CHAPTER II.

ESSAYS AND DIALOGUES

OF

GIACOMO LEOPARDI.

_TRANSLATED_

BY

CHARLES EDWARDES.

_With Biographical Sketch._

LONDON:

TR‹BNER & CO., LUDGATE HILL.

1882.

CONTENTS.

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH

HISTORY OF THE HUMAN RACE

DIALOGUE BETWEEN HERCULES AND ATLAS

DIALOGUE BETWEEN FASHION AND DEATH

PRIZE COMPETITION OF THE ACADEMY OF SILLOGRAPHS

DIALOGUE BETWEEN A GOBLIN AND A GNOME

DIALOGUE BETWEEN MALAMBRUNO AND FARFARELLO

DIALOGUE BETWEEN NATURE AND A SOUL

DIALOGUE BETWEEN THE EARTH AND THE MOON

THE WAGER OF PROMETHEUS

DIALOGUE BETWEEN A NATURAL PHILOSOPHER AND A METAPHYSICIAN

DIALOGUE BETWEEN TASSO AND HIS FAMILIAR SPIRIT

DIALOGUE BETWEEN NATURE AND AN ICELANDER

PARINI ON GLORY

DIALOGUE BETWEEN RUYSCH AND HIS MUMMIES

REMARKABLE SAYINGS OF PHILIP OTTONIERI

DIALOGUE BETWEEN COLUMBUS AND GUTIERREZ

PANEGYRIC OF BIRDS

THE SONG OF THE WILD COCK

DIALOGUE BETWEEN TIMANDRO AND ELEANDRO

COPERNICUS

DIALOGUE BETWEEN AN ALMANAC SELLER AND A PASSER-BY

DIALOGUE BETWEEN PLOTINUS AND PORPHYRIUS

COMPARISON OF THE LAST WORDS OF BRUTUS AND THEOPHRASTUS

DIALOGUE BETWEEN TRISTANO AND A FRIEND

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH.

"Manure with Despair, but let it be genuine, and you will have a noble

harvest."--RAHEL.

The name of Giacomo Leopardi is not yet a household word in the mouths

of Englishmen. Few of us have heard of him; still fewer have read

any of his writings. If known at all, he is probably coupled, in a

semi-contemptuous manner, with other foreign representatives of a phase

of poetic thought, the influence of which has passed its zenith. As

a contemporary of Byron, Leopardi is perhaps credited with a certain

amount of psychological plagiarism, and possibly disregarded as a mere

satellite of the greater planet. But if this be so, it is unjust. His

fame is his own, and time makes his isolation and grand individuality

more and more prominent. What Byron and Shelley, Millevoye, Baudelaire

and Gautier, Heine and Platen, Pouchkine and Lermontoff, are to

England, France, Germany, and Russia respectively, Leopardi is, in a

measure, to Italy. But he is more than this. The jewel of his renown

is triple-faceted. Philology, poetry, and philosophy were each in turn

cultivated by him, and he was of too brilliant an intellect not to

excel in them all. As a philologist he astonished Niebuhr and delighted

Creuzer; as a poet he has been compared with Dante; as a philosopher

he takes high rank among the greatest and most original men of modern

times. One of his biographers (Dovari: "Studio di G. Leopardi," Ancona,

1877) has termed him "the greatest philosopher, poet, and prose-writer

of the nineteenth century." Though such eulogy may be, and doubtless

is, excessive, the fact that it has been given testifies to the

extraordinary nature of the man who is its subject.

In Germany and France, Leopardi is perhaps as well known and highly

appreciated as in Italy. His poems have been translated into the

languages of those countries; and in France, within the last year, two

more or less complete versions of his prose writings have appeared.

Biographies, reviews, and lighter notices of the celebrated Italian

are of repeated and increasing occurrence on the Continent. England,

however, knows little of him, and hitherto none of his writings have

been made accessible to the English reading public. The following brief

outline of his life may in part help to explain the peculiarly sombre

philosophical views which he held, and of which his works are chiefly

an elaboration.

Giacomo Leopardi was born at Recanati, a small town about fifteen miles

from Ancona, on the 29th June 1798. He was of noble birth, equally on

the side of his father and mother. Provided with a tutor at an early

age, he soon left him far behind in knowledge; and when only eight

years old, he discarded the Greek grammar he had hitherto used, and

deliberately set himself the task of reading in chronological order the

Greek authors of his father's library. It was due to his own industry,

and his father's care, that later he acquired a perfect acquaintance

with classical literature. In 1810 he received his first tonsure, in

token of his dedication to the Church; but this early promise was not

destined to be fulfilled. Before he was eighteen years of age Leopardi

had attained recognised distinction for the amount and matter of his

erudition. The mere catalogue of his writings--chiefly philological--by

that time is of sufficient length to excite wonder, and their

nature is still more surprising. Latin commentaries and classical

annotations were apparently child's play to him. Writing in 1815 to

the Roman scholar Cancellieri, who had noticed one of these classical

productions, Leopardi says: "I see myself secured to posterity in

your writings.... Commerce with the learned is not only useful, but

necessary for me." He was only seventeen when he completed a task

which represented the sum of all his early study. This was an "Essay

on the Popular Errors of the Ancients," of considerable length (first

published posthumously), in the course of which he cites more than four

hundred authors, ancient and modern. A single extract will suffice to

show that his youthful powers of expression were as precocious as his

learning, though his judgment was doubtless at fault. He thus reviews

the wisdom of the Greeks:

"The philosophy of the ancients was the science of

differences; and their academies were the seats of confusion

and disorder. Aristotle condemned what Plato had taught.

Socrates mocked Antisthenes; and Zeno scandalised Epicurus.

Pythagoreans, Platonians, Peripatetics, Stoics, Cynics,

Epicureans, Sceptics, Cyrenaics, Megarics, Eclectics

scuffled with and ridiculed one another; while the truly

wise laughed at them all. The people, left to themselves

during this hubbub, were not idle, but laboured silently to

increase the vast mound of human errors."

He ends this Essay with a eulogy of the Christian religion: "To live

in the true Church is the only way to combat superstition." Shortly

afterwards, increasing knowledge, which Goethe has called "the

antipodes of faith," enabled him to perceive that Roman Catholicism,

the antidote which he then prescribed for superstition, was itself full

charged with the poison he sought to destroy.

In 1817 Leopardi made acquaintance by letter with Pietro Giordani, one

of the leading literary men of the day, and a man of varied experience

and knowledge. In his first letter Leopardi opens his heart to his new

friend:

"I have very greatly, perhaps immoderately, yearned for

glory ... I burn with love for Italy, and thank Heaven that

I am an Italian. If I live, I will live for literature; for

aught else, I would not live if I could." (21st March 1817.)

A month later, from the same source we are able to discern traces

of that characteristic of Leopardi's temperament which by certain

critics is thought to explain his philosophy. Writing to Giordani,

he expatiates on the discomforts of Recanati and its climate; and

proceeds:--

"Added to all this is the obstinate, black, and barbarous

melancholy which devours and destroys me, which is nourished

by study, and yet increases when I forego study. I have in

past times had much experience of that sweet sadness which

generates fine sentiments, and which, better than joy, may

be said to resemble the twilight; but my condition now is

like an eternal and horrible night. A poison saps my powers

of body and mind."--

In the same letter he gives his opinion on the relative nature of prose

and poetry.

"Poetry requires infinite study and application, and its art

is so profound, that the more you advance in proficiency, so

much the further does perfection seem to recede.... To be a

good prose writer first, and a poet later, seems to me to be

contrary to nature, which first creates the poet, and then

by the cooling operation of age concedes the maturity and

tranquillity necessary for prose."

(30th April 1817.)

The correspondence between Leopardi and Giordani lasted for five years,

and it is from their published letters that we are able to form the

best possible estimate of Leopardi's character and aspirations. His own

letters serve as the index of his physical and mental state. In them

we trace the gradual failure of his health, the growth of sombreness

in his disposition, and the change which his religious convictions

underwent. During his twentieth year he suffered severely in mind and

body. Forced to lay aside his studies, he was constantly a prey to

ennui, with all its attendant discomforts. He thus writes to Giordani

of his condition, in August 1817:

"My ill-health makes me unhappy, because I am not a

philosopher who is careless of life, and because I am

compelled to stand aloof from my beloved studies.... Another

thing that makes me unhappy, is thought. I believe you know,

but I hope you have not experienced, how thought can crucify

and martyrise any one who thinks somewhat differently from

others. I have for a long time suffered such torments,

simply because thought has always had me entirely in its

power; and it will kill me unless I change my condition.

Solitude is not made for those who burn and are consumed in

themselves." (1st August 1817.)

His mental activity was numbed by his physical incapacity; the two

combined reduced him to a state of despair. There is a noble fortitude

in the following words of another letter addressed to Giordani:--

"I have for a long time firmly believed that I must die

within two or three years, because I have so ruined myself

by seven years of immoderate and incessant study.... I am

conscious that my life cannot be other than unhappy, yet I

am not frightened; and if I could in any way be useful, I

would endeavour to bear my condition without losing heart.

I have passed years so full of bitterness, that it seems

impossible for worse to succeed them; nevertheless I will

not despair even if my sufferings do increase ... I am born

for endurance."

(2d March 1818.)

Leopardi was now of age, and at the time of life when mans aspirations

are keenest. He had repeatedly tried to induce his father to let him go

forth into the world, and take his place in the school of intellect;

but all his endeavours were in vain. Though seconded by Giordani, who

some months before had become personally acquainted with his young

correspondent during a visit of a few days to Casa Leopardi, the Count

was resolute in refusing to grant his son permission to leave Recanati.

Giacomo, driven to desperation, conceived a plan by which he hoped to

fulfil his desire in spite of the paternal prohibition. The following

extract from the Count's diary furnishes the gist of the matter, and

also gives us some small insight into his own character:--

"Giacomo, wishing to leave the country, and seeing that I

was opposed to his doing so, thought to obtain my consent by

a trick. He requested Count Broglio to procure a passport

for Milan, so that I might be alarmed on hearing of it,

and thus let him go. I knew about it, because Solari wrote

unwittingly to Antici, wishing Giacomo a pleasant journey. I

immediately asked Broglio to send me the passport, which he

did with an accompanying letter. I showed all to my son, and

deposited the passport in an open cupboard, telling him he

could take it at his leisure. So all ended."

Thus the plot failed, and Giacomo was constrained to resign himself,

as best he could, to a continuance of the "life worse than death"

which he lived in Recanati. Two letters written in anticipation of the

success of his scheme, one to his father, and the other to Carlo, his

brother, are of most painful interest. They suggest unfilial conduct

on his part, and unfatherly treatment of his son on the part of Count

Monaldo.

"I am weary of prudence," he writes in the letter to Carlo,

"which serves only as a clog to the enjoyment of youth ...

How thankful I should be if the step I am taking might act

as a warning to our parents, as far as you and our brothers

are concerned! I heartily trust you will be less unhappy

than myself. I care little for the opinion of the world;

nevertheless, exonerate me if you have any opportunity of

doing so.... What am I? a mere good-for-nothing creature.

I realise this most intensely, and the knowledge of

it has determined me to take this step, to escape the

self-contemplation which so disgusts me. So long as I

possessed self-esteem I was prudent; but now that I despise

myself, I can only find relief by casting myself on fortune,

and seeking dangers, worthless thing that I am.... It were

better (humanly speaking) for my parents and myself that I

had never been born, or had died ere now. Farewell, dear

brother."

The letter to his father is in a different key. It is stern and severe,

and contains reproofs, direct and inferential, for his apparent

indifference to his sons' future prospects. Giacomo upbraids him with

intentional blindness to the necessities of his position as a youth of

generally acknowledged ability, for whom Recanati could offer no scope,

or chance of renown. He goes on to say:

"Now that the law has made me my own master, I have

determined to delay no longer in taking my destiny on my

own shoulders. I know that man's felicity consists in

contentment, and that I shall therefore have more chance

of happiness in begging my bread than through whatever

bodily comforts I may enjoy here.... I know that I shall be

deemed mad; and I also know that all great men have been

so regarded. And because the career of almost every great

genius has begun with despair, I am not disheartened at

the same commencement in mine. I would rather be unhappy

than insignificant, and suffer than endure tedium....

Fathers usually have a better opinion of their sons than

other people; but you, on the contrary, judge no one so

unfavourably, and therefore never imagined we might be born

for greatness.... It has pleased Heaven, as a punishment,

to ordain that the only youths of this town with somewhat

loftier aspirations than the Recanatese should belong to

you, as a trial of patience, and that the only father who

would regard such sons as a misfortune should be ours."

The relationship between Giacomo and his parents has been a vexed

question with all his biographers, who, for the most part, are of the

opinion that they had little sympathy with him in the mental sufferings

he underwent. The Count has been called "despota sistematico" in the

administration of his household; and the most favourably disposed

writers have agreed to regard him as somewhat of a Roman father. But

there does not seem to be sufficient evidence to support the theory

that he was intentionally harsh and repressive to the extent of cruelty

in his treatment of his children. He was an Italian of the old school,

and as such his conduct was probably different from that of more

modern Italian fathers; but that was all.

In 1819, when his whole being was in a turmoil of disquiet, Leopardi

made his dÈbut as a poet, with two Odes--the one addressed to Italy,

and the other on the monument to Dante, then recently erected in

Florence. The following literal translation of the first stanza of the

Ode to Italy gives but a faint echo of the original verse:--

"O my country, I see the walls and arches, the columns,

the statues, and the deserted towers of our ancestors; but

their glory I see not, nor do I see the laurel and the iron

which girt our forefathers. To-day, unarmed, thou showest a

naked brow and naked breast. Alas! how thou art wounded! How

pale thou art, and bleeding! That I should see thee thus!

O queen of beauty! I call on heaven and earth, and ask who

thus has humbled thee. And as a crowning ill, her arms are

weighed with chains; her hair dishevelled and unveiled; and

on the ground she sits disconsolate and neglected, her face

hid in her knees, and weeping. Weep, Italia mine, for thou

hast cause, since thou wert born to conquer 'neath Fortune's

smiles and frowns.

O patria mia, vedo le mura e gli archi

E le colonne e i simulacri e l' erme

Torri degli avi nostri,

Ma la gloria non vedo,

Non vedo il lauro e il ferro ond' eran carchi

I nostri padri antichi. Or fatta inerme,

Nuda la fronte e nudo il petto mostri.

OimË quante ferite,

Che lividor, che sangue! oh qual ti veggio,

Formosissima donna! Io chiedo al cielo,

E al mondo: dite, dite:

Chi la ridusse a tale? E questo Ë peggio,

Che di catene ha carene ambe le braccia.

Si che sparte le chiome e senza velo

Siede in terra negletta e sconsolata,

Nascondendo la faccia

Tra le ginocchia, e piange.

Piangi, che ben hai donde, Italia mia,

Le genti a vincer nata

Et nella fausta sorte e nella ria."

These odes, which represent the first fruits of his muse, ring with

enthusiasm. They are the expression of a soul fired with its own flame,

which serves to illumine and vivify a theme then only too real in his

country's experience, the sufferings of Italy. Patriotism pervades

his earliest verse; sadness and hopelessness that of later times. For

these two odes Giordani bestowed unsparing eulogy on his young protÈgÈ.

Before their appearance he had begun to regard Leopardi as the rising

genius of Italy, and had not hesitated to say to him, "Inveni hominem!"

Now, however, his admiration was unbounded; he thus apostrophised him:

"O nobilissima, e altissima, e fortissima anima!" He referred to the

reception of his poems at Piacenza in these terms: "They speak of you

as a god."

In 1822 Leopardi first left home. Repeatedly, year after year, he

had besought his father to permit him to see something of the world.

He longed to associate with the men who represented the intellect of

his country. With his own fellow-townsmen he had little sympathy, and

they on their part regarded him as a phenomenon, eccentric rather than

remarkable. They gave him the titles of "little pedant," "philosopher,"

"hermit," &c., in half ironical appreciation of his learning. As he

was naturally very sensitive, these petty vexations became intensified

to him, and were doubtless one of the chief reasons of his unfailing

dislike for his native place. In one of his essays, that of "Parini

on Glory," we discover a reference to Leopardi's life at Recanati,

which place is really identical with the Bosisio of the essay. Yet the

prophet who is not a prophet in his own country when living, seldom

fails of recognition after death. A statue is now raised to Leopardi

in the place that refused to honour him in life. The appreciative

recognition he failed to attract in Recanati, he hoped to obtain at

Rome. But Count Monaldo, his father, long maintained his resistance to

his son's wishes. Himself of a comparatively unaspiring mind, content

with the fame he could acquire in his own province, he saw no necessity

why his son should be more ambitious. Probably also his paternal love

made him fearful of the dangers of the world, to which his son would

be exposed. Of these hazards he knew nothing from experience; and

they were doubtless magnified to him by his imagination. Yet, though

naturally a man rather deficient in character than otherwise, Count

Monaldo was, as we have seen, in his own household, a stern not to

say unreasonable disciplinarian. Only after repeated solicitations

from his son, and remonstrances from his friends, did he give Giacomo

the desired permission, chiefly in the hope that at Rome he might be

induced to enter the Church, towards which he had latterly manifested

some signs of repugnance. The five months spent by Leopardi in Rome

sufficed to disenchant him of his ideas of the world of life. A day or

two after his arrival he writes to Carlo his brother:

"I do not derive the least pleasure from the great things I

see, because I know that they are wonderful, without feeling

that they are so. I assure you their multitude and grandeur

wearied me the first day."

(25th November 1822.)

Again, to Paulina his sister: "The world is not beautiful; rather it is

insupportable, unless seen from a distance."

Ever prone to regard the real through the medium of the ideal, he was

bitterly disappointed with his first experience of men. The scholar,

whom he was prepared to revere, proved on acquaintance to be--

"a blockhead, a torrent of small talk, the most wearisome

and afflicting man on earth. He talks about the merest

trifles with the deepest interest, of the greatest things

with an infinite imperturbability. He drowns you in

compliments and exaggerated praises, and does both in so

freezing a manner, and with such nonchalance, that to hear

him one would think an extraordinary man the most ordinary

thing in the world." (25th November 1822.)

The stupidest Recanatese he termed wiser and more sensible than the

wisest Roman. Again, to his father he complains of the superficiality

of the so-called scholars of Rome.

"They all strive to reach immortality in a coach, as bad

Christians would fain enter Paradise. According to them, the

sum of human wisdom, indeed the only true science of man,

is antiquity. Hitherto I have not encountered a lettered

Eoman who understands the term literature as meaning

anything except archÊology. Philosophy, ethics, politics,

eloquence, poetry, philology, are unknown things in Rome,

and are regarded as childish playthings compared to the

discovery of some bit of copper or stone of the time of Mark

Antony or Agrippa. The best of it is that one cannot find

a single Eoman who really knows Latin or Greek; without a

perfect acquaintance with which languages, it is clear that

antiquity Cannot be Studied." (9th December 1822.)

He was disheartened by the depraved condition of Roman literature.

Everywhere he saw merit disregarded or trodden under foot. The city was

full of professional poets and poetesses, and literary cliques formed

for the purpose of the self-laudation of their members. Illustrious

names of the past were insulted by the pseudo-great men of the day,

whose fame was founded on writings of the most contemptible nature.

These circumstances made Leopardi confess, in a letter to his brother,

that had he not

"the harbour of posterity, and the conviction that in time

all would take its proper place (illusory hope, but the

only, and most necessary one for the true scholar)," (16th

December 1822.)

he would abandon literature once for all. But it was only during

moments of depression that such words as these escaped him. He

loved study for its own sake; fame was, after all, but a secondary

consideration. Nor were men of genuine worth entirely wanting in Rome.

Niebuhr, then Prussian ambassador at the Papal Court, Reinhold, the

Dutch ambassador, Mai, subsequently a cardinal, were noble exceptions

to the general inferiority. By them Leopardi was highly esteemed.

Niebuhr especially was profoundly struck with his genius. "I have at

last seen a modern Italian worthy of the old Italians and the ancient

Romans," was his remark to De Bunsen after his first interview with the

young scholar. Both he and De Bunsen became firm friends with Leopardi.

They endeavoured their utmost to procure for him some official

appointment from Cardinal Consalvi, then Secretary of State, and his

successor; but owing to the intrigues, prejudices, and disturbances of

the Papal Court they were unable to effect anything on his behalf. It

was an unfulfilled intention of De Bunsen's, later in life, to write

a memoir of Leopardi, for whom he always felt the highest esteem and

admiration.

Count Monaldo's wish that his son should become an ecclesiastic was

never realised. Leopardi was of too honest a nature to profess what was

not in accordance with his convictions. The secular employment that he

sought, he could not obtain, so perforce he seems to have turned his

mind towards literary work--the drudgery of letters as distinct from

the free, untrammelled pursuit of literature. He obtained the charge

of cataloguing the Greek manuscripts of the Barberine Library, and his

spirits rose in anticipation of some discovery he hoped to make which

might render him famous. "In due time we will astonish the world," he

writes to his father. He was indeed successful in finding a fragment

of Libanius hitherto unpublished; but the glory seems to have been

stolen from him, since the manuscript was ushered forth to the world by

alien hands. Poor Leopardi! all his hopes seemed destined to be proved

illusive. It was time for him to leave a place that could furnish him

with no other pleasure than that of tears. "I visited Tasso's grave,

and wept there. This is the first and only pleasure I have experienced

in Rome" (Letter to Carlo, February 15, 1823). Already he had begun

to steel himself to the shocks of fortune; suffering and misfortune

he could bear; mental agony and despair were too strong for him. In a

long letter to his sister Paulina, he tries to impart to her a little

of the philosophy of Stoicism which he had taken to himself. She was

distressed about the rupture of a matrimonial arrangement contracted

by the Count between her and a certain Roman gentleman of position and

fortune. Leopardi thus consoles her:

"Hope is a very wild passion, because it necessarily carries

with it very great fear.... I assure you, I Paolina mia,'

that unless we can acquire a little indifference towards

ourselves, life is scarcely possible, much less can it be

happy. You must resign yourself to fortune, and not hope too

deeply.... I recommend this philosophy to you, because I

think you resemble me in mind and disposition." (19th April

1823.)

Four years later Leopardi confesses the insufficiency of his own

remedies. Writing to Dr. Puccinotti in 1827, he says:

"I am weary of life, and weary of the philosophy of

indifference which is the only cure for misfortune and

ennui, but which at length becomes an ennui itself. I look

and hope for nothing but death."

(16th August 1827.)

In May 1823, he left Rome, and returned to Recanati.

The succeeding ten years of Leopardi's life were, during his intervals

of health, devoted to poetry and literature. He had passed the Rubicon

of his hopes; henceforth he studied to expound to the world the

uselessness of its own anticipations, and its essential unhappiness.

His bodily infirmities increased with years. His frame, naturally

weak, suffered from the effects of early over-application; his eyes

and nerves were a constant trouble to him. To obtain what relief was

possible from change of air, and to remove himself from Recanati,

which he detested increasingly, Leopardi went to Bologna, Florence,

Milan, and Pisa, wintering now at one place, now at another. From

family reasons, his father was unable to supply him with sufficient

money to secure his independence. Consequently he was obliged to

turn to literature for a livelihood. The publisher Stella, of Milan,

willingly engaged his services, and for several years Leopardi was

in receipt of a small but regular payment for his literary labours.

He compiled Chrestomathies of Italian prose and poetry, and made

numerous fragmentary translations from the classics. A commentary on

Petrarch, to which he devoted much time and care, is, in the words

of Sainte-Beuve, "the best possible guide through such a charming

labyrinth." As he said of himself, "mediocrity is not for me," so in

all that he undertook the mark of his genius appeared. At Florence

Leopardi was honoured by the representatives of Italian literature and

culture, who there formed a brilliant coterie. Colletta was desirous

of his co-operation in the "History of Naples," with which he was

occupying the last years of his life. The "Antologia" and "Nuove

Ricoglitore" reviews were open to contributions from his pen. Giordani,

Niccolini, Capponi, and Gioberti, amongst others, welcomed him with

open arms. To these his Tuscan friends he dedicated his "Canti" in

1830, with the following touching letter:--

"MY DEAR FRIENDS,--Accept the dedication of this book.

Herein I have striven, as is often done in poetry, to hallow

my sufferings. This is my farewell (I cannot but weep in

saying it) to literature and studies. Once I hoped these

dear resources would have been the support of my old age:

pleasures of childhood and youth might vanish, I thought,

and their loss would be supportable if I were thus cherished

and strengthened. But ere I was twenty years of age, my

physical infirmities deprived me of half my powers; my life

was taken, yet death was not bestowed on me. Eight years

later I became totally incapacitated; this, it seems, will

be my future state. Even to read these letters you know

that I make use of other eyes than mine. Dear friends, my

sufferings are incapable of increase; already my misfortune

is too great for tears. I have lost everything, and am but a

trunk that feels and suffers." ...

It is scarcely wonderful that, under such circumstances, his philosophy

should fail him. A code of ethics, however admirable intrinsically, has

but cold consolation to offer to one whose life is prolonged pain.

Leopardi at one time allowed the idea of suicide to rest, and almost

take root, in his mind. He describes the incident: "A great desire

comes into my mind to terminate once for all these wretched years of

mine, and to make myself more completely motionless." But he was of a

nature noble and strong enough to resist such temptation.

He left Recanati for the last time in 1830. The next two years were

passed in Florence, Rome, and Pisa. Whilst in Rome, Leopardi received

substantial proof of his fame in being elected an Academician of the

Crusca. At length the doctors recommended him to try Naples, from the

mild air and general salubrity of which place they anticipated much

improvement in his condition. Thither he went in company with a young

friend, Antonio Ranieri, whose acquaintance he had made in Florence.

In the house of Ranieri he stayed from 1833 until his death in 1837,

tended by him and his sister Paulina (his _second_ Paulina, as he used

to call her) with a devotedness and affection as rare as it was noble.

Posterity will couple together the names of Ranieri and Leopardi as

naturally as we associate together those of Severn and Keats. All that

could be done for the unfortunate poet, Ranieri did. His condition was

a singular one. Before he left Florence for Naples, the doctor said of

him that his frame did not possess sufficient vitality to generate a

mortal illness; yet he was seldom, if ever, free from suffering. He

died on the 14th June 1837, as he and his friend were on the point of

setting out from Naples to a little villa that Ranieri possessed on one

of the slopes of Vesuvius. On the night of the 15th he was buried, in

the church of St. Vitale, near the reputed grave of Virgil. His tomb is

marked by a stone erected at the expense of Ranieri, bearing the signs

of the cross, and the owl of Minerva, together with an inscription from

the pen of Giordani. The few following lines from his own verse would

form a suitable epitaph for one whose life was spent in bodily and

mental disquietude:--

"O weary heart, for ever shalt thou rest

Henceforth. Perished is the great delusion

That I thought would ne'er have left me. Perished!

Nought now is left of all those dear deceits;

Desire is dead, and not a hope remains.

Rest then for ever. Thou hast throbbed enough;

Nothing here is worth such palpitations.

Our life is valueless, for it consists

Of nought but ennui, bitterness, and pain.

This world of clay deserveth not a sigh.

Now calm thyself; conceive thy last despair,

And wait for death, the only gift of Fate."

(Poem "A Se Stesso.")

These words might have been an echo of «‚kyamuni's utterance beneath

the sacred fig-tree of BÙdhimanda, when, according to the legend, he

was in process of transformation from man to Buddha: the resemblance is

at any rate a remarkable one.

In 1846, the Jesuits made an impudent attempt to convince the public

that Leopardi died repenting of his philosophical views, and that he

had previously expressed a desire to enter the Society of Jesus. A

long letter from a certain Francesco Scarpa to his Superior, giving

a number of pretended details of Leopardi's history, conversion, and

death, appeared in a Neapolitan publication, entitled "Science and

Faith." Ranieri came forward to show the entire falsity of these

statements; and to give a more authoritative denial to them, he engaged

the willing help of Vicenzo Gioberti. The latter in his "Modern Jesuit"

contested their truth in every respect. He said: "The story put forward

in this letter is a tissue of lies and deliberate inventions; it is

sheer romance from beginning to end." It is thought by some people

that Leopardi's father was concerned in this Jesuit manifesto. But,

although the Count was doubtless shocked beyond measure that his son

did not hold the same beliefs as himself, it is scarcely credible that

he should concoct a series of such absurdities as were contained in

Scarpa's letter.

Leopardi anticipated that posterity, and even his contemporaries, would

endeavour to explain the pessimism of his philosophy by his personal

misfortunes and sufferings. Accordingly, in a letter to the philologist

Sinner, he entered a protest against such a supposition:

"However great my sufferings may have been, I do not seek

to diminish them by comforting myself with vain hopes,

and thoughts of a future and unknown happiness. This same

courage of my convictions has led me to a philosophy

of despair, which I do not hesitate to accept. It is

the cowardice of men, who would fain regard existence

as something very valuable, that instigates them to

consider my philosophical opinions as the result of my

sufferings, and that makes them persist in charging to my

material circumstances that which is due to nothing but my

understanding. Before I die, I wish to make protest against

this imputation of weakness and trifling; and I would beg of

my readers to burn my writings rather than attribute them to

my sufferings."

(24th May 1832.)

Ranieri thus describes Leopardi's personal appearance:

"He was of middle height, inclined to stoop, and fragile;

his complexion was pale; his head was large, and his brow

expansive; his eyes were blue and languid; his nose was well

formed (slightly aquiline), and his other features were very

delicately chiselled; his voice was soft and rather weak;

and he had an ineffable and almost celestial smile."

His friend here scarcely even suggests what others have perhaps unduly

emphasised, that is, Leopardi's deformity. He was slightly humpbacked;

doubtless the consequence of those studies which simultaneously ruined

him and made him famous.

It were an omission not to refer to the influence which love exerted

over Leopardi's life. So strong was this, in the opinion of one of his

critics, that he even ascribes his philosophy to an "infelicissimo

amore." Another writer says of him that "his ideal was a woman."

Ranieri asserts that he died unmarried, after having twice felt the

passion of love as violently as it was ever realised by any man. His

poems also testify how omnipotent at one time was this bitter-sweet

sensation.

"I recall to mind the day when love first assaulted me; when

I said, Alas! if this be love, how it pains me!"

(The First Love.)

Again:

"It was morning, the time when a light and sweeter sleep

presses our rested lids. The sun's first grey light began to

gleam across the balcony, through the closed windows into

my still darkened chamber. Then it was that I saw close by,

regarding me with fixed eyes, the phantom form of her who

first taught me to love, and left me Weeping." (The Dream.)

His poem to Aspasia is a frank confession of love, and the humiliation

he suffered in its rejection. It is a noble, yet a terrible poem.

Opening with a description of the scene that met his eye as he entered

the room where his charmer sat, "robed in the hue of the melancholy

violet, and surrounded by a wondrous luxury," pressing "tender and

burning kisses on the round lipsÈ" of her children, and displaying "her

snowy neck," he saw as it were "a new heaven, and a new earth, and the

lustre of a celestial light."

"Like a divine ray, O woman, thy beauty dazzled my thought.

Beauty is like such music as seems to open out to us an

unknown Elysium. He who loves is filled with the ecstasy

of the phantom love conceived by his imagination. In the

woman of his love he seeks to discover the beauties of

his inspired vision; in his words and actions he tries

to recognise the personality of his dreams. Thus when he

strains her to his bosom, it is not the woman, but the

phantom of his dream that he embraces."

Then comes the awakening. He vituperates the reality for not attaining

to the standard of his ideal.

"Rarely the woman's nature is comparable with that of the

dream image. No thought like ours can dwell beneath those

narrow brows. Vain is the hope that man forges in the fire

of those sparkling eyes. He errs in seeking profound and

lofty thoughts in one who is by nature inferior to man in

all things. As her members are frailer and softer, so is her

mind more feeble and confined."

He betrays his position, and gives the key to his unjust censure of

woman's powers.

"Now, boast thyself, for thou canst do so. Tell how thou art

the only one of thy sex to whom I have bent my proud head,

and offered my invincible heart. Tell how thou hast seen me

with beseeching brows, timid and trembling before thee (I

burn with indignation and shame in the avowal), watching

thy every sign and gesture, beside myself in adoration of

thee, and changing expression and colour at the slightest of

thy looks. The charm is broken; my yoke is on the ground,

sundered at a single blow." (Aspasia.)

Who were the real objects of Leopardi's affection, is not at all clear.

Certain village girls of Recanati, immortalised in his verse as Nerina

and Silvia, were the inspirers of his first love; but his brother Carlo

bears witness to the superficial nature of his affection in their

cases. They merely served as the awakeners of the sensation; his own

mind and imagination magnified it into a passion. True it is that his

nature was one that yearned and craved for love in no ordinary degree.

When at Rome, isolated from his family, he wrote to Carlo: "Love me,

for God's sake. I need love, love, love, fire, enthusiasm, life." He

addressed similar demands to Giordani and others with whom he was

on the most intimate terms. Indeed we are tempted to conjectures as

to what might have been the fruit of Leopardi's life had he found a

helpmate and a consoler in his troubles.

A brief consideration of the general nature of Leopardi's poetry and

prose may not be out of place in this short summary.

His poems are masterpieces of conception and execution. Their matter

may be open to criticism; but their manner is beyond praise. His odes

are of the nobler kind. Full of fire and vigour, they reach the sublime

where he stimulates his fellow-countrymen to action, and urges them

to aspire to a freedom, happily now obtained. His elegies breathe out

an inspired sorrow. They are the pro-duct of a mind filled with the

sense of the misery that abounds on earth, and unable, though desirous,

to discern a single ray of light in the gloom of existence. His

lyrical pieces are the most beautiful and emotional of his poems. The

following, entitled "The Setting of the Moon," though pervaded with the

spirit of sadness that is so predominant a characteristic of Leopardi's

verse, contains some charming imagery:--

"As in the lonely night, over the silvered fields and the

waters where the zephyrs play, where the far-off shades take

a thousand vague appearances and deceitful forms, amid the

tranquil waves, the foliage and the hedges, the hill-slopes

and the villages, the moon arrived at heaven's boundary

descends behind the Alps and Apennines into the infinite

bosom of the Tyrrhenian Sea; whilst the world grows pale,

and the shadows disappear, and a mantle of darkness shrouds

the valley and the hills; night alone remains, and the

carter singing on his way salutes with a sad melody the last

reflection of that fleeing light which hitherto had led his

steps: So vanishes our youth, and leaves us solitary with

life. So flee away the shadows which veiled illusive joys;

and so die too the distant hopes on which our mortal nature

rested. Life is left desolate and dark, and the traveller,

trying to pierce the gloom, looks here and there, but seeks

in vain to know the way, or what the journey yet before him;

he sees that all on earth is strange, and he a stranger

dwelling there.... You little hills and strands, when falls

the light which silvers in the west the veil of night, shall

not for long be orphaned. On the other side of heaven the

first grey light of dawn shall soon be followed by the sun,

whose fiery rays shall flood you and the ethereal fields

with a luminous stream. But mortal life, when cherished

youth has gone, has no new dawn, nor ever gains new light;

widowed to the end it stays, and on life's other shore, made

dark by night, the gods have set the tomb's dark seal."

In his interpretation of nature he is literal, but withal truly poetic:

he worships her in the concrete, but vituperates her in the abstract,

as representative to him of omnipresent Deity, creative, but also

destructive. The two or three poems that may be termed satirical,

are at the same time half elegiac. In them he ridicules and censures

the folly of his contemporaries, and mourns over the mystery of

things. To these, however, there is one exception, the longest of all

his poems. This is known as the "Continuation of the Battle of the

Frogs and Mice," It consists of eight cantos, comprising about three

thousand lines, and was first published posthumously. The abruptness

of its ending gives the idea, erroneous or not, of incompleteness.

Leopardi had, several years before, translated and versified Homer's

"Batrachomyomachia," and this satire takes up the story where Homer

ends. It is exclusively a ridicule of the times, with especial

reference to his own country and her national enemy, Austria. In style

and treatment it has been compared with Byron's "Don Juan," from which,

however, it totally differs in its intrinsic character. It abounds in

beauties of description, sentiment, and expression, and well deserves

to be considered his _chef d'oeuvre_. Leopardi thus describes his

method of poetic composition:--

"I compose only when under an inspiration, yielding to

which, in two minutes, I have designed and organised

the poem. This done, I wait for a recurrence of such

inspiration, which seldom happens until several weeks have

elapsed. Then I set to work at composition, bub so slowly

that I cannot complete a poem, however short, in less than

two or three weeks. Such is my method; without inspiration

it were easier to draw water from a stone than a single

verse from my brain."

Leopardi's reputation was firmly established by the appearance of his

"Operette morali," as his prose writings were termed. Monti classed

them as the best Italian prose compositions of the century. Gioberti

compared them to the writing of Machiavelli. Giordani, with his usual

tendency to extravagance, gives his friend the following pompous

panegyric:--"His style possesses the conciseness of Speroni, the

grandiloquence of Tasso, the smoothness of Paruta, the purity of Gelli,

the wit of Firenzuola, the solidity and magnificence of Pallavicino,

the imagination of Plato, and the elegance of Cicero." Leopardi has

been aptly termed an aristocrat in his writing. Too much of a reasoner

to be very popular with the masses, who do not care for the exertion of

sustained thought, his logic is strikingly clear to the intelligent.

His periods are occasionally as long as those of Machiavelli or

Guicciardini, but their continuity and signification are never obscure.

Ranieri bears witness to the fact that his prose was the fruit of very

great labour.

The subject and tendency of Leopardi's writings will be evident to

the reader of the following dialogues. Framed on the model of Lucian,

they will compare favourably with the writings of the Greek satirist

in subtlety and wit, in spite of their sombre tone. They cannot be

said to possess much originality, save in treatment. The subjects

discussed, and even the arguments introduced, are mostly old. Every

acute moraliser since the world began has, in more or less degree

commensurate with his ability, debated within himself the problems

here considered. Facts, beliefs, opinions, theories, may be marshalled

to produce an infinite number of diverse harmonies; but no one such

combination formed by the mind of man may be put forward as the true

and ultimate explanation of the mystery of life. Leibnitz, with his

harmony of universal good, is as fallible as Leopardi or Schopenhauer

with their harmonies of evil. In either case the real is sacrificed

to the ideal, whether of good or evil. Either from temperament or

circumstances, these philosophers were predisposed to give judgment on

life, favourably or adversely, without duly considering the attributes

of existence. As M. Dapples, in his French version of Leopardi, has

remarked, he early withdrew from actual life, _i.e._, life with all

those manifold sensations which he himself defines to be the only

constituents of pleasure in existence. His body proved little else than

the sensation of suffering. All his vitality was concentrated in his

mind; so that he was scarcely a competent and impartial judge of the

ordinary pleasures and ills of life. He could not be otherwise than

prejudiced by his own experiences, or rather lack of experiences. Yet,

though Leopardi was physically incapable of many of life's pleasures,

he none the less passionately yearned for them. Strength and desire

struggled within him, and the former only too frequently proved weaker

than the latter. Thus he was innately adapted for pessimism.

We consider Leopardi to have been a man of the grandest intellectual

powers, capable originally of almost anything to which the human mind

could attain; but that his reason, later in life, became somewhat

perverted by his sufferings. Were human life as absolutely miserable

a thing as he represents it to be, it would be insupportable. That

he should so regard it does not seem remarkable when we consider his

circumstances; he was poor, seldom free from pain, and unsupported by

a creed. For the sufferings of his life, he could see no shadow of

atonement or compensation: a future state was incomprehensible to him.

He bestows much gratuitous pity on the human race, which we, though

revering his genius, may return to him as more deserving of it than

ourselves. His heart was naturally full of the most lively affection;

but he could never sufficiently satisfy the yearnings of his nature.

Like Ottonieri, whose portrait is his own to a great extent, his

instincts were noble; like him also he died without effecting much in

proportion to his powers.

The conclusions of Leopardi's philosophy may be thus summed up. The

universe is an enigma, totally insoluble. The sufferings of mankind

exceed all good that men experience, estimating the latter in

compensation for the former. Progress, or, as we call it, civilisation,

instead of lightening man's sufferings, increases them; since it

enlarges his capacity for suffering, without proportionately augmenting

his means of enjoyment.

How far are these conclusions refutable? It may be regarded as

indubitable that the first two cannot be refuted without the aid

of revelation. Science is incompetent to explain the "why" and the

"wherefore" of the universe; it is yet groping to discover the "how."

Still less can any satisfactory explanation be given of the purpose

for which suffering exists, unless we rely on revelation. Religion,

which modern philosophers somewhat contemptuously designate as "popular

metaphysics," can alone afford an explanation of these problems.

«‚kyamuni, nearly 2500 years ago, asked, "What is the cause of all the

miseries and sufferings with which man is afflicted?" He himself gave

what he considered to be the correct answer: "Existence;" and then he

traced existence to the passions and desires innate in man. These last

were to be conquered in the condition of insensibility to all material

things called "Nirvana," Truly his remedy was a radical one, and had

he succeeded in procuring universal acceptance for his doctrines, the

human race would have become extinct a few generations later than his

own time. But "Nirvana" is unnatural if it be nothing else; unnatural

in itself and in the steps that lead up to it. And although it is

due to Schopenhauer, and his more or less heterodox disciples, that

this Buddhistic dogma is regarded theoretically by some people with a

certain amount of favour, we think the instincts of life are strong

enough within them all to resist any decided inclination on their part

to carry it into effect.

As for the third conclusion, it must be admitted that man's

susceptibilities of suffering are enlarged with increasing culture.

Leopardi has shown us that the more vividly we realise the evils that

surround and affect us, so much the more keenly do they arouse in us

sensations of pain. Knowledge of them makes us suffer from them. The

bliss of ignorance is rudely dispelled by the cold hand of science. But

must this necessarily continue? May not the same progress which exposes

the wound find the salve to heal it? We trust and think so, in spite

of all assertions to the contrary. There is nothing in the near future

of humanity that need alarm us: men will not work less because they

think more; nor is there any sufficient reason to show that increasing

knowledge must represent increasing sorrow. As Johnson has said:

"The cure for the greatest part of human miseries is not radical but

palliative." For the material means of palliation we look to science.

We hope and think that there is good to be gained from these writings

of Leopardi, in spite of the tone of despair that rings throughout

them. His theory of the "infelicit‡" of things, cheerless though it

be, often suggests ideas, sublime in themselves and noble in their

effect; and the very essence of his philosophy resolves itself into a

recommendation to act, rather than by contemplation to lose the power

of action; for, as he says, "A life must be active and vigorous, else

it is not true life, and death is preferable to it."

A brief reference to the most recent publications on Leopardi may be

interesting as tending to throw light on his domestic relationships,

and as giving us an idea of his own habits in private life. Antonio

Ranieri (now in his seventy-sixth year) in a book[1] published at

Naples in 1880 gives many interesting details of the poet's life.

He first met him at Florence, and was touched with compassion for

his unfortunate state. Ill and helpless, he was incapable of doing

anything but weep in despair at the thought of being obliged to return

to his native place. "Recanati and death are to me one and the same

thing," he exclaimed through his tears. Ranieri in a generous moment

replied: "Leopardi, you shall not return to Recanati. The little that

I possess is enough for two. As a benefit to me, not to yourself, we

will henceforth live together." This was the beginning of what Ranieri

calls his "vita nuova." He conducted Leopardi from Florence to Rome;

thence back to Florence; and finally from Florence to Naples. The

doctors everywhere shrugged their shoulders at his case, and suggested,

as delicately as possible, the mortal nature of his maladies. At Naples

Ranieri and his sister Paulina did all they could for Leopardi, and

from 1833 to his death in 1837 supplied all his wants. He could seldom

see to read or write. "We used to read to him constantly and regularly,

and were fortunately conversant with the languages he knew," says

Ranieri. Occasionally he was able to go to the theatre, and enjoyed

it greatly. In his habits he seems to have tried his friend's temper

and patience considerably. He was wont to turn night into day, and

day into night. Ranieri and his sister often did the same in order to

read, work, and talk with him. He breakfasted between three and five

o'clock in the afternoon, and dined about midnight. Like Schopenhauer,

he delighted in after-dinner conversation, which he termed "one of

the greatest pleasures of life." He was very obstinate in personal

matters, disobeying the doctors in his diet and everything else. His

fondness for his old clothes was remarkable; he loved them for their

associations. Ranieri mentions "a certain very ancient overcoat which

for seven years" had tormented him, and which he used to entreat

Leopardi to lay aside, but which he clung to with an incredible

affection, preferring it to a new one that he allowed the moths to

destroy. The mere names of wind, cold, and snow were enough to pale

him. He could not bear fire, and formerly used to pass the winters

three parts submerged in a sack of feathers, reading and writing thus

the greater part of the day. He was very terrified when the cholera

appeared at Naples, to avoid which he and Ranieri went to a country

house of the latter's on one of the slopes of Vesuvius. Here Leopardi

wrote his poem "La Ginestra," inspired by the desolate scenes at the

foot of the mountain. He died suddenly at Naples, as he and Ranieri's

household were about to set off again for the country. The Neapolitan

Journal "Il Progresso," in an article on Lis death, remarked of him

that "such brilliancy is not allowed to illumine the earth for long."

"Notes Biographiques sur Leopardi et sa Famille" (Paris, 1881). This

is a book of considerable value. Written by the widow of Count Carlo

Leopardi, Giacomo's younger brother, and his "other self," it is

most valuable as delineating the characters of Leopardi's father and

mother. A softer light is shed on the character of Leopardi's mother.

We learn that she was not passionless, hard, and unsympathetic, as we

had previously supposed her to be. On the contrary, she was a good

woman, of deep affection, who made it the aim of her married life

to work for the welfare of the family of which she became a member.

Weighted with debt almost to the point of exhaustion, the estates of

Casa Leopardi needed a skilful and vigorous administrator, if they were

to continue in the hands of their old owners. Count Monaldo Leopardi

was not such an administrator. He was a man devoted "tout entier ‡

science," and occupying himself more with bibliology and archÊology

than with the finances of his estate. The Jews of Perousa, Milan, and

the March towns would, sooner or later, have tightened their hold on

the Leopardi patrimony to such a degree that the ancient family could

only have continued to exist as proprietors on sufferance. But, in the

words of the authoress of this book, Providence watched over the house

"en lui envoyant dans la jeune marquise Adelaide Antici l'ange qui

devait la sauver." The young bride accepted her position with an entire

knowledge of the responsibilities that would accompany it. She took

the reins of the neglected administration, and set herself the task

of restoring the fortunes of Casa Leopardi. By her exertions the Pope

was made acquainted with their difficulties, and by his intervention

an arrangement was made between the creditors and the Leopardi family,

whereby the former were restrained from demanding the amount of their

debt for forty years, receiving thereon in the mean time interest at

8 per cent, per annum. This was the life-work of Countess Leopardi.

During forty years she administered the finances of Casa Leopardi, and

by the end of that time succeeded in freeing the family from the burden

with which it had been long encumbered. She died in 1857, ten years

after her husband, and twenty years later than her eldest son, Giacomo.

ST. MARK'S PLACE, WOLVERHAMPTON,

_December_, 1881.

[Footnote 1: _Sette anni di Sodalizio con Giacomo Leopardi._]

The following works, amongst others, have been made use of in the

preparation of this volume:--

Opere Leopardi. 6 vols. Firenze, 1845.

Opere inedite Leopardi. Cugnoni: Halle, 1878.

Studio di Leopardi. A. Baragiola: Strasburg, 1876.

Traduction complËte de Leopardi. F. A. Aulard: Paris, 1880.

Opuscules et PensÈes de Leopardi. A. Dapples: Paris, 1880.

G. Leopardi: sa Vie et ses Oeuvres. BouchÈ Leclercq: Paris,

1874.

Le Pessimisme. E. Caro: Paris, 1878.

Pessimism. Jas. Sully: London, 1877.

La Philosophie de Schopenhauer. Th. Ribot: Paris, 1874.

Il Buddha, Confucio, e Lao-Tse. C. Puini: Firenze, 1878.

Artide in Quarterly Review on Leopardi. 1850.

Artide in Fraser's Magazine, Leopardi and his Father: a

Study, by L. Villari. November 1881.

_HISTORY OF THE HUMAN RACE._

It is said that the first inhabitants of the earth were everywhere

created simultaneously. Whilst children they were fed by bees, goats,

and doves, as the poets say the infant Jove was nourished. The earth

was much smaller than it is at present, and devoid of mountains and

hills. The sky was starless. There was no sea; and the world as a whole

was far less varied and beautiful than it now is.

Yet men were never weary of looking at the sky and the earth, which

excited within them feelings of wonder and admiration. They considered

them both to be of infinite extent, majesty, and magnificence. Their

souls were filled with joyous hopes, and every sensation of life gave

them inexpressible pleasure. Their contentment daily increased, so that

they at length thought themselves supremely happy. In this peaceful

state of mind they passed their infancy and youth.

Arrived at a mature age, their feelings began to experience some

alteration. As their early hopes, to which they had perseveringly

adhered, failed of realisation, they no longer put faith in them. But,

on the other hand, present happiness isolated from anticipation of

the future, did not suffice them; especially seeing that, either from

habit or because the charm of a first acquaintanceship had worn off,

nature and all the incidents of life gave them much less pleasure than

at first. They travelled over the earth, and visited the most distant

lands. This they could easily do, because there were neither seas,

mountains, nor obstacles of any kind to oppose them. After a few years,

most men had proved the finite nature of the earth, the boundaries of

which were by no means so remote as to be unattainable. They found

too, that all countries of the world, and all men, with but slight

differences, were alike. These discoveries I so greatly increased their

discontent, that a weariness of life became prevalent among men even

before they had passed the threshold of manhood. And as men grew older,

this feeling gradually transformed itself into a hatred of existence,

so that at length, seized by despair, they in one way or another

hesitated not to abandon the light and life once so beloved.

It seemed to the gods a shocking thing that living creatures should

prefer death to life, and should destroy themselves for no other

reason than that they were weary of existence. It also amazed them

beyond measure to find their gifts held in such contempt, and so

unequivocally rejected by men. They thought the world had been endowed

with sufficient beauty, goodness, and harmony to make it not merely

a bearable, but even a highly enjoyable place of residence for every

living thing, and especially for man, whom they had fabricated with

peculiar care, and a marvellous perfection. At the same time, touched

with a deep feeling of compassion for the distress men exhibited, they

began to fear lest the renewal and increase of these deplorable actions

might not soon result in the extinction of the human race, contrary

to destiny, and they would thus lose the most perfect work of their

creation, and be deprived of the honours they received from men.

Jove determined therefore to improve the condition of men, since it

seemed necessary, and to increase the means whereby they might obtain

happiness. They complained of the deceitfulness of things; which were

neither as great, beautiful, perfect, nor varied as they at first

imagined them to be; but were, on the contrary, small, imperfect, and

monotonous. They derived no pleasure from their youth; still less

were they satisfied with the times of maturity, and old age. Their

infancy alone gave them pleasure, and yearning for the sweetness of

their early days, they besought Jove to make their condition one of

perpetual childhood. But the god could not satisfy them in this matter;

for it was contrary to the laws of nature, and the divine decrees and

intentions. Neither could he communicate his own infinity to mortal

creatures, nor the world itself, any more than he could bestow infinite

happiness and perfection on men and things. It seemed best to him to

extend the limits of creation, at the same time increasing the world's

diversity and beauty. In fulfilment of this intention, he enlarged

the earth on all sides; and made the sea to flow as a separation

between inhabited places, so that it might vary the aspect of things,

and by severing their roads, prevent men from easily discovering the

confines of the world. He also designed the sea to serve as a vivid

representation of the infinity which they desired. Then it was that the

waters covered the island Atlantis, as well as many other vast tracts

of country; but the remembrance of this island alone has survived the

multitude of centuries that have passed since that time.

Jove formed valleys by lowering certain places; and by exalting others

he created hills and mountains. He bespread the night with stars;

purified the atmosphere; increased the brilliancy and light of day;

intensified the colours of the sky and the country, and gave them

more variety. He also mixed the generations of men, so that the aged

of one generation were contemporaneous with the children of another.

Above all, Jove determined to multiply resemblances of that infinity

for which men so eagerly craved. He could not really satisfy them, but

wishing to soothe and appease their imagination, which he knew had

been the chief source of their happiness in childhood, he employed many

expedients like that of the sea. He created the echo, and hid it in

valleys and caverns, and gave to the forests a dull deep whispering,

conjoined with a mysterious undulation of their tree-tops. He created

also the gorgeous land of dreams, and gave men power to visit it in

their sleep. There they could experience such perfect happiness as

could not in reality be accorded to them. This served as a substitute

for the vague unrealisable conception of felicity formed by men within

themselves, and to which Jove himself could not have given any real

expression, had he desired to do so.

By these means the god infused new strength and vigour into the minds

of men, and endeared life to them again, so that they were full of

admiration for the beauty and immensity of nature. This happy state

lasted longer than the previous one. Its duration was chiefly due to

the diversity of ages among men, whereby those who were chilled and

wearied with their experience of the world, were comforted by the

society of others full of the ardency and hopefulness of youth.

But in process of time this novelty wore off, and men again became

discontented and wearied with life. So despondent did they become,

that then is said to have originated the custom attributed by history

to certain ancient nations; the birth of a child was celebrated with

tears, and the death of a parent was the occasion of rejoicing for his

deliverance.[1] At length wickedness became universal. This was either

because men thought that Jove disregarded them, or because it is the

nature of misfortune to debase even the noblest minds.

It is a popular error to imagine that man's misfortunes are the result

of his impiety and iniquity. On the contrary, his wickedness is the

consequence of his misfortunes.

The gods avenged themselves for their injuries, and punished mortals

for their renewed perverseness, by the deluge of Deucalion. There were

only two survivors of this shipwreck of the human race, Deucalion

and Pyrrha. These unhappy ones were filled with the sense of their

wretchedness, and far from regretting the loss of all their fellows,

themselves loudly invoked death from the summit of a rock. But Jove

commanded them to remedy the depopulation of the earth, and seeing that

they had not the heart to beget a new generation, directed them to take

stones from the hill-sides, and cast them over their shoulders. From

these stones men were created, and the earth was again peopled.

The history of the past had enlightened Jove as to the nature of men,

and had shown him that it is not sufficient for them, as for other

animals, merely to live in a state of freedom from sorrow and physical

discomfort. He knew that whatever their condition of life, they would

seek the impossible, and if unpossessed of genuine evils, would

torment themselves with imaginary ones. The god resolved therefore

to employ new means for the preservation of the miserable race. For

this purpose he used two especial artifices. In the first place, he

strewed life with veritable evils; and secondly, instituted a thousand

kinds of business and labour, to distract men as much as possible from

self-contemplation, and their desires for an unknown and imaginary

happiness.

He began by sending a multitude of diseases, and an infinite number

of other calamities among them, with the intention of varying the

conditions of life so as to obviate the feeling of satiety which had

resulted before, and to induce men to esteem the good things they

possessed so much the more by contrast with these new evils. The

god hoped that men would be better able to bear the absence of the

happiness they longed for, when occupied and under the discipline of

suffering. He also determined by means of these physical infirmities

and exertions, to reduce the vigour of men's minds, to humble their

pride, to make them bow the head to necessity, and be more contented

with their lot. He knew that disease and misfortune would operate as a

preventive to the committal of those acts of suicide which had formerly

been rife; for they would not only make men cowardly and weak, but

would help to attach them to life by the hope of an existence free from

such sufferings. For it is a characteristic of the unfortunate that

they imagine happiness will wait on them as soon as the immediate cause

of their present misfortune is removed.

Jove then created the winds and the rain-clouds, prepared the thunder

and lightning, gave the trident to Neptune, launched comets, and

arranged eclipses. By means of these and other terrible signs, he

resolved to frighten mortals from time to time, knowing that fear

and actual danger would temporarily reconcile to life, not only the

unhappy, but even those who most detested and were most disposed to put

an end to their existence.

As a cure for the idleness of the past, Jove gave to men a taste and

desire for new foods and drinks, unprocurable, however, without the

greatest exertions. Previous to the deluge men had lived on water,

herbs, and such fruits as were yielded by the earth and the trees,

just as certain people of California and other places live even in the

present day. He assigned different climates to different countries,

and appointed the seasons of the year. Hitherto there had been no

diversity of temperature in any place, but the atmosphere was uniformly

so equable and mild that men were ignorant of the use of clothing. Now,

however, they were obliged to exert themselves industriously to remedy

the inclemency and changeability of the weather.

Jove gave Mercury command to lay the foundations of the first cities,

and to divide men into different races, nations, and languages,

separated by feelings of rivalry and discord. He was also commissioned

to teach them music and those other arts, which, owing to their nature

and origin, are still called divine. Jove himself distributed laws and

constitutions to the new nations. Finally, as a supreme gift, he sent

among men certain sublime and superhuman Phantoms, to whom he committed

very great influence and control over the people of the earth. They

were called Justice, Virtue, Glory, Patriotism, &c. Among these

Phantoms was one named Love, which then first entered the world. For

previous to the introduction of clothes, the sexes were drawn towards

one another by merely a brute instinct, far different from love. The

feeling was comparable to that which we experience towards articles of

food and such things, that we desire, but do not love.

By these divine decrees the condition of man was infinitely

ameliorated, and rendered easier and pleasanter than before; in spite

of the fatigues, sufferings, and terrors which were now inseparable

from humanity. And this result was chiefly due to the wonderful

chimeras, whom some men regarded as genii, others as gods, and whom

they followed with an intense veneration and enthusiasm for a very long

time. To such a pitch was their ardour excited by the poets and artists

of the times, that numbers of men did not hesitate to sacrifice their

lives to one or other of these Phantoms. Far from displeasing Jove,

this fact gratified him exceedingly, for he judged that if men esteemed

their life a gift worthy of sacrifice to these fine and glorious

illusions, they would be less likely to repudiate it as before. This

happy state of affairs was of longer duration than the preceding

ages. And even when after the lapse of many centuries, a tendency to

decline became apparent, existence, thanks to these bright illusions,

was still easy and bearable enough, up to a time not very far distant

from the present. This decline was chiefly due to the facility with

which men were able to satisfy their wants and desires; the growing

inequality between men in their social and other conditions, as

they receded farther and farther from the republican models founded

by Jove; the reappearance of vanity and idleness as a consequence of

this retrocession; the diminishing interest with which the variety of

life's incidents inspired them; and many other well-known and important

causes. Again men were filled with the old feeling of disgust for their

existence, and again their minds clamoured for an unknown happiness,

inconsistent with the order of nature.

But the total revolution of the fortunes of men, and the end of that

epoch which we nowadays designate as the "old world," was due to one

especial influence. It was this. Among the Phantoms so appreciated

by the ancients was a certain one called Wisdom. This Phantom had

duly contributed to the prosperity of the times, and like the others

received high honour from men, a number of whom consecrated themselves

to her service. She had frequently promised her disciples to show

them her mistress, the Truth, a superior spirit who associated with

the gods in heaven, whence she had never yet descended. The Phantom

assured them that she would bring Truth among men, and that this spirit

would exercise so marvellous an influence over their life, that in

knowledge, perfection, and happiness they would almost rival the gods

themselves. But how could a shadow fulfil any promise, much less induce

the Truth to descend to earth? So after a long confiding expectancy,

men perceived the falseness of Wisdom. At the same time, greedy of

novelty because of the idleness of their life, and stimulated partly

by ambition of equalling the gods, and partly by the intensity of

their yearning for the happiness they imagined would ensue from the

possession of Truth, they presumptuously requested Jove to lend them

this noble spirit for a time, and reproached him for having so long

jealously withheld from men the great advantages that would follow from

the presence of Truth. They with one accord expressed dissatisfaction

with their lot, and renewed their former hateful whinings about the

meanness and misery of human things. The Phantoms, once so dear to

them, were now almost entirely abandoned, not that men had discerned

the unreality of their nature, but because they were so debased in

mind and manners as to have no sympathy with even the appearance of

goodness. Thus they wickedly rejected the greatest gift of gods to

men, and excused themselves by saying that none but inferior genii had

been sent on earth, the nobler ones, whom they would willingly have

worshipped, being retained in heaven.

Many things long before this had contributed to lessen the goodwill

of Jove towards men, especially the magnitude and number of their

vices and crimes, which were far in advance of those punished by the

deluge. He was out of patience with the human race, the restless

and unreasonable nature of which exasperated him. He recognised the

futility of all effort on his part to make men happy and contented.

Had he not enlarged the world, multiplied its pleasures, and increased

its diversity? Yet all things were soon regarded by men (desirous and

at the same time incapable of infinity) as equally restricted and

valueless. Jove determined therefore to make a perpetual example of the

human race. He resolved to punish men unsparingly, and reduce them to

a state of misery far surpassing their former condition. Towards the

attainment of this end, he purposed sending Truth among men, not for

a time only as they desired, but for eternity, and giving her supreme

control and dominion over the human race, instead of the Phantoms that

were now so greatly despised.

The other gods marvelled at this decision of Jove, as likely to

exalt the human race to a degree prejudicial to their own dignity.

But he explained to them that all genii are not beneficial, and that

apart from this, it was not of the nature of Truth to produce the

same results among men as with the gods. For whereas to the gods

she unveiled the eternity of their joy, to mortals she would expose

the immensity of their unhappiness, representing it to them not as a

matter of chance, but as an inevitable and perpetual necessity. And

since human evils are great in proportion as they are believed to

be so by their victims, it may be imagined how acute an affliction

Truth will prove to men. The vanity of all earthly things will be

apparent to them; they will find that nothing is genuine save their

own unhappiness. Above all, they will lose hope, hitherto the greatest

solace and support of life. Deprived of hope, they will have nothing

to stimulate them to any exertions; consequently work, industry, and

all mental culture will languish, and the life of the living will

partake of the inertness of the grave. Yet in spite of their despair

and inactivity, men will still be tormented by their old longing

for happiness intensified and quickened, because they will be less

distracted by cares, and the stir of action. They will also be deprived

of the power of imagination, which in itself could mysteriously

transport them into a state of happiness comparable to the felicity for

which they long.

"And," said Jove, "all those representations of infinity which I

designedly placed in the world to deceive and satisfy men, and all the

vague thoughts suggestive of happiness, which I infused into their

minds, will yield to the doctrines of Truth. The earth, which formerly

displeased them for its insignificance, will do so increasedly when its

true dimensions are known, and when all the secrets of nature are made

manifest to them. And finally, with the disappearance of those Phantoms

that alone gave brightness to existence, human life will become aimless

and valueless. Nations and countries will lose even their names, for

with Patriotism will vanish all incentive to national identities. Men

will unite and form one nation and one people (as they will say), and

will profess a universal love for the race. But in reality there will

be the least possible union amongst them; they will be divided into as

many peoples as there are individuals. For having no special country

to love, and no foreigners to hate, every man will hate his neighbour,

and love only himself. The evil consequences of this are incalculable.

Nevertheless, men will not put an end to their unhappiness by depriving

themselves of life, because under the sway of Truth they will become

as cowardly as miserable. Truth will increase the bitterness of their

existence, and at the same time bereave them of sufficient courage to

reject it."

These words of Jove moved the gods to compassion for the human race.

It seemed to them that so great inflictions were inconsistent with the

divine attribute of mercy.

But Jove continued: "There will remain to humanity a certain

consolation proceeding from the Phantom Love, which alone I purpose

leaving among men. And even Truth, in spite of her almost omnipotence,

will never quite prevail over Love, nor succeed in chasing this Phantom

from the earth, though the struggle between them will be perpetual.

Thus the life of man, divided betwixt the worship of Truth and Love,

will consist of two epochs, during which these influences will

respectively control his mind and actions. To the aged, instead of

the solace of Love, will be granted a state of contentment with their

existence, similar to that of other animals. They will love life for

its own sake, not for any pleasure or profit they derive from it."

Accordingly, Jove removed the Phantoms from earth, save only Love,

the least noble of all, and sent Truth among men to exercise over

them perpetual rule. The consequences foreseen by the god were not

long in making themselves manifest. And strange to say, whereas the

spirit before her descent on earth, and when she had no real authority

over men, was honoured by a multitude of temples and sacrifices, her

presence had the effect of cooling their enthusiasm on her behalf.

With the other gods this was not so; the more they made themselves

manifest, the more they were honoured; but Truth saddened men, and

ultimately inspired them with such hatred that they refused to worship

her, and only by constraint rendered her obedience. And whereas

formerly, men who were under the especial influence of any one of

the ancient Phantoms, used to love and revere that Phantom above the

others, Truth was detested and cursed by those over whom she gained

supreme control. So, unable to resist her tyranny, men lived from

that time in the complete state of misery, which is their fate in the

present day, and to which they are eternally doomed.

But not long ago, pity, which is never exhausted in the minds of

the gods, moved Jove to compassionate the wretchedness of mortals.

He noticed especially the affliction of certain men, remarkable for

their high intellect, and nobility, and purity of life, who were

extraordinarily oppressed by the sway of Truth. Now in former times,

when Justice, Virtue, and the other Phantoms directed humanity, the

gods had been accustomed at times to visit the earth, and sojourn

with men for awhile, always on such occasions benefiting the race, or

particular individuals, in some especial manner. But since men had

become so debased, and sunk in wickedness, they had not deigned to

associate with them. Jove therefore, pitying our condition, asked the

immortals whether any one of them would visit the earth as of old,

and console men under their calamities, especially such as seemed

undeserving of the universal affliction. All the gods were silent.

At length Love, the son of celestial Venus, bearing the same name as

the Phantom Love, but very different in nature and power, and the

most compassionate of the immortals, offered himself for the mission

proposed by Jove. This deity was so beloved by the other gods, that

hitherto they had never allowed him to quit their presence, even for

a moment. The ancients indeed imagined that the god had appeared to

them from time to time; but it was not so. They were deceived by the

subterfuges and transformations of the Phantom Love. The deity of the

same name first visited mankind after they were placed under the empire

of Truth.

Since that time the god has rarely and briefly descended, because of

the general unworthiness of humanity, and the impatience with which

the celestials await his return. When he comes on earth he chooses the

tender and noble hearts of the most generous and magnanimous persons.

Here he rests for a short time, diffusing in them so strange and

wondrous a sweetness, and inspiring them with affections so lofty and

vigorous, that they then experience what is entirely new to mankind,

the substance rather than the semblance of happiness. Sometimes, though

very rarely, he brings about the union of two hearts, abiding in them

both simultaneously, and exciting within them a reciprocal warmth and

desire. All within whom he dwells beseech him to effect this union;

but Jove forbids him to yield to their entreaties, save in very few

instances, because the happiness of such mutual love approaches too

nearly to the felicity of the immortals.

The man in whom Love abides is the happiest of mortals. And not only is

he blessed by the presence of the deity, but he is also charmed by the

old mysterious Phantoms, which, though removed from the lot of men, by

Jove's permission follow in the train of Love, in spite of the great

opposition of Truth, their supreme enemy. But Truth, like all the other

genii, is powerless to resist the will of the gods. And, since destiny

has granted to Love a state of eternal youth, the god can partially

give effect to that first desire of men, that they might return to the

happiness of their childhood. In the souls he inhabits, Love awakens

and vivifies, so long as ha stays there, the boundless hopes, and the

sweet and fine illusions of early life. Many persons, ignorant and

incapable of appreciating Love, vituperate and affront the god, even to

his face. But he disregards these insults, and exacts no vengeance for

them, so noble and compassionate is his nature. Nor do the other gods

any longer trouble themselves about the crimes of men, being satisfied

with the vengeance they have already wrought on the human race, and

the incurable misery which is its portion. Consequently, wicked and

blasphemous men suffer no punishment for their offences, except that

they are absolutely excluded from being partakers of the divine favours.

[Footnote 1: See Herodotus, Strabo, &c.]

_DIALOGUE BETWEEN HERCULES AND ATLAS._

_Hercules_. Father Atlas, Jove's compliments, and in case you should be

weary of your burden, I was to relieve you for a few hours, as I did

I don't know how many centuries ago, so that you may take breath, and

rest a little.

_Atlas_. Thanks, dear Hercules, and I am very much obliged to Jove.

But the world has become so light, that this cloak which I wear as a

protection against the snow, incommodes me more. Indeed, were it not

Jove's will that I should continue to stand here, supporting this ball

on my back, I would put it under my arm, or in my pocket, or suspend it

from a hair of my beard, and go about my own affairs.

_Hercules_. How has it become so light? I can easily see it has changed

shape, and has become a sort of roll, instead of being round as when I

studied cosmography in preparation for that wonderful voyage with the

Argonauts. But still I cannot see why its weight should have diminished.

_Atlas_. I am as ignorant of the reason as you are. But take the thing

for a moment in your hand, and satisfy yourself of the truth of my

assertion.

_Hercules_. Upon my word, without this test, I would not have believed

it. But what is this other novelty that I discover? The last time I

bore it, I felt a strong pulsation on my back, like the beat of an

animal's heart; and I heard a continuous buzzing like a wasp's nest.

But now, it throbs more like a watch with a broken spring, and as for

the buzzing, I don't hear a sound of it.

_Atlas_. I know nothing of this either, except that long ago, the world

ceased making any motion, or sensible noise. I even had very great

suspicions that it was dead, and expecting daily to be troubled by

its corruption, I considered how and where I should bury it, and what

epitaph I should place on its tomb. But when I saw that it did not

decompose, I came to the conclusion that it had changed from an animal

into a plant, like Daphne and others; and this explained its silence

and immobility. I began to fear lest it should soon wind its roots

round my shoulders, or bury them in my body.

_Hercules_. I am rather inclined to think it is asleep, and that its

repose is like that of Epimenides,[1] which lasted more than half a

century. Or perhaps it is like Hermotimus,[2] whose soul used to leave

his body when it pleased, and stay away many years, disporting itself

in foreign lands. To put an end to this game, the friends of Hermotimus

burned the body; so that the spirit returning, found its home

destroyed, and was obliged to seek shelter in another body, or an inn.

So, to prevent the world from sleeping for ever, or lest some friend,

thinking it were dead, should set it on fire, let us try to arouse it.

_Atlas_. I am willing. But how shall we do it?

_Hercules_. I would give it a good blow with this club, if I were not

afraid of smashing it, and were I not sure that it would crack under

the stroke like an egg. Besides, I fear lest the men, who in my time

used to wrestle with lions, but are now only a match for fleas, should

faint from so sudden a shock. Suppose I lay aside my club, and you your

cloak, and we have a game at ball with the poor little sphere. I wish

I had brought the rackets that Mercury and I use in the celestial

courts, but we can do without them.

_Atlas_. A likely thing indeed! So that your father seeing our game,

may make a third, and with his thunderbolt precipitate us both I do not

know where, as he did Phaeton into the Po!

_Hercules_. That might be, if, like Phaeton, I were the son of a poet,

and not his own son; and if there were not this difference between

us, that whereas poets formerly peopled cities by the melody of their

art, I could depopulate heaven and earth by the power of my club. And

as for Jove's bolt, I would kick it hence to the farthest quarter of

the empyrean. Be assured that even if I wished to appropriate five

or six stars for the sake of a game, or to make a sling of a comet,

taking it by the tail, or even to play at ball with the sun, my father

would make no objection. Besides, our intention is to do good to the

world, whereas Phaeton simply wished to show off his fleetness before

the Hours, who held the steps for him when he mounted his chariot. He

also wanted to gain reputation as a skilful coach-man, in the eyes of

Andromeda, Callisto, and the other beautiful constellations, to whom,

it is said, he threw, in passing, lustre bonbons, and comfits of light;

and to make a fine parade of himself before the celestial gods during

his journey that day, which chanced to be a festival. In short, don't

give a thought to the possibility of my father's wrath. In any case, I

will bear all the blame; so throw off your cloak, and send me the ball.

_Atlas_. Willingly or not, I must do as you wish; since you are strong

and armed, whereas I am old and defenceless. But do take care lest it

fall, in which case it will have fresh swellings, or some new fracture,

like that which separated Sicily from Italy, and Africa from Spain. And

if it should get chipped in any way, there might be a war about what

men would call the detachment of a province or kingdom.

_Hercules_. Rely on me.

_Atlas_. Then here goes. See how it quivers on account of its altered

shape!

_Hercules_. Hit a little harder; your strokes scarcely reach me.

_Atlas_. It is the fault of the ball. The south-west wind catches it,

because of its lightness.

_Hercules_. It is its old failing to go with the wind.

_Atlas_. Suppose we were to inflate the ball, since it has no more

notion of a bounce than a melon.

_Hercules_. A new shortcoming! Formerly it used to leap and dance like

a young goat.

_Atlas_. Look out! Run quickly after that. For Jove's sake, take care

lest it fall! Alas! it was an evil hour when you came here.

_Hercules_. You sent me such a bad stroke that I could not possibly

have caught it in time, even at the risk of breaking my neck. Alas,

poor little one!... How are you? Do you feel bad anywhere? I don't hear

a sigh, nor does a soul move. They are all still asleep.

_Atlas_. Give it back to me, by all the horns of the Styx, and let me

settle it again on my shoulders. And you, take your club, and hasten

to heaven to excuse me with Jove for this accident, which is entirely

owing to you.

_Hercules_. I will do so. For many centuries there has been in my

father's house a certain poet, named Horace. He was made court poet

at the suggestion of Augustus, who has been deified by Jove for his

augmentation of the Eoman power. In one of his songs, this poet says

that the just man would stir not, though the world fell. Since the

world has now fallen, and no one has moved, it follows that all men are

just.

_Atlas_. Who doubts the justice of men? But do not lose time; run

and exculpate me with your father, else I shall momentarily expect a

thunderbolt to transform me from Atlas into Etna.

[Footnote 1: See Pliny, Diogenes Laertius, Apollonius, VarrÚ, &c.]

[Footnote 2: See Apollonius, Pliny, Tertullian, &c.]

_DIALOGUE BETWEEN FASHION AND DEATH._

_Fashion_. Madam Death, Madam Death!

_Death_. Wait until your time comes, and then I will appear without

being called by you.

_Fashion_. Madam Death!

_Death_. Go to the devil. I will come when you least expect me.

_Fashion_. As if I were not immortal!

_Death_. Immortal?

"Already has passed the thousandth year,"

since the age of immortals ended.

_Fashion_. Madam is as much a Petrarchist as if she were an Italian

poet of the fifteenth or eighteenth century.

_Death_. I like Petrarch because he composed my triumph, and because he

refers so often to me. But I must be moving.

_Fashion_. Stay! For the love you bear to the seven cardinal sins, stop

a moment and look at me.

_Death_. Well. I am looking.

_Fashion_. Do you not recognise me?

_Death_. You must know that I have bad sight, and am without

spectacles. The English make none to suit me; and if they did, I should

not know where to put them.

_Fashion_. I am Fashion, your sister.

_Death_. My sister?

_Fashion_. Yes. Do you not remember we are both born of Decay?

_Death_. As if I, who am the chief enemy of Memory, should recollect it!

_Fashion_. But I do. I know also that we both equally profit by the

incessant change and destruction of things here below, although you do

so in one way, and I in another.

_Death_. Unless you are speaking to yourself, or to some one inside

your throat, raise your voice, and pronounce your words more

distinctly. If you go mumbling between your teeth with that thin

spider-voice of yours, I shall never understand you; because you ought

to know that my hearing serves me no better than my sight.

_Fashion_. Although it be contrary to custom, for in France they do

not speak to be heard, yet, since we are sisters, I will speak as you

wish, for we can dispense with ceremony between ourselves. I say then

that our common nature and custom is to incessantly renew the world.

You attack the life of man, and overthrow all people and nations from

beginning to end; whereas I content myself for the most part with

influencing beards, head-dresses, costumes, furniture, houses, and

the like. It is true, I do some things comparable to your supreme

action. I pierce ears, lips, and noses, and cause them to be torn

by the ornaments I suspend from them. I impress men's skin with hot

iron stamps, under the pretence of adornment. I compress the heads

of children with tight bandages and other contrivances; and make it

customary for all men of a country to have heads of the same shape, as

in parts of America and Asia. I torture and cripple people with small

shoes. I stifle women with stays so tight, that their eyes start from

their heads; and I play a thousand similar pranks. I also frequently

persuade and force men of refinement to bear daily numberless fatigues

and discomforts, and often real sufferings; and some even die

gloriously for love of me. I will say nothing of the headaches, colds,

inflammations of all kinds, fevers--daily, tertian, and quartan--which

men gain by their obedience to me. They are content to shiver with

cold, or melt with heat, simply because it is my will that they cover

their shoulders with wool, and their breasts with cotton. In fact, they

do everything in my way, regardless of their own injury.

_Death_. In truth, I believe you are my sister; the testimony of a

birth certificate could scarcely make me surer of it. But standing

still paralyses me, so if you can, let us run; only you must not creep,

because I go at a great pace. As we proceed you can tell me what you

want. If you cannot keep up with me, on account of our relationship I

promise when I die to bequeath you all my clothes and effects as a New

Year's gift.

_Fashion_. If we ran a race together, I hardly know which of us would

win. For if you run, I gallop, and standing still, which paralyses you,

is death to me. So let us run, and we will chat as we go along.

_Death_. So be it then. Since your mother was mine, you ought to serve

me in some way, and assist me in my business.

_Fashion_. I have already done so--more than you,--imagine. Above all,

I, who annul and transform other customs unceasingly, have nowhere

changed the custom of death; for this reason it has prevailed from the

beginning of the world until now.

_Death_. A great miracle forsooth, that you have never done what you

could not do!

_Fashion_. Why cannot I do it? You show how ignorant you are of the

power of Fashion.

_Death_. Well, well: time enough to talk of this when you introduce the

custom of not dying. But at present, I want you, like a good sister,

to aid me in rendering my task more easy and expeditious than it has

hitherto been.

_Fashion_. I have already mentioned some of my labours which are a

source of profit to you. But they are trifling in comparison with those

of which I will now tell you.

Little by little, and especially in modern times, I have brought into

disuse and discredit those exertions and exercises which promote bodily

health; and have substituted numberless others which enfeeble the

body in a thousand ways, and shorten life. Besides, I have introduced

customs and manners, which render existence a thing more dead than

alive, whether regarded from a physical or mental point of view;

so that this century may be aptly termed the century of death. And

whereas formerly you had no other possessions except graves and vaults,

where you sowed bones and dust, which are but a barren seed, now you

have fine landed properties, and people who are a sort of freehold

possession of yours as soon as they are born, though not then claimed

by you. And more, you, who used formerly to be hated and vituperated,

are in the present day, thanks to me, valued and lauded by all men of

genius. Such an one prefers you to life itself, and holds you in such

high esteem that he invokes you, and looks to you as his greatest hope.

But this is not all. I perceived that men had some vague idea of an

after-life, which they called immortality. They imagined they lived in

the memory of their fellows, and this remembrance they sought after

eagerly. Of course this was in reality mere fancy, since what could it

matter to them when dead, that they lived in the minds of men? As well

might they dread contamination in the grave! Yet, fearing lest this

chimera might be prejudicial to you, in seeming to diminish your honour

and reputation, I have abolished the fashion of seeking immortality,

and its concession, even when merited. So that now, whoever dies may

assure himself that he is dead altogether, and that every bit of him

goes into the ground, just as a little fish is swallowed, bones and

all.

These important things my love for you has prompted me to effect. I

have also succeeded in my endeavour to increase your power on earth. I

am more than ever desirous of continuing this work. Indeed, my object

in seeking you to-day was to make a proposal that for the future we

should not separate, but jointly might scheme and execute for the

furtherance of our respective designs.

_Death_. You speak reasonably, and I am willing to do as you propose.

_PRIZE COMPETITION ANNOUNCED BY THE ACADEMY OF SILLOGRAPHS._

The Academy of Sillographs, ardently desiring to advance the common

welfare, and esteeming nothing more conformable to this end than the

promotion of the progress

"Of the happy century in which we live,"

as says an illustrious poet, has taken in hand the careful

consideration of the nature and tendency of our time. After long and

mature consultation, the Academy has resolved to call our era the

age of machines; not only because the men of to-day live and move

perhaps more mechanically than in past times, but also on account of

the numerous machines now invented and utilised for so many different

purposes. To such an extent indeed is this carried, that machines and

not men may be said to manage human affairs, and conduct the business

of life. This circumstance greatly pleases the said Academy, not so

much because of the manifest convenience of the arrangement, as for two

reasons, which it thinks very important, although ordinarily they are

not so regarded. The one is the possibility that in process of time the

influence and usefulness of machines may extend to spiritual as well

as material things. And as by virtue of these machines and inventions,

we are already protected from lightning, storms, and other such evils

and terrors; similarly there may be discovered some cure for envy,

calumny, perfidy, and trickery; some safety-cord or other invention

to deliver us from egotism, from the prevalence of mediocrity, from

prosperous fools, bad and debased persons, from the universal spirit

of indifference, from the wretchedness peculiar to the wise, the

cultivated, the noble-minded, and from other discomforts which for many

centuries have been more invincible than either lightning or tempests.

The other and chief reason concerns the unhappy condition of the human

race. Most philosophers despair of its improvement, or the cure of its

defects, which probably equal or exceed in number its virtues. They

believe it would be easier to entirely re-create the race in another

way, or to substitute a different "genus" altogether, than to amend

it. The Academy of Sinographs is therefore of opinion that it is very

expedient for men to withdraw from the business of life as much as

possible, and gradually to resign in favour of machines. And being

resolved to support with all its might the progress of this new order

of things, it now begs to offer three prizes for the inventors of the

three following machines.

The aim of the first machine must be to represent a friend warranted

not to abuse or ridicule his absent friend; nor forsake his friend when

he hears him made the subject of jest; nor to seek the reputation of

acuteness, sarcasm, and the power of exciting men's laughter at his

friend's expense; nor to divulge or boast of secrets confided to him;

nor to take advantage of his friend's intimacy and confidence in order

to supplant and surpass him; nor to envy his friend's good fortune.

But it must be solicitous for his friend's welfare, join issue with

him against his misfortunes, and assist him in deeds as well as words.

Reference to the treatises of Cicero and the Marquise of Lambert on

"Friendship" may be advantageously made for further suggestions as to

the manufacture of this automaton. The Academy thinks the invention

of this machine ought not to be regarded as either impossible, or

even very difficult, seeing that besides the automata of Regiomontano,

Vaucanson, and others, and the one in London which drew figures and

portraits, and wrote from dictation, there are machines that can even

play chess unassisted. Now in the opinion of many "savants," human

life is a game, and some assert it to be a thing even more frivolous.

They say that the game of chess is a more rationally conceived thing,

and its hazards are less uncertain than those of life. Besides,

Pindar has called life a thing of no more substance than the dream of

a shadow; in which case it ought not to be beyond the capacity of a

vigilant automaton. As to speech, there is no reason why men should

not be able to communicate this to machines of their manufacture. For

amongst examples of manufactures so endowed, we may number the statue

of Memnon, and the head formed by Albertus Magnus; this latter was

so loquacious that St. Thomas Aquinas, irritated at its incessant

tittle-tattle, broke it in pieces. And if the parrot of Nevers (though

certainly this was an animal, however small a one) could converse, how

much more credible that a machine, conceived by the mind of man, and

constructed by his hands, should be able to acquire such attainments?

The machine ought not to be so talkative as the parrot of Nevers, and

other similar ones, which we see and hear everywhere; nor as the head

made by Albertus Magnus; for it must not weary its friend, thereby

inciting him to its destruction.

The inventor of this machine shall receive a reward of a gold medal

weighing four hundred sequins, which on the one side shall have a

representation of the figures of Pylades and Orestes, and on the other

side the name of the person rewarded, together with the inscription,

"First verifier of the ancient fables."

The second machine must be an artificial man worked by steam, adapted

and constructed for virtuous and magnanimous actions. The Academy is of

opinion that since no other method appears to exist, steam ought to

be capable of directing an animated automaton in the paths of virtue

and glory. Candidates for this competition are referred to books of

poems and romances for suggestions as to the qualities and powers with

which to endow the figure. The reward to be a gold medal weighing four

hundred and fifty sequins, stamped on the one side with some fanciful

design significative of the age of gold, and on its reverse the name of

the inventor of the machine, together with this inscription from the

fourth eclogue of Virgil: "Quo ferrea primum desinet ac toto surget

gens aurea mundo."

The third machine should be empowered to act as a woman, realising

the conception formed partly by Count Baldassar Castiglione, who

describes his idea in the book of the "Cortegiano," and partly by

others, easily discoverable in various writings which must be consulted

and combined with those of the Count. Nor ought the invention of this

machine to appear impossible to men of our times, when it be remembered

that Pygmalion long ago, in an age far from scientific, was able to

fabricate a spouse with his own hands, who was considered to be the

best woman that had ever existed. To the originator of this machine

a gold medal weighing five hundred sequins is assigned, on the one

side of which shall be represented the Arabian Phoenix of Metastasio,

perched on a tree of some European species, and on the other side shall

be written the name of the recipient, with the inscription, "Inventor

of faithful women, and conjugal happiness." The Academy decrees that

the cost of these prizes must be defrayed with what was discovered in

the satchel of Diogenes, late Secretary of this Academy, or by means

of one of the three golden asses that belonged to three Sillographic

Academicians, Apuleius, Firenzuola, and Macchiavelli; all which

property passed to the Sillographists by will of the deceased, as may

be read in the Chronicles of the Academy.

_DIALOGUE BETWEEN A GOBLIN AND A GNOME._

_Goblin_. You here, son of Beelzebub! where are you going?

_Gnome_. My father has sent me to find out what these rascals of men

are doing. He is inclined to suspect something, because it is so

long since they gave us any trouble, and in all his realms there is

not a single one to be seen. He wonders whether any great change has

taken place, and thinks perhaps they have returned to the primitive

system of barter, whereby they use sheep instead of gold and silver;

or the civilised people have become dissatisfied with paper notes for

money, as they have often been, or have taken to cowrie shells such as

savages use; or the laws of Lycurgus have been re-established. The last

possibility seems to him the least likely.

_Goblin_. "You seek them in vain, for they are all dead," as said the

survivors in a tragedy where the principal personages died in the last

act.

_Gnome_. What do you mean?

_Goblin_. I mean that men are all dead, and the race is lost.

_Gnome_. My word! what news for the papers! But how is it they have not

already mentioned it?

_Goblin_. Stupid. Do you not see that if there are no men there will be

no more newspapers?

_Gnome_. Yes, that is true. But how shall we know in future the news of

the world?

_Goblin_. News! what news? That the sun rises and sets? That it is hot

or cold? That here or there it has rained or snowed, or been windy?

Since men disappeared, Fortune has unbandaged her eyes, put on

spectacles, and attached her wheel to a pivot. She sits with arms

crossed, watching the world go round without troubling herself in the

least as to its affairs. There are no more kingdoms nor empires to

swell themselves, and burst like bubbles, for they have all vanished.

There is no more war; and the years are as like one another as two peas.

_Gnome_. No one will know the day of the month, since there will be no

more calendars printed!

_Goblin_. What a misfortune! Nevertheless, the moon will continue her

course.

_Gnome_. And the days of the week will be nameless!

_Goblin_. What does it matter? Do you think they will not come unless

you call them? Or, that once passed, they will return if you call out

their names?

_Gnome_. And no one will take any count of the years!

_Goblin_. We shall be able to say we are young when we are old; and we

shall forget our cares when we cannot fix their anniversary. Besides,

when we are very old, we shall not know it, nor be expecting death

daily.

_Gnome_. But how is it these rogues have disappeared?

_Goblin_. Some killed themselves with fighting; others were drowned in

the sea. Some ate each other. Not a few committed suicide. Some died of

ennui in idleness; and some turned their brains with study. Debauch,

and a thousand other excesses, put an end to many more. In short, they

have arrived at their end, by endeavouring, as long as they lived, to

violate the laws of nature, and to go contrary to their welfare.

_Gnome_. Still, I do not understand how an entire race of animals can

become extinct without leaving any trace behind it.

_Goblin_. You who are a specialist in geology ought to know that the

circumstance is not a new one, and that many kinds of animals lived

anciently, which to-day are nowhere to be found except in the remains

of a few petrified bones. Moreover, these poor creatures employed none

of the means used by men for their destruction.

_Gnome_. It may be so. I should dearly like to resuscitate one or two

of the rascals, just to know what they would think when they saw all

going on as before, in spite of the disappearance of the human race.

Would they then imagine that everything was made and maintained solely

for them?

_Goblin_. They would not like to realise that the world exists solely

for the use of the Goblins.

_Gnome_. You are joking, my friend, if you mean what you say.

_Goblin_. Why? Of course I do.

_Gnome_. Go along with you, buffoon! who does not know that the world

is made for the Gnomes?

_Goblin_. For the Gnomes, who live underground! That is one of the best

jokes I have ever heard. What good are the sun, moon, air, sea, and

country to the Gnomes?

_Gnome_. And pray of what use to the Goblins are the mines of gold and

silver, and the whole body of earth, except the outer skin?

_Goblin_. Well, well: suppose we abandon the discussion. It is

unimportant after all. For I imagine even the lizards and gnats think

the whole world was created for their exclusive service. Let each of us

believe what we please, for nothing will make us change our opinion.

But, between ourselves, if I had not been born a Goblin, I should be in

despair.

_Gnome_. And I, had I not been born a Gnome. But I should like to

know what men would say of their impertinence in former times, when,

besides other misdeeds, they sank thousands of underground shafts, and

stole our goods from us by force, asserting that they belonged to the

human race. Nature, they said, concealed and buried the things down

below, as a sort of game at hide and seek, just to see if they could

discover and abstract them.

_Goblin_. I do not wonder at that, since they not only imagined the

things of the world were at their service, but they also regarded

them as a mere trifle compared to the human race. They called their

own vicissitudes "revolutions of the world;" and histories of their

nations, "histories of the world;" although the earth contained about

as many different species of animals as living individual human beings.

Yet these animals, though made expressly for the use of men, were never

conscious of the so-called revolutions of the world!

_Gnome_. Then even the fleas and gnats were made for the service of men?

_Goblin_. Just so. To exercise their patience, men said.

_Gnome_. As if, apart from fleas, man's patience were not tried

sufficiently!

_Goblin_. And a certain man named Chrysippus termed pigs pieces of meat

expressly prepared by nature for man's table. Their souls, he said,

served the purpose of salt, in preserving them from decay.

_Gnome_. In my opinion, if Chrysippus had had a little sense (salt) in

his brain, instead of imagination (soul), he would never have conceived

such an idea.

_Goblin_. Here is another amusing circumstance. An infinite number

of species of animals were never seen, nor heard of by men their

masters, either because they lived where man never set foot, or because

they were too small to be observed. Many others were only discovered

during the last days of the human race. The same may be said of

plants, minerals, &c. Similarly, from time to time, by means of their

telescopes, they perceived some star or planet, of the existence of

which hitherto, during thousands and thousands of years, they had been

ignorant. They then immediately entered it on the catalogue of their

possessions; for they regarded the stars and planets as so many candles

placed up above to give light to their dominions, because they were

wont to transact much business in the night.

_Gnome_. And in summer, when they saw those little meteor flames

that rush through the air at night, they imagined them to be sprites

employed in snuffing the candles for the good of mankind.

_Goblin_. Yet now that they are all gone, the earth is none the worse

off. The rivers still flow, and the sea, although no longer used for

navigation and traffic, is not dried up.

_Gnome_. The stars and planets still rise and set; nor have they gone

into mourning.

_Goblin_. Neither has the sun put on sackcloth and ashes, as it did,

according to Virgil, when CÊsar died; about whom I imagine it concerned

itself as little as Pompey's Pillar.

_DIALOGUE BETWEEN MALAMBRUNO AND FARFARELLO._

_Malambruno_. Spirits of the deep, Farfarello, Ciriatto, Raconero,

Astarotte, Alichino, or whatever else you are called, I adjure you in

the name of Beelzebub, and command you by virtue of my art, which can

unhinge the moon, and nail the sun in the midst of the heavens, come

one of you with your prince's permission, to put all the powers of hell

at my disposal.

_Farfarello_. Here I am.

_Mal_. Who are you?

_Far_. Farfarello, at thy service.

_Mal_. Have you the mandate of Beelzebub?

_Far_. I have; and can thus do for thee all that the king himself could

do, and more than lies in the power of all other creatures together.

_Mal_. It is well. I wish to be satisfied in but one desire.

_Far_. Thou shalt be obeyed. What is it? Dost thou wish for majesty

surpassing that of the Atrides?

_Mal_. No.

_Far_. More wealth than shall be found in El Dorado, when it is

discovered? _Mal_. No.

_Far_. An empire as large as that of which Charles V. dreamt one night?

_Mal_. No.

_Far_. A mistress chaster than Penelope?

_Mal_. No: methinks the devil's aid were superfluous for that.

_Far_. Honours and success, however wicked thou mayst be?

_Mal_. I should rather more need the devil, if I wished the contrary,

under such circumstances.

_Far_. Then what dost thou want?

_Mal_. Make me happy for a moment.

_Far_. I cannot.

_Mal_. Why?

_Far_. I give you my word of honour--I cannot do it.

_Mal_. The word of honour of a good demon?

_Far_. Yes, to be sure. Thou shouldest know that there are good devils

as well as good men.

_Mal_. And you must know that I will hang you by the tail to one of

these beams if you do not instantly obey me without more words.

_Far_. It were easier for you to kill me, than for me to satisfy your

demands.

_Mal_. Then return with my malediction, and let Beelzebub come himself.

_Far_. Beelzebub and the whole army of hell would be equally powerless

to render you or any of your race happy.

_Mal_. Not even for a single moment?

_Far_. As impossible for a moment, half a moment, or the thousandth

part of a moment, as for a lifetime.

_Mal_. Well, since you cannot make me happy in any way, at least free

me from unhappiness.

_Far_. On condition that you no longer love yourself above everything

else.

_Mal_. I shall only cease doing that when I die.

_Far_. But as long as you live you will be unable to do it. Your nature

would tolerate anything rather than that.

_Mal_. So it is.

_Far_. Consequently, loving yourself above everything, you desire your

own happiness more than anything. But because this is unattainable, you

must necessarily be unhappy.

_Mal_. Even when engaged in pleasure; since no gratification can make

me happy, or satisfy me.

_Far_. Truly none.

_Mal_. And because pleasure cannot satisfy my soul's innate desire for

happiness, it is not true pleasure, and during its continuance I shall

still be unhappy.

_Far_. As you say: because in men and other living beings, the

deprivation of happiness, even though pain and misfortune be wanting,

implies express unhappiness. This, too, during the continuance of

so-called pleasures.

_Mal_. So that from birth to death our unhappiness never ceases for an

instant.

_Far_. Yes, it ceases whenever you sleep dreamlessly, or when, from one

cause or another, you are deprived of your senses.

_Mal_. But never, so long as we are sensible that we live.

_Far_. Never.

_Mal_. So that in fact it were better not to live than to live.

_Far_. If the absence of unhappiness be better than unhappiness itself.

_Mal_. Then?

_Far_. Then if you would like to give me your soul before its time, I

am ready to carry it away with me.

_DIALOGUE BETWEEN NATURE AND A SOUL._

_Nature_. Go, my beloved child. You shall be regarded as my favoured

one for very many centuries. Live: be great and unhappy.

_Soul_. What evil have I done before beginning to live, that you

condemn me to this misery?

_Nature_. What misery, my child?

_Soul_. Do you not ordain that I am to be unhappy?

_Nature_. Yes; but only so far as to enable you to be great, which you

cannot become without unhappiness. Besides, you are destined to animate

a human body, and all men are of necessity unhappy from their birth.

_Soul_. It were more reasonable that you made happiness a necessity; or

this being impossible, it were better not to bring men into the world.

_Nature_. I can do neither the one thing nor the other, because I am

subordinate to Destiny, who decrees the contrary. The reason of this

is as much a mystery to myself as to you. Now that you are created and

designed to animate a human being, no power in the world can save you

from the unhappiness common to men. Moreover, your infelicity will be

especially great, owing to the perfection with which I have fashioned

you.

_Soul_. I know nothing yet, because I have only just begun to live.

Doubtless this is why I do not understand you. But tell me, is

greatness the same thing as extreme unhappiness? If, however, they are

different, why could not the one be separated from the other?

_Nature_. In the souls of men, and proportionately in those of all

animals, they are inseparable, because excellence of soul implies great

capacity for knowledge, which in exposing to men the unhappiness of

humanity may be termed unhappiness itself. Similarly, a life of greater

intensity involves a greater love of self, manifested in different

ways. An increased desire for happiness is a consequence of this

self-love and increased unhappiness, because of the impossibility of

satisfying this desire, and as the unfortunate condition of humanity

becomes realised. All this is decreed from the beginning of creation,

and is unalterable by me.

Moreover, the keenness of your intellect and the strength of your

imagination will lessen considerably your power of self-control. Brute

animals readily adapt all their faculties and powers to the attainment

of their ends; but men rarely do so, being usually prevented by their

reason and imagination, which give birth to a thousand doubts in

deliberation, and a thousand hindrances in execution. The less men

are inclined or accustomed to deliberate, the more prompt are they in

decision, and the more vigorous in action. But such souls as yours,

self-contained, and proudly conscious of their greatness, are really

powerless for self-rule, and often succumb to irresolution both in

thought and action. This temperament is one of the greatest curses of

human life.

Added to this, although by your noble talents you will easily and

quickly excel most men in profound knowledge and works of the greatest

difficulty, you will yet find it almost impossible to learn, or put in

practice, a host of things, trivial enough, but very essential, for

your intercourse with others. At the same time, you; will see your

inferiors, and even men of scarcely any intelligence, perfectly at home

with these things. Such difficulties and miseries as these occupy and

surround great souls; but they are amply atoned for by fame, praise,

and honours paid to their greatness, and by the lasting memory they

leave behind them.

_Soul_. Whence will come these praises and honours,--from heaven, from

you, or from whom?

_Nature_. From men, who alone can dispense them.

_Soul_. But I thought my ignorance of those things necessary for the

intercourse of life, which intellects inferior to mine so easily

comprehend, would cause me to be despised and shunned, not praised by

men. I thought too that I should surely live unknown to most of them,

because of my unfitness for their society.

_Nature_. I have not the power to foresee the future, so I cannot say

exactly how men will behave to you whilst you are on earth. But judging

from past experience, I think they will probably be jealous of you.

This is another misfortune to which great minds are peculiarly liable.

Perhaps too, they will despise you, and treat you with indifference.

Fortune herself, and even circumstances, are usually unfriendly to such

as you.

But directly after your death, as happened to one named Camoens, or a

few years later, like Milton, you will be eulogised and lauded to the

skies, if not by every one, at any rate by the few men of noble minds.

Perhaps the ashes of your body will be deposited in a magnificent tomb,

and your likeness reproduced in many different forms, and passed about

from hand to hand. Men will also study your life and writings, and at

length the world will ring with your name. Always provided you are not

hindered by evil fortune, or even by the very excess of your genius,

from leaving undoubted testimonies of your merit; instances are not

wanting of such unfortunates, known only to myself and Destiny.

_Soul_. O mother, I care not if I be deprived of all knowledge, so long

as I obtain what I most desire, happiness. And as for glory, I know not

whether it be a good or evil thing, but I do know that I shall only

value it in so far as it procures me happiness, directly or indirectly.

Now, on your own showing, the excellence with which you have endowed

me, though it may be fruitful of glory, is also productive of the

greatest unhappiness. Yet even this paltry glory I may not gain until

I am dead, when I fail to see how I shall benefit by it. And besides,

there is the probability that this phantom glory, the price of so much

suffering, may be obtained neither in life nor after death.

In short, from what you yourself have said, I conclude that far from

loving me with peculiar affection, as you affirmed, you bear me greater

malice than that of which I can be the victim, either at the hands

of men or Destiny. Why else should you have endowed me with this

disastrous excellence, about which you boast so much, and which will be

the chief stumbling-block in the road to happiness, the only thing for

which I care?

_Nature_. My child, all men are destined to be unhappy, as I have said,

without any fault of mine. But in the midst of this universal misery,

and amid the infinite vanity of all their pleasures and joys, glory

is by most men considered to be the greatest good of life, and the

worthiest object of ambition and fatigue. Therefore, not hatred but a

feeling of especial kindliness, has prompted me to assist you as far as

I could in your attainment of this glory.

_Soul_. Tell me: among the animals you mentioned, are there any of less

vitality and sensibility than men?

_Nature_. All are so, in more or less degree, beginning with plants.

Man, being the most perfect of them all, has greater life and power of

thought than all other living beings.

_Soul_. Then if you love me, place me in the most imperfect thing

existing, or that being impossible, at least deprive me of this

terrible excellence, and make me like the most stupid and senseless

soul you have ever created!

_Nature_. I can satisfy your second request, and will do so, since you

reject the immortality I would have given you.

_Soul_. And instead of the immortality, I beseech you to hasten my

death as much as possible.

_Nature_. I will consult Destiny about that.

_DIALOGUE BETWEEN THE EARTH AND THE MOON_

_Earth_. Dear Moon, I know that you can speak and answer questions like

a human being, for I have heard so from many of the poets. Besides, our

children say you have really a mouth, nose, and eyes like every one

else, and that they see them with their own eyes, which at their time

of life ought to be very sharp. As for me, no doubt you know that I am

a person; indeed, when I was young, I had a number of children; so you

will not be surprised to hear me speak. And the reason, my fine Moon,

why I have never uttered a word to you before, although I have been

your neighbour for I don't know how many centuries, is that I have been

so occupied as to have no time for gossip. But now my business is so

trifling that it can look after itself. I don't know what to do, and am

ready to die of ennui. So in future, I hope we may often have some talk

together; and I should like to know all about your affairs, if it does

not inconvenience you to recount them to me.

_Moon_. Be easy on that score. May the Fates never trouble me more

than you are likely to! Talk as much as you please, and although, as I

believe you know, I am partial to silence, I will willingly listen and

reply, to oblige you.

_Earth_. Do you hear the delightful sound made by the heavenly bodies

in motion?

_Moon_. To tell you the truth, I hear nothing.

_Earth_. Nor do I; save only the whistling of the wind, which blows

from my poles to the equator, and from the equator to the poles, and

which is far from musical. But Pythagoras asserts that the celestial

spheres make an incredibly sweet harmony, and that you take part in the

concert, and are the eighth chord of this universal lyre. As for me, I

am so deafened by my own noise that I hear nothing.

_Moon_. I also am doubtless deafened, since I hear no more than you.

But it is news to me that I am a chord.

_Earth_. Now let us change the subject. Tell me; are you really

inhabited, as thousands of ancient and modern philosophers affirm--from

Orpheus to De Lalande? In spite of all my efforts to prolong these

horns of mine, which men call mountains and hills, and from the summits

of which I look at you in silence, I have failed to discern a single

one of your inhabitants. Yet I am told that a certain David Fabricius,

whose eyes were keener than those of Lynceus, at one time observed your

people extending their linen to be dried by the sun.

_Moon_. I know nothing about your horns. I will admit that I am

inhabited.

_Earth_. What colour are your men?

_Moon_. What men?

_Earth_. Those that you contain. Did you not say you were inhabited?

_Moon_. Yes, what then?

_Earth_. Does it not follow that all your inhabitants are animals?

_Moon_. Neither animals nor men, though I am really in ignorance as to

the nature of either the one or the other. As for the men you speak of,

I have not an idea what you mean.

_Earth_. Then what sort of creatures are yours?

_Moon_. They are of very many different kinds, as unknown to you, as

yours are to me.

_Earth_. This is so strange that if you yourself had not informed me of

it, I would never have believed it. Were you ever conquered by any of

your inhabitants?

_Moon_. Not that I know of. But how? And for what reason?

_Earth_. Through ambition and jealousy; by means of diplomacy and arms.

_Moon_. I do not know what you mean by arms, ambition, and diplomacy.

Indeed, I understand nothing of what you say.

_Earth_. But surely if you do not understand the meaning of arms,

you know something of war; because, not long ago, a certain doctor

discovered through a telescope, which is an instrument for seeing a

long distance, that you possessed a fine fortress with proper bastions.

Now this is certain proof that your races are at any rate accustomed to

sieges and mural battles.

_Moon_. Pardon me, Mother Earth, if I reply to you a little more at

length than would be expected from one so subjugated as it seems I

am. But in truth, you appear to me more than vain to imagine that

everything in the world is conformable to your things; as if Nature

had no other intention than to copy you exactly in each of her

creations. I tell you I am inhabited, and you jump to the conclusion

that my inhabitants are men. I assert that they are not, and whilst

admitting that they may be another race of beings, you endow them with

qualities and customs similar to those of your people. You also speak

to me about the telescope of a certain doctor. But it seems to me the

sight of these telescopes is about as good as that of your children,

who discover that I have eyes, a mouth, and a nose, all of which I am

ignorant of possessing.

_Earth_. Then it is not true that your provinces are intersected by

fine long roads, and that you are cultivated; which things are clearly

discernible with a telescope from Germany.[1]

_Moon_. I do not know whether I am cultivated, and I have never

observed my roads.

_Earth_. Dear Moon, you must know that I am of a coarse composition,

and very simple-minded. No wonder therefore that men easily deceive

me. But I can assure you that if your own inhabitants do not care

to conquer you, you are by no means free from such danger; for at

different times many people down here have thought of subduing you,

and have even made great preparations for doing so. Some have tried

to reach you by going to my highest places, standing on tiptoe, and

stretching out their arms. Besides, they have made a careful study of

your surface, and drawn out maps of your countries. They also know

the heights of your mountains, and even their names. I warn you of

these things out of pure goodwill, so that you may be prepared for any

emergency.

Now, permit me to ask you another question or two. Are you much

disturbed by the dogs that bay at you? What do you think of those

people who show you another moon in a well? Are you masculine or

feminine[2]--because anciently there was a difference of opinion. Is

it true that the Arcadians came into the world before you?[3] Are your

women, or whatever I should call them, oviparous, and did one of their

eggs fall down to us, once upon a time?[4] Are you perforated like

a bead, as a modern philosopher believes?[5] Are you made of green

cheese, as some English say? Is it true that Mahomet one fine night cut

you in two like a water melon, and that a good piece of your body fell

into his cloak? Why do you like to stay on the tops of minarets? What

do you think of the feast of Bairam?

_Moon_. You may as well go on. I need not answer such questions, nor

depart from my accustomed habit of silence. If you wish to be so

frivolous, and can find nothing else to talk to me about except matters

incomprehensible to me, your people had better construct another planet

to rotate round them, which they can design and populate as they

please. You seem unable to talk of anything but men, and dogs, and such

things, of which I know as much as of that one great being round which

I am told our sun turns.

_Earth_. Truly the more I determine not to touch on personal matters,

the less I succeed in my resolution. But for the future I will be more

careful. Tell me; do you amuse yourself by drawing up my sea-water, and

then letting it fall again?

_Moon_. It may be. But if I have done this, or other such things, I am

unaware of it. And you, it seems to me, do not consider what you effect

here, which is of so much the more importance as your size and strength

are greater than mine.

_Earth_. I know nothing of these effects, except that from time to

time I deprive you of the sun's light, and myself of yours, and that I

illumine you during your nights, as is sometimes evident to me.

But I am forgetting one thing, which is the most important of all. I

should like to know if Ariosto is correct in saying that everything man

loses, such as youth, beauty, health, the vigour and money spent in

the pursuit of glory, in the instruction of children, and founding or

promoting useful institutions, flies to you; so that you possess all

things pertaining to man, except folly, which has never left mankind.

If this be true, I reckon you ought to be so full as to have scarcely

any space unoccupied, especially since men have recently lost a great

many things (such as patriotism, virtue, magnanimity, righteousness),

not merely in part, or singly, as in former times, but completely, and

without exception. And certainly if you have not got these things, I do

not know where else they can be. But supposing you have them, I wish

we could come to an agreement whereby you might soon return the lost

things to me; for I imagine you must be greatly encumbered, especially

with common sense, which I understand crowds you very much. In return

for this, I will see that men pay you annually a good sum of money.

_Moon_. Men again! Though folly, as you say, has not left your domains,

you wish nevertheless to make an utter fool of me, by depriving me of

what reason I possess, to supply the deficiency in your people. But I

do not know where this reason of yours is, nor whether it can be found

in the universe. I know well that it is not here, any more than the

other things you mention.

_Earth_. At least, you can tell me if your inhabitants are acquainted

with vices, misdeeds, misfortunes, suffering, and old age; in short,

evils? Do you understand these names?

_Moon_. Yes, I understand these well enough, and not only the names. I

am full of them, instead of the other things.

_Earth_. Which are the more numerous among your people, virtues or

vices?

_Moon_. Vices, by a long way.

_Earth_. Does pleasure or pain predominate?

_Moon_. Pain is infinitely more prevalent.

_Earth_. And your inhabitants, are they mostly happy or unhappy?

_Moon_. So unhappy that I would not exchange my lot with the happiest

of them.

_Earth_. It is the same here. I wonder why we differ so much in other

things, yet agree in this.

_Moon_. I am also like you in shape, I rotate like you, and am

illumined by the same sun. It is no more wonderful that we should

resemble each other in these things, than that we should possess

common failings; because evil is as common to all the planets of the

universe, or at least of the solar system, as rotundity, movement, and

light. And if you could speak loud enough for Uranus or Saturn, or

any other planet, to hear you, and were to ask them if they contained

unhappiness, and whether pleasure or pain predominated, each would

answer as I have done. I speak from experience, for I have already

questioned Venus and Mercury, to whom I am now and then nearer than

you. I have also asked certain comets which have passed by me; they all

replied to the same effect. I firmly believe even the sun and every

star would make the same response.

_Earth_. Still I am very hopeful. In future I trust men will permit me

to experience much happiness.

_Moon_. Hope as much as you please. I will answer for it you may hope

for ever.

_Earth_. Ha! Did you hear that? These men and animals of mine are

making an uproar. It is night on the side from which I am speaking

to you, and at first they were all asleep. But, thanks to our

conversation, they are now wide awake, and very frightened.

_Moon_. And here, on the other side, you see it is day.

_Earth_. Yes. Now I do not wish to terrify my people, or interrupt

their sleep, which is the best thing they possess; so let us postpone

conversation until another opportunity. Adieu, and good-day to you.

_Moon_. Adieu. Good-night.

[Footnote 1: See German newspapers of March 1824, for particulars of

the discoveries attributed to Gruithuisen.]

[Footnote 2: See Macrobius, _Saturnal_: lib. 3. cap. 8; Tertullian,

_Apolog_., cap. 15. The moon was also honoured as the god moon. In the

German language moon is masculine.]

[Footnote 3: See Menander, lib. 1. cap. 15, _in Rhetor_, graec. veter.]

[Footnote 4: Athen: lib. 2. _ed. Casaub_. p. 57.]

[Footnote 5: Antonio di Ulloa. See Carli, _Lettere Americane_, par. 4.

lett. 7. Milan, 1784.]

_THE WAGER OF PROMETHEUS._

In the year 833,265 of the reign of Jove, the College of the Muses

caused certain notices to be printed and affixed in the public places

of the city and suburbs of Hypernephelus. These notices contained an

invitation to all the gods, great and small, and the other inhabitants

of the city, who had recently or anciently originated some praiseworthy

invention, to make representation thereof, either actually, or by model

or description, to certain judges nominated by this College. And,

regretting that its well-known poverty prevented it from displaying the

liberality it would have liked to show, the College promised to reward

the one whose invention should be judged the finest or most useful,

with a crown of laurel. In addition to the prize itself, the College

would give the victor permission to wear the crown, day and night, in

public and private life, and both in the city and outside it; he might

also be painted, sculptured, or modelled in any manner or material

whatever, with the emblem of victory on his brow.

Not a few of the gods contested the prize, simply to kill time, a

thing as necessary for the citizens of Hypernephelus, as for the

people of other towns. They had no wish for the crown, which was about

as valuable as a cotton night-cap; and as for the glory, if even men

despise it as soon as they become philosophers, it may be imagined in

what esteem the phantom was held by the gods, who are so much wiser

than the wisest of men, if indeed they are not the sole possessors of

wisdom, as Pythagoras and Plato affirm.

The prize was awarded with an unanimity hitherto unheard of in cases of

reward bestowed on the most meritorious. Neither were there any unfair

influences exercised, such as favouritism, underhand promises, or

artifice. Three competitors were chosen: Bacchus, for the invention of

wine; Minerva, for that of oil, with which the gods were daily wont to

be anointed after the bath; and Vulcan, for having made a copper pot of

an economical design, by which cooking could be expeditiously conducted

with but little fire. It was necessary to divide the prize into three

parts, so there only remained a little sprig of laurel for each of the

victors. But they all three declined the prize, whether in part or the

whole. Vulcan said, that since he was obliged to stand the greater part

of his time at the forge fire, perspiring and considerably exerting

himself, the encumbrance on his brow would be a great annoyance to

him; added to which, the laurel would run risk of being scorched or

burnt, if some spark by chance were to fall on its dry leaves and set

it on fire. Minerva excused herself on the ground of having to wear a

helmet large enough, as Homer says, to cover the united armies of a

hundred cities; consequently any increase of this weight would be very

inconvenient, and out of the question. Bacchus did not wish to change

his mitre and chaplet of vine leaves for the laurel, which, however,

he would willingly have accepted, had he been allowed to put it up as

a sign outside his tavern; but the Muses declined to grant it for that

purpose. Finally, the wreath remained in the common treasury of the

College.

None of the competitors for the prize envied the three successful

gods; nor did they express vexation at the award, nor dispute the

verdict--with one exception, Prometheus. This god brought to the

contest the clay model he had used in the formation of the first man.

Attached to the model was some writing which explained the qualities

and office of the human race, his invention. The chagrin displayed

by Prometheus in this matter caused no little astonishment; since

all the other gods, whether victors or vanquished, had regarded the

whole affair as a joke. But on further inquiry it transpired that what

he especially desired, was not the honour, but rather the privilege

accompanying success. Some thought he meant to use the laurel as a

protection for his head against storms; as it is said of Tiberius that

whenever he heard thunder, he donned his crown, esteeming the laurel

proof against thunderbolts. But this suggestion was negatived by the

fact that the city of Hypernephelus never experienced either thunder

or lightning. Others, more rationally, affirmed that Prometheus, owing

to age, had begun to lose his hair, and being greatly troubled at this

misadventure, as are many mortals in similar circumstances (and either

not having read Synesius' eulogy on baldness, or being unconvinced

by it), wished, like Julius CÊsar, to hide the nakedness of his head

beneath the leafy diadem.

But to turn to facts. One day Prometheus, talking with Momus, bitterly

complained of the preference given to the wine, oil, and copper-pot,

in comparison with the human race, which he said was the finest

achievement of the immortals that the universe had ever seen. And not

being able sufficiently to convince Momus, who gave various reasons

against this assertion, they made a wager on the subject. Prometheus

proposed that they should descend together to the earth, and alighting

by chance in the first place they should discover inhabited by man in

each of the five parts of the world, they might find out whether or

not there were in all or most of these parts conclusive evidence that

man is the most perfect creature of the universe. Momus accepted the

wager; and having settled the amount, they began without delay to

descend towards the earth. First of all they directed themselves to the

New World, which, from its name, and the fact that as yet none of the

immortals had set foot in it, greatly excited their curiosity.

They touched ground towards the north of Popuyan, not far from the

river Cauca, in a place which showed many signs of human habitation.

There were traces of cultivation, level roads broken and impassable

in places, trees cut and strewn about, appearances of what might

be graves, and here and there human bones were scattered. But the

celestials could neither hear the voice, nor see the shadow of a living

man, though they listened acutely, and looked all around them. They

proceeded, walking and flying, for the distance of many miles, passing

mountains and rivers, and finding everywhere the same traces of human

habitation, and the same solitude.

"How is it these countries are now deserted," said Momus to Prometheus,

"though they were evidently once inhabited?"

Prometheus mentioned the inundations of the sea, earthquakes, storms,

and heavy rains, which he knew were ordinary occurrences in the

tropics. Indeed, as if in confirmation of his words, they could

distinctly hear in the neighbouring forests the incessant patter of

rain-drops falling from the branches of trees agitated by the wind.

But Momus was unable to understand how that locality could be affected

by inundations of the sea, which was so distant as not to be visible on

any side. Still less could he comprehend why the earthquakes, storms,

and rains should have destroyed the human beings of the country,

sparing however, the jaguars, apes, ants, eagles, parrots, and a

hundred other kinds of animals and birds which surrounded them.

At length, descending into an immense valley, they discovered a little

cluster of houses, or wooden cabins, covered with palm leaves, and

environed on all sides by a fence like a stockade. Before one of these

cabins, many persons, some standing, some sitting, were gathered round

an earthen pot suspended over a large fire.

The two celestials, having taken human form, drew near, and Prometheus,

courteously saluting them all, turned to the one who seemed to be their

chief, and asked him what they were doing.

_Savage_. Eating, as you see.

_Prom_. What savoury food have you got?

_Savage_. Only a little bit of meat.

_Prom_. Of a domestic, or wild animal?

_Savage_. Domestic, in truth, since it is my own son.

_Prom_. What! Had you then, like PasiphaÎ, a calf for your son?

_Savage_. Not a calf, but a child like every one else.

_Prom_. Do you mean what you say? Is it your own flesh and blood that

you are eating?

_Savage_. My own? No. But certainly that of my son. Why else did I

bring him into the world, and nourish him?

_Prom_. What! To eat him?

_Savage_. Why not? and I will also eat his mother when she can have no

more children.

_Momus_. As one eats the hen after her eggs.

_Savage_. And I will likewise eat my other women, when they can no

longer have children. And why also should I keep these slaves of mine

alive, if it were not that from time to time they give me children to

eat? But when they are old, I will eat them all one after the other, if

I live.[1]

_Prom_. Tell me, do these slaves belong to your tribe or to another?

_Savage_. Another.

_Prom_. Far from here?

_Savage_. A very long way. A river divides their huts from ours. And

pointing with his finger to a hillock, he added: They used to live

there, but our people have destroyed their dwellings.

By this time it seemed to Prometheus that many of the savages were

standing looking at him with the sort of appreciative gaze that a cat

gives to a mouse. So, to avoid being eaten by his own manufactures, he

rose suddenly on the wing, and Momus followed his example. And such

was their fright that in setting out they unconsciously behaved as did

the Harpies towards the Trojans when at meat. But the cannibals, more

hungry, or less dainty, than the companions of ∆neas, continued their

horrid repast.

Prometheus, very dissatisfied with the New World, turned immediately

towards Asia, the older one. Having traversed almost in an instant the

space which lies between the East and West Indies, they both descended

near Agra, in a field where they saw a number of people. These were

all gathered round a funeral pyre of wood, by which men with torches

were standing, ready to set it on fire; and on a platform was a young

woman very sumptuously attired, and wearing a variety of barbaric

adornments, who, dancing and shouting, displayed signs of the liveliest

joy. Prometheus, seeing her, imagined that a second Lucretia or

Virginia, or some imitator of the children of Erectheus, of Iphigenia,

Codrus, Menecius, Curtius, or Decius, was about to sacrifice herself

voluntarily on behalf of her country, in obedience to the decree of

some oracle. Learning however that the woman was about to die because

her husband was dead, he supposed that, like Alcestis, she wished at

the cost of her own life to reanimate her husband. But, when they

informed him that she was only induced to burn herself because it was

customary for widows of her caste to do so, and that she had always

hated her husband, that she was drunk, and that the dead man, instead

of being resuscitated, was to be burnt in the same fire, he abruptly

turned his back on the spectacle, and set out for Europe. On their way

thither, Prometheus and his companion held the following conversation.

_Momus_. Did you think, when at so great a hazard you stole fire from

heaven to give to men, that some of them would make use of it to cook

one another in pots, and others voluntarily to burn themselves?

_Prom_. No, indeed! But consider, dear Momus, that the men we have

hitherto seen are barbarians; and one must not judge of human nature

from barbarians, but rather from civilised people, to whom we are now

going. I have a strong conviction that among these latter we shall see

things, and hear words, which will astonish as much as delight you.

_Momus_. I for my part do not see, if men are the most perfect

race of the universe, why they need be civilised in order not to

burn themselves, or eat their own children. Other animals are all

uncivilised, and yet none of them deliberately burn themselves,

except the phoenix, which is fabulous; rarely they eat their own

kind; and much more rarely make food of their own offspring by any

chance whatever; neither do they specially give birth to them for

that purpose. I also understand that of the five divisions of the

world, only the smallest possesses even incompletely the civilisation

that you praise. To this may be added minute portions of other parts

of the world. And you yourself will not venture to assert that the

civilisation of the present day is such that the men of Paris or

Philadelphia have reached the highest possible state of perfection.

Yet, to enable them to attain to their present imperfect state of

civilisation, how much time has had to elapse? Even as many years as

the world can number from its origin to the existing age. Again, almost

all the inventions which have been of greatest use or importance in the

advancement of civilisation have originated rather fortuitously than

rationally. Hence, human civilisation is a work of chance rather than

nature, and where opportunity has been lacking, the people are still

barbarians, though on the same level of age as civilised people.

Consequently I make the following deductions: that man in the savage

state is many degrees inferior to every other animal; that civilisation

as compared with barbarism is only possessed even in the present day

by a small portion of the human race; that these privileged people

have only reached their existing state of culture after the lapse of

many ages, and more by chance than anything else; and finally, that

the present state of civilisation is imperfect. Consider, therefore,

whether your opinion about the human race would not be better expressed

in saying, that it is chief among races, but supreme rather in

imperfection than perfection. It does not affect the case that men

themselves, in talking and reasoning, continually confuse perfection

and imperfection, arguing as they do from certain preconceived notions,

which they take for palpable truths. It is certain that the other

races of creatures were each from the very beginning in a state of

perfection. And, since it is clear that man in a savage state compares

unfavourably with other animals, I do not understand how beings,

naturally the most imperfect among the races, as it seems men are, come

to be esteemed superior to all others.

Added to which, human civilisation, so difficult to acquire, and almost

impossible to perfect, is not so immutable that it cannot relapse.

In fact, we find it has done so several times, among people who once

possessed a high degree of culture.

In conclusion, I think your brother Epimetheus would have gained the

prize before you, had he brought to the judges his model of the first

ass, or first frog. I will, however, quite agree with you as to the

perfection of man, if you on your part will admit that his excellence

is of the kind attributed to the world by Plotinus. This philosopher

says the world in itself is supremely perfect, but containing as it

does every conceivable evil, it is in reality as bad as can be. From

the same point of view, I might perhaps agree with Leibnitz, that the

present world is the best of all possible worlds.

There can be no doubt that Prometheus had prepared a concise and

crushing reply to all this reasoning; but it is very certain he did not

give it expression, for just then they found themselves over the city

of London. The gods descended, and seeing a great many people rushing

to the door of a private house, they mixed with the crowd, and entered

the building. Within, they found a dead man, who had been shot in the

breast, laid out on a bed. He had a pistol clenched in his right hand,

and by his side lay two children, also dead. There were several people

of the house in the room, who were being questioned by magistrates,

while an official wrote down their replies.

_Prom_. Who are these unfortunate beings?

_Servant_. My master and his children.

_Prom_. Who has killed them?

_Servant_. My master himself.

_Prom_. What! Do you mean to say he killed his children and himself?

_Servant_. Yes.

_Prom_. Alas! Why did he do that? Surely some great misfortune must

have befallen him.

_Servant_. None that I know of.

_Prom_. Perhaps he was poor, or despised by every one, unfortunate in

love, or in disgrace at court.

_Servant_. On the contrary, he was very rich, and I believe universally

esteemed. He cared nothing about love, and was in high favour at court.

_Prom_. Then why has he done this thing?

_Servant_. He was weary of life,--so he says in the writing he has left.

_Prom_. What are these judges doing?

_Servant_. Taking evidence as to whether my master was out of his mind

or not. Unless he is proved to have been insane, his goods fall to the

crown by law; and really there is nothing to prevent their so doing.

_Prom_. But had he no friend or relative to whom he could entrust his

children instead of killing them?

_Servant_. Yes, he had; and especially one friend, to whom he has

commended his dog.[2]

Momus was about to congratulate Prometheus on the good effects of

civilisation, and the happiness that seemed to be inseparable from

human life. He wished also to remind him that no animal except man

voluntarily killed itself, or was impelled by feelings of despair to

take the life of its own offspring. But Prometheus anticipated him, and

paid the bet at once, without visiting the two remaining parts of the

world.

[Footnote 1: See Robertson's _Hist. of America_, Book VI.]

[Footnote 2: A fact.]

_DIALOGUE BETWEEN A NATURAL PHILOSOPHER AND A METAPHYSICIAN_

_Natural Philosopher_. Eureka! Eureka!

_Metaphysician_. What is it? What have you found?

_Nat. Phil._ The art of long life.[1]

_Met_. And the book that you carry?

_Nat. Phil_. Explains my theory. This invention of mine will give me

eternal life. Others may live long, but I shall live for ever. I mean

that I shall acquire immortal fame.

_Met_. Follow my advice. Get a leaden casket; enclose therein your

book; bury it; and leave in your will directions where it may be found,

with instructions to your heirs not to exhume the book until they shall

have discovered the art of living a happy life.

_Nat. Phil_. And meanwhile?

_Met_. Meanwhile your invention will be good for nothing. It were far

better if it taught the art of living briefly.

_Nat. Phil_. That has already been known a long time. The discovery

was not a difficult one. _Met_. At any rate I prefer it to yours. _Nat

Phil_. Why?

_Met_. Because if life be not happy, as hitherto it has not been, it

were better to endure a short term of it than a long one.

_Nat. Phil_. No, no. I differ from you. Life is a good in itself, and

is naturally desired and loved by every one.

_Met_. So men think. But they are deceived. Similarly people deceive

themselves in thinking that colours are attributes of the objects

coloured; whereas really they are not qualities of objects, but

of light. I assert that man loves and desires nothing but his own

happiness. He therefore loves his life only inasmuch as he esteems it

the instrument or subject of his happiness. Hence it is happiness that

he always loves, and not life; although he very often attributes to the

one the affection he has for the other. It is true that this illusion

and that relating to colours are both natural. But as a proof that the

love of life in men is unnatural, or rather unnecessary, think of the

many people that in olden times preferred to die rather than live.

In our own time too many people often wish for death, and some kill

themselves. Now such things could not occur if man naturally loved life

itself. The love of happiness, on the contrary, is innate in every

living being; indeed the world would perish before they ceased loving

and seeking it in every possible form. And as for your assertion that

life in itself is a good thing, I challenge you to prove your words by

any arguments you please, whether of physics or metaphysics. Personally

I am of opinion that a happy life is undoubtedly a good thing. But this

is because of the happiness, not the life. An unhappy life is therefore

an evil. And since it is ordained that human life should be inseparable

from unhappiness, I leave you to draw your own conclusions.

_Nat. Phil_. Let us drop the subject, if you please; it is too

melancholy. Answer me one question candidly, and without such

subtleties. If man had the power to live for ever, I mean in this

life and not after death, do you think he would be happy?

_Met_. Allow me to answer you by a fable. Moreover, as I have never

tasted immortality, I cannot reply to you from experience. Besides, I

have never by any chance met an immortal, the very existence of whom

is a mere matter of legend. If Cagliostro were alive, he could perhaps

enlighten you, since he was said to have lived for several centuries.

But he is now dead, like his contemporaries.

To return to the fable. The wise Chiro, who was a god, in time became

so wearied of his life, that he asked permission from Jove to die.

This was granted to him; so he died.[2] If immortality wrought such

an effect on the gods, how would it be with men? The Hyperboreans, an

unknown but famous people, whose country is inaccessible by sea or

land, were, it is said, rich in all manner of things, and possessed

a race of asses of peculiar beauty, which they used to offer as

sacrifices. They had the power, unless I am mistaken, of living for

ever, and knew nothing of fatigues, cares, wars, discords, or crimes.

Yet we learn that after several thousand years of life, they all killed

themselves by jumping from a certain rock into the sea, where they were

drowned.[3] Here is another legend. The brothers Biton and Cleobus,

at a festival, when the mules were not ready, attached themselves to

the chariot of their mother, who was a priestess of Juno, and drew her

to the temple. Touched by their devotion, the priestess asked Juno to

reward her sons for their piety by the greatest gift possible for men

to receive. The goddess caused them both to die peacefully within an

hour, instead of giving them immortality, as they had expected.

The same happened to Agamede and Trophonius. When these two men had

finished the temple of Delphi, they begged Apollo to reward them. The

god asked them to wait seven days, at the end of which time he would

do so. On the seventh night he sent them a sweet sleep from which they

have never awakened. They are so satisfied with their recompense that

they have asked nothing more.

On the subject of legends, here is one which introduces a question I

would have you answer. I know that by you and your colleagues human

life is generally considered to be, as a rule, of an uniformly average

duration: this in all countries and under all climates. But Pliny

relates that the men of some parts of India and Ethiopia do not exceed

the age of forty years. They who die at this age are considered very

old. Their children marry at seven years of age: and this statement

is verified by the custom in Guinea, the Deccan, and elsewhere in the

torrid zone. Now, regarding it as true that these people do not live

more than forty years (and this as a natural limit, and not due to

artificial circumstances), I ask you whether you imagine their lot

ought to be considered more or less happy than that of others?

_Nat. Phil_. Undoubtedly, more miserable, since they die so soon.

_Met_. I am of the contrary opinion for the very same reason. But that

does not matter. Give me your attention for a moment. I deny that

life itself, _i.e._, the mere sensation of existence, has anything

pleasurable or desirable in its nature. But we all wish for the other

thing, also called life; I mean strength, and numerous sensations.

Thus, all activity, and every strong and lively passion, provided it

be neither disagreeable nor painful, pleases us simply because it is

strong and lively, although it possess no other pleasurable attributes.

Now these men, whose life normally lasts only forty years, that is,

half the time granted by nature to other men, would experience every

moment an intensity of life, twice as strong as ours, because their

growth, maturity, and decline are accomplished twice as rapidly as with

us. Their energy of life therefore ought to be twice as intense as ours

at every moment of their existence. And to this greater intensity there

must correspond a more lively activity of the will, more vivacity and

animation. Thus they experience in less time the same quantity of life

as we have. And the fewer years that these favoured people spend on

the earth are so well filled that there is no sensible vacuum; whereas

this same quantity of life is insufficient to vivify a term twice as

long. Their actions and sensations, diffused over so limited a space,

can duly occupy all their existence; but our longer life is constantly

divided by protracted intervals devoid of all activity and lively

passion. And since existence itself is in no sense desirable, but

only in so far as it is happy; and since good or evil fortune is not

measurable by the number of our days; I conclude that the life of these

people, though shorter than ours, is much the richer in pleasures, or

what are so called. Their life must then be preferable to ours, or

even to that of the earliest kings of Assyria, Egypt, China, India,

and other countries, who are said to have lived thousands of years. So

that, far from being desirous of immortality, I am content to leave it

to fishes, which are by Leeuwenhoek believed to be immortal, provided

they are neither eaten by us nor their fellows. Instead of delaying the

development of the body, in order to lengthen life, as Maupertuis[4]

proposed, I would rather accelerate it until the duration of our life

was as short as that of the insects called ephemerals; which insects,

although the most aged does not live beyond a single day, nevertheless

preside over three generations before they die. If it were so, then

there would at least be no time for ennui.

What do you think of my reasoning?

_Nat. Phil_. It does not persuade me. I know that you love metaphysics,

whereas I for my part hold to physics. To your subtleties, I oppose

simple common sense, which is sufficient for me. Thus, I venture to

assert, without appealing to the microscope, that life is better than

death. Judging between the two, I would give the apple to the former,

without troubling them to strip for the contest.

_Met_. And I would do the same. But when I call to mind the custom of

those barbarians, who, for every unhappy day of their lives, used to

throw a black stone into a quiver, and for every happy day a white one,

I cannot help thinking how few white stones compared to the black ones

would be found therein on the death of the proprietor of the quiver.

Personally, I should like to have now all the stones representing the

days of life yet remaining to me, and permission to separate them,

throwing away all-the black ones and retaining only those that were

white; even though the number of the latter was exceedingly small, and

their colour a doubtful white.

_Nat. Phil_. Many people, on the contrary, would be glad to increase

the number of their black stones, even though they were blacker than

they naturally would be; because they always, in their minds, dread the

last as the blackest of all. And such people, of whom I am one, will

really be able to add many stones to their normal quantity, if they

follow out the instructions contained in my book.

_Met_. Every one thinks and works in his own way. Death also will not

fail to do the same. But if you wish, in prolonging man's life; really

to be of service to him, discover an art to increase the number and

strength of sensations, and their effects. This would be a genuine

augmentation of human life, for it would fill up those long intervals

of time, during which we vegetate rather than live. You could then

boast of having truly prolonged human life; and without having sought

after the impossible, or used violence to natural laws; rather, by

having strengthened them. For does it not seem as though the ancients

were more full of life than we are, in spite of the many and great

dangers by which they were surrounded, and which generally shortened

their existence?

You will thus render a real service to man, whose life is, I will not

say more happy, but certainly less unhappy, when it is better occupied

and more violently agitated, without pain or discomfort. When, on the

other hand, existence is so full of idleness and ennui as to be justly

termed empty, the saying of Pyrrhus, "there is no difference between

life and death," is literally realised. Were this saying true, I should

be in no slight terror of death.

But finally, unless life be active and vigorous, it is not true life,

and death is far preferable to it.

[Footnote 1: See _Instruction in the Art of Long Life_, by Hufeland.]

[Footnote 2: See Lucian, Dial. Menip. and Chiro.]

[Footnote 3: See Pindar, Strabo, and Pliny.]

[Footnote 4: See _Lettres Philosophiques_: let. 11.]

_DIALOGUE BETWEEN TASSO AND HIS FAMILIAR SPIRIT_[1]

_Spirit_. Ah, Torquato. How are you?

_Tasso_. As well as it is possible to be, when in prison, and up to the

neck in misfortunes.

_Spirit_. Courage! After supper is not the time to be sorrowful. Cheer

up, and let us laugh at your griefs.

_Tasso_. I am little inclined for that. But somehow your presence and

conversation always do me good. Come and sit down by me.

_Spirit_. How can I sit? Such a thing is not easy for a spirit. But

what does it matter? Consider that I am seated.

_Tasso_. Oh, that I could see my Leonora again! Whenever I think of

her, I feel a thrill of joy that reaches from the crown of my head to

the extremity of my feet, and all my nerves and veins are pervaded with

it. My mind, too, becomes inflamed with certain imaginings and longings

that seem for the time to transform me. I cannot think that I am the

Torquato who has experienced so much misfortune, and I often mourn

for myself as though I were dead. Truly, it would seem that worldly

friction and suffering are wont to overwhelm and lethargise our first

nature within each of us. This from time to time awakens for a brief

space, but less frequently as we grow older, when it always withdraws,

and falls into an increasingly sound sleep. Finally, it dies, although

our life still continues. In short, I marvel how the thought of a woman

should have sufficient power to rejuvenate the mind, and make it forget

so many troubles. Had I not lost all hope of seeing Leonora again, I

could almost believe I might still succeed in being happy.

_Spirit_. Which do you consider the more delightful, to see the dear

woman, or to think of her?

_Tasso_. I do not know. It is true when near me she seemed only a

woman; at a distance, however, she was like a goddess.

_Spirit_. These goddesses are so amiable that when one approaches you,

she instantaneously puts off her divinity, and pockets her halo of

greatness for fear of dazzling the mortal to whom she appears.

_Tasso_. There is only too much truth in what you say. But do you not

think it is a great failing in women that they prove really to be so

very different from what we imagine?

_Spirit_. I scarcely think it is their fault that they are, like us,

made of flesh and blood, instead of ambrosia and nectar. What in the

world has a thousandth part of the perfection with which your fancy

endows women? It surprises me that you are not astonished to find that

men are men, that is, creatures of little merit and amiability, since

you cannot understand why women are not really angels.

_Tasso_. In spite of all this, I am dying to see her again.

_Spirit_. Compose yourself. This very night you shall dream of her. I

will lead her to you, beautiful as youth, and so kindly disposed that

you will be encouraged to speak to her much more freely and readily

than in former times. You will be induced at length to take her by the

hand, and she, looking intently at you, will surfeit your soul with

sweetness. And to-morrow, whenever you think of the dream, your heart

will overflow with affection.

_Tasso_. What a consolation! A dream instead of the truth.

_Spirit_. What is truth?

_Tasso_. I am as ignorant on the subject as Pilate was.

_Spirit_. Well, I will tell you. Between truth or reality, and a dream

there is this difference--the latter is much the finer thing of the two.

_Tasso_. What! The pleasure of a dream worth more than a real pleasure?

_Spirit_. It is. As an instance, I know a man who studiously avoids

meeting his sweetheart the following day after she has appeared to

him in a dream. He knows full well that he would not find in her all

the charms with which she was endowed in the dream, and that reality,

dispelling the illusion, would deprive him of the pleasure he felt.

The ancients too, who were much more diligent and skilful in their

search after all the enjoyments possible for man to have, did wisely

in endeavouring by various means to realise the sweetness and pleasure

of dreams. Pythagoras also was right when he forbad the eating of

beans for supper; these vegetables producing a dreamless or troubled

sleep.[2] I could also find excuse for those superstitious people who

were wont, before going to bed, to invoke the aid of Mercury, the

president of dreams. They offered sacrifice to him that he might grant

them happy dreams, and used to keep an image of the god at the foot

of their bed. Thus it was that being unable to procure any happiness

during the day, people sought it in the night-time. I am of opinion

that they were in a measure successful, and that Mercury paid more

attention to their prayers than was the custom of the other gods.

_Tasso_. But, since men live for nothing but pleasure, whether of mind

or body, if this pleasure can only be found when we dream, it follows

that we live for no other purpose but to dream. Now I really cannot

admit that.

_Spirit_. You already admit it, inasmuch as you live, and are willing

to live. But what is pleasure?

_Tasso_. My acquaintance with it is too slight to enable me to answer

you.

_Spirit_. No one has any real acquaintance with it, because pleasure

is not a reality, but a conception. It is a desire, not a fact. A

sentiment, imagined not experienced; or, better, it is a conception,

and not a sentiment at all. Do you not perceive that even in the very

moment of enjoyment, however ardently it may have been longed for or

painfully acquired, your mind, not deriving complete satisfaction from

the happiness, anticipates at some future time a greater and more

complete enjoyment? It is expectation that constitutes pleasure. Thus,

you never weary of placing reliance on some pleasure of the future,

which melts away just when you expect to enjoy it. The truth is, you

possess nothing but the hope of a more complete enjoyment at some

other time; and the satisfaction of imagining that you have had some

enjoyment, and of talking about it to others, less because you are

vain than to persuade yourself that the illusion is a reality. Hence,

everyone that consents to live makes this fugitive dream his aim in

life. He believes in the reality of past and future enjoyment, both of

which beliefs are false and fanciful.

_Tasso_. Then is it impossible for a man to believe that he is actually

happy?

_Spirit_. If such a belief were possible, his happiness would be

genuine. But tell me: do you ever remember having been able at any

moment in your life to say sincerely, "I am happy"? Doubtless you have

daily been able to say, and have said in all sincerity, "I shall be

happy;" and often too, though less sincerely, "I have been happy."

Thus, pleasure is always either a thing of the past, or the future,

never the present.

_Tasso_. You may as well say it is non-existent.

_Spirit_. So it seems.

_Tasso_. Even in dreams?

_Spirit_. Even in dreams, considering pleasure in its true sense.

_Tasso_. And yet pleasure is the sole object and aim of life! By the

term pleasure I mean the happiness which ought to be a consequence of

pleasure.

_Spirit_. Assuredly.

_Tasso_. Then our life, being deprived of its real aim, must always be

imperfect, and existence itself unnatural.

_Spirit_. Perhaps.

_Tasso_. There is no perhaps in the matter. But why is it that we live?

I mean, why do we consent to live?

_Spirit_. How should I know? You yourselves ought to know better than I.

_Tasso_. I assure you I do not know.

_Spirit_. Ask some one wiser than yourself. Perhaps he may be able to

satisfy you.

_Tasso_. I will do so. But certainly, the life that I lead is an

unnatural state, because apart from my sufferings, ennui alone murders

me.

_Spirit_. What is ennui?

_Tasso_. As to this, I can answer from experience. Ennui seems to me of

the nature of atmosphere, which fills up the spaces between material

bodies, and also the voids in the bodies themselves. Whenever a body

disappears, and is not replaced by another, air fills up the gap

immediately. So too, in human life, the intervals between pleasures

and pains are occupied by ennui. And since in the material world,

according to the Peripatetics, there can be no vacuum, so also in our

life there is none, save when for some cause or other the mind loses

its power of thought. At all other times the mind, considered as a

separate identity from the body, is occupied with some sentiment. If

void of pleasure or pain, it is full of ennui; for this last is also a

sentiment like pleasure and pain.

_Spirit_. And, since all your pleasures are like cobwebs, exceedingly

fragile, thin and transparent, ennui penetrates their tissue, and

saturates them, just as air penetrates the webs. I believe ennui is

really nothing but the desire of happiness, without the illusion of

pleasure and the suffering of pain. This desire, we have said, is never

completely satisfied, since true pleasure does not exist. So that human

life may be said to be interwoven with pain and ennui, and one of these

sentiments disappears only to give place to the other. This is the fate

of all men, and not of yourself alone.

_Tasso_. What remedy is there for ennui?

_Spirit_. Sleep, opium, and pain. The last is the best of the three,

because he who suffers never experiences ennui.

_Tasso_. I would rather submit to ennui for the rest of my life, than

take such medicine. But its force and strength may be diminished by

action, work, and even other sentiments; though these do not entirely

free us from ennui, since they are unable to give us real pleasure.

Here in prison however, deprived of human society, without even the

means of writing, reduced for an amusement to counting the ticks of the

clock, looking at the beams, cracks, and nails of the ceiling, thinking

about the pavement stones, and watching the gnats and flies which flit

across my cell, I have nothing to relieve for a moment my burden of

ennui.

_Spirit_. How long have you been reduced to this kind of life?

_Tasso_. For many weeks, as you know.

_Spirit_. Have you felt no variation in the ennui which oppresses you,

from the first day until now?

_Tasso_. Yes. I felt it more at first. Gradually my mind is becoming

accustomed to its own society; I derive more and more pleasure from

my solitude, and by practice I am acquiring so great a readiness in

conversation, or rather chattering to myself, that I seem to have in my

head a company of talkative people, and the most trifling object is now

sufficient to give rise to endless discourse.

_Spirit_. This habit will grow on you daily to such an extent, that

when you are free, you will feel more idle in society than in solitude.

Custom has made you bear patiently your kind of life, and the same

influence works not only in people who meditate like you, but in

everyone. Besides, the very fact that you are separated from men, and

even, it may be said, from life itself, will be of some advantage to

you. Disgusted and wearied with human affairs, as you are from your sad

experience, you will in time begin to look on them, from a distance,

with an appreciative eye. In your solitude they will appear to you more

beautiful, and worthy of affection. You will forget their vanity and

misery, and will take upon yourself to re-create the world as you would

have it. Consequently, you will value, desire, and love life. And,

provided there be the possibility or certainty of your return to human

society some day, your new aspect of life will fill and gladden your

mind with a joy like that of childhood.

Solitude does indeed sometimes act like a second youth. It rejuvenates

the soul, revives the imagination, and renews in an experienced man

those impressions of early innocence that you so ardently desire.

But your eyes seem heavy with sleep: I will now therefore leave you

to prepare the fine dream I promised you. Thus between dreams and

fancies, your life shall pass without other gain than the fact of its

passing, which is the sole benefit of life. To hasten it should be the

one aim of your existence. You are often obliged to cling to life, as

it were with your teeth; happy will be the day when death releases

you from the struggle. But after all, time passes as tediously with

your persecutor in his palace and gardens, as with you in your prison

chamber. Adieu.

_Tasso_. Adieu, yet stay a moment. Your conversation always enlivens

me. It does not draw me from my sadness, but my mind, which is

generally comparable to a dark night, moonless and starless, changes

when you are near to a condition like that of a grey dawn, pleasurable

rather than otherwise. Now tell me how I can find you in case I want

you at some future time.

_Spirit_. Do you not yet know?--In any generous liquor.

[Footnote 1: Tasso, during his mental hallucinations, used to fancy,

like Socrates, that he was visited by a friendly spirit, with which he

would hold long conversations. Manso, in his life of Tasso, mentions

this, and states that he was once present during such a colloquy or

soliloquy between Tasso and his imagined companion.]

[Footnote 2: Apollonius, _Hist. Comment_., cap. 46, &c.]

_DIALOGUE BETWEEN NATURE AND AN ICELANDER._

An Icelander who had travelled over most of the earth, and had lived

in very many different lands, found himself one day in the heart of

Africa. As he crossed the equator in a place never before penetrated

by man, he had an adventure like that which happened to Vasco di Gama,

who, when passing the Cape of Good Hope, was opposed by two giants, the

guardians of the southern seas, that tried to prevent his entrance into

the new waters.[1] The Icelander saw in the distance a huge bust, in

appearance like the colossal Hermes he had formerly seen in the Isle

of Pasqua. At first he thought it was made of stone, but as he drew

near to it he saw that the head belonged to an enormous woman, who was

seated on the ground, resting her back against a mountain. The figure

was alive, and had a countenance both magnificent and terrible, and

eyes and hair of a jet black colour. She looked fixedly at him for a

long time in silence. At length she said:

_Nature_. Who art thou? What doest thou here, where thy race is unknown?

_Icelander_. I am a poor Icelander, fleeing from Nature. I have fled

from her ever since I was a child, through a hundred different parts of

the world, and I am fleeing from her now.

_Nature_. So flees the squirrel from the rattlesnake, and runs in its

haste deliberately into the mouth of its tormentor. I am that from

which thou fleest.

_Icelander_. Nature?

_Nature_. Even so.

_Icelander_. I am smitten with anguish, for I consider no worse

misfortune could befall me.

_Nature_. Thou mightest well have imagined that I was to be found in

countries where my power is supremest. But why dost thou shun me?

_Icelander_. You must know that from my earliest youth, experience

convinced me of the vanity of life, and the folly of men. I saw these

latter ceaselessly struggling for pleasures that please not, and

possessions that do not satisfy. I saw them inflict on themselves, and

voluntarily suffer, infinite pains, which, unlike the pleasures, were

only too genuine. In short, the more ardently they sought happiness,

the further they seemed removed from it. These things made me determine

to abandon every design, to live a life of peace and obscurity, harming

no one, striving in nought to better my condition, and contesting

nothing with anyone. I despaired of happiness, which I regarded as a

thing withheld from our race, and my only aim was to shield myself

from suffering. Not that I had the least intention of abstaining from

work, or bodily labour; for there is as great a difference between mere

fatigue and pain,[2] as between a peaceful and an idle life.

But when I began to carry out my project, I learnt from experience how

fallacious it is to think that one can live inoffensively amongst men

without offending them. Though I always gave them precedence, and took

the smallest part of everything, I found neither rest nor happiness

among them. However, this I soon remedied. By avoiding men I freed

myself from their persecutions. I took refuge in solitude--easily

obtainable in my native island. Having done this, I lived without a

shadow of enjoyment; yet I found I had not escaped all suffering.

The intense cold of the long winter, and the extreme heat of summer,

characteristic of the country, allowed me no cessation from pain. And

when, to warm myself, I passed much time by the fire, I was scorched by

the flames, and blinded by the smoke. I suffered continuously, whether

in the open air, or in the shelter of my cabin. In short, I failed to

obtain that life of peace which was my one desire. Terrible storms,

Hecla's menaces and rumblings, and the constant fires which occur among

the wooden houses of my country, combined to keep me in a state of

perpetual disquietude. Such annoyances as these, trivial though they be

when the mind is distracted by the thoughts and actions of social and

civil life, are intensified by solitude. I endured them all, together

with the hopeless monotony of my existence, solely in order to obtain

the tranquillity I desired. I perceived that the more I isolated myself

from men, and confined me to my own little sphere, the less I succeeded

in protecting myself from the discomforts and sufferings of the outer

world.

Then I determined to try other climates and countries, to see if

anywhere I could live in peace, harming no one, and exist without

suffering, if also without pleasure. I was urged to this by the thought

that perhaps you had destined for the human race a certain part of the

earth (as you have for many animals and plants), where alone they could

live in comfort. In which case it was our own fault if we suffered

inconvenience from having exceeded our natural boundaries. I have

therefore been over the whole earth, testing every country, and always

fulfilling my intention of troubling others in the least possible

degree, and seeking nothing for myself but a life of tranquillity.

But in vain. The tropical sun burnt me; the Arctic cold froze me; in

temperate regions the changeability of the weather troubled me; and

everywhere I have experienced the fury of the elements. I have been in

places where not a day passes without a storm, and where you, O Nature,

are incessantly at war with simple people who have never done you any

harm. In other places cloudless skies are compensated for by frequent

earthquakes, active volcanoes, and subterranean commotions. Elsewhere

hurricanes and whirlwinds take the place of other scourges. Sometimes

I have heard the roof over my head groan with the burden of snow that

it supported; at other times the earth, saturated with rain, has broken

away beneath my feet. Rivers have burst their banks, and pursued me,

fleeing at full speed, as though I were an enemy. Wild beasts tried

to devour me, without the least provocation on my part. Serpents have

sought to poison or crush me; and I have been nearly killed by insects.

I make no mention of the daily hazards by which man is surrounded.

These last are so numerous that an ancient philosopher[3] laid down a

rule, that to resist the constant influence of fear, it were well to

fear everything.

Again, sickness has not failed to torment me, though invariably

temperate, and even abstemious, in all bodily pleasures. In truth, our

natural constitution is an admirably arranged affair! You inspire us

with a strong and incessant yearning for pleasure, deprived of which

our life is imperfect; and on the other hand you ordain that nothing

should be more opposed to physical health and strength, more calamitous

in its effects, and more incompatible with the duration of life itself,

than this same pleasure. But although I indulged in no pleasures,

numerous diseases attacked me, some of which endangered my life, and

others the use of my limbs, thus threatening me with even an access of

misery. All, during many days or months, caused me to experience a

thousand bodily and mental pangs. And, whereas in sickness we endure

new and extraordinary sufferings, as though our ordinary life were

not sufficiently unhappy; you do not compensate for this by giving us

equally exceptional periods of health and strength, and consequent

enjoyment. In regions where the snow never melts, I lost my sight; this

is an ordinary occurrence among the Laplanders in their cold country.

The sun and air, things necessary for life, and therefore unavoidable,

trouble us continually; the latter by its dampness or severity, the

former by its heat, and even its light; and to neither of them can

man remain exposed without suffering more or less inconvenience or

harm. In short, I cannot recollect a single day during which I have

not suffered in some way; whereas, on the other hand, the days that

have gone by without a shadow of enjoyment are countless. I conclude

therefore that we are destined to suffer much in proportion as we enjoy

little, and that it is as impossible to live peacefully as happily. I

also naturally come to the conclusion that you are the avowed enemy of

men, and all other creatures of your creation. Sometimes alluring, at

other times menacing; now attacking, now striking, now pursuing, now

destroying; you are always engaged in tormenting us. Either by habit or

necessity you are the enemy of your own family, and the executioner of

your own flesh and blood. As for me, I have lost all hope. Experience

has proved to me that though it be possible to escape from men and

their persecutions, it is impossible to evade you, who will never

cease tormenting us until you have trodden us under foot. Old age,

with all its bitterness, and sorrows, and accumulation of troubles, is

already near to me. This worst of evils you have destined for us and

all created beings, from the time of infancy. From the fifth lustre of

life, decline makes itself manifest; its progress we are powerless to

stay. Scarce a third of life is spent in the bloom of youth; but few

moments are claimed by maturity; all the rest is one gradual decay,

with its attendant evils.

_Nature_. Thinkest thou then that the world was made for thee? It is

time thou knewest that in my designs, operations, and decrees, I never

gave a thought to the happiness or unhappiness of man. If I cause you

to suffer, I am unaware of the fact; nor do I perceive that I can in

any way give you pleasure. What I do is in no sense done for your

enjoyment or benefit, as you seem to think. Finally, if I by chance

exterminated your species, I should not know it.

_Icelander_. Suppose a stranger invited me to his house in a most

pressing manner, and I, to oblige him, accepted his invitation. On my

arrival he took me to a damp and unhealthy place, and lodged me in a

chamber open to the air, and so ruinous that it threatened momentarily

to collapse and crush me. Far from endeavouring to amuse me, and make

me comfortable, he neglected to provide me with even the necessaries

of life. And more than this. Suppose my host caused me to be insulted,

ridiculed, threatened, and beaten by his sons and household. And on my

complaining to him of such ill-treatment, he replied: "Dost thou think

I made this house for thee? Do I keep these my children and servants

for thy service? I assure thee I have other things to occupy me, than

that I should amuse thee, or give thee welcome." To which I answered:

"Well, my friend, though you may not have built your house especially

for me, at least you might have forborne to ask me hither. And, since I

owe it to you that I am here, ought I not to rely on you to assure me,

if possible, a life free from trouble and danger?"

Thus I reply to you. I am well aware you did not make the world for the

service of men. It were easier to believe that you made it expressly

as a place of torment for them. But tell me: why am I here at all? Did

I ask to come into the world? Or am I here unnaturally, contrary to

your will? If however, you yourself have placed me here, without giving

me the power of acceptance or refusal of this gift of life, ought you

not as far as possible to try and make me happy, or at least preserve

me from the evils and dangers, which render my sojourn a painful one?

And what I say of myself, I say of the whole human race, and of every

living creature.

_Nature_. Thou forgettest that the life of the world is a perpetual

cycle of production and destruction, so combined that the one works

for the good of the other. By their joint operation the universe is

preserved. If either ceased, the world would dissolve. Therefore, if

suffering were removed from the earth, its own existence would be

endangered.

_Icelander_. So say all the philosophers. But since that which is

destroyed suffers, and that which is born from its destruction also

suffers in due course, and finally is in its turn destroyed, would you

enlighten me on one point, about which hitherto no philosopher has

satisfied me? For whose pleasure and service is this wretched life of

the world maintained, by the suffering and death of all the beings

which compose it?

Whilst they discussed these and similar questions, two lions are said

to have suddenly appeared. The beasts were so enfeebled and emaciated

with hunger that they were scarcely able to devour the Icelander. They

accomplished the feat however, and thus gained sufficient strength to

live to the end of the day.

But certain people dispute this fact. They affirm that a violent wind

having arisen, the unfortunate Icelander was blown to the ground,

and soon overwhelmed beneath a magnificent mausoleum of sand. Here

his corpse was remarkably preserved, and in process of time he was

transformed into a fine mummy. Subsequently, some travellers discovered

the body, and carried it off as a specimen, ultimately depositing it in

one of the museums of Europe.

[Footnote 1: Camoens' _Lusiad_, canto 5.]

[Footnote 2: Cicero says: "Labour and pain are not identical. Labour is

a toil-some function of body or mind--pain an unpleasant disturbance in

the body. When they cut Marius' veins, it was pain; when he marched at

the head of the troops in a great heat, it was labour."--_Tusc. QuÊst._]

[Footnote 3: Seneca, _Natural. Question_: lib. 6, cap. 2.]

_PARINI ON GLORY._

GIUSEPPE PARINI[1] was in our opinion one of the very few Italians who

to literary excellence joined depth of thought, and acquaintance with

contemporary philosophy. These latter attributes are now so essential

to the cultivation of the _belles lettres_, that their absence would

be inconceivable, did we not find an infinite number of Italian

_littÈrateurs_ of the present day, in whom they are wanting.

He was remarkable for his simplicity, his compassion for the

unfortunate and his own country, his fidelity, high-mindedness, and the

courage with which he bore the adversities of nature and fortune, which

tormented him during the whole course of his miserable and lowly life.

Death however drew him from obscurity.

He had several disciples, whom he taught, first of all, to gain

experience of men and things, and then to amuse themselves with

eloquence and poetry. Among his followers was a youth, lately come to

him, of wonderful genius and industry, and of very great promise. To

him one day Parini spoke as follows:

"You seek, my son, the only avenue to glory which is open to people who

lead a private life, such glory as is sometimes the reward of wisdom,

and literary and other studies. Now you are not unaware that this

glory, though far from being despised, was by our greatest ancestors

held in less esteem than that derivable from other things. Cicero,

for instance, though a most ardent and successful follower of glory,

frequently and emphatically makes apology for the time and labour he

had spent in its pursuit. On one occasion he states that his literary

and philosophical studies were secondary to his public life; on

another, that being constrained by the wickedness of the age to abandon

more important business, he hoped to spend his leisure profitably amid

these studies. He invariably rated the glory of his writings at a lower

value than that acquired from his consulship and his labours on behalf

of the republic.

"Indeed, if human life be the principal subject of literature, and to

rule our actions the first lesson of philosophy; there can be no doubt

that action itself is as much more important and noble than thoughts

and writing, as the end is nobler than the means, or as things and

subjects in comparison with words and reasoning. For no man, however

clever he be, is naturally created for study, nor born to write. Action

alone is natural to him. And we see the majority of fine writers, and

especially illustrious poets in the present age (Vittorio Alfieri,

for instance), impelled to action in an extraordinary degree. Then,

if by chance the deeds of these men prove unacceptable, either from

the nature of the times or their own ill-fortune, they take up the

pen and write grand things. Nor can people write who have neither the

disposition nor power to act. From this you will easily understand why

so few Italians gain immortal fame by their writings; it is that they

are by nature unfit for noble actions. Antiquity, especially that of

the early Greeks or Romans, is, I think, comparable to the design of

the statue of Telesilla, who was a poetess, a warrior, and the saviour

of her country. She is represented holding her helmet, at which she

looks intently and longingly, as though she desired to place it on her

head; at her feet lie some books almost disregarded, as forming but an

insignificant part of her glory.[2]

"But men of modern times are differently situated to the ancients.

Glory is less open to them. They who make studies their vocation in

life show the greatest possible magnanimity; nor need they, like

Cicero, apologise to their country for the profession they have chosen.

I therefore applaud the nobility of your decision. But since a life of

letters, being unnatural, cannot be lived without injury to the body,

nor without increasing in many ways the natural infelicity of your

mind, I regard it as my duty to explain to you the various difficulties

attendant on the pursuit of that glory towards which you aspire, and

the results that will follow success should you attain it. You will

then be able to estimate, on the one hand, the importance and value

of the goal, and your chance of reaching it; and, on the other, the

sufferings, exertions, and discomforts inseparable from the pursuit.

Thus, you may be better able to decide whether it be expedient to

continue as you have begun, or to seek glory by some other road."

[Footnote 1: Parini lived 1729-1799. As a philosopher and satirist he

seems to have exercised no slight influence over the mind of Leopardi.]

[Footnote 2: Pausanias, lib. 2, cap. 20.]

CHAPTER II.

"I might first of all say a great deal about the rivalries, envy,

bitter censures, libels, injustices, schemes and plots against your

character, both in public and private, and the many other difficulties

which the wickedness of men will induce them to oppose to you in the

path you have chosen. These obstacles, always very hard to overcome

and often insuperable, exercise a further influence. It is owing to

them that more than one author, not only in life, but even when dead,

is robbed of the honour that is due to him. Such an one, not having

been famous when alive, because of the hatred or envy with which he

was regarded by others, when dead remains in obscurity, because he is

forgotten; for it rarely happens that a man obtains glory after he has

ceased writing, when there is no one to excite an interest in him.

"I do not intend to refer to the hindrances which arise from matters

personal to the writer, and other more trivial things. Yet it is often

owing to these latter that writings worthy of the highest praise, and

the fruit of infinite exertions, are for ever excluded from fame, or

having been before the world for a short time, fall into oblivion, and

disappear entirely from the memory of men. For the same causes other

writings, either inferior to or no better than these, become highly

honoured. I will merely expose to you the difficulties and troubles

which, apart from the malice of men, will stubbornly contest the

prize of glory. These embarrassments are of ordinary, not exceptional

occurrence, and have been experienced by most great writers.

"You are aware that no one can be called a great writer, nor obtains

true and lasting glory, except by means of excellent and perfect works,

or such as approach perfection. The following very true utterance of

Castiglione is worthy of being engraved on your mind:--It is very

seldom that a person unaccustomed to write, however learned he be, can

adequately recognise the skill and industry of writers; or appreciate

the delicacy and excellence of styles, and those subtle and hidden

significations which abound in the writings of the ancients.'

"In the first place, consider how very few people practise or learn

the art of composition; and think from how small a number of men,

whether in the present or the future, you can in any case look for the

magnificent estimation which you hope will be the reward of your life.

Consider, too, how much influence style has in securing appreciation

for writings. On this, and their degree of perfection, depends the

subsequent fate of all works that come under the heading of 'light

literature,' So great is the influence of style, that a book presumably

celebrated for its matter often proves valueless when deprived of its

manner. Now, language is so interwoven with style that the one can

hardly be considered apart from the other. Men frequently confuse the

two together, and are often unable to express the distinction between

them, if even they are aware of it in the first place. And as for the

thousand merits and defects of language and style, with difficulty,

if at all, can they be discerned and assigned to their respective

properties. But it is certain, to quote the words of Castiglione, that

no foreigner is 'accustomed to write' with elegance in your language.

It follows therefore that style, which is so great and important a

necessity in composition, and a thing of such unaccountable difficulty

and labour, both in acquirement and usage, can only properly be judged

and appreciated by the persons who in one single nation are accustomed

to write. For all other people the boundless exertions attached to the

formation of style will be almost useless, and as if entirely wasted. I

will not refer to the infinite diversities of opinion, and the various

tendencies of readers; owing to which the number of persons adapted to

perceive the good qualities of this or that book is still more reduced.

"You must regard it as an undoubted fact that, in order to distinctly

recognise the value of a perfect or nearly perfect work, deserving of

immortality, it is not enough merely to be accustomed to write. You

yourself must be able to accomplish the work in question almost as

perfectly as the writer himself. And as experience gradually teaches

you what qualities constitute a perfect writer, and what an infinity of

difficulties must be surmounted before these can be obtained, you will

learn how to overcome the latter, and acquire the former; so that in

time knowledge and power will prove to be one and the same thing. Hence

a man cannot discern nor fully appreciate the excellence of perfect

writers until he is able to give expression to it in his own writings;

because such perfection can only be appreciated by what may be termed

a transference of it into oneself. Until this be done, a man cannot

really understand what constitutes perfection in writing, and will

therefore be unable to duly admire the best writers.

"Now most literary men, because they write easily, think they write

well; they therefore regard good writing as a facile accomplishment,

even though they assert the contrary. Think, then, how the number will

be reduced of those who might appreciate and laud you when, after

inconceivable exertions and care, you succeed in producing a noble and

perfect work. In the present day there are scarcely two or three men in

Italy who have acquired the art of perfect writing; and although this

number may appear to you excessively small, at no time nor place has it

ever been much greater.

"I often wonder to myself how Virgil, as a supreme example of literary

perfection, ever acquired the high reputation in which he is now

held. For I am certain that most of his readers and eulogisers do not

discover in his poems more than one beauty for every ten or twenty

revealed to me by continuous study and meditation. Not that I imagine I

have succeeded in estimating him at his proper value, nor have derived

every possible enjoyment from his writings. In truth, the esteem and

admiration professed for the greatest writers is ordinarily the result

of a blind predisposition in their favour, rather than the outcome of

an impartial judgment, or the consequence of a due appreciation of

their merits.

"When I was young I remember first reading Virgil, being on the one

hand unbiassed in my judgment, and careless of the opinion of others

(a very rare thing, by the by); and, on the other hand, as ignorant as

most boys of my age, though perhaps not more so than is the unchanging

condition of many readers. I refused to admit that Virgil's reputation

was merited, since I failed to discover in him much more than is to be

found in very ordinary poets. Indeed, it surprises me that Virgil's

fame should excel that of Lucan. For we see the mass of readers, at

all times, equally when the literature of the day is of a debasing or

an elevating tendency, much prefer gross and unmistakable beauties to

those that are delicate and half-concealed. They also prefer fervour

to modesty; often indeed even the apparent to the real; and usually

mediocrity to perfection.

"In reading the letters of a certain prince, exceptionally intelligent,

whose writing was remarkable for its wit, pleasantry, smoothness, and

acuteness, I clearly discerned that in his heart he preferred the

Henriad to the ∆neid; although the fear of shocking men's sensibilities

might deter him from confessing such a preference.

"I am astonished that the judgment of a few, correct though it be,

should have succeeded in controlling that of numbers, and should have

established the custom of an esteem no less blind than just. This,

however, does not always occur, and I imagine that the fame gained by

the best writers is rather a matter of chance than merit. My opinion

may be confirmed by what I say as we proceed."