{"collection":"philosophy-ethics","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_40079/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_40079","id":"gutenberg_40079","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/40079","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Philosophy & Ethics","Pessimism"],"text":"By the same Author.\n\nBALZAC.\n\nA STUDY.\n\n_With a Bibliography of Balzac's\nWritings, and a Portrait._\n\nCrown 8vo, gilt top, $1.25.\n\nHOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & CO.\n\n_Publishers_,\n\nBOSTON.\n\n\n\n\nTHE PHILOSOPHY OF\nDISENCHANTMENT\n\nBY\n\nEDGAR EVERTSON SALTUS\n\n\nIn Arkadien geboren sind wir Alle\n                    SCHILLER\n\n[Illustration]\n\nBOSTON\nHOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY\nNew York: 11 East Seventeenth Street,\nThe Riverside Press, Cambridge\n1887\n\n\nCopyright, 1885,\nBY EDGAR EVERTSON SALTUS.\n\n_All rights reserved._\n\n_The Riverside Press, Cambridge:_\nElectrotyped and printed by H. O. Houghton & Co.\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS.\n\n\n                                         PAGE\n\n     CHAPTER I.\n\nTHE GENESIS OF DISENCHANTMENT               1\n\n     CHAPTER II.\n\nTHE HIGH PRIEST OF PESSIMISM               36\n\n     CHAPTER III.\n\nTHE SPHINX'S RIDDLE                        77\n\n     CHAPTER IV.\n\nTHE BORDERLANDS OF HAPPINESS              124\n\n     CHAPTER V.\n\nTHE GREAT QUIETUS                         163\n\n     CHAPTER VI.\n\nIS LIFE AN AFFLICTION?                    208\n\n\n\n\nTHE PHILOSOPHY OF DISENCHANTMENT.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I.\n\nTHE GENESIS OF DISENCHANTMENT.\n\n\nThe trite and commonplace question of contentment and dissatisfaction\nis a topic which is not only of every-day interest, but one which in\nrecent years has so claimed the attention of thinkers, that they have\nbroadly divided mankind into those who accept life off-hand, as a more\nor less pleasing possession, and those who resolutely look the gift in\nthe mouth and say it is not worth the having.\n\nViewed simply as systems of thought, the first of these two divisions\nis evidently contemporaneous with humanity, while the second will be\nfound to be of purely modern origin; for from the earliest times man,\nadmittedly and with but few exceptions, has been ever accustomed to\nregard this world as the best one possible, and through nearly every\ncreed and sect he has considered happiness somewhat in the light of an\ninviolable birthright.\n\nWithin the last half century, however, there has come into being a new\nschool, which, in denying the possibility of any happiness, holds as\nfirst principle that the world is a theatre of misery in which, were\nthe choice accorded, it would be preferable not to be born at all.\n\nIn stating that this view of life is of distinctly modern origin, it\nshould be understood that it is so only in the systematic form which it\nhas recently assumed, for individual expressions of discontent have\nbeen handed down from remote ages, and any one who cared to rummage\nthrough the dust-bins of literature would find material enough to\ncompile a dictionary of pessimistic quotation.\n\nFor these pages but little rummaging will be attempted, but as the\nproper presentation of the subject demands a brief account of the ideas\nand opinions in which it was cradled, a momentary examination of\ngeneral literature will not, it is believed, cause any after-reproach\nof time misspent.\n\nTo begin, then, with Greece, whose literature has precedence over all\nothers, it will be remembered that in former days, when the citizen\nexpended the greater part of his activity for the common good, the\npoets in like manner sang of national topics, the gods, the heroes, and\nthe charms of love. There was, therefore, little opportunity for the\nexpression of purely personal ideas, and the whole background of the\npoetry of antiquity is in consequence brilliant with optimistic\neffect. Nevertheless, here and there, a few complaints crop out from\ntime to time. Homer, for instance, says that man is the unhappiest\nwight that ever breathed or strutted, and describes his ephemeral\nexistence in a wail of gloomy hexameters.\n\nThen, too, there is the touching Orphean distich, which runs:--\n\n     \"From thy smile, O Jove, sprang the gods,\n     But man was born of thy sorrow.\"\n\nPindar in one of his graceful odes compared men to the shadows of a\ndream, while the familiar quotation, \"Whom the gods love die young,\"\ncomes to us straight from Menander.\n\nWith the peculiar melancholy of genius, that in those favored days\nseems more a presentiment than the expression of a general conception,\nSophocles, in his last tragedy, says that not to be born at all is the\ngreatest of all possible benefits, but inasmuch as man has appeared on\nearth, the very best thing he can do is to hurry back where he came\nfrom.\n\nIn spite, too, of the general tendency of thought, sentiments not\ndissimilar are to be found in \u00c6schylus and Euripides, while something\nof this instinctive pessimism was expanded into a quaint and national\ncustom by the Thracians, who, according to Herodotus, met birth with\nlamentations, but greeted death with salvos and welcoming festivals.\n\nWith but few exceptions the early philosophers considered death not as\na misfortune, but as an advantage. Empedocles taught that the sojourn\non earth was one of vexatious torment, an opinion in which he was\nfirmly supported by Heraclitus, and even Plato, whose general drift of\nthought was grandly optimistic, said in the \"Apology,\" \"If death is the\nwithdrawal of every sensation, if it is like a sleep which no dream\ndisturbs, what an incomparable blessing it must be! for let any one\nselect a night passed in undisturbed and entire rest, and compare it\nwith the other nights and days that have filled his existence, and then\nfrom his conscience let him answer how many nights and days he has\nknown which have been sweeter and more agreeable than that. For my part\nI am sure that not the ordinary individual alone, but even the great\nKing of Persia would find such days and nights most easy to enumerate.\"\n\nThe doctrine of Epicurus held, in substance, that the moment it was no\nlonger possible to delight the senses death became a benefit, and\nsuicide a crowning act of wisdom. The teaching of the Socratic school\nand its offshoots amounted, in brief, to the idea that the only\nadmissible aim of life was the pursuit and attainment of absolute\nknowledge. Absolute knowledge, however, being found unattainable, the\nlogical culmination of their doctrine was delivered by Hegesias, in\nAlexandria, in the third century before the Christian era. This\ndisciple of Socrates argued that as there was a limit to the knowable,\nand happiness was a pure illusion, a further prolongation of existence\nwas useless. \"Life seems pleasing only to the fool,\" he stated; \"the\nwise regard it with indifference, and consider death just as\nacceptable.\" \"Death,\" he added, \"is as good as life; it is but a\nsupreme renunciation in which man is freed from idle complaints and\nlong deceptions. Life is full of pain, and the pangs of the flesh gnaw\nat the mind and rout its calm. In countless ways fate intercepts and\nthwarts our hopes. Contentment is not to be relied on, and even wisdom\ncannot preserve us from the treachery and insecurity of the\nperceptions. Since happiness, then, is intangible we should cease to\npursue it, and take for our goal the absence of pain; this condition,\"\nhe explained, \"is best obtained in making ourselves indifferent to\nevery object of desire and every cause of dislike, and above all to\nlife itself. In any event,\" he concluded, \"death is advantageous in\nthis, it takes us not from blessings but from evil.\"[1]\n\nThis curious mixture of pessimism and theology was, it is said,\ndelivered with such charm of persuasive grace and eloquence that\nseveral of his listeners put his ideas into instant practice, and that\nthe city might be preserved from the contagion of suicide, King Ptolemy\nfelt himself obliged to prevent this seductive misanthrope from\ndelivering any further harangues.\n\nLiterature has the same tendency to repeat itself as history, and as\nthe Romans took much of their culture and many of their ideas from\nGreece, the tone of their principal writers is only dissimilar to those\nalready quoted in that with the fall of their religion, the decline of\nthe empire and the universal intoxication of the senses, the pessimist\nelement became somewhat accentuated. It would be an idle task, however,\nto attempt to cite even a fraction of the cheerless distress which\npervades the Roman classics, and it will perhaps suffice for the moment\nto note but a passage or two, which bear directly upon the subject.\n\nSeneca, for instance, whose insight was as clear and whose\nunderstanding was as unclouded as any writer with whom the world is\nacquainted, sent his letters down the centuries freighted with such\nideas as these: \"Death is nature's most admirable invention.\" \"There is\nno need to complain of particular grievances, for life in its entirety\nis lamentable.\" \"No one would accept life were it not received in\nignorance of what it is.\"\n\nPliny, also, is very quotable. \"Nature's most pleasing invention,\" he\nsays, \"is brevity of life.\" And he adds, \"No mortal is happy, for even\nif there is no other cause for discontent there is at least the fear of\npossible misfortune.\"\n\nThen, too, Petronius, the poet of the Roman orgy, opening and closing\nhis veins, toying with death, as with a last and supreme delight, is of\nfamiliar, if repulsive, memory.\n\nEnglish literature is naturally as well stocked with individual\nexpressions of distaste for existence as that of Rome. The poets,\nnearly one and all, from Chaucer to Rossetti, have told their sorrow in\na variety of more or less polished metre, and even Macpherson was\ncareful, in dowering his century with another bard, to put thoughts\ninto Ossian's verse which would not have been unfitting in a Greek\nchorus.\n\nIn speaking of the world, Chaucer had already said,--\n\n     \"Here is no home, here is but a wilderness,\"\n\nwhen Sir Thomas Wyatt, enlarging on the theme, repeated,--\n\n     \"Wherefore come death and let me dye.\"\n\nThe delicate muse of Samuel Fletcher found--\n\n     \"Nothing's so dainty sweet, as lovely melancholy,\"\n\nand Shakespeare's depressing lines on the value of life are familiar to\nevery schoolboy.\n\nDryden wrote,--\n\n     \"When I consider life, 't is all a cheat;\n     Yet, fooled with hope, men favour the deceit,\n     Trust on and think to-morrow will repay;\n     To-morrow's falser than the former day.\"\n\nAll of which was afterwards summed up in the well-known line,--\n\n     \"Man never _is_ but always _to be_ blessed,\"\n\nwhile Thomson noted--\n\n     ... \"all the thousand, nameless ills\n     That one incessant struggle render life.\"\n\nKeats, and especially Byron, wrote stanza after stanza of enervating\nsadness. Moore's dear gazelle is nowadays a familiar comparison.\nShelley's tremulous sensibility forbade his finding any charm in life,\nand we none of us need to be reminded that Poe's soul was sorrow-laden.\n\nBut the poets are not alone in their tale of the deceptions of life;\nthe moralists and essayists, too, have added their quota to the general\nbudget, and it is not simply the value of life that has been questioned\nby many of the best writers; there has been also a certain surprise\nexpressed that man should care to live at all. Indeed, the \"I see no\nnecessity\" of the wit, to the beggar imploring aid that he might live,\nis the epigram of the thoughts of a hundred scholars.\n\nIn France, pessimism cannot be said to have been ever regarded\notherwise than as an intellectual curiosity. The Frenchman, it is true,\nnot infrequently lapses into a cynical indifference; yet the value of\nlife is as a rule so evident to him, that he seldom vouchsafes more\nthan a passing shrug to any theory of disparagement. In the first\nplace, death, to which the hat is gravely raised, has never been in\nFrance a polite or welcome topic; moreover, French literature, while\nlawless enough in other respects, has left its readers generally\nunprepared to view the world as a fiasco, in which misery is the one\nimmense success. The trouv\u00e8res and troubadours sang to the medi\u00e6val\nch\u00e2telaine little else than the praise of love, with here and there the\naccount of some combat, to show what they might do were they put to\nthe test. Later, Villon told gently of the _neiges d'antan_, Ronsard\naimed a dart or two at fate, and Rabelais's laugh was sometimes very\nnear to tears; but, broadly speaking, the French asked of their writers\nlittle else than wit,--if they could not give them that, then should\nthey hold their peace.\n\nThe delicate irony of Candide had, therefore, when appreciated,\nsomething almost novel in its savor; and, indeed, it may fairly be said\nthat it was not until the blight of Byron had been cheerfully\ntranslated, that the French were in any measure prepared to understand\nRolla and the pathetic beauties of De Musset's verse. Pascal,\nHelvetius, and other writers of desultory depression had of course\nalready appeared. Maupertuis had found no difficulty in showing that\nlife held more pain than pleasure, while Chamfort's conclusions on the\nsame subject were as luminous as they were gloomy; and yet it is\ndifficult to say that the gall with which these authors dashed their\npages served otherwise than as a condiment to fresher and less flavored\nworks. Baudelaire, the poet of boredom, praying for a new vice that\nshould wrest life into some semblance of reality, was in consequence\nalmost a novelty, and not a perfectly satisfactory one at that. It is\ntherefore only within the last ten years or so that pessimism has in\nany wise attracted the notice of French thinkers, and the attention\nwhich has recently been paid to it is due partly to Leconte de Lisle,\nand partly to a surge of German thought.\n\nDuring the eighteenth century the majority of the scholars who\nrepresented the culture of Germany were faithfully following the\noptimist theories of Leibnitz and Wolf. The doctrine that the world was\nthe best one possible, supported as it was by official theology and\nstrictly in accord with the deism of Pope and Paley, was very generally\nand unhesitatingly accepted. Indeed, there is no apparent reason why it\nshould not have been. The Minnesingers doubtless had formulated some\nfew complaints, but then these literary vagrants had already begun to\nform part of mythology, and besides, poets are all more or less prone\nto discontent and voluble of sorrow. Beyond the classics of Greece and\nRome there was, therefore, no precedent for pessimistic thought. German\nliterature, strictly speaking, did not begin until Lessing's advent,\nand before that the theatre, with its Hans Wurst and its Pickleherring,\nhad offered only a succession of the broadest farce.\n\nThe calm and quiet which the Germans then enjoyed was ruffled, if at\nall, only by some confused echoes of the _obiter dicta_ which\nVoltaire's royal disciple was pleased to disseminate, but it is\nprobable that the better part of this ferocious gayety was drowned in\ncrossing the Rhine, and, in any event, it was too delicately pungent to\ndo more than disturb the placid current of their thought.\n\nLater, when Kant appeared, the effect of his philosophy was very much\nlike a successful treatment of cataract on the eyes of the whole\nnation. \"Happiness,\" he insisted in the \"Kritik der Urtheilskraft,\"\n\"has never been attained by man, for he is unable to find contentment\nin any possession or enjoyment, ... and were he called upon to fashion\na system of happiness for his fellows he would be unable to do so, for\nhappiness is in its essence intangible.\" \"No one,\" he added elsewhere,\n\"has a right conception of life who would care to prolong it beyond its\nnatural duration, for it would then be only the continuation of an\nalready tiresome struggle.\"\n\nAfter this the teaching of Leibnitz slowly disappeared, and though a\ncertain amount of optimism necessarily subsisted, the tendency of\nthought veered to the opposite direction. Fichte, Kant's immediate\nsuccessor, declared, in direct contradiction to Leibnitz, that this\nworld was the worst one possible, and was only consoled by thinking he\ncould raise himself by the aid of pure thought into the felicity of the\n\"supersensible.\" \"Men,\" he says, \"in the vehement pursuit of happiness\ngrasp at the first object which offers to them any prospect of\nsatisfaction, but immediately they turn an introspective eye and ask,\n'Am I happy?' and at once from their innermost being a voice answers\ndistinctly, 'No, you are as poor and as miserable as before.' Then they\nthink it was the object that deceived them, and turn precipitately to\nanother. But the second holds as little satisfaction as the first....\nWandering then through life, restless and tormented, at each\nsuccessive station they think that happiness dwells at the next, but\nwhen they reach it happiness is no longer there. In whatever position\nthey may find themselves there is always another one which they discern\nfrom afar, and which but to touch, they think, is to find the wished\ndelight, but when the goal is reached discontent has followed on the\nway and stands in haunting constancy before them.\"[2]\n\nSchelling expressed himself more guardedly. As professional pantheist,\nhe seemed to think that anything not rigidly vague and inaccessible was\ninconsistent with his philosophy. Still there was probably a secret\nrevolt, some propelling impulse to deny his own syllogisms, and to\nbathe for once in some clear stream of common sense. In the\n\"Nachtwachen,\" which he published under the pseudonym of Bonaventura,\nthis incentive is evidently, though unsuccessfully, at work. It may be\nthat the force of habit was too strong, but at any rate this rhapsody,\nwhich was intended to be a confession of the combat that he had waged\nwith his belief, and a recognition of the immedicable misery of life,\nbrings with it something of that impression of delirium which Poe and\nDor\u00e9 not infrequently suggest.\n\nNor was Hegel hostile to pessimism; he regarded it as an inevitable\nphase of universal evolution, and indeed its dawn as a science had then\nalready broken.\n\nMeanwhile the poets had not been idle. Herder and Schiller had already\nattested the bitterness of life to unreluctant ears, and the number of\nsuicides that were directly traceable to the appearance of Werther and\nhis sorrows was instructively large. This phase of sentimentalism,\nwhich immediately preceded the riotous rebirth of the Romantic school,\nwas not without its influence on Heine's verse, and in some measure\naffected the literary tone of the day.\n\nIt would, however, be erroneous to suppose that the poets of this epoch\nwere more agitated by the impression of universal worthlessness of life\nthan were their classic predecessors. The distress of Werther, as that\nof Lara and of Rolla, was not the pain of suffering humanity; it was in\neach case merely the poet's complacent analysis of his own exceptional\nnature and personal grievances; it was the expression of the inevitable\nsurprise of youth, which notes for the first time reality's unsuspected\nyet yawning indifference to the ideal, and the stubborn disaccord\nbetween aspiration and fact. It was indeed very beautiful and elegiac,\nand yet so fluent in its polished melancholy that somehow it did not at\nall times seem to have been really felt. In any case, it was not a\ntheory of common woe, and lacked that clear conception of the\nuniversality of suffering, which the less exalted minds of the\nphilosophers had already signaled, but for which no one as yet had been\nable to suggest a remedy.\n\nIt was about this time that an action was being instituted against\nhumanity by a young Italian, the Count Giacomo Leopardi, and the\nmuffled discontent which for centuries had been throbbing through land\nand literature was raised by his verse into one clear note of eloquent\narraignment.\n\nNow, in most countries there is a provision which inhibits a judge from\nhearing a cause which is pleaded by one of his connections, for it is\nconsidered that the scales of justice are so delicately balanced, that\ntheir holder should be preserved from any biasing influence, however\nindirect; for much the same reason, there are few communities that\npermit a man to sit in judgment on his own case. Some knowledge of\nLeopardi himself, therefore, will be of service in deciding whether the\nverdict which he brought against the world should be accepted without\nappeal, or returned as vitiated by extraneous circumstances.\n\nLeopardi passed a joyless boyhood at Recanti, one of those maddeningly\nmonotonous Italian towns whose unspeakable dreariness is only\nattractive when viewed through the pages of Stendhal. The unrelaxing\nseverity of an austere and pedant father curbed, as with a bit, every\nsymptom of that haphazard gayety which is incident to youth. At once\nprecocious and restive, deformed yet inflammable, he was necessarily\nenervated by the exasperating dullness of his life, and chafed, too, by\nthe rigid poverty to which his father condemned him. As he grew up,\nhis mind, richly stored with the wealth of antiquity, rioted in a\nturbulency of imagination which, unable to find sympathetic welcome\nwithout, consumed itself in morbid distrust within, and led him at last\nfrom fervid Catholicism down the precipitate steps of negation.\n\nHe was not much over twenty before excessive study had well-nigh ruined\nsuch health as he once possessed. The slightest application was\nwearisome both to eye and brain. He wandered silently about the\nneighboring forests, seeking solitude not only for the sake of\nsolitude, but also perhaps for the suggestions, at once soothing and\nrebellious, which solitude always whispers to him who courts her truly.\nAt other times he sat hour by hour in a state as motionless as that of\ncatalepsy. \"I am so much overcome,\" he wrote to a friend, \"by the\nnothingness that surrounds me, that I do not know how I have the\nstrength to answer your letter. If at this moment I lost my reason, I\nthink that my insanity would consist in sitting always with eyes fixed,\nopen-mouthed, without laughing or weeping, or changing place. I have no\nlonger the strength to form a desire, be it even for death.\"\n\nThe Muse, however, would have none of this; she flaunted her peplum so\nseductively before him that, a little later, when he had been visited\nby some semblance of returning health, he resisted no longer, and\ndelivered himself up to her, heart and soul.\n\nThe present century, especially during its earlier decades, has been\nracked with a great glut of despondent verse; but no batch of poets,\nhowever distressed, has been able, at any time, to catch and cling to\nsuch a persistent monotone of complaint as that which runs through\nevery line of Leopardi's verse. To quote De Musset:--\n\n     \"Les plus d\u00e9sesp\u00e9r\u00e9s sont les chants les plus beaux,\n     Et j'en sais d'immortels qui sont de purs sanglots.\"\n\nHis odes, his adjurations to Italy, and his elegies are, one and all,\nstamped with such unvarying and changeless despair, that their dominant\nmotive seems not unlike that tower which Ren\u00e9, finding alone in the\ndesert, compared to a great thought in a mind ravaged by years and by\ngrief. His theory of life never altered; he resumed it in a distich,--\n\n     ... \"Arcano \u00e9 tutto\n     Fuor che il nostro dolor.\"\n\nIt may be said, and with justice perhaps, that it was the invalid body,\naggravating and coexisting with a mind naturally morbid, that\nafterwards wrote of the _gentilezza del morir_, but it was the thinker,\nconquering the ills of the flesh, who later whispered to the suffering\nworld the panacea of patience and resignation.\n\nIn Leopardi there is none of the vapid elegance and gaudy vocabulary of\nFrench verse; technically, he wrote in what the Italians call _rime\nsciolte_, and he charms the reader as well through a palpitant\nsincerity as evident and continuous inspiration. Now, the educated\nItalian turns naturally to rhyme; any incident holds to him the germ\nof a sonnet, and there is perhaps no other country in the world so\nrichly dowered with patriotic canzoni as this joyously unhappy land.\nBut of all who have sounded this eloquent chord, not one has done so\nwith the masculine originality and fervor of expression that Leopardi\nreached in his ode to Italy, in which, in a resounding call to arms, he\nexclaims:--\n\n     \"Let my blood, O gods! be a flame to Italian hearts.\"\n\nItalian hearts, however, had other matters to attend to, and Leopardi's\nmagnificent invocation was barely honored with a passing notice. For\nthat matter, his poetry, in spite of its resonant merit, has, through\nsome inexplicable cause, been generally ignored; and while it resembles\nno other, it has never, so to speak, been in vogue.\n\nAs has been seen, he was a lover of solitude; indeed, it would not be\nan exaggeration to say that he was glued to it; and in the isolation\nwhich he partly made himself, and which was partly forced upon him, he\nwatched the incubation of thought very much as another might have noted\nthe progress of a disease. A life of this description, even at best, is\nhardly calculated to awaken much enthusiasm for every-day matters, and\nit was not long before Leopardi became not only heartily sick of the\ncommonplace aspects of life, but contemptuous, too, of those who lived\nin broader and more active spheres.\n\nPoetically untrammeled, and of advanced views on all subjects, he\nregarded erudition as the simple novitiate of the man of letters, or in\nother words, as a preparation which renders the intelligence supple and\npliant; and in one of those rare moments, when the timid approach of\nambition was seemingly unnoticed, he caressed the pleasing plan of\nattacking Italian torpor with reason, passion with laughter, and of\nbecoming, in fact, the Plato, the Shakespeare, and the Lucian of his\nepoch. To Giordani, his mentor, he wrote: \"I study night and day, so\nlong as my health permits; when it prevents me from working, I wait a\nmonth or so, and then begin again. As I am now totally different from\nthat which I was, my plan of study has altered with me. Everything\nwhich savors of the pathetic or the eloquent wearies me beyond\nexpression. I seek now only the true, the real, which before was so\nrepulsive. I take pleasure in analyzing the misery of men and things,\nand in shivering as I note the sinister and terrible mystery of life. I\nsee very clearly that when passion is once extinguished, there subsists\nin study no other source of pleasure save that of vain curiosity, whose\nsatisfaction, however, is not without a certain charm.\"\n\nBut Leopardi was so essentially the poet that, in spite of his growing\ndisdain of the pathetic and the eloquent, he became not infrequently\nthe dupe of his own imagination. That which he took for the fruit of\ndeduction was probably little more than ordinary hypochondria, and in\nturning as he did to other work, he was never able to free himself\nentirely from the jealous influence of the muse.\n\nHe was, from a variety of causes, very miserable himself, and his\nbelief in universal misery amounted very nearly to a mania. His logic\nreduced itself to the paraphrase of an axiom, \"I am, therefore I\nsuffer,\" and the suffering which he experienced was not, he was very\nsure, limited solely to himself. It was, he considered, the garment and\nappanage of every sentient being. In this he was perfectly correct, but\nhis error consisted in holding all cases to be equally intense, and in\nimagining that means might be devised which would at once do away with\nor, at least, lessen the evil. Patience and resignation he had already\nsuggested, but naturally without appreciable success; indeed, the\nregeneration of man, he clearly saw, was not to be brought about\nthrough verse, and he turned therefore to philosophy with a fixity of\npurpose, which was strengthened by the idea that he could work therein\nanother revolution. This was in 1825. Leopardi at that time was in his\ntwenty-seventh year, and the task to which he then devoted himself was,\nhe said, to be the sad ending of a miserable life. His intention was to\nrun the bitter truth to earth, to learn the obscure destinies of the\nmortal and the eternal, to discover the wherefore of creation, and the\nreason of man's burden of misery. \"I wish,\" he said, \"to dig to the\nroot of nature and seek the aim of the mysterious universe, whose\npraises the sages sing, and before which I stand aghast.\"\n\nForthwith, then, in the \"Operette Morale,\" Leopardi began a resolute,\nif poetic, siege against every form of illusion. His philosophy,\nhowever, provoked no revolution, nor can it be even said that he\ndiscovered any truth more bitter than the old new ones, which antiquity\nhad unearthed before him. His work, nevertheless, sent the old facts\nspinning into fresh and novel positions, and is to be particularly\nadmired for the artistic manner in which it handles the most stubborn\ntopics. The starting point of each of his arguments is that life is\nevil; to any objection, and the objections that have been made are\ncountless, Leopardi has one invariable reply, \"All that is advanced to\nthe contrary is the result of illusion.\" \"But supposing life to be\npainless,\" some one presumably may interject, whereupon Leopardi, with\nthe air of an oracle, too busy with weighty matters to descend to\nchit-chat on the weather, will answer tersely, \"Evil still.\"\n\nIt is useless for the practical man of the day, who knows the price of\nwheat the whole world over before he has tasted his coffee, and who\ndigests a history of the world's doings and misdoings each morning with\nhis breakfast,--it is useless for him to say, as he invariably\ndoes:--Why, this is rubbish, look at modern institutions, look at\nprogress, look at science; for if he listens to Leopardi he will learn\nthat all these palpable advantages have, in expanding activity, only\naggravated the misery of man. In other words, that the sorrows of men\nand of nations develop in proportion to their intelligence, and the\nmost civilized are in consequence the most unhappy.\n\nIndeed, Leopardi's philosophy is nothing if not destructive; he does\nnot aim so much to edify as to undermine. According to his theory the\nuniverse is the resultant of an unconscious force, and this force, he\nteaches, is shrouded in a vexatious mystery, behind which it is not\ngiven to man to look. In one of his dialogues, certain mummies\nresurrect for a quarter of an hour and tell in what manner they died.\n\"And what follows death?\" their auditor asks, eagerly. But the quarter\nof an hour has expired and the mummies relapse into silence.\n\nIn another fantastic scene, an Icelander, convinced that happiness is\nunattainable, and solely occupied in avoiding pain, has, in shunning\nsociety, found himself in the heart of the Sahara, face to face with\nNature. This Icelander, who, by the way, singularly resembles Leopardi,\nhad found but one protection against the ills of life, and that was\nsolitude; but wherever he wandered he had been pursued by a certain\nmalevolence. In spite of all he could do, he had roasted in summer and\nshivered in winter. In vain he had sought a temperate climate: one land\nwas an ice-field, another an oven, and everywhere tempests or\nearthquakes, vicious brutes or distracting insects. In short, unalloyed\nmisery. Finding himself, at last, face to face with Nature he took her\nto task, demanding what right she had to create him without his\npermission, and then, having done so, to leave him to his own devices?\nNature answers that she has but one duty, and that is to turn the wheel\nof the universe, in which death supports life, and life death. \"Well,\nthen,\" the obstinate Icelander asks, \"tell me at least for whose\npleasure and for what purpose this miserable universe subsists?\" But\nbefore Nature can enlighten her embarrassing questioner, he is\nsurprised by two famished lions and conveniently devoured.\n\nThe moral of all this is not difficult to find. Life, such as it is, is\nall this is accorded. Beyond it there is only an impenetrable silence.\nThe blue of the heavens is pervasive, but void. The hope of\nultramundane felicity is, therefore, an illusion, and man is to seek\nsuch happiness as is possible only in this life. But if it be asked\nwhat the possibilities of earthly happiness are, Leopardi is quick to\ntell his reader that there are none at all.\n\nAs has been seen, he regarded life as an evil; and he insisted in so\nregarding it, not only as a whole, but in each of its fractional\ndivisions. This idea is quaintly expressed in a dialogue between a\nsorcerer and a demon, the latter having been presumably summoned with\nan incantatory blue flame. The demon is somewhat sulky at first, and\nasks why he has been disturbed. Is it wealth that the sorcerer wishes?\nIs it glory or grandeur? But the sorcerer has neither greed nor\nambition.\n\n\"Do you wish me to procure for you a woman as captiously capricious as\nPenelope?\"\n\nThe sorcerer probably smiles, for he answers wittily:--\n\n\"Do you think I need the aid of a devil for that?\"\n\nThus outfaced, the demon begs to know in what manner he may be of\nservice.\n\n\"I simply want one moment of happiness,\" the sorcerer answers.\n\nBut Mephisto declares, on his word as a gentleman, that such a thing is\nimpossible, because the desire for happiness is insatiable, and no one\ncan be happy so long as it is unsatisfied.\n\n\"Well, then?\" the sorcerer asks, moodily querulous.\n\n\"Well, then,\" answers the demon, \"if you think it worth while to give\nme your soul before the time, behold me ready to oblige you.\"\n\nSince happiness, then, is intangible, the wisest thing to do is to try\nto be as little unhappy as possible. One of the chief opponents to such\na state of being is evidently discontent, and this, Leopardi hints,\nshould be routed at any cost, and the yawning spectre of ennui flung\nwith it into fettered exile. In the warmth of these instructions it is\ncurious to note how Leopardi turns on himself, so to speak, and\nrecommends as cure-all the very activity which he had before\nproscribed. In his dialogue between Columbus and Gutierrez, the\nnavigator admits to his discouraged companion that the success of the\nundertaking is far from certain; \"but,\" he adds, \"even if no other\nbenefit accrue from our voyage, it will be an advantage at least in\nthis; it has for a certain time delivered us from boredom; it has made\nus love life, and appreciate, moreover, many things of which otherwise\nwe would have thought nothing.\"\n\nIt should not, however, be supposed that Leopardi had no higher rule of\nlife than that which is circumscribed in the narrow avoidance of\ndiscontent. That man has certain duties to perform, he frequently\nadmitted, but he denied that he owed any to the unconscious and\ntyrannical force which had given him life. \"I will never kiss,\" he\nsaid, \"the hand that strikes.\" Any obligation to society was equally\nout of the question. \"Society,\" he noted in the _Pensieri_, \"is a\nleague of blackguards against honest men.\" Man's duties are to himself\nalone; and the essence of Leopardi's ethics (as, indeed, of all other\nethics) is held simply in the recommendation that virtue and\nself-esteem be preserved. \"To thine own self be true,\" Polonius had\nsaid long before, and to this Leopardi had nothing to add.\n\nThe illusions which hamper life have been so clearly and thoroughly\nanalyzed by other thinkers, whose conclusions will be found to\nconstitute the groundwork of the subsequent part of this monograph,\nthat it will be unnecessary at this stage to examine any of Leopardi's\ntheories on this subject, save such, perhaps, as may seem to contain\noriginal views. He had, as has been intimated, a thorough contempt for\nlife: \"It is,\" he said, \"fit but to be despised.\" _Nostra vita a che\nval, sola a spregiarla._ He was, in consequence, well equipped to\ncombat the illusion which leads so many to imagine that were their\ncircumstances different, they would then be thoroughly content. This\nidea is presented with vivacious ingenuity in a dialogue between a man\npeddling calendars and a passer-by.\n\nIt runs somewhat as follows:--\n\n    \"Calendars! New calendars!\"\n\n    \"For the coming year?\"\n\n    \"Yes, sir.\"\n\n    \"Do you think the year will be a good one?\"\n\n    \"Yes, indeed, sir.\"\n\n    \"As good as last year?\"\n\n    \"Better, sir,--better.\"\n\n    \"As year before last?\"\n\n    \"Much better, sir.\"\n\n    \"But wouldn't you care to have the next year like any of the\n    past years?\"\n\n    \"No, sir, I would not.\"\n\n    \"For how long have you been selling calendars?\"\n\n    \"Nearly twenty years, sir.\"\n\n    \"Well, which of these twenty years would you wish to have\n    like the coming one?\"\n\n    \"I? I really don't know, sir.\"\n\n    \"Can't you remember any one year that seemed particularly\n    attractive?\"\n\n    \"I cannot, indeed, I cannot.\"\n\n    \"And yet life is very pleasant, isn't it?\"\n\n    \"Oh, yes, sir, we all know that.\"\n\n    \"Would you not be glad to live these twenty years over\n    again?\"\n\n    \"God forbid, sir.\"\n\n    \"But supposing you had to live your life over again?\"\n\n    \"I would not do it.\"\n\n    \"But what life would you care to live? mine, for instance, or\n    that of a prince, or of some other person?\"\n\n    \"Ah, sir, what a question!\"\n\n    \"And yet, do you not see that I, or the prince, or any one\n    else, would answer precisely as you do, and that no one would\n    consent to live his life over again?\"\n\n    \"Yes, sir, I suppose so.\"\n\n    \"Am I to understand, then, that you would not live your life\n    over again?\"\n\n    \"No, sir, truly, I would not.\"\n\n    \"What life would you care for, then?\"\n\n    \"I would like, without any other condition, such a life as\n    God might be pleased to give me.\"\n\n    \"In other words, one which would be happy-go-lucky, and of\n    which you would know no more than you do of the coming year.\"\n\n    \"Exactly.\"\n\n    \"Well, then, that is what I would like too; it is what every\n    one would like, and for the simple reason that up to this\n    time there is no one whom chance has not badly treated. Every\n    one agrees that the misery of life outbalances its pleasure,\n    and I have yet to meet the man who would care to live his\n    old life over. The life which is so pleasant is not the life\n    with which we are personally acquainted; it is another life,\n    not the life that we have lived, but the life which is to\n    come. Next year will treat us all better; it will be the\n    beginning of a happy existence. Do you not think it will?\"\n\n    \"Indeed, I hope so, sir.\"\n\n    \"Show me your best calendar.\"\n\n    \"This one, sir; it is thirty soldi.\"\n\n    \"Here they are.\"\n\n    \"Thank you, sir, long life to you, sir. Calendars! new\n    calendars!\"\n\nThere are few scenes as clever as this, and fewer still in which irony\nand humor are so delicately blended; and yet, notwithstanding its\nstudied bitterness, there is little doubt that its author clearly\nperceived that life does hold one or two incontestable charms.\n\nIn speaking of glory, Pascal noted in his \"Pens\u00e9es\" that even\nphilosophers seek it, and those who wrote it down wished the reputation\nof having written it down well. To this rule Leopardi was no exception;\nhe admitted as much on several occasions; and even if he had not done\nso, the fact would have been none the less evident from the burnish of\nhis verse and the purity of his prose, which was not that of a writer\nto whom the opinion of others was indifferent. In the essay, therefore,\nin which he attacks the illusion of literary renown, he reminds one\nforcibly of Byron hurrying about in search of the visible isolation\nwhich that simple-minded poet so seriously pursued; and yet while no\nother writer, perhaps, has been more thoroughly given to _pose_ than\nthe author of \"Childe Harold,\" there are few who have been so entirely\ndevoid of affectation as Leopardi. The comparative non-success of his\nwritings, however, was hardly calculated to make him view with any\ngreat enthusiasm the subject of literary fame; and as, moreover, he\nconsidered it his mission to besiege all illusions, he held up this one\nin particular as a seductive chimera and attacked it accordingly.\n\nIn the \"Ovvero della Gloria,\" he says reflectively: \"Before an author\ncan reach the public with any chance of being judged without prejudice,\nthink of the amount of labor which he expends in learning how to write,\nthe difficulties which he has to overcome, and the envious voices which\nhe must silence. And even then, what does the public amount to? The\nmajority of readers yawn over a book, or admire it because some one\nelse has admired it before them. It is the style that makes a book\nimmortal; and as it requires a certain education to be a judge of\nstyle, the number of connoisseurs is necessarily restricted. But beyond\nmere form there must also be depth, and as each class of work\npresupposes a special competence on the part of the critic, it is easy\nto see how narrow the tribunal is which decides an author's reputation.\nAnd even then, is it one which is thoroughly just? In the first place,\nthe critic, even when competent, judges--and in that he is but\nhuman--according to the impression of the moment, and according to the\ntastes which age or circumstances have created. If he is young, he\nlikes brilliance; old, he is unimpressionable. Great reputations are\nmade in great cities, and it is there that heart and mind are more or\nless fatigued. A first impression, warped in this way, may often become\nfinal; for if it be true that valuable works should be re-read, and are\nonly appreciated with time, it is also true that at the present time\nvery few books are read at all. Supposing, however, the most favorable\ncase: supposing that a writer, through the suffrage of a few of his\ncontemporaries, is certain of descending to posterity as a great\nman,--what is a great man? Simply a name, which in a short time will\nrepresent nothing. The opinion of the beautiful changes with the days,\nand literary reputations are at the mercy of their variations; as to\nscientific works, they are invariably surpassed or forgotten. Nowadays,\nany second-rate mathematician knows more than Galileo or Newton.\"\nGenius, then, is a sinister gift, and its attendant glory but a vain\nand empty shadow.\n\nThe life of Leopardi, as told by his biographers, is poetically\nsuggestive of the story of the pale Armide, who burned the palace that\nenchanted her; and the similarity becomes still more noticeable when he\nis found hacking and hewing at the illusion of love. Personally\nconsidered, Leopardi was not attractive; he was undersized, slightly\ndeformed, near-sighted, prematurely bald, nervous, and weak; and though\nphysical disadvantages are often disregarded by women, and not\ninfrequently inspire a compassion which, properly tended, may warm into\nlove, yet when the body, weak and infirm as was his, incases the\nstrength and lurid vitality of genius, the unlovable monstrosity is\ncomplete. Indeed, in this respect, it may be noted that while the love\nof a delicate-minded woman for a coarse and stupid ruffian is an\nanomaly of daily repetition, there are yet few instances in which\ngenius, even when strong of limb, has succeeded in inspiring a great\nand enduring affection.\n\nAgainst Leopardi, then, the house of love was doubly barred. When he\nwas about nineteen, he watched the usual young girl who lives over the\nway, and with a _na\u00efvet\u00e9_ which seems exquisitely pathetic he made no\nsign, but simply watched and loved. The young lady does not appear to\nhave been in any way conscious of the mutely shy adoration which her\nbeauty had fanned into flame, and at any rate paid no attention to the\nsickly dwarf across the street. She sat very placidly at her window, or\nelse fluttered about the room humming some old-fashioned air. This went\non for a year or more, until finally she was carried away in a rumbling\ncoach, to become the willing bride of another.\n\nThis, of course, was very terrible to Leopardi. Through some inductive\nprocess, which ought to have been brought about by the electric\ncurrents which he was establishing from behind the curtain, he had in\nhis lawless fancy made quite sure that his love would sooner or later\nbe felt and reciprocated. When, therefore, from his hiding place he saw\nthe bride depart in maiden ignorance of her conquest, and entirely\nunconscious of the sonnets which had been written in her praise, the\npoet's one sweet hope faded slowly with her.\n\nThis pure and sedate affection remained vibrant in his memory for many\nyears, and formed the theme of so many reveries and songs that love\nfinally appeared to him as but another form of suffering. In after\nlife, when much of the lustre of youthful candor had become dull and\ntarnished, he besieged the heart of another lady, but this time in a\nbolder and more enterprising fashion. His suit, however, was\nunsuccessful. It may be that he was too eloquent; for eloquence is\nrarely captivating save to the inexperienced, and the man who makes\nlove in rounded phrases seems to the practised eye to be more artistic\nthan sincere. At all events, his affection was not returned. The\nphantom had passed very close, but all he had clutched was the air. He\nwas soon conscious, however, that he had made that mistake which is\ncommon to all imaginative people: it was not the woman he loved, it was\nbeauty; not woman herself, but the ideal. It was a conception that he\nhad fallen in love with; a conception which the woman, like so many\nothers, had the power to inspire, and yet lacked the ability to\nunderstand. This time Leopardi was done with love, and forthwith\nattacked it as the last, yet most tenacious, of all illusions. \"It is,\"\nhe said, \"an error like the others, but one which is more deeply\nrooted, because, when all else is gone, men think they clutch therein\nthe last shadow of departing happiness. Error beato,\" he adds, and so\nit may be, yet is he not well answered by that sage saying of Voltaire,\n\"L'erreur aussi a son m\u00e9rite\"?\n\nIt was in this way that Leopardi devastated the palace from whose\nfeasts he had been excluded. At every step he had taken he had left\nsome hope behind; he had been dying piecemeal all his life; he was\nconfessedly miserable, and this not alone on account of his poverty and\nwretched health, but chiefly because of his lack of harmony with the\nrealities of existence. The world was to him the worst one possible,\nand he would have been glad to adorn the gate of life with the\nsimplicity of Dante's insistent line,--\n\n     \"Lasciate ogni speranza voi ch'entrate.\"\n\n\"There was a time,\" he said, \"when I envied the ignorant and those who\nthought well of themselves. To-day, I envy neither the ignorant nor the\nwise, neither the great nor the weak; I envy the dead, and I would only\nchange with them.\"\n\nThis, of course, was purely personal. Toward the close of his life he\nrecognized that his judgment had been in a measure warped by the\npeculiar misfortunes of his own position, but in so doing he seemed\nalmost to be depriving himself of a last, if sad, consolation. Nor did\nhe ever wholly recant, and it is in the conception of the universality\nof misery which stamped all his writings, and which, even had he\nwished, he was then powerless to alter, that his relation to the\ntheoretic pessimism of to-day chiefly rests.\n\nAs a creed, the birthplace of pessimism is to be sought on the banks of\nthe Ganges, or far back in the flower-lands of Nepaul, where the\ninitiate, with every desire lulled, awaits Nirv\u00e2na, and murmurs only,\n\"Life is evil.\"\n\nNow, as is well known, in every religion there is a certain\nmetaphysical basis which is designed to supply an answer to man's first\nquestion; for while the animal lives in undismayed repose, man of all\ncreated things alone marvels at his own existence and at the\ndestruction of his fellows. To his first question, then, What is life\nand death? each system attempts to offer a perfect reply; indeed, the\ntemples, cathedrals, and pagodas clearly attest that man at all times\nand in all lands has continually demanded that some reply should be\ngiven, and it is perhaps for this very reason that where other beliefs\nhave found fervent adherents, neither materialism nor skepticism have\nbeen ever able to acquire a durable influence. It is, however, curious\nto note that in attempting the answer, nearly every creed has given an\nunfavorable interpretation to life. Aside from the glorious lessons of\nChristianity, its teaching, in brief, is that the world is a vale of\ntears, that nothing here can yield any real satisfaction, and that\nhappiness, which is not for mortals, is solely the recompense of the\nransomed soul. To the Brahmin, while there is always the hope of\nabsorption in the Universal Spirit, life meanwhile is a regrettable\naccident. But in Buddhism, which is perhaps the most na\u00efve and yet the\nmost sublime of all religions, and which through its very combination\nof simplicity and grandeur appeals to a larger number of adherents than\nany other, pessimism is the beginning, as it is the end.\n\nTo the Buddhist there is reality neither in the future nor in the past.\nTo him true knowledge consists in the perception of the nothingness of\nall things, in the consciousness of--\n\n     \"The vastness of the agony of earth,\n     The vainness of its joys, the mockery\n     Of all its best, the anguish of its worst;\"\n\nand in the desire to escape from the evil of existence into the entire\naffranchisement of the intelligence. To the Buddhist,--\n\n                                ... \"Sorrow is\n     Shadow to life, moving where life doth move.\"\n\nThe Buddhist believes that the soul migrates until Nirv\u00e2na is attained,\nand that in the preparation for this state, which is the death of\nDeath, the nothingness of a flame extinguished, there are four degrees.\nIn the first, the novitiate learns to be implacable to himself, yet\ncharitable and compassionate to others. He then acquires an\nunderstanding into the nature of all things, until he has suppressed\nevery desire save that of attaining Nirv\u00e2na, when he passes initiate\ninto the second degree, in which judgment ceases. In the next stage,\nthe vague sentiment of satisfaction, which had been derived from\nintellectual perfection, is lost, and in the last, the confused\nconsciousness of identity disappears. It is at this point that Nirv\u00e2na\nbegins, but only begins and stretches to vertiginous heights through\nfour higher degrees of ecstasy, of which the first is the region of\ninfinity in space, the next, the realm of infinity in intelligence,\nthen the sphere in which nothing is, and, finally, the loss of even the\nperception of nothing. When Death is dead, when all have attained\nNirv\u00e2na, then, according to the Buddhist, the universe will rock\nforevermore in unconscious rest.\n\nIn brief, then, life to the Christian is a probation, to the Brahmin a\nburden, to the Buddhist a dream, and to the pessimist a nightmare.\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[Footnote 1: Zeller, _Philosophie der Griechen_.]\n\n[Footnote 2: _Werke_, _v._ p. 408, _et seq._]\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II.\n\nTHE HIGH PRIEST OF PESSIMISM.\n\n\nArthur Schopenhauer, the founder of the present school, was born toward\nthe close of the last century, in the now mildewed city of Dantzic. His\npeople came of good Dutch stock, and were both well-to-do and peculiar.\nHis grandmother lost her reason at the death of her husband, a\ncircumstance as unusual then as in more recent years; his two uncles\npassed their melancholy lives on the frontiers of insanity, and his\nfather enjoyed a reputation for eccentricity which his end fully\njustified.\n\nThis latter gentleman was a rich and energetic merchant, of educated\ntastes and excitable disposition, who, when well advanced in middle\nlife, married the young and gifted daughter of one of the chief\nmagnates of the town. Their union was not more unhappy than is usually\nthe case under similar circumstances, his time being generally passed\nwith his ledger, and hers with the poets.\n\nWith increasing years, however, his untamable petulance grew to such an\nextent that he was not at all times considered perfectly sane, and it\nis related that on being visited one day by a lifelong acquaintance,\nwho announced himself as an old friend, he exclaimed, with abrupt\nindignation, \"Friend, indeed! there is no such thing; besides, people\ncome here every day and say they are this, that, and the other. I don't\nknow them, and I don't want to.\" A day or two later, he met the same\nindividual, greeted him with cheerful cordiality, and led him amiably\nhome to dinner. Shortly after, he threw himself from his warehouse to\nthe canal below.\n\nHe had always intended that his son, who was then in his sixteenth\nyear, should continue the business; and to prepare him properly for his\nduties he had christened him Arthur, because he found that name was\npretty much the same in all European languages, and furthermore had\nsent the lad at an early age first to France, and then to England, that\nhe might gain some acquaintance and familiarity with other tongues.\n\nThe boy liked his name, and took naturally to languages, but he felt no\ndesire to utilize these possessions in the depressing atmosphere of\ncommercial life, and after his father's death loitered first at the\nbenches of Gotha and then at those of G\u00f6ttingen.\n\nMeanwhile his mother established herself at Weimar, where she soon\nattracted to her all that was brilliant in that brilliant city. Goethe,\nWieland, Fernow, Falk, Grimm, and the two Schlegels were her constant\nguests. At court she was received as a welcome addition, and such an\neffect had these surroundings upon her imagination, that in not very\nmany years she managed to produce twenty-four compact volumes of\ncriticism and romance.\n\nDuring this time her son was not idle. Thoroughly familiar with ancient\nas with modern literature, he devoted his first year at G\u00f6ttingen to\nmedicine, mathematics and history; while in his second, which he passed\nin company with Bunsen and William B. Astor, he studied physics,\nphysiology, psychology, ethnology and logic; as these diversions did\nnot quite fill the hour, he aided the flight of idle moments with a\nguitar.\n\nHe was at this time a singularly good-looking young man, possessing a\ngrave and expressive type of beauty, which in after years developed\ninto that suggestion of majestic calm for which the head of Beethoven\nis celebrated, while to his lips there then came a smile as\nrelentlessly implacable as that of Voltaire.\n\nFrom boyhood he had been of a thoughtful disposition, finding wisdom in\nthe falling leaf, problems in vibrating light, and movement in\nimmobility. Already he had wrung his hands at the stars, and watched\nthe distant future rise with its flouting jeer at the ills of man. In\nthis, however, there was little of the cheap sentimentalism of Byron,\nand less of the weariness of Lamartine. His griefs were purely\nobjective; life to him was a perplexing riddle, whose true meaning was\nwell worth a search; and as the only possible solution of the gigantic\nenigma seemed to lie in some unexplored depth of metaphysics, he soon\nafter betook himself to Berlin, where Fichte then reigned as Kant's\nlegitimate successor. But the long-winded demonstrations that Fichte\naffected, his tiresome verbiage, lit, if at all, only by some trivial\ntruism or trumpery paradox, bored Schopenhauer at first well-nigh to\ndeath, and then worked on his nerves to such an extent that he longed,\npistol in hand, to catch at his throat, and cry, \"Die like a dog you\nshall; but for your pitiful soul's sake, tell me if in all this rubbish\nyou really mean anything, or take me simply for an imbecile like\nyourself.\" For Schopenhauer, it should be understood, had passed his\nnights first with Plato and then with Kant; they were to him like two\ngiants calling to one another across the centuries, and that this\nhuckster of phrases should pretend to cloak his nakedness with their\nmantle seemed to him at once indecent and absurd.\n\nSchelling pleased him no better; he dismissed him with a\nword,--mountebank; but for Hegel, Caliban-Hegel as he was wont in after\nyears to call him, his contempt was so violent that, with a prudence\nwhich is both amusing and characteristic, he took counsel from an\nattorney as to the exact limit he might touch in abusing him without\nbecoming amenable to a suit for defamation. \"Hegel's philosophy,\" he\nsaid, \"is a crystalized syllogism; it is an abracadabra, a puff of\nbombast, and a wish-wash of phrases, which in its monstrous\nconstruction compels the mind to form impossible contradictions, and\nin itself is enough to cause an entire atrophy of the intellect.\" \"It\nis made up of three fourths nonsense and one fourth error; it contains\nwords, not thoughts;\" and then, rising in his indignation to the\nheights of quotation, he added, \"'Such stuff as madmen tongue and brain\nnot.'\" Time, it may be noted, has to a great extent indorsed\nSchopenhauer's verdict. The tortures of Fichte, Schelling, and Hegel\nlinger now in the history of philosophy very much as might the memory\nof a nightmare, and except in a few cobwebbed halls the teachings of\nthe three sophists may safely be considered as a part of the\ninexplicable past.\n\nIt should not, however, be supposed that because he found the\nphilosophy of the moment so little to his taste he necessarily\nsquandered his time; on the contrary, he turned to Aristotle and\nSpinoza for consolation, and therewith followed sundry lectures in\nmagnetism, electricity, ichthyology, amphiology, ornithology, zo\u00f6logy,\nand astronomy, all of which he enlivened with rapid incursions to the\nrich granaries of Rabelais and Montaigne, and moreover gave no little\ntime to the study of the religion and philosophy of India.\n\nIt was at this time characteristic of the man, that while his\nappearance, wealth, and connections would have formed an open letter to\nthe best society in Berlin, which was then heterogeneously agreeable,\nor even to the worst, which is said to have been charming, he preferred\nto pass his leisure hours in scrutinizing the animals in the\nZo\u00f6logical Gardens, and in studying the inmates of the State Lunatic\nAsylum.\n\nIn this _cit\u00e0 dolente_ his attention was particularly claimed by two\nunfortunates who, while perfectly conscious of their infirmity, were\nyet unable to master it; in proof of which, one wrote him a series of\nsonnets, and the other sent him annotated passages from the Bible.\n\nIn the second year of his student life at Berlin the war of 1813 was\ndeclared, and Schopenhauer was in consequence obliged to leave the city\nbefore he had obtained his degree. He prepared, however, and forwarded\nto the faculty at Jena an elaborate thesis, which he entitled the\nQuadruple Root of Conclusive Reason,--a name which somewhat astounded\nhis mother, who asked him if it were something for the apothecary,--and\nmeanwhile prowled about Weimar meditating on the philosophy which he\nhad long intended to produce. He visited no one but Goethe, took\numbrage at his mother's probably harmless relations with Fernow,\ntreated her to discourse not dissimilar to that which Hamlet had\naddressed to his own parent, received his degree from Jena, and then\nwent off to Dresden, where he began to study women with that\nmicroscopic eye which he turned on all subjects that engaged his\nattention.\n\nThe result of these studies was an essay on the metaphysics of love,\nwhich he thereupon attached to his budding system of philosophy; an\naxiom to the effect that women are rich in hair and poor in thought;\nand the same misadventure that befell Descartes.\n\nHis life at Dresden was necessarily much less secluded than that to\nwhich he had been hitherto accustomed; he became an _habitu\u00e9_ at the\nopera and comedy, a frequent guest in literary and social circles, and,\nas student of men and things, he went about disturbing draperies and\ndisarranging screens, very much as any other philosopher might do who\nwas bent on seeing the world.\n\nMeanwhile, he was not otherwise idle: the morning he gave to work, and\nin the afternoon he surrendered himself to Nature, whom he loved with a\npassionate devotion, which increased with his years. The companionship\nof men was always more or less irksome to him; and while it was less so\nperhaps at this time than at any other, it was nevertheless with a\nsense of relief that he struck out across the inviting pasture-lands of\nSaxony, or down the banks of the Elbe, and left humanity behind, in\nsearch of that open-air solitude which is Nature's nearest friend.\n\nIn the companionship of others he was constantly seeking a trait or a\nsuggestion, some hint capable of development; when in the world,\ntherefore, he flashed a lantern, so to speak, at people, and then\npassed them by; but in the open country he communed with himself, and\nstrolled along, note-book in hand, jotting down the thoughts worth\njotting very much after the manner that Emerson is said to have\nrecommended.\n\nWith regard to the majority of men, it will not seem reckless to say\nthat their end and aim is happiness and self-satisfaction; but however\ntrite the remark may be, it may still perhaps serve to bring into\nrelief something of Schopenhauer's distinctive purpose. It would, of\ncourse, be foolish to assert that he did not care for his own\nhappiness, and disregarded his own satisfaction, for of these things\nfew men, it is imagined, have thought more highly. If his ideas of\nhappiness diverged widely from those generally received as standards,\nit has but little to do with the matter in hand, for the point which is\nintended to be conveyed is simply that above all other things, beyond\nthe culture of self, that which Schopenhauer cared for most was truth,\nand that he pursued it, moreover, as pertinaciously as any other\nthinker whom the world now honors. Whether he ran it to earth or not,\nthe reader must himself decide; indeed, it was very many years before\nany one even heard that he had been chasing it at all. Of late,\nhowever, some of the best pickets who guard the literary outposts from\nBoston to Bombay have brought a very positive assurance that he did\ncatch it, and, moreover, held it fast long enough to wring out some\nsingularly valuable intimations.\n\nIn hurrying along after his quarry, Schopenhauer became convinced that\nlife was a lesson which most men learned trippingly enough, but whose\nmoral they failed to detect; and this moral, which he felt he had\ncaught on the wing, as it were, he set about dissecting with a great\nand sumptuous variety of reflection.\n\nWandering, then, on the banks of the Elbe, massing his thoughts and\narranging their progression, his system slowly yet gradually expanded\nbefore him. He wrote only in moments of inspiration, yet his hours were\nfull of such moments; little by little he drifted away from the opera\nand his friends into a solitude which he made populous with thought,\nand in this manner gave himself up so entirely to his philosophy that\none day, it is reported, he astonished an innocent-minded gate-keeper,\nwho asked him who he was, with the weird and pensive answer, \"Ah! if I\nbut knew, myself!\"\n\nMeanwhile his work grew rapidly beneath his hands, and when after four\nyears of labor and research \"Die Welt als Wille und Vorstellung\" was so\nfar completed as to permit its publication, he read it over with\nsomething of the same unfamiliarity which he would have experienced in\nreading the work of another author, though, doubtless, with greater\nsatisfaction.\n\nFascinated with its merits, he offered the manuscript to Brockhaus, the\nLeipsic publisher. \"My book,\" he wrote, \"is a new system of philosophy,\nbut when I say new I mean new in every sense of the word; it is not a\nrestatement of what has been already expressed, but it is in the\nhighest degree a continuous flow of thought such as has never before\nentered the mind of mortal man. It is a book which, in my opinion, is\ndestined to rank with those which form the source and incentive to\nhundreds of others.\"\n\nBrockhaus, familiar with the proverbial modesty of young authors, lent\nbut an inattentive ear to these alluring statements, and accepted the\nbook solely on account of the reputation which Schopenhauer's mother\nthen enjoyed; a mark of confidence, by the way, which he soon deeply\nregretted. \"It is so much waste paper,\" he said, dismally, in after\nyears; \"I wish I had never heard of it.\" He lived long enough, however,\nto change his mind, and in 1880 his successors published a stout little\npamphlet containing the titles of over five hundred books and articles,\nof which the \"World as Will and Idea\" formed the source and incentive.\n\"Le monde,\" Montaigne has quaintly noted, \"regorge de commentaires,\nmais d'auteurs il en est grand chiert\u00e9.\"\n\nSchopenhauer's philosophy first appeared in 1818; but while it was\nstill in press, its author, like one who has sprung a mine and fears\nthe report, fled away to Italy, where he wandered about from Venice to\nNaples bathing his senses in color and music. He associated at this\ntime very willingly with Englishmen, and especially with English\nartists and men of letters. Germans and Americans he avoided, and as\nfor Jews, he not only detested them, but expressed an admiring approval\nof Nebuchadnezzar, and only regretted that he had been so lenient with\nthem. \"The Jews are God's chosen people, are they?\" he would say,\n\"very good; tastes differ, they certainly are not mine.\" In this\ndislike he made no exception, and scenting in after years some of the\n_foetor judaicus_ on Heine and Meyerbeer, he refused them the\nattention which others were only too glad to accord. Schopenhauer's\ndistaste, however, for everything that savored of the Israelite will be\nperhaps more readily understood when it is remembered that the Jews, as\na race, are optimists, and their creed, therefore, to him, in his\nconsistency, was like the aggressive flag to the typical bull.\n\nWith the Germans he had another grievance. \"The Germans,\" he said, \"are\nheavy by nature; it is a national characteristic, and one which is\nnoticeable not only in the way they carry themselves, but in their\nlanguage, their fiction, their conversation, their writings, their way\nof thinking, and especially in their style and in their mania for\nconstructing long and involved sentences. In reading German,\" he\ncontinued, \"memory is obliged to retain mechanically, as in a lesson,\nthe words that are forced upon it, until after patient labor a period\nis reached, the keynote is found, and the meaning disentangled. When\nthe Germans,\" he added, \"get hold of a vague and unsuitable expression\nwhich will completely obscure their meaning, they pat themselves on the\nback; for their great aim is to leave an opening in every phrase,\nthrough which they may seem to come back and say more than they\nthought. In this trick they excel, and if they can manage to be\nemphatic and affected at the same time, they are simply afloat in a sea\nof joy. Foreigners hate all this, and revenge themselves in reading\nGerman as little as possible.... Wherefore, in provision of my death, I\nacknowledge that on account of its infinite stupidity I loathe the\nGerman nation, and that I blush to belong thereto.\"\n\nAt various _tables-d'h\u00f4te_ Schopenhauer had encountered traveling\nYankees, and objected to them accordingly. \"They are,\" he said, \"the\n_plebs_ of the world, partly, I suppose, on account of their republican\ngovernment, and partly because they descend from those who left Europe\nfor Europe's good. The climate, too,\" he added, reflectively, \"may have\nsomething to do with it.\" Nor did Frenchmen escape his satire. \"Other\nparts of the world have monkeys; Europe has Frenchmen, _\u00e7a balance_.\"\n\nBut with Englishmen he got on very well, and during his after life\nalways talked to himself in their tongue, wrote his memoranda in\nEnglish, and read the \"Times\" daily, advertisements and all.\n\nMeanwhile Schopenhauer held his hand to his ear unavailingly. From\nacross the Alps there came to him no echo of any report, only a silence\nwhich was ominous enough to have assured any other that the fusee had\nnot been properly applied. But to him it was different; he had, it is\ntrue, expected a reverberation which would shake the sophistry of all\ncivilization, and when no tremor came he was mystified, but only for\nthe moment. He had been too much accustomed to seek his own dead in the\ngreat morgue of literature not to know that any man, who is to belong\nto posterity, is necessarily a stranger to his epoch. And that he was\nto belong to posterity he had no possible doubt; indeed he had that\nprescience of genius which foresees its own future, and he felt that\nhowever tightly the bushel might be closed over the light, there were\nstill crevices through which it yet would shine, and from which at last\nsome conflagration must necessarily burst.\n\nIt was part of the man to analyze all things, and while it cannot be\nsaid that the lack of attention with which his philosophy had been\nreceived left him entirely unmoved, it would be incorrect to suppose\nthat he was then sitting on the pins and needles of impatience.\n\nDeeply reflective, he was naturally aware that as everything which is\nexquisite ripens slowly, so is the growth of fame proportioned to its\ndurability. And Schopenhauer meant to be famous, and this not so much\nfor fame's sake, as for the good which his fame would spread with it.\nHe could therefore well afford to wait. His work was not written\nespecially to his own epoch, save only in so far as his epoch was part\nof humanity collectively considered. It did not, therefore, take him\nlong to understand that as his work was not tinted with any of the\nlocal color and fugitive caprices of the moment, it was in consequence\nunadapted to an immediate and fictitious vogue. Indeed, it may be added\nthat the history of art and literature is eloquent with the examples of\nthe masterpieces which, unrewarded by contemporary appreciation, have\npassed into the welcome of another age; and of these examples few are\nmore striking than that of the absolute indifference with which\nSchopenhauer's philosophy was first received.\n\nIt was presumably with reflections of this nature that Schopenhauer\nshrugged his shoulders at the inattention under which he labored, and\nwandered serenely among the treasuries and ghosts of departed Rome.\n\nAbout this time an incident happened which, while not possessing any\nvery vivid interest, so affected his after life as to be at least\ndeserving of passing notice. Schopenhauer was then in his thirty-first\nyear. On coming of age, he had received his share of his father's\nproperty, some of which he securely invested, but the greater part he\ndeposited at high interest with a well-known business house in Dantzic.\nWhen leaving for Italy, he took from this firm notes payable on demand\nfor the amount which they held to his credit, and after he had cashed\none of their bills, learned that the firm was in difficulties. Shortly\nafter, they suspended payment, offering thirty per cent. to those of\ntheir creditors who were willing to accept such an arrangement, and\nnothing to those who refused.\n\nAll the creditors accepted save Schopenhauer, who, with the wile of a\ndiplomat, wrote that he was in no hurry for his money, but that perhaps\nif he were made preferred creditor he might accept a better offer. His\ndebtors fell into the trap, and offered him first fifty, and then\nseventy per cent. These offers he also refused. \"If,\" he wrote, \"you\noffer me thirty per cent. when you are able to pay fifty, and fifty per\ncent. when you are able to pay seventy, I have good reason to suspect\nthat you can pay the whole amount. In any event, my right is perennial.\nI need not present my notes until I care to. Settle with your other\ncreditors, and then you will be in a better position to attend to me. A\nwise man watches the burning phoenix with a certain pleasure, for he\nwell knows what that crafty bird does with its ashes. Keep my money,\nand I will keep your drafts. When your affairs are straightened either\nwe will exchange, or you will be arrested for debt. I am, of course,\nvery sorry not to be able to oblige you, and I dare say you think me\nvery disagreeable, but that is only an illusion of yours, which is at\nonce dispelled when you remember that the money is my own, and that its\npossession concerns my lifelong freedom and well-being. You will say,\nperhaps, that if all your creditors thought as I do, it would be deuced\nhard for me. But if all men thought as I do, not only would more be\nthought, but there would probably be neither bankrupts nor swindlers.\nMachiavelli says, Giacch\u00e8 il volgo pensa altrimente,--although the\ncommon herd think otherwise,--ma nel mondo non \u00e9 se non volgo,--and\nthe world is made up of the common herd,--e gli pocchi ivi luogo\ntrovano,--yet the exceptions take their position,--dove gli molti stare\nnon possono,--where the crowd can find no foot-hold.\"\n\nBy the exercise of a little patience, and after a few more dagger\nthrusts of this description, Schopenhauer recovered the entire amount\nwhich was due him, together with the interest in full. But the danger\nwhich he had so cleverly avoided gave him, so to speak, a retrospective\nshock; the possibility of want had brushed too near for comfort's sake.\nHe was thoroughly frightened; and in shuddering at the cause of his\nfright he experienced such a feeling of insecurity with regard to what\nthe future might yet hold that he determined to lose no time in seeking\na remunerative shelter. With this object he returned to Berlin, and as\n_privat-docent_ began to lecture on the history of philosophy.\n\nHegel was then in the high tide of his glory. Scholars from far and\nnear came to listen to the man who had compared himself to Christ, and\nsaid, \"I am Truth, and teach truth.\" In the \"Reisebilder,\" Heine says\nthat in the learned caravansary of Berlin the camels collected about\nthe fountain of Hegelian wisdom, kneeled down, received their burden of\nprecious waters, and then set out across the desert wastes of\nBrandenburg.\n\nAt that time not to bend before Hegel was the blackest and most wanton\nof sins. To disagree with him was heretical, and as few understood his\nmeaning clearly enough to attempt to controvert it, it will be readily\nunderstood that in those days there was very little heresy in Berlin.\n\nAmong the few, however, Schopenhauer headed the list. \"I write to be\nunderstood,\" he said; and indeed no one who came in contact with him or\nwith his works had ever the least difficulty in seizing his meaning and\nunderstanding his immense disgust for the \"pachyderm hydrocephali,\npedantic eunuchs, apocaliptic retinue della bestia triumphante,\" as in\nafter years, with gorgeous emphasis, he was wont to designate Hegel and\nhis clique. The war that he waged against them was truly Homeric. He\ndenounced Hegel in a manner that would have made Swinburne blush; then\nhe attacked the professors of philosophy in general and the Hegelians\nin particular, and finally the demagogues who believed in them, and who\nhad baptized themselves \"Young Germany.\"\n\nFor the preparation of such writings as theirs he had a receipt, which\nwas homeopathic in its simplicity. \"Dilute a minimum of thought in five\nhundred pages of nauseous phraseology, and for the rest trust to the\nGerman patience of the reader.\" He also suggested that for the wonder\nand astonishment of posterity every public library should carefully\npreserve in half calf the complete works of the great philosophaster\nand his adorers; and, considering very correctly that philosophers\ncannot be hatched like bachelors of arts, he further recommended that\nthe course in philosophy should be cut from the University programmes,\nand the teaching in that branch be limited to logic. \"You can't write\nan Iliad,\" he said, \"when your mother is a dolt, and your father is a\ncotton nightcap.\"\n\nThere are few debts which are so faithfully acquitted as those of\ncontempt; and as Schopenhauer kicked down every screen, tore off every\nmask, and jeered at every sham, it would be a great stretch of fancy to\nimagine that he was a popular teacher. But this at least may be said:\nhe was courageous, and he was strong of purpose. In the end, he dragged\nGermany from her lethargy, and rather than take any other part in\nHegelism than that of spectre at the feast, he condemned himself to an\nalmost lifelong obscurity. If, therefore, he seems at times too bitter\nand too relentless, it should be remembered that this man, whom Germany\nnow honors as one of her greatest philosophers, fought single-handed\nfor thirty years, and routed the enemy at last by the mere force and\nlash of his words.\n\nBut in the mean time, while Hegel was holding forth to crowded halls,\nhis rival, who, out of sheer bravado, had chosen the same hours,\nlectured to an audience of about half a dozen persons, among whom a\ndentist, a horse-jockey, and a captain on half pay were the more\nnoteworthy. Such listeners were hardly calculated to make him\nfrantically attached to the calling he had chosen, and accordingly at\nthe end of the first semester he left the empty benches to take care of\nthemselves.\n\nEarly in life Schopenhauer wrote in English, in his note-book,\n\"Matrimony--war and want!\" and when the _privat-docent_ had been\ndecently buried, and the crape grown rusty, he began to consider this\nlittle sentence with much attention. As will be seen later on, he\nobjected to women as a class on purely logical grounds,--they\ninterfered with his plan of delivering the world from suffering; but\nagainst the individual he had no marked dislike, only a few pleasing\nepigrams. During his Dresden sojourn, as in his journey to Italy, he\nhad knelt, in his quality of philosopher who was seeing the world, at\nmany and diverse shrines, and had in no sense wandered from them\nsorrow-laureled; but all that had been very different from assuming\nlegal responsibilities, and whenever he thought with favor of the\n_petits soins_ of which, as married man, he would be the object, the\nphantom of a milliner's bill loomed in double columns before him.\n\nShould he or should he not, he queried, fall into the trap which nature\nhas set for all men? The question of love did not enter into the matter\nat all. He believed in love as most well-read people believe in William\nTell; that is, as something very inspiring, especially when treated by\nRossini, but otherwise as a myth. Nor did he need Montaigne's hint to\nbe assured that men marry for others and not for themselves. The\nsubject, therefore, was somewhat complex: on the one side stood the\nattention and admiration which he craved, and on the other an eternal\nfarewell to that untrammeled freedom which is the thinker's natural\nheath.\n\nThe die, however, had to be cast then or never. He was getting on in\nlife, and an opportunity had at that time presented itself, a\nrepetition of which seemed unlikely. After much reflection, and much\nweighing of the pros and cons, he concluded that it is the married man\nwho supports the full burden of life, while the bachelor bears but\nhalf, and it is to the latter class, he argued, that the courtesan of\nthe muses should belong. Thereupon, with a luxury of reminiscence and\nquotation which was usual to him at all times, he strengthened his\nresolution with mental foot-notes, to the effect that Descartes,\nLeibnitz, Malebranche, and Kant were bachelors, the great poets\nuniformly married and uniformly unhappy; and supported it all with\nBacon's statement that \"he that hath wife and children has given\nhostages to fortune, for they are impediments to great enterprises,\neither of virtue or of mischief.\"\n\nIn 1831 the cholera appeared in Berlin, and Schopenhauer, who called\nhimself a choleraphobe by profession, fled before it in search of a\nmilder and healthier climate. Frankfort he chose for his hermitage, and\nfrom that time up to the day of his death, which occurred in September,\n1860, he continued to live there in great peace and tranquillity.\n\nSchopenhauer should in no wise be represented as having passed his life\nin building dungeons in Spain. Like every true scholar he was, in the\nabsence of his peers, able to live with great comfort with the dead. He\nwas something of a Mezzofanti; he spoke and read half a dozen languages\nwith perfect ease, and he could in consequence enter any library with\nthe certainty of finding friends and relations therein. For the\ncompanionship of others he did not care a rap. He was never so lonely\nas when associating with other people, and of all things that he\ndisliked the most, and a catalogue of his dislikes would fill a\nchapter, the so-called entertainment headed the obnoxious list.\n\nHe had taken off, one by one, the different layers of the social nut,\nand in nibbling at the kernel he found its insipidity so great that he\nhad small approval for those who made it part of their ordinary diet.\nIt should not, however, be supposed that this dislike for society and\nthe companionship of others sprang from any of that necessity for\nsolitude which is noticeable in certain cases of hypochondria; it was\nsimply due to the fact that he could not, in the general run of men,\nfind any one with whom he could associate on a footing of equality. If\nVoltaire, Helvetius, Kant, or Cabanais, or, for that matter, any one\npossessed of original thoughts, had dwelled in the neighborhood,\nSchopenhauer, once in a while, would have delighted in supping with\nthem; but as agreeable symposiasts were infrequent, he was of necessity\nthrown entirely on his own resources. His history, in brief, is that of\nthe malediction under which king and genius labor equally. Both are\ncondemned to solitude; and for solitude such as theirs there is neither\nchart nor compass. Of course there are many other men who in modern\ntimes have also led lives of great seclusion, but in this respect it\nmay confidently be stated that no thinker of recent years, Thoreau not\nexcepted, has ever lived in isolation more thorough and complete than\nthat which was enjoyed by this blithe misanthrope.\n\nIt is not as though he had betaken himself to an unfrequented waste, or\nto the top of an inaccessible crag; such behavior would have savored of\nan affectation of which he was incapable, and, moreover, would have\ntold its story of an inability to otherwise resist the charms of\nsociety. Besides, Schopenhauer was no anchorite; he lived very\ncomfortably in the heart of a populous and pleasant city, and dined\ndaily at the best _table d'h\u00f4te_, but he lived and dined utterly alone.\n\nHe considered that, as a rule, a man is never in perfect harmony save\nwith himself, for, he argued, however tenderly a friend or mistress may\nbe beloved, there is at times some clash and discord. Perfect\ntranquillity, he said, is found only in solitude, and to be permanent\nonly in absolute seclusion; and he insisted that the hermit, if\nintellectually rich, enjoys the happiest condition which this life can\noffer. The love of solitude, however, can hardly be said to exist in\nany one as a natural instinct; on the contrary, it may be regarded as\nan acquired taste, and one which must be developed in indirect\nprogression. Schopenhauer, who cultivated it to its most supreme\nexpression, admitted that at first he had many fierce struggles with\nthe natural instinct of sociability, and at times had strenuously\ncombated some such Mephistophelian suggestion as,--\n\n     \"H\u00f6r' auf, mit deinem Gram zu spielen,\n     Der, wie ein Geier, dir am Leben frisst:\n     Die schlechteste Gesellschaft l\u00e4sst dich f\u00fchlen\n     Dass du ein Mensch, mit Menschen bist.\"\n\nBut solitude, more or less rigid, is undoubtedly the lot of all\nsuperior minds. They may grieve over it, as Schopenhauer says, but of\ntwo evils they will choose it as the least. After that, it is\npresumably but a question of getting acclimated. In old age the\ninclination comes, he notes, almost of itself. At sixty it is well-nigh\ninstinctive; at that age everything is in its favor. The incentives\nwhich are the most energetic in behalf of sociability then no longer\nact. With advancing years there arises a capacity of sufficing to one's\nself, which little by little absorbs the social instinct. Illusions\nthen have faded, and, ordinarily speaking, active life has ceased.\nThere is nothing more to be expected, there are no plans nor projects\nto form, the generation to which old age really belongs has passed\naway, and, surrounded by a new race, one is then objectively and\nessentially alone.\n\nThen, too, many things are clearly seen, which before were as veiled by\na mist. As the result of long experience very little is expected from\nthe majority of people, and the conclusion is generally reached that\nnot only men do not improve on acquaintance, but that mankind is made\nup of very defective copies, with which it is best to have as little to\ndo as possible.\n\nBut beyond converting his life into a monodrama with reflections of\nthis description, Schopenhauer considered himself to be a missionary of\ntruth, and in consequence as little fitted for every-day companionship\nas missionaries in China feel themselves called upon to fraternize with\nthe Chinese. It was the rule of his life to expect nothing, desire as\nlittle as possible, and learn all he could, and as little was to be\nexpected and nothing was to be learned from the majority of the dull\nruffians who go to the making of the census, it is not to be wondered\nthat he trod the thoroughfares of thought alone and dismissed the\nmajority of men with a shrug.\n\n\"They are,\" he said, \"just what they seem to be, and that is the worst\nthat can be said of them.\" Epigrams of this description were naturally\nnot apt to increase his popularity. But for that he cared very little.\nHe considered that no man can judge another save by the measure of his\nown understanding. Of course, if this understanding is of a low degree,\nthe greatest intellectual gifts which another may possess convey to him\nno meaning; they are as colors to the blind; and consequently, in a\ngreat nature there will be noticed only those defects and weaknesses\nwhich are inseparable from every character.\n\nBut to such a man as Schopenhauer,--one who considered five sixths of\nthe population to be knaves or blockheads, and who had thought out a\nsystem for the remaining fraction,--to such a man as he, the question\nof esteem, or the lack thereof, was of small consequence. He cared\nnothing for the existence which he led in the minds of other people. To\nhis own self he was true, to the calling of his destiny constant, and\nhe felt that he could sit and snap his fingers at the world, knowing\nthat Time, who is at least a gentleman, would bring him his due\nunasked.\n\nSchopenhauer's character was made up of that combination of seeming\ncontradictions which is the peculiarity of all great men. He had the\naudacity of childhood and the timidity of genius. He was suspicious of\nevery one, and ineffably kind-hearted. With stupidity in any form he\nwas blunt, even to violence, and yet his manner and courtesy were such\nas is attributed to the gentlemen of the old school. If he was an\negotist, he was also charitable to excess; and who shall say that\ncharity is not the egotism of great natures? He was honesty itself, and\nyet thought every one wished to cheat him. To mislead a possible thief\nhe labeled his valuables Arcana Medica, put his banknotes in\ndictionaries, and his gold pieces in ink bottles. He slept on the\nground floor, that he might escape easily in case of fire. If he heard\na noise at night he snatched at a pistol, which he kept loaded at his\nbedside. Indeed, he might have chosen for his motto, \"Je ne crains rien\nfors le dangier,\" and yet who is ever so foolish as a wise man? Kant's\nbiography is full of similar vagaries, and one has but to turn to the\nhistory of any of the thinkers whose names are landmarks in literature,\nto find that eccentricities no less striking have also been recorded of\nthem.\n\nVoltaire said, \"On aime la vie, mais le n\u00e9ant ne laisse pas d'avoir du\nbon;\" and Schopenhauer, not to be outdone, added more massively, that\nif one could tap on the tombs and ask the dead if they cared to return,\nthey would shake their heads. His views of life, however, and of the\nworld in general, will be considered later on, and for the moment it is\nbut necessary to note that he regarded happiness as consisting solely\nin the absence of pain, and laid down as one of the supreme rules for\nthe proper conduct of life that discontent should be banished as far as\npossible into the outer darkness.\n\nWhen, therefore, to this Emerson in black there came those moments of\nrestlessness and dissatisfaction which visit even the most philosophic,\nhe would argue with himself in a way which was almost pathetic, and\ncertainly na\u00efve; it was not he that was moody and out of sorts, it was\nsome _privat-docent_ lecturing to empty halls, some one who was abused\nby the Philistines, some defendant in a suit for damages, some one\nwhose fortune was engulfed perhaps beyond recovery, some lover\npleading to inattentive ears, some one attacked by one of the thousand\nills that flesh is heir to; yet this was not he; these things truly he\nmight have endured and suffered as one bears for a moment an ill-made\nshoe, but now the foot no longer ached; indeed, he was none of all\nthis, he was the author of the \"Welt als Wille und Vorstellung,\" and\nwhat had the days to do with him!\n\nBut through all the intervening years the book had lain unnoticed on\nthe back shelves of the Leipsic publisher; and Schopenhauer, who had at\nfirst been puzzled, but never disheartened, at the silence which had\nsettled about it, became convinced that through the influence of the\nthree sophists at Berlin, all mention of its merit had been suppressed\nfrom the start.\n\n\"I am,\" he said, \"the Iron Mask, the Caspar Hauser of philosophy,\" and\nthereupon he pictured the Hegelians as looking admiringly at his\nsystem, very much as the man in the fairy tale looked at the genie in\nthe bottle which, had he allowed it to come out, would carry him off.\nTruth, however, which is long-lived, can always afford to wait; and\nSchopenhauer, with something of the complacency of genius that is in\nadvance of its era, held his fingers on the public pulse and noted the\nquickening which precedes a return to consciousness. Germany was waking\nfrom her torpor. Already the influence of Hegel had begun to wane; his\nschool was split into factions, and his philosophy, which in solving\nevery problem had left the world nothing to do but to bore itself to\ndeath, was slowly falling into disrepute. Moreover, the great class of\nunattached scholars and independent thinkers, who cared as little for\nUniversity dogmas as they did for the threats of the Vatican, were\nearnestly watching for some new teacher.\n\nSchopenhauer was watching too; he knew that a change was coming, and\nthat he would come in with the change. He had but to wait. \"My extreme\nunction,\" he said, \"will be my baptism; my death, a canonization.\"\n\nMeanwhile old age had come upon him unawares, but with it the rich\nfruition of lifelong study and reflection. The perfect tranquility in\nwhich he passed his days had been utilized in strengthening and\nexpanding his work, and in 1843, in his fifty-sixth year, the second\nand complementary volume of his philosophy was completed.\n\nTwelve months later he wrote to Brockhaus, his publisher:--\n\n\"I may tell you in confidence that I am so well pleased with this\nsecond volume, now that I see it in print, that I really think it will\nbe a great success.... If, now, in return for this great work, you are\nwilling to do me a very little favor, and one that is easily performed,\nI will beg you each Easter to let me know how many copies have been\nsold.\"\n\nFor two years he heard nothing, then in answer to a letter from him,\nBrockhaus wrote:--\n\n\"In reply to your inquiry concerning the sale of your book, I can only\ntell you that, to my sorrow, I have made a very poor business out of\nit. Further particulars I cannot enter into.\"\n\n\"Many a rose,\" Schopenhauer murmured, as he refolded the note and\nturned to other things.\n\nIn 1850, when, after six years' daily labor, he had completed his last\nwork, \"Parerga und Paralipomena,\" his literary reputation was still so\ninsignificant that Brockhaus refused to publish it. Schopenhauer then\noffered it, unavailingly, to half a dozen other publishers. No one\nwould have anything to do with it; the name which it bore would have\nfrightened a pirate, and the boldest in the guild was afraid to examine\nits contents. \"One thing is certain,\" said Schopenhauer, reflectively,\n\"I am unworthy of my contemporaries, or they of me.\" The \"Parerga,\"\nhowever, in spite of the lack of allurement in its title, was not\ndestined to wither in manuscript. After much reconnoitring a publisher\nwas discovered in Berlin who, unwillingly, consented to produce it, and\nthereupon two volumes of the most original and entertaining essays were\ngiven to the public. For this work Schopenhauer received ten copies in\nfull payment.\n\nMeanwhile a few adherents had rallied about him. Brockhaus, in an\nattempt to make the best of a bad bargain, had marked the \"Welt\" down\nto the lowest possible price, and a few copies had in consequence\nfallen into intelligent hands. Among its readers there were some who\ncame to Frankfort to make the author's acquaintance; a proceeding\nwhich pleased, yet alarmed Schopenhauer not a little.\n\nOne of them wrote to people with whom he was unacquainted, advising\nthem to read the work at once. \"He is a fanatic,\" said Schopenhauer, in\ncomplacent allusion to him, \"a fanatic, that's what he is.\"\n\nDr. Gwinner, his subsequent biographer, whom he met about this time,\nwas his apostle, while Dr. Frauenstadt, another Boswell, whose\nacquaintance he made at _table d'h\u00f4te_, he called his arch-evangelist,\nand, not without pathos, repeated to him Byron's seductive lines,--\n\n     \"In the desert a fountain is springing,\n       In the white waste there still is a tree,\n     And a bird in the solitude singing,\n       That speaks to my spirit of thee.\"\n\nThese gentlemen, together with a few others, made up a little band of\nsturdy disciples, who went about wherever they could, speaking and\nwriting of the merits of Schopenhauer's philosophy. But the first note\nof acclamation which, historically speaking, was destined to arouse the\nthinking world, came, curiously enough, from England.\n\nIn 1853 the \"Westminster Review\" published a long and laudatory article\non Schopenhauer's philosophy; and this article Lindner, the editor of\nthe \"Vossiche Zeitung,\" to whom Schopenhauer had given the title of\n_doctor indefatigabilis_, reproduced in his own journal. In the\nfollowing year Dr. Frauenstadt published, in a well-written\npamphlet[3] which only needed a little more order and symmetry to be a\nvaluable handbook, a complete exposition of the doctrine; and the\napplause thus stimulated re\u00ebchoed all over Germany. The \"Welt als Wille\nund Vorstellung,\" the \"World as Will and Idea,\" which for so many years\nhad lain neglected, was dragged from its musty shelf like a Raphael\nfrom a lumber-room; and the fame to which Schopenhauer had not made a\nsingle step came to him as fame should, unsought and almost unbidden.\n\n\"My old age,\" he said, \"is brighter now than most men's youth, for time\nhas brought its roses at last; but see,\" he added, touching his\nsilvered hair, \"they are white.\"\n\nFrom all sides now came evidences of the most cordial recognition. The\nreviews and weeklies published anecdotes about him and extracts from\nhis works. Indeed, it was evident that the Iron Mask had escaped, and\nthat to Caspar Hauser light and air had at last been accorded.\nThinkers, scholars, and philosophers, of all creeds and colors, became\nhis attentive readers. Decorations were offered to him, which he\nunostentatiously refused. The Berlin Academy, within whose walls Hegel\nhad reigned supreme, invited him to become one of its faculty. This\nhonor he also declined. \"They have turned their back on me all my\nlife,\" he said, \"and after my death they want my name to adorn their\ncatalogues.\" His philosophy was lectured upon at Breslau, and the\nUniversity of Leipsic offered it as a subject for a prize essay. All\nthis was very pleasant. Much to his indignation, however, for he was by\nnature greatly disinclined to serve as pastime to an idle public, the\n\"Illustrirte Zeitung\" published his likeness, and added insult to\ninjury by printing his name with two p's. Ah! how truly has it been\nsaid that fame consists in seeing one's name spelt wrong in the\nnewspapers!\n\nOne of the most flattering manifestations of this sudden vogue was the\ncuriosity of the public, the number of enthusiasts that visited him,\nand the eagerness with which artists sought to preserve his features\nfor posterity. To all this concert of praise it is difficult to say\nthat Schopenhauer lent a rebellious ear. The success of his philosophy\nof disenchantment enchanted him. He accepted with the seriousness of\nchildhood the bouquets and sonnets which rained in upon him on his\nsubsequent birthdays, and in his letters to Frauenstadt alluded to his\nascending glory with innocent and amusing satisfaction:--\n\n                    FRANKFORT, _September 23, 1854._\n\n     ... A fortnight ago, a Dr. K., a teacher, came to see me; he\n     entered the room and looked so fixedly at me that I began to\n     be frightened, and then he cried out, \"I must look at you, I\n     will look at you, I came to look at you.\" He was most\n     enthusiastic. My philosophy, he told me, restored him to\n     life. What next?...\n\n                    _June 29, 1855._\n\n     ... B. called to-day; he had been here for twenty-four hours\n     under an assumed name, and after many hesitations came in a\n     closed carriage to pay his respects.... On taking leave, he\n     kissed my hand. I screamed with fright....\n\n                    _August 17, 1855._\n\n     ... My portrait, painted by Luntesch\u00fctz, is finished and\n     sold. Wiesike saw it in time, and bought it while it was\n     still on the easel. But the unheard-of part of the whole\n     matter is that he told me, and Luntesch\u00fctz too, that he was\n     going to build a temple on purpose for it. That will be the\n     first chapel erected in my honor. Recitativo, \"Ja, ja,\n     Sarastro herrschet hier.\"[4] What will be said of me, I\n     wonder, in the year 2100?...\n\n                    _September, 1855._\n\n     ... Received a number of visits. Baehr, the Dresden painter\n     and professor, came; he is a charming fellow, and pleased me\n     very much. He knows all my works, and is full of them. He\n     says, at Dresden every one is interested in them, especially\n     the women, who, it appears, read me with passionate delight.\n     Hornstein, a young composer, came also; he is a pupil of\n     Richard Wagner, who, it seems, is also one of my students.\n     Hornstein is still here, and pays me an exaggerated respect;\n     for instance, when I want my waiter, he rises from table to\n     summon him.... My portrait has been for a fortnight at the\n     exposition. There has been a great crowd to see it. Von\n     Launitz, the Frankfort Phidias, wants to take my bust....\n\n                    _December 23, 1855._\n\n     ... A gentleman has written to me from Zurich to say that in\n     the club to which he belongs my works are read with such\n     admiration that the members are crazy to get a picture of me\n     of any kind, nature, or description, and that the artist who\n     takes it has but to forward it C. O. D.... You see that my\n     fame is spreading like a conflagration, and not in\n     arithmetical ratio either, but in geometric, and even\n     cubic....\n\n                    _March 28, 1856._\n\n     ... R., too, kissed my hand,--a ceremony to which I cannot\n     accustom myself; yet it is one, I suppose, that forms part\n     of my imperial dignity....\n\n                    _June 6, 1856._\n\n     ... Becher sent his son and nephew here, and Baehr sent his\n     son also, and that only that these young people may in their\n     old age be able to boast that they had seen and spoken to\n     me....\n\n                    _June 11, 1856._\n\n     ... Professor Baehr, of Dresden, was here yesterday, and,\n     penetrated with the most praiseworthy enthusiasm, wished to\n     exchange his beautiful silver snuff-box for my forlorn old\n     leather one. I refused, however. He told me of a certain\n     Herr von Wilde, who was a perfect fanatic on the subject of\n     my philosophy, and who, at the age of eighty-five, died with\n     my name on his lips.\n\n     My Buddha, re-gilded, glittering on his pedestal, gives you\n     his benediction.\n\n                    _August 14, 1856._\n\n     ... Four pages and a half of Tallendier about me.[5] You\n     have seen it, I suppose. French chatter, personal details,\n     etc., but where the devil did he hear that I am \"tout etonn\u00e9\n     du bruit que font mes \u00e9crits dans le monde?\" I am so little\n     astonished, that Emden told Nordwall, to the latter's\n     intense surprise, that I had predicted to him my future\n     celebrity fully twenty years ago....\n\nNow, mediocrity may, of course, be praised, but, as Balzac has put it,\nit is never discussed. And Schopenhauer, in the matter of discussion,\ncame in for his full share. He was praised and abused by turn. Like\nevery prominent figure, he made a good mark to fire at. Certain critics\nsaid that he had stolen from Fichte and Schelling everything in his\nphilosophy that was worth reading, others abused him personally; and\none writer, a woman with whom he had refused to converse, and who had\nprobably expected to pay her hotel bill with the protocol of his\nconversation, wrote a quantity of scurrilous articles about him. But\n_censura perit, scriptum manet._ The criticisms are forgotten, while\nhis work still endures and, moreover, grows each year into surer and\nstronger significance.\n\nAmong his visitors at the time was M. Foucher de Carsil, and the\nportrait which that gentleman subsequently drew of him is so graphic\nthat it is impossible to resist the temptation of making the following\nextract:[6]--\n\n     \"When I first saw him, in 1859, at the H\u00f4tel d'Angleterre, at\n     Frankfort, he was then an old man, with bright blue and\n     limpid eyes. His lips were thin and sarcastic, and about them\n     wandered a smile of shrewd intelligence. His high forehead\n     was tufted on either side with puffs of white hair that gave\n     to his physiognomy, luminous as it was with wit and malice, a\n     stamp of nobility and distinction. His garments, his lace\n     _jabot_, his white cravat, reminded me of that school of\n     gentlemen who lived toward the close of the reign of Louis\n     XV. His manners were those of a man accustomed to the best\n     society; habitually reserved and timid even to suspicion, he\n     rarely entered into conversation with any save his intimates\n     and an occasional sympathetic traveler. His gestures were\n     abrupt, and in conversation they became at once petulant and\n     suggestive. He avoided discussions and combats in words, but\n     he did so that he might the better enjoy the charm of\n     familiar conversation. When he did speak, his imagination\n     embroidered on the heavy canvas of the German tongue the\n     most subtle and delicate arabesques that the Latin, Greek,\n     French, English, or Italian languages were capable of\n     suggesting. Indeed, when he cared to talk, his conversation\n     possessed swing and precision, and joined thereto was a\n     wealth of citation, an exactitude of detail, and such\n     tireless flow of wit, as held the little circle of his\n     friends charmed and attentive until far into the night. His\n     words, clear-cut and cadenced, captivated his listener\n     wholly: they both pictured and analyzed, a tremulous\n     sensitiveness heightened their fervor, they were precise and\n     exact on every topic. A German, who had traveled extensively\n     in Abyssinia, was so astonished at the minute details which\n     he gave on the different species of crocodiles, and their\n     customs, that he thought that in him he recognized a former\n     companion.\n\n     \"Happy are they who heard this last survivor of the\n     conversationalists of the eighteenth century! He was a\n     contemporary of Voltaire and of Diderot, of Helvetius and of\n     Chamfort; his brilliant thoughts on women, on the part that\n     mothers hold in the intellectual qualities of their children;\n     his theories, profoundly original, on the connection between\n     will and mind; his views on art and nature, on the life and\n     death of the species; his remarks on the dull and wearisome\n     style of those who write to say nothing, or who put on a mask\n     and think with the thoughts of others; his pungent\n     reflections on the subject of pseudonyms, and on the\n     establishment of a literary censure for those journals which\n     permitted neologisms, solecisms, and barbarisms; his\n     ingenious hypotheses on magnetic phenomena, dreams, and\n     somnambulism; his hatred of excess of every kind; his love of\n     order; and his horror of obscurantism, 'qui, s'il n'est pas\n     un p\u00e9ch\u00e9 contre le Saint Esprit en est un contre l'esprit\n     humain,' make for him a physiognomy entirely different from\n     any other of this century.\"\n\nA few tags and tatters of these conversations have been preserved by\nDr. Frauenstadt,[7] and in them Schopenhauer is discovered sprawled at\nease, and expressing himself on a variety of topics with a\n_disinvoltura_ and freedom of epithet which recalls the earlier\nessayists. With them, as with him, periphrasis was avoided. Spades were\nspades, not horticultural implements; and in one dialogue Frauenstadt\ncompliments his master in having, in breadth and reach of his polemic,\nnothing in common with contemporary regard for ears polite. Citations\nof this class, however, may well be omitted. A thinker in slippers, and\nespecially _in puris naturalibus_, is generally unattractive even to\nthose the least given to prudishness. But beyond certain instances of\nthis description, the scholar and man of the world is usually very\ndiscernible. At times he is profound, at others vivacious; for\ninstance, he is asked what man would be if Nature, in making the last\nstep which leads to him, had started from the dog or the elephant; to\nwhich he answers, in that case man would be an intelligent dog or an\nintelligent elephant, instead of being an intelligent monkey. As may be\nimagined, there was about Schopenhauer very little of the Sunday-school\ntheologian, and religion was in consequence seldom viewed by him from\nan orthodox standpoint; when, therefore, Schleiermacher was quoted\nbefore him to the effect that no man can be a philosopher who is not\nreligious, he observed very quietly, \"No man who is religious can\nbecome a philosopher,--metaphysics are useless to him, and no true\nphilosopher is religious; he is sometimes in danger, but he is not\nfettered, he is free.\" Elsewhere he said, \"Religion and philosophy are\nlike the two scales of a balance; the more one rises, the more does the\nother descend.\"\n\nIn Schopenhauer's opinion, the greatest novels were \"Tristram Shandy,\"\n\"Wilhelm Meister,\" \"Don Quixote,\" and the \"Nouvelle H\u00e9lo\u00efse.\" To \"Don\nQuixote\" he ascribed an allegorical meaning, but as an intellectual\nromance he preferred \"Wilhelm Meister\" to all others. He believed in\nclairvoyance, but not that man is a free agent; and it may be here\nnoted that, according to the most recent scientific opinion, man is a\nfree agent, _at most_, about once in twenty-four hours. \"Everything\nthat happens, happens necessarily,\" he would say; and it was with this\nmaxim, of whose truth he had a variety of every-day examples, and with\nthe aid of the theory of the ideality of time, that he explained second\nsight. \"Everything is now that is to be,\" he said; \"but with our\nordinary eyes we do not see it; the clairvoyant merely puts on the\nspectacles of Time.\"\n\nIn the \"Par\u00e4nesen und Maximen,\" in which Schopenhauer chats quietly\nwith the reader and not with the disciple, many quaint and forcible\nsuggestions are to be found. For instance, among other things, he says,\n\"I accord my entire respect to any man who, when unoccupied, and\nwaiting for something, does not immediately begin to beat a tattoo with\nhis fingers, or toy with the object nearest his hand. It is probable\nthat such a man has thoughts of his own.\" His advice, too, on the\nmanner in which we should think and work is quite Emersonian in its\ndirectness. It was, it may be added, the manner in which he thought and\nworked, himself: \"Have compartments for your thoughts and open but one\nof them at a time; in this way each little pleasure you may have will\nnot be spoiled by some lumbering care; neither will one thought drive\nout another, and an important matter will not swamp a lot of smaller\nones.\"\n\nSuch, vaguely outlined, was this great and interesting figure. With the\nappearance of the \"Parerga\" his work was done. He lived ten years\nlonger in great seclusion, receiving only infrequent visits. \"There,\nwhere two or three are gathered together,\" he would say, and suggested\nthat his friends and believers should meet and consult without him.\nSuch literary labor as he then performed consisted mainly in\nstrengthening that which he had already written, and in making notes\nand suggestions for future editions. At the age of seventy-two he died,\nvery peacefully though suddenly, leaving all his fortune to charitable\npurposes.\n\nIn these pages no attempt has been made to enter into the details of\nbiography, for that pleasant task has been already well performed by\nother and better equipped pens. The present writer has therefore only\nsought to present such a view of Schopenhauer as might aid the general\nreader to a clearer understanding of the doctrine which he was the\nfirst to present, and which will be briefly considered in the next\nchapter.\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[Footnote 3: _Briefe \u00fcber die Schopenhauer'sche Philosophie._]\n\n[Footnote 4: \"Yes, yes, Sarastro reigns herein.\"--Air from the _Magic\nFlute_.]\n\n[Footnote 5: An article in the _Revue des Deux Mondes_.]\n\n[Footnote 6: _Hegel et Schopenhauer._ Paris: Hachette et Cie.]\n\n[Footnote 7: _Arthur Schopenhauer. Von ihm, Ueber ihn._ Berlin.]\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III.\n\nTHE SPHINX'S RIDDLE.\n\n\nIn the Munich beer halls, when one student is heard laying down the law\nabout something which he does not understand to a companion who cares\nnot a rap on the subject, it is very generally taken for granted that\nthe two are talking metaphysics. Indeed, metaphysics has a bad name\neverywhere. In itself, it suggests nothing very enticing, and even its\nnomenclature seems to bring with it a sort of ponderosity which is very\nnearly akin to the repulsive.\n\nThis prejudice, of course, is not without its reason. The philosophers,\nnearly one and all, seem to have banded themselves into a sort of\nimaginary freemasonry, whose portals they bar to any one refusing to\nrobe his thoughts in a garment of technical speech. Moreover, at the\nvery gateway of their guild there looms before the timorous the fear of\na hideous initiation, the cold douche of logic, and the memorizing of\nhateful terms. There can therefore be no stronger proof of\nSchopenhauer's ability than that which is contained in the fact that he\nsuccessfully eluded all these stale abuses, and turned one of the\nheaviest kinds of writing into one of the most agreeable.\n\nIndeed, Schopenhauer is not only one of the most profound thinkers of\nthe essentially profound nineteenth century, but, what is still more\nnoteworthy, he is an exceptionably fascinating teacher. His spacious\ntheories and tangential flights are, of course, not such as charm the\nreader of the penny dreadful; but any one who is interested in the\ndrama of evolution and the tragi-comedy of life will, it is believed,\nfind in him a fund of curious information, such as no other thinker has\nhad the power to convey.\n\nHe has, it is true, made the most of the worst; but beyond this\nreproach, but one other of serious import remains to be brought against\nhim, and that is that though he has been dead and buried for very\nnearly a quarter of a century, he is still on the outer margin of his\nepoch. For this he is not, of course, entirely to blame. There are\namong thinkers many pleasant optimists still, who form a respectable\nmajority; to be sure, a wise man once said that in considering a new\nsubject the minority were always right; but, disregarding for the\nmoment the fallacy of believing that this world is the best one\npossible, it cannot but be admitted that scientific pessimism is still\nin its infancy. It has yet many prejudices to disarm, and many errors\nof its own to correct. Like meaner things, it must mature. For this it\nhas ample time.\n\nBerkeley says that few men think, yet all have opinions; and it is now\nvery frequently asserted that when more is thought, not only there will\nnot be such a diversity of opinion, but at that time Pessimism, as the\nreligion of the future, will begin its sway.\n\nIt has been elsewhere noted that the effect of Kant's philosophy was\nnot dissimilar to that of a successful operation on cataract, and the\naim of the \"World as Will and Idea\" is to place in the hands of those\non whom that operation has been satisfactorily performed a pair of such\nspectacles as are suitable to convalescent eyes. Schopenhauer is\ntherefore in a measure indebted to Kant, as also, it may be added, to\nPlato, and the sacred books of the Hindus.\n\nIn saying, however, that Schopenhauer is indebted to Kant, it is well\nto point out that Schopenhauer begins precisely where Kant left off.\nKant's great merit consisted in distinguishing the phenomenon from the\nthing-in-itself, or in other words, in showing the difference between\nthat which seems and that which is.[8] For the inaccessible\nthing-in-itself he had no explanation to offer. He called it the _Ding\nan sich_, regarded it as the result of an unintelligible cause, and\nthen left it to be a bugbear to every student of his philosophy.\n\nThis unpleasant _Ding an sich_ was exorcised, and well-nigh banished\nfor good and all, by Fichte and Hegel; but Schopenhauer re\u00ebstablished\nthe incomprehensible factor on a fresh basis, christened it \"Will,\" and\nasserted it to be the creator of all that is, and at once independent,\nfree, and omnipotent; in other words, the interior essence of the world\nof which Christ crucified is the sublime symbol. Thus disposed of, the\n_Ding an sich_ may now be left to take care of itself, and the\nexamination of the great theory begun.\n\nSchopenhauer opens his philosophy with the formula, \"The world is my\nidea;\" a formula which, it may be noted, condenses in the fewest\npossible words all that is worth condensing of the idealism of Germany.\nBeginning in this manner it is evident that he proposes to show neither\nwhence the world comes nor whither it tends, nor yet why it is, but\nsimply, _what it is_. The question has been asked before. According to\nSchopenhauer, the world is made up of two zones, the real and the\nideal; and it may here be said that over the real and the ideal\nSchopenhauer successfully read the banns.\n\nTo return, however, to the opening formula. \"The world is my idea\" is a\ntruth which holds good for everything that lives and thinks, but which,\nhowever, is appreciable only by man. When appreciated, it is at once\nclear that what we know is neither a sun nor an earth, for we have at\nbest an eye which sees the one, and a hand which feels the other. In\nbrief, we are unacquainted with either forms or colors; we have but\nsenses which represent them to us, while objects exist for us merely\nthrough the medium of the intelligence. Indeed, as Schopenhauer has\nsaid, no other truth is more certain and less in need of proof than\nthis,--that the whole world is simply the perception of a perceiver; in\na word, idea.\n\nEmerson says that the frivolous make themselves merry with this theory;\nand it must be admitted that at first it does not seem quite\nsatisfactory to be told that the world in which we live is nothing more\nnor less than a cerebral phenomenon, which man carries with him to the\ntomb, and which, in the absence of a perceiver, would not exist at all.\nTo arrive, however, at a clear understanding of the purely phenomenal\nexistence of the exterior world, it will suffice to represent to one's\nself the world as it was when entirely uninhabited. At that time it was\nnecessarily without perception. Later, there sprang up a great quantity\nof plants, upon which the different forces of light, air, humidity, and\nelectricity acted according to their nature. If, now, it be remembered\nhow impressionable plants are to these agents, and how thought leads by\ndegrees to sensation and thence to perception, immediately then the\nworld appears representing itself in time and space. Or, reverse the\nargument and imagine that the dream of the poet is realized, that\nnations have disappeared, and that every living thing has ceased to be,\nwhile beneath the sun's unchanging stare, and enveloped in the sky's\nbland, pervasive blue, the earth with her continents and archipelagoes\ncontinues to revolve in space. Under such circumstances it would\nnaturally seem as though the universe subsisted still. But if the\nquestion is examined more closely, it will perhaps be admitted that\nthese things remain as they are only on condition of being seen and\nfelt. For supposing one spectator present, but of a different mental\norganization from our own, then the entire scene is changed; suppress\nhim, and the whole spectacle tumbles into chaos.\n\nThis doctrine, as it will be readily understood, does not in any sense\ndeny the reality of the world in the ordinary acceptation of the term;\nit maintains merely that every object is conditioned by its subject;\nor, to explain the theory less technically, it will be sufficient to\nreflect that for the world, or for anything else, to be an object,\nthere must be some one as subject to think it; for instance, the\ndreamless sleep proves that the earth exists only to the thinking mind,\nand should all Nature be rocked in an eternal slumber, there could then\nbe no question of an exterior world.\n\nIf it be asked in what this perception consists, which represents the\nexterior world, we find that it is limited to three fundamental\nconcepts, that of time, space, and their concomitant causality; but\ninasmuch as time and space are the receptacle of every phenomenon,\nonce their ideality is established, the ideality of the world is proven\nat the same moment, and with it the truth of the formula, \"The world is\nmy idea.\"\n\nNow the ideality of time is established, according to Schopenhauer, by\nwhat is known in mechanics as the law of inertia. \"For what,\" he asks\nin the \"Parerga,\" \"does this law teach? Simply, that time alone cannot\nproduce any physical action, that alone and in itself it alters nothing\neither in the repose or movement of a body. Were it either accidentally\nor otherwise inherent in things themselves, it would follow that its\nduration or brevity would affect them in a certain measure. But it does\nnothing of the sort; time passes over all things without leaving the\nslightest trace, for they are acted upon only by the causes that unroll\nthemselves _in_ time, but in no sense by time itself. When, therefore,\na body is withdrawn from chemical action, as the mammoth in the ice\nfields, the fly in amber, and the Egyptian antiquities in their closed\nnecropoli, thousands of years may pass and leave them unaffected.\nIndeed,\" he adds elsewhere, \"the living toads found in limestone lead\nto the conclusion that even animal life may be suspended for thousands\nof years, provided this suspension is begun in the dormant period and\nmaintained by special circumstances.\"\n\nThe \"London Times,\" 21st September, 1840, contains a notice to the\neffect that, at a lecture delivered by Mr. Pettigrew, at the Literary\nand Scientific Institute, the lecturer showed some grains of wheat\nwhich Sir G. Wilkenson had found in a grave at Thebes, where they must\nhave lain for three thousand years. They were found in an hermetically\nsealed vase. Mr. Pettigrew had sowed twelve grains, and obtained a\nplant which grew five feet high, and the seeds of which were then quite\nripe.\n\nMany other instances are given of this absolute inactivity; for\nexample, let a body once be put in motion, that motion is never\narrested or diminished by any lapse of time; it would be never ending\nwere it not for the reaction of physical causes. In the same manner a\nbody in repose would remain so eternally did not physical causes put it\nin motion. It follows, therefore, that time is not a real existence,\nbut only a condition of thought, or purely ideal.\n\nIn regard to the ideality of space, Schopenhauer says, \"The clearest\nand most simple proof of the ideality of space is that we can never get\nit out of our thoughts, as we might anything else. We can fancy space\nas having no longer anything to fill it, we can imagine that everything\nwithin it has disappeared, we can represent it as being, between the\nfixed stars, an absolute void, but space itself we can never get rid\nof; whatever we do, however we turn, there it is in endless expansion.\nThis fact certainly proves that space is a part of our intellect; or,\nin other words, that it is the woof of the tissue upon which the\ndifferent objects of the exterior world apply themselves. As soon as I\nthink of an object, space appears with it and accompanies every\nmovement, every turn and _d\u00e9tour_ of my thought, as faithfully as the\nspectacles on my nose accompany every movement, every turn and _d\u00e9tour_\nof my person, or just in the same manner as the shadow accompanies the\nbody. If I notice that a thing accompanies me everywhere, and under all\ncircumstances, I naturally conclude that it is in some way connected\nwith me; as if, for instance, wherever I went I noticed a particular\nodor from which I could not escape. Space is precisely the same;\nwhatever I think of, what ever I imagine, space comes first and yields\nits place to nothing. It must, therefore, be an integral part of my\nunderstanding, and its ideality in consequence must extend to\neverything that is thinkable.\"\n\nSpace and time being but the empty framework of phenomenal existence,\nsomething must fill them, and that something is causality, which,\naccording to Schopenhauer, is synonymous with action and matter. Into\nthese abstract regions, however, it is unnecessary to follow him any\nfurther. Suffice it to say that having shown in this way that one of\nthe two zones of which the world is formed is but an effect of the\nperceptions, he passes therefrom to the world as it is.\n\nNow there were many paths which might or might not have led him to the\nunravelment of the great secret which Kant gave up in despair, there\nwere many ways which seemed to tend to a direct solution of the\nSphinx's riddle, but the course which he chose, and which brought him\nnearer to the proper answer than any other system of which the world\nyet knows, may be fairly said to have been inspired by the spirit of\ntruth, and as an inspiration given first to him of all men.\n\nIt was not mathematics that he selected to aid him in his search for\nthe real, for whatever the subtleties of that science may be, it is\nstill too superficial to contain an explorable depth. The natural\nsciences could aid him as little. Anatomy, botany, and zo\u00f6logy reveal,\nit is true, an infinite variety of forms, but these forms at best are\nbut unrelated perceptions, a series of indecipherable hieroglyphics.\nEven etiology, when embracing the whole range of physical science,\ngives at most but the nomenclature, succession, and changes of\ninexplicable forces, without revealing anything of their inner nature.\nAll these methods were smitten with the same defect,--they were all\nexternal, and offered not the essence of things, but only their image\nand description. To employ them, therefore, in a search for truth\nwould, he said, be on a par with a man who, wandering about a castle\nlooking vainly for the entrance, takes meanwhile a sketch of the\nfa\u00e7ade. Such, however, he noted, is the method which all other\nphilosophers have followed. He concluded, therefore, as man was not\nonly a thinking being, to whom the world was merely an idea, but an\nindividual riveted to the earth by a body whose affections were the\nstarting-point of his intuitions, that reality would come to him, not\nfrom without, but from within. \"For this body of man's is,\" he argued,\n\"but an object among other objects; its movements and actions are\nunknown to the thinking being save as are the changes of the others,\nand they would be as incomprehensible to him as his own were not their\nsignification revealed to him in another manner. He would see movements\nfollow motives with the constancy of a natural law, and would as little\nunderstand the influence of the motive as the connection of any other\neffect with its cause. He could, if he chose, call it force, quality,\nor character, but that is all that he would know about it.\"\n\nWhat, then, is the interior essence of every manifestation and of every\naction? What is that which is identical with the body to such an extent\nthat to its command a movement always answers? What is that with which\nNature plays, which works dumbly in the rock, slumbers in the plant,\nand awakes in man? Schopenhauer answers with a word, \"Will.\" Will, he\nteaches, is a force, and should not be taken, as it is ordinarily, to\nmean simply the conscious act of an intelligent being. In Nature it is\na blind, unconscious power; in man it is the foundation of being.\n\nBut before entering into an examination of the functions and vagaries\nof this force, of which everything, from a cataclysm to a blade of\ngrass, is a derivative, it is well to inquire what its exact rank is.\nIt has been already said that in man it was the foundation of being,\nbut from very early times,--as a matter of fact, since the days in\nwhich Anaxagoras lived and taught,--the intellect has held, among all\nman's other attributes, a sceptre hitherto uncontested. If\nSchopenhauer, however, is to be believed, the supremacy hitherto\naccorded to it has been the result of error. The throne, by grace\ndivine, belongs to Will. The intellect is but the prime minister, the\ninstrument of a higher force, as the hammer is that of the smith.\n\nIf the matter be examined however casually, it will become at once\nclear that what we are most conscious of in effort, hope, desire, fear,\nlove, hatred, and determination, are the workings and manifestations of\nWill. If the animal is considered, it will be seen that in the\ndescending scale intelligence becomes more and more imperfect, while\nWill remains entirely unaffected. The smallest insect wants what it\nwants as much as man. The intellect, moreover, becomes wearied, while\nWill is indefatigable. Indeed, when it is remembered that such men as\nSwift, Kant, Scott, Southey, Rousseau, and Emerson have fallen into a\nstate of intellectual debility, it is well-nigh impossible to deny that\nthe mind is but a function of the body, which, in turn, is a function\nof the Will. But that which probably shows the secondary and dependent\nnature of the intelligence more clearly is its peculiar characteristic\nof intermittence and periodicity. In deep sleep, the brain rests,\nwhile the other organs continue their work. In brief, then, Intellect\nis the light and Will the warmth. \"In me,\" Schopenhauer says, \"the\nindestructible is not the soul, but rather, to employ a chemical term,\nthe basis of the soul, which is Will.\"\n\nWill, moreover, is not only the foundation of being, but, as has been\nnoted, it is the universal essence. Schopenhauer points out the\nascension of sap in plants, which is no easy problem in hydraulics, and\nthe insect's marvelous anticipations of the future, and asks what is it\nall but Will? The vital force itself, he says, is Will,--Will to\nlive,--while the organism of the body is but Will manifested, Will\nbecome visible.\n\nAs Schopenhauer describes it, Will is also identical, immutable, and\nfree. Its identity is shown in inorganic life in the irresistible\n_tendency_ of water to precipitate itself into cavities, the\n_perseverance_ with which the loadstone turns to the north, the\n_longing_ that iron has to attach itself to it, the violence with which\ncontrary currents of electricity _try_ to unite the _choice_ of fluids,\nand in the manner in which they join and separate. In organic life, it\nis shown by the fact that every vegetable has a peculiar\ncharacteristic: one wants a damp soil, another needs a dry one; one\ngrows only on high ground, another in the valley; one turns to the\nlight, another to the water; while the climbing plant seeks a support.\nIn the animal kingdom there exists another form, which is noticeable in\nthe partly voluntary, partly involuntary movements of the lowest type.\nWhen, however, in the evolution of Will the insect or the animal seeks\nand chooses its food, then intelligence begins and volition passes from\ndarkness into light.\n\nWill, too, is immutable. It never varies; it is the same in man as in\nthe caterpillar, for, as has been said, what an insect wants it wants\nas decidedly as does a man; the only difference is in the object of\ndesire. The immutability of Will, moreover, is the base of its\nindestructibility; it never perishes, and for that matter what does? In\nthe world of phenomena all things, it is true, seem to have a birth and\na death, but that is but an illusion, which the philosopher does not\nshare. Our true being, and the veritable essence of all things, dwell,\nSchopenhauer says, in a region where time is not, and where the\nconcepts of birth and death are without significance. The fear of\ndeath, he adds parenthetically, is a purely independent sentiment, and\none which has its origin in the Will to live. Briefly, it is an\nillusion which man brings with him when he is born, and which guides\nhim through life; for notice that were this fear of death perfectly\nreasonable, man would be as uneasy about the chaos which preceded his\nexistence as about that which is to follow it.\n\nLet the individual die, however; the species is indestructible, for\ndeath is to the species as sleep is to the individual. The species\ncontains the indestructible, the immutable Will of which the\nindividual is a manifestation. It contains all that is, all that was,\nand all that will be.\n\n\"When we think of the future and of the coming generations, the\nmillions of human beings who will differ from us in habits and customs,\nand we try in imagination to fancy them with us, we wonder from where\nthey will spring, where they are now? Where is this fecund chaos, rich\nin worlds, that hides the generations that are to be? And where can it\nbe save there, where every reality has been and will be,--here, in the\npresent, and what it contains. And you, foolish questioner, who do not\nrecognize your own essence, you are like the leaf on the tree which,\nwithering in autumn, and feeling it is about to fall, laments at death,\ninconsolable at the knowledge of the fresh verdure which in spring will\ncover the tree once more. The leaf cries, 'I am no more.' Foolish leaf,\nwhere do you go? Whence do the fresh leaves come? Where is this chaos\nwhose gulf you fear? See, your own self is in that force, interior and\nhidden, acting on the tree which, through all generations of leaves,\nknows neither birth nor death. And now tell me,\" Schopenhauer\nconcludes, as though he were about to pronounce a benediction, \"tell\nme, is man unlike the leaf?\"\n\nThis doctrine, which teaches that through all there is one invariable,\nidentical, and equal force, is the great problem whose solution was\nsought by Kant, and which he gave up in despair; it is the discovery\nwhich makes of Schopenhauer one of the foremost thinkers of the\ncentury, and one, it may be added without any unguarded enthusiasm,\nwhich will suffice to carry his name into other ages, somewhat in the\nsame manner as the name of Columbus has descended to us.\n\n\"If we were to consider,\" he said, \"the nature of this force which\nadmittedly moves the world, but whose psychological examination is so\nlittle advanced that the most certain analytical results seem not\nunlike a paradox, we should be astonished at this fundamental verity\nwhich I have been the first to bring to light, and to which I have\ngiven its true name,--Will. For what is the world but an enormous Will\nconstantly irrupting into life. Gravitation, electricity, heat, every\nform of activity, from the fall of an apple to the foundation of a\nrepublic, is but the expression of Will, and nothing more.\"\n\nThis doctrine of volition coincides, it may be noted, very perfectly\nwith that of evolution, and it was not difficult for Schopenhauer to\nshow that the more recent results of science were a confirmation of his\nphilosophy. In the \"Parerga,\" which he wrote thirty years after the\npublication of his chief work, he says that during the early stages of\nthe globe's formation, before the age of granite, the objectivity of\nthe Will-to-live was limited to the most inferior forms; also that the\nforces were at that time engaged in a combat whose theatre was not\nalone the surface of the globe, but its entire mass, a combat too\ncolossal for the imagination to grasp. When this Titan conflict of\nchemical forces had ended, and the granite, like a tombstone, covered\nthe combatants, the Will-to-live, by a striking contrast, irrupted in\nthe peaceful world of plant and forest. This vegetable world\ndecarbonized the air, and prepared it for animal life. The objectivity\nof Will then realized a new form,--the animal kingdom. Fish and\ncrustaceans filled the sea, gigantic reptiles covered the earth, and\ngradually through innumerable forms, each more perfect than the last,\nthe Will-to-live ascended finally to man. This stage attained is, in\nhis opinion, destined to be the last, for with it is come the\npossibility of the denial of the Will, through which the divine comedy\nwill end.\n\nThis possibility of the denial of the Will, and the ransom of the world\nfrom its attendant misery thereby, will be explained later on, and for\nthe moment it will be sufficient to note that Schopenhauer refused to\nadmit that a being more intelligent than man could exist either here or\non any other planet, for with enlarged intelligence he would consider\nlife too deplorable to be supported for a single moment.\n\nIf, now, the foregoing arguments are admitted, and it is taken for\ngranted that there are two separate and distinct hemispheres, one\napparent and one real, one the world of perceptions and one the world\nof Will, there must necessarily be some connection between the two,\nsome point at which they meet and join. This chasm Schopenhauer lightly\nbridges over with those ideas of Plato which the Middle Ages\nneglected, and which formed the banquet and the sustenance of the\nRenaissance: in fact, the eternal yet ever fresh suggestions that\nNature offers to the artist, and which the sculptor with his chisel,\nthe poet with his pen, the painter with his brush, resuscitate and\nexplain anew.\n\nIt is, however, only in the purest contemplation that these suggestions\ncan be properly received, and it is, of course, in genius that a\npre\u00ebminent capacity for such receptivity exists. For it is as if when\ngenius appears in an individual, a larger measure of the power of\nknowledge falls to his lot than is necessary for the service of an\nindividual will, and this superfluity, being free, becomes, as it were,\nthe mirror of the inner nature of the world, or, as Carlyle puts it,\n\"the spiritual picture of Nature.\" \"This,\" Schopenhauer notes\nparenthetically, \"explains the restless activity of the genius, for the\npresent can rarely satisfy him, because it does not fill his thoughts.\nThere is in him a ceaseless aspiration and desire for new and lofty\nthings, and a longing to meet and communicate with others of similar\nstatus. The common mortal, on the other hand, filled with the hour,\nends in it, and finding everywhere his like enjoys that satisfaction in\ndaily life from which the genius is debarred.\"\n\nThe common mortal, the _bourgeois_, as it is the fashion to call him,\nturned out as he is daily by the thousand, manufactured, it would seem,\nto order, finds in his satisfied mediocrity no glimmer, even, of a\nspark that can predispose him to disinterested observation. Whatever\narrests his attention does so only for the moment, and in all that\nappears before him he seeks merely the general concept under which it\nis to be brought, very much in the same manner as the indolent seek a\nchair, which then interests them no further.\n\nAnd yet it is unnecessary to pore over German metaphysics to know that\nwhoso can lose himself in Nature, and sink his own individuality\ntherein, finds that it has suddenly become a suggestion, which he has\nabsorbed, and which is now part of himself. It is in this sense that\nByron says:--\n\n     \"Are not the mountains, waves, and skies a part\n     Of me and of my soul, as I of them?\"\n\nThis theory, it is true, is not that of all great poets, many of whom,\nas witness Shelley and Leopardi, did not see in the splendid face of\nNature that they could not be absolutely perishable, and so selfishly\nmourned over their own weakness and her impassibility.\n\nAccording to Schopenhauer, art should be strictly impersonal, and\ncontemplation as calm as a foretaste of Nirv\u00e2na, in which the\nindividual is effaced and only the pure knowing subject subsists. This\ncondition he praises with great wealth of adjective as the painless\nstate which Epicurus, of refined memory, celebrated as the highest\ngood, the bliss of the gods, for therein \"man is freed from the hateful\nyoke of Will, the penal servitude of daily life ceases as for a\nSabbath, the wheel of Ixion stands still.\" The cause of all this he is\nat no loss to explain, and he does so, it may be added, in a manner\npoetically logical and peculiar to himself. \"Every desire is born of a\nneed, of a privation, or a suffering. When satisfied it is lulled, but\nfor one that is satisfied how many are unappeased! Desire, moreover, is\nof long duration, its exigencies are infinite, while pleasure is brief\nand narrowly measured. Even this pleasure is only an apparition,\nanother succeeds it; the first is a vanished illusion, the second an\nillusion which lingers still. Nothing is capable of appeasing Will, nor\nof permanently arresting it; the best we can do for ourselves is like\nthe alms tossed to a beggar, which in preserving his life to-day\nprolongs his misery to-morrow. While, therefore, we are dominated by\ndesires and ruled by Will, so long as we give ourselves up to hopes\nthat delude and fears that persecute, we have neither repose nor\nhappiness. But when an accident, an interior harmony, lifting us for\nthe time from out the infinite torrent of desire, delivers the spirit\nfrom the oppression of the Will, turns our attention from everything\nthat solicits it, and all things seem as freed from the allurements of\nhope and personal interest, then repose, vainly pursued, yet ever\nintangible, comes to us of itself, bearing with open hands the\nplenitude of the gift of peace.\"\n\nThe fine arts, therefore, as well as philosophy, are at work on the\nproblem of existence. Every mind that has once rested in impersonal\ncontemplation of the world tends from that moment to some comprehension\nof the mystery of beauty and the internal essence of all things; and it\nis for this reason that every new work which grapples forcibly with any\nactuality is one more answer to the question, What is life?\n\nTo this query every masterpiece replies, pertinently, but in its own\nmanner. Art, which speaks in the ingenuous tongue of intuition, and not\nin the abstract speech of thought, answers the question with a passing\nimage, but not with a definite reply. But every great work, be it a\npoem, a picture, a statue, or a play, answers still. Even music\nreplies, and more profoundly than anything else. Indeed, art offers to\nhim who questions an image born of intuition, which says, See, this is\nlife.\n\nBriefly, then, contemplation brings with it that affranchisement of the\nintelligence, which is not alone a release from the trammels of the\nWill, but which is the law of art itself, and raises man out of misery\ninto the pure world of ideas.\n\nIn the treatment of this subject, which in the hands of other writers\nhas been productive of inexpressible weariness, Schopenhauer has given\nhimself no airs. In what has gone before there has been, it must be\nadmitted, no attempt to narrate history, and then pass it off as an\nexplanation of the Universe. He has gone to the root of the matter,\nseized a fact and brought it to light, without any nauseous\naccompaniment of \"Absolutes\" or \"Supersensibles.\" In view of the\nmagnitude of the subject, it has been handled, I think, very simply,\nand that perhaps for the reason that simplicity is the _cachet_ which\ngreatness lends to all its productions. If in these pages it has seemed\notherwise, the fault is not that of the master, but rather that of the\nclerk.\n\nThe question as to what the world is has been considered, and the\nanswer conveyed that Will, the essence of all things, is a blind,\nunconscious force which, after irrupting in inorganic life and passing\ntherefrom through the vegetable and animal kingdom, reaches its\nculmination in man, and that the only relief from its oppressive yoke\nis found in art and impersonal contemplation. Taking these premises for\ngranted, and admitting for a moment their corollary that life is a\nrestless pain, it will be found that the sombre conclusion which\nfollows therefrom has been deduced with an exactitude which is\ncomparable only to the precision of a prism decomposing light.\n\nLiterature is admittedly full of the embarrassments of transition, and\nphilosophy has naturally its attendant share. It is, of course, not\ndifficult for the metaphysician to say, This part of my work is\ntheoretical, and this, practical; but to give to the two that cohesion\nwhich is necessary in the unfolding of a single, if voluminous, thought\nis a feat not always performed with success. It is, therefore, no\nlittle to Schopenhauer's credit that he triumphantly connected the two\nin such wise that they seem as though fused in one, and after\ndisposing of the world at large was able to turn to life and its\nattendant, pain.\n\nNow in all grades of its manifestation, Will, he teaches, dispenses\nentirely with any end or aim; it simply and ceaselessly strives, for\nstriving is its sole nature. As, however, any hindrance of this\nstriving, through an obstacle placed between it and its temporary aim,\nis called suffering, and on the other hand the attainment of its end,\nsatisfaction, well-being, or happiness, it follows, if the obstacles it\nmeets outnumber the facilities it encounters, that having no final end\nor aim, there can be no end and no measure of suffering.\n\nBut does pain outbalance happiness? The question is certainly complex,\nand for that matter unanswerable save by a cumbersome mathematical\nprocess from which the reader may well be spared. The optimist points\nto the pleasures of life, the pessimist enumerates its trials. Each\njudges according to his lights. Schopenhauer's opinion goes without the\ntelling, and as he gave his whole life to the subject his verdict may,\nfor the moment, be allowed to pass unchallenged. Still, if the question\nis examined, no matter how casually, it will be seen, first, that there\nis no sensibility in the plant and therefore no suffering; second, that\na certain small degree is manifested in the lowest types of animal\nlife; third, that the capacity to feel and suffer is still limited,\neven in the case of the most intelligent insects; fourth, that pain of\nan acute degree first appears with the nervous system of the\nvertebrates; fifth, that it continues to increase in direct proportion\nto the development of the intelligence; and, finally, that as\nintelligence attains distinctness, pain advances with it, and what Mr.\nSwinburne calls the gift of tears finds its supreme expression in man.\nTruly, as Schopenhauer has expressed it, man is not a being to be\ngreatly envied. He is the concretion of a thousand necessities. His\nlife, as a rule, is a struggle for existence with the certainty of\ndefeat in the end, and when his existence is assured, there comes a\nfight with the burden of life, an effort to kill time, and a vain\nattempt to escape ennui.\n\nNor is ennui a minor evil. It is not every one who can get away from\nhimself. Schopenhauer could, it is true, but in so doing he noted that\nits ravages depicted on the human countenance an expression of absolute\ndespair, and made beings who love one another as little as men do seek\neach other eagerly. \"It drives men,\" he said, \"to the greatest\nexcesses, as does famine, its opposite extreme. Public precautions are\ntaken against it as against other calamities, hence the historical\n_panem et circenses_. Want,\" he added, \"is the scourge of the people as\nennui is that of fashionable life. In the middle classes ennui is\nrepresented by the Sabbath, and want by the other days of the week.\"\n\nIn this way, between desire and attainment, human life rolls on. The\nwish is, in its nature, pain, and satisfaction soon begets satiety. No\nmatter what nature and fortune may have done, no matter who a man may\nbe, nor what he may possess, the pain which is essential to life can\nnever be dodged. Efforts to banish suffering effect, if successful,\nonly a change in its form. In itself it is want or care for the\nmaintenance of life; and if in this form it is at last and with\ndifficulty removed, back it comes again in the shape of love, jealousy,\nlust, envy, hatred, or ambition; and if it can gain entrance through\nnone of these avatars, it comes as simple boredom, against which we\nstrive as best we may. Even in this latter case, if at last we get the\nupper hand, we shall hardly do so, Schopenhauer says, \"without letting\npain in again in one of its earlier forms; and then the dance begins\nafresh, for life, like a pendulum, swings ever backward and forward\nbetween pain and ennui.\"\n\nDepressing as this view of life may be, Schopenhauer draws attention to\nan aspect of it from which a certain consolation may be derived, and\neven a philosophic indifference to present ills be attained. Our\nimpatience at misfortune, he notes, arises very generally from the fact\nthat we regard it as having been caused by a chain of circumstances\nwhich might easily have been different. As a rule, we make little, if\nany, complaint over the ills that are necessary and universal; such,\nfor instance, as the advance of age, and the death which must claim us\nall; on the contrary, it is the accidental nature of the sorrow that\ngives its sting. But if we were to recognize that pain is inevitable\nand essential to life, and that nothing depends on chance save only\nthe form in which it presents itself, and that consequently the present\nsuffering fills a place which without it would be occupied by another\nwhich it has excluded,--then, from convictions of this nature, a\nconsiderable amount of stoical equanimity would be produced, and the\namount of anxious care which now pervades the world would be notably\ndiminished. But fortifications of this description, however cunningly\ndevised, form no bulwark against pain itself; for pain, according to\nSchopenhauer, is positive, the one thing that is felt; while on the\nother hand, satisfaction, or, as it is termed, happiness, is a purely\nnegative condition. Against this theory it is unnecessary to bring to\nbear any great battery of argument; many thinkers have disagreed with\nhim on this point, as they have also disagreed with his assertion that\npleasure is always preceded by a want. It is true, of course, that\nunexpected pleasures have a delight whose value is entirely independent\nof antecedent desire. But unexpected pleasures are rare; they do not\ncome to us every day, and when they do they cease to be pleasures;\nindeed, their rarity may in this respect be looked upon as the\nexception which confirms the rule. Ample proof, however, of the\nnegativity of happiness is found in art, and especially in poetry. Epic\nand dramatic verse represent struggles, efforts, and combats for\nhappiness; but happiness itself, complete and enduring, is never\ndepicted. Up to the last scene the hero copes with dangers and\nbattleaxes difficulties, whereupon the curtain falls upon his\nhappiness, which, being completely negative, cannot be the subject of\nart. The idyl, it is true, professes to treat of happiness, but in so\ndoing it blunders sadly, for the poet either finds his verse turning\nbeneath his hands into an insignificant epic made up of feeble sorrows,\ntrivial pleasures, and trifling efforts, or else it becomes merely a\ndescription of the charm and beauty of Nature. The same thing,\nSchopenhauer says, is noticeable in music. Melody is a deviation from\nthe keynote, to which, after many mutations, it at last returns; but\nthe keynote, which expresses \"the satisfaction of the will\" is, when\nprolonged, perfectly monotonous, and wearisome in the extreme.\n\nFrom the logic of these arguments it is clear that Voltaire was not\nvery far wrong when he said: \"Happiness is but a dream, and only pain\nis real. I have thought so for eighty-four years, and I know of no\nbetter plan than to resign myself to the inevitable, and reflect that\nflies were born to be devoured by spiders, and man to be consumed by\ncare.\"\n\nTo this conclusion the optimist will naturally object, but he does so\nin the face of history and experience, either of which is quite\ncompetent to prove that this world is far from being the best one\npossible. If neither of them succeeds in so doing, then let him wander\nthrough the hospitals, the cholera slums, the operating-rooms of the\nsurgeon, the prisons, the torture-chambers, the slave-kennels, the\nbattlefields, or any one of the numberless haunts of nameless misery;\nor, if all of these are too far, or too inconvenient, let him take a\nturn into one of the many factories where men and women, and even\ninfants, work from ten to fourteen hours a day at mechanical labor,\nsimply that they may continue to enjoy the exquisite delight of living.\n\nMoreover, as Schopenhauer asks with grim irony, \"Where did Dante find\nthe materials for his 'Inferno' if not from this world; and yet is not\nhis picture exhaustively satisfactory? To some minds it is even a\ntrifle overcharged; but look at his Paradise; when he attempted to\ndepict it he had nothing to guide him, this pleasant world could not\noffer a single suggestion; and so, being obliged to say something, and\nyet not knowing what to say, he palms off in place of a celestial\npanorama the instruction and advice which he imagines himself as\nreceiving from Beatrice and the Saints.\"\n\nBriefly, then, life, to the pessimist, is a motiveless desire, a\nconstant pain and continued struggle, followed by death, and so on, in\n_secula seculorum_, until the planet's crust crumbles to dust.\n\nSince, therefore, life is so deplorable, the deduction seems to follow\nthat it is better to take the poet's advice:--\n\n     \"Count o'er the joys thine hours have seen,\n         Count o'er thy days from anguish free,\n     And know, whatever thou hast been,\n         'Tis something better--not to be.\"\n\nBut here the question naturally arises, how is this annihilation to be\naccomplished? Through a vulgar and commonplace suicide? Not at all.\nSchopenhauer is far too logical to suggest a palliative so fruitless\nand clap-trap as that. For suicide, far from being a denial of the will\nto live, is one of its strongest affirmations. Paradoxical as it may\nseem, the man who takes his own life really wants to live; what he does\nnot want are the misery and trials attendant on his particular\nexistence. He abolishes the individual, but not the race. The species\ncontinues, and pain with it.\n\nIn what manner, then, can we decently rid ourselves, and all who would\notherwise follow, of the pangs and torments of life? Schopenhauer will\ngive the receipt in a moment; but to understand the method clearly, it\nis necessary to take a glance at the metaphysics of love.\n\nWe are told by Dr. Frauenstadt that Schopenhauer considered this\nportion of his philosophy to be \"a pearl.\" A pearl it may be, but as\nsuch it is not entirely suited to an Anglo-Saxon setting; nevertheless,\nas it is important to gain some idea of what this clear-eyed recluse\nthought of the delicate lever which disturbs the gravest interests, and\nwhose meshes entwine peer and peasant alike, a brief description of it\nwill not be entirely out of place.\n\nBy way of preface it may be said that, save Plato, no other philosopher\nhas cared to consider a subject so simple yet complex as this, and of\ncommon accord it has been relinquished to the abuse of the poets and\nthe praise of the rhymesters. It may be, perhaps, that from its nature\nit revolted at logic, and that the seekers for truth, in trying to\nclutch it, resembled the horseman in the familiar picture who, over\nditches and dykes, pursues a phantom which floats always before him,\nand yet is ever intangible. La Rochefoucauld, who was ready enough with\nphrases, admitted that it was indefinable; a compatriot of his tried to\ncompass it with the epigram, \"C'est l'\u00e9go\u00efsme \u00e0 deux.\" Balzac gave it\nan escutcheon. Every one has had more or less to say about it; and as\nsome have said more than they thought, while others thought more than\nthey said, it has been beribboned with enough comparisons to form an\nunportable volume, while its history, from Tatterdemalia to Marlborough\nHouse, is written in blood as well as in books.\n\nLove, however, is the basis of religion, the mainstay of ethics, as\nwell as the inspiration of lyric and epic verse. It is, moreover, the\nprincipal subject of every dramatic, comic, and classic work in India,\nEurope, and America, and the inexhaustible spring from whose waters the\nfecund lands of fiction produce fresh crops more regularly than the\nseasons. It is a subject never lacking in actuality, and yet one to\nwhich each century has given a different color. It is recognized as a\ndisease, and recommended as a remedy. And yet what is it? There are\npoets who have said it was an illusion; but however it may appear to\nthem, it is no illusion to the philosopher: far from it; its reality\nand importance increase in the ratio of its ardor, and whether it turns\nto the tragic or the comic, a love affair is to him, above all other\nearly aims, the one which presents the gravest aspects, and the one\nmost worthy of consideration; for all the passions and intrigues of\nto-day, reduced to their simplest expression and divested of all\naccompanying allurements, are nothing more nor less than the\ncombination of the future generation.\n\n\"It is through this frivolity,\" Schopenhauer says, \"that the _dramatis\nperson\u00e6_ are to appear on the stage when we have made our exit. The\nexistence of these future actors is absolutely conditioned on the\ngeneral instinct of love, while their nature and characteristics depend\non individual choice. Such is the whole problem. Love is the supreme\nwill to live, the genius of the species, and nature, being highly\nstrategic, covers itself, for the fulfillment of its aims, with a mask\nof objective admiration, and deludes the individual so cleverly\ntherewith, that he takes that to be his own happiness which, in\nreality, is but the maintenance of the species.\"\n\nThe love affairs of to-day, therefore, instead of representing\nquestions of personal joy or sorrow, are simply and solely a series of\ngrave meditations on the existence and composition of the future\ngeneration. It is this grand preoccupation that causes the pathos and\nsublimity of love. It is this that makes it so difficult to lend any\ninterest to a drama with which the question is not intermingled. It is\nthis that makes love an every-day matter, and yet an inexhaustible\ntopic. It is this that explains the gravity of the _r\u00f4le_ it plays, the\nimportance which it gives to the most trivial incidents, and above all,\nit is this that creates its measureless ardor. To quote Madame\nAckermann:--\n\n     \"Ces d\u00e9lires sacr\u00e9s, ces d\u00e9sirs sans mesure,\n     D\u00e9cha\u00een\u00e9s dans vos flancs comme d'ardents essaims,\n     Ces transports, c'est d\u00e9j\u00e0 l'humanit\u00e9 future\n                 Qui s'agite en vos seins.\"\n\nHowever disinterested and ideal an affection may seem, however noble\nand elevated an attachment may be, it is, from Schopenhauer's\nstandpoint, simply Will projecting itself into the creation of another\nbeing; and the moment in which this new being rises from chaos into the\n_punctum saliens_ of its existence is precisely that moment in which\ntwo young people begin to fancy each other. It is in the innocent union\nand first embrace of the eyes that the microbe originates, though, of\ncourse, like other germs, it is fragile and prompt to disappear. In\nfact, there are few phenomena more striking than the profoundly\nserious, yet unconscious, manner in which two young people, meeting for\nthe first time, observe one another. This common examination, this\nmutual study, is, as has been stated, the meditation of the genius of\nthe species, and its result determines the degree of their reciprocal\ninclination.\n\nIn comedy and romance the sympathies of the spectator are invariably\nexcited at the spectacle of these two young people, and especially so\nwhen they are discovered defending their affection, or, to speak more\nexactly, the projects of the genius of the species, against the\nhostility of their parents, who are solely occupied with their\nindividual interests. It is unquestionably for this reason that the\ninterest in plays and novels centres on the entrance of this serene\nspirit, who, with his lawless aims and aspirations, threatens the peace\nof the other actors, and usually digs deep graves for their happiness.\nAs a rule, he succeeds, and the climax, comformably with poetic\njustice, satisfies the spectator, who then goes away, leaving the\nlovers to their victory, and associating himself in the idea that at\nlast they are happy, whereas, according to Schopenhauer, they have, in\nspite of the opposition of their parents, simply given themselves up as\na sacrifice to the good of the species.\n\nIn tragedies in which love is the mainspring, the lovers usually die,\nbecause, as follows from the foregoing logic, they have been unable to\ntriumph over those designs of which they were but the instruments.\n\nAs Schopenhauer adds, however, a lover may become comic as well as\ntragic, and this for the reason that in either case he is in the hands\nof a higher power, which dominates him to such an extent that he is, so\nto speak, carried out of himself, and his actions in consequence become\ndisproportioned to his character. \"Hence it is that the higher forms\nof love bring with them such poetic coloring, such transcendental and\nsupernatural elevation, that they seem to veil their true end and aim\nfrom him completely. For the moment, he is animated by the genius of\nthe species. He has received a mission to found an indefinite series of\ndescendants, and, moreover, to endow them with a certain constitution,\nand form them of certain elements which are only obtainable from him\nand a particular woman. The feeling which he then has of acting in an\naffair of great importance transports the lover to such superterrestial\nheights, and garbs his material nature with such an appearance of\nimmateriality that, however prosaic he may generally be, his love at\nonce assumes a poetic aspect, a result which is often incompatible with\nhis dignity.\"\n\nIn brief, the instinct which guides an insect to a certain flower or\nfruit, and which causes it to disregard any inconvenience or danger in\nthe attainment of its end, is precisely analogous to that sentiment\nwhich every poet has tried to express, without ever exhausting the\ntopic. Indeed, the yearning of love which brings with it the idea that\nunion with a certain woman will be an infinite happiness, and that the\ninability to obtain her will be productive of insufferable anguish,\ncannot, according to Schopenhauer, be considered to have its origin in\nthe needs of the ephemeral individual; it is in fact but the sigh of\nthe genius of the species, who sees herein a unique opportunity of\nrealizing his aims, and who in consequence is violently agitated.\n\nInasmuch as love rests on an illusion of personal happiness, which the\nsupervising spirit is at little pains to evoke, so soon as the tribute\nis paid the illusion vanishes, and the individual, left to his own\nresources, is mystified at finding that so many sublime and heroic\nefforts have resulted simply in a vulgar satisfaction, and that, taking\nall things into consideration, he is no better off than he was before.\nAs a rule, Theseus once consoled, Ariadne is forsaken, and had\nPetrarch's passion been requited his song would then have ceased, as\nthat of the bird does when once its eggs are in the nest.\n\nEvery love-match, then, is contracted in the interest of the future\ngeneration, and not for the profit of the individual. The parties\nimagine, it is true, that it is for their own happiness; but, as\nSchopenhauer has carefully explained, owing to the instinctive illusion\nwhich is the essence of love they soon discover that they are not\nunited to each other in any respect, and this fact becomes at once\nevident when the illusion which first joined them has at last\ndisappeared. Hence it happens, Schopenhauer adds, that love-matches are\nusually unhappy, for they but assure the presence of the next\ngeneration at the expense of everything else, or, as the proverb runs,\n\"Quien se casa por amores ha de viver con dolores.\"\n\n\"If now,\" he concludes, \"we turn our attention to the tumult of life,\nwe find that all men are occupied with its torments, we see them\nuniting their efforts in a struggle with want and massing their\nstrength against misery, and yet there, in the thick of the fight, are\ntwo lovers whose eyes meet, charged with desire! But why do they seem\nso timid, why are their actions so mysterious? It is because they are\ntraitors who would perpetuate the pain which, without them, would soon\ncome to that end which they would prevent, as others have done before\nthem.\"\n\nThere can be but one objection to this novel theory, which, at least,\nhas the merit of being thoroughly logical, as well as that of\nconnecting a subject so intangible as love to the fundamental principle\nof the whole doctrine, and that is that it leaves those higher and\npurer realms of affection, of which most of us are conscious, almost\nentirely unvisited. This objection, however, loses much of its force\nwhen it is remembered that Schopenhauer gave to this division of his\nsubject the title of \"Metaphysics of Love,\" and in so doing sought\nsolely to place the matter on a scientific basis. In this he has\nundoubtedly succeeded, and his explanation, if characteristic, is not\nfor that reason necessarily unsound. In another essay,[9] which is\nnarrowly connected with the one in hand, he takes the reader from the\nhighest spheres of pure love to the foundation of ethics, and shows\nthat both are derived from an identical sentiment, which he calls\ncompassion.\n\nAnd since grief is king, what better primate can he have than sympathy?\nTo the thinker who sees joy submerged by pain, and death rule\nuncontested, what higher sentiment can come than that of pity?\nSchopenhauer has, however, been very frequently blamed for giving this\nas the foundation of morality; to many it has seemed too narrow and\nincomplete, and an academy (that of Copenhagen) refused to crown his\nessay, for that very reason. But whatever objections may be brought\nagainst it, its originality at least is unattackable. In ancient\nphilosophy, ethics was a treatise of happiness; in modern works, it is\ngenerally a doctrine of eternal salvation; to Schopenhauer, it is\nneither; for if happiness is unobtainable, the subject is necessarily\nuntreatable from such a standpoint, and on the other hand, if morality\nis practiced in the hope of future reward, or from fear of future\npunishment, it can hardly be said to spring from any great purity of\nintention. With such incentives it is but a doctrine of expediency, and\nat best merely adapted to guide the more or less interested motives of\nhuman action; but as the detection of an interested motive behind an\naction admittedly suffices to destroy its moral value, it follows that\nthe criterion of an act of moral value must be the absence of any\negotistic or interested motive.\n\nSchopenhauer points out that acts of this description are discernible\nin the unostentatious works of charity, from which no possible reward\ncan accrue, and in which no personal interest is at work. \"So soon,\" he\nsays, \"as sympathy is awakened the dividing line which separates one\nbeing from another is effaced. The welfare and misfortunes of another\nare to the sympathizer as his own, his distress speaks to him and the\nsuffering is shared in common.\" Meanwhile this phenomenon, which he\nsees to be of almost daily occurrence, is yet one which reason cannot\nexplain. All, even the most hard-hearted, have experienced it, and they\nhave done so very often intuitively and to their own great surprise.\nMen, for instance, risk their lives spontaneously, without possible\nhope of gain or applause, for a total stranger. England, some years\nago, paid twenty millions sterling to free the slaves in her colonies,\nand the motive of that grandiose action can certainly not be attributed\nto religion, for the New Testament does not contain a word against\nslavery, though in the days to which it refers slavery was universal.\n\nIt is pity, then, according to Schopenhauer, which is the base of every\naction that has a true moral value. \"Indeed,\" he says, \"the soundest,\nthe surest guarantee of morality is the compassionate sympathy that\nunites us with everything that lives. Before it the casuist is dumb.\nWhoso possesses it is incapable of causing the slightest harm or injury\nto any one; rather to all will he be magnanimous, he will forgive, he\nwill assist, and each of his actions will be distinguished by its\njustice and its charity.\" In brief, compassion \"is the spontaneous\nproduct of nature, which, while independent of religion and culture, is\nyet so pervasive that everywhere it is confidently evoked, and nowhere\ncounted among the unknown gods. It is compassion that makes the mother\nlove best her feeblest child. Truly the man who possesses no compassion\nis outside of humanity.\"\n\nThe idea that runs through the whole subject, and which is here noted\nbecause its development leads to the logical climax of the entire\nphilosophy, is that all love is sympathy, or, rather, all pure love is\nsympathy, and all love which is not sympathy is selfishness. Of course\ncombinations of the two are frequently met; genuine friendship, for\ninstance, is a mixture of both, the selfishness consisting in the\npleasure experienced in the presence of the friend, and the sympathy in\nthe participation in his joys and sorrows. With this theory as a\nstarting-point, Schopenhauer reduces every human action to one, or\nsometimes to two, or at most three motives: the first is selfishness,\nwhich seeks its own welfare; the second is the perversity or\nviciousness which attacks the welfare of others; and the third is\ncompassion, which seeks their good. The egotist has but one sincere\ndesire, and that is the greatest possible amount of personal\nwell-being. To preserve his existence, to free it from pain and\nprivation, and even to possess every delight that he is capable of\nimagining, such is his end and aim. Every obstacle between his\nselfishness and his desires is an enemy to be suppressed. So far as\npossible he would like to possess everything, enjoy everything,\ndominate everything. His motto is, \"All for me, nothing for you.\"\nWhen, therefore, the power of the state is eluded, or becomes\nmomentarily paralyzed, all at once the riot of selfishness and\nperversity begins. One has but to read the \"Causes C\u00e9l\u00e8bres,\" or the\nhistory of anarchies, to see what selfishness and perversity are\ncapable of accomplishing when once their leash is loosed.\n\nAt the bottom of the social ladder is he whose desire for life is so\nviolent that he cares nothing for the rights of others, and for a small\npersonal advantage oppresses, robs, or kills. Above him is the man who\nnever violates the rights of others,--unless he has a tempting\nopportunity, and can do so with every reasonable assurance of\nsafety,--the respectable citizen who pays his taxes and pew-rent, and\nonce in a while serves on the jury. On a higher level is he who,\npossessing a considerable income, uses but little of it for himself and\ngives the rest to the poor, the man who makes less distinction than is\nusually made between himself and others. Such an one is as little\nlikely to let others starve while he himself has enough and to spare,\nas another would be to hunger one day that he might eat more the next.\nTo a man of this description the veil of M\u00e2y\u00e2, which may be taken to\nmean the veil of illusions, has become transparent. He recognizes\nhimself in every being, and consequently in the sufferer.\n\nLet this veil of M\u00e2y\u00e2 be lifted from the eyes of a man to such an\nextent that he makes no distinction at all between himself and others,\nand is not only highly benevolent, but ready at all times to sacrifice\nhimself for the common good; then he has in him the holiness of the\nsaint and the germ that may flower into renunciation. The phenomenon,\nSchopenhauer says, by which this change is marked is the transition\nfrom virtue to asceticism. In other words, it then no longer suffices\nfor him to love others as himself; there arises within him a horror of\nthe kernel and essence of the world, which recognizably is full of\nmisery, and of which his own existence is an expression, and thereupon\ndenying the nature that is in him, and ceasing to will anything, he\ngives himself up to complete indifferentism to all things.\n\nSuch, in outline, is Schopenhauer's theory of ethics, which, starting\nfrom the principle of kindness of heart, leads to the renunciation of\nall things, and, curious as the _d\u00e9nouement___ may appear, at last to\nuniversal deliverance.\n\nIn earlier pages the world has been explained to be utterly\nunsatisfactory, and it has been hinted that the suicide, were he\ndelivered of his suffering, would gladly rehabilitate himself with\nlife; for it is the form of life that the suicide repudiates, not life\nitself. But life, to be scientifically annihilated, should be\nabolished, not only in its suffering, but in its empty pleasures and\nhappiness as well; its entire inanity should be recognized, and the\nwhole root cut once and for all. In explaining in what manner this is\nto be accomplished, Schopenhauer carries his reader _bon gr\u00e9_, _mal\ngr\u00e9_, far off into the shadows of the Orient. On the one side is the\nlethargy of India, on the other China drugged with opium, while above\nall rises the fantasy of the East, the dogma of metempsychosis.\n\nAs has been seen, Schopenhauer holds that there is in every life an\nindestructible principle. This belief he shares with the Buddhist, the\nBrahmin, the ancient Druid, and the early Scandinavian; historically\nspeaking, the doctrine is so old that a wise Anglican is reported to\nhave judged it fatherless, motherless, and without genealogy. Properly\nspeaking, however, this creed does not now insist that there is a\ntransmigration of the soul, but rather, in accordance with recent\nesoteric teaching, it implies simply that the fruit of good and evil\nactions revives with the individual through a succession of lives,\nuntil the evil is outbalanced, the good is paramount, and deliverance\nis at last attained. In other words, the beautiful myth of the early\nfaith is superseded by an absurd and awkward palingenesia.\n\nSchopenhauer gives the name of Will to that force which, in Indian\nphilosophy, is considered to resurrect with man across successive\nlives, and with which the horror of ulterior existences reappears. It\nis from this nightmare that we are summoned to awake, but in the\nsummons we are told that the awakening can only come with a recognition\nof the true nature of the dream. The work to be accomplished,\ntherefore, is less physical than moral. We are not to strangle\nourselves in sleep, but to rise out of it in meditation.\n\n\"In man,\" says Schopenhauer, \"the Will-to-live advances to\nconsciousness, and consequently to that point where it can readily\nchoose between its continuance or abolition. Man is the saviour, and\nall nature awaits its redemption through him. He is at once the priest\nand the victim.\"\n\nIf, therefore, in the succeeding generations the appetite for death has\nbeen so highly cultivated, and compassion is so generally practiced,\nthat a widespread and united pity is felt for all things, then through\nasceticism, which the reader may construe universal and absolute\nchastity, that state of indifference will be produced in which subject\nand object disappear, and--the sigh of the egoist Will once choked\nthereby into a death-rattle--the world will be delivered from pain.\n\n\"It is this,\" Schopenhauer exclaims in his concluding paragraph, \"that\nthe Hindus have expressed in the empty terms of Nirv\u00e2na, and\nreabsorption in Brahma. We readily recognize that what remains after\nthe entire abolition of the Will is without effect on those in whom it\nstill works; but to those in whom it has been crushed, what is this\nworld of ours with its suns and stellar systems? Nothing.\"\n\nIn the preface to the second edition of the \"Welt als Wille und\nVorstellung,\" Schopenhauer recommends that the work be read by the\nlight of his supplementary essays. This task, beyond demanding an\nagility of pencil and some concentration, is otherwise one of the most\nmorbidly agreeable that can be suggested. The sensation that comes with\na first reading is that of an abrupt translation to the wonders of a\nworld which heretofore may have been dimly perceived, but which then\nfor the first time is visited and thoroughly explored. The perspective,\nit is true, holds no Edens; in the distance there are no Utopias; but\nwhen the journey is ended and the book laid aside, the peaks and\nabysses to which the reader has been conducted stand steadfast in\nmemory, and the whole panorama of deception and pain groups itself in a\nretrospect as sudden and clear as that which attends the last moments\nof the drowning man.\n\nAnd Schopenhauer is the least pedantic, and yet the most luminous of\nciceroni: in pages which Hugo would not disavow, and of which the\nforegoing analysis can give at best but a bald and unsatisfactory idea,\nhe explains each height and ruin with an untiring verve, and with an\nirony as keen and fundamental as Swift's. But beyond his charm as a\nstylist, and his exhaustive knowledge of life, he claims attention\nthrough his theory of the universal force, his originality in the\ntreatment of ethics, and the profound ingenuity with which he attaches\neverything, from a globule to an adagio in B flat, to his general\nsystem.\n\nIt is said that philosophy begins precisely where science ends; the\ndoctrine, therefore, which has just been considered is, in a measure,\nimpregnable to criticism. Reduced to its simplest expression, it\namounts briefly to this: an unknown principle--an _x_, which no term\ncan translate, but of which Will, taken in the widest sense of Force,\nis the rendition the least inexact--explains the universe. The highest\nmanifestation of Will is man; any obstacle it encounters is pain. Pain\nis the attendant of life. Man, however, duped by the instinct of love,\nhas nothing better to do than to prolong through his children the\nsorrowful continuation of unhappy generations. The hope of a future\nexistence in a better world seems to be a consolation, but as a hope it\nrests on faith. Since life is not a benefit, chaos is preferable.\nBeyond suicide, which is not a philosophic solution, there are but two\nremedies for the misery of life; one, a palliative, is found in art and\ndisinterested contemplation; the other, a specific, in asceticism or\nabsolute chastity. Were chastity universal, it would drain the source\nof humanity, and pain would disappear; for if man is the highest\nmanifestation of Will, it is permissible to assume that, were he to die\nout, the weaker reflections would pass away as the twilight vanishes\nwith the full light.\n\nAll great religions have praised asceticism, and in consequence it was\nnot difficult for Schopenhauer to cite, in support of his theory, a\nnumber of texts from the gnostics, the early fathers of the church, the\nthinkers, such as Angelius, Silesius, and Meister Eckhard, the mystics,\nand the quietists, together with pertinent extracts from the Bible and\nthe sacred books of the Orient. But none of these authorities seem to\nhave grasped the principle which, according to Schopenhauer, lies at\nthe root of asceticism and constitutes its chief value. At best, they\nhave seen in it but the merit of obedience to a fantastic law, the\nendurance of a gratuitous privation, or else they have blessed in\ncelibacy the exaltation of personal purity and the renunciation of\nworldly pleasures. From the philosophic standpoint, however, the value\nof asceticism consists in the fact that it leads to deliverance,\nprepares the world for the annihilation of pain, and indicates the path\nto be pursued. Through his labors and sympathy the apostle of charity\nsucceeds in saving from death a few families which, in consequence of\nhis kindness, are condemned to a long misery. The ascetic, on the other\nhand, does far better; he preserves whole generations from life, and in\ntwo or three instances very nearly succeeded in saving the world. \"The\nwomen,\" Schopenhauer says somewhere, \"refused to join in the\nenterprise, and that is why I hate them.\"\n\nIf asceticism were practiced by all men, it follows that pain, so far\nas man is concerned, would cease in it. But is it permissible to assume\nthat with the disappearance of man the world will vanish with him--in\nother words, if humanity dies out, that animality must necessarily\nfollow after?\n\nIt is here, if anywhere, that Schopenhauer has blundered; the world is\ndeplorably bad, let the optimist and thoughtless say what they will,\nand it would undoubtedly be very advantageous to have the whole\nuniverse tumble into sudden chaos; but that such a consummation is to\nbe brought about by voluntary asceticism is, in the present state of\nsociety, and independent of the opposition of women, greatly to be\ndoubted.\n\nSchopenhauer has denied that a being superior to man could exist; if,\nthen, the nineteenth century, which plumes itself on the mental\nelevation and culture of the age, and in looking back at the ignorance\nof earlier epochs considers itself the top of all creation,--if, then,\nthe nineteenth century, in its perspicacity, refuses such a solution,\nthere is little left for humanity to do save to bear the pains of life\nas it may, or, better still, with the resignation which Leopardi long\nago suggested.\n\nWhen, putting aside this eccentric theory of deliverance, the teaching\nof Schopenhauer is reviewed, it will, according to the nature of the\nreader, bring with it a warm approval or a horrified dissent. To some\nhe will appear like an incarnation of the Spirit of Truth; to others\nlike the skeleton in Goya's painting, which, leaning with a leer from\nthe tomb, scrawls on it the one word, Nada,--nothing.\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[Footnote 8: This distinction of Kant's is not strictly original. Its\ngerm is in Plato, and Voltaire set all Europe laughing at Maupertuis,\nwho had vaguely stated that \"nous vivons dans un monde ou rien de ce\nque nous apercevons ne ressemble \u00e0 ce que nous apercevons.\" Whether\nKant was acquainted or not with Maupertuis' theory is, of course,\ndifficult to say; at any rate, he resurrected the doctrine, and\npresented idealism for the first time in a logical form.]\n\n[Footnote 9: \"Das Fundament der Moral,\" contained in _Die beiden\nGrundprobleme der Ethik_. Leipsic: Brockhaus.]\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV.\n\nTHE BORDERLANDS OF HAPPINESS.\n\n\nIt was with something of the lassitude which succeeds an orgy that\nSchopenhauer turned from the riot of the will and undertook to examine\nsuch possibilities of happiness as life may yet afford, and, as\nincidental thereto, the manner in which such possibilities may be most\nenjoyed.\n\nTo this subject he brought a sumptuous variety of reflections, which\nare summed up in a multi-colored essay, entitled \"Lebensweisheit,\" or\nConduct of Life, but in which, in spite of the luxury of detail and\nbrilliancy of description, Schopenhauer almost unconsciously reminds\nthe reader of a man who takes his constitutional at midnight, and\npreferentially when it rains.\n\nThe suggestions that occur to him are almost flamboyant in their\nintensity, and yet about them all there circles such a series of dull\nlimitations that one somehow feels a sense of dumbness and suffocation,\na longing to get away and rush out into an atmosphere less charged with\nsombre conclusions.\n\nConcerning the baseness and shabbiness of every-day life Schopenhauer\nhas but little to say. He touches but lightly on its infinite\nvulgarity, while its occasional splendor is equally unnoticed. Indeed,\nhe preaches not to redeem nor convert, but simply that his hearers may\nbe in some measure enlightened as to the bald unsatisfactoriness of all\nthings, and so direct their individual steps as to come as little in\ncontact with avoidable misery as possible. To many it will, of course,\nseem quite appalling that a mind so richly receptive as his should have\nchosen such shaggy moorlands for habitual contemplation, when, had he\nwished, he might have feasted his eyes on resplendent panoramas. The\nmoorlands, however, were not of his making; he was merely a painter\nfilling in the landscape with objects which stood within the\nperspective, and if he happened upon no resplendent panoramas, the\nfault lay simply in the fact that he had been baffled in his attempt to\nfind them.\n\nVoltaire says, somewhere, \"I do not know what the life eternal may be,\nbut at all events this one is a very poor joke.\" In this sentiment\nSchopenhauer solemnly concurred. That which was a _boutade_ to the one\nbecame a theory to the other, and it is to his treatment of this\nsubject that the attention of the reader is now invited. The\nintroduction which he gives to it, if not as light as the overture to a\nballet, will, it is believed, still be found both interesting and\ninstructive, while its conclusion and supplement form, it may be noted,\nan admitted part of that which is best of the modern essayists.\n\nThe first chapter opens with an enumeration of those possessions which\ndifferentiate the lot of man, and which in so doing form the basis of\npossible happiness. It has been said that the happiest land is the one\nwhich has little, if any, need of importations, and he notes that the\nman is most contented whose interior wealth suffices for his own\namusement, and who demands but little, if anything, from the exterior\nworld. Or, as Oliver Goldsmith has expressed it,--\n\n     \"Still to ourselves in ev'ry place consigned\n     Our own felicity we make or find.\"\n\n\"In a world such as ours,\" Schopenhauer thinks, \"he who has much to\ndraw upon from within is not unlike a room in which stands a Christmas\ntree, bright, warm, and joyous, while all about are the snows and\nicicles of a December night.\"\n\nThat which a man is in himself, that which accompanies him into\nsolitude, and which none can give him or take from him, is necessarily\nmore essential than all that he may possess or all that he may appear\nin the eyes of others. The scholar, for instance, even when utterly\nalone feeds most agreeably on his own thoughts, and we are most of us\nvery well aware that he whose intelligence is limited may ceaselessly\nvary his festivals and amusements without ever succeeding in freeing\nhimself from the baleful weariness of boredom.\n\nAccording to Schopenhauer, then, the supreme and all-important elements\nof earthly happiness are subjective possessions, such as a noble\ncharacter, a capable mind, an easy disposition, and a well-organized\nand healthy body; and it is these gifts, he rightly insists, that\nshould be cultivated and preserved, even at the expense of wealth and\nemolument. An easy disposition, however, is that which above all other\nthings contributes most directly to contentment. Gayety of heart is,\nindeed, its own recompense, and he who is really gay has a reason for\nso being from the very fact that he is so. Supposing a man to be young,\nhandsome, rich, and respected, the one question to be asked about him\nis, Is he light-hearted? On the other hand, if he is light-hearted,\nlittle does it matter whether he is young or old, straight-limbed or\ndeformed, poor or rich; in any case he is contented. It is\nlight-heartedness alone which is, so to speak, the hard cash of\nhappiness; all the rest is but the note-of-hand; and in making this\nobservation, he (Schopenhauer) is careful to point out that there is\nnothing that contributes so little to gayety as wealth, and nothing\nthat contributes so much thereto as health. \"It is in the lower\nclasses, among the laborers, and particularly among the tillers of the\nsoil, that gayety and contentment are to be found, while on the other\nhand, the faces of the great and the rich generally present an\nexpression of sullen constraint. To thoroughly understand, however, how\ngreatly happiness depends on gayety of disposition and the state of\nhealth, it is only necessary to compare the impression which the same\ncircumstances and similar wants bring to us in days of health and\nvigor, with that which is paramount when through our condition we are\npredisposed to dullness and discontent. In brief, it is not the event\nitself, but the way in which we view it, that makes or unmakes our\nhappiness.\" Or, as Epictetus said long ago, man is not moved by things,\nbut by his opinion of them.\n\nAs a general rule, nine tenths of happiness may be said to rest on the\nstate of health; when this is perfect, anything and everything may be a\nsource of pleasure; in illness, on the other hand, nothing, no matter\nwhat its nature may be, is capable of affording any real enjoyment. It\nfollows, therefore, that it is wanton stupidity to sacrifice health for\nany purpose, even for wealth and fame, and especially to passing and\nfugitive pleasures, however alluring they may appear.\n\nThe next class of possessions of which Schopenhauer treats is property;\nand in considering this division he seems not unlike that contented\nindividual who, on seeing a quantity of objects exposed for sale,\nexclaimed pensively, \"How much there is of which I have no need!\"\n\nEvery man, it will be admitted, has his own horizon, beyond which his\npretensions do not extend. They reach the edge, but they do not cross\nit. In other words, the absence of those possessions with which a man\nis unacquainted is in no sense a privation to him; and it is probably\nfor this reason that the day-laborer bothers himself so little about\nthe flaring wealth of the rich. Wealth, on the other hand, is like\nsalt water; the more one drinks, the greater the thirst. But, even so,\nthis grim philosopher was far from despising it. \"It is a rampart\nagainst an incalculable number of discomforts; and it is in this manner\nthat it should be viewed, instead of being considered, as is generally\nthe case, in the light of a permission to procure a diversity of\npleasure.\"\n\nAs a practical man, Schopenhauer saw nothing that could make his ink\nblush in repeatedly recommending the preservation of a fortune, made or\ninherited; \"for even,\" he says, \"if it simply suffices to permit its\npossessor to live without the necessity of labor, it is still an\ninappreciable advantage in that it brings with it an exemption from the\ngeneral drudgery which is the ordinary lot of man. It is only on this\ncondition that man is born free, master of his hour and his strength,\nand enabled to say each morning, 'The day is mine.' The difference,\ntherefore, between him who has a thousand crowns a year and the\nlandlord whose rent-roll runs into millions is infinitely less than the\ndifference between the first and the man who has nothing.\"\n\nIf the man whose necessities are provided for is inclined to follow\nSchopenhauer's advice, he will, first of all, seek in repose and\nleisure the avoidance of every form of discomfort; especially will he\nseek to lead a tranquil and unpretentious existence which, so far as\npossible, will be sheltered from all intruders. After having for a\ncertain time kept up relations with what is termed the world, he will\nprefer a retired life; and if he is of superior intelligence, he will\ngive himself up to solitude. This he will do, because the more a man\npossesses in himself, the less he has need of the exterior world.\nSuperiority of intelligence will therefore lead him to insociability;\nfor, as Schopenhauer says, \"It is precisely in solitude, where each of\nus is dependent on his own resources, that every one is brought face to\nface with his own individuality; there the imbecile in his purple\ngroans beneath the weight of his miserable self, while he who is\nmentally gifted peoples and animates with his thoughts the most arid\nand desert region.\"\n\nNow, it may be objected that contentment is not to be found in an idle\nfolding of the hands behind a hedge set against vexation. Nor is this\nSchopenhauer's meaning. Wealth is but the means, not the source of\ncontentment. It is not the certainty of an income that brings\nhappiness, for its accompanying affranchisement from want carries the\ntenant to the opposite pole of misery, where gapes the hydra, ennui.\nAnd it is there that he whose necessities are provided for surely\nlands, unless he fills the hour with some one of the many elevated\npursuits from which those who are obliged to work for their bread are\nin a great measure debarred.\n\nThe third and last class of possessions that Schopenhauer discusses is\nthat which a man represents; or, in other words, the manner in which\nhe appears to his neighbors. \"There is,\" he says, \"no superstition more\nuniversally dominant than that which leads us to attach a high value to\nthe opinion of others; and whether it be that this superstition has its\nroots in our very nature, or that it has followed us up from the birth\nof society and civilization, it is none the less certain that it\ninfluences our conduct in a manner which is incommensurate, and hostile\nto our well-being. This influence may be traced from the point in which\nit shows itself beneath the anxious and servile deference to the _qu'en\ndira-t-on_, to that in which it drives the dagger of Virginius into his\ndaughter's heart, or else to where it leads men to sacrifice their\npeace, their fortune, their wealth, and their lives, for the sake of\nposthumous renown.\"\n\nThe existence, however, which we lead in the minds of others is a\npossession, Schopenhauer has carefully explained, which, through a\nsingular weakness, while highly prized is yet entirely unimportant to\nour happiness. Indeed, if the comparison be drawn between that which we\nare in reality and that which we are in the eyes of others, it will be\nseen that the first term of the comparison comprises our entire\nexistence, for its sphere of action is in our own perceptions, while,\non the other hand, that which we represent acts on other minds than our\nown, and in consequence has no direct existence for us, and an indirect\none only so far as it may influence their conduct toward us. The\nwealthy, in their uttermost magnificence, can but say, \"Our happiness\nis entirely outside of us; it dwells in the minds of others.\"\nCertainly, to a happiness of this description every thinker is\nindifferent, or will necessarily become so as he grows aware of the\nsuperficiality and dullness of mind, the narrow sentiments and limited\nideas, the absurdity of opinion and numberless errors, which go to the\nmaking of his neighbor's brain. Indeed, it is generally sufficient to\nnote with what contempt half-a-dozen imbeciles will speak of some\ndistinguished man, to be quite ready to agree with Schopenhauer that in\naccording a high value to the opinion of others we are paying them an\nhonor which they in no sense deserve.\n\nIt is essential to our well-being to thoroughly understand the simple\nfact that each one lives but in his own particular skin and not in the\nopinion of others, and that, therefore, our actual condition as\ndetermined by health, temperament, intellect, wife, children, and home,\nis a hundred times more important than what it may please others to\nthink about us; fame, of course, is very pleasant; so is glory; but,\nafter all, what do they amount to? As has been seen, Leopardi snapped\nhis fingers at them both. To him they were simply illusions.\nSchopenhauer goes more deeply into the subject, and explains with great\nopulence of detail and fantasy of adjective that glory and fame are\nfounded on that which a man is in comparison to others; in other words,\nthat their value is purely relative, and would disappear entirely if\nevery one became that which a celebrity is already. It is not fame that\nis so desirable, but rather the merit which should precede it. \"The\npredisposing conditions are, so to speak, the substance, while glory\nitself is but the accident, which works on its possessor as an exterior\nsymptom, and confirms his own high opinion of himself. But this symptom\nis yet not infallible, for is there not glory without merit and merit\nwithout fame?\"\n\nAs glory is incontestably but the echo, the image, the shadow, the\nsimulachre of merit, and as in any case that which is admirable should\nbe more highly valued than the admiration that it excites, it follows\nthat that which causes happiness does not consist in glory, but rather\nin the attracting force of merit; or, to put it more exactly, in the\npossession of such character and faculties as predispose thereto.\n\nTo be deserving of fame is, then, its own exceeding great reward. There\nall the honor lies, and necessarily this must be true, \"for, as a rule,\nthe reverberation of a glory that is to echo through future ages rarely\nreaches the ears of him who is the object; and though certain instances\nto the contrary may be objected, yet they have usually been due to\nfortuitous circumstances which are otherwise without great importance.\nMen lack ordinarily the proper balance of judgment which is necessary\nfor the appreciation of superior productions; and in these matters they\nusually take the opinion of others, and that, too, in such wise that\nninety-nine admirers out of a hundred accord their praise at the nod of\none.\" It is for this reason that the approbation of one's\ncontemporaries, however numerous their voices may be, has so slight a\nvalue for the thinker, for at best he can hearken to the voices of the\nfew, which in themselves may be but the effect of the moment. \"Would a\nvirtuoso be greatly flattered by the applause of his public if he\nlearned that, with but two or three exceptions, the auditorium was\nfilled with deaf mutes who, to conceal their infirmity, clapped a loud\napproval so soon as they saw a real listener move his hands? And how\nwould it be if he knew the leaders of the clique were often paid to\nprocure a great success to the most insignificant scraper of cat-gut?\"\n\nIt is with reflections of this description that Schopenhauer explains\nwhy it is that sudden celebrity so rarely passes into immortal glory,\nand points--\n\n                  ... \"how hard it is to climb\n     The heights where Fame's proud temple shines afar,\"\n\nand even, the summit gained, the uselessness of it all.\n\nThis same conclusion has been reached by several other writers, notably\nby Leopardi, whose views have been already explained, and by Von\nHartmann, whose theories are mentioned in the next chapter; but the\nmain idea has perhaps been best expressed by D'Alembert, who, in\nspeaking of the temple of fame, says, \"Its interior is inhabited only\nby the dead who were not there in their life-time, and by certain\naspirants who are shown the door as soon as they die.\"\n\nTo sum up what Schopenhauer has set forth, and of which the foregoing\ndetached ideas can give at best but a lame conception, we find that to\nhis mind, as perhaps to that of every serious thinker, the first and\nmost essential condition of contentment is the quality of character;\nand this would be essential if only because it is always in action, but\nit is so, even to a greater extent, because it is the only possession\nwhich cannot in some manner be taken from us. In this sense he\nconsiders its value as absolute when opposed to the relative value of\nmere possessions and the opinion of others. In brief, man is not so\nsusceptible to the influence of the exterior world as it is generally\nsupposed, for only Time can exercise his sovereign rights upon him.\nBeneath this force the physical and intellectual qualities wane and\ngradually succumb, the moral character alone remaining invulnerable.\n\nConsidered in this connection, actual possessions and the opinions\nwhich others hold concerning us have this advantage over character:\nthey need not necessarily be affected by time; moreover, being\naccessible in their nature they both may be acquired, while, on the\nother hand, character once established remains invariable for life.\nSchopenhauer evidently does not hold with him who sings--\n\n     \"That men may rise on stepping-stones\n     Of their dead selves, to higher things.\"\n\nAll that can be done, he has explained, is to employ the individuality,\nsuch as it is, to the greatest profit; or, in other words, a man should\npursue only those aspirations which correspond to his disposition, and\nonly choose in consequence that occupation and walk of life which is\nbest suited to it.\n\nFrom the preponderance thus given to the first of these three divisions\nover the two others, it follows that it is far better to watch over\nhealth and the development of the intellect than it is to attend to the\nacquisition of wealth. Schopenhauer, of course, does not mean that the\nacquisition of that which is necessary to one's proper maintenance\nshould be in any wise neglected; far from it. His idea is simply that a\nsuperfluity of riches, instead of contributing to well-being, brings\nwith it an inevitable vexation in the constant care which the\nmanagement of a large fortune demands.\n\nBriefly, then, the essential element of contentment is that which one\nis in himself, and it is simply because the dose is ordinarily so small\nthat the majority of those who have been conquerors in the struggle\nwith want feel themselves to be as thoroughly unhappy as those who are\nstill in the thick of the fight. But still, whatever the issue of the\nconflict may be, each one among us is enjoined to aspire to a good\nrepute. Honor is an inappreciable belonging, and glory, the most\nexquisite of all that is within the reach of man, is the Golden Fleece\nof the elect.\n\nThe second and third divisions have upon each other a reciprocal\neffect: wealth brings with it the good opinion of others, and the good\nopinion of others has aided many a man on the road to fortune; taken\ntogether they represent over again the _habes, haberis_ of Petronius,\nyet the factors that reside within us contribute more liberally to\ncontentment than those which are born of things.\n\nIt is somewhat in this manner, but with a conciseness of deduction and\na felicity of diction which the foregoing summary is inadequate even to\nsuggest, that Schopenhauer, without any noticeable effort, points\nquietly and with a certain suavity of self-confidence to the fact that\nthere is, in spite of all our bluster and hurrying about, very little\nin life that is of much consequence. There is, of course, little that\nis terrifying in what he has written; there is no incentive and no\nstimulus, as the phrase goes, to be up and doing; indeed, to the\nreflective mind his logic will have somewhat the effect of a sedative,\nand to many he will seem to hold that the best use life can be put to\nis to pass it in a sort of dilettante quietism. Such in the main is his\nidea, but it is an idea which, to be acted upon, necessitates a\nrefinement of the senses and a burnish of the intellect such as is\npossessed but by the few, and consequently the fear of its general\nadoption need cause but small alarm. It may be remembered that, beyond\nthe surface of things here examined, he pointed, in another essay, to\nthe influence of morality on general happiness, and recommended the\npractice of charity, forbearance, and good will to all men, as one of\nthe first conditions of mental content.\n\nAgainst all this, naturally, many objections might be raised, and\nseveral ameliorations could be suggested, but in the main the teaching\nhas a certain sound value which it would be difficult to talk away.\nChampfort has said, \"Happiness is no easy matter; it is hard to find it\nwithin us, and impossible to find it elsewhere,\" and this aphorism,\nwith which Schopenhauer decked his title-page, served pretty much as\nkeynote to the whole essay. All the way through he has insisted that\nthe prime essential is what one _is_ in one's self, that is, in\ncharacter and disposition, but not wealth nor yet the esteem of others;\nthese, it is true, are pleasing additions, but not the _sine qua non_.\n\nWealth, however, is too greatly prized to suffer from a theoretic\ntreatment any appreciable diminution in general esteem, and there are\nnecessarily few who will object to it because they are told it is an\nextra burden. Perhaps Schopenhauer would not have turned his back upon\nit either had he been put to the test, but as he escaped that, the\nconjecture is comparatively useless; still, few men can eat two\ndinners, and those who have that capacity are seldom objects of envy,\neven to the disciples of Baron Brisse. The dinners may stand, of\ncourse, for figurative repasts, and, according to Schopenhauer, if a\nman has enough, a superfluity is not only unnecessary, but may readily\nresolve itself into a cause of vexation.\n\nCertainly, as Schiller said, we are all born in Arcadia: that is, we\nenter life fully persuaded that happiness exists, and that it is most\neasy to make acquaintance with it; but, generally speaking, experience\nsoon lets us know that happiness is a will o' the wisp, which is only\nvisible from afar, while on the other hand, suffering and pain have a\nreality so insistent that they present themselves not only at once and\nunexpectedly, but without any of the flimsiness of illusion. In\nSchopenhauer's view, the best the world has to offer is an existence of\npainless tranquillity; pleasures are and always will be negative, and\nto consider them otherwise is a mistake which brings its own punishment\nwith it. Pain, on the contrary, is positive, and it is in its absence\nthat the ladder to possible contentment may be found. If, then, from a\ncondition of this description, viz.: one which is devoid of pain,\nboredom be also subtracted, then the reader may be sure that this is\nthe pinnacle of earthly happiness, and that anything that lies beyond\nbelongs to the domain of pure chimera.\n\nIn the chapter succeeding the one just considered Schopenhauer added\ncertain reflections on the proper conduct of life which, though loose\nand unsystematic, are yet peculiarly fertile in suggestion, and\nentirely free from the more or less accentuated platitudes with which\nother writers have dulled the subject.\n\nIn this essay he holds that the supreme rule of earthly wisdom is\ncontained in Aristotle's dictum that the sage will seek to dwell where\npain is not, and not where pleasure is. The truth of this axiom he\nestablishes by a constant reiteration of his favorite theory that\npleasure as well as happiness is negative, and only pain is real. Now\nother writers, particularly Mr. James Sully and Herr von Hartmann, have\nrebelled against this statement, but the force of their arguments has\nnot been strong enough to confute it. Indeed, mere logic can make no\nman contented, and in any event, if a philosopher considers pleasure as\na negative condition, and the critic prefers to look upon it in a\ndifferent light, the student is no more bound to agree with the one\nthan with the other; he will, if properly advised, draw his conclusions\nfrom his own sensations. In accordance with the best views, however,\nSchopenhauer is right and his critics wrong. A homely example which he\nsuggests may perhaps serve to set the matter straight: when we are in\nperfect health, and there is but one little painful spot somewhere--for\ninstance, an aching tooth or a swollen finger--our otherwise perfect\nhealth is unnoticed, and our attention is directed entirely to the pain\nwe are experiencing, while pleasure, determined, as always, by the\ntotality of the sensations, is entirely effaced. In the same manner,\nwhen everything in which we are interested is going as we wish, save\none thing which is going the wrong way, it is this particular thing\nthat is constantly in our mind, and not the other and more important\nmatters, which are giving us no concern.\n\nSchopenhauer's advice, therefore, is that attention should not be\ndirected to the pleasures of life, but to the means by which its\ninnumerable evils may best be escaped. If this recommendation is not\nsound, then Voltaire's aphorism--happiness is but a dream and only pain\nis real--is as false in appearance as it is correct in reality.\nWhoever, then, would draw up a balance sheet of pleasure and pain\nshould not base the sum total on the amount of pleasures which he has\nenjoyed, but rather in accordance with the pains which he has avoided.\nFor as it has been pointed out, life at best is not given to us to be\nenjoyed, but to be endured, and the happiest man is, therefore, he who\nhas wandered through life with the smallest burden of physical and\nmental suffering, and not he to whom the most vivid delights and\nintensest joys have been accorded.\n\nIn any case, the greatest piece of stupidity of which man can be guilty\nis to wish to transform his theatre of misery into a pleasure-ground,\nand to attempt to seek happiness therein, instead of trying, as he\nshould, to avert as many pains as possible. There are, of course, many\nwho are foolish enough not to take this view of life; but, according to\nSchopenhauer, those who do not do so are much more at fault than those\nwho, with excess of precaution, look upon the world as a burning pit,\nand occupy themselves to the best of their ability in procuring a\nfire-proof dwelling.\n\nThe simpleton will always run after pleasure, and the pessimist will do\nall he can to give pain a wide berth; if, in spite of his efforts, the\nsuccess of the latter is small, the fault is not so much his as that of\nfate; and if, in pursuance of this idea, he has taken a very roundabout\nway and uselessly sacrificed any amount of possible pleasures without\nany appreciable benefit, he can at least take heart again in the\nknowledge that he has in reality lost nothing at all, for the possible\npleasures are such pure chimeras that it is simply childish to grieve\nabout them.\n\nIt is, Schopenhauer says, because this mistake is so frequently made in\nfavor of optimism that such a number of misfortunes occur, for in those\nmoments that we are free from discomfort \"disquieting desires dazzle\nour eyes with the illusions of an unreal yet seductive happiness, and\nlure us on to a suffering which is neither the one nor the other; then\nindeed do we grieve over the lost estate, which was exempt from pain,\nas over a paradise on which we have wittingly turned the key. In this\nway it seems as though some evil spirit was constantly working a\ndeceptive mirage to draw us from that freedom from pain, which is the\nsupreme and only real happiness.\"\n\nNow, the average young man is usually possessed of some vague\nconviction that the world, stretching out before him to unseen limits,\nis the seat of a tangible happiness, which only escapes those who are\nnot clever enough to grasp it. This conviction, moreover, is\nstrengthened by romance and verse, and by that hypocrisy which leads\nthe world always by the thread of exterior appearance. Ever after, his\nlife is a more or less prudently conducted hunt, a chase for a\nfictitious game, until at last with a round turn he is pulled up face\nto face with disenchantment, and finds that the infinite vistas narrow\ndown to a dark alley, with a dead wall at the end.\n\nOn the other hand, the careful observer of men and things will mark a\nprotest on his own existence; he will have no great hopes, and but few\nregrets; Plato long ago said there is nothing in life worth a struggle,\nand to this maxim Schopenhauer's ideal reader will attune his days and,\nin any variations he may attempt, keep always to the minor key.\n\nThe chief difficulty, however, which the candidate in pessimism will\nencounter in his first attempt to practice the foregoing\nrecommendations is that which is raised by the hypocrisy of the world,\nto which allusion has been already made; and yet, in Schopenhauer's\nteaching, the most practical lesson that can be given to youth is the\nshowing up of the whole thing for the sham that it is. \"The splendors\nare merest tinsel,\" he says; \"the essence of the thing is lacking; the\nf\u00eates, the balls, the illuminations, the music, are but the banners,\nthe indications, the hieroglyphics of joy; yet, as a rule, joy is\nabsent, it alone has sent a regret. When it does present itself, it\ncomes ordinarily without invitation and unannounced; it enters, _sans\nfa\u00e7on_, in the simplest manner, often for the most trivial reason, and\nunder circumstances that are well-nigh insignificant. Like the gold in\nAustralia, it is spread about here and there according to the whim of\nhazard, without law or rule, generally in small particles, and but\nseldom in an appreciable quantity.\"\n\nThis certainly cannot be termed an enthusiastic view of life, nor, for\nthat matter, is it intended to be so considered. There was too much\nunreasoning enthusiasm, Schopenhauer thought, and too much unwary\nskating over thin surfaces, and it was precisely for this reason that\nhe set about painting Danger in the biggest and blackest-looking\ncharacters. If his advice, therefore, is not always cheerful, it is at\nleast practical, and in any event no one can go far astray in following\nthe monitory finger-posts which he was the first to erect; the wayfarer\nwho takes them for guidance may perhaps stand still, but at least he\nwill not stumble into any artificial pitfalls, or happen upon\nunexpected quagmires.\n\nIn treating of our conduct to ourselves, Schopenhauer lays much stress\non the recommendation that such proportion be preserved between the\nattention which we give to the present and that which we grant to the\nfuture, that the one will in nowise interfere with the other. As there\nare many who live for the hour and many who live for the future, the\nright measure is seldom attained; but, as Schopenhauer points out, the\nfuture, like the past, has a value which is more apparent than real.\nIt is the present that is actual, it is the present that is certain,\nwhile the future, on the contrary, usually turns out in a manner\ntotally different from our expectation. The distance which \"robes the\nmountains\" expands them in our thoughts, but the present alone is true\nand effective; and as it is therein that our existence exclusively\nrests, it should not only be hospitably received, but every hour that\nis free from vexation or pain should be enjoyed to the fullest extent,\nand not saddened with the memory of irrecoverable hopes, or darkened by\napprehensions of the morrow. In other words, let the dead past bury its\ndead, and for the moment take Seneca for model, and agree with him that\neach day separately is a separate life. As for the future, it rests in\nthe lap of the gods.\n\n\"The only misfortunes concerning which we should alarm ourselves are\nthose that are inevitable; but then, after all, how many are there of\nthis nature? Misfortunes, broadly considered, are either possible and\nprobable, or else certain, though in the indefinite future; and if we\nbother ourselves over all that _might_ come to pass, we would never\nenjoy a moment's repose.\" In order, therefore, that tranquillity may\nnot be unnecessarily disturbed, Schopenhauer advises that possible\nmisfortunes be looked upon as though they would never occur, and\ninevitable misfortunes as though they were still far distant.\n\nIt is a curious fact that the blind, who of all people are usually\npitied as the most unfortunate, possess, as a class, the calmest and\nmost contented expression. This phenomenon may serve as some\ncorroboration of a theory, which Schopenhauer expands at great length,\nthat the narrower the circle of vision the greater the happiness; and\nconversely, the wider it is the greater the inquietude and torment. It\nis, then, in the simplicity and uniformity of life--so long, of course,\nas it does not engender weariness of mind--that the greatest measure of\nhappiness is to be found. Under conditions of this description, which\nevery poet from Horace to Joaquin Miller has more or less praised, the\nburden from which life is inseparable is borne most lightly, and\nexistence flows like a rivulet, without tides or waves.\n\nThe claims of society, the effort to keep in the swim, _dans le\nmouvement_, as the French say, is not, of course, very conducive to the\ntranquil contentment which is here so earnestly commended. Schopenhauer\nhas much to say on the subject. As a self-constituted recluse he\nnecessarily judged the world, and as necessarily found it wanting.\nIndeed, it may fairly be said that he held in utter contempt the entire\nmachinery of fashion, and looked upon the whole thing as a toy for\nimbeciles. To say that he hated it would be unjust, for, like most\nsensible people, he held hatred to be an elixir far too precious to be\nwasted on trivial matters. He simply took up society and then let it\ndrop, and he did so not because it soiled his gloves, but because it\ndid not seem worth the holding.\n\nSuch views as he cared to express on this subject are unmarked by any\nstriking vividness of originality; for the most part they are simple,\nevery-day observations, as pertinent to Europe half a century ago as to\ncontemporary London and New York, and imply, briefly, that society is a\nmill of the conventional which grinds individualities into a tiresome\nsameness of sample. Individuality was like a strong-box into which\nSchopenhauer placed all his valuables, and to which, we are led to\nbelieve, he clung with all his might and main. Rather than have it\ntampered with he carried it off to a hermitage and kept it there, one\nmight say, in cotton. It may be, however, that the underlying reason of\nthe sombre obliqueness with which he viewed the world at large sprang\nfrom a cause which was natural, if commonplace; it did not appreciate\nhim. Nor is this very surprising; society, as a rule, has an immense\nfund of appreciation, which it lavishes liberally on every merit, save\nalone that of intellectual ability; on this it looks askant, or, as\nSchopenhauer says, \"as if it were smuggled.\" \"Furthermore,\" he goes on\nto say, \"good society, so called, not only brings one in contact with a\nlot of people whom he can neither approve of nor like, but it will not\npermit us to be ourselves, to be such as our nature demands; on the\ncontrary, it compels us, that we may remain on the same diapason with\nthe rest, to shrivel up completely, and even at times to appear\ndeformed.\"\n\nWit and repartee are admittedly out of place save among one's peers; in\nordinary society such manifestations are either not understood, or\nlooked upon as dreadfully bad form. For that matter, it is only the\nnovice who thinks that brilliant conversational powers will serve as\npassport; as a rule, it does nothing of the sort; rather does it excite\namong the majority a feeling nearly akin to hatred, and which is all\nthe more bitter because it must be concealed.\n\n\"Ordinarily,\" Schopenhauer says, \"when two people are talking together,\nso soon as one of them notices a great superiority on the part of the\nother he tacitly concludes, and without definite reason for so doing,\nthat his own inferiority has been noticed by his companion, for whom he\nimmediately conceives a blind resentment, even a violent dislike; nor\nin this is he much to be blamed, for what is a display of wit and\njudgment but an accusation to others of their own commonplace stupidity\nand dullness? To please in society, therefore, one needs to be\nscatter-brained or ignorant; and it is precisely those who are the one\nor the other, or even both, who are welcome and well received.\"\n\nFrom Schopenhauer's standpoint, then, the society that is worth the\ntrouble of cultivating is not such as is told of in the morning papers.\nThe ball-goers, the dinner-givers, the pleasure-seekers of every class\nand denomination, were to him mentally insolvent, and unable to offer\nany indemnity for the boredom and fatigue which their reunions and\nconversation created. To be socially inclined was to him irrefutable\nevidence of a vacuous mind; and with some of that grim humor which\ncharacterized much of his work, he compared the modern assembly to that\nRussian orchestra which, composed of horns that have but one note\napiece, is harmonious only through the exact coincidence of each\ninstrument; taken separately, each one is appallingly monotonous, and\nit is only in conjunction with others that they amount to anything at\nall. So it is, he finds, with the majority of people; individually,\nthey seem to have but one thought, and are in consequence both tiresome\nand sociable.\n\nThere is a tolerably familiar anecdote of Louis XIII., which represents\nthat feeble monarch as hailing one of his officers with the bland\nsuggestion that they should wile away the hour in common boredom:\n\"Venez, monsieur,\" run the historic words, \"allons nous ennuyer\nensemble;\" and it is perhaps this self-same, but unanalyzed motive\nwhich leads so many to ease their weariness in the companionship of\ntheir fellows, for, after all, it cannot but be admitted that the most\ngregarious seek the presence of others, and even of those for whom they\ncare nothing, not so much for the sake of society as to get away from\nthemselves and the dull monotone of an empty head.\n\nSuch, at any rate, is Schopenhauer's idea; and he is careful, in\npointing to the retired existence of all really distinguished thinkers,\nto note that the desire for companionship is not derived from a love\nof society, but from a fear of solitude, and that so soon as the latter\nis mastered there is no further desire to mingle with the crowd. The\nonly society, therefore, that is worth the trouble of cultivation is\nthat of one's own self; in this Schopenhauer apparently makes no\nexception; however closely the bonds of love or friendship may be\nwoven, there is always some clash of temperament; an echoless shock it\nmay be, but to nerves properly attuned none the less unpleasant. In\nregard to the society of the distinguished thinkers, of whose\nconspicuous solitude he makes constant parade, nothing is said; but it\nis perhaps allowable to suppose that genius, when it does descend from\nits lofty seclusion, quickly tires of giving, giving always, without\nreturn, and on its summits fraternizes as seldom with its peers as\nkings do with their equals. In brief, then, the sociability of man is\nin an inverse ratio to his intellectual value, and to say of some one\n\"he is not at all sociable,\" may be generally taken to mean \"he is a\nman of great ability.\"\n\nThe praises of solitude have been written over and over again; almost\nall the essayists, and most of the poets, have expatiated more or less\nvolubly on its charms, but no one has entered so thoroughly into the\ncore of the subject as did this spectacled misanthrope. Emerson has\ntold a quaint little story of a friend who took an exquisite delight in\nthinking of the incalculable number of places where he was not, and\nwhose idea of felicity was to dwell far off somewhere among the back\nstars, \"there to wear out ages in solitude, and forget memory itself.\"\nHad Schopenhauer known this gentleman he would have loved him, though\nperhaps at a distance; as it was, he expressed an approval that was\nwell-nigh rapturous of La Bruy\u00e8re's well-known axiom: \"All our\nmisfortunes come from an inability to be alone,\" and at measured\nintervals repeated Voltaire's maxim that \"the world is full of people\nwho are not worth speaking to.\" His own ideas on the subject savor\nhighly of the epigrammatic. \"Solitude,\" he says, \"offers a double\nadvantage to the thinker: the first in being with himself, the second\nin not being with others.\"\n\nThe love of solitude, however, cannot be considered otherwise than as\nan acquired taste; it must come as the result of experience and\nreflection, and advance with the development of the intellect as well\nas with the progress of age. A child will cry with fright if it be left\nalone even for a moment; in boyhood, solitude is a severe penance;\nyoung men are eminently sociable, and it is only the more elevated\namong them who from time to time wander off by themselves; but even so,\na day passed in strict seclusion is no easy matter. In middle age, it\nis not so difficult, while to the aged, solitude seems the natural\nelement. But in each individual, separately considered, the growth of\nthe inclination for solitude is always in proportion to the strength of\nthe intellect, and, according to Schopenhauer, it is never thoroughly\nmatured until the individual becomes firmly convinced that society is\nthe most disagreeable of all the unpleasant things in the world.\n\nTo this conclusion both Petrarch and Zimmerman came in their respective\nworks on solitude. Chamfort says somewhere, very wittily, \"It is\nsometimes said of a man that he lives alone and does not care for\nsociety; this is very much the same as saying that he does not care for\nexercise, because he does not make excursions at night in the forest of\nBondy.\" In short, all those whom Prometheus has fashioned from his\nfiner clay have brought testimony of like purport. To Schopenhauer a\ndesire for solitude was a sure indication of aristocratic tastes.\n\"Every blackguard,\" he says, \"is pitiably sociable, but true nobility\nis detected in the man who finds no pleasure in the companionship of\nothers, and who, in preferring solitude to society, gradually acquires\nthe conviction that, save in rare exceptions, there is little choice\nbetween isolation and vulgarity.\" Angelus Silesius, whose name has\ndescended to us in a halo of Christian tenderness, bears witness to the\ntruth of this theory,\n\n     \"Though solitude is hard, yet the refined\n     Will still in ev'ry place a desert find.\"\n\nIt is especially in old age, when one has ceased to expect anything in\nparticular from the generality of mankind, when one has become pretty\nwell satisfied that in the long run men do not improve on\nacquaintance, and when one is usually divested of those illusions which\nmake the companionship of others seem desirable,--it is at this period\nthat the taste for solitude, which heretofore has demanded a succession\nof struggles, becomes at once natural and matter of fact. One feels,\nthen, as much at ease therein as the fish does at high water.\n\nBut in spite of the advantages of solitude there is a hackneyed proverb\nabout the rose and the thorn which has here a most direct application.\nIn the same manner that every breath of frosty air injuriously affects\nany one who constantly keeps to his own room, so does a man's\ndisposition become so sensitive in solitude that he is vexed and\nannoyed at the most trivial incident, at a word, or even at an\nexpression of the countenance. It is hard, however, to catch\nSchopenhauer napping, and for this he has a remedy which, if not within\nthe reach of all, is none the less efficacious. His recipe is simply\nthat every aspirant should accustom himself to carry a part of his\nsolitude into society, and learn to be alone even in a crowd; in other\nwords, not to tell others at once what he thinks, and not to pay much\nattention to what others may say; in this way he will in a measure keep\nhimself unaffected by the stupidities which must necessarily surge\nabout him, and harden himself to exterior influences.\n\nAs has been noted, it was far from Schopenhauer's intention to\nrecommend an idle folding of the hands. Solitude is all very well, but\nto be habitable it must be peopled with thoughts and deeds; the\nessence of life is movement, and in inaction it is a most difficult\nthing to be tranquil. Indeed, the most thoughtless must do something,\neven if that something consist but in a tattoo beaten on the\nwindow-pane. Schopenhauer's words, however, are presumably not\naddressed to thoughtless people. To struggle and cope is, he says, as\nmuch of a necessity to man as burrowing is to the mole. To conquer\nresistance constitutes the fullness of human delight, and whether the\nobstacles are of a material nature, as in action and exercise, or\npurely mental, as in study and research, it is the combat and the\nvictory that bring happiness with them.\n\nIn treating of our conduct to others, Schopenhauer seems always to be\npeering down and sounding bottom in unfathomed depths of the human\nheart, and to be taking measure of those crevices and sinuosities for\nwhich Balzac and La Rochefoucauld, with all their equipment of\nbitterness, possessed no adequate compass. The result of his soundings\nand measurements is a lesson of circumspection and indulgence, of which\nthe first stands as guarantee against prejudice, and the second as\nshelter from quarrels and disputes. Machiavelli warned every one to as\ncarefully avoid an injury to the self-esteem of an inferior as one\nwould the commission of a crime. Schopenhauer goes even further; his\ntheory is that whoever is obliged to live among his fellows should\nnever repulse any one, however pitiful, wicked, or ridiculous his\ncharacter may be; on the contrary, he should accept him as something\nimmutable, and consider that there must necessarily be some one of that\nclass too. If he does otherwise he commits not only an imprudence, but\nprovokes a life-long enmity, for, after all, no one can modify his own\ncharacter, and if a man is condemned unreservedly there is, of\nnecessity, nothing left for him to do but to declare war to the knife.\nIt is for this reason that when one wishes, or is obliged to live among\nhis fellow-creatures, it becomes necessary to let each one work out his\nown nature and accept each individual as he stands; the most that can\nbe done is to attempt to utilize the qualities and dispositions of\neach, so far as they may be adaptable, but in no case is a man to be\ncondemned purely and simply for what he is. This is the true\nsignification of the dictum, Live and let live.\n\nMeanwhile, in learning how to treat others it will not come amiss,\nSchopenhauer goes on to say, to exercise a little patience on any of\nthe inanimate objects which in virtue of some physical or mechanical\nnecessity obstinately annoy and thwart us every day; for in so doing we\nlearn to bestow on our fellows the patience already acquired, and in\nthis manner become accustomed to the thought that they, too, whenever\nthey form an obstacle to our wishes, do so because they cannot help it,\nin virtue of a natural law which is as rigorous as that which acts on\ninanimate things, and because it is as absurd to get angry with them\nas to be annoyed at the stone which slips between our feet.\n\nBut in all this Schopenhauer is far from recommending any\nover-indulgence or excess of amiability, for he readily recognizes that\nthe majority of people are like children, who become pert as soon as\nthey are spoiled. Refuse a loan to a friend, he says, and you will not\nlose him as readily as you would if you had advanced the money; in the\nsame manner a trace of haughtiness and indifference on your part will\ngenerally quell any of those preliminary symptoms of arrogance that\nfollow upon too much kindness. Indeed, it is the idea that one has need\nof them that few men can bear,--they become presumptuous at once; and\nit is for this reason that there are so few with whom one can be really\nintimate.\n\nMost especially should we avoid any familiarity with vulgar natures.\n\"If by chance an inferior imagines for a moment that I have more need\nof him than he has of me, he will suddenly act as though I had stolen\nsomething from him, and hurry to revenge himself and get his property\nback.\" In brief, the only way in which superiority can be maintained is\nin letting others see that we have no need of them at all. Moreover,\nSchopenhauer notes, it is a good plan to appear a trifle disdainful\nfrom time to time; such an attitude has a strengthening effect on\nfriendship: \"Chi non istima, vien stimato\" (he who shows no respect is\nrespected himself) runs the sagacious Italian proverb. But above all,\nif any one does possess a high value in our eyes it should be hidden\nfrom him as a sin. This advice is not particularly exhilarating, but it\nis sound. Too much kindness disagrees with dogs, to say nothing of men.\n\nIt is a curious fact that the more intellectual a man is the more\neasily he is deceived. There seems to be something almost incompatible\nbetween a high degree of culture and an extended knowledge of men and\nthings, whereas, in the case of people of ordinary calibre, a lack of\nexperience will not necessarily hinder them from properly conducting\ntheir affairs; they possess, as it were, an _a priori_ knowledge which\nis furnished to them by their own nature, and it is precisely the\nabsence of this knowledge that causes the mistakes of the more refined.\nEven when a man has learned from the teaching of others and through his\nown experience just what he may expect from men in general, even when\nhe is thoroughly convinced that five sixths of them are so constituted\nthat it is better for him to have nothing at all to do with them, even\nthen, his knowledge is insufficient to preserve him from many false\ncalculations. A presumable wiseacre, for instance, may accidentally be\ndrawn into the society of people with whom he is unacquainted, and be\nastonished to find that in conversation and manners they are sensible,\nloyal, and sincere, and, perhaps, intelligent and witty. In that case,\nSchopenhauer warns him to keep well on his guard, for the reason that\nNature is entirely unlike the dramaturge who, when he wishes to create\na scoundrel or a simpleton, sets about it so awkwardly that he seems to\nbe standing behind each character in turn, and in disavowing their\ngestures and words to be warning the audience that one is a ruffian and\nthe other a fool, and that no one is to believe a word that they say.\nIt is not at all in this way that Nature acts: her method is that of\nShakespeare and Goethe, in whose plays each person, be he the Devil\nhimself, speaks as he ought to, and is conceived so realistically that\nhe attracts and commands attention. To think, then, that the Devil goes\nabout with horns, and the fool with bells, is to lay one's self open to\na continual deception, for, as a rule, our moralist says, men behave\nvery much like the moon or like the hunchback; they show only one side,\nand even then they have a peculiar talent for making up their faces\ninto a species of mask, which exactly represents _what they ought to\nbe_, and this they assume whenever they wish to be well received. Put\nnot your trust in princes, say some; Schopenhauer's advice is, Put not\nyour trust in masks; and to substantiate his warning he quotes an old\nproverb, which holds that no matter how vicious a dog may be he can\nstill wag his tail.\n\nTo all these rules and suggestions there are, of course, exceptions;\nthere are even exceptions that are incommensurably great, for the\ndifference between individuals is gigantic, but taken as a whole,\nSchopenhauer condemns the world as irreclaimably bad, and it may be\nadded that one does not need to be a professional pessimist to arrive\nat very nearly the same conclusion. But beyond these broad\nrecommendations a few others are given on our proper bearing and\nattitude to the world at large, and which, summed up in his own words,\namount, in brief, to the teaching that one half of all wisdom consists\nin neither loving nor hating, and the other half in saying nothing and\nbelieving nothing.\n\nLamennais exclaimed one day, \"My soul was born with a sore,\" and to\nsome it may perhaps seem that on Schopenhauer's heart an ulcer had\nbattened during each of the seventy years that formed his life.\nCertainly he has appeared to force the note many times, but it is\npermissible to doubt that he prepared a single paragraph in which he\nexpressed himself otherwise than as he really thought. In his pessimism\nthere is no pose and as little affectation; he wrote only what he felt\nto be true, and he did so with a cheerful indifference to approval or\ndislike; his position was simply that of a notary drawing up provisos\nand conditions in strict accord with the statutes of life of which he\nstood as witness. His mother, who had little cause to come forward as\nan eulogist, paid him--years after their separation--this one sincere\ntribute: \"With all his vagaries,\" she said, \"I have never known my son\nto tell a lie.\" Other encomiums have, of course, been passed upon him,\nbut it is impossible to imagine one more glorious than this. Over and\nabove his disregard of sham and falsehood, beyond his theory of force\nand the seductions of his ethics, Schopenhauer is chiefly remarkable in\nthis: that he was the first to detect and logically explain that\nuniversal nausea which, circulating from one end of Europe to the\nother, presents those symptoms of melancholy and disillusion which,\npatent to every observer, are indubitably born of the insufficiencies\nof modern civilization.\n\nWhere, then, it may be asked, for this malady of the refined, are the\nborderlands of happiness to be found? From the standpoint of this\nteacher the answer is that they are discoverable simply and solely in\nan unobtrusive culture of self, in a withdrawal from every aggressive\ninfluence, and above all in a supreme indifference which, culpable\nthough alluring, permits the neophyte to declaim with Baudelaire,--\n\n     \"R\u00e9signe-toi, mon coeur, dors ton sommeil de brute.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe foregoing attempt to winnow some of the finer fibres of thought\nfrom the six volumes which form the complete edition of Schopenhauer's\nworks leaves admittedly much to be desired. There has been, as the\nphrase goes, an _embarras des richesses_, and in consequence much\nattendant indecision as to the choice to be made of different yet\nequally interesting topics. The passages that have been selected and\nannotated in this and in the preceding chapter have been, it may be\nexplained, so selected, because they seemed, when arranged with some\nattempt at orderly sequence, to present in the fewest possible words\nthe essence of the main idea which runs through the entire philosophy,\nand which in the absence of some such arrangement demands a\nconcentration more prolonged than is usually at the disposal of the\nordinary reader. Those who are already acquainted with Schopenhauer's\nworks, and who may do the present writer the honor of reading this\nexposition, will perhaps object to it on the ground that it does not\nenter sufficiently into the scientific side of the doctrine, and\nthrough this neglect leaves the reader in the dark as to its true\nvalue. To this presumable objection the writer begs leave to make\nanswer that the scientific aspect of the doctrine has been so\nexhaustively treated by others that it has seemed to him a waste of\ntime to enter into any further consideration of a subject whose true\nvalue, in spite of the numberless controversies and arguments which it\ncontinues to create, still remains undetermined. Moreover, as will have\nbeen readily seen, the foregoing pages have in no sense been addressed\nto the scientist, and that for the reason that exact information is\nonly obtainable from the philosophy itself, or from such a complete\nand, therefore, voluminous analysis as would be out of place in a\ntreatise of this description. The aim of these chapters is but to draw\nin outline the principal features of this doctrine, and in so doing to\npresent in the absence of complete translations a little of that vigor\nand color which has raised the original to the prominent position it\nholds among the foremost works of modern thought. No attempt at the\npolemical has been made, and this for the reason that it is seldom\nadvisable to attack the truth; the notations and criticisms which have\nbeen offered have been prepared, not with the wish to controvert, but\nrather with the hope that they might serve to a clearer understanding\nof the whole philosophy.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V.\n\nTHE GREAT QUIETUS.\n\n\nIt is related of Schopenhauer that he was in the habit of putting down\na gold piece on the _table d'h\u00f4te_ where he dined, and of taking it up\nagain when the dinner was ended. This gold piece, he explained to his\nBoswell, was for the waiter the first time that any one of the\ndifferent officers, who frequented the dining-room, was heard\ndiscussing a loftier topic than that which is circled in wine, woman,\nand song. As the story runs, no occasion ever presented itself in which\nhe could in this manner express his pleasure and contentment; but had\nhe lived long enough to meet Lieutenant Von Hartmann there is little\ndoubt that the gold piece would have formed an immediate and rightful\npart of the waiter's perquisites.\n\nThis gentleman, who is now no longer an officer, but simply a thinker\nand a man of letters, may, in many respects, be regarded as\nSchopenhauer's direct descendant. To the world at large very little\nconcerning him is known, and that little is contained in a modest\nautobiography which appeared a few years ago, and to which his\npublisher has since added a supplement.\n\nThe meagre details that are furnished therein amount, in brief, to\nthis: Eduard von Hartmann was born in 1842, in Berlin, in which city he\npassed an uneventful boyhood. The school which he attended, and which\nlike most other schools forced the pupils to master a quantity of\nsubjects whose usefulness may be questioned, brought him into an almost\nopen revolt against a system of education which, in nine cases out of\nten, is nothing more than a pure waste of time. On leaving the\ngymnasium he decided, for reasons which to the average German must seem\nfantastic, to enter the military service at once instead of passing the\nusual semesters at a university. To this budding pessimist student life\nseemed to offer but dull variations between commonplaceness and\nvulgarity: to listen or not to listen to sundry poorly expressed\nlectures by day, to engulf at night a certain quantity of beer in stone\nmeasures, and to diversify these occupations in receiving slashes on\nthe cheek-bone, or in affording amusement to the Hebes of Prussian\nrestaurants, was not to him the life that was called ideal. Very\nwisely, then, and in accordance with the example which his father had\nalready given, he chose in a military career a profession most apt to\nsatisfy those inclinations of the scientist and of the artist which had\nalready begun to exert an influence upon him.\n\nIn the year 1858 Herr von Hartmann entered the crack artillery regiment\nof Berlin as volunteer. He then passed three years at the artillery\nschool, intermingling the scientific studies of his profession with\nartistic and philosophic researches, and frequenting meanwhile the\nrefined society to which his family belonged. About this time a\nrheumatic affection, which had first declared itself toward the close\nof his school-days, became complicated with a fracture of some of the\ndelicate machinery of the knee. The injury was both painful and\nincurable, and in 1864 he was obliged to resign his position, and\nthereupon left the army with the grade of first lieutenant. These\nlatter details are given by way of counterbalance to the calumnies of\nhis enemies, who, in explaining his pessimism by the state of his\nhealth,--which they insinuate was brought about by excessive and\nunusual debauchery,--have in one way and another managed to vituperate\nhis chief work into nine editions.\n\nOn leaving the army he sought a career first as painter and then as\nmusician; it did not take him long, however, to discover that his\nvocation was not such as is found in purely artistic pursuits; \"the\nbankruptcy of all my ambitions,\" he says, \"was complete; there remained\nto me but one thing, and that was thought.\" It was from thought, then,\nthat he demanded a consolation and an employment, and turning to\nmetaphysics he began at once to plan his \"Philosophy of the\nUnconscious.\" Meanwhile, for his own distraction and instruction he had\nwritten a few essays, of which but one was destined to see the light of\nday. This monograph, \"Die dialektische Methode,\" was so favorably\nviewed at Rostock, that he received therefrom the degree and title of\nDoctor of Philosophy.\n\n\"The Philosophy of the Unconscious,\" when completed, remained a year in\nhis closet, and was only published in 1868, owing to an accidental\nmeeting with an intelligent publisher. Before, as since, the appearance\nand success of this work, which is very generally considered as the\nchief philosophical event of the last two decades, Dr. von Hartmann has\nlived at Berlin, where he endeavors in every-day life to prove the\npractical value of evolutionary pessimism, which it is his wish to\nsubstitute for the indifferentism and quietist doctrines of\nSchopenhauer.\n\nPersonally, Dr. von Hartmann is a very attractive individual, and his\nattractiveness is increased by the fact that there is nothing\ncommonplace, and at the same time nothing affected about him. When I\ncalled at his house, I found him coiled up in a rug on one of those\nlong chairs that are familiar to every ocean traveler. My first\nimpression was that I was in the presence of a giant; and as the\nBerlinese as a race are notoriously tall, I was only surprised at the\ngreat size of his head, which differed singularly from that of the\nordinary Prussian. His hair was brushed back from his forehead in the\nmanner popularly termed _\u00e0 la Russe_, but which is more noticeable in\nVienna than in St. Petersburg; his eyes, which were large and luminous,\npossessed an expression of such indulgence as would put the most timid\nvisitor at ease. Owing partly to the arrangement of his hair, his\nforehead seemed to me to be the most expansive that I had ever seen;\nthe lower part of his face was hidden in a beard which descended very\nnearly to his waist, while as for his moustache, it is, I think, the\nlongest in metaphysics. In some way or another I had gotten to believe\nthat it was part of the professional philosopher to be both\nself-contained and absent-minded; I always pictured him as a class as\nwearing spectacles far down on the nose, as being somewhat snuffy, and\ncarelessly tired in loose and shabby dressing-gown. I can give no\nreason for this fancy of mine other than that it is one of those\npictures which we all draw of people and places that we have not seen.\nIf I remember rightly, Mr. Sala said that he imagined Leipzig to be a\ncity of very squat houses, in which dwelt little girls in blue skirts,\nand this until he got there and found that it was precisely like any\nother of its kind.\n\nAs a child, and indeed until very lately, I invariably thought of\nHungary as having red roads, bordered by crimson houses and bluffs of\ngreen, while all about I saw in fancy splendid horses prancing in rich\ncaparisons; but, as any traveler will admit, Hungary, in point of\nnatural effects, is as humdrum as Connecticut; for real color, I\nsuppose one must go to Japan, and yet there are many who have done so\nand then returned utterly disillusioned. Dr. von Hartmann took away my\nillusion about the philosopher; he had a rug, it is true, but no\ndressing-gown, or at least not one which was visible, and there was\nnothing of the careless mien and abstracted attitudes which I had\nexpected; to use a current phrase, he was very wide awake, and I may\nadd that to one who has lived among Germans he seemed refreshingly\nhospitable and graciously courteous.\n\nEven in its most pleasant season, Berlin is not a pleasant city; a\nlounge of but half an hour on the Unter den Linden results through\nunconscious imitation in an enforced quickstep; to begin with, there\nare too many big houses, and then there are too many big soldiers; and\nwhile the soldiers present to the stranger an appearance of arrogant\nhostility, the houses, not to be outdone, try to look as much like the\nsoldiers as possible, and loom up in alert unbending aggressiveness;\nindeed, I have now in my mind a certain street which, when I looked\ndown it, almost got up and threatened me. I experienced, therefore, a\nsubtle pleasure on discovering that out of the whole of rigid Berlin\nDr. von Hartmann had chosen his residence in the most unsoldierly, and\nfor that reason the most attractive part; and it was to this quarter of\nthe city that I went to visit the man who, in spite of certain vagaries\nof thought, may be considered as Germany's first thinker. When he had\ndisentangled himself from the folds of his rug, the impression which\nhad been produced by the size of his head and the breadth of his\nshoulders vanished entirely. I thought for the moment of the quaint\nmyths of the earlier Teutons, of the gnomes and kobolds, for Dr. von\nHartmann, while massive in head and shoulders, is yet short and\nundersized, and the suggestion of the Rhine legends which his\nappearance caused was heightened by the strange effect produced by the\nluxuriance of his beard and moustache.\n\nHe had barely spoken, however, before I recognized in him not only the\nman of the world, which goes without the telling, but the gentleman,\nand, in a moment, the thinker. Stendhal says somewhere, in speaking of\nGerman, that it took him \"two whole years to forget the beastly\nlanguage.\" Stendhal was what is termed nowadays an impressionist, and\nhis expression may perhaps on that account be excused; in any event\nGerman is decidedly an unpleasant tongue; it is very rich, rich even to\nexuberance, and when it is well handled it is to the initiate\ndelightful in many respects; but to the Latin, and the average\nAnglo-Saxon, it is terribly tortuous, and most easy to lose one's way\nin. I had hoped, therefore, that I might be allowed to talk with Dr.\nvon Hartmann in some more flowing form of speech, but as he preferred\nGerman, it was not, of course, my place to rebel, and I soon found that\nI had nothing to regret. I have had in the Fatherland the privilege of\nhearing some very accomplished actors, and I have also sat beneath some\nvery eloquent speakers, but the amplitude and resources of the German\nlanguage were first made clear to me by this gentleman. When he spoke,\nI may say, without exaggeration, that his words seemed less like\nfigures of speech than evocations of pictures. I had puzzled for some\ntime over a particular point in his teaching, and when I told him of my\ndifficulty he drew down before me a series of illustrations and\nexamples, which were as well defined as though they formed a panorama\non the wall; and therewithal was such a fluency of verb, such a\nprecision of adjective, and such a nicety of accent, that for the first\nand only time I loved the German language.\n\nDr. von Hartmann is in no sense a misanthrope. He leads a quiet and\neasy life, demonstrating by his own example that pessimism is not a\ngospel of desolation. Personally, he has had many grave misfortunes; he\nhas suffered in health, in name, and in purse, he has lost many who\nwere most dear to him, but his laugh is as prompt and as frank as a\nboy's. At the head of his table sits a gracious and charming woman, his\nchildren are rich in strength and spirits, and an observer lately said\nof him and his family, \"If you wish to see happy and contented faces,\ngo call on the Hartmanns.\"\n\nBeyond writing a dozen or more monographs, and dissertations on\nphilosophical subjects, Dr. von Hartmann has also charmed the public\nwith two elaborate and well-conceived poems. His chief claim to\nrecognition, however, and the one which has placed him at the head of\ncontemporary metaphysics, is the work already mentioned, in which,\nsomewhat after the manner of his predecessor, and yet with a\ndiffuseness of argument which had no part in Schopenhauer's system, he\nreduces the motor forces of the universe to a dual principle which he\nterms the _Unbewussten_, or the Unconscious.\n\nIt is unnecessary to enter into any minute examination of this theory\nof his, in which, with a juggle of fancies and facts, he tries to\nreconcile the teaching of Hegel with that of Schopenhauer, for, however\nit may be considered, it is in any event but loosely connected with\nthat part of his philosophy which treats of the matter in hand.\n\nIt will be sufficient for the understanding of what is to follow, to\nnote simply that after examining the forms of phenomenal existence,\nmatter, life organic and inorganic, humanity, and so on, he presents\nthe Unconscious as the One-in-all, the Universal soul, from which,\nthrough determined laws, the multiplicity of individuals and characters\nis derived. This one-in-all is sovereignly wise, and the world is\nadmirable in every respect; but while he argues in this way that the\nworld is the best one possible, he has no difficulty in showing that\nlife itself is irreclaimably miserable.\n\nThe originality of his system consists in a theory of optimistic\nevolution as counterbalanced by a pessimistic analysis of life, and\nalso in the manner in which, with a glut of curious argument, he\nconcludes that as the world's _progressus_ does not tend to either\nuniversal or even individual happiness, the great aim of science should\nbe to emancipate man from the love of life, and in this wise lead the\nworld back to chaos.\n\nThe main idea runs somewhat as follows. The interest of the Unconscious\nis opposed to our own; it would be to our advantage not to live, it is\nto the advantage of the Unconscious that we should do so, and that\nothers should be brought into existence through us. The Unconscious,\ntherefore, in the furtherment of its aims, has surrounded man with such\nillusions as are capable of deluding him into the belief that life is a\npleasant thing, well worth the living. The instincts that are within us\nare but the different forms beneath which this unreasoning desire to\nlive is at work, and with which the Unconscious inspires man and moulds\nhim to its profit. Hence the energy so foolishly expended for the\nprotection of an existence which is but the right to suffer, hence the\nerroneous idea which is formed of the pain and pleasure derivable from\nlife, and hence the modification of past disenchantments through the\ninfluence of fresh and newer hopes.\n\nWith regard to happiness, there are, according to Hartmann, three\nperiods or forms of illusion, from all of which the world must be\nthoroughly freed before the great aim of science can be attained. The\nfirst of these illusions consists in the idea that under certain\ncircumstances happiness is now obtainable on earth; the second, in the\nbelief that happiness is realizable in a future state; and the third,\nin the opinion that happiness will be discovered in the march of\nprogress through the coming centuries.\n\nOf these three ideas, the first has for some time past been recognized\nby many as a chimera. In certain quarters the decomposition of the\nsecond has already begun, but the belief in the reality of the third is\nunquestionably the paramount conviction of the present century. When\neach of these three illusions has been utterly routed and universally\ndone away with, then, Hartmann considers, the world will be ripe for\nits great quietus.\n\nThe first of these three forms is, of course, the most tenacious;\nindeed, it is an incontestible fact that man, even when miserable,\nclings to life, and loves it not only when there is some vague hope of\na brighter future, but even under its most distressing conditions. It\nis, therefore, against this illusion that pessimism, to be successful,\nmust rain the hardest blows.\n\nThe views of many eminent writers on this subject have already been\nexpressed in the course of these pages, but their views, while in a\nmeasure important, should nevertheless be received with a certain\namount of caution, for they emanate from superior minds, in which\nmelancholy as the attribute of genius constantly presides.\n\nLet us imagine, then, with Hartmann, a man who is not a genius, but\nsimply a man of ordinary culture, enjoying the advantages of an\nenviable position; a man who is neither wearied by pleasure nor\noppressed by exceptional misfortunes; in brief, a man capable of\ncomparing the advantages which he enjoys with the disadvantages of\ninferior members of society; let us suppose that Death comes to this\nman and speaks somewhat as follows: \"Your hour is at hand; it remains\nwith you, however, to live at once a new life, with the past entirely\neffaced, or to accept the grave as it is.\"\n\nThere can be little doubt, if this hypothetical individual has not\nlived carelessly and thoughtlessly, and does not permit his judgment to\nbe biased by the desire for life at any price, that he would choose\ndeath in preference to another existence, in which he would be assured\nof none of the favorable conditions which he had hitherto enjoyed. He\nwill recommence his own life, perhaps, but no other of an inferior\ngrade.\n\nThis choice, however, would be that of an intelligent man, and might be\nobjected to on a ground not dissimilar to the one already advanced\nagainst the judgments of genius. But let us follow Hartmann still\nfurther, and in descending the spiral of humanity put the same question\nto every one we meet; let us take, for instance, a woodcutter, a\nHottentot, or an orang-outang, and ask of each which he prefers, death,\nor a new existence in the body of a hippopotamus or a flea. Each will\nanswer, \"death,\" but none of them will hesitate between their own lives\nand death; and if a like question be put to the hippopotamus and the\nflea, their answers will be precisely similar.\n\nThe difference in the comparative judgment that each would bring to\nbear on his own life, and on that of life in an inferior degree,\nresults evidently from the fact that on being questioned each enters\nimaginatively into the existence of the lower creation, and at once\njudges its condition to be insupportable. The difference between the\nopinion which the flea holds on the value of its own existence and our\nown private judgment on this insect is derived simply from the fact\nthat the flea has a quantity of absurd illusions which we do not share,\nand these illusions cause it such an excess of imaginary happiness that\nin consequence it prefers its own life to death. In this the flea is\nnot wrong; on the contrary, it is quite right, for the value of an\nexistence can only be measured in accordance with its natural\nlimitations. In this sense illusion is as serviceable as truth.\n\nFrom this introduction it follows quite of itself that each and every\ncreature is capable of weighing the discomforts of an existence\ninferior to that in which it dwells, and yet is unable to rightly judge\nits own. Each can discern the illusions with which its inferior is\nsurrounded, but is always defenseless against its own, save under\nexceptional circumstances, as in the case of genius. Hartmann\nconcludes, therefore, very logically that an intelligence which is\ncapable of embracing every form of life would condemn existence in its\ntotality in the same manner that an intelligence relatively restricted\ncondemns it in part.\n\nIn drawing up the balance-sheet of life, Hartmann differs from\nSchopenhauer on the question of the purely negative character of\npleasure. That pleasure is at times a negative condition, as in the\ncessation of pain, he willingly admits, but from his standpoint it is\nsomething else besides; it may be either positive, although derived\nfrom an illusion, as in love, or real, as in art and science.\nNevertheless, the predominance of pain over pleasure seems to be firmly\nestablished, and his examination of this subject is not without a\nrepellant interest.\n\nThe four greatest blessings of life are admittedly health, youth,\nliberty, and well-being; but from their nature, Hartmann points out,\nthese things are incapable of raising man out of indifference into\npleasure save only as they may help to diminish an anterior pain, or\nguard him from a possible discomfort. Take the case of health, for\ninstance; no man thinks of his nerves until they are affected, nor yet\nof his eyes until they ache; indeed, it may fairly be said that a man\nwho is in perfect condition only knows that he has a body because he\nsees and touches it. Liberty may be regarded in much the same manner:\nit is unnoticed until it is in some way interfered with; while youth,\nwhich is the most propitious condition of life, is in itself but\ncapability and possibility, and not possession, nor yet delight.\n\nWell-being, the certainty of shelter from need and privation, Hartmann\nvery rightly considers merely as the _sine qua non_ of life in its\nbaldest aspect, for, he argues, were it otherwise, the simple fact of\nliving would satisfy and content us; but we all know that an assured\nexistence is a torment if nothing fills the gap.\n\nIn the menagerie of beasts that torture life there is one, Baudelaire\nsays in his easy metre, that is more hideous than all the rest; it\nis:--\n\n     ... \"l'ennui! L'oeil charg\u00e9 d'un pleur involontaire\n     Il r\u00eave d'\u00e9chafauds en fumant son houka--\n     Tu le connais, lecteur, ce monstre d\u00e9licat,\n     --Hypocrite lecteur,--mon semblable,--mon fr\u00e8re!\"\n\nThis insupportable companion of inaction is usually banished by work;\nbut then, to him who is obliged to labor, is not work often\ndistasteful, and even a species of misfortune? Indeed, there are few,\nif any, who ever work save under compulsion; and whether the compulsion\nis caused by the attracting force of fame, the desire to escape from\nwant, or comes simply as a promise of relief from boredom, the\nincentive and necessity are one and the same. It is true that man when\nat work is consoled by the thought of rest, but then work and rest\nmerely serve to change his position, and they do so very much in the\nsame manner as that uneasiness which forces the invalid to turn in bed,\nand then to turn back again, when it has shown him that the second\nposition is no better than the first.\n\nThe great blessings of life, therefore, reduce themselves, in brief, to\nthis: they represent but that affranchisement from pain which is\nequivalent to a state of pure indifference; but as no one reaches this\ncondition save momentarily and by accident, it seems to follow that\nlife has less charm than non-existence, which represents indifference\nin its most absolute and unquestioned form.\n\nThis state of beatitude is yet to be acquired; meanwhile, as Schiller\nsays, so long as philosophy does not govern the world, hunger and love\nwill suffice to keep it in motion. After the four causes of\ncontentment, Hartmann's views on the two incentives to activity remain\nto be examined.\n\nIn regard to the first, it may be said without extravagance that the\nsufferings of hunger rule the greater portion of the 1300 millions of\nthe earth's inhabitants. Europe not long since averaged a famine every\nseven years; now, the facilities of communication have replaced famine\nwith an increased valuation of food. Death is the rarest and the least\nimportant evil that hunger occasions; what is most to be regarded is\nthe physical and intellectual impoverishment, the mortality among\nchildren, and the particular maladies which it engenders.\n\nAccording to Hartmann, the analysis of hunger shows that in satisfying\nits demands the individual does not raise his sensibility above a state\nof pure indifference. He may, it is true, under favorable\ncircumstances, cause a certain pleasure to predominate over suffering\nby means of taste and digestion; but in the animal kingdom, as in\nhumanity, taken as a whole, the tortures caused by hunger are greatly\nin excess of any pleasures that may attach to it. In fact, from\nHartmann's standpoint, the necessity of eating is in itself a\nmisfortune.\n\nAfter all that has been said through centuries of literature on the\nsubject of love, it is certainly difficult to be original; but Hartmann\nhas at least the merit of presenting it in a more abstract light, and\nfrom a less alluring standpoint than any other writer who has handled\nthe subject. For love, according to his views, is either contrary to\nthe laws of society, and as such environed by perils and pains, vice\nand degradation, or it is perfectly legal, and, in that case, quickly\nextinguished. \"In the majority of cases,\" he says, \"insurmountable\nobstacles arise between the two lovers and cause a consequent and\nimmense despair, while in the rarer and more fortunate instances the\nexpected happiness turns out to be purely illusory.\"\n\nIt is, however, as hard to love as it is not to love; but he (Hartmann)\nsays, \"Who once recognizes that the happiness which it offers is but a\nchimera, and that its pains are greater than its pleasures, will, while\nunable perhaps to escape entirely from its allurements, be none the\nless able to judge it differently from the novice, and therefore\ncapable of diminishing some of its suffering, and some of the\ndisproportion between its joys and its sorrows.\" According to this\nsavage moralist, then, love is either an illusory and quickly vanishing\nhappiness, or an actual suffering, and resembles hunger precisely in\nthat it is in itself and to the individual a veritable curse.\n\nHartmann judges marriage with an epigram borrowed from Lessing: \"There\nis, at most, but one disagreeable woman in the world; it is only a pity\nthat every man gets her for himself.\" In very much the same manner are\nthe ties of family and friendship weighed and judged. Scattered here\nand there is some reflection of Schopenhauer's wit and wisdom, but\ngenerally the discussion is defective, and lacks the grace of style and\npurity of diction which characterized the latter writer. The sentiments\nof honor, public esteem, ambition, and glory depend, he says, on the\nopinion of others, and are therefore merely toys of the imagination,\n\"for my joys and troubles exist in my mind, and not in the minds of\nother people. Their opinion concerning me has merely a conventional\nvalue, and not one which is effective for me.\"\n\nBut to him who journeys through the desert called life, there is still\none suave and green oasis. Hartmann is not utterly relentless, and\nthough perhaps on all other subjects he may seem skeptical as a\nragpicker, he has yet a word or two of cheer for art and science. These\npleasant lands, however, are only traversable by rare and privileged\nnatures, for if from the pleasure which attaches to music, painting,\npoetry, philosophy, and science, a deduction be made of all that which\nis but sham, dilettanteism, and vanity, the more considerable part of\nthis supreme resource will be found to have disappeared. That which\nremains over is the compensation which nature preserves as recompense\nto the extreme sensibility of the artist and thinker, to whom the\nmiseries of life are far more poignant than to other men, whose\nsensibilities are duller and less impressionable. Now, if the ubiquity\nof suffering is admitted, the temperament of this latter class is, in\nthe long run, undoubtedly preferable to the more refined organization\nof the artist; for, after all, a state of comparative insensibility is\nevidently not too dearly bought, when the price is merely the lack of a\ndelight, whose absence is not a privation, and which, to those able to\nappreciate it, is as rare as it is limited in duration. Moreover, even\nthe real and ineffaceable pleasures which the thinker and artist enjoy\nare obtainable only after much trouble and discomfort.\n\nGenius does not fall from the skies ready-made and complete in armor\nand equipment; the study which is to develop it is a task painful and\ntiresome, whose pleasures are rare, and, generally speaking, but those\nof anticipation and vanquished obstacles. Each art has its mechanical\nside, which demands a long apprenticeship; and even then, after the\npreliminary preparation, the only pleasant moments are those of\nconception, which, in turn, are directly succeeded by the long hours of\ntechnical execution.\n\nIn the case of the amateur, the pleasure of listening to good music, of\nseeing a fine actor, or of looking at works of art, is undoubtedly the\none that causes the least amount of inconvenience, and yet Hartmann is\nnot to be blamed for noting that even this pleasure is seldom\nunalloyed. In the first place, there is the bother of going to the\npicture-gallery; then there is the bad air and hubbub in the theatre;\nafter this come the dangers of catching cold, of being run into, or\nannoyed in a dozen different ways, and especially the fatigue of\nwatching and listening.\n\nIn the case of the artist there are the inevitable deceptions; the\nstruggles with envy, the indifference and disdain of the public.\nChamfort was wont to exclaim, \"The public indeed! how many idiots does\nit take to make a public?\" The public, nevertheless, has the ability to\nmake itself very disagreeable, and not every one courts its smile with\nsuccess. If, in addition to all these things, the nervous organization\nof the thinker, more vibrant a thousandfold than that of other men, is\ntaken into consideration, it will be seen that Hartmann is not wrong in\nstating that the pleasures to which this class is privileged are\nexpiated by a greater sensibility to pain.\n\nBut while art is not without its disadvantages, Hartmann declares that\nlife still holds one solace that is supreme and unalloyed. \"Unconscious\nsleep,\" he says, \"is relatively the happiest condition, for it is the\nonly one from which pain is completely banished. With dreams, however,\nall the miseries of life return; and happiness, when it then appears,\ndoes so only in the vague form of an agreeable sensation, such as that\nof being freed from the body, or flying through the air. The pleasures\nof art and science, the only ones which could reconcile a sensible man\nto life, are intangible herein, while suffering, on the other hand,\nappears in its most positive form.\"\n\nAmong the different factors which are generally supposed to be more or\nless productive of happiness, wealth or its symbol, money, usually\nrepresents the enchanted wand that opens the gate to every joy of life.\nIt is true that we have seen that all these joys were illusions, and\nthat their pursuit was more painful than pleasing, but Hartmann here\nmakes an exception in favor of the delights which art and science\nprocure, and also, like a true Berlinois, of those which the table\naffords.\n\n\"Wealth,\" he says, \"makes me lord and master. With it I can purchase\nthe pleasures of the table, and even those of love.\" It is unnecessary\nto contend with him on this point: our tastes all differ; still there\nare few, it is to be imagined, who will envy him in an affection which\nis purchasable with coin of the realm. Moreover, wealth does not make\none lord and master; there is a certain charm in original and brilliant\nconversation which neither Hartmann nor any one else could buy, even\nthough all the wealth of Ormus and the Ind stood to his credit on the\nledgers of the Landesbank. Wealth, however, he hastens to explain,\nshould be valued not for the commodities which it can procure, but\nrather because we are enabled therewith to shield ourselves from\ninconveniences which would otherwise disturb that zero of the\nsensibility which the pessimist holds to be the nearest approach to\nreality in happiness.\n\nIt is said that the drowning man will clutch at a straw, and it is\npossible that the reader who has seen his illusions dispersed and\nslaughtered one by one has perhaps deluded himself with the fancy that\nhope at least might yet survive; if he has done so, he may be sure that\nhe has reckoned without his host. Hartmann guillotines the blue goddess\nin the most off-hand manner; she is the last on the list, and he does\nthe job with a hand which is, so to speak, well in. Of course hope is a\ngreat delight; who thinks of denying it? Certainly not the headsman,\nwho even drops a sort of half tear over her mangled wings. But if we\ncome to look over the warrant which has legalized the execution, the\nquestion naturally arises who and what is hope? It is of little use to\nask the poets, for they are all astray; what they see in hope is a fair\nsky girt with laurels,--in other words, the rape of happiness; but has\nit not been repeated even to satiety that happiness does not exist,\nthat pain outbalances pleasure? What is hope, then, but an illusion?\nand an illusion, too, that plays all manner of tricks with us, and\namuses itself at our expense; one, in fact, which makes use of us until\nour task is accomplished, and we understand that all things are\ndifferent from that which we desired. \"He, then,\" Hartmann says, \"who\nis once convinced that hope is as vain and illusory as its object will\nsee its influence gradually wane beneath the power of the\nunderstanding, and the one thing to which he will then look forward\nwill be, not the greatest amount of happiness, but the easiest burden\nof pain.\"\n\nIn all that has gone before, Hartmann has endeavored to show that\nsuffering increases with the development of the intellect, or rather,\nthat happiness exists only in the mineral kingdom, which represents\nthat zero of the senses above which man struggles in vain. It has been\nseen that they whose nervous systems are most impressionable have a\nlarger share of suffering than their less sensitive brethren;\nfurthermore, experience teaches that the lower classes are more\ncontented than the cultivated and the rich, for while they are more\nexposed to want, yet they are thicker-skinned and more obtuse. In\ndescending the scale of life, therefore, it is easy to show that such\nweight of pain as burdens animal existence is less than that which man\nsupports. The horse, whose sensibility is most delicate, leads a more\npainful existence than the swine, or even the fish, whose happiness at\nhigh tide is proverbial. The life of the fish is happier than that of\nthe horse, the oyster is happier than the fish, the life of the plant\nis happier yet, and so on down to the last degrees of organic life,\nwhere consciousness expires and suffering ends.\n\nThe balance sheet of human pleasure and pain may therefore be summed up\nsomewhat as follows: in the first column stand those conditions which\ncorrespond to a state of pure indifference, and merely represent the\nabsence of certain sufferings; these are health, youth, liberty, and\nwell-being; in the second are those which stand as illusory incentives,\nsuch as the desire for wealth, power, esteem, and general regard; in\nthe third are those which, as a rule, cause more pain than pleasure,\nsuch as hunger and love; in the fourth are those which rest on\nillusions, such as hope, etc.; in the fifth are those which, recognized\nas misfortunes, are only accepted to escape still greater ones: these\nare work and marriage; in the sixth are those which afford more\npleasure than pain, but whose joys must be paid for by suffering, and\nin any event can be shared but by the few: this is the column of art\nand science.\n\nLet a line be drawn and the columns added up, the sum total amounts to\nthe inevitable conclusion that pain is greatly in excess of pleasure;\nand this not alone in the average, but in the particular existence of\neach individual, and even in the case of him who seems exceptionally\nfavored. Hartmann has taken great care to point out that experience\ndemonstrates the vanity of each of the opulent aspirations of youth,\nand that on the subject of individual happiness intelligent old age\npreserves but few illusions.\n\nSuch is the schedule of pleasure and pain which each one is free to\nverify by his own experience, or, better still, to disregard\naltogether; for, from what has gone before, it is easy to see that man\nis most happy when he is the unconscious dupe of his own illusions. In\nKoheleth it is written: \"To add to knowledge is to add to pain.\" He,\nthen, whose judgment is obscured by illusions is less sensible to the\nundeniable miseries of life; he is always prepared to welcome hope, and\neach deception is forgotten in the expectation of better things. Mr.\nMicawber, whose acquaintance we have all made, is not alone a type, but\na lesson, the moral of which is sometimes overlooked.\n\nIn brief, Hartmann's teaching resolves itself into the doctrine that\nthe idea that happiness is obtainable in this life is the first and\nforemost of illusions. This conclusion, in spite of certain\neccentricities of statement, is none the less one which will be found\nsingularly difficult to refute. But every question has two different\nsides, and this one is no exception. The devil, whom Schopenhauer\npainted in a good grim gray, Hartmann has daubed all over with a depth\nof black of which he is certainly undeserving; and not only that, but\nhe has taken an evident pleasure in so doing. It is not, therefore,\nunfair to use his own weapon, and tell him that he, too, is the dupe of\nan illusion, or, to borrow a simile from the prince of wits, to insist\nthat while he may not carry any unnecessary quantity of motes in his\neye, some dust has assuredly settled on his monocle.\n\nAs is the case with others who have treated the subject, Hartmann\nconfounds the value of the existence of the unit with the worth of\nlife in the aggregate. Taken as a whole, it is undeniably and without\ndoubt unfortunate, but that does not prevent many people from being\nsuperlatively, and, to the pessimist, even insultingly happy; and\nthough the joy of a lifetime be circumscribed in a single second, yet\nit is not rash to say that that second of joy may be so vividly intense\nas to compensate its recipient for all miseries past and to come. It\nmay be noted, further, that the balance-sheet which has just been\nreviewed is simply a resultant of Hartmann's individual opinion.\nSometimes, it is true, he deals with unquestioned facts, and sometimes\nwith unanswerable figures; but it has been wittily said that nothing is\nso fallacious as facts except figures; and certain of these figures and\nfacts, which seem to bear out his statements, are found at times to be\nmerely assertions, and exaggerated at that.\n\nThe second great illusion from which Hartmann would deliver us is the\nbelief that happiness is realizable in a future life. As has been seen,\nhe has already contended that earthly felicity is unobtainable, and his\narguments against a higher state are, in a word, that unless the\ncondition which follows life is compared to the anterior state of\nbeing, chaos, the successor of life, can bring to man neither happiness\nnor unhappiness; but as the belief in the regeneration of the body is\nno longer tenable, it follows that this contrast cannot be appreciated\nby the non-existent, who are necessarily without thought or\nconsciousness.\n\nThis doctrine, which is very nearly akin to Buddhism, has, of course,\nbut little in common with Christianity. Christianity does not, it is\ntrue, recognize in us any fee simple to happiness, but it recommends\nthe renunciation of such as may be held, that the value of the\ntranscendent felicity which it promises may be heightened to a still\ngreater extent. It was this regenerating hope, this association of a\ndisdain for life to a promise of eternal well-being, that saved\nantiquity from the despair and distaste for life in which it was being\nslowly consumed. But, according to the tendency of modern thought,\nevery effort to demonstrate the reality of ultramundane happiness only\nresults in a more or less disguised and fantastic representation of\nNirv\u00e2na, while the idea which each forms of such a condition varies\nnaturally with the degree of his culture. It is certainly not at all\nastonishing that all those who are more or less attached to the\nChristian conception of life should, as Hartmann says, indignantly\nrepulse any and every suggestion of this description. For such ideas to\nbe accepted, a long and worldly civilizing preparation is needed.\n\nA period of this nature is found in his analysis of the third and last\ngreat illusion, which holds that happiness will be realizable in the\nprogressing evolution of the world. The chapter in which this subject\nis treated is one of the most masterly in his entire work, and as such\nis well deserving of careful examination.\n\nFirst, it may be explained that to the student of modern science the\nhistory of the world is that of a continuous and immense development.\nThe union of photometry and spectral analysis enables him to follow the\nevolution of other planets, while chemistry and mineralogy teach him\nsomething of the earth's own story before it cooled its outer crust.\nBiology discloses the evolution of the vegetable and animal kingdom;\narch\u00e6ology, with some assistance from other sources, throws an\nintelligible light over the prehistoric development of man, while\nhistory brings with it the reverberation of the ordered march of\ncivilization, and points at the same time to larger and grander\nperspectives. It is not hard, then, to be convinced of the reality of\nprogress; the difficulty lies in the inability to present it to one's\nself in a thoroughly unselfish manner. From an egoist point of view,\nman--and by man is meant he who has succeeded in divesting himself of\nthe two illusions just considered--would condemn life not only as a\nuseless possession, but as an affliction. He has, however, Hartmann\ntells him, a r\u00f4le to fill under the providential direction of the\nUnconscious, which, in conformity with the plan of absolute wisdom,\ndraws the world on to a beneficent end, and this r\u00f4le exacts that he\nshall take interest in, and joyously sacrifice himself to life. If he\ndoes otherwise, his loss prevents no suffering to society, on the\ncontrary, it augments the general discomfort by the length of time\nwhich is needed to replace a useful member. Man may not, then, as\nSchopenhauer recommended, assist as a passive spectator of life; on the\ncontrary, he must ceaselessly act, work, and produce, and associate\nhimself without regret in the economic and intellectual development of\nsociety; or, in other words, he must lend his aid to the attainment of\nthe supreme goal of the evolution of the universe, for that there is a\ngoal it is as impossible to doubt as it is unreasonable to suppose that\nthe world's one end and aim is to turn on its orbit and enjoy the\nvaried spectacle of pain. And yet, what is this goal to which all\nnature tends? According to a theory which nowadays is very frequently\nexpressed, it is the attainment of universal happiness through gradual\nadvancement and progress.\n\nBut, whatever progress humanity may realize, it will never be able,\nHartmann affirms, to do away with, nor yet diminish those most painful\nof evils, illness, old age, poverty, and discontent. So, no matter to\nhow great an extent remedies may be multiplied, disorders, and\nespecially those which are light but chronic, will spread with a\nprogression far more rapid than the knowledge of therapeutics. The\ngayety of youth, moreover, will never be but the privilege of a\nfraction of mankind, while the greater part will continue to be\ndevoured by the melancholy of old age. The poverty of the masses, too,\nas the world advances, becomes more and more formidable, for all the\nwhile the masses are gaining a clearer perception of their misery. The\nhappiest races, it has been said over and over again, are those which\nlive nearest to nature, as do the savage tribes; and after them come\nnecessarily the civilized nations, which are the least cultivated.\nHistorically speaking, therefore, the progress of civilization\ncorresponds with the spread of general nausea.\n\nMay it not be, then, as Kant maintained, that the practice of universal\nmorality is the great aim of evolution? Hartmann considers the question\nat great length, and decides in the negative; for, were it such, it\nwould necessarily expand with time, gain ground, so to speak, and take\na firm hold on the different classes of society. These feats, of\ncourse, it has not performed, for immorality in descending the\ncenturies has changed only in form. Indeed, putting aside the\nfluctuations of the character of every race, it will be found that\neverywhere the same connection is maintained between egotism and\nsympathy. If one is shocked at the cruelty and brutality of former\ndays, it should nevertheless be remembered that uprightness, sincerity,\nand justice were the characteristics of earlier nations. Who shall say,\nhowever, that to-day we do not live in a reign of falsehood, perfidy,\nand the coarsest crimes; and that were it not for the assured execution\nof the repressive enactments of the state and society, we should see\nthe naked brutality of the barbarians surge up again among us? For\nthat matter, it may be noted that at times it does reappear in all its\nhuman bestiality, and invariably so the moment that law and order are\nin any way weakened or destroyed. What happened in the draft riots in\nNew York, and in Paris under the Commune?\n\nSince morality cannot be the great aim of evolution, perhaps it may be\nart and science; but the further back one looks, the more does\nscientific progress appear to be the exclusive work of certain rare and\ngifted minds, while the nearer one approaches the present epoch, the\nmore collective does the work become. Hartmann points out that the\nfirst thinkers were not unlike the magicians who made a monument rise\nout of nothing, whereas the laborers who work at the intellectual\nedifice of the present day are but corporations of intelligent builders\nwho each, according to their strength, aid in the construction of a\ngigantic tower. \"The work of science hereafter will,\" he says, \"be\nbroader and less profound; it will become exclusively inductive, and\nhence the demand for genius will grow gradually less. Similarity of\ndress has already blended the different ranks of society; meanwhile we\nare advancing to an analogous leveling of the intelligence, which will\nresult in a common but solid mediocrity. The delight in scientific\nproduction will gradually wane, and the world will end in knowing only\nthe pleasures of passive understanding. But the pleasure of knowledge\nis tasteless when truth is presented like a cake already prepared: to\nbe enjoyed it must cost an effort and a struggle.\"\n\nArt will be handicapped in much the same manner. It is no longer now\nwhat it was for the youth of humanity, a god august dispensing\nhappiness with open hands; it is simply a matter of amusement, a remedy\nfor ennui, and a distraction from the fatigues of the day. Hence the\nincrease of dilettantism and the neglect of serious study. The future\nof art is to Hartmann self-evident. \"Age has no ideal, or rather, it\nhas lost what it had, and art is condemned in the increasing years of\nhumanity to hold the same position as the nightly ballets and farces\nnow do to the bankers and brokers of large cities.\"\n\nThis consistent treatment of the subject Hartmann cleverly founds on\nthe analogy of the different ages of the life of the individual with\nthe development of humanity. It is, of course, merely a series of\naffirmations, but not for that reason necessarily untrue. The great\nthinkers have disappeared, as have also the great artists; and they\nhave done so, Hartmann would say, because we no longer need them.\nIndeed, there can be little doubt that could the Greeks come back, they\nwould tell us our art was barbarous; even to the casual observer it has\nretrograded, nor is it alone in painting and sculpture that symptoms of\ndecadence are noticeable; if we look at the tendencies in literature,\nnothing very commendable is to be found, save in isolated instances,\nwhere the technicalities of style have been raised very near to\nperfection; but, apart from a few purists who can in no sense be called\npopular, the majority of the manufacturers of fiction have nothing to\noffer but froth and rubbish.\n\nThe modern stage, too, brings evidence that a palpitant tableau is more\nappreciated than a polished comedy, and the concert-hall tells a story\nwhich is not dissimilar. Music, which with Mozart changed its sex, has\nbeen turned into a harlot by Offenbach and his successors; and there\nare but few nowadays who would hesitate between Don Juan and the last\ninanity of Strauss. One composer, however, of incontestable genius, has\nbeen slowly fighting his way into the hearts of cultivated people, and,\ncuriously enough, has sought to translate with an orchestra some part\nof the philosophy of pessimism. Schopenhauer, it is said, shook his\nhead at Wagner, and would have none of him; yet if Schopenhauer was\never wrong, he was certainly wrong in that; for Wagner has expressed,\nas no one will do again, the flooding rush of Will, and the unspiritual\nbut harmonious voice of Nature.\n\nBut whatever may become of art, science is not to be dismissed so\nabruptly. Practically considered, the political, social, and industrial\nadvance of the world depends entirely on its progress; and yet, from\nHartmann's standpoint, all that has been accomplished hitherto, by the\naid of manufactories, steamships, railways and telegraphs, has merely\nserved to lessen the embarrassments which compressed the activity of\nman; and the sole advantage which society has reaped by their aid is\nthat the force heretofore expended in actual labor is now free for the\nplay of the intellect, and serves to hasten the evolution of the world.\nThis result, Hartmann remarks, while of importance to general progress,\nin no wise affects the happiness of the individual.\n\nThis last statement of his will perhaps be better understood if it be\ntaken into consideration that the increased production of food which\nwill necessarily follow on a more intelligent culture of the soil will\ngreatly augment the population. An increase of population will multiply\nthe number of those who are always on the verge of starvation, of which\nthere are already millions. But an advance of this kind, while a step\nbackward one way, must yet be a step forward in another; for the wealth\nwhich it will bring in its train will necessarily aid in diminishing\nsuffering.\n\nPolitically considered, the outlook does not seem to be much more\nassured. An ideal government can do nothing more than permit man to\nlive without fear of unjust aggressions, and enable him to prepare the\nground on which he may construct, if he can, the edifice of his own\nhappiness. Socially, the result will be about the same: through\nsolidarity, association, and other means, men will learn how to make\nthe struggle of the individual with want less severe; yet, in all this,\nhis burdens will be merely lightened, and positive happiness will\nremain unobtained.\n\nSuch are the outlines of Hartmann's conception of what future progress\nwill amount to. If the ideal is realized, man will be gradually raised\nout of the misery in which he is plunged, and little by little approach\na state of indifference in every sphere of his activity. But it should\nbe remembered that the ideal is ever intangible; man may approach, but\nhe can never reach it, and consequently will remain always in a state\nof suffering.\n\nIn this manner, but with a profusion of argument, which, if not always\nconvincing, is yet highly instructive, Hartmann has shown in brief that\nthe people that dwell nearest to nature are happier than the civilized\nnations, that the poor are more contented than the rich, the poor in\nspirit more blessed than the intelligent, and that in general that man\nis the happiest whose sensibilities are the most obtuse, because\npleasure is then less dominated by pain, and illusions are more\nsteadfast and complete; moreover, that the progress of humanity\ndevelops not only wealth and its needs, and consequently discontent,\nbut also the aptitudes and culture of the intellect, which in turn\nawaken man to the consciousness of the misery of life, and in so doing\nheighten the sentiment of general misfortune.\n\nThe dream that another golden age is to visit the earth is, therefore,\npuerile in the extreme. As the wayfarer's burden grows heavier with the\nmiles, so do humanity's suffering and the consciousness of its misery\ncontinually increase. The child lives in the moment, the adolescent\ndreams of a transcendent ideal; man aspires to glory, then to wealth or\npractical wisdom; lastly, old age, recognizing the vanity of all\nthings, holds but to peace, and bends a tired head to rest. \"And so it\nis with civilization,--nations rise, strengthen, and disappear.\nHumanity, by unmistakable signs, shows that it is on the wane, and that\nhaving employed its strength in maturity, age is now overtaking it. In\ntime it will be content to live on the accumulated wisdom of the\ncenturies, and, inured to thought, it will review the collective\nagitations of its past life, and recognize the vanity of the goal\nhitherto pursued.... Humanity, in its decline, will leave no heir to\nprofit by its accumulated wealth. It will have neither children nor\ngrandchildren to trouble the rigor of its judgment through the\nillusions of parental love. It will sink finally into that melancholy\nwhich is the appanage of great minds; it will in a measure float above\nits own body like a spirit freed from matter; or, as oedipus at\nColonna, it will in anticipation taste the calm of chaos, and assist\nwith compassionate self-pity at the spectacle of its own suffering.\nPassions that have vanished into the depths of reason will be resolved\ninto ideas by the white light of thought. Illusions will have faded and\nhope be done with, for what is there left to hope? Its highest aim can\nbe but the absence of pain, for it can no longer dream of happiness;\nstill weak and fragile, working to live, and yet not knowing why it\ndoes so, it will ask but one gift, the rest of an endless sleep that\nshall calm its weariness and immense ennui. It is then that humanity\nwill have passed through the three periods of illusion, and in\nrecognizing the nothingness of its former hopes will aspire only to\nabsolute insensibility and the chaos of Nirv\u00e2na.\"\n\nIt remains but to inquire what is to become of disillusionized\nhumanity, and to what goal evolution is tending. The foregoing account\nof Hartmann's theory should have shown that this goal cannot be\nhappiness, for at no period has it ever been reached, and, moreover,\nthat with the progress of the world man is gaining a clearer perception\nof his misery. On the other hand, it would be illogical to suppose that\nevolution is to continue with no other aim than that of the discharge\nof the successive moments that compose it; for if each of these moments\nis valueless, evolution itself would be meaningless; but Hartmann, it\nmay be remembered, has recognized in the Unconscious a principle of\nabsolute wisdom, and the answer must be looked for elsewhere, but\npreferably in that direction which most noticeably points to some\ndetermined and progressive perfection. No such sign, however, is to be\nmet with anywhere save in the development of consciousness; here\nprogress has been clearly and uninterruptedly at work, from the\nappearance of the first globule to contemporaneous humanity, and in all\nprobability will continue to advance so long as the world subsists.\nAll things aid in its production and development, while to its\nassistance there come not only the perfecting of the nervous system,\nbut also such personal incentives as the desire for wealth, which in\nincreasing general welfare disfranchises the intellect; then, too,\nthere are the stimulants to intellectual activity, vanity and ambition,\nand also sexual love, which heightens its aptitudes; in short, every\ninstinct which is valuable to the species, and which costs the\nindividual more pain than pleasure, is converted into an unalloyed and\nincreasing gain for consciousness.\n\nIn spite of all this, however, the development of consciousness is but\nthe means to an end, and cannot therefore be considered as an absolute\ngoal; \"for consciousness,\" Hartmann says, \"is born of pain, and exists\nand expands with suffering, and yet what manner of consolation does it\noffer? Merely a vain self-mirroring. Of course, if the world were good\nand beautiful, this would not be without its advantage; but a world\nwhich is absolutely miserable, a world which must curse its own\nexistence the moment it is able to judge it, can never regard its\napparent and purely ideal reflection as a reasonable goal and\ntermination of its existence. Is there not suffering enough in reality?\nIs it necessary to reproduce it in a magic lantern? No; consciousness\ncannot be the supreme goal of a world whose evolution is directed by\nsupreme wisdom.... Some other end must be sought for, then, to which\nthe development of consciousness shall be but the means.\"\n\nBut, however the question is regarded, from whatever standpoint the\nmatter is viewed, there seems to be but one possible goal, and that is\nhappiness. Everything that exists tends thereto, and it is the\nprinciple on which rests each of the diverse forms of practical\nphilosophy; moreover, the pursuit of happiness is the essence of Will\nseeking its own pacification. But happiness has been shown to be an\nillusion; still there must be some key to the riddle. The solution is\nat once simple and unexpected. There can be no positive happiness, and\nyet happiness of some kind is necessary; the supreme aim of universal\nprogress, of which consciousness is but the instrument, is then the\nrealization of the highest possible felicity, which is nothing else\nthan the freedom from all pain, and, in consequence, the cessation of\nall life; or, in other words, total annihilation.\n\nThis climax is the only one which Hartmann will consent to consider;\nfrom any other point of view evolution would be a tireless _progressus_\nwhich some day might be blindly arrested by chance, while life in the\nmean time would remain in the utter desolation of an issueless\npurgatory.\n\nThe path, however, through which the great deliverance is to be\neffected is as tortuously perplexing as the irrational duality of the\nUnconscious. Many generations of pessimists are needed before the world\nwill be fully ripe for its great leap into the night of time; even\nthen, though Hartmann does not appear to suspect it, there will\nprobably be quite a number of pantheists who, drunk on Nature, will\nstupidly refuse the great bare bodkin, which will have thus been\ncarefully prepared for their viaticum.\n\nIt should not be supposed that in all this there is any question of the\nsuicide of the individual: Hartmann is far too dramatic to suggest a\nfinal tableau so tame and humdrum as that; besides, it has been seen\nthat the death of the individual does not drag with it the\ndisappearance of the species, and in no wise disturbs the heedless calm\nof Nature. It is not the momentary and ephemeral existence that is to\nbe destroyed, for, after its destruction, the repairing and reproducing\nforce would still survive; it is the principle of existence itself\nwhich must be extinguished; the suicide, to be effectual, must be that\nof the cosmos. This proceeding, which will shortly be explained, \"will\nbe the act of the last moment, after which there will be neither will\nnor activity; after which, to quote Saint John, 'time will have ceased\nto be.'\"\n\nBut here it may be pertinently asked whether humanity, such as it now\nis, will be capable of this grandiose development of consciousness\nwhich is to prepare the absolute renunciation of the will to live, or\nwhether some superior race is to appear on earth which will continue\nthe work and attain the goal. May it not be that the globe will be but\nthe theatre of an abortive effort of this description, and long after\nit has gone to increase the number of frozen spheres, some other\nplanet, which is to us invisible, may, under more favorable\ncircumstances, realize the self-same aim and end? To this the answer is\nmade that if humanity is ever destined to conduct the world's evolution\nto its coronation, it will assuredly not complete its task until the\nculminating point of its progress has been reached, nor yet until it\nhas united the most favorable conditions of existence. We need not,\nhowever, bother about the perspective which science has disclosed, and\nwhich points to a future period of congelation and complete inertia;\nlong before that time, Hartmann says, evolution will have ended, and\nthis world of ours, with its continents and archipelagoes, will have\nvanished.\n\nThe manner in which this great and final annihilation is to be\naccomplished is of a threefold nature; the first condition necessary to\nsuccess is that humanity at some future time shall concentrate such a\nmass of Will that the balance, spread about elsewhere over the world,\nwill be insignificant in proportion. This, Hartmann explains, is in no\nwise impossible, \"for the manifestation of Will in atomic forces is\ngreatly inferior to that which is exercised in the vegetable and animal\nkingdom, and hence much less than that which irrupts in man. The\nsupposition, therefore, that the greater part may be capitalized in man\nis not necessarily an idle dream. When that day arrives, it will\nsuffice for humanity to no longer will to live to annihilate the entire\nfabric; for humanity will at that time represent more Will than all\nthe rest of Nature collectively considered.\"\n\nThe second condition necessary to success is that mankind shall be so\nthoroughly alive to the folly of life, so imperiously in need of peace,\nand shall have so completely disentangled every effort from its\naimlessness, that the yearning for an end to existence will be the\nprime motive of every act. A condition such as this, Hartmann thinks,\nwill probably be realized in the old age of humanity. The theory that\nlife is an evil is already admitted by thinkers; the supposition,\ntherefore, that it may some day triumph over the prejudices of the\nmultitude is neither absurd nor preposterous. As is shown in the\nhistory of other creeds, an idea may penetrate so deeply into the minds\nof its adherents as to breed an entire race of fanatics; and it is the\nopinion, not of Hartmann alone, but of many serious and cultivated\nscholars, that if ever an idea was destined to triumph without recourse\nto either passion or violence, and to exercise at the same time an\naction purely pacific, yet so profound and durable as to assure its\nsuccess beforehand, that idea, or rather that sentiment, is the\ncompassion which the pessimist feels not only for himself, but for\neverything that is. Its gradual adoption these gentlemen consider not\nas problematical, but merely as a question of time. Indeed, the\ndifficulty is not so great as might be supposed; every day the will of\nthe individual suffices to triumph over the instinctive love of life,\nand, Hartmann logically argues, may not the mass of humanity do the\nsame thing? The denial of the will to live on the part of the\nindividual is, it is true, barren of any benefit to the species, but,\non the other hand, a universal denial would result in complete\ndeliverance.\n\nMankind, however, has yet a long journey before it, and many\ngenerations are needed to overcome, and to dissipate little by little,\nthrough the influence of heredity, those passions which are opposed to\nthe desire for eternal peace. In time, Hartmann thinks, all this will\nbe brought about; and he holds, moreover, that the development of\nconsciousness will correspond with the weakening of passion, which is\nto be one of the characteristics of the decline of humanity, as it is\nnow one of the signs of the day.\n\nThe third condition necessary for the perfect consummation of this\ngigantic suicide is that communication between the inhabitants of the\nworld be so facilitated that they may simultaneously execute a common\nresolution. Full play is allowed the imagination in picturing the\nmanner in which all this is to be accomplished. Hartmann has a contempt\nfor details, and contents himself with asserting that it is necessary\nand possible, and that in the abdication of humanity every form of\nexistence will cease.\n\nSuch, in brief, is this vehement conception of the ordering of the\nworld, and the plan for its precipitate destruction. With a soldierly\ndisregard of objection, but with a prodigality of argument and\ndigression which, if not always substantial, is unusually vivid,\nHartmann explains the Unconscious and its reacting dualism of Will and\nIdea. One principle is, as has been seen, constantly irrupting into\nlife, and it is through the revolt of the second that the first is to\nbe thwarted and extinguished. Nothing, indeed, could be more simple;\nand it would be a graceless and pedantic task to laboriously clamber to\nthe same vague altitudes to which Hartmann has so lightly soared, and\nthere contradict his description of the perspective.\n\nTo any one who has cared to follow the writer thus far, the outlines\ngiven of Hartmann's conspiracy against pain must have seemed\naggressively novel. Schopenhauer's ideas on the same subject were\nseemingly more practical, if less lurid, but then Schopenhauer hugged a\nfact and flouted chimeras. It may be that Schopenhauer was a little\nbehind the age, for Hartmann has criticised him very much as a\ncollegian on a holiday might jeer at the old-world manners of his\ngrandfather. As they cannot both be right, each may be wrong; and it\nmay be that the key to the whole great puzzle is contained in that one\nword, resignation, which the poet-philosopher pronounced so long ago.\nAs a remedy this certainly has the advantage of being a more immediate\nand serviceable palliative to the sufferer than either of those\nsuggested in the foregoing systems. It is admitted that--\n\n     \"Man cannot feed and be fed on the faith of to-morrow's baked meat;\"\n\nand it is in the same manner difficult for any one to hypnotize himself\nand his suffering with the assurance that in the decline of humanity\nall pain will cease; on the other hand, whether we have in regard to\nfuture generations an after-me-the-deluge feeling, and practically care\nvery little whether or no they annihilate themselves and pain too,\nstill the more intelligent will readily recognize the ubiquity of\nsorrow, and consider resignation at present as its most available\nsalve.\n\nBut in spite of its vagaries, pessimism, as expounded by Schopenhauer\nand Hartmann, possesses a real and enduring value which it is difficult\nto talk away; it is naturally most easy to laugh, in the heyday of\nyouth and health, at its fantastic misanthropy; indeed, it is in no\nsense perfect; it has halted and tripped many times; it has points that\neven to the haphazard and indifferent spectator are weak and faulty,\nand yet what creed is logically perfect, and what creed is impregnable\nto criticism? That there is none such can be truly admitted. The\nreader, then, may well afford to be a little patient with pessimism;\ntheoretically, it is still in its infancy, but with increasing years\nits blunders will give way to strength; and though many of the theories\nthat it now holds may alter, the cardinal, uncontrovertible tenet that\nlife is a burden will remain firm and changeless to the end of time.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI.\n\nIS LIFE AN AFFLICTION?\n\n\nIn very stately words, that were typical of him who uttered them,\nEmerson said, \"I do not wish to be amused;\" and turned therewith a\nfigurative back on the enticements of the commonplace.\n\nBroadly speaking, the sentiment that prompted this expression is common\nto all individual men. The so-called allurements and charms of the\nworld are attractive to the vulgar, but not to the thinker, and whether\nthe thinker be a Trappist or a comedian, he will, if called to account,\nexpress himself in a manner equally frank.\n\nFor sentiments of this description neither orthodoxy nor pessimism is\nto blame. They are merely the resultants of the obvious and the true;\nthey leap into being in every intelligent mind. The holiday crowd on\nits way to the Derby, to Coney Island, the Lido, or to any one of the\nother thousand places of popular resort, causes even the ordinary\nobserver to wonder why it is that he cannot go too, and enjoy himself\nwith the same boisterous good humor which palpitates all about him; he\nthinks at first that he has some fibre lacking, some incapacity for\nthat enjoyment which has in so large a measure been given to others;\nbut little by little the conviction breaks upon him that he has a fibre\nmore, and that it is the others who lack the finer perceptions with\nwhich he is burdened.\n\nThat the others are to be envied, and he to be pitied, there can be no\nmanner of doubt, but all the same the fact that he is unable to take\npart in popular amusements steadfastly remains; and while the matter of\nthe extra fibre is more or less reassuring, it is not always perfectly\nsatisfactory, and he then begins to look about for the reason. If to\nhis power of observation there be added also a receptive mind and an\nintrospective eye, it will be unnecessary for him to have ever heard of\nM. Renan to become gradually aware that he is the victim of a gigantic\nswindle. In common with many others, he has somehow imagined that the\nworld was a broad and fertile plain, with here and there a barren\ntract. It is impossible for him to give any reason for this fancy; \"In\nthe world ye shall have tribulation,\" is the explicit warning of the\nFounder of Christianity, and to this warning all creeds, save that of\nthe early Hellenists, concur. It did not, therefore, come from any\nreligious teaching, nor, for that matter, from any philosophy. Still\nthe impression, however vague it may seem when analyzed, has none the\nless been with him, as with all others, the reason being simply that he\ngrew up with it as he may have grown up with fairy tales, and it is not\nuntil his aspirations stumble over facts that he begins to see that\nlife, instead of being the pleasant land flowing with milk and honey,\nwhich he had imagined, is in reality something entirely different.\n\nThese deductions, of course, need not follow because a man finds that\nhe is more or less indifferent to every form of entertainment, from a\nking's revel to a walking-match; but they may follow of any man who has\nbegun to dislike the propinquity of the average, and to feel that where\nthe crowd find amusement there will be nothing but weariness and\nvexation of spirit for him. Under such circumstances he is an\ninstinctive pessimist, and one who needs but little theoretic\ninstruction to learn that he, as all others, has been made use of, and\ncheated to boot. The others, it is true, are, generally speaking,\nunaware of the deception that has been practiced on them; they have, it\nmay be, a few faint suspicions that something has gone wrong somewhere,\nbut even in uttermost depression the untutored look upon their\nmisfortunes as purely individual, and unshared by the world at large.\nOf the universality of suffering, of the fact, as John Stuart Mill has\nput it, that there is no happiness for nineteen twentieths of the\nworld's inhabitants, few have any conception or idea. They look, it may\nbe, over their garden wall, and, hearing their neighbor grumble, they\nthink that, being cross-grained and ill-tempered, his life is not one\nof unalloyed delight. But their vision extends no further. They do not\nsee the sorrow that has no words, nor do they hear the silent knell of\nirrecoverable though unuttered hopes, \"the toil of heart, and knees,\nand hands.\" Of all these things they know nothing; household worries,\nand those of their neighbor and his wife, circle their existence. If\nthey are not contented themselves, then happiness is but a question of\ndistance. Another street, or another town, or another country holds it,\nand if the change is made, the old story remains to be repeated.\n\nThere are those, too, who from dyspepsia, torpidity of the liver, or\ngeneral crankiness of disposition, are inclined to take a gloomy view\nof all things; then there is a temperamental pessimism which displays\nitself in outbursts of indignation against the sorrows of life, and in\nfrantic struggles with destiny and the meshes of personal existence;\nthere is also the sullen pessimism of despair noticeable in the quiet\nfolding of hands, and which with tearless eyes awaits death without\ncomplaint; then there are those who complain and sulk, who torment\nthemselves and others, and who have neither the spunk to struggle nor\nthe grace to be resigned,--this is the \"_forme miserable_;\" there is\nalso a haphazard pessimism which comes of an unevenness of disposition,\nand which asserts itself on a rainy day, or when stocks are down;\nanother is the accidental type, the man who, with loss of wife, child,\nor mistress, settles himself in a dreary misanthropy; finally, there is\nhypochondria, which belongs solely to pathology.\n\nIn none of these categories do the victims have any suspicion that a\nphilosophical significance is attached to their suffering. Curiously\nenough, however, it is from one or from all of these different classes\nthat the ordinary acceptation of pessimism is derived; it is these\nforms that are met with in every-day life and literature, and yet it is\nprecisely with these types, that spring from the disposition and\ntemperament of the individual who exhibits them, that scientific\npessimism has nothing to do. It ignores them entirely.\n\nBroadly stated, scientific pessimism in its most advanced form rests on\na denial that happiness in any form ever has been or ever will be\nobtained, either by the individual as a unit or by the world as a\nwhole; and this for the reason that life is not considered as a\npleasant gift made to us for our pleasure; on the contrary, it is a\nduty which must be performed by sheer force of labor,--a task which in\ngreater matters, as in small, brings in its train a misery which is\ngeneral, an effort which is ceaseless, and a tension of mind and body\nwhich is extreme, and often unbearable. Work, torment, pain, and misery\nare held to be the unavoidable lot of nearly every one, and the work,\ntorment, pain, and misery of life are considered as necessary to\nmankind as the keel to the ship. Indeed, were it otherwise, were\nwishes, when formed, fulfilled, in what manner would the time be\nemployed? Imagine the earth to be a fairyland where all grows of\nitself, where birds fly roasted to the spit, and where each would find\nhis heart's best love wreathed with orange flowers to greet his coming;\nwhat would the result be? Some would bore themselves to death, some\nwould cut their throats, while others would quarrel, assassinate, and\ncause generally more suffering than is in the present state of affairs\nactually imposed upon them. Pain is not the accident, but the necessary\nand inevitable concomitant of life; and the attractiveness of the\npromise \"that thy days may be long in the land which the Lord thy God\ngiveth thee,\" is, in consequence, somewhat impaired.\n\nNor, according to scientific pessimism, is there any possibility that\nhappiness will be obtained in a future life. In this there is no\natheism, though the arguments that follow may seem to savor of the\nagnostic.\n\nAs has been seen, pleasures are, as a rule, indirect, being cessations\nor alleviations of pain. If it be taken for granted that in a future\nlife there will be no pain, the difficulty is not overcome, but rather\nincreased by the fact of the rapid exhaustion of nervous susceptibility\nto pleasure. Furthermore, as without brain there is no consciousness,\nit will not be illogical to suppose that every spirit must be provided\nwith such an apparatus; in which case the psychological laws in the\nother life must be strictly analogous to those of early experience. The\ndeduction follows of itself,--there, too, must be pain and sorrow.\n\nTo this it may be objected that in a future life there need be no\nquestion either of pain or pleasure, and that the ransomed soul will,\nin contemplation, or love, or the practice of morality, be too refined\nto be susceptible to any sensations of a grosser nature.\n\nTo all this advanced pessimism has a ready answer: first, there can be\nno morality, for where there is no body and no property it is\nimpossible to injure another; second, there can be no love, for every\nform of love, from the highest to the lowest, rests on the basis of\nsensibility; when, therefore, after the abstraction of shape, voice,\nfeatures, and all bodily actions that are manifested through the medium\nof the brain, nothing but an unsubstantial shadow remains, what is\nthere left to love? third, there can be no contemplation, for in a\nstate of clairvoyance contemplation is certainly useless.\n\nIn these arguments pessimism, it may be noted, does not deny the\npossibility of future existence; it denies merely the possibility of\nfuture happiness; and its logic, of course, can in no wise affect the\nposition of those who hold that man is unable to conceive or imagine\nanything of that which is, or is not to be.\n\nFrom a religious standpoint advanced pessimism teaches that the misery\nof life is immedicable, and strips away every illusion with which it\nhas been hitherto enveloped; it offers, it is true, no hope that a\nfuture felicity will be the recompense of present suffering, and if in\nthis way it ignores any question of reward and punishment, it does not\nfor that reason necessarily open a gate to license and immorality; on\nthe contrary, pessimism stands firmly to the first principle of the\nbest ethics, and holds that men shall do good without the wish to be\nrewarded, and abstain from evil without the fear of being punished.\n\nIn regard to what follows death, it recognizes in the individual but\nthe aspiration to be liberated from the task of co\u00f6perating in\nevolution, the desire to be replunged in the Universal Spirit, and the\nwish to disappear therein as the raindrop disappears in the ocean, or\nas the flame of the lamp is extinguished in the wind. In other words,\nit does not aim at mere happiness, but at peace and at rest; and\nmeanwhile, until the hour of deliverance is at hand, it does not acquit\nthe individual of any of the obligations that he owes to society, nor\nof one that is due to himself. In short, the creed as it stands is one\nof charity and good-will to all men; and, apart from its denial of\nfuture happiness, it does not in its ethics differ in any respect from\nthe sublime teachings of the Christian faith.\n\nIt seems trite to say that we are passing through a transition period,\nfor all things seem to point to a coming change; still, whatever\nalterations time may bring in its train, it is difficult to affirm that\nthe belief here set forth is to be the religion of the future, _n'est\npas proph\u00e8te qui veut_; in any event, it is easy to prove that\npessimism is not a religion of the past. Its very youth militates most\nagainst it; and while it may outgrow this defect, yet it has other\nobjectionable features which to the average mind are equally\nunassuring: to begin with it is essentially iconoclastic; wherever it\nrears its head, it does so amid a swirl of vanishing illusions and a\ntotter and crash of superstition. There are few, however, that part\nplacidly with these possessions; illusions are relinquished grudgingly,\nand as for superstitions,--a wise man has said, Are they not hopes? It\nwould seem, then, that in showing the futility of any quest of\nhappiness here or hereafter, this doctrine, if received at all, will\nhave performed a very thankless task. Indeed, it is this reason, if no\nother, that will cause it for some time to come to be regarded with\ndistrust and dislike. The masses are conservative, and their\nconservatism usually holds them one or two centuries in arrears of\nadvancing thought; and even putting the masses out of the question, one\nhas to be very hospitable to receive truth at all times as a welcome\nguest, for truth is certainly very naked and uncompromising; we love to\nsigh for it, B\u00e9ranger said, and, it may be added, most of us stop\nthere.\n\nPessimism, moreover, seemingly takes, and gives nothing in return; but\nif it is examined more closely it will be found that its very\nmelancholy transforms itself into a consolation which, if relatively\nrestricted, is none the less valuable. Taubert, one of its most\nvigorous expounders, says, \"Not only does it carry the imagination far\nbeyond the actual suffering to which every one is condemned, and in\nthis manner shield us from manifold deceptions, but it even increases\nsuch pleasures as life still holds, and doubles their intensity. For\npessimism, while showing that each joy is an illusion, leaves pleasure\nwhere it found it, and simply incloses it in a black border, from\nwhich, in greater relief, it shines more brightly than before.\"\n\nAnother objection which has been advanced against pessimism is that it\nis a creed of quietist inactivity. Such, however, it can no longer be\nconsidered; for if it be viewed in the light of its recent\ndevelopments, it will be found to be above all other beliefs the one\nmost directly interested in the progress of evolution. Pessimism, it\nmay be remembered, came into general notice not more than twenty-five\nyears ago; at that time it aroused in certain quarters a horrified\ndislike, in others it was welcomed with passionate approval; books and\narticles were written for and against it in much the same manner that\nbooks and articles leaped into print in defense and abuse of the theory\ngenerally connected with Darwin's name. Since then the tumult has\ngradually calmed down; on the one hand pessimism is accepted as a fact;\non the other new expositors, less dogmatic than their great\npredecessor, and with an equipment of a quarter of a century's advance\nin knowledge, prune the original doctrine, and strengthen it with fresh\nand vigorous thought. Among these, and directly after Hartmann,\nTaubert takes the highest rank. This writer recognizes the truth of\nSchopenhauer's theory that progress brings with it a clearer\nconsciousness of the misery of existence and the illusion of happiness,\nbut at the same time much emphasis is laid on the possibility of\ntriumphing over this misery through a subjugation of the selfish\npropensities. It is in this way, Taubert considers, that peace may be\nattained, or at least the burden of life noticeably diminished.\n\nThe bleakness in which Hartmann lodged the Unconscious is through this\ntreatment rendered, if not comfortable, at least inhabitable. But while\nin this manner Taubert plays the upholsterer, another exponent wanders\nthrough the shadowy terraces of thought, and in so doing looks about\nhim with the grim suavity of a sheriff seeking a convenient spot on\nwhich to clap a bill of sale. This writer, Julius Bahnsen, is best\nknown through his \"Philosophy of History,\"[10] and a recent\npublication, \"The Tragic as the World's First Law,\" whose repulsively\nattractive title sent a fresh ripple eddying through the seas of\nliterature. In these works the extreme of pessimism may be said to have\nbeen reached, for not only does their author vie with Schopenhauer in\nrepresenting the world as a ceaseless torment which the Absolute has\nimposed on itself, but he goes a step further, and in denying that\nthere is any finality even immanent in Nature, asserts that the order\nof phenomena is utterly illogical. It may be remembered that the one\npure delight which Schopenhauer admitted was that of intellectual\ncontemplation:--\n\n                   \"That blessed mood,\n     In which the burden of the mystery,\n     In which the heavy and the weary weight\n     Of all this unintelligible world\n     Is lightened.\"\n\nBut from Bahnsen's standpoint, inasmuch as the universe is totally\nlacking in order or harmonious design, since it is but the dim\ncavernous abode of unrelated phenomena and forms, the pleasure which\nSchopenhauer admitted, so far from causing enjoyment, is simply a\nsource of anguish to the intelligent and reflective mind. Even the hope\nof final annihilation, which Schopenhauer suggested and Hartmann\nplanned, has brought to him but cold comfort. He puts it aside as a\npleasant and idle dream. To him the misery of the world is permanent\nand unalterable, and the universe nothing but Will rending itself in\neternal self-partition and unending torment.\n\nBeyond this it is difficult to go; few have cared to go even so far,\nand the bravado and vagaries of this doctrine have not been such as to\ncause anything more than a success of curiosity. Indeed, Bahnsen's\nviews have been mentioned here simply as being a part of the history,\nthough not of the development of advanced pessimism, and they may now\nvery properly be relegated to the night to which they belong.\n\nTo sum up, then, what has gone before, the modern pessimist is a\nBuddhist who has strayed from the Orient, and who in his exodus has\nleft behind him all his fantastic shackles, and has brought with him,\ntogether with ethical laws, only the cardinal tenet, \"Life is evil.\"\nBroadly considered, the difference between the two creeds is not\nimportant. The Buddhist aspires to a universal nothingness, and the\npessimist to the moment when in the face of Nature he may cry:--\n\n     \"Oh! quelle immense joie, apr\u00e8s tant de souffrance!\n     \u00c0 travers les d\u00e9bris, par-dessus les charniers,\n     Pouvoir enfin jeter ce cri de d\u00e9livrance--\n     'Plus d'hommes sous le ciel! Nous sommes les derniers!'\"\n\nBeyond this difference, the main principles of the two beliefs vary\nonly with the longitude. The old, yet still infant East demands a\nfable, to which the young yet practical West turns an inattentive ear.\nEliminate palingenesis, and the steps by which Nirv\u00e2na is attained, and\nthe two creeds are to all intents and purposes precisely the same.\n\nOf the two, Buddhism is, of course, the stronger; it appeals more to\nthe imagination and less to facts; indeed, numerically speaking, its\nstrength is greater than that of any other belief. According to the\nmost recent statistics the world holds about 8,000,000 Jews,\n100,000,000 Mohammedans, 130,000,000 Brahmins, 370,000,000 Christians,\nand 480,000,000 Buddhists, the remainder being pagans, positivists,\nagnostics and atheists. Within the last few years Buddhism has spread\ninto Russia, and from there into Germany, England, and the United\nStates, and wherever it spreads it paves in its passing the way for\npessimism. The number of pessimists it is of course impossible to\ncompute: instinctive pessimists abound everywhere, but however limited\nthe number of theoretic pessimists may be, their literature at least is\ndaily increasing. For the last twenty years, it may safely be said that\nnot a month has gone by unmarked by some fresh contribution; and the\nmost recent developments of French and German literature show that the\ncountless arguments, pleas, and replies which the subject has called\nforth have brought, instead of exhaustion, a new and expanded vigor.\n\nThe most violent opposition that pessimism has had to face has come,\ncuriously enough, from the Socialists. For the Socialists, while\npessimists as to the present, have optimistic views for the future.\nTheir cry is not against the misery of the world, but against the\ncapital that produces it. The artisan, they say, is smothered by the\nproduce of his own hands: the more he produces, the more he increases\nthe capital that is choking him down. In time, Marx says, there will\nexist only a few magnates face to face with a huge enslaved population;\nand as wealth increases in geometric proportion so will poverty, and\nwith it the exasperation of the multitude. Then the explosion is to\ncome, and Socialism to begin its sway. Now Socialism does not, as is\ngenerally supposed, preach community of goods; it preaches simply\ncommunity of profits, and the abolition of capital as a productive\nagent. When the explosion comes, therefore, the Socialists propose to\nturn the state into one vast and comprehensive guild, to which all\nproductive capital, land, and factories shall appertain. The right of\ninheritance of personal property, it may be noted, will be retained;\nand this for a variety of reasons, of which the most satisfactory seems\nto be that such a right serves as an incentive to economy and activity.\nMoney may be saved and descend, but it is not to be allowed the power\nof generation.\n\nIt will be readily understood, even from this brief summary, that such\na doctrine as Hartmann's, which is chiefly concerned in disproving the\nvalue of every aspect of progress, was certain to call out many replies\nfrom those who see a vast area for the expansion of human comfort and\nhappiness in the future developments of social life.\n\nTo these replies the pessimists have but one rejoinder, and that is\nthat any hope of the expansion of happiness is an illusion. And is it\nan illusion? Simple Mrs. Winthrop said, \"If us as knows so little can\nsee a bit o' good and rights, we may be sure as there's a good and a\nrights better nor what we knows of.\" But then Mrs. Winthrop was\nadmittedly simple, and her views in consequence are hardly those of the\nseer. From an end\u00e6monist standpoint, the world does not seem to be\nmuch better off now than it was two or three thousand years ago; there\nare even some who think it has retrograded, and who turn to the\ncivilization of Greece and Rome with longing regret; and this,\nnotwithstanding the fact that from the peace and splendor of these\nnations cries of distress have descended to us which are fully as acute\nas any that have been uttered in recent years. Truly, to the student of\nhistory each epoch brings its own shudder. There have been\nameliorations in one way and pacifications in another, but misery looms\nin tireless constancy through it all. Each year a fresh discovery seems\nto point to still better things in the future, but progress is as\nundeniably the chimera of the present century as the resurrection of\nthe dead was that of the tenth; each age has its own, for no matter to\nwhat degree of perfection industry may arrive, and to whatever heights\nprogress may ascend, it must yet touch some final goal, and meanwhile\npessimism holds that with expanding intelligence there will come,\nlittle by little, the fixed and immutable knowledge that of all perfect\nthings which the earth contains misery is the most complete.\n\nTo question whether life is an affliction seems, from the facts and\narguments already presented, to be somewhat unnecessary. The answer\nappears in a measure to be a foregone conclusion. Yet, if the question\nbe examined without bias and without prejudice the issue is not only\ndoubtful, but difficult to ascertain. If in any intelligent community\nthe matter were put to vote by acclamation, the decision would\nundoubtedly be in the negative; and that for a variety of reasons,\nfirst and foremost of which is that ninety and nine out of a hundred\npersons are led by the thread of external appearance, and whatever\ntheir private beliefs may be, they still wish their neighbors to think\nthat they at least have no cause to complain.\n\nIt is this desire to appear well in the eyes of others that makes what\nis termed the shabby-genteel, and which prevents so many proud yet\nvulgar minds from avowing their true position. Indeed, there are few\nwho, save to an intimate, have the courage to acknowledge that they are\nmiserable; there is at work within them the same instinct that compels\nthe wounded animal to seek the depths of the bushes in which to die.\nPeople generally are ashamed of grief, and turn to hide a tear as the\nsensitive turn from an accident in the street, and veil their eyes from\ndeformity. Moreover, it is largely customary to mock at the melancholy;\nand in good society it is an unwritten law that every one shall bring a\ncertain quota of contentment and gayety, or else remain in chambered\nsolitude.\n\nAdded to this, and beyond the insatiable desire to appear serene and\nsuccessful in the eyes of others, there is the terrible dread of\nseeming to be cheated and outwitted of that which is apparently a\nuniversal birthright; and, according to a general conception, there is\nthe same sort of moral baseness evidenced in an unuttered yet visible\nappeal for sympathy, as that which is at work in the beggar's\noutstretched palm. Many, it is true, there are who drop the furtive\ncoin, but the world at large passes with averted stare. \"There is work\nfor all,\" is a common saying, and for the infirm there are hospitals\nand institutions; \"What, then, is the use of giving?\" it is queried,\nand the answer follows, \"They who ask for alms are frauds.\" If the alms\nbe taken to stand for sympathy, the frauds will be found to be few and\nfar between; for, if each man and woman who has arrived at the age of\nreason, at that age, in fact, which is not such as is set by the\nstatute, but which each individual case makes for itself; if each one\nshould have his heart first wrung dry and then dissected, there would\nbe such an expanse and prodigality of sorrow discovered as would defy\nan index and put a library to shame.\n\nIf the tendency of current literature is examined, it will be found to\npoint very nearly the same way. In earlier days the novel ended with\nthe union of two young people, and the curtain fell on a tableau of\nawaited happiness. Nowadays, however, as the French phrase goes, we\nhave changed all that. Realistic fiction is a picture of life as it is,\nand not, as was formerly the case, a picture of life as we want it.\nProbably the strongest and most typical romance of recent American\nauthors is \"The Portrait of a Lady;\" and this picture of a thoroughbred\ngirl, awake to the highest possibilities of life, ends not only in her\nentire disenchantment, but also, if I have understood Mr. James aright,\nin her utter degradation. In that very elaborate novel, \"Daniel\nDeronda,\" the moral drawn is not dissimilar, and yet its author stood\nat the head of English fiction.\n\nIn French literature, the same influence is even more noticeably at\nwork. It is the fashion to abuse Zola, and to say that his works are\nobscene; so they are, and so is the life that he depicts, but his\ndescriptions are true to the letter; and the gaunt and wanton misery\nwhich he described in \"l'Assommoir\" is not, to my thinking, such as one\nneed blush over, but rather such as might well cause tears. The work\nwhich those princes of literature, the Goncourts and Daudet, have\nperformed, has been prepared, as one may say, with pens pricked in\nsorrow. \"Germanie Lacerteux,\" \"la Fille Eliza,\" \"Ch\u00e9rie,\" \"Jack,\" the\n\"Nabab,\" and the \"\u00c9vang\u00e9liste,\" are but one long-drawn-out cry of\nvariegated yet self-same agony. In this respect Tourgu\u00e9nieff was well\nup to the age, as is also Spielhagen, who is very generally considered\nto be the best of German novelists.\n\nThe splendid wickedness of medi\u00e6val Italy has done little to inspire\nher modern authors. The romances most abundant there are cheap\ntranslations from the French. De Amicis, the most popular native\nwriter, and one whose name is familiar to every one as a traveler in\nGautier's footsteps, has written but few stories, of which the best,\nhowever, \"Manuel Menendez,\" is the incarnation of the soul of\ntragedy.[11]\n\nLess recently, Stendhal, Balzac and Flaubert have harped the same note\nof accentuated despair; Musset has sung songs that would make a statue\nweep, and Baudelaire seems to have supped sorrow with a long spoon. In\nbrief, the testimony of all purely modern writers amounts pretty much\nto the same thing; life to them seems an affliction.\n\nThis, of course, it may do without altering its value to others; let\nany one, for instance, go to a well-nurtured and refined girl of\neighteen and tell her that life is an affliction, and she will look\nupon her informant as a retailer of trumpery paradox. And at eighteen\nwhat a festival is life! To one splendid in beauty and rich in hope how\nmagnificent it all seems; what unexplored yet inviting countries extend\nabout the horizon! winter is a kiss that tingles, and summer a warm\ncaress; everything, even to death, holds its promise. And then picture\nher as she will be at eighty, without an illusion left, and turning her\ntired eyes each way in search of rest.\n\nLife is not an affliction to those who are, and who can remain young;\nthere are some who, without any waters of youth, remain so until age\nhas sapped the foundation of their being; and it is from such as they\nthat the greatest cheer is obtained. But to those who live, so to\nspeak, in the thick of the fight, who see hope after hope fall with a\ncrash, and illusion after illusion vanish into still air; to the\nintelligent, to the observer, and especially to him who is forced\nagainst his will to struggle in the van, life is an affliction, a\nmishap, a calamity, and sometimes a curse.\n\nThat there are many such is proven by the statistics which the daily\npapers afford; and could one play Asmodeus, and look into the secret\nlives of all men, the evidence obtainable would in its baldness seem\nhideously undesirable. The degrees of sensitiveness, however, and the\nability or inability to support suffering, vary admittedly with the\nindividual. There are men who rise from an insult refreshed; there are\nmany to whom an injury is a tonic and pain a stimulant; and there is\neven a greater number whose sensibilities are so dull that what is\ntorture to another is barely a twinge to them.\n\nIt was the melancholy privilege of the writer to assist, a short time\nsince, at an operation performed in a German hospital. A common soldier\nhad been thrown from a horse with such force that his elbow was\ndislocated; in the _Klinik_ he put his uninjured arm around a post, and\nthen let the surgeon pull on a strap which had been fastened to the\nother, until the joint was once more in position. His arm was then\nbandaged, and he was told to return in a fortnight. On his second visit\nthe bandage was removed, and the surgeon, after a violent effort, moved\nthe stiffened joint backwards and forwards. During both operations,\nthe only noticeable evidence of pain was a slight contraction of the\nupper lip, while the general expression of his face was that of a calm\nas stolid as is required of the soldier when in the presence of his\nsuperior. To such an one as he life is no more an affliction than it is\nto the turtle.\n\nThen, there are those to whom life is the amusing dream of an hour, who\nflit through existence in loops of yellow light, who find pleasure in\nall things, and are careless of the morrow; and these, perhaps, above\nall others, are the most to be envied. It is such natures as theirs\nthat are usually met with in ordinary fiction, and which are so\nsingularly infrequent in real life. In fancy they are evoked with ease,\nand yet somehow they do not seem to bear the stamp which experience has\nset upon the real. That there are such natures it is, of course, absurd\nto deny, but to affirm that they are persistent types is scarcely in\naccordance with facts. There are, for instance, many young people who\nenter life with a prodigality of supposition which is certainly lavish;\nthey see that others are smiling, and that life, even to its outskirts,\npresents an appearance of pleasing serenity. The supposition which they\nfoster, that a percentage of happiness will be allotted to them, is\nthen not unreasonable; on the contrary, it is very natural; but as far\nas the expectation goes, we are, most of us, very well aware that it\nholds its own but for a short space of time.\n\nThis fact, while self-evident, is not always satisfactorily explained;\nindeed, the reason why so many become disappointed with life is,\nperhaps, explainable only on psychological grounds. By all means the\nmost important r\u00f4le throughout the entire length and breadth of\nhumanity is that which is played by thought. Its influence is as\nnoticeable in a bakeshop as in the overthrow of an empire; yet, in\nspite of the results which are constantly springing from it, it was\nRousseau's opinion that \"l'homme qui pense est un animal d\u00e9prav\u00e9.\"\nBalzac caught at this theme, and wrung from it its most severe\ndeductions. To him it was a dissolvent of greater or less activity,\naccording to the nature of the individual in whom it worked. Others\nhave considered it to be the corrosive acid of existence, and the\nmainspring of every misfortune; all this it may or may not be, but that\nat least it is the prime factor of disenchantment is evidenced by such\nan every-day instance as that man, as a rule, and with but few\nexceptions, pictures in advance the pleasures and sensations which the\nfuture seems to hold, and yet when the pictured future becomes the\nactual present the disproportion between fact and fancy is so great\nthat it results, in nine cases out of ten, in a complete insolvency.\nAfter one or more bankruptcies of this description the individual very\ngenerally finds that he has had enough, so to speak, and lets hope ever\nafter alone, whereupon disillusionment steps in and takes its place.\n\nIt is thought, then, that does the mischief; or to be more exact, it\nis the inability to maintain an equilibrium between the real and the\nideal; that is, in the majority of cases, the cause of disenchantment.\nTo this it may be also added that it is because every one is so well\norganized for misfortune that such a small amount of open revolt is\nencountered. When it does appear, it is, as a rule, presented by such\nthinkers as have been mentioned in the course of these pages, who,\nthrough their assertion of the undeniable awake the dislike and\nanimosity of those who have not yet had their fill of proceedings in\nbankruptcy, and still hope to find life a pleasant thing well worth the\nliving.\n\nIt may be said in conclusion, and without any attempt at the\ndiscursive, that the moral atmosphere of the present century is charged\nwith three distinct disturbances,--the waning of religious belief, the\ninsatiable demand for intense sensations, and the increasing number of\nthose who live uncompanied, and walk abroad in solitude. That each of\nthese three effects is due to one and the self-same cause is well-nigh\nunquestionable. The immense nausea that is spreading through all lands\nand literature is at work on the simple faith, the contented lives, and\njoyous good-fellowship of earlier days, and in its results it brings\nwith it the signs and portents of a forthcoming though undetermined\nupheaval. Jean Paul said that we care for life, not because it is\nbeautiful, but because we should care for it; whence follows the oft\nrepeated yet hollow reasoning,--since we love life it must be\nbeautiful; and it is from a series of deductions not dissimilar that\nthe majority of those who are as yet unaffected by that which after all\nmay be but a passing change still cling resolutely to the possibility\nof earthly happiness.\n\nOut of a hundred intelligent Anglo-Saxons there are seldom two who\nthink precisely alike on any given subject, be that subject what it\nmay,--art, politics, literature, or religion. Indeed, there is but one\nfaith common to all, and that is custom. It is not, however, customary\nto discuss a subject such as that which is treated in these pages; and\nit is, as a rule, considered just as bad form to question the value of\nlife as it is to touch upon matters of an indelicate or repulsive\nnature.\n\nIt is, perhaps, for this latter reason, as also in view of the great\ndifference of expressed opinion on all topics, that in England, and\nespecially in America, so little is said on this subject, which for\nmany years past has been of interest to the rest of the thinking world,\nand which each year is gaining in strength and significance. What its\nfinal solution will be is, of course, uncertain. Schopenhauer\nrecommended absolute chastity as the means to the great goal, and\nHartmann has vaguely suggested a universal denial of the will to live;\nmore recently, M. Renan has hazarded the supposition that in the\nadvance of science some one might discover a force capable of blowing\nthe planet to atoms, and which, if successfully handled, would, of\ncourse, annihilate pain. But these ideas, however practicable or\nimpracticable they may be in the future, are for the moment merely\ntheories; the world is not yet ripe for a supreme quietus, and in the\nmean time the worth of life may still be questioned.\n\nThe question, then, as to whether life is valuable, valueless, or an\naffliction can, with regard to the individual, be answered only after a\nconsideration of the different circumstances attendant on each\nparticular case; but, broadly speaking, and disregarding its necessary\nexceptions, life may be said to be always valuable to the obtuse, often\nvalueless to the sensitive; while to him who commiserates with all\nmankind, and sympathizes with everything that is, life never appears\notherwise than as an immense and terrible affliction.\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[Footnote 10: _Zur Philosophie der Geschichte, u. s. w._ Carl Duncker,\nBerlin; also _Das Tragische als Weltgesetz, u. s. w._ Lauenburg.]\n\n[Footnote 11: An admirable translation (the work of Professor Charles\nCarroll, of New York) of this romance appeared a few years ago in\n_Harper's Monthly_.]\n\n\n\n\nStandard and Popular Library Books\n\nSELECTED FROM THE CATALOGUE OF\n\nHOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY.\n\n\n=A Club of One.= An Anonymous Volume, 16mo, $1.25.\n\n=Brooks Adams.= The Emancipation of Massachusetts, crown 8vo, $1.50.\n\n=John Adams and Abigail Adams.= Familiar Letters of, during the\nRevolution, 12mo, $2.00.\n\n=Oscar Fay Adams.= Handbook of English Authors, 16mo, 75 cents; Handbook\nof American Authors, 16mo, 75 cents.\n\n=Louis Agassiz.= Methods of Study in Natural History, Illustrated, 12mo,\n$1.50; Geological Sketches, Series I. and II., 12mo, each, $1.50; A\nJourney in Brazil, Illustrated, 12mo, $2.50; Life and Letters, edited\nby his wife, 2 vols. 12mo, $4.00; Life and Works, 6 vols. $10.00.\n\n=Alexander Agassiz.= Three Cruises of the Blake. 2 vols, 8vo.\n\n=Anne A. Agge and Mary M. Brooks.= Marblehead Sketches. 4to, $3.00.\n\n=Elizabeth Akers.= The Silver Bridge and other Poems, 16mo, $1.25.\n\n=Thomas Bailey Aldrich.= Story of a Bad Boy, Illustrated, 12mo, $1.50;\nMarjorie Daw and Other People, 12mo, $1.50; Prudence Palfrey, 12mo,\n$1.50; The Queen of Sheba, 12mo, $1.50; The Stillwater Tragedy, 12mo,\n$1.50; Poems, _Household Edition_, Illustrated, 12mo, $1.75; full gilt,\n$2.25; The above six vols. 12mo, uniform, $9.00; From Ponkapog to\nPesth, 16mo, $1.25; Poems, Complete, Illustrated, 8vo, $3.50; Mercedes,\nand Later Lyrics, cr. 8vo, $1.25.\n\n=Rev. A. V. G. Allen.= Continuity of Christian Thought, 12mo, $2.00\n\n=American Commonwealths.= Per volume, 16mo, $1.25.\n\nVirginia. By John Esten Cooke.\nOregon. By William Barrows.\nMaryland. By Wm. Hand Browne.\nKentucky. By N. S. Shaler.\nMichigan. By Hon. T. M. Cooley.\nKansas. By Leverett W. Spring.\nCalifornia. By Josiah Royce.\nNew York. By Ellis H. Roberts. 2 vols.\nConnecticut. By Alexander Johnston.\n\n(_In Preparation._)\n\nTennessee. By James Phelan.\nPennsylvania. By Hon. Wayne MacVeagh.\nMissouri. By Lucien Carr.\nOhio. By Rufus King.\nNew Jersey. By Austin Scott.\n\n=American Men of Letters.= Per vol., with Portrait, 16mo, $1.25.\n\nWashington Irving. By Charles Dudley Warner.\nNoah Webster. By Horace E. Scudder.\nHenry D. Thoreau. By Frank B. Sanborn.\nGeorge Ripley. By O. B. Frothingham.\nJ. Fenimore Cooper. By Prof. T. R. Lounsbury.\nMargaret Fuller Ossoli. By T. W. Higginson.\nRalph Waldo Emerson. By Oliver Wendell Holmes.\nEdgar Allan Poe. By George E. Woodberry.\nNathaniel Parker Willis. By H. A. Beers.\nBenjamin Franklin. By John Bach McMaster.\n\n(_In Preparation._)\n\nNathaniel Hawthorne. By James Russell Lowell.\nWilliam Cullen Bryant. By John Bigelow.\nBayard Taylor. By J. R. G. Hassard.\nWilliam Gilmore Simms. By George W. Cable.\n\n=American Statesmen.= Per vol., 16mo, $1.25.\n\nJohn Quincy Adams. By John T. Morse, Jr.\nAlexander Hamilton. By Henry Cabot Lodge.\nJohn C. Calhoun. By Dr. H. von Holst.\nAndrew Jackson. By Prof. W. G. Sumner.\nJohn Randolph. By Henry Adams.\nJames Monroe. By Pres. D. C. Gilman.\nThomas Jefferson. By John T. Morse, Jr.\nDaniel Webster. By Henry Cabot Lodge.\nAlbert Gallatin. By John Austin Stevens.\nJames Madison. By Sydney Howard Gay.\nJohn Adams. By John T. Morse, Jr.\nJohn Marshall. By Allan B. Magruder.\nSamuel Adams. By J. K. Hosmer.\nThomas H. Benton. By Theodore Roosevelt.\nHenry Clay. By Hon. Carl Schurz. 2 vols.\nPatrick Henry. By Moses Coit Tyler.\n\n(_In Preparation._)\n\nMartin Van Buren. By Edward M. Shepard.\nGeorge Washington. By Henry Cabot Lodge. 2 vols.\n\n=Martha Babcock Amory.= Life of Copley, 8vo, $3.00.\n\n=Hans Christian Andersen.= Complete Works, 10 vols. 12mo, each $1.00. New\nEdition, 10 vols. 12mo, $10.00.\n\n=Francis, Lord Bacon.= Works, 15 vols. cr. 8vo, $33.75; _Popular\nEdition_, with Portraits, 2 vols. cr. 8vo, $5.00; Promus of Formularies\nand Elegancies, 8vo, $5.00; Life and Times of Bacon, 2 vols. cr. 8vo,\n$5.00.\n\n=L. H. Bailey, Jr.= Talks Afield, Illustrated, 16mo, $1.00.\n\n=M. M. Ballou.= Due West, cr. 8vo, $1.50; Due South, $1.50.\n\n=Henry A. Beers.= The Thankless Muse. Poems. 16mo, $1.25.\n\n=E. D. R. Bianciardi.= At Home in Italy, 16mo, $1.25.\n\n=William Henry Bishop.= The House of a Merchant Prince, a Novel, 12mo,\n$1.50; Detmold, a Novel, 18mo, $1.25; Choy Susan and other Stories,\n16mo, $1.25; The Golden Justice, 16mo, $1.25.\n\n=Bjornstjerne Bjornson.= Complete Works. New Edition, 3 vols. 12mo the\nset, $4.50; Synnove Solbakken, Bridal March, Captain Mansana, Magnhild,\n16mo, each $1.00.\n\n=Anne C. Lynch Botta.= Handbook of Universal Literature, New Edition,\n12mo, $2.00.\n\n=British Poets.= _Riverside Edition_, cr. 8vo, each $1.50; the set, 68\nvols. $100.00.\n\n=John Brown, A. B.= John Bunyan. Illustrated. 8vo, $2.50.\n\n=John Brown, M. D.= Spare Hours, 3 vols. 16mo, each $1.50.\n\n=Robert Browning.= Poems and Dramas, etc., 15 vols. 16mo, $22.00; Works,\n8 vols. cr. 8vo, $13.00; Ferishtah's Fancies, cr. 8vo, $1.00;\nJocoseria, 16mo, $1.00; cr. 8vo, $1.00; Parleyings with Certain People\nof Importance in their Day, 16mo or cr. 8vo, $1.25. Works, _New\nEdition_, 6 vols. cr. 8vo, $10.00; Lyrics, Idyls, and Romances, 16mo,\n$1.00.\n\n=William Cullen Bryant.= Translation of Homer, The Iliad, cr. 8vo,\n$2.50; 2 vols. royal 8vo, $9.00; cr. 8vo, $4.00. The Odyssey, cr. 8vo,\n$2.50; 2 vols. royal 8vo, $9.00; cr. 8vo, $4.00.\n\n=Sara C. Bull.= Life of Ole Bull. _Popular Edition._ 12mo, $1.50.\n\n=John Burroughs.= Works, 7 vols. 16mo, each $1.50.\n\n=Thomas Carlyle.= Essays, with Portrait and Index, 4 vols. 12mo, $7.50;\n_Popular Edition_, 2 vols. 12mo, $3.50.\n\n=Alice and Phoebe Cary.= Poems, _Household Edition_, Illustrated, 12mo,\n$1.75; cr. 8vo, full gilt, $2.25; _Library Edition_, including Memorial\nby Mary Clemmer, Portraits and 24 Illustrations, 8vo, $3.50; Early and\nLate Poems, 12mo, $1.50.\n\n=Wm. Ellery Channing.= Selections from His Note-Books, $1.00.\n\n=Francis J. Child= (Editor). English and Scottish Popular Ballads. Eight\nParts. (Parts I.-IV. now ready). 4to, each $5.00. Poems of Religious\nSorrow, Comfort, Counsel, and Aspiration. 16mo, $1.25.\n\n=Lydia Maria Child.= Looking Toward Sunset, 12mo, $2.50; Letters, with\nBiography by Whittier, 16mo, $1.50.\n\n=James Freeman Clarke.= Ten Great Religions, Parts I. and II., 12mo, each\n$2.00; Common Sense in Religion, 12mo, $2.00; Memorial and Biographical\nSketches, 12mo, $2.00.\n\n=John Esten Cooke.= My Lady Pokahontas, 16mo, $1.25.\n\n=James Fenimore Cooper.= Works, new _Household Edition_, Illustrated, 32\nvols. 16mo, each $1.00; the set, $32.00; _Fireside Edition_,\nIllustrated, 16 vols. 12mo, $20.00.\n\n=Susan Fenimore Cooper.= Rural Hours. 16mo, $1.25.\n\n=Charles Egbert Craddock.= In the Tennessee Mountains, 16mo, $1.25; Down\nthe Ravine, Illustrated, $1.00; The Prophet of the Great Smoky\nMountains, 16mo, $1.25; In the Clouds, 16mo, $1.25; The Story of Keedon\nBluffs, 16mo, $1.00.\n\n=C. P. Cranch.= Ariel and Caliban. 16mo, $1.25; The \u00c6neid of Virgil.\nTranslated by Cranch. 8vo, $2.50.\n\n=T. F. Crane.= Italian Popular Tales, 8vo, $2.50.\n\n=F. Marion Crawford.= To Leeward, 16mo, $1.25; A Roman Singer, 16mo,\n$1.25; An American Politician, 16mo, $1.25; Paul Patoff, 12mo, $1.50.\n\n=M. Creighton.= The Papacy during the Reformation, 4 vols. 8vo, $17.50.\n\n=Richard H. Dana.= To Cuba and Back, 16mo, $1.25; Two Years Before the\nMast, 12mo, $1.00.\n\n=G. W. and Emma De Long.= Voyage of the Jeannette. 2 vols. 8vo, $7.50;\nNew One-Volume Edition, 8vo, $4.50.\n\n=Thomas De Quincey.= Works, 12 vols. 12mo, each $1.50; the set, $18.00.\n\n=Madame De Stael.= Germany, 12mo, $2.50.\n\n=Charles Dickens.= Works, _Illustrated Library Edition_, with Dickens\nDictionary, 30 vols. 12mo, each $1.50; the set, $45.00.\n\n=J. Lewis Diman.= The Theistic Argument, etc., cr. 8vo, $2.00; Orations\nand Essays, cr. 8vo, $2.50.\n\n=Theodore A. Dodge.= Patroclus and Penelope, Illustrated, 8vo, $3.00. The\nSame. Outline Illustrations. Cr. 8vo, $1.25.\n\n=E. P. Dole.= Talks about Law. Cr. 8vo, $2.00; sheep, $2.50.\n\n=Eight Studies of the Lord's Day.= 12mo, $1.50.\n\n=George Eliot.= The Spanish Gypsy, a Poem, 16mo, $1.00.\n\n=Ralph Waldo Emerson.= Works, _Riverside Edition_, 11 vols. each $1.75;\nthe set, $19.25; _\"Little Classic\" Edition_, 11 vols. 18mo, each,\n$1.50; Parnassus, _Household Edition_, 12mo, $1.75; _Library Edition_,\n8vo, $4.00; Poems, _Household Edition_, Portrait, 12mo, $1.75; Memoir,\nby J. Elliot Cabot, 2 vols. $3.50.\n\n=English Dramatists.= Vols. 1-3, Marlowe's Works; Vols. 4-11, Middleton's\nWorks; Vols. 12-14, Marston's Works; each vol. $3.00; _Large-Paper\nEdition_, each vol. $4.00.\n\n=Edgar Fawcett.= A Hopeless Case, 18mo, $1.25; A Gentleman of Leisure,\n18mo, $1.00; An Ambitious Woman, 12mo, $1.50.\n\n=F\u00e9nelon.= Adventures of Telemachus, 12mo, $2.25.\n\n=James T. Fields.= Yesterdays with Authors, 12mo, $2.00; 8vo,\nIllustrated, $3.00; Underbrush, 18mo, $1.25; Ballads and other Verses,\n16mo, $1.00; The Family Library of British Poetry, royal 8vo, $5.00;\nMemoirs and Correspondence, cr. 8vo, $2.00.\n\n=John Fiske.= Myths and Mythmakers, 12mo, $2.00; Outlines of Cosmic\nPhilosophy, 2 vols. 8vo, $6.00; The Unseen World, and other Essays,\n12mo, $2.00; Excursions of an Evolutionist, 12mo, $2.00; The Destiny of\nMan, 16mo, $1.00; The Idea of God, 16mo, $1.00; Darwinism, and Other\nEssays, New Edition, enlarged, 12mo, $2.00.\n\n=Edward Fitzgerald.= Works. 2 vols. 8vo, $10.00.\n\n=O. B. Frothingham.= Life of W. H. Channing. Cr. 8vo, $[?]\n\n=William H. Furness.= Verses, 16mo, vellum, $1.25.\n\n=Gentleman's Magazine Library.= 14 vols. 8vo, each $2.50; Roxburgh,\n$3.50; _Large-Paper Edition_, $6.00. I. Manners and Customs. II.\nDialect, Proverbs, and Word-Lore. III. Popular Superstitions and\nTraditions. IV. English Traditions and Foreign Customs. V., VI.\nArch\u00e6ology. VII. Romano-British Remains: Part I. (_Last two styles sold\nonly in sets._)\n\n=John F. Genung.= Tennyson's In Memoriam, cr. 8vo, $1.25.\n\n=Johann Wolfgang von Goethe.= Faust, Part First, Translated by C. T.\nBrooks, 16mo, $1.25; Faust, Translated by Bayard Taylor, cr. 8vo,\n$2.50; 2 vols. royal 8vo, $9.00; 2 vols. 12mo, $4.00; Correspondence\nwith a Child, 12mo, $1.50; Wilhelm Meister, Translated by Carlyle, 2\nvols. 12mo, $3.00. Life, by Lewes, together with the above five 12mo\nvols., the set, $9.00.\n\n=Oliver Goldsmith.= The Vicar of Wakefield, 32mo, $1.00.\n\n=Charles George Gordon.= Diaries and Letters, 8vo, $2.00.\n\n=George H. Gordon.= Brook Farm to Cedar Mountain, 1861-2. 8vo, $3.00.\nCampaign of Army of Virginia, 1862. 8vo, $4.00. A War Diary, 1863-5.\n8vo, $3.00.\n\n=George Zabriskie Gray.= The Children's Crusade, 12mo, $1.50; Husband and\nWife, 16mo, $1.00.\n\n=F. W. Gunsaulus.= The Transfiguration of Christ. 16mo. $1.25.\n\n=Anna Davis Hallowell.= James and Lucretia Mott, $2.00.\n\n=R. P. Hallowell.= Quaker Invasion of Massachusetts, revised, $1.25. The\nPioneer Quakers, 16mo, $1.00.\n\n=Arthur Sherburne Hardy.= But Yet a Woman, 16mo, $1.25; The Wind of\nDestiny, 16mo, $1.25.\n\n=Bret Harte.= Works, 6 vols. cr. 8vo, each $2.00; Poems, _Household\nEdition_, Illustrated, 12mo, $1.75; cr. 8vo, full gilt, $2.25; Red-Line\nEdition, small 4to, $2.50; _Cabinet Edition_, $1.00; In the Carquinez\nWoods, 18mo, $1.00; Flip, and Found at Blazing Star, 18mo, $1.00; On\nthe Frontier, 18mo, $1.00; By Shore and Sedge, 18mo, $1.00; Maruja,\n18mo, $1.00; Snow-Bound at Eagle's, 18mo, $1.00; The Queen of the\nPirate Isle, Illustrated, small 4to, $1.50; A Millionaire, etc., 18mo,\n$1.00; The Crusade of the Excelsior, 16mo, $1.25.\n\n=Nathaniel Hawthorne.= Works, _\"Little Classic\" Edition_, Illustrated, 25\nvols. 18mo, each $1.00; the set $25.00; _New Riverside Edition_,\nIntroductions by G. P. Lathrop, 11 Etchings and Portrait, 12 vols. cr.\n8vo, each $2.00; _Wayside Edition_, with Introductions, Etchings, etc.,\n24 vols. 12mo, $36.00; _Fireside Edition_, 6 vols. 12mo, $10.00; The\nScarlet Letter, 12mo, $1.00.\n\n=John Hay.= Pike County Ballads, 12mo, $1.50; Castilian Days, 16mo,\n$2.00.\n\n=Caroline Hazard.= Memoir of J. L. Diman. Cr. 8vo, $2.00.\n\n=Franklin H. Head.= Shakespeare's Insomnia. 16mo, parchment paper, 75\ncents.\n\n=The Heart of the Weed.= Anonymous Poems. 16mo, $1.00.\n\n=S. E. Herrick.= Some Heretics of Yesterday. Cr. 8vo, $1.50.\n\n=S. J. Higginson.= A Princess of Java. 12mo, $1.50.\n\n=George S. Hillard.= Six Months in Italy. 12mo, $2.00.\n\n=Oliver Wendell Holmes.= Poems, _Household Edition_, Illustrated, 12mo,\n$1.75; cr. 8vo, full gilt, $2.25; _Illustrated Library Edition_, 8vo,\n$3.50; _Handy-Volume Edition_, 2 vols. 32mo, $2.50; The Autocrat of the\nBreakfast-Table, cr. 8vo, $2.00; _Handy-Volume Edition_, 32mo, $1.25;\nThe Professor at the Breakfast-Table, cr. 8vo, $2.00; The Poet at the\nBreakfast-Table, cr. 8vo, $2.00; Elsie Venner, cr. 8vo, $2.00; The\nGuardian Angel, cr. 8vo, $2.00; Medical Essays, cr. 8vo, $2.00; Pages\nfrom an Old Volume of Life, cr. 8vo, $2.00; John Lothrop Motley, A\nMemoir, 16mo, $1.50; Illustrated Poems, 8vo, $4.00; A Mortal Antipathy,\ncr. 8vo, $1.50; The Last Leaf, Illustrated, 4to, $10.00; Our Hundred\nDays in Europe, cr. 8vo, $1.50.\n\n=Nathaniel Holmes.= The Authorship of Shakespeare. New Edition. 2 vols.\n$4.00.\n\n=Blanche Willis Howard.= One Summer, Illustrated, 12mo, $1.25; One Year\nAbroad, 18mo, $1.25.\n\n=William D. Howells.= Venetian Life, 12mo, $1.50; Italian Journeys, 12mo,\n$1.50; Their Wedding Journey, Illustrated, 12mo, $1.50; 18mo, $1.25;\nSuburban Sketches, Illustrated, 12mo, $1.50; A Chance Acquaintance,\nIllustrated, 12mo, $1.50; 18mo, $1.25; A Foregone Conclusion, 12mo,\n$1.50; The Lady of the Aroostook, 12mo, $1.50; The Undiscovered\nCountry, 12mo, $1.50.\n\n=Thomas Hughes.= Tom Brown's School-Days at Rugby, 16mo, $1.00; Tom Brown\nat Oxford, 16mo, $1.25; The Manliness of Christ, 16mo, $1.00; paper, 25\ncents.\n\n=William Morris Hunt.= Talks on Art, 2 Series, each $1.00.\n\n=A. Parlett Lloyd.= The Law of Divorce, cloth, $2.00; sheep, $2.50.\n\n=Henry James.= A Passionate Pilgrim and other Tales, 12mo, $2.00;\nTransatlantic Sketches, 12mo, $2.00; Roderick Hudson, 12mo, $2.00; The\nAmerican, 12mo, $2.00; Watch and Ward, 18mo, $1.25; The Europeans,\n12mo, $1.50; Confidence, 12mo, $1.50; The Portrait of a Lady, 12mo,\n$2.00.\n\n=Anna Jameson.= Writings upon Art Subjects. New Edition, 10 vols. 16mo,\nthe set, $12.50.\n\n=Sarah Orne Jewett.= Deephaven, 18mo, $1.25; Old Friends and New, 18mo,\n$1.25; Country By-Ways, 18mo, $1.25; Play-Days, Stories for Children,\nsquare 16mo, $1.50; The Mate of the Daylight, 18mo, $1.25; A Country\nDoctor, 16mo, $1.25; A Marsh Island, 16mo, $1.25; A White Heron, 18mo,\n$1.25.\n\n=Rossiter Johnson.= Little Classics, 18 vols. 18mo, each $1.00; the set,\n$18.00.\n\n=Samuel Johnson.= Oriental Religions: India, 8vo, $5.00; China, 8vo,\n$5.00; Persia, 8vo, $5.00; Lectures, Essays, and Sermons, cr. 8vo,\n$1.75.\n\n=Charles C. Jones, Jr.= History of Georgia, 2 vols. 8vo, $10.00.\n\n=Malcolm Kerr.= The Far Interior. 2 vols. 8vo, $9.00.\n\n=Omar Khayyam.= Rub\u00e1iy\u00e1t, _Red-Line Edition_, square 16mo, $1.00; the\nsame, with 56 Illustrations by Vedder, folio, $25.00; The Same,\n_Phototype Edition_, 4to, $12.50.\n\n=T. Starr King.= Christianity and Humanity, with Portrait, 12mo, $1.50;\nSubstance and Show, 12mo, $1.50.\n\n=Charles and Mary Lamb.= Tales from Shakespeare. _Handy-Volume Edition._\n32mo, $1.00.\n\n=Henry Lansdell.= Russian Central Asia. 2 vols. $10.00.\n\n=Lucy Larcom.= Poems, 16mo, $1.25; An Idyl of Work, 16mo, $1.25; Wild\nRoses of Cape Ann and other Poems, 16mo, $1.25; Breathings of the\nBetter Life, 18mo, $1.25; Poems, _Household Edition_, Illustrated,\n12mo, $1.75; full gilt, $2.25; Beckonings for Every Day, 16mo, $1.00.\n\n=George Parsons Lathrop.= A Study of Hawthorne, 18mo, $1.25.\n\n=Henry C. Lea.= Sacerdotal Celibacy, 8vo, $4.50.\n\n=Sophia and Harriet Lee.= Canterbury Tales. New Edition. 3 vols. 12mo,\n$3.75.\n\n=Charles G. Leland.= The Gypsies, cr. 8vo, $2.00; Algonquin Legends of\nNew England, cr. 8vo, $2.00.\n\n=George Henry Lewes.= The Story of Goethe's Life, Portrait, 12mo, $1.50;\nProblems of Life and Mind, 5 vols. 8vo, $14.00.\n\n=J. G. Lockhart.= Life of Sir W. Scott, 3 vols. 12mo, $4.50.\n\n=Henry Cabot Lodge.= Studies in History, cr. 8vo, $1.50.\n\n=Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.= Complete Poetical and Prose Works,\n_Riverside Edition_, 11 vols. cr. 8vo, $16.50; Poetical Works,\n_Riverside Edition_, 6 vols. cr. 8vo, $9.00; _Cambridge Edition_, 4\nvols. 12mo, $7.00; Poems, _Octavo Edition_, Portrait and 300\nIllustrations, $7.50; _Household Edition_, Illustrated, 12mo, $1.75;\ncr. 8vo, full gilt, $2.25; _Red-Line Edition_, Portrait and 12\nIllustrations, small 4to, $2.50; _Cabinet Edition_, $1.00; _Library\nEdition_, Portrait and 32 Illustrations, 8vo, $3.50; Christus,\n_Household Edition_, $1.75; cr. 8vo, full gilt, $2.25; _Cabinet\nEdition_, $1.00; Prose Works, _Riverside Edition_, 2 vols. cr. 8vo,\n$3.00; Hyperion, 16mo, $1.50; Kavanagh, 16mo, $1.50; Outre-Mer, 16mo,\n$1.50; In the Harbor, 16mo, $1.00; Michael Angelo: a Drama,\nIllustrated, folio, $5.00; Twenty Poems, Illustrated, small 4to, $2.50;\nTranslation of the Divina Commedia of Dante, _Riverside Edition_, 3\nvols. cr. 8vo, $4.50; 1 vol. cr. 8vo, $2.50; 3 vols. royal 8vo, $13.50;\ncr. 8vo, $4.50; Poets and Poetry of Europe, royal 8vo, $5.00; Poems of\nPlaces, 31 vols. each $1.00; the set, $25.00.\n\n=James Russell Lowell.= Poems, _Red-Line Edition_, Portrait, Illustrated,\nsmall 4to, $2.50; _Household Edition_, Illustrated, 12mo, $1.75; cr.\n8vo, full gilt, $2.25; _Library Edition_, Portrait and 32\nIllustrations, 8vo, $3.50; _Cabinet Edition_, $1.00; Fireside Travels,\n12mo, $1.50; Among my Books, Series I. and II. 12mo, each $2.00; My\nStudy Windows, 12mo, $2.00; Democracy and other Addresses, 16mo, $1.25;\nUncollected Poems.\n\n=Thomas Babington Macaulay.= Works, 16 vols. 12mo, $20.00.\n\n=Mrs. Madison.= Memoirs and Letters of Dolly Madison, 16mo, $1.25.\n\n=Clements R. Markham.= The Fighting Veres.\n\n=Harriet Martineau.= Autobiography, New Edition, 2 vols. 12mo, $4.00;\nHousehold Education, 18mo, $1.25.\n\n=H. B. McClellan.= The Life and Campaigns of Maj.-Gen. J. E. B. Stuart.\nWith Portrait and Maps, 8vo, $3.00.\n\n=G. W. Melville.= In the Lena Delta, Maps and Illustrations, 8vo, $2.50.\n\n=T. C. Mendenhall.= A Century of Electricity. 16mo, $1.25.\n\n=Owen Meredith.= Poems, _Household Edition_, Illustrated, 12mo, $1.75;\ncr. 8vo, full gilt, $2.25; _Library Edition_, Portrait and 32\nIllustrations, 8vo, $3.50; Lucile, _Red-Line Edition_, 8 Illustrations,\nsmall 4to, $2.50; _Cabinet Edition_, 8 Illustrations, $1.00.\n\n=Olive Thorne Miller.= Bird-Ways, 16mo, $1.25.\n\n=John Milton.= Paradise Lost. _Handy-Volume Edition_, 32mo, $1.00.\n_Riverside Classic Edition_, 16mo, Illustrated, $1.00.\n\n=F. A. Mitchel.= Ormsby Macknight Mitchel, cr. 8vo, $2.00.\n\n=S. Weir Mitchell.= In War Time, 16mo, $1.25; Roland Blake, 16mo, $1.25;\nA Masque and other Poems.\n\n=J. W. Mollett.= Illustrated Dictionary of Words used in Art and\nArch\u00e6ology, small 4to, $5.00.\n\n=Montaigne.= Complete Works, Portrait, 4 vols. 12mo, $7.50.\n\n=William Mountford.= Euthanasy, 12mo, $2.00.\n\n=T. Mozley.= Reminiscences of Oriel College, etc., 2 vols. 16mo, $3.00.\n\n=Elisha Mulford.= The Nation, 8vo, $2.50; The Republic of God, 8vo,\n$2.00.\n\n=T. T. Munger.= On the Threshold, 16mo, $1.00; The Freedom of Faith,\n16mo, $1.50; Lamps and Paths, 16mo, $1.00; The Appeal to Life, 16mo,\n$1.50.\n\n=J. A. W. Neander.= History of the Christian Religion and Church, with\nIndex volume, 6 vols. 8vo, $20.00; Index, $3.00.\n\n=Joseph Neilson.= Memories of Rufus Choate, 8vo, $5.00.\n\n=Charles Eliot Norton.= Notes of Travel in Italy, 16mo, $1.25;\nTranslation of Dante's New Life, royal 8vo, $3.00.\n\n=Wm. D. O'Connor.= Hamlet's Note-Book, 16mo, $1.00.\n\n=G. H. Palmer.= Trans. of Homer's Odyssey, 1-12, 8vo, $2.50.\n\n=Leighton Parks.= His Star in the East. Cr. 8vo, $1.50.\n\n=James Parton.= Life of Benjamin Franklin, 2 vols. 8vo, $5.00; Life of\nThomas Jefferson, 8vo, $2.50; Life of Aaron Burr, 2 vols. 8vo, $5.00;\nLife of Andrew Jackson, 3 vols. 8vo, $7.50; Life of Horace Greeley,\n8vo, $2.50; General Butler in New Orleans, 8vo, $2.50; Humorous Poetry\nof the English Language, 12mo, $1.75; full gilt, $2.25; Famous\nAmericans of Recent Times, 8vo, $2.50; Life of Voltaire, 2 vols. 8vo,\n$6.00; The French Parnassus, 12mo, $1.75; crown 8vo, $3.50; Captains of\nIndustry, 16mo, $1.25.\n\n=Blaise Pascal.= Thoughts, 12mo, $2.25; Letters, 12mo, $2.25.\n\n=Elizabeth Stuart-Phelps.= The Gates Ajar, 16mo, $1.50; Beyond the Gates,\n16mo, $1.25; Men, Women, and Ghosts, 16mo, $1.50; Hedged In, 16mo,\n$1.50; The Silent Partner, 16mo, $1.50; The Story of Avis, 16mo, $1.50;\nSealed Orders, and other Stories, 16mo, $1.50; Friends: A Duet, 16mo,\n$1.25; Doctor Zay, 16mo, $1.25; Songs of the Silent World, 16mo, gilt\ntop, $1.25; An Old Maid's Paradise, and Burglars in Paradise, 16mo,\n$1.25; Madonna of the Tubs, cr. 8vo, Illustrated, $1.50; Jack the\nFisherman, sq. 12mo, 50 cents; The Gates Between, 16mo, $ 1.25.\n\n=Phillips Exeter Lectures=: Delivered before the Students of Phillips\nExeter Academy, 1885-6. By E. E. HALE, PHILLIPS BROOKS, Presidents\nMCCOSH, PORTER, and others. 12mo, $1.50.\n\n=Mrs. S. M. B. Piatt.= Selected Poems, 16mo, $1.50.\n\n=Carl Ploetz.= Epitome of Universal History, 12mo, $3.00.\n\n=Antonin Lefevre Pontalis.= The Life of John DeWitt, Grand Pensionary of\nHolland, 2 vols. 8vo, $9.00.\n\n=Margaret J. Preston.= Colonial Ballads, 16mo, $1.25.\n\n=Adelaide A. Procter.= Poems, _Cabinet Edition_, $1.00; _Red-Line\nEdition_, small 4to, $2.50.\n\n=Progressive Orthodoxy.= 16mo, $1.00.\n\n=Sampson Reed.= Growth of the Mind, 16mo, $1.00.\n\n=C. F. Richardson.= Primer of American Literature, 18mo, $.30.\n\n=Riverside Aldine Series.= Each volume, 16mo, $1.00. First edition,\n$1.50. 1. Marjorie Daw, etc., by T. B. ALDRICH; 2. My Summer in a\nGarden, by C. D. WARNER; 3. Fireside Travels, by J. R. LOWELL; 4. The\nLuck of Roaring Camp, etc., by BRET HARTE; 5, 6. Venetian Life, 2\nvols., by W. D. HOWELLS; 7. Wake Robin, by JOHN BURROUGHS; 8,9. The\nBiglow Papers, 2 vols., by J. R. LOWELL; 10. Backlog Studies, by C. D.\nWARNER.\n\n=Henry Crabb Robinson.= Diary, Reminiscences, etc. cr. 8vo, $2.50.\n\n=John C. Ropes.= The First Napoleon, with Maps, cr. 8vo, $2.00.\n\n=Josiah Royce.= Religious Aspect of Philosophy, 12mo, $2.00; Feud of\nOakfield Creek, 16mo, $1.25.\n\n=Edgar Evertson Saltus.= Balzac, cr. 8vo, $1.25; The Philosophy of\nDisenchantment, cr. 8vo, $1.25.\n\n=John Godfrey Saxe.= Poems, _Red-Line Edition_, Illustrated, small 4to,\n$2.50; _Cabinet Edition_, $1.00; _Household Edition_, Illustrated,\n12mo, $1.75; full gilt, cr. 8vo, $2.25.\n\n=Sir Walter Scott.= Waverley Novels, _Illustrated Library Edition_, 25\nvols. 12mo, each $1.00; the set, $25.00; Tales of a Grandfather, 3\nvols. 12mo, $4.50; Poems, _Red-Line Edition_, Illustrated, small 4to,\n$2.50; _Cabinet Edition_, $1.00.\n\n=W. H. Seward.= Works, 5 vols. 8vo, $15.00; Diplomatic History of the\nCivil War, 8vo, $3.00.\n\n=John Campbell Shairp.= Culture and Religion, 16mo, $1.25; Poetic\nInterpretation of Nature, 16mo, $1.25; Studies in Poetry and\nPhilosophy, 16mo, $1.50; Aspects of Poetry, 16mo, $1.50.\n\n=William Shakespeare.= Works, edited by R. G. White, _Riverside Edition_,\n3 vols. cr. 8vo, $7.50; The Same, 6 vols., cr. 8vo, $10.00; The\nBlackfriars Shakespeare, per vol. $2.50, _net_. (_In Press._)\n\n=A. P. Sinnett.= Esoteric Buddhism, 16mo, $1.25; The Occult World, 16mo,\n$1.25.\n\n=M. C. D. Silsbee.= A Half Century in Salem. 16mo, $1.00.\n\n=Dr. William Smith.= Bible Dictionary, _American Edition_, 4 vols. 8vo,\n$20.00.\n\n=Edmund Clarence Stedman.= Poems, _Farringford Edition_, Portrait, 16mo,\n$2.00; _Household Edition_, Illustrated, 12mo, $1.75; full gilt, cr.\n8vo, $2.25; Victorian Poets, 12mo, $2.25; Poets of America, 12mo,\n$2.25. The set, 3 vols., uniform, 12mo, $6.00; Edgar Allan Poe, an\nEssay, vellum, 18mo, $1.00.\n\n=W. J. Stillman.= On the Track of Ulysses, royal 8vo, $4.00.\n\n=W. W. Story.= Poems, 2 vols. 16mo, $2.50; Fiammetta: A Novel, 16mo,\n$1.25. Roba di Roma, 2 vols. 16mo, $2.50.\n\n=Harriet Beecher Stowe.= Novels and Stories, 10 vols. 12mo, uniform, each\n$1.50; A Dog's Mission, Little Pussy Willow, Queer Little People,\nIllustrated, small 4to, each $1.25; Uncle Tom's Cabin, 100\nIllustrations, 8vo, $3.00; _Library Edition_, Illustrated, 12mo, $2.00;\n_Popular Edition_, 12mo, $1.00.\n\n=Jonathan Swift.= Works, _Edition de Luxe_, 19 vols. 8vo, the set,\n$76.00.\n\n=T. P. Taswell-Langmead.= English Constitutional History. New Edition,\nrevised, 8vo, $7.50.\n\n=Bayard Taylor.= Poetical Works, _Household Edition_, 12mo, $1.75; cr.\n8vo, full gilt, $2.25; Melodies of Verse, 18mo, vellum, $1.00; Life and\nLetters, 2 vols. 12mo, $4.00; Dramatic Poems, 12mo, $2.25; _Household\nEdition_, 12mo, $1.75; Life and Poetical Works, 6 vols. uniform.\nIncluding Life, 2 vols.; Faust, 2 vols.; Poems, 1 vol.; Dramatic Poems,\n1 vol. The set, cr. 8vo, $12.00.\n\n=Alfred Tennyson.= Poems, _Household Edition_, Portrait and\nIllustrations, 12mo, $1.75; full gilt, cr. 8vo, $2.25; _Illustrated\nCrown Edition_, 2 vols. 8vo, $5.00; _Library Edition_, Portrait and 60\nIllustrations, 8vo, $3.50; _Red-Line Edition_, Portrait and\nIllustrations, small 4to, $2.50; _Cabinet Edition_, $1.00; Complete\nWorks, _Riverside Edition_, 6 vols. cr. 8vo, $6.00.\n\n=Celia Thaxter.= Among the Isles of Shoals, 18mo, $1.25; Poems, small\n4to, $1.50; Drift-Weed, 18mo, $1.50; Poems for Children, Illustrated,\nsmall 4to, $1.50; Cruise of the Mystery, Poems, 16mo, $1.00.\n\n=Edith M. Thomas.= A New Year's Masque and other Poems, 16mo, $1.50; The\nRound Year, 16mo, $1.25; Lyrics and Sonnets, 16mo, $1.25.\n\n=Joseph P. Thompson.= American Comments on European Questions, 8vo,\n$3.00.\n\n=Henry D. Thoreau.= Works, 10 vols. 12mo, each $1.50; the set, $15.00.\n\n=George Ticknor.= History of Spanish Literature, 3 vols. 8vo, $10.00;\nLife, Letters, and Journals, Portraits, 2 vols. 12mo, $4.00.\n\n=Bradford Torrey.= Birds in the Bush, 16mo, $1.25.\n\n=Sophus Tromholt.= Under the Rays of the Aurora Borealis, Illustrated, 2\nvols. $7.50.\n\n=Herbert Tuttle.= History of Prussia. Vol. I. To the Accession of\nFrederick the Great. Vols. II. and III. During the Reign of Frederick\nthe Great. Cr. 8vo, per vol. $2.25.\n\n=Mrs. Schuyler Van Rensselaer.= H. H. Richardson and his Works.\n\n=Jones Very.= Essays and Poems, cr. 8vo, $2.00.\n\n=Annie Wall.= Sordello's Story, retold in Prose, 16mo, $1.00.\n\n=Charles Dudley Warner.= My Summer in a Garden, _Riverside Aldine\nEdition_, 16mo, $1.00; _Illustrated Edition_, square 16mo, $1.50;\nSaunterings, 18mo, $1.25; Backlog Studies, Illustrated, square 16mo,\n$1.50; _Riverside Aldine Edition_, 16mo, $1.00; Baddeck, and that Sort\nof Thing, 18mo, $1.00; My Winter on the Nile, cr. 8vo, $2.00; In the\nLevant, cr. 8vo, $2.00; Being a Boy, Illustrated, square 16mo, $1.50;\nIn the Wilderness, 18mo, 75 cents; A Roundabout Journey, 12mo, $1.50.\n\n=William F. Warren, LL. D.= Paradise Found, cr. 8vo, $2.00.\n\n=William A. Wheeler.= Dictionary of Noted Names of Fiction, 12mo, $2.00.\n\n=Edwin P. Whipple.= Essays, 6 vols. cr. 8vo, each $1.50.\n\n=Richard Grant White.= Every-Day English, 12mo, $2.00; Words and their\nUses, 12mo, $2.00; England Without and Within, 12mo, $2.00; The Fate of\nMansfield Humphreys, 16mo, $1.25; Studies in Shakespeare, 12mo, $1.75.\n\n=Mrs. A. D. T. Whitney.= Stories, 12 vols. 12mo, each $1.50; Mother Goose\nfor Grown Folks, 12mo, $1.50; Pansies, 16mo, $1.25; Daffodils, 16mo,\n$1.25; Just How, 16mo, $1.00; Bonnyborough, 12mo, $1.50; Holy Tides,\n16mo, 75 cents; Homespun Yarns, 12mo, $1.50; Bird-Talk, sq. 12mo,\n$1.00.\n\n=John Greenleaf Whittier.= Poems, _Household Edition_, Illustrated, 12mo,\n$1.75; full gilt, cr. 8vo, $2.25; _Cambridge Edition_, Portrait, 3\nvols. 12mo, $5.25; _Red-Line Edition_, Portrait, Illustrated, small\n4to, $2.50; _Cabinet Edition_, $1.00; _Library Edition_, Portrait, 32\nIllustrations, 8vo, $3.50; Prose Works, _Cambridge Edition_, 2 vols.\n12mo, $3.50; The Bay of Seven Islands, Portrait, 16mo, $1.00; John\nWoolman's Journal, Introduction by Whittier, $1.50; Child Life in\nPoetry, selected by Whittier, Illustrated, 12mo, $2.00; Child Life in\nProse, 12mo, $2.00; Songs of Three Centuries, selected by Whittier:\n_Household Edition_, Illustrated, 12mo, $1.75; full gilt, cr. 8vo,\n$2.25; _Library Edition_, 32 Illustrations, 8vo, $3.50; Text and Verse,\n18mo, 75 cents; Poems of Nature, 4to, Illustrated, $6.00; St. Gregory's\nGuest, etc., 16mo, vellum, $1.00.\n\n=Woodrow Wilson.= Congressional Government, 16mo, $1.25\n\n=J. A. Wilstach.= Translation of Virgil's Works, 2 vols. cr. 8vo, $5.00.\n\n=Justin Winsor.= Reader's Handbook of American Revolution, 16mo, $1.25.\n\n=W. B. Wright.= Ancient Cities from the Dawn to the Daylight, 16mo,\n$1.25; The World to Come, 16mo, $1.25.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\n\n\nTranscriber's Notes\n\nPages 50-51: Changed \"othwise\" to \"otherwise.\"\n  (although the common herd think oth-[end of page] wise,)\n\nPage 65: Retained \"Vossiche,\" but possibly a typo for \"Vossische.\"\n  (Lindner, the editor of the \"Vossiche Zeitung,\")\n\nPage 164: Changed \"fastastic\" to \"fantastic.\"\n  (to the average German must seem fastastic,)\n\nPage 176: Changed \"negaitve\" to \"negative.\"\n  (the purely negaitve character of pleasure.)\n\nPage 231: Retained \"uncompanied,\" but possibly a typo for\n  \"unaccompanied.\"\n  (increasing number of those who live uncompanied,)\n\nAd Page 5: Added [?] to missing price.\n  (O. B. Frothingham. Life of W. H. Channing. Cr. 8vo, $ )","title":"The Philosophy of Disenchantment","tradition":"philosophy-ethics","translated_text":null,"word_count":62843}