{"collection":"philosophy-ethics","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_6147/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_6147","id":"gutenberg_6147","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/6147","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Essays, Letters & Speeches","Category: Philosophy & Ethics","English essays"],"text":"Produced by Anne Soulard, Charles Franks\nand the Online Distributed Proofreading Team.\n\n\n\n\n\nNARRATIVE AND MISCELLANEOUS PAPERS, VOL. II.\n\nBY\nTHOMAS DE QUINCEY.\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS OF VOLUME II.\n\n\nSYSTEM OF THE HEAVENS AS REVEALED BY LORD ROSSE'S TELESCOPES\nMODERN SUPERSTITION\nCOLERIDGE AND OPIUM-EATING\nTEMPERANCE MOVEMENT\nON WAR\nTHE LAST DAYS OF IMMANUEL KANT\n\n\n\n\nSYSTEM OF THE HEAVENS AS REVEALED BY LORD ROSSE'S TELESCOPES.\n[Footnote: Thoughts on Some Important Points relating to the System of\nthe World. By J. P. Nichol, LL.D., Professor of Astronomy in the\nUniversity of Glasgow. William Tait, Edinburgh. 1846.]\n\nSome years ago, some person or other, [in fact I believe it was\nmyself,] published a paper from the German of Kant, on a very\ninteresting question, viz., the age of our own little Earth. Those who\nhave never seen that paper, a class of unfortunate people whom I\nsuspect to form _rather_ the majority in our present perverse\ngeneration, will be likely to misconceive its object. Kant's purpose\nwas, not to ascertain how many years the Earth had lived: a million of\nyears, more or less, made very little difference to _him_. What he\nwished to settle was no such barren conundrum. For, had there even been\nany means of coercing the Earth into an honest answer, on such a\ndelicate point, which the Sicilian canon, Recupero, fancied that there\nwas; [Footnote: _Recupero_. See Brydone's Travels, some sixty or\nseventy years ago. The canon, being a beneficed clergyman in the Papal\nchurch, was naturally an infidel. He wished exceedingly to refute\nMoses: and he fancied that he really had done so by means of some\ncollusive assistance from the layers of lava on Mount Etna. But there\nsurvives, at this day, very little to remind us of the canon, except an\nunpleasant guffaw that rises, at times, in solitary valleys of Etna.]\nbut which, in my own opinion, there neither is, nor ought to be,--\n(since a man deserves to be cudgelled who could put such improper\nquestions to a _lady_ planet,)--still what would it amount to?\nWhat good would it do us to have a certificate of our dear little\nmother's birth and baptism? Other people--people in Jupiter, or the\nUranians--may amuse themselves with her pretended foibles or\ninfirmities: it is quite safe to do so at _their_ distance; and,\nin a female planet like Venus, it might be natural, (though, strictly\nspeaking, not quite correct,) to scatter abroad malicious insinuations,\nas though our excellent little mamma had begun to wear false hair, or\nhad lost some of her front teeth. But all this, we men of sense know to\nbe gammon. Our mother Tellus, beyond all doubt, is a lovely little\nthing. I am satisfied that she is very much admired throughout the\nSolar System: and, in clear seasons, when she is seen to advantage,\nwith her bonny wee pet of a Moon tripping round her like a lamb, I\nshould be thankful to any gentleman who will mention where he has\nhappened to observe--either he or his telescope--will he only have the\ngoodness to say, in what part of the heavens he has discovered a more\nelegant turn-out. I wish to make no personal reflections. I name no\nnames. Only this I say, that, though some people have the gift of\nseeing things that other people never could see, and though some other\npeople, or other some people are born with a silver spoon in their\nmouths, so that, generally, their geese count for swans, yet, after\nall, swans or geese, it would be a pleasure to me, and really a\ncuriosity, to see the planet that could fancy herself entitled to\nsneeze at our Earth. And then, if she (viz., our Earth,) keeps but one\nMoon, even _that_ (you know) is an advantage as regards some\npeople that keep none. There are people, pretty well known to you and\nme, that can't make it convenient to keep even one Moon. And so I come\nto my moral; which is this, that, to all appearance, it is mere\njustice; but, supposing it were not, still it is _our_ duty, (as\nchildren of the Earth,) right or wrong, to stand up for our bonny young\nmamma, if she _is_ young; or for our dear old mother, if she\n_is_ old; whether young or old, to take her part against all\ncomers; and to argue through thick and thin, which (sober or not) I\nalways attempt to do, that she is the most respectable member of the\nCopernican System.\n\nMeantime, what Kant understood by being old, is something that still\nremains to be explained. If one stumbled, in the steppes of Tartary, on\nthe grave of a Megalonyx, and, after long study, had deciphered from\nsome pre-Adamite heiro-pothooks, the following epitaph:--'_Hic\njacet_ a Megalonyx, or _Hic jacet_ a Mammoth, (as the case\nmight be,) who departed this life, to the grief of his numerous\nacquaintance in the seventeen thousandth year of his age,'--of course,\none would be sorry for him; because it must be disagreeable at\n_any_ age to be torn away from life, and from all one's little\nmegalonychal comforts; that's not pleasant, you know, even if one\n_is_ seventeen thousand years old. But it would make all the\ndifference possible in your grief, whether the record indicated a\npremature death, that he had been cut off, in fact, whilst just\nstepping into life, or had kicked the bucket when full of honors, and\nbeen followed to the grave by a train of weeping grandchildren. He had\ndied 'in his teens,' that's past denying. But still we must know to\nwhat stage of life in a man, had corresponded seventeen thousand years\nin a Mammoth. Now exactly this was what Kant desired to know about our\nplanet. Let her have lived any number of years that you suggest, (shall\nwe say if you please, that she is in her billionth year?) still that\ntells us nothing about the _period_ of life, the _stage_, which she may\nbe supposed to have reached. Is she a child, in fact, or is she an\nadult? And, _if_ an adult, and that you gave a ball to the Solar\nSystem, is she that kind of person, that you would introduce to a\nwaltzing partner, some fiery young gentlemen like Mars, or would\nyou rather suggest to her the sort of partnership which takes place at\na whist-table? On this, as on so many other questions, Kant was\nperfectly sensible that people, of the finest understandings, may and\ndo take the most opposite views. Some think that our planet is in that\nstage of her life, which corresponds to the playful period of twelve or\nthirteen in a spirited girl. Such a girl, were it not that she is\nchecked by a sweet natural sense of feminine grace, you might call a\nromp; but not a hoyden, observe; no horse-play; oh, no, nothing of that\nsort. And these people fancy that earthquakes, volcanoes, and all such\nlittle _escapades_ will be over, they will, in lawyer's phrase,\n'cease and determine,' as soon as our Earth reaches the age of maidenly\nbashfulness. Poor thing! It's quite natural, you know, in a healthy\ngrowing girl. A little overflow of vivacity, a _pirouette_ more or\nless, what harm should _that_ do to any of us? Nobody takes more\ndelight than I in the fawn-like sportiveness of an innocent girl, at\nthis period of life: even a shade of _espi\u00e8glerie_ does not annoy\nme. But still my own impressions incline me rather to represent the\nEarth as a fine noble young woman, full of the pride which is so\nbecoming to her sex, and well able to take her own part, in case that,\nat any solitary point of the heavens, she should come across one of\nthose vulgar fussy Comets, disposed to be rude and take improper\nliberties. These Comets, by the way, are public nuisances, very much\nlike the mounted messengers of butchers in great cities, who are always\nat full gallop, and moving upon such an infinity of angles to human\nshinbones, that the final purpose of such boys (one of whom lately had\nthe audacity nearly to ride down the Duke of Wellington) seems to be--\nnot the translation of mutton, which would certainly find its way into\nhuman mouths even if riding boys were not,--but the improved geometry\nof transcendental curves. They ought to be numbered, ought these boys,\nand to wear badges--X 10, &c. And exactly the same evil, asking\ntherefore by implication for exactly the same remedy, affects the\nComets. A respectable planet is known everywhere, and responsible for\nany mischief that he does. But if a cry should arise, 'Stop that\nwretch, who was rude to the Earth: who is he?' twenty voices will\nanswer, perhaps, 'It's Encke's Comet; he is always doing mischief;'\nwell, what can you say? it _may_ be Encke's, it may be some other\nman's Comet; there are so many abroad and on so many roads, that you\nmight as well ask upon a night of fog, such fog as may be opened with\nan oyster knife, whose cab that was (whose, viz., out of 27,000 in\nLondon) that floored you into the kennel.\n\nThese are constructive ideas upon the Earth's stage of evolution, which\nKant was aware of, and which will always find toleration, even where\nthey do not find patronage. But others there are, a class whom I\nperfectly abominate, that place our Earth in the category of decaying\nwomen, nay of decayed women, going, going, and all but gone. 'Hair like\narctic snows, failure of vital heat, palsy that shakes the head as in\nthe porcelain toys on our mantel-pieces, asthma that shakes the whole\nfabric--these they absolutely fancy themselves to _see_. They\nabsolutely _hear_ the tellurian lungs wheezing, panting, crying,\n'Bellows to mend!' periodically as the Earth approaches her aphelion.\n\nBut suddenly at this point a demur arises upon the total question.\nKant's very problem explodes, bursts, as poison in Venetian wine-glass\nof old shivered the glass into fragments. For is there, after all, any\nstationary meaning in the question? Perhaps in reality the Earth is\nboth young and old. Young? If she is not young at present, perhaps she\n_will_ be so in future. Old? if she is not old at this moment,\nperhaps she _has_ been old, and has a fair chance of becoming so\nagain. In fact, she is a Phoenix that is known to have secret processes\nfor rebuilding herself out of her own ashes. Little doubt there is but\nshe has seen many a birthday, many a funeral night, and many a morning\nof resurrection. Where now the mightiest of oceans rolls in pacific\nbeauty, once were anchored continents and boundless forests. Where the\nsouth pole now shuts her frozen gates inhospitably against the\nintrusions of flesh, once were probably accumulated the ribs of\nempires; man's imperial forehead, woman's roseate lips, gleamed upon\nten thousand hills; and there were innumerable contributions to\nantarctic journals almost as good (but not quite) as our own. Even\nwithin our domestic limits, even where little England, in her south-\neastern quarter now devolves so quietly to the sea her sweet pastoral\nrivulets, once came roaring down, in pomp of waters, a regal Ganges\n[Footnote: _'Ganges:'_--Dr. Nichol calls it by this name for the\npurpose of expressing its grandeur; and certainly in breadth, in\ndiffusion at all times, but especially in the rainy season, the Ganges\nis the cock of the walk in our British orient. Else, as regards the\nbody of water discharged, the absolute payments made into the sea's\nexchequer, and the majesty of column riding downwards from the\nHimalaya, I believe that, since Sir Alexander Burnes's measurements,\nthe Indus ranks foremost by a long chalk.], that drained some\nhyperbolical continent, some Quinbus Flestrin of Asiatic proportions,\nlong since gone to the dogs. All things pass away. Generations wax old\nas does a garment: but eternally God says:--'Come again, ye children of\nmen.' Wildernesses of fruit, and worlds of flowers, are annually\ngathered in solitary South America to ancestral graves: yet still the\nPomona of Earth, yet still the Flora of Earth, does not become\nsuperannuated, but blossoms in everlasting youth. Not otherwise by\nsecular periods, known to us geologically as facts, though obscure as\ndurations, _Tellus_ herself, the planet, as a whole, is for ever\nworking by golden balances of change and compensation, of ruin and\nrestoration. She recasts her glorious habitations in decomposing them;\nshe lies down for death, which perhaps a thousand times she has\nsuffered; she rises for a new birth, which perhaps for the thousandth\ntime has glorified her disc. Hers is the wedding garment, hers is the\nshroud, that eternally is being woven in the loom. And God imposes upon\nher the awful necessity of working for ever at her own grave, yet of\nlistening for ever to his far-off trumpet of _palingenesis_.\n\nIf this account of the matter be just, and were it not treasonable to\ninsinuate the possibility of an error against so great a swell as\nImmanuel Kant, one would be inclined to fancy that Mr. Kant had really\nbeen dozing a little on this occasion; or, agreeably to his own\nillustration elsewhere, that he had realized the pleasant picture of\none learned doctor trying to milk a he-goat, whilst another doctor,\nequally learned, holds the milk-pail below. [Footnote: Kant applied\nthis illustration to the case where one worshipful scholar proposes\nsome impossible problem, (as the squaring of the circle, or the\nperpetual motion,) which another worshipful scholar sits down to solve.\nThe reference was of course to Virgil's line,--'Atque idem jungat\nvulpes, et _mulgeat hircos_.'] And there is apparently this two-\nedged embarrassment pressing upon the case--that, if our dear excellent\nmother the Earth could be persuaded to tell us her exact age in Julian\nyears, still _that_ would leave us all as much in the dark as\never: since, if the answer were, 'Why, children, at my next birth-day I\nshall count a matter of some million centuries,' we should still be at\na loss to _value_ her age: would it mean that she was a mere\nchicken, or that she was 'getting up in years?' On the other hand, if\n(declining to state any odious circumstantialities,) she were to\nreply,--'No matter, children, for my precise years, which are\ndisagreeable remembrances; I confess generally to being a lady of a\ncertain age,'--here, in the inverse order, given the _valuation_\nof the age, we should yet be at a loss for the _absolute_ years\nnumerically: would a 'certain age,' mean that 'mamma' was a million, be\nthe same more or less, or perhaps not much above seventy thousand?\n\nEvery way, you see, reader, there are difficulties. But two things used\nto strike me, as unaccountably overlooked by Kant; who, to say the\ntruth, was profound--yet at no time very agile--in the character of his\nunderstanding. First, what age now might we take our brother and sister\nplanets to be? For _that_ determination as to a point in\n_their_ constitution, will do something to illustrate our own. We\nare as good as they, I hope, any day: perhaps in a growl, one might\nmodestly insinuate--_better_. It's not at all likely that there\ncan be any great disproportion of age amongst children of the same\nhousehold: and therefore, since Kant always countenanced the idea that\nJupiter had not quite finished the upholstery of his extensive\npremises, as a comfortable residence for a man, Jupiter having, in\nfact, a fine family of mammoths, but no family at all of 'humans,' (as\nbrother Jonathan calls them,) Kant was bound, _ex analogo_, to\nhold that any little precedency in the trade of living, on the part of\nour own mother Earth, could not count for much in the long run. At\nNewmarket, or Doncaster, the start is seldom mathematically true:\ntrifling advantages will survive all human trials after abstract\nequity; and the logic of this case argues, that any few thousands of\nyears by which Tellus may have got ahead of Jupiter, such as the having\nfinished her Roman Empire, finished her Crusades, and finished her\nFrench Revolution, virtually amounts to little or nothing; indicates no\nhigher proportion to the total scale upon which she has to run, than\nthe few tickings of a watch by which one horse at the start for the\nLeger is in advance of another. When checked in our chronology by each\nother, it transpires that, in effect, we are but executing the nice\nmanoeuvre of a start; and that the small matter of six thousand years,\nby which we may have advanced our own position beyond some of our\nplanetary rivals, is but the outstretched neck of an uneasy horse at\nDoncaster. This is _one_ of the data overlooked by Kant; and the\nless excusably overlooked, because it was his own peculiar doctrine,--\nthat uncle Jupiter ought to be considered a greenhorn. Jupiter may be a\nyounger brother of our mamma; but, if he is a brother at all, he cannot\nbe so very wide of our own chronology; and therefore the first\n_datum_ overlooked by Kant was--the analogy of our whole planetary\nsystem. A second datum, as it always occurred to myself, might\nreasonably enough be derived from the intellectual vigor of us men. If\nour mother could, with any show of reason, be considered an old decayed\nlady, snoring stentorously in her arm-chair, there would naturally be\nsome _aroma_ of phthisis, or apoplexy, beginning to form about\n_us_, that are her children. But _is_ there? If ever Dr. Johnson\nsaid a true word, it was when he replied to the Scottish judge\nBurnett, so well known to the world as Lord Monboddo. The judge, a\nlearned man, but obstinate as a mule in certain prejudices, had said\nplaintively, querulously, piteously,--'Ah, Doctor, we are poor\ncreatures, we men of the eighteenth century, by comparison with our\nforefathers!' 'Oh, no, my Lord,' said Johnson, 'we are quite as strong\nas our ancestors, and a great deal wiser.' Yes; our kick is, at least,\nas dangerous, and our logic does three times as much execution. This\nwould be a complex topic to treat effectively; and I wish merely to\nindicate the opening which it offers for a most decisive order of\narguments in such a controversy. If the Earth were on her last legs, we\nher children could not be very strong or healthy. Whereas, if there\nwere less pedantry amongst us, less malice, less falsehood, and less\ndarkness of prejudice, easy it would be to show, that in almost every\nmode of intellectual power, we are more than a match for the most\nconceited of elder generations, and that in some modes we have energies\nor arts absolutely and exclusively our own. Amongst a thousand\nindications of strength and budding youth, I will mention two:--Is it\nlikely, is it plausible, that our Earth should just begin to find out\neffective methods of traversing land and sea, when she had a summons to\nleave both? Is it not, on the contrary, a clear presumption that the\ngreat career of earthly nations is but on the point of opening, that\nlife is but just beginning to kindle, when the great obstacles to\neffectual locomotion, and therefore to extensive human intercourse, are\nfirst of all beginning to give way? Secondly, I ask peremptorily,--Does\nit stand with good sense, is it reasonable that Earth is waning,\nscience drooping, man looking downward, precisely in that epoch when,\nfirst of all, man's eye is arming itself for looking effectively into\nthe mighty depths of space? A new era for the human intellect, upon a\npath that lies amongst its most aspiring, is promised, is inaugurated,\nby Lord Rosse's almost awful telescope.\n\nWhat is it then that Lord Rosse has accomplished? If a man were aiming\nat dazzling by effects of rhetoric, he might reply: He has accomplished\nthat which once the condition of the telescope not only refused its\npermission to hope for, but expressly bade man to despair of. What is\nit that Lord Rosse has revealed? Answer: he has revealed more by far\nthan he found. The theatre to which he has introduced us, is\n_immeasurably_ beyond the old one which he found. To say that he\nfound, in the visible universe, a little wooden theatre of Thespis, a\n_tr\u00e9teau_ or shed of vagrants, and that he presented us, at a\nprice of toil and of _anxiety_ that cannot be measured, with a\nRoman colosseum,--_that_ is to say nothing. It is to undertake the\nmeasurement of the tropics with the pocket-tape of an upholsterer.\nColumbus, when he introduced the Old World to the New, after all that\ncan be said in his praise, did in fact only introduce the majority to\nthe minority; but Lord Rosse has introduced the minority to the\nmajority. There are two worlds, one called Ante-Rosse, and the other\nPost-Rosse; and, if it should come to voting, the latter would\nshockingly outvote the other. Augustus C\u00e6sar made it his boast when\ndying, that he had found the city of Rome built of brick, and that he\nleft it built of marble: _lateritiam invenit, marmoream reliquit_.\nLord Rosse may say, even if to-day he should die, 'I found God's\nuniverse represented for human convenience, even after all the sublime\ndiscoveries of Herschel, upon a globe or spherical chart having a\nradius of one hundred and fifty feet; and I left it sketched upon a\nsimilar chart, keeping exactly the same scale of proportions, but now\nelongating its radius into one thousand feet.' The reader of course\nunderstands that this expression, founded on absolute calculations of\nDr. Nichol, is simply meant to exhibit the _relative_ dimensions\nof the _mundus Ante-Rosseanus_ and the _mundus Post-Rosseanus;_\nfor as to the _absolute_ dimensions, when stated in miles, leagues\nor any units familiar to the human experience, they are too stunning\nand confounding. If, again, they are stated in larger units, as for\ninstance diameters of the earth's orbit, the unit itself that\nshould facilitate the grasping of the result, and which really\n_is_ more manageable numerically, becomes itself elusive of the\nmental grasp: it comes in as an interpreter; and (as in some other\ncases) the interpreter is hardest to be understood of the two. If,\nfinally, TIME be assumed as the exponent of the dreadful magnitudes,\ntime combining itself with motion, as in the flight of cannon-balls or\nthe flight of swallows, the sublimity becomes greater; but horror\nseizes upon the reflecting intellect, and incredulity upon the\nirreflective. Even a railroad generation, that _should_ have faith\nin the miracles of velocity, lifts up its hands with an '_Incredulus\nodi_!' we know that Dr. Nichol speaks the truth; but he _seems_\nto speak falsehood. And the ignorant by-stander prays that the doctor\nmay have grace given him and time for repentance; whilst his more\nliberal companion reproves his want of charity, observing that\ntravellers into far countries have always had a license for lying, as a\nsort of tax or fine levied for remunerating their own risks; and that\ngreat astronomers, as necessarily far travellers into space, are\nentitled to a double per centage of the same Munchausen privilege.\n\nGreat is the mystery of Space, greater is the mystery of Time; either\nmystery grows upon man, as man himself grows; and either seems to be a\nfunction of the godlike which is in man. In reality the depths and the\nheights which are in man, the depths by which he searches, the heights\nby which he aspires, are but projected and made objective externally in\nthe three dimensions of space which are outside of him. He trembles at\nthe abyss into which his bodily eyes look down, or look up; not knowing\nthat abyss to be, not always consciously suspecting it to be, but by an\ninstinct written in his prophetic heart feeling it to be, boding it to\nbe, fearing it to be, and sometimes hoping it to be, the mirror to a\nmightier abyss that will one day be expanded in himself. Even as to the\nsense of space, which is the lesser mystery than time, I know not\nwhether the reader has remarked that it is one which swells upon man\nwith the expansion of his mind, and that it is probably peculiar to the\nmind of man. An infant of a year old, or oftentimes even older, takes\nno notice of a sound, however loud, which is a quarter of a mile\nremoved, or even in a distant chamber. And brutes, even of the most\nenlarged capacities, seem not to have any commerce with distance:\ndistance is probably not revealed to them except by a _presence_,\nviz., by some shadow of their own animality, which, if perceived at\nall, is perceived as a thing _present_ to their organs. An animal\ndesire, or a deep animal hostility, may render sensible a distance\nwhich else would not be sensible; but not render it sensible _as_\na distance. Hence perhaps is explained, and not out of any self-\noblivion from higher enthusiasm, a fact that often has occurred, of\ndeer, or hares, or foxes, and the pack of hounds in pursuit, chaser and\nchased, all going headlong over a precipice together. Depth or height\ndoes not readily manifest itself to _them_; so that any _strong_ motive\nis sufficient to overpower the sense of it. Man only has a natural\nfunction for expanding on an illimitable sensorium, the illimitable\ngrowths of space. Man, coming to the precipice, reads his danger; the\nbrute perishes: man is saved; and the horse is saved by his rider.\n\nBut, if this sounds in the ear of some a doubtful refinement, the doubt\napplies only to the lowest degrees of space. For the highest, it is\ncertain that brutes have no perception. To man is as much reserved the\nprerogative of perceiving space in its higher extensions, as of\ngeometrically constructing the relations of space. And the brute is no\nmore capable of apprehending abysses through his eye, than he can build\nupwards or can analyze downwards the \u00e6rial synthesis of Geometry. Such,\ntherefore, as is space for the grandeur of man's perceptions, such as\nis space for the benefit of man's towering mathematic speculations,\nsuch is the nature of our debt to Lord Rosse--as being the philosopher\nwho has most pushed back the frontiers of our conquests upon this\n_exclusive_ inheritance of man. We have all heard of a king that,\nsitting on the sea-shore, bade the waves, as they began to lave his\nfeet, upon their allegiance to retire. _That_ was said not vainly\nor presumptuously, but in reproof of sycophantic courtiers. Now,\nhowever, we see in good earnest another man, wielding another kind of\nsceptre, and sitting upon the shores of infinity, that says to the ice\nwhich had frozen up our progress,--'Melt thou before my breath!' that\nsays to the rebellious _nebul\u00e6_,--'Submit, and burst into blazing\nworlds!' that says to the gates of darkness,--'Roll back, ye barriers,\nand no longer hide from us the infinities of God!'\n\n  'Come, and I will show you what is beautiful.'\n\nFrom the days of infancy still lingers in my ears this opening of a\nprose hymn by a lady, then very celebrated, viz., the late Mrs.\nBarbauld. The hymn began by enticing some solitary infant into some\nsilent garden, I believe, or some forest lawn; and the opening words\nwere, 'Come, and I will show you what is beautiful!' Well, and what\nbeside? There is nothing beside; oh, disappointed and therefore enraged\nreader; positively this is the sum-total of what I can recall from the\nwreck of years; and certainly it is not much. Even of Sappho, though\ntime has made mere ducks and drakes of her lyrics, we have rather more\nspared to us than this. And yet this trifle, simple as you think it,\nthis shred of a fragment, if the reader will believe me, still echoes\nwith luxurious sweetness in my ears, from some unaccountable hide-and-\nseek of fugitive childish memories; just as a marine shell, if applied\nsteadily to the ear, awakens (according to the fine image of Landor\n[Footnote: 'Of Landor,' viz., in his 'Gebir;' but also of Wordsworth in\n'The Excursion.' And I must tell the reader, that a contest raged at\none time as to the _original property_ in this image, not much\nless keen than that between Neptune and Minerva, for the chancellorship\nof Athens.]) the great vision of the sea; places the listener\n\n              'In the sun's palace-porch,\n  And murmurs as the ocean murmurs there.'\n\nNow, on some moonless night, in some fitting condition of the\natmosphere, if Lord Rosse would permit the reader and myself to walk\ninto the front drawing-room of his telescope, then, in Mrs. Barbauld's\nwords, slightly varied, I might say to him,--Come, and I will show you\nwhat is sublime! In fact, what I am going to lay before him, from Dr.\nNichol's work, is, or at least _would_ be, (when translated into\nHebrew grandeur by the mighty telescope,) a step above even that object\nwhich some four-and-twenty years ago in the British Museum struck me as\nsimply the sublimest sight which in this sight-seeing world I had seen.\nIt was the Memnon's head, then recently brought from Egypt. I looked at\nit, as the reader must suppose, in order to understand the depth which\nI have here ascribed to the impression, not as a human but as a\nsymbolic head; and what it symbolized to me were: 1. The peace which\npasseth all understanding. 2. The eternity which baffles and confounds\nall faculty of computation; the eternity which _had_ been, the\neternity which _was_ to be. 3. The diffusive love, not such as\nrises and falls upon waves of life and mortality, not such as sinks and\nswells by undulations of time, but a procession--an emanation from some\nmystery of endless dawn. You durst not call it a smile that radiated\nfrom the lips; the radiation was too awful to clothe itself in\nadumbrations or memorials of flesh.\n\nIn _that mode_ of sublimity, perhaps, I still adhere to my first\nopinion, that nothing so great was ever beheld. The atmosphere for\n_this_, for the Memnon, was the breathlessness which belongs to a\nsaintly trance; the holy thing seemed to live by silence. But there\n_is_ a picture, the pendant of the Memnon, there _is_ a dreadful\ncartoon, from the gallery which has begun to open upon Lord Rosse's\ntelescope, where the appropriate atmosphere for investing it\nmust be drawn from another silence, from the frost and from the\neternities of death. It is the famous _nebula_ in the constellation\nof Orion; famous for the unexampled defiance with which it resisted\nall approaches from the most potent of former telescopes; famous\nfor its frightful magnitude and for the frightful depth to which\nit is sunk in the abysses of the heavenly wilderness; famous just now\nfor the submission with which it has begun to render up its secrets to\nthe all-conquering telescope; and famous in all time coming for the\nhorror of the regal phantasma which it has perfected to eyes of flesh.\nHad Milton's 'incestuous mother,' with her fleshless son, and with the\nwarrior angel, his father, that led the rebellions of heaven, been\nsuddenly unmasked by Lord Rosse's instrument, in these dreadful\ndistances before which, simply as expressions of resistance, the mind\nof man shudders and recoils, there would have been nothing more\nappalling in the exposure; in fact, it would have been essentially the\nsame exposure: the same expression of power in the detestable phantom,\nthe same rebellion in the attitude, the same pomp of malice in the\nfeatures to a universe seasoned for its assaults.\n\nThe reader must look to Dr. Nichol's book, at page 51, for the picture\nof this abominable apparition. But then, in order to see what _I_\nsee, the obedient reader must do what I tell him to do. Let him\ntherefore view the wretch upside down. If he neglects that simple\ndirection, of course I don't answer for anything that follows: without\nany fault of mine, my description will be unintelligible. This\ninversion being made, the following is the dreadful creature that will\nthen reveal itself.\n\n_Description of the Nebula in Orion, as forced to show out by Lord\nRosse._--You see a head thrown back, and raising its face, (or eyes,\nif eyes it had,) in the very anguish of hatred, to some unknown\nheavens. What _should_ be its skull wears what _might_ be an\nAssyrian tiara, only ending behind in a floating train. This head rests\nupon a beautifully developed neck and throat. All power being given to\nthe awful enemy, he is beautiful where he pleases, in order to point\nand envenom his ghostly ugliness. The mouth, in that stage of the\napocalypse which Sir John Herschel was able to arrest in his eighteen-\ninch mirror, is amply developed. Brutalities unspeakable sit upon the\nupper lip, which is confluent with a snout; for separate nostrils there\nare none. Were it not for this one defect of nostrils; and, even in\nspite of this defect, (since, in so mysterious a mixture of the angelic\nand the brutal, we may suppose the sense of odor to work by some\ncompensatory organ,) one is reminded by the phantom's attitude of a\npassage, ever memorable, in Milton: that passage, I mean, where Death\nfirst becomes aware, soon after the original trespass, of his own\nfuture empire over man. The 'meagre shadow' even smiles (for the first\ntime and the last) on apprehending his own abominable bliss, by\napprehending from afar the savor 'of mortal change on earth.'\n\n  ----'Such a scent,' (he says,) 'I draw\n  Of carnage, prey innumerable.'\n\nAs illustrating the attitude of the phantom in Orion, let the reader\nallow me to quote the tremendous passage:--\n\n  'So saying, with delight he snuff'd the smell\n  Of mortal change on earth. As when a flock\n  Of ravenous fowl, though many a league remote,\n  Against the day of battle, to a field,\n  Where armies lie encamp'd, come flying, lured\n  With scent of living carcasses design'd\n  For death, the following day, in bloody fight;\n  So scented the grim feature, [Footnote: 'So scented the grim\nfeature,' [_feature_ is the old word for _form or outline that\nis shadowy_; and also for form (shadowy or not) which abstracts from\nthe _matter_.] By the way, I have never seen it noticed, that\nMilton was indebted for the hint of this immortal passage to a superb\nline-and-a-half, in Lucan's Pharsalia.] and upturn'd\n  His nostril wide into the murky air,\n  Sagacious of his quarry from so far.'\n\nBut the lower lip, which is drawn inwards with the curve of a conch\nshell,--oh what a convolute of cruelty and revenge is _there_!\nCruelty!--to whom? Revenge!--for what? Ask not, whisper not. Look\nupwards to other mysteries. In the very region of his temples, driving\nitself downwards into his cruel brain, and breaking the continuity of\nhis diadem, is a horrid chasm, a ravine, a shaft, that many centuries\nwould not traverse; and it is serrated on its posterior wall with a\nharrow that perhaps is partly hidden. From the anterior wall of this\nchasm rise, in vertical directions, two processes; one perpendicular,\nand rigid as a horn, the other streaming forward before some portentous\nbreath. What these could be, seemed doubtful; but now, when further\nexaminations by Sir John Herschel, at the Cape of Good Hope, have\nfilled up the scattered outline with a rich umbrageous growth, one is\ninclined to regard them as the plumes of a sultan. Dressed he is,\ntherefore, as well as armed. And finally comes Lord Rosse, that\nglorifies him with the jewellery [Footnote: _The jewellery of\nStars_. And one thing is very remarkable, viz., that not only the\nstars justify this name of jewellery, as usual, by the life of their\nsplendor, but also, in this case, by their arrangement. No jeweller\ncould have set, or disposed with more art, the magnificent quadrille of\nstars which is placed immediately below the upright plume. There is\nalso another, a truncated quadrille, wanting only the left hand star\n(or you might call it a bisected lozenge) placed on the diadem, but\nobliquely placed as regards the curve of that diadem. Two or three\nother arrangements are striking, though not equally so, both from their\nregularity and from their repeating each other, as the forms in a\nkaleidoscope.] of stars: he is now a vision 'to dream of, not to tell:'\nhe is ready for the worship of those that are tormented in sleep: and\nthe stages of his solemn uncovering by astronomy, first by Sir W.\nHerschel, secondly, by his son, and finally by Lord Rosse, is like the\nreversing of some heavenly doom, like the raising of the seals that had\nbeen sealed by the angel, in the Revelations. But the reader naturally\nasks, How does all this concern Lord Rosse's telescope on the one side,\nor general astronomy on the other? This _nebula_, he will say,\nseems a bad kind of fellow by your account; and of course it will not\nbreak my heart to hear, that he has had the conceit taken out of him.\nBut in what way can _that_ affect the pretensions of this new\ninstrument; or, if it did, how can the character of the instrument\naffect the general condition of a science? Besides, is not the science\na growth from very ancient times? With great respect for the Earl of\nRosse, is it conceivable that he, or any man, by one hour's working the\ntackle of his new instrument, can have carried any stunning\nrevolutionary effect into the heart of a section so ancient in our\nmathematical physics? But the reader is to consider, that the ruins\nmade by Lord Rosse, are in _sidereal_ astronomy, which is almost\nwholly a growth of modern times; and the particular part of it\ndemolished by the new telescope, is almost exclusively the creation of\nthe two Herschels, father and son. Laplace, it is true, adopted their\nviews; and he transferred them to the particular service of our own\nplanetary system. But he gave to them no new sanction, except what\narises from showing that they would account for the appearances, as\nthey present themselves to our experience at this day. That was a\n_negative_ confirmation; by which I mean, that, had their views\nfailed in the hands of Laplace, then they were proved to be false; but,\n_not_ failing, they were not therefore proved to be true. It was\nlike proving a gun; if the charge is insufficient, or if, in trying the\nstrength of cast iron, timber, ropes, &c., the strain is not up to the\nrigor of the demand, you go away with perhaps a favorable impression as\nto the promises of the article; it has stood a moderate trial; it has\nstood all the trial that offered, which is always something; but you\nare still obliged to feel that, when the ultimate test is applied,\nsmash may go the whole concern. Lord Rosse applied an ultimate test;\nand smash went the whole concern. Really I must have laughed, though\nall the world had been angry, when the shrieks and yells of expiring\nsystems began to reverberate all the way from the belt of Orion; and\npositively at the very first broadside delivered from this huge four-\ndecker of a telescope.\n\nBut what was it then that went to wreck? That is a thing more easy to\nask than to answer. At least, for my own part, I complain that some\nvagueness hangs over all the accounts of the nebular hypothesis.\nHowever, in this place a brief sketch will suffice.\n\nHerschel the elder, having greatly improved the telescope, began to\nobserve with special attention a class of remarkable phenomena in the\nstarry world hitherto unstudied, viz.: milky spots in various stages of\ndiffusion. The nature of these appearances soon cleared itself up thus\nfar, that generally they were found to be starry worlds, separated from\nours by inconceivable distances, and in that way concealing at first\ntheir real nature. The whitish gleam was the mask conferred by the\nenormity of their remotion. This being so, it might have been supposed\nthat, as was the faintness of these cloudy spots or _nebul\u00e6_, such\nwas the distance. But _that_ did not follow: for in the treasury\nof nature it turned out that there were other resources for modifying\nthe powers of distance, for muffling and unmuffling the voice of stars.\nSuppose a world at the distance _x_, which distance is so great as\nto make the manifestation of that world weak, milky, nebular. Now let\nthe secret power that wields these awful orbs, push this world back to\na double distance! _that_ should naturally make it paler and more\ndilute than ever: and yet by _compression_, by deeper centralization,\nthis effect shall be defeated; by forcing into far closer neighborhood\nthe stars which compose this world, again it shall gleam out brighter\nwhen at 2_x_ than when at _x_. At this point of compression, let the\ngreat moulding power a second time push it back; and a second time it\nwill grow faint. But once more let this world be tortured into closer\ncompression, again let the screw be put upon it, and once again it\nshall shake off the oppression of distance as the dew-drops are shaken\nfrom a lion's mane. And thus in fact the mysterious architect plays at\nhide-and-seek with his worlds. 'I will hide it,' he says, 'and it shall\nbe found again by man; I will withdraw it into distances that shall\nseem fabulous, and again it shall apparel itself in glorious light; a\nthird time I will plunge it into aboriginal darkness, and upon the\nvision of man a third time it shall rise with a new epiphany.'\n\nBut, says the objector, there is no such world; there is no world that\nhas thus been driven back, and depressed from one deep to a lower deep.\nGranted: but the same effect, an illustration of the same law, is\nproduced equally, whether you take four worlds, all of the same\nmagnitude, and plunge them _simultaneously_ into four different\nabysses, sinking by graduated distances one below another, or take one\nworld and plunge it to the same distances _successively_. So in\nGeology, when men talk of substances in different stages, or of\ntransitional states, they do not mean that they have watched the same\nindividual _stratum_ or _phenomenon_, exhibiting states removed\nfrom each other by depths of many thousand years; how could they?\nbut they have seen one stage in the case A, another stage in the\ncase B. They take, for instance, three objects, the same (to use the\ntechnical language of logic) generically, though numerically different,\nunder separate circumstances, or in different stages of advance. They\nare one object for logic, they are three for human convenience. So\nagain it might seem impossible to give the history of a rose tree from\ninfancy to age: how could the same rose tree, at the same time, be\nyoung and old? Yet by taking the different developments of its flowers,\neven as they hang on the same tree, from the earliest bud to the full-\nblown rose, you may in effect pursue this vegetable growth through all\nits stages: you have before you the bony blushing little rose-bud, and\nthe respectable 'medi\u00e6val' full-blown rose.\n\nThis point settled, let it now be remarked, that Herschel's resources\nenabled him to unmask many of these _nebul\u00e6_: stars they were, and\nstars he forced them to own themselves. Why should any decent world\nwear an _alias_? There was nothing, you know, to be ashamed of in\nbeing an honest cluster of stars. Indeed, they seemed to be sensible of\nthis themselves, and they now yielded to the force of Herschel's\narguments so far as to show themselves in the new character of\n_nebul\u00e6_ spangled with stars; these are the _stellar nebul\u00e6_;\nquite as much as you could expect in so short a time: Rome was not\nbuilt in a day: and one must have some respect to stellar feelings. It\nwas noticed, however, that where a bright haze, and not a weak milk-\nand-water haze, had revealed itself to the telescope, this, arising\nfrom a case of _compression_, (as previously explained,) required\nvery little increase of telescopic power to force him into a fuller\nconfession. He made a clean breast of it. But at length came a dreadful\nanomaly. A 'nebula' in the constellation _Andromeda_ turned\nrestive: another in _Orion_, I grieve to say it, still more so. I\nconfine myself to the latter. A very low power sufficed to bring him to\na slight confession, which in fact amounted to nothing; the very\nhighest would not persuade him to show a star. 'Just one,' said some\ncoaxing person; 'we'll be satisfied with only one.' But no: he would\n_not_. He was hardened, 'he wouldn't _split_.' And Herschel\nwas thus led, after waiting as long as flesh and blood _could_\nwait, to infer two classes of _nebul\u00e6_; one that were stars; and\nanother that were _not_ stars, nor ever were meant to be stars.\nYet _that_ was premature: he found at last, that, though not raised\nto the peerage of stars, finally they would be so: they were the\nmatter of stars; and by gradual condensation would become suns, whose\natmosphere, by a similar process of condensing, would become planets,\ncapable of brilliant literati and philosophers, in several volumes\noctavo. So stood the case for a long time; it was settled to the\nsatisfaction of Europe that there were two classes of _nebul\u00e6_,\none that _were_ worlds, one that were _not_, but only the pabulum\nof future worlds. Silence arose. A voice was heard, 'Let there\nbe Lord Rosse!' and immediately his telescope walked into Orion;\ndestroyed the supposed matter of stars; but, in return, created\nimmeasurable worlds.\n\nAs a hint for apprehending the delicacy and difficulty of the process\nin sidereal astronomy, let the inexperienced reader figure to himself\nthese separate cases of perplexity: 1st, A perplexity where the dilemma\narises from the collision between magnitude and distance:--is the size\nless, or the distance greater? 2dly, Where the dilemma arises between\nmotions, a motion in ourselves doubtfully confounded with a motion in\nsome external body; or, 3dly, Where it arises between possible\npositions of an object: is it a real proximity that we see between two\nstars, or simply an apparent proximity from lying in the same visual\nline, though in far other depths of space? As regards the first\ndilemma, we may suppose two laws, A and B, absolutely in contradiction,\nlaid down at starting: A, that all fixed stars are precisely at the\nsame _distance_; in this case every difference in the apparent\nmagnitude will indicate a corresponding difference in the real\nmagnitude, and will measure that difference. B, that all the fixed\nstars are precisely of the same _magnitude_; in which case, every\nvariety in the size will indicate a corresponding difference in the\ndistance, and will measure that difference. Nor could we imagine any\nexception to these inferences from A or from B, whichever of the two\nwere assumed, unless through optical laws that might not equally affect\nobjects under different circumstances; I mean, for instance, that might\nsuffer a disturbance as applied under hypoth. B, to different depths in\nspace, or under hypoth. A, to different arrangements of structure in\nthe star. But thirdly, it is certain, that neither A nor B is the\nabiding law: and next it becomes an object by science and by\ninstruments to distinguish more readily and more certainly between the\ncases where the distance has degraded the size, and the cases where the\nsize being _really_ less, has caused an exaggeration of the\ndistance: or again, where the size being really less, yet co-operating\nwith a distance really greater, may degrade the estimate, (though\ntravelling in a right direction,) below the truth; or again where the\nsize being really less, yet counteracted by a distance also less, may\nequally disturb the truth of human measurements, and so on.\n\nA second large order of equivocating appearances will arise,--not as to\nmagnitude, but as to motion. If it could be a safe assumption, that the\nsystem to which our planet is attached were absolutely fixed and\nmotionless, except as regards its own _internal_ relations of\nmovement, then every change outside of us, every motion that the\nregisters of astronomy had established, would be objective and not\nsubjective. It would be safe to pronounce at once that it was a motion\nin the object contemplated, _not_ in the subject contemplating.\nOr, reversely, if it were safe to assume as a universal law, that no\nmotion was possible in the starry heavens, then every change of\nrelations in space, between ourselves and them, would indicate and\nwould measure a progress, or regress, on the part of our solar system,\nin certain known directions. But now, because it is not safe to rest in\neither assumption, the range of possibilities for which science has to\nprovide, is enlarged; the immediate difficulties are multiplied; but\nwith the result (as in the former case) of reversionally expanding the\npowers, and consequently the facilities, lodged both in the science and\nin the arts ministerial to the science. Thus, in the constellation\n_Cygnus_, there is a star gradually changing its relation to our\nsystem, whose distance from ourselves (as Dr. Nichol tells us) is\nascertained to be about six hundred and seventy thousand times our own\ndistance from the sun: that is, neglecting minute accuracy, about six\nhundred and seventy thousand stages of one hundred million miles each.\nThis point being known, it falls within the _arts_ of astronomy to\ntranslate this apparent angular motion into miles; and presuming this\nchange of relation to be not in the star, but really in ourselves, we\nmay deduce the velocity of our course, we may enter into our _log_\ndaily the rate at which our whole solar system is running. Bessel, it\nseems, the eminent astronomer who died lately, computed this velocity\nto be such (viz., three times that of our own earth in its proper\norbit) as would carry us to the star in forty-one thousand years. But,\nin the mean time, the astronomer is to hold in reserve some small share\nof his attention, some trifle of a side-glance, now and then, to the\npossibility of an error, after all, in the main assumption: he must\nwatch the indications, if any such should arise, that not ourselves,\nbut the star in _Cygnus_, is the real party concerned, in drifting\nat this shocking rate, with no prospect of coming to an anchorage.\n[Footnote: It is worth adding at this point, whilst the reader\nremembers without effort the numbers, viz., forty-one thousand\nyears, for the time, (the space being our own distance from the sun\nrepeated six hundred and seventy thousand times,) what would be the\ntime required for reaching, in the _body_, that distance to which\nLord Rosse's six feet mirror has so recently extended our\n_vision_. The time would be, as Dr. Nichol computes, about two\nhundred and fifty millions of years, supposing that our rate of\ntravelling was about three times that of our earth in its orbit. Now,\nas the velocity is assumed to be the same in both cases, the ratio\nbetween the distance (already so tremendous) of Bessel's 61\n_Cygni_, and that of Lord Rosse's farthest frontier, is as forty-\none thousand to two hundred and fifty millions. This is a simple rule-\nof-three problem for a child. And the answer to it will, perhaps,\nconvey the simplest expression of the superhuman power lodged in the\nnew telescope:--as is the ratio of forty-one thousand to two hundred\nand fifty million, so is the ratio of our own distance from the sun\nmultiplied by six hundred and seventy thousand, to the outermost limit\nof Lord Rosse's sidereal vision.]\n\nAnother class, and a frequent one, of equivocal phenomena, phenomena\nthat are reconcilable indifferently with either of two assumptions,\nthough less plausibly reconciled with the one than with the other,\nconcerns the position of stars that seem connected with each other by\nsystematic relations, and which yet _may_ lie in very different\ndepths of space, being brought into seeming connection only by the\nhuman eye. There have been, and there are, cases where two stars\ndissemble an interconnection which they really _have_, and other\ncases where they simulate an interconnection which they have not. All\nthese cases of simulation and dissimulation torment the astronomer by\nmultiplying his perplexities, and deepening the difficulty of escaping\nthem. He cannot get at the truth: in many cases, magnitude and distance\nare in collusion with each other to deceive him: motion subjective is\nin collusion with motion objective; duplex systems are in collusion\nwith fraudulent stars, having no real partnership whatever, but\nmimicking such a partnership by means of the limitations or errors\naffecting the human eye, where it can apply no other sense to aid or to\ncorrect itself. So that the business of astronomy, in these days, is no\nsinecure, as the reader perceives. And by another evidence, it is\ncontinually becoming less of a sinecure. Formerly, one or two men,--\nTycho, suppose, or, in a later age, Cassini and Horrox, and Bradley,\nhad observatories: one man, suppose, observed the stars for all\nChristendom; and the rest of Europe observed _him_. But now, up\nand down Europe, from the deep blue of Italian skies to the cold frosty\natmospheres of St. Petersburg and Glasgow, the stars are conscious of\nbeing watched everywhere; and if all astronomers do not publish their\nobservations, all use them in their speculations. New and brilliantly\nappointed observatories are rising in every latitude, or risen; and\nnone, by the way, of these new-born observatories, is more interesting\nfrom the circumstances of its position, or more _picturesque_ to a\nhigher organ than the eye--viz., to the human heart--than the New\nObservatory raised by the university of Glasgow.[Footnote: It has been\nreported, ever since the autumn of 1845, and the report is now,\n(August, 1846,) gathering strength, that some railway potentate, having\ntaken a fancy for the ancient college of Glasgow, as a bauble to hang\nabout his wife's neck, (no accounting for tastes,) has offered, (or\n_will_ offer,) such a price, that the good old academic lady in\nthis her moss-grown antiquity, seriously thinks of taking him at his\nword, packing up her traps, and being off. When a spirit of galavanting\ncomes across an aged lady, it is always difficult to know where it will\nstop: so, in fact, you know, she may choose to steam for Texas. But the\npresent impression is, that she will settle down by the side of what\nyou may call her married or settled daughter--the Observatory; which\none would be glad to have confirmed, as indicating that no purpose of\npleasure-seeking had been working in elderly minds, but the instinct of\nreligious rest and aspiration. The Observatory would thus remind one of\nthose early Christian anchorites, and self-exiled visionaries, that\nbeing led by almost a necessity of nature to take up their residence in\ndeserts, sometimes drew after themselves the whole of their own\nneighborhood.]\n\nThe New Observatory of Glasgow is now, I believe, finished; and the\nonly fact connected with its history that was painful, as embodying and\nrecording that Vandal alienation from science, literature, and all\ntheir interests, which has ever marked our too haughty and Caliph-Omar-\nlike British government, lay in the circumstance that the glasses of\nthe apparatus, the whole mounting of the establishment, in so far as it\nwas a scientific establishment, and even the workmen for putting up the\nmachinery, were imported from Bavaria. We, that once bade the world\nstand aside when the question arose about glasses, or the graduation of\ninstruments, were now literally obliged to stand cap in hand, bowing to\nMr. Somebody, successor of Frauenhofer or Frauendevil, in Munich! Who\ncaused _that_, we should all be glad to know, if not the wicked\nTreasury, that killed the hen that laid the golden eggs by taxing her\nuntil her spine broke? It is to be hoped that, at this moment, and\nspecifically for this offence, some scores of Exchequer men,\nchancellors and other rubbish, are in purgatory, and perhaps working,\nwith shirt-sleeves tucked up, in purgatorial glass-houses, with very\nsmall allowances of beer, to defray the cost of perspiration. But why\ntrouble a festal remembrance with commemorations of crimes or\ncriminals? What makes the Glasgow Observatory so peculiarly\ninteresting, is its position, connected with and overlooking so vast a\ncity, having more than three hundred thousand inhabitants, (in spite of\nan American sceptic,) nearly all children of toil; and a city, too,\nwhich, from the necessities of its circumstances, draws so deeply upon\nthat fountain of misery and guilt which some ordinance, as ancient as\n'our father Jacob,' with his patriarchal well for Samaria, has\nbequeathed to manufacturing towns,--to Ninevehs, to Babylons, to Tyres.\nHow tarnished with eternal canopies of smoke, and of sorrow; how dark\nwith agitations of many orders, is the mighty town below! How serene,\nhow quiet, how lifted above the confusion and the roar, how liberated\nfrom the strifes of earth, is the solemn Observatory that crowns the\ngrounds above! And duly, at night, just when the toil of over-wrought\nGlasgow is mercifully relaxing, then comes the summons to the laboring\nastronomer. _He_ speaks not of the night, but of the day and the\nflaunting day-light, as the hours 'in which no man can work.' And the\nleast reflecting of men must be impressed by the idea, that at wide\nintervals, but intervals scattered over Europe, whilst 'all that mighty\nheart' is, by sleep, resting from its labors, secret eyes are lifted up\nto heaven in astronomical watch-towers; eyes that keep watch and ward\nover spaces that make us dizzy to remember, eyes that register the\npromises of comets, and disentangle the labyrinths of worlds.\n\nAnother feature of interest, connected with the Glasgow Observatory, is\npersonal, and founded on the intellectual characteristics of the\npresent professor, Dr. Nichol; in the deep meditative style of his mind\nseeking for rest, yet placed in conflict for ever with the tumultuous\nnecessity in _him_ for travelling along the line of revolutionary\nthought, and following it loyally, wearied or not, to its natural home.\n\nIn a sonnet of Milton, one of three connected with his own blindness,\nhe distinguishes between two classes of servants that minister to the\npurposes of God. '_His_ state,' says he, meaning God's state, the\narrangement of his regular service, 'is kingly;' that is to say, it\nresembles the mode of service established in the courts of kings; and,\nin this, it resembles that service, that there are two classes of\nministers attending on his pleasure. For, as in the trains of kings are\nsome that run without resting, night or day, to carry the royal\nmessages, and also others--great lords in waiting--that move not from\nthe royal gates; so of the divine retinues, some are for action only,\nsome for contemplation. 'Thousands' there are that\n\n  ----'at his bidding speed,\n  And post o'er land and ocean without rest.'\n\nOthers, on the contrary, motionless as statues, that share not in the\nagitations of their times, that tremble not in sympathy with the storms\naround them, but that listen--that watch--that wait--for secret\nindications to be fulfilled, or secret signs to be deciphered. And, of\nthis latter class, he adds-that they, not less than the others, are\naccepted by God; or, as it is so exquisitely expressed in the closing\nline,\n\n  '_They_ also serve, that only stand and wait.'\n\nSomething analogous to this one may see in the distributions of\nliterature and science. Many popularize and diffuse: some reap and\ngather on their own account. Many translate, into languages fit for the\nmultitude, messages which they receive from human voices: some listen,\nlike Kubla Khan, far down in caverns or hanging over subterranean\nrivers, for secret whispers that mingle and confuse themselves with the\ngeneral uproar of torrents, but which can be detected and kept apart by\nthe obstinate prophetic ear, which spells into words and ominous\nsentences the distracted syllables of \u00e6rial voices. Dr. Nichol is one\nof those who pass to and fro between these classes; and has the rare\nfunction of keeping open their vital communications. As a popularizing\nastronomer, he has done more for the benefit of his great science than\nall the rest of Europe combined: and now, when he notices, without\nmurmur, the fact that his office of popular teacher is almost taken out\nof his hands, (so many are they who have trained of late for the duty,)\nthat change has, in fact, been accomplished through knowledge, through\nexplanations, through suggestions, dispersed and prompted by himself.\n\nFor my own part, as one belonging to the laity, and not to the\n_clerus_, in the science of astronomy, I could scarcely have\npresumed to report minutely, or to sit in the character of dissector\nupon the separate details of Dr. Nichol's works, either this, or those\nwhich have preceded it, had there even been room left disposable for\nsuch a task. But in this view it is sufficient to have made the general\nacknowledgment which already _has_ been made, that Dr. Nichol's\nworks, and his oral lectures upon astronomy, are to be considered as\nthe _fundus_ of the knowledge on that science now working in this\ngeneration. More important it is, and more in reconciliation with the\ntenor of my own ordinary studies, to notice the philosophic spirit in\nwhich Dr. Nichol's works are framed; the breadth of his views, the\neternal tendency of his steps in advance, or (if advance on that\nquarter, or at that point, happens to be absolutely walled out for the\npresent,) the vigor of the _reconnoissances_ by which he examines\nthe hostile intrenchments. Another feature challenges notice. In\nreading astronomical works, there arises (from old experience of what\nis usually most faulty) a wish either for the naked severities of\nscience, with a total abstinence from all display of enthusiasm; or\nelse, if the cravings of human sensibility are to be met and gratified,\nthat it shall be by an enthusiasm unaffected and grand as its subject.\nOf that kind is the enthusiasm of Dr. Nichol. The grandeurs of\nastronomy are such to him who has a capacity for being grandly moved.\nThey are none at all to him who has not. To the mean they become\nmeannesses. Space, for example, has no grandeur to him who has no space\nin the theatre of his own brain. I know writers who report the marvels\nof velocity, &c., in such a way that they become insults to yourself.\nIt is obvious that in _their_ way of insisting on our earth's\nspeed in her annual orbit, they do not seek to exalt _her_, but to\nmortify _you_. And, besides, these fellows are answerable for\nprovoking people into fibs:--for I remember one day, that reading a\nstatement of this nature, about how many things the Earth had done that\nwe could never hope to do, and about the number of cannon balls,\nharnessed as a _tandem_, which the Earth would fly past, without\nleaving time to say, _How are you off for soap?_ in vexation of\nheart I could not help exclaiming--'That's nothing: I've done a great\ndeal more myself;' though, when one turns it in one's mind, you know\nthere must be some inaccuracy _there_. How different is Dr.\nNichol's enthusiasm from this hypocritical and vulgar wonderment! It\nshows itself not merely in reflecting the grandeurs of his theme, and\nby the sure test of detecting and allying itself with all the indirect\ngrandeurs that arrange themselves from any distance, upon or about that\ncentre, but by the manifest promptness with which Dr. Nichol's\nenthusiasm awakens itself upon _every_ road that leads to things\nelevating for man; or to things promising for knowledge; or to things\nwhich, like dubious theories or imperfect attempts at systematizing,\nthough neutral as regards knowledge, minister to what is greater than\nknowledge, viz., to intellectual _power_, to the augmented power\nof handling your materials, though with no more materials than before.\nIn his geological and cosmological inquiries, in his casual\nspeculations, the same quality of intellect betrays itself; the\nintellect that labors in sympathy with the laboring _nisus_ of\nthese gladiatorial times; that works (and sees the necessity of\nworking) the apparatus of many sciences towards a composite result; the\nintellect that retires in one direction only to make head in another;\nand that already is prefiguring the route beyond the barriers, whilst\nyet the gates are locked.\n\nThere was a man in the last century, and an eminent man too, who used\nto say, that whereas people in general pretended to admire astronomy as\nbeing essentially sublime, he for _his_ part looked upon all that\nsort of thing as a swindle; and, on the contrary, he regarded the solar\nsystem as decidedly vulgar; because the planets were all of them so\ninfernally punctual, they kept time with such horrible precision, that\nthey forced him, whether he would or no, to think of nothing but post-\noffice clocks, mail-coaches, and book-keepers. Regularity may be\nbeautiful, but it excludes the sublime. What he wished for was\nsomething like Lloyd's list.\n\n_Comets_--due 3; arrived 1.\n_Mercury_, when last seen, appeared to be distressed; but made no\nsignals.\n_Pallas_ and _Vesta_, not heard of for some time; supposed to\nhave foundered.\n_Moon_, spoken last night through a heavy bank of clouds; out\nsixteen days: all right.\n\nNow this poor man's misfortune was, to have lived in the days of mere\nplanetary astronomy. At present, when our own little system, with all\nits grandeurs, has dwindled by comparison to a subordinate province, if\nany man is bold enough to say so, a poor shivering unit amongst myriads\nthat are brighter, we ought no longer to talk of astronomy, but of\n_the astronomies_. There is the planetary, the cometary, the\nsidereal, perhaps also others; as, for instance, even yet the nebular;\nbecause, though Lord Rosse has smitten it with the son of Amram's rod,\nhas made it open, and cloven a path through it, yet other and more\nfearful _nebul\u00e6_ may loom in sight, (if further improvements\nshould be effected in the telescope,) that may puzzle even Lord Rosse.\nAnd when he tells his _famulus_--'Fire a shot at that strange\nfellow, and make him show his colors,' possibly the mighty stranger may\ndisdain the summons. That would be vexatious: we should all be incensed\nat _that_. But no matter. What's a _nebula_, what's a world,\nmore or less? In the spiritual heavens are many mansions: in the starry\nheavens, that are now unfolding and preparing to unfold before us, are\nmany vacant areas upon which the astronomer may pitch his secret\npavilion. He may dedicate himself to the service of the _Double\nSuns_; he has my license to devote his whole time to the quadruple\nsystem of suns in _Lyra_. Swammerdam spent his life in a ditch\nwatching frogs and tadpoles; why may not an astronomer give nine lives,\nif he had them, to the watching of that awful appearance in\n_Hercules_, which pretends to some rights over our own unoffending\nsystem? Why may he not mount guard with public approbation, for the\nnext fifty years, upon the zodiacal light, the interplanetary ether,\nand other rarities, which the professional body of astronomers would\nnaturally keep (if they could) for their own private enjoyment? There\nis no want of variety now, nor in fact of irregularity: for the most\nexquisite clock-work, which from enormous distance _seems_ to go\nwrong, virtually for us _does_ go wrong; so that our friend of the\nlast century, who complained of the solar system, would not need to do\nso any longer. There are anomalies enough to keep him cheerful. There\nare now even things to alarm us; for anything in the starry worlds that\nlook suspicious, anything that ought _not_ to be there, is, for\nall purposes of frightening us, as good as a ghost.\n\nBut of all the novelties that excite my own interest in the expanding\nastronomy of recent times, the most delightful and promising are those\ncharming little pyrotechnic planetoids,[Footnote: _'Pyrotechnic\nPlanetoids:'_--The reader will understand me as alluding to the\nperiodic shooting stars. It is now well known, that as, upon our own\npoor little earthly ocean, we fall in with certain phenomena as we\napproach certain latitudes; so also upon the great ocean navigated by\nour Earth, we fall in with prodigious showers of these meteors at\nperiods no longer uncertain, but fixed as jail-deliveries. 'These\nremarkable showers of meteors,' says Dr. Nichol, 'observed at different\nperiods in August and November, seem to demonstrate the fact, that, at\nthese periods, we have come in contact with two streams of such\nplanetoids then intersecting the earth's orbit.' If they intermit, it\nis only because they are shifting their nodes, or points of\nintersection.] that variegate our annual course. It always struck me as\nmost disgusting, that, in going round the sun, we must be passing\ncontinually over old roads, and yet we had no means of establishing an\nacquaintance with them: they might as well be new for every trip. Those\nchambers of ether, through which we are tearing along night and day,\n(for _our_ train stops at no stations,) doubtless, if we could put\nsome mark upon them, must be old fellows perfectly liable to\nrecognition. I suppose, _they_ never have notice to quit. And yet,\nfor want of such a mark, though all our lives flying past them and\nthrough them, we can never challenge them as known. The same thing\nhappens in the desert: one monotonous iteration of sand, sand, sand,\nunless where some miserable fountain stagnates, forbids all approach to\nfamiliarity: nothing is circumstantiated or differenced: travel it for\nthree generations, and you are no nearer to identification of its\nparts: so that it amounts to travelling through an abstract idea. For\nthe desert, really I suspect the thing is hopeless: but, as regards our\nplanetary orbit, matters are mending: for the last six or seven years I\nhave heard of these fiery showers, but indeed I cannot say how much\nearlier they were first noticed,[Footnote: Somewhere I have seen it\nremarked, that if, on a public road, you meet a party of four women, it\nis at least fifty to one that they are all laughing; whereas, if you\nmeet an equal party of my own unhappy sex, you may wager safely that\nthey are talking gravely, and that one of them is uttering the word\n_money_. Hence it must be, viz, because our sisters are too much\noccupied with the playful things of this earth, and our brothers with\nits gravities, that neither party sufficiently watches the skies. And\n_that_ accounts for a fact which often has struck myself, viz.,\nthat, in cities, on bright moonless nights, when some brilliant\nskirmishings of the Aurora are exhibiting, or even a luminous arch,\nwhich is a broad ribbon of snowy light that spans the skies, positively\nunless I myself say to people--'Eyes upwards!' not one in a hundred,\nmale or female, but fails to see the show, though it may be seen\n_gratis_, simply because their eyes are too uniformly reading the\nearth. This downward direction of the eyes, however, must have been\nworse in former ages: because else it never _could_ have happened\nthat, until Queen Anne's days, nobody ever hinted in a book that there\n_was_ such a thing, or _could_ be such a thing, as the Aurora\nBorealis; and in fact Halley had the credit of discovering it.] as\ncelebrating two annual festivals--one in August, one in November. You\nare a little too late, reader, for seeing this year's summer festival;\nbut that's no reason why you should not engage a good seat for the\nNovember meeting; which, if I recollect, is about the 9th, or the Lord\nMayor's day, and on the whole better worth seeing. For anything\n_we_ know, this may be a great day in the earth's earlier history;\nshe may have put forth her original rose on this day, or tried her hand\nat a primitive specimen of wheat; or she may, in fact, have survived\nsome gunpowder plot about this time; so that the meteoric appearance\nmay be a kind congratulating _feu-de-joye_, on the anniversary of\nthe happy event. What it is that the 'cosmogony man' in the 'Vicar of\nWakefield' would have thought of such novelties, whether he would have\nfavored us with his usual opinion upon such topics, viz., that\n_anarchon ara kai ateleutaion to pan_, or have sported a new one\nexclusively for this occasion, may be doubtful. What it is that\nastronomers think, who are a kind of 'cosmogony men,' the reader may\nlearn from Dr. Nichol, Note B, (p. 139, 140.)\n\nIn taking leave of a book and a subject so well fitted to draw out the\nhighest mode of that grandeur, which _can_ connect itself with the\nexternal, (a grandeur capable of drawing down a spiritual being to\nearth, but not of raising an earthly being to heaven,) I would wish to\ncontribute my own brief word of homage to this grandeur by recalling\nfrom a fading remembrance of twenty-five years back a short\n_bravura_ of John Paul Richter. I call it a _bravura_, as being\nintentionally a passage of display and elaborate execution; and\nin this sense I may call it partly 'my own,' that at twenty-five years'\ndistance, (after one single reading,) it would not have been possible\nfor any man to report a passage of this length without greatly\ndisturbing [Footnote: _'Disturbing;'_--neither perhaps should I\nmuch have sought to avoid alterations if the original had been lying\nbefore me: for it takes the shape of a dream; and this most brilliant\nof all German writers wanted in that field the severe simplicity, that\nhorror of the _too much_, belonging to Grecian architecture, which\nis essential to the perfection of a dream considered as a work of art.\nHe was too elaborate, to realize the grandeur of the shadowy.] the\ntexture of the composition: by altering, one makes it partly one's own;\nbut it is right to mention, that the sublime turn at the end belongs\nentirely to John Paul.\n\n'God called up from dreams a man into the vestibule of heaven, saying,\n--\"Come thou hither, and see the glory of my house.\" And to the\nservants that stood around his throne he said,--\"Take him, and undress\nhim from his robes of flesh: cleanse his vision, and put a new breath\ninto his nostrils: only touch not with any change his human heart--the\nheart that weeps and trembles.\" It was done; and, with a mighty angel\nfor his guide, the man stood ready for his infinite voyage; and from\nthe terraces of heaven, without sound or farewell, at once they wheeled\naway into endless space. Sometimes with the solemn flight of angel wing\nthey fled through Zaarrahs of darkness, through wildernesses of death,\nthat divided the worlds of life: sometimes they swept over frontiers,\nthat were quickening under prophetic motions from God. Then, from a\ndistance that is counted only in heaven, light dawned for a time\nthrough a sleepy film: by unutterable pace the light swept to\n_them_, they by unutterable pace to the light: in a moment the\nrushing of planets was upon them: in a moment the blazing of suns was\naround them. Then came eternities of twilight, that revealed, but were\nnot revealed. To the right hand and to the left towered mighty\nconstellations, that by self-repetitions and answers from afar, that by\ncounter-positions, built up triumphal gates, whose architraves, whose\narchways--horizontal, upright--rested, rose--at altitudes, by spans--\nthat seemed ghostly from infinitude. Without measure were the\narchitraves, past number were the archways, beyond memory the gates.\nWithin were stairs that scaled the eternities above, that descended to\nthe eternities below: above was below, below was above, to the man\nstripped of gravitating body: depth was swallowed up in height\ninsurmountable, height was swallowed up in depth unfathomable. Suddenly\nas thus they rode from infinite to infinite, suddenly as thus they\ntilted over abysmal worlds, a mighty cry arose--that systems more\nmysterious, that worlds more billowy,--other heights, and other\ndepths,--were coming, were nearing, were at hand. Then the man sighed,\nand stopped, shuddered and wept. His over-laden heart uttered itself in\ntears; and he said,--\"Angel, I will go no farther. For the spirit of\nman aches with this infinity. Insufferable is the glory of God. Let me\nlie down in the grave from the persecutions of the infinite; for end, I\nsee, there is none.\" And from all the listening stars that shone around\nissued a choral voice, \"The man speaks truly: end there is none, that\never yet we heard of.\" \"End is there none?\" the angel solemnly\ndemanded: \"Is there indeed no end? And is this the sorrow that kills\nyou?\" But no voice answered, that he might answer himself. Then the\nangel threw up his glorious hands to the heaven of heavens; saying,\n\"End is there none to the universe of God? Lo! also there is no\nBeginning.\"'\n\n\nNOTE.--On throwing his eyes hastily over the preceding paper, the\nwriter becomes afraid that some readers may give such an interpretation\nto a few playful expressions upon the age of our earth, &c., as to\nclass him with those who use geology, cosmology, &c., for purposes of\nattack, or insinuation against the Scriptures. Upon this point,\ntherefore, he wishes to make a firm explanation of his own opinions,\nwhich, (whether right or wrong,) will liberate him, once and for all,\nfrom any such jealousy.\n\nIt is sometimes said, that the revealer of a true religion, does not\ncome amongst men for the sake of teaching truths in science, or\ncorrecting errors in science. Most justly is this said: but often in\nterms far too feeble. For generally these terms are such as to imply,\nthat, although no function of his mission, it was yet open to him--\nalthough not pressing with the force of an obligation upon the\nrevealer, it was yet at his discretion--if not to correct other men's\nerrors, yet at least in his own person to speak with scientific\nprecision. I contend that it was _not_. I contend, that to have\nuttered the truths of astronomy, of geology, &c., at the era of new-\nborn Christianity, was not only _below_ the purposes of a\nreligion, but would have been _against_ them. Even upon errors of\na far more important class than any errors in science can ever be,--\nsuperstitions, for instance, that degraded the very idea of God;\nprejudices and false usages, that laid waste human happiness, (such as\nslavery and many hundreds of other abuses that might be mentioned,) the\nrule evidently acted upon by the Founder of Christianity was this--\nGiven the purification of the fountain, once assumed that the fountains\nof truth are cleansed, all these derivative currents of evil will\ncleanse themselves. And the only exceptions, which I remember, to this\nrule, are two cases in which, from the personal appeal made to his\ndecision, Christ would have made himself a party to wretched delusions,\nif he had not condescended to expose their folly. But, as a general\nrule, the branches of error were disregarded, and the roots only\nattacked. If, then, so lofty a station was taken with regard even to\nsuch errors as had moral and spiritual relations, how much more with\nregard to the comparative trifles, (as in the ultimate relations of\nhuman nature they are,) of merely human science! But, for my part, I go\nfurther, and assert, that upon three reasons it was impossible for any\nmessenger from God, (or offering himself in that character,) for a\nmoment to have descended into the communication of truth merely\nscientific, or economic, or worldly. And the reasons are these:\n_First_, Because it would have degraded his mission, by lowering\nit to the base level of a collision with human curiosity, or with petty\nand transitory interests. _Secondly_, Because it would have ruined\nhis mission; would utterly have prostrated the free agency and the\nproper agency of that mission. He that, in those days, should have\nproclaimed the true theory of the Solar System and the heavenly forces,\nwould have been shut up at once--as a lunatic likely to become\ndangerous. But suppose him to have escaped _that_; still, as a\ndivine teacher, he has no liberty of caprice. He must stand to the\npromises of his own acts. Uttering the first truth of a science, he is\npledged to the second: taking the main step, he is committed to all\nwhich follow. He is thrown at once upon the endless controversies which\nscience in every stage provokes, and in none more than in the earliest.\nOr, if he retires as from a scene of contest that he had not\nanticipated, he retires as one confessing a human precipitance and a\nhuman oversight, weaknesses, venial in others, but fatal to the\npretensions of a divine teacher. Starting besides from such\npretensions, he could not (as others might) have the privilege of\nselecting arbitrarily or partially. If upon one science, then upon\nall,--if upon science, then upon, art,--if upon art and science, then\nupon _every_ branch of social economy, upon _every_ organ of\ncivilization, his reformations and advances are equally due; due as to\nall, if due as to any. To move in one direction, is constructively to\nundertake for all. Without power to retreat, he has thus thrown the\nintellectual interests of his followers into a channel utterly alien to\nthe purposes of a spiritual mission.\n\nThus far he has simply failed: but next comes a worse result; an evil,\nnot negative but positive. Because, _thirdly_, to apply the light\nof a revelation for the benefit of a merely human science, which is\nvirtually done by so applying the illumination of an _inspired_\nteacher, is--to assault capitally the scheme of God's discipline and\ntraining for man. To improve by _heavenly_ means, if but in one\nsolitary science--to lighten, if but in one solitary section, the\ncondition of difficulty which had been designed for the strengthening\nand training of human faculties, is _pro tanto_ to disturb--to\ncancel--to contradict a previous purpose of God, made known by silent\nindications from the beginning of the world. Wherefore did God give to\nman the powers for contending with scientific difficulties? Wherefore\ndid he lay a secret train of continual occasions, that should rise, by\nintervals, through thousands of generations, for provoking and\ndeveloping those activities in man's intellect, if, after all, he is to\nsend a messenger of his own, more than human, to intercept and strangle\nall these great purposes? When, therefore, the persecutors of Galileo,\nalleged that Jupiter, for instance, could not move in the way alleged,\nbecause then the Bible would have proclaimed it,--as they thus threw\nback upon God the burthen of discovery, which he had thrown upon\nGalileo, why did they not, by following out their own logic, throw upon\nthe Bible the duty of discovering the telescope, or discovering the\nsatellites of Jupiter? And, as no such discoveries were there, why did\nthey not, by parity of logic, and for mere consistency, deny the\ntelescope as a fact, deny the Jovian planets as facts? But this it is\nto mistake the very meaning and purposes of a revelation. A revelation\nis not made for the purpose of showing to idle men that which they may\nshow to themselves, by faculties already given to them, if only they\nwill exert those faculties, but for the purpose of showing _that_\nwhich the moral darkness of man will not, without supernatural light,\nallow him to perceive. With disdain, therefore, must every considerate\nperson regard the notion,--that God could wilfully interfere with his\nown plans, by accrediting ambassadors to reveal astronomy, or any other\nscience, which he has commanded men to cultivate _without_\nrevelation, by endowing them with all the natural powers for doing so.\n\nEven as regards astronomy, a science so nearly allying itself to\nreligion by the loftiness and by the purity of its contemplations,\nScripture is nowhere the _parent_ of any doctrine, nor so much as\nthe silent sanctioner of any doctrine. Scripture cannot become the\nauthor of falsehood,--though it were as to a trifle, cannot become a\nparty to falsehood. And it is made impossible for Scripture to teach\nfalsely, by the simple fact that Scripture, on such subjects, will not\ncondescend to teach at all. The Bible adopts the erroneous language of\nmen, (which at any rate it must do, in order to make itself\nunderstood,) not by way of sanctioning a theory, but by way of using a\nfact. The Bible _uses_ (postulates) the phenomena of day and\nnight, of summer and winter, and expresses them, in relation to their\ncauses, as _men_ express them, men, even, that are scientific\nastronomers. But the results, which are all that concern Scripture, are\nequally true, whether accounted for by one hypothesis which is\nphilosophically just, or by another which is popular and erring.\n\nNow, on the other hand, in geology and cosmology, the case is still\nstronger. _Here_ there is no opening for a compliance even with\npopular language. _Here_, where there is no such stream of\napparent phenomena running counter (as in astronomy) to the real\nphenomena, neither is there any popular language opposed to the\nscientific. The whole are abstruse speculations, even as regards their\nobjects, not dreamed of as possibilities, either in their true aspects\nor their false aspects, till modern times. The Scriptures, therefore,\nnowhere allude to such sciences, either under the shape of histories,\napplied to processes current and in movement, or under the shape of\ntheories applied to processes past and accomplished. The Mosaic\ncosmogony, indeed, gives the succession of natural births; and that\nsuccession will doubtless be more and more confirmed and illustrated as\ngeology advances. But as to the time, the duration, of this cosmogony,\nit is the idlest of notions that the Scriptures either have or could\nhave condescended to human curiosity upon so awful a prologue to the\ndrama of this world. Genesis would no more have indulged so mean a\npassion with respect to the mysterious inauguration of the world, than\nthe Apocalypse with respect to its mysterious close. 'Yet the six\n_days_ of Moses!' Days! But is any man so little versed in biblical\nlanguage as not to know that (except in the merely historical\nparts of the Jewish records) every section of time has a secret and\nseparate acceptation in the Scriptures? Does an _\u00e6on_, though a\nGrecian word, bear scripturally [either in Daniel or in Saint John] any\nsense known to Grecian ears? Do the seventy _weeks_ of the prophet\nmean weeks in the sense of human calendars? Already the Psalms, (xc)\nalready St. Peter, (2d Epist.) warn us of a peculiar sense attached to\nthe word _day_ in divine ears? And who of the innumerable\ninterpreters understands the twelve hundred and odd days in Daniel, or\nhis two thousand and odd days, to mean, by possibility, periods of\ntwenty-four hours? Surely the theme of Moses was as mystical, and as\nmuch entitled to the benefit of mystical language, as that of the\nprophets.\n\nThe sum of the matter is this:--God, by a Hebrew prophet, is sublimely\ndescribed as _the Revealer_; and, in variation of his own expression,\nthe same prophet describes him as the Being 'that knoweth the\ndarkness.' Under no idea can the relations of God to man be more\ngrandly expressed. But of what is he the revealer? Not surely of those\nthings which he has enabled man to reveal for himself, and which he has\ncommanded him so to reveal, but of those things which, were it not\nthrough special light from heaven, must eternally remain sealed up in\nthe inaccessible darkness. On this principle we should all laugh at a\nrevealed cookery. But essentially the same ridicule applies to a\nrevealed astronomy, or a revealed geology. As a fact, there _is_\nno such astronomy or geology: as a possibility, by the _a priori_\nargument which I have used, (viz., that a revelation on such fields,\nwould contradict _other_ machineries of providence,) there _can_ be no\nsuch astronomy or geology. Consequently there _can_ be none such in the\nBible. Consequently there _is_ none. Consequently there can be no\nschism or feud upon _these_ subjects between the Bible and the\nphilosophies outside. Geology is a field left open, with the amplest\npermission from above, to the widest and wildest speculations of man.\n\n\n\n\nMODERN SUPERSTITION\n\n\nIt is said continually--that the age of miracles is past. We deny that\nit is so in any sense which implies this age to differ from all other\ngenerations of man except one. It is neither past, nor ought we to wish\nit past. Superstition is no vice in the constitution of man: it is not\ntrue that, in any philosophic view, _primus in orbe deos fecit timor_\n--meaning by _fecit_ even so much as _raised into light_. As Burke\nremarked, the _timor_ at least must be presumed to preexist, and must\nbe accounted for, if not the gods. If the fear created the gods, what\ncreated the fear? Far more true, and more just to the grandeur of man,\nit would have been to say--_Primus in orbe deos fecit sensus\ninfiniti_. Even in the lowest Caffre, more goes to the sense of a\ndivine being than simply his wrath or his power. Superstition, indeed,\nor the sympathy with the invisible, is the great test of man's nature,\nas an earthly combining with a celestial. In superstition lies the\npossibility of religion. And though superstition is often injurious,\ndegrading, demoralizing, it is so, not as a form of corruption or\ndegradation, but as a form of non-development. The crab is harsh, and\nfor itself worthless. But it is the germinal form of innumerable finer\nfruits: not apples only the most exquisite, and pears; the peach and\nthe nectarine are said to have radiated from this austere stock when\ncultured, developed, and transferred to all varieties of climate.\nSuperstition will finally pass into pure forms of religion as man\nadvances. It would be matter of lamentation to hear that superstition\nhad at all decayed until man had made corresponding steps in the\npurification and development of his intellect as applicable to\nreligious faith. Let us hope that this is not so. And, by way of\njudging, let us throw a hasty eye over the modes of popular\nsuperstition. If these manifest their vitality, it will prove that the\npopular intellect does not go along with the bookish or the worldly\n(philosophic we cannot call it) in pronouncing the miraculous extinct.\nThe popular feeling is all in all.\n\nThis function of miraculous power, which is most widely diffused\nthrough Pagan and Christian ages alike, but which has the least root in\nthe solemnities of the imagination, we may call the _Ovidian_. By\nway of distinction, it may be so called; and with some justice, since\nOvid in his _Metamorphoses_ gave the first elaborate record of\nsuch a tendency in human superstition. It is a movement of superstition\nunder the domination of human affections; a mode of spiritual awe which\nseeks to reconcile itself with human tenderness or admiration; and\nwhich represents supernatural power as expressing itself by a sympathy\nwith human distress or passion concurrently with human sympathies, and\nas supporting that blended sympathy by a symbol incarnated with the\nfixed agencies of nature. For instance, a pair of youthful lovers\nperish by a double suicide originating in a fatal mistake, and a\nmistake operating in each case through a noble self-oblivion. The tree\nunder which their meeting has been concerted, and which witnesses their\ntragedy, is supposed ever afterwards to express the divine sympathy\nwith this catastrophe in the gloomy color of its fruit:--\n\n  'At tu, qu\u00e6 ramis (arbor!) miserabile corpus\n  Nunc tegis unius, mox es tectura duorum,\n  Signa tene c\u00e6dis:--pullosque et luctibus aptos\n  Semper habe fructus--gemini monumenta cruoris:'\n\nSuch is the dying adjuration of the lady to the tree. And the fruit\nbecomes from that time a monument of a double sympathy--sympathy from\nman, sympathy from a dark power standing behind the agencies of nature,\nand speaking through them. Meantime the object of this sympathy is\nunderstood to be not the individual catastrophe, but the universal case\nof unfortunate love exemplified in this particular romance. The\ninimitable grace with which Ovid has delivered these early traditions\nof human tenderness, blending with human superstition, is notorious;\nthe artfulness of the pervading connection, by which every tale in the\nlong succession is made to arise spontaneously out of that which\nprecedes, is absolutely unrivalled; and this it was, with his luxuriant\ngayety, which procured for him a preference, even with Milton, a poet\nso opposite by intellectual constitution. It is but reasonable,\ntherefore, that this function of the miraculous should bear the name of\n_Ovidian_. Pagan it was in its birth; and to paganism its titles\nultimately ascend. Yet we know that in the transitional state through\nthe centuries succeeding to Christ, during which paganism and\nChristianity were slowly descending and ascending, as if from two\ndifferent strata of the atmosphere, the two powers interchanged\nwhatsoever they could. (See Conyer's Middleton; and see Blount of our\nown days.) It marked the earthly nature of paganism, that it could\nborrow little or nothing by organization: it was fitted to no\nexpansion. But the true faith, from its vast and comprehensive\nadaptation to the nature of man, lent itself to many corruptions--some\ndeadly in their tendencies, some harmless. Amongst these last was the\nOvidian form of connecting the unseen powers moving in nature with\nhuman sympathies of love or reverence. The legends of this kind are\nuniversal and endless. No land, the most austere in its Protestantism,\nbut has adopted these superstitions: and everywhere by those even who\nreject them they are entertained with some degree of affectionate\nrespect. That the ass, which in its very degradation still retains an\nunder-power of sublimity, [Footnote: '_An under-power of sublimity_.'--\nEverybody knows that Homer compared the Telamonian Ajax, in a moment of\nheroic endurance, to an ass. This, however, was only under a momentary\nglance from a peculiar angle of the case. But the Mahometan, too\nsolemn, and also perhaps too stupid to catch the fanciful colors of\nthings, absolutely by choice, under the Bagdad Caliphate, decorated a\nmost favorite hero with the title of the _Ass_--which title is\nrepeated with veneration to this day. The wild ass is one of the few\nanimals which has the reputation of never flying from an enemy.] or of\nsublime suggestion through its ancient connection with the wilderness,\nwith the Orient, with Jerusalem, should have been honored amongst all\nanimals, by the visible impression upon its back of Christian symbols\n--seems reasonable even to the infantine understanding when made\nacquainted with its meekness, its patience, its suffering life, and\nits association with the founder of Christianity in one great\ntriumphal solemnity. The very man who brutally abuses it, and feels a\nhardhearted contempt for its misery and its submission, has a semi-\nconscious feeling that the same qualities were possibly those which\nrecommended it to a distinction, [Footnote: '_Which recommended it to\na distinction_.'--It might be objected that the Oriental ass was often\na superb animal; that it is spoken of prophetically as such; and that\nhistorically the Syrian ass is made known to us as having been\nused in the prosperous ages of Judea for the riding of princes. But\nthis is no objection. Those circumstances in the history of the ass\nwere requisite to establish its symbolic propriety in a great symbolic\npageant of triumph. Whilst, on the other hand, the individual animal,\nthere is good reason to think, was marked by all the qualities of the\ngeneral race as a suffering and unoffending tribe in the animal\ncreation. The asses on which princes rode were of a separate color, of\na peculiar breed, and improved, like the English racer, by continual\ncare.] when all things were valued upon a scale inverse to that of the\nworld. Certain it is, that in all Christian lands the legend about the\nass is current amongst the rural population. The haddock, again,\namongst marine animals, is supposed, throughout all maritime Europe, to\nbe a privileged fish; even in austere Scotland, every child can point\nout the impression of St. Peter's thumb, by which from age to age it is\ndistinguished from fishes having otherwise an external resemblance. All\ndomesticated cattle, having the benefit of man's guardianship and care,\nare believed throughout England and Germany to go down upon their knees\nat one particular moment of Christmas eve, when the fields are covered\nwith darkness, when no eye looks down but that of God, and when the\nexact anniversary hour revolves of the angelic song, once rolling over\nthe fields and flocks of Palestine. [Footnote: Mahometanism, which\neverywhere pillages Christianity, cannot but have its own face at times\nglorified by its stolen jewels. This solemn hour of jubilation,\ngathering even the brutal natures into its fold, recalls accordingly\nthe Mahometan legend (which the reader may remember is one of those\nincorporated into Southey's _Thalaba_) of a great hour revolving\nonce in every year, during which the gates of Paradise were thrown open\nto their utmost extent, and gales of happiness issued forth upon the\ntotal family of man.] The Glastonbury Thorn is a more local\nsuperstition; but at one time the legend was as widely diffused as that\nof Loretto, with the angelic translation of its sanctities: on\nChristmas morning, it was devoutly believed by all Christendom, that\nthis holy thorn put forth its annual blossoms. And with respect to the\naspen tree, which Mrs. Hemans very naturally mistook for a Welsh\nlegend, having first heard it in Denbighshire, the popular faith is\nuniversal--that it shivers mystically in sympathy with the horror of\nthat mother tree in Palestine which was compelled to furnish materials\nfor the cross. Neither would it in this case be any objection, if a\npassage were produced from Solinus or Theophrastus, implying that the\naspen tree had always shivered--for the tree might presumably be\npenetrated by remote presentiments, as well as by remote remembrances.\nIn so vast a case the obscure sympathy should stretch, Janus-like, each\nway. And an objection of the same kind to the rainbow, considered as\nthe sign or seal by which God attested his covenant in bar of all\nfuture deluges, may be parried in something of the same way. It was not\nthen first created--true: but it was then first selected by preference,\namongst a multitude of natural signs as yet unappropriated, and then\nfirst charged with the new function of a message and a ratification to\nman. Pretty much the same theory, that is, the same way of accounting\nfor the natural existence without disturbing the supernatural\nfunctions, may be applied to the great constellation of the other\nhemisphere, called the Southern Cross. It is viewed popularly in South\nAmerica, and the southern parts of our northern hemisphere, as the\ngreat banner, or gonfalon, held aloft by Heaven before the Spanish\nheralds of the true faith in 1492. To that superstitious and ignorant\nrace it costs not an effort to suppose, that by some synchronizing\nmiracle, the constellation had been then specially called into\nexistence at the very moment when the first Christian procession,\nbearing a cross in their arms, solemnly stepped on shore from the\nvessels of Christendom. We Protestants know better: we understand the\nimpossibility of supposing such a narrow and local reference in orbs,\nso transcendently vast as those composing the constellation--orbs\nremoved from each other by such unvoyageable worlds of space, and\nhaving, in fact, no real reference to each other more than to any other\nheavenly bodies whatsoever. The unity of synthesis, by which they are\ncomposed into one figure of a cross, we know to be a mere accidental\nresult from an arbitrary synthesis of human fancy. Take such and such\nstars, compose them into letters, and they will spell such a word. But\nstill it was our own choice--a synthesis of our own fancy, originally\nto combine them in this way. They might be divided from each other, and\notherwise combined. All this is true: and yet, as the combination does\nspontaneously offer itself [Footnote: '_Does spontaneously offer\nitself._'--Heber (Bishop of Calcutta) complains that this constellation\nis not composed of stars answering his expectation in point of\nmagnitude. But he admits that the dark barren space around it\ngives to this inferior magnitude a very advantageous relief.] to every\neye, as the glorious cross does really glitter for ever through the\nsilent hours of a vast hemisphere, even they who are not superstitious,\nmay willingly yield to the belief--that, as the rainbow was laid in the\nvery elements and necessities of nature, yet still bearing a pre-\ndedication to a service which would not be called for until many ages\nhad passed, so also the mysterious cipher of man's imperishable hopes\nmay have been entwined and enwreathed with the starry heavens from\ntheir earliest creation, as a prefiguration--as a silent heraldry of\nhope through one period, and as a heraldry of gratitude through the\nother.\n\nAll these cases which we have been rehearsing, taking them in the\nfullest literality, agree in this general point of union--they are all\nsilent incarnations of miraculous power--miracles, supposing them to\nhave been such originally, locked up and embodied in the regular course\nof nature, just as we see lineaments of faces and of forms in\npetrifactions, in variegated marbles, in spars, or in rocky strata,\nwhich our fancy interprets as once having been real human existences;\nbut which are now confounded with the substance of a mineral product.\nEven those who are most superstitious, therefore, look upon cases of\nthis order as occupying a midway station between the physical and the\nhyperphysical, between the regular course of nature and the\nprovidential interruption of that course. The stream of the miraculous\nis here confluent with the stream of the natural. By such legends the\ncredulous man finds his superstition but little nursed; the incredulous\nfinds his philosophy but little revolted. Both alike will be willing to\nadmit, for instance, that the apparent act of reverential thanksgiving,\nin certain birds, when drinking, is caused and supported by a\nphysiological arrangement; and yet, perhaps, both alike would bend so\nfar to the legendary faith as to allow a child to believe, and would\nperceive a pure childlike beauty in believing, that the bird was thus\nrendering a homage of deep thankfulness to the universal Father, who\nwatches for the safety of sparrows, and sends his rain upon the just\nand upon the unjust. In short, the faith in this order of the physico-\nmiraculous is open alike to the sceptical and the non-sceptical: it is\ntouched superficially with the coloring of superstition, with its\ntenderness, its humility, its thankfulness, its awe; but, on the other\nhand, it is not therefore tainted with the coarseness, with the\nsilliness, with the credulity of superstition. Such a faith reposes\nupon the universal signs diffused through nature, and blends with the\nmysterious of natural grandeurs wherever found--with the mysterious of\nthe starry heavens, with the mysterious of music, and with that\ninfinite form of the mysterious for man's dimmest misgivings--\n\n  'Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns.'\n\nBut, from this earliest note in the ascending scale of superstitious\nfaith, let us pass to a more alarming key. This first, which we have\nstyled (in equity as well as for distinction) the _Ovidian_, is\ntoo \u00e6rial, too allegoric, almost to be susceptible of much terror. It\nis the mere _fancy_, in a mood half-playful, half-tender, which\nsubmits to the belief. It is the feeling, the sentiment, which creates\nthe faith; not the faith which creates the feeling. And thus far we see\nthat modern feeling and Christian feeling has been to the full as\noperative as any that is peculiar to paganism; judging by the Romish\n_Legenda_, very much more so. The Ovidian illustrations, under a\nfalse superstition, are entitled to give the designation, as being the\nfirst, the earliest, but not at all as the richest. Besides that,\nOvid's illustrations emanated often from himself individually, not from\nthe popular mind of his country; ours of the same classification\nuniformly repose on large popular traditions from the whole of\nChristian antiquity. These again are agencies of the supernatural which\ncan never have a private or personal application; they belong to all\nmankind and to all generations. But the next in order are more solemn;\nthey become terrific by becoming personal. These comprehend all that\nvast body of the marvellous which is expressed by the word _Ominous_.\nOn this head, as dividing itself into the ancient and modern, we will\nspeak next.\n\nEverybody is aware of the deep emphasis which the Pagans laid upon\nwords and upon names, under this aspect of the ominous. The name of\nseveral places was formally changed by the Roman government, solely\nwith a view to that contagion of evil which was thought to lurk in the\nsyllables, if taken significantly. Thus, the town of Maleventum, (Ill-\ncome, as one might render it,) had its name changed by the Romans to\nBeneventum, (or Welcome.) _Epidamnum_ again, the Grecian Calais,\ncorresponding to the Roman Dover of Brundusium, was a name that would\nhave startled the stoutest-hearted Roman 'from his propriety.' Had he\nsuffered this name to escape him inadvertently, his spirits would have\nforsaken him--he would have pined away under a certainty of misfortune,\nlike a poor Negro of Koromantyn who is the victim of Obi.[Footnote:\n'_The victim of Obi._'--It seems worthy of notice, that this\nmagical fascination is generally called Obi, and the magicians Obeah\nmen, throughout Guinea, Negroland, &c.; whilst the Hebrew or Syriac\nword for the rites of necromancy, was _Ob_ or _Obh_, at least\nwhen ventriloquism was concerned.] As a Greek word, which it was, the\nname imported no ill; but for a Roman to say _Ibo Epidamnum_, was\nin effect saying, though in a hybrid dialect, half-Greek half-Roman, 'I\nwill go to ruin.' The name was therefore changed to Dyrrachium; a\nsubstitution which quieted more anxieties in Roman hearts than the\nerection of a light-house or the deepening of the harbor mouth. A case\nequally strong, to take one out of many hundreds that have come down to\nus, is reported by Livy. There was an officer in a Roman legion, at\nsome period of the Republic, who bore the name either of Atrius Umber\nor Umbrius Ater: and this man being ordered on some expedition, the\nsoldiers refused to follow him. They did right. We remember that Mr.\nColeridge used facetiously to call the well-known sister of Dr. Aikin,\nMrs. Barbauld, 'that pleonasm of nakedness'--the idea of nakedness\nbeing reduplicated and reverberated in the _bare_ and the _bald_.\nThis Atrius Umber might be called 'that pleonasm of darkness;' and one\nmight say to him, in the words of Othello, 'What needs this iteration?'\nTo serve under the Gloomy was enough to darken the spirit of hope; but\nto serve under the Black Gloomy was really rushing upon destruction.\nYet it will be alleged that Captain Death was a most favorite and\nheroic leader in the English navy; and that in our own times, Admiral\nCoffin, though an American by birth, has not been unpopular in the same\nservice. This is true: and all that can be said is, that these names\nwere two-edged swords, which might be made to tell against the enemy as\nwell as against friends. And possibly the Roman centurion might have\nturned his name to the same account, had he possessed the great\nDictator's presence of mind; for he, when landing in Africa, having\nhappened to stumble--an omen of the worst character, in Roman\nestimation--took out its sting by following up his own\noversight, as if it had been intentional, falling to the ground,\nkissing it, and ejaculating that in this way he appropriated the soil.\n\nOmens of every class were certainly regarded, in ancient Rome, with a\nreverence that can hardly be surpassed. But yet, with respect to these\nomens derived from names, it is certain that our modern times have more\nmemorable examples on record. Out of a large number which occur to us,\nwe will cite two:--The present King of the French bore in his boyish\ndays a title which he would not have borne, but for an omen of bad\naugury attached to his proper title. He was called the Duc de Chartres\nbefore the Revolution, whereas his proper title was Duc de Valois. And\nthe origin of the change was this:--The Regent's father had been the\nsole brother of Louis Quatorze. He married for his first wife our\nEnglish princess Henrietta, the sister of Charles II., (and through her\ndaughter, by the way, it is that the house of Savoy, _i.e._ of\nSardinia, has pretensions to the English throne.) This unhappy lady, it\nis too well established, was poisoned. Voltaire, amongst many others,\nhas affected to doubt the fact; for which in his time there might be\nsome excuse. But since then better evidences have placed the matter\nbeyond all question. We now know both the fact, and the how, and the\nwhy. The Duke, who probably was no party to the murder of his young\nwife, though otherwise on bad terms with her, married for his second\nwife a coarse German princess, homely in every sense, and a singular\ncontrast to the elegant creature whom he had lost. She was a daughter\nof the Bavarian Elector; ill-tempered by her own confession, self-\nwilled, and a plain speaker to excess; but otherwise a woman of honest\nGerman principles. Unhappy she was through a long life; unhappy through\nthe monotony as well as the malicious intrigues of the French court;\nand so much so, that she did her best (though without effect) to\nprevent her Bavarian niece from becoming dauphiness. She acquits her\nhusband, however, in the memoirs which she left behind, of any\nintentional share in her unhappiness; she describes him constantly as a\nwell-disposed prince. But whether it were, that often walking in the\ndusk through the numerous apartments of that vast mansion which her\nhusband had so much enlarged, naturally she turned her thoughts to the\ninjured lady who had presided there before herself; or whether it arose\nfrom the inevitable gloom which broods continually over mighty palaces,\nso much is known for certain, that one evening, in the twilight, she\nmet, at a remote quarter of the reception-rooms, something that she\nconceived to be a spectre. What she fancied to have passed on that\noccasion, was never known except to her nearest friends; and if she\nmade any explanations in her memoirs, the editor has thought fit to\nsuppress them. She mentions only, that in consequence of some ominous\ncircumstances relating to the title of _Valois_, which was the\nproper second title of the Orleans family, her son, the Regent, had\nassumed in his boyhood that of Duc de Chartres. His elder brother was\ndead, so that the superior title was open to him; but, in consequence\nof those mysterious omens, whatever they might be, which occasioned\nmuch whispering at the time, the great title of Valois was laid aside\nfor ever as of bad augury; nor has it ever been resumed through a\ncentury and a half that have followed that mysterious warning; nor will\nit be resumed unless the numerous children of the present Orleans\nbranch should find themselves distressed for ancient titles; which is\nnot likely, since they enjoy the honors of the elder house, and are now\nthe _children of France_ in a technical sense.\n\nHere we have a great European case of state omens in the eldest of\nChristian houses. The next which we shall cite is equally a state case,\nand carries its public verification along with itself. In the spring of\n1799, when Napoleon was lying before Acre, he became anxious for news\nfrom Upper Egypt, whither he had despatched Dessaix in pursuit of a\ndistinguished Mameluke leader. This was in the middle of May. Not many\ndays after, a courier arrived with favorable despatches--favorable in\nthe main, but reporting one tragical occurrence on a small scale that,\nto Napoleon, for a superstitious reason, outweighed the public\nprosperity. A _djerme_, or Nile boat of the largest class, having\non board a large party of troops and of wounded men, together with most\nof a regimental band, had run ashore at the village of Benouth. No case\ncould be more hopeless. The neighboring Arabs were of the Yambo tribe--\nof all Arabs the most ferocious. These Arabs and the Fellahs (whom, by\nthe way, many of our countrymen are so ready to represent as friendly\nto the French and hostile to ourselves,) had taken the opportunity of\nattacking the vessel. The engagement was obstinate; but at length the\ninevitable catastrophe could be delayed no longer. The commander, an\nItalian named Morandi, was a brave man; any fate appeared better than\nthat which awaited him from an enemy so malignant. He set fire to the\npowder magazine; the vessel blew up; Morandi perished in the Nile; and\nall of less nerve, who had previously reached the shore in safety, were\nput to death to the very last man, with cruelties the most detestable,\nby their inhuman enemies. For all this Napoleon cared little; but one\nsolitary fact there was in the report which struck him with\nconsternation. This ill-fated _djerme_--what was it called? It was\ncalled _L'Italie_; and in the name of the vessel Napoleon read an\naugury of the fate which had befallen the Italian territory. Considered\nas a dependency of France, he felt certain that Italy was lost; and\nNapoleon was inconsolable. But what possible connection, it was asked,\ncan exist between this vessel on the Nile and a remote peninsula of\nSouthern Europe? 'No matter,' replied Napoleon; 'my presentiments never\ndeceive me. You will see that all is ruined. I am satisfied that my\nItaly, my conquest, is lost to France!' So, indeed, it was. All\nEuropean news had long been intercepted by the English cruisers; but\nimmediately after the battle with the Vizier in July 1799, an English\nadmiral first informed the French army of Egypt that Massena and others\nhad lost all that Bonaparte had won in 1796. But it is a strange\nillustration of human blindness, that this very subject of Napoleon's\nlamentation--this very campaign of 1799--it was, with its blunders and\nits long equipage of disasters, that paved the way for his own\nelevation to the Consulship, just seven calendar months from the\nreceipt of that Egyptian despatch; since most certainly, in the\nstruggle of Brumaire 1799, doubtful and critical through every stage,\nit was the pointed contrast between _his_ Italian campaigns and\nthose of his successors which gave effect to Napoleon's pretensions\nwith the political combatants, and which procured them a ratification\namongst the people. The loss of Italy was essential to the full effect\nof Napoleon's previous conquest. That and the imbecile characters of\nNapoleon's chief military opponents were the true keys to the great\nrevolution of Brumaire. The stone which he rejected became the keystone\nof the arch. So that, after all, he valued the omen falsely; though the\nvery next news from Europe, courteously communicated by his English\nenemies, showed that he had interpreted its meaning rightly.\n\nThese omens, derived from names, are therefore common to the ancient\nand the modern world. But perhaps, in strict logic, they ought to have\nbeen classed as one subdivision or variety under a much larger head,\nviz. words generally, no matter whether proper names or appellatives,\nas operative powers and agencies, having, that is to say, a charmed\npower against some party concerned from the moment that they leave the\nlips.\n\nHomer describes prayers as having a separate life, rising buoyantly\nupon wings, and making their way upwards to the throne of Jove. Such,\nbut in a sense gloomy and terrific, is the force ascribed under a\nwidespread superstition, ancient and modern, to words uttered on\ncritical occasions; or to words uttered at any time, which point to\ncritical occasions. Hence the doctrine of _euphaemismos_, the\nnecessity of abstaining from strong words or direct words in expressing\nfatal contingencies. It was shocking, at all times of paganism, to say\nof a third person--'If he should die;' or to suppose the case that he\nmight be murdered. The very word _death_ was consecrated and\nforbidden. _Si quiddam humanum passus fuerit_ was the extreme form\nto which men advanced in such cases. And this scrupulous feeling,\noriginally founded on the supposed efficacy of words, prevails to this\nday. It is a feeling undoubtedly supported by good taste, which\nstrongly impresses upon us all the discordant tone of all impassioned\nsubjects, (death, religion, &c.,) with the common key of ordinary\nconversation. But good taste is not in itself sufficient to account for\na scrupulousness so general and so austere. In the lowest classes there\nis a shuddering recoil still felt from uttering coarsely and roundly\nthe anticipation of a person's death. Suppose a child, heir to some\nestate, the subject of conversation--the hypothesis of his death is put\ncautiously, under such forms as, 'If anything but good should happen;'\n'if any change should occur;' 'if any of us should chance to miscarry;'\nand so forth. Always a modified expression is sought--always an\nindirect one. And this timidity arises under the old superstition still\nlingering amongst men, like that ancient awe, alluded to by Wordsworth,\nfor the sea and its deep secrets--feelings that have not, no, nor ever\nwill, utterly decay. No excess of nautical skill will ever perfectly\ndisenchant the great abyss from its terrors--no progressive knowledge\nwill ever medicine that dread misgiving of a mysterious and pathless\npower given to words of a certain import, or uttered in certain\nsituations, by a parent, to persecuting or insulting children; by the\nvictim of horrible oppression, when laboring in final agonies; and by\nothers, whether cursing or blessing, who stand central to great\npassions, to great interests, or to great perplexities.\n\nAnd here, by way of parenthesis, we may stop to explain the force of\nthat expression, so common in Scripture, '_Thou hast said it._' It\nis an answer often adopted by our Saviour; and the meaning we hold to\nbe this: Many forms in eastern idioms, as well as in the Greek\noccasionally, though meant _interrogatively_, are of a nature to\nconvey a direct categorical _affirmation_, unless as their meaning\nis modified by the cadence and intonation. _Art thou_, detached\nfrom this vocal and accentual modification, is equivalent to _thou\nart_. Nay, even apart from this accident, the popular belief\nauthorized the notion, that simply to have uttered any great thesis,\nthough unconsciously--simply to have united verbally any two great\nideas, though for a purpose the most different or even opposite, had\nthe mysterious power of realizing them in act. An exclamation, though\nin the purest spirit of sport, to a boy, '_You shall be our\nimperator_,' was many times supposed to be the forerunner and fatal\nmandate for the boy's elevation. Such words executed themselves. To\nconnect, though but for denial or for mockery, the ideas of Jesus and\nthe Messiah, furnished an augury that eventually they would be found to\ncoincide, and to have their coincidence admitted. It was an\n_argumentum ad hominem_, and drawn from a popular faith.\n\nBut a modern reader will object the want of an accompanying design or\nserious meaning on the part of him who utters the words--he never meant\nhis words to be taken seriously--nay, his purpose was the very\nopposite. True: and precisely that is the reason why his words are\nlikely to operate effectually, and why they should be feared. Here lies\nthe critical point which most of all distinguishes this faith. Words\ntook effect, not merely in default of a serious use, but exactly in\nconsequence of that default. It was the chance word, the stray word,\nthe word uttered in jest, or in trifling, or in scorn, or\nunconsciously, which took effect; whilst ten thousand words, uttered\nwith purpose and deliberation, were sure to prove inert. One case will\nillustrate this:--Alexander of Macedon, in the outset of his great\nexpedition, consulted the oracle at Delphi. For the sake of his army,\nhad he been even without personal faith, he desired to have his\nenterprise consecrated. No persuasions, however, would move the\npriestess to enter upon her painful and agitating duties for the sake\nof obtaining the regular answer of the god. Wearied with this,\nAlexander seized the great lady by the arm, and using as much violence\nas was becoming to the two characters--of a great prince acting and a\ngreat priestess suffering--he pushed her gently backwards to the tripod\non which, in her professional character, she was to seat herself. Upon\nthis, in the hurry and excitement of the moment, the priestess\nexclaimed, _O pai, anixaitos ei--O son, thou art irresistible_;\nnever adverting for an instant to his martial purposes, but simply to\nhis personal importunities. The person whom she thought of as incapable\nof resistance, was herself, and all she meant _consciously_ was--O\nson, I can refuse nothing to one so earnest. But mark what followed:\nAlexander desisted at once--he asked for no further oracle--he refused\nit, and exclaimed joyously:--'Now then, noble priestess, farewell; I\nhave the oracle--I have your answer, and better than any which you\ncould deliver from the tripod. I am invincible--so you have declared,\nyou cannot revoke it. True, you thought not of Persia--you thought only\nof my importunity. But that very fact is what ratifies your answer. In\nits blindness I recognise its truth. An oracle from a god might be\ndistorted by political ministers of the god, as in time past too often\nhas been suspected. The oracle has been said to _Medize_, and in\nmy own father's time to _Philippize_. But an oracle delivered\nunconsciously, indirectly, blindly, that is the oracle which cannot\ndeceive.' Such was the all-famous oracle which Alexander accepted--such\nwas the oracle on which he and his army reposing went forth 'conquering\nand to conquer.'\n\nExactly on this principle do the Turks act, in putting so high a value\non the words of idiots. Enlightened Christians have often wondered at\ntheir allowing any weight to people bereft of understanding. But that\nis the very reason for allowing them weight: that very defect it is\nwhich makes them capable of being organs for conveying words from\nhigher intelligences. A fine human intelligence cannot be a passive\ninstrument--it cannot be a mere tube for conveying the words of\ninspiration: such an intelligence will intermingle ideas of its own, or\notherwise modify what is given, and pollute what is sacred.\n\nIt is also on this principle that the whole practice and doctrine of\nSortilegy rest. Let us confine ourselves to that mode of sortilegy\nwhich is conducted by throwing open privileged books at random, leaving\nto chance the page and the particular line on which the oracular\nfunctions are thrown. The books used have varied with the caprice or\nthe error of ages. Once the Hebrew Scriptures had the preference.\nProbably they were laid aside, not because the reverence for their\nauthority decayed, but because it increased. In later times Virgil has\nbeen the favorite. Considering the very limited range of ideas to which\nVirgil was tied by his theme--a colonizing expedition in a barbarous\nage, no worse book could have been selected: [Footnote: '_No worse\nbook could have been selected._'--The probable reason for making so\nunhappy a choice seems to have been that Virgil, in the middle ages,\nhad the character of a necromancer, a diviner, &c. This we all know\nfrom Dante. Now, the original reason for this strange translation of\ncharacter and functions we hold to have arisen from the circumstance of\nhis maternal grandfather having borne the name of _Magus_. People\nin those ages held that a powerful enchanter, exorciser, &c., must have\na magician amongst his _cognati_; the power must run in the blood,\nwhich on the maternal side could be undeniably ascertained. Under this\npreconception, they took Magus not for a proper name, but for a\nprofessional designation. Amongst many illustrations of the magical\ncharacter sustained by Virgil in the middle ages, we may mention that a\nwriter, about the year 1200, or the era of our Robin Hood, published by\nMontfaucon, and cited by Gibbon in his last volume, says of Virgil,--\nthat '_Captus a Romanis invisibiliter exiit, ivitque Neapopolim_.'] so\nlittle indeed does the AEneid exhibit of human life in its\nmultiformity, that much tampering with the text is required\nto bring real cases of human interest and real situations within the\nscope of any Virgilian sentence, though aided by the utmost latitude of\naccommodation. A king, a soldier, a sailor, &c., might look for\ncorrespondences to their own circumstances; but not many others.\nAccordingly, everybody remembers the remarkable answer which Charles I.\nreceived at Oxford from this Virgilian oracle, about the opening of the\nParliamentary war. But from this limitation in the range of ideas it\nwas that others, and very pious people too, have not thought it profane\nto resume the old reliance on the Scriptures. No case, indeed, can try\nso severely, or put upon record so conspicuously, this indestructible\npropensity for seeking light out of darkness--this thirst for looking\ninto the future by the aid of dice, real or figurative, as the fact of\nmen eminent for piety having yielded to the temptation. We give one\ninstance--the instance of a person who, in _practical_ theology,\nhas been, perhaps, more popular than any other in any church. Dr.\nDoddridge, in his earlier days, was in a dilemma both of conscience and\nof taste as to the election he should make between two situations, one\nin possession, both at his command. He was settled at Harborough, in\nLeicestershire, and was 'pleasing himself with the view of a\ncontinuance' in that situation. True, he had received an invitation to\nNorthampton; but the reasons against complying seemed so strong, that\nnothing was wanting but the civility of going over to Northampton, and\nmaking an apologetic farewell. On the last Sunday in November of the\nyear 1729, the doctor went and preached a sermon in conformity with\nthose purposes. 'But,' says he, 'on the morning of that day an incident\nhappened, which affected me greatly.' On the night previous, it seems,\nhe had been urged very importunately by his Northampton friends to\nundertake the vacant office. Much personal kindness had concurred with\nthis public importunity: the good doctor was affected; he had prayed\nfervently, alleging in his prayer, as the reason which chiefly weighed\nwith him to reject the offer, that it was far beyond his forces, and\nchiefly because he was too young [Footnote: '_Because he was too\nyoung_'--Dr. Doddridge was born in the summer of 1702; consequently\nhe was at this era of his life about twenty-seven years old, and\nconsequently not so obviously entitled to the excuse of youth. But he\npleaded his youth, not with a view to the exertions required, but to\nthe _auctoritas_ and responsibilities of the situation.] and had\nno assistant. He goes on thus:--'As soon as ever this address' (meaning\nthe prayer) 'was ended, I passed through a room of the house in which I\nlodged, where a child was reading to his mother, and the only words I\nheard distinctly were these, _And as thy days, so shall thy strength\nbe_.' This singular coincidence between his own difficulty and a\nscriptural line caught at random in passing hastily through a room,\n(but observe, a line insulated from the context, and placed in high\nrelief to his ear,) shook his resolution. Accident co-operated; a\npromise to be fulfilled at Northampton, in a certain contingency, fell\ndue at the instant; the doctor was detained, this detention gave time\nfor further representations; new motives arose, old difficulties were\nremoved, and finally the doctor saw, in all this succession of steps,\nthe first of which, however, lay in the _Sortes Biblic\u00e6_, clear\nindications of a providential guidance. With that conviction he took up\nhis abode at Northampton, and remained there for the next thirty-one\nyears, until he left it for his grave at Lisbon; in fact, he passed at\nNorthampton the whole of his public life. It must, therefore, be\nallowed to stand upon the records of sortilegy, that in the main\ndirection of his life--not, indeed, as to its spirit, but as to its\nform and local connections--a Protestant divine of much merit, and\nchiefly in what regards practice, and of the class most opposed to\nsuperstition, took his determining impulse from a variety of the\n_Sortes Virgilian\u00e6_.\n\nThis variety was known in early times to the Jews--as early, indeed, as\nthe era of the Grecian Pericles, if we are to believe the Talmud. It is\nknown familiarly to this day amongst Polish Jews, and is called\n_Bathcol_, or the _daughter of a voice_; the meaning of which\nappellation is this:--The _Urim and Thummim_, or oracle in the\nbreast-plate of the high priest, spoke directly from God. It was,\ntherefore, the original or mother-voice. But about the time of\nPericles, that is, exactly one hundred years before the time of\nAlexander the Great, the light of prophecy was quenched in Malachi or\nHaggai; and the oracular jewels in the breast-plate became\nsimultaneously dim. Henceforwards the mother-voice was heard no longer:\nbut to this succeeded an imperfect or daughter-voice, (_Bathcol_,)\nwhich lay in the first words happening to arrest the attention at a\nmoment of perplexity. An illustration, which has been often quoted from\nthe Talmud, is to the following effect:--Rabbi Tochanan, and Rabbi\nSimeon Ben Lachish, were anxious about a friend, Rabbi Samuel, six\nhundred miles distant on the Euphrates. Whilst talking earnestly\ntogether on this subject in Palestine, they passed a school; they\npaused to listen: it was a child reading the first book of Samuel; and\nthe words which they caught were these--_And Samuel died_. These\nwords they received as a _Bath-col_: and the next horseman from\nthe Euphrates brought word accordingly that Rabbi Samuel had been\ngathered to his fathers at some station on the Euphrates.\n\nHere is the very same case, the same _Bath-col_ substantially,\nwhich we have cited from Orton's _Life of Doddridge_. And Du Cange\nhimself notices, in his Glossary, the relation which this bore to the\nPagan _Sortes_. 'It was,' says he, 'a fantastical way of divination,\ninvented by the Jews, not unlike the _Sortes Virgilian\u00e6_ of the\nheathens. For, as with them the first words they happened to dip into\nin the works of that poet were a kind of oracle whereby they predicted\nfuture events,--so, with the Jews, when they appealed to _Bath-col_,\nthe first words they heard from any one's mouth were looked upon as a\nvoice from Heaven directing them in the matter they inquired about.'\n\nIf the reader imagines that this ancient form of the practical\nmiraculous is at all gone out of use, even the example of Dr. Doddridge\nmay satisfy him to the contrary. Such an example was sure to authorize\na large imitation. But, even apart from that, the superstition is\ncommon. The records of conversion amongst felons and other ignorant\npersons might be cited by hundreds upon hundreds to prove that no\npractice is more common than that of trying the spiritual fate, and\nabiding by the import of any passage in the Scriptures which may first\npresent itself to the eye. Cowper, the poet, has recorded a case of\nthis sort in his own experience. It is one to which all the unhappy are\nprone. But a mode of questioning the oracles of darkness, far more\nchildish, and, under some shape or other, equally common amongst those\nwho are prompted by mere vacancy of mind, without that determination to\nsacred fountains which is impressed by misery, may be found in the\nfollowing extravagant silliness of Rousseau, which we give in his own\nwords--a case for which he admits that he himself would have _shut\nup_ any other man (meaning in a lunatic hospital) whom he had seen\npractising the same absurdities:--\n\n'Au milieu de mes \u00e9tudes et d'une vie innocente autant qu'on la puisse\nmener, et malgr\u00e9 tout ce qu'on m'avoit pu dire, la peur de l'Enfer\nm'agitoit encore. Souvent je me demandois--En quel \u00e9tat suis-je? Si je\nmourrois \u00e0 l'instant m\u00eame, _serois-je damn\u00e9_? Selon mes Jans\u00e9nistes,\n[he had been reading the books of the Port Royal,] la chose est\nindubitable: mais, selon ma conscience, il me paroissoit que\nnon. Toujours craintif et flottant dans cette cruelle incertitude,\nj'avois recours (pour en sortir) aux exp\u00e9dients les plus risibles, et\npour lesquels je ferois volontiers enfermer un homme si je lui en\nvoyois faire autant. ... Un jour, r\u00eavant \u00e0 ce triste sujet, je\nm'exer\u00e7ois machinalement \u00e0 lancer les pierres contre les troncs des\narbres; et cela avec mon addresse ordinaire, c'est-\u00e0-dire sans presque\njamais en toucher aucun. Tout au milieu de ce bel exercise, je m'avisai\nde faire une esp\u00e8ce de pronostic pour calmer mon inqui\u00e9tude. Je me dis\n--je m'en vais jeter cette pierre contre l'arbre qui est vis-\u00e0-vis de\nmoi: si je le touche, signe de salut: si je le manque, signe de\ndamnation. Tout en disant ainsi, je jette ma pierre d'une main\ntremblante, et avec un horrible battement de coeur, mais si\nheureusement qu'elle va frapper au beau-milieu de l'arbre: ce qui\nv\u00e9ritablement n'\u00e9toit pas difficile: car j'avois eu soin de le choisir\nfort gros et fort pr\u00e8s. _Depuis lors je n'ai plus doubt\u00e9 de mon\nsalut._ Je ne sais, en me rappelant ce trait, si je dois rire ou\ng\u00e9mir sur moim\u00eame.'--_Les Confessions, Partie I. Livre VI._\n\nNow, really, if Rousseau thought fit to try such tremendous appeals by\ntaking 'a shy' at any random object, he should have governed his\nsortilegy (for such it may be called) with something more like equity.\nFair play is a jewel: and in such a case, a man is supposed to play\nagainst an adverse party hid in darkness. To shy at a cow within six\nfeet distance gives no chance at all to his dark antagonist. A pigeon\nrising from a trap at a suitable distance might be thought a\n_sincere_ staking of the interest at issue: but, as to the massy\nstem of a tree 'fort gros et fort pr\u00e8s'--the sarcasm of a Roman emperor\napplies, that to miss under such conditions implied an original genius\nfor stupidity, and to hit was no trial of the case. After all, the\nsentimentalist had youth to plead in apology for this extravagance. He\nwas hypochondriacal; he was in solitude; and he was possessed by gloomy\nimaginations from the works of a society in the highest public credit.\nBut most readers will be aware of similar appeals to the mysteries of\nProvidence, made in public by illustrious sectarians, speaking from the\nsolemn station of a pulpit. We forbear to quote cases of this nature,\nthough really existing in print, because we feel that the blasphemy of\nsuch anecdotes is more revolting and more painful to pious minds than\nthe absurdity is amusing. Meantime it must not be forgotten, that the\nprinciple concerned, though it may happen to disgust men when\nassociated with ludicrous circumstances, is, after all, the very same\nwhich has latently governed very many modes of ordeal, or judicial\ninquiry; and which has been adopted, blindly, as a moral rule, or\ncanon, equally by the blindest of the Pagans, the most fanatical of the\nJews, and the most enlightened of the Christians. It proceeds upon the\nassumption that man by his actions puts a question to Heaven; and that\nHeaven answers by the event. Lucan, in a well known passage, takes it\nfor granted that the cause of C\u00e6sar had the approbation of the gods.\nAnd why? Simply from the event. It was notoriously the triumphant\ncause. It was victorious, (_victrix_ causa Deis placuit; sed\n_victa_ Catoni.) It was the '_victrix_ causa;' and, _as_ such,\nsimply because it was 'victrix,' it had a right in his eyes to\npostulate the divine favor as mere matter of necessary interference:\nwhilst, on the other hand, the _victa causa_, though it seemed to\nLucan sanctioned by human virtue in the person of Cato, stood\nunappealably condemned. This mode of reasoning may strike the reader as\nmerely Pagan. Not at all. In England, at the close of the Parliamentary\nwar, it was generally argued--that Providence had decided the question\nagainst the Royalists by the mere fact of the issue. Milton himself,\nwith all his high-toned morality, uses this argument as irrefragable:\nwhich is odd, were it only on this account--that the issue ought\nnecessarily to have been held for a time as merely hypothetic, and\nliable to be set aside by possible counter-issues through one\ngeneration at the least. But the capital argument against such doctrine\nis to be found in the New Testament. Strange that Milton should\noverlook, and strange that moralists in general have overlooked, the\nsudden arrest given to this dangerous but most prevalent mode of\nreasoning by the Founder of our faith. He first, he last, taught to his\nastonished disciples the new truth--at that time the astounding truth--\nthat no relation exists between the immediate practical events of\nthings on the one side, and divine sentences on the other. There was no\npresumption, he teaches them, against a man's favor with God, or that\nof his parents, because he happened to be afflicted to extremity with\nbodily disease. There was no shadow of an argument for believing a\nparty of men criminal objects of heavenly wrath because upon them, by\nfatal preference, a tower had fallen, and because _their_ bodies\nwere exclusively mangled. How little can it be said that Christianity\nhas yet developed the fulness of its power, when kings and senates so\nrecently acted under a total oblivion of this great though novel\nChristian doctrine, and would do so still, were it not that religious\narguments have been banished by the progress of manners from the field\nof political discussion.\n\nBut, quitting this province of the ominous, where it is made the object\nof a direct personal inquest, whether by private or by national trials,\nor the sortilegy of events, let us throw our eyes over the broader\nfield of omens, as they offer themselves spontaneously to those who do\nnot seek, or would even willingly evade them. There are few of these,\nperhaps none, which are not universal in their authority, though every\nland in turn fancies them (like its proverbs) of local prescription and\norigin. The death-watch extends from England to Cashmere, and across\nIndia diagonally to the remotest nook of Bengal, over a three thousand\nmiles' distance from the entrance of the Indian Punjaub. A hare\ncrossing a man's path on starting in the morning, has been held in all\ncountries alike to prognosticate evil in the course of that day. Thus,\nin the _Confessions of a Thug_, (which is partially built on a\nreal judicial document, and everywhere conforms to the usages of\nHindostan,) the hero of the horrid narrative [Footnote: '_The hero of\nthe horrid narrative_.'--Horrid it certainly is; and one incident in\nevery case gives a demoniacal air of coolness to the hellish\natrocities, viz the regular forwarding of the _bheels_, or grave-\ndiggers. But else the tale tends too much to monotony; and for a reason\nwhich ought to have checked the author in carrying on the work to three\nvolumes, namely, that although there is much dramatic variety in the\ncircumstances of the several cases, there is none in the catastrophes.\nThe brave man and the coward, the erect spirit fighting to the last,\nand the poor creature that despairs from the first,--all are confounded\nin one undistinguishing end by sudden strangulation. This was the\noriginal defect of the plan. The sudden surprise, and the scientific\nnoosing as with a Chilian _lasso_, constituted in fact a main\nfeature of Thuggee. But still, the gradual theatrical arrangement of\neach Thug severally by the side of a victim, must often have roused\nviolent suspicion, and that in time to intercept the suddenness of the\nmurder. Now, for the sake of the dramatic effect, this interception\nought more often to have been introduced, else the murders are but so\nmany blind surprises as if in sleep.] charges some disaster of his own\nupon having neglected such an omen of the morning. The same belief\noperated in Pagan Italy. The same omen announced to Lord Lindsay's Arab\nattendants in the desert the approach of some disaster, which partially\nhappened in the morning. And a Highlander of the 42d Regiment, in his\nprinted memoirs, notices the same harbinger of evil as having crossed\nhis own path on a day of personal disaster in Spain.\n\nBirds are even more familiarly associated with such ominous warnings.\nThis chapter in the great volume of superstition was indeed cultivated\nwith unusual solicitude amongst the Pagans--_ornithomancy_ grew\ninto an elaborate science. But if every rule and distinction upon the\nnumber and the position of birds, whether to the right or the left, had\nbeen collected from our own village matrons amongst ourselves, it would\nappear that no more of this Pagan science had gone to wreck than must\nnaturally follow the difference between a believing and a disbelieving\ngovernment. Magpies are still of awful authority in village life,\naccording to their number, &c.; for a striking illustration of which we\nmay refer the reader to Sir Walter Scott's _Demonology_, reported\nnot at second-hand, but from Sir Walter's personal communication with\nsome seafaring fellow-traveller in a stage-coach.\n\nAmong the ancient stories of the same class is one which we shall\nrepeat--having reference to that Herod Agrippa, grandson of Herod the\nGreat, before whom St. Paul made his famous apology at C\u00e6sarea. This\nAgrippa, overwhelmed by debts, had fled from Palestine to Rome in the\nlatter years of Tiberius. His mother's interest with the widow of\nGermanicus procured him a special recommendation to her son Caligula.\nViewing this child and heir of the popular Germanicus as the rising\nsun, Agrippa had been too free in his language. True, the uncle of\nGermanicus was the reigning prince; but he was old, and breaking up.\nTrue, the son of Germanicus was not yet on the throne; but he soon\nwould be; and Agrippa was rash enough to call the Emperor a\n_superannuated old fellow_, and even to wish for his death.\nSejanus was now dead and gone; but there was no want of spies: and a\ncertain Macro reported his words to Tiberius. Agrippa was in\nconsequence arrested; the Emperor himself condescending to point out\nthe noble Jew to the officer on duty. The case was a gloomy one, if\nTiberius should happen to survive much longer: and the story of the\nomen proceeds thus:--'Now Agrippa stood in his bonds before the\nImperial palace, and in his affliction leaned against a certain tree,\nupon the boughs of which it happened that a bird had alighted which the\nRomans call _bubo_, or the owl. All this was steadfastly observed\nby a German prisoner, who asked a soldier what might be the name and\noffence of that man habited in purple. Being told that the man's name\nwas Agrippa, and that he was a Jew of high rank, who had given a\npersonal offence to the Emperor, the German asked permission to go near\nand address him; which being granted, he spoke thus:--\"This disaster, I\ndoubt not, young man, is trying to your heart; and perhaps you will not\nbelieve me when I announce to you beforehand the providential\ndeliverance which is impending. However, this much I will say--and for\nmy sincerity let me appeal to my native gods, as well as to the gods of\nthis Rome, who have brought us both into trouble--that no selfish\nobjects prompt me to this revelation--for a revelation it is--and to\nthe following effect:--It is fated that you shall not long remain in\nchains. Your deliverance will be speedy; you shall be raised to the\nvery highest rank and power; you shall be the object of as much envy as\nnow you are of pity; you shall retain your prosperity till death; and\nyou shall transmit that prosperity to your children. But\"--and there\nthe German paused. Agrippa was agitated; the bystanders were attentive;\nand after a time, the German, pointing solemnly to the bird, proceeded\nthus:--\"But this remember heedfully--that, when next you see the bird\nwhich now perches above your head, you will have only five days longer\nto live! This event will be surely accomplished by that same mysterious\ngod who has thought fit to send the bird as a warning sign; and you,\nwhen you come to your glory, do not forget me that foreshadowed it in\nyour humiliation.\"' The story adds, that Agrippa affected to laugh when\nthe German concluded; after which it goes on to say, that in a few\nweeks, being delivered by the death of Tiberius; being released from\nprison by the very prince on whose account he had incurred the risk;\nbeing raised to a tetrarchy, and afterwards to the kingdom of all\nJudea; coming into all the prosperity which had been promised to him by\nthe German; and not losing any part of his interest at Rome through the\nassassination of his patron Caligula--he began to look back\nrespectfully to the words of the German, and forwards with anxiety to\nthe second coming of the bird. Seven years of sunshine had now slipped\naway as silently as a dream. A great festival, shows and vows, was on\nthe point of being celebrated in honor of Claudius C\u00e6sar, at Strato's\nTower, otherwise called C\u00e6sarea, the Roman metropolis of Palestine.\nDuty and policy alike required that the king of the land should go down\nand unite in this mode of religious homage to the emperor. He did so;\nand on the second morning of the festival, by way of doing more\nconspicuous honor to the great solemnity, he assumed a very sumptuous\nattire of silver armor, burnished so highly as to throw back a dazzling\nglare from the sun's morning beams upon the upturned eyes of the vast\nmultitude around him. Immediately from the sycophantish part of the\ncrowd, of whom a vast majority were Pagans, ascended a cry of\nglorification as to some manifestation of Deity. Agrippa, gratified by\nthis success of his new apparel, and by this flattery, not unusual in\nthe case of kings, had not the firmness (though a Jew, and conscious of\nthe wickedness, greater in himself than in the heathen crowd,) to\nreject the blasphemous homage. Voices of adoration continued to ascend;\nwhen suddenly, looking upward to the vast awnings prepared for\nscreening the audience from the noonday heats, the king perceived the\nsame ominous bird which he had seen at Rome in the day of his\naffliction, seated quietly, and looking down upon himself. In that same\nmoment an icy pang shot through his intestines. He was removed into the\npalace; and at the end of five days, completely worn out by pain,\nAgrippa expired in the 54th year of his age, and the seventh of his\nsovereign power.\n\nWhether the bird, here described as an owl, was really such, may be\ndoubted, considering the narrow nomenclature of the Romans for all\nzoological purposes, and the total indifference of the Roman mind to\nall distinctions in natural history which are not upon the very largest\nscale. We should much suspect that the bird was a magpie. Meantime,\nspeaking of ornithoscopy in relation to Jews, we remember another story\nin that subdivision of the subject which it may be worth while\nrepeating; not merely on its own account, as wearing a fine oriental\nair, but also for the correction which it suggests to a very common\nerror.\n\nIn some period of Syrian warfare, a large military detachment was\nentering at some point of Syria from the desert of the Euphrates. At\nthe head of the whole array rode two men of some distinction: one was\nan augur of high reputation, the other was a Jew called Mosollam, a man\nof admirable beauty, a matchless horseman, an unerring archer, and\naccomplished in all martial arts. As they were now first coming within\nenclosed grounds, after a long march in the wilderness, the augur was\nmost anxious to inaugurate the expedition by some considerable omen.\nWatching anxiously, therefore, he soon saw a bird of splendid plumage\nperching on a low wall. 'Halt!' he said to the advanced guard: and all\ndrew up in a line. At that moment of silence and expectation, Mosollam,\nslightly turning himself in his saddle, drew his bow-string to his ear;\nhis Jewish hatred of Pagan auguries burned within him; his inevitable\nshaft went right to its mark, and the beautiful bird fell dead. The\naugur turned round in fury. But the Jew laughed at him. 'This bird, you\nsay, should have furnished us with omens of our future fortunes. But\nhad he known anything of his own, he would never have perched where he\ndid, or have come within the range of Mosollam's archery. How should\nthat bird know our destiny, who did not know that it was his own to be\nshot by Mosollam the Jew?'\n\nNow, this is a most common but a most erroneous way of arguing. In a\ncase of this kind, the bird was not supposed to have any conscious\nacquaintance with futurity, either for his own benefit or that of\nothers. But even where such a consciousness may be supposed, as in the\ncase of oneiromancy, or prophecy by means of dreams, it must be\nsupposed limited, and the more limited in a personal sense as they are\nillimitable in a sublime one. Who imagines that, because a Daniel or\nEzekiel foresaw the grand revolutions of the earth, therefore they must\nor could have foreseen the little details of their own ordinary life?\nAnd even descending from that perfect inspiration to the more doubtful\npower of augury amongst the Pagans, (concerning which the most eminent\nof theologians have held very opposite theories,) one thing is certain,\nthat, so long as we entertain such pretensions, or discuss them at all,\nwe must take them with the principle of those who professed such arts,\nnot with principles of our own arbitrary invention.\n\nOne example will make this clear:--There are in England [Footnote:\n'_There are in England_'--Especially in Somersetshire, and for\ntwenty miles round Wrington, the birthplace of Locke. Nobody sinks for\nwells without their advice. We ourselves knew an amiable and\naccomplished Scottish family, who, at an estate called Belmadrothie, in\nmemory of a similar property in Ross shire, built a house in\nSomersetshire, and resolved to find water without help from the jowser.\nBut after sinking to a greater depth than ever had been known before,\nand spending nearly \u00a3200, they were finally obliged to consult the\njowser, who found water at once.] a class of men who practise the Pagan\nrhabdomancy in a limited sense. They carry a rod or rhabdos\n(_rhabdos_) of willow: this they hold horizontally; and by the\nbending of the rod towards the ground they discover the favorable\nplaces for sinking wells; a matter of considerable importance in a\nprovince so ill-watered as the northern district of Somersetshire, &c.\nThese people are locally called _jowsers_; and it is probable,\nthat from the suspicion with which their art has been usually regarded\namongst people of education, as a mere legerdemain trick of\nDousterswivel's, is derived the slang word to _chouse_ for _swindle_.\nMeantime, the experimental evidences of a real practical skill in these\nmen, and the enlarged compass of speculation in these days, have led\nmany enlightened people to a Stoic _epochey_, or suspension of\njudgment, on the reality of this somewhat mysterious art. Now, in the\nEast, there are men who make the same pretensions in a more showy\nbranch of the art. It is not water, but treasures which they profess to\nfind by some hidden kind of rhabdomancy. The very existence of\ntreasures with us is reasonably considered a thing of improbable\noccurrence. But in the unsettled East, and with the low valuation of\nhuman life wherever Mahometanism prevails, insecurity and other causes\nmust have caused millions of such deposits in every century to have\nperished as to any knowledge of survivors. The sword has been moving\nbackwards and forwards, for instance, like a weaver's shuttle, since\nthe time of Mahmoud the Ghaznevide, [Footnote: Mahmood of Ghizni,\nwhich, under the European name of Ghaznee, was so recently taken in one\nhour by our Indian army under Lord Keane Mahmood was the first\nMahometan invader of Hindostan.] in Anno Domini 1000, in the vast\nregions between the Tigris, the Oxus, and the Indus. Regularly as it\napproached, gold and jewels must have sunk by whole harvests into the\nground. A certain per centage has been doubtless recovered: a larger\nper centage has disappeared for ever. Hence naturally the jealousy of\nbarbarous Orientals that we Europeans, in groping amongst pyramids,\nsphynxes, and tombs, are looking for buried treasures. The wretches are\nnot so wide astray in what they believe as in what they disbelieve. The\ntreasures do really exist which they fancy; but then also the other\ntreasures in the glorious antiquities have that existence for our sense\nof beauty which to their brutality is inconceivable. In these\ncircumstances, why should it surprise us that men will pursue the\nscience of discovery as a regular trade? Many discoveries of treasure\nare doubtless made continually, which, for obvious reasons, are\ncommunicated to nobody. Some proportion there must be between the\nsowing of such grain as diamonds or emeralds, and the subsequent\nreaping, whether by accident or by art. For, with regard to the last,\nit is no more impossible, _prima fronte_, that a substance may exist\nhaving an occult sympathy with subterraneous water or subterraneous\ngold, than that the magnet should have a sympathy (as yet occult) with\nthe northern pole of our planet.\n\nThe first flash of careless thought applied to such a case will\nsuggest, that men holding powers of this nature need not offer their\nservices for hire to others. And this, in fact, is the objection\nuniversally urged by us Europeans as decisive against their\npretensions. Their knavery, it is fancied, stands self-recorded; since,\nassuredly, they would not be willing to divide their subterranean\ntreasures, if they knew of any. But the men are not in such self-\ncontradiction as may seem. Lady Hester Stanhope, from the better\nknowledge she had acquired of Oriental opinions, set Dr. Madden right\non this point. The Oriental belief is that a fatality attends the\nappropriator of a treasure in any case where he happens also to be the\ndiscoverer. Such a person, it is held, will die soon, and suddenly--so\nthat he is compelled to seek his remuneration from the wages or fees of\nhis employers, not from the treasure itself.\n\nMany more secret laws are held sacred amongst the professors of that\nart than that which was explained by Lady Hester Stanhope. These we\nshall not enter upon at present: but generally we may remark, that the\nsame practices of subterranean deposits, during our troubled periods in\nEurope, led to the same superstitions. And it may be added, that the\nsame error has arisen in both cases as to some of these superstitions.\nHow often must it have struck people of liberal feelings, as a\nscandalous proof of the preposterous value set upon riches by poor men,\nthat ghosts should popularly be supposed to rise and wander for the\nsake of revealing the situations of buried treasures. For ourselves, we\nhave been accustomed to view this popular belief in the light of an\nargument for pity rather than for contempt towards poor men, as\nindicating the extreme pressure of that necessity which could so have\ndemoralized their natural sense of truth. But certainly, in whatever\nfeelings originating, such popular superstitions as to motives of\nghostly missions did seem to argue a deplorable misconception of the\nrelation subsisting between the spiritual world and the perishable\ntreasures of this perishable world. Yet, when we look into the Eastern\nexplanations of this case, we find that it is meant to express, not any\novervaluation of riches, but the direct contrary passion. A human\nspirit is punished--such is the notion--punished in the spiritual world\nfor excessive attachment to gold, by degradation to the office of its\nguardian; and from this office the tortured spirit can release itself\nonly by revealing the treasure and transferring the custody. It is a\npenal martyrdom, not an elective passion for gold, which is thus\nexemplified in the wanderings of a treasure-ghost.\n\nBut, in a field where of necessity we are so much limited, we willingly\npass from the consideration of these treasure or _khasne_ phantoms\n(which alone sufficiently ensure a swarm of ghostly terrors for all\nOriental ruins of cities,) to the same marvellous apparitions, as they\nhaunt other solitudes even more awful than those of ruined cities. In\nthis world there are two mighty forms of perfect solitude--the ocean\nand the desert: the wilderness of the barren sands, and the wilderness\nof the barren waters. Both are the parents of inevitable superstitions\n--of terrors, solemn, ineradicable, eternal. Sailors and the children\nof the desert are alike overrun with spiritual hauntings, from\naccidents of peril essentially connected with those modes of life, and\nfrom the eternal spectacle of the infinite. Voices seem to blend with\nthe raving of the sea, which will for ever impress the feeling of\nbeings more than human: and every chamber of the great wilderness\nwhich, with little interruption, stretches from the Euphrates to the\nwestern shores of Africa, has its own peculiar terrors both as to\nsights and sounds. In the wilderness of Zin, between Palestine and the\nRed Sea, a section of the desert well known in these days to our own\ncountrymen, bells are heard daily pealing for matins, or for vespers,\nfrom some phantom convent that no search of Christian or of Bedouin\nArab has ever been able to discover. These bells have sounded since the\nCrusades. Other sounds, trumpets, the _Alala_ of armies, &c., are\nheard in other regions of the Desert. Forms, also, are seen of more\npeople than have any right to be walking in human paths: sometimes\nforms of avowed terror; sometimes, which is a case of far more danger,\nappearances that mimic the shapes of men, and even of friends or\ncomrades. This is a case much dwelt on by the old travellers, and which\nthrows a gloom over the spirits of all Bedouins, and of every cafila or\ncaravan. We all know what a sensation of loneliness or 'eeriness' (to\nuse an expressive term of the ballad poetry) arises to any small party\nassembling in a single room of a vast desolate mansion: how the timid\namong them fancy continually that they hear some remote door opening,\nor trace the sound of suppressed footsteps from some distant staircase.\nSuch is the feeling in the desert, even in the midst of the caravan.\nThe mighty solitude is seen: the dread silence is anticipated which\nwill succeed to this brief transit of men, camels, and horses. Awe\nprevails even in the midst of society: but, if the traveller should\nloiter behind from fatigue, or be so imprudent as to ramble aside--\nshould he from any cause once lose sight of his party, it is held that\nhis chance is small of recovering their traces. And why? Not chiefly\nfrom the want of footmarks where the wind effaces all impressions in\nhalf an hour, or of eyemarks where all is one blank ocean of sand, but\nmuch more from the sounds or the visual appearances which are supposed\nto beset and to seduce all insulated wanderers.\n\nEverybody knows the superstitions of the ancients about the\n_Nympholeptoi_, or those who had seen Pan. But far more awful and\ngloomy are the existing superstitions, throughout Asia and Africa, as\nto the perils of those who are phantom-haunted in the wilderness. The\nold Venetian traveller Marco Polo states them well: he speaks, indeed,\nof the Eastern or Tartar deserts; the steppes which stretch from\nEuropean Russia to the footsteps of the Chinese throne; but exactly the\nsame creed prevails amongst the Arabs, from Bagdad to Suez and Cairo--\nfrom Rosetta to Tunis--Tunis to Timbuctoo or Mequinez. 'If, during the\ndaytime,' says he, 'any person should remain behind until the caravan\nis no longer in sight, he hears himself unexpectedly called to by name,\nand in a voice with which he is familiar. Not doubting that the voice\nproceeds from some of his comrades, the unhappy man is beguiled from\nthe right direction; and soon finding himself utterly confounded as to\nthe path, he roams about in distraction until he perishes miserably.\nIf, on the other hand, this perilous separation of himself from the\ncaravan should happen at night, he is sure to hear the uproar of a\ngreat cavalcade a mile or two to the right or left of the true track.\nHe is thus seduced on one side: and at break of day finds himself far\nremoved from man. Nay, even at noon-day, it is well known that grave\nand respectable men to all appearance will come up to a particular\ntraveller, will bear the look of a friend, and will gradually lure him\nby earnest conversation to a distance from the caravan; after which the\nsounds of men and camels will be heard continually at all points but\nthe true one; whilst an insensible turning by the tenth of an inch at\neach separate step from the true direction will very soon suffice to\nset the traveller's face to the opposite point of the compass from that\nwhich his safety requires, and which his fancy represents to him as his\nreal direction. Marvellous, indeed, and almost passing belief, are the\nstories reported of these desert phantoms, which are said at times to\nfill the air with choral music from all kinds of instruments, from\ndrums, and the clash of arms: so that oftentimes a whole caravan are\nobliged to close up their open ranks, and to proceed in a compact line\nof march.'\n\nLord Lindsay, in his very interesting travels in Egypt, Edom, &c.,\nagrees with Warton in supposing (and probably enough) that from this\naccount of the desert traditions in Marco Polo was derived Milton's\nfine passage in Comus:--\n\n  'Of calling shapes, and beckoning shadows dire,\n  And aery tongues that syllable men's names\n  On sands, and shores, and desert wildernesses.'\n\nBut the most remarkable of these desert superstitions, as suggested by\nthe mention of Lord Lindsay, is one which that young nobleman, in some\nplace which we cannot immediately find, has noticed, but which he only\nwas destined by a severe personal loss immediately to illustrate. Lord\nL. quotes from Vincent le Blanc an anecdote of a man in his own\ncaravan, the companion of an Arab merchant, who disappeared in a\nmysterious manner. Four Moors, with a retaining fee of 100 ducats, were\nsent in quest of him, but came back _re infecta_. 'And 'tis\nuncertain,' adds Le Blanc, 'whether he was swallowed up in the sands,\nor met his death by any other misfortune; as it often happens, by the\nrelation of a merchant then in our company, who told us, that two years\nbefore, traversing the same journey, a comrade of his, going a little\naside from the company, saw three men who called him by his name; and\none of them, to his thinking, favored very much his companion; and, as\nhe was about to follow them, his real companion calling him to come\nback to his company, he found himself deceived by the others, and thus\nwas saved. And all travellers in these parts hold, that in the deserts\nare many such phantasms seen, that strive to seduce the traveller.'\nThus far it is the traveller's own fault, warned as he is continually\nby the extreme anxiety of the Arab leaders or guides, with respect to\nall who stray to any distance, if he is duped or enticed by these\npseudo-men: though, in the case of Lapland dogs, who ought to have a\nsurer instinct of detection for counterfeits, we know from Sir Capel de\nBroke and others, that they are continually wiled away by the wolves\nwho roam about the nightly encampments of travellers. But there is a\nsecondary disaster, according to the Arab superstition, awaiting those\nwhose eyes are once opened to the discernment of these phantoms. To see\nthem, or to hear them, even where the traveller is careful to refuse\ntheir lures, entails the certainty of death in no long time. This is\nanother form of that universal faith which made it impossible for any\nman to survive a bodily commerce, by whatever sense, with a spiritual\nbeing. We find it in the Old Testament, where the expression, 'I have\nseen God and shall die,' means simply a supernatural being; since no\nHebrew believed it possible for a nature purely human to sustain for a\nmoment the sight of the Infinite Being. We find the same faith amongst\nourselves, in case of _doppelg\u00e4nger_ becoming apparent to the\nsight of those whom they counterfeit; and in many other varieties. We\nmodern Europeans, of course, laugh at these superstitions; though, as\nLa Place remarks, (_Essai sur les Probabilit\u00e9s_,) any case,\nhowever apparently incredible, if it is a recurrent case, is as much\nentitled to a fair valuation as if it had been more probable\nbeforehand.[Footnote: _'Is as much entitled to a fair valuation,\nunder the lans of induction, as if it had been more probable\nbeforehand'_--One of the cases which La Place notices as entitled to\na grave consideration, but which would most assuredly be treated as a\ntrivial phenomenon, unworthy of attention, by commonplace spectators,\nis--when a run of success, with no apparent cause, takes place on heads\nor tails, (_pile ou croix_) Most people dismiss such a case as\npure accident. But La Place insists on its being duly valued as a fact,\nhowever unaccountable as an effect. So again, if in a large majority of\nexperiences like those of Lord Lindsay's party in the desert, death\nshould follow, such a phenomenon is as well entitled to its separate\nvaluation as any other.] This being premised, we who connect\nsuperstition with the personal result, are more impressed by the\ndisaster which happened to Lord Lindsay, than his lordship, who either\nfailed to notice the _nexus_ between the events, or possibly\ndeclined to put the case too forward in his reader's eye, from the\nsolemnity of the circumstances, and the private interest to himself and\nhis own family, of the subsequent event. The case was this:--Mr.\nWilliam Wardlaw Ramsay, the companion (and we believe relative) of Lord\nLindsay, a man whose honorable character, and whose intellectual\naccomplishments speak for themselves, in the posthumus memorabilia of\nhis travels published by Lord L., had seen an array of objects in the\ndesert, which facts immediately succeeding demonstrated to have been a\nmere ocular _lusus_, or (according to Arab notions) phantoms.\nDuring the absence from home of an Arab sheikh, who had been hired as\nconductor of Lord Lindsay's party, a hostile tribe (bearing the name of\nTellaheens) had assaulted and pillaged his tents. Report of this had\nreached the English travelling party; it was known that the Tellaheens\nwere still in motion, and a hostile rencounter was looked for for some\ndays. At length, in crossing the well known valley of the _Wady\nAraba_, that most ancient channel of communication between the Red\nSea and Judea, &c., Mr. Ramsay saw, to his own entire conviction, a\nparty of horse moving amongst some sand-hills. Afterwards it became\ncertain, from accurate information, that this must have been a\ndelusion. It was established, that no horseman _could_ have been\nin that neighborhood at that time. Lord Lindsay records the case as an\nillustration of 'that spiritualized tone the imagination naturally\nassumes, in scenes presenting so little sympathy with the ordinary\nfeelings of humanity;' and he reports the case in these pointed terms:\n--'Mr. Ramsay, a man of remarkably strong sight, and by no means\ndisposed to superstitious credulity, distinctly saw a party of horse\nmoving among the sand-hills; and I do not believe he was ever able to\ndivest himself of that impression.' No--and, according to Arab\ninterpretation, very naturally so; for, according to their faith, he\nreally _had_ seen the horsemen; phantom horseman certainly, but\nstill objects of sight. The sequel remains to be told--by the Arabian\nhypothesis, Mr. Ramsay had but a short time to live--he was under a\nsecret summons to the next world. And accordingly, in a few weeks after\nthis, whilst Lord Lindsay had gone to visit Palmyra, Mr. Ramsay died at\nDamascus.\n\nThis was a case exactly corresponding to the Pagan _nympholepsis_\n--he had seen the beings whom it is not lawful to see and live. Another\ncase of Eastern superstition, not less determined, and not less\nremarkably fulfilled, occurred some years before to Dr. Madden, who\ntravelled pretty much in the same route as Lord Lindsay. The doctor, as\na phrenologist, had been struck with the very singular conformation of\na skull which he saw amongst many others on an altar in some Syrian\nconvent. He offered a considerable sum in gold for it; but it was by\nrepute the skull of a saint; and the monk with whom Dr. M. attempted to\nnegotiate, not only refused his offers, but protested that even for the\ndoctor's sake, apart from the interests of the convent, he could not\nventure on such a transfer: for that, by the tradition attached to it,\nthe skull would endanger any vessel carrying it from the Syrian shore:\nthe vessel might escape; but it would never succeed in reaching any but\na Syrian harbor. After this, for the credit of our country, which\nstands so high in the East, and should be so punctiliously tended by\nall Englishmen, we are sorry to record that Dr. Madden (though\notherwise a man of scrupulous honor) yielded to the temptation of\nsubstituting for the saint's skull another less remarkable from his own\ncollection. With this saintly relic he embarked on board a Grecian\nship; was alternately pursued and met by storms the most violent;\nlarboard and starboard, on every quarter, he was buffeted; the wind\nblew from every point of the compass; the doctor honestly confesses\nthat he often wished this baleful skull back in safety on the quiet\naltar from which he took it; and finally, after many days of anxiety,\nhe was too happy in finding himself again restored to some oriental\nport, from which he secretly vowed never again to sail with a saint's\nskull, or with any skull, however remarkable phrenologically, not\npurchased in an open market.\n\nThus we have pursued, through many of its most memorable sections, the\nspirit of the miraculous as it moulded and gathered itself in the\nsuperstitions of Paganism; and we have shown that, in the modern\nsuperstitions of Christianity, or of Mahometanism, (often enough\nborrowed from Christian sources,) there is a pretty regular\ncorrespondence. Speaking with a reference to the strictly popular\nbelief, it cannot be pretended for a moment, that miraculous agencies\nare slumbering in modern ages. For one superstition of that nature\nwhich the Pagans had, we can produce twenty. And if, from the collation\nof numbers, we should pass to that of quality, it is a matter of\nnotoriety, that from the very philosophy of Paganism, and its slight\nroot in the terrors or profounder mysteries of spiritual nature, no\ncomparison could be sustained for a moment between the true religion\nand any mode whatever of the false. Ghosts we have purposely omitted,\nbecause that idea is so peculiarly Christian [Footnote: '_Because\nthat idea is so peculiarly Christian_'--One reason, additional to\nthe main one, why the idea of a ghost could not be conceived or\nreproduced by Paganism, lies in the fourfold resolution of the human\nnature at death, viz.--1. _corpus_; 2. _manes_; 3. _spiritus_;\n4. _anima_. No reversionary consciousness, no restitution of the total\nnature, sentient and active, was thus possible. Pliny has a story which\nlooks like a ghost story; but it is all moonshine--a mere\n_simulacrum_.] as to reject all counterparts or affinities from other\nmodes of the supernatural. The Christian ghost is too awful a presence,\nand with too large a substratum of the real, the impassioned, the\nhuman, for our present purposes. We deal chiefly with the wilder and\nmore \u00e6rial forms of superstition; not so far off from fleshly nature as\nthe purely allegoric--not so near as the penal, the purgatorial, the\npenitential. In this middle class, 'Gabriel's hounds'--the 'phantom\nship'--the gloomy legends of the charcoal burners in the German\nforests--and the local or epichorial superstitions from every district\nof Europe, come forward by thousands, attesting the high activity of\nthe miraculous and the hyperphysical instincts, even in this\ngeneration, wheresoever the voice of the people makes itself heard.\n\nBut in Pagan times, it will be objected, the popular superstitions\nblended themselves with the highest political functions, gave a\nsanction to national counsels, and oftentimes gave their starting point\nto the very primary movements of the state. Prophecies, omens,\nmiracles, all worked concurrently with senates or princes. Whereas in\nour days, says Charles Lamb, the witch who takes her pleasure with the\nmoon, and summons Beelzebub to her sabbaths, nevertheless trembles\nbefore the beadle, and hides herself from the overseer. Now, as to the\nwitch, even the horrid Canidia of Horace, or the more dreadful Erichtho\nof Lucan, seems hardly to have been much respected in any era. But for\nthe other modes of the supernatural, they have entered into more\nfrequent combinations with state functions and state movements in our\nmodern ages than in the classical age of Paganism. Look at prophecies,\nfor example: the Romans had a few obscure oracles afloat, and they had\nthe Sibylline books under the state seal. These books, in fact, had\nbeen kept so long, that, like port wine superannuated, they had lost\ntheir flavor and body. [Footnote: '_Like port wine superannuated, the\nSibylline books had lost their flavor and their body_.'--There is an\nallegoric description in verse, by Mr. Rogers, of an ice-house, in\nwhich winter is described as a captive, &c., which is memorable on this\naccount, that a brother poet, on reading the passage, mistook it, (from\nnot understanding the allegorical expressions,) either sincerely or\nmaliciously, for a description of the house-dog. Now, this little\nanecdote seems to embody the poor Sibyl's history,--from a stern icy\nsovereign, with a petrific mace, she lapsed into an old toothless\nmastiff. She continued to snore in her ancient kennel for above a\nthousand years. The last person who attempted to stir her up with a\nlong pole, and to extract from her paralytic dreaming some growls or\nsnarls against Christianity, was Aurelian, in a moment of public panic.\nBut the thing was past all tampering. The poor creature could neither\nbe kicked nor coaxed into vitality.] On the other hand, look at France.\nHenry the historian, speaking of the fifteenth century, describes it as\na national infirmity of the English to be prophecy-ridden. Perhaps\nthere never was any foundation for this as an exclusive remark; but\nassuredly not in the next century. There had been with us British, from\nthe twelfth century, Thomas of Ercildoune in the north, and many\nmonkish local prophets for every part of the island; but latterly\nEngland had no terrific prophet, unless, indeed Nixon of the Vale Royal\nin Cheshire, who uttered his dark oracles sometimes with a merely\nCestrian, sometimes with a national reference. Whereas in France,\nthroughout the sixteenth century, every principal event was foretold\nsuccessively, with an accuracy that still shocks and confounds us.\nFrancis the First, who opens the century, (and by many is held to open\nthe book of _modern history_, as distinguished from the middle or\n_feudal_ history,) had the battle of Pavia foreshown to him, not\nby name, but in its results--by his own Spanish captivity--by the\nexchange for his own children upon a frontier river of Spain--finally,\nby his own disgraceful death, through an infamous disease conveyed to\nhim under a deadly circuit of revenge. This king's son, Henry the\nSecond, read some years _before_ the event a description of that\ntournament, on the marriage of the Scottish Queen with his eldest son,\nFrancis II., which proved fatal to himself, through the awkwardness of\nthe Compte de Montgomery and his own obstinacy. After this, and we\nbelieve a little after the brief reign of Francis II., arose\nNostradamus, the great prophet of the age. All the children of Henry\nII. and of Catharine de Medici, one after the other, died in\ncircumstances of suffering and horror, and Nostradamus pursued the\nwhole with ominous allusions. Charles IX., though the authorizer of the\nBartholomew massacre, was the least guilty of his party, and the only\none who manifested a dreadful remorse. Henry III., the last of the\nbrothers, died, as the reader will remember, by assassination. And all\nthese tragic successions of events are still to be read more or less\ndimly prefigured in verses of which we will not here discuss the dates.\nSuffice it, that many authentic historians attest the good faith of the\nprophets; and finally, with respect to the first of the Bourbon\ndynasty, Henry IV., who succeeded upon the assassination of his\nbrother-in-law, we have the peremptory assurance of Sully and other\nProtestants, countersigned by writers both historical and\ncontroversial, that not only was he prepared, by many warnings, for his\nown tragical death--not only was the day, the hour prefixed--not only\nwas an almanac sent to him, in which the bloody summer's day of 1610\nwas pointed out to his attention in bloody colors; but the mere record\nof the king's last afternoon shows beyond a doubt the extent and the\npunctual limitation of his anxieties. In fact, it is to this attitude\nof listening expectation in the king, and breathless waiting for the\nblow, that Schiller alludes in that fine speech of Wallenstein to his\nsister, where he notices the funeral knells that sounded continually in\nHenry's ears, and, above all, his prophetic instinct, that caught the\nsound from a far distance of his murderer's motions, and could\ndistinguish, amidst all the tumult of a mighty capital, those stealthy\nsteps\n\n  ----'Which even then were seeking him\n  Throughout the streets of Paris.'\n\nWe profess not to admire Henry the Fourth of France, whose secret\ncharacter we shall, on some other occasion, attempt to expose. But his\nresignation to the appointments of Heaven, in dismissing his guards, as\nfeeling that against a danger so domestic and so mysterious, all\nfleshly arms were vain, has always struck us as the most like\nmagnanimity of anything in his very theatrical life.\n\nPassing to our own country, and to the times immediately in succession,\nwe fall upon some striking prophecies, not verbal but symbolic, if we\nturn from the broad highway of public histories, to the by-paths of\nprivate memories. Either Clarendon it is, in his Life (not his public\nhistory), or else Laud, who mentions an anecdote connected with the\ncoronation of Charles I., (the son-in-law of the murdered Bourbon,)\nwhich threw a gloom upon the spirits of the royal friends, already\nsaddened by the dreadful pestilence which inaugurated the reign of this\nill-fated prince, levying a tribute of one life in sixteen from the\npopulation of the English metropolis. At the coronation of Charles, it\nwas discovered that all London would not furnish the quantity of purple\nvelvet required for the royal robes and the furniture of the throne.\nWhat was to be done? Decorum required that the furniture should be all\n_en suite_. Nearer than Genoa no considerable addition could be\nexpected. That would impose a delay of 150 days. Upon mature\nconsideration, and chiefly of the many private interests that would\nsuffer amongst the multitudes whom such a solemnity had called up from\nthe country, it was resolved to robe the King in _white_ velvet.\nBut this, as it afterwards occurred, was the color in which victims\nwere arrayed. And thus, it was alleged, did the King's council\nestablish an augury of evil. Three other ill omens, of some celebrity,\noccurred to Charles I., viz., on occasion of creating his son Charles a\nknight of the Bath, at Oxford some years after; and at the bar of that\ntribunal which sat in judgment upon him.\n\nThe reign of his second son, James II., the next reign that could be\nconsidered an unfortunate reign, was inaugurated by the same evil\nomens. The day selected for the coronation (in 1685) was a day\nmemorable for England--it was St. George's day, the 23d of April, and\nentitled, even on a separate account, to be held a sacred day as the\nbirthday of Shakspeare in 1564, and his deathday in 1616. The King\nsaved a sum of sixty thousand pounds by cutting off the ordinary\ncavalcade from the Tower of London to Westminster. Even this was\nimprudent. It is well known that, amongst the lowest class of the\nEnglish, there is an obstinate prejudice (though unsanctioned by law)\nwith respect to the obligation imposed by the ceremony of coronation.\nSo long as this ceremony is delayed, or mutilated, they fancy that\ntheir obedience is a matter of mere prudence, liable to be enforced by\narms, but not consecrated either by law or by religion. The change made\nby James was, therefore, highly imprudent; shorn of its antique\ntraditionary usages, the yoke of conscience was lightened at a moment\nwhen it required a double ratification. Neither was it called for on\nmotives of economy, for James was unusually rich. This voluntary\narrangement was, therefore, a bad beginning; but the accidental omens\nwere worse. They are thus reported by Blennerhassett, (History of\nEngland to the end of George I., Vol. iv., p. 1760, printed at\nNewcastle-upon-Tyne: 1751.) 'The crown being too little for the King's\nhead, was often in a tottering condition, and like to fall off.' Even\nthis was observed attentively by spectators of the most opposite\nfeelings. But there was another simultaneous omen, which affected the\nProtestant enthusiasts, and the superstitious, whether Catholic or\nProtestant, still more alarmingly. 'The same day the king's arms,\npompously painted in the great altar window of a London church,\nsuddenly fell down without apparent cause, and broke to pieces, whilst\nthe rest of the window remained standing. Blennerhassett mutters the\ndark terrors which possessed himself and others.' 'These,' says he,\n'were reckoned ill omens to the king.'\n\nIn France, as the dreadful criminality of the French sovereigns through\nthe 17th century began to tell powerfully, and reproduce itself in the\nmiseries and tumults of the French populace through the 18th century,\nit is interesting to note the omens which unfolded themselves at\nintervals. A volume might be written upon them. The French Bourbons\nrenewed the picture of that fatal house which in Thebes offered to the\nGrecian observers the spectacle of dire auguries, emerging from\ndarkness through three generations, _\u00e0 plusieurs reprises_.\nEverybody knows the fatal pollution of the marriage pomps on the\nreception of Marie Antoinette in Paris; the numbers who perished are\nstill spoken of obscurely as to the amount, and with shuddering awe for\nthe unparalleled horrors standing in the background of the fatal reign\n--horrors\n\n  'That hush'd in grim repose, await their evening prey.'\n\nBut in the life of Goethe is mentioned a still more portentous (though\nmore shadowy) omen in the pictorial decorations of the arras which\nadorned the pavilion on the French frontier; the first objects which\nmet the Austrian Archduchess on being hailed as Dauphiness, was a\nsuccession of the most tragic groups from the most awful section of the\nGrecian theatre. The next alliance of the same kind between the same\ngreat empires, in the persons of Napoleon and the Archduchess Marie\nLouisa, was overshadowed by the same unhappy omens, and, as we all\nremember, with the same unhappy results, within a brief period of five\nyears.\n\nOr, if we should resort to the fixed and monumental rather than to\nthese auguries of great nations--such, for instance, as were embodied\nin those _Palladia_, or protesting talismans, which capital\ncities, whether Pagan or Christian, glorified through a period of\ntwenty-five hundred years, we shall find a long succession of these\nenchanted pledges, from the earliest precedent of Troy (whose palladium\nwas undoubtedly a talisman) down to that equally memorable, and bearing\nthe same name, at Western Rome. We may pass, by a vast transition of\ntwo and a half millennia, to that great talisman of Constantinople, the\ntriple serpent, (having perhaps an original reference to the Mosaic\nserpent of the wilderness, which healed the infected by the simple act\nof looking upon it, as the symbol of the Redeemer, held aloft upon the\nCross for the deliverance from moral contagion.) This great consecrated\ntalisman, venerated equally by Christian, by Pagan, and by Mahometan,\nwas struck on the head by Mahomet the Second, on that same day, May\n29th of 1453, in which he mastered by storm this glorious city, the\nbulwark of eastern Christendom, and the immediate rival of his own\nEuropean throne at Adrianople. But mark the superfetation of omens--\nomen supervening upon omen, augury engrafted upon augury. The hour was\na sad one for Christianity; just 720 years before the western horn of\nIslam had been rebutted in France by the Germans, chiefly under Charles\nMartel. But now it seemed as though another horn, even more vigorous,\nwas preparing to assault Christendom and its hopes from the eastern\nquarter. At this epoch, in the very hour of triumph, when the last of\nthe C\u00e6sars had glorified his station, and sealed his testimony by\nmartyrdom, the fanatical Sultan, riding to his stirrups in blood, and\nwielding that iron mace which had been his sole weapon, as well as\ncognizance, through the battle, advanced to the column, round which the\ntriple serpent roared spirally upwards. He smote the brazen talisman;\nhe shattered one head; he left it mutilated as the record of his great\nrevolution; but crush it, destroy it, he did not--as a symbol\nprefiguring the fortunes of Mahometanism, his people noticed, that in\nthe critical hour of fate, which stamped the Sultan's acts with\nefficacy through ages, he had been prompted by his secret genius only\nto 'scotch the snake,' not to crush it. Afterwards the fatal hour was\ngone by; and this imperfect augury has since concurred traditionally\nwith the Mahometan prophecies about the Adrianople gate of\nConstantinople, to depress the ultimate hopes of Islam in the midst of\nall its insolence. The very haughtiest of the Mussulmans believe that\nthe gate is already in existence, through which the red Giaours (the\n_Russi_) shall pass to the conquest of Stamboul; and that\neverywhere, in Europe at least, the hat of Frangistan is destined to\nsurmount the turban--the crescent must go down before the cross.\n\n\n\n\nCOLERIDGE AND OPIUM-EATING.\n\n\nWhat is the deadest of things earthly? It is, says the world, ever\nforward and rash--'a door-nail!' But the world is wrong. There is a\nthing deader than a door-nail, viz., Gillman's Coleridge, Vol. I. Dead,\nmore dead, most dead, is Gillman's Coleridge, Vol. I.; and this upon\nmore arguments than one. The book has clearly not completed its\nelementary act of respiration; the _systole_ of Vol. I. is\nabsolutely useless and lost without the _diastole_ of that Vol.\nII., which is never to exist. That is one argument, and perhaps this\nsecond argument is stronger. Gillman's Coleridge, Vol. I., deals\nrashly, unjustly, and almost maliciously, with some of our own\nparticular friends; and yet, until late in this summer, _Anno\nDomini_ 1844, we--that is, neither ourselves nor our friends--ever\nheard of its existence. Now a sloth, even without the benefit of Mr.\nWaterton's evidence to his character, will travel faster than that. But\nmalice, which travels fastest of all things, must be dead and cold at\nstarting, when it can thus have lingered in the rear for six years; and\ntherefore, though the world was so far right, that people _do_\nsay, 'Dead as a door-nail,' yet, henceforward, the weakest of these\npeople will see the propriety of saying--'Dead as Gillman's Coleridge.'\n\nThe reader of experience, on sliding over the surface of this opening\nparagraph, begins to think there's mischief singing in the upper air.\n'No, reader, not at all. We never were cooler in our days. And this we\nprotest, that, were it not for the excellence of the subject,\n_Coleridge and Opium-Eating_, Mr. Gillman would have been dismissed\nby us unnoticed. Indeed, we not only forgive Mr. Gillman, but we\nhave a kindness for him; and on this account, that he was good, he\nwas generous, he was most forbearing, through twenty years, to poor\nColeridge, when thrown upon his hospitality. An excellent thing\n_that_, Mr. Gillman, till, noticing the theme suggested by this\nunhappy Vol. I., we are forced at times to notice its author, Nor is\nthis to be regretted. We remember a line of Horace never yet properly\ntranslated, viz:--\n\n  'Nec scutica dignum horribili sectere flagello.'\n\nThe true translation of which, as we assure the unlearned reader, is--\n'Nor must you pursue with the horrid knout of Christopher that man who\nmerits only a switching.' Very true. We protest against all attempts to\ninvoke the exterminating knout; for _that_ sends a man to the\nhospital for two months; but you see that the same judicious poet, who\ndissuades an appeal to the knout, indirectly recommends the switch,\nwhich, indeed, is rather pleasant than otherwise, amiably playful in\nsome of its little caprices, and in its worst, suggesting only a\npennyworth of diachylon.\n\nWe begin by professing, with hearty sincerity, our fervent admiration\nof the extraordinary man who furnishes the theme for Mr. Gillman's\n_coup-d'essai_ in biography. He was, in a literary sense, our\nbrother--for he also was amongst the contributors to _Blackwood_--\nand will, we presume, take his station in that Blackwood gallery of\nportraits, which, in a century hence, will possess more interest for\nintellectual Europe than any merely martial series of portraits, or any\ngallery of statesmen assembled in congress, except as regards one or\ntwo leaders; for defunct major-generals, and secondary diplomatists,\nwhen their date is past, awake no more emotion than last year's\nadvertisements, or obsolete directories; whereas those who, in a stormy\nage, have swept the harps of passion, of genial wit, or of the\nwrestling and gladiatorial reason, become more interesting to men when\nthey can no longer be seen as bodily agents, than even in the middle\nchorus of that intellectual music over which, living, they presided.\n\nOf this great camp Coleridge was a leader, and fought amongst the\n_primipili_; yet, comparatively, he is still unknown. Heavy,\nindeed, are the arrears still due to philosophic curiosity on the real\nmerits, and on the separate merits, of Samuel Taylor Coleridge.\nColeridge as a poet--Coleridge as a philosopher! How extensive are\nthose questions, if those were all! and upon neither question have we\nyet any investigation--such as, by compass of views, by research, or\neven by earnestness of sympathy with the subject, can, or ought to\nsatisfy, a philosophic demand. Blind is that man who can persuade\nhimself that the interest in Coleridge, taken as a total object, is\nbecoming an obsolete interest. We are of opinion that even Milton, now\nviewed from a distance of two centuries, is still inadequately judged\nor appreciated in his character of poet, of patriot and partisan, or,\nfinally, in his character of accomplished scholar. But, if so, how much\nless can it be pretended that satisfaction has been rendered to the\nclaims of Coleridge? for, upon Milton, libraries have been written.\nThere has been time for the malice of men, for the jealousy of men, for\nthe enthusiasm, the scepticism, the adoring admiration of men, to\nexpand themselves! There has been room for a Bentley, for an Addison,\nfor a Johnson, for a wicked Lauder, for an avenging Douglas, for an\nidolizing Chateaubriand; and yet, after all, little enough has been\ndone towards any comprehensive estimate of the mighty being concerned.\nPiles of materials have been gathered to the ground; but, for the\nmonument which should have risen from these materials, neither the\nfirst stone has been laid, nor has a qualified architect yet presented\nhis credentials. On the other hand, upon Coleridge little,\ncomparatively, has yet been written, whilst the separate characters on\nwhich the judgment is awaited, are more by one than those which Milton\nsustained. Coleridge, also, is a poet; Coleridge, also, was mixed up\nwith the fervent politics of his age--an age how memorably reflecting\nthe revolutionary agitations of Milton's age. Coleridge, also, was an\nextensive and brilliant scholar. Whatever might be the separate\nproportions of the two men in each particular department of the three\nhere noticed, think as the reader will upon that point, sure we are\nthat either subject is ample enough to make a strain upon the amplest\nfaculties. How alarming, therefore, for any _honest_ critic, who\nshould undertake this later subject of Coleridge, to recollect that,\nafter pursuing him through a zodiac of splendors corresponding to those\nof Milton in kind, however different in degree--after weighing him as a\npoet, as a philosophic politician, as a scholar, he will have to wheel\nafter him into another orbit, into the unfathomable _nimbus_ of\ntranscendental metaphysics. Weigh him the critic must in the golden\nbalance of philosophy the most abstruse--a balance which even itself\nrequires weighing previously, or he will have done nothing that can be\nreceived for an estimate of the composite Coleridge. This astonishing\nman, be it again remembered, besides being an exquisite poet, a\nprofound political speculator, a philosophic student of literature\nthrough all its chambers and recesses, was also a circumnavigator on\nthe most pathless waters of scholasticism and metaphysics. He had\nsounded, without guiding charts, the secret deeps of Proclus and\nPlotinus; he had laid down buoys on the twilight, or moonlight, ocean\nof Jacob Boehmen; [Footnote: 'JACOB BOEHMEN.' We ourselves had the\nhonor of presenting to Mr. Coleridge, Law's English version of Jacob--a\nset of huge quartos. Some months afterwards we saw this work lying\nopen, and one volume at least overflowing, in parts, with the\ncommentaries and the _corollaries_ of Coleridge. Whither has this\nwork, and so many others swathed about with Coleridge's MS. notes,\nvanished from the world?] he had cruised over the broad Atlantic of\nKant and Schelling, of Fichte and Oken. Where is the man who shall be\nequal to these things? We at least make no such adventurous effort; or,\nif ever we should presume to do so, not at present. Here we design only\nto make a coasting voyage of survey round the headlands and most\nconspicuous seamarks of our subject, as they are brought forward by Mr.\nGillman, or collaterally suggested by our own reflections; and\nespecially we wish to say a word or two on Coleridge as an opium-eater.\n\nNaturally the first point to which we direct our attention, is the\nhistory and personal relations of Coleridge. Living with Mr. Gillman\nfor nineteen years as a domesticated friend, Coleridge ought to have\nbeen known intimately. And it is reasonable to expect, from so much\nintercourse, some additions to our slender knowledge of Coleridge's\nadventures, (if we may use so coarse a word,) and of the secret springs\nat work in those early struggles of Coleridge at Cambridge, London,\nBristol, which have been rudely told to the world, and repeatedly told,\nas showy romances, but never rationally explained.\n\nThe anecdotes, however, which Mr. Gillman has added to the personal\nhistory of Coleridge, are as little advantageous to the effect of his\nown book as they are to the interest of the memorable character which\nhe seeks to illustrate. Always they are told without grace, and\ngenerally are suspicious in their details. Mr. Gillman we believe to be\ntoo upright a man for countenancing any untruth. He has been deceived.\nFor example, will any man believe this? A certain 'excellent\nequestrian' falling in with Coleridge on horseback, thus accosted him--\n'Pray, Sir, did you meet a tailor along the road?' '_A tailor_!'\nanswered Coleridge; '_I did meet a person answering such a description,\nwho told me he had dropped his goose; that if I rode a little further\nI should find it; and I guess he must have meant you._' In Joe Miller\nthis story would read, perhaps, sufferably. Joe has a privilege; and\nwe do not look too narrowly into the mouth of a Joe-Millerism. But\nMr. Gillman, writing the life of a philosopher, and no jest-book, is\nunder a different law of decorum. That retort, however, which silences\nthe jester, it may seem, must be a good one. And we are desired to\nbelieve that, in this case, the baffled assailant rode off in a spirit\nof benign candor, saying aloud to himself, like the excellent\nphilosopher that he evidently was, 'Caught a Tartar!'\n\nBut another story of a sporting baronet, who was besides a Member of\nParliament, is much worse, and altogether degrading to Coleridge. This\ngentleman, by way of showing off before a party of ladies, is\nrepresented as insulting Coleridge by putting questions to him on the\nqualities of his horse, so as to draw the animal's miserable defects\ninto public notice, and then closing his display by demanding what he\nwould take for the horse 'including the rider.' The supposed reply of\nColeridge might seem good to those who understand nothing of true\ndignity; for, as an _impromptu_, it was smart and even caustic.\nThe baronet, it seems, was reputed to have been bought by the minister;\nand the reader will at once divine that the retort took advantage of\nthat current belief, so as to throw back the sarcasm, by proclaiming\nthat neither horse nor rider had a price placarded in the market at\nwhich any man could become their purchaser. But this was not the temper\nin which Coleridge either did reply, or could have replied. Coleridge\nshowed, in the _spirit_ of his manner, a profound sensibility to\nthe nature of a gentleman; and he felt too justly what it became a\nself-respecting person to say, ever to have aped the sort of flashy\nfencing which might seem fine to a theatrical blood.\n\nAnother story is self-refuted: 'A hired partisan' had come to one of\nColeridge's political lectures with the express purpose of bringing the\nlecturer into trouble; and most preposterously he laid himself open to\nhis own snare by refusing to pay for admission. Spies must be poor\nartists who proceed thus. Upon which Coleridge remarked--'That, before\nthe gentleman kicked up a dust, surely he would down with the dust.' So\nfar the story will not do. But what follows is possible enough. The\n_same_ 'hired' gentleman, by way of giving unity to the tale, is\ndescribed as having hissed. Upon this a cry arose of 'Turn him out!'\nBut Coleridge interfered to protect him; he insisted on the man's right\nto hiss if he thought fit; it was legal to hiss; it was natural to\nhiss; 'for what is to be expected, gentlemen, when the cool waters of\nreason come in contact with red-hot aristocracy, but a hiss?' _Euge!_\n\nAmongst all the anecdotes, however of this splendid man, often trivial,\noften incoherent, often unauthenticated, there is one which strikes us\nas both true and interesting; and we are grateful to Mr. Gillman for\npreserving it. We find it introduced, and partially authenticated, by\nthe following sentence from Coleridge himself:--'From eight to fourteen\nI was a playless day-dreamer, a _helluo librorum_; my appetite for\nwhich was indulged by a singular incident. A stranger, who was struck\nby my conversation, made me free of a circulating library in King's\nStreet, Cheapside.' The more circumstantial explanation of Mr. Gillman\nis this: `The incident indeed was singular. Going down the Strand, in\none of his day-dreams, fancying himself swimming across the Hellespont,\nthrusting his hands before him as in the act of swimming, his hand came\nin contact with a gentleman's pocket. The gentleman seized his hand,\nturning round, and looking at him with some anger--\"What! so young, and\nyet so wicked?\" at the same time accused him of an attempt to pick his\npocket. The frightened boy sobbed out his denial of the intention, and\nexplained to him how he thought himself Leander swimming across the\nHellespont. The gentleman was so struck and delighted with the novelty\nof the thing, and with the simplicity and intelligence of the boy, that\nhe subscribed, as before stated, to the library; in consequence of\nwhich Coleridge was further enabled to indulge his love of reading.'\n\nWe fear that this slovenly narrative is the very perfection of bad\nstory-telling. But the story itself is striking, and, by the very\noddness of the incidents, not likely to have been invented. The effect,\nfrom the position of the two parties--on the one side, a simple child\nfrom Devonshire, dreaming in the Strand that he was swimming over from\nSestos to Abydos, and, on the other, the experienced man, dreaming only\nof this world, its knaves and its thieves, but still kind and generous\n--is beautiful and picturesque. _Oh! si sic omnia!_\n\nBut the most interesting to us of the _personalities_ connected\nwith Coleridge are his feuds and his personal dislikes.\nIncomprehensible to us is the war of extermination which Coleridge made\nupon the political economists. Did Sir James Steuart, in speaking of\nvine-dressers, (not _as_ vine-dressers, but generally as\ncultivators,) tell his readers, that, if such a man simply replaced his\nown consumption, having no surplus whatever or increment for the public\ncapital, he could not be considered a useful citizen? Not the beast in\nthe Revelation is held up by Coleridge as more hateful to the spirit of\ntruth than the Jacobite baronet. And yet we know of an author--viz.,\none S. T. Coleridge--who repeated that same doctrine without finding\nany evil in it. Look at the first part of the _Wallenstein_, where\nCount Isolani having said, 'Pooh! we are _all_ his subjects,'\n_i. e._, soldiers, (though unproductive laborers,) not less than\nproductive peasants, the emperor's envoy replies--'Yet with a\ndifference, general;' and the difference implies Sir James's scale, his\nvine-dresser being the equatorial case between the two extremes of the\nenvoy. Malthus again, in his population-book, contends for a mathematic\ndifference between animal and vegetable life, in respect to the law of\nincrease, as though the first increased by geometrical ratios, the last\nby arithmetical! No proposition more worthy of laughter; since both,\nwhen permitted to expand, increase by geometrical ratios, and the\nlatter by much higher ratios. Whereas, Malthus persuaded himself of his\ncrotchet simply by refusing the requisite condition in the vegetable\ncase, and granting it in the other. If you take a few grains of wheat,\nand are required to plant all successive generations of their produce\nin the same flower-pot for ever, of course you neutralize its expansion\nby your own act of arbitrary limitation. [Footnote: Malthus would have\nrejoined by saying--that the flowerpot limitation was the actual\nlimitation of nature in our present circumstances. In America it is\notherwise, he would say, but England is the very flowerpot you suppose;\nshe is a flowerpot which cannot be multiplied, and cannot even be\nenlarged. Very well, so be it (which we say in order to waive\nirrelevant disputes). But then the true inference will be--not that\nvegetable increase proceeds under a different law from that which\ngoverns animal increase, but that, through an accident of position, the\nexperiment cannot be tried in England. Surely the levers of Archimedes,\nwith submission to Sir Edward B. Lytton, were not the less levers\nbecause he wanted the _locum standi_. It is proper, by the way,\nthat we should inform the reader of this generation where to look for\nColeridge's skirmishings with Malthus. They are to be found chiefly in\nthe late Mr. William Hazlitt's work on that subject: a work which\nColeridge so far claimed as to assert that it had been substantially\nmade up from his own conversation.] But so you would do, if you tried\nthe case of _animal_ increase by still exterminating all but one\nreplacing couple of parents. This is not to try, but merely a pretence\nof trying, one order of powers against another. That was folly. But\nColeridge combated this idea in a manner so obscure, that nobody\nunderstood it. And leaving these speculative conundrums, in coming to\nthe great practical interests afloat in the Poor Laws, Coleridge did so\nlittle real work, that he left, as a _res integra_, to Dr. Alison,\nthe capital argument that legal and _adequate_ provision for the\npoor, whether impotent poor or poor accidentally out of work, does not\nextend pauperism--no, but is the one great resource for putting it\ndown. Dr. Alison's overwhelming and _experimental_ manifestations\nof that truth have prostrated Malthus and his generation for ever. This\ncomes of not attending to the Latin maxim--'_Hoc_ age'--mind the\nobject before you. Dr. Alison, a wise man, '_hoc_ egit:' Coleridge\n'_aliud_ egit.' And we see the result. In a case which suited him,\nby interesting his peculiar feeling, Coleridge could command\n\n  'Attention full ten times as much as there needs.'\n\nBut search documents, value evidence, or thresh out bushels of\nstatistical tables, Coleridge could not, any more than he could ride\nwith Elliot's dragoons.\n\nAnother instance of Coleridge's inaptitude for such studies as\npolitical economy is found in his fancy, by no means 'rich and rare,'\nbut meagre and trite, that taxes can never injure public prosperity by\nmere excess of quantity; if they injure, we are to conclude that it\nmust be by their quality and mode of operation, or by their false\nappropriation, (as, for instance, if they are sent out of the country\nand spent abroad.) Because, says Coleridge, if the taxes are exhaled\nfrom the country as vapors, back they come in drenching showers. Twenty\npounds ascend in a Scotch mist to the Chancellor of the Exchequer from\nLeeds; but does it evaporate? Not at all: By return of post down comes\nan order for twenty pounds' worth of Leeds cloth, on account of\nGovernment, seeing that the poor men of the ----th regiment want new\ngaiters. True; but of this return twenty pounds, not more than four\nwill be profit, _i.e._, surplus accruing to the public capital;\nwhereas, of the original twenty pounds, every shilling was surplus. The\nsame unsound fancy has been many times brought forward; often in\nEngland, often in France. But it is curious, that its first appearance\nupon any stage was precisely two centuries ago, when as yet political\neconomy slept with the pre-Adamites, viz., in the Long Parliament. In a\nquarto volume of the debates during 1644-45, printed as an independent\nwork, will be found the same identical doctrine, supported very\nsonorously by the same little love of an illustration from the see-saw\nof mist and rain.\n\nPolitical economy was not Coleridge's forte. In politics he was\nhappier. In mere personal politics, he (like every man when reviewed\nfrom a station distant by forty years) will often appear to have erred;\nnay, he will be detected and nailed in error. But this is the necessity\nof us all. Keen are the refutations of time. And absolute results to\nposterity are the fatal touchstone of opinions in the past. It is\nundeniable, besides, that Coleridge had strong personal antipathies,\nfor instance, to Messrs. Pitt and Dundas. Yet _why_, we never\ncould understand. We once heard him tell a story upon Windermere, to\nthe late Mr. Curwen, then M. P. for Workington, which was meant,\napparently, to account for this feeling. The story amounted to this;\nthat, when a freshman at Cambridge, Mr. Pitt had wantonly amused\nhimself at a dinner party in Trinity, in smashing with filberts\n(discharged in showers like grape-shot) a most costly dessert set of\ncut glass, from which Samuel Taylor Coleridge argued a principle of\ndestructiveness in his _cerebellum_. Now, if this dessert set\nbelonged to some poor suffering Trinitarian, and not to himself, we are\nof opinion that he was faulty, and ought, upon his own great subsequent\nmaxim, to have been coerced into 'indemnity for the past, and security\nfor the future.' But, besides that this glassy _mythus_ belongs to\nan \u00e6ra fifteen years earlier than Coleridge's so as to justify a shadow\nof scepticism, we really cannot find, in such an _escapade_ under\nthe boiling blood of youth, any sufficient justification of that\nwithering malignity towards the name of Pitt, which runs through\nColeridge's famous _Fire, Famine, and Slaughter_. As this little\nviperous _jeu-d'esprit_ (published anonymously) subsequently\nbecame the subject of a celebrated after-dinner discussion in London,\nat which Coleridge (_comme de raison_) was the chief speaker, the\nreader of this generation may wish to know the question at issue; and\nin order to judge of _that_, he must know the outline of this\ndevil's squib. The writer brings upon the scene three pleasant young\nladies, viz., Miss Fire, Miss Famine, and Miss Slaughter. 'What are you\nup to? What's the row?'--we may suppose to be the introductory question\nof the poet. And the answer of the ladies makes us aware that they are\nfresh from larking in Ireland, and in France. A glorious spree they\nhad; lots of fun; and laughter _a discretion_. At all times\n_gratus puell\u00e6 risus ab angulo_; so that we listen to their little\ngossip with interest. They had been setting men, it seems, by the ears;\nand the drollest little atrocities they do certainly report. Not but we\nhave seen better in the Nenagh paper, so far as Ireland is concerned.\nBut the pet little joke was in La Vendee. Miss Famine, who is the girl\nfor our money, raises the question--whether any of them can tell the\nname of the leader and prompter to these high jinks of hell--if so, let\nher whisper it.\n\n  'Whisper it, sister, so and so,\n  In a dark hint--distinct and low.'\n\nUpon which the playful Miss Slaughter replies:--\n\n  'Letters _four_ do form his name.\n  *     *     *     *     *\n  He came by stealth and unlock'd my den;\n  And I have drunk the blood since then\n  Of thrice three hundred thousand men.'\n\nGood: but the sting of the hornet lies in the conclusion. If this\nquadriliteral man had done so much for _them_, (though really, we\nthink, 6s. 8d. might have settled his claim,) what, says Fire, setting\nher arms a-kimbo, would they do for _him_? Slaughter replies,\nrather crustily, that, as far as a good kicking would go--or (says\nFamine) a little matter of tearing to pieces by the mob--they would be\nglad to take tickets at his benefit. 'How, you bitches!' says Fire, 'is\nthat all?\n\n  'I alone am faithful; I\n  _Cling to him everlastingly_.'\n\nThe sentiment is diabolical. And the question argued at the London\ndinner-table was--Could the writer have been other than a devil? The\ndinner was at the late excellent Mr. Sotheby's, known advantageously in\nthose days as the translator of Wieland's _Oberon_. Several of the\ngreat guns amongst the literary body were present; in particular, Sir\nWalter Scott; and he, we believe, with his usual good-nature, took the\napologetic side of the dispute. In fact, he was in the secret. Nobody\nelse, barring the author, knew at first whose good name was at stake.\nThe scene must have been high. The company kicked about the poor\ndiabolic writer's head as if it had been a tennis-ball. Coleridge, the\nyet unknown criminal, absolutely perspired and fumed in pleading for\nthe defendant; the company demurred; the orator grew urgent; wits began\nto _smoke_ the case, as active verbs; the advocate to _smoke_, as a\nneuter verb; the 'fun grew fast and furious;' until at length\n_delinquent arose_, burning tears in his eyes, and confessed to an\naudience, (now bursting with stifled laughter, but whom he supposed to\nbe bursting with fiery indignation,) 'Lo! I am he that wrote it.'\n\nFor our own parts, we side with Coleridge. Malice is not always of the\nheart. There is a malice of the understanding and the fancy. Neither do\nwe think the worse of a man for having invented the most horrible and\nold-woman-troubling curse that demons ever listened to. We are too apt\nto swear horribly ourselves; and often have we frightened the cat, to\nsay nothing of the kettle, by our shocking [far too shocking!] oaths.\n\nThere were other celebrated men whom Coleridge detested, or seemed to\ndetest--Paley, Sir Sidney Smith, Lord Hutchinson, (the last Lord\nDonoughmore,) and Cuvier. To Paley it might seem as if his antipathy\nhad been purely philosophic; but we believe that partly it was\npersonal; and it tallies with this belief, that, in his earliest\npolitical tracts, Coleridge charged the archdeacon repeatedly with his\nown joke, as if it had been a serious saying, viz.--'That he could not\nafford to keep a conscience;' such luxuries, like a carriage, for\ninstance, being obviously beyond the finances of poor men.\n\nWith respect to the philosophic question between the parties, as to the\ngrounds of moral election, we hope it is no treason to suggest that\nboth were perhaps in error. Against Paley, it occurs at once that he\nhimself would not have made consequences the _practical_ test in\nvaluing the morality of an act, since these can very seldom be traced\nat all up to the final stages, and in the earliest stages are\nexceedingly different under different circumstances; so that the same\nact, tried by its consequences, would bear a fluctuating appreciation.\nThis could not have been Paley's _revised_ meaning. Consequently,\nhad he been pressed by opposition, it would have come out, that by\n_test_ he meant only _speculative_ test: a very harmless doctrine\ncertainly, but useless and impertinent to any purpose of his system.\nThe reader may catch our meaning in the following illustration.\nIt is a matter of general belief, that happiness, upon the whole,\nfollows in a higher degree from constant integrity, than from the\nclosest attention to self-interest. Now happiness is one of those\nconsequences which Paley meant by final or remotest. But we could never\nuse this idea as an exponent of integrity, or interchangeable\ncriterion, because happiness cannot be ascertained or appreciated\nexcept upon long tracts of time, whereas the particular act of\nintegrity depends continually upon the election of the moment. No man,\ntherefore, could venture to lay down as a rule, Do what makes you\nhappy; use this as your test of actions, satisfied that in that case\nalways you will do the thing which is right. For he cannot discern\nindependently what _will_ make him happy; and he must decide on\nthe spot. The use of the _nexus_ between morality and happiness\nmust therefore be inverted; it is not practical or prospective, but\nsimply retrospective; and in that form it says no more than the good\nold rules hallowed in every cottage. But this furnishes no practical\nguide for moral election which a man had not, before he ever thought of\nthis _nexus_. In the sense in which it is true, we need not go to\nthe professor's chair for this maxim; in the sense in which it would\nserve Paley, it is absolutely false.\n\nOn the other hand, as against Coleridge, it is certain that many acts\ncould be mentioned which are judged to be good or bad only because\ntheir consequences are known to be so, whilst the great catholic acts\nof life are entirely (and, if we may so phrase it, haughtily)\nindependent of consequences. For instance, fidelity to a trust is a law\nof immutable morality subject to no casuistry whatever. You have been\nleft executor to a friend--you are to pay over his last legacy to X,\nthough a dissolute scoundrel; and you are to give no shilling of it to\nthe poor brother of X, though a good man, and a wise man, struggling\nwith adversity. You are absolutely excluded from all contemplation of\nresults. It was your deceased friend's right to make the will; it is\nyours simply to see it executed. Now, in opposition to this primary\nclass of actions stands another, such as the habit of intoxication,\nwhich are known to be wrong only by observing the consequences. If\ndrunkenness did not terminate, after some years, in producing bodily\nweakness, irritability in the temper, and so forth, it would _not_\nbe a vicious act. And accordingly, if a transcendent motive should\narise in favor of drunkenness, as that it would enable you to face a\ndegree of cold, or contagion, else menacing to life, a duty would\narise, _pro hac vice_, of getting drunk. We had an amiable friend\nwho suffered under the infirmity of cowardice; an awful coward he was\nwhen sober; but, when very drunk, he had courage enough for the Seven\nChampions of Christendom, Therefore, in an emergency, where he knew\nhimself suddenly loaded with the responsibility of defending a family,\nwe approved highly of his getting drunk. But to violate a trust could\nnever become right under any change of circumstances. Coleridge,\nhowever, altogether overlooked this distinction: which, on the other\nhand, stirring in Paley's mind, but never brought out to distinct\nconsciousness, nor ever investigated, nor limited, has undermined his\nsystem. Perhaps it is not very important how a man _theorizes_\nupon morality; happily for us all, God has left no man in such\nquestions practically to the guidance of his understanding; but still,\nconsidering that academic bodies _are_ partly instituted for the\nsupport of speculative truth as well as truth practical, we must think\nit a blot upon the splendor of Oxford and Cambridge that both of them,\nin a Christian land, make Paley the foundation of their ethics; the\nalternative being Aristotle. And, in our mind, though far inferior as a\nmoralist to the Stoics, Aristotle is often less of a pagan than Paley.\n\nColeridge's dislike to Sir Sidney Smith and the Egyptian Lord\nHutchinson fell under the category of Martial's case.\n\n  'Non amo te, Sabidi, nec possum dicere quare,\n  Hoc solum novi--non amo te, Sabidi.'\n\nAgainst Lord Hutchinson, we never heard him plead anything of moment,\nexcept that he was finically Frenchified in his diction; of which he\ngave this instance--that having occasion to notice a brick wall, (which\nwas literally _that_, not more and not less,) when reconnoitring\nthe French defences, he called it a _rev\u00eatement_. And we ourselves\nremember his using the French word _gloriole_ rather ostentatiously;\nthat is, when no particular emphasis attached to the case. But every\nman has his foibles; and few, perhaps, are less conspicuously annoying\nthan this of Lord Hutchinson's. Sir Sidney's crimes were less\ndistinctly revealed to our mind. As to Cuvier, Coleridge's hatred of\n_him_ was more to our taste; for (though quite unreasonable, we fear)\nit took the shape of patriotism. He insisted on it, that our British\nJohn Hunter was the genuine article, and that Cuvier was a humbug. Now,\nspeaking privately to the public, we cannot go quite so far as _that_.\nBut, when publicly we address that most respectable character, _en\ngrand costume_, we always mean to back Coleridge. For we are a horrible\nJohn Bull ourselves. As Joseph Hume observes, it makes no difference to\nus--right or wrong, black or white--when our countrymen are concerned.\nAnd John Hunter, notwithstanding he had a bee in his bonnet, [Footnote:\n_Vide_, in particular, for the most exquisite specimen of pigheadedness\nthat the world can furnish, his perverse evidence on the once famous\ncase at the Warwick assizes, of Captain Donelan for poisoning his\nbrother-in-law, Sir Theodosius Boughton.] was really a great man;\nthough it will not follow that Cuvier must, therefore, have been a\nlittle one. We do not pretend to be acquainted with the tenth part of\nCuvier's performances; but we suspect that Coleridge's range in that\nrespect was not much greater than our own.\n\nOther cases of monomaniac antipathy we might revive from our\nrecollections of Coleridge, had we a sufficient motive. But in\ncompensation, and by way of redressing the balance, he had many strange\nlikings--equally monomaniac--and, unaccountably, he chose to exhibit\nhis whimsical partialities by dressing up, as it were, in his own\nclothes, such a set of scarecrows as eye has not beheld. Heavens! what\nan ark of unclean beasts would have been Coleridge's private\n_menagerie_ of departed philosophers, could they all have been\ntrotted out in succession! But did the reader feel them to be the awful\nbores which, in fact, they were? No; because Coleridge had blown upon\nthese withered anatomies, through the blowpipe of his own creative\ngenius, a stream of gas that swelled the tissue of their antediluvian\nwrinkles, forced color upon their cheeks, and splendor upon their\nsodden eyes. Such a process of ventriloquism never _has_ existed.\nHe spoke by their organs. They were the tubes; and he forced through\ntheir wooden machinery his own Beethoven harmonies.\n\nFirst came Dr. Andrew Bell. We knew him. Was he dull? Is a wooden spoon\ndull? Fishy were his eyes; torpedinous was his manner; and his main\nidea, out of two which he really had, related to the moon--from which\nyou infer, perhaps, that he was lunatic. By no means. It was no craze,\nunder the influence of the moon, which possessed him; it was an idea of\nmere hostility to the moon. The Madras people, like many others, had an\nidea that she influenced the weather. Subsequently the Herschels,\nsenior and junior, systematized this idea; and then the wrath of\nAndrew, previously in a crescent state, actually dilated to a\nplenilunar orb. The Westmoreland people (for at the lakes it was we\nknew him) expounded his condition to us by saying that he was\n'maffled;' which word means 'perplexed in the extreme.' His wrath did\nnot pass into lunacy; it produced simple distraction; an uneasy\nfumbling with the idea; like that of an old superannuated dog who longs\nto worry, but cannot for want of teeth. In this condition you will\njudge that he was rather tedious. And in this condition Coleridge took\nhim up. Andrew's other idea, because he _had_ two, related to\neducation. Perhaps six-sevenths of that also came from Madras. No\nmatter, Coleridge took _that_ up; Southey also; but Southey with\nhis usual temperate fervor. Coleridge, on the other hand, found\ncelestial marvels both in the scheme and in the man. Then commenced the\napotheosis of Andrew Bell: and because it happened that his opponent,\nLancaster, between ourselves, really _had_ stolen his ideas from\nBell, what between the sad wickedness of Lancaster and the celestial\ntransfiguration of Bell, gradually Coleridge heated himself to such an\nextent, that people, when referring to that subject, asked each other,\n'Have you heard Coleridge lecture on _Bel and the Dragon_?'\n\nThe next man glorified by Coleridge was John Woolman, the Quaker. Him,\nthough we once possessed his works, it cannot be truly affirmed that we\never read. Try to read John, we often did; but read John we did not.\nThis, however, you say, might be our fault, and not John's. Very\nlikely. And we have a notion that now, with our wiser thoughts, we\n_should_ read John, if he were here on this table. It is certain\nthat he was a good man, and one of the earliest in America, if not in\nChristendom, who lifted up his hand to protest against the slave-trade.\nBut still, we suspect, that had John been all that Coleridge\nrepresented, he would not have repelled us from reading his travels in\nthe fearful way that he did. But, again, we beg pardon, and entreat the\nearth of Virginia to lie light upon the remains of John Woolman; for he\nwas an Israelite, indeed, in whom there was no guile.\n\nThe third person raised to divine honors by Coleridge was Bowyer, the\nmaster of Christ's Hospital, London--a man whose name rises into the\nnostrils of all who knew him with the gracious odor of a tallow-\nchandler's melting-house upon melting day, and whose memory is embalmed\nin the hearty detestation of all his pupils. Coleridge describes this\nman as a profound critic. Our idea of him is different. We are of\nopinion that Bowyer was the greatest villain of the eighteenth century.\nWe may be wrong; but we cannot be _far_ wrong. Talk of knouting\nindeed! which we did at the beginning of this paper in the mere\nplayfulness of our hearts--and which the great master of the knout,\nChristopher, who visited men's trespasses like the Eumenides, never\nresorted to but in love for some great idea which had been outraged;\nwhy, this man knouted his way through life, from bloody youth up to\ntruculent old age. Grim idol! whose altars reeked with children's\nblood, and whose dreadful eyes never smiled except as the stern goddess\nof the Thugs smiles, when the sound of human lamentations inhabits her\nears. So much had the monster fed upon this great idea of 'flogging,'\nand transmuted it into the very nutriment of his heart, that he seems\nto have conceived the gigantic project of flogging all mankind; nay\nworse, for Mr. Gillman, on Coleridge's authority, tells us (p. 24) the\nfollowing anecdote:--'\"_Sirrah, I'll flog you_,\" were words so\nfamiliar to him, that on one occasion some _female_ friend of one\nof the boys,' (who had come on an errand of intercession,) 'still\nlingering at the door, after having been abruptly told to go, Bowyer\nexclaimed--\"Bring that woman here, and I'll flog her.\"'\n\nTo this horrid incarnation of whips and scourges, Coleridge, in his\n_Biographia Literaria_, ascribes ideas upon criticism and taste,\nwhich every man will recognise as the intense peculiarities of\nColeridge. Could these notions really have belonged to Bowyer, then how\ndo we know but he wrote _The Ancient Mariner_? Yet, on consideration,\nno. For even Coleridge admitted that, spite of his fine theorizing upon\ncomposition, Mr. Bowyer did not prosper in the practice. Of which he\ngave us this illustration; and as it is supposed to be the only\nspecimen of the Bowyeriana which now survives in this sublunary world,\nwe are glad to extend its glory. It is the most curious example extant\nof the melodious in sound:--\n\n  ''Twas thou that smooth'd'st the rough-rugg'd bed of pain.'\n\n'Smooth'd'st!' Would the teeth of a crocodile not splinter under that\nword? It seems to us as if Mr. Bowyer's verses ought to be boiled\nbefore they can be read. And when he says, 'Twas thou, what is the\nwretch talking to? Can he be apostrophizing the knout? We very much\nfear it. If so, then, you see (reader!) that, even when incapacitated\nby illness from operating, he still adores the image of his holy\nscourge, and invokes it as alone able to smooth 'his rough-rugg'd bed.'\nOh, thou infernal Bowyer! upon whom even Trollope (_History of\nChrist's Hospital_) charges 'a discipline _tinctured_ with more\nthan due severity;'--can there be any partners found for thee in a\nquadrille, except Draco, the bloody lawgiver, Bishop Bonner, and Mrs.\nBrownrigg?\n\nThe next pet was Sir Alexander Ball. Concerning Bowyer, Coleridge did\nnot talk much, but chiefly wrote; concerning Bell, he did not write\nmuch, but chiefly talked. Concerning Ball, however, he both wrote and\ntalked. It was in vain to muse upon any plan for having Ball\nblackballed, or for rebelling against Bell. Think of a man, who had\nfallen into one pit called Bell; secondly, falling into another pit\ncalled Ball. This was too much. We were obliged to quote poetry against\nthem:--\n\n  'Letters four do form his name;\n  He came by stealth and unlock'd my den;\n  And the nightmare I have felt since then\n  Of thrice three hundred thousand men.'\n\nNot that we insinuate any disrespect to Sir Alexander Ball. He was\nabout the foremost, we believe, in all good qualities, amongst Nelson's\nadmirable captains at the Nile. He commanded a seventy-four most\neffectually in that battle; he governed Malta as well as Sancho\ngoverned Barataria; and he was a true practical philosopher--as,\nindeed, was Sancho. But still, by all that we could ever learn, Sir\nAlexander had no taste for the abstract upon any subject; and would\nhave read, as mere delirious wanderings, those philosophic opinions\nwhich Coleridge fastened like wings upon his respectable, but\nastounded, shoulders.\n\nWe really beg pardon for having laughed a little at these crazes of\nColeridge. But laugh we did, of mere necessity, in those days, at Bell\nand Ball, whenever we did not groan. And, as the same precise\nalternative offered itself now, viz., that, in recalling the case, we\nmust reverberate either the groaning or the laughter, we presumed the\nreader would vote for the last. Coleridge, we are well convinced, owed\nall these wandering and exaggerated estimates of men--these diseased\nimpulses, that, like the _mirage_, showed lakes and fountains\nwhere in reality there were only arid deserts, to the derangements\nworked by opium. But now, for the sake of change, let us pass to\nanother topic. Suppose we say a word or two on Coleridge's\naccomplishments as a scholar. We are not going to enter on so large a\nfield as that of his scholarship in connection with his philosophic\nlabors, scholarship in the result; not this, but scholarship in the\nmeans and machinery, range of _verbal_ scholarship, is what we\npropose for a moment's review.\n\nFor instance, what sort of a German scholar was Coleridge? We dare say\nthat, because in his version of the _Wallenstein_ there are some\ninaccuracies, those who may have noticed them will hold him cheap in\nthis particular pretension. But, to a certain degree, they will be\nwrong. Coleridge was not _very_ accurate in anything but in the\nuse of logic. All his philological attainments were imperfect. He did\nnot talk German; or so obscurely--and, if he attempted to speak fast,\nso erroneously--that in his second sentence, when conversing with a\nGerman lady of rank, he contrived to assure her that in his humble\nopinion she was a ----. Hard it is to fill up the hiatus decorously;\nbut, in fact, the word very coarsely expressed that she was no better\nthan she should be. Which reminds us of a parallel misadventure to a\nGerman, whose colloquial English had been equally neglected. Having\nobtained an interview with an English lady, he opened his business\n(whatever it might be) thus--'High-born madam, since your husband have\nkicked de bucket'----'Sir!' interrupted the lady, astonished and\ndispleased. 'Oh, pardon!--nine, ten thousand pardon! Now, I make new\nbeginning--quite oder beginning. Madam, since your husband have cut his\nstick'----It may be supposed that this did not mend matters; and,\nreading that in the lady's countenance, the German drew out an octavo\ndictionary, and said, perspiring with shame at having a second time\nmissed fire,--'Madam, since your husband have gone to kingdom come'----\nThis he said beseechingly; but the lady was past propitiation by this\ntime, and rapidly moved towards the door. Things had now reached a\ncrisis; and, if something were not done quickly, the game was up. Now,\ntherefore, taking a last hurried look at his dictionary, the German\nflew after the lady, crying out in a voice of despair--'Madam, since\nyour husband, your most respected husband, have hopped de twig'----This\nwas his sheet-anchor; and, as this also _came home_, of course the\npoor man was totally wrecked. It turned out that the dictionary he had\nused (Arnold's, we think,)--a work of a hundred years back, and, from\nmere ignorance, giving slang translations from Tom Brown, L'Estrange,\nand other jocular writers--had put down the verb _sterben (to\ndie)_ with the following worshipful series of equivalents--1. To\nkick the bucket; 2. To cut one's stick; 3. To go to kingdom come; 4. To\nhop the twig.\n\nBut, though Coleridge did not pretend to any fluent command of\nconversational German, he read it with great ease. His knowledge of\nGerman literature was, indeed, too much limited by his rare\nopportunities for commanding anything like a well-mounted library. And\nparticularly it surprised us that Coleridge knew little or nothing of\nJohn Paul (Richter). But his acquaintance with the German philosophic\nmasters was extensive. And his valuation of many individual German\nwords or phrases was delicate and sometimes profound.\n\nAs a Grecian, Coleridge must be estimated with a reference to the state\nand standard of Greek literature at that time and in this country.\nPorson had not yet raised our ideal. The earliest laurels of Coleridge\nwere gathered, however, in that field. Yet no man will, at this day,\npretend that the Greek of his prize ode is sufferable. Neither did\nColeridge ever become an accurate Grecian in later times, when better\nmodels of scholarship, and better aids to scholarship, had begun to\nmultiply. But still we must assert this point of superiority for\nColeridge, that, whilst he never was what may be called a well-mounted\nscholar in any department of verbal scholarship, he yet displayed\nsometimes a brilliancy of conjectural sagacity, and a felicity of\nphilosophic investigation, even in this path, such as better scholars\ndo not often attain, and of a kind which cannot be learned from books.\nBut, as respects his accuracy, again we must recall to the reader the\nstate of Greek literature in England during Coleridge's youth; and, in\nall equity, as a means of placing Coleridge in the balances,\nspecifically we must recall the state of Greek metrical composition at\nthat period.\n\nTo measure the condition of Greek literature even in Cambridge, about\nthe initial period of Coleridge, we need only look back to the several\ntranslations of Gray's _Elegy_ by three (if not four) of the\nreverend gentlemen at that time attached to Eton College. Mathias, no\nvery great scholar himself in this particular field, made himself\nmerry, in his _Pursuits of Literature_, with these Eton translations.\nIn that he was right. But he was _not_ right in praising a contemporary\ntranslation by Cook, who (we believe) was the immediate predecessor of\nPorson in the Greek chair. As a specimen of this translation,\n[Footnote: It was printed at the end of Aristotle's _Poetics_, which\nDr. Cook edited.] we cite one stanza; and we cannot be supposed to\nselect unfairly, because it is the stanza which Mathias praises in\nextravagant terms. \"Here,\" says he, \"Gray, Cook, and Nature, do seem to\ncontend for the mastery.\" The English quatrain must be familiar to\nevery body:--\n\n  \"The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow'r,\n    And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,\n  Await alike the inevitable hour:\n    The paths of glory lead but to the grave.\"\n\nAnd the following, we believe, though quoting from a thirty-three\nyears' recollection of it, is the exact Greek version of Cook:--\n\n  'A charis eugenon, charis a basilaeidos achas\n  Lora tuchaes chryseaes, Aphroditaes kala ta dora,\n  Paith ama tauta tethiake, kai eiden morsimon amar\n  Proon kle olole, kai ocheto xunon es Adaen.'\n\nNow really these verses, by force of a little mosaic tesselation from\ngenuine Greek sources, pass fluently over the tongue; but can they be\nconsidered other than a _cento_? Swarms of English schoolboys, at\nthis day, would not feel very proud to adopt them. In fact, we remember\n(at a period say twelve years later than this) some iambic verses,\nwhich were really composed by a boy, viz., a son of Dr. Prettyman,\n(afterwards Tomline,) Bishop of Winchester, and, in earlier times,\nprivate tutor to Mr. Pitt; they were published by Middleton, first\nBishop of Calcutta, in the preface to his work on the Greek article;\nand for racy idiomatic Greek, self-originated, and not a mere mocking-\nbird's iteration of alien notes, are so much superior to all the\nattempts of these sexagenarian doctors, as distinctly to mark the\ngrowth of a new era and a new generation in this difficult\naccomplishment, within the first decennium of this century. It is\nsingular that only one blemish is suggested by any of the contemporary\ncritics in Dr. Cook's verses, viz., in the word _xunon_, for which\nthis critic proposes to substitute _ooinon_, to prevent, as he\nobserves, the last syllable of _ocheto_ from being lengthened by\nthe _x_. Such considerations as these are necessary to the\n_trutin\u00e6 castigatio_, before we can value Coleridge's place on the\nscale of his own day; which day, _quoad hoc_, be it remembered,\nwas 1790.\n\nAs to French, Coleridge read it with too little freedom to find\npleasure in French literature. Accordingly, we never recollect his\nreferring for any purpose, either of argument or illustration, to a\nFrench classic. Latin, from his regular scholastic training, naturally\nhe read with a scholar's fluency; and indeed, he read constantly in\nauthors, such as Petrarch, Erasmus, Calvin, &c., whom he could not then\nhave found in translations. But Coleridge had not cultivated an\nacquaintance with the delicacies of classic Latinity. And it is\nremarkable that Wordsworth, educated most negligently at Hawkshead\nschool, subsequently by reading the lyric poetry of Horace, simply for\nhis own delight as a student of composition, made himself a master of\nLatinity in its most difficult form; whilst Coleridge, trained\nregularly in a great Southern school, never carried his Latin to any\nclassical polish.\n\nThere is another accomplishment of Coleridge's, less broadly open to\nthe judgment of this generation, and not at all of the next--viz., his\nsplendid art of conversation, on which it will be interesting to say a\nword. Ten years ago, when the music of this rare performance had not\nyet ceased to vibrate in men's ears, what a sensation was gathering\namongst the educated classes on this particular subject! What a tumult\nof anxiety prevailed to 'hear Mr. Coleridge'--or even to talk with a\nman who _had_ heard him! Had he lived till this day, not Paganini\nwould have been so much sought after. That sensation is now decaying;\nbecause a new generation has emerged during the ten years since his\ndeath. But many still remain whose sympathy (whether of curiosity in\nthose who did _not_ know him, or of admiration in those who\n_did_) still reflects as in a mirror the great stir upon this\nsubject which then was moving in the world. To these, if they should\ninquire for the great distinguishing principle of Coleridge's\nconversation, we might say that it was the power of vast combination\n'in linked sweetness long drawn out.' He gathered into focal\nconcentration the largest body of objects, _apparently_ disconnected,\nthat any man ever yet, by any magic, could assemble, or, _having_\nassembled, could manage. His great fault was, that, by not opening\nsufficient spaces for reply or suggestion, or collateral notice, he not\nonly narrowed his own field, but he grievously injured the final\nimpression. For when men's minds are purely passive, when they are not\nallowed to re-act, then it is that they collapse most, and that their\nsense of what is said must ever be feeblest. Doubtless there must have\nbeen great conversational masters elsewhere, and at many periods; but\nin this lay Coleridge's characteristic advantage, that he was a great\nnatural power, and also a great artist. He was a power in the art, and\nhe carried a new art into the power.\n\nBut now, finally--having left ourselves little room for more--one or\ntwo words on Coleridge as an opium-eater.\n\nWe have not often read a sentence falling from a wise man with\nastonishment so profound, as that particular one in a letter of\nColeridge's to Mr. Gillman, which speaks of the effort to wean one's-\nself from opium as a trivial task. There are, we believe, several such\npassages. But we refer to that one in particular which assumes that a\nsingle 'week' will suffice for the whole process of so mighty a\nrevolution. Is indeed leviathan _so_ tamed? In that case the\nquarantine of the opium-eater might be finished within Coleridge's\ntime, and with Coleridge's romantic ease. But mark the contradictions\nof this extraordinary man. Not long ago we were domesticated with a\nvenerable rustic, strong-headed, but incurably obstinate in his\nprejudices, who treated the whole body of medical men as ignorant\npretenders, knowing absolutely nothing of the system which they\nprofessed to superintend. This, you will remark, is no very singular\ncase. No; nor, as we believe, is the antagonist case of ascribing to\nsuch men magical powers. Nor, what is worse still, the co-existence of\nboth cases in the same mind, as in fact happened here. For this same\nobstinate friend of ours, who treated all medical pretensions as the\nmere jest of the universe, every 'third day was exacting from his own\nmedical attendants some exquisite _tour-de-force_, as that they\nshould know or should do something, which, if they _had_ known or\ndone, all men would have suspected them reasonably of magic. He rated\nthe whole medical body as infants; and yet what he exacted from them\nevery third day as a matter of course, virtually presumed them to be\nthe only giants within the whole range of science. Parallel and equal\nis the contradiction of Coleridge. He speaks of opium excess, his own\nexcess, we mean--the excess of twenty-five years--as a thing to be laid\naside easily and for ever within seven days; and yet, on the other\nhand, he describes it pathetically, sometimes with a frantic pathos, as\nthe scourge, the curse, the one almighty blight which had desolated his\nlife.\n\nThis shocking contradiction we need not press. All readers will see\n_that_. But some will ask--Was Mr. Coleridge right in either view?\nBeing so atrociously wrong in the first notion, (viz., that the opium\nof twenty-five years was a thing easily to be forsworn,) where a child\ncould know that he was wrong, was he even altogether right, secondly,\nin believing that his own life, root and branch, had been withered by\nopium? For it will not follow, because, with a relation to happiness\nand tranquillity, a man may have found opium his curse, that therefore,\nas a creature of energies and great purposes, he must have been the\nwreck which he seems to suppose. Opium gives and takes away. It defeats\nthe _steady_ habit of exertion, but it creates spasms of irregular\nexertion; it ruins the natural power of life, but it develops\npreternatural paroxysms of intermitting power. Let us ask of any man\nwho holds that not Coleridge himself but the world, as interested in\nColeridge's usefulness, has suffered by his addiction to opium; whether\nhe is aware of the way in which opium affected Coleridge; and secondly,\nwhether he is aware of the actual contributions to literature--how\nlarge they were--which Coleridge made _in spite_ of opium. All who\nwere intimate with Coleridge must remember the fits of genial animation\nwhich were created continually in his manner and in his buoyancy of\nthought by a recent or by an _extra_ dose of the omnipotent drug.\nA lady, who knew nothing experimentally of opium, once told us, that\nshe 'could tell when Mr. Coleridge had taken too much opium by his\nshining countenance.' She was right; we know that mark of opium\nexcesses well, and the cause of it; or at least we believe the cause to\nlie in the quickening of the insensible perspiration which accumulates\nand glistens on the face. Be that as it may, a criterion it was that\ncould not deceive us as to the condition of Coleridge. And uniformly in\nthat condition he made his most effective intellectual displays. It is\ntrue that he might not be happy under this fiery animation, and we\nfully believe that he was not. Nobody is happy under laudanum except\nfor a very short term of years. But in what way did that operate upon\nhis exertions as a writer? We are of opinion that it killed Coleridge\nas a poet. 'The harp of Quantock' was silenced for ever by the torment\nof opium. But proportionably it roused and stung by misery his\nmetaphysical instincts into more spasmodic life. Poetry can flourish\nonly in the atmosphere of happiness. But subtle and perplexed\ninvestigations of difficult problems are amongst the commonest\nresources for beguiling the sense of misery. And for this we have the\ndirect authority of Coleridge himself speculating on his own case. In\nthe beautiful though unequal ode entitled _Dejection_, stanza six,\noccurs the following passage:\n\n  'For not to think of what I needs must feel,\n  But to be still and patient all I can;\n  _And haply by abstruse research to steal\n  From my own nature all the natural man_--\n  This was my sole resource, my only plan;\n  Till that, which suits a part, infects the whole,\n  And now is almost grown the habit of my soul.'\n\nConsidering the exquisite quality of some poems which Coleridge has\ncomposed, nobody can grieve (or _has_ grieved) more than ourselves, at\nseeing so beautiful a fountain choked up with weeds. But had Coleridge\nbeen a happier man, it is our fixed belief that we should have had far\nless of his philosophy, and perhaps, but not certainly, might have had\nmore of his general literature. In the estimate of the public,\ndoubtless, _that_ will seem a bad exchange. Every man to his taste.\nMeantime, what we wish to show is, that the loss was not absolute, but\n merely relative.\n\nIt is urged, however, that, even on his philosophic speculations, opium\noperated unfavorably in one respect, by often causing him to leave them\nunfinished. This is true. Whenever Coleridge (being highly charged, or\nsaturated, with opium) had written with distempered vigor upon any\nquestion, there occurred soon after a recoil of intense disgust, not\nfrom his own paper only, but even from the subject. All opium-eaters\nare tainted with the infirmity of leaving works unfinished, and\nsuffering reactions of disgust. But Coleridge taxed himself with that\ninfirmity in verse before he could at all have commenced opium-eating.\nBesides, it is too much assumed by Coleridge and by his biographer,\nthat to leave off opium was of course to regain juvenile health. But\nall opium-eaters make the mistake of supposing every pain or irritation\nwhich they suffer to be the product of opium. Whereas a wise man will\nsay, suppose you _do_ leave off opium, that will not deliver you\nfrom the load of years (say sixty-three) which you carry on your back.\nCharles Lamb, another man of true genius, and another head belonging to\nthe Blackwood Gallery, made that mistake in his _Confessions of a\nDrunkard_. 'I looked back,' says he, 'to the time when always, on\nwaking in the morning, I had a song rising to my lips.' At present, it\nseems, being a drunkard, he has no such song. Ay, dear Lamb, but note\nthis, that the drunkard was fifty-six years old, the songster was\ntwenty-three. Take twenty-three from fifty-six, and we have some reason\nto believe that thirty-three will remain; which period of thirty-three\nyears is a pretty good reason for not singing in the morning, even if\nbrandy has been out of the question.\n\nIt is singular, as respects Coleridge, that Mr. Gillman never says one\nword upon the event of the great Highgate experiment for leaving off\nlaudanum, though Coleridge came to Mr. Gillman's for no other purpose;\nand in a week, this vast creation of new earth, sea, and all that in\nthem is, was to have been accomplished. We _rayther_ think, as\nBayley junior observes, that the explosion must have hung fire. But\n_that_ is a trifle. We have another pleasing hypothesis on the\nsubject. Mr. Wordsworth, in his exquisite lines written on a fly-leaf\nof his own _Castle of Indolence_, having described Coleridge as 'a\nnoticeable man with large grey eyes,' goes on to say, 'He' (viz.,\nColeridge) 'did that other man entice' to view his imagery. Now we are\nsadly afraid that 'the noticeable man with large grey eyes' did entice\n'that other man,' viz., Gillman, to commence opium-eating. This is\ndroll; and it makes us laugh horribly. Gillman should have reformed\n_him_; and lo! _he_ corrupts Gillman. S. T. Coleridge visited\nHighgate by way of being converted from the heresy of opium; and the\nissue is--that, in two months' time, various grave men, amongst whom\nour friend Gillman marches first in great pomp, are found to have faces\nshining and glorious as that of AEsculapius; a fact of which we have\nalready explained the secret meaning. And scandal says (but then what\nwill not scandal say?) that a hogshead of opium goes up daily through\nHighgate tunnel. Surely one corroboration of our hypothesis may be\nfound in the fact, that Vol. I. of Gillman's Coleridge is for ever to\nstand unpropped by Vol. II. For we have already observed, that opium-\neaters, though good fellows upon the whole, never finish anything.\n\nWhat then? A man has a right never to finish anything. Certainly he\nhas; and by Magna Charta. But he has no right, by Magna Charta or by\nParva Charta, to slander decent men, like ourselves and our friend the\nauthor of the _Opium Confessions_. Here it is that our complaint\narises against Mr. Gillman. If he has taken to opium-eating, can we\nhelp _that_? If _his_ face shines, must our faces be blackened? He has\nvery improperly published some intemperate passages from Coleridge's\nletters, which ought to have been considered confidential, unless\nColeridge had left them for publication, charging upon the author of\nthe _Opium Confessions_ a reckless disregard of the temptations which,\nin that work, he was scattering abroad amongst men. Now this author is\nconnected with ourselves, and we cannot neglect his defence, unless in\nthe case that he undertakes it himself.\n\nWe complain, also, that Coleridge raises (and is backed by Mr. Gillman\nin raising) a distinction perfectly perplexing to us, between himself\nand the author of the _Opium Confessions_ upon the question--Why\nthey severally began the practice of opium-eating? In himself, it\nseems, this motive was to relieve pain, whereas the Confessor was\nsurreptitiously seeking for pleasure. Ay, indeed--where did he learn\n_that_? We have no copy of the _Confessions_ here, so we cannot quote\nchapter and verse; but we distinctly remember, that toothache is\nrecorded in that book as the particular occasion which first introduced\nthe author to the knowledge of opium. Whether afterwards, having been\nthus initiated by the demon of pain, the opium confessor did not apply\npowers thus discovered to purposes of mere pleasure, is a question for\nhimself; and the same question applies with the same cogency to\nColeridge. Coleridge began in rheumatic pains. What then? This is no\nproof that he did not end in voluptuousness. For our parts, we are slow\nto believe that ever any man did, or could, learn the somewhat awful\ntruth, that in a certain ruby-colored elixir, there lurked a divine\npower to chase away the genius of ennui, without subsequently abusing\nthis power. To taste but once from the tree of knowledge, is fatal to\nthe subsequent power of abstinence. True it is, that generations have\nused laudanum as an anodyne, (for instance, hospital patients,) who\nhave not afterwards courted its powers as a voluptuous stimulant; but\nthat, be sure, has arisen from no abstinence in _them_. There are, in\nfact, two classes of temperaments as to this terrific drug--those which\nare, and those which are not, preconformed to its power; those which\ngenially expand to its temptations, and those which frostily exclude\nthem. Not in the energies of the will, but in the qualities of the\nnervous organization, lies the dread arbitration of--Fall or stand:\ndoomed thou art to yield; or, strengthened constitutionally, to resist.\nMost of those who have but a low sense of the spells lying couchant in\nopium, have practically none at all. For the initial fascination is for\n_them_ effectually defeated by the sickness which nature has associated\nwith the first stages of opium-eating. But to that other class, whose\nnervous sensibilities vibrate to their profoundest depths under the\nfirst touch of the angelic poison, even as a lover's ear thrills on\nhearing unexpectedly the voice of her whom he loves, opium is the\nAmreeta cup of beatitude. You know the _Paradise Lost_? and you\nremember, from the eleventh book, in its earlier part, that laudanum\nalready existed in Eden--nay, that it was used medicinally by an\narchangel; for, after Michael had 'purged with euphrasy and rue' the\neyes of Adam, lest he should be unequal to the mere _sight_ of the\ngreat visions about to unfold their draperies before him, next he\nfortifies his fleshly spirits against the _affliction_ of these\nvisions, of which visions the first was death. And how?\n\n  'He from the well of life three drops instill'd.'\n\nWhat was their operation?\n\n  'So deep the power of these ingredients pierced,\n  _Even to the inmost seat of mental sight_,\n  That Adam, now enforced to close his eyes,\n  Sank down, and all his spirits became entranced.\n  But him the gentle angel by the hand\n  Soon raised'----\n\nThe second of these lines it is which betrays the presence of laudanum.\nIt is in the faculty of mental vision, it is in the increased power of\ndealing with the shadowy and the dark, that the characteristic virtue\nof opium lies. Now, in the original higher sensibility is found some\npalliation for the _practice_ of opium-eating; in the greater\ntemptation is a greater excuse. And in this faculty of self-revelation\nis found some palliation for _reporting_ the case to the world,\nwhich both Coleridge and his biographer have overlooked.\n\n\n\n\nTEMPERANCE MOVEMENT.\n\n\nThe most remarkable instance of a combined movement in society, which\nhistory, perhaps, will be summoned to notice, is that which, in our own\ndays, has applied itself to the abatement of intemperance. Naturally,\nor by any _direct_ process, the machinery set in motion would seem\nirrelevant to the object: if one hundred men unite to elevate the\nstandard of temperance, they can do this with effect only by\nimprovements in their own separate cases: each individual, for such an\neffort of self-conquest, can draw upon no resources but his own. One\nmember in a combination of one hundred, when running a race, can hope\nfor no cooperation from his ninety-nine associates. And yet, by a\nsecondary action, such combinations are found eminently successful.\nHaving obtained from every confederate a pledge, in some shape or\nother, that he will give them his support, thenceforwards they bring\nthe passions of shame and self-esteem to bear upon each member's\npersonal perseverance. Not only they keep alive and continually refresh\nin his thoughts the general purpose, which else might fade; but they\nalso point the action of public contempt and of self-contempt at any\ndefaulter much more potently, and with more acknowledged right to do\nso, when they use this influence under a license, volunteered, and\nsigned, and sealed, by the man's own hand. They first conciliate his\ncountenance through his intellectual perceptions of what is right; and\nnext they sustain it through his conscience, (the strongest of his\ninternal forces,) and even through the weakest of his human\nsensibilities. That revolution, therefore, which no combination of men\ncan further by abating the original impulse of temptations, they often\naccomplish happily by maturing the secondary energies of resistance.\n\nAlready in their earliest stage, these temperance movements had\nobtained, both at home and abroad, a _national_ range of grandeur.\nMore than ten years ago, when M. de Tocqueville was resident in the\nUnited States, the principal American society counted two hundred and\nseventy thousand members: and in one single state (Pennsylvania) the\nannual diminution in the use of spirits had very soon reached half a\nmillion of gallons. Now a machinery must be so far good which\naccomplishes its end: the means are meritorious for so much as they\neffect. Even to strengthen a feeble resolution by the aid of other\ninfirmities, such as shame or the very servility and cowardice of\ndeference to public opinion, becomes prudent and laudable in the\nservice of so great a cause. Nay, sometimes to make public profession\nof self-distrust by assuming the coercion of public pledges, may become\nan expression of frank courage, or even of noble principle, not fearing\nthe shame of confession when it can aid the powers of victorious\nresistance. Yet still, so far as it is possible, every man sighs for a\nstill higher victory over himself: a victory not tainted by bribes, and\nwon from no impulses but those inspired by his own higher nature, and\nhis own mysterious force of will; powers that in no man were fully\ndeveloped.\n\nThis being so, it is well that from time to time every man should throw\nout any hints that have occurred to his experience,--suggesting such as\nmay be new, renewing such as may be old, towards the encouragement or\nthe information of persons engaged in so great a struggle. My own\nexperience had never travelled in that course which could much instruct\nme in the miseries from wine, or in the resources for struggling with\nit. I had repeatedly been obliged indeed to lay it aside altogether;\nbut in this I never found room for more than seven or ten days'\nstruggle: excesses I had never practised in the use of wine; simply the\nhabit of using it, and the collateral habits formed by excessive use of\nopium, had produced any difficulty at all in resigning it even on an\nhour's notice. From opium I derive my right of offering hints at all\nupon the subjects of abstinence in other forms. But the modes of\nsuffering from the evil, and the separate modes of suffering from the\neffort of self-conquest, together with errors of judgment incident to\nsuch states of transitional torment, are all nearly allied, practically\nanalogous as regards the remedies, even if characteristically\ndistinguished to the inner consciousness. I make no scruple, therefore,\nof speaking as from a station of high experience and of most watchful\nattention, which never remitted even under sufferings that were at\ntimes absolutely frantic.\n\nI. The first hint is one that has been often offered; viz., the\ndiminution of the particular liquor used, by the introduction into each\nglass of some inert substance, ascertained in bulk, and equally\nincreasing in amount from day to day. But this plan has often been\nintercepted by an accident: shot, or sometimes bullets, were the\nsubstances nearest at hand; an objection arose from too scrupulous a\ncaution of chemistry as to the action upon lead of the vinous acid. Yet\nall objection of this kind might be removed at once, by using beads in\na case where small decrements were wanted, and marbles, if it were\nthought advisable to use larger. Once for all, however, in cases deeply\nrooted, no advances ought ever to be made but by small stages: for the\neffect, which is insensible at first, by the tenth, twelfth, or\nfifteenth day, generally accumulates unendurably under any bolder\ndeductions. I must not stop to illustrate this point; but certain it\nis, that by an error of this nature at the outset, most natural to\nhuman impatience under exquisite suffering, too generally the trial is\nabruptly brought to an end through the crisis of a passionate relapse.\n\nII. Another object, and one to which the gladiator matched in single\nduel with intemperance, must direct a religious vigilance, is the\n_digestibility_ of his food: it must be digestible not only by its\noriginal qualities, but also by its culinary preparation. In this last\npoint we are all of us Manich\u00e6ans: all of us yield a cordial assent to\nthat Manich\u00e6an proverb, which refers the meats and the cooks of this\nworld to two opposite fountains of light and of darkness. Oromasdes it\nis, or the good principle, that sends the food; Ahrimanes, or the evil\nprinciple, that everywhere sends the cooks. Man has been repeatedly\ndescribed or even defined, as by differential privilege of his nature,\n'A cooking animal.' Brutes, it is said, have faces,--man only has a\ncountenance; brutes are as well able to eat as man,--man only is able\nto cook what he eats. Such are the romances of self-flattery. I, on the\ncontrary, maintain, that six thousand years have not availed, in this\npoint, to raise our race generally to the level of ingenious savages.\nThe natives of the Society and the Friendly Isles, or of New Zealand,\nand other favored spots, had, and still have, an _art_ of cookery,\nthough very limited in its range: the French [Footnote: But judge not,\nreader, of French skill by the attempts of fourth-rate artists; and\nunderstand me to speak with respect of this skill, not as it is the\ntool of luxury, but as it is the handmaid of health.] have an art, and\nmore extensive; but we English are about upon a level (as regards this\nscience) with the ape, to whom an instinct whispers that chestnuts may\nbe roasted; or with the aboriginal Chinese of Charles Lamb's story, to\nwhom the experience of many centuries had revealed thus much, viz.,\nthat a dish very much beyond the raw flesh of their ancestors, might be\nhad by burning down the family mansion, and thus roasting the pig-stye.\nRudest of barbarous devices is English cookery, and not much in advance\nof this primitive Chinese step; a fact which it would not be worth\nwhile to lament, were it not for the sake of the poor trembling\ndeserter from the banners of intoxication, who is thus, and by no other\ncause, so often thrown back beneath the yoke which he had abjured. Past\ncounting are the victims of alcohol, that, having by vast efforts\nemancipated themselves for a season, are violently forced into\nrelapsing by the nervous irritations of demoniac cookery. Unhappily for\n_them_, the horrors of indigestion are relieved for the moment,\nhowever ultimately strengthened, by strong liquors; the relief is\nimmediate, and cannot fail to be perceived; but the aggravation, being\nremoved to a distance, is not always referred to its proper cause. This\nis the capital rock and stumbling-block in the path of him who is\nhurrying back to the camps of temperance; and many a reader is likely\nto misapprehend the case through the habit he has acquired of supposing\nindigestion to lurk chiefly amongst _luxurious_ dishes. But, on\nthe contrary, it is amongst the plainest, simplest, and commonest\ndishes that such misery lurks, in England. Let us glance at three\narticles of diet, beyond all comparison of most ordinary occurrence,\nviz., potatoes, bread, and butcher's meat. The art of preparing\npotatoes for _human_ use is utterly unknown, except in certain\nprovinces of our empire, and amongst certain sections of the laboring\nclass. In our great cities,--London, Edinburgh, &c.--the sort of things\nwhich you see offered at table under the name and reputation of\npotatoes, are such that, if you could suppose the company to be\ncomposed of Centaurs and Lapith\u00e6, or any other quarrelsome people, it\nwould become necessary for the police to interfere. The potato of\ncities is a very dangerous missile; and, if thrown with an accurate aim\nby an angry hand, will fracture any known skull. In volume and\nconsistency, it is very like a paving-stone; only that, I should say,\nthe paving-stone had the advantage in point of tenderness. And upon\nthis horrid basis, which youthful ostriches would repent of swallowing,\nthe trembling, palpitating invalid, fresh from the scourging of\nalcohol, is requested to build the superstructure of his dinner. The\nproverb says, that three flittings are as bad as a fire; and on that\nmodel I conceive that three potatoes, as they are found at many British\ndinner-tables, would be equal, in principle of ruin, to two glasses of\nvitriol. The same savage ignorance appears, and only not so often, in\nthe bread of this island. Myriads of families eat it in that early\nstage of sponge which bread assumes during the process of baking; but\nless than sixty hours will not fit this dangerous article of human diet\nto be eaten. And those who are acquainted with the works of Parmentier,\nor other learned investigators of bread and of the baker's art, must be\naware that this quality of sponginess (though quite equal to the ruin\nof the digestive organs) is but one in a legion of vices to which the\narticle is liable. A German of much research wrote a book on the\nconceivable faults in a pair of shoes, which he found to be about six\nhundred and sixty-six, many of them, as he observed, requiring a very\ndelicate process of study to find out; whereas the possible faults in\nbread, which are not less in number, require no study at all for the\ndefection; they publish themselves through all varieties of misery. But\nthe perfection of barbarism, as regards our island cookery, is reserved\nfor animal food; and the two poles of Oromasdes and Ahrimanes are\nnowhere so conspicuously exhibited. Our insular sheep, for instance,\nare so far superior to any which the continent produces, that the\npresent Prussian minister at our court is in the habit of questioning a\nman's right to talk of mutton as anything beyond a great idea, unless\nhe can prove a residence in Great Britain. One sole case he cites of a\ndinner on the Elbe, when a particular leg of mutton really struck him\nas rivalling any which he had known in England. The mystery seemed\ninexplicable; but, upon inquiry, it turned out to be an importation\nfrom Leith. Yet this incomparable article, to produce which the skill\nof the feeder must co-operate with the peculiar bounty of nature, calls\nforth the most dangerous refinements of barbarism in its cookery. A\nFrenchman requires, as the primary qualification of flesh meat, that it\nshould be tender. We English universally, but especially the Scots,\ntreat that quality with indifference, or with bare toleration. What we\nrequire is, that it should be fresh, that is, recently killed, (in\nwhich state it cannot be digestible except by a crocodile;) and we\npresent it at table in a transition state of leather, demanding the\nteeth of a tiger to rend it in pieces, and the stomach of a tiger to\ndigest it.\n\nWith these habits amongst our countrymen, exemplified daily in the\narticles of widest use, it is evident that the sufferer from\nintemperance has a harder quarantine, in this island, to support during\nthe effort of restoration, than he could have anywhere else in\nChristendom. In Persia, and, perhaps, there only on this terraqueous\nplanet, matters might be even worse: for, whilst we English neglect the\nmachinery of digestion, as a matter entitled to little consideration,\nthe people of Teheran seem unaware that there _is_ any such\nmachinery. So, at least, one might presume, from cases on record, and\nespecially from the reckless folly, under severe illness, from\nindigestion, of the three Persian princes, who visited this country, as\nstated by their official _mehmander_, Mr. Fraser. With us, the\nexcess of ignorance, upon this subject, betrays itself oftenest in that\nvain-glorious answer made by the people, who at any time are admonished\nof the sufferings which they are preparing for themselves by these\noutrages upon the most delicate of human organs. They, for _their_\nparts, 'know not if they _have_ a stomach; they know not what it\nis that dyspepsy means;' forgetting that, in thus vaunting their\n_strength_ of stomach, they are, at the same time, proclaiming its\ncoarseness; and showing themselves unaware that precisely those, whom\nsuch coarseness of organization reprieves from immediate and seasonable\nreaction of suffering, are the favorite subjects of that heavier\nreaction which takes the shape of _delirium tremens_, of palsy,\nand of lunacy. It is but a fanciful advantage which _they_ enjoy,\nfor whom the immediate impunity avails only to hide the final horrors\nwhich are gathering upon them from the gloomy rear. Better, by far,\nthat more of immediate discomfort had guaranteed to them less of\nreversionary anguish. It may be safely asserted, that few, indeed, are\nthe suicides amongst us to which the miseries of indigestion have not\nbeen a large concurring cause; and even where nothing so dreadful as\n_that_ occurs, always these miseries are the chief hinderance of\nthe self-reforming drunkard, and the commonest cause of his relapse. It\nis certain, also, that misanthropic gloom and bad temper besiege that\nclass, by preference, to whom peculiar coarseness or obtuse sensibility\nof organization has denied the salutary warnings and early prelibations\nof punishment which, happily for most men, besiege the more direct and\nobvious frailties of the digestive apparatus.\n\nThe whole process and elaborate machinery of digestion are felt to be\nmean and humiliating when viewed in relation to our mere animal\neconomy. But they rise into dignity, and assert their own supreme\nimportance, when they arc studied from another station, viz., in\nrelation to the intellect and temper; no man dares, _then_, to\ndespise them: it is then seen that these functions of the human system\nform the essential basis upon which the strength and health of our\nhigher nature repose; and that upon these functions, chiefly, the\ngeneral happiness of life is dependent. All the rules of prudence, or\ngifts of experience that life can accumulate, will never do as much for\nhuman comfort and welfare as would be done by a stricter attention, and\na wiser science, directed to the digestive system; in this attention\nlies the key to any perfect restoration for the victim of intemperance:\nand, considering the peculiar hostility to the digestive health which\nexists in the dietetic habits of our own country, it may be feared that\nnowhere upon earth has the reclaimed martyr to intemperance so\ndifficult a combat to sustain; nowhere, therefore, is it so important\nto direct the attention upon an _artificial_ culture of those\nresources which naturally, and by the established habits of the land,\nare surest to be neglected. The sheet anchor for the storm-beaten\nsufferer, who is laboring to recover a haven of rest from the agonies\nof intemperance, and who has had the fortitude to abjure the poison\nwhich ruined, but which also, for brief intervals, offered him his only\nconsolation, lies, beyond all doubt, in a most anxious regard to\neverything connected with this supreme function of our animal economy.\nAnd, as few men that are not regularly trained to medical studies can\nhave the complex knowledge requisite for such a duty, some printed\nguide should be sought of a regular professional order. Twenty years\nago, Dr. Wilson Philip published a valuable book of this class, which\nunited a wide range of practical directions as to the choice of diet,\nand as to the qualities and tendencies of all esculent articles likely\nto be found at British tables, with some ingenious speculations upon\nthe still mysterious theory of digestion. These were derived from\nexperiments made upon rabbits, and had originally been communicated by\nhim to the Royal Society of London, who judged them worthy of\npublication in their Transactions. I notice them chiefly for the sake\nof remarking, that the rationale of digestion, as here suggested,\nexplains the reason of a fact, which merely _as_ a fact, had not\nbeen known until modern times, viz., the injuriousness to enfeebled\nstomachs of all fluid. Fifty years ago--and still lingering\ninveterately amongst nurses, and other ignorant persons--there\nprevailed a notion that 'slops' must be the proper resource of the\nvaletudinarian; and the same erroneous notion appears in the common\nexpression of ignorant wonder at the sort of breakfasts usual amongst\nwomen of rank in the times of Queen Elizabeth. 'What robust stomachs\nthey must have had, to support such solid meals!' As to the question of\nfact, whether the stomachs were more or less robust in those days than\nat the present, there is no need to offer an opinion. But the question\nof principle concerned in scientific dietetics points in the very\nopposite direction. By how much the organs of digestion are feebler, by\nso much is it the more indispensable that solid food and animal food\nshould be adopted. A robust stomach may be equal to the trying task of\nsupporting a fluid, such as tea for breakfast; but for a feeble\nstomach, and still more for a stomach _enfeebled_ by bad habits,\nbroiled beef, or something equally solid and animal, but not too much\nsubjected to the action of fire, is the only tolerable diet. This,\nindeed, is the one capital rule for a sufferer from habitual\nintoxication, who must inevitably labor under an impaired digestion;\nthat as little as possible he should use of any liquid diet, and as\nlittle as possible of vegetable diet. Beef, and a little bread, (at the\nleast sixty hours old,) compose the privileged bill of fare for his\nbreakfast. But precisely it is, by the way, in relation to this\nearliest meal, that human folly has in one or two instances shown\nitself most ruinously inventive. The less variety there is at that\nmeal, the more is the danger from any single luxury; and there is one,\nknown by the name of 'muffins,' which has repeatedly manifested itself\nto be a plain and direct bounty upon suicide. Darwin, in his\n'Zoonomia,' reports a case where an officer, holding the rank of\nlieutenant-colonel, could not tolerate a breakfast in which this odious\narticle was wanting; but, as a savage retribution invariably supervened\nwithin an hour or two upon this act of insane sensuality, he came to a\nresolution that life was intolerable _with_ muffins, but still\nmore intolerable _without_ muffins. He would stand the nuisance no\nlonger; but yet, being a just man, he would give nature one final\nchance of reforming her dyspeptic atrocities. Muffins, therefore, being\nlaid at one angle of the breakfast-table, and loaded pistols at\nanother, with rigid equity the Colonel awaited the result. This was\nnaturally pretty much as usual: and then, the poor man, incapable of\nretreating from his word of honor, committed suicide,--having\npreviously left a line for posterity to the effect (though I forget the\nexpression), 'That a muffinless world was no world for him: better no\nlife at all than a life dismantled of muffins.'--Dr. Darwin was a showy\nphilosopher, and fond of producing effect, so that some allowance must\nbe made in construing the affair. Strictly speaking, it is probable\nthat not the especial want of muffins, but the general torment of\nindigestion, was the curse from which the unhappy sufferer sought\nrelief by suicide. And the Colonel was not the first by many a million,\nthat has fled from the very same form of wretchedness, or from its\neffects upon the genial spirits, to the same gloomy refuge. It should\nnever be forgotten that, although some other more overt vexation is\ngenerally assigned as the proximate cause of suicide, and often may be\nso as regards the immediate occasion, too generally this vexation\nborrowed its whole power to annoy, from the habitual atmosphere of\nirritation in which the system had been kept by indigestion. So that\nindirectly, and virtually, perhaps, all suicides may be traced to\nmismanaged digestion. Meantime, in alluding at all to so dreadful a\nsubject as suicide, I do so only by way of giving deeper effect to the\nopinion expressed above, upon the chief cause of relapse into habits of\nintemperance amongst those who have once accomplished their\ndeliverance. Errors of digestion, either from impaired powers, or from\npowers not so much enfeebled as deranged, is the one immeasurable\nsource both of disease and of secret wretchedness to the human race.\nLife is laid waste by the eternal fretting of the vital forces,\nemanating from this one cause. And it may well be conceived, that if\ncases so endless, even of suicide, in every generation, are virtually\ntraceable to this main root, much more must it be able to shake and\nundermine the yet palpitating frame of the poor fugitive from\nintemperance; since indigestion in every mode and variety of its\nchanges irresistibly upholds the temptation to that form of excitement\nwhich, though one foremost cause of indigestion, is yet unhappily its\nsole immediate palliation.\n\nIII. Next, after the most vigorous attention, and a scientific\nattention to the digestive system, in power of operation, stands\n_exercise_. Here, however, most people have their own separate\nhabits, with respect to the time of exercise, the duration, and the\nparticular mode, on which a stranger cannot venture to intrude with his\nadvice. Some will not endure the steady patience required for walking\nexercise; many benefit most by riding on horseback; and in days when\nroads were more rugged, and the springs of carriages less improved, I\nhave known people who found most advantage in the vibrations\ncommunicated to the frame by a heavy rumbling carriage. For myself,\nunder the ravages of opium, I have found walking the most beneficial\nexercise; besides that, it requires no previous notice or preparation\nof any kind; and this is a capital advantage in a state of drooping\nenergies, or of impatient and unresting agitation. I may mention, as\npossibly an accident of my individual temperament, but possibly, also,\nno accident at all, that the relief obtained by walking was always most\nsensibly brought home to my consciousness, when some part of it (at\nleast a mile and a half) has been performed before breakfast. In this\nthere soon ceased to be any difficulty; for, whilst under the full\noppression of opium, it was impossible for me to rise at any hour that\ncould, by the most indulgent courtesy, be described as within the pale\nof morning, no sooner had there been established any considerable\nrelief from this oppression, than the tendency was in the opposite\ndirection; the difficulty became continually greater of sleeping even\nto a reasonable hour. Having once accomplished the feat of walking at\nnine A. M., I backed, in a space of seven or eight months, to eight\no'clock, to seven, to six, five, four, three; until at this point a\nmetaphysical fear fell upon me that I was actually backing into\n'yesterday,' and should soon have no sleep at all. Below three,\nhowever, I did not descend; and, for a couple of years, three and a\nhalf hours' sleep was all that I could obtain in the twenty-four hours.\nFrom this no particular suffering arose, except the nervous impatience\nof lying in bed for one moment after awaking. Consequently, the habit\nof walking before breakfast became at length troublesome no longer as a\nmost odious duty, but, on the contrary, as a temptation that could\nhardly be resisted on the wettest mornings. As to the quantity of the\nexercise, I found that six miles a day formed the _minimum_ which\nwould support permanently a particular standard of animal spirits,\nevidenced to myself by certain apparent symptoms. I averaged about nine\nand a half miles a day; but ascended on particular days to fifteen or\nsixteen, and more rarely to twenty-three or twenty-four; a quantity\nwhich did not produce fatigue, on the contrary it spread a sense of\nimprovement through almost the whole week that followed; but usually,\nin the night immediately succeeding to such an exertion, I lost much of\nmy sleep; a privation that, under the circumstances explained, deterred\nme from trying the experiment too often. For one or two years, I\naccomplished more than I have here claimed, viz., from six to seven\nthousand miles in the twelve months. Let me add to this slight abstract\nof my own experience, in a point where it is really difficult to offer\nany useful advice, (the tastes and habits of men varying so much in\nthis chapter of exercise,) that one caution seems applicable to the\ncase of all persons suffering from nervous irritability, viz., that a\nsecluded space should be measured off accurately, in some private\ngrounds not liable to the interruption or notice of chance intruders;\nfor these annoyances are unendurable to the restless invalid; to be\nquestioned upon trivial things is death to him; and the perpetual\nanticipation of such annoyances is little less distressing. Some plan\nmust also be adopted for registering the number of rounds performed. I\nonce walked for eighteen months in a circuit so confined that forty\nrevolutions were needed to complete a mile. These I counted, at one\ntime, by a rosary of beads; every tenth round being marked by drawing a\nblue bead, the other nine by drawing white beads. But this plan, I\nfound in practice, more troublesome and inaccurate than that of using\nten detached counters, stones, or anything else that was large enough\nand solid. These were applied to the separate bars of a garden chair;\nthe first bar indicating of itself the first decade, the second bar the\nsecond decade, and so on. In fact, I used the chair in some measure as\na Roman abacus, but on a still simpler plan; and as the chair offered\nsixteen bars, it followed, that on covering the last bar of the series\nwith the ten markers, I perceived without any trouble of calculation\nthe accomplishment of my fourth mile.\n\nA necessity, more painful to me by far than that of taking continued\nexercise, arose out of a cause which applies, perhaps, with the same\nintensity only to opium cases, but must also apply in some degree to\nall cases of debilitation from morbid stimulation of the nerves,\nwhether by means of wine, or opium, or distilled liquors. In travelling\non the outside of mails, during my youthful days, for I could not\nendure the inside, occasionally, during the night-time, I suffered\nnaturally from cold: no cloaks, &c. were always sufficient to relieve\nthis; and I then made the discovery that opium, after an hour or so,\ndiffuses a warmth deeper and far more permanent than could be had from\nany other known source. I mention this, to explain, in some measure,\nthe awful passion of cold which for some years haunted the inverse\nprocess of laying aside the opium. It was a perfect frenzy of misery;\ncold was a sensation which then first, as a mode of torment, seemed to\nhave been revealed. In the months of July and August, and not at all\nthe less during the very middle watch of the day, I sate in the closest\nproximity to a blazing fire; cloaks, blankets, counterpanes,\nhearthrugs, horse-cloths, were piled upon my shoulders, but with hardly\na glimmering of relief. At night, and after taking coffee, I felt a\nlittle warmer, and could sometimes afford to smile at the resemblance\nof my own case to that of Harry Gill. [Footnote: 'Harry Gill:'--Many\nreaders, in this generation, may not be aware of this ballad as one\namongst the early poems of Wordsworth. Thirty or forty years ago, it\nwas the object of some insipid ridicule, which ought, perhaps, in\nanother place, to be noticed. And, doubtless, this ridicule was\nheightened by the false impression that the story had been some old\nwoman's superstitious fiction, meant to illustrate a supernatural\njudgment on hard-heartedness. But the story was a physiologic fact;\nand, originally, it had been brought forward in a philosophic work, by\nDarwin, who had the reputation of an irreligious man, and even of an\ninfidel. A bold freethinker he certainly was: a Deist, and, by public\nrepute, something more.] But, secretly, I was struck with awe at the\nrevelation of powers so unsearchably new, lurking within old affections\nso familiarly known as cold. Upon the analogy of this case, it might be\nthought that nothing whatever had yet been truly and seriously felt by\nman; nothing searched or probed by human sensibilities, to a depth\nbelow the surface. If cold could give out mysteries of suffering so\nnovel, all things in the world might be yet unvisited by the truth of\nhuman sensations. All experience, worthy of the name, was yet to begin.\nMeantime, the external phenomenon, by which the cold expressed itself,\nwas a sense (but with little reality) of eternal freezing perspiration.\nFrom this I was never free; and at length, from finding one general\nablution sufficient for one day, I was thrown upon the irritating\nnecessity of repeating it more frequently than would seem credible, if\nstated. At this time, I used always hot water; and a thought occurred\nto me very seriously that it would be best to live constantly, and,\nperhaps, to sleep in a bath. What caused me to renounce this plan, was\nan accident that compelled me for one day to use cold water. This,\nfirst of all, communicated any lasting warmth; so that ever afterwards\nI used none _but_ cold water. Now, to live in a _cold_ bath,\nin our climate, and in my own state of preternatural sensibility to\ncold, was not an idea to dally with. I wish to mention, however, for\nthe information of other sufferers in the same way, one change in the\nmode of applying the water, which led to a considerable and a sudden\nimprovement in the condition of my feelings. I had endeavored to\nprocure a child's battledore, as an easy means (when clothed with\nsponge) of reaching the interspace between the shoulders; which\ninterspace, by the way, is a sort of Bokhara, so provokingly situated,\nthat it will neither suffer itself to be reached from the north, in\nwhich direction even the Czar, with his long arms, has only singed his\nown fingers, and lost six thousand camels; nor at all better from the\nsouth, upon which line of approach the greatest potentate in Southern\nAsia, viz., No.--, in Leadenhall Street, has found it the best policy\nto pocket the little Khan's murderous defiances and persevering\ninsults. There is no battledore long enough to reach him in either way.\nIn my own difficulty, I felt almost as perplexed as the Honorable East\nIndia Company, when I found that no battledore was to be had; for no\ntown was near at hand. In default of a battledore, therefore, my\nnecessity threw my experiment upon a long hair-brush; and this,\neventually, proved of much greater service than any sponge or any\nbattledore; for, the friction of the brush caused an irritation on the\nsurface of the skin, which, more than anything else, has gradually\ndiminished the once continual misery of unrelenting frost; although\neven yet it renews itself most distressingly at uncertain intervals.\n\nIV. I counsel the patient not to make the mistake of supposing that his\namendment will necessarily proceed continuously, or by equal\nincrements; because this, which is a common notion, will certainly lead\nto dangerous disappointments. How frequently I have heard people\nencouraging a self-reformer by such language as this:--'When you have\ngot over the fourth day of abstinence, which suppose to be Sunday, then\nMonday will find you a trifle better; Tuesday better still,--though\nstill it should be only by a trifle; and so on. You may, at least, rely\non never going back; you may assure yourself of having seen the worst;\nand the positive improvements, if trifles separately, must soon gather\ninto a sensible magnitude.' This may be true in a case of short\nstanding: but, as a general rule, it is perilously delusive. On the\ncontrary, the line of progress, if exhibited in a geometrical\nconstruction, would describe an ascending path upon the whole, but with\nfrequent retrocessions into descending curves, which, compared with the\npoint of ascent that had been previously gained and so vexatiously\ninterrupted, would sometimes seem deeper than the original point of\nstarting. This mortifying tendency I can report from experience many\ntimes repeated with regard to opium; and so unaccountably, as regarded\nall the previous grounds of expectation, that I am compelled to suppose\nit a tendency inherent in the very nature of all self-restorations for\nanimal systems. They move perhaps necessarily _per saltum_, by,\nintermitting spasms, and pulsations of unequal energy.\n\nV. I counsel the patient frequently to call back before his thoughts--\nwhen suffering sorrowful collapses, that seem unmerited by anything\ndone or neglected--that such, and far worse, perhaps, must have been\nhis experience, and with no reversion of hope behind, had he persisted\nin his intemperate indulgencies; _these_ also suffer their own\ncollapses, and (so far as things not co-present can be compared) by\nmany degrees more shocking to the genial instincts.\n\nVI. I exhort him to believe, that no movement on his own part, not the\nsmallest conceivable, towards the restoration of his healthy state, can\nby possibility perish. Nothing in this direction is finally lost; but\noften it disappears and hides itself; suddenly, however, to reappear,\nand in unexpected strength, and much more hopefully; because such\nminute elements of improvement, by reappearing at a remoter stage, show\nthemselves to have combined with other elements of the same kind: so\nthat equally by their gathering tendency and their duration through\nintervals of apparent darkness, and below the current of what seemed\nabsolute interruption, they argue themselves to be settled in the\nsystem. There is no good gift that does not come from God: almost his\ngreatest is health, with the peace which it inherits; and man must reap\n_this_ on the same terms as he was told to reap God's earliest\ngift, the fruits of the earth, viz.: 'in the sweat of his brow,'\nthrough labor, often through sorrow, through disappointment, but still\nthrough imperishable perseverance, and hoping under clouds, when all\nhope seems darkened.\n\nVII. It is difficult, in selecting from many memoranda of warning and\nencouragement, to know which to prefer when the space disposable is\nlimited. But it seems to me important not to omit this particular\ncaution: The patient will be naturally anxious, as he goes on,\nfrequently to test the amount of his advance, and its rate, if that\nwere possible. But this he will see no mode of doing, except through\ntentative balancings of his feelings, and generally of the moral\natmosphere around him, as to pleasure and hope, against the\ncorresponding states, so far as he can recall them from his periods of\nintemperance. But these comparisons, I warn him, are fallacious, when\nmade in this way; the two states are incommensurable on any plan of\n_direct_ comparison. Some common measure must be found, and,\n_out of himself_; some positive fact, that will not bend to his\nown delusive feeling at the moment; as, for instance, in what degree he\nfinds tolerable what heretofore was _not_ so--the effort of writing\nletters, or transacting business, or undertaking a journey, or\novertaking the arrears of labor, that had been once thrown off to a\ndistance. If in these things he finds himself improved, by tests that\ncannot be disputed, he may safely disregard any sceptical whispers from\na wayward sensibility which cannot yet, perhaps, have recovered its\nnormal health, however much improved. His inner feelings may not yet\npoint steadily to the truth, though they may vibrate in that direction.\nBesides, it is certain that sometimes very manifest advances, such as\nany medical man would perceive at a glance, carry a man through stages\nof agitation and discomfort. A far worse condition might happen to be\nless agitated, and so far more bearable. Now, when a man is positively\nsuffering discomfort, when he is below the line of pleasurable feeling,\nhe is no proper judge of his own condition, which he neither will nor\ncan appreciate. Tooth-ache extorts more groans than dropsy.\n\nVIII. Another important caution is, not to confound with the effects of\nintemperance any other natural effects of debility from advanced years.\nMany a man, having begun to be intemperate at thirty, enters at sixty\nor upwards upon a career of self-restoration. And by self-restoration\nhe understands a renewal of that state in which he was when first\nswerving from temperance. But that state, for his memory, is coincident\nwith his state of youth. The two states are coadunated. In his\nrecollections they are intertwisted too closely. But life, without any\nintemperance at all, would soon have untwisted them. Charles Lamb, for\ninstance, at forty-five, and Coleridge at sixty, measured their several\nconditions by such tests as the loss of all disposition to involuntary\nmurmuring of musical airs or fragments when rising from bed. Once they\nhad sung when rising in the morning light; now they sang no more. The\n_vocal_ utterance of joy, for _them_, was silenced for ever.\nBut these are amongst the changes that life, stern power, inflicts at\nany rate; these would have happened, and above all, to men worn by the\nunequal irritations of too much thinking, and by those modes of care\n\n  That kill the bloom before its time,\n  And blanch without the owner's crime\n  The most resplendent hair,\n\nnot at all the less had the one drunk no brandy, nor the other any\nlaudanum. A man must submit to the conditions of humanity, and not\nquarrel with a cure as incomplete, because in his climacteric year of\nsixty-three, he cannot recover, entirely, the vivacities of thirty-\nfive. If, by dipping seven times in Jordan, he had cleansed his whole\nleprosy of intemperance; if, by going down into Bethesda, he were able\nto mount again upon the pinions of his youth,--even then he might\nquerulously say,--'But, after all these marvels in my favor, I suppose\nthat one of these fine mornings I, like other people, shall have to\nbespeak a coffin.' Why, yes, undoubtedly he will, or somebody\n_for_ him. But privileges so especial were not promised even by\nthe mysterious waters of Palestine. Die he must. And counsels tendered\nto the intemperate do not hope to accomplish what might have been\nbeyond the baths of Jordan or Bethesda. They do enough, if, being\nexecuted by efforts in the spirit of earnest sincerity, they make a\nlife of _growing_ misery moderately happy for the patient; and,\nthrough that great change, perhaps, more than moderately useful for\nothers.\n\nIX. One final remark I will make:--pointed to the case, not of the yet\nstruggling patient, but of him who is fully re-established; and the\nmore so, because I (who am no hypocrite, but, rather, frank to an\ninfirmity) acknowledge, in myself, the trembling tendency at intervals,\nwhich would, if permitted, sweep round into currents that might be hard\nto overrule. After the absolute restoration to health, a man is very\napt to say,--'Now, then, how shall I use my health? To what delightful\npurpose shall I apply it? Surely it is idle to carry a fine jewel in\none's watch-pocket, and never to astonish the weak minds of this world,\nby wearing it and flashing it in their eyes.' 'But how?' retorts his\nphilosophic friend; 'my good fellow, are you not using it at this\nmoment? Breathing, for instance, talking to me, (though rather\nabsurdly,) and airing your legs at a glowing fire?' 'Why, yes,' the\nother confesses, 'that is all true; but I am dull; and, if you will\npardon my rudeness, even in spite of your too philosophic presence. It\nis painful to say so, but sincerely, if I had the power, at this\nmoment, to turn you, by magic, into a bottle of old port wine, so\ncorrupt is my nature, that really I fear lest the exchange might, for\nthe moment, strike me as agreeable.' Such a mood, I apprehend, is apt\nto revolve upon many of us, at intervals, however firmly married to\ntemperance. And the propensity to it has a root in certain analogies\nrunning through our nature. If the reader will permit me for a moment\nthe use of what, without such an apology, might seem pedantic, I would\ncall it the instinct of _focalizing_, which prompts such random\ndesires. Feeling is diffused over the whole surface of the body; but\nlight is focalized in the eye; sound in the ear. The organization of a\nsense or a pleasure seems diluted and imperfect, unless it is gathered\nby some machinery into one focus, or local centre. And thus it is that\na general state of pleasurable feeling sometimes seems too\nsuperficially diffused, and one has a craving to intensify or brighten\nit by concentration through some sufficient stimulant. I, for my part,\nhave tried every thing in this world except '_bang_,' which, I\nbelieve, is obtained from hemp. There are other preparations of hemp\nwhich have been found to give great relief from _ennui_; not\nropes, but something lately introduced, which acts upon the system as\nthe laughing gas (nitrous oxide) acts at times. One farmer in Mid-\nLothian was mentioned to me, eight months ago, as having taken it, and\never since annoyed his neighbors by immoderate fits of laughter; so\nthat in January it was agreed to present him to the sheriff as a\nnuisance. But, for some reason, the plan was laid aside; and now, eight\nmonths later, I hear that the farmer is laughing more rapturously than\never, continues in the happiest frame of mind, the kindest of\ncreatures, and the general torment of his neighborhood. Now, I confess\nto having had a lurking interest in this extract of hemp, when first I\nheard of it: and at intervals a desire will continue to make itself\nfelt for some deeper compression or centralization of the genial\nfeelings than ordinary life affords. But old things will not avail, and\nnew things I am now able to resist. Still, as the occasional craving\ndoes really arise in most men, it is well to notice it; and chiefly for\nthe purpose of saying, that this dangerous feeling wears off by\ndegrees; and oftentimes for long periods it intermits so entirely as to\nbe even displaced by a profound disgust to all modes of artificial\nstimulation. At those times I have remarked that the pleasurable\ncondition of health does _not_ seem weakened by its want of\ncentralization. It seems to form a thousand centres. This it is well to\nknow; because there are many who would resist effectually, if they were\naware of any natural change going on silently in favor of their own\nefforts, such as would finally ratify the success. Towards such a\nresult they would gladly contribute by waiting and forbearing; whilst,\nunder despondency as to this result, they might more easily yield to\nsome chance temptation.\n\nFinally, there is something to interest us in the _time_ at which\nthis temperance movement has begun to stir. Let me close with a slight\nnotice of what chiefly impresses myself in the relation between this\ntime and the other circumstances of the case. In reviewing history, we\nmay see something more than mere convenience in distributing it into\nthree chambers; ancient history, ending in the space between the\nWestern Empire falling and Mahomet arising; modern history, from that\ntime to this; and a new modern history arising at present, or from the\nFrench Revolution. Two great races of men, our own in a two-headed\nform--British and American, and secondly, the Russian, are those which,\nlike rising deluges, already reveal their mission to overflow the\nearth. Both these races, partly through climate, or through derivation\nof blood, and partly through the contagion of habits inevitable to\nbrothers of the same nation, are tainted carnally with the appetite for\nbrandy, for slings, for juleps. And no fire racing through the forests\nof Nova Scotia for three hundred miles in the direction of some doomed\ncity, ever moved so fiercely as the infection of habits amongst the\ndense and fiery populations of republican North America.\n\nBut it is remarkable, that the whole _ancient_ system of\ncivilization, all the miracles of Greece and Rome, Persia and Egypt,\nmoved by the machinery of races that were _not_ tainted with any\nsuch popular _marasmus_. The taste was slightly sowed, as an\n_artificial_ taste, amongst luxurious individuals, but never ran\nthrough the laboring classes, through armies, through cities The blood\nand the climate forbade it. In this earliest era of history, all the\ngreat races, consequently all the great empires, threw themselves, by\naccumulation, upon the genial climates of the south,--having, in fact,\nthe magnificent lake of the Mediterranean for their general centre of\nevolutions. Round this lake, in a zone of varying depth, towered the\nwhole grandeurs of the Pagan earth. But, in such climates, man is\nnaturally temperate. He is so by physical coercion, and for the\nnecessities of rest and coolness. The Spaniard, the Moor, or the Arab,\nhas no merit in his temperance. The effort, for _him_, would be to\nform the taste for alcohol. He has a vast foreground of disgust to\ntraverse before he can reach a taste so remote and alien. No need for\nresistance in his will where nature resists on his behalf. Sherbet,\nshaddocks, grapes, these were innocent applications to thirst. And the\ngreat republic of antiquity said to her legionary sons:--'Soldier, if\nyou thirst, there is the river;--Nile, suppose, or Ebro. Better drink\nthere cannot be. Of this you may take \"at discretion.\" Or, if you wait\ntill the _impedimenta_ come up, you may draw your ration of _Posca_'\nWhat was _posca_? It was, in fact, acidulated water; three parts of\nsuperfine water to one part of the very best vinegar. Nothing stronger\ndid Rome, that awful mother, allow to her dearest children, _i. e._,\nher legions. Truest of blessings, that veiling itself in seeming\nsternness, drove away the wicked phantoms that haunt the couches of yet\ngreater nations. 'The blessings of the evil genii,' says an Eastern\nproverb, 'these are curses.' And the stern refusals of wisely loving\nmothers,--these are the mightiest of gifts.\n\nNow, on the other hand, our northern climates have universally the\ntaste, latent if not developed, for powerful liquors. And through their\nblood, as also through the natural tendency of the imitative principle\namongst compatriots, from these high latitudes the greatest of our\nmodern nations propagate the contagion to their brothers, though\ncolonizing warm climates. And it is remarkable that our modern\npreparations of liquors, even when harmless in their earliest stages,\nare fitted, like stepping-stones, for making the transition to higher\nstages that are _not_ harmless. The weakest preparations from\nmalt, lead, by graduated steps, to the strongest; until we arrive at\nthe intoxicating porter of London, which, under its local name (so\ninsidiously delusive) of '_beer_,' diffuses the most extensive\nravages.\n\nUnder these marked circumstances of difference between the ruling races\nof antiquity and of our modern times, it now happens that the greatest\nera by far of human expansion is opening upon us. Two vast movements\nare hurrying into action by velocities continually accelerated--the\ngreat revolutionary movement from political causes concurring with the\ngreat physical movement in locomotion and social intercourse, from the\ngigantic (though still infant) powers of steam. No such Titan resources\nfor modifying each other were ever before dreamed of by nations: and\nthe next hundred years will have changed the face of the world. At the\nopening of such a crisis, had no third movement arisen of resistance to\nintemperate habits, there would have been ground for despondency as to\nthe amelioration of the human race. But, as the case stands, the new\nprinciple of resistance nationally to bad habits, has arisen almost\nconcurrently with the new powers of national intercourse; and\nhenceforward by a change equally sudden and unlooked for, that new\nmachinery, which would else most surely have multiplied the ruins of\nintoxication, has become the strongest agency for hastening its\nextirpation.\n\n\n\n\nON WAR.\n\n\nFew people need to be told--that associations exist up and down\nChristendom, having the ambitious object of abolishing war. Some go so\nfar as to believe that this evil of war, so ubiquitous, so ancient and\napparently so inalienable from man's position upon earth, is already\ndoomed; that not the private associations only, but the prevailing\nvoice of races the most highly civilized, may be looked on as tending\nto confederation against it; that sentence of extermination has\nvirtually gone forth, and that all which remains is gradually to\nexecute that sentence. Conscientiously I find myself unable to join in\nthese views. The project seems to me the most romantic of all romances\nin the course of publication. Consequently, when asked to become a\nmember in any such association, I have always thought it most\nrespectful, because most sincere, to decline. Yet, as it is painful to\nrefuse all marks of sympathy with persons whose motives one honors, I\ndesign at my death to bequeath half-a-crown to the chief association\nfor extinguishing war; the said half-crown to be improved in all time\ncoming for the benefit of the association, under the trusteeship of\nEurope, Asia, and America, but not of Africa. I really dare not trust\nAfrica with money, she is not able as yet to take care of herself. This\nhalf-crown, a fund that will overshadow the earth before it comes to be\nwanted under the provisions of my will, is to be improved at any\ninterest whatever--no matter what; for the vast period of the\naccumulations will easily make good any tardiness of advance, long\nbefore the time comes for its commencing payment; a point which will be\nsoon understood from the following explanation, by any gentleman that\nhopes to draw upon it.\n\nThere is in Ceylon a granite _cippus_, or monumental pillar, of\nimmemorial antiquity; and to this pillar a remarkable legend is\nattached. The pillar measures six feet by six, _i. e._ thirty-six\nsquare feet, on the flat tablet of its horizontal surface; and in\nheight several _riyanas_, (which arc Ceylonese cubits of eighteen\ninches each,) but of these cubits, there are either eight or twelve;\nexcuse me for having forgotten which. At first, perhaps, you will be\nangry, viz., when you hear that this simple difference of four cubits,\nor six feet, measures a difference for your expectations, whether you\ncount your expectations in kicks or halfpence, that absolutely strikes\nhorror into arithmetic. The singularity of the case is, that the very\nsolemnity of the legend and the wealth of the human race in time,\ndepend upon the cubical contents of the monument, so that a loss of one\ngranite chip is a loss of a frightful infinity; yet, again, for that\nvery reason, the loss of all _but_ a chip, leaves behind riches so\nappallingly too rich, that everybody is careless about the four cubits.\nEnough is as good as a feast. Two bottomless abysses take as much time\nfor the diver as ten; and five eternities are as frightful to look down\nas four-and-twenty. In the Ceylon legend all turns upon the\ninexhaustible series of ages which this pillar guarantees. But, as one\ninexhaustible is quite enough for one race of men, and you are sure of\nmore by ineffable excess than you can use in any private consumption of\nyour own, you become generous; 'and between friends,' you say, in\naccepting my apologies for the doubtful error as to the four cubits,\n'what signifies an infinity more or less?'\n\nFor the Ceylonese legend is this, that once in every hundred years an\nangel visits this granite pillar. He is dressed in a robe of white\nmuslin, muslin of that kind which the Romans called _aura textilis_--\nwoven, as might seem, from zephyrs or from pulses of the air, such in\nits transparency, such in its gossamer lightness. Does the angel touch\nthe pillar with his foot? Oh no! Even _that_ would be something, but\neven _that_ is not allowed. In his soundless flight across it, he\nsuffers the hem of his impalpable robe to sweep the surface as softly\nas a moon-beam. So much and no more of pollution he endures from\ncontact with earthly objects. The lowest extremity of his dress,\nbut with the delicacy of light, grazes the granite surface. And\n_that_ is all the attrition which the sacred granite receives in\nthe course of any one century, and this is all the progress which we,\nthe poor children of earth, in any one century make towards the\nexhaustion of our earthly imprisonment. But, argues the subtle legend,\neven _that_ attrition, when weighed in metaphysical scales, cannot\nbe denied its value; it has detached from the pillar an atom (no matter\nthat it is an invisible atom) of granite dust, the ratio of which atom\nto a grain avoirdupois, if expressed as a fraction of unity, would by\nits denominator stretch from the Accountant-General's office in London\nto the Milky Way. Now the total mass of the granite represents, on this\nscheme of payment, the total funded debt of man's race to Father Time\nand earthly corruption; all this intolerable score, chalked up to our\ndebit, we by ourselves and our representatives have to rub off, before\nthe granite will be rubbed away by the muslin robe of the proud flying\nangel, (who, if he were a good fellow, might just as well give a sly\nkick with his heel to the granite,) before time will be at an end, and\nthe burden of flesh accomplished. But you hear it expressed in terms\nthat will astonish Baron Rothschild, what is the progress in\nliquidation which we make for each particular century. A billion of\ncenturies pays off a quantity equal to a pinch of snuff. Despair seizes\na man in contemplating a single _coupon_, no bigger than a\nvisiting card, of such a stock as this; and behold we have to keep on\npaying away until the total granite is reduced to a level with a grain\nof mustard-seed. But when that is accomplished, thank heaven, our last\ngeneration of descendants will be entitled to leave at Master Time's\ndoor a visiting card, which the meagre shadow cannot refuse to take,\nthough he will sicken at seeing it; viz., a P. P. C. card, upon seeing\nwhich, the old thief is bound to give receipt in full for all debts and\npretended arrears.\n\nThe reader perhaps knows of debts on both sides the Atlantic that have\nno great prospect of being paid off sooner than this in Ceylon.\n\nAnd naturally, to match this order of debts, moving off so slowly,\nthere are funds that accumulate as slowly. My own funded half-crown is\nan illustration. The half-crown will travel in the inverse order of the\ngranite pillar. The pillar and the half-crown move upon opposite tacks;\nand there _is_ a point of time (which it is for Algebra to investigate)\nwhen they will cross each other in the exact moment of their several\nbisections--my aspiring half-crown tending gradually towards\nthe fixed stars, so that perhaps it might be right to make the\nman in the moon trustee for that part of the accumulations which rises\nabove the optics of sublunary bankers; whilst the Ceylon pillar is\nconstantly unweaving its own granite texture, and dwindling earthwards.\nIt is probable that each of the parties will have reached its\nconsummation about the same time. What is to be done with the mustard-\nseed, Ceylon has forgotten to say. But what is to be done with the\nhalf-crown and its surplus, nobody can doubt after reading my last will\nand testament. After reciting a few inconsiderable legacies to the\nthree continents, and to the man in the moon, for any trouble they may\nhave had in managing the hyperbolical accumulations, I go on to\nobserve, that, when war is reported to have taken itself off for ever,\n'and no mistake,' (because I foresee many false alarms of a perpetual\npeace,) a variety of inconveniences will arise to all branches of the\nUnited Service, including the Horse Marines. Clearly there can be no\nmore half-pay; and even more clearly, there is an end to full-pay.\nPensions are at an end for 'good service.' Allowances for wounds cannot\nbe thought of, when all wounds shall have ceased except those from\nfemale eyes--for which the Horse Guards is too little advanced in\ncivilization to make any allowance at all. Bargains there will be no\nmore amongst auctions of old Government stores. Birmingham will be\nruined, or so much of it as depended on rifles. And the great Scotch\nworks on the river Carron will be hungering for beef, so far as Carron\ndepended for beef upon carronades. Other arrears of evil will stretch\nafter the extinction of war.\n\nNow upon my half-crown fund (which will be equal to anything by the\ntime it is wanted) I charge once and for ever the general relief of all\nthese arrears--of the poverty, the loss, the bankruptcy, arising by\nreason of this _quietus_ of final extinction applied to war. I\ncharge the fund with a perpetual allowance of half-pay to all the\narmies of earth; or indeed, whilst my hand is in, I charge it with\n_full_ pay. And I strictly enjoin upon my trustees and executors,\nbut especially upon the man in the moon, if his unsocial lip has left\nhim one spark of gentlemanly feeling, that he and they shall construe\nall claims liberally; nay, with that riotous liberality which is safe\nand becoming, when applied to a fund so inexhaustible. Yes, reader, my\nfund will be inexhaustible, because the period of its growth will be\nmeasured by the concurrent deposition of the Ceylon mustard-seed from\nthe everlasting pillar.\n\nYet why, or on what principle? It is because I see, or imagine that I\nsee, a twofold necessity for war--necessity in two different senses--\n1st, a physical necessity arising out of man's nature when combined\nwith man's situation; a necessity under which war may be regarded, if\nyou please, as a nuisance, but as a nuisance inalienable from\ncircumstances essential to human frailty. 2dly, a moral necessity\nconnected with benefits of compensation, such as continually lurk in\nevils acknowledged to be such--a necessity under which it becomes\nlawful to say, that war _ought_ to exist as a balance to opposite\ntendencies of a still more evil character. War is the mother of wrong\nand spoliation: war is a scourge of God--granted; but, like other\nscourges in the divine economy, war purifies and redeems itself in its\ncharacter of a counterforce to greater evils that could not otherwise\nbe intercepted or redressed. In two different meanings we say that a\nthing is necessary; either in that case where it is inexorably forced\non by some sad overruling principle which it is vain to fight against,\nthough all good men mourn over its existence and view it as an\nunconditional evil; or secondly, in that case, where an instrument of\nsorrowful consequences to man is nevertheless invoked and postulated by\nman's highest moral interests, is nevertheless clamorously indicated as\na blessing when looked at in relation to some antagonist cause of evil\nfor which it offers the one only remedy or principle of palliation. The\nvery evil and woe of man's condition upon earth may be oftentimes\ndetected in the necessity of looking to some other woe as the pledge of\nits purification; so that what separately would have been hateful for\nitself, passes mysteriously into an object of toleration, of hope, or\neven of prayer, as a counter-venom to the taint of some more mortal\npoison. Poverty, for instance, is in both senses necessary for man. It\nis necessary in the same sense as thirst is necessary (_i. e._\ninevitable) in a fever--necessary as one corollary amongst many others,\nfrom the eternal hollowness of all human efforts for organizing any\nperfect model of society--a corollary which, how gladly would all of us\nunite to cancel, but which our hearts suggest, which Scripture solemnly\nproclaims, to be ineradicable from the land. In this sense, poverty is\na necessity over which we _mourn_,--as one of the dark phases that\nsadden the vision of human life. But far differently, and with a stern\ngratitude, we recognize another mode of necessity for this gloomy\ndistinction--a call for poverty, when seen in relation to the manifold\nagencies by which it developes human energies, in relation to the\ntrials by which it searches the power of patience and religion, in\nrelation to the struggles by which it evokes the nobilities of\nfortitude; or again, amongst those who are not sharers in these trials\nand struggles, but sympathizing spectators, in relation to the\nstimulation by which it quickens wisdom that watches over the causes of\nthis evil, or by which it vivifies the spirit of love that labors for\nits mitigation. War stands, or seems to stand, upon the same double\nbasis of necessity; a primary necessity that belongs to our human\ndegradations, a secondary one that towers by means of its moral\nrelations into the region of our impassioned exaltations. The two\npropositions on which I take my stand are these. _First_, that\nthere are nowhere latent in society any powers by which it can\neffectually operate on war for its extermination. The machinery is not\nthere. The game is not within the compass of the cards. _Secondly_,\nthat this defect of power is, though sincerely I grieve in avowing\nsuch a sentiment, and perhaps (if an infirm reader had his eye\nupon me) I might seem, in sympathy with his weakness, to blush\n--not a curse, no not at all, but on the whole a blessing from\ncentury to century, if it is an inconvenience from year to year. The\nAbolition Committees, it is to be feared, will be very angry at both\npropositions. Yet, Gentlemen, hear me--strike, but hear me. I believe\nthat's a sort of plagiarism from Themistocles. But never mind. I have\nas good a right to the words, until translated back into Greek, as that\nmost classical of yellow admirals. '_Pereant qui ante nos nostra\ndixerunt!_'\n\nThe first proposition is, that war _cannot_ be abolished. The\nsecond, and more offensive--that war ought not to be abolished. First,\ntherefore, concerning the first. One at a time. Sufficient for the page\nis the evil thereof! How came it into any man's heart, first of all, to\nconceive so audacious an idea as that of a conspiracy against war?\nWhence could he draw any vapor of hope to sustain his preliminary\nsteps? And in framing his plot, which way did he set his face to look\nout for accomplices? Revolving this question in times past, I came to\nthe conclusion--that, perhaps, this colossal project of a war against\nwar, had been first put in motion under a misconception (natural\nenough, and countenanced by innumerable books) as to the true\nhistorical origin of wars in many notorious instances. If these had\narisen on trivial impulses, a trivial resistance might have intercepted\nthem. If a man has once persuaded himself, that long, costly, and\nbloody wars had arisen upon a point of ceremony, upon a personal pique,\nupon a hasty word, upon some explosion of momentary caprice; it is a\nnatural inference, that strength of national will and public\ncombinations for resistance, supposing such forces to have been\ntrained, organized, and, from the circumstances of the particular\nnation, to be permanently disposable for action, might prove\nredundantly effective, when pointed against a few personal authors of\nwar, so presumably weak, and so flexible to any stern counter-volition\nas those _must_ be supposed, whose wars argued so much of vicious\nlevity. The inference is unexceptionable: it is the premises that are\nunsound. Anecdotes of war as having emanated from a lady's tea-table or\ntoilette, would authorize such inference as to the facilities of\ncontrolling them. But the anecdotes themselves are false, or false\nsubstantially. _All_ anecdotes, I fear, are false. I am sorry to\nsay so, but my duty to the reader extorts from me the disagreeable\nconfession, as upon a matter specially investigated by myself, that all\ndealers in anecdotes are tainted with mendacity. Where is the\nScotchman, said Dr. Johnson, who does not prefer Scotland to truth?\nbut, however this may be, rarer than such a Scotchman, rarer than the\nphoenix, is that virtuous man, a monster he is, nay, he is an\nimpossible man, who will consent to lose a prosperous anecdote on the\nconsideration that it happens to be a lie. All history, therefore,\nbeing built partly, and some of it altogether, upon anecdotage, must be\na tissue of lies. Such, for the most part, is the history of Suetonius,\nwho may be esteemed the father of anecdotage; and being such, he (and\nnot Herodotus) should have been honored with the title, _Father of\nLies_. Such is the Augustan history, which is all that remains of\nthe Roman empire; such is the vast series of French memoirs, now\nstretching through more than three entire centuries. Are these works,\nthen, to be held cheap, because their truths to their falsehoods are in\nthe ratio of one to five hundred? On the contrary, they are better, and\nmore to be esteemed on that account; because, _now_ they are\nadmirable reading on a winter's night; whereas, written on the\nprinciple of sticking to the truth, they would have been as dull as\nditch water. Generally, therefore, the dealers in anecdotage are to be\nviewed with admiration, as patriotic citizens, willing to sacrifice\ntheir own characters, lest their countrymen should find themselves\nshort of amusement. I esteem them as equal to Codrus, Timoleon, William\nTell, or to Milton, as regards the liberty of unlicensed printing. And\nI object to them only in the exceptional case of their being cited as\nauthorities for an inference, or as vouchers for a fact. Universally,\nit may be received as a rule of unlimited application,--that when an\nanecdote involves a stinging repartee, or collision of ideas,\nfancifully and brilliantly related to each other by resemblance or\ncontrast, then you may challenge it as false to a certainty. One\nillustration of which is--that pretty nearly every memorable\n_propos_, or pointed repartee, or striking _mot_, circulating\nat this moment in Paris or London, as the undoubted property of\nTalleyrand, (that eminent knave,) was ascribed at Vienna, ninety years\nago, to the Prince de Ligne, and thirty years previously, to Voltaire,\nand so on, regressively, to many other wits (knaves or not); until, at\nlength, if you persist in backing far enough, you find yourself amongst\nPagans, with the very same repartee, &c., doing duty in pretty good\nGreek; [Footnote: This is _literally_ true, more frequently than\nwould be supposed. For instance, a jest often ascribed to Voltaire, and\nof late pointedly reclaimed for him by Lord Brougham, as being one that\nhe (Lord B.) could swear to for _his_, so characteristic seemed\nthe impression of Voltaire's mind upon the _tournure_ of the\nsarcasm, unhappily for this waste of sagacity, may be found recorded by\nFabricius in the _Bibliotheca Gr\u00e6ca_, as the jest of a Greek who\nhas been dead for about seventeen centuries. The man certainly\n_did_ utter the jest; and 1750 years ago. But who it was that he\nstole it from is another question. To all appearance, and according to\nLord Brougham's opinion, the party robbed must have been M. de\nVoltaire. I notice the case, however, of the Greek thefts and frauds\ncommitted upon so many of our excellent wits belonging to the 18th and\n19th centuries, chiefly with a view to M. de Talleyrand--that rather\nmiddling bishop, but very eminent knave. He also has been extensively\nrobbed by the Greeks of the 2d and 3d centuries. How else can you\naccount for so many of his sayings being found amongst _their_\npages? A thing you may ascertain in a moment, at any police office, by\nhaving the Greeks searched: for surely you would never think of\nsearching a bishop. Most of the Talleyrand jewels will be found\nconcealed amongst the goods of these unprincipled Greeks. But one, and\nthe most famous in the whole jewel-case, sorry am I to confess, was\nnearly stolen from the Bishop, not by any Greek, but by an English\nwriter, viz., Goldsmith, who must have been dying about the time that\nhis Excellency, the diplomatist, had the goodness to be born. That\nfamous _mot_ about language, as a gift made to man for the purpose\nof _concealing_ his thoughts, is lurking in Goldsmith's Essays.\nThink of _that!_ Already, in his innocent childhood, whilst the\nBishop was in petticoats, and almost before he had begun to curse and\nto swear plainly in French, an Irish vagabond had attempted to swindle\nhim out of that famous witticism which has since been as good as a\nlife-annuity to the venerable knave's literary fame.] sometimes, for\ninstance in Hierocles, sometimes in Diogenes L\u00e6rtius, in Plutarch, or\nin Athen\u00e6us. Now the thing you know claimed by so many people, could\nnot belong to all of them: _all_ of them could not be the inventors.\nLogic and common sense unite in showing us that it must have belonged\nto the moderns, who had clearly been hustled and robbed by the\nancients, so much more likely to commit a robbery than Christians, they\nbeing all Gentiles--Pagans--Heathen dogs. What do I infer from this?\nWhy, that upon _any_ solution of the case, hardly one worthy\nsaying can be mentioned, hardly one jest, pun, or sarcasm, which has\nnot been the occasion and subject of many falsehoods--as having been\n_au-(and men)-daciously_ transferred from generation to generation,\nsworn to in every age as this man's property, or that man's,\nby people that must have known they were lying, until you retire\nfrom the investigation with a conviction, that under any system of\nchronology, the science of lying is the only one that has never\ndrooped. Date from _Anno Domini_, or from the Julian era, patronize\nOlympiads, or patronize (as _I_ do, from misanthropy, because nobody\nelse _will_) the era of Nabonassar,--no matter, upon every road,\nthicker than mile-stones, you see records of human mendacity, or (which\nis much worse, in my opinion,) of human sympathy with other people's\nmendacity.\n\nThis digression, now, on anecdotes,[Footnote: The word 'Anecdotes,'\nfirst, I believe, came into currency about the middle of the 6th\ncentury, from the use made of it by Procopius. _Literally_ it\nindicated nothing that could interest either public malice or public\nfavor; it promised only _unpublished_ notices of the Emperor\nJustinian, his wife Theodora, Narses, Belisarius, &c. But _why_\nhad they been unpublished? Simply because scandalous and defamatory:\nand hence, from the interest which invested the case of an imperial\ncourt so remarkable, this oblique, secondary and purely accidental\nmodification of the word came to influence its _general_ acceptation.\nSimply to have been previously unpublished, no longer raised any\nstatement into an anecdote: it now received a new integration\nit must be some fresh publication of _personal_ memorabilia; and\nthese having reference to _human_ creatures, must always be\npresumed to involve more evil than good--much defamation\ntrue or false--much doubtful insinuation--much suggestion of things\nworse than could be openly affirmed. So arose the word: but the\n_thing_ arose with Suetonius, that dear, excellent and hard-\nworking 'father of lies.'] is what the learned call an _excursus_,\nand, I am afraid, too long by half; not strictly in proportion. But\ndon't mind _that_. I'll make it all right by being too short upon\nsomething else, at the next opportunity; and then nobody can complain.\nMeantime, I argue, that as all brilliant or epigrammatic anecdotes are\nprobably false, (a thing that hereafter I shall have much pleasure in\nmaking out to the angry reader's satisfaction,) but to a dead certainty\nthose anecdotes, in particular, which bear marks in their construction\nthat a rhetorical effect of art had been contemplated by the narrator,\n--we may take for granted, that the current stories ascribing modern\nwars (French and English) to accidents the most inconsiderable, are\nfalse even in a literal sense; but at all events they are so when\nvalued philosophically, and brought out into their circumstantial\nrelations. For instance, we have a French anecdote, from the latter\npart of the seventeenth century, which ascribes one bloody war to the\naccident of a little 'miff,' arising between the king and his minister\nupon some such trifle as the situation of a palace window. Again, from\nthe early part of the eighteenth century, we have an English anecdote,\nascribing consequences no less bloody to a sudden feud between two\nladies, and that feud, (if I remember,) tracing itself up to a pair of\ngloves; so that, in effect, the war and the gloves form the two poles\nof the transaction. Harlequin throws a pair of Limerick gloves into a\ncorn-mill; and the spectator is astonished to see the gloves\nimmediately issuing from the hopper, well ground into seven armies of\none hundred thousand men each, and with parks of artillery to\ncorrespond. In these two anecdotes, we recognize at once the able and\nindustrious artist arranging his materials with a pious regard to\ntheatrical effect. This man knows how to group his figures; well he\nunderstands where to plant his masses of light and shade; and what\nimpertinence it would be in us spectators, the reader suppose and\nmyself, to go behind the scenes for critical inquiry into daylight\nrealities. All reasonable men see that, the less of such realities our\nartist had to work with, the more was his merit. I am one of those that\ndetest all insidious attempts to rob men situated as this artist of\ntheir fair fame, by going about and whispering that perhaps the thing\nis true. Far from it! I sympathize with the poor trembling artist, and\nagree most cordially that the whole story is a lie; and he may rely\nupon my support at all times to the extent of denying that any vestige\nof truth probably lay at the foundations of his ingenious apologue. And\nwhat I say of the English fable, I am willing to say of the French one.\nBoth, I dare say, were the rankest fictions. But next, what, after all,\nif they were _not?_ For, in the rear of all discussion upon anecdotes,\nconsidered simply as true or _not_ true, comes finally a _valuation_\nof those anecdotes in their moral relation, and as to the inferences\nwhich they will sustain. The story, for example, of the French\nminister Louvois, and the adroitness with which he fastened upon\ngreat foreign potentates, in the shape of war, that irritability\nof temper in his royal master which threatened to consume himself; the\ndiplomatic address with which he transmuted suddenly a task so delicate\nas that of skirmishing daily in a Council Chamber with his own\nsovereign, into that far jollier mode of disputation where one replies\nto all objections of the very keenest logician, either with round shot\nor with grape; here is an anecdote, which (for my own part) I am\ninclined to view as pure gasconade. But suppose the story true, still\nit may happen that a better valuation of it may disturb the whole\nedifice of logical inferences by which it seemed to favor the\nspeculations of the war abolitionists. Let us see. What _was_ the\nlogic through which such a tale as this could lend any countenance to\nthe schemes of these abolitionists? That logic travelled in the\nfollowing channel. Such a tale, or the English tale of the gloves,\nbeing supposed true, it would seem to follow, that war and the purposes\nof war were phenomena of chance growth, not attached to any instinct so\nancient, and apparently so grooved into the dark necessities of our\nnature, as we had all taken for granted. Usually, we rank war with\nhunger, with cold, with sorrow, with death, afflictions of our human\nstate that spring up as inevitably without separate culture and in\ndefiance of all hostile culture, as verdure, as weeds, and as flowers\nthat overspread in spring time a fertile soil without needing to be\nsown or watered--awful is the necessity, as it seems, of all such\nafflictions. Yet, again, if (as these anecdote simply) war could by\npossibility depend frequently on accidents of personal temperament,\nirritability in a sensual king, wounded sensibilities of pride between\ntwo sensitive ladies, there in a moment shone forth a light of hope\nupon the crusade against war.\n\nIf _personal_ accidents could, to any serious extent, be amongst\nthe causes of war, then it would become a hopeful duty to combine\npersonal influences that should take an opposite direction. If casual\ncauses could be supposed chiefly to have promoted war, how easy for a\nnation to arrange permanent and determinate causes against it! The\nlogic of these anecdotes seemed to argue that the whole fountains of\nwar were left to the government of chance and the windiest of levities;\nthat war was not in reality roused into activity by the evil that\nresides in the human will, but on the contrary, by the simple defect of\nany will energetic enough or steady enough to merit that name.\nMultitudes of evils exist in our social system, simply because no\nsteadiness of attention, nor action of combined will, has been\nconverged upon them. War, by the silent evidence of these anecdotes,\nseemed to lie amongst that class of evils. A new era might be expected\nto commence in new views upon war; and the evil would be half conquered\nfrom the moment that it should be traced to a trivial or a personal\norigin.\n\nAll this was plausible, but false. The anecdotes, and all similar\nanecdotes, might be true, but were delusive. The logical vice in them\nwas--that they substituted an occasion for a cause. The king's ill\ntemper for instance, acting through the levity and impatience of the\nminister, might be the _causa occasionalis_ of the war, but not\nits true _causa efficiens_. What _was?_ Where do the true permanent\ncauses of war, as distinguished from its proximate excitements,\nfind their lodgment and abiding ground? They lie in the system\nof national competitions; in the common political system to which\nall individual nations are unavoidably parties; in the system of\npublic forces distributed amongst a number of adjacent nations, with no\ninternal principle for adjusting the equilibrium of these forces, and\nno supreme _Areopagus_, or court of appeal, for deciding disputes.\nHere lies the _matrix_ of war, because an eternal _matrix_ of\ndisputes lies in a system of interests that are continually the same,\nand therefore the parents of rivalships too close, that are continually\ndifferent, and so far the parents of alienation too wide. All war is an\ninstinctive _nisus_ for redressing the errors of equilibrium in\nthe relative position of nations amongst nations. Every nation's duty,\nfirst, midst, and last, is to itself. No nation can be safe from\ncontinual (because insensible) losses of ground, but by continual\njealousies, watchings, and ambitious strivings to mend its own\nposition. Civilities and high-bred courtesies pass and ought to pass\nbetween nations; that is the graceful drapery which shrouds their\nnatural, fierce, and tiger-like relations to each other. But the\nglaring eyes, which express this deep and inalienable ferocity, look\nout at intervals from below these gorgeous draperies; and sad it is to\nthink that at intervals the acts and the temper suitable to those\nglaring eyes _must_ come forward. Mr. Carter was on terms of the\nmost exquisite dissimulation with his lions and tigers; but, as often\nas he trusted his person amongst them, if, in the midst of infinite\npoliteness exchanged on all sides, he saw a certain portentous\nexpression of mutiny kindling in the eyeball of any discontented tiger,\nall was lost, unless he came down instantly upon that tiger's skull\nwith a blow from an iron bar, that suggested something like apoplexy.\nOn such terms do nations meet in diplomacy; high consideration for each\nother does not conceal the basis of enmity on which they rest; not an\nenmity that belongs to their feelings, but to the necessities of their\nposition. Every nation in negotiating has its right hand upon the hilt\nof its sword, and at intervals playfully unsheaths a little of its\ngleaming blade. As things stand at present, war and peace are bound\ntogether like the vicissitudes of day and night, of Castor and Pollux.\nIt matters little which bucket of the two is going up at the moment,\nwhich going down. Both are steadfastly tied by a system of alternations\nto a revolving wheel; and a new war as certainly becomes due during the\nevolutions of a tedious peace, as a new peace may be relied on during\nthe throes of a bloody war, to tranquillize its wounds. Consequently,\nwhen the arrogant Louvois carried a war to the credit of his own little\naccount on the national leger of France, this coxcomb well knew that a\nwar was at any rate due about that time. Really, says he, I must find\nout some little war to exhaust the _surplus_ irritability of this\nperson, or he'll be the death of me. But irritable or not irritable,\nwith a puppy for his minister or not, the French king would naturally\nhave been carried headlong into war by the mere system of Europe,\nwithin a very few months. So much had the causes of complaint\nreciprocally accumulated. The account must be cleansed, the court roll\nof grievances must be purged. With respect to the two English ladies\nagain, it is still more evident that they could not have _caused_\na war by pulling caps with each other, since the grounds of every war,\nwhat had caused it, and prolonged it, was sure to be angrily reviewed\nby Parliament at each annual exposition of the Finance Minister's\nBudget. These ladies, and the French coxcomb, could at the utmost have\nclaimed a distinction--such as that which belonged to a particular\nTurkish gunner, the captain of a gun at Navarino, viz., that he, by\nfiring the first shot without orders, did (as a matter of fact) let\nloose and unmuzzle the whole of that dreadful iron hurricane from four\nnations which instantly followed, but which (be it known to the gunner)\ncould not have been delayed for fifty minutes longer, whether he had\nfired the unauthorized gun or not.\n\nBut now, let me speak to the second proposition of my two-headed\nthesis, viz., that war _ought_ not to be abolished, if such an\nabolition were even possible. _Prima facie_, it seems a dreadful\ndoctrine to claim a place for war as amongst the evils that are\nsalutary to man; but conscientiously I hold it to be such. I hold with\nWordsworth, but for reasons which may or may not be the same, since he\nhas not stated _his_--\n\n  'That God's most dreaded instrument,\n  In working out a pure intent,\n  Is man--array'd for mutual slaughter:\n  Yea, Carnage is his daughter.'\n\nI am obliged to hold, that supposing so romantic a condition realized\nas the cessation of war, this change, unless other evils were\npreviously abolished, or neutralized in a way still more romantic to\nsuppose, would not be for the welfare of human nature, but would tend\nto its rapid degradation.\n\nOne, in fact, of the earliest aspects under which this moral necessity\nfor war forces itself upon our notice, is its physical necessity. I\nmean to say that one of the earliest reasons why war _ought_ to\nexist, is because under any mode of suppressing war, virtually it\n_will_ exist. Banish war as now administered, and it will revolve\nupon us in a worse shape, that is, in a shape of predatory and ruffian\nwar, more and more licentious, as it enjoys no privilege or sufferance,\nby the supposition, under the national laws. Will the causes of war die\naway because war is forbidden? Certainly not; and the only result of\nthe prohibition would be to throw back the exercise of war from\nnational into private and mercenary hands; and _that_ is precisely\nthe retrograde or inverse course of civilization; for, in the natural\norder of civilization, war passes from the hands of knights, barons,\ninsulated cities, into those of the universal community. If, again, it\nis attempted to put down this lawless _guerilla_ state by national\nforces, then the result will be to have established an interminable\nwarfare of a mixed character, private and public, civil and foreign,\ninfesting the frontiers of all states like a fever, and in substitution\nfor the occasional and intermitting wars of high national police,\nadministered with the dignified responsibility that belongs to supreme\nrank, with the humanity that belongs to conscious power, and with the\ndiminishing havoc that belongs to increasing skill in the arts of\ndestruction. Even as to this last feature in warfare, which in the war\nof brigands and _condottieri_ would for many reasons instantly\ndecay, no reader can fail to be aware of the marvels effected by the\nforces of inventive science that run along side by side with the\nadvances of civilization; look back even to the grandest period of the\nhumane Roman warfare, listen to the noblest and most merciful of all\nRoman captains, saying on the day of Pharsalia, (and saying of\nnecessity,) 'Strike at their faces, cavalry,'--yes, absolutely\ndirecting his own troopers to plough up with their sabres the blooming\nfaces of the young Roman nobility; and then pass to a modern field of\nbattle, where all is finished by musquetry and artillery amidst clouds\nof smoke, no soldier recognizing his own desolations, or the ghastly\nruin of his own right arm, so that war, by losing all its brutality, is\nlosing half of its demoralization.\n\nWar, so far from ending, because war was forbidden and nationally\nrenounced, on the contrary would transmigrate into a more fearful\nshape. As things are at present, (and, observe, they are always growing\nbetter,) what numbers of noble-minded men, in the persons of our\nofficers (yes, and often of non-commissioned officers,) do we British,\nfor example, disperse over battle-fields, that could not dishonor their\nglorious uniform by any countenance to an act of cruelty! They are eyes\ndelegated from the charities of our domestic life, to overlook and curb\nthe license of war. I remember, in Xenophon, some passage where he\ndescribes a class of Persian gentlemen, who were called the\n_ophthalmoi_, or _eyes_ of the king; but for a very different\npurpose. These British officers may be called the _opthalmoi_, or\neyes of our Sovereign Lady, that into every corner of the battle carry\ntheir scrutiny, lest any cruelty should be committed on the helpless,\nor any advantage taken of a dying enemy. But mark, such officers would\nbe rare in the irregular troops succeeding to the official armies. And\nthrough this channel, amongst others, war, when cried down by act of\nParliament, and precisely _because_ it was cried down, would\nbecome more perilously effective for the degradation of human nature.\nBeing itself dishonored, war would become the more effective as an\ninstrument for the dishonoring of its agents. However, at length, we\nwill suppose the impossible problem solved--war, we will assume, is at\nlast put down.\n\nAt length there is no more war. Though by the way, let me whisper in\nyour ear, (supposing you to be a Christian,) this would be a\nprelibation drawn prematurely from the cup of millennial happiness;\nand, strictly speaking, there is no great homage to religion, even thus\nfar--in figuring _that_ to be the purchase of man for himself, and\nthrough his own efforts, which is viewed by Scripture as a glory\nremoved to the infinite and starry distance of a millennium, and as the\n_teleutaion epigeinaema_, the last crowning attainment of\nChristian truth, no longer _militant_ on earth. Christianity it\nis, but Christianity when _triumphant_, and no longer in conflict\nwith adverse, or thwarting, or limiting influences, which only can be\nequal to a revolution so mighty. But all this, for the sake of pursuing\nthe assumption, let us agree to waive. In reality, there are two\nseparate stations taken up by the war denouncers. One class hold, that\nan influence derived from political economy is quite equal to the\nflying leap by which man is to clear this unfathomable gulph of war,\nand to land his race for ever on the opposite shore of a self-\nsustaining peace. Simply, the contemplation of national debts, (as a\nburthen which never would have existed without war,) and a computation\nof the waste, havoc, unproductive labor, &c., attached to any single\ncampaign--these, they imagine, might suffice, _per se_, for the\nextinction of war. But the other class cannot go along with a\nspeculation so infirm. Reasons there are, in the opposite scale,\ntempting man into war,--which are far mightier than any motives\naddressed to his self-interest. Even straining her energies to the\nutmost, they regard all policy of the _purse_ as adequate: anything\nshort of religion, they are satisfied, must be incommensurate to a\nresult so vast.\n\nI myself certainly agree with this last class; but upon this arises a\ndelusion, which I shall have some trouble in making the reader\nunderstand: and of this I am confident-that a majority, perhaps, in\nevery given amount of readers, will share in the delusion; will part\nfrom me in the persuasion that the error I attempt to expose is no\nerror at all, but that it is myself who am in the wrong. The delusion\nwhich I challenge as such, respects the very meaning and value of a\nsacrifice made to Christianity. What is it? what do we properly mean,\nby a concession or a sacrifice made to a spiritual power, such as\nChristianity? If a king and his people, impressed by the unchristian\ncharacter of war, were to say, in some solemn act--'We, the parties\nundersigned, for the reasons stated in the body of this document,\nproclaim to all nations, that from and after Midsummer eve of the year\n1850, this being the eve of St. John the Baptist, (who was the herald\nof Christ,) we will no more prosecute any interest of ours, unless the\none sole interest of national defence, by means of war,--and this\nsacrifice we make as a concession and act of homage to Christianity,--\nwould _that_ vow, I ask, sincerely offered, and steadily observed,\nreally be a sacrifice made to Christianity? Not at all. A sacrifice,\nthat was truly such, to a spiritual religion, must be a sacrifice not\nverbally (though sincerely) dedicating itself to the religion, but a\nsacrifice wrought and accomplished by that religion, through and by its\nown spirit. Midsummer eve of 1850 could clearly make no spiritual\nchange in the king or his people--such they would be on the morning\nafter St. John's day, as on the morning before it--_i. e._, filled\nwith all elements (though possibly undeveloped) of strife, feud,\npernicious ambition,\n\nThe delusion, therefore, which I charge upon this religious class of\nwar denouncers is, that whilst they see and recognize this infinite\nimperfection of any influence which Christianity yet exercises upon the\nworld, they nevertheless rely upon that acknowledged shadow for the\naccomplishment of what would, in such circumstances, be a real miracle;\nthey rely upon that shadow, as truly and entirely as if it were already\nthat substance which, in a vast revolution of ages, it will finally\nbecome. And they rely upon this mockery in _two_ senses; first,\nfor the _endurance_ of the frail human resolution that would thaw\nin an hour before a great outrage, or provocation suited to the nobler\ninfirmities of man. Secondly, which is the point I mainly aim at,\nassuming, for a moment, that the resolution _could_ endure,\namongst all mankind, we are all equally convinced, that an evil so vast\nis not likely to be checked or controlled, except by some very\nextraordinary power. Well, where _is_ it? Show me that power. I\nknow of none but Christianity. _There_, undoubtedly, is hope. But,\nin order that the hope may become rational, the power must become\npractical. And practical it is not in the extent required, until this\nChristianity, from being dimly appreciated by a section [Footnote\n_What_ section, if you please? I, for my part, do not agree with\nthose that geographically degrade Christianity as occupying but a\ntrifle on the area of our earth. Mark this; all Eastern populations\nhave dwindled upon better acquaintance. Persia that _ought_ to\nhave, at least, two hundred and fifty millions of people, and\n_would_ have them under English government, and once was supposed\nto have at least one hundred millions, how many millions has she?\n_Eight!_ This was ascertained by Napoleon's emissary in 1808,\nGeneral Gardanne. Afghanistan has very little more, though some falsely\ncount fourteen millions. There go two vast chambers of Mahometanism;\nnot twenty millions between them. Hindostan may _really_ have one\nhundred and twenty millions claimed for her. As to the Burman Empire,\nI, nor anybody else knows the truth. But, as to China, I have never for\na moment been moved by those ridiculous estimates of the flowery\npeople, which our simple countrymen copy. Instead of three hundred and\nfifty millions, a third of the human race upon the most exaggerated\nestimate, read eighty or one hundred millions at most. Africa, as it\nregards religion, counts for a cipher. Europe, America, and the half of\nAsia, as to space, are Christian. Consequently, the total _facit_,\nas regards Christianity, is not what many amiable infidels make it to\nbe. My dears, your wish was father to that thought.] of this world,\nshall have been the law that overrides the whole. That consummation is\nnot immeasurably distant. Even now, from considerations connected with\nChina, with New Zealand, Borneo, Australia, we may say, that already\nthe fields are white for harvest. But alas! the interval is brief\nbetween Christianity small, and Christianity great, as regards space or\nterraqueous importance, compared with that interval which separates\nChristianity formally professed, from Christianity thankfully\nacknowledged by universal man in beauty and power.\n\nHere, therefore, is one spoke in the wheel for so vast a change as war\ndethroned, viz., that you see no cause, though you should travel round\nthe whole horizon, adequate to so prodigious an effect. What could do\nit? Why, Christianity could do it. Aye, true; but man disarms\nChristianity. And no mock Christianity, no lip homage to Christianity,\nwill answer.\n\nBut is war, then, to go on for ever? Are we never to improve? Are\nnations to conduct their intercourse eternally under the secret\nunderstanding that an unchristian solution of all irreconcileable feuds\nstands in the rear as the ultimate appeal? I answer that war, going on\neven for ever, may still be for ever amending its modes and its results\nupon human happiness; secondly, that we not only are under no fatal\narrest in our process of improvement, but that, as regards war, history\nshows how steadily we _have_ been improving; and, thirdly, that\nalthough war may be irreversible as the last resource, this last\nresource may constantly be retiring further into the rear. Let us speak\nto this last point. War is the last resource only, because other and\nmore intellectual resources for solving disputes are not available. And\n_why_ are they not? Simply, because the knowledge, and the logic,\nwhich ultimately will govern the case, and the very circumstances of\nthe case itself in its details, as the basis on which this knowledge\nand logic are to operate, happen not to have been sufficiently\ndeveloped. A code of law is not a spasmodic effort of gigantic talent\nin any one man or any one generation; it is a slow growth of accidents\nand occasions expanding with civilization; dependent upon time as a\nmultiform element in its development; and presupposing often a\nconcurrent growth of _analogous_ cases towards the completion of\nits system. For instance, the law which regulates the rights of\nshipping, seafaring men, and maritime commerce--how slow was its\ndevelopment! Before such works as the _Consolato del Mare_ had\nbeen matured, how wide must have been the experience, and how slow its\naccumulation! During that long period of infancy for law, how many must\nhave been the openings for ignorant and unintentional injustice! How\ndifferently, again, will the several parties to any transaction\nconstrue the rights of the case! Discussion, without rules for guiding\nit, will but embitter the dispute. And in the absence of all guidance\nfrom the intellect, gradually weaving a _common_ standard of\ninternational appeal, it is clear that nations _must_ fight, and\n_ought_ to fight. Not being convinced, it is base to pretend that\nyou _are_ convinced; and failing to be convinced by your neighbor's\narguments, you confess yourself a poltroon (and moreover you\n_invite_ injuries from every neighbor) if you pocket your wrongs.\nThe only course in such a case is to thump your neighbor, and to thump\nhim soundly for the present. This treatment is very serviceable to your\nneighbor's optics; he sees things in a new light after a sufficient\ncourse of so distressing a regimen. But mark, even in this case, war\nhas no tendency to propagate war, but tends to the very opposite\nresult. To thump is as costly, and in other ways as painful, as to\n_be_ thumped. The evil to both sides arises in an undeveloped\nstate of law. If rights were defined by a well considered code growing\nout of long experience, each party sees that this scourge of war would\ncontinually tend to limit itself. Consequently the very necessity of\nwar becomes the strongest invitation to that system of judicial logic\nwhich forms its sole limitation. But all war whatsoever stands in these\ncircumstances. It follows that all war whatever, unless on the brutal\nprinciple of a Spartan warfare, that made war its own sufficient object\nand self-justification, operates as a perpetual bounty offered to men\nupon the investigation and final adjudication of those disputed cases\nthrough which war prospers. Hence it is, viz., because the true\nboundaries of reciprocal rights are for ever ascertaining themselves\nmore clearly, that war is growing less frequent. The fields open to\ninjustice (which originally from pure ignorance are so vast)\ncontinually (through deeper and more expansive surveys by man's\nintellect--searching--reflecting--comparing) are narrowing themselves;\nnarrowing themselves in this sense, that all nations under a common\ncentre of religious civilization, as Christendom suppose, or Islamism,\nwould not fight--no, and would not (by the national sense of wrong and\nright) be permitted to fight--in a cause _confessedly_ condemned\nby equity as now developed. The causes of war that still remain, are\ncauses on which international law is silent--that large arrear of cases\nas yet unsettled; or else they are cases in which though law speaks\nwith an authentic voice, it speaks in vain, because the circumstances\nare doubtful; so that, if the law is fixed as a lamp nailed to a wall,\nyet the _incidence_ of the law on the particular circumstances,\nbecomes as doubtful as the light of the lamp upon objects that are\ncapriciously moving. We see all this illustrated in a class of cases\nthat powerfully illustrate the good and the bad in war, the why and the\nwherefore, as likewise the why _not_, and therefore I presume the\nwherefore _not_; and this class of cases belongs to the _lex\nvicinitatis_. In the Roman law this section makes a great figure.\nAnd speaking accurately, it makes a greater in our own. But the reason\nwhy this _law of neighborhood_ seems to fill so much smaller a\nsection in ours, is because in English law, being _positively_ a\nlonger section, _negatively_ to the whole compass of our law, it\nis less. The Roman law would have paved a road to the moon. And what is\n_that_ expressed in time? Let us see: a railway train, worked at\nthe speed of the Great Western Express, accomplishes easily a thousand\nmiles in twenty-four hours; consequently in two hundred and forty days\nor eight months it would run into the moon with its buffers, and break\nup the quarters of that Robinson Crusoe who (and without any Friday) is\nthe only policeman that parades that little pensive appendage or tender\nto our fuming engine of an earth. But the English law--oh frightful\nreader, don't even think of such a question as its relation in space\nand time to the Roman law. That it would stretch to the fixed stars is\nplain, but to which of them,--don't now, dear persecuting reader,\nunsettle our brains by asking. Enough it is that both in Roman and\nEnglish law the rights of neighborhood are past measuring. Has a man a\nright to play the German flute, where the partitions are slender, all\nday long in the house adjoining to yours? Or, supposing a beneficent\njury (beneficent to _him_) finds this to be no legal nuisance, has\nhe a right to play it ill? Or, because juries, when tipsy, will wink at\nanything, does the privilege extend to the jew's-harp? to the poker and\ntongs? to the marrowbones and cleavers? Or, without ranging through the\nwhole of the _Spectator's_ culinary music, will the bagpipes be\nfound within benefit of jury law? _War to the knife_ I say, before\nwe'll submit to _that_. And if the law won't protect us against\nit, then we'll turn rebels.\n\nNow this law of neighborhood, this _lex vicinitatis_, amongst the\nRomans, righted itself and settled itself, as amongst ourselves it\ncontinues to do, by means of actions or legal suits. If a man poisons\nus with smoke, we compel him by an action to eat his own smoke, or (if\nhe chooses) to make his chimneys eat it. Here you see is a transmuted\nwar; in a barbarous state, fire and sword would have avenged this\ninvasion of smoke; but amongst civilized men, paper bullets in the form\nof _Qui tam_ and _Scire facias_, beat off the enemy. And on the same\nprinciple, exactly as the law of international rights clears up its\ndark places, war gradually narrows its grounds, and the _jus gentium_\ndefines itself through national attorneys, _i. e._, diplomatists.\n\nFor instance, now I have myself seen a case where a man cultivating a\nflower-garden, and distressed for some deliverance from his rubbish of\ndead leaves, litter, straw, stones, took the desperate resolution of\nprojecting the whole upon his neighbor's flower-garden. I, a chance\nspectator of the outrage, knew too much of this world to lodge any\nprotest against it, on the principle of mere abstract justice; so it\nwould have passed unnoticed, but for the accident that his injured\nneighbor unexpectedly raised up his head above the dividing wall, and\nreproached the aggressor with his unprincipled conduct. This aggressor,\nadding evil to evil, suggested as the natural remedy for his own wrong,\nthat the sufferer should pass the nuisance onwards to the garden next\nbeyond him; from which it might be posted forward on the same\nprinciple. The aggrieved man, however, preferred passing it back,\nwithout any discount to the original proprietor. Here now, is a ripe\ncase, a _causa teterrima_, for war between the parties, and for a\nnational war had the parties been nations. In fact, the very same\ninjury, in a more aggravated shape, is perpetrated from time to time by\nJersey upon ourselves, and would, upon a larger scale, right itself by\nwar. Convicts are costly to maintain; and Jersey, whose national\nrevenue is limited, being too well aware of this, does us the favor to\nland upon the coasts of Hampshire, Dorset, &c., all the criminals whom\nshe cannot summarily send back to self-support, at each jail-delivery.\n'What are we to do in England?' is the natural question propounded by\nthe injured scoundrels, when taking leave of their Jersey escort.\n'Anything you please,' is the answer: 'rise if you can, to be dukes:\nonly never come back hither; since, dukes or _no_ dukes, to the\nrest of Christendom, to _us_ of the Channel Islands you will\nalways be transported felons.' There is therefore a good right of\naction, _i.e._, a good ground of war, against Jersey, on the part\nof Great Britain, since, besides the atrocious injury inflicted, this\nunprincipled little island has the audacity to regard our England, (all\nEurope looking on,) as existing only for the purposes of a sewer or\ncess-pool to receive _her_ impurities. Some time back I remember a\nScottish newspaper holding up the case as a newly discovered horror in\nthe social system. But, in a quiet way Jersey has always been engaged\nin this branch of exportation, and rarely fails to 'run' a cargo of\nrogues upon our shore, once or so in the season. What amuses one\nbesides, in this Scottish denunciation of the villany, is, that\nScotland [Footnote: To banish them 'forth of the kingdom,' was the\n_euphuismus_; but the reality understood was--to carry the knaves,\nlike foxes in a bag, to the English soil, and there unbag them for\nEnglish use.] of old, pursued the very same mode of jail-delivery as to\nknaves that were not thought ripe enough for hanging: she carted them\nto the English border, unchained them, and hurried them adrift into the\nwilderness, saying--Now, boys, shift for yourselves, and henceforth\nplunder none but Englishmen.\n\nWhat I deduce from all this is, that as the feuds arising between\nindividuals under the relation of neighbors, are so far from tending to\na hostile result, that, on the contrary, as coming under a rule of law\nalready ascertained, or furnishing the basis for a new rule, they\ngradually tighten the cords which exclude all opening for quarrel; not\notherwise is the result, and therefore the usefulness, of war amongst\nnations. All the causes of war, the occasions upon which it is likely\nto arise, the true and the ostensible motives, are gradually evolved,\nare examined, searched, valued, by publicists; and by such means, in\nthe further progress of men, a comprehensive law of nations will\nfinally be accumulated, not such as now passes for international law,\n(a worthless code that _has_ no weight in the practice of nations,\nnor deserves any,) but one which will exhaust the great body of cases\nunder which wars have arisen under the Christian era, and gradually\ncollect a public opinion of Christendom upon the nature of each\nparticular case. The causes that _have_ existed for war are the\ncauses that _will_ exist; or, at least, they are the same under\nmodifications that will simply vary the rule, as our law cases in the\ncourts are every day circumstantiating the particular statute\nconcerned. At this stage of advance, and when a true European opinion\nhas been created, a '_sensus communis_,' or community of feeling\non the main classifications of wars, it will become possible to erect a\nreal Areopagus, or central congress for all Christendom, not with any\ncommission to suppress wars,--a policy which would neutralize itself by\nreacting as a fresh cause of war, since high-spirited nations would arm\nfor the purpose of resisting such decrees; but with the purpose and the\neffect of oftentimes healing local or momentary animosities, and also\nby publishing the opinion of Europe, assembled in council, with the\neffect of taking away the shadow of dishonor from the act of retiring\nfrom war. Not to mention that the mere delay, involved in the waiting\nfor the solemn opinion of congress, would always be friendly to pacific\ncouncils. But _would_ the belligerents wait? That concession might\nbe secured by general exchange of treaties, in the same way that the\ncooperation of so many nations has been secured to the suppression of\nthe trade in slaves. And one thing is clear, that when all the causes\nof war, involving _manifest_ injustice, are banished by the force\nof European opinion, focally converged upon the subject, the range of\nwar will be prodigiously circumscribed. The costliness of war, which,\nfor various reasons has been continually increasing since the feudal\nperiod, will operate as another limitation upon its field, concurring\npowerfully with the public declaration from a council of collective\nChristendom.\n\nThere is, besides, a distinct and separate cause of war, more fatal to\nthe possibilities of peace in Europe than open injustice; and this\ncause being certainly in the hands of nations to deal with as they\nplease, there is a tolerable certainty that a congress _sincerely_\npacific would cut it up by the roots. It is a cause noticed by Kant in\nhis Essay on Perpetual Peace, and with great sagacity, though otherwise\nthat little work is not free from visionary self-delusions: and this\ncause lies in the diplomacy of Europe. Treaties of peace are so\nconstructed, as almost always to sow the seeds of future wars. This\nseems to the inexperienced reader a matter of carelessness or laxity in\nthe choice of expression; and sometimes it may have been so; but more\noften it has been done under the secret dictation of powerful courts--\nmaking peaces only as truces, anxious only for time to nurse their\nenergies, and to keep open some plausible call for war. This is not\nonly amongst the most extensive causes of war, but the very worst:\nbecause it gives a colorable air of justice, and almost of necessity to\na war, which is, in fact, the most outrageously unjust, as being\nderived from a pretext silently prepared in former years, with mere\nsubtlety of malice: it is a war growing out of occasions, forged\nbeforehand, lest no occasions should spontaneously arise. Now, this\ncause of war could and would be healed by a congress, and through an\neasy reform in European diplomacy.[Footnote: One great _nidus_ of\nthis insidious preparation for war under the very masque of peace,\nwhich Kant, from brevity, has failed to particularize, lies in the\nneglecting to make any provision for cases that are likely enough to\narise. A, B, C, D, are all equally possible, but the treaty provides a\nspecific course of action only for A, suppose. Then upon B or C\narising, the high contracting parties, though desperately and equally\npacific, find themselves committed to war actually by a treaty of\nlasting peace. Their pacific majesties sigh, and say--Alas! that it\nshould be so, but really fight we must, for what says the treaty?]\n\nIt is the strongest confirmation of the power inherent in growing\ncivilization, to amend war, and to narrow the field of war, if we look\nback for the records of the changes in this direction which have\nalready arisen in generations before our own.\n\nThe most careless reviewer of history can hardly fail to read a rude\noutline of progress made by men in the rights, and consequently in the\nduties of war through the last twenty-five centuries. It is a happy\ncircumstance for man--that oftentimes he is led by pure selfishness\ninto reforms, the very same as high principle would have prompted; and\nin the next stage of his advance, when once habituated to an improved\ncode of usages, he begins to find a gratification to his sensibilities,\n(partly luxurious sensibilities, but partly moral,) in what originally\nhad been a mere movement of self-interest. Then comes a third stage, in\nwhich having thoroughly reconciled himself to a better order of things,\nand made it even necessary to his own comfort, at length he begins in\nhis reflecting moments to perceive a moral beauty and a fitness in\narrangements that had emanated from accidents of convenience, so that\nfinally he generates a sublime pleasure of conscientiousness out of\nthat which originally commenced in the meanest forms of mercenary\nconvenience. A Roman lady of rank, out of mere voluptuous regard to her\nown comfort, revolted from the harsh clamors of eternal chastisements\ninflicted on her numerous slaves; she forbade them; the grateful slaves\nshowed their love for her; gradually and unintentionally she trained\nher feelings, when thus liberated from a continual temptation to the\nsympathies with cruelty, into a demand for gentler and purer\nexcitement. Her purpose had been one of luxury; but, by the benignity\nof nature still watching for ennobling opportunities, the actual result\nwas a development given to the higher capacities of her heart. In the\nsame way, when the brutal right (and in many circumstances the brutal\nduty) of inflicting death upon prisoners taken in battle, had exchanged\nitself for the profits of ransom or slavery, this relaxation of\nferocity (though commencing in selfishness) gradually exalted itself\ninto a habit of mildness, and some dim perception of a sanctity in\nhuman life. The very vice of avarice ministered to the purification of\nbarbarism; and the very evil of slavery in its earliest form was\napplied to the mitigation of another evil--war conducted in the spirit\nof piratical outrage. The commercial instincts of men having worked one\nset of changes in war, a second set of changes was prompted by\ninstincts derived from the arts of ornament and pomp. Splendor of arms,\nof banners, of equipages, of ceremonies, and the elaborate forms of\nintercourse with enemies through conferences, armistices, treaties of\npeace, &c., having tamed the savagery of war into connection with modes\nof intellectual grandeur, and with the endless restraints of\nsuperstition or scrupulous religion,--a permanent light of civilization\nbegan to steal over the bloody shambles of buccaneering warfare. Other\nmodes of harmonizing influences arose more directly from the bosom of\nwar itself. Gradually the mere practice of war, and the culture of war\nthough merely viewed as a rude trade of bloodshed, ripened into an\nintellectual art. Were it merely with a view to more effectual carnage,\nthis art (however simple and gross at first) opened at length into wide\nscientific arts, into strategies, into tactics, into castrametation,\ninto poliorcetics, and all the processes through which the first rude\nefforts of martial cunning finally connect themselves with the\nexquisite resources of science. War, being a game in which each side\nforces the other into the instant adoption of all improvements through\nthe mere necessities of self-preservation, became continually more\nintellectual.\n\nIt is interesting to observe the steps by which, were it only through\nimpulses of self-conservation, and when searching with a view to more\neffectual destructiveness, war did and must refine itself from a horrid\ntrade of butchery into a magnificent and enlightened science. Starting\nfrom no higher impulse or question than how to cut throats most\nrapidly, most safely, and on the largest scale, it has issued even at\nour own stage of advance into a science, magnificent, oftentimes\nennobling, and cleansed from all horrors except those which (not being\nwithin man's power utterly to divorce from it) no longer stand out as\nreproaches to his humanity.\n\nMeantime a more circumstantial review of war, in relation to its\nmotives and the causes assigned for its justification, would expose a\nseries of changes greater perhaps than the reader is aware of. Such a\nreview, which would too much lengthen a single paper, may or may not\nform the subject of a second. And I will content myself with saying, as\na closing remark, that this review will detect a principle of steady\nadvance in the purification and elevation of war--such as must offer\nhope to those who believe in the possibility of its absolute\nextermination, and must offer consolation to those who (like myself)\ndeny it.\n\n\n\n\nTHE LAST DAYS OF IMMANUEL KANT.\n\n\nI take it for granted that every person of education will acknowledge\nsome interest in the personal history of Immanuel Kant. A great man,\nthough in an unpopular path, must always be an object of liberal\ncuriosity. To suppose a reader thoroughly indifferent to Kant, is to\nsuppose him thoroughly unintellectual; and, therefore, though in\nreality he should happen _not_ to regard him with interest, it is\none of the fictions of courtesy to presume that he does. On this\nprinciple I make no apology to the reader for detaining him upon a\nshort sketch of Kant's life and domestic habits, drawn from the\nauthentic records of his friends and pupils. It is true, that, without\nany illiberality on the part of the public in this country, the\n_works_ of Kant are not regarded with the same interest which has\ngathered about his _name_; and this may be attributed to three\ncauses--first, to the language in which they are written; secondly, to\nthe supposed obscurity of the philosophy which they teach, whether\nintrinsic or due to Kant's particular mode of expounding it; thirdly,\nto the unpopularity of all speculative philosophy, no matter how\ntreated, in a country where the structure and tendency of society\nimpress upon the whole activities of the nation a direction exclusively\npractical. But, whatever may be the immediate fortunes of his writings,\nno man of enlightened curiosity will regard the author himself without\nsomething of a profounder interest. Measured by one test of power,\nviz., by the number of books written directly for or against himself,\nto say nothing of those which he has indirectly modified, there is no\nphilosophic writer whatsoever, if we except Aristotle, who can pretend\nto approach Kant in the extent of the influence which he has exercised\nover the minds of men. Such being his claims upon our notice, I repeat\nthat it is no more than a reasonable act of respect to the reader--to\npresume in him so much interest about Kant as will justify a sketch of\nhis life.\n\nImmanuel Kant, [Footnote: By the paternal side, the family of Kant was\nof Scotch derivation; and hence it is that the name was written by Kant\nthe father--_Cant_, that being a Scotch name, and still to be found\nin Scotland. But Immanuel, though he always cherished his Scotch\ndescent, substituted a _K_ for a _C_, in order to adapt it better\nto the analogies of the German language.] the second of six\nchildren, was born at K\u00f6nigsberg, in Prussia, a city at that time\ncontaining about fifty thousand inhabitants, on the 22d of April, 1724.\nHis parents were people of humble rank, and not rich even for their own\nstation, but able (with some assistance from a near relative, and a\ntrifle in addition from a gentleman, who esteemed them for their piety\nand domestic virtues,) to give their son Immanuel a liberal education.\nHe was sent when a child to a charity school; and, in the year 1732,\nremoved to the Royal (or Frederician) Academy. Here he studied the\nGreek and Latin classics, and formed an intimacy with one of his\nschoolfellows, David Ruhnken, (afterwards so well known to scholars\nunder his Latin name of Ruhn-kenius,) which lasted until the death of\nthe latter. In 1737, Kant lost his mother, a woman of excellent\ncharacter, and of accomplishments and knowledge beyond her rank, who\ncontributed to the future eminence of her illustrious son by the\ndirection which she gave to his youthful thoughts, and by the elevated\nmorals to which she trained him. Kant never spoke of her to the end of\nhis life without the utmost tenderness, and acknowledgment of his great\nobligations to her maternal care. In 1740, at Mich\u00e6lmas, he entered the\nUniversity of K\u00f6nigsberg. In 1746, when about twenty-two years old, he\nprinted his first work, upon a question partly mathematical and partly\nphilosophic, viz., the valuation of living forces. The question had\nbeen first moved by Leibnitz, in opposition to the Cartesians, and was\nhere finally settled, after having occupied most of the great\nmathematicians of Europe for more than half a century. It was dedicated\nto the King of Prussia, but never reached him--having, in fact, never\nbeen published. [Footnote: To this circumstance we must attribute its\nbeing so little known amongst the philosophers and mathematicians of\nforeign countries, and also the fact that D'Alembert, whose philosophy\nwas miserably below his mathematics, many years afterwards still\ncontinued to represent the dispute as a verbal one.] From this time\nuntil 1770, he supported himself as a private tutor in different\nfamilies, or by giving private lectures in K\u00f6nigsberg, especially to\nmilitary men on the art of fortification. In 1770, he was appointed to\nthe Chair of Mathematics, which he exchanged soon after for that of\nLogic and Metaphysics. On this occasion, he delivered an inaugural\ndisputation--[_De Mundi Sensibilis atque Intelligibilis Forma et\nPrincipiis_]--which is remarkable for containing the first germs of\nthe Transcendental Philosophy. In 1781, he published his great work,\nthe _Critik der Reinen Vernunft,_ or _Investigation of the Pure\nReason_. On February 12, 1804, he died.\n\nThese are the great epochs of Kant's life. But his was a life\nremarkable not so much for its incidents, as for the purity and\nphilosophic dignity of its daily tenor; and of this the best impression\nwill be obtained from Wasianski's account of his last years, checked\nand supported by the collateral testimonies of Jachmann, Rink,\nBorowski, and other biographers. We see him here struggling with the\nmisery of decaying faculties, and with the pain, depression, and\nagitation of two different complaints, one affecting his stomach, and\nthe other his head; over all which the benignity and nobility of his\nmind are seen victoriously eminent to the last. The principal defect of\nthis and all other memoirs of Kant is, that they report too little of\nhis conversation and opinions. And perhaps the reader will be disposed\nto complain, that some of the notices are too minute and\ncircumstantial, so as to be at one time undignified, and at another\nunfeeling. As to the first objection, it may be answered, that\nbiographical gossip of this sort, and ungentlemanly scrutiny into a\nman's private life, though not what a man of honor would choose to\nwrite, may be read without blame; and, where a great man is the\nsubject, sometimes with advantage. With respect to the other objection,\nI know not how to excuse Mr. Wasianski for kneeling at the bed-side of\nhis dying friend, to record, with the accuracy of a short-hand\nreporter, the last flutter of his pulse and the struggles of expiring\nnature, except by supposing that the idea of Kant, as a person\nbelonging to all ages, in his mind transcended and extinguished the\nordinary restraints of human sensibility, and that, under this\nimpression, he gave _that_ to his sense of a public duty which, it\nmay be hoped, he would willingly have declined on the impulse of his\nprivate affections.\n\n_The following paper on The Last Days of Kant, is gathered from the\nGerman of Wasianski, Jachmann, Borowski, and others._\n\nMy knowledge of Professor Kant began long before the period to which\nthis little memorial of him chiefly refers. In the year 1773, or 1774,\nI cannot exactly remember which, I attended his lectures. Afterwards, I\nacted as his amanuensis; and in that office was naturally brought into\na closer connection with him than any other of his pupils; so that,\nwithout any request on my part, he granted me a general privilege of\nfree admission to his class-room. In 1780 I took orders, and withdrew\nmyself from all connection with the university. I still continued,\nhowever, to reside in K\u00f6nigsberg; but wholly forgotten, or wholly\nunnoticed at least, by Kant. Ten years afterwards, (that is to say, in\n1790,) I met him by accident at a party given on occasion of the\nmarriage of one of the professors. At table, Kant distributed his\nconversation and attentions pretty generally; but after the\nentertainment, when the company broke up into parties, he came and\nseated himself very obligingly by my side. I was at that time a\nflorist--an amateur, I mean, from the passion I had for flowers; upon\nlearning which, he talked of my favorite pursuit, and with very\nextensive information. In the course of our conversation, I was\nsurprised to find that he was perfectly acquainted with all the\ncircumstances of my situation. He reminded me of our previous\nconnection; expressed his satisfaction at finding that I was happy; and\nwas so good as to desire that, if my engagements allowed me, I would\nnow and then come and dine with him. Soon after this, he rose to take\nhis leave; and, as our road lay the same way, he proposed to me that I\nshould accompany him home. I did so, and received an invitation for the\nnext week, with a general invitation for every week after, and\npermission to name my own day. At first I was unable to explain the\ndistinction with which Kant had treated me; and I conjectured that some\nobliging friend had spoken of me in his hearing, somewhat more\nadvantageously than I could pretend to deserve; but more intimate\nexperience has convinced me that he was in the habit of making\ncontinual inquiries after the welfare of his former pupils, and was\nheartily rejoiced to hear of their prosperity. So that it appeared I\nwas wrong in thinking he had forgotten me.\n\nThis revival of my intimacy with Professor Kant, coincided pretty\nnearly, in point of time, with a complete change in his domestic\narrangements. Up to this period it had been his custom to eat at a\n_table d'h\u00f4te_. But he now began to keep house himself, and every\nday invited two friends to dine with him, and upon any little festival\nfrom five to eight; for he was a punctual observer of Lord\nChesterfield's rule--that his dinner party, himself included, should\nnot fall below the number of the Graces--nor exceed that of the Muses.\nIn the whole economy of his household arrangements, and especially of\nhis dinner parties, there was something peculiar and amusingly opposed\nto the usual conventional restraints of society; not, however, that\nthere was any neglect of decorum, such as sometimes occurs in houses\nwhere there are no ladies to impress a better tone upon the manners.\nThe invariable routine was this: The moment that dinner was ready,\nLampe, the professor's old footman, stepped into the study with a\ncertain measured air, and announced it. This summons was obeyed at the\npace of double quick time--Kant talking all the way to the eating-room\nabout the state of the weather [Footnote: His reason for which was,\nthat he considered the weather one of the principal forces which act\nupon the health; and his own frame was exquisitely sensible to all\natmospheric influences.]--a subject which he usually pursued during the\nearlier part of the dinner. Graver themes, such as the political events\nof the day, were never introduced before dinner, or at all in his\nstudy. The moment that Kant had taken his seat, and unfolded his\nnapkin, he opened the business of dinner with a particular formula--\n'_Now, then, gentlemen!_' and the tone and air with which he\nuttered these words, proclaimed, in a way which nobody could mistake,\nrelaxation from the toils of the morning, and determinate abandonment\nof himself to social enjoyment. The table was hospitably spread; three\ndishes, wine, &c., with a small second course, composed the dinner.\nEvery person helped himself; and all delays of ceremony were so\ndisagreeable to Kant, that he seldom failed to express his displeasure\nwith anything of that sort, though not angrily. He was displeased also\nif people ate little; and treated it as affectation. The first man to\nhelp himself was in his eyes the politest guest; for so much the sooner\ncame his own turn. For this hatred of delay, Kant had a special excuse,\nhaving always worked hard from an early hour in the morning, and eaten\nnothing until dinner. Hence it was, that in the latter period of his\nlife, though less perhaps from actual hunger than from some uneasy\nsensation of habit or periodical irritation of stomach, he could hardly\nwait with patience for the arrival of the last person invited.\n\nThere was no friend of Kant's but considered the day on which he was to\ndine with him as a day of pleasure. Without giving himself the air of\nan instructor, Kant really was so in the very highest degree. The whole\nentertainment was seasoned with the overflow of his enlightened mind,\npoured out naturally and unaffectedly upon every topic, as the chances\nof conversation suggested it; and the time flew rapidly away, from one\no'clock to four, five, or even later, profitably and delightfully. Kant\ntolerated no _calms_, which was the name he gave to the momentary\npauses in conversation, or periods when its animation languished. Some\nmeans or other he always devised for restoring its tone of interest, in\nwhich he was much assisted by the tact with which he drew from every\nguest his peculiar tastes, or the particular direction of his pursuits;\nand on these, be they what they might, he was never unprepared to speak\nwith knowledge, and the interest of an original observer. The local\naffairs of K\u00f6nigsberg must have been interesting indeed, before they\ncould be allowed to occupy the attention at _his_ table. And, what\nmay seem still more singular, it was rarely or never that he directed\nthe conversation to any branch of the philosophy founded by himself.\nIndeed he was perfectly free from the fault which besets so many\n_savans_ and _literati_, of intolerance towards those whose\npursuits had disqualified them for any particular sympathy with his\nown. His style of conversation was popular in the highest degree, and\nunscholastic; so much so, that any stranger who should have studied his\nworks, and been unacquainted with his person, would have found it\ndifficult to believe, that in this delightful companion he saw the\nprofound author of the Transcendental Philosophy.\n\nThe subjects of conversation at Kant's table were drawn chiefly from\nnatural philosophy, chemistry, meteorology, natural history, and above\nall, from politics. The news of the day, as reported in the public\njournals, was discussed with a peculiar vigilance of examination. With\nregard to any narrative that wanted dates of time and place, however\notherwise plausible, he was uniformly an inexorable sceptic, and held\nit unworthy of repetition. So keen was his penetration into the\ninterior of political events, and the secret policy under which they\nmoved, that he talked rather with the authority of a diplomatic person\nwho had access to cabinet intelligence, than as a simple spectator of\nthe great scenes which were unfolding in Europe. At the time of the\nFrench Revolution, he threw out many conjectures, and what were then\naccounted paradoxical anticipations, especially in regard to military\noperations, which were as punctually fulfilled as his own memorable\nconjecture in regard to the hiatus in the planetary system between Mars\nand Jupiter,[Footnote: To which the author should have added--and in\nregard to the hiatus between the planetary and cometary systems, which\nwas pointed out by Kant several years before his conjecture was\nestablished by the good telescope of Dr. Herschel. Vesta and Juno,\nfurther confirmations of Kant's conjecture, were discovered in June\n1804, when Wasianski wrote.] the entire confirmation of which he lived\nto witness on the discovery of Ceres by Piazzi, in Palermo, and of\nPallas, by Dr. Olbers, at Bremen. These two discoveries, by the way,\nimpressed him much; and they furnished a topic on which he always\ntalked with pleasure; though, according to his usual modesty, he never\nsaid a word of his own sagacity in having upon _\u00e0 priori_ grounds\nshown the probability of such discoveries many years before.\n\nIt was not only in the character of a companion that Kant shone, but\nalso as a most courteous and liberal host, who had no greater pleasure\nthan in seeing his guests happy and jovial, and rising with exhilarated\nspirits from the mixed pleasures--intellectual and liberally sensual--\nof his Platonic banquets. Chiefly, perhaps, with a view to the\nsustaining of this tone of genial hilarity, he showed himself somewhat\nof an artist in the composition of his dinner parties. Two rules there\nwere which he obviously observed, and I may say invariably: the first\nwas, that the company should be miscellaneous; this for the sake of\nsecuring sufficient variety to the conversation: and accordingly his\nparties presented as much variety as the world of K\u00f6nigsberg afforded,\nbeing drawn from all the modes of life, men in office, professors,\nphysicians, clergymen, and enlightened merchants. His second rule was,\nto have a due balance of _young_ men, frequently of _very_ young\nmen, selected from the students of the university, in order to\nimpress a movement of gaiety and juvenile playfulness on the\nconversation; an additional motive for which, as I have reason to\nbelieve, was, that in this way he withdrew his mind from the sadness\nwhich sometimes overshadowed it, for the early deaths of some young\nfriends whom he loved.\n\nAnd this leads me to mention a singular feature in Kant's way of\nexpressing his sympathy with his friends in sickness. So long as the\ndanger was imminent, he testified a restless anxiety, made perpetual\ninquiries, waited with patience for the crisis, and sometimes could not\npursue his customary labors from agitation of mind. But no sooner was\nthe patient's death announced, than he recovered his composure, and\nassumed an air of stern tranquillity--almost of indifference. The\nreason was, that he viewed life in general, and therefore, that\nparticular affection of life which we call sickness, as a state of\noscillation and perpetual change, between which and the fluctuating\nsympathies of hope and fear, there was a natural proportion that\njustified them to the reason; whereas death, as a permanent state that\nadmitted of no _more_ or _less_, that terminated all anxiety, and\nfor ever extinguished the agitation of suspense, he would not allow\nto be fitted to any state of feeling, but one of the same enduring and\nunchanging character. However, all this philosophic heroism gave way on\none occasion; for many persons will remember the tumultuous grief which\nhe manifested upon the death of Mr. Ehrenboth, a young man of very fine\nunderstanding and extensive attainments, for whom he had the greatest\naffection. And naturally it happened, in so long a life as his, in\nspite of his provident rule for selecting his social companions as much\nas possible amongst the young, that he had to mourn for many a heavy\nloss that could never be supplied to him.\n\nTo return, however, to the course of his day, immediately after the\ntermination of his dinner party, Kant walked out for exercise; but on\nthis occasion he never took any companion, partly, perhaps, because he\nthought it right, after so much convivial and colloquial relaxation, to\npursue his meditations,[Footnote: Mr. Wasianski is wrong. To pursue his\nmeditations under these circumstances, might perhaps be an inclination\nof Kant's to which he yielded, but not one which he would justify or\nerect into a maxim. He disapproved of eating alone, or _solipsismus\nconvictorii_, as he calls it, on the principle, that a man would be\napt, if not called off by the business and pleasure of a social party,\nto think too much or too closely, an exercise which he considered very\ninjurious to the stomach during the first process of digestion. On the\nsame principle he disapproved of walking or riding alone; the double\nexercise of thinking and bodily agitation, carried on at the same time,\nbeing likely, as he conceived, to press too hard upon the stomach.] and\npartly (as I happen to know) for a very peculiar reason, viz., that he\nwished to breathe exclusively through his nostrils, which he could not\ndo if he were obliged continually to open his mouth in conversation.\nHis reason for this was, that the atmospheric air, being thus carried\nround by a longer circuit, and reaching the lungs, therefore, in a\nstate of less rawness, and at a temperature somewhat higher, would be\nless apt to irritate them. By a steady perseverance in this practice,\nwhich he constantly recommended to his friends, he flattered himself\nwith a long immunity from coughs, colds, hoarseness, and every mode of\ndefluxion; and the fact really was, that these troublesome affections\nattacked him very rarely. Indeed I myself, by only occasionally\nadopting his rule, have found my chest not so liable as formerly to\nsuch attacks.\n\nAt six o'clock he sat down to his library table, which was a plain\nordinary piece of furniture, and read till dusk. During this period of\ndubious light, so friendly to thought, he rested in tranquil meditation\non what he had been reading, provided the book were worth it; if not,\nhe sketched his lecture for the next day, or some part of any book he\nmight then be composing. During this state of repose he took his\nstation winter and summer by the stove, looking through the window at\nthe old tower of Lobenicht; not that he could be said properly to see\nit, but the tower rested upon his eye,--obscurely, or but half revealed\nto his consciousness. No words seemed forcible enough to express his\nsense of the gratification which he derived from this old tower, when\nseen under these circumstances of twilight and quiet reverie. The\nsequel, indeed, showed how important it was to his comfort; for at\nlength some poplars in a neighboring garden shot up to such a height as\nto obscure the tower, upon which Kant became very uneasy and restless,\nand at length found himself positively unable to pursue his evening\nmeditations. Fortunately, the proprietor of the garden was a very\nconsiderate and obliging person, who had, besides, a high regard for\nKant; and, accordingly, upon a representation of the case being made to\nhim, he gave orders that the poplars should be cropped. This was done,\nthe old tower of Lobenicht was again unveiled, and Kant recovered his\nequanimity, and pursued his twilight meditations as before.\n\nAfter the candles were brought, Kant prosecuted his studies till nearly\nten o'clock. A quarter of an hour before retiring for the night, he\nwithdrew his mind as much as possible from every class of thoughts\nwhich demanded any exertion or energy of attention, on the principle,\nthat by stimulating and exciting him too much, such thoughts would be\napt to cause wakefulness; and the slightest interference with his\ncustomary hour of falling asleep, was in the highest degree unpleasant\nto him. Happily, this was with him a very rare occurrence. He undressed\nhimself without his servant's assistance, but in such an order, and\nwith such a Roman regard to decorum and the _to prepon_, that he\nwas always ready at a moment's warning to make his appearance without\nembarrassment to himself or to others. This done, he lay down on a\nmattress, and wrapped himself up in a quilt, which in summer was always\nof cotton,--in autumn, of wool; at the setting-in of winter he used\nboth--and against very severe cold, he protected himself by one of\neider-down, of which the part which covered his shoulders was not\nstuffed with feathers, but padded, or rather wadded closely with layers\nof wool. Long practice had taught him a very dexterous mode of\n_nesting_ himself, as it were, in the bed-clothes. First of all,\nhe sat down on the bedside; then with an agile motion he vaulted\nobliquely into his lair; next he drew one corner of the bedclothes\nunder his left shoulder, and passing it below his back, brought it\nround so as to rest under his right shoulder; fourthly, by a particular\n_tour d'adresse_, he treated the other corner in the same way, and\nfinally contrived to roll it round his whole person. Thus swathed like\na mummy, or (as I used to tell him) self-involved like the silk-worm in\nits cocoon, he awaited the approach of sleep, which generally came on\nimmediately. For Kant's health was exquisite; not mere negative health,\nor the absence of pain, but a state of positive pleasurable sensation,\nand a genial sense of the entire possession of all his activities.\nAccordingly, when packed up for the night in the way I have described,\nhe would often ejaculate to himself (as he used to tell us at dinner)--\n'Is it possible to conceive a human being with more perfect health than\nmyself?' In fact, such was the innocence of his life, and such the\nhappy condition of his situation, that no uneasy passion ever arose to\nexcite him--nor care to harass--nor pain to awake him. Even in the\nseverest winter his sleeping-room was without a fire; only in his\nlatter years he yielded so far to the entreaties of his friends as to\nallow of a very small one. All nursing or self-indulgence found no\nquarter with Kant. In fact, five minutes, in the coldest weather,\nsufficed to supersede the first chill of the bed, by the diffusion of a\ngeneral glow over his person. If he had any occasion to leave his room\nin the night-time, (for it was always kept dark day and night, summer\nand winter,) he guided himself by a rope, which was duly attached to\nhis bed-post every night, and carried into the adjoining apartment.\n\nKant never perspired, [Footnote: This appears less extraordinary,\nconsidering the description of Kant's person, given originally by\nReichardt, about eight years after his death. 'Kant,' says this writer,\n'was drier than dust both in body and mind. His person was small; and\npossibly a more meagre, arid, parched anatomy of a man, has not\nappeared upon this earth. The upper part of his face was grand;\nforehead lofty and serene, nose elegantly turned, eyes brilliant and\npenetrating; but below it expressed powerfully the coarsest sensuality,\nwhich in him displayed itself by immoderate addiction to eating and\ndrinking.' This last feature of his temperament is here expressed much\ntoo harshly.] night or day. Yet it was astonishing how much heat he\nsupported habitually in his study, and in fact was not easy if it\nwanted but one degree of this heat. Seventy-five degrees of Fahrenheit\nwas the invariable temperature of this room in which he chiefly lived;\nand if it fell below that point, no matter at what season of the year,\nhe had it raised artificially to the usual standard. In the heats of\nsummer he went thinly dressed, and invariably in silk stockings; yet,\nas even this dress could not always secure him against perspiring when\nengaged in active exercise, he had a singular remedy in reserve.\nRetiring to some shady place, he stood still and motionless--with the\nair and attitude of a person listening, or in suspense--until his usual\n_aridity_ was restored. Even in the most sultry summer night, if\nthe slightest trace of perspiration had sullied his night-dress, he\nspoke of it with emphasis, as of an accident that perfectly shocked\nhim.\n\nOn this occasion, whilst illustrating Kant's notions of the animal\neconomy, it may be as well to add one other particular, which is, that\nfor fear of obstructing the circulation of the blood, he never would\nwear garters; yet, as he found it difficult to keep up his stockings\nwithout them, he had invented for himself a most elaborate substitute,\nwhich I shall describe. In a little pocket, somewhat smaller than a\nwatch-pocket, but occupying pretty nearly the same situation as a\nwatch-pocket on each thigh, there was placed a small box, something\nlike a watch-case, but smaller; into this box was introduced a watch-\nspring in a wheel, round about which wheel was wound an elastic cord,\nfor regulating the force of which there was a separate contrivance. To\nthe two ends of this cord were attached hooks, which hooks were carried\nthrough a small aperture in the pockets, and so passing down the inner\nand the outer side of the thigh, caught hold of two loops which were\nfixed on the off side and the near side of each stocking. As might be\nexpected, so complex an apparatus was liable, like the Ptolemaic system\nof the heavens, to occasional derangements; however, by good luck, I\nwas able to apply an easy remedy to these disorders which sometimes\nthreatened to disturb the comfort, and even the serenity, of the great\nman.\n\nPrecisely at five minutes before five o'clock, winter or summer, Lampe,\nKant's servant, who had formerly served in the army, marched into his\nmaster's room with the air of a sentinel on duty, and cried aloud in a\nmilitary tone,--'Mr. Professor, the time is come.' This summons Kant\ninvariably obeyed without one moment's delay, as a soldier does the\nword of command--never, under any circumstances, allowing himself a\nrespite, not even under the rare accident of having passed a sleepless\nnight. As the clock struck five, Kant was seated at the breakfast-\ntable, where he drank what he called _one_ cup of tea; and no\ndoubt he thought it such; but the fact was, that in part from his habit\nof reverie, and in part also for the purpose of refreshing its warmth,\nhe filled up his cup so often, that in general he is supposed to have\ndrunk two, three, or some unknown number. Immediately after he smoked a\npipe of tobacco, (the only one which he allowed himself through the\nentire day,) but so rapidly, that a pile of glowing embers remained\nunsmoked. During this operation he thought over his arrangements for\nthe day, as he had done the evening before during the twilight. About\nseven he usually went to his lecture-room, and from that he returned to\nhis writing-table. Precisely at three quarters before one he rose from\nhis chair, and called aloud to the cook,--'It has struck three\nquarters.' The meaning of which summons was this:--Immediately after\ntaking soup, it was his constant practice to swallow what he called a\ndram, which consisted either of Hungarian wine, of Rhenish, of a\ncordial, or (in default of these) of Bishop. A flask of this was\nbrought up by the cook on the proclamation of the three quarters. Kant\nhurried with it to the eating-room, poured out his _quantum_, left\nit standing in readiness, covered, however, with paper, to prevent its\nbecoming vapid, and then went back to his study, and awaited the\narrival of his guests, whom to the latest period of his life he never\nreceived but in full dress.\n\nThus we come round again to dinner, and the reader has now an accurate\npicture of the course of Kant's day; the rigid monotony of which was\nnot burthensome to him; and probably contributed, with the uniformity\nof his diet, and other habits of the same regularity, to lengthen his\nlife. On this consideration, indeed, he had come to regard his health\nand his old age as in a great measure the product of his own exertions.\nHe spoke of himself often under the figure of a gymnastic artist, who\nhad continued for nearly fourscore years to support his balance upon\nthe slack-rope of life, without once swerving to the right or to the\nleft. In spite of every illness to which his constitutional tendencies\nhad exposed him, he still kept his position in life triumphantly.\nHowever, he would sometimes observe sportively, that it was really\nabsurd, and a sort of insult to the next generation for a man to live\nso long, because he thus interfered with the prospects of younger\npeople.\n\nThis anxious attention to his health accounts for the great interest\nwhich he attached to all new discoveries in medicine, or to new ways of\ntheorizing on the old ones. As a work of great pretension in both\nclasses, he set the highest value upon the theory of the Scotch\nphysician Brown, or (as it is usually called, from the Latin name of\nits author,) the Brunonian Theory. No sooner had Weikard adopted\n[Footnote: This theory was afterwards greatly modified in Germany; and,\njudging from the random glances which I throw on these subjects, I\nbelieve that in this recast it still keeps its ground in that country.]\nand made it known in Germany, than Kant became familiar with it. He\nconsidered it not only as a great step taken for medicine, but even for\nthe general interests of man, and fancied that in this he saw something\nanalogous to the course which human nature has held in still more\nimportant inquiries, viz.: first of all, a continual ascent towards the\nmore and more elaborately complex, and then a treading back, on its own\nsteps, towards the simple and elementary. Dr. Beddoes's Essays, also,\nfor producing by art and curing pulmonary consumption, and the method\nof Reich for curing fevers, made a powerful impression upon him; which,\nhowever, declined as those novelties (especially the last) began to\nsink in credit. As to Dr. Jenner's discovery of vaccination, he was\nless favorably disposed to it; he apprehended dangerous consequences\nfrom the absorption of a brutal miasma into the human blood, or at\nleast into the lymph; and at any rate he thought, that, as a guarantee\nagainst the variolous infection, it required a much longer probation.\nGroundless as all these views were, it was exceedingly entertaining to\nhear the fertility of argument and analogy which he brought forward to\nsupport them. One of the subjects which occupied him at the latter end\nof his life, was the theory and phenomena of galvanism, which, however,\nhe never satisfactorily mastered. Augustin's book upon this subject was\nabout the last that he read, and his copy still retains on the margin\nhis, pencil-marks of doubts, queries and suggestions.\n\nThe infirmities of age now began to steal upon Kant, and betrayed\nthemselves in more shapes than one. Connected with Kant's prodigious\nmemory for all things that had any intellectual bearings, he had from\nyouth labored under an unusual weakness of this faculty in relation to\nthe common affairs of daily life. Some remarkable instances of this are\non record, from the period of his childish days; and now, when his\nsecond childhood was commencing, this infirmity increased upon him very\nsensibly. One of the first signs was, that he began to repeat the same\nstories more than once on the same day. Indeed, the decay of his memory\nwas too palpable to escape his own notice; and, to provide against it,\nand secure himself from all apprehension of inflicting tedium upon his\nguests, he began to write a syllabus, or list of themes, for each day's\nconversation, on cards, or the covers of letters, or any chance scrap\nof paper. But these memoranda accumulated so fast upon him, and were so\neasily lost, or not forthcoming at the proper moment, that I prevailed\non him to substitute a blank-paper book, which I had directed to be\nmade, and which still remains, with some affecting memorials of his own\nconscious weakness. As often happens, however, in such cases, he had a\nperfect memory for the remote events of his life, and could repeat with\ngreat readiness, and without once stumbling, very long passages from\nGerman or Latin poems, especially from the AEneid, whilst the very\nwords that had been uttered but a moment before dropped away from his\nremembrance. The past came forward with the distinctness and liveliness\nof an immediate existence, whilst the present faded away into the\nobscurity of infinite distance.\n\nAnother sign of his mental decay was the weakness with which he now\nbegan to theorize. He accounted for everything by electricity. A\nsingular mortality at this time prevailed amongst the cats of Vienna,\nBasle, Copenhagen, and other places. Cats being so eminently an\nelectric animal, of course he attributed this epizootic to electricity.\nDuring the same period, he persuaded himself that a peculiar\nconfiguration of clouds prevailed; this he took as a collateral proof\nof his electrical hypothesis. His own headaches, too, which in all\nprobability were a mere remote effect of old age, and a direct one of\nan inability [Footnote: Mr. Wasianski is quite in the wrong here. If\nthe hindrances which nature presented to the act of thinking were now\non the increase, on the other hand, the disposition to think, by his\nown acknowledgment, was on the wane. The power and the habit altering\nin proportion, there is no case made out of that disturbed equilibrium\nto which apparently he would attribute the headaches. But the fact is,\nthat, if he had been as well acquainted with Kant's writings as with\nKant personally, he would have known, that some affection of the head\nof a spasmodic kind was complained of by Kant at a time when nobody\ncould suspect him of being in a decaying state.] to think as easily and\nas severely as formerly, he explained upon the same principle. And this\nwas a notion of which his friends were not anxious to disabuse him,\nbecause, as something of the same character of weather (and therefore\nprobably the same general tendency of the electric power) is found to\nprevail for whole cycles of years, entrance upon another cycle held out\nto him some prospect of relief. A delusion which secured the comforts\nof hope was the next best thing to an actual remedy; and a man who, in\nsuch circumstances, is cured of his delusion, '_cui demptus per vim\nmentis gratissimus error_,' might reasonably have exclaimed,\n'_Pol, me occidistis, amici._'\n\nPossibly the reader may suppose, that, in this particular instance of\ncharging his own decays upon the state of the atmosphere, Kant was\nactuated by the weakness of vanity, or some unwillingness to face the\nreal fact that his powers were decaying. But this was not the case. He\nwas perfectly aware of his own condition, and, as early as 1799, he\nsaid, in my presence, to a party of his friends--'Gentlemen, I am old,\nand weak, and childish, and you must treat me as a child.' Or perhaps\nit may be thought that he shrank from the contemplation of death,\nwhich, as apoplexy seemed to be threatened by the pains in his head,\nmight have happened any day. But neither was this the case. He now\nlived in a continual state of resignation, and prepared to meet any\ndispensation of Providence. 'Gentlemen,' said he one day to his guests,\n'I do not fear to die. I assure you, as in the presence of God, that if\nI were this night to be made suddenly aware that I was on the point of\nbeing summoned, I would raise my hands to heaven, fold them, and say,\nBlessed be God! If indeed it were possible that a whisper such as this\ncould reach my ear--Fourscore years thou hast lived, in which time thou\nhast inflicted much evil upon thy fellow-men, the case would be\notherwise.' Whosoever has heard Kant speak of his own death, will bear\nwitness to the tone of earnest sincerity which, on such occasions,\nmarked his manner and utterance.\n\nA third sign of his decaying faculties was, that he now lost all\naccurate measure of time. One minute, nay, without exaggeration, a much\nless space of time, stretched out in his apprehension of things to a\nwearisome duration. Of this I can give one rather amusing instance,\nwhich was of constant recurrence. At the beginning of the last year of\nhis life, he fell into a custom of taking immediately after dinner a\ncup of coffee, especially on those days when it happened that I was of\nhis party. And such was the importance he attached to this little\npleasure, that he would even make a memorandum beforehand, in the\nblank-paper book I had given him, that on the next day I was to dine\nwith him, and consequently that there was to be coffee. Sometimes it\nwould happen, that the interest of conversation carried him past the\ntime at which he felt the craving for it; and this I was not sorry to\nobserve, as I feared that coffee, which he had never been accustomed\nto, [Footnote: How this happened to be the case in Germany, Mr.\nWasianski has not explained. Perhaps the English merchants at\nK\u00f6nigsberg, being amongst Kant's oldest and most intimate friends, had\nearly familiarized him to the practice of drinking tea, and to other\nEnglish tastes. However, Jachmann tells us, (p. 164,) that Kant was\nextravagantly fond of coffee, but forced himself to abstain from it\nunder a notion that it was very unwholesome.] might disturb his rest at\nnight. But, if this did not happen, then commenced a scene of some\ninterest. Coffee must be brought 'upon the spot,' (a word he had\nconstantly in his mouth during his latter days,) 'in a moment.' And the\nexpressions of his impatience, though from old habit still gentle, were\nso lively, and had so much of infantine na\u00efvet\u00e9 about them, that none\nof us could forbear smiling. Knowing what would happen, I had taken\ncare that all the preparations should be made beforehand; the coffee\nwas ground; the water was boiling; and the very moment the word was\ngiven, his servant shot in like an arrow, and plunged the coffee into\nthe water. All that remained, therefore, was to give it time to boil\nup. But this trifling delay seemed unendurable to Kant. All\nconsolations were thrown away upon him: vary the formula as we might,\nhe was never at a loss for a reply. If it was said--'Dear Professor,\nthe coffee will be brought up in a moment.'--'_Will_ be!' he would\nsay, 'but there's the rub, that it only _will_ be:\n\n  Man never _is_, but always _to be_ blest.'\n\nIf another cried out--'The coffee is coming immediately.'--'Yes,' he\nwould retort, 'and so is the next hour: and, by the way, it's about\nthat length of time that I have waited for it.' Then he would collect\nhimself with a stoical air, and say--'Well, one can die after all: it\nis but dying; and in the next world, thank God! there is no drinking of\ncoffee, and consequently no--waiting for it.' Sometimes he would rise\nfrom his chair, open the door, and cry out with a feeble querulousness\n--'Coffee! coffee!' And when at length he heard the servant's step upon\nthe stairs, he would turn round to us, and, as joyfully as ever sailor\nfrom the mast-head, he would call out--'Land, land! my dear friends, I\nsee land.'\n\nThis general decline in Kant's powers, active and passive, gradually\nbrought about a revolution in his habits of life. Heretofore, as I have\nalready mentioned, he went to bed at ten, and rose a little before\nfive. The latter practice he still observed, but not the other. In 1802\nhe retired as early as nine, and afterwards still earlier. He found\nhimself so much refreshed by this addition to his rest, that at first\nhe was disposed to utter a _Euraeka_, as over some great discovery\nin the art of restoring exhausted nature: but afterwards, on pushing it\nstill farther, he did not find the success answer his expectations. His\nwalks he now limited to a few turns in the King's gardens, which were\nat no great distance from his own house. In order to walk more firmly,\nhe adopted a peculiar method of stepping; he carried his foot to the\nground, not forward, and obliquely, but perpendicularly, and with a\nkind of stamp, so as to secure a larger basis, by setting down the\nentire sole at once. Notwithstanding this precaution, upon one occasion\nhe fell in the street. He was quite unable to raise himself; and two\nyoung ladies, who saw the accident, ran to his assistance. With his\nusual graciousness of manner he thanked them fervently for their\nassistance, and presented one of them with a rose which he happened to\nhave in his hand. This lady was not personally known to Kant; but she\nwas greatly delighted with his little present, and still keeps the rose\nas a frail memorial of her transitory interview with the great\nphilosopher.\n\nThis accident, as I have reason to think, was the cause of his\nhenceforth renouncing exercise altogether. All labors, even that of\nreading, were now performed slowly, and with manifest effort; and those\nwhich cost him any bodily exertion became very exhausting to him. His\nfeet refused to do their office more and more; he fell continually,\nboth when moving across the room, and even when standing still: yet he\nseldom suffered from these falls; and he constantly laughed at them,\nmaintaining that it was impossible he could hurt himself, from the\nextreme lightness of his person, which was indeed by this time the\nmerest skeleton. Very often, especially in the morning, he dropped\nasleep in his chair from pure weariness: on these occasions he fell\nforward upon the floor, and lay there unable to raise himself up, until\naccident brought one of his servants or his friends into the room.\nAfterwards these falls were prevented, by substituting a chair with\ncircular supports, that met and clasped in front.\n\nThese unseasonable dozings exposed him to another danger. He fell\nrepeatedly, whilst reading, with his head into the candles; a cotton\nnight-cap which he wore was instantly in a blaze, and flaming about his\nhead. Whenever this happened, Kant behaved with great presence of mind.\nDisregarding the pain, he seized the blazing cap, drew it from his\nhead, laid it quietly on the floor, and trod out the flames with his\nfeet. Yet, as this last act brought his dressing-gown into a dangerous\nneighborhood to the flames, I changed the form of his cap, persuaded\nhim to arrange the candles differently, and had a decanter of water\nplaced constantly by his side; and in this way I applied a remedy to a\ndanger, which would else probably have been fatal to him.\n\nFrom the sallies of impatience, which I have described in the case of\nthe coffee, there was reason to fear that, with the increasing\ninfirmities of Kant, would grow up a general waywardness and obstinacy\nof temper. For my own sake, therefore, and not less for his, I now laid\ndown one rule for my future conduct in his house; which was, that I\nwould, on no occasion, allow my reverence for him to interfere with the\nfirmest expression of my opinion on subjects relating to his own\nhealth; and in cases of great importance, that I would make no\ncompromise with his particular humors, but insist, not only on my view\nof the case, but also on the practical adoption of my views; or, if\nthis were refused me, that I would take my departure at once, and not\nbe made responsible for the comfort of a person whom I had no power to\ninfluence. And this behavior on my part it was that won Kant's\nconfidence; for there was nothing which disgusted him so much as any\napproach to fawning or sycophancy. As his imbecility increased, he\nbecame daily more liable to mental delusions; and, in particular, he\nfell into many fantastic notions about the conduct of his servants,\nand, in consequence, into a peevish mode of treating them. Upon these\noccasions I generally observed a deep silence. But sometimes he would\nask me for my opinion; and when this happened, I did not scruple to\nsay, 'Ingenuously, then, Mr. Professor, I think that you are in the\nwrong.'--'You think so?' he would reply calmly, at the same time asking\nfor my reasons, which he would listen to with great patience, and\nopenness to conviction. Indeed, it was evident that the firmest\nopposition, so long as it rested upon assignable grounds and\nprinciples, won upon his regard; whilst his own nobleness of character\nstill moved him to habitual contempt for timorous and partial\nacquiescence in his opinions, even when his infirmities made him most\nanxious for such acquiescence.\n\nEarlier in life Kant had been little used to contradiction. His superb\nunderstanding, his brilliancy in conversation, founded in part upon his\nready and sometimes rather caustic wit, and in part upon his prodigious\ncommand of knowledge--the air of noble self-confidence which the\nconsciousness of these advantages impressed upon his manners--and the\ngeneral knowledge of the severe innocence of his life--all combined to\ngive him a station of superiority to others, which generally secured\nhim from open contradiction. And if it sometimes happened that he met a\nnoisy and intemperate opposition, supported by any pretences to wit, he\nusually withdrew himself from that sort of unprofitable altercation\nwith dignity, by contriving to give such a turn to the conversation as\nwon the general favor of the company to himself, and impressed,\nsilence, or modesty at least, upon the boldest disputant. From a person\nso little familiar with opposition, it could scarcely have been\nanticipated that he should daily surrender his wishes to mine--if not\nwithout discussion, yet always without displeasure. So, however, it\nwas. No habit, of whatever long standing, could be objected to as\ninjurious to his health, but he would generally renounce it. And he had\nthis excellent custom in such cases, that either he would resolutely\nand at once decide for his own opinion, or, if he professed to follow\nhis friend's, he would follow it sincerely, and not try it unfairly by\ntrying it imperfectly. Any plan, however trifling, which he had once\nconsented to adopt on the suggestion of another, was never afterwards\ndefeated or embarrassed by unseasonable interposition from his own\nhumors. And thus, the very period of his decay drew forth so many fresh\nexpressions of his character, in its amiable or noble features, as\ndaily increased my affection and reverence for his person.\n\nHaving mentioned his servants, I shall here take occasion to give some\naccount of his man-servant Lampe. It was a great misfortune for Kant,\nin his old age and infirmities, that this man also became old, and\nsubject to a different sort of infirmities. This Lampe had originally\nserved in the Prussian army; on quitting which he entered the service\nof Kant. In this situation he had lived about forty years; and, though\nalways dull and stupid, had, in the early part of this period,\ndischarged his duties with tolerable fidelity. But latterly, presuming\nupon his own indispensableness, from his perfect knowledge of all the\ndomestic arrangements, and upon his master's weakness, he had fallen\ninto great irregularities and neglect of his duties. Kant had been\nobliged, therefore, of late, to threaten repeatedly that he would\ndischarge him. I, who knew that Kant, though one of the kindest-hearted\nmen, was also one of the firmest, foresaw that this discharge, once\ngiven, would be irrevocable: for the word of Kant was as sacred as\nother men's oaths. Consequently, upon every opportunity, I remonstrated\nwith Lampe on the folly of his conduct, and his wife joined me on these\noccasions. Indeed, it was high time that a change should be made in\nsome quarter; for it now became dangerous to leave Kant, who was\nconstantly falling from weakness, to the care of an old ruffian, who\nwas himself apt to fall from intoxication. The fact was, that from the\nmoment I undertook the management of Kant's affairs, Lampe saw there\nwas an end to his old system of abusing his master's confidence in\npecuniary affairs, and the other advantages which he took of his\nhelpless situation. This made him desperate, and he behaved worse and\nworse; until one morning, in January, 1802, Kant told me, that,\nhumiliating as he felt such a confession, the fact was, that Lampe had\njust treated him in a way which he was ashamed to repeat. I was too\nmuch shocked to distress him by inquiring into the particulars. But the\nresult was, that Kant now insisted, temperately but firmly, on Lampe's\ndismissal. Accordingly, a new servant, of the name of Kaufmann, was\nimmediately engaged; and on the next day Lampe was discharged with a\nhandsome pension for life.\n\nHere I must mention a little circumstance which does honor to Kant's\nbenevolence. In his last will, on the assumption that Lampe would\ncontinue with him to his death, he had made a very liberal provision\nfor him; but upon this new arrangement of the pension, which was to\ntake effect immediately, it became necessary to revoke that part of his\nwill, which he did in a separate codicil, that began thus:--'In\nconsequence of the ill behavior of my servant Lampe, I think fit,' &c.\nBut soon after, considering that such a record of Lampe's misconduct\nmight be seriously injurious to his interests, he cancelled the\npassage, and expressed it in such a way, that no trace remained behind\nof his just displeasure. And his benign nature was gratified with\nknowing, that, this one sentence blotted out, there remained no other\nin all his numerous writings, published or confidential, which spoke\nthe language of anger, or could leave any ground for doubting that he\ndied in charity with all the world. Upon Lampe's calling to demand a\nwritten character, he was, however, a good deal embarrassed; his stern\nreverence for truth being, in this instance, armed against the first\nimpulses of his kindness. Long and anxiously he sat, with the\ncertificate lying before him, debating how he should fill up the\nblanks. I was present, but in such a matter I did not take the liberty\nof suggesting any advice. At last, he took his pen, and filled up the\nblank as follows:--'--has served me long and faithfully,'--(for Kant\nwas not aware that he had robbed him,)--'but did not display those\nparticular qualifications which fitted him for waiting on an old and\ninfirm man like myself.'\n\nThis scene of disturbance over, which to Kant, a lover of peace and\ntranquillity, caused a shock that he would gladly have been spared; it\nwas fortunate that no other of that nature occurred during the rest of\nhis life. Kaufmann, the successor of Lampe, turned out to be a\nrespectable and upright man, and soon conceived a great attachment to\nhis master's person. Things now put on a new face in Kant's family: by\nthe removal of one of the belligerents, peace was once more restored\namongst his servants; for hitherto there had been eternal wars between\nLampe and the cook. Sometimes it was Lampe that carried a war of\naggression into the cook's territory of the kitchen; sometimes it was\nthe cook that revenged these insults, by sallying out upon Lampe in the\nneutral ground of the hall, or invaded him even in his own sanctuary of\nthe butler's pantry. The uproars were everlasting; and thus far it was\nfortunate for the peace of the philosopher, that his hearing had begun\nto fail; by which means he was spared many an exhibition of hateful\npassions and ruffian violence, which annoyed his guests and friends.\nBut now all things had changed: deep silence reigned in the pantry; the\nkitchen rang no more with martial alarums; and the hall was unvexed\nwith skirmish or pursuit. Yet it may be readily supposed that to Kant,\nat the age of seventy-eight, changes, even for the better, were not\nwelcome: so intense had been the uniformity of his life and habits,\nthat the least innovation in the arrangement of articles as trifling as\na penknife, or a pair of scissors, disturbed him; and not merely if\nthey were pushed two or three inches out of their customary position,\nbut even if they were laid a little awry; and as to larger objects,\nsuch as chairs, &c., any dislocation of their usual arrangement, any\ntrans position, or addition to their number, perfectly confounded him;\nand his eye appeared restlessly to haunt the seat of the mal-\narrangement, until the ancient order was restored. With such habits the\nreader may conceive how distressing it must have been to him, at this\nperiod of decaying powers, to adapt himself to a new servant, a new\nvoice, a new step, &c.\n\nAware of this, I had on the day before he entered upon his duties,\nwritten down for the new servant upon a sheet of paper the entire\nroutine of Kant's daily life, down to the minutest and most trivial\ncircumstances; all which he mastered with the greatest rapidity. To\nmake sure, however, we went through a rehearsal of the whole ritual; he\nperforming the manoeuvres, I looking on and giving the word. Still I\nfelt uneasy at the idea of his being left entirely to his own\ndiscretion on his first _debut_ in good earnest, and therefore I\nmade a point of attending on this important day; and in the few\ninstances where the new recruit missed the accurate manoeuvre, a glance\nor a nod from me easily made him comprehend his failure.\n\nOne part only there was of the daily ceremonial, where all of us were\nat a loss, as it was a part which no mortal eyes had ever witnessed but\nthose of Lampe: this was breakfast. However, that we might do all in\nour power, I myself attended at four o'clock in the morning. The day\nhappened, as I remember, to be the 1st of February, 1802. Precisely at\nfive, Kant made his appearance; and nothing could equal his\nastonishment on finding me in the room. Fresh from the confusion of\ndreaming, and bewildered alike by the sight of his new servant, by\nLampe's absence, and by my presence, he could with difficulty be made\nto comprehend the purpose of my visit. A friend in need is a friend\nindeed; and we would now have given any money to that learned person\nwho could have instructed us in the arrangement of the breakfast table.\nBut this was a mystery revealed to none but Lampe. At length Kant took\nthis task upon himself; and apparently all was now settled to his\nsatisfaction. Yet still it struck me that he was under some\nembarrassment or constraint. Upon this I said--that, with his\npermission, I would take a cup of tea, and afterwards smoke a pipe with\nhim. He accepted my offer with his usual courteous demeanor; but seemed\nunable to familiarize himself with the novelty of his situation. I was\nat this time sitting directly opposite to him; and at last he frankly\ntold me, but with the kindest and most apologetic air, that he was\nreally under the necessity of begging that I would sit out of his\nsight; for that, having sat alone at the breakfast table for\nconsiderably more than half a century, he could not abruptly adapt his\nmind to a change in this respect; and he found his thoughts very\nsensibly disturbed. I did as he desired; the servant retired into an\nantiroom, where he waited within call; and Kant recovered his wonted\ncomposure. Just the same scene passed over again, when I called at the\nsame hour on a fine summer morning some months after.\n\nHenceforth all went right: or, if occasionally some little mistake\noccurred, Kant showed himself very considerate and indulgent, and would\nremark of his own accord, that a new servant could not be expected to\nknow all his peculiar ways and humors. In one respect, indeed, this man\nadapted himself to Kant's scholarlike taste, in a way which Lampe was\nincapable of doing. Kant was somewhat fastidious in matters of\npronunciation; and this man had a great facility in catching the true\nsound of Latin words, the titles of books, and the names or\ndesignations of Kant's friends: not one of which accomplishments could\nLampe, the most insufferable of blockheads, ever attain to. In\nparticular, I have been told by Kant's old friends, that for the space\nof more than thirty years, during which he had been in the habit of\nreading the newspaper published by Hartung, Lampe delivered it with the\nsame identical blunder on every day of publication.--'Mr. Professor,\nhere is Hart_mann's_ journal.' Upon which Kant would reply--'Eh!\nwhat?--What's that you say? Hartmann's journal? I tell you, it is not\nHartmann, but Hartung: now, repeat it after me--not Hartmann, but\nHartung.' Then Lampe, looking sulky, and drawing himself up with the\nstiff air of a soldier on guard, and in the very same monotonous tone\nwith which he had been used to sing out his challenge of--_Who goes\nthere?_ would roar--'not Hartmann, but Hartung.' 'Now again!' Kant\nwould say: on which again Lampe roared--'not Hartmann, but Hartung.'\n'Now a third time,' cried Kant: on which for a third time the unhappy\nLampe would howl out--'not Hartmann, but Hartung.' And this whimsical\nscene of parade duty was continually repeated: duly as the day of\npublication came, the irreclaimable old dunce was put through the same\nmanoeuvres, which were as invariably followed by the same blunder on\nthe next. In spite, however, of this advantage, in the new servant, and\nhis general superiority to his predecessor, Kant's nature was too kind\nand good, and too indulgent to all people's infirmities but his own,\nnot to miss the voice and the 'old familiar face' that he had been\naccustomed to for forty years. And I met with what struck me as an\naffecting instance of Kant's yearning after his old good-for-nothing\nservant in his memorandum-book: other people record what they wish to\nremember; but Kant had here recorded what he was to forget. 'Mem.:\nFebruary, 1802, the name of Lampe must now be remembered no more.'\n\nIn the spring of this year, 1802, I advised Kant to take the air. It\nwas very long since he had been out of doors, [Footnote: Wasianski here\nreturns thanks to some unknown person, who, having observed that Kant\nin his latter walks took pleasure in leaning against a particular wall\nto view the prospect, had caused a seat to be fixed at that point for\nhis use.] and walking was now out of the question. But I thought the\nmotion of a carriage and the air would be likely to revive him. On the\npower of vernal sights and sounds I did not much rely; for these had\nlong ceased to affect him. Of all the changes that spring brings with\nit, there was one only that now interested Kant; and he longed for it\nwith an eagerness and intensity of expectation, that it was almost\npainful to witness: this was the return of a hedge sparrow that sang in\nhis garden, and before his window. This bird, either the same, or one\nof the next generation, had sung for years in the same situation; and\nKant grew uneasy when the cold weather, lasting longer than usual,\nretarded its return. Like Lord Bacon, indeed, he had a childlike love\nfor birds in general, and in particular, took pains to encourage the\nsparrows to build above the windows of his study; and when this\nhappened, (as it often did, from the silence which prevailed in his\nstudy,) he watched their proceedings with the delight and the\ntenderness which others give to a human interest. To return to the\npoint I was speaking of, Kant was at first very unwilling to accede to\nmy proposal of going abroad. 'I shall sink down in the carriage,' said\nhe, 'and fall together like a heap of old rags.' But I persisted with a\ngentle importunity in urging him to the attempt, assuring him that we\nwould return immediately if he found the effort too much for him.\nAccordingly, upon a tolerably warm day of early [Footnote: Mr.\nWasianski says--_late_ in summer: but, as he elsewhere describes\nby the same expression of 'late in summer,' a day which was confessedly\n_before_ the longest day, and as the multitude of birds which\ncontinued to sing will not allow us to suppose that the summer could be\nvery far advanced, I have translated accordingly.] summer, I, and an\nold friend of Kant's, accompanied him to a little place which I rented\nin the country. As we drove through the streets, Kant was delighted to\nfind that he could sit upright, and bear the motion of the carriage,\nand seemed to draw youthful pleasure from the sight of the towers and\nother public buildings, which he had not seen for years. We reached the\nplace of our destination in high spirits. Kant drank a cup of coffee,\nand attempted to smoke a little. After this, he sat and sunned himself,\nlistening with delight to the warbling of birds, which congregated in\ngreat numbers about this spot. He distinguished every bird by its song,\nand called it by its right name. After staying about half an hour, we\nset off on our homeward journey, Kant still cheerful, but apparently\nsatiated with his day's enjoyment.\n\nI had on this occasion purposely avoided taking him to any public\ngardens, that I might not disturb his pleasure by exposing him to the\ndistressing gaze of public curiosity. However, it was known in\nK\u00f6nigsberg that Kant had gone out; and accordingly, as the carriage\nmoved through the streets which led to his residence, there was a\ngeneral rush from all quarters in that direction, and, when we turned\ninto the street where the house stood, we found it already choked up\nwith people. As we slowly drew up to the door, a lane was formed in the\ncrowd, through which Kant was led, I and my friend supporting him on\nour arms. Looking at the crowd, I observed the faces of many persons of\nrank, and distinguished strangers, some of whom now saw Kant for the\nfirst time, and many of them for the last.\n\nAs the winter of 1802-3 approached, he complained more than ever of an\naffection of the stomach, which no medical man had been able to\nmitigate, or even to explain. The winter passed over in a complaining\nway; he was weary of life, and longed for the hour of dismission. 'I\ncan be of service to the world no more,' said he, 'and am a burden to\nmyself.' Often I endeavored to cheer him by the anticipation of\nexcursions that we would make together when summer came again. On these\nhe calculated with so much earnestness, that he had made a regular\nscale or classification of them--l. Airings; 2. Journeys; 3. Travels.\nAnd nothing could equal the yearning impatience expressed for the\ncoming of spring and summer, not so much for their own peculiar\nattractions, as because they were the seasons for travelling. In his\nmemorandum-book, he made this note:--'The three summer months are June,\nJuly, and August'--meaning that they were the three months for\ntravelling. And in conversation he expressed the feverish strength of\nhis wishes so plaintively and affectingly, that everybody was drawn\ninto powerful sympathy with him, and wished for some magical means of\nante-dating the course of the seasons.\n\nIn this winter his bed-room was often warmed. This was the room in\nwhich he kept his little collection of books, of about four hundred and\nfifty volumes, chiefly presentation-copies from the authors. It may\nseem singular that Kant, who read so extensively, should have no larger\nlibrary; but he had less need of one than most scholars, having in his\nearlier years been librarian at the Royal Library of the Castle; and\nsince then having enjoyed from the liberality of Hartknoch, his\npublisher, (who, in his turn, had profited by the liberal terms on\nwhich Kant had made over to him the copyright of his own works,) the\nfirst sight of every new book that appeared.\n\nAt the close of this winter, that is in 1803, Kant first began to\ncomplain of unpleasant dreams, sometimes of very terrific ones, which\nawakened him in great agitation. Oftentimes melodies, which he had\nheard in earliest youth sung in the streets of K\u00f6nigsberg, resounded\npainfully in his ears, and dwelt upon them in a way from which no\nefforts of abstraction could release him. These kept him awake to\nunseasonable hours; and often when, after long watching, he had fallen\nasleep, however deep his sleep might be, it was suddenly broken up by\nterrific dreams, which alarmed him beyond description. Almost every\nnight, the bell-rope, which communicated with a bell in the room above\nhis own, where his servant slept, was pulled violently, and with the\nutmost agitation. No matter how fast the servant might hurry down, he\nwas almost always too late, and was pretty sure to find his master out\nof bed, and often making his way in terror to some other part of the\nhouse. The weakness of his feet exposed him to such dreadful falls on\nthese occasions, that at length (but with much difficulty) I persuaded\nhim to let his servant sleep in the same room with himself.\n\nThe morbid affection of the stomach began now to be more and more\ndistressing; and he tried various applications, which he had formerly\nbeen loud in condemning, such as a few drops of rum upon a piece of\nsugar, naphtha, [Footnote: For Kant's particular complaint, as\ndescribed by other biographers, a quarter of a grain of opium, every\ntwelve hours, would have been the best remedy, perhaps a perfect\nremedy.] &c. But all these were only palliatives; for his advanced age\nprecluded the hope of a radical cure. His dreadful dreams became\ncontinually more appalling: single scenes, or passages in these dreams,\nwere sufficient to compose the whole course of mighty tragedies, the\nimpression from which was so profound as to stretch far into his waking\nhours. Amongst other phantasmata more shocking and indescribable, his\ndreams constantly represented to him the forms of murderers advancing\nto his bedside; and so agitated was he by the awful trains of phantoms\nthat swept past him nightly, that in the first confusion of awaking he\ngenerally mistook his servant, who was hastening to his assistance, for\na murderer. In the day-time we often conversed upon these shadowy\nillusions; and Kant, with his usual spirit of stoical contempt for\nnervous weakness of every sort, laughed at them; and, to fortify his\nown resolution to contend against them, he wrote down in his\nmemorandum-book, 'There must be no yielding to panics of darkness.' At\nmy suggestion, however, he now burned a light in his chamber, so placed\nas that the rays might be shaded from his face. At first he was very\naverse to this, though gradually he became reconciled to it. But that\nhe could bear it at all, was to me an expression of the great\nrevolution accomplished by the terrific agency of his dreams.\nHeretofore, darkness and utter silence were the two pillars on which\nhis sleep rested: no step must approach his room; and as to light, if\nhe saw but a moonbeam penetrating a crevice of the shutters, it made\nhim unhappy; and, in fact, the windows of his bed-chamber were\nbarricadoed night and day. But now darkness was a terror to him, and\nsilence an oppression. In addition to his lamp, therefore, he had now a\nrepeater in his room; the sound was at first too loud, but, after\nmuffling the hammer with cloth, both the ticking and the striking\nbecame companionable sounds to him.\n\nAt this time (spring of 1803) his appetite began to fail, which I\nthought no good sign. Many persons insist that Kant was in the habit of\neating too much for health. [Footnote: Who these worthy people were\nthat criticised Kant's eating, is not mentioned. They could have had no\nopportunity of exercising their abilities on this question, except as\nhosts, guests, or fellow-guests; and in any of those characters, a\ngentleman, one would suppose, must feel himself degraded by directing\nhis attention to a point of that nature. However, the merits of the\ncase stand thus between the parlies: Kant, it is agreed by all his\nbiographers, ate only once a day; for as to his breakfast, it was\nnothing more than a very weak infusion of tea, (vide Jachmann's\nLetters, p. 163,) with no bread, or eatable of any kind. Now, his\ncritics, by general confession, ate their way, from 'morn to dewy eve,'\nthrough the following course of meals: 1. Breakfast early in the\nmorning; 2. Breakfast _\u00e0 la fourchette_ about ten, A.M.; 3. Dinner\nat one or two; 4. Vesper Brod; 5. Abend Brod; all which does really\nseem a very fair allowance for a man who means to lecture upon\nabstinence at night. But I shall cut this matter short by stating one\nplain fact; there were two things, and no more, for which Kant had an\ninordinate craving during his whole life; these were tobacco and\ncoffee; and from both these he abstained almost altogether, merely\nunder a sense of duty, resting probably upon erroneous grounds. Of the\nfirst he allowed himself a very small quantity, (and everybody knows\nthat temperance is a more difficult virtue than abstinence;) of the\nother none at all, until the labors of his life were accomplished.] I,\nhowever, cannot assent to this opinion; for he ate but once a day, and\ndrank no beer. Of this liquor, (I mean the strong black beer,) he was,\nindeed, the most determined enemy. If ever a man died prematurely, Kant\nwould say--'He has been drinking beer, I presume.' Or, if another were\nindisposed, you might be sure he would ask, 'But does he drink beer?'\nAnd, according to the answer on this point, he regulated his\nanticipations for the patient. Strong beer, in short, he uniformly\nmaintained to be a slow poison. Voltaire, by the way, had said to a\nyoung physician who denounced coffee under the same bad name of a 'slow\npoison,' 'You're right there, my friend, however; slow it is, and\nhorribly slow; for I have been drinking it these seventy years, and it\nhas not killed me yet;' but this was an answer which, in the case of\nbeer, Kant would not allow of.\n\nOn the 22d of April, 1803, his birth-day, the last which he lived to\nsee, was celebrated in a full assembly of his friends. This festival he\nhad long looked forward to with great expectation, and delighted even\nto hear the progress made in the preparations for it. But when the day\ncame, the over-excitement and tension of expectation seemed to have\ndefeated itself. He tried to appear happy; but the bustle of a numerous\ncompany confounded and distressed him; and his spirits were manifestly\nforced. He seemed first to revive to any real sense of pleasure at\nnight, when the company had departed, and he was undressing in his\nstudy. He then talked with much pleasure about the presents which, as\nusual, would be made to his servants on this occasion; for Kant was\nnever happy himself, unless he saw all around him happy. He was a great\nmaker of presents; but at the same time he had no toleration for the\nstudied theatrical effect, the accompaniment of formal congratulations,\nand the sentimental pathos with which birth-day presents are made in\nGermany. [Footnote: In this, as in many other things, the taste of Kant\nwas entirely English and Roman; as, on the other hand, some eminent\nEnglishmen, I am sorry to say, have, on this very point, shown the\neffeminacy and _falsetto_ taste of the Germans. In particular, Mr.\nColeridge, describing, in The Friend, the custom amongst German\nchildren of making presents to their parents on Christmas Eve, (a\ncustom which he unaccountably supposes to be peculiar to Ratzeburg,)\nrepresents the mother as 'weeping aloud for joy'--the old idiot of a\nfather with 'tears running down his face,' &c. &c., and all for what?\nFor a snuff-box, a pencil-case, or some article of jewellery. Now, we\nEnglish agree with Kant on such maudlin display of stage\nsentimentality, and are prone to suspect that papa's tears are the\nproduct of rum-punch. Tenderness let us have by all means, and the\ndeepest you can imagine, but upon proportionate occasions, and with\ncauses fitted to justify it and sustain its dignity.] In all this, his\nmasculine taste gave him a sense of something fade and ludicrous.\n\nThe summer of 1803 was now come, and, visiting Kant one day, I was\nthunderstruck to hear him direct me, in the most serious tone, to\nprovide the funds necessary for an extensive foreign tour. I made no\nopposition, but asked his reasons for such a plan; he alleged the\nmiserable sensations he had in his stomach, which were no longer\nendurable. Knowing what power over Kant a quotation from a Roman poet\nhad always had, I simply replied--'Post equitem sedet atra cura,' and\nfor the present he said no more. But the touching and pathetic\nearnestness with which he was continually ejaculating prayers for\nwarmer weather, made it doubtful to me whether his wishes on this point\nought not, partially at least, to be gratified; and I therefore\nproposed to him a little excursion to the cottage we had visited the\nyear before. 'Anywhere,' said he, 'no matter whither, provided it be\nfar enough.' Towards the latter end of June, therefore, we executed\nthis scheme; on getting into the carriage, the order of the day with\nKant was, 'Distance, distance. Only let us go far enough,' said he: but\nscarcely had we reached the city-gates before the journey seemed\nalready to have lasted too long. On reaching the cottage we found\ncoffee waiting for us; but he would scarcely allow himself time for\ndrinking it, before he ordered the carriage to the door; and the\njourney back seemed insupportably long to him, though it was performed\nin something less than twenty minutes. 'Is this never to have an end?'\nwas his continual exclamation; and great was his joy when he found\nhimself once more in his study, undressed, and in bed. And for this\nnight he slept in peace, and once again was liberated from the\npersecution of dreams.\n\nSoon after he began again to talk of journeys, of travels in remote\ncountries, &c., and, in consequence, we repeated our former excursion\nseveral times; and though the circumstances were pretty nearly the same\non every occasion, and always terminating in disappointment as to the\nimmediate pleasure anticipated, yet, undoubtedly, they were, on the\nwhole, salutary to his spirits. In particular, the cottage itself,\nstanding under the shelter of tall alders, with a valley stretched\nbeneath it, through which a little brook meandered, broken by a water-\nfall, whose pealing sound dwelt pleasantly on the ear, sometimes, on a\nquiet sunny day, gave a lively delight to Kant: and once, under\naccidental circumstances of summer clouds and sun-lights, the little\npastoral landscape suddenly awakened a lively remembrance which had\nbeen long laid asleep, of a heavenly summer morning in youth, which he\nhad passed in a bower upon the banks of a rivulet that ran through the\ngrounds of a dear and early friend, Gen. Von Lossow. The strength of\nthe impression was such, that he seemed actually to be living over that\nmorning again, thinking as he then thought, and conversing with those\nthat were no more.\n\nHis very last excursion was in August of this year, (1803,) not to my\ncottage, but to the garden of a friend. But on this day he manifested\ngreat impatience. It had been arranged that he was to meet an old\nfriend at the gardens; and I, with two other gentlemen, attended him.\nIt happened that _out_ party arrived first; and such was Kant's\nweakness, and total loss of power to estimate the duration of time,\nthat, after waiting a few moments, he insisted that some hours had\nelapsed--that his friend could not be expected--and went away in great\ndiscomposure of mind. And so ended Kant's travelling in this world.\n\nIn the beginning of autumn the sight of his right eye began to fail\nhim; the left he had long lost the use of. This earliest of his losses,\nby the way, he discovered by mere accident, and without any previous\nwarning. Sitting down one day to rest himself in the course of a walk,\nit occurred to him that he would try the comparative strength of his\neyes; but on taking out a newspaper which he had in his pocket, he was\nsurprised to find that with his left eye he could not distinguish a\nletter. In earlier life he had two remarkable affections of the eyes:\nonce, on returning from a walk, he saw objects double for a long space\nof time; and twice he became stone-blind. Whether these accidents are\nto be considered as uncommon, I leave to the decision of oculists.\nCertain it is, they gave very little disturbance to Kant; who, until\nold age had reduced his powers, lived in a constant state of stoical\npreparation for the worst that could befall him. I was now shocked to\nthink of the degree in which his burthensome sense of dependence would\nbe aggravated, if he should totally lose the power of sight. As it was,\nhe read and wrote with great difficulty: in fact, his writing was\nlittle better than that which most people can produce as a trial of\nskill with their eyes shut. From old habits of solitary study, he had\nno pleasure in hearing others read to him; and he daily distressed me\nby the pathetic earnestness of his entreaties that I would have a\nreading-glass devised for him. Whatever my own optical skill could\nsuggest, I tried; and the best opticians were sent for to bring their\nglasses, and take his directions for altering them; but all was to no\npurpose.\n\nIn this last year of his life Kant very unwillingly received the visits\nof strangers; and, unless under particular circumstances, wholly\ndeclined them. Yet, when travellers had come a very great way out of\ntheir road to see him, I confess that I was at a loss how to conduct\nmyself. To have refused too pertinaciously, could not but give me the\nair of wishing to make myself of importance. And I must acknowledge,\nthat, amongst some instances of importunity and coarse expressions of\nlow-bred curiosity, I witnessed, on the part of many people of rank, a\nmost delicate sensibility to the condition of the aged recluse. On\nsending in their cards, they would generally accompany them by some\nmessage, expressive of their unwillingness to gratify their wish to see\nhim at any risk of distressing him. The fact was, that such visits\n_did_ distress him much; for he felt it a degradation to be exhibited\nin his helpless state, when he was aware of his own incapacity to meet\nproperly the attention that was paid to him. Some, however, were\nadmitted, [Footnote: To whom it appears that Kant would generally\nreply, upon their expressing the pleasure it gave them to see him,\n'In me you behold a poor superannuated, weak, old man.'] according\nto the circumstances of the case, and the state of Kant's spirits at\nthe moment. Amongst these, I remember that we were particularly pleased\nwith M. Otto, the same who signed the treaty of peace between France\nand England with the present Lord Liverpool, (then Lord Hawkesbury.) A\nyoung Russian also rises to my recollection at this moment, from the\nexcessive (and I think unaffected) enthusiasm which he displayed. On\nbeing introduced to Kant, he advanced hastily, took both his hands, and\nkissed them. Kant, who, from living so much amongst his English\nfriends, had a good deal of the English dignified reserve about him,\nand hated anything like _scenes_, appeared to shrink a little from\nthis mode of salutation, and was rather embarrassed. However, the young\nman's manner, I believe, was not at all beyond his genuine feelings;\nfor next day he called again, made some inquiries about Kant's health,\nwas very anxious to know whether his old age were burthensome to him,\nand above all things entreated for some little memorial of the great\nman to carry away with him. By accident the servant had found a small\ncancelled fragment of the original MS. of Kant's 'Anthropologie:' this,\nwith my sanction, he gave to the Russian; who received it with rapture,\nkissed it, and then gave him in return the only dollar he had about\nhim; and, thinking that not enough, actually pulled off his coat and\nwaistcoat and forced them upon the man. Kant, whose native simplicity\nof character very much indisposed him to sympathy with any\nextravagances of feeling, could not, however, forbear smiling good-\nhumoredly on being made acquainted with this instance of _na\u00efvet\u00e9_\nand enthusiasm in his young admirer.\n\nI now come to an event in Kant's life, which ushered in its closing\nstage. On the 8th of October, 1803, for the first time since his youth,\nhe was seriously ill. When a student at the University, he had once\nsuffered from an ague, which, however, gave way to pedestrian exercise;\nand in later years, he had endured some pain from a contusion on his\nhead; but, with these two exceptions, (if they can be considered such,)\nhe had never (properly speaking) been ill. The cause of his illness was\nthis: his appetite had latterly been irregular, or rather I should say\ndepraved; and he no longer took pleasure in anything but bread and\nbutter, and English cheese.[Footnote: Mr. W. here falls into the\nordinary mistake of confounding the cause and the occasion, and would\nleave the impression, that Kant (who from his youth up had been a model\nof temperance) died of sensual indulgence. The cause of Kant's death\nwas clearly the general decay of the vital powers, and in particular\nthe atony of the digestive organs, which must soon have destroyed him\nunder any care or abstinence whatever. This was the cause. The\naccidental occasion, which made that cause operative on the 7th of\nOctober, might or might not be what Mr. W. says. But in Kant's\nburthensome state of existence, it could not be a question of much\nimportance whether his illness were to commence in an October or a\nNovember.] On the 7th of October, at dinner, he ate little else, in\nspite of everything that I and another friend then dining with him,\ncould urge to dissuade him. And for the first time I fancied that he\nseemed displeased with my importunity, as though I were overstepping\nthe just line of my duties. He insisted that the cheese never had done\nhim any harm, nor would now. I had no course left me but to hold my\ntongue; and he did as he pleased. The consequence was what might have\nbeen anticipated--a restless night, succeeded by a day of memorable\nillness. The next morning all went on as usual, till nine o'clock, when\nKant, who was then leaning on his sister's arm, suddenly fell senseless\nto the ground. A messenger was immediately despatched for me; and I\nhurried down to his house, where I found him lying in his bed, which\nhad now been removed into his study, speechless and insensible. I had\nalready summoned his physician; but, before he arrived, nature put\nforth efforts which brought Kant a little to himself. In about an hour\nhe opened his eyes, and continued to mutter unintelligibly till towards\nthe evening, when he rallied a little, and began to talk rationally.\nFor the first time in his life, he was now, for a few days, confined to\nhis bed, and ate nothing. On the 12th October, he again took some\nrefreshment, and would have had his favorite food; but I was now\nresolved, at any risk of his displeasure, to oppose him firmly. I\ntherefore stated to him the whole consequences of his last indulgence,\nof all which he manifestly had no recollection. He listened to what I\nsaid very attentively, and calmly expressed his conviction that I was\nperfectly in the wrong; but for the present he submitted. However, some\ndays after, I found that he had offered a florin for a little bread and\ncheese, and then a dollar, and even more. Being again refused, he\ncomplained heavily; but gradually he weaned himself from asking for it,\nthough at times he betrayed involuntarily how much he desired it.\n\nOn the 13th of October, his usual dinner parties were resumed, and he\nwas considered convalescent; but it was seldom indeed that he recovered\nthe tone of tranquil spirits which he had preserved until his late\nattack. Hitherto he had always loved to prolong this meal, the only one\nhe took--or, as he expressed it in classical phrase, 'coenam\n_ducere_;' but now it was difficult to hurry it over fast enough\nfor his wishes. From dinner, which terminated about two o'clock, he\nwent straight to bed, and at intervals fell into slumbers; from which,\nhowever, he was regularly awoke by phantasmata or terrific dreams. At\nseven in the evening came on duly a period of great agitation, which\nlasted till five or six in the morning--sometimes later; and he\ncontinued through the night alternately to walk about and lie down,\noccasionally tranquil, but more often in great distress. It now became\nnecessary that somebody should sit up with him, his man-servant being\nwearied out with the toils of the day. No person seemed to be so proper\nfor this office as his sister, both as having long received a very\nliberal pension from him, and also as his nearest relative, who would\nbe the best witness to the fact that her illustrious brother had wanted\nno comforts or attention in his last hours, which his situation\nadmitted of. Accordingly she was applied to, and undertook to watch him\nalternately with his footman--a separate table being kept for her, and\na very handsome addition made to her allowance. She turned out to be a\nquiet gentle-minded woman, who raised no disturbances amongst the\nservants, and soon won her brother's regard by the modest and retiring\nstyle of her manners; I may add, also, by the truly sisterly affection\nwhich she displayed towards him to the last.\n\nThe 8th of October had grievously affected Kant's faculties, but had\nnot wholly destroyed them. For short intervals the clouds seemed to\nroll away that had settled upon his majestic intellect, and it shone\nforth as heretofore. During these moments of brief self-possession, his\nwonted benignity returned to him; and he expressed his gratitude for\nthe exertions of those about him, and his sense of the trouble they\nunderwent, in a very affecting way. With regard to his man-servant in\nparticular, he was very anxious that he should be rewarded by liberal\npresents; and he pressed me earnestly on no account to be parsimonious.\nIndeed Kant was nothing less than princely in his use of money; and\nthere was no occasion on which he was known to express the passion of\nscorn very powerfully, but when he was commenting on mean and penurious\nacts or habits. Those who knew him only in the streets, fancied that he\nwas not liberal; for he steadily refused, upon principle, to relieve\nall common beggars. But, on the other hand, he was liberal to the\npublic charitable institutions; he secretly assisted his own poor\nrelations in a much ampler way than could reasonably have been expected\nof him; and it now appeared that he had many other deserving pensioners\nupon his bounty; a fact that was utterly unknown to any of us, until\nhis increasing blindness and other infirmities devolved the duty of\npaying these pensions upon myself. It must be recollected, also, that\nKant's whole fortune, which amounted to about twenty thousand dollars,\nwas the product of his own honorable toils for nearly threescore years;\nand that he had himself suffered all the hardships of poverty in his\nyouth, though he never once ran into any man's debt,--circumstances in\nhis history, which, as they express how fully he must have been\nacquainted with the value of money, greatly enhance the merit of his\nmunificence.\n\nIn December, 1803, he became incapable of signing his name. His sight,\nindeed, had for some time failed him so much, that at dinner he could\nnot find his spoon without assistance; and, when I happened to dine\nwith him, I first cut in pieces whatever was on his plate, next put it\ninto a spoon, and then guided his hand to find the spoon. But his\ninability to sign his name did not arise merely from blindness: the\nfact was, that, from irretention of memory, he could not recollect the\nletters which composed his name; and, when they were repeated to him,\nhe could not represent the figure of the letters in his imagination. At\nthe latter end of November, I had remarked that these incapacities were\nrapidly growing upon him, and in consequence I prevailed on him to sign\nbeforehand all the receipts, &c., which would be wanted at the end of\nthe year; and, afterwards, on my representation, to prevent all\ndisputes, he gave me a regular legal power to sign on his behalf.\n\nMuch as Kant was now reduced, yet he had occasionally moods of social\nhilarity. His birth-day was always an agreeable subject to him: some\nweeks before his death, I was calculating the time which it still\nwanted of that anniversary, and cheering him with the prospect of the\nrejoicings which would then take place: 'All your old friends,' said I,\n'will meet together, and drink a glass of champagne to your health.'\n'That,' said he, 'must be done upon the spot:' and he was not satisfied\ntill the party was actually assembled. He drank a glass of wine with\nthem, and with great elevation of spirits celebrated this birth-day\nwhich he was destined never to see.\n\nIn the latter weeks of his life, however, a great change took place in\nthe tone of his spirits. At his dinner-table, where heretofore such a\ncloudless spirit of joviality had reigned, there was now a melancholy\nsilence. It disturbed him to see his two dinner companions conversing\nprivately together, whilst he himself sat like a mute on the stage with\nno part to perform. Yet to have engaged him in the conversation would\nhave been still more distressing; for his hearing was now very\nimperfect; the effort to hear was itself painful to him; and his\nexpressions, even when his thoughts were accurate enough, became nearly\nunintelligible. It is remarkable, however, that at the very lowest\npoint of his depression, when he became perfectly incapable of\nconversing with any rational meaning on the ordinary affairs of life,\nhe was still able to answer correctly and distinctly, in a degree that\nwas perfectly astonishing, upon any question of philosophy or of\nscience, especially of physical geography, [Footnote: _Physical_\nGeography, in opposition to _Political_.] chemistry, or natural\nhistory. He talked satisfactorily, in his very worst state, of the\ngases, and stated very accurately different propositions of Kepler's,\nespecially the law of the planetary motions. And I remember in\nparticular, that upon the very last Monday of his life, when the\nextremity of his weakness moved a circle of his friends to tears, and\nhe sat amongst us insensible to all we could say to him, cowering down,\nor rather I might say collapsing into a shapeless heap upon his chair,\ndeaf, blind, torpid, motionless,--even then I whispered to the others\nthat I would engage that Kant should take his part in conversation with\npropriety and animation. This they found it difficult to believe. Upon\nwhich I drew close to his ear, and put a question to him about the\nMoors of Barbary. To the surprise of everybody but myself, he\nimmediately gave us a summary account of their habits and customs; and\ntold us by the way, that in the word _Algiers_, the _g_ ought to be\npronounced hard (as in the English word _gear_).\n\nDuring the last fortnight of Kant's life, he busied himself unceasingly\nin a way that seemed not merely purposeless but self-contradictory.\nTwenty times in a minute he would unloose and tie his neck\nhandkerchief--so also with a sort of belt which he wore about his\ndressing-gown, the moment it was clasped, he unclasped it with\nimpatience, and was then equally impatient to have it clasped again.\nBut no description can convey an adequate impression of the weary\nrestlessness with which from morning to night he pursued these labors\nof Sisyphus--doing and undoing--fretting that he could not do it,\nfretting that he had done it.\n\nBy this time he seldom knew any of us who were about him, but took us\nall for strangers. This happened first with his sister, then with me,\nand finally with his servant. Such an alienation distressed me more\nthan any other instance of his decay: though I knew that he had not\nreally withdrawn his affection from me, yet his air and mode of\naddressing me gave me constantly that feeling. So much the more\naffecting was it, when the sanity of his perceptions and his\nremembrances returned; but these intervals were of slower and slower\noccurrence. In this condition, silent or babbling childishly, self-\ninvolved and torpidly abstracted, or else busy with self-created\nphantoms and delusions, what a contrast did he offer to _that_\nKant who had once been the brilliant centre of the most brilliant\ncircles for rank, wit, or knowledge, that Prussia afforded! A\ndistinguished person from Berlin, who had called upon him during the\npreceding summer, was greatly shocked at his appearance, and said,\n'This is not Kant that I have seen, but the shell of Kant!' How much\nmore would he have said this, if he had seen him now!\n\nNow came February, 1804, which was the last month that Kant was\ndestined to see. It is remarkable that, in the memorandum book which I\nhave before mentioned, I found a fragment of an old song, (inserted by\nKant, and dated in the summer about six months before the time of his\ndeath,) which expressed that February was the month in which people had\nthe least weight to carry, for the obvious reason that it was shorter\nby two and by three days than the others; and the concluding sentiment\nwas in a tone of fanciful pathos to this effect--'Oh, happy February!\nin which man has least to bear--least pain, least sorrow, least self-\nreproach!' Even of this short month, however, Kant had not twelve\nentire days to bear; for it was on the 12th that he died; and in fact\nhe may be said to have been dying from the 1st. He now barely\nvegetated; though there were still transitory gleams flashing by fits\nfrom the embers of his ancient intellect.\n\nOn the 3d of February the springs of life seemed to be ceasing from\ntheir play, for, from this day, strictly speaking, he ate nothing more.\nHis existence henceforward seemed to be the mere prolongation of an\nimpetus derived from an eighty years' life, after the moving power of\nthe mechanism was withdrawn. His physician visited him every day at a\nparticular hour; and it was settled that I should always be there to\nmeet him. Nine days before his death, on paying his usual visit, the\nfollowing little circumstance occurred, which affected us both, by\nrecalling forcibly to our minds the ineradicable courtesy and goodness\nof Kant's nature. When the physician was announced, I went up to Kant\nand said to him, 'Here is Dr. A----.' Kant rose from his chair, and,\noffering his hand to the Doctor, murmured something in which the word\n'posts' was frequently repeated, but with an air as though he wished to\nbe helped out with the rest of the sentence. Dr. A----, who thought\nthat, by _posts_, he meant the stations for relays of post-horses, and\ntherefore that his mind was wandering, replied that all the horses were\nengaged, and begged him to compose himself. But Kant went on, with\ngreat effort to himself, and added--'Many posts, heavy posts--then much\ngoodness--then much gratitude.' All this he said with apparent\nincoherence, but with great warmth, and increasing self-possession. I\nmeantime perfectly divined what it was that Kant, under his cloud of\nimbecility, wished to say, and I interpreted accordingly. 'What the\nProfessor wishes to say, Dr. A----, is this, that, considering the many\nand weighty offices which you fill in the city and in the university,\nit argues great goodness on your part to give up so much of your time\nto him,' (for Dr. A---- would never take any fees from Kant;) 'and that\nhe has the deepest sense of this goodness.' 'Right,' said Kant,\nearnestly, 'right!' But he still continued to stand, and was nearly\nsinking to the ground. Upon which I remarked to the physician, that I\nwas so well acquainted with Kant, that I was satisfied he would not sit\ndown, however much he suffered from standing, until he knew that his\nvisitors were seated. The Doctor seemed to doubt this--but Kant, who\nheard what I said, by a prodigious effort confirmed my construction of\nhis conduct, and spoke distinctly these words--'God forbid I should be\nsunk so low as to forget the offices of humanity.'\n\nWhen dinner was announced, Dr. A---- took his leave. Another guest had\nnow arrived, and I was in hopes, from the animation which Kant had so\nrecently displayed, that we should to-day have a pleasant party, but my\nhopes were vain--Kant was more than usually exhausted, and though he\nraised a spoon to his mouth, he swallowed nothing. For some time\neverything had been tasteless to him; and I had endeavored, but with\nlittle success, to stimulate the organs of taste by nutmeg, cinnamon,\n&c. To-day all failed, and I could not even prevail upon him to taste a\nbiscuit, rusk, or anything of that sort. I had once heard him say that\nseveral of his friends, who had died of _marasmus_, had closed\ntheir illness by four or five days of entire freedom from pain, but\ntotally without appetite, and then slumbered tranquilly away. Through\nthis state I apprehended that he was himself now passing.\n\nSaturday, the 4th of February, I heard his guests loudly expressing\ntheir fears that they should never meet him again; and I could not but\nshare these fears myself. However, on\n\nSunday, the 5th, I dined at his table in company with his particular\nfriend Mr. R. R. V. Kant was still present, but so weak that his head\ndrooped upon his knees, and he sank down against the right side of the\nchair. I went and arranged his pillows so as to raise and support his\nhead; and, having done this, I said--'Now, my dear Sir, you are again\nin right order.' Great was our astonishment when he answered clearly\nand audibly in the Roman military phrase--'Yes, _testudine et\nfacie;_' and immediately after added, 'Ready for the enemy, and in\nbattle array.' His powers of mind were (if I may be allowed that\nexpression) smouldering away in their ashes; but every now and then\nsome lambent flame, or grand emanation of light, shot forth to make it\nevident that the ancient fire still slumbered below.\n\nMonday, the 6th, he was much weaker and more torpid: he spoke not a\nword, except on the occasion of my question about the Moors, as\npreviously stated, and sate with sightless eyes, lost in himself, and\nmanifesting no sense of our presence, so that we had the feeling of\nsome mighty shade or phantom from some forgotten century being seated\namongst us.\n\nAbout this time, Kant had become much more tranquil and composed. In\nthe earlier periods of his illness, when his yet unbroken strength was\nbrought into active contest with the first attacks of decay, he was apt\nto be peevish, and sometimes spoke roughly or even harshly to his\nservants. This, though very opposite to his natural disposition, was\naltogether excusable under the circumstances. He could not make himself\nunderstood: things were therefore brought to him continually which he\nhad not asked for; and often it happened that what he really wanted he\ncould not obtain, because all his efforts to name it were\nunintelligible. A violent nervous irritation, besides, affected him\nfrom the unsettling of the equilibrium in the different functions of\nhis nature; weakness in one organ being made more palpable to him by\ndisproportionate strength in another. But now the strife was over; the\nwhole system was at length undermined, and in rapid and harmonious\nprogress to dissolution. And from this time forward, no movement of\nimpatience, or expression of fretfulness, ever escaped him.\n\nI now visited him three times a-day; and on\n\nTuesday, Feb. 7th, going about dinner-time, I found the usual party of\nfriends sitting down alone; for Kant was in bed. This was a new scene\nin his house, and increased our fears that his end was now at hand.\nHowever, having seen him rally so often, I would not run the risk of\nleaving him without a dinner-party for the next day; and accordingly,\nat the customary hour of one, we assembled in his house on\n\nWednesday, Feb. 8th. I paid my respects to him as cheerfully as\npossible, and ordered dinner to be served up. Kant sat at the table\nwith us; and, taking a spoon with a little soup in it, put it to his\nlips; but immediately put it down again, and retired to bed, from which\nhe never rose again, except during the few minutes when it was re-\narranged.\n\nThursday, the 9th, he had sunk into the weakness of a dying person, and\nthe corpse-like appearance had already taken possession of him. I\nvisited him frequently through the day; and, going at ten o'clock at\nnight, I found him in a state of insensibility. I could not draw any\nsign from him that he knew me, and I left him to the care of his sister\nand his servant.\n\nFriday, the 10th, I went to see him at six o'clock in the morning. It\nwas very stormy, and a deep snow had fallen in the night-time. And, by\nthe way, I remember that a gang of house-breakers had forced their way\nthrough the premises in order to reach Kant's next neighbor, who was a\ngoldsmith. As I drew near to his bed-side, I said, 'Good morning.' He\nreturned my salutation by saying, 'Good morning,' but in so feeble and\nfaltering a voice that it was hardly articulate. I was rejoiced to find\nhim sensible, and I asked him if he knew me:--'Yes,' he replied; and,\nstretching out his hand, touched me gently upon the cheek. Through the\nrest of the day, whenever I visited him, he seemed to have relapsed\ninto a state of insensibility.\n\nSaturday, the 11th, he lay with fixed and rayless eyes; but to all\nappearance in perfect peace. I asked him again, on this day, if he knew\nme. He was speechless, but he turned his face towards me and made signs\nthat I should kiss him. Deep emotion thrilled me, as I stooped down to\nkiss his pallid lips; for I knew that in this solemn act of tenderness\nhe meant to express his thankfulness for our long friendship, and to\nsignify his affection and his last farewell. I had never seen him\nconfer this mark of his love upon anybody, except once, and that was a\nfew weeks before his death, when he drew his sister to him and kissed\nher. The kiss which he now gave to me was the last memorial that he\nknew me.\n\nWhatever fluid was now offered to him passed the oesophagus with a\nrattling sound, as often happens with dying people; and there were all\nthe signs of death being close at hand.\n\nI wished to stay with him till all was over; and as I had been witness\nof his life, to be witness also of his departure; and therefore I never\nquitted him except when I was called off for a few minutes to attend\nsome private business. The whole of this night I spent at his bed-side.\nThough he had passed the day in a state of insensibility, yet in the\nevening he made intelligible signs that he wished to have his bed put\nin order; he was therefore lifted out in our arms, and the bed-clothes\nand pillows being hastily arranged, he was carried back again. He did\nnot sleep; and a spoonful of liquid, which was sometimes put to his\nlips, he usually pushed aside; but about one o'clock in the night he\nhimself made a motion towards the spoon, from which I collected that he\nwas thirsty; and I gave him a small quantity of wine and water\nsweetened; but the muscles of his mouth had not strength enough to\nretain it, so that to prevent its flowing back he raised his hand to\nhis lips, until with a rattling sound it was swallowed. He seemed to\nwish for more; and I continued to give him more, until he said, in a\nway that I was just able to understand,--'It is enough.' And these were\nhis last words. At intervals he pushed away the bed-clothes, and\nexposed his person; I constantly restored the clothes to their\nsituation, and on one of these occasions I found that the whole body\nand extremities were already growing cold, and the pulse intermitting.\n\nAt a quarter after three o'clock on Sunday morning, February 12, Kant\nstretched himself out as if taking a position for his final act, and\nsettled into the precise posture which he preserved to the moment of\ndeath. The pulse was now no longer perceptible to the touch in his\nhands, feet or neck. I tried every part where a pulse beats, and found\nnone anywhere but in the left hip, where it beat with violence, but\noften intermitted.\n\nAbout ten o'clock in the forenoon he suffered a remarkable change; his\neye was rigid and his face and lips became discolored by a cadaverous\npallor. Still, such was the effect of his previous habits, that no\ntrace appeared of the cold sweat which naturally accompanies the last\nmortal agony.\n\nIt was near eleven o'clock when the moment of dissolution approached.\nHis sister was standing at the foot of the bed, his sister's son at the\nhead. I, for the purpose of still observing the fluctuations of the\npulse in his hip, was kneeling at the bed-side; and I called his\nservant to come and witness the death of his good master. Now began the\nlast agony, if to him it could be called an agony, where there seemed\nto be no struggle. And precisely at this moment, his distinguished\nfriend, Mr. R. R. V., whom I had summoned by a messenger, entered the\nroom. First of all, the breath grew feebler; then it missed its\nregularity of return; then it wholly intermitted, and the upper lip was\nslightly convulsed; after this there followed one slight respiration or\nsigh; and after that no more; but the pulse still beat for a few\nseconds--slower and fainter, till it ceased altogether; the mechanism\nstopped; the last motion was at an end; and exactly at that moment the\nclock struck eleven.\n\nSoon after his death the head of Kant was shaved; and, under the\ndirection of Professor Knorr, a plaster cast was taken, not a masque\nmerely, but a cast of the whole bead, designed (I believe) to enrich\nthe craniological collection of Dr. Gall.\n\nThe corpse being laid out and properly attired, immense numbers of\npeople of every rank, from the highest to the lowest, flocked to see\nit. Everybody was anxious to make use of the last opportunity he would\nhave for entitling himself to say--'I too have seen Kant.' This went on\nfor many days--during which, from morning to night, the house was\nthronged with the public. Great was the astonishment of all people at\nthe meagreness of Kant's appearance; and it was universally agreed that\na corpse so wasted and fleshless had never been beheld. His head rested\nupon the same cushion on which once the gentlemen of the university had\npresented an address to him; and I thought that I could not apply it to\na more honorable purpose than by placing it in the coffin, as the final\npillow of that immortal head.\n\nUpon the style and mode of his funeral, Kant had expressed his wishes\nin earlier years in a separate memorandum. He there desired that it\nshould take place early in the morning, with as little noise and\ndisturbance as possible, and attended only by a few of his most\nintimate friends. Happening to meet with this memorandum, whilst I was\nengaged at his request in arranging his papers, I very frankly gave him\nmy opinion, that such an injunction would lay me, as the executor of\nhis will, under great embarrassments; for that circumstances might very\nprobably arise under which it would be next to impossible to carry it\ninto effect. Upon this Kant tore the paper, and left the whole to my\nown discretion. The fact was, I foresaw that the students of the\nUniversity would never allow themselves to be robbed of this occasion\nfor expressing their veneration by a public funeral. The event showed\nthat I was right; for a funeral such as Kant's, one so solemn and so\nmagnificent, the city of K\u00f6nigsberg has never witnessed before or\nsince. The public journals, and separate accounts in pamphlets, etc.,\nhave given so minute an account of its details, that I shall here\nnotice only the heads of the ceremony.\n\nOn the 28th of February, at two o'clock in the afternoon, all the\ndignitaries of church and state, not only those resident in K\u00f6nigsberg,\nbut from the remotest parts of Prussia, assembled in the church of the\nCastle. Hence they were escorted by the whole body of the University,\nsplendidly dressed for the occasion, and by many military officers of\nrank, with whom Kant had always been a great favorite, to the house of\nthe deceased Professor; from which the corpse was carried by torch-\nlight, the bells of every church in K\u00f6nigsberg tolling, to the\nCathedral which was lit up by innumerable wax-lights. A never-ending\ntrain of many thousand persons followed it on foot. In the Cathedral,\nafter the usual burial rites, accompanied with every possible\nexpression of national veneration to the deceased, there was a grand\nmusical service, most admirably performed, at the close of which Kant's\nmortal remains were lowered into the academic vault, where he now rests\namong the ancient patriarchs of the University. PEACE BE TO HIS DUST,\nAND EVERLASTING HONOR!","title":"Narrative and Miscellaneous Papers \u2014 Volume 2","tradition":"philosophy-ethics","translated_text":null,"word_count":81378}