What means this summons, oh friends! to the groves of Academe? I heard,
in the distance, the measured tread of Philosophy. I mused: "How grave
and deliberate is she! How she matches thought with thought! How
patiently she questions inference and conclusion! No irrelevance, no
empty ballooning, is allowed in that Concord school. Nothing frivolous
need apply there for admission." And lo! in the midst of this severe
entertainment an interlude is called for in the great theatre. The stage
manager says, "Ring up Puck. Wanted, an Ariel." And no Shakespeare being
at hand, I, of the sex much reproved for never having produced one, am
invited to fly hither as well as my age and infirmities will allow, and
to represent to you that airy presence whose folly, seen from the
clouds, is wisdom; that presence which, changing with the changes of the
year and of the day, may yet sing, equally with the steadfast stars and
systematic planets,--
"The hand that made me is divine."
Modern society, concerning which you have bid me discourse to you, is
this tricksy spirit, many-featured and many-gestured, coming in a
questionable shape, and bringing with it airs from heaven and blasts
from hell. I have spoken to it, and it has shown me my father's ghost.
How shall I speak of it, and tell you what it has taught me? You must
think my alembic a nice one indeed, since you bid me to the analysis of
those subtle and finely mingled forces. You have sent for me, perhaps,
to receive a lesson instead of giving one. You may intend that, having
tried and failed in this task, I shall learn, for the future, the
difficult lesson of holding my peace. For so benevolent, so
disinterested an intention, I may have more occasion to thank you
beforehand, than you shall find to thank me, having heard me.
But, since a text is supposed to make it sure that the sermon shall have
in it one good sentence, let me take for my text a saying of the
philosopher Kant, who, in one of his treatises, rests much upon the
distinction to be made between logical and real or substantial
opposition. According to him, a logical opposition is brought in view
when one attribute of a certain thing is at once affirmed and denied.
The statement of a body which should be at once stationary and in motion
would imply such a contradiction, of which the result will be _nihil
negativum irrepraesentabile_.
A real or substantial opposition is found where two contradictory
predicates are recognized as coexistent in the same subject. A body
impelled in one direction by a given force, and in another by its
opposite, is easily cogitable. One force neutralizes the other, but the
result is something, viz., rest. Let us keep in mind this distinction
between opposites which exclude each other, and opposites which can
coexist, while we glance at the contradictions of all society, ancient
as well as modern.
How self-contradictory, in the first place, is the nature of man! How
sociable he is! also how unsociable! We have among animals the
gregarious and the solitary. But man is of all animals at once the most
gregarious and the most solitary. This is the first and most universal
contradiction, that of which you find at least the indication in every
individual. But let us look for a moment at the contrasts which make one
individual so unlike to another. We sometimes find it hard to believe
the saying that God hath made of one blood all the nations of the earth.
This in view of the contrast between savage and civilized nations, or
between nations whose habits and beliefs differ one from the other. In
the same race, in the same family also, we shall find the unlikeness
which seems to set the bond of nature at defiance.
See this sly priest, bland and benevolent in proportion to the narrow
limits of the minds which he controls. He hears the shrift of the
brigand and assassin, of the girl mastered by passion, of the unfaithful
wife and avenging husband. He gives an admonition, perhaps a grave one.
He inflicts a penance, light or severe. He does not trust his penitents
with the secret which can heal the plague-sores of humanity,--the secret
of its moral power. But see the meek flock who come to him. See the
whole range of consciences which cannot rest without his dismissing
_fiat_. The rugged peasant drops on his knees beside the confessional.
His horny palm relinquishes, without hesitation, the coin upon which it
has scarcely closed. Or here alights from her carriage some woman of the
world, bright in silks and jewels. With a hush and a rustle, reaching
the lowly bench, she, too, drops down, rehearses her wrong-doing,
promises such reparation as is enjoined, and asks for the word of peace.
Now this confessor, and one or more of his penitents, may be the
children of the same father and mother, and yet they shall be as unlike
in attitude and in character as two human beings can be. In the closest
alliance of blood you may thus find the opposite poles of one humanity.
Humanity is, then, a thing of oppositions, and of oppositions which are
polar and substantial. Its contradictions do not exclude, but, on the
contrary, complement each other, and the action and reaction of these
contradictions result in the mighty agreements of the State and of the
Church, the intense sympathies and antipathies which bind or sunder
individuals, the affections and disaffections of the family.
The opposite extremes of human nature embrace, between them, a wonderful
breadth and scope. The correlation and coaction of this multitude of
opposing forces on the wide arena of the world naturally give rise to a
series of manifestations, voluntary and involuntary, changeful in form
and color as a phantasmagoria, fitful as a fever-dream, but steadfast
and substantial in the infinite science, out of which all things come.
The unity in this web of contradictions is its great wonder. How if this
unity prove to be the law of which the oppositions are but one clause?
How if the perfect unity were only attainable through the freedom of the
natural diversity? And what is the substance and sum of this fundamental
agreement? The desire of good, the progressive conception of which
marks, more than anything else, the progress of the race. We cannot tell
out of what dynamics comes the initial of this fruitful and productive
opposition. It is, perhaps, the very unity of the object which develops
the diversity of action. In the progress of human society the diversity
becomes constantly multiplied. Is the sense of the unity lost in
consequence? No, it grows constantly with the growth of this opposing
fact. As education is enlarged, as freedom becomes more general and
entire, the agreement of mankind becomes greater in the objects to be
attained for the promotion of their best interests.
We can suppose a family cast upon a barren shore, or forced to sit down
in the midst of an uninhabited region. All of its members will wish to
secure the necessary conditions of life, such as food, fuel, shelter,
safety from destructive agencies. If left to themselves, one will
naturally bestir himself to find fish, game, or fruits; another will
bring in firewood; a third will plan a tent or hut; a fourth will stand
sentry against any possible alarm. So a camp is a world in miniature;
and if food and drink be plenty, and there be time to think of
recreation, some one will carve a pipe from reed or willow, and, in
answer to the piping, will come the dance. Or, if our pilgrims are too
mystic and solemn for this, hymns will be sung, and the voice of prayer
will lift the soul out of the poverty of its surroundings into that
realm of imagination whose wealth far exceeds that of Ormus or of Ind.
I seem to hear at this point the _non placet_ of those who ask for one
thing and receive another. I was not sent for to philosophize, but to
represent; and, with regard to the former process, "how not to do it"
should have been my study. Modern society is my theme. Where shall I
find society for you? Henry Thoreau found it here, in the passionless
face of Nature. Here, the shy Hawthorne could dwell unmolested, not even
overshadowed by the revered sage who makes reserve and distance such
important elements of good manners. Mr. Alcott has transplanted here
those olives whose sacred chrism rests upon his honored brow. The
society which my words shall introduce here must be neither vulgar nor
dull.
Now, if I had a flying-machine! Well, I have one, and its name is
Memory. Sit with me, upon its movable platform, and I will give you some
peeps at the thing itself, leaving you to discuss after me its _raison
d'etre_, its right to be. In experimental analysis, specimens are always
exhibited. Let us look at modern society in Cairo, Shepherd's hotel, and
the omnibus that bears one thither. The _table d'hote_ unites a
catalogue as various as that of Don Giovanni. Here sit Sir Samuel and
Lady Baker, famous as African explorers. You may all know something of
the entertaining volumes which chronicle their discoveries and
adventures. Lady Baker wears, at times, a necklace made of tiger's
claws. Her husband shot the tiger in the great wilds of Africa, she
loading the gun with which he did it.
She is Roumanian by birth, English by adoption, fair and comely. Sir
Samuel is a burly Briton. They have with them a young African servant,
dark and under-sized, with wild, crimped hair. Sir Samuel tells me that
this is altogether the best human creature he ever knew. Lady Baker does
not resent the extreme statement. I sit at table between a Russian count
and an English baronet. The Russian and his two daughters are amiable
and simple people. The baronet is a stanch Tory, as you will think
natural when you hear his story. He was once a poor boy, hard at work in
a coal mine. He used to walk six or seven miles daily, after working
hours, in order to acquaint himself with those three Fates who are
familiarly called the three R's. Becoming an expert in the coal
business, he went through the upward grades of his profession, became a
large owner of mines, and has now a heavy contract for supplying the
Egyptian government with coal. He is a member of Parliament, and, when I
saw him, was ready to start homeward on the first news of a division in
the House. It was lately stated in a London paper that Lord Beaconsfield
would probably raise him to the peerage before his own retirement from
office. So, it may have been done by this time.
My Russian neighbors are much troubled about the fate of a poor Italian
family whose chief has lost his occupation, and which is thus reduced
to the extreme of want. "Why not get up a subscription at this hotel?"
say I. They are very willing that I should. I draw up a paper, we sign
our names and contributions. Sir George snubs us dreadfully, but gives
us a sovereign. Sir Samuel snubs, and gives nothing. The necessary sum
of money is raised, and the family is sent to its own country. Here, you
see, are Russia, England, and America, combining, on Egyptian soil, to
save Italy. This strange mixture is characteristic of the medley of the
time.
We will not move yet, for the panorama of the table will save us that
trouble. Here is one of the recognized beauties of London society. A
very pretty woman, with dewy eyes, pearly teeth, dark, glossy hair, and
a soft, fresh complexion. A French wardrobe sets off those natural
advantages, with its happy disguises and apposite revelations. But it is
not good for beauty that it should become a profession. This lady's fine
eyes and teeth are made to do duty with such evident persistence of
intention, that one absolutely dreads to see the glitter of the one and
the flash of the other in the gymnastic of an advertised flirtation.
I cannot yet release you. Here are two gentlemen who wear the
_tarbouche_ with their European costume. They were rebels in our war of
secession, and at its close took service with the Khedive. Ignoring
ancient sectional differences, they are very cordial with us, their
countrywomen. They would be glad to see their country again, but cannot
get their salaries paid, the French and English commissioners having
taken the direction of Egyptian finances, and making no allowance for
the past services of these American officers, who were dismissed at
their instance.
We are still at Shepherd's _table d'hote_, and before us sit an English
nobleman and his wife, who have obtained permission to give a _fete_ at
the Pyramids. A gay party of English residents and visitors are
gathering to accompany them, and presently the carriages and cavalcade
start, with a band of music, and a small army of servants. They
illuminate the Great Pyramid with colored fires, race their horses and
donkeys through the desert, sup and sleep in the Khedive's _kiosk_, not
without much boisterous mirth and disturbance.
Or, behold me on Bairam day, paying a New-Year's visit to the harem of
the Khedive. A row of grinning eunuchs, black as night, guard the
entrance. After various turns of ceremonial, we greet the three
princesses, all wives of the Khedive, who has many others not of this
rank. In order not to give offence, we are obliged to smoke the
_chibouque_, a pipe about five feet in length. We smile and courtesy at
the proper moment, but find conversation difficult. They are curious to
hear where we came from, and whither we are going. I ask whether they,
also, enjoy travelling, and am reminded that their institutions do not
allow it. These poor princesses little knew that in two months from that
time an involuntary journey awaited them, on the occasion of the
Khedive's abdication, and departure from the country.
We please ourselves, in these days, with the praise of Islamism, and
think, quite rightly, that Mahomet and his Koran had their _raison
d'etre_, and have done their part for mankind. But here is Islamism in
modern society. The howling dervishes sit on the ground groaning _Allah,
Allah_. By and by they rise, and bend their heads backward and forward
until the most eminent among them fall in fits, and are taken up in an
unhappy condition. Within a short distance from our hotel, we hear of a
company of men met for a religious exercise. One of them chews a glass
goblet and swallows it. Another endeavors to swallow a small snake. A
third gashes himself wildly with a sword. These are religious
enthusiasts. If their faith be genuine, these dangerous experiments,
they say, can do them no harm.
These things remind us of the temptation of Christ: "If thou be the Son
of God, cast thyself down from hence."
But let us leave the city and hotel, and betake ourselves to the
historic river, dumb with all its mouths, and poor with all its wealth.
Modern society is well represented on board our steamer. Here are two
Californian gentlemen, two sons of a Sandwich Island missionary, two or
three Italians. Here is a sister-in-law of John Bright. She has visited
Alaska, and considers this Nile trip a small parenthesis in her voyage
round the world. Here are an English couple, belonging to fashionable
life. Here is a clergyman of the same nation, who glories in the fact
that Dr. Johnson hated, or said he hated, a Whig. Here is an American
who cannot visit the ruins because his whole day is divided into so many
glasses of milk, to be taken at such and such times.
We land one day at Assiout, and visit its bazaars. The trade in ostrich
feathers is brisk, the natives steadily raising their prices as the
demand increases, until we find that the feathers might be more cheaply
bought in London or Paris. Amid the general confusion of tongues I am
accosted by a handsome youth, cleanly and civil, who speaks fair
English, and asks if he can serve me.
Who are you? A pupil of the American Mission School in this place. He
brings two of his fellow-pupils to speak with me. One of these is a
girl, whose innocent, uncovered face seems to rebuke the hidden faces of
the Arab women, veiled and disfigured to evince their modesty, but
making more evident the immodesty of the men.
We return to our steamer, followed by a crowd of boys and girls,
shrieking and naked, who plunge into the water to get the _backshish_,
which some of our party throw them. On the bank stand two beautiful
youths, nearly black, with eyes like sloes, and with crisped hair
standing erect like a flame above their foreheads. They are clad in
kilts of white cotton cloth. Struck with their beauty, we inquire of
what tribe they are. "Of the Bischouri," says our dragoman, "a tribe of
the desert, who feed only upon uncooked grain." To the last their bright
smile pursues us with its pathos. Would that they, too, were pupils of
the American Mission School. Would not our vegetarian chief send for
them?[1]
[1] Mr. Alcott, Dean of the Concord School of Philosophy, has
always been known as a vegetarian.
We gallop across the sands to a point opposite Philae, and reach the
sacred spot by boat. We picnic among its tombs, climb its _pylon_, and
remark upon the beauty of the view. At the first cataract, which is very
near this place, an Arab woman shows me her baby with the pride of Eve
or Queen Victoria. It has a nose-ring of brass wire, and similar
adornments in the top of each ear. On my way back to the boat, my pocket
is picked by a cunning youth. The Arabs of the desert will compare in
this respect with the Arabs of European streets. A little Arab girl
offers to sell me her rag doll, whose veil is bedizened with spangles. A
little water-carrier, proud of her English, says, "Lady, give me
backshish."
This shall end my peep at modern society in Egypt.
But one more personal remembrance you must accord me. The scene is a
dirty, muddy street in a Cyprus seaport. The time is not far from noon.
I am exploring, with some curiosity, the new jewel which Lord
Beaconsfield has added to the crown of Great Britain.
What a mean, poor bazaar is this; what dull streets, what a barren place
to live in, especially since _methymenic_ Albion has drunk up all the
best of the wine! I pass a shop, and a bright presence beams out upon
me. It is Lady Baker, with her fair, luminous face, full of energy and
resource. Sir Samuel, she tells me, is in the back shop buying hardware
for a hard journey. For they intend to travel through the island in a
huge covered wagon, drawn by oxen, which will be to them at once vehicle
and hotel. Where they went, and how they fared, I know not, nor would it
here import us, if I did. I only mention the appearance of these friends
in this place, because this appearance was so characteristic of modern
society, and because so many of its elements appeared there in their
persons. The education and high society of England, the court, the
literary circles, the almighty publisher, for an intended volume was
surely looming in the foreground of their picture. And here I have
clearly got hold of one feature of modern society; this is, that
everything is everywhere. The Zulus are in London, the Londoners in
Zululand. Empress Eugenie, the exploded star of French fashion in its
highest supremacy, visits Cape Town. The stars and stripes protect
American professors on the shores of the Bosphorus, within view of Mount
Lebanon. It would not surprise us to learn that a party of our
countrymen had read the Declaration of Independence beside the Pools of
Solomon, or within the desolate heart of Moab.
In Jaffa of the Crusaders, Joppa of Peter and Paul, I find an American
Mission School, kept by a worthy lady from Rhode Island. Prominent among
its points of discipline is the clean-washed face which is so enthroned
in the prejudices of Western civilization. One of her scholars, a youth
of unusual intelligence, finding himself clean, observes himself to be
in strong contrast with his mother's hovel, in which filth is just kept
clear of fever point. "Why this dirt?" quoth he; "that which has made me
clean, will cleanse this also." So without more ado, the process of
scrubbing is applied to the floor, without regard to the danger of so
great a novelty. This simple fact has its own significance, for if the
innovation of soap and water can find its way to a Jaffa hut, where can
the ancient, respectable, conservative dirt-devil feel himself secure?
The maxim also becomes vain nowadays, that there should be a place for
everything, and that everything should be in its place. Cleopatra's
Needles point their moral in London and in New York. The Prince of Wales
hunts tigers in the Punjaub. Hyde Park is in the desert or on the Nile.
America is all over the world. Against this universal game of "Puss in
the Corner," reaction must come, some day, in some shape, or anywhere
will mean nowhere, for those who, starting in the geographical pursuit
of pleasure, fail to find it and never return home.
The oppositions of humanity have undergone many changes. Paul
characterized them in his day as "Greek and Barbarian, bond and free,
male and female." Christianity effaced old oppositions and created new
ones. The old oppositions were national, personal, selfish. The new
opposition was moral. It struck at evils, not at men, and tended to
unite the latter in a patient and reasonable overcoming of the former. I
know that the white heat at which its first blow was dealt left much for
philosophy to elaborate, for science to adjust and apply. A Jesus,
arrived at the plenitude of his intellectual vigor, could only have
three years in which to formulate his weighty doctrine, and could not
have had these without much care and hindrance. His work lay in the
normal direction of human nature. In spite of lapses and relapses,
mankind slowly creep towards the great unification which will make the
savage animals and the selfish passions the only enemies of the human
race. Modern society rests upon this unification as its basis of action.
A positive philosophy which Auguste Comte did not elaborate absorbs its
highest thought, and dictates its largest measures.
And so prophetic souls bid farewell to the old negations. In their view,
the lion is already reconciled to the lamb. The taming of the elements
prefigures the general reconciliation. The deadly lightning runs on
errands and carries messages. The Titan steam is the servant of commerce
and industry, meek as Hercules when armed with the distaff of Omphale.
Emulation, the desire to excel, exquisite, dangerous stimulant to
exertion, is not in our day educated to the intensification of self, but
to the enlargement of public spirit and of general interest. The
constant discoveries of new treasures in our material world, of gold,
silver, iron, and copper, of states to be built up and of harvests to be
sown and reaped, are accompanied by corresponding discoveries
concerning the variety of human gifts and their application to useful
ends. What men and women can be good for may be more voluminously stated
to-day than in any preceding age of the world's history.
Comparison should be a strong point in modern society. When travelling
was laborious and difficult, the masses of one country knew little
concerning those of another. When learning was rare, and instruction
costly and insufficient, the few knew the secrets of thought and
science, the many not even knowing that such things were to be known.
When wealth was uncommon, luxury was monopolized by a small class, the
greater part of mankind earning only for themselves the right to live
poorly. When distinctions were absolute, low life knew nothing of high
life but what the novelist could invent, or the servant reveal. How
changed is all this to-day! Competence, travel, tuition, and intelligent
company are within the reach of all who will give themselves the trouble
to attain them. The first consequence of this is that we become able to
make the largest and most general comparison of human conditions which
has ever been possible to humanity, nor does this ability regard the
present alone. The unveiling of the treasures of the past, the
interpretation of its experience and doctrine which we owe to the
scholar and archaeologist, enable us to compare remote antiquity with the
things of the last minute. The work of antiquarian science culminates in
the discovery of the prehistoric man. Theology had long before invented
the post-historic angel. Now, indeed, we ought to be able to choose the
best out of the best, since the whole is laid in order before us. But
the chronic trouble hangs upon us still. Had we but such wisdom to
choose as we have chance to see! The gifts of our future are still shown
us in sealed caskets. Which of these conceals the condition of our true
happiness? The leaden one, surely, of which we distrust the dull
exterior, trusting in the inner brightness which it covers.
What is the problem of modern society?
How to use its vast resources. Here is where the office of true ethic
comes in. No gift can make rich those who are poor in wisdom. The wealth
which should build up society will pull it down if its possession lead
to fatal luxury and indulgence. The freedom of intercourse which makes
one nation known to another, and puts the culture of the most advanced
at the service of the most barbarous, is like a flood which carries
everywhere the seeds of good and of evil. The ripening of these depends
much upon the accident of the human soil they may happen to find. But
careful husbandry will have even more to do with the result.
To America it was said at the outset, "Prepare to receive the World, and
to make it free." Oh, World, so full of corruption and of slavery, wilt
thou not rather bind us with thy gangrenous fetters? Wilt not the wail
of thy old injustice and suffering prolong itself until the new strophe
of hope shall be lost and forgotten?
Where is God's image in this human brute who lands on our shores, full
only of the insolence of beggary? Far, far be from us ever the methods
and procedures which have made or left him what he is. Honor and glory
to those patient, good men and women who will redeem his children from
the degradation which seems almost proper to him. Theirs be a crown
above that of the poet or orator!
Modern society, then, is chiefly occupied with a vast assimilation of
novelties. This task is by no means imposed upon us alone. While the
New World has to digest races and traditions, the Old World has to
digest ideas. Thanks to the good Puritan stomach which we inherit, the
process goes on here, with little interruption. But across the seas, in
Rome, in Germany, in Russia, what nausea, what quarrelling with the
fatal morsel upon which Providence compels the lips to close!
"_Non possumus!_" say the priests of the old order. "_Possum_," replies
the eternal power. The French republic and the English monarchy succeed
best in this altering of old habits to suit new emergencies. But where
extremes are greatest, the contest is naturally fiercest. A Pope fears
the cup of poisoned chocolate, and dares not drink the wine of the
eucharist without a taster; the throne of the Russian autocrat is over
the deadly mine of the Nihilist. German vanity and diplomacy bring back
the shadow of the mediaeval muddle. The living heart's blood of humanity
comes to us out of these struggles, an immeasurable gift, for good or
for evil. Can we be quick enough with our schools, just enough in our
government, sincere and devout enough in our churches? What will Europe
do with the ideas? What will America do with the people? These are the
questions of the present time.
One of the serious social questions of the day is the omnipotence of
money. People often use this expression in a _quasi_ sarcastic sense,
not seriously intending what they say. But the power of money nowadays
is such that it becomes us seriously to ask whether there is anything
that it cannot do. What ancient strongholds of taste, sentiment, and
prejudice has it not stormed and carried?
A servant, who sought a place during the first years of the shoddy
inflation, asked a lady who was willing to engage her, "Are you shoddy,
ma'am, or old family? I want to live with shoddy, because it pays the
highest wages." The watchwords of society as often come from its humbler
as from its higher level, and this woman unconsciously uttered the word
which was to rule society from that time to this. Money, during the last
twenty years, has swept over most of the old landmarks, and obliterated
them.
Religion itself stands aghast at this baptism of gold, which can convert
the alien and the heathen, ay, the brigand and the robber, into saints
of social prestige. For money bribes the court and pulpit, and buys the
press; the highest rank, the highest genius, pay homage to it. If the
duke has not money, he will seek in wedlock the most undesirable of
women, if she be also the richest. Royalty bows to the splendid cloak of
vulgarity, and invites it to dine and drive. Happy day, you will say,
for labor, which money symbolizes. Monarchs may well show it respect.
But money does not always symbolize honest and intelligent industry. A
great fortune often represents transactions akin to theft; sometimes the
thing itself, which the world is Spartan enough to approve of, if the
criminal can only escape positive detection. Those, too, who have earned
their money honestly, leave it to children who turn their back upon the
class of which their parents came, and desire to know nothing of the
bread-winning arts which they were constrained to practise.
We have had, within the last ten years, a severe lesson concerning the
instability of wealth in some of its most trusted forms. Yet are we not
compelled by sympathy and antipathy, at the bottom of our hearts, to pay
it an homage which our lips would not avow? Do we not desire wealth for
our children as the condition which shall set our minds at rest
concerning them? When we see mediocrity and vulgarity riding in the
swift carriage, and wearing the jewels and the robes, bright in
everybody's eyes and praised in everybody's mouth, do we not harbor
somewhere a regret that we have not, in some way possible to us, set our
best abilities to work to secure a similar distinction for ourselves?
It should not frighten one to see the court and its underlings venal.
Court and courtiers are a show, and money is the condition by which a
show lives. But I look into the domain of letters, and ask whether that
is still uncorrupted. I do not think that it is. The refined tastes of
literary people lead them to value entertainment at the hands of the
rich. The luxurious rooms, the abundant table, the easy _persiflage_ in
which worldly tact knows enough to flatter recognized talent. Do not
these _illicebrae_ seduce, to-day, even the stern heart of philosophy?
How unkind was society to Margaret Fuller! It was reluctant to show her
the courtesy due to a gentlewoman. Its mean gossip treated her as if she
had been beyond the pale of elegance and good taste, verging away even
from good behavior. What was her offence against society? A humanity too
large and absorbing, a mind too brave and independent for its
commonplace. Add to these the fact that she had neither fashion nor
fortune. The things she asked for are granted to-day by every thinking
mind, and she is remembered as illustrious. But if she could come back
to-morrow as she was, poor in purse and plain in person, and assume her
old leadership, would Boston treat her any better than it did in days of
yore? Would she not find, even among Brook farmers, a looking toward
Beacon Street which might surprise her? The literary man, who went so
bravely from abstract philosophy to its concrete expression, whose
learned hands took up the spade and hoe, and whose early peas were
praised by those who contemned his principles, would he, at a later
day,--grown urbane and fashionable,--would he have bowed without a pang
to his former self, if he had met him, dusty and on foot, in Central
Park, he himself being well mounted?
I said just now that money could buy the press. This is shameful,
because the press, more than any other power, can afford to be frank and
sincere. Freedom is the very breath of life in its nostrils, yet is it
to-day largely salaried by the enemies of freedom. While speaking of the
press, I will mention the regret with which I lately read, in the
"Boston Daily Advertiser," an editorial treating of the expulsion of the
Jesuits from France. The writer, who denounced this measure with some
severity, described the religious body with which it deals as a band of
mild and inoffensive men, chiefly occupied with the tuition of youth. He
might as well have characterized a tiger as a harmless creature,
incapable of the use of firearms.
To me the worship of wealth means, in the present, the crowning of low
merit with undeserved honor,--the setting of successful villany above
unsuccessful virtue. It means absolute neglect and isolation for the few
who follow a high heart's love through want and pain, through evil and
good report. It means the bringing of all human resources, material and
intellectual, to one dead level of brilliant exhibition--a second Field
of the Cloth of Gold--to show that the barbaric love of splendor still
lives in man, with the thirst for blood, and other _quasi_ animal
passions. It means, in the future, some such sad downfall as Spain had
when the gold and silver of America had gorged her soldiers and nobles;
something like what France experienced after Louis XIV. and XV. I am no
prophet, and, least of all, a prophet of evil; but where, oh where,
shall we find the antidote to this metallic poison? Perhaps in the
homoeopathic principle of cure. When the money miracle shall be
complete, when the gold Midas shall have turned everything to gold, then
the human heart will cry for flesh and blood, for brain and muscles.
Then shall manhood be at a premium, and money at a discount.
The French have found, among many others, one fortunate expression. They
speak of a life of representation, by which they mean the life of a
person conspicuous in the great world. This society of representation
has some recognition in every stage of civilization, since even nations
which we consider barbarous have their festivals and processions. The
ministerial balls in Paris, and perhaps many other entertainments in
that city, are of this character.
The guests are admitted in virtue of a card, which is really a ticket,
though money cannot command it. Many of the persons entertained are not
personally acquainted with either host or hostess, and do not
necessarily make their acquaintance by going to their house. Everything
is arranged with a view to large effects: music, decorations, supper,
etc. A party of friends may go there for their own amusement, or a
single individual for his own. But there are no general introductions
given, there is no social fusion.
Now this I call society of representation. It bears about the same
relation to genuine society that scene-painting bears to a carefully
finished picture. People of culture and education enjoy a peep at this
spectacular drama of the social stage, but their idea of society would
be something very different from this. Where this show-society
monopolizes the resources of a community, it implies either a dearth of
intellectual resources, or a great misapprehension of what is really
delightful and profitable in social intercourse.
Where the stage form of society predominates too largely, its intimate
form languishes and declines. The communings of a chosen few around a
table simply spread, with no view to the recognition of the great
Babylon, but rather with a pleasure in its avoidance; refined sympathy
and support given and received in a round of daily duties, by those
whose hands are busy and whose minds are full; the inner sweetness of a
beautiful song or poem, the kindling of mind from mind, till all become
surprised at what each can do,--this sort of society maintains itself by
keeping the noisy rush of the crowd at arm's length. Horace says,--
"Odo profanum vulgus et arceo,"
and I, a democrat of the democrats, will say so too. I reverence the
masses of mankind, rich or poor. My heart beats high when I think of the
good which human society has already evolved, and of the greater good
which is in store for those who are to come after us. But I hate the
profane vulgarity which courts public notice and mention as the chief
end of existence, and which, in so doing, puts out of sight those
various ends and interests which each generation is bound to pursue for
itself, and to promote for its successors.
The time of poor Marie Antoinette was the culmination of such a period
of show. Its glare and glitter, and its lavish waste, had put out of
sight the true and intimate relations of man to man. And so, as the
gilded portion of the age made its musters of beautiful empty heads, of
vanities throned upon vanities, the ungilded part made its deadly muster
of discontent, displeasure, and despair. The empty heads fell, and much
that was precious and noble fell with them. The great stage produced its
bloody drama, and the curtain of horror closed upon it.
Critics of society usually direct their invective against the
extravagance and shallowness of this exhibitory department, and would
almost make these an excuse for the opposite extreme of misanthropic
spleen and avoidance. They should remember that while society, from an
inward necessity, provides for these musterings and displays, it is
unable to provide for that intimate and personal intercourse which
individuals must found and cultivate for themselves. So much is left for
each one of us to do, to find our peers, and open with them an honest
exchange of our best for their best. The family most easily begins this,
with its intense and ever-enlarging interests. Out of true family life
comes a neighborhood; out of a neighborhood the body politic, and the
body sympathetic.
If, in the matter of social intercourse, show is allowed to usurp the
place of substance, the indolence of mankind must bear its part of the
blame. It is far easier to order a suit for the great occasion, than to
brighten one's mental jewels for the small one. Many a soldier is brave
on parade, who would not shine on a field of battle. Many a woman will
pass for elegant in a ball-room, or even at a court drawing-room, whose
want of true breeding would become evident in a chosen company.
The reason why education is usually so poor among women of fashion is,
that it is not needed for the life which they elect to lead. With a good
figure, good clothes, and a handsome equipage, with a little reading of
the daily papers, and of the fashionable reviews, and above all, with
the happy tact which often enables women to make a large display of very
small acquirements, the woman of fashion may never feel the need of true
education. We pity her none the less, since she will never know its
peace and delight.
In our own country, at this moment, and in Europe as well, ambitions
seem to be unduly directed to this department of social action, the
training and discipline for which differ widely from that proper to
intimate and domestic life. Hence comes an observable regard, not to
appearances only, but to appearance. As actors often paint their faces
too highly for near effects, in order to look well at the farthest point
of view, so the dress and manners of the day fit themselves for the
stage of the great world, and their wearers seem to meditate not only
what will not appear amiss, but what will attract attention by some
singularity of becoming effect. Hence the supremacy for the time of
those whose calling it is to minister to appearance. The tailor has
long been a man of destiny, but the modern plainness of male attire has
somewhat sobered his pretensions. But look at the sublime arrogance of
the ladies' dressmaker, and the almost equally sublime meekness of the
victim, who not only submits, but desires to be as wax in her hands.
This supreme functionary has, of course, _carte blanche_ for her
ordinances. The subject says to her, "Do what you will with me. Make me
modest or immodest. Tie up my feet or straighten my arms till use of
them becomes impossible. Deprive my figure of all drapery, or upholster
it like a window-frame. Nay, set me in the centre of a movable tent, but
array me so that people shall look at me, and shall say I look well."
I cannot but hate, to-day, the slavish fashion which seems to have been
invented in order to intensify that self-consciousness which is the
worst enemy of beauty. It is administered by means of a system of lacets
and whalebones, which everywhere impinge upon nature. A young lady who
is in her dress like a sword in its scabbard (the French name for the
fashion is _fourreau_), is made to think of this point, and of that,
until her whole gait and movement become an interrogation of her silks
and elastics. Can I sit? Can I walk? Can I put this foot forward, or
lift this hand to my head? Ask the satin strait-jacket in which your
artist has imprisoned you, receiving high compensation for the service.
Much as I resent this constraint and restraint of the body, my saddest
thought is, that where it is endured the mind has first been enslaved.
Foreign travel is so established a feature in American life, that it may
well become us to take account of what it costs and comes to.
Our own importation of men and women is various and enormous. They who
come to us poor and ignorant in one generation, are seen comfortable and
well educated in the next. The disfranchised and landless man comes to
us, and receives political rights, and the title of a farm in fee
simple. No inordinate tribute robs him of the product of his industry,
be it large or small. He pays to the State what it pays him well to
afford, for protection and education. But how is it with the tribute
which Europe levies upon us in the shape of our sons and daughters?
Many polite tastes have, no doubt, been fostered in our young men by
studies pursued in a German university, or art learned in a French
studio. Some of the best scholars of the elder generation have profited,
in their youth, by such advantages. But if we go beyond the limits of
literary or professional life, we may not consider the results so
fortunate. Our society-men sometimes become so depolarized in their
tastes and feelings, as to be at ease nowhere but in Europe, and not
much at ease there. Those who return bring back a love of betting and of
horse-racing, and ape the display of European grandees as far as their
fortunes will allow.
And our young women? Some of them study soberly abroad, and return to
give their countenance and support to all that is improving and refining
in their own country. Some float hither and thither, between England and
Italy, like a feather on the wave, disappearing at last. The Daisy
Millerish chit is seen, offending in pure ignorance of what common-sense
should easily teach mothers and daughters.
Family groups of Americans are often met with in Europe, in which one
figure is wanting. This is the father, absent, in America, working at
his business or speculation. These ladies are often companionable
people, who enjoy good hotels, galleries, music on the public square,
and, above all, the sensation of being far from home.
One feels about them a dreary atmosphere of homelessness. As the writer
of the Potiphar papers, while watching a gay young mother's performance
in the "German," was constrained to think of a complaining babe in her
nursery, so, in hearing those ladies boast of their enjoyments, one
cannot help remembering with commiseration the wifeless husband and
daughterless father at home, who works like a steam-fan to keep these
butterflies in motion.
More sad still are my reflections, when I hear that numbers of American
girls, with large or even moderate fortunes, go abroad and allow it to
be known that they seek a husband with a title. These are to be had, of
various grades, if the pecuniary consideration be only sufficient. And
so many of our laborious men of business work hard in order to earn for
themselves the luxury of a titled son-in-law, who has not the ability to
earn his own support, and would scorn to do it if he had.
American women with money are at a premium in fashionable Europe. Even
without this supreme merit, they are favorites. A London journal calls
attention to the fact that some of the leading ladies in the fashionable
London of to-day are Americans. The versatility of mind and ease of
manner which a free and social life develops, appear in strong contrast
with the results of the more formal education, which are often seen in
the opposite extremes of timidity and assurance.
As our young men are often entrapped, while abroad, into marriages which
prove to be very unwise and unsuitable, I wish very much that we might
bring and keep our young people in a better understanding with each
other, so that even the most ambitious among them should be content to
marry with their peers, and abide in the home of their fathers.
I have been surprised, at some periods of my late visit to Europe, to
perceive the growing interest of thinking people in all that is most
characteristic of American progress. Again and again, in private and in
public, I have found myself invited to discourse concerning the happy
country in which popular education has been so long established, that
its results are no longer putative, but ascertained and verified. The
country in which the fairest woman, provided she be a modest one, can
walk abroad by day or night, unmolested and unsuspected, the country in
which women have acquired the courage to think for themselves, and to
stand by each other.
These invitations, though not given in derision, yet seemed akin to the
Hebrew refrain, "Sing us one of the songs of Zion!" And when I related
the facts familiar to all of us, to those who listened with
half-incredulous wonder, it was, indeed, like singing the Lord's song of
freedom in a strange land.
The reasons why Europe should come to America are obvious and pressing.
The reasons why America should visit Europe are equally binding and
cogent. The material and the moral life of to-day are kept at their
height by this flux and reflux of human personality, which carries with
it every variety of opinion and experience. Could we only send our best
abroad, and for the best reasons! Could Europe only send her best, also,
for their best help and study! But the human average profits first of
all by its material enlargement, and will be received just as it is. So,
our fools go abroad, to show that folly is a thing of all times and
climes; and, along with the tidal wave of ignorance and bigotry, the
dark, designing Jesuit seeks our shore, and spins his fatal web among
our rose-trees. Sun of divine truth, storms of divine justice, sweep
away the evil and ripen the good!
When I see an American of either sex caught in the vortex of European
attraction, depolarized from natural relations, and charmed into
alliance with feudal barbarism and ignorance, my heart rings the bell of
alarm which is hung at the gates of Paradise.
From all these Western splendors can this shallow soul turn away? From
these golden fields whose overflow gives Europe food, while her human
overflow gives them labor? From this large construction of human right,
which lifts the cruel yoke from the neck of labor, and gives him who
earns the livelihood of many his own life to enjoy and perfect? From
this holy record of pious endeavor, from these splendid achievements of
souls inspired by freedom, thou canst go, joyous and triumphant, to pay
homage to the lies which are no longer believed by those who profess
them; lies whose fallacy America exposes every day and hour to the
detection of the world.
Thou wilt accept a title, empty as an egg-shell, for a thing truly
noble! Thou wilt call a courtier's grimace polite, a courtesan's fashion
elegant! Thou wilt curry favor in a vulgar court, courtesying low to a
prince of harlequins and harlots! Thou, child of the Puritans, wilt
kneel and kiss the hand which, still and sole, disputes with Christ the
mastery of the world! Then art thou simply an anachronism! Some are born
into the world centuries before their time, some centuries after it.
Other attractions, innocent in themselves, and conceivable to all,
detain some of our valued fellow-citizens in perpetual exile. The quiet
and beauty of English country-life, the literary and artistic resources
of a foreign capital, the romances of ancient chateaux and cathedrals,
some delicious touch of climate, some throbbing beauty of a southern
sky. How delightful we have found these, it is as much a pain as a
pleasure to remember! But let us also call to mind the lesson of a
well-known fairy tale. While Beauty prolongs her absence, the faithful
Beast languishes and comes nigh unto death. While we enjoy these choice
delights, the society to which we belong is sowing its wheat and its
tares. We are far from the field in which the life of our own generation
is planted and tended. Every honest heart, every thinking mind, has its
value in the community to which it belongs. Our value, such as it is,
remains wanting to our community, and, when its crises of trial shall
come, we shall not have been trained by watchful experience to
understand either their cause or their remedy.
How delightful was Italy to Milton! His Allegro and Pensieroso show that
he could fully appreciate both its mirth and its majesty. He returns not
the less to live out a life of illustrious service in his own country,
where his brave heart and philosophic mind were of more avail to his
time than even his sacred song to ours.
No one has any reason to be surprised at any new manifestation of human
folly. Yet I am sometimes surprised, to-day, by the disrespect which is
often shown to the word "Protestant." This name dates, at farthest, from
the time of Luther, but the fact for which it stands is as old as human
history. Moses made a protest when he led his people out of the luxury
and slavery of Egypt to find the free hills of Judaea, and to build on
one of them a temple to the God of freedom. Christ made His protest
against the hypocrisy and injustice of the old social and ecclesiastical
order. England and France have made their protests against monarchical
supremacy. Both went back from their daring determination, but the
lesson was not forgotten. The Puritans made their protest when they
faced the frowning sea and the savage wilderness, in order that they
might train their children, and live themselves in the freedom which
conscience asks. Mr. Garrison and his associates made their protest
against American slavery. Mrs. Butler, of England, makes her protest
to-day against the personal degradation of women. Lucy Stone makes hers
against their political enslavement.
Does society inherit? Is man the heir of man? Whence come those
creatures of the present day who smile, and shrug their shoulders, and
feebly say, "We don't protest. Our fathers did something of the kind,
upon what ground we cannot possibly imagine. But we are quite of another
sort. We don't protest."
To those courageous souls which, alone and unaided, have been able to
face the world's passion and inertia,--to those leaders of forlorn hopes
who have seen glory in the depths of death and have sought it there,--to
those voices proclaiming in the wilderness the triumphant progress of
truth,--to those brave spirits whose strength the fires of hell have
annealed, not consumed,--my soul shall ever render its glad and duteous
homage. And if, in my later age, I might seek the crowning honor of my
life, I should seek it with that small, faithful band who have no choice
but to utter their deepest conviction, and abide its issues. Fruitful
shall be their pains and privations. They who have sown in tears the
seeds of unpopular virtue, shall reap its happy harvest in the good and
gratitude of mankind.