Lastly, permit me to say that I desire as much as you, or any one else,

the welfare of my race in general, but I am hopeless of its attainment;

nor can I, like so many philosophers of this century, nourish and

soothe my mind with anticipations of good. My despair is absolute,

unchangeable, and so based on firm judgment and conviction, that I

cannot imagine such a thing as a joyous future, nor can I undertake

anything with the hope of bringing it to completion. And you are well

aware that man is never inclined to attempt what he knows or thinks

cannot succeed; or if he does, he acts feebly and without confidence.

Similarly a writer, who expresses himself contrary to his real opinion,

though this be erroneous, utters nothing worthy of consideration.

_Tim_. But when his judgment is, like yours, a false one, he should

rectify it.

_Elean_. My judgment is of myself alone, and I am quite sure I do

not err in announcing my unhappiness. If other men are happy, I

congratulate them with all my heart. I know also that death alone can

deliver me from my misfortune. If others are more hopeful, I rejoice

once again.

_Tim_. We are all unhappy, and have always been so. I scarcely think

you can take credit for the novelty of your idea. But man's present

condition, superior as it is to his past, will be greatly improved in

the future. You forget, or seem to disregard the fact, that man is

perfectible.

_Elean_. Perfectible he may be. But that he is capable of perfection,

which is of more importance, I know not who can convince me.

_Tim_. He has not yet had time to reach perfection. Ultimately he will

no doubt attain to it.

_Elean_. I do not doubt it. The few years that have passed since the

world began are, I agree with you, quite insufficient to complete

our education. We cannot judge from what seem to us the nature and

capabilities of man. Besides, humanity hitherto has been too occupied

with other business to give itself up to the task of attaining

perfection. But in future all its endeavours will be towards this one

aim.

_Tim_. Yes, the whole civilised world is working zealously towards

this end. And, taking into consideration the number and sufficiency

of the means employed, which have indeed recently increased in an

astounding manner, we have every reason to think that the goal will be

reached, sooner or later. This conviction itself is by no means one

of the least stimulants to progress, because it gives birth to a host

of undertakings and labours useful for the common welfare. If, then,

at any time it was fatal and bl‚mable to manifest despair like yours,

and to teach men such doctrines as the absolute necessity of their

wretchedness, the vanity of life, the insignificance of their race, and

the evil of their nature, much more is it so in the present day. Such

conduct can only result in depriving us of courage, and that feeling of

self-esteem which is the foundation of an honest, useful, and glorious

life; it will also divert us from the path of our own welfare.

_Elean_. Kindly say distinctly, whether or not you regard as true what

I have said about the unhappiness of mankind.

_Tim_. You return to your old argument. Well, supposing I admit the

truth of what you say, how does that alter the matter? I would remind

you that it is not always well to preach truth simply because it is

truth.

_Elean_. Answer me another question. Are these truths, which I merely

express, without any pretence of preaching, of primary or secondary

importance in philosophy?

_Tim_. In my opinion they are the very essence of all philosophy.

_Elean_. In that case, they greatly deceive themselves who affirm that

man's perfection consists in complete knowledge of the truth; that his

misfortunes are the consequence of his ignorance and prejudices; and

that the human race will be happy when men have discovered the truth,

and conform their lives to its teaching. Yet such doctrines are taught

by most philosophers, ancient and modern. But you are of opinion that

these truths, though confessedly the substance of all philosophy,

ought to be concealed from the majority of men. You would rather that

they were unknown or disregarded by all men, because of the baneful

influence they exercise over the mind. And this is equivalent to an

admission that philosophy ought to be banished from the earth. I grant

you, however, that the final conclusion to be drawn from true and

perfect philosophy is that it were better to dispense with philosophy.

It would therefore seem that, first of all, philosophy is superfluous,

since its conclusions are attainable without its assistance; secondly,

it is extremely injurious, because its conclusion is a very painful

one to be accepted, and when accepted is useless: nor is it in man's

power to disregard truths once recognised. Besides, the habit of

philosophising is one of the most difficult habits to throw off. Thus,

philosophy which at first inspires hope as a possible remedy for the

ills of humanity, ends by seeking in vain a cure for itself. And now

I would ask you why you imagine we are nearer perfection than our

ancestors were? Is it that we are better acquainted with the truth?

This cannot be, since we have seen that such knowledge is extremely

prejudicial to man's happiness. Perhaps, however, it is because some

few men in the present day have learnt that the truest philosopher

is he who abstains from philosophy? But in what then are we superior

to the men of primitive times, who were perfectly unacquainted

with philosophy? And even in the present day savages abstain from

philosophy, without feeling the least inconvenience.

In what, therefore, are we more advanced than our ancestors; and what

means of attaining perfection do we possess, which they had not?

_Tim_. We have many of great importance. To explain them would be a

work of considerable time.

_Elean_. Put them aside for the moment, and reconsider my theory. I

say that if, on the one hand, I express in my writings certain hard

and bitter truths, whether to relieve my mind, or console myself

in laughing at them, I do not fail at the same time to deplore and

disadvise the search after that cold and miserable truth, acquaintance

with which reduces us to a state of either indifference and hypocrisy,

or baseness of soul, moral corruption, and depravity. And, on the other

hand, I praise and exalt those noble, if false ideas, which give birth

to high-minded and vigorous actions and thoughts, such as further the

welfare of mankind, or individuals; those glorious illusions, vain

though they be, which give value to life, and which are natural to

the soul; in short, the superstitions of antiquity, distinct from the

errors of barbarism. These latter should be rooted out, but the former

respected. Civilisation and philosophy having exceeded their natural

bounds, as is usual with all things pertaining to humanity, have drawn

us from one state of barbarism only to precipitate us into another, no

better than the first. This new barbarism, born of reason and science

instead of ignorance, manifests itself more in the mind than the body.

Yet I imagine, that though these superstitions become daily more

necessary for the well-being of civilised nations, the possibility of

their re-introduction diminishes daily.

And as for man's perfection, I assure you if I had perceived any signs

of it, I would have written a volume in praise of the human race. But

since I have not yet seen it, and as it is improbable I ever shall

see it, I think of leaving in my will a certain sum of money for the

purpose of procuring an annual panegyric of the human race, to be

publicly recited from the time of its perfection, and to pay for the

erection of a temple, statue, or monument, as may be judged best, to

commemorate the event.

_COPERNICUS:_

_A DIALOGUE IN FOUR SCENES._

_Scene_ I.--_The First Hour and the Sun._

_First Hour_. Good day, Excellency.

_Sun_. Thanks; good-night as well.

_First Hour_. The horses are waiting, your Excellency.

_Sun_. Very well.

_First Hour_. And the Morning Star has been up some time.

_Sun_. All right. Let it rise and set, just as it pleases.

_First Hour_. What do I hear your Excellency say?

_Sun_. I wish you would leave me alone.

_First Hour_. But, Excellency, the night has already lasted so long,

that it can last no longer; and if we delay, imagine, Excellency, the

confusion that will ensue.

_Sun_. I don't mean to stir, whatever happens.

_First Hour_.0 Excellency! what is this? Does your Excellency feel ill?

_Sun_. No, no; I feel nothing, except that I don't wish to move. So you

can go and attend to your own affairs.

_First Hour_. How can I go unless your Excellency comes? I am the first

Hour of the day, and how can the day exist, if your Excellency does not

deign to go forth as usual?

_Sun_. If you will not be of the day, you shall be of the night; or

better, the hours of the night shall do double duty, and you and your

companions shall be idle. For you must know I am tired of this eternal

going round to give light to a race of little animals that live far

away in a ball of clay, so small that I, who have good sight, cannot

see it. During the night I have decided not to trouble myself any more

in this fashion. If men want light, let them make their own fires for

the purpose, or provide it in some other way.

_First Hour_. But, Excellency, how can the little fellows manage that?

It will be a very great expense for them to keep lanterns or candles

burning all day long. If only they could now discover a certain

atmosphere to warm and illumine their streets, rooms, shops, taverns,

and everything else at little expense, then they would not be so badly

off. But men will have to wait some three hundred years, more or less,

before they discover this; and meanwhile, all the oil, wax, pitch, and

tallow of the earth will be exhausted, and they will have nothing more

to burn.

_Sun_. Let them hunt the will-o-the-wisp, and catch those shining

things called glow-worms.

_First Hour_. And how will they protect themselves against the cold?

For without the assistance of your Excellency, all the forests together

will not make a fire large enough to warm them. Besides, they will also

die of hunger, since the earth will no longer bring forth its fruits.

And so, after a few years, the seed of the poor little folk will be

lost. They will go groping about the earth, seeking food and warmth,

until having consumed every possible thing, and used up the last

flicker of fire, they will all die in the darkness, frozen like pieces

of rock-crystal.

_Sun_. What is this to do with me? Am I the nurse of the human race; or

the cook, that I should look after the preparation of their food? And

why need I care if a few invisible little creatures, millions of miles

away from me, are unable to see, or bear the cold, when deprived of

my light and warmth? Besides, even supposing, as you say, that I ought

to act the part of stove or fireplace to this human family, surely it

is more reasonable, if men want to warm themselves, that they should

come to the stove, than that the stove should go whirling round them.

Therefore, if the Earth requires me, let it come hither to satisfy its

needs. I want nothing from the Earth, that I should thus trouble myself

to rotate round it.

_First Hour_. Your Excellency means, if I understand rightly, that

henceforth the Earth must do for itself that which hitherto you have

done on its behalf.

_Sun_. Yes: now and for the future.

_First Hour_. Well, your Excellency knows best what is right, and can

do as it pleases you. But nevertheless, will your Excellency deign to

think what a number of beautiful and useful things will be destroyed

by this new decree. The day will be deprived of its handsome gilded

chariot, and beautiful horses, which bathe themselves in the sea.

Amongst other changes, we poor Hours must suffer; we shall no longer

have a place in heaven, but shall have to descend from our position

as celestial children to that of terrestrials, unless, as is more

probable, we dissolve into thin air instead. But be that as it may, the

difficulty will be to persuade the Earth to go round, necessarily a

hard thing, because it is unaccustomed to do so; and the experience of

rotating and exerting itself incessantly will be all the more strange,

seeing that hitherto it has never stirred from its present position.

If, then, your Excellency now begins to think of idleness, I fear the

Earth will be as little desirous of bestirring itself as ever it was.

_Sun_. In that case, it must be pricked, and made to bestir itself

as much as is necessary. But the quickest and surest way is to find

a poet, or, better, a philosopher, who will persuade the Earth to

move itself, or persuasion being unsuccessful, will use force. For

philosophers and poets ordinarily manage these affairs. When I was

younger I used to have a great esteem for the poets, though they

rather caricatured me in representing me racing madly, great and

stout as I am, round and round a grain of sand, simply for the sake

of amusement or exercise. But now that I am older, I am more partial

to philosophy. I study to discern the utility, not the beauty of

things, and poetry seems to me either absurd or wearisome. I wish,

also, to have good substantial reasons for whatever I do. Now, I see

no reason why I should value a life of activity more than a life of

ease and idleness. I have determined, therefore, in future, to leave

the fatigues and discomforts to others, and for my own part to live

quietly at home, without undertaking business of any kind. This change

in me is partly due to my age, but has chiefly been brought about by

the philosophers, a race of people whose power and influence increase

daily. Consequently, to induce the Earth to rotate in my place, a poet

would intrinsically be better than a philosopher: because the poets

are accustomed to give a fictitious value to things by exaggerating

the truth, beauty, and utility of subjects about which they treat, and

because by raising a thousand pleasurable hopes, they often incite

people to fatigues they would else have avoided; whereas philosophers

weary them. But, now that the power of philosophers is so predominant,

I doubt whether a poet would be of much use, if even the Earth gave him

a hearing. Therefore, we had better have recourse to a philosopher.

It is true, philosophers are usually little suited, and still less

inclined, to stimulate other people to exertions; but possibly in so

extreme a case, they may be induced to act contrary to custom. The

Earth has, however, one alternative; it has the option of declining to

undertake all this hard labour. Its destruction will then ensue, and

I am far from sure that this would not be the best thing for it. But

enough of this: we shall see what will take place. Now, either you or

one of your companions had better go at once to the Earth. If there you

discover any one of these philosophers in the open air, regarding the

heavens, and wondering about the cause of this protracted night, as

well he may, take charge of him, and bring him hither on your back. Do

you clearly understand?

_First Hour_. Yes, Excellency. You shall be obeyed.

_Scene II.--Copernicus pacing the terrace of his house, with his eyes

anxiously directed towards the eastern horizon. A roll of paper in his

hand, which ever and anon he uses as a telescope._

This is a marvellous thing. Either the clocks are all wrong, or else

the sun should have risen more than an hour ago. Yet not a gleam of

light is to be seen in the east, though the sky is as bright and clear

as a mirror. All the stars shine as if it were midnight. I must go and

consult the Almagest and Sacrobosco, and see what they say about this

event. I have often heard talk of the night Jove passed with the wife

of Amphitryon, and I also remember reading a little while ago, in a

modern Spanish book, that the Peruvians record a very long night, at

the end of which the sun proceeded forth from a certain lake called

Titicaca. Hitherto I have regarded these as mere tales, and have never

wavered in my belief. Now, however, that I perceive reason and science

to be absolutely useless, I am determined to believe the truth of

these, and similar things. I will also visit the lakes and puddles in

the neighbourhood, and see if I can fish out the sun.

Ha! what is this that I hear? It is like the flapping of the wings of

some huge bird.

_Scene_ III.--_The Last Hour and Copernicus._

_Last Hour_. Copernicus, I am the Last Hour.

_Copernicus_. The Last Hour! Well, I suppose I must be resigned. But I

beg of you, if possible, to give me enough time to make my will, and

put my things in order, before I die.

_Last Hour_. Die! What do you mean? I am not the last hour of your life.

_Copernicus_. Oh, then, what are you? The last hour of the office of

the breviary?

_Last Hour_. I can quite imagine you prefer that one to the others,

when you are in your stall.

_Copernicus_. But how do you know I am a Canon? And how is it you know

my name?

_Last Hour_. I procured my information about you, from certain people

in the street. I am, in fact, the Last Hour of day.

_Copernicus_. Ah! now I understand. The First Hour is unwell; and that

is why day is not yet visible.

_Last Hour_. I have news for you. There will never be any more daylight

unless you provide it yourself.

_Copernicus_. You would throw on me the responsibility of making

daylight? A fine thing, indeed!

_Last Hour_. I will tell you how. But first of all, you must come with

me at once to the house of the Sun, my father. You shall hear more when

we set out. His Excellency will explain everything when we arrive.

_Copernicus_. I trust it is all right. But the journey, unless I am

mistaken, must be a very long one. And how can I take enough food

to prevent my dying of hunger a few years before reaching the Sun?

Besides, I doubt if his Excellency's lands produce the where-withal to

supply me with even a single meal.

_Last Hour_. Do not trouble yourself with these doubts. You will not

stay long in my father's house, and the journey will be completed in a

moment. For you must know that I am a spirit.

_Copernicus_. Maybe. But I am a body.

_Last Hour_. Well, well: you are not a metaphysician that you need

excite yourself about these matters. Come now, mount on my shoulders,

and leave all the rest to me.

_Copernicus_. Courage. There, it is done! I will pursue this novelty to

its issue.

_Scene_ IV.--_Copernicus and the Sion._

Copernicus_. Most noble Lord.

_Sun_. Forgive me, Copernicus, if I do not offer you a chair: one does

not use such things here. But we will soon despatch our business. My

servant has already explained the matter to you; and from what the

child tells me, I imagine you will do very well for our purpose.

_Copernicus_. My lord, I discern great difficulties in the matter.

_Sun_. Difficulties ought not to frighten such a man as yourself. They

are even said to make the brave man still more courageous. But tell me

briefly of what these difficulties consist.

_Copernicus_. In the first place, although philosophy is a great power,

I doubt whether it can persuade the Earth to change its comfortable

sitting posture for a state of restless activity; especially in these

times, which are not heroic.

_Sun_. And if persuasion be ineffectual, you must try force.

_Copernicus_. Willingly, Illustrious, if I were a Hercules, or even an

Orlando, instead of a mere Canon of Varmia.

_Sun_. What has that to do with it? Did not one of your ancient

mathematicians say, that if he had standing room given him outside the

world, he would undertake to move heaven and earth? Now, you are not

required to move heaven, and behold, you are already in a place outside

the earth. Therefore, unless you are not so clever as that ancient, you

will no doubt be able to move the Earth, whether it be willing, or not.

_Copernicus_. My lord, such a thing might be possible. But a lever

would be necessary, of such dimensions that neither I nor even

your Illustrious Lordship could pay half the cost of its materials

and manufacture. There are, however, other and far more serious

difficulties, which I will now mention.

You know the Earth has hitherto occupied the principal position in

the Universe, that is the centre. Motionless, it has had nothing to

do but regard all the other spheres, great and small, brilliant and

obscure, continuously gyrating around and on all sides of it with a

marvellous regularity and speed. All things seem to be occupied in

its service; so that the Universe may be likened to a court, in the

midst of which the Earth sits as on a throne, surrounded by attendant

globes, like courtiers, guards, and servants, each of which fulfils

its respective office. Consequently, the Earth has always regarded

itself as Empress of the Universe. So far, indeed, little fault can be

found with its control, and I do not think your design an improvement

on the old state of affairs. But what shall I say to you about men? We

esteem ourselves (and shall always do so) to be in the same relation to

the rest of created beings as the Earth is to the Universe. And more

than this. Supreme among terrestrial creatures, we all, including the

ragged beggar who dines on a morsel of black bread, have a most exalted

idea of ourselves. We are each of us emperors, and our empire is only

bounded by the Universe, for it includes all the stars and planets,

visible and invisible. Man is, in his own > estimation, the final cause

of all things, including even your Illustrious Lordship.

Now, if we remove the Earth from its place in the centre, and make it

whirl round and round unremittingly, what will be the consequence?

Simply, that it will act like all the other globes, and be enrolled

in the number of the planets. Then all its terrestrial majesty will

vanish, and the Earth will have to abdicate its imperial throne. Men,

too, will lose their human majesty, and be deprived of their supremacy;

they will be left alone with their rags, and miseries, which are not

insignificant.

_Sun_. In short, Don Nicolas, what do you wish to prove by this

discourse? Is it that you have scruples of conscience lest the deed

should be treasonable?

_Copernicus_. No, it is not that, Illustrious. For, to the best of my

knowledge neither the Codes, nor the Digest, nor the books of public,

imperial, international, or natural law, make any mention of such

treason. What I wanted to show was, that this action, subverting our

planetary relationships, will not only work alteration in the order

of nature; for it will change the position of things _inter se_, and

the ends for which created beings now exist; it will also necessarily

make a great revolution in the science of metaphysics, and everything

connected with the speculative part of knowledge. The result will be

that men, even if they are able and willing to critically examine into

the why and wherefore of life, will discover themselves and their aims

to be very different from what they are now, or from what they imagine

them to be.

_Sun_. My dear child, the thought of these things does not disturb me

much; so little respect have I for metaphysics, or physics, or even

alchemy, necromancy, or any such things. Besides, men will in time

become content with their position; or, if they do not like it, they

may argue the matter to their hearts' content, and will doubtless

succeed in believing just what they please. In this way they may still

deceive themselves under the names of Barons, Dukes, Emperors, or

anything else. If, however, they are inconsolable, I confess it will

not give me much uneasiness.

_Copernicus_. Well, then, apart from men and the Earth, consider,

Illustrious, what may reasonably be expected to happen in regard

to the other planets. These, when they see the Earth reduced to

their condition, and doing precisely what they do, just like one of

themselves, will be jealous of its apparent superiority. They will be

dissatisfied with their own naked simplicity and sad loneliness, and

will desire to have their rivers, mountains, seas, plants, animals, and

men; for they will see no reason why they should be in the smallest

degree less endowed than the Earth. Thereupon will ensue another great

revolution in the Universe: an infinite number of new races and people

will instantaneously proceed from their soil, like mushrooms.

_Sun_. Well, let them come, and the more the merrier. My light and heat

will suffice for them all without any extra expense. The Universe shall

have food, clothes, and lodging amply provided gratis.

_Copernicus_. But, if your Illustrious Lordship will reflect a moment,

yet another objection may be discerned. The stars, having rivalled the

Earth, will turn their attentions to you. They will notice your fine

throne, noble court, and numerous planetary satellites. Consequently,

they also will wish for thrones. And more, they will desire to rule, as

you do, over inferior planets, each of which must of course be peopled

and ornamented like the Earth. It is needless to mention the increased

unhappiness of the human race. Their insignificance will be greater

than ever. They will burst out in all these millions of new worlds, so

that even the tiniest star of the milky way will be provided with its

own race of mortals. Now, looking at this, solely as affecting your

interests, I affirm that it will be very prejudicial. Hitherto you have

been, if not the first, certainly the second in the Universe; that is,

after the Earth; nor have the stars aspired to rival you in dignity. In

this new state, however, you will have as many equals as stars, each

with their respective stars. Beware then lest this change be ruinous to

your supremacy.

_Sun_. You remember CÊsar's remark, when, crossing the Alps, he

happened to pass a certain miserable little barbarian village. He said

that he would rather be the first in that village, than the second

in Rome. Similarly I would rather be first in this my own world than

second in the Universe. But you must not think it is ambition that

makes me desirous of changing the present state of things; it is solely

my love of peace, or, more candidly, idleness. Therefore it is a small

matter to me whether I am first or last in the Universe: unlike Cicero,

I care more for ease than dignity.

_Copernicus_. I also, Illustrious, have striven my utmost to obtain

this ease. But, supposing your Lordship is successful in your

endeavour, I doubt whether it will be of long duration. For, in the

first place, I feel almost sure that before many years have elapsed

you will be impelled to go winding round and round like a windlass,

or a wheel, without however varying your locality. Then, after a

time, you will probably be desirous of rotating round something--the

Earth for instance. Ah! well, be that as it may; if you persist in

your determination, I will try to serve you, in spite of the great

difficulties necessarily to be overcome. If I fail, you must attribute

the failure to my inability, not unwillingness.

_Sun_. That is well, my Copernicus. Do your best.

_Copernicus_. There is however yet another obstacle.

_Sun_. What is it?

_Copernicus_. I fear lest I should be burnt alive for my pains. In

which case, it would be improbable that I, like the Phoenix, should

rise from my ashes. I should therefore never see your Lordship's face

again.

_Sun_. Listen, Copernicus. You know that once upon a time I was a

prophet, when poetry ruled the world, and philosophy was scarcely

hatched. I will now utter my last prophecy. Put faith in me on the

strength of my former power. This is what I say. It may be that those

who come after you, and confirm your deeds, shall be burnt, or killed

in some other way; but you shall be safe, nor shall you suffer at

all on account of this undertaking. And to make your safety certain,

dedicate to the Pope the book[1] you will write on the subject. If you

do this, I promise that you will not even lose your canonry.

[Footnote 1: Copernicus did in effect dedicate his book on the

"Revolution of the Celestial Bodies," the printing of which was only

completed a few days before his death, to Pope Paul III. The system

expounded therein was condemned by a decree of Paul V. in 1616. This

condemnation remained in force until 1821, when it was revoked by Pius

VII. The sun is supposed to be in the centre, and motionless; the earth

and the rest of the planets move round it in elliptical orbits. The

heavens and stars are supposed to be stationary, and their apparent

diurnal motion from east to west is imputed to the earth's motion from

west to east.]

_DIALOGUE BETWEEN AN ALMANAC SELLER AND A PASSER-BY._

_Almanac Seller_. Almanacs! New Almanacs! New Calendars! Who wants new

Almanacs?

_Passer-by_. Almanacs for the New Year?

_Alm. Seller_. Yes, Sir.

_Passer_. Do you think this New Year will be a happy one?

_Alm. Seller_. Yes, to be sure, Sir.

_Passer_. As happy as last year?

_Alm. Seller_. Much more so.

_Passer_. As the year before?

_Alm. Seller_. Still more, Sir.

_Passer_. Why? Should you not like the New Year to resemble one of the

past years?

_Alm. Seller_. No, Sir, I should not.

_Passer_. How many years have gone by since you began to sell almanacs?

_Alm. Seller_. About twenty years, Sir.

_Passer_. Which of the twenty should you wish the New Year to be like?

_Alm. Seller_. I do not know.

_Passer_. Do you not remember any particular year which you thought a

happy one?

_Alm. Seller_. Indeed I do not, Sir.

_Passer_. And yet life is a fine thing, is it not?

_Alm. Seller_. So they say.

_Passer_. Would you not like to live these twenty years, and even all

your, past life from your birth, over again?

_Alm. Seller_. Ah, dear Sir, would to God I could!

_Passer_. But if you had to live over again the life you have already

lived, with all its pleasures and sufferings?

_Alm. Seller_. I should not like that.

_Passer_. Then what other life would you like to live? Mine, or that of

the Prince, or whose? Do you not think that I, or the Prince, or any

one else, would reply exactly as you have done; and that no one would

wish to repeat the same life over again?

_Alm. Seller_. I do believe that.

_Passer_. Then would you recommence it on this condition, if none other

were offered you?

_Alm. Seller_. No, Sir, indeed I would not.

_Passer_. Then what life would you like?

_Alm. Seller_. Such an one as God would give me without any conditions.

_Passer_. A life at hap-hazard, and of which you would know nothing

beforehand, as you know nothing about the New Year?

_Alm. Seller_. Exactly.

_Passer_. It is what I should wish, had I to live my life over again,

and so would every one. But this proves that Fate has treated us all

badly. And it is clear that each person is of opinion that the evil he

has experienced exceeds the good, if no one would wish to be re-born on

condition of living his own life over again from the beginning, with

just its same proportion of good and evil. This life, which is such a

fine thing, is not the life we are acquainted with, but that of which

we know nothing; it is not the past life, but the future. With the New

Year Fate will commence treating you, and me, and every one well, and

the happy life will begin. Am I not right?

_Alm. Seller_. Let us hope so.

_Passer_. Show me the best almanac you have.

_Alm. Seller_. Here it is, Sir. This is worth thirty soldi.

_Passer_. Here are thirty soldi.

_Alm. Seller_. Thank you, Sir. Good day, Sir.--Almanacs! New Almanacs!

New Calendars!

_DIALOGUE BETWEEN PLOTINUS AND PORPHYRIUS._

"One day when I, Porphyrius, was meditating about taking my

own life, Plotinus guessed my intention. He interrupted me,

and said that such a design could not proceed from a healthy

mind, but was due to some melancholy indisposition, and

that I must have change of air" (Ex. _Life of Plotinus_, by

Porphyrius).

The same incident is recounted in the life of Plotinus by

Eunapius, who adds that Plotinus recorded in a book the

conversation he then held with Porphyrius on the subject.

_Plotinus_. You know, Porphyrius, how sincerely I am your friend. You

will not wonder therefore that I am unquiet about you. For some time

I have noticed how sad and thoughtful you are; your expression of

countenance is unusual, and you have let fall certain words which make

me anxious. In short, I fear that you contemplate some evil design.

_Porphyrius_. How! What do you mean?

_Plotinus_. I think you intend to do yourself some injury; it were a

bad omen to give the deed its name. Listen to me, dear Porphyrius, and

do not conceal the truth. Do not wrong the friendship that has so long

existed between us. I know my words will cause you displeasure, and

I can easily understand that you would rather have kept your design

hid. But I could not be silent in such a matter, and you ought not to

refuse to confide in one who loves you as much as himself. Let us then

talk calmly, weighing our words. Open your heart to me. Tell me your

troubles, and let me be auditor of your lamentations. I have deserved

your confidence. I promise, on my part, not to oppose the carrying out

of your resolution, if we agree that it is useful and reasonable.

_Porphyrius_. I have never denied a request of yours, dear Plotinus. I

will therefore confess to you what I would rather have kept to myself;

nothing in the world would induce me to tell it to anyone else. You are

right in your interpretation of my thoughts. If you wish to discuss

the subject, I will not refuse, in spite of my dislike to do so; for

on such occasions the mind prefers to encompass itself with a lofty

silence, and to meditate in solitude, giving itself up for the time to

a state of complete self-absorption. Nevertheless, I am willing to do

as you please.

In the first place, I may say that my design is not the consequence of

any special misfortune. It is simply the result of an utter weariness

of life, and a continuous ennui which has long possessed me like a

pain. To this may be added a feeling of the vanity and nothingness

of all things, which pervades me in body and soul. Do not say that

this disposition of mind is unreasonable, though I will allow that it

may in part proceed from physical causes. It is in itself perfectly

reasonable, and therein differs from all our other dispositions; for

everything which makes us attach some value to life and human things,

proves on analysis to be contrary to reason, and to proceed from some

illusion or falsity. Nothing is more rational than ennui.[1] Pleasures

are all unreal. Pain itself, at least mental pain, is equally false,

because on examination it is seen to have scarcely any foundation, or

none at all. The same may be said of fear and hope. Ennui alone, which

is born from the vanity of things, is genuine, and never deceives. If,

then, all else be vain, the reality of life is summed up in ennui.

_Plotinus_. It may be so. I will not contradict you as to that. But we

must now consider the nature of your project. You know Plato refused to

allow that man is at liberty to escape, like a fugitive slave, from the

captivity in which he is placed by the will of the gods, in depriving

himself of life.

_Porphyrius_. I beg you, dear Plotinus, to leave Plate alone now,

with his doctrines and dreams. It is one thing to praise, explain,

and champion certain theories in the schools and in books, but quite

another to practically exemplify them. School-teaching and boots

constrain us to admire Plato, and conform to him, because such is the

custom in the present day. Bat in real life, far from being admired,

he is even detested. It is true Plato is said to have spread abroad by

his writings the notion of a future life, thus leaving men in doubt as

to their fate after death, and serving a good purpose in deterring men

from evil in this life, through fear of punishment in the next. If I

imagined Plato to have been the inventor of these ideas and beliefs, I

would speak thus to him:--

"You observe, O Plato, how inimical to our race the power which governs

the world has always been, whether known as Nature, Destiny, or Fate.

Many reasons contradict the supposition that man has that high rank

in the order of creation which we are pleased to imagine; but by no

reason can he be deprived of the characteristic attributed to him

by Homer--that of suffering. Nature, however, has given us a remedy

for all evils. It is death, little feared by those who are not fully

intelligent, and by all others desired.

"But you have deprived us of this dearest consolation of our life,

full of suffering that it is. The doubts raised by you have torn this

comfort from our minds, and made the thought of death the bitterest

of all thoughts. Thanks to you, unhappy mortals now fear the storm

less than the port. Driven from their one place of repose, and robbed

of the only remedy they could look for, they resign themselves to the

sufferings and troubles of life. Thus, you have been more cruel towards

us than Destiny, Nature, or Fate. And since this doubt, once conceived,

can never be got rid of, to you is it due that your fellow-men regard

death as something more terrible than life. You are to blame that rest

and peace are for ever banished from the last moments of man, whereas

all other animals die in perfect fearlessness. This one thing, O Plato,

was wanting to complete the sum of human misery.

"True, your intention was good. But it has failed in its purpose.

Violence and injustice are not arrested, for evil-doers only realise

the terrors of death in their last moments, when quite powerless to do

more harm. Your doubts trouble only the good, who are more disposed

to benefit than injure their fellow-men, and the weak and timid, who

are neither inclined by nature nor disposition to oppress anyone. Bold

and strong men, who have scarcely any power of imagination, and those

who require some other restraint than mere law, regard these fears as

chimerical, and are undeterred from evil doing. We see daily instances

of this, and the experience of all the centuries, from your time down

to the present, confirms it. Good laws, still more, good education, and

mental and social culture,--these are the things that preserve justice

and mildness amongst men. Civilisation, and the use of reflection and

reason, make men almost always hate to war with each other and shed one

another's blood, and render them disinclined to quarrel, and endanger

their lives by lawlessness. But such good results are never due to

threatening fancies, and bitter expectation of terrible chastisement;

these, like the multitude and cruelty of the punishments used in

certain states, only serve to increase the baseness and ferocity of

men, and are therefore opposed to the well-being of human society.

"Perhaps, however, you will reply that you have promised a reward

in the future for the good. What then is this reward? A state of

life which seems full of ennui, even less tolerable than our present

existence! The bitterness of your punishments is unmistakable; but the

sweetness of your rewards is hidden and secret, incomprehensible to our

minds. How then can order and virtue be said to be encouraged by your

doctrine? I will venture to say that if but few men have been deterred

from evil by the fear of your terrible Tartarus, no good man has been

led to perform a single praiseworthy action by desire of your Elysium.

Such a Paradise does not attract us in the least. But, apart from the

fact that your heaven is scarcely an inviting place, who among the

best of us can hope to merit it? What man can satisfy your inexorable

judges, Minos, Eacus, and Rhadamanthus, who will not overlook one

single fault, however trivial? Besides, who can say that he has reached

your standard of purity? In short, we cannot look for happiness in the

world to come; and however clear a man's conscience may be, or however

upright his life, in his last hour he will dread the future with its

terrible incertitude. It is due to your teaching that fear is a much

stronger influence than hope, and may be said to dominate mankind.

"This then is the result of your doctrines. Man, whose life on earth

is wretched in the extreme, anticipates death, not as an end to all

his miseries, but as the beginning of a condition more wretched still.

Thus, you surpass in cruelty, not only Nature and Destiny, but the most

merciless tyrant and bloodthirsty executioner the world has ever known.

"But what cruelty can exceed that of your law, forbidding man to put

an end to his sufferings and troubles by voluntarily depriving himself

of life, thereby triumphing over the horrors of death? Other animals

do not desire to put an end to their life, because their unhappiness

is less than ours; nor would they even have sufficient courage to face

a voluntary death. But if they did wish to die, what should deter them

from fulfilling their desire? They are affected by no prohibition, nor

fear of the future. Here again you make us inferior to brute beasts.

The liberty they possess, they do not use; the liberty granted also to

us by Nature, so miserly in her gifts, you take away. Thus, the only

creatures capable of desiring death, have the right to die refused

them. Nature, Destiny, and Fortune overwhelm us with cruel blows, that

cause us to suffer fearfully; you add to our sufferings by tying our

arms and enchaining our feet, so that we can neither defend ourselves,

nor escape from our persecutors.

"Truly, when I think over the great wretchedness of humanity, it seems

to me that your doctrines, above all things, O Plato, are guilty of

it, and that men may well complain of you more than of Nature. For the

latter, in decreeing for us an existence full of unhappiness, has left

us the means of escaping from it when we please. Indeed, unhappiness

cannot be called extreme, when we have in our hands the power to

shorten it at will. Besides, the mere thought of being able to quit

life at pleasure, and withdraw from the miseries of the world, is so

great an alleviation of our lot, that in itself it suffices to render

existence supportable. Consequently, there can be no doubt that our

chief unhappiness proceeds from the fear, that in abbreviating our life

we might be plunged into a state of greater misery than the present.

And not only will our misery be greater in the future, but it will

be so full of the refinement of cruelty, that a comparison of these

unexperienced tortures with the known sufferings of this life, reduces

the latter almost to insignificance.

"You have easily, O Plato, raised this question of immortality; but

the human species will become extinct before it is settled. Your genius

is the most fatal thing that has ever afflicted humanity, and nothing

can ever exist more disastrous in its effects."

That is what I would say to Plato, had he invented the doctrine we

are discussing; but I am well aware he did not originate it. However,

enough has been said. Let us drop the subject, if you please.

_Plotinus_. Porphyrius, you know how I revere Plato; yet in talking to

you on such an occasion as this, I will give you my own opinion, and

will disregard his authority. The few words of his that I spoke were

rather as an introduction than anything else. Returning to my first

argument, I affirm that not only Plato and every other philosopher,

but Nature herself, teaches us that it is improper to take away our

own life. I will not say much on this point, because if you reflect a

little, I am sure you will agree with me that suicide is unnatural. It

is indeed an action the most contrary possible to nature. The whole

order of things would be subverted if the beings of the world destroyed

themselves. And it is repugnant and absurd to suppose that life is

given only to be taken away by its possessor, and that beings should

exist only to become non-existent. The law of self-preservation is the

strictest law of nature. Its maintenance is enjoined in every possible

way on man and all creatures of the universe. And, apart from anything

else, do we not instinctively fear, hate, and shun death, even in spite

of ourselves? Therefore, since suicide is so utterly contrary to our

nature, I cannot think that it is permissible.

_Porphyrius_. I have already meditated on the subject from all points

of view; for the mind could not design such a step without due

consideration. It seems to me that all your reasoning is answerable

with just as much counter reasoning. But I will be brief.

You doubt whether it be permissible to die without necessity. I ask

you if it be permissible to be unhappy? Nature, you say, forbids

suicide. It is a strange thing that since she is either unable or

unwilling to make me happy, or free me from unhappiness, she should

have the power to force me to live. If Nature has given us a love of

life, and a hatred of death, she has also given us a love of happiness,

and a hatred of suffering; and the latter instincts are much more

powerful than the former, because happiness is the supreme aim of all

our actions and sentiments of love or hatred. For to what end do we

shun death, or desire life, save to promote our well-being, and for

fear of the contrary?

How then can it be unnatural to escape from suffering in the only way

open to man, that is, by dying; since in life it can never be avoided?

How, too, can it be true, that Nature forbids me to devote myself to

death, which is undoubtedly a good thing, and to reject life, which

is undoubtedly an evil and injurious thing, since it is a source of

nothing but suffering to me?

_Plotinus_. These things do not persuade me that suicide is not

unnatural. Have we not a strong instinctive horror of death? Besides,

we never see brute beasts, which invariably follow the instincts of

their nature (when not contrarily trained by man), either commit

suicide, or regard death as anything but a condition to be struggled

against, even in their moments of greatest suffering. In short, all

men who commit this desperate act, will be found to have lived out of

conformity to nature. They, on the contrary, who live naturally, would

without exception reject suicide, if even the thought proposed itself

to them.

_Porphyrius_. Well, if you like, I will admit that the action is

contrary to nature. But what has that to do with it, if we ourselves

do not conform to nature; that is, are no longer savages? Compare

ourselves, for instance, with the inhabitants of India or Ethiopia, who

are said to have retained their primitive manners and wild habits. You

would scarcely think that these people were even of the same species

as ourselves. This transformation of life, and change of manners and

customs by civilisation, has been accompanied, in my opinion, by an

immeasurable increase of suffering. Savages never wish to commit

suicide, nor does their imagination ever induce them to regard death

as a desirable thing; whereas we who are civilised wish for it, and

sometimes voluntarily seek it.

Now, if man be permitted to live unnaturally, and be consequently

unhappy, why may he not also die unnaturally? For death is indeed

the only way by which he can deliver himself from the unhappiness

that results from civilisation. Or, why not return to our primitive

condition, and state of nature? Ah, we should find it almost impossible

as far as mere external circumstances are concerned, and in the more

important matters of the mind, quite impossible. What is less natural

than medicine? By this I mean surgery, and the use of drugs. They are

both ordinarily used expressly to combat nature, and are quite unknown

to brute beasts and savages. Yet, since the diseases they remedy are

unnatural, and only occur in civilised countries, where people have

fallen from their natural condition, these arts, being also unnatural,

are highly esteemed and even indispensable. Similarly, suicide, which

is a radical cure for the disease of despair, one of the outcomes of

civilisation, must not be blamed because it is unnatural; for unnatural

evils require unnatural remedies. It would indeed be hard and unjust

that reason, which increases our misery by forcing us to go contrary to

nature, should in this matter join hands with nature, and take from us

our only remaining hope and refuge, and the only resource consistent

with itself, and should force us to continue in our wretchedness.

The truth is this, Plotinus. Our primitive nature has departed from us

for ever. Habit and reason have given us a new nature in place of the

old one, to which we shall never return. Formerly, it was unnatural

for men to commit suicide, or desire death. In the present day, both

are natural. They conform to our new nature, which however, like the

old one, still impels us to seek our happiness. And since death is our

greatest good, is it remarkable that men should voluntarily seek it?

For our reason tells us that death is not an evil, but, as the remedy

for all evils, is the most desirable of things.

Now tell me: are all other actions of civilised men regulated by the

standard of their primitive nature? If so, give me a single instance.

No, it is our present, and not our primitive nature, that interprets

our actions; in other words, it is our reason. Why then should suicide

alone be judged unreasonably, and from the aspect of our primitive

nature? Why should this latter, which has no influence over our life,

control our death? Why should not the same reason govern our death

which rules our life? It is a fact, whether due to reason or our

unhappiness, that in many people, especially those who are unfortunate

and afflicted, the primitive hatred of death is extinguished, and

even changed into desire and love, as I have said. Such love, though

incompatible with our early nature, is a reality in the present day.

We are also necessarily unhappy because we live unnaturally. It were

therefore manifestly unreasonable to assert that the prohibition which

forbade suicide in the primitive state should now hold good. This seems

to me sufficient justification of the deed. It remains to be proved

whether or not it be useful.

_Plotinus_. Never mind that side of the question, my dear Porphyrius,

because if the deed be permissible, I have no doubt of its extreme

utility. But I will never admit that a forbidden and improper action

can be useful. The matter really resolves itself into this: which is

the better, to suffer, or not to suffer? It is certain that most men

would prefer suffering mixed with enjoyment, to a state devoid of both

suffering and enjoyment, so ardently do we desire and thirst after

joy. But this is beside the question, because enjoyment and pleasure,

properly speaking, are as impossible as suffering is inevitable. I mean

a suffering as continuous as our never satisfied desire for pleasure

and happiness, and quite apart from the peculiar and accidental

sufferings which must infallibly be experienced by even the happiest of

men. In truth, were we certain that in continuing to live, we should

continue thus to suffer, we should have sufficient reason to prefer

death to life; because existence does not contain a single genuine

pleasure to compensate for such suffering, even if that were possible.

_Porphyrius_. It seems to me that ennui alone, and the fact that we

cannot hope for an improved existence, are sufficiently cogent reasons

to induce a desire for death, even though our condition be one of

prosperity. And it is often a matter of surprise to me that we have no

record of princes having committed suicide through ennui and weariness

of their grandeur, like other men in lower stations of life. We read

how Hegesias, the Cyrenaic, used to reason so eloquently about the

miseries of life, that his auditors straightway went and committed

suicide; for which reason he was called the "death persuader," and

was at length forbidden by Ptolemy to hold further discourse on the

subject. Certain princes, it is true, have been suicides, amongst

others Mithridates, Cleopatra, and Otho. But these all put an end to

themselves to escape some peculiar evils, or from dread of an increase

of misfortune. Princes are, I imagine, more liable than other men to

feel a hatred of their condition, and to think favourably of suicide.

For have they not reached the summit of what is called human happiness?

They have nothing to hope for, because they have everything that

forms a part of the so-called good things of this life. They cannot

anticipate greater pleasure to-morrow than they have enjoyed to-day.

Thus they are more unfortunately situated than all less exalted people.

For the present is always sad and unsatisfactory; the future alone is a

source of pleasure.

But be that as it may. We see then that there is nothing to prevent

men voluntarily quitting life, and preferring death, save the fear

of another world. All other reasons are palpably ill-founded. They

are due to a wrong estimate, in comparing the advantages and evils of

existence; and whoever at any time feels a strong attachment to life,

or lives in a state of contentment, does so under a mistake, either of

judgment, will, or even fact.

_Plotinus_. That is true, dear Porphyrius. But nevertheless, let me

advise, nay implore, you to listen to the counsels of Nature rather

than Reason. Follow the instincts of that primitive Nature, mother of

us all, who, though she has manifested no affection for us in creating

us for unhappiness, is a less bitter and cruel foe than our own reason,

with its boundless curiosity, speculation, chattering, dreams, ideas,

and miserable learning. Besides, Nature has sought to diminish our

unhappiness by concealing or disguising it from us as much as possible.

And although we are greatly changed, and the power of nature within us

is much lessened, we are not so altered but that much of our former

manhood remains, and our primitive nature is not quite stifled within

us. In spite of all our folly, it will never be otherwise. So, too,

the mistaken view of life that you mention, although I admit that it

is in reality palpably erroneous, will continue to prevail. It is

held not only by idiots and the half-witted, but by clever, wise, and

learned men, and always will be, unless the Nature that made us--and

not man nor his reason--herself puts an end to it. And I assure you

that neither disgust of life, nor despair, nor the sense of the nullity

of things, the vanity of all anxiety, and the insignificance of man,

nor hatred of the world and oneself, are of long duration; although

such dispositions of mind are perfectly reasonable, and the contrary

unreasonable. For our physical condition changes momentarily in more or

less degree; and often without any especial cause life endears itself

to us again, and new hopes give brightness to human things, which once

more seem worthy of some attention, not indeed from our understanding,

but from what may be termed the higher senses of the intellect. This is

why each of us, though perfectly aware of the truth, continues to live

in spite of Reason, and conforms to the behaviour of others; for our

life is controlled by these senses, and not by the understanding.

Whether suicide be reasonable, or our compromise with life

unreasonable, the former is certainly a horrible and inhuman action. It

were better to follow Nature, and remain man, than act like a monster

in following Reason. Besides, ought we not to give some thought to the

friends, relatives, acquaintance, and people with whom we have been

accustomed to live, and from whom we should thus separate for ever? And

if the thought of such separation be nothing to us, ought we not to

consider their feelings? They lose one whom they loved and respected;

and the atrocity of his death enhances their grief. I know that the

wise man is not easily moved, nor yields to pity and lamentation to

a disquieting extent; he does not abase himself to the ground, shed

tears immoderately, nor do other similar things unworthy of one who

clearly understands the condition of humanity. But such fortitude of

soul should be reserved for grievous circumstances that arise from

nature, or are unavoidable; it is an abuse of fortitude to deprive

ourselves for ever of the society and conversation of those who are

dear to us. He is a barbarian, and not a wise man, who takes no account

of the grief experienced by his friends, relations, and acquaintances.

He who scarcely troubles himself about the grief his death would cause

to his friends and family is selfish; he cares little for others, and

all for himself. And truly, the suicide thinks only of himself. He

desires nought but his personal welfare, and throws away all thought

of the rest of the world. In short, suicide is an action of the most

unqualified and sordid egotism, and is certainly the least attractive

form of self-love that exists in the world.

Finally, my dear Porphyrius, the troubles and evils of life, although

many and inevitable, when, as in your case, unaccompanied by grievous

calamity or bodily infirmity, are after all easy to be borne,

especially by a wise and strong man like yourself. And indeed, life

itself is of so little importance, that man ought not to trouble

himself much either to retain or abandon it; and, without thinking

greatly about it, we ought to give the former instinct precedence over

the latter.

If a friend begged you to do this, why should you not gratify him?

Now I earnestly entreat you, dear Porphyrius, by the memory of our

long friendship, put away this idea. Do not grieve your friends, who

love you with such warm affection, and your Plotinus,[2] who has no

dearer nor better friend in the world. Help us to bear the burden

of life, instead of leaving us without a thought. Let us live, dear

Porphyrius,[3] and console each other. Let us not refuse our share of

the sufferings of humanity, apportioned to us by destiny. Let us cling

to each other with mutual encouragement, and hand in hand strengthen

one another better to bear the troubles of life. Our time after all

will be short; and when death comes, we will not complain. In the last

hour, our friends and companions will comfort us, and we shall be

gladdened by the thought that after death we shall still live in their

memory, and be loved by them.

[Footnote 1: "Ennui is a state only experienced by the intelligent.

The greater the mind, the more constant, painful, and terrible is the

ennui it suffers. Ennui is in some respects the sublimest of human

sentiments" (_Leopardi's "Pensieri_" Nos. lxvii. and lxviii.)]

[Footnote 2: _Plotinus_ was born 204 A.D. He began teaching philosophy

in Rome, and was highly esteemed at court. Eunapius says of him, "The

heavenly elevation of his mind, and his perplexed style, made him very

tiresome and unpleasant." He was ascetic in his habits; disparaged

patriotism; depreciated material things; purposely forgot his birthday;

and acted altogether rather as a spectator of other men's lives than as

a living man himself.]

[Footnote 3: _Porphyrius_ was born 233 A.D. He was a pupil of Plotinus,

and like him established a school of philosophy at Rome. From study of

the writings of Plotinus he fell into a state of disgust with life,

and retiring from Rome, lived alone in a solitary and wild part of

Sicily. Here he determined to put an end to his life by starvation.

He was found by Plotinus, who had followed him from Rome, in a state

of extreme weakness, and was, by his wise counsels, dissuaded from

completing his intention.]

_COMPARISON OF THE LAST WORDS OF MARCUS BRUTUS AND THEOPHRASTUS._

I think, in all ancient history there can be found no words more

lamentable and terrifying, yet withal, speaking humanly, more

true, than those uttered by Marcus Brutus shortly before death, in

disparagement of virtue. This is what, according to Dionysius Cassius,

he is reported to have said:--

"O miserable virtue! Thou art but a mere phrase, and I have followed

thee, as though thou wert a reality. Fate is stronger than thee."

Plutarch, in his life of Brutus, makes no mention of this, which has

induced Pier Vettori to conclude that Cassius has here taken licence

in prose often accorded to poetry. But its truth is confirmed by the

witness of Florus, who states that Brutus, when at the point of death,

exclaimed, that virtue was "an expression, and not a reality."

Many people are shocked at those words of Brutus, and blame him for

uttering them. They infer from their meaning, either that virtue

is a sealed book to them, or else that they have never experienced

ill-fortune. The former inference alone is credible. In any case, it

is certain they but slightly understand, and still less realise the

unhappiness of human affairs, or else they stupidly wonder why the

doctrines of Christianity were not in force before the time of Christ.

Other people interpret these words as demonstrating that Brutus was

not after all the noble and pious man he was supposed to have been.

They imagine that just before death he threw off the mask. But they are

wrong; and if they give Brutus credit for sincerity in uttering these

words in repudiation of virtue, let them consider how it were possible

for him to abandon what he never possessed, or to disassociate himself

from that with which he never had any association. If they think he was

insincere, and spoke designedly and with ostentation, let them explain

what object he could have in speaking vain and fallacious words, and

immediately afterwards acting in accordance with them? Are facts

deniable, simply because they are not in harmony with words?

Brutus was a man overwhelmed by a great and unavoidable catastrophe.

He was disheartened, and wearied with life and fortune, and having

abandoned all desires and hopes, the deceitfulness of which he had

experienced, he determined to take his destiny into his own hands, and

to put an end to his unhappiness. Why should he, at the very moment

of eternal separation from his fellows, trouble to hunt the phantom

of glory, and study to give forth words and thoughts to deceive those

around him, and to gain human esteem, when he was about to leave

humanity for ever? What was it to him that he might gain a reputation

on that earth which appeared so hateful and contemptible to him?

These words of Brutus are well known to most of us. The following

utterance of Theophrastus at the point of death is, I believe, less

known, though very worthy of consideration. It forms a parallel with

that of Brutus, both as to its substance and time of delivery. Diogenes

Laertius mentions it, not, in my opinion, as original to himself, but

as an extract from some more ancient and important work. He says that

Theophrastus, just before death, being asked by his disciples whether

he would leave them any token or words of advice, replied:

"None, except that man despises and rejects many pleasures for the sake

of glory. But no sooner does he begin to live than death overtakes him.

Hence the love of glory is as fatal a thing as possible. Strive to live

happily: abandon studies, which are a weariness; or cultivate them only

so that they may bring you fame. Life is more vain than useful. As for

me, I have no time to think more about it; you must study what is most

expedient." So saying, he died.

Other sayings of Theophrastus on this occasion are mentioned by Cicero

and St. Jerome. These are better known, but have nothing to do with our

subject.

It would seem that Theophrastus lived to the age of more than a

hundred, having devoted all his lifetime to study and writing, and

having been an unwearied pursuer of glory. Suidas says that his death

was due to the excess of his studies, and that he died surrounded by

about two thousand of his disciples and followers, reverenced for his

wisdom throughout the whole of Greece, regretting his pursuit of glory,

just as Brutus repented of virtue. These two words, glory and virtue,

were by the ancients regarded as almost synonymous in meaning, though

it is not so in the present day. Theophrastus did not indeed say that

glory is more frequently a matter of fortune than merit, which is

oftener true now than in former times; but had he said so, there would

have been no difference between his idea and that of Brutus.

Such abjurations, or rather apostasies, of those noble errors which

beautify, nay compose our very life, are of daily occurrence. They

are due to the fact that the human intelligence in process of time

discovers, not only the nakedness, but even the skeleton of things:

wisdom also, which was regarded by the ancients as the consolation

and chief cure for our unhappiness, has been obliged to impeach our

condition, and almost requires a consolation for itself, since had

not men followed it, they would not have known the greatness of their

misfortune, or at least would have been able to remedy it with hope.

But the ancients used to believe, according to the teaching of Nature,

that things were things, and not appearances, and that human life was

destined to partake of happiness as well as unhappiness. Consequently,

such apostasies as these were very rare, and were the result not of

passions and vices, but of a sentiment and realisation of the truth of

things. Therefore they deserve careful and philosophical consideration.

The words of Theophrastus are the more surprising when we think of

the circumstances in which he died. He was prosperous and successful;

and it would seem as though he could not have a single cause for

regret. His chief aim, glory, he had succeeded in acquiring long

ago. The utterance of Brutus, on the other hand, was one of those

inspirations of misfortune which sometimes open out a new world to

our minds, and persuade us of truths that require a long time for

the mere intelligence to discover. Misfortune may indeed be compared

in its effect to the frenzy of lyric poets, who at a glance, as if

situated in a lofty place, take in as much of the domain of human

knowledge as requires many centuries before it be discerned by

philosophers. In almost all ancient writings (whether philosophical,

poetical, historical, or aught else), we meet with many very sorrowful

expressions, common enough to us nowadays, but strange to the people of

those times. These sentences, however, were mostly due to the innate

or accidental misfortune of the writer, or the persons who spoke them,

whether imaginary or real. And rarely we find on the monuments of the

ancients any expression of the sadness or ennui which they felt because

of the unreality of happiness, or their misfortunes, whether natural,

or due to force of circumstances. For when they suffered, they lamented

their sufferings as the only hindrance to their happiness, which they

not only considered it possible to obtain, but even man's right,

although Fate proved sometimes too strong.

Now, let us seek what could have placed in the mind of Theophrastus

this sentiment about the vanity of glory and life, which, considering

his epoch and nation, is an extraordinary one. In the first place,

we find that the studies of this philosopher were not limited to one

or two branches of science. The record of his writings, which are

mostly lost, informs us that his knowledge included little less than

everything then knowable. And this universal science was not like

that of Plato, subordinated to his imagination, but conformed to the

teaching of Aristotle in being the result of experience and reason; its

aim, too, was not the discovery of the beautiful, but that which is its

especial contrary, the useful. This being so, it is not wonderful that

Theophrastus should attain to the height of human wisdom,--that is, a

knowledge of the vanity of life, and wisdom itself. For it is a fact

that the numerous discoveries made recently by philosophers about the

nature of men and things, are chiefly the result of a comparison and

synthesis of the different sciences and studies, whereby the mutual

connection between the most distant parts of nature is demonstrated.

Besides, from his book of "Characters" we learn how clearly

Theophrastus discerned the qualities and manners of men; indeed, with

the exception of the poets, very few ancient writers equal him in

this respect. And this faculty is the sure sign of a mind capable of

numerous, diverse, and powerful sensations. For, to produce a keen

representation of the moral qualities and passions of men, the writer

relies less on what actual facts he may have collected, or observations

made, about the manners of others, than on his own mind, even though

his personal habits be very different from those of his subjects.

Massillon was asked one day what enabled him to describe so naturally

the habits and feelings of men, who, like himself, lived more in

solitude than society. He replied: "I contemplate myself." Dramatists

and other poets do the same thing. Now a many-sided mind, subtle in

discernment, cannot but feel the nakedness and absolute unhappiness

of life; it acquires a tendency to sadness after meditation excited

by numerous studies, especially such as are concerned with the very

essence of things, like the speculative sciences.

It is certain that Theophrastus, who loved study and glory above

everything, and was master or rather founder of a very numerous school,

knew and formally announced the uselessness of human exertions,

including his own teaching and that of others; the little affinity

existing between virtue and happiness of life; and the superior power

of fortune to merit in the acquirement of happiness, equally among

the wise and others. In this respect, perhaps, he was superior to

all the Greek philosophers, especially those preceding Epicurus,

from whom both in manners and thought he was essentially different.

This is owing partly to circumstances already mentioned, and is also

due to other things referred to by ancient writers on the subject

of his teaching It would seem as though his own fate has proved the

truth of his doctrine. For he is not esteemed by modern philosophers

as he ought to be, since all his moral writings are lost, with the

exception of his "Characters." His writings, too, on the subjects of

politics and laws, and almost all those relating to metaphysics, are

also missing. Besides, the ancient philosophers were little inclined

to give him credit for keener perception than they possessed; on the

contrary, many of them, especially such as were shallow and conceited,

blamed and ill-treated him. These men taught that the wise man is

essentially happy, and that virtue and wisdom suffice to procure

happiness; although they were only too well aware of the contrary, even

supposing they had any real knowledge of either the one or the other.

Philosophers will never be cured of this idea. Even the philosophy of

the present day teaches the same thing; whereas, correctly speaking, it

can only say that everything beautiful, delightful, and great, is mere

falsity and nothingness.

But to return to Theophrastus. Most of the ancients were incapable of

the profound and sorrowful sentiment that inspired him. "Theophrastus

is roughly handled by all the philosophers in their writings and

schools for having praised this saying of Callisthenes: 'Fortune, not

wisdom, is the mistress of life.' They consider that no philosopher

ever gave expression to a weaker sentiment." So says Cicero, who in

another place remarks that Theophrastus in his book about "The Happy

Life," attributed much influence to fortune, which he considered a most

important factor of happiness. Again, he adds, "Let us make much use of

Theophrastus; but give virtue more reality and value than he gave to

it."

Perhaps it may be imagined from these remarks that Theophrastus had

little sympathy with the weaknesses of human nature, and that he

waged war against their influence in public and private life, both

by his writings and actions. It might also be thought that he would

restrict the empire of the imagination in favour of that of reason. As

a matter of fact, he did just the contrary. Concerning his actions,

we read in Plutarch's book against Colotes that our philosopher twice

freed his country from a tyranny. As for his teachings, Cicero says

that Theophrastus in a writing on the subject of "Wealth," dilated

at considerable length on the advantages of magnificence and pomp

at the shows and national festivals; indeed he considered the chief

usefulness of riches to lie in the consequent power of expenditure

that accompanied them. This idea is blamed and ridiculed by Cicero,

with whom, however, I will not discuss the question, for his

superficial knowledge of philosophy might have easily led him to a

wrong conclusion. I imagine Cicero to have been a man rich in civil and

domestic virtues, but ignorant of the greatest stimulants and bulwarks

of virtue that the world possesses, namely, those things that are

peculiarly adapted to excite and arouse the mind, and exercise the

powers of the imagination.

I will merely say that those men among, the ancients and moderns

who knew best and realised most strongly and deeply the nullity of

everything, and the force of truth, have not only refrained from

endeavouring to lead others to their condition, but have even laboured

hard to conceal and disguise it from themselves. They acted like men

who had learnt from experience the wretchedness that resulted from

wisdom and knowledge. Many celebrated examples of this are furnished,

especially in recent times. Truly, if our philosophers fully understood

what they endeavour to teach, and realised in their own persons the

consequences of their philosophy, instead of welcoming their knowledge,

they would hate and abhor it. They would strive to forget what they

know, and to shut' their eyes to that which they see. They would take

refuge, as their best resource, in those sweet unrealities, which

Nature herself has placed in all our minds; nor would they think it

well to enforce on others the doctrine of the nothingness of all

things. If, however, desire of glory should incite them to do this

last, they will admit that in this part of the universe we can only

live by putting faith in things that are non-existent.

There is another considerable difference between the circumstances

of Theophrastus and Brutus, that of time. When Theophrastus lived,

the influence of those fictions and phantoms which ruled the thoughts

and actions of the ancients, had not departed. The epoch of Brutus,

on the other hand, may be termed the last age of the imagination.

Knowledge and experience of the truth prevailed amongst the people.

Had it not been so, Brutus need not have fled from life as he did,

and the Roman republic would not have died with him. And not only the

republic, but also the whole of antiquity, that is, the old customs

and characteristics of the civilised world, were at the point of

death, together with the opinions which gave birth to, and supported

them. Life had already lost its value, and wise men sought to console

themselves not so much for their fate as for existence itself; because

they regarded it as incredible that man should be born essentially

and solely for misery. Thus they arrived at the conception of another

life, which might explain the reason of virtue and noble actions. Such

explanation had hitherto been found in life itself, but was so no

longer, nor was it ever again to be found there.

To these ideas of futurity are due the noble sentiments often expressed

by Cicero, especially in his oration for Archias.

_DIALOGUE BETWEEN TRISTANO AND A FRIEND._

_Friend_. I have read your book. It is as melancholy as usual.

_Tristano_. Yes, as usual.

_Friend_. Melancholy, disconsolate, hopeless. It is clear that this

life appears to you an abominable thing.

_Tristano_. How can I excuse myself? I was then so firmly convinced of

the truth of my notion about the unhappiness of life.

_Friend_. Unhappy it may be. But even then, what good ...

_Tristano_. No, no; on the contrary, it is very happy. I have changed

my opinion now. But when I wrote this book I had that folly in my

head, as I tell you. And I was so full of it, that I should have

expected anything rather than to doubt the truth of what I wrote on the

subject. For I thought the conscience of every reader would assuredly

bear witness to the truth of my statements. I imagined there might

be differences of opinion as to the use or harm of my writings, but

none as to their truth. I also believed that my lamentations, since

they were aroused by misfortunes common to all, would be echoed in

the heart of every one who heard them. And when I afterwards felt

impelled to deny, not merely some particular observation, but the whole

fabric of my book, and to say that life is not unhappy, and that if

it seemed so to me, it must have been the effect of illness, or some

other misfortune peculiar to myself, I was at first amazed, astonished,

petrified, and for several days as though transported into another

world. Then I began to think, and was a little irritated with myself.

Finally I laughed, and said to myself that the human race possesses

a characteristic common to husbands. For a married man who wishes

to live a quiet life, relies on the fidelity of his wife, even when

half the world knows she is faithless. Similarly, when a man takes

up his abode in any country, he makes up his mind to regard it as

one of the best countries in the world, and he does so. For the same

reason, men, desiring to live, agree to consider life a delightful and

valuable thing; they therefore believe it to be so, and are angry with

whoever is of the contrary opinion. Hence it follows, that in reality

people always believe, not the truth, but what is, or appears to be,

best for them. The human race, which has believed, and will continue

to put faith in so many absurdities, will never acknowledge that it

knows nothing, that it is nothing, and that it has nothing to hope. No

philosopher teaching any one of these three things would be successful,

nor would he have followers, and the populace especially would refuse

to believe in him. For, apart from the fact that all three doctrines

have little to recommend them to any one who wishes to live, the two

first offend man's pride, and they all require courage and strength

of mind in him who accepts them. Now, men are cowards, of ignoble and

narrow minds, and always anticipating good, because always ready to

vary their ideas of good according to the necessities of life. They

are very willing, as Petrarch says, to surrender to fortune; very

eager and determined to console themselves in any misfortune; and

to accept any compensation in exchange for what is denied them, or

for that which they have lost; and to accommodate themselves to any

condition of life, however wicked and barbarous. When deprived of any

desirable thing, they nourish themselves on illusions, from which they

derive as much satisfaction as if their conceptions were the most

genuine and real things in the world. As for me, I cannot refrain from

laughing at the human race, enamoured of life, just as the people in

the south of Europe laugh at husbands enamoured of faithless wives.

I consider men show very little courage in thus allowing themselves

to be deceived and deluded like fools; they are not only content to

bear the greatest sufferings, but also are willing to be as it were

puppets of Nature and Destiny. I here refer to the deceptions of the

intellect, not the imagination. Whether these sentiments of mine are

the result of illness, I do not know; but I do know that, well or ill,

I despise men's cowardice, I reject every childish consolation and

illusive comfort, and am courageous enough to bear the deprivation of

every hope, to look steadily on the desert of life, to hide no part of

our unhappiness, and to accept all the consequences of a philosophy,

sorrowful but true. This philosophy, if of no other use, gives the

courageous man the proud satisfaction of being able to rend asunder the

cloak that conceals the hidden and mysterious cruelty of human destiny.

This I said to myself, almost as though I were the inventor of this

bitter philosophy, which I saw rejected by every one as a new and

unheard-of thing. But, on reflection, I found that it dated from the

time of Solomon, Homer, and the most ancient poets and philosophers,

who abound with fables and sayings which express the unhappiness of

human life. One says that "man is the most miserable of the animals."

Another that, "it were better not to be born, or, being born, to die in

the cradle." Again, "whom the gods love, die young;" besides numberless

other similar sayings. And I also remembered that from then even until

now, all poets, philosophers, and writers, great and small, have in one

way or another echoed and confirmed the same doctrines.

Then I began to think again, and spent a long time in a state of

wonder, contempt, and laughter. At length I turned to study the matter

more deeply, and came to the conclusion that man's unhappiness is one

of the innate errors of the mind, and that the refutation of this idea,

through the demonstration of the happiness of life, is one of the

greatest discoveries of the nineteenth century. Now, therefore, I am at

peace, and confess I was wrong to hold the views I previously held.

_Friend_. Then have you changed your opinion?

_Tristano_. Of course. Do you imagine I should oppose the discoveries

of the nineteenth century?

_Friend_. Do you believe all the century believes?

_Tristano_. Certainly. Why not?

_Friend_. You believe then in the infinite perfectibility of the human

race, do you not? _Tristano_. Undoubtedly.

_Friend_. Do you also believe that the human race actually progresses

daily?

_Tristano_. Assuredly. It is true that sometimes I think one of the

ancients was physically worth four of us. And the body is the man;

because (apart from all else) high-mindedness, courage, the passions,

capacity for action and enjoyment, and all that ennobles and vivifies

life, depend on the vigour of the body, without which they cannot

exist. The weak man is not a man, but a child, and less than a child,

because it is his fate to stand aside and see others live. All he can

do is to chatter. Life is not for him. Hence in olden times, and even

in more enlightened ages, weakness of body was regarded as ignominious.

But with us, it is very long since education deigned to think of such

a base and abject thing as the body. The mind is its sole care. Yet,

in its endeavours to cultivate the mind, it destroys the body without

perceiving that the former is also necessarily destroyed. And even if

it were possible to remedy this false system of education, it would be

impossible to discover, without a radical change in the state of modern

society, any cure for the other inconveniences of life, whether public

or private.

Everything that formerly tended to preserve and perfect the body, seems

to-day to be in conspiracy for its destruction. The consequence is,

that, compared with the ancients, we are little better than children,

and they in comparison with us may indeed be termed perfect men. I

refer equally to individuals in comparison with individuals, as to the

masses (to use this most expressive modern term) compared to the masses.

I will add also that the superior vigour of the ancients is manifested

in their moral and metaphysical systems.

But I do not allow myself to be influenced by such trifling objections,

and I firmly believe that the human race is perpetually in a state of

progression.

_Friend_. You believe also, if I rightly understand you, that

knowledge, or, as, it is called, enlightenment, continually increases.

_Tristano_. Assuredly. Although I observe that the desire of knowledge

grows in proportion as the appreciation for study diminishes. And,

astonishing to say, if you count up the number of truly learned men who

lived contemporaneously a hundred and fifty years ago, or even later,

you will find them incomparably more numerous than at present. It may

perhaps be said that learned people are rare nowadays because knowledge

is more universally disseminated, instead of being confined to the

heads of a few; and that the multitude of educated people compensate

for the rarity of learned people. But knowledge is not like riches,

which whether divided or accumulated, always make the same total. In a

country where every one knows a little, the total knowledge is small;

because knowledge begets knowledge, but will not bear dispersion.

For superficial instruction cannot indeed be divided amongst many,

though it may be common to many unlearned men. Genuine knowledge

belongs only to the learned, and depth in knowledge to the few that

are very learned. And, with rare exceptions, only the man who is very

learned, and possessed of an immense fund of knowledge, is able to add

materially to the sum of human science. Now, in the present time, it is

daily more difficult to discover a really learned man, save perhaps in

Germany, where science is not yet dethroned.

I utter these reflections simply for the sake of a little talk and

philosophising, not because I doubt for a single moment the truth of

what you say. Indeed, were I to see the world quite full of ignorant

impostors on the one hand, and presumptuous fools on the other, I

should still hold to my present belief that knowledge and enlightenment

are on the increase.

_Friend_. Of course, then, you believe that this century is superior to

all the preceding ones?

_Tristano_. Decidedly. All the centuries have had this opinion of

themselves; even those of the most barbarous ages. The present century

thinks so, and I agree with it. But if you asked me in what it is

superior to the others, and whether in things pertaining to the body or

the mind, I should refer you to what I said just now on the subject of

progress.

_Friend_. In short, to sum it up in two words, do you agree with what

the journals say about nature, and human destiny? We are not now

talking of literature or politics, on which subjects their opinion is

indisputable.

_Tristano_. Precisely. I bow before the profound philosophy of

the journals, which will in time supersede every other branch of

literature, and every serious and exacting study. The journals are the

guides and lights of the present age. Is it not so?

_Friend_. Very true. Unless you are speaking ironically, you have

become one of us.

_Tristano_. Yes. Certainly I have.

_Friend_. Then what shall you do with your book? Will you allow it to

go down to posterity, conveying doctrines so contrary to the opinions

you now hold?

_Tristano_. To posterity? Permit me to laugh, since you are no doubt

joking; if I thought otherwise, I should laugh all the more. For it

is not a personal matter, but one relating to the individuals and

individual things of the nineteenth century; about whom and which there

is no fear of the judgment of posterity, since they will know no more

about the matter than their ancestors knew. "Individuals are eclipsed

in the crowd," as our modern thinkers elegantly say; which means, that

the individual need not put himself to any inconvenience, because,

whatever his merit, he can neither hope for the miserable reward of

glory, in reality, nor in his dreams.

Leave therefore the masses to themselves; although I would ask the

wiseacres who illumine the world in the present day, to explain how the

masses can do anything without the help of the individuals that compose

them.

But to return to my book, and posterity. Books now are generally

written in less time than is necessary for reading them. Their worth is

proportioned to their cost, and their longevity to their value. It is

my opinion that the twentieth century will make a very clean sweep of

the immense bibliography of the nineteenth. Perhaps however it will say

something to this effect: "We have here whole libraries of books which

have cost some twenty, some thirty years of labour, and some less, but

all have required very great exertion; let us read these first, because

it is probable there is much to be learnt from them. These at an end,

we will pass to lighter literature."

My friend, this is a puerile age, and the few men remaining are

obliged to hide themselves for very shame, resembling, as they do,

a well-formed man in a land of cripples. And these good youths of

the century are desirous of doing all that their ancestors did. Like

children they wish to act on the spur of the moment, without any

laborious preparation. They would like the progress of the age to be

such as to exempt them and their successors from all fatiguing study

and application in the acquirement of knowledge. For instance, a

commercial friend of mine told me the other day that even mediocrity

has become very rare. Scarcely any one is fit to fulfil properly the

duty which devolves upon him, either by necessity or choice. This

seems to me to mark the true distinction between this century and

the preceding ones. At all times greatness has been rare; but in

former centuries mediocrity prevailed, whereas in our century nullity

prevails. All people wish to be everything. Hence, there is such

confusion and riot, that no attention is paid to the few great men

who are still to be found, and who are unable to force a way through

the vast multitude of rivals. Thus, whilst the lowest people believe

themselves illustrious, obscurity and success in nothing is the common

fate both of the highest and lowest.

But, long live statistics! Long live the sciences, economical, moral,

and political; the pocket encyclopÊdias; the manuals of everything;

and all the other fine creations of our age! And may the nineteenth

century live for ever! For though poor in results, it is yet very rich

and great in promise, which' is well known to be the best of signs. Let

us therefore console ourselves that for sixty-six[1] more years this

admirable century will have the talking to itself, and will be able to

utter its own opinions.

_Friend_. You speak, it seems, somewhat ironically. But you ought at

least to remember that this is a century of transition.

_Tristano_. What do you infer from that? All centuries have been, and

will be, more or less transitional; because human society is never

stationary, and will never at any time attain to a fixed condition.

It follows therefore that this fine word is either no excuse for the

nineteenth century, or is one common to all the centuries. It remains

to be seen whether the transition now in progress is from good to

better, or from bad to worse.

But perhaps you mean to say that the present age is especially

transitional, inasmuch as it is a rapid passage from one state of

civilisation to another, absolutely different. In which case I would

ask your permission to laugh at this rapidity. Every transition

requires a certain amount of time, and when too rapidly accomplished,

invariably relapses, and the progress has to recommence from the

very beginning. Thus it has always been. For nature does not advance

by leaps; and when forced, no durable result is obtained. In short,

precipitous transitions are only apparent transitions, and do not

represent genuine progress.

_Friend_. I advise you not to talk in this fashion with every one,

because if you do you will gain many enemies.

_Tristano_. What does it matter? Henceforth, neither enemies nor

friends can do me much harm.

_Friend_. Very probably you will be despised as one incapable of

comprehending the spirit of modern philosophy, and who cares little for

the progress of civilisation and the sciences.

_Tristano_. I should be very sorry for that; but what can I do? If I am

despised, I will endeavour to console myself.

_Friend_. But have you, or have you not, changed your opinions? And

what is to be done about your book?

_Tristano_. It would be best to burn it. If it be not burnt, it may be

preserved as a book full of poetic dreams, inventions, and melancholy

caprices; or better, as an expression of the unhappiness of the writer.

Because, I will tell you in confidence, my dear friend, that I believe

you and every one else to be happy. As for myself, however, with your

permission, and that of the century, I am very unhappy, and all the

journals of both worlds cannot persuade me to the contrary.

_Friend_. I do not know the cause of this unhappiness of which you

speak. But a man is the best judge of his own happiness or unhappiness,

and his opinion cannot be wrong.

_Tristano_. Very true. And more, I tell you frankly that I do not

submit to my unhappiness, nor bow the head, and come to terms with

Destiny, like other men. I ardently wish for death above everything,

with such warmth and sincerity as I firmly believe few have desired it.

I would not speak to you thus, if I were not sure that when the time

came I should not belie my words. I may add that although I do not

yet foresee the end of my life, I have an inward feeling that almost

assures me the hour of which I speak is not far distant. I am more

than ripe for death, and it seems to me too absurd and improbable,

that being dead spiritually, as I am, and the tale of my life being

told in every part, I should linger out the forty or fifty years with

which Nature threatens me. I am terrified at the mere thought of such

a thing. But, like all evils that exceed the power of imagination,

this seems to me a dream and illusion, devoid of truth. So that if any

one speaks to me about the distant future, as though I were to have a

part in it, I cannot help smiling to myself, so sure am I that I have

not long to live. This thought, I may say, alone supports me. Books

and studies, which I often wonder I ever loved, great designs, and

hopes of glory and immortality, are things now undeserving of even a

smile. Nor do I now laugh at the projects and hopes of this century. I

cordially wish them every possible success, and I praise, admire, and

sincerely honour their good intentions. But I do not envy posterity,

nor those who have still a long life before them. Formerly I used to

envy fools, imbeciles, and people with a high opinion of themselves,

and I would willingly have changed my lot with any one of them. Now,

I envy neither fools, nor the wise, the great, the small, the weak,

the powerful. I envy the dead, and with them alone would I exchange my

lot. Every pleasurable fancy, every thought of the future that comes

to me in my solitude, and with which I pass away the time, is allied

with the thought of death, from which it is inseparable. And in this

longing, neither the remembrance of my childish dreams, nor the thought

of having lived in vain, disturbs me any more as formerly. When death

comes to me, I shall die as peacefully and contentedly as if it were

the only thing for which I had ever wished in the world. This is the

sole prospect that reconciles me to Destiny.

If, on the one hand, I were offered the fortune and fame of CÊsar or

Alexander, free from the least stain; and, on the other hand, death

to-day, I should unhesitatingly choose to die to-day.

[Footnote 1: Written in 1834.]

THE END.