"You shall each have a cake of sesame,--and ten pound."
LUCIAN: _The Fisherman._
My first duty this evening is to ask your pardon for the ambiguity of
title under which the subject of this lecture has been announced: for
indeed I am not going to talk of kings, known as regnant, nor of
treasuries, understood to contain wealth; but of quite another order of
royalty, and another material of riches, than those usually
acknowledged. I had even intended to ask your attention for a little
while on trust, and (as sometimes one contrives, in taking a friend to
see a favorite piece of scenery) to hide what I wanted most to show,
with such imperfect cunning as I might, until we unexpectedly reached
the best point of view by winding paths. But--and as also I have heard
it said, by men practiced in public address, that hearers are never so
much fatigued as by the endeavour to follow a speaker who gives them no
clue to his purposes,--I will take the slight mask off at once, and
tell you plainly that I want to speak to you about the treasures hidden
in books; and about the way we find them, and the way we lose them. A
grave subject, you will say; and a wide one! Yes; so wide that I shall
make no effort to touch the compass of it. I will try only to bring
before you a few simple thoughts about reading, which press themselves
upon me every day more deeply, as I watch the course of the public mind
with respect to our daily enlarging means of education; and the
answeringly wider spreading on the levels, of the irrigation of
literature.
2. It happens that I have practically some connection with schools for
different classes of youth; and I receive many letters from parents
respecting the education of their children. In the mass of these
letters I am always struck by the precedence which the idea of a
"position in life" takes above all other thoughts in the parents'--more
especially in the mothers'--minds. "The education befitting such and
such a _station in life_"--this is the phrase, this the object, always.
They never seek, as far as I can make out, an education good in itself;
even the conception of abstract rightness in training rarely seems
reached by the writers. But, an education "which shall keep a good
coat on my son's back;--which shall enable him to ring with confidence
the visitors' bell at doubled-belled doors; which shall result
ultimately in establishment of a doubled-belled door to his own
house;--in a word, which shall lead to 'advancement in life';--_this_
we pray for on bent knees--and this is _all_ we pray for." It never
seems to occur to the parents that there may be an education which, in
itself, _is_ advancement in Life;--that any other than that may perhaps
be advancement in Death; and that this essential education might be
more easily got, or given, than they fancy, if they set about it in the
right way; while it is for no price, and by no favor, to be got, if
they set about it in the wrong.
3. Indeed, among the ideas most prevalent and effective in the mind of
this busiest of countries, I suppose the first--at least that which is
confessed with the greatest frankness, and put forward as the fittest
stimulus to youthful exertion--is this of "Advancement in Life." May I
ask you to consider with me what this idea practically includes, and
what it should include?
Practically, then, at present, "advancement in life" means, becoming
conspicuous in life;--obtaining a position which shall be acknowledged
by others to be respectable or honorable. We do not understand by this
advancement in general, the mere making of money, but the being known
to have made it; not the accomplishment of any great aim, but the being
seen to have accomplished it. In a word, we mean the gratification of
our thirst for applause. That thirst, if the last infirmity of noble
minds, is also the first infirmity of weak ones; and, on the whole, the
strongest impulsive influence of average humanity: the greatest efforts
of the race have always been traceable to the love of praise, as its
greatest catastrophes to the love of pleasure.
4. I am not about to attack or defend this impulse. I want you only
to feel how it lies at the root of effort; especially of all modern
effort. It is the gratification of vanity which is, with us, the
stimulus of toil, and balm of repose; so closely does it touch the very
springs of life that the wounding of our vanity is always spoken of
(and truly) as in its measure _mortal_; we call it "mortification,"
using the same expression which we should apply to a gangrenous and
incurable bodily hurt. And although few of us may be physicians enough
to recognize the various effect of this passion upon health and energy,
I believe most honest men know, and would at once acknowledge, its
leading power with them as a motive. The seaman does not commonly
desire to be made captain only because he knows he can manage the ship
better than any other sailor on board. He wants to be made captain
that he may be _called_ captain. The clergyman does not usually want
to be made a bishop only because he believes no other hand can, as
firmly as his, direct the diocese through its difficulties. He wants
to be made bishop primarily that he may be called "My Lord." And a
prince does not usually desire to enlarge, or a subject to gain, a
kingdom, because he believes that no one else can as well serve the
State, upon its throne; but, briefly, because he wishes to be addressed
as "Your Majesty," by as many lips as may be brought to such utterance.
5. This, then, being the main idea of "advancement in life," the force
of it applies, for all of us, according to our station, particularly to
that secondary result of such advancement which we call "getting into
good society." We want to get into good society, not that we may have
it, but that we may be seen in it; and our notion of its goodness
depends primarily on its conspicuousness.
Will you pardon me if I pause for a moment to put what I fear you may
think an impertinent question? I never can go on with an address
unless I feel, or know, that my audience are either with me or against
me: I do not much care which, in beginning; but I must know where they
are; and I would fain find out, at this instant, whether you think I am
putting the motives of popular action too low. I am resolved,
to-night, to state them low enough to be admitted as probable; for
whenever, in my writings on Political Economy, I assume that a little
honesty, or generosity--or what used to be called "virtue"--may be
calculated upon as a human motive of action, people always answer me,
saying, "You must not calculate on that: that is not in human nature:
you must not assume anything to be common to men but acquisitiveness
and jealousy; no other feeling ever has influence on them, except
accidentally, and in matters out of the way of business." I begin,
accordingly, to-night low in the scale of motives; but I must know if
you think me right in doing so. Therefore, let me ask those who admit
the love of praise to be usually the strongest motive in men's minds in
seeking advancement, and the honest desire of doing any kind of duty to
be an entirely secondary one, to hold up their hands. (_About a dozen
of hands held up--the audience, partly not being sure the lecturer is
serious, and, partly, shy of expressing opinion._) I am quite
serious--I really do want to know what you think; however, I can judge
by putting the reverse question. Will those who think that duty is
generally the first, and love of praise the second, motive, hold up
their hands? (_One hand reported to have been held up, behind the
lecturer._) Very good; I see you are with me, and that you think I
have not begun too near the ground. Now, without teasing you by
putting farther question, I venture to assume that you will admit duty
as at least a secondary or tertiary motive. You think that the desire
of doing something useful, or obtaining some real good, is indeed an
existent collateral idea, though a secondary one, in most men's desire
of advancement. You will grant that moderately honest men desire place
and office, at least in some measure, for the sake of beneficent power;
and would wish to associate rather with sensible and well-informed
persons than with fools and ignorant persons, whether they are seen in
the company of the sensible ones or not. And finally, without being
troubled by repetition of any common truisms about the preciousness of
friends, and the influence of companions, you will admit, doubtless
that according to the sincerity of our desire that our friends may be
true, and our companions wise,--and in proportion to the earnestness
and discretion with which we choose both, will be the general chances
of our happiness and usefulness.
6. But, granting that we had both the will and the sense to choose our
friends well, how few of us have the power! or, at least, how limited,
for most, is the sphere of choice! Nearly all our associations are
determined by chance, or necessity; and restricted within a narrow
circle. We cannot know whom we would; and those whom we know, we
cannot have at our side when we most need them. All the higher circles
of human intelligence are, to those beneath, only momentarily and
partially open. We may, by good fortune, obtain a glimpse of a great
poet, and hear the sound of his voice; or put a question to a man of
science, and be answered good-humoredly. We may intrude ten minutes'
talk on a cabinet minister, answered probably with words worse than
silence, being deceptive; or snatch, once or twice in our lives, the
privilege of throwing a bouquet in the path of a Princess, or arresting
the kind glance of a Queen. And yet these momentary chances we covet;
and spend our years, and passions, and powers in pursuit of little more
than these; while, meantime, there is a society continually open to us,
of people who will talk to us as long as we like, whatever our rank or
occupation;--talk to us in the best words they can choose, and of the
things nearest their hearts. And this society, because it is so
numerous and so gentle, and can be kept waiting round us all day
long,--kings and statesmen lingering patiently, not to grant audience,
but to gain it!--in those plainly furnished and narrow anterooms, our
bookcase shelves,--we make no account of that company,--perhaps never
listen to a word they would say, all day long!
7. You may tell me, perhaps, or think within yourselves, that the
apathy with which we regard this company of the noble, who are praying
us to listen to them; and the passion with which we pursue the company,
probably of the ignoble who despise us, or who have nothing to teach
us, are grounded in this,--that we can see the faces of the living men,
and it is themselves, and not their sayings, with which we desire to
become familiar. But it is not so. Suppose you never were to see
their faces;--suppose you could be put behind a screen in the
statesman's cabinet, or the prince's chamber, would you not be glad to
listen to their words, though you were forbidden to advance beyond the
screen? And when the screen is only a little less, folded in two
instead of four, and you can be hidden behind the cover of the two
boards that bind a book, and listen all day long, not to the casual
talk, but to the studied, determined, chosen addresses of the wisest of
men;--this station of audience, and honorable privy council, you
despise!
8. But perhaps you will say that it is because the living people talk
of things that are passing, and are of immediate interest to you, that
you desire to hear them. Nay; that cannot be so, for the living people
will themselves tell you about passing matters, much better in their
writings than in their careless talk. But I admit that this motive
does influence you, so far as you prefer those rapid and ephemeral
writings to slow and enduring writings,--books, properly so called.
For all books are divisible into two classes, the books of the hour,
and the books of all time. Mark this distinction--it is not one of
quality only. It is not merely the bad book that does not last, and
the good one that does. It is a distinction of species. There are
good books for the hour, and good ones for all time; bad books for the
hour, and bad ones for all time. I must define the two kinds before I
go farther.
9. The good book of the hour, then,--I do not speak of the bad
ones,--is simply the useful or pleasant talk of some person whom you
cannot otherwise converse with, printed for you. Very useful often,
telling you what you need to know; very pleasant often, as a sensible
friend's present talk would be. These bright accounts of travels;
good-humored and witty discussions of question; lively or pathetic
story-telling in the form of novel; firm fact-telling, by the real
agents concerned in the events of passing history;--all these books of
the hour, multiplying among us as education becomes more general, are a
peculiar possession of the present age; we ought to be entirely
thankful for them, and entirely ashamed of ourselves if we make no good
use of them. But we make the worst possible use if we allow them to
usurp the place of true books: for strictly speaking, they are not
books at all, but merely letters or newspapers in good print. Our
friend's letter may be delightful, or necessary, to-day: whether worth
keeping or not, is to be considered. The newspaper may be entirely
proper at breakfast time, but assuredly it is not reading for all day.
So, though bound up in a volume, the long letter which gives you so
pleasant an account of the inns, and roads, and weather last year at
such a place, or which tells you that amusing story, or gives you the
real circumstances of such and such events, however valuable for
occasional reference, may not be, in the real sense of the word, a
"book" at all, nor in the real sense, to be "read." A book is
essentially not a talked thing, but a written thing; and written, not
with the view of mere communication, but of permanence. The book of
talk is printed only because its author cannot speak to thousands of
people at once; if he could, he would--the volume is mere
_multiplication_ of his voice. You cannot talk to your friend in
India; if you could, you would; you write instead: that is mere
_conveyance_ of voice. But a book is written, not to multiply the
voice merely, not to carry it merely, but to perpetuate it. The author
has something to say which he perceives to be true and useful, or
helpfully beautiful. So far as he knows, no one has yet said it; so
far as he knows, no one else can say it. He is bound to say it,
clearly and melodiously if he may; clearly, at all events. In the sum
of his life he finds this to be the thing, or group of things, manifest
to him;--this, the piece of true knowledge, or sight, which his share
of sunshine and earth has permitted him to seize. He would fain set it
down forever; engrave it on rock, if he could; saying, "This is the
best of me; for the rest, I ate, and drank, and slept, loved, and
hated, like another; my life was as the vapor and is not; but this I
saw and knew: this if anything of mine, is worth your memory." That is
his "writing"; it is, in his small human way and with whatever degree
of true inspiration is in him his inscription, or scripture. That is a
"Book."
10. Perhaps you think no books were ever so written. But, again, I
ask you, do you at all believe in honesty, or at all in kindness? or do
you think there is never any honesty or benevolence in wise people?
None of us, I hope, are so unhappy as to think that. Well, whatever
bit of a wise man's work is honestly and benevolently done, that bit is
his book, or his piece of art.[2] It is mixed always with evil
fragments--ill-done, redundant, affected work. But if you read
rightly, you will easily discover the true bits, and those _are_ the
book.
11. Now books of this kind have been written in all ages by their
greatest men:--by great readers, great statesmen, and great thinkers.
These are all at your choice; and Life is short. You have heard as
much before;--yet have you measured and mapped out this short life and
its possibilities? Do you know, if you read this, that you cannot read
that--that what you lose to-day you cannot gain to-morrow? Will you go
and gossip with your housemaid, or your stable-boy, when you may talk
with queens and kings; or flatter yourselves that it is with any worthy
consciousness of your own claims to respect that you jostle with the
hungry and common crowd for _entrée_ here, and audience there, when all
the while this eternal court is open to you, with its society, wide as
the world, multitudinous as its days, the chosen, and the mighty, of
every place and time? Into that you may enter always; in that you may
take fellowship and rank according to your wish; from that, once
entered into it, you can never be outcast but by your own fault; by
your aristocracy of companionship there, your own inherent aristocracy
will be assuredly tested, and the motives with which you strive to take
high place in the society of the living, measured, as to all the truth
and sincerity that are in them, by the place you desire to take in this
company of the Dead.
12. "The place you desire," and the place you _fit yourself for_, I
must also say; because, observe, this court of the past differs from
all living aristocracy in this:--it is open to labor and to merit, but
to nothing else. No wealth will bribe, no name overawe, no artifice
deceive, the guardian of those Elysian gates. In the deep sense, no
vile or vulgar person ever enters there. At the portières of that
silent Faubourg St. Germain, there is but brief question, Do you
deserve to enter? Pass. Do you ask to be the companion of nobles?
Make yourself noble, and you shall be. Do you long for the
conversation of the wise? Learn to understand it, and you shall hear
it. But on other terms?--no. If you will not rise to us, we cannot
stoop to you. The living lord may assume courtesy, the living
philosopher explain his thought to you with considerate pain; but here
we neither feign nor interpret; you must rise to the level of our
thoughts if you would be gladdened by them, and share our feelings, if
you would recognize our presence.
13. This, then, is what you have to do, and I admit that it is much.
You must, in a word, love these people, if you are to be among them.
No ambition is of any use. They scorn your ambition. You must love
them, and show your love in these two following ways:
I.--First, by a true desire to be taught by them, and to enter into
their thoughts. To enter into theirs, observe; not to find your own
expressed by them. If the person who wrote the book is not wiser than
you, you need not read it; if he be, he will think differently from you
in many respects.
Very ready we are to say of a book, "How good this is--that's exactly
what I think!" But the right feeling is, "How strange that is! I
never thought of that before, and yet I see it is true; or if I do not
now, I hope I shall, some day." But whether thus submissively or not,
at least be sure that you go to the author to get at _his_ meaning, not
to find yours. Judge it afterwards, if you think yourself qualified to
do so; but ascertain it first. And be sure also, if the author is
worth anything, that you will not get at his meaning all at once;--nay,
that at his whole meaning you will not for a long time arrive in any
wise. Not that he does not say what he means, and in strong words too;
but he cannot say it all; and what is more strange, _will_ not, but in
a hidden way and in parables, in order that he may be sure you want it.
I cannot quite see the reason of this, nor analyze that cruel reticence
in the breasts of wise men which makes them always hide their deeper
thought. They do not give it to you by way of help, but of reward; and
will make themselves sure that you deserve it before they allow you to
reach it. But it is the same with the physical type of wisdom, gold.
There seems, to you and me, no reason why the electric forces of the
earth should not carry whatever there is of gold within it at once to
the mountain tops, so that kings and people might know that all the
gold they could get was there; and without any trouble of digging, or
anxiety, or chance, or waste of time, cut it away, and coin as much as
they needed. But Nature does not manage it so. She puts it in little
fissures in the earth, nobody knows where: you may dig long and find
none; you must dig painfully to find any.
14. And it is just the same with men's best wisdom. When you come to
a good book, you must ask yourself, "Am I inclined to work as an
Australian miner would? Are my pickaxes and shovels in good order, and
am I in good trim myself, my sleeves well up to the elbow, and my
breath good, and my temper?" And, keeping the figure a little longer,
even at the cost of tiresomeness, for it is a thoroughly useful one,
the metal you are in search of being the author's mind or meaning, his
words are as the rock which you have to crush and smelt in order to get
at it. And your pickaxes are your own care, wit, and learning; your
smelting-furnace is your own thoughtful soul. Do not hope to get at
any good author's meaning without those tools and that fire; often you
will need sharpest, finest chiseling, and patientest fusing, before you
can gather one grain of the metal.
15. And therefore, first of all, I tell you, earnestly and
authoritatively (I _know_ I am right in this), you must get into the
habit of looking intensely at words, and assuring yourself of their
meaning, syllable by syllable--nay letter by letter. For though it is
only by reason of the opposition of letters in the function of signs,
to sounds in the function of signs, that the study of books is called
"literature," and that a man versed in it is called, by the consent of
nations, a man of letters instead of a man of books, or of words, you
may yet connect with that accidental nomenclature this real fact;--that
you might read all the books in the British Museum (if you could live
long enough) and remain an utterly "illiterate," uneducated person; but
that if you read ten pages of a good book, letter by letter,--that is
to say, with real accuracy,--you are forevermore in some measure an
educated person. The entire difference between education and
non-education (as regards the merely intellectual part of it) consists
in this accuracy. A well-educated gentleman may not know many
languages,--may not be able to speak any but his own,--may have read
very few books. But whatever language he knows, he knows precisely;
whatever word he pronounces, he pronounces rightly; above all, he is
learned in the _peerage_ of words; knows the words of true descent and
ancient blood at a glance, from words of modern canaille; remembers all
their ancestry, their inter-marriages, distant relationships, and the
extent to which they were admitted, and offices they held, among the
national noblesse of words at any time, and in any country. But an
uneducated person may know, by memory, many languages, and talk them
all, and yet truly know not a word of any,--not a word even of his own.
An ordinarily clever and sensible seaman will be able to make his way
ashore at most ports; yet he has only to speak a sentence of any
language to be known for an illiterate person: so also the accent, or
turn of expression of a single sentence, will at once mark a scholar.
And this is so strongly felt, so conclusively admitted by educated
persons, that a false accent or a mistaken syllable is enough, in the
parliament of any civilized nation, to assign to a man a certain degree
of inferior standing forever.
16. And this is right; but it is a pity that the accuracy insisted on
is not greater, and required to a serious purpose. It is right that a
false Latin quantity should excite a smile in the House of Commons: but
it is wrong that a false English _meaning_ should _not_ excite a frown
there. Let the accent of words be watched; and closely: let their
meaning be watched more closely still, and fewer will do the work. A
few words well chosen and distinguished, will do work that a thousand
cannot, when every one is acting, equivocally, in the function of
another. Yes; and words, if they are not watched, will do deadly work
sometimes. There are masked words droning and skulking about us in
Europe just now,--(there never were so many, owing to the spread of a
shallow, blotching, blundering, infectious "information," or rather
deformation, everywhere, and to the teaching of catechisms and phrases
at schools instead of human meanings)--there are masked words abroad, I
say, which nobody understands, but which everybody uses, and most
people will also fight for, live for, or even die for, fancying they
mean this or that, or the other, of things dear to them: for such words
wear chameleon cloaks--"groundlion" cloaks, of the color of the ground
of any man's fancy: on that ground they lie in wait, and rend him with
a spring from it. There never were creatures of prey so mischievous,
never diplomatists so cunning, never poisoners so deadly, as these
masked words; they are the unjust stewards of all men's ideas: whatever
fancy or favorite instinct a man most cherishes, he gives to his
favorite masked word to take care of for him; the word at last comes to
have an infinite power over him,--you cannot get at him but by its
ministry.
17. And in languages so mongrel in breed as the English, there is a
fatal power of equivocation put into men's hands, almost whether they
will or no, in being able to use Greek or Latin words for an idea when
they want it to be awful; and Saxon or otherwise common words when they
want it to be vulgar. What a singular and salutary effect, for
instance, would be produced on the minds of people who are in the habit
of taking the Form of the "Word" they live by, for the Power of which
that Word tells them, if we always either retained, or refused, the
Greek form "biblos," or "biblion," as the right expression for
"book"--instead of employing it only in the one instance in which we
wish to give dignity to the idea, and translating it into English
everywhere else. How wholesome it would be for many simple persons,
if, in such places (for instance) as Acts xix. 19, we retained the
Greek expression, instead of translating it, and they had to
read--"Many of them also which used curious arts, brought their bibles
together, and burnt them before all men; and they counted the price of
them, and found it fifty thousand pieces of silver!" Or, if, on the
other hand, we translated where we retain it, and always spoke of "The
Holy Book," instead of "Holy Bible," it might come into more heads than
it does at present, that the Word of God, by which the heavens were, of
old, and by which they are now kept in store,[3] cannot be made a
present of to anybody in morocco binding; nor sown on any wayside by
help either of steam plough or steam press; but is nevertheless being
offered to us daily, and by us with contumely refused; and sown in us
daily, and by us, as instantly as may be, choked.
18. So, again, consider what effect has been produced on the English
vulgar mind by the use of the sonorous Latin form "damno," in
translating the Greek _chatachrino_, when people charitably wish to
make it forcible; and the substitution of the temperate "condemn" for
it, when they choose to keep it gentle; and what notable sermons have
been preached by illiterate clergymen on--"He that believeth not shall
be damned"; though they would shrink with horror from translating Heb.
xi. 7, "The saving of his house, by which he damned the world"; or John
viii. 10, 11, "Woman, hath no man damned thee? She saith, No man,
Lord. Jesus answered her, Neither do I damn thee; go and sin no more."
And divisions in the mind of Europe, which have cost seas of blood and
in the defense of which the noblest souls of men have been cast away in
frantic desolation, countless as forest leaves--though, in the heart of
them, founded on deeper causes--have nevertheless been rendered
practicably possible, namely, by the European adoption of the Greek
word for a public meeting, "ecclesia," to give peculiar respectability
to such meetings, when held for religious purposes; and other
collateral equivocations, such as the vulgar English one of using the
word "priest" as a contraction for "presbyter."
19. Now, in order to deal with words rightly, this is the habit you
must form. Nearly every word in your language has been first a word of
some other language--of Saxon, German, French, Latin, or Greek (not to
speak of eastern and primitive dialects). And many words have been all
these;--that is to say, have been Greek first, Latin next, French and
German next, and English last: undergoing a certain change of sense and
use on the lips of each nation; but retaining a deep vital meaning,
which all good scholars feel in employing them, even at this day. If
you do not know the Greek alphabet, learn it; young or old--girl or
boy--whoever you may be, if you think of reading seriously (which, of
course, implies that you have some leisure at command), learn your
Greek alphabet; then get good dictionaries of all these languages, and
whenever you are in doubt about a word, hunt it down patiently. Read
Max Müller's lectures thoroughly, to begin with; and, after that, never
let a word escape you that looks suspicious. It is severe work; but
you will find it, even at first, interesting, and at last, endlessly
amusing. And the general gain to your character, in power and
precision, will be quite incalculable.
Mind, this does not imply knowing, or trying to know, Greek or Latin,
or French. It takes a whole life to learn any language perfectly. But
you can easily ascertain the meanings through which the English word
has passed; and those which in a good writer's work it must still bear.
20. And now, merely for example's sake, I will, with your permission,
read a few lines of a true book with you, carefully; and see what will
come out of them. I will take a book perfectly known to you all. No
English words are more familiar to us, yet few perhaps have been read
with less sincerity. I will take these few following lines of Lycidas:
"Last came, and last did go,
The pilot of the Galilean lake;
Two massy keys he bore of metals twain,
(The golden opes, the iron shuts amain),
He shook his mitred locks, and stern bespake,
'How well could I have spar'd for thee, young swain,
Enow of such as for their bellies' sake
Creep, and intrude, and climb into the fold!
Of other care they little reckoning make,
Than how to scramble at the shearers' feast,
And shove away the worthy bidden guest;
Blind mouths! that scarce themselves know how to hold
A sheep-hook, or have learn'd aught else, the least
That to the faithful herdsman's art belongs!
What recks it them? What need they? They are sped;
And when they list, their lean and flashy songs
Grate on their scrannel pipes of wretched straw;
The hungry sheep look up, and are not fed,
But, swoln with wind, and the rank mist they draw,
Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread;
Besides what the grim wolf with privy paw
Daily devours apace, and nothing said.'"
Let us think over this passage, and examine its words.
First, is it not singular to find Milton assigning to St. Peter, not
only his full episcopal function, but the very types of it which
Protestants usually refuse most passionately? His "mitred" locks!
Milton was no Bishop-lover; how comes St. Peter to be "mitred"? "Two
massy keys he bore." Is this, then, the power of the keys claimed by
the Bishops of Rome, and is it acknowledged here by Milton only in a
poetical license, for the sake of its picturesqueness, that he may get
the gleam of the golden keys to help his effect? Do not think it.
Great men do not play stage tricks with doctrines of life and death:
only little men do that. Milton means what he says; and means it with
his might too--is going to put the whole strength of his spirit
presently into the saying of it. For though not a lover of false
bishops, he _was_ a lover of true ones; and the Lake-pilot is here, in
his thoughts, the type and head of true episcopal power. For Milton
reads that text, "I will give unto thee the keys of the kingdom of
Heaven" quite honestly. Puritan though he be, he would not blot it out
of the book because there have been bad bishops; nay, in order to
understand _him_, we must understand that verse first; it will not do
to eye it askance, or whisper it under our breath, as if it were a
weapon of an adverse sect. It is a solemn, universal assertion, deeply
to be kept in mind by all sects. But perhaps we shall be better able
to reason on it if we go on a little farther, and come back to it. For
clearly this marked insistence on the power of the true episcopate is
to make us feel more weightily what is to be charged against the false
claimants of episcopate; or generally, against false claimants of power
and rank in the body of the clergy; they who, "for their bellies' sake,
creep, and intrude, and climb into the fold."
21. Never think Milton uses those three words to fill up his verse, as
a loose writer would. He needs all the three; specially those three,
and no more than those--"creep," and "intrude," and "climb"; no other
words would or could serve the turn, and no more could be added. For
they exhaustively comprehend the three classes, correspondent to the
three characters, of men who dishonestly seek ecclesiastical power.
First, those who "_creep_" into the fold: who do not care for office,
nor name, but for secret influence, and do all things occultly and
cunningly, consenting to any servility of office or conduct, so only
that they may intimately discern, and unawares direct, the minds of
men. Then those who "intrude" (thrust, that is) themselves into the
fold, who by natural insolence of heart, and stout eloquence of tongue,
and fearlessly perseverant self-assertion, obtain hearing and authority
with the common crowd. Lastly, those who "climb," who by labor and
learning, both stout and sound, but selfishly exerted in the cause of
their own ambition, gain high dignities and authorities, and become
"lords over the heritage," though not "ensamples to the flock."