highest-placed individual in the most cultivated age and population
of the world,--he has not the merit of common truth and honesty. He
is unjust to his generals; egotistic, and monopolizing; meanly stealing
the credit of their great actions from Kellermann, from Bernadotte;
intriguing to involve his faithful Junot in hopeless bankruptcy, in
order to drive him to a distance from Paris, because the familiarity
of his manners offends the new pride of his throne. He is a boundless
liar. The official paper, his "Moniteurs," and all his bulletins, are
proverbs for saying what he wished to be believed; and worse,--he sat,
in his premature old age, in his lonely island, coldly falsifying
facts, and dates, and characters, and giving to history, a theatrical
eclat. Like all Frenchmen, he has a passion for stage effect. Every
action that breathes of generosity is poisoned by this calculation.
His star, his love of glory, his doctrine of the immortality of the
soul, are all French. "I must dazzle and astonish. If I were to give
the liberty of the press, my power could not last three days." To make
a great noise is his favorite design. "A great reputation is a great
noise; the more there is made, the farther off it is heard. Laws,
institutions, monuments, nations, all fall; but the noise continues,
and resounds in after ages." His doctrine of immortality is simply
fame. His theory of influence is not flattering. "There are two levers
for moving men,--interest and fear. Love is a silly infatuation, depend
upon it. Friendship is but a name. I love nobody. I do not even love
my brothers; perhaps Joseph, a little, from habit, and because he is
my elder; and Duroc, I love him too; but why?--because his character
pleases me; he is stern and resolute, and, I believe, the fellow never
shed a tear. For my part, I know very well that I have no true friends.
As long as I continue to be what I am, I may have as many pretended
friends as I please. Leave sensibility to women; but men should be
firm in heart and purpose, or they should have nothing to do with war
and government." He was thoroughly unscrupulous. He would steal,
slander, assassinate, drown, and poison, as his interest dictated. He
had no generosity; but mere vulgar hatred; he was intensely selfish;
he was perfidious; he cheated at cards; he was a prodigious gossip;
and opened letters; and delighted in his infamous police; and rubbed
his hands with joy when he had intercepted some morsel of intelligence
concerning the men and women about him, boasting that "he knew
everything;" and interfered with the cutting the dresses of the women;
and listened after the hurrahs and the compliments of the street,
incognito. His manners were coarse. He treated women with low
familiarity. He had the habit of pulling their ears and pinching their
cheeks, when he was in good humor, and of pulling the ears and whiskers
of men, and of striking and horse-play with them, to his last days.
It does not appear that he listened at keyholes, or, at least, that
he "was caught at it". In short, when you have penetrated through all
the circles of power and splendor, you were not dealing with a
gentleman, at last; but with an impostor and a rogue; and he fully
deserves the epithet of Jupiter Scapin, or a sort of Scamp Jupiter.
In describing the two parties into which modern society divides
itself,--the democrat and the conservative,--I said, Bonaparte
represents the democrat, or the party of men of business, against the
stationary or conservative party. I omitted then to say, what is
material to the statement, namely, that these two parties differ only
as young and old. The democrat is a young conservative; the conservative
is an old democrat. The aristocrat is the democrat ripe, and gone to
seed,--because both parties stand on the one ground of the supreme
value of property, which one endeavors to get, and the other to keep.
Bonaparte may be said to represent the whole history of this party,
its youth and its age; yes, and with poetic justice, its fate, in his
own. The counter-revolution, the counter-party, still waits for its
organ and representative, in a lover and a man of truly public and
universal aims.
Here was an experiment, under the most favorable conditions, of the
powers of intellect without conscience. Never was such a leader so
endowed, and so weaponed; never leader found such aids and followers.
And what was the result of this vast talent and power, of these immense
armies, burned cities, squandered treasures, immolated millions of
men, of this demoralized Europe? It came to no result. All passed away,
like the smoke of his artillery and left no trace. He left France
smaller, poorer, feebler, than he found it; and the whole contest for
freedom was to be begun again. The attempt was, in principle, suicidal.
France served him with life, and limb, and estate, as long as it could
identify its interest with him; but when men saw that after victory
was another war; after the destruction of armies, new conscriptions;
and they who had toiled so desperately were never nearer to the
reward,--they could not spend what they had earned, nor repose on their
down-beds, nor strut in their chateaux,--they deserted him. Men found
that his absorbing egotism was deadly to all other men. It resembled
the torpedo, which inflicts a succession of shocks on any one who takes
hold of it, producing spasms which contract the muscles of the hand,
so that the man cannot open his fingers; and the animal inflicts new
and more violent shocks, until he paralyzes and kills his victim. So,
this exorbitant egotist narrowed, impoverished, and absorbed the power
and existence of those who served him; and the universal cry of France,
and of Europe, in 1814, was, "enough of him;" "assez de Bonaparte."
It was not Bonaparte's fault. He did all that in him lay, to live and
thrive without moral principle. It was the nature of things, the eternal
law of man and of the world, which baulked and ruined him; and the
result, in a million experiments, will be the same. Every experiment,
by multitudes or by individuals, that has a sensual and selfish aim,
will fail. The pacific Fourier will be as inefficient as the pernicious
Napoleon. As long as our civilization is essentially one of property,
of fences, of exclusiveness, it will be mocked by delusions. Our riches
will leave us sick; there will be bitterness in our laughter; and our
wine will burn our mouth. Only that good profits, which we can taste
with all doors open, and which serves all men.
VII. GOETHE; OR, THE WRITER
I find a provision in the constitution of the world for the writer or
secretary, who is to report the doings of the miraculous spirit of
life that everywhere throbs and works. His office is a reception of
the facts into the mind, and then a selection of the eminent and
characteristic experiences.
Nature will be reported. All things are engaged in writing their
history. The planet, the pebble, goes attended by its shadow. The
rolling rock leaves its scratches on the mountain; the river, its
channel in the soil; the animal, its bones in the stratum; the fern
and leaf their modest epitaph in the coal. The falling drop makes its
sculpture in the sand or the stone. Not a foot steps into the snow,
or along the ground, but prints in characters more or less lasting,
a map of its march. Every act of the man inscribes itself in the
memories of his fellows, and in his own manners and face. The air is
full of sounds; the sky, of tokens; the ground is all memoranda and
signatures; and every object covered over with hints, which speak to
the intelligent.
In nature, this self-registration is incessant, and the narrative is
the print of the seal. It neither exceeds nor comes short of the fact.
But nature strives upward; and, in man, the report is something more
than print of the seal. It is a new and finer form of the original.
The record is alive, as that which it recorded is alive. In man, the
memory is a kind of looking-glass, which, having received the images
of surrounding objects, is touched with life, and disposes them in a
new order. The facts which transpired do not lie in it inert; but some
subside, and others shine; so that soon we have a new picture, composed
of the eminent experiences. The man cooperates. He loves to communicate;
and that which is for him to say lies as a load on his heart until it
is delivered. But, besides the universal joy of conversation, some men
are born with exalted powers for this second creation. Men are born
to write. The gardener saves every slip, and seed, and peach-stone;
his vocation is to be a planter of plants. Not less does the writer
attend his affairs. Whatever he beholds or experiences, comes to him
as a model, and sits for its picture. He counts it all nonsense that
they say, that some things are undescribable. He believes that all
that can be thought can be written, first or last; and he would report
the Holy Ghost, or attempt it. Nothing so broad, so subtle, or so dear,
but comes therefore commended to his pen,--and he will write. In his
eyes, a man is the faculty of reporting, and the universe is the
possibility of being reported. In conversation, in calamity, he finds
new materials; as our German poet said, "some god gave me the power
to paint what I suffer." He draws his rents from rage and pain. By
acting rashly, he buys the power of talking wisely. Vexations, and a
tempest of passion, only fill his sails; as the good Luther writes,
"When I am angry I can pray well, and preach well;" and if we knew the
genesis of fine-strokes of eloquence, they might recall the complaisance
of Sultan Amurath, who struck off some Persian heads, that his
physician, Vesalius, might see the spasms in the muscles of the neck.
His failures are the preparation of his victories. A new thought, or
a crisis of passion, apprises him that all that he has yet learned and
written is exoteric--is not the fact, but some rumor of the fact. What
then? Does he throw away the pen? No; he begins again to describe in
the new light which has shined on him,--if, by some means, he may yet
save some true word. Nature conspires. Whatever can be thought can be
spoken, and still rises for utterance, though to rude and stammering
organs. If they cannot compass it, it waits and works, until, at last,
it moulds them to its perfect will, and is articulated.
This striving after imitative expression, which one meets everywhere,
is significant of the aim of nature, but is mere stenography. There
are higher degrees, and nature has more splendid endowments for those
whom she elects to a superior office; for the class of scholars or
writers, who see connection where the multitude see fragments, and who
are impelled to exhibit the facts in order, and so to supply the axis
on which the frame of things turns. Nature has dearly at heart the
formation of the speculative man, or scholar. It is an end never lost
sight of, and is prepared in the original casting of things. He is no
permissive or accidental appearance, but an organic agent, one of the
estates of the realm, provided and prepared from of old and from
everlasting, in the knitting and contexture of things. Presentiments,
impulses, cheer him. There is a certain heat in the breast, which
attends the perception of a primary truth, which is the shining of the
spiritual sun down into the shaft of the mine. Every thought which
dawns on the mind, in the moment of its emergency announces its own
rank,--whether it is some whimsy, or whether it is a power.
If he have his incitements, there is, on the other side, invitation
and need enough of his gift. Society has, at all times, the same want,
namely, of one sane man with adequate powers of expression to held up
each object of monomania in its right relation. The ambitious and
mercenary bring their last new mumbo-jumbo, whether tariff, Texas,
railroad, Romanism, mesmerism, or California; and, by detaching the
object from its relations, easily succeed in making it seen in a glare;
and a multitude go mad about it, and they are not to be reproved or
cured by the opposite multitude, who are kept from this particular
insanity by an equal frenzy on another crochet. But let one man have
the comprehensive eye that can replace this isolated prodigy in its
right neighborhood and bearings,--the illusion vanishes, and the
returning reason of the community thanks the reason of the monitor.
The scholar is the man of the ages, but he must also wish, with other
men, to stand well with his contemporaries. But there is a certain
ridicule, among superficial people, thrown on the scholars or clerisy,
which is of no import, unless the scholars heed it. In this country,
the emphasis of conversation, and of public opinion, commends the
practical man; and the solid portion of the community is named with
significant respect in every circle. Our people are of Bonaparte's
opinion concerning ideologists. Ideas are subversive of social order
and comfort, and at last make a fool of the possessor. It is believed,
the ordering a cargo of goods from New York to Smyrna; or, the running
up and down to procure a company of subscribers to set a-going five
or ten thousand spindles; or, the negotiations of a caucus, and the
practising on the prejudices and facility of country-people, to secure
their votes in November,--is practical and commendable.
If I were to compare action of a much higher strain with a life of
contemplation, I should not venture to pronounce with much confidence
in favor of the former. Mankind have such a deep stake in inward
illumination, that there is much to be said by the hermit or monk in
defense of his life of thought and prayer. A certain partiality, a
headiness, and loss of balance, is the tax which all action must pay.
Act, if you like,--but you do it at your peril. Men's actions are too
strong for them. Show me a man who has acted, and who has not been the
victim and slave of his action. What they have done commits and enforces
them to do the same again. The first act, which was to be an experiment,
becomes a sacrament. The fiery reformer embodies his aspiration in
some rite or covenant, and he and his friends cleave to the form and
lose the aspiration. The Quaker has established Quakerism, the Shaker
has established his monastery and his dance; and, although each prates
of spirit, there is no spirit, but repetition, which is anti-spiritual.
But where are his new things of today? In actions of enthusiasm, this
drawback appears: but in those lower activities, which have no higher
aim than to make us more comfortable and more cowardly, in actions of
cunning, actions that steal and lie, actions that divorce the
speculative from the practical faculty, and put a ban on reason and
sentiment, there is nothing else but drawback and negation. The Hindoos
write in their sacred books, "Children only, and not the learned, speak
of the speculative and the practical faculties as two. They are but
one, for both obtain the selfsame end, and the place which is gained
by the followers of the one is gained by the followers of the other.
That man seeth, who seeth that the speculative and the practical
doctrines are one." For great action must draw on the spiritual nature.
The measure of action is the sentiment from which it proceeds. The
greatest action may easily be one of the most private circumstances.
This disparagement will not come from the leaders, but from inferior
persons. The robust gentlemen who stand at the head of the practical
class, share the ideas of the time, and have too much sympathy with
the speculative class. It is not from men excellent in any kind, that
disparagement of any other is to be looked for. With such, Talleyrand's
question is ever the main one; not, is he rich? is he committed? is
he well-meaning? has he this or that faculty? is he of the movement?
is he of the establishment?--but, Is he anybody? does he stand for
something? He must be good of his kind. That is all that Talleyrand,
all that State-street, all that the common sense of mankind asks. Be
real and admirable, not as we know, but as you know. Able men do not
care in what kind a man is able, so only that he is able. A master
likes a master, and does not stipulate whether it be orator, artist,
craftsman, or king.
Society has really no graver interest than the well-being of the
literary class. And it is not to be denied that men are cordial in
their recognition and welcome of intellectual accomplishments. Still
the writer does not stand with us on any commanding ground. I think
this to be his own fault. A pound passes for a pound. There have been
times when he was a sacred person; he wrote Bibles; the first hymns;
the codes; the epics; tragic songs; Sibylline verses; Chaldean oracles;
Laconian sentences inscribed on temple walls. Every word was true, and
woke the nations to new life. He wrote without levity, and without
choice. Every word was carved, before his eyes, into the earth and
sky; and the sun and stars were only letters of the same purport; and
of no more necessity. But how can he be honored, when he does not honor
himself; when he loses himself in the crowd; when he is no longer the
lawgiver, but the sycophant, ducking to the giddy opinion of a reckless
public; when he must sustain with shameless advocacy some bad
government, or must bark, all the year round, in opposition; or write
conventional criticism, or profligate novels; or, at any rate, write
without thought, and without recurrence, by day and night, to the
sources of inspiration?
Some reply to these questions may be furnished by looking over the
list of men of literary genius in our age. Among these, no more
instructive name occurs than that of Goethe, to represent the power
and duties of the scholar or writer.
I described Bonaparte as a representative of the popular external life
and aims of the nineteenth century. Its other half, its poet, is Goethe,
a man quite domesticated in the century, breathing its air, enjoying
its fruits, impossible at any earlier time, and taking away, by his
colossal parts, the reproach of weakness, which, but for him, would
lie on the intellectual works of the period. He appears at a time when
a general culture has spread itself, and has smoothed down all sharp
individual traits; when, in the absence of heroic characters, a social
comfort and cooperation have come in. There is no poet, but scores of
poetic writers; no Columbus, but hundreds of post-captains, with
transit-telescope, barometer, and concentrated soup and pemmican; no
Demosthenes, no Chatham, but any number of clever parliamentary and
forensic debaters; no prophet or saint, but colleges of divinity; no
learned man, but learned societies, a cheap press, reading-rooms, and
book-clubs, without number. There was never such a miscellany of facts.
The world extends itself like American trade. We conceive Greek or
Roman life,--life in the middle ages--to be a simple and comprehensive
affair; but modern life to respect a multitude of things, which is
distracting.
Goethe was the philosopher of this multiplicity; hundred-handed,
Argus-eyed, able and happy to cope with this rolling miscellany of
facts and sciences, and, by his own versatility, to dispose of them
with ease; a manly mind, unembarrassed by the variety of coats of
convention with which life had got encrusted, easily able by his
subtlety to pierce these, and to draw his strength from nature, with
which he lived in full communion. What is strange, too, he lived in
a small town, in a petty state, in a defeated state, and in a time
when Germany played no such leading part in the world's affairs as to
swell the bosom of her sons with any metropolitan pride, such as might
have cheered a French, or English, or, once, a Roman or Attic genius.
Yet there is no trace of provincial limitation in his muse. He is not
a debtor to his position, but was born with a free and controlling
genius.
The Helena, or the second part of Faust, is a philosophy of literature
set in poetry; the work of one who found himself the master of
histories, mythologies, philosophies, sciences, and national
literatures, in the encyclopaedical manner in which modern erudition,
with its international intercourse of the whole earth's population,
researches into Indian, Etruscan, and all Cyclopaean arts, geology,
chemistry, astronomy; and every one of these kingdoms assuming a certain
aerial and poetic character, by reason of the multitude. One looks at
a king with reverence; but if one should chance to be at a congress
of kings, the eye would take liberties with the peculiarities of each.
These are not wild miraculous songs, but elaborate forms, to which the
poet has confided the results of eighty years of observation. This
reflective and critical wisdom makes the poem more truly the flower
of this time. It dates itself. Still he is a poet,--poet of a prouder
laurel than any contemporary, and under this plague of microscopes
(for he seems to see out of every pore of his skin), strikes the harp
with a hero's strength and grace.
The wonder of the book is its superior intelligence. In the menstruum
of this man's wit, the past and the present ages, and their religions,
politics, and modes of thinking, are dissolved into archetypes and
ideas. What new mythologies sail through his head! The Greeks said,
that Alexander went as far as Chaos; Goethe went, only the other day,
as far; and one step farther he hazarded, and brought himself safe
back. There is a heart-cheering freedom in his speculation. The immense
horizon which journeys with us lends its majesties to trifles, and to
matters of convenience and necessity, as to solemn and festal
performances. He was the soul of his century. If that was learned, and
had become, by population, compact organization, and drill of parts,
one great Exploring Expedition, accumulating a glut of facts and fruits
too fast for any hitherto-existing savants to classify, this man's
mind had ample chambers for the distribution of all. He had a power
to unite the detached atoms again by their own law. He has clothed our
modern existence with poetry. Amid littleness and detail, he detected
the Genius of life, the old cunning Proteus, nestling close beside us,
and showed that the dullness and prose we ascribe to the age was only
another of his masks:--"His very flight is presence in disguise:" that
he had put off a gay uniform for a fatigue dress, and was not a whit
less vivacious or rich in Liverpool or the Hague, than once in Rome
or Antioch. He sought him in public squares and main streets, in
boulevards and hotels; and, in the solidest kingdom of routine and the
senses, he showed the lurking daemonic power; that, in actions of
routine, a thread of mythology and fable spins itself; and this, by
tracing the pedigree of every usage and practice, every institution,
utensil, and means, home to its origin in the structure of man. He had
an extreme impatience of conjecture, and of rhetoric. "I have guesses
enough of my own; if a man write a book, let him set down only what
he knows." He writes in the plainest and lowest tone, omitting a great
deal more than he writes, and putting ever a thing for a word. He has
explained the distinction between the antique and the modern spirit
and art. He has defined art, its scope and laws. He has said the best
things about nature that ever were said. He treats nature as the old
philosophers, as the seven wise masters did,--and, with whatever loss
of French tabulation and dissection, poetry and humanity remain to us;
and they have some doctorial skill. Eyes are better, on the whole,
than telescopes or microscopes. He has contributed a key to many parts
of nature, through the rare turn for unity and simplicity in his mind.
Thus Goethe suggested the leading idea of modern botany, that a leaf,
or the eye of a leaf, is the unit of botany, and that every part of
the plant is only a transformed leaf to meet a new condition; and, by
varying the conditions, a leaf may be converted into any other organ,
and any other organ into a leaf. In like manner, in osteology, he
assumed that one vertebra of the spine might be considered the unit
of the skeleton; the head was only the uppermost vertebra transformed.
"The plant goes from knot to knot, closing, at last, with the flower
and the seed. So the tape-worm, the caterpillar, goes from knot to
knot, and closes with the head. Men and the higher animals are built
up through the vertebrae, the powers being concentrated in the head."
In optics, again, he rejected the artificial theory of seven colors,
and considered that every color was the mixture of light and darkness
in new proportions. It is really of very little consequence what topic
he writes upon. He sees at every pore, and has a certain gravitation
toward truth. He will realize what you say. He hates to be trifled
with, and to be made to say over again some old wife's fable, that has
had possession of men's faith these thousand years. He may as well see
if it is true as another. He sifts it. I am here, he would say, to be
the measure and judge of these things. Why should I take them on trust?
And, therefore, what he says of religion, of passion, of marriage, of
manners, property, of paper money, of periods or beliefs, of omens,
of luck, or whatever else, refuses to be forgotten.