make a false estimate of the right distribution of praise and gratitude.
It would be an injustice, in a stricter sense, to the persons ignored,
if we regarded such gratitude as the appropriate and main reward of a
noble life. I need not repeat the commonplaces of moralists as to the
real value of posthumous fame, nor inquire whether it implies an
illusion, nor how far the desire for such fame is, in point of fact, a
strong motive with many people. This only I will note--that obscurity is
a condition, and by no means an altogether unpleasant condition, of
much of the very best work that is done. The general or the statesman is
conspicuous in connection with successful enterprise in which his
subordinates necessarily do a great part of the labour. It is impossible
for the outside world to form a correct judgment in such cases; and,
therefore, there is no hardship to the particular persons concerned, if
they are simply ignored where they would, certainly, be misjudged; and
if they, therefore, work in obscurity, content with the approval of the
very few who can estimate their merits. There is a compensation, as we
see, when we reflect upon the moral disadvantages of conspicuous
station. Literary people, for example, must be very unobservant if they
do not notice how demoralising is the influence of public applause, and
the constant inducement to court notoriety. It is unwholesome to live in
an atmosphere which constantly stimulates and incites the weaknesses to
which we are most liable. And many of our first writers must, I should
fancy, feel pangs of self-humiliation when they contrast the credit
which they have got for popular work with the very scanty recognition
which comes to many who have applied equal talents to the discharge of
duties often far more beneficial to mankind, but, from their nature,
performed in the shade. "I," such a man, I fancy, must sometimes say to
himself, "am quoted in every newspaper; I am puffed, and praised, and
denounced; not to know me is to write yourself down a dunce; and, yet,
have I done as much for the good of my kind as this or that humble
friend, who would be astonished were his name ever to be uttered in
public?" Some such thought, for example, is inspired by Johnson's most
pathetic verses, when the great lexicographer, the acknowledged dictator
of English literature, thought of the poor dependant, the little humble
quack doctor, Levett, who was content, literally, to be fed with the
crumbs from his tables. But the obscure dependant, as the patron felt,
had done all that he could to alleviate the sum of human misery.
His virtues walked their narrow round,
Nor made a pause, nor left a void;
And, sure, the Eternal Master found
The single talent well employed.
Have I not, Johnson seems to have felt, really done less to soothe
misery by my _Dictionary_ and my _Ramblers_ than this obscure labourer
in the back lanes of London, of whom, but for my verses, no one would
have heard even the name?
A full answer to questions suggested by these thoughts would, perhaps,
require an estimate of the relative value of different aims and
different functions in life; and, for such an estimate, there are no
adequate grounds. In one of Browning's noblest poems, Rabbi Ben Ezra--of
whom I must say that he strikes me as being a little too
self-complacent--puts a relevant question. "Who," he asks, "shall
arbitrate?"
Ten men love what I hate;
Shun what I follow, slight what I receive;
Ten who, in ears and eyes,
Match me; we all surmise,
They this thing and I that: whom shall my soul believe?
And he answers or suggests one condition of a satisfactory answer, by
saying that we are not to take the coarse judgment of the world, which
goes by the work achieved. We must remember--
All instincts immature,
All purposes unsure,
That, weighed not as his work, yet swelled the man's account;
Thoughts hardly to be packed
Into a narrow act;
Fancies that broke through language and escaped;
All I would never be,
All men ignored in me,
That I was worth to God, whose wheel the pitcher shaped.
If it were proper to treat a poetical utterance of this kind like a
deliberate philosophical theory, I might wish to argue the point a
little with the rabbi. But, at any rate, he points to considerations
which show how little any one can judge of merit by any tangible and
generally accessible test. I am content to say that this sentiment gives
one--and a very impressive--answer to a problem which presses upon us
the more as we grow older. It is natural for a man who feels that he has
done most of his work, that the night is coming, and, as it seems,
coming with accelerated speed; who feels, too, that whatever he has done
or may do, he can no longer have the approval of those whose approval
was dear to him as his breath;--it is natural for such a man to look
back, to take stock more or less of his own performances perhaps, and at
any rate to endeavour to estimate at their true worth the services which
he has received from others. What, he may ask, has he done with his
talents? what little fragment has he achieved of what might once have
been in his power? The answer is pretty sure to have a very melancholy
side to it; and it will lead to the question, what part of that fragment
was really worth doing? What were the few really solid services which he
may set off as some satisfaction to his self-esteem, against his
countless errors and his wanderings in wrong directions, and his
attempts to achieve the impossible, and the waste of energy upon the
trifling and the worthless in which he is pretty sure to have spent a
very large proportion of his time? When we try to return a verdict upon
such issues, we feel painfully to how many illusions we are subject.
When we are young we naturally accept the commonplaces, and do not
question the ideals amid which we happen to have grown up; we are not
conscious of the movement which we share. As long as we are floating
with the current, we are not even aware that any current exists. We take
our own little world to be the fixed base, quite unconscious that it is
all the time whirling and spinning along a most complex course. And so
it is difficult, even if the thought of making the attempt ever occurs
to us, to try to occupy the position of a bystander looking on at life
from outside, and endeavouring to pronounce some general opinion as to
its merits or defects--its happiness or misery as a whole. "What a queer
place this is!" I remember a man once saying to me abruptly; and I
thought that he was referring to the steamboat on which we were
fellow-passengers. I found that he had been suddenly struck by the
oddity of the universe in general; and it seemed to me that there was a
great deal to be said for a remark which seldom occurs to those people
who take things for granted. We are roused sometimes by a philosopher
who professes pessimism or optimism, to ask and to try to answer such
questions. The answers, we know, are apt to be painfully discordant. Is
the world on the whole a scene of misery, of restless desires, proving
that we are miserable now, and doomed never to obtain satisfaction? is
it our only wisdom to give up the will to live; to hope that all this
visible and tangible scenery is so much illusion, and to aspire to sink
into Nirvana? Shall we try to conquer all earthly appetites by a
thorough-going asceticism, and cultivate those spiritual emotions which
can only find full satisfaction in another and a better world? Or shall
we agree that, after all, the love of the true and the beautiful, or, it
may be, the physically pleasurable, gives a real solid comfort for the
time, which it would be idle to drop for a shadow? Is the world a scene
of probation, in which we are to be fitted for higher spheres beyond
human ken by the hearty and strenuous exertion of every faculty that we
possess? or shall we say that such action is a good in itself, which
requires to be supplemented by no vision of any ulterior end? Shall we
say that this is the best of all possible worlds because the fittest
always tends to prevail, or that it is the worst because even the
greatest wretchedness which is compatible with bare existence can still
survive?
Philosophers, no doubt, contradict each other, because even philosophers
are not exempt from the universal weakness. The explanation that
pessimism means a disordered liver, and the counter remark that
optimism means a cold heart and a good digestion, are too familiar to
need exposition. Each man's macrocosm is apt to be related to his
microcosm, as the convex to the concave of a curve. To say the world is
disagreeable, means that I find it disagreeable; and that may be either
my own fault or the world's. Nor is it easy to correct the personal
error by observation, for the observer carries himself and his illusions
with him. Has such-and-such a life been a happy one? How are we to
decide? We are often subject to what may be called the dramatic
illusion. We judge by the catastrophe, by the success or failure of the
assumed end. We see a noble young man struck down by some accident, and
we think of his career sadly, because the promise has not been
fulfilled. Is it not equally reasonable to say that the promise was
itself a blessing? that the man we regret had his twenty or thirty years
of hopefulness, confidence, and happiness, and that that was a clear
gain even if we lose the result which we might have anticipated? Or we
are impressed by the more exciting incidents of a life, the blows which
crushed a man at intervals; and we forget all the monotonous years of
tranquil happiness which, if we apply an arithmetical test, may have
occupied by far the greater part of his existence. Southey, for example,
argues that although we remember Cowper chiefly for his terrible mental
suffering, we shall find, if we add up the moments of happiness and
misery, that he probably had, on the balance, a life of much more
enjoyment than torture. So, when we speak of the misery of a nation at
the time of some great trouble--the French Revolution, for example--it
is difficult to remember how small was the proportion of actual
sufferers; how many thousands or millions of children were enjoying
their little sports, utterly ignorant of the distant storm; how many
mothers were absorbed in watching their children; and how many quiet
commonplace people were going about their daily peaceful labour, pretty
much as usual, and with only a vague--and possibly
pleasurable--excitement at the news, which occasionally drifted to them,
of the catastrophes in a different sphere. Carlyle, in one of his most
vivid and famous passages, has incidentally drawn the contrast. Or, if
we try to form an estimate of the balance of happiness and misery
through any portion of the race, and appeal to experience for an answer,
we must certainly remember how limited is the field of observation, even
of the best informed, and the most impartial; how rigidly they are
confined for their direct knowledge to one little section of one part of
the race; and how the vast majority--the thousand millions or so who are
altogether beyond their ken--are known to them only by statistical
tables or the casual reports of superficial observers.
As there are so many difficulties in forming an estimate, as we are not
agreed as to the true ends of human life, nor as to the degrees in which
those ends are actually attained, nor as to the efficacy of the various
causes which determine the success or failure of the means employed, it
becomes any one to put forward his own opinion upon the topics to which
such considerations apply, with all modesty. And, yet, I think that I
may dwell upon some truths which may be admitted by those who differ
upon these difficult problems, and, as I fancy, deserve more weight than
they generally receive, even though they have become commonplaces. The
main condition of human happiness, say some people, is physical health.
A man whose organs are all working satisfactorily cannot fail to be
happy under any but very abnormal conditions; as, conversely, a grain of
sand in the wrong place will make any life a burden. No one will dispute
the truth contained in such _dicta_; and, perhaps, as we realise more
distinctly the importance of sound health to our neighbours and to our
descendants, as well as to ourselves, we shall lay greater stress upon
the conduct which is conducive to its preservation. We shall see that
what is, apparently, a mere dictate of personal prudence, has, also,
its ethical aspect. But, without dwelling upon this view, we may apply
the analogy to society. Whatever morality precisely means, and whatever
happiness means, it clearly indicates what we call--and I think that it
is no mere metaphor--a healthy state of society. This, again, implies,
first of all, the health of those domestic relations which are as the
ultimate molecular forces which bind together the social tissue. The
society, we may say without hesitation, in which the reciprocal duties
of husbands and wives, parents and children, are instinctively
recognised and habitually observed, has, so far, secured the most
deeply-seated and essential condition of happiness and virtue; the
society in which the union of married people normally produces harmony,
and the absolute identity of interests and affections, in which children
are brought up in a pure home atmosphere, with an embodiment of the
beauty of domestic love always before their eyes, imbibing unconsciously
the tradition of a high moral standard, and so prepared to repay, in due
time, to others the services lavishly and ungrudgingly bestowed upon
them by their elders,--so far represents perfectly sound health. The
degree in which any ethical theory recognises and reveals the essential
importance of the family relation is, I think, the best test of its
approximation to the truth. An unworthy view of domestic happiness may
lead to the ascetic view which sets up a sham and Quixotic ideal; or to
the cynical view which regards it as a mere case of selfish indulgence.
I do not deny that the relation, like all other human relations, may
require modification as circumstances change. Difficulties arise, as
when we notice the great social changes which have broken up ancient
ties, and have tended to weaken the family bond by facilitating
desertion, and increasing the floating population. And many socialist
schemes appear at first sight to be, and sometimes are, consciously
designed to weaken the sense of responsibility of parents. I, of course,
cannot now discuss a point which is, undoubtedly, of the highest
importance; but I am certainly convinced that the merits of any change
must be tested by its tendency to preserve, and, if possible, intensify
the strength of this underlying bond upon which the welfare of society
depends far more intimately than upon any other human relation.
If this be true, it follows also that to those activities which knit
families together, which help to enlarge the highest ideal of domestic
life, we owe a greater debt than to any other kind of conduct. And to
this I add that, as I believe, the highest services of this kind are
rendered by persons condemned, or perhaps I should say privileged, to
live in obscurity; whose very names will soon be forgotten, and who are
entirely eclipsed by people whose services, though not equally valuable,
are by their nature more public. To prove such an assertion is, of
course, impossible. I give it only as my personal impression--for what
it is worth, after any deductions you may please to make upon the score
of the great fallibility of such impressions; and only because, correct
or otherwise, it may serve to bring out aspects of the truth which we
are apt to neglect. I have lived long enough to have had opportunities
of seeing many eminent men and women. I have insensibly formed some kind
of estimate of the services which they have rendered to me and my like;
and I record, as far as I can, the result upon my own convictions. I
will put aside for the moment the half-dozen men of really first-rate
eminence,--the men whose names are written upon all the great
intellectual and social movements of the century. I will think for the
present only of those who may be placed in the second rank; of those who
do not profess to have originated, but only to have diffused, important
thoughts; who have acted as lieutenants to the great leaders, and become
known to their contemporaries, with little prospect of filling any
important place in the memory of their successors. Yet even such men
bulk far more largely in our eyes than multitudes of men and women
whose names will never be known outside their own little parish, or even
their family circles. And then I ask myself, how far the estimate thus
formed corresponds to the real value of the services performed. I think
that I can speak most easily by deserting the line of abstract argument,
and endeavouring to draw a portrait or two, which you need not assume to
correspond too closely to particular facts. I mean to suggest
reflections which will really apply in many representative cases, and to
refer to typical instances of general truths. I will first mention one
such case which happened to strike me forcibly at the time, and which no
one here, I am quite certain, will be able to identify. Long years ago I
knew a young man at college; he was so far from being intellectually
eminent that he had great difficulty in passing his examinations; he
died from the effects of an accident within a very short time after
leaving the university, and hardly any one would now remember his name.
He had not the smallest impression that there was anything remarkable
about himself, and looked up to his teachers and his more brilliant
companions with a loyal admiration which would have made him wonder that
they should ever take notice of him. And yet I often thought then, and I
believe, in looking back, that I thought rightly, that he was of more
real use to his contemporaries than any one of the persons to whose
influence they would most naturally refer as having affected their
development. The secret was a very simple one. Without any special
intellectual capacity, he somehow represented with singular completeness
a beautiful moral type. He possessed the "simple faith miscalled
simplicity," and was so absolutely unselfish, so conspicuously pure in
his whole life and conduct, so unsuspicious of evil in others, so sweet
and loyal in his nature, that to know him was to have before one's eyes
an embodiment of some of the most lovable and really admirable qualities
that a human being can possess. He was a living exemplification of the
truth which some great humorists have embodied in their writings, the
truth that simplicity at which fools laugh may be venerable to wise
observers. Young men were not always immaculate in those days: I don't
know that they are now; some of them probably were vicious in conduct,
and might be cynical in the views which they openly expressed. But
whatever might be their failings, they were at the age when all but the
depraved--that is, I hope and fully believe, all but a very small
minority--were capable of being deeply impressed by this concrete
example. They might affect to ridicule, but it was impossible that even
the ridicule should not be of the kindly sort; blended and tempered
with something that was more like awe--profound respect, at least, for
the beauty of soul that underlay the humble exterior. The direct moral
addresses which took the form of eloquent sermons or of good advice
naturally gained an incomparably higher reputation for those who uttered
them. But, considering the facility with which the impressions so made
evaporate from the minds of the hearers, I often thought that this
obscure influence, the more impressive when one felt it because of its
entire unconsciousness, probably did far more to stimulate good feelings
and higher aspirations among his companions than all the official
exhortations to which they ever listened. He would have been unfeignedly
surprised to hear, what I most sincerely believe to be the truth, that
his tutor owed incomparably more to his living exemplification of what
is meant by a character of unblemished purity and simplicity, than he
owed to the tutor whose respectable platitudes he received with
unaffected humility.
The case--for various reasons--impressed me deeply; and I have often
thought of it and of the principle which it illustrates in later years.
I once knew, for example, a woman whose whole life was devoted to
domestic duties, and who confessed to me that she had sometimes felt a
touch of humiliation when she thought how narrow was her own sphere of
action, while her husband was daily deciding upon great questions of
high political importance. Some women would have drawn the conclusion,
that the exclusion of women from political activity was a grievance to
be abated; and such people might receive with scorn the suggestion that
the discharge of the domestic duty might possibly be as important as the
discharge of the more conspicuous function. The argument about the
proper sphere of women is now generally treated with contempt; and I am
perfectly ready to admit that it begs the question, and is often a mere
utterance of blind prejudice. No one, I hope, could assert more
willingly than I, that the faculties of women should be cultivated as
fully as possible, and that every sphere in which their faculties can be
effectively applied should be thrown open to them. But the doctrine
sometimes tacitly confounded with this, that the sphere generally
assigned to women is necessarily lower or less important than others, is
not to be admitted, because the contradictory may be misapplied. The
domestic influence is, no doubt, confined within narrower limits; but
then, within those limits it is incomparably stronger and more certain
of effect. The man or woman can really mould the character of a little
circle, and determine the whole life of one little section of the next
generation; when it may be very difficult to say whether the influence
which they can bring to bear upon a class or a nation is really
perceptible at all, or does not even operate in the direction opposite
to that intended. And I could not help thinking that a woman who was
bringing up sons and daughters ready to quit themselves like brave men
and women in the great struggle of life, might be doing something more
really important than her conspicuous husband, who was, after all, only
part of a vast and complicated machinery, nominally directed by him,
but, in reality, controlling all his energy, and, not impossibly,
working out the very results which he most disapproved.
It is, therefore, with no reference to any of the political theories of
women's rights, and so forth, that I venture to insist upon this topic.
I think that we habitually under-estimate the enormous value of the
services, whether of man or woman, done in the shade, and confined
within a very limited area. Let me attempt, again, to draw a portrait,
not all imaginary, which may explain, at least, what I often feel--the
contrast between the real worth of such lives and the recognition which
they can ever receive. Wordsworth, in one of those poems which show best
how true and tender were his moral instincts, has described one who
was--
A perfect woman, nobly planned
To warn, to comfort, and command;
And yet a spirit too, and bright
With something of an angel light.