seven or eight hundred miles in extent, these men had threaded their way
in manifold disguises, through the very midst of the emperor's camps.
According to this man's gigantic enterprise, in which the means were as
audacious as the purpose, the conspirators were to rendezvous, and first
to recognize each other, at the gates of Rome. From the Danube to the
Tiber did this band of robbers severally pursue their perilous routes
through all the difficulties of the road and the jealousies of the
military stations, sustained by the mere thirst of vengeance--vengeance
against that mighty foe whom they knew only by his proclamations against
themselves. Everything continued to prosper; the conspirators met under
the walls of Rome; the final details were arranged; and those also would
have prospered but for a trifling accident. The season was one of
general carnival at Rome; and, by the help of those disguises which the
license of this festival time allowed, the murderers were to have
penetrated as maskers to the emperor's retirement, when a casual word or
two awoke the suspicions of a sentinel. One of the conspirators was
arrested; under the terror and uncertainty of the moment, he made much
ampler discoveries than were expected of him; the other accomplices were
secured: and Commodus was delivered from the uplifted daggers of those
who had sought him by months of patient wanderings, pursued through all
the depths of the Illyrian forests, and the difficulties of the Alpine
passes. It is not easy to find words of admiration commensurate to the
energetic hardihood of a slave--who, by way of answer and reprisal to an
edict summarily consigning him to persecution and death, determines to
cross Europe in quest of its author, though no less a person than the
master of the world--to seek him out in the inmost recesses of his
capital city, of his private palace, of his consecrated bed-chamber--and
there to lodge a dagger in his heart, as the adequate reply to the
imperial sentence of proscription against himself.
Such, amidst the superhuman grandeur and hallowed privileges of the
Roman emperor's office, were the extraordinary perils which menaced the
individual officer. The office rose by its grandeur to a region above
the clouds and vapors of earth: the officer might find his personal
security as unsubstantial as those wandering vapors. Nor is it possible
that these circumstances of violent opposition can be better
illustrated than in this tale of Herodian. Whilst the emperor's mighty
arms were stretched out to arrest some potentate in the heart of Asia, a
poor slave is silently and stealthily creeping round the base of the
Alps, with the purpose of winning his way as a murderer to the imperial
bed-chamber; Caesar is watching some potent rebel of the Orient, at a
distance of two thousand leagues, and he overlooks the dagger which is
within three stealthy steps, and one tiger's leap, of his own heart. All
the heights and the depths which belong to man's frailty, all the
contrasts of glory and meanness, the extremities of what is highest and
lowest in human casualties, meeting in the station of the Roman Caesar
Semper Augustus--have combined to call him into high marble relief, and
to make him the most interesting study of all whom history has
emblazoned with colors of fire and blood, or has crowned most lavishly
with diadems of cyprus and laurel.
XLV. UNTHOUGHTFULNESS.
DR. ARNOLD.--1795-1842.
_A Lecture delivered in Rugby Chapel._
The state of spiritual folly is, I suppose, one of the most universal
evils in the world. For the number of those who are naturally foolish is
exceedingly great; of those, I mean, who understand no worldly thing
well; of those who are careless about everything, carried about by every
breath of opinion, without knowledge, and without principle. But the
term spiritual folly includes, unhappily, a great many more than these;
it takes in not those only who are in the common sense of the term
foolish, but a great many who are in the common sense of the term
clever, and many who are even in the common sense of the terms, prudent,
sensible, thoughtful, and wise. It is but too evident that some of the
ablest men who have ever lived upon earth, have been in no less a degree
spiritually fools. And thus, it is not without much truth that Christian
writers have dwelt upon the insufficiency of worldly wisdom, and have
warned their readers to beware, lest, while professing themselves to be
wise, they should be accounted as fools in the sight of God.
But the opposite to this notion, that those who are, as it were, fools
in worldly matters are wise before God,--although this also is true in a
certain sense, and under certain peculiar circumstances, yet taken
generally, it is the very reverse of truth; and the careless and
incautious language which has been often used on this subject, has been
extremely mischievous. On the contrary, he who is foolish in worldly
matters is likely also to be, and most commonly is, no less foolish in
the things of God. And the opposite belief has arisen mainly from that
strange confusion between ignorance and innocence, with which many
ignorant persons seem to solace themselves. Whereas, if you take away a
man's knowledge, you do not bring him to the state of an infant, but to
that of a brute; and of one of the most mischievous and malignant of the
brute creation. For you do not lessen or weaken the man's body by
lowering his mind; he still retains his strength and his passions, the
passions leading to self-indulgence, the strength which enables him to
feed them by continued gratification. He will not think, it is true, to
any good purpose; it is very possible to destroy in him the power of
reflection, whether as exercised upon outward things, or upon himself
and his own nature, or upon God. But you cannot destroy the power of
adapting means to ends, nor that of concealing his purposes by fraud or
falsehood; you take only his wisdom, and leave that cunning which marks
so notoriously both the savage and the madman. He, then, who is a fool
as far as regards earthly things, is much more a fool with regard to
heavenly things; he who cannot raise himself even to the lower height,
how is he to attain to the higher? he who is without reason and
conscience, how shall he be endowed with the spirit of God?
It is my deep conviction and long experience of this truth, which makes
me so grieve over a want of interest in your own improvement in human
learning, whenever I observe it,--over the prevalence of a thoughtless
and childish spirit amongst you.... The idleness and want of interest
which I grieve for, is one which extends itself, but too impartially, to
knowledge of every kind: to divine knowledge, as might be expected, even
more than to human. Those whom we commonly find careless about their
general lessons, are quite as ignorant and as careless about their
Bibles; those who have no interest in general literature, in poetry, or
in history, or in philosophy, have certainly no greater interest, I do
not say in works of theology, but in works of practical devotion, in the
lives of holy men, in meditations, or in prayers. Alas, the interest of
their minds is bestowed on things far lower than the very lowest of all
which I have named; and therefore, to see them desiring something only a
little higher than their present pursuits, could not but be encouraging;
it would, at least, show that the mind was rising upwards. It may,
indeed, stop at a point short of the highest, it may learn to love
earthly excellence, and rest there contented, and seek for nothing
more perfect; but that, at any rate, is a future and merely contingent
evil. It is better to love earthly excellence than earthly folly; it is
far better in itself, and it is, by many degrees, nearer to the Kingdom
of God.
There is another case, however, which I cannot but think is more
frequent now than formerly; and if it is so, it may be worth while to
direct our attention to it. Common idleness and absolute ignorance are
not what I wish to speak of now, but a character advanced above these; a
character which does not neglect its school-lessons, but really attains
to considerable proficiency in them; a character at once regular and
amiable, abstaining from evil, and for evil in its low and grosser forms
having a real abhorrence. What, then, you will say, is wanting here? I
will tell you what seems to be wanting--a spirit of manly, and much more
of Christian, thoughtfulness. There is quickness and cleverness; much
pleasure, perhaps, in distinction, but little in improvement; there is
no desire of knowledge for its own sake, whether human or divine. There
is, therefore, but little power of combining and digesting what is read;
and, consequently, what is read passes away, and takes no root in the
mind. This same character shows itself in matters of conduct; it will
adopt, without scruple, the most foolish, commonplace notions of boys,
about what is right and wrong; it will not, and cannot, from the
lightness of its mind, concern itself seriously about what is evil in
the conduct of others, because it takes no regular care of its own, with
reference to pleasing God; it will not do anything low or wicked, but it
will sometimes laugh at those who do; and it will by no means take
pains to encourage, nay, it will sometimes thwart and oppose anything
that breathes a higher spirit, and asserts a more manly and Christian
standard of duty.
One cause of this consists in the number and character and cheapness,
and peculiar mode of publication, of the works of amusement of the
present day. The works of amusement published only a very few years
since were comparatively few in number; they were less exciting, and
therefore less attractive; they were dearer, and therefore less
accessible; and, not being published periodically, they did not occupy
the mind for so long a time, nor keep alive so constant an expectation;
nor, by thus dwelling upon the mind, and distilling themselves into it
as it were drop by drop, did they possess it so largely, coloring even,
in many instances, its very language, and affording frequent matter for
conversation.
The evil of all these circumstances is actually enormous. The mass of
human minds, and much more of the minds of young persons, have no great
appetite for intellectual exercise; but they have some, which by careful
treatment may be strengthened and increased. But here to this weak and
delicate appetite is presented an abundance of the most stimulating and
least nourishing food possible. It snatches it greedily, and is not only
satisfied, but actually conceives a distaste for anything simpler and
more wholesome. That curiosity which is wisely given us to lead us on to
knowledge, finds its full gratification in the details of an exciting
and protracted story, and then lies down as it were gorged, and goes to
sleep. Other faculties claim their turn, and have it. We know that in
youth the healthy body and lively spirits require exercise, and in this
they may and ought to be indulged; but the time and interest which
remain over when the body has had its enjoyment, and the mind desires
its share, this has been already wasted and exhausted upon things
utterly unprofitable: so that the mind goes to its work hurriedly and
languidly, and feels it to be no more than a burden. The mere lessons
may be learnt from a sense of duty; but that freshness of power which in
young persons of ability would fasten eagerly upon some one portion or
other of the wide field of knowledge, and there expatiate, drinking in
health and strength to the mind, as surely as the natural exercise of
the body gives to it bodily vigor,--that is tired prematurely,
perverted, and corrupted; and all the knowledge which else it might so
covet, it now seems a wearying effort to retain.
Great and grievous as is the evil, it is peculiarly hard to find the
remedy for it. If the books to which I have been alluding were books of
downright wickedness, we might destroy them wherever we found them; we
might forbid their open circulation; we might conjure you to shun them
as you would any other clear sin, whether of word or deed. But they are
not wicked books for the most part; they are of that class which cannot
be actually prohibited; nor can it be pretended that there is a sin in
reading them. They are not the more wicked for being published so cheap,
and at regular intervals; but yet these two circumstances make them so
peculiarly injurious. All that can be done is to point out the evil;
that it is real and serious I am very sure, and its defects are most
deplorable on the minds of the fairest promise; but the remedy for it
rests with yourselves, or rather with each of you individually, so far
as he is himself concerned. That an unnatural and constant excitement of
the mind is most injurious, there is no doubt; that excitement involves
a consequent weakness, is a law of our nature than which none is surer;
that the weakness of mind thus produced is and must be adverse to quiet
study and thought, to that reflection which alone is wisdom, is also
clear in itself, and proved too largely by experience. And that without
reflection there can be no spiritual understanding, is at once evident;
while without spiritual understanding, that is, without a knowledge and
a study of God's will, there can be no spiritual life. And therefore
childishness and unthoughtfulness cannot be light evils; and if I have
rightly traced the prevalence of these defects to its cause, although
that cause may seem to some to be trifling, yet surely it is well to
call your attention to it, and to remind you that in reading works of
amusement, as in every other lawful pleasure, there is and must be an
abiding responsibility in the sight of God; that, like other lawful
pleasures, we must beware of excess in it; and not only so, but if we
find it hurtful to us, either because we have used it too freely in
times past, or because our nature is too weak to bear it, that then we
are bound most solemnly to abstain from it; because, however lawful in
itself, or to others who can practise it without injury, whatever is to
us an hindrance in the way of our intellectual and moral and spiritual
improvement, that is in our case a positive sin.
* * * * *
_There is a book, who runs may read, which heavenly truth
imparts;
And all the lore its scholars need,--pure eyes and Christian
hearts.
The works of God, above, below, within us and around,
Are pages in that book, to show how God Himself is found._
JOHN KEBLE.--1792-1866.
XLVI. THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS.
THOMAS HOOD.--1799-1845.
One more Unfortunate,
Weary of breath,
Rashly importunate,
Gone to her death!
Take her up tenderly,
Lift her with care;
Fashion'd so slenderly,
Young, and so fair!
Look at her garments
Clinging like cerements;
Whilst the wave constantly
Drips from her clothing;
Take her up instantly,
Loving, not loathing.--
Touch her not scornfully;
Think of her mournfully,
Gently and humanly;
Not of the stains of her,--
All that remains of her
Now is pure womanly.
Make no deep scrutiny
Into her mutiny
Rash and undutiful:
Past all dishonor,
Death has left on her
Only the beautiful.
Still, for all slips of hers,
One of Eve's family,--
Wipe those poor lips of hers
Oozing so clammily.
Loop up her tresses
Escaped from the comb,--
Her fair auburn tresses;
Whilst wonderment guesses
Where was her home?
Who was her father?
Who was her mother?
Had she a sister?
Had she a brother?
Or was there a dearer one
Still, and a nearer one
Yet, than all other?
Alas! for the rarity
Of Christian charity
Under the sun!
Oh! it was pitiful!
Near a whole city full,
Home she had none.
Sisterly, brotherly,
Fatherly, motherly
Feelings had changed:
Love, by harsh evidence,
Thrown from its eminence;
Even God's providence
Seeming estranged.
Where the lamps quiver
So far in the river,
With many a light
From window and casement,
From garret to basement,
She stood, with amazement,
Houseless by night.
The bleak wind of March
Made her tremble and shiver;
But not the dark arch,
Or the black flowing river:
Mad from life's history,
Glad to death's mystery,
Swift to be hurl'd--
Anywhere, anywhere
Out of the world!
In she plunged boldly,--
No matter how coldly
The dark river ran,--
Over the brink of it,
Picture it,--think of it,
Dissolute Man!
Lave in it, drink of it,
Then, if you can!
Take her up tenderly,
Lift her with care;
Fashion'd so slenderly,
Young, and so fair!
Ere her limbs frigidly
Stiffen too rigidly,
Decently,--kindly,--
Smooth and compose them;
And her eyes, close them,
Staring so blindly!
Dreadfully staring
Through muddy impurity,
As when with the daring
Last look of despairing
Fix'd on futurity.
Perishing gloomily,
Spurr'd by contumely,
Cold inhumanity,
Burning insanity,
Into her rest.--
Cross her hands humbly,
As if praying dumbly,
Over her breast!
Owning her weakness,
Her evil behavior,
And leaving, with meekness,
Her sins to her Saviour!
XLVII. A PARENTAL ODE TO MY SON.
AGED THREE YEARS AND FIVE MONTHS.
THOMAS HOOD.
Thou happy, happy elf!
(But stop,--first let me kiss away that tear)--
Thou tiny image of myself!
(My love, he's poking peas into his ear!)
Thou merry, laughing sprite!
With spirits feather-light,
Untouch'd by sorrow, and unsoil'd by sin--
(Good heavens! the child is swallowing a pin!)
Thou little tricksy Puck!
With antic toys so funnily bestuck,
Light as the singing bird that wings the air--
(The door! the door! he'll tumble down the stair!)
Thou darling of thy sire!
(Why, Jane, he'll set his pinafore a-fire!)
Thou imp of mirth and joy!
In Love's dear chain so strong and bright a link,
Thou idol of thy parents--(Drat the boy!
There goes my ink!)
Thou cherub--but of earth;
Fit playfellow for Fays, by moonlight pale,
In harmless sport and mirth,
(That dog will bite him if he pulls its tail!)
Thou human humming-bee extracting honey
From ev'ry blossom in the world that blows,
Singing in Youth's Elysium ever sunny,
(Another tumble!--that's his precious nose!)
Thy father's pride and hope!
(He'll break the mirror with that skipping-rope!)
With pure heart newly stamp'd from Nature's mint--
(Where did he learn that squint?)
Thou young domestic dove!
(He'll have that jug off with another shove!)
Dear nursling of the hymeneal nest!
(Are those torn clothes his best?)
Little epitome of man!
(He'll climb upon the table, that's his plan!)
Touch'd with the beauteous tints of dawning life--
(He's got a knife!)
Thou enviable being!
No storms, no clouds, in thy blue sky foreseeing,
Play on, play on,
My elfin John!
Toss the light ball--bestride the stick--
(I knew so many cakes would make him sick!)
With fancies buoyant as the thistle-down,
Prompting the face grotesque, and antic brisk,
With many a lamb-like frisk,
(He's got the scissors, snipping at your gown!)
Thou pretty opening rose!
(Go to your mother, child, and wipe your nose!)
Balmy, and breathing music like the South,
(He really brings my heart into my mouth!)
Fresh as the morn, and brilliant as its star,--
(I wish that window had an iron bar!)
Bold as the hawk, yet gentle as the dove,--
(I tell you what, my love,
I cannot write, unless he's sent above!)
XLVIII. METAPHYSICS.
THOMAS CHANDLER HALIBURTON.--1796-1865.
_From_ TRAITS OF AMERICAN HUMOR.
Old Doctor Sobersides, the minister of Pumpkinville, where I lived in my
youth, was one of the metaphysical divines of the old school, and could
cavil upon the ninth part of a hair about entities and quiddities,
nominalism and realism, free-will and necessity, with which sort of
learning he used to stuff his sermons and astound his learned hearers,
the bumpkins. They never doubted that it was all true, but were apt to
say with the old woman in Moliere: "He speaks so well that I don't
understand him a bit."
I remember a conversation that happened at my grandfather's, in which
the Doctor had some difficulty in making his metaphysics all "as clear
as preaching." There was my grandfather; Uncle Tim, who was the greatest
hand at raising onions in our part of the country, but "not knowing
metaphysics, had no notion of the true reason of his not being sad"; my
Aunt Judy Keturah Titterwell, who could knit stockings "like all
possest," but could not syllogise; Malachi Muggs, our hired man that
drove the oxen; and Isaac Thrasher, the district schoolmaster, who had
dropped in to warm his fingers and get a drink of cider. Something was
under discussion, and my grandfather could make nothing of it; but the
Doctor said it was "metaphysically true."
"Pray, Doctor," said Uncle Tim, "tell me something about metaphysics; I
have often heard of that science, but never for my life could find out
what it was."
"Metaphysics," said the Doctor, "is the science of abstraction."
"I'm no wiser for that explanation," said Uncle Tim.
"It treats," said the Doctor, "of matters most profound and sublime, a
little difficult perhaps for a common intellect or an unschooled
capacity to fathom, but not the less important on that account, to all
living beings."
"What does it teach?" asked the Schoolmaster.
"It is not applied so much to the operation of teaching," answered the
Doctor, "as to that of inquiring; and the chief inquiry is, whether
things are, or whether they are not."
"I don't understand the question," said Uncle Tim, taking the pipe out
of his mouth.
"For example, whether this earth on which we tread," said the Doctor,
giving a heavy stamp on the floor, and setting his foot on the cat's
tail, "whether the earth does really exist, or whether it does not
exist."
"That is a point of considerable consequence to settle," said my
grandfather.
"Especially," added the schoolmaster, "to the holders of real estate."
"Now the earth," continued the Doctor, "may exist--"
"Why, who ever doubted that?" asked Uncle Tim.
"A great many men," said the Doctor, "and some very learned ones."
Uncle Tim stared a moment, and then began to fill his pipe, whistling
the tune of "Heigh! Betty Martin," while the Doctor went on:
"The earth, I say, may exist, although Bishop Berkeley has proved beyond
all possible gainsaying or denial, that it does not exist. The case is
clear; the only difficulty is, to know whether we shall believe it or
not."
"And how," asked Uncle Tim, "is all this to be found out?"
"By digging down to the first principles," answered the Doctor.
"Ay," interrupted Malachi, "there is nothing equal to the spade and
pickaxe."
"That is true," said my grandfather, going on in Malachi's way, "'tis by
digging for the foundation, that we shall find out whether the world
exists or not; for, if we dig to the bottom of the earth and find the
foundation--why then we are sure of it. But if we find no foundation, it
is clear that the world stands upon nothing, or, in other words, that it
does not stand at all; therefore, it stands to reason--"
"I beg your pardon," interrupted the Doctor, "but you totally mistake
me; I used the word digging metaphorically, meaning the profoundest
cogitation and research into the nature of things. That is the way in
which we may ascertain whether things are, or whether they are not."
"But if a man can't believe his eyes," said Uncle Tim, "what signifies
talking about it?"
"Our eyes," said the Doctor, "are nothing at all but the inlets of
sensation, and when we see a thing, all we are aware of is, that we have
a sensation of it: we are not aware that the thing exists. We are sure
of nothing that we see with our eyes."
"Not without spectacles," said Aunt Judy.
"Plato, for instance, maintains that the sensation of any object is
produced by a perpetual succession of copies, images, or counterfeits,
streaming off from the object to the organ of sensation. Descartes, too,
has explained the matter upon the principle of whirligigs."
"But does the world exist?" asked the Schoolmaster.
"A good deal may be said on both sides," replied the Doctor, "though the
ablest heads are for non-existence."
"In common cases," said Uncle Tim, "those who utter nonsense are
considered blockheads."
"But in metaphysics," said the Doctor, "the case is different."
"Now all this is hocus-pocus to me," said Aunt Judy, suspending her
knitting-work, and scratching her forehead with one of the needles, "I
don't understand a bit more of the business than I did at first."
"I'll be bound there is many a learned professor," said Uncle Tim,
"could say the same after spinning a long yarn of metaphysics."
The Doctor did not admire this gibe at his favorite science.
"That is as the case may be," said he; "this thing or that thing may be
dubious, but what then? Doubt is the beginning of wisdom."
"No doubt of that," said my grandfather, beginning to poke the fire,
"and when a man has got through his doubting, what does he begin to
build up in the metaphysical way?"
"Why, he begins by taking something for granted," said the Doctor.
"But is that a sure way of going to work?"
"'Tis the only thing he can do," replied the Doctor, after a pause, and
rubbing his forehead as if he was not altogether satisfied that his
foundation was a solid one. My grandfather might have posed him with
another question, but he poked the fire and let him go on.
"Metaphysics, to speak exactly----"
"Ah," interrupted the Schoolmaster, "bring it down to vulgar fractions,
and then we shall understand it."
"'Tis the consideration of immateriality, or the mere spirit and essence
of things."
"Come, come," said Aunt Judy, taking a pinch of snuff, "now I see into
it."
"Thus, man is considered, not in his corporeality, but in his essence or
capability of being; for a man, metaphysically, or to metaphysical
purposes, hath two natures, that of spirituality, and that of
corporeality, which may be considered separate."
"What man?" asked Uncle Tim.
"Why, any man; Malachi there, for example; I may consider him as Malachi
spiritual, or Malachi corporeal."