At the close of an interesting address lately delivered at the reopening
of the Liverpool University College and School of Medicine, Mr. Matthew
Arnold said if there was one word which he should like to plant in the
memories of his audience, and to leave sticking there after he had gone,
it was the word _lucidity_. If he had to fix upon the three great wants
at this moment of the three principal nations of Europe, he should say
that the great want of the French was morality, that the great want of
the Germans was civil courage, and that our own great want was lucidity.
Our own want was, of course, what concerned us the most. People were apt
to remark the defects which accompanied certain qualities, and to think
that the qualities could not be desirable because of the defects which
they saw accompanying them. There was no greater and salutary lesson for
men to learn than that a quality may be accompanied, naturally perhaps,
by grave dangers; that it may actually present itself accompanied by
terrible defects, and yet that it might itself be indispensable. Let him
illustrate what he meant by an example, the force of which they would
all readily feel. Seriousness was a quality of our nation. Perhaps
seriousness was always accompanied by certain dangers. But, at any rate,
many of our French neighbors would say that they found our seriousness
accompanied by so many false ideas, so much prejudice, so much that was
disagreeable, that it could not have the value which we attributed to
it. And yet we knew that it was invaluable. Let them follow the same
mode of reasoning as to the quality of lucidity. The French had a
national turn for lucidity as we had a national turn for seriousness.
Perhaps a national turn for lucidity carried with it always certain
dangers. Be this as it might, it was certain that we saw in the French,
along with their lucidity, a want of seriousness, a want of reverence,
and other faults, which greatly displeased us. Many of us were inclined
in consequence to undervalue their lucidity, or to deny that they
had it. We were wrong: it existed as our seriousness existed; it was
valuable as our seriousness was valuable. Both the one and the other
were valuable, and in the end indispensable.
What was lucidity? It was negatively that the French have it, and he
would therefore deal with its negative character merely. Negatively,
lucidity was the perception of the want of truth and validness in
notions long current, the perception that they are no longer possible,
that their time is finished, and they can serve us no more. All through
the last century a prodigious travail for lucidity was going forward
in France. Its principal agent was a man whose name excited generally
repulsion in England, Voltaire. Voltaire did a great deal of harm in
France. But it was not by his lucidity that he did harm; he did it by
his want of seriousness, his want of reverence, his want of sense for
much that is deepest in human nature. But by his lucidity he did good.
All admired Luther. Conduct was three-fourths of life, and a man who
worked for conduct, therefore, worked for more than a man who worked for
intelligence. But having promised this, it might be said that the Luther
of the eighteenth century and of the cultivated classes was Voltaire.
As Luther had an antipathy to what was immoral, so Voltaire had an
antipathy to what was absurd, and both of them made war upon the object
of their antipathy with such masterly power, with so much conviction,
so much energy, so much genius, that they carried their world with
them--Luther his Protestant world, and Voltaire his French world--and
the cultivated classes throughout the continent of Europe generally.
Voltaire had more than negative lucidity; he had the large and true
conception that a number and equilibrium of activities were necessary
for man. "_Il faut douner à notre áme toutes les formes possibles_"
was a maxim which Voltaire really and truly applied in practice,
"advancing," as Michelet finely said of him, in every direction with
a marvelous vigor and with that conquering ambition which Vico called
_mens heroica_. Nevertheless. Voltaire's signal characteristic was his
lucidity, his negative lucidity.
There was a great and free intellectual movement in England in the
eighteenth century--indeed, it was from England that it passed into
France; but the English had not that strong natural bent for lucidity
which the French had. Its bent was toward other things in preference.
Our leading thinkers had not the genius and passion for lucidity which
distinguished Voltaire. In their free inquiry they soon found themselves
coming into collision with a number of established facts, beliefs,
conventions. Thereupon all sorts of practical considerations began to
sway them. The danger signal went up, they often stopped short, turned
their eyes another way, or drew down a curtain between themselves and
the light. "It seems highly probable," said Voltaire, "that nature has
made thinking a portion of the brain, as vegetation is a function of
trees; that we think by the brain just as we walk by the feet." So our
reason, at least, would lead us to conclude, if the theologians did not
assure us of the contrary; such, too, was the opinion of Locke, but he
did not venture to announce it. The French Revolution came, England grew
to abhor France, and was cut off from the Continent, did great things,
gained much, but not in lucidity. The Continent was reopened, the
century advanced, time and experience brought their lessons, lovers of
free and clear thought, such as the late John Stuart Mill, arose among
us. But we could not say that they had by any means founded among us the
reign of lucidity.
Let them consider that movement of which we were hearing so much just
now: let them look at the Salvation Army and its operations. They would
see numbers, funds, energy, devotedness, excitement, conversions, and
a total absence of lucidity. A little lucidity would make the whole
movement impossible. That movement took for granted as its basis what
was no longer possible or receivable; its adherents proceeded in all
they did on the assumption that that basis was perfectly solid, and
neither saw that it was not solid, nor ever even thought of asking
themselves whether it was solid or not.
Taking a very different movement, and one of far higher dignity and
import, they had all had before their minds lately the long-devoted,
laborious, influential, pure, pathetic life of Dr. Pusey, which had just
ended. Many of them had also been reading in the lively volumes of that
acute, but not always good-natured rattle, Mr. Mozley, an account of
that great movement which took from Dr. Pusey its earlier name. Of its
later stage of Ritualism they had had in this country a now celebrated
experience. This movement was full of interest. It had produced men to
be respected, men to be admired, men to be beloved, men of learning,
goodness, genius, and charm. But could they resist the truth that
lucidity would have been fatal to it? The movers of all those questions
about apostolical succession, church patristic authority, primitive
usage, postures, vestments--questions so passionately debated, and on
which he would not seek to cast ridicule--did not they all begin by
taking for granted something no longer possible or receivable, build on
this basis as if it were indubitably solid, and fail to see that their
basis not being solid, all they built upon it was fantastic?
He would not say that negative lucidity was in itself a satisfactory
possession, but he said that it was inevitable and indispensable, and
that it was the condition of all serious construction for the future.
Without it at present a man or a nation was intellectually and
spiritually all abroad. If they saw it accompanied in France by much
that they shrank from, they should reflect that in England it would
have influences joined with it which it had not in France--the natural
seriousness of the people, their sense of reverence and respect, their
love for the past. Come it must; and here where it had been so late in
coming, it would probably be for the first time seen to come without
danger.
Capitals were natural centers of mental movement, and it was natural for
the classes with most leisure, most freedom, most means of cultivation,
and most conversance with the wide world to have lucidity though often
they had it not. To generate a spirit of lucidity in provincial towns,
and among the middle classes bound to a life of much routine and plunged
in business, was more difficult. Schools and universities, with serious
and disinterested studies, and connecting those studies the one with the
other and continuing them into years of manhood, were in this case the
best agency they could use. It might be slow, but it was sure. Such
an agency they were now going to employ. Might it fulfill all their
expectations! Might their students, in the words quoted just now,
advance in every direction with a marvelous vigor, and with that
conquering ambition which Vico called _mens heroica_! And among the many
good results of this, might one result be the acquisition in their midst
of that indispensable spirit--the spirit of lucidity!
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