CHAPTER XII.

"Finally, you would perhaps like to know my opinion, and decided advice

to you, about your intended profession. The question is one as to

the advisability of your pursuing or abandoning this path to glory,

a thing so poor in usefulness, and so hard and uncertain both to

secure and retain, that it may be compared to a shadow which you can

neither feel when you hold, nor yet keep from fleeing away. I will tell

you then briefly my true opinion. I consider your wonderful genius,

noble disposition, and prolific imagination to be the most fatal and

lamentable qualities distributed by Fortune to humanity. But since

you possess them, you will scarcely be able to avoid their harmful

influence. In the present day there is but one possible benefit to be

gained from such endowments as yours; viz., the glory that sometimes

rewards industry in literature and study. You know those miserable men,

who having accidentally lost or injured a limb, try to make as much

profit as possible from their misfortune, which they ostentatiously

display to excite the pity and consequent liberality of passers-by.

In the same way I advise you to endeavour to procure by means of your

endowments the only possible advantage, trifling and uncertain though

it be. Such qualities as yours are usually regarded as great natural

gifts, and are often envied by those who do not possess them. But this

feeling is opposed to common sense; as well may the sound man envy

those wretched fellows their bodily calamities, or wish to mutilate

himself in the same way, for the sake of the miserable profit he might

gain. Most men work as long as they can, and enjoy themselves as much

as their nature will permit. But great writers are naturally, and by

their manner of life, incapable of many human pleasures: voluntarily

deprived of many others; often despised by their fellow-men, save

perhaps a very few who pursue the same studies; they are destined to

lead a life like unto death, and to live only beyond the grave, if even

that be granted them.

"But Destiny must be obeyed; duty commands us to follow it courageously

and nobly whithersoever it may lead us. Such resignation is especially

necessary for you, and those who resemble you."

_DIALOGUE BETWEEN FREDERIC RUYSCH AND HIS MUMMIES._

_Chorus of the dead in Ruysch's laboratory._

O Death, thou one eternal thing,

That takest all within thine arms,

In thee our coarser nature rests

In peace, set free from life's alarms:

Joyless and painless is our state.

Our spirits now no more are torn

By racking thought, or earthly fears;

Hope and desire are now unknown,

Nor know we aught of sorrow's tears.

Time flows in one unbroken stream,

As void of ennui as a dream.

The troubles we on earth endured

Have vanished; yet we sometimes see

Their phantom shapes, as in a mist

Of mingled thought and memory:

They now can vex our souls no more.

What is that life we lived on earth?

A mystery now it seems to be,

Profound as is the thought of death,

To wearers of mortality.

And as from death the living flee,

So from the vital flame flee we.

Our portion now is peaceful rest,

Joyless, painless. We are not blest

With happiness; that is forbid

Both to the living and the dead.

_Ruysch (outside his laboratory, looking through the keyhole)._

Diamine! Who has been teaching these dead folks music, that they thus

sing like cocks, at midnight? Verily I am in a cold sweat, and nearly

as dead as themselves. I little thought when I preserved them from

decay, that they would come to life again. So it is however, and with

all my philosophy I tremble from head to foot. It was an evil spirit

that induced me to take these gentry in. I do not know what to do. If I

leave them shut in here, they may break open the door, or pass through

the keyhole, and come to me in bed. Yet I do not like to show that I am

afraid of the dead by calling for help. I will be brave. Let us see if

I cannot make them afraid in their turn.

(_Entering_.)--Children, children, what game are you playing at? Do

you not remember that you are dead? What does all this uproar mean?

Are you so puffed up because of the Czar's visit,[1] that you imagine

yourselves no longer subject to the laws of Nature? I am presuming this

commotion is simply a piece of pleasantry on your part, and that there

is nothing serious about it. If, however, you are truly resuscitated,

I congratulate you, although I must tell you that I cannot afford to

keep you living as well as dead, and in that case you must leave my

house at once. Or if what they say about vampires be true, and you are

some of them, be good enough to seek other blood to drink, for I am

not disposed to let you suck mine, with which I have already liberally

filled your veins. In short, if you will continue to be quiet and

silent as before, we shall get on very well together, and you shall

want for nothing in my house. Otherwise, I warn you that I will take

hold of this iron bar, and kill you, one and all.

_A Mummy_. Do not put yourself about. I promise you we will all be dead

again without your killing us.

_Ruysch_. Then what is the meaning of this singing freak?

_Mummy_. A moment ago, precisely at midnight, was completed for the

first time that great mathematical epoch referred to so often by the

ancients. To-night also the dead have spoken for the first time. And

all the dead in every cemetery and sepulchre, in the depths of the sea,

beneath the snow and the sand, under the open sky, and wherever they

are to be found, have like us chanted the song you have just heard.

_Ruysch_. And how long will your singing or speaking last?'

_Mummy_. The song is already finished. We are allowed to speak for a

quarter of an hour. Then we are silent again until the completion of

the second great year.

_Ruysch_. If this be true, I do not think you will disturb my sleep

a second time. So talk away to your hearts' content, and I will

stand here on one side, and, from curiosity, gladly listen without

interrupting you.

_Mummy_. We can only speak in response to some living person. The dead

that are not interrogated by the living, when they have finished their

song, are quiet again.

_Ruysch_. I am greatly disappointed, for I was curious to know what you

would talk about if you could converse with each other.

_Mummy_. Even if we could do so, you would hear nothing, because we

should have nothing to say to one another.

_Ruysch_. A thousand questions to ask you come into my mind. But the

time is short, so tell me briefly what feelings you experienced in body

and soul when at the point of death.

_Mummy_. I do not remember the exact moment of death.

_The other Mummies_. Nor do we.

_Ruysch_. Why not?

_Mummy_. For the same reason that you cannot perceive the moment when

you fall asleep, however much you try to do so.

_Ruysch_. But sleep is a natural thing.

_Mummy_. And does not death seem natural to you? Show me a man, beast,

or plant that shall not die.

_Ruysch_. I am no longer surprised that you sing and talk, if you do

not remember your death.

"A fatal blow deprived him of his breath;

Still fought he on, unconscious of his death "--

as says an Italian poet. I thought that on the subject of death you

fellows would at least know something more than the living. Now tell

me, did you feel any pain at the point of death?

_Mummy_. How can there be pain at a time of unconsciousness?

_Ruysch_. At any rate, every one believes the moment of departure from

this life to be a very painful one.

_Mummy_. As if death were a sensation, and not rather the contrary.

_Ruysch_. Most people who hold the views of the Epicureans as to the

nature of the soul, as well as those who cling to the popular opinion,

agree in supposing that death is essentially a pain of the most acute

kind.

_Mummy_. Well, you shall put the question to either of them from us.

If man be unaware of the exact point of time when his vital functions

are suspended in more or less degree by sleep, lethargy, syncope, or

any other cause, why should he perceive the moment-when these same

functions cease entirely; and not merely for a time, but for ever?

Besides, how could there be an acute sensation at the time of death?

Is death itself a sensation? When the faculty of sense is not only

weakened and restricted, but so minimised that it may be termed

non-existent, how could any one experience a lively sensation? Perhaps

you think this very extinction of sensibility ought also to be an acute

sensation? But it is not so. For you may notice that even sick people

who die of very painful diseases compose themselves shortly before

death, and rest in tranquillity; they are too enfeebled to suffer, and

lose all sense of pain before they die.

You may say this from us to whoever imagines it will be a painful

effort to breathe his last.

_Ruysch_. Such reasoning would perhaps satisfy the Epicureans, but not

those people who regard the soul as essentially different from the

body. I have hitherto been one of the latter, and now that I have heard

the dead speak and sing I am more than ever disinclined to change my

opinions. We consider death to be a separation of the soul and body,

and to us it is incomprehensible how these two substances, so joined

and agglutinated as to form one being, can be divided without great

force and an inconceivable pang.

_Mummy_. Tell me: is the spirit joined to the body by some nerve,

muscle, or membrane which must be broken to enable it to escape? Or

is it a member which has to be severed or violently wrenched away? Do

you not see that the soul necessarily leaves the body when the latter

becomes uninhabitable, and not because of any internal violence? Tell

me also: were you sensible of the moment when the soul entered you,

and was joined, or as you say agglutinated, to your body? If not, why

should you expect to feel any violent sensation at its departure? Take

my word for it, the departure of the soul is as quiet and imperceptible

as its entrance.

_Ruysch_. Then what is death, if it be not pain?

_Mummy_. It is rather pleasure than anything else. You must know that

death, like sleep, is not accomplished in a moment, but gradually. It

is true the transition is more or less rapid according to the disease

or manner of death. But ultimately death comes like sleep, without

either sense of pain or pleasure. Just before death pain is impossible,

for it is too acute a thing to be experienced by the enfeebled senses

of a dying person. It were more rational to regard it as a pleasure;

because most human joys, far from being of a lively nature, are made up

of a sort of languor, in which pain has no part. Consequently, man's

senses, even when approaching extinction, are capable of pleasure;

since languor is often pleasurable, especially when it succeeds a

state of suffering. Hence the languor of death ought to be pleasing in

proportion to the intensity of pain from which it frees the sufferer.

As for myself, if I cannot recall the circumstances of my death, it

may be because the doctors forbade me to exert my brain. I remember,

however, that the sensation I experienced differed little from the

feeling of satisfaction that steals over a man, as the languor of sleep

pervades him.

_The other Mummies_. We felt the same sensation.

_Ruysch_. It may be as you say, although every one with whom I have

conversed on this subject is of a very different opinion. It is true,

however, they have not spoken from experience. Now tell me, did you

at the time of death, whilst experiencing this sensation of pleasure,

realise that you were dying, and that this feeling was a prelude to

death, or what did you think?

_Mummy_. Until I was dead I believed I should recover, and as long as I

had the faculty of thought I hoped I should still live an hour or two.

I imagine most people think the same.

_The other Mummies_. It was the same with us.

_Ruysch_. Cicero says[2] that, however old and broken-down a man may

be, he always anticipates at least another year of life.

But how did you perceive at length that your soul had left the body?

Say, how did you know you were dead?... You do not answer. Children,

do you not hear?... Ah, the quarter of an hour has expired. Let me

examine them a little. Yes, they are quite dead again. There is no fear

that they will give me such another shock. I will go to bed.

NOTE.--Frederic Ruysch (1638-1731) was one of the cleverest anatomists

Holland has ever produced. For sixty years he held a professorship of

anatomy at Amsterdam, during which time he devoted himself to his art.

He obtained from Swammerdam his secret of preserving corpses by means

of an injection of coloured wax. Ruysch, it is said, also made use of

his own blood for this purpose. His subjects, when prepared, looked

like living beings, and showed no signs of corruption. Czar Peter

visited Holland in 1698, and was amazed at what he saw in Ruysch's

studio. In 1717 the Czar again visited Holland, and succeeded in

inducing Ruysch to dispose of his collection of animals, mummies, &c.

These were all transported to St. Petersburg. Ruysch formed a second

collection as valuable as the first, which after his death was publicly

sold.

[Footnote 1: See note.]

[Footnote 2: De Senectute.]

_REMARKABLE SAYINGS OF PHILIP OTTONIERI._[1]

CHAPTER I.

Philip Ottonieri, a few of whose remarkable sayings I am about to

recount, partly heard from his own mouth and partly related to me by

others, was born at Nubiana in the province of Valdivento. There he

lived most of his life, and died a short time ago, leaving behind him

the reputation of having never injured any one either by word or deed.

He was detested by the majority of his fellow-citizens, because he took

so little interest in the many things that gave them pleasure; although

he did nothing to show that he despised those who differed from himself

in this respect. He is believed to have been, not only in theory, but

also in practice, what so many of his contemporaries professed to be,

that is, a philosopher. For this reason other men thought him peculiar,

though really he never affected singularity in anything. Indeed, he

once said that a man who nowadays practised the greatest possible

singularity in dress, manners, or actions, would be far less singular

than were those ancients who obtained a reputation for singularity; and

that the difference between such a person and his contemporaries would

by the ancients have been regarded as scarcely worthy of notice. And,

comparing J. J. Rousseau's singularity, which seemed very striking to

the people of his generation, with that of Democritus and the first

Cynic philosophers, he said that whoever nowadays lived as differently

from his contemporaries as these Greeks lived from theirs, would not

merely be regarded as singular, but would be treated as outside the

pale of human society. He thought, too, that the degree of civilisation

reached by any country might be estimated from observation of the

degree of singularity possible in the inhabitants of that country.

Though very temperate in his habits of life, he professed Epicureanism,

perhaps lightly rather than from conviction. But he condemned Epicurus,

affirming that in his time and nation there was much more pleasure to

be obtained from the pursuit of glory and virtue, than from idleness,

indifference, and sensuality, which things were considered by that

philosopher to represent the greatest good of life. He said also

that the Epicureanism of modern times has nothing in common with the

Epicureanism of the ancients.

In philosophy, he liked to call himself Socratic. Like Socrates, too,

he often spent great part of the day reasoning philosophically with any

chance acquaintance, and especially with certain of his friends, on any

impromptu subject. But unlike Socrates, he did not frequent the shops

of the shoemakers, carpenters, and blacksmiths; for he was of opinion

that, though the artisans of Athens may have had time to spend in

philosophising, those of Nubiana would starve were they to follow such

an example. Nor did he, like Socrates, explain his conclusions by means

of endless interrogation and argument; for, he said, although men in

the present day may have more patience than their ancestors, they would

never consent to reply to a thousand consecutive questions, still less

to hear their answers answered. In fact, he only resembled Socrates in

his manner of speaking, sometimes ironical, sometimes equivocal. He

analysed the famous Socratic irony in the following way:--

"Socrates was naturally very tender-hearted, and of a most lovable

disposition. But he was physically so unattractive that it is

probable he despaired from his youth of ever inspiring others with a

warmer feeling than that of friendship, far insufficient to satisfy

his sensitive and ardent nature, which often felt towards others a

much more lively affection. He was courageous in all matters of the

intellect, but seems to have been wanting in natural courage, and

those other qualities that would have enabled him to hold his own in

public life, amid the tumult of wars, the sedition, and the license

of all kinds, then characteristic of Athenian affairs. In addition to

this, his ridiculous and insignificant figure must have been no slight

prejudice to him among people who made little distinction between the

good and the beautiful, and who were also much addicted to banter. Thus

it happened that in a free city, full of wealth and the bustle and

amusements of life, Socrates, poor, rejected by love, incapable of a

public career, yet gifted with very great intelligence which doubtless

intensified the consciousness of his defects, resigned himself to a

life of philosophising on the actions, manners, and thoughts of his

fellow-citizens. The irony he used was natural to a man who found

himself as it were excluded from participation in the existence of

others. But it was due to his inherent nobility and affableness, and

perhaps also to the celebrity he gained by his reasonings, and which

flattered his self-esteem, that this irony, instead of being bitter and

contemptuous, was pleasing, and expressed in a friendly manner.

"Then it was that Philosophy, as Cicero has well said, made her first

descent from heaven, and was led by Socrates into the towns and houses

of men. Hitherto occupied with speculations as to the nature of hidden

things, she now studied the manners and lives of men, and discussed

virtues and vices, things good and useful, and the contrary. But

Socrates did not primarily think of introducing this novel feature into

philosophy, nor did he propose to teach anything, nor even aspire to

the name of philosopher, which then only belonged to those who made

physics or metaphysics the study of their lives. He openly proclaimed

his ignorance of all things, and in his conversation with others simply

discussed the affairs of his neighbours, and the topics of the day.

He preferred this amusement to the real study of philosophy, or any

other science or art; and being naturally more inclined to act than

speculate, he only adopted this manner of life, because shut out from a

more congenial employment. He was always more willing to converse with

young and handsome persons than with others; in this way he hoped to

gain at least esteem, where he would far rather have had love."

And since all the schools of Greek philosophy are traceable directly

or indirectly to the Socratic school, Ottonieri asserted that the flat

nose and satyr-like visage of a highly intellectual and warm-hearted

man were the origin of all Greek philosophy, and, consequently, the

philosophy of modern times. He also said that in the writings of

his followers, the individuality of Socrates is comparable to those

theatrical masks of the ancients, which always retained their name,

character, and identity, but the _rÙle_ of which varied in each

distinct performance.

He left behind him no philosophical or other writings for public

benefit. Being asked one day why he did not give written as well as

verbal expression to his philosophical views, he replied: "Reading

is a conversation held with the writer. Now, as in fÍtes and public

entertainments, they who take no active part in the spectacle or

performance soon become tired, similarly in conversation men prefer to

speak rather than listen. And books necessarily resemble those people

who take all the speaking to themselves, and never listen to others.

Consequently, to atone for their monopoly of talking, they ought to say

many fine and excellent things, expressing them in a remarkable manner.

Every book that does not do this inspires the same feeling of aversion

as an insatiable chatterer."

[Footnote 1: A fictitious personage.]

CHAPTER II.

Ottonieri made no distinction between business and pleasure. However

serious his occupation, he called it pastime. Only once, having been

idle temporarily, he confessed he had then experienced no amusement.

He said that our truest pleasures are due to the imagination. Thus,

children construct a world out of nothing, whereas men find nothing in

the world. He compared those pleasures termed real to an artichoke, all

the leaves of which must be masticated in order to reach the pith. He

added that such artichokes as these are very rare; and that many others

resemble them in exterior, but within are void of kernel. He for his

part, finding the leaves unpalatable, determined to abstain from both

leaves and kernel.

Being asked what was the worst moment of life, he said: "Except those

of pain or fear, the worst moments are, in my opinion, those spent in

pleasure. For the anticipation and recollection of these last, which

fill up the remainder of life, are better and more delightful than the

pleasures themselves." He also made a comparison between pleasures

and odours. The latter he considered usually leave behind a desire to

experience them again, proportioned to their agreeableness; and he

regarded the sense of smell as the most difficult to satisfy of all our

senses. Again, he compared odours to anticipations of good things; and

said that odoriferous foods are generally more pleasing to the nose

than the palate, for their scent originates savoury expectations which

are seldom sufficiently realised. He explained why sometimes he was so

impatient about the delay of a pleasure sure to occur sooner or later,

by saying that he feared the enjoyment he should derive from it would

be of diminished force, on account of the exaggerated anticipation

conceived by his mind. For this reason he endeavoured in the meantime

to forget the coming good, as though it were an impending misfortune.

He said that each of us in entering the world resembles a man on a

hard and uncomfortable bed. As soon as the man lies down, he feels

restless and begins to toss from side to side and change his position

momentarily, in the hope of inducing sleep to close his eyes. Thus he

spends the whole night, and though sometimes he believes himself on the

point of falling asleep, he never actually succeeds in doing so. At

length dawn comes, and he rises unrefreshed.

Watching some bees at work one day in company with certain

acquaintances, he remarked: "Blessed are ye, if ye know not your

unhappiness."

He considered the miseries of mortals to be incalculable, and that no

single one of them could be adequately deplored.

In answer to Horace's question, "Why is no one content with his lot?"

he said: "Because no one's lot is happy. Subjects equally with princes,

the weak and the strong, were they happy, would be contented, and would

envy no one. For men are no more incapable of being satisfied than

other animals. But since happiness alone can satisfy them, they are

necessarily dissatisfied, because essentially unhappy."

"If a man could be found," he said, "who had attained to the summit of

human happiness, that man would be the most miserable of mortals. For

even the oldest of us have hopes and schemes for the improvement of our

condition." He recalled a passage in Zenophon, where a purchaser of

land is advised to buy badly cultivated fields, because such as do not

in the future bring forth more abundantly than at the time of purchase,

give less satisfaction than if they were to increase in productiveness.

Similarly, all things in which we can observe improvement please us

more than others in which improvement is impossible.

On the other hand, he observed that no condition is so bad that it

cannot be worse; and that however unhappy a man may be, he cannot

console or boast himself that his misfortunes are incapable of

increase. Though hope is unbounded, the good things of life are

limited. Thus, were we to consider a single day in the life of a rich

or poor man, master or servant, bearing in mind all the circumstances

and needs of their respective positions, we should generally find

an equality of good throughout. But nature has not limited our

misfortunes; nor can the mind scarcely conceive a cause of suffering

which is non-existent, or which at some time was not to be found among

humanity. Thus, whereas most men vainly hope for an increase of the

good things they possess, they never want for genuine objects of fear;

and if Fortune sometimes obstinately refuses to benefit us in the least

degree, she never fails to afflict us with new torments of such a

nature as to crush within us even the courage of despair.

He often used to laugh at those philosophers who think that a man is

able to free himself from the tyranny of Fortune, by having a contempt

for good and evil things which are entirely beyond his control; as if

happiness and the contrary were absolutely in his own power to accept

or refuse. On the same subject he also said, amongst other things,

that however much a man may act as a philosopher in his relations with

others, he is never a philosopher to himself. Again, he said that it is

as impossible to take more interest in the affairs of others than in

our own, as to regard their affairs as though they were our own. But,

supposing this philosophical disposition of mind were possible, winch

it is not, and possessed by one of us, how would it stand the test

of a thousand trials? Would it not be evident that the happiness or

unhappiness of such a person is nevertheless a matter of fortune? Would

not the very disposition they boast of be dependent on circumstances?

Is not man's reason daily governed by accidents of all kinds? Do not

the numberless bodily disturbances due to stupidity, excitement,

madness, rage, dullness, and a hundred other species of folly,

temporary or continuous, trouble, weaken, distract, and even extinguish

it? Does not memory, wisdom's ally, lose strength as we advance in age?

How many of us fall into a second childhood! And we almost all decrease

in mental vigour as we grow old; or when our mind remains unimpaired,

time, by means of some bodily disease, enfeebles our courage and

firmness, and not infrequently deprives us of both attributes

altogether. In short, it is utter folly to confess that physically we

are subject to many things over which we have no control, and at the

same time to assert that the mind, which is so greatly dependent on the

body, is not similarly controlled by external influences. He summed up

by saying that man as a whole is absolutely in the power of Fortune.

Being asked for what purpose he thought men were born, he laughingly

replied: "To realise how much better it were not to be born."

CHAPTER III.

On the occasion of a certain misfortune, Ottonieri said: "It is less

hard to lose a much-loved person suddenly, or after a short illness,

than to see him waste away gradually, so that before his death he is

transformed in body and mind into quite another being from what he

formerly was. This latter is a cruel thing; for the beloved one,

instead of leaving to us the tender recollections of his real identity,

remains with us a changed being, in whose presence our old affection

slowly but surely fades away. At length he dies; but the remembrance

of him as he was at the last destroys the sweeter and earlier image

within us. Thus he is lost entirely, and our imagination, instead of

comforting, saddens us. Such misfortunes as these are inconsolable."

One day he heard a man lamenting and saying, "If only I were freed from

this trouble, all my other troubles would be easy to bear." He replied:

"Not so; for then those that are now light would be heavy."

Another person said to him: "Had this pain continued, I could not have

borne it." Ottonieri answered: "On the contrary, habit would have made

it more bearable."

Touching many things as to human nature, he held opinions not in

accordance with those of the multitude, and often different from

those of learned men. For instance, he thought it unwise to address

a petition to any one when the person addressed is in a state of

extraordinary hilarity. "And," he said, "when the petition is such that

it cannot be granted at once, I consider occasions of joy and sorrow as

equally inopportune to its success. For both sentiments make a man too

selfish to trouble himself with the affairs of others. In sorrow our

misfortune, in joy our good fortune, monopolises our mind, and erects,

as it were, a barrier between us and matters external to ourselves.

Both are also peculiarly unsuitable for exciting compassion: when

sorrowful, we reserve all pity for ourselves; when joyful, we colour

all things with our joy, and are inclined to regard the troubles and

misfortunes of others as entirely imaginative, or else we refuse to

think of them, as too discordant with the mind's present condition. The

best time to ask a favour, or some beneficial promise for others, is

when the person petitioned is in a state of quiet, happy good humour,

unaccompanied by any excessive joyfulness; or better still, when under

the influence of that keen but indefinite pleasure which results from a

reverie of thought, and consists of a peaceful agitation of the spirit.

At such times men are most open to pity and entreaty, and are often

glad to please others, and give expression to the vague gratifying

activity of their thoughts by some good action."

He also denied that an afflicted person ordinarily receives more pity

from fellow-sufferers than from other people. For a man's companions in

misfortune are always inclined to give their own troubles precedence

over his, as being more serious and compassionable. And often, when a

man in recounting his sufferings thinks he has excited the sympathy of

his auditors, he is interrupted by one of them who expatiates in turn

on his misfortunes, and ends by trying to show that he is the more

afflicted of the two. He said that in such cases it generally happens

as occurred to Achilles when Priam prostrated himself at his feet, with

entreaties and lamentations. The tears of Priam excited the tears of

Achilles, who began to groan and weep like the Trojan king. This he

did, not from sympathy, but because of his own misfortunes, and the

thoughts of his dead father and friend. "We compassionate others," he

said, "when they suffer from evils we have experienced; but not so when

we and they suffer simultaneously."

He said that from carelessness and thoughtlessness we do many cruel

or wicked things, which very often have the appearance of genuine

cruelty and maliciousness. For example, he mentioned the case of a man

who spending his time away from home left his servants in a dwelling

scarcely weather proof, not designedly, but simply from thoughtlessness

or disregard of their comfort. He considered malice, inhumanity, and

the like to be far less common among men than mere thoughtlessness, to

which he attributed very many things called by harder names.

He once said that it were better to be completely ungrateful towards a

benefactor than to make some trifling return for his great kindness.

For in the latter case the benefactor must consider the obligation

as cancelled, whatever may have been the motive that inspired the

donor, and however small the return. He is thus despoiled of the bare

satisfaction of gratitude, on which he probably reckoned; and yet he

cannot regard himself as treated ungratefully, though he is so in

reality.

I have heard the following saying attributed to him:--"We are

inclined and accustomed to give our acquaintances credit for being

able to discern our true merits, or what we imagine them to be, and to

recognise the virtue of our words and actions. We also suppose that

they ponder over these virtues and merits of ours, and never let them

escape their memory. But, on the other hand, we do not discern similar

qualities in them, or else are unwilling to acknowledge the fact."

CHAPTER IV.

Ottonieri observed that irresolute men sometimes persevere in their

undertakings in the face of the greatest opposition. This is even a

consequence of their irresolution; for were they to abandon their

design, it would be evidence that they had for once fulfilled a

determination. Sometimes they skilfully and speedily carry out a

resolution. To this they are urged by fear lest they should be

compelled to cease their task, when they would return to the state

of perplexity and uncertainty in which they were formerly. Thus they

strenuously hasten the execution of their design, stimulated rather by

anxiety and uncertainty as to whether they will conquer themselves,

than by the goal or the difficulties to be overcome before it can be

reached.

At another time he said, with a smile, that people accustomed to give

expression to their every thought and feeling in conversation with

others, cry out when alone if a fly bite them, or if they chance to

upset a glass of water; and, on the other hand, they who live solitary

lives become so reserved that even the presentiment of apoplexy would

not induce them to speak in the presence of others.

He was of opinion that most men reputed great in ancient and modern

times have obtained their reputation through a preponderance of one

quality over the rest in their character. And a man possessed of the

most brilliant but evenly proportioned endowments, would fail to

acquire celebrity either with his contemporaries or posterity.

He divided the men of civilised nations into three classes. The first

class are they whose individual nature, and partly also their natural

human constitution, become transformed under the influence of the arts

and customs of urban life. Among these he included all men who are

skilful in business, whether private or public, who appreciate society,

and make themselves universally agreeable to their fellows. Generally

speaking, such men alone inspire esteem and respect. The second class

are they who preserve their primitive nature in a greater degree,

either from lack of culture or because they are naturally incapable

of being influenced by the arts, manners, and customs of others. This

is the most numerous of the three classes, and is held in general

contempt. It embraces those who are known as the common people, or who

deserve to be included with them, be their station in life what it may.

The third class, incomparably the smallest in numbers, and often even

more despised than the second, consists of those men in whom nature

is strong enough to resist and often repulse the civilising influence

of the times. They are seldom apt in business, or self-governed in

society; nor do they shine in conversation, nor succeed in making

themselves agreeable to their fellow-men. This class is subdivided

into two varieties. The one includes those strong and courageous

natures that despise the contempt they excite, and often indeed esteem

it more than honour. They differ from other men, not only by nature,

but also by choice and preference. Having nothing in common with the

hopes and pleasures of society, solitary in a crowd, they avoid other

men as much as they themselves are avoided. Specimens of this class are

rarely met with. The other variety consists of persons whose nature is

a compound of strength, weakness, and timidity, and who are therefore

in a constant state of agitation. They are as a rule desirous of

associating with their fellows, and wishing to emulate the men of the

cultivated class, they feel acutely the contempt in which they are held

by their inferiors. These men are never successful in life; they fail

in ever becoming practical, and in society are neither tolerable to

themselves nor others. Not a few of our most gifted men of modern times

have belonged to this division in more or less degree. J. J. Rousseau

is a famous example, and with him may be bracketed one of the ancients,

Virgil. Of the latter it is said, on the authority of Melissus, that

he was very slow of speech, and apparently a most ordinary endowed

man. And this, together with the probability that owing to his great

talents Virgil was little at ease in society, seems likely enough, both

from the laboured subtlety of his style, and the nature of his poetry;

it is also confirmed by what we read towards the end of the Second

Book of the Georgics. There the poet expresses a wish for a quiet and

solitary life, as though he regarded it as a remedy and refuge more

than an advantage in itself. Now, seeing that with rare exceptions men

of these two species are never esteemed until they are dead, and are

of little power in the world; he asserted as a general rule, that the

only way to gain esteem during life is to live unnaturally. And since

the first class, which is the mean of the two extremes, represents

the civilisation of our times; he concluded from this and other

circumstances that the conduct of human affairs is entirely in the

hands of mediocrity.

He distinguished also three conditions of old age, compared with the

other ages of man. When nature and manners were first instituted, men

were just and virtuous at all ages. Experience and knowledge of the

world did not make men less honest and upright. Old age was then the

most venerable time of life; for besides having all the good qualities

common to other men, the aged were naturally possessed of greater

prudence and judgment than their juniors. But in process of time, the

conduct of men changed; their manners became debased and corrupt. Then

were the aged the vilest of the vile; for they had served a longer

apprenticeship to vice, had been longer under the influence of the

wickedness of their neighbours, and were besides possessed of the

spirit of cold indifference natural to their time of life. Under such

conditions they were powerless to act, save by calumny, fraud, perfidy,

cunning, dissimulation, and other such despicable means. The corruption

of men at length exceeded all bounds. They despised virtue and

well-doing before they knew anything of the world, and its sad truth.

In their youth they drained the cup of evil and dissipation. Old age

was then not indeed venerable, for few things thence-forward could be

so called, but the most bearable time of life. For whereas the mental

ardour and bodily strength which formerly stimulated the imagination

and the conception of noble thoughts, had often given rise to virtuous

habits, sentiments, and actions; the same causes latterly increased

man's wickedness by enlarging his capacity for evil, to which it lent

an additional attractiveness. But this ardour diminished with age,

bodily decrepitude, and the coldness incident to age, things ordinarily

more dangerous to virtue than vice. In addition to this, excessive

knowledge of the world became so dissatisfactory and wearisome a

thing, that instead of conducting men from good to evil, as formerly,

it gave them strength to resist wickedness, and sometimes even to hate

it. So that, comparing old age with the other periods of life, it may

be said to have been as better to good in the earliest times; as worse

to bad in the corrupt times; and subsequently as bad to worse.

CHAPTER V.

Ottonieri often talked of the quality of self-love, nowadays called

egotism. I will narrate some of his remarks on this subject.

He said that "if you hear a person speak well or ill of another with

whom he has had dealings, and term him honest or the contrary; value

his opinion not a whit. He speaks well or ill of the man simply as

his relationship with him has proved satisfactory or the reverse." He

said that no one can love without a rival. Being asked to explain,

he replied: "Because the person beloved is a very close rival of the

lover."

"Suppose a case," he said, "in which you asked a favour from a friend,

who could not grant it without incurring the hatred of a third person.

Suppose, too, that the three interested people are in the same

condition of life. I affirm that your request would have little chance

of success, even though your gratitude to the granter might exceed the

hatred he would incur from the other person. The reason of this is as

follows: we fear men's anger and hatred more than we value their love

and gratitude. And rightly so. For do we not oftener see the former

productive of results than the latter? Besides, hatred or vengeance is

a personal satisfaction; whereas gratitude is merely a service pleasing

to the recipient."

He said that respect and services rendered to others in expectation of

some profitable return, are rarely successful; because men, especially

nowadays when they are more knowing than formerly, are less inclined to

give than receive. Nevertheless, such services as the young render to

the old who are rich or powerful, attain their end more often than not.

The following remarks about modern customs I remember hearing from his

own mouth:--

"Nothing makes a man of the world so ashamed as the feeling that he is

ashamed, if by chance he ever realises it.

"Marvellous is the power of fashion! For we see nations and men, so

conservative in everything else, and so careful of tradition, act

blindly in this respect, often indeed unreasonably, and against their

own interests. Fashion is despotic. She constrains men to lay aside,

change, or assume manners, customs, and ideas, just when she pleases;

even though the things changed be rational, useful, or beautiful, and

the substitutes the contrary.[1]

"There are an infinite number of things in public and private life

which, though truly ridiculous, seldom excite laughter. If by chance a

man does laugh in such a case, he laughs alone, and is soon silent. On

the other hand, we laugh daily at a thousand very serious and natural

things; and such laughter is quickly contagious. Thus, most things

which excite laughter are in reality anything but ridiculous; and we

often laugh simply because there is nothing to laugh at, or nothing

worthy of laughter.

"We frequently hear and say such things as, 'The good ancients,' 'our

good ancestors,' &c. Again, 'A man worthy of the ancients,' by which

we mean a trustworthy and honest man. Every generation believes, on

the one hand, that its ancestors were better than its contemporaries;

and on the other hand, that the human race progresses as it leaves the

primitive state, to return to which would be a movement for the worse,

further and further behind. Wonderful contradiction!

"The true is not necessarily the beautiful. Yet, though beauty be

preferable to truth, where the former is wanting, the latter is the

next best thing. Now in large towns the beautiful is not to be found,

because it no longer has a place in the excitement of human life.

The true is equally non-existent; for all things there are false or

frivolous. Consequently, in large towns one sees, feels, hears, and

breathes nothing but falsity, which in time, custom renders even

pleasurable. To sensitive minds, what misery can exceed this?

"People who need not work for their bread, and who accordingly leave

the care of it to others, have usually great difficulty in providing

themselves with one of the chief necessities of life, occupation. This

may indeed be called the greatest necessity of life, for it includes

all others. It is greater even than the necessity of living; for life

itself, apart from happiness, is not a good thing. And possessing life,

as we do, our one endeavour should be to endure as little unhappiness

as possible. Now, on the one hand, an idle and empty life is very

unhappy; and on the other hand, the best way to pass our time is to

spend it in providing for our wants."

He said that the custom of buying and selling human beings has proved

useful to the race. In confirmation of this, he mentioned the practice

of inoculating for small-pox, which originated in Circassia; from

Constantinople it passed to England, and thence became disseminated

throughout Europe. Its office was to mitigate the destructiveness

wrought by true small-pox, which besides endangering the life and

comeliness of the Circassian children and youths, was especially

disastrous in its effects on the sale of their maidens.

He narrated of himself that on leaving school to enter the world of

life, he mentally resolved, inexperienced, and devoted to truth as he

was, to praise no person or thing that did not seem really deserving

of praise. He kept his determination for a whole year, during which

time he did not utter a single word of praise. Then he broke his

vow, fearing lest, from want of practice, he should forget all the

eulogistic phraseology he had learnt shortly before, at the School of

Rhetoric. From that time he absolutely renounced his intention.

[Footnote 1: See "Dialogue between Fashion and Death," p. 19.]

CHAPTER VI.

Ottonieri was accustomed to read out passages from books taken at

hazard, especially those of ancient writers. He would often interrupt

himself by uttering some remark or comment on this or that passage.

One day he read from Laertius' "Lives of the Philosophers," the passage

where Chilo, being asked how the learned differed from the ignorant, is

said to have replied, that the former possess 'hopes,' Ottonieri said:

"Now all is changed. The ignorant hope, but the learned do not."

Again, as he read in the same book how Socrates affirmed that the world

contains but one benefit, knowledge, and but one evil, ignorance,

he said: "I know nothing about the knowledge and ignorance of the

ancients; but in the present day I should reverse this saying."

Commenting on this maxim of Hegesias, also from the book of Laertius,

"The wise man attends to his own interests in everything," he said: "If

all men who carry out this principle be philosophers, Plato may come

and establish his republic throughout the civilised world."

He greatly praised the following saying of Bion Borysthenes, mentioned

by Laertius: "They who seek the greatest happiness, suffer most."

To this he added: "And they on the other hand are happiest who are

contented with least, and who are accustomed to enjoy their happiness

over again in memory."

From Plutarch he read how Stratocles excited the anger of the Athenians

by inducing them on a certain occasion to sacrifice as though they

were victors; and how he then replied by demanding why they blamed him

that he had made them happy and joyful for the space of three days.

Ottonieri added: "Nature might make the same response to those who

complain that she endeavours to conceal the truth beneath a multitude

of vain but beautiful and pleasing appearances. How have I injured you,

in making you happy for three or four days?"

On another occasion he remarked that Tasso's saying about a child

induced to take his medicine under a false belief, "he is nourished on

deception," is equally applicable to all our race, in relation to the

errors in which man puts faith.

Beading the following from Cicero's "Paradoxes"--"Do pleasures make

a person better or more estimable? Is there any one who boasts of the

pleasures he enjoys?" he said: "Beloved Cicero, I cannot say that

pleasures make men in the present day either more estimable or better;

but undoubtedly they cause them to be more esteemed. For in the present

day most young men seek esteem by no other way than pleasure. And not

only do they boast of these pleasures when they obtain them, but they

din the intelligence of their enjoyment into the ears of friends and

strangers, willing or unwilling. There are also many pleasures which

are eagerly desired and sought after, not as pleasures, but for the

sake of the renown, reputation, and self-satisfaction that they bring;

and very often these latter things are appropriated when the pleasures

have neither been obtained, nor sought, or else have been entirely

imaginary."

He noted from Arrian's History of the Wars of Alexander the Great, that

at the battle of Issus, Darius placed his Greek mercenaries in the van

of his army, and Alexander his Greeks at the wings. He thought that

this fact alone was sufficient to determine the result of the battle.

He never blamed authors for writing much about themselves. On the

contrary, he applauded them for so doing, and said that on such

occasions they are nearly always eloquent, and their style, though

perhaps unusual and even singular, is ordinarily good and fluent.

And this is not surprising; for writers treating of themselves have

their heart and soul in the work. They are at no loss what to say;

their subject and the interest they take in it are jointly productive

of original thought. They confine themselves to themselves, and do

not drink at strange fountains; nor need they be commonplace and

trite. There is nothing to induce them to garnish their writing with

artificial ornamentation, or to affect an unnatural style. And it

is an egregious error to suppose that readers are ordinarily little

interested in a writer's confessions. For in the first place, whenever

a man relates his own experiences and thoughts simply and pleasingly,

he succeeds in commanding attention. Secondly, because in no way

can we discuss and represent the affairs of others more truthfully

and effectively than by treating of our own affairs; seeing that

all men have something in common, either naturally or by force of

circumstances, and that we are better able to illustrate human nature

in ourselves than in others. In confirmation of these opinions, he

instanced Demosthenes' Oration for the Crown, in which the speaker,

continually referring to himself, is surpassingly eloquent. And Cicero,

when he touches on his own affairs, is equally successful; peculiarly

so in his Oration for Milo, admirable throughout, but above all praise

towards the end, where he himself is introduced. Bossuet also is

supremely excellent in his panegyric of the Prince de CondÈ, where he

mentions his own extreme age and approaching death. Again, the Emperor

Julian, whose writings are all else trifling, and often unbearable, is

at his best in the "Misopogony" (speech against the beard), in which

he replies to the ridicule and malice of the people of Antioch. He

is here scarcely inferior to Lucian in wit, vigour, and acuteness;

whereas his work on the CÊsars, professedly an imitation of Lucian,

is pointless, dull, feeble, and almost stupid. In Italian literature,

which is almost devoid of eloquent writings, the apology of Lorenzo

de Medici is a specimen of eloquence, grand and perfect in every way.

Tasso also is often eloquent where he speaks much of himself, and is

nearly always excessively so in his letters, which are almost occupied

with his own affairs.

CHAPTER VII.

Many other famous sayings of Ottonieri are recorded. Amongst them is a

reply he gave to a clever, well-read young man, who knew little of the

world. This youth said that he learned daily one hundred pages of the

art of self-government in society. "But," remarked Ottonieri, "the book

has five million pages."

Another youth, whose thoughtless and impetuous behaviour constantly

got him into trouble, used to excuse himself by saying that life is a

comedy. "May be," replied Ottonieri, "but even then it is better for

the actor to gain applause than rebuke; often, too, the ill-trained or

clumsy comedian ends by dying of starvation."

One day he saw a murderer, who was lame, and could not therefore

escape, being carried off by the police. "See, friends," he said,

"Justice, lame though she be, can bring the doer of evil to account, if

he also be lame."

During a journey through Italy he met a courtier, who, desirous of

acting the critic to Ottonieri, began: "I will speak candidly, if you

will allow me." "I will listen attentively," said the other, "for, as a

traveller, I appreciate uncommon things."

Being in need of money, he once asked a loan from a certain man, who,

excusing himself on the plea of poverty, added that were he rich, the

necessities of his friends would be his first thought. "I should be

truly sorry were you to bestow on us such a valuable moment," replied

Ottonieri: "God grant you may never become rich!"

When young, he wrote some verses, using certain obsolete expressions.

At the request of an old lady he recited them to her. She professed

ignorance of their meaning, and said that in her day such words were

not in use. Ottonieri replied: "I thought they might have been, simply

because they are very ancient."

Of a certain very rich miser who had been robbed of a little money, he

said: "This man behaved in a miserly manner even to thieves."

He said of a man who had a mania for calculating on every possible

occasion: "Other men make things; this fellow counts them."

Being asked his opinion about a certain old terra-cotta figure of Jove,

over which some antiquaries were disputing, he said: "Do you not see

that it is a Cretan Jove?"

Of a foolish fellow, who imagined himself to be an admirable reasoner,

yet was illogical whenever he spoke two words, he said: "This person

exemplifies the Greek definition of man, as a 'logical animal.'"

When on his deathbed, he composed this epitaph, which was subsequently

engraved on his tomb:

HERE LIE

THE BONES OF

PHILIP OTTONIERI.

BORN FOR VIRTUE AND GLORY,

HE LIVED IDLE AND USELESS,

AND DIED IN OBSCURITY;

NOT WITHOUT A KNOWLEDGE OF NATURE

AND HIS OWN DESTINY.

_DIALOGUE BETWEEN CHRISTOPHER COLUMBUS AND PIETRO GUTIERREZ._

_Columbus_. A fine night, friend.

_Gutierrez_. Fine indeed; but a sight of land would be much finer.

_Col_. Decidedly. So even you are tired of a life at sea.

_Gut_. Not so. But I am rather weary of this voyage, which turns out to

be so much longer than I expected. Do not, however, think that I blame

you, like the others. Rather, consider that I will, as hitherto, do all

I can to help you in anything relating to the voyage. But just for the

sake of some talk I wish you would tell me candidly and explicitly,

whether you are as confident as at first about finding land in this

part of the world; or if, after spending so much time to no purpose,

you begin at all to doubt.

_Col_. Speaking frankly as to a friend who will not betray me, I

confess I am a little dubious; especially because certain evidences

during the voyage, which filled me with hope, have turned out

deceitful; for instance, the birds which flew over us from the west,

soon after we left Gomera, and which I considered a sure sign of land

not far distant. Similarly, more than one conjecture and anticipation,

made before setting out, regarding different things that were to have

taken place during the voyage, have failed of realisation. So that at

length I cannot but say to myself, "Since these predictions in which I

put the utmost faith have not been verified, why may not also my chief

conjecture, that of finding land beyond the ocean, be also unfounded?"

It is true this belief of mine is so logical, that if it be false, on

the one hand it would seem as if no human judgment could be reliable,

except such as concern things actually seen, and touched; and on the

other hand, I remember how seldom reality agrees with expectation. I

ask myself, "What ground have you for believing that both hemispheres

resemble each other, so that the western, like the eastern, is part

land and part water? Why may it not be one immense sea? Or instead

of land and water, may it not contain some other element? And,

supposing it to have land and water like the other, why may it not be

uninhabited? or even uninhabitable? If it be peopled as numerously as

our hemisphere, what proof have you that rational beings are to be

found there, as in ours? And if so, why not some other intelligent

animals instead of men? Supposing they be men, why not of a kind very

different from those you are acquainted with; for instance, with much

larger bodies, stronger, more skilful, naturally gifted with much more

genius and intelligence, more civilised, and richer in sciences and

arts?"

These thoughts occur to me. And in truth, we see nature endowed with

such power, so diverse and manifold in her effects, that we not only

are unable to form a certain opinion about her works in distant and

unknown parts of the world, but we may even doubt whether we do not

deceive ourselves in drawing conclusions from the known world, and

applying them to the unknown. Nor would it be contrary to probability

to imagine that the things of the unknown world, in whole or part,

were strange and extraordinary to us. For do we not see with our own

eyes that the needle in these seas falls away from the Pole Star not a

little towards the west? Such a thing is perfectly novel, and hitherto

unheard of by all navigators; and even after much thought I can arrive

at no satisfactory explanation of it. I do not infer that the fables

of the ancients regarding the wonders of the undiscovered world and

this ocean are at all credible. Annonus, for instance, said of these

parts, that the nights were illumined by flames, and the glow of fiery

torrents, which emptied themselves into the sea. We observe also, how

foolish hitherto have been all the fears of miraculous and terrible

novelties felt by our fellow-sailors during the voyage; as when, on

coming to that stretch of seaweed, which made as it were a meadow in

the sea, and impeded us so greatly, they imagined we had reached the

verge of navigable waters.

I say this simply because I wish you to see that although this idea

of mine about undiscovered land may be founded on very reasonable

suppositions, in which many excellent geographers, astronomers, and

navigators, with whom I conversed on the subject in Spain, Italy, and

Portugal, agree with me, it might yet be fallacious. In short, we often

see many admirably drawn conclusions prove erroneous, especially in

matters about which we have very little knowledge.

_Gut_. So that in fact you have risked your own life, and the lives of

your companions, on behalf of a mere possibility.

_Col_. I cannot deny it. But, apart from the fact that men daily

endanger their lives for much frailer reasons, and far more trifling

things, or even without thinking at all, pray consider a moment.

If you, and I, and all of us were not now here in this ship, in the

middle of this ocean, in this strange solitude, uncertain and hazardous

though it be, what should we be doing? How should we be occupied? How

should we be spending our time? More joyfully perhaps? More probably,

in greater trouble and difficulty; or worse, in a state of ennui?

For what is implied in a state of life free from uncertainty and

danger? If contentment and happiness, it is preferable to all others;

if weariness and misery, I know nothing so undesirable.

I do not wish to mention the glory and useful intelligence that we

shall take back with us, if our enterprise succeed, as we hope. If the

voyage be of no other use to us, it is very advantageous, inasmuch as

it for a time frees us from ennui, endears life to us, and enhances the

value of many things that we should not otherwise esteem.

You remember perhaps what the ancients say about unfortunate lovers.

These used to throw themselves from the rock of St. Maur (then called

Leucadia) into the sea; being rescued therefrom, they found themselves,

thanks to Apollo, delivered from their love passion. Whether or not

this be credible, I am quite sure that the lovers, having escaped their

danger, for a short time even without Apollo's assistance, loved the

life they previously hated; or loved and valued it increasedly. Every

voyage is, in my opinion, comparable to the leap from the Leucadian

rock, producing the same useful results, though these are of a more

durable kind.

It is ordinarily believed that sailors and soldiers, because

incessantly in danger of their lives, value existence more lightly than

other people. For the same reason, I come to a contrary conclusion,

and imagine few persons hold life in such high estimation as soldiers

and sailors. Just as we care nothing for many benefits as soon as we

possess them; so sailors cherish and value, very greatly, numerous

things that are far from being good, simply because they are deprived

of them. Who would think of including a little earth in the catalogue

of human benefits? None but navigators; and especially such as

ourselves, who, owing to the uncertain nature of our voyage, desire

nothing so much as the sight of a tiny piece of land. This is our first

thought on awaking, and our last before we fall asleep. And if at some

future time we chance to see in the distance the peak of a mountain,

the tops of a forest, or some such evidence of land, we shall scarcely

be able to contain ourselves for joy. Once on _terra firma_, the mere

consciousness of being free to go where we please will suffice to make

us happy for several days.

_Gut_. That is all very true; and if your conjecture only prove to be

as reasonable as your justification of it, we shall not fail to enjoy

this happiness sooner or later.

_Col_. Personally, I think we shall soon do so; though I dare not

actually promise such a thing. You know we have for several days been

able to fathom; and the quality of the matter brought up by the lead

seems to me auspicious. The clouds about the sun towards evening are

of a different form and colour to what they were a few days ago. The

atmosphere, as you can feel, is warmer and softer than it was. The wind

no longer blows with the same force, nor in so straightforward and

unwavering a manner; it is inclined to be hesitating and changeable, as

though broken by some impediment. To these signs add that of the piece

of cane we discovered floating in the sea, which bore marks of having

been recently severed; and the little branch of a tree with fresh

red berries on it; besides, the swarms of birds that pass over us,

though they have deceived me before, are now so frequent and immense,

that I think there must be some special reason for their appearance,

particularly because we see amongst them some which do not resemble

sea birds. In short, all these omens together make me very hopeful and

expectant, however diffident I may pretend to be.

_Gut_. God grant your surmises may be true.

_PANEGYRIC OF BIRDS._

Amelio, a lonely philosopher, was seated, reading, one spring morning

in the shade of his country house. Being distracted by the songs of the

birds in the fields, he gradually resigned himself to listening and

thinking. At length he threw his book aside, and taking up a pen wrote

as follows:--

Birds are naturally the most joyful creatures in the world. I do not

say this because of the cheerful influence they always exercise over

us; I mean that they themselves are more light-hearted and joyful than

any other animal. For we see other animals ordinarily stolid and grave,

and many even seem melancholy. They rarely give signs of joy, and when

they do, these are but slight and of brief duration. In most of their

enjoyments and pleasures they do not express any gratification. The

green fields, extensive and charming landscapes, noble planets, pure

and sweet atmosphere, if even a cause of pleasure to them, do not

excite in them any joyful demonstrations; save that on the authority

of Zenophon, hares are said to skip and frolic with delight when the

moon's radiance is at its brightest.

Birds, on the other hand, show extreme joy, both in motion and

appearance; and it is the sight of this evident disposition for

enjoyment on their part that gladdens us as we watch them. And this

appearance must not be regarded as unreal and deceptive. They sing to

express the happiness they feel, and the happier they are, the more

vigorously do they sing. And if, as it is said, they sing louder and

more sweetly when in love than at other times, it is equally certain

that other pleasures besides love incite them to sing. For we may

notice they warble more on a quiet and peaceful day, than when the day

is dark and uncertain. And in stormy weather, or when frightened, they

are silent; but the storm passed, they reappear, singing and frolicking

with one another. Again, they sing in the morning when they awake;

being partly incited to this by a feeling of joy for the new day, and

partly by the pleasure generally felt by every animal when refreshed

and restored by sleep. They also delight in gay foliage, rich valleys,

pure and sparkling water, and beautiful country....

It is said that birds' voices are softer and sweeter, and their songs

more refined, with us than among wild and uncivilised people. This

being so, it would seem that birds are subject to the influence of the

civilisation with which they associate. Whether or not this be true, it

is a remarkable instance of the providence of nature that they should

have capacity for flight, as well as the gift of song, so that their

voices might from a lofty situation reach a greater number of auditors.

It is also providential that the air, which is the natural element of

sound, should be inhabited by vocal and musical creatures.

Truly the singing of birds is a great solace and pleasure to us, and

all other animals. This fact is not, I believe, so much due to the

sweetness of the sounds, nor to their variety and harmony, as to

the joyful signification of songs generally, and those of birds in

particular. Birds laugh, as it were, to show their contentment and

happiness. It may therefore be said that they partake in a degree of

man's privilege of laughter, unpossessed by other animals. Now some

people think that man may as well be termed a laughing animal, as an

animal possessed of mind and reason; for laughter seems to them quite

as much peculiar to man as reason. And it is certainly wonderful that

man, the most wretched and miserable of all creatures, should have the

faculty of laughter, which is wanting in other animals. Marvellous also

is the use we make of this faculty! We see people suffering from some

terrible calamity or mental distress, others who have lost all love of

life, and regard every human thing as full of vanity, who are almost

incapable of joy, and deprived of hope, laugh nevertheless. Indeed, the

more such men realise the vanity of hope, and the misery of life, the

fewer their expectations and pleasures, so much the more do they feel

inclined to laugh. Now it is scarcely possible to explain or analyse

the nature of laughter in general, and its connection with the human

mind. Perhaps it may aptly be termed a species of momentary folly or

delirium. For men can have no reasonable and just cause for laughter,

because nothing really satisfies nor truly pleases them. It would be

curious to discover and trace out the history of this faculty. There

is no doubt that in man's primitive and wild state, it was expressed

by a peculiar gravity of countenance, as in other animals, who show

it even to the extent of melancholy. For this reason I imagine that

laughter not only came into the world after tears, which cannot be

questioned, but that a long time passed before it appeared. During that

time, neither the mother greeted her child with a smile, nor did the

child smilingly recognise her, as Virgil says. And the reason why, in

the present day, among civilised people, children smile as soon as they

are born, is explainable by virtue of example: they see others smile,

therefore they also smile. It is probable that laughter originated in

drunkenness,[1] another peculiarity of the human race. This vice is

far from being confined to civilised nations, for we know that scarcely

any people can be found that do not possess an intoxicating liquor of

some kind, which they indulge in to excess. And this cannot be wondered

at, when we remember that men, the most unhappy of all animals, are

above all pleased with anything that easily alienates their minds,

such as self-forgetfulness, or a suspension of their usual life; from

which interruption and temporary diminution of the sense and knowledge

of their peculiar evils they receive no slight benefit. And whereas

savages have ordinarily a sad and grave countenance, yet, when in

a state of drunkenness, they laugh immoderately, and talk and sing

incessantly, contrary to their custom. But I will discuss this matter

more in detail in a history of laughter which I think of composing.

Having discovered its origin, I will trace its history and fortune to

the present day, when it is more valued than at any previous time. It

occupies among civilised nations a place, and fills an office somewhat

similar to the parts formerly played by virtue, justice, honour, and

the like, often indeed frightening and deterring men from the committal

of evil.

But to return to the birds. From the effect their singing produces in

me, I conclude that the sight and recognition of joy in others, of

which we are not envious, gratifies and rejoices us. We may therefore

be grateful to Nature for having ordained that the songs of birds,

which are a demonstration of joy and a species of laughter, should

be in public, differing from the private nature of the singing and

laughter of men, who represent the rest of the world. And it is wisely

decreed that the earth and air should be enlivened by creatures that

seem to applaud universal life with the joyful harmony of their sweet

voices, and thus incite other living beings to joy, by their continual,

though false, testimony to the happiness of things.

It is reasonable that birds should be, and show themselves, more joyful

than other creatures. For, as I have said, they are naturally better

adapted for joy and happiness. In the first place, apparently, they are

not subject to ennui. They change their position momentarily, and pass

from country to country, however distant, and from the lowest regions

of the air to the highest, quickly and with wonderful ease. Life to

them is made up of an infinite variety of sights and experiences. Their

bodies are in a continuous state of activity, and they themselves are

full of vital power. All other animals, their wants being satisfied,

love quietude and laziness; none, except fishes and certain flying

insects, keep long in motion simply for amusement. The savage, for

instance, except to supply his daily wants, which demand little and

brief exertion, or when unable to hunt, scarcely stirs a step. He loves

idleness and tranquillity above everything, and passes nearly the whole

day sitting in silence and indolence within his rude cabin, or at its

opening, or in some rocky cave or place of shelter. Birds, on the

contrary, very rarely stay long in one place. They fly backwards and

forwards without any necessity, simply as a pastime, and often having

gone several hundred miles away from the country they usually frequent,

they return thither the same evening. And even for the short time they

are in one place, their bodies are never still. Ever turning here and

there, they are always either flocking together, pecking, or shaking

themselves, or hopping about in their extraordinarily vivacious and

active maimer. In short, from the time a bird bursts its shell until

it dies, save intervals of sleep, it is never still for a moment. From

these considerations it may reasonably be affirmed that whereas the

normal state of animals, including even man, is quietude, that of birds

is motion.

We find also that birds are so endowed that their natural qualities

harmonise with the exterior qualities and conditions of their life;

this again makes them better adapted for happiness than other animals.

They have remarkably acute powers of hearing, and a faculty of vision

almost inconceivably perfect. Owing to this last they can discern

simultaneously a vast extent of country, and are daily charmed by

spectacles the most immense and varied. From these things it may be

inferred that birds ought to possess an imagination, vivid and powerful

in the highest degree,. Not the ardent and stormy imagination of

Dante or Tasso; for this is a disastrous endowment, and the cause of

endless anxieties and sufferings. But a fertile, light, and childish

fancy, such as is productive of joyful thoughts, sweet unrealities,

and manifold pleasures. This is the noblest gift of Nature to living

creatures. And birds have this faculty in a great measure for their

own delight and benefit, without experiencing any of its hurtful and

painful consequences. For their prolific imagination, as with children,

combines, with their bodily vigour, to render them happy and contented,

instead of being injurious, and productive of misery, as with most

men. Thus, birds may be said to resemble children equally in their

vivacity and restlessness, and the other attributes of their nature. If

the advantages of childhood were common to other ages, and its evils

not exceeded later in life, man might perhaps be better able to bear

patiently the burden of existence.

To me it seems that the nature of birds, considered aright, is

manifestly more perfect than that of other animals. For, in the first

place, birds are superior to other animals in sight and hearing, which

are the principal senses of life. In the second place, birds naturally

prefer motion to rest, whereas other creatures have the contrary

preference. And since activity is a more living thing than repose,

birds may be said to have more life than other animals. It follows

therefore that birds are physically, and in the exercise of their

faculties, superior to other creatures.

Now, if life be better than its contrary, the fuller and more perfect

the life, as with birds, the greater is the superiority of creatures

possessing it, over less endowed animals.

We must not forget also that birds are adapted to bear great

atmospheric changes. Often they rise instantaneously from the ground

far up into the air, where the cold is extreme; and others in their

travels fly through many different climates.

In short, just as Anacreon wished to be changed into a mirror that he

might be continually regarded by the mistress of his heart, or into a

robe that he might cover her, or balm to anoint her, or water to wash

her, or bands that she might draw him to her bosom, or a pearl to be

worn on her neck, or shoes that she might at least press him with her

feet; so I should like temporarily to be transformed into a bird, in

order to experience their contentment and joyfulness of life.

[Footnote 1: Compare Shakespeare's Henry IV., Part 2, Act 4, sc. 3.

_Falstaff:_ " ... nor a man cannot make him laugh;--but that's no

marvel, he drinks no wine."]

_THE SONG OF THE WILD COCK._

Certain Hebrew _savants_ and writers affirm, that between heaven and

earth, or rather, partly in one and partly on the other, lives a wild

cock which stands with its feet resting on the earth, and touching the

sky with its crest and beak. This gigantic cock, besides possessing

other peculiarities mentioned by these writers, has the use of reason;

or else, like a parrot, it has been taught, I know not by whom, to

express itself in human fashion. In proof of this, an old parchment

manuscript has been discovered, containing a canticle written in

Hebrew characters, and in a language compounded of Chaldean, Targumic,

Rabbinical, Cabalistic and Talmudic, entitled "Morning Song of the

Wild Cock." (Scir detarnegÚl bara letzafra.) This, not without great

exertion, and the interrogation of more than one Rabbi, Cabalist,

theologian, jurist, and Hebrew philosopher, has been interpreted and

translated as follows. I have not yet been able to ascertain whether

this song is still uttered by the cock on certain occasions, or every

morning, or whether it was sung but once, or who is said to have heard

it, or if this language be the proper tongue of the cock, or whether

the canticle was translated from some other language. In the following

translation I have used prose rather than verse, although it is a poem,

in order to ensure as literal a rendering as possible. The broken

style and occasional bombast must not be imputed to me, for it is

a reproduction of the original; and in this respect the composition

partakes of the characteristics of Oriental languages, and especially

of Oriental poems.

"Mortals, awake! The day breaks; truth returns to the earth and vain

fancies flee away. Arise; take up again the burden of life; forsake the

false world for the true.

"Now is the time when each one takes again to his mind all the thoughts

of his real life. He recalls to memory his intentions, aims, and

labours; and thinks of the pleasures and cares that must occur during

the new day. And every one at this time eagerly seeks to discover in

his mind joyful hopes and sweet thoughts. Few, however, are satisfied

in this desire; for all men it is a misfortune to awake. The miserable

man is no sooner aroused than he falls again into the clutches of

his unhappiness. Very sweet a thing is that sleep induced by joy or

hope. These preserve themselves in their entirety until the following

morning, when they either vanish or decrease in force.

"If the sleep of mortals were continuous and identical with life; if

under the star of day all living beings languished on the earth in

utter rest, and no work was wrought; if the oxen ceased bellowing in

the meadows, the beasts roaring in the forests, the birds singing

in the air, the bees buzzing, and the butterflies skimming over the

fields; if no voice nor motion except-that of the waters, winds, and

tempests anywhere existed, the universe would indeed be useless; but

would there be less happiness or more misery than there is to-day?

"I ask of thee, O Sun, author of day, and guardian of eve; in the

course of the centuries measured out and consummated by thee, thus

rising and setting, hast thou ever at any time seen one living being

possessed of happiness? Of the numberless works of mortals which

hitherto thou hast seen, thinkest thou that a single one was successful

in its aim of procuring satisfaction, durable or temporary, for its

originator? And seest thou, or hast thou ever seen, happiness within

the boundaries of the world? Where does it dwell? In what country,

forest, mountain, or valley; in what land, inhabited or uninhabited;

in which planet of the many that thy flames illumine and cherish? Does

it perchance hide from thee in the bowels of the earth, or the depths

of the sea? What living being, what plant, or other thing animated by

thee, what vegetable or animal participates in it? And thou thyself,

like an indefatigable giant, traversing swiftly, day and night,

sleepless and restless, the vast course prescribed to thee; art thou

content or happy?

"Mortals, arouse yourselves! Not yet are you free from life. The time

will come when no eternal force, no internal agitation, shall awaken

you from the repose of sleep, in which you shall ever and insatiably

rest. For the present, death is not granted to you; only from time to

time you are permitted to taste briefly its resemblance, because life

would fail were it not often suspended. Too long abstention from this

short and fleeting sleep is a fatal evil, and causes eternal sleep.

Such thing is life, that to secure its continuance it must from time to

time be laid aside; man then in sleep refreshes himself with a taste,

and, as it were, a fragment of death.

"It seems as though death were the essential aim of all things. That

which has no existence cannot die; yet all that exists has proceeded

from nothing. The final cause of existence is not happiness, for

nothing is happy. It is true, living creatures seek this end in all

their works, but none obtain it; and during all their life, ever

deceiving, tormenting, and exerting themselves, they suffer indeed for

no other purpose than to die.

"The earliest part of the day is ordinarily the most bearable for

living beings. Few, when they awake, find again in their minds

delightful and joyful thoughts, but almost all people give birth to

them for the time being. For then the minds of men, being free from

any special concentration, are predisposed to joy fulness, and inclined

to bear evils more patiently than at other times. Thus a man who falls

asleep in the anguish of despair is filled anew with hope when he

awakes, though it can profit him nothing, Many misfortunes and peculiar

hardships, many causes of fear and distress, then seem less formidable

than they appeared the previous evening. Often, also, the pangs of

yesterday are remembered with contempt, and are ridiculed as follies

and vain fancies.

"The evening is comparable to old age; and on the other hand, the dawn

of the morning resembles youth; the one full of comfort and hope, and

then sad evening with its discouragement and tendencies to look on the

dark side of things. But, just as the time of youth in life is very

short and fleeting, so is the infancy of each new day, which quickly

ages towards its evening.

"Youth, if indeed it be the best of life, is a very wretched thing.

Yet even this poor benefit is so soon over, that when by many signs

man is led to perceive the decline of his existence, he has scarcely

experienced its perfection, or fully realised its peculiar strength,

which, once diminished, the best part of life is gone with every race

of mortals. Thus, in all her works, Nature turns and points towards

death: for old age reigns universally. Every part of the world hastens

untiringly; with diligence and wonderful celerity, towards death. The

world itself alone seems exempt from decay; for although in autumn and

winter it appears as it were sick and aged, nevertheless in the spring

it ever rejuvenates. But just as mortals in the first part of each day

regain some portion of their youth, yet grow old as the day progresses,

and are at length extinguished in sleep; so although in the beginning

of the year the world becomes young again, none the less it perpetually

ages. The time will come when this world, and Nature herself, shall

die. And as at the present day there remains no trace nor record of

many very great kingdoms and empires, so in the whole world there shall

not he left a vestige of the infinite changes and catastrophes of

created things. A naked silence and an utter calm shall fill the vast

space. Thus, this wonderful and fearful mystery of universal existence

shall be unloosed, and shall melt away before it be made manifest or be

comprehended."[1]

[Footnote 1: This is a poetical not philosophical conclusion. Speaking

philosophically, existence, which has had no beginning, will have no

ending.]

_DIALOGUE BETWEEN TIMANDRO AND ELEANDRO._

_Timandro_. I am very anxious to have some conversation with you. It is

about the matter and tendency of your writings and words, which seem to

me most blamable.

_Meandro_. So long as you find no fault with my actions, I confess I do

not much care; because words and writings are of little consequence.

_Tim_. There is nothing in your actions, as far as I can see, for which

I need blame you. I am aware that you benefit no one because you cannot

do so, and I observe that you injure no one because you are unwilling

to do so. But I consider your speech and writings very reprehensible,

and I do not agree with you that they are of little importance. Our

life may almost be said to consist of nothing else. For the present

we will disregard the words, and simply consider the writings. In the

first place, the incessant vituperation and continuous satire that you

bestow on the human race are out of fashion.

_Mean_. My brain also is out of fashion. It is quite natural for a

child to resemble its father.

_Tim_. Then you must not be surprised if your books, like everything

contrary to the custom of the day, are ill received.

_Mean_. That is a small misfortune. They were not written for the

purpose of begging a little bread at the doors of the rich.

_? Tim_. Forty or fifty years ago, philosophers used to say hard things

about the human race, but now they do just the contrary.

_Mean_. Do you believe that forty or fifty years ago the philosophers

were right or wrong in their statements?

_Tim_. More often right than wrong.

_Mean_. Do you think that in these forty or fifty years the human race

has changed to the opposite of what it then was?

_Tim_. Not at all. But that has nothing to do with the question.

_Elean_. Why not? Has humanity progressed in strength and perfection,

that the writers of to-day should be constrained to flatter, and

compelled to reverence it?

_Tim_. What have such pleasantries to do with so grave a matter?

_Elean_. Then seriously. I am not unaware that the people of this

century, although continuing to ill-treat their fellow-men as their

ancestors did, have yet a very high opinion of themselves, such as men

of the past century did not possess. But I, who ill-treat no one, do

not see that I am obliged to speak well of others against my conscience.

_Tim_. You must, however, like all men, endeavour to serve your race.

_Elean_. If my race, on the contrary, does its best to injure me, I do

not see that this obligation holds, as you say. But supposing you are

right, what ought I to do, if I cannot be useful to my race?

_Tim_. By actions, perhaps, you may be unable to be of much use. Such

power is in the hands of but few people. But by your writings you can,

and indeed ought to serve it. And the race is not benefited by books

which snarl incessantly at men in general. Such behaviour is, on the

contrary, extremely injurious.

_Elean_. I admit that it does no good, but I also imagine it does no

harm. Do you, however, think books are able to help the human race?

_Tim_. Not I only, but all the world think so.

_Elean_. What kind of books?

_Tim_. Many kinds; but especially books treating of morals.

_Elean_. All the world does not think so, because I, amongst others,

do not, as a woman once said to Socrates. If books of morals could be

useful to men, I should place poetry above all others. I use the word

poetry in its widest sense, as including all writings, the aim of which

is to excite the imagination, whether in prose or verse. Now I hold

in little esteem that sort of poetry which, when read and meditated

over, does not leave in the mind of the reader a sufficiently elevating

sentiment to deter him for half an hour from giving way to a single

base thought or unworthy action. If, however, the reader commits, for

example, a breach of faith towards his best friend an hour after such

reading, I do not condemn the poetry for that, because then the finest,

most stirring, and noblest poetry the world possesses would come under

condemnation. Exceptions to this influence are readers who live in

great cities. These people, however great their concentration, cannot

forget themselves for even half an hour, nor are they much pleased, or

moved, by any sort of poetry.

_Tim_. You speak, as usual, maliciously, and so as to leave an

impression that you are habitually ill-treated by others. This, in most

instances, is the true cause of the ill-humour and contempt exhibited

by certain people towards their race.

_Elean_. Indeed, I cannot say that men have treated, or do treat me

very well. If I could say so, I imagine I should be unique in my

experience. But neither have they done me any serious harm, because in

demanding nothing from men, and having nothing in common with them, I

scarcely give them a chance of offending me. I must confess, however,

that recognising clearly, as I do, how ignorant I am of the simplest

means of making myself agreeable to others, both in conversation and

the daily intercourse of life, whether from a natural defect or fault

of my own, I should esteem men less if they treated me better.

_Tim_. Then you are so much the more to blame. For, had you even a

mistaken ground of complaint, your hatred and desire for revenge

against men would be in a measure justifiable. But your hatred, from

what you say, is based on nothing in particular, except perhaps an

extraordinary and wretched ambition of becoming famous as a misanthrope

like Timon--a desire abominable in itself, and especially out of place

in a century like the present, so peculiarly devoted to philanthropy.

_Elean_. I need not reply to your remark about ambition, because I have

already said that I want nothing from men. Does that seem incredible to

you? You will at least grant that it is not ambition which urges me to

write books, such as on your own showing are more likely to bring me

reproaches than glory. Besides, I am so far from hating the human race,

that I neither can nor wish to hate even those who particularly offend

me. Indeed, the fact that hatred is so completely foreign to me, goes

far to explain my inability to do as other men do. But I cannot change

this, because I always think that whenever a man displeases or injures

another, he does so in the hope of procuring some pleasure or advantage

for himself. His aim is not to injure others (which can never be the

motive of any action, nor the object of any thought), but to benefit

himself,--a natural desire, and undeserving of odium. Again, whenever I

notice a particular vice or fault in my neighbour, I carefully examine

myself, and as far as circumstances will allow, I put myself in his

place. Thereupon I invariably find that I should have done the same as

he, and been guilty of the same faults. Consequently my mind loses

what irritation it previously felt. I reserve my wrath for occasions

when I might see some wickedness of which my nature is incapable; but

so far I have never met with such a case. Finally, the thought of the

vanity of human things is so constantly in my mind that I am unable to

excite myself about any one of them. Hatred and anger seem to me great

and strong passions, out of harmony with the insignificance of life.

Thus you see there is a great difference between Timon and myself.

Timon hated and shunned all men except Alcibiades, for whom he reserved

all his affection, because he saw in him the initiator of innumerable

evils for their common country. I, on the other hand, without hating

Alcibiades, would have especially avoided him. I would have warned my

fellow-citizens of their danger, exhorting them at the same time to

take the requisite steps to preserve themselves from it. Some say that

Timon did not hate men, but beasts in the likeness of men. As for me, I

neither hate men nor beasts.

_Tim_. Nor do you love any one.

_Mean_. Listen, my friend. I am born to love. I have loved; and perhaps

with as deep a passion as is possible for human soul to feel. To-day,

although, as you see, I am not sufficiently old to be naturally devoid

of passion, nor even of a lukewarm age, I am not ashamed to say that

I love no one except myself, by the necessity of nature, and that as

little as possible. Nevertheless, I would always rather bear suffering

myself than be the cause of it to others. I believe you can bear

witness to the truth of this, little as you know about my habits.

_Tim_. I do not deny it.

_Mean_. I try to procure for men, even at my own expense, that greatest

possible good, which alone I seek for myself, viz., a state of freedom

from suffering.

_Tim_. But do you distinctly confess that you do not love the human

race in general?

_Elean_. Yes, absolutely. But in such a way that if it depended on me,

I would punish those who deserved punishment, without hating them, as

also I would benefit my race to the utmost, although I do not love it.

_Tim_. Well, it may be so. But then, if you are not incited by injuries

received, nor by hatred, nor ambition, why do you write in such a

manner?

_Mean_. For many reasons. First, because I cannot tolerate deceit

and dissimulation. I may sometimes have to give way to these in

conversation, but never in my writings; because I am often obliged to

speak unwillingly, but I never write unless I please. I should derive

no satisfaction from puzzling my brains, and expressing the result on

paper, unless I could write what I really think. All sensible people

laugh at those who now-a-days write Latin, because no one speaks, and

few understand, the language. I think it is equally absurd to take for

granted, whether in conversation or writing, the reality of certain

human qualities no longer extant, and the existence of certain rational

beings, formerly considered as divinities, but now really regarded as

non-existent equally by those who mention them, and those who hear them

mentioned. I could understand men using masks and disguises in order to

deceive other men, or to avoid being recognised. But it seems childish

for them all to conceal themselves behind the same kind of mask, and

use the same disguise, whereby they deceive no one, but recognise each

other perfectly, in spite of it. Let them lay aside their masks, and

retain merely their clothes. The effect will be precisely the same, and

they will be more at ease. Besides, this perpetual simulation, though

useless, and this eternal acting of a part between which and oneself

there is nothing in common, cannot be carried on without fatigue and

weariness. If men had passed suddenly, instead of gradually, from the

savage condition to their present state of civilisation, would the

names of the things just mentioned be found in general usage, with the

custom of deducing from them a thousand philosophical conclusions? In

truth, this custom seems to me like one of those ceremonies and ancient

practices so incompatible with our present habits, which nevertheless

continue to exist by force of usage. I for my part cannot submit to

these ceremonies; and I write in the language of modern times, not

that of the Trojan era. In the second place, I do not so much, in my

writings, find fault with the human race, as grieve over its destiny.

There is nothing I think more clear and palpable than the necessary

unhappiness of all living beings. If this unhappiness be not a fact,

then all my arguments are wrong, and we may abandon the discussion.

If it be true, why may I not lament openly and freely, and say that

I suffer? Doubtless, if I did nothing but weep incessantly (this

is the third cause which moves me), I should become a nuisance to

others as well as myself, without profiting any one. But in laughing

at our misfortunes, we do much to remedy them. I endeavour therefore

to persuade others to profit in this way, as I have done. Whether I

succeed or not, I feel assured that such laughter is the only solace

and remedy that can be found. The poets say that despair has always a

smile on its lips.

But you must not think that I am devoid of compassion for the

unhappiness of humanity. Its condition is incurable by art, industry,

or anything else, therefore I consider it far more manly and consistent

with a magnanimous despair to laugh at our common woes, than to

sigh, weep, and moan with others, thereby encouraging them in their

lamentations.