What is good or evil fortune? As the former has seldom fallen to my lot,
I have often proposed the question to myself. Blind and accidental, it
certainly is not; but necessary, and part of a series, like every thing
else in the universe, though its causes do not always depend on
ourselves. How far, however, we really have it in our power to bring it
on ourselves, is a salutary inquiry for every one. Lucky and unlucky
occasions present themselves to every man in the course of his life; and
the art of seizing the one and averting the other with address, is
commonly what procures for a man the reputation of fortunate. It cannot
however be denied that, in the case of some men, the most powerful and
the wisest combinations continually fail, by what we call accident; nay,
that there is a sort of secret foreboding or presentiment, which gives
us the dim feeling that our project will not succeed. I have often been
tempted to think that luckiness and unluckiness are a sort of subjective
properties which we bring with us into the world, like health, strength,
a finely organized brain, and so on; and whose preponderating power must
always attract things magnetically to themselves. Like all other
properties, this of luckiness may be cultivated or let to lie dormant,
may be increased or diminished. The will does much; and thence the
proverbs, Nothing venture nothing have, (_Wagen gewinnt_:) Boldness and
luck go together, (_Kühnheit gehört zum Glück_.) It is also observable
that luckiness, like the other faculties, falls off with age, that is,
with the vigour of the material. This is certainly not the consequence
of weaker or more ill-advised plans or rules, but appears truly to be
the decline of a secret power which, so long as it is young and
vigorous, governs fortune, but in later years is no longer able to hold
her in. High play affords very good studies on this subject; and perhaps
this is the only poetical side of that dangerous passion: for nothing
affords so true a picture of life as the hazard-table; nothing affords a
better criterion to the observer, by which to try his own character, and
that of others. All rules which avail in the struggle of life, avail
also in this; and penetration combined with energy is always sure, if
not to conquer, at least to make a very able defence. But if it is
combined with the talent or gift of luckiness, a sort of Napoleon of the
gaming-table is the result. I am not now speaking of that class of
gentlemen 'qui corrigent la fortune.' But even here the resemblance is
still true: for how often in the world do you meet men who govern
fortune by fraud?--the most unfortunate, be it said by the by, of all
speculators. Their occupation is truly drawing water in a sieve; the
collecting of rotten nuts. For what is enjoyment without security? and
what can outward fortune avail where the internal equilibrium is
destroyed?
There are men who, although endowed with distinguished qualities, never
know how to make them available in the world, unless they have been from
the beginning of their career placed by fate in their right position.
They can never reach it by their own efforts; because a too feminine
fancy, liable to the constant impression of extraneous forms, prevents
them from seeing things as they really are, and causes them to live in a
world of airy floating phantasms. They set about their projects with
ardour and talent; but their fancy hurries after, mounted on her
poetical steed, and conducts them so rapidly through her kingdom of
dreams, to their end, that they can no longer endure the slow and weary
journey through the difficulties and obstacles of the real road. Thus
they suffer one project after another to fall to the ground before it
has attained to maturity. And yet, like every thing else in the world,
this unfortunate turn of mind has its advantages. It prevents a man,
indeed, from making his fortune, as it is commonly called, but affords
incalculable comfort under misfortune, and an elasticity of spirit that
nothing can entirely crush,--for the race of pleasure-giving creatures
of the imagination is absolutely inexhaustible. A whole city of castles
in the air is always at the command of mortals of this class, and they
enjoy, in hope, an everlasting variety of realities. Such people may be
of infinite use to other more sedate, reflecting, and matter-of-fact
men, if these latter do but understand the art of awakening their
enthusiasm. Their intellectual faculties derive from a positive steady
_purpose_, and from the constraint which it imposes, a degree of
constancy and persevering energy which their own interest could never
have inspired; and their ardour is more durable for the good of others
than for their own. From similar causes, if they are placed by some
superior power on the summit of the hill from the commencement of their
lives, they will accomplish great things by themselves; for in this case
the most grand and varied materials are already furnished; and along
with them, the enthusiasm which persons of this character want, is
produced, and fixed on some adequate and determinate object. There is
nothing entirely new, uncertain, and baseless to create or to
found;--only to employ, to improve, to elevate, to adorn, what already
lies under their eye and hand, with the acuteness and address of a
skilful artist. From such an eminence, which is their proper station,
their keen, far-sighted glance, supported by a thousand executive heads
and hands, strengthened by their own inward poetic eye, will reach
further than that of more everyday natures. But at the foot or on the
slope of the hill this acuteness of the mental sight is of no use to
them, because their horizon is bounded; and for climbing the toilsome
ascent, their indolent limbs will not serve them, nor could they resist
the airy phantoms which would tempt them from their path. They live and
die, therefore, on the hill, without ever reaching its summit, and
consequently without ever being fully conscious of their own power. Of
such men, the well-known saying might be reversed, and we might say with
truth, 'Tel brille au _premier_ rang qui s'éclipse au _second_.'
However beautiful and noble the words Morality and Virtue may sound, the
universal distinct recognition of them as _the useful_ is the only thing
that will be truly salutary and beneficial to human society. He who
clearly sees that the sinner is like the savage who hews down the whole
tree in order to come at the fruit, often sour, or tasteless, or
unwholesome; while the virtuous man is like the prudent gardener who,
waiting their maturity, gathers all the sweet produce, with the joyful
consciousness that he has destroyed no future crop;--this man's virtue
will probably stand on the most secure basis. The more enlightened men
in general are, as to what is good or profitable for them, the better
and more humane will their manners and conduct towards each other
become. Action and reaction will then proceed in a beneficent
circle;--enlightened individuals will establish better forms of
government and better institutions, and these again will increase the
intelligence of all who live under them. If matters once reached such a
point, that a truly rational and elevating system of education freed us
from the chimeras of dark times, dismissed all constraint on religious
opinions among other obsolete absurdities, while it clearly demonstrated
the inward and outward necessity of Love and Virtue to the happy
existence of human society; while by the establishment of wise, firm,
and consistent laws and political institutions, sprung from the
conviction of this necessity, it imposed sufficient restraint to ensure
the permanent adherence to these by the salutary habits
produced,--Paradise would exist on earth.
Mere penal laws, whether for here or hereafter, without this profound
conviction,--all worldly policy, in the sense of clever, adroit
knaves,--all prophets, all superhuman extra-revelations, heaven, hell,
and priests,--will never bring us to this:[154] indeed, so long as all
these hang on the spokes, the wheel of improvement will revolve but
slowly and painfully. For this reason, so many strive with all their
might against such a result; nay, even Protestants _protest backwards_,
and many desire to establish a new continental embargo to shut out
foreign light.
'Au reste,' one cannot take it amiss of any man 'qu'il prêche pour sa
paroisse.' To require from an English archbishop with 50,000_l._ a year
that he should be an enlightened man, is as preposterous as to expect
from the Shah of Persia that he should transform himself into a
constitutional monarch of his own free will. There are few men who would
voluntarily refuse a rich and splendid sinecure, where nothing is
required of them but to fling a little dust in the people's eyes, or to
be a despot ruling millions with his nod. It is the business of human
society, if possible, to put things upon such a footing that none of us,
be our good-will for it ever so great, can either get such a sinecure or
become such a despot.
When I was a child, it often happened to me that I could get no rest for
thinking of the fate of Hannibal, or that I was in despair at the battle
of Pultawa;--now I am grieving over Columbus. We are greatly indebted to
the distinguished American, Washington Irving, for this history. It is a
beautiful tribute to the great navigator, brought from the land which he
gave to the civilized world, and which appears destined to be the last
station traversed by the cycle of human perfectibility.
What a man was this sublime endurer! Too great for his age: for forty
years he was deemed by it but a madman; during the rest of his life he
was the victim of its hatred and jealousy, under which he sank at length
in want and misery. But such is the world: and it would be enough to
make us mad, did we fix our minds upon particulars, and did not
reflection soon teach us that for wise Nature the individual is nothing,
the species every thing. We live for and through mankind, and every
thing finds its compensation in the great whole. This reflection
suffices to tranquillize any reasonable man; for every seed springs
up,--if not exactly for the hand that sowed it, yet be it evil or good,
not one is lost to the human race.
What has often and bitterly vexed me, is to hear people lament the
wretchedness of this life, and call the world a vale of sorrows. This is
not only the most crying ingratitude (humanly speaking,) but the true
sin against the Holy Ghost. Is not enjoyment and well-being manifestly
throughout the world the positive natural state of animated beings? Is
not suffering, evil, organic imperfection or distortion, the negative
shadow in this general brightness? Is not creation a continual festival
to the healthy eye,--the contemplation of which, and of its splendour
and beauty, fills the heart with adoration and delight? And were it only
the daily sight of the enkindling sun and the glittering stars, the
green of the trees and the gay and delicate beauty of flowers, the
joyous song of birds, and the luxuriant abundance and rich animal
enjoyment of all living things,--it would give us good cause to rejoice
in life. But how much still more wondrous wealth is unfolded in the
treasures of our own minds! what mines are laid open by love, art,
science, the observation and the history of our own race, and, in the
deepest deep of our souls, the pious reverential sentiment of God and
his universal work! Truly we were less ungrateful were we less happy;
and but too often we stand in need of suffering to make us conscious of
this. A cheerful grateful disposition is a sort of sixth sense, by which
we perceive and recognise happiness. He who is fully persuaded of its
existence may, like other unthinking children, break out into occasional
complaints, but will sooner return to reason; for the deep and intense
feeling of the happiness of living, lies like a rose-coloured ground in
his inmost heart, and shines softly through the darkest figures which
fate can draw upon it.
_Paradoxes of my friend B---- H----._ Yes, certainly the spirit rules in
us and we in it; and is eternal, and the same which rules through all
worlds; but that which we call our human soul, we frame to ourselves
here. The apparent double being in us,--of which one part follows the
impulses of sense, while the other reflects upon the nature and
movements of its companion, and restrains it,--naturally arises from the
(so to say) double nature and destiny of man, who is framed to live as
an individual, and also as an integral part of society. The gift of
speech was a necessary condition of this latter form of existence, which
without it could never have arisen. A solitary man is, and must remain,
nothing better than an extremely intelligent brute; he has no more a
soul than any other such:--the experiment may be repeated any day. But
as soon as the man begins to live with other men, as soon as the
interchange of observations is rendered possible to him by speech, he
begins to perceive that the individual must submit to what is for the
good of the whole--of the society, that is, to which he belongs; that he
must make some sacrifices to its maintenance: this is the first rise of
the moral principle, the essence of the soul. The feeling of his own
weakness and uncertainty next gives birth to religion; the feeling of
need of others like himself, to love. Selfishness and humanity now enter
upon that continual antagonism which is called, I know not why, the
inexplicable riddle of life; though with my view of the matter, nothing
appears to me more natural and consequential. The real problem for
mankind is, merely to establish the proper balance between these two
poles. The more perfectly this is attained, the better and the happier
is thenceforward the condition of the man, the family, the state. Either
extreme is pernicious. The individual who tries to benefit himself
alone, must succumb at length to the power of the many. The romantic
enthusiast who starves himself to feed others, will be called by men,
(who are ready enough to admire any sacrifice made to them, though they
often laugh at it too,) magnanimous, or foolish, according to their
peculiar fancy: but such conduct can never be general, and can never
become a _norma_ or pattern for imitation--in other words, _a duty_.
Martyrs who give themselves to the flames in honour of the sacred number
three, or let the nails grow through the back of the hands to the glory
of Brama, belong to this same class, though to the lowest step of it;
and receive, according to the prevalent notions of their age, the
appellation of saint or madman, but are at all events mere exceptions,
(_Abnormitäten_.) Not that I mean to deny that a rational abnegation and
sacrifice of oneself for the good of others is noble and beautiful: by
no means. It is unquestionably a beautiful, that is, a beneficent
example of the victory of the social over the selfish principle, which
forms a refreshing contrast to the far too numerous instances of those
whose views never extend beyond themselves, and who end in becoming the
pitiless remorseless criminals against whom society is compelled to
declare everlasting war. But since we are bound to ourselves more nearly
than to society, by that law of self-preservation which is necessary to
our existence, egotists are more common than philanthropists, vicious
men than virtuous. The former are the truly rude and ignorant, the
latter the civilized and instructed. (An 'avviso' by the by to all
governments who wish to rule in the dark.) But as even the most
civilized have a substratum of rudeness, just as the most highly
polished marble when broken exhibits the rough grain beneath,
philanthropy herself cannot deny that she is the offspring of
self-interest,--that she is indeed only self-interest diffused over the
whole of mankind.
Where this feeling, therefore, displays itself in a very grand and
energetic manner, though it be for the sole advantage of the individual,
the possessors of it, such as are commonly called great men and heroes,
compel the admiration even of those who disapprove their course of
action. Nay, experience teaches us, that men who, with consummate
indifference to the good of others, have heaped innumerable sufferings
on their fellow men, if they have at the same time manifested a gigantic
and over-mastering power, and been favoured by fortune, have invariably
been the objects of the high admiration even of those who suffered under
them. This shows what I said before, that necessity and fear are the
germs of human society, and continue to be the mightiest levers under
all circumstances; and that power, (or strength,) is always the object
of the greatest reverence and admiration. Alexander and Cæsar cut a
greater figure in history than Horatius Cocles and Regulus, (admitting
the latter not to be fabulous personages.) Disinterestedness,
friendship, philanthropy, generosity, are flowers of rarer growth; they
generally unfold themselves at a later season, and with a more delicate
fragrance. To the philosophic mind the highest power manifests itself in
perfect goodness: and devotedness to others in the end becomes the
highest enjoyment to the individual himself.
Another, and, as it seems to me, a striking proof that what we call
Morality is entirely the growth of social life, is, that, as it appears
to me, we recognise no such principle in our conduct towards other
beings. If it were in our power, we should willingly enough pluck a star
from heaven and analyse it for the benefit of _our_ science; nor, if we
had an angel in our power, should we be very scrupulous in our treatment
of him, were we certain we had nothing to fear from him. That our
treatment of the lower animals, and in too many cases of the negroes, is
utterly and purely selfish, and that we must have reached a high point
of civilization before even we cease to torment them or to let them
suffer _uselessly_ and _wantonly_, is but too obvious a fact. Nay more;
men, even among each other, throw off the positive moral principle, as
soon as a power which they recognise as competent partially dissolves
the obligations of society. As soon as war is declared, the most
virtuous soldier kills his fellow man 'ex officio,' though perhaps he be
but the compulsory servant of a despot whom in his heart he regards as
the scum of the earth: or the Pope, in the name of the religion of love,
absolves men from every sentiment of truth, rectitude or humanity; and
immediately the pious burn, torture, kill, lie, 'con amore,' and die
satisfied and blessed, in fulfilment of their duty, and to the glory of
God!
The lower animals, which are destined to live for themselves alone, know
no virtue, and _have, therefore, no soul_, as it is truly said. Yet in
the domestic animals, notwithstanding the low order of their reasoning
faculty,--from education and from the sort of social intercourse in
which they live with man, we may perceive very obvious traces of
morality, and the gradual creation of a perception of right and wrong.
We see that they are capable of disinterested love; capable even of
great self-sacrifice without the motive of fear:--in short, they enter
upon the same path as men, their _souls_ begin to germinate and expand;
and had animals the faculty of speech, it is possible they would advance
to a level with ourselves.
Our best and most useful study would be, to endeavour to see what we
are, and wherefore we are so, without vain hypotheses or tedious
discussions:--this is the only road to a permanent spread of clear and
enlightened ideas, and consequently to true happiness. It may be
questioned whether German philosophy has not chosen too poetical a path;
whether it do not rather resemble a rocket, which soars into the heavens
in a thousand sparkles and tries to assimilate itself to the stars, but
soon vanishes into nothing,--than a fire which gives out beneficent
light and heat. How many eccentric systems of this kind, from Kant to
Hegel, have glittered their moment, and then either rapidly expired, or
lived on, divided into obscure and unprofitable fragments!
It is very problematical whether society have reaped so much practical
advantage from them as from the now so little valued French
philosophers, who stuck to what was near at hand; and in the first place
so effectually divided the main nerve of the boa of priestly
superstition with their sharp operating-knives, that it has never since
been able to do more than feebly drag itself about. The philosopher
ought surely to embrace actual life in his speculations, (the greatest
of all sages was not less practical, than comprehensively intelligent;)
and men who instruct mankind in this manner stand higher in the history
of its benefactors than the most astonishing of the firework-makers
above mentioned.
The true and only object of philosophy is unquestionably the
investigation of truth;--of such truth, be it observed, as _can be
investigated_, for such alone can give any results. To inquire into the
incomprehensible is to thrash straw. The most direct way to the
attainment of discoverable truth is in my opinion now, as in the days of
Aristotle, only that of experiment. At a later stage of science we may
venture to say with justice, because the law _is_ so, experience _must_
confirm my conclusions; but this law could only have been discovered by
means of prior experiment. Lalande might very fairly maintain that such
and such stars must stand in such and such relations, although the most
accurate observation seemed to prove the contrary, because he already
_knew_ the unalterable rule; but without Newton's falling apple,
&c.,--without the previous and long-continued observations of individual
phenomena, and the truths thence elicited,--the secrets of the heavens
were still a book with seven seals.
But if philosophy would seek out truth, she ought above all to seek it
in relation to the human species. Histories of mankind, in the widest
sense, and whatever can be deduced from them for the behoof of the
present and the future, must ever be her chief object. By following this
direction, we may gradually succeed in arriving, from the knowledge of
what has been and is, at the knowledge of causes; _i. e._ why things are
so, and not otherwise: and then again, going back from fact to fact, may
approach to fundamental laws, and thus find out a _norma_ or rule for
the future. Although the first causes of all existence should forever
remain undiscoverable by us, it were sufficient, could we clearly and
distinctly ascertain what were the original powers of _our_ being, what
they have become, and what direction we ought to endeavour to give to
their further growth. Here the reflection will forcibly present itself,
that a further progression and improvement are only possible in the
element of freedom, and with an unrestrained interchange of ideas. The
most noble and important invention by or for mankind, was therefore
indisputably that of printing. Happily, it was born quick and active,
for the human intellect was at its birth sufficiently matured to employ
this mighty engine for the furtherance of the greatest ends. This
invention alone has since rendered it possible to call into life that
gigantic power, which nothing will long be able to withstand--public
opinion. By this I do not mean the clamours of the mob, but the judgment
of the best and wisest, which, since they have found an organ, have
penetrated to all, and in the end must effect the destruction of those
mere clamours.
Without printing, there would have been no Luther;--and until that
epoch, had Christianity really been able to make its way? At the time of
the thirty years' war, at the time of the English Queen Mary, at the
time of the Inquisition, 'horribile dictu!' had Christianity rendered
men more merciful, more moral, more benign? I see little evidence of it.
Freedom of the press was the great step which at once brought us
infinitely nearer to the grand end--the universal diffusion of
intelligence; and has given such an impulse to human affairs, that we
now learn and accomplish more in ten years than our ancestors did in a
hundred. The mass of information and intelligence thus accumulated, is
what we must look to for the amelioration of the condition of mankind.
In every age there have been illustrious men,--men, perhaps, whom no
succeeding age will surpass or equal: but they stood alone; and although
their effect on the world was not utterly lost, they could generally
diffuse but a partial and momentary light, which the lapse of time
dimmed or quite obscured. Let us take as an instance Christ, who, as
Gibbon has shown, appeared under peculiarly favourable circumstances.
How many men have called, and do call, themselves after his name; and
how many are _true_ Christians? He, the most liberal, the most tolerant,
the most sincere and benign of men, has served for nearly two thousand
years as a shield to despotism, persecution, and falsehood, and lent his
exalted and sacred name to a new form of heathenism.
It is therefore, I repeat, only the _mass_ of knowledge, the
intelligence which has pervaded _a whole nation_, which can form the
basis of permanent, solid and rational institutions, through which
society and individuals may be made better and happier. Towards this the
world now tends. Politics, in the highest signification of the word, is
the religion of the present time. For that, all the enthusiasm of
mankind is awakened; and should crusades now be undertaken, that alone
would be the object. The notion of representative chambers has
now-a-days a more electric effect than that of a ruling church; and even
the fame of the warrior begins to grow pale, by the side of that
enlightened statesman and citizen.
"Prove all things, and hold fast that which is good!"
But now 'trêve de bavardage.' In the mountains I should not have bored
you with so much of it; but within the dingy walls of a city I feel as
Faust did within those of his study. But a little breeze has sprung up.
To-morrow a fresher gale will swell my sails. Wherever I am,--in prison,
or under the blue sky,--I am, and shall ever be,
Your true, heartily devoted,