{"collection":"philosophy-ethics","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_52356/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_52356","id":"gutenberg_52356","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/52356","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Essays, Letters & Speeches","Category: Philosophy & Ethics","Dialogues","Essays","Italian literature -- Translations into English"],"text":"ESSAYS AND DIALOGUES\n\nOF\n\nGIACOMO LEOPARDI.\n\n_TRANSLATED_\n\nBY\n\nCHARLES EDWARDES.\n\n_With Biographical Sketch._\n\nLONDON:\n\nTR\u2039BNER & CO., LUDGATE HILL.\n\n1882.\n\n\n\nCONTENTS.\n\n\n    BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH\n\n    HISTORY OF THE HUMAN RACE\n    DIALOGUE BETWEEN HERCULES AND ATLAS\n    DIALOGUE BETWEEN FASHION AND DEATH\n    PRIZE COMPETITION OF THE ACADEMY OF SILLOGRAPHS\n    DIALOGUE BETWEEN A GOBLIN AND A GNOME\n    DIALOGUE BETWEEN MALAMBRUNO AND FARFARELLO\n    DIALOGUE BETWEEN NATURE AND A SOUL\n    DIALOGUE BETWEEN THE EARTH AND THE MOON\n    THE WAGER OF PROMETHEUS\n    DIALOGUE BETWEEN A NATURAL PHILOSOPHER AND A METAPHYSICIAN\n    DIALOGUE BETWEEN TASSO AND HIS FAMILIAR SPIRIT\n    DIALOGUE BETWEEN NATURE AND AN ICELANDER\n    PARINI ON GLORY\n    DIALOGUE BETWEEN RUYSCH AND HIS MUMMIES\n    REMARKABLE SAYINGS OF PHILIP OTTONIERI\n    DIALOGUE BETWEEN COLUMBUS AND GUTIERREZ\n    PANEGYRIC OF BIRDS\n    THE SONG OF THE WILD COCK\n    DIALOGUE BETWEEN TIMANDRO AND ELEANDRO\n    COPERNICUS\n    DIALOGUE BETWEEN AN ALMANAC SELLER AND A PASSER-BY\n    DIALOGUE BETWEEN PLOTINUS AND PORPHYRIUS\n    COMPARISON OF THE LAST WORDS OF BRUTUS AND THEOPHRASTUS\n    DIALOGUE BETWEEN TRISTANO AND A FRIEND\n\n\n\nBIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH.\n\n\n\"Manure with Despair, but let it be genuine, and you will have a noble\nharvest.\"--RAHEL.\n\n\nThe name of Giacomo Leopardi is not yet a household word in the mouths\nof Englishmen. Few of us have heard of him; still fewer have read\nany of his writings. If known at all, he is probably coupled, in a\nsemi-contemptuous manner, with other foreign representatives of a phase\nof poetic thought, the influence of which has passed its zenith. As\na contemporary of Byron, Leopardi is perhaps credited with a certain\namount of psychological plagiarism, and possibly disregarded as a mere\nsatellite of the greater planet. But if this be so, it is unjust. His\nfame is his own, and time makes his isolation and grand individuality\nmore and more prominent. What Byron and Shelley, Millevoye, Baudelaire\nand Gautier, Heine and Platen, Pouchkine and Lermontoff, are to\nEngland, France, Germany, and Russia respectively, Leopardi is, in a\nmeasure, to Italy. But he is more than this. The jewel of his renown\nis triple-faceted. Philology, poetry, and philosophy were each in turn\ncultivated by him, and he was of too brilliant an intellect not to\nexcel in them all. As a philologist he astonished Niebuhr and delighted\nCreuzer; as a poet he has been compared with Dante; as a philosopher\nhe takes high rank among the greatest and most original men of modern\ntimes. One of his biographers (Dovari: \"Studio di G. Leopardi,\" Ancona,\n1877) has termed him \"the greatest philosopher, poet, and prose-writer\nof the nineteenth century.\" Though such eulogy may be, and doubtless\nis, excessive, the fact that it has been given testifies to the\nextraordinary nature of the man who is its subject.\n\nIn Germany and France, Leopardi is perhaps as well known and highly\nappreciated as in Italy. His poems have been translated into the\nlanguages of those countries; and in France, within the last year, two\nmore or less complete versions of his prose writings have appeared.\nBiographies, reviews, and lighter notices of the celebrated Italian\nare of repeated and increasing occurrence on the Continent. England,\nhowever, knows little of him, and hitherto none of his writings have\nbeen made accessible to the English reading public. The following brief\noutline of his life may in part help to explain the peculiarly sombre\nphilosophical views which he held, and of which his works are chiefly\nan elaboration.\n\nGiacomo Leopardi was born at Recanati, a small town about fifteen miles\nfrom Ancona, on the 29th June 1798. He was of noble birth, equally on\nthe side of his father and mother. Provided with a tutor at an early\nage, he soon left him far behind in knowledge; and when only eight\nyears old, he discarded the Greek grammar he had hitherto used, and\ndeliberately set himself the task of reading in chronological order the\nGreek authors of his father's library. It was due to his own industry,\nand his father's care, that later he acquired a perfect acquaintance\nwith classical literature. In 1810 he received his first tonsure, in\ntoken of his dedication to the Church; but this early promise was not\ndestined to be fulfilled. Before he was eighteen years of age Leopardi\nhad attained recognised distinction for the amount and matter of his\nerudition. The mere catalogue of his writings--chiefly philological--by\nthat time is of sufficient length to excite wonder, and their\nnature is still more surprising. Latin commentaries and classical\nannotations were apparently child's play to him. Writing in 1815 to\nthe Roman scholar Cancellieri, who had noticed one of these classical\nproductions, Leopardi says: \"I see myself secured to posterity in\nyour writings.... Commerce with the learned is not only useful, but\nnecessary for me.\" He was only seventeen when he completed a task\nwhich represented the sum of all his early study. This was an \"Essay\non the Popular Errors of the Ancients,\" of considerable length (first\npublished posthumously), in the course of which he cites more than four\nhundred authors, ancient and modern. A single extract will suffice to\nshow that his youthful powers of expression were as precocious as his\nlearning, though his judgment was doubtless at fault. He thus reviews\nthe wisdom of the Greeks:\n\n    \"The philosophy of the ancients was the science of\n    differences; and their academies were the seats of confusion\n    and disorder. Aristotle condemned what Plato had taught.\n    Socrates mocked Antisthenes; and Zeno scandalised Epicurus.\n    Pythagoreans, Platonians, Peripatetics, Stoics, Cynics,\n    Epicureans, Sceptics, Cyrenaics, Megarics, Eclectics\n    scuffled with and ridiculed one another; while the truly\n    wise laughed at them all. The people, left to themselves\n    during this hubbub, were not idle, but laboured silently to\n    increase the vast mound of human errors.\"\n\nHe ends this Essay with a eulogy of the Christian religion: \"To live\nin the true Church is the only way to combat superstition.\" Shortly\nafterwards, increasing knowledge, which Goethe has called \"the\nantipodes of faith,\" enabled him to perceive that Roman Catholicism,\nthe antidote which he then prescribed for superstition, was itself full\ncharged with the poison he sought to destroy.\n\nIn 1817 Leopardi made acquaintance by letter with Pietro Giordani, one\nof the leading literary men of the day, and a man of varied experience\nand knowledge. In his first letter Leopardi opens his heart to his new\nfriend:\n\n    \"I have very greatly, perhaps immoderately, yearned for\n    glory ... I burn with love for Italy, and thank Heaven that\n    I am an Italian. If I live, I will live for literature; for\n    aught else, I would not live if I could.\" (21st March 1817.)\n\nA month later, from the same source we are able to discern traces\nof that characteristic of Leopardi's temperament which by certain\ncritics is thought to explain his philosophy. Writing to Giordani,\nhe expatiates on the discomforts of Recanati and its climate; and\nproceeds:--\n\n    \"Added to all this is the obstinate, black, and barbarous\n    melancholy which devours and destroys me, which is nourished\n    by study, and yet increases when I forego study. I have in\n    past times had much experience of that sweet sadness which\n    generates fine sentiments, and which, better than joy, may\n    be said to resemble the twilight; but my condition now is\n    like an eternal and horrible night. A poison saps my powers\n    of body and mind.\"--\n\nIn the same letter he gives his opinion on the relative nature of prose\nand poetry.\n\n    \"Poetry requires infinite study and application, and its art\n    is so profound, that the more you advance in proficiency, so\n    much the further does perfection seem to recede.... To be a\n    good prose writer first, and a poet later, seems to me to be\n    contrary to nature, which first creates the poet, and then\n    by the cooling operation of age concedes the maturity and\n    tranquillity necessary for prose.\"\n\n    (30th April 1817.)\n\nThe correspondence between Leopardi and Giordani lasted for five years,\nand it is from their published letters that we are able to form the\nbest possible estimate of Leopardi's character and aspirations. His own\nletters serve as the index of his physical and mental state. In them\nwe trace the gradual failure of his health, the growth of sombreness\nin his disposition, and the change which his religious convictions\nunderwent. During his twentieth year he suffered severely in mind and\nbody. Forced to lay aside his studies, he was constantly a prey to\nennui, with all its attendant discomforts. He thus writes to Giordani\nof his condition, in August 1817:\n\n    \"My ill-health makes me unhappy, because I am not a\n    philosopher who is careless of life, and because I am\n    compelled to stand aloof from my beloved studies.... Another\n    thing that makes me unhappy, is thought. I believe you know,\n    but I hope you have not experienced, how thought can crucify\n    and martyrise any one who thinks somewhat differently from\n    others. I have for a long time suffered such torments,\n    simply because thought has always had me entirely in its\n    power; and it will kill me unless I change my condition.\n    Solitude is not made for those who burn and are consumed in\n    themselves.\" (1st August 1817.)\n\nHis mental activity was numbed by his physical incapacity; the two\ncombined reduced him to a state of despair. There is a noble fortitude\nin the following words of another letter addressed to Giordani:--\n\n    \"I have for a long time firmly believed that I must die\n    within two or three years, because I have so ruined myself\n    by seven years of immoderate and incessant study.... I am\n    conscious that my life cannot be other than unhappy, yet I\n    am not frightened; and if I could in any way be useful, I\n    would endeavour to bear my condition without losing heart.\n    I have passed years so full of bitterness, that it seems\n    impossible for worse to succeed them; nevertheless I will\n    not despair even if my sufferings do increase ... I am born\n    for endurance.\"\n\n    (2d March 1818.)\n\nLeopardi was now of age, and at the time of life when mans aspirations\nare keenest. He had repeatedly tried to induce his father to let him go\nforth into the world, and take his place in the school of intellect;\nbut all his endeavours were in vain. Though seconded by Giordani, who\nsome months before had become personally acquainted with his young\ncorrespondent during a visit of a few days to Casa Leopardi, the Count\nwas resolute in refusing to grant his son permission to leave Recanati.\nGiacomo, driven to desperation, conceived a plan by which he hoped to\nfulfil his desire in spite of the paternal prohibition. The following\nextract from the Count's diary furnishes the gist of the matter, and\nalso gives us some small insight into his own character:--\n\n    \"Giacomo, wishing to leave the country, and seeing that I\n    was opposed to his doing so, thought to obtain my consent by\n    a trick. He requested Count Broglio to procure a passport\n    for Milan, so that I might be alarmed on hearing of it,\n    and thus let him go. I knew about it, because Solari wrote\n    unwittingly to Antici, wishing Giacomo a pleasant journey. I\n    immediately asked Broglio to send me the passport, which he\n    did with an accompanying letter. I showed all to my son, and\n    deposited the passport in an open cupboard, telling him he\n    could take it at his leisure. So all ended.\"\n\nThus the plot failed, and Giacomo was constrained to resign himself,\nas best he could, to a continuance of the \"life worse than death\"\nwhich he lived in Recanati. Two letters written in anticipation of the\nsuccess of his scheme, one to his father, and the other to Carlo, his\nbrother, are of most painful interest. They suggest unfilial conduct\non his part, and unfatherly treatment of his son on the part of Count\nMonaldo.\n\n    \"I am weary of prudence,\" he writes in the letter to Carlo,\n    \"which serves only as a clog to the enjoyment of youth ...\n    How thankful I should be if the step I am taking might act\n    as a warning to our parents, as far as you and our brothers\n    are concerned! I heartily trust you will be less unhappy\n    than myself. I care little for the opinion of the world;\n    nevertheless, exonerate me if you have any opportunity of\n    doing so.... What am I? a mere good-for-nothing creature.\n    I realise this most intensely, and the knowledge of\n    it has determined me to take this step, to escape the\n    self-contemplation which so disgusts me. So long as I\n    possessed self-esteem I was prudent; but now that I despise\n    myself, I can only find relief by casting myself on fortune,\n    and seeking dangers, worthless thing that I am.... It were\n    better (humanly speaking) for my parents and myself that I\n    had never been born, or had died ere now. Farewell, dear\n    brother.\"\n\nThe letter to his father is in a different key. It is stern and severe,\nand contains reproofs, direct and inferential, for his apparent\nindifference to his sons' future prospects. Giacomo upbraids him with\nintentional blindness to the necessities of his position as a youth of\ngenerally acknowledged ability, for whom Recanati could offer no scope,\nor chance of renown. He goes on to say:\n\n    \"Now that the law has made me my own master, I have\n    determined to delay no longer in taking my destiny on my\n    own shoulders. I know that man's felicity consists in\n    contentment, and that I shall therefore have more chance\n    of happiness in begging my bread than through whatever\n    bodily comforts I may enjoy here.... I know that I shall be\n    deemed mad; and I also know that all great men have been\n    so regarded. And because the career of almost every great\n    genius has begun with despair, I am not disheartened at\n    the same commencement in mine. I would rather be unhappy\n    than insignificant, and suffer than endure tedium....\n    Fathers usually have a better opinion of their sons than\n    other people; but you, on the contrary, judge no one so\n    unfavourably, and therefore never imagined we might be born\n    for greatness.... It has pleased Heaven, as a punishment,\n    to ordain that the only youths of this town with somewhat\n    loftier aspirations than the Recanatese should belong to\n    you, as a trial of patience, and that the only father who\n    would regard such sons as a misfortune should be ours.\"\n\nThe relationship between Giacomo and his parents has been a vexed\nquestion with all his biographers, who, for the most part, are of the\nopinion that they had little sympathy with him in the mental sufferings\nhe underwent. The Count has been called \"despota sistematico\" in the\nadministration of his household; and the most favourably disposed\nwriters have agreed to regard him as somewhat of a Roman father. But\nthere does not seem to be sufficient evidence to support the theory\nthat he was intentionally harsh and repressive to the extent of cruelty\nin his treatment of his children. He was an Italian of the old school,\nand as such his conduct was probably different from that of more\nmodern Italian fathers; but that was all.\n\nIn 1819, when his whole being was in a turmoil of disquiet, Leopardi\nmade his d\u00c8but as a poet, with two Odes--the one addressed to Italy,\nand the other on the monument to Dante, then recently erected in\nFlorence. The following literal translation of the first stanza of the\nOde to Italy gives but a faint echo of the original verse:--\n\n    \"O my country, I see the walls and arches, the columns,\n    the statues, and the deserted towers of our ancestors; but\n    their glory I see not, nor do I see the laurel and the iron\n    which girt our forefathers. To-day, unarmed, thou showest a\n    naked brow and naked breast. Alas! how thou art wounded! How\n    pale thou art, and bleeding! That I should see thee thus!\n    O queen of beauty! I call on heaven and earth, and ask who\n    thus has humbled thee. And as a crowning ill, her arms are\n    weighed with chains; her hair dishevelled and unveiled; and\n    on the ground she sits disconsolate and neglected, her face\n    hid in her knees, and weeping. Weep, Italia mine, for thou\n    hast cause, since thou wert born to conquer 'neath Fortune's\n    smiles and frowns.\n\n    O patria mia, vedo le mura e gli archi\n    E le colonne e i simulacri e l' erme\n    Torri degli avi nostri,\n    Ma la gloria non vedo,\n    Non vedo il lauro e il ferro ond' eran carchi\n    I nostri padri antichi. Or fatta inerme,\n    Nuda la fronte e nudo il petto mostri.\n    Oim\u00cb quante ferite,\n    Che lividor, che sangue! oh qual ti veggio,\n    Formosissima donna! Io chiedo al cielo,\n    E al mondo: dite, dite:\n    Chi la ridusse a tale? E questo \u00cb peggio,\n    Che di catene ha carene ambe le braccia.\n    Si che sparte le chiome e senza velo\n    Siede in terra negletta e sconsolata,\n    Nascondendo la faccia\n    Tra le ginocchia, e piange.\n    Piangi, che ben hai donde, Italia mia,\n    Le genti a vincer nata\n    Et nella fausta sorte e nella ria.\"\n\nThese odes, which represent the first fruits of his muse, ring with\nenthusiasm. They are the expression of a soul fired with its own flame,\nwhich serves to illumine and vivify a theme then only too real in his\ncountry's experience, the sufferings of Italy. Patriotism pervades\nhis earliest verse; sadness and hopelessness that of later times. For\nthese two odes Giordani bestowed unsparing eulogy on his young prot\u00c8g\u00c8.\nBefore their appearance he had begun to regard Leopardi as the rising\ngenius of Italy, and had not hesitated to say to him, \"Inveni hominem!\"\nNow, however, his admiration was unbounded; he thus apostrophised him:\n\"O nobilissima, e altissima, e fortissima anima!\" He referred to the\nreception of his poems at Piacenza in these terms: \"They speak of you\nas a god.\"\n\nIn 1822 Leopardi first left home. Repeatedly, year after year, he\nhad besought his father to permit him to see something of the world.\nHe longed to associate with the men who represented the intellect of\nhis country. With his own fellow-townsmen he had little sympathy, and\nthey on their part regarded him as a phenomenon, eccentric rather than\nremarkable. They gave him the titles of \"little pedant,\" \"philosopher,\"\n\"hermit,\" &c., in half ironical appreciation of his learning. As he\nwas naturally very sensitive, these petty vexations became intensified\nto him, and were doubtless one of the chief reasons of his unfailing\ndislike for his native place. In one of his essays, that of \"Parini\non Glory,\" we discover a reference to Leopardi's life at Recanati,\nwhich place is really identical with the Bosisio of the essay. Yet the\nprophet who is not a prophet in his own country when living, seldom\nfails of recognition after death. A statue is now raised to Leopardi\nin the place that refused to honour him in life. The appreciative\nrecognition he failed to attract in Recanati, he hoped to obtain at\nRome. But Count Monaldo, his father, long maintained his resistance to\nhis son's wishes. Himself of a comparatively unaspiring mind, content\nwith the fame he could acquire in his own province, he saw no necessity\nwhy his son should be more ambitious. Probably also his paternal love\nmade him fearful of the dangers of the world, to which his son would\nbe exposed. Of these hazards he knew nothing from experience; and\nthey were doubtless magnified to him by his imagination. Yet, though\nnaturally a man rather deficient in character than otherwise, Count\nMonaldo was, as we have seen, in his own household, a stern not to\nsay unreasonable disciplinarian. Only after repeated solicitations\nfrom his son, and remonstrances from his friends, did he give Giacomo\nthe desired permission, chiefly in the hope that at Rome he might be\ninduced to enter the Church, towards which he had latterly manifested\nsome signs of repugnance. The five months spent by Leopardi in Rome\nsufficed to disenchant him of his ideas of the world of life. A day or\ntwo after his arrival he writes to Carlo his brother:\n\n    \"I do not derive the least pleasure from the great things I\n    see, because I know that they are wonderful, without feeling\n    that they are so. I assure you their multitude and grandeur\n    wearied me the first day.\"\n\n    (25th November 1822.)\n\nAgain, to Paulina his sister: \"The world is not beautiful; rather it is\ninsupportable, unless seen from a distance.\"\n\nEver prone to regard the real through the medium of the ideal, he was\nbitterly disappointed with his first experience of men. The scholar,\nwhom he was prepared to revere, proved on acquaintance to be--\n\n    \"a blockhead, a torrent of small talk, the most wearisome\n    and afflicting man on earth. He talks about the merest\n    trifles with the deepest interest, of the greatest things\n    with an infinite imperturbability. He drowns you in\n    compliments and exaggerated praises, and does both in so\n    freezing a manner, and with such nonchalance, that to hear\n    him one would think an extraordinary man the most ordinary\n    thing in the world.\" (25th November 1822.)\n\nThe stupidest Recanatese he termed wiser and more sensible than the\nwisest Roman. Again, to his father he complains of the superficiality\nof the so-called scholars of Rome.\n\n    \"They all strive to reach immortality in a coach, as bad\n    Christians would fain enter Paradise. According to them, the\n    sum of human wisdom, indeed the only true science of man,\n    is antiquity. Hitherto I have not encountered a lettered\n    Eoman who understands the term literature as meaning\n    anything except arch\u00caology. Philosophy, ethics, politics,\n    eloquence, poetry, philology, are unknown things in Rome,\n    and are regarded as childish playthings compared to the\n    discovery of some bit of copper or stone of the time of Mark\n    Antony or Agrippa. The best of it is that one cannot find\n    a single Eoman who really knows Latin or Greek; without a\n    perfect acquaintance with which languages, it is clear that\n    antiquity Cannot be Studied.\" (9th December 1822.)\n\nHe was disheartened by the depraved condition of Roman literature.\nEverywhere he saw merit disregarded or trodden under foot. The city was\nfull of professional poets and poetesses, and literary cliques formed\nfor the purpose of the self-laudation of their members. Illustrious\nnames of the past were insulted by the pseudo-great men of the day,\nwhose fame was founded on writings of the most contemptible nature.\nThese circumstances made Leopardi confess, in a letter to his brother,\nthat had he not\n\n    \"the harbour of posterity, and the conviction that in time\n    all would take its proper place (illusory hope, but the\n    only, and most necessary one for the true scholar),\" (16th\n    December 1822.)\n\nhe would abandon literature once for all. But it was only during\nmoments of depression that such words as these escaped him. He\nloved study for its own sake; fame was, after all, but a secondary\nconsideration. Nor were men of genuine worth entirely wanting in Rome.\nNiebuhr, then Prussian ambassador at the Papal Court, Reinhold, the\nDutch ambassador, Mai, subsequently a cardinal, were noble exceptions\nto the general inferiority. By them Leopardi was highly esteemed.\nNiebuhr especially was profoundly struck with his genius. \"I have at\nlast seen a modern Italian worthy of the old Italians and the ancient\nRomans,\" was his remark to De Bunsen after his first interview with the\nyoung scholar. Both he and De Bunsen became firm friends with Leopardi.\nThey endeavoured their utmost to procure for him some official\nappointment from Cardinal Consalvi, then Secretary of State, and his\nsuccessor; but owing to the intrigues, prejudices, and disturbances of\nthe Papal Court they were unable to effect anything on his behalf. It\nwas an unfulfilled intention of De Bunsen's, later in life, to write\na memoir of Leopardi, for whom he always felt the highest esteem and\nadmiration.\n\nCount Monaldo's wish that his son should become an ecclesiastic was\nnever realised. Leopardi was of too honest a nature to profess what was\nnot in accordance with his convictions. The secular employment that he\nsought, he could not obtain, so perforce he seems to have turned his\nmind towards literary work--the drudgery of letters as distinct from\nthe free, untrammelled pursuit of literature. He obtained the charge\nof cataloguing the Greek manuscripts of the Barberine Library, and his\nspirits rose in anticipation of some discovery he hoped to make which\nmight render him famous. \"In due time we will astonish the world,\" he\nwrites to his father. He was indeed successful in finding a fragment\nof Libanius hitherto unpublished; but the glory seems to have been\nstolen from him, since the manuscript was ushered forth to the world by\nalien hands. Poor Leopardi! all his hopes seemed destined to be proved\nillusive. It was time for him to leave a place that could furnish him\nwith no other pleasure than that of tears. \"I visited Tasso's grave,\nand wept there. This is the first and only pleasure I have experienced\nin Rome\" (Letter to Carlo, February 15, 1823). Already he had begun\nto steel himself to the shocks of fortune; suffering and misfortune\nhe could bear; mental agony and despair were too strong for him. In a\nlong letter to his sister Paulina, he tries to impart to her a little\nof the philosophy of Stoicism which he had taken to himself. She was\ndistressed about the rupture of a matrimonial arrangement contracted\nby the Count between her and a certain Roman gentleman of position and\nfortune. Leopardi thus consoles her:\n\n    \"Hope is a very wild passion, because it necessarily carries\n    with it very great fear.... I assure you, I Paolina mia,'\n    that unless we can acquire a little indifference towards\n    ourselves, life is scarcely possible, much less can it be\n    happy. You must resign yourself to fortune, and not hope too\n    deeply.... I recommend this philosophy to you, because I\n    think you resemble me in mind and disposition.\" (19th April\n    1823.)\n\nFour years later Leopardi confesses the insufficiency of his own\nremedies. Writing to Dr. Puccinotti in 1827, he says:\n\n    \"I am weary of life, and weary of the philosophy of\n    indifference which is the only cure for misfortune and\n    ennui, but which at length becomes an ennui itself. I look\n    and hope for nothing but death.\"\n\n    (16th August 1827.)\n\nIn May 1823, he left Rome, and returned to Recanati.\n\nThe succeeding ten years of Leopardi's life were, during his intervals\nof health, devoted to poetry and literature. He had passed the Rubicon\nof his hopes; henceforth he studied to expound to the world the\nuselessness of its own anticipations, and its essential unhappiness.\nHis bodily infirmities increased with years. His frame, naturally\nweak, suffered from the effects of early over-application; his eyes\nand nerves were a constant trouble to him. To obtain what relief was\npossible from change of air, and to remove himself from Recanati,\nwhich he detested increasingly, Leopardi went to Bologna, Florence,\nMilan, and Pisa, wintering now at one place, now at another. From\nfamily reasons, his father was unable to supply him with sufficient\nmoney to secure his independence. Consequently he was obliged to\nturn to literature for a livelihood. The publisher Stella, of Milan,\nwillingly engaged his services, and for several years Leopardi was\nin receipt of a small but regular payment for his literary labours.\nHe compiled Chrestomathies of Italian prose and poetry, and made\nnumerous fragmentary translations from the classics. A commentary on\nPetrarch, to which he devoted much time and care, is, in the words\nof Sainte-Beuve, \"the best possible guide through such a charming\nlabyrinth.\" As he said of himself, \"mediocrity is not for me,\" so in\nall that he undertook the mark of his genius appeared. At Florence\nLeopardi was honoured by the representatives of Italian literature and\nculture, who there formed a brilliant coterie. Colletta was desirous\nof his co-operation in the \"History of Naples,\" with which he was\noccupying the last years of his life. The \"Antologia\" and \"Nuove\nRicoglitore\" reviews were open to contributions from his pen. Giordani,\nNiccolini, Capponi, and Gioberti, amongst others, welcomed him with\nopen arms. To these his Tuscan friends he dedicated his \"Canti\" in\n1830, with the following touching letter:--\n\n    \"MY DEAR FRIENDS,--Accept the dedication of this book.\n    Herein I have striven, as is often done in poetry, to hallow\n    my sufferings. This is my farewell (I cannot but weep in\n    saying it) to literature and studies. Once I hoped these\n    dear resources would have been the support of my old age:\n    pleasures of childhood and youth might vanish, I thought,\n    and their loss would be supportable if I were thus cherished\n    and strengthened. But ere I was twenty years of age, my\n    physical infirmities deprived me of half my powers; my life\n    was taken, yet death was not bestowed on me. Eight years\n    later I became totally incapacitated; this, it seems, will\n    be my future state. Even to read these letters you know\n    that I make use of other eyes than mine. Dear friends, my\n    sufferings are incapable of increase; already my misfortune\n    is too great for tears. I have lost everything, and am but a\n    trunk that feels and suffers.\" ...\n\nIt is scarcely wonderful that, under such circumstances, his philosophy\nshould fail him. A code of ethics, however admirable intrinsically, has\nbut cold consolation to offer to one whose life is prolonged pain.\nLeopardi at one time allowed the idea of suicide to rest, and almost\ntake root, in his mind. He describes the incident: \"A great desire\ncomes into my mind to terminate once for all these wretched years of\nmine, and to make myself more completely motionless.\" But he was of a\nnature noble and strong enough to resist such temptation.\n\nHe left Recanati for the last time in 1830. The next two years were\npassed in Florence, Rome, and Pisa. Whilst in Rome, Leopardi received\nsubstantial proof of his fame in being elected an Academician of the\nCrusca. At length the doctors recommended him to try Naples, from the\nmild air and general salubrity of which place they anticipated much\nimprovement in his condition. Thither he went in company with a young\nfriend, Antonio Ranieri, whose acquaintance he had made in Florence.\nIn the house of Ranieri he stayed from 1833 until his death in 1837,\ntended by him and his sister Paulina (his _second_ Paulina, as he used\nto call her) with a devotedness and affection as rare as it was noble.\nPosterity will couple together the names of Ranieri and Leopardi as\nnaturally as we associate together those of Severn and Keats. All that\ncould be done for the unfortunate poet, Ranieri did. His condition was\na singular one. Before he left Florence for Naples, the doctor said of\nhim that his frame did not possess sufficient vitality to generate a\nmortal illness; yet he was seldom, if ever, free from suffering. He\ndied on the 14th June 1837, as he and his friend were on the point of\nsetting out from Naples to a little villa that Ranieri possessed on one\nof the slopes of Vesuvius. On the night of the 15th he was buried, in\nthe church of St. Vitale, near the reputed grave of Virgil. His tomb is\nmarked by a stone erected at the expense of Ranieri, bearing the signs\nof the cross, and the owl of Minerva, together with an inscription from\nthe pen of Giordani. The few following lines from his own verse would\nform a suitable epitaph for one whose life was spent in bodily and\nmental disquietude:--\n\n    \"O weary heart, for ever shalt thou rest\n    Henceforth. Perished is the great delusion\n    That I thought would ne'er have left me. Perished!\n    Nought now is left of all those dear deceits;\n    Desire is dead, and not a hope remains.\n    Rest then for ever. Thou hast throbbed enough;\n    Nothing here is worth such palpitations.\n    Our life is valueless, for it consists\n    Of nought but ennui, bitterness, and pain.\n    This world of clay deserveth not a sigh.\n    Now calm thyself; conceive thy last despair,\n    And wait for death, the only gift of Fate.\"\n\n    (Poem \"A Se Stesso.\")\n\nThese words might have been an echo of \u00ab\u201akyamuni's utterance beneath\nthe sacred fig-tree of B\u00d9dhimanda, when, according to the legend, he\nwas in process of transformation from man to Buddha: the resemblance is\nat any rate a remarkable one.\n\nIn 1846, the Jesuits made an impudent attempt to convince the public\nthat Leopardi died repenting of his philosophical views, and that he\nhad previously expressed a desire to enter the Society of Jesus. A\nlong letter from a certain Francesco Scarpa to his Superior, giving\na number of pretended details of Leopardi's history, conversion, and\ndeath, appeared in a Neapolitan publication, entitled \"Science and\nFaith.\" Ranieri came forward to show the entire falsity of these\nstatements; and to give a more authoritative denial to them, he engaged\nthe willing help of Vicenzo Gioberti. The latter in his \"Modern Jesuit\"\ncontested their truth in every respect. He said: \"The story put forward\nin this letter is a tissue of lies and deliberate inventions; it is\nsheer romance from beginning to end.\" It is thought by some people\nthat Leopardi's father was concerned in this Jesuit manifesto. But,\nalthough the Count was doubtless shocked beyond measure that his son\ndid not hold the same beliefs as himself, it is scarcely credible that\nhe should concoct a series of such absurdities as were contained in\nScarpa's letter.\n\nLeopardi anticipated that posterity, and even his contemporaries, would\nendeavour to explain the pessimism of his philosophy by his personal\nmisfortunes and sufferings. Accordingly, in a letter to the philologist\nSinner, he entered a protest against such a supposition:\n\n    \"However great my sufferings may have been, I do not seek\n    to diminish them by comforting myself with vain hopes,\n    and thoughts of a future and unknown happiness. This same\n    courage of my convictions has led me to a philosophy\n    of despair, which I do not hesitate to accept. It is\n    the cowardice of men, who would fain regard existence\n    as something very valuable, that instigates them to\n    consider my philosophical opinions as the result of my\n    sufferings, and that makes them persist in charging to my\n    material circumstances that which is due to nothing but my\n    understanding. Before I die, I wish to make protest against\n    this imputation of weakness and trifling; and I would beg of\n    my readers to burn my writings rather than attribute them to\n    my sufferings.\"\n\n    (24th May 1832.)\n\nRanieri thus describes Leopardi's personal appearance:\n\n    \"He was of middle height, inclined to stoop, and fragile;\n    his complexion was pale; his head was large, and his brow\n    expansive; his eyes were blue and languid; his nose was well\n    formed (slightly aquiline), and his other features were very\n    delicately chiselled; his voice was soft and rather weak;\n    and he had an ineffable and almost celestial smile.\"\n\nHis friend here scarcely even suggests what others have perhaps unduly\nemphasised, that is, Leopardi's deformity. He was slightly humpbacked;\ndoubtless the consequence of those studies which simultaneously ruined\nhim and made him famous.\n\nIt were an omission not to refer to the influence which love exerted\nover Leopardi's life. So strong was this, in the opinion of one of his\ncritics, that he even ascribes his philosophy to an \"infelicissimo\namore.\" Another writer says of him that \"his ideal was a woman.\"\nRanieri asserts that he died unmarried, after having twice felt the\npassion of love as violently as it was ever realised by any man. His\npoems also testify how omnipotent at one time was this bitter-sweet\nsensation.\n\n    \"I recall to mind the day when love first assaulted me; when\n    I said, Alas! if this be love, how it pains me!\"\n\n    (The First Love.)\n\nAgain:\n\n    \"It was morning, the time when a light and sweeter sleep\n    presses our rested lids. The sun's first grey light began to\n    gleam across the balcony, through the closed windows into\n    my still darkened chamber. Then it was that I saw close by,\n    regarding me with fixed eyes, the phantom form of her who\n    first taught me to love, and left me Weeping.\" (The Dream.)\n\nHis poem to Aspasia is a frank confession of love, and the humiliation\nhe suffered in its rejection. It is a noble, yet a terrible poem.\nOpening with a description of the scene that met his eye as he entered\nthe room where his charmer sat, \"robed in the hue of the melancholy\nviolet, and surrounded by a wondrous luxury,\" pressing \"tender and\nburning kisses on the round lips\u00c8\" of her children, and displaying \"her\nsnowy neck,\" he saw as it were \"a new heaven, and a new earth, and the\nlustre of a celestial light.\"\n\n    \"Like a divine ray, O woman, thy beauty dazzled my thought.\n    Beauty is like such music as seems to open out to us an\n    unknown Elysium. He who loves is filled with the ecstasy\n    of the phantom love conceived by his imagination. In the\n    woman of his love he seeks to discover the beauties of\n    his inspired vision; in his words and actions he tries\n    to recognise the personality of his dreams. Thus when he\n    strains her to his bosom, it is not the woman, but the\n    phantom of his dream that he embraces.\"\n\nThen comes the awakening. He vituperates the reality for not attaining\nto the standard of his ideal.\n\n    \"Rarely the woman's nature is comparable with that of the\n    dream image. No thought like ours can dwell beneath those\n    narrow brows. Vain is the hope that man forges in the fire\n    of those sparkling eyes. He errs in seeking profound and\n    lofty thoughts in one who is by nature inferior to man in\n    all things. As her members are frailer and softer, so is her\n    mind more feeble and confined.\"\n\nHe betrays his position, and gives the key to his unjust censure of\nwoman's powers.\n\n    \"Now, boast thyself, for thou canst do so. Tell how thou art\n    the only one of thy sex to whom I have bent my proud head,\n    and offered my invincible heart. Tell how thou hast seen me\n    with beseeching brows, timid and trembling before thee (I\n    burn with indignation and shame in the avowal), watching\n    thy every sign and gesture, beside myself in adoration of\n    thee, and changing expression and colour at the slightest of\n    thy looks. The charm is broken; my yoke is on the ground,\n    sundered at a single blow.\" (Aspasia.)\n\nWho were the real objects of Leopardi's affection, is not at all clear.\nCertain village girls of Recanati, immortalised in his verse as Nerina\nand Silvia, were the inspirers of his first love; but his brother Carlo\nbears witness to the superficial nature of his affection in their\ncases. They merely served as the awakeners of the sensation; his own\nmind and imagination magnified it into a passion. True it is that his\nnature was one that yearned and craved for love in no ordinary degree.\nWhen at Rome, isolated from his family, he wrote to Carlo: \"Love me,\nfor God's sake. I need love, love, love, fire, enthusiasm, life.\" He\naddressed similar demands to Giordani and others with whom he was\non the most intimate terms. Indeed we are tempted to conjectures as\nto what might have been the fruit of Leopardi's life had he found a\nhelpmate and a consoler in his troubles.\n\nA brief consideration of the general nature of Leopardi's poetry and\nprose may not be out of place in this short summary.\n\nHis poems are masterpieces of conception and execution. Their matter\nmay be open to criticism; but their manner is beyond praise. His odes\nare of the nobler kind. Full of fire and vigour, they reach the sublime\nwhere he stimulates his fellow-countrymen to action, and urges them\nto aspire to a freedom, happily now obtained. His elegies breathe out\nan inspired sorrow. They are the pro-duct of a mind filled with the\nsense of the misery that abounds on earth, and unable, though desirous,\nto discern a single ray of light in the gloom of existence. His\nlyrical pieces are the most beautiful and emotional of his poems. The\nfollowing, entitled \"The Setting of the Moon,\" though pervaded with the\nspirit of sadness that is so predominant a characteristic of Leopardi's\nverse, contains some charming imagery:--\n\n    \"As in the lonely night, over the silvered fields and the\n    waters where the zephyrs play, where the far-off shades take\n    a thousand vague appearances and deceitful forms, amid the\n    tranquil waves, the foliage and the hedges, the hill-slopes\n    and the villages, the moon arrived at heaven's boundary\n    descends behind the Alps and Apennines into the infinite\n    bosom of the Tyrrhenian Sea; whilst the world grows pale,\n    and the shadows disappear, and a mantle of darkness shrouds\n    the valley and the hills; night alone remains, and the\n    carter singing on his way salutes with a sad melody the last\n    reflection of that fleeing light which hitherto had led his\n    steps: So vanishes our youth, and leaves us solitary with\n    life. So flee away the shadows which veiled illusive joys;\n    and so die too the distant hopes on which our mortal nature\n    rested. Life is left desolate and dark, and the traveller,\n    trying to pierce the gloom, looks here and there, but seeks\n    in vain to know the way, or what the journey yet before him;\n    he sees that all on earth is strange, and he a stranger\n    dwelling there.... You little hills and strands, when falls\n    the light which silvers in the west the veil of night, shall\n    not for long be orphaned. On the other side of heaven the\n    first grey light of dawn shall soon be followed by the sun,\n    whose fiery rays shall flood you and the ethereal fields\n    with a luminous stream. But mortal life, when cherished\n    youth has gone, has no new dawn, nor ever gains new light;\n    widowed to the end it stays, and on life's other shore, made\n    dark by night, the gods have set the tomb's dark seal.\"\n\nIn his interpretation of nature he is literal, but withal truly poetic:\nhe worships her in the concrete, but vituperates her in the abstract,\nas representative to him of omnipresent Deity, creative, but also\ndestructive. The two or three poems that may be termed satirical,\nare at the same time half elegiac. In them he ridicules and censures\nthe folly of his contemporaries, and mourns over the mystery of\nthings. To these, however, there is one exception, the longest of all\nhis poems. This is known as the \"Continuation of the Battle of the\nFrogs and Mice,\" It consists of eight cantos, comprising about three\nthousand lines, and was first published posthumously. The abruptness\nof its ending gives the idea, erroneous or not, of incompleteness.\nLeopardi had, several years before, translated and versified Homer's\n\"Batrachomyomachia,\" and this satire takes up the story where Homer\nends. It is exclusively a ridicule of the times, with especial\nreference to his own country and her national enemy, Austria. In style\nand treatment it has been compared with Byron's \"Don Juan,\" from which,\nhowever, it totally differs in its intrinsic character. It abounds in\nbeauties of description, sentiment, and expression, and well deserves\nto be considered his _chef d'oeuvre_. Leopardi thus describes his\nmethod of poetic composition:--\n\n    \"I compose only when under an inspiration, yielding to\n    which, in two minutes, I have designed and organised\n    the poem. This done, I wait for a recurrence of such\n    inspiration, which seldom happens until several weeks have\n    elapsed. Then I set to work at composition, bub so slowly\n    that I cannot complete a poem, however short, in less than\n    two or three weeks. Such is my method; without inspiration\n    it were easier to draw water from a stone than a single\n    verse from my brain.\"\n\nLeopardi's reputation was firmly established by the appearance of his\n\"Operette morali,\" as his prose writings were termed. Monti classed\nthem as the best Italian prose compositions of the century. Gioberti\ncompared them to the writing of Machiavelli. Giordani, with his usual\ntendency to extravagance, gives his friend the following pompous\npanegyric:--\"His style possesses the conciseness of Speroni, the\ngrandiloquence of Tasso, the smoothness of Paruta, the purity of Gelli,\nthe wit of Firenzuola, the solidity and magnificence of Pallavicino,\nthe imagination of Plato, and the elegance of Cicero.\" Leopardi has\nbeen aptly termed an aristocrat in his writing. Too much of a reasoner\nto be very popular with the masses, who do not care for the exertion of\nsustained thought, his logic is strikingly clear to the intelligent.\nHis periods are occasionally as long as those of Machiavelli or\nGuicciardini, but their continuity and signification are never obscure.\nRanieri bears witness to the fact that his prose was the fruit of very\ngreat labour.\n\nThe subject and tendency of Leopardi's writings will be evident to\nthe reader of the following dialogues. Framed on the model of Lucian,\nthey will compare favourably with the writings of the Greek satirist\nin subtlety and wit, in spite of their sombre tone. They cannot be\nsaid to possess much originality, save in treatment. The subjects\ndiscussed, and even the arguments introduced, are mostly old. Every\nacute moraliser since the world began has, in more or less degree\ncommensurate with his ability, debated within himself the problems\nhere considered. Facts, beliefs, opinions, theories, may be marshalled\nto produce an infinite number of diverse harmonies; but no one such\ncombination formed by the mind of man may be put forward as the true\nand ultimate explanation of the mystery of life. Leibnitz, with his\nharmony of universal good, is as fallible as Leopardi or Schopenhauer\nwith their harmonies of evil. In either case the real is sacrificed\nto the ideal, whether of good or evil. Either from temperament or\ncircumstances, these philosophers were predisposed to give judgment on\nlife, favourably or adversely, without duly considering the attributes\nof existence. As M. Dapples, in his French version of Leopardi, has\nremarked, he early withdrew from actual life, _i.e._, life with all\nthose manifold sensations which he himself defines to be the only\nconstituents of pleasure in existence. His body proved little else than\nthe sensation of suffering. All his vitality was concentrated in his\nmind; so that he was scarcely a competent and impartial judge of the\nordinary pleasures and ills of life. He could not be otherwise than\nprejudiced by his own experiences, or rather lack of experiences. Yet,\nthough Leopardi was physically incapable of many of life's pleasures,\nhe none the less passionately yearned for them. Strength and desire\nstruggled within him, and the former only too frequently proved weaker\nthan the latter. Thus he was innately adapted for pessimism.\n\nWe consider Leopardi to have been a man of the grandest intellectual\npowers, capable originally of almost anything to which the human mind\ncould attain; but that his reason, later in life, became somewhat\nperverted by his sufferings. Were human life as absolutely miserable\na thing as he represents it to be, it would be insupportable. That\nhe should so regard it does not seem remarkable when we consider his\ncircumstances; he was poor, seldom free from pain, and unsupported by\na creed. For the sufferings of his life, he could see no shadow of\natonement or compensation: a future state was incomprehensible to him.\nHe bestows much gratuitous pity on the human race, which we, though\nrevering his genius, may return to him as more deserving of it than\nourselves. His heart was naturally full of the most lively affection;\nbut he could never sufficiently satisfy the yearnings of his nature.\nLike Ottonieri, whose portrait is his own to a great extent, his\ninstincts were noble; like him also he died without effecting much in\nproportion to his powers.\n\nThe conclusions of Leopardi's philosophy may be thus summed up. The\nuniverse is an enigma, totally insoluble. The sufferings of mankind\nexceed all good that men experience, estimating the latter in\ncompensation for the former. Progress, or, as we call it, civilisation,\ninstead of lightening man's sufferings, increases them; since it\nenlarges his capacity for suffering, without proportionately augmenting\nhis means of enjoyment.\n\nHow far are these conclusions refutable? It may be regarded as\nindubitable that the first two cannot be refuted without the aid\nof revelation. Science is incompetent to explain the \"why\" and the\n\"wherefore\" of the universe; it is yet groping to discover the \"how.\"\nStill less can any satisfactory explanation be given of the purpose\nfor which suffering exists, unless we rely on revelation. Religion,\nwhich modern philosophers somewhat contemptuously designate as \"popular\nmetaphysics,\" can alone afford an explanation of these problems.\n\u00ab\u201akyamuni, nearly 2500 years ago, asked, \"What is the cause of all the\nmiseries and sufferings with which man is afflicted?\" He himself gave\nwhat he considered to be the correct answer: \"Existence;\" and then he\ntraced existence to the passions and desires innate in man. These last\nwere to be conquered in the condition of insensibility to all material\nthings called \"Nirvana,\" Truly his remedy was a radical one, and had\nhe succeeded in procuring universal acceptance for his doctrines, the\nhuman race would have become extinct a few generations later than his\nown time. But \"Nirvana\" is unnatural if it be nothing else; unnatural\nin itself and in the steps that lead up to it. And although it is\ndue to Schopenhauer, and his more or less heterodox disciples, that\nthis Buddhistic dogma is regarded theoretically by some people with a\ncertain amount of favour, we think the instincts of life are strong\nenough within them all to resist any decided inclination on their part\nto carry it into effect.\n\nAs for the third conclusion, it must be admitted that man's\nsusceptibilities of suffering are enlarged with increasing culture.\nLeopardi has shown us that the more vividly we realise the evils that\nsurround and affect us, so much the more keenly do they arouse in us\nsensations of pain. Knowledge of them makes us suffer from them. The\nbliss of ignorance is rudely dispelled by the cold hand of science. But\nmust this necessarily continue? May not the same progress which exposes\nthe wound find the salve to heal it? We trust and think so, in spite\nof all assertions to the contrary. There is nothing in the near future\nof humanity that need alarm us: men will not work less because they\nthink more; nor is there any sufficient reason to show that increasing\nknowledge must represent increasing sorrow. As Johnson has said:\n\"The cure for the greatest part of human miseries is not radical but\npalliative.\" For the material means of palliation we look to science.\nWe hope and think that there is good to be gained from these writings\nof Leopardi, in spite of the tone of despair that rings throughout\nthem. His theory of the \"infelicit\u2021\" of things, cheerless though it\nbe, often suggests ideas, sublime in themselves and noble in their\neffect; and the very essence of his philosophy resolves itself into a\nrecommendation to act, rather than by contemplation to lose the power\nof action; for, as he says, \"A life must be active and vigorous, else\nit is not true life, and death is preferable to it.\"\n\nA brief reference to the most recent publications on Leopardi may be\ninteresting as tending to throw light on his domestic relationships,\nand as giving us an idea of his own habits in private life. Antonio\nRanieri (now in his seventy-sixth year) in a book[1] published at\nNaples in 1880 gives many interesting details of the poet's life.\nHe first met him at Florence, and was touched with compassion for\nhis unfortunate state. Ill and helpless, he was incapable of doing\nanything but weep in despair at the thought of being obliged to return\nto his native place. \"Recanati and death are to me one and the same\nthing,\" he exclaimed through his tears. Ranieri in a generous moment\nreplied: \"Leopardi, you shall not return to Recanati. The little that\nI possess is enough for two. As a benefit to me, not to yourself, we\nwill henceforth live together.\" This was the beginning of what Ranieri\ncalls his \"vita nuova.\" He conducted Leopardi from Florence to Rome;\nthence back to Florence; and finally from Florence to Naples. The\ndoctors everywhere shrugged their shoulders at his case, and suggested,\nas delicately as possible, the mortal nature of his maladies. At Naples\nRanieri and his sister Paulina did all they could for Leopardi, and\nfrom 1833 to his death in 1837 supplied all his wants. He could seldom\nsee to read or write. \"We used to read to him constantly and regularly,\nand were fortunately conversant with the languages he knew,\" says\nRanieri. Occasionally he was able to go to the theatre, and enjoyed\nit greatly. In his habits he seems to have tried his friend's temper\nand patience considerably. He was wont to turn night into day, and\nday into night. Ranieri and his sister often did the same in order to\nread, work, and talk with him. He breakfasted between three and five\no'clock in the afternoon, and dined about midnight. Like Schopenhauer,\nhe delighted in after-dinner conversation, which he termed \"one of\nthe greatest pleasures of life.\" He was very obstinate in personal\nmatters, disobeying the doctors in his diet and everything else. His\nfondness for his old clothes was remarkable; he loved them for their\nassociations. Ranieri mentions \"a certain very ancient overcoat which\nfor seven years\" had tormented him, and which he used to entreat\nLeopardi to lay aside, but which he clung to with an incredible\naffection, preferring it to a new one that he allowed the moths to\ndestroy. The mere names of wind, cold, and snow were enough to pale\nhim. He could not bear fire, and formerly used to pass the winters\nthree parts submerged in a sack of feathers, reading and writing thus\nthe greater part of the day. He was very terrified when the cholera\nappeared at Naples, to avoid which he and Ranieri went to a country\nhouse of the latter's on one of the slopes of Vesuvius. Here Leopardi\nwrote his poem \"La Ginestra,\" inspired by the desolate scenes at the\nfoot of the mountain. He died suddenly at Naples, as he and Ranieri's\nhousehold were about to set off again for the country. The Neapolitan\nJournal \"Il Progresso,\" in an article on Lis death, remarked of him\nthat \"such brilliancy is not allowed to illumine the earth for long.\"\n\n\"Notes Biographiques sur Leopardi et sa Famille\" (Paris, 1881). This\nis a book of considerable value. Written by the widow of Count Carlo\nLeopardi, Giacomo's younger brother, and his \"other self,\" it is\nmost valuable as delineating the characters of Leopardi's father and\nmother. A softer light is shed on the character of Leopardi's mother.\nWe learn that she was not passionless, hard, and unsympathetic, as we\nhad previously supposed her to be. On the contrary, she was a good\nwoman, of deep affection, who made it the aim of her married life\nto work for the welfare of the family of which she became a member.\nWeighted with debt almost to the point of exhaustion, the estates of\nCasa Leopardi needed a skilful and vigorous administrator, if they were\nto continue in the hands of their old owners. Count Monaldo Leopardi\nwas not such an administrator. He was a man devoted \"tout entier \u2021\nscience,\" and occupying himself more with bibliology and arch\u00caology\nthan with the finances of his estate. The Jews of Perousa, Milan, and\nthe March towns would, sooner or later, have tightened their hold on\nthe Leopardi patrimony to such a degree that the ancient family could\nonly have continued to exist as proprietors on sufferance. But, in the\nwords of the authoress of this book, Providence watched over the house\n\"en lui envoyant dans la jeune marquise Adelaide Antici l'ange qui\ndevait la sauver.\" The young bride accepted her position with an entire\nknowledge of the responsibilities that would accompany it. She took\nthe reins of the neglected administration, and set herself the task\nof restoring the fortunes of Casa Leopardi. By her exertions the Pope\nwas made acquainted with their difficulties, and by his intervention\nan arrangement was made between the creditors and the Leopardi family,\nwhereby the former were restrained from demanding the amount of their\ndebt for forty years, receiving thereon in the mean time interest at\n8 per cent, per annum. This was the life-work of Countess Leopardi.\nDuring forty years she administered the finances of Casa Leopardi, and\nby the end of that time succeeded in freeing the family from the burden\nwith which it had been long encumbered. She died in 1857, ten years\nafter her husband, and twenty years later than her eldest son, Giacomo.\n\nST. MARK'S PLACE, WOLVERHAMPTON,\n\n_December_, 1881.\n\n\n[Footnote 1: _Sette anni di Sodalizio con Giacomo Leopardi._]\n\n\nThe following works, amongst others, have been made use of in the\npreparation of this volume:--\n\n    Opere Leopardi. 6 vols. Firenze, 1845.\n\n    Opere inedite Leopardi. Cugnoni: Halle, 1878.\n\n    Studio di Leopardi. A. Baragiola: Strasburg, 1876.\n\n    Traduction compl\u00cbte de Leopardi. F. A. Aulard: Paris, 1880.\n\n    Opuscules et Pens\u00c8es de Leopardi. A. Dapples: Paris, 1880.\n\n    G. Leopardi: sa Vie et ses Oeuvres. Bouch\u00c8 Leclercq: Paris,\n    1874.\n\n    Le Pessimisme. E. Caro: Paris, 1878.\n\n    Pessimism. Jas. Sully: London, 1877.\n\n    La Philosophie de Schopenhauer. Th. Ribot: Paris, 1874.\n\n    Il Buddha, Confucio, e Lao-Tse. C. Puini: Firenze, 1878.\n\n    Artide in Quarterly Review on Leopardi. 1850.\n\n    Artide in Fraser's Magazine, Leopardi and his Father: a\n    Study, by L. Villari. November 1881.\n\n\n\n\n_HISTORY OF THE HUMAN RACE._\n\n\nIt is said that the first inhabitants of the earth were everywhere\ncreated simultaneously. Whilst children they were fed by bees, goats,\nand doves, as the poets say the infant Jove was nourished. The earth\nwas much smaller than it is at present, and devoid of mountains and\nhills. The sky was starless. There was no sea; and the world as a whole\nwas far less varied and beautiful than it now is.\n\nYet men were never weary of looking at the sky and the earth, which\nexcited within them feelings of wonder and admiration. They considered\nthem both to be of infinite extent, majesty, and magnificence. Their\nsouls were filled with joyous hopes, and every sensation of life gave\nthem inexpressible pleasure. Their contentment daily increased, so that\nthey at length thought themselves supremely happy. In this peaceful\nstate of mind they passed their infancy and youth.\n\nArrived at a mature age, their feelings began to experience some\nalteration. As their early hopes, to which they had perseveringly\nadhered, failed of realisation, they no longer put faith in them. But,\non the other hand, present happiness isolated from anticipation of\nthe future, did not suffice them; especially seeing that, either from\nhabit or because the charm of a first acquaintanceship had worn off,\nnature and all the incidents of life gave them much less pleasure than\nat first. They travelled over the earth, and visited the most distant\nlands. This they could easily do, because there were neither seas,\nmountains, nor obstacles of any kind to oppose them. After a few years,\nmost men had proved the finite nature of the earth, the boundaries of\nwhich were by no means so remote as to be unattainable. They found\ntoo, that all countries of the world, and all men, with but slight\ndifferences, were alike. These discoveries I so greatly increased their\ndiscontent, that a weariness of life became prevalent among men even\nbefore they had passed the threshold of manhood. And as men grew older,\nthis feeling gradually transformed itself into a hatred of existence,\nso that at length, seized by despair, they in one way or another\nhesitated not to abandon the light and life once so beloved.\n\nIt seemed to the gods a shocking thing that living creatures should\nprefer death to life, and should destroy themselves for no other\nreason than that they were weary of existence. It also amazed them\nbeyond measure to find their gifts held in such contempt, and so\nunequivocally rejected by men. They thought the world had been endowed\nwith sufficient beauty, goodness, and harmony to make it not merely\na bearable, but even a highly enjoyable place of residence for every\nliving thing, and especially for man, whom they had fabricated with\npeculiar care, and a marvellous perfection. At the same time, touched\nwith a deep feeling of compassion for the distress men exhibited, they\nbegan to fear lest the renewal and increase of these deplorable actions\nmight not soon result in the extinction of the human race, contrary\nto destiny, and they would thus lose the most perfect work of their\ncreation, and be deprived of the honours they received from men.\n\nJove determined therefore to improve the condition of men, since it\nseemed necessary, and to increase the means whereby they might obtain\nhappiness. They complained of the deceitfulness of things; which were\nneither as great, beautiful, perfect, nor varied as they at first\nimagined them to be; but were, on the contrary, small, imperfect, and\nmonotonous. They derived no pleasure from their youth; still less\nwere they satisfied with the times of maturity, and old age. Their\ninfancy alone gave them pleasure, and yearning for the sweetness of\ntheir early days, they besought Jove to make their condition one of\nperpetual childhood. But the god could not satisfy them in this matter;\nfor it was contrary to the laws of nature, and the divine decrees and\nintentions. Neither could he communicate his own infinity to mortal\ncreatures, nor the world itself, any more than he could bestow infinite\nhappiness and perfection on men and things. It seemed best to him to\nextend the limits of creation, at the same time increasing the world's\ndiversity and beauty. In fulfilment of this intention, he enlarged\nthe earth on all sides; and made the sea to flow as a separation\nbetween inhabited places, so that it might vary the aspect of things,\nand by severing their roads, prevent men from easily discovering the\nconfines of the world. He also designed the sea to serve as a vivid\nrepresentation of the infinity which they desired. Then it was that the\nwaters covered the island Atlantis, as well as many other vast tracts\nof country; but the remembrance of this island alone has survived the\nmultitude of centuries that have passed since that time.\n\nJove formed valleys by lowering certain places; and by exalting others\nhe created hills and mountains. He bespread the night with stars;\npurified the atmosphere; increased the brilliancy and light of day;\nintensified the colours of the sky and the country, and gave them\nmore variety. He also mixed the generations of men, so that the aged\nof one generation were contemporaneous with the children of another.\nAbove all, Jove determined to multiply resemblances of that infinity\nfor which men so eagerly craved. He could not really satisfy them, but\nwishing to soothe and appease their imagination, which he knew had\nbeen the chief source of their happiness in childhood, he employed many\nexpedients like that of the sea. He created the echo, and hid it in\nvalleys and caverns, and gave to the forests a dull deep whispering,\nconjoined with a mysterious undulation of their tree-tops. He created\nalso the gorgeous land of dreams, and gave men power to visit it in\ntheir sleep. There they could experience such perfect happiness as\ncould not in reality be accorded to them. This served as a substitute\nfor the vague unrealisable conception of felicity formed by men within\nthemselves, and to which Jove himself could not have given any real\nexpression, had he desired to do so.\n\nBy these means the god infused new strength and vigour into the minds\nof men, and endeared life to them again, so that they were full of\nadmiration for the beauty and immensity of nature. This happy state\nlasted longer than the previous one. Its duration was chiefly due to\nthe diversity of ages among men, whereby those who were chilled and\nwearied with their experience of the world, were comforted by the\nsociety of others full of the ardency and hopefulness of youth.\n\nBut in process of time this novelty wore off, and men again became\ndiscontented and wearied with life. So despondent did they become,\nthat then is said to have originated the custom attributed by history\nto certain ancient nations; the birth of a child was celebrated with\ntears, and the death of a parent was the occasion of rejoicing for his\ndeliverance.[1] At length wickedness became universal. This was either\nbecause men thought that Jove disregarded them, or because it is the\nnature of misfortune to debase even the noblest minds.\n\nIt is a popular error to imagine that man's misfortunes are the result\nof his impiety and iniquity. On the contrary, his wickedness is the\nconsequence of his misfortunes.\n\nThe gods avenged themselves for their injuries, and punished mortals\nfor their renewed perverseness, by the deluge of Deucalion. There were\nonly two survivors of this shipwreck of the human race, Deucalion\nand Pyrrha. These unhappy ones were filled with the sense of their\nwretchedness, and far from regretting the loss of all their fellows,\nthemselves loudly invoked death from the summit of a rock. But Jove\ncommanded them to remedy the depopulation of the earth, and seeing that\nthey had not the heart to beget a new generation, directed them to take\nstones from the hill-sides, and cast them over their shoulders. From\nthese stones men were created, and the earth was again peopled.\n\nThe history of the past had enlightened Jove as to the nature of men,\nand had shown him that it is not sufficient for them, as for other\nanimals, merely to live in a state of freedom from sorrow and physical\ndiscomfort. He knew that whatever their condition of life, they would\nseek the impossible, and if unpossessed of genuine evils, would\ntorment themselves with imaginary ones. The god resolved therefore\nto employ new means for the preservation of the miserable race. For\nthis purpose he used two especial artifices. In the first place, he\nstrewed life with veritable evils; and secondly, instituted a thousand\nkinds of business and labour, to distract men as much as possible from\nself-contemplation, and their desires for an unknown and imaginary\nhappiness.\n\nHe began by sending a multitude of diseases, and an infinite number\nof other calamities among them, with the intention of varying the\nconditions of life so as to obviate the feeling of satiety which had\nresulted before, and to induce men to esteem the good things they\npossessed so much the more by contrast with these new evils. The\ngod hoped that men would be better able to bear the absence of the\nhappiness they longed for, when occupied and under the discipline of\nsuffering. He also determined by means of these physical infirmities\nand exertions, to reduce the vigour of men's minds, to humble their\npride, to make them bow the head to necessity, and be more contented\nwith their lot. He knew that disease and misfortune would operate as a\npreventive to the committal of those acts of suicide which had formerly\nbeen rife; for they would not only make men cowardly and weak, but\nwould help to attach them to life by the hope of an existence free from\nsuch sufferings. For it is a characteristic of the unfortunate that\nthey imagine happiness will wait on them as soon as the immediate cause\nof their present misfortune is removed.\n\nJove then created the winds and the rain-clouds, prepared the thunder\nand lightning, gave the trident to Neptune, launched comets, and\narranged eclipses. By means of these and other terrible signs, he\nresolved to frighten mortals from time to time, knowing that fear\nand actual danger would temporarily reconcile to life, not only the\nunhappy, but even those who most detested and were most disposed to put\nan end to their existence.\n\nAs a cure for the idleness of the past, Jove gave to men a taste and\ndesire for new foods and drinks, unprocurable, however, without the\ngreatest exertions. Previous to the deluge men had lived on water,\nherbs, and such fruits as were yielded by the earth and the trees,\njust as certain people of California and other places live even in the\npresent day. He assigned different climates to different countries,\nand appointed the seasons of the year. Hitherto there had been no\ndiversity of temperature in any place, but the atmosphere was uniformly\nso equable and mild that men were ignorant of the use of clothing. Now,\nhowever, they were obliged to exert themselves industriously to remedy\nthe inclemency and changeability of the weather.\n\nJove gave Mercury command to lay the foundations of the first cities,\nand to divide men into different races, nations, and languages,\nseparated by feelings of rivalry and discord. He was also commissioned\nto teach them music and those other arts, which, owing to their nature\nand origin, are still called divine. Jove himself distributed laws and\nconstitutions to the new nations. Finally, as a supreme gift, he sent\namong men certain sublime and superhuman Phantoms, to whom he committed\nvery great influence and control over the people of the earth. They\nwere called Justice, Virtue, Glory, Patriotism, &c. Among these\nPhantoms was one named Love, which then first entered the world. For\nprevious to the introduction of clothes, the sexes were drawn towards\none another by merely a brute instinct, far different from love. The\nfeeling was comparable to that which we experience towards articles of\nfood and such things, that we desire, but do not love.\n\nBy these divine decrees the condition of man was infinitely\nameliorated, and rendered easier and pleasanter than before; in spite\nof the fatigues, sufferings, and terrors which were now inseparable\nfrom humanity. And this result was chiefly due to the wonderful\nchimeras, whom some men regarded as genii, others as gods, and whom\nthey followed with an intense veneration and enthusiasm for a very long\ntime. To such a pitch was their ardour excited by the poets and artists\nof the times, that numbers of men did not hesitate to sacrifice their\nlives to one or other of these Phantoms. Far from displeasing Jove,\nthis fact gratified him exceedingly, for he judged that if men esteemed\ntheir life a gift worthy of sacrifice to these fine and glorious\nillusions, they would be less likely to repudiate it as before. This\nhappy state of affairs was of longer duration than the preceding\nages. And even when after the lapse of many centuries, a tendency to\ndecline became apparent, existence, thanks to these bright illusions,\nwas still easy and bearable enough, up to a time not very far distant\nfrom the present. This decline was chiefly due to the facility with\nwhich men were able to satisfy their wants and desires; the growing\ninequality between men in their social and other conditions, as\nthey receded farther and farther from the republican models founded\nby Jove; the reappearance of vanity and idleness as a consequence of\nthis retrocession; the diminishing interest with which the variety of\nlife's incidents inspired them; and many other well-known and important\ncauses. Again men were filled with the old feeling of disgust for their\nexistence, and again their minds clamoured for an unknown happiness,\ninconsistent with the order of nature.\n\nBut the total revolution of the fortunes of men, and the end of that\nepoch which we nowadays designate as the \"old world,\" was due to one\nespecial influence. It was this. Among the Phantoms so appreciated\nby the ancients was a certain one called Wisdom. This Phantom had\nduly contributed to the prosperity of the times, and like the others\nreceived high honour from men, a number of whom consecrated themselves\nto her service. She had frequently promised her disciples to show\nthem her mistress, the Truth, a superior spirit who associated with\nthe gods in heaven, whence she had never yet descended. The Phantom\nassured them that she would bring Truth among men, and that this spirit\nwould exercise so marvellous an influence over their life, that in\nknowledge, perfection, and happiness they would almost rival the gods\nthemselves. But how could a shadow fulfil any promise, much less induce\nthe Truth to descend to earth? So after a long confiding expectancy,\nmen perceived the falseness of Wisdom. At the same time, greedy of\nnovelty because of the idleness of their life, and stimulated partly\nby ambition of equalling the gods, and partly by the intensity of\ntheir yearning for the happiness they imagined would ensue from the\npossession of Truth, they presumptuously requested Jove to lend them\nthis noble spirit for a time, and reproached him for having so long\njealously withheld from men the great advantages that would follow from\nthe presence of Truth. They with one accord expressed dissatisfaction\nwith their lot, and renewed their former hateful whinings about the\nmeanness and misery of human things. The Phantoms, once so dear to\nthem, were now almost entirely abandoned, not that men had discerned\nthe unreality of their nature, but because they were so debased in\nmind and manners as to have no sympathy with even the appearance of\ngoodness. Thus they wickedly rejected the greatest gift of gods to\nmen, and excused themselves by saying that none but inferior genii had\nbeen sent on earth, the nobler ones, whom they would willingly have\nworshipped, being retained in heaven.\n\nMany things long before this had contributed to lessen the goodwill\nof Jove towards men, especially the magnitude and number of their\nvices and crimes, which were far in advance of those punished by the\ndeluge. He was out of patience with the human race, the restless\nand unreasonable nature of which exasperated him. He recognised the\nfutility of all effort on his part to make men happy and contented.\nHad he not enlarged the world, multiplied its pleasures, and increased\nits diversity? Yet all things were soon regarded by men (desirous and\nat the same time incapable of infinity) as equally restricted and\nvalueless. Jove determined therefore to make a perpetual example of the\nhuman race. He resolved to punish men unsparingly, and reduce them to\na state of misery far surpassing their former condition. Towards the\nattainment of this end, he purposed sending Truth among men, not for\na time only as they desired, but for eternity, and giving her supreme\ncontrol and dominion over the human race, instead of the Phantoms that\nwere now so greatly despised.\n\nThe other gods marvelled at this decision of Jove, as likely to\nexalt the human race to a degree prejudicial to their own dignity.\nBut he explained to them that all genii are not beneficial, and that\napart from this, it was not of the nature of Truth to produce the\nsame results among men as with the gods. For whereas to the gods\nshe unveiled the eternity of their joy, to mortals she would expose\nthe immensity of their unhappiness, representing it to them not as a\nmatter of chance, but as an inevitable and perpetual necessity. And\nsince human evils are great in proportion as they are believed to\nbe so by their victims, it may be imagined how acute an affliction\nTruth will prove to men. The vanity of all earthly things will be\napparent to them; they will find that nothing is genuine save their\nown unhappiness. Above all, they will lose hope, hitherto the greatest\nsolace and support of life. Deprived of hope, they will have nothing\nto stimulate them to any exertions; consequently work, industry, and\nall mental culture will languish, and the life of the living will\npartake of the inertness of the grave. Yet in spite of their despair\nand inactivity, men will still be tormented by their old longing\nfor happiness intensified and quickened, because they will be less\ndistracted by cares, and the stir of action. They will also be deprived\nof the power of imagination, which in itself could mysteriously\ntransport them into a state of happiness comparable to the felicity for\nwhich they long.\n\n\"And,\" said Jove, \"all those representations of infinity which I\ndesignedly placed in the world to deceive and satisfy men, and all the\nvague thoughts suggestive of happiness, which I infused into their\nminds, will yield to the doctrines of Truth. The earth, which formerly\ndispleased them for its insignificance, will do so increasedly when its\ntrue dimensions are known, and when all the secrets of nature are made\nmanifest to them. And finally, with the disappearance of those Phantoms\nthat alone gave brightness to existence, human life will become aimless\nand valueless. Nations and countries will lose even their names, for\nwith Patriotism will vanish all incentive to national identities. Men\nwill unite and form one nation and one people (as they will say), and\nwill profess a universal love for the race. But in reality there will\nbe the least possible union amongst them; they will be divided into as\nmany peoples as there are individuals. For having no special country\nto love, and no foreigners to hate, every man will hate his neighbour,\nand love only himself. The evil consequences of this are incalculable.\nNevertheless, men will not put an end to their unhappiness by depriving\nthemselves of life, because under the sway of Truth they will become\nas cowardly as miserable. Truth will increase the bitterness of their\nexistence, and at the same time bereave them of sufficient courage to\nreject it.\"\n\nThese words of Jove moved the gods to compassion for the human race.\nIt seemed to them that so great inflictions were inconsistent with the\ndivine attribute of mercy.\n\nBut Jove continued: \"There will remain to humanity a certain\nconsolation proceeding from the Phantom Love, which alone I purpose\nleaving among men. And even Truth, in spite of her almost omnipotence,\nwill never quite prevail over Love, nor succeed in chasing this Phantom\nfrom the earth, though the struggle between them will be perpetual.\nThus the life of man, divided betwixt the worship of Truth and Love,\nwill consist of two epochs, during which these influences will\nrespectively control his mind and actions. To the aged, instead of\nthe solace of Love, will be granted a state of contentment with their\nexistence, similar to that of other animals. They will love life for\nits own sake, not for any pleasure or profit they derive from it.\"\n\nAccordingly, Jove removed the Phantoms from earth, save only Love,\nthe least noble of all, and sent Truth among men to exercise over\nthem perpetual rule. The consequences foreseen by the god were not\nlong in making themselves manifest. And strange to say, whereas the\nspirit before her descent on earth, and when she had no real authority\nover men, was honoured by a multitude of temples and sacrifices, her\npresence had the effect of cooling their enthusiasm on her behalf.\nWith the other gods this was not so; the more they made themselves\nmanifest, the more they were honoured; but Truth saddened men, and\nultimately inspired them with such hatred that they refused to worship\nher, and only by constraint rendered her obedience. And whereas\nformerly, men who were under the especial influence of any one of\nthe ancient Phantoms, used to love and revere that Phantom above the\nothers, Truth was detested and cursed by those over whom she gained\nsupreme control. So, unable to resist her tyranny, men lived from\nthat time in the complete state of misery, which is their fate in the\npresent day, and to which they are eternally doomed.\n\nBut not long ago, pity, which is never exhausted in the minds of\nthe gods, moved Jove to compassionate the wretchedness of mortals.\nHe noticed especially the affliction of certain men, remarkable for\ntheir high intellect, and nobility, and purity of life, who were\nextraordinarily oppressed by the sway of Truth. Now in former times,\nwhen Justice, Virtue, and the other Phantoms directed humanity, the\ngods had been accustomed at times to visit the earth, and sojourn\nwith men for awhile, always on such occasions benefiting the race, or\nparticular individuals, in some especial manner. But since men had\nbecome so debased, and sunk in wickedness, they had not deigned to\nassociate with them. Jove therefore, pitying our condition, asked the\nimmortals whether any one of them would visit the earth as of old,\nand console men under their calamities, especially such as seemed\nundeserving of the universal affliction. All the gods were silent.\nAt length Love, the son of celestial Venus, bearing the same name as\nthe Phantom Love, but very different in nature and power, and the\nmost compassionate of the immortals, offered himself for the mission\nproposed by Jove. This deity was so beloved by the other gods, that\nhitherto they had never allowed him to quit their presence, even for\na moment. The ancients indeed imagined that the god had appeared to\nthem from time to time; but it was not so. They were deceived by the\nsubterfuges and transformations of the Phantom Love. The deity of the\nsame name first visited mankind after they were placed under the empire\nof Truth.\n\nSince that time the god has rarely and briefly descended, because of\nthe general unworthiness of humanity, and the impatience with which\nthe celestials await his return. When he comes on earth he chooses the\ntender and noble hearts of the most generous and magnanimous persons.\nHere he rests for a short time, diffusing in them so strange and\nwondrous a sweetness, and inspiring them with affections so lofty and\nvigorous, that they then experience what is entirely new to mankind,\nthe substance rather than the semblance of happiness. Sometimes, though\nvery rarely, he brings about the union of two hearts, abiding in them\nboth simultaneously, and exciting within them a reciprocal warmth and\ndesire. All within whom he dwells beseech him to effect this union;\nbut Jove forbids him to yield to their entreaties, save in very few\ninstances, because the happiness of such mutual love approaches too\nnearly to the felicity of the immortals.\n\nThe man in whom Love abides is the happiest of mortals. And not only is\nhe blessed by the presence of the deity, but he is also charmed by the\nold mysterious Phantoms, which, though removed from the lot of men, by\nJove's permission follow in the train of Love, in spite of the great\nopposition of Truth, their supreme enemy. But Truth, like all the other\ngenii, is powerless to resist the will of the gods. And, since destiny\nhas granted to Love a state of eternal youth, the god can partially\ngive effect to that first desire of men, that they might return to the\nhappiness of their childhood. In the souls he inhabits, Love awakens\nand vivifies, so long as ha stays there, the boundless hopes, and the\nsweet and fine illusions of early life. Many persons, ignorant and\nincapable of appreciating Love, vituperate and affront the god, even to\nhis face. But he disregards these insults, and exacts no vengeance for\nthem, so noble and compassionate is his nature. Nor do the other gods\nany longer trouble themselves about the crimes of men, being satisfied\nwith the vengeance they have already wrought on the human race, and\nthe incurable misery which is its portion. Consequently, wicked and\nblasphemous men suffer no punishment for their offences, except that\nthey are absolutely excluded from being partakers of the divine favours.\n\n\n[Footnote 1: See Herodotus, Strabo, &c.]\n\n\n\n\n_DIALOGUE BETWEEN HERCULES AND ATLAS._\n\n\n_Hercules_. Father Atlas, Jove's compliments, and in case you should be\nweary of your burden, I was to relieve you for a few hours, as I did\nI don't know how many centuries ago, so that you may take breath, and\nrest a little.\n\n_Atlas_. Thanks, dear Hercules, and I am very much obliged to Jove.\nBut the world has become so light, that this cloak which I wear as a\nprotection against the snow, incommodes me more. Indeed, were it not\nJove's will that I should continue to stand here, supporting this ball\non my back, I would put it under my arm, or in my pocket, or suspend it\nfrom a hair of my beard, and go about my own affairs.\n\n_Hercules_. How has it become so light? I can easily see it has changed\nshape, and has become a sort of roll, instead of being round as when I\nstudied cosmography in preparation for that wonderful voyage with the\nArgonauts. But still I cannot see why its weight should have diminished.\n\n_Atlas_. I am as ignorant of the reason as you are. But take the thing\nfor a moment in your hand, and satisfy yourself of the truth of my\nassertion.\n\n_Hercules_. Upon my word, without this test, I would not have believed\nit. But what is this other novelty that I discover? The last time I\nbore it, I felt a strong pulsation on my back, like the beat of an\nanimal's heart; and I heard a continuous buzzing like a wasp's nest.\nBut now, it throbs more like a watch with a broken spring, and as for\nthe buzzing, I don't hear a sound of it.\n\n_Atlas_. I know nothing of this either, except that long ago, the world\nceased making any motion, or sensible noise. I even had very great\nsuspicions that it was dead, and expecting daily to be troubled by\nits corruption, I considered how and where I should bury it, and what\nepitaph I should place on its tomb. But when I saw that it did not\ndecompose, I came to the conclusion that it had changed from an animal\ninto a plant, like Daphne and others; and this explained its silence\nand immobility. I began to fear lest it should soon wind its roots\nround my shoulders, or bury them in my body.\n\n_Hercules_. I am rather inclined to think it is asleep, and that its\nrepose is like that of Epimenides,[1] which lasted more than half a\ncentury. Or perhaps it is like Hermotimus,[2] whose soul used to leave\nhis body when it pleased, and stay away many years, disporting itself\nin foreign lands. To put an end to this game, the friends of Hermotimus\nburned the body; so that the spirit returning, found its home\ndestroyed, and was obliged to seek shelter in another body, or an inn.\nSo, to prevent the world from sleeping for ever, or lest some friend,\nthinking it were dead, should set it on fire, let us try to arouse it.\n\n_Atlas_. I am willing. But how shall we do it?\n\n_Hercules_. I would give it a good blow with this club, if I were not\nafraid of smashing it, and were I not sure that it would crack under\nthe stroke like an egg. Besides, I fear lest the men, who in my time\nused to wrestle with lions, but are now only a match for fleas, should\nfaint from so sudden a shock. Suppose I lay aside my club, and you your\ncloak, and we have a game at ball with the poor little sphere. I wish\nI had brought the rackets that Mercury and I use in the celestial\ncourts, but we can do without them.\n\n_Atlas_. A likely thing indeed! So that your father seeing our game,\nmay make a third, and with his thunderbolt precipitate us both I do not\nknow where, as he did Phaeton into the Po!\n\n_Hercules_. That might be, if, like Phaeton, I were the son of a poet,\nand not his own son; and if there were not this difference between\nus, that whereas poets formerly peopled cities by the melody of their\nart, I could depopulate heaven and earth by the power of my club. And\nas for Jove's bolt, I would kick it hence to the farthest quarter of\nthe empyrean. Be assured that even if I wished to appropriate five\nor six stars for the sake of a game, or to make a sling of a comet,\ntaking it by the tail, or even to play at ball with the sun, my father\nwould make no objection. Besides, our intention is to do good to the\nworld, whereas Phaeton simply wished to show off his fleetness before\nthe Hours, who held the steps for him when he mounted his chariot. He\nalso wanted to gain reputation as a skilful coach-man, in the eyes of\nAndromeda, Callisto, and the other beautiful constellations, to whom,\nit is said, he threw, in passing, lustre bonbons, and comfits of light;\nand to make a fine parade of himself before the celestial gods during\nhis journey that day, which chanced to be a festival. In short, don't\ngive a thought to the possibility of my father's wrath. In any case, I\nwill bear all the blame; so throw off your cloak, and send me the ball.\n\n_Atlas_. Willingly or not, I must do as you wish; since you are strong\nand armed, whereas I am old and defenceless. But do take care lest it\nfall, in which case it will have fresh swellings, or some new fracture,\nlike that which separated Sicily from Italy, and Africa from Spain. And\nif it should get chipped in any way, there might be a war about what\nmen would call the detachment of a province or kingdom.\n\n_Hercules_. Rely on me.\n\n_Atlas_. Then here goes. See how it quivers on account of its altered\nshape!\n\n_Hercules_. Hit a little harder; your strokes scarcely reach me.\n\n_Atlas_. It is the fault of the ball. The south-west wind catches it,\nbecause of its lightness.\n\n_Hercules_. It is its old failing to go with the wind.\n\n_Atlas_. Suppose we were to inflate the ball, since it has no more\nnotion of a bounce than a melon.\n\n_Hercules_. A new shortcoming! Formerly it used to leap and dance like\na young goat.\n\n_Atlas_. Look out! Run quickly after that. For Jove's sake, take care\nlest it fall! Alas! it was an evil hour when you came here.\n\n_Hercules_. You sent me such a bad stroke that I could not possibly\nhave caught it in time, even at the risk of breaking my neck. Alas,\npoor little one!... How are you? Do you feel bad anywhere? I don't hear\na sigh, nor does a soul move. They are all still asleep.\n\n_Atlas_. Give it back to me, by all the horns of the Styx, and let me\nsettle it again on my shoulders. And you, take your club, and hasten\nto heaven to excuse me with Jove for this accident, which is entirely\nowing to you.\n\n_Hercules_. I will do so. For many centuries there has been in my\nfather's house a certain poet, named Horace. He was made court poet\nat the suggestion of Augustus, who has been deified by Jove for his\naugmentation of the Eoman power. In one of his songs, this poet says\nthat the just man would stir not, though the world fell. Since the\nworld has now fallen, and no one has moved, it follows that all men are\njust.\n\n_Atlas_. Who doubts the justice of men? But do not lose time; run\nand exculpate me with your father, else I shall momentarily expect a\nthunderbolt to transform me from Atlas into Etna.\n\n\n[Footnote 1: See Pliny, Diogenes Laertius, Apollonius, Varr\u00da, &c.]\n\n[Footnote 2: See Apollonius, Pliny, Tertullian, &c.]\n\n\n\n\n_DIALOGUE BETWEEN FASHION AND DEATH._\n\n\n_Fashion_. Madam Death, Madam Death!\n\n_Death_. Wait until your time comes, and then I will appear without\nbeing called by you.\n\n_Fashion_. Madam Death!\n\n_Death_. Go to the devil. I will come when you least expect me.\n\n_Fashion_. As if I were not immortal!\n\n_Death_. Immortal?\n\n\"Already has passed the thousandth year,\"\n\nsince the age of immortals ended.\n\n_Fashion_. Madam is as much a Petrarchist as if she were an Italian\npoet of the fifteenth or eighteenth century.\n\n_Death_. I like Petrarch because he composed my triumph, and because he\nrefers so often to me. But I must be moving.\n\n_Fashion_. Stay! For the love you bear to the seven cardinal sins, stop\na moment and look at me.\n\n_Death_. Well. I am looking.\n\n_Fashion_. Do you not recognise me?\n\n_Death_. You must know that I have bad sight, and am without\nspectacles. The English make none to suit me; and if they did, I should\nnot know where to put them.\n\n_Fashion_. I am Fashion, your sister.\n\n_Death_. My sister?\n\n_Fashion_. Yes. Do you not remember we are both born of Decay?\n\n_Death_. As if I, who am the chief enemy of Memory, should recollect it!\n\n_Fashion_. But I do. I know also that we both equally profit by the\nincessant change and destruction of things here below, although you do\nso in one way, and I in another.\n\n_Death_. Unless you are speaking to yourself, or to some one inside\nyour throat, raise your voice, and pronounce your words more\ndistinctly. If you go mumbling between your teeth with that thin\nspider-voice of yours, I shall never understand you; because you ought\nto know that my hearing serves me no better than my sight.\n\n_Fashion_. Although it be contrary to custom, for in France they do\nnot speak to be heard, yet, since we are sisters, I will speak as you\nwish, for we can dispense with ceremony between ourselves. I say then\nthat our common nature and custom is to incessantly renew the world.\nYou attack the life of man, and overthrow all people and nations from\nbeginning to end; whereas I content myself for the most part with\ninfluencing beards, head-dresses, costumes, furniture, houses, and\nthe like. It is true, I do some things comparable to your supreme\naction. I pierce ears, lips, and noses, and cause them to be torn\nby the ornaments I suspend from them. I impress men's skin with hot\niron stamps, under the pretence of adornment. I compress the heads\nof children with tight bandages and other contrivances; and make it\ncustomary for all men of a country to have heads of the same shape, as\nin parts of America and Asia. I torture and cripple people with small\nshoes. I stifle women with stays so tight, that their eyes start from\ntheir heads; and I play a thousand similar pranks. I also frequently\npersuade and force men of refinement to bear daily numberless fatigues\nand discomforts, and often real sufferings; and some even die\ngloriously for love of me. I will say nothing of the headaches, colds,\ninflammations of all kinds, fevers--daily, tertian, and quartan--which\nmen gain by their obedience to me. They are content to shiver with\ncold, or melt with heat, simply because it is my will that they cover\ntheir shoulders with wool, and their breasts with cotton. In fact, they\ndo everything in my way, regardless of their own injury.\n\n_Death_. In truth, I believe you are my sister; the testimony of a\nbirth certificate could scarcely make me surer of it. But standing\nstill paralyses me, so if you can, let us run; only you must not creep,\nbecause I go at a great pace. As we proceed you can tell me what you\nwant. If you cannot keep up with me, on account of our relationship I\npromise when I die to bequeath you all my clothes and effects as a New\nYear's gift.\n\n_Fashion_. If we ran a race together, I hardly know which of us would\nwin. For if you run, I gallop, and standing still, which paralyses you,\nis death to me. So let us run, and we will chat as we go along.\n\n_Death_. So be it then. Since your mother was mine, you ought to serve\nme in some way, and assist me in my business.\n\n_Fashion_. I have already done so--more than you,--imagine. Above all,\nI, who annul and transform other customs unceasingly, have nowhere\nchanged the custom of death; for this reason it has prevailed from the\nbeginning of the world until now.\n\n_Death_. A great miracle forsooth, that you have never done what you\ncould not do!\n\n_Fashion_. Why cannot I do it? You show how ignorant you are of the\npower of Fashion.\n\n_Death_. Well, well: time enough to talk of this when you introduce the\ncustom of not dying. But at present, I want you, like a good sister,\nto aid me in rendering my task more easy and expeditious than it has\nhitherto been.\n\n_Fashion_. I have already mentioned some of my labours which are a\nsource of profit to you. But they are trifling in comparison with those\nof which I will now tell you.\n\nLittle by little, and especially in modern times, I have brought into\ndisuse and discredit those exertions and exercises which promote bodily\nhealth; and have substituted numberless others which enfeeble the\nbody in a thousand ways, and shorten life. Besides, I have introduced\ncustoms and manners, which render existence a thing more dead than\nalive, whether regarded from a physical or mental point of view;\nso that this century may be aptly termed the century of death. And\nwhereas formerly you had no other possessions except graves and vaults,\nwhere you sowed bones and dust, which are but a barren seed, now you\nhave fine landed properties, and people who are a sort of freehold\npossession of yours as soon as they are born, though not then claimed\nby you. And more, you, who used formerly to be hated and vituperated,\nare in the present day, thanks to me, valued and lauded by all men of\ngenius. Such an one prefers you to life itself, and holds you in such\nhigh esteem that he invokes you, and looks to you as his greatest hope.\n\nBut this is not all. I perceived that men had some vague idea of an\nafter-life, which they called immortality. They imagined they lived in\nthe memory of their fellows, and this remembrance they sought after\neagerly. Of course this was in reality mere fancy, since what could it\nmatter to them when dead, that they lived in the minds of men? As well\nmight they dread contamination in the grave! Yet, fearing lest this\nchimera might be prejudicial to you, in seeming to diminish your honour\nand reputation, I have abolished the fashion of seeking immortality,\nand its concession, even when merited. So that now, whoever dies may\nassure himself that he is dead altogether, and that every bit of him\ngoes into the ground, just as a little fish is swallowed, bones and\nall.\n\nThese important things my love for you has prompted me to effect. I\nhave also succeeded in my endeavour to increase your power on earth. I\nam more than ever desirous of continuing this work. Indeed, my object\nin seeking you to-day was to make a proposal that for the future we\nshould not separate, but jointly might scheme and execute for the\nfurtherance of our respective designs.\n\n_Death_. You speak reasonably, and I am willing to do as you propose.\n\n\n\n\n_PRIZE COMPETITION ANNOUNCED BY THE ACADEMY OF SILLOGRAPHS._\n\n\nThe Academy of Sillographs, ardently desiring to advance the common\nwelfare, and esteeming nothing more conformable to this end than the\npromotion of the progress\n\n\"Of the happy century in which we live,\"\n\nas says an illustrious poet, has taken in hand the careful\nconsideration of the nature and tendency of our time. After long and\nmature consultation, the Academy has resolved to call our era the\nage of machines; not only because the men of to-day live and move\nperhaps more mechanically than in past times, but also on account of\nthe numerous machines now invented and utilised for so many different\npurposes. To such an extent indeed is this carried, that machines and\nnot men may be said to manage human affairs, and conduct the business\nof life. This circumstance greatly pleases the said Academy, not so\nmuch because of the manifest convenience of the arrangement, as for two\nreasons, which it thinks very important, although ordinarily they are\nnot so regarded. The one is the possibility that in process of time the\ninfluence and usefulness of machines may extend to spiritual as well\nas material things. And as by virtue of these machines and inventions,\nwe are already protected from lightning, storms, and other such evils\nand terrors; similarly there may be discovered some cure for envy,\ncalumny, perfidy, and trickery; some safety-cord or other invention\nto deliver us from egotism, from the prevalence of mediocrity, from\nprosperous fools, bad and debased persons, from the universal spirit\nof indifference, from the wretchedness peculiar to the wise, the\ncultivated, the noble-minded, and from other discomforts which for many\ncenturies have been more invincible than either lightning or tempests.\nThe other and chief reason concerns the unhappy condition of the human\nrace. Most philosophers despair of its improvement, or the cure of its\ndefects, which probably equal or exceed in number its virtues. They\nbelieve it would be easier to entirely re-create the race in another\nway, or to substitute a different \"genus\" altogether, than to amend\nit. The Academy of Sinographs is therefore of opinion that it is very\nexpedient for men to withdraw from the business of life as much as\npossible, and gradually to resign in favour of machines. And being\nresolved to support with all its might the progress of this new order\nof things, it now begs to offer three prizes for the inventors of the\nthree following machines.\n\nThe aim of the first machine must be to represent a friend warranted\nnot to abuse or ridicule his absent friend; nor forsake his friend when\nhe hears him made the subject of jest; nor to seek the reputation of\nacuteness, sarcasm, and the power of exciting men's laughter at his\nfriend's expense; nor to divulge or boast of secrets confided to him;\nnor to take advantage of his friend's intimacy and confidence in order\nto supplant and surpass him; nor to envy his friend's good fortune.\nBut it must be solicitous for his friend's welfare, join issue with\nhim against his misfortunes, and assist him in deeds as well as words.\nReference to the treatises of Cicero and the Marquise of Lambert on\n\"Friendship\" may be advantageously made for further suggestions as to\nthe manufacture of this automaton. The Academy thinks the invention\nof this machine ought not to be regarded as either impossible, or\neven very difficult, seeing that besides the automata of Regiomontano,\nVaucanson, and others, and the one in London which drew figures and\nportraits, and wrote from dictation, there are machines that can even\nplay chess unassisted. Now in the opinion of many \"savants,\" human\nlife is a game, and some assert it to be a thing even more frivolous.\nThey say that the game of chess is a more rationally conceived thing,\nand its hazards are less uncertain than those of life. Besides,\nPindar has called life a thing of no more substance than the dream of\na shadow; in which case it ought not to be beyond the capacity of a\nvigilant automaton. As to speech, there is no reason why men should\nnot be able to communicate this to machines of their manufacture. For\namongst examples of manufactures so endowed, we may number the statue\nof Memnon, and the head formed by Albertus Magnus; this latter was\nso loquacious that St. Thomas Aquinas, irritated at its incessant\ntittle-tattle, broke it in pieces. And if the parrot of Nevers (though\ncertainly this was an animal, however small a one) could converse, how\nmuch more credible that a machine, conceived by the mind of man, and\nconstructed by his hands, should be able to acquire such attainments?\nThe machine ought not to be so talkative as the parrot of Nevers, and\nother similar ones, which we see and hear everywhere; nor as the head\nmade by Albertus Magnus; for it must not weary its friend, thereby\ninciting him to its destruction.\n\nThe inventor of this machine shall receive a reward of a gold medal\nweighing four hundred sequins, which on the one side shall have a\nrepresentation of the figures of Pylades and Orestes, and on the other\nside the name of the person rewarded, together with the inscription,\n\"First verifier of the ancient fables.\"\n\nThe second machine must be an artificial man worked by steam, adapted\nand constructed for virtuous and magnanimous actions. The Academy is of\nopinion that since no other method appears to exist, steam ought to\nbe capable of directing an animated automaton in the paths of virtue\nand glory. Candidates for this competition are referred to books of\npoems and romances for suggestions as to the qualities and powers with\nwhich to endow the figure. The reward to be a gold medal weighing four\nhundred and fifty sequins, stamped on the one side with some fanciful\ndesign significative of the age of gold, and on its reverse the name of\nthe inventor of the machine, together with this inscription from the\nfourth eclogue of Virgil: \"Quo ferrea primum desinet ac toto surget\ngens aurea mundo.\"\n\nThe third machine should be empowered to act as a woman, realising\nthe conception formed partly by Count Baldassar Castiglione, who\ndescribes his idea in the book of the \"Cortegiano,\" and partly by\nothers, easily discoverable in various writings which must be consulted\nand combined with those of the Count. Nor ought the invention of this\nmachine to appear impossible to men of our times, when it be remembered\nthat Pygmalion long ago, in an age far from scientific, was able to\nfabricate a spouse with his own hands, who was considered to be the\nbest woman that had ever existed. To the originator of this machine\na gold medal weighing five hundred sequins is assigned, on the one\nside of which shall be represented the Arabian Phoenix of Metastasio,\nperched on a tree of some European species, and on the other side shall\nbe written the name of the recipient, with the inscription, \"Inventor\nof faithful women, and conjugal happiness.\" The Academy decrees that\nthe cost of these prizes must be defrayed with what was discovered in\nthe satchel of Diogenes, late Secretary of this Academy, or by means\nof one of the three golden asses that belonged to three Sillographic\nAcademicians, Apuleius, Firenzuola, and Macchiavelli; all which\nproperty passed to the Sillographists by will of the deceased, as may\nbe read in the Chronicles of the Academy.\n\n\n\n\n_DIALOGUE BETWEEN A GOBLIN AND A GNOME._\n\n\n_Goblin_. You here, son of Beelzebub! where are you going?\n\n_Gnome_. My father has sent me to find out what these rascals of men\nare doing. He is inclined to suspect something, because it is so\nlong since they gave us any trouble, and in all his realms there is\nnot a single one to be seen. He wonders whether any great change has\ntaken place, and thinks perhaps they have returned to the primitive\nsystem of barter, whereby they use sheep instead of gold and silver;\nor the civilised people have become dissatisfied with paper notes for\nmoney, as they have often been, or have taken to cowrie shells such as\nsavages use; or the laws of Lycurgus have been re-established. The last\npossibility seems to him the least likely.\n\n_Goblin_. \"You seek them in vain, for they are all dead,\" as said the\nsurvivors in a tragedy where the principal personages died in the last\nact.\n\n_Gnome_. What do you mean?\n\n_Goblin_. I mean that men are all dead, and the race is lost.\n\n_Gnome_. My word! what news for the papers! But how is it they have not\nalready mentioned it?\n\n_Goblin_. Stupid. Do you not see that if there are no men there will be\nno more newspapers?\n\n_Gnome_. Yes, that is true. But how shall we know in future the news of\nthe world?\n\n_Goblin_. News! what news? That the sun rises and sets? That it is hot\nor cold? That here or there it has rained or snowed, or been windy?\n\nSince men disappeared, Fortune has unbandaged her eyes, put on\nspectacles, and attached her wheel to a pivot. She sits with arms\ncrossed, watching the world go round without troubling herself in the\nleast as to its affairs. There are no more kingdoms nor empires to\nswell themselves, and burst like bubbles, for they have all vanished.\nThere is no more war; and the years are as like one another as two peas.\n\n_Gnome_. No one will know the day of the month, since there will be no\nmore calendars printed!\n\n_Goblin_. What a misfortune! Nevertheless, the moon will continue her\ncourse.\n\n_Gnome_. And the days of the week will be nameless!\n\n_Goblin_. What does it matter? Do you think they will not come unless\nyou call them? Or, that once passed, they will return if you call out\ntheir names?\n\n_Gnome_. And no one will take any count of the years!\n\n_Goblin_. We shall be able to say we are young when we are old; and we\nshall forget our cares when we cannot fix their anniversary. Besides,\nwhen we are very old, we shall not know it, nor be expecting death\ndaily.\n\n_Gnome_. But how is it these rogues have disappeared?\n\n_Goblin_. Some killed themselves with fighting; others were drowned in\nthe sea. Some ate each other. Not a few committed suicide. Some died of\nennui in idleness; and some turned their brains with study. Debauch,\nand a thousand other excesses, put an end to many more. In short, they\nhave arrived at their end, by endeavouring, as long as they lived, to\nviolate the laws of nature, and to go contrary to their welfare.\n\n_Gnome_. Still, I do not understand how an entire race of animals can\nbecome extinct without leaving any trace behind it.\n\n_Goblin_. You who are a specialist in geology ought to know that the\ncircumstance is not a new one, and that many kinds of animals lived\nanciently, which to-day are nowhere to be found except in the remains\nof a few petrified bones. Moreover, these poor creatures employed none\nof the means used by men for their destruction.\n\n_Gnome_. It may be so. I should dearly like to resuscitate one or two\nof the rascals, just to know what they would think when they saw all\ngoing on as before, in spite of the disappearance of the human race.\nWould they then imagine that everything was made and maintained solely\nfor them?\n\n_Goblin_. They would not like to realise that the world exists solely\nfor the use of the Goblins.\n\n_Gnome_. You are joking, my friend, if you mean what you say.\n\n_Goblin_. Why? Of course I do.\n\n_Gnome_. Go along with you, buffoon! who does not know that the world\nis made for the Gnomes?\n\n_Goblin_. For the Gnomes, who live underground! That is one of the best\njokes I have ever heard. What good are the sun, moon, air, sea, and\ncountry to the Gnomes?\n\n_Gnome_. And pray of what use to the Goblins are the mines of gold and\nsilver, and the whole body of earth, except the outer skin?\n\n_Goblin_. Well, well: suppose we abandon the discussion. It is\nunimportant after all. For I imagine even the lizards and gnats think\nthe whole world was created for their exclusive service. Let each of us\nbelieve what we please, for nothing will make us change our opinion.\nBut, between ourselves, if I had not been born a Goblin, I should be in\ndespair.\n\n_Gnome_. And I, had I not been born a Gnome. But I should like to\nknow what men would say of their impertinence in former times, when,\nbesides other misdeeds, they sank thousands of underground shafts, and\nstole our goods from us by force, asserting that they belonged to the\nhuman race. Nature, they said, concealed and buried the things down\nbelow, as a sort of game at hide and seek, just to see if they could\ndiscover and abstract them.\n\n_Goblin_. I do not wonder at that, since they not only imagined the\nthings of the world were at their service, but they also regarded\nthem as a mere trifle compared to the human race. They called their\nown vicissitudes \"revolutions of the world;\" and histories of their\nnations, \"histories of the world;\" although the earth contained about\nas many different species of animals as living individual human beings.\nYet these animals, though made expressly for the use of men, were never\nconscious of the so-called revolutions of the world!\n\n_Gnome_. Then even the fleas and gnats were made for the service of men?\n\n_Goblin_. Just so. To exercise their patience, men said.\n\n_Gnome_. As if, apart from fleas, man's patience were not tried\nsufficiently!\n\n_Goblin_. And a certain man named Chrysippus termed pigs pieces of meat\nexpressly prepared by nature for man's table. Their souls, he said,\nserved the purpose of salt, in preserving them from decay.\n\n_Gnome_. In my opinion, if Chrysippus had had a little sense (salt) in\nhis brain, instead of imagination (soul), he would never have conceived\nsuch an idea.\n\n_Goblin_. Here is another amusing circumstance. An infinite number\nof species of animals were never seen, nor heard of by men their\nmasters, either because they lived where man never set foot, or because\nthey were too small to be observed. Many others were only discovered\nduring the last days of the human race. The same may be said of\nplants, minerals, &c. Similarly, from time to time, by means of their\ntelescopes, they perceived some star or planet, of the existence of\nwhich hitherto, during thousands and thousands of years, they had been\nignorant. They then immediately entered it on the catalogue of their\npossessions; for they regarded the stars and planets as so many candles\nplaced up above to give light to their dominions, because they were\nwont to transact much business in the night.\n\n_Gnome_. And in summer, when they saw those little meteor flames\nthat rush through the air at night, they imagined them to be sprites\nemployed in snuffing the candles for the good of mankind.\n\n_Goblin_. Yet now that they are all gone, the earth is none the worse\noff. The rivers still flow, and the sea, although no longer used for\nnavigation and traffic, is not dried up.\n\n_Gnome_. The stars and planets still rise and set; nor have they gone\ninto mourning.\n\n_Goblin_. Neither has the sun put on sackcloth and ashes, as it did,\naccording to Virgil, when C\u00casar died; about whom I imagine it concerned\nitself as little as Pompey's Pillar.\n\n\n\n\n_DIALOGUE BETWEEN MALAMBRUNO AND FARFARELLO._\n\n\n_Malambruno_. Spirits of the deep, Farfarello, Ciriatto, Raconero,\nAstarotte, Alichino, or whatever else you are called, I adjure you in\nthe name of Beelzebub, and command you by virtue of my art, which can\nunhinge the moon, and nail the sun in the midst of the heavens, come\none of you with your prince's permission, to put all the powers of hell\nat my disposal.\n\n_Farfarello_. Here I am.\n\n_Mal_. Who are you?\n\n_Far_. Farfarello, at thy service.\n\n_Mal_. Have you the mandate of Beelzebub?\n\n_Far_. I have; and can thus do for thee all that the king himself could\ndo, and more than lies in the power of all other creatures together.\n\n_Mal_. It is well. I wish to be satisfied in but one desire.\n\n_Far_. Thou shalt be obeyed. What is it? Dost thou wish for majesty\nsurpassing that of the Atrides?\n\n_Mal_. No.\n\n_Far_. More wealth than shall be found in El Dorado, when it is\ndiscovered? _Mal_. No.\n\n_Far_. An empire as large as that of which Charles V. dreamt one night?\n\n_Mal_. No.\n\n_Far_. A mistress chaster than Penelope?\n\n_Mal_. No: methinks the devil's aid were superfluous for that.\n\n_Far_. Honours and success, however wicked thou mayst be?\n\n_Mal_. I should rather more need the devil, if I wished the contrary,\nunder such circumstances.\n\n_Far_. Then what dost thou want?\n\n_Mal_. Make me happy for a moment.\n\n_Far_. I cannot.\n\n_Mal_. Why?\n\n_Far_. I give you my word of honour--I cannot do it.\n\n_Mal_. The word of honour of a good demon?\n\n_Far_. Yes, to be sure. Thou shouldest know that there are good devils\nas well as good men.\n\n_Mal_. And you must know that I will hang you by the tail to one of\nthese beams if you do not instantly obey me without more words.\n\n_Far_. It were easier for you to kill me, than for me to satisfy your\ndemands.\n\n_Mal_. Then return with my malediction, and let Beelzebub come himself.\n\n_Far_. Beelzebub and the whole army of hell would be equally powerless\nto render you or any of your race happy.\n\n_Mal_. Not even for a single moment?\n\n_Far_. As impossible for a moment, half a moment, or the thousandth\npart of a moment, as for a lifetime.\n\n_Mal_. Well, since you cannot make me happy in any way, at least free\nme from unhappiness.\n\n_Far_. On condition that you no longer love yourself above everything\nelse.\n\n_Mal_. I shall only cease doing that when I die.\n\n_Far_. But as long as you live you will be unable to do it. Your nature\nwould tolerate anything rather than that.\n\n_Mal_. So it is.\n\n_Far_. Consequently, loving yourself above everything, you desire your\nown happiness more than anything. But because this is unattainable, you\nmust necessarily be unhappy.\n\n_Mal_. Even when engaged in pleasure; since no gratification can make\nme happy, or satisfy me.\n\n_Far_. Truly none.\n\n_Mal_. And because pleasure cannot satisfy my soul's innate desire for\nhappiness, it is not true pleasure, and during its continuance I shall\nstill be unhappy.\n\n_Far_. As you say: because in men and other living beings, the\ndeprivation of happiness, even though pain and misfortune be wanting,\nimplies express unhappiness. This, too, during the continuance of\nso-called pleasures.\n\n_Mal_. So that from birth to death our unhappiness never ceases for an\ninstant.\n\n_Far_. Yes, it ceases whenever you sleep dreamlessly, or when, from one\ncause or another, you are deprived of your senses.\n\n_Mal_. But never, so long as we are sensible that we live.\n\n_Far_. Never.\n\n_Mal_. So that in fact it were better not to live than to live.\n\n_Far_. If the absence of unhappiness be better than unhappiness itself.\n\n_Mal_. Then?\n\n_Far_. Then if you would like to give me your soul before its time, I\nam ready to carry it away with me.\n\n\n\n\n_DIALOGUE BETWEEN NATURE AND A SOUL._\n\n\n_Nature_. Go, my beloved child. You shall be regarded as my favoured\none for very many centuries. Live: be great and unhappy.\n\n_Soul_. What evil have I done before beginning to live, that you\ncondemn me to this misery?\n\n_Nature_. What misery, my child?\n\n_Soul_. Do you not ordain that I am to be unhappy?\n\n_Nature_. Yes; but only so far as to enable you to be great, which you\ncannot become without unhappiness. Besides, you are destined to animate\na human body, and all men are of necessity unhappy from their birth.\n\n_Soul_. It were more reasonable that you made happiness a necessity; or\nthis being impossible, it were better not to bring men into the world.\n\n_Nature_. I can do neither the one thing nor the other, because I am\nsubordinate to Destiny, who decrees the contrary. The reason of this\nis as much a mystery to myself as to you. Now that you are created and\ndesigned to animate a human being, no power in the world can save you\nfrom the unhappiness common to men. Moreover, your infelicity will be\nespecially great, owing to the perfection with which I have fashioned\nyou.\n\n_Soul_. I know nothing yet, because I have only just begun to live.\nDoubtless this is why I do not understand you. But tell me, is\ngreatness the same thing as extreme unhappiness? If, however, they are\ndifferent, why could not the one be separated from the other?\n\n_Nature_. In the souls of men, and proportionately in those of all\nanimals, they are inseparable, because excellence of soul implies great\ncapacity for knowledge, which in exposing to men the unhappiness of\nhumanity may be termed unhappiness itself. Similarly, a life of greater\nintensity involves a greater love of self, manifested in different\nways. An increased desire for happiness is a consequence of this\nself-love and increased unhappiness, because of the impossibility of\nsatisfying this desire, and as the unfortunate condition of humanity\nbecomes realised. All this is decreed from the beginning of creation,\nand is unalterable by me.\n\nMoreover, the keenness of your intellect and the strength of your\nimagination will lessen considerably your power of self-control. Brute\nanimals readily adapt all their faculties and powers to the attainment\nof their ends; but men rarely do so, being usually prevented by their\nreason and imagination, which give birth to a thousand doubts in\ndeliberation, and a thousand hindrances in execution. The less men\nare inclined or accustomed to deliberate, the more prompt are they in\ndecision, and the more vigorous in action. But such souls as yours,\nself-contained, and proudly conscious of their greatness, are really\npowerless for self-rule, and often succumb to irresolution both in\nthought and action. This temperament is one of the greatest curses of\nhuman life.\n\nAdded to this, although by your noble talents you will easily and\nquickly excel most men in profound knowledge and works of the greatest\ndifficulty, you will yet find it almost impossible to learn, or put in\npractice, a host of things, trivial enough, but very essential, for\nyour intercourse with others. At the same time, you; will see your\ninferiors, and even men of scarcely any intelligence, perfectly at home\nwith these things. Such difficulties and miseries as these occupy and\nsurround great souls; but they are amply atoned for by fame, praise,\nand honours paid to their greatness, and by the lasting memory they\nleave behind them.\n\n_Soul_. Whence will come these praises and honours,--from heaven, from\nyou, or from whom?\n\n_Nature_. From men, who alone can dispense them.\n\n_Soul_. But I thought my ignorance of those things necessary for the\nintercourse of life, which intellects inferior to mine so easily\ncomprehend, would cause me to be despised and shunned, not praised by\nmen. I thought too that I should surely live unknown to most of them,\nbecause of my unfitness for their society.\n\n_Nature_. I have not the power to foresee the future, so I cannot say\nexactly how men will behave to you whilst you are on earth. But judging\nfrom past experience, I think they will probably be jealous of you.\nThis is another misfortune to which great minds are peculiarly liable.\nPerhaps too, they will despise you, and treat you with indifference.\nFortune herself, and even circumstances, are usually unfriendly to such\nas you.\n\nBut directly after your death, as happened to one named Camoens, or a\nfew years later, like Milton, you will be eulogised and lauded to the\nskies, if not by every one, at any rate by the few men of noble minds.\nPerhaps the ashes of your body will be deposited in a magnificent tomb,\nand your likeness reproduced in many different forms, and passed about\nfrom hand to hand. Men will also study your life and writings, and at\nlength the world will ring with your name. Always provided you are not\nhindered by evil fortune, or even by the very excess of your genius,\nfrom leaving undoubted testimonies of your merit; instances are not\nwanting of such unfortunates, known only to myself and Destiny.\n\n_Soul_. O mother, I care not if I be deprived of all knowledge, so long\nas I obtain what I most desire, happiness. And as for glory, I know not\nwhether it be a good or evil thing, but I do know that I shall only\nvalue it in so far as it procures me happiness, directly or indirectly.\nNow, on your own showing, the excellence with which you have endowed\nme, though it may be fruitful of glory, is also productive of the\ngreatest unhappiness. Yet even this paltry glory I may not gain until\nI am dead, when I fail to see how I shall benefit by it. And besides,\nthere is the probability that this phantom glory, the price of so much\nsuffering, may be obtained neither in life nor after death.\n\nIn short, from what you yourself have said, I conclude that far from\nloving me with peculiar affection, as you affirmed, you bear me greater\nmalice than that of which I can be the victim, either at the hands\nof men or Destiny. Why else should you have endowed me with this\ndisastrous excellence, about which you boast so much, and which will be\nthe chief stumbling-block in the road to happiness, the only thing for\nwhich I care?\n\n_Nature_. My child, all men are destined to be unhappy, as I have said,\nwithout any fault of mine. But in the midst of this universal misery,\nand amid the infinite vanity of all their pleasures and joys, glory\nis by most men considered to be the greatest good of life, and the\nworthiest object of ambition and fatigue. Therefore, not hatred but a\nfeeling of especial kindliness, has prompted me to assist you as far as\nI could in your attainment of this glory.\n\n_Soul_. Tell me: among the animals you mentioned, are there any of less\nvitality and sensibility than men?\n\n_Nature_. All are so, in more or less degree, beginning with plants.\nMan, being the most perfect of them all, has greater life and power of\nthought than all other living beings.\n\n_Soul_. Then if you love me, place me in the most imperfect thing\nexisting, or that being impossible, at least deprive me of this\nterrible excellence, and make me like the most stupid and senseless\nsoul you have ever created!\n\n_Nature_. I can satisfy your second request, and will do so, since you\nreject the immortality I would have given you.\n\n_Soul_. And instead of the immortality, I beseech you to hasten my\ndeath as much as possible.\n\n_Nature_. I will consult Destiny about that.\n\n\n\n\n_DIALOGUE BETWEEN THE EARTH AND THE MOON_\n\n\n_Earth_. Dear Moon, I know that you can speak and answer questions like\na human being, for I have heard so from many of the poets. Besides, our\nchildren say you have really a mouth, nose, and eyes like every one\nelse, and that they see them with their own eyes, which at their time\nof life ought to be very sharp. As for me, no doubt you know that I am\na person; indeed, when I was young, I had a number of children; so you\nwill not be surprised to hear me speak. And the reason, my fine Moon,\nwhy I have never uttered a word to you before, although I have been\nyour neighbour for I don't know how many centuries, is that I have been\nso occupied as to have no time for gossip. But now my business is so\ntrifling that it can look after itself. I don't know what to do, and am\nready to die of ennui. So in future, I hope we may often have some talk\ntogether; and I should like to know all about your affairs, if it does\nnot inconvenience you to recount them to me.\n\n_Moon_. Be easy on that score. May the Fates never trouble me more\nthan you are likely to! Talk as much as you please, and although, as I\nbelieve you know, I am partial to silence, I will willingly listen and\nreply, to oblige you.\n\n_Earth_. Do you hear the delightful sound made by the heavenly bodies\nin motion?\n\n_Moon_. To tell you the truth, I hear nothing.\n\n_Earth_. Nor do I; save only the whistling of the wind, which blows\nfrom my poles to the equator, and from the equator to the poles, and\nwhich is far from musical. But Pythagoras asserts that the celestial\nspheres make an incredibly sweet harmony, and that you take part in the\nconcert, and are the eighth chord of this universal lyre. As for me, I\nam so deafened by my own noise that I hear nothing.\n\n_Moon_. I also am doubtless deafened, since I hear no more than you.\nBut it is news to me that I am a chord.\n\n_Earth_. Now let us change the subject. Tell me; are you really\ninhabited, as thousands of ancient and modern philosophers affirm--from\nOrpheus to De Lalande? In spite of all my efforts to prolong these\nhorns of mine, which men call mountains and hills, and from the summits\nof which I look at you in silence, I have failed to discern a single\none of your inhabitants. Yet I am told that a certain David Fabricius,\nwhose eyes were keener than those of Lynceus, at one time observed your\npeople extending their linen to be dried by the sun.\n\n_Moon_. I know nothing about your horns. I will admit that I am\ninhabited.\n\n_Earth_. What colour are your men?\n\n_Moon_. What men?\n\n_Earth_. Those that you contain. Did you not say you were inhabited?\n\n_Moon_. Yes, what then?\n\n_Earth_. Does it not follow that all your inhabitants are animals?\n\n_Moon_. Neither animals nor men, though I am really in ignorance as to\nthe nature of either the one or the other. As for the men you speak of,\nI have not an idea what you mean.\n\n_Earth_. Then what sort of creatures are yours?\n\n_Moon_. They are of very many different kinds, as unknown to you, as\nyours are to me.\n\n_Earth_. This is so strange that if you yourself had not informed me of\nit, I would never have believed it. Were you ever conquered by any of\nyour inhabitants?\n\n_Moon_. Not that I know of. But how? And for what reason?\n\n_Earth_. Through ambition and jealousy; by means of diplomacy and arms.\n\n_Moon_. I do not know what you mean by arms, ambition, and diplomacy.\nIndeed, I understand nothing of what you say.\n\n_Earth_. But surely if you do not understand the meaning of arms,\nyou know something of war; because, not long ago, a certain doctor\ndiscovered through a telescope, which is an instrument for seeing a\nlong distance, that you possessed a fine fortress with proper bastions.\nNow this is certain proof that your races are at any rate accustomed to\nsieges and mural battles.\n\n_Moon_. Pardon me, Mother Earth, if I reply to you a little more at\nlength than would be expected from one so subjugated as it seems I\nam. But in truth, you appear to me more than vain to imagine that\neverything in the world is conformable to your things; as if Nature\nhad no other intention than to copy you exactly in each of her\ncreations. I tell you I am inhabited, and you jump to the conclusion\nthat my inhabitants are men. I assert that they are not, and whilst\nadmitting that they may be another race of beings, you endow them with\nqualities and customs similar to those of your people. You also speak\nto me about the telescope of a certain doctor. But it seems to me the\nsight of these telescopes is about as good as that of your children,\nwho discover that I have eyes, a mouth, and a nose, all of which I am\nignorant of possessing.\n\n_Earth_. Then it is not true that your provinces are intersected by\nfine long roads, and that you are cultivated; which things are clearly\ndiscernible with a telescope from Germany.[1]\n\n_Moon_. I do not know whether I am cultivated, and I have never\nobserved my roads.\n\n_Earth_. Dear Moon, you must know that I am of a coarse composition,\nand very simple-minded. No wonder therefore that men easily deceive\nme. But I can assure you that if your own inhabitants do not care\nto conquer you, you are by no means free from such danger; for at\ndifferent times many people down here have thought of subduing you,\nand have even made great preparations for doing so. Some have tried\nto reach you by going to my highest places, standing on tiptoe, and\nstretching out their arms. Besides, they have made a careful study of\nyour surface, and drawn out maps of your countries. They also know\nthe heights of your mountains, and even their names. I warn you of\nthese things out of pure goodwill, so that you may be prepared for any\nemergency.\n\nNow, permit me to ask you another question or two. Are you much\ndisturbed by the dogs that bay at you? What do you think of those\npeople who show you another moon in a well? Are you masculine or\nfeminine[2]--because anciently there was a difference of opinion. Is\nit true that the Arcadians came into the world before you?[3] Are your\nwomen, or whatever I should call them, oviparous, and did one of their\neggs fall down to us, once upon a time?[4] Are you perforated like\na bead, as a modern philosopher believes?[5] Are you made of green\ncheese, as some English say? Is it true that Mahomet one fine night cut\nyou in two like a water melon, and that a good piece of your body fell\ninto his cloak? Why do you like to stay on the tops of minarets? What\ndo you think of the feast of Bairam?\n\n_Moon_. You may as well go on. I need not answer such questions, nor\ndepart from my accustomed habit of silence. If you wish to be so\nfrivolous, and can find nothing else to talk to me about except matters\nincomprehensible to me, your people had better construct another planet\nto rotate round them, which they can design and populate as they\nplease. You seem unable to talk of anything but men, and dogs, and such\nthings, of which I know as much as of that one great being round which\nI am told our sun turns.\n\n_Earth_. Truly the more I determine not to touch on personal matters,\nthe less I succeed in my resolution. But for the future I will be more\ncareful. Tell me; do you amuse yourself by drawing up my sea-water, and\nthen letting it fall again?\n\n_Moon_. It may be. But if I have done this, or other such things, I am\nunaware of it. And you, it seems to me, do not consider what you effect\nhere, which is of so much the more importance as your size and strength\nare greater than mine.\n\n_Earth_. I know nothing of these effects, except that from time to\ntime I deprive you of the sun's light, and myself of yours, and that I\nillumine you during your nights, as is sometimes evident to me.\n\nBut I am forgetting one thing, which is the most important of all. I\nshould like to know if Ariosto is correct in saying that everything man\nloses, such as youth, beauty, health, the vigour and money spent in\nthe pursuit of glory, in the instruction of children, and founding or\npromoting useful institutions, flies to you; so that you possess all\nthings pertaining to man, except folly, which has never left mankind.\nIf this be true, I reckon you ought to be so full as to have scarcely\nany space unoccupied, especially since men have recently lost a great\nmany things (such as patriotism, virtue, magnanimity, righteousness),\nnot merely in part, or singly, as in former times, but completely, and\nwithout exception. And certainly if you have not got these things, I do\nnot know where else they can be. But supposing you have them, I wish\nwe could come to an agreement whereby you might soon return the lost\nthings to me; for I imagine you must be greatly encumbered, especially\nwith common sense, which I understand crowds you very much. In return\nfor this, I will see that men pay you annually a good sum of money.\n\n_Moon_. Men again! Though folly, as you say, has not left your domains,\nyou wish nevertheless to make an utter fool of me, by depriving me of\nwhat reason I possess, to supply the deficiency in your people. But I\ndo not know where this reason of yours is, nor whether it can be found\nin the universe. I know well that it is not here, any more than the\nother things you mention.\n\n_Earth_. At least, you can tell me if your inhabitants are acquainted\nwith vices, misdeeds, misfortunes, suffering, and old age; in short,\nevils? Do you understand these names?\n\n_Moon_. Yes, I understand these well enough, and not only the names. I\nam full of them, instead of the other things.\n\n_Earth_. Which are the more numerous among your people, virtues or\nvices?\n\n_Moon_. Vices, by a long way.\n\n_Earth_. Does pleasure or pain predominate?\n\n_Moon_. Pain is infinitely more prevalent.\n\n_Earth_. And your inhabitants, are they mostly happy or unhappy?\n\n_Moon_. So unhappy that I would not exchange my lot with the happiest\nof them.\n\n_Earth_. It is the same here. I wonder why we differ so much in other\nthings, yet agree in this.\n\n_Moon_. I am also like you in shape, I rotate like you, and am\nillumined by the same sun. It is no more wonderful that we should\nresemble each other in these things, than that we should possess\ncommon failings; because evil is as common to all the planets of the\nuniverse, or at least of the solar system, as rotundity, movement, and\nlight. And if you could speak loud enough for Uranus or Saturn, or\nany other planet, to hear you, and were to ask them if they contained\nunhappiness, and whether pleasure or pain predominated, each would\nanswer as I have done. I speak from experience, for I have already\nquestioned Venus and Mercury, to whom I am now and then nearer than\nyou. I have also asked certain comets which have passed by me; they all\nreplied to the same effect. I firmly believe even the sun and every\nstar would make the same response.\n\n_Earth_. Still I am very hopeful. In future I trust men will permit me\nto experience much happiness.\n\n_Moon_. Hope as much as you please. I will answer for it you may hope\nfor ever.\n\n_Earth_. Ha! Did you hear that? These men and animals of mine are\nmaking an uproar. It is night on the side from which I am speaking\nto you, and at first they were all asleep. But, thanks to our\nconversation, they are now wide awake, and very frightened.\n\n_Moon_. And here, on the other side, you see it is day.\n\n_Earth_. Yes. Now I do not wish to terrify my people, or interrupt\ntheir sleep, which is the best thing they possess; so let us postpone\nconversation until another opportunity. Adieu, and good-day to you.\n\n_Moon_. Adieu. Good-night.\n\n\n[Footnote 1: See German newspapers of March 1824, for particulars of\nthe discoveries attributed to Gruithuisen.]\n\n[Footnote 2: See Macrobius, _Saturnal_: lib. 3. cap. 8; Tertullian,\n_Apolog_., cap. 15. The moon was also honoured as the god moon. In the\nGerman language moon is masculine.]\n\n[Footnote 3: See Menander, lib. 1. cap. 15, _in Rhetor_, graec. veter.]\n\n[Footnote 4: Athen: lib. 2. _ed. Casaub_. p. 57.]\n\n[Footnote 5: Antonio di Ulloa. See Carli, _Lettere Americane_, par. 4.\nlett. 7. Milan, 1784.]\n\n\n\n\n_THE WAGER OF PROMETHEUS._\n\n\nIn the year 833,265 of the reign of Jove, the College of the Muses\ncaused certain notices to be printed and affixed in the public places\nof the city and suburbs of Hypernephelus. These notices contained an\ninvitation to all the gods, great and small, and the other inhabitants\nof the city, who had recently or anciently originated some praiseworthy\ninvention, to make representation thereof, either actually, or by model\nor description, to certain judges nominated by this College. And,\nregretting that its well-known poverty prevented it from displaying the\nliberality it would have liked to show, the College promised to reward\nthe one whose invention should be judged the finest or most useful,\nwith a crown of laurel. In addition to the prize itself, the College\nwould give the victor permission to wear the crown, day and night, in\npublic and private life, and both in the city and outside it; he might\nalso be painted, sculptured, or modelled in any manner or material\nwhatever, with the emblem of victory on his brow.\n\nNot a few of the gods contested the prize, simply to kill time, a\nthing as necessary for the citizens of Hypernephelus, as for the\npeople of other towns. They had no wish for the crown, which was about\nas valuable as a cotton night-cap; and as for the glory, if even men\ndespise it as soon as they become philosophers, it may be imagined in\nwhat esteem the phantom was held by the gods, who are so much wiser\nthan the wisest of men, if indeed they are not the sole possessors of\nwisdom, as Pythagoras and Plato affirm.\n\nThe prize was awarded with an unanimity hitherto unheard of in cases of\nreward bestowed on the most meritorious. Neither were there any unfair\ninfluences exercised, such as favouritism, underhand promises, or\nartifice. Three competitors were chosen: Bacchus, for the invention of\nwine; Minerva, for that of oil, with which the gods were daily wont to\nbe anointed after the bath; and Vulcan, for having made a copper pot of\nan economical design, by which cooking could be expeditiously conducted\nwith but little fire. It was necessary to divide the prize into three\nparts, so there only remained a little sprig of laurel for each of the\nvictors. But they all three declined the prize, whether in part or the\nwhole. Vulcan said, that since he was obliged to stand the greater part\nof his time at the forge fire, perspiring and considerably exerting\nhimself, the encumbrance on his brow would be a great annoyance to\nhim; added to which, the laurel would run risk of being scorched or\nburnt, if some spark by chance were to fall on its dry leaves and set\nit on fire. Minerva excused herself on the ground of having to wear a\nhelmet large enough, as Homer says, to cover the united armies of a\nhundred cities; consequently any increase of this weight would be very\ninconvenient, and out of the question. Bacchus did not wish to change\nhis mitre and chaplet of vine leaves for the laurel, which, however,\nhe would willingly have accepted, had he been allowed to put it up as\na sign outside his tavern; but the Muses declined to grant it for that\npurpose. Finally, the wreath remained in the common treasury of the\nCollege.\n\nNone of the competitors for the prize envied the three successful\ngods; nor did they express vexation at the award, nor dispute the\nverdict--with one exception, Prometheus. This god brought to the\ncontest the clay model he had used in the formation of the first man.\nAttached to the model was some writing which explained the qualities\nand office of the human race, his invention. The chagrin displayed\nby Prometheus in this matter caused no little astonishment; since\nall the other gods, whether victors or vanquished, had regarded the\nwhole affair as a joke. But on further inquiry it transpired that what\nhe especially desired, was not the honour, but rather the privilege\naccompanying success. Some thought he meant to use the laurel as a\nprotection for his head against storms; as it is said of Tiberius that\nwhenever he heard thunder, he donned his crown, esteeming the laurel\nproof against thunderbolts. But this suggestion was negatived by the\nfact that the city of Hypernephelus never experienced either thunder\nor lightning. Others, more rationally, affirmed that Prometheus, owing\nto age, had begun to lose his hair, and being greatly troubled at this\nmisadventure, as are many mortals in similar circumstances (and either\nnot having read Synesius' eulogy on baldness, or being unconvinced\nby it), wished, like Julius C\u00casar, to hide the nakedness of his head\nbeneath the leafy diadem.\n\nBut to turn to facts. One day Prometheus, talking with Momus, bitterly\ncomplained of the preference given to the wine, oil, and copper-pot,\nin comparison with the human race, which he said was the finest\nachievement of the immortals that the universe had ever seen. And not\nbeing able sufficiently to convince Momus, who gave various reasons\nagainst this assertion, they made a wager on the subject. Prometheus\nproposed that they should descend together to the earth, and alighting\nby chance in the first place they should discover inhabited by man in\neach of the five parts of the world, they might find out whether or\nnot there were in all or most of these parts conclusive evidence that\nman is the most perfect creature of the universe. Momus accepted the\nwager; and having settled the amount, they began without delay to\ndescend towards the earth. First of all they directed themselves to the\nNew World, which, from its name, and the fact that as yet none of the\nimmortals had set foot in it, greatly excited their curiosity.\n\nThey touched ground towards the north of Popuyan, not far from the\nriver Cauca, in a place which showed many signs of human habitation.\nThere were traces of cultivation, level roads broken and impassable\nin places, trees cut and strewn about, appearances of what might\nbe graves, and here and there human bones were scattered. But the\ncelestials could neither hear the voice, nor see the shadow of a living\nman, though they listened acutely, and looked all around them. They\nproceeded, walking and flying, for the distance of many miles, passing\nmountains and rivers, and finding everywhere the same traces of human\nhabitation, and the same solitude.\n\n\"How is it these countries are now deserted,\" said Momus to Prometheus,\n\"though they were evidently once inhabited?\"\n\nPrometheus mentioned the inundations of the sea, earthquakes, storms,\nand heavy rains, which he knew were ordinary occurrences in the\ntropics. Indeed, as if in confirmation of his words, they could\ndistinctly hear in the neighbouring forests the incessant patter of\nrain-drops falling from the branches of trees agitated by the wind.\n\nBut Momus was unable to understand how that locality could be affected\nby inundations of the sea, which was so distant as not to be visible on\nany side. Still less could he comprehend why the earthquakes, storms,\nand rains should have destroyed the human beings of the country,\nsparing however, the jaguars, apes, ants, eagles, parrots, and a\nhundred other kinds of animals and birds which surrounded them.\n\nAt length, descending into an immense valley, they discovered a little\ncluster of houses, or wooden cabins, covered with palm leaves, and\nenvironed on all sides by a fence like a stockade. Before one of these\ncabins, many persons, some standing, some sitting, were gathered round\nan earthen pot suspended over a large fire.\n\nThe two celestials, having taken human form, drew near, and Prometheus,\ncourteously saluting them all, turned to the one who seemed to be their\nchief, and asked him what they were doing.\n\n_Savage_. Eating, as you see.\n\n_Prom_. What savoury food have you got?\n\n_Savage_. Only a little bit of meat.\n\n_Prom_. Of a domestic, or wild animal?\n\n_Savage_. Domestic, in truth, since it is my own son.\n\n_Prom_. What! Had you then, like Pasipha\u00ce, a calf for your son?\n\n_Savage_. Not a calf, but a child like every one else.\n\n_Prom_. Do you mean what you say? Is it your own flesh and blood that\nyou are eating?\n\n_Savage_. My own? No. But certainly that of my son. Why else did I\nbring him into the world, and nourish him?\n\n_Prom_. What! To eat him?\n\n_Savage_. Why not? and I will also eat his mother when she can have no\nmore children.\n\n_Momus_. As one eats the hen after her eggs.\n\n_Savage_. And I will likewise eat my other women, when they can no\nlonger have children. And why also should I keep these slaves of mine\nalive, if it were not that from time to time they give me children to\neat? But when they are old, I will eat them all one after the other, if\nI live.[1]\n\n_Prom_. Tell me, do these slaves belong to your tribe or to another?\n\n_Savage_. Another.\n\n_Prom_. Far from here?\n\n_Savage_. A very long way. A river divides their huts from ours. And\npointing with his finger to a hillock, he added: They used to live\nthere, but our people have destroyed their dwellings.\n\nBy this time it seemed to Prometheus that many of the savages were\nstanding looking at him with the sort of appreciative gaze that a cat\ngives to a mouse. So, to avoid being eaten by his own manufactures, he\nrose suddenly on the wing, and Momus followed his example. And such\nwas their fright that in setting out they unconsciously behaved as did\nthe Harpies towards the Trojans when at meat. But the cannibals, more\nhungry, or less dainty, than the companions of \u2206neas, continued their\nhorrid repast.\n\nPrometheus, very dissatisfied with the New World, turned immediately\ntowards Asia, the older one. Having traversed almost in an instant the\nspace which lies between the East and West Indies, they both descended\nnear Agra, in a field where they saw a number of people. These were\nall gathered round a funeral pyre of wood, by which men with torches\nwere standing, ready to set it on fire; and on a platform was a young\nwoman very sumptuously attired, and wearing a variety of barbaric\nadornments, who, dancing and shouting, displayed signs of the liveliest\njoy. Prometheus, seeing her, imagined that a second Lucretia or\nVirginia, or some imitator of the children of Erectheus, of Iphigenia,\nCodrus, Menecius, Curtius, or Decius, was about to sacrifice herself\nvoluntarily on behalf of her country, in obedience to the decree of\nsome oracle. Learning however that the woman was about to die because\nher husband was dead, he supposed that, like Alcestis, she wished at\nthe cost of her own life to reanimate her husband. But, when they\ninformed him that she was only induced to burn herself because it was\ncustomary for widows of her caste to do so, and that she had always\nhated her husband, that she was drunk, and that the dead man, instead\nof being resuscitated, was to be burnt in the same fire, he abruptly\nturned his back on the spectacle, and set out for Europe. On their way\nthither, Prometheus and his companion held the following conversation.\n\n_Momus_. Did you think, when at so great a hazard you stole fire from\nheaven to give to men, that some of them would make use of it to cook\none another in pots, and others voluntarily to burn themselves?\n\n_Prom_. No, indeed! But consider, dear Momus, that the men we have\nhitherto seen are barbarians; and one must not judge of human nature\nfrom barbarians, but rather from civilised people, to whom we are now\ngoing. I have a strong conviction that among these latter we shall see\nthings, and hear words, which will astonish as much as delight you.\n\n_Momus_. I for my part do not see, if men are the most perfect\nrace of the universe, why they need be civilised in order not to\nburn themselves, or eat their own children. Other animals are all\nuncivilised, and yet none of them deliberately burn themselves,\nexcept the phoenix, which is fabulous; rarely they eat their own\nkind; and much more rarely make food of their own offspring by any\nchance whatever; neither do they specially give birth to them for\nthat purpose. I also understand that of the five divisions of the\nworld, only the smallest possesses even incompletely the civilisation\nthat you praise. To this may be added minute portions of other parts\nof the world. And you yourself will not venture to assert that the\ncivilisation of the present day is such that the men of Paris or\nPhiladelphia have reached the highest possible state of perfection.\nYet, to enable them to attain to their present imperfect state of\ncivilisation, how much time has had to elapse? Even as many years as\nthe world can number from its origin to the existing age. Again, almost\nall the inventions which have been of greatest use or importance in the\nadvancement of civilisation have originated rather fortuitously than\nrationally. Hence, human civilisation is a work of chance rather than\nnature, and where opportunity has been lacking, the people are still\nbarbarians, though on the same level of age as civilised people.\n\nConsequently I make the following deductions: that man in the savage\nstate is many degrees inferior to every other animal; that civilisation\nas compared with barbarism is only possessed even in the present day\nby a small portion of the human race; that these privileged people\nhave only reached their existing state of culture after the lapse of\nmany ages, and more by chance than anything else; and finally, that\nthe present state of civilisation is imperfect. Consider, therefore,\nwhether your opinion about the human race would not be better expressed\nin saying, that it is chief among races, but supreme rather in\nimperfection than perfection. It does not affect the case that men\nthemselves, in talking and reasoning, continually confuse perfection\nand imperfection, arguing as they do from certain preconceived notions,\nwhich they take for palpable truths. It is certain that the other\nraces of creatures were each from the very beginning in a state of\nperfection. And, since it is clear that man in a savage state compares\nunfavourably with other animals, I do not understand how beings,\nnaturally the most imperfect among the races, as it seems men are, come\nto be esteemed superior to all others.\n\nAdded to which, human civilisation, so difficult to acquire, and almost\nimpossible to perfect, is not so immutable that it cannot relapse.\nIn fact, we find it has done so several times, among people who once\npossessed a high degree of culture.\n\nIn conclusion, I think your brother Epimetheus would have gained the\nprize before you, had he brought to the judges his model of the first\nass, or first frog. I will, however, quite agree with you as to the\nperfection of man, if you on your part will admit that his excellence\nis of the kind attributed to the world by Plotinus. This philosopher\nsays the world in itself is supremely perfect, but containing as it\ndoes every conceivable evil, it is in reality as bad as can be. From\nthe same point of view, I might perhaps agree with Leibnitz, that the\npresent world is the best of all possible worlds.\n\nThere can be no doubt that Prometheus had prepared a concise and\ncrushing reply to all this reasoning; but it is very certain he did not\ngive it expression, for just then they found themselves over the city\nof London. The gods descended, and seeing a great many people rushing\nto the door of a private house, they mixed with the crowd, and entered\nthe building. Within, they found a dead man, who had been shot in the\nbreast, laid out on a bed. He had a pistol clenched in his right hand,\nand by his side lay two children, also dead. There were several people\nof the house in the room, who were being questioned by magistrates,\nwhile an official wrote down their replies.\n\n_Prom_. Who are these unfortunate beings?\n\n_Servant_. My master and his children.\n\n_Prom_. Who has killed them?\n\n_Servant_. My master himself.\n\n_Prom_. What! Do you mean to say he killed his children and himself?\n\n_Servant_. Yes.\n\n_Prom_. Alas! Why did he do that? Surely some great misfortune must\nhave befallen him.\n\n_Servant_. None that I know of.\n\n_Prom_. Perhaps he was poor, or despised by every one, unfortunate in\nlove, or in disgrace at court.\n\n_Servant_. On the contrary, he was very rich, and I believe universally\nesteemed. He cared nothing about love, and was in high favour at court.\n\n_Prom_. Then why has he done this thing?\n\n_Servant_. He was weary of life,--so he says in the writing he has left.\n\n_Prom_. What are these judges doing?\n\n_Servant_. Taking evidence as to whether my master was out of his mind\nor not. Unless he is proved to have been insane, his goods fall to the\ncrown by law; and really there is nothing to prevent their so doing.\n\n_Prom_. But had he no friend or relative to whom he could entrust his\nchildren instead of killing them?\n\n_Servant_. Yes, he had; and especially one friend, to whom he has\ncommended his dog.[2]\n\nMomus was about to congratulate Prometheus on the good effects of\ncivilisation, and the happiness that seemed to be inseparable from\nhuman life. He wished also to remind him that no animal except man\nvoluntarily killed itself, or was impelled by feelings of despair to\ntake the life of its own offspring. But Prometheus anticipated him, and\npaid the bet at once, without visiting the two remaining parts of the\nworld.\n\n\n[Footnote 1: See Robertson's _Hist. of America_, Book VI.]\n\n[Footnote 2: A fact.]\n\n\n\n\n_DIALOGUE BETWEEN A NATURAL PHILOSOPHER AND A METAPHYSICIAN_\n\n\n_Natural Philosopher_. Eureka! Eureka!\n\n_Metaphysician_. What is it? What have you found?\n\n_Nat. Phil._ The art of long life.[1]\n\n_Met_. And the book that you carry?\n\n_Nat. Phil_. Explains my theory. This invention of mine will give me\neternal life. Others may live long, but I shall live for ever. I mean\nthat I shall acquire immortal fame.\n\n_Met_. Follow my advice. Get a leaden casket; enclose therein your\nbook; bury it; and leave in your will directions where it may be found,\nwith instructions to your heirs not to exhume the book until they shall\nhave discovered the art of living a happy life.\n\n_Nat. Phil_. And meanwhile?\n\n_Met_. Meanwhile your invention will be good for nothing. It were far\nbetter if it taught the art of living briefly.\n\n_Nat. Phil_. That has already been known a long time. The discovery\nwas not a difficult one. _Met_. At any rate I prefer it to yours. _Nat\nPhil_. Why?\n\n_Met_. Because if life be not happy, as hitherto it has not been, it\nwere better to endure a short term of it than a long one.\n\n_Nat. Phil_. No, no. I differ from you. Life is a good in itself, and\nis naturally desired and loved by every one.\n\n_Met_. So men think. But they are deceived. Similarly people deceive\nthemselves in thinking that colours are attributes of the objects\ncoloured; whereas really they are not qualities of objects, but\nof light. I assert that man loves and desires nothing but his own\nhappiness. He therefore loves his life only inasmuch as he esteems it\nthe instrument or subject of his happiness. Hence it is happiness that\nhe always loves, and not life; although he very often attributes to the\none the affection he has for the other. It is true that this illusion\nand that relating to colours are both natural. But as a proof that the\nlove of life in men is unnatural, or rather unnecessary, think of the\nmany people that in olden times preferred to die rather than live.\nIn our own time too many people often wish for death, and some kill\nthemselves. Now such things could not occur if man naturally loved life\nitself. The love of happiness, on the contrary, is innate in every\nliving being; indeed the world would perish before they ceased loving\nand seeking it in every possible form. And as for your assertion that\nlife in itself is a good thing, I challenge you to prove your words by\nany arguments you please, whether of physics or metaphysics. Personally\nI am of opinion that a happy life is undoubtedly a good thing. But this\nis because of the happiness, not the life. An unhappy life is therefore\nan evil. And since it is ordained that human life should be inseparable\nfrom unhappiness, I leave you to draw your own conclusions.\n\n_Nat. Phil_. Let us drop the subject, if you please; it is too\nmelancholy. Answer me one question candidly, and without such\nsubtleties. If man had the power to live for ever, I mean in this\nlife and not after death, do you think he would be happy?\n\n_Met_. Allow me to answer you by a fable. Moreover, as I have never\ntasted immortality, I cannot reply to you from experience. Besides, I\nhave never by any chance met an immortal, the very existence of whom\nis a mere matter of legend. If Cagliostro were alive, he could perhaps\nenlighten you, since he was said to have lived for several centuries.\nBut he is now dead, like his contemporaries.\n\nTo return to the fable. The wise Chiro, who was a god, in time became\nso wearied of his life, that he asked permission from Jove to die.\nThis was granted to him; so he died.[2] If immortality wrought such\nan effect on the gods, how would it be with men? The Hyperboreans, an\nunknown but famous people, whose country is inaccessible by sea or\nland, were, it is said, rich in all manner of things, and possessed\na race of asses of peculiar beauty, which they used to offer as\nsacrifices. They had the power, unless I am mistaken, of living for\never, and knew nothing of fatigues, cares, wars, discords, or crimes.\nYet we learn that after several thousand years of life, they all killed\nthemselves by jumping from a certain rock into the sea, where they were\ndrowned.[3] Here is another legend. The brothers Biton and Cleobus,\nat a festival, when the mules were not ready, attached themselves to\nthe chariot of their mother, who was a priestess of Juno, and drew her\nto the temple. Touched by their devotion, the priestess asked Juno to\nreward her sons for their piety by the greatest gift possible for men\nto receive. The goddess caused them both to die peacefully within an\nhour, instead of giving them immortality, as they had expected.\n\nThe same happened to Agamede and Trophonius. When these two men had\nfinished the temple of Delphi, they begged Apollo to reward them. The\ngod asked them to wait seven days, at the end of which time he would\ndo so. On the seventh night he sent them a sweet sleep from which they\nhave never awakened. They are so satisfied with their recompense that\nthey have asked nothing more.\n\nOn the subject of legends, here is one which introduces a question I\nwould have you answer. I know that by you and your colleagues human\nlife is generally considered to be, as a rule, of an uniformly average\nduration: this in all countries and under all climates. But Pliny\nrelates that the men of some parts of India and Ethiopia do not exceed\nthe age of forty years. They who die at this age are considered very\nold. Their children marry at seven years of age: and this statement\nis verified by the custom in Guinea, the Deccan, and elsewhere in the\ntorrid zone. Now, regarding it as true that these people do not live\nmore than forty years (and this as a natural limit, and not due to\nartificial circumstances), I ask you whether you imagine their lot\nought to be considered more or less happy than that of others?\n\n_Nat. Phil_. Undoubtedly, more miserable, since they die so soon.\n\n_Met_. I am of the contrary opinion for the very same reason. But that\ndoes not matter. Give me your attention for a moment. I deny that\nlife itself, _i.e._, the mere sensation of existence, has anything\npleasurable or desirable in its nature. But we all wish for the other\nthing, also called life; I mean strength, and numerous sensations.\nThus, all activity, and every strong and lively passion, provided it\nbe neither disagreeable nor painful, pleases us simply because it is\nstrong and lively, although it possess no other pleasurable attributes.\n\nNow these men, whose life normally lasts only forty years, that is,\nhalf the time granted by nature to other men, would experience every\nmoment an intensity of life, twice as strong as ours, because their\ngrowth, maturity, and decline are accomplished twice as rapidly as with\nus. Their energy of life therefore ought to be twice as intense as ours\nat every moment of their existence. And to this greater intensity there\nmust correspond a more lively activity of the will, more vivacity and\nanimation. Thus they experience in less time the same quantity of life\nas we have. And the fewer years that these favoured people spend on\nthe earth are so well filled that there is no sensible vacuum; whereas\nthis same quantity of life is insufficient to vivify a term twice as\nlong. Their actions and sensations, diffused over so limited a space,\ncan duly occupy all their existence; but our longer life is constantly\ndivided by protracted intervals devoid of all activity and lively\npassion. And since existence itself is in no sense desirable, but\nonly in so far as it is happy; and since good or evil fortune is not\nmeasurable by the number of our days; I conclude that the life of these\npeople, though shorter than ours, is much the richer in pleasures, or\nwhat are so called. Their life must then be preferable to ours, or\neven to that of the earliest kings of Assyria, Egypt, China, India,\nand other countries, who are said to have lived thousands of years. So\nthat, far from being desirous of immortality, I am content to leave it\nto fishes, which are by Leeuwenhoek believed to be immortal, provided\nthey are neither eaten by us nor their fellows. Instead of delaying the\ndevelopment of the body, in order to lengthen life, as Maupertuis[4]\nproposed, I would rather accelerate it until the duration of our life\nwas as short as that of the insects called ephemerals; which insects,\nalthough the most aged does not live beyond a single day, nevertheless\npreside over three generations before they die. If it were so, then\nthere would at least be no time for ennui.\n\nWhat do you think of my reasoning?\n\n_Nat. Phil_. It does not persuade me. I know that you love metaphysics,\nwhereas I for my part hold to physics. To your subtleties, I oppose\nsimple common sense, which is sufficient for me. Thus, I venture to\nassert, without appealing to the microscope, that life is better than\ndeath. Judging between the two, I would give the apple to the former,\nwithout troubling them to strip for the contest.\n\n_Met_. And I would do the same. But when I call to mind the custom of\nthose barbarians, who, for every unhappy day of their lives, used to\nthrow a black stone into a quiver, and for every happy day a white one,\nI cannot help thinking how few white stones compared to the black ones\nwould be found therein on the death of the proprietor of the quiver.\nPersonally, I should like to have now all the stones representing the\ndays of life yet remaining to me, and permission to separate them,\nthrowing away all-the black ones and retaining only those that were\nwhite; even though the number of the latter was exceedingly small, and\ntheir colour a doubtful white.\n\n_Nat. Phil_. Many people, on the contrary, would be glad to increase\nthe number of their black stones, even though they were blacker than\nthey naturally would be; because they always, in their minds, dread the\nlast as the blackest of all. And such people, of whom I am one, will\nreally be able to add many stones to their normal quantity, if they\nfollow out the instructions contained in my book.\n\n_Met_. Every one thinks and works in his own way. Death also will not\nfail to do the same. But if you wish, in prolonging man's life; really\nto be of service to him, discover an art to increase the number and\nstrength of sensations, and their effects. This would be a genuine\naugmentation of human life, for it would fill up those long intervals\nof time, during which we vegetate rather than live. You could then\nboast of having truly prolonged human life; and without having sought\nafter the impossible, or used violence to natural laws; rather, by\nhaving strengthened them. For does it not seem as though the ancients\nwere more full of life than we are, in spite of the many and great\ndangers by which they were surrounded, and which generally shortened\ntheir existence?\n\nYou will thus render a real service to man, whose life is, I will not\nsay more happy, but certainly less unhappy, when it is better occupied\nand more violently agitated, without pain or discomfort. When, on the\nother hand, existence is so full of idleness and ennui as to be justly\ntermed empty, the saying of Pyrrhus, \"there is no difference between\nlife and death,\" is literally realised. Were this saying true, I should\nbe in no slight terror of death.\n\nBut finally, unless life be active and vigorous, it is not true life,\nand death is far preferable to it.\n\n\n[Footnote 1: See _Instruction in the Art of Long Life_, by Hufeland.]\n\n[Footnote 2: See Lucian, Dial. Menip. and Chiro.]\n\n[Footnote 3: See Pindar, Strabo, and Pliny.]\n\n[Footnote 4: See _Lettres Philosophiques_: let. 11.]\n\n\n\n\n_DIALOGUE BETWEEN TASSO AND HIS FAMILIAR SPIRIT_[1]\n\n\n_Spirit_. Ah, Torquato. How are you?\n\n_Tasso_. As well as it is possible to be, when in prison, and up to the\nneck in misfortunes.\n\n_Spirit_. Courage! After supper is not the time to be sorrowful. Cheer\nup, and let us laugh at your griefs.\n\n_Tasso_. I am little inclined for that. But somehow your presence and\nconversation always do me good. Come and sit down by me.\n\n_Spirit_. How can I sit? Such a thing is not easy for a spirit. But\nwhat does it matter? Consider that I am seated.\n\n_Tasso_. Oh, that I could see my Leonora again! Whenever I think of\nher, I feel a thrill of joy that reaches from the crown of my head to\nthe extremity of my feet, and all my nerves and veins are pervaded with\nit. My mind, too, becomes inflamed with certain imaginings and longings\nthat seem for the time to transform me. I cannot think that I am the\nTorquato who has experienced so much misfortune, and I often mourn\nfor myself as though I were dead. Truly, it would seem that worldly\nfriction and suffering are wont to overwhelm and lethargise our first\nnature within each of us. This from time to time awakens for a brief\nspace, but less frequently as we grow older, when it always withdraws,\nand falls into an increasingly sound sleep. Finally, it dies, although\nour life still continues. In short, I marvel how the thought of a woman\nshould have sufficient power to rejuvenate the mind, and make it forget\nso many troubles. Had I not lost all hope of seeing Leonora again, I\ncould almost believe I might still succeed in being happy.\n\n_Spirit_. Which do you consider the more delightful, to see the dear\nwoman, or to think of her?\n\n_Tasso_. I do not know. It is true when near me she seemed only a\nwoman; at a distance, however, she was like a goddess.\n\n_Spirit_. These goddesses are so amiable that when one approaches you,\nshe instantaneously puts off her divinity, and pockets her halo of\ngreatness for fear of dazzling the mortal to whom she appears.\n\n_Tasso_. There is only too much truth in what you say. But do you not\nthink it is a great failing in women that they prove really to be so\nvery different from what we imagine?\n\n_Spirit_. I scarcely think it is their fault that they are, like us,\nmade of flesh and blood, instead of ambrosia and nectar. What in the\nworld has a thousandth part of the perfection with which your fancy\nendows women? It surprises me that you are not astonished to find that\nmen are men, that is, creatures of little merit and amiability, since\nyou cannot understand why women are not really angels.\n\n_Tasso_. In spite of all this, I am dying to see her again.\n\n_Spirit_. Compose yourself. This very night you shall dream of her. I\nwill lead her to you, beautiful as youth, and so kindly disposed that\nyou will be encouraged to speak to her much more freely and readily\nthan in former times. You will be induced at length to take her by the\nhand, and she, looking intently at you, will surfeit your soul with\nsweetness. And to-morrow, whenever you think of the dream, your heart\nwill overflow with affection.\n\n_Tasso_. What a consolation! A dream instead of the truth.\n\n_Spirit_. What is truth?\n\n_Tasso_. I am as ignorant on the subject as Pilate was.\n\n_Spirit_. Well, I will tell you. Between truth or reality, and a dream\nthere is this difference--the latter is much the finer thing of the two.\n\n_Tasso_. What! The pleasure of a dream worth more than a real pleasure?\n\n_Spirit_. It is. As an instance, I know a man who studiously avoids\nmeeting his sweetheart the following day after she has appeared to\nhim in a dream. He knows full well that he would not find in her all\nthe charms with which she was endowed in the dream, and that reality,\ndispelling the illusion, would deprive him of the pleasure he felt.\nThe ancients too, who were much more diligent and skilful in their\nsearch after all the enjoyments possible for man to have, did wisely\nin endeavouring by various means to realise the sweetness and pleasure\nof dreams. Pythagoras also was right when he forbad the eating of\nbeans for supper; these vegetables producing a dreamless or troubled\nsleep.[2] I could also find excuse for those superstitious people who\nwere wont, before going to bed, to invoke the aid of Mercury, the\npresident of dreams. They offered sacrifice to him that he might grant\nthem happy dreams, and used to keep an image of the god at the foot\nof their bed. Thus it was that being unable to procure any happiness\nduring the day, people sought it in the night-time. I am of opinion\nthat they were in a measure successful, and that Mercury paid more\nattention to their prayers than was the custom of the other gods.\n\n_Tasso_. But, since men live for nothing but pleasure, whether of mind\nor body, if this pleasure can only be found when we dream, it follows\nthat we live for no other purpose but to dream. Now I really cannot\nadmit that.\n\n_Spirit_. You already admit it, inasmuch as you live, and are willing\nto live. But what is pleasure?\n\n_Tasso_. My acquaintance with it is too slight to enable me to answer\nyou.\n\n_Spirit_. No one has any real acquaintance with it, because pleasure\nis not a reality, but a conception. It is a desire, not a fact. A\nsentiment, imagined not experienced; or, better, it is a conception,\nand not a sentiment at all. Do you not perceive that even in the very\nmoment of enjoyment, however ardently it may have been longed for or\npainfully acquired, your mind, not deriving complete satisfaction from\nthe happiness, anticipates at some future time a greater and more\ncomplete enjoyment? It is expectation that constitutes pleasure. Thus,\nyou never weary of placing reliance on some pleasure of the future,\nwhich melts away just when you expect to enjoy it. The truth is, you\npossess nothing but the hope of a more complete enjoyment at some\nother time; and the satisfaction of imagining that you have had some\nenjoyment, and of talking about it to others, less because you are\nvain than to persuade yourself that the illusion is a reality. Hence,\neveryone that consents to live makes this fugitive dream his aim in\nlife. He believes in the reality of past and future enjoyment, both of\nwhich beliefs are false and fanciful.\n\n_Tasso_. Then is it impossible for a man to believe that he is actually\nhappy?\n\n_Spirit_. If such a belief were possible, his happiness would be\ngenuine. But tell me: do you ever remember having been able at any\nmoment in your life to say sincerely, \"I am happy\"? Doubtless you have\ndaily been able to say, and have said in all sincerity, \"I shall be\nhappy;\" and often too, though less sincerely, \"I have been happy.\"\nThus, pleasure is always either a thing of the past, or the future,\nnever the present.\n\n_Tasso_. You may as well say it is non-existent.\n\n_Spirit_. So it seems.\n\n_Tasso_. Even in dreams?\n\n_Spirit_. Even in dreams, considering pleasure in its true sense.\n\n_Tasso_. And yet pleasure is the sole object and aim of life! By the\nterm pleasure I mean the happiness which ought to be a consequence of\npleasure.\n\n_Spirit_. Assuredly.\n\n_Tasso_. Then our life, being deprived of its real aim, must always be\nimperfect, and existence itself unnatural.\n\n_Spirit_. Perhaps.\n\n_Tasso_. There is no perhaps in the matter. But why is it that we live?\nI mean, why do we consent to live?\n\n_Spirit_. How should I know? You yourselves ought to know better than I.\n\n_Tasso_. I assure you I do not know.\n\n_Spirit_. Ask some one wiser than yourself. Perhaps he may be able to\nsatisfy you.\n\n_Tasso_. I will do so. But certainly, the life that I lead is an\nunnatural state, because apart from my sufferings, ennui alone murders\nme.\n\n_Spirit_. What is ennui?\n\n_Tasso_. As to this, I can answer from experience. Ennui seems to me of\nthe nature of atmosphere, which fills up the spaces between material\nbodies, and also the voids in the bodies themselves. Whenever a body\ndisappears, and is not replaced by another, air fills up the gap\nimmediately. So too, in human life, the intervals between pleasures\nand pains are occupied by ennui. And since in the material world,\naccording to the Peripatetics, there can be no vacuum, so also in our\nlife there is none, save when for some cause or other the mind loses\nits power of thought. At all other times the mind, considered as a\nseparate identity from the body, is occupied with some sentiment. If\nvoid of pleasure or pain, it is full of ennui; for this last is also a\nsentiment like pleasure and pain.\n\n_Spirit_. And, since all your pleasures are like cobwebs, exceedingly\nfragile, thin and transparent, ennui penetrates their tissue, and\nsaturates them, just as air penetrates the webs. I believe ennui is\nreally nothing but the desire of happiness, without the illusion of\npleasure and the suffering of pain. This desire, we have said, is never\ncompletely satisfied, since true pleasure does not exist. So that human\nlife may be said to be interwoven with pain and ennui, and one of these\nsentiments disappears only to give place to the other. This is the fate\nof all men, and not of yourself alone.\n\n_Tasso_. What remedy is there for ennui?\n\n_Spirit_. Sleep, opium, and pain. The last is the best of the three,\nbecause he who suffers never experiences ennui.\n\n_Tasso_. I would rather submit to ennui for the rest of my life, than\ntake such medicine. But its force and strength may be diminished by\naction, work, and even other sentiments; though these do not entirely\nfree us from ennui, since they are unable to give us real pleasure.\nHere in prison however, deprived of human society, without even the\nmeans of writing, reduced for an amusement to counting the ticks of the\nclock, looking at the beams, cracks, and nails of the ceiling, thinking\nabout the pavement stones, and watching the gnats and flies which flit\nacross my cell, I have nothing to relieve for a moment my burden of\nennui.\n\n_Spirit_. How long have you been reduced to this kind of life?\n\n_Tasso_. For many weeks, as you know.\n\n_Spirit_. Have you felt no variation in the ennui which oppresses you,\nfrom the first day until now?\n\n_Tasso_. Yes. I felt it more at first. Gradually my mind is becoming\naccustomed to its own society; I derive more and more pleasure from\nmy solitude, and by practice I am acquiring so great a readiness in\nconversation, or rather chattering to myself, that I seem to have in my\nhead a company of talkative people, and the most trifling object is now\nsufficient to give rise to endless discourse.\n\n_Spirit_. This habit will grow on you daily to such an extent, that\nwhen you are free, you will feel more idle in society than in solitude.\nCustom has made you bear patiently your kind of life, and the same\ninfluence works not only in people who meditate like you, but in\neveryone. Besides, the very fact that you are separated from men, and\neven, it may be said, from life itself, will be of some advantage to\nyou. Disgusted and wearied with human affairs, as you are from your sad\nexperience, you will in time begin to look on them, from a distance,\nwith an appreciative eye. In your solitude they will appear to you more\nbeautiful, and worthy of affection. You will forget their vanity and\nmisery, and will take upon yourself to re-create the world as you would\nhave it. Consequently, you will value, desire, and love life. And,\nprovided there be the possibility or certainty of your return to human\nsociety some day, your new aspect of life will fill and gladden your\nmind with a joy like that of childhood.\n\nSolitude does indeed sometimes act like a second youth. It rejuvenates\nthe soul, revives the imagination, and renews in an experienced man\nthose impressions of early innocence that you so ardently desire.\nBut your eyes seem heavy with sleep: I will now therefore leave you\nto prepare the fine dream I promised you. Thus between dreams and\nfancies, your life shall pass without other gain than the fact of its\npassing, which is the sole benefit of life. To hasten it should be the\none aim of your existence. You are often obliged to cling to life, as\nit were with your teeth; happy will be the day when death releases\nyou from the struggle. But after all, time passes as tediously with\nyour persecutor in his palace and gardens, as with you in your prison\nchamber. Adieu.\n\n_Tasso_. Adieu, yet stay a moment. Your conversation always enlivens\nme. It does not draw me from my sadness, but my mind, which is\ngenerally comparable to a dark night, moonless and starless, changes\nwhen you are near to a condition like that of a grey dawn, pleasurable\nrather than otherwise. Now tell me how I can find you in case I want\nyou at some future time.\n\n_Spirit_. Do you not yet know?--In any generous liquor.\n\n\n\n[Footnote 1: Tasso, during his mental hallucinations, used to fancy,\nlike Socrates, that he was visited by a friendly spirit, with which he\nwould hold long conversations. Manso, in his life of Tasso, mentions\nthis, and states that he was once present during such a colloquy or\nsoliloquy between Tasso and his imagined companion.]\n\n[Footnote 2: Apollonius, _Hist. Comment_., cap. 46, &c.]\n\n\n\n\n_DIALOGUE BETWEEN NATURE AND AN ICELANDER._\n\n\nAn Icelander who had travelled over most of the earth, and had lived\nin very many different lands, found himself one day in the heart of\nAfrica. As he crossed the equator in a place never before penetrated\nby man, he had an adventure like that which happened to Vasco di Gama,\nwho, when passing the Cape of Good Hope, was opposed by two giants, the\nguardians of the southern seas, that tried to prevent his entrance into\nthe new waters.[1] The Icelander saw in the distance a huge bust, in\nappearance like the colossal Hermes he had formerly seen in the Isle\nof Pasqua. At first he thought it was made of stone, but as he drew\nnear to it he saw that the head belonged to an enormous woman, who was\nseated on the ground, resting her back against a mountain. The figure\nwas alive, and had a countenance both magnificent and terrible, and\neyes and hair of a jet black colour. She looked fixedly at him for a\nlong time in silence. At length she said:\n\n_Nature_. Who art thou? What doest thou here, where thy race is unknown?\n\n_Icelander_. I am a poor Icelander, fleeing from Nature. I have fled\nfrom her ever since I was a child, through a hundred different parts of\nthe world, and I am fleeing from her now.\n\n_Nature_. So flees the squirrel from the rattlesnake, and runs in its\nhaste deliberately into the mouth of its tormentor. I am that from\nwhich thou fleest.\n\n_Icelander_. Nature?\n\n_Nature_. Even so.\n\n_Icelander_. I am smitten with anguish, for I consider no worse\nmisfortune could befall me.\n\n_Nature_. Thou mightest well have imagined that I was to be found in\ncountries where my power is supremest. But why dost thou shun me?\n\n_Icelander_. You must know that from my earliest youth, experience\nconvinced me of the vanity of life, and the folly of men. I saw these\nlatter ceaselessly struggling for pleasures that please not, and\npossessions that do not satisfy. I saw them inflict on themselves, and\nvoluntarily suffer, infinite pains, which, unlike the pleasures, were\nonly too genuine. In short, the more ardently they sought happiness,\nthe further they seemed removed from it. These things made me determine\nto abandon every design, to live a life of peace and obscurity, harming\nno one, striving in nought to better my condition, and contesting\nnothing with anyone. I despaired of happiness, which I regarded as a\nthing withheld from our race, and my only aim was to shield myself\nfrom suffering. Not that I had the least intention of abstaining from\nwork, or bodily labour; for there is as great a difference between mere\nfatigue and pain,[2] as between a peaceful and an idle life.\n\nBut when I began to carry out my project, I learnt from experience how\nfallacious it is to think that one can live inoffensively amongst men\nwithout offending them. Though I always gave them precedence, and took\nthe smallest part of everything, I found neither rest nor happiness\namong them. However, this I soon remedied. By avoiding men I freed\nmyself from their persecutions. I took refuge in solitude--easily\nobtainable in my native island. Having done this, I lived without a\nshadow of enjoyment; yet I found I had not escaped all suffering.\nThe intense cold of the long winter, and the extreme heat of summer,\ncharacteristic of the country, allowed me no cessation from pain. And\nwhen, to warm myself, I passed much time by the fire, I was scorched by\nthe flames, and blinded by the smoke. I suffered continuously, whether\nin the open air, or in the shelter of my cabin. In short, I failed to\nobtain that life of peace which was my one desire. Terrible storms,\nHecla's menaces and rumblings, and the constant fires which occur among\nthe wooden houses of my country, combined to keep me in a state of\nperpetual disquietude. Such annoyances as these, trivial though they be\nwhen the mind is distracted by the thoughts and actions of social and\ncivil life, are intensified by solitude. I endured them all, together\nwith the hopeless monotony of my existence, solely in order to obtain\nthe tranquillity I desired. I perceived that the more I isolated myself\nfrom men, and confined me to my own little sphere, the less I succeeded\nin protecting myself from the discomforts and sufferings of the outer\nworld.\n\nThen I determined to try other climates and countries, to see if\nanywhere I could live in peace, harming no one, and exist without\nsuffering, if also without pleasure. I was urged to this by the thought\nthat perhaps you had destined for the human race a certain part of the\nearth (as you have for many animals and plants), where alone they could\nlive in comfort. In which case it was our own fault if we suffered\ninconvenience from having exceeded our natural boundaries. I have\ntherefore been over the whole earth, testing every country, and always\nfulfilling my intention of troubling others in the least possible\ndegree, and seeking nothing for myself but a life of tranquillity.\nBut in vain. The tropical sun burnt me; the Arctic cold froze me; in\ntemperate regions the changeability of the weather troubled me; and\neverywhere I have experienced the fury of the elements. I have been in\nplaces where not a day passes without a storm, and where you, O Nature,\nare incessantly at war with simple people who have never done you any\nharm. In other places cloudless skies are compensated for by frequent\nearthquakes, active volcanoes, and subterranean commotions. Elsewhere\nhurricanes and whirlwinds take the place of other scourges. Sometimes\nI have heard the roof over my head groan with the burden of snow that\nit supported; at other times the earth, saturated with rain, has broken\naway beneath my feet. Rivers have burst their banks, and pursued me,\nfleeing at full speed, as though I were an enemy. Wild beasts tried\nto devour me, without the least provocation on my part. Serpents have\nsought to poison or crush me; and I have been nearly killed by insects.\nI make no mention of the daily hazards by which man is surrounded.\nThese last are so numerous that an ancient philosopher[3] laid down a\nrule, that to resist the constant influence of fear, it were well to\nfear everything.\n\nAgain, sickness has not failed to torment me, though invariably\ntemperate, and even abstemious, in all bodily pleasures. In truth, our\nnatural constitution is an admirably arranged affair! You inspire us\nwith a strong and incessant yearning for pleasure, deprived of which\nour life is imperfect; and on the other hand you ordain that nothing\nshould be more opposed to physical health and strength, more calamitous\nin its effects, and more incompatible with the duration of life itself,\nthan this same pleasure. But although I indulged in no pleasures,\nnumerous diseases attacked me, some of which endangered my life, and\nothers the use of my limbs, thus threatening me with even an access of\nmisery. All, during many days or months, caused me to experience a\nthousand bodily and mental pangs. And, whereas in sickness we endure\nnew and extraordinary sufferings, as though our ordinary life were\nnot sufficiently unhappy; you do not compensate for this by giving us\nequally exceptional periods of health and strength, and consequent\nenjoyment. In regions where the snow never melts, I lost my sight; this\nis an ordinary occurrence among the Laplanders in their cold country.\nThe sun and air, things necessary for life, and therefore unavoidable,\ntrouble us continually; the latter by its dampness or severity, the\nformer by its heat, and even its light; and to neither of them can\nman remain exposed without suffering more or less inconvenience or\nharm. In short, I cannot recollect a single day during which I have\nnot suffered in some way; whereas, on the other hand, the days that\nhave gone by without a shadow of enjoyment are countless. I conclude\ntherefore that we are destined to suffer much in proportion as we enjoy\nlittle, and that it is as impossible to live peacefully as happily. I\nalso naturally come to the conclusion that you are the avowed enemy of\nmen, and all other creatures of your creation. Sometimes alluring, at\nother times menacing; now attacking, now striking, now pursuing, now\ndestroying; you are always engaged in tormenting us. Either by habit or\nnecessity you are the enemy of your own family, and the executioner of\nyour own flesh and blood. As for me, I have lost all hope. Experience\nhas proved to me that though it be possible to escape from men and\ntheir persecutions, it is impossible to evade you, who will never\ncease tormenting us until you have trodden us under foot. Old age,\nwith all its bitterness, and sorrows, and accumulation of troubles, is\nalready near to me. This worst of evils you have destined for us and\nall created beings, from the time of infancy. From the fifth lustre of\nlife, decline makes itself manifest; its progress we are powerless to\nstay. Scarce a third of life is spent in the bloom of youth; but few\nmoments are claimed by maturity; all the rest is one gradual decay,\nwith its attendant evils.\n\n_Nature_. Thinkest thou then that the world was made for thee? It is\ntime thou knewest that in my designs, operations, and decrees, I never\ngave a thought to the happiness or unhappiness of man. If I cause you\nto suffer, I am unaware of the fact; nor do I perceive that I can in\nany way give you pleasure. What I do is in no sense done for your\nenjoyment or benefit, as you seem to think. Finally, if I by chance\nexterminated your species, I should not know it.\n\n_Icelander_. Suppose a stranger invited me to his house in a most\npressing manner, and I, to oblige him, accepted his invitation. On my\narrival he took me to a damp and unhealthy place, and lodged me in a\nchamber open to the air, and so ruinous that it threatened momentarily\nto collapse and crush me. Far from endeavouring to amuse me, and make\nme comfortable, he neglected to provide me with even the necessaries\nof life. And more than this. Suppose my host caused me to be insulted,\nridiculed, threatened, and beaten by his sons and household. And on my\ncomplaining to him of such ill-treatment, he replied: \"Dost thou think\nI made this house for thee? Do I keep these my children and servants\nfor thy service? I assure thee I have other things to occupy me, than\nthat I should amuse thee, or give thee welcome.\" To which I answered:\n\"Well, my friend, though you may not have built your house especially\nfor me, at least you might have forborne to ask me hither. And, since I\nowe it to you that I am here, ought I not to rely on you to assure me,\nif possible, a life free from trouble and danger?\"\n\nThus I reply to you. I am well aware you did not make the world for the\nservice of men. It were easier to believe that you made it expressly\nas a place of torment for them. But tell me: why am I here at all? Did\nI ask to come into the world? Or am I here unnaturally, contrary to\nyour will? If however, you yourself have placed me here, without giving\nme the power of acceptance or refusal of this gift of life, ought you\nnot as far as possible to try and make me happy, or at least preserve\nme from the evils and dangers, which render my sojourn a painful one?\nAnd what I say of myself, I say of the whole human race, and of every\nliving creature.\n\n_Nature_. Thou forgettest that the life of the world is a perpetual\ncycle of production and destruction, so combined that the one works\nfor the good of the other. By their joint operation the universe is\npreserved. If either ceased, the world would dissolve. Therefore, if\nsuffering were removed from the earth, its own existence would be\nendangered.\n\n_Icelander_. So say all the philosophers. But since that which is\ndestroyed suffers, and that which is born from its destruction also\nsuffers in due course, and finally is in its turn destroyed, would you\nenlighten me on one point, about which hitherto no philosopher has\nsatisfied me? For whose pleasure and service is this wretched life of\nthe world maintained, by the suffering and death of all the beings\nwhich compose it?\n\nWhilst they discussed these and similar questions, two lions are said\nto have suddenly appeared. The beasts were so enfeebled and emaciated\nwith hunger that they were scarcely able to devour the Icelander. They\naccomplished the feat however, and thus gained sufficient strength to\nlive to the end of the day.\n\nBut certain people dispute this fact. They affirm that a violent wind\nhaving arisen, the unfortunate Icelander was blown to the ground,\nand soon overwhelmed beneath a magnificent mausoleum of sand. Here\nhis corpse was remarkably preserved, and in process of time he was\ntransformed into a fine mummy. Subsequently, some travellers discovered\nthe body, and carried it off as a specimen, ultimately depositing it in\none of the museums of Europe.\n\n\n[Footnote 1: Camoens' _Lusiad_, canto 5.]\n\n[Footnote 2: Cicero says: \"Labour and pain are not identical. Labour is\na toil-some function of body or mind--pain an unpleasant disturbance in\nthe body. When they cut Marius' veins, it was pain; when he marched at\nthe head of the troops in a great heat, it was labour.\"--_Tusc. Qu\u00cast._]\n\n[Footnote 3: Seneca, _Natural. Question_: lib. 6, cap. 2.]\n\n\n\n\n_PARINI ON GLORY._\n\n\n\nGIUSEPPE PARINI[1] was in our opinion one of the very few Italians who\nto literary excellence joined depth of thought, and acquaintance with\ncontemporary philosophy. These latter attributes are now so essential\nto the cultivation of the _belles lettres_, that their absence would\nbe inconceivable, did we not find an infinite number of Italian\n_litt\u00c8rateurs_ of the present day, in whom they are wanting.\n\nHe was remarkable for his simplicity, his compassion for the\nunfortunate and his own country, his fidelity, high-mindedness, and the\ncourage with which he bore the adversities of nature and fortune, which\ntormented him during the whole course of his miserable and lowly life.\nDeath however drew him from obscurity.\n\nHe had several disciples, whom he taught, first of all, to gain\nexperience of men and things, and then to amuse themselves with\neloquence and poetry. Among his followers was a youth, lately come to\nhim, of wonderful genius and industry, and of very great promise. To\nhim one day Parini spoke as follows:\n\n\"You seek, my son, the only avenue to glory which is open to people who\nlead a private life, such glory as is sometimes the reward of wisdom,\nand literary and other studies. Now you are not unaware that this\nglory, though far from being despised, was by our greatest ancestors\nheld in less esteem than that derivable from other things. Cicero,\nfor instance, though a most ardent and successful follower of glory,\nfrequently and emphatically makes apology for the time and labour he\nhad spent in its pursuit. On one occasion he states that his literary\nand philosophical studies were secondary to his public life; on\nanother, that being constrained by the wickedness of the age to abandon\nmore important business, he hoped to spend his leisure profitably amid\nthese studies. He invariably rated the glory of his writings at a lower\nvalue than that acquired from his consulship and his labours on behalf\nof the republic.\n\n\"Indeed, if human life be the principal subject of literature, and to\nrule our actions the first lesson of philosophy; there can be no doubt\nthat action itself is as much more important and noble than thoughts\nand writing, as the end is nobler than the means, or as things and\nsubjects in comparison with words and reasoning. For no man, however\nclever he be, is naturally created for study, nor born to write. Action\nalone is natural to him. And we see the majority of fine writers, and\nespecially illustrious poets in the present age (Vittorio Alfieri,\nfor instance), impelled to action in an extraordinary degree. Then,\nif by chance the deeds of these men prove unacceptable, either from\nthe nature of the times or their own ill-fortune, they take up the\npen and write grand things. Nor can people write who have neither the\ndisposition nor power to act. From this you will easily understand why\nso few Italians gain immortal fame by their writings; it is that they\nare by nature unfit for noble actions. Antiquity, especially that of\nthe early Greeks or Romans, is, I think, comparable to the design of\nthe statue of Telesilla, who was a poetess, a warrior, and the saviour\nof her country. She is represented holding her helmet, at which she\nlooks intently and longingly, as though she desired to place it on her\nhead; at her feet lie some books almost disregarded, as forming but an\ninsignificant part of her glory.[2]\n\n\"But men of modern times are differently situated to the ancients.\nGlory is less open to them. They who make studies their vocation in\nlife show the greatest possible magnanimity; nor need they, like\nCicero, apologise to their country for the profession they have chosen.\nI therefore applaud the nobility of your decision. But since a life of\nletters, being unnatural, cannot be lived without injury to the body,\nnor without increasing in many ways the natural infelicity of your\nmind, I regard it as my duty to explain to you the various difficulties\nattendant on the pursuit of that glory towards which you aspire, and\nthe results that will follow success should you attain it. You will\nthen be able to estimate, on the one hand, the importance and value\nof the goal, and your chance of reaching it; and, on the other, the\nsufferings, exertions, and discomforts inseparable from the pursuit.\nThus, you may be better able to decide whether it be expedient to\ncontinue as you have begun, or to seek glory by some other road.\"\n\n\n[Footnote 1: Parini lived 1729-1799. As a philosopher and satirist he\nseems to have exercised no slight influence over the mind of Leopardi.]\n\n[Footnote 2: Pausanias, lib. 2, cap. 20.]\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II.\n\n\"I might first of all say a great deal about the rivalries, envy,\nbitter censures, libels, injustices, schemes and plots against your\ncharacter, both in public and private, and the many other difficulties\nwhich the wickedness of men will induce them to oppose to you in the\npath you have chosen. These obstacles, always very hard to overcome\nand often insuperable, exercise a further influence. It is owing to\nthem that more than one author, not only in life, but even when dead,\nis robbed of the honour that is due to him. Such an one, not having\nbeen famous when alive, because of the hatred or envy with which he\nwas regarded by others, when dead remains in obscurity, because he is\nforgotten; for it rarely happens that a man obtains glory after he has\nceased writing, when there is no one to excite an interest in him.\n\n\"I do not intend to refer to the hindrances which arise from matters\npersonal to the writer, and other more trivial things. Yet it is often\nowing to these latter that writings worthy of the highest praise, and\nthe fruit of infinite exertions, are for ever excluded from fame, or\nhaving been before the world for a short time, fall into oblivion, and\ndisappear entirely from the memory of men. For the same causes other\nwritings, either inferior to or no better than these, become highly\nhonoured. I will merely expose to you the difficulties and troubles\nwhich, apart from the malice of men, will stubbornly contest the\nprize of glory. These embarrassments are of ordinary, not exceptional\noccurrence, and have been experienced by most great writers.\n\n\"You are aware that no one can be called a great writer, nor obtains\ntrue and lasting glory, except by means of excellent and perfect works,\nor such as approach perfection. The following very true utterance of\nCastiglione is worthy of being engraved on your mind:--It is very\nseldom that a person unaccustomed to write, however learned he be, can\nadequately recognise the skill and industry of writers; or appreciate\nthe delicacy and excellence of styles, and those subtle and hidden\nsignifications which abound in the writings of the ancients.'\n\n\"In the first place, consider how very few people practise or learn\nthe art of composition; and think from how small a number of men,\nwhether in the present or the future, you can in any case look for the\nmagnificent estimation which you hope will be the reward of your life.\nConsider, too, how much influence style has in securing appreciation\nfor writings. On this, and their degree of perfection, depends the\nsubsequent fate of all works that come under the heading of 'light\nliterature,' So great is the influence of style, that a book presumably\ncelebrated for its matter often proves valueless when deprived of its\nmanner. Now, language is so interwoven with style that the one can\nhardly be considered apart from the other. Men frequently confuse the\ntwo together, and are often unable to express the distinction between\nthem, if even they are aware of it in the first place. And as for the\nthousand merits and defects of language and style, with difficulty,\nif at all, can they be discerned and assigned to their respective\nproperties. But it is certain, to quote the words of Castiglione, that\nno foreigner is 'accustomed to write' with elegance in your language.\nIt follows therefore that style, which is so great and important a\nnecessity in composition, and a thing of such unaccountable difficulty\nand labour, both in acquirement and usage, can only properly be judged\nand appreciated by the persons who in one single nation are accustomed\nto write. For all other people the boundless exertions attached to the\nformation of style will be almost useless, and as if entirely wasted. I\nwill not refer to the infinite diversities of opinion, and the various\ntendencies of readers; owing to which the number of persons adapted to\nperceive the good qualities of this or that book is still more reduced.\n\n\"You must regard it as an undoubted fact that, in order to distinctly\nrecognise the value of a perfect or nearly perfect work, deserving of\nimmortality, it is not enough merely to be accustomed to write. You\nyourself must be able to accomplish the work in question almost as\nperfectly as the writer himself. And as experience gradually teaches\nyou what qualities constitute a perfect writer, and what an infinity of\ndifficulties must be surmounted before these can be obtained, you will\nlearn how to overcome the latter, and acquire the former; so that in\ntime knowledge and power will prove to be one and the same thing. Hence\na man cannot discern nor fully appreciate the excellence of perfect\nwriters until he is able to give expression to it in his own writings;\nbecause such perfection can only be appreciated by what may be termed\na transference of it into oneself. Until this be done, a man cannot\nreally understand what constitutes perfection in writing, and will\ntherefore be unable to duly admire the best writers.\n\n\"Now most literary men, because they write easily, think they write\nwell; they therefore regard good writing as a facile accomplishment,\neven though they assert the contrary. Think, then, how the number will\nbe reduced of those who might appreciate and laud you when, after\ninconceivable exertions and care, you succeed in producing a noble and\nperfect work. In the present day there are scarcely two or three men in\nItaly who have acquired the art of perfect writing; and although this\nnumber may appear to you excessively small, at no time nor place has it\never been much greater.\n\n\"I often wonder to myself how Virgil, as a supreme example of literary\nperfection, ever acquired the high reputation in which he is now\nheld. For I am certain that most of his readers and eulogisers do not\ndiscover in his poems more than one beauty for every ten or twenty\nrevealed to me by continuous study and meditation. Not that I imagine I\nhave succeeded in estimating him at his proper value, nor have derived\nevery possible enjoyment from his writings. In truth, the esteem and\nadmiration professed for the greatest writers is ordinarily the result\nof a blind predisposition in their favour, rather than the outcome of\nan impartial judgment, or the consequence of a due appreciation of\ntheir merits.\n\n\"When I was young I remember first reading Virgil, being on the one\nhand unbiassed in my judgment, and careless of the opinion of others\n(a very rare thing, by the by); and, on the other hand, as ignorant as\nmost boys of my age, though perhaps not more so than is the unchanging\ncondition of many readers. I refused to admit that Virgil's reputation\nwas merited, since I failed to discover in him much more than is to be\nfound in very ordinary poets. Indeed, it surprises me that Virgil's\nfame should excel that of Lucan. For we see the mass of readers, at\nall times, equally when the literature of the day is of a debasing or\nan elevating tendency, much prefer gross and unmistakable beauties to\nthose that are delicate and half-concealed. They also prefer fervour\nto modesty; often indeed even the apparent to the real; and usually\nmediocrity to perfection.\n\n\"In reading the letters of a certain prince, exceptionally intelligent,\nwhose writing was remarkable for its wit, pleasantry, smoothness, and\nacuteness, I clearly discerned that in his heart he preferred the\nHenriad to the \u2206neid; although the fear of shocking men's sensibilities\nmight deter him from confessing such a preference.\n\n\"I am astonished that the judgment of a few, correct though it be,\nshould have succeeded in controlling that of numbers, and should have\nestablished the custom of an esteem no less blind than just. This,\nhowever, does not always occur, and I imagine that the fame gained by\nthe best writers is rather a matter of chance than merit. My opinion\nmay be confirmed by what I say as we proceed.\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III.\n\n\n\"We have seen how very few people will be able to appreciate you when\nyou succeed in becoming a perfect writer. Now, I wish to indicate\nsome of the hindrances that will prevent even these few from rightly\nestimating your worth, although they see the signs of it.\n\n\"In the first place, there can be no doubt that all writings of\neloquence or poetry are judged, not so much on their merits, as by\nthe effect they produce in the mind of the reader. So that the reader\nmay be said to consider them rather in himself than in themselves.\nConsequently men who are naturally devoid of imagination and\nenthusiasm, though gifted with much intelligence, discernment, and\nno little learning, are almost quite incapable of forming a correct\njudgment of fanciful writings. They cannot in the least immerse their\nminds in the mind of the writer, and usually have within themselves a\nfeeling of contempt for his compositions, because unable to discover\nin what their so great fame consists. Such reading awakens no emotion\nwithin them, nor does it arouse their imagination, or create in them\nany especial sensation of pleasure. And even people who are naturally\ndisposed and inclined to receive the impression of whatever image or\nfancy a writer has properly signified, very often experience a feeling\nof coldness, indifference, languor, or dulness; so that for the time\nthey resemble the persons just mentioned. This change is due to divers\ncauses, internal and external, physical and mental, and is either\ntemporary or lasting. At such times no one, even though himself an\nexcellent writer, is a good judge of writings intended to excite the\naffections or the imagination. Again, there is the danger of satiety\ndue to previous reading of similar writings. Certain passions too, of\nmore or less strength, from time to time invest the mind, leaving no\nroom for the emotions which ought to be excited by the reading. And it\noften happens that places; spectacles, natural or artificial, music;\nand a hundred such things, which would ordinarily excite us, are now\nincapable of arousing or delighting us in the least, although no less\nattractive than formerly.\n\n\"But, though a man, for one or other of these reasons, may be ill\ndisposed to appreciate the effects of eloquence or poetry, he does\nnot for that reason defer judgment of books on both these subjects\nwhich he then happens to read for the first time. I myself sometimes\ntake up Homer, Cicero, or Petrarch, and read without feeling the least\nemotion. Yet, as I am quite aware of the merits of these writers,\nboth because of their reputation, and my own frequent appreciation of\ntheir charms, I do not for a moment think them undeservedly praised\nsimply because I am at present too dull to do them justice. But it is\ndifferent with books read for the first time, which are too new to have\nacquired a reputation. There is nothing in such cases to prevent the\nreader forming a low opinion of the author and the merits of his book,\nif his mind be indisposed to do justice to the sentiments and imagery\ncontained in the work. Nor would it be easy to induce him to alter his\njudgment by subsequent study of the same book under better auspices;\nfor probably the disgust inspired by his first reading will deter him\nfrom a second; and in any case the strength of first impressions will\nbe almost invincible.\n\n\"On the other hand, the mind is sometimes, for one reason or another,\nin such a state of sensibility, vivacity, vigour, and fervour, that\nit follows even the least suggestion of the reading; it feels keenly\nthe slightest touch, and as it reads is able to create within itself\na thousand emotions and fancies, sometimes losing itself in a sort\nof sweet delirium, when it is almost transported out of itself. As a\nnatural result of this, the mind, reviewing the pleasures enjoyed in\nthe reading, and not distinguishing between its own predisposition\nand the actual merits of the book, experiences a feeling of so great\nadmiration, and forms so high a conception of it, as even to rank the\nbook above others of much greater merit, read under less felicitous\ncircumstances. See therefore to what uncertainty is subject even the\ntruth and justice of opinions from the same persons, as to the writings\nand genius of others, quite apart from any sentiment of malice or\nfavour. So great is this uncertainty that a man varies considerably\nin his estimation of works of equal value, and even the same work, at\ndifferent times of life, under different circumstances, and even at\ndifferent hours of the day.\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV.\n\n\n\"Perhaps you may think that these difficulties, due to mental\nindisposition on the part of readers, are of rare occurrence. Consider,\nthen, how frequently a man, as he grows old, becomes incapable of\nappreciating the charms of eloquence and poetry, no less than those\nof the other imitative arts, and everything beautiful in the world.\nThis intellectual decay is a necessity of our nature. In the present\nday it is so much greater than formerly, begins so much earlier, and\nprogresses so much more rapidly, especially in the studious, as our\nexperience is enlarged in more or less degree by the knowledge begotten\nof the speculations of so many past centuries. For which reason, and\nowing to the present condition of civilised life, the phantoms of\nchildhood soon vanish from the imagination of men; with them go the\nhopes of the mind, and with the hopes most of the desires, passions,\nand energy of life and its faculties. Whence I often wonder that men\nof mature age, especially the learned and those inclined to meditate\nabout human affairs, should yet be subject to the influence of poetry\nand eloquence, which are, however, unable to produce any real effect on\nthem.\n\n\"It may be regarded as a fact that, in order to be greatly moved by\nimagination of the grand and beautiful, one must believe that there is\nsomething really grand and beautiful in human life, and that poetry is\nnot mere fable. The young always believe such things, even when they\nknow their fallacy, until personal experience forces them to accept\nthe truth. But it is difficult to put faith in them after the sad\ndiscipline of practical life; especially when experience is combined\nwith habits of study and speculation.\n\n\"From this it would seem that the young are generally better judges\nof writings intended to arouse the affections and the imagination,\nthan men of mature and advanced age. But, on the other hand, the\nyoung are novices in literature. They exact from books a superhuman,\nboundless, and impossible pleasure, and where they fail to experience\nthis they despise the writer. Illiterate people have the same idea of\nthe functions of literature. And youths addicted to reading prefer,\nboth in their own writings and those of others, extravagance to\nmoderation, magnificence or attractiveness of style and ornamentation,\nto the simple and natural, and sham beauties to real ones. This is\npartly due to their limited experience, and partly to the impetuosity\nof their time of life. Consequently, although the young are doubtless\nmore inclined than their elders to applaud what seems good to them,\nsince they are more truthful and candid, they are seldom capable of\nappreciating the excellences of literary works. As we grow older,\nthe influence exercised over us by art increases, as that of nature\ndiminishes. Nevertheless both nature and art are necessary to produce\neffect.\n\n\"Dwellers in large towns are compelled to sacrifice the beautiful\nto the useful. Even though of warm and sensitive natures and lively\nimagination, they cannot experience as an effect of the charms\neither of nature or literature any tender or noble sentiment, any\nsublime or delightful fancy; unless indeed, like you, they spend\nmost of their time in solitude. For few things are so opposed to\nthe state of mind necessary to appreciate such delights, as the\nconversation of these men, the riot of these places, and the sight of\nthe tinselled splendour, the falseness, the miserable troubles, and\nstill more miserable idleness which abound there. I also think that\nthe _litt\u00c8rateurs_ of large towns are, as a rule, less qualified to\njudge books than those of small towns; because, like everything else,\nthe literature of large towns is ordinarily false and pretentious, or\nsuperficial.\n\n\"And whereas the ancients used to regard literature and the sciences\nas a pleasing change from more serious business, in the present day\nthe majority of men who in large towns profess to be students regard\nliterature and writing as merely an agreeable variation of their other\namusements.\n\n\"I think that works of art, whether painting, sculpture, or\narchitecture, would be much more appreciated if they were disseminated\nthroughout a country in different-sized towns, instead of being, as\nat present, accumulated in the chief cities. For in the latter places\nmen are so full of thoughts, so occupied with pleasurable pursuits and\nvain and frivolous excitements, that they are very rarely capable of\nthe profound pleasures of the intellect. Besides, a multitude of fine\nthings gathered together have a distracting influence; the mind bestows\nbut little attention on individual things, and is sensible of no\nespecial gratification; or else it becomes satiated, and regards them\nall as indifferently as though they were objects of the commonest kind.\n\n\"I say the same of music, which is nowhere so elaborate, or brought to\nsuch perfection, as in large towns, where men have less appreciation\nfor the wonderful emotions of the art, and are indeed less musical than\nelsewhere.\n\n\"Nevertheless, large towns are a useful home for the fostering and\nperfecting of the arts; although their inhabitants are less under the\ninfluence of their charms than the people of other places. It may be\nsaid that artists, who work in solitude and silence, strive laboriously\nand industriously to please men, who, because accustomed to the bustle\nand noise of cities, are almost totally incapable of appreciating the\nfruit of their exertions.\n\n\"The fate of writers may in a measure be compared to that of artists.\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V.\n\n\n\"We will now return to the consideration of authors.\n\n\"It is a characteristic of writings approaching perfection that they\nusually please more when read a second time, than they pleased at\nfirst. The contrary effect is produced by many books written carefully\nand skilfully, but which really possess few merits. These when read a\nsecond time are less esteemed than at first. But both kinds of books,\nwhen read only once, often deceive even the learned and experienced, so\nthat indifferent books are preferred to excellent ones. In the present\nday, however, even students by profession can rarely be induced to read\nnew books a second time, especially such as come under the heading of\nlight literature. This was not so in olden times, because then but few\nbooks were in existence. Now, it is very different. We possess the\nliterary bequests of all past times. Every nation has its literature,\nand produces its host of books daily. There are writings in all\nlanguages, ancient and modern, relating to every branch of science and\nlearning, and so closely connected and allied that the student must\nstudy them all as far as possible. You may therefore easily imagine\nthat a book does not obtain full consideration on a first reading, and\nthat a second reading is out of the question. Yet the first opinion\nthat we form of a new book is seldom changed.\n\n\"For the same reasons, even in the first reading of books, especially\nthose of light literature, very rarely sufficient attention and study\nis given to discover the laborious perfection, the subtle art, and\nthe hidden and unpretentious virtues of the writings. Thus, in the\npresent day the condition of excellent books is really worse than that\nof indifferent ones. For the charms and qualifications of most of the\nlatter, whether true or false, are so exposed to the eye, that, however\ntrivial they may be, they are easily discernible at first sight. We\nmay therefore say with truth, that the exertion necessary to produce\nperfect writing is almost useless for fame. But, on the other hand,\nbooks composed, like most modern ones, rapidly and without any great\ndegree of excellence, though perhaps celebrated for a time, cannot fail\nto be soon forgotten. And many works of recognised value are also lost\nin the immense stream of new books which pours forth daily, before\nthey have had time to establish their celebrity. They perish for no\nintrinsic fault of their own, and give place to other books, good and\nbad, which each in turn live their short spell of life. So that whereas\nthe ancients could acquire glory in a thousand ways, we can only attain\nit by one single avenue, after much more exertion than formerly.\n\n\"The books of the ancients alone survive this universal shipwreck of\nall later writings. Their fame is established and confirmed; they are\ndiligently and repeatedly read, and are made the subject of careful\nstudy. And it is noteworthy that a modern book, if intrinsically equal\nto any of the ancient writings, would rarely, if ever, give its readers\nas much pleasure as the ancient work. This for two reasons. In the\nfirst place, it would not be read with the care and attention that we\nbestow on celebrated writings; very few people would read it twice;\nand no one would study it (for none but scientific books are studied\nuntil made venerable by age). In the second place, the world-wide and\npermanent reputation of writings, whether or not due to their internal\nexcellence, adds to their value, and proportionately increases the\npleasure they give; often, indeed, most of the charm of such literature\nis simply due to its celebrity.\n\n\"This reminds me of some remarkable words of Montesquieu about the\norigin of human pleasures. He says: 'The mind often creates within\nitself many sources of pleasure, which are intimately dependent on each\nother. Thus, a thing that has once pleased us, pleases us again simply\nbecause it did so before; we couple together imagination of the present\nand remembrance of the past. For example, an actress who pleased us\non the stage, will probably please us in private life: her voice; her\nmanner; the recollection of the applause she excited; perhaps, too,\nher _r\u00d9le_ of princess joined to her real character,--all combine and\nform a mixture of influences producing a general feeling of pleasure.\nOur minds are always full of ideas subordinate to one or more primary\nideas. A woman famous for one cause or another, and possessed of some\nslight inherent defect, is often able to attract by means of this\nvery defect. And women are ordinarily loved less because they inspire\naffection than because they are well born, rich, or highly esteemed by\nothers.'[1]....\n\n\"Often indeed a woman's reputation for beauty and grace, whether well\nor ill founded, or even the mere fact that others have been under the\ninfluence of her charms, suffices to inspire a man with affection\nfor her. And who does not know that most pleasures are due to the\nimagination rather than to the inherent qualities of the things that\nplease us?\n\n\"These remarks refer to writings no less than to all other things.\nIndeed I will venture to say that were a poem to be published equal\nor superior to the Iliad, and carefully read by an excellent judge of\npoetry, it would give less satisfaction and appear less charming than\nthe Greek masterpiece, much less would its fame be comparable with that\nof the Iliad; for its real merits would not be aided by twenty-seven\ncenturies of admiration, nor the thousand reminiscences and other\nassociations that connect themselves with Homer's poem. Similarly I\naffirm that if any one were to read carefully either the 'Jerusalem' or\nthe 'Furioso,' without knowing anything of their celebrity, he would be\nmuch less pleased than others who were aware of their fame.\n\n\"In short, it may be accepted as a general rule that the first readers\nof every remarkable work which in after ages becomes famous, and the\ncontemporaries of the writer, derive less enjoyment from such reading\nthan all other people.\n\n\"This fact cannot but be very disadvantageous to the interest of\nwriters.\"\n\n\n[Footnote 1: Ex: Fragment _Sur le go\u02dat_, &c.]\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI.\n\n\n\"Such are a few of the obstacles that may prevent you from acquiring\nglory from the studious, or even from those who excel in knowledge and\nthe art of writing.\n\n\"Now there are many people who, though educated sufficiently for the\npurposes of daily life, are neither writers nor students to any very\ngreat extent. They read simply for amusement, and, as you know, are\nonly capable of appreciating certain qualities in literature. The chief\nreason of this has been already partly explained. There is, however,\nanother cause. It is that they only seek momentary pleasure in what\nthey read. But the present in itself is trivial and joyless to all men.\nEven the sweetest things, as says Homer,\n\n    'Love, sleep, song, and the dance,'\n\nsoon weary us, if to the present there be not joined the hope of\nsome pleasure or future satisfaction, dependent on them. For it is\ncontrary to human nature to be greatly pleased with that of which hope\ndoes not form a constituent part. And so great is the power of hope\nthat it enlivens and sweetens many exertions, painful and laborious\nin themselves; whereas, on the other hand, things innately charming,\nwhen unaccompanied by hope, are scarce sufficiently attractive to be\nwelcomed. \"We see studious people never tired of reading, often even\nof the driest kind; and they experience a constant delight in their\nstudies, carried on perhaps throughout the greater part of the day. The\nreason of this is that they have the future ever before their eyes;\nthey hope in some way, and at some time, to reap the benefit of their\nlabours. Such people always have their interests at heart. They do not\ntake up a book, either to pass time or for amusement, without also\ndistilling from it more or less definite instruction. Others, on the\ncontrary, who seek to learn nothing from books, are satisfied when they\nhave read their first few pages, or those that have the most attractive\nappearance. They wander wearily from book to book, and marvel to\nthemselves how any one can find prolonged pleasure in prolonged reading.\n\n\"It is clear that any skill or industry displayed by the writer is\nalmost entirely wasted on such people, who nevertheless compose the\nmass of readers. And even men of studious inclinations, having later in\nlife changed the nature of their studies, almost feel a repugnance for\nbooks which would formerly have given them intense delight; and though\nstill able to discern their value, are wearied rather than pleased by\ntheir merits, because instruction is not at all what they desire.\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII.\n\n\n\"Hitherto we have considered writings in general, and certain things\nrelating to light literature in particular, towards which I see you are\nmore especially attracted. Let us now turn to philosophy, though it\nmust not be supposed that this science is separable from the study of\nletters.\n\n\"Perhaps you will think that because philosophy is derived from\nreason, which among civilised people is usually a stronger power\nthan the imagination or the affections, the value of philosophical\nworks ought to be more universally recognised than that of poems,\nand other writings which treat of the pleasurable and the beautiful.\nIt is, however, my opinion that poetry is better understood and\nappreciated than philosophy. In the first place, it is certain that a\nsubtle intelligence and great power of reasoning are not sufficient\nto ensure much progress in philosophy. Considerable imaginative\npower is also requisite. Indeed, judged from the nature of their\nintellects, Descartes, Galileo, Leibnitz, Newton, and Vico would\nhave made excellent poets; and, on the other hand, Homer, Dante, and\nShakespeare might have been great philosophers. This subject would\nrequire much elaboration; I will therefore merely affirm that none but\nphilosophers can perfectly appreciate the value and realise the charm\nof philosophical books. Of course, I refer to their substance, and\nnot to whatever superficial merit they may have, whether of language,\nstyle, or anything else. And, just as men are by nature unpoetical,\nand consequently rarely catch the spirit of a poem or discern its\nimagery, although they may follow the meaning of its words; similarly,\npeople unaccustomed to meditate and philosophise within themselves,\nor who are incapable of deep sustained thought, cannot comprehend the\ntruths that a philosopher expounds, however clear and logical his\ndeductions, arguments, and conclusions may be, although they understand\nthe words that he uses and their signification. Because, being unable\nor unused to analyse the essence of things by means of thought, or to\nseparate their own ideas into divisions, or to join and bind together\na number of these ideas, or simultaneously to grasp with the mind many\nparticulars so as to deduce a single general rule from them, or to\nfollow unweariedly with the mind's eye a long series of truths mutually\nconnected, or to discover the subtle and hidden connection between\neach truth and a hundred others; they can with difficulty, if at all,\ngrasp and follow his working, or experience the impressions proved by\nthe philosopher. Therefore, they can neither understand nor estimate\nrightly all the influences that led him to this or that opinion, and\nmade him affirm or deny this or that thing, and doubt such and such\nanother. Possibly they may understand his ideas, but they neither\nrecognise their truth nor probability; because they are unable to test\neither the one or the other. They are like those cold and passionless\nmen who are incapable of appreciating the fancies and imagery of the\npoets. And you know it is common to the poet and the philosopher to\npenetrate into the depths of the minds of men, and thence to bring into\nlight all their hidden emotions, profundities, and secret working, with\ntheir respective causes and effects; thus, men who are incapable of\nsympathy with the poet and his thoughts, are also incapable of entering\ninto the thoughts of the philosopher.\n\n\"This is why we see daily many meritorious works, clear and\nintelligible to all, interpreted by some people as containing a\nthousand undoubted truths, and, by others, a thousand patent errors.\nThey are attacked in public and private, not only from motives of\nmalice, interest, and other similar causes, but also because of the\nincapacity of the readers, and their inability to comprehend the\ncertainty of the principles, the correctness of the deductions and\nconclusions, and the general fitness, sufficiency, and truth of the\nreasoning put forward. It often happens that philosophical writings\nof the most sublime nature are accused of obscurity, not necessarily\nbecause they are obscure, but either because their vein of thought\nis of too profound or novel a nature to be easily intelligible, or\nbecause the reader himself is too dense to be a competent judge of\nsuch works. Think, then, how difficult it must be to gain praise for\nphilosophical writings, however meritorious they may be. For there can\nbe no doubt that the number of really profound philosophers, who alone\ncan appreciate one another, is in the present day very small, although\nphilosophy is more cultivated than in past times.\n\n\"I will not refer to the various sects into which those who profess\nphilosophy are divided. Each sect ordinarily refuses to allow\nthat there is aught estimable in the others; this is not only from\nunwillingness, but also because it occupies itself with different\nprinciples of philosophy.\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII.\n\n\n\"If, as the result of your learning and meditation, you chanced to\ndiscover some important truth, not only formerly unknown, but quite\nunlooked for, and even antagonistic to the opinions of the day, you\nmust not anticipate in your lifetime any peculiar commendation for this\ndiscovery. You will gain no esteem, even from the wise (except perhaps\nfrom a very few), until by frequent and varied reiteration of these\ntruths the ears of men have become accustomed to their sound; then\nonly, after a long time, the intellect begins to receive them.\n\n\"For no truth contrary to current opinion, even though demonstrable\nwith almost geometrical certitude, can ever, unless capable of material\nproof, be suddenly established. Time, custom, and example alone are\nable to give it a solid foundation. Men accustom themselves to belief,\nas to everything else; indeed they generally believe from habit, and\nnot from any sentiment of conviction within their minds. At length\nit happens that the once-questioned truth is taught to children, and\nis universally accepted. People are then astonished that it was ever\nunknown to them, and they ridicule their ancestors and contemporaries\nfor the ignorance and obstinacy they manifested in opposing it. The\ngreater and more important the new truths, so much the greater will\nbe the difficulty of procuring acceptance for them; since they will\noverthrow a proportionately large number of opinions hitherto rooted\nin the minds of men. For even acute and practised intellects do not\neasily enter into the spirit of reasonings which demonstrate new truths\nthat exceed the limits of their own knowledge; especially when these\nare opposed to beliefs long established within them. Descartes, in\nhis geometrical discoveries, was understood by but very few of his\ncontemporaries. It was the same with Newton. Indeed, the condition of\nmen pre-eminent in knowledge is somewhat similar to that of literary\nmen, and 'savants' who live in places innocent of learning. The latter\nare not deservedly esteemed by their neighbours; the former fail to be\nduly appreciated by their contemporaries. Both are often despised for\ntheir difference in manner of life and opinions from other men, who\nneither do justice to their ability nor to the writings they put forth\nin proof of it.\n\n\"There is no doubt that the human race makes continual progress in\nknowledge. As a body, its march is slow and measured; but it includes\ncertain great and remarkable minds which, having devoted themselves\nto speculation about the sensible or intelligible phenomena of the\nuniverse, and the pursuit of truths, travel, nay sometimes flash, to\ntheir conclusions in an immeasurably short space of time. And the rapid\nprogress of these intellects stimulates other men, who hasten their\nfoot-steps so as to reach, later on, the place where these superior\nbeings rested. But not until the lapse of a century or more do they\nattain to the knowledge possessed by an extraordinary intellect of this\nkind.\n\n\"It is ordinarily believed that human knowledge owes most of its\nprogress to these supreme intellects, which arise from time to time,\nlike miracles of nature.[1] I, on the contrary, think that it owes\nmore to men of common powers than to those who are exceptionally\nendowed. Suppose a case, in which one of the latter, having rivalled\nhis contemporaries in knowledge, advances independently, and takes a\nlead of, say ten paces. Most other men, far from feeling disposed\nto follow him, regard his progress in silence, or else ridicule it.\nMeanwhile, a number of moderately clever men, partly aided perhaps by\nthe ideas and discoveries of the genius, but principally through their\nown endeavours, conjointly advance one step. The masses unhesitatingly\nfollow them, being attracted by the not inordinate novelty, and also by\nthe number of those who are its authors. In process of time, thanks to\nthe exertions of these men, the tenth step is accomplished; and thus\nthe opinions of the genius are universally received throughout the\ncivilised world. But their originator, dead long ago, only acquires a\nlate and unseasonable reputation. This is due partly to the fact that\nhe is forgotten, or to the low esteem in which he was held when living;\nadded to which men are conscious that they do not owe their knowledge\nto him, and that they are already his equals in erudition, and will\nsoon surpass him, if they have not done so already. They are also his\nsuperiors, in that time has enabled them to demonstrate and affirm\ntruths that he only imagined, to prove his conjectures, and give better\nform and order to his inventions, almost, as it were, maturing them.\nPerchance, after a time, some student engaged in historical research\nmay justly appraise the influence of this genius, and may announce him\nto his countrymen with great _\u00c8clat_; but the fame that may ensue from\nthis will soon give way to renewed oblivion.\n\n\"The progress of human knowledge, like a falling weight, increases\nmomentarily in its speed; none the less very rarely men of a generation\nchange their beliefs or recognise their errors, so as to believe at one\ntime the opposite of what they previously believed. Each generation\nprepares the way for its successor to know and believe many things\ncontrary to its own knowledge and belief. But most men are as little\nconscious of the increasing development of their knowledge, and the\ninevitable mutation of their beliefs, as they are sensible of the\nperpetual motion of the earth. And a man never alters his opinions so\nas to be conscious of the alteration. But were he suddenly to embrace\nan opinion totally discordant with his old beliefs, he could not fail\nto perceive the change. It may therefore be said, that ordinarily no\ntruths, except such as are determinable by the senses, will be believed\nby the contemporaries of their discoverer.\"\n\n\n[Footnote 1: It is in the order of Providence that the inventive,\ngenerative, constitutive mind should come first; and then that the\npatient and collective mind should follow, and elaborate the pregnant\nqueries and illumining guesses of the former,--S. T. Coleridge, _Table\nTalk_, Oct. 8, 1830.]\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX.\n\n\n\"Now let us suppose that every difficulty be overcome, and that\naided by fortune you have actually in your lifetime acquired not\nonly celebrity, but glory. What will be the fruit of this? In the\nfirst place, men will wish to see you, and make your acquaintance;\nthey will indicate you as a distinguished man, and will honour you\nin every possible way. Such are the best results of literary glory.\nIt would seem more natural to look for such demonstrations in small\nthan in large towns; for these latter are subject to the distracting\ninfluence of wealth and power, and all the arts which serve to amuse\nand enliven the inactive hours of men's lives. But because small towns\nare ordinarily wanting in things necessary to stimulate literary\nexcellence, they are rarely the abode of men devoted to literature\nand study. The people of such places esteem learning and wisdom, and\neven the fame men seek by these means, at a very low value; neither\nthe one nor the other are objects of envy to them. And if a man who\nis a distinguished scholar take up his residence in a small town, his\nnotability is of no advantage to him. Rather the contrary. For though\nhis fame would secure him high honour in towns not far distant, he is\nthere regarded as the most forlorn and obscure individual in the place.\nJust as a man who possessed nothing but an abundance of silver and gold\nwould be even poorer than other men in a place where these metals were\nvalueless; similarly a wise and studious man who makes his abode in a\nplace where learning and genius are unknown, far from being considered\nsuperior to other men, will be despised and scornfully treated unless\nhe happen to have some more material possessions. Yet such a man is\noften given credit for possessing much greater knowledge than he really\nhas, though this reputation does not procure him any especial honour\nfrom these people.\n\n\"When I was a young man, I used occasionally to return to Bosisio,\nmy native place. Every one there knew that I spent my time in study\nand writing. The peasants gave me credit for being poet, philosopher,\ndoctor, mathematician, lawyer, theologian, and sufficiently a linguist\nto know all the languages in the world. They used to question me\nindiscriminately on any subject, or about any trifle that chanced to\nenter their minds. Yet they did not hold me in much esteem, and thought\nme less instructed than the learned people of all other places. But\nwhenever I gave them reason to think my learning was not as extensive\nas they supposed, I fell vastly in their estimation, and in the end\nthey used to persuade themselves that after all my knowledge was no\ngreater than theirs.\n\n\"We have already noticed the difficulties to be overcome in large towns\nbefore glory can be acquired, or the fruit of it enjoyed. I will now\nadd that although no fame is more difficult to merit than that of being\nan excellent poet, writer, or philosopher, nothing is less lucrative\nto the possessor. You know that the misery and poverty of the greatest\npoets, both in ancient and modern times, is proverbial. Homer, like his\npoetry, is involved in mystery; his country, life, and history are an\nimpenetrable secret to men. But, amid this uncertainty and ignorance,\nthere is an unshaken tradition that Homer was poor and unhappy. It is\nas if time wished to bear witness that the fate of other noble poets\nwas shared by the prince of poetry.\n\n\"But, passing over the other benefits of glory, we will simply consider\nwhat is called honour. No part of fame is usually less honourable\nand more useless than this. It may be that so many people obtain it\nundeservedly, or even because of the extreme difficulty of meriting\nit at all; certain it is that such reputation is scarce esteemed, if\nregarded as trustworthy. Or perhaps it is due to the fact that most\nclever half-cultured men imagine they either are, or could easily\nbecome, as proficient in literature and philosophy as those who are\nsuccessful in these studies, and whom they accordingly treat as on an\nintellectual equality. Possibly both causes combine in their influence.\nIt is certain, however, that the man who is an ordinary mathematician,\nnatural philosopher, philologist, antiquary, artist, sculptor,\nmusician, or who has only a moderate acquaintance with a single ancient\nor foreign language, is usually more respected, even in large towns,\nthan a really remarkable philosopher, poet, or writer. Consequently,\npoetry and philosophy, the noblest, grandest, and most arduous of\nthings pertaining to humanity, and the supreme efforts of art and\nscience, are in the present day the most neglected faculties in the\nworld, even in their professed followers. Manual arts rank higher than\nthese noble things; for no one would pretend to a knowledge of them\nunless he really possessed it, nor could this knowledge be acquired\nwithout study and exertion. In short, the poet and the philosopher\nderive no benefit in life from their genius and studies, except perhaps\nthe glory rendered to them by a very few people. Poetry and philosophy\nresemble each other in that they are both as unproductive and barren of\nesteem and honour, as of all other advantages.\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X.\n\n\n\"From men you will scarcely derive any advantage whatever from your\nglory. You will therefore look within you for consolation, and in\nyour solitude will nerve yourself for fresh exertions, and lay the\nfoundation of new hopes. For like all other human benefits, literary\nglory is more pleasing in anticipation than in reality, if indeed it\ncan ever be said to be realised. You will therefore at length console\nyourself with the thought of that last hope and refuge of noble minds,\nposterity. Even Cicero, richly renowned as he was in life, turned his\nmind yearningly towards the future, in saying: 'Thinkest thou I should\nhave undertaken so many labours, during day and night, in peace and\nwar, had I imagined my glory was limited to this life? Far better were\na life of idleness and peace, devoid of cares and fatigue. No. My soul,\nin some inexplicable way, used ever to fix its hopes on posterity, and\nlooked for the dawn of its true life from the hour of death.'[1] Cicero\nhere refers to the idea of immortality innate in the minds of men.\nBut the true explanation lies in the fact that all earthly benefits\nare no sooner acquired than their insignificance becomes apparent;\nthey are unworthy of the fatigues they have cost. Glory is, above all,\nan example of this; it is a dear purchase, and of little use to the\npurchaser. But, as Simonides says, I Sweet hope cheers us with its\nphantom beauties, and with its vain prospect stimulates us to work.\nSome men await the friendly dawn, others the advance of age, and others\nmore auspicious seasons. Every mortal cherishes within him hopes of\ncoming good from Pluto and the other gods,' Thus, as we experience the\nvanity of glory, hope, driven and hunted from place to place, finding\nat length no spot in the whole of life whereon to rest, passes beyond\nthe grave and alights on posterity. For man ever turns instinctively\nfrom the present to the future, about which he hopes much in proportion\nas he knows little. Hence, they who are desirous of glory in life,\nchiefly nourish themselves on that which they hope to gain after\ndeath. For the lack of enjoyment in the present, man consoles himself\nwith hopes of future happiness, as vain as that of the present.\"\n\n\n[Footnote 1: De Senectute.]\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI.\n\n\n\"But what, after all, is this appeal that we make to posterity? The\nhuman imagination is such that it forms a more exalted conception of\nposterity than of the men of past or present times, simply because we\nare totally ignorant of the people who are yet to be. But, reasonably,\nand not imaginatively, do we really think our successors will be better\nthan ourselves? I am of a contrary opinion, and for my part put faith\nin the proverb that says 'the world grows worse as it ages,' It were\nbetter for men of genius if they could appeal to their wise ancestors,\nwho, according to Cicero, were not inferior in point of numbers, and\nfar superior in excellence to their successors. But, though such appeal\nwould be sure of a truer judgment, it is certain that the greatest men\nof our day would be held in little esteem by the ancients.\n\n\"It may be allowed that the men of the future, being free from\nany spirit of rivalry, envy, love, or hatred, not indeed amongst\nthemselves, but towards us, ought to be better qualified than ourselves\nto pass impartial judgment on our writings. For other reasons, too,\nthey may be better judges. Posterity will perhaps have fewer excellent\nwriters, noble poets, and subtle philosophers. In which case the few\nfollowers of these sublime influences will honour us the more. It is\nalso probable that their control over the minds of the people will\nbe still less than that exercised by us. Again, will the affections,\nimagination, and intellect of men be, as a rule, more powerful than\nthey are at present? If not, we shall gain by the comparison.\n\n\"Literature is peculiarly exposed to the influence of custom. In times\nof debased literature, we see how firmly this or that barbarism is\nretained and upheld, as though it alone were reasonable and natural. At\nsuch times the best and greatest writers are forgotten or ridiculed.\nWhere, then, is the certainty that posterity will always esteem the\nkind of writing that we praise? Besides, it is a question whether or\nnot we ourselves esteem what is really praiseworthy. For men have\ndifferent opinions about what constitutes good writing, and these vary\naccording to the times, the nature of places and people, customs,\nusages, and individuals. Yet it is to this variety and variability of\ninfluences that the glory of writers is subjected.\n\n\"Philosophy is even more diverse and changeable than other sciences.[1]\nAt first sight the contrary of this would seem to be true; for whereas\nthe 'belles lettres' are concerned with the study of the beautiful,\nwhich is chiefly a matter of custom and opinion, sciences seek the\ntruth, which is fixed and unchangeable. But this truth is hid from\nmortals, though, as centuries go by, some little of it is revealed.\nConsequently, on the one hand, in their endeavours to discover it,\nand their conjectures as to its nature, men are led to embrace this\nor that resemblance of truth; thereupon opinions and sects multiply.\nAnd, on the other hand, it is due to the ever-increasing number of\nfresh discoveries, and new aspects of truth obtained daily, that even\nthese divisions become subdivided; and opinions which at one time were\nregarded almost as certainties change shape and substance momentarily.\nIt is owing to the changeability of sciences and philosophy that they\nare so unproductive of glory, either at the hands of contemporaries\nor posterity. For when new discoveries, or new ideas and conjectures,\ngreatly alter the condition of this or that science from its present\nstate, how will the writings and thoughts of men now celebrated in\nthese sciences be regarded? Who, for instance, now reads Galileo's\nworks? Yet in his time they were most wonderful; nor could better and\nnobler books, full of greater discoveries and grander conceptions,\nbe then written on such subjects. But now every tyro in physics or\nmathematics surpasses Galileo in his knowledge. Again, how many people\nin the present day read the writings of Francis Bacon? Who troubles\nhimself about Malebranche? And how much time will soon be bestowed on\nthe works of Locke, if the science almost founded by him progresses in\nfuture as rapidly as it gives promise of doing?\n\n\"Truly the very intellectual force, industry, and labour, which\nphilosophers and scientists expend in the pursuit of their glory, are\nin time the cause of its extinction or obscur\u00c8ment. For by their own\ngreat exertions they open out a path for the still further advancement\nof the science, which in time progresses so rapidly that their writings\nand names fall gradually into oblivion. And it is certainly difficult\nfor most men to esteem others for a knowledge greatly inferior to their\nown. Who can doubt that the twentieth century will discover error in\nwhat the wisest of us regard as unquestionable truths, and will surpass\nus greatly in their knowledge of the truth?\"\n\n\n[Footnote 1: Compare the following from H. Rogers' _Essay on Leibnitz_:\n\"The condition of great philosophers is far less enviable than that of\ngreat poets. The former can never possess so large a circle of readers\nunder any circumstances; but that number is still further abridged by\nthe fact that even the truths the philosopher has taught or discovered\nform but stepping-stones in the progress of science, and are afterwards\ndigested, systematised, and better expounded in other works composed by\ninferior men.\"]\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XII.\n\n\n\"Finally, you would perhaps like to know my opinion, and decided advice\nto you, about your intended profession. The question is one as to\nthe advisability of your pursuing or abandoning this path to glory,\na thing so poor in usefulness, and so hard and uncertain both to\nsecure and retain, that it may be compared to a shadow which you can\nneither feel when you hold, nor yet keep from fleeing away. I will tell\nyou then briefly my true opinion. I consider your wonderful genius,\nnoble disposition, and prolific imagination to be the most fatal and\nlamentable qualities distributed by Fortune to humanity. But since\nyou possess them, you will scarcely be able to avoid their harmful\ninfluence. In the present day there is but one possible benefit to be\ngained from such endowments as yours; viz., the glory that sometimes\nrewards industry in literature and study. You know those miserable men,\nwho having accidentally lost or injured a limb, try to make as much\nprofit as possible from their misfortune, which they ostentatiously\ndisplay to excite the pity and consequent liberality of passers-by.\nIn the same way I advise you to endeavour to procure by means of your\nendowments the only possible advantage, trifling and uncertain though\nit be. Such qualities as yours are usually regarded as great natural\ngifts, and are often envied by those who do not possess them. But this\nfeeling is opposed to common sense; as well may the sound man envy\nthose wretched fellows their bodily calamities, or wish to mutilate\nhimself in the same way, for the sake of the miserable profit he might\ngain. Most men work as long as they can, and enjoy themselves as much\nas their nature will permit. But great writers are naturally, and by\ntheir manner of life, incapable of many human pleasures: voluntarily\ndeprived of many others; often despised by their fellow-men, save\nperhaps a very few who pursue the same studies; they are destined to\nlead a life like unto death, and to live only beyond the grave, if even\nthat be granted them.\n\n\"But Destiny must be obeyed; duty commands us to follow it courageously\nand nobly whithersoever it may lead us. Such resignation is especially\nnecessary for you, and those who resemble you.\"\n\n\n\n\n_DIALOGUE BETWEEN FREDERIC RUYSCH AND HIS MUMMIES._\n\n\n_Chorus of the dead in Ruysch's laboratory._\n\n\n    O Death, thou one eternal thing,\n    That takest all within thine arms,\n    In thee our coarser nature rests\n    In peace, set free from life's alarms:\n    Joyless and painless is our state.\n    Our spirits now no more are torn\n    By racking thought, or earthly fears;\n    Hope and desire are now unknown,\n    Nor know we aught of sorrow's tears.\n    Time flows in one unbroken stream,\n    As void of ennui as a dream.\n    The troubles we on earth endured\n    Have vanished; yet we sometimes see\n    Their phantom shapes, as in a mist\n    Of mingled thought and memory:\n    They now can vex our souls no more.\n    What is that life we lived on earth?\n    A mystery now it seems to be,\n    Profound as is the thought of death,\n    To wearers of mortality.\n    And as from death the living flee,\n    So from the vital flame flee we.\n    Our portion now is peaceful rest,\n    Joyless, painless. We are not blest\n    With happiness; that is forbid\n    Both to the living and the dead.\n\n_Ruysch (outside his laboratory, looking through the keyhole)._\nDiamine! Who has been teaching these dead folks music, that they thus\nsing like cocks, at midnight? Verily I am in a cold sweat, and nearly\nas dead as themselves. I little thought when I preserved them from\ndecay, that they would come to life again. So it is however, and with\nall my philosophy I tremble from head to foot. It was an evil spirit\nthat induced me to take these gentry in. I do not know what to do. If I\nleave them shut in here, they may break open the door, or pass through\nthe keyhole, and come to me in bed. Yet I do not like to show that I am\nafraid of the dead by calling for help. I will be brave. Let us see if\nI cannot make them afraid in their turn.\n\n(_Entering_.)--Children, children, what game are you playing at? Do\nyou not remember that you are dead? What does all this uproar mean?\nAre you so puffed up because of the Czar's visit,[1] that you imagine\nyourselves no longer subject to the laws of Nature? I am presuming this\ncommotion is simply a piece of pleasantry on your part, and that there\nis nothing serious about it. If, however, you are truly resuscitated,\nI congratulate you, although I must tell you that I cannot afford to\nkeep you living as well as dead, and in that case you must leave my\nhouse at once. Or if what they say about vampires be true, and you are\nsome of them, be good enough to seek other blood to drink, for I am\nnot disposed to let you suck mine, with which I have already liberally\nfilled your veins. In short, if you will continue to be quiet and\nsilent as before, we shall get on very well together, and you shall\nwant for nothing in my house. Otherwise, I warn you that I will take\nhold of this iron bar, and kill you, one and all.\n\n_A Mummy_. Do not put yourself about. I promise you we will all be dead\nagain without your killing us.\n\n_Ruysch_. Then what is the meaning of this singing freak?\n\n_Mummy_. A moment ago, precisely at midnight, was completed for the\nfirst time that great mathematical epoch referred to so often by the\nancients. To-night also the dead have spoken for the first time. And\nall the dead in every cemetery and sepulchre, in the depths of the sea,\nbeneath the snow and the sand, under the open sky, and wherever they\nare to be found, have like us chanted the song you have just heard.\n\n_Ruysch_. And how long will your singing or speaking last?'\n\n_Mummy_. The song is already finished. We are allowed to speak for a\nquarter of an hour. Then we are silent again until the completion of\nthe second great year.\n\n_Ruysch_. If this be true, I do not think you will disturb my sleep\na second time. So talk away to your hearts' content, and I will\nstand here on one side, and, from curiosity, gladly listen without\ninterrupting you.\n\n_Mummy_. We can only speak in response to some living person. The dead\nthat are not interrogated by the living, when they have finished their\nsong, are quiet again.\n\n_Ruysch_. I am greatly disappointed, for I was curious to know what you\nwould talk about if you could converse with each other.\n\n_Mummy_. Even if we could do so, you would hear nothing, because we\nshould have nothing to say to one another.\n\n_Ruysch_. A thousand questions to ask you come into my mind. But the\ntime is short, so tell me briefly what feelings you experienced in body\nand soul when at the point of death.\n\n_Mummy_. I do not remember the exact moment of death.\n\n_The other Mummies_. Nor do we.\n\n_Ruysch_. Why not?\n\n_Mummy_. For the same reason that you cannot perceive the moment when\nyou fall asleep, however much you try to do so.\n\n_Ruysch_. But sleep is a natural thing.\n\n_Mummy_. And does not death seem natural to you? Show me a man, beast,\nor plant that shall not die.\n\n_Ruysch_. I am no longer surprised that you sing and talk, if you do\nnot remember your death.\n\n\"A fatal blow deprived him of his breath;\nStill fought he on, unconscious of his death \"--\n\nas says an Italian poet. I thought that on the subject of death you\nfellows would at least know something more than the living. Now tell\nme, did you feel any pain at the point of death?\n\n_Mummy_. How can there be pain at a time of unconsciousness?\n\n_Ruysch_. At any rate, every one believes the moment of departure from\nthis life to be a very painful one.\n\n_Mummy_. As if death were a sensation, and not rather the contrary.\n\n_Ruysch_. Most people who hold the views of the Epicureans as to the\nnature of the soul, as well as those who cling to the popular opinion,\nagree in supposing that death is essentially a pain of the most acute\nkind.\n\n_Mummy_. Well, you shall put the question to either of them from us.\nIf man be unaware of the exact point of time when his vital functions\nare suspended in more or less degree by sleep, lethargy, syncope, or\nany other cause, why should he perceive the moment-when these same\nfunctions cease entirely; and not merely for a time, but for ever?\nBesides, how could there be an acute sensation at the time of death?\nIs death itself a sensation? When the faculty of sense is not only\nweakened and restricted, but so minimised that it may be termed\nnon-existent, how could any one experience a lively sensation? Perhaps\nyou think this very extinction of sensibility ought also to be an acute\nsensation? But it is not so. For you may notice that even sick people\nwho die of very painful diseases compose themselves shortly before\ndeath, and rest in tranquillity; they are too enfeebled to suffer, and\nlose all sense of pain before they die.\n\nYou may say this from us to whoever imagines it will be a painful\neffort to breathe his last.\n\n_Ruysch_. Such reasoning would perhaps satisfy the Epicureans, but not\nthose people who regard the soul as essentially different from the\nbody. I have hitherto been one of the latter, and now that I have heard\nthe dead speak and sing I am more than ever disinclined to change my\nopinions. We consider death to be a separation of the soul and body,\nand to us it is incomprehensible how these two substances, so joined\nand agglutinated as to form one being, can be divided without great\nforce and an inconceivable pang.\n\n_Mummy_. Tell me: is the spirit joined to the body by some nerve,\nmuscle, or membrane which must be broken to enable it to escape? Or\nis it a member which has to be severed or violently wrenched away? Do\nyou not see that the soul necessarily leaves the body when the latter\nbecomes uninhabitable, and not because of any internal violence? Tell\nme also: were you sensible of the moment when the soul entered you,\nand was joined, or as you say agglutinated, to your body? If not, why\nshould you expect to feel any violent sensation at its departure? Take\nmy word for it, the departure of the soul is as quiet and imperceptible\nas its entrance.\n\n_Ruysch_. Then what is death, if it be not pain?\n\n_Mummy_. It is rather pleasure than anything else. You must know that\ndeath, like sleep, is not accomplished in a moment, but gradually. It\nis true the transition is more or less rapid according to the disease\nor manner of death. But ultimately death comes like sleep, without\neither sense of pain or pleasure. Just before death pain is impossible,\nfor it is too acute a thing to be experienced by the enfeebled senses\nof a dying person. It were more rational to regard it as a pleasure;\nbecause most human joys, far from being of a lively nature, are made up\nof a sort of languor, in which pain has no part. Consequently, man's\nsenses, even when approaching extinction, are capable of pleasure;\nsince languor is often pleasurable, especially when it succeeds a\nstate of suffering. Hence the languor of death ought to be pleasing in\nproportion to the intensity of pain from which it frees the sufferer.\nAs for myself, if I cannot recall the circumstances of my death, it\nmay be because the doctors forbade me to exert my brain. I remember,\nhowever, that the sensation I experienced differed little from the\nfeeling of satisfaction that steals over a man, as the languor of sleep\npervades him.\n\n_The other Mummies_. We felt the same sensation.\n\n_Ruysch_. It may be as you say, although every one with whom I have\nconversed on this subject is of a very different opinion. It is true,\nhowever, they have not spoken from experience. Now tell me, did you\nat the time of death, whilst experiencing this sensation of pleasure,\nrealise that you were dying, and that this feeling was a prelude to\ndeath, or what did you think?\n\n_Mummy_. Until I was dead I believed I should recover, and as long as I\nhad the faculty of thought I hoped I should still live an hour or two.\nI imagine most people think the same.\n\n_The other Mummies_. It was the same with us.\n\n_Ruysch_. Cicero says[2] that, however old and broken-down a man may\nbe, he always anticipates at least another year of life.\n\nBut how did you perceive at length that your soul had left the body?\nSay, how did you know you were dead?... You do not answer. Children,\ndo you not hear?... Ah, the quarter of an hour has expired. Let me\nexamine them a little. Yes, they are quite dead again. There is no fear\nthat they will give me such another shock. I will go to bed.\n\n\n\nNOTE.--Frederic Ruysch (1638-1731) was one of the cleverest anatomists\nHolland has ever produced. For sixty years he held a professorship of\nanatomy at Amsterdam, during which time he devoted himself to his art.\nHe obtained from Swammerdam his secret of preserving corpses by means\nof an injection of coloured wax. Ruysch, it is said, also made use of\nhis own blood for this purpose. His subjects, when prepared, looked\nlike living beings, and showed no signs of corruption. Czar Peter\nvisited Holland in 1698, and was amazed at what he saw in Ruysch's\nstudio. In 1717 the Czar again visited Holland, and succeeded in\ninducing Ruysch to dispose of his collection of animals, mummies, &c.\nThese were all transported to St. Petersburg. Ruysch formed a second\ncollection as valuable as the first, which after his death was publicly\nsold.\n\n\n[Footnote 1: See note.]\n\n[Footnote 2: De Senectute.]\n\n\n\n\n_REMARKABLE SAYINGS OF PHILIP OTTONIERI._[1]\n\n\nCHAPTER I.\n\n\nPhilip Ottonieri, a few of whose remarkable sayings I am about to\nrecount, partly heard from his own mouth and partly related to me by\nothers, was born at Nubiana in the province of Valdivento. There he\nlived most of his life, and died a short time ago, leaving behind him\nthe reputation of having never injured any one either by word or deed.\nHe was detested by the majority of his fellow-citizens, because he took\nso little interest in the many things that gave them pleasure; although\nhe did nothing to show that he despised those who differed from himself\nin this respect. He is believed to have been, not only in theory, but\nalso in practice, what so many of his contemporaries professed to be,\nthat is, a philosopher. For this reason other men thought him peculiar,\nthough really he never affected singularity in anything. Indeed, he\nonce said that a man who nowadays practised the greatest possible\nsingularity in dress, manners, or actions, would be far less singular\nthan were those ancients who obtained a reputation for singularity; and\nthat the difference between such a person and his contemporaries would\nby the ancients have been regarded as scarcely worthy of notice. And,\ncomparing J. J. Rousseau's singularity, which seemed very striking to\nthe people of his generation, with that of Democritus and the first\nCynic philosophers, he said that whoever nowadays lived as differently\nfrom his contemporaries as these Greeks lived from theirs, would not\nmerely be regarded as singular, but would be treated as outside the\npale of human society. He thought, too, that the degree of civilisation\nreached by any country might be estimated from observation of the\ndegree of singularity possible in the inhabitants of that country.\n\nThough very temperate in his habits of life, he professed Epicureanism,\nperhaps lightly rather than from conviction. But he condemned Epicurus,\naffirming that in his time and nation there was much more pleasure to\nbe obtained from the pursuit of glory and virtue, than from idleness,\nindifference, and sensuality, which things were considered by that\nphilosopher to represent the greatest good of life. He said also\nthat the Epicureanism of modern times has nothing in common with the\nEpicureanism of the ancients.\n\nIn philosophy, he liked to call himself Socratic. Like Socrates, too,\nhe often spent great part of the day reasoning philosophically with any\nchance acquaintance, and especially with certain of his friends, on any\nimpromptu subject. But unlike Socrates, he did not frequent the shops\nof the shoemakers, carpenters, and blacksmiths; for he was of opinion\nthat, though the artisans of Athens may have had time to spend in\nphilosophising, those of Nubiana would starve were they to follow such\nan example. Nor did he, like Socrates, explain his conclusions by means\nof endless interrogation and argument; for, he said, although men in\nthe present day may have more patience than their ancestors, they would\nnever consent to reply to a thousand consecutive questions, still less\nto hear their answers answered. In fact, he only resembled Socrates in\nhis manner of speaking, sometimes ironical, sometimes equivocal. He\nanalysed the famous Socratic irony in the following way:--\n\n\"Socrates was naturally very tender-hearted, and of a most lovable\ndisposition. But he was physically so unattractive that it is\nprobable he despaired from his youth of ever inspiring others with a\nwarmer feeling than that of friendship, far insufficient to satisfy\nhis sensitive and ardent nature, which often felt towards others a\nmuch more lively affection. He was courageous in all matters of the\nintellect, but seems to have been wanting in natural courage, and\nthose other qualities that would have enabled him to hold his own in\npublic life, amid the tumult of wars, the sedition, and the license\nof all kinds, then characteristic of Athenian affairs. In addition to\nthis, his ridiculous and insignificant figure must have been no slight\nprejudice to him among people who made little distinction between the\ngood and the beautiful, and who were also much addicted to banter. Thus\nit happened that in a free city, full of wealth and the bustle and\namusements of life, Socrates, poor, rejected by love, incapable of a\npublic career, yet gifted with very great intelligence which doubtless\nintensified the consciousness of his defects, resigned himself to a\nlife of philosophising on the actions, manners, and thoughts of his\nfellow-citizens. The irony he used was natural to a man who found\nhimself as it were excluded from participation in the existence of\nothers. But it was due to his inherent nobility and affableness, and\nperhaps also to the celebrity he gained by his reasonings, and which\nflattered his self-esteem, that this irony, instead of being bitter and\ncontemptuous, was pleasing, and expressed in a friendly manner.\n\n\"Then it was that Philosophy, as Cicero has well said, made her first\ndescent from heaven, and was led by Socrates into the towns and houses\nof men. Hitherto occupied with speculations as to the nature of hidden\nthings, she now studied the manners and lives of men, and discussed\nvirtues and vices, things good and useful, and the contrary. But\nSocrates did not primarily think of introducing this novel feature into\nphilosophy, nor did he propose to teach anything, nor even aspire to\nthe name of philosopher, which then only belonged to those who made\nphysics or metaphysics the study of their lives. He openly proclaimed\nhis ignorance of all things, and in his conversation with others simply\ndiscussed the affairs of his neighbours, and the topics of the day.\nHe preferred this amusement to the real study of philosophy, or any\nother science or art; and being naturally more inclined to act than\nspeculate, he only adopted this manner of life, because shut out from a\nmore congenial employment. He was always more willing to converse with\nyoung and handsome persons than with others; in this way he hoped to\ngain at least esteem, where he would far rather have had love.\"\n\nAnd since all the schools of Greek philosophy are traceable directly\nor indirectly to the Socratic school, Ottonieri asserted that the flat\nnose and satyr-like visage of a highly intellectual and warm-hearted\nman were the origin of all Greek philosophy, and, consequently, the\nphilosophy of modern times. He also said that in the writings of\nhis followers, the individuality of Socrates is comparable to those\ntheatrical masks of the ancients, which always retained their name,\ncharacter, and identity, but the _r\u00d9le_ of which varied in each\ndistinct performance.\n\nHe left behind him no philosophical or other writings for public\nbenefit. Being asked one day why he did not give written as well as\nverbal expression to his philosophical views, he replied: \"Reading\nis a conversation held with the writer. Now, as in f\u00cdtes and public\nentertainments, they who take no active part in the spectacle or\nperformance soon become tired, similarly in conversation men prefer to\nspeak rather than listen. And books necessarily resemble those people\nwho take all the speaking to themselves, and never listen to others.\nConsequently, to atone for their monopoly of talking, they ought to say\nmany fine and excellent things, expressing them in a remarkable manner.\nEvery book that does not do this inspires the same feeling of aversion\nas an insatiable chatterer.\"\n\n\n[Footnote 1: A fictitious personage.]\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II.\n\n\nOttonieri made no distinction between business and pleasure. However\nserious his occupation, he called it pastime. Only once, having been\nidle temporarily, he confessed he had then experienced no amusement.\n\nHe said that our truest pleasures are due to the imagination. Thus,\nchildren construct a world out of nothing, whereas men find nothing in\nthe world. He compared those pleasures termed real to an artichoke, all\nthe leaves of which must be masticated in order to reach the pith. He\nadded that such artichokes as these are very rare; and that many others\nresemble them in exterior, but within are void of kernel. He for his\npart, finding the leaves unpalatable, determined to abstain from both\nleaves and kernel.\n\nBeing asked what was the worst moment of life, he said: \"Except those\nof pain or fear, the worst moments are, in my opinion, those spent in\npleasure. For the anticipation and recollection of these last, which\nfill up the remainder of life, are better and more delightful than the\npleasures themselves.\" He also made a comparison between pleasures\nand odours. The latter he considered usually leave behind a desire to\nexperience them again, proportioned to their agreeableness; and he\nregarded the sense of smell as the most difficult to satisfy of all our\nsenses. Again, he compared odours to anticipations of good things; and\nsaid that odoriferous foods are generally more pleasing to the nose\nthan the palate, for their scent originates savoury expectations which\nare seldom sufficiently realised. He explained why sometimes he was so\nimpatient about the delay of a pleasure sure to occur sooner or later,\nby saying that he feared the enjoyment he should derive from it would\nbe of diminished force, on account of the exaggerated anticipation\nconceived by his mind. For this reason he endeavoured in the meantime\nto forget the coming good, as though it were an impending misfortune.\n\nHe said that each of us in entering the world resembles a man on a\nhard and uncomfortable bed. As soon as the man lies down, he feels\nrestless and begins to toss from side to side and change his position\nmomentarily, in the hope of inducing sleep to close his eyes. Thus he\nspends the whole night, and though sometimes he believes himself on the\npoint of falling asleep, he never actually succeeds in doing so. At\nlength dawn comes, and he rises unrefreshed.\n\nWatching some bees at work one day in company with certain\nacquaintances, he remarked: \"Blessed are ye, if ye know not your\nunhappiness.\"\n\nHe considered the miseries of mortals to be incalculable, and that no\nsingle one of them could be adequately deplored.\n\nIn answer to Horace's question, \"Why is no one content with his lot?\"\nhe said: \"Because no one's lot is happy. Subjects equally with princes,\nthe weak and the strong, were they happy, would be contented, and would\nenvy no one. For men are no more incapable of being satisfied than\nother animals. But since happiness alone can satisfy them, they are\nnecessarily dissatisfied, because essentially unhappy.\"\n\n\"If a man could be found,\" he said, \"who had attained to the summit of\nhuman happiness, that man would be the most miserable of mortals. For\neven the oldest of us have hopes and schemes for the improvement of our\ncondition.\" He recalled a passage in Zenophon, where a purchaser of\nland is advised to buy badly cultivated fields, because such as do not\nin the future bring forth more abundantly than at the time of purchase,\ngive less satisfaction than if they were to increase in productiveness.\nSimilarly, all things in which we can observe improvement please us\nmore than others in which improvement is impossible.\n\nOn the other hand, he observed that no condition is so bad that it\ncannot be worse; and that however unhappy a man may be, he cannot\nconsole or boast himself that his misfortunes are incapable of\nincrease. Though hope is unbounded, the good things of life are\nlimited. Thus, were we to consider a single day in the life of a rich\nor poor man, master or servant, bearing in mind all the circumstances\nand needs of their respective positions, we should generally find\nan equality of good throughout. But nature has not limited our\nmisfortunes; nor can the mind scarcely conceive a cause of suffering\nwhich is non-existent, or which at some time was not to be found among\nhumanity. Thus, whereas most men vainly hope for an increase of the\ngood things they possess, they never want for genuine objects of fear;\nand if Fortune sometimes obstinately refuses to benefit us in the least\ndegree, she never fails to afflict us with new torments of such a\nnature as to crush within us even the courage of despair.\n\nHe often used to laugh at those philosophers who think that a man is\nable to free himself from the tyranny of Fortune, by having a contempt\nfor good and evil things which are entirely beyond his control; as if\nhappiness and the contrary were absolutely in his own power to accept\nor refuse. On the same subject he also said, amongst other things,\nthat however much a man may act as a philosopher in his relations with\nothers, he is never a philosopher to himself. Again, he said that it is\nas impossible to take more interest in the affairs of others than in\nour own, as to regard their affairs as though they were our own. But,\nsupposing this philosophical disposition of mind were possible, winch\nit is not, and possessed by one of us, how would it stand the test\nof a thousand trials? Would it not be evident that the happiness or\nunhappiness of such a person is nevertheless a matter of fortune? Would\nnot the very disposition they boast of be dependent on circumstances?\nIs not man's reason daily governed by accidents of all kinds? Do not\nthe numberless bodily disturbances due to stupidity, excitement,\nmadness, rage, dullness, and a hundred other species of folly,\ntemporary or continuous, trouble, weaken, distract, and even extinguish\nit? Does not memory, wisdom's ally, lose strength as we advance in age?\nHow many of us fall into a second childhood! And we almost all decrease\nin mental vigour as we grow old; or when our mind remains unimpaired,\ntime, by means of some bodily disease, enfeebles our courage and\nfirmness, and not infrequently deprives us of both attributes\naltogether. In short, it is utter folly to confess that physically we\nare subject to many things over which we have no control, and at the\nsame time to assert that the mind, which is so greatly dependent on the\nbody, is not similarly controlled by external influences. He summed up\nby saying that man as a whole is absolutely in the power of Fortune.\nBeing asked for what purpose he thought men were born, he laughingly\nreplied: \"To realise how much better it were not to be born.\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III.\n\n\nOn the occasion of a certain misfortune, Ottonieri said: \"It is less\nhard to lose a much-loved person suddenly, or after a short illness,\nthan to see him waste away gradually, so that before his death he is\ntransformed in body and mind into quite another being from what he\nformerly was. This latter is a cruel thing; for the beloved one,\ninstead of leaving to us the tender recollections of his real identity,\nremains with us a changed being, in whose presence our old affection\nslowly but surely fades away. At length he dies; but the remembrance\nof him as he was at the last destroys the sweeter and earlier image\nwithin us. Thus he is lost entirely, and our imagination, instead of\ncomforting, saddens us. Such misfortunes as these are inconsolable.\"\n\nOne day he heard a man lamenting and saying, \"If only I were freed from\nthis trouble, all my other troubles would be easy to bear.\" He replied:\n\"Not so; for then those that are now light would be heavy.\"\n\nAnother person said to him: \"Had this pain continued, I could not have\nborne it.\" Ottonieri answered: \"On the contrary, habit would have made\nit more bearable.\"\n\nTouching many things as to human nature, he held opinions not in\naccordance with those of the multitude, and often different from\nthose of learned men. For instance, he thought it unwise to address\na petition to any one when the person addressed is in a state of\nextraordinary hilarity. \"And,\" he said, \"when the petition is such that\nit cannot be granted at once, I consider occasions of joy and sorrow as\nequally inopportune to its success. For both sentiments make a man too\nselfish to trouble himself with the affairs of others. In sorrow our\nmisfortune, in joy our good fortune, monopolises our mind, and erects,\nas it were, a barrier between us and matters external to ourselves.\nBoth are also peculiarly unsuitable for exciting compassion: when\nsorrowful, we reserve all pity for ourselves; when joyful, we colour\nall things with our joy, and are inclined to regard the troubles and\nmisfortunes of others as entirely imaginative, or else we refuse to\nthink of them, as too discordant with the mind's present condition. The\nbest time to ask a favour, or some beneficial promise for others, is\nwhen the person petitioned is in a state of quiet, happy good humour,\nunaccompanied by any excessive joyfulness; or better still, when under\nthe influence of that keen but indefinite pleasure which results from a\nreverie of thought, and consists of a peaceful agitation of the spirit.\nAt such times men are most open to pity and entreaty, and are often\nglad to please others, and give expression to the vague gratifying\nactivity of their thoughts by some good action.\"\n\nHe also denied that an afflicted person ordinarily receives more pity\nfrom fellow-sufferers than from other people. For a man's companions in\nmisfortune are always inclined to give their own troubles precedence\nover his, as being more serious and compassionable. And often, when a\nman in recounting his sufferings thinks he has excited the sympathy of\nhis auditors, he is interrupted by one of them who expatiates in turn\non his misfortunes, and ends by trying to show that he is the more\nafflicted of the two. He said that in such cases it generally happens\nas occurred to Achilles when Priam prostrated himself at his feet, with\nentreaties and lamentations. The tears of Priam excited the tears of\nAchilles, who began to groan and weep like the Trojan king. This he\ndid, not from sympathy, but because of his own misfortunes, and the\nthoughts of his dead father and friend. \"We compassionate others,\" he\nsaid, \"when they suffer from evils we have experienced; but not so when\nwe and they suffer simultaneously.\"\n\nHe said that from carelessness and thoughtlessness we do many cruel\nor wicked things, which very often have the appearance of genuine\ncruelty and maliciousness. For example, he mentioned the case of a man\nwho spending his time away from home left his servants in a dwelling\nscarcely weather proof, not designedly, but simply from thoughtlessness\nor disregard of their comfort. He considered malice, inhumanity, and\nthe like to be far less common among men than mere thoughtlessness, to\nwhich he attributed very many things called by harder names.\n\nHe once said that it were better to be completely ungrateful towards a\nbenefactor than to make some trifling return for his great kindness.\nFor in the latter case the benefactor must consider the obligation\nas cancelled, whatever may have been the motive that inspired the\ndonor, and however small the return. He is thus despoiled of the bare\nsatisfaction of gratitude, on which he probably reckoned; and yet he\ncannot regard himself as treated ungratefully, though he is so in\nreality.\n\nI have heard the following saying attributed to him:--\"We are\ninclined and accustomed to give our acquaintances credit for being\nable to discern our true merits, or what we imagine them to be, and to\nrecognise the virtue of our words and actions. We also suppose that\nthey ponder over these virtues and merits of ours, and never let them\nescape their memory. But, on the other hand, we do not discern similar\nqualities in them, or else are unwilling to acknowledge the fact.\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV.\n\n\nOttonieri observed that irresolute men sometimes persevere in their\nundertakings in the face of the greatest opposition. This is even a\nconsequence of their irresolution; for were they to abandon their\ndesign, it would be evidence that they had for once fulfilled a\ndetermination. Sometimes they skilfully and speedily carry out a\nresolution. To this they are urged by fear lest they should be\ncompelled to cease their task, when they would return to the state\nof perplexity and uncertainty in which they were formerly. Thus they\nstrenuously hasten the execution of their design, stimulated rather by\nanxiety and uncertainty as to whether they will conquer themselves,\nthan by the goal or the difficulties to be overcome before it can be\nreached.\n\nAt another time he said, with a smile, that people accustomed to give\nexpression to their every thought and feeling in conversation with\nothers, cry out when alone if a fly bite them, or if they chance to\nupset a glass of water; and, on the other hand, they who live solitary\nlives become so reserved that even the presentiment of apoplexy would\nnot induce them to speak in the presence of others.\n\nHe was of opinion that most men reputed great in ancient and modern\ntimes have obtained their reputation through a preponderance of one\nquality over the rest in their character. And a man possessed of the\nmost brilliant but evenly proportioned endowments, would fail to\nacquire celebrity either with his contemporaries or posterity.\n\nHe divided the men of civilised nations into three classes. The first\nclass are they whose individual nature, and partly also their natural\nhuman constitution, become transformed under the influence of the arts\nand customs of urban life. Among these he included all men who are\nskilful in business, whether private or public, who appreciate society,\nand make themselves universally agreeable to their fellows. Generally\nspeaking, such men alone inspire esteem and respect. The second class\nare they who preserve their primitive nature in a greater degree,\neither from lack of culture or because they are naturally incapable\nof being influenced by the arts, manners, and customs of others. This\nis the most numerous of the three classes, and is held in general\ncontempt. It embraces those who are known as the common people, or who\ndeserve to be included with them, be their station in life what it may.\nThe third class, incomparably the smallest in numbers, and often even\nmore despised than the second, consists of those men in whom nature\nis strong enough to resist and often repulse the civilising influence\nof the times. They are seldom apt in business, or self-governed in\nsociety; nor do they shine in conversation, nor succeed in making\nthemselves agreeable to their fellow-men. This class is subdivided\ninto two varieties. The one includes those strong and courageous\nnatures that despise the contempt they excite, and often indeed esteem\nit more than honour. They differ from other men, not only by nature,\nbut also by choice and preference. Having nothing in common with the\nhopes and pleasures of society, solitary in a crowd, they avoid other\nmen as much as they themselves are avoided. Specimens of this class are\nrarely met with. The other variety consists of persons whose nature is\na compound of strength, weakness, and timidity, and who are therefore\nin a constant state of agitation. They are as a rule desirous of\nassociating with their fellows, and wishing to emulate the men of the\ncultivated class, they feel acutely the contempt in which they are held\nby their inferiors. These men are never successful in life; they fail\nin ever becoming practical, and in society are neither tolerable to\nthemselves nor others. Not a few of our most gifted men of modern times\nhave belonged to this division in more or less degree. J. J. Rousseau\nis a famous example, and with him may be bracketed one of the ancients,\nVirgil. Of the latter it is said, on the authority of Melissus, that\nhe was very slow of speech, and apparently a most ordinary endowed\nman. And this, together with the probability that owing to his great\ntalents Virgil was little at ease in society, seems likely enough, both\nfrom the laboured subtlety of his style, and the nature of his poetry;\nit is also confirmed by what we read towards the end of the Second\nBook of the Georgics. There the poet expresses a wish for a quiet and\nsolitary life, as though he regarded it as a remedy and refuge more\nthan an advantage in itself. Now, seeing that with rare exceptions men\nof these two species are never esteemed until they are dead, and are\nof little power in the world; he asserted as a general rule, that the\nonly way to gain esteem during life is to live unnaturally. And since\nthe first class, which is the mean of the two extremes, represents\nthe civilisation of our times; he concluded from this and other\ncircumstances that the conduct of human affairs is entirely in the\nhands of mediocrity.\n\nHe distinguished also three conditions of old age, compared with the\nother ages of man. When nature and manners were first instituted, men\nwere just and virtuous at all ages. Experience and knowledge of the\nworld did not make men less honest and upright. Old age was then the\nmost venerable time of life; for besides having all the good qualities\ncommon to other men, the aged were naturally possessed of greater\nprudence and judgment than their juniors. But in process of time, the\nconduct of men changed; their manners became debased and corrupt. Then\nwere the aged the vilest of the vile; for they had served a longer\napprenticeship to vice, had been longer under the influence of the\nwickedness of their neighbours, and were besides possessed of the\nspirit of cold indifference natural to their time of life. Under such\nconditions they were powerless to act, save by calumny, fraud, perfidy,\ncunning, dissimulation, and other such despicable means. The corruption\nof men at length exceeded all bounds. They despised virtue and\nwell-doing before they knew anything of the world, and its sad truth.\nIn their youth they drained the cup of evil and dissipation. Old age\nwas then not indeed venerable, for few things thence-forward could be\nso called, but the most bearable time of life. For whereas the mental\nardour and bodily strength which formerly stimulated the imagination\nand the conception of noble thoughts, had often given rise to virtuous\nhabits, sentiments, and actions; the same causes latterly increased\nman's wickedness by enlarging his capacity for evil, to which it lent\nan additional attractiveness. But this ardour diminished with age,\nbodily decrepitude, and the coldness incident to age, things ordinarily\nmore dangerous to virtue than vice. In addition to this, excessive\nknowledge of the world became so dissatisfactory and wearisome a\nthing, that instead of conducting men from good to evil, as formerly,\nit gave them strength to resist wickedness, and sometimes even to hate\nit. So that, comparing old age with the other periods of life, it may\nbe said to have been as better to good in the earliest times; as worse\nto bad in the corrupt times; and subsequently as bad to worse.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V.\n\n\nOttonieri often talked of the quality of self-love, nowadays called\negotism. I will narrate some of his remarks on this subject.\n\nHe said that \"if you hear a person speak well or ill of another with\nwhom he has had dealings, and term him honest or the contrary; value\nhis opinion not a whit. He speaks well or ill of the man simply as\nhis relationship with him has proved satisfactory or the reverse.\" He\nsaid that no one can love without a rival. Being asked to explain,\nhe replied: \"Because the person beloved is a very close rival of the\nlover.\"\n\n\"Suppose a case,\" he said, \"in which you asked a favour from a friend,\nwho could not grant it without incurring the hatred of a third person.\nSuppose, too, that the three interested people are in the same\ncondition of life. I affirm that your request would have little chance\nof success, even though your gratitude to the granter might exceed the\nhatred he would incur from the other person. The reason of this is as\nfollows: we fear men's anger and hatred more than we value their love\nand gratitude. And rightly so. For do we not oftener see the former\nproductive of results than the latter? Besides, hatred or vengeance is\na personal satisfaction; whereas gratitude is merely a service pleasing\nto the recipient.\"\n\nHe said that respect and services rendered to others in expectation of\nsome profitable return, are rarely successful; because men, especially\nnowadays when they are more knowing than formerly, are less inclined to\ngive than receive. Nevertheless, such services as the young render to\nthe old who are rich or powerful, attain their end more often than not.\n\nThe following remarks about modern customs I remember hearing from his\nown mouth:--\n\n\"Nothing makes a man of the world so ashamed as the feeling that he is\nashamed, if by chance he ever realises it.\n\n\"Marvellous is the power of fashion! For we see nations and men, so\nconservative in everything else, and so careful of tradition, act\nblindly in this respect, often indeed unreasonably, and against their\nown interests. Fashion is despotic. She constrains men to lay aside,\nchange, or assume manners, customs, and ideas, just when she pleases;\neven though the things changed be rational, useful, or beautiful, and\nthe substitutes the contrary.[1]\n\n\"There are an infinite number of things in public and private life\nwhich, though truly ridiculous, seldom excite laughter. If by chance a\nman does laugh in such a case, he laughs alone, and is soon silent. On\nthe other hand, we laugh daily at a thousand very serious and natural\nthings; and such laughter is quickly contagious. Thus, most things\nwhich excite laughter are in reality anything but ridiculous; and we\noften laugh simply because there is nothing to laugh at, or nothing\nworthy of laughter.\n\n\"We frequently hear and say such things as, 'The good ancients,' 'our\ngood ancestors,' &c. Again, 'A man worthy of the ancients,' by which\nwe mean a trustworthy and honest man. Every generation believes, on\nthe one hand, that its ancestors were better than its contemporaries;\nand on the other hand, that the human race progresses as it leaves the\nprimitive state, to return to which would be a movement for the worse,\nfurther and further behind. Wonderful contradiction!\n\n\"The true is not necessarily the beautiful. Yet, though beauty be\npreferable to truth, where the former is wanting, the latter is the\nnext best thing. Now in large towns the beautiful is not to be found,\nbecause it no longer has a place in the excitement of human life.\nThe true is equally non-existent; for all things there are false or\nfrivolous. Consequently, in large towns one sees, feels, hears, and\nbreathes nothing but falsity, which in time, custom renders even\npleasurable. To sensitive minds, what misery can exceed this?\n\n\"People who need not work for their bread, and who accordingly leave\nthe care of it to others, have usually great difficulty in providing\nthemselves with one of the chief necessities of life, occupation. This\nmay indeed be called the greatest necessity of life, for it includes\nall others. It is greater even than the necessity of living; for life\nitself, apart from happiness, is not a good thing. And possessing life,\nas we do, our one endeavour should be to endure as little unhappiness\nas possible. Now, on the one hand, an idle and empty life is very\nunhappy; and on the other hand, the best way to pass our time is to\nspend it in providing for our wants.\"\n\nHe said that the custom of buying and selling human beings has proved\nuseful to the race. In confirmation of this, he mentioned the practice\nof inoculating for small-pox, which originated in Circassia; from\nConstantinople it passed to England, and thence became disseminated\nthroughout Europe. Its office was to mitigate the destructiveness\nwrought by true small-pox, which besides endangering the life and\ncomeliness of the Circassian children and youths, was especially\ndisastrous in its effects on the sale of their maidens.\n\nHe narrated of himself that on leaving school to enter the world of\nlife, he mentally resolved, inexperienced, and devoted to truth as he\nwas, to praise no person or thing that did not seem really deserving\nof praise. He kept his determination for a whole year, during which\ntime he did not utter a single word of praise. Then he broke his\nvow, fearing lest, from want of practice, he should forget all the\neulogistic phraseology he had learnt shortly before, at the School of\nRhetoric. From that time he absolutely renounced his intention.\n\n\n[Footnote 1: See \"Dialogue between Fashion and Death,\" p. 19.]\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI.\n\n\nOttonieri was accustomed to read out passages from books taken at\nhazard, especially those of ancient writers. He would often interrupt\nhimself by uttering some remark or comment on this or that passage.\n\nOne day he read from Laertius' \"Lives of the Philosophers,\" the passage\nwhere Chilo, being asked how the learned differed from the ignorant, is\nsaid to have replied, that the former possess 'hopes,' Ottonieri said:\n\"Now all is changed. The ignorant hope, but the learned do not.\"\n\nAgain, as he read in the same book how Socrates affirmed that the world\ncontains but one benefit, knowledge, and but one evil, ignorance,\nhe said: \"I know nothing about the knowledge and ignorance of the\nancients; but in the present day I should reverse this saying.\"\n\nCommenting on this maxim of Hegesias, also from the book of Laertius,\n\"The wise man attends to his own interests in everything,\" he said: \"If\nall men who carry out this principle be philosophers, Plato may come\nand establish his republic throughout the civilised world.\"\n\nHe greatly praised the following saying of Bion Borysthenes, mentioned\nby Laertius: \"They who seek the greatest happiness, suffer most.\"\nTo this he added: \"And they on the other hand are happiest who are\ncontented with least, and who are accustomed to enjoy their happiness\nover again in memory.\"\n\nFrom Plutarch he read how Stratocles excited the anger of the Athenians\nby inducing them on a certain occasion to sacrifice as though they\nwere victors; and how he then replied by demanding why they blamed him\nthat he had made them happy and joyful for the space of three days.\nOttonieri added: \"Nature might make the same response to those who\ncomplain that she endeavours to conceal the truth beneath a multitude\nof vain but beautiful and pleasing appearances. How have I injured you,\nin making you happy for three or four days?\"\n\nOn another occasion he remarked that Tasso's saying about a child\ninduced to take his medicine under a false belief, \"he is nourished on\ndeception,\" is equally applicable to all our race, in relation to the\nerrors in which man puts faith.\n\nBeading the following from Cicero's \"Paradoxes\"--\"Do pleasures make\na person better or more estimable? Is there any one who boasts of the\npleasures he enjoys?\" he said: \"Beloved Cicero, I cannot say that\npleasures make men in the present day either more estimable or better;\nbut undoubtedly they cause them to be more esteemed. For in the present\nday most young men seek esteem by no other way than pleasure. And not\nonly do they boast of these pleasures when they obtain them, but they\ndin the intelligence of their enjoyment into the ears of friends and\nstrangers, willing or unwilling. There are also many pleasures which\nare eagerly desired and sought after, not as pleasures, but for the\nsake of the renown, reputation, and self-satisfaction that they bring;\nand very often these latter things are appropriated when the pleasures\nhave neither been obtained, nor sought, or else have been entirely\nimaginary.\"\n\nHe noted from Arrian's History of the Wars of Alexander the Great, that\nat the battle of Issus, Darius placed his Greek mercenaries in the van\nof his army, and Alexander his Greeks at the wings. He thought that\nthis fact alone was sufficient to determine the result of the battle.\n\nHe never blamed authors for writing much about themselves. On the\ncontrary, he applauded them for so doing, and said that on such\noccasions they are nearly always eloquent, and their style, though\nperhaps unusual and even singular, is ordinarily good and fluent.\nAnd this is not surprising; for writers treating of themselves have\ntheir heart and soul in the work. They are at no loss what to say;\ntheir subject and the interest they take in it are jointly productive\nof original thought. They confine themselves to themselves, and do\nnot drink at strange fountains; nor need they be commonplace and\ntrite. There is nothing to induce them to garnish their writing with\nartificial ornamentation, or to affect an unnatural style. And it\nis an egregious error to suppose that readers are ordinarily little\ninterested in a writer's confessions. For in the first place, whenever\na man relates his own experiences and thoughts simply and pleasingly,\nhe succeeds in commanding attention. Secondly, because in no way\ncan we discuss and represent the affairs of others more truthfully\nand effectively than by treating of our own affairs; seeing that\nall men have something in common, either naturally or by force of\ncircumstances, and that we are better able to illustrate human nature\nin ourselves than in others. In confirmation of these opinions, he\ninstanced Demosthenes' Oration for the Crown, in which the speaker,\ncontinually referring to himself, is surpassingly eloquent. And Cicero,\nwhen he touches on his own affairs, is equally successful; peculiarly\nso in his Oration for Milo, admirable throughout, but above all praise\ntowards the end, where he himself is introduced. Bossuet also is\nsupremely excellent in his panegyric of the Prince de Cond\u00c8, where he\nmentions his own extreme age and approaching death. Again, the Emperor\nJulian, whose writings are all else trifling, and often unbearable, is\nat his best in the \"Misopogony\" (speech against the beard), in which\nhe replies to the ridicule and malice of the people of Antioch. He\nis here scarcely inferior to Lucian in wit, vigour, and acuteness;\nwhereas his work on the C\u00casars, professedly an imitation of Lucian,\nis pointless, dull, feeble, and almost stupid. In Italian literature,\nwhich is almost devoid of eloquent writings, the apology of Lorenzo\nde Medici is a specimen of eloquence, grand and perfect in every way.\nTasso also is often eloquent where he speaks much of himself, and is\nnearly always excessively so in his letters, which are almost occupied\nwith his own affairs.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII.\n\n\nMany other famous sayings of Ottonieri are recorded. Amongst them is a\nreply he gave to a clever, well-read young man, who knew little of the\nworld. This youth said that he learned daily one hundred pages of the\nart of self-government in society. \"But,\" remarked Ottonieri, \"the book\nhas five million pages.\"\n\nAnother youth, whose thoughtless and impetuous behaviour constantly\ngot him into trouble, used to excuse himself by saying that life is a\ncomedy. \"May be,\" replied Ottonieri, \"but even then it is better for\nthe actor to gain applause than rebuke; often, too, the ill-trained or\nclumsy comedian ends by dying of starvation.\"\n\nOne day he saw a murderer, who was lame, and could not therefore\nescape, being carried off by the police. \"See, friends,\" he said,\n\"Justice, lame though she be, can bring the doer of evil to account, if\nhe also be lame.\"\n\nDuring a journey through Italy he met a courtier, who, desirous of\nacting the critic to Ottonieri, began: \"I will speak candidly, if you\nwill allow me.\" \"I will listen attentively,\" said the other, \"for, as a\ntraveller, I appreciate uncommon things.\"\n\nBeing in need of money, he once asked a loan from a certain man, who,\nexcusing himself on the plea of poverty, added that were he rich, the\nnecessities of his friends would be his first thought. \"I should be\ntruly sorry were you to bestow on us such a valuable moment,\" replied\nOttonieri: \"God grant you may never become rich!\"\n\nWhen young, he wrote some verses, using certain obsolete expressions.\nAt the request of an old lady he recited them to her. She professed\nignorance of their meaning, and said that in her day such words were\nnot in use. Ottonieri replied: \"I thought they might have been, simply\nbecause they are very ancient.\"\n\nOf a certain very rich miser who had been robbed of a little money, he\nsaid: \"This man behaved in a miserly manner even to thieves.\"\n\nHe said of a man who had a mania for calculating on every possible\noccasion: \"Other men make things; this fellow counts them.\"\n\nBeing asked his opinion about a certain old terra-cotta figure of Jove,\nover which some antiquaries were disputing, he said: \"Do you not see\nthat it is a Cretan Jove?\"\n\nOf a foolish fellow, who imagined himself to be an admirable reasoner,\nyet was illogical whenever he spoke two words, he said: \"This person\nexemplifies the Greek definition of man, as a 'logical animal.'\"\n\nWhen on his deathbed, he composed this epitaph, which was subsequently\nengraved on his tomb:\n\n\n                               HERE LIE\n                             THE BONES OF\n                           PHILIP OTTONIERI.\n                      BORN FOR VIRTUE AND GLORY,\n                      HE LIVED IDLE AND USELESS,\n                        AND DIED IN OBSCURITY;\n                   NOT WITHOUT A KNOWLEDGE OF NATURE\n                         AND HIS OWN DESTINY.\n\n\n\n\n_DIALOGUE BETWEEN CHRISTOPHER COLUMBUS AND PIETRO GUTIERREZ._\n\n\n\n_Columbus_. A fine night, friend.\n\n_Gutierrez_. Fine indeed; but a sight of land would be much finer.\n\n_Col_. Decidedly. So even you are tired of a life at sea.\n\n_Gut_. Not so. But I am rather weary of this voyage, which turns out to\nbe so much longer than I expected. Do not, however, think that I blame\nyou, like the others. Rather, consider that I will, as hitherto, do all\nI can to help you in anything relating to the voyage. But just for the\nsake of some talk I wish you would tell me candidly and explicitly,\nwhether you are as confident as at first about finding land in this\npart of the world; or if, after spending so much time to no purpose,\nyou begin at all to doubt.\n\n_Col_. Speaking frankly as to a friend who will not betray me, I\nconfess I am a little dubious; especially because certain evidences\nduring the voyage, which filled me with hope, have turned out\ndeceitful; for instance, the birds which flew over us from the west,\nsoon after we left Gomera, and which I considered a sure sign of land\nnot far distant. Similarly, more than one conjecture and anticipation,\nmade before setting out, regarding different things that were to have\ntaken place during the voyage, have failed of realisation. So that at\nlength I cannot but say to myself, \"Since these predictions in which I\nput the utmost faith have not been verified, why may not also my chief\nconjecture, that of finding land beyond the ocean, be also unfounded?\"\nIt is true this belief of mine is so logical, that if it be false, on\nthe one hand it would seem as if no human judgment could be reliable,\nexcept such as concern things actually seen, and touched; and on the\nother hand, I remember how seldom reality agrees with expectation. I\nask myself, \"What ground have you for believing that both hemispheres\nresemble each other, so that the western, like the eastern, is part\nland and part water? Why may it not be one immense sea? Or instead\nof land and water, may it not contain some other element? And,\nsupposing it to have land and water like the other, why may it not be\nuninhabited? or even uninhabitable? If it be peopled as numerously as\nour hemisphere, what proof have you that rational beings are to be\nfound there, as in ours? And if so, why not some other intelligent\nanimals instead of men? Supposing they be men, why not of a kind very\ndifferent from those you are acquainted with; for instance, with much\nlarger bodies, stronger, more skilful, naturally gifted with much more\ngenius and intelligence, more civilised, and richer in sciences and\narts?\"\n\nThese thoughts occur to me. And in truth, we see nature endowed with\nsuch power, so diverse and manifold in her effects, that we not only\nare unable to form a certain opinion about her works in distant and\nunknown parts of the world, but we may even doubt whether we do not\ndeceive ourselves in drawing conclusions from the known world, and\napplying them to the unknown. Nor would it be contrary to probability\nto imagine that the things of the unknown world, in whole or part,\nwere strange and extraordinary to us. For do we not see with our own\neyes that the needle in these seas falls away from the Pole Star not a\nlittle towards the west? Such a thing is perfectly novel, and hitherto\nunheard of by all navigators; and even after much thought I can arrive\nat no satisfactory explanation of it. I do not infer that the fables\nof the ancients regarding the wonders of the undiscovered world and\nthis ocean are at all credible. Annonus, for instance, said of these\nparts, that the nights were illumined by flames, and the glow of fiery\ntorrents, which emptied themselves into the sea. We observe also, how\nfoolish hitherto have been all the fears of miraculous and terrible\nnovelties felt by our fellow-sailors during the voyage; as when, on\ncoming to that stretch of seaweed, which made as it were a meadow in\nthe sea, and impeded us so greatly, they imagined we had reached the\nverge of navigable waters.\n\nI say this simply because I wish you to see that although this idea\nof mine about undiscovered land may be founded on very reasonable\nsuppositions, in which many excellent geographers, astronomers, and\nnavigators, with whom I conversed on the subject in Spain, Italy, and\nPortugal, agree with me, it might yet be fallacious. In short, we often\nsee many admirably drawn conclusions prove erroneous, especially in\nmatters about which we have very little knowledge.\n\n_Gut_. So that in fact you have risked your own life, and the lives of\nyour companions, on behalf of a mere possibility.\n\n_Col_. I cannot deny it. But, apart from the fact that men daily\nendanger their lives for much frailer reasons, and far more trifling\nthings, or even without thinking at all, pray consider a moment.\n\nIf you, and I, and all of us were not now here in this ship, in the\nmiddle of this ocean, in this strange solitude, uncertain and hazardous\nthough it be, what should we be doing? How should we be occupied? How\nshould we be spending our time? More joyfully perhaps? More probably,\nin greater trouble and difficulty; or worse, in a state of ennui?\n\nFor what is implied in a state of life free from uncertainty and\ndanger? If contentment and happiness, it is preferable to all others;\nif weariness and misery, I know nothing so undesirable.\n\nI do not wish to mention the glory and useful intelligence that we\nshall take back with us, if our enterprise succeed, as we hope. If the\nvoyage be of no other use to us, it is very advantageous, inasmuch as\nit for a time frees us from ennui, endears life to us, and enhances the\nvalue of many things that we should not otherwise esteem.\n\nYou remember perhaps what the ancients say about unfortunate lovers.\nThese used to throw themselves from the rock of St. Maur (then called\nLeucadia) into the sea; being rescued therefrom, they found themselves,\nthanks to Apollo, delivered from their love passion. Whether or not\nthis be credible, I am quite sure that the lovers, having escaped their\ndanger, for a short time even without Apollo's assistance, loved the\nlife they previously hated; or loved and valued it increasedly. Every\nvoyage is, in my opinion, comparable to the leap from the Leucadian\nrock, producing the same useful results, though these are of a more\ndurable kind.\n\nIt is ordinarily believed that sailors and soldiers, because\nincessantly in danger of their lives, value existence more lightly than\nother people. For the same reason, I come to a contrary conclusion,\nand imagine few persons hold life in such high estimation as soldiers\nand sailors. Just as we care nothing for many benefits as soon as we\npossess them; so sailors cherish and value, very greatly, numerous\nthings that are far from being good, simply because they are deprived\nof them. Who would think of including a little earth in the catalogue\nof human benefits? None but navigators; and especially such as\nourselves, who, owing to the uncertain nature of our voyage, desire\nnothing so much as the sight of a tiny piece of land. This is our first\nthought on awaking, and our last before we fall asleep. And if at some\nfuture time we chance to see in the distance the peak of a mountain,\nthe tops of a forest, or some such evidence of land, we shall scarcely\nbe able to contain ourselves for joy. Once on _terra firma_, the mere\nconsciousness of being free to go where we please will suffice to make\nus happy for several days.\n\n_Gut_. That is all very true; and if your conjecture only prove to be\nas reasonable as your justification of it, we shall not fail to enjoy\nthis happiness sooner or later.\n\n_Col_. Personally, I think we shall soon do so; though I dare not\nactually promise such a thing. You know we have for several days been\nable to fathom; and the quality of the matter brought up by the lead\nseems to me auspicious. The clouds about the sun towards evening are\nof a different form and colour to what they were a few days ago. The\natmosphere, as you can feel, is warmer and softer than it was. The wind\nno longer blows with the same force, nor in so straightforward and\nunwavering a manner; it is inclined to be hesitating and changeable, as\nthough broken by some impediment. To these signs add that of the piece\nof cane we discovered floating in the sea, which bore marks of having\nbeen recently severed; and the little branch of a tree with fresh\nred berries on it; besides, the swarms of birds that pass over us,\nthough they have deceived me before, are now so frequent and immense,\nthat I think there must be some special reason for their appearance,\nparticularly because we see amongst them some which do not resemble\nsea birds. In short, all these omens together make me very hopeful and\nexpectant, however diffident I may pretend to be.\n\n_Gut_. God grant your surmises may be true.\n\n\n\n\n_PANEGYRIC OF BIRDS._\n\n\nAmelio, a lonely philosopher, was seated, reading, one spring morning\nin the shade of his country house. Being distracted by the songs of the\nbirds in the fields, he gradually resigned himself to listening and\nthinking. At length he threw his book aside, and taking up a pen wrote\nas follows:--\n\nBirds are naturally the most joyful creatures in the world. I do not\nsay this because of the cheerful influence they always exercise over\nus; I mean that they themselves are more light-hearted and joyful than\nany other animal. For we see other animals ordinarily stolid and grave,\nand many even seem melancholy. They rarely give signs of joy, and when\nthey do, these are but slight and of brief duration. In most of their\nenjoyments and pleasures they do not express any gratification. The\ngreen fields, extensive and charming landscapes, noble planets, pure\nand sweet atmosphere, if even a cause of pleasure to them, do not\nexcite in them any joyful demonstrations; save that on the authority\nof Zenophon, hares are said to skip and frolic with delight when the\nmoon's radiance is at its brightest.\n\nBirds, on the other hand, show extreme joy, both in motion and\nappearance; and it is the sight of this evident disposition for\nenjoyment on their part that gladdens us as we watch them. And this\nappearance must not be regarded as unreal and deceptive. They sing to\nexpress the happiness they feel, and the happier they are, the more\nvigorously do they sing. And if, as it is said, they sing louder and\nmore sweetly when in love than at other times, it is equally certain\nthat other pleasures besides love incite them to sing. For we may\nnotice they warble more on a quiet and peaceful day, than when the day\nis dark and uncertain. And in stormy weather, or when frightened, they\nare silent; but the storm passed, they reappear, singing and frolicking\nwith one another. Again, they sing in the morning when they awake;\nbeing partly incited to this by a feeling of joy for the new day, and\npartly by the pleasure generally felt by every animal when refreshed\nand restored by sleep. They also delight in gay foliage, rich valleys,\npure and sparkling water, and beautiful country....\n\nIt is said that birds' voices are softer and sweeter, and their songs\nmore refined, with us than among wild and uncivilised people. This\nbeing so, it would seem that birds are subject to the influence of the\ncivilisation with which they associate. Whether or not this be true, it\nis a remarkable instance of the providence of nature that they should\nhave capacity for flight, as well as the gift of song, so that their\nvoices might from a lofty situation reach a greater number of auditors.\nIt is also providential that the air, which is the natural element of\nsound, should be inhabited by vocal and musical creatures.\n\nTruly the singing of birds is a great solace and pleasure to us, and\nall other animals. This fact is not, I believe, so much due to the\nsweetness of the sounds, nor to their variety and harmony, as to\nthe joyful signification of songs generally, and those of birds in\nparticular. Birds laugh, as it were, to show their contentment and\nhappiness. It may therefore be said that they partake in a degree of\nman's privilege of laughter, unpossessed by other animals. Now some\npeople think that man may as well be termed a laughing animal, as an\nanimal possessed of mind and reason; for laughter seems to them quite\nas much peculiar to man as reason. And it is certainly wonderful that\nman, the most wretched and miserable of all creatures, should have the\nfaculty of laughter, which is wanting in other animals. Marvellous also\nis the use we make of this faculty! We see people suffering from some\nterrible calamity or mental distress, others who have lost all love of\nlife, and regard every human thing as full of vanity, who are almost\nincapable of joy, and deprived of hope, laugh nevertheless. Indeed, the\nmore such men realise the vanity of hope, and the misery of life, the\nfewer their expectations and pleasures, so much the more do they feel\ninclined to laugh. Now it is scarcely possible to explain or analyse\nthe nature of laughter in general, and its connection with the human\nmind. Perhaps it may aptly be termed a species of momentary folly or\ndelirium. For men can have no reasonable and just cause for laughter,\nbecause nothing really satisfies nor truly pleases them. It would be\ncurious to discover and trace out the history of this faculty. There\nis no doubt that in man's primitive and wild state, it was expressed\nby a peculiar gravity of countenance, as in other animals, who show\nit even to the extent of melancholy. For this reason I imagine that\nlaughter not only came into the world after tears, which cannot be\nquestioned, but that a long time passed before it appeared. During that\ntime, neither the mother greeted her child with a smile, nor did the\nchild smilingly recognise her, as Virgil says. And the reason why, in\nthe present day, among civilised people, children smile as soon as they\nare born, is explainable by virtue of example: they see others smile,\ntherefore they also smile. It is probable that laughter originated in\ndrunkenness,[1] another peculiarity of the human race. This vice is\nfar from being confined to civilised nations, for we know that scarcely\nany people can be found that do not possess an intoxicating liquor of\nsome kind, which they indulge in to excess. And this cannot be wondered\nat, when we remember that men, the most unhappy of all animals, are\nabove all pleased with anything that easily alienates their minds,\nsuch as self-forgetfulness, or a suspension of their usual life; from\nwhich interruption and temporary diminution of the sense and knowledge\nof their peculiar evils they receive no slight benefit. And whereas\nsavages have ordinarily a sad and grave countenance, yet, when in\na state of drunkenness, they laugh immoderately, and talk and sing\nincessantly, contrary to their custom. But I will discuss this matter\nmore in detail in a history of laughter which I think of composing.\nHaving discovered its origin, I will trace its history and fortune to\nthe present day, when it is more valued than at any previous time. It\noccupies among civilised nations a place, and fills an office somewhat\nsimilar to the parts formerly played by virtue, justice, honour, and\nthe like, often indeed frightening and deterring men from the committal\nof evil.\n\nBut to return to the birds. From the effect their singing produces in\nme, I conclude that the sight and recognition of joy in others, of\nwhich we are not envious, gratifies and rejoices us. We may therefore\nbe grateful to Nature for having ordained that the songs of birds,\nwhich are a demonstration of joy and a species of laughter, should\nbe in public, differing from the private nature of the singing and\nlaughter of men, who represent the rest of the world. And it is wisely\ndecreed that the earth and air should be enlivened by creatures that\nseem to applaud universal life with the joyful harmony of their sweet\nvoices, and thus incite other living beings to joy, by their continual,\nthough false, testimony to the happiness of things.\n\nIt is reasonable that birds should be, and show themselves, more joyful\nthan other creatures. For, as I have said, they are naturally better\nadapted for joy and happiness. In the first place, apparently, they are\nnot subject to ennui. They change their position momentarily, and pass\nfrom country to country, however distant, and from the lowest regions\nof the air to the highest, quickly and with wonderful ease. Life to\nthem is made up of an infinite variety of sights and experiences. Their\nbodies are in a continuous state of activity, and they themselves are\nfull of vital power. All other animals, their wants being satisfied,\nlove quietude and laziness; none, except fishes and certain flying\ninsects, keep long in motion simply for amusement. The savage, for\ninstance, except to supply his daily wants, which demand little and\nbrief exertion, or when unable to hunt, scarcely stirs a step. He loves\nidleness and tranquillity above everything, and passes nearly the whole\nday sitting in silence and indolence within his rude cabin, or at its\nopening, or in some rocky cave or place of shelter. Birds, on the\ncontrary, very rarely stay long in one place. They fly backwards and\nforwards without any necessity, simply as a pastime, and often having\ngone several hundred miles away from the country they usually frequent,\nthey return thither the same evening. And even for the short time they\nare in one place, their bodies are never still. Ever turning here and\nthere, they are always either flocking together, pecking, or shaking\nthemselves, or hopping about in their extraordinarily vivacious and\nactive maimer. In short, from the time a bird bursts its shell until\nit dies, save intervals of sleep, it is never still for a moment. From\nthese considerations it may reasonably be affirmed that whereas the\nnormal state of animals, including even man, is quietude, that of birds\nis motion.\n\nWe find also that birds are so endowed that their natural qualities\nharmonise with the exterior qualities and conditions of their life;\nthis again makes them better adapted for happiness than other animals.\nThey have remarkably acute powers of hearing, and a faculty of vision\nalmost inconceivably perfect. Owing to this last they can discern\nsimultaneously a vast extent of country, and are daily charmed by\nspectacles the most immense and varied. From these things it may be\ninferred that birds ought to possess an imagination, vivid and powerful\nin the highest degree,. Not the ardent and stormy imagination of\nDante or Tasso; for this is a disastrous endowment, and the cause of\nendless anxieties and sufferings. But a fertile, light, and childish\nfancy, such as is productive of joyful thoughts, sweet unrealities,\nand manifold pleasures. This is the noblest gift of Nature to living\ncreatures. And birds have this faculty in a great measure for their\nown delight and benefit, without experiencing any of its hurtful and\npainful consequences. For their prolific imagination, as with children,\ncombines, with their bodily vigour, to render them happy and contented,\ninstead of being injurious, and productive of misery, as with most\nmen. Thus, birds may be said to resemble children equally in their\nvivacity and restlessness, and the other attributes of their nature. If\nthe advantages of childhood were common to other ages, and its evils\nnot exceeded later in life, man might perhaps be better able to bear\npatiently the burden of existence.\n\nTo me it seems that the nature of birds, considered aright, is\nmanifestly more perfect than that of other animals. For, in the first\nplace, birds are superior to other animals in sight and hearing, which\nare the principal senses of life. In the second place, birds naturally\nprefer motion to rest, whereas other creatures have the contrary\npreference. And since activity is a more living thing than repose,\nbirds may be said to have more life than other animals. It follows\ntherefore that birds are physically, and in the exercise of their\nfaculties, superior to other creatures.\n\nNow, if life be better than its contrary, the fuller and more perfect\nthe life, as with birds, the greater is the superiority of creatures\npossessing it, over less endowed animals.\n\nWe must not forget also that birds are adapted to bear great\natmospheric changes. Often they rise instantaneously from the ground\nfar up into the air, where the cold is extreme; and others in their\ntravels fly through many different climates.\n\nIn short, just as Anacreon wished to be changed into a mirror that he\nmight be continually regarded by the mistress of his heart, or into a\nrobe that he might cover her, or balm to anoint her, or water to wash\nher, or bands that she might draw him to her bosom, or a pearl to be\nworn on her neck, or shoes that she might at least press him with her\nfeet; so I should like temporarily to be transformed into a bird, in\norder to experience their contentment and joyfulness of life.\n\n\n[Footnote 1: Compare Shakespeare's Henry IV., Part 2, Act 4, sc. 3.\n_Falstaff:_ \" ... nor a man cannot make him laugh;--but that's no\nmarvel, he drinks no wine.\"]\n\n\n\n\n_THE SONG OF THE WILD COCK._\n\n\nCertain Hebrew _savants_ and writers affirm, that between heaven and\nearth, or rather, partly in one and partly on the other, lives a wild\ncock which stands with its feet resting on the earth, and touching the\nsky with its crest and beak. This gigantic cock, besides possessing\nother peculiarities mentioned by these writers, has the use of reason;\nor else, like a parrot, it has been taught, I know not by whom, to\nexpress itself in human fashion. In proof of this, an old parchment\nmanuscript has been discovered, containing a canticle written in\nHebrew characters, and in a language compounded of Chaldean, Targumic,\nRabbinical, Cabalistic and Talmudic, entitled \"Morning Song of the\nWild Cock.\" (Scir detarneg\u00dal bara letzafra.) This, not without great\nexertion, and the interrogation of more than one Rabbi, Cabalist,\ntheologian, jurist, and Hebrew philosopher, has been interpreted and\ntranslated as follows. I have not yet been able to ascertain whether\nthis song is still uttered by the cock on certain occasions, or every\nmorning, or whether it was sung but once, or who is said to have heard\nit, or if this language be the proper tongue of the cock, or whether\nthe canticle was translated from some other language. In the following\ntranslation I have used prose rather than verse, although it is a poem,\nin order to ensure as literal a rendering as possible. The broken\nstyle and occasional bombast must not be imputed to me, for it is\na reproduction of the original; and in this respect the composition\npartakes of the characteristics of Oriental languages, and especially\nof Oriental poems.\n\n\"Mortals, awake! The day breaks; truth returns to the earth and vain\nfancies flee away. Arise; take up again the burden of life; forsake the\nfalse world for the true.\n\n\"Now is the time when each one takes again to his mind all the thoughts\nof his real life. He recalls to memory his intentions, aims, and\nlabours; and thinks of the pleasures and cares that must occur during\nthe new day. And every one at this time eagerly seeks to discover in\nhis mind joyful hopes and sweet thoughts. Few, however, are satisfied\nin this desire; for all men it is a misfortune to awake. The miserable\nman is no sooner aroused than he falls again into the clutches of\nhis unhappiness. Very sweet a thing is that sleep induced by joy or\nhope. These preserve themselves in their entirety until the following\nmorning, when they either vanish or decrease in force.\n\n\"If the sleep of mortals were continuous and identical with life; if\nunder the star of day all living beings languished on the earth in\nutter rest, and no work was wrought; if the oxen ceased bellowing in\nthe meadows, the beasts roaring in the forests, the birds singing\nin the air, the bees buzzing, and the butterflies skimming over the\nfields; if no voice nor motion except-that of the waters, winds, and\ntempests anywhere existed, the universe would indeed be useless; but\nwould there be less happiness or more misery than there is to-day?\n\n\"I ask of thee, O Sun, author of day, and guardian of eve; in the\ncourse of the centuries measured out and consummated by thee, thus\nrising and setting, hast thou ever at any time seen one living being\npossessed of happiness? Of the numberless works of mortals which\nhitherto thou hast seen, thinkest thou that a single one was successful\nin its aim of procuring satisfaction, durable or temporary, for its\noriginator? And seest thou, or hast thou ever seen, happiness within\nthe boundaries of the world? Where does it dwell? In what country,\nforest, mountain, or valley; in what land, inhabited or uninhabited;\nin which planet of the many that thy flames illumine and cherish? Does\nit perchance hide from thee in the bowels of the earth, or the depths\nof the sea? What living being, what plant, or other thing animated by\nthee, what vegetable or animal participates in it? And thou thyself,\nlike an indefatigable giant, traversing swiftly, day and night,\nsleepless and restless, the vast course prescribed to thee; art thou\ncontent or happy?\n\n\"Mortals, arouse yourselves! Not yet are you free from life. The time\nwill come when no eternal force, no internal agitation, shall awaken\nyou from the repose of sleep, in which you shall ever and insatiably\nrest. For the present, death is not granted to you; only from time to\ntime you are permitted to taste briefly its resemblance, because life\nwould fail were it not often suspended. Too long abstention from this\nshort and fleeting sleep is a fatal evil, and causes eternal sleep.\nSuch thing is life, that to secure its continuance it must from time to\ntime be laid aside; man then in sleep refreshes himself with a taste,\nand, as it were, a fragment of death.\n\n\"It seems as though death were the essential aim of all things. That\nwhich has no existence cannot die; yet all that exists has proceeded\nfrom nothing. The final cause of existence is not happiness, for\nnothing is happy. It is true, living creatures seek this end in all\ntheir works, but none obtain it; and during all their life, ever\ndeceiving, tormenting, and exerting themselves, they suffer indeed for\nno other purpose than to die.\n\n\"The earliest part of the day is ordinarily the most bearable for\nliving beings. Few, when they awake, find again in their minds\ndelightful and joyful thoughts, but almost all people give birth to\nthem for the time being. For then the minds of men, being free from\nany special concentration, are predisposed to joy fulness, and inclined\nto bear evils more patiently than at other times. Thus a man who falls\nasleep in the anguish of despair is filled anew with hope when he\nawakes, though it can profit him nothing, Many misfortunes and peculiar\nhardships, many causes of fear and distress, then seem less formidable\nthan they appeared the previous evening. Often, also, the pangs of\nyesterday are remembered with contempt, and are ridiculed as follies\nand vain fancies.\n\n\"The evening is comparable to old age; and on the other hand, the dawn\nof the morning resembles youth; the one full of comfort and hope, and\nthen sad evening with its discouragement and tendencies to look on the\ndark side of things. But, just as the time of youth in life is very\nshort and fleeting, so is the infancy of each new day, which quickly\nages towards its evening.\n\n\"Youth, if indeed it be the best of life, is a very wretched thing.\nYet even this poor benefit is so soon over, that when by many signs\nman is led to perceive the decline of his existence, he has scarcely\nexperienced its perfection, or fully realised its peculiar strength,\nwhich, once diminished, the best part of life is gone with every race\nof mortals. Thus, in all her works, Nature turns and points towards\ndeath: for old age reigns universally. Every part of the world hastens\nuntiringly; with diligence and wonderful celerity, towards death. The\nworld itself alone seems exempt from decay; for although in autumn and\nwinter it appears as it were sick and aged, nevertheless in the spring\nit ever rejuvenates. But just as mortals in the first part of each day\nregain some portion of their youth, yet grow old as the day progresses,\nand are at length extinguished in sleep; so although in the beginning\nof the year the world becomes young again, none the less it perpetually\nages. The time will come when this world, and Nature herself, shall\ndie. And as at the present day there remains no trace nor record of\nmany very great kingdoms and empires, so in the whole world there shall\nnot he left a vestige of the infinite changes and catastrophes of\ncreated things. A naked silence and an utter calm shall fill the vast\nspace. Thus, this wonderful and fearful mystery of universal existence\nshall be unloosed, and shall melt away before it be made manifest or be\ncomprehended.\"[1]\n\n\n[Footnote 1: This is a poetical not philosophical conclusion. Speaking\nphilosophically, existence, which has had no beginning, will have no\nending.]\n\n\n\n\n_DIALOGUE BETWEEN TIMANDRO AND ELEANDRO._\n\n\n_Timandro_. I am very anxious to have some conversation with you. It is\nabout the matter and tendency of your writings and words, which seem to\nme most blamable.\n\n_Meandro_. So long as you find no fault with my actions, I confess I do\nnot much care; because words and writings are of little consequence.\n\n_Tim_. There is nothing in your actions, as far as I can see, for which\nI need blame you. I am aware that you benefit no one because you cannot\ndo so, and I observe that you injure no one because you are unwilling\nto do so. But I consider your speech and writings very reprehensible,\nand I do not agree with you that they are of little importance. Our\nlife may almost be said to consist of nothing else. For the present\nwe will disregard the words, and simply consider the writings. In the\nfirst place, the incessant vituperation and continuous satire that you\nbestow on the human race are out of fashion.\n\n_Mean_. My brain also is out of fashion. It is quite natural for a\nchild to resemble its father.\n\n_Tim_. Then you must not be surprised if your books, like everything\ncontrary to the custom of the day, are ill received.\n\n_Mean_. That is a small misfortune. They were not written for the\npurpose of begging a little bread at the doors of the rich.\n\n_? Tim_. Forty or fifty years ago, philosophers used to say hard things\nabout the human race, but now they do just the contrary.\n\n_Mean_. Do you believe that forty or fifty years ago the philosophers\nwere right or wrong in their statements?\n\n_Tim_. More often right than wrong.\n\n_Mean_. Do you think that in these forty or fifty years the human race\nhas changed to the opposite of what it then was?\n\n_Tim_. Not at all. But that has nothing to do with the question.\n\n_Elean_. Why not? Has humanity progressed in strength and perfection,\nthat the writers of to-day should be constrained to flatter, and\ncompelled to reverence it?\n\n_Tim_. What have such pleasantries to do with so grave a matter?\n\n_Elean_. Then seriously. I am not unaware that the people of this\ncentury, although continuing to ill-treat their fellow-men as their\nancestors did, have yet a very high opinion of themselves, such as men\nof the past century did not possess. But I, who ill-treat no one, do\nnot see that I am obliged to speak well of others against my conscience.\n\n_Tim_. You must, however, like all men, endeavour to serve your race.\n\n_Elean_. If my race, on the contrary, does its best to injure me, I do\nnot see that this obligation holds, as you say. But supposing you are\nright, what ought I to do, if I cannot be useful to my race?\n\n_Tim_. By actions, perhaps, you may be unable to be of much use. Such\npower is in the hands of but few people. But by your writings you can,\nand indeed ought to serve it. And the race is not benefited by books\nwhich snarl incessantly at men in general. Such behaviour is, on the\ncontrary, extremely injurious.\n\n_Elean_. I admit that it does no good, but I also imagine it does no\nharm. Do you, however, think books are able to help the human race?\n\n_Tim_. Not I only, but all the world think so.\n\n_Elean_. What kind of books?\n\n_Tim_. Many kinds; but especially books treating of morals.\n\n_Elean_. All the world does not think so, because I, amongst others,\ndo not, as a woman once said to Socrates. If books of morals could be\nuseful to men, I should place poetry above all others. I use the word\npoetry in its widest sense, as including all writings, the aim of which\nis to excite the imagination, whether in prose or verse. Now I hold\nin little esteem that sort of poetry which, when read and meditated\nover, does not leave in the mind of the reader a sufficiently elevating\nsentiment to deter him for half an hour from giving way to a single\nbase thought or unworthy action. If, however, the reader commits, for\nexample, a breach of faith towards his best friend an hour after such\nreading, I do not condemn the poetry for that, because then the finest,\nmost stirring, and noblest poetry the world possesses would come under\ncondemnation. Exceptions to this influence are readers who live in\ngreat cities. These people, however great their concentration, cannot\nforget themselves for even half an hour, nor are they much pleased, or\nmoved, by any sort of poetry.\n\n_Tim_. You speak, as usual, maliciously, and so as to leave an\nimpression that you are habitually ill-treated by others. This, in most\ninstances, is the true cause of the ill-humour and contempt exhibited\nby certain people towards their race.\n\n_Elean_. Indeed, I cannot say that men have treated, or do treat me\nvery well. If I could say so, I imagine I should be unique in my\nexperience. But neither have they done me any serious harm, because in\ndemanding nothing from men, and having nothing in common with them, I\nscarcely give them a chance of offending me. I must confess, however,\nthat recognising clearly, as I do, how ignorant I am of the simplest\nmeans of making myself agreeable to others, both in conversation and\nthe daily intercourse of life, whether from a natural defect or fault\nof my own, I should esteem men less if they treated me better.\n\n_Tim_. Then you are so much the more to blame. For, had you even a\nmistaken ground of complaint, your hatred and desire for revenge\nagainst men would be in a measure justifiable. But your hatred, from\nwhat you say, is based on nothing in particular, except perhaps an\nextraordinary and wretched ambition of becoming famous as a misanthrope\nlike Timon--a desire abominable in itself, and especially out of place\nin a century like the present, so peculiarly devoted to philanthropy.\n\n_Elean_. I need not reply to your remark about ambition, because I have\nalready said that I want nothing from men. Does that seem incredible to\nyou? You will at least grant that it is not ambition which urges me to\nwrite books, such as on your own showing are more likely to bring me\nreproaches than glory. Besides, I am so far from hating the human race,\nthat I neither can nor wish to hate even those who particularly offend\nme. Indeed, the fact that hatred is so completely foreign to me, goes\nfar to explain my inability to do as other men do. But I cannot change\nthis, because I always think that whenever a man displeases or injures\nanother, he does so in the hope of procuring some pleasure or advantage\nfor himself. His aim is not to injure others (which can never be the\nmotive of any action, nor the object of any thought), but to benefit\nhimself,--a natural desire, and undeserving of odium. Again, whenever I\nnotice a particular vice or fault in my neighbour, I carefully examine\nmyself, and as far as circumstances will allow, I put myself in his\nplace. Thereupon I invariably find that I should have done the same as\nhe, and been guilty of the same faults. Consequently my mind loses\nwhat irritation it previously felt. I reserve my wrath for occasions\nwhen I might see some wickedness of which my nature is incapable; but\nso far I have never met with such a case. Finally, the thought of the\nvanity of human things is so constantly in my mind that I am unable to\nexcite myself about any one of them. Hatred and anger seem to me great\nand strong passions, out of harmony with the insignificance of life.\nThus you see there is a great difference between Timon and myself.\nTimon hated and shunned all men except Alcibiades, for whom he reserved\nall his affection, because he saw in him the initiator of innumerable\nevils for their common country. I, on the other hand, without hating\nAlcibiades, would have especially avoided him. I would have warned my\nfellow-citizens of their danger, exhorting them at the same time to\ntake the requisite steps to preserve themselves from it. Some say that\nTimon did not hate men, but beasts in the likeness of men. As for me, I\nneither hate men nor beasts.\n\n_Tim_. Nor do you love any one.\n\n_Mean_. Listen, my friend. I am born to love. I have loved; and perhaps\nwith as deep a passion as is possible for human soul to feel. To-day,\nalthough, as you see, I am not sufficiently old to be naturally devoid\nof passion, nor even of a lukewarm age, I am not ashamed to say that\nI love no one except myself, by the necessity of nature, and that as\nlittle as possible. Nevertheless, I would always rather bear suffering\nmyself than be the cause of it to others. I believe you can bear\nwitness to the truth of this, little as you know about my habits.\n\n_Tim_. I do not deny it.\n\n_Mean_. I try to procure for men, even at my own expense, that greatest\npossible good, which alone I seek for myself, viz., a state of freedom\nfrom suffering.\n\n_Tim_. But do you distinctly confess that you do not love the human\nrace in general?\n\n_Elean_. Yes, absolutely. But in such a way that if it depended on me,\nI would punish those who deserved punishment, without hating them, as\nalso I would benefit my race to the utmost, although I do not love it.\n\n_Tim_. Well, it may be so. But then, if you are not incited by injuries\nreceived, nor by hatred, nor ambition, why do you write in such a\nmanner?\n\n_Mean_. For many reasons. First, because I cannot tolerate deceit\nand dissimulation. I may sometimes have to give way to these in\nconversation, but never in my writings; because I am often obliged to\nspeak unwillingly, but I never write unless I please. I should derive\nno satisfaction from puzzling my brains, and expressing the result on\npaper, unless I could write what I really think. All sensible people\nlaugh at those who now-a-days write Latin, because no one speaks, and\nfew understand, the language. I think it is equally absurd to take for\ngranted, whether in conversation or writing, the reality of certain\nhuman qualities no longer extant, and the existence of certain rational\nbeings, formerly considered as divinities, but now really regarded as\nnon-existent equally by those who mention them, and those who hear them\nmentioned. I could understand men using masks and disguises in order to\ndeceive other men, or to avoid being recognised. But it seems childish\nfor them all to conceal themselves behind the same kind of mask, and\nuse the same disguise, whereby they deceive no one, but recognise each\nother perfectly, in spite of it. Let them lay aside their masks, and\nretain merely their clothes. The effect will be precisely the same, and\nthey will be more at ease. Besides, this perpetual simulation, though\nuseless, and this eternal acting of a part between which and oneself\nthere is nothing in common, cannot be carried on without fatigue and\nweariness. If men had passed suddenly, instead of gradually, from the\nsavage condition to their present state of civilisation, would the\nnames of the things just mentioned be found in general usage, with the\ncustom of deducing from them a thousand philosophical conclusions? In\ntruth, this custom seems to me like one of those ceremonies and ancient\npractices so incompatible with our present habits, which nevertheless\ncontinue to exist by force of usage. I for my part cannot submit to\nthese ceremonies; and I write in the language of modern times, not\nthat of the Trojan era. In the second place, I do not so much, in my\nwritings, find fault with the human race, as grieve over its destiny.\nThere is nothing I think more clear and palpable than the necessary\nunhappiness of all living beings. If this unhappiness be not a fact,\nthen all my arguments are wrong, and we may abandon the discussion.\nIf it be true, why may I not lament openly and freely, and say that\nI suffer? Doubtless, if I did nothing but weep incessantly (this\nis the third cause which moves me), I should become a nuisance to\nothers as well as myself, without profiting any one. But in laughing\nat our misfortunes, we do much to remedy them. I endeavour therefore\nto persuade others to profit in this way, as I have done. Whether I\nsucceed or not, I feel assured that such laughter is the only solace\nand remedy that can be found. The poets say that despair has always a\nsmile on its lips.\n\nBut you must not think that I am devoid of compassion for the\nunhappiness of humanity. Its condition is incurable by art, industry,\nor anything else, therefore I consider it far more manly and consistent\nwith a magnanimous despair to laugh at our common woes, than to\nsigh, weep, and moan with others, thereby encouraging them in their\nlamentations.\n\nLastly, permit me to say that I desire as much as you, or any one else,\nthe welfare of my race in general, but I am hopeless of its attainment;\nnor can I, like so many philosophers of this century, nourish and\nsoothe my mind with anticipations of good. My despair is absolute,\nunchangeable, and so based on firm judgment and conviction, that I\ncannot imagine such a thing as a joyous future, nor can I undertake\nanything with the hope of bringing it to completion. And you are well\naware that man is never inclined to attempt what he knows or thinks\ncannot succeed; or if he does, he acts feebly and without confidence.\nSimilarly a writer, who expresses himself contrary to his real opinion,\nthough this be erroneous, utters nothing worthy of consideration.\n\n_Tim_. But when his judgment is, like yours, a false one, he should\nrectify it.\n\n_Elean_. My judgment is of myself alone, and I am quite sure I do\nnot err in announcing my unhappiness. If other men are happy, I\ncongratulate them with all my heart. I know also that death alone can\ndeliver me from my misfortune. If others are more hopeful, I rejoice\nonce again.\n\n_Tim_. We are all unhappy, and have always been so. I scarcely think\nyou can take credit for the novelty of your idea. But man's present\ncondition, superior as it is to his past, will be greatly improved in\nthe future. You forget, or seem to disregard the fact, that man is\nperfectible.\n\n_Elean_. Perfectible he may be. But that he is capable of perfection,\nwhich is of more importance, I know not who can convince me.\n\n_Tim_. He has not yet had time to reach perfection. Ultimately he will\nno doubt attain to it.\n\n_Elean_. I do not doubt it. The few years that have passed since the\nworld began are, I agree with you, quite insufficient to complete\nour education. We cannot judge from what seem to us the nature and\ncapabilities of man. Besides, humanity hitherto has been too occupied\nwith other business to give itself up to the task of attaining\nperfection. But in future all its endeavours will be towards this one\naim.\n\n_Tim_. Yes, the whole civilised world is working zealously towards\nthis end. And, taking into consideration the number and sufficiency\nof the means employed, which have indeed recently increased in an\nastounding manner, we have every reason to think that the goal will be\nreached, sooner or later. This conviction itself is by no means one\nof the least stimulants to progress, because it gives birth to a host\nof undertakings and labours useful for the common welfare. If, then,\nat any time it was fatal and bl\u201amable to manifest despair like yours,\nand to teach men such doctrines as the absolute necessity of their\nwretchedness, the vanity of life, the insignificance of their race, and\nthe evil of their nature, much more is it so in the present day. Such\nconduct can only result in depriving us of courage, and that feeling of\nself-esteem which is the foundation of an honest, useful, and glorious\nlife; it will also divert us from the path of our own welfare.\n\n_Elean_. Kindly say distinctly, whether or not you regard as true what\nI have said about the unhappiness of mankind.\n\n_Tim_. You return to your old argument. Well, supposing I admit the\ntruth of what you say, how does that alter the matter? I would remind\nyou that it is not always well to preach truth simply because it is\ntruth.\n\n_Elean_. Answer me another question. Are these truths, which I merely\nexpress, without any pretence of preaching, of primary or secondary\nimportance in philosophy?\n\n_Tim_. In my opinion they are the very essence of all philosophy.\n\n_Elean_. In that case, they greatly deceive themselves who affirm that\nman's perfection consists in complete knowledge of the truth; that his\nmisfortunes are the consequence of his ignorance and prejudices; and\nthat the human race will be happy when men have discovered the truth,\nand conform their lives to its teaching. Yet such doctrines are taught\nby most philosophers, ancient and modern. But you are of opinion that\nthese truths, though confessedly the substance of all philosophy,\nought to be concealed from the majority of men. You would rather that\nthey were unknown or disregarded by all men, because of the baneful\ninfluence they exercise over the mind. And this is equivalent to an\nadmission that philosophy ought to be banished from the earth. I grant\nyou, however, that the final conclusion to be drawn from true and\nperfect philosophy is that it were better to dispense with philosophy.\nIt would therefore seem that, first of all, philosophy is superfluous,\nsince its conclusions are attainable without its assistance; secondly,\nit is extremely injurious, because its conclusion is a very painful\none to be accepted, and when accepted is useless: nor is it in man's\npower to disregard truths once recognised. Besides, the habit of\nphilosophising is one of the most difficult habits to throw off. Thus,\nphilosophy which at first inspires hope as a possible remedy for the\nills of humanity, ends by seeking in vain a cure for itself. And now\nI would ask you why you imagine we are nearer perfection than our\nancestors were? Is it that we are better acquainted with the truth?\nThis cannot be, since we have seen that such knowledge is extremely\nprejudicial to man's happiness. Perhaps, however, it is because some\nfew men in the present day have learnt that the truest philosopher\nis he who abstains from philosophy? But in what then are we superior\nto the men of primitive times, who were perfectly unacquainted\nwith philosophy? And even in the present day savages abstain from\nphilosophy, without feeling the least inconvenience.\n\nIn what, therefore, are we more advanced than our ancestors; and what\nmeans of attaining perfection do we possess, which they had not?\n\n_Tim_. We have many of great importance. To explain them would be a\nwork of considerable time.\n\n_Elean_. Put them aside for the moment, and reconsider my theory. I\nsay that if, on the one hand, I express in my writings certain hard\nand bitter truths, whether to relieve my mind, or console myself\nin laughing at them, I do not fail at the same time to deplore and\ndisadvise the search after that cold and miserable truth, acquaintance\nwith which reduces us to a state of either indifference and hypocrisy,\nor baseness of soul, moral corruption, and depravity. And, on the other\nhand, I praise and exalt those noble, if false ideas, which give birth\nto high-minded and vigorous actions and thoughts, such as further the\nwelfare of mankind, or individuals; those glorious illusions, vain\nthough they be, which give value to life, and which are natural to\nthe soul; in short, the superstitions of antiquity, distinct from the\nerrors of barbarism. These latter should be rooted out, but the former\nrespected. Civilisation and philosophy having exceeded their natural\nbounds, as is usual with all things pertaining to humanity, have drawn\nus from one state of barbarism only to precipitate us into another, no\nbetter than the first. This new barbarism, born of reason and science\ninstead of ignorance, manifests itself more in the mind than the body.\nYet I imagine, that though these superstitions become daily more\nnecessary for the well-being of civilised nations, the possibility of\ntheir re-introduction diminishes daily.\n\nAnd as for man's perfection, I assure you if I had perceived any signs\nof it, I would have written a volume in praise of the human race. But\nsince I have not yet seen it, and as it is improbable I ever shall\nsee it, I think of leaving in my will a certain sum of money for the\npurpose of procuring an annual panegyric of the human race, to be\npublicly recited from the time of its perfection, and to pay for the\nerection of a temple, statue, or monument, as may be judged best, to\ncommemorate the event.\n\n\n\n\n_COPERNICUS:_\n\n\n_A DIALOGUE IN FOUR SCENES._\n\n\n_Scene_ I.--_The First Hour and the Sun._\n\n\n_First Hour_. Good day, Excellency.\n\n_Sun_. Thanks; good-night as well.\n\n_First Hour_. The horses are waiting, your Excellency.\n\n_Sun_. Very well.\n\n_First Hour_. And the Morning Star has been up some time.\n\n_Sun_. All right. Let it rise and set, just as it pleases.\n\n_First Hour_. What do I hear your Excellency say?\n\n_Sun_. I wish you would leave me alone.\n\n_First Hour_. But, Excellency, the night has already lasted so long,\nthat it can last no longer; and if we delay, imagine, Excellency, the\nconfusion that will ensue.\n\n_Sun_. I don't mean to stir, whatever happens.\n\n_First Hour_.0 Excellency! what is this? Does your Excellency feel ill?\n\n_Sun_. No, no; I feel nothing, except that I don't wish to move. So you\ncan go and attend to your own affairs.\n\n_First Hour_. How can I go unless your Excellency comes? I am the first\nHour of the day, and how can the day exist, if your Excellency does not\ndeign to go forth as usual?\n\n_Sun_. If you will not be of the day, you shall be of the night; or\nbetter, the hours of the night shall do double duty, and you and your\ncompanions shall be idle. For you must know I am tired of this eternal\ngoing round to give light to a race of little animals that live far\naway in a ball of clay, so small that I, who have good sight, cannot\nsee it. During the night I have decided not to trouble myself any more\nin this fashion. If men want light, let them make their own fires for\nthe purpose, or provide it in some other way.\n\n_First Hour_. But, Excellency, how can the little fellows manage that?\nIt will be a very great expense for them to keep lanterns or candles\nburning all day long. If only they could now discover a certain\natmosphere to warm and illumine their streets, rooms, shops, taverns,\nand everything else at little expense, then they would not be so badly\noff. But men will have to wait some three hundred years, more or less,\nbefore they discover this; and meanwhile, all the oil, wax, pitch, and\ntallow of the earth will be exhausted, and they will have nothing more\nto burn.\n\n_Sun_. Let them hunt the will-o-the-wisp, and catch those shining\nthings called glow-worms.\n\n_First Hour_. And how will they protect themselves against the cold?\nFor without the assistance of your Excellency, all the forests together\nwill not make a fire large enough to warm them. Besides, they will also\ndie of hunger, since the earth will no longer bring forth its fruits.\nAnd so, after a few years, the seed of the poor little folk will be\nlost. They will go groping about the earth, seeking food and warmth,\nuntil having consumed every possible thing, and used up the last\nflicker of fire, they will all die in the darkness, frozen like pieces\nof rock-crystal.\n\n_Sun_. What is this to do with me? Am I the nurse of the human race; or\nthe cook, that I should look after the preparation of their food? And\nwhy need I care if a few invisible little creatures, millions of miles\naway from me, are unable to see, or bear the cold, when deprived of\nmy light and warmth? Besides, even supposing, as you say, that I ought\nto act the part of stove or fireplace to this human family, surely it\nis more reasonable, if men want to warm themselves, that they should\ncome to the stove, than that the stove should go whirling round them.\nTherefore, if the Earth requires me, let it come hither to satisfy its\nneeds. I want nothing from the Earth, that I should thus trouble myself\nto rotate round it.\n\n_First Hour_. Your Excellency means, if I understand rightly, that\nhenceforth the Earth must do for itself that which hitherto you have\ndone on its behalf.\n\n_Sun_. Yes: now and for the future.\n\n_First Hour_. Well, your Excellency knows best what is right, and can\ndo as it pleases you. But nevertheless, will your Excellency deign to\nthink what a number of beautiful and useful things will be destroyed\nby this new decree. The day will be deprived of its handsome gilded\nchariot, and beautiful horses, which bathe themselves in the sea.\nAmongst other changes, we poor Hours must suffer; we shall no longer\nhave a place in heaven, but shall have to descend from our position\nas celestial children to that of terrestrials, unless, as is more\nprobable, we dissolve into thin air instead. But be that as it may, the\ndifficulty will be to persuade the Earth to go round, necessarily a\nhard thing, because it is unaccustomed to do so; and the experience of\nrotating and exerting itself incessantly will be all the more strange,\nseeing that hitherto it has never stirred from its present position.\nIf, then, your Excellency now begins to think of idleness, I fear the\nEarth will be as little desirous of bestirring itself as ever it was.\n\n_Sun_. In that case, it must be pricked, and made to bestir itself\nas much as is necessary. But the quickest and surest way is to find\na poet, or, better, a philosopher, who will persuade the Earth to\nmove itself, or persuasion being unsuccessful, will use force. For\nphilosophers and poets ordinarily manage these affairs. When I was\nyounger I used to have a great esteem for the poets, though they\nrather caricatured me in representing me racing madly, great and\nstout as I am, round and round a grain of sand, simply for the sake\nof amusement or exercise. But now that I am older, I am more partial\nto philosophy. I study to discern the utility, not the beauty of\nthings, and poetry seems to me either absurd or wearisome. I wish,\nalso, to have good substantial reasons for whatever I do. Now, I see\nno reason why I should value a life of activity more than a life of\nease and idleness. I have determined, therefore, in future, to leave\nthe fatigues and discomforts to others, and for my own part to live\nquietly at home, without undertaking business of any kind. This change\nin me is partly due to my age, but has chiefly been brought about by\nthe philosophers, a race of people whose power and influence increase\ndaily. Consequently, to induce the Earth to rotate in my place, a poet\nwould intrinsically be better than a philosopher: because the poets\nare accustomed to give a fictitious value to things by exaggerating\nthe truth, beauty, and utility of subjects about which they treat, and\nbecause by raising a thousand pleasurable hopes, they often incite\npeople to fatigues they would else have avoided; whereas philosophers\nweary them. But, now that the power of philosophers is so predominant,\nI doubt whether a poet would be of much use, if even the Earth gave him\na hearing. Therefore, we had better have recourse to a philosopher.\nIt is true, philosophers are usually little suited, and still less\ninclined, to stimulate other people to exertions; but possibly in so\nextreme a case, they may be induced to act contrary to custom. The\nEarth has, however, one alternative; it has the option of declining to\nundertake all this hard labour. Its destruction will then ensue, and\nI am far from sure that this would not be the best thing for it. But\nenough of this: we shall see what will take place. Now, either you or\none of your companions had better go at once to the Earth. If there you\ndiscover any one of these philosophers in the open air, regarding the\nheavens, and wondering about the cause of this protracted night, as\nwell he may, take charge of him, and bring him hither on your back. Do\nyou clearly understand?\n\n_First Hour_. Yes, Excellency. You shall be obeyed.\n\n\n\n_Scene II.--Copernicus pacing the terrace of his house, with his eyes\nanxiously directed towards the eastern horizon. A roll of paper in his\nhand, which ever and anon he uses as a telescope._\n\n\nThis is a marvellous thing. Either the clocks are all wrong, or else\nthe sun should have risen more than an hour ago. Yet not a gleam of\nlight is to be seen in the east, though the sky is as bright and clear\nas a mirror. All the stars shine as if it were midnight. I must go and\nconsult the Almagest and Sacrobosco, and see what they say about this\nevent. I have often heard talk of the night Jove passed with the wife\nof Amphitryon, and I also remember reading a little while ago, in a\nmodern Spanish book, that the Peruvians record a very long night, at\nthe end of which the sun proceeded forth from a certain lake called\nTiticaca. Hitherto I have regarded these as mere tales, and have never\nwavered in my belief. Now, however, that I perceive reason and science\nto be absolutely useless, I am determined to believe the truth of\nthese, and similar things. I will also visit the lakes and puddles in\nthe neighbourhood, and see if I can fish out the sun.\n\nHa! what is this that I hear? It is like the flapping of the wings of\nsome huge bird.\n\n\n_Scene_ III.--_The Last Hour and Copernicus._\n\n\n_Last Hour_. Copernicus, I am the Last Hour.\n\n_Copernicus_. The Last Hour! Well, I suppose I must be resigned. But I\nbeg of you, if possible, to give me enough time to make my will, and\nput my things in order, before I die.\n\n_Last Hour_. Die! What do you mean? I am not the last hour of your life.\n\n_Copernicus_. Oh, then, what are you? The last hour of the office of\nthe breviary?\n\n_Last Hour_. I can quite imagine you prefer that one to the others,\nwhen you are in your stall.\n\n_Copernicus_. But how do you know I am a Canon? And how is it you know\nmy name?\n\n_Last Hour_. I procured my information about you, from certain people\nin the street. I am, in fact, the Last Hour of day.\n\n_Copernicus_. Ah! now I understand. The First Hour is unwell; and that\nis why day is not yet visible.\n\n_Last Hour_. I have news for you. There will never be any more daylight\nunless you provide it yourself.\n\n_Copernicus_. You would throw on me the responsibility of making\ndaylight? A fine thing, indeed!\n\n_Last Hour_. I will tell you how. But first of all, you must come with\nme at once to the house of the Sun, my father. You shall hear more when\nwe set out. His Excellency will explain everything when we arrive.\n\n_Copernicus_. I trust it is all right. But the journey, unless I am\nmistaken, must be a very long one. And how can I take enough food\nto prevent my dying of hunger a few years before reaching the Sun?\nBesides, I doubt if his Excellency's lands produce the where-withal to\nsupply me with even a single meal.\n\n_Last Hour_. Do not trouble yourself with these doubts. You will not\nstay long in my father's house, and the journey will be completed in a\nmoment. For you must know that I am a spirit.\n\n_Copernicus_. Maybe. But I am a body.\n\n_Last Hour_. Well, well: you are not a metaphysician that you need\nexcite yourself about these matters. Come now, mount on my shoulders,\nand leave all the rest to me.\n\n_Copernicus_. Courage. There, it is done! I will pursue this novelty to\nits issue.\n\n\n\n_Scene_ IV.--_Copernicus and the Sion._\n\n\nCopernicus_. Most noble Lord.\n\n_Sun_. Forgive me, Copernicus, if I do not offer you a chair: one does\nnot use such things here. But we will soon despatch our business. My\nservant has already explained the matter to you; and from what the\nchild tells me, I imagine you will do very well for our purpose.\n\n_Copernicus_. My lord, I discern great difficulties in the matter.\n\n_Sun_. Difficulties ought not to frighten such a man as yourself. They\nare even said to make the brave man still more courageous. But tell me\nbriefly of what these difficulties consist.\n\n_Copernicus_. In the first place, although philosophy is a great power,\nI doubt whether it can persuade the Earth to change its comfortable\nsitting posture for a state of restless activity; especially in these\ntimes, which are not heroic.\n\n_Sun_. And if persuasion be ineffectual, you must try force.\n\n_Copernicus_. Willingly, Illustrious, if I were a Hercules, or even an\nOrlando, instead of a mere Canon of Varmia.\n\n_Sun_. What has that to do with it? Did not one of your ancient\nmathematicians say, that if he had standing room given him outside the\nworld, he would undertake to move heaven and earth? Now, you are not\nrequired to move heaven, and behold, you are already in a place outside\nthe earth. Therefore, unless you are not so clever as that ancient, you\nwill no doubt be able to move the Earth, whether it be willing, or not.\n\n_Copernicus_. My lord, such a thing might be possible. But a lever\nwould be necessary, of such dimensions that neither I nor even\nyour Illustrious Lordship could pay half the cost of its materials\nand manufacture. There are, however, other and far more serious\ndifficulties, which I will now mention.\n\nYou know the Earth has hitherto occupied the principal position in\nthe Universe, that is the centre. Motionless, it has had nothing to\ndo but regard all the other spheres, great and small, brilliant and\nobscure, continuously gyrating around and on all sides of it with a\nmarvellous regularity and speed. All things seem to be occupied in\nits service; so that the Universe may be likened to a court, in the\nmidst of which the Earth sits as on a throne, surrounded by attendant\nglobes, like courtiers, guards, and servants, each of which fulfils\nits respective office. Consequently, the Earth has always regarded\nitself as Empress of the Universe. So far, indeed, little fault can be\nfound with its control, and I do not think your design an improvement\non the old state of affairs. But what shall I say to you about men? We\nesteem ourselves (and shall always do so) to be in the same relation to\nthe rest of created beings as the Earth is to the Universe. And more\nthan this. Supreme among terrestrial creatures, we all, including the\nragged beggar who dines on a morsel of black bread, have a most exalted\nidea of ourselves. We are each of us emperors, and our empire is only\nbounded by the Universe, for it includes all the stars and planets,\nvisible and invisible. Man is, in his own > estimation, the final cause\nof all things, including even your Illustrious Lordship.\n\nNow, if we remove the Earth from its place in the centre, and make it\nwhirl round and round unremittingly, what will be the consequence?\nSimply, that it will act like all the other globes, and be enrolled\nin the number of the planets. Then all its terrestrial majesty will\nvanish, and the Earth will have to abdicate its imperial throne. Men,\ntoo, will lose their human majesty, and be deprived of their supremacy;\nthey will be left alone with their rags, and miseries, which are not\ninsignificant.\n\n_Sun_. In short, Don Nicolas, what do you wish to prove by this\ndiscourse? Is it that you have scruples of conscience lest the deed\nshould be treasonable?\n\n_Copernicus_. No, it is not that, Illustrious. For, to the best of my\nknowledge neither the Codes, nor the Digest, nor the books of public,\nimperial, international, or natural law, make any mention of such\ntreason. What I wanted to show was, that this action, subverting our\nplanetary relationships, will not only work alteration in the order\nof nature; for it will change the position of things _inter se_, and\nthe ends for which created beings now exist; it will also necessarily\nmake a great revolution in the science of metaphysics, and everything\nconnected with the speculative part of knowledge. The result will be\nthat men, even if they are able and willing to critically examine into\nthe why and wherefore of life, will discover themselves and their aims\nto be very different from what they are now, or from what they imagine\nthem to be.\n\n_Sun_. My dear child, the thought of these things does not disturb me\nmuch; so little respect have I for metaphysics, or physics, or even\nalchemy, necromancy, or any such things. Besides, men will in time\nbecome content with their position; or, if they do not like it, they\nmay argue the matter to their hearts' content, and will doubtless\nsucceed in believing just what they please. In this way they may still\ndeceive themselves under the names of Barons, Dukes, Emperors, or\nanything else. If, however, they are inconsolable, I confess it will\nnot give me much uneasiness.\n\n_Copernicus_. Well, then, apart from men and the Earth, consider,\nIllustrious, what may reasonably be expected to happen in regard\nto the other planets. These, when they see the Earth reduced to\ntheir condition, and doing precisely what they do, just like one of\nthemselves, will be jealous of its apparent superiority. They will be\ndissatisfied with their own naked simplicity and sad loneliness, and\nwill desire to have their rivers, mountains, seas, plants, animals, and\nmen; for they will see no reason why they should be in the smallest\ndegree less endowed than the Earth. Thereupon will ensue another great\nrevolution in the Universe: an infinite number of new races and people\nwill instantaneously proceed from their soil, like mushrooms.\n\n_Sun_. Well, let them come, and the more the merrier. My light and heat\nwill suffice for them all without any extra expense. The Universe shall\nhave food, clothes, and lodging amply provided gratis.\n\n_Copernicus_. But, if your Illustrious Lordship will reflect a moment,\nyet another objection may be discerned. The stars, having rivalled the\nEarth, will turn their attentions to you. They will notice your fine\nthrone, noble court, and numerous planetary satellites. Consequently,\nthey also will wish for thrones. And more, they will desire to rule, as\nyou do, over inferior planets, each of which must of course be peopled\nand ornamented like the Earth. It is needless to mention the increased\nunhappiness of the human race. Their insignificance will be greater\nthan ever. They will burst out in all these millions of new worlds, so\nthat even the tiniest star of the milky way will be provided with its\nown race of mortals. Now, looking at this, solely as affecting your\ninterests, I affirm that it will be very prejudicial. Hitherto you have\nbeen, if not the first, certainly the second in the Universe; that is,\nafter the Earth; nor have the stars aspired to rival you in dignity. In\nthis new state, however, you will have as many equals as stars, each\nwith their respective stars. Beware then lest this change be ruinous to\nyour supremacy.\n\n_Sun_. You remember C\u00casar's remark, when, crossing the Alps, he\nhappened to pass a certain miserable little barbarian village. He said\nthat he would rather be the first in that village, than the second\nin Rome. Similarly I would rather be first in this my own world than\nsecond in the Universe. But you must not think it is ambition that\nmakes me desirous of changing the present state of things; it is solely\nmy love of peace, or, more candidly, idleness. Therefore it is a small\nmatter to me whether I am first or last in the Universe: unlike Cicero,\nI care more for ease than dignity.\n\n_Copernicus_. I also, Illustrious, have striven my utmost to obtain\nthis ease. But, supposing your Lordship is successful in your\nendeavour, I doubt whether it will be of long duration. For, in the\nfirst place, I feel almost sure that before many years have elapsed\nyou will be impelled to go winding round and round like a windlass,\nor a wheel, without however varying your locality. Then, after a\ntime, you will probably be desirous of rotating round something--the\nEarth for instance. Ah! well, be that as it may; if you persist in\nyour determination, I will try to serve you, in spite of the great\ndifficulties necessarily to be overcome. If I fail, you must attribute\nthe failure to my inability, not unwillingness.\n\n_Sun_. That is well, my Copernicus. Do your best.\n\n_Copernicus_. There is however yet another obstacle.\n\n_Sun_. What is it?\n\n_Copernicus_. I fear lest I should be burnt alive for my pains. In\nwhich case, it would be improbable that I, like the Phoenix, should\nrise from my ashes. I should therefore never see your Lordship's face\nagain.\n\n_Sun_. Listen, Copernicus. You know that once upon a time I was a\nprophet, when poetry ruled the world, and philosophy was scarcely\nhatched. I will now utter my last prophecy. Put faith in me on the\nstrength of my former power. This is what I say. It may be that those\nwho come after you, and confirm your deeds, shall be burnt, or killed\nin some other way; but you shall be safe, nor shall you suffer at\nall on account of this undertaking. And to make your safety certain,\ndedicate to the Pope the book[1] you will write on the subject. If you\ndo this, I promise that you will not even lose your canonry.\n\n\n[Footnote 1: Copernicus did in effect dedicate his book on the\n\"Revolution of the Celestial Bodies,\" the printing of which was only\ncompleted a few days before his death, to Pope Paul III. The system\nexpounded therein was condemned by a decree of Paul V. in 1616. This\ncondemnation remained in force until 1821, when it was revoked by Pius\nVII. The sun is supposed to be in the centre, and motionless; the earth\nand the rest of the planets move round it in elliptical orbits. The\nheavens and stars are supposed to be stationary, and their apparent\ndiurnal motion from east to west is imputed to the earth's motion from\nwest to east.]\n\n\n\n\n_DIALOGUE BETWEEN AN ALMANAC SELLER AND A PASSER-BY._\n\n\n_Almanac Seller_. Almanacs! New Almanacs! New Calendars! Who wants new\nAlmanacs?\n\n_Passer-by_. Almanacs for the New Year?\n\n_Alm. Seller_. Yes, Sir.\n\n_Passer_. Do you think this New Year will be a happy one?\n\n_Alm. Seller_. Yes, to be sure, Sir.\n\n_Passer_. As happy as last year?\n\n_Alm. Seller_. Much more so.\n\n_Passer_. As the year before?\n\n_Alm. Seller_. Still more, Sir.\n\n_Passer_. Why? Should you not like the New Year to resemble one of the\npast years?\n\n_Alm. Seller_. No, Sir, I should not.\n\n_Passer_. How many years have gone by since you began to sell almanacs?\n\n_Alm. Seller_. About twenty years, Sir.\n\n_Passer_. Which of the twenty should you wish the New Year to be like?\n\n_Alm. Seller_. I do not know.\n\n_Passer_. Do you not remember any particular year which you thought a\nhappy one?\n\n_Alm. Seller_. Indeed I do not, Sir.\n\n_Passer_. And yet life is a fine thing, is it not?\n\n_Alm. Seller_. So they say.\n\n_Passer_. Would you not like to live these twenty years, and even all\nyour, past life from your birth, over again?\n\n_Alm. Seller_. Ah, dear Sir, would to God I could!\n\n_Passer_. But if you had to live over again the life you have already\nlived, with all its pleasures and sufferings?\n\n_Alm. Seller_. I should not like that.\n\n_Passer_. Then what other life would you like to live? Mine, or that of\nthe Prince, or whose? Do you not think that I, or the Prince, or any\none else, would reply exactly as you have done; and that no one would\nwish to repeat the same life over again?\n\n_Alm. Seller_. I do believe that.\n\n_Passer_. Then would you recommence it on this condition, if none other\nwere offered you?\n\n_Alm. Seller_. No, Sir, indeed I would not.\n\n_Passer_. Then what life would you like?\n\n_Alm. Seller_. Such an one as God would give me without any conditions.\n\n_Passer_. A life at hap-hazard, and of which you would know nothing\nbeforehand, as you know nothing about the New Year?\n\n_Alm. Seller_. Exactly.\n\n_Passer_. It is what I should wish, had I to live my life over again,\nand so would every one. But this proves that Fate has treated us all\nbadly. And it is clear that each person is of opinion that the evil he\nhas experienced exceeds the good, if no one would wish to be re-born on\ncondition of living his own life over again from the beginning, with\njust its same proportion of good and evil. This life, which is such a\nfine thing, is not the life we are acquainted with, but that of which\nwe know nothing; it is not the past life, but the future. With the New\nYear Fate will commence treating you, and me, and every one well, and\nthe happy life will begin. Am I not right?\n\n_Alm. Seller_. Let us hope so.\n\n_Passer_. Show me the best almanac you have.\n\n_Alm. Seller_. Here it is, Sir. This is worth thirty soldi.\n\n_Passer_. Here are thirty soldi.\n\n_Alm. Seller_. Thank you, Sir. Good day, Sir.--Almanacs! New Almanacs!\nNew Calendars!\n\n\n\n\n_DIALOGUE BETWEEN PLOTINUS AND PORPHYRIUS._\n\n\n    \"One day when I, Porphyrius, was meditating about taking my\n    own life, Plotinus guessed my intention. He interrupted me,\n    and said that such a design could not proceed from a healthy\n    mind, but was due to some melancholy indisposition, and\n    that I must have change of air\" (Ex. _Life of Plotinus_, by\n    Porphyrius).\n\n    The same incident is recounted in the life of Plotinus by\n    Eunapius, who adds that Plotinus recorded in a book the\n    conversation he then held with Porphyrius on the subject.\n\n_Plotinus_. You know, Porphyrius, how sincerely I am your friend. You\nwill not wonder therefore that I am unquiet about you. For some time\nI have noticed how sad and thoughtful you are; your expression of\ncountenance is unusual, and you have let fall certain words which make\nme anxious. In short, I fear that you contemplate some evil design.\n\n_Porphyrius_. How! What do you mean?\n\n_Plotinus_. I think you intend to do yourself some injury; it were a\nbad omen to give the deed its name. Listen to me, dear Porphyrius, and\ndo not conceal the truth. Do not wrong the friendship that has so long\nexisted between us. I know my words will cause you displeasure, and\nI can easily understand that you would rather have kept your design\nhid. But I could not be silent in such a matter, and you ought not to\nrefuse to confide in one who loves you as much as himself. Let us then\ntalk calmly, weighing our words. Open your heart to me. Tell me your\ntroubles, and let me be auditor of your lamentations. I have deserved\nyour confidence. I promise, on my part, not to oppose the carrying out\nof your resolution, if we agree that it is useful and reasonable.\n\n_Porphyrius_. I have never denied a request of yours, dear Plotinus. I\nwill therefore confess to you what I would rather have kept to myself;\nnothing in the world would induce me to tell it to anyone else. You are\nright in your interpretation of my thoughts. If you wish to discuss\nthe subject, I will not refuse, in spite of my dislike to do so; for\non such occasions the mind prefers to encompass itself with a lofty\nsilence, and to meditate in solitude, giving itself up for the time to\na state of complete self-absorption. Nevertheless, I am willing to do\nas you please.\n\nIn the first place, I may say that my design is not the consequence of\nany special misfortune. It is simply the result of an utter weariness\nof life, and a continuous ennui which has long possessed me like a\npain. To this may be added a feeling of the vanity and nothingness\nof all things, which pervades me in body and soul. Do not say that\nthis disposition of mind is unreasonable, though I will allow that it\nmay in part proceed from physical causes. It is in itself perfectly\nreasonable, and therein differs from all our other dispositions; for\neverything which makes us attach some value to life and human things,\nproves on analysis to be contrary to reason, and to proceed from some\nillusion or falsity. Nothing is more rational than ennui.[1] Pleasures\nare all unreal. Pain itself, at least mental pain, is equally false,\nbecause on examination it is seen to have scarcely any foundation, or\nnone at all. The same may be said of fear and hope. Ennui alone, which\nis born from the vanity of things, is genuine, and never deceives. If,\nthen, all else be vain, the reality of life is summed up in ennui.\n\n_Plotinus_. It may be so. I will not contradict you as to that. But we\nmust now consider the nature of your project. You know Plato refused to\nallow that man is at liberty to escape, like a fugitive slave, from the\ncaptivity in which he is placed by the will of the gods, in depriving\nhimself of life.\n\n_Porphyrius_. I beg you, dear Plotinus, to leave Plate alone now,\nwith his doctrines and dreams. It is one thing to praise, explain,\nand champion certain theories in the schools and in books, but quite\nanother to practically exemplify them. School-teaching and boots\nconstrain us to admire Plato, and conform to him, because such is the\ncustom in the present day. Bat in real life, far from being admired,\nhe is even detested. It is true Plato is said to have spread abroad by\nhis writings the notion of a future life, thus leaving men in doubt as\nto their fate after death, and serving a good purpose in deterring men\nfrom evil in this life, through fear of punishment in the next. If I\nimagined Plato to have been the inventor of these ideas and beliefs, I\nwould speak thus to him:--\n\n\"You observe, O Plato, how inimical to our race the power which governs\nthe world has always been, whether known as Nature, Destiny, or Fate.\nMany reasons contradict the supposition that man has that high rank\nin the order of creation which we are pleased to imagine; but by no\nreason can he be deprived of the characteristic attributed to him\nby Homer--that of suffering. Nature, however, has given us a remedy\nfor all evils. It is death, little feared by those who are not fully\nintelligent, and by all others desired.\n\n\"But you have deprived us of this dearest consolation of our life,\nfull of suffering that it is. The doubts raised by you have torn this\ncomfort from our minds, and made the thought of death the bitterest\nof all thoughts. Thanks to you, unhappy mortals now fear the storm\nless than the port. Driven from their one place of repose, and robbed\nof the only remedy they could look for, they resign themselves to the\nsufferings and troubles of life. Thus, you have been more cruel towards\nus than Destiny, Nature, or Fate. And since this doubt, once conceived,\ncan never be got rid of, to you is it due that your fellow-men regard\ndeath as something more terrible than life. You are to blame that rest\nand peace are for ever banished from the last moments of man, whereas\nall other animals die in perfect fearlessness. This one thing, O Plato,\nwas wanting to complete the sum of human misery.\n\n\"True, your intention was good. But it has failed in its purpose.\nViolence and injustice are not arrested, for evil-doers only realise\nthe terrors of death in their last moments, when quite powerless to do\nmore harm. Your doubts trouble only the good, who are more disposed\nto benefit than injure their fellow-men, and the weak and timid, who\nare neither inclined by nature nor disposition to oppress anyone. Bold\nand strong men, who have scarcely any power of imagination, and those\nwho require some other restraint than mere law, regard these fears as\nchimerical, and are undeterred from evil doing. We see daily instances\nof this, and the experience of all the centuries, from your time down\nto the present, confirms it. Good laws, still more, good education, and\nmental and social culture,--these are the things that preserve justice\nand mildness amongst men. Civilisation, and the use of reflection and\nreason, make men almost always hate to war with each other and shed one\nanother's blood, and render them disinclined to quarrel, and endanger\ntheir lives by lawlessness. But such good results are never due to\nthreatening fancies, and bitter expectation of terrible chastisement;\nthese, like the multitude and cruelty of the punishments used in\ncertain states, only serve to increase the baseness and ferocity of\nmen, and are therefore opposed to the well-being of human society.\n\n\"Perhaps, however, you will reply that you have promised a reward\nin the future for the good. What then is this reward? A state of\nlife which seems full of ennui, even less tolerable than our present\nexistence! The bitterness of your punishments is unmistakable; but the\nsweetness of your rewards is hidden and secret, incomprehensible to our\nminds. How then can order and virtue be said to be encouraged by your\ndoctrine? I will venture to say that if but few men have been deterred\nfrom evil by the fear of your terrible Tartarus, no good man has been\nled to perform a single praiseworthy action by desire of your Elysium.\nSuch a Paradise does not attract us in the least. But, apart from the\nfact that your heaven is scarcely an inviting place, who among the\nbest of us can hope to merit it? What man can satisfy your inexorable\njudges, Minos, Eacus, and Rhadamanthus, who will not overlook one\nsingle fault, however trivial? Besides, who can say that he has reached\nyour standard of purity? In short, we cannot look for happiness in the\nworld to come; and however clear a man's conscience may be, or however\nupright his life, in his last hour he will dread the future with its\nterrible incertitude. It is due to your teaching that fear is a much\nstronger influence than hope, and may be said to dominate mankind.\n\n\"This then is the result of your doctrines. Man, whose life on earth\nis wretched in the extreme, anticipates death, not as an end to all\nhis miseries, but as the beginning of a condition more wretched still.\nThus, you surpass in cruelty, not only Nature and Destiny, but the most\nmerciless tyrant and bloodthirsty executioner the world has ever known.\n\n\"But what cruelty can exceed that of your law, forbidding man to put\nan end to his sufferings and troubles by voluntarily depriving himself\nof life, thereby triumphing over the horrors of death? Other animals\ndo not desire to put an end to their life, because their unhappiness\nis less than ours; nor would they even have sufficient courage to face\na voluntary death. But if they did wish to die, what should deter them\nfrom fulfilling their desire? They are affected by no prohibition, nor\nfear of the future. Here again you make us inferior to brute beasts.\nThe liberty they possess, they do not use; the liberty granted also to\nus by Nature, so miserly in her gifts, you take away. Thus, the only\ncreatures capable of desiring death, have the right to die refused\nthem. Nature, Destiny, and Fortune overwhelm us with cruel blows, that\ncause us to suffer fearfully; you add to our sufferings by tying our\narms and enchaining our feet, so that we can neither defend ourselves,\nnor escape from our persecutors.\n\n\"Truly, when I think over the great wretchedness of humanity, it seems\nto me that your doctrines, above all things, O Plato, are guilty of\nit, and that men may well complain of you more than of Nature. For the\nlatter, in decreeing for us an existence full of unhappiness, has left\nus the means of escaping from it when we please. Indeed, unhappiness\ncannot be called extreme, when we have in our hands the power to\nshorten it at will. Besides, the mere thought of being able to quit\nlife at pleasure, and withdraw from the miseries of the world, is so\ngreat an alleviation of our lot, that in itself it suffices to render\nexistence supportable. Consequently, there can be no doubt that our\nchief unhappiness proceeds from the fear, that in abbreviating our life\nwe might be plunged into a state of greater misery than the present.\nAnd not only will our misery be greater in the future, but it will\nbe so full of the refinement of cruelty, that a comparison of these\nunexperienced tortures with the known sufferings of this life, reduces\nthe latter almost to insignificance.\n\n\"You have easily, O Plato, raised this question of immortality; but\nthe human species will become extinct before it is settled. Your genius\nis the most fatal thing that has ever afflicted humanity, and nothing\ncan ever exist more disastrous in its effects.\"\n\nThat is what I would say to Plato, had he invented the doctrine we\nare discussing; but I am well aware he did not originate it. However,\nenough has been said. Let us drop the subject, if you please.\n\n_Plotinus_. Porphyrius, you know how I revere Plato; yet in talking to\nyou on such an occasion as this, I will give you my own opinion, and\nwill disregard his authority. The few words of his that I spoke were\nrather as an introduction than anything else. Returning to my first\nargument, I affirm that not only Plato and every other philosopher,\nbut Nature herself, teaches us that it is improper to take away our\nown life. I will not say much on this point, because if you reflect a\nlittle, I am sure you will agree with me that suicide is unnatural. It\nis indeed an action the most contrary possible to nature. The whole\norder of things would be subverted if the beings of the world destroyed\nthemselves. And it is repugnant and absurd to suppose that life is\ngiven only to be taken away by its possessor, and that beings should\nexist only to become non-existent. The law of self-preservation is the\nstrictest law of nature. Its maintenance is enjoined in every possible\nway on man and all creatures of the universe. And, apart from anything\nelse, do we not instinctively fear, hate, and shun death, even in spite\nof ourselves? Therefore, since suicide is so utterly contrary to our\nnature, I cannot think that it is permissible.\n\n_Porphyrius_. I have already meditated on the subject from all points\nof view; for the mind could not design such a step without due\nconsideration. It seems to me that all your reasoning is answerable\nwith just as much counter reasoning. But I will be brief.\n\nYou doubt whether it be permissible to die without necessity. I ask\nyou if it be permissible to be unhappy? Nature, you say, forbids\nsuicide. It is a strange thing that since she is either unable or\nunwilling to make me happy, or free me from unhappiness, she should\nhave the power to force me to live. If Nature has given us a love of\nlife, and a hatred of death, she has also given us a love of happiness,\nand a hatred of suffering; and the latter instincts are much more\npowerful than the former, because happiness is the supreme aim of all\nour actions and sentiments of love or hatred. For to what end do we\nshun death, or desire life, save to promote our well-being, and for\nfear of the contrary?\n\nHow then can it be unnatural to escape from suffering in the only way\nopen to man, that is, by dying; since in life it can never be avoided?\nHow, too, can it be true, that Nature forbids me to devote myself to\ndeath, which is undoubtedly a good thing, and to reject life, which\nis undoubtedly an evil and injurious thing, since it is a source of\nnothing but suffering to me?\n\n_Plotinus_. These things do not persuade me that suicide is not\nunnatural. Have we not a strong instinctive horror of death? Besides,\nwe never see brute beasts, which invariably follow the instincts of\ntheir nature (when not contrarily trained by man), either commit\nsuicide, or regard death as anything but a condition to be struggled\nagainst, even in their moments of greatest suffering. In short, all\nmen who commit this desperate act, will be found to have lived out of\nconformity to nature. They, on the contrary, who live naturally, would\nwithout exception reject suicide, if even the thought proposed itself\nto them.\n\n_Porphyrius_. Well, if you like, I will admit that the action is\ncontrary to nature. But what has that to do with it, if we ourselves\ndo not conform to nature; that is, are no longer savages? Compare\nourselves, for instance, with the inhabitants of India or Ethiopia, who\nare said to have retained their primitive manners and wild habits. You\nwould scarcely think that these people were even of the same species\nas ourselves. This transformation of life, and change of manners and\ncustoms by civilisation, has been accompanied, in my opinion, by an\nimmeasurable increase of suffering. Savages never wish to commit\nsuicide, nor does their imagination ever induce them to regard death\nas a desirable thing; whereas we who are civilised wish for it, and\nsometimes voluntarily seek it.\n\nNow, if man be permitted to live unnaturally, and be consequently\nunhappy, why may he not also die unnaturally? For death is indeed\nthe only way by which he can deliver himself from the unhappiness\nthat results from civilisation. Or, why not return to our primitive\ncondition, and state of nature? Ah, we should find it almost impossible\nas far as mere external circumstances are concerned, and in the more\nimportant matters of the mind, quite impossible. What is less natural\nthan medicine? By this I mean surgery, and the use of drugs. They are\nboth ordinarily used expressly to combat nature, and are quite unknown\nto brute beasts and savages. Yet, since the diseases they remedy are\nunnatural, and only occur in civilised countries, where people have\nfallen from their natural condition, these arts, being also unnatural,\nare highly esteemed and even indispensable. Similarly, suicide, which\nis a radical cure for the disease of despair, one of the outcomes of\ncivilisation, must not be blamed because it is unnatural; for unnatural\nevils require unnatural remedies. It would indeed be hard and unjust\nthat reason, which increases our misery by forcing us to go contrary to\nnature, should in this matter join hands with nature, and take from us\nour only remaining hope and refuge, and the only resource consistent\nwith itself, and should force us to continue in our wretchedness.\n\nThe truth is this, Plotinus. Our primitive nature has departed from us\nfor ever. Habit and reason have given us a new nature in place of the\nold one, to which we shall never return. Formerly, it was unnatural\nfor men to commit suicide, or desire death. In the present day, both\nare natural. They conform to our new nature, which however, like the\nold one, still impels us to seek our happiness. And since death is our\ngreatest good, is it remarkable that men should voluntarily seek it?\nFor our reason tells us that death is not an evil, but, as the remedy\nfor all evils, is the most desirable of things.\n\nNow tell me: are all other actions of civilised men regulated by the\nstandard of their primitive nature? If so, give me a single instance.\nNo, it is our present, and not our primitive nature, that interprets\nour actions; in other words, it is our reason. Why then should suicide\nalone be judged unreasonably, and from the aspect of our primitive\nnature? Why should this latter, which has no influence over our life,\ncontrol our death? Why should not the same reason govern our death\nwhich rules our life? It is a fact, whether due to reason or our\nunhappiness, that in many people, especially those who are unfortunate\nand afflicted, the primitive hatred of death is extinguished, and\neven changed into desire and love, as I have said. Such love, though\nincompatible with our early nature, is a reality in the present day.\nWe are also necessarily unhappy because we live unnaturally. It were\ntherefore manifestly unreasonable to assert that the prohibition which\nforbade suicide in the primitive state should now hold good. This seems\nto me sufficient justification of the deed. It remains to be proved\nwhether or not it be useful.\n\n_Plotinus_. Never mind that side of the question, my dear Porphyrius,\nbecause if the deed be permissible, I have no doubt of its extreme\nutility. But I will never admit that a forbidden and improper action\ncan be useful. The matter really resolves itself into this: which is\nthe better, to suffer, or not to suffer? It is certain that most men\nwould prefer suffering mixed with enjoyment, to a state devoid of both\nsuffering and enjoyment, so ardently do we desire and thirst after\njoy. But this is beside the question, because enjoyment and pleasure,\nproperly speaking, are as impossible as suffering is inevitable. I mean\na suffering as continuous as our never satisfied desire for pleasure\nand happiness, and quite apart from the peculiar and accidental\nsufferings which must infallibly be experienced by even the happiest of\nmen. In truth, were we certain that in continuing to live, we should\ncontinue thus to suffer, we should have sufficient reason to prefer\ndeath to life; because existence does not contain a single genuine\npleasure to compensate for such suffering, even if that were possible.\n\n_Porphyrius_. It seems to me that ennui alone, and the fact that we\ncannot hope for an improved existence, are sufficiently cogent reasons\nto induce a desire for death, even though our condition be one of\nprosperity. And it is often a matter of surprise to me that we have no\nrecord of princes having committed suicide through ennui and weariness\nof their grandeur, like other men in lower stations of life. We read\nhow Hegesias, the Cyrenaic, used to reason so eloquently about the\nmiseries of life, that his auditors straightway went and committed\nsuicide; for which reason he was called the \"death persuader,\" and\nwas at length forbidden by Ptolemy to hold further discourse on the\nsubject. Certain princes, it is true, have been suicides, amongst\nothers Mithridates, Cleopatra, and Otho. But these all put an end to\nthemselves to escape some peculiar evils, or from dread of an increase\nof misfortune. Princes are, I imagine, more liable than other men to\nfeel a hatred of their condition, and to think favourably of suicide.\nFor have they not reached the summit of what is called human happiness?\nThey have nothing to hope for, because they have everything that\nforms a part of the so-called good things of this life. They cannot\nanticipate greater pleasure to-morrow than they have enjoyed to-day.\nThus they are more unfortunately situated than all less exalted people.\nFor the present is always sad and unsatisfactory; the future alone is a\nsource of pleasure.\n\nBut be that as it may. We see then that there is nothing to prevent\nmen voluntarily quitting life, and preferring death, save the fear\nof another world. All other reasons are palpably ill-founded. They\nare due to a wrong estimate, in comparing the advantages and evils of\nexistence; and whoever at any time feels a strong attachment to life,\nor lives in a state of contentment, does so under a mistake, either of\njudgment, will, or even fact.\n\n_Plotinus_. That is true, dear Porphyrius. But nevertheless, let me\nadvise, nay implore, you to listen to the counsels of Nature rather\nthan Reason. Follow the instincts of that primitive Nature, mother of\nus all, who, though she has manifested no affection for us in creating\nus for unhappiness, is a less bitter and cruel foe than our own reason,\nwith its boundless curiosity, speculation, chattering, dreams, ideas,\nand miserable learning. Besides, Nature has sought to diminish our\nunhappiness by concealing or disguising it from us as much as possible.\nAnd although we are greatly changed, and the power of nature within us\nis much lessened, we are not so altered but that much of our former\nmanhood remains, and our primitive nature is not quite stifled within\nus. In spite of all our folly, it will never be otherwise. So, too,\nthe mistaken view of life that you mention, although I admit that it\nis in reality palpably erroneous, will continue to prevail. It is\nheld not only by idiots and the half-witted, but by clever, wise, and\nlearned men, and always will be, unless the Nature that made us--and\nnot man nor his reason--herself puts an end to it. And I assure you\nthat neither disgust of life, nor despair, nor the sense of the nullity\nof things, the vanity of all anxiety, and the insignificance of man,\nnor hatred of the world and oneself, are of long duration; although\nsuch dispositions of mind are perfectly reasonable, and the contrary\nunreasonable. For our physical condition changes momentarily in more or\nless degree; and often without any especial cause life endears itself\nto us again, and new hopes give brightness to human things, which once\nmore seem worthy of some attention, not indeed from our understanding,\nbut from what may be termed the higher senses of the intellect. This is\nwhy each of us, though perfectly aware of the truth, continues to live\nin spite of Reason, and conforms to the behaviour of others; for our\nlife is controlled by these senses, and not by the understanding.\n\nWhether suicide be reasonable, or our compromise with life\nunreasonable, the former is certainly a horrible and inhuman action. It\nwere better to follow Nature, and remain man, than act like a monster\nin following Reason. Besides, ought we not to give some thought to the\nfriends, relatives, acquaintance, and people with whom we have been\naccustomed to live, and from whom we should thus separate for ever? And\nif the thought of such separation be nothing to us, ought we not to\nconsider their feelings? They lose one whom they loved and respected;\nand the atrocity of his death enhances their grief. I know that the\nwise man is not easily moved, nor yields to pity and lamentation to\na disquieting extent; he does not abase himself to the ground, shed\ntears immoderately, nor do other similar things unworthy of one who\nclearly understands the condition of humanity. But such fortitude of\nsoul should be reserved for grievous circumstances that arise from\nnature, or are unavoidable; it is an abuse of fortitude to deprive\nourselves for ever of the society and conversation of those who are\ndear to us. He is a barbarian, and not a wise man, who takes no account\nof the grief experienced by his friends, relations, and acquaintances.\nHe who scarcely troubles himself about the grief his death would cause\nto his friends and family is selfish; he cares little for others, and\nall for himself. And truly, the suicide thinks only of himself. He\ndesires nought but his personal welfare, and throws away all thought\nof the rest of the world. In short, suicide is an action of the most\nunqualified and sordid egotism, and is certainly the least attractive\nform of self-love that exists in the world.\n\nFinally, my dear Porphyrius, the troubles and evils of life, although\nmany and inevitable, when, as in your case, unaccompanied by grievous\ncalamity or bodily infirmity, are after all easy to be borne,\nespecially by a wise and strong man like yourself. And indeed, life\nitself is of so little importance, that man ought not to trouble\nhimself much either to retain or abandon it; and, without thinking\ngreatly about it, we ought to give the former instinct precedence over\nthe latter.\n\nIf a friend begged you to do this, why should you not gratify him?\n\nNow I earnestly entreat you, dear Porphyrius, by the memory of our\nlong friendship, put away this idea. Do not grieve your friends, who\nlove you with such warm affection, and your Plotinus,[2] who has no\ndearer nor better friend in the world. Help us to bear the burden\nof life, instead of leaving us without a thought. Let us live, dear\nPorphyrius,[3] and console each other. Let us not refuse our share of\nthe sufferings of humanity, apportioned to us by destiny. Let us cling\nto each other with mutual encouragement, and hand in hand strengthen\none another better to bear the troubles of life. Our time after all\nwill be short; and when death comes, we will not complain. In the last\nhour, our friends and companions will comfort us, and we shall be\ngladdened by the thought that after death we shall still live in their\nmemory, and be loved by them.\n\n\n[Footnote 1: \"Ennui is a state only experienced by the intelligent.\nThe greater the mind, the more constant, painful, and terrible is the\nennui it suffers. Ennui is in some respects the sublimest of human\nsentiments\" (_Leopardi's \"Pensieri_\" Nos. lxvii. and lxviii.)]\n\n[Footnote 2: _Plotinus_ was born 204 A.D. He began teaching philosophy\nin Rome, and was highly esteemed at court. Eunapius says of him, \"The\nheavenly elevation of his mind, and his perplexed style, made him very\ntiresome and unpleasant.\" He was ascetic in his habits; disparaged\npatriotism; depreciated material things; purposely forgot his birthday;\nand acted altogether rather as a spectator of other men's lives than as\na living man himself.]\n\n[Footnote 3: _Porphyrius_ was born 233 A.D. He was a pupil of Plotinus,\nand like him established a school of philosophy at Rome. From study of\nthe writings of Plotinus he fell into a state of disgust with life,\nand retiring from Rome, lived alone in a solitary and wild part of\nSicily. Here he determined to put an end to his life by starvation.\nHe was found by Plotinus, who had followed him from Rome, in a state\nof extreme weakness, and was, by his wise counsels, dissuaded from\ncompleting his intention.]\n\n\n\n\n_COMPARISON OF THE LAST WORDS OF MARCUS BRUTUS AND THEOPHRASTUS._\n\n\nI think, in all ancient history there can be found no words more\nlamentable and terrifying, yet withal, speaking humanly, more\ntrue, than those uttered by Marcus Brutus shortly before death, in\ndisparagement of virtue. This is what, according to Dionysius Cassius,\nhe is reported to have said:--\n\n\"O miserable virtue! Thou art but a mere phrase, and I have followed\nthee, as though thou wert a reality. Fate is stronger than thee.\"\n\nPlutarch, in his life of Brutus, makes no mention of this, which has\ninduced Pier Vettori to conclude that Cassius has here taken licence\nin prose often accorded to poetry. But its truth is confirmed by the\nwitness of Florus, who states that Brutus, when at the point of death,\nexclaimed, that virtue was \"an expression, and not a reality.\"\n\nMany people are shocked at those words of Brutus, and blame him for\nuttering them. They infer from their meaning, either that virtue\nis a sealed book to them, or else that they have never experienced\nill-fortune. The former inference alone is credible. In any case, it\nis certain they but slightly understand, and still less realise the\nunhappiness of human affairs, or else they stupidly wonder why the\ndoctrines of Christianity were not in force before the time of Christ.\n\nOther people interpret these words as demonstrating that Brutus was\nnot after all the noble and pious man he was supposed to have been.\nThey imagine that just before death he threw off the mask. But they are\nwrong; and if they give Brutus credit for sincerity in uttering these\nwords in repudiation of virtue, let them consider how it were possible\nfor him to abandon what he never possessed, or to disassociate himself\nfrom that with which he never had any association. If they think he was\ninsincere, and spoke designedly and with ostentation, let them explain\nwhat object he could have in speaking vain and fallacious words, and\nimmediately afterwards acting in accordance with them? Are facts\ndeniable, simply because they are not in harmony with words?\n\nBrutus was a man overwhelmed by a great and unavoidable catastrophe.\nHe was disheartened, and wearied with life and fortune, and having\nabandoned all desires and hopes, the deceitfulness of which he had\nexperienced, he determined to take his destiny into his own hands, and\nto put an end to his unhappiness. Why should he, at the very moment\nof eternal separation from his fellows, trouble to hunt the phantom\nof glory, and study to give forth words and thoughts to deceive those\naround him, and to gain human esteem, when he was about to leave\nhumanity for ever? What was it to him that he might gain a reputation\non that earth which appeared so hateful and contemptible to him?\n\nThese words of Brutus are well known to most of us. The following\nutterance of Theophrastus at the point of death is, I believe, less\nknown, though very worthy of consideration. It forms a parallel with\nthat of Brutus, both as to its substance and time of delivery. Diogenes\nLaertius mentions it, not, in my opinion, as original to himself, but\nas an extract from some more ancient and important work. He says that\nTheophrastus, just before death, being asked by his disciples whether\nhe would leave them any token or words of advice, replied:\n\n\"None, except that man despises and rejects many pleasures for the sake\nof glory. But no sooner does he begin to live than death overtakes him.\nHence the love of glory is as fatal a thing as possible. Strive to live\nhappily: abandon studies, which are a weariness; or cultivate them only\nso that they may bring you fame. Life is more vain than useful. As for\nme, I have no time to think more about it; you must study what is most\nexpedient.\" So saying, he died.\n\nOther sayings of Theophrastus on this occasion are mentioned by Cicero\nand St. Jerome. These are better known, but have nothing to do with our\nsubject.\n\nIt would seem that Theophrastus lived to the age of more than a\nhundred, having devoted all his lifetime to study and writing, and\nhaving been an unwearied pursuer of glory. Suidas says that his death\nwas due to the excess of his studies, and that he died surrounded by\nabout two thousand of his disciples and followers, reverenced for his\nwisdom throughout the whole of Greece, regretting his pursuit of glory,\njust as Brutus repented of virtue. These two words, glory and virtue,\nwere by the ancients regarded as almost synonymous in meaning, though\nit is not so in the present day. Theophrastus did not indeed say that\nglory is more frequently a matter of fortune than merit, which is\noftener true now than in former times; but had he said so, there would\nhave been no difference between his idea and that of Brutus.\n\nSuch abjurations, or rather apostasies, of those noble errors which\nbeautify, nay compose our very life, are of daily occurrence. They\nare due to the fact that the human intelligence in process of time\ndiscovers, not only the nakedness, but even the skeleton of things:\nwisdom also, which was regarded by the ancients as the consolation\nand chief cure for our unhappiness, has been obliged to impeach our\ncondition, and almost requires a consolation for itself, since had\nnot men followed it, they would not have known the greatness of their\nmisfortune, or at least would have been able to remedy it with hope.\nBut the ancients used to believe, according to the teaching of Nature,\nthat things were things, and not appearances, and that human life was\ndestined to partake of happiness as well as unhappiness. Consequently,\nsuch apostasies as these were very rare, and were the result not of\npassions and vices, but of a sentiment and realisation of the truth of\nthings. Therefore they deserve careful and philosophical consideration.\n\nThe words of Theophrastus are the more surprising when we think of\nthe circumstances in which he died. He was prosperous and successful;\nand it would seem as though he could not have a single cause for\nregret. His chief aim, glory, he had succeeded in acquiring long\nago. The utterance of Brutus, on the other hand, was one of those\ninspirations of misfortune which sometimes open out a new world to\nour minds, and persuade us of truths that require a long time for\nthe mere intelligence to discover. Misfortune may indeed be compared\nin its effect to the frenzy of lyric poets, who at a glance, as if\nsituated in a lofty place, take in as much of the domain of human\nknowledge as requires many centuries before it be discerned by\nphilosophers. In almost all ancient writings (whether philosophical,\npoetical, historical, or aught else), we meet with many very sorrowful\nexpressions, common enough to us nowadays, but strange to the people of\nthose times. These sentences, however, were mostly due to the innate\nor accidental misfortune of the writer, or the persons who spoke them,\nwhether imaginary or real. And rarely we find on the monuments of the\nancients any expression of the sadness or ennui which they felt because\nof the unreality of happiness, or their misfortunes, whether natural,\nor due to force of circumstances. For when they suffered, they lamented\ntheir sufferings as the only hindrance to their happiness, which they\nnot only considered it possible to obtain, but even man's right,\nalthough Fate proved sometimes too strong.\n\nNow, let us seek what could have placed in the mind of Theophrastus\nthis sentiment about the vanity of glory and life, which, considering\nhis epoch and nation, is an extraordinary one. In the first place,\nwe find that the studies of this philosopher were not limited to one\nor two branches of science. The record of his writings, which are\nmostly lost, informs us that his knowledge included little less than\neverything then knowable. And this universal science was not like\nthat of Plato, subordinated to his imagination, but conformed to the\nteaching of Aristotle in being the result of experience and reason; its\naim, too, was not the discovery of the beautiful, but that which is its\nespecial contrary, the useful. This being so, it is not wonderful that\nTheophrastus should attain to the height of human wisdom,--that is, a\nknowledge of the vanity of life, and wisdom itself. For it is a fact\nthat the numerous discoveries made recently by philosophers about the\nnature of men and things, are chiefly the result of a comparison and\nsynthesis of the different sciences and studies, whereby the mutual\nconnection between the most distant parts of nature is demonstrated.\n\nBesides, from his book of \"Characters\" we learn how clearly\nTheophrastus discerned the qualities and manners of men; indeed, with\nthe exception of the poets, very few ancient writers equal him in\nthis respect. And this faculty is the sure sign of a mind capable of\nnumerous, diverse, and powerful sensations. For, to produce a keen\nrepresentation of the moral qualities and passions of men, the writer\nrelies less on what actual facts he may have collected, or observations\nmade, about the manners of others, than on his own mind, even though\nhis personal habits be very different from those of his subjects.\n\nMassillon was asked one day what enabled him to describe so naturally\nthe habits and feelings of men, who, like himself, lived more in\nsolitude than society. He replied: \"I contemplate myself.\" Dramatists\nand other poets do the same thing. Now a many-sided mind, subtle in\ndiscernment, cannot but feel the nakedness and absolute unhappiness\nof life; it acquires a tendency to sadness after meditation excited\nby numerous studies, especially such as are concerned with the very\nessence of things, like the speculative sciences.\n\nIt is certain that Theophrastus, who loved study and glory above\neverything, and was master or rather founder of a very numerous school,\nknew and formally announced the uselessness of human exertions,\nincluding his own teaching and that of others; the little affinity\nexisting between virtue and happiness of life; and the superior power\nof fortune to merit in the acquirement of happiness, equally among\nthe wise and others. In this respect, perhaps, he was superior to\nall the Greek philosophers, especially those preceding Epicurus,\nfrom whom both in manners and thought he was essentially different.\nThis is owing partly to circumstances already mentioned, and is also\ndue to other things referred to by ancient writers on the subject\nof his teaching It would seem as though his own fate has proved the\ntruth of his doctrine. For he is not esteemed by modern philosophers\nas he ought to be, since all his moral writings are lost, with the\nexception of his \"Characters.\" His writings, too, on the subjects of\npolitics and laws, and almost all those relating to metaphysics, are\nalso missing. Besides, the ancient philosophers were little inclined\nto give him credit for keener perception than they possessed; on the\ncontrary, many of them, especially such as were shallow and conceited,\nblamed and ill-treated him. These men taught that the wise man is\nessentially happy, and that virtue and wisdom suffice to procure\nhappiness; although they were only too well aware of the contrary, even\nsupposing they had any real knowledge of either the one or the other.\nPhilosophers will never be cured of this idea. Even the philosophy of\nthe present day teaches the same thing; whereas, correctly speaking, it\ncan only say that everything beautiful, delightful, and great, is mere\nfalsity and nothingness.\n\nBut to return to Theophrastus. Most of the ancients were incapable of\nthe profound and sorrowful sentiment that inspired him. \"Theophrastus\nis roughly handled by all the philosophers in their writings and\nschools for having praised this saying of Callisthenes: 'Fortune, not\nwisdom, is the mistress of life.' They consider that no philosopher\never gave expression to a weaker sentiment.\" So says Cicero, who in\nanother place remarks that Theophrastus in his book about \"The Happy\nLife,\" attributed much influence to fortune, which he considered a most\nimportant factor of happiness. Again, he adds, \"Let us make much use of\nTheophrastus; but give virtue more reality and value than he gave to\nit.\"\n\nPerhaps it may be imagined from these remarks that Theophrastus had\nlittle sympathy with the weaknesses of human nature, and that he\nwaged war against their influence in public and private life, both\nby his writings and actions. It might also be thought that he would\nrestrict the empire of the imagination in favour of that of reason. As\na matter of fact, he did just the contrary. Concerning his actions,\nwe read in Plutarch's book against Colotes that our philosopher twice\nfreed his country from a tyranny. As for his teachings, Cicero says\nthat Theophrastus in a writing on the subject of \"Wealth,\" dilated\nat considerable length on the advantages of magnificence and pomp\nat the shows and national festivals; indeed he considered the chief\nusefulness of riches to lie in the consequent power of expenditure\nthat accompanied them. This idea is blamed and ridiculed by Cicero,\nwith whom, however, I will not discuss the question, for his\nsuperficial knowledge of philosophy might have easily led him to a\nwrong conclusion. I imagine Cicero to have been a man rich in civil and\ndomestic virtues, but ignorant of the greatest stimulants and bulwarks\nof virtue that the world possesses, namely, those things that are\npeculiarly adapted to excite and arouse the mind, and exercise the\npowers of the imagination.\n\nI will merely say that those men among, the ancients and moderns\nwho knew best and realised most strongly and deeply the nullity of\neverything, and the force of truth, have not only refrained from\nendeavouring to lead others to their condition, but have even laboured\nhard to conceal and disguise it from themselves. They acted like men\nwho had learnt from experience the wretchedness that resulted from\nwisdom and knowledge. Many celebrated examples of this are furnished,\nespecially in recent times. Truly, if our philosophers fully understood\nwhat they endeavour to teach, and realised in their own persons the\nconsequences of their philosophy, instead of welcoming their knowledge,\nthey would hate and abhor it. They would strive to forget what they\nknow, and to shut' their eyes to that which they see. They would take\nrefuge, as their best resource, in those sweet unrealities, which\nNature herself has placed in all our minds; nor would they think it\nwell to enforce on others the doctrine of the nothingness of all\nthings. If, however, desire of glory should incite them to do this\nlast, they will admit that in this part of the universe we can only\nlive by putting faith in things that are non-existent.\n\nThere is another considerable difference between the circumstances\nof Theophrastus and Brutus, that of time. When Theophrastus lived,\nthe influence of those fictions and phantoms which ruled the thoughts\nand actions of the ancients, had not departed. The epoch of Brutus,\non the other hand, may be termed the last age of the imagination.\nKnowledge and experience of the truth prevailed amongst the people.\nHad it not been so, Brutus need not have fled from life as he did,\nand the Roman republic would not have died with him. And not only the\nrepublic, but also the whole of antiquity, that is, the old customs\nand characteristics of the civilised world, were at the point of\ndeath, together with the opinions which gave birth to, and supported\nthem. Life had already lost its value, and wise men sought to console\nthemselves not so much for their fate as for existence itself; because\nthey regarded it as incredible that man should be born essentially\nand solely for misery. Thus they arrived at the conception of another\nlife, which might explain the reason of virtue and noble actions. Such\nexplanation had hitherto been found in life itself, but was so no\nlonger, nor was it ever again to be found there.\n\nTo these ideas of futurity are due the noble sentiments often expressed\nby Cicero, especially in his oration for Archias.\n\n\n\n\n_DIALOGUE BETWEEN TRISTANO AND A FRIEND._\n\n\n_Friend_. I have read your book. It is as melancholy as usual.\n\n_Tristano_. Yes, as usual.\n\n_Friend_. Melancholy, disconsolate, hopeless. It is clear that this\nlife appears to you an abominable thing.\n\n_Tristano_. How can I excuse myself? I was then so firmly convinced of\nthe truth of my notion about the unhappiness of life.\n\n_Friend_. Unhappy it may be. But even then, what good ...\n\n_Tristano_. No, no; on the contrary, it is very happy. I have changed\nmy opinion now. But when I wrote this book I had that folly in my\nhead, as I tell you. And I was so full of it, that I should have\nexpected anything rather than to doubt the truth of what I wrote on the\nsubject. For I thought the conscience of every reader would assuredly\nbear witness to the truth of my statements. I imagined there might\nbe differences of opinion as to the use or harm of my writings, but\nnone as to their truth. I also believed that my lamentations, since\nthey were aroused by misfortunes common to all, would be echoed in\nthe heart of every one who heard them. And when I afterwards felt\nimpelled to deny, not merely some particular observation, but the whole\nfabric of my book, and to say that life is not unhappy, and that if\nit seemed so to me, it must have been the effect of illness, or some\nother misfortune peculiar to myself, I was at first amazed, astonished,\npetrified, and for several days as though transported into another\nworld. Then I began to think, and was a little irritated with myself.\nFinally I laughed, and said to myself that the human race possesses\na characteristic common to husbands. For a married man who wishes\nto live a quiet life, relies on the fidelity of his wife, even when\nhalf the world knows she is faithless. Similarly, when a man takes\nup his abode in any country, he makes up his mind to regard it as\none of the best countries in the world, and he does so. For the same\nreason, men, desiring to live, agree to consider life a delightful and\nvaluable thing; they therefore believe it to be so, and are angry with\nwhoever is of the contrary opinion. Hence it follows, that in reality\npeople always believe, not the truth, but what is, or appears to be,\nbest for them. The human race, which has believed, and will continue\nto put faith in so many absurdities, will never acknowledge that it\nknows nothing, that it is nothing, and that it has nothing to hope. No\nphilosopher teaching any one of these three things would be successful,\nnor would he have followers, and the populace especially would refuse\nto believe in him. For, apart from the fact that all three doctrines\nhave little to recommend them to any one who wishes to live, the two\nfirst offend man's pride, and they all require courage and strength\nof mind in him who accepts them. Now, men are cowards, of ignoble and\nnarrow minds, and always anticipating good, because always ready to\nvary their ideas of good according to the necessities of life. They\nare very willing, as Petrarch says, to surrender to fortune; very\neager and determined to console themselves in any misfortune; and\nto accept any compensation in exchange for what is denied them, or\nfor that which they have lost; and to accommodate themselves to any\ncondition of life, however wicked and barbarous. When deprived of any\ndesirable thing, they nourish themselves on illusions, from which they\nderive as much satisfaction as if their conceptions were the most\ngenuine and real things in the world. As for me, I cannot refrain from\nlaughing at the human race, enamoured of life, just as the people in\nthe south of Europe laugh at husbands enamoured of faithless wives.\nI consider men show very little courage in thus allowing themselves\nto be deceived and deluded like fools; they are not only content to\nbear the greatest sufferings, but also are willing to be as it were\npuppets of Nature and Destiny. I here refer to the deceptions of the\nintellect, not the imagination. Whether these sentiments of mine are\nthe result of illness, I do not know; but I do know that, well or ill,\nI despise men's cowardice, I reject every childish consolation and\nillusive comfort, and am courageous enough to bear the deprivation of\nevery hope, to look steadily on the desert of life, to hide no part of\nour unhappiness, and to accept all the consequences of a philosophy,\nsorrowful but true. This philosophy, if of no other use, gives the\ncourageous man the proud satisfaction of being able to rend asunder the\ncloak that conceals the hidden and mysterious cruelty of human destiny.\n\nThis I said to myself, almost as though I were the inventor of this\nbitter philosophy, which I saw rejected by every one as a new and\nunheard-of thing. But, on reflection, I found that it dated from the\ntime of Solomon, Homer, and the most ancient poets and philosophers,\nwho abound with fables and sayings which express the unhappiness of\nhuman life. One says that \"man is the most miserable of the animals.\"\nAnother that, \"it were better not to be born, or, being born, to die in\nthe cradle.\" Again, \"whom the gods love, die young;\" besides numberless\nother similar sayings. And I also remembered that from then even until\nnow, all poets, philosophers, and writers, great and small, have in one\nway or another echoed and confirmed the same doctrines.\n\nThen I began to think again, and spent a long time in a state of\nwonder, contempt, and laughter. At length I turned to study the matter\nmore deeply, and came to the conclusion that man's unhappiness is one\nof the innate errors of the mind, and that the refutation of this idea,\nthrough the demonstration of the happiness of life, is one of the\ngreatest discoveries of the nineteenth century. Now, therefore, I am at\npeace, and confess I was wrong to hold the views I previously held.\n\n_Friend_. Then have you changed your opinion?\n\n_Tristano_. Of course. Do you imagine I should oppose the discoveries\nof the nineteenth century?\n\n_Friend_. Do you believe all the century believes?\n\n_Tristano_. Certainly. Why not?\n\n_Friend_. You believe then in the infinite perfectibility of the human\nrace, do you not? _Tristano_. Undoubtedly.\n\n_Friend_. Do you also believe that the human race actually progresses\ndaily?\n\n_Tristano_. Assuredly. It is true that sometimes I think one of the\nancients was physically worth four of us. And the body is the man;\nbecause (apart from all else) high-mindedness, courage, the passions,\ncapacity for action and enjoyment, and all that ennobles and vivifies\nlife, depend on the vigour of the body, without which they cannot\nexist. The weak man is not a man, but a child, and less than a child,\nbecause it is his fate to stand aside and see others live. All he can\ndo is to chatter. Life is not for him. Hence in olden times, and even\nin more enlightened ages, weakness of body was regarded as ignominious.\n\nBut with us, it is very long since education deigned to think of such\na base and abject thing as the body. The mind is its sole care. Yet,\nin its endeavours to cultivate the mind, it destroys the body without\nperceiving that the former is also necessarily destroyed. And even if\nit were possible to remedy this false system of education, it would be\nimpossible to discover, without a radical change in the state of modern\nsociety, any cure for the other inconveniences of life, whether public\nor private.\n\nEverything that formerly tended to preserve and perfect the body, seems\nto-day to be in conspiracy for its destruction. The consequence is,\nthat, compared with the ancients, we are little better than children,\nand they in comparison with us may indeed be termed perfect men. I\nrefer equally to individuals in comparison with individuals, as to the\nmasses (to use this most expressive modern term) compared to the masses.\n\nI will add also that the superior vigour of the ancients is manifested\nin their moral and metaphysical systems.\n\nBut I do not allow myself to be influenced by such trifling objections,\nand I firmly believe that the human race is perpetually in a state of\nprogression.\n\n_Friend_. You believe also, if I rightly understand you, that\nknowledge, or, as, it is called, enlightenment, continually increases.\n\n_Tristano_. Assuredly. Although I observe that the desire of knowledge\ngrows in proportion as the appreciation for study diminishes. And,\nastonishing to say, if you count up the number of truly learned men who\nlived contemporaneously a hundred and fifty years ago, or even later,\nyou will find them incomparably more numerous than at present. It may\nperhaps be said that learned people are rare nowadays because knowledge\nis more universally disseminated, instead of being confined to the\nheads of a few; and that the multitude of educated people compensate\nfor the rarity of learned people. But knowledge is not like riches,\nwhich whether divided or accumulated, always make the same total. In a\ncountry where every one knows a little, the total knowledge is small;\nbecause knowledge begets knowledge, but will not bear dispersion.\nFor superficial instruction cannot indeed be divided amongst many,\nthough it may be common to many unlearned men. Genuine knowledge\nbelongs only to the learned, and depth in knowledge to the few that\nare very learned. And, with rare exceptions, only the man who is very\nlearned, and possessed of an immense fund of knowledge, is able to add\nmaterially to the sum of human science. Now, in the present time, it is\ndaily more difficult to discover a really learned man, save perhaps in\nGermany, where science is not yet dethroned.\n\nI utter these reflections simply for the sake of a little talk and\nphilosophising, not because I doubt for a single moment the truth of\nwhat you say. Indeed, were I to see the world quite full of ignorant\nimpostors on the one hand, and presumptuous fools on the other, I\nshould still hold to my present belief that knowledge and enlightenment\nare on the increase.\n\n_Friend_. Of course, then, you believe that this century is superior to\nall the preceding ones?\n\n_Tristano_. Decidedly. All the centuries have had this opinion of\nthemselves; even those of the most barbarous ages. The present century\nthinks so, and I agree with it. But if you asked me in what it is\nsuperior to the others, and whether in things pertaining to the body or\nthe mind, I should refer you to what I said just now on the subject of\nprogress.\n\n_Friend_. In short, to sum it up in two words, do you agree with what\nthe journals say about nature, and human destiny? We are not now\ntalking of literature or politics, on which subjects their opinion is\nindisputable.\n\n_Tristano_. Precisely. I bow before the profound philosophy of\nthe journals, which will in time supersede every other branch of\nliterature, and every serious and exacting study. The journals are the\nguides and lights of the present age. Is it not so?\n\n_Friend_. Very true. Unless you are speaking ironically, you have\nbecome one of us.\n\n_Tristano_. Yes. Certainly I have.\n\n_Friend_. Then what shall you do with your book? Will you allow it to\ngo down to posterity, conveying doctrines so contrary to the opinions\nyou now hold?\n\n_Tristano_. To posterity? Permit me to laugh, since you are no doubt\njoking; if I thought otherwise, I should laugh all the more. For it\nis not a personal matter, but one relating to the individuals and\nindividual things of the nineteenth century; about whom and which there\nis no fear of the judgment of posterity, since they will know no more\nabout the matter than their ancestors knew. \"Individuals are eclipsed\nin the crowd,\" as our modern thinkers elegantly say; which means, that\nthe individual need not put himself to any inconvenience, because,\nwhatever his merit, he can neither hope for the miserable reward of\nglory, in reality, nor in his dreams.\n\nLeave therefore the masses to themselves; although I would ask the\nwiseacres who illumine the world in the present day, to explain how the\nmasses can do anything without the help of the individuals that compose\nthem.\n\nBut to return to my book, and posterity. Books now are generally\nwritten in less time than is necessary for reading them. Their worth is\nproportioned to their cost, and their longevity to their value. It is\nmy opinion that the twentieth century will make a very clean sweep of\nthe immense bibliography of the nineteenth. Perhaps however it will say\nsomething to this effect: \"We have here whole libraries of books which\nhave cost some twenty, some thirty years of labour, and some less, but\nall have required very great exertion; let us read these first, because\nit is probable there is much to be learnt from them. These at an end,\nwe will pass to lighter literature.\"\n\nMy friend, this is a puerile age, and the few men remaining are\nobliged to hide themselves for very shame, resembling, as they do,\na well-formed man in a land of cripples. And these good youths of\nthe century are desirous of doing all that their ancestors did. Like\nchildren they wish to act on the spur of the moment, without any\nlaborious preparation. They would like the progress of the age to be\nsuch as to exempt them and their successors from all fatiguing study\nand application in the acquirement of knowledge. For instance, a\ncommercial friend of mine told me the other day that even mediocrity\nhas become very rare. Scarcely any one is fit to fulfil properly the\nduty which devolves upon him, either by necessity or choice. This\nseems to me to mark the true distinction between this century and\nthe preceding ones. At all times greatness has been rare; but in\nformer centuries mediocrity prevailed, whereas in our century nullity\nprevails. All people wish to be everything. Hence, there is such\nconfusion and riot, that no attention is paid to the few great men\nwho are still to be found, and who are unable to force a way through\nthe vast multitude of rivals. Thus, whilst the lowest people believe\nthemselves illustrious, obscurity and success in nothing is the common\nfate both of the highest and lowest.\n\nBut, long live statistics! Long live the sciences, economical, moral,\nand political; the pocket encyclop\u00cadias; the manuals of everything;\nand all the other fine creations of our age! And may the nineteenth\ncentury live for ever! For though poor in results, it is yet very rich\nand great in promise, which' is well known to be the best of signs. Let\nus therefore console ourselves that for sixty-six[1] more years this\nadmirable century will have the talking to itself, and will be able to\nutter its own opinions.\n\n_Friend_. You speak, it seems, somewhat ironically. But you ought at\nleast to remember that this is a century of transition.\n\n_Tristano_. What do you infer from that? All centuries have been, and\nwill be, more or less transitional; because human society is never\nstationary, and will never at any time attain to a fixed condition.\nIt follows therefore that this fine word is either no excuse for the\nnineteenth century, or is one common to all the centuries. It remains\nto be seen whether the transition now in progress is from good to\nbetter, or from bad to worse.\n\nBut perhaps you mean to say that the present age is especially\ntransitional, inasmuch as it is a rapid passage from one state of\ncivilisation to another, absolutely different. In which case I would\nask your permission to laugh at this rapidity. Every transition\nrequires a certain amount of time, and when too rapidly accomplished,\ninvariably relapses, and the progress has to recommence from the\nvery beginning. Thus it has always been. For nature does not advance\nby leaps; and when forced, no durable result is obtained. In short,\nprecipitous transitions are only apparent transitions, and do not\nrepresent genuine progress.\n\n_Friend_. I advise you not to talk in this fashion with every one,\nbecause if you do you will gain many enemies.\n\n_Tristano_. What does it matter? Henceforth, neither enemies nor\nfriends can do me much harm.\n\n_Friend_. Very probably you will be despised as one incapable of\ncomprehending the spirit of modern philosophy, and who cares little for\nthe progress of civilisation and the sciences.\n\n_Tristano_. I should be very sorry for that; but what can I do? If I am\ndespised, I will endeavour to console myself.\n\n_Friend_. But have you, or have you not, changed your opinions? And\nwhat is to be done about your book?\n\n_Tristano_. It would be best to burn it. If it be not burnt, it may be\npreserved as a book full of poetic dreams, inventions, and melancholy\ncaprices; or better, as an expression of the unhappiness of the writer.\nBecause, I will tell you in confidence, my dear friend, that I believe\nyou and every one else to be happy. As for myself, however, with your\npermission, and that of the century, I am very unhappy, and all the\njournals of both worlds cannot persuade me to the contrary.\n\n_Friend_. I do not know the cause of this unhappiness of which you\nspeak. But a man is the best judge of his own happiness or unhappiness,\nand his opinion cannot be wrong.\n\n_Tristano_. Very true. And more, I tell you frankly that I do not\nsubmit to my unhappiness, nor bow the head, and come to terms with\nDestiny, like other men. I ardently wish for death above everything,\nwith such warmth and sincerity as I firmly believe few have desired it.\n\nI would not speak to you thus, if I were not sure that when the time\ncame I should not belie my words. I may add that although I do not\nyet foresee the end of my life, I have an inward feeling that almost\nassures me the hour of which I speak is not far distant. I am more\nthan ripe for death, and it seems to me too absurd and improbable,\nthat being dead spiritually, as I am, and the tale of my life being\ntold in every part, I should linger out the forty or fifty years with\nwhich Nature threatens me. I am terrified at the mere thought of such\na thing. But, like all evils that exceed the power of imagination,\nthis seems to me a dream and illusion, devoid of truth. So that if any\none speaks to me about the distant future, as though I were to have a\npart in it, I cannot help smiling to myself, so sure am I that I have\nnot long to live. This thought, I may say, alone supports me. Books\nand studies, which I often wonder I ever loved, great designs, and\nhopes of glory and immortality, are things now undeserving of even a\nsmile. Nor do I now laugh at the projects and hopes of this century. I\ncordially wish them every possible success, and I praise, admire, and\nsincerely honour their good intentions. But I do not envy posterity,\nnor those who have still a long life before them. Formerly I used to\nenvy fools, imbeciles, and people with a high opinion of themselves,\nand I would willingly have changed my lot with any one of them. Now,\nI envy neither fools, nor the wise, the great, the small, the weak,\nthe powerful. I envy the dead, and with them alone would I exchange my\nlot. Every pleasurable fancy, every thought of the future that comes\nto me in my solitude, and with which I pass away the time, is allied\nwith the thought of death, from which it is inseparable. And in this\nlonging, neither the remembrance of my childish dreams, nor the thought\nof having lived in vain, disturbs me any more as formerly. When death\ncomes to me, I shall die as peacefully and contentedly as if it were\nthe only thing for which I had ever wished in the world. This is the\nsole prospect that reconciles me to Destiny.\n\nIf, on the one hand, I were offered the fortune and fame of C\u00casar or\nAlexander, free from the least stain; and, on the other hand, death\nto-day, I should unhesitatingly choose to die to-day.\n\n\n[Footnote 1: Written in 1834.]\n\n\n\nTHE END.","title":"Essays and Dialogues","tradition":"philosophy-ethics","translated_text":null,"word_count":75800}