" 'lived' amended from\n    'live'.\n\n  Page 294: \"The girl was uneducated: it seems hopeless to try to\n    educate the woman\". 'educate' amended from 'educated'.\n\n  Page 364: \"I am sure that my modern artillery captain,\n    notwithstanding his bad manners.\" 'notwithstanding' amended from\n    'notwithstand'.\n\n  Page 377: \"I know a distinguished Englishman who is quite remarkable\n    for the talent with which he arranges his intellectual friendships,\n    so as never to be dependent on any one.\" 'intellectual' amended from\n    'inintellectual'.\n\n  Page 383: \"The truth is, that to succeed well in fashionable society\n    the higher intellectual attainments are not so useful as\n    distinguished skill in those amusements which are the real business\n    of the fashionable world.\" 'business of' amended from 'busiof'.\n\n  Page 387: \"To me it appears the perfect type of that preoccupation\n    about appearances which blinds the genteel vulgar to the true\n    nobility of life.\" 'preoccupation' amended from 'pre-occupation'.\n\n  Page 417: \"She moves; movement is the law of her life; yet she is as\n    tranquil in her little cabin as any goodwife on shore.\" 'she' amended\n    from 'see'.\n\n  Page 489: \"I certainly think that if a good cure has an exceptional\n    genius for sanctity.\" 'sanctity' amended from 'sancitity'.\n\n  Page 558 (index): \"Dullness of general conversation.\" 'Dullness'\n    amended from 'Dulness'.\n\n\n\n\n         THE\n\n  INTELLECTUAL LIFE,\n\n\n         BY\n\n  PHILIP GILBERT HAMERTON,\n\n  AUTHOR OF \"A PAINTER'S CAMP,\" \"THOUGHTS ABOUT ART,\" \"THE UNKNOWN\n  RIVER,\" ETC.\n\n\n  NEW YORK\n\n  HURST & COMPANY\n\n  PUBLISHERS\n\n\n\n\nTO EUGENIE H.\n\n\nWe have shared together many hours of study, and you have been willing,\nat the cost of much patient labor, to cheer the difficult paths of\nintellectual toil by the unfailing sweetness of your beloved\ncompanionship. It seems to me that all those things which we have\nlearned together are doubly my own; whilst those other studies which I\nhave pursued in solitude have never yielded me more than a maimed and\nimperfect satisfaction. The dream of my life would be to associate you\nwith all I do if that were possible; but since the ideal can never be\nwholly realized, let me at least rejoice that we have been so little\nseparated, and that the subtle influence of your finer taste and more\ndelicate perception is ever, like some penetrating perfume, in the whole\natmosphere around me.\n\n\n\n\nPREFACE.\n\n\nI propose, in the following pages, to consider the possibilities of a\nsatisfactory intellectual life under various conditions of ordinary\nhuman existence. It will form a part of my plan to take into account\nfavorable and unfavorable influences of many kinds; and my chief\npurpose, so far as any effect upon others may be hoped for, will be to\nguard some who may read the book alike against the loss of time caused\nby unnecessary discouragement, and the waste of effort which is the\nconsequence of misdirected energies.\n\nI have adopted the form of letters addressed to persons of very\ndifferent position in order that every reader may have a chance of\nfinding what concerns him. The letters, it is unnecessary to observe,\nare in one sense as fictitious as those we find in novels, for they have\nnever been sent to anybody by the post, yet the persons to whom they are\naddressed are not imaginary. I made it a rule, from the beginning, to\nthink of a real person when writing, from an apprehension that by\ndwelling in a world too exclusively ideal I might lose sight of many\nimpediments which beset all actual lives, even the most exceptional and\nfortunate.\n\nThe essence of the book may be expressed in a few sentences, the rest\nbeing little more than evidence or illustration. First, it appears that\nall who are born with considerable intellectual faculties are urged\ntowards the intellectual life by irresistible instincts, as water-fowl\nare urged to an aquatic life; but the lower animals have this advantage\nover man, that as their purposes are simpler, so they attain them more\ncompletely than he does. The life of a wild duck is in perfect\naccordance with its instincts, but the life of an intellectual man is\nnever on all points perfectly in accordance with _his_ instincts. Many\nof the best intellectual lives known to us have been hampered by\nvexatious impediments of the most various and complicated kinds; and\nwhen we come to have accurate and intimate knowledge of the lives led by\nour intellectual contemporaries, we are always quite sure to find that\neach of them has some great thwarting difficulty to contend against. Nor\nis it too much to say that if a man were so placed and endowed in every\nway that all his work should be made as easy as the ignorant imagine it\nto be, that man would find in that very facility itself a condition most\nunfavorable to his intellectual growth. So that, however circumstances\nmay help us or hinder us, the intellectual life is always a contest or a\ndiscipline, and the art or skill of living intellectually does not so\nmuch consist in surrounding ourselves with what is reputed to be\nadvantageous as in compelling every circumstance and condition of our\nlives to yield us some tribute of intellectual benefit and force. The\nneeds of the intellect are as various as intellects themselves are\nvarious: and if a man has got high mental culture during his passage\nthrough life it is of little consequence where he acquired it, or how.\nThe school of the intellectual man is the place where he happens to be,\nand his teachers are the people, books, animals, plants, stones, and\nearth round about him. The feeling almost always predominant in the\nminds of intellectual men as they grow older, is not so much one of\nregret that their opportunities were not more abundant, as of regret\nthat they so often missed opportunities which they might have turned to\nbetter account.\n\nI have written for all classes, in the conviction that the intellectual\nlife is really within the reach of every one who earnestly desires it.\nThe highest culture can never be within the reach of those who cannot\ngive the years of labor which it costs; and if we cultivate ourselves to\nshine in the eyes of others, to become famous in literature or science,\nthen of course we must give many more hours of labor than can be spared\nfrom a life of practical industry. But I am fully convinced of this,\nconvinced by the observation of living instances in all classes, that\nany man or woman of large natural capacity may reach the tone of\nthinking which may justly be called intellectual, even though that\nthinking may not be expressed in the most perfect language. The essence\nof intellectual living does not reside in extent of science or in\nperfection of expression, but in a constant preference for higher\nthoughts over lower thoughts, and this preference may be the habit of a\nmind which has not any very considerable amount of information. This may\nbe very easily demonstrated by a reference to men who lived\nintellectually in ages when science had scarcely begun to exist, and\nwhen there was but little literature that could be of use as an aid to\nculture. The humblest subscriber to a mechanics' institute has easier\naccess to sound learning than had either Solomon or Aristotle, yet both\nSolomon and Aristotle lived the intellectual life. Whoever reads English\nis richer in the aids to culture than Plato was, yet Plato _thought_\nintellectually. It is not erudition that makes the intellectual man, but\na sort of virtue which delights in vigorous and beautiful thinking, just\nas moral virtue delights in vigorous and beautiful conduct. Intellectual\nliving is not so much an accomplishment as a state or condition of the\nmind in which it seeks earnestly for the highest and purest truth. It is\nthe continual exercise of a firmly noble choice between the larger truth\nand the lesser, between that which is perfectly just and that which\nfalls a little short of justice. The ideal life would be to choose thus\nfirmly and delicately always, yet if we often blunder and fail for want\nof perfect wisdom and clear light, have we not the inward assurance that\nour aspiration has not been all in vain, that it has brought us a\nlittle nearer to the Supreme Intellect whose effulgence draws us whilst\nit dazzles? Here is the true secret of that fascination which belongs to\nintellectual pursuits, that they reveal to us a little more, and yet a\nlittle more, of the eternal order of the Universe, establishing us so\nfirmly in what is known, that we acquire an unshakable confidence in the\nlaws which govern what is not, and never can be, known.\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS.\n\n\nPART I.\n\nTHE PHYSICAL BASIS.\n\n  LETTER                                                            PAGE\n    I. To a young man of letters who worked excessively               17\n\n   II. To the same                                                    22\n\n  III. To a student in uncertain health                               27\n\n   IV. To a muscular Christian                                        42\n\n    V. To a student who neglected bodily exercise                     47\n\n   VI. To an author in mortal disease                                 53\n\n  VII. To a young man of brilliant ability, who had just taken his\n         degree                                                       57\n\n\nPART II.\n\nTHE MORAL BASIS.\n\n    I. To a moralist who had said that there was a want of moral\n         fibre in the intellectual, especially in poets and artists   67\n\n   II. To an undisciplined writer                                     80\n\n  III. To a friend who suggested the speculation \"which of the moral\n         virtues was most essential to the intellectual life\"         91\n\n   IV. To a moralist who said that intellectual culture was not\n         conducive to sexual morality                                 98\n\n\nPART III.\n\nOF EDUCATION.\n\n    I. To a friend who recommended the author to learn this thing\n         and that                                                    104\n\n   II. To a friend who studied many things                           110\n\n  III. To the same                                                   120\n\n   IV. To a student of literature                                    130\n\n    V. To a country gentleman who regretted that his son had the\n          tendencies of a dilettant                                  134\n\n   VI. To the principal of a French college                          137\n\n  VII. To the same                                                   143\n\n VIII. To a student of modern languages                              149\n\n   IX. To the same                                                   153\n\n    X. To a student who lamented his defective memory                165\n\n   XI. To a master of arts who said that a certain distinguished\n         painter was half-educated                                   170\n\n\nPART IV.\n\nTHE POWER OF TIME.\n\n    I. To a man of leisure who complained of want of time            176\n\n   II. To a young man of great talent and energy who had\n          magnificent plans for the future                           185\n\n  III. To a man of business who desired to make himself better\n         acquainted with literature, but whose time for reading\n         was limited                                                 200\n\n   IV. To a student who felt hurried and driven                      207\n\n    V. To a friend who, though he had no profession, could not\n         find time for his various intellectual pursuits             212\n\n\nPART V.\n\nTHE INFLUENCES OF MONEY.\n\n    I. To a very rich student                                        216\n\n   II. To a genius careless in money matters                         224\n\n  III. To a student in great poverty                                 239\n\n\nPART VI.\n\nCUSTOM AND TRADITION.\n\n    I. To a young gentleman who had firmly resolved never to wear\n         anything but a gray coat                                    246\n\n   II. To a conservative who had accused the author of a want of\n         respect for tradition                                       254\n\n  III. To a lady who lamented that her son had intellectual doubts\n         concerning the dogmas of the church                         263\n\n   IV. To the son of the lady to whom the preceding letter was\n         addressed                                                   269\n\n    V. To a friend who seemed to take credit to himself,\n         intellectually, from the nature of his religious belief     276\n\n   VI. To a Roman Catholic friend who accused the intellectual\n         class of a want of reverence for authority                  280\n\n\nPART VII.\n\nWOMEN AND MARRIAGE.\n\n    I. To a young gentleman of intellectual tastes, who, without\n         having as yet any   particular lady in view, had\n         expressed, in a general way, his determination to get\n         married                                                     285\n\n   II. To a young gentleman who contemplated marriage                291\n\n  III. To the same                                                   299\n\n   IV. To the same                                                   306\n\n    V. To the same                                                   312\n\n   VI. To a solitary student                                         322\n\n  VII. To a lady of high culture who found it difficult to associate\n         with persons of her own sex                                 325\n\n VIII. To a lady of high culture                                     330\n\n   IX. To a young man of the middle class, well educated, who\n         complained that it was difficult for him to live agreeably\n         with his mother, a person of somewhat authoritative\n         disposition, but uneducated                                 333\n\n\nPART VIII.\n\nARISTOCRACY AND DEMOCRACY.\n\n    I. To a young English nobleman                                   341\n\n   II. To an English democrat                                        358\n\n\nPART IX.\n\nSOCIETY AND SOLITUDE.\n\n    I. To a lady who doubted the reality of intellectual\n       friendships                                                   374\n\n   II. To a young gentleman who lived much in fashionable society    379\n\n  III. To the same                                                   384\n\n   IV. To the same                                                   391\n\n    V. To a young gentleman who kept entirely out of company         397\n\n   VI. To a friend who kindly warned the author  of the bad effects\n        of solitude                                                  402\n\nPART X.\n\nINTELLECTUAL HYGIENICS.\n\n    I. To a young author whilst he was writing his first book        415\n\n   II. To a student in the first ardor of intellectual ambition      422\n\n  III. To an intellectual man who desired an  outlet for his\n         energies                                                    431\n\n   IV. To the friend of a man of high culture  who produced nothing  441\n\n    V. To a student who felt hurried and driven                      446\n\n   VI. To an ardent friend who took no rest                          451\n\n  VII. To the same                                                   456\n\n VIII. To a friend (highly cultivated) who congratulated  himself\n          on having entirely  abandoned the habit of reading\n          newspapers                                                 466\n\n   IX. To an author who appreciated contemporary literature          470\n\n    X. To an author who kept very irregular hours                    476\n\n\nPART XI.\n\nTRADES AND PROFESSIONS.\n\n    I. To a young gentleman of ability and culture who had not\n         decided about his profession                                488\n\n   II. To a young gentleman who had literary and artistic tastes,\n         but no profession                                           499\n\n  III. To a young gentleman who wished to devote himself to\n         literature as a profession                                  504\n\n   IV. To an energetic and successful cotton manufacturer            513\n\n    V. To a young Etonian who thought of becoming a cotton-spinner   522\n\n\nPART XII.\n\nSURROUNDINGS.\n\n    I. To a friend who often changed his place of residence          530\n\n   II. To a friend who maintained that surroundings  were a matter\n         of indifference to a thoroughly occupied mind               539\n\n  III. To an artist who was fitting up a magnificent new studio      546\n\n\n\n\nTHE INTELLECTUAL LIFE.\n\n\n\n\nPART I.\n\n_THE PHYSICAL BASIS._\n\n\nLETTER I.\n\nTO A YOUNG MAN OF LETTERS WHO WORKED EXCESSIVELY.\n\n  Mental labor believed to be innocuous to healthy persons--Difficulty\n  of testing this--Case of the poet Wordsworth--Case of an eminent\n  living author--Case of a literary clergyman--Case of an energetic\n  tradesman--Instances of two Londoners who wrote\n  professionally--Scott's paralysis--Byron's death--All intellectual\n  labor proceeds on a physical basis.\n\nSo little is really known about the action of the nervous system, that\nto go into the subject from the physiological point of view would be to\nundertake a most difficult investigation, entirely beyond the competence\nof an unscientific person like your present correspondent. You will,\ntherefore, permit me, in reference to this, to leave you to the teaching\nof the most advanced physiologists of the time; but I may be able to\noffer a few practical suggestions, based on the experience of\nintellectual workers, which may be of use to a man whose career is\nlikely to be one of severe and almost uninterrupted intellectual labor.\n\nA paper was read several years ago before the members of a society in\nLondon, in which the author maintained that mental labor was never\ninjurious to a perfectly healthy human organization, and that the\nnumerous cases of break-down, which are commonly attributed to excessive\nbrain-work, are due, in reality, to the previous operation of disease.\n\nThis is one of those assertions which cannot be answered in a sentence.\nConcentrated within the briefest expression it comes to this, that\nmental labor cannot produce disease, but may aggravate the consequences\nof disease which already exists.\n\nThe difficulty of testing this is obvious; for so long as health remains\nquite perfect, it remains perfect, of course, whether the brain is used\nor not; and when failure of health becomes manifest, it is not always\neasy to decide in what degree mental labor may have been the cause of\nit. Again, the accuracy of so general a statement cannot be proved by\nany number of instances in its favor, since it is universally admitted\nthat brain-work is not the only cause of disease, and no one affirms\nthat it is more than one amongst many causes which may impede the bodily\nfunctions.\n\nWhen the poet Wordsworth was engaged in composing the \"White Doe of\nRylstone,\" he received a wound in his foot, and he observed that the\ncontinuation of the literary labor increased the irritation of the\nwound; whereas by suspending his work he could diminish it, and absolute\nmental rest produced a perfect cure. In connection with this incident he\nremarked that poetic excitement, accompanied by protracted labor in\ncomposition, always brought on more or less of bodily derangement. He\npreserved himself from permanently injurious consequences by his\nexcellent habits of life.\n\nA very eminent living author, whose name I do not feel at liberty to\nmention, is always prostrated by severe illness at the conclusion of\neach of his works; another is unwell every Sunday, because he does not\nwrite on that day, and the recoil after the mental stretch of the week\nis too much for him.\n\nIn the case of Wordsworth, the physical constitution is believed to have\nbeen sound. His health at seventy-two was excellent; the two other\ninstances are more doubtful in this respect, yet both these writers\nenjoy very fair health, after the pressure of brain-work has been\nremoved for any considerable time. A clergyman of robust organization,\nwho does a good deal of literary work at intervals, told me that,\nwhenever he had attempted to make it regular, the consequence had always\nbeen distressing nervous sensations, from which at other times he was\nperfectly free. A tradesman, whose business affords an excellent outlet\nfor energetic bodily activity, told me that having attempted, in\naddition to his ordinary work, to acquire a foreign language which\nseemed likely to be useful to him, he had been obliged to abandon it on\naccount of alarming cerebral symptoms. This man has immense vigor and\nenergy, but the digestive functions, in this instance, are sluggish.\nHowever, when he abandoned study, the cerebral inconveniences\ndisappeared, and have never returned since.\n\nTwo Londoners who followed literature as a profession, and who both\nworked to excess, had cerebral attacks of a still more decided kind. One\nof them, after his recovery, resolved to regulate his work in future, so\nthat it might never pass the limits of moderation. He is now living, and\nin possession of a remarkably clear and richly furnished intellect. The\nother, who returned to his old habits, died in two years from softening\nof the brain. I am not aware that in these cases there was any other\ndisease than that produced by an immoderate use of the mental powers.\n\nThe health of Sir Walter Scott--we have this on his own testimony--was\nuncommonly robust, and there is every reason to believe that his\nparalysis was brought on by the excessive labor which resulted from his\npecuniary embarrassments, and that without such excessive mental labor\nand anxiety he would have preserved his health much longer. The death of\nByron was due, no doubt, quite as much to habits of dissipation as to\npoetical excitement; still it is probable that he would have borne\neither of these evil influences if it had not been accompanied by the\nother; and that to a man whose way of life was so exhausting as Byron's\nwas, the addition of constant poetical excitement and hard work in\nproduction, may be said without exaggeration to have killed him. We know\nthat Scott, with all his facility, had a dread of that kind of\nexcitement, and withdrew from the poetical arena to avoid it. We know,\ntoo, that the brain of Southey proved ultimately unable to endure the\nburden of the tasks he laid upon it.\n\nDifficult as it may be in some instances to ascertain quite accurately\nwhether an overworked man had perfectly sound bodily health to begin\nwith, obvious as it may be that in many breakdowns the final failure has\nbeen accelerated by diseases independent of mental work, the facts\nremain, that the excessive exercise of the mental powers is injurious to\nbodily health and that all intellectual labor proceeds upon a physical\nbasis. No man can safely forget this, and act as if he were a pure\nspirit, superior to physical considerations. Let me then, in other\nletters on this subject, direct your attention to the close connection\nwhich exists between intellectual production and the state of the body\nand the brain; not with the authority of a physician, but with the\nsympathy of a fellow-laborer, who has learned something from his own\nexperience, and still more from the more varied experience of his\nfriends.\n\n\nLETTER II.\n\nTO A YOUNG MAN OF LETTERS WHO WORKED EXCESSIVELY.\n\n  Mental labor rarely compatible with the best physical\n  conditions--Wordsworth's manner of composition--Mr. W. F. A.\n  Delane--George Sand working under pressure--Sir Walter Scott's\n  field-sports--Physical exercise the best tranquillizer of the nervous\n  system--Eugene Sue--Shelley's love of boating--Nervousness the\n  affliction of brain-workers--Nature's kindly warning--Working by\n  spurts--Beckford--Byron--Indolence of men of genius\n  fortunate--Distressing nature of cerebral fatigue.\n\nIt is possible that many of the worst results of intellectual labor may\nbe nothing more than indirect results. We may suffer, not from the work\nitself, but from sedentary confinement, from want of exercise, from\ninsufficient variety and amusement.\n\nMental labor is seldom compatible with the best physical conditions; it\nis so sometimes, however, or may be made so by an effort of will and\nresolution. Wordsworth composed his poetry in the open air, as he\nwalked, and so preserved himself from the evil of close confinement to\nthe desk. Mr. W. F. A. Delane, who did so much for the organization of\nthe _Times_ newspaper when it was under his management, began by doing\nlaw reports for that paper, in London and on circuit. His appearance of\nrude health surprised other members of his profession, but he accounted\nfor it by the care he took to compensate for the bad air and sedentary\nlabor in the courts of law by travelling between the assize towns on\nhorseback, and also by a more than commonly temperate way of life, since\nhe carefully avoided the bar dinners, eating and drinking for health\nalone. It is possible to endure the most unhealthy labor when there are\nfrequent intervals of invigorating exercise, accompanied by habits of\nstrict sobriety. The plan, so commonly resorted to, of trying to get\nhealth in stock for the rest of the year by a fortnight's hurried\ntravelling in the autumn, is not so good as Mr. Delane's way of getting\nthe week's supply of health during the course of the week itself.\n\nIt happened once that George Sand was hurried by the proprietor of a\nnewspaper who wanted one of her novels as a _feuilleton_. She has always\nbeen a careful and deliberate worker, very anxious to give all necessary\nlabor in preparation, and, like all such conscientious laborers, she can\nscarcely endure to be pushed. However, on this occasion she worked\novertime, as they say in Lancashire, and to enable herself to bear the\nextra pressure she did part of the work at night in order to keep\nseveral hours of daylight clear for her walks in the country, where she\nlived. Many writers, in the same situation, would have temporarily\nabandoned exercise, but George Sand clung to it all the more at a time\nwhen it was especially necessary that she should be well. In the same\nway Sir Walter Scott counterbalanced the effects of sedentary occupation\nby his hearty enjoyment of field-sports. It has been supposed that his\noutdoor exercise, which to weaker persons appears excessive, may have\nhelped to bring on the stroke of paralysis which finally disabled him;\nbut the fact is, that when the stroke arrived Sir Walter had altered his\nhabits of life in obedience to what he believed to be his duty, and had\nabandoned, or nearly so, the active amusements of his happier years. I\nbelieve rather that whilst he took so much exercise his robust\nconstitution not only enabled him to endure it without injury, but\nrequired it to keep the nervous system healthy, in spite of his hard\nwork in literary composition. Physical exercise, when the constitution\nis strong enough to endure it, is by far the best tranquillizer of the\nnervous system which has yet been discovered, and Sir Walter's life at\nAbbotsford was, in this respect at least, grounded on the true\nphilosophy of conduct. The French romancer, Eugene Sue, wrote till ten\no'clock every morning, and passed the rest of the day, when at his\ncountry house, either in horse-exercise, or field-sports, or gardening,\nfor all of which he had a liking which amounted to passion. Shelley's\ndelight was boating, which at once exercised his muscles and relieved\nhis mind from the weariness of incessant invention or speculation. It\nwill generally be found, that whenever a man of much intellectual\ndistinction has maintained his powers in full activity, it has been by\navoiding the bad effects of an entirely sedentary life.\n\nI well believe that a person naturally robust, with a clear and powerful\nbrain, could bear twelve or fourteen hours' work every day for years\ntogether so far as the work itself is concerned, if only so large an\nexpenditure of time left a sufficient margin for amusement, and\nexercise, and sleep. But the privation of exercise, by weakening the\ndigestive and assimilative powers, reduces the flow of healthy and rich\nblood to the brain--the brain requires an enormous quantity of blood,\nespecially when the cerebral matter is rapidly destroyed by intellectual\nlabor--and usually brings on nervousness, the peculiar affliction of the\nover-driven mental laborer. This nervousness is Nature's kindly warning,\npreserving us, if we attend to it in time, from much more serious\nconsequences. The best preventive of it, and often the only cure, is\nplenty of moderate exercise. The customs of the upper classes in England\nhappily provide this in the best shape, that of amusement enjoyed in\nsociety, but our middle classes in large towns do not get nearly enough\nof it, and the most studious are always strongly tempted to neglect it\naltogether.\n\nMen of great imaginative power are commonly addicted to a habit which is\npeculiarly dangerous. They work as race-horses work, with the utmost\nintensity of effort during short spaces of time, taxing all their\npowers whilst the brilliant effort lasts. When Beckford wrote the\nwonderful tale \"Vathek\" in his twentieth year, he did it at a single\nsitting, which lasted for three days and two nights, and it cost him a\nserious illness. Several of the best poems by Byron were written, if not\nquite with equal rapidity, still on the same principle of composition at\nwhite heat. In cases of this kind, Nature provides her own remedy in the\nindolence of the imaginative temperament, which leaves large spaces of\ntime for the action of the recuperative processes. The same law governs\nthe physical energies of the carnivora, which maintain, or recover,\ntheir capacity for extraordinary effort by intervals of absolute repose.\nIn its long spaces of mental rest the imaginative temperament recruits\nitself by amusement, which in England usually includes physical exercise\nof some kind.\n\nThis fortunate indolence of men of genius would in most instances ensure\ntheir safety if they were not impelled by necessity to labor beyond the\nsuggestions of inclination. The exhausted brain never of itself seeks\nthe additional exhaustion of hard work. You know very well when you are\ntired, and at such times the natural man in you asks plainly enough for\nrest and recreation. The art is so to arrange our lives that the natural\nman may sometimes have his way, and forget, if only for a time, the\nlabors which lead to weariness--not to that pleasant weariness of the\nbody which promises soundest sleep, but the distressing fatigue of the\nexhausted spirit which is tortured by the importunity of ideas which it\nis unable to express, and apprehensions that it cannot dismiss, which\nfights through the sleepless night the phantoms of unconquerable horror.\n\n  NOTE.--The bad effect of literary composition on the physical state\n  which was observed by Wordsworth in his own case was also noticed by\n  Shelley during the composition of the \"Cenci,\" which, he said, had\n  been a fine antidote to nervous medicines, and kept, he believed, the\n  pain in his side \"as sticks do a fire.\" These influences are best\n  observed in people whose health is delicate. Although Joubert, for\n  example, had an extremely clear intellect, he could scarcely write at\n  all on account of the physical consequences. I have come to the\n  conclusion that literary work _acts simply as a strong stimulant_. In\n  moderate quantities it is not only innocent, but decidedly beneficial;\n  in excess it acts like poison on the nervous system. What constitutes\n  excess every man has to find out by his own experience. A page was\n  excess to Joubert, a chapter was moderation to Alexandre Dumas.\n\n\nLETTER III.\n\nTO A STUDENT IN UNCERTAIN HEALTH.\n\n  Habits of Kant, the philosopher--Objection to an over-minute\n  regularity of habit--Value of independence of character--Case of an\n  English author--Case of an English resident in Paris--Scott an\n  abundant eater and drinker--Goethe also--An eminent French\n  publisher--Turgot--Importance of good cookery--Wine drinking--Ale--The\n  aid of stimulants treacherous--The various effects of tobacco--Tea and\n  coffee--Case of an English clergyman--Balzac--The Arabia custom of\n  coffee-drinking--Wisdom of occasionally using stimulants.\n\nIMMANUEL KANT, who was a master in the art of taking care of himself,\nhad by practice acquired a dexterous mode of folding himself up in the\nbed-clothes, by passing them over and under his shoulders, so that, when\nthe operation was complete, he was shut up like the silkworm in his\ncocoon. \"When I am thus snugly folded up in my bed,\" he would say to his\nfriends, \"I say to myself, can any man be in better health than I am?\"\n\nThere is nothing in the lives of philosophers more satisfactory than\nthis little passage. If Kant had said to himself, \"Can anybody be wiser,\nmore learned, more justly deserving of immortal fame than I am?\" we\nshould have felt, that however agreeable this opinion might have been to\nthe philosopher who held it, his private satisfaction stood in need of\nconfirmation from without; and even if he had really been all this, we\nmight have reflected that wisdom and learning still leave their\npossessor exposed to the acutest kinds of suffering. But when a\nphilosopher rolls himself up at night, and congratulates himself on the\npossession of perfect health, we only think what a happy man he was to\npossess that first of blessings, and what a sensible man to know the\nvalue of it! And Kant had a deeper happiness in this reflection than any\nwhich could spring from the mere consciousness of possessing one of the\nunearned gifts of nature. The excellence of his health was due in part\nto a sufficiently good constitution, but it was due also to his own\nextreme carefulness about his habits. By an unceasing observation of his\nown bodily life, as far as possible removed from the anxiety of\nhypochondriacs, he managed to keep the physical machine in such regular\norder, that for more than thirty years he always rose precisely at the\nsame minute. If his object had been health for health's sake, the result\nwould still have been well worth any sacrifices of momentary inclination\nthat it cost him; but Kant had a higher purpose. He well knew that the\nregularity of the intellectual life depended entirely on the regularity\nof the bodily functions, and, unlike the foolish men alluded to by\nGoethe who pass the day in complaining of headache, and the night in\ndrinking the wine that produces it, Kant not only knew that regular\nhealth was necessary to his work as a philosopher, but did everything in\nhis power to preserve it. Few intellectual laborers have in this respect\ngiven evidence of such persistent strength of will.\n\nIn his manner of living he did not consult custom, but the needs of his\nindividual nature. It is not always easy for great brain-workers to\nfollow with perfect fidelity the customs of the people about them. These\nusages have been gradually formed by the majority to suit the needs of\nthe majority; but there are cases where a close adherence to them would\nbe a serious hindrance to the highest and best activity. A good example\nof this is Kant's intense antipathy to beer. It did not suit him, and he\nwas right in his non-conformity to German usage on this point, but he\nwas mistaken in believing beer to be universally injurious. There is a\nvery general belief in England that what is called a good breakfast is\nthe foundation of the labor of the day. Kant's breakfast, which he took\nat five in the morning at all seasons of the year, consisted of a cup of\ntea and a pipe of tobacco. On this he worked eight hours, either in\nlecturing or writing--a long stretch of uninterrupted labor. He dined at\none, and this was his only meal, for he had no supper. The single repast\nwas a deviation from ordinary usage, but Kant found that it suited him,\nprobably because he read in the evening from six till a quarter to ten,\nand a second meal might have interfered with this by diminishing his\npower of attention. There exists a strong medical objection to this\nhabit of taking only one meal in twenty-four hours, which indeed is\nalmost unknown in England, though not extremely rare on the Continent. I\nknow an old gentleman who for forty years has lived as Kant did, and\nenjoys excellent health and uncommon mental clearness.\n\nA detail which illustrates Kant's attention to whatever could affect his\nphysical life, is his rule to withdraw his mind from everything\nrequiring effort fifteen minutes before he went to bed. His theory,\nwhich is fully confirmed by the experience of others, was, that there\nwas a risk of missing sleep if the brain was not tranquillized before\nbed-time. He knew that the intellectual life of the day depended on the\nnight's rest, and he took this precaution to secure it. The regularity\nof his daily walk, taken during the afternoon in all weathers, and the\nstrict limitation of the hours of rest, also helped the soundness of his\nsleep.\n\nHe would not walk out in company, for the whimsical reason that if he\nopened his mouth a colder air would reach his lungs than that which\npassed through the nostrils; and he would not eat alone, but always had\nguests to dinner. There are good physiological reasons in favor of\npleasant society at table, and, besides these, there are good\nintellectual reasons also.\n\nBy attention to these rules of his, Kant managed to keep both body and\nmind in a working order, more uninterrupted than is usual with men who\ngo through much intellectual labor. The solitary objection to his system\nis the excessive regularity of habit to which it bound him by chains of\nhis own forging. He found a quiet happiness in this regularity; indeed,\nhappiness is said to be more commonly found in habit that in anything\nelse, so deeply does it satisfy a great permanent instinct of our\nnature. But a _minute_ regularity of habit is objectionable, because it\ncan only be practicable at home, and is compatible only with an\nexistence of the most absolute tranquillity. Kant did not travel, and\nnever could have travelled. He was a bachelor, and could not have ceased\nto be a bachelor, without a disturbance that would have been intolerable\nto him. He enjoyed the full benefits of his system without experiencing\nits disadvantages, but any considerable change of situation would have\nmade the disadvantages apparent. Few lives can be so minutely regulated\nwithout risk of future inconvenience.\n\nKant's example is a good one so far as this, that it proved a sort of\nindependence of character which would be valuable to every student. All\nwho need to keep their minds in the best possible condition ought to\nhave resolution enough to regulate their living in a manner which\nexperience, in their case, proves to be most favorable. Whatever may be\nthe authority of custom, a wise man makes himself independent of usages\nwhich are impediments to his best activity. I know an author who was\nalways unwell about eleven o'clock in the morning--so unwell that he\ncould do nothing but lament his miserable fate. Knowing by experience\nthe powerful effect of regimen, I inquired whether he enjoyed his\nbreakfast. \"No, he did not.\" \"Then why did he attempt to eat any\nbreakfast?\" It turned out that this foolish man swallowed every morning\ntwo cups of bad coffee and a quantity of greasy food, from a patriotic\ndeference to the customs of his country. He was persuaded to abandon\nthis unsuitable habit and to eat nothing till half-past ten, when his\nadviser prescribed a well-cooked little _dejeuner a la fourchette_,\naccompanied by half a bottle of sound Bordeaux. The effect was magical.\nMy friend felt light and cheerful before _dejeuner_, and worked quite\nhappily and well, whilst after _dejeuner_ he felt like a horse that has\neaten his corn. Nor was the good effect a transitory one; the bad\nsymptoms never returned and he still adheres to his new arrangement.\nThis little reform made a wretched existence happy, and has had for its\nresult an increase in production with a diminution of fatigue. The\nexplanation is that the stomach did not ask for the early breakfast, and\nhad a hard fight to overcome it, after which came exhaustion and a\ndistaste both for food and work. There are cases where an opposite rule\nis the right one. An Englishman living in Paris found the French\n_dejeuner_ unsuitable for him, and discovered that he worked best on a\nsubstantial English breakfast, with strong tea, at eight in the morning,\nafter which he went on working all day without any further nourishment\ntill dinner at six in the evening. A friend of Sir Walter Scott's, who\nhad stayed with him at Abbotsford, told me that Sir Walter ate and drank\nlike everybody else as to times and seasons, but much more abundantly\nthan people of less vigorous organization. Goethe used to work till\neleven without taking anything, then he drank a cup of chocolate and\nworked till one. \"At two he dined. This meal was the important meal of\nthe day. His appetite was immense. Even on the days when he complained\nof not being hungry he ate much more than most men. Puddings, sweets,\nand cakes were always welcome. He sat a long while over his wine. He was\nfond of wine, and drank daily his two or three bottles.\" An eminent\nFrench publisher, one of the most clear-headed and hard-working men of\nhis generation, never touched food or drink till six in the evening,\nwhen he ate an excellent dinner with his guests. He found this system\nfavorable to his work, but a man of less robust constitution would have\nfelt exhausted in the course of the day.\n\nTurgot could not work well till after he had dined copiously, but many\nmen cannot think after a substantial meal; and here, in spite of the\nexample set by Scott and Goethe, let me observe that nothing interferes\nso much with brainwork as over-eating. The intellectual workman requires\nnourishment of the best possible quality, but the quantity ought always\nto be well within the capacity of his digestive powers. The truth\nappears to be, that whilst the intellectual life makes very large\ndemands upon nutrition--for cerebral activity cannot go forward without\nconstant supplies of force, which must come ultimately from what we have\neaten--this kind of life, being sedentary, is unfavorable to the work of\ndigestion. Brain-workers cannot eat like sportsmen and farmers without\nlosing many hours in torpor, and yet they need nutrition as much as if\nthey led active lives. The only way out of this difficulty is to take\ncare that the food is good enough for a moderate quantity of it to\nmaintain the physical and mental powers. The importance of scientific\ncookery can hardly be exaggerated. Intellectual labor is, in its\norigin, as dependent upon the art of cookery as the dissemination of its\nresults is dependent upon paper-making and printing. This is one of\nthose matters which people cannot be brought to consider seriously; but\ncookery in its perfection--the great science of preparing food in the\nway best suited to our use--is really the most important of all\nsciences, and the mother of the arts. The wonderful theory that the most\nignorant cookery is the most favorable to health is only fit for the\ndark ages. It is grossly and stupidly untrue. A scientific cook will\nkeep you in regular health, when an ignorant one will offer you the\ndaily alternative of starving or indigestion.\n\nThe great question of drinks is scarcely less important. Sound natural\nwines, not strengthened by any addition of alcohol, are known to supply\nboth stimulus and nourishment to the brain. Goethe's practice was not\nirrational, though he drank fifty thousand bottles in his lifetime.\nStill it is not necessary to imitate him to this extent. The\nwine-drinking populations have keener and livelier wits than those who\nuse other beverages. It is proved by long experience that the pure juice\nof the grape sustains the force and activity of the brain. The poets who\nfrom age to age have sung the praise of wine were not wholly either\ndeceivers or deceived. In the lands of the vine, where the plant is\nlooked upon as a nursing mother, men do not injure their health by\ndrinking; but in the colder North, where the grape can never ripen, the\ndeaths from intemperance are frequent. Bread and wine are almost pure\ngifts of nature, though both are prepared by man after the old\ntraditional ways. These are not poisons, but gin and absinthe are\npoisons, madness poured out from a bottle! Kant and Goethe loved the\npure Rhine wine, and their brains were clear and vigorous to the utmost\nspan of life. It was not wine that ruined Burns and Byron, or\nBaudelaire, or Alfred de Musset.\n\nNotwithstanding Kant's horror of beer, that honest northern drink\ndeserves our friendly recognition. It has quite a peculiar effect upon\nthe nervous system, giving a rest and calm which no other drink can\nprocure for it so safely. It is said that beer drinkers are slow, and a\nlittle stupid; that they have an ox-like placidity not quite favorable\nto any brilliant intellectual display. But there are times when this\nplacidity is what the laboring brain most needs. After the agitations of\ntoo active thinking there is safety in a tankard of ale. The wine\ndrinkers are agile, but they are excitable; the beer drinkers are heavy,\nbut in their heaviness there is peace. In that clear golden drink which\nEngland has brewed for more than a thousand Octobers, and will brew for\na thousand more, we may find perhaps some explanation of that absence of\nirritability which is the safe-guard of the national character, which\nmakes it faithful in its affections, easy to govern, not easy to excite\nto violence.\n\nIf I have spoken favorably of beer and wine as having certain\nintellectual uses, please remember that I recommend only the habitual\nuse of them, not mad rites of Bacchus, and even the habitual use only\njust so far as it may suit the individual constitution. The liberal\nregimen of Scott and Goethe would not answer in every case, and there\nare organizations, often very robust, in which intoxicating drinks of\nall kinds, even in the most moderate quantity, impede the brain's action\ninstead of aiding it. Two of the most able men I have ever known could\nnot drink pure wine of any kind because it sent the blood to the head,\nwith consequent cerebral oppression. And whilst on this subject I ought\nto observe, that the aid which these stimulants afford, even when the\nbody gratefully accepts them, is often treacherous from its very\nacceptability. Men who are over-driven--and the number of such men is\nunhappily very great in these days--say that without stimulants they\ncould not get through their labor; but the stimulants often delude us as\nto the limits of our natural powers and encourage us to attempt too\nmuch. The help they give us is not altogether illusory; under certain\nlimitations it is real, but many have gone farther than the reality of\nthe assistance warranted. The ally brings to us an increase of forces,\nbut he comes with appearances of power surpassing the reality, and we\nundertake tasks beyond our strength. In drinking, as in eating, the best\nrule for the intellectual is moderation in quantity with good quality,\na sound wine, and not enough of it to foster self-delusion.\n\nThe use of tobacco has so much extended itself in the present generation\nthat we are all obliged to make a decision for ourselves on the ancient\ncontroversy between its friends and enemies. We cannot form a reasonable\nopinion about tobacco without bearing in mind that it produces,\naccording to circumstances, one of two entirely distinct and even\nopposite classes of effects. In certain states of the body it acts as a\nstimulant, in other states as a narcotic. People who have a dislike to\nsmoking affirm that it stupefies; but this assertion, at least so far as\nthe temporary consequences are concerned, is not supported by\nexperience. Most of the really brilliant conversations that I have\nlistened to have been accompanied by clouds of tobacco-smoke; and a\ngreat deal of the best literary composition that is produced by\ncontemporary authors is wrought by men who are actually smoking whilst\nthey work. My own experience is that very moderate smoking acts as a\npleasant stimulus upon the brain, whilst it produces a temporary\nlassitude of the muscular system, not perceptible in times of rest, but\nan appreciable hindrance in times of muscular exertion. It is better\ntherefore for men who feel these effects from tobacco to avoid it when\nthey are in exercise, and to use it only when the body rests and the\nmind labors. Pray remember, however, that this is the experience of an\nexceedingly moderate smoker, who has not yet got himself into the\ngeneral condition of body which is brought on by a larger indulgence in\ntobacco. On the other hand, it is evident that men engaged in physical\nlabor find a muscular stimulus in occasional smoking, and not a\ntemporary lassitude. It is probable that the effect varies with\nindividual cases, and is never precisely what our own experience would\nlead us to imagine. For excessive smokers, it appears to be little more\nthan the tranquillizing of a sort of uneasiness, the continual\nsatisfaction of a continual craving. I have never been able to ascertain\nthat moderate smoking diminished intellectual force; but I have observed\nin excessive smokers a decided weakening of the will, and a preference\nfor talking about work to the effort of actual labor. The opinions of\nmedical men on this subject are so much at variance that their science\nonly adds to our uncertainty. One doctor tells me that the most moderate\nsmoking is unquestionably injurious, whilst others affirm that it is\ninnocent. Speaking simply from self-observation, I find that in my own\ncase tea and coffee are far more perilous than tobacco.\n\nAlmost all English people are habitual tea-drinkers, and as the tea they\ndrink is very strong, they may be said to use it in excess. The\nunpleasant symptoms which tea-poisoning produces in a patient not inured\nby habit, disappear in the seasoned tea-drinker, leaving only a certain\nexhilaration, which appears to be perfectly innocuous. If tea is a safe\nstimulant, it is certainly an agreeable one, and there seems to be no\nvalid reason why brain-workers should refuse themselves that solace. I\nknew a worthy clergyman many years ago who from the most conscientious\nmotives denied himself ale and wine, but found a fountain of consolation\nin the tea-pot. His usual allowance was sixteen cups, all of heroic\nstrength, and the effect upon his brain seems to have been altogether\nfavorable, for his sermons were both long and eloquent, and to this day\nhe is preaching still, without any diminution of his powers. French\npeople find in coffee the most efficacious remedy for the temporary\ntorpor of the mind which results from the processes of digestion. Balzac\ndrank great quantities of coffee whilst he wrote; and this, it is\nbelieved, brought on the terrible nervous disease that accelerated his\nend. The best proof that tea and coffee are favorable to intellectual\nexpression is that all nations use one or the other as aids to\nconversation. In Mr. Palgrave's Travels in Arabia there is never any\ntalk without the inevitable coffee, that fragrant Arabian berry prepared\nwith such delicate cunning that it yields the perfect aroma.\n\nThe wisdom of occasionally using these various stimulants for\nintellectual purposes is proved by a single consideration. Each of us\nhas a little cleverness and a great deal of sluggish stupidity. There\nare certain occasions when we absolutely need the little cleverness\nthat we possess. The orator needs it when he speaks, the poet when he\nversifies, but neither cares how stupid he may become when the oration\nis delivered and the lyric set down on paper. The stimulant serves to\nbring out the talent when it is wanted, like the wind in the pipes of an\norgan. \"What will it matter if I am even a little duller afterwards?\"\nsays the genius; \"I can afford to be dull when I have done.\" But the\ntruth still remains that there are stimulants and stimulants. Not the\nnectar of the gods themselves were worth the dash of a wave upon the\nbeach, and the pure cool air of the morning.\n\n  NOTE.--What is said in the above letter about the employment of\n  stimulants is intended to apply only to cases in which there is no\n  organic disease. The harm which diseased persons do to themselves by\n  conforming to customs which are innocent for others is as lamentable\n  as it is easily avoidable. Two bottles of any natural wine grown above\n  the latitude of Lyons are a permissible daily allowance to a man whose\n  organs are all sound; but the doctors in the wine districts\n  unanimously forbid pure wine when there is a chronic inflammatory\n  tendency. In these cases even the most honest Bordeaux ought to be\n  diluted with twice its volume of water. There are many chronic\n  diseases which tobacco irritates and accelerates. Both wine and\n  tobacco are injurious to weak eyes.\n\n\nLETTER IV.\n\nTO A MUSCULAR CHRISTIAN.\n\n  Muscular and intellectual tendencies in two boys--Difficulty of\n  finding time to satisfy both--Plato on the influences of music and\n  gymnastics--Somnolence and digestion--Neglect of literature--Natural\n  restlessness of the active temperament--Case of a Garibaldian\n  officer--Difficulty of taking a sufficient interest in exercise--A\n  boar hunt.\n\nI know two little boys, sons of a near neighbor, who have from,\nchildhood exhibited opposite tendencies. One of them is incessantly\nactive, always out of doors in any weather, busy about horses, and\nfarming, and game, heedless of his books, and studying only under\npositive compulsion. The other sits at home with his lessons or a story\nbook, and only goes out because he is incited by the fraternal example.\nThe two lads represent two distinct varieties of human life, the active\nand the intellectual. The elder is happiest during physical exertion;\nthe younger is happiest when his brain is fully occupied. Left entirely\nto themselves, without the equalizing influence of the outside world and\nthe ways of living which general custom has established, they would lead\nthe most opposite lives. The elder would inevitably become a farmer,\nthat he might live in the country and take exercise all day long, or\nelse he would seek adventure in wild travel, or in romantic warfare; but\nthe younger would very quickly be taken possession of by some engrossing\nintellectual pursuit, and lead the life of a sedentary student. The\nproblem which these two young lives have before them is the\nreconciliation of their tendencies. Since they come of cultivated\nparents, the intellectual lad has the better chance of following his own\nbent. Both will have to take their University degrees, and the younger\nhas the advantage there. Still there are powerful influences in favor of\nthe elder. His activity will be encouraged by the admiration of his\ncompanions, and by the example of the country gentlemen who are his\nneighbors. He can ride, and row, and swim; he is beginning to shoot; at\ntwenty he will be a sportsman. When once he has taken his degree, I\nwonder what will be the advances in his intellectual culture. Fraternal\nand social influences will preserve the younger from absolute physical\ninaction; but there are not any influences powerful enough to keep the\nelder safe from intellectual rust.\n\nIf you, who are a distinguished sportsman and athlete, would kindly\ninform us with perfect frankness of the line which your studies have\nfollowed since you quitted Eton, we should be the wiser for your\nexperience. Have gymnastic exercises hardened you, as Plato said they\ndid, when pursued excessively? and do you need the musical studies which\nhe both valued and dreaded as the most powerful of softening influences?\nIf you have energy enough to lead both lives, pray how do you find the\ntime?\n\nAs to Plato's musical influence, you invite it, and yet you\ntreacherously elude its power. After being out all day in the pursuit of\nsylvan pleasures (if shooting on treeless wastes can be called a sylvan\npleasure), you come home at nightfall ravenous. Then you do ample\njustice to your dinner, and having satisfied your _faim de chasseur_,\nyou go into the drawing-room, and ask your wife to play and sing to you.\nIf Plato could witness that pretty scene, he would approve your\nobedience to his counsels. He would behold an athletic Englishman\nstretching his mighty limbs on a couch of soft repose, and letting his\nsoul grow tender as his ears drank ravishing harmonies. If, however, the\nancient sage, delighted with so sweet a picture of strength refined by\nsong, were to dwell upon the sight as I have done, he would perceive too\nsoon that, although your body was present indeed, your soul had become\ndeaf in sleep's oblivion. So it happens to you night after night, and\nthe music reaches you no more than the songs of choristers reach the\ndead in the graves below.\n\nAnd the elevating influences of literature? You have books, of course,\nin abundance. There is a library, amongst other luxuries of your home.\nBut the literature your intellect feeds upon is in the columns of the\n_Field_, your newspaper. Yet this neglect of the means of culture is not\ndue to any natural feebleness of the mind. Your brain, by its nature, is\nas vigorous as your vigorous body. It is sleep, and weariness, and the\ngreat necessary business of digestion, that drown your intellectual\nenergies. The work of repairing so great a destruction of muscle is\nnature's chief concern. Since you became the mighty hunter that you are,\nthe wear and tear have been enormous, and the necessary rapidity of\nreconstruction has absorbed your rich vitality.\n\nI will not question the wisdom of your choice, if there has been any\ndeliberate choice, though perhaps the life of action that you lead may\nhave grown rather out of circumstances determining habit than from any\nconscious resolution. Health is so much more necessary to happiness than\nculture, that few who could choose between them would sacrifice it for\nlearning, unless they were impelled by irresistible instincts. And\nbeyond the great delight of health and strength there is a restlessness\nin men born to be active which must have its outlet in activity. I knew\na brave Italian who had followed Garibaldi in all his romantic\nenterprises, who had suffered from privation and from wounds, who had\nnot only faced death in the wildest adventures, but, what is even more\nterrible to the active temperament, had risked health from frequent\nexposure; and when I asked him whether it was affection to his famous\nchief, or faith in a political creed, or some more personal motive that\nhad led him to this scorn of prudence, he answered that, after honest\nself-examination, he believed the most powerful motive to be the\npassion for an active life. The active temperament likes physical\naction for its own sake, and not as a means of health. Activity renews\nitself and claims larger and larger satisfaction, till at last the habit\nof it absorbs the whole energy of the man.\n\nAlthough such a life as yours would be incompatible with the work I have\nto do, it would be an unmixed benefit to me to take a greater interest\nin exercise. If you could but communicate that interest, how willingly\nwould I become your pupil! The fatal law of the studious temperament is,\nthat in exercise itself it must find some intellectual charm, so that we\nquit our books in the library only to go and read the infinite book of\nnature. We cannot go out in the country without incessantly thinking\nabout either botany, or geology, or landscape painting, and it is\ndifficult for us to find a refuge from the importunate habit of\ninvestigation. Sport is the only refuge, but the difficulty is to care\nabout it sufficiently to avoid _ennui_. When you have not the natural\ninstinct, how are you to supply its place by any make-believe\nexcitement? There is no position in the world more wearisome than that\nof a man inwardly indifferent to the amusement in which he is trying to\ntake part. _You_ can watch for game with an invincible patience, for you\nhave the natural instinct, but after the first ten minutes on the skirts\nof the wood I lay my gun down and begin to botanize. Last week a\nfriendly neighbor invited me to a boar-hunt. The boar was supposed to\nbe in the middle of a great impenetrable plantation, and all I did\nduring the whole morning was to sit in my saddle awaiting the exit of\nthe beast, cantering from one point of the wood's circumference to\nanother, as the cry of the dogs guided me. Was it pleasure? A true\nhunter would have found interest enough in expectation, but I felt like\na man on a railway-platform who is waiting for a train that is late.\n\n\nLETTER V.\n\nTO A STUDENT WHO NEGLECTED BODILY EXERCISE.\n\n  Difficulty of conciliating the animal and the intellectual\n  lives--Bodily activity sometimes preserved by an effort of the\n  will--Necessity of faith in exercise--Incompatibility between physical\n  and intellectual living disappears in large spaces of time--Franklin's\n  theory about concentration in exercise--Time an essential\n  factor--Health of a rural postman--Pedestrian habits of\n  Wordsworth--Pedestrian and equestrian habits of Sir Walter\n  Scott--Goethe's wild delight in physical exercise--Alexander Humboldt\n  combated early delicacy by exercise--Intellectual utilities of\n  physical action.\n\n\"We have done those things which we ought not to have done; we have left\nundone those things which we ought to have done, and there is no health\nin us.\"\n\nHow applicable, my dear brother, are these words which the Church, in\nher wisdom, has seen to be adapted to all sinners--how applicable, I\nsay, are they to students most especially! They have quite a personal\napplicability to you and me. We have read all day long, and written till\nthree o'clock in the morning; we have taken no exercise for weeks, and\nthere is no health in us. The doctor scrutinizes our wearied eyes, and\nknows that our brains are weary. Little do we need his warnings, for\ndoes not Nature herself remind us of our disobedience, and tell us in\nlanguage not to be misinterpreted, to amend the error of our ways? Our\ndigestion is sluggish and imperfect; we are as nervous as delicate\nladies, and there is no health in us.\n\nHow easy it is to follow one of the two lives--the animal or the\nintellectual! how difficult to conciliate the two! In every one of us\nthere exists an animal which might have been as vigorous as wolves and\nfoxes, if it had been left to develop itself in freedom. But besides the\nanimal, there existed also a mind, and the mental activity restrained\nthe bodily activity, till at last there is a serious danger of putting\nan end to it altogether.\n\nI know two men, about fifty-five years old both of them, and both of\nthem admirably active. They tell me that their bodily activity has been\npreserved by an effort of the will; that if they had not resolutely kept\nup the habit of using legs and arms in daily work or amusement their\nlimbs would have stiffened into uselessness, and their constitutions\nwould have been unable to bear the call of any sudden emergency. One of\nthem has four residences in different parts of the same county, and yet\nhe will not keep a carriage, but is a pedestrian terrible to his\nfriends; the other is at the head of a great business, and gives an\nexample of physical activity to his workpeople. Both have an absolute\nfaith in habitual exercise; and both affirm that if the habit were once\nbroken they could never afterwards resume it.\n\nWe need this faith in exercise--this firm conviction of its\nnecessity--the sort of conviction that makes a man go out in all\nweathers, and leave the most urgent intellectual labor for the mere\ndiscipline and hardening of the body. Few students possess this faith in\nits purity. It is hard to believe that we shall get any good from\nexercise proportionate to the sacrifice of time.\n\nThe incompatibility between the physical and the intellectual lives is\noften very marked if you look at small spaces of time only; but if you\nconsider broader spaces, such as a lifetime, then the incompatibility is\nnot so marked, and gives place to a manifest conciliation. The brain is\nclearer in vigorous health than it can be in the gloom and misery of\nsickness; and although health may last for a while without renewal from\nexercise, so that if you are working under pressure for a month the time\ngiven to exercise is so much deducted from the result, it is not so for\nthe life's performance. Health sustained for many years is so useful to\nthe realization of all considerable intellectual undertakings, that the\nsacrifice to the bodily well-being is the best of all possible\ninvestments.\n\nFranklin's theory about concentrating his exercise for the economy of\ntime was founded upon a mistake. Violent exertion for minutes is _not_\nequivalent to moderate exercise for hours. The desire to concentrate\ngood of various kinds into the smallest possible space is one of the\ncommonest of _human_ wishes, but it is not encouraged by the broader\neconomy of nature. In the exercise of the mind every teacher is well\naware that time is an essential factor. It is necessary to _live_ with a\nstudy for hundreds or thousands of hours before the mind can assimilate\nas much of the subject as it may need; and so it is necessary to live in\nexercise during a thousand hours of every year to make sure of the\nphysical benefits. Even the fresh air itself requires time to renovate\nour blood. The fresh air cannot be concentrated; and to breathe the\nprodigious quantities of it which are needed for perfect energy, we must\nbe out in it frequently and long.\n\nThe inhabitants of great cities have recourse to gymnastics as a\nsubstitute for the sports of the country. These exercises have one\nadvantage--they can be directed scientifically so as to strengthen the\nlimbs that need development; but no city gymnasium can offer the\ninvigorating breezes of the mountain. We require not only exercise but\nexposure--daily exposure to the health-giving inclemencies of the\nweather. The postman who brings my letters walks eight thousand miles a\nyear, and enjoys the most perfect regularity of health. There are\noperatives in factories who go through quite as much bodily exertion,\nbut they have not his fine condition. He is as merry as a lark, and\nannounces himself every morning like a bearer of joyful tidings. What\nthe postman does from necessity an old gentleman did as regularly,\nthough more moderately, for the preservation of his health and\nfaculties. He went out every day; and as he never consulted the weather,\nso he never had to consult the physicians.\n\nNothing in the habits of Wordsworth--that model of excellent habits--can\nbe better as an example to men of letters than his love of pedestrian\nexcursions. Wherever he happened to be, he explored the whole\nneighborhood on foot, looking into every nook and cranny of it; and not\nmerely the immediate neighborhood, but extended tracts of country; and\nin this way he met with much of his best material. Scott was both a\npedestrian and an equestrian traveller, having often, as he tells us,\nwalked thirty miles or ridden a hundred in those rich and beautiful\ndistricts which afterwards proved to him such a mine of literary wealth.\nGoethe took a wild delight in all sorts of physical exercise--swimming\nin the Ilm by moonlight, skating with the merry little Weimar court on\nthe Schwansee, riding about the country on horseback, and becoming at\ntimes quite outrageous in the rich exuberance of his energy. Alexander\nHumboldt was delicate in his youth, but the longing for great\nenterprises made him dread the hindrances of physical insufficiency, so\nhe accustomed his body to exercise and fatigue, and prepared himself for\nthose wonderful explorations which opened his great career. Here are\nintellectual lives which were forwarded in their special aims by habits\nof physical exercise; and, in an earlier age, have we not also the\nexample of the greatest intellect of a great epoch, the astonishing\nLeonardo da Vinci, who took such a delight in horsemanship that\nalthough, as Vasari tells us, poverty visited him often, he never could\nsell his horses or dismiss his grooms?\n\nThe physical and intellectual lives are not incompatible. I may go\nfarther, and affirm that the physical activity of men eminent in\nliterature has added abundance to their material and energy to their\nstyle; that the activity of scientific men has led them to innumerable\ndiscoveries; and that even the more sensitive and contemplative study of\nthe fine arts has been carried to a higher perfection by artists who\npainted action in which they had had their part, or natural beauty,\nwhich they had travelled far to see. Even philosophy itself owes much to\nmere physical courage and endurance. How much that is noblest in ancient\nthinking may be due to the hardy health of Socrates!\n\n\nLETTER VI.\n\nTO AN AUTHOR IN MORTAL DISEASE.\n\n  Considering death as a certainty--The wisdom learned from\n  suffering--Employment of happier intervals--The teaching of the\n  diseased not to be rejected--Their double experience--Ignorance of\n  Nature's spoiled children--Benefit of disinterested thought--Reasons\n  for pursuing intellectual labors to the last--Geoffroy Saint-Hilaire.\n\nWhen Alexandre Bixio lay on his death-bed, his friend Labrousse visited\nhim, and exclaimed on entering the room, \"How well you are looking\nto-day!\" To this, Bixio, who was clearly aware of his condition,\nanswered in these words:--\"Voyons, mon pauvre Labrousse; tu viens voir\nun homme qui n'a plus qu'un quart d'heure a vivre, et tu veux lui faire\ncroire qu'il a bonne mine; allons, une poignee de main, cela vaut mieux\npour un homme que tous ces petits mensonges-la.\"\n\nI will vex you with none of these well-meant but wearisome little\nfalsehoods. We both of us know your state; we both know that your\nmalady, though it may be alleviated, can never be cured; and that the\nfatal termination of it, though delayed by all the artifices of science,\nwill certainly arrive at last. The cheerful courage which enables you to\nlook this certainty in the face has also enabled you to extract from\nyears of suffering that profoundest wisdom which (as one of the wisest\nof living Englishmen has told us) can be learned from suffering alone.\nThe admirable elasticity of your intellectual and moral nature has\nenabled you, in the intervals of physical uneasiness or pain, to cast\naside every morbid thought, to enter quite fully and heartily into the\nhealthy life of others, and to enjoy the magnificent spectacle of the\nuniverse with contented submission to its laws--those beneficent yet\nrelentless laws which to you bring debility and death. You have\ncontinued to write notwithstanding the progress of your malady; and yet,\nsince it has so pitilessly held you, there is no other change in the\nspirit of your compositions than the deepening of a graver beauty, the\naddition of a sweeter seriousness. Not one sentence that you have\nwritten betrays either the injustice of the invalid, or his\nirritability. Your mind is not clouded by any mist from the fever\nmarshes, but its sympathies are far more active than they were. Your\npain has taught you a tender pity for all the pain that is outside of\nyou, and a patient gentleness which was wanting to your nature in its\ndays of barbarian health.\n\nSurely it would be a lamentable error if mankind were to carry out the\nrecommendation of certain ruthless philosophers, and reject the help and\nteaching of the diseased. Without undervaluing the robust performance of\nhealthy natures, and without encouraging literature that is morbid, that\nis fevered, impatient, and perverse, we may still prize the noble\nteaching which is the testament of sufferers to the world. The diseased\nhave a peculiar and mysterious experience; they have known the\nsensations of health, and then, in addition to this knowledge, they have\ngained another knowledge which enables them to think more accurately\neven of health itself. A life without suffering would be like a picture\nwithout shade. The pets of Nature, who do not know what suffering is,\nand cannot realize it, have always a certain rawness, like foolish\nlandsmen who laugh at the terrors of the ocean, because they have\nneither experience enough to know what those terrors are, nor brains\nenough to imagine them.\n\nYou who are borne along, slowly but irresistibly, to that Niagara which\nplunges into the gulf of death,--you who, with perfect self-possession\nand heroic cheerfulness, are counting the last miles of the\nvoyage,--find leisure to study and think as the boat glides onwards\nsilently to the inevitable end. It is one of the happiest privileges of\nthe high intellectual life that it can elevate us--at least in the\nintervals of relief from complete prostration or acute pain--to regions\nof disinterested thought, where all personal anxieties are forgotten. To\nfeel that he is still able, even in days of physical weakness and\ndecline, to add something to the world's inheritance of knowledge, or to\nbequeath to it some new and noble thought in the pearl of complete\nexpression, is a profound satisfaction to the active mind that is lodged\nin a perishing body. Many diseases fortunately permit this activity to\nthe last; and I do not hesitate to affirm, that the work done in the\ntime of physical decline has in not a few instances been the most\nperfect and the most permanently valuable. It is not accurately true\nthat the mind and the body invariably fail together. Physicians who know\nhow prevalent chronic diseases are, and how many eminent men are\nphysically inconvenienced by them, know also that minds of great\nspiritual energy possess the wonderful faculty of indefinitely improving\nthemselves whilst the body steadily deteriorates. Nor is there anything\nirrational in this persistent improvement of the mind, even to the\nextremest limit of material decay; for the mind of every intellectual\nhuman being is part and parcel of the great permanent mind of humanity;\nand even if its influence soon ceases to be traceable--if the spoken\nwords are forgotten--if the written volume is not reprinted or even\nquoted, it has not worked in vain. The intellectual light of Europe in\nthis century is not only due to great luminaries whom every one can\nname, but to millions of thoughtful persons, now utterly forgotten, who\nin their time loved the light, and guarded it, and increased it, and\ncarried it into many lands, and bequeathed it as a sacred trust. He who\nlabors only for his personal pleasure may well be discouraged by the\nshortness and uncertainty of life, and cease from his selfish toil on\nthe first approaches of disease; but whoever has fully realized the\ngrand continuity of intellectual tradition, and taken his own place in\nit between the future and the past, will work till he can work no more,\nand then gaze hopefully on the world's great future, like Geoffroy\nSaint-Hilaire, when his blind eyes beheld the future of zoology.\n\n\nLETTER VII.\n\nTO A YOUNG MAN OF BRILLIANT ABILITY, WHO HAD JUST TAKEN HIS DEGREE.\n\n  A domestic picture--Thoughts suggested by it--Importance of the senses\n  in intellectual pursuits--Importance of hearing to Madame de\n  Stael--Importance of seeing to Mr. Buskin--Mr. Prescott, the\n  historian--How blindness retarded his work--Value of all the five\n  senses--Self-government indispensable to their perfection--Great value\n  of longevity to the intellectual life.\n\nIt is always a great pleasure to me to pass an evening at your father's\nhouse; but on the last occasion that pleasure was very much enhanced\nbecause you were once more with us. I watched your mother's eyes as she\nsat in her place in the drawing-room. They followed you almost without\nceasing, and there was the sweetest, happiest expression on her dear\nface, that betrayed her tender maternal love for you and her legitimate\nmaternal pride. Your father was equally happy in his own way; he was\nmuch more gay and talkative than I have seen him for two or three\nanxious years; he told amusing stories; he entered playfully into the\njests of others; he had pleasant projects for the future, and spoke of\nthem with facetious exaggeration. I sat quietly in my corner, slyly\nobserving my old friends, and amusing myself by discovering (it did not\nneed much perspicacity for that) the hidden sources of the happiness\nthat was so clearly visible. They were gladdened by the first successes\nof your manhood; by the evidence of your strength; by the realization of\nhopes long cherished.\n\nWatching this charming picture with a perfect sympathy, I began to have\ncertain thoughts of my own which it is my present purpose to communicate\nto you without disguise. I thought, first, how agreeable it was to be\nthe spectator of so pretty a picture; but then my eyes wandered to a\npainting that hung upon the walls, in which also there were a mother and\nher son, and this led me a long way. The painting was a hundred years\nold; but although the colors were not quite so fresh as when they left\nthe palette of the artist, the beautiful youth who stood radiant like a\nyoung Apollo in the centre of the composition had not lost one of the\ngreat gifts with which his cunning human creator had endowed him. The\nfire of his eye had not been quenched by time; the bloom of his cheek\nstill flushed with faint vermilion; his lip was full and imperious; his\nlimbs athletic; his bearing haughty and dauntless. All life seemed\nspread before him like a beautiful rich estate of which every acre was\nhis own. How easily will he conquer fame! how easily kindle passion. Who\nshall withstand this pink and perfection of aristocracy--this ideal of\nthe age of fine gentlemen, with all the gifts of nature helped by all\nthe inventions of art?\n\nThen I thought farther: \"That splendid young nobleman in the picture\nwill look just as young as he does now when we shall be either\nsuperannuated or dead.\" And I looked at you and your mother again and\nthought: \"It is just five minutes since I saw these two living beings,\nand in this little space of time they have both of them aged a little,\nthough no human observer has enough delicacy of perception to detect so\ninappreciable an alteration.\" I went gradually on and on into the\nfuture, trying to imagine the changes which would come over yourself\nmore especially (for it was you who were the centre of my reverie), till\nat last I imagined pretty accurately what you might be at sixty; but\nthere it became necessary to stop, because it was too difficult to\nconceive the processes of decay.\n\nAfter this, one thought grew upon me and became dominant. I thought, at\npresent he has all the senses in their perfection, and they serve him\nwithout a hitch. He is an intelligence served by organs, and the organs\nare all doing their duty as faithfully as a postman who brings letters.\nWhen the postman becomes too infirm to do his work he will retire on his\nlittle pension, and another will take his place and bring the letters\njust as regularly; but when the human organs become infirm they cannot\nbe taken out and replaced by new ones, so that we must content ourselves\nto the end, with their service, such as it may be. Then I reflected how\nuseful the senses are to the high intellectual life, and how wise it is,\neven for intellectual purposes, to preserve them as long as possible in\ntheir perfection.\n\nTo be able to see and hear well--to feel healthy sensations--even to\ntaste and smell properly, are most important qualifications for the\npursuit of literature, and art, and science. If you read attentively the\nwork of any truly illustrious poet, you will find that the whole of the\nimagery which gives power and splendor to his verse is derived from\nnature through one or other of these ordinary channels. Some\nphilosophers have gone much farther than this, and have affirmed that\nthe entire intellectual life is based ultimately upon remembered\nphysical sensations; that we have no mental conception that is really\nindependent of sensuous experience; and that the most abstract thought\nis only removed from sensation by successive processes of substitution,\nI have not space to enter into so great and mysterious a subject as\nthis; but I desire to draw your attention to a truth very commonly\noverlooked by intellectual people, which is the enormous importance of\nthe organs of sense in the highest intellectual pursuits. I will couple\ntogether two names which have owed their celebrity, one chiefly to the\nuse of her ears, the other to the use of his eyes. Madame de Stael\nobtained her literary material almost exclusively by means of\nconversation. She directed, systematically, the talk of the learned and\nbrilliant men amongst whom she lived to the subject which for the moment\nhappened to occupy her thoughts. Her literary process (which is known to\nus in detail through the revelations of her friends) was purposely\ninvented to catch everything that she heard, as a net catches fish in a\nriver. First, she threw down on paper a very brief rough draft of the\nintended literary project. This she showed to few, but from it she made\na second \"state\" (as an engraver would say), which she exhibited to some\nof her trusted friends, profiting by their hints and suggestions. Her\nsecretary copied the corrected manuscript, incorporating the new matter,\non paper with a very broad margin for farther additions. During all the\ntime that it took to carry her work through these successive states,\nthat ingenious woman made the best possible use of her ears, which were\nher natural providers. She made everybody talk who was likely to be of\nany use to her, and then immediately added what she had caught on the\nwide margin reserved for that purpose. She used her eyes so little that\nshe might almost as well have been blind. We have it on her own\nauthority, that were it not out of respect to custom, she would not open\nher window to see the Bay of Naples for the first time, whereas she\nwould travel five hundred leagues to talk with a clever man whom she had\nnever met.\n\nNow since Madame de Stael's genius fed itself exclusively through the\nfaculty of hearing, what an enormous difference it would have made to\nher if she had been deaf! It is probable that the whole of her literary\nreputation was dependent on the condition of her ears. Even a very\nmoderate degree of deafness (just enough to make listening irksome)\nmight have kept her in perpetual obscurity.\n\nThe next instance I intend to give is that of a distinguished\ncontemporary, Mr. Ruskin. His peculiar position in literature is due to\nhis being able to see as cultivated artists see. Everything that is best\nand most original in his writings is invariably either an account of\nwhat he has seen in his own independent inimitable way, or else a\ncriticism of the accurate or defective sight of others. His method of\nstudy, by drawing and taking written memoranda of what he has seen, is\nentirely different from Madame de Stael's method, but refers always, as\nhers did, to the testimony of the predominant sense. Every one whose\nattention has been attracted to the subject is aware that, amongst\npeople who are commonly supposed, to see equally well, and who are not\nsuspected of any tendency to blindness, the degrees of perfection in\nthis sense vary to infinity. Suppose that Mr. Ruskin (to our great\nmisfortune) had been endowed with no better eyes than many persons who\nsee fairly well in the ordinary sense, his enjoyment and use of sight\nwould have been so much diminished that he would have had little\nenthusiasm about seeing, and yet that kind of enthusiasm was quite\nessential to his work.\n\nThe well-known instance of Mr. Prescott, the historian, is no doubt a\nstriking proof what _may_ be accomplished by a man of remarkable\nintellectual ability without the help of sight, or rather helped by the\nsight of others. We have also heard of a blind traveller, and even of a\nblind entomologist; but in all cases of this kind they are executive\ndifficulties to be overcome, such that only the most resolute natures\nwould ever dream of encountering them. When the materials for the \"Reign\nof Ferdinand and Isabella\" arrived in Prescott's house from Europe, his\nremaining eye had just suffered from over-exertion to such a degree that\nhe could not use it again for years. \"I well remember,\" he wrote in a\nletter to a friend, \"the blank despair which I felt when my literary\ntreasures arrived, and I saw the mine of wealth lying around me which I\nwas forbidden to explore.\" And although, by a most tedious process,\nwhich would have worn out the patience of any other author, Mr. Prescott\ndid at last arrive at the conclusion of his work, it cost him ten years\nof labor--probably thrice as much time as would have been needed by an\nauthor of equal intellectual ability without any infirmity of sight.\n\nAlthough, of the five senses which God has given us, sight and hearing\nare the most necessary to the intellectual life, it may easily be\ndemonstrated that the lower ones are not without their intellectual\nuses. Perfect literature and art can only he produced by men who are\nperfect in all their natural faculties. The great creative intellects\nhave never been ascetics; they have been rightly and healthily sensitive\nto every kind of pleasure. The taste of fruits and wines, the perfume of\nflowers are a part of the means by which the spirit of Nature influences\nour most secret thoughts, and conveys to us suggestions, or carries us\ninto states of feeling which have an enormous effect upon our thinking,\nthough the manner in which the effect is produced is one of the deepest\nmysteries of our mysterious being. When the Caliph Vathek added five\nwings to the palace of Alkoremmi, on the hill of Pied Horses, for the\nparticular gratification of each of his five senses, he only did on a\nuselessly large scale what every properly-endowed human being does, when\nhe can afford it, on a small one.\n\nYou will not suspect me of preaching unlimited indulgence. The very\nobject of this letter is to recommend, for intellectual purposes, the\ncareful preservation of the senses in the freshness of their perfection,\nand this is altogether incompatible with every species of excess. If you\nare to see clearly all your life, you must not sacrifice eyesight by\nover-straining it; and the same law of moderation is the condition of\npreserving every other faculty. I want you to know the exquisite taste\nof common dry bread; to enjoy the perfume of a larch wood at a distance;\nto feel delight when a sea-wave dashes over you. I want your eye to be\nso sensitive that it shall discern the faintest tones of a gray cloud,\nand yet so strong that it shall bear to gaze on a white one in the\ndazzling glory of sunshine. I would have your hearing sharp enough to\ndetect the music of the spheres, if it were but audible, and yet your\nnervous system robust enough to endure the shock of the guns on an\nironclad. To have and keep these powers we need a firmness of\nself-government that is rare.\n\nYoung men are careless of longevity; but how precious are added years to\nthe fulness of the intellectual life! There are lives, such as that of\nMajor Pendennis, which only diminish in value as they advance--when the\nman of fashion is no longer fashionable, and the sportsman can no longer\nstride over the ploughed fields. The old age of the Major Pendennises is\nassuredly not to be envied: but how rich is the age of the Hunboldts! I\ncompare the life of the intellectual to a long wedge of gold--the thin\nend of it begins at birth, and the depth and value of it go on\nindefinitely increasing till at last comes Death (a personage for whom\nNathaniel Hawthorne had a peculiar dislike, for his unmannerly habit of\ninterruption), who stops the auriferous processes. Oh, the mystery of\nthe nameless ones who have died when the wedge was thin and looked so\npoor and light! Oh, the happiness of the fortunate old men whose\nthoughts went deeper and deeper like a wall that runs out into the sea!\n\n\n  NOTE.--One of the most painful cases of interruption caused by death\n  is that of Cuvier. His paralysis came upon him whilst he was still in\n  full activity, and death prevented him from arranging a great\n  accumulation of scientific material. He said to M. Pasquier, \"I had\n  great things still to do; all was ready in my head. After thirty years\n  of labor and research, there remained but to write, and now the hands\n  fail, and carry with them the head.\" But the most lamentable instances\n  of this kind of interruption are, from the nature of things, unknown\n  to us. Even the friends of the deceased cannot estimate the extent of\n  the loss, for a man's immediate neighbors are generally the very last\n  persons to become aware of the nature of his powers or the value of\n  his acquirements.\n\n\n\n\nPART II.\n\nTHE MORAL BASIS.\n\n\nLETTER I.\n\nTO A MORALIST WHO HAD SAID THAT THERE WAS A WANT OF MORAL FIBRE IN THE\nINTELLECTUAL, ESPECIALLY IN POETS AND ARTISTS.\n\n  The love of intellectual pleasure--The seeking for a\n  stimulus--Intoxication of poetry and oratory--Other mental\n  intoxications--The Bishop of Exeter on drudgery--The labor of\n  composition in poetry--Wordsworth's dread of it--Moore--His trouble\n  with \"Lalla Rookh\"--His painstaking in preparation--Necessity of\n  patient industry in other arts--John Lewis, Meissonier,\n  Mulready--Drudgery in struggling against technical\n  difficulties--Water-color painting, etching, oil-painting, fresco,\n  line-engraving--Labor undergone for mere discipline--Moral strength of\n  students--Giordano Bruno.\n\nYou told me the other day that you believed the inducement to what I\ncalled intellectual living to be merely the love of pleasure--pleasure\nof a higher kind, no doubt, than that which we derive from wine, yet\nfairly comparable to it. You went on to say that you could not, from the\nmoral point of view, discern any appreciable difference between\nintoxicating oneself by means of literature or art and getting tipsy on\nport wine or brandy; that the reading of poetry, most especially was\nclearly self-intoxication--a service of Venus and Bacchus, in which the\nsuggestions of artfully-ordered words were used as substitutes for the\nharem and the wine-flask. Completing the expression of this idea, you\nsaid that the excitement produced by oratory was exactly of the same\nnature as the excitement produced by gin, so that Mr. Bright and M.\nGambetta--nay, even a gentleman so respectable as the late Lord\nDerby--belonged strictly to the same profession as the publicans, being\ndealers in stimulants, and no more. The habitual student was, in your\nview, nothing better than the helpless victim of unresisted appetite, to\nwhom intellectual intoxication, having been at first a pleasure, had\nfinally become a necessity. You added that any rational person who found\nhimself sinking into such a deplorable condition as this, would have\nrecourse to some severe discipline as a preservative--a discipline\nrequiring close attention to common things, and rigorously excluding\nevery variety of thought which could possibly be considered\nintellectual.\n\nIt is strictly true that the three intellectual pursuits--literature,\nscience, and the fine arts--are all of them strong stimulants, and that\nmen are attracted to them by the stimulus they give. But these\noccupations are morally much nearer to the common level of other\noccupations than you suppose. There is no doubt a certain intoxication\nin poetry and painting; but I have seen a tradesman find a fully\nequivalent intoxication in an addition of figures showing a delightful\nbalance at his banker's. I have seen a young poet intoxicated with the\nlove of poetry; but I have also seen a young mechanical genius on whom\nthe sight of a locomotive acted exactly like a bottle of champagne.\nEverything that is capable of exciting or moving man, everything that\nfires him with enthusiasm, everything that sustains his energies above\nthe dead level of merely animal existence, may be compared, and not very\nuntruly, to the action of generous wine. The two most powerful mental\nstimulants--since they overcome even the fear of death--are\nunquestionably religion and patriotism: ardent states of feeling both of\nthem when they are genuine; yet this ardor has a great utility. It\nenables men to bear much, to perform much which would be beyond their\nnatural force if it were not sustained by powerful mental stimulants.\nAnd so it is in the intellectual life. It is because its labors are so\nsevere that its pleasures are so glorious. The Creator of intellectual\nman set him the most arduous tasks--tasks that required the utmost\npossible patience, courage, self-discipline, and which at the same time\nwere for the most part, from their very nature, likely to receive only\nthe most meagre and precarious pecuniary reward. Therefore, in order\nthat so poor and weak a creature might execute its gigantic works with\nthe energy necessary to their permanence, the labor itself was made\nintensely attractive and interesting to the few who were fitted for it\nby their constitution. Since their courage could not be maintained by\nany of the common motives which carry men through ordinary\ndrudgery--since neither wealth nor worldly position was in their\nprospects, the drudgery they had to go through was to be rewarded by the\ntriumphs of scientific discovery, by the felicities of artistic\nexpression. A divine drunkenness was given to them for their\nencouragement, surpassing the gift of the grape.\n\nBut now that I have acknowledged, not ungratefully, the necessity of\nthat noble excitement which is the life of life, it is time for me to\nadd that, in the daily labor of all intellectual workers, much has to be\ndone which requires a robustness of the moral constitution beyond what\nyou appear to be aware of. It is not long since the present Bishop of\nExeter truly affirmed, in an address to a body of students, that if\nthere were not weariness in work, that work was not so thorough-going as\nit ought to be. \"Of all work,\" the Bishop said, \"that produces results,\nnine-tenths must be drudgery. There is no work, from the highest to the\nlowest, which can be done well by any man who is unwilling to make that\nsacrifice. Part of the very nobility of the devotion of the true workman\nto his work consists in the fact that a man is not daunted by finding\nthat drudgery must be done; and no man can really succeed in any walk of\nlife without a good deal of what in ordinary English is called pluck.\nThat is the condition of all work whatever, and it is the condition of\nall success. And there is nothing which so truly repays itself as this\nvery perseverance against weariness.\"\n\nYou understand, no doubt, that there is drudgery in the work of a lawyer\nor an accountant, but you imagine that there is no drudgery in that of\nan artist, or author, or man of science. In these cases you fancy that\nthere is nothing but a pleasant intoxication, like the puffing of\ntobacco or the sipping of claret after dinner. The Bishop sees more\naccurately. He knows that \"of _all_ work that produces results\nnine-tenths must be drudgery.\" He makes no exceptions in favor of the\narts and sciences; if he had made any such exceptions, they would have\nproved the absence of culture in himself. Real work of all descriptions,\neven including the composition of poetry (the most intoxicating of all\nhuman pursuits), contains drudgery in so large a proportion that\nconsiderable moral courage is necessary to carry it to a successful\nissue. Some of the most popular writers of verse have dreaded the labor\nof composition. Wordsworth shrank from it much more sensitively than he\ndid from his prosaic labors as a distributor of stamps. He had that\n_horreur de la plume_ which is a frequent malady amongst literary men.\nBut we feel, in reading Wordsworth, that composition was a serious toil\nto him--the drudgery is often visible. Let me take, then, the case of a\nwriter of verse distinguished especially for fluency and ease--the\nlightest, gayest, apparently most thoughtless of modern minstrels--the\nauthor of \"The Irish Melodies\" and \"Lalla Rookh.\" Moore said--I quote\nfrom memory and may not give the precise words, but they were to this\neffect--that although the first shadowy imagining of a new poem was a\ndelicious fool's paradise, the labor of actual composition was something\naltogether different. He did not, I believe, exactly use the word\n\"drudgery,\" but his expression implied that there was painful drudgery\nin the work. When he began to write \"Lalla Rookh\" the task was anything\nbut easy to him. He said that he was \"at all times a far more slow and\npainstaking workman than would ever be guessed from the result.\" For a\nlong time after the conclusion of the agreement with Messrs. Longman,\n\"though generally at work with a view to this task, he made but very\nlittle real progress in it.\" After many unsatisfactory attempts, finding\nthat his subjects were so slow in kindling his own sympathies, he began\nto despair of their ever touching the hearts of others. \"Had this series\nof disheartening experiments been carried on much further, I must have\nthrown aside the work in despair.\" He took the greatest pains in long\nand laboriously preparing himself by reading. \"To form a storehouse, as\nit were, of illustrations purely Oriental, and so familiarize myself\nwith its various treasures that, quick as Fancy required the aid of\nfact in her spiritings, the memory was ready to furnish materials for\nthe spell-work; such was, for a long while, the sole object of my\nstudies.\" After quoting some opinions favorable to the truth of his\nOriental coloring, he says: \"Whatever of vanity there may be in citing\nsuch tributes, they show, at least, of what great value, even in poetry,\nis that prosaic quality, industry, since it was in a slow and laborious\ncollection of small facts that the first foundations of this fanciful\nromance were laid.\"\n\nOther fine arts make equally large claims upon the industry of their\nprofessors. We see the charming result, which looks as if it were\nnothing but pleasure--the mere sensuous gratification of an appetite for\nmelody or color; but no one ever eminently succeeded in music or\npainting without patient submission to a discipline far from attractive\nor entertaining. An idea was very prevalent amongst the upper classes in\nEngland, between twenty and thirty years ago, that art was not a serious\npursuit, and that Frenchmen were too frivolous to apply themselves\nseriously to anything. When, however, the different schools of art in\nEurope came to be exhibited together, the truth began to dawn upon\npeople's minds that the French and Belgian schools of painting had a\ncertain superiority over the rest--a superiority of quite a peculiar\nsort; and when the critics applied themselves to discover the hidden\ncauses of this generally perceived superiority, they found out that it\nwas due in great measure to the patient drudgery submitted to by those\nforeign artists in their youth. English painters who have attained\ndistinction have gone through a like drudgery, if not in the public\n_atelier_ at least in secrecy and solitude. Mr. John Lewis, in reply to\nan application for a drawing to be reproduced by the autotype process,\nand published in the _Portfolio_, said that his sketches and studies\nwere all in color, but if we liked to examine them we were welcome to\nselect anything that might be successfully photographed. Not being in\nLondon at the time, I charged an experienced friend to go and see if\nthere were anything that would answer our purpose. Soon afterward he\nwrote: \"I have just been to see John Lewis, and have come away\n_astounded_.\" He had seen the vast foundations of private industry on\nwhich the artist's public work had been erected,--innumerable studies in\ncolor, wrought with the most perfect care and finish, and all for\nself-education merely, not for any direct reward in fame. We have all\nadmired the extraordinary power of representation in the little pictures\nof Meissonier; that power was acquired by painting studies _life-size_\nfor self-instruction, and the artist has sustained his knowledge by\npersistence in that practice. Mulready, between the conception of a new\npicture and the execution of it, used to give himself a special training\nfor the intended work by painting a study in color of every separate\nthing that was to form part of the composition. It is useless to go on\nmultiplying these examples, since all great artists, without exception,\nhave been distinguished for their firm faith in steady well-directed\nlabor. This faith was so strong in Reynolds that it limited his\nreasoning powers, and prevented him from assigning their due importance\nto the inborn natural gifts.\n\nNot only in their preparations for work, but even in the work itself, do\nartists undergo drudgery. It is the peculiarity of their work that, more\nthan any other human work, it displays whatever there may be in it of\npleasure and felicity, putting the drudgery as much out of sight as\npossible; but all who know the secrets of the studio are aware of the\nceaseless struggles against technical difficulty which are the price of\nthe charms that pleasantly deceive us. The amateur tries to paint in\nwater-color, and finds that the gradation of his sky will not come\nright; instead of being a sound gradation like that of the heavenly\nblue, it is all in spots and patches. Then he goes to some clever artist\nwho seems to get the right thing with enviable ease. \"Is my paper good?\nhave my colors been properly ground?\" The materials are sound enough,\nbut the artist confesses one of the discouraging little secrets of his\ncraft. \"The fact is,\" he says, \"those spots that you complain of happen\nto all of us, and very troublesome they are, especially in dark tints;\nthe only way is to remove them as patiently as we can, and it sometimes\ntakes several days. If one or two of them remain in spite of us, we\nturn them into birds.\" In etching, the most famous practitioners get\ninto messes with the treacherous chemistry of their acids, and need an\ninvincible patience. Even Meryon was always very anxious when the time\ncame for confiding his work to what he called the _traitresse liqueur_;\nand whenever I give a commission to an etcher, I am always expecting\nsome such despatch as the following: \"Plate utterly ruined in the\nbiting. Very sorry. Will begin another immediately.\" We know what a\ndreadful series of mishaps attended our fresco-painters at Westminster,\nand now even the promising water-glass process, in which Maclise\ntrusted, shows the bloom of premature decay. The safest and best known\nof modern processes, simple oil-painting has its own dangers also. The\ncolors sink and alter; they lose their relative values; they lose their\npearly purity, their glowing transparence--they turn to buff and black.\nThe fine arts bristle all over with technical difficulties, and are, I\nwill not say the best school of patience in the world, for many other\npursuits are also very good schools of patience; but I will say, without\nmuch fear of contradiction from anybody acquainted with the subject,\nthat the fine arts offer drudgery enough, and disappointment enough, to\nbe a training both in patience and in humility.\n\nIn the labor of the line-engraver both these qualities are developed to\nthe pitch of perfect heroism. He sits down to a great surface of steel\nor copper, and day by day, week after week, month after month, ploughs\nslowly his marvellous lines. Sometimes the picture before him is an\nagreeable companion; he is in sympathy with the painter; he enjoys every\ntouch that he has to translate. But sometimes, on the contrary, he hates\nthe picture, and engraves it as a professional duty. I happened to call\nupon a distinguished English engraver--a man of the greatest taste and\nknowledge, a refined and cultivated critic--and I found him seated at\nwork before a thing which had nothing to do with fine art--a medley of\nugly portraits of temperance celebrities on a platform. \"Ah!\" he said to\nme sadly, \"you see the dark side of our profession; fancy sitting down\nto a desk all day long for two years together with that thing to occupy\nyour thoughts!\" How much moral fibre was needed to carry to a successful\nissue so repulsive a task as that! You may answer that a stone-breaker\non the roadside surpasses my line-engraver both in patience and in\nhumility; but whereas the sensitiveness of the stone-breaker has been\ndeadened by his mode of life, the sensitiveness of the engraver has been\ncontinually fostered and increased. An ugly picture was torture to his\ncultivated eye, and he had to bear the torture all day long, like the\npain of an irritating disease.\n\nStill even the line-engraver has secret sources of entertainment to\nrelieve the mortal tedium of his task-work. The picture may be hideous,\nbut the engraver has hidden consolations in the exercise of his\nwonderful art. He can at least entertain himself with feats of\ninterpretative skill, with the gentle treacheries of improving here and\nthere upon the hatefulness of the intolerable original. He may\ncongratulate himself in the evening, that one more frightful hat or coat\nhas been got rid of; that the tiresome task has been reduced by a space\nmeasurable in eights of an inch. The heaviest work which shows progress\nis not without _one_ element of cheerfulness.\n\nThere is a great deal of intellectual labor, undergone simply for\ndiscipline, which shows no present result that is appreciable, and which\ntherefore requires, in addition to patience and humility, one of the\nnoblest of the moral virtues, faith. Of all the toils in which men\nengage, none are nobler in their origin or their aim than those by which\nthey endeavor to become more wise. Pray observe that whenever the desire\nfor greater wisdom is earnest enough to sustain men in these high\nendeavors, there must be both humility and faith--the humility which\nacknowledges present insufficiency, the faith that relies upon the\nmysterious laws which govern our intellectual being. Be sure that there\nhas been great moral strength in all who have come to intellectual\ngreatness. During some brief moments of insight the mist has rolled away\nand they have beheld, like a celestial city, the home of their highest\naspirations; but the cloud has gathered round them again, and still in\nthe gloom they have gone steadily forwards, stumbling often, yet\nmaintaining their unconquerable resolution. It is to this sublime\npersistence of the intellectual in other ages that the world owes the\ntreasures which they won; it is by a like persistence that we may hope\nto hand them down, augmented, to the future. Their intellectual purposes\ndid not weaken their moral nature, but exercised and exalted it. All\nthat was best and highest in the imperfect moral nature of Giordano\nBruno had its source in that noble passion for Philosophy, which made\nhim declare that for her sake it was easy to endure labor and pain and\nexile, since he had found \"in brevi labore diuturnam requiem, in levi\ndolore immensum gaudium, in angusto exilio patriam amplissimam.\"\n\n\nLETTER II.\n\nTO AN UNDISCIPLINED WRITER.\n\n  Early indocility of great workers--External discipline only a\n  substitute for inward discipline--Necessity for inward\n  discipline--Origin of the idea of discipline--Authors peculiarly\n  liable to overlook its uses--Good examples--Sir Arthur\n  Helps--Sainte-Beuve--The central authority in the mind--Locke's\n  opinion--Even the creative faculty may be commanded--Charles\n  Baudelaire--Discipline in common trades and professions--Lawyers and\n  surgeons--Haller--Mental refusals not to be altogether\n  disregarded--The idea of discipline the moral basis of the\n  intellectual life--Alexander Humboldt.\n\nSir Arthur Helps, in that wise book of his \"Thoughts upon Government,\"\nsays that \"much of the best and greatest work in the world has been done\nby those who were anything but docile in their youth.\" He believes that\n\"this bold statement applies not only to the greatest men in Science,\nLiterature, and Art, but also to the greatest men in official life, in\ndiplomacy, and in the general business of the world.\"\n\nMany of us who were remarkable for our indocility in boyhood, and\nremarkable for nothing else, have found much consolation in this\npassage. It is most agreeable to be told, by a writer very eminent both\nfor wisdom and for culture, that our untowardness was a hopeful sign.\nAnother popular modern writer has also encouraged us by giving a long\nlist of dunces who have become illustrious.\n\nYet, however flattering it may be to find ourselves in such excellent\ncompany, at least so far as the earlier half of life may be concerned,\nwe cannot quite forget the very numerous instances of distinguished\npersons who began by submitting to the discipline of school and college,\nand gained honors and reputation there, before encountering the\ncompetition of the world.\n\nThe external discipline applied by schoolmasters is a substitute for\nthat inward discipline which we all so greatly need, and which is\nabsolutely indispensable to culture. Whether a boy happens to be a dunce\nat school or a youth of brilliant promise, his future intellectual\ncareer will depend very much on his moral force. The distinguished men\nwho derived so little benefit from early discipline have invariably\nsubjected themselves to a discipline of another kind which prepared them\nfor the labor of their manhood. It may be a pure assumption to say this,\nbut the assumption is confirmed by every instance that is known to me.\nMany eminent men have undergone the discipline of business, many like\nFranklin have been self-disciplined, but I have never heard of a person\nwho had risen to intellectual eminence without voluntary submission to\nan intellectual discipline of some kind.\n\nThere are, no doubt, great pleasures attached to the intellectual life,\nand quite peculiar to it; but these pleasures are the support of\ndiscipline and not its negation. They give us the cheerfulness necessary\nfor our work, but they do not excuse us from the work. They are like\nthe cup of coffee served to a soldier on duty, not like the opium which\nincapacitates for everything but dreaming.\n\nI have been led into these observations by a perusal of the new book\nwhich you sent me. It has many qualities which in a young writer are\nfull of promise. It is earnest, and lively, and exuberant, but at the\nsame time it is undisciplined.\n\nNow I believe it may be affirmed, that although there has been much\nliterature in former ages which was both vigorous and undisciplined,\nstill when an age presents, as ours does, living examples of perfect\nintellectual discipline, whoever falls below them in this respect\ncontents himself with the very kind of inferiority which of all\ninferiorities is the easiest to avoid. You cannot, by an effort of the\nwill, hope to rival the brilliance of a genius, but you may quite\nreasonably expect to obtain as complete a control over your own\nfaculties and your own work as any other highly-cultivated person.\n\nThe origin of discipline is the desire to do not merely our best with\nthe degree of power and knowledge which at the time we do actually\nhappen to possess, but with that which we _might_ possess if we\nsubmitted to the necessary training. The powers given to us by Nature\nare little more than a power to become, and this becoming is always\nconditional on some sort of exercise--what sort we have to discover for\nourselves.\n\nNo class of persons are so liable to overlook the uses of discipline as\nauthors are. Anybody can write a book, though few can write that which\ndeserves the name of literature. There are great technical differences\nbetween literature and book-making, but few can clearly explain these\ndifferences, or detect, in their own case, the absence of the necessary\nqualities. In painting, the most perfect finish is recognized at a\nglance, but the mind only can perceive it in the book. It was an odd\nnotion of the authorities to exhibit literature in the international\nexhibitions; but if they could have made people see the difference\nbetween sound and unsound workmanship in the literary craft, they would\nhave rendered a great service to the higher intellectual discipline. Sir\nArthur Helps might have served as an example to English writers, because\nhe has certain qualities in which we are grievously deficient. He can\nsay a thing in the words that are most fit and necessary, and then leave\nit. Sainte-Beuve would have been another admirable example of\nself-discipline, especially to Frenchmen, who would do well to imitate\nhim in his horror of the _a peu pres_. He never began to write about\nanything until he had cleared the ground well before him. He never spoke\nabout any character or doctrine that he had not bottomed (to use Locke's\nword) as far as he was able. He had an extraordinary aptitude for\ncollecting exactly the sort of material that he needed, for arranging\nand classifying material, for perceiving its mutual relations. Very few\nFrenchmen have had Sainte-Beuve's intense repugnance to insufficiency\nof information and inaccuracy of language. Few indeed are the French\njournalists of whom it might be said, as it may be truly said of\nSainte-Beuve, that he never wrote even an article for a newspaper\nwithout having subjected his mind to a special training for that\nparticular article. The preparations for one of his _Lundis_ were the\nserious occupation of several laborious days; and before beginning the\nactual composition, his mind had been disciplined into a state of the\nmost complete readiness, like the fingers of a musician who has been\npractising a piece before he executes it.\n\nThe object of intellectual discipline is the establishment of a strong\ncentral authority in the mind by which all its powers are regulated and\ndirected as the military forces of a nation are directed by the\nstrategist who arranges the operations of a war. The presence of this\nstrong central authority is made manifest in the unity and proportion of\nthe results; when this authority is absent (it is frequently entirely\nabsent from the minds of undisciplined persons, especially of the female\nsex), you have a chaos of complete confusion; when the authority without\nbeing absent is not strong enough to regulate the lively activity of the\nintellectual forces, you have too much energy in one direction, too\nlittle in another, a brigade where a regiment could have done the work,\nand light artillery where you want guns of the heaviest calibre.\n\nTo establish this central authority it is only necessary, in any\nvigorous and sound mind, to exercise it. Without such a central power\nthere is neither liberty of action nor security of possession. \"The\nmind,\" says Locke, \"should always be free and ready to turn itself to\nthe variety of objects that occur, and allow them as much consideration\nas shall, for that time, be thought fit. To be engrossed so by one\nsubject as not to be prevailed on to leave it for another that we judge\nfitter for our contemplation, is to make it of no use to us. Did this\nstate of mind always remain so, every one would, without scruple, give\nit the name of perfect madness; and whilst it does last, at whatever\nintervals it returns, such a rotation of thoughts about the same object\nno more carries us forward toward the attainment of knowledge, than\ngetting upon a mill-horse whilst he jogs on his circular track, would\ncarry a man on a journey.\"\n\nWriters of imaginative literature have found in practice that even the\ncreative faculty might be commanded. Charles Baudelaire, who had the\npoetical organization with all its worst inconveniencies, said\nnevertheless that \"inspiration is decidedly the sister of daily labor.\nThese two contraries do not exclude each other more than all the other\ncontraries which constitute nature. Inspiration obeys like hunger, like\ndigestion, like sleep. There is, no doubt, in the mind a sort of\ncelestial mechanism, of which we need not be ashamed, but we ought to\nmake the best use of it. If we will only live in a resolute\ncontemplation of next day's work, the daily labor will serve\ninspiration.\" In cases where discipline is felt to be very difficult, it\nis generally at the same time felt to be very desirable. George Sand\ncomplains that although \"to overcome the indiscipline of her brain, she\nhad imposed upon herself a regular way of living, and a daily labor,\nstill twenty times out of thirty she catches herself reading or\ndreaming, or writing something entirely apart from the work in hand.\"\nShe adds that without this frequent intellectual _flanerie_, she would\nhave acquired information which has been her perpetual but unrealized\ndesire.\n\nIt is the triumph of discipline to overcome both small and great\nrepugnances. We bring ourselves, by its help, to face petty details that\nare wearisome, and heavy tasks that are almost appalling. Nothing shows\nthe power of discipline more than the application of the mind in the\ncommon trades and professions to subjects which have hardly any interest\nin themselves. Lawyers are especially admirable for this. They acquire\nthe faculty of resolutely applying their minds to the dryest documents,\nwith tenacity enough to end in the perfect mastery of their contents; a\nfeat which is utterly beyond the capacity of any undisciplined\nintellect, however gifted by Nature. In the case of lawyers there are\nfrequent intellectual repugnances to be overcome; but surgeons and other\nmen of science have to vanquish a class of repugnances even less within\nthe power of the will--the instinctive physical repugnances. These are\noften so strong as to seem apparently insurmountable, but they yield to\npersevering discipline. Although Haller surpassed his contemporaries in\nanatomy, and published several important anatomical works, he was\ntroubled at the outset with a horror of dissection beyond what is usual\nwith the inexperienced, and it was only by firm self-discipline that he\nbecame an anatomist at all.\n\nThere is, however, one reserve to be made about discipline, which is\nthis: We ought not to disregard altogether the mind's preferences and\nrefusals, because in most cases they are the indication of our natural\npowers. They are not so always; many have felt attracted to pursuits for\nwhich they had no capacity (this happens continually in literature and\nthe fine arts), whilst others have greatly distinguished themselves in\ncareers which were not of their own choosing, and for which they felt no\nvocation in their youth. Still there exists a certain relation between\npreference and capacity, which may often safely be relied upon when\nthere are not extrinsic circumstances to attract men or repel them.\nDiscipline becomes an evil, and a very serious evil, causing immense\nlosses of special talents to the community, when it overrides the\npersonal preferences entirely. We are less in danger of this evil,\nhowever, from the discipline which we impose upon ourselves than from\nthat which is imposed upon us by the opinion of the society in which we\nlive. The intellectual life has this remarkable peculiarity as to\ndiscipline, that whilst very severe discipline is indispensable to it,\nthat which it really needs is the obedience to an inward law, an\nobedience which is not only compatible with revolt against other\npeople's notions of what the intellectual man ought to think and do, but\nwhich often directly leads to such revolt as its own inevitable result.\n\nIn the attempt to subject ourselves to the inward law, we may encounter\na class of mental refusals which indicate no congenital incapacity, but\nprove that the mind has been incapacitated by its acquired habits and\nits ordinary occupations. I think that it is particularly important to\npay attention to this class of mental refusals, and to give them the\nfullest consideration. Suppose the case of a man who has a fine natural\ncapacity for painting, but whose time has been taken up by some\nprofession which has formed in him mental habits entirely different from\nthe mental habits of an artist. The inborn capacity for art might\nwhisper to this man, \"What if you were to abandon your profession and\nturn painter?\" But to this suggestion of the inborn capacity the\nacquired unfitness would, in a man of sense, most probably reply, \"No;\npainting is an art bristling all over with the most alarming technical\ndifficulties, which I am too lazy to overcome; let younger men attack\nthem if they like.\" Here is a mental refusal of a kind which the\nseverest self-disciplinarian ought to listen to. This is Nature's way\nof keeping us to our specialities; she protects us by means of what\nsuperficial moralists condemn as one of the minor vices--the\ndisinclination to trouble ourselves without necessity, when the work\ninvolves the acquisition of new habits.\n\nThe moral basis of the intellectual life appears to be the idea of\ndiscipline; but the discipline is of a very peculiar kind, and varies\nwith every individual. People of original power have to discover the\noriginal discipline that they need. They pass their lives in\nthoughtfully altering this private rule of conduct as their needs alter,\nas the legislature of a progressive State makes unceasing alterations in\nits laws. When we look back upon the years that are gone, this is our\nbitterest regret, that whilst the precious time, the irrecoverable, was\npassing by so rapidly, we were intellectually too undisciplined to make\nthe best personal use of all the opportunities that it brought. Those\nmen may be truly esteemed happy and fortunate who can say to themselves\nin the evening of their days--\"I had so prepared myself for every\nsuccessive enterprise, that when the time came for it to be carried into\nexecution my training ensured success.\"\n\nI had thought of some examples, and there are several great men who have\nleft us noble examples of self-discipline; but, in the range and\ncompleteness of that discipline, in the foresight to discern what would\nbe wanted, in the humility to perceive that it was wanting, in the\nresolution that it should _not_ be wanting when the time came that such\nknowledge or faculty should be called for, one colossal figure so far\nexcels all others that I cannot write down their names with that of\nAlexander Humboldt. The world sees the intellectual greatness of such a\nman, but does not see the substantial moral basis on which the towering\nstructure rose. When I think of his noble dissatisfaction with what he\nknew; his ceaseless eagerness to know more, and know it better; of the\nrare combination of teachableness that despised no help (for he accepted\nwithout jealousy the aid of everybody who could assist him), with\nself-reliance that kept him always calm and observant in the midst of\npersonal danger, I know not which is the more magnificent spectacle, the\nsplendor of intellectual light, or the beauty and solidity of the moral\nconstitution that sustained it.\n\n\nLETTER III.\n\nTO A FRIEND WHO SUGGESTED THE SPECULATION \"WHICH OF THE MORAL VIRTUES\nWAS MOST ESSENTIAL TO THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE.\"\n\n  The most essential virtue is disinterestedness--The other virtues\n  possessed by the opponents of intellectual liberty--The Ultramontane\n  party--Difficulty of thinking disinterestedly even about the affairs\n  of another nation--English newspapers do not write disinterestedly\n  about foreign affairs--Difficulty of disinterestedness in recent\n  history--Poets and their readers feel it--Fine subjects for poetry in\n  recent events not yet available--Even history of past times rarely\n  disinterested--Advantages of the study of the dead languages in this\n  respect--Physicians do not trust their own judgment about their\n  personal health--The virtue consists in endeavoring to be\n  disinterested.\n\nI think there cannot be a doubt that the most essential virtue is\ndisinterestedness.\n\nLet me tell you, after this decided answer, what are the considerations\nwhich have led me to it. I began by taking the other important virtues\none by one--industry, perseverance, courage, discipline, humility, and\nthe rest; and then asked myself whether any class of persons possessed\nand cultivated these virtues who were nevertheless opposed to\nintellectual liberty. The answer came immediately, that there have in\nevery age been men deservedly respected for these virtues who did all in\ntheir power to repress the free action of the intellect. What is called\nthe Ultramontane party in the present day includes great numbers of\ntalented adherents who are most industrious, most persevering, who\nwillingly submit to the severest discipline--who are learned,\nself-denying, and humble enough to accept the most obscure and\nill-requited duties. Some of these men possess nine-tenths of the\nqualifications that are necessary to the highest intellectual life--they\nhave brilliant gifts of nature; they are well-educated; they take a\ndelight in the exercise of noble faculties, and yet instead of employing\ntheir time and talents to help the intellectual advancement of mankind,\nthey do all in their power to retard it. They have many most respectable\nvirtues, but one is wanting. They have industry, perseverance,\ndiscipline, but they have _not_ disinterestedness.\n\nI do not mean disinterestedness in its ordinary sense as the absence of\nselfish care about money. The Church of Rome has thousands of devoted\nservants who are content to labor in her cause for stipends so miserable\nthat it is clear they have no selfish aim; whilst they abandon all those\npossibilities of fortune which exist for every active and enterprising\nlayman. But their thinking can never be disinterested so long as their\nruling motive is devotion to the interests of their Church. Some of them\nare personally known to me, and we have discussed together many of the\ngreatest questions which agitate the continental nations at the present\ntime. They have plenty of intellectual acumen; but whenever the\ndiscussion touches, however remotely, the ecclesiastical interests that\nare dear to them, they cease to be observers--they become passionate\nadvocates. It is this habit of advocacy which debars them from all\nelevated speculation about the future of the human race, and which so\noften induces them to take a side with incapable and retrograde\ngovernments, too willingly overlooking their deficiencies in the\nexpectation of services to the cause. Their predecessors have impeded,\nas far as they were able, the early growth of science--not for\nintellectual reasons, but because they instinctively felt that there was\nsomething in the scientific spirit not favorable to those interests\nwhich they placed far above the knowledge of mere matter.\n\nI have selected the Ultramontane party in the Church of Rome as the most\nprominent example of a party eminent for many intellectual virtues, and\nyet opposed to the intellectual life from its own want of\ndisinterestedness. But the same defect exists, to some degree, in every\npartisan--exists in you and me so far as we are partisans. Let us\nsuppose, for example, that we desired to find out the truth about a\nquestion much agitated in a neighboring country at the present time--the\nquestion whether it would be better for that country to attempt the\nrestoration of its ancient Monarchy or to try to consolidate a\nRepublican form of government. How difficult it is to think out such a\nproblem disinterestedly, and yet how necessary to the justice of our\nconclusions that we should think disinterestedly if we pretend to think\nat all! It is true that we have one circumstance in our favor--we are\nnot French subjects, and this is much. Still we are not disinterested,\nsince we know that the settlement of a great political problem such as\nthis, even though on foreign soil, cannot fail to have a powerful\ninfluence on opinion in our own country, and consequently upon the\ninstitutions of our native land. We are spectators only, it is true; but\nwe are far from being disinterested spectators. And if you desire to\nmeasure the exact degree to which we are interested in the result, you\nneed only look at the newspapers. The English newspapers always treat\nFrench affairs from the standpoint of their own party. The Conservative\njournalist in England is a Monarchist in France, and has no hopes for\nthe Republic; the Liberal journalist in England believes that the French\ndynasties are used up, and sees no chance of tranquillity outside of\nrepublican institutions. In both cases there is an impediment to the\nintellectual appreciation of the problem.\n\nThis difficulty is so strongly felt by those who write and read the sort\nof literature which aspires to permanence, and which, therefore, ought\nto have a substantial intellectual basis, that either our distinguished\npoets choose their subjects in actions long past and half-forgotten, or\nelse, when tempted by present excitement, they produce work which is\nartistically far inferior to their best. Our own generation has\nwitnessed three remarkable events which are poetical in the highest\ndegree. The conquest of the Two Sicilies by Garibaldi is a most perfect\nsubject for a heroic poem; the events which led to the execution of the\nEmperor Maximilian and deprived his Empress of reason, would, in the\nhands of a great dramatist, afford the finest possible material for a\ntragedy; the invasion of France by the Germans, the overthrow of\nNapoleon III., the siege of Paris, are an epic ready to hand that only\nawaits its Homer; yet, with the exception of Victor Hugo, who is far\ngone in intellectual decadence, no great poet has sung of these things\nyet. The subjects are as good as can be, but too near. Neither poet nor\nreader is disinterested enough for the intellectual enjoyment of these\nsubjects: the poet would not see his way clearly, the reader would not\nfollow unreservedly.\n\nIt may be added, however, in this connection, that even past history is\nhardly ever written disinterestedly. Historians write with one eye on\nthe past and the other on the pre-occupations of the present. So far as\nthey do this they fall short of the intellectual standard. An ideally\nperfect history would tell the pure truth, and all the truth, so far as\nit was ascertainable.\n\nArtists are seldom good critics of art, because their own practice\nbiasses them, and they are not disinterested. The few artists who have\nwritten soundly about art have succeeded in the difficult task of\ndetaching saying from doing; they have, in fact, become two distinct\npersons, each oblivious of the other.\n\nThe strongest of all the reasons in favor of the study of the dead\nlanguages and the literatures preserved in them, has always appeared to\nme to consist in the more perfect disinterestedness with which we\nmoderns can approach them. The men and events are separated from us by\nso wide an interval, not only of time and locality, but especially of\nmodes of thought, that our passions are not often enlisted, and the\nintellect is sufficiently free.\n\nIt may be noted that medical men, who are a scientific class, and\ntherefore more than commonly aware of the great importance of\ndisinterestedness in intellectual action, never trust their own judgment\nwhen they feel the approaches of disease. They know that it is difficult\nfor a man, however learned in medicine, to arrive at accurate\nconclusions about the state of a human body that concerns him so nearly\nas his own, even although the person who suffers has the advantage of\nactually experiencing the morbid sensations.\n\nTo all this you may answer that intellectual disinterestedness seems\nmore an accident of situation than a virtue. The virtue is not to have\nit, but to seek it in all earnestness; to be ready to accept the truth\neven when it is most unfavorable to ourselves. I can illustrate my\nmeaning by a reference to a matter of everyday experience. There are\npeople who cannot bear to look into their own accounts from a dread\nthat the clear revelation of figures may be less agreeable to them than\nthe illusions which they cherish. There are others who possess a kind of\nvirtue which enables them to see their own affairs as clearly as if they\nhad no personal interest in them. The weakness of the first is one of\nthe most fatal of intellectual weaknesses; the mental independence of\nthe second is one of the most desirable of intellectual qualities. The\nendeavor to attain it, or to strengthen it, is a great virtue, and of\nall the virtues the one most indispensable to the nobility of the\nintellectual life.\n\n  NOTE.--The reader may feel some surprise that I have not mentioned\n  honesty as an important intellectual virtue. Honesty is of great\n  importance, no doubt, but it appears to be (as to practical effects)\n  included in disinterestedness, and to be less comprehensively useful.\n  There is no reason to suspect the honesty of many political and\n  theological partisans, yet their honesty does not preserve them from\n  the worst intellectual habits, such as the habit of \"begging the\n  question,\" of misrepresenting the arguments on the opposite side, of\n  shutting their eyes to every fact which is not perfectly agreeable to\n  them. The truth is, that mere honesty, though a most respectable and\n  necessary virtue, goes a very little way toward the forming of an\n  effective intellectual character. It is valuable rather in the\n  relations of the intellectual man to the outer world around him, and\n  even here it is dangerous unless tempered by discretion. A perfect\n  disinterestedness would ensure the best effects of honesty, and yet\n  avoid some serious evils, against which honesty is not, in itself, a\n  safeguard.\n\n\nLETTER IV.\n\nTO A MORALIST WHO SAID THAT INTELLECTUAL CULTURE WAS NOT CONDUCIVE TO\nSEXUAL MORALITY.\n\n  That the Author does not write in the spirit of advocacy--Two\n  different kinds of immorality--Byron and Shelley--A peculiar\n  temptation for the intellectual--A distinguished foreign\n  writer--Reaction to coarseness from over-refinement--Danger of\n  intellectual excesses--Moral utility of culture--The most cultivated\n  classes at the same time the most moral--That men of high intellectual\n  aims have an especially strong reason for morality--M. Taine's\n  opinion.\n\nA critic in one of the quarterlies once treated me as a feeble defender\nof my opinions, because I gave due consideration to both sides of a\nquestion. He said that, like a wise commander, I capitulated beforehand\nin case my arguments did not come up for my relief; nay, more, that I\ngave up my arms in unconditional surrender. To this let me answer, that\nI have nothing to do with the polemical method, that I do not look upon\nan opponent as an enemy to be repelled, but as a torch-bearer to be\nwelcomed for any light that he may bring; that I defend nothing, but try\nto explore everything that lies near enough.\n\nYou need not expect me, therefore, to defend very vigorously the\nmorality of the intellectual life. An advocate could do it brilliantly;\nthere are plenty of materials, but so clumsy an advocate as your present\ncorrespondent would damage the best of causes by unseasonable\nindiscretions. So I begin by admitting that your accusations are most\nof them well founded. Many intellectual people have led immoral lives,\nothers have led lives which, although in strict conformity to their own\ntheories of morality, were in opposition to the morality of their\ncountry and their age. Byron is a good instance of the first, and\nShelley of the second. Byron was really and knowingly immoral; Shelley,\non the other hand, hated what he considered to be immorality, and lived\na life as nearly as possible in accordance with the moral ideal in his\nown conscience; still he did not respect the moral rule of his country,\nbut lived with Mary Godwin, whilst Harriet, his first wife, was still\nalive. There is a clear distinction between the two cases; yet both have\nthe defect that the person takes in hand the regulation of his own\nmorality, which it is hardly safe for any one to do, considering the\nprodigious force of passion.\n\nI find even in the lives of intellectual people a peculiar temptation to\nimmorality from which others are exempt. It is in their nature to feel\nan eager desire for intellectual companionship, and yet at the same time\nto exhaust very rapidly whatever is congenial to them in the intellect\nof their friends. They feel a strong intellectual attraction to persons\nof the opposite sex; and the idea of living with a person whose\nconversation is believed at the time to promise an increasing interest,\nis attractive in ways of which those who have no such wants can scarcely\nform a conception. A most distinguished foreign writer, of the female\nsex, has made a succession of domestic arrangements which, if generally\nimitated by others, would be subversive of any conceivable system of\nmorality; and yet it is clear in this case that the temptation was\nchiefly, if not entirely, intellectual. The successive companions of\nthis remarkable woman were all of them men of exceptional intellectual\npower, and her motive for changing them was an unbridled intellectual\ncuriosity.\n\nThis is the sort of immorality to which cultivated people are most\nexposed. It is dangerous to the well-being of a community because it\ndestroys the sense of security on which the idea of the family is\nfounded. If we are to leave our wives when their conversation ceases to\nbe interesting, the foundations of the home will be unsafe. If they are\nto abandon, us when we are dull, to go away with some livelier and more\ntalkative companion, can we ever hope to retain them permanently?\n\nThere is another danger which must be looked fairly in the face. When\nthe lives of men are refined beyond the real needs of their\norganization, Nature is very apt to bring about the most extraordinary\nreactions. Thus the most exquisitely delicate artists in literature and\npainting have frequently had reactions of incredible coarseness. Within\nthe Chateaubriand of Atala there existed an obscene Chateaubriand that\nwould burst forth occasionally in talk that no biographer could repeat.\nI have heard the same thing of the sentimental Lamartine. We know that\nTurner, dreamer of enchanted landscapes, took the pleasures of a sailor\non the spree. A friend said to me of one of the most exquisite living\ngeniuses: \"You can have no conception of the coarseness of his tastes;\nhe associates with the very lowest women, and enjoys their rough\nbrutality.\"\n\nThese cases only prove, what I have always willingly admitted, that the\nintellectual life is not free from certain dangers if we lead it too\nexclusively. Intellectual excesses, by the excitement which they\ncommunicate to the whole system, have a direct tendency to drive men\ninto other excesses, and a too great refinement in one direction may\nproduce degrading reactions in another. Still the cultivation of the\nmind, reasonably pursued, is, on the whole, decidedly favorable to\nmorality; and we may easily understand that it should be so, when we\nremember that people have recourse to sensual indulgences simply from a\ndesire for excitement, whilst intellectual pursuits supply excitement of\na more innocent kind and in the utmost variety and abundance. If,\ninstead of taking a few individual instances, you broadly observe whole\nclasses, you will recognize the moral utility of culture. The most\ncultivated classes in our own country are also the most moral, and these\nclasses have advanced in morality at the same time that they have\nadvanced in culture. English gentlemen of the present day are superior\nto their forefathers whom Fielding described; they are better educated,\nand they read more; they are at the same time both more sober and more\nchaste.\n\nI may add that intellectual men have peculiar and most powerful reasons\nfor avoiding the excesses of immorality, reasons which to any one who\nhas a noble ambition are quite enough to encourage him in self-control.\nThose excesses are the gradual self-destruction of the intellectual\nforces, for they weaken the spring of the mind, not leaving it well\nenough to face the drudgery that is inevitable in every career. Even in\ncases where they do not immediately lead to visible imbecility, they\nmake the man less efficient and less capable than he might have been;\nand all experienced wrestlers with fate and fortune know well that\nsuccess has often, at the critical time, depended upon some very\ntrifling advantage which the slightest diminution of power would have\nlost to them. No one knows the full immensity of the difference between\nhaving power enough to make a little headway against obstacles, and just\nfalling short of the power which is necessary at the time. In every\ngreat intellectual career there are situations like that of a steamer\nwith a storm-wind directly against her and an iron-bound coast behind.\nIf the engines are strong enough to gain an inch an hour she is safe,\nbut if they lose there is no hope. Intellectual successes are so\nrewarding that they are worth any sacrifice of pleasure; the sense of\ndefeat is so humiliating that fair Venus herself could not offer a\nconsolation for it. An ambitious man will govern himself for the sake of\nhis ambition, and withstand the seductions of the senses. Can he be ever\nstrong enough, can his brain ever be lucid enough for the immensity of\nthe task before him?\n\n\"Le jeune homme,\" says M. Taine, \"ignore qu'il n'y a pas de pire\ndeperdition de forces, que de tels commerces abaissent le coeur,\nqu'apres dix ans d'une vie pareille il aura perdu la moitie de sa\nvolonte, que ses pensees auront un arriere-gout habituel d'amertume et\nde tristesse, que son ressort interieur sera amolli ou fausse. Il\ns'excuse a ses propres yeux, en se disant qu'un homme doit tout toucher\npour tout connaitre. De fait, il apprend la vie, mais bien souvent aussi\nil perd l'energie, la chaleur d'ame, la capacite d'agir, et a trente ans\nil n'est plus bon qu'a faire un employe, un dilettante, ou un rentier.\"\n\n\n\n\nPART III.\n\n_OF EDUCATION._\n\n\nLETTER I.\n\nTO A FRIEND WHO RECOMMENDED THE AUTHOR TO LEARN THIS THING AND THAT.\n\n  Lesson learned from a cook--The ingredients of knowledge--Importance\n  of proportion in the ingredients--Case of an English author--Two\n  landscape painters--The unity and charm of character often dependent\n  upon the limitations of culture--The burden of knowledge may diminish\n  the energy of action--Difficulty of suggesting a safe rule for the\n  selection of our knowledge--Men qualified for their work by ignorance\n  as well as by knowledge--Men remarkable for the extent of their\n  studies--Franz Woepke--Goethe--Hebrew proverb.\n\nI happened one day to converse with an excellent French cook about the\ndelicate art which he professed, and he comprised the whole of it under\ntwo heads--the knowledge of the mutual influences of ingredients, and\nthe judicious management of heat. It struck me that there existed a very\nclose analogy between cookery and education; and, on following out the\nsubject in my own way, I found that what he told me suggested several\nconsiderations of the very highest importance in the culture of the\nhuman intellect.\n\nAmongst the dishes for which my friend had a deserved reputation was a\ncertain _gateau de foie_ which had a very exquisite flavor. The\nprincipal ingredient, not in quantity hut in power, was the liver of a\nfowl; but there were several other ingredients also, and amongst these a\nleaf or two of parsley. He told me that the influence of the parsley was\na good illustration of his theory about his art. If the parsley were\nomitted, the flavor he aimed at was not produced at all; but, on the\nother hand, if the quantity of parsley was in the least excessive, then\nthe _gateau_ instead of being a delicacy for _gourmets_ became an\nuneatable mess. Perceiving that I was really interested in the subject,\nhe kindly promised a practical evidence of his doctrine, and the next\nday intentionally spoiled his dish by a trifling addition of parsley. He\nhad not exaggerated the consequences; the delicate flavor entirely\ndeparted, and left a nauseous bitterness in its place, like the\nremembrance of an ill-spent youth.\n\nAnd so it is, I thought, with the different ingredients of knowledge\nwhich are so eagerly and indiscriminately recommended. We are told that\nwe ought to learn this thing and that, as if every new ingredient did\nnot affect the whole flavor of the mind. There is a sort of intellectual\nchemistry which is quite as marvellous as material chemistry, and a\nthousand times more difficult to observe. One general truth may,\nhowever, be relied upon as surely and permanently our own. It is true\nthat everything we learn affects the _whole_ character of the mind.\n\nConsider how incalculably important becomes the question of proportion\nin our knowledge, and how that which we are is dependent as much upon\nour ignorance as our science. What we call ignorance is only a smaller\nproportion--what we call science only a larger. The larger quantity is\nrecommended as an unquestionable good, but the goodness of it is\nentirely dependent on the mental product that we want. Aristocracies\nhave always instinctively felt this, and have decided that a gentleman\nought not to know too much of certain arts and sciences. The character\nwhich they had accepted as their ideal would have been destroyed by\nindiscriminate additions to those ingredients of which long experience\nhad fixed the exact proportions. The same feeling is strong in the\nvarious professions: there is an apprehension that the disproportionate\nknowledge may destroy the professional nature. The less intelligent\nmembers of the profession will tell you that they dread an\nunprofessional use of time; but the more thoughtful are not so\napprehensive about hours and days, _they_ dread that sure transformation\nof the whole intellect which follows every increase of knowledge.\n\nI knew an English author who by great care and labor had succeeded in\nforming a style which harmonized quite perfectly with the character of\nhis thinking, and served as an unfailing means of communication with\nhis readers. Every one recognized its simple ease and charm, and he\nmight have gone on writing with that enviable facility had he not\ndetermined to study Locke's philosophical compositions. Shortly\nafterwards my friend's style suddenly lost its grace; he began to write\nwith difficulty, and what he wrote was unpleasantly difficult to read.\nEven the thinking was no longer his own thinking. Having been in too\nclose communication with a writer who was not a literary artist, his own\nart had deteriorated in consequence.\n\nI could mention an English landscape painter who diminished the\npictorial excellence of his works by taking too much interest in\ngeology. His landscapes became geological illustrations, and no longer\nheld together pictorially. Another landscape painter, who began by\ntaking a healthy delight in the beauty of natural scenery, became\nmorbidly religious after an illness, and thenceforth passed by the\nloveliest European scenery as comparatively unworthy of his attention,\nto go and make ugly pictures of places that had sacred associations.\n\nFor people who produce nothing these risks appear to be less serious;\nand yet there have been admirable characters, not productive, whose\nadmirableness might have been lessened by the addition of certain kinds\nof learning. The last generation of the English country aristocracy was\nparticularly rich in characters whose unity and charm was dependent\nupon the limitations of their culture, and which would have been\nentirely altered, perhaps not for the better, by simply knowing a\nscience or a literature that was closed to them.\n\nAbundant illustrations might be collected in evidence of the well-known\ntruth that the burden of knowledge may diminish the energy of action;\nbut this is rather outside of what we are considering, which is the\ninfluence of knowledge upon the intellectual and not the active life.\n\nI regret very much not to be able to suggest anything like a safe rule\nfor the selection of our knowledge. The most rational one which has been\nhit upon as yet appears to be a simple confidence in the feeling that we\ninwardly want to know. If I feel the inward want for a certain kind of\nknowledge, it may perhaps be presumed that it would be good for me; but\neven this feeling is not perfectly reliable, since people are often\ncurious about things that do not closely concern them, whilst they\nneglect what it is most important for them to ascertain. All that I\nventure to insist upon is, that we cannot learn any new thing without\nchanging our whole intellectual composition as a chemical compound is\nchanged by another ingredient; that the mere addition of knowledge may\nbe good for us or bad for us; and that whether it will be good or bad is\nusually a more obscure problem than the enthusiasm of educators will\nallow. That depends entirely on the work we have to do. Men are\nqualified for their work by knowledge, but they are also negatively\nqualified for it by their ignorance. Nature herself appears to take care\nthat the workman shall not know too much--she keeps him steadily to his\ntask; fixes him in one place mentally if not corporeally, and conquers\nhis restlessness by fatigue. As we are bound to a little planet, and\nhindered by impassable gulfs of space from wandering in stars where we\nhave no business, so we are kept by the force of circumstances to the\nlimited studies that belong to us. If we have any kind of efficiency,\nvery much of it is owing to our narrowness, which is favorable to a\npowerful individuality.\n\nSometimes, it is true, we meet with instances of men remarkable for the\nextent of their studies. Franz Woepke, who died in 1864, was an\nextraordinary example of this kind. In the course of a short life he\nbecame, although unknown, a prodigy of various learning. His friend M.\nTaine says that he was erudite in many eruditions. His favorite pursuit\nwas the history of mathematics, but as auxiliaries he had learned\nArabic, and Persian, and Sanskrit. He was classically educated, he wrote\nand spoke the principal modern languages easily and correctly;[1] his\nprinted works are in three languages. He had lived in several nations,\nand known their leading men of science. And yet this astonishing list of\nacquirements may be reduced to the exercise of two decided and natural\ntastes. Franz Woepke had the gift of the linguist and an interest in\nmathematics, the first serving as auxiliary to the second.\n\nGoethe said that \"a vast abundance of objects must lie before us ere we\ncan think upon them.\" Woepke felt the need of this abundance, but he\ndid not go out of his way to find it. The objectionable seeking after\nknowledge is the seeking after the knowledge which does not belong to\nus. In vain you urge me to go in quest of sciences for which I have no\nnatural aptitude. Would you have me act like that foolish camel in the\nHebrew proverb, which in going to seek horns lost his ears?\n\n\nLETTER II.\n\nTO A FRIEND WHO STUDIED MANY THINGS.\n\n  Men cannot restrict themselves in learning--Description of a Latin\n  scholar of two generations since--What is attempted by a cultivated\n  contemporary--Advantages of a more restricted field--Privilege of\n  instant admission--Many pursuits cannot be kept up simultaneously--The\n  deterioration of knowledge through neglect--What it really is--The\n  only available knowledge that which we habitually use--Difficulty in\n  modern education--That it is inevitably a beginning of many things and\n  no more--The simpler education of an ancient Greek--That of\n  Alcibiades--How the Romans were situated as to this--The privilege of\n  limited studies belongs to the earlier ages--They learned and we\n  attempt to learn.\n\nIt appears to be henceforth inevitable that men should be unable to\nrestrict themselves to one or two pursuits, and you who are in most\nrespects a very perfect specimen of what the age naturally produces in\nthe way of culture, have studied subjects so many and so various that a\nmere catalogue of them would astonish your grandfather if his shade\ncould revisit his old home. And yet your grandfather was considered a\nvery highly cultivated gentleman according to the ideas and requirements\nof his time. He was an elegant scholar, but in Latin chiefly, for he\nsaid that he never read Greek easily, and indeed he abandoned that\nlanguage entirely on leaving the University. But his Latin, from daily\nuse and practice (for he let no day slip by without reading some ancient\nauthor) and from the thoroughness and accuracy of his scholarship, was\nalways as ready for service as the saddled steeds of Branksome. I think\nhe got more culture, more of the best effects of good literature, out of\nthat one language than some polyglots get out of a dozen. He knew no\nmodern tongue, he had not even the common pretension to read a little\nFrench, and in his day hardly anybody studied German. He had no\nscientific training of any kind except mathematics, in which I have\nheard him say that he had never been proficient. Of the fine arts his\nignorance was complete, so complete that I doubt if he could have\ndistinguished Rigaud from Reynolds, and he had never played upon any\nmusical instrument. The leisure which he enjoyed during a long and\ntranquil existence he gave entirely to Latin and English literature, but\nof the two he enjoyed Latin the more, not with the preference of a\npedant, but because it carried him more completely out of the present,\nand gave him the refreshment of a more perfect change. He produced on\nall who knew him the impression of a cultivated gentleman, which he was.\n\nThere is only an interval of one generation between you and that good\nLatinist, but how wide is the difference in your intellectual regimen?\nYou have studied--well, here is a little list of what you have studied,\nand probably even this is not complete:--\n\nGreek, Latin, French, German, Italian, mathematics, chemistry,\nmineralogy, geology, botany, the theory of music, the practice of music\non two instruments, much theory about painting, the practice of painting\nin oil and water-color, photography, etching on copper, etc., etc., etc.\n\nThat is to say, six literatures (including English), six sciences\n(counting mineralogy and geology as one), and five branches or\ndepartments of the fine arts.\n\nOmitting English literature from our total, as that may be considered to\ncome by nature to an Englishman, though any real proficiency in it costs\nthe leisure of years, we have here no less than sixteen different\npursuits. If you like to merge the theory of music and painting in the\npractice of those arts, though as a branch of study the theory is really\ndistinct, we have still fourteen pursuits, any one of which is enough to\noccupy the whole of one man's time. If you gave some time daily to each\nof these pursuits, you could scarcely give more than half an hour, even\nsupposing that you had no professional occupation, and that you had no\nfavorite study, absorbing time to the detriment of the rest.\n\nNow your grandfather, though he would be considered quite an ignorant\ncountry gentleman in these days, had in reality certain intellectual\nadvantages over his more accomplished descendant. In the first place, he\nentirely escaped the sense of pressure, the feeling of not having time\nenough to do what he wanted to do. He accumulated his learning as\nquietly as a stout lady accumulates her fat, by the daily satisfaction\nof his appetite. And at the same time that he escaped the sense of\npressure, he escaped also the miserable sense of imperfection. Of course\nhe did not know Latin like an ancient Roman, but then he never met with\nany ancient Romans to humiliate him by too rapid and half-intelligible\nconversation. He met the best Latinists of his day; and felt himself a\nmaster amongst masters. Every time he went into his study, to pass\ndelightful hours with the noble authors that he loved, he knew that his\nadmission into that august society would be immediate and complete. He\nhad to wait in no antechamber of mere linguistic difficulty, but passed\nat once into the atmosphere of ancient thought, and breathed its\ndelicate perfume. In this great privilege of instant admission the man\nof one study has always the advantage of men more variously cultivated.\nTheir misfortune is to be perpetually waiting in antechambers, and\nlosing time in them. Grammars and dictionaries are antechambers, bad\ndrawing and bad coloring are antechambers, musical practice with\nimperfect intonation is an antechamber. And the worst is that even when\na man, like yourself for instance, of very various culture, has at one\ntime fairly penetrated beyond the antechamber, he is not sure of\nadmittance a year hence, because in the mean time the door may have been\nclosed against him. The rule of each separate hall or saloon of\nknowledge is that he alone is to be instantly admitted who calls there\nevery day.\n\nThe man of various pursuits does not, in any case, keep them up\nsimultaneously; he is led by inclination or compelled by necessity to\ngive predominance to one or another. If you have fifteen different\npursuits, ten of them, at any given time, will be lying by neglected.\nThe metaphor commonly used in reference to neglected pursuits is\nborrowed from the oxidation of metal; it is said that they become rusty.\nThis metaphor is too mild to be exact. Rust on metal, even on polished\nsteel, is easily guarded against by care, and a gun or a knife does not\nneed to be constantly used to keep it from being pitted. The gunsmith\nand the cutler know how to keep these things, in great quantity, without\nusing them at all. But no one can retain knowledge without using it.\nThe metaphor fails still more seriously in perpetuating a false\nconception of the deterioration of knowledge through neglect. It is not\nsimply a loss of polish which takes place, not a loss of mere\nsurface-beauty, but absolute disorganization, like the disorganization\nof a carriage when the axle-tree is taken away. A rusty thing may still\nbe used, but a disorganized thing cannot be used until the lost organ\nhas been replaced. There is no equivalent, amongst ordinary material\nlosses, to the intellectual loss that we incur by ceasing from a\npursuit. But we may consider neglect as an enemy who carries away the\ngirths from our saddles, the bits from our bridles, the oars from our\nboats, and one wheel from each of our carriages, leaving us indeed still\nnominally possessors of all these aids to locomotion, but practically in\nthe same position as if we were entirely without them. And as an enemy\ncounts upon the delays caused by these vexations to execute his designs\nwhilst we are helpless, so whilst we are laboring to replace the lost\nparts of our knowledge the occasion slips by when we most need it. The\nonly knowledge which is available when it is wanted is that which we\nhabitually use. Studies which from their nature cannot be commonly used\nare always retained with great difficulty. The study of anatomy is\nperhaps the best instance of this; every one who has attempted it knows\nwith what difficulty it is kept by the memory. Anatomists say that it\nhas to be learned and forgotten six times before it can be counted as a\npossession. This is because anatomy lies so much outside of what is\nneeded for ordinary life that very few people are ever called upon to\nuse it except during the hours when they are actually studying it. The\nfew who need it every day remember is as easily as a man remembers the\nlanguage of the country which he inhabits. The workmen in the\nestablishment at Saint Aubin d'Ecroville, where Dr. Auzoux manufactures\nhis wonderful anatomical models, are as familiar with anatomy as a\npainter is with the colors on his palette. _They_ never forget it.\n_Their_ knowledge is never made practically valueless by some yawning\nhiatus, causing temporary incompetence and delay.\n\nTo have one favorite study and live in it with happy familiarity, and\ncultivate every portion of it diligently and lovingly, as a small yeoman\nproprietor cultivates his own land, this, as to study, at least, is the\nmost enviable intellectual life. But there is another side to the\nquestion which has to be considered.\n\nThe first difficulty for us is in our education. Modern education is a\nbeginning of many things, and it is little more than a beginning. \"My\nnotion of educating my boy,\" said a rich Englishman, \"is not to make him\nparticularly clever at anything during his minority, but to make him\novercome the rudimentary difficulties of many things, so that when he\nselects for himself his own line of culture in the future, it cannot be\naltogether strange to him, whatever line he may happen to select.\" A\nmodern father usually allows his son to learn many things from a feeling\nof timidity about making a choice, if only one thing had to be chosen.\nHe might so easily make a wrong choice! When the inheritance of the\nhuman race was less rich, there was no embarrassment of that kind. Look\nat the education of an ancient Greek, at the education of one of the\nmost celebrated Athenians, a man living in the most refined and\nintellectual society, himself mentally and bodily the perfect type of\nhis splendid race, an eloquent and powerful speaker, a most capable\ncommander both by sea and land--look at the education of the brilliant\nAlcibiades! When Socrates gave the list of the things that Alcibiades\nhad learned, Alcibiades could add to it no other even nominal\naccomplishment, and what a meagre, short catalogue it was! \"But indeed I\nalso pretty accurately know what thou hast learned; thou wilt tell me if\nanything has escaped my notice. Thou hast learned then thy letters\n([Greek: grammata]), to play on the cithara ([Greek: kitharizein]) and\nto wrestle ([Greek: palaiein]), for thou hast not cared to learn to play\nupon the flute. This is all that thou hast learned, unless something has\nescaped me.\" The [Greek: grammata] which Alcibiades had learned with a\nmaster meant reading and writing, for he expressly says later on, that\nas for speaking Greek, [Greek: hellenizein], he learned that of no other\nmaster than the people. An English education equivalent to that of\nAlcibiades would therefore consist of reading and writing, wrestling and\nguitar-playing, the last accomplishment being limited to very simple\nmusic. Such an education was possible to an Athenian (though it is fair\nto add that Socrates does not seem to have thought much of it) because a\nman situated as Alcibiades was situated in the intellectual history of\nthe world, had no past behind him which deserved his attention more than\nthe present which surrounded him. Simply to speak Greek, [Greek:\nhellenizein], was really then the most precious of all accomplishments,\nand the fact that Alcibiades came by it easily does not lessen its\nvalue. Amongst a people like the Athenians, fond of intellectual talk,\nconversation was one of the best and readiest means of informing the\nmind, and certainly the very best means of developing it. It was not a\nslight advantage to speak the language of Socrates, and have him for a\ncompanion.\n\nThe cleverest and most accomplished Romans were situated rather more\nlike ourselves, or at least as we should be situated if we had not to\nlearn Latin and Greek, and if there were no modern language worth\nstudying except French. They went to Greece to perfect themselves in\nGreek, and improve their accent, just as our young gentlemen go to Paris\nor Touraine. Still, the burden of the past was comparatively light upon\ntheir shoulders. An Englishman who had attempted no more than they were\nbound to attempt might be a scholar, but he would not be considered so\nHe might be a thorough scholar in French and English,--that is, he\nmight possess the cream of two great literatures,--but he would be\nspoken of as a person of defective education. It is the fashion, for\nexample, to speak of Sir Walter Scott as a half-educated man, because he\ndid not know much Greek, yet Sir Walter had studied German with success,\nand with his habit of extensive reading, and his immense memory,\ncertainly knew incomparably more about the generations which preceded\nhim than Horace knew of those which preceded the Augustan era.\n\nThe privilege of limiting their studies, from the beginning, to one or\ntwo branches of knowledge, belonged to earlier ages, and every\nsuccessive accumulation of the world's knowledge has gradually lessened\nit. Schoolboys in our time are expected to know more, or to have\nattempted to learn more, than the most brilliant intellectual leaders of\nformer times. What English parent, in easy circumstances, would be\ncontent that his son should have the education of Alcibiades, or an\neducation accurately corresponding to that of Horace, or to that which\nsufficed for Shakespeare? Yet although the burdens laid upon the memory\nhave been steadily augmented, its powers have not increased. Our brains\nare not better constituted than those of our forefathers, although where\nthey learned one thing we attempt to learn six. They learned and we\nattempt to learn. The only hope for us is to make a selection from the\nattempts of our too heavily burdened youth, and in those selected\nstudies to emulate in after-life the thoroughness of our forefathers.\n\n\nLETTER III\n\nTO A FRIEND WHO STUDIED MANY THINGS.\n\n  An idealized portrait--The scholars of the sixteenth century--Isolated\n  students--French students of English when isolated from\n  Englishmen--How one of them read Tennyson--Importance of\n  sounds--Illusions of scholarship--Difficulty of appreciating the\n  sense--That Latin may still be made a spoken language--The early\n  education of Montaigne--A contemporary instance--Dream of a Latin\n  island--Rapid corruption of a language taught artificially.\n\nIn your answer to my letter about the multiplicity of modern studies you\ntell me that my portrait of your grandfather is considerably idealized,\nand that, notwithstanding all the respect which you owe to his memory,\nyou have convincing proof in his manuscript annotations to Latin authors\nthat his scholarship cannot have been quite so thorough as I represented\nit. You convey, moreover, though with perfect modesty in form, the idea\nthat you believe your own Latin superior to your grandfather's,\nnotwithstanding the far greater variety of your studies. Let me confess\nthat I _did_ somewhat idealize that description of your grandfather's\nintellectual life. I described rather a life which might have been than\na life which actually was. And even this \"might have been\" is\nproblematical. It may be doubted whether any modern has ever really\nmastered Latin. The most that can be said is that a man situated like\nyour grandfather, without a profession, without our present temptation\nto scatter effort in many pursuits, and who made Latin scholarship his\nunique intellectual purpose, would probably go nearer to a satisfactory\ndegree of attainment than we whose time and strength have been divided\ninto so many fragments. But the picture of a perfect modern Latinist is\npurely ideal, and the prevalent notion of high attainment in a dead\nlanguage is not fixed enough to be a standard, whilst if it were fixed\nit would certainly be a very low standard. The scholars of this century\ndo not write Latin except as a mere exercise; they do not write books in\nLatin, and they never speak it at all. They do not use the language\nactively; they only read it, which is not really using it, but only\nseeing how other men have used it. There is the same difference between\nreading a language and writing or speaking it that there is between\nlooking at pictures intelligently and painting them. The scholars of the\nsixteenth century spoke Latin habitually, and wrote it with ease and\nfluency. \"Nicholas Grouchy,\" says Montaigne, \"who wrote a book _de\nComitiis Romanorum_; William Guerente, who has written a commentary upon\nAristotle; George Buchanan, that great Scotch poet; and Marc Anthony\nMuret, whom both France and Italy have acknowledged for the best orator\nof his time, my domestic tutors (at college), have all of them often\ntold me that I had in my infancy that language so very fluent and ready\nthat they were afraid to enter into discourse with me.\" This passage is\ninteresting for two reasons; it shows that the scholars of that age\nspoke Latin; but it proves at the same time that they cannot have been\nreally masters of the language, since they were \"afraid to enter into\ndiscourse\" with a clever child. Fancy an Englishman who professed to be\na French scholar and yet \"was afraid to enter into discourse\" with a\nFrench boy, for fear he should speak too quickly! The position of these\nscholars relatively to Latin was in fact too isolated for it to have\nbeen possible that they should reach the point of mastery. Suppose a\nsociety of Frenchmen, in some secluded little French village where no\nEnglishman ever penetrates, and that these Frenchmen learn English from\ndictionaries, and set themselves to speak English with each other,\nwithout anybody to teach them the colloquial language or its\npronunciation, without ever once hearing the sound of it from English\nlips, what sort of English would they create amongst themselves? This is\na question that I happen to be able to answer very accurately, because I\nhave known two Frenchmen who studied English literature just as the\nFrenchmen of the sixteenth century studied the literature of ancient\nRome. One of them, especially, had attained what would certainly in the\ncase of a dead language be considered a very high degree of scholarship\nindeed. Most of our great authors were known to him, even down to the\nclose critical comparison of different readings. Aided by the most\npowerful memory I ever knew, he had amassed such stores that the\nacquisitions, even of cultivated Englishmen, would in many cases have\nappeared inconsiderable beside them. But he could not write or speak\nEnglish in a manner tolerable to an Englishman; and although he knew\nnearly all the words in the language, it was dictionary knowledge, and\nso different from an Englishman's apprehension of the same words that it\nwas only a sort of pseudo-English that he knew, and not our living\ntongue. His appreciation of our authors, especially of our poets,\ndiffered so widely from English criticism and English feeling that it\nwas evident he did not understand them as we understand them. Two things\nespecially proved this: he frequently mistook declamatory versification\nof the most mediocre quality for poetry of an elevated order; whilst, on\nthe other hand, his ear failed to perceive the music of the musical\npoets, as Byron and Tennyson. How _could_ he hear their music, he to\nwhom our English sounds were all unknown? Here, for example, is the way\nhe read \"Claribel:\"--\n\n  \"At ev ze bittle bommess\n    Azvart ze zeeket lon\n  At none ze veeld be ommess\n    Aboot ze most edston\n  At meedneeg ze mon commess\n    An lokez dovn alon\n  Ere songg ze lintveet svelless\n  Ze clirvoic-ed mavi dvelless\n    Ze fledgling srost lispess\n  Ze slombroos vav ootvelless\n    Ze babblang ronnel creespess\n  Ze ollov grot replee-ess\n  Vere Claribel lovlee-ess.\"\n\nThis, as nearly as I have been able to render it in English spelling,\nwas the way in which a French gentleman of really high culture was\naccustomed to read English poetry to himself. Is it surprising that he\nshould have failed to appreciate the music of our musical verse? He did\nnot, however, seem to be aware that there existed any obstacle to the\naccuracy of his decisions, but gave his opinion with a good deal of\nauthority, which might have surprised me had I not so frequently heard\nLatin scholars do exactly the same thing. My French friend read\n\"Claribel\" in a ridiculous manner; but English scholars all read Latin\npoetry in a manner not less ridiculous. You laugh to hear \"Claribel\"\nread with a foreign pronunciation, and you see at once the absurdity of\naffecting to judge of it as poetry before the reader has learned to\npronounce the sounds; but you do not laugh to hear Latin poetry read\nwith a foreign pronunciation, and you do not perceive that we are all of\nus disqualified, by our profound ignorance of the pronunciation of the\nancient Romans, for any competent criticism of their verse. In all\npoetry, in all oratory, in much of the best and most artistic\nprose-writing also, sound has a great influence upon sense: a great\ndeal is conveyed by it, especially in the way of feeling. If we do not\nthoroughly know and practise the right pronunciation (and by the right\npronunciation I mean that which the author himself _thought in_ whilst\nhe wrote), we miss those delicate tones and cadences which are in\nliterature like the modulations of the voice in speech. Nor can we\nproperly appreciate the artistic choice of beautiful names for persons\nand places unless we know the sounds of them quite accurately, and have\nalready in our minds the associations belonging to the sounds. Names\nwhich are selected with the greatest care by our English poets, and\nwhich hold their place like jewels on the finely-wrought texture of the\nverse, lose all their value when they are read with a vicious foreign\npronunciation. So it must be with Latin poetry when read by an\nEnglishman, and it is probable that we are really quite insensible to\nthe delicate art of verbal selection as it was practised by the most\nconsummate masters of antiquity.\n\nI know that scholars think that they hear the Roman music still; but\nthis is one of the illusions of scholarship. In each country Latin\nscholars have adopted a conventional style of reading, and the sounds\nwhich are in conformity with that style seem to them to be musical,\nwhilst other than the accepted sounds seem ridiculous, and grate harshly\non the unaccustomed ear. The music which the Englishman hears, or\nimagines that he hears, in the language of ancient Rome, is certainly\nnot the music which the Roman authors intended to note in words. It is\nas if my Frenchman, having read \"Claribel\" in his own way, had affirmed\nthat he heard the music of the verse. If he heard music at all, it was\nnot Tennyson's.\n\nPermit me to add a few observations about sense. My French friend\ncertainly understood English in a very remarkable manner for a student\nwho had never visited our country; he knew the dictionary meaning of\nevery word he encountered, and yet there ever remained between him and\nour English tongue a barrier or wall of separation, hard to define, but\neasy to perceive. In the true deep sense he never understood the\nlanguage. He studied it, laid regular siege to it, mastered it to all\nappearance, yet remained, to the end, outside of it. His observations,\nand especially his unfavorable criticisms, proved this quite\nconclusively. Expressions often appeared to him faulty, in which no\nEnglish reader would see anything to remark upon; it may be added that\n(by way of compensation) he was unable to appreciate the oddity of those\nintentionally quaint turns of expression which are invented by the craft\nof humorists. It may even be doubted whether his English was of any\nascertainable use to him. He might probably have come as near to an\nunderstanding of our authors by the help of translations, and he could\nnot converse in English, for the spoken language was entirely\nunintelligible to him. An acquisition of this kind seems scarcely an\nadequate reward for the labor that it costs. Compared with living\nEnglishmen my French friend was nowhere, but if English had been a dead\nlanguage, he would have been looked up to as a very eminent scholar, and\nwould have occupied a professor's chair in the university.\n\nA little more life might be given to the study of Latin by making it a\nspoken language. Boys might be taught to speak Latin in their schooldays\nwith the modern Roman pronunciation, which, though probably a deviation\nfrom the ancient, is certainly nearer to it than our own. If colloquial\nLatin were made a subject of special research, it is likely that a\nsufficiently rich phrase-book might be constructed from the plays. If\nthis plan were pursued throughout Europe (always adopting the Roman\npronunciation) all educated men would possess a common tongue which\nmight be enriched to suit modern requirements without any serious\ndeparture from classical construction. The want of such a system as this\nwas painfully felt at the council of the Vatican, where the assembled\nprelates discovered that their Latin was of no practical use, although\nthe Roman Catholic clergy employ Latin more habitually than any other\nbody of men in the world. That a modern may be taught to think in Latin,\nis proved by the early education of Montaigne, and I may mention a much\nmore recent instance. My brother-in-law told me that, in the spring of\n1871, a friend of his had come to stay with him accompanied by his\nlittle son, a boy seven years old. This child spoke Latin with the\nutmost fluency, and he spoke nothing else. What I am going to suggest is\na Utopian dream, but let us suppose that a hundred fathers could be\nfound in Europe, all of this way of thinking, all resolved to submit to\nsome inconvenience in order that their sons might speak Latin as a\nliving language. A small island might be rented near the coast of Italy,\nand in that island Latin alone might be permitted. Just as the\nsuccessive governments of France maintain the establishments of Sevres\nand the Gobelins to keep the manufactures of porcelain and tapestry up\nto a recognized high standard of excellence, so this Latin island might\nbe maintained to give more vivacity to scholarship. If there were but\none little corner of ground on the wide earth where pure Latin was\nconstantly spoken, our knowledge of the classic writers would become far\nmore sympathetically intimate. After living in the Latin island we\nshould think in Latin as we read, and read without translating.\n\nBut this is dreaming. It is too certain that on returning from the Latin\nisland into the atmosphere of modern colleges an evil change would come\nover our young Latinists like that which came upon the young Montaigne\nwhen his father sent him to the college of Guienne, \"at that time the\nbest and most flourishing in France.\" Montaigne tells us that,\nnotwithstanding all his father's precautions, the place \"was a college\nstill.\" \"My Latin,\" he adds, \"_immediately grew corrupt, and by\ndiscontinuance I have since lost all manner of use of it._\" If it were\nthe custom to speak Latin, it would be the custom to speak it badly; and\na master of the language would have to conform to the evil usages around\nhim. Our present state of ignorance has the charm of being silent,\nexcept when old-fashioned gentlemen in the House of Commons quote poetry\nwhich they cannot pronounce to hearers who cannot understand it.\n\n  NOTE.--An English orator quoted from Cicero the sentence \"Non\n  intelligunt homines quam magnum vectigal sit parsimonia.\" He made the\n  second vowel in _vectigal_ short, and the House laughed at him; he\n  tried again and pronounced it with the long sound of the English _i_,\n  on which the critical body he addressed was perfectly satisfied. But\n  if a Roman had been present it is probable that, of the two, the short\n  English _i_ would have astonished his ears the less, for our short _i_\n  does bear some resemblance to the southern _i_ whereas our long i\n  resembles no single letter in any alphabet of the Latin family of\n  languages. We are scrupulously careful to avoid what we call false\n  quantities, we are quite utterly and ignorantly unscrupulous about\n  false sounds. One of the best instances is the well-known \"veni, vidi,\n  vici,\" which we pronounce very much as if it had been written _vinai_,\n  _vaidai_, _vaisai_, in Italian letters.\n\n\nLETTER IV.\n\nTO A STUDENT OF LITERATURE.\n\n  Studies, whatever they may be, always considered, by some a waste of\n  time--The classical languages--The higher mathematics--The\n  accomplishments--Indirect uses of different studies--Influence of\n  music--Studies indirectly useful to authors--What induced Mr. Roscoe\n  to write the lives of Lorenzo de' Medici and Leo X.\n\nWhatever you study, some one will consider that particular study a\nfoolish waste of time.\n\nIf you were to abandon successively every subject of intellectual labor\nwhich had, in its turn, been condemned by some adviser as useless, the\nresult would be simple intellectual nakedness. The classical languages,\nto begin with, have long been considered useless by the majority of\npractical people--and pray, what to shopkeepers, doctors, attorneys,\nartists, can be the use of the higher mathematics? And if these studies,\nwhich have been conventionally classed as serious studies, are\nconsidered unnecessary notwithstanding the tremendous authority of\ncustom, how much the more are those studies exposed to a like contempt\nwhich belong to the category of accomplishments! What is the use of\ndrawing, for it ends in a worthless sketch? Why should we study music\nwhen after wasting a thousand hours the amateur cannot satisfy the ear?\nA _quoi bon_ modern languages when the accomplishment only enables us to\ncall a waiter in French or German who is sure to answer us in English?\nAnd what, when it is not your trade, can be the good of dissecting\nanimals or plants?\n\nTo all questionings of this kind there is but one reply. We work for\nculture. We work to enlarge the intelligence, and to make it a better\nand more effective instrument. This is our main purpose; but it may be\nadded that even for our special labors it is always difficult to say\nbeforehand exactly what will turn out in the end to be most useful.\nWhat, in appearance, can be more entirely outside the work of a\nlandscape painter than the study of ancient history? and yet I can show\nyou how an interest in ancient history might indirectly be of great\nservice to a landscape painter. It would make him profoundly feel the\nhuman associations of many localities which to an ignorant man would be\ndevoid of interest or meaning; and this human interest in the scenes\nwhere great events have taken place, or which have been distinguished by\nthe habitation of illustrious men in other ages, is in fact one of the\ngreat fundamental motives of landscape painting. It has been very much\nquestioned, especially by foreign critics, whether the interest in\nbotany which is taken by some of the more cultivated English landscape\npainters is not for them a false direction and wrong employment of the\nmind; but a landscape painter may feel his interest in vegetation\ninfinitely increased by the accurate knowledge of its laws, and such an\nincrease of interest would make him work more zealously, and with less\ndanger of weariness and _ennui_, besides being a very useful help to the\nmemory in retaining the authentic vegetable forms. It may seem more\ndifficult to show the possible utility of a study apparently so entirely\noutside of other studies as music is: and yet music has an important\ninfluence on the whole of our emotional nature, and indirectly upon\nexpression of all kinds. He who has once learned the self-control of the\nmusician, the use of _piano_ and _forte_, each in its right place, when\nto be lightly swift or majestically slow, and especially how to keep to\nthe key once chosen till the right time has come for changing it; he who\nhas once learned this knows the secret of the arts. No painter, writer,\norator, who had the power and judgment of a thoroughly cultivated\nmusician, could sin against the broad principles of taste.\n\nMore than all other men have authors reason to appreciate the indirect\nutilities of knowledge that is apparently irrelevant. Who can tell what\nknowledge will be of most use to _them_? Even the very greatest of\nauthors are indebted to miscellaneous reading, often in several\ndifferent languages, for the suggestion of their most original works,\nand for the light which has kindled many a shining thought of their own.\nAnd authors who seem to have less need than others of an outward help,\npoets whose compositions might appear to be chiefly inventive and\nemotional, novelists who are free from the restraints and the\nresearches of the historian, work up what they know into what they\nwrite; so that if you could remove every line which is based on studies\noutside the strict limits of their art, you would blot out half their\ncompositions. Take the antiquarian element out of Scott, and see how\nmany of his works could never have been written. Remove from Goldsmith's\nbrain the recollection of his wayward studies and strange experiences,\nand you would remove the rich material of the \"Traveller\" and the\nEssays, and mutilate even the immortal \"Vicar of Wakefield.\" Without a\nclassical education and foreign travel, Byron would not have composed\n\"Childe Harold;\" without the most catholic interest in the literature of\nall the ages, and of many different peoples from the North Sea to the\nMediterranean, our contemporary William Morris would never have\nconceived, and could not have executed, that strong work \"The Earthly\nParadise.\" It may not seem necessary to learn Italian, yet Mr. Roscoe's\ncelebrity as an author was due in the first place to his private\nfondness for Italian literature. He did not learn Italian in order that\nhe might write his biographies, but he wrote about Lorenzo and Leo\nbecause he had mastered Italian, and because the language led him to\ntake an interest in the greatest house of Florence. The way in which\nauthors are led by their favorite studies indirectly to the great\nperformance of their lives has never been more clearly illustrated than\nin this instance.\n\nWhen William Roscoe was a young man he had for his friend Francis\nHolden, nephew of Mr. Richard Holden, a schoolmaster in Liverpool.\nFrancis Holden was a young man of uncommon culture, having at the same\ntime really sound scholarship in several languages, and an ardent\nenthusiasm for literature. He urged Roscoe to study languages, and used\nespecially, in their evening walks together, to repeat to him passages\nfrom the noblest poets of Italy. In this way Roscoe was led to attempt\nItalian, and, having once begun, went on till he had mastered it. \"It\nwas in the course of these studies,\" says his biographer, \"that he first\nformed the idea of writing the Life of Lorenzo de' Medici.\"\n\n\nLETTER V.\n\nTO A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN WHO REGRETTED THAT HIS SON HAD THE TENDENCIES OF\nA DILETTANT.\n\n  Inaccuracy of the common distinction between amateur pursuits and more\n  serious studies--All of us are amateurs in many things--Prince\n  Albert--The Emperor Napoleon III.--Contrast between general and\n  professional education--The price of high accomplishment.\n\nI agree with you that amateurship, as generally practised, may be a\nwaste of time, but the common distinction between amateur pursuits and\nserious studies is inconsistent. A painter whose art is imperfect and\nwho does not work for money is called an amateur; a scholar who writes\nimperfect Latin, not for money, escapes the imputation of amateurship,\nand is called a learned man. Surely we have been blinded by custom in\nthese things. Ideas of frivolity are attached to imperfect acquirement\nin certain directions, and ideas of gravity to equally imperfect\nacquirement in others. To write bad Latin poetry is not thought to be\nfrivolous, but it is considered frivolous to compose imperfectly and\nunprofessionally in other fine arts.\n\nYet are we not all of us amateurs in those pursuits which constituted\nour education--amateurs at the best, if we loved them, and even inferior\nto amateurs if we disliked them? We have not sounder knowledge or more\nperfect skill in the ancient languages than Prince Albert had in music.\nWe know something of them, yet in comparison with perfect mastery such\nas that of a cultivated old Greek or Roman, our scholarship is at the\nbest on a level with the musical scholarship of a cultivated amateur\nlike the Prince Consort.\n\nIf the essence of dilettantism is to be contented with imperfect\nattainment, I fear that all educated people must be considered\ndilettants.\n\nIt is narrated of the Emperor Napoleon III. that in answer to some one\nwho inquired of his Majesty whether the Prince Imperial was a musician,\nhe replied that he discouraged dilettantism, and \"did not wish his son\nto be a Coburg.\" But the Emperor himself was quite as much a dilettant\nas Prince Albert; though their dilettantism did not lie in the same\ndirections. The Prince was an amateur musician and artist; the Emperor\nwas an amateur historian, an amateur scholar, and antiquary. It may be\nadded that Napoleon III. indulged in another and more dangerous kind of\namateurship. He had a taste for amateur generalship, and the\nconsequences of his indulgence of this taste are known to every one.\n\nThe variety of modern education encourages a scattered dilettantism. It\nis only in professional life that the energies of young men are\npowerfully concentrated. There is a steadying effect in thorough\nprofessional training which school education does not supply. Our boys\nreceive praise and prizes for doing many things most imperfectly, and it\nis not their fault if they remain ignorant of what perfection really is,\nand of the immensity of the labor which it costs. I think that you would\ndo well, perhaps, without discouraging your son too much by chillingly\naccurate estimates of the value of what he has done, to make him on all\nproper occasions feel and see the difference between half-knowledge and\nthorough mastery. It would be a good thing for a youth to be made\nclearly aware how enormous a price of labor Nature has set upon high\naccomplishment in everything that is really worthy of his pursuit. It is\nthis persuasion, which men usually arrive at only in their maturity,\nthat operates as the most effectual tranquillizer of frivolous\nactivities.\n\n\nLETTER VI.\n\nTO THE PRINCIPAL OF A FRENCH COLLEGE.\n\n  The Author's dread of protection in intellectual pursuits--Example\n  from the Fine Arts--Prize poems--Governmental encouragement of\n  learning--The bad effects of it--Pet pursuits--Objection to the\n  interference of Ministers--A project for separate examinations.\n\nWhat I am going to say will seem very strange to you, and is not\nunlikely to arouse as much professional animosity as you are capable of\nfeeling against an old friend. You who are a dignitary of the\nUniversity, and have earned your various titles in a fair field, as a\nsoldier wins his epaulettes before the enemy, are not the likeliest\nperson to hear with patience the unauthorized theories of an innovator.\nTake them, then, as mere speculations, if you will--not altogether\nunworthy of consideration, for they are suggested by a sincere anxiety\nfor the best interests of learning, and yet not very dangerous to vested\ninterests of any kind, since they can have little influence on the\npractice or opinion of the world.\n\nI feel a great dread of what may be called _protection_ in intellectual\npursuits. It seems to me that when the Government of a country applies\nan artificial stimulus to certain branches of study for their\nencouragement by the offer of rewards in honor or in money beyond the\nrewards inherent in the studies themselves, or coming naturally from\ntheir usefulness to mankind, there is a great danger that men may give a\ndisproportionate attention to those favored branches of study. Let me\ntake an example from the practice of the Fine Arts. A Government, by\nmedals and crosses, or by money, can easily create and foster a school\nof painting which is entirely out of relation to the century in which it\nexists, and quite incapable of working harmoniously with the\ncontemporary national life. This has actually been done to a\nconsiderable extent in various countries, especially in France and in\nBavaria. A sort of classicism which had scarcely any foundation in\nsincerity of feeling was kept up artificially by a system of\nencouragement which offered inducements outside the genuine ambition of\nan artist. The true enthusiasm which is the life of art impels the\nartist to express his own feeling for the delight of others. The offer\nof a medal or a pension induces him to make the sort of picture which is\nlikely to satisfy the authorities. He first ascertains what is according\nto the rule, and then follows it as nearly as he is able. He works in a\ntemper of simple conformity, remote indeed from the passionate\nenthusiasm of creation. It is so with prize poems. We all know the sort\nof poetry which is composed in order to gain prizes. The anxiety of the\nversifier is to be safe: he tries to compose what will escape censure;\nhe dreads the originality that may give offence. But all powerful\npictures and poems have been wrought in the energy of individual\nfeeling, not in conformity to a pattern.\n\nNow, suppose that, instead of encouraging poetry or painting, a\nGovernment resolves to encourage learning. It will patronize certain\npursuits to the neglect of others, or it will encourage certain pursuits\nmore liberally than others. The subjects of such a Government will not\nfollow learning exclusively for its delightfulness or its utility;\nanother consideration will affect their choice. They will inquire which\npursuits are rewarded by prizes in honor or money, and they will be\nstrongly tempted to select them. Therefore, unless the Government has\nexercised extraordinary wisdom, men will learn what they do not really\ncare for and may never practically want, merely in order to win some\nacademical grade. So soon as this object has been attained, they will\nimmediately abandon the studies by which they attained it.\n\nCan it be said that in these cases the purposes of the Government were\nfulfilled? Clearly not, if it desired to form a permanent taste for\nlearning. But it may have done worse than fail in this merely negative\nway; it may have diverted its youth from pursuits to which Nature called\nthem, and in which they might have effectually aided the advancement and\nthe prosperity of the State.\n\nLet us suppose that a Government were to have a pet study, and offer\ngreat artificial inducements for success in it. Suppose that the pet\nstudy were entomology. All the most promising youth of the country would\nspend ten years in emulating Messrs. Kirby and Spence, and take their\ndegrees as entomological bachelors. But might it not easily happen that\nto a majority of the young gentlemen this pursuit would have acted\npositively as a hindrance by keeping them from other pursuits more\nlikely to help them in their professions? It would not only cost a great\ndeal of valuable time, it would absorb a quantity of youthful energy\nwhich the country can ill afford to lose. The Government would probably\naffirm that entomology, if not always practically useful in itself, was\nan invaluable intellectual training; but what if this training used up\nthe early vigor which might be needed for other pursuits, and of which\nevery human being has only a limited supply? We should be told, no\ndoubt, that this powerful encouragement was necessary to the advancement\nof science, and it is true that under such a system the rudiments of\nentomology would be more generally known. But the vulgarization of\nrudiments is not the advancement of knowledge. Entomology has gone quite\nas far in discovery, though pursued simply for its own sake, as it would\nhave gone if it had been made necessary to a bachelor's degree.\n\nYou will ask whether I would go so far as to abolish degrees of all\nkinds, Certainly not; that is not my project. But I believe that no\nGovernment is competent to make a selection amongst intellectual\npursuits and say, \"This or that pursuit shall be encouraged by\nuniversity degrees, whilst other pursuits of intellectual men shall have\nno encouragement whatever.\" I may mention by name your present autocrat\nof Public Instruction, Jules Simon. He is a literary man of some\neminence; he has written several interesting books, and on the whole he\nis probably more competent to deal with these questions than many of his\npredecessors. But however capable a man may be, he is sure to be biassed\nby the feeling common to all intellectual men which attributes a\npeculiar importance to their own pursuits. I do not like to see any\nMinister, or any Cabinet of Ministers, settling what all the young men\nof a country are to learn under penalty of exclusion from all the\nliberal professions.\n\nWhat I should think more reasonable would be some such arrangement as\nthe following. There might be a board of thoroughly competent examiners\nfor each branch of study separately, authorized to confer certificates\nof competence. When a man believed himself to have mastered a branch of\nstudy, he would go and try to get a certificate for that. The various\nstudies would then be followed according to the public sense of their\nimportance, and would fall quite naturally into the rank which they\nought to occupy at any given period of the national history. These\nseparate examinations should be severe enough to ensure a serviceable\ndegree of proficiency. Nobody should be allowed to teach anything who\nhad not got a certificate for the particular thing he intended to\nprofess. In the confusion of your present system, not only do you fail\nto insure the thoroughness of pupils, but the teachers themselves are\ntoo frequently incompetent in some speciality which accidentally fails\nto their share. I think that a Greek master ought to be a complete\nHellenist, but surely it is not necessary that he should be half a\nmathematician.\n\nTo sum up. It seems to me that a Government has no business to favor\nsome intellectual pursuits more than others, but that it ought to\nrecognize competent attainment in every one of them by a sort of diploma\nor certificate, leaving the relative rank of different pursuits to be\nsettled by public opinion. And as to the educators themselves, I think\nthat when a man has proved his competence in one thing, he ought to be\nallowed to teach that one thing in the University without being required\nto pass an examination in any other thing.\n\n\nLETTER VII.\n\nTO THE PRINCIPAL OF A FRENCH COLLEGE.\n\n  Loss of time to acquire an ancient language too imperfectly for it to\n  be useful--Dr. Arnold--Mature life leaves little time for\n  culture--Modern indifference to ancient thinking--Larger experience of\n  the moderns--The moderns older than the ancients--The Author's regret\n  that Latin has ceased to be a living language--The shortest way to\n  learn to read a language--The recent interest in modern languages--A\n  French student of Hebrew.\n\nI was happy to learn your opinion of the reform so recently introduced\nby the Minister of Public Instruction, and the more so that I was glad\nto find the views of so inexperienced a person as myself confirmed by\nyour wider knowledge. You went even farther than M. Jules Simon, for you\nopenly expressed a desire for the complete withdrawal of Greek from the\nordinary school curriculum. Not that you undervalue Greek,--no one of\nyour scholarship would be likely to undervalue a great literature,--but\nyou thought it a loss of time to acquire a language so imperfectly that\nthe literature still remained practically closed whilst thousands of\nvaluable hours had been wasted on the details of grammar. The truth is,\nthat although the principle of beginning many things in school education\nwith the idea that the pupil will in maturer life pursue them to fuller\naccomplishment may in some instances be justified by the prolonged\nstudies of men who have a natural taste for erudition, it is idle to\nshut one's eyes to the fact that most men have no inclination for\nschool-work after they have left school, and if they had the inclination\nthey have not the time. Our own Dr. Arnold, the model English\nschoolmaster, said, \"It is so hard to begin anything in after-life, and\nso comparatively easy to continue what has been begun, that I think we\nare bound to break ground, as it were, into several of the mines of\nknowledge with our pupils; that the first difficulties may be overcome\nby them whilst there is yet a power from without to aid their own\nfaltering resolution, and that so they may be enabled, if they will, to\ngo on with the study hereafter.\" The principle here expressed is no\ndoubt one of the important principles of all early education, and yet I\nthink that it cannot be safely followed without taking account of human\nnature, such as it is. Everything hangs on that little parenthesis \"if\nthey will.\" And if they will _not_, how then? The time spent in breaking\nthe ground has been wasted, except so far as the exercise of breaking\nthe ground may have been useful in mental gymnastics.\n\nMature life brings so many professional or social duties that it leaves\nscant time for culture; and those who care for culture most earnestly\nand sincerely, are the very persons who will economize time to the\nutmost. Now, to read a language that has been very imperfectly mastered\nis felt to be a bad economy of time. Suppose the case of a man occupied\nin business who has studied Greek rather assiduously in youth and yet\nnot enough to read it with facility. Suppose that this man wants to get\nat the mind of Plato. He can read the original, but he reads it so\nslowly that it would cost him more hours than he can spare, and this is\nwhy he has recourse to a translation. In this case there is no\nindifference to Greek culture; on the contrary, the reader desires to\nassimilate what he can of it, but the very earnestness of his wish to\nhave free access to ancient thought makes him prefer it in modern\nlanguage.\n\nThis is the most favorable instance that can be imagined, except, of\ncourse, those exceedingly rare cases where a man has leisure enough, and\nenthusiasm enough, to become a Hellenist. The great majority of our\ncontemporaries do not care for ancient thought at all, it is so remote\nfrom them, it belongs to conditions of civilization so different from\ntheir own, it is encumbered with so many lengthy discussions of\nquestions which have been settled by the subsequent experience of the\nworld, that the modern mind prefers to occupy itself with its own\nanxieties and its own speculations. It is a great error to suppose that\nindifference to ancient thinking is peculiar to the spirit of\nPhilistinism; for the most cultivated contemporary intellects seek light\nfrom each other rather than from the ancients. One of the most\ndistinguished of modern thinkers, a scholar of the rarest classical\nattainments, said to me in reference to some scheme of mine for renewing\nmy classical studies, that they would be of no more use to me than\nnumismatics. It is this feeling, the feeling that Greek speculation is\nof less consequence to the modern world than German and French\nspeculation, which causes so many of us, rightly or wrongly, to regard\nit as a palaeontological curiosity, interesting for those who are curious\nas to the past of the human mind, but not likely to be influential upon\nits future.\n\nThis estimate of ancient thinking is not often expressed quite so openly\nas I have just expressed it, and yet it is very generally prevalent even\namongst the most thoughtful people, especially if modern science has had\nany conspicuous influence in the formation of their minds. Tho truth is,\nas Sydney Smith observed many years ago, that there is a confusion of\nlanguage in the use of the word \"ancient.\" We say \"the ancients,\" as if\nthey were older and more experienced men than we are, whereas the age\nand experience are entirely on our side. They were the clever children,\n\"and we only are the white-bearded, silver-headed ancients, who have\ntreasured up, and are prepared to profit by, all the experience which\nhuman life can supply.\" The sense of our larger experience, as it grows\nin us and becomes more distinctly conscious, produces a corresponding\ndecline in our feelings of reverence for classic times. The past has\nbequeathed to us its results, and we have incorporated them into our own\nedifice, but we have used them rather as materials than as models.\n\nIn your practical desire to retain in education only what is likely to\nbe used, you are willing to preserve Latin. M. Jules Simon says that\nLatin ought to be studied only to be read. On this point permit me to\noffer an observation. The one thing I regret about Latin is that we have\nceased to speak it. The natural method, and by far the most rapid and\nsure method of learning a language, is to begin by acquiring words in\norder to use them to ask for what we want; after that we acquire other\nwords for narration and the expression of our sentiments. By far the\nshortest way to learn to read a language is to begin by speaking it. The\ncolloquial tongue is the basis of the literary tongue. This is so true\nthat with all the pains and trouble you give to the Latin education of\nyour pupils, you cannot teach them as much Latin, for reading only, in\nthe course of ten years, as a living foreigner will give them of his own\nlanguage in ten months. I seriously believe that if your object is to\nmake boys read Latin easily, you begin at the wrong end. It is\ndeplorable that the learned should ever have allowed Latin to become a\ndead language, since in permitting this they have enormously increased\nthe difficulty of acquiring it, even for the purposes of scholarship.\n\nNo foreigner who knows the French people will disapprove of the novel\ndesire to know the modern languages, which has been one of the most\nunexpected consequences of the war. Their extreme ignorance of the\nliterature of other nations has been the cause of enormous evils.\nNotwithstanding her central position, France has been a very isolated\ncountry intellectually, much more isolated than England, more isolated\neven than Transylvania, where foreign literatures are familiar to the\ncultivated classes. This isolation has produced very lamentable effects,\nnot only on the national culture but most especially on the national\ncharacter. No modern nation, however important, can safely remain in\nignorance of its contemporaries. The Frenchman was like a gentleman shut\nup within his own park-wall, having no intercourse with his neighbors,\nand reading nothing but the history of his own ancestors--for the Romans\nwere your ancestors, intellectually. It is only by the study of living\nlanguages, and their continual use, that we can learn our true place in\nthe world. A Frenchman was studying Hebrew; I ventured to suggest that\nGerman might possibly be more useful. To this he answered, _that there\nwas no literature in German_. \"_Vous avez Goethe, vous avez Schiller, et\nvous avez Lessing, mais en dehors de ces trois noms il n'y a rien._\"\nThis meant simply that my student of Hebrew measured German literature\nby his own knowledge of it. Three names had reached him, only names, and\nonly three of them. As to the men who were unknown to him he had decided\nthat they did not exist. Certainly if there are many Frenchmen in this\ncondition, it is time that they learned a little German.\n\n\nLETTER VIII.\n\nTO A STUDENT OF MODERN LANGUAGES.\n\n  Standard of attainment in living languages higher than in ancient\n  ones--Difficulty of maintaining high pretensions--Prevalent illusion\n  about the facility of modern languages--Easy to speak them badly--Some\n  propositions based upon experience--Expectations and disappointments.\n\nHad your main purpose in the education of yourself (I do not say\nself-education, for you wisely accept all help from others) been the\nattainment of classical scholarship, I might have observed that as the\nreceived standard in that kind of learning is not a very elevated one,\nyou might reasonably hope to reach it with a certain calculable quantity\nof effort. The classical student has only to contend against other\nstudents who are and have been situated very much as he is situated\nhimself. They have learned Latin and Greek from grammars and\ndictionaries as he is learning them, and the only natural advantages\nwhich any of his predecessors may have possessed are superiorities of\nmemory which may be compensated by his greater perseverance, or\nsuperiorities of sympathy to which he may \"level up\" by that acquired\nand artificial interest which comes from protracted application. But the\nstudent of modern languages has to contend against advantages of\nsituation, as the gardeners of an inhospitable climate contend against\nthe natural sunshine of the south. How easy it is to have a fruitful\ndate-tree in Arabia, how difficult in England! How easy for the\nFlorentine to speak Italian, how difficult for us! The modern linguist\ncan never fence himself behind that stately unquestionableness which\nshields the classical scholar. His knowledge may at any time be put to\nthe severest of all tests, to a test incomparably more severe than the\nstrictest university examination. The first _native_ that he meets is\nhis examiner, the first foreign city is his Oxford. And this is probably\none reason why accomplishment in modern languages has been rather a\nmatter of utility than of dignity, for it is difficult to keep up great\npretensions in the face of a multitude of critics. What would the most\nlearned-looking gown avail, if a malicious foreigner were laughing at\nus?\n\nBut there is a deep satisfaction in the severity of the test. An honest\nand courageous student likes to be clearly aware of the exact value of\nhis acquisitions. He takes his French to Paris and has it tested there\nas we take our plate to the silversmith, and after that he knows, or may\nknow, quite accurately what it is worth. He has not the dignity of\nscholarship, he is not held to be a learned man, but he has acquired\nsomething which may be of daily use to him in society, or in commerce,\nor in literature; and there are thousands of educated natives who can\naccurately estimate his attainment and help him to a higher perfection.\nAll this is deeply satisfying to a lover of intellectual realities. The\nmodern linguist is always on firm ground, and in broad daylight. He may\nimpede his own progress by the illusions of solitary self-conceit, but\nthe atmosphere outside is not favorable to such illusions. It is well\nfor him that the temptations to charlatanism are so few, that the risks\nof exposure are so frequent.\n\nStill there _are_ illusions, and the commonest of them is that a modern\nlanguage may be very easily mastered. There is a popular idea that\nFrench is easy, that Italian is easy, that German is more difficult, yet\nby no means insuperably difficult. It is believed that when an\nEnglishman has spent all the best years of his youth in attempting to\nlearn Latin and Greek, he may acquire one or two modern languages with\nlittle effort during a brief residence on the Continent. It is certainly\ntrue that we may learn any number of foreign languages so as to speak\nthem badly, but it surely cannot be easy to speak them well. It may be\ninferred that this is not easy because the accomplishment is so rare.\nThe inducements are common, the accomplishment is rare. Thousands of\nEnglish people have very strong reasons for learning French, thousands\nof French people could improve their position by learning English; but\nrare indeed are the men and women who know both languages thoroughly.\n\nThe following propositions, based on much observation of a kind wholly\nunprejudiced and tested by a not inconsiderable experience will be\nfound, I believe, unassailable.\n\n1. _Whenever a foreign language is perfectly acquired there are peculiar\nfamily conditions. The person has either married a person of the other\nnation, or is of mixed blood._\n\n2. _When a foreign language has been acquired (there are instances of\nthis) in quite absolute perfection, there is almost always some loss in\nthe native tongue. Either the native tongue is not spoken correctly, or\nit is not spoken with perfect ease._\n\n3. _A man sometimes speaks two languages correctly, his father's and his\nmother's, or his own and his wife's, but never three._\n\n4. _Children can speak several languages exactly like natives, but in\nsuccession, never simultaneously. They forget the first in acquiring the\nsecond, and so on._\n\n5. _A language cannot be learned by an adult without five years'\nresidence in the country where it is spoken, and without habits of close\nobservation a residence of twenty years is insufficient._\n\nThis is not encouraging, but it is the truth. Happily, a knowledge which\nfalls far short of mastery may be of much practical use in the common\naffairs of life, and may even afford some initiation into foreign\nliteratures. I do not argue that because perfection is denied of us by\nthe circumstances of our lives or the necessities of our organization we\nare therefore to abandon the study to every language but the mother\ntongue. It may be of use to us to know several languages imperfectly,\nif only we confess the hopelessness of absolute attainment. That which\nis truly, and deeply, and seriously an injury to our intellectual life,\nis the foolishness of the too common vanity which first deludes itself\nwith childish expectations and then tortures itself with late regret for\nfailure which might have been easily foreseen.\n\n\nLETTER IX.\n\nTO A STUDENT OF MODERN LANGUAGES.\n\n  Cases known to the Author--Opinion of an English linguist--Family\n  conditions--An Englishman who lived forty years in France--Influence\n  of children--An Italian in France--Displacement of one language by\n  another. English lady married to a Frenchman--An Italian in\n  Garibaldi's army--Corruption of languages by the uneducated when they\n  learn more than one--Neapolitan servant of an English gentleman--A\n  Scotch servant-woman--The author's eldest boy--Substitution of one\n  language for another--In mature life we lose facility--The resisting\n  power of adults--Seen in international marriages--Case of a retired\n  English officer--Two Germans in France--Germans in London--The\n  innocence of the ear--Imperfect attainment of little intellectual\n  use--Too many languages attempted in education--Polyglot\n  waiters--Indirect benefits.\n\nMy five propositions about learning modern languages appear from your\nanswer to have rather surprised you, and you ask for some instances in\nillustration. I am aware that my last letter was dogmatic, so let me\nbegin by begging your pardon for its dogmatism. The present\ncommunication may steer clear of that rock of offence, for it shall\nconfine itself to an account of cases that I have known.\n\nOne of the most accomplished of English linguists remarked to me that\nafter much observation of the labors of others, and a fair estimate of\nhis own, he had come to the rather discouraging conclusion that it was\nnot possible to learn a foreign language. He did not take account of the\none exceptional class of cases where the family conditions make the use\nof two languages habitual. The most favorable family conditions are not\nin themselves sufficient to _ensure_ the acquisition of a language, but\nwherever an instance of perfect acquisition is to be found, these family\nconditions are always found along with it. My friend W., an English\nartist living in Paris, speaks French with quite absolute accuracy as to\ngrammar and choice of expression, and with accuracy of pronunciation so\nnearly absolute that the best French ears can detect nothing wrong but\nthe pronunciation of the letter \"_r_.\" He has lived in France for the\nspace of forty years, but it may be doubted whether in forty years he\ncould have mastered the language as he has done if he had not married a\nnative. French has been his home language for 30 years and more, and the\nperfect ease and naturalness of his diction are due to the powerful home\ninfluences, especially to the influence of children. A child is born\nthat speaks the foreign tongue from the first inarticulate beginnings\nIt makes its own child language, and the father as he hears it is born\nover again in the foreign land by tender paternal sympathy. Gradually\nthe sweet child-talk gives place to the perfect tongue and the father\nfollows it by insensible gradations, himself the most docile of pupils,\nled onward rather than instructed by the winning and playful little\nmaster, incomparably the best of masters. The process here is nature's\nown inimitable process. Every new child that is born to a man so\nsituated carries him through a repetition of that marvellous course of\nteaching. The language _grows_ in his brain from the first\nrudiments--the real natural rudiments, not the hard rudiments of the\ngrammarian--just as plants grow naturally from their seeds. It has not\nbeen built by human processes of piecing together, but has developed\nitself like a living creature. This way of learning a language possesses\nover the dictionary process exactly the kind of superiority which a\nliving man, developed naturally from the foetus, possesses over the\nelastic anatomical man-model of the ingenious doctor Auzoux. The\ndoctor's models are remarkably perfect in construction, they have all\nthe organs, but they have not life.\n\nWhen, however, this natural process of growth is allowed to go forward\nwithout watchful care, it is likely to displace the mother tongue. It is\nsometimes affirmed that the impressions of childhood are never effaced,\nthat the mother tongue is _never_ forgotten. It may be that it is never\nwholly forgotten, except in the case of young children, but it may\nbecome so imperfect as to be practically of little use. I knew an\nItalian who came to France as a young man and learned his profession\nthere. He was afterwards naturalized, married a French lady, had several\nchildren, pursued a very successful career in Paris, and became\nultimately French Ambassador at the court of Victor Emmanuel. His French\nwas so perfect that it was quite impossible for any one to detect the\nusual Italian accents. I used to count him as a remarkable and almost\nsolitary instance of a man speaking two languages in their perfection,\nbut I learned since then that his French had displaced his Italian, and\nso completely that he was quite unable to speak Italian correctly, and\nmade use of French invariably when in Italy. The risk of this\ndisplacement is always greatest in cases where the native tongue is not\nkept up by means of literature. Byron and Shelley, or our contemporary\nCharles Lever, would run little risk of losing English by continental\nresidence, but people not accustomed to reading and writing often forget\nthe mother tongue in a few years, even when the foreign one which has\ndisplaced it is still in a state of imperfection. Madame L. is an\nEnglish lady who married a Frenchman; neither her husband nor her\nchildren speak English, and as her relatives live in one of our most\ndistant colonies, she has been separated from them for many years.\nIsolated thus from English society, living in a part of France rarely\nvisited by her countrymen, never reading English, and writing it little\nand at long intervals, she speaks it now with much difficulty and\ndiffidence. Her French is not grammatical, though she has lived for many\nyears with people who speak grammatically; but then her French is fluent\nand alive, truly her own living language now, whilst English is, if not\nwholly forgotten, dead almost as our Latin is dead. She and I always\nspeak French together when we meet, because it is easier for her than\nEnglish, and a more natural expression. I have known some other cases of\ndisplacement of the native tongue, and have lately had the opportunity\nof watching a case of such displacement during its progress. A sergeant\nin the Italian army deserted to join Garibaldi in the campaign of 1870.\nOn the conclusion of peace it was impossible for him to return to Italy,\nso he settled in France and married there. I found some work for him,\nand for some months saw him frequently. Up to the date of his marriage\nhe spoke no language but Italian, which he could read and write\ncorrectly, but after his marriage the process of displacement of the\nnative tongue began immediately by the corruption of it. He did not keep\nhis Italian safely by itself, putting the French in a place of its own\nas he gradually acquired it, but he mixed the two inextricably together.\nImagine the case of a man who, having a bottle half full of wine, gets\nsome beer given him and pours it immediately into the wine-bottle. The\nbeer will never be pure beer, but it will effectually spoil the wine.\nThis process is not so much one of displacement as of corruption, it\ntakes place readily in uncultivated minds, with feeble separating\npowers. Another example of this was a Neapolitan servant of an English\ngentleman, who mixed his Italian twice, first with French and afterwards\nwith English, producing a compound intelligible to nobody but himself,\nif indeed he himself understood it. At the time I knew him, the man had\nno means of communication with his species. When his master told him to\ndo anything, he made a guess at what was likely to be for the moment his\nmaster's most probable want, and sometimes hit the mark, but more\ngenerally missed it. The man's name was Alberino, and I remember on one\noccasion profiting by a mistaken guess of his. After a visit to\nAlberino's master, my servant brought forth a magnificent basket of\ntrout, which surprised me, as nothing had been said about them. However,\nwe ate them, and only discovered afterwards that the present was due to\nan illusion of Alberino's. His master had never told him to give me the\ntrout, but he had interpreted some other order in that sense. When you\nasked him for mustard, he would first touch the salt, and then the\npepper, etc., looking at you inquiringly till you nodded assent. Any\nattempt at conversation with Alberino was sure to lead to a perfect\ncomedy of misunderstandings. He never had the remotest idea of what his\ninterlocutor was talking about; but he pretended to catch your meaning,\nand answered at haphazard. He had a habit of talking aloud to himself,\n\"but in a tongue no man could understand.\"\n\nIt is a law that cultivated people can keep languages apart, and in\ntheir purity, better than persons who have not habits of intellectual\nanalysis. When I lived in Scotland three languages were spoken in my\nhouse all day long, and a housemaid came to us from the Lowlands who\nspoke nothing but Lowland Scotch. She used to ask what was the French\nfor this thing or that, and then what was the Gaelic for it. Having been\nanswered, she invariably asked the farther question which of the three\nwords, French, Gaelic, or English, _was the right word_. She remained,\nto the last, entirely incapable of conceiving how all the three could be\nright. Had she learned another language, it must have been by\nsubstitution for her own. This is exactly the natural process which\ntakes place in the brains of children who are transferred from one\ncountry to another. My eldest boy spoke English in childhood as well as\nany other English child of his age. He was taken to the south of France,\nand in three months he replaced his English with Provencal, which he\nlearned from the servants about him. There were two ladies in the house\nwho spoke English well, and did all in their power, in compliance with\nmy urgent entreaties, to preserve the boy's native language; but the\nsubstitution took place too rapidly, and was beyond control. He began by\nan unwillingness to use English words whenever he could use Provencal\ninstead, and in a remarkably short time this unwillingness was succeeded\nby inability. The native language was as completely taken out of his\nbrain as a violin is taken out of its case: nothing remained, _nothing_,\nnot one word, not any echo of an accent. And as a violinist may put a\nnew instrument into the case from which he has removed the old one, so\nthe new language occupied the whole space which had been occupied by\nEnglish. When I saw the child again, there was no means of communication\nbetween us.\n\nAfter that, he was removed to the north of France, and the same process\nbegan again. As Provencal had pushed out English, so French began to\npush out Provencal. The process was wonderfully rapid. The child heard\npeople speak French, and he began to speak French like them without any\nformal teaching. He spoke the language as he breathed the air. In a few\nweeks he did not retain the least remnant of his Provencal; it was gone\nafter his English into the limbo of the utterly forgotten.\n\nNovelists have occasionally made use of cases similar to this, but they\nspeak of the forgotten language as being forgotten in the manner that\nScott forgot the manuscript of \"Waverley,\" which he found afterwards in\nthe drawers of an old writing-desk when he was seeking for\nfishing-tackle. They assume (conveniently for the purposes of their art)\nthat the first language we learn is never really lost, but may be as it\nwere under certain circumstances _mislaid_, to be found again at some\nfuture period. Now, although something of this kind may be possible when\nthe first language has been spoken in rather advanced boyhood, I am\nconvinced that in childhood a considerable number of languages might\nsucceed each other without leaving any trace whatever. I might have\nremarked that in addition to English, Provencal, and French, my boy had\nunderstood Gaelic in his infancy, at least to some extent, though he did\nnot speak it. The languages in his case succeeded each other without any\ncost of effort, and without any appreciable effect on health. The\npronunciation of each language was quite faultless so far as foreign\naccent went; the child had the defects of children, but of children born\nin the different countries where he lived.\n\nAs we grow older this facility of acquisition gradually leaves us. M.\nPhilarete Chasles says that it is quite impossible for any adult to\nlearn German: an adult may learn German as Dr. Arnold did for purposes\nof erudition, for which it is enough to know a language as we know\nLatin, but this is not mastery. You have met with many foreign residents\nin England, who after staying in the country for many years can barely\nmake themselves intelligible, and must certainly be incapable of\nappreciating those beauties of our literature which are dependent upon\narrangements of sound. The resisting power of the adult brain is quite\nas remarkable as the assimilating power of the immature brain. A child\nhears a sound, and repeats it with perfect accuracy; a man hears a\nsound, and by way of imitation utters something altogether different,\nbeing nevertheless persuaded that it is at least a close and\nsatisfactory approximation. Children imitate well, but adults badly, and\nthe acquisition of languages depends mainly on imitation. The resisting\npower of adults is often seen very remarkably in international\nmarriages. In those classes of society where there is not much culture,\nor leisure or disposition for culture, the one will not learn the\nother's language from opportunity or from affection, but only under\nabsolute necessity. It seems as if two people living always together\nwould gain each other's languages as a matter of course, but the fact is\nthat they do not. French people who marry foreigners do not usually\nacquire the foreign language if the pair remain in France; English\npeople under similar conditions make the attempt more frequently, but\nthey rest contented with imperfect attainment.\n\nIf the power of resistance is so great in people who being wedded\ntogether for life have peculiarly strong inducements for learning each\nother's languages, it need surprise us little to find a like power of\nresistance in cases where motives of affection are altogether absent.\nEnglishmen who go to France as adults, and settle there, frequently\nremain for many years in a state of half-knowledge which, though it may\ncarry them through the little difficulties of life at railway stations\nand restaurants, is for any intellectual purpose of no conceivable\nutility. I knew a retired English officer, a bachelor, who for many\nyears had lived in Paris without any intention of returning to England.\nHis French just barely carried him through the small transactions of his\ndaily life, but was so limited and so incorrect that he could not\nmaintain a conversation. His vocabulary was very meagre; his genders\nwere all wrong, and he did not know one single verb, literally not one.\nHis pronunciation was so foreign as to be very nearly unintelligible,\nand he hesitated so much that it was painful to have to listen to him. I\ncould mention a celebrated German, who has lived in or near Paris for\nthe last twenty years, and who can neither speak nor write the language\nwith any approach to accuracy. Another German, who settled in France as\na master of languages, wrote French tolerably, but spoke it\n_in_tolerably. There are Germans in London, who have lived there long\nenough to have families and make fortunes, yet who continue to repeat\nthe ordinary German faults of pronunciation, the same faults which they\ncommitted years ago, when first they landed on our shores.\n\nThe child hears and repeats the true sound, the adult misleads himself\nby the spelling. Seldom indeed can the adult recover the innocence of\nthe ear. It is like the innocence of the eye, which has to be recovered\nbefore we can paint from nature, and which belongs only to infancy and\nto art.\n\nLet me observe, in conclusion, that although to know a foreign language\nperfectly is a most valuable aid to the intellectual life, I have never\nknown an instance of very imperfect attainment which seemed to enrich\nthe student intellectually. Until you can really feel the refinements of\na language, your mental culture can get little help or furtherance from\nit of any kind, nothing but an interminable series of misunderstandings.\nI think that in the education of our boys too many languages are\nattempted, and that their minds would profit more by the perfect\nacquisition of a single language in addition to the native tongue. This,\nof course, is looking at the matter simply from the intellectual point\nof view. There may be practical reasons for knowing several languages\nimperfectly. It may be of use to many men in commercial situations to\nknow a little of several languages, even a few words and phrases are\nvaluable to a traveller, but all intellectual labor of the higher kind\nrequires much more than that. It is of use to society that there should\nbe polyglot waiters who can tell us when the train starts in four or\nfive languages; but the polyglot waiters themselves are not\nintellectually advanced by their accomplishment; for, after all, the\nfacts of the railway time-table are always the same small facts, in\nhowever many languages they may be announced. True culture ought to\nstrengthen the faculty of thinking, and to provide the material upon\nwhich that noble faculty may operate. An accomplishment which does\nneither of these two things for us is useless for our culture, though it\nmay be of considerable practical convenience in the affairs of ordinary\nlife. It is right to add, however, that there is sometimes an _indirect_\nintellectual benefit from such accomplishments. To be able to order\ndinner in Spanish is not in itself an intellectual advantage; but if the\ndinner, when you have eaten it, enables you to visit a cathedral whose\narchitecture you are qualified to appreciate, there is a clear\nintellectual gain, though an indirect one.\n\n\nLETTER X.\n\nTO A STUDENT WHO LAMENTED HIS DEFECTIVE MEMORY.\n\n  The author rather inclined to congratulation than to condolence--Value\n  of a selecting memory--Studies of the young Goethe--His great faculty\n  of assimilation--A good literary memory like a well-edited\n  periodical--The selecting memory in art--Treacherous memories--Cures\n  suggested for them--The mnemotechnic art contrary to the true\n  discipline of the mind--Two instances--The memory safely aided only by\n  right association.\n\nSo far from writing, as you seem to expect me to do, a letter of\ncondolence on the subject of what you are pleased to call your\n\"miserable memory,\" I feel disposed rather to indite a letter of\ncongratulation. It is possible that you may be blessed with a selecting\nmemory, which is not only useful for what it retains but for what it\nrejects. In the immense mass of facts which come before you in\nliterature and in life, it is well that you should suffer from as little\nbewilderment as possible. The nature of your memory saves you from this\nby unconsciously selecting what has interested you, and letting the rest\ngo by. What interests you is what concerns you.\n\nIn saying this I speak simply from the intellectual point of view, and\nsuppose you to be an intellectual man by the natural organization of\nyour brain, to begin with. In saying that what interests you is what\nconcerns you, I mean intellectually, not materially. It may concern you,\nin the pecuniary sense, to take an interest in the law; yet your mind,\nleft to itself, would take little or no interest in law, but an\nabsorbing interest in botany. The passionate studies of the young\nGoethe, in many different directions, always in obedience to the\npredominant interests of the moment, are the best example of the way in\nwhich a great intellect, with remarkable powers of acquisition and\nliberty to grow in free luxuriance, sends its roots into various soils\nand draws from them the constituents of its sap. As a student of law, as\na university student even, he was not of the type which parents and\nprofessors consider satisfactory. He neglected jurisprudence, he\nneglected even his college studies, but took an interest in so many\nother pursuits that his mind became rich indeed. Yet the wealth which\nhis mind acquired seems to have been due to that liberty of ranging by\nwhich it was permitted to him to seek his own everywhere, according to\nthe maxim of French law, _chacun prend son bien ou il le trouve_. Had he\nbeen a poor student, bound down to the exclusively legal studies, which\ndid not greatly interest him, it is likely that no one would ever have\nsuspected his immense faculty of assimilation. In this way men who are\nset by others to load their memories with what is not their proper\nintellectual food, never get the credit of having any memory at all, and\nend by themselves believing that they have none. These bad memories are\noften the best, they are often the selecting memories. They seldom win\ndistinction in examinations, but in literature and art. They are quite\nincomparably superior to the miscellaneous memories that receive only as\nboxes and drawers receive what is put into them. A good literary or\nartistic memory is not like a post-office that takes in everything, but\nlike a very well-edited periodical which prints nothing that does not\nharmonize with its intellectual life. A well-known author gave me this\npiece of advice: \"Take as many notes as you like, but when you write do\nnot look at them--what you remember is what you must write, and you\nought to give things exactly the degree of relative importance that\nthey have in your memory. If you forget much, it is well, it will only\nsave beforehand the labor of erasure.\" This advice would not be suitable\nto every author; an author who dealt much in minute facts ought to be\nallowed to refer to his memoranda; but from the artistic point of view\nin literature the advice was wise indeed. In painting, our preferences\nselect whilst we are in the presence of nature, and our memory selects\nwhen we are away from nature. The most beautiful compositions are\nproduced by the selecting office of the memory, which retains some\nfeatures, and even greatly exaggerates them, whilst it diminishes others\nand often altogether omits them. An artist who blamed himself for these\nexaggerations and omissions would blame himself for being an artist.\n\nLet me add a protest against the common methods of curing what are\ncalled treacherous memories. They are generally founded upon the\nassociation of ideas, which is so far rational, but then the sort of\nassociation which they have recourse to is unnatural, and produces\nprecisely the sort of disorder which would be produced in dress if a man\nwere insane enough to tie, let us say, a frying-pan to one of his\ncoat-tails and a child's kite to the other. The true discipline of the\nmind is to be effected only by associating those things together which\nhave a real relation of some kind, and the profounder the relation, the\nmore it is based upon the natural constitution of things, and the less\nit concerns trifling external details, the better will be the order of\nthe intellect. The mnemotechnic art wholly disregards this, and is\ntherefore unsuited for intellectual persons, though it may be of some\npractical use in ordinary life. A little book on memory, of which many\neditions have been sold, suggests to men who forget their umbrellas that\nthey ought always to associate the image of an umbrella with that of an\nopen door, so that they could never leave any house without thinking of\none. But would it not be preferable to lose two or three guineas\nannually rather than see a spectral umbrella in every doorway? The same\nwriter suggests an idea which appears even more objectionable. Because\nwe are apt to lose time, we ought, he says, to imagine a skeleton\nclock-face on the visage of every man we talk with; that is to say, we\nought systematically to set about producing in our brains an absurd\nassociation of ideas, which is quite closely allied to one of the most\ncommon forms of insanity. It is better to forget umbrellas and lose\nhours than fill our minds with associations of a kind which every\ndisciplined intellect does all it can to get rid of. The rational art of\nmemory is that used in natural science. We remember anatomy and botany\nbecause, although the facts they teach are infinitely numerous, they are\narranged according to the constructive order of nature. Unless there\nwere a clear relation between the anatomy of one animal and that of\nothers, the memory would refuse to burden itself with the details of\ntheir structure. So in the study of languages we learn several languages\nby perceiving their true structural relations, and remembering these.\nAssociation of this kind, and the maintenance of order in the mind, are\nthe only arts of memory compatible with the right government of the\nintellect. Incongruous, and even superficial associations ought to be\nsystematically discouraged, and we ought to value the negative or\nrejecting power of the memory. The finest intellects are as remarkable\nfor the ease with which they resist and throw off what does not concern\nthem as for the permanence with which their own truths engrave\nthemselves. They are like clear glass, which fluoric acid etches\nindelibly, but which comes out of vitriol intact.\n\n\nLETTER XI.\n\nTO A MASTER OF ARTS WHO SAID THAT A CERTAIN DISTINGUISHED PAINTER WAS\nHALF-EDUCATED.\n\n  Conventional idea about the completeness of education--The estimate of\n  a schoolmaster--No one can be fully educated--Even Leonardo da Vinci\n  fell short of the complete expression of his faculties--The word\n  \"education\" used in two different senses--The acquisition of\n  knowledge--Who are the learned?--Quotation from Sydney Smith--What a\n  \"half-educated\" painter had learned--What faculties he had developed.\n\nAn intelligent lady was lamenting to me the other day that when she\nheard anything she did not quite agree with, it only set her thinking,\nand did not suggest any immediate reply. \"Three hours afterwards,\" she\nadded, \"I arrive at the answer which ought to have been given, but then\nit is exactly three hours too late.\"\n\nBeing afflicted with precisely the same pitiable infirmity, I said\nnothing in reply to a statement you made yesterday evening at dinner,\nbut it occupied me in the hansom as it rolled between the monotonous\nlines of houses, and followed me even into my bed-room. I should like to\nanswer it this morning, as one answers a letter.\n\nYou said that our friend the painter was \"half-educated.\" This made me\ntry to understand what it is to be three-quarters educated, and\nseven-eighths educated, and finally what must be that quite perfect\nstate of the man who is whole-educated.\n\nI fear that you must have adopted some conventional idea about\ncompleteness of education, since you believe that there is any such\nthing as completeness, and that education can be measured by fractions,\nlike the divisions of a two-foot rule.\n\nIs not such an idea just a little arbitrary? It seems to be the idea of\na schoolmaster, with his little list of subjects and his professional\nhabit of estimating the progress of his boys by the good marks they are\nlikely to obtain from their examiners. The half-educated schoolboy would\nbe a schoolboy half-way towards his bachelor's degree--is that it?\n\nIn the estimates of school and college this may be so, and it may be\nwell to keep up the illusion, during boyhood, that there is such a thing\nattainable as the complete education that you assume. But the wider\nexperience of manhood tends rather to convince us that no one can be\nfully educated, and that the more rich and various the natural talents,\nthe greater will be the difficulty of educating the whole of them.\nIndeed it does not appear that in a state of society so advanced in the\ndifferent specialities as ours is, men were ever intended to do more\nthan develop by education a few of their natural gifts. The only man who\ncame near to a complete education was Leonardo da Vinci, but such a\npersonage would be impossible to-day. No contemporary Leonardo could be\nat the same time a leader in fine art, a great military and civil\nengineer, and a discoverer in theoretical science; the specialists have\ngone too far for him. Born in our day, Leonardo would have been either a\nspecialist or an amateur. Situated even as he was, in a time and country\nso remarkably favorable to the general development of a variously gifted\nman, he still fell short of the complete expansion of all his\nextraordinary faculties. He was a great artist, and yet his artistic\npower was never developed beyond the point of elaborately careful labor;\nhe never attained the assured manipulation of Titian and Paul Veronese,\nnot to mention the free facility of Velasquez, or the splendid audacity\nof Rubens. His natural gifts were grand enough to have taken him to a\npitch of mastery that he never reached, but his mechanical and\nscientific tendencies would have their development also, and withdrew so\nmuch time from art that every renewal of his artistic labor was\naccompanied by long and anxious reflection.\n\nThe word \"education\" is used in senses so different that confusion is\nnot always avoided. Some people mean by it the acquisition of knowledge,\nothers the development of faculty. If you mean the first, then the\nhalf-educated man would be a man who knew half what he ought to know, or\nwho only half knew the different sciences, which the wholly educated\nknow thoroughly. Who is to fix the subjects? Is it the opinion of the\nlearned?--if so, who are the learned? \"A learned man!--a scholar!--a man\nof erudition! Upon whom are these epithets of approbation bestowed? Are\nthey given to men acquainted with the science of government? thoroughly\nmasters of the geographical and commercial relations of Europe? to men\nwho know the properties of bodies, and their action upon each other? No:\nthis is not learning; it is chemistry, or political economy, not\nlearning. The distinguishing abstract term, the epithet of Scholar, is\nreserved for him who writes on the AEolic reduplication, and is familiar\nwith the Sylburgian method of arranging defectives in [Greek: o] and\n[Greek: mi]. The picture which a young Englishman, addicted to the\npursuit of knowledge, draws--his _beau ideal_ of human nature--his top\nand consummation of man's powers--is a knowledge of the Greek language.\nHis object is not to reason, to imagine, or to invent; but to conjugate,\ndecline, and derive. The situations of imaginary glory which he draws\nfor himself, are the detection of an anapaest in the wrong place, or the\nrestoration of a dative case which Cranzius had passed over, and the\nnever-dying Ernesti failed to observe.\"\n\nBy the help of the above passage from an article written sixty-three\nyears ago by Sydney Smith, and by the help of another passage in the\nsame paper where he tells us that the English clergy bring up the first\nyoung men of the country as if they were all to keep grammar schools in\nlittle country towns, I begin to understand what you mean by a\nhalf-educated person. You mean a person who is only half qualified for\nkeeping a grammar school. In this sense it is very possible that our\nfriend the painter possesses nothing beyond a miserable fraction of\neducation. And yet he has picked up a good deal of valuable knowledge\noutside the technical acquirement of a most difficult profession. He\nstudied two years in Paris, and four years in Florence and Rome. He\nspeaks French and Italian quite fluently, and with a fair degree of\ncorrectness. His knowledge of those two languages is incomparably more\ncomplete, in the sense of practical possession, than our fossilized\nknowledge of Latin, and he reads them almost as we read English,\ncurrently, and without translating. He has the heartiest enjoyment of\ngood literature; there is evidence in his pictures of a most intelligent\nsympathy with the greatest inventive writers. Without having a\nscientific nature, he knows a good deal about anatomy. He has not read\nGreek poetry, but he has studied the old Greek mind in its architecture\nand sculpture. Nature has also endowed him with a just appreciation of\nmusic, and he knows the immortal masterpieces of the most illustrious\ncomposers. All these things would not qualify him to teach a grammar\nschool, and yet what Greek of the age of Pericles ever knew half so\nmuch?\n\nThis for the acquisition of knowledge; now for the development of\nfaculty. In this respect he excels us as performing athletes excel the\npeople in the streets. Consider the marvellous accuracy of his eye, the\nprecision of his hand, the closeness of his observation, the vigor of\nhis memory and invention! How clumsy and rude is the most learned pedant\nin comparison with the refinement of this delicate organization! Try to\nimagine what a disciplined creature he has become, how obedient are all\nhis faculties to the commands of the central will! The brain conceives\nsome image of beauty or wit, and immediately that clear conception is\ntelegraphed to the well-trained fingers. Surely, if the results of\neducation may be estimated from the evidences of skill, here are some of\nthe most wonderful of such results.\n\n\nFOOTNOTE:\n\n  [1] According to M. Taine. I have elsewhere expressed a doubt about\n    polyglots.\n\n\n\n\nPART IV.\n\nTHE POWER OF TIME.\n\n\nLETTER I.\n\nTO A MAN OF LEISURE WHO COMPLAINED OF WANT OF TIME.\n\n  Necessity for time-thrift in all cases--Serious men not much in danger\n  from mere frivolity--Greater danger of losing time in our serious\n  pursuits themselves--Time thrown away when we do not attain\n  proficiency--Soundness of former scholarship a good\n  example--Browning's Grammarian--Knowledge an organic whole--Soundness\n  the possession of essential parts--Necessity of fixed limits in our\n  projects of study--Limitation of purpose in the fine arts--In\n  languages--Instance of M. Louis Enault--In music--Time saved by\n  following kindred pursuits--Order and proportion the true secrets of\n  time-thrift--A waste of time to leave fortresses untaken in our rear.\n\nYou complain of want of time--you, with your boundless leisure!\n\nIt is true that the most absolute master of his own hours still needs\nthrift if he would turn them to account, and that too many _never_ learn\nthis thrift, whilst others learn it late. Will you permit me to offer\nbriefly a few observations on time-thrift which have been suggested to\nme by my own experience and by the experience of intellectual friends?\n\nIt may be accepted for certain, to begin with, that men who like\nyourself seriously care for culture, and make it, next to moral duty,\nthe principal object of their lives, are but little exposed to waste\ntime in downright frivolity of any kind. You may be perfectly idle at\nyour own times, and perfectly frivolous even, whenever you have a mind\nto be frivolous, but then you will be clearly aware how the time is\npassing, and you will throw it away knowingly, as the most careful of\nmoney-economists will throw away a few sovereigns in a confessedly\nfoolish amusement, merely for the relief of a break in the habit of his\nlife. To a man of your tastes and temper there is no danger of wasting\ntoo much time so long as the waste is intentional; but you are exposed\nto time-losses of a much more insidious character.\n\nIt is in our pursuits themselves that we throw away our most valuable\ntime. Few intellectual men have the art of economizing the hours of\nstudy. The very necessity, which every one acknowledges, of giving vast\nportions of life to attain proficiency in anything makes us prodigal\nwhere we ought to be parsimonious, and careless where we have need of\nunceasing vigilance. The best time-savers are the love of soundness in\nall we learn or do, and a cheerful acceptance of inevitable limitations.\nThere is a certain point of proficiency at which an acquisition begins\nto be of use, and unless we have the time and resolution necessary to\nreach that point, our labor is as completely thrown away as that of a\nmechanic who began to make an engine but never finished it. Each of us\nhas acquisitions which remain permanently unavailable from their\nunsoundness, a language or two that we can neither speak nor write, a\nscience of which the elements have not been mastered, an art which we\ncannot practice with satisfaction either to others or to ourselves. Now\nthe time spent on these unsound accomplishments has been in great\nmeasure wasted, not quite absolutely wasted, since the mere labor of\ntrying to learn has been a discipline for the mind, but wasted so far as\nthe accomplishments themselves are concerned. And even this mental\ndiscipline, on which so much stress is laid by those whose interest it\nis to encourage unsound accomplishment, might be obtained more perfectly\nif the subjects of study were less numerous and more thoroughly\nunderstood. Let us not therefore in the studies of our maturity repeat\nthe error of our youth. Let us determine to have soundness, that is,\naccurately organized knowledge in the studies we continue to pursue, and\nlet us resign ourselves to the necessity for abandoning those pursuits\nin which soundness is not to be hoped for.\n\nThe old-fashioned idea about scholarship in Latin and Greek, that it\nought to be based upon thorough grammatical knowledge, is a good\nexample, so far as it goes, of what soundness really is. That ideal of\nscholarship failed only because it fell short of soundness in other\ndirections and was not conscious of its failure. But there existed, in\nthe minds of the old scholars, a fine resolution to be accurate, and a\ndetermination to give however much labor might be necessary for the\nattainment of accuracy, in which there was much grandeur. Like Mr.\nBrowning's Grammarian, they said--\n\n  \"Let me know all! Prate not of most or least\n    Painful or easy!\"\n\nand so at least they came to know the ancient tongues grammatically,\nwhich few of us do in these days.\n\nI should define each kind of knowledge as an organic whole and soundness\nas the complete possession of all the essential parts. For example,\nsoundness in violin-playing consists in being able to play the notes in\nall the positions, in tune, and with a pure intonation, whatever may be\nthe degree of rapidity indicated by the musical composer. Soundness in\npainting consists in being able to lay a patch of color having exactly\nthe right shape and tint. Soundness in the use of language consists in\nbeing able to put the right word in the right place. In each of the\nsciences, there are certain elementary notions without which sound\nknowledge is not possible, but these elementary notions are more easily\nand rapidly acquired than the elaborate knowledge or confirmed skill\nnecessary to the artist or the linguist. A man may be a sound botanist\nwithout knowing a very great number of plants, and the elements of\nsound botanical knowledge may be printed in a portable volume. And so it\nis with all the physical sciences; the elementary notions which are\nnecessary to soundness of knowledge may be acquired rapidly and at any\nage. Hence it follows that all whose leisure for culture is limited, and\nwho value soundness of knowledge, do wisely to pursue some branch of\nnatural history rather than languages or the fine arts.\n\nIt is well for every one who desires to attain a perfect economy of\ntime, to make a list of the different pursuits to which he has devoted\nhimself, and to put a note opposite to each of them indicating the\ndegree of its unsoundness with as little self-delusion as may be. After\nhaving done this, he may easily ascertain in how many of these pursuits\na sufficient degree of soundness is attainable for him, and when this\nhas been decided he may at once effect a great saving by the total\nrenunciation of the rest. With regard to those which remain, and which\nare to be carried farther, the next thing to be settled is the exact\nlimit of their cultivation. Nothing is so favorable to sound culture as\nthe definite fixing of limits. Suppose, for example, that the student\nsaid to himself \"I desire to know the flora of the valley I live in,\"\nand then set to work systematically to make a herbarium illustrating\nthat flora, it is probable that his labor would be more thorough, his\ntemper more watchful and hopeful, than if he set himself to the\nboundless task of the illimitable flora of the world. Or in the pursuit\nof fine art, an amateur discouraged by the glaring unsoundness of the\nkind of art taught by ordinary drawing-masters, would find the basis of\na more substantial superstructure on a narrower but firmer ground.\nSuppose that instead of the usual messes of bad color and bad form, the\nstudent produced work having some definite and not unattainable purpose,\nwould there not be, here also, an assured economy of time? Accurate\ndrawing is the basis of soundness in the fine arts, and an amateur, by\nperseverance, may reach accuracy in drawing; this, at least, has been\nproved by some examples--not by many, certainly, but by some. In\nlanguages we may have a limited purpose also. That charming and most\nintelligent traveller, Louis Enault, tells us that he regularly gave a\nweek to the study of each new language that he needed, and found that\nweek sufficient. The assertion is not so presumptuous as it appears. For\nthe practical necessities of travelling M. Enault found that he required\nabout four hundred words, and that, having a good memory, he was able to\nlearn about seventy words a day. The secret of his success was the\ninvaluable art of selection, and the strict limitation of effort in\naccordance with a preconceived design. A traveller not so well skilled\nin selection might have learned a thousand words with less advantage to\nhis travels, and a traveller less decided in purpose might have wasted\nseveral months on the frontier of every new country in hopeless efforts\nto master the intricacies of grammatical form. It is evident that in the\nstrictest sense M. Enault's knowledge of Norwegian cannot have been\nsound, since he did not master the grammar, but it was sound in its own\nstrictly limited way, since he got possession of the four hundred words\nwhich were to serve him as current coin. On the same principle it is a\ngood plan for students of Latin and Greek who have not time to reach\ntrue scholarship (half a lifetime is necessary for that), to propose to\nthemselves simply the reading of the original authors with the help of a\nliteral translation. In this way they may attain a closer acquaintance\nwith ancient literature than would be possible by translation alone,\nwhilst on the other hand their reading will be much more extensive on\naccount of its greater rapidity. It is, for most of us, a waste of time\nto read Latin and Greek without a translation, on account of the\ncomparative slowness of the process; but it is always an advantage to\nknow what was really said in the original, and to test the exactness of\nthe translator by continual reference to the _ipsissima verba_ of the\nauthor. When the knowledge of the ancient language is not sufficient\neven for this, it may still be of use for occasional comparison, even\nthough the passage has to be fought through _a coupes de dictionnaire_.\nWhat most of us need in reference to the ancient languages is a frank\nresignation to a restriction of some kind. It is simply impossible for\nmen occupied as most of us are in other pursuits to reach perfect\nscholarship in those languages, and if we reached it we should not have\ntime to maintain it.\n\nIn modern languages it is not so easy to fix limits satisfactorily. You\nmay resolve to read French or German without either writing or speaking\nthem, and that would be an effectual limit, certainly. But in practice\nit is found difficult to keep within that boundary if ever you travel or\nhave intercourse with foreigners. And when once you begin to speak, it\nis so humiliating to speak badly, that a lover of soundness in\naccomplishment will never rest perfectly satisfied until he speaks like\na cultivated native, which nobody ever did except under peculiar family\nconditions.\n\nIn music the limits are found more easily. The amateur musician is\nfrequently not inferior in feeling and taste to the more accomplished\nprofessional, and by selecting those compositions which require much\nfeeling and taste for their interpretation, but not so much manual\nskill, he may reach a sufficient success. The art is to choose the very\nsimplest music (provided of course that it is beautiful, which it\nfrequently is), and to avoid all technical difficulties which are not\nreally necessary to the expression of feeling. The amateur ought also to\nselect the easiest instrument, an instrument in which the notes are made\nfor him already, rather than one which compels him to fix the notes as\nhe is playing. The violin tempts amateurs who have a deep feeling for\nmusic because it renders feeling as no other instrument can render it,\nbut the difficulty of just intonation is almost insuperable unless the\nwhole time is given to that one instrument. It is a fatal error to\nperform on several different instruments, and an amateur who has done so\nmay find a desirable limitation in restricting himself to one.\n\nMuch time is saved by following pursuits which help each other. It is a\ngreat help to a landscape painter to know the botany of the country he\nworks in, for botany gives the greatest possible distinctness to his\nmemory of all kinds of vegetation. Therefore, if a landscape painter\ntakes to the study of science at all, he would do well to study botany,\nwhich would be of use in his painting, rather than chemistry or\nmathematics, which would be entirely disconnected from it. The memory\neasily retains the studies which are auxiliary to the chief pursuit.\nEntomologists remember plants well, the reason being that they find\ninsects in them, just as Leslie the painter had an excellent memory for\nhouses where there were any good pictures to be found.\n\nThe secret of order and proportion in our studies is the true secret of\neconomy in time. To have one main pursuit and several auxiliaries, but\nnone that are not auxiliary, is the true principle of arrangement. Many\nhard workers have followed pursuits as widely disconnected as possible,\nbut this was for the refreshment of absolute change, not for the\neconomy of time.\n\nLastly, it is a deplorable waste of time to leave fortresses untaken in\nour rear. Whatever has to be mastered ought to be mastered so thoroughly\nthat we shall not have to come back to it when we ought to be carrying\nthe war far into the enemy's country. But to study on this sound\nprinciple, we require not to be hurried. And this is why, to a sincere\nstudent, all external pressure, whether of examiners, or poverty, or\nbusiness engagements, which causes him to leave work behind him which\nwas not done as it ought to have been done, is so grievously, so\nintolerably vexatious.\n\n\nLETTER II.\n\nTO A YOUNG MAN OF GREAT TALENT AND ENERGY WHO HAD MAGNIFICENT PLANS FOR\nTHE FUTURE.\n\n  Mistaken estimates about time and occasion--The Unknown\n  Element--Procrastination often time's best preserver--Napoleon's\n  advice to do nothing at all--Use of deliberation and of intervals of\n  leisure--Artistic advantages of calculating time--Prevalent\n  childishness about time--Illusions about reading--Bad economy of\n  reading in languages we have not mastered--That we ought to be thrifty\n  of time, but not avaricious--Time necessary in production--Men who\n  work best under the sense of pressure--Rossini--That these cases prove\n  nothing against time-thrift--The waste of tune from\n  miscalculation--People calculate accurately for short spaces, but do\n  not calculate so well for long ones--Reason for this--Stupidity of\n  the Philistines about wasted time--Toepffer and Claude\n  Tillier--Retrospective miscalculations, and the regrets that result\n  from them.\n\nHave you ever observed that we pay much more attention to a wise passage\nwhen it is quoted, than when we read it in the original author? On the\nsame principle, people will give a higher price to a picture-dealer than\nthey would have given to the painter himself. The picture that has been\nonce bought has a recommendation, and the quoted passage is both\nrecommended and isolated from the context.\n\nTrusting to this well-known principle, although I am aware that you have\nread everything that Sir Arthur Helps has published, I proceed to make\nthe following quotation from one of his wisest books.\n\n\"Time and occasion are the two important circumstances in human life, as\nregards which the most mistaken estimates are made. And the error is\nuniversal. It besets even the most studious and philosophic men. This\nmay notably be seen in the present day, when many most distinguished men\nhave laid down projects for literature and philosophy, to be\naccomplished by them in their own lifetime, which would require several\nmen and many lifetimes to complete; and, generally speaking, if any\nperson, who has passed the meridian of life, looks back upon his career,\nhe will probably own that his greatest errors have arisen from his not\nhaving made sufficient allowance for the length of time which his\nvarious schemes required for their fulfilment.\"\n\nThere are many traditional maxims about time which insist upon its\nbrevity, upon the necessity of using it whilst it is there, upon the\nimpossibility of recovering what is lost; but the practical effect of\nthese maxims upon conduct can scarcely be said to answer to their\nundeniable importance. The truth is, that although they tell us to\neconomize our time, they cannot, in the nature of things, instruct us as\nto the methods by which it is to be economized. Human life is so\nextremely various and complicated, whilst it tends every day to still\ngreater variety and complication, that all maxims of a general nature\nrequire a far higher degree of intelligence in their application to\nindividual cases than it ever cost originally to invent them. Any person\ngifted with ordinary common sense can perceive that life is short, that\ntime flies, that we ought to make good use of the present; but it needs\nthe union of much experience, with the most consummate wisdom, to know\nexactly what ought to be done and what ought to be left undone--the\nlatter being frequently by far the more important of the two.\n\nAmongst the favorable influences of my early life was the kindness of a\nvenerable country gentleman, who had seen a great deal of the world and\npassed many years, before he inherited his estates, in the practice of\na laborious profession. I remember a theory of his, that experience was\nmuch less valuable than is generally supposed, because, except in\nmatters of simple routine, the problems that present themselves to us\nfor solution are nearly always dangerous from the presence of some\nunknown element. The unknown element he regarded as a hidden pitfall,\nand he warned me that in my progress through life I might always expect\nto tumble into it. This saying of his has been so often confirmed since\nthen, that I now count upon the pitfall quite as a matter of certainty.\nVery frequently I have escaped it, but more by good luck than good\nmanagement. Sometimes I have tumbled into it, and when this misfortune\noccurred it has not unfrequently been in consequence of having acted\nupon the advice of some very knowing and experienced person indeed. We\nhave all read, when we were boys, Captain Marryat's \"Midshipman Easy.\"\nThere is a passage in that story which may serve as an illustration of\nwhat is constantly happening in actual life. The boats of the _Harpy_\nwere ordered to board one of the enemy's vessels; young Easy was in\ncommand of one of these boats, and as they had to wait he began to fish.\nAfter they had received the order to advance, he delayed a little to\ncatch his fish, and this delay not only saved him from being sunk by the\nenemy's broadside, but enabled him to board the Frenchman. Here the\npitfall was avoided by idling away a minute of time on an occasion when\nminutes were like hours; yet it was mere luck, not wisdom, which led to\nthe good result. There was a sad railway accident on one of the\ncontinental lines last autumn; a notable personage would have been in\nthe train if he had arrived in time for it, but his miscalculation saved\nhim. In matters where there is no risk of the loss of life, but only of\nthe waste of a portion of it in unprofitable employment, it frequently\nhappens that procrastination, which is reputed to be the thief of time,\nbecomes its best preserver. Suppose that you undertake an enterprise,\nbut defer the execution of it from day to day: it is quite possible that\nin the interval some fact may accidentally come to your knowledge which\nwould cause a great modification of your plan, or even its complete\nabandonment. Every thinking person is well aware that the enormous loss\nof time caused by the friction of our legislative machinery has\npreserved the country from a great deal of crude and ill-digested\nlegislation. Even Napoleon the Great who had a rapidity of conception\nand of action so far surpassing that of other kings and commanders that\nit seems to us almost supernatural, said that when you did not quite\nknow what ought to be done it was best to do nothing at all. One of the\nmost distinguished of living painters said exactly the same thing with\nreference to the practice of his art, and added that very little time\nwould be needed for the actual execution of a picture if only the artist\nknew beforehand how and where to lay the color. It so often happens\nthat mere activity is a waste of time, that people who have a morbid\nhabit of being busy are often terrible time-wasters, whilst, on the\ncontrary, those who are judiciously deliberate, and allow themselves\nintervals of leisure, see the way before them in those intervals, and\nsave time by the accuracy of their calculations.\n\nA largely intelligent thrift of time is necessary to all great\nworks--and many works are very great indeed relatively to the energies\nof a single individual, which pass unperceived in the tumult of the\nworld. The advantages of calculating time are artistic as well as\neconomical. I think that, in this respect, magnificent as are the\ncathedrals which the Gothic builders have left us, they committed an\nartistic error in the very immensity of their plans. They do not appear\nto have reflected that from the continual changes of fashion in\narchitecture, incongruous work would be sure to intrude itself before\ntheir gigantic projects could be realized by the generations that were\nto succeed them. For a work of that kind to possess artistic unity, it\nought to be completely realized within the space of forty years. How\ngreat is the charm of those perfect edifices which, like the Sainte\nChapelle, are the realization of one sublime idea? And those changes in\nnational thought which have made the old cathedrals a jumble of\nincongruous styles, have their parallel in the life of every individual\nworkman. We change from year to year, and any work which occupies us\nfor very long will be wanting in unity of manner.\n\nMen are apt enough of themselves to fall into the most astonishing\ndelusions about the opportunities which time affords, but they are even\nmore deluded by the talk of the people about them. When children hear\nthat a new carriage has been ordered of the builder, they expect to see\nit driven up to the door in a fortnight, with the paint quite dry on the\npanels. All people are children in this respect, except the workman, who\nknows the endless details of production; and the workman himself,\nnotwithstanding the lessons of experience, makes light of the future\ntask. What gigantic plans we scheme, and how little we advance in the\nlabor of a day! Three pages of the book (to be half erased to-morrow), a\nbit of drapery in the picture that will probably have to be done over\nagain, the imperceptible removal of an ounce of marble-dust from the\nstatue that seems as if it never would be finished; so much from dawn to\ntwilight has been the accomplishment of the golden hours. If there is\none lesson which experience teaches, surely it is this, to make plans\nthat are strictly limited, and to arrange our work in a practicable way\nwithin the limits that we must accept. Others expect so much from us\nthat it seems as if we had accomplished nothing. \"What! have you done\nonly that?\" they say, or we know by their looks that they are thinking\nit.\n\nThe most illusory of all the work that we propose to ourselves is\nreading. It seems so easy to read, that we intend, in the indefinite\nfuture, to master the vastest literatures. We cannot bring ourselves to\nadmit that the library we have collected is in great part closed to us\nsimply by want of time. A dear friend of mine, who was a solicitor with\na large practice, indulged in wonderful illusions about reading, and\ncollected several thousand volumes, all fine editions, but he died\nwithout having cut their leaves. I like the university habit of making\nreading a business, and estimating the mastery of a few authors as a\njust title to consideration for scholarship. I should like very well to\nbe shut up in a garden for a whole summer with no literature but the\n\"Faery Queene,\" and one year I very nearly realized that project, but\npublishers and the postman interfered with it. After all, this business\nof reading ought to be less illusory than most others, for printers\ndivide books into pages, which they number, so that, with a moderate\nskill in arithmetic, one ought to be able to foresee the limits of his\npossibilities. There is another observation which may be suggested, and\nthat is to take note of the time required for reading different\nlanguages. We read very slowly when the language is imperfectly\nmastered, and we need the dictionary, whereas in the native tongue we\nsee the whole page almost at a glance, as if it were a picture. People\nwhose time for reading is limited ought not to waste it in grammars and\ndictionaries, but to confine themselves resolutely to a couple of\nlanguages, or three at the very utmost, notwithstanding the contempt of\npolyglots, who estimate your learning by the variety of your tongues. It\nis a fearful throwing away of time, from the literary point of view, to\nbegin more languages than you can master or retain, and to be always\npuzzling yourself about irregular verbs.\n\nAll plans for sparing time in intellectual matters ought, however, to\nproceed upon the principle of thrift, and not upon the principle of\navarice. The object of the thrifty man in money matters is so to lay out\nhis money as to get the best possible result from his expenditure; the\nobject of the avaricious man is to spend no more money than he can help.\nAn artist who taught me painting often repeated a piece of advice which\nis valuable in other things than art, and which I try to remember\nwhenever patience fails. He used to say to me, \"_Give it time._\" The\nmere length of time that we bestow upon our work is in itself a most\nimportant element of success, and if I object to the use of languages\nthat we only half know, it is not because it takes us a long time to get\nthrough a chapter, but because we are compelled to think about syntax\nand conjugations which did not in the least occupy the mind of the\nauthor, when we ought rather to be thinking about those things which\n_did_ occupy his mind, about the events which he narrated, or the\ncharacters that he imagined or described. There are, in truth, only two\nways of impressing anything on the memory, either intensity or duration.\nIf you saw a man struck down by an assassin, you would remember the\noccurrence all your life; but to remember with equal vividness a picture\nof the assassination, you would probably be obliged to spend a month or\ntwo in copying it. The subjects of our studies rarely produce an\nintensity of emotion sufficient to ensure perfect recollection without\nthe expenditure of time. And when your object is not to learn, but to\nproduce, it is well to bear in mind that everything requires a certain\ndefinite time-outlay, which _cannot_ be reduced without an inevitable\ninjury to quality. A most experienced artist, a man of the very rarest\nexecutive ability, wrote to me the other day about a set of designs I\nhad suggested. \"If I could but get the TIME,\"--the large capitals are\nhis own,--\"for, somehow or other, let a design be never so studiously\nsimple in the masses, it _will_ fill itself as it goes on, like the\nweasel in the fable who got into the meal-tub; and when the pleasure\nbegins in attempting tone and mystery and intricacy, _away go the hours\nat a gallop_.\" A well-known and very successful English dramatist wrote\nto me: \"When I am hurried, and have undertaken more work than I can\nexecute in the time at my disposal, I am always perfectly paralyzed.\"\n\nThere is another side to this subject which deserves attention. Some men\nwork best under the sense of pressure. Simple compression evolves heat\nfrom iron, so that there is a flash of fire when a ball hits the side\nof an ironclad. The same law seems to hold good in the intellectual life\nof man, whenever he needs the stimulus of extraordinary excitement.\nRossini positively advised a young composer never to write his overture\nuntil the evening before the first performance. \"Nothing,\" he said,\n\"excites inspiration like necessity; the presence of a copyist waiting\nfor your work, and the view of a manager in despair tearing out his hair\nby handfuls. In Italy in my time all the managers were bald at thirty. I\ncomposed the overture to 'Othello' in a small room in the Barbaja\nPalace, where the baldest and most ferocious of managers had shut me up\nby force with nothing but a dish of maccaroni, and the threat that I\nshould not leave the place alive until I had written the last note. I\nwrote the overture to the 'Gazza Ladra' on the day of the first\nperformance, in the upper loft of the La Scala, where I had been\nconfined by the manager, under the guard of four scene-shifters who had\norders to throw my text out of the window bit by bit to copyists, who\nwere waiting below to transcribe it. In default of music I was to be\nthrown out myself.\"\n\nI have quoted the best instance known to me of this voluntary seeking\nafter pressure, but striking as it is, even this instance does not\nweaken what I said before. For observe, that although Rossini deferred\nthe composition of his overture till the evening before the first\nperformance, he knew very well that he could do it thoroughly in the\ntime. He was like a clever schoolboy who knows that he can learn his\nlesson in the quarter of an hour before the class begins; or he was like\nan orator who knows that he can deliver a passage and compose at the\nsame time the one which is to follow, so that he prefers to arrange his\nspeech in the presence of his audience. Since Rossini always allowed\nhimself all the time that was necessary for what he had to do, it is\nclear that he did not sin against the great time-necessity. The express\nwhich can travel from London to Edinburgh in a night may leave the\nEnglish metropolis on Saturday evening although it is due in Scotland on\nSunday, and still act with the strictest consideration about time. The\nblameable error lies in miscalculation, and not in rapidity of\nperformance.\n\nNothing _wastes_ time like miscalculation. It negatives all results. It\nis the parent of incompleteness, the great author of the Unfinished and\nthe Unserviceable. Almost every intellectual man has laid out great\nmasses of time on five or six different branches of knowledge which are\nnot of the least use to him, simply because he has not carried them far\nenough, and could not carry them far enough in the time he had to give.\nYet this might have been ascertained at the beginning by the simplest\narithmetical calculation. The experience of students in all departments\nof knowledge has quite definitely ascertained the amount of time that is\nnecessary for success in them, and the successful student can at once\ninform the aspirant how far he is likely to travel along the road. What\nis the use, to anybody, of having just enough skill to feel vexed with\nhimself that he has no more, and yet angry at other people for not\nadmiring the little that he possesses?\n\nI wish to direct your attention to a cause which more than any other\nproduces disappointment in ordinary intellectual pursuits. It is this.\nPeople can often calculate with the utmost accuracy what they can\naccomplish in ten minutes or even in ten hours, and yet the very same\npersons will make the most absurd miscalculations about what they can\naccomplish in ten years. There is of course a reason for this: if there\nwere not, so many sensible people would not suffer from the delusion.\nThe reason is, that owing to the habits of human life there is a certain\nelasticity in large spaces of time that include nights, and mealtimes,\nand holidays. We fancy that we shall be able, by working harder than we\nhave been accustomed to work, and by stealing hours from all the\ndifferent kinds of rest and amusement, to accomplish far more in the ten\nyears that are to come than we have ever actually accomplished in the\nsame space. And to a certain extent this may be very true. No doubt a\nman whose mind has become seriously aware of the vast importance of\neconomizing his time will economize it better than he did in the days\nbefore the new conviction came to him. No doubt, after skill in our work\nhas been confirmed, we shall perform it with increased speed. But the\nelasticity of time is rather that of leather than that of india-rubber.\nThere is certainly a degree of elasticity, but the degree is strictly\nlimited. The true master of time-thrift would be no more liable to\nillusion about years than about hours, and would act as prudently when\nworking for remote results as for near ones.\n\nNot that we ought to work as if we were always under severe pressure.\nLittle books are occasionally published in which we are told that it is\na sin to lose a minute. From the intellectual point of view this\ndoctrine is simply stupid. What the Philistines call wasted time is\noften rich in the most varied experience to the intelligent. If all that\nwe have learned in idle moments could be suddenly expelled from our\nminds by some chemical process, it is probable that they would be worth\nvery little afterwards. What, after such a process, would have remained\nto Shakespeare, Scott, Cervantes, Thackeray, Dickens, Hogarth,\nGoldsmith, Moliere? When these great students of human nature were\nlearning most, the sort of people who write the foolish little books\njust alluded to would have wanted to send them home to the dictionary or\nthe desk. Toepffer and Claude Tillier, both men of delicate and observant\ngenius, attached the greatest importance to hours of idleness. Toepffer\nsaid that a year of downright loitering was a desirable element in a\nliberal education; whilst Claude Tillier went even farther, and boldly\naffirmed that \"le temps le mieux employe est celui que l'on perd.\"\n\nLet us not think too contemptuously of the miscalculators of time, since\nnot one of us is exempt from their folly. We have all made\nmiscalculations, or more frequently have simply omitted calculation\naltogether, preferring childish illusion to a manly examination of\nrealities; and afterwards as life advances another illusion steals over\nus not less vain than the early one, but bitter as that was sweet. We\nnow begin to reproach ourselves with all the opportunities that have\nbeen neglected, and now our folly is to imagine that we might have done\nimpossible wonders if we had only exercised a little resolution. We\nmight have been thorough classical scholars, and spoken all the great\nmodern languages, and written immortal books, and made a colossal\nfortune. Miscalculations again, and these the most imbecile of all; for\nthe youth who forgets to reason in the glow of happiness and hope, is\nwiser than the man who overestimates what was once possible that he may\nembitter the days which remain to him.\n\n\nLETTER III.\n\nTO A MAN OF BUSINESS WHO DESIRED TO MAKE HIMSELF BETTER ACQUAINTED WITH\nLITERATURE, BUT WHOSE TIME FOR READING WAS LIMITED.\n\n  Victor Jacquemont on the intellectual labors of the Germans--Business\n  may be set off as the equivalent to one of their pursuits--Necessity\n  for regularity in the economy of time--What may be done in two hours a\n  day--Evils of interruption--Florence Nightingale--Real nature of\n  interruption--Instance from the Apology of Socrates.\n\nIn the charming and precious letters of Victor Jacquemont, a man whose\nlife was dedicated to culture, and who not only lived for it, but died\nfor it, there is a passage about the intellectual labors of Germans,\nwhich takes due account of the expenditure of time. \"Comme j'etais\netonne,\" he says, \"de la prodigieuse variete et de l'etendue de\nconnaissances des Allemands, je demandai un jour a l'un de mes amis,\nSaxon de naissance et l'un des premiers geologues de l'Europe, comment\nses compatriotes s'y prenaient pour savoir tant de choses. Voici sa\nreponse, a peu pres: 'Un Allemand (moi excepte qui suis le plus\nparesseux des hommes) se leve de bonne heure, ete et hiver, a cinq\nheures environ. Il travaille quatre heures avant le dejeuner, fumant\nquelquefois pendant tout ce temps, sans que cela nuise a son\napplication. Son dejeuner dure une demi-heure, et il reste, apres, une\nautre demi-heure a causer avec sa femme et a faire jouer ses enfants.\nIl retourne au travail pour six heures; dine sans se presser; fume une\nheure apres le diner, jouant encore avec ses enfants; et avant de se\ncoucher il travaille encore quatre heures. Il recommence tous les jours,\nne sortant jamais.--Voila,' me dit mon ami, 'comment Oersted, le plus\ngrand physicien de l'Allemagne, en est aussi le plus grand medecin;\nvoila comment Kant le metaphysicien etait un des plus savants astronomes\nde l'Europe, et comment Goethe, qui en est actuellement le premier\nlitterateur, dans presque tous les genres, et le plus fecond, est\nexcellent botaniste, mineralogiste, physicien.'\"[2]\n\nHere is something to encourage, and something to discourage you at the\nsame time. The number of hours which these men have given in order to\nbecome what they were, is so great as to be past all possibility of\nimitation by a man occupied in business. It is clear that, with your\ncounting-house to occupy you during the best hours of every day, you can\nnever labor for your intellectual culture with that unremitting\napplication which these men have given for theirs. But, on the other\nhand, you will perceive that these extraordinary workers have hardly\never been wholly dedicated to one pursuit, and the reason for this in\nmost cases is clear. Men who go through a prodigious amount of work feel\nthe necessity for varying it. The greatest intellectual workers I have\nknown personally have varied their studies as Kant and Goethe did, often\ntaking up subjects of the most opposite kinds, as for instance\nimaginative literature and the higher mathematics, the critical and\npractical study of fine art and the natural sciences, music, and\npolitical economy. The class of intellects which arrogate to themselves\nthe epithet \"practical,\" but which we call _Philistine_, always oppose\nthis love of variety, and have an unaffected contempt for it, but these\nare matters beyond their power of judgment. They cannot know the needs\nof the intellectual life, because they have never lived it. The practice\nof all the greatest intellects has been to cultivate themselves\nvariously, and if they have always done so, it must be because they have\nfelt the need of it.\n\nThe encouraging inference which you may draw from this in reference to\nyour own case is that, since all intellectual men have had more than one\npursuit, you may set off your business against the most absorbing of\ntheir pursuits, and for the rest be still almost as rich in time as they\nhave been. You may study literature as some painters have studied it, or\nscience as some literary men have studied it.\n\nThe first step is to establish a regulated economy of your time, so\nthat, without interfering with a due attention to business and to\nhealth, you may get two clear hours every day for reading of the best\nkind. It is not much, some men would tell you that it is not enough, but\nI purposely fix the expenditure of time at a low figure because I want\nit to be always practicable consistently with all the duties and\nnecessary pleasures of your life. If I told you to read four hours every\nday, I know beforehand what would be the consequence. You would keep the\nrule for three days, by an effort, then some engagement would occur to\nbreak it, and you would have no rule at all. And please observe that the\ntwo hours are to be given quite regularly, because, when the time given\nis not much, regularity is quite essential. Two hours a day, regularly,\nmake more than seven hundred hours in a year, and in seven hundred\nhours, wisely and uninterruptedly occupied, much may be done in\nanything.\n\nPermit me to insist upon that word _uninterruptedly_. Few people realize\nthe full evil of an interruption, few people know all that is implied\nby it. After warning nurses against the evils of interruption, Florence\nNightingale says:--\n\n\"These things are not fancy. If we consider that, with sick as with\nwell, every thought decomposes some nervous matter--that decomposition\nas well as re-composition of nervous matter is always going on, and more\nquickly with the sick than with the well,--that to obtrude another\nthought upon the brain whilst it is in the act of destroying nervous\nmatter by thinking, is calling upon it to make a new exertion--if we\nconsider these things, which are facts, not fancies, we shall remember\nthat we are doing positive injury by interrupting, by startling a\n'fanciful' person, as it is called. Alas, it is no fancy.\n\n\"If the invalid is forced by his avocations to continue occupations\nrequiring much thinking, the injury is doubly great. In feeding a\npatient suffering under delirium or stupor you may suffocate him by\ngiving him his food suddenly, but if you rub his lips gently with a\nspoon and thus attract his attention, he will swallow the food\nunconsciously, but with perfect safety. Thus it is with the brain. If\nyou offer it a thought, especially one requiring a decision, abruptly,\nyou do it a real, not fanciful, injury. Never speak to a sick person\nsuddenly; but, at the same time, do not keep his expectation on the\ntiptoe.\"\n\nTo this you will already have answered, mentally, that you are not a\npatient suffering under either delirium or stupor, and that nobody\nneeds to rub your lips gently with a spoon. But Miss Nightingale does\nnot consider interruption baneful to sick persons only.\n\n\"This rule indeed,\" she continues, \"applies to the well quite as much as\nto the sick. _I have never known persons who exposed themselves for\nyears to constant interruption who did not muddle away their intellects\nby it at last._ The process, with them, may be accomplished without\npain. With the sick, pain gives warning of the injury.\"\n\nInterruption is an evil to the reader which must be estimated very\ndifferently from ordinary business interruptions. The great question\nabout interruption is not whether it compels you to divert your\nattention to other facts, but whether it compels you to tune your whole\nmind to another diapason. Shopkeepers are incessantly compelled to\nchange the subject; a stationer is asked for notepaper one minute, for\nsealing-wax the next, and immediately afterwards for a particular sort\nof steel pen. The subjects of his thoughts are changed very rapidly, but\nthe general state of his mind is not changed; he is always strictly in\nhis shop, as much mentally as physically. When an attorney is\ninterrupted in the study of a case by the arrival of a client who asks\nhim questions about another case, the change is more difficult to bear;\nyet even here the general state of mind, the legal state of mind, is not\ninterfered with. But now suppose a reader perfectly absorbed in his\nauthor, an author belonging very likely to another age and another\ncivilization entirely different from ours. Suppose that you are reading\nthe Defence of Socrates in Plato, and have the whole scene before you as\nin a picture: the tribunal of the Five Hundred, the pure Greek\narchitecture, the interested Athenian public, the odious Melitus, the\nenvious enemies, the beloved and grieving friends whose names are dear\nto us, and immortal; and in the centre you see one figure draped like a\npoor man, in cheap and common cloth, that he wears winter and summer,\nwith a face plain to downright ugliness, but an air of such genuine\ncourage and self-possession that no acting could imitate it; and you\nhear the firm voice saying--\n\n  [Greek: Timatai d' oun moi haner thanatou\n  Eien.][3]\n\nYou are just beginning the splendid paragraph where Socrates condemns\nhimself to maintenance in the Prytaneum, and if you can only be safe\nfrom interruption till it is finished, you will have one of those\nminutes of noble pleasure which are the rewards of intellectual toil.\nBut if you are reading in the daytime in a house where there are women\nand children, or where people can fasten upon you for pottering details\nof business, you may be sure that you will _not_ be able to get to the\nend of the passage without in some way or other being rudely awakened\nfrom your dream, and suddenly brought back into the common world. The\nloss intellectually is greater than any one who had not suffered from it\ncould imagine. People think that an interruption is merely the unhooking\nof an electric chain, and that the current will flow, when the chain is\nhooked on again, just as it did before. To the intellectual and\nimaginative student an interruption is not that; it is the destruction\nof a picture.\n\n\nLETTER IV.\n\nTO A STUDENT WHO FELT HURRIED AND DRIVEN.\n\n  People who like to be hurried--Sluggish temperaments gain vivacity\n  under pressure--Routine work may be done at increased speed--The\n  higher intellectual work cannot be done hurriedly--The art of avoiding\n  hurry consists in Selection--How it was practised by a good landscape\n  painter--Selection in reading and writing--Some studies allow the play\n  of selection more than others do--Languages permit it less than\n  natural sciences--Difficulty of using selection in the fulfilment of\n  literary engagements.\n\nSo you have got yourself into that pleasant condition which is about as\nagreeable, and as favorable to fruitful study and observation, as the\ncondition of an over-driven cab-horse!\n\nVery indolent men, who will not work at all unless under the pressure of\nimmediate urgency, sometimes tell us that they actually like to be\nhurried; but although certain kinds of practical work which have become\nperfectly easy from habit may be got through at a great pace when the\nworkman feels that there is an immediate necessity for effort, it is\ncertainly not true that hurry is favorable to sound study of any kind.\nWork which merely runs in a fixed groove may be urged on occasionally at\nexpress speed without any perceptible injury to the quality of it. A\nclever violinist can play a passage _prestissimo_ as correctly as if he\nplayed it _adagio_; a banker's clerk can count money very rapidly with\npositively less risk of error than if he counted it as you and I do. A\nperson of sluggish temperament really gains in vivacity when he is\npressed for time, and becomes during those moments of excited energy a\nclearer-headed and more able person than he is under ordinary\ncircumstances. It is therefore not surprising that he should find\nhimself able to accomplish more under the great stimulus of an immediate\nnecessity than he is able to do in the dulness of his every-day\nexistence. Great prodigies of labor have been performed in this way to\navert impending calamity, especially by military officers in critical\ntimes like those of the Sepoy rebellion; and in the obscurer lives of\ntradesmen, immense exertions are often made to avert the danger of\nbankruptcy, when without the excitement of a serious anxiety of that\nkind the tradesman would not feel capable of more than a moderate and\nreasonable degree of attention to his affairs. But notwithstanding the\nmany instances of this kind which might be cited, and the many more\nwhich might easily be collected, the truth remains that the highest\nkinds of intellectual labor can hardly ever be properly performed when\nthe degree of pressure is in the least excessive. You may, for example,\nif you have the kind of ability which makes a good journalist, write an\neffective leader with your watch lying on the table, and finish it\nexactly when the time is up; but if you had the kind of ability which\nmakes a good poet, you could not write anything like highly-finished\npoetry against time. It is equally clear that scientific discovery,\nwhich, though it may flash suddenly upon the mind of the discoverer, is\nalways the result of long brooding over the most patient observations,\nmust come at its own moments, and cannot be commanded. The activity of\npoets and discoverers would be paralyzed by exigencies which stimulate\nthe activity of soldiers and men of business. The truth is, that\nintelligence and energy are beneficially stimulated by pressure from\nwithout, whereas the working of the higher intellect is impeded by it,\nand that to such a degree that in times of the greatest pressure the\nhigh intellectual life is altogether suspended, to leave free play to\nthe lower but more immediately serviceable intelligence.\n\nThis being so, it becomes a necessary part of the art of intellectual\nliving so to order our work as to shield ourselves if possible, at least\nduring a certain portion of our time, from the evil consequences of\nhurry. The whole secret lies in a single word--Selection.\n\nAn excellent landscape painter told me that whatever he had to do, he\nalways took the greatest pains to arrange his work so as never to have\nhis tranquillity disturbed by haste. His system, which is quite\napplicable to many other things than landscape painting, was based on\nthe principle of selection. He always took care to determine beforehand\nhow much time he could devote to each sketch or study, and then, from\nthe mass of natural facts before him, selected the most valuable facts\nwhich could be recorded in the time at his disposal. But however short\nthat time might be, he was always perfectly cool and deliberate in the\nemployment of it. Indeed this coolness and his skill in selection helped\neach other mutually, for he chose wisely because he was cool, and he had\ntime to be cool by reason of the wisdom of his selection. In his little\nmemoranda, done in five minutes, the lines were laid just as\ndeliberately as the tints on an elaborate picture; the difference being\nin choice only, not in speed.\n\nNow if we apply this art of selection to all our labors it will give us\nmuch of that landscape painter's enviable coolness, and enable us to\nwork more satisfactorily. Suppose that instead of painting and sketching\nwe have to do a great deal of reading and writing: the art is to select\nthe reading which will be most useful to our purpose, and, in writing,\nto select the words which will express our meaning with the greatest\nclearness in a little space. The art of reading is to skip judiciously.\nWhole libraries may be skipped in these days, when we have the results\nof them in our modern culture without going over the ground again. And\neven of the books we decide to read, there are almost always large\nportions which do not concern us, and which we are sure to forget the\nday after we have read them. The art is to skip all that does not\nconcern us, whilst missing nothing that we really need. No external\nguidance can teach us this; for nobody but ourselves can guess what the\nneeds of our intellect may be. But let us select with decisive firmness,\nindependently of other people's advice, independently of the authority\nof custom. In every newspaper that comes to hand there is a little bit\nthat we ought to read; the art is to find that little bit, and waste no\ntime over the rest.\n\nSome studies permit the exercise of selection better than others do. A\nlanguage, once undertaken, permits very little selection indeed, since\nyou must know the whole vocabulary, or nearly so, to be able to read and\nspeak. On the other hand, the natural sciences permit the most prudent\nexercise of selection. For example, in botany you may study as few\nplants as you choose.\n\nIn writing, the art of selection consists in giving the utmost effect to\nexpression in the fewest words; but of this art I say little, for who\ncan contend against an inevitable trade-necessity? Almost every author\nof ordinary skill could, when pressed for time, find a briefer\nexpression for his thoughts, but the real difficulty in fulfilling\nliterary engagements does not lie in the expression of the thought, it\nlies in the sufficiently rapid production of a certain quantity of copy.\nFor this purpose I fear that selection would be of very little use--of\nno more use, in fact, than in any other branch of manufacture where (if\na certain standard is kept up to) quantity in sale is more important\nthan quality of material.\n\n\nLETTER V.\n\nTO A FRIEND WHO, THOUGH HE HAD NO PROFESSION, COULD NOT FIND TIME FOR\nHIS VARIOUS INTELLECTUAL PURSUITS.\n\n  Compensations resulting from the necessity for time--Opportunity only\n  exists for us so far as we have time to make use of it--This _or_\n  that, not this _and_ that--Danger of apparently unlimited\n  opportunities--The intellectual training of our ancestors--Montaigne\n  the Essayist--Reliance upon the compensations.\n\nIt has always seemed to me that the great and beautiful principle of\ncompensation is more clearly seen in the distribution and effects of\ntime than in anything else within the scope of our experience. The good\nuse of one opportunity very frequently compensates us for the absence of\nanother, and it does so because opportunity is itself so dependent upon\ntime that, although the best opportunities may apparently be presented\nto us, we can make no use of them unless we are able to give them the\ntime that they require. You, who have the best possible opportunities\nfor culture, find a certain sadness and disappointment because you\ncannot avail yourself of all of them; but the truth is, that opportunity\nonly exists for us just so far as we are able to make use of it, and our\npower to do so is often nothing but a question of time. If our days are\nwell employed we are sure to have done some good thing which we should\nhave been compelled to neglect if we had been occupied about anything\nelse. Hence every genuine worker has rich compensations which ought to\nconsole him amply for his shortcomings, and to enable him to meet\ncomparisons without fear.\n\nThose who aspire to the intellectual life, but have no experience of its\ndifficulties, very frequently envy men so favorably situated as you are.\nIt seems to them that all the world's knowledge is accessible to you,\nand that you have simply to cull its fruits as we gather grapes in a\nvineyard. They forget the power of Time, and the restrictions which Time\nimposes. \"This _or_ that, not this _and_ that,\" is the rule to which all\nof us have to submit, and it strangely equalizes the destinies of men.\nThe time given to the study of one thing is withdrawn from the study of\nanother, and the hours of the day are limited alike for all of us. How\ndifficult it is to reconcile the interests of our different pursuits!\nIndeed it seems like a sort of polygamy to _have_ different pursuits.\nIt is natural to think of them as jealous wives tormenting some Mormon\nprophet.\n\nThere is great danger in apparently unlimited opportunities, and a\nsplendid compensation for those who are confined by circumstances to a\nnarrow but fruitful field. The Englishman gets more civilization out of\na farm and a garden than the Red Indian out of the space encircled by\nhis horizon. Our culture gains in thoroughness what it loses in extent.\n\nThis consideration goes far to explain the fact that although our\nancestors were so much less favorably situated than we are, they often\ngot as good an intellectual training from the literature that was\naccessible to them, as we from our vaster stores. We live in an age of\nessayists, and yet what modern essayist writes better than old\nMontaigne? All that a thoughtful and witty writer needs for the\nsharpening of his intellect, Montaigne found in the ancient literature\nthat was accessible to him, and in the life of the age he lived in. Born\nin our own century, he would have learned many other things, no doubt,\nand read many other books, but these would have absorbed the hours that\nhe employed not less fruitfully with the authors that he loved in the\nlittle library up in the third story of his tower, as he tells us, where\nhe could see all his books at once, set upon five rows of shelves round\nabout him. In earlier life he bought \"this sort of furniture\" for\n\"ornament and outward show,\" but afterwards quite abandoned that, and\nprocured such volumes only \"as supplied his own need.\"\n\nTo supply our own need, within the narrow limits of the few and\ntransient hours that we can call our own, is enough for the wise\neverywhere, as it was for Montaigne in his tower. Let us resolve to do\nas much as that, not more, and then rely upon the golden compensations.\n\n  NOTE.--\"Supposing that the executive and critical powers always exist\n  in some correspondent degree in the same person, still they cannot be\n  cultivated to the same extent. The attention required for the\n  development of a theory is necessarily withdrawn from the design of a\n  drawing, and the time devoted to the realization of a form is lost to\n  the solution of a problem.\"--MR. RUSKIN, _in the preface to the third\n  volume of_ \"_Modern Painters_.\"\n\n  In the case of Mr. Ruskin, in that of Mr. Dante Rossetti, and in all\n  cases where the literary and artistic gifts are naturally pretty\n  evenly balanced, the preponderance of an hour a day given to one or\n  the other class of studies may have settled the question whether the\n  student was to be chiefly artist or chiefly author. The enormous\n  importance of the distribution of time is never more clearly\n  manifested than in cases of this kind. Mr. Ruskin might certainly have\n  attained rank as a painter, Rossetti might have been as prolific in\n  poetry as he is excellent. What these gifted men are now is not so\n  much a question of talent as of time. In like manner the question\n  whether Ingres was to be known as a painter or as a violinist was\n  settled by the employment of hours rather than by any preponderance of\n  faculty.\n\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n  [2] \"Being astonished at the prodigious variety and at the extent of\n    knowledge possessed by the Germans, I begged one of my friends, Saxon\n    by birth, and one of the foremost geologists in Europe, to tell me\n    how his countrymen managed to know so many things. Here is his\n    answer, nearly in his own words:--'A German (except myself, who am\n    the idlest of men) gets up early, summer and winter, at about five\n    o'clock. He works four hours before breakfast, sometimes smoking all\n    the time, which does not interfere with his application. His\n    breakfast lasts half an hour, and he remains, afterwards, another\n    half-hour talking with his wife and playing with his children. He\n    returns to his work for six hours, dines without hurrying himself,\n    smokes an hour after dinner, playing again with his children, and\n    before he goes to bed he works four hours more. He begins again every\n    day, and never goes out. This is how it comes to pass that Oersted,\n    the greatest natural philosopher in Germany, is at the same time the\n    greatest physician; this is how Kant the metaphysician was one of the\n    most learned astronomers in Europe, and how Goethe, who is at present\n    the first and most fertile author in Germany in almost all kinds of\n    literature, is an excellent botanist, mineralogist, and natural\n    philosopher.'\"\n\n  [3] The man, then, judges me worthy of death. Be it so.\n\n\n\n\nPART V.\n\n_THE INFLUENCES OF MONEY._\n\n\nLETTER I.\n\nTO A VERY RICH STUDENT.\n\n  The author of \"Vathek\"--The double temptation of wealth--Rich men\n  tempted to follow occupations in which their wealth is\n  useful--Pressure of social duties on the rich--The Duchess of\n  Orleans--The rich man's time not his own--The rich may help the\n  general intellectual advancement by the exercise of patronage--Dr.\n  Carpenter--Franz Woepke.\n\nIt has always seemed to me a very remarkable and noteworthy circumstance\nthat although Mr. Beckford, the author of \"Vathek,\" produced in his\nyouth a story which bears all the signs of true inventive genius, he\nnever produced anything in after-life which posterity cares to preserve.\nI read \"Vathek\" again quite recently, to see how far my early enthusiasm\nfor it might have been due to that passion for orientalism which reigned\namongst us many years ago, but this fresh perusal left an impression\nwhich only genius leaves. Beckford really had invention, and an\nextraordinary narrative power. That such faculties, after having once\nrevealed themselves, should contentedly have remained dormant ever\nafterwards, is one of the most curious facts in the history of the\nhuman mind, and it is the more curious that Beckford lived to a very\nadvanced age.\n\nBeckford's case appears to have been one of those in which great wealth\ndiminishes or wholly paralyzes the highest energy of the intellect,\nleaving the lower energies free to exert less noble kinds of activity. A\nrefined self-indulgence became the habit of his life, and he developed\nsimply into a dilettant. Even his love for the fine arts did not rise\nabove the indulgence of an elegant and cultivated taste. Although he\nlived at the very time most favorable to the appearance of a great\ncritic in architecture and painting, the time of a great architectural\nrevival and of the growth of a vigorous and independent school of\ncontemporary art, he exercised no influence beyond that of a wealthy\nvirtuoso. His love of the beautiful began and ended in simple personal\ngratification; it led to no noble labor, to no elevating severity of\ndiscipline. Englishman though he was, he filled his Oriental tower with\nmasterpieces from Italy and Holland, only to add form and color to the\nluxuries of his reverie, behind his gilded lattices.\n\nAnd when he raised that other tower at Fonthill, and the slaves of the\nlamp toiled at it by torchlight to gratify his Oriental impatience, he\nexercised no influence upon the confusion of his epoch more durable than\nthat hundred yards of masonry which sank into a shapeless heap whilst as\nyet Azrael spared its author. He to whom Nature and Fortune had been so\nprodigal of their gifts, he whom Reynolds painted and Mozart instructed,\nwho knew the poets of seven literatures, culling their jewels like\nflowers in seven enchanted gardens--he to whom the palaces of knowledge\nall opened their golden gates even in his earliest youth, to whom were\nalso given riches and length of days, for whom a thousand craftsmen\ntoiled in Europe and a thousand slaves beyond the sea,[4]--what has this\ngifted mortal left as the testimony of his power, as the trace of his\nfourscore years upon the earth? Only the reminiscence of a vague\nsplendor, like the fast-fading recollection of a cloud that burned at\nsunset, and one small gem of intellectual creation that lives like a\ntiny star.\n\nIf wealth had only pleasure to offer as a temptation from intellectual\nlabor, its influence would be easier to resist. Men of the English race\nare often grandly strong in resistance to every form of voluptuousness;\nthe race is fond of comfort and convenience, but it does not sacrifice\nits energy to enervating self-indulgence. There is, however, another\norder of temptations in great wealth, to which Englishmen not only\nyield, but yield with a satisfied conscience, even with a sense of\nobedience to duty. Wealth carries pleasure in her left hand, but in her\nright she bears honor and power. The rich man feels that he can do so\nmuch by the mere exercise of his command over the labor of others, and\nso little by any unaided labor of his own, that he is always strongly\ntempted to become, not only physically but intellectually, a director of\nwork rather that a workman. Even his modesty, when he is modest, tends\nto foster his reliance on others rather than himself. All that he tries\nto do is done so much better by those who make it their profession, that\nhe is always tempted to fall back upon his paying power as his most\nsatisfactory and effective force. There are cases in which this\ntemptation is gloriously overcome, where men of great wealth compel\nevery one to acknowledge that their money is nothing more than a help to\ntheir higher life, like the charger that bore Wellington at Waterloo,\nserving him indeed usefully, but not detracting from the honor which is\nhis due. But in these cases the life is usually active or administrative\nrather than intellectual. The rich man does not generally feel tempted\nto enter upon careers in which his command over labor is not an evident\nadvantage, and this because men naturally seek those fields in which\n_all_ their superiorities tell. Even the well known instance of Lord\nRosse can scarcely be considered an exception to this rule, for although\nhe was eminent in a science which has been followed by poor men with\ngreat distinction, his wealth was of use in the construction of his\ncolossal telescope, which gave him a clear advantage over merely\nprofessional contemporaries.\n\nBesides this natural desire to pursue careers in which their money may\nlessen the number of competitors, the rich are often diverted from\npurely intellectual pursuits by the social duties of their station,\nduties which it is impossible to avoid and difficult to keep within\nlimits. The Duchess of Orleans (mother of the present Count of Paris)\narranged her time with the greatest care so as to reserve a little of it\nfor her own culture in uninterrupted solitude. By an exact system, and\nthe exercise of the rarest firmness, she contrived to steal half an hour\nhere and an hour there--enough no doubt, when employed as she employed\nthem, to maintain her character as a very distinguished lady, yet still\nfar from sufficient for the satisfactory pursuit of any great art or\nscience. If it be difficult for the rich man to enter into the kingdom\nof heaven, it is also difficult for him to secure that freedom from\ninterruption which is necessary to fit him for his entrance into the\nIntellectual Kingdom. He can scarcely allow himself to be absorbed in\nany great study, when he reflects on all the powerful means of social\ninfluence which he is suffering to lie idle. He is sure to possess by\ninheritance, or to have acquired in obedience to custom, a complicated\nand expensive machinery for the pleasures and purposes of society. There\nis game to be shot; there are hunters to be exercised; great houses to\nbe filled with guests. So much is expected of the rich man, both in\nbusiness and in pleasure, that his time is not his own, and he could not\nquit his station if he would. And yet the Intellectual Life, in its\nfruitful perfection, requires, I do not say the complete abandonment of\nthe world, but it assuredly requires free and frequent spaces of labor\nin tranquil solitude, \"retreats\" like those commanded by the Church of\nRome, but with more of study and less of contemplation.\n\nIt would be useless to ask you to abdicate your power, and retreat into\nsome hermitage with a library and a laboratory, without a thought of\nreturning to your pleasant hall in Yorkshire and your house in Mayfair.\nYou will not sell all and follow the Light, but there is a life which\nyou may powerfully encourage, yet only partially share. Notwithstanding\nthe increased facilities for earning a living which this age offers to\nthe intellectual, the time that they are often compelled to give to the\nsatisfaction of common material necessities is so much time withdrawn\nfrom the work which they alone can do. It is a lamentable waste of the\nhighest and rarest kind of energy to compel minds that are capable of\noriginal investigation, of discovery, to occupy themselves in that mere\nvulgarization of knowledge, in popular lecturing and literature, which\ncould be done just as efficiently by minds of a common order. It is an\nerror of the present age to believe that the time for what is called\npatronage is altogether passed away. Let me mention two instances to\nthe contrary: one in which kindly help would have saved fifteen years of\na noble life; another in which that kindly help did actually permit a\nman of exceptional endowment and equally exceptional industry to pursue\ninvestigations for which no other human being was so well qualified, and\nwhich were entirely incompatible with the earning of the daily bread.\nDr. Carpenter has lately told us that, finding it impossible to unite\nthe work of a general practitioner with the scientific researches upon\nwhich his heart was set, he gave up nine-tenths of his time for twenty\nyears to popular lecturing and writing, in order that he might exist and\ndevote the other tenth to science. \"Just as he was breaking down from\nthe excessive strain upon mind and body which this life involved, an\nappointment was offered to Dr. Carpenter which gave him competence and\nsufficient leisure for the investigations which he has conducted to such\nimportant issues.\" Suppose that during those twenty years of struggle he\n_had_ broken down like many another only a little less robust--what\nthen? A mind lost to his country and the world. And would it not have\nbeen happier for him and for us if some of those men (of whom there are\nmore in England than in any other land), who are so wealthy that their\ngold is positively a burden and an encumbrance, like too many coats in\nsummer, had helped Dr. Carpenter at least a few years earlier, in some\nform that a man of high feeling might honorably accept? The other\nexample that I shall mention is that of Franz Woepke, the\nmathematician and orientalist. A modest pension, supplied by an Italian\nprince who was interested in the history of mathematics, gave Woepke\nthat peace which is incompatible with poverty, and enabled him to live\ngrandly in his narrow lodging the noble intellectual life. Was not this\nrightly and well done, and probably a much more effectual employment of\nthe power of gold than if that Italian prince had added some rare\nmanuscripts to his own library without having time or knowledge to\ndecipher them? I cannot but think that the rich may serve the cause of\nculture best by a judicious exercise of patronage--unless, indeed, they\nhave within themselves the sense of that irresistible vocation which\nmade Humboldt use his fortune as the servant of his high ambition. The\nHumboldts never are too rich; they possess their gold and are not\npossessed by it, and they are exempt from the duty of aiding others\nbecause they themselves have a use for all their powers.\n\n\nLETTER II\n\nTO A GENIUS CARELESS IN MONEY MATTERS.\n\n  Danger of carelessness--Inconveniences of poverty unfavorable to the\n  Intellectual Life--Necessity advances men in industrial occupations,\n  but disturbs and interrupts the higher intellectual life--Instances in\n  science, literature, and art--Careers aided by wealth--Mr. Ruskin--De\n  Saussure--Work spoiled by poverty in the doing--The central passion of\n  men of ability is to do their work well--The want of money the most\n  common hindrance to excellence of work--De Senancour--Bossuet--\n  Sainte-Beuve--Shelley-- Wordsworth--Scott--Kepler--Tycho\n  Brahe--Schiller--Goethe--Case of an eminent English philosopher, and of\n  a French writer of school-primers--Loss of time in making experiments\n  on public taste--_Surtout ne pas trop ecrire_--Auguste Comte--The\n  reaction of the intellectual against money-making--Money the protector\n  of the intellectual life.\n\nI have been anxious for you lately, and venture to write to you about\nthe reasons for this anxiety.\n\nYou are neither extravagant nor self-indulgent, yet it seems to me that\nyour entire absorption in the higher intellectual pursuits has produced\nin you, as it frequently does, a carelessness about material interests\nof all kinds which is by far the most dangerous of all tempers to the\npecuniary well-being of a man. Sydney Smith declared that no fortune\ncould stand that temper long, and that we are on the high road to ruin\nthe moment we think ourselves rich enough to be careless.\n\nLet me observe, to begin with, that although the pursuit of wealth is\nnot favorable to the intellectual life, the inconveniences of poverty\nare even less favorable to it. We are sometimes lectured on the great\nbenefits of necessity as a stimulant to exertion, and it is implied that\ncomfortable people would go much farther on the road to distinction if\nthey were made uncomfortable by having to think perpetually about money.\nThose who say this confound together the industry of the industrial and\nprofessional classes, and the labors of the more purely intellectual. It\nis clear that when the labor a man does is of such a nature that he will\nbe paid for it in strict proportion to the time and effort he bestows,\nthe need of money will be a direct stimulus to the best exertion he may\nbe capable of. In all simple industrial occupations the need of money\n_does_ drive a man forwards, and is often, when he feels it in early\nlife, the very origin and foundation of his fortune. There exists, in\nsuch occupations, a perfect harmony between the present necessity and\nthe ultimate purpose of the life. Wealth is the object of industry, and\nthe first steps towards the possession of it are steps on the chosen\npath. The future captain of industry, who will employ thousands of\nworkpeople and accumulate millions of money, is going straight to his\nsplendid future when he gets up at five in the morning to work in\nanother person's factory. To learn to be a builder of steam-vessels, it\nis necessary, even when you begin with capital, to pass through the\nmanual trades, and you will only learn them the better if the wages are\nnecessary to your existence. Poverty in these cases only makes an\nintelligent man ground himself all the better in that stern practical\ntraining which is the basis of his future career. Well, therefore, may\nthose who have reached distinguished success in fields of practical\nactivity extol the teachings of adversity. If it is a necessary part of\nyour education that you should hammer rivets inside a steam-boiler, it\nis as well that your early habits should not be over-dainty. So it is\nobserved that horny hands, in the colonies, get gold into them sooner\nthan white ones.\n\nEven in the liberal professions young men get on all the better for not\nbeing too comfortably off. If you have a comfortable private income to\nbegin with, the meagre early rewards of professional life will seem too\npaltry to be worth hard striving, and so you will very likely miss the\nmore ample rewards of maturity, since the common road to success is\nnothing but a gradual increase. And you miss education at the same time,\nfor practice is the best of professional educators, and many successful\nlawyers and artists have had scarcely any other training. The daily\nhabit of affairs trains men for the active business of the world, and if\nthe purpose of their lives is merely to do what they are doing or to\ncommand others to do the same things, the more closely circumstances tie\nthem down to their work, the better.\n\nBut in the higher intellectual pursuits the necessity for immediate\nearning has an entirely different result. It comes, not as an educator,\nbut as an interruption or suspension of education. All intellectual\nlives, however much they may differ in the variety of their purposes,\nhave at least this purpose in common, that they are mainly devoted to\nself-education of one kind or another. An intellectual man who is forty\nyears old is as much at school as an Etonian of fourteen, and if you set\nhim to earn more money than that which comes to him without especial\ncare about it, you interrupt his schooling, exactly as selfish parents\nused to do when they sent their young children to the factory and\nprevented them from learning to read. The idea of the intellectual life\nis an existence passed almost entirely in study, yet preserving the\nresults of its investigations. A day's writing will usually suffice to\nrecord the outcome of a month's research.\n\nNecessity, instead of advancing your studies, stops them. Whenever her\nharsh voice speaks it becomes your duty to shut your books, put aside\nyour instruments, and do something that will fetch a price in the\nmarket. The man of science has to abandon the pursuit of a discovery to\ngo and deliver a popular lecture a hundred miles off, for which he gets\nfive pounds and his railway fare. The student of ancient literature has\nto read some feeble novel, and give three days of a valuable life to\nwrite an anonymous review which will bring him two pounds ten. The\nartist has to leave his serious picture to manufacture \"pot-boilers,\"\nwhich will teach him nothing, but only spoil his hands and vitiate the\npublic taste. The poet suspends his poem (which is promised to a\npublisher for Christmas, and will be spoiled in consequence by hurry at\nthe last) in order to write newspaper articles on subjects of which he\nhas little knowledge and in which he takes no interest. And yet these\nare instances of those comparatively happy and fortunate needy who are\nonly compelled to suspend their intellectual life, and who can cheer\nthemselves in their enforced labor with the hope of shortly renewing it.\nWhat of those others who are pushed out of their path forever by the\nbuffets of unkindly fortune? Many a fine intellect has been driven into\nthe deep quagmire, and has struggled in it vainly till death came, which\nbut for that grim necessity might have scaled the immortal mountains.\n\nThis metaphor of the mountains has led me, by a natural association of\nideas, to think of a writer who has added to our enjoyment of their\nbeauty, and I think of him the more readily that his career will serve\nas an illustration--far better than any imaginary career--of the very\nsubject which just now occupies my mind. Mr. Ruskin is not only one of\nthe best instances, but he is positively the very best instance except\nthe two Humboldts, of an intellectual career which has been greatly\naided by material prosperity, and which would not have been possible\nwithout it. This does not in the least detract from the merit of the\nauthor of \"Modern Painters,\" for it needed a rare force of resolution,\nor a powerful instinct of genius, to lead the life of a severe student\nunder every temptation to indolence. Still it is true that Mr. Ruskin's\ncareer would have been impossible for a poor man, however gifted. A poor\nman would not have had access to Mr. Ruskin's materials, and one of his\nchief superiorities has always been an abundant wealth of material. And\nif we go so far as to suppose that the poor man might have found other\nmaterials perhaps equivalent to these, we know that he could not have\nturned them to that noble use. The poor critic would be immediately\nabsorbed in the ocean of anonymous periodical literature; he could not\nfind time for the incubation of great works. \"Modern Painters,\" the\nresult of seventeen years of study, is not simply a work of genius but\nof genius seconded by wealth. Close to it on my shelves stand four\nvolumes which are the monument of another intellectual life devoted to\nthe investigation of nature. De Saussure, whom Mr. Ruskin reverences as\none of his ablest teachers, and whom all sincere students of nature\nregard as a model observer, pursued for many laborious years a kind of\nlife which was not, and could not be, self-supporting in the pecuniary\nsense. Many other patient laborers, who have not the celebrity of these,\nwork steadily in the same way, and are enabled to do so by the\npossession of independent fortune. I know one such who gives a whole\nsummer to the examination of three or four acres of mountain-ground,\nthe tangible result being comprised in a few memoranda, which,\nconsidered as literary material, might (in the hands of a skilled\nprofessional writer) just possibly be worth five pounds.\n\nNot only do narrow pecuniary means often render high intellectual\nenterprises absolutely impossible, but they do what is frequently even\nmore trying to the health and character, they permit you to undertake\nwork that would be worthy of you if you might only have time and\nmaterials for the execution of it, and then spoil it in the doing. An\nintellectual laborer will bear anything except that. You may take away\nthe very table he is writing upon, if you let him have a deal board for\nhis books and papers; you may take away all his fine editions, if you\nleave him common copies that are legible; you may remove his very\ncandlestick, if you leave him a bottle-neck to stick his candle in, and\nhe will go on working cheerfully still. But the moment you do anything\nto spoil the quality of the work itself, you make him irritable and\nmiserable. \"You think,\" says Sir Arthur Helps, \"to gain a good man to\nmanage your affairs because he happens to have a small share in your\nundertaking. It is a great error. You want him to do something well\nwhich you are going to tell him to do. If he has been wisely chosen, and\nis an able man, his pecuniary interest in the matter will be mere dust\nin the balance, when compared with the desire which belongs to all such\nmen to do their work well.\" Yes, this is the central passion of all men\nof true ability, _to do their work well_; their happiness lies in that,\nand not in the amount of their profits, or even in their reputation. But\nthen, on the other hand, they suffer indescribable mental misery when\ncircumstances compel them to do their work less well than they know\nthat, under more favorable circumstances, they would be capable of doing\nit. The want of money is, in the higher intellectual pursuits, the most\ncommon hindrance to thoroughness and excellence of work. De Senancour,\nwho, in consequence of a strange concatenation of misfortunes, was all\nhis life struggling in shallows, suffered not from the privations\nthemselves, but from the vague feeling that they stunted his\nintellectual growth; and any experienced student of human nature must be\naware that De Senancour was right. With larger means he would have seen\nmore of the world, and known it better, and written of it with riper\nwisdom. He said that the man \"who only saw in poverty the direct effect\nof the money-privation, and only compared, for instance, an eight-penny\ndinner to one that cost ten shillings, would have no conception of the\ntrue nature of misfortune, for not to spend money is the least of the\nevils of poverty.\" Bossuet said that he \"had no attachment to riches,\nand still if he had only what is barely necessary, if he felt himself\nnarrowed, he would lose more than half his talents.\" Sainte-Beuve said,\n\"Only think a little what a difference there is in the starting point\nand in the employment of the faculties between a Duc de Luynes and a\nSenancour.\" How many of the most distinguished authors have been\ndependent upon private means, not simply for physical sustenance, but\nfor the opportunities which they afforded of gaining that experience of\nlife which was absolutely essential to the full growth of their mental\nfaculties. Shelley's writings brought him no profit whatever, and\nwithout a private income he could not have produced them, for he had not\na hundred buyers. Yet his _whole time_ was employed in study or in\ntravel, which for him was study of another kind, or else in the actual\nlabor of composition. Wordsworth tried to become a London journalist and\nfailed. A young man called Raisley Calvert died and left him 900_l._;\nthis saved the poet in Wordsworth, as it kept him till the publication\nof the \"Lyrical Ballads,\" and afterwards other pieces of good luck\nhappened to him, so that he could think and compose at leisure. Scott\nwould not venture to devote himself to literature until he had first\nsecured a comfortable income outside of it. Poor Kepler struggled with\nconstant anxieties, and told fortunes by astrology for a livelihood,\nsaying that astrology as the daughter of astronomy ought to keep her\nmother; but fancy a man of science wasting precious time over\nhoroscopes! \"I supplicate you,\" he writes to Moestlin, \"if there is a\nsituation vacant at Tuebingen, do what you can to obtain it for me, and\nlet me know the prices of bread and wine and other necessaries of life,\nfor my wife is not accustomed to live on beans.\" He had to accept all\nsorts of jobs; he made almanacs, and served any one who would pay him.\nHis only tranquil time for study was when he lived in Styria, on his\nwife's income, a tranquillity that did not last for long, and never\nreturned. How different is this from the princely ease of Tycho Brahe,\nwho labored for science alone, with all the help that the ingenuity of\nhis age could furnish! There is the same contrast, in a later\ngeneration, between Schiller and Goethe. Poor Schiller \"wasting so much\nof his precious life in literary hack-work, translating French books for\na miserable pittance;\" Goethe, fortunate in his pecuniary independence\nas in all the other great circumstances of his life, and this at a time\nwhen the pay of authors was so miserable that they could hardly exist by\nthe pen. Schiller got a shilling a page for his translations. Merck the\npublisher offered three pounds sterling for a drama of Goethe. \"If\nEurope praised me,\" Goethe said, \"what has Europe done for me? Nothing.\n_Even my works have been an expense to me._\"\n\nThe pecuniary rewards which men receive for their labor are so absurdly\n(yet inevitably) disproportionate to the intellectual power that is\nneeded for the task, and also to the toil involved, that no one can\nsafely rely upon the higher intellectual pursuits as a protection from\nmoney-anxieties. I will give you two instances of this disproportion,\nreal instances, of men who are known to me personally. One of them is an\neminent Englishman of most remarkable intellectual force, who for many\nyears past has occupied his leisure in the composition of works that are\nvalued by the thinking public to a degree which it would be difficult to\nexaggerate. But this thinking public is not numerous, and so in the year\n1866 this eminent philosopher, \"unable to continue losing money in\nendeavoring to enlighten his contemporaries, was compelled to announce\nthe termination of his series.\" On the other hand, a Frenchman, also\nknown to me personally, one day conceived the fortunate idea that a new\nprimer might possibly be a saleable commodity. So he composed a little\nprimer, beginning with the alphabet, advancing to a, b, _ab_; b, a,\n_ba_; and even going so far in history as to affirm that Adam was the\nfirst man and Abraham the father of the faithful. He had the wisdom to\nkeep the copyright of this little publication, which employed (in the\neasiest of all imaginable literary labor) the evenings of a single week.\nIt has brought him in, ever since, a regular income of 120_l._ a year,\nwhich, so far from showing any signs of diminution, is positively\nimproving. This success encouraged the same intelligent gentleman to\ncompose more literature of the same order, and he is now the enviable\nowner of several other such copyrights, all of them very valuable; in\nfact as good properties as house-leases in London. Here is an author\nwho, from the pecuniary point of view, was incomparably more successful\nthan Milton, or Shelley, or Goethe. If every intellectual man could\nshield his higher life by writing primers for children which should be\nas good as house-leases, if the proverb _Qui peut le plus peut le moins_\nwere a true proverb, which it is not, then of course all men of culture\nwould be perfectly safe, since they all certainly know the contents of a\nprimer. But you may be able to write the most learned philosophical\ntreatise and still not be able to earn your daily bread.\n\nConsider, too, the lamentable loss of time which people of high culture\nincur in making experiments on public taste, when money becomes one of\ntheir main objects. Whilst they are writing stories for children, or\nelementary educational books which people of far inferior attainment\ncould probably do much better, their own self-improvement comes to a\nstandstill. If it could only be ascertained without delay what sort of\nwork would bring in the money they require, then there would be some\nchance of apportioning time so as to make reserves for self-improvement;\nbut when they have to write a score of volumes merely to ascertain the\nhumor of the public, there is little chance of leisure. The life of the\nprofessional author who has no reputation is much less favorable to high\nculture than the life of a tradesman in moderately easy circumstances\nwho can reserve an hour or two every day for some beloved intellectual\npursuit.\n\nSainte-Beuve tells us that during certain years of his life he had\nendeavored, and had been able, so to arrange his existence that it\nshould have both sweetness and dignity, writing from time to time what\nwas agreeable, reading what was both agreeable and serious, cultivating\nfriendships, throwing much of his mind into the intimate relations of\nevery day, giving more to his friends than to the public, reserving what\nwas most tender and delicate for the inner life, enjoying with\nmoderation; such for him was the dream of an intellectual existence in\nwhich things truly precious were valued according to their worth. And\n\"_above all_,\" he said, above all his desire was not to write too much,\n\"_surtout ne pas trop ecrire_.\" And then comes the regret for this wise,\nwell-ordered life enjoyed by him only for a time. \"La necessite depuis\nm'a saisi et m'a contraint de renoncer a ce que je considerais comme le\nseul bonheur ou la consolation exquise du melancolique et du sage.\"\n\nAuguste Comte lamented in like manner the evil intellectual consequences\nof anxieties about material needs. \"There is nothing,\" he said, \"more\nmortal to my mind than the necessity, pushed to a certain degree, to\nhave to think each day about a provision for the next. Happily I think\nlittle and rarely about all that; but whenever this happens to me I pass\nthrough moments of discouragement and positive despair, which if the\ninfluence of them became habitual _would make me renounce all my\nlabors, all my philosophical projects, to end my days like an ass_.\"\n\nThere are a hundred rules for getting rich, but the instinct of\naccumulation is worth all such rules put together. This instinct is\nrarely found in combination with high intellectual gifts, and the reason\nis evident. To advance from a hundred pounds to a thousand is not an\nintellectual advance, and there is no intellectual interest in the\naddition of a cipher at the bankers'. Simply to accumulate money that\nyou are never to use is, from the intellectual point of view, as stupid\nan operation as can be imagined. We observe, too, that the great\naccumulators, the men who are gifted by nature with the true instinct,\nare not usually such persons as we feel any ambition to become. Their\nfaculties are concentrated on one point, and that point, as it seems to\nus, of infinitely little importance. We cannot see that it signifies\nmuch to the intellectual well-being of humanity that John Smith should\nbe worth his million when he dies, since we know quite well that John\nSmith's mind will be just as ill-furnished then as it is now. In places\nwhere much money is made we easily acquire a positive disgust for it,\nand the curate seems the most distinguished gentleman in the community,\nwith his old black coat and his seventy pounds a year. We come to hate\nmoney-matters when we find that they exclude all thoughtful and\ndisinterested conversation, and we fly to the society of people with\nfixed incomes, not large enough for much saving, to escape the perpetual\ntalk about investments. Our happiest hours have been spent with poor\nscholars, and artists, and men of science, whose words remain in the\nmemory and make us rich indeed. Then we dislike money because it rules\nand restrains us, and because it is unintelligent and seems hostile, so\nfar as that which is unintelligent can be hostile. And yet the real\ntruth is that money is the strong protector of the intellectual life.\nThe student sits and studies, too often despising the power that\nshelters him from the wintry night, that gives him roof and walls, and\nlamp, and books, and fire. For money is simply the accumulated labor of\nthe past, guarding our peace as fleets and armies guard the industry of\nEngland, or like some mighty fortress-wall within which men follow the\nmost peaceful avocations. The art is to use money so that it shall be\nthe protector and not the scatterer of our time, the body-guard of the\nsovereign Intellect and Will.\n\n\nLETTER III.\n\nTO A STUDENT IN GREAT POVERTY.\n\n  Poverty really a great obstacle--Difference between a thousand rich\n  men and a thousand poor men taken from persons of average natural\n  gifts--The Houses of Parliament--The English recognize the natural\n  connection between wealth and culture--Connection between ignorance\n  and parsimony in expenditure--What may be honestly said for the\n  encouragement of a very poor student.\n\nAs it seems to me that to make light of the difficulties which lie in\nthe path of another is not to show true sympathy for him, even though it\nis done sometimes out of a sort of awkward kindness and for his\nencouragement, I will not begin by pretending that poverty is not a\ngreat obstacle to the perfection of the intellectual life. It _is_ a\ngreat obstacle; it is one of the very greatest of all obstacles. Only\nobserve how riches and poverty operate upon mankind in the mass. Here\nand there no doubt a very poor man attains intellectual distinction when\nhe has exceptional strength of will, and health enough to bear a great\nstrain of extra labor that he imposes upon himself, and natural gifts so\nbrilliant that he can learn in an hour what common men learn in a day.\nBut consider mankind in the mass. Look, for instance, at our two Houses\nof Parliament. They are composed of men taken from the average run of\nEnglishmen with very little reference to ability, but almost all of them\nare rich men; not one of them is poor, as you are poor; not one of them\nhas to contend against the stern realities of poverty. Then consider the\nvery high general level of intellectual attainment which distinguishes\nthose two assemblies, and ask yourself candidly whether a thousand men\ntaken from the beggars in the streets, or even from the far superior\nclass of our manufacturing operatives, would be likely to understand, as\nthe two Houses of Parliament understand, the many complicated questions\nof legislation and of policy which are continually brought before them.\nWe all know that the poor are too limited in knowledge and experience,\nfrom the want of the necessary opportunities, and too little accustomed\nto exercise their minds in the tranquil investigations of great\nquestions, to be competent for the work of Parliament. It is scarcely\nnecessary to insist upon this fact to an Englishman, because the English\nhave always recognized the natural connection between wealth and\nculture, and have preferred to be governed by the rich from the belief\nthat they are likely to be better informed, and better situated for\nintellectual activity of a disinterested kind, than those members of the\ncommunity whose time and thoughts are almost entirely occupied in\nwinning their daily bread by the incessant labor of their hands. And if\nyou go out into the world, if you mix with men of very different\nclasses, you will find that in a broad average way (I am not speaking\njust now of the exceptions) the richer classes are much more capable of\nentering into the sort of thinking which may be called intellectual\nthan those whose money is less plentiful, and whose opportunities have\ntherefore been less abundant. Indeed it may be asserted, roughly and\ngenerally, that the narrowness of men's ideas is in direct proportion to\ntheir parsimony in expenditure. I do not mean to affirm that all who\nspend largely attain large intellectual results, for of course we know\nthat a man may spend vast sums on pursuits which do not educate him in\nanything worth knowing, but the advantage is that with habits of free\nexpenditure the germs of thought are well tilled and watered, whereas\nparsimony denies them every external help. The most spending class in\nEurope is the English gentry, it is also the class most strikingly\ncharacterized by a high general average of information;[5] the most\nparsimonious class in Europe is the French peasantry; it is also the\nclass most strikingly characterized by ignorance and intellectual\napathy. The English gentleman has cultivated himself by various reading\nand extensive travel, but the French peasant will not go anywhere except\nto the market-town, and could not pardon the extravagance of buying a\nbook, or a candle to read it by in the evening. Between these extremes\nwe have various grades of the middle classes in which culture usually\nincreases very much in proportion to the expenditure. The rule is not\nwithout its exceptions; there are rich vulgar people who spend a great\ndeal without improving themselves at all--who only, by unlimited\nself-indulgence, succeed in making themselves so uncomfortably sensitive\nto every bodily inconvenience that they have no leisure, even in the\nmidst of an unoccupied life, to think of anything but their own bellies\nand their own skins--people whose power of attention is so feeble that\nthe smallest external incident distracts it, and who remember nothing of\ntheir travels but a catalogue of trivial annoyances. But people of this\nkind do not generally belong to families on whom wealth has had time to\nproduce its best effects. What I mean is, that a family which has been\nfor generations in the habit of spending four thousand a year will\nusually be found to have a more cultivated one than one that has only\nspent four hundred.\n\nI have come to the recognition of this truth very reluctantly indeed,\nnot because I dislike rich people, but merely because they are\nnecessarily a very small minority, and I should like every human being\nto have the best benefits of culture if it were only possible. The plain\nliving and high thinking that Wordsworth so much valued is a cheering\nideal, for most men have to live plainly, and if they could only think\nwith a certain elevation we might hope to solve the great problem of\nhuman life, the reconciliation of poverty and the soul. There certainly\nis a slow movement in that direction, and the shortening of the hours of\nlabor may afford some margin of leisure; but we who work for culture\nevery day and all day long, and still feel that we know very little, and\nhave hardly skill enough to make any effective use of the little that we\nknow, can scarcely indulge in very enthusiastic anticipations of the\nfuture culture of the poor.\n\nStill, there are some things that may be rationally and truly said to a\npoor man who desires culture, and which are not without a sort of\nSpartan encouragement. You are restricted by your poverty, but it is not\nalways a bad thing to be restricted, even from the intellectual point of\nview. The intellectual powers of well-to-do people are very commonly\nmade ineffective by the enormous multiplicity of objects that are\npresented to their attention, and which claim from them a sort of polite\nnotice like the greeting of a great lady to each of her thousand guests.\nIt requires the very rarest strength of mind, in a rich man, to\nconcentrate his attention on anything there are so many things that he\nis expected to make a pretence of knowing; but nobody expects _you_ to\nknow anything, and this is an incalculable advantage. I think that all\npoor men who have risen to subsequent distinction have been greatly\nindebted to this independence of public opinion as to what they ought to\nknow. In trying to satisfy that public opinion by getting up a pretence\nof various sorts of knowledge, which is only a sham, we sacrifice not\nonly much precious time, but we blunt our natural interest in things.\nThat interest you preserve in all its virgin force, and this force\ncarries a man far. Then, again, although the opportunities of rich\npeople are very superior to yours, they are not altogether so superior\nas they seem. There exists a great equalizing power, the limitation of\nhuman energy. A rich man may sit down to an enormous banquet, but he can\nonly make a good use of the little that he is able to digest. So it is\nwith the splendid intellectual banquet that is spread before the rich\nman's eyes. He can only possess what he has energy to master, and too\nfrequently the manifest impossibility of mastering everything produces a\nfeeling of discouragement that ends in his mastering nothing. A poor\nstudent, especially if he lives in an out-of-the-way place where there\nare no big libraries to bewilder him, may apply his energy with effect\nin the study of a few authors.\n\nI used to believe a great deal more in opportunities and less in\napplication than I do now. Time and health are needed, but with these\nthere are always opportunities. Rich people have a fancy for spending\nmoney very uselessly on their culture because it seems to them more\nvaluable when it has been costly; but the truth is, that by the blessing\nof good and cheap literature, intellectual light has become almost as\naccessible as daylight. I have a rich friend who travels more, and buys\nmore costly things, than I do, but he does not really learn more or\nadvance farther in the twelvemonth. If my days are fully occupied, what\nhas he to set against them? only other well-occupied days, no more. If\nhe is getting benefit at St. Petersburg he is missing the benefit I am\ngetting round my house, and in it. The sum of the year's benefit seems\nto be surprisingly alike in both cases. So if you are reading a piece of\nthoroughly good literature, Baron Rothschild may possibly be as well\noccupied as you--he is certainly not better occupied. When I open a\nnoble volume I say to myself, \"Now the only Croesus that I envy is he\nwho is reading a better book than this.\"\n\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n  [4] This sounds like a poetical exaggeration, but it is less than the\n    bare truth. There were fifteen hundred slaves on two West Indian\n    estates that Beckford lost in a lawsuit. It is quite certain,\n    considering his lavish expenditure, that fully a thousand men must\n    have worked for the maintenance of his luxury in Europe. So much for\n    his command of labor.\n\n  [5] The reader will please to bear in mind that I am speaking here of\n    broad effects on great numbers. I do not think that aristocracy, in\n    its spirit, is quite favorable to the exceptionally highest\n    intellectual life.\n\n\n\n\nPART VI.\n\nCUSTOM AND TRADITION.\n\n\nLETTER I.\n\nTO A YOUNG GENTLEMAN WHO HAD FIRMLY RESOLVED NEVER TO WEAR ANYTHING BUT\nA GRAY COAT.[6]\n\n  Secret enjoyment of rebellion against custom, and of the disabilities\n  resulting from it--Penalties imposed by Society and by Nature out of\n  proportion to the offence--Instances--What we consider penalties not\n  really penalties, but only consequences--Society likes harmony, and is\n  offended by dissonance--Utility of rebels against custom--That they\n  ought to reserve their power of rebellion for great occasions--Uses of\n  custom--Duty of the intellectual class--Best way to procure the\n  abolition of a custom we disapprove--Bad customs--Eccentricity\n  sometimes a duty.\n\nWhen I had the pleasure of staying at your father's house, you told me,\nrather to my surprise, that it was impossible for you to go to balls and\ndinner-parties because you did not possess such a thing as a dress-coat.\nThe reason struck me as being scarcely a valid one, considering the\nrather high scale of expenditure adopted in the paternal mansion. It\nseemed clear that the eldest son of a family which lived after the\nliberal fashion of Yorkshire country gentlemen could afford himself a\ndress-coat if he liked. Then I wondered whether you disliked dress-coats\nfrom a belief that they were unbecoming to your person; but a very\nlittle observation of your character convinced me that, whatever might\nbe your weaknesses (for everybody has some weaknesses), anxiety about\npersonal appearance was not one of them.\n\nThe truth is, that you secretly enjoy this little piece of disobedience\nto custom, and all the disabilities which result from it. This little\nrebellion is connected with a larger rebellion, and it is agreeable to\nyou to demonstrate the unreasonableness of society by incurring a very\nsevere penalty for a very trifling offence. You are always dressed\ndecently, you offend against no moral rule, you have cultivated your\nmind by study and reflection, and it rather pleases you to think that a\nyoung gentleman so well qualified for society in everything of real\nimportance should be excluded from it because he has not purchased a\npermission from his tailor.\n\nThe penalties imposed by society for the infraction of very trifling\ndetails of custom are often, as it seems, out of all proportion to the\noffence; but so are the penalties of nature. Only three days before the\ndate of this letter, an intimate friend of mine was coming home from a\nday's shooting. His nephew, a fine young man in the full enjoyment of\nexistence, was walking ten paces in advance. A covey of partridges\nsuddenly cross the road: my friend in shouldering his gun touches the\ntrigger just a second too soon, and kills his nephew. Now, think of the\nlong years of mental misery that will be the punishment of that very\ntrifling piece of carelessness! My poor friend has passed, in the space\nof a single instant, from a joyous life to a life that is permanently\nand irremediably saddened. It is as if he had left the summer sunshine\nto enter a gloomy dungeon and begin a perpetual imprisonment. And for\nwhat? For having touched a trigger, without evil intention, a little too\nprecipitately. It seems harder still for the victim, who is sent out of\nthe world in the bloom of perfect manhood because his uncle was not\nquite so cool as he ought to have been. Again, not far from where I\nlive, thirty-five men were killed last week in a coal-pit from an\nexplosion of fire-damp. One of their number had struck a lucifer to\nlight his pipe: for doing this in a place where he ought not to have\ndone it, the man suffers the penalty of death, and thirty-four others\nwith him. The fact is simply that Nature _will_ be obeyed, and makes no\nattempt to proportion punishments to offences: indeed, what in our human\nway we call punishments are not punishments, but simple consequences. So\nit is with the great social penalties. Society _will be obeyed_: if you\nrefuse obedience, you must take the consequences. Society has only one\nlaw, and that is custom. Even religion itself is socially powerful only\njust so far as it has custom on its side.\n\nNature does not desire that thirty-five men should be destroyed because\none could not resist the temptation of a pipe; but fire-damp is highly\ninflammable, and the explosion is a simple consequence. Society does not\ndesire to exclude you because you will not wear evening dress; but the\ndress is customary, and your exclusion is merely a consequence of your\nnonconformity. The view of society goes no farther in this than the\nartistic conception (not very delicately artistic, perhaps) that it is\nprettier to see men in black coats regularly placed between ladies round\na dinner-table than men in gray coats or brown coats. The uniformity of\ncostume appears to represent uniformity of sentiment and to ensure a\nsort of harmony amongst the _convives_. What society really cares for is\nharmony; what it dislikes is dissent and nonconformity. It wants peace\nin the dining-room, peace in the drawing-room, peace everywhere in its\nrealm of tranquil pleasure. You come in your shooting-coat, which was in\ntune upon the moors, but is a dissonance amongst ladies in full dress.\nDo you not perceive that fustian and velveteen, which were natural\namongst gamekeepers, are not so natural on gilded chairs covered with\nsilk, with lace and diamonds at a distance of three feet? You don't\nperceive it? Very well: society does not argue the point with you, but\nonly excludes you.\n\nIt has been said that in the life of every intellectual man there comes\na time when he questions custom at all points. This seems to be a\nprovision of nature for the reform and progress of custom itself, which\nwithout such questioning would remain absolutely stationary and\nirresistibly despotic. You rebels against the established custom have\nyour place in the great work of progressive civilization. Without you,\nWestern Europe would have been a second China. It is to the continual\nrebellion of such persons as yourself that we owe whatever progress has\nbeen accomplished since the times of our remotest forefathers. There\nhave been rebels always, and the rebels have not been, generally\nspeaking, the most stupid part of the nation.\n\nBut what is the use of wasting this beneficial power of rebellion on\nmatters too trivial to be worth attention? Does it hurt your conscience\nto appear in a dress-coat? Certainly not, and you would be as\ngood-looking in it as you are in your velveteen shooting-jacket with the\npointers on the bronze buttons. Let us conform in these trivial matters,\nwhich nobody except a tailor ought to consider worth a moment's\nattention, in order to reserve our strength for the protection of\nintellectual liberty. Let society arrange your dress for you (it will\nsave you infinite trouble), but never permit it to stifle the expression\nof your thought. You find it convenient, because you are timid, to\nexclude yourself from the world by refusing to wear its costume; but a\nbolder man would let the tailor do his worst, and then go into the world\nand courageously defend there the persons and causes that are\nmisunderstood and slanderously misrepresented. The fables of Spenser\nare fables only in form, and a noble knight may at any time go forth,\narmed in the panoply of a tail-coat, a dress waistcoat, and a manly\nmoral courage, to do battle across the dinner-table and in the\ndrawing-room for those who have none to defend them.\n\nIt is unphilosophical to set ourselves obstinately against custom in the\nmass, for it multiplies the power of men by settling useless discussion\nand clearing the ground for our best and most prolific activity. The\nbusiness of the world could not be carried forward one day without a\nmost complex code of customs; and law itself is little more than custom\nslightly improved upon by men reflecting together at their leisure, and\nreduced to codes and systems. We ought to think of custom as a most\nprecious legacy of the past, saving us infinite perplexity, yet not as\nan infallible rule. The most intelligent community would be conservative\nin its habits, yet not obstinately conservative, but willing to hear and\nadopt the suggestions of advancing reason. The great duty of the\nintellectual class, and its especial function, is to confirm what is\nreasonable in the customs that have been handed down to us, and so\nmaintain their authority, yet at the same time to show that custom is\nnot final, but merely a form suited to the world's convenience. And\nwhenever you are convinced that a custom is no longer serviceable, the\nway to procure the abolition of it is to lead men very gradually away\nfrom it, by offering a substitute at first very slightly different from\nwhat they have been long used to. If the English had been in the habit\nof tattooing, the best way to procure its abolition would have been to\nadmit that it was quite necessary to cover the face with elaborate\npatterns, yet gently to suggest that these patterns would be still more\nelegant if delicately painted in water-colors. Then you might have gone\non arguing--still admitting, of course, the absolute necessity for\nornament of some kind--that good taste demanded only a moderate amount\nof it; and so you would have brought people gradually to a little\nflourish on the nose or forehead, when the most advanced reformers might\nhave set the example of dispensing with ornament altogether. Many of our\ncontemporaries have abandoned shaving in this gradual way, allowing the\nwhiskers to encroach imperceptibly, till at last the razor lay in the\ndressing-case unused. The abominable black cylinders that covered our\nheads a few years ago were vainly resisted by radicals in custom, but\nthe moderate reformers gradually reduced their elevation, and now they\nare things of the past.\n\nThough I think we ought to submit to custom in matters of indifference,\nand to reform it gradually, whilst affecting submission in matters\naltogether indifferent, still there are other matters on which the only\nattitude worthy of a man is the most bold and open resistance to its\ndictates. Custom may have a right to authority over your wardrobe, but\nit cannot have any right to ruin your self-respect. Not only the virtues\nmost advantageous to well-being, but also the most contemptible and\ndegrading vices, have at various periods of the world's history been\nsustained by the full authority of custom. There are places where forty\nyears ago drunkenness was conformity to custom, and sobriety an\neccentricity. There are societies, even at the present day, where\nlicentiousness is the rule of custom, and chastity the sign of weakness\nor want of spirit. There are communities (it cannot be necessary to name\nthem) in which successful fraud, especially on a large scale, is\nrespected as the proof of smartness, whilst a man who remains poor\nbecause he is honest is despised for slowness and incapacity. There are\nwhole nations in which religious hypocrisy is strongly approved by\ncustom, and honesty severely condemned. The Wahabee Arabs may be\nmentioned as an instance of this, but the Wahabee Arabs are not the only\npeople, nor is Nejed the only place, where it is held to be more\nvirtuous to lie on the side of custom than to be an honorable man in\nindependence of it. In all communities where vice and hypocrisy are\nsustained by the authority of custom, eccentricity is a moral duty. In\nall communities where a low standard of thinking is received as\ninfallible common sense, eccentricity becomes an intellectual duty.\nThere are hundreds of places in the provinces where it is impossible for\nany man to lead the intellectual life without being condemned as an\neccentric. It is the duty of intellectual men who are thus isolated to\nset the example of that which their neighbors call eccentricity, but\nwhich may be more accurately described as superiority.\n\n\nLETTER II.\n\nTO A CONSERVATIVE WHO HAD ACCUSED THE AUTHOR OF A WANT OF RESPECT FOR\nTRADITION.\n\n  Transition from the ages of tradition to that of\n  experiment--Attraction of the future--Joubert--Saint-Marc\n  Girardin--Solved and unsolved problems--The introduction of a new\n  element--Inapplicability of past experience--An argument against\n  Republics--The lessons of history--Mistaken predictions that have been\n  based on them--Morality and ecclesiastical authority--Compatibility of\n  hopes for the future with gratitude to the past--That we are more\n  respectful to the past than previous ages have been--Our feelings\n  towards tradition--An incident at Warsaw--The reconstruction of the\n  navy.\n\nThe astonishing revolution in thought and practice which is taking place\namongst the intelligent Japanese, the throwing away of a traditional\nsystem of living in order to establish in its stead a system which, for\nan Asiatic people, is nothing more than a vast experiment, has its\ncounterpart in many an individual life in Europe. We are like travellers\ncrossing an isthmus between two seas, who have left one ship behind\nthem, who have not yet seen the vessel that waits on the distant shore,\nand who experience to the full all the discomforts and inconveniences of\nthe passage from one sea to the other. There is a break between the\nexistence of our forefathers and that of our posterity, and it is we who\nhave the misfortune to be situated exactly where the break occurs. We\nare leaving behind us the security, I do not say the safety, but the\nfeeling of tranquillity which belonged to the ages of tradition; we are\nentering upon ages whose spirit we foresee but dimly, whose institutions\nare the subject of guesses and conjectures. And yet this future, of\nwhich we know so little, attracts us more by the very vastness of its\nenigma than the rich history of the past, so full of various incident,\nof powerful personages, of grandeur, and suffering, and sorrow. Joubert\nalready noticed this forward-looking of the modern mind. \"The ancients,\"\nhe observed, \"said, 'Our ancestors;' we say, 'Posterity.' We do not love\nas they did _la patrie_, the country and laws of our forefathers; we\nlove rather the laws and the country of our children. It is the magic of\nthe future, and not that of the past, which seduces us.\" Commenting on\nthis thought of Joubert's, Saint-Marc Girardin said that we loved the\nfuture because we loved ourselves, and fashioned the future in our own\nimage; and he added, with partial but not complete injustice, that our\nignorance of the past was a cause of this tendency in our minds, since\nit is shorter to despise the past than to study it. These critics and\naccusers of the modern spirit are not, however, altogether fair to it.\nIf the modern spirit looks so much to the future, it is because the\nproblems of the past are solved problems, whilst those of the future\nhave the interest of a game that is only just begun. We know what became\nof feudalism, we know the work that it accomplished and the services\nthat it rendered, but we do not yet know what will be the effects of\nmodern democracy and of the scientific and industrial spirit. It is the\nnovelty of this element, the scientific spirit and the industrial\ndevelopment which is a part (but only a part) of its results, that makes\nthe past so much less reliable as a guide than it would have been if no\nnew element had intervened, and therefore so much less interesting for\nus. As an example of the inapplicability of past experience, I may\nmention an argument against Republics which has been much used of late\nby the partisans of monarchy in France. They have frequently told us\nthat Republics had only succeeded in very small States, and this is true\nof ancient democracies; but it is not less true that railways, and\ntelegraphs, and the newspaper press have made great countries like\nFrance and the United States just as capable of feeling and acting\nsimultaneously as the smallest Republics of antiquity. The parties which\nrely on what are called the lessons of history are continually exposed\nto great deceptions. In France, what may be called the historical party\nwould not believe in the possibility of a united Germany, because fifty\nyears ago, with the imperfect means of communication which then\nexisted, Germany was not and could not be united. The same historical\nparty refused to believe that the Italian kingdom could ever hold\ntogether. In England, the historical party predicted the dismemberment\nof the United States, and in some other countries it has been a favorite\narticle of faith that England could not keep her possessions. But\ntheories of this kind are always of very doubtful applicability to the\npresent, and their applicability to the future is even more doubtful\nstill. Steam and electricity have made great modern States practically\nlike so many great cities, so that Manchester is like a suburb of\nLondon, and Havre the Piraeus of Paris, whilst the most trifling\noccasions bring the Sovereign of Italy to any of the Italian capitals.\n\nIn the intellectual sphere the experience of the past is at least\nequally unreliable. If the power of the Catholic Church had been\nsuddenly removed from the Europe of the fourteenth century, the\nconsequence would have been a moral anarchy difficult to conceive; but\nin our own day the real regulator of morality is not the Church, but\npublic opinion, in the formation of which the Church has a share, but\nonly a share. It would therefore be unsafe to conclude that the\nweakening of ecclesiastical authority must of necessity, in the future,\nbe followed by moral anarchy, since it is possible, and even probable,\nthat the other great influences upon public opinion may gain strength as\nthis declines. And in point of fact we have already lived long enough\nto witness a remarkable decline of ecclesiastical authority, which is\nproved by the avowed independence of scientific writers and thinkers,\nand by the open opposition of almost all the European Governments. The\nsecular power resists the ecclesiastical in Germany and Spain. In France\nit establishes a form of government which the Church detests. In Ireland\nit disestablishes and disendows a hierarchy. In Switzerland it resists\nthe whole power of the Papacy. In Italy it seizes the sacred territory\nand plants itself within the very walls of Rome. And yet the time which\nhas witnessed this unprecedented self-assertion of the laity has\nwitnessed a positive increase in the morality of public sentiment,\nespecially in the love of justice and the willingness to hear truth,\neven when truth is not altogether agreeable to the listener, and in the\nrespect paid by opponents to able and sincere men, merely for their\nability and sincerity. This love of justice, this patient and tolerant\nhearing of new truth, in which our age immeasurably exceeds all the ages\nthat have preceded it, are the direct results of the scientific spirit,\nand are not only in themselves eminently moral, but conducive to moral\nhealth generally. And this advancement may be observed in countries\nwhich were least supposed to be capable of it. Even the French, of whose\nimmorality we have heard so much, have a public opinion which is\ngradually gaining a salutary strength, an increasing dislike for\nbarbarity and injustice, and a more earnest desire that no citizen,\nexcept by his own fault, should be excluded from the benefits of\ncivilization. The throne which has lately fallen was undermined by the\ncurrents of this public opinion before it sank in military disaster.\n\"Aussi me contenterai-je,\" says Littre, \"d'appeler l'attention sur la\nguerre, dont l'opinion publique ne tolere plus les antiques barbaries;\nsur la magistrature, qui repudie avec horreur les tortures et la\nquestion; sur la tolerance, qui a banni les persecutions religieuses;\nsur l'equite, qui soumet tout le monde aux charges communes; sur le\nsentiment de solidarite qui du sort des classes pauvres fait le plus\npressant et le plus noble probleme du temps present. Pour moi, je ne\nsais caracteriser ce spectacle si hautement moral qu'en disant que\nl'humanite, amelioree, accepte de plus en plus le devoir et la tache\nd'etendre le domaine de la justice et de la bonte.\"\n\nYet this partial and comparative satisfaction that we find in the\npresent, and our larger hopes for the future, are quite compatible with\ngratitude to all who in the past have rendered such improvement possible\nfor us, and the higher improvement that we hope for possible to those\nwho will come after us. I cannot think that the present age may be\naccused with justice of exceptional ignorance or scorn of its\npredecessors. We have been told that we scorn our forefathers because\nold buildings are removed to suit modern conveniences, because the\nwalls of old York have been pierced for the railway, and a tower of\nConway Castle has been undermined that the Holyhead mail may pass. But\nthe truth is, that whilst we care a little for our predecessors, they\ncared still less for theirs. The mediaeval builders not only used as\nquarries any Roman remains that happened to come in their way, but they\nspoiled the work of their own fathers and grandfathers by intruding\ntheir new fashions on buildings originally designed in a different style\nof art. When an architect in the present day has to restore some\nvenerable church, he endeavors to do so in harmony with the design of\nthe first builder; but such humility as this was utterly foreign to the\nmediaeval mind, which often destroyed the most lovely and necessary\ndetails to replace them with erections in the fashion of the day, but\nartistically unsuitable. The same disdain for the labors of other ages\nhas prevailed until within the memory of living men, and our age is\nreally the first that has made any attempt to conform itself, in these\nthings, to the intentions of the dead. I may also observe, that although\nhistory is less relied upon as a guide to the future than it was\nformerly, it is more carefully and thoroughly investigated from an\nintellectual interest in itself.\n\nTo conclude. It seems to me that tradition has much less influence of an\nauthoritative kind than it had formerly, and that the authority which it\nstill possesses is everywhere steadily declining; that as a guide to\nthe future of the world it is more likely to mislead than to enlighten\nus, and still that all intellectual and educated people must always take\na great interest in tradition, and have a certain sentiment of respect\nfor it. Consider what our feelings are towards the Church of Rome, the\nliving embodiment of tradition. No well-informed person can forget the\nimmense services that in former ages she has rendered to European\ncivilization, and yet at the same time such a person would scarcely wish\nto place modern thought under her direction, nor would he consult the\nPope about the tendencies of the modern world. When in 1829 the city of\nWarsaw erected a monument to Copernicus, a scientific society there\nwaited in the Church of the Holy Cross for a service that was to have\nadded solemnity to their commemoration. They waited vainly. Not a single\npriest appeared. The clergy did not feel authorized to countenance a\nscientific discovery which, in a former age, had been condemned by the\nauthority of the Church. This incident is delicately and accurately\ntypical of the relation between the modern and the traditional spirit.\nThe modern spirit is not hostile to tradition, and would not object to\nreceive any consecration which tradition might be able to confer, but\nthere are difficulties in bringing the two elements together.\n\nWe need not, however, go so far as Warsaw, or back to the year 1829,\nfor examples of an unwillingness on the part of the modern mind to break\nentirely with the traditional spirit. Our own country is remarkable both\nfor the steadiness of its advance towards a future widely different from\nthe past, and for an affectionate respect for the ideas and institutions\nthat it gradually abandons, as it is forced out of them by new\nconditions of existence, I may mention, as one example out of very many,\nour feeling about the reconstruction of the navy. Here is a matter in\nwhich science has compelled us to break with tradition absolutely and\nirrevocably; we have done so, but we have done so with the greatest\nregret. The ships of the line that our hearts and imaginations love are\nthe ships of Nelson and Collingwood and Cochrane. We think of the\nBritish fleets that bore down upon the enemy with the breeze in their\nwhite sails; we think of the fine qualities of seamanship that were\nfostered in our _Agamemnons_, and _Victories_, and _Temeraires_. Will\nthe navies of the future ever so clothe their dreadful powers with\nbeauty, as did the ordered columns of Nelson, when they came with a fair\nwind and all sails set, at eleven o'clock in the morning into Trafalgar\nBay? We see the smoke of their broadsides rising up to their sails like\nmists to the snowy Alps, and high above, against heaven's blue, the\nunconquered flag of England! Nor do we perceive now for the first time\nthat there was poetry in those fleets of old; our forefathers felt it\nthen, and expressed it in a thousand songs.[7]\n\n\nLETTER III.\n\nTO A LADY WHO LAMENTED THAT HER SON HAD INTELLECTUAL DOUBTS CONCERNING\nTHE DOGMAS OF THE CHURCH.\n\n  The situation of mother and son a very common one--Painful only when\n  the parties are in earnest--The knowledge of the difference evidence\n  of a deeper unity--Value of honesty--Evil of a splendid official\n  religion not believed by men of culture--Diversity of belief an\n  evidence of religious vitality--Criticism not to be ignored--Desire\n  for the highest attainable truth--Letter from Lady Westmorland about\n  her son, Julian Fane.\n\nThe difference which you describe as having arisen between your son and\nyou on the most grave and important subject which can occupy the\nthoughts of men, gives the outline of a situation painful to both the\nparties concerned, and which lays on each of them new and delicate\nobligations. You do not know how common this situation is, and how sadly\nit interferes with the happiness of the very best and most pure-minded\nsouls alive. For such a situation produces pain only where both parties\nare earnest and sincere; and the more earnest both are, the more painful\ndoes the situation become. If you and your son thought of religion\nmerely from the conventional point of view, as the world does only too\neasily, you would meet on a common ground, and might pass through life\nwithout ever becoming aware of any gulf of separation, even though the\nhollowness of your several professions were of widely different kinds.\nBut as it happens, unfortunately for your peace (yet would you have it\notherwise?), that you are both in earnest, both anxious to believe what\nis true and do what you believe to be right, you are likely to cause\neach other much suffering of a kind altogether unknown to less honorable\nand devoted natures. There are certain forms of suffering which affect\nonly the tenderest and truest hearts; they have so many privileges, that\nthis pain has been imposed upon them as the shadow of their sunshine.\n\nLet me suggest, as some ground of consolation and of hope, that your\nvery knowledge of the difference which pains you is in itself the\nevidence of a deeper unity. If your son has told you the full truth\nabout the changes in his belief, it is probably because you yourself\nhave educated him in the habit of truthfulness, which is as much a law\nof religion as it is of honor. Do you wish this part of his education to\nbe enfeebled or obliterated? Could the Church herself reasonably or\nconsistently blame him for practising the one virtue which, in a\npeaceful and luxurious society, demands a certain exercise of courage?\nOur beliefs are independent of our will, but our honesty is not; and he\nwho keeps his honesty keeps one of the most precious possessions of all\ntrue Christians and gentlemen. What state of society can be more\nrepugnant to high religious feeling than a state of smooth external\nunanimity combined with the indifference of the heart, a state in which\nsome splendid official religion performs its daily ceremonies as the\ncostliest functionary of the Government, whilst the men of culture take\na share in them out of conformity to the customs of society, without\neither the assent of the intellect or the emotion of the soul? All\nperiods of great religious vitality have been marked by great and open\ndiversity of belief; and to this day those countries where religion is\nmost alive are the farthest removed from unanimity in the details of\nreligious doctrine. If your son thinks these things of such importance\nto his conscience that he feels compelled to inflict upon you the\nslightest pain on their account, you may rest assured that his religious\nfibre is still full of vitality. If it were deadened, he would argue\nvery much as follows. He would say: \"These old doctrines of the Church\nare not of sufficient consequence for me to disturb my mother about\nthem. What is the use of alluding to them ever?\" And then you would have\nno anxiety; and he himself would have the feeling of settled peace which\ncomes over a battle-field when the dead are buried out of sight. It is\nthe peculiarity--some would say the evil, but I cannot think it an\nevil--of an age of great intellectual activity to produce an amount of\ncritical inquiry into religious doctrine which is entirely unknown to\ntimes of simple tradition. And in these days the critical tendency has\nreceived a novel stimulus from the successive suggestions of scientific\ndiscovery. No one who, like your son, fully shares in the intellectual\nlife of the times in which he lives, can live as if this criticism did\nnot exist. If he affected to ignore it, as an objection already\nanswered, there would be disingenuousness in the affectation. Fifty\nyears ago, even twenty or thirty years ago, a highly intellectual young\nman might have hardened into the fixed convictions of middle age without\nany external disturbance, except such as might have been easily avoided.\nThe criticism existed then, in certain circles; but it was not in the\nair, as it is now. The life of mankind resembles that of a brook which\nhas its times of tranquillity, but farther on its times of trouble and\nunrest. Our immediate forefathers had the peaceful time for their lot;\nthose who went before them had passed over very rough ground at the\nReformation. For us, in our turn, comes the recurrent restlessness,\nthough not in the same place. What we are going to, who can tell? What\nwe suffer just now, you and many others know too accurately. There are\ngulfs of separation in homes of the most perfect love. Our only hope of\npreserving what is best in that purest of earthly felicities lies in the\npractice of an immense charity, a wide tolerance, a sincere respect for\nopinions that are not ours, and a deep trust that the loyal pursuit of\ntruth cannot but be in perfect accordance with the intentions of the\nCreator, who endowed the noblest races of mankind with the indefatigable\ncuriosity of science. Not to inquire was possible for our forefathers,\nbut it is not possible for us. With our intellectual growth has come an\nirrepressible anxiety to possess the highest truth attainable by us.\nThis desire is not sinful, not presumptuous, but really one of the best\nand purest of our instincts, being nothing else than the sterling\nhonesty of the intellect, seeking the harmony of concordant truth, and\nutterly disinterested.\n\nI may quote, as an illustration of the tendencies prevalent amongst the\nnoblest and most cultivated young men, a letter from Lady Westmorland to\nMr. Robert Lytton about her accomplished son, the now celebrated Julian\nFane. \"We had,\" she said, \"several conversations, during his last\nillness, upon religious subjects, about which he had his own peculiar\nviews. The disputes and animosities between High and Low Church, and all\nthe feuds of religious sectarianism, caused him the deepest disgust. I\nthink, indeed, that he carried this feeling too far. He had a horror of\n_cant_, which I also think was exaggerated; for it gave him a repulsion\nfor all outward show of religious observances. He often told me that he\nnever missed the practice of prayer, at morning and evening, and at\nother times. But his prayers were his own: his own thoughts in his own\nwords. He said that he could not pray in the set words of another; nor\nunless he was _alone_. As to joining in family prayers, or praying at\nchurch, he found it impossible. He constantly read the New Testament. He\ndeprecated the indiscriminate reading of the Bible. He firmly believed\nin the efficacy of sincere prayer; and was always pleased when I told\nhim I had prayed for him.\"\n\nTo this it may be added, that many recent conversions to the Church of\nRome, though apparently of an exactly opposite character, have in\nreality also been brought about by the scientific inquiries of the age.\nThe religious sentiment, alarmed at the prospect of a possible taking\naway of that which it feeds upon, has sought in many instances to\npreserve it permanently under the guardianship of the strongest\necclesiastical authority. In an age of less intellectual disturbance\nthis anxiety would scarcely have been felt; and the degree of authority\nclaimed by one of the reformed Churches would have been accepted as\nsufficient. Here again the agitations of the modern intellect have\ncaused division in families; and as you are lamenting the heterodoxy of\nyour son, so other parents regret the Roman orthodoxy of theirs.\n\n\nLETTER IV.\n\nTO THE SON OF THE LADY TO WHOM THE PRECEDING LETTER WAS ADDRESSED.\n\n  Difficulty of detaching intellectual from religious questions--The\n  sacerdotal system--Necessary to ascertain what religion\n  is--Intellectual religion really nothing but philosophy--The popular\n  instinct--The test of belief--Public worship--The intellect moral, but\n  not religious--Intellectual activity sometimes in contradiction to\n  dogma--Differences between the intellectual and religious lives.\n\nYour request is not so simple as it appears. You ask me for a frank\nopinion as to the course your mind is taking in reference to very\nimportant subjects; but you desire only intellectual, and not religious\nguidance. The difficulty is to effect any clear demarcation between the\ntwo. Certainly I should never take upon myself to offer religious advice\nto any one; it is difficult for those who have not qualified themselves\nfor the priestly office to do that with force and effect. The manner in\nwhich a priest leads and manages a mind that has from the first been\nmoulded in the beliefs and observances of his Church, cannot be imitated\nby a layman. A priest starts always from authority; his method, which\nhas been in use from the earliest ages, consists first in claiming your\nunquestioning assent to certain doctrines, from which he immediately\nproceeds to deduce the inferences that may affect your conduct or\nregulate your thoughts. It is a method perfectly adapted to its own\nends. It can deal with all humanity, and produce the most immediate\npractical results. So long as the assent to the doctrines is sincere,\nthe sacerdotal system may contend successfully against some of the\nstrongest forms of evil; but when the assent to the doctrines has ceased\nto be complete, when some of them are half-believed and others not\nbelieved at all, the system loses much of its primitive efficiency. It\nseems likely that your difficulty, the difficulty of so many\nintellectual men in these days, is to know where the intellectual\nquestions end and the purely religious ones can be considered to begin.\nIf you could once ascertain that, in a manner definitely satisfactory,\nyou would take your religious questions to a clergyman and your\nintellectual ones to a man of science, and so get each solved\nindependently.\n\nWithout presuming to offer a solution of so complex a difficulty as\nthis, I may suggest to you that it is of some importance to your\nintellectual life to ascertain what religion is. A book was published\nmany years ago by a very learned author, in which he endeavored to show\nthat what is vulgarly called scepticism may be intellectual religion.\nNow, although nothing can be more distasteful to persons of culture\nthan the bigotry which refuses the name of religion to other people's\nopinions, merely because they are other people's opinions, I suspect\nthat the popular instinct is right in denying the name of religion to\nthe inferences of the intellect. The description which the author just\nalluded to gave of what he called intellectual religion was in fact\nsimply a description of philosophy, and of that discipline which the\nbest philosophy imposes upon the heart and the passions. On the other\nhand, Dr. Arnold, when he says that by religion he always understands\nChristianity, narrows the word as much as he would have narrowed the\nword \"patriotism\" had he defined it to mean a devotion to the interests\nof England. I think the popular instinct, though of course quite unable\nto construct a definition of religion, is in its vague way very well\naware of the peculiar nature of religious thought and feeling. The\npopular instinct would certainly never confound religion with philosophy\non the one hand, nor, on the other, unless excited to opposition, would\nit be likely to refuse the name of religion to another worship, such as\nMahometanism, for instance.\n\nAccording to the popular instinct, then, which on a subject of this kind\nappears the safest of all guides, a religion involves first a belief and\nnext a public practice. The nature of the belief is in these days wholly\npeculiar to religion; in other times it was not so, because then people\nbelieved other things much in the same way. But in these days the test\nof religious belief is that it should make men accept as certain truth\nwhat they would disbelieve on any other authority. For example, a true\nRoman Catholic believes that the consecrated host is the body of Christ,\nand so long as he lives in the purely religious spirit he continues to\nbelieve this; but so soon as the power of his religious sentiment\ndeclines he ceases to believe it, and the wafer appears to him a wafer,\nand no more. And so amongst Protestants the truly religious believe many\nthings which no person not being under the authority of religion could\nby any effort bring himself to believe. It is easy, for example, to\nbelieve that Joshua arrested the sun's apparent motion, so long as the\nreligious authority of the Bible remains perfectly intact; but no sooner\ndoes the reader become critical than the miracle is disbelieved. In all\nages, and in all countries, religions have narrated marvellous things,\nand the people have always affirmed that not to believe these narratives\nconstituted the absence of religion, or what they called atheism. They\nhave equally, in all ages and countries, held the public act of\nparticipation in religious worship to be an essential part of what they\ncalled religion. They do not admit the sufficiency of secret prayer.\n\nCan these popular instincts help us to a definition? They may help us at\nleast to mark the dividing line between religion and morality, between\nreligion and philosophy. No one has ever desired, more earnestly and\neagerly than I, to discover the foundations of the intellectual\nreligion; no one has ever felt more chilling disappointment in the\nperception of the plain bare fact that the intellect gives morality,\nphilosophy, precious things indeed, but not religion. It is like seeking\nart by science. Thousands of artists, whole schools from generation to\ngeneration, have sought fine art through anatomy and perspective; and\nalthough these sciences did not hinder the born artists from coming to\nart at last, they did not ensure their safe arrival in the art-paradise;\nin many instances they even led men away from art. So it is with the\ngreat modern search for the intellectual religion; the idea of it is\nscientific in its source, and the result of it, the last definite\nattainment, is simply intellectual morality, not religion in the sense\nwhich all humanity has attached to religion during all the ages that\nhave preceded ours. We may say that philosophy is the religion of the\nintellectual; and if we go scrupulously to Latin derivations, it is so.\nBut taking frankly the received meaning of the word as it is used by\nmankind everywhere, we must admit that, although high intellect would\nlead us inevitably to high and pure morality, and to most scrupulously\nbeautiful conduct in everything, towards men, towards women, towards\neven the lower and lowest animals, still it does not lead us to that\nbelief in the otherwise unbelievable, or to that detailed _cultus_\nwhich is meant by religion in the universally accepted sense. It is\ndisingenuous to take a word popularly respected and attribute to it\nanother sense. Such a course is not strictly honest, and therefore not\npurely intellectual; for the foundation of the intellectual life is\nhonesty.\n\nThe difficulty of the intellectual life is, that whilst it can never\nassume a position of hostility to religion, which it must always\nrecognize as the greatest natural force for the amelioration of mankind,\nit is nevertheless compelled to enunciate truths which may happen to be\nin contradiction with dogmas received at this or that particular time.\nThat you may not suspect me of a disposition to dwell continually on\nsafe generalities and to avoid details out of timidity, let me mention\ntwo cases on which the intellectual and scientific find themselves at\nvariance with the clergy. The clergy tell us that mankind descend from a\nsingle pair, and that in the earlier ages the human race attained a\nlongevity counted not by decades but by centuries. Alexander Humboldt\ndisbelieves the first of these propositions, Professor Owen disbelieves\nthe second. Men of science generally are of the same opinion. Few men of\nscience accept Adam and Eve, few accept Methuselah. Professor Owen\nargues that, since the oldest skeletons known have the same system of\nteething that we have, man can never have lived long enough to require\nnine sets of teeth. In regard to these, and a hundred other points on\nwhich science advances new views, the question which concerns us is how\nwe are to maintain the integrity of the intellectual life. The danger is\nthe loss of inward ingenuousness, the attempt to persuade ourselves that\nwe believe opposite statements. If once we admit disingenuousness into\nthe mind, the intellectual life is no longer serene and pure. The plain\ncourse for the preservation of our honesty, which is the basis of truly\nintellectual thinking, is to receive the truth, whether agreeable or the\ncontrary, with all its train of consequences, however repulsive or\ndiscouraging. In attempting to reconcile scientific truth with the\noldest traditions of humanity, there is but one serious danger, the loss\nof intellectual integrity. Of that possession modern society has little\nleft to lose.\n\nBut let us understand that the intellectual life and the religious life\nare as distinct as the scientific and the artistic lives. They may be\nled by the same person, but by the same person in different moods. They\ncoincide on some points, accidentally. Certainly, the basis of high\nthinking is perfect honesty, and honesty is a recognized religious\nvirtue. Where the two minds differ is on the importance of authority.\nThe religious life is based upon authority, the intellectual life is\nbased upon personal investigation. From the intellectual point of view I\ncannot advise you to restrain the spirit of investigation, which is the\nscientific spirit. It may lead you very far, yet always to truth,\nultimately,--you, or those after you, whose path you may be destined to\nprepare. Science requires a certain inward heat and heroism in her\nvotaries, notwithstanding the apparent coldness of her statements.\nEspecially does she require that intellectual fearlessness which accepts\na proved fact without reference to its personal or its social\nconsequences.\n\n\nLETTER V.\n\nTO A FRIEND WHO SEEMED TO TAKE CREDIT TO HIMSELF, INTELLECTUALLY, FROM\nTHE NATURE OF HIS RELIGIOUS BELIEF.\n\n  Anecdote of a Swiss gentleman--Religious belief protects traditions,\n  but does not weaken the critical faculty itself--Illustration from the\n  art of etching--Sydney Smith--Dr. Arnold--Earnest religious belief of\n  Ampere--Comte and Sainte-Beuve--Faraday--Belief or unbelief proves\n  nothing for or against intellectual capacity.\n\nI happened once to be travelling in Switzerland with an eminent citizen\nof that country, and I remember how in speaking of some place we passed\nthrough he associated together the ideas of Protestantism and\nintellectual superiority in some such phrase as this: \"The people here\nare very superior; they are Protestants.\" There seemed to exist, in my\ncompanion's mind, an assumption that Protestants would be superior\npeople intellectually, or that superior people would be Protestants;\nand this set me thinking whether, in the course of such experience as\nhad fallen in my way, I had found that religious creed had made much\ndifference in the matter of intellectual acumen or culture.\n\nThe exact truth appears to be this. A religious belief protects this or\nthat subject against intellectual action, but it does not affect the\nenergy of the intellectual action upon subjects which are not so\nprotected. Let me illustrate this by a reference to one of the fine\narts, the art of etching. The etcher protects a copper-plate by means of\na waxy covering called etching-ground, and wherever this ground is\nremoved the acid bites the copper. The waxy ground does not in the least\naffect the strength of the acid, it only intervenes between it and the\nmetal plate. So it is in the mind of man with regard to his intellectual\nacumen and his religious creed. The creed may protect a tradition from\nthe operation of the critical faculty, but it does not weaken the\ncritical faculty itself. In the English Church, for example, the Bible\nis protected against criticism; but this does not weaken the critical\nfaculty of English clergymen with reference to other literature, and\nmany of them give evidence of a strong critical faculty in all matters\nnot protected by their creed. Think of the vigorous common sense of\nSydney Smith, exposing so many abuses at a time when it needed not only\nmuch courage but great originality to expose them! Remember the\nintellectual force of Arnold, a great natural force if ever there was\none--so direct in action, so independent of contemporary opinion!\nIntellectual forces of this kind act freely not only in the Church of\nEngland, but in other Churches, even in the Church of Rome. Who amongst\nthe scientific men of this century has been more profoundly scientific,\nmore capable of original scientific discovery than Ampere? Yet Ampere\nwas a Roman Catholic, and not a Roman Catholic in the conventional sense\nmerely, like the majority of educated Frenchmen, but a hearty and\nenthusiastic believer in the doctrines of the Church of Rome. The belief\nin transubstantiation did not prevent Ampere from becoming one of the\nbest chemists of his time, just as the belief in the plenary inspiration\nof the New Testament does not prevent a good Protestant from becoming an\nacute critic of Greek literature generally. A man may have the finest\nscientific faculty, the most advanced scientific culture, and still\nbelieve the consecrated wafer to the body of Jesus Christ. For since he\nstill believes it to be the body of Christ under the apparent form of a\nwafer, it is evident that the wafer under chemical analysis would\nresolve itself into the same elements as before consecration; therefore\nwhy consult chemistry? What has chemistry to say to a mystery of this\nkind, the essence of which is the _complete_ disguise of a human body\nunder a form in _all_ respects answering the material semblance of a\nwafer? Ampere must have foreseen the certain results of analysis as\nclearly as the best chemist educated in the principles of Protestantism,\nbut this did not prevent him from adoring the consecrated host in all\nthe sincerity of his heart.\n\nI say that it does not follow, because M. or N. happens to be a\nProtestant, that he is intellectually superior to Ampere, or because M.\nor N. happens to be a Unitarian, or a Deist, or a Positivist, that he is\nintellectually superior to Dr. Arnold or Sydney Smith. And on the other\nside of this question it is equally unfair to conclude that because a\nman does not share whatever may be our theological beliefs on the\npositive side, he must be less capable intellectually than we are. Two\nof the finest and most disciplined modern intellects, Comte and\nSainte-Beuve, were neither Catholics, nor Protestants, nor Deists, but\nconvinced atheists; yet Comte until the period of his decline, and\nSainte-Beuve up to the very hour of his death, were quite in the highest\nrank of modern scientific and literary intellect.\n\nThe inference from these facts which concerns every one of us is, that\nwe are not to build up any edifice of intellectual self-satisfaction on\nthe ground that in theological matters we believe or disbelieve this\nthing or that. If Ampere believed the doctrines of the Church of Rome,\nwhich to us seem so incredible, if Faraday remained throughout his\nbrilliant intellectual career (certainly one of the most brilliant ever\nlived through by a human being) a sincere member of the obscure sect of\nthe Sandemanians, we are not warranted in the conclusion that we are\nintellectually their betters because our theology is more novel, or more\nfashionable, or more in harmony with reason. Nor, on the other hand,\ndoes our orthodoxy prove anything in favor of our mental force and\nculture. Who, amongst the most orthodox writers, has a more forcible and\ncultivated intellect than Sainte-Beuve?--who can better give us the tone\nof perfect culture, with its love of justice, its thoroughness in\npreparation, its superiority to all crudeness and violence? Anglican or\nRomanist, dissenter or heretic, may be our master in the intellectual\nsphere, from which no sincere and capable laborer is excluded, either by\nhis belief or by his unbelief.\n\n\nLETTER VI.\n\nTO A ROMAN CATHOLIC FRIEND WHO ACCUSED THE INTELLECTUAL CLASS OF A WANT\nOF REVERENCE FOR AUTHORITY.\n\n  Necessity for treating affirmations as if they were doubtful--The\n  Papal Infallibility--The Infallibility of the Sacred\n  Scriptures--Opposition of method between Intellect and\n  Faith--The perfection of the intellectual life requires intellectual\n  methods--Inevitable action of the intellectual\n  forces.\n\nIt is very much the custom, in modern writing about liberty of thought,\nto pass lightly over the central difficulty, which sooner or later will\nhave to be considered. The difficulty is this, that the freedom of the\nintellectual life can never be secured except by treating as if they\nwere doubtful several affirmations which large masses of mankind hold to\nbe certainties as indisputable as the facts of science. One of the most\nrecently conspicuous of these affirmations is the infallibility of the\nPope of Rome. Nothing can be more certain in the opinion of immense\nnumbers of Roman Catholics than the infallible authority of the Supreme\nPontiff on all matters affecting doctrine. But then the matters\naffecting doctrine include many subjects which come within the circle of\nthe sciences. History is one of those subjects which modern intellectual\ncriticism takes leave to study after its own methods, and yet certain\nprevalent views of history are offensive to the Pope and explicitly\ncondemned by him. The consequence is, that in order to study history\nwith mental liberty, we have to act practically as if there existed a\ndoubt of the Papal infallibility. The same difficulty occurs with\nreference to the great Protestant doctrine which attributes a similar\ninfallibility to the various authors who composed what are now known to\nus as the Holy Scriptures. Our men of science act, and the laws of\nscientific investigation compel them to act, as if it were not quite\ncertain that the views of scientific subjects held by those early\nwriters were so final as to render modern investigation superfluous. It\nis useless to disguise the fact that there is a real opposition of\nmethod between intellect and faith, and that the independence of the\nintellectual life can never be fully secured unless all affirmations\nbased upon authority are treated as if they were doubtful. This implies\nno change of manner in the intellectual classes towards those classes\nwhose mental habits are founded upon obedience. I mean that the man of\nscience does not treat the affirmations of any priesthood with less\nrespect than the affirmations of his own scientific brethren; he applies\nwith perfect impartiality the same criticism to all affirmations, from\nwhatever source they emanate. The intellect does not recognize authority\nin any one, and intellectual men do not treat the Pope, or the author of\nGenesis, with less consideration than those famous persons who in their\nday have been the brightest luminaries of science. The difficulty,\nhowever, remains, that whilst the intellectual class has no wish to\noffend either those who believe in the infallibility of the Pope, or\nthose who believe in the infallibility of the author of Genesis, it is\ncompelled to conduct its own investigations as if those infallibilities\nwere matters of doubt and not of certainty.\n\nWhy this is so, may be shown by a reference to the operation of Nature\nin other ways. The rewards of physical strength and health are not given\nto the most moral, to the most humane, to the most gentle, but to those\nwho have acted, and whose forefathers have acted, in the most perfect\naccordance with the laws of their physical constitution. So the\nperfection of the intellectual life is not given to the most humble, the\nmost believing, the most obedient, but to those who use their minds\naccording to the most purely intellectual methods. One of the most\nimportant truths that human beings can know is the perfectly independent\nworking of the natural laws: one of the best practical conclusions to be\ndrawn from the observation of Nature is that in the conduct of our own\nunderstandings we should use a like independence.\n\nIt would be wrong, in writing to you on subjects so important as these,\nto shrink from handling the real difficulties. Every one now is aware\nthat science must and will pursue her own methods and work according to\nher own laws, without concerning herself with the most authoritative\naffirmations from without. But if science said one thing and\nauthoritative tradition said another, no perfectly ingenuous person\ncould rest contented until he had either reconciled the two or decidedly\nrejected one of them. It is impossible for a mind which is honest\ntowards itself to admit that a proposition is true and false at the same\ntime, true in science and false in theology. Therefore, although the\nintellectual methods are entirely independent of tradition, it may\neasily happen that the indirect results of our following those methods\nmay be the overthrow of some dogma which has for many generations been\nconsidered indispensable to man's spiritual welfare. With regard to this\ncontingency it need only be observed that the intellectual forces of\nhumanity must act, like floods and winds, according to their own laws;\nand that if they cast down any edifice too weak to resist them, it must\nbe because the original constructors had not built it substantially, or\nbecause those placed in charge of it had neglected to keep it in repair.\nThis is their business, not ours. Our work is simply to ascertain truth\nby our own independent methods, alike without hostility to any persons\nclaiming authority, and without deference to them.\n\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n  [6] The title of this letter seems so odd, that it may be necessary\n    to inform the reader that it was addressed to a real person.\n\n  [7] I had desired to say something about the uses of tradition in the\n    industrial arts and in the fine arts, but the subject is a very large\n    one, and I have not time or space to treat it properly here. I may\n    observe, however, briefly, that the genuine spirit of tradition has\n    almost entirely disappeared from English industry and art, where it\n    has been replaced by a spirit of scientific investigation and\n    experiment. The true traditional spirit was still in full vigor in\n    Japan a few years ago, and it kept the industry and art of that\n    country up to a remarkably high standard. The traditional spirit is\n    most favorable to professional skill, because, under its influence,\n    the apprentice learns thoroughly, whereas under other influences he\n    often learns very imperfectly. The inferiority of English painting to\n    French (considered technically) has been due to the prevalence of a\n    traditional spirit in the French school which was almost entirely\n    absent from our own.\n\n\n\n\nPART VII.\n\n_WOMEN AND MARRIAGE._\n\n\nLETTER I.\n\nTO A YOUNG GENTLEMAN OF INTELLECTUAL TASTES, WHO, WITHOUT HAVING AS YET\nANY PARTICULAR LADY IN VIEW, HAD EXPRESSED, IN A GENERAL WAY, HIS\nDETERMINATION TO GET MARRIED.\n\n  How ignorant we all are about marriage--People wrong in their\n  estimates of the marriages of others--Effects of marriage on the\n  intellectual life--Two courses open--A wife who would not interfere\n  with elevated pursuits--A wife capable of understanding them--Madame\n  Ingres--Difference in the education of the sexes--Difficulty of\n  educating a wife.\n\nThe subject of marriage is one concerning which neither I nor anybody\nelse can have more than an infinitesimally small atom of knowledge. Each\nof us knows how his or her own marriage has turned out; but that, in\ncomparison with a knowledge of marriage generally, is like a single\nplant in comparison with the flora of the globe. The utmost experience\non this subject to be found in this country extends to about three\ntrials or experiments. A man may become twice a widower, and then marry\na third time, but it may be easily shown that the variety of his\nexperience is more than counterbalanced by its incompleteness in each\ninstance. For the experiment to be conclusive even as to the wisdom of\none decision, it must extend over half a lifetime. A true marriage is\nnot a mere temporary arrangement, and although a young couple are said\nto be married as soon as the lady has changed her name, the truth is\nthat the real marriage is a long slow intergrowth, like that of two\ntrees planted quite close together in the forest.\n\nThe subject of marriage generally is one of which men know less than\nthey know of any other subject of universal interest. People are almost\nalways wrong in their estimates of the marriages of others, and the best\nproof how little we know the real tastes and needs of those with whom we\nhave been most intimate, is our unfailing surprise at the marriages they\nmake. Very old and experienced people fancy they know a great deal about\nyounger couples, but their guesses, there is good reason to believe,\nnever _exactly_ hit the mark.\n\nEver since this idea, that marriage is a subject we are all very\nignorant about, had taken root in my own mind, many little incidents\nwere perpetually occurring to confirm it; they proved to me, on the one\nhand, how often I had been mistaken about other people, and, on the\nother hand, how mistaken other people were concerning the only marriage\nI profess to know anything about, namely, my own.\n\nOur ignorance is all the darker that few men tell us the little that\nthey know, that little being too closely bound up with that innermost\nprivacy of life which every man of right feeling respects in his own\ncase, as in the case of another. The only instances which are laid bare\nto the public view are the unhappy marriages, which are really not\nmarriages at all. An unhappy alliance bears exactly the same relation to\na true marriage that disease does to health, and the quarrels and misery\nof it are the crises by which Nature tries to bring about either the\nrecovery of happiness, or the endurable peace of a settled separation.\n\nAll that we really know about marriage is that it is based upon the most\npowerful of all our instincts, and that it shows its own justification\nin its fruits, especially in the prolonged and watchful care of\nchildren. But marriage is very complex in its effects, and there is one\nset of effects, resulting from it, to which remarkably little attention\nhas been paid hitherto,--I mean its effects upon the intellectual life.\nSurely they deserve consideration by all who value culture.\n\nI believe that for an intellectual man, only two courses are open;\neither he ought to marry some simple dutiful woman who will bear him\nchildren, and see to the household matters, and love him in a trustful\nspirit without jealousy of his occupations; or else, on the other hand,\nhe ought to marry some highly intelligent lady, able to carry her\neducation far beyond school experiences, and willing to become his\ncompanion in the arduous paths of intellectual labor. The danger in the\nfirst of the two cases is that pointed out by Wordsworth in some verses\naddressed to lake-tourists who might feel inclined to buy a peasant's\ncottage in Westmorland. The tourist would spoil the little romantic\nspot if he bought it; the charm of it is subtly dependent upon the\npoetry of a simple life, and would be brushed away by the influence of\nthe things that are necessary to people in the middle class. I remember\ndining in a country inn with an English officer whose ideas were\nsingularly unconventional. We were waited upon by our host's daughter, a\nbeautiful girl, whose manners were remarkable for their natural elegance\nand distinction. It seemed to us both that no lady of rank could be more\ndistinguished than she was; and my companion said that he thought a\ngentleman might do worse than ask that girl to marry him, and settle\ndown quietly in that quiet mountain village, far from the cares and\nvanities of the world. That is a sort of dream which has occurred no\ndoubt to many an honorable man. Some men have gone so far as to try to\nmake the dream a reality, and have married the beautiful peasant. But\nthe difficulty is that she does not remain what she was; she becomes a\nsort of make-belief lady, and then her ignorance, which in her natural\ncondition was a charming _naivete_, becomes an irritating defect. If,\nhowever it were possible for an intellectual man to marry some\nsimple-hearted peasant girl, and keep her carefully in her original\ncondition, I seriously believe that the venture would be less perilous\nto his culture than an alliance with some woman of our Philistine\nclasses, equally incapable of comprehending his pursuits, but much more\nlikely to interfere with them. I once had a conversation on this subject\nwith a distinguished artist, who is now a widower, and who is certainly\nnot likely to be prejudiced against marriage by his own experience,\nwhich had been an unusually happy one. His view was that a man devoted\nto art might marry either a plain-minded woman, who would occupy herself\nexclusively with household matters and shield his peace by taking these\ncares upon herself, or else a woman quite capable of entering into his\nartistic life; but he was convinced that a marriage which exposed him to\nunintelligent criticism and interference would be dangerous in the\nhighest degree. And of the two kinds of marriage which he considered\npossible he preferred the former, that with the entirely ignorant and\nsimple person from whom no interference was to be apprehended. He\nconsidered the first Madame Ingres the true model of an artist's wife,\nbecause she did all in her power to guard her husband's peace against\nthe daily cares of life and never herself disturbed it, acting the part\nof a breakwater which protects a space of calm, and never destroys the\npeace that it has made. This may be true for artists whose occupation\nis rather aesthetic than intellectual, and does not get much help or\nbenefit from talk; but the ideal marriage for a man of great literary\nculture would be one permitting some equality of companionship, or, if\nnot equality, at least interest. That this ideal is not a mere dream,\nbut may consolidate into a happy reality, several examples prove; yet\nthese examples are not so numerous as to relieve me from anxiety about\nyour chances of finding such companionship. The different education of\nthe two sexes separates them widely at the beginning, and to meet on any\ncommon ground of culture a second education has to be gone through. It\nrarely happens that there is resolution enough for this.\n\nThe want of thoroughness and reality in the education of both sexes, but\nespecially in that of women, may be attributed to a sort of policy which\nis not very favorable to companionship in married life. It appears to be\nthought wise to teach boys things which women do not learn, in order to\ngive women a degree of respect for men's attainments, which they would\nnot be so likely to feel if they were prepared to estimate them\ncritically; whilst girls are taught arts and languages which until\nrecently were all but excluded from our public schools, and won no rank\nat our universities. Men and women had consequently scarcely any common\nground to meet upon, and the absence of serious mental discipline in the\ntraining of women made them indisposed to submit to the irksomeness of\nthat earnest intellectual labor which might have remedied the\ndeficiency. The total lack of accuracy in their mental habits was then,\nand is still for the immense majority of women, the least easily\nsurmountable impediment to culture. The history of many marriages which\nhave failed to realize intellectual companionship is comprised in a\nsentence which was actually uttered by one of the most accomplished of\nmy friends: \"She knew nothing when I married her. I tried to teach her\nsomething; it made her angry, and I gave it up.\"\n\n\nLETTER II.\n\nTO A YOUNG GENTLEMAN WHO CONTEMPLATED MARRIAGE.\n\n  The foundations of the intellectual marriage--Marriage not a snare or\n  pitfall for the intellectual--Men of culture, who marry badly, often\n  have themselves to blame--For every grade of the masculine intellect\n  there exists a corresponding grade of the feminine\n  intellect--Difficulty of finding the true mate--French University\n  Professors--An extreme case of intellectual separation--Regrets of a\n  widow--Women help us less by adding to our knowledge than by\n  understanding us.\n\nIn several letters which have preceded this I have indicated some of the\ndifferences between the female sex and ours, and it is time to examine\nthe true foundations of the intellectual marriage. Let me affirm, to\nbegin with, my profound faith in the natural arrangement. There is in\nnature so much evident care for the development of the intellectual\nlife, so much protection of it in the social order, there are such\nadmirable contrivances for continuing it from century to century, that\nwe may fairly count upon some provision for its necessities in marriage.\nIntellectual men are not less alive to the charms of women than other\nmen are; indeed the greatest of them have always delighted in the\nsociety of women. If marriage were really dangerous to the intellectual\nlife, it would be a moral snare or pitfall, from which the best and\nnoblest would be least likely to escape. It is hard to believe that the\nstrong passions which so often accompany high intellectual gifts were\nintended either to drive their possessors into immorality or else to the\nmisery of ill-assorted unions.\n\nNo, there _is_ such a thing as the intellectual marriage, in which the\nintellect itself is married. If such marriages are not frequent, it is\nthat they are not often made the deliberate purpose of a wise alliance.\nMen choose their wives because they are pretty, or because they are\nrich, or because they are well-connected, but rarely for the permanent\ninterest of their society. Yet who that had ever been condemned to the\ndreadful embarrassments of a _tete-a-tete_ with an uncompanionable\nperson, could reflect without apprehension on a lifetime of such\n_tete-a-tetes_?\n\nWhen intellectual men suffer from this misery they have themselves to\nblame. What is the use of having any mental superiority, if, in a\nmatter so enormously important as the choice of a companion for life, it\nfails to give us a warning when the choice is absurdly unsuitable? When\nmen complain, as they do not unfrequently, that their wives have no\nideas, the question inevitably suggests itself, why the superiority of\nthe masculine intellect did not, in these cases, permit it to discover\nthe defect in time? If we are so clever as to be bored by ordinary\nwomen, why cannot our cleverness find out the feminine cleverness which\nwould respond to it?\n\nWhat I am going to say now is in its very nature incapable of proof, and\nyet the longer I live the more the truth of it is \"borne in upon me.\" I\nfeel convinced that for every grade of the masculine intellect there\nexists a corresponding grade of the feminine intellect, so that a\nprecisely suitable intellectual marriage is always possible for every\none. But since the higher intellects are rare, and rare in proportion to\ntheir elevation, it follows that the difficulty of finding the true mate\nincreases with the mental strength and culture of the man. If the\n\"mental princes,\" as Blake called himself, are to marry the mental\nprincesses, they will not always discover them quite so easily as kings'\nsons find kings' daughters.\n\nThis difficulty of finding the true mate is the real reason why so many\nclever men marry silly or stupid women. The women about them seem to be\nall very much alike, mentally; it seems hopeless to expect any real\ncompanionship, and the clever men are decided by the color of a girl's\neyes, or a thousand pounds more in her dowry, or her relationship to a\npeer of the realm.\n\nIt was remarked to me by a French university professor, that although\nmen in his position had on the whole much more culture than the middle\nclass, they had an extraordinary talent for winning the most vulgar and\nignorant wives. The explanation is, that their marriages are not\nintellectual marriages at all. The class of French professors is not\nadvantageously situated; it has not great facilities for choice. Their\nincomes are so small that, unless helped by private means, the first\nthing they can prudently look to in a wife is her utility as a domestic\nservant, which, in fact, it is her destiny to become. The intellectual\ndisparity is from the beginning likely to be very great, because the\nprofessor is confined to the country-town where his _Lycee_ happens to\nbe situated, and in that town he does not always see the most cultivated\nsociety. He may be an intellectual prince, but where is he to find his\nprincess? The marriage begins without the idea of intellectual\ncompanionship, and it continues as it began. The girl was uneducated: it\nseems hopeless to try to educate the woman; and then there is the\nsupreme difficulty, only to be overcome by two wills at once most\nresolute and most persistent, namely, how to find the time. Years pass;\nthe husband is occupied all day, the wife needs to cheer herself with a\nlittle society, and goes to sit with neighbors who are not likely to\nadd anything valuable to her knowledge or to give any elevation to her\nthoughts. Then comes the final fixing and crystallization of her\nintellect, after which, however much pains and labor might be taken by\nthe pair, she is past the possibility of change.\n\nThese women are often so good and devoted that their husbands enjoy\ngreat happiness; but it is a kind of happiness curiously independent of\nthe lady's presence. The professor may love his wife, and fully\nappreciate her qualities as a housekeeper, but he passes a more\ninteresting evening with some male friend whose reading is equal to his\nown. Sometimes the lady perceives this, and it is an element of sadness\nin her life.\n\n\"I never see my husband,\" she tells you, not in anger. \"His work\noccupies him all day, and in the evening he sees his friends.\" The pair\nwalk out together twice a week. I sometimes wonder what they say to each\nother during those conjugal promenades. They talk about their children,\nprobably, and the little recurring difficulties about money. He cannot\ntalk about his studies, or the intellectual speculations which his\nstudies continually suggest.\n\nThe most extreme cases of intellectual separation between husband and\nwife that ever came under my observation was, however, not that of a\nFrench professor, but a highly-cultivated Scotch lawyer. He was one of\nthe most intellectual men I ever knew--a little cynical, but full of\noriginal power, and uncommonly well-informed. His theory was, that women\nought not to be admitted into the region of masculine thought--that it\nwas not good for them; and he acted so consistently up to this theory,\nthat although he would open his mind with the utmost frankness to a male\nacquaintance over the evening whisky-toddy, there was not whisky enough\nin all Scotland to make him frank in the presence of his wife. She\nreally knew nothing whatever about his intellectual existence; and yet\nthere was nothing in his ways of thinking which an honorable man need\nconceal from an intelligent woman. His theory worked well enough in\npractice, and his reserve was so perfect that it may be doubted whether\neven feminine subtlety ever suspected it. The explanation of his system\nmay perhaps have been this. He was an exceedingly busy man; he felt that\nhe had not time to teach his wife to know him as he was, and so\npreferred to leave her with her own conception of him, rather than\ndisturb that conception when he believed it impossible to replace it by\na completely true one. We all act in that way with those whom we\nconsider _quite_ excluded from our private range of thought.\n\nAll this may be very prudent and wise: there may be degrees of conjugal\nfelicity, satisfactory in their way, without intellectual intercourse,\nand yet I cannot think that any man of high culture could regard his\nmarriage as altogether a successful one so long as his wife remained\nshut out from his mental life. Nor is the exclusion always quite\nagreeable to the lady herself. A widow said to me that her husband had\nnever thought it necessary to try to raise her to his own level, yet she\nbelieved that with his kindly help she might have attained it.\n\nYou with your masculine habits, may observe, as to this, that if the\nlady had seriously cared to attain a higher level she might have\nachieved it by her own private independent effort. But this is exactly\nwhat the feminine nature never does. A clever woman is the best of\npupils, when she loves her teacher, but the worst of solitary learners.\n\nIt is not by adding to our knowledge, but by understanding us, that\nwomen are our helpers. They understand us far better than men do, when\nonce they have the degree of preliminary information which enables them\nto enter into our pursuits. Men are occupied with their personal works\nand thoughts, and have wonderfully little sympathy left to enable them\nto comprehend us; but a woman, by her divine sympathy--divine indeed,\nsince it was given by God for this--can enter into our inmost thought,\nand make allowances for all our difficulties. Talk about your work and\nits anxieties to a club of masculine friends, they will give very little\nheed to you; they are all thinking about themselves, and they will\ndislike your egotism because they have so much egotism of their own,\nwhich yours invades and inconveniences. But talk in the same way to any\nwoman who has education enough to enable her to follow you, and she will\nlisten so kindly, and so very intelligently, that you will be betrayed\ninto interminable confidences.\n\nNow, although an intellectual man may not care to make himself\nunderstood by all the people in the street, it is not a good thing for\nhim to feel that he is understood by nobody. The intellectual life is\nsometimes a fearfully solitary one. Unless he lives in a great capital\nthe man devoted to that life is more than all other men liable to suffer\nfrom isolation, to feel utterly alone beneath the deafness of space and\nthe silence of the stars. Give him one friend who can understand him,\nwho will not leave him, who will always be accessible by day and\nnight--one friend, one kindly listener, just one, and the whole universe\nis changed. It is deaf and indifferent no longer, and whilst _she_\nlistens, it seems as if all men and angels listened also, so perfectly\nhis thought is mirrored in the light of her answering eyes.\n\n\nLETTER III.\n\nTO A YOUNG GENTLEMAN WHO CONTEMPLATED MARRIAGE.\n\n  The intellectual ideal of marriage--The danger of dulness--To be\n  counteracted only by the renewal of both minds--Example of Lady\n  Baker--Separation of the sexes by an old prejudice about\n  education--This prejudice on the decline--Influence of the late Prince\n  Consort.\n\nHow far may you hope to realize the intellectual ideal of marriage? Have\nI ever observed in actual life any approximate realization of that\nideal?\n\nThese are the two questions which conclude and epitomize the last of\nyour recent letters. Let me endeavor to answer them as satisfactorily as\nthe obscurity of the subject will permit.\n\nThe intellectual ideal seems to be that of a conversation on all the\nsubjects you most care about, which should never lose its interest. Is\nit possible that two people should live together and talk to each other\nevery day for twenty years without knowing each other's views too well\nfor them to seem worth expressing or worth listening to? There are\nfriends whom we know _too_ well, so that our talk with them has less of\nrefreshment and entertainment than a conversation with the first\nintelligent stranger on the quarter-deck of the steamboat. It is evident\nthat from the intellectual point of view this is the great danger of\nmarriage. It may become dull, not because the mental force of either of\nthe parties has declined, but because each has come to know so\naccurately beforehand what the other will say on any given topic, that\ninquiry is felt to be useless. This too perfect intimacy, which has\nended many a friendship outside of marriage, may also terminate the\nintellectual life in matrimony itself.\n\nLet us not pass too lightly over this danger, for it is not to be\ndenied. Unless carefully provided against, it will gradually extinguish\nthe light that plays between the wedded intelligences as the electric\nlight burns between two carbon points.\n\nI venture to suggest, however, that this evil may be counteracted by\npersons of some energy and originality. This is one of those very\nnumerous cases in which an evil is sure to arrive if nothing is done to\nprevent it, yet in which the evil need not arrive when those whom it\nmenaces are forewarned. To take an illustration intelligible in these\ndays of steam-engines. We know that if the water is allowed to get very\nlow in the boiler a destructive explosion will be the consequence; yet,\nsince every stoker is aware of this, such explosions are not of frequent\noccurrence. That evil is continually approaching and yet continually\naverted by the exercise of human foresight.\n\nLet us suppose that a married couple are clearly aware that in the\ncourse of years their society is sure to become mutually uninteresting\nunless something is done to preserve the earlier zest of it. What is\nthat something?\n\nThat which an author does for the unknown multitude of his readers.\n\nEvery author who succeeds takes the trouble to renew his mind either by\nfresh knowledge or new thoughts. Is it not at least equally worth while\nto do as much to preserve the interest of marriage? Without undervaluing\nthe friendly adhesion of many readers, without affecting any contempt\nfor fame, which is dearer to the human heart than wealth itself whenever\nit appears to be not wholly unattainable, may not I safely affirm that\nthe interest of married life, from its very _nearness_, has a still\nstronger influence upon the mind of any thinking person, of either sex,\nthan the approbation of unnumbered readers in distinct countries or\ncontinents? You never _see_ the effect of your thinking on your readers;\nthey live and die far away from you, a few write letters of praise or\ncriticism, the thousands give no sign. But the wife is with you always,\nshe is almost as near to you as your own body; the world, to you, is a\nfigure-picture in which there is one figure, the rest is merely\nbackground. And if an author takes pains to renew his mind for the\npeople in the background, is it not at least equally worth your while to\nbring fresh thought for the renewal of your life with her?\n\nThis, then, is my theory of the intellectual marriage, that the two\nwedded intellects ought to renew themselves continually for each other.\nAnd I argue that if this were done in earnest, the otherwise inevitable\ndulness would be perpetually kept at bay.\n\nTo the other question, whether in actual life I have ever seen this\nrealized, I answer yes, in several instances.\n\nNot in very many instances, yet in more than one. Women, when they have\nconceived the idea that this renewal is necessary, have resolution\nenough for the realization of it. There is hardly any task too hard for\nthem, if they believe it essential to the conjugal life. I could give\nyou the name and address of one who mastered Greek in order not to be\nexcluded from her husband's favorite pursuit; others have mastered other\nlanguages for the same object, and even some branch of science for which\nthe feminine mind has less natural affinity than it has for imaginative\nliterature. Their remarkable incapacity for independent mental labor is\naccompanied by an equally remarkable capacity for labor under an\naccepted masculine guidance. In this connection I may without\nimpropriety mention one Englishwoman, for she is already celebrated, the\nwife of Sir Samuel Baker, the discoverer of the Albert Nyanza. She stood\nwith him on the shore of that unknown sea, when first it was beheld by\nEnglish eyes; she had passed with him through all the hard preliminary\ntoils and trials. She had learned Arabic with him in a year of necessary\nbut wearisome delay; her mind had travelled with his mind as her feet\nhad followed his footsteps. Scarcely less beautiful, if less heroic, is\nthe picture of the geologist's wife, Mrs. Buckland, who taught herself\nto reconstruct broken fossils, and did it with a surprising delicacy,\nand patience, and skill, full of science, yet more than science, the\nperfection of feminine art.\n\nThe privacy of married life often prevents us from knowing the extent to\nwhich intelligent women have renewed their minds by fresh and varied\nculture for the purpose of retaining their ascendency over their\nhusbands, or to keep up the interest of their lives. It is done much\nmore frequently by women than by men. They have so much less egotism, so\nmuch more adaptability, that they fit themselves to us oftener than we\nadapt ourselves to them. But in a quiet perfect marriage these efforts\nwould be mutual. The husband would endeavor to make life interesting to\nhis companion by taking a share in some pursuit which was really her\nown. It is easier for us than it was for our ancestors to do this--at\nleast for our immediate ancestors. There existed, fifty years ago, a\nmost irrational prejudice, very strongly rooted in the social\nconventions of the time, about masculine and feminine accomplishments.\nThe educations of the two sexes were so trenchantly separated that\nneither had access to the knowledge of the other. The men had learned\nLatin and Greek, of which the women were ignorant; the women had learned\nFrench or Italian, which the men could neither read nor speak. The\nladies studied fine art, not seriously, but it occupied a good deal of\ntheir time and thoughts; the gentlemen had a manly contempt for it,\nwhich kept them, as contempt always does, in a state of absolute\nignorance. The intellectual separation of the sexes was made as complete\nas possible by the conventionally received idea that a man could not\nlearn what girls learned without effeminacy, and that if women aspired\nto men's knowledge they would forfeit the delicacy of their sex. This\nillogical prejudice was based on a bad syllogism of this kind:--\n\n  Girls speak French, and learn music and drawing.\n\n  Benjamin speaks French, and learns music and drawing.\n\n  Benjamin is a girl.\n\nAnd the prejudice, powerful as it was, had not even the claim of any\nconsiderable antiquity. Think how strange and unreasonable it would have\nseemed to Lady Jane Grey and Sir Philip Sidney! In their time, ladies\nand gentlemen studied the same things, the world of culture was the same\nfor both, and they could meet in it as in a garden.\n\nHappily we are coming back to the old rational notion of culture as\nindependent of the question of sex. Latin and Greek are not unfeminine;\nthey were spoken by women in Athens and Rome; the modern languages are\nfit for a man to learn, since men use them continually on the\nbattle-fields and in the parliaments and exchanges of the world. Art is\na manly business, if ever any human occupation could be called manly,\nfor the utmost efforts of the strongest men are needed for success in\nit.\n\nThe increasing interest in the fine arts, the more important position\ngiven to modern languages in the universities, the irresistible\nattractions and growing authority of science, all tend to bring men and\nwomen together on subjects understood by both, and therefore operate\ndirectly in favor of intellectual interests in marriage. You will not\nsuspect me of a snobbish desire to pay compliments to royalty if I trace\nsome of these changes in public opinion to the example and influence of\nthe Prince Consort, operating with some effect during his life, yet with\nfar greater force since he was taken away from us. The truth is, that\nthe most modern English ideal of gentlemanly culture is that which\nPrince Albert, to a great extent, realized in his own person. Perhaps\nhis various accomplishments may be a little embellished or exaggerated\nin the popular belief, but it is unquestionable that his notion of\nculture was very large and liberal, and quite beyond the narrow pedantry\nof the preceding age. There was nothing in it to exclude a woman, and we\nknow that she who loved him entered largely into the works and\nrecreations of his life.\n\n\nLETTER IV.\n\nTO A YOUNG GENTLEMAN WHO CONTEMPLATED MARRIAGE.\n\n  Women do not of themselves undertake intellectual labor--Their\n  resignation to ignorance--Absence of scientific curiosity in\n  women--They do not accumulate accurate knowledge--Archimedes in his\n  bath--Rarity of inventions due to women--Exceptions.\n\nBefore saying much about the influence of marriage on the intellectual\nlife, it is necessary to make some inquiry into the intellectual nature\nof women.\n\nThe first thing to be noted is that, with exceptions so rare as to be\npractically of no importance to an argument, women do not of themselves\nundertake intellectual labor. Even in the situations most favorable for\nlabor of that kind, women do not undertake it unless they are urged to\nit, and directed in it, by some powerful masculine influence. In the\nabsence of that influence, although their minds are active, that\nactivity neither tends to discipline nor to the accumulation of\nknowledge. Women who are not impelled by some masculine influence are\nnot superior, either in knowledge or discipline of the mind, at the age\nof fifty to what they were at the age of twenty-five. In other words,\nthey have not in themselves the motive powers which can cause an\nintellectual advance.\n\nThe best illustration of this is a sisterhood of three or four rich old\nmaids, with all the advantages of leisure. You will observe that they\ninvariably remain, as to their education, where they were left by their\nteachers many years before. They will often lament, perhaps, that in\ntheir day education was very inferior to what it is now; but it never\noccurs to them that the large leisure of subsequent years might, had it\nbeen well employed, have supplied those deficiencies of which they are\nsensible. Nothing is more curiously remote from masculine habits than\nthe resignation to particular degrees of ignorance, as to the\ninevitable, which a woman will express in a manner which says: \"You know\nI am so; you know that I cannot make myself better informed.\" They are\nlike perfect billiard-balls on a perfect table, which stop when no\nlonger impelled, wherever they may happen to be.\n\nIt is this absence of intellectual initiative which causes the great\nignorance of women. What they have been well taught, that they know, but\nthey do not increase their stores of knowledge. Even in what most\ninterests them, theology, they repeat, but do not extend, their\ninformation. All the effort of their minds appears (so far as an outside\nobserver may presume to judge) to act like water on a picture, which\nbrings out the colors that already exist upon the canvas but does not\nadd anything to the design. There is a great and perpetual freshness and\nvividness in their conceptions, which is often lacking in our own. Our\nconceptions fade, and are replaced; theirs are not replaced, but\nrefreshed.\n\nWhat many women do for their theological conceptions or opinions, others\ndo with reference to the innumerable series of questions of all kinds\nwhich present themselves in the course of life. They attempt to solve\nthem by the help of knowledge acquired in girlhood; and if that cannot\nbe done, they either give them up as beyond the domain of women, or else\ntrust to hearsay for a solution. What they will _not_ do is to hunt the\nmatter out unaided, and get an accurate answer by dint of independent\ninvestigation.\n\nThere is another characteristic of women, not peculiar to them, for many\nmen have it in an astonishing degree, and yet more general in the female\nsex than in the male: I allude to the absence of scientific curiosity.\nLadies see things of the greatest wonder and interest working in their\npresence and for their service without feeling impelled to make any\ninquiries into the manner of their working. I could mention many very\ncurious instances of this, but I select one which seems typical. Many\nyears ago I happened to be in a room filled with English ladies, most of\nwhom were highly intelligent, and the conversation happened to turn upon\na sailing-boat which belonged to me. One of the ladies observed that\nsails were not of much use, since they could only be available to push\nthe boat in the direction of the wind; a statement which all the other\nladies received with approbation. Now, all these ladies had seen ships\nworking under canvas against head-winds, and they might have reflected\nthat without that portion of the art of seamanship every vessel\nunprovided with steam would assuredly drift upon a lee-shore; but it was\nnot in the feminine nature to make a scientific observation of that\nkind. You will answer, perhaps, that I could scarcely expect ladies to\ninvestigate men's business, and that seamanship is essentially the\nbusiness of our own sex. But the truth is, that all English people, no\nmatter of what sex, have so direct an interest in the maritime activity\nof England, that they might reasonably be expected to know the one\nprimary conquest on which for many centuries that activity has depended,\nthe conquest of the opposing wind, the sublimest of the early victories\nof science. And this absence of curiosity in women extends to things\nthey use every day. They never seem to want to know the insides of\nthings as we do. All ladies know that steam makes a locomotive go; but\nthey rest satisfied with that, and do not inquire further _how_ the\nsteam sets the wheels in motion. They know that it is necessary to wind\nup their watches, but they do not care to inquire into the real effects\nof that little exercise of force.\n\nNow this absence of the investigating spirit has very wide and important\nconsequences. The first consequence of it is that women do not naturally\naccumulate accurate knowledge. Left to themselves, they accept various\nkinds of teaching, but they do not by any analysis of their own either\nput that teaching to any serious intellectual test, or qualify\nthemselves for any extension of it by independent and original\ndiscovery. We of the male sex are seldom clearly aware how much of our\npractical force, of the force which discovers and originates, is due to\nour common habit of analytical observation; yet it is scarcely too much\nto say that most of our inventions have been suggested by actually or\nintellectually pulling something else in pieces. And such of our\ndiscoveries as cannot be traced directly to analysis are almost always\ndue to habits of general observation which lead us to take note of some\nfact apparently quite remote from what it helps us to arrive at. One of\nthe best instances of this indirect utility of habitual observation, as\nit is one of the earliest, is what occurred to Archimedes in his bath.\nWhen the water displaced by his body overflowed, he noticed the fact of\ndisplacement, and at once perceived its applicability to the cubic\nmeasurement of complicated bodies. It is possible that if his mind had\nnot been exercised at the time about the adulteration of the royal\ncrown, it would not have been led to anything by the overflowing of his\nbath; but the capacity to receive a suggestion of that kind is, I\nbelieve, a capacity exclusively masculine. A woman would have noticed\nthe overflowing, but she would have noticed it only as a cause of\ndisorder or inconvenience.\n\nThis absence of the investigating and discovering tendencies in women is\nconfirmed by the extreme rarity of inventions due to women, even in the\nthings which most interest and concern them. The stocking-loom and the\nsewing-machine are the two inventions which would most naturally have\nbeen hit upon by women, for people are naturally inventive about things\nwhich relieve _themselves_ of labor, or which increase their own\npossibilities of production; and yet the stocking-loom and the\nsewing-machine are both of them masculine ideas, carried out to\npractical efficiency by masculine energy and perseverance. So I believe\nthat all the improvements in pianos are due to men, though women have\nused pianos much more than men have used them.\n\nThis, then, is in my view the most important negative characteristic of\nwomen, that they do not push forwards intellectually by their own force.\nThere have been a few instances in which they have written with power\nand originality, have become learned, and greatly superior, no doubt, to\nthe majority of men. There are three or four women in England, and as\nmany on the Continent, who have lived intellectually in harness for many\nyears, and who unaffectedly delight in strenuous intellectual labor,\ngiving evidence both of fine natural powers and the most persevering\nculture; but these women have usually been encouraged in their work by\nsome near masculine influence. And even if it were possible, which it is\nnot, to point to some female Archimedes or Leonardo da Vinci, it is not\nthe rare exceptions which concern us, but the prevalent rule of Nature.\nWithout desiring to compare our most learned ladies with anything so\ndisagreeable to the eye as a bearded woman, I may observe that Nature\ngenerally has a few exceptions to all her rules, and that as women\nhaving beards are a physical exception, so women who naturally study and\ninvestigate are intellectual exceptions. Once more let me repudiate any\nmalicious intention in establishing so unfortunate and _maladroite_ an\nassociation of ideas, for nothing is less agreeable than a woman with a\nbeard, whilst, on the contrary, the most intellectual of women may at\nthe same time be the most permanently charming.\n\n\nLETTER V.\n\nTO A YOUNG GENTLEMAN WHO CONTEMPLATED MARRIAGE.\n\n  The danger of deviation--Danger from increased expenditure--Nowhere so\n  great as in England--Complete absorption in business--Case of a\n  tradesman--Case of a solicitor--The pursuit of comfort dangerous to\n  the Intellectual Life--The meanness of its results--Fireside\n  purposes--Danger of deviation in rich marriages--George Sand's study\n  of this in her story of \"Valvedre.\"\n\nAmongst the dangers of marriage, one of those most to be dreaded by a\nman given to intellectual pursuits is the deviation which, in one way or\nother, marriage inevitably produces. It acts like the pointsman on a\nrailway, who, by pulling a lever, sends the train in another direction.\nThe married man never goes, or hardly ever goes, exactly on the same\nintellectual lines which he would have followed if he had remained a\nbachelor. This deviation may or may not be a gain; it is always a most\nserious danger.\n\nSometimes the deviation is produced by the necessity for a stricter\nattention to money, causing a more unremitting application to work that\npays well, and a proportionate neglect of that which can only give\nextension to our knowledge and clearness to our views.\n\nIn no country is this danger so great as it is in England, where the\ngenerally expensive manner of living, and the prevalent desire to keep\nfamilies in an ideally perfect state of physical comfort, produce an\nabsorption in business which in all but the rarest instances leaves no\nmargin for intellectual labor. There are, no doubt, some remarkable\nexamples of men earning a large income by a laborious profession, who\nhave gained reputation in one of the sciences or in some branch of\nliterature, but these are very exceptional cases. A man who works at his\nprofession as most Englishmen with large families have to work, can\nseldom enjoy that surplus of nervous energy which would be necessary to\ncarry him far in literature or science. I remember meeting an English\ntradesman in the railway between Paris and the coast, who told me that\nhe was obliged to visit France very frequently, yet could not speak\nFrench, which was a great deficiency and inconvenience to him. \"Why not\nlearn?\" I then asked, and received the following answer:\n\n\"I have to work at my business all day long, and often far into the\nnight. When the day's work is over I generally feel very tired, and want\nrest; but if I don't happen to feel quite so tired, then it is not work\nthat I need, but recreation, of which I get very little. I never feel\nthe courage to set to work at the French grammar, though it would be\nboth pleasant and useful to me to know French; indeed, I constantly feel\nthe want of it. It might, perhaps, be possible to learn from a\nphrase-book in the railway train, but to save time I always travel at\nnight. Being a married man, I have to give my whole attention to my\nbusiness.\"\n\nA solicitor with a large practice in London held nearly the same\nlanguage. He worked at his office all day, and often brought home the\nmost difficult work for the quiet of his own private study after the\nhousehold had gone to bed. The little reading that he could indulge in\nwas light reading. In reality the profession intruded even on his few\nhours of leisure, for he read many of the columns in the _Times_ which\nrelate to law or legislation, and these make at the end of a few years\nan amount of reading sufficient for the mastery of a foreign literature.\nThis gentleman answered very accurately to M. Taine's description of\nthe typical Englishman, absorbed in business and the _Times_.\n\nIn these cases it is likely that the effect of marriage was not inwardly\nfelt as a deviation; but when culture has been fairly begun, and\nmarriage hinders the pursuit of it, or makes it deviate from the chosen\npath, then there is often an inward consciousness of the fact, not\nwithout its bitterness.\n\nA remarkable article on \"Luxury,\" in the second volume of the _Cornhill\nMagazine_, deals with this subject in a manner evidently suggested by\nserious reflection and experience. The writer considers the effects of\nthe pursuit of comfort (never carried so far as it is now) on the higher\nmoral and intellectual life. The comforts of a bachelor were not what\nthe writer meant; these are easily procured, and seldom require the\ndevotion of all the energies. The \"comfort\" which is really dangerous to\nintellectual growth is that of a family establishment, because it so\neasily becomes the one absorbing object of existence. Men who began life\nwith the feeling that they would willingly devote their powers to great\npurposes, like the noble examples of past times who labored and suffered\nfor the intellectual advancement of their race, and had starvation for\ntheir reward, or in some cases even the prison and the stake--men who in\ntheir youth felt themselves to be heirs of a nobility of spirit like\nthat of Bruno, of Swammerdam, of Spinoza, have too often found\nthemselves in the noon of life concentrating all the energies of body\nand soul on the acquisition of ugly millinery and uglier upholstery, and\non spreading extravagant tables to feed uncultivated guests.\n\n\"It is impossible,\" says the writer of the article just alluded to, \"it\nis impossible to say why men were made, but assuming that they were made\nfor some purpose, of which the faculties which they possess afford\nevidence, it follows that they were intended to do many other things\nbesides providing for their families and enjoying their society. They\nwere meant to know, to act, and to feel--to know everything which the\nmind is able to contemplate, to name, and to classify; to do everything\nwhich the will, prompted by the passions and guided by the conscience,\ncan undertake; and, subject to the same guidance, to feel in its utmost\nvigor every emotion which the contemplation of the various persons and\nobjects which surround us can excite. This view of the objects of life\naffords an almost infinite scope for human activity in different\ndirections; but it also shows that it is in the highest degree dangerous\nto its beauty and its worth to allow any one side of life to become the\nobject of idolatry; and there are many reasons for thinking that\ndomestic happiness is rapidly assuming that position in the minds of the\nmore comfortable classes of Englishmen.... It is a singular and\naffecting thing, to see how every manifestation of human energy bears\nwitness to the shrewdness of the current maxim that a large income is a\nnecessary of life. Whatever is done for money is done admirably well.\nGive a man a specific thing to make or to write, and pay him well for\nit, and you may with a little trouble secure an excellent article; but\nthe ability which does these things so well, might have been and ought\nto have been trained to far higher things, which for the most part are\nleft undone, because the clever workman thinks himself bound to earn\nwhat will keep himself, his wife, and his six or seven children, up to\nthe established standard of comfort. What was at first a necessity,\nperhaps an unwelcome one, becomes by degrees a habit and a pleasure, and\nmen who might have done memorable and noble things, if they had learnt\nin time to consider the doing of such things an object worth living for,\nlose the power and the wish to live for other than fireside purposes.\"\n\nBut this kind of intellectual deviation, you may answer, is not strictly\nthe consequence of marriage, _qua_ marriage; it is one of the\nconsequences of a degree of relative poverty, produced by the larger\nexpenditure of married life, but which might be just as easily produced\nby a certain degree of money-pressure in the condition of a bachelor.\nLet me therefore point out a kind of deviation which may be as\nfrequently observed in rich marriages as in poor ones. Suppose the case\nof a bachelor with a small but perfectly independent income amounting to\nsome hundreds a year, who is devoted to intellectual pursuits, and\nspends his time in study or with cultivated friends of his own, choosing\nfriends whose society is an encouragement and a help. Suppose that this\nman makes an exceedingly prudent marriage, with a rich woman, you may\nsafely predict, in this instance, intellectual deviations of a kind\nperilous to the highest culture. He will have new calls upon his time,\nhis society will no longer be entirely of his own choosing, he will no\nlonger be able to devote himself with absolute singleness of purpose to\nstudies from which his wife must necessarily be excluded. If he were to\ncontinue faithful to his old habits, and shut himself up every day in\nhis library or laboratory, or set out on frequent scientific\nexpeditions, his wife would either be a lady of quite extraordinary\nperfection of temper, or else entirely indifferent in her feelings\ntowards him, if she did not regard his pursuits with quickly-increasing\njealousy. She would think, and justifiably think, that he ought to give\nmore of his time to the enjoyment of her society, that he ought to be\nmore by her side in the carriage and in the drawing-room, and if he\nloved her he would yield to these kindly and reasonable wishes. He would\nspend many hours of every day in a manner not profitable to his great\npursuits, and many weeks of every year in visits to her friends. His\nposition would be even less favorable to study in some respects than\nthat of a professional man. It would be difficult for him, if an amateur\nartist, to give that unremitting attention to painting which the\nprofessional painter gives. He could not say, \"I do this for you and for\nour children;\" he could only say, \"I do it for my own pleasure,\" which\nis not so graceful an excuse. As a bachelor, he might work as\nprofessional people work, but his marriage would strongly accentuate the\namateur character of his position. It is possible that if his labors had\nwon great fame the lady might bear the separation more easily, for\nladies always take a noble pride in the celebrity of their husbands; but\nthe best and worthiest intellectual labor often brings no fame whatever,\nand notoriety is a mere accident of some departments of the intellectual\nlife, and not its ultimate object.\n\nGeorge Sand, in her admirable novel \"Valvedre,\" has depicted a situation\nof this kind with the most careful delicacy of touch. Valvedre was a man\nof science, who attempted to continue the labors of his intellectual\nlife after marriage had united him to a lady incapable of sharing them.\nThe reader pities both, and sympathizes with both. It is hard, on the\none hand, that a man endowed by nature with great talents for scientific\nwork should not go on with a career already gloriously begun; and yet,\non the other hand, a woman who is so frequently abandoned for science\nmay blamelessly feel some jealousy of science.\n\nValvedre, in narrating the story of his unhappy wedded life, said that\nAlida wished to have at her orders a perfect gentleman to accompany\nher, but that he felt in himself a more serious ambition. He had not\naimed at fame, but he had thought it possible to become a useful\nservant, bringing his share of patient and courageous seekings to the\nedifice of the sciences. He had hoped that Alida would understand this.\n\"'There is time enough for everything,' she said, still retaining him in\nthe useless wandering life that she had chosen. 'Perhaps,' he answered,\n'but on condition that I lose no more of it; and it is not in this\nwandering life, cut to pieces by a thousand unforeseen interruptions,\nthat I can make the hours yield their profit.'\n\n\"'Ah! we come to the point!' exclaimed Alida impetuously. 'You wish to\nleave me, and to travel alone in impossible regions.'\n\n\"'No, I will work near you and abandon certain observations which it\nwould be necessary to make at too great a distance, but you also will\nsacrifice something: we will not see so many idle people, we will settle\nsomewhere for a fixed time. It shall be where you will, and if the place\ndoes not suit you, we will try another; but from time to time you will\npermit me a phase of sedentary work.'\n\n\"'Yes, yes, you want to live for yourself alone; you have lived enough\nfor me. I understand; your love is satiated and at an end.'\n\n\"Nothing could conquer her conviction _that study was her rival_, and\nthat love was only possible in idleness.\n\n\"'To love is everything,' she said; 'and he who loves has not time to\nconcern himself with anything else. Whilst the husband is intoxicating\nhimself with the marvels of science, the wife languishes and dies. It is\nthe destiny which awaits me; and since I am a burden to you, I should do\nbetter to die at once.'\n\n\"A little later Valvedre ventured to hint something about work, hoping\nto conquer his wife's _ennui_, on which she proclaimed the hatred of\nwork as a sacred right of her nature and position.\n\n\"'Nobody ever taught me to work,' she said, 'and I did not marry under a\npromise to begin again at the _a_, _b_, _c_ of things. Whatever I know I\nhave learned by intuition, by reading without aim or method. I am a\nwoman; my destiny is to love my husband and bring up children. It is\nvery strange that my husband should be the person who counsels me to\nthink of something better.'\"\n\nI am far from suggesting that Madame Valvedre is an exact representative\nof her sex, but the sentiments which in her are exaggerated, and\nexpressed with passionate plainness, are in much milder form very\nprevalent sentiments indeed; and Valvedre's great difficulty, how to get\nleave to prosecute his studies with the degree of devotion necessary to\nmake them fruitful, is not at all an uncommon difficulty with\nintellectual men after marriage. The character of Madame Valvedre, being\npassionate and excessive, led her to an open expression of her\nfeelings; but feelings of a like kind, though milder in degree, exist\nfrequently below the surface, and may be detected by any vigilant\nobserver of human nature. That such feelings are very natural it is\nimpossible even for a _savant_ to deny; but whilst admitting the clear\nright of a woman to be preferred by a man to science when once he has\nmarried her, let me observe that the man might perhaps do wisely, before\nthe knot is tied, to ascertain whether her intellectual dowry is rich\nenough to compensate him for the sacrifices she is likely to exact.\n\n\nLETTER VI.\n\nTO A SOLITARY STUDENT.\n\n  Need of a near intellectual friendship in solitude--Persons who live\n  independently of custom run a peculiar risk in marriage--Women by\n  nature more subservient to custom than men are--Difficulty of\n  conciliating solitude and marriage--De Senancour--The marriages of\n  eccentrics--Their wives either protect them or attempt to reform them.\n\nIsolated as you are, by the very superiority of your culture, from the\nignorant provincial world around you, I cannot but believe that marriage\nis essential to your intellectual health and welfare. If you married\nsome cultivated woman, bred in the cultivated society of a great\ncapital, that companionship would give you an independence of\nsurrounding influences which nothing else can give. You fancy that by\nshutting yourself up in a country house you are uninfluenced by the\nworld around you. It is a great error. You know that you are isolated,\nthat you are looked upon and probably ridiculed as an eccentric, and\nthis knowledge, which it is impossible to banish from your mind,\ndeprives your thinking of elasticity and grace. You urgently need the\nsupport of an intellectual friendship quite near to you, under your own\nroof. Bachelors in great cities feel this necessity less.\n\nStill remember, that whoever has arranged his life independently of\ncustom runs a peculiar risk in marriage. Women are by nature far more\nsubservient to custom than we are, more than we can easily conceive. The\ndanger of marriage, for a person of your tastes, is that a woman\nentering your house might enter it as the representative of that\nminutely-interfering authority which you continually ignore. And let us\nnever forget that a perfect obedience to custom requires great\nsacrifices of time and money that you might not be disposed to make, and\nwhich certainly would interfere with study. You value and enjoy your\nsolitude, well knowing how great a thing it is to be master of all your\nhours. It is difficult to conciliate solitude, or even a wise and\nsuitable selection of acquaintances, with the semi-publicity of\nmarriage. Heads of families receive many persons in their houses whom\nthey would never have invited, and from whose society they derive little\npleasure and no profit. De Senancour had plans of studious retirement,\nand hoped that the \"_douce intimite_\" of marriage might be compatible\nwith these cherished projects. But marriage, he found, drew him into the\ncircle of ordinary provincial life, and he always suffered from its\ninfluences.\n\nYou are necessarily an eccentric. In the neighborhood where you live it\nis an eccentricity to study, for nobody but you studies anything. A man\nso situated is fortunate when this feeling of eccentricity is\nalleviated, and unfortunate when it is increased. A wife would certainly\ndo one or the other. Married to a very superior woman, able to\nunderstand the devotion to intellectual aims, you would be much relieved\nof the painful consciousness of eccentricity; but a woman of less\ncapacity would intensify it.\n\nSo far as we can observe the married life of others, it seems to me that\nI have met with instances of men, constituted and occupied very much as\nyou are, who have found in marriage a strong protection against the\nignorant judgments of their neighbors, and an assurance of intellectual\npeace; whilst in other cases it has appeared rather as if their solitude\nwere made more a cause of conscious suffering, as if the walls of their\ncabinets were pulled down for the boobies outside to stare at them and\nlaugh at them. A woman will either take your side against the customs of\nthe little world around, or she will take the side of custom against\nyou. If she loves you deeply, and if there is some visible result of\nyour labors in fame and money, she may possibly do the first, and then\nshe will protect your tranquillity better than a force of policemen, and\ngive you a delightful sense of reconciliation with all humanity; but\nmany of her most powerful instincts tend the other way. She has a\nnatural sympathy with all the observances of custom, and you neglect\nthem; she is fitted for social life, which you are not. Unless you win\nher wholly to your side, she may undertake the enterprise of curing your\neccentricities and adapting you to the ideal of her caste. This may be\nhighly satisfactory to the operator, but it is full of inconveniences to\nthe patient.\n\n\nLETTER VII.\n\nTO A LADY OF HIGH CULTURE WHO FOUND IT DIFFICULT TO ASSOCIATE WITH\nPERSONS OF HER OWN SEX.\n\n  Men are not very good judges of feminine conversation--The interest of\n  it would be increased if women could be more freely initiated into\n  great subjects--Small subjects interesting when seen in relation to\n  central ideas--That ladies of superior faculty ought rather to elevate\n  female society than withdraw from it--Women when displaced do not\n  appear happy.\n\nWhat you confided to me in our last interesting conversation has given\nme material for reflection, and afforded a glimpse of a state of things\nwhich I have sometimes suspected without having data for any positive\nconclusion. The society of women is usually sought by men during hours\nof mental relaxation, and we naturally find such a charm in their mere\npresence, especially when they are graceful or beautiful, that we are\nnot very severe or even accurate judges of the abstract intellectual\nquality of their talk. But a woman cannot feel the indescribable charm\nwhich wins us so easily, and I have sometimes thought that a superior\nperson of your sex might be aware of certain deficiencies in her sisters\nwhich men very readily overlook. You tell me that you feel embarrassed\nin the society of ladies, because they know so little about the subjects\nwhich interest you, and are astonished when you speak about anything\nreally worth attention. On the other hand, you feel perfectly at ease\nwith men of ability and culture, and most at your ease with men of the\nbest ability and the most eminent attainments. What you complain of\nchiefly in women seems to be their impatience of varieties of thought\nwhich are unfamiliar to them, and their constant preference for small\ntopics.\n\nIt has long been felt by men that if women could be more freely\ninitiated into great subjects the interest of general conversation would\nbe much increased. The difficulty appears to lie in their instinctive\nhabit of making all questions personal questions. The etiquette of\nsociety makes it quite impossible for men to speak to ladies in the\nmanner which would be intellectually most profitable to them. We may\nnot teach because it is pedantic, and we may not contradict, because it\nis rude. Most of the great subjects are conventionally held to be\nclosed, so that it is a sin against good taste to discuss them. In every\nhouse the ladies have a set of fixed convictions of some kind, which it\nis not polite in any man to appear to doubt. The consequence of these\nconventional rules is that women live in an atmosphere of acquiescence\nwhich makes them intolerant of anything like bold and original thinking\non important subjects. But as the mind always requires free play of some\nkind, when all the great subjects are forbidden it will use its activity\nin playing about little ones.\n\nFor my part I hardly think it desirable for any of us to be incessantly\ncoping with great subjects, and the ladies are right in taking a lively\ninterest in the small events around them. But even the small events\nwould have a deeper interest if they were seen in their true relations\nto the great currents of European thought and action. It is probably the\nignorance of these relations which, more than the smallness of the\ntopics themselves, makes feminine talk fatiguing to you. Very small\nthings indeed have an interest when exhibited in relation to larger, as\nmen of science are continually demonstrating. I have been taking note\nlately of the talk that goes on around me, and I find that when it is\nshallow and wearisome it is always because the facts mentioned bear no\nreference to any central or governing idea, and do not illustrate\nanything. Conversation is interesting in proportion to the originality\nof the central ideas which serve as pivots, and the fitness of the\nlittle facts and observations which are contributed by the talkers. For\ninstance, if people happened to be talking about rats, and some one\ninformed you that he had seen a rat last week, that would be quite\nuninteresting: but you would listen with greater attention if he said;\n\"The other night, as I was going up stairs very late, I followed a very\nfine rat who was going up stairs too, and he was not in the least\nhurried, but stopped after every two or three steps to have a look at me\nand my candle. He was very prettily marked about the face and tail, so I\nconcluded that he was not a common rat, but probably a lemming. Two\nnights afterwards I met him again, and this time he seemed almost to\nknow me, for he quietly made room for me as I passed. Very likely he\nmight be easily tamed.\" This is interesting, because, though the fact\nnarrated is still trifling, it illustrates animal character.\n\nIf you will kindly pardon an \"improvement\" of this subject, as a\npreacher would call it, I might add that an intellectual lady like\nyourself might, perhaps, do better to raise the tone of the feminine\ntalk around her than to withdraw from it in weariness. There are always,\nin every circle, a few superior persons who, either from natural\ndiffidence, or because they are not very rich, or because they are too\nyoung, suffer themselves to be entirely overwhelmed by the established\nmediocrity around them. What they need is a leader, a deliverer. Is it\nnot in your power to render services of this kind? Could you not select\nfrom the younger ladies whom you habitually meet, a few who, like\nyourself, feel bored by the dulness or triviality of what you describe\nas the current feminine conversation? There is often a painful shyness\nwhich prevents people of real ability from using it for the advantage of\nothers, and this shyness is nowhere so common as in England, especially\nprovincial England. It feels the want of a hardy example. A lady who\ntalked really well would no doubt run some risk of being rather\nunpleasantly isolated at first, but surely, if she tried, she might\nultimately find accomplices. You could do much, to begin with, by\nrecommending high-toned literature, and gradually awakening an interest\nin what is truly worth attention. It seems lamentable that every\ncultivated woman should be forced out of the society of her own sex, and\nmade to depend upon ours for conversation of that kind which is an\nabsolute necessity to the intellectual. The truth is, that women so\ndisplaced never appear altogether happy. And culture costs so much\ndownright hard work, that it ought not to be paid for by any suffering\nbeyond those toils which are its fair and natural price.\n\n\nLETTER VIII.\n\nTO A LADY OF HIGH CULTURE.\n\n  Greatest misfortune in the intellectual life of women--They do not\n  hear truth--Men disguise their thoughts for women--Cream and\n  curacoa--Probable permanence of the desire to please women--Most truth\n  in cultivated society--Hopes from the increase of culture.\n\nI think that the greatest misfortune in the intellectual life of women\nis that they do not hear the truth from men.\n\nAll men in cultivated society say to women as much as possible that\nwhich they may be supposed to wish to hear, and women are so much\naccustomed to this that they can scarcely hear without resentment an\nexpression of opinion which takes no account of their personal and\nprivate feeling. The consideration for the feelings of women gives an\nagreeable tone to society, but it is fatal to the severity of truth.\nObserve a man of the world whose opinions are well known to you,--notice\nthe little pause before he speaks to a lady. During that little pause he\nis turning over what he has to say, so as to present it in the manner\nthat will please her best; and you may be sure that the integrity of\ntruth will suffer in the process. If we compare what we know of the man\nwith that which the lady hears from him, we perceive the immense\ndisadvantages of her position. He ascertains what will please her, and\nthat is what he administers. He professes to take a deep interest in\nthings which he does not care for in the least, and he passes lightly\nover subjects and events which he knows to be of the most momentous\nimportance to the world. The lady spends an hour more agreeably than if\nshe heard opinions which would irritate, and prognostics which would\nalarm her, but she has missed an opportunity for culture, she has been\nconfirmed in feminine illusions. If this happened only from time to\ntime, the effect would not tell so much on the mental constitution; but\nit is incessant, it is continual. Men disguise their thoughts for women\nas if to venture into the feminine world were as dangerous as travelling\nin Arabia, or as if the thoughts themselves were criminal.\n\nThere appeared two or three years ago in _Punch_ a clever drawing which\nmight have served as an illustration to this subject. A fashionable\ndoctor was visiting a lady in Belgravia who complained that she suffered\nfrom debility. Cod-liver oil being repugnant to her taste, the agreeable\ndoctor, wise in his generation, blandly suggested as an effective\nsubstitute a mixture of cream and curacoa. What that intelligent man did\nfor his patient's physical constitution, all men of politeness do for\nthe intellectual constitution of ladies. Instead of administering the\ntruth which would strengthen, though unpalatable, they administer\nintellectual cream and curacoa.\n\nThe primary cause of this tendency to say what is most pleasing to\nwomen is likely to be as permanent as the distinction of sex itself. It\nsprings directly from sexual feelings, it is hereditary and instinctive.\nMen will never talk to women with that rough frankness which they use\nbetween themselves. Conversation between the sexes will always be\npartially insincere. Still I think that the more women are respected,\nthe more men will desire to be approved by them for what they are in\nreality, and the less they will care for approval which is obtained by\ndissimulation. It may be observed already that, in the most intellectual\nsociety of great capitals, men are considerably more outspoken before\nwomen than they are in the provincial middle-classes. Where women have\nmost culture, men are most open and sincere. Indeed, the highest culture\nhas a direct tendency to command sincerity in others, both because it is\ntolerant of variety in opinion, and because it is so penetrating that\ndissimulation is felt to be of no use. By the side of an uncultivated\nwoman, a man feels that if he says anything different from what she has\nbeen accustomed to she will take offence, whilst if he says anything\nbeyond the narrow range of her information he will make her cold and\nuncomfortable. The most honest of men, in such a position, finds it\nnecessary to be very cautious, and can scarcely avoid a little\ninsincerity. But with a woman of culture equal to his own, these causes\nfor apprehension have no existence, and he can safely be more himself.\n\nThese considerations lead me to hope that as culture becomes more\ngeneral women will hear truth more frequently. Whenever this comes to\npass, it will be, to them, an immense intellectual gain.\n\n\nLETTER IX.\n\nTO A YOUNG MAN OF THE MIDDLE CLASS, WELL EDUCATED, WHO COMPLAINED THAT\nIT WAS DIFFICULT FOR HIM TO LIVE AGREEABLY WITH HIS MOTHER, A PERSON OF\nSOMEWHAT AUTHORITATIVE DISPOSITION, BUT UNEDUCATED.\n\n  A sort of misunderstanding common in modern households--Intolerance of\n  inaccuracy--A false position--A lady not easily\n  intimidated--Difficulty of arguing when you have to teach--Instance\n  about the American War--The best course in discussion with\n  ladies--Women spoilt by non-contradiction--They make all questions\n  personal--The strength of their feelings--Their indifference to\n  matters of fact.\n\nI have been thinking a good deal, and seriously, since we last met,\nabout the subject of our conversation, which though a painful one is not\nto be timidly avoided. The degree of unhappiness in your little\nhousehold, which ought to be one of the pleasantest of households, yet\nwhich, as you confided to me, is overshadowed by a continual\nmisunderstanding, is, I fear, very common indeed at the present day. It\nis only by great forbearance, and great skill, that any household in\nwhich persons of very different degrees of culture have to live together\non terms of equality, can be maintained in perfect peace; and neither\nthe art nor the forbearance is naturally an attribute of youth. A man\nwhose scholarly attainments were equal to your own, and whose experience\nof men and women was wider, could no doubt offer you counsel both wise\nand practical, yet I can hardly say that I should like you better if you\nfollowed it. I cannot blame you for having the natural characteristics\nof your years, an honest love of the best truth that you have attained\nto, an intolerance of inaccuracy on all subjects, a simple faith in the\npossibility of teaching others, even elderly ladies, when they happen to\nknow less than yourself. All these characteristics are in themselves\nblameless; and yet in your case, and in thousands of other similar\ncases, they often bring clouds of storm and trial upon houses which, in\na less rapidly progressive century than our own, might have been blessed\nwith uninterrupted peace. The truth is, that you are in a false position\nrelatively to your mother, and your mother is in a false position\nrelatively to you. She expects deference, and deference is scarcely\ncompatible with contradiction; certainly, if there be contradiction at\nall, it must be very rare, very careful, and very delicate. You, on the\nother hand, although no doubt full of respect and affection for your\nmother in your heart, cannot hear her authoritatively enunciating\nanything that you know to be erroneous, without feeling irresistibly\nurged to set her right. She is rather a talkative lady; she does not\nlike to hear a conversation going forward without taking a part in it,\nand rather an important part, so that whatever subject is talked about\nin her presence, that subject she will talk about also. Even before\nspecialists your mother has an independence of opinion, and a degree of\nfaith in her own conclusions, which would be admirable if they were\nfounded upon right reason and a careful study of the subject. Medical\nmen, and even lawyers, do not intimidate her; she is convinced that she\nknows more about disease than the physician, and more about legal\nbusiness than an old attorney. In theology no parson can approach her;\nbut here a woman may consider herself on her own ground, as theology is\nthe speciality of women.\n\nAll this puts you out of patience, and it is intelligible that, for a\nyoung gentleman of intellectual habits and somewhat ardent temperament\nlike yourself, it must be at times rather trying to have an AUTHORITY at\nhand ever ready to settle all questions in a decisive manner. To you I\nhave no counsel to offer but that of unconditional submission. You have\nthe weakness to enter into arguments when to sustain them you must\nassume the part of a teacher. In arguing with a person already\nwell-informed upon the subject in dispute, you may politely refer to\nknowledge which he already possesses, but when he does not possess the\nknowledge you cannot argue with him; you must first teach him, you must\nbecome didactic, and therefore odious. I remember a great scene which\ntook place between you and your mother concerning the American War. It\nwas brought on by a too precise answer of yours relatively to your\nfriend B., who had emigrated to America. You mother asked to what part\nof America B. had emigrated, and you answered, \"The Argentine Republic.\"\nA shade of displeasure clouded your mother's countenance, because she\ndid not know where the Argentine Republic might be, and betrayed it by\nher manner. You imprudently added that it was in South America. \"Yes,\nyes, I know very well,\" she answered; \"there was a great battle there\nduring the American War. It is well your friend was not there under\nJefferson Davis.\" Now, permit me to observe, my estimable young friend,\nthat this was what the French call a fine opportunity for holding your\ntongue, but your missed it. Fired with an enthusiasm for truth (always\ndangerous to the peace of families), you began to explain to the good\nlady that the Argentine Republic, though in South America, was not one\nof the Southern States of the Union. This led to a scene of which I was\nthe embarrassed and unwilling witness. Your mother vehemently affirmed\nthat all the Southern States had been under Jefferson Davis, that she\nknew the fact perfectly, that it had always been known to every one\nduring the war, and that, consequently, as the Argentine Republic was in\nSouth America, the Argentine Republic had been under Jefferson Davis.\nRapidly warming with this discussion, your mother \"supposed that you\nwould deny next that there had ever been such a thing as a war between\nthe North and the South.\" Then you, in your turn, lost temper, and you\nfetched an atlas for the purpose of explaining that the southern\ndivision of the continent of America was not the southern half of the\nUnited States. You were landed, as people always are landed when they\nprosecute an argument with the ignorant, in the thankless office of the\nschoolmaster. You were actually trying to give your mother a lesson in\ngeography! She was not grateful to you for your didactic attentions. She\nglanced at the book as people glance at an offered dish which they\ndislike. She does not understand maps; the representation of places in\ngeographical topography has never been quite clear to her. Your little\ngeographical lecture irritated, but did not inform; it clouded the\ncountenance, but did not illuminate the understanding. The distinction\nbetween South America and the Southern States is not easy to the\nnon-analytic mind under any circumstances, but when _amour propre_ is\ninvolved it becomes impossible.\n\nI believe that the best course in discussions of this kind with ladies\nis simply to say _once_ what is true, for the acquittal of your own\nconscience, but after that to remain silent on that topic, leaving the\nlast word to the lady, who will probably simply re-affirm what she has\nalready said. For example, in the discussion about the Argentine\nRepublic, your proper course would have been to say first, firmly, that\nthe territory in question was not a part of the seceded States and had\nnever been in the Union, with a brief and decided geographical\nexplanation. Your mother would not have been convinced by this, and\nwould probably have had the last word, but the matter would have ended\nthere. Another friend of mine, who is in a position very like your own,\ngoes a step farther, and is determined to agree with his mother-in-law\nin everything. He always assents to her propositions. She is a\nFrenchwoman, and has been accustomed to use _Algerie_ and _Afrique_ as\nconvertible terms. Somebody spoke of the Cape of Good Hope as being in\nAfrica. \"Then it belongs to France, as Africa belongs to France.\" \"Oui,\nchere mere,\" he answered, in his usual formula; \"vous avez raison.\"\n\nHe alluded to this afterwards when we were alone together. \"I was\nfoolish enough some years since,\" he said, \"to argue with my _belle\nmere_ and try to teach her little things from time to time, but it kept\nher in a state of chronic ill-humor and led to no good; it spoiled her\ntemper, and it did not improve her mind. But since I have adopted the\nplan of perpetual assent we get on charmingly. Whatever she affirms I\nassent to at once, and all is well. My friends are in the secret, and so\nno contradictory truth disturbs our amiable tranquillity.\"\n\nA system of this kind spoils women completely, and makes the least\ncontradiction intolerable to them. It is better that they should at\nleast have the opportunity of hearing truth, though no attempt need be\nmade to force it upon them. The position of ladies of the generation\nwhich preceded ours is in many respects a very trying one, and we do not\nalways adequately realize it. A lady like your mother, who never really\nwent through any intellectual discipline, who has no notion of\nintellectual accuracy in anything, is compelled by the irresistible\nfeminine instinct to engage her strongest feelings in every discussion\nthat arises. A woman can rarely detach her mind from questions of\npersons to apply it to questions of fact. She does not think simply, \"Is\nthat true of such a thing?\" but she thinks, \"Does he love me or respect\nme?\" The facts about the Argentine Republic and the American War were\nprobably quite indifferent to your mother; but your opposition to what\nshe had asserted seemed to her a failure in affection, and your attempt\nto teach her a failure in respect. This feeling in women is far from\nbeing wholly egoistic. They refer everything to persons, but not\nnecessarily to their own persons. Whatever you affirm as a fact, they\nfind means of interpreting as loyalty or disloyalty to some person whom\nthey either venerate or love, to the head of religion, or of the State,\nor of the family. Hence it is always dangerous to enter upon\nintellectual discussion of any kind with women, for you are almost\ncertain to offend them by setting aside the sentiments of veneration,\naffection, love, which they have in great strength, in order to reach\naccuracy in matters of fact, which they neither have nor care for.\n\n\n\n\nPART VIII.\n\n_ARISTOCRACY AND DEMOCRACY._\n\n\nLETTER I.\n\nTO A YOUNG ENGLISH NOBLEMAN.\n\n  A contrast--A poor student--His sad fate--Class-sentiment--Tycho\n  Brahe--Robert Burns--Shelley's opinion of Byron--Charles\n  Dickens--Shopkeepers in English literature--Pride of aristocratic\n  ignorance--Pursuits tabooed by the spirit of caste--Affected\n  preferences in intellectual pursuits--Studies that add to\n  gentility--Sincerity of interest needed for genuine culture--The\n  exclusiveness of scholarly caste--Its bad influence on\n  outsiders--Feeling of Burns toward scholars--Sureness of\n  class-instinct--Unforeseen effect of railways--Return to nomadic life\n  and the chase--Advantages and possibilities to life in the higher\n  classes.\n\nIt is one of the privileges of authorship to have correspondents in the\nmost widely different positions, and by means of their frank and\nfriendly letters (usually much more frank than any oral communication)\nto gain a singularly accurate insight into the working of circumstances\non the human intellect and character. The same post that brought me your\nlast letter brought news about another of my friends whose lot has been\na striking contrast to your own.[8]\n\nLet me dwell upon this contrast for a few minutes. All the sunshine\nappears to have been on your side, and all the shadow on his. Born of\nhighly cultivated parents, in the highest rank in England under royalty,\nyou have lived from the beginning amongst the most efficient aids to\nculture, and Nature has so endowed you that, instead of becoming\nindifferent to these things from familiarity, you have learned to value\nthem more and more in every successive year. The plainest statement of\nyour advantages would sound like an extract from one of Disraeli's\nnovels. Your father's principal castle is situated amongst the finest\nscenery in Britain, and his palace in London is filled with masterpieces\nof art. Wherever you have lived you have been surrounded by good\nliterature and cultivated friends. Your health is steadily robust, you\ncan travel wherever you choose, and all the benefits of all the capitals\nof Europe belong to you as much as to their own citizens. In all these\ngifts and opportunities there is but one evil--the bewilderment of their\nmultiplicity.\n\nMy other correspondent has been less fortunately situated. \"I began\nschool,\" he says, \"when six years old, was taken from it at eleven and\nsent to the mines to earn a little towards my own support. I continued\nthere till fourteen, when through an unlucky incident I was made a\nhopeless cripple. At that day I was earning the noble sum of eightpence\nper day, quite as much as any boy of that age got in the lead mines. I\nsuffered much for two years; after that, became much easier, but my legs\nwere quite useless, and have continued so up to the present time. The\nright thigh-bone is decayed, has not got worse these nine years;\ntherefore I conclude that I may live--say another thirty years. I should\n_like_, at all events, for life _is_ sweet even at this cost; not but\nwhat I could die quietly enough, I dare say. I have not been idle these\nyears....\"\n\n(Here permit me to introduce a parenthesis. He certainly had _not_ been\nidle. He had educated himself up to such a point that he could really\nappreciate both literature and art, and had attained some genuine skill\nin both. His letters to me were the letters of a cultivated gentleman,\nand he used invariably to insert little pen-sketches, which were done\nwith a light and refined hand.)\n\n\"I can do anything almost in bed--except getting up. I am now twenty-two\nyears old. My father was a miner, but is now unable to work. I have only\none brother working, and we are about a dozen of us; consequently we are\nnot in the most flourishing circumstances, but a friend has put it in my\npower to learn to etch. I have got the tools and your handbook on the\nsubject.\"\n\nThese extracts are from his first letter. Afterwards he wrote me others\nwhich made me feel awed and humbled by the manly cheerfulness with which\nhe bore a lot so dreary, and by the firmness of resolution he showed in\nhis pursuits. He could not quit his bed, but that was not the worst; he\ncould not even sit up in bed, and yet he contrived, I know not how, both\nto write and draw and etch on copper, managing the plaguy chemicals, and\neven printing his own proofs. His bed was on wheels, on a sort of light\niron carriage, and he saw nature out-of-doors. All the gladness of\nphysical activity was completely blotted out of his existence, and in\nthat respect his prospects were without hope. And still he said that\n\"life was sweet.\" O marvel of all marvels, how _could_ that life be\nsweet!\n\nAided by a beautiful patience and resignation the lamp of the mind\nburned with a steady brightness, fed by his daily studies. In the\nwinters, however, the diseased limb gave him prolonged agony, and in the\nautumn of 1872, to avoid the months of torture that lay before him, he\nhad himself put in the railway and sent off, in his bed, to Edinburgh,\nsleeping in a waiting-room on the way. There was no one to attend him,\nbut he trusted, not vainly, to the humanity of strangers. Just about the\nsame time your lordship went northwards also, with many friends, to\nenjoy the noble scenery, and the excitement of noble sport. My poor\ncripple got to Edinburgh, got a glimpse of Scott's monument and the\nAthenian pillars, and submitted himself to the surgeons. They rendered\nhim the best of services, for they ended his pains forever.\n\nSo I am to get no more of those wonderfully brave and cheerful letters\nthat were written from the little bed on wheels. I miss them for the\nlessons they quite unconsciously conveyed. He fancied that he was the\nlearner, poor lad! and I the teacher, whereas it was altogether the\nother way. He made me feel what a blessing it is, even from the purely\nintellectual point of view, to be able to get out of bed after the\nnight's rest, and go from one room to another. He made me understand the\nvalue of every liberty and every power whilst at the same time he taught\nme to bear more patiently every limit, and inconvenience, and\nrestriction.\n\nIn comparing his letters with yours I have been struck by one reflection\npredominantly, which is, the entire absence of class-sentiment in both\nof you. Nobody, not in the secret, could guess that one set of letters\ncame from a palace and the other set from a poor miner's cottage; and\neven to me, who do not see the habitations except by an effort of the\nmemory or imagination, there is nothing to recall the immensity of the\nsocial distance that separated my two friendly and welcome\ncorrespondents. It is clear, of course, that one of them had enjoyed\ngreater advantages than the other, but neither wrote from the point of\nview which marks his caste or class. It was my habit to write to you,\nand to him, exactly in the same tone, yet this was not felt to be\nunsuitable by either.\n\nIs it not that the love and pursuit of culture lead each of us out of\nhis class, and that class-views of any kind, whether of the aristocracy,\nor of the middle class, or of the people, inevitably narrow the mind and\nhinder it from receiving pure truth? Have you ever known any person who\nlived habitually in the notions of a caste, high or low, without\nincapacitating himself in a greater or less degree for breadth and\ndelicacy of perception? It seems to me that the largest and best minds,\nalthough they have been born and nurtured in this caste or that, and may\ncontinue to conform externally to its customs, always emancipate\nthemselves from it intellectually, and arrive at a sort of neutral\nregion, where the light is colorless, and clear, and equal, like plain\ndaylight out of doors. So soon as we attain the forgetfulness of self,\nand become absorbed in our pursuits for their own sakes, the feeling of\ncaste drops off from us. It was not a mark of culture in Tycho Brahe,\nbut rather of the imperfections of his culture, that he felt so strongly\nthe difficulty of conciliating scientific pursuits with the obligations\nof noble birth, and began his public discourses on astronomy by telling\nhis audience that the work was ill-suited to his social\nposition--hesitating, too, even about authorship from a dread of social\ndegradation. And to take an instance from the opposite extreme of human\nsociety, Robert Burns betrayed the same imperfection of culture in his\ndedication to the members of the Caledonian Hunt, when he spoke of his\n\"honest rusticity,\" and told the gentlefolks that he was \"bred to the\nplough, and independent.\" Both of these men had been unfavorably\nsituated for the highest culture, the one by the ignorance of his epoch\nthe other by the ignorance of his class; hence this uneasiness about\nthemselves and their social position. Shelley said of Byron, \"The canker\nof aristocracy wants to be cut out;\" and he did not say this from the\npoint of view of a democrat, for Shelley was not precisely a democrat,\nbut from, the broadly human point of view, on which the finest\nintellects like to take their stand. Shelley perceived that Byron's\naristocracy narrowed him, and made his sympathies less catholic than\nthey might have been, nor can there be any doubt of the accuracy of this\nestimate of Shelley's; if a doubt existed it would be removed by Byron's\nalternative for a poet, \"solitude, or high life.\" Another man of genius,\nwhose loss we have recently deplored, was narrowed by his antipathy to\nthe aristocratic spirit, though it is necessary to add, in justice, that\nit did not prevent him from valuing the friendship of noblemen whom he\nesteemed. The works of Charles Dickens would have been more accurate as\npictures of English life, certainly more comprehensively accurate, if he\ncould have felt for the aristocracy that hearty and loving sympathy\nwhich he felt for the middle classes and the people. But the narrowness\nof Dickens is more excusable than that of Byron, because a kindly heart\nmore easily enters into the feelings of those whom it can often pity\nthan of those who appear to be lifted above pity (though this is nothing\nbut an appearance) and also because it is the habit of aristocracies to\nrepel such sympathy by their manners, which the poor do not.\n\nI have often thought that a sign of aristocratic narrowness in many\nEnglish authors, including some of the most popular authors of the day,\nis the way they speak of shopkeepers. This may be due to simple\nignorance; but if so, it is ignorance that might be easily avoided.\nHappily for our convenience there are a great many shopkeepers in\nEngland, so that there is no lack of the materials for study; but our\nnovelists appear to consider this important class of Englishmen as\nunworthy of any patient and serious portraiture. You may remember Mr.\nAnthony Trollope's \"Struggles of Brown, Jones, and Robinson,\" which\nappeared in the _Cornhill Magazine_, under Thackeray's editorship. That\nwas an extreme instance of the way the class is treated in our\nliterature; and then in poetry we have some disdainful verses of Mr.\nTennyson's. It may be presumed that there is material for grave and\nrespectful treatment of this extensive class, but our poets and\nnovelists do not seem to have discovered, or sought to discover, the\nsecret of that treatment. The intensity of the prejudices of caste\nprevents them from seeing any possibility of true gentlemanhood in a\ndraper or a grocer, and blinds them to the aesthetic beauty or grandeur\nwhich may be as perfectly compatible with what is disdainfully called\n\"counter-jumping\" as it is admitted to be with the jumping of\nfive-barred gates.\n\nThe same caste prejudices have often kept the mass of the upper classes\nin ignorance of most valuable and important branches of knowledge. The\npoor have been ignorant, yet never proud of their ignorance; the\nignorance that men are proud of belongs to caste always, not always to\nwhat we should call an aristocratic caste, but to the caste-feeling in\none class or another. The pride of the feudal baron in being totally\nilliterate amounted to self-exclusion from all intellectual culture, and\nwe may still find living instances of partial self-exclusion from\nculture, of which pride is the only motive. There are people who pass\ntheir time in what are considered amusements (that do not amuse),\nbecause it seems to them a more gentlemanly sort of life than the\ndevotion to some great and worthy pursuit which would have given the\nkeenest zest and relish to their whole existence (besides making them\nuseful members of society, which they are not), but which happens to be\ntabooed for them by the prejudices of their caste. There are many\nstudies, in themselves noble and useful, that a man of good family\ncannot follow with the earnestness and the sacrifice of time necessary\nto success in them, without incurring the disapprobation of his\nfriends. If this disapprobation were visited on the breaker of\ncaste-regulations because he neglected some other culture, there would\nstill be something reasonable in it; but this is not the case. The\ncaste-regulation forbids the most honorable and instructive labor when\nit does not forbid the most unprofitable idleness, the most utter\nthrowing away of valuable time and faculty. Tycho Brahe feared to lose\ncaste in becoming the most illustrious astronomer of his time; but he\nwould have had no such apprehension, nor any ground for such\napprehension, if instead of being impelled to noble work by a high\nintellectual instinct, he had been impelled by meaner passions to\nunlimited self-indulgence. Even, in our own day these prejudices are\nstill strong enough, or have been until very lately, to keep our upper\nclasses in great darkness about natural knowledge of all kinds, and\nabout its application to the arts of life. How few gentlemen have been\ntaught to draw accurately, and how few are accurately acquainted with\nthe great practical inventions of the age! The caste-sentiment does not,\nin these days, keep them ignorant of literature, but it keeps them\nignorant of _things_. A friend who had a strong constructive and\nexperimental turn, told me that, as a rule, he found gentlemen less\ncapable of entering into his ideas than common joiners and blacksmiths,\nbecause these humble workmen, from their habit of dealing with matter,\nhad acquired some experience of its nature. For my own part, I have\noften been amazed by the difficulty of making something clear to a\nclassically educated gentleman which any intelligent mechanic would have\nseen to the bottom, and all round, after five or six minutes of\nexplanation. There is a certain French nobleman whose ignorance I have\nfrequent opportunities of fathoming, always with fresh astonishment at\nthe depths of it, and I declare that he knows no more about the\nproperties of stone, and timber, and metal, than if he were a cherub in\nthe clouds of heaven!\n\nBut there is something in caste-sentiment even more prejudicial to\nculture than ignorance itself, and that is the affectation of strong\npreferences for certain branches of knowledge in which people are not\nseriously interested. There is nothing which people will not pretend to\nlike, if a liking for it is supposed to be one of the marks and\nindications of gentility. There has been an immense amount of this kind\nof affectation in regard to classical scholarship, and we know for a\ncertainty that it _is_ affectation whenever people are loud in their\npraise of classical authors whom they never take the trouble to read. It\nmay have happened to you, as it has happened to me from time to time, to\nhear men affirm the absolute necessity of classical reading to\ndistinction of thought and manner, and yet to be aware at the same time,\nfrom close observation of their habits, that those very men entirely\nneglected the sources of that culture in which they professed such\nearnest faith. The explanation is, that as classical accomplishments are\nconsidered to be one of the evidences of gentility, whoever speaks\nloudly in their favor affirms that he has the tastes and preferences of\na gentleman. It is like professing the fashionable religion, or\nbelonging to an aristocratic shade of opinion in politics. I have not a\ndoubt that all affectations of this kind are injurious to genuine\nculture, for genuine culture requires sincerity of interest before\neverything, and the fashionable affectations, so far from attracting\nsincere men to the departments of learning which happen to be _a la\nmode_, positively drive them away, just as many have become\nNonconformists because the established religion was considered necessary\nto gentility, who might have remained contented with its ordinances as a\nsimple discipline for their souls.\n\nI dislike the interference of genteel notions in our studies for another\nreason. They deprive such culture as we may get from them, of one of the\nmost precious results of culture, the enlargement of our sympathy for\nothers. If we encourage ourselves in the pride of scholarly caste, so\nfar as to imagine that we who have made Latin verses are above\ncomparison with all who have never exercised their ingenuity in that\nparticular way, we are not likely to give due and serious attention to\nthe ideas of people whom we are pleased to consider uneducated; and yet\nit may happen that these people are sometimes our intellectual\nsuperiors, and that their ideas concern us very closely. But this is\nonly half the evil. The consciousness of our contempt embitters the\nfeelings of men in other castes, and prevents them from accepting our\nguidance when it might be of the greatest practical utility to them. I\nmay mention Robert Burns as an instance of a man of genius who would\nhave been happier and more fortunate if he had felt no barrier of\nseparation between himself and the culture of his time. His poetry is as\ngood rustic poetry as the best that has come down to us from antiquity,\nand instead of feeling towards the poets of times past the kind of\nsoreness which a parvenu feels towards families of ancient descent, he\nought rather to have rejoiced in the consciousness that he was their\ntrue and legitimate successor, as the clergy of an authentic Church feel\nthemselves to be successors and representatives of saints and apostles\nwho are gathered to their everlasting rest. But poor Burns knew that in\nan age when what is called scholarship gave all who had acquired it a\nright to look down upon poets who had only genius as the illegitimate\noffspring of nature, his position had not that solidity which belonged\nto the scholarly caste, and the result was a perpetual uneasiness which\nbroke out in frequent defiance.\n\n  \"There's ither poets, much your betters,\n   Far seen in Greek, deep men o' letters,\n   Hae thought they had ensur'd their debtors\n               A' future ages;\n   _Now moths deform in shapeless tatters,\n               Their unknown pages_.\"\n\nAnd again, in another poem--\n\n  \"A set o' dull, conceited hashes\n   Confuse their brains in college classes!\n   _They gang in stirks, and come out asses,\n               Plain truth to speak;\n   An' syne they think to climb Parnassus\n               By dint o' Greek!_\"\n\nIt was the influence of caste that made Burns write in this way, and how\nunjust it was every modern reader knows. The great majority of poets\nhave been well-educated men, and instead of ganging into college like\nstirks and coming out like asses, they have, as a rule, improved their\npoetic faculty by an acquaintance with the masterpieces of their art.\nYet Burns is not to be blamed for this injustice; he sneered at Greek\nbecause Greek was the mark of a disdainful and exclusive caste, but he\nnever sneered at French or Italian. He had no soreness against culture\nfor its own sake; it was the pride of caste that galled him.\n\nHow surely the wonderful class-instinct guided the aristocracy to the\nkind of learning likely to be the most effectual barrier against\nfellowship with the mercantile classes and the people! The uselessness\nof Greek in industry and commerce was a guarantee that those who had to\nearn their bread would never find time to master it, and even the\nstrange difficult look of the alphabet (though in reality the alphabet\nwas a gate of gossamer), ensured a degree of awful veneration for those\ninitiated into its mysteries. Then the habit our forefathers had of\nquoting Latin and Greek to keep the ignorant in their places, was a\nstrong defensive weapon of their caste, and they used it without\nscruple. Every year removes this passion for exclusiveness farther and\nfarther into the past; every year makes learning of every kind less\navailable as the armor of a class, and less to be relied upon as a means\nof social advancement and consideration. Indeed, we have already reached\na condition which is drawing back many members of the aristocracy to a\nstate of feeling about intellectual culture resembling that of their\nforefathers in the middle ages. The old barbarian feeling has revived of\nlate, a feeling which (if it were self-conscious enough) might find\nexpression in some such words as these:--\n\n\"It is not by learning and genius that we can hold the highest place,\nbut by the dazzling exhibition of external splendor in those costly\npleasures which are the plainest evidence of our power. Let us have\nbeautiful equipages on the land, beautiful yachts upon the sea; let our\nrecreations be public and expensive, that the people may not easily lose\nsight of us, and may know that there is a gulf of difference between our\nlife and theirs. Why should we toil at books that the poorest students\nread, we who have lordly pastimes for every month in the year? To be\nable to revel immensely in pleasures which those below us taste rarely\nor not at all, this is the best evidence of our superiority. So let us\ntake them magnificently, like English princes and lords.\"\n\nEven the invention of railways has produced the unforeseen result of a\nreturn in the direction of barbarism. If there is one thing which\ndistinguishes civilization it is fixity of residence; and it is\nessential to the tranquil following of serious intellectual purposes\nthat the student should remain for many months of the year in his own\nlibrary or laboratory, surrounded by all his implements of culture. But\nthere are people of the highest rank in the England of to-day whose\nexistence is as much nomadic as that of Red Indians in the reserved\nterritories of North America. You cannot ascertain their whereabouts\nwithout consulting the most recent newspaper. Their life may be quite\naccurately described as a return, on a scale of unprecedented splendor\nand comfort, to the life of tribes in that stage of human development\nwhich is known as the period of the chase. They migrate from one\nhunting-ground to another as the diminution of the game impels them.\nTheir residences, vast and substantial as they are, serve only as tents\nand wigwams. The existence of a monk in the cloister, of a prisoner in a\nfortress, is more favorable to the intellect than theirs.\n\nAnd yet notwithstanding these re-appearances of the savage nature at the\nvery summit of modern civilization, the life of a great English\nnobleman of to-day commands so much of what the intellectual know to be\ntruly desirable, that it seems as if only a little firmness of\nresolution were needed to make all advantages his own. Surrounded by\nevery aid, and having all gates open, he sees the paths of knowledge\nconverging towards him like railways to some rich central city. He has\nbut to choose his route, and travel along it with the least possible\nhindrance from every kind of friction, in the society of the best\ncompanions, and served by the most perfectly trained attendants. Might\nnot our lords be like those brilliant peers who shone like intellectual\nstars around the throne of Elizabeth, and our ladies like that great\nlady of whom said a learned Italian, \"che non vi aveva altra dama al\nmondo che la pareggiasse nella cognizione delle arti e nella notizia\ndelle scienze e delle lingue,\" wherefore he called her boldly, in the\nenthusiasm of his admiration, \"_grande anfitrite, Diana nume della\nterra!_\"\n\n\nLETTER II.\n\nTO AN ENGLISH DEMOCRAT.\n\n  The liberal and illiberal spirit of aristocracy--The desire to draw a\n  line--Substitution of external limitations for realities--The high\n  life of nature--Value of gentlemen in a State--Odiousness of the\n  narrow class-spirit--Julian Fane--Perfect knighthood--Democracies\n  intolerant of dignity--Tendency of democracies to fix one uniform type\n  of manners--That type not a high one--A descriptive\n  anecdote--Knowledge and taste reveal themselves in manners--Dr. Arnold\n  on the absence of gentlemen in France and Italy--Absence of a class\n  with traditional good manners--Language defiled by the vulgarity of\n  popular taste--Influence of aristocratic opinion limited, that of\n  democratic opinion universal--Want of elevation in the French\n  _bourgeoisie_--Spirit of the provincial democracy--Spirit of the\n  Parisian democracy--Sentiments and acts of the Communards--Romantic\n  feeling towards the past--Hopes for liberal culture in the democratic\n  idea--Aristocracies think too much of persons and positions--That we\n  ought to forget persons and apply our minds to things, and phenomena,\n  and ideas.\n\nAll you say against the narrowness of the aristocratic spirit is true\nand to the point; but I think that you and your party are apt to\nconfound together two states of feeling which are essentially distinct\nfrom each other. There is an illiberal spirit of aristocracy, and there\nis also a liberal one. The illiberal spirit does not desire to improve\nitself, having a full and firm belief in its own absolute perfection;\nits sole anxiety is to exclude others, to draw a circular line, the\nsmaller the better, provided always that it gets inside and can keep the\nmillions out. We see this spirit, not only in reference to birth, but in\neven fuller activity with regard to education and employment--in the\npreference for certain schools and colleges, for class reasons, without\nregard to the quality of the teaching--in the contempt for all\nprofessions but two or three, without regard to the inherent baseness or\nnobility of the work that has to be done in them: so that the question\nasked by persons of this temper is not whether a man has been well\ntrained in his youth, but if he has been to Eton and Oxford; not whether\nhe is honorably laborious in his manhood, but whether he belongs to the\nBar, or the Army, or the Church. This spirit is evil in its influence,\nbecause it substitutes external limitations for the realities of the\nintellect and the soul, and makes those realities themselves of no\naccount wherever its traditions prevail. This spirit cares nothing for\nculture, nothing for excellence, nothing for the superiorities that make\nmen truly great; all it cares for is to have reserved seats in the great\nassemblage of the world. Whatever you do, in fairness and honesty,\nagainst this evil and inhuman spirit of aristocracy, the best minds of\nthis age approve; but there is another spirit of aristocracy which does\nnot always receive the fairest treatment at your hands, and which ought\nto be resolutely defended against you.\n\nThere is really, in nature, such a thing as high life. There is really,\nin nature, a difference between the life of a gentleman who has culture,\nand fine bodily health, and independence, and the life of a Sheffield\ndry-grinder who cannot have any one of these three things. It is a good\nand not a bad sign of the state of popular intelligence when the people\ndoes not wilfully shut its eyes to the differences of condition amongst\nmen, and when those who have the opportunity of leading what is truly\nthe high life accept its discipline joyfully and have a just pride in\nkeeping themselves up to their ideal. A life of health, of sound\nmorality, of disinterested intellectual activity, of freedom from petty\ncares, _is_ higher than a life of disease, and vice, and stupidity, and\nsordid anxiety. I maintain that it is right and wise in a nation to set\nbefore itself the highest attainable ideal of human life as the\nexistence of the complete gentleman, and that an envious democracy,\ninstead of rendering a service to itself, does exactly the contrary when\nit cannot endure and will not tolerate the presence of high-spirited\ngentlemen in the State. There are things in this world that it is right\nto hate, that we are the better for hating with all our hearts; and one\nof the things that I hate most, and with most reason, is the narrow\nclass-spirit when it sets itself against the great interests of mankind.\nIt is odious in the narrow-minded, pompous, selfish, pitiless aristocrat\nwho thinks that the sons of the people were made by Almighty God to be\nhis lackeys and their daughters to be his mistresses; it is odious also,\nto the full as odious, in the narrow-minded, envious democrat who cannot\nbear to see any elegance of living, or grace of manner, or culture of\nmind above the range of his own capacity or his own purse.\n\nLet me recommend to your consideration the following words, written by\none young nobleman about another young nobleman, and reminding us, as we\nmuch need to be reminded, that life may be not only honest and vigorous,\nbut also noble and beautiful. Robert Lytton says of Julian Fane--\n\n\"He was, I think, the most graceful and accomplished gentleman of the\ngeneration he adorned, and by this generation, at least, appropriate\nplace should be reserved for the memory of a man in whose character the\nmost universal sympathy with all the intellectual culture of his age was\nunited to a refinement of social form, and a perfection of personal\ngrace, which, in spite of all its intellectual culture, the age is sadly\nin want of. There is an artistry of life as well as of literature, and\nthe perfect knighthood of Sidney is no less precious to the world than\nthe genius of Spenser.\"\n\nIt is just this \"perfect knighthood\" that an envious democracy sneers at\nand puts down. I do not say that all democracies are necessarily\nenvious, but they often are so, especially when they first assert\nthemselves, and whilst in that temper they are very willing to ostracize\ngentlemen, or compel them to adopt bad manners. I have some hopes that\nthe democracies of the future may be taught by authors and artists to\nappreciate natural gentlemanhood; but so far as we know them hitherto\nthey seem intolerant of dignity, and disposed to attribute it (very\nunjustly) to individual self-conceit. The personages most popular in\ndemocratic countries are often remarkably deficient in dignity, and\nliked the better for the want of it, whilst if on the positive side they\ncan display occasional coarseness they become more popular still. Then I\nshould say, that although democratic feeling raises the lower classes\nand increases their self-respect, which is indeed one of the greatest\nimaginable benefits to a nation, it has a tendency to fix one uniform\ntype of behavior and of thought as the sole type in conformity with what\nis accepted for \"common sense,\" and that type can scarcely, in the\nnature of things, be a very elevated one. I have been much struck, in\nFrance, by the prevalence of what may be not inaccurately defined as the\ncommercial traveller type, even in classes where you would scarcely\nexpect to meet with it. One little descriptive anecdote will illustrate\nwhat I mean. Having been invited to a stag-hunt in the Cote d'Or, I sat\ndown to _dejeuner_ with the sportsmen in a good country-house or chateau\n(it was an old place with four towers), and in the midst of the meal in\ncame a man smoking a cigar. After a bow to the ladies he declined to eat\nanything, and took a chair a little apart, but just opposite me. He\nresumed his hat and went on smoking with a _sans-gene_ that rather\nsurprised me under the circumstances. He put one arm on the side-board:\nthe hand hung down, and I perceived that it was dirty (so was the\nshirt), and that the nails had edges of ebony. On his chin there was a\nblack stubble of two days' growth. He talked very loudly, and his dress\nand manners were exactly those of a bagman just arrived at his inn. Who\nand what could the man be? I learned afterwards that he had begun life\nas a distinguished pupil of the _Ecole Polytechnique_, that since then\nhe had distinguished himself as an officer of artillery and had won the\nLegion of Honor on the field of battle, that he belonged to one of the\nprincipal families in the neighborhood, and had nearly 2000_l._ a year\nfrom landed property.\n\nNow, it may be a good thing for the roughs at the bottom of the social\nscale to level up to the bagman-ideal, but it does seem rather a pity\n(does it not?) that a born gentleman of more than common bravery and\nability should level _down_ to it. And it is here that lies the\nprinciple objection to democracy from the point of view of culture, that\nits notion of life and manners is a uniform notion, not admitting much\nvariety of classes, and not allowing the high development of graceful\nand accomplished humanity in any class which an aristocracy does at\nleast encourage in one class, though it may be numerically a small\nclass. I have not forgotten what Saint-Simon and La Bruyere have\ntestified about the ignorance of the old noblesse. Saint-Simon said that\nthey were fit for nothing but fighting, and only qualified for promotion\neven in the army by seniority; that the rest of their time was passed\nin \"the most deadly uselessness, the consequence of their indolence and\ndistaste for all instruction.\" I am sure that my modern artillery\ncaptain, notwithstanding his bad manners, _knew_ more than any of his\nforefathers; but where was his \"perfect knighthood?\" And we easily\nforget \"how much talent runs into manners,\" as Emerson says. From the\nartistic and poetical point of view, behavior is an expression of\nknowledge and taste and feeling in combination, as clear and legible as\nliterature or painting, so that when the behavior is coarse and\nunbecoming we know that the perceptions cannot be delicate, whatever may\nhave been learned at school. When Dr. Arnold travelled on the Continent,\nnothing struck him more than the absence of gentlemen. \"We see no\ngentlemen anywhere,\" he writes from Italy. From France he writes: \"Again\nI have been struck with the total absence of all gentlemen, and of all\npersons of the education and feelings of gentlemen.\" Now, although Dr.\nArnold spoke merely from the experience of a tourist, and was perhaps\nnot quite competent to judge of Frenchmen and Italians otherwise than\nfrom externals, still there was much truth in his observation. It was\nnot quite absolutely true. I have known two or three Italian officers,\nand one Savoyard nobleman, and a Frenchman here and there, who were as\nperfect gentlemen as any to be found in England, but they were isolated\nlike poets, and were in fact poets in behavior and self discipline. The\nplain truth is, that there is no distinct class in France maintaining\ngood manners as a tradition common to all its members; and this seems to\nbe the inevitable defect of a democracy. It may be observed, further,\nthat language itself is defiled by the vulgarity of the popular taste;\nthat expressions are used continually, even by the upper middle class,\nwhich it is impossible to print, and which are too grossly indecent to\nfind a place even in the dictionaries; that respectable men, having\nbecome insensible to the meaning of these expressions from hearing them\nused without intention, employ them constantly from habit, as they\ndecorate their speech with oaths, whilst only purists refrain from them\naltogether.\n\nAn aristocracy may be very narrow and intolerant, but it can only\nexclude from its own pale, whereas when a democracy is intolerant it\nexcludes from all human intercourse. Our own aristocracy, as a class,\nrejects Dissenters, and artists, and men of science, but they flourish\nquite happily outside of it. Now try to picture to yourself a great\ndemocracy having the same prejudices, who could get out of the\ndemocracy? All aristocracies are intolerant with reference, I will not\nsay to religion, but, more accurately, with reference to the outward\nforms of religion, and yet this aristocratic intolerance has not\nprevented the development of religious liberty, because the lower\nclasses were not strictly bound by the customs of the nobility and\ngentry. The unwritten law appears to be that members of an aristocracy\nshall conform either to what is actually the State Church or to what has\nbeen the State Church at some former period of the national history.\nAlthough England is a Protestant country, an English gentleman does not\nlose caste when he joins the Roman Catholic communion; but he loses\ncaste when he becomes a Dissenter. The influence of this caste-law in\nkeeping the upper classes within the Churches of England and of Rome has\nno doubt been very considerable, but its influence on the nation\ngenerally has been incomparably less considerable than that of some\nequally decided social rule in the entire mind of a democracy. Had this\nrule of conformity to the religion of the State been that of the English\ndemocracy, religious liberty would have been extinguished throughout the\nlength and breadth of England. I say that the customs and convictions of\na democracy are more dangerous to intellectual liberty than those of an\naristocracy, because, in matters of custom, the gentry rule only within\ntheir own park-palings, whereas the people, when power resides with\nthem, rule wherever the breezes blow. A democracy that dislikes\nrefinement and good manners can drive men of culture into solitude, and\nmake morbid hermits of the very persons who ought to be the lights and\nleaders of humanity. It can cut short the traditions of good-breeding,\nthe traditions of polite learning, the traditions of thoughtful\nleisure, and reduce the various national types of character to one\ntype, that of the _commis-voyageur_. All men of refined sentiment in\nmodern France lament the want of elevation in the _bourgeoisie_. They\nread nothing, they learn nothing, they think of nothing but money and\nthe satisfaction of their appetites. There are exceptions, of course,\nbut the tone of the class is mean and low, and devoid of natural dignity\nor noble aspiration. Their ignorance passes belief, and is accompanied\nby an absolute self-satisfaction. \"La fin de la bourgeoisie,\" says an\neminent French author, \"commence parcequ'elle a les sentiments de la\npopulace. Je ne vois pas qu'elle lise d'autres journaux, qu'elle se\nregale d'une musique differente, qu'elle ait des plaisirs plus eleves.\nChez l'une comme chez l'autre, c'est le meme amour de l'argent, le meme\nrespect du fait accompli, le meme besoin d'idoles pour les detruire, la\nmeme haine de toute superiorite, le meme esprit de denigrement, la meme\ncrasse ignorance!\" M. Renan also complains that during the Second Empire\nthe country sank deeper and deeper into vulgarity, forgetting its past\nhistory and its noble enthusiasms. \"Talk to the peasant, to the\nsocialist of the International, of France, of her past history, of her\ngenius, he will not understand you. Military honor seems madness to him;\nthe taste for great things, the glory of the mind, are vain dreams;\nmoney spent for art and science is money thrown away foolishly. Such is\nthe provincial spirit.\" And if this is the provincial spirit, what is\nthe spirit of the metropolitan democracy? Is it not clearly known to us\nby its acts? It had the opportunity, under the Commune, of showing the\nworld how tenderly it cared for the monuments of national history, how\nanxious it was for the preservation of noble architecture, of great\nlibraries, of pictures that can never be replaced. Whatever may have\nbeen our illusions about the character of the Parisian democracy, we\nknow it very accurately now. To say that it is brutal would be an\ninadequate use of language, for the brutes are only indifferent to\nhistory and civilization, not hostile to them. So far as it is possible\nfor us to understand the temper of that democracy, it appears to cherish\nan active and intense hatred for every conceivable kind of superiority,\nand an instinctive eagerness to abolish the past; or, as that is not\npossible, since the past will always _have been_ in spite of it, then at\nleast to efface all visible memorials and destroy the bequests of all\npreceding generations. If any one had affirmed, before the fall of Louis\nNapoleon, that the democratic spirit was capable of setting fire to the\nLouvre and the national archives and libraries, of deliberately planning\nthe destruction of all those magnificent edifices, ecclesiastical and\ncivil, which were the glory of France and the delight of Europe, we\nshould have attributed such an assertion to the exaggerations of\nreactionary fears. But since the year 1870 we do not speculate about\nthe democratic temper in its intensest expression; we have seen it at\nwork, and we know it. We know that every beautiful building, every\nprecious manuscript and picture, has to be protected against the noxious\nswarm of Communards as a sea-jetty against the Pholas and the Teredo.\n\nCompare this temper with that of a Marquis of Hertford, a Duke of\nDevonshire, a Duc de Luynes! True guardians of the means of culture,\nthese men have given splendid hospitality to the great authors and\nartists of past times, by keeping their works for the future with tender\nand reverent care. Nor has this function of high stewardship ever been\nmore nobly exercised than it is to-day by that true knight and\ngentleman, Sir Richard Wallace. Think of the difference between this\ngreat-hearted guardian of priceless treasures, keeping them for the\npeople, for civilization, and a base-spirited Communard setting fire to\nthe library of the Louvre.\n\nThe ultra-democratic spirit is hostile to culture, from its hatred of\nall delicate and romantic sentiment, from its scorn of the tenderer and\nfiner feelings of our nature, and especially from its brutish incapacity\nto comprehend the needs of the higher life. If it had its way we should\nbe compelled by public opinion to cast all the records of our ancestors,\nand the shields they wore in battle, into the foul waters of an eternal\nLethe. The intolerance of the sentiment of birth, that noble sentiment\nwhich has animated so many hearts with heroism, and urged them to deeds\nof honor, associated as it is with a cynical disbelief in the existence\nof female virtue,[9] is one of the commonest signs of this evil spirit\nof detraction. It is closely connected with an ungrateful indifference\ntowards all that our forefathers have done to make civilization possible\nfor us. Now, although the intellectual spirit studies the past\ncritically, and does not accept history as a legend is accepted by the\ncredulous, still the intellectual spirit has a deep respect for all that\nis noble in the past, and would preserve the record of it forever. Can\nyou not imagine, have you not actually seen, the heir of some ancient\nhouse who shares to the full the culture and aspirations of the age in\nwhich we live, and who nevertheless preserves, with pious reverence, the\ntowers his forefathers built on the ancestral earth, and the oaks they\nplanted, and the shields that were carved on the tombs where the knights\nand their ladies rest? Be sure that a right understanding of the present\nis compatible with a right and reverent understanding of the past, and\nthat, although we may closely question history and tradition, no longer\nwith childlike faith, still the spirit of true culture would never\nefface their vestiges. It was not Michelet, not Renan, not Hugo, who set\nfire to the Palace of Justice and imperilled the Sainte-Chapelle.\n\nAnd yet, notwithstanding all these vices and excesses of the democratic\nspirit, notwithstanding the meanness of the middle classes and the\nviolence of the mob, there is one all-powerful reason why our best hopes\nfor the liberal culture of the intellect are centred in the democratic\nidea. The reason is, that aristocracies think too much of persons and\npositions to weigh facts and opinions justly. In an aristocratic society\nit is thought unbecoming to state your views in their full force in the\npresence of any social superior. If you state them at all you must\nsoften them to suit the occasion, or you will be a sinner against\ngood-breeding. Observe how timid and acquiescent the ordinary Englishman\nbecomes in the presence of a lord. No right-minded person likes to be\nthought impudent, and where the tone of society refers everything to\nposition, you are considered impudent when you forget your station. But\nwhat has my station to do with the truths the intellect perceives, that\nlie entirely outside of me? From the intellectual point of view, it is a\nnecessary virtue to forget your station, to forget yourself entirely,\nand to think of the subject only, in a manner perfectly disinterested.\nAnonymous journalism was a device to escape from that continual\nreference to the rank and fortune of the speaker which is an inveterate\nhabit in all aristocratic communities. A young man without title or\nestate knows that he would not be listened to in the presence of his\nsocial superiors, so he holds his tongue in society and relieves\nhimself by an article in the _Times_. The anonymous newspapers and\nreviews are a necessity in an aristocratic community, for they are the\nonly means of attracting attention to facts and opinions without\nattracting it to yourself, the only way of escaping the personal\nquestion, \"Who and what are you, that you venture to speak so plainly,\nand where is your stake in the country?\"\n\nThe democratic idea, by its theoretic equality amongst men, affords an\nalmost complete relief from this impediment to intellectual\nconversation. The theory of equality is good, because it negatives the\ninterference of rank and wealth in matters that appertain to the\nintellect or to the moral sense. It may even go one step farther with\nadvantage, and ignore intellectual authority also. The perfection of the\nintellectual spirit is the entire forgetfulness of persons, in the\napplication of the whole power of the mind to things, and phenomena, and\nideas. Not to mind whether the speaker is of noble or humble birth, rich\nor poor; this indeed is much, but we ought to attain a like indifference\nto the authority of the most splendid reputation. \"Every great advance\nin natural knowledge,\" says Professor Huxley, \"has involved the absolute\nrejection of authority, the cherishing of the keenest scepticism, the\nannihilation of the spirit of blind faith; and the most ardent votary of\nscience holds his firmest convictions, not because the men he most\nvenerates hold them, not because their verity is testified by portents\nand wonders, but because his experience teaches him that whenever he\nchooses to bring these convictions into contact with their primary\nsource, Nature--whenever he thinks fit to test them by appealing to\nexperiment and to observation--Nature will confirm them.\"\n\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n  [8] I think it right to inform the reader that there is no fiction in\n    this letter.\n\n  [9] The association between the two is this. If you believe that you\n    are descended from a distinguished ancestor, you are simple enough to\n    believe in his wife's fidelity.\n\n\n\n\nPART IX.\n\n_SOCIETY AND SOLITUDE._\n\n\nLETTER I.\n\nTO A LADY WHO DOUBTED THE REALITY OF INTELLECTUAL FRIENDSHIPS.\n\n  That intellectual friendships are in their nature temporary, when\n  there is no basis of feeling to support them--Their freshness soon\n  disappears--Danger of satiety--Temporary acquaintances--Succession in\n  friendships--Free communication of intellectual results--Friendships\n  between ripe and immature men--Rembrandt and Hoogstraten--Tradition\n  transmitted through these friendships.\n\nI heartily agree with you so far as this, that intellectual relations\nwill not sustain friendship for very long, unless there is also some\nbasis of feeling to sustain it. And still there is a certain reality in\nthe friendships of the intellect whilst they last, and they are\nremembered gratefully for their profit when in the course of nature they\nhave ceased. We may wisely contract them, and blamelessly dissolve them\nwhen the occasion that created them has gone by. They are like business\npartnerships, contracted from motives of interest, and requiring\nintegrity above all things, with mutual respect and consideration, yet\nnot necessarily either affection or the semblance of it. Since the\nmotive of the intellectual existence is the desire to ascertain and\ncommunicate truth, a sort of positive and negative electricity\nimmediately establishes itself between those who want to know and those\nwho desire to communicate their knowledge; and the connection is\nmutually agreeable until these two desires are satisfied. When this\nhappens, the connection naturally ceases; but the memory of it usually\nleaves a permanent feeling of good-will, and a permanent disposition to\nrender services of the same order. This, in brief, is the whole\nphilosophy of the subject; but it may be observed farther, that the\npurely intellectual intercourse which often goes by the name of\nfriendship affords excellent opportunities for the formation of real\nfriendship, since it cannot be long continued without revealing much of\nthe whole nature of the associates.\n\nWe do not easily exhaust the mind of another, but we easily exhaust what\nis accessible to us in his mind; and when we have done this, the first\nbenefit of intercourse is at an end. Then comes a feeling of dulness and\ndisappointment, which is full of the bitterest discouragement to the\ninexperienced. In maturer life we are so well prepared for this that it\ndiscourages us no longer. We know beforehand that the freshness of the\nmind that was new to us will rapidly wear away, that we shall soon\nassimilate the fragment of it which is all that ever can be made our\nown, so we enjoy the freshness whilst it lasts, and are even careful of\nit as a fruiterer is of the bloom upon his grapes and plums. It may seem\na hard and worldly thing to say, but it appears to me that a wise man\nmight limit his intercourse with others before there was any danger of\nsatiety, as it is wisdom in eating to rise from table with an appetite.\nCertainly, if the friends of our intellect live near enough for us to\nanticipate no permanent separation by mere distance, if we may expect to\nmeet them frequently, to have many opportunities for a more thorough and\nsearching exploration of their minds, it is a wise policy not to exhaust\nthem all at once. With the chance acquaintances we make in travelling,\nthe case is altogether different; and this is, no doubt, the reason why\nmen are so astonishingly communicative when they never expect to see\neach other any more. You feel an intense curiosity about some temporary\ncompanion; you make many guesses about him; and to induce him to tell\nyou as much as possible in the short time you are likely to be together,\nyou win his confidence by a frankness that would perhaps considerably\nsurprise your nearest neighbors and relations. This is due to the\nshortness of the opportunity; but with people who live in the same\nplace, you will proceed much more deliberately.\n\nWhoever would remain regularly provided with intellectual friends, ought\nto arrange a succession of friendships, as gardeners do with peas and\nstrawberries, so that, whilst some are fully ripe, others should be\nripening to replace them. This doctrine sounds like blasphemy against\nfriendship; but it is not intended to apply to the sacred friendship of\nthe heart, which ought to be permanent like marriage, only to the\nfriendship of the head, which is of the utmost utility to culture, yet\nin its nature temporary. I know a distinguished Englishman who is quite\nremarkable for the talent with which he arranges his intellectual\nfriendships, so as never to be dependent on any one, but always sure of\nthe intercourse he needs, both now and in the future. He will never be\nisolated, never without some fresh and living interest in humanity. It\nmay seem to you that there is a lamentable want of faith in this; and I\ngrant at once that a system of this kind does presuppose the extinction\nof the boyish belief in the permanence of human relations; still, it\nindicates a large-minded confidence in the value of human intercourse,\nan enjoyment of the present, a hope for the future, and a right\nappreciation of the past.\n\nNothing is more beautiful in the intellectual life than the willingness\nof all cultivated people--unless they happen to be accidentally soured\nby circumstances that have made them wretched--to communicate to others\nthe results of all their toil. It is true that they apparently lose\nnothing by the process, and that a rich man who gives some portion of\nhis material wealth exercises a greater self-denial; still, when you\nconsider that men of culture, in teaching others, abandon something of\ntheir relative superiority, and often voluntarily incur the sacrifice\nof what is most precious to them, namely, their time, I think you will\nadmit that their readiness in this kind of generosity is one of the\nfinest characteristics of highly-developed humanity. Of all intellectual\nfriendships, none are so beautiful as those which subsist between old\nand ripe men and their younger brethren in science, or literature, or\nart. It is by these private friendships, even more than by public\nperformance, that the tradition of sound thinking and great doing is\nperpetuated from age to age. Hoogstraten, who was a pupil of Rembrandt,\nasked him many questions, which the great master answered thus:--\"Try to\nput well in practice what you already know; in so doing you will, in\ngood time, discover the hidden things which you now inquire about.\" That\nanswer of Rembrandt's is typical of the maturest teaching. How truly\nfriendly it is; how full of encouragement; how kind in its admission\nthat the younger artist _did_ already know something worth putting into\npractice; and yet, at the same time, how judicious in its reserve! Few\nof us have been so exceptionally unfortunate as not to find, in our own\nage, some experienced friend who has helped us by precious counsel,\nnever to be forgotten. We cannot render it in kind; but perhaps in the\nfulness of time it may become our noblest duty to aid another as we have\nourselves been aided, and to transmit to him an invaluable treasure, the\ntradition of the intellectual life.\n\n\nLETTER II.\n\nTO A YOUNG GENTLEMAN WHO LIVED MUCH IN FASHIONABLE SOCIETY.\n\n  Certain dangers to the intellectual life--Difficult to resist the\n  influences of society--Gilding--Fashionable education--Affectations of\n  knowledge--Not easy to ascertain what people really know--Value of\n  real knowledge diminished--Some good effects of affectations--Their\n  bad effect on workers--Skill in amusements.\n\nThe kind of life which you have been leading for the last three or four\nyears will always be valuable to you as a past experience, but if the\nintellectual ambition you confess to me is quite serious, I would\nventure to suggest that there are certain dangers in the continuation of\nyour present existence if altogether uninterrupted. Pray do not suspect\nme of any narrow prejudice against human intercourse, or of any wish to\nmake a hermit of you before your time, but believe that the few\nobservations I have to make are grounded simply on the desire that your\ncareer should be entirely satisfactory to your own maturer judgment,\nwhen you will look back upon it after many years.\n\nAn intellectual man may go into general society quite safely if only he\ncan resist its influence upon his serious work; but such resistance is\ndifficult in maturity and impossible in youth.\n\nThe sort of influence most to be dreaded is this. Society is, and must\nbe, based upon appearances, and not upon the deepest realities. It\nrequires some degree of reality to produce the appearance, but not a\nsubstantial reality. Gilding is the perfect type of what Society\nrequires. A certain quantity of gold is necessary for the work of the\ngilder, but a very small quantity, and skill in applying the metal so as\nto cover a large surface, is of greater consequence than the weight of\nthe metal itself. The mind of a fashionable person is a carefully gilded\nmind.\n\nConsider fashionable education. Society imperatively requires an outside\nknowledge of many things; not permitting the frank confession of\nignorance, whilst it is yet satisfied with a degree of knowledge\ndiffering only from avowed ignorance in permitting you to be less\nsincere. All young ladies, whether gifted by nature with any musical\ntalent or not, are compelled to say that they have learned to play upon\nthe piano; all young gentlemen are compelled to affect to know Latin. In\nthe same way the public opinion of Society compels its members to\npretend to know and appreciate the masterpieces of literature and art.\nThere is, in truth, so much compulsion of this kind that it is not easy\nto ascertain what people do really know and care about until they admit\nyou into their confidence.\n\nThe inevitable effect of these affectations is to diminish the value, in\nSociety, of genuine knowledge and accomplishment of all kinds. I know a\nman who is a Latin scholar; he is one of the few moderns who have really\nlearned Latin; but in fashionable society this brings him no\ndistinction, because we are all supposed to know Latin, and the true\nscholar, when he appears, cannot be distinguished from the multitude of\nfashionable pretenders. I know another man who can draw; there are not\nmany men, even amongst artists, who can draw soundly; yet in fashionable\nsociety he does not get the serious sort of respect which he deserves,\nbecause fashionable people believe that drawing is an accomplishment\ngenerally attainable by young ladies and communicable by governesses. I\nhave no wish to insinuate that Society is wrong, in requiring a certain\npretence to education in various subjects, and a certain affectation of\ninterest in masterpieces, for these pretences and affectations do serve\nto deliver it from the darkness of a quite absolute ignorance. A society\nof fashionable people who think it necessary to be able to talk\nsuperficially about the labors of men really belonging to the\nintellectual class, is always sure to be much better informed than a\nSociety such as that of the French peasantry, for example, where nobody\nis expected to know anything. It is well for Society itself that it\nshould profess a deep respect for classical learning, for the great\nmodern poets and painters, for scientific discoverers, even though the\nmajority of its members do not seriously care about them. The pretension\nitself requires a certain degree of knowledge, as gilding requires a\ncertain quantity of gold.\n\nThe evil effects of these affectations may be summed up in a sentence.\nThey diminish the apparent value of the realities which they imitate,\nand they tend to weaken our enthusiasm for those great realities, and\nour ardor in the pursuit of them. The impression which fashionable\nsociety produces upon a student who has strength enough to resist it, is\na painful sense of isolation in his earnest work. If he goes back to the\nwork with courage undiminished, he still clearly realizes--what it would\nbe better for him not to realize quite so clearly--the uselessness of\ngoing beyond fashionable standards, if he aims at social success. And\nthere is still another thing to be said which concerns you just now very\nparticularly. Whoever leads the intellectual life in earnest is sure on\nsome points to fail in strict obedience to the exigencies of fashionable\nlife, so that, if fashionable successes are still dear to him, he will\nbe constantly tempted to make some such reflections as the\nfollowing:--\"Here am I, giving years and years of labor to a pursuit\nwhich brings no external reward, when half as much work would keep me\nabreast of the society I live with, in everything it really cares about.\nI know quite well all that my learning is costing me. Other men outshine\nme easily in social pleasures and accomplishments. My skill at billiards\nand on the moors is evidently declining, and I cannot ride or drive so\nwell as fellows who do very little else. In fact I am becoming an old\nmuff, and all I have to show on the other side is a degree of\nscholarship which only six men in Europe can appreciate, and a\nspeciality in natural science in which my little discoveries are sure to\nbe either anticipated or left behind.\"\n\nThe truth is, that to succeed well in fashionable society the higher\nintellectual attainments are not so useful as distinguished skill in\nthose amusements which are the real business of the fashionable world.\nThe three things which tell best in your favor amongst young gentlemen\nare to be an excellent shot, to ride well to hounds, and to play\nbilliards with great skill. I wish to say nothing against any of these\naccomplishments, having an especially hearty admiration and respect for\nall good horsemen, and considering the game of billiards the most\nperfectly beautiful of games; still, the fact remains that to do these\nthings as well as some young gentlemen do them, we must devote the time\nwhich they devote, and if we regularly give nine hours a day to graver\noccupations, pray, how and where are we to find it?\n\n\nLETTER III.\n\nTO A YOUNG GENTLEMAN WHO LIVED MUCH IN FASHIONABLE SOCIETY.\n\n  Some exceptional men may live alternately in different\n  worlds--Instances--Differences between the fashionable and the\n  intellectual spirit--Men sometimes made unfashionable by special\n  natural gifts--Sometimes by trifling external circumstances--Anecdote\n  of Ampere--He did not shine in society--His wife's anxieties about his\n  material wants--Apparent contrast between Ampere and Oliver Goldsmith.\n\nYou ask me why there should be any fundamental incompatibility between\nthe fashionable and the intellectual lives. It seems to you that the two\nmight possibly be reconciled, and you mention instances of men who\nattained intellectual distinction without deserting the fashionable\nworld.\n\nYes, there _have_ been a few examples of men endowed with that overflow\nof energy which permits the most opposite pursuits, and enables its\npossessors to live, apparently, in two worlds between which there is not\nany natural affinity. A famous French novelist once took the trouble to\nelaborate the portrait of a lady who passed one half of her time in\nvirtue and churches, whilst she employed the other half in the wildest\nadventures. In real life I may allude to a distinguished English\nengraver, who spent a fortnight over his plate and a fortnight in some\nfashionable watering-place, alternately, and who found this distribution\nof his time not unfavorable to the elasticity of his mind. Many\nhard-working Londoners, who fairly deserve to be considered intellectual\nmen, pass their days in professional labor and their evenings in\nfashionable society. But in all instances of this kind the professional\nwork is serious enough, and regular enough, to give a very substantial\nbasis to the life, so that the times of recreation are kept daily\nsubordinate by the very necessity of circumstances. If you had a\nprofession, and were obliged to follow it in earnest six or eight hours\na day, the more Society amused you the better. The danger in your case\nis that your whole existence may take a fashionable tone.\n\nThe _esprit_ or tone of fashion differs from the intellectual tone in\nways which I will attempt to define. Fashion is nothing more than the\ntemporary custom of rich and idle people who make it their principal\nbusiness to study the external elegance of life. This custom incessantly\nchanges. If your habits of mind and life change with it you are a\nfashionable person, but if your habits of mind and life either remain\npermanently fixed or follow some law of your own individual nature, then\nyou are outside of fashion. The intellectual spirit is remarkable for\nits independence of custom, and therefore on many occasions it will\nclash with the fashionable spirit. It does so most frequently in the\nchoice of pursuits, and in the proportionate importance which the\nindividual student will (in his own case) assign to his pursuits. The\nregulations of fashionable life have fixed, at the least temporarily,\nthe degree of time and attention which a fashionable person may devote\nto this thing or that. The intellectual spirit ignores these\nregulations, and devotes its possessor, or more accurately its\n_possessed_, to the intellectual speciality for which he has most\naptitude, often leaving him ignorant of what fashion has decided to be\nessential. After living the intellectual life for several years he will\nknow too much of one thing and too little of some other things to be in\nconformity with the fashionable ideal. For example, the fashionable\nideal of a gentleman requires classical scholarship, but it is so\ndifficult for artists and men of science to be classical scholars also\nthat in this respect they are likely to fall short. I knew a man who\nbecame unfashionable because he had a genius for mechanics. He was\nalways about steam-engines, and, though a gentleman by birth, associated\nfrom choice with men who understood the science that chiefly interested\nhim, of which all fashionable people were so profoundly ignorant that he\nhabitually kept out of their way. He, on his part, neglected scholarship\nand literature and all that \"artistry of life,\" as Mr. Robert Lytton\ncalls it, in which fashionable society excels. Men are frequently driven\ninto unfashionable existence by the very force and vigor of their own\nintellectual gifts, and sometimes by external circumstances, apparently\nmost trifling, yet of infinite influence on human destiny. There is a\ngood instance of this in a letter from Ampere to his young wife, that\n\"Julie\" who was lost to him so soon. \"I went to dine yesterday at Madame\nBeauregard's with hands blackened by a harmless drug which stains the\nskin for three or four days. She declared that it looked like manure,\nand left the table, saying that she would dine when I was at a distance.\nI promised not to return there before my hands were white. Of course I\nshall never enter the house again.\"\n\nHere we have an instance of a man of science who has temporarily\ndisqualified himself for polite society by an experiment in the pursuit\nof knowledge. What do you think of the vulgarity of Madame Beauregard?\nTo me it appears the perfect type of that preoccupation about\nappearances which blinds the genteel vulgar to the true nobility of\nlife. Were not Ampere's stained hands nobler than many white ones? It is\nnot necessary for every intellectual worker to blacken his fingers with\nchemicals, but a kind of rust very frequently comes over him which ought\nto be as readily forgiven, yet rarely is forgiven. \"In his relations\nwith the world,\" writes the biographer of Ampere, \"the authority of\nsuperiority disappeared. To this the course of years brought no\nalternative. Ampere become celebrated, laden with honorable\ndistinctions, the great Ampere! outside the speculations of the\nintellect, was hesitating and timid again, disquieted and troubled, and\nmore disposed to accord his confidence to others than to himself.\"\n\nIntellectual pursuits did not qualify Ampere, they do not qualify any\none, for success in fashionable society. To succeed in the world you\nought to be _of_ the world, so as to share the things which interest it\nwithout too wide a deviation from the prevalent current of your\nthoughts. Its passing interests, its temporary customs, its transient\nphases of sentiment and opinion, ought to be for the moment your own\ninterests, your own feelings and opinions. A mind absorbed as Ampere's\nwas in the contemplation and elucidation of the unchangeable laws of\nnature, is too much fixed upon the permanent to adapt itself naturally\nto these ever-varying estimates. He did not easily speak the world's\nlighter language, he could not move with its mobility. Such men forget\neven what they eat and what they put on; Ampere's young wife was in\nconstant anxiety, whilst the pair were separated by the severity of\ntheir fate, as to the sufficiency of his diet and the decency of his\nappearance. One day she writes to him to mind not to go out in his\nshabby old coat, and in the same letter she entreats him to purchase a\nbottle of wine, so that when he took no milk or broth he would find it,\nand when it was all drunk she tells him to buy another bottle.\nAfterwards she asks him whether he makes a good fire, and if he has any\nchairs in his room. In another letter she inquires if his bed is\ncomfortable, and in another she tells him to mind about his acids, for\nhe has burnt holes in his blue stockings. Again, she begs him to try to\nhave a passably decent appearance, because that will give pleasure to\nhis poor wife. He answers, to tranquillize her, that he does not burn\nhis things now, and that he makes chemical experiments only in his old\nbreeches with his gray coat and his waistcoat of greenish velvet. But\none day he is forced to confess that she must send him new trousers if\nhe is to appear before MM. Delambre and Villars. He \"does not know what\nto do,\" his best breeches still smell of turpentine, and, having wished\nto put on trousers to go to the Society of Emulation, he saw the hole\nwhich Barrat fancied he had mended become bigger than ever, so that it\nshowed the piece of different cloth which he had sown under it. He adds\nthat his wife will be afraid that he will spoil his \"_beau pantalon_,\"\nbut he promises to send it back to her as clean as when he received it.\nHow different is all this from that watchful care about externals which\nmarks the man of fashion! Ampere was quite a young man then, still\nalmost a bridegroom, yet he is already so absorbed in the intellectual\nlife as to forget appearances utterly, except when Julie, with feminine\nwatchfulness, writes to recall them to his mind. I am not defending or\nadvocating this carelessness. It is better to be neat and tidy than to\ngo in holes and patches; but I desire to insist upon the radical\ndifference between the fashionable spirit and the intellectual spirit.\nAnd this difference, which shows itself in these external things, is\nnot less evident in the clothing or preparation of the mind. Ampere's\nintellect, great and noble as it was, could scarcely be considered more\nsuitable for _le grand monde_ than the breeches that smelt of\nturpentine, or the trousers made ragged by aquafortis.\n\nA splendid contrast, as to tailoring, was our own dear Oliver Goldsmith,\nwho displayed himself in those wonderful velvet coats and satin\nsmall-clothes from Mr. Filby's, which are more famous than the finest\ngarments ever worn by prince or peer. Who does not remember that\nbloom-colored coat which the ablest painters have studiously\nimmortalized, made by John Filby, at the Harrow, in Water Lane (best\nadvertised of tailors!), and that charming blue velvet suit, which Mr.\nFilby was never paid for? Surely a poet so splendid was fit for the\ncareer of fashion! No, Oliver Goldsmith's velvet and lace were the\nexpression of a deep and painful sense of personal unfitness. They were\nthe fine frame which is intended to pass off an awkward and imperfect\npicture. There was a quieter dignity in Johnson's threadbare sleeves.\nJohnson, the most influential though not the most elegant intellect of\nhis time, is grander in his neglect of fashion than Goldsmith in his\nruinous subservience. And if it were permitted to me to speak of two or\nthree great geniuses who adorn the age in which we ourselves are living,\nI might add that they seem to follow the example of the author of\n\"Rasselas\" rather than that of Mr. Filby's illustrious customer. They\nremind me of a good old squire who, from a fine sentiment of duty,\npermitted the village artist to do his worst upon him, and incurred\nthereby this withering observation from his metropolitan tailor: \"You\nare _covered_, sir, but you are _not_ dressed!\"\n\n\nLETTER IV.\n\nTO A YOUNG GENTLEMAN WHO LIVED MUCH IN FASHIONABLE SOCIETY.\n\n  Test of professions--Mobility of fashionable taste--Practical service\n  of an external deference to culture--Incompatibility between\n  fashionable and intellectual lives--What each has to offer.\n\nYour polite, almost diplomatic answer to my letter about fashionable\nsociety may be not unfairly concentrated into some such paragraph as the\nfollowing:--\n\n\"What grounds have I for concluding that the professed tastes and\nopinions of Society are in any degree insincere? May not society be\nquite sincere in the preferences which it professes, and are not the\npreferences themselves almost always creditable to the good taste and\nreally advanced culture of the Society which I suspect of a certain\ndegree of affectation?\"\n\nThis is the sense of your letter, and in reply to it I give you a simple\nbut sure test. Is the professed opinion carried out in practice, when\nthere are fair opportunities for practice?\n\nLet us go so far as to examine a particular instance. Your friends\nprofess to appreciate classical literature. Do they read it? Or, on the\nother hand, do they confine themselves to believing that it is a good\nthing for other people to read it?\n\nWhen I was a schoolboy, people told me that the classical authors of\nantiquity were eminently useful, and indeed absolutely necessary to the\nculture of the human mind, but I perceived that they did not read them.\nSo I have heard many people express great respect for art and science,\nonly they did not go so far as to master any department of art or\nscience.\n\nIf you will apply this test to the professions of what is especially\ncalled fashionable society it is probable that you will arrive at the\nconclusions of the minority, which I have endeavored to express. You\nwill find that the fashionable world remains very contentedly outside\nthe true working intellectual life, and does not really share either its\nlabors or its aspirations.\n\nAnother kind of evidence, which tells in the same direction, is the\nmobility of fashionable taste. At one time some studies are fashionable,\nat another time these are neglected and others have taken their place.\nYou will not find this fickleness in the true intellectual world, which\nsteadily pursues all its various studies, and keeps them well abreast,\ncentury after century.\n\nIf I insist upon this distinction with reference to you, do not accuse\nme of hostility even to fashion itself. Fashion is one of the great\nDivine institutions of human society, and the best philosophy rebels\nagainst none of the authorities that be, but studies and endeavors to\nexplain them. The external deference which Society yields to culture is\npractically of great service, although (I repeat the epithet) it is\n_external_. The sort of good effect is in the intellectual sphere what\nthe good effect of a general religious profession is in the moral\nsphere. All fashionable society goes to church. Fashionable religion\ndiffers from the religion of Peter and Paul as fashionable science\ndiffers from that of Humboldt and Arago, yet, notwithstanding this\ndifference, the profession of religion is useful to Society as some\nrestraint, at least during one day out of seven, upon its inveterate\ntendency to live exclusively for its amusement. And if any soul happens\nto come into existence in the fashionable world which has the genuine\nreligious nature, that nature has a chance of developing itself, and of\nfinding ready to hand certain customs which are favorable to its\nwell-being. So it is, though in quite a different direction, with the\nesteem which Society professes for intellectual pursuits. It is an\nesteem in great part merely nominal, as fashionable Christianity is\nnominal, and still it helps and favors the early development of the\ngenuine faculty where it exists. It is certainly a great help to us\nthat fashionable society, which has such a tremendous, such an almost\nirresistible power for good or evil, does not openly discourage our\npursuits, but on the contrary regards them with great external deference\nand respect. The recognition which Society has given to artists has been\nwanting in frankness and in promptitude, though even in this case much\nmay be said to excuse a sort of hesitation rather than refusal which was\nattributable to the strangeness and novelty of the artistic caste in\nEngland; but Society has far more than a generation professed a respect\nfor literature and erudition which has helped those two branches of\nculture more effectually than great subsidies of money. The exact truth\nseems to be that Society is sincere in approving our devotion to these\npursuits, but is not yet sufficiently interested in them to appreciate\nthem otherwise than from the outside, just as a father and mother\napplaud their boys for reading Thucydides, yet do not read him\nthemselves, either in the original or in a translation.\n\nAll that I care to insist upon is that there is a degree of\nincompatibility between the fashionable and the intellectual lives which\nmakes it necessary, at a certain time, to choose one or the other as our\nown. There is no hostility, there need not be any uncharitable feeling\non one side or the other, but there must be a resolute choice between\nthe two. If you decide for the intellectual life, you will incur a\ndefinite loss to set against your gain. Your existence may have calmer\nand profounder satisfactions, but it will be less amusing, and even in\nan appreciable degree less _human_; less in harmony, I mean, with the\ncommon instincts and feelings of humanity. For the fashionable world,\nalthough decorated by habits of expense, has enjoyment for its object,\nand arrives at enjoyment by those methods which the experience of\ngenerations has proved to be most efficacious. Variety of amusement,\nfrequent change of scenery and society, healthy exercise, pleasant\noccupation of the mind without fatigue--these things do indeed make\nexistence agreeable to human nature, and the science of living agreeably\nis better understood in the fashionable society of England than by\nlaborious students and _savans_. The life led by that society is the\ntrue heaven of the natural man, who likes to have frequent feasts and a\nhearty appetite, who enjoys the varying spectacle of wealth, and\nsplendor, and pleasure, who loves to watch, from the Olympus of his\npersonal ease, the curious results of labor in which he takes no part,\nthe interesting ingenuity of the toiling world below. In exchange for\nthese varied pleasures of the spectator the intellectual life can offer\nyou but one satisfaction, for all its promises are reducible simply to\nthis, that you shall come at last, after infinite labor, into contact\nwith some great _reality_--that you shall know, and do, in such sort\nthat you will feel yourself on firm ground and be recognized--probably\nnot much applauded, but yet recognized--as a fellow-laborer by other\nknowers and doers. Before you come to this, most of your present\naccomplishments will be abandoned by yourself as unsatisfactory and\ninsufficient, but one or two of them will be turned to better account,\nand will give you after many years a tranquil self-respect, and, what is\nstill rarer and better, a very deep and earnest reverence for the\ngreatness which is above you. Severed from the vanities of the Illusory,\nyou will live with the realities of knowledge, as one who has quitted\nthe painted scenery of the theatre to listen by the eternal ocean or\ngaze at the granite hills.\n\n\nLETTER V.\n\nTO A YOUNG GENTLEMAN WHO KEPT ENTIRELY OUT OF COMPANY.\n\n  That Society which is frivolous in the mass contains individuals who\n  are not frivolous--A piece of the author's early experience--Those who\n  keep out of Society miss opportunities--People talk about what they\n  have in common--That we ought to be tolerant of dulness--The loss to\n  Society if superior men all held aloof--Utility of the gifted in\n  general society--They ought not to submit to expulsion.\n\nI willingly concede all that you say against fashionable society as a\nwhole. It is, as you say, frivolous, bent on amusement, incapable of\nattention sufficiently prolonged to grasp any serious subject, and\nliable both to confusion and inaccuracy in the ideas which it hastily\nforms or easily receives. You do right, assuredly, not to let it waste\nyour most valuable hours, but I believe also that you do wrong in\nkeeping out of it altogether.\n\nThe society which seems so frivolous in masses contains individual\nmembers who, if you knew them better, would be able and willing to\nrender you the most efficient intellectual help, and you miss this help\nby restricting yourself exclusively to books. Nothing can replace the\nconversation of living men and women; not even the richest literature\ncan replace it.\n\nMany years ago I was thrown by accident amongst a certain society of\nEnglishmen who, when they were all together, never talked about anything\nworth talking about. Their general conversations were absolutely empty\nand null, and I concluded, as young men so easily conclude, that those\ntwenty or thirty gentlemen had not half a dozen ideas amongst them. A\nlittle reflection might have reminded me that my own talk was no better\nthan theirs, and consequently that there might be others in the company\nwho also knew more and thought more than they expressed. I found out, by\naccident, after awhile, that some of these men had more than common\nculture in various directions; one or two had travelled far, and brought\nhome the results of much observation; one or two had read largely, and\nwith profit; more than one had studied a science; five or six had seen a\ngreat deal of the world. It was a youthful mistake to conclude that,\nbecause their general conversation was very dull, the men were dull\nindividually. The general conversations of English society _are_ dull;\nit is a national characteristic. But the men themselves are individually\noften very well informed, and quite capable of imparting their\ninformation to a single interested listener. The art is to be that\nlistener. Englishmen have the greatest dread of producing themselves in\nthe semi-publicity of a general conversation, because they fear that\ntheir special topics may not be cared for by some of the persons\npresent; but if you can get one of them into a quiet corner by himself,\nand humor his shyness with sufficient delicacy and tact, he will\ndisburden his mind at last, and experience a relief in so doing.\n\nBy keeping out of society altogether you miss these precious\nopportunities. The wise course is to mix as much with the world as may\nbe possible without withdrawing too much time from your serious studies,\nbut not to expect anything valuable from the general talk, which is\nnothing but a neutral medium in which intelligences float and move as\nyachts do in sea-water, and for which they ought not to be held\nindividually responsible. The talk of Society answers its purpose if it\nsimply permits many different people to come together without clashing,\nand the purpose of its conventions is the avoidance of collision. In\nEngland the small talk is heavy, like water; in France it is light as\nair; in both countries it is a medium and no more.\n\nSociety talks, by preference, about amusements; it does so because when\npeople meet for recreation they wish to relieve their minds from serious\ncares, and also for the practical reason that Society must talk about\nwhat its members have in common, and their amusements are more in common\nthan their work. As M. Thiers recommended the republican form of\ngovernment in France on the ground that it was the form which divided\nhis countrymen least, so a polite and highly civilized society chooses\nfor the subject of general conversation the topic which is least likely\nto separate the different people who are present. It almost always\nhappens that the best topic having this recommendation is some species\nof amusement; since amusements are easily learnt outside the business of\nlife, and we are all initiated into them in youth.\n\nFor these reasons I think that we ought to be extremely tolerant of the\ndulness or frivolity which may seem to prevail in any numerous company,\nand not to conclude too hastily that the members of it are in any degree\nmore dull or frivolous than ourselves. It is unfortunate, certainly,\nthat the art of general conversation is not so successfully cultivated\nas it might be, and there are reasons for believing that our posterity\nwill surpass us in this respect, because as culture increases the spirit\nof toleration increases with it, so that the great questions of\npolitics and religion, in which all are interested, may be discussed\nmore safely than they could be at the present day, by persons of\ndifferent ways of thinking. But even the sort of general conversation we\nhave now, poor as it may seem, still sufficiently serves as a medium for\nhuman intercourse, and permits us to meet on a common ground where we\nmay select at leisure the agreeable or instructive friends that our\nhigher intellect needs, and without whom the intellectual life is one of\nthe ghastliest of solitudes.\n\nAnd now permit me to add a few observations on another aspect of this\nsubject, which is not without its importance.\n\nLet us suppose that every one of rather more than ordinary capacity and\nculture were to act as you yourself are acting, and withdraw entirely\nfrom general society. Let us leave out of consideration for the present\nthe loss to their private culture which would be the consequence of\nmissing every opportunity for forming new intellectual friendships. Let\nus consider, this time, what would be the consequence to Society itself.\n\nIf all the cultivated men were withdrawn from it, the general tone of\nSociety would inevitably descend much lower even than it is at present;\nit would sink so low that the whole national intellect would undergo a\nsure and inevitable deterioration. It is plainly the duty of men\nsituated as you are, who have been endowed by nature with superior\nfaculties, and who have enlarged them by the acquisition of knowledge,\nto preserve Society by their presence from an evil so surely prolific of\nbad consequences. If Society is less narrow, and selfish, and\nintolerant, and apathetic than it used to be, it is because they who are\nthe salt of the earth have not disdained to mix with its grosser and\nearthier elements. All the improvement in public sentiment, and the\nadvancement in general knowledge which have marked the course of recent\ngenerations, are to be attributed to the wholesome influence of men who\ncould think and feel, and who steadily exercised, often quite obscurely,\nyet not the less usefully in their time and place, the subtle but\npowerful attraction of the greater mind over the less. Instead of\ncomplaining that people are ignorant and frivolous, we ought to go\namongst them and lead them to the higher life. \"I know not how it is,\"\nsaid one in a dull circle to a more gifted friend who entered it\noccasionally, \"when we are left to ourselves we are all lamentably\nstupid, but whenever you are kind enough to come amongst us we all talk\nvery much better, and of things that are well worth talking about.\" The\ngifted man is always welcome, if only he will stoop to conquer, and\nforget himself to give light and heat to others. The low Philistinism of\nmany a provincial town is due mainly to the shy reserve of the one or\ntwo superior men who fancy that they cannot amalgamate with the common\nintellect of the place.\n\nNot only would I advocate a little patient condescension, but even\nsomething of the sturdier temper which will not be driven out. Are the\nPhilistines to have all the talk to themselves forever; are they to\nrehearse their stupid old platitudes without the least fear of\ncontradiction? How long, O Lord? how long? Let us resolve that even in\ngeneral society they shall not eternally have things their own way.\nSomebody ought to have the courage to enlighten them even at their own\ntables, and in the protecting presence of their admiring wives and\ndaughters.\n\n\nLETTER VI.\n\nTO A FRIEND WHO KINDLY WARNED THE AUTHOR OF THE BAD EFFECTS OF SOLITUDE.\n\n  _Vae solis_--Society and solitude alike necessary--The use of each--In\n  solitude we know ourselves--Montaigne as a book-buyer--Compensations\n  of solitude--Description of one who loved and sought it--How men are\n  driven into solitude--Cultivated people in the provinces--Use of\n  solitude as a protection for rare and delicate natures--Shelley's\n  dislike to general society--Wordsworth and Turner--Sir Isaac Newton's\n  repugnance to society--Auguste Comte--His systematic isolation and\n  unshakable firmness of purpose--Milton and Bunyan--The solitude which\n  is really injurious--Painters and authors--An ideal division of life.\n\nYou cry to me _Vae solis!_ and the cry seems not the less loud and\nstirring that it comes in the folds of a letter. Just at first it quite\nstartled and alarmed me, and made me strangely dissatisfied with my life\nand work; but farther reflection has been gradually reconciling me ever\nsince, and now I feel cheerful again, and in a humor to answer you.\n\n_Woe unto him that is alone!_ This has been often said, but the studious\nrecluse may answer, _Woe unto him that is never alone and cannot bear to\nbe alone!_\n\nWe need society, and we need solitude also, as we need summer and\nwinter, day and night, exercise and rest. I thank heaven for a thousand\npleasant and profitable conversations with acquaintances and friends; I\nthank heaven also, and not less gratefully, for thousands of sweet hours\nthat have passed in solitary thought or labor, under the silent stars.\n\nSociety is necessary to give us our share and place in the collective\nlife of humanity, but solitude is necessary to the maintenance of the\nindividual life. Society is to the individual what travel and commerce\nare to a nation; whilst solitude represents the home life of the nation,\nduring which it develops its especial originality and genius.\n\nThe life of the perfect hermit, and that of those persons who feel\nthemselves nothing individually, and have no existence but what they\nreceive from others, are alike imperfect lives. The perfect life is like\nthat of a ship of war which has its own place in the fleet and can share\nin its strength and discipline, but can also go forth alone in the\nsolitude of the infinite sea. We ought to belong to Society, to have our\nplace in it, and yet to be capable of a complete individual existence\noutside of it.\n\nWhich of the two is the grander, the ship in the disciplined fleet,\narranged in order of battle, or the ship alone in the tempest, a\nthousand miles from land? The truest grandeur of the ship is neither in\none nor the other, but in the capacity for both. What would that captain\nmerit who either had not seamanship enough to work under the eye of the\nadmiral, or else had not sufficient knowledge of navigation to be\ntrusted out of the range of signals?\n\nI value society for the abundance of ideas that it brings before us,\nlike carriages in a frequented street; but I value solitude for\nsincerity and peace, and for the better understanding of the thoughts\nthat are truly ours. Only in solitude do we learn our inmost nature and\nits needs. He who has lived for some great space of existence apart from\nthe tumult of the world, has discovered the vanity of the things for\nwhich he has no natural aptitude or gift--their _relative_ vanity, I\nmean, their uselessness to himself, personally; and at the same time he\nhas learned what is truly precious and good for him. Surely this is\nknowledge of inestimable value to a man: surely it is a great thing for\nany one in the bewildering confusion of distracting toils and pleasures\nto have found out the labor that he is most fit for and the pleasures\nthat satisfy him best. Society so encourages us in affectations that it\nscarcely leaves us a chance of knowing our own minds; but in solitude\nthis knowledge comes of itself, and delivers us from innumerable\nvanities.\n\nMontaigne tells us that at one time he bought books from ostentation,\nbut that afterwards he bought only such books as he wanted for his\nprivate reading. In the first of these conditions of mind we may observe\nthe influence of society; in the second the effect of solitude. The man\nof the world does not consult his own intellectual needs, but considers\nthe eyes of his visitors; the solitary student takes his literature as a\nlonely traveller takes food when he is hungry, without reference to the\nordered courses of public hospitality.\n\nIt is a traditional habit of mankind to see only the disadvantages of\nsolitude, without considering its compensations; but there are great\ncompensations, some of the greatest being negative. The lonely man is\nlord of his own hours and of his own purse; his days are long and\nunbroken, he escapes from every form of ostentation, and may live quite\nsimply and sincerely in great calm breadths of leisure. I knew one who\npassed his summers in the heart of a vast forest, in a common thatched\ncottage with furniture of common deal, and for this retreat he quitted\nvery gladly a rich fine house in the city. He wore nothing but old\nclothes, read only a few old books, without the least regard to the\nopinions of the learned, and did not take in a newspaper. On the wall of\nhis habitation he inscribed with a piece of charcoal a quotation from De\nSenancour to this effect: \"In the world a man lives in his own age; in\nsolitude, in all the ages.\" I observed in him the effects of a lonely\nlife, and he greatly aided my observations by frankly communicating his\nexperiences. That solitude had become inexpressibly dear to him, but he\nadmitted one evil consequence of it, which was an increasing unfitness\nfor ordinary society, though he cherished a few tried friendships, and\nwas grateful to those who loved him and could enter into his humor. He\nhad acquired a horror of towns and crowds, not from nervousness, but\nbecause he felt imprisoned and impeded in his thinking, which needed the\ndepths of the forest, the venerable trees, the communication with\nprimaeval nature, from which he drew a mysterious yet necessary\nnourishment for the peculiar activity of his mind. I found that his case\nanswered very exactly to the sentence he quoted from De Senancour; he\nlived less in his own age than others do, but he had a fine compensation\nin a strangely vivid understanding of other ages. Like De Senancour, he\nhad a strong sense of the transitoriness of what is transitory, and a\npassionate preference for all that the human mind conceives to be\nrelatively or absolutely permanent. This trait was very observable in\nhis talk about the peoples of antiquity, and in the delight he took in\ndwelling rather upon everything which they had in common with ourselves\nthan on those differences which are more obvious to the modern spirit.\nHis temper was grave and earnest, but unfailingly cheerful, and\nentirely free from any tendency to bitterness. The habits of his life\nwould have been most unfavorable to the development of a man of\nbusiness, of a statesman, of a leader in practical enterprise, but they\nwere certainly not unfavorable to the growth of a tranquil and\ncomprehensive intellect, capable of \"just judgment and high-hearted\npatriotism.\" He had not the spirit of the newspapers, he did not live\nintensely in the present, but he had the spirit which has animated great\npoets, and saints, and sages, and far-seeing teachers of humanity. Not\nin vain had he lived alone with Nature, not in vain had he watched in\nsolemn twilights and witnessed many a dawn. There is, there _is_ a\nstrength that comes to us in solitude from that shadowy, awful Presence\nthat frivolous crowds repel!\n\nSolitude may be and is sometimes deliberately accepted or chosen, but\nfar more frequently men are driven into it by Nature and by Fate. They\ngo into solitude to escape the sense of isolation which is always most\nintolerable when there are many voices round us in loud dissonance with\nour sincerest thought. It is a great error to encourage in young people\nthe love of noble culture in the hope that it may lead them more into\nwhat is called good society. High culture always isolates, always drives\nmen out of their class and makes it more difficult for them to share\nnaturally and easily the common class-life around them. They seek the\nfew companions who can understand them, and when these are not to be\nhad within any traversable distance, they sit and work alone. Very\npossibly too, in some instances, a superior culture may compel the\npossessor of it to hold opinions too far in advance of the opinions\nprevalent around him to be patiently listened to or tolerated, and then\nhe must either disguise them, which is always highly distasteful to a\nman of honor, or else submit to be treated as an enemy to human welfare.\nCultivated people who live in London (their true home) need never\ncondemn themselves to solitude from this cause, but in the provinces\nthere are many places where it is not easy for them to live sociably\nwithout a degree of reserve that is more wearisome than solitude itself.\nAnd however much pains you take to keep your culture well in the\nbackground, it always makes you rather an object of suspicion to people\nwho have no culture. They perceive that you are reserved, they know that\nvery much of what passes in your mind is a mystery to them, and this\nfeeling makes them uneasy in your presence, even afraid of you, and not\nindisposed to find a compensation for this uncomfortable feeling in\nsarcasms behind your back. Unless you are gifted with a truly\nextraordinary power of conciliating goodwill, you are not likely to get\non happily, for long together, with people who feel themselves your\ninferiors. The very utmost skill and caution will hardly avail to hide\nall your modes of thought. Something of your higher philosophy will\nescape in an unguarded moment, and give offence because it will seem\nfoolish or incomprehensible to your audience. There is no safety for you\nbut in a timely withdrawal, either to a society that is prepared to\nunderstand you, or else to a solitude where your intellectual\nsuperiorities will neither be a cause of irritation to others nor of\nvexation to yourself.\n\nLike all our instincts, the instinct of solitude has its especial\npurpose, which appears to be the protection of rare and delicate natures\nfrom the commonplace world around them. Though recluses are considered\nby men of the world to be doomed to inevitable incompetence, the fact is\nthat many of them have reached the highest distinction in intellectual\npursuits. If Shelley had not disliked general society as he did, the\noriginality of his own living and thinking would have been less\ncomplete; the influences of mediocre people, who, of course, are always\nin the majority, would have silently but surely operated to the\ndestruction of that unequalled and personal delicacy of imagination to\nwhich we owe what is inimitable in his poetry. In the last year of his\nlife, he said to Trelawny of Mary, his second wife, \"She can't bear\nsolitude, nor I society--the quick coupled with the dead.\" Here is a\npiteous prayer of his to be delivered from a party that he dreaded:\n\"Mary says she will have a party! There are English singers here, the\nSinclairs, and she will ask them, and every one she or you know. Oh the\nhorror! For pity go to Mary and intercede for me! I will submit to any\nother species of torture than that of being bored to death by idle\nladies and gentlemen.\" Again, he writes to Mary: \"My greatest delight\nwould be utterly to desert all human society. I would retire with you\nand our child to a solitary island in the sea; would build a boat, and\nshut upon my retreat the flood-gates of the world. I would read no\nreviews and talk with no authors. If I dared trust my imagination it\nwould tell me that there are one or two chosen companions beside\nyourself whom I should desire. But to this I would not listen; where two\nor three are gathered together, the devil is among them.\" At Marlow he\nknew little of his neighbors. \"I am not wretch enough,\" he said, \"to\ntolerate an acquaintance.\" Wordsworth and Turner, if less systematic in\ntheir isolation, were still solitary workers, and much of the peculiar\nforce and originality of their performance is due to their independence\nof the people about them. Painters are especial sufferers from the\nvisits of talkative people who know little or nothing of the art they\ntalk about, and yet who have quite influence enough to disturb the\npainter's mind by proving to him that his noblest thoughts are surest to\nbe misunderstood. Men of science, too, find solitude favorable to their\npeculiar work, because it permits the concentration of their powers\nduring long periods of time. Newton had a great repugnance to society,\nand even to notoriety--a feeling which is different, and in men of\ngenius more rare. No one can doubt, however, that Newton's great\nintellectual achievements were due in some measure to this peculiarity\nof his temper, which permitted him to ripen them in the sustained\ntranquillity necessary to difficult investigations. Auguste Comte\nisolated himself not only from preference but on system, and whatever\nmay have been the defects of his remarkable mind, and the weakness of\nits ultimate decay, it is certain that his amazing command over vast\nmasses of heterogeneous material would have been incompatible with any\nparticipation in the passing interests of the world. Nothing in\nintellectual history has ever exceeded the unshakable firmness of\npurpose with which he dedicated his whole being to the elaboration of\nthe Positive philosophy. He sacrificed everything to it--position, time,\nhealth, and all the amusements and opportunities of society. He found\nthat commonplace acquaintances disturbed his work and interfered with\nhis mastery of it, so he resolutely renounced them. Others have done\ngreat things in isolation that was not of their own choosing, yet none\nthe less fruitful for them and for mankind. It was not when Milton saw\nmost of the world, but in the forced retirement of a man who had lost\nhealth and eyesight, and whose party was hopelessly defeated, that he\ncomposed the \"Paradise Lost.\" It was during tedious years of\nimprisonment that Bunyan wrote his immortal allegory. Many a genius has\nowed his best opportunities to poverty, because poverty had happily\nexcluded him from society, and so preserved him from time-devouring\nexigencies and frivolities.\n\nThe solitude which is really injurious is the severance from all who are\ncapable of understanding us. Painters say that they cannot work\neffectively for very long together when separated from the society of\nartists, and that they must return to London, or Paris, or Rome, to\navoid an oppressive feeling of discouragement which paralyzes their\nproductive energy. Authors are more fortunate, because all cultivated\npeople are society for them; yet even authors lose strength and agility\nof thought when too long deprived of a genial intellectual atmosphere.\nIn the country you meet with cultivated individuals; but we need more\nthan this, we need those general conversations in which every speaker is\nworth listening to. The life most favorable to culture would have its\ntimes of open and equal intercourse with the best minds, and also its\nperiods of retreat. My ideal would be a house in London, not far from\none or two houses that are so full of light and warmth that it is a\nliberal education to have entered them, and a solitary tower on some\nisland of the Hebrides, with no companions but the sea-gulls and the\nthundering surges of the Atlantic. One such island I know well, and it\nis before my mind's eye, clear as a picture, whilst I am writing. It\nstands in the very entrance of a fine salt-water loch, rising above two\nhundred feet out of the water and setting its granite front steep\nagainst the western ocean. When the evenings are clear you can see\nStaffa and Iona like blue clouds between you and the sunset; and on your\nleft, close at hand, the granite hills of Mull, with Ulva to the right\nacross the narrow strait. It was the dream of my youth to build a tower\nthere, with three or four little rooms in it, and walls as strong as a\nlighthouse. There have been more foolish dreams, and there have been\nless competent teachers than the tempests that would have roused me and\nthe calms that would have brought me peace. If any serious thought, if\nany noble inspiration might have been hoped for, surely it would have\nbeen there, where only the clouds and waves were transient, but the\nocean before me, and the stars above, and the mountains on either hand,\nwere emblems and evidences of eternity.\n\n  NOTE.--There is a passage in Scott's novel, \"The Pirate,\" which\n  illustrates what has been said in this letter about the necessity for\n  concealing superior culture in the presence of less intellectual\n  companions, and I quote it the more willingly that Scott was so\n  remarkably free from any morbid aversion to society, and so capable of\n  taking a sincere interest in every human being.\n\n  Cleveland is speaking to Minna:--\n\n  \"I thought over my former story, and saw that seeming more brave,\n  skilful, and enterprising than others had gained me command and\n  respect, and that seeming more gently nurtured and more civilized than\n  they had made them envy and hate me as a being of another species. _I\n  bargained with myself then, that since I could not lay aside my\n  superiority of intellect and education, I would do my best to disguise\n  and to sink, in the rude seaman, all appearance of better feeling and\n  better accomplishments._\"\n\n  A similar policy is often quite as necessary in the society of\n  landsmen.\n\n\n\n\nPART X.\n\n_INTELLECTUAL HYGIENICS._\n\n\nLETTER I.\n\nTO A YOUNG AUTHOR WHILST HE WAS WRITING HIS FIRST BOOK.\n\n  Mr. Galton's advice to young travellers--That we ought to interest\n  ourselves in the _progress_ of a journey--The same rule applicable in\n  intellectual things--Women in the cabin of a canal boat--Working\n  hastily for temporary purposes--Fevered eagerness to get work\n  done--Beginners have rarely acquired firm intellectual habits--Knowing\n  the range of our own powers--The coolness of accomplished\n  artists--Advice given by Ingres--Balzac's method of work--Scott,\n  Horace Vernet, John Phillip--Decided workers are deliberate workers.\n\nI read the other day, in Galton's \"Art of Travel,\" a little bit which\nconcerns you and all of us, but I made the extract in my\ncommonplace-book for your benefit rather than my own, because the truth\nit contains has been \"borne in upon me\" by my own experience, so that\nwhat Mr. Galton says did not give me a new conviction, but only\nconfirmed me in an old one. He is speaking to explorers who have not\ndone so much in that way as he has himself, and though the subject of\nhis advice is the conduct of an exploring party (in the wilds of\nAustralia, for example) the advice itself is equally useful if taken\nmetaphorically, and applied to the conduct of intellectual labors and\nexplorations of all kinds.\n\n\"Interest yourself,\" says Mr. Galton, \"chiefly in the progress of your\njourney, and do not look forward to its end with eagerness. It is better\nto think of a return to civilization, not as an end to hardship and a\nhaven from ill, but as a thing to be regretted, and as a close to an\nadventurous and pleasant life. In this way, risking less, you will\ninsensibly creep on, making connections, and learning the capabilities\nof the country as you advance, which will be found invaluable in the\ncase of a hurried or a disastrous return. And thus, when some months\nhave passed by, you will look back with surprise on the great distance\ntravelled over; for if you average only three miles a day, at the end of\nthe year you will have advanced 1000, which is a very considerable\nexploration. The fable of the hare and the tortoise seems expressly\nintended for travellers over wide and unknown tracts.\"\n\nYes, we ought to interest ourselves chiefly in the progress of our work,\nand not to look forward to its end with eagerness. That eagerness of\nwhich Mr. Galton speaks has spoiled many a piece of work besides a\ngeographical exploration, and it not only spoils work, but it does\nworse, it spoils life also. How am I to enjoy this year as I ought, if I\nam continually wishing it were over? A truly intellectual philosophy\nmust begin by recognizing the fact that the intellectual paths are\ninfinitely long, that there will always be new horizons behind the\nhorizon that is before us, and that we must accept a gradual advance as\nthe law of our intellectual life. It is our business to move forwards,\nbut we ought to do so without any greater feeling of hurry than that\nwhich affects the most stationary of minds. Not a bad example for us is\na bargeman's wife in a canal-boat. She moves; movement is the law of her\nlife; yet she is as tranquil in her little cabin as any goodwife on\nshore, brewing her tea and preparing her buttered toast without ever\nthinking about getting to the end of her journey. For if that voyage\nwere ended, another would always succeed to it, and another! In striking\ncontrast to the unhurried bargeman's wife in her cabin is an irritable\nFrenchman in the corner of a diligence, looking at his watch every\nhalf-hour, and wishing that the dust and rattle were over, and he were\nin his own easy-chair at home. Those who really lead the intellectual\nlife, and have embraced it for better and for worse, are like the\nbargeman's wife; but those who live the life from time to time only, for\nsome special purpose, wishing to be rid of it as soon as that purpose is\naccomplished, are like the sufferer in the purgatory of the diligence.\nIs there indeed really any true intellectual life at all when every hour\nof labor is spoiled by a feverish eagerness to be at the end of the\nprojected task? You cannot take a bit out of another man's life and live\nit, without having lived the previous years that led up to it, without\nhaving also the assured hopes for the years that lie beyond. The attempt\nis constantly made by amateurs of all kinds, and by men of temporary\npurposes, and it always fails. The amateur says when he awakes on some\nfine summer morning, and draws up his blind, and looks out on the dewy\nfields: \"Ah, the world of nature is beautiful to-day: what if I were to\nlead the life of an artist?\" And after breakfast he seeks up his old box\nof watercolor and his blockbook, and stool, and white umbrella, and what\nnot, and sallies forth, and fixes himself on the edge of the forest or\nthe banks of the amber stream. The day that he passes there looks like\nan artist's day, yet it is not. It has not been preceded by the three or\nfour thousand days which ought to have led up to it; it is not strong in\nthe assured sense of present skill, in the calm knowledge that the hours\nwill bear good fruit. So the chances are that there will be some hurry,\nand fretfulness, and impatience, under the shadow of that white parasol,\nand also that when the day is over there will be a disappointment. You\ncannot put an artist's day into the life of any one but an artist.\n\nOur impatiences come mainly, I think, from an amateurish doubt about our\nown capacity, which is accompanied by a fevered eagerness to see the\nwork done, because we are tormented both by hopes and fears so long as\nit is in progress. We have fears that it may not turn out as it ought to\ndo, and we have at the same time hopes for its success. Both these\ncauses produce eagerness, and deprive us of the tranquillity which\ndistinguishes the thorough workman, and which is necessary to\nthoroughness in the work itself. Now please observe that I am not\nadvising you to set aside these hopes and fears by an effort of the\nwill; when you have them they are the inevitable result of your state of\nculture, and the will can no more get rid of them than it can get rid of\nan organic disease. When you have a limited amount of power and of\nculture, and are not quite clear in your own mind as to where the limits\nlie, it is natural on the one hand that you should fear the\ninsufficiency of what you possess, and on the other that in more\nsanguine moments you should indulge in hopes which are only extravagant\nbecause your powers have not yet been accurately measured. You will\nalternate between fear and hope, according to the temporary predominance\nof saddening or cheerful ideas, but both these feelings will urge you to\ncomplete the work in hand, that you may see your own powers reflected in\nit, and measure them more exactly. This is the main cause of the\neagerness of young authors, and the reason why they often launch work\nupon the sea of publicity which is sure to go immediately to the bottom,\nfrom the unworkmanlike haste with which it has been put together. But\nbeyond this there is another cause, which is, that beginners in\nliterature have rarely acquired firm intellectual habits, that they do\nnot yet lead the tranquil intellectual life, so that such a piece of\nwork as the composition of a book keeps them in an unwholesome state of\nexcitement. When you feel this coming upon you, pray remember Mr.\nGalton's wise traveller in unknown tracts, or the bargeman's wife in the\ncanal-boat.\n\nAmongst the many advantages of experience, one of the most valuable is\nthat we come to know the range of our own powers, and if we are wise we\nkeep contentedly within them. This relieves us from the malady of\neagerness; we know pretty accurately beforehand what our work will be\nwhen it is done, and therefore we are not in a hurry to see it\naccomplished. The coolness of old hands in all departments of labor is\ndue in part to the cooling of the temperament by age, but it is due even\nmore to the fulness of acquired experience, for we do not find\nmiddle-aged men so cool in situations where they feel themselves\nincompetent. The conduct of the most experienced painters in the\nmanagement of their work is a good example of this masterly coolness,\nbecause we can see them painting in their studios whereas we cannot so\neasily see or so justly estimate the coolness of scientific or literary\nworkmen. A painter of great experience will have, usually, several\npictures at a time upon his easels, and pass an hour upon one, or an\nhour upon the other, simple as the state of the pigment invites him\nwithout ever being tempted to risk anything by hurrying a process. The\nugly preparatory daubing which irritates the impatience of the beginner\ndoes not disturb _his_ equanimity; he has laid it with a view to the\nlong-foreseen result, and it satisfies him temporarily as the right\nthing for the time being. If you know what is the right thing for the\ntime being, and always do it, you are sure of the calm of the thorough\nworkman. All his touches, except the very last touch on each work, are\ntouches of preparation, leading gradually up to his result. Ingres used\nto counsel his pupils to sketch always, to sketch upon and within the\nfirst sketch till the picture came right in the end; and this was\nstrictly Balzac's method in literature. The literary and artistic labors\nof these two men did not proceed so much upon the principle of\ntravelling as upon that of cultivation. They took an idea in the rough,\nas a settler takes a tract from wild nature, and then they went over it\nrepeatedly, each time pushing the cultivation of it a little farther.\nScott, Horace Vernet, John Phillip, and many others, have worked rather\non the principle of travelling, passing over the ground once, and\nleaving it, never coming back again to correct the mistakes of\nyesterday. Both methods of work require deliberation, but the latter\nneeds it in the supreme degree. All very decided workers, men who did\nnot correct, have been at the same time very deliberate workers--rapid,\nin the sense of accomplishing much in the course of the year, or the\nlife, but cautious and slow and observant whilst they actually labored,\nthinking out very carefully every sentence before they wrote it, every\ntouch of paint before they laid it.\n\n\nLETTER II.\n\nTO A STUDENT IN THE FIRST ARDOR OF INTELLECTUAL AMBITION.\n\n  The first freshness--Why should it not be preserved?--The dulness of\n  the intellectual--Fictions and false promises--Ennui in work\n  itself--Duerer's engraving of Melancholy--Scott about Dryden--Byron,\n  Shelley, Wordsworth--Humboldt, Cuvier, Goethe--Tennyson's\n  \"Maud\"--Preventives of _ennui_--Hard study for limited times--The\n  _ennui_ of jaded faculties.\n\nI have been thinking about you frequently of late, and the burden or\nrefrain of my thoughts has been \"What a blessing he has in that first\nfreshness, if only he could keep it!\" But now I am beginning more\nhopefully to ask myself, \"Why should he not keep it?\"\n\nIt would be an experiment worth trying, so to order your intellectual\nlife, that however stony and thorny your path might be, however\ndifficult and arduous, it should at all events never be dull; or, to\nexpress what I mean more accurately, that you yourself should never\nfeel the depressing influences of dulness during the years when they are\nmost to be dreaded. I want you to live steadily and happily in your\nintellectual labors, even to the natural close of existence, and my best\nwish for you is that you may escape a long and miserable malady which\nbrain-workers very commonly suffer from when the first dreams of youth\nhave been disappointed--a malady in which the intellectual desires are\nfeeble, the intellectual hopes are few; whose victim, if he has still\nresolution enough to learn anything, acquires without satisfaction, and,\nif he has courage to create, has neither pride nor pleasure in his\ncreations.\n\nIf I were to sing the praises of knowledge as they have been so often\nsung by louder harps than mine, I might avoid so dreary a theme. It is\neasy to pretend to believe that the intellectual life is always sure to\nbe interesting and delightful, but the truth is that, either from an\nunwise arrangement of their work, or from mental or physical causes\nwhich we will investigate to some extent before we have done with the\nsubject, many men whose occupations are reputed to be amongst the most\ninteresting have suffered terribly from _ennui_, and that not during a\nweek or two at a time, but for consecutive years and years.\n\nThere is a class of books written with the praiseworthy intention of\nstimulating young men to intellectual labor, in which this danger of the\nintellectual life is systematically ignored. It is assumed in these\nbooks that the satisfactions of intellectual labor are certain; that\nalthough it may not always, or often, result in outward and material\nprosperity, its inward joys will never fail. Promises of this kind\ncannot safely be made to any one. The satisfactions of intellectual\nriches are not more sure than the satisfactions of material riches; the\nfeeling of dull indifference which often so mysteriously clouds the life\nof the rich man in the midst of the most elaborate contrivances for his\npleasure and amusement, has its exact counterpart in the lives of men\nwho are rich in the best treasures of the mind, and who have infinite\nintellectual resources. However brilliant your ability, however brave\nand persistent your industry, however vast your knowledge, there is\nalways this dreadful possibility of _ennui_. People tell you that work\nis a specific against it, but many a man has worked steadily and\nearnestly, and suffered terribly from _ennui_ all the time that he was\nworking, although the labor was of his own choice, the labor that he\nloved best, and for which Nature evidently intended him. The poets, from\nSolomon downwards, have all of them, so far as I know, given utterance\nin one page or another of their writings to this feeling of dreary\ndissatisfaction, and Albert Duerer, in his \"Melencolia,\" illustrated it.\nIt is plain that the robust female figure which has exercised the\ningenuity of so many commentators is not melancholy either from weakness\nof the body or vacancy of the mind. She is strong and she is learned;\nyet, though the plumes of her wings are mighty, she sits heavily and\nlistlessly, brooding amidst the implements of suspended labor, on the\nshore of a waveless sea. The truth is that Duerer engraved the melancholy\nthat he himself only too intimately knew. This is not the dulness of the\nignorant and incapable, whose minds are a blank because they have no\nideas, whose hands are listless for want of an occupation; it is the\nsadness of the most learned, the most intelligent, the most industrious;\nthe weary misery of those who are rich in the attainments of culture,\nwho have the keys of the chambers of knowledge, and wings to bear them\nto the heaven of the ideal. If you counsel this \"Melencolia\" to work\nthat she may be merry, she will answer that she knows the uses of labor\nand its vanity, and the precise amount of profit that a man hath of all\nhis labor which he taketh under the sun. All things are full of labor,\nshe will tell you; and in much wisdom is much grief, and he that\nincreaseth knowledge increaseth sorrow.\n\nCan we escape this brooding melancholy of the great workers--has any\ntruly intellectual person escaped it ever? The question can never be\nanswered with perfect certainty, because we can never quite accurately\nknow the whole truth about the life of another. I have known several men\nof action, almost entirely devoid of intellectual culture, who enjoyed\nan unbroken flow of animal energy and were clearly free from the\nmelancholy of Duerer; but I never intimately knew a really cultivated\nperson who had not suffered from it more or less, and the greatest\nsufferers were the most conscientious thinkers and students. Amongst the\nillustrious dead, it may be very safely answered that any poet who has\ndescribed it has written from his own experience--a transient experience\nit may be, yet his own. When Walter Scott, _a-propos_ of Dryden, spoke\nof \"the apparently causeless fluctuation of spirits incident to one\ndoomed to labor incessantly in the feverish exercise of the\nimagination,\" and of that \"sinking of spirit which follows violent\nmental exertion,\" is it not evident that his kindly understanding of\nDryden's case came from the sympathy of a fellow-laborer who knew by his\nown experience the gloomier and more depressing passages of the\nimaginative life? It would be prudent perhaps to omit the mention of\nByron, because some may attribute his sadness to his immorality; and if\nI spoke of Shelley, they might answer that he was \"sad because he was\nimpious;\" but the truth is, that quite independently of conduct, and\neven of belief, it was scarcely possible for natures so highly\nimaginative as these two, and so ethereally intellectual as one of the\ntwo, to escape those clouds of gloom which darken the intellectual life.\nWordsworth was not immoral, Wordsworth was not unorthodox, yet he could\nbe as sad in his own sober way as Byron in the bitterness of his\ndesolation, or Shelley in his tenderest wailing. The three men who seem\nto have been the least subject to the sadness of intellectual workers\nwere Alexander Humboldt, Cuvier, and Goethe. Alexander Humboldt, so far\nas is known to us, lived always in a clear and cheerful daylight; his\nappetite for learning was both strong and regular; he embraced the\nintellectual life in his earliest manhood, and lived in it with an\nunhesitating singleness of purpose, to the limits of extreme old age.\nCuvier was to the last a model student, of a temper at once most\nunflinching and most kind, happy in all his studies, happier still in\nhis unequalled facility of mental self-direction. Goethe, as all know,\nlived a life of unflagging interest in each of the three great branches\nof intellectual labor. During the whole of his long life he was\ninterested in literature, in which he was a master; he was interested in\nscience, in which he was a discoverer, and in art, of which he was an\nardent though not practically successful student. His intellectual\nactivity ceased only on rare occasions of painful illness or\noverwhelming affliction; he does not seem to have asked himself ever\nwhether knowledge was worth its cost; he was always ready to pay the\nappointed price of toil. He had no infirmity of intellectual doubt; the\npowerful impulses from within assured him that knowledge was good for\nhim, and he went to it urged by an unerring instinct, as a young salmon\nbred in the slime of a river seeks strength in the infinite sea. And\nyet, being a poet and a man of strong passions, Goethe did not\naltogether escape the green-sickness which afflicts the imaginative\ntemperament, or he could never have written \"Werther;\" but he cured\nhimself very soon, and the author of \"Werther\" had no indulgence for\nWertherism--indeed we are told that he grew ashamed of having written\nthe book which inoculated the younger minds of Europe with that\nmiserable disease. In our own time an illustrious poet has given in\n\"Maud\" a very perfect study of a young mind in a morbid condition, a\nmind having indeed the student-temper, but of a bad kind, that which\ncomes not from the genuine love of study, but from sulky rage against\nthe world.\n\n  \"Thanks, for the fiend best knows whether woman or man be the worse.\n   _I will bury myself in my books_, and the Devil may pipe to his own.\"\n\nThis kind of self-burial in one's library does not come from the love of\nliterature. The recluse will not speak to his neighbor, yet needs human\nintercourse of some kind, and seeks it in reading, urged by an inward\nnecessity. He feels no gratitude towards the winners of knowledge; his\nmorbid ill-nature depreciates the intellectual laborers:--\n\n  \"The man of science himself is fonder of glory and vain;\n   An eye well-practised in nature, a spirit bounded and poor.\"\n\nWhat is the life such a spirit will choose for itself? Despising alike\nthe ignorant and the learned, the acuteness of the cultivated and the\nsimplicity of the poor, in what form of activity or inaction will he\nseek what all men need, the harmony of a life well tuned?\n\n  \"Be mine a philosopher's life in the quiet woodland ways:\n   Where, if I cannot be gay, let a passionless peace be my lot.\"\n\nThere are many different morbid states of the mind, and this of the hero\nof \"Maud\" is only one of them, but it is the commonest amongst\nintellectual or semi-intellectual young men. See how he has a little fit\nof momentary enthusiasm (all he is capable of) about a shell that\nsuddenly and accidentally attracts his attention. How true to the morbid\nnature is that incident! Unable to pursue any large and systematic\nobservation, the diseased mind is attracted to things suddenly and\naccidentally, sees them out of all proportion, and then falls into the\ninevitable fit of scornful peevishness.\n\n  \"What is it? A learned man\n   Could give it a clumsy name:\n   Let him name it who can.\"\n\nThe question which concerns the world is, how this condition of the mind\nmay be avoided. The cure Mr. Tennyson suggested was war; but wars,\nthough more frequent than is desirable, are not to be had always. And in\nyour case, my friend, it is happily not a cure but a preventive that is\nneeded. Let me recommend certain precautions which taken together are\nlikely to keep you safe. Care for the physical health in the first\nplace, for if there is a morbid mind the bodily organs are not doing\ntheir work as they ought to do. Next, for the mind itself, I would\nheartily recommend hard study, really hard study, taken very regularly\nbut in very moderate quantity. The effect of it on the mind is as\nbracing as that of cold water on the body, but as you ought not to\nremain too long in the cold bath, so it is dangerous to study _hard_\nmore than a short time every day. Do some work that is very difficult\n(such as reading some language that you have to puzzle out _a coups de\ndictionnaire_) two hours a day regularly, to brace the fighting power of\nthe intellect, but let the rest of the day's work be easier. Acquire\nespecially, if you possibly can, the enviable faculty of getting\nentirely rid of your work in the intervals of it, and of taking a hearty\ninterest in common things, in a garden, or stable, or dog-kennel, or\nfarm. If the work pursues you--if what is called unconscious\ncerebration, which ought to go forward without your knowing it, becomes\nconscious cerebration, and bothers you, then you have been working\nbeyond your cerebral strength, and you are not safe.\n\nAn organization which was intended by Nature for the intellectual life\ncannot be healthy and happy without a certain degree of intellectual\nactivity. Natures like those of Humboldt and Goethe need immense labors\nfor their own felicity, smaller powers need less extensive labor. To all\nof us who have intellectual needs there is a certain supply of work\nnecessary to perfect health. If we do less, we are in danger of that\nennui which comes from want of intellectual exercise; if we do more, we\nmay suffer from that other ennui which is due to the weariness of the\njaded faculties, and this is the more terrible of the two.\n\n\nLETTER III.\n\nTO AN INTELLECTUAL MAN WHO DESIRED AN OUTLET FOR HIS ENERGIES.\n\n  Dissatisfaction of the intellectual when they have not an extensive\n  influence--A consideration suggested to the author by Mr. Matthew\n  Arnold--Each individual mind a portion of the national mind, which\n  must rise or decline with the minds of which it is composed--Influence\n  of a townsman in his town--Household influence--Charities and\n  condescendences of the highly cultivated--A suggestion of M.\n  Taine--Conversation with inferiors--How to make it interesting--That\n  we ought to be satisfied with humble results and small successes.\n\nThere is a very marked tendency amongst persons of culture to feel\ndissatisfied with themselves and their success in life when they do not\nexercise some direct and visible influence over a considerable portion\nof the public. To put the case in a more concrete form, it may be\naffirmed that if an intellectual young man does not exercise influence\nby literature, or by oratory, or by one of the most elevated forms of\nart, he is apt to think that his culture and intelligence are lost upon\nthe world, and either to blame himself for being what he considers a\nfailure, or else (and this is more common) to find fault with the world\nin general for not giving him a proper chance of making his abilities\ntell. The facilities for obtaining culture are now so many and great,\nand within the reach of so many well-to-do people, that hundreds of\npersons become really very clever in various ways who would have\nremained utterly uncultivated had they lived in any previous century. A\nfew of these distinguish themselves in literature and other pursuits\nwhich bring notoriety to the successful, but by far the greater number\nhave to remain in positions of obscurity, often being clearly conscious\nthat they have abilities and knowledge not much, if at all, inferior to\nthe abilities and knowledge of some who have achieved distinction. The\nposition of a clever man who remains obscure is, if he has ambition,\nrather trying to the moral fibre, but there are certain considerations\nwhich might help to give a direction to his energy and so procure him a\nsure relief, which reputation too frequently fails to provide.\n\nThe first consideration is one which was offered to me many years ago by\nMr. Matthew Arnold, and which I can give, though from memory, very\nnearly in his own words. The multiplicity of things which make claim to\nthe attention of the public is in these days such that it requires\neither uncommon strength of will or else the force of peculiar\ncircumstances to make men follow any serious study to good result, and\nthe great majority content themselves with the general enlightenment of\nthe epoch, which they get from newspapers and reviews. Hence the efforts\nof the intellectual produce little effect, and it requires either\nextraordinary talent or extraordinary fanaticism to awaken the serious\ninterest of any considerable number of readers. Yet, in spite of these\ndiscouragements, we ought to remember that our labors, if not applauded\nby others, may be of infinite value to ourselves, and also that beyond\nthis gain to the individual, his culture is a gain to the nation,\nwhether the nation formally recognizes it or not. For the intellectual\nlife of a nation is the sum of the lives of all intellectual people\nbelonging to it, and in this sense your culture is a gain to England,\nwhether England counts you amongst her eminent sons, or leaves you\nforever obscure. Is it not a noble spectacle, a spectacle well worthy of\na highly civilized country, when a private citizen, with an admirable\ncombination of patriotism and self-respect, says to himself as he\nlabors, \"I know that in a country so great as England, where there are\nso many able men, all that I do can count for very little in public\nestimation, yet I will endeavor to store my mind with knowledge and make\nmy judgment sure, in order that the national mind of England, of which\nmy mind is a minute fraction, may be enlightened by so much, be it never\nso little\"? I think the same noble feeling might animate a citizen with\nreference to his native town; I think a good townsman might say to\nhimself, \"Our folks are not much given to the cultivation of their\nminds, and they need a few to set them an example. I will be one of\nthose few. I will work and think, in order that our town may not get\ninto a state of perfect intellectual stagnation.\" But if the nation or\nthe city were too vast to call forth any noble feeling of this kind,\nsurely the family is little enough and near enough. Might not a man say,\n\"I will go through a good deal of intellectual drudgery in order that my\nwife and children may unconsciously get the benefit of it; I will learn\nfacts for them that they may be accurate, and get ideas for them that\nthey may share with me a more elevated mental state; I will do something\ntowards raising the tone of the whole household\"?\n\nThe practical difficulty in all projects of this kind is that the\nhousehold does not care to be intellectually elevated, and opposes the\nresistance of gravitation. The household has its natural intellectual\nlevel, and finds it as inevitably as water that is free. Cultivated men\nare surrounded in their homes by a group of persons, wife, children,\nservants, who, in their intercourse with one another, create the\nhousehold tone. What is a single individual with his books against these\ncombined and active influences? Is he to go and preach the gospel of the\nintellect in the kitchen? Will he venture to present intellectual\nconclusions in the drawing-room? The kitchen has a tone of its own\nwhich all our efforts cannot elevate, and the drawing-room has its own\natmosphere, an atmosphere unfavorable to severe and manly thinking. You\ncannot make cooks intellectual, and you must not be didactic with\nladies. Intellectual men always feel this difficulty, and most commonly\nkeep their intellect very much to themselves, when they are at home. If\nthey have not an outlet elsewhere, either in society or in literature,\nthey grow morbid.\n\nYet, although it is useless to attempt to elevate any human being above\nhis own intellectual level unless he gradually climbs himself as a man\nascends a mountain, there are nevertheless certain charities or\ncondescendences of the highly cultivated which may be good for the lower\nintelligences that surround them, as the streams from the Alpine snows\nare good for the irrigation of the valleys, though the meadows which\nthey water must forever remain eight or ten thousand feet below them.\nAnd I believe that it would greatly add to the happiness of the\nintellectual portion of mankind if they could more systematically\nexercise these charities. It is quite clear that we can never effect by\nchance conversation that total change in the mental state which is\ngradually brought about by the slow processes of education; we cannot\ngive to an intellect that has never been developed, and which has fixed\nitself in the undeveloped state, that power and activity which come only\nafter years of labor; but we may be able on many occasions to offer the\nsort of help which a gentleman offers to an old woman when he invites\nher to get up into the rumble behind his carriage. I knew an\nintellectual lady who lived habitually in the country, and I may say\nwithout fanciful exaggeration that the farmers' wives round about her\nwere considerably superior to what in all probability they would have\nbeen without the advantage of her kindly and instructive conversation.\nShe possessed the happy art of conveying the sort of knowledge which\ncould be readily received by her hearers, and in a manner which made it\nagreeable to them, so that they drew ideas from her quite naturally, and\nher mind irrigated their minds, which would have remained permanently\nbarren without that help and refreshment. It would be foolish to\nexaggerate the benefits of such intellectual charity as this, but it is\nwell, on the other hand, not to undervalue it. Such an influence can\nnever convey much solid instruction, but it may convey some of its\nresults. It may produce a more thoughtful and reasonable condition of\nmind, it may preserve the ignorant from some of those preposterous\ntheories and beliefs which so easily gain currency amongst them.\nIndirectly, it may have rather an important political influence, by\ndisposing people to vote for the better sort of candidate. And the\ninfluence of such intellectual charity on the material well being of the\nhumbler classes, on their health and wealth, may be quite as\nconsiderable as that of the other and more common sort of charity which\npasses silver from hand to hand.\n\nShortly after the termination of the great Franco-German conflict, M.\nTaine suggested in the _Temps_ that subscribers to the better sort of\njournals might do a good deal for the enlightenment of the humbler\nclasses by merely lending their newspapers in their neighborhood. This\nwas a good suggestion: the best newspapers are an important intellectual\npropaganda; they awaken an interest in the most various subjects, and\nsupply not only information but a stimulus. The danger to persons of\nhigher culture that the newspaper may absorb time which would else be\ndevoted to more systematic study, does not exist in the classes for\nwhose benefit M. Taine made his recommendation. The newspaper is their\nonly secular reading, and without it they have no modern literature of\nany kind. In addition to the praiseworthy habit of lending good\nnewspapers, an intellectual man who lives in the country might adopt the\npractice of conversing with his neighbors about everything in which they\ncould be induced to take an interest, giving them some notion of what\ngoes on in the classes which are intellectually active, some idea of\nsuch discoveries and projects as an untutored mind may partially\nunderstand. For example, there is the great tunnel under the Mont Cenis,\nand there is the projected tunnel beneath the Channel, and there is the\ncutting of the Isthmus of Suez. A peasant can comprehend the greatness\nof these remarkable conceptions when they are properly explained to\nhim, and he will often feel a lively gratitude for information of that\nkind. We ought to remember what a slow and painful operation reading is\nto the uneducated. Merely to read the native tongue is to them a labor\nso irksome that they are apt to lose the sense of a paragraph in seeking\nfor that of a sentence or an expression. As they would rather speak than\nhave to write, so they prefer hearing to reading, and they get much more\ngood from it, because they can ask a question when the matter has not\nbeen made clear to them.\n\nOne of the best ways of interesting and instructing your intellectual\ninferiors is to give them an account of your travels. All people like to\nhear a traveller tell his own tale, and whilst he is telling it he may\nslip in a good deal of information about many things, and much sound\ndoctrine. Accounts of foreign countries, even when you have not seen\nthem personally, nearly always awaken a lively interest, especially if\nyou are able to give your hearers detailed descriptions of the life led\nby foreigners who occupy positions corresponding to their own. Peasants\ncan be made to take an interest in astronomy even, though you cannot\ntell them anything about the peasants in Jupiter and Mars, and there is\nalways, at starting, the great difficulty of persuading them to trust\nscience about the motion and rotundity of the earth.\n\nA very direct form of intellectual charity is that of gratuitous\nteaching, both in classes and by public lectures, open to all comers. A\ngreat deal of light has in this way been spread abroad in cities, but in\ncountry villages there is little encouragement to enterprises of this\nkind, the intelligence of farm laborers being less awakened than that of\nthe corresponding urban population. Let us remember, however, that one\nof the very highest and last achievements of the cultivated intellect is\nthe art of conveying to the uncultivated, the untaught, the unprepared,\nthe best and noblest knowledge which they are capable of assimilating.\nNo one who, like the writer of these pages, has lived much in the\ncountry, and much amongst a densely ignorant peasantry, will be likely\nin any plans of enlightenment to err far on the side of enthusiastic\nhopefulness. The mind of a farm laborer, or that of a small farmer, is\nalmost always sure to be a remarkably stiff soil, in which few\nintellectual conceptions can take root; yet these few may make the\ndifference between an existence worthy of a man, and one that differs\nfrom the existence of a brute in little beyond the possession of\narticulate language. We to whom the rich inheritance of intellectual\nhumanity is so familiar as to have lost much of its freshness, are\nliable to underrate the value of thoughts and discoveries which to us\nhave for years seemed commonplace. It is with our intellectual as with\nour material wealth; we do not realize how precious some fragments of it\nmight be to our poorer neighbors. The old clothes that we wear no\nlonger may give comfort and confidence to a man in naked destitution;\nthe truths which are so familiar to us that we never think about them,\nmay raise the utterly ignorant to a sense of their human brotherhood.\n\nAbove all, in the exercise of our intellectual charities, let us\naccustom ourselves to feel satisfied with humble results and small\nsuccesses; and here let me make a confession which may be of some\npossible use to others. When a young man, I taught a drawing-class\ngratuitously, beginning with thirty-six pupils, who dwindled gradually\nto eleven. Soon afterwards I gave up the work from dissatisfaction, on\naccount of the meagre attendance. This was very wrong--the eleven were\nworth the thirty-six; and so long as one of the eleven remained I ought\nto have contentedly taught him. The success of a teacher is not to be\nmeasured by the numbers whom he immediately influences. It is enough, it\nhas been proved to be enough in more than one remarkable instance, that\na single living soul should be in unison with the soul of a master, and\nreceive his thought by sympathy. The one disciple teaches in his turn,\nand the idea is propagated.\n\n\nLETTER IV.\n\nTO THE FRIEND OF A MAN OF HIGH CULTURE WHO PRODUCED NOTHING.\n\n  Joubert--\"Not yet time,\" or else \"The time is past\"--His weakness for\n  production--Three classes of minds--A more perfect intellectual life\n  attainable by the silent student than by authors--He may follow his\n  own genius--Saving of time effected by abstinence from writing--The\n  unproductive may be more influential than the prolific.\n\nWhen I met B. at your house last week, you whispered to me in the\ndrawing-room that he was a man of the most remarkable attainments, who,\nto the great regret of all his friends, had never employed his abilities\nto any visible purpose. We had not time for a conversation on this\nsubject, because B. himself immediately joined us. His talk reminded me\nvery much of Joubert--not that I ever knew Joubert personally, though I\nhave lived very near to Villeneuve-sur-Yonne, where Joubert lived; but\nhe is one of those characters whom it is possible to know without having\nseen them in the flesh. His friends used to urge him to write something,\nand then he said, \"_Pas encore._\" \"Not yet; I need a long peace.\"\nTranquillity came, and then he said that God had only given force to his\nmind for a limited time, and that the time was past. Therefore, as\nSainte-Beuve observed, for Joubert there was no medium; either it was\nnot yet time, or else the time was past.\n\nNothing is more common than for _other_ people to say this of us. They\noften say \"He is too young,\" as Napoleon said of Ingres, or else \"He is\ntoo old,\" as Napoleon said of Greuze. It is more rare for a man himself\nto shrink from every enterprise, first under the persuasion that he is\nunprepared, and afterwards because the time is no longer opportune. Yet\nthere does exist a certain very peculiar class of highly-gifted,\ndiffident, delicate, unproductive minds, which impress those around them\nwith an almost superstitious belief in their possibilities, yet never do\nanything to justify that belief.\n\nBut may it not be doubted whether these minds _have_ productive power of\nany kind? I believe that the full extent of Joubert's productive power\nis displayed in those sentences of his which have been preserved, and\nwhich reveal a genius of the rarest delicacy, but at the same time\nsingularly incapable of sustained intellectual effort. He said that he\ncould only compose slowly, and with an extreme fatigue. He believed,\nhowever, that the weakness lay in the instrument alone, in the composing\nfaculties, and not in the faculties of thought, for he said that behind\nhis weakness there was strength, as behind the strength of some others\nthere was weakness.\n\nIn saying this, it is probable that Joubert did not overestimate\nhimself. He _had_ strength of a certain kind, or rather he had quality;\nhe had distinction, which is a sort of strength in society and in\nliterature. But he had no productive force, and I do not believe that\nhis unproductiveness was a productiveness checked by a fastidious taste;\nI believe that it was real, that he was not organized for production.\n\nSainte-Beuve said that a modern philosopher was accustomed to\ndistinguish three classes of minds--\n\n1. Those who are at once powerful and delicate, who excel as they\npropose, execute what they conceive, and reach the great and true\nbeautiful--a rare _elite_ amongst mortals.\n\n2. A class of minds especially characterized by their delicacy, who feel\nthat their idea is superior to their execution, their intelligence\ngreater than their talent, even when the talent is very real; they are\neasily dissatisfied with themselves, disdain easily won praises, and\nwould rather judge, taste, and abstain from producing, than remain below\ntheir conception and themselves. Or if they write it is by fragments,\nfor themselves only, at long intervals and at rare moments. Their\nfecundity is internal, and known to few.\n\n3. Lastly, there is a third class of minds more powerful and less\ndelicate or difficult to please, who go on producing and publishing\nthemselves without being too much dissatisfied with their work.\n\nThe majority of our active painters and writers, who fill modern\nexhibitions, and produce the current literature of the day, belong to\nthe last class, to which we are all greatly indebted for the daily bread\nof literature and art.\n\nBut Sainte-Beuve believed that Joubert belonged to the second class, and\nI suspect that both Sainte-Beuve and many others have credited that\nclass with a potential productiveness beyond its real endowments. Minds\nof the Joubert class are admirable and valuable in their way, but they\nare really, and not apparently, sterile.\n\nAnd why would we have it otherwise? When we lament that a man of culture\nhas \"done nothing,\" as we say, we mean that he has not written books. Is\nit necessary, is it desirable, that every cultivated person should write\nbooks?\n\nOn the contrary, it seems that a more perfect intellectual life may be\nattained by the silent student than by authors. The writer for the\npublic is often so far its slave that he is compelled by necessity or\ninduced by the desire for success (since it is humiliating to write\nunsaleable books as well as unprofitable) to deviate from his true path,\nto leave the subjects that most interest him for other subjects which\ninterest him less, and therefore to acquire knowledge rather as a matter\nof business than as a labor of love. But the student who never\npublishes, and does not intend to publish, may follow his own genius and\ntake the knowledge which belongs to him by natural affinity. Add to this\nthe immense saving of time effected by abstinence from writing. Whilst\nthe writer is polishing his periods, and giving hours to the artistic\nexigencies of mere form, the reader is adding to his knowledge.\nThackeray said that writers were not great readers, because they had not\nthe time.\n\nThe most studious Frenchman I ever met with used to say that he so hated\nthe pen as scarcely to resolve to write a letter. He reminded me of\nJoubert in this; he often said, \"J'ai horreur de la plume.\" Since he had\nno profession his leisure was unlimited, and he employed it in educating\nhimself without any other purpose than this, the highest purpose of all,\nto become a cultivated man. The very prevalent idea that lives of this\nkind are failures unless they leave some visible achievement as a\ntestimony and justification of their labors, is based upon a narrow\nconception both of duty and of utility. Men of this unproductive class\nare sure to influence their immediate neighborhood by the example of\ntheir life. Isolated as they are too frequently in the provinces, in the\nmidst of populations destitute of the higher culture, they often\nestablish the notion of it notwithstanding the contemptuous estimates of\nthe practical people around them. A single intellectual life, thus\nmodestly lived through in the obscurity of a country-town, may leave a\ntradition and become an enduring influence. In this, as in all things,\nlet us trust the arrangements of Nature. If men are at the same time\nconstitutionally studious and constitutionally unproductive, in must be\nthat production is not the only use of study. Joubert was right in\nkeeping silence when he felt no impulses to speak, right also in saying\nthe little that he did say without a superfluous word. His mind is more\nfully known, and more influential, than many which are abundantly\nproductive.\n\n\nLETTER V.\n\nTO A STUDENT WHO FELT HURRIED AND DRIVEN.\n\n  Some intellectual products possible only in excitement--Byron's\n  authority on the subject--Can inventive minds work regularly?--Sir\n  Walter Scott's opinion--Napoleon on the winning of victories--The\n  prosaic business of men of genius--\"Waiting for\n  inspiration\"--Rembrandt's advice to a young painter--Culture necessary\n  to inspiration itself--Byron, Keats, Morris--Men of genius may be\n  regular as students.\n\nIn my last letter to you on quiet regularity of work, I did not give\nmuch consideration to another matter which, in certain kinds of work,\nhas to be taken into account, for I preferred to make that the subject\nof a separate letter. There are certain intellectual products which are\nonly possible in hours or minutes of great cerebral excitement. Byron\nsaid that when people were surprised to find poets very much like others\nin the ordinary intercourse of life, their surprise was due to ignorance\nof this. If people knew, Byron said, that poetical production came from\nan excitement which from its intensity could only be temporary, they\nwould not expect poets to be very different from other people when not\nunder the influence of this excitement. Now, we may take the word\n\"poet,\" in this connection, in the very largest sense. All men who have\nthe gift of invention are poets. The inventive ideas come to them at\nunforeseen moments, and have to be seized when they come, so that the\ntrue inventor works sometimes with vertiginous rapidity, and afterwards\nremains for days or weeks without exercising the inventive faculty at\nall. The question is, can you make an inventive mind work on the\nprinciple of measured and regular advance. Is such counsel as that in my\nformer letter applicable to inventors?\n\nScott said, that although he had known many men of ordinary abilities\nwho were capable of perfect regularity in their habits, he had never\nknown a man of genius who was so. The popular impression concerning men\nof genius is very strong in the same sense, but it is well not to attach\ntoo much importance to popular impressions concerning men of genius, for\nthe obvious reason that such men come very little under popular\nobservation. When they work it is usually in the most perfect solitude,\nand even people who live in the same house know very little, really, of\ntheir intellectual habits.\n\nThe truth seems to be, first, that the moments of high excitement, of\nnoblest invention, are rare, and not to be commanded by the will; but,\non the other hand, that in order to make the gift of invention produce\nits full effect in any department of human effort, vast labors of\npreparation are necessary, and these labors may be pursued as steadily\nas you like Napoleon I. used to say that battles were won by the sudden\nflashing of an idea through the brain of the commander at a certain\ncritical instant. The capacity for generating this sudden electric spark\nwas military genius. The spark flashed independently of the will; the\nGeneral could not win that vivid illumination by labor or by prayer; it\ncame only in the brain of genius from the intense anxiety and excitement\nof the actual conflict. Napoleon seems always to have counted upon it,\nalways to have believed that when the critical instant arrived the wild\nconfusion of the battle-field would be illuminated for him by that burst\nof sudden flame. But if Napoleon had been ignorant of the prosaic\nbusiness of his profession, to which he attended more closely than any\nother commander, what would these moments of supreme clearness have\navailed him, or would they ever have come to him at all? If they had\ncome to him, they would have revealed only the extent of his own\nnegligence. Instead of showing him _what to do_, they would have made\npainfully evident what _ought to have been done_. But it is more\nprobable that these clear moments would never have occurred to a mind\nunprepared by study. Clear military inspirations never occur to\nshopkeepers and farmers, as bright ideas about checkmates occur only to\npersons who have studied chess. The prosaic business, then, of the man\nof genius is to accumulate that preparatory knowledge without which his\ngenius can never be available, and he can do work of this kind as\nregularly as he likes.\n\nThe one fatal mistake which is committed habitually by people who have\nthe scarcely desirable gift of half-genius is \"waiting for inspiration.\"\nThey pass week after week in a state of indolence, unprofitable alike to\nthe mind and the purse, under pretext of waiting for intellectual\nflashes like those which came to Napoleon on his battle-fields. They\nought to remember the advice given by one of the greatest artists of the\nseventeenth century to a young painter of his acquaintance. \"Practise\nassiduously what you already know, and in course of time other things\nwill become clear to you.\" The inspirations come only to the\ndisciplined; the indolent wait for them in vain.\n\nIf you have genius, therefore, or believe you have, it is admitted that\nyou cannot be perpetually in a state of intense excitement. If you were\nin that state without ceasing, you would go mad. You cannot be expected\nto write poetry in the plodding ox-pace manner advocated for\nintellectual work generally in my last letter. As for that good old\ncomparison between the hare and the tortoise, it may be answered for\nyou, simply, that you are not a tortoise, and that what is a most wise\nprocedure for tortoises may be impracticable for you. The actual\ncomposition of poetry, especially poetry of a fiery kind, like--\n\n  \"The isles of Greece, the isles of Greece,\"\n\nof Byron, is to be done not when the poet will, but when he can, or\nrather, when he _must_.\n\nBut if you are a wise genius you will feel how necessary is culture even\nfor work of that kind. Byron would not have felt any enthusiasm for the\nisles of Greece if he had not known something of their history. The\nverses are an inspiration, but they could never have occurred to a quite\nuncultivated person, however bright his inspirations. Even more\nobviously was the genius of Keats dependent upon his culture. He did not\nread Greek, but from translations of Greek literature and from the\ndirect study of Greek art he got the sort of material that he needed.\nAnd in our own day Morris has been evidently a very diligent student of\nmany literatures. What I insist upon is, that we could not have had the\nreal Keats, the real Morris, unless they had prepared themselves by\nculture. We see immediately that the work they have done is _their_\nwork, specially, that they were specially adapted for it--inspired for\nit, if you will. But how evident it is that the inspiration could never\nhave produced the work, or anything like it, without labor in the\naccumulation of material!\n\nNow, although men of genius cannot be regularly progressive in actual\nproduction, cannot write so many verses a day, regularly, as you may\nspin yarn, they can be very regular as students, and some of the best of\nthem have been quite remarkable for unflinching steadiness of\napplication in that way. The great principle recommended by Mr. Galton,\nof not looking forward eagerly to the end of your journey, but\ninteresting yourself chiefly in the progress of it, is as applicable to\nthe studies of men of genius as to those of more ordinary persons.\n\n\nLETTER VI.\n\nTO AN ARDENT FRIEND WHO TOOK NO REST.\n\n  On some verses of Goethe--Man not constituted like a planet--Matthew\n  Arnold's poem, \"Self-dependence\"--Poetry and prose--The wind more\n  imitable than the stars--The stone in Glen Croe--Rest and be thankful.\n\n\"Rambling over the wild moors, with thoughts oftentimes as wild and\ndreary as those moors, the young Carlyle, who had been cheered through\nhis struggling sadness, and strengthened for the part he was to play in\nlife, by the beauty and the wisdom which Goethe had revealed to him,\nsuddenly conceived the idea that it would be a pleasant and a fitting\nthing if some of the few admirers in England forwarded to Weimar a\ntrifling token of their admiration. On reaching home Mr. Carlyle at once\nsketched the design of a seal to be engraved, the serpent of eternity\nencircling a star, with the words _ohne Hast, ohne Rast_ (unhasting,\nunresting), in allusion to the well-known verses--\n\n  'Wie das Gestirn,\n   Ohne Hast\n   Aber ohne Rast\n   Drehe sich jeder\n   Um die eigne Last.'\n\n(Like a star, unhasting, unresting, be each one fulfilling his God-given\n'hest.')\"[10]\n\nThis is said so beautifully, and seems so wise, that it may easily\nsettle down into the mind as a maxim and rule of life. Had we been told\nin plain prose to take no rest, without the beautiful simile of the\nstar, and without the wise restriction about haste, our common sense\nwould have rebelled at once; but as both beauty and wisdom exist\ntogether in the gem-like stanza, our judgment remains silent in charmed\nacquiescence.\n\nLet us ask ourselves, however, about this stella example, whether man is\nnaturally so constituted as to be able to imitate it. A planet moves\nwithout haste, because it is incapable of excitement; and without rest,\nbecause it is incapable of fatigue. A planet makes no effort, and\nencounters no friction or resistance of any kind. Man is so constituted\nas to feel frequently the stimulus of excitement, which immediately\ntranslates itself either into actual acceleration or into the desire for\nacceleration--a desire which cannot be restrained without an effort; and\nwhatever man undertakes to do he encounters friction and resistance,\nwhich, for him, always sooner or later inevitably induce fatigue. Man is\nneither constituted like a star nor situated like a star, and therefore\nit is not possible for him to exist as stars exist.\n\nYou will object to this criticism that it handles a delicate little poem\nvery roughly, and you may tell me that I am unfit to receive the wisdom\nof the poets, which is always uttered with a touch of Oriental\nexaggeration. Certainly Goethe could never mean that a man should kill\nhimself by labors literally incessant. Goethe's own life is the best\nelucidation of his true meaning. The example of the star was held up to\nus to be followed only within the limits of our human nature, as a\nChristian points to the example of Christ. In the same spirit Matthew\nArnold wrote his noble poem \"Self-dependence,\" in which he tells us to\nlive like the stars and the sea:--\n\n  \"Ah, once more,\" I cried, \"ye stars, ye waters,\n     On my heart your mighty charm renew;\n   Still, still let me, as I gaze upon you,\n     Feel my soul becoming vast like you.\"\n\n   From the intense, clear, star-sown vault of heaven,\n     Over the lit sea's unquiet way,\n   In the rustling night-air came the answer:\n     \"Wouldst thou _be_ as these are? _Live_ as they.\n\n  \"Unaffrighted by the silence round them,\n     Undistracted by the sights they see,\n   These demand not that the things without them\n     Yield them love, amusement, sympathy.\"\n\nThe true intention of poetical teachings like these is in the influence\nthey have over the feelings. If a star makes me steadier in my labor,\nless of a victim to vain agitation, in consequence of Goethe's verses;\nif the stars and the sea together renew more fully their mighty charm\nupon my heart because those stanzas of Arnold have fixed themselves in\nmy memory, the poets have done their work. But the more positive\n_prosateur_ has his work to do also, and you, as it seems to me, need\nthis positive help of prose.\n\nYou are living a great deal too much like a star, and not enough like a\nhuman being. You do not hasten often, but you _never_ rest, except when\nNature mercifully prostrates you in irresistible sleep. Like the stars\nand the sea in Arnold's poem, you do not ask surrounding things to yield\nyou love, amusement, sympathy. The stars and the sea can do without\nthese refreshments of the brain and heart, but you cannot. Rest is\nnecessary to recruit your intellectual forces; sympathy is necessary to\nprevent your whole nature from stiffening like a rotifer without\nmoisture; love is necessary to make life beautiful for you, as the\nplumage of certain birds becomes splendid when they pair; and without\namusement you will lose the gayety which wise men try to keep as the\nbest legacy of youth.\n\nLet your rest be perfect in its season, like the rest of waters that are\nstill. If you will have a model for your living, take neither the stars,\nfor they fly without ceasing, nor the ocean that ebbs and flows, nor the\nriver that cannot stay, but rather let your life be like that of the\nsummer air, which has times of noble energy and times of perfect peace.\nIt fills the sails of ships upon the sea, and the miller thanks it on\nthe breezy uplands; it works generously for the health and wealth of all\nmen, yet it claims its hours of rest. \"I have pushed the fleet, I have\nturned the mill, I have refreshed the city, and now, though the captain\nmay walk impatiently on the quarter-deck, and the miller swear, and the\ncity stink, I will stir no more until it pleases me.\"\n\nYou have learned many things, my friend, but one thing you have _not_\nlearned--the art of resting. That stone in Glen Croe ought to have\nimpressed its lesson on the mind of many a traveller, long before Earl\nRussell gave it a newspaper celebrity. Have we not rested there\ntogether, you and I, a little in advance of the coach, which the weary\nhorses were still slowly dragging up the tedious hill? And as we sat on\nthe turf, and looked down the misty glen, did we not read the lesson\nthere engraven? How good and _human_ the idea was, the idea of setting\nup that graven stone in the wilderness; how full of sympathy is that\ninscription for all the weakness and weariness of humanity! Once, in the\nardor of youth, there shone before me a golden star in heaven, and on\nthe deep azure around it \"_Ohne Hast, ohne Rast_,\" in letters of steady\nflame; but now I see more frequently a plain little stone set up in the\nearth, with the inscription, \"Rest, and be thankful!\"\n\nIs not the stone just a little like a grave-stone, my friend? Perhaps it\nis. But if we take rest when we require it during life, we shall not\nneed the grave's rest quite so soon.\n\n\nLETTER VII.\n\nTO AN ARDENT FRIEND WHO TOOK NO REST.\n\n  The regret for lost time often a needless one--Tillier's doctrine\n  about _flanerie_--How much is gained in idle hours--Sainte-Beuve's\n  conviction that whatever he did he studied the infinite book of the\n  world and of life--Harness--Free play of the mind necessary--The\n  freedom of a grain of desert-sand--The freedom of the wild bee.\n\nIf we asked any intellectual workman what he would do if his life were\nto be lived over again, I believe the answer, whatever its form, would\namount ultimately to this: \"I would economize my time better.\" Very\nlikely if the opportunity were granted him he would do nothing of the\nsort; very likely he would waste his time in ways more authorized by\ncustom, yet waste it just as extravagantly as he had done after his own\noriginal fashion; but it always seems to us as if we could use the time\nbetter if we had it over again.\n\nIt seems to me in looking back over the last thirty years, that the only\ntime really wasted has been that spent in laborious obedience to some\nexternal authority. It may be a dangerous doctrine which Claude Tillier\nexpressed in an immortal sentence, but dangerous or not, it is full of\nintellectual truth: \"Le temps le mieux employe est celui que l'on\nperd.\"[11] If what we are accustomed to consider lost time could be\nremoved, as to its effects at least, from the sum of our existence, it\nis certain that we should suffer from a great intellectual\nimpoverishment. All the best knowledge of mankind, to begin with, is\nacquired in hours which hard-working people consider lost hours--in\nhours, that is, of pleasure and recreation. Deduct all that we have\nlearnt about men in times of recreation, in clubs and smoking-rooms, on\nthe hunting-field, on the cricket-ground, on the deck of the yacht, on\nthe box of the drag or the dog-cart, would the residue be worth very\nmuch? would it not be a mere heap of dry bones without any warm flesh to\ncover them? Even the education of most of us, such as it is, has been in\na great measure acquired out of school, as it were; I mean outside of\nthe acknowledged duties of our more serious existence. Few Englishmen\npast forty have studied English literature either as a college exercise\nor a professional preparation; they have read it privately, as an\namusement. Few Englishmen past forty have studied modern languages, or\nscience, or the fine arts, from any obedience to duty, but merely from\ntaste and inclination. And even if we studied these things formally, as\nyoung men often do at the present day, it is not from the formal study\nthat we should get the _perfume_ of the language or the art, but from\nidle hours in foreign lands and galleries. It is superfluous to\nrecommend idleness to the unintellectual, but the intellectual too often\nundervalue it. The laborious intellect contracts a habit of\nstrenuousness which is some times a hindrance to its best activity.\n\n\"I have arrived,\" said Sainte-Beuve, \"perhaps by way of secretly\nexcusing my own idleness, perhaps by a deeper feeling of the principle\nthat all comes to the same, at the conclusion that whatever I do or do\nnot, working in the study at continuous labor, scattering myself in\narticles, spreading myself about in society, giving my time away to\ntroublesome callers, to poor people, to _rendez-vous_, in the street, no\nmatter to whom and to what, I cease not to do one and the same thing, to\nread one and the same book, the infinite book of the world and of life,\nthat no one ever finishes, in which the wisest read farthest; I read it\nthen at all the pages which present themselves, in broken fragments,\nbackwards, what matters it? I never cease going on. The greater the\nmedley, the more frequent the interruption, the more I get on with this\nbook in which one is never beyond the middle; but the profit is to have\nhad it open before one at all sorts of different pages.\"\n\nA distinguished author wrote to another author less distinguished: \"You\nhave gone through a good deal of really vigorous study, but have not\n_been in harness_ yet.\" By harness he meant discipline settled\nbeforehand like military drill. Now, the advantages of drill are evident\nand very generally recognized, but the advantages of intellectual\n_flanerie_ are not so generally recognized. For the work of the\nintellect to be clear and healthy, a great deal of free play of the mind\nis absolutely necessary. Harness is good for an hour or two at a time,\nbut the finest intellects have never _lived_ in harness. In reading any\nbook that has much vitality you are sure to meet with many allusions and\nillustrations which the author hit upon, not when he was in harness, but\nout at grass. Harness trains us to the systematic performance of our\nwork, and increases our practical strength by regulated exercise, but it\ndoes not supply everything that is necessary to the perfect development\nof the mind. The truth is, that we need both the discipline of harness\nand the abundant nourishment of the free pasture. Yet may not our\nfreedom be the profitless, choiceless, freedom of a grain of\ndesert-sand, carried hither and thither by the wind, gaining nothing and\nimproving nothing, so that it does not signify where it was carried\nyesterday or where it may fall to-morrow, but rather the liberty of the\nwild bee, whose coming and going are ordered by no master, nor fixed by\nany premeditated regulation, yet which misses no opportunity of\nincrease, and comes home laden in the twilight. Who knows where he has\nwandered; who can tell over what banks and streams the hum of his wings\nhas sounded? Is anything in nature freer than he is; can anything\naccount better for a rational use of freedom? Would he do his work\nbetter if tiny harness were ingeniously contrived for him? Where then\nwould be the golden honey, and where the waxen cells?\n\n\nLETTER VIII.\n\nTO A FRIEND (HIGHLY CULTIVATED) WHO CONGRATULATED HIMSELF ON HAVING\nENTIRELY ABANDONED THE HABIT OF READING NEWSPAPERS.\n\n  Advantages in economy of time--Much of what we read in newspapers is\n  useless to our culture--The too great importance which they attach to\n  novelty--Distortion by party spirit--An instance of false\n  presentation--Gains to serenity by abstinence from\n  newspapers--Newspapers keep up our daily interest in each other--The\n  French peasantry--The newspaper-reading Americans--An instance of\n  total abstinence from newspapers--Auguste Comte--A suggestion of\n  Emerson's--The work of newspaper correspondents--War\n  correspondents--Mr. Stanley--M. Erdan, of the _Temps_.\n\nYour abstinence from newspaper reading is not anew experiment in itself,\nthough it is new in reference to your particular case, and I await its\neffects with interest. I shall be curious to observe the consequences,\nto an intellect constituted as yours is, of that total cutting off from\nthe public interests of your own century which an abstinence from\nnewspapers implies. It is clear that, whatever the loss may be, you\nhave a definite gain to set against it. The time which you have hitherto\ngiven to newspapers, and which may be roughly estimated at about five\nhundred hours a year, is henceforth a valuable time-income to be applied\nto whatever purposes your best wisdom may select. When an intellectual\nperson has contrived by the force of one simple resolution to effect so\nfine an economy as this, it is natural that he should congratulate\nhimself. Your feelings must be like those of an able finance minister\nwho has found means of closing a great leak in the treasury--if any\neconomy possible in the finances of a State could ever relatively equal\nthat splendid stroke of time-thrift which your force of will has enabled\nyou to effect. In those five hundred hours, which are now your own, you\nmay acquire a science or obtain a more perfect command over one of the\nlanguages which you have studied. Some department of your intellectual\nlabors which has hitherto been unsatisfactory to you, because it was too\nimperfectly cultivated, may henceforth be as orderly and as fruitful as\na well-kept garden. You may become thoroughly conversant with the works\nof more than one great author whom you have neglected, not from lack of\ninterest, but from want of time. You may open some old chamber of the\nmemory that has been dark and disused for many a year; you may clear the\ncobwebs away, and let the fresh light in, and make it habitable once\nagain.\n\nAgainst these gains, of which some to a man of your industry are\ncertain, and may be counted upon, what must be our estimate of the\namount of sacrifice or loss? It is clear to both of us that much of what\nwe read in the newspapers is useless to our culture. A large proportion\nof newspaper-writing is occupied with speculation on what is likely to\nhappen in the course of a few months; therefore, by waiting until the\ntime is past, we know the event without having wasted time in\nspeculations which could not effect it. Another rather considerable\nfraction of newspaper matter consists of small events which have\ninterest for the day, owing to their novelty, but which will not have\nthe slightest permanent importance. The whole press of a\nnewspaper-reading country, like England or America, may be actively\nengaged during the space of a week or a fortnight in discussing some\nincident which everybody will have forgotten in six months; and besides\nthese sensational incidents, there are hundreds of less notorious ones,\noften fictitious, inserted simply for the temporary amusement of the\nreader. The greatest evil of newspapers, in their effect on the\nintellectual life, is the enormous importance which they are obliged to\nattach to mere novelty. From the intellectual point of view, it is of no\nconsequence whether a thought occurred twenty-two centuries ago to\nAristotle or yesterday evening to Mr. Charles Darwin, and it is one of\nthe distinctive marks of the truly intellectual to be able to take a\nhearty interest in all truth, independently of the date of its\ndiscovery. The emphasis given by newspapers to novelty exhibits things\nin wrong relations, as the lantern shows you what is nearest at the cost\nof making the general landscape appear darker by the contrast. Besides\nthis exhibition of things in wrong relations, there is a positive\ndistortion arising from the unscrupulousness of party, a distortion\nwhich extends far beyond the limits of the empire.\n\nAn essay might be written on the distortion of English affairs in the\nFrench press, or of French affairs in the English press, by writers who\nare as strongly partisan in another country as in their own. \"It is such\na grand thing,\" wrote an English Paris correspondent in 1870, \"for\nAdolphus Thiers, son of a poor laborer of Aix, and in early life a\nsimple journalist, to be at the head of the Government of France.\" This\nis a fair specimen of the kind of false presentation which is so common\nin party journalism. The newspaper from which I have quoted it was\nstrongly opposed to Thiers, being in fact one of the principal organs of\nthe English Bonapartists. It is not true that Thiers was the son of a\npoor laborer of Aix. His father was a workman of Marseilles, his mother\nbelonging to a family in which neither wealth nor culture had been rare,\nand his mother's relatives had him educated at the Lycee. The art of the\njournalist in bringing together the two extremes of a career remarkable\nfor its steady ascent had for its object to produce the idea of\nincongruity, of sudden and unsuitable elevation. Not only M. Thiers,\nhowever, but every human being starts from a very small beginning, since\nevery man begins life as a baby. It is a great rise for one baby to the\nPresidency of the French Republic; it was also a great rise for other\nbabies who have attained the premiership of England. The question is,\nnot what Thiers may have been seventy years ago, but what he was\nimmediately before his acceptance of the highest office of the State. He\nwas the most trusted and the most experienced citizen, so that the last\nstep in his career was as natural as the elevation of Reynolds to the\npresidency of the Academy.\n\nIt is difficult for any one who cares for justice to read party journals\nwithout frequent irritation, and it does not signify which side the\nnewspaper takes. Men are so unfair in controversy that we best preserve\nthe serenity of the intellect by studiously avoiding all literature that\nhas a controversial tone. By your new rule of abstinence from newspapers\nyou will no doubt gain almost as much in serenity as in time. To the\nordinary newspaper reader there is little loss of serenity, because he\nreads only the newspaper that he agrees with, and however unfair it is,\nhe is pleased by its unfairness. But the highest and best culture makes\nus disapprove of unfairness on our own side of the question also. We are\npained by it; we feel humiliated by it; we lament its persistence and\nits perversity.\n\nI have said nearly all that has to be said in favor of your rule of\nabstinence. I have granted that the newspapers cost us much time, which,\nif employed for great intellectual purposes, would carry us very far;\nthat they give disproportionate views of things by the emphasis they\ngive to novelty, and false views by the unfairness which belongs to\nparty. I might have added that newspaper writers give such a\npreponderance to politics--not political philosophy, but to the everyday\nwork of politicians--that intellectual culture is thrown into the\nbackground, and the election of a single member of Parliament is made to\nseem of greater national importance than the birth of a powerful idea.\nAnd yet, notwithstanding all these considerations, which are serious\nindeed for the intellectual, I believe that your resolution is unwise,\nand that you will find it to be untenable. One momentous reason more\nthan counterbalances all these considerations put together. Newspapers\nare to the whole civilized world what the daily house-talk is to the\nmembers of a household; they keep up our daily interest in each other,\nthey save us from the evils of isolation. To live as a member of the\ngreat white race of men, the race that has filled Europe and America,\nand colonized or conquered whatever other territories it has been\npleased to occupy, to share from day to day its cares, its thoughts, its\naspirations, it is necessary that every man should read his daily\nnewspaper. Why are the French peasants so bewildered and at sea, so out\nof place in the modern world? It is because they never read a newspaper.\nAnd why are the inhabitants of the United States, though scattered over\na territory fourteen times the area of France, so much more capable of\nconcerted political action, so much more _alive_ and modern, so much\nmore interested in new discoveries of all kinds and capable of selecting\nand utilizing the best of them? It is because the newspaper penetrates\neverywhere; and even the lonely dweller on the prairie or in the forest\nis not intellectually isolated from the great currents of public life\nwhich flow through the telegraph and the press.\n\nThe experiment of doing without newspapers has been tried by a whole\nclass, the French peasantry, with the consequences that we know, and it\nhas also from time to time been tried by single individuals belonging to\nmore enlightened sections of society. Let us take one instance, and let\nus note what appear to have been the effects of this abstinence. Auguste\nComte abstained from newspapers as a teetotaller abstains from\nspirituous liquors. Now, Auguste Comte possessed a gift of nature which,\nthough common in minor degrees, is in the degree in which he possessed\nit rarer than enormous diamonds. That gift was the power of dealing with\nabstract intellectual conceptions, and living amidst them always, as the\npractical mind lives in and deals with material things. And it happened\nin Comte's case, as it usually does happen in cases of very peculiar\nendowment, that the gift was accompanied by the instincts necessary to\nits perfect development and to its preservation. Comte instinctively\navoided the conversation of ordinary people, because he felt it to be\ninjurious to the perfect exercise of his faculty, and for the same\nreason he would not read newspapers. In imposing upon himself these\nprivations he acted like a very eminent living etcher, who, having the\ngift of an extraordinary delicacy of hand, preserves it by abstinence\nfrom everything that may effect the steadiness of the nerves. There is a\ncertain difference, however, between the two cases which I am anxious to\naccentuate. The etcher runs no risk of any kind by his rule of\nabstinence. He refrains from several common indulgences, but he denies\nhimself nothing that is necessary to health. I may even go farther, and\nsay that the rules which he observes for the sake of perfection in his\nart, might be observed with advantage by many who are not artists, for\nthe sake of their own tranquillity, without the loss of anything but\npleasure. The rules which Comte made for himself involved, on the other\nhand, a great peril. In detaching himself so completely from the\ninterests and ways of thinking of ordinary men, he elaborated, indeed,\nthe conceptions of the positive philosophy, but arrived afterwards at a\npeculiar kind of intellectual decadence from which it is\npossible--probable even--that the rough common sense of the newspapers\nmight have preserved him. They would have saved him, I seriously\nbelieve, from that mysticism which led to the invention of a religion\nfar surpassing in unreasonableness the least rational of the creeds of\ntradition. It is scarcely imaginable, except on the supposition of\nactual insanity, that any regular reader of the _Times_, the _Temps_,\nthe _Daily News_, and the _Saturday Review_, should believe the human\nrace to be capable of receiving as the religion of its maturity the\nComtist Trinity and the Comtist Virgin Mother. A Trinity consisting of\nthe Great Being (or humanity), the Great Fetish (or the earth), and the\nGreat Midst (or space); a hope for the human race (how unphysiological!)\nthat women might ultimately arrive at maternity independently of virile\nhelp,--these are conceptions so remote, not only from the habits of\nmodern thought, but (what is more important) from its tendencies, that\nthey could not occur to a mind in regular communication with its\ncontemporaries.\n\n\"If you should transfer the amount of your reading day by day from the\nnewspaper to the standard authors?\" To this suggestion of Emerson's it\nmay be answered that the loss would be greater than the gain. The\nwriters of Queen Anne's time could educate an Englishman of Queen Anne's\ntime, but they can only partially educate an Englishman of Queen\nVictoria's time. The mind is like a merchant's ledger, it requires to be\ncontinually posted up to the latest date. Even the last telegram may\nhave upset some venerable theory that has been received as infallible\nfor ages.\n\nIn times when great historical events are passing before our eyes, the\njournalist is to future historians what the African traveller is to the\nmap-makers. His work is neither complete nor orderly, but it is the\nfresh record of an eye-witness, and enables us to become ourselves\nspectators of the mighty drama of the world. Never was this service so\nwell rendered as it is now, by correspondents who achieve heroic feats\nof bodily and mental prowess, exposing themselves to the greatest\ndangers, and writing much and well in circumstances the most unfavorable\nto literary composition. How vividly the English war correspondents\nbrought before us the reality of the great conflict between Germany and\nFrance! What a romantic achievement, worthy to be sung in heroic verse,\nwas the finding of Livingstone by Stanley! Not less interesting have\nbeen the admirable series of letters by M. Erdan in the _Temps_, in\nwhich, with the firmness of a master-hand, he has painted from the life,\nweek after week, year after year, the decline and fall of the temporal\npower of the Papacy. I cannot think that any page of Roman history is\nbetter worth reading than his letters, more interesting, instructive,\nlively, or authentic. Yet with your contempt for newspapers you would\nlose all this profitable entertainment, and seek instead of it the\naccounts of former epochs not half so interesting as this fall of the\ntemporal power, accounts written in most cases by men in libraries who\nhad not seen the sovereigns they wrote about, nor talked with the people\nwhose condition they attempted to describe. You have a respect for these\naccounts because they are printed in books, and bound in leather, and\nentitled \"history,\" whilst you despise the direct observation of a man\nlike Erdan, because he is only a journalist, and his letters are\npublished in a newspaper. Is there not some touch of prejudice in this,\nsome mistake, some narrowness of intellectual aristocracy?\n\n\nLETTER IX.\n\nTO AN AUTHOR WHO APPRECIATED CONTEMPORARY LITERATURE.\n\n  Miss Mitford on the selfishness of authors--A suggestion of\n  Emerson's--A laconic rule of his--Traces of jealousy--And of a more\n  subtle feeling--A contradiction--Necessary to resist the invasion of\n  the present--A certain equilibrium--The opposite of a pedant--The best\n  classics not pedants, but artists.\n\nReading the other day a letter by Miss Mitford, I was reminded of you as\nthe eye is reminded of green when it sees scarlet. You, whose interest\nin literature has ever kept pace with the time, to whom no new thing is\nunwelcome if only it is good, are safe from her accusations; but how\nmany authors have deserved them! Miss Mitford is speaking of a certain\nwriter who is at the same time a clergyman, and whom it is not\ndifficult to recognize.\n\n\"I never,\" she says, \"saw him interested in the slightest degree by the\nwork of any other author, except, indeed, one of his own followers or of\nhis own clique, and then only as admiring or helping him. He has great\nkindness and great sympathy with working people, or with a dying friend,\nbut I profess to you I am amazed at the utter selfishness of authors. I\ndo not know one single poet who cares for any man's poetry but his own.\nIn general they read no books except such as may be necessary to their\nown writings--that is to the work they happen to be about, and even then\nI suspect that they only read the bits that they may immediately want.\nYou know the absolute ignorance in which Wordsworth lived of all modern\nworks; and if, out of compliment to a visitor, he thought it needful to\nseem to read or listen to two or three stanzas, he gave unhesitating\npraise to the writer himself, but took especial care not to repeat the\npraise where it might have done him good--utterly fair and false.\"\n\nThere are touches of this spirit of indifference to contemporary\nliterature in several writers and scholars whom we know. There are\ndistinct traces of it even in published writings, though it is much more\nevident in private life and habit. Emerson seriously suggests that \"the\nhuman mind would perhaps be a gainer if all the secondary writers were\nlost--say, in England, all but Shakespeare, Milton, and Bacon, through\nthe profounder study so drawn to those wonderful minds.\" In the same\nspirit we have Emerson's laconic rule, \"Never read any but famed books,\"\nwhich suggests the remark that if men had obeyed this rule from the\nbeginning, no book could ever have acquired reputation, and nobody would\never have read anything. The idea of limiting English literature to a\nholy trinity of Shakespeare, Milton, and Bacon, and voluntarily losing\nall other authors, seems to me the most intense expression of the spirit\nof aristocracy in reading. It is as if a man were to decide in his own\nmind that society would be the better if all persons except the three\nEmperors were excluded from it. There is a want of reliance upon one's\nown judgment, and an excess of faith in the estimates of others, when we\nresolve to read only those books which come to us in the splendor of a\nrecognized intellectual royalty. We read either to gain information, to\nhave good thinking suggested to us, or to have our imagination\nstimulated. In the way of knowledge the best authors are always the most\nrecent, so that Bacon could not suffice. In the way of thinking, our\nmethods have gained in precision since Milton's time, and we are helped\nby a larger experience than his. The one thing which Shakespeare and\nMilton can do for us quite perfectly still, is to fill our imagination\nrichly, and give it a fine stimulus. But modern writers can render us\nthe same service.\n\nIs there not a little jealousy of contemporaries in the persistence with\nwhich some authors avoid them, and even engage others to avoid them? May\nnot there be a shade of another feeling than jealousy, a feeling more\nsubtle in operation, the undefined apprehension that we may find, even\namongst our more obscure contemporaries, merit equal to our own? So long\nas we restrict our reading to old books of great fame we are safe from\nthis apprehension, for if we find admirable qualities, we know\nbeforehand that the world has handsomely acknowledged them, and we\nindulge in the hope that our own admirable qualities will be recognized\nby posterity with equal liberality. But it creates an unpleasant feeling\nof uneasiness to see quantities of obscure contemporary work, done in a\nplain way to earn a living by men of third or fourth-rate reputation, or\nof no reputation at all, which in many respects would fairly sustain a\ncomparison with our own. It is clear that an author ought to be the last\nperson to advise the public not to read contemporary literature, since\nhe is himself a maker of contemporary literature; and there is a direct\ncontradiction between the invitation to read his book, which he\ncirculates by the act of publishing, and the advice which the book\ncontains. Emerson is more safe from this obvious rejoinder when he\nsuggests to us to transfer our reading day by day from the newspaper to\nthe standard authors. But are these suggestions anything more than the\nreaction of an intellectual man against the too prevalent customs of\nthe world? The reading practised by most people, by all who do not set\nbefore themselves intellectual culture as one of the definite aims of\nlife, is remarkable for the regularity with which it neglects all the\ngreat authors of the past. The books provided by the circulating\nlibrary, the reviews and magazines, the daily newspapers, are read\nwhilst they are novelties, but the standard authors are left on their\nshelves unopened. We require a firm resolution to resist this invasion\nof what is new, because it flows like an unceasing river, and unless we\nprotect our time against it by some solid embankment of unshakable rule\nand resolution, every nook and cranny of it will be filled and flooded.\nAn Englishman whose life was devoted to culture, but who lived in an\nout-of-the-way place on the Continent, told me that he considered it a\ndecided advantage to his mind to live quite outside of the English\nlibrary system, because if he wanted to read a new book he had to buy it\nand pay heavily for carriage besides, which made him very careful in his\nchoice. For the same reason he rejoiced that the nearest English\nnews-room was two hundred miles from his residence.\n\nBut, on the other hand, what would be the condition of a man's mind who\nnever read anything but the classic authors? He would live in an\nintellectual monastery, and would not even understand the classic\nauthors themselves, for we understand the past only by referring it to\nwhat we know in the present.\n\nIt is best to preserve our minds in a state of equilibrium, and not to\nallow our repugnance to what we see as an evil to drive us into an evil\nof an opposite kind. We are too often like those little toy-fish with a\nbit of steel in their mouths, which children attract with a magnet. If\nyou present the positive pole of the magnet, the fish rushes at it at\nonce, but if you offer the negative end it retreats continually.\nEverything relatively to our character has this positive or negative\nend, and we either rush to things or rush away from them. Some persons\nare actually driven away from the most entertaining writers because they\nhappen to be what are called classics, because pedants boast of having\nread them. I know a man who is exactly the opposite of a pedant, who has\na horror of the charlatanism which claims social and intellectual\nposition as the reward for having laboriously waded through those\nauthors who are conventionally termed \"classical,\" and this opposition\nto pedantry has given him an aversion to the classics themselves, which\nhe never opens. The shallow pretence to admiration of famous writers\nwhich is current in the world is so distasteful to the love of honesty\nand reality which is the basis of his character, that by an unhappy\nassociation of ideas he has acquired a repugnance to the writers\nthemselves. But such men as Horace, Terence, Shakespeare, Moliere,\nthough they have had the misfortune to be praised and commentated upon\nby pedants, were in their lives the precise opposite of pedants; they\nwere _artists_ whose study was human nature, and who lived without\npretension in the common world of men. The pedants have a habit of\nconsidering these genial old artists as in some mysterious way their own\nprivate property, for do not the pedants live by expounding them? And\nsome of us are frightened away from the fairest realms of poetry by the\nfences of these grim guardians.\n\n\nLETTER X.\n\nTO AN AUTHOR WHO KEPT VERY IRREGULAR HOURS.\n\n  Julian Fane--His late hours--Regularity produced by habit--The time of\n  the principal effort--That the chief work should be done in the best\n  hours--Physicians prefer early to late work--The practice of Goethe\n  and some modern authors--The morning worker ought to live in a\n  tranquil neighborhood--Night-work--The medical objection to it--The\n  student's objection to day-work--Time to be kept in masses by adults,\n  but divided into small portions by children--Rapid turning of the\n  mind--Cuvier eminent for this faculty--The Duke of Wellington--The\n  faculty more available with some occupations than others--The slavery\n  of a minute obedience to the clock--Broad rules the best--Books of\n  agenda, good in business, but not in the higher intellectual pursuits.\n\nWhat you told me of your habits in the employment of your hours reminded\nme of Julian Fane. Mr. Lytton tells us that \"after a long day of\nprofessional business, followed by a late evening of social amusement,\nhe would return in the small hours of the night to his books, and sit,\nunwearied, till sunrise in the study of them. Nor did he then seem to\nsuffer from this habit of late hours. His nightly vigils occasioned no\nappearance of fatigue the next day.... He rarely rose before noon, and\ngenerally rose much later.\"\n\nBut however irregular a man's distribution of his time may be in the\nsense of wanting the government of fixed rules, there always comes in\ntime a certain regularity by the mere operation of habit. People who get\nup very late hardly ever do so in obedience to a rule; many get up early\nby rule, and many more are told that they ought to get up early, and\nbelieve it, and aspire to that virtue, but fail to carry it into\npractice. The late-risers are rebels and sinners--in this respect--to a\nman, and so persistently have the wise, from Solomon downwards, harped\nupon the moral loveliness of early rising and the degradation which\nfollows the opposite practice, that one can hardly get up after eight\nwithout either an uncomfortable sense of guilt or an extraordinary\ncallousness. Yet the late-risers, though obeying no rule, for the\nabandoned sinner recognizes none, become regular in their late rising\nfrom the gradual fixing power of habit. Even Julian Fane, though he\nregretted his desultory ways, \"and dwelt with great earnestness on the\nimportance of regular habits of work,\" was perhaps less irregular than\nhe himself believed. We are sure to acquire habits; what is important is\nnot so much that the habits should be regular, as that their regularity\nshould be of the kind most favorable in the long run to the\naccomplishment of our designs, and this never comes by chance, it is the\nresult of an effort of the will in obedience to governing wisdom.\n\nThe first question which every one who has the choice of his hours must\nsettle for himself is at what time of day he will make his principal\neffort; for the day of every intellectual workman ought to be marked by\na kind of artistic composition; there ought to be some one labor\ndistinctly recognized as dominant, with others in subordination, and\nsubordination of various degrees. Now for the hours at which the\nprincipal effort ought to be made, it is not possible to fix them by the\nclock so as to be suitable for everybody, but a broad rule may be\narrived at which is applicable to all imaginable cases. The rule is\nthis--to do the chief work in the best hours; to give it the pick of\nyour day; and by day I do not mean only the solar day, but the whole of\nthe twenty-four hours. There is an important physiological reason for\ngiving the best hours to the most important work. The better the\ncondition of the brain and the body, and the more favorable the\nsurrounding circumstances, the smaller will be the cost to the\norganization of the labor that has to be done. It is always the safest\nway to do the heaviest (or most important) work at the time and under\nthe conditions which make it the least costly.\n\nPhysicians are unanimous in their preference of early to late work; and\nno doubt, if the question were not complicated by other considerations,\nwe could not do better than to follow their advice in its simplicity.\nGoethe wrote in the morning, with his faculties refreshed by sleep and\nnot yet excited by any stimulant. I could mention several living authors\nof eminence who pursue the same plan, and find it favorable alike to\nhealth and to production. The rule which they follow is never to write\nafter lunch, leaving the rest of their time free for study and society,\nboth of which are absolutely necessary to authors. According to this\nsystem it is presumed that the hours between breakfast and lunch are the\nbest hours. In many cases they are so. A person in fair health, after\ntaking a light early breakfast without any heavier stimulant than tea or\ncoffee, finds himself in a state of freshness highly favorable to sound\nand agreeable thinking. His brain will be in still finer order if the\nbreakfast has been preceded by a cold bath, with friction and a little\nexercise. The feeling of freshness, cleanliness, and moderate\nexhilaration, will last for several hours, and during those hours the\nintellectual work will probably be both lively and reasonable. It is\ndifficult for a man who feels cheerful and refreshed, and whose task\nseems easy and light, to write anything morbid or perverse.\n\nBut for the morning to be so good as I have just described it, the\nworkman must be quite favorably situated. He ought to live in a very\ntranquil neighborhood, and to be as free as possible from anxiety as to\nwhat the postman may have in reserve for him. If his study-window looks\nout on a noisy street, and if the day is sure, as it wears on, to bring\nanxious business of its own, then the increasing noise and the\napprehension (even though it be almost entirely unconscious) of\nimpending business, will be quite sufficient to interfere with the work\nof any man who is the least in the world nervous, and almost all\nintellectual laborers _are_ nervous, more or less. Men who have the\ninestimable advantage of absolute tranquillity, at all times, do well to\nwork in the morning, but those who can only get tranquillity at times\nindependent of their own choice have a strong reason for working at\nthose times, whether they happen to be in the morning or not.\n\nIn an excellent article on \"Work\" (evidently written by an experienced\nintellectual workman), which appeared in one of the early numbers of the\n_Cornhill Magazine_, and was remarkable alike for practical wisdom and\nthe entire absence of traditional dogmatism, the writer speaks frankly\nin favor of night-work, \"If you can work at all at night, one hour at\nthat time is worth any two in the morning. The house is hushed, the\nbrain is clear, the distracting influences of the day are at an end.\nYou have not to disturb yourself with thoughts of what you are about to\ndo, or what you are about to suffer. You know that there is a gulf\nbetween you and the affairs of the outside world, almost like the chasm\nof death; and that you need not take thought of the morrow until the\nmorrow has come. There are few really great thoughts, such as the world\nwill not willingly let die, that have not been conceived under the quiet\nstars.\"\n\nThe medical objection to night-work in the case of literary men would\nprobably be that the night is _too_ favorable to literary production.\nThe author of the Essay just quoted says that at night \"you only drift\ninto deeper silence _and quicker inspiration_. If the right mood is upon\nyou, _you write on_; if not, your pillow awaits you.\" Exactly so; that\nis to say, the brain, owing to the complete external tranquillity, can\nso concentrate its efforts on the subject in hand as to work itself up\ninto a luminous condition which is fed by the most rapid destruction of\nthe nervous substance that ever takes place within the walls of a human\nskull. \"If the right mood is upon you, _you write on_;\" in other words,\nif you have once well lighted your spirit-lamp, it will go on burning so\nlong as any spirit is left in it, for the air is so tranquil that\nnothing comes to blow it out. You drift into deeper silence and \"quicker\ninspiration.\" It is just this quicker inspiration that the physician\ndreads.\n\nAgainst this objection may be placed the equally serious objection to\nday-work, that every interruption, when you are particularly anxious not\nto be interrupted, causes a definite loss and injury to the nervous\nsystem. The choice must therefore be made between two dangers, and if\nthey are equally balanced there can be no hesitation, because all the\n_literary_ interests of an author are on the side of the most tranquil\ntime. Literary work is always sure to be much better done when there is\nno fear of disturbance than under the apprehension of it; and precisely\nthe same amount of cerebral effort will produce, when the work is\nuninterrupted, not only better writing, but a much greater quantity of\nwriting. The knowledge that he is working well and productively is an\nelement of health to every workman because it encourages cheerful habits\nof mind.\n\nIn the division of time it is an excellent rule for adults to keep it as\nmuch as possible _in large masses_, not giving a quarter of an hour to\none occupation and a quarter to another, but giving three, four, or five\nhours to one thing at a time. In the case of children an opposite\npractice should be followed; they are able to change their attention\nfrom one subject to another much more easily than we can, whilst at the\nsame time they cannot fix their minds for very long without cerebral\nfatigue leading to temporary incapacity. The custom prevalent in\nschools, of making the boys learn several different things in the course\nof the day, is therefore founded upon the necessities of the boy-nature,\nthough most grown men would find that changes so frequent would, for\nthem, have all the inconveniences of interruption. To boys they come as\nrelief, to men as interruption. The reason is that the physical\ncondition of the brain is different in the two cases; but in our loose\nway of talking about these things we may say that the boy's ideas are\nsuperficial, like the plates and dishes on the surface of a\ndinner-table, which may be rapidly changed without inconvenience,\nwhereas the man's ideas, having all struck root down to the very depths\nof his nature, are more like the plants in a garden, which cannot be\nremoved without a temporary loss both of vigor and of beauty, and the\nloss cannot be instantaneously repaired. For a man to do his work\nthoroughly well, it is necessary that he should dwell in it long enough\nat a time to get all the powers of his mind fully under command with\nreference to the particular work in hand, and he cannot do this without\ntuning his whole mind to the given diapason, as a tuner tunes a piano.\nSome men can tune their minds more rapidly, as violins are tuned, and\nthis faculty may to a certain extent be acquired by efforts of the will\nvery frequently repeated. Cuvier had this faculty in the most eminent\ndegree. One of his biographers says: \"His extreme facility for study,\nand of directing all the powers of his mind to diverse occupations of\nstudy, from one quarter of an hour to another, was one of the most\nextraordinary qualities of his mind.\" The Duke of Wellington also\ncultivated the habit (inestimably valuable to a public man) of directing\nthe whole of his attention to the subject under consideration, however\nfrequently that subject might happen to be changed. But although men of\nexceptional power and very exceptional flexibility may do this with\napparent impunity, that still depends very much on the nature of the\noccupation. There are some occupations which are not incompatible with a\nfragmentary division of time, because these occupations are themselves\nfragmentary. For example, you may study languages in phrase-books during\nvery small spaces of time, because the complete phrase is in itself a\nvery small thing, but you could not so easily break and resume the\nthread of an elaborate argument. I suspect that though Cuvier appeared\nto his contemporaries a man remarkably able to leave off and resume his\nwork at will, he must have taken care to do work that would bear\ninterruption at those times when he knew himself to be most liable to\nit. And although, when a man's time is unavoidably broken up into\nfragments, no talent of a merely auxiliary kind can be more precious\nthan that of turning each of those fragments to advantage, it is still\ntrue that he whose time is at his own disposal will do his work most\ncalmly, most deliberately, and therefore on the whole most thoroughly\nand perfectly, when he keeps it in fine masses. The mere knowledge that\nyou have three or four clear hours before you is in itself a great help\nto the spirit of thoroughness, both in study and in production. It is\nagreeable too, when the sitting has come to an end, to perceive that a\ndefinite advance is the result of it, and advance in anything is\nscarcely perceptible in less than three or four hours.\n\nThere are several pursuits which _cannot_ be followed in fragments of\ntime, on account of the necessary preparations. It is useless to begin\noil-painting unless you have full time to set your palette properly, to\nget your canvas into a proper state for working upon, to pose the model\nas you wish, and settle down to work with everything as it ought to be.\nIn landscape-painting from nature you require the time to go to the\nselected place, and after your arrival to arrange your materials and\nshelter yourself from the sun. In scientific pursuits the preparations\nare usually at least equally elaborate, and often much more so. To\nprepare for an experiment, or for a dissection, takes time which we feel\nto be disproportionate when it leaves too little for the scientific work\nitself. It is for this reason more frequently than for any other that\namateurs who begin in enthusiasm, so commonly, after a while, abandon\nthe objects of their pursuit.\n\nThere is a kind of slavery to which no really intellectual man would\never voluntarily submit, a minute obedience to the clock. Very\nconscientious people often impose upon themselves this sort of slavery.\nA person who has hampered himself with rules of this kind will take up a\ncertain book, for instance, when the clock strikes nine, and begin at\nyesterday's mark, perhaps in the middle of a paragraph. Then he will\nread with great steadiness till a quarter-past nine, and exactly on the\ninstant when the minute-hand gets opposite the dot, he will shut his\nbook, however much the passage may happen to interest him. It was in\nallusion to good people of this kind that Sir Walter Scott said he had\nnever known a man of genius who could be perfectly regular in his\nhabits, whilst he had known many blockheads who could. It is easy to see\nthat a minute obedience to the clock is unintellectual in its very\nnature, for the intellect is not a piece of mechanism as a clock is, and\ncannot easily be made to act like one. There may be perfect\ncorrespondence between the locomotives and the clocks on a railway, for\nif the clocks are pieces of mechanism the locomotives are so likewise,\nbut the intellect always needs a certain looseness and latitude as to\ntime. Very broad rules are the best, such as \"Write in the morning, read\nin the afternoon, see friends in the evening,\" or else \"Study one day\nand produce another, alternately,\" or even \"Work one week and see the\nworld another week, alternately.\"\n\nThere is a fretting habit, much recommended by men of business and of\ngreat use to them, of writing the evening before the duties of the day\nin a book of agenda. If this is done at all by intellectual men with\nreference to their pursuits, it ought to be done in a very broad, loose\nway, never minutely. An intellectual worker ought never to make it a\nmatter of conscience (in intellectual labor) to do a predetermined\nquantity of little things. This sort of conscientiousness frets and\nworries, and is the enemy of all serenity of thought.\n\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n  [10] Lewes's \"Life of Goethe,\" Book vii. chap. 8.\n\n  [11] The best employed time is that which one loses.\n\n\n\n\nPART XI.\n\n_TRADES AND PROFESSIONS._\n\n\nLETTER I.\n\nTO A YOUNG GENTLEMAN OF ABILITY AND CULTURE WHO HAD NOT DECIDED ABOUT\nHIS PROFESSION.\n\n  The Church--Felicities and advantages of the clerical profession--Its\n  elevated ideal--That it is favorable to noble studies--French priests\n  and English Clergymen--The professional point of view--Difficulty of\n  disinterested thinking--Colored light--Want of strict\n  accuracy--Quotation from a sermon--The drawback to the clerical\n  life--Provisional nature of intellectual conclusions--The legal\n  profession--That it affords gratification to the intellectual\n  powers--Want of intellectual disinterestedness in lawyers--Their\n  absorption in professional life--Anecdote of a London\n  lawyer--Superiority of lawyers in their sense of\n  affairs--Medicine--The study of it a fine preparation for the\n  intellectual life--Social rise of medical men coincident with the\n  mental progress of communities--Their probable future influence on\n  education--The heroic side of their profession--The military and naval\n  professions--Bad effect of the privation of\n  solitude--Interruption--Anecdote of Cuvier--The fine arts--In what way\n  they are favorable to thought--Intellectual leisure of\n  artists--Reasoning artists--Sciences included in the fine arts.\n\nIt may be taken for granted that to a mind constituted as yours is, no\nprofession will be satisfactory which does not afford free play to the\nintellectual powers. You might no doubt exercise resolution enough to\nbind yourself down to uncongenial work for a term of years, but it would\nbe with the intention of retiring as soon as you had realized a\ncompetency. The happiest life is that which constantly exercises and\neducates what is best in us.\n\nYou had thoughts, at one time, of the Church, and the Church would have\nsuited you in many respects very happily, yet not, I think, in all\nrespects. The clerical profession has many great felicities and\nadvantages: it educates and develops, by its mild but regular\ndiscipline, much of our higher nature; it sets before us an elevated\nideal, worth striving for at the cost of every sacrifice but one, of\nwhich I intend to say something farther on; and it offers just that\nmixture of public and private life which best affords the alternation of\nactivity and rest. It is an existence in many respects most favorable to\nthe noblest studies. It offers the happiest combination of duties that\nsatisfy the conscience with leisure for the cultivation of the mind; it\ngives the easiest access to all classes of society, providing for the\nparson himself a neutral and independent position, so safe that he need\nonly conduct himself properly to preserve it. How superior, from the\nintellectual point of view, is this liberal existence to the narrower\none of a French _cure de campagne_! I certainly think that if a good\n_cure_ has an exceptional genius for sanctity, his chances of becoming a\nperfect saint are better than those of a comfortable English incumbent,\nwho is at the same time a gentleman and man of the world, but he is not\nnearly so well situated for leading the intellectual life. Our own\nclergy have a sort of middle position between the _cure_ and the layman,\nwhich without at all interfering with their spiritual vocation, makes\nthem better judges of the character of laymen and more completely in\nsympathy with it.\n\nAnd yet, although the life of a clergyman is favorable to culture in\nmany ways, it is not wholly favorable to it. There exists, in clerical\nthinking generally, just one restriction or impediment, which is the\noverwhelming importance of the professional point of view. Of all the\nprofessions the ecclesiastical one is that which most decidedly and most\nconstantly affects the judgment of persons and opinions. It is\npeculiarly difficult for a clergyman to attain disinterestedness in his\nthinking, to accept truth just as it may happen to present itself,\nwithout passionately desiring that one doctrine may turn out to be\nstrong in evidence and another unsupported. And so we find the clergy,\nas a class, anxious rather to discover aids to faith, than the simple\nscientific truth; and the more the special priestly character develops\nitself, the more we find them disposed to use their intellects for the\ntriumph of principles that are decided upon beforehand. Sometimes this\ndisposition leads them to see the acts of laymen in a colored light and\nto speak of them without strict accuracy. Here is an example of what I\nmean. A Jesuit priest preached a sermon in London very recently, in\nwhich he said that \"in Germany, France, Italy, and England, gigantic\nefforts were being made to rob Christian children of the blessing of a\nChristian education.\" \"Herod, though dead,\" the preacher continued, \"has\nleft his mantle behind him; and I wish that the soldiers of Herod in\nthose countries would plunge their swords into the breasts of little\nchildren while they were innocent, rather than have their souls\ndestroyed by means of an unchristian and uncatholic education.\" No doubt\nthis is very earnest and sincere, but it is not accurate and just\nthinking. The laity in the countries the preacher mentioned have\ncertainly a strong tendency to exclude theology from State schools,\nbecause it is so difficult for a modern State to impose any kind of\ntheological teaching without injustice to minorities; but the laity do\nnot desire to deprive children of whatever instruction may be given to\nthem by the clergy of their respective communions. May I add, that to\nthe mind of a layman it seems a sanguinary desire that all little\nchildren should have swords plunged into their breasts rather than be\ntaught in schools not clerically directed? The exact truth is, that the\npowerful lay element is certainly separating itself from the\necclesiastical element all over Europe, because it is found by\nexperience that the two have a great and increasing difficulty in\nworking harmoniously together, but the ecclesiastical element is\ndetached and not destroyed. The quotation I have just made is in itself\na sufficient illustration of that very peculiarity in the more exalted\necclesiastical temperament, which often makes it so difficult for\npriests and governments, in these times, to get on comfortably together.\nHere is first a very inaccurate statement, and then an outburst of most\npassionate feeling, whereas the intellect desires the strictest truth\nand the most complete disinterestedness. As the temper of the laity\nbecomes more and more intellectual (and that is the direction of its\nmovement), the sacerdotal habit will become more and more remote from\nit.\n\nThe clerical life has many strong attractions for the intellectual, and\njust one drawback to counterbalance them. It offers tranquillity,\nshelter from the interruptions and anxieties of the more active\nprofessions, and powerful means of influence ready to hand; but it is\ncompatible with intellectual freedom and with the satisfaction of the\nconscience, only just so long as the priest really remains a believer in\nthe details of his religion. Now, although we may reasonably hope to\nretain the chief elements of our belief, although what a man believes at\ntwenty-five is always what he will most probably believe at fifty,\nstill, in an age when free inquiry is the common habit of cultivated\npeople of our sex, we may well hesitate before taking upon ourselves any\nformal engagement for the future, especially in matters of detail. The\nintellectual spirit does not regard its conclusions as being at any time\nfinal, but always provisional; we hold what we believe to be the truth\nuntil we can replace it by some more perfect truth, but cannot tell how\nmuch of to-day's beliefs to-morrow will retain or reject. It may be\nobserved, however, that the regular performance of priestly functions is\nin itself a great help to permanence in belief by connecting it closely\nwith practical habit, so that the clergy do really and honestly often\nretain through life their hold on early beliefs which as laymen they\nmight have lost.\n\nThe profession of the law provides ample opportunities for a critical\nintellect with a strong love of accuracy and a robust capacity for hard\nwork, besides which it is the best of worldly educations. Some lawyers\nlove their work as passionately as artists do theirs, others dislike it\nvery heartily, most of them seem to take it as a simple business to be\ndone for daily bread. Lawyers whose heart is in their work are\ninvariably men of superior ability, which proves that there is something\nin it that affords gratification to the intellectual powers. However, in\nspeaking of lawyers, I feel ignorant and on the outside, because their\nprofession is one of which the interior feelings can be known to no one\nwho has not practised. One thing seems clear, they get the habit of\nemploying the whole strength and energy of their minds for especial and\ntemporary ends, the purpose being the service of the client, certainly\nnot the revelation of pure truth. Hence, although they become very\nacute, and keen judges of that side of human nature which they\nhabitually see (not the best side), they are not more disinterested than\nclergymen.[12] Sometimes they take up some study outside of their\nprofession and follow it disinterestedly, but this is rare. A busy\nlawyer is much more likely than a clergyman to become entirely absorbed\nin his professional life, because it requires so much more intellectual\nexertion. I remember asking a very clever lawyer who lived in London,\nwhether he ever visited an exhibition of pictures, and he answered me by\nthe counter-inquiry whether I had read Chitty on Contracts, Collier on\nPartnerships, Taylor on Evidence, Cruse's Digest, or Smith's Mercantile\nLaw? This seemed to me at the time a good instance of the way a\nprofessional habit may narrow one's views of things, for these law-books\nwere written for lawyers alone, whilst the picture exhibitions were\nintended for the public generally. My friend's answer would have been\nmore to the point if I had inquired whether he had read Linton on\nColors, and Burnet on Chiaroscuro.\n\nThere is just one situation in which we all may feel for a short time as\nlawyers feel habitually. Suppose that two inexperienced players sit down\nto a game of chess, and that each is backed by a clever person who is\nconstantly giving him hints. The two backers represent the lawyers, and\nthe players represent their clients. There is not much disinterested\nthought in a situation of this kind, but there is a strong stimulus to\nacuteness.\n\nI think that lawyers are often superior to philosophers in their sense\nof what is relatively important in human affairs with reference to\nlimited spaces of time, such as half a century. They especially know the\nenormous importance of custom, which the speculative mind very readily\nforgets, and they have in the highest degree that peculiar sense which\nfits men for dealing with others in the affairs of ordinary life. In\nthis respect they are remarkably superior to clergymen, and superior\nalso to artists and men of science.\n\nThe profession of medicine is, of all fairly lucrative professions, the\none best suited to the development of the intellectual life. Having to\ndeal continually with science, being constantly engaged in following and\nobserving the operation of natural laws, it produces a sense of the\nworking of those laws which prepares the mind for bold and original\nspeculation, and a reliance upon their unfailing regularity, which gives\nit great firmness and assurance. A medical education is the best\npossible preparation for philosophical pursuits, because it gives them a\nsolid basis in the ascertainable. The estimation in which these studies\nare held is an accurate meter of the intellectual advancement of a\ncommunity. When the priest is reverenced as a being above ordinary\nhumanity, and the physician slightly esteemed, the condition of society\nis sure to be that of comparative ignorance and barbarism; and it is one\nof several signs which indicate barbarian feeling in our own\naristocracy, that it has a contempt for the study of medicine. The\nprogress of society towards enlightenment is marked by the steady social\nrise of the surgeon and the physician, a rise which still continues,\neven in Western Europe. It is probable that before very long the medical\nprofession will exercise a powerful influence upon general education,\nand take an active share in it. There are very strong reasons for the\nopinion that schoolmasters educated in medicine would be peculiarly well\nqualified to train both body and mind for a vigorous and active manhood.\nAn immense advantage, even from the intellectual point of view, in the\npursuit of medicine and surgery, is that they supply a discipline in\nmental heroism. Other professions do this also, but not to the same\ndegree. The combination of an accurate training in positive science with\nthe habitual contempt of danger and contemplation of suffering and\ndeath, is the finest possible preparation for noble studies and arduous\ndiscoveries. I ought to add, however, that medical men in the provinces,\nwhen they have not any special enthusiasm for their work, seem\npeculiarly liable to the deadening influences of routine, and easily\nfall behind their age. The medical periodicals provide the best remedy\nfor this.\n\nThe military and naval professions are too active, and too much bound to\nobedience in their activity, for the highest intellectual pursuits; but\ntheir greatest evil in this respect is the continual privation of\nsolitude, and the frequency of interruption. A soldier's life in the\nhigher ranks, when there is great responsibility and the necessity for\npersonal decision, undoubtedly leads to the most brilliant employment of\nthe mental powers, and develops a manliness of character which is often\nof the greatest use in intellectual work; so that a man of science may\nfind his force augmented, and better under control, for having passed\nthrough a military experience; but the life of barracks and camps is\ndestructive to continuity of thinking. The incompatibility becomes\nstrikingly manifest when we reflect how impossible it would have been\nfor Ney or Massena to do the work of Cuvier or Comte. Cuvier even\ndeclined to accompany the expedition to Egypt, notwithstanding the\nprospects of advantage that it offered. The reason he gave for this\nrefusal was, that he could do more for science in the tranquillity of\nthe Jardin des Plantes. He was a strict economist of time, and dreaded\nthe loss of it involved in following an army, even though his mission\nwould have been purely scientific. How much more would Cuvier have\ndreaded the interruptions of a really military existence! It is these\ninterruptions, and not any want of natural ability, that are the true\nexplanation of the intellectual poverty which characterizes the military\nprofession. Of all the liberal professions it is the least studious.\n\nLet me say a word in conclusion about the practical pursuit of the fine\narts. Painters are often remarkable for pleasant conversational power,\nand a degree of intelligence strikingly superior to their literary\nculture. This is because the processes of their art can be followed, at\nleast under certain circumstances, by the exercise of hand and eye,\ndirected merely by artistic taste and experience, whilst the intellect\nis left free either for reflection or conversation. Rubens liked to be\nread to when he painted; many artists like to hear people talk, and to\ntake a share occasionally in the conversation. The truth is that\nartists, even when they work very assiduously, do in fact enjoy great\nspaces of intellectual leisure, and often profit by them. Painting\nitself is also a fine discipline for some of the best faculties of the\nmind, though it is well known that the most gifted artists think least\nabout their art. Still there is a large class of painters, including\nmany eminent ones, who _proceed intellectually_ in the execution of\ntheir works, who reason them out philosophically step by step, and\nexercise a continual criticism upon their manual labor as it goes\nforward. I find, as I know art and artists better, that this class is\nmore numerous than is commonly suspected, and that the charming effects\nwhich we believe to be the result of pure inspiration have often been\nelaborately reasoned out like a problem in mathematics. We are very apt\nto forget that art includes a great science, the science of natural\nappearances, and that the technical work of painters and engravers\ncannot go forward safely without the profoundest knowledge of certain\ndelicate materials, this being also a science, and a difficult one. The\ncommon tendency is to underrate (from ignorance) what is intellectual in\nthe practice of the fine arts; and yet the artists of past times have\nleft evidence enough that they thought about art, and thought deeply.\nArtists are often illiterate; but it is possible to be at the same time\nilliterate and intellectual; as we see frequent examples of\nbook-learning in people who have scarcely a single idea of their own.\n\n\nLETTER II.\n\nTO A YOUNG GENTLEMAN WHO HAD LITERARY AND ARTISTIC TASTES, BUT NO\nPROFESSION.\n\n  The world only recognizes performance--Uselessness of\n  botch-work--Vastness of the interval between botch-work and\n  handicraft--Delusions of the well-to-do--Quotation from Charles\n  Lever--Indifference, and even contempt, for skill--Moral contempt for\n  skill--The contempt which comes from the pride of\n  knowledge--Intellectual value of skill and of professional discipline.\n\nIt is not a graceful thing for me to say, nor pleasant for you to hear,\nthat what you have done hitherto in art and literature is neither of\nany value in itself nor likely to lead you to that which is truly and\npermanently satisfying. I believe you have natural ability, though it\nwould not be easy for any critic to measure its degree when it has never\nbeen developed by properly-directed work. Most critics would probably\nerr on the unfavorable side, for we are easily blind to powers that are\nlittle more than latent. To see anything encouraging in your present\nperformance, it would need the sympathy and intelligence of the American\nsculptor Greenough, of whom it was said that \"his recognition was not\nlimited to achievement, but extended to latent powers.\" The world,\nhowever, recognizes nothing short of performance, because the\nperformance is what it needs, and promises are of no use to it.\n\nIn this rough justice of the world there is a natural distribution of\nrewards. You will be paid, in fame and money, for all excellent work;\nand you will be paid, in money, though not in fame, for all work that is\neven simply good, provided it be of a kind that the world needs, or\nfancies that it needs. But you will never be paid at all for botch-work,\nneither in money nor in fame, nor by your own inward approval.\n\nFor we all of us either know that our botch-work is worthless, or else\nhave serious misgivings about it. That which is less commonly realized\nby those who have not undergone the test of professional labor is the\nvastness of the interval that separates botch-work from handicraft, and\nthe difficulty of getting over it. \"There are few delusions,\" Charles\nLever said in \"The Bramleighs,\" \"more common with well-to-do people than\nthe belief that if 'put to it' they could earn their own livelihood in a\nvariety of ways. Almost every man has some two or three or more\naccomplishments which he fancies would be quite adequate to his support;\nand remembering with what success the exercise of these gifts has ever\nbeen hailed in the society of his friends, he has a sort of generous\ndislike to be obliged to eclipse some poor drudge of a professional,\nwho, of course, will be consigned to utter oblivion after his own\nperformance. Augustus Bramleigh was certainly not a conceited or a vain\nman, and yet he had often in his palmy days imagined how easy it would\nbe for him to provide for his own support. He was something of a\nmusician; he sang pleasingly; he drew a little; he knew something of\nthree or four modern languages; he had that sort of smattering\nacquaintance with questions of religion, politics, and literature which\nthe world calls being 'well-informed,' and yet nothing short of the\ngrave necessity revealed to him that towards the object of securing a\nlivelihood a cobbler in his bulk was out-and-out his master. The world\nhas no need of the man of small acquirements, and would rather have its\nshoes mended by the veriest botch of a professional than by the\ncleverest amateur that ever studied a Greek sandal.\"\n\nSomething of this illusion, which Charles Lever has touched so truly,\nmay be due to a peculiarity of the English mind in its present (not\nquite satisfactory) stage of development, a peculiarity which I am not\nthe first to point out, since it has been already indicated by Mr.\nPointer, the distinguished artist; and I think that this peculiarity is\nto be found in very great force, perhaps in greater force than\nelsewhere, in that well-to-do English middle class in which you have\nbeen born and educated. It consists in a sort of indifference to skill\nof all kinds, which passes into something not very far from active\ncontempt when a call is made for attention, recognition, admiration. The\nsource of this feeling will probably be found in the inordinate respect\nfor wealth, between which and highly developed personal skill, in\nanything, there is a certain antagonism or incompatibility. The men of\nreal skill are almost always men who earn their living by their skill.\nThe feeling of the middle-class capitalists concerning the skilful man\nmay be expressed, not unjustly, as follows: \"Yes, he is very clever; he\nmay well be clever--it is his trade; he gets his living by it.\" This is\nheld to exonerate us from the burden of admiration, and there is not any\nserious interest in the achievements of human endeavor as evidence of\nthe marvellous natural endowments and capabilities of the human\norganism. In some minds the indifference to skill is more active and\ngrows into very real, though not openly expressed contempt. This\ncontempt is partly moral. The skilful man always rejoices in his skill\nwith a heaven-bestowed joy and delight--one of the purest and most\ndivine pleasures given by God to man--an encouragement to labor, and a\nreward, the best reward, after his arduous apprenticeship. But there is\na sour and severe spirit, hating all innocent pleasures, which despises\nthe gladness of the skilful as so much personal vanity.\n\nThere is also the contempt for skill which comes from the pride of\nknowledge. To attain skill _in_ anything a degree of application is\nnecessary which absorbs more time than the acquisition of knowledge\n_about_ the thing, so that the remarkably skilful man is not likely to\nbe the erudite man. There have been instances of men who possessed both\nskill and learning. The American sculptor Greenough, and the English\npainter Dyce, were at the same time both eminently skilful in their\ncraft and eminently learned out of it; but the combination is very rare.\nTherefore the possession of skill has come to be considered presumptive\nevidence of a want of general information.\n\nBut the truth is that professional skill is knowledge tested and\nperfected by practical application, and therefore has a great\nintellectual value. Professional life is to private individuals what\nactive warfare is to a military state. It brings to light every\ndeficiency, and reveals our truest needs. And therefore it seems to me a\nmatter for regret that you should pass your existence in irresponsible\nprivacy, and not have your attainments tested by the exigencies of some\nprofessional career. The discipline which such a career affords, and\nwhich no private resolution can ever adequately replace, may be all that\nis wanting to your development.\n\n\nLETTER III.\n\nTO A YOUNG GENTLEMAN WHO WISHED TO DEVOTE HIMSELF TO LITERATURE AS A\nPROFESSION.\n\n  Byron's vexation at the idea of poetry being considered a\n  profession--Buffon could not bear to be called a naturalist--Cuvier\n  would not be called a Hellenist--Faraday's life not professional--The\n  intellectual life frequently protected by professions outside of\n  it--Professional work ought to be plain business work--Michelet's\n  account of the incubation of a book--Necessity for too great rapidity\n  of production in professional literature--It does not pay to do your\n  best--Journalism and magazine-writing--Illustration from a sister\n  art--Privilege of an author to be allowed to write little.\n\nDo you remember how put out Byron was when some reviewer spoke of\nWordsworth as being \"at the head of the profession\"? Byron's vexation\nwas not entirely due to jealousy of Wordsworth, though that may have had\nsomething to do with it, nor was it due either to an aristocratic\ndislike of being in a \"profession\" himself, though this feeling may have\nhad a certain influence; it was due to a proper sense of the dignity of\nthe intellectual life. Buffon could not bear to be called a\n\"naturalist,\" and Cuvier in the same way disliked the title of\nHellenist, because it sounded professional: he said that though he knew\nmore Greek than all the Academy he was not a Hellenist as Gail was,\nbecause he did not live by Greek.\n\nNow, if this feeling had arisen merely from a dislike to having it\nsupposed that one is obliged to earn his own living, it would have been\na contemptibly vulgar sentiment, whoever professed it. Nothing can be\nmore honorable to a man than to earn his bread by honest industry of any\nkind, whether it be manual or intellectual, and still I feel with Byron,\nand Buffon, and Cuvier, that the great instruments of the world's\nintellectual culture ought not to be, in the ordinary sense,\nprofessions. Byron said that poetry, as he understood it, was \"an art,\nan attribute,\" but not what is understood by a \"profession.\" Surely the\nsame is true of all the highest intellectual work, in whatever kind. You\ncould scarcely consider Faraday's life to be what is commonly understood\nby a professional life. Tyndall says that if Faraday had chosen to\nemploy his talents in analytical chemistry he might have realized a\nfortune of 150,000_l._ Now that would have been a professional\nexistence; but the career which Faraday chose (happily for science) was\nnot professional, but intellectual. The distinction between the\nprofessional and the intellectual lives is perfectly clear in my own\nmind, and therefore I ought to be able to express it clearly. Let me\nmake the attempt.\n\nThe purpose of a profession, of a profession pure and simple, is to turn\nknowledge and talent to pecuniary profit. On the other hand, the purpose\nof cultivated men, or men of genius, who work in an unprofessional\nspirit, is to increase knowledge, or make it more accurate, or else\nsimply to give free exercise to high faculties which demand it. The\ndistinction is so clear and trenchant that most intellectual men, whose\nprivate fortunes are not large, prefer to have a profession distinct\nfrom their higher intellectual work, in order to secure the perfect\nindependence of the latter. Mr. Smiles, in his valuable book on\n\"Character,\" gives a list of eminent intellectual men who have pursued\nreal professional avocations of various kinds separately from their\nliterary or scientific activity, and he mentions an observation of\nGifford's which is much to my present purpose:--\"Gifford, the editor of\nthe _Quarterly_, who knew the drudgery of writing for a living, once\nobserved that 'a single hour of composition, won from the business of\nthe day, is worth more than the whole day's toil of him who works at the\ntrade of literature: in the one case, the spirit comes joyfully to\nrefresh itself, like a hart to the water-brooks; in the other, it\npursues its miserable way, panting and jaded, with the dogs of hunger\nand necessity behind.'\" So Coleridge said that \"three hours of leisure,\nunalloyed by any alien anxiety, and looked forward to with delight as a\nchange and recreation, will suffice to realize in literature a larger\nproduct of what is truly genial than weeks of compulsion.\" Coleridge's\nidea of a profession was, that it should be \"some regular employment\nwhich could be carried on so far mechanically, that an average quantum\nonly of health, spirits, and intellectual exertion are requisite to its\nfaithful discharge.\" Without in the least desiring to undervalue good\nprofessional work of any kind, I may observe that, to be truly\nprofessional, it ought to be always at command, and therefore that the\naverage power of the man's intellect, not his rare flashes of highest\nintellectual illumination, ought to suffice for it. Professional work\nought always to be plain business work, requiring knowledge and skill,\nbut not any effort of genius. For example, in medicine, it is\nprofessional work to prescribe a dose or amputate a limb, but not to\ndiscover the nervous system or the circulation of the blood.\n\nIf literature paid sufficiently well to allow it, a literary man might\nvery wisely consider _study_ to be his profession, and not production.\nHe would then study regularly, say, six hours a day, and write when he\nhad something to say, and really wanted to express it. His book, when it\ncame out, would have had time to be properly hatched, and would probably\nhave natural life in it. Michelet says of one of his books: \"Cette\noeuvre a du moins le caractere d'etre venue comme vient toute vraie\ncreation vivante. Elle s'est faite a la chaleur d'une douce\nincubation.\"[13] It would be impossible, in so short a space, to give a\nmore accurate description of the natural manner in which a book comes\ninto existence. A book ought always to be \"fait a la chaleur d'une douce\nincubation.\"\n\nBut when you make a profession of literature this is what you can hardly\never get leave to do. Literary men require to see something of the\nworld; they can hardly be hermits, and the world cannot be seen without\na constant running expenditure, which at the end of the year represents\nan income. Men of culture and refinement really _cannot_ live like very\npoor people without deteriorating in refinement, and falling behind in\nknowledge of the world. When they are married, and have families, they\ncan hardly let their families live differently from themselves; so that\nthere are the usual expenses of the English professional classes to be\nmet, and these are heavy when they have to be got out of the profits of\nliterature. The consequence is, that if a book is to be written\nprudently it must be written quickly, and with the least amount of\npreparatory labor that can possibly be made to serve. This is very\ndifferent from the \"_douce incubation_\" of Michelet. Goldsmith said of\nhack-writing, that it was difficult to imagine a combination more\nprejudicial to taste than that of the author whose interest it is to\nwrite as much as possible, and the bookseller, whose interest it is to\npay as little as possible. The condition of authors has no doubt greatly\nimproved since Goldsmith's time, but still the fact remains that the\nmost careful and finished writing, requiring extensive preparatory\nstudy, is a luxury in which the professional writer can only indulge\nhimself at great risk. Careful writing does, no doubt, occasionally pay\nfor the time it costs; but such writing is more commonly done by men who\nare either independent by fortune, or who make themselves, as authors,\nindependent by the pursuit of some other profession, than by regular men\nof letters whose whole income is derived from their inkstands. And when,\nby way of exception, the hack-writer does produce very highly-finished\nand concentrated work, based upon an elaborate foundation of hard study,\nthat work is seldom professional in the strictest sense, but is a labor\nof love, outside the hasty journalism or magazine-writing that wins his\ndaily bread. In cases of this kind it is clear that the best work is not\ndone as a regular part of professional duty, and that the author might\nas well earn his bread in some other calling, if he still had the same\namount of leisure for the composition of real literature.\n\nThe fault I find with writing as a profession is that _it does not pay\nto do your best_. I don't mean to insinuate that downright slovenly or\ncareless work is the most profitable; but I do mean to say that any high\ndegree of conscientiousness, especially in the way of study and\nresearch, is a direct injury to the professional writer's purse.\nSuppose, for example, that he is engaged in reviewing a book, and is to\nget 3_l._ 10_s._ for the review when it is written. If by the accident\nof previous accumulation his knowledge is already fully equal to the\ndemand upon it, the review may be written rapidly, and the day's work\nwill have been a profitable one; but if, on the other hand, it is\nnecessary to consult several authorities, to make some laborious\nresearches, then the reviewer is placed in a dilemma between literary\nthoroughness and duty to his family. He cannot spend a week in reading\nup a subject for the sum of 3_l._ 10_s._ Is it not much easier to string\ntogether a few phrases which will effectually hide his ignorance from\neverybody but the half-dozen enthusiasts who have mastered the subject\nof the book? It is strange that the professional pursuit of literature\nshould be a direct discouragement to study; yet it is so. There _are_\nhack-writers who study, and they deserve much honor for doing so, since\nthe temptations the other way are always so pressing and immediate.\nSainte-Beuve was a true student, loving literature for its own sake, and\npreparing for his articles with a diligence rare in the profession. But\nhe was scarcely a hack-writer, having a modest independency, and living\nbesides with the quiet frugality of a bachelor.\n\nThe truth seems to be that literature of the highest kind can only in\nthe most exceptional cases be made a profession, yet that a skilful\nwriter may use his pen professionally if he chooses. The production of\nthe printed talk of the day _is_ a profession, requiring no more than\naverage ability, and the tone and temper of ordinary educated men. The\noutcome of it is journalism and magazine-writing; and now let me say a\nword or two about these.\n\nThe highest kind of journalism is very well done in England; the men who\ndo it are often either highly educated, or richly gifted by nature, or\nboth. The practice of journalism is useful to an author in giving him a\ndegree of readiness and rapidity, a skill in turning his materials to\nimmediate account, and a power of presenting one or two points\neffectively, which may often be valuable in literature of a more\npermanent order. The danger of it may be illustrated by a reference to a\nsister art. I was in the studio of an English landscape-painter when\nsome pictures arrived from an artist in the country to go along with his\nown to one of the exhibitions. They were all very pretty and very\nclever--indeed, so clever were they, that their cleverness was almost\noffensive--and so long as they were looked at by themselves, the\nbrilliance of them was rather dazzling. But the instant they were placed\nby the side of thoroughly careful and earnest work, it became strikingly\nevident that they had been painted hastily, and would be almost\nimmediately exhausted by the purchaser. Now these pictures were the\n_journalism of painting_; and my friend told me that when once an\nartist has got into the habit of doing hasty work like that, he seldom\nacquires better habits afterwards.\n\nProfessional writers who follow journalism for its immediate profits,\nare liable in like manner to retain the habit of diffuseness in\nliterature which ought to be more finished and more concentrated.\nTherefore, although journalism is a good teacher of promptitude and\ndecision, it often spoils a hand for higher literature by incapacitating\nit for perfect finish; and it is better for a writer who has ambition to\nwrite little, _but always his best_, than to dilute himself in daily\ncolumns. One of the greatest privileges which an author can aspire to is\n_to be allowed to write little_, and that is a privilege which the\nprofessional writer does not enjoy except in such rare instances as that\nof Tennyson, whose careful finish is as prudent in the professional\nsense as it is satisfactory to the scrupulous fastidiousness of the\nartist.\n\n\nLETTER IV.\n\nTO AN ENERGETIC AND SUCCESSFUL COTTON MANUFACTURER.\n\n  Two classes in their lower grades inevitably hostile--The spiritual\n  and temporal powers--The functions of both not easily exercised by the\n  same person--Humboldt, Faraday, Livingstone--The difficulty about\n  time--Limits to the energy of the individual--Jealousy between the\n  classes--That this jealousy ought not to exist--Some of the sciences\n  based upon an industrial development--The work of the intellectual\n  class absolutely necessary in a highly civilized community--That it\n  grows in numbers and influence side by side with the industrial class.\n\nOur last conversation together, in the privacy of your splendid new\ndrawing-room after the guests had gone away and the music had ceased for\nthe night, left me under the impression that we had not arrived at a\nperfect understanding of each other. This was due in a great measure to\nmy unfortunate incapacity for expressing anything exactly by spoken\nwords. The constant habit of writing, which permits a leisurely\nselection from one's ideas, is often very unfavorable to readiness in\nconversation. Will you permit me, then, to go over the ground we\ntraversed, this time in my own way, pen in hand?\n\nWe represent, you and I, two classes which in their lower grades are\ninevitably hostile; but the superior members of these classes ought not\nto feel any hostility, since both are equally necessary to the world. We\nare, in truth, the spiritual and the temporal powers in their most\nmodern form. The chief of industry and the man of letters stand to-day\nin the same relation to each other and to mankind as the baron and\nbishop of the Middle Ages. We are not recognized, either of us, by\nformally conferred titles, we are both held to be somewhat intrusive by\nthe representatives of a former order of things, and there is, or was\nuntil very lately, a certain disposition to deny what we consider our\nnatural rights; but we know that our powers are not to be resisted, and\nwe have the inward assurance that the forces of nature are with us.\n\nThis, with reference to the outer world. But there is a want of\nclearness in the relation between ourselves. You understand your great\ntemporal function, which is the wise direction of the industry of\nmasses, the accumulation and distribution of wealth; but you do not so\nclearly understand the spiritual function of the intellectual class, and\nyou do not think of it quite justly. This want of understanding is\ncalled by some of us your Philistinism. Will you permit me to explain\nwhat the intellectual class thinks of you, and what is its opinion about\nitself?\n\nPray excuse any appearance of presumption on my part if I say we of the\nintellectual class and you of the industrial. My position is something\nlike that of the clergyman who reads, \"Let him come to me or to some\nother learned and discreet minister of God's word,\" thereby calling\nhimself learned and discreet. It is a simple matter of fact that I\nbelong to the intellectual class, since I lead its life, just as it is\na fact that you have a quarter of a million of money.\n\nFirst, I want to show that the existence of my class is necessary.\n\nAlthough men in various occupations often acquire a considerable degree\nof culture outside their trade, the highest results of culture can\nscarcely ever be attained by men whose time is taken up in earning a\nfortune. Every man has but a limited flow of mental energy per day; and\nif this is used up in an industrial leadership, he cannot do much more\nin the intellectual sphere than simply ascertain what has been done by\nothers. Now, although we have a certain respect, and the respect is\njust, for those who know what others have accomplished, it is clear that\nif no one did more than this, if no one made any fresh discoveries, the\nworld would make no progress whatever; and in fact, if nobody ever had\nbeen dedicated to intellectual pursuits in preceding ages, the men who\nonly learn what others have done, would in these days have had nothing\nto learn. Past history proves the immensity of the debt which the world\nowes to men who gave their whole time and attention to intellectual\npursuits; and if the existences of these men could be eliminated from\nthe past of the human race, its present would be very different from\nwhat it is. A list has been published of men who have done much good\nwork in the intervals of business, but still the fact remains that the\ngreat intellectual pioneers were absorbed and devoted men, scorning\nwealth so far as it affected themselves, and ready to endure everything\nfor knowledge beyond the knowledge of their times. Instances of such\nenthusiasm abound, an enthusiasm fully justified by the value of the\nresults which it has achieved. When Alexander Humboldt sold his\ninheritance to have the means for his great journey in South America,\nand calmly dedicated the whole of a long life, and the strength of a\nrobust constitution, to the advancement of natural knowledge, he acted\nfoolishly indeed, if years, and strength, and fortune are given to us\nonly to be well invested in view of money returns; but the world has\nprofited by his decision. Faraday gave up the whole of his time to\ndiscovery when he might have earned a large fortune by the judicious\ninvestment of his extraordinary skill in chemistry. Livingstone has\nsacrificed everything to the pursuit of his great work in Africa. Lives\nsuch as these--and many resemble them in useful devotion of which we\nhear much less--are clearly not compatible with much money-getting. A\ndecent existence, free from debt, is all that such men ought to be held\nanswerable for.\n\nI have taken two or three leading instances, but there is quite a large\nclass of intellectual people who cannot in the nature of things serve\nsociety effectively in their own way without being quite outside of the\nindustrial life. There is a real incompatibility between some pursuits\nand others. I suspect that you would have been a good general, for you\nare a born leader and commander of men; but it would have been difficult\nto unite a regular military career with strict personal attention to\nyour factories. We often find the same difficulty in our intellectual\npursuits. We are not always quite so unpractical as you think we are;\nbut the difficulty is how to find the time, and how to arrange it so as\nnot to miss two or three distinct classes of opportunities. We are not\nall of us exactly imbeciles in money matters, though the pecuniary\nresults of our labors seem no doubt pitiful enough. There is a tradition\nthat a Greek philosopher, who was suspected by the practical men of his\nday of incapacity for affairs, devoted a year to prove the contrary, and\ntraded so judiciously that he amassed thereby great riches. It may be\ndoubtful whether he could do it in one year, but many a fine\nintellectual capacity has overshadowed a fine practical capacity in the\nsame head by the withdrawal of time and effort.\n\nIt is because the energies of one man are so limited, and there is so\nlittle time in a single human life, that the intellectual and industrial\nfunctions must, _in their highest development_, be separated. No one man\ncould unite in his own person your life and Humboldt's, though it is\npossible that he might have the natural capacity for both. Grant us,\nthen, the liberty _not_ to earn very much money, and this being once\ngranted, try to look upon our intellectual superiority as a simple\nnatural fact, just as we look upon your pecuniary superiority.\n\nIn saying in this plain way that we are intellectually superior to you\nand your class, I am guilty of no more pride and vanity than you when\nyou affirm or display your wealth. The fact is there, in its simplicity.\nWe have culture because we have paid the twenty or thirty years of labor\nwhich are the price of culture, just as you have great factories and\nestates which are the reward of your life's patient and intelligent\nendeavor.\n\nWhy should there be any narrow jealousy between us; why any contempt on\nthe one side or the other? Each has done his appointed work, each has\ncaused to fructify the talent which the Master gave.\n\nYet a certain jealousy _does_ exist, if not between you and me\npersonally, at least between our classes. The men who have culture\nwithout wealth are jealous of the power and privileges of those who\npossess money without culture; and on the other hand, the men whose time\nhas been too entirely absorbed by commercial pursuits to leave them any\nmargin sufficient to do justice to their intellectual powers, are often\npainfully sensitive to the contempt of the cultivated, and strongly\ndisposed, from jealousy, to undervalue culture itself. Both are wrong so\nfar as they indulge any unworthy and unreasonable feeling of this kind.\nThe existence of the two classes is necessary to an advanced\ncivilization. The science of accumulating and administrating material\nwealth, of which you yourself are a great practical master, is the\nfoundation of the material prosperity of nations, and it is only when\nthis prosperity is fully assured to great numbers that the arts and\nsciences can develop themselves in perfect liberty and with the tranquil\nassurance of their own permanence. The advancement of material\nwell-being in modern states tends so directly to the advancement of\nintellectual pursuits, even when the makers of fortunes are themselves\nindifferent to this result, that it ought always to be a matter of\ncongratulation for the intellectual class itself, which needs the\nsupport of a great public with leisure to read and think. It is easy to\nshow how those arts and sciences which our class delights to cultivate\nare built upon those developments of industry which have been brought\nabout by the energy of yours. Suppose the case of a scientific chemist:\nthe materials for his experiments are provided ready to his hand by the\nindustrial class; the record of them is preserved on paper manufactured\nby the same industrial class; and the public which encourages him by its\nattention is usually found in great cities which are maintained by the\nlabors of the same useful servants of humanity. It is possible, no\ndoubt, in these modern times, that some purely pastoral or agricultural\ncommunity might produce a great chemist, because a man of inborn\nscientific genius who came into the world in an agricultural country\nmight in these days get his books and materials from industrial centres\nat a distance, but his work would still be based on the industrial life\nof others. No pastoral or agricultural community which was really\nisolated from industrial communities ever produced a chemist. And now\nconsider how enormously important this one science of chemistry has\nproved itself even to our intellectual life! Several other sciences have\nbeen either greatly strengthened or else altogether renewed by it, and\nthe wonderful photographic processes have been for nature and the fine\narts what printing was for literature, placing reliable and authentic\nmaterials for study within the reach of every one. Literature itself has\nprofited by the industrial progress of the present age, in the increased\ncheapness of everything that is material in books. I please myself with\nthe reflection that even you make paper cheaper by manufacturing so much\ncotton.\n\nAll these are reasons why we ought not to be jealous of you; and now\npermit me to indicate a few other reasons why it is unreasonable on your\npart to feel any jealousy of us.\n\nSuppose we were to cease working to-morrow--cease working, I mean, in\nour peculiar ways--and all of us become colliers and factory operatives\ninstead, with nobody to supply our places. Or, since you may possibly be\nof opinion that there is enough literature and science in the world at\nthe present day, suppose rather that at some preceding date the whole\nliterary and scientific and artistic labor of the human race; had come\nsuddenly to a standstill. Mind, I do not say of Englishmen merely, but\nof the whole race, for if any intellectual work had been done in France\nor Germany, or even in Japan, you would have imported it like cotton and\nforeign cereals. Well, I have no hesitation in telling you that although\nthere was a good deal of literature and science in England before the\n1st of January, 1800, the present condition of the nation would have\nbeen a very chaotic condition if the intellectual class had ceased on\nthat day to think and observe and to place on record its thoughts and\nobservations. The life of a progressive nation cannot long go forward\nexclusively on the thinking of the past: its thoughtful men must not be\nall dead men, but living men who accompany it on its course. It is they\nwho make clear the lessons of experience; it is they who discover the\nreliable general laws upon which all safe action must be founded in the\nfuture; it is they who give decision to human action in every direction\nby constantly registering, in language of comprehensive accuracy, both\nits successes and its failures. It is their great and arduous labor\nwhich makes knowledge accessible to men of action at the cost of little\neffort and the smallest possible expenditure of time. The intellectual\nclass grows in numbers and in influence along with the numbers and\ninfluence of the materially productive population of the State. And not\nonly are the natural philosophers, the writers of contemporary and past\nhistory, the discoverers in science, _necessary_ in the strictest sense\nto the life of such a community as the modern English community, but\neven the poets, the novelists, the artists are necessary to the\nperfection of its life. Without them and their work the national mind\nwould be as incomplete as would be the natural universe without beauty.\nBut this, perhaps, you will perceive less clearly, or be less willing to\nadmit.\n\n\nLETTER V.\n\nTO A YOUNG ETONIAN WHO THOUGHT OF BECOMING A COTTON-SPINNER.\n\n  Absurd old prejudices against commerce--Stigma attached to the great\n  majority of occupations--Traditions of feudalism--Distinctions between\n  one trade and another--A real instance of an Etonian who had gone into\n  the cotton-trade--Observations on this case--The trade a fine field\n  for energy--A poor one for intellectual culture--It develops practical\n  ability--Culture not possible without leisure--The founders of\n  commercial fortunes.\n\nIt is agreeable to see various indications that the absurd old\nprejudices against commerce are certainly declining. There still remains\nquite enough contempt for trade in the professional classes and the\naristocracy, to give us frequent opportunities for studying it as a\nrelic of former superstition, unhappily not yet rare enough to be quite\na curiosity; but as time passes and people become more rational, it\nwill retreat to out-of-the-way corners of old country mansions and rural\nparsonages, at a safe distance from the light-giving centres of\nindustry. It is a surprising fact, and one which proves the almost\npathetic spirit of deference and submission to superiors which\ncharacterizes the English people, that out of the hundreds of\noccupations which are followed by the busy classes of this country, only\nthree are entirely free from some degrading stigma, so that they may be\nfollowed by a high-born youth without any sacrifice of caste. The wonder\nis that the great active majority of the nation, the men who by their\nindustry and intelligence have made England what she is, should ever\nhave been willing to submit to so insolent a rule as this rule of caste,\nwhich, instead of honoring industry, honored idleness, and attached a\nstigma to the most useful and important trades. The landowner, the\nsoldier, the priest, these three were pure from every stain of\ndegradation, and only these three were quite absolutely and ethereally\npure. Next to them came the lawyer and the physician, on whom there\nrested some traces of the lower earth; so that although the youthful\nbaron would fight or preach, he would neither plead nor heal. And after\nthese came the lower professions and the innumerable trades, all marked\nwith stigmas of deeper and deeper degradation.\n\nFrom the intellectual point of view these prejudices indicate a state of\nsociety in which public opinion has not emerged from barbarism. It\nunderstands the strength of the feudal chief having land, with serfs or\nvoters on the land; it knows the uses of the sword, and it dreads the\nmenaces of the priesthood. Beyond this it knows little, and despises\nwhat it does not understand. It is ignorant of science, and industry,\nand art; it despises them as servile occupations beneath its conception\nof the gentleman. This is the tradition of countries which retain the\nimpressions of feudalism; but notwithstanding all our philosophy, it is\ndifficult for us to avoid some feeling of astonishment when we reflect\nthat the public opinion of England--a country that owes so much of her\ngreatness and nearly all her wealth to commercial enterprise--should be\ncontemptuous towards commerce.\n\nI may notice, in passing, a very curious form of this narrowness. Trade\nis despised, but distinctions are established between one trade and\nanother. A man who sells wine is considered more of a gentleman than a\nman who sells figs and raisins; and I believe you will find, if you\nobserve people carefully, that a woollen manufacturer is thought to be a\nshade less vulgar than a cotton manufacturer. These distinctions are\nseldom based on reason, for the work of commerce is generally very much\nthe same sort of work, mentally, whatever may be the materials it deals\nin. You may be heartily congratulated on the strength of mind, firmness\nof resolution, and superiority to prejudice, which have led you to\nchoose the business of a cotton-spinner. It is an excellent business,\nand, in itself, every whit as honorable as dealing in corn and cattle,\nwhich our nobles do habitually without reproach. But now that I have\ndisclaimed any participation in the stupid narrowness which despises\ntrade in general, and the cotton-trade in particular, let me add a few\nwords upon the effects of the cotton business on the mind.\n\nThere appeared in one of the newspapers a little time since a most\ninteresting and evidently genuine letter from an Etonian, who had\nactually entered business in a cotton factory, and devoted himself to it\nso as to earn the confidence of his employers and a salary of 400_l_. a\nyear as manager. He had waited some time uselessly for a diplomatic\nappointment which did not arrive, and so, rather than lose the best\nyears of early manhood, as a more indolent fellow would have done very\nwillingly, in pure idleness, he took the resolution of entering\nbusiness, and carried out his determination with admirable persistence.\nAt first nobody would believe that the \"swell\" could be serious; people\nthought that his idea of manufacturing was a mere freak, and expected\nhim to abandon it when he had to face the tedium of the daily work; but\nthe swell _was_ serious--went to the mill at six in the morning and\nstayed there till six at night, from Monday till Saturday inclusive.\nAfter a year of this, his new companions believed in him.\n\nNow, all this is very admirable indeed as a manifestation of energy, and\nthat truest independence which looks to fortune as the reward of its own\nmanly effort, but it may be permitted to me to make a few observations\non this young gentleman's resolve. What he did seems to me rather the\nact of an energetic nature seeking an outlet for energy, than of an\nintellectual nature seeking pasture and exercise for the intellect. I am\nfar indeed from desiring, by this comparison, to cast any disparaging\nlight on the young gentleman's natural endowments, which appear to have\nbeen valuable in their order and robust in their degree, nor do I\nquestion the wisdom of his choice; all I mean to imply is, that although\nhe had chosen a fine large field for simple energy, it was a poor and\nbarren field for the intellect to pasture in. Consider for one moment\nthe difference in this respect between the career which he had abandoned\nand the trade he had embraced. As an _attache_ he would have lived in\ncapital cities, have had the best opportunities for perfecting himself\nin modern languages, and for meeting the most varied and the most\ninteresting society. In every day there would have been precious hours\nof leisure, to be employed in the increase of his culture. If an\nintellectual man, having to choose between diplomacy and\ncotton-spinning, preferred cotton-spinning it would be from the desire\nfor wealth, or from the love of an English home. The life of a cotton\nmanufacturer, who personally attends to his business with that close\nsupervision which has generally conducted to success, leaves scarcely\nany margin for intellectual pleasure or spare energy for intellectual\nwork. After ten hours in the mill, it is difficult to sit down and\nstudy; and even if there were energy enough, the mind would not readily\ncast off the burden of great practical anxieties and responsibilities so\nas to attune itself to disinterested thinking. The leaders of industry\noften display mental power of as high an order as that which is employed\nin the government of great empires; they show the highest administrative\nability, they have to deal continually with financial questions which on\ntheir smaller scale require as much forethought and acumen as those that\nconcern the exchequer; but the ability they need is always strictly\npractical, and there is the widest difference between the practical and\nthe intellectual minds. A constant and close pressure of practical\nconsiderations develops the sort of power which deals effectually with\nthe present and its needs but atrophies the higher mind. The two minds\nwhich we call intelligence and intellect resemble the feet and wings of\nbirds. Eagles and swallows walk badly or not at all, but they have a\nmarvellous strength of flight; ostriches are great pedestrians, but they\nknow nothing of the regions of the air. The best that can be hoped for\nmen immersed in the details of business is that they may be able, like\npartridges and pheasants, to take a short flight on an emergency, and\nrise, if only for a few minutes, above the level of the stubble and the\ncopse.\n\nWithout, therefore, desiring to imply any prejudiced contempt for trade,\nI do desire to urge the consideration of its inevitable effects upon the\nmind. For men of great practical intelligence and abundant energy, trade\nis all-sufficing, but it could never entirely satisfy an intellectual\nnature. And although there is drudgery in every pursuit, for even\nliterature and painting are full of it, still there are certain kinds of\ndrudgery which intellectual natures find to be harder to endure than\nothers. The drudgery which they bear least easily is an incessant\nattention to duties which have no intellectual interest, and yet which\ncannot be properly performed mechanically so as to leave the mind at\nliberty for its own speculations. Deep thinkers are notoriously absent,\nfor thought requires abstraction from what surrounds us, and it is hard\nfor them to be denied the liberty of dreaming. An intellectual person\nmight be happy as a stone-breaker on the roadside, because the work\nwould leave his mind at liberty; but he would certainly be miserable as\nan engine-driver at a coal-pit shaft, where the abstraction of an\ninstant would imperil the lives of others.\n\nIn a recent address delivered by Mr. Gladstone at Liverpool, he\nacknowledged the neglect of culture which is one of the shortcomings of\nour trading community, and held out the hope (perhaps in some degree\nillusory) that the same persons might become eminent in commerce and in\nlearning. No doubt there have been instances of this; and when a\n\"concern\" has been firmly established by the energy of a predecessor,\nthe heir to it may be satisfied with a royal sort of supervision,\nleaving the drudgery of detail to his managers, and so secure for\nhimself that sufficient leisure without which high culture is not\npossible. But the _founders_ of great commercial fortunes have, I\nbelieve, in every instance thrown their _whole_ energy into their trade,\nmaking wealth their aim, and leaving culture to be added in another\ngeneration. The founders of commercial families are in this country\nusually men of great mother-wit and plenty of determination--but\nilliterate.\n\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n  [12] The word \"disinterested\" is used here in the sense explained in\n    Part II. Letter III.\n\n  [13] \"This work has at any rate the character of having come into the\n    world like every really living creation. It has been produced by the\n    heat of a gentle incubation.\"\n\n\n\n\nPART XII.\n\n_SURROUNDINGS._\n\n\nLETTER I.\n\nTO A FRIEND WHO OFTEN CHANGED HIS PLACE OF RESIDENCE.\n\n  An unsettled class of English people--Effect of localities on the\n  mind--Reaction against surroundings--Landscape-painting a consequence\n  of it--Crushing effect of too much natural magnificence--The mind\n  takes color from its surroundings--Selection of a place of\n  residence--Charles Dickens--Heinrich Heine--Dr. Arnold at Rugby--His\n  house in the lake district--Tycho Brahe--His establishment on the\n  island of Hween--The young Humboldts in the Castle of Tegel--Alexander\n  Humboldt's appreciation of Paris--Dr. Johnson--Mr.\n  Buckle--Cowper--Galileo.\n\nI find that there is a whole class of English subjects (you belong to\nthat class) of whom it is utterly impossible to predict where they will\nbe living in five years. Indeed, as you are the worst of correspondents,\nI only learned your present address, by sheer accident, from a perfect\nstranger, and he told me, of course, that you had plans for going\nsomewhere else, but where that might be he knew not. The civilized\nEnglish nomad is usually, like yourself, a person of independent means,\nrich enough to bear the expenses of frequent removals, but without the\ncares of property. His money is safely invested in the funds, or in\nrailways; and so, wherever the postman can bring his dividends, he can\nlive in freedom from material cares. When his wife is as unsettled as\nhimself, the pair seem to live in a balloon, or in a sort of Noah's ark,\nwhich goes whither the wind lists, and takes ground in the most\nunexpected places.\n\nHave you ever studied the effect of localities on the mind--on your own\nmind? That which we are is due in great part to the accident of our\nsurroundings, which act upon us in one or two quite opposite ways.\nEither we feel in harmony with them, in which case they produce a\npositive effect upon us, or else we are out of harmony, and then they\ndrive us into the strangest reactions. A great ugly English town, like\nManchester, for instance, makes some men such thorough townsmen that\nthey cannot live without smoky chimneys; or it fills the souls of others\nwith such a passionate longing for beautiful scenery and rustic\nretirement, that they find it absolutely necessary to bury themselves\nfrom time to time in the recesses of picturesque mountains. The\ndevelopment of modern landscape-painting has not been due to habits of\nrural existence, but to the growth of very big and hideous modern\ncities, which made men long for shady forests, and pure streams, and\nmagnificent spectacles of sunset, and dawn, and moonlight. It is by this\ntime a trite observation that people who have always lived in beautiful\nscenery do not, and cannot, appreciate it; that too much natural\nmagnificence positively crushes the activity of the intellect and that\nits best effect is simply that of refreshment for people who have not\naccess to it every day. It happens too, in a converse way, that rustics\nand mountaineers have the strongest appreciation of the advantages of\ngreat cities, and thrive in them often more happily than citizens who\nare born in the brick streets. Those who have great facilities for\nchanging their place of residence ought always to bear in mind that\nevery locality is like a dyer's vat, and that the residents take its\ncolor, or some other color, from it just as the clothes do that the dyer\nsteeps in stain. If you look back upon your past life, you will\nassuredly admit that every place has colored your mental habits; and\nthat although other tints from other places have supervened, so that it\nmay be difficult to say precisely what remains of the place you lived in\nmany years ago, still something does remain, like the effect of the\nfirst painting on a picture, which tells on the whole work permanently,\nthough it may have been covered over and over again by what painters\ncall scumblings and glazings.\n\nThe selection of a place of residence, even though we only intend to\npass a few short years in it, is from the intellectual point of view a\nmatter so important that one can hardly exaggerate its consequences. We\nsee this quite plainly in the case of authors, whose minds are more\nvisible to us than the minds of other men, and therefore more easily and\nconveniently studied. We need no biographer to inform us that Dickens\nwas a Londoner, that Browning had lived in Italy, that Ruskin had passed\nmany seasons in Switzerland and Venice. Suppose for one moment that\nthese three authors had been born in Ireland, and had never quitted it,\nis it not certain that their production would have been different? Let\nus carry our supposition farther still, and conceive, if we can, the\ndifference to their literary performance if they had been born, not in\nIreland, but in Iceland, and lived there all their lives! Is it not\nhighly probable that in this case their production would have been so\nstarved and impoverished from insufficiency of material and of\nsuggestion, that they would have uttered nothing but some simple\nexpression of sentiment and imagination, some homely song or tale? All\nsights and sounds have their influence on our temper and on our\nthoughts, and our inmost being is not the same in one place as in\nanother. We are like blank paper that takes a tint by reflection from\nwhat is nearest, and changes it as its surroundings change. In a dull\ngray room, how gray and dull it looks! but it will be bathed in rose or\namber if the hangings are crimson or yellow. There are natures that go\nto the streams of life in great cities as the heart goes to the\nwater-brooks; there are other natures that need the solitude of\nprimaeval forests and the silence of the Alps. The most popular of\nEnglish novelists sometimes went to write in the tranquillity of\nbeautiful scenery, taking his manuscript to the shore of some azure lake\nin Switzerland, in sight of the eternal snow; but all that beauty and\npeace, all that sweetness of pure air and color, were not seductive\nenough to overcome for many days the deep longing for the London\nstreets. His genius needed the streets, as a bee needs the summer\nflowers, and languished when long separated from them. Others have\nneeded the wild heather, or the murmur of the ocean, or the sound of\nautumn winds that strip great forest-trees. Who does not deeply pity\npoor Heine in his last sad years, when he lay fixed on his couch of pain\nin that narrow Parisian lodging, and compared it to the sounding grave\nof Merlin the enchanter, \"which is situated in the wood of Brozeliande,\nin Brittany, under lofty oaks whose tops taper, like emerald flames,\ntowards heaven. O brother Merlin,\" he exclaims, and with what touching\npathos! \"O brother Merlin, I envy thee those trees, with their fresh\nbreezes, for never a green leaf rustles about this mattress-grave of\nmine in Paris, where from morning till night I hear nothing but the\nrattle of wheels, the clatter of hammers, street-brawls, and the\njingling of pianofortes!\"\n\nIn the biography of Dr. Arnold, his longing for natural beauty recurs as\none of the peculiarities of his constitution. He did not need very\ngrand scenery, though he enjoyed it deeply, but some wild natural\nloveliness was such a necessity for him that he pined for it unhappily\nin its absence. Rugby could offer him scarcely anything of this, \"We\nhave no hills,\" he lamented, \"no plains--not a single wood, and but one\nsingle copse; no heath, no down, no rock, no river, no clear\nstream--scarcely any flowers, for the lias is particularly poor in\nthem--nothing but one endless monotony of enclosed fields and hedgerow\ntrees. This is to me a daily privation; it robs me of what is naturally\nmy anti-attrition; and as I grow older I begin to feel it.... The\npositive dulness of the country about Rugby makes it to me a mere\nworking-place: I cannot expatiate there even in my walks.\"\n\n\"The monotonous character of the midland scenery of Warwickshire,\" says\nDr. Arnold's biographer, \"was to him, with his strong love of natural\nbeauty and variety, absolutely repulsive; there was something almost\ntouching in the eagerness with which, amidst that 'endless succession of\nfields and hedgerows,' he would make the most of any features of a\nhigher order; in the pleasure with which he would cherish the few places\nwhere the current of the Avon was perceptible, or where a glimpse of the\nhorizon could be discerned; in the humorous despair with which he would\ngaze on the dull expanse of fields eastward from Rugby. It is no wonder\nwe do not like looking that way, when one considers that there is\nnothing fine between us and the Ural mountains. Conceive what you look\nover; for you just miss Sweden, and look over Holland, the north of\nGermany, and the centre of Russia.\"[14]\n\nThis dreadful midland monotony impelled Dr. Arnold to seek refreshment\nand compensation in a holiday home in the Lake district, and there he\nfound all that his eyes longed for, streams, hills, woods, and\nwild-flowers. Nor had his belief in the value of these sweet natural\nsurroundings been illusory; such instincts are not given for our\nbetrayal, and the soul of a wise man knows its own needs, both before\nthey are supplied, and after. Westmorland gave him all he had hoped\nfrom it, and more. \"Body and mind,\" he wrote, \"alike seem to repose\ngreedily in delicious quiet, without dulness, which we enjoy in\nWestmorland.\" And again: \"At Allan Bank, in the summer, I worked on the\nRoman history, and hope to do so again in the winter. It is very\ninspiring to write with such a view before one's eyes as that from our\ndrawing-room at Allan Bank, where the trees of the shrubbery gradually\nrun up into the trees of the cliff, and the mountain-side, with its\ninfinite variety of rocky peaks and points upon which the cattle\nexpatiate, rises over the tops of the trees.\"\n\nOf all happily-situated mental laborers who have worked since the days\nof Horace, surely Tycho Brahe was the happiest and most to be envied.\nKing Frederick of Denmark gave him a delightful island for his\nhabitation, large enough for him not to feel imprisoned (the\ncircumference being about five miles), yet little enough for him to feel\nas snugly at home there as Mr. Waterton in his high-walled park. The\nland was fertile and rich in game, so that the scientific Robinson\nCrusoe lived in material abundance; and as he was only about seven miles\nfrom Copenhagen, he could procure everything necessary to his\nconvenience. He built a great house on the elevated land in the midst of\nthe isle, about three-quarters of a mile from the sea, a palace of art\nand science, with statues and paintings and all the apparatus which the\ningenuity of that age could contrive for the advancement of astronomical\npursuits. Uniting the case of a rich nobleman's existence with every aid\nto science, including special erections for his instruments, and a\nprinting establishment that worked under his own immediate direction, he\nlived far enough from the capital to enjoy the most perfect\ntranquillity, yet near enough to escape the consequences of too absolute\nisolation. Aided in all he undertook by a staff of assistants that he\nhimself had trained, supported in his labor by the encouragement of his\nsovereign, and especially by his own unflagging interest in scientific\ninvestigation, he led in that peaceful island the ideal intellectual\nlife. Of that mansion where he labored, of the observatory where he\nwatched the celestial phenomena, surrounded but not disturbed by the\nwaves of a shallow sea, there remains at this day literally not one\nstone upon another; but many a less fortunate laborer in the same field,\nharassed by poverty, distracted by noise and interruption, has\nremembered with pardonable envy the splendid peace of Uranienborg.\n\nIt was one of the many fortunate circumstances in the position of the\ntwo Humboldts that they passed their youth in the quiet old castle of\nTegel, separated from Berlin by a pine-wood, and surrounded by walks and\ngardens. They too, like Tycho Brahe, enjoyed that happy combination of\ntranquillity with the neighborhood of a capital city which is so\npeculiarly favorable to culture. In later life, when Alexander Humboldt\nhad collected those immense masses of material which were the result of\nhis travels in South America, he warmly appreciated the unequalled\nadvantages of Paris. He knew how to extract from the solitudes of\nprimaeval nature what he wanted for the enrichment of his mind; but he\nknew also how to avail himself of all the assistance and opportunities\nwhich are only to be had in great capitals. He was not attracted to\ntown-life, like Dr. Johnson and Mr. Buckle, to the exclusion of wild\nnature; but neither, on the other hand, had he that horror of towns\nwhich was a morbid defect in Cowper, and which condemns those who suffer\nfrom it to rusticity. Even Galileo, who thought the country especially\nfavorable to speculative intellects, and the walls of cities an\nimprisonment for them, declared that the best years of his life were\nthose he had spent in Padua.\n\n\nLETTER II.\n\nTO A FRIEND WHO MAINTAINED THAT SURROUNDINGS WERE A MATTER OF\nINDIFFERENCE TO A THOROUGHLY OCCUPIED MIND.\n\n  Archimedes at the siege of Syracuse--Geoffroy St. Hilaire in the\n  besieged city of Alexandria--Goethe at the bombardment of\n  Verdun--Lullo, the Oriental missionary--Giordano Bruno--Unacknowledged\n  effect of surroundings--Effect of Frankfort on Goethe--Great\n  capitals--Goethe--His garden-house--What he said about Beranger and\n  Paris--Fortunate surroundings of Titian.\n\nThere are so many well-known instances of men who have been able to\ncontinue their intellectual labors under the most unfavorable\nconditions, that your argument might be powerfully supported by an\nappeal to actual experience. There is Archimedes, of course, to begin\nwith, who certainly seems to have abstracted himself sufficiently from\nthe tumult of a great siege to forget it altogether when occupied with\nhis mathematical problems. The prevalent stories of his death, though\nnot identical, point evidently to a habit of abstraction which had been\nremarked as a peculiarity by those about him, and it is probable enough\nthat a great inventor in engineering would follow his usual speculations\nunder circumstances which, though dangerous, had lasted long enough to\nbecome habitual. Even modern warfare, which from the use of gunpowder is\nso much noisier than that which raged at Syracuse, does not hinder men\nfrom thinking and writing when they are used to it. Geoffrey St. Hilaire\nnever worked more steadily and regularly in his whole life than he did\nin the midst of the besieged city of Alexandria. \"Knowledge is so\nsweet,\" he said long afterwards, in speaking of this experience, \"that\nit never entered my thoughts how a bombshell might in an instant have\ncast into the abyss both me and my documents.\" By good luck two electric\nfish had been caught and given to him just then, so he immediately began\nto make experiments, as if he had been in his own cabinet in Paris, and\nfor three weeks he thought of nothing else, utterly forgetting the\nfierce warfare that filled the air with thunder and flame, and the\nstreets with victims. He had sixty-four hypotheses to amuse him, and it\nwas necessary to review his whole scientific acquirement with reference\nto each of these as he considered them one by one. It may be doubted,\nhowever, whether he was more in danger from the bombardment or from the\nintensity of his own mental concentration. He grew thin and haggard,\nslept one hour in the twenty-four, and lived in a perilous condition of\nnervous strain and excitement. Goethe at the bombardment of Verdun,\nletting his mind take its own course, found that it did not occupy\nitself with tragedies, or with anything suggested by what was passing\nin the conflict around him, but by scientific considerations about the\nphenomena of colors. He noticed, in a passing observation, the bad\neffect of war upon the mind, how it makes people destructive one day and\ncreative the next, how it accustoms them to phases intended to excite\nhope in desperate circumstances, thus producing a peculiar sort of\nhypocrisy different from the priestly and courtly kind. This is the\nextent of his interest in the war; but when he finds some soldiers\nfishing he is attracted to the spot and profoundly occupied--not with\nthe soldiers, but with the optical phenomena on the water. He was never\nvery much moved by external events, nor did he take that intense\ninterest in the politics of the day which we often find in people less\nstudious of literature and science. Raimond Lullo, the Oriental\nmissionary, continued to write many volumes in the midst of the most\ncontinual difficulties and dangers, preserving as much mental energy and\nclearness as if he had been safe and tranquil in a library. Giordano\nBruno worked constantly also in the midst of political troubles and\nreligious persecutions, and his biographer tells us that \"il desiderio\nvivissimo della scienza aveva ben piu efficacia sull' animo del Bruno,\nche non gli avvenimenti esterni.\"\n\nThese examples which have just occurred to me, and many others that it\nwould be easy to collect, may be taken to prove at least so much as\nthis, that it is possible to be absorbed in private studies when\nsurrounded by the most disturbing influences; but even in these cases it\nwould be a mistake to conclude that the surroundings had no effect\nwhatever. There can be no doubt that Geoffroy St. Hilaire was intensely\nexcited by the siege of Alexandria, though he may not have attributed\nhis excitement to that cause. His mind was occupied with the electrical\nfishes, but his nervous system was wrought upon by the siege, and kept\nin that state of tension which at the same time enabled him to get\nthrough a gigantic piece of intellectual labor and made him incapable of\nrest. Had this condition been prolonged it must have terminated either\nin exhaustion or in madness. Men have often engaged in literature or\nscience to escape the pressure of anxiety, which strenuous mental labor\npermits us, at least temporarily, to forget; but the circumstances which\nsurround us have invariably an influence of some kind upon our thinking,\nthough the connection may not be obvious. Even in the case of Goethe,\nwho could study optics on a battle-field, his English biographer\nrecognizes the effect of the Frankfort life which surrounded the great\nauthor in his childhood. \"The old Frankfort city, with its busy crowds,\nits fairs, its mixed population, and its many sources of excitement,\noffered great temptations and great pasture to so desultory a genius.\nThis is perhaps a case wherein circumstances may be seen influencing the\ndirection of character.... A large continuity of thought and effort was\nperhaps radically uncongenial to such a temperament; yet one cannot help\nspeculating whether under other circumstances he might not have achieved\nit. Had he been reared in a quiet little old German town, where he would\nhave daily seen the same faces in the silent streets, and come in\ncontact with the same characters, his culture might have been less\nvarious, but it might perhaps have been deeper. Had he been reared in\nthe country, with only the changing seasons and the sweet serenities of\nnature to occupy his attention when released from study, he would\ncertainly have been a different poet. The long summer afternoons spent\nin lonely rambles, the deepening twilights filled with shadowy visions,\nthe slow uniformity of his external life necessarily throwing him more\nand more upon the subtler diversities of inward experience, would\ninevitably have influenced his genius in quite different directions,\nwould have animated his works with a very different spirit.\"\n\nWe are sometimes told that life in a great capital is essential to the\ndevelopment of genius, but Frankfort was the largest town Goethe ever\nlived in, and he never visited either Paris or London. Much of the\nsanity of his genius may have been due to his residence in so tranquil a\nplace as Weimar, where he could shut himself up in his \"garden-house\"\nand lock all the gates of the bridge over the Ilm. \"The solitude,\" says\nMr. Lewes, \"is absolute, broken only by the occasional sound of the\nchurch clock, the music from the barracks, and the screaming of the\npeacocks spreading their superb beauty in the park.\" Few men of genius\nhave been happier in their surroundings than Goethe. He had\ntranquillity, and yet was not deprived of intellectual intercourse; the\nscenery within excursion-distance from his home was interesting and even\ninspiring, yet not so splendid as to be overwhelming. We know from his\nconversations that he was quite aware of the value of those little\ncentres of culture to Germany, and yet in one place he speaks of\nBeranger in the tone which seems to imply an appreciation of the larger\nlife of Paris. \"Fancy,\" he says, \"this same Beranger away from Paris,\nand the influence and opportunities of a world-city, born as the son of\na poor tailor, at Jena or Weimar; let him run his wretched career in\neither of the two small cities, and see what fruit would have grown on\nsuch a soil and in such an atmosphere.\"\n\nWe cannot too frequently be reminded that we are nothing of ourselves,\nand by ourselves, and are only something by the place we hold in the\nintellectual chain of humanity by which electricity is conveyed to us\nand through us--to be increased in the transmission if we have great\nnatural power and are favorably situated, but not otherwise. A child is\nborn to the Vecelli family at Cadore, and when it is nine years old is\ntaken to Venice and placed under the tuition of Sebastian Zuccato.\nAfterwards he goes to Bellini's school, and there gets acquainted with\nanother student, one year his junior, whose name is Barbarelli. They\nlive together and work together in Venice; then young Barbarelli (known\nto posterity as Giorgione), after putting on certain spaces of wall and\nsquares of canvas such color as the world had never before seen, dies in\nhis early manhood and leaves Vecellio, whom we call Titian, to work on\nthere in Venice till the plague stays his hand in his hundredth year.\nThe genius came into the world, but all the possibilities of his\ndevelopment depended upon the place and the time. He came exactly in the\nright place and precisely at the right time. To be born not far from\nVenice in the days of Bellini, to be taken there at nine years old, to\nhave Giorgione for one's comrade, all this was as fortunate for an\nartistic career as the circumstances of Alexander of Macedon were for a\ncareer of conquest.\n\n\nLETTER III.\n\nTO AN ARTIST WHO WAS FITTING UP A MAGNIFICENT NEW STUDIO.\n\n  Pleasure of planning a studio--Opinions of an outsider--Saint\n  Bernard--Father Ravignan--Goethe's study and bed-room--Gustave Dore's\n  studio--Leslie's painting-room--Turner's opinion--Habits of Scott and\n  Dickens--Extremes good--Vulgar mediocrity not so good--Value of\n  beautiful views to literary men--Montaigne--Views from the author's\n  windows.\n\nNothing in the life of an artist is more agreeable than the building and\nfurnishing of the studio in which he hopes to produce his most mature\nand perfect work. It is so pleasant to labor when we are surrounded by\nbeauty and convenience, that painters find a large and handsome studio\nto be an addition to the happiness of their lives, and they usually\ndream of it, and plan it, several years before the dream is realized.\n\nOnly a few days ago I was talking on this very subject with an\nintellectual friend who is not an artist, and who maintained that the\nlove of fine studios is in great part a mere illusion. He admitted the\nnecessity for size, and for a proper kind of light, but laughed at\ncarved oak, and tapestry, and armor, and the knicknacks that artists\nencumber themselves with. He would have it that a mind thoroughly\noccupied with its own business knew nothing whatever of the objects that\nsurrounded it, and he cited two examples--Saint Bernard, who travelled\nall day by the shore of Lake Leman without seeing it, and the _pere_\nRavignan, who worked in a bare little room with a common table of\nblackened pine and a cheap rush-bottomed chair. On this I translated to\nhim, from Goethe's life by Lewes, a passage which was new to him and\ndelighted him as a confirmation of his theory. The biographer describes\nthe poet's study as \"a low-roofed narrow room, somewhat dark, for it is\nlighted only through two tiny windows, and furnished with a simplicity\nquite touching to behold. In the centre stands a plain oval table of\nunpolished oak. No arm-chair is to be seen, no sofa, nothing which\nspeaks of ease. A plain hard chair has beside it the basket in which he\nused to place his handkerchief. Against the wall, on the right, is a\nlong pear-tree table, with bookshelves, on which stand lexicons and\nmanuals.... On the side-wall again, a bookcase with some works of poets.\nOn the wall to the left is a long desk of soft wood, at which he was\nwont to write. A sheet of paper with notes of contemporary history is\nfastened near the door. The same door leads into a bed-room, if bed-room\nit can be called, which no maid-of-all-work in England would accept\nwithout a murmur: it is a closet with a window. A simple bed, an\narmchair by its side, and a tiny washing-table with a small white basin\non it, and a sponge, is all the furniture. To enter this room with any\nfeeling for the greatness and goodness of him who slept here, and who\nhere slept his last sleep, brings tears into our eyes, and makes the\nbreathing deep.\"\n\nWhen I had finished reading this passage, my friend exclaimed\ntriumphantly, \"There! don't you see that it was just because Goethe had\nimaginative power of a strong and active kind that he cared nothing\nabout what surrounded him when he worked? He had statues and pictures to\noccupy his mind when it was disengaged, but when he wrote he preferred\nthat bare little cell where nothing was to be seen that could distract\nhis attention for an instant. Depend upon it, Goethe acted in this\nmatter either from a deliberate and most wise calculation, or else from\nthe sure instinct of genius.\"\n\nWhilst we were on this subject I thought over other instances, and\nremembered my surprise on visiting Gustave Dore in his painting-room in\nParis. Dore has a Gothic exuberance of imagination, so I expected a\npainting-room something like Victor Hugo's house, rather barbarous, but\nvery rich and interesting, with plenty of carved cabinets, and tapestry,\nand _biblos_, as they call picturesque curiosities in Paris. To my\nsurprise, there was nothing (except canvases and easels) but a small\ndeal table, on which tubes of oil-color were thrown in disorder, and two\ncheap chairs. Here, evidently, the pleasure of painting was sufficient\nto occupy the artist; and in the room where he made his illustrations\nthe characteristics were simplicity and good practical arrangements for\norder, but there was nothing to amuse the imagination. Mr. Leslie used\nto paint in a room which was just like any other in the house, and had\nnone of the peculiarities of a studio. Turner did not care in the least\nwhat sort of a room he painted in, provided it had a door, and a bolt on\nthe inside. Scott could write anywhere, even in the family sitting-room,\nwith talk going forward as usual; and after he had finished Abbotsford,\nhe did not write in any of its rich and noble rooms, but in a simple\ncloset with book-shelves round it. Dickens wrote in a comfortable room,\nwell lighted and cheerful, and he liked to have funny little bronzes on\nhis writing-table.\n\nThe best way appears to be to surround ourselves, whenever it can be\nconveniently done, with whatever we know by experience to be favorable\nto our work. I think the barest cell monk ever prayed in would be a good\nplace for imaginative composition, and so too would be the most\nmagnificent rooms in Chatsworth or Blenheim. A middling sort of place\nwith a Philistine character, vulgar upholstery, and vulgar pictures or\nengravings, is really dangerous, because these things often attract\nattention in the intervals of labor and occupy it in a mean way. An\nartist is always the better for having something that may profitably\namuse and occupy his eye when he quits his picture, and I think it is a\nright instinct which leads artists to surround themselves with many\npicturesque and beautiful things, not too orderly in their arrangement,\nso that there may be pleasant surprises for the eye, as there are in\nnature.\n\nFor literary men there is nothing so valuable as a window with a\ncheerful and beautiful prospect. It is good for us to have this\nrefreshment for the eye when we leave off working, and Montaigne did\nwisely to have his study up in a tower from which he had extensive\nviews.\n\nThere is a well-known objection to extensive views, as wanting in\nsnugness and comfort, but this objection scarcely applies to the\nespecial case of literary men. What we want is not so much snugness as\nrelief, refreshment, suggestion, and we get these, as a general rule,\nmuch better from wide prospects than from limited ones. I have just\nalluded to Montaigne,--will you permit me to imitate that dear old\nphilosopher in his egotism and describe to you the view from the room I\nwrite in, which cheers and amuses me continually? But before describing\nthis let me describe another of which the recollection is very dear to\nme and as vivid as a freshly-painted picture. In years gone by, I had\nonly to look up from my desk and see a noble loch in its inexhaustible\nloveliness, and a mountain in its majesty. It was a daily and hourly\ndelight to watch the breezes play about the enchanted isles, on the\ndelicate silvery surface, dimming some clear reflection, or trailing it\nout in length, or cutting sharply across it with acres of rippling blue.\nIt was a frequent pleasure to see the clouds play about the crest of\nCruachan and Ben Vorich's golden head, gray mists that crept upwards\nfrom the valleys till the sunshine suddenly caught them and made them\nbrighter than the snows they shaded. And the leagues and leagues of\nheather on the lower land to the southward that became like the aniline\ndyes of deepest purple and blue, when the sky was gray in the\nevening--all save one orange-streak! Ah, those were spectacles never to\nbe forgotten, splendors of light and glory, and sadness of deepening\ngloom when the eyes grew moist in the twilight and secretly drank their\ntears.\n\nAnd yet, wonderful as it was, that noble and passionately beloved\nHighland scenery was wanting in one great element that a writer\nimperatively needs. In all that natural magnificence humanity held no\nplace. Hidden behind a fir-clad promontory to the north, there still\nremained, it is true, the gray ruin of old Kilchurn, and far to the\nsouth-west, in another reach of the lake, the island-fortress of\nArdhonnel. But there was not a visible city with spires and towers,\nthere were only the fir-trees on the little islands and a few\ngravestones on the largest. Beyond, were the depopulated deserts of\nBreadalbane.\n\nHere, where I write to you now, it seems as if mankind were nearer, and\nthe legends of the ages written out for me on the surface of the world.\nUnder the shadow of Jove's hill rises before me one of the most ancient\nof European cities, _soror et aemula Romae_. She bears on her walls and\nedifices the record of sixty generations. Temple, and arch, and pyramid,\nall these bear witness still, and so do her ancient bulwarks, and many a\nstately tower. High above all, the cathedral spire is drawn dark in the\nmorning mist, and often in the clear summer evenings it comes brightly\nin slanting sunshine against the steep woods behind. Then the old city\narrays herself in the warmest and mellowest tones, and glows as the\nshadows fall. She reigns over the whole width of her valley to the folds\nof the far blue hills. Even so ought our life to be surrounded by the\nloveliness of nature--surrounded, but not subdued.\n\n\nFOOTNOTE:\n\n  [14] How purely this is the misery of a man of culture! A peasant\n    would not have gone so far.\n\n\n\n\nINDEX.\n\n\n  Abolition of custom, how to effect, 252\n\n  Abstinence from newspaper reading, 461\n\n  Accomplishments, masculine and feminine, 303\n\n  Accumulation of preparatory knowledge, 448\n\n  Accumulators, great, of money, 237\n\n  Activity, mere, a waste of time, 190\n\n  Adult brain, the, 162\n\n  Advantages of few authors to poor, 244\n    -- of experience, 420\n\n  Affectations of caste, 351\n\n  Affirmations based upon authority, 282\n\n  African traveller and map-makers, 469\n\n  Alcibiades, education of, 117\n\n  Alphabet, Greek, 354\n\n  Amateurism, 134\n\n  Ampere, profoundly scientific, 278\n    -- anecdote of, 287\n\n  Amusement, necessity of, 454\n\n  Analytical observation, value of, 310\n\n  Anatomy, difficulty of study, 116\n\n  Ancients, incorrect use of word, 146\n    -- and moderns compared, 255\n\n  Application and opportunities, 244\n\n  Arabia, use of coffee, 40\n\n  Archimedes in the bath, 310\n    -- at Syracuse, 539\n\n  Aristocracy, liberal and illiberal, 358\n    -- unwritten religious law of, 366\n    -- and democracy, 341\n    -- spirit of, in reading, 472\n\n  Arnold, Dr., quoted, 144, 535\n    -- definition of religion, 271\n    -- intellectual force, 278\n\n  Arnold, Matthew, \"Self-dependence\" quoted, 458\n\n  Art of reading, 211\n    -- of resting, 455\n\n  Artist, idea of happy marriage, 289\n\n  Artistic conception of black coats, 249\n\n  Artists, drudgery of, 75\n    -- poor critics, 95\n\n  Arts, practical pursuit of, 498\n\n  Assimilating power of brain, 162\n\n  Assimilation, power of, 167\n\n  Association of ideas, 168\n\n  Atheism, popular construction, 272\n\n  Athenian education, 117\n\n  Attraction of the future, 255\n\n  Author in mortal disease, to an, 53\n    -- and tradesman compared, 236\n    -- his advice about notes, 167\n    -- his study described, 551\n\n  Authors, dependence upon private means, 232\n    -- young, eagerness of, 419\n    -- selfishness of, 471\n    -- condition since Goldsmith's time, 509\n\n  Authorship, privilege of, 341\n\n  Available knowledge, 115\n\n\n  Baker, Sir Samuel, and wife, 302\n\n  Balzac's method in literature, 421\n\n  Barbarian notions, return to, 356\n\n  Bargeman's wife, example of, 417\n\n  Basis, moral, the, 67\n\n  Baudelaire, Charles, quoted, 85\n\n  Beckford, Mr., author of \"Vathek,\" 215\n    -- two thousand slaves labor for, 218\n\n  Beer, use of, 36\n\n  Belgian school of painting, 73\n\n  Bixio, Alexandre, death-bed, 53\n\n  Black coats artistic at dinner table, 249\n\n  Blessing of good, cheap literature, 244\n\n  Boar-hunt, the author at, 46\n\n  Bodily exercise, neglect of, 48\n\n  Body and brain, close connection, 21\n\n  Book-making differs from literature, 83\n\n  Books and newspapers, 470\n\n  Bossuet, 232\n\n  _Bourgeoisie_, low condition, 367\n\n  Brain and body, close connection, 21\n\n  Brain work unfavorable to digestion, 34\n\n  \"Bramleighs, The,\" quoted, 501\n\n  Bruno, Giordano, passion for philosophy, 79\n    -- constant work of, 541\n\n  Buckland, Mrs., 303\n\n  Bunyan, results of solitude, 411\n\n  Burns, quoted, 353\n    -- separation from culture, 353\n    -- injustice of, 354\n\n  Byron, cause of his death, 21\n    -- aristocracy of, 347\n    -- poetical inspiration of, 450\n\n\n  Capacity and preference, relation, 87\n\n  Careers aided by wealth, 225\n\n  Carelessness, danger of, 224\n\n  Carpenter, Dr., surrenders practice for science, 222\n\n  Caste, prejudices of, 348\n\n  Catholic Church power in 14th century, 257\n    -- Roman, belief of, 272\n\n  Central passion of men of ability, 231\n\n  Chance acquaintances, 376\n\n  Character, positive or negative end, 475\n\n  \"Character\" quoted, 507\n\n  Charity, intellectual, 438\n\n  Chemist, a product of industrial communities, 520\n\n  Chemistry, intellectual, 105\n\n  Children, imitative power, 162\n    -- proper division of time, 482\n\n  Child-teaching, 155\n\n  Christian, muscular, to a, 42\n\n  Christianity, fashionable, 394\n\n  Church of Rome, embodiment of tradition, 261\n    -- service to European civilization, 261\n\n  Class jealousy, 518\n\n  Classical accomplishments, 351\n\n  Clergy at variance with scientists, 274\n    -- English, 490\n    -- restrictions of, 490\n    -- injustice and inaccuracy of, 491\n\n  Clerical profession, advantages, 489\n    -- incompatible with intellectual freedom, 422\n\n  Code of customs constitutes law, 251\n\n  Coffee and tea, use of, 39\n\n  Colloquial use of language, 147\n\n  Communard's hatred of superiority, 369\n\n  Communicativeness of chance acquaintances, 376\n\n  Community, intelligent, is conservative, 251\n\n  Compensation, principle of, 212\n\n  Completeness of education, 171\n\n  Composition, drudgery of, 72\n\n  Comte, Auguste, laments consequences of anxiety, 230\n    -- atheist and scientist, 279\n    -- voluntary isolation of, 411\n    -- abstinence from newspapers, 466\n    -- mysticism of, 468\n\n  Condescension, intellectual advised, 402\n\n  Conjugal felicity, degrees of, 297\n\n  Contemporary literature, indifference to, 471\n\n  Contempt for skill, 503\n    -- for trade, 522\n\n  Continent, absence of gentlemen, 364\n\n  Controversy, unfairness of, 464\n\n  Conversation of women, 325\n    -- between the sexes, 332\n    -- generally dull, 398\n\n  Cookery, science of, 35\n\n  Copernicus, monument at Warsaw, 261\n\n  Correspondents, the two contrasted, 345\n\n  Cotton-manufacturer, letter to, 513\n\n  Cotton-trade, effect on the mind, 525\n\n  Country people, ignorance of, 439\n\n  Cream and curacoa, 331\n\n  Creative faculty may be commanded, 85\n\n  Critical faculty of English clergy, 277\n\n  Critics, artists as, 95\n\n  Culture, moral utility, 101\n    -- proper limitations of, 106\n    -- how rich may best serve its cause, 323\n    -- of middle classes, 241\n    -- independent of sex, 304\n    -- induces sincerity, 332\n    -- hostility of democracy, 369\n    -- high, isolates, 407\n    -- facilities for obtaining, 432\n    -- individual, national gain, 433\n\n  Curate, poor, in prosperous community, 287\n\n  Custom and tradition, 246\n    -- the one law of society, 248\n    -- a necessary aid to religion, 248\n\n  Custom nature's provision for reform, 250\n    -- precious legacy of the past, 251\n    -- not final, but a form, 251\n    -- opposition unphilosophical, 251\n    -- how to procure abolition, 252\n    -- resistance sometimes imperative, 258\n\n  Cuvier, a model student, 427\n\n\n  Decline of old prejudices, 522\n\n  Democracy and aristocracy, 341\n    -- envious, 360\n    -- its levelling _down_ tendency, 363\n    -- intolerance of, 366\n    -- metropolitan and provincial, 368\n    -- hostile to culture, 369\n\n  De Saussure, labors of, 229\n\n  De Senancour, 232\n    -- quoted, 406\n\n  Descent of man, 274\n\n  De Stael, Madame, literary methods, 62\n\n  Development of natural gifts, 172\n    -- of faculty, 175\n\n  Deviation produced by marriage, 317\n\n  Dickens, narrowness of, 347\n    -- study described, 549\n\n  Discipline necessary to success, 81\n    -- object of, 84\n    -- value and necessity, 449\n    -- of a professional career, 504\n\n  Discussions with ladies, best course, 337\n\n  Disease, effect of mental labor, 18\n\n  Diseased, experience of, 55\n\n  Disinterestedness, most essential virtue, 91\n\n  Displacement of native tongue, 157\n\n  Dissatisfaction of cultured persons, 431\n\n  Distinctions in trade, 521\n\n  Disuse of native tongue, 156\n\n  Diversity of belief in religion, 265\n\n  Domestic picture, a, 57\n\n  Dore, Gustave, painting-room, 549\n\n  Dress-coat, the young gentleman lacking, 245\n\n  Drill, intellectual, advantages of, 459\n\n  Drinks, question of, 35\n\n  Drudgery in all work, 71\n\n  Dullness of general conversation, 398\n\n  Dunces, illustrious, 80\n\n  Duerer, Albert, _Melencolia_, 424\n\n  Duty, occasional, of eccentricity, 253\n    -- of cultured men to society, 401\n\n\n  Eagerness of young authors, 419\n\n  Eccentricity sometimes a moral duty, 253\n    -- sometimes an intellectual duty, 253\n\n  Ecclesiastical authority, remarkable decline, 256\n\n  Economy of time, 177\n\n  Education, 104\n    -- use of the word, 173\n    -- completeness of, 171\n    -- want of thoroughness and reality, 290\n    -- of sexes compared, 290\n    -- fashionable, 380\n\n  Educator, professional, practice the best, 226\n\n  Egotism of the uneducated mother, 324\n\n  Electricity practically annihilates distance, 257\n\n  Elevation of intellectual life, 55\n\n  Emerson's rule, 472\n\n  Empire, Second, vulgarity of, 367\n\n  Enault, Louis, study of languages, 181\n\n  Encouragement to the poor student, 243\n\n  Energy, human, limitation of, 244\n\n  English officer in Paris, 163\n    -- strong to resist voluptuousness, 218\n    -- recognize refining influence of wealth, 240\n    -- gentry, free expenditures, 241\n    -- gentleman, methods of culture, 241\n    -- clergy, criticism of literature, 277\n    -- tradesman, anecdote of, 313\n    -- correspondent quoted, 463\n\n  Englishman, eminent, poor remuneration, 234\n\n  Engraving, 76\n\n  _Ennui_ in work, 423\n\n  Equality, theoretic, 372\n\n  Erdan, M., letters by, 469\n\n  Essential virtue, disinterestedness, chief, 91\n\n  Etchers, the woes of, 76\n\n  Etiquette of society bar to intellectual advance, 326\n\n  European civilization, service of church, 261\n    -- governments resist power of church, 258\n\n  Excesses, intellectual, dangers of, 101\n\n  Excitement, cerebral, intellectual products, 446\n\n  Exercise, bodily, need of, 49\n\n  Exeter, bishop of, quoted, 70\n\n  Experience, the lesson, 191\n    -- advantages of, 420\n\n  Experiment replaces tradition, 254\n\n  Experiments on public taste, 235\n\n\n  Facilities for obtaining culture, 432\n\n  Facility of acquiring languages, 161\n\n  Faculty, development of, 175\n\n  Fane, Julian, religion of, 267\n    -- late hours, 467\n\n  Faraday, intellectual career, 279, 505\n    -- a Sandemanian, 280\n\n  Fashionable education, 380\n    -- religion, 393\n\n  Fickleness of fashion, 392\n\n  Fine arts, technical difficulties, 76\n    -- pursuit of, 498\n\n  Five facts regarding languages, 152\n\n  France, invasion by Germans, 95\n    -- intellectual isolation, 148\n    -- vulgar language of people, 365\n    -- low condition of _bourgeoisie_, 367\n\n  French monarchy, question of, 94\n    -- college, to a principal of, 137\n    -- cook, perfection of art, 104\n    -- officer, incident of, 362\n    -- peasantry, intellectual apathy, 241\n    -- peasantry, parsimony, 241\n    -- peasantry without newspapers, 466\n    -- school of painting, 73\n    -- students of English, isolated, 122\n\n  Frenchman writes a school-primer with good results, 234\n\n  Fresco-painters, troubles of, 76\n\n  Friendships of the intellect, reality of, 375\n    -- succession of, 376\n\n  Future, attraction of, 255\n\n\n  Galton, Mr., advice to travellers, 416\n\n  Garibaldi, Italian follower of, 45\n\n  Generation, our, poetical events, 95\n\n  Genius, popular impression of, 447\n    -- military, of Napoleon, 448\n    -- dependent upon culture, 450\n\n  Gentlemen, absence of, on Continent, 364\n\n  German invasion of France, 95\n\n  Germans, intellectual labor of, 200\n\n  Germany, secular power resists ecclesiastical, 258\n\n  Girardin, St. Marc, 255\n\n  \"_Give it time_,\" 193\n\n  Goethe, habits of, 33\n    -- pecuniary independence, 233\n    -- intellectual activity, 427\n    -- interest in intellectual labor, 427\n    -- production of _Werther_, 428\n    -- at bombardment of Verdun, 540\n\n  Goldsmith, Oliver, elaborate dress, 390\n\n  Good use of opportunity, 212\n    -- and cheap literature, 244\n\n  Government patronage of intellectual pursuits, 138\n    -- and priests lack harmony, 492\n\n  Great problem of human life, 242\n\n  Greek, general view of, 146\n    -- uselessness in industry and commerce, 354\n    -- alphabet, imaginary terrors, 355\n\n  Growing old, the rapidity of, 59\n\n\n  Habits, sure to be acquired, 478\n\n  Hack-writing, 508\n\n  Heine, last years of, 534\n\n  Helps, Sir Arthur, quoted, 186, 230\n\n  Hermit, experience of, 405\n\n  Highland scenery lacks humanity, 551\n\n  Historians, partiality of, 95\n    -- future, value of journalist, 469\n\n  Historical party in England, 257\n    -- party in France, 257\n\n  Honesty, importance of, _note_, 97\n    -- value of, 265\n    -- foundation of intellectual life, 274\n\n  Hoogstraten and Rembrandt, 378\n\n  Hours of idleness, 198\n\n  Household, intellectual level of, 434\n\n  How to learn a language, 147\n    -- women help men, 297\n\n  Hugo, Victor, intellectual decadence, 95\n\n  Human energy, limitation of, 244\n    -- race, longevity, 274\n\n  Humboldt, Alexander, intellectual greatness, 90\n\n  Humboldt, Alexander, fortune servant of ambition, 223\n    -- in South America, 516\n    -- youth of, 538\n\n  Hurry, evil consequences of, 209\n\n  Huxley, Professor, quoted, 372\n\n  Hygienics, intellectual, 415\n\n\n  Ideal division of life, 412\n\n  Ideas, association of, 168\n    -- ratio of narrowness, 241\n\n  Idleness, hours of, 198\n    -- value of, 458\n\n  Illusions, popular, concerning languages, 151\n\n  Immorality of intellectual people, 99\n\n  Inapplicability of past experience, 256\n\n  Incompatibility, fashionable and intellectual life, 394\n\n  Incongruous associations, 170\n\n  Indirect uses of study, 131\n\n  Indolent men who like to be hurried, 207\n\n  Industrial classes, results of their labor, 520\n\n  Infallibility of the pope, 281\n\n  Infraction of custom, penalties, 247\n\n  Ingres, counsel to pupils, 421\n\n  Ingres, Madame, the first, 289\n\n  Inspiration, sister of daily labor, 85\n    -- waiting for, 449\n\n  Instinct of accumulation, 237\n    -- of solitude, 409\n\n  Intellect does not recognize authority, 282\n\n  Intellectual and religious questions, difference, 270\n    -- attainments of two houses of Parliament, 240\n    -- class necessary, 515\n    -- deviations resulting from marriage, 317\n    -- kingdom, difficult entrance of the rich, 220\n    -- life, inward law, 88\n\n  Intellectual requirements of, 221\n    -- foundation, difficulty, 274\n    -- differs from religious life, 275\n    -- based upon personal investigation, 275\n    -- a solitary one, 298\n    -- absence of caste, 346\n    -- man rebels against custom, 250\n    -- two courses open in marriage, 287\n    -- methods independent of tradition, 288\n    -- nature of women, 306\n\n  Intellectual natures need intellectual activity, 430\n    -- progress, necessity of, 521\n    -- reaction against money making, 229\n    -- religion, foundations of, 272\n    -- religion, search and result, 273\n    -- separation of the sexes, 303\n    -- stupidity of amassing money, 237\n    -- workers, suggestions to, 18\n\n  International marriages, 162\n\n  Interruption, evils of, 204\n\n  Intolerance of democracies, 366\n\n  Intoxication, literary, 67\n\n  Invasion of France by Germans, 95\n\n  Inventions a factor in politics, 256\n    -- mainly due to men, 311\n\n  Inward law of intellectual life, 88\n\n  Irregular verbs, time-wasters, 193\n\n  Irrigation, intellectual, 436\n\n  Isolation of high culture, 407\n\n  Italian deserter, the, 157\n\n\n  Jacquemont, Victor, letters of, 200\n\n  Japanese, revolution of thought and practice, 354\n\n  Jealousy of class, 518\n\n  Johnson, dignity of his threadbare sleeves, 390\n\n  Joubert, 441\n    -- productive power, 443\n    -- quoted, 255\n\n  Journalism in England, 511\n\n  Journalist, value to future historians, 469\n\n  Journals, party, injustice of, 464\n\n\n  Kant, Immanuel, habits of, 27\n\n  Keats, genius dependent upon culture, 450\n\n  Kepler, early struggles, 232\n\n  Knight service in society, 251\n\n  Knowledge of mankind, 457\n    -- selection of, 108\n\n\n  Labor, pecuniary rewards of, 233\n    -- of previous ages, disdain for, 260\n    -- dominant and subordinate, 478\n    -- of preparation, 448\n\n  _Lalla Rookh_, Moore's trials, 72\n\n  Language, Latin as a common, 127\n\n  Language, facility of acquisition, 161\n    -- in France, vulgarity of, 365\n\n  Languages, popular illusions, 151\n    -- five facts, 152\n    -- separation of, 159\n\n  Late hours, 477\n\n  Latin, modern ignorance of, 121\n    -- island, a, 128\n\n  Latinist, the modern, 121\n\n  Law, complex code of customs, 251\n    -- of society, 248\n\n  Lawyers, superiority of, in certain directions, 495\n\n  Lay element of Europe, powerful, 491\n\n  Legal profession, advantages of, 493\n\n  Leslie's studio, 549\n\n  Levels, intellectual, 435\n\n  Lever, Charles, quoted, 501\n\n  Lewes' \"Life of Goethe\" quoted, 451, 547\n    -- quoted, 544\n\n  Lewis, John, practice work of, 74\n\n  Life, an ideal division of, 412\n\n  Limited knowledge and experience of the poor, 240\n\n  Limitation of human energy, 244\n\n  Line-engraver, labor of, 76\n\n  Linguist, the modern, 150\n\n  Listening, the art of, 398\n\n  Literature, to a student of, 130\n    -- good and cheap, 244\n    -- criticism of English clergy, 277\n    -- contemporary, indifference to, 471\n\n  Literary intoxication, 67\n\n  Littre quoted, 259\n\n  Locality, mental effect of, 530\n\n  Locke quoted, 85\n\n  Loitering element in liberal education, 196\n\n  Longevity, young men careless of, 65\n    -- of human race, 274\n\n  Lost opportunities, 199\n\n  Louvre, wanton destruction of, 368\n\n  Love, necessity of, 454\n\n  Lullo, Raimond, Oriental missionary, 541\n\n  \"Luxury,\" article in Cornhill Magazine, 315\n    -- quoted, 316\n\n  Lytton, Robert, letter of Lady Westmorland, 267\n    -- estimate of Julian Fane, 361\n\n\n  Man unlike a planet, 452\n    -- need of pluck, 70\n\n  Mankind, operations of riches and poverty, 239\n    -- best knowledge of, 457\n\n  Marriage, 285\n    -- true, a slow intergrowth, 286\n    -- general ignorance regarding, 286\n    -- complex effects, 287\n    -- of intellectual men, 287\n    -- a distinguished artist's views, 289\n    -- ideal for man of literary culture, 290\n    -- intellectual, 291\n    -- how decided, 293\n    -- of French professors, 294\n    -- of the Scotch lawyer, 296\n    -- the intellectual ideal, 299\n    -- the necessity of keeping up its interest, 301\n    -- frequently leads to intellectual deviation, 317\n    -- risk of eccentric men, 323\n    -- semi-publicity, 323\n\n  Marriages, international, 162\n\n  Maximilian, Emperor, execution of, 95\n\n  Mediaeval builders, 260\n\n  Medicine, profession of, 495\n\n  Meissonier, practice for self-instruction, 74\n\n  \"Melencolia\" of Albert Duerer, 424\n\n  Memory, defective, advantage of, 165\n    -- selecting, 166\n    -- rational art of, 169\n\n  Men, how helped by women, 296\n    -- disguise their thoughts from women, 330\n\n  Mental labor not injurious to healthy persons, 22\n    -- may aggravate disease, 18\n\n  Mental stimulants, 69\n    -- refusals should be heeded, 88\n    -- powers, immoderate use, 20\n    -- work, physical preparation, 479\n\n  Metaphor of the mountains, 228\n\n  \"Midshipman Easy,\" allusion to, 188\n\n  Military genius of Napoleon, 448\n    -- profession, 497\n    -- profession, intellectual poverty of, 498\n\n  Milton, forced retirement, 411\n\n  Mind of a fashionable person, 380\n\n  Minds, three classes, 443\n\n  Miracles, belief in, 272\n\n  Miscalculation, bad results, 196\n\n  Miscellaneous reading, our debt to, 132\n\n  Mitford, Miss, quoted, 471\n\n  Mobility of fashionable taste, 392\n\n  Modern education, 116\n    -- inventions, power of, 256\n    -- languages, to student of, 149\n    -- languages, limits of soundness, 183\n    -- mind looks forward, 255\n\n  _Modern Painters_, result of long study, 229\n    -- work of genius and wealth, 229\n\n  Money, the influences of, 216\n    -- restraints of, 238\n    -- the guardian of peace, 238\n    -- accumulated labor of the past, 238\n    -- protector of intellectual life, 238\n\n  Montaigne, early education of, 121\n    -- purchases of books, 405\n    -- his tower, 550\n\n  Moore's trials with \"Lalla Rookh,\" 72\n\n  Moral basis, the, 67\n    -- utility of culture, 101\n\n  Morality, individual theories, 99\n    -- public opinion regulates, 257\n    -- general advance of, 258\n\n  Morbid mind, cure for, 430\n\n  Morris, a diligent student, 450\n\n  Mother and son, difference in religious views, 284\n    -- the uneducated, 325\n\n  Mulready, preparation for new picture, 74\n\n  Multiplicity of modern studies, 120\n\n  Muscular Christian, to a, 42\n\n  Music, refining influence of, 44, 132\n    -- limits of soundness, 183\n\n\n  Napoleon, military genius of, 448\n\n  Napoleon III., overthrow of, 95\n\n  National intellectual life, 433\n\n  Native tongue, results of disuse, 156\n\n  Natural connection between wealth and culture, 240\n    -- gifts, development of, 172\n    -- laws, independent working, 282\n\n  Nature, extraordinary reactions, 100\n    -- high life in, 359\n\n  Nature, provision for intellectual life in marriage, 292\n    -- _will_ be obeyed, 248\n\n  Naval profession, 497\n\n  Navy, English, reconstruction of, 262\n\n  Neapolitan servant, case of, 158\n\n  Necessity a help in industrial pursuits, 525\n    -- disturbs higher intellectual life, 225, 226\n\n  Need of society and solitude, 403\n\n  Negative end of character, 475\n    -- qualification for work, 109\n\n  Neighbors, education of, 437\n\n  Newspaper reading, abstinence from, 460\n\n  Newspapers as educators, 437\n    -- daily house-talk of the world, 465\n    -- in United States, 466\n    -- in France, 466\n\n  Newton, desire for solitude, 410\n\n  Nervous system, physiological action, 17\n\n  Nightingale, Florence, quoted, 204\n\n  Night-work, medical objection to, 481\n\n  Noblesse, old, ignorance of, 363\n\n  Nomad, English, life of, 530\n\n  Nomadic habits of higher classes, 356\n\n\n  Obedience to nature, necessity of, 248\n\n  Object of intellectual discipline, 84\n\n  Occasion, mistaken estimates, 186\n\n  Opposition to custom unphilosophical, 251\n    -- of method between intellect and faith, 282\n\n  Oil painting, dangers of, 76\n\n  Old prejudices declining, 522\n\n  Opportunities lost, 199\n    -- unlimited, danger of, 214\n    -- and application, 244\n\n  Origin of discipline, 82\n\n  Orleans, Duchess of, 220\n    -- system of mental culture, 220\n\n  Orthodoxy no guaranty of intellectual capacity, 299\n\n  Outlet, intellectual, necessary, 435\n\n\n  Painters, intellectual discipline of, 498\n\n  Painting, different schools, 73\n\n  Palgrave's, Mr., \"Travels in Arabia,\" 40\n\n  Papacy, decline and fall of temporal power, 469\n\n  Papal infallibility, 281\n\n  Paris, siege of, 95\n\n  Parliament, houses of, high attainments, 240\n\n  Parsimony of French peasantry, 241\n\n  Party journals, injustice, 464\n\n  Past, custom a precious legacy, 251\n    -- not reliable as a guide, 256\n\n  Patriotism as a stimulant, 69\n\n  Peasants, instruction of, 438\n\n  Pecuniary rewards of labor, 233\n\n  Pendennis, Major, typical life, 65\n\n  _Philistine_ intellects, 202\n\n  Philosophy, popular acceptation of term, 273\n    -- a truly intellectual, 417\n\n  Physical basis, the, 17\n    -- repugnances of surgeons, 87\n    -- preparation for mental labor, 479\n\n  Physician, social rise of, 496\n\n  Physiological action of nervous system, 17\n\n  Pioneers, intellectual, 516\n\n  Planet, dissimilarity of man to, 452\n\n  Plans should be well arranged, 189\n\n  Pluck, value of, 70\n\n  Poet, the true, 447\n\n  Poetical events of our generation, 95\n    -- teachings, true intentions, 453\n\n  Political influence of culture, 436\n\n  Politics, preponderance in newspapers, 465\n\n  Polyglot waiters, 165\n\n  Poor, limited knowledge and experience, 240\n    -- incompetent for work of Parliament, 240\n    -- independence of public opinion, 243\n    -- man desirous of culture, consolation, 243\n\n  Pope of Rome, affirmed infallibility, 281\n\n  Popular illusions regarding languages, 151\n    -- impression regarding genius, 447\n\n  Positive end of character, 475\n\n  Poverty and peace incompatible, 223\n    -- unfavorable to intellectual life, 224\n    -- advantage in liberal professions, 226\n    -- obstacle to intellectual perfection, 239\n\n  Power of assimilation, 167\n    -- of time, 176\n\n  Practical suggestions to intellectual workers, 16\n\n  Practice, best professional as educator, 226\n    -- of journalism, 511\n\n  Preference and capacity, relation, 87\n\n  Prejudices of caste, 348\n    -- old, decline of, 522\n\n  Preparatory labor, 448\n\n  Prescott, Mr., instance of, 63\n\n  Preservation of the senses, 60, 64\n\n  Priests, manner of religious teaching, 270\n    -- and government not harmonious, 492\n\n  Prince Consort, example and influence, 305\n\n  Problem, great, of life, 242\n\n  Products of cerebral excitement, 446\n\n  Professions, liberal, advantages of poverty, 226\n    -- test of, 392\n    -- and trades, 488\n    -- purpose of, 507\n\n  Progress, satisfactions of, 79\n    -- its debt to rebellion, 250\n    -- of work, interest necessary, 416\n\n  Propositions about modern languages, 152\n\n  Protection in intellectual pursuits, 137\n\n  Public taste, experiments on, 235\n    -- opinion, regulator of morality, 257\n    -- opinion in France, 258\n\n  Purpose of a profession, 506\n\n\n  Qualifications for work, 109\n\n\n  Railways, unforeseen effect, 356\n\n  Rational art of memory, 169\n\n  Ravignon, _pere_, 547\n\n  Reactions of Nature, 100\n\n  Reading, miscellaneous, advantage of, 132\n    -- painful to uneducated, 438\n    -- newspapers, abstinence from, 460\n    -- practised by most people, 474\n\n  Rebellion, debt of progress to, 250\n\n  Reconciliation of poverty and the soul, 242\n\n  Refinements of a language, 164\n\n  Reform and progress of custom, 250\n\n  Refusals, mental, should be heeded, 86\n\n  Regret for lost time, 456\n\n  Regularity of work, 446\n\n  Regulated economy of time, 203\n\n  Relation between preference and capacity, 87\n    -- of trivial events to great principles, 329\n\n  Religion as a stimulant, 69\n    -- requires aid of custom, 248\n    -- different views of mother and son, 264\n    -- indefinable, 271\n    -- according to popular instinct, 272\n    -- intellectual foundation of, 273\n    -- influence of caste-law, 366\n\n  Religious vitality, periods of, 265\n    -- teaching, 270\n    -- and intellectual questions, difference, 270\n    -- creed does not weaken critical faculty, 277\n    -- belief, test of, 272\n\n  Rembrandt, answer to Hoogstraten, 378\n\n  Renan, M., charges Second Empire with vulgarity 367\n\n  Repugnances to be overcome, 87\n\n  Resisting power of adult brain, 162\n\n  Rest, necessary in intellectual labor, 454\n\n  Resting, the art of, 455\n\n  Restoration of French monarchy, 94\n\n  Restraints of money, 238\n\n  Retreats demanded by intellectual life, 221\n\n  Return to barbarism, 356\n\n  Rich man a director of work, 219\n    -- social diversions of, 220\n    -- vulgar people, 242\n\n  Road to success, commonly gradual increase, 226\n\n  Roman Catholic, belief of, 272\n\n  Romans, education of, 118\n\n  Roscoe, William, Italian studies, 134\n\n  Rosse, Lord, colossal telescope, 220\n    -- useful application of wealth, 220\n\n  Rossini, advice to young composer, 195\n\n  Ruskin, Mr., value of artistic perception, 62\n    -- extract from _Modern Painters_, 215\n    -- wealth of material, 229\n    -- career of, 229\n\n\n  Sacerdotal system, 270\n\n  Sadness of intellectual workers, 426\n\n  Sainte Beuve, example of self-discipline, 83\n    -- system of living, 236\n    -- atheist and scientist, 279\n    -- quoted, 458\n\n  Saint-Bernard at Lake Leman, 547\n\n  Saint-Hilaire, Geoffroy, in blindness, 57\n\n  Saint-Hilaire, Geoffrey, at Alexandria, 540\n\n  Sand, George, working under pressure, 23\n    -- quoted, 86\n    -- novel of \"Valvedre,\" 319\n\n  Satisfactions of intellectual riches, 424\n\n  Schiller, literary hack-work of, 233\n\n  Schoolmaster, thankless office of, 337\n\n  Science, methods and laws of, 283\n    -- requires heat and heroism, 276\n    -- of living, 395\n\n  Scientific cookery, importance of, 35\n    -- writers and thinkers, independence, 258\n    -- at variance with clergy, 274\n\n  Scott, Sir Walter, physical exercise, 24\n    -- habits of, 33\n    -- writing-closet, 549\n\n  Secular power resists ecclesiastical, 258\n\n  Selection of knowledge, 108\n\n  Selfishness of authors, 471\n\n  Senses, usefulness to intellectual life, 60\n\n  Separation of languages, 159\n\n  Shelley, boating exercise, 24\n    -- the morality of, 99\n    -- writings unprofitable, 232\n    -- desire for solitude, 409\n\n  Ships of the line, old, 262\n\n  Shopkeepers, treatment by English authors, 348\n\n  Siege of Paris, 95\n\n  Silent student, attainments, 444\n\n  Simon Jules, allusion to, 141\n\n  Sincerity induced by culture, 332\n\n  Skill, indifference to, 502\n\n  Skip judiciously in reading, 211\n\n  Small talk in England and France, 399\n\n  Smiles, Mr., _Character_ quoted, 506\n\n  Smith, Sydney, quoted, 173\n    -- common sense of, 277\n\n  Smoking, moderate and excessive, 39\n\n  Social diversions of the rich, 220\n\n  Society, penalties for infringing custom, 247\n    -- _will be obeyed_, 248\n    -- desires harmony, 249\n    -- and solitude, 374\n    -- fashionable demands, 380\n    -- external deference to culture, 393\n\n  Solitude and society, 374\n    -- traditional view of, 405\n    -- effects upon man, 406\n\n  Soul and poverty, reconciliation, 242\n\n  Soundness, requisite to best success, 179\n\n  Spain, secular power resists ecclesiastical, 250\n\n  Spenser, the fables of, 251\n\n  State schools, exclusion of theology, 491\n\n  Station fetters intellect, 371\n\n  Steam makes cities of States, 257\n\n  Stimulants, effects of, 37\n    -- mental, 69\n\n  Stone in Glen Croe, the, 455\n\n  Structural relations of languages, 170\n\n  Student, the poor, encouragement, 243\n    -- the poor, sad story, 344\n    -- dangers of society, 382\n\n  Study, indirect uses of, 131\n    -- of medicine, 495\n\n  Substitution of experiment for tradition, 251\n\n  Success, result of discipline, 81\n    -- common road, gradual increase, 226\n\n  Sue, Eugene, daily habits, 24\n\n  Surgeon, social rise of, 496\n\n  Surroundings of cultivated men, 434, 531\n\n  Swiss gentleman, anecdote of, 276\n\n  Systematic arrangement of work, 478\n\n\n  Taste, public, experiments on, 235\n\n  Tea and coffee, use of, 39\n\n  Teachings, poetical, true intentions, 458\n\n  Telescope, colossal, of Lord Rosse, 220\n\n  Temptations of wealth, 218\n\n  Test of religious belief, 272\n\n  Theology, exclusion from state schools, 481\n\n  Theoretic equality amongst men, 372\n\n  Thiers, antecedents of, 463\n    -- elevation of, 464\n\n  Thoughts upon \"Government\" quoted, 96\n\n  Thrift, the principle of, 193\n\n  Tillier, Claude, doctrine of, 457\n\n  Time, the power of, 176\n    -- loss of, 177\n    -- mistaken estimates, 186\n    -- regulated economy, 203\n\n  Titian, early surroundings, 544\n\n  Tobacco, use of, 38\n\n  Trade distinctions, 521\n    -- contempt for, 522\n\n  Trades and professions, 488\n\n  Tradition and custom, 246\n    -- rejected for experiment, 254\n    -- decline of authoritative influence, 200\n    -- church of Rome, embodiment, 261\n    -- in industrial and fine arts, _note_, 263\n\n  Training, intellectual, 214\n\n  Tranquillity conducive to intellectual success, 480\n\n  Travellers, Mr. Galton's advice, 416\n\n  Triumph of discipline, 86\n\n  Trivial events, relation to great principles, 328\n\n  Truth a law of religion, 265\n\n  Turner's studio, 549\n\n  Tyco Brahe, princely ease, 233\n    -- surroundings of, 537\n\n\n  Ultramontane party, 91\n\n  Undisciplined writer, to an, 80\n\n  United States, influence of newspapers, 486\n\n  Unknown element of all problems, 188\n\n  Unproductive class, the, 444\n\n  Utility, moral, of culture, 101\n\n\n  \"Valvedre,\" extract from, 319\n\n  Variety of labor for children, 482\n\n  Various pursuits, objection to, 114\n\n  _Vathek_, written at a single sitting, 26\n    -- author of, 216\n\n  Vatican, council of, 127\n\n  Vinci, Leonardo da, education of, 172\n\n\n  Waiting for inspiration, 449\n\n  Want hinders intellectual pursuits, 231\n\n  Warsaw, monument to Copernicus, 261\n\n  Wealth, double temptation of, 218\n    -- an obstacle to labor, 219\n    -- inordinate respect for, 502\n\n  _Werther_ indicative of Goethe's _ennui_, 428\n\n  Westmorland, Lady, letter to Robert Lytton, 267\n\n  Why men choose their wives, 292\n\n  Wine, use of, 35\n\n  Wives of French professors, 294\n\n  Women and marriage, 285\n    -- how they help men, 297\n    -- incapacity for solitary mental labor, 302\n    -- intellectual nature of, 306\n    -- absence of scientific curiosity, 308\n    -- rarity of invention among, 310\n    -- lack inherent force for advance, 311\n    -- do not hear the truth from men, 330\n    -- conversation of, 325\n\n  Wordsworth, love of pedestrian excursions, 51\n    -- failure as a London journalist, 232\n    -- happy results of a legacy, 232\n    -- advice to tourists, 288\n\n  Work, systematic arrangement desirable, 478\n\n  _Work_, article in Cornhill Magazine, 480\n\n  World recognizes performance only, 500\n\n  Woepke, Franz, remarkable extent of studies, 103\n    -- mathematician and orientalist, 223\n    -- pension of Italian prince, 223\n\n  Writing against time, 209\n    -- as a profession, 509\n\n\n  Young men careless of longevity, 65","title":"The Intellectual Life","tradition":"philosophy-ethics","translated_text":null,"word_count":138340}