Produced by David Garcia, Bethanne M. Simms and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team.
HUMANLY SPEAKING
BY SAMUEL McCHORD CROTHERS
BOSTON AND NEW YORK
HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
MDCCCCXII
COPYRIGHT, 1912, BY SAMUEL MCCHORD CROTHERS
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
_Published November 1912_
* * * * *
By Samuel M. Crothers
HUMANLY SPEAKING.
AMONG FRIENDS.
BY THE CHRISTMAS FIRE.
THE PARDONER'S WALLET.
THE ENDLESS LIFE.
THE GENTLE READER.
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES: THE AUTOCRAT AND HIS FELLOW BOARDERS.
With Portrait.
MISS MUFFET'S CHRISTMAS PARTY. Illustrated.
HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
BOSTON AND NEW YORK
* * * * *
CONTENTS
HUMANLY SPEAKING
IN THE HANDS OF A RECEIVER
THE CONTEMPORANEOUSNESS OF ROME
THE AMERICAN TEMPERAMENT
THE UNACCUSTOMED EARS OF EUROPE
THE TORYISM OF TRAVELERS
THE OBVIOUSNESS OF DICKENS
THE SPOILED CHILDREN OF CIVILIZATION
ON REALISM AS AN INVESTMENT
TO A CITIZEN OF THE OLD SCHOOL
The author wishes to express his thanks to the Editors of the _Atlantic
Monthly_ and the _Century Magazine_ for their courtesy in permitting the
publication in this volume of certain essays which have appeared in
their magazines.
HUMANLY SPEAKING
"Humanly speaking, it is impossible." So the old theologian would say
when denying any escape from his own argument. His logical machine was
going at full speed, and the grim engineer had no notion of putting on
the brakes. His was a non-stop train and there was to be no slowing-down
till he reached the terminus.
But in the middle of the track was an indubitable fact. By all the rules
of argumentation it had no business to be there, trespassing on the
right of way. But there it was! We trembled to think of the impending
collision.
But the collision between the argument and the fact never happened. The
"humanly speaking" was the switch that turned the argument safely on a
parallel track, where it went whizzing by the fact without the least
injury to either. Many things which are humanly speaking impossible are
of the most common occurrence and the theologian knew it.
It is only by the use of this saving clause that one may safely moralize
or generalize or indulge in the mildest form of prediction. Strictly
speaking, no one has a right to express any opinion about such complex
and incomprehensible aggregations of humanity as the United States of
America or the British Empire. Humanly speaking, they both are
impossible. Antecedently to experience the Constitution of Utopia as
expounded by Sir Thomas More would be much more probable. It has a
certain rational coherence. If it existed at all it would hang together,
being made out of whole cloth. But how does the British Empire hold
together? It seems to be made of shreds and patches. It is full of
anomalies and temporary makeshifts. Why millions of people, who do not
know each other, should be willing to die rather than to be separated
from each other, is something not easily explained. Nevertheless the
British Empire exists, and, through all the changes which threaten it,
grows in strength.
The perils that threaten the United States of America are so obvious
that anybody can see them. So far as one can see, the Republic ought to
have been destroyed long ago by political corruption, race prejudice,
unrestricted immigration and the growth of monopolies. The only way to
account for its present existence is that there is something about it
that is not so easily seen. Disease is often more easily diagnosed than
health. But we should remember that the Republic is not out of danger.
It is a very salutary thing to bring its perils to the attention of the
too easy-going citizens. It is well to have a Jeremiah, now and then, to
speak unwelcome truths.
But even Jeremiah, when he was denouncing the evils that would befall
his country, had a saving clause in his gloomy predictions. All manner
of evils would befall them unless they repented, and humanly speaking he
was of the opinion that they couldn't repent. Said he: "Can the
Ethiopian change his skin or the leopard his spots? then may ye also do
good that are accustomed to do evil." Nevertheless this did not prevent
him from continually exhorting them to do good, and blaming them when
they didn't do it. Like all great moral teachers he acted on the
assumption that there is more freedom of will than seemed theoretically
possible. It was the same way with his views of national affairs.
Jeremiah's reputation is that of a pessimist. Still, when the country
was in the hands of Nebuchadnezzar and he was in prison for predicting
it, he bought a piece of real estate which was in the hands of the
enemy. He considered it a good investment. "I subscribed the deed and
sealed it, and called witnesses and weighed him the money in the
balances." Then he put the deeds in an earthen vessel, "that they may
continue many days." For in spite of the panic that his own words had
caused, he believed that the market would come up again. "Houses and
vineyards shall yet be bought in this land." If I were an archæologist
with a free hand, I should like to dig in that field in Anathoth in the
hope of finding the earthen jar with the deed which Hanameel gave to his
cousin Jeremiah, for a plot of ground that nobody else would buy.
It is the moralists and the reformers who have after all the most
cheerful message for us. They are all the time threatening us, yet for
our own good. They see us plunging heedlessly to destruction. They cry,
"Look out!" They often do not themselves see the way out, but they have
a well-founded hope that we will discover a way when our attention is
called to an imminent danger. The fact that the race has survived thus
far is an evidence that its instinct for self-preservation is a strong
one. It has a wonderful gift for recovering after the doctors have given
it up.
The saving clause is a great help to those idealists who are inclined to
look unwelcome facts in the face. It enables them to retain faith in
their ideals, and at the same time to hold on to their intellectual
self-respect.
There are idealists of another sort who know nothing of their struggles
and self-contradictions. Having formed their ideal of what ought to be,
they identify it with what is. For them belief in the existence of good
is equivalent to the obliteration of evil. Their world is equally good
in all its parts, and is to be viewed in all its aspects with serene
complacency.
Now this is very pleasant for a time, especially if one is tired and
needs a complete rest. But after a while it becomes irksome, and one
longs for a change, even if it should be for the worse. We are floating
on a sea of beneficence, in which it is impossible for us to sink. But
though one could not easily drown in the Dead Sea, one might starve. And
when goodness is of too great specific gravity it is impossible to get
on in it or out of it. This is disconcerting to one of an active
disposition. It is comforting to be told that everything is completely
good, till you reflect that that is only another way of saying that
nothing can be made any better, and that there is no use for you to try.
Now the idealist of the sterner sort insists on criticizing the existing
world. He refuses to call good evil or evil good. The two things are, in
his judgment, quite different. He recognizes the existence of good, but
he also recognizes the fact that there is not enough of it. This he
looks upon as a great evil which ought to be remedied. And he is glad
that he is alive at this particular juncture, in a world in which there
is yet room for improvement.
* * * * *
Besides the ordinary Christian virtues I would recommend to any one, who
would fit himself to live happily as well as efficiently, the
cultivation of that auxiliary virtue or grace which Horace Walpole
called "Serendipity." Walpole defined it in a letter to Sir Horace Mann:
"It is a very expressive word, which, as I have nothing better to tell
you, I shall endeavor to explain to you; you will understand it better
by the derivation than by the definition. I once read a silly fairy tale
called 'The Three Princes of Serendip.' As their Highnesses traveled,
they were always making discoveries, by accidents and sagacity, of
things which they were not in quest of.... Now do you understand
_Serendipity_?" In case the reader does not understand, Walpole goes on
to define "Serendipity" as "accidental sagacity (for you must know that
no discovery you _are_ looking for comes under this description)."
I am inclined to think that in such a world as this, where our hold on
all good is precarious, a man should be on the lookout for dangers.
Eternal vigilance is the price we pay for all that is worth having. But
when, prepared for the worst, he goes forward, his journey will be more
pleasant if he has also a "serendipitaceous" mind. He will then, by a
sort of accidental sagacity, discover that what he encounters is much
less formidable than what he feared. Half of his enemies turn out to be
friends in disguise, and half of the other half retire at his approach.
After a while such words as "impracticable" and "impossible" lose their
absoluteness and become only synonyms for the relatively difficult. He
has so often found a way out, where humanly speaking there was none,
that he no longer looks upon a logical dilemma as a final negation of
effort.
* * * * *
The following essays were written partly at home and partly abroad. They
therefore betray the influence of some of the mass movements of the day.
Anyone with even a little leisure from his own personal affairs must
realize that we are living in one of the most stirring times in human
history. Everywhere the old order is changing. Everywhere there are
confused currents both of thought and feeling.
That the old order is passing is obvious enough. That a new order is
arising, and that it is on the whole beneficent, is not merely a pious
hope. It is more than this: it is a matter of observation to any one
with a moderate degree of "Serendipity."
IN THE HANDS OF A RECEIVER
It sometimes happens that a business man who is in reality solvent
becomes temporarily embarrassed. His assets are greater than his
liabilities, but they are not quick enough to meet the situation. The
liabilities have become mutinous and bear down upon him in a threatening
mob. If he had time to deal with them one by one, all would be well; but
he cannot on the instant mobilize his forces.
Under such circumstances the law allows him to surrender, not to the
mob, but to a friendly power which shall protect the interests of all
concerned. He goes into the hands of a receiver, who will straighten out
his affairs for him. I can imagine the relief which would come to one
who could thus get rid, for a while, of his harassing responsibilities,
and let some one else do the worrying.
In these days some of the best people I know are in this predicament in
regard to their moral and social affairs. These friends of mine have
this peculiarity, that they are anxious to do their duty. Now, in all
generations, there have been persons who did their duty, according to
their lights. But in these days it happens that a new set of lights has
been turned on suddenly, and we all see more duties than we had
bargained for. In the glare we see an army of creditors, each with an
overdue bill in hand. Each demands immediate payment, and shakes his
head when we suggest that he call again next week. We realize that our
moral cash in hand is not sufficient for the crisis. If all our
obligations must be met at once, there will be a panic in which most of
our securities will be sacrificed.
We are accustomed to grumble over the increase in the cost of living.
But the enhancement of price in the necessities of physical life is
nothing compared to the increase in the cost of the higher life.
There are those now living who can remember when almost any one could
have the satisfaction of being considered a good citizen and neighbor.
All one had to do was to attend to one's own affairs and keep within the
law. He would then be respected by all, and would deserve the most
eulogistic epitaph when he came to die. By working for private profit he
could have the satisfaction of knowing that all sorts of public benefits
came as by-products of his activity.
But now all such satisfactions are denied. To be a good citizen you must
put your mind on the job, and it is no easy one. You must be up and
doing. And when you are doing one good thing there will be keen-eyed
critics who will ask why you have not been doing other things which are
much more important; and they will sternly demand of you, "What do you
mean by such criminal negligence?"
What we call the awakening of the social conscience marks an important
step in progress, But, like all progress, it involves hardship to
individuals. For the higher moral classes, the saints and the reformers,
it is the occasion of wholehearted rejoicing. It is just what they have,
all the while, been trying to bring about. But I confess to a sympathy
for the middle class, morally considered, the plain people, who feel the
pinch. They have invested their little all in the old-fashioned
securities, and when these are depreciated they feel that there is
nothing to keep the wolf from the door. After reading a few searching
articles in the magazines they feel that, so far from being excellent
citizens, they are little better than enemies of society. I am not
pleading for the predatory rich, but only for the well-meaning persons
in moderately comfortable circumstances, whose predatoriness has been
suddenly revealed to them.
Many of the most conscientious persons go about with an habitually
apologetic manner. They are rapidly acquiring the evasive air of the
conscious criminal. It is only a very hardened philanthropist, or an
unsophisticated beginner in good works, who can look a sociologist in
the eye. Most persons, when they do one thing, begin to apologize for
not doing something else. They are like a one-track railroad that has
been congested with traffic. They are not sure which train has the right
of way, and which should go on the siding. Progress is a series of
rear-end collisions.
There is little opportunity for self-satisfaction. The old-fashioned
private virtues which used to be exhibited with such innocent pride as
family heirlooms are now scrutinized with suspicion. They are subjected
to rigid tests to determine their value as public utilities.
Perhaps I may best illustrate the need of some receivership by drawing
attention to the case of my friend the Reverend Augustus Bagster.
Bagster is not by nature a spiritual genius; he is only a modern man who
is sincerely desirous of doing what is expected of him. I do not think
that he is capable of inventing a duty, but he is morally
impressionable, and recognizes one when it is pointed out to him. A
generation ago such a man would have lived a useful and untroubled life
in a round of parish duties. He would have been placidly contented with
himself and his achievements. But when he came to a city pulpit he heard
the Call of the Modern. The multitudinous life around him must be
translated into immediate action. His conscience was not merely
awakened: it soon reached a state of persistent insomnia.
When he told me that he had preached a sermon on the text, "Let him that
stole steal no more," I was interested. But shortly after, he told me
that he could not let go of that text. It was a live wire. He had
expanded the sermon into a course on the different kinds of stealing. He
found few things that did not come under the category of Theft.
Spiritual goods as well as material might be stolen. If a person
possessed a cheerful disposition, you should ask, "How did he get it?"
"It seems to me," I said, "that a cheerful disposition is one of the
things where possession is nine tenths of the law. I don't like to think
of such spiritual wealth as ill-gotten."
"I am sorry," said Bagster, "to see that your sympathies are with the
privileged classes."
Several weeks ago I received a letter which revealed his state of
mind:--
"I believe that you are acquainted with the Editor of the 'Atlantic
Monthly.' I suppose he means well, but persons in his situation are
likely to cater to mere literature. I hope that I am not uncharitable,
but I have a suspicion that our poets yield sometimes to the desire to
please. They are perhaps unconscious of the subtle temptation. They are
not sufficiently direct and specific in their charges. I have been
reading Walt Whitman's 'Song of Joys.' The subject does not attract me,
but I like the way in which it is treated. There is no beating around
the bush. The poet is perfectly fearless, and will not let any guilty
man escape.
"'O the farmer's joys!
Ohioans, Illinoisans, Wisconsonese, Kanadians,
Iowans, Kansans, Oregonese joys.'
"That is the way one should write if he expects
to get results. He should point to each individual
and say, 'Thou art the man.'
"I am no poet,--though I am painfully conscious
that I ought to be one,--but I have written
what I call, 'The Song of Obligations.' I
think it may arouse the public. In such matters
we ought to unite as good citizens. You might
perhaps drop a postal card, just to show where
you stand."
THE SONG OF OBLIGATIONS
"O the citizen's obligations.
The obligation of every American citizen to see that
every other American citizen does his duty, and
to be quick about it.
The janitor's duties, the Board of Health's duties, the
milkman's duties, resting upon each one of us individually
with the accumulated weight of every
cubic foot of vitiated air, and multiplied by the
number of bacteria in every cubic centimeter of
milk.
The motorman's duties, and the duty of every spry citizen
not to allow himself to be run over by the motorman.
The obligation of teachers in the public schools to supply
their pupils with all the aptitudes and graces
formerly supposed to be the result of heredity and
environment.
The duty of each teacher to consult daily a card catalogue
of duties, beginning with Apperception and
Adenoids and going on to Vaccination, Ventilation,
and the various vivacious variations on the
three R's.
The obligation resting upon the well-to-do citizen not
to leave for his country place, but to remain in the
city in order to give the force of his example, in
his own ward, to a safe and sane Fourth of July.
The obligation resting upon every citizen to write to
his Congressman.
The obligation to speak to one's neighbor who may
think he is living a moral life, and who yet
has never written to his Congressman.
The obligation to attend hearings at the State House.
The obligation to protest against the habit of employees
at the State House of professing ignorance
of the location of the committee-room where
the hearings are to be held; also to protest against
the habit of postponing the hearings after one has
at great personal inconvenience come to the State
House in order to protest.
The duty of doing your Christmas shopping early
enough in July to allow the shop-girls to enjoy
their summer vacation.
The duty of knowing what you are talking about, and
of talking about all the things you ought to know
about.
The obligation of feeling that it is a joy and a privilege
to live in a country where eternal vigilance is
the price of liberty, and where even if you have
the price you don't get all the liberty you pay for."
I was a little troubled over this effusion, as it seemed to indicate
that Bagster had reached the limit of elasticity. A few days later I
received a letter asking me to call upon him. I found him in a state of
uncertainty over his own condition.
"I want you," he said, "to listen to the report my stenographer has
handed me, of an address which I gave day before yesterday. I have been
doing some of my most faithful work recently, going from one meeting to
another and helping in every good cause. But at this meeting I had a
rare sensation of freedom of utterance. I had the sense of liberation
from the trammels of time and space. It was a realization of moral
ubiquity. All the audiences I had been addressing seemed to flow
together into one audience, and all the good causes into one good cause.
Incidentally I seemed to have solved the Social Question. But now that I
have the stenographic report I am not so certain."
"Read it," I said.
He began to read, but the confidence of his pulpit tone, which was one
of the secrets of his power, would now and then desert him, and he would
look up to me as if waiting for an encouraging "Amen."
"Your secretary, when she called me up by telephone, explained to me the
object of your meeting. It is an object with which I deeply sympathize.
It is Rest. You stand for the idea of poise and tranquillity of spirit.
You would have a place for tranquil meditation. The thought I would
bring to you this afternoon is this: We are here not to be doing, but to
be.
"But of course the thought at once occurs to us, How can we _be_
considering the high cost of the necessaries of life? It will be seen at
once that the question is at bottom an economic one. You must have a
living wage, and how can there be a living wage unless we admit the
principle of collective bargaining. It is because I believe in the
principle of collective bargaining that I have come here to-night to say
to you working-men that I believe this strike is justifiable.
"I must leave to other speakers many interesting aspects of this
subject, and confine myself to the aspect which the committee asked me
to consider more in detail, namely, Juvenile Delinquency in its relation
to Foreign Immigration. The relation is a real one. Statistics prove
that among immigrants the proportion of the juvenile element is greater
than among the native-born. This increase in juvenility gives
opportunity for juvenile delinquency from which many of our American
communities might otherwise be free. But is the remedy to be found in
the restriction of immigration? My opinion is that the remedy is to be
found only in education.
"It is our interest in education that has brought us together on this
bright June morning. Your teacher tells me that this is the largest
class that has ever graduated from this High School, You may well be
proud. Make your education practical. Learn to concentrate, that is the
secret of success. There are those who will tell you to concentrate on a
single point. I would go even further. Concentrate on every point.
"I admit, as the gentleman who has preceded me has pointed out, that
concentration in cities is a great evil. It is an evil that should be
counteracted. As I was saying last evening to the Colonial
Dames,--Washington, if he had done nothing else, would be remembered
to-day as the founder of the Order of the Cincinnati. The figure of
Cincinnatus at the plough appeals powerfully to American manhood. Many a
time in after years Cincinnatus wished that he had never left that
plough. Often amid the din of battle he heard the voice saying to him,
'Back to the Land!'
"It was the same voice I seemed to hear when I received the letter of
your secretary asking me to address this grange. As I left the smoke of
the city behind me and looked up at your granite hills, I said, 'Here is
where they make men!' As I have been partaking of the bountiful repast
prepared by the ladies of the grange, your chairman has been telling me
something about this community. It is a grand community to live in. Here
are no swollen fortunes; here industry, frugality, and temperance reign.
These are the qualities which have given New England its great place in
the councils of the nation. I know there are those who say that it is
the tariff that has given it that place; but they do not know New
England. There are those at this table who can remember the time when
eighty-two ruddy-cheeked boys and girls trooped merrily to the little
red schoolhouse under the hill. In the light of such facts as these, who
can be a pessimist?
"But I must not dwell upon the past; the Boy Scouts of America prepare
for the future. I am reminded that I am not at this moment addressing
the Boy Scouts of America,--they come to-morrow at the same hour,--but
the principle is the same. Even as the Boy Scouts of America look only
at the future, so do you. We must not linger fondly on the days when
cows grazed on Boston Common. The purpose of this society is to save
Boston Common. That the Common has been saved many times before is true;
but is that any reason why we should falter now? 'New occasions teach
new duties.' Let us not be satisfied with a supetficial view. While
fresh loam is being scattered on the surface, commercial interests and
the suburban greed to get home quick are striking at the vitals of the
Common. Citizens of Boston, awake!
"Your pastor had expected to be with you this evening, but he has at the
last moment discovered that he has two other engagements, each of them
of long standing. He has therefore asked me to take his place in this
interesting course of lectures on Church History. The subject of the
lecture for the evening is--and if I am mistaken some one will please
correct me--Ulphilas, or Christianity among the Goths. I cannot treat
this subject from that wealth of historical information possessed by
your pastor; but I can at least speak from the heart. I feel that it is
well for us to turn aside from the questions of the day, for the quiet
consideration of such a character as Ulphilas.
"Ulphilas seems to me to be one of those characters we ought all to know
more about. I shall not weary you by discussing the theology of Ulphilas
or the details of his career. It would seem more fitting that these
things should be left for another occasion. I shall proceed at once to
the main lesson of his life. As briefly as possible let me state the
historical situation that confronted him. It is immaterial for us to
inquire where the Goths were at that time, or what they were doing. It
is sufficient for us to know that the Goths at that time were pagans,
mere heathen. Under those circumstances what did Ulphilas do? He went to
the Goths. That one act reveals his character. If in the remaining
moments of this lecture I can enforce the lesson for us of that one act,
I shall feel that my coming here has not been in vain.
"But some one who has followed my argument thus far may say, 'All that
you have said is true, lamentably true; but what has it to do with the
Advancement of Woman?' I answer, it _is_ the Advancement of Woman."
"How do you make that out?" I asked.
Bagster looked vaguely troubled. "There is no such thing as an isolated
moral phenomenon," he said, as if he were repeating something from a
former sermon; "when you attempt to remedy one evil you find it related
to a whole moral series. But perhaps I did not make the connection
plain. My address doesn't seem to be as closely reasoned as it did when
I was delivering it. Does it seem to you to be cogent?"
"Cogent is not precisely the word I would use. But it seems earnest."
"Thank you," said Bagster. "I always try to be earnest. It's hard to be
earnest about so many things. I am always afraid that I may not give to
all an equal emphasis."
"And now that you have stopped for a moment," I suggested, "perhaps you
would be willing to skip to the last page. When I read a story I am
always anxious to get to the end. I should like to know how your address
comes out,--if it does come out."
Bagster turned over a dozen pages and read in a more animated manner.
"Your chairman has the reputation of making the meetings over which he
presides brisk and crisp. He has given me just a minute and a half in
which to tell what the country expects of this Federation of Young
People. I shall not take all the time. I ask you to remember two
letters--E and N. _What_ does the country expect this Federation to do?
E--everything. _When_ does the country expect you to do it? N--now.
Remember these two letters--E and N. Young people, I thank you for your
attention.
"The hour is late. You, my young brother, have listened to a charge in
which your urgent duties have been fearlessly declared to you. When you
have performed these duties, others will be presented to you. And now,
in token of our confidence in you, I give you the right hand of
fellowship.
"And do you know," said Bagster, "that when I reached to give him the
right hand of fellowship, he wasn't there."
We sat in silence for some time. At last he asked, hesitatingly, "What
do you think of it? In your judgment is it organic or functional?"
"I do not think it is organic. I am afraid that your conscience has been
over-functioning of late, and needs a rest. I know a nook in the woods
of New Hampshire, under the shadow of Mount Chocorua, where you might go
for six months while your affairs are in the hands of a receiver. I
can't say that you would find everything satisfactory, even there. The
mountain is not what it used to be. It is decadent, geologically
speaking, and it suffered a good deal during the last glacial period.
But you can't do much about it in six months. You might take it just as
it is,--some things have to be taken that way.
"You will start to-morrow morning and begin your life of temporary
irresponsibility. You will have to give up your problems for six months,
but you may rest assured that they will keep. You will go by Portsmouth,
where you will have ten minutes for lunch. Take that occasion for a
leisurely meal. A card will be handed to you assuring you that 'The bell
will ring one minute before the departure of the train. You can't get
left.' Hold that thought: you can't get left; the railroad authorities
say so."
"Did you ever try it," asked Bagster.
"Once," I answered.
"And did you get left?"
"Portsmouth," I said, "is a beautiful old town. I had always wanted to
see it. You can see a good deal of Portsmouth in an afternoon."
* * * * *
The predicament in which my friend Bagster finds himself is a very
common one. It is no longer true that the good die young; they become
prematurely middle-aged. In these days conscience doth make
neurasthenics of us all. Now it will not do to flout conscience, and by
shutting our eyes to the urgencies and complexities of life purchase for
ourselves a selfish calm. Neither do we like the idea of neurasthenia.
My notion is that the twentieth-century man is morally solvent, though
he is temporarily embarrassed. He will find himself if he is given
sufficient time. In the mean time it is well for him to consider the
nature of his embarrassment. He has discovered that the world is "so
full of a number of things," and he is disappointed that he is not as
"happy as kings"--that is, as kings in the fairy books. Perhaps "sure
enough" kings are not as happy as the fairy-book royalties, and perhaps
the modern man is only experiencing the anxieties that belong to his new
sovereignty over the world.
There are tribes which become confused when they try to keep in mind
more than three or four numbers. It is the same kind of confusion which
comes when we try to look out for more than Number One. We mean well,
but we have not the facilities for doing it easily. In fact, we are not
so civilized as we sometimes think.
For example, we have never carried out to its full extent the most
important invention that mankind has ever made--money. Money is a device
for simplifying life by providing a means of measuring our desires, and
gratifying a number of them without confusion.
Money is a measure, not of commodities, but of states of mind. The man
in the street expresses a profound philosophy when he says, "I feel like
thirty cents." That is all that "thirty cents" means. It is a certain
amount of feeling.
You see an article marked "$1.50." You pass by unmoved. The next day you
see it on the bargain counter marked "98 cents," and you say, "Come to
my arms," and carry it home. You did not feel like a dollar and a half
toward it, but you did feel exactly like ninety-eight cents.
It is because of this wonderful measure of value that we are able to
deal with a multitude of diverse articles without mental confusion.
I am asked to stop at the department store and discover in that vast
aggregation of goods a skein of silk of a specified shade, and having
found it bring it safely home. Now, I am not fitted for such an
adventure. Left to my own devices I should be helpless.
But the way is made easy for me. The floorwalker meets me graciously,
and without chiding me for not buying the things I do not want, directs
me to the one thing which would gratify my modest desire. I find myself
in a little place devoted to silk thread, and with no other articles to
molest me or make me afraid. The world of commodities is simplified to
fit my understanding. I feel all the gratitude of the shorn lamb for the
tempered wind.
At the silken shrine stands a Minerva who imparts her wisdom and guides
my choice. The silk thread she tells me is equivalent to five cents.
Now, I have not five cents, but only a five-dollar bill. She does not
act on the principle of taking all that the traffic will bear. She sends
the five-dollar bill through space, and in a minute or two she gives me
the skein and four dollars and ninety-five cents, and I go out of the
store a free man. I have no misgivings and no remorse because I did not
buy all the things I might have bought. No one reproached me because I
did not buy a four-hundred-dollar pianola. Thanks to the great
invention, the transaction was complete in itself. Five cents
represented one choice, and I had in my pocket ninety-nine choices which
I might reserve for other occasions.
But there are some things which, as we say, money cannot buy. In all
these things of the higher life we have no recognized medium of
exchange. We are still in the stage of primitive barter. We must bring
all our moral goods with us, and every transaction involves endless
dickering. If we express an appreciation for one good thing, we are at
once reproached by all the traffickers in similar articles for not
taking over bodily their whole stock in trade.
For example, you have a desire for culture. You haven't the means to
indulge in very much, but you would like a little. You are immediately
beset by all the eager Matthew Arnolds who have heard of your desire,
and they insist that you should at once devote yourself to the knowledge
of the best that has been known and said in the world. All this is very
fine, but you don't see how you can afford it. Isn't there a little of a
cheaper quality that they could show you? Perhaps the second best would
serve your purpose. At once you are covered with reproaches for your
philistinism.
You had been living a rather prosaic life and would like to brighten it
up with a little poetry. What you would really like would be a modest
James Whitcomb Riley's worth of poetry. But the moment you express the
desire the University Extension lecturer insists that what you should
take is a course of lectures on Dante. No wonder that you conclude that
a person in your circumstances will have to go without any poetry at
all.
It is the same way with efforts at social righteousness. You find it
difficult to engage in one transaction without being involved in others
that you are not ready for. You are interested in a social reform that
involves collective action. At once you are told that it is socialistic.
You do not feel that it is any worse for that, and you are quite willing
to go on. But at once your socialistic friends present you with the
whole programme of their party. It is all or nothing. When it is
presented in that way you are likely to become discouraged and fall back
on nothing.
Now, if we had a circulating medium you would express the exact state of
your desires somewhat in this way: "Here is my moral dollar. I think I
will take a quarter's worth of Socialism, and twelve and a half cents'
worth of old-time Republicanism, and twelve and a half cents of genuine
Jeffersonian democracy, if there is any left, and a quarter's worth of
miscellaneous insurgency. Let me see, I have a quarter left. Perhaps I
may drop in to-morrow and see if you have anything more that I want."
The sad state of my good friend Bagster arises from the fact that he
can't do one good thing without being confused by a dozen other things
which are equally good. He feels that he is a miserable sinner because
his moral dollar is not enough to pay the national debt.
But though we have not yet been able adequately to extend the notion of
money to the affairs of the higher life, there have been those who have
worked on the problem.
That was what Socrates had in mind. The Sophists talked eloquently about
the Good, the True, and the Beautiful; but they dealt in these things in
the bulk. They had no way of dividing them into sizable pieces for
everyday use. Socrates set up in Athens as a broker in ideas. He dealt
on the curb. He measured one thing in terms of another, and tried to
supply a sufficient amount of change for those who were not ashamed to
engage in retail trade.
Socrates draws the attention of Phædrus to the fact that when we talk of
iron and silver the same objects are present to our minds, "but when any
one speaks of justice and goodness, there is every sort of disagreement,
and we are at odds with one another and with ourselves."
What we need to do he says is to have an idea that is big enough to
include all the particular actions or facts. Then, in order to do
business, we must be able to divide this so that it may serve our
convenience. This is what Socrates called Philosophy.
"I am a great lover," he said, "of the processes of division and
generalization; they help me to speak and think. And if I find any man
who is able to see unity and plurality in nature, him I follow, and walk
in his steps as if he were a god."
Even in the Forest of Arden life was not so simple as at first it
seemed. The shepherd's life which "in respect of itself was a good life"
was in other respects quite otherwise. Its unity seemed to break up into
a confusing plurality. Honest Touchstone, in trying to reconcile the
different points of view, blurted out the test question, "Hast any
philosophy in thee, Shepherd?" After Bagster has communed with Chocorua
for six months, I shall put that question to him.
THE CONTEMPORANEOUSNESS OF ROME
I
"You here, Bagster?" I exclaimed, as in the Sistine Chapel I saw an
anxious face gazing down into a mirror in which were reflected the
dimmed glories of the ceiling. There was an anxiety as of one who was
seeking the Truth of Art at the bottom of the well.
One who is in the habit of giving unsolicited advice is likely to take
for granted that his advice has been acted upon, even though experience
should teach him that this is seldom the case. I had sagely counseled
Bagster to go to the New Hampshire woods, in order to recuperate after
his multifarious labors. I was therefore surprised to find him playing
truant in Rome.
My salutation did not at first cause him to look up. He only made a
mysterious sign with his hand. It was evidently a gesture which he had
recently learned, and was practiced as a sort of exorcism.
"I am not going to sell you cameos or post cards," I explained.
When he recognized a familiar face, Bagster forgot all about the Last
Judgment, and we were soon out-of-doors and he was telling me about
himself.
"I meant to go to Chocorua as you suggested, but the congregation
advised otherwise, so I came over here. It seemed the better thing to
do. Up in New Hampshire you can't do much but rest, but here you can
improve your taste and collect a good deal of homiletic material. So
I've settled down in Rome. I want to have time to take it all in."
"Do you begin to feel rested?" I asked.
"Not yet. It's harder work than I thought it would be. There's so much
to take in, and it's all so different. I don't know how to arrange my
material. What I want to do, in the first place, is to have a realizing
sense of being in Rome. What's the use of being here unless you are here
in the spirit?
"What I mean is that I should like to feel as I did when I went to Mount
Vernon. It was one of those dreamy autumn days when the leaves were just
turning. There was the broad Potomac, and the hospitable Virginia
mansion. I had the satisfying sense that I was in the home of
Washington. Everything seemed to speak of Washington. He filled the
whole scene. It was a great experience. Why can't I feel that way about
the great events that happened down there?"
We were by this time on the height of the Janiculum near the statue of
Garibaldi. Bagster made a vague gesture toward the city that lay beneath
us. There seemed to be something in the scene that worried him. "I can't
make it seem real," he said. "I have continually to say to myself, 'That
is Rome, Italy, and not Rome, New York.' I can't make the connection
between the place and the historical personages I have read about. I
can't realize that the Epistle to the Romans was written to the people
who lived down there. Just back of that new building is the very spot
where Romulus would have lived if he had ever existed. On those very
streets Scipio Africanus walked, and Cæsar and Cicero and Paul and
Marcus Aurelius, and Epictetus and Belisarius, and Hildebrand and
Michelangelo, and at one time or another about every one you ever heard
of. And how many people came to get emotions they couldn't get anywhere
else! There was Goethe. How he felt! He took it all in. And there was
Shelley writing poetry in the Baths of Caracalla. And there was Gibbon."
"But we can't all expect to be Shelleys or even Gibbons," I suggested.
"I know it," said Bagster, ruefully. "But if one has only a little
vessel, he ought to fill it. But somehow the historical associations
crowd each other out. When I left home I bought Hare's 'Walks in Rome.'
I thought I would take a walk a day as long as they lasted. It seemed a
pleasant way of combining physical and intellectual exercise. But do you
know, I could not keep up those walks. They were too concentrated for my
constitution. I wasn't equal to them. Out in California they used to
make wagers with the stranger that he couldn't eat a broiled quail every
day for ten days. I don't see why he couldn't, but it seemed that the
thought of to-morrow's quail, and the feeling that it was compulsory,
turned him against what otherwise might have been a pleasure. It's so
with the 'Walks.' It's appalling to think that every morning you have to
start out for a constitutional, and be confronted with the events of the
last twenty-five centuries. The events are piled up one on another.
There they are, and here you are, and what are you going to do about
them?"
"I suppose that there isn't much that you can do about them," I
remarked.
"But we ought to do what we can," said Bagster. "When I do have an
emotion, something immediately turns up to contradict it. It's like
wandering through a big hotel, looking for your room, when you are on
the wrong floor. Here you are as likely as not to find yourself in the
wrong century. In Rome everything turns out, on inquiry, to be something
else. There's something impressive about a relic if it's the relic of
one thing. But if it's the relic of a dozen different kinds of things
it's hard to pick out the appropriate emotion. I find it hard to adjust
my mind to these composite associations."
"Now just look at this," he said, opening his well-thumbed Baedeker:
"'Santa Maria Sopra Minerva (Pl. D. 4), erected on the ruins of
Domitian's temple of Minerva, the only mediæval Gothic church in Rome.
Begun A.D., 1280; was restored and repainted in 1848-55. It contains
several admirable works of art, in particular Michelangelo's Christ.'"
"It's that sort of thing that gets on my nerves. The Virgin and Minerva
and Domitian and Michelangelo are all mixed together, and then
everything is restored and repainted in 1848. And just round the corner
from Santa Maria Sopra Minerva is the Pantheon. The inscription on the
porch says that it was built by Agrippa, the son-in-law of Augustus. I
try to take that in. But when I have partially done that, I learn that
the building was struck by lightning and entirely rebuilt by the Emperor
Hadrian.
"That information comes like the call of the conductor to change cars,
just as one has comfortably settled down on the train. We must forget
all about Agrippa and Augustus, and remember that this building was
built by Hadrian. But it turns out that in 609 Boniface turned it into a
Christian church. Which Boniface? The Pantheon was adorned with bronze
columns. If you wish to see them you must go to St. Peter's, where they
are a part of the high altar. So Baedeker says, but I'm told that isn't
correct either. When you go inside you see that you must let by-gones be
by-gones. You are confronted with the tomb of Victor Emmanuel and set to
thinking on the recent glories of the House of Savoy. Really to
appreciate the Pantheon you must be well-posted in nineteenth-century
history. You keep up this train of thought till you happen to stumble on
the tomb of Raphael. That, of course, is what you ought to have come to
see in the first place.
"When you look at the column of Trajan you naturally think of Trajan,
you follow the spiral which celebrates his victories, till you come to
the top of the column; and there stands St. Peter as if it were _his_
monument. You meditate on the column of Marcus Aurelius, and look up and
see St. Paul in the place of honor.
"I must confess that I have had difficulty about the ruins. Brick,
particularly in this climate, doesn't show its age. I find it hard to
distinguish between a ruin and a building in the course of construction.
When I got out of the station I saw a huge brick building across the
street, which had been left unfinished as if the workmen had gone on
strike. I learned that it was the remains of the Baths of Diocletian.
Opening a door I found myself in a huge church, which had a long history
I ought to have known something about, but didn't.
"Now read this, and try to take it in: 'Returning to the Cancelleria, we
proceed to the Piazza Campo de' Fiori, where the vegetable market is
held in the morning, and where criminals were formerly executed. The
bronze statue of the philosopher Giordano Bruno, who was burned here as
a heretic in 1600, was erected in 1889. To the east once lay the Theatre
of Pompey. Behind it lay the Porticus of Pompey where Cæsar was
murdered, B.C. 44.'
"It economizes space to have the vegetable market and the martyrdom of
Giordano Bruno and the assassination of Julius Cæsar all close together.
But they are too close. The imagination hasn't room to turn round.
Especially as the market-women are very much alive and cannot conceive
that any one would come into the Piazza unless he intended to buy
vegetables. Somehow the great events you have read about don't seem to
have impressed themselves on the neighborhood. At any rate, you are
conscious that you are the only person in the Piazza Campo de' Fiori who
is thinking about Giordano Bruno or Julius Cæsar; while the price of
vegetables is as intensely interesting as it was in the year 1600 A.D.
or in 44 B.C.
"How am I to get things in their right perspective? When I left home I
had a pretty clear and connected idea of history. There was a logical
sequence. One period followed another. But in these walks in Rome the
sequence is destroyed. History seems more like geology than like logic,
and the strata have all been broken up by innumerable convulsions of
nature. The Middle Ages were not eight or ten centuries ago; they are
round the next block. A walk from the Quirinal to the Vatican takes you
from the twentieth century to the twelfth. And one seems as much alive
as the other. You may go from schools where you have the last word in
modern education, to the Holy Stairs at the Lateran, where you will see
the pilgrims mounting on their knees as if Luther and his protest had
never happened. Or you can, in five minutes, walk from the Renaissance
period to 400 B.C.
"When I was in the theological seminary I had a very clear idea of the
difference between Pagan Rome and Christian Rome. When Constantine came,
Christianity was established. It was a wonderful change and made
everything different. But when you stroll across from the Arch of Titus
to the Arch of Constantine you wonder what the difference was. The two
things look so much alike. And in the Vatican that huge painting of the
triumph of Constantine over Maxentius doesn't throw much light on the
subject. Suppose the pagan Maxentius had triumphed over Constantine,
what difference would it have made in the picture?