Transcriber's note: Italics are indicated by _underscores_ and boldface
by =equals signs=. A complete Index of all 20 volumes of THE WORLD'S
GREATEST BOOKS will be found at the end of this volume.
[Illustration: (signed) Matthew Arnold]
THE WORLD'S
GREATEST
BOOKS
JOINT EDITORS
ARTHUR MEE
Editor and Founder of the Book of Knowledge
J. A. HAMMERTON
Editor of Harmsworth's Universal Encyclopaedia
VOL. XX
MISCELLANEOUS
LITERATURE
INDEX
WM. H. WISE & CO.
_Table of Contents_
PORTRAIT OF MATTHEW ARNOLD _Frontispiece_
ADDISON, JOSEPH PAGE
Spectator 1
ÆSOP
Fables 10
ARNOLD, MATTHEW
Essays in Criticism 18
BRANDES, GEORGE
Main Currents of Nineteenth Century Literature 31
BURTON, ROBERT
Anatomy of Melancholy 41
CARLYLE, THOMAS
On Heroes and Hero Worship 50
Sartor Resartus 61
CICERO, MARCUS TULLIUS
Concerning Friendship 70
COBBETT, WILLIAM
Advice to Young Men 78
DEFOE, DANIEL
Journal of the Plague Year 90
DESMOSTHENES
Philippics 99
EMERSON, RALPH WALDO
English Traits 109
Representative Men 118
ERASMUS
Familiar Colloquies 126
In Praise of Folly 132
GESTA ROMANORUM 140
GOLDSMITH, OLIVER
Citizen of the World 149
HALLAM, HENRY
Introduction to the Literature of Europe 158
HAZLITT, WILLIAM
Lectures on the English Poets 169
HOLMES, OLIVER WENDELL
Autocrat of the Breakfast-Table 181
LA BRUYÈRE
Characters 193
LANDOR, WALTER SAVAGE
Imaginary Conversations 203
LA ROCHEFOUCAULD
Reflections and Moral Maxims 215
LEONARDO DA VINCI
Treatise on Painting 227
LESSING, GOTTHOLD EPHRAIM
Laocoon 239
MILL, JOHN STUART
Essay on Liberty 248
MILTON, JOHN
Areopagitica 257
PLUTARCH
Parallel Lives 266
STAËL, MME. DE
On Germany 276
TACITUS
Germania 286
TAINE
History of English Literature 298
THOREAU, HENRY DAVID
Walden 312
TOCQUEVILLE, DE
Democracy in America 324
WALTON, IZAAK
Complete Angler 334
INDEX 349
Miscellaneous
JOSEPH ADDISON
The Spectator
"The Spectator," the most popular and elegant miscellany of
English literature, appeared on the 1st of March, 1711. With an
interruption of two years--1712 to 1714--during part of which
time "The Guardian," a similar periodical, took its place, "The
Spectator" was continued to the 20th of December, 1714. Addison's
fame is inseparably associated with this periodical. He was the
animating spirit of the magazine, and by far the most exquisite
essays which appear in it are by him. Richard Steele, Addison's
friend and coadjutor in "The Spectator," was born in Dublin
in March, 1672, and died at Carmarthen on September 1, 1729.
(Addison biography, see Vol. XVI, p. 1.)
_The Essays and the Essayist_
Addison's "Spectator" is one of the most interesting books in the
English language. When Dr. Johnson praised Addison's prose, it was
specially of "The Spectator" that he was speaking. "His page," he
says, "is always luminous, but never blazes in unexpected splendour.
His sentences have neither studied amplitude nor affected brevity; his
periods, though not diligently rounded, are voluble and easy. Whoever
wishes to attain an English style, familiar but not coarse, and elegant
but not ostentatious, must give his days and nights to Addison."
Johnson's verdict has been upheld, for it is chiefly by "The Spectator"
that Addison lives. None but scholars know his Latin verse and
his voluminous translations now. His "Cato" survives only in some
half-dozen occasional quotations. Two or three hymns of his, including
"The spacious firmament on high," and "When all Thy mercies, O my God,"
find a place in church collections; and his simile of the angel who
rides upon the whirlwind and directs the storm is used now and again
by pressmen and public speakers. But, in the main, when we think of
Addison, it is of "The Spectator" that we think.
Recall the time when it was founded. It was in the days of Queen Anne,
the Augustan age of the essay. There were no newspapers then, no
magazines or reviews, no Parliamentary reports, nothing corresponding
to the so-called "light literature" of later days. The only centres of
society that existed were the court, with the aristocracy that revolved
about it, and the clubs and coffee-houses, in which the commercial
and professional classes met to discuss matters of general interest,
to crack their jokes, and to exchange small talk about this, that and
the other person, man or woman, who might happen to figure, publicly
or privately, at the time. "The Spectator" was one of the first organs
to give form and consistency to the opinion, the humour and the gossip
engendered by this social contact.
One of the first, but not quite the first; for the less famous, though
still remembered, "Tatler" preceded it. And these two, "The Tatler" and
"The Spectator," have an intimate connection from the circumstance that
Richard Steele, who started "The Tatler" in April, 1709, got Addison to
write for it, and then joined with Addison in "The Spectator" when his
own paper stopped in January, 1711. Addison and Steele had been friends
since boyhood. They were contemporaries at the Charterhouse, and Steele
often spent his holidays in the parsonage of Addison's father.
The two friends were a little under forty years of age when "The
Spectator" began in March, 1711. It was a penny paper, and was
published daily, its predecessor having been published three times a
week. It began with a circulation of 3,000 copies, and ran up to about
10,000 before it stopped its daily issue in December, 1712. Macaulay,
writing in 1843, insists upon the sale as "indicating a popularity
quite as great as that of the most successful works of Scott and
Dickens in our time." The 555 numbers of the daily issue formed seven
volumes; and then there was a final eighth volume, made up of triweekly
issues: a total of 635 numbers, of which Addison wrote 274, and Steele
236.
To summarise the contents of these 635 numbers would require a volume.
They are so versatile and so varied. As one of Addison's biographers
puts it, to-day you have a beautiful meditation, brilliant in imagery
and serious as a sermon, or a pious discourse on death, or perhaps
an eloquent and scathing protest against the duel; while to-morrow
the whole number is perhaps concerned with the wigs, ruffles, and
shoe-buckles of the _macaroni_, or the hoops, patches, farthingales
and tuckers of the ladies. If you wish to see the plays and actors of
the time, "The Spectator" will always show them to you; and, moreover,
point out the dress, manners, and mannerisms, affectations, indecorums,
plaudits, or otherwise of the frequenters of the theatre.
For here is no newspaper, as we understand the term. "The Spectator"
from the first indulged his humours at the expense of the quidnuncs.
Says he:
"There is another set of men that I must likewise lay a claim to
as being altogether unfurnished with ideas till the business and
conversation of the day has supplied them. I have often considered
these poor souls with an eye of great commiseration when I have heard
them asking the first man they have met with whether there was any news
stirring, and by that means gathering together materials for thinking.
These needy persons do not know what to talk of till about twelve
o'clock in the morning; for by that time they are pretty good judges
of the weather, know which way the wind sets, and whether the Dutch
mail be come in. As they lie at the mercy of the first man they meet,
and are grave or impertinent all the day long, according to the notions
which they have imbibed in the morning, I would earnestly entreat them
not to stir out of their chambers till they have read this paper; and
do promise them that I will daily instil into them such sound and
wholesome sentiments as shall have a good effect on their conversation
for the ensuing twelve hours."
Now, the essential, or at least the leading feature of "The Spectator"
is this: that the entertainment is provided by an imaginary set of
characters forming a Spectator Club. The club represents various
classes or sections of the community, so that through its members a
corresponding variety of interests and opinions is set before the
reader, the Spectator himself acting as a sort of final censor or
referee. Chief among the Club members is Sir Roger de Coverley, a
simple, kindly, honourable, old-world country gentleman. Here is the
description of this celebrated character:
"The first of our society is a gentleman of Worcestershire, of
ancient descent, a baronet, his name Sir Roger de Coverley. His
great-grandfather was inventor of that famous country dance which is
called after him. All who know that shire are very well acquainted
with the parts and merits of Sir Roger. He is a gentleman that is very
singular in his behaviour, but his singularities proceed from his good
sense, and are contradictions to the manners of the world only as he
thinks the world is in the wrong. However, this humour creates him
no enemies, for he does nothing with sourness or obstinacy; and his
being unconfined to modes and forms makes him but the readier and more
capable to please and oblige all who know him. When he is in town, he
lives in Soho Square. It is said he keeps himself a bachelor by reason
he was crossed in love by a perverse beautiful widow of the next county
to him. Before this disappointment, Sir Roger was what you call a
fine gentleman, had often supped with my Lord Rochester and Sir George
Etherege, fought a duel upon his first coming to town, and kicked Bully
Dawson in a public coffee-house for calling him youngster. But being
ill-used by the above-mentioned widow, he was very serious for a year
and a half; and though, his temper being naturally jovial, he at last
got over it, he grew careless of himself, and never dressed afterwards.
He continues to wear a coat and doublet of the same cut that were in
fashion at the time of his repulse, which, in his merry humours, he
tells us, has been in and out twelve times since he first wore it. It
is said Sir Roger grew humble in his desires after he had forgot this
cruel beauty, insomuch that it is reported he was frequently offended
with beggars and gipsies; but this is looked upon by his friends rather
as matter of raillery than truth. He is now in his fifty-sixth year,
cheerful, gay, and hearty; keeps a good house both in town and country;
a great lover of mankind; but there is such a mirthful cast in his
behaviour that he is rather beloved than esteemed."
Then there is Sir Andrew Freeport, "a merchant of great eminence in the
City of London; a person of indefatigable industry, strong reason, and
great experience." He is "acquainted with commerce in all its parts;
and will tell you it is a stupid and barbarous way to extend dominion
by arms; for true power is to be got by arts and industry. He will
often argue that, if this part of our trade were well cultivated, we
should gain from one nation; and if another, from another."
There is Captain Sentry, too, "a gentleman of great courage and
understanding, but invincible modesty," who in the club speaks for the
army, as the templar does for taste and learning, and the clergyman for
theology and philosophy.
And then, that the club may not seem to be unacquainted with "the
gallantries and pleasures of the age," there is Will Honeycomb, the
elderly man of fashion, who is "very ready at that sort of discourse
with which men usually entertain women." Will "knows the history of
every mode, and can inform you from which of the French king's wenches
our wives and daughters had this manner of curling their hair, that
way of placing their hoods; whose frailty was covered by such a sort
of petticoat; and whose vanity to show her foot made that part of the
dress so short in such a year. In a word, all his conversation and
knowledge have been in the female world. As other men of his age will
take notice to you what such a minister said upon such and such an
occasion, he will tell you when the Duke of Monmouth danced at court,
such a woman was then smitten, another was taken with him at the head
of his troop in the park. This way of talking of his very much enlivens
the conversation among us of a more sedate turn; and I find there is
not one of the company, but myself, who rarely speak at all, but speaks
of him as that sort of man who is usually called a well-bred fine
gentleman. To conclude his character, where women are not concerned, he
is an honest, worthy man."
Nor must we forget Will Wimble, though he is really an outsider. Will
is the younger son of a baronet: a man of no profession, looking after
his father's game, training his dogs, shooting, fishing, hunting,
making whiplashes for his neighbors, knitting garters for the ladies,
and afterwards slyly inquiring how they wear: a welcome guest at every
house in the county; beloved by all the lads and the children.
Besides these, and others, there is a fine little gallery of portraits
in Sir Roger's country neighbours and tenants. We have, for instance,
the yeoman who "knocks down a dinner with his gun twice or thrice a
week, and by that means lives much cheaper than those who have not
so good an estate as himself"; and we have Moll White, the reputed
witch, who, if she made a mistake at church and cried "Amen!" in a
wrong place, "they never failed to conclude that she was saying her
prayers backwards." We have the diverting captain, "young, sound,
and impudent"; we have a demure Quaker; we have Tom Touchy, a fellow
famous for "taking the law" of everybody; and we have the inn-keeper,
who, out of compliment to Sir Roger, "put him up in a sign-post before
the door," and then, when Sir Roger objected, changed the figure into
the Saracen's Head by "a little aggravation of the features" and the
addition of a pair of whiskers!
Best of all is the old chaplain. Sir Roger was "afraid of being
insulted with Latin and Greek at his own table"; so he got a university
friend to "find him out a clergyman, rather of plain sense than much
learning, of a good aspect, a clear voice, a sociable temper, and, if
possible, a man that understood a little of backgammon." The genial
knight "made him a present of all the good sermons printed in English,
and only begged of him that every Sunday he would pronounce one of
them in the pulpit." Thus, if Sir Roger happened to meet his chaplain
on a Saturday evening, and asked who was to preach to-morrow, he would
perhaps be answered: "The Bishop of St. Asaph in the morning, and
Dr. South in the afternoon." About which arrangement "The Spectator"
boldly observes: "I could heartily wish that more of our country clergy
would follow this example; and, instead of wasting their spirits in
laborious compositions of their own, would endeavour after a handsome
elocution, and all those other talents that are proper to enforce what
has been penned by greater masters. This would not only be more easy to
themselves, but more edifying to the people."
There is no end to the subjects discussed by "The Spectator." They
range from dreams to dress and duelling; from ghosts to gardening and
goats' milk; from wigs to wine and widows; from religion to riches
and riding; from servants to sign-posts and snuff-boxes; from love
to lodgings and lying; from beards to bankruptcy and blank verse; and
hundreds of other interesting themes. Correspondents often wrote to
emphasise this variety, for letters from the outside public were always
welcome. Thus one "Thomas Trusty":
"The variety of your subjects surprises me as much as a box of
pictures did formerly, in which there was only one face, that by
pulling some pieces of isinglass over it was changed into a senator or
a merry-andrew, a polished lady or a nun, a beau or a blackamoor, a
prude or a coquette, a country squire or a conjurer, with many other
different representations very entertaining, though still the same at
the bottom."
But perhaps, on the whole, woman and her little ways have the
predominant attention. Indeed, Addison expressly avowed this object of
engaging the special interests of the sex when he started. He says:
"There are none to whom this paper will be more useful than to the
female world. I have often thought that there has not been sufficient
pains taken in finding out proper employments and diversions for the
fair ones. Their amusements seem contrived for them rather as they
are women than as they are reasonable creatures; and are more adapted
to the sex than to the species. The toilet is their great scene
of business, and the right adjustment of their hair the principal
employment of their lives. The sorting of a suit of ribands is reckoned
a very good morning's work; and if they make an excursion to a mercer's
or a toy-shop, so great a fatigue makes them unfit for anything else
all the day after. Their more serious occupations are sewing and
embroidery, and their greatest drudgery the preparations of jellies and
sweetmeats. This, I say, is the state of ordinary women; though I know
there are multitudes of those of a more elevated life and conversation,
that move in an exalted sphere of knowledge and virtue, that join all
the beauties of the mind to the ornaments of dress, and inspire a kind
of awe and respect, as well as of love, into their male beholders.
I hope to increase the number of these by publishing this daily
paper, which I shall always endeavour to make an innocent, if not an
improving, entertainment, and by that means, at least, divert the minds
of my female readers from greater trifles."
These reflections on the manners of women did not quite please Swift,
who wrote to Stella: "I will not meddle with 'The Spectator'; let him
_fair sex_ it to the world's end." But they pleased most other people,
as the main contents of "The Spectator" still please. Here is one
typical acknowledgment, signed "Leonora":
Mr. Spectator,--Your paper is part of my tea-equipage; and my
servant knows my humour so well that, calling for my breakfast
this morning (it being past my usual hour), she answered, "'the
Spectator' was not yet come in, but the tea-kettle boiled, and
she expected it every moment."
As an "abstract and brief chronicle of the time," this monumental work
of Addison and Steele is without peer. In its pages may be traced the
foundations of all that is noble and healthy in modern English thought;
and its charming sketches may be made the open sesame to a period and a
literature as rich as any our country has seen.
ÆSOP
Fables
It is in the fitness of things that the early biographies of
Æsop, the great fabulist, should be entirely fabulous. Macrobius
has distinguished between _fabula_ and _fabulosa narratio_:
"He would have a fable to be absolutely false, and a fabulous
narration to be a number of fictions built upon a foundation of
truth." The Lives of Æsop belong chiefly to the latter category.
In the following pages what is known of the life of Æsop is set
forth, together with condensed versions of some of his most
characteristic fables, which have long passed into the wisdom of
all nations, this being a subject that calls for treatment on
somewhat different lines from the majority of the works dealt
with in THE WORLD'S GREATEST BOOKS.
_Introductory_
Pierre Bayle, in his judicious fashion, sums up what is said of Æsop in
antiquity, resting chiefly upon Plutarch. "Plutarch affirms: (1) That
Crœsus sent Æsop to Periander, the Tyrant of Corinth, and to the Oracle
of Delphi; (2) that Socrates found no other expedient to obey the God
of Dreams, without injuring his profession, than to turn the Fables of
Æsop into verse; (3) that Æsop and Solon were together at the Court of
Crœsus, King of Lydia; (4) that those of Delphi, having put Æsop to
death cruelly and unjustly, and finding themselves exposed to several
calamities on account of this injustice, made a public declaration that
they were ready to make satisfaction to the memory of Æsop; (5) that
having treated thereupon with a native of Samos, they were delivered
from the evil that afflicted them."
To this summary Bayle added a footnote concerning "The Life of
Æsop, composed by Meziriac": "It is a little book printed at
Bourg-en-Bress, in 1632. It contains only forty pages in 16. It is
becoming exceedingly scarce.... This is what I extract from it. It
is more probable that Æsop was born at Cotiœum, a town of Phrygia,
than that he was born at Sardis, or in the island of Samos, or at
Mesembria in Thrace. The first master that he served was one Zemarchus,
or Demarchus, surnamed Carasius, a native and inhabitant of Athens.
Thus it is probable that it was there he learned the purity of the
Greek tongue, as in its spring, and acquired the knowledge of moral
philosophy which was then in esteem....
"In process of time he was sold to Xanthus, a native of the Isle of
Samos, and afterwards to Idmon, or Iadmnon, the philosopher, who was
a Samian also, and who enfranchised him. After he had recovered his
liberty, he soon acquired a great reputation among the Greeks; so that
the report of his singular wisdom having reached the ears of Crœsus,
he sent to inquire after him; and having conceived an affection for
him, he obliged him by his favours to engage himself in his service to
the end of his life. He travelled through Greece--whether for his own
pleasure or for the private affairs of Crœsus is uncertain--and passing
by Athens, soon after Pisistratus had usurped the sovereign power there
and had abolished the popular state, and seeing that the Athenians
bore the yoke very impatiently, he told them the Fable of the Frogs
that asked a King of Jupiter. Afterwards he met the Seven Wise Men in
the City of Corinth at the Tyrant Periander's. Some relate that, in
order to show that the life of man is full of miseries, and that one
pleasure is attended with a thousand pains, Æsop used to say that when
Prometheus took the clay to form man, he did not temper it with water,
but with tears."
Concerning the death of this extraordinary man we read that Æsop went
to Delphi, with a great quantity of gold and silver, being ordered by
Crœsus to offer a great sacrifice to Apollo, and to give a considerable
sum to each inhabitant. The quarrel which arose between the Delphians
and him was the occasion, after his sending away the sacrifice, of his
sending back the money to Crœsus; for he thought that those for whom
this prince designed it had rendered themselves unworthy of it. The
inhabitants of Delphi contrived an accusation of sacrilege against him,
and, pretending that they had convicted him, cast him down from the top
of a rock.
Bayle has a long line of centuries at his back when he says: "Æsop's
lectures against the faults of men were the fullest of good sense and
wit that can be imagined." He substantiates this affirmation in the
following manner: "Can any inventions be more happy than the images
Æsop made use of to instruct mankind? They are exceedingly fit for
children, and no less proper for grown persons; they are all that is
necessary to perfect a precept --I mean the mixture of the useful with
the agreeable." He then quotes Aulus Gellius as saying: "Æsop the
Phrygian fabulist was not without reason esteemed to be wise, since he
did not, after the manner of the philosophers, severely and imperiously
command such things as were fit to be advised and persuaded, but by
feigning, diverting and entertaining apologues, he insinuates good
and wholesome advice into the minds of men with a kind of willing
attention."
Bayle continues: "At all times these have been made to succeed the
homespun stories of nurses. 'Let them learn to tell the Fables of
Æscop, which succeed the stories of the nursery, in pure and easy
style, and afterwards endeavour to write in the same familiar manner.'
They have never fallen into contempt. Our age, notwithstanding its
pride and delicacy, esteems and admires them, and shows them in a
hundred different shapes. The inimitable La Fontaine has procured them
in our time a great deal of honour and glory; and great commendations
are given to the reflections of an English wit, Sir Roger L'Estrange,
on these very fables."
Since the period when Pierre Bayle composed his great biographical
dictionary, the Fables of Æsop have perhaps suffered something of a
relapse in the favour of grown persons; but if one may judge from the
number of new editions illustrated for children, they are still the
delight of modern nurseries. There is this, however, to be said of
contemporary times--that the multitude of books in a nursery prevent
children from acquiring the profound and affectionate acquaintance with
Æsop which every child would naturally get when his fables were almost
the only book provided by the Press for juvenile readers.
It is questionable whether the fables will any longer produce the
really deep effect which they certainly have had in the past. But we
may be certain that some of them will always play a great part in the
wisdom of the common people, and that these particularly true and
striking apologues are secure of an eternal place in the literature
of nations. As an example of what we mean, we will tell as simply as
possible some of the most characteristic fables.
_The Dog and the Shadow_
A Dog, with a piece of stolen meat between his teeth, was one day
crossing a river by means of a plank, when he caught sight of another
dog in the water carrying a far larger piece of meat. He opened his
jaws to snap at the greater morsel, when the meat dropped in the stream
and was lost even in the reflection.
_The Dying Lion_
A Lion, brought to the extremity of weakness by old age and disease,
lay dying in the sunlight. Those whom he had oppressed in his strength
now came round about him to revenge themselves for past injuries. The
Boar ripped the flank of the King of Beasts with his tusks. The Bull
came and gored the Lion's sides with his horns. Finally, the Ass drew
near, and after carefully seeing that there was no danger, let fly with
his heels in the Lion's face. Then, with a dying groan, the mighty
creature exclaimed: "How much worse it is than a thousand deaths to be
spurned by so base a creature!"
_The Mountain in Labour_
A Mountain was heard to produce dreadful sounds, as though it were
labouring to bring forth something enormous. The people came and stood
about waiting to see what wonderful thing would be produced from this
labour. After they had waited till they were tired, out crept a Mouse.
_Hercules and the Waggoner_
A Waggoner was driving his team through a muddy lane when the wheels
stuck fast in the clay, and the Horses could get no farther. The Man
immediately dropped on his knees, and, crying bitterly, besought
Hercules to come and help him. "Get up and stir thyself, thou lazy
fellow!" replied Hercules. "Whip thy Horses, and put thy shoulder to
the wheel. If thou art in need of my help, when thou thyself hast
laboured, then shalt thou have it."
_The Frogs that Asked for a King_
The Frogs, who lived an easy, happy life in the ponds, once prayed to
Jupiter that he should give them a King. Jupiter was amused by this
prayer, and cast a log into the water, saying: "There, then, is a King
for you." The Frogs, frightened by the great splash, regarded their
King with alarm, until at last, seeing that he did not stir, some of
them jumped upon his back and began to be merry there, amused at such
a foolish King. However, King Log did not satisfy their ideas for very
long, and so once again they petitioned Jupiter to send them a King, a
real King who would rule over them, and not lie helpless in the water.
Then Jupiter sent the Frogs a Stork, who caught them by their legs,
tossed them in the air, and gobbled them up whenever he was hungry.
All in a hurry the Frogs besought Jupiter to take away King Stork
and restore them to their former happy condition. "No, no," answered
Jupiter; "a King that did you no hurt did not please you; make the best
of him you now have, lest a worse come in his place!"
_The Gnat and the Lion_
A lively and insolent Gnat was bold enough to attack a Lion, which he
so maddened by stinging the most sensitive parts of his nose, eyes
and ears that the beast roared with anguish and tore himself with
his claws. In vain were the Lion's efforts to rid himself of his
insignificant tormentor; again and again the insect returned and stung
the furious King of Beasts, till at last the Lion fell exhausted on the
ground. The triumphant Gnat, sounding his tiny trumpet, hovered over
the spot exulting in his victory. But it happened that in his circling
flight he got himself caught in the web of a Spider, which, fine and
delicate as it was, yet had power enough to hold the tiny insect a
prisoner. All the Gnat's efforts to escape only held him the more
tightly and firmly a prisoner, and he who had conquered the Lion became
in his turn the prey of the Spider.
_The Wolf and the Stork_
A Wolf ate his food so greedily that a bone stuck in his throat. This
caused him such great pain that he ran hither and thither, promising
to reward handsomely anyone who would remove the cause of his torture.
A Stork, moved with pity by the Wolf's cry of pain, and tempted also
by the reward, undertook the dangerous operation. When he had removed
the bone, the Wolf moved away, but the Stork called out and reminded
him of the promised reward. "Reward!" exclaimed the Wolf. "Pray, you
greedy fellow, what reward can you expect? You dared to put your head
in my mouth, and instead of biting it off, I let you take it out again
unharmed. Get away with you! And do not again place yourself in my
power."
_The Frog who Wanted to Be as Big as an Ox_
A vain Frog, surrounded by her children, looked up and saw an Ox
grazing near by. "I can be as big as the Ox," she said, and began to
blow herself out. "Am I as big now?" she inquired. "Oh, no; not nearly
so big!" said the little frogs. "Now?" she asked, blowing herself out
still more. "No, not nearly so big!" answered her children. "But now?"
she inquired eagerly, and blew herself out still more. "No, not even
now," they said; "and if you try till you burst yourself you will never
be so big." But the Frog would not listen, and attempting to make
herself bigger still, burst her skin and died.
_The Dog in the Manger_
A Dog lay in a manger which was full of hay. An Ox, being hungry, came
near, and was about to eat when the Dog started up, and, with angry
snarls, would not let the Ox approach. "Surly brute," said the Ox; "you
cannot eat the hay yourself, and you will let no one else have any."
_The Bundle of Faggots_
An honest Man had the unhappiness to have a quarrelsome family of
children. One day he called them before him, and bade them try to break
a bundle of faggots. All tried, and all failed. "Now," said he, "unbind
the bundle and take every stick by itself, and see if you cannot break
them." They did his bidding, and snapped all the sticks one by one with
the greatest possible ease. "This, my children," said the Father at
last, "is a true emblem of your condition. Keep together and you are
safe, divide and you are undone."
_The Fox Without a Tail_
A Fox was once caught in a trap by his tail, and in order to get free
was obliged to leave it behind. He knew that his fellows would make fun
of his tailless condition, so he made up his mind to induce them all to
part with their tails. At the next assemblage of Foxes he made a speech
on the uselessness of tails in general, and the inconvenience of a
Fox's tail in particular, declaring that never in his whole life had he
felt so comfortable as now in his tailless freedom. When he sat down,
a sly old Fox rose, and, waving his brush, said, with a sneer, that
if he had lost his tail, he would be convinced by the last speaker's
arguments, but until such an accident occurred he fully intended to
vote in favour of tails.
_The Blind Man and the Paralytic_
A blind man finding himself stopped in a rough and difficult road,
met with a paralytic and begged his assistance. "How can I help you,"
replied the paralytic, "when I can scarcely move myself along?" But,
regarding the blind man, he added: "However, you appear to have good
legs and a broad back, and, if you will lift me and carry me, I will
guide you safely through this difficulty, which is more than each one
can surmount for himself. You shall walk for me, and I will see for
you." "With all my heart," rejoined the blind man; and, taking the
paralytic on his shoulders, the two went cheerfully forward in a wise
partnership which triumphed over all difficulties.
MATTHEW ARNOLD
Essays in Criticism
Matthew Arnold, son of Dr. Arnold of Rugby (see Vol. X, p. 260),
was born on December 24, 1822, and died on April 15, 1888. He was
by everyday calling an inspector of schools and an educational
expert, but by nature and grace a poet, a philosopher, a man of
piety and of letters. Arnold almost ceased to write verse when
he was forty-five, though not without having already produced
some of the choicest poetry in the English language. Before
that he had developed his theories of literary criticism in his
"Essays in Criticism"; and about the time of his withdrawal
from Oxford he published "Culture and Anarchy," in which his
system of philosophy is broadly outlined. Later, in "St. Paul
and Protestantism," "Literature and Dogma" and "God and the
Bible," he tried to adjust Christianity according to the light of
modern knowledge. In his "Lectures on Translating Homer," he had
expressed views on criticism and its importance that were new to,
and so were somewhat adversely discussed by the Press. Whereupon,
in 1865, with a militant joy, he re-entered the fray and defined
the province of criticism in the first of a series of "Essays in
Criticism," showing the narrowness of the British conception.
"The Literary Influence of Academies" was a subject that enabled
him to make a further comparison between the literary genius of
the French and of the English people, and a number of individual
critiques that followed only enhanced his great and now
undisputed position both as a poet and as a critic. The argument
of the two general essays is given here.
_I.--Creative Power and Critical Power_
Many objections have been made to a proposition of mine about
criticism: "Of the literature of France and Germany, as of the
intellect of Europe in general, the main effort, for now many years,
has been a critical effort--the endeavour, in all branches of
knowledge, to see the object as in itself it really is." I added that
"almost the last thing for which one would come to English literature
was just that very thing which now Europe most desired--criticism,"
and that the power and value of English literature were thereby
impaired. More than one rejoinder declared that the importance here
again assigned to criticism was excessive, and asserted the inherent
superiority of the creative effort of the human spirit over its
critical effort. A reporter of Wordsworth's conversation quotes a
judgment to the same effect: "Wordsworth holds the critical power very
low; indeed, infinitely lower than the inventive."
The critical power is of lower rank than the inventive--true; but, in
assenting to this proposition, we must keep in mind that men may have
the sense of exercising a free creative activity in other ways than
in producing great works of literature or art; and that the exercise
of the creative power in the production of great works of literature
or art is not at all epochs and under all conditions possible. This
creative power works with elements, with materials--what if it has not
those materials ready for its use? Now, in literature, the elements
with which creative power works are ideas--the best ideas on every
matter which literature touches, current at the time. The grand work of
literary genius is a work of synthesis and exposition; its gift lies
in the faculty of being happily inspired by a certain intellectual and
spiritual atmosphere, by a certain order of ideas, when it finds itself
in them; of dealing divinely with these ideas, presenting them in most
effective and attractive combinations, making beautiful works with
them, in short. But it must have the atmosphere, it must find itself
amidst the order of the ideas, in order to work freely; and these it
is not so easy to command. This is really why great creative epochs in
literature are so rare--because, for the creation of a master-work of
literature two powers must concur, the power of the man and the power
of the moment; and the man is not enough without the moment.
The creative power has for its happy exercise appointed elements, and
those elements are not in its control. Nay, they are more within the
control of the critical power. It is the business of the critical
power in all branches of knowledge to see the object as in itself it
really is. Thus it tends at last to make an intellectual situation of
which the creative power can avail itself. It tends to establish an
order of ideas, if not absolutely true, yet true by comparison with
that which it displaces--to make the best ideas prevail. Presently
these new ideas reach society; the touch of truth is the touch of life;
and there is a stir and growth everywhere. Out of this stir and growth
come the creative epochs of literature.
_II.--The Literary "Atmosphere"_
It has long seemed to me that the burst of creative activity in our
literature through the first quarter of the nineteenth century had
about it something premature, and for this cause its productions are
doomed to prove hardly more lasting than the productions of far less
splendid epochs. And this prematureness comes from its having proceeded
without having its proper data, without sufficient materials to work
with. In other words, the English poetry of the first quarter of the
nineteenth century, with plenty of energy, plenty of creative force,
did not know enough. This makes Byron so empty of matter, Shelley so
incoherent, Wordsworth, profound as he is, so wanting in completeness
and variety.
It was not really books and reading that lacked to our poetry at this
epoch. Shelley had plenty of reading, Coleridge had immense reading;
Pindar and Sophocles had not many books; Shakespeare was no deep
reader. True; but in the Greece of Pindar and Sophocles and the England
of Shakespeare the poet lived in a current of ideas in the highest
degree animating and nourishing to creative power.
Such an atmosphere the many-sided learning and the long and widely
combined critical effort of Germany formed for Goethe when he lived
and worked. In the England of the first quarter of the nineteenth
century there was neither a national glow of life and thought, such
as we had in the age of Elizabeth, nor yet a force of learning and
criticism, such as was to be found in Germany. The creative power
of poetry wanted, for success in the highest sense, materials and a
basis--a thorough interpretation of the world was necessarily denied to
it.
At first it seems strange that out of the immense stir of the French
Revolution and its age should not have come a crop of works of genius
equal to that which came out of the stir of the great productive time
of Greece, or out of that of the Renaissance, with its powerful episode
of the Reformation. But the truth is that the stir of the French
Revolution took a character which essentially distinguished it from
such movements as these. The French Revolution found, undoubtedly, its
motive power in the intelligence of men, and not in their practical
sense. It appeals to an order of ideas which are universal, certain,
permanent. The year 1789 asked of a thing: Is it rational? That a
whole nation should have been penetrated with an enthusiasm for pure
reason is a very remarkable thing when we consider how little of mind,
or anything so worthy or quickening as mind, comes into the motives
which in general impel great masses of men. In spite of the crimes and
follies in which it lost itself, the French Revolution derives, from
the force, truth and universality of the ideas which it took for its
law, a unique and still living power; and it is, and will probably long
remain, the greatest, the most animating event in history.
But the mania for giving an immediate political and practical
application to all these fine ideas of the reason was fatal. Here
an Englishman is in his element: on this theme we can all go on for
hours. Ideas cannot be too much prized in and for themselves, cannot
be too much lived with; but to transport them abruptly into the world
of politics and practice, violently to revolutionise this world to
their bidding--that is quite another thing. "Force and right are the
governors of the world; force till right is ready" Joubert has said.
The grand error of the French Revolution was that it set at naught
the second great half of that maxim--force till right is ready--and,
rushing furiously into the political sphere, created in opposition to
itself what I may call an epoch of concentration.
The great force of that epoch of concentration was England, and the
great voice of that epoch of concentration was Burke. I will not
deny that his writings are often disfigured by the violence and
passion of the moment, and that in some directions Burke's view was
bounded and his observations therefore at fault; but for those who
can make the needful corrections what distinguishes these writings
is their profound, permanent, fruitful, philosophical truth--they
contain the true philosophy of an epoch of concentration. Now, an
epoch of expansion seems to be opening in this country. In spite of
the absorbing and brutalising influence of our passionate material
progress, this progress is likely to lead in the end to an apparition
of intellectual life. It is of the last importance that English
criticism should discern what rule it ought to take, to avail itself
of the field now opening to it. That rule may be summed up in one
word--disinterestedness.
_III.--The Virtue of Detachment_
How is criticism to show disinterestedness? By keeping aloof from
practice; by resolutely following the law of its own nature, which is
to be a free play of the mind on all subjects which it touches. Its
business is simply to know the best that is known and thought in the
world, and by making this known to create a current of fresh and true
ideas. What is at present the bane of criticism in this country? It
is that our organs of criticism are organs of men and parties having
practical ends to serve, and with them those practical ends are the
first thing, and the play of the mind the second--so much play of mind
as is compatible with the prosecution of these practical ends is all
that is wanted.
An organ like the _Revue des Deux Mondes_, existing as just an organ
for a free play of mind, we have not; but we have the "Edinburgh
Review," existing as an organ of the old Whigs, and for as much play
of mind as may suit its being that; we have the "Quarterly Review,"
existing as an organ of the Tories, and for as much play of mind as may
suit its being that; we have the "British Quarterly Review," existing
as an organ of the political Dissenters, and for as much play of mind
as may suit its being that; we have "The Times," existing as an organ
of the common, satisfied, well-to-do Englishman, and for as much play
of mind as may suit its being that. And so on through all the various
fractions, political and religious, of our society--every fraction
has, as such, its organ of criticism, but the notion of combining all
fractions in the common pleasure of a free, disinterested play of mind
meets with no favour. Yet no other criticism will ever attain any real
authority, or make any real way towards its end--the creating of a
current of true and fresh ideas.
It will be said that, by embracing in this manner the Indian virtue
of detachment, criticism condemns itself to a slow and obscure work;
but it is the only proper work of criticism. Whoever sets himself to
see things as they are will find himself one of a very small circle;
but it is only by this small circle resolutely doing its work that
adequate ideas will ever get current at all. For the practical man is
not apt for fine distinctions, and yet in these distinctions truth and
the highest culture greatly find their account. To act is so easy, as
Goethe says, and to think is so hard. Criticism must maintain its
independence of the practical spirit and its aims. Even with well meant
efforts of the practical spirit it must express dissatisfaction if, in
the sphere of the ideal, they seem impoverishing and limiting. It must
be apt to study and praise elements that for the fulness of spiritual
perfection are wanted, even though they belong to a power which, in
the practical sphere, may be maleficent. It must be apt to discern the
spiritual shortcomings of powers that in the practical sphere may be
beneficent.
By the very nature of things much of the best that is known and
thought in the world cannot be of English growth--must be foreign;
by the nature of things, again, it is just this that we are least
likely to know, while English thought is streaming in upon us from all
sides, and takes excellent care that we shall not be ignorant of its
existence. The English critic must dwell much on foreign thought, and
with particular heed on any part of it, which, while significant and
fruitful in itself, is for any reason specially likely to escape him.
Again, judging is often spoken of as the critic's business; and so in
some sense it is. But the judgment which almost insensibly forms itself
in a fair and clear mind, along with fresh knowledge, is the valuable
one; and, therefore, knowledge, and ever fresh knowledge, must be the
critic's great concern for himself. And it is by communicating fresh
knowledge, and letting his own judgment pass along with it--as a sort
of companion and clue--that he will generally do most good to his
readers.
To get near the standard of the best that is known and thought in the
world, every critic should possess one great literature at least beside
his own; and the more unlike his own the better. For the criticism I am
concerned with regards Europe as being for intellectual and spiritual
purposes one great confederation, bound to a joint action and working
to a common result.
I conclude with what I said at the beginning. To have the sense of
creative activity is not denied to criticism; but then criticism must
be sincere, simple, flexible, ardent, ever widening its knowledge. Then
it may have, in no contemptible measure, a joyful sense of creative
activity, a sense which a man of insight and conscience will prefer
to that he might derive from a poor, starved, fragmentary, inadequate
creation. And at some epochs no other creation is possible. Still, in
full measure, the sense of creative activity belongs only to genuine
creation; in literature we must never forget that. But what true man of
letters ever can forget it? It is no such common matter for a gifted
nature to come into possession of a current of true and living ideas,
and to produce amidst the inspiration of them, that we are likely to
underrate it. The glorious epochs of Æschylus and Shakespeare make us
feel their pre-eminence. In an epoch like those is the true life of
literature; there is the promised land towards which criticism can only
beckon.
_IV.--Should We Have an Academy?_
It is impossible to put down a book like the history of the French
Academy by Pellisson and D'Olivet without being led to reflect upon
the absence in our own country of any institution like the French
Academy, upon the probable causes of this absence, and upon its
results. Improvement of the language was the declared grand aim for the
operations of that academy. Its statutes of foundation say expressly
that "the Academy's principal function shall be to work with all
the care and all the diligence possible at giving sure rules to our
language, and rendering it pure, eloquent and capable of treating
the arts and sciences." It is said that Richelieu had it in his mind
that French should succeed Latin in its general ascendancy, as Latin
had succeeded Greek. If it were so, even this wish has to some extent
been fulfilled. This was not all Richelieu had in his mind, however.
The new academy was meant to be a literary tribunal, a high court of
letters, and this is what it has really been.