vexed, and so often obscured, to terms of entire simplicity. It
has been most forcibly presented by Hobbes, the vile apostle
at once of atheism and despotism, who seems to have striven to
unite the most pernicious doctrines with an example, which merits
execration. ‘Two objects,’ he remarks, ‘attract us in opposite
directions. As long as they produce impressions nearly equal, our
mind, in a state of uncertainty, vacillates from the one to the
other; and we believe, that we are deliberating. Finally, one of
the objects strikes us with a stronger impression than the other.
We are drawn towards it; and we believe that it is because we will
it.--Thus, man, always passive, yields to the strongest and most
vivid sensation. Free actions would be an effect without a cause.’
Admirable reasoning! What other freedom could I wish, than to
prefer what seems to me the most desirable? Let the disciples of
Hobbes instruct me how they would choose that man should determine,
in order to be conscious of liberty? Would they wish him to choose
the object that is repugnant to him? This is too evidently absurd.
Should he vacillate in indifference between the one object and the
other? This would be to sink into an existence of perfect apathy,
without reason or will. Man has all the liberty, of which such a
being is capable--all, in fact, which he could desire.
How puerile are these metaphysical subtleties, when employed upon
moral truths![56] What a monster would man become on the system
of the fatalists! What is that system worth, the consequences of
which cannot be admitted? If we act under the inevitable empire
of fatalism, why is he who proclaims this doctrine, indignant
at the thought of crime? Does he contemplate Socrates and his
executioners with the same approbation?--Will he regard with the
same feeling Antoninus dictating pious lessons to his son, and Nero
assassinating his mother? Will he estimate as alike meritorious
a persecuted Christian praying for his enemies, and the monarch
ordering the massacre of St Bartholomew? Do such contrasts offend
us? And why? According to the system of fatalism, the good ought
to inspire us with less interest than the wicked. A blind fatality
awards to the virtuous that pure pleasure, that is inseparably
connected with good actions. They receive a high reward without any
merit; while the others are a prey to remorse, and the incessant
object of public hatred and abhorrence. If they are innocent, as
on the principles of fatalism they must be, how ought we to mourn
over them, and pity them! What purpose can these doctrines serve?
He who advocates them, is conscious of impulses to do good, and
deliberates upon alternatives in the courses which honor and duty
call him to pursue. His principles, then, are contradicted by the
voice of his own heart. When he has committed a fault, it declares
to him that he might have chosen a contrary part.--When he has done
a virtuous action, it inspires emotions of joy, which render him
conscious that he is a free agent. This voice within is anterior
to all reasoning, and as incapable of being invalidated as any
other consciousness. Inexhaustible emotions of satisfaction spring
from religious hopes. Reanimated by them, I no longer see tears
without consolation, nor fear an eternal adieu.--The tomb, though a
fearful, is but a frail barrier, which separates us from those real
joys, of which the pleasures of a fugitive existence are but the
shadow.
Never would men have exchanged their natural convictions, their
internal aspirations, their instinctive hopes of immortality, for
the lurid and deceptive glare of infidelity, if religious views
had not been disfigured by being combined with the grossest errors
and prejudices. Of these, there are two which every good man ought
to strive to eradicate from all minds, and if it were possible, to
purge from the earth.
The first causes us to behold in the divinity a menacing and
implacable judge, constantly eager to execute vengeance. Monstrous
conception! Revolting error! Infancy and old age, the two extremes
of earthly existence, which from their feebleness, call for our
most soothing cares, are those most persecuted with this vile
and fierce prejudice. A cruel superstition has selected these
terrific ideas, these horrible images, with which to besiege the
bed of death, to light up the scene of agony--of parting and
trembling apprehensions--with the flames of perdition. My bosom
swells with mingled emotions, when I see any one attempting to
darken the feeble and docile reason of a child with these sinister
views. Pursued even in his dreams by these terrible menaces,
before he knows the meaning of crime, he has already felt its
torments. Astonishing infatuation! It is in this aspect that gloomy
religionists have presented the compassionate and sustaining hope
of the gospel. Instead of inspiring sweet and consoling ideas, they
have succeeded in filling innocence with remorse.
The other prejudice is intolerance, or that spirit which causes
us to view all persons guilty, whose faith is different from
ours. While religion enjoins it upon us to cover the faults of
our kind with a veil of indulgence, intolerance teaches us to
transform their opinions into crimes. Religion rears asylums for
the unfortunate.--Intolerance prepares scaffolds for all whom
she chooses to denominate heretics. The one invokes ministers of
charity, and the other, executioners. The one wipes away tears, and
the other sheds blood.
Intolerance without power is simply ridiculous; but becomes most
odious when armed with authority. The cry of humanity is ‘Peace
with all men.’ If any were excepted, it should be the intolerant.
Even they merit no severer punishment, than the inflictions of
their own fury. They may attain to deliverance from remorse in
their confident delirium, and may count their crimes as virtues,
through the influence of self-blindness. But this strange obliquity
of the understanding, this horrible intoxication, repels happiness.
Joy and peace must fly the soul, of which this spirit has taken
possession.
In another life, the measure of our felicity in the mansions of the
just, will be the happiness we have created for the beings around
us in this fleeting existence. A religious man constantly strives
to render this, our terrestrial sojourn, more like the abode
towards which his thoughts are elevated. His constant occupation
is to mitigate suffering, banish prejudice and hatred, and calm
the fury of party. All his relations are those of peace and love.
Intolerant men! Who, of your number, will hope to hear it said of
him in the retribution of the just, ‘much has been forgiven him,
because he has loved much?’
LETTER XXIII.
OF THE RAPIDITY OF LIFE.
In considering the different ages of life, the first sentiment I
feel, is gratitude for the variety of pleasures, destined for us by
nature. Thrice happy for us, if we knew how to taste the charms of
all the situations through which we pass! Instead of this, we first
regret infancy, then youth, then mature age. The happy period is
always that which is no more.
It is a great folly to sadden the present, in looking back upon the
past, as though it had been darkened by no shadow of a cloud. The
sorrows which nature sends us in infancy, resemble spring showers,
the traces of which are effaced by a passing breeze. The pains and
alarms of each age have been chiefly the work of men. Who cannot
remember the violent palpitations which he felt, when, exposed to
the searching eye of his companions, he went forward to excuse
his not having prepared his task, his translation or theme, at
school? I have seen situations more perilous, since that time, but
no misfortunes have awakened more bitterness, than the preference
granted by the professor to the theme of another over mine. The
beautiful age, for a frivolous being, is youth; for the ambitious,
maturity; for the recluse, old age; for a reasonable man, each age:
for heaven has reserved peculiar pleasures for each.
The second sentiment I experience, in contemplating life, is,
regret to see the moments so rapidly gliding away. Time flies, and
days and years steal away as rapidly as hours. Still, some complain
of the burden of time, and endure cruel suffering from not knowing
how to employ it.
To prolong my days, I will neither ask the elixir of life from
alchymists, nor precepts from physicians. A severe regimen tends to
abridge life. Multiplied privations give a sadness to the spirit,
more noxious than the prescribed remedies are salutary. Besides,
what is physical without moral life; that is to say, improvement
and enjoyment? Physicians vaunt the miracles of abstinence and
a careful regimen in the case of Cornaro, the Venetian, who was
born dying, and yet spun out the thread of life with so much care
that he vegetated a century. To attain this result, he weighed his
aliment, and marked every hour of the day, with the most minute
exactness. Bacon cites the case, but jests upon a man who believed
himself living, because, in fact, he was not dead.
Moderation, cheerfulness and the happy employment of time furnish
the best means of living as many days as nature permits; and the
regimen of philosophic moralists has an effect more certain than
that of physicians.[57]
Every one has observed that a year in youth presents a long
perspective; and that the further we advance in our career, the
more the course of time seems to accelerate. Let us strive to
investigate the causes which so modify our judgments, with a view,
if it be possible, to avoid them.
There is one inevitable cause--experience. At sixteen, what an
illimitable prospective space is seen in the sixteen years that are
to succeed! The termination of the latter period is lost to vision
in the future, as the commencement of the first years are effaced
from the memory of the past. But, in touching the goal which
seemed so distant, we have discovered a scale by which the mind’s
eye measures the future. Impatient youth, burning to overleap the
interval which separates the object from the desires, strives to
accelerate the tardy hours. In mature age, on the contrary, seeing
every day bringing us nearer the termination of our career, we
begin to regret the want of power to arrest the march of time. Thus
our weakness hastens the flight which we desire to delay. Let us
be less fearful of the uncertain future, and the hours will lose
their desolating swiftness.
Finally, in our youth, all objects being new, produce the vivid
impression of novelty. Every instant is filled with landmarks of
memory, because in every instant a new sensation is produced, and
a new link in the chain of the succession of ideas. As we advance
in time, objects imperceptibly cease to excite our curiosity. We
pass by beautiful objects and striking events which once filled us
with transport or surprise, with a carelessness which fails to fix
them in our memory. We return mechanically to the occupations of
the preceding day, scarcely noting the transit of those monotonous
periods which were rendered remarkable neither by ennui nor
pleasure. Let us avoid this mental carelessness, which gives new
speed to the flight of time, and is so fatal to happiness. Friends
of humanity, of literature, of the arts and true enjoyment, let us
preserve the mind in its freshness, the imagination in its youthful
brilliancy. Let us thus arrest the happy moments; and let us
preserve the enthusiasm of youth enlightened by the taste of mature
age, for everything which merits our admiration.[58]
If we desire that our days should not be abridged, we must love
retreat. The immediate result of this shelter is to keep off a
crowd of officious and indolent people. There are those who would
not think of taking our money, and who yet will steal hours and
days from us without scruple. They seem not to realize the value of
these fractions of time which are the material of life.
But while the idle rob us of hours, we ourselves sacrifice years.
A great portion of our race, deafened by the clamor of the
passions, agitated by feverish dreams, are scarcely conscious of
existence; and, awakening for a moment, at death, regret that they
have been long on the earth and yet have not lived. A few others,
after having been long swept onward by the torrent, taught at last
by experience, resist, land and fix their sojourn far from the
tumult; and, finally, begin to taste the pleasant consciousness of
existence. Why not prolong these final hours to the utmost? If our
pursuits interdict us from the independent command of our time, we
may, at least, consecrate portions of every evening to retreat, in
order to review the past, pause on the present, and prepare for the
future. Thus, making every day count in accumulating the pleasant
stores of memory, we add it to the happy days of the past, and no
longer allow life to vanish like a dream.
It is, more than all, in converse with ourselves that we give a
right direction to the mind, elevation to the soul, and gentleness
and firmness to the character. Life is a book in which we every day
read a page. We ought to note down every instructive incident that
passes.
The admirable Marcus Aurelius took delight in converse with
himself; and learned to find enjoyment in the present by extracting
from the past lessons for the future. I never fail to be affected
when I read the account which he gives of all those persons whose
cares had concurred to form his character and his manners. ‘I
learned,’ says he, ‘of my grandfather Verus, to be gentle and
complaisant.
‘The reputation which my father left, and the memory of his good
actions which has been preserved, taught me modesty. My mother
formed me to piety, taught me to be liberal, and not even to
meditate, still less, to do a wrong.
‘I owe it to my governor that I am patient of labor, indulge few
wants, know how to work with my own hands, meddle with no business
that does not concern me, and give no encouragement to informers.
‘Diognetus taught me not to be amused with frivolities, to yield
no credit to charlatans and enchanters, and to have no faith in
conjurations, demons and superstitions of that sort. I learned of
him to permit every one to speak to me with entire freedom, and to
apply myself wholly to philosophy.
‘Rusticus made me perceive that I needed to correct my manners,
that I ought to avoid the pride of the sophists, and not use effort
to inspire the people with admiration of my patience and austerity
of life; to be always ready to pardon those who had offended me,
and to receive them kindly whenever they were disposed to resume
their former intercourse.
‘I learned of Apollonius to be at the same time frank and firm in
my designs, to follow no guide but my reason, even in the smallest
matters, and to be always composed, even under the most acute
sufferings. By his example I was instructed that it is possible to
be at once severe and gentle.
‘Sextus taught me to govern my house as a good father, to preserve
a simple gravity without affectation, to attempt to divine and
anticipate the wishes and necessities of my friends; to endure,
with calmness and patience, the ignorant and presumptuous who
speak without thinking what they say; and to sustain relations of
kindness with all.
‘I learned from Alexander, the grammarian, in disputation to use no
injurious words in reply to my antagonist.
‘Fronto taught me to know that kings are surrounded by the envious,
by knaves and hypocrites.
‘Alexander, the Platonist, instructed me never to say or to write
to any person interceding for my interest, “I have had no time to
attend to your affairs;” nor to allege, as an excuse, “I have been
overwhelmed with business;” but to be always prompt to render all
those good offices which the bonds of society demand.
‘I owe to my brother Severus, the love which I have for truth and
justice. From him I derived the desire to govern my states by equal
laws, and to reign in such a manner as that my subjects might
possess perfect liberty.
‘I thank the Divinity for having given me virtuous ancestors, a
good father, a good mother, a good sister, good preceptors and good
friends; in a word, all the good things I could have desired.’[59]
A crowd of useful thoughts cannot but flow from such self-converse.
Hold every day one of these solitary conversations with yourself.
This is the way in which to attain the highest relish of existence;
and, if I may so say, to cast anchor in the river of life.
LETTER XXIV.
ON DEATH.
If we were to allow ourselves to express the wish that we might
never die, an absurd wish which, perhaps, every man has sometimes
indulged, a moralist might say, ‘Suppose it were granted, where
would be the end of dissension, hatred, revenge? Where would the
victim whom injustice pursues, find an asylum and repose?’ To all
this it is sufficient to reply, that if we accuse nature for having
subjected us to the penalty of death, we have not less reason to
accuse her for having often rendered death desirable, as a relief
from greater evils. Instead of showing herself so niggardly in
bestowing happy moments, why did she not spare humanity the evils
that render death a comparative release?
There are, as I believe, more solid reasons to justify nature
in rendering death an inevitable allotment. When, undertaking
to reform the universe in my day dreams, I render our earthly
existence eternal, I find no difficulty in imagining all the
evils which afflict us removed. But I strain my imagination to no
purpose to give form and reality to those pleasures which shall be
adequate to replace those which this new order of things cannot
admit. Suppose that it were no longer necessary that generation
should succeed generation; and that death were banished from the
earth. The same beings, without hopes or fears, would always
cover its surface. No more loves; no more parental tenderness; no
more filial piety! Flattering hopes forsake the bosom along with
enchanting remembrances. All those affections which give value to
life owe their existence to death.[60]
Our prejudices transform death into a terrible spectre, accompanied
by frightful dreams. The dark and anti-social doctrine, that we
were placed on the earth for the punishment of exile, and that
we ought never to intermit our contemplation of the grave, was
imagined by hypocrites, who preached to others contempt of the
world, that they might appropriate it to themselves. A wise man
sees in existence a gift which he ought not to sacrifice. In
learning how to live, he instructs himself how to die.
We must sometimes look Death in the face to judge how we shall be
able to sustain his approach.[61] It is not necessary often to
repeat this stern examination which presents gloomy ideas, even
to minds the most disciplined. Another manner of contemplating
the final scene offers all the useful results of the first, and
presents nothing afflicting. It consists in observing the influence
which death ought to exercise over life. This term, unknown, but
always near, should render our duties more sacred, our affections
more tender, our pleasures more vivid. In noting the rapidity
of the flight of time, a wise man seizes upon those ideas which
disturb the hours of the multitude, to enhance the charm of his own
thoughts. It was not without an aim that certain of the ancient
philosophers placed in their festal hall a death’s head decked with
roses.
Those who say that death is nothing, may be thought to affect the
semblance of courage. They speak, in fact, only one of the simplest
truths. The term death is the sign of a purely negative idea; and
denotes an instant impossible for thought to measure. It is not yet
death, or it is past; and there is no interval.
Without doubt, the circumstances which precede it are extremely
afflicting. Sudden deaths ought to cost us fewer tears than any
others. Yet we hear it repeated, with a sigh, ‘the unfortunate
sufferer lingered but a few hours.’ Was not that space sufficiently
long when the moments were counted by agony? Let us not tinge our
views by the coloring of egotism; and we shall perceive in this
prompt departure, two motives for consolation; that the deceased,
whom we regret, saw not the long approach of death in advance; and,
that, in meeting it, he experienced a brief pang. Such an end is
worthy of envy, and is the last benefit of heaven.
So died my father, the best of fathers, whom every one recognised
by his force of character, his gentleness and serenity. He did
not dazzle, either by his vivacity of mind, or the variety of his
acquirements. But he so said the simplest things as to render them
the best. During sixty-five years he shared the pains of others,
but never added to them. One day, having experienced unaccustomed
fatigue, he retired early, and a few moments after, slept in death.
Such a death, without pain and alarm, was worthy of a life so pure
that, to render him happy in the life to come, it would be only
necessary to leave him the remembrance of what he had been and what
he had done upon earth.
A fact recognised by numberless observing physicians is, that the
last agony of a good man is rarely violent. It is probable, that in
regard to all forms of death, mankind generally entertain the most
erroneous conceptions. The vulgar, naturally embracing ideas that
terrify them, believe that the dissolution of our earthly being is
accompanied by all conceivable torments. It is probable, on the
contrary, that, in entering upon eternal repose, we experience
sensations analogous to those of a wearied man who feels the sweet
influence of sleep stealing gently upon him.
These sensations, it is true, can be imagined to belong only to the
last moments. Cruel maladies may precede them. But it would seem
that nature invariably employs some means to mitigate the evils
which she inflicts. Among mortal diseases, those which are severely
painful are equally rapid; while those which are slow in their
progress are comparatively free from pain. They allow the patient
time to accustom himself to the idea of his departure. It is
common for those who die in this way to close their career in the
indulgence of dreamy and melancholy musings, solacing themselves
alternately by resignation and hope.
A spectacle, touching to the heart, and, unhappily, too common,
is presented in the case of a fair and florid young woman struck
with a pulmonary malady. Absolute unconsciousness of danger often
accompanies this cruel disease to the last moment. We are perfectly
aware that the patient cannot survive the coming winter. We hear
her pantingly discuss the projects which she expects to execute
with her companions when health and spring shall return. The
contrast of her daily increasing debility with her gentle gayety,
and of her future projects, with the rapid approach of death, makes
the heart bleed. Every one is pained for her but herself. The
hectic fever imparts a kind of joyous inspiration; and nature, to
absolve itself for inflicting death on one so young, leads her to
her last hour in tranquil security. Death is to her as a sleep.
It is certain that physical sufferings are not those which infuse
the utmost bitterness into this last cup. The gloomy thoughts with
which death is invested are excited much more keenly by those
affections which attach us to earth and our kind. We may well
hold the understanding of those ambitious persons in disdain who
instruct us, that when they have finished their vast projects
their days shall thenceforward glide in peace and serenity. Death
uniformly surprises them, tormenting themselves in the pursuit of
their shadows. Others, with less show of stupidity, repine because
death strikes them reposing upon their pleasures. Their groans are
caused by having forgotten the rapidity and evanescence of their
joys. They had not known how to give them an additional charm in
saying, ‘we possess them but for a day.’
But suppose we regret neither ambitious projects nor transient
pleasures, may we not wish to live longer for our children? I
attempt not to inculcate an impracticable or exaggerated system.
There is a situation in which death is fearful. There is a period
in which it would seem as if man ought not to die. It commences
when one has become a parent, and terminates when his sustaining
hand is no longer indispensable to his family.
If nature calls us to quit life before this epoch, all consolations
resemble the remedies which palliate the pains of the dying,
without possessing efficacy to remove them. Still we dare not so
outrage nature as to believe that there can exist a situation
in which a good man can find no alleviation for his sorrows. In
quitting a life which he would wish to retain longer, for the
happiness of those most dear to him, he may derive force and
magnanimity from the thought that he owes it to himself to leave an
example of courage and decent dignity in the last act; that he may
show the influence of piety, resignation, the hope of a good man,
and the discipline of that philosophy which forbids its disciple to
struggle against the inevitable lot.