_Confessions_, one dealing with the semi-voluntary power children have
over the coming and going of phantoms painted on the darkness. This mark
is very indistinct, and, as I remember nothing about it, I think it must
have been made by accident. The part indicated by it is only
introductory to an unmarked passage immediately following which has
always fascinated my imagination. It is in the “Pains of Opium,” and
runs:--
“In the middle of 1817, I think it was, that this faculty became
positively distressing to me: at night, when I lay awake in bed,
vast processions passed along in mournful pomp, friezes of
never-ending stories, that to my feelings were as sad and solemn as
if they were stories drawn from times before Œdipus and
Priam--before Tyre--before Memphis. And at the same time a
corresponding change took place in my dreams: a theatre seemed
suddenly opened and lighted up within my brain, which presented
nightly spectacles of more than earthly splendour.”
How thankful we ought to be that it has never been our fate to sit in
that awful theatre of prehistoric woes! There is surely nothing more
appalling in the past than the interminably vain activities of that
mysterious atomie, Egyptian man. Who could bear to look upon the three
hundred thousand ant-like slaves swarming among the colossal monoliths
piled up in thousands for the pyramid of Cheops! The bare thought makes
one start back aghast and shudder.
I find the next mark opposite another awful passage dealing with
infinity, on this occasion infinity of numbers, not of time:--
“The waters now changed their character,--from translucent lakes,
shining like mirrors, they now became seas and oceans. And now came
a tremendous change, which, unfolding itself slowly like a scroll,
through many months, promised an abiding torment; and, in fact, it
never left me until the winding-up of my case. Hitherto the human
face had mixed often in my dreams, but not despotically, not with
any special power of tormenting. But now, that which I have called
the tyranny of the human face began to unfold itself. Perhaps some
part of my London life might be answerable for this. Be that as it
may, now it was that upon the rocking waters of the ocean the human
face began to appear: the sea appeared paved with innumerable
faces, upturned to the heavens--faces imploring, wrathful,
despairing, surged upwards by thousands, by myriads, by
generations, by centuries.”
Upon closer looking, I see an attempt has been made to erase the mark
opposite this passage. Joining the fact with the faintness of the line
opposite the former quotation I am driven to the conclusion that there
is only one “stetted” note of admiration in the book. It is a whole page
of the little volume. It begins on page 91, and ends on page 92. To show
you how little I care for my copy of the _Confessions_, I shall cut it
out. Even a lawyer would pay me more than fourpence-halfpenny for
copying a page of the book, and, as I have said before, the volume has
no extrinsic value for me. Excepting the Bible, I am not familiar with
any finer passage of so great length in prose in the English language:--
“The dream commenced with a music which now I often heard in
dreams; a music of preparation and awakening suspense; a music like
the opening of the Coronation Anthem, and which, like _that_, gave
the feeling of a vast march--of infinite cavalcades filing off--and
the tread of innumerable armies. The morning was come of a mighty
day--a day of crisis and of final hope for human nature, then
suffering some mysterious eclipse, and labouring in some dread
extremity. Somewhere, I knew not where--somehow, I knew not
how--by some beings, I knew not whom--a battle, a strife, an agony
was conducting, was evolving like a great drama, or piece of music;
with which my sympathy was the more insupportable from my confusion
as to its place, its cause, its nature, and its possible issue. I,
as is usual in dreams (where, of necessity, we make ourselves
central to every movement), had the power and yet had not the
power, to decide it. I had the power, if I could raise myself, to
will it; and yet again had not the power, for the weight of twenty
Atlantics was upon me, or the oppression of inexpiable guilt.
‘Deeper than ever plummet sounded,’ I lay inactive. Then, like a
chorus, the passion deepened. Some greater interest was at stake;
some mightier cause than ever yet the sword had pleaded or trumpet
had proclaimed. Then came sudden alarms; hurryings to and fro;
trepidations of innumerable fugitives, I knew not whether from the
good cause or the bad; darkness and lights; tempest and human
faces; and at last, with the sense that all was lost, female forms,
and the features that were all the world to me, and but a moment
allowed, and clasped hands, and heart-breaking partings, and
then--everlasting farewells! and with a sigh such as the caves of
hell sighed when the incestuous mother uttered the abhorred name of
death, the sound was reverberated--everlasting farewells! and again
and yet again reverberated--everlasting farewells! And I awoke in
struggles, and cried aloud, ‘I will sleep no more!’”
Upon reading this passage over I am glad I am not familiar with any
finer one in English prose--it would be impossible to endure it. In
these sentences it is not the consummate style alone that overwhelms
one, the matter is nearly as fine as the manner. How tremendously the
numbers and sentences are marshalled! How inevitable, overbearing,
breathless is the onward movement! What awful expectations are aroused,
and shadowy fears vaguely realized! As the spectral pageant moves on
other cohorts of trembling shades join the ghostly legion on the blind
march! All is vaporous, spectral, spiritual, until when we are wound up
to the highest pitch of physical awe and apprehension, we stop suddenly,
arrested by failure of the ground, insufficiency of the road, and are
recalled to life and light and truth and fellowship with the kindly race
of man by the despairing human shriek of incommunicable, inarticulable
agony in the words, “I will sleep no more!” In that despairing cry the
tortured soul abjectly confesses that it has been vanquished and driven
wild by the spirit-world. It is when you contrast the finest passages
in Macaulay with such a passage as this, that you recognise the
difference between a clever writer and a great stylist.
A GUIDE TO IGNORANCE.
For a long time I have had it in my mind to write a guide to ignorance.
I have been withheld partly by a feeling of diffidence and partly by a
want of encouragement from those to whom I mentioned the scheme. I have
submitted a plan of my book to a couple of publishers, but each of these
assured me that such a work would not be popular. In their
straightforward commercial way they told me they could see “no money in
the idea.” I differ from them; I think the book would be greeted with
acclaim and bought with avidity.
Novelties are, I know, always dangerous speculations except in the form
of clothes, when they are certain of instant and immense adoption. The
mind of man cannot conceive the pattern for trousers’ cloth or the
design for a bonnet that will not be worn. There is nothing too high or
too low to set the fashion to men and women in dress. Conquerors were
crowned with mural wreaths, of which the chimney-pot hat is the lineal
descendant; pigs started the notion of wearing rings in their noses, and
man in the southern seas followed the example; kangaroos were the
earliest pouch-makers and ladies took to carrying reticules.
But an innovation in the domain of education or thought is a widely
different thing from a frolic in gear. It is easy to set going any craze
which depends merely or mostly on the way of wearing the hair or the
height of the cincture. Hence æstheticism gained many followers in a
little time. But remember it took ages and ages to reconcile people to
wearing any clothes at all. Once you break the ice the immersion in a
new custom may become as rapid as the descent of a round shot into the
sea. The great step was, so to speak, from woad to wampum, with just an
Atlantic of time between the two. If you went to Poole any day this
week and asked him to make you a suit of wampum he would plead no
insuperable difficulty. If you asked him to make you a suit of woad he
would certainly detain you while he inquired as to your sanity and sent
for your friends. Yet it is only one step, one film, from woad to
wampum.
Up to this time in the history of man there has, with few exceptions,
been an infatuated pursuit of this will-o’-the-wisp, knowledge. Why
should not man now turn his glance to ignorance, if it were only for a
little while and for the sake of fair play? The idea is of course
revolutionary, so also is every other new idea revolutionary, and (I am
not now referring to politics) it is only from revolutionary ideas we
derive what we regard as advantages. The earth and heavens themselves
are revolutionary. Why then should we not fairly examine the chance of a
revolution in the aim of man?
The disinclination to face new attitudes of thought comes from the
inherent laziness of man, and hence at the outset of my career towards
that guide I should find nearly the whole race against me. Humboldt, who
met people of all climes and races and colours, declares laziness to be
the most common vice of human nature. Hence the initial obstacle is
almost insuperable. But it is only almost, not quite insuperable. Men
can be stirred from indolence only by a prospect of profit in some form.
Even in the Civil Service they are incited to make the effort to
continue living by the hope of greater leisure later in life, for with
years comes promotion and promotion means less labour.
By a little industry in the pursuit of ignorance greater repose would be
attained in the immediate future. It would be very difficult to prove
that up to this hour progress has been of the slightest use or pleasure
to man. Higher pleasures, higher pains. Complexities of consciousness
are merely a source of distraction from centralisation. The jelly fish
may, after all, be the highest ideal of living things, and we may, if
the phrase be admitted, have been developing backward from him. Of all
the creatures on earth man is the most stuck up. He arrogates
everything to himself and because he can split a flint or make a bow or
gun-barrel he thinks he centres the universe, and insists that the
illimitable deeps of space are focused upon him. Astronomers, a highly
respectable class of people, assert there are now visible to us one
hundred million fixed stars, one hundred million suns like our own. Each
may have its system of planets, such as earth, and each planet again its
attendant satellites. With that splendid magnanimity characteristic of
our race, man would rather pitch the hundred million suns into chaos
than for a moment entertain the idea that he is a humbug and of no use
whatever. And yet after all the jelly-fish may be a worthier fellow than
the best of us.
I do not of course insist on reversion to the jelly-fish. In this
climate his habits of life are too suggestive of ague and rheumatism. In
fact I do not know that I am urging reversion to anything, even to the
flocks of pastoral man. But I am saying that as myriads of facilities
are given for acquiring knowledge, one humble means ought to be devised
for acquiring ignorance. If I had anywhere met with the encouragement
which I think I merited, I should have undertaken to write the book
myself.
I should open by saying it was not until I had concluded a long and
painful investigation that I considered myself in any way qualified to
undertake so grave and important a task as writing a guide to ignorance:
that I had not only inquired curiously into my own fitness, but had also
looked about carefully among my friends in the hope of finding some one
better qualified to carry out this important undertaking. But upon
gauging the depth of my own knowledge and considering conscientiously
the capacity of my acquaintances, I came to the conclusion that no man I
knew personally had so close a personal intimacy with ignorance as
myself. There are few branches, I may say no branch, of knowledge except
that of ignorance in which any one of my friends was not more learned
than myself. I was born in such profound ignorance that I had no
personal knowledge of the fact at the time. I had existed for a long
time before I could distinguish between myself and things which were
not.
As a boy I was averse from study; and since I have grown to manhood I
have acquired so little substantive information that I could write down
in a bold hand on one page of this book every single fact, outside facts
of personal experience, of which I am possessed.
I know that the Norman invasion occurred in 1066, and the Great Fire in
1666. I know that gunpowder is composed of saltpetre, sulphur, and
charcoal, and sausages of minced meat and bread under the name of Tommy.
I am aware Milton and Shakespeare were poets, and that needle-grinders
are short lived. I know that the primest brands of three-shilling
champagnes are made in London. I can give the Latin for seven words, and
the French for four. I can repeat the multiplication table (with the
pence) up to six times. I know the mere names of a number of people and
things; but, as far as clear and definite information goes, I don’t
believe I could double the above brief list. I am, I think, therefore,
warranted in concluding that few men can have a more close or exhaustive
personal acquaintance with ignorance. If you want learning at secondhand
you must go to the learned: if you want ignorance at first hand you
cannot possibly do better than come to me.
In the first place let us consider the “Injury of Knowledge.” How much
better off the king would be if he had no knowledge! Suppose his mental
ken had never been directed to any period before the dawn of his own
memory, he would have no disquieting thoughts of the trouble into which
Charles I. or Richard II. drifted. He would be filled with no envy of
the good old King John, who, from four or five ounces of iron in the
form of thumb-screws, and a few hundredweight of rich Jew, filled up the
royal pockets as often as they showed any signs of growing empty. And,
above all, he would be spared the misery of committing dates to memory.
How it must limit the happiness of a constitutional sovereign to know
anything about the constitution! Why should he be burdened with the
consciousness of rights and prerogatives? Would he not be much happier
if he might smoke his cigar in his garden without the fear of the
Speaker or the Lord Chancellor before his eyes? The Commons want their
Speaker, the Lords want their Lord Chancellor--let them have them. The
king wants neither. Why should he be troubled with any knowledge of
either? Although he is a king is he not a man and a brother also? Why
should he be worried out of his life with reasons for all he does? The
king feels he can do no wrong. That ought to be enough for him. Most men
believe the same thing of themselves, but few others share the faith.
The king can do no wrong, then in mercy’s name let the man alone.
Suppose it is a part of my duty to look out of the oriel window at dawn,
noon, and sunset, why should I be bored with cause, reason, and
precedent for this? Let me look out of window if it is my duty to do so;
but, before and after looking out of the window, let me enjoy my life.
Take the statesman. How knowledge must hamper him! He is absolutely
precluded from acting with decision by the consciousness of the
difficulties which lay in the path of his predecessors. He has to make
up his subject, to get facts and figures from his subordinates and
others. He has to arrange the party manœuvres before he launches his
scheme, by which time all the energy is gone out of him, and he has not
half as much faith in his bill as if he had never looked at the _pros_
and _cons_. “Never mind manœuvring, but go at them,” said Nelson. The
moment you begin to manœuvre you confess your doubtfulness of
success, unless you can take your adversary at a disadvantage; but if
you fly headlong at his throat, you terrify him by the display of your
confidence and valour.
The words of Nelson apply still more closely to the general. His
knowledge that fifty years ago the British army was worsted on this
field, unnerves, paralyses him. If he did not know that shells are
explosive and bullets deadly, he would make his dispositions with twice
the confidence, and his temerity would fill the foe with panic. His
simple duty is to defeat the enemy, and knowing anything beyond this
only tends to distract his mind and weaken his arm. In the middle of one
of his Indian battles, and when he thought the conflict had been decided
in favour of British arms, a messenger rode hastily up to the general in
command, who was wiping his reeking forehead on his coat-sleeve: “A
large fresh force of the enemy has appeared in such a place; what is to
be done?” Gough rubbed his forehead with the other sleeve, and shouted
out, “Beat ’em!” Obviously no better command could have been given. What
the English nation wanted the English army to do with the enemy was to
“beat ’em.” In the pictures of the Victoria Cross there is one of a
young dandy officer with an eyeglass in his eye and a sword in his hand,
among the thick of the foe. He knows he is in that place to kill some
one. He is quite ignorant of the fact that the enemy is there to kill
him, and he is taking his time and looking through his eyeglass to try
to find some enticing man through whom to run his sword. One of
Wellington’s most fervent prayers was, “Oh, spare me my dandy officers!”
Now dandies are never very full of knowledge, and yet the greatest Duke
thought more of them than of your learning-begrimed sappers or your
science-bespattered gunners.
If an advocate at the bar knew one quarter of the law of the land, he
could never get on. In the first place, he would know more than the
judges, and this would prejudice the bench against him. With regard to a
barrister, the best position for him to assume, if he is addressing a
jury, is, “Gentlemen, the indisputable facts of the case, as stated to
you by the witnesses, are so-and-so. In presence of so distinguished a
lawyer as occupies the bench in this court, I do not feel myself
qualified to tell you what the law is; that will be the easy duty of his
lordship.” Even in Chancery cases, the barrister would best insure
success by merely citing the precedent cases, in an off-hand way, “Does
not your lordship think the case of Burke _v._ Hare meets the exact
conditions of the one under consideration?” The indices are all the
pleader need look at. The judge will surely strain a point for one who
does not bore him with extracts and arguments, but leaves all to
himself, and lets the work of the court run smoothly and just as the
president wishes.
Knowledge is an absolute hindrance to the doctor of medicine. Supposing
he is a man of average intelligence (some doctors are), he is able to
diagnose, let me say, fever. You or I could diagnose fever pretty
well--quick pulse, dry skin, thirst, and so on. But as the doctor leans
over the patient, he is paralysed by the complication of his knowledge.
Such a theory is against feeding up, such a theory against slops, such a
theory against bleeding, such a theory in favour of phlebotomy; there
are the wet and the dry, the hot and the cold methods; and while the
doctor is deliberating, vacillating, or speculating, the patient has
ample opportunity of dying, or nature of stepping in and curing the man,
and thus foiling the doctor. Is there not much more sense and candour in
the method adopted by the Irish hunting dispensary doctor, who, before
starting with the hounds, locked up all drugs, except the Glauber’s
salts, a stone or two of which he left in charge of his servant, with
instructions it was to be meted out impartially to all comers, each
patient receiving an honest fistful as a dose? It is a remarkable fact
that within this century homœopathy has gained a firm hold on an
important section of the community, and yet, notwithstanding the growth
of what the allopathists or regular profession regard as ignorant
quackery, the span of human life has had six years added to it in eighty
years. Still homœopathy is a practical confession of ignorance; for
it says, in effect, “We don’t know exactly what Nature is trying to do,
but let us give her a little help, and trust in luck.” Whereas allopathy
pretended to know everything and to fight Nature. Here, in the result of
years added to man’s life by the development of the ignorant system, we
see once more the superiority of ignorance over knowledge.
How full of danger to the unwedded men is knowledge owned by the widow!
She has knowledge of the married state, in which she was far removed
from all the troubles and responsibilities of life. She had her
pin-money, her bills paid, stalls taken for her at the opera, agreeable
company around her board, no occasion to face money difficulties. Now
all that is changed. There is no elasticity in her revenue, no margin
for the gratification of her whims; she has to pay her own bills, secure
her own stalls; she cannot very well entertain company often, and all
the unpleasantnesses of business matters press her sorely. Her knowledge
tells her that, if she could secure a second husband, all would be
pleasant again. It may be said that here knowledge is in favour of the
widow. Yes; but it is against the “Community.” Remember, the “Community”
is always a male.
There is hardly any class or member of the community that does not
suffer drawback or injury from knowledge. As I am giving only a crude
outline of a design, I leave a great deal to the imagination of the
reader. He will easily perceive how much happier and more free would be
the man of business, the girl, the boy, the scientist, the
controversialist, and, above all, the literary man, if each knew little
or nothing, instead of having pressed upon the attention from youth
accumulated experiences, traditions, discoveries, and reasonings of many
centuries.
To the “Delights of Ignorance,” I should devote the consideration of man
devoid of knowledge under various circumstances and in various
positions.
By the sea who does not love to lie “propt on beds of amaranth and moly,
how sweet (while warm airs lull, blowing lowly), with half-dropt eyelids
still, beneath a heaven dark and holy, to watch the long bright river
drawing slowly his waters from the purple hill--to hear the dewy echoes
calling from cave to cave through the thick-twined vine--to watch the
emerald-coloured waters falling through many a woven acanthus wreath
divine! Only to see and hear the far-off sparkling brine, only to hear
were sweet, stretched out beneath the pine.” Just so! Is not that much
better than bothering about gravitation and that wretched old clinker
the moon, and the tides, and how sea-water is made up of oxygen and
hydrogen and chloride of sodium and bromide of something else, and fifty
other things, not one of which has a tolerable smell when you meet it in
a laboratory? Isn’t it better than thinking of the number of lighthouses
built on the coast of Albion, and the tonnage which yearly is reported
and cleared at the custom-houses of London, Liverpool, and that
prosperous seaport of Bohemia! Isn’t it much better than improving the
occasion by reading a hand-book on hydraulics or hydrostatics? Who on
the seashore wants to know anything? There will always, down to the last
syllable of recorded time, be finer things unknown about the sea than
can be said about all other matters in the world. Trying to know
anything about the sea is like shooting into the air an arrow attached
to a pennyworth of string with a view to sounding space. If we threw all
the knowledge we have into the ocean the Admiralty standards of
high-water mark would not have to be altered one-millionth part of a
line.
What a blessing ignorance would be in an inn! Who would not dispense
with a knowledge of all the miseries that follow in the wake of the vat
when one is thirsty, and has before him amber sunset-coloured ale, and
in his hand a capacious, long, cool-meaning churchwarden? Who would at
such a moment cumber his mind with the unit of specific gravity used by
excisemen in testing beer? Who would at such a moment care to calculate
the toll exacted by the Chancellor of the Exchequer before each cool
gulp may thrill with amazing joy the parched gullet?