Writers may be classified as meteors, planets and fixed stars. A
meteor makes a striking effect for a moment. You look up and cry
_There!_ and it is gone for ever. Planets and wandering stars last
a much longer time. They often outshine the fixed stars and are
confounded with them by the inexperienced; but this only because they
are near. It is not long before they must yield their place; nay, the
light they give is reflected only, and the sphere of their influence
is confined to their own orbit--their contemporaries. Their path is
one of change and movement, and with the circuit of a few years their
tale is told. Fixed stars are the only ones that are constant; their
position in the firmament is secure; they shine with a light of their
own; their effect to-day is the same as it was yesterday, because,
having no parallax, their appearance does not alter with a difference
in our standpoint. They belong not to _one_ system, _one_ nation only,
but to the universe. And just because they are so very far away, it is
usually many years before their light is visible to the inhabitants of
this earth.
We have seen in the previous chapter that where a man's merits are of
a high order, it is difficult for him to win reputation, because the
public is uncritical and lacks discernment. But another and no less
serious hindrance to fame comes from the envy it has to encounter. For
even in the lowest kinds of work, envy balks even the beginnings of a
reputation, and never ceases to cleave to it up to the last. How great
a part is played by envy in the wicked ways of the world! Ariosto is
right in saying that the dark side of our mortal life predominates, so
full it is of this evil:
_questa assai più oscura che serena
Vita mortal, tutta d'invidia piena_.
For envy is the moving spirit of that secret and informal, though
flourishing, alliance everywhere made by mediocrity against individual
eminence, no matter of what kind. In his own sphere of work no one
will allow another to be distinguished: he is an intruder who cannot
be tolerated. _Si quelq'un excelle parmi nous, qu'il aille exceller
ailleurs_! this is the universal password of the second-rate. In
addition, then, to the rarity of true merit and the difficulty it has
in being understood and recognized, there is the envy of thousands to
be reckoned with, all of them bent on suppressing, nay, on smothering
it altogether. No one is taken for what he is, but for what others
make of him; and this is the handle used by mediocrity to keep down
distinction, by not letting it come up as long as that can possibly be
prevented.
There are two ways of behaving in regard to merit: either to have some
of one's own, or to refuse any to others. The latter method is more
convenient, and so it is generally adopted. As envy is a mere sign
of deficiency, so to envy merit argues the lack of it. My excellent
Balthazar Gracian has given a very fine account of this relation
between envy and merit in a lengthy fable, which may be found in his
_Discreto_ under the heading _Hombre de ostentacion_. He describes
all the birds as meeting together and conspiring against the peacock,
because of his magnificent feathers. _If_, said the magpie, _we could
only manage to put a stop to the cursed parading of his tail, there
would soon be an end of his beauty; for what is not seen is as good as
what does not exist_.
This explains how modesty came to be a virtue. It was invented only as
a protection against envy. That there have always been rascals to urge
this virtue, and to rejoice heartily over the bashfulness of a man of
merit, has been shown at length in my chief work.[1] In Lichtenberg's
_Miscellaneous Writings_ I find this sentence quoted: _Modesty should
be the virtue of those who possess no other_. Goethe has a well-known
saying, which offends many people: _It is only knaves who are
modest_!--_Nur die Lumpen sind bescheiden_! but it has its prototype
in Cervantes, who includes in his _Journey up Parnassus_ certain rules
of conduct for poets, and amongst them the following: _Everyone whose
verse shows him to be a poet should have a high opinion of himself,
relying on the proverb that he is a knave who thinks himself one_.
And Shakespeare, in many of his Sonnets, which gave him the only
opportunity he had of speaking of himself, declares, with a confidence
equal to his ingenuousness, that what he writes is immortal.[2]
[Footnote 1: _Welt als Wille_, Vol. II. c. 37.]
[Footnote 2: Collier, one of his critical editors, in his Introduction
to the Sonettes, remarks upon this point: "In many of them are to be
found most remarkable indications of self-confidence and of assurance
in the immortality of his verses, and in this respect the author's
opinion was constant and uniform. He never scruples to express it,...
and perhaps there is no writer of ancient or modern times who, for the
quantity of such writings left behind him, has so frequently or so
strongly declared that what he had produced in this department of
poetry 'the world would not willingly let die.'"]
A method of underrating good work often used by envy--in reality,
however, only the obverse side of it--consists in the dishonorable and
unscrupulous laudation of the bad; for no sooner does bad work gain
currency than it draws attention from the good. But however effective
this method may be for a while, especially if it is applied on a large
scale, the day of reckoning comes at last, and the fleeting credit
given to bad work is paid off by the lasting discredit which overtakes
those who abjectly praised it. Hence these critics prefer to remain
anonymous.
A like fate threatens, though more remotely, those who depreciate and
censure good work; and consequently many are too prudent to attempt
it. But there is another way; and when a man of eminent merit appears,
the first effect he produces is often only to pique all his rivals,
just as the peacock's tail offended the birds. This reduces them to
a deep silence; and their silence is so unanimous that it savors of
preconcertion. Their tongues are all paralyzed. It is the _silentium
livoris_ described by Seneca. This malicious silence, which is
technically known as _ignoring_, may for a long time interfere with
the growth of reputation; if, as happens in the higher walks of
learning, where a man's immediate audience is wholly composed of rival
workers and professed students, who then form the channel of his fame,
the greater public is obliged to use its suffrage without being able
to examine the matter for itself. And if, in the end, that malicious
silence is broken in upon by the voice of praise, it will be but
seldom that this happens entirely apart from some ulterior aim,
pursued by those who thus manipulate justice. For, as Goethe says in
the _West-östlicher Divan_, a man can get no recognition, either from
many persons or from only one, unless it is to publish abroad the
critic's own discernment:
_Denn es ist kein Anerkenen,
Weder Vieler, noch des Einen,
Wenn es nicht am Tage fördert,
Wo man selbst was möchte scheinen_.
The credit you allow to another man engaged in work similar to your
own or akin to it, must at bottom be withdrawn from yourself; and you
can praise him only at the expense of your own claims.
Accordingly, mankind is in itself not at all inclined to award praise
and reputation; it is more disposed to blame and find fault, whereby
it indirectly praises itself. If, notwithstanding this, praise is
won from mankind, some extraneous motive must prevail. I am not here
referring to the disgraceful way in which mutual friends will puff one
another into a reputation; outside of that, an effectual motive is
supplied by the feeling that next to the merit of doing something
oneself, comes that of correctly appreciating and recognizing what
others have done. This accords with the threefold division of heads
drawn up by Hesiod[1] and afterwards by Machiavelli[2] _There are_,
says the latter, _in the capacities of mankind, three varieties:
one man will understand a thing by himself; another so far as it is
explained to him; a third, neither of himself nor when it is put
clearly before him_. He, then, who abandons hope of making good his
claims to the first class, will be glad to seize the opportunity of
taking a place in the second. It is almost wholly owing to this state
of things that merit may always rest assured of ultimately meeting
with recognition.
[Footnote 1: _Works and Days_, 293.]
[Footnote 2: _The Prince_, ch. 22.]
To this also is due the fact that when the value of a work has once
been recognized and may no longer be concealed or denied, all men vie
in praising and honoring it; simply because they are conscious
of thereby doing themselves an honor. They act in the spirit of
Xenophon's remark: _he must be a wise man who knows what is wise_.
So when they see that the prize of original merit is for ever out of
their reach, they hasten to possess themselves of that which comes
second best--the correct appreciation of it. Here it happens as with
an army which has been forced to yield; when, just as previously every
man wanted to be foremost in the fight, so now every man tries to
be foremost in running away. They all hurry forward to offer their
applause to one who is now recognized to be worthy of praise, in
virtue of a recognition, as a rule unconscious, of that law of
homogeneity which I mentioned in the last chapter; so that it may seem
as though their way of thinking and looking at things were homogeneous
with that of the celebrated man, and that they may at least save the
honor of their literary taste, since nothing else is left them.
From this it is plain that, whereas it is very difficult to win
fame, it is not hard to keep it when once attained; and also that a
reputation which comes quickly does not last very long; for here
too, _quod cito fit, cito perit_. It is obvious that if the ordinary
average man can easily recognize, and the rival workers willingly
acknowledge, the value of any performance, it will not stand very much
above the capacity of either of them to achieve it for themselves.
_Tantum quisque laudat, quantum se posse sperat imitari_--a man will
praise a thing only so far as he hopes to be able to imitate it
himself. Further, it is a suspicious sign if a reputation comes
quickly; for an application of the laws of homogeneity will show that
such a reputation is nothing but the direct applause of the multitude.
What this means may be seen by a remark once made by Phocion, when he
was interrupted in a speech by the loud cheers of the mob. Turning
to his friends who were standing close by, he asked: _Have I made a
mistake and said something stupid?_[1]
[Footnote 1: Plutarch, _Apophthegms_.]
Contrarily, a reputation that is to last a long time must be slow
in maturing, and the centuries of its duration have generally to be
bought at the cost of contemporary praise. For that which is to keep
its position so long, must be of a perfection difficult to attain; and
even to recognize this perfection requires men who are not always to
be found, and never in numbers sufficiently great to make themselves
heard; whereas envy is always on the watch and doing its best to
smother their voice. But with moderate talent, which soon meets with
recognition, there is the danger that those who possess it will
outlive both it and themselves; so that a youth of fame may be
followed by an old age of obscurity. In the case of great merit, on
the other hand, a man may remain unknown for many years, but make up
for it later on by attaining a brilliant reputation. And if it should
be that this comes only after he is no more, well! he is to be
reckoned amongst those of whom Jean Paul says that extreme unction is
their baptism. He may console himself by thinking of the Saints, who
also are canonized only after they are dead.
Thus what Mahlmann[1] has said so well in _Herodes_ holds good; in
this world truly great work never pleases at once, and the god set up
by the multitude keeps his place on the altar but a short time:
_Ich denke, das wahre Grosse in der Welt
Ist immer nur Das was nicht gleich gefällt
Und wen der Pöbel zum Gotte weiht,
Der steht auf dem Altar nur kurze Zeit_.
[Footnote 1: _Translator's Note_.--August Mahlmann (1771-1826),
journalist, poet and story-writer. His _Herodes vor Bethlehem_ is a
parody of Kotzebue's _Hussiten vor Naumburg_.]
It is worth mention that this rule is most directly confirmed in the
case of pictures, where, as connoisseurs well know, the greatest
masterpieces are not the first to attract attention. If they make
a deep impression, it is not after one, but only after repeated,
inspection; but then they excite more and more admiration every time
they are seen.
Moreover, the chances that any given work will be quickly and rightly
appreciated, depend upon two conditions: firstly, the character of
the work, whether high or low, in other words, easy or difficult to
understand; and, secondly, the kind of public it attracts, whether
large or small. This latter condition is, no doubt, in most instances
a, corollary of the former; but it also partly depends upon whether
the work in question admits, like books and musical compositions, of
being produced in great numbers. By the compound action of these two
conditions, achievements which serve no materially useful end--and
these alone are under consideration here--will vary in regard to
the chances they have of meeting with timely recognition and due
appreciation; and the order of precedence, beginning with those who
have the greatest chance, will be somewhat as follows: acrobats,
circus riders, ballet-dancers, jugglers, actors, singers, musicians,
composers, poets (both the last on account of the multiplication of
their works), architects, painters, sculptors, philosophers.
The last place of all is unquestionably taken by philosophers because
their works are meant not for entertainment, but for instruction, and
because they presume some knowledge on the part of the reader, and
require him to make an effort of his own to understand them. This
makes their public extremely small, and causes their fame to be more
remarkable for its length than for its breadth. And, in general, it
may be said that the possibility of a man's fame lasting a long time,
stands in almost inverse ratio with the chance that it will be early
in making its appearance; so that, as regards length of fame, the
above order of precedence may be reversed. But, then, the poet and
the composer will come in the end to stand on the same level as the
philosopher; since, when once a work is committed to writing, it is
possible to preserve it to all time. However, the first place still
belongs by right to the philosopher, because of the much greater
scarcity of good work in this sphere, and the high importance of it;
and also because of the possibility it offers of an almost perfect
translation into any language. Sometimes, indeed, it happens that a
philosopher's fame outlives even his works themselves; as has happened
with Thales, Empedocles, Heraclitus, Democritus, Parmenides, Epicurus
and many others.
My remarks are, as I have said, confined to achievements that are not
of any material use. Work that serves some practical end, or ministers
directly to some pleasure of the senses, will never have any
difficulty in being duly appreciated. No first-rate pastry-cook could
long remain obscure in any town, to say nothing of having to appeal to
posterity.
Under fame of rapid growth is also to be reckoned fame of a false
and artificial kind; where, for instance, a book is worked into a
reputation by means of unjust praise, the help of friends, corrupt
criticism, prompting from above and collusion from below. All this
tells upon the multitude, which is rightly presumed to have no power
of judging for itself. This sort of fame is like a swimming bladder,
by its aid a heavy body may keep afloat. It bears up for a certain
time, long or short according as the bladder is well sewed up and
blown; but still the air comes out gradually, and the body sinks. This
is the inevitable fate of all works which are famous by reason of
something outside of themselves. False praise dies away; collusion
comes to an end; critics declare the reputation ungrounded; it
vanishes, and is replaced by so much the greater contempt. Contrarily,
a genuine work, which, having the source of its fame in itself,
can kindle admiration afresh in every age, resembles a body of low
specific gravity, which always keeps up of its own accord, and so goes
floating down the stream of time.
Men of great genius, whether their work be in poetry, philosophy or
art, stand in all ages like isolated heroes, keeping up single-handed
a desperate struggling against the onslaught of an army of
opponents.[1] Is not this characteristic of the miserable nature of
mankind? The dullness, grossness, perversity, silliness and brutality
of by far the greater part of the race, are always an obstacle to the
efforts of the genius, whatever be the method of his art; they so form
that hostile army to which at last he has to succumb. Let the isolated
champion achieve what he may: it is slow to be acknowledged; it is
late in being appreciated, and then only on the score of authority;
it may easily fall into neglect again, at any rate for a while. Ever
afresh it finds itself opposed by false, shallow, and insipid ideas,
which are better suited to that large majority, that so generally hold
the field. Though the critic may step forth and say, like Hamlet when
he held up the two portraits to his wretched mother, _Have you eyes?
Have you eyes_? alas! they have none. When I watch the behavior of a
crowd of people in the presence of some great master's work, and mark
the manner of their applause, they often remind me of trained monkeys
in a show. The monkey's gestures are, no doubt, much like those of
men; but now and again they betray that the real inward spirit of
these gestures is not in them. Their irrational nature peeps out.
[Footnote 1: _Translator's Note_.--At this point Schopenhauer
interrupts the thread of his discourse to speak at length upon an
example of false fame. Those who are at all acquainted with the
philosopher's views will not be surprised to find that the writer thus
held up to scorn is Hegel; and readers of the other volumes in this
series will, with the translator, have had by now quite enough of the
subject. The passage is therefore omitted.]
It is often said of a man that _he is in advance of his age_; and it
follows from the above remarks that this must be taken to mean that
he is in advance of humanity in general. Just because of this fact,
a genius makes no direct appeal except to those who are too rare to
allow of their ever forming a numerous body at any one period. If he
is in this respect not particularly favored by fortune, he will
be _misunderstood by his own age_; in other words, he will remain
unaccepted until time gradually brings together the voices of those
few persons who are capable of judging a work of such high character.
Then posterity will say: _This man was in advance of his age_, instead
of _in advance of humanity_; because humanity will be glad to lay the
burden of its own faults upon a single epoch.
Hence, if a man has been superior to his own age, he would also have
been superior to any other; provided that, in that age, by some rare
and happy chance, a few just men, capable of judging in the sphere of
his achievements, had been born at the same time with him; just as
when, according to a beautiful Indian myth, Vischnu becomes incarnate
as a hero, so, too, Brahma at the same time appears as the singer of
his deeds; and hence Valmiki, Vyasa and Kalidasa are incarnations of
Brahma.
In this sense, then, it may be said that every immortal work puts its
age to the proof, whether or no it will be able to recognize the merit
of it. As a rule, the men of any age stand such a test no better than
the neighbors of Philemon and Baucis, who expelled the deities they
failed to recognize. Accordingly, the right standard for judging the
intellectual worth of any generation is supplied, not by the great
minds that make their appearance in it--for their capacities are the
work of Nature, and the possibility of cultivating them a matter of
chance circumstance--but by the way in which contemporaries receive
their works; whether, I mean, they give their applause soon and with
a will, or late and in niggardly fashion, or leave it to be bestowed
altogether by posterity.
This last fate will be especially reserved for works of a high
character. For the happy chance mentioned above will be all the more
certain not to come, in proportion as there are few to appreciate
the kind of work done by great minds. Herein lies the immeasurable
advantage possessed by poets in respect of reputation; because their
work is accessible to almost everyone. If it had been possible for Sir
Walter Scott to be read and criticised by only some hundred persons,
perhaps in his life-time any common scribbler would have been
preferred to him; and afterwards, when he had taken his proper place,
it would also have been said in his honor that he was _in advance of
his age_. But if envy, dishonesty and the pursuit of personal aims are
added to the incapacity of those hundred persons who, in the name of
their generation, are called upon to pass judgment on a work, then
indeed it meets with the same sad fate as attends a suitor who pleads
before a tribunal of judges one and all corrupt.
In corroboration of this, we find that the history of literature
generally shows all those who made knowledge and insight their goal
to have remained unrecognized and neglected, whilst those who
paraded with the vain show of it received the admiration of their
contemporaries, together with the emoluments.
The effectiveness of an author turns chiefly upon his getting the
reputation that he should be read. But by practicing various arts,
by the operation of chance, and by certain natural affinities, this
reputation is quickly won by a hundred worthless people: while a
worthy writer may come by it very slowly and tardily. The former
possess friends to help them; for the rabble is always a numerous body
which holds well together. The latter has nothing but enemies; because
intellectual superiority is everywhere and under all circumstances the
most hateful thing in the world, and especially to bunglers in the
same line of work, who want to pass for something themselves.[1]
[Footnote 1: If the professors of philosophy should chance to think
that I am here hinting at them and the tactics they have for more than
thirty years pursued toward my works, they have hit the nail upon the
head.]
This being so, it is a prime condition for doing any great work--any
work which is to outlive its own age, that a man pay no heed to his
contemporaries, their views and opinions, and the praise or blame
which they bestow. This condition is, however, fulfilled of itself
when a man really does anything great, and it is fortunate that it is
so. For if, in producing such a work, he were to look to the general
opinion or the judgment of his colleagues, they would lead him astray
at every step. Hence, if a man wants to go down to posterity, he must
withdraw from the influence of his own age. This will, of course,
generally mean that he must also renounce any influence upon it, and
be ready to buy centuries of fame by foregoing the applause of his
contemporaries.
For when any new and wide-reaching truth comes into the world--and if
it is new, it must be paradoxical--an obstinate stand will be made
against it as long as possible; nay, people will continue to deny it
even after they slacken their opposition and are almost convinced of
its truth. Meanwhile it goes on quietly working its way, and, like an
acid, undermining everything around it. From time to time a crash is
heard; the old error comes tottering to the ground, and suddenly the
new fabric of thought stands revealed, as though it were a monument
just uncovered. Everyone recognizes and admires it. To be sure, this
all comes to pass for the most part very slowly. As a rule, people
discover a man to be worth listening to only after he is gone; their
_hear, hear_, resounds when the orator has left the platform.
Works of the ordinary type meet with a better fate. Arising as they
do in the course of, and in connection with, the general advance in
contemporary culture, they are in close alliance with the spirit of
their age--in other words, just those opinions which happen to be
prevalent at the time. They aim at suiting the needs of the moment. If
they have any merit, it is soon recognized; and they gain currency as
books which reflect the latest ideas. Justice, nay, more than justice,
is done to them. They afford little scope for envy; since, as was said
above, a man will praise a thing only so far as he hopes to be able to
imitate it himself.
But those rare works which are destined to become the property of all
mankind and to live for centuries, are, at their origin, too far in
advance of the point at which culture happens to stand, and on that
very account foreign to it and the spirit of their own time. They
neither belong to it nor are they in any connection with it, and hence
they excite no interest in those who are dominated by it. They belong
to another, a higher stage of culture, and a time that is still far
off. Their course is related to that of ordinary works as the orbit
of Uranus to the orbit of Mercury. For the moment they get no justice
done to them. People are at a loss how to treat them; so they leave
them alone, and go their own snail's pace for themselves. Does the
worm see the eagle as it soars aloft?
Of the number of books written in any language about one in 100,000
forms a part of its real and permanent literature. What a fate this
one book has to endure before it outstrips those 100,000 and gains its
due place of honor! Such a book is the work of an extraordinary and
eminent mind, and therefore it is specifically different from the
others; a fact which sooner or later becomes manifest.
Let no one fancy that things will ever improve in this respect. No!
the miserable constitution of humanity never changes, though it may,
to be sure, take somewhat varying forms with every generation. A
distinguished mind seldom has its full effect in the life-time of
its possessor; because, at bottom, it is completely and properly
understood only by minds already akin to it.
As it is a rare thing for even one man out of many millions to tread
the path that leads to immortality, he must of necessity be very
lonely. The journey to posterity lies through a horribly dreary
region, like the Lybian desert, of which, as is well known, no one has
any idea who has not seen it for himself. Meanwhile let me before
all things recommend the traveler to take light baggage with him;
otherwise he will have to throw away too much on the road. Let him
never forget the words of Balthazar Gracian: _lo bueno si breve, dos
vezes bueno_--good work is doubly good if it is short. This advice is
specially applicable to my own countrymen.
Compared with the short span of time they live, men of great intellect
are like huge buildings, standing on a small plot of ground. The size
of the building cannot be seen by anyone, just in front of it; nor,
for an analogous reason, can the greatness of a genius be estimated
while he lives. But when a century has passed, the world recognizes it
and wishes him back again.
If the perishable son of time has produced an imperishable work, how
short his own life seems compared with that of his child! He is like
Semela or Maia--a mortal mother who gave birth to an immortal son; or,
contrarily, he is like Achilles in regard to Thetis. What a contrast
there is between what is fleeting and what is permanent! The short
span of a man's life, his necessitous, afflicted, unstable existence,
will seldom allow of his seeing even the beginning of his immortal
child's brilliant career; nor will the father himself be taken for
that which he really is. It may be said, indeed, that a man whose fame
comes after him is the reverse of a nobleman, who is preceded by it.
However, the only difference that it ultimately makes to a man to
receive his fame at the hands of contemporaries rather than from
posterity is that, in the former case, his admirers are separated
from him by space, and in the latter by time. For even in the case
of contemporary fame, a man does not, as a rule, see his admirers
actually before him. Reverence cannot endure close proximity; it
almost always dwells at some distance from its object; and in the
presence of the person revered it melts like butter in the sun.
Accordingly, if a man is celebrated with his contemporaries,
nine-tenths of those amongst whom he lives will let their esteem be
guided by his rank and fortune; and the remaining tenth may perhaps
have a dull consciousness of his high qualities, because they have
heard about him from remote quarters. There is a fine Latin letter of
Petrarch's on this incompatibility between reverence and the presence
of the person, and between fame and life. It comes second in his
_Epistolae familiares?_[1] and it is addressed to Thomas Messanensis.
He there observes, amongst other things, that the learned men of his
age all made it a rule to think little of a man's writings if they had
even once seen him.
[Footnote 1: In the Venetian edition of 1492.]
Since distance, then, is essential if a famous man is to be recognized
and revered, it does not matter whether it is distance of space or of
time. It is true that he may sometimes hear of his fame in the one
case, but never in the other; but still, genuine and great merit may
make up for this by confidently anticipating its posthumous fame.
Nay, he who produces some really great thought is conscious of his
connection with coming generations at the very moment he conceives it;
so that he feels the extension of his existence through centuries
and thus lives _with_ posterity as well as _for_ it. And when, after
enjoying a great man's work, we are seized with admiration for him,
and wish him back, so that we might see and speak with him, and have
him in our possession, this desire of ours is not unrequited; for
he, too, has had his longing for that posterity which will grant
the recognition, honor, gratitude and love denied by envious
contemporaries.
If intellectual works of the highest order are not allowed their due
until they come before the tribunal of posterity, a contrary fate
is prepared for certain brilliant errors which proceed from men of
talent, and appear with an air of being well grounded. These errors
are defended with so much acumen and learning that they actually
become famous with their own age, and maintain their position at least
during their author's lifetime. Of this sort are many false theories
and wrong criticisms; also poems and works of art, which exhibit some
false taste or mannerism favored by contemporary prejudice. They gain
reputation and currency simply because no one is yet forthcoming who
knows how to refute them or otherwise prove their falsity; and when
he appears, as he usually does, in the next generation, the glory of
these works is brought to an end. Posthumous judges, be their decision
favorable to the appellant or not, form the proper court for quashing
the verdict of contemporaries. That is why it is so difficult and so
rare to be victorious alike in both tribunals.
The unfailing tendency of time to correct knowledge and judgment
should always be kept in view as a means of allaying anxiety, whenever
any grievous error appears, whether in art, or science, or practical
life, and gains ground; or when some false and thoroughly perverse
policy of movement is undertaken and receives applause at the hands of
men. No one should be angry, or, still less, despondent; but simply
imagine that the world has already abandoned the error in question,
and now only requires time and experience to recognize of its own
accord that which a clear vision detected at the first glance.
When the facts themselves are eloquent of a truth, there is no need to
rush to its aid with words: for time will give it a thousand tongues.
How long it may be before they speak, will of course depend upon the
difficulty of the subject and the plausibility of the error; but come
they will, and often it would be of no avail to try to anticipate
them. In the worst cases it will happen with theories as it happens
with affairs in practical life; where sham and deception, emboldened
by success, advance to greater and greater lengths, until discovery is
made almost inevitable. It is just so with theories; through the blind
confidence of the blockheads who broach them, their absurdity reaches
such a pitch that at last it is obvious even to the dullest eye. We
may thus say to such people: _the wilder your statements, the better_.
There is also some comfort to be found in reflecting upon all the
whims and crotchets which had their day and have now utterly vanished.
In style, in grammar, in spelling, there are false notions of this
sort which last only three or four years. But when the errors are on
a large scale, while we lament the brevity of human life, we shall
in any case, do well to lag behind our own age when we see it on a
downward path. For there are two ways of not keeping on a level with
the times. A man may be below it; or he may be above it.