circumambulation of the terraqueous globe. We find him in Paris, in
Vienna, in Tartary, in the Sahara, flying with hunger always parallel
to him, and a whole infernal chase in his rear. He traverses mountains
and valleys with aimless speed, writing with footprints his sorrows,
that his spirit may free herself, and he become a man. Vain truly
is the hope of your swiftest runner to escape from his own shadow!
We behold him, through these dim years, in a state of crisis, of
transition; his aimless pilgrimings are but a mad fermentation,
wherefrom, the fiercer it is, the clearer product will one day evolve
itself.
Man has no other possession but hope; this world of his is emphatically
the "Place of Hope"; yet our professor, for the present, is quite shut
out from hope. As he wanders wearisomely through this world he has
now lost all tidings of another and higher. "Doubt," says he, "had
darkened into unbelief." It is all a grim desert, this once fair world
of his; and no pillar of cloud by day, and no pillar of fire by night,
any longer guides the pilgrim. "Invisible yet impenetrable walls, as
of enchantment, divided me from all living; was there, in the wide
world, any true bosom I could press trustfully to mine? O Heaven, no,
there was none! To me the universe was all void of life, of purpose,
of volition, even of hostility; it was one huge, dead, immeasurable
steam-engine, rolling on, in its dead indifference, to grind me limb
from limb. O, the vast, gloomy, solitary Golgotha, and mill of death!
"Full of such humour, and perhaps the miserablest man in the whole
French capital or suburbs, was I, one sultry dog-day, after much
perambulation, toiling along the dirty little Rue Saint Thomas de
l'Enfer, among civic rubbish enough, in a close atmosphere, and over
pavements hot as Nebuchadnezzar's furnace; whereby doubtless my spirits
were a little cheered; when, all at once, there rose a thought in
me, and I asked myself, 'What _art_ thou afraid of? Wherefore, like
a coward, dost thou forever pip and whimper, and go cowering and
trembling? Despicable biped! what is the sum-total of the worst that
lies before thee? Death? Well, death; and say the pangs of Tophet too,
and all that the devil and man may, will, or can do against thee! Hast
thou not a heart; canst thou not suffer whatever it be; and, as a
child of freedom, though outcast, trample Tophet itself under thy feet,
while it consumes thee? Let it come, then; I will meet it and defy it!'
And, as I so thought, there rushed like a stream of fire over my whole
soul; and I shook base fear away from me for ever. Ever from that time,
the temper of my misery was changed; not fear or whining sorrow was it,
but indignation and grim fire-eyed defiance.
"Thus had the _Everlasting No_ pealed authoritatively through all the
recesses of my being, of my _Me_; and then was it that my whole _Me_
stood up, in native God-created majesty, and with emphasis recorded its
protest. The Everlasting No had said, 'Behold, thou art fatherless,
outcast, and the universe is mine, the devil's'; to which my whole _Me_
now made answer, 'I am not thine, but free, and for ever hate thee!'
"It is from this hour that I incline to date my spiritual new-birth,
or Baphometic Fire-baptism; perhaps I directly thereupon began to be a
man."
Our wanderer's unrest was for a time but increased. "Indignation and
defiance are not the most peaceable inmates," yet it was no longer
a quite hopeless unrest. He looked away from his own sorrows, over
the many-coloured world, and few periods of his life were richer in
spiritual culture than this. He had reached the Centre of Indifference
wherein he had accepted his own nothingness. "I renounced utterly, I
would hope no more and fear no more. To die or to live was to me alike
insignificant. Here, then, as I lay in that Centre of Indifference,
cast by benignant upper influence into a healing sleep, the heavy
dreams rolled gradually away, and I awoke to a new heaven and a new
earth. I saw that man can do without happiness and instead thereof find
blessedness. Love not pleasure; love God. This is the _Everlasting
Yea_, wherein all contradiction is solved; wherein whoso walks and
works, it is well with him. In this poor, miserable, hampered,
despicable Actual, wherein thou even now standest, here or nowhere is
thy Ideal; work it out therefrom; and working, believe, live, be free!
Produce! produce! Work while it is called to-day."
_III.--The Volume on Clothes_
In so capricious a work as this of the professor's, our course
cannot be straightforward, but only leap by leap, noting significant
indications here and there. Thus, "perhaps the most remarkable incident
in modern history," he says, "is George Fox's making to himself a suit
of leather, when, desiring meditation and devout prayer to God, he
took to the woods, chose the hollow of a tree for his lodging and wild
berries for his food, and for clothes stitched himself one perennial
suit of leather. Then was there in broad Europe one free man, and Fox
was he!"
Under the title "Church-Clothes," by which Teufelsdröckh signifies the
forms, the vestures, under which men have at various periods embodied
and represented for themselves the religious principle, he says, "These
are unspeakably the most important of all the vestures and garnitures
of human existence. Church-clothes are first spun and woven by society;
outward religion originates by society; society becomes possible by
religion."
Of "symbols," as means of concealment and yet of revelation, thus
uniting in themselves the efficacies at once of speech and of silence,
our professor writes, "In the symbol proper there is ever, more or
less distinctly and directly, some embodiment and revelation of the
Infinite; the Infinite is made to blend itself with the finite; to
stand visible, and, as it were, attainable there. Of this sort are all
true works of art; in them, if thou know a work of art from a daub of
artifice, wilt thou discern eternity looking through time; the God-like
rendered visible. But nobler than all in this kind are the lives of
heroic God-inspired men, for what other work of art is so divine?" And
again, "Of this be certain, wouldst thou plant for eternity, then plant
into the deep infinite faculties of man, his fantasy and heart; wouldst
thou plant for year and day, then plant into his shallow superficial
faculties, his self-love and arithmetical understanding."
As for Helotage, or that lot of the poor wherein no ray of heavenly nor
even of earthly knowledge visits him, Teufelsdröckh says, "That there
should one man die ignorant who had capacity for knowledge, this I call
a tragedy, were it to happen more than twenty times in the minute."
In another place, our professor meditates upon the awful procession of
mankind. "Like a God-created, fire-breathing spirit-host, we emerge
from the inane; haste stormfully across the astonished earth; then
plunge again into the inane. But whence?--O Heaven, whither? Sense
knows not; Faith knows not; only that it is through mystery to mystery,
from God and to God.
"We are such stuff
As dreams are made of, and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep!"
MARCUS TULLIUS CICERO
Concerning Friendship
The dialogue "Concerning Friendship" was composed immediately
after the assassination of Julius Cæsar, and was suggested by the
conduct of certain friends of the mighty dead, who were trying,
in the name of friendship, to inflame the populace against the
cause of the conspirators. (Cicero biography, see Vol. IX, p.
155, and also p. 274 of the present volume.)
_A Dialogue_
FANNIUS: I agree with you, Lælius; never was man better known for
justice or for glory than Scipio Africanus. That is why everyone in
Rome is looking to you; everyone is asking me, and Scævola here, how
the wise Lælius is bearing the loss of his dead friend. For they call
you wise, you know, in the same sense as the oracle called Socrates
wise, because you believe that your happiness depends on yourself
alone, and that virtue can fortify the soul against every calamity. May
we know, then, how you bear your sorrow?
SCÆVOLA: He says truly; many have asked me the same question. I tell
them that you are composed and patient, though deeply touched by the
death of your dearest friend, and one of the greatest of men.
LÆLIUS: You have answered well. True it is that I sorrow for a friend
whose like I shall never see again; but it is also true that I need
no consolations, since I believe that no evil has befallen Scipio.
Whatever misfortune there is, is my misfortune, and any immoderate
distress would show self-love, not love for him. What a man he was!
Well, he is in heaven; and I sometimes hope that the friendship of
Scipio and Lælius may live in human memory.
FANNIUS: Yes--your friendship: what do you believe about friendship?
SCÆVOLA: That's what we want to know.
LÆLIUS: Who am I, to speak on such a subject all on a sudden? You
should go to these Greek professionals, who can spin you a discourse
on anything at a moment's notice. For my part, I can only advise
this--prize friendship above all earthly things. We seem to be made
for friendship; it is our great stand-by whether in weal or woe. Yet
I can say this too: friendship cannot be except among the good. I
don't mean a fantastical and unattainable pitch of goodness such as
the philosophers prate about; I mean the genuine, commonplace goodness
of flesh and blood, that actually exists. I mean such men as live in
honour, justice, and liberality, and are consistent, and are neither
covetous nor licentious, nor brazen-faced; such men are good enough for
us, because they follow Nature as far as they can.
Friendship consists of a perfect conformity of opinion upon all
subjects, divine and human, together with a feeling of kindness and
attachment. And though some prefer riches, health, power, honours,
or even pleasure, no greater boon than friendship, with the single
exception of wisdom, has been given by the gods to man. It is quite
true that our highest good depends on virtue; but virtue inevitably
begets and nourishes friendship. What a part, for instance, friendship
has played in the lives of the good men we have known--the Catos, the
Galli, the Scipios, and the like!
How manifold, again, are its benefits! What greater delight is there
than to have one with whom you may talk as if with yourself? One who
will joy in your good fortune, and bear the heaviest end of your
burdens! Other things are good for particular purposes, friendship
for all; neither water nor fire has so many uses. But in one respect
friendship transcends everything else: it throws a brilliant gleam of
hope over the future, and banishes despondency. Whoever has a true
friend sees in him a reflection of himself; and each is strong in the
strength and rich in the wealth of the other.
If you consider that the principle of harmony and benevolence is
necessary to the very existence of families and states, you will
understand how high a thing is friendship, in which that harmony and
benevolence reach their perfect flower. There was a philosopher of
Agrigentum who explained the properties of matter and the movements of
bodies in terms of affection and repulsion; and however that may be,
everyone knows that these are the real forces in human life. Who does
not applaud the friendship that shares in mortal dangers, whether in
real life or in the play?
SCÆVOLA: You speak highly of friendship. What are its principles and
duties?
LÆLIUS: Do we desire a friend because of our own weakness and
deficiency, in order that we may obtain from him what we lack
ourselves, repaying him by reciprocal service? Or is all that only an
incident of friendship, and does the bond derive from a remoter and
more beautiful origin, in the heart of Nature herself? For my part,
I take the latter view. Friendship is a natural emotion, and not an
arrangement of convenience. Its character may be recognised even in
the lower animals, and much more plainly in the love of human parents
for their children, and, most of all, in our affection for a congenial
friend, whom we see in an atmosphere of virtue and worth.
The other is not an ignoble theory, but it leaves us in the difficulty
that if it were true, the weakest, meanest, and poorest of humanity
would be the most inclined to friendship. But it is the strong, rich,
independent, and self-reliant man, deeply founded in wisdom and
dignity, who makes great friendships. What did Africanus need of me, or
I of him? Advantages followed, but they did not lead. But there are
people who will always be referring everything to the one principle of
self-advantage; they have no eyes for anything great and god-like. Let
us leave such theorists alone; the plain fact is, that whenever worth
is seen, love for it is enkindled. Associations founded upon interest
presently dissolve, because interest changes; but Nature never changes,
and therefore true friendships are imperishable.
Scipio used to say that it was exceedingly difficult to carry on a
friendship to the end of life, because the paths of interest so often
diverge. There may be competition for office, or a dishonorable request
may be refused, or some other accident may be fatal to the bond. This
refusal to join in a nefarious course of action is often the end of a
friendship, and it is worth inquiring how far the claims of affection
ought to extend. Tiberius Gracchus, when he troubled the state, was
deserted by almost all his friends; one of them who had assisted him
told me that he had such high regard for Gracchus that he could refuse
him nothing. "But what," said I, "if he had asked you to set fire to
the capitol?" "I would have done it!"
What an infamous confession! No degree of friendship can justify
a crime; and since virtue is the foundation of friendship, crime
must inevitably undermine it. Let this, then, be the rule of
friendship--never to make disgraceful requests, and never to grant them
when they are made.
Among the perverse, over-subtle ideas of certain Greek philosophers is
the maxim that we should be very cool in the matter of friendship. They
say that we have enough to do with our own affairs, without taking on
other people's affairs too; and that our minds cannot be serenely at
leisure if we are liable to be tortured by the sorrows of a friend.
They advise, also, that friendships should be sought for the sake of
protection, and not for the sake of kindliness. O noble philosophy!
They put out the sun in the heavens, and offer us instead a freedom
from care that is worse than worthless. Virtue has not a heart of
stone, but is gentle and compassionate, rejoicing with the joyful and
weeping with those who mourn. True virtue is never unsocial, never
haughty.
With regard to the limits of friendship, I have heard three several
maxims, but disapprove them all. First, that we ought to feel towards
our friend exactly as we feel towards ourselves. That would never
do; for we do many things for our friends that we should never think
of doing for ourselves. We ask favours and reprehend injuries for a
friend, where we would not solicit for, or defend, ourselves. Secondly,
that our kindness to a friend should be meted out in precise equipoise
to his kindness to us. This is too miserable a theory: friendship
is opulent and generous. The third is, that we should take our
friend's own estimate of himself, and act upon it. This is the worst
principle of the three; for if our friend is over-humble, diffident or
despondent, it is the very business of friendship to cheer him and urge
him on. But Scipio used to condemn yet another principle that is worse
still. Some one--he thought it must have been a bad man--once said that
we ought to remember in friendship that some day the friend might be an
enemy. How, in that state of mind, could one be a friend at all?
A sound principle, I think, is this. In the friendship of upright men
there ought to be an unrestricted communication of every interest,
every purpose, every inclination. Then, in any matter of importance
to the life or reputation of your friend, you may deviate a little
from the strictest line of conduct so long as you do not do anything
that is actually infamous. Then, with regard to the choice of friends,
Scipio used to say that men were more careful about their sheep and
goats than about their friends. Choose men of constancy, solidity, and
firmness; and until their trustworthiness has been tested, be moderate
in your affection and confidence. Seek first of all for sincerity. Your
friend should also have an open, genial, and sociable temper, and his
sympathies should be the same as yours. He must not be ready to believe
accusations. Lastly, his talk and manner should be debonair; we don't
want austerities and solemnities in friendship.
I have heard it suggested that we ought perhaps to prefer new friends
to old, as we prefer a young horse to an old one. Satiety should have
no place in friendship. Old wines are the best, and so are the friends
of many years. Do not despise the acquaintance that promises to ripen
into something better; but do not sacrifice for it the deeply rooted
intimacy. Even inanimate things take hold of our hearts by long custom;
we love the mountains and forests of our youth.
There is often a great disparity in respect of rank or talent between
intimate friends. Whenever that is so, let the superior place himself
on the level of the inferior; let him share all his advantages with his
friend. The best way to reap the full harvest of genius, or of merit,
or of any other excellence, is to encourage all one's kindred and
associates to enjoy it too. But if the superior ought to condescend to
the inferior, so the inferior ought to be free from envy. And let him
not make a fuss about such services as he has been able to render.
To pass from the noble friendships of the wise to more commonplace
intimacies, we cannot leave out of account the necessity that sometimes
arises of breaking off a friendship. A man falls into scandalous
courses, his disgrace is reflected on his companions, and their
relation must come to an end. Well, the end had best come gradually and
gently, unless the offence is so detestable that an abrupt and final
cutting of the acquaintance is absolutely inevitable. Disengage, if
possible, rather than cut. And let the matter end with estrangement;
let it not proceed to active animosity and hostility. It is very
unbecoming to engage in public war with a man who has been known as
one's friend. On two separate occasions Scipio thought it right to
withdraw his confidence from certain friends. In each case he kept his
dignity and self-command; he was grieved, but never bitter. Of course,
the best way to guard against such unfortunate occurrences is to take
the greatest care in forming friendships. All excellence is rare, and
that moral excellence which makes fit objects for friendship is as rare
as any.
On the other hand, it would be unreasonable and presumptuous in anyone
to expect to find a friend of a quality to which he himself can never
hope to attain, or to demand from his friend an indulgence which he
is not prepared himself to offer. Friendship was given us to be an
incentive to virtue, and not as an indulgence to vice or to mediocrity;
in order that, since a solitary virtue cannot scale the peaks, it may
do so with the loyal help of a comrade. A comradeship of this kind
includes within it all that men most desire.
Think nobly of friendship, and conduct yourselves wisely in it, for in
one way or another it enters into the life of every man. Even Timon of
Athens, whose one impulse was a brutal misanthropy, must needs seek a
confidant into whose mind he may instil his detestable venom. I have
heard, and I agree with it, that though a man should contemplate from
the heavens the universal beauty of creation, he would soon weary of it
without a companion for his admiration.
Of course, there are rubs in friendship which a sensible man will learn
to avoid, or to ignore, or to bear them cheerfully. Admonitions and
reproofs must have their part in true amity, and it is as difficult
to utter them tactfully as it is to receive them in good part.
Complaisance seems more propitious to friendship than are these naked
truths. But though truth may be painful, complaisance is more likely
in the long run to prove disastrous. It is no kindness to allow a
friend to rush headlong to ruin. Let your remonstrances be free from
bitterness and from insult; let your complaisance be affable, but never
servile. As for adulation, there are no words bad enough for it. Even
the populace have only contempt for the politician who flatters them.
Despise the insinuations of the sycophant, for what is more shameful
than to be made a fool of?
I tell you, sirs, that it is virtue that lasts; that begets real
friendships and maintains them. Lay, therefore, while you are young,
the foundations of a virtuous life.
WILLIAM COBBETT
Advice to Young Men
William Cobbett, the celebrated English political writer, was
born in March, 1762, at Farnham in Surrey. He took a dislike to
rural occupations, and at an early age went to London, where
he was employed for a few months as a copying clerk. This work
was distasteful to him, and he enlisted in the army, and went
with his regiment to Nova Scotia. On returning to England in
1791, he obtained his discharge, married, and went to America.
In Philadelphia he commenced his career as a political writer.
Cobbett's "Advice to Young Men" was published in 1830. It has
always been the most popular of his books, partly because of
its subject, and partly because it illustrates so well the bold
and forceful directness of his style. An intensely egotistical
and confident man, Cobbett believed that his own strangely
inconsistent life was a model for all men. Yet, contrary to what
might have been expected, he was a delightful man in the domestic
circle, and the story of his marriage--which has been narrated
in his "Rural Rides"--is one of the romances of literary life.
The original introduction to the "Advice" contained personal
reference incredible in anyone except Cobbett. Said he, "Few will
be disposed to question my fitness for the task. If such a man be
not qualified to give advice, no man is qualified." And he went
on to claim for himself "genius and something more." He certainly
had a remarkable fund of commonsense, except when his subject was
himself. Cobbett died June 18, 1835.
_I.--To a Youth_
You are arrived, let us suppose, at the age of from fourteen to nearly
twenty, and I here offer you my advice towards making you a happy man,
useful to all about you, and an honour to those from whom you sprang.
Start, I beseech you, with a conviction firmly fixed in your mind that
you have no right to live in this world without doing work of some sort
or other. To wish to live on the labour of others is to contemplate a
fraud.
Happiness ought to be your great object, and it is to be found only in
independence. Turn your back on what is called interest. Write it on
your heart that you will depend solely on your own merit and your own
exertions, for that which a man owes to favour or to partiality, that
same favour or partiality is constantly liable to take from him.
The great source of independence the French express in three words,
"_Vivre de peu_." "To live upon little" is the great security against
slavery; and this precept extends to dress and other things besides
food and drink. Extravagance in dress arises from the notion that all
the people in the street will be looking at you as you walk out; but
all the sensible people that happen to see you will think nothing at
all about you. Natural beauty of person always will and must have some
weight, even with men, and great weight with women; but this does not
want to be set off by expensive clothes.
A love of what is called "good eating and drinking," if very unamiable
in a grown-up person, is perfectly hateful in a youth. I have never
known such a man worthy of respect.
Next, as to amusements. Dancing is at once rational and healthful;
it is the natural amusement of young people, and none but the most
grovelling and hateful tyranny, or the most stupid and despicable
fanaticism, ever raised its voice against it. As to gaming, it is
always criminal, either in itself or in its tendency. The basis of it
is covetousness; a desire to take from others something for which you
have given, and intend to give, no equivalent.