The miscellaneous writings

•

THE JV1ISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS

OF

JOHN FISKE

Ut
WITH MANY PORTRAITS OF ILLUSTRIOUS

PHILOSOPHERS, SCIENTISTS, AND
OTHER MEN OF NOTE

IN TWELVE VOLUMES

VOLUME VI

r

INSEEN WORLD

Joseph Ernest Renan

THE UNSEEN WORLD

AND OTHER ESSAYS

BY

JOHN FISKE

TI'S S* olSev el TO <jVjc pev
TO na.Tda.velv Se tftv ;

EURIPIDES

BOSTON AND NEW YORK

HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY

RiUcrsibc prcs? , Cambridge
1902

COPYRIGHT 1876 BY JOHN FISKE

COPYRIGHT 1902 BY HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & CO.

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

TO

JAMES SIME

MY DEAR SIME :

Life has now and then some supreme moments of pure
happiness, which in reminiscence give to single days the value
of months or years. Two or three such moments it has been
my good fortune to enjoy with you, in talking over the mys-
teries which forever fascinate while they forever baffle us. It
was our midnight talks in Great Russell Street and the Addi-
son Road, and our bright May holiday on the Thames, that
led me to write this scanty essay on the "Unseen World,"
and to whom could I so heartily dedicate it as to you ? I
only wish it were more worthy of its origin. As for the
dozen papers which I have appended to it, by way of clear-
ing out my workshop, I hope you will read them indulgently,
and believe me

Ever faithfully yours,

JOHN FISKE.

HARVARD UNIVERSITY, February j, 1876.

CONTENTS

PAGE

I. THE UNSEEN WORLD i

II. " THE TO-MORROW OF DEATH " . 77

III. THE JESUS OF HISTORY . . . .87

IV. THE CHRIST OF DOGMA . . . 133
V. A WORD ABOUT MIRACLES . . .170

VI. DRAPER ON SCIENCE AND RELIGION . 182

VII. NATHAN THE WISE . . . .193

VIII. HISTORICAL DIFFICULTIES . . . 221

IX. THE FAMINE OF 1770 IN BENGAL . . 249

X. SPAIN AND THE NETHERLANDS . . 276

xi. LONGFELLOW'S DANTE . . . .310

xii. PAINE'S " ST. PETER " ... 347

XIII. A PHILOSOPHY OF ART . . . .366

XIV. ATHENIAN AND AMERICAN LIFE . . 395

INDEX 443

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

PACK

JOSEPH ERNEST RENAN . . . Frontispiece

GOTTHOLD EPHRAIM LESSING 194

JOHN LOTHROP MOTLEY 276

JOHN KNOWLES PAINE 348

THE UNSEEN WORLD
AND OTHER ESSAYS

I
THE UNSEEN WORLD

PART I

WHAT are you, where did you come
from, and whither are you bound ? "
— the question which from Homer's
days has been put to the wayfarer in strange
lands - — is likewise the all-absorbing question
which man is ever asking of the universe of
which he is himself so tiny yet so wondrous a
part. From the earliest times the ultimate pur-
pose of all scientific research has been to elicit
fragmentary or partial responses to this question,
and philosophy has ever busied itself in piecing
together these several bits of information accord-
ing to the best methods at its disposal, in order
to make up something like a satisfactory answer.
In old times the best methods which philoso-
phy had at its disposal for this purpose were
such as now seem very crude, and accordingly

I

THE UNSEEN WORLD

ancient philosophers bungled considerably in
their task, though now and then they came sur-
prisingly near what would to-day be called the
truth. It was natural that their methods should
be crude, for scientific inquiry had as yet sup-
plied but scanty materials for them to work
with, and it was only after a very long course
of speculation and criticism that men could find
out what ways of going to work are likely to
prove successful and what are not. The earliest
thinkers, indeed, were further hindered from ac-
complishing much by the imperfections of the
language by the aid of which their thinking was
done ; for science and philosophy have had to
make a serviceable terminology by dint of long
and arduous trial and practice, and linguistic
processes fit for expressing general or abstract
notions accurately grew up only through num-
berless failures and at the expense of much in-
accurate thinking and loose talking. As in most
of nature's processes, there was a great waste of
energy before a good result could be secured.
Accordingly primitive men were very wide of
the mark in their views of nature. To them
the world was a sort of enchanted ground, peo-
pled with sprites and goblins ; the quaint notions
with which we now amuse our children in fairy
tales represent a style of thinking which once
was current among grown men and women, and
which is still current wherever men remain in

THE UNSEEN WORLD

a savage condition. The theories of the world
wrought out by early priest-philosophers were
in great part made up of such grotesque notions ;
and having become variously implicated with
ethical opinions as to the nature and conse-
quences of right and wrong behaviour, they ac-
quired a kind of sanctity, so that any thinker
who in the light of a wider experience ventured
to alter or amend the primitive theory was
likely to be vituperated as an irreligious man or
atheist. This sort of inference has not yet been
wholly abandoned, even in civilized communi-
ties. Even to-day books are written about " the
conflict between religion and science," and other
books are written with intent to reconcile the
two presumed antagonists. But when we look
beneath the surface of things, we see that in
reality there has never been any conflict between
religion and science, nor is any reconciliation
called for where harmony has always existed.
The real historical conflict, which has been thus
curiously misnamed, has been the conflict be-
tween the more-crude opinions belonging to the
science of an earlier age and the less-crude opin-
ions belonging to the science of a later age. In
the course of this contest the more-crude opin-
ions have usually been defended in the name of
religion, and the less-crude opinions have inva-
riably won the victory ; but religion itself, which
is not concerned with opinion, but with the as-

3

THE UNSEEN WORLD

piration which leads us to strive after a purer and
holier life, has seldom or never been attacked.
On the contrary, the scientific men who have
conducted the battle on behalf of the less-crude
opinions have generally been influenced by this
religious aspiration quite as strongly as the apol-
ogists of the more-crude opinions, and so far
from religious feeling having been weakened by
their perennial series of victories, it has appar-
ently been growing deeper and stronger all the
time. The religious sense is as yet too feebly de-
veloped in most of us ; but certainly in no pre-
ceding age have men taken up the work of life
with more earnestness or with more real faith
in the unseen than at the present day, when so
much of what was once deemed all-important
knowledge has been consigned to the limbo of
mythology.

The more-crude theories of early times are
to be chiefly distinguished from the less-crude
theories of to-day as being largely the products
of random guesswork. Hypothesis, or guess-
work, indeed, lies at the foundation of all scien-
tific knowledge. The riddle of the universe,
like less important riddles, is unravelled only
by approximative trials, and the most brilliant
discoverers have usually been the bravest guess-
ers. Kepler's laws were the result of indefati-
gable guessing, and so, in a somewhat different
sense, was the wave-theory of light. But the

4

THE UNSEEN WORLD

guesswork of scientific inquirers is very different
now from what it was in older times. In the
first place, we have slowly learned that a guess
must be verified before it can be accepted as a
sound theory ; and, secondly, so many truths
have been established beyond contravention,
that the latitude for hypothesis is much less than
it once was. Nine tenths of the guesses which
might have occurred to a mediaeval philosopher
would now be ruled out as inadmissible, because
they would not harmonize with the knowledge
which has been acquired since the Middle Ages.
There is one direction especially in which this
continuous limitation of guesswork by ever-
accumulating experience has manifested itself.
From first to last, all our speculative successes
and failures have agreed in teaching us that the
most general principles of action which prevail
to-day, and in our own corner of the universe,
have always prevailed throughout as much of the
universe as is accessible to our research. They
have taught us that for the deciphering of the
past and the predicting of the future, no hypoth-
eses are admissible which are not based upon the
actual behaviour of things in the present. Once
there was unlimited facility for guessing as to
how the solar system might have come into ex-
istence ; now the origin of the sun and planets
is adequately explained when we have unfolded
all that is implied in the processes which are still

5

THE UNSEEN WORLD

going on in the solar system. Formerly appeals
were made to all manner of violent agencies to
account for the changes which the earth's surface
has undergone since our planet began its inde-
pendent career ; now it is seen that the same
slow working of rain and tide, of wind and wave
and frost, of secular contraction and of earth-
quake pulse, which is visible to-day, will account
for the whole. It is not long since it was sup-
posed that a species of animals or plants could
be swept away only by some unusual catas-
trophe, while for the origination of new species
something called an act of " special creation "
was necessary ; and as to the nature of such
extraordinary events there was endless room
for guesswork ; but the discovery of natural
selection was the discovery of a process, going
on perpetually under our very eyes, which must
inevitably of itself extinguish some species and
bring new ones into being. In these and count-
less other ways we have learned that all the rich
variety of nature is pervaded by unity of action,
such as we might expect to find if nature is the
manifestation of an infinite God who is without
variableness or shadow of turning, but quite in-
compatible with the fitful behaviour of the an-
thropomorphic deities of the old mythologies.
By thus abstaining from all appeal to agencies
that are extra-cosmic, or not involved in the

THE UNSEEN WORLD

orderly system of events that we see occurring
around us, we have at last succeeded in eliminat-
ing from philosophic speculation the character
of random guesswork which at first of necessity
belonged to it. Modern scientific hypothesis is
so far from being a haphazard mental proceed-
ing that it is perhaps hardly fair to classify it
with guesses. It is lifted out of the plane of
guesswork, in so far as it has acquired the char-
acter of inevitable inference from that which now
is to that which has been or will be. Instead of
the innumerable particular assumptions which
were once admitted into cosmic philosophy, we
are now reduced to the one universal assump-
tion which has been variously described as the
" principle of continuity," the " uniformity of
nature," the " persistence of force," or the " law
of causation," and which has been variously ex-
plained as a necessary datum for scientific think-
ing or as a net result of all induction. I am not
unwilling, however, to adopt the language of a
book which has furnished the occasion for the
present discussion, and to say that this grand
assumption is a supreme act of faith, the definite
expression of a trust that the infinite Sustainer
of the universe " will not put us to permanent
intellectual confusion." For in this mode of
statement the harmony between the scientific
and the religious points of view is well brought

THE UNSEEN WORLD

out. It is as affording the only outlet from per-
manent intellectual confusion that inquirers have
been driven to appeal to the principle of con-
tinuity ; and it is by unswerving reliance upon
this principle that we have obtained such insight
into the past, present, and future of the world
as we now possess.

The work just mentioned 1 is especially in-
teresting as an attempt to bring the probable
destiny of the human soul into connection with
the modern theories which explain the past and
future career of the physical universe in accord-
ance with the principle of continuity. Its au-
thorship is as yet unknown, but it is believed
to be the joint production of two of the most
eminent physicists in Great Britain, and cer-
tainly the accurate knowledge and the ingenu-
ity and subtlety of thought displayed in it are
such as to lend great probability to this conjec-
ture. Some account of the argument it con-
tains may well precede the suggestions pre-
sently to be set forth concerning the Unseen
World ; and we shall find it most convenient
to begin, like our authors, with a brief state-
ment of what the principle of continuity teaches
as to the proximate beginning and end of the
visible universe. I shall in the main set down

1 The Unseen Universe ; or, Physical Speculations on a
Future State. [Attributed to Professors Tait and Balfour
Stewart.] New York : Macmillan & Co. 1875.

8

THE UNSEEN WORLD

only results, having elsewhere l given a simple
exposition of the arguments upon which these
results are founded.

The first great cosmological speculation
which has been raised quite above the plane of
guesswork by making no other assumption
than that of the uniformity of nature, is the
well-known Nebular Hypothesis. Every as-
tronomer knows that the earth, like all other
cosmical bodies which are flattened at the poles,
was formerly a mass of fluid, and consequently
filled a much larger space than at present. It
is further agreed, on all hands, that the sun is
a contracting body, since there is no other pos-
sible way of accounting for the enormous quan-
tity of heat which he generates. The so-called
primeval nebula follows as a necessary infer-
ence from these facts. There was once a time
when the earth was distended on all sides away
out to the moon and beyond it, so that the
matter now contained in the moon was then a
part of our equatorial zone. And at a still re-
moter date in the past, the mass of the sun was
diffused in every direction beyond the orbit of
Neptune, and no planet had an individual exist-
ence, for all were indistinguishable parts of the
solar mass. When the great mass of the sun,
increased by the relatively small mass of all the

1 Outlines of Cosmic Philosophy, based on the Doctrine
of Evolution.

THE UNSEEN WORLD

planets put together, was spread out in this
way, it was a rare vapour or gas. At the period
where the question is taken up in Laplace's
treatment of the nebular theory, the shape of
this mass is regarded as spheroidal ; but at an
earlier period its shape may well have been as
irregular as that of any of the nebulas which we
now see in distant parts of the heavens, for,
whatever its primitive shape, the equalization of
its rotation would in time make it spheroidal.
That the quantity of rotation was the same
then as now is unquestionable ; for no system
of particles, great or small, can acquire or lose
rotation by any action going on within itself,
any more than a man could pick himself up by
his waistband and lift himself over a stone wall.
So that the primitive rotating spheroidal solar
nebula is not a matter of assumption, but is
just what must once have existed, provided
there has been no breach of continuity in na-
ture's operations. Now proceeding to reason
back from the past to the present, it has been
shown that the abandonment of successive
equatorial belts by the contracting solar mass
must have ensued in accordance with known
mechanical laws ; and in similar wise, under
ordinary circumstances, each belt must have
parted into fragments, and the fragments, chas-
ing each other around the same orbit, must
have at last coalesced into a spheroidal planet.

10

THE UNSEEN WORLD

Not only this, but it has also been shown that
as the result of such a process the relative
sizes of the planets would be likely to take the
order which they now follow ; that the ring
immediately succeeding that of Jupiter would
be likely to abort and produce a great number
of tiny planets instead of one good-sized one ;
that the outer planets would be likely to have
many moons, and that Saturn, besides having
the greatest number of moons, would be likely
to retain some of his inner rings unbroken ;
that the earth would be likely to have a long
day and Jupiter a short one ; that the extreme
outer planets would be not unlikely to rotate
in a retrograde direction ; and so on, through
a long list of interesting and striking details.
Not only, therefore, are we driven to the in-
ference that our solar system was once a vapor-
ous nebula, but we find that the mere contrac-
tion of such a nebula, under the influence of
the enormous mutual gravitation of its parti-
cles, carries with it the explanation of both the
more general and the more particular features of
the present system. So that we may fairly re-
gard this stupendous process as veritable matter
of history, while we proceed to study it under
some further aspects and to consider what con-
sequences are likely to follow.

Our attention should first be directed to the
enormous waste of energy which has accom-

ii

THE UNSEEN WORLD*

panied this contraction of the solar nebula.
The first result of such a contraction is the
generation of a great quantity of heat, and
when the heat thus generated has been lost by
radiation into surrounding space it becomes
possible for the contraction to continue. Thus,
as concentration goes on, heat is incessantly
generated and incessantly dissipated. How
long this process is to endure depends chiefly
on the size of the contracting mass, as small
bodies radiate heat much faster than large ones.
The moon seems to be already thoroughly re-
frigerated, while Jupiter and Saturn are very
much hotter than the earth, as is shown by the
tremendous atmospheric phenomena which oc-
cur on their surfaces. The sun, again, gener-
ates heat so rapidly, owing to his great energy
of contraction, and loses it so slowly, owing to
his great size, that his surface is always kept in
a state of incandescence. His surface tempera-
ture is estimated at some three million degrees
of Fahrenheit, and a diminution of his diame-
ter far too small to be detected by the finest
existing instruments would suffice to maintain
the present supply of heat for more than fifty
centuries. These facts point to a very long
future during which the sun will continue to
warm the earth and its companion planets, but
at the same time they carry on their face the
story of inevitable ultimate doom. If things
12

THE UNSEEN WORLD

continue to go on as they have all along gone
on, the sun must by and by grow black and
cold, and all life whatever throughout the solar
system must come to an end. Long before this
consummation, however, life will probably have
become extinct through the refrigeration of
each of the planets into a state like the present
state of the moon, in which the atmosphere
and oceans have disappeared from the surface.
No doubt the sun will continue to give out
heat a long time after heat has ceased to be
needed for the support of living organisms.
For the final refrigeration of the sun will long
be postponed by the fate of the planets them-
selves. The separation of the planets from
their parent solar mass seems to be after all
but a temporary separation. So nicely balanced
are they now in their orbits that they may well
seem capable of rolling on in their present
courses forever. But this is not the case. Two
sets of circumstances are all the while striving,
the one to drive the planets farther away from
the sun, the other to draw them all into it. On
the one hand, every body in our system which
contains fluid matter has tides raised upon its
surface by the attraction of neighbouring bodies.
All the planets raise tides upon the surface of
the sun, and the periodicity of sun-spots (or
solar cyclones) depends upon this fact. These
tidal waves act as a drag or brake upon the

13

THE UNSEEN WORLD

rotation of the sun, somewhat diminishing its
rapidity. But, in conformity with a princi-
ple of mechanics well known to astronomers,
though not familiar to the general reader, all
the motion of rotation thus lost by the sun is
added to the planets in the shape of annual
motion of revolution, and thus their orbits all
tend to enlarge, — they all tend to recede
somewhat from the sun. But this state of
things, though long-enduring enough, is after
all only temporary, and will at any rate come
to an end when the sun and planets have be-
come solid. Meanwhile another set of circum-
stances is all the time tending to bring the
planets nearer to the sun, and in the long run
must gain the mastery. The space through
which the planets move is filled with a kind of
matter which serves as a medium for the trans-
mission of heat and light, and this kind of
matter, though different in some respects from
ordinary ponderable matter, is yet like it in
exerting friction. This friction is almost in-
finitely little, yet it has a wellnigh infinite
length of time to work in, and during all this
wellnigh infinite length of time it is slowly
eating up the momentum of the planets and
diminishing their ability to maintain their dis-
tances from the sun. Hence in course of time
the planets will all fall into the sun, one after
another, so that the solar system will end, as

THE UNSEEN WORLD

it began, by consisting of a single mass of
matter.

But this is by no means the end of the story.
When two bodies rush together, each parts with
some of its energy of motion, and this lost en-
ergy of motion reappears as heat. In the con-
cussion of two cosmical bodies, like the sun and
the earth, an enormous quantity of motion is
thus converted into heat. Now heat, when not
allowed to radiate, or when generated faster than
it can be radiated, is transformed into motion of
expansion. Hence the shock of sun and planet
would at once result in the vaporization of both
bodies ; and there can be no doubt that by the
time the sun has absorbed the outermost of his
attendant planets, he will have resumed some-
thing like his original nebulous condition. He
will have been dilated into a huge mass of va-
pour, and will have become fit for a new process
of contraction and for a new production of life-
bearing planets.

We are now, however, confronted by an in-
teresting but difficult question. Throughout all
this grand past and future career of the solar
system which we have just briefly traced, we have
been witnessing a most prodigal dissipation of
energy in the shape of radiant heat. At the out-
set we had an enormous quantity of what is
called " energy of position," that is, the outer
parts of our primitive nebula had a very long

'5

THE UNSEEN WORLD

distance through which to travel towards one
another in the slow process of concentration ;
and this distance was the measure of the quan-
tity of work possible to our system. As the
particles of our nebula drew nearer and nearer
together, the energy of position continually lost
reappeared continually as heat, of which the
greater part was radiated off, but of which a
certain amount was retained. All the gigantic
amount of work achieved in the geologic devel-
opment of our earth and its companion planets,
and in the development of life wherever life
may exist in our system, has been the product
of this retained heat. At the present day the
same wasteful process is going on. Each mo-
ment the sun's particles are losing energy of po-
sition as they draw closer and closer together,
and the heat into which this lost energy is meta-
morphosed is poured out most prodigally in
every direction. Let us consider for a moment
how little of it gets used in our system. The
earth's orbit is a nearly circular figure more than
five hundred million miles in circumference,
while only eight thousand miles of this path are
at any one time occupied by the earth's mass.
Through these eight thousand miles the sun's
radiated energy is doing work, but through the
remainder of the five hundred million it is idle
and wasted. But the case is far more striking
when we reflect that it is not in the plane of the

16

THE UNSEEN WORLD

earth's orbit only that the sun's radiance is be-
ing poured out. It is not an affair of a circle,
but of a sphere. In order to utilize all the so-
lar rays, we should need to have an immense
number of earths arranged so as to touch each
other, forming a hollow sphere around the sun,
with the present radius of the earth's orbit. We
may well believe Professor Tyndall, therefore,
when he tells us that all the solar radiance we
receive is less than a two-billionth part of what
is sent flying through the desert regions of space.
Some of the immense residue of course hits
other planets stationed in the way of it, and is
utilized upon their surfaces ; but the planets,
all put together, stop so little of the total quan-
tity that our startling illustration is not materi-
ally altered by taking them into the account.
Now this two-billionth part of the solar radiance
poured out from moment to moment suffices to
blow every wind, to raise every cloud, to drive
every engine, to build up the tissue of every
plant, to sustain the activity of every animal, in-
cluding man, upon the surface of our vast and
stately globe. Considering the wondrous rich-
ness and variety of the terrestrial life wrought
out by the few sunbeams which we catch in our
career through space, we may well pause over-
whelmed and stupefied at the thought of the
incalculable possibilities of existence which are
thrown away with the potent actinism that darts

THE UNSEEN WORLD

unceasingly into the unfathomed abysms of im-
mensity. Where it goes to or what becomes of
it, no one of us can surmise.

Now when, in the remote future, our sun is
reduced to vapour by the impact of the several
planets upon his surface, the resulting nebulous
mass must be a very insignificant affair com-
pared with the nebulous mass with which we
started. In order to make a second nebula equal
in size and potential energy to the first one, all
the energy of position at first existing should
have been retained in some form or other. But
nearly all of it has been lost, and only an insig-
nificant fraction remains with which to endow a
new system. In order to reproduce, in future
ages, anything like that cosmical development
which is now going on in the solar system, aid
must be sought from without. We must en-
deavour to frame some valid hypothesis as to
the relation of our solar system to other sys-
tems.

Thus far our view has been confined to the
career of a single star, — our sun, — with the
tiny, easily cooling balls which it has cast off in
the course of its development. Thus far, too,
our inferences have been very secure, for we
have been dealing with a circumscribed group
of phenomena, the beginning and end of which
have been brought pretty well within the .com-
pass of our imagination. It is quite another

18

THE UNSEEN WORLD

thing to deal with the actual or probable career
of the stars in general, inasmuch as we do not
even know how many stars there are, which
form parts of a common system, or what are
their precise dynamic relations to one another.
Nevertheless we have knowledge of a few facts
which may support some cautious inferences.
All the stars which we can see are undoubtedly
bound together by relations of gravitation. No
doubt our sun attracts all the other stars within
our ken, and is reciprocally attracted by them.
The stars, too, lie mostly in or around one great
plane, as is the case with the members of the so-
lar system. Moreover, the stars are shown by
the spectroscope to consist of chemical elements
identical with those which are found in the solar
system. Such facts as these make it probable
that the career of other stars, when adequately
inquired into, would be found to be like that of
our own sun. Observation daily enhances this
probability, for our study of the sidereal uni-
verse is continually showing us stars in all stages
of development. We find irregular nebulae, for
example ; we find spiral and spheroidal nebulae ;
we find stars which have got beyond the nebu-
lous stage, but are still at a whiter heat than our
sun ; and we also find many stars which yield
the same sort of spectrum as our sun. The in-
ference seems forced upon us that the same pro-
cess of concentration which has gone on in the

19

THE UNSEEN WORLD

case of our solar nebula has been going on in
the case of other nebulae. The history of the sun
is but a type of the history of stars in general.
And when we consider that all other visible
stars and nebulae are cooling and contracting
bodies, like our sun, to what other conclusion
could we very well come ? When we look at
Sirius, for instance, we do not see him sur-
rounded by planets, for at such a distance no
planet could be visible, even Sirius himself,
though fourteen times larger than our sun, ap-
pearing only as a " twinkling little star." But
a comparative survey of the heavens assures us
that Sirius can hardly have arrived at his pre-
sent stage of concentration without detaching
planet-forming rings, for there is no reason for
supposing that mechanical laws out there are at
all different from what they are in our own sys-
tem. And the same kind of inference must
apply to all the matured stars which we see in
the heavens.

When we duly take all these things into the
account, the case of our solar system will appear
as only one of a thousand cases of evolution
and dissolution with which the heavens furnish
us. Other stars, like our sun, have undoubtedly
started as vaporous masses, and have thrown
off planets in contracting. The inference may
seem a bold one, but it after all involves no
other assumption than that of the continuity of

20

THE UNSEEN WORLD

natural phenomena. It is not likely, therefore,
that the solar system will forever be left to it-
self. Stars which strongly gravitate towards
each other, while moving through a perennially
resisting medium, must in time be drawn to-
gether. The collision of our extinct sun with
one of the Pleiades, after this manner, would
very likely suffice to generate even a grander
nebula than the one with which we started.
Possibly the entire galactic system may, in an
inconceivably remote future, remodel itself in
this way ; and possibly the nebula from which
our own group of planets has been formed may
have owed its origin to the disintegration of
systems which had accomplished their career in
the depths of the bygone eternity.

When the problem is extended to these huge
dimensions, the prospect of an ultimate cessa-
tion of cosmical work is indefinitely postponed,
but at the same time it becomes impossible for
us to deal very securely with the questions we
have raised. The magnitudes and periods we
have introduced are so nearly infinite as to
baffle speculation itself. One point, however,
we seem dimly to discern. Supposing the stellar
universe not to be absolutely infinite in extent,
we may hold that the day of doom, so often
postponed, must come at last. The concentra-
tion of matter and dissipation of energy, so
often checked, must in the end prevail, so that,
21

THE UNSEEN WORLD

as the final outcome of things, the entire uni-
verse will be reduced to a single enormous ball,
dead and frozen, solid and black, its potential
energy of motion having been all transformed
into heat and radiated away. Such a conclusion
has been suggested by Sir William Thomson,
and it is quite forcibly stated by the authors of
"The Unseen Universe." They remind us
that " if there be any one form of energy less
readily or less completely transformable than
the others, and if transformations constantly go
on, more and more of the whole energy of the
universe will inevitably sink into this lower
grade as time advances." Now radiant heat, as
we have seen, is such a lower grade of energy.
"At each transformation of heat-energy into
work, a large portion is degraded, while only
a small portion is transformed into work. So
that while it is very easy to change all of our
mechanical or useful energy into heat, it is
only possible to transform a portion of this
heat-energy back again into work. After each
change, too, the heat becomes more and more
dissipated or degraded, and less and less avail-
able for any future transformation. In other
words," our authors continue, " the tendency of
heat is towards equalization ; heat is par excel-
lence the communist of our universe, and it will
no doubt ultimately bring the system to an end.
. . . It is absolutely certain that life, so far as
22

THE UNSEEN WORLD

it is physical, depends essentially upon transfor-
mations of energy ; it is also absolutely certain
that age after age the possibility of such trans-
formations is becoming less and less ; and, so far
as we yet know, the final state of the present
universe must be an aggregation (into one
mass) of all the matter it contains, /'. e. the
potential energy gone, and a practically useless
state of kinetic energy, /. e. uniform temperature
throughout that mass." Thus our authors con-
clude that the visible universe began in time
and will in time come to an end ; and they add
that under the physical conditions of such a
universe " immortality is impossible."

Concerning the latter inference we shall by
and by have something to say. Meanwhile this
whole speculation as to the final cessation of
cosmical work seems to me — as it does to my
friend, Professor Clifford 1 — by no means trust-
worthy. The conditions of the problem so far
transcend our grasp that any such speculation
must remain an unverifiable guess. I do not
go with Professor Clifford in doubting whether
the laws of mechanics are absolutely the same
throughout eternity; I cannot quite reconcile
such a doubt with faith in the principle of con-
tinuity. But it does seem to me needful, before
we conclude that radiated energy is absolutely
and forever wasted, that we should find out
1 Fortnightly Review, April, 1875.

23

THE UNSEEN WORLD

what becomes of it. What we call radiant heat
is simply transverse wave-motion, propagated
with enormous velocity through an ocean of
subtle ethereal matter which bathes the atoms
of all visible or palpable bodies and fills the
whole of space, extending beyond the remotest
star which the telescope can reach. Whether
there are any bounds at all to this ethereal
ocean, or whether it is as infinite as space itself,
we cannot surmise. If it be limited, the possi-
ble dispersion of radiant energy is limited by its
extent. Heat and light cannot travel through
emptiness. If the ether is bounded by sur-
rounding emptiness, then a ray of heat, on
arriving at this limiting emptiness, would be
reflected back as surely as a ball is sent back
when thrown against a solid wall. If this be
the case, it will not affect our conclusions con-
cerning such a tiny region of space as is occu-
pied by the solar system, but it will seriously
modify Sir William Thomson's suggestion as
to the fate of the universe as a whole. The
radiance thrown away by the sun is indeed lost
so far as the future of our system is concerned,
but not a single unit of it is lost from the uni-
verse. Sooner or later, reflected back in all
directions, it must do work in one quarter or
another, so that ultimate stagnation becomes
impossible. It is true that no such return of
radiant energy has been detected in our corner
24

THE UNSEEN WORLD

of the world ; but we have not yet so far disen-
tangled all the force-relations of the universe
that we are entitled to regard such a return as
impossible. This is one way of escape from
the consummation of things depicted by our
authors. Another way of escape is equally
available, if we suppose that while the ether is
without bounds the stellar universe also extends
to infinity. For in this case the reproduction of
nebulous masses fit for generating new systems
of worlds must go on through space that is
endless, and consequently the process can never
come to an end and can never have had a be-
ginning. We have, therefore, three alterna-
tives : either the visible universe is finite, while
the ether is infinite ; or both are finite ; or
both are infinite. Only on the first supposition,
I think, do we get a universe which began in
time and must end in time. Between such stu-
pendous alternatives we have no grounds for
choosing. But it would seem that the third,
whether strictly true or not, best represents the
state of the case relatively to our feeble capacity
of comprehension. Whether absolutely infinite
or not, the dimensions of the universe must be
taken as practically infinite, so far as human
thought is concerned. They immeasurably
transcend the capabilities of any gauge we can
bring to bear on them. Accordingly all that we
are really entitled to hold, as the outcome of

THE UNSEEN WORLD

sound speculation, is the conception of innu-
merable systems of worlds concentrating out of
nebulous masses, and then rushing together and
dissolving into similar masses, as bubbles unite
and break up — now here, now there — in their
play on the surface of a pool, and to this tre-
mendous series of events we can assign neither
a beginning nor an end.

We must now make some more explicit men-
tion of the ether which carries through space the
rays of heat and light. In closest connection
with the visible stellar universe, the vicissitudes
of which we have briefly traced, the all-pervading
ether constitutes a sort of unseen world remark-
able enough from any point of view, but to which
the theory of our authors ascribes capacities hith-
erto unsuspected by science. The very existence
of an ocean of ether enveloping the molecules
of material bodies has been doubted or denied
by many eminent physicists, though of course
none have called in question the necessity for
some interstellar medium for the transmission
of thermal and luminous vibrations. This scep-
ticism has been, I think, partially justified by
the many difficulties encompassing the concep-
tion, into which, however, we need not here en-
ter. That light and heat cannot be conveyed by
any of the ordinary sensible forms of matter is
unquestionable. None of the forms of sensible
matter can be imagined sufficiently elastic to
26

THE UNSEEN WORLD

propagate wave-motion at the rate of one hun-
dred and eighty-eight thousand miles per sec-
ond. Yet a ray of light is a series of waves, and
implies some substance in which the waves oc-
cur. The substance required is one which seems
to possess strangely contradictory properties.
It is commonly regarded as an " ether " or infi-
nitely rare substance ; but, as Professor Jevons
observed, we might as well regard it as an infi-
nitely solid " adamant." " Sir John Herschel
has calculated the amount of force which may
be supposed, according to the undulatory theory
of light, to be exerted at each point in space,
and finds it to be 1,148,000,000,000 times the
elastic force of ordinary air at the earth's surface,
so that the pressure of the ether upon a square
inch of surface must be about 17,000,000,000,-
ooo, or seventeen billions of pounds." l Yet
at the same time the resistance offered by the
ether to the planetary motions is too minute to
be appreciable. "All our ordinary notions,"
says Professor Jevons, " must be laid aside in
contemplating such an hypothesis ; yet [ it is ]
no more than the observed phenomena of light
and heat force us to accept. We cannot deny
even the strange suggestion of Dr. Young, that

1 Jevons' s Principles of Science, vol. ii., p. 145. The
figures, which in the English system of numeration read as
seventeen billions, would in the American system read as
seventeen trillions.

27

THE UNSEEN WORLD

there may be independent worlds, some pos-
sibly existing in different parts of space, but
others perhaps pervading each other, unseen
and unknown, in the same space. For if we
are bound to admit the conception of this ada-
mantine firmament, it is equally easy to admit
a plurality of such."

The ether, therefore, is unlike any of the
forms of matter which we can weigh and mea-
sure. In some respects it resembles a fluid, in
some respects a solid. It is both hard and elas-
tic to an almost inconceivable degree. It fills
all material bodies like a sea in which the atoms
of the material bodies are as islands, and it oc-
cupies the whole of what we call empty space.
It is so sensitive that a disturbance in any part
of it causes a " tremour which is felt on the sur-
face of countless worlds. Our old experiences of
matter give us no account of any substance like
this ; yet the undulatory theory of light obliges
us to admit such a substance, and that theory is
as well established as the theory of gravitation.
Obviously we have here an enlargement of our
experience of matter. The analysis of the phe-
nomena of light and radiant heat has brought
us into mental relations with matter in a differ-
ent state from any in which we previously knew
it. For the supposition that the ether may be
something essentially different from matter is
contradicted by all the terms we have used in
28

THE UNSEEN WORLD

describing it. Strange and contradictory as its
properties may seem, are they any more strange
than the properties of a gas would seem if we
were for the first time to discover a gas after
heretofore knowing nothing but solids and liq-
uids ? I think not ; and the conclusion implied
by our authors seems to me eminently probable,
that in the so-called ether we have simply a state
of matter more primitive than what we know
as the gaseous state. Indeed, the conceptions of
matter now current, and inherited from barbar-
ous ages, are likely enough to be crude in the
extreme. It is not strange that the study of such
subtle agencies as heat and light should oblige
us to modify them ; and it will not be strange
if the study of electricity should entail still fur-
ther revision of our ideas.

We are now brought to one of the profound-
est speculations of modern times, the vortex-
atom theory of Helmholtz and Thomson, in
which the evolution of ordinary matter from
ether is plainly indicated. The reader first needs
to know what vortex-motion is; and this has
been so beautifully explained by Professor Clif-
ford, that I quote his description entire : " Im-
agine a ring of india-rubber, made by joining
together the ends of a cylindrical piece (like a
lead-pencil before it is cut), to be put upon a
round stick which it will just fit with a little
stretching. Let the stick be now pulled through

29

THE UNSEEN WORLD

the ring while the latter is kept in its place by
being pulled the other way on the outside. The
india-rubber has then what is called vortex-mo-
tion. Before the ends were joined together, while
it was straight, it might have been made to turn
around without changing position, by rolling it
between the hands. Just the same motion of
rotation it has on the stick, only that the ends
are now joined together. All the inside surface
of the ring is going one way, namely, the way
the stick is pulled ; and all the outside is going
the other way. Such a vortex-ring is made by
the smoker who purses his lips into a round hole
and sends out a puff of smoke. The outside of
the ring is kept back by the friction of his lips
while the inside is going forwards ; thus a rota-
tion is set up all round the smoke-ring as it
travels out into the air." In these cases, and in
others as we commonly find it, vortex-motion
owes its origin to friction and is after a while
brought to an end by friction. But in 1858 the
equations of motion of an incompressible fric-
tionless fluid were first successfully solved by
Helmholtz, and among other things he proved
that, though vortex-motion could not be origi-
nated in such a fluid, yet supposing it once to
exist, it would exist to all eternity and could not
be diminished by any mechanical action what-
ever. A vortex-ring, for example, in such a
fluid, would forever preserve its own rotation,
30

THE UNSEEN WORLD

and would thus forever retain its peculiar indi-
viduality, being, as it were, marked off from its
neighbour vortex-rings. Upon this mechanical
truth Sir William Thomson based his wonder-
fully suggestive theory of the constitution of
matter. That which is permanent or indestructi-
ble in matter is the ultimate homogeneous atom ;
and this is probably all that is permanent, since
chemists now almost unanimously hold that so-
called elementary molecules are not really sim-
ple, but owe their sensible differences to the
various groupings of an ultimate atom which is
alike for all. Relatively to our powers of com-
prehension the atom endures eternally ; that is,
it retains forever unalterable its definite mass
and its definite rate of vibration. Now this is
just what a vortex-ring would do in an incom-
pressible frictionless fluid. Thus the startling
question is suggested, Why may not the ultimate
atoms of matter be vortex-rings forever existing
in such a frictionless fluid filling the whole of
space ? Such a hypothesis is not less brilliant
than Huyghens's conjectural identification of
light with undulatory motion ; and it is more-
over a legitimate hypothesis, since it can be
brought to the test of verification. Sir William
Thomson has shown that it explains a great
many of the physical properties of matter : it
remains to be seen whether it can explain them
all.

THE UNSEEN WORLD

Of course the ether which conveys thermal
and luminous undulations is not the friction-
less fluid postulated by Sir William Thom-
son. The most conspicuous property of the
ether is its enormous elasticity, a property
which we should not find in a frictionless fluid.
" To account for such elasticity," says Profes-
sor Clifford (whose exposition of the subject is
still more lucid than that of our authors), " it
has to be supposed that even where there are
no material molecules the universal fluid is full
of vortex-motion, but that the vortices are
smaller and more closely packed than those of
[ordinary] matter, forming altogether a more
finely grained structure. So that the difference
between matter and ether is reduced to a mere
difference in the size and arrangement of the
component vortex-rings. Now, whatever may
turn out to be the ultimate nature of the ether
and of molecules, we know that to some extent
at least they obey the same dynamic laws, and
that they act upon one another in accordance
with these laws. Until, therefore, it is abso-
lutely disproved, it must remain the simplest
and most probable assumption that they are
finally made of the same stuff, that the material
molecule is some kind of knot or coagulation
of ether."1

Another interesting consequence of Sir Wil-
1 Fortnightly Review t June, 1875, p. 784.

THE UNSEEN WORLD

liam Thomson's pregnant hypothesis is that
the absolute hardness which has been attributed
to material atoms from the time of Lucretius
downward may be dispensed with. Somewhat
in the same way that a loosely suspended chain
becomes rigid with rapid rotation, the hardness
and elasticity of the vortex-atom are explained
as due to the swift rotary motion of a soft and
yielding fluid. So that the vortex-atom is really
indivisible, not by reason of its hardness or
solidity, but by reason of the indestructibleness
of its motion.

Supposing, now, that we adopt provisionally
the vortex theory, — the great power of which
is well shown by the consideration just men-
tioned, — we must not forget that it is abso-
lutely essential to the indestructibleness of the
material atom that the universal fluid in which
it has an existence as a vortex-ring should be
entirely destitute of friction. Once admit even
the most infinitesimal amount of friction, while
retaining the conception of vortex-motion in a
universal fluid, and the whole case is so far
altered that the material atom can no longer be
regarded as absolutely indestructible, but only
as indefinitely enduring. It may have been
generated, in bygone eternity, by a natural pro-
cess of evolution, and in future eternity may
come to an end. Relatively to our powers of
comprehension the practical difference is per-

33

THE UNSEEN WORLD

haps not great. Scientifically speaking, Helm-
holtz and Thomson are as well entitled to
reason upon the assumption of a perfectly fric-
tionless fluid as geometers in general are en-
titled to assume perfect lines without breadth
and perfect surfaces without thickness. Perfect
lines and surfaces do not exist within the re-
gion of our experience ; yet the conclusions
of geometry are none the less true ideally,
though in any particular concrete instance they
are only approximately realized. Just so with
the conception of a frictionless fluid. So far as
experience goes, such a thing has no more real
existence than a line without breadth ; and
hence an atomic theory based upon such an
assumption may be as true ideally as any of
the theorems of Euclid, but it can give only
an approximatively true account of the actual
universe. These considerations do not at all
affect the scientific value of the theory ; but
they will modify the tenor of such transcen-
dental inferences as may be drawn from it re-
garding the probable origin and destiny of the
universe.

The conclusions reached in the first part of
this paper, while we were dealing only with
gross visible matter, may have seemed bold
enough ; but they are far surpassed by the in-
ference which our authors draw from the vor-
tex theory as they interpret it. Our authors

34

THE UNSEEN WORLD

exhibit various reasons, more or less sound,
for attributing to the primordial fluid some
slight amount of friction ; and in support of
this view they adduce Le Sage's explanation of
gravitation as a differential result of pressure,
and Struve's theory of the partial absorption
of light-rays by the ether, — questions with
which our present purpose does not require us
to meddle. Apart from such questions it is
every way probable that the primary assump-
tion of Helmholtz and Thomson is only an
approximation to the truth. But if we accredit
the primordial fluid with even an infinitesimal
amount of friction, then we are required to
conceive of the visible universe as developed
from the invisible and as destined to return
into the invisible. The vortex-atom, produced
by infinitesimal friction operating through well-
nigh infinite time, is to be ultimately abolished
by the agency which produced it. In the
words of our authors, "If the visible universe
be developed from an invisible which is not a
perfect fluid, then the argument deduced by
Sir William Thomson in favour of the eternity
of ordinary matter disappears, since this eter-
nity depends upon the perfect fluidity of the
invisible. In fine, if we suppose the material
universe to be composed of a series of vortex-
rings developed from an invisible universe
which is not a perfect fluid, it will be ephe-

35

THE UNSEEN WORLD

meraljjust as the smoke-ring which we develop
from air, or that which we develop from water,
is ephemeral, the only difference being in dura-
tion, these lasting only for a few seconds, and
the others it may be for billions of years."
Thus, as our authors suppose that " the avail-
able energy of the visible universe will ulti-
mately be appropriated by the invisible," they
go on to imagine, " at least as a possibility, that
the separate existence of the visible universe
will share the same fate, so that we shall have
no huge, useless, inert mass existing in after
ages to remind the passer-by of a form of
energy and a species of matter that is long
since out of date and functionally effete. Why
should not the universe bury its dead out of
sight ? "

In one respect perhaps no more stupendous
subject of contemplation than this has ever been
offered to the mind of man. In comparison
with the length of time thus required to efface
the tiny individual atom, the entire cosmical
career of our solar system, or even that of the
whole starry galaxy, shrinks into utter nothing-
ness. Whether we shall adopt the conclusion
suggested must depend on the extent of our
speculative audacity. We have seen wherein
its probability consists, but in reasoning upon
such a scale we may fitly be cautious and mod-
est in accepting inferences, and our authors,

36

THE UNSEEN WORLD

we may be sure, would be the first to recom-
mend such modesty and caution. Even at the
dimensions to which our theorizing has here
grown, we may for instance discern the possible
alternative of a simultaneous or rhythmically
successive generation and destruction of vortex-
atoms which would go far to modify the con-
clusion just suggested. But here we must pause
for a moment, reserving for a second paper the
weightier thoughts as to futurity which our au-
thors have sought to enwrap in these sublime
physical speculations.

PART II

UP to this point, however remote from or-
dinary every-day thoughts may be the region
of speculation which we have been called upon
to traverse, we have still kept within the limits
of legitimate scientific hypothesis. Though we
have ventured for a goodly distance into the
unknown, we have not yet been required to
abandon our base of operations in the known.
Of the views presented in the preceding paper,
some are wellnigh certainly established, some
are probable, some have a sort of plausibility,
others — to which we have refrained from giv-
ing assent — may possibly be true ; but none
are irretrievably beyond the jurisdiction of sci-

37

THE UNSEEN WORLD

entific tests. No suggestion has so far been
broached which a very little further increase of
our scientific knowledge may not show to be
either eminently probable or eminently improb-
able. We have kept pretty clear of mere sub-
jective guesses, such as men may wrangle about
forever without coming to any conclusion. The
theory of the nebular origin of our planetary
system has come to command the assent of all
persons qualified to appreciate the evidence on
which it is based; and the more immediate
conclusions which we have drawn from that
theory are only such as are commonly drawn
by astronomers and physicists. The doctrine
of an intermolecular and interstellar ether is
wrapped up in the well-established undulatory
theory of light. Such is by no means the case
with Sir William Thomson's vortex-atom the-
ory, which to-day is in somewhat the same con-
dition as the undulatory theory of Huyghens
two centuries ago. This, however, is none the
less a hypothesis truly scientific in conception,
and in the speculations to which it leads us we
are still sure of dealing with views that admit at
least of definite expression and treatment. In
other words, though our study of the visible
universe has led us to the recognition of a kind
of unseen world underlying the world of things
that are seen, yet concerning the economy of
this unseen world we have not been led to en-

38

THE UNSEEN WORLD

tertain any hypothesis that has not its possible
justification in our experiences of visible phe-
nomena.

We are now called upon, following in the wake
of our esteemed authors, to venture on a differ-
ent sort of exploration, in which we must cut
loose altogether from our moorings in the world
of which we have definite experience. We are
invited to entertain suggestions concerning the
peculiar economy of the invisible portion of the
universe which we have no means of subjecting
to any sort of test of probability, either experi-
mental or deductive. These suggestions are,
therefore, not to be regarded as properly scien-
tific ; but, with this word of caution, we may
proceed to show what they are.

Compared with the life and death of cosmical
systems which we have heretofore contemplated,
the life and death of individuals of the human
race may perhaps seem a small matter ; yet be-
cause we are ourselves the men who live and
die, the small event is of vastly greater interest
to us than the grand series of events of which it
is part and parcel. It is natural that we should
be more interested in the ultimate fate of hu-
manity than in the fate of a world which is of
no account to us save as our present dwelling-
place. Whether the human soul is to come to
an end or not is to us a more important ques-
tion than whether the visible universe, with its
39

THE UNSEEN WORLD

matter and energy, is to be absorbed in an in-
visible ether. It is indeed only because we are
interested in the former question that we are so
curious about the latter. If we could dissociate
ourselves from the material universe, our habitat,
we should probably speculate much less about
its past and future. We care very little what
becomes of the black ball of the earth, after all
life has vanished from its surface ; or, if we care at
all about it, it is only because our thoughts about
the career of the earth are necessarily mixed up
with our thoughts about life. Hence in consid-
ering the probable ultimate destiny of the phy-
sical universe, our innermost purpose must be
to know what is to become of all this rich and
wonderful life of which the physical universe is
the theatre. Has it all been developed, appar-
ently at almost infinite waste of effort, only to
be abolished again before it has attained to com-
pleteness, or does it contain or shelter some in-
destructible element which having drawn sus-
tenance for a while from the senseless turmoil
of physical phenomena shall still survive their
final decay ? This question is closely connected
with the time-honoured question of the mean-
ing, purpose, or tendency of the world. In the
career of the world is life an end, or a means
toward an end, or only an incidental pheno-
menon in which we can discover no meaning ?
Contemporary theologians seem generally to be-
40

THE UNSEEN WORLD

lieve that one necessary result of modern scienti-
fic inquiry must be the destruction of the belief
in immortal life, since against every thorough-
going expounder of scientific knowledge they
seek to hurl the charge of" materialism." Their
doubts, however, are not shared by our authors,
thorough men of science as they are, though
their mode of dealing with the question may
not be such as we can well adopt. While up-
holding the doctrine of evolution, and all the
so-called " materialistic " views of modern sci-
ence, they not only regard the hypothesis of a
future life as admissible, but they even go so
far as to propound a physical theory as to the
nature of existence after death. Let us see
what this physical theory is.

As far as the visible universe is concerned,
we do not find in it any evidence of immortality
or of permanence of any sort, unless it be in
the sum of potential and kinetic energies on the
persistency of which depends our principle of
continuity. In ordinary language " the stars in
their courses" serve as symbols of permanence,
yet we have found reason to regard them as
but temporary phenomena. So, in the language
of our authors, " if we take the individual man,
we find that he lives his short tale of years, and
that then the visible machinery which connects
him with the past, as well as that which enables
him to act in the present, falls into ruin and is

THE UNSEEN WORLD

brought to an end. If any germ or potentiality
remains, it is certainly not connected with the
visible order of things." In like manner our
race is pretty sure to come to an end long before
the destruction of the planet from which it now
gets its sustenance. And in our authors' opin-
ion even the universe will by and by become
"old and effete, no less truly than the individ-
ual : it is a glorious garment, this visible uni-
verse, but not an immortal one ; we must look
elsewhere if we are to be clothed with immor-
tality as with a garment."

It is at this point that our authors call atten-
tion to " the apparently wasteful character of
the arrangements of the visible universe." The
fact is one which we have already sufficiently
described, but we shall do well to quote the
words in which our authors recur to it : " All
but a very small portion of the sun's heat goes
day by day into what we call empty space, and
it is only this very small remainder that is made
use of by the various planets for purposes of
their own. Can anything be more perplexing
than this seemingly frightful expenditure of
the very life and essence of the system ? That
this vast store of high-class energy should be
doing nothing but travelling outwards in space
at the rate of 1 88,000 miles per second is hardly
conceivable, especially when the result of it is

42

THE UNSEEN WORLD

the inevitable destruction of the visible uni-
verse."

Pursuing this teleological argument, it is sug-
gested that perhaps this apparent waste of energy
is " only an arrangement in virtue of which our
universe keeps up a memory of the past at the
expense of the present, inasmuch as all memory
consists in an investiture of present resources in
order to keep a hold upon the past." Recourse
is had to the ingenious argument in which Mr.
Babbage showed that " if we had power to fol-
low and detect the minutest effects of any dis-
turbance, each particle of existing matter must
be a register of all that has happened. The
track of every canoe, of every vessel that has yet
disturbed the surface of the ocean, whether im-
pelled by manual force or elemental power, re-
mains forever registered in the future movement
of all succeeding particles which may occupy
its place. The furrow which is left is, indeed,
instantly filled up by the closing waters ; but
they draw after them other and larger portions
of the surrounding element, and these again,
once moved, communicate motion to others in
endless succession." In like manner, " the air
itself is one vast library, on whose pages are
forever written all that man has ever said or
even whispered. There in their mutable but
unerring characters, mixed with the earliest
as well as the latest sighs of mortality, stand

43

THE UNSEEN WORLD

forever recorded vows unredeemed, promises
unfulfilled, perpetuating in the united move-
ments of each particle the testimony of man's
changeful will." 1 In some such way as this,
records of every movement that takes place in
the world are each moment transmitted, with
the speed of light, through the invisible ocean
of ether with which the world is surrounded.
Even the molecular displacements which oc-
cur in our brains when we feel and think are
thus propagated in their effects into the unseen
world. The world of ether is thus regarded by
our authors as in some sort the obverse or
complement of the world of sensible matter, so
that whatever energy is dissipated in the one is
by the same act accumulated in the other. It
is like the negative plate in photography, where
light answers to shadow and shadow to light.
Or, still better, it is like the case of an equation,
in which whatever quantity you take from one
side is added to the other with a contrary sign,
while the relation of equality remains undis-
turbed. Thus, it will be noticed, from the
ingenious and subtle, but quite defensible sug-
gestion of Mr. Babbage, a leap is made to an
assumption which cannot be defended scientific-
ally, but only ideologically. It is one thing to
say that every movement in the visible world

1 Babbage, Ninth Bridgewater Treatise, p. 115; Jevons,
Principles of Science, vol. ii., p. 455.

44

THE UNSEEN WORLD

transmits a record of itself to the surrounding
ether, in such a way that from the undulation
of the ether a sufficiently powerful intelligence
might infer the character of the generating
movement in the visible world. It is quite
another thing to say that the ether is organized
in such a complex and delicate way as to be
like a negative image or counterpart of the
world of sensible matter. The latter view is
no doubt ingenious, but it is gratuitous. It is
sustained not by scientific analogy, but by the
desire to find some assignable use for the energy
which is constantly escaping from visible matter
into invisible ether. The moment we ask how
do we know that this energy is not really wasted,
or that it is not put to some use wholly undis-
coverable by human intelligence, this assump-
tion of an organized ether is at once seen to
be groundless. It belongs not to the region of
science, but to that of pure mythology.

Injustice to our authors, however, it should
be remembered that this assumption is put forth
not as something scientifically probable, but as
something which for aught we know to the
contrary may possibly be true. This, to be
sure, we need not deny ; nor if we once allow
this prodigious leap of inference, shall we find
much difficulty in reaching the famous conclu-
sion that " thought conceived to affect the matter
of another universe simultaneously with this may

45

THE UNSEEN WORLD

explain a future state" This proposition,
quaintly couched in an anagram, like the dis-
coveries of old astronomers, was published last
year in " Nature," as containing the gist of the
forthcoming book. On the negative-image
hypothesis it is not hard to see how thought
is conceived to affect the seen and the unseen
worlds simultaneously. Every act of conscious-
ness is accompanied by molecular displacements
in the brain, and these are of course responded
to by movements in the ethereal world. Thus
as a series of conscious states build up a
continuous memory in strict accordance with
physical laws of motion,1 so a correlative mem-
ory is simultaneously built up in the ethereal
world out of the ethereal correlatives of the
molecular displacements which go on in our
brains. And as there is a continual transfer of
energy from the visible world to the ether, the
extinction of vital energy which we call death
must coincide in some way with the awakening
of vital energy in the correlative world ; so that
the darkening of consciousness here is coinci-
dent with its dawning there. In this way death
is for the individual but a transfer from one
physical state of existence to another ; and so,
on the largest scale, the death or final loss of
energy by the whole visible universe has its

1 See my Outlines of Cosmic Philosophy, part ii., chap.
xvi.

46

THE UNSEEN WORLD

counterpart in the acquirement of a maximum
of life by the correlative unseen world.

There seems to be a certain sort of rigorous
logical consistency in this daring speculation ;
but really the propositions of which it consists
are so far from answering to anything within
the domain of human experience that we are
unable to tell whether any one of them logic-
ally follows from its predecessor or not. It is
evident that we are quite out of the region of
scientific tests, and to whatever view our authors
may urge we can only languidly assent that it is
out of our power to disprove it.

The essential weakness of such a theory as
this lies in the fact that it is thoroughly mate-
rialistic in character. It is currently assumed
that the doctrine of a life after death cannot
be defended on materialistic grounds, but this
is altogether too hasty an assumption. Our
authors, indeed, are not philosophical material-
ists, like Dr. Priestley, — who nevertheless be-
lieved in a future life, — but one of the primary
doctrines of materialism lies at the bottom
of their argument. Materialism holds for one
thing that consciousness is a product of a pecul-
iar organization of matter, and for another thing
that consciousness cannot survive the disorgani-
zation of the material body with which it is asso-
ciated. As held by philosophical materialists,
like Buchner and Moleschott, these two opin-
47

THE UNSEEN WORLD

ions are strictly consistent with each other ; nay,
the latter seems to be the inevitable inference
from the former, though Priestley did not so
regard it. Now our authors very properly re-
fuse to commit themselves to the opinion that
mind is the product of matter, but their argu-
ment nevertheless implies that some sort of
material vehicle is necessary for the continuance
of mind in a future state of existence. This
material vehicle they seek to supply in the
theory which connects by invisible bonds of
transmitted energy the perishable material body
with its counterpart in the world of ether. The
materialism of the argument is indeed partly
veiled by the terminology in which this coun-
terpart is called a " spiritual body," but in this
novel use or abuse of scriptural language there
seems to me to be a strange confusion of ideas.
Bear in mind that the " invisible universe " into
which energy is constantly passing is simply the
luminiferous ether, which our authors, to suit
the requirements of their hypothesis, have gra-
tuitously endowed with a complexity and variety
of structure analogous to that of the visible
world of matter. Their language is not always
quite so precise as one could desire, for while
they sometimes speak of the ether itself as the
" unseen universe," they sometimes allude to
a primordial medium yet subtler in constitu-
tion and presumably more immaterial. Herein

THE UNSEEN WORLD

lies the confusion. Why should the luminifer-
ous ether, or any primordial medium in which
it may have been generated, be regarded as in
any way " spiritual " ? Great physicists, like
less trained thinkers, are sometimes liable to
be unconsciously influenced by old associations
of ideas which, ostensibly repudiated, still lurk
under cover of the words we use. I fear that
the old associations which led the ancients to
describe the soul as a breath or a shadow, and
which account for the etymologies of such
words as " ghost " and " spirit," have had
something to do with this spiritualization of
the interstellar ether. Some share may also
have been contributed by the Platonic notion
of the " grossness " or " bruteness " of tangible
matter, — a notion which has survived in Chris-
tian theology, and which educated men of the
present day have by no means universally out-
grown. Save for some such old associations as
these, why should it be supposed that matter
becomes " spiritualized " as it diminishes in
apparent substantiality ? Why should matter
be pronounced respectable in the inverse ratio
of its density or ponderability ? Why is a dia-
mond any more chargeable with " grossness "
than a cubic centimetre of hydrogen? Obvi-
ously such fancies are purely of mythologic
parentage. Now the luminiferous ether, upon
which our authors make such extensive de-
49

THE UNSEEN WORLD

mands, may be physically " ethereal " enough,
in spite of the enormous elasticity which leads
Professor Jevons to characterize it as " adaman-
tine ; " but most assuredly we have not the
slightest reason for speaking of it as " imma-
terial " or " spiritual." Though we are unable
to weigh it in the balance, we at least know it
as a transmitter of undulatory movements, the
size and shape of which we can accurately mea-
sure. Its force-relations with ponderable matter
are not only universally and incessantly main-
tained, but they have that precisely quantita-
tive character which implies an essential identity
between the innermost natures of the two sub-
stances. We have seen reason for thinking it
probable that ether and ordinary matter are
alike composed of vortex-rings in a quasi-fric-
tionless fluid ; but whatever be the fate of this
subtle hypothesis, we may be sure that no
theory will ever be entertained in which the
analysis of ether shall require different symbols
from that of ordinary matter. In our authors'
theory, therefore, the putting on of immortal-
ity is in no wise the passage from a material
to a spiritual state. It is the passage from one
kind of materially conditioned state to another.
The theory thus appeals directly to our experi-
ences of the behaviour of matter ; and in deriv-
ing so little support as it does from these
experiences, it remains an essentially weak

50

THE UNSEEN WORLD

speculation, whatever we may think of its in-
genuity. For so long as we are asked to accept
conclusions drawn from our experiences of the
material world, we are justified in demanding
something more than mere unconditioned pos-
sibility. We require some positive evidence, be
it ever so little in amount ; and no theory which
cannot furnish such positive evidence is likely
to carry to our minds much practical convic-
tion.

This is what I meant by saying that the great
weakness of the hypothesis here criticised lies
in its materialistic character. In contrast with
this we shall presently see that the assertion of
a future life which is not materially conditioned,
though unsupported by any item of experience
whatever, may nevertheless be an impregnable
assertion. But first I would conclude the fore-
going criticism by ruling out altogether the
sense in which our authors use the expression
" Unseen Universe." Scientific inference, how-
ever remote, is connected by such insensible
gradations with ordinary perception, that one
may well question the propriety of applying
the term " unseen " to that which is presented
to " the mind's eye " as inevitable matter of
inference. It is true that we cannot see the
ocean of ether in which visible matter floats;
but there are many other invisible things which
yet we do not regard as part of the " unseen

51

THE UNSEEN WORLD

world." I do not see the air which I am now
breathing within the four walls of my study,
yet its existence is sufficiently a matter of sense-
perception as it fills my lungs and fans my
cheek. The atoms which compose a drop of
water are not only invisible, but cannot in any
way be made the objects of sense-perception;
yet by proper inferences from their behaviour
we can single them out for measurement, so
that Sir William Thomson can tell us that if the
drop of water were magnified to the size of the
earth, the constituent atoms would be larger
than peas, but not so large as billiard-balls. If
we do not see such atoms with our eyes, we
have one adequate reason in their tiny dimen-
sions, though there are further reasons than
this. It would be hard to say why the luminif-
erous ether should be relegated to the " unseen
world " any more than the material atom.
Whatever we know as possessing resistance and
extension, whatever we can subject to mathe-
matical processes of measurement, we also con-
ceive as existing in such shape that, with appro-
priate eyes and under proper visual conditions,
we might see it, and we are not entitled to draw
any line of demarcation between such an object
of .inference and others which may be made
objects of sense-perception. To set apart the
ether as constituting an " unseen universe " is
therefore illegitimate and confusing. It intro-

THE UNSEEN WORLD

duces a distinction where there is none, and
obscures the fact that both invisible ether and
visible matter form but one grand universe in
which the sum of energy remains constant,
though the order of its distribution endlessly
varies.

Very different would be the logical position
of a theory which should assume the existence
of an " Unseen World " entirely spiritual in
constitution, and in which material conditions
like those of the visible world should have
neither place nor meaning. Such a world would
not consist of ethers or gases or ghosts, but of
purely psychical relations akin to such as con-
stitute thoughts and feelings when our minds
are least solicited by sense-perceptions. In thus
marking off the " Unseen World " from the
objective universe of which we have knowledge,
our line of demarcation would at least be drawn
in the right place. The distinction between psy-
chical and material phenomena is a distinction
of a different order from all other distinctions
known to philosophy, and it immeasurably tran-
scends all others. The progress of modern dis-
covery has in no respect weakened the force of
Descartes's remark, that between that of which
the differential attribute is Thought and that
of which the differential attribute is Extension,
there can be no similarity, no community of
nature whatever. By no scientific cunning of ex-

53

THE UNSEEN WORLD

periment or deduction can Thought be weighed
or measured or in any way assimilated to such
things as may be made the actual or possible ob-
jects of sense-perception. Modern discovery, so
far from bridging over the chasm between Mind
and Matter, tends rather to exhibit the distinc-
tion between them as absolute. It has, indeed,
been rendered highly probable that every act of
consciousness is accompanied by a molecular
motion in the cells and fibres of the brain ; and
materialists have found great comfort in this
fact, while theologians and persons of little faith
have been very much frightened by it. But since
no one ever pretended that thought can go on,
under the conditions of the present life, with-
out a brain, one finds it rather hard to sympa-
thize either with the self-congratulations of Dr.
Buchner's disciples l or with the terrors of their
opponents. But what has been less commonly
remarked is the fact that when the thought and
the molecular movement thus occur simulta-
neously, in no scientific sense is the thought the
product of the molecular movement. The sun-
derived energy of motion latent in the food we
eat is variously transformed within the organ-
ism, until some of it appears as the motion of

1 The Nation once wittily described these people as " peo-
ple who believe that they are going to die like the beasts, and
who congratulate themselves that they are going to die like
the beasts."

54

THE UNSEEN WORLD

the molecules of a little globule of nerve-matter
in the brain. In a rough way we might thus say
that the chemical energy of the food indirectly
produces the motion of these little nerve-mole-
cules. But does this motion of nerve-molecules
now produce a thought or state of consciousness ?
By no means. It simply produces some other
motion of nerve-molecules, and this in turn pro-
duces motion of contraction or expansion in some
muscle, or becomes transformed into the chemi-
cal energy of some secreting gland. At no point
in the whole circuit does a unit of motion disap-
pear as motion to reappear as a unit of con-
sciousness. The physical process is complete in
itself, and the thought does not enter into it. All
that we can say is, that the occurrence of the
thought is simultaneous with that part of the
physical process which consists of a molecular
movement in the brain.1 To be sure, the thought
is always there when summoned, but it stands
outside the dynamic circuit, as something utterly
alien from and incomparable with the events
which summon it. No doubt, as Professor
Tyndall observes, if*we knew exhaustively the
physical state of the brain, " the corresponding
thought or feeling might be inferred ; or, given
the thought or feeling, the corresponding state
of the brain might be inferred. But how in-

1 For a fuller exposition of this point, see my Outlines of
Cosmic Philosophy, part iii., chap. iv.

55

THE UNSEEN WORLD

ferred? It would be at botton not a case of logi-
cal inference at all, but of empirical association.
You may reply that many of the inferences of
science are of this character ; the inference, for
example, that an electric current of a given di-
rection will deflect a magnetic needle in a defi-
nite way ; but the cases differ in this, that the
passage from the current to the needle, if not
demonstrable, is thinkable, and that we enter-
tain no doubt as to the final mechanical solution
of the problem. But the passage from the phys-
ics of the brain to the corresponding facts of con-
sciousness is unthinkable. Granted that a defi-
nite thought and a definite molecular action
in the brain occur simultaneously ; we do not
possess the intellectual organ, nor apparently
any rudiment of the organ, which would enable
us to pass by a process of reasoning from the
one to the other. They t appear together, but
we do not know why." *

An unseen world consisting of purely psy-
chical or spiritual phenomena would accordingly
be demarcated by an absolute gulf from what
we call the material universe, but would not
necessarily be discontinuous with the psychical
phenomena which we find manifested in connec-
tion with the world of matter. The transfer of
matter, or physical energy, or anything else that
is quantitatively measurable, into such an unseen
1 Fragments of Science, p. 119.

56

THE UNSEEN WORLD

world, may be set down as impossible, by reason
of the very definition of such a world. Any hy-
pothesis which should assume such a transfer
would involve a contradiction in terms. But
the hypothesis of a survival of present psychical
phenomena in such a world, after being denuded
of material conditions, is not in itself absurd or
self-contradictory, though it may be impossible
to support it by any arguments drawn from the
domain of human experience. Such is the shape
which it seems to me that, in the present state
of philosophy, the hypothesis of a future life
must assume. We have nothing to say to gross
materialistic notions of ghosts and bogies, and
spirits that upset tables and whisper to ignorant
vulgar women the wonderful information that
you once had an aunt Susan. The unseen world
imagined in our hypothesis is not connected
with the present material universe by any such
" invisible bonds " as would allow Bacon and
Addison to come to Boston and write the silli-
est twaddle in the most ungrammatical English
before a roomful of people who have never
learned how to test what they are pleased to call
the " evidence of their senses." Our hypothe-
sis is expressly framed so as to exclude all inter-
course whatever between the unseen world of
spirit unconditioned by matter and the present
world of spirit conditioned by matter in which
all our experiences have been gathered. The
57

THE UNSEEN WORLD

hypothesis being framed in such a way, the
question is, What has philosophy to say to it?
Can we, by searching our experiences, find any
reason for adopting such an hypothesis ? Or,
on the other hand, supposing we can find no
such reason, would the total failure of experi-
mental evidence justify us in rejecting it ?

The question is so important that I will re-
state it. I have imagined a world made up of
psychical phenomena, freed from the material
conditions under which alone we know such
phenomena. Can we adduce any proof of the
possibility of such a world ? Or if we cannot,
does our failure raise the slightest presumption
that such a world is impossible ?

The reply to the first clause of the question
is sufficiently obvious. We have no experience
whatever of psychical phenomena save as mani-
fested in connection with material phenomena.
We know of Mind only as a group of activities
which are never exhibited to us except through
the medium of motions of matter. In all our
experience we have never encountered such
activities save in connection with certain very
complicated groupings of highly mobile material
particles into aggregates which we call living
organisms. And we have never found them
manifested to a very conspicuous extent save in
connection with some of those specially organ-
ized aggregates which have vertebrate skeletons

58

THE UNSEEN WORLD

and mammary glands. Nay, more, when we
survey the net results of our experience up to
the present time, we find indisputable evidence
that in the past history of the visible universe
psychical phenomena have only begun to be
manifested in connection with certain complex
aggregates of material phenomena. As these
material aggregates have age by age become
more complex in structure, more complex psy-
chical phenomena have been exhibited. The
development of Mind has from the outset been
associated with the development of Matter.
And to-day, though none of us has any know-
ledge of the end of psychical phenomena in his
own case, yet from all the marks by which we
recognize such phenomena in our fellow-crea-
tures, whether brute or human, we are taught
that when certain material processes have been
gradually or suddenly brought to an end, psy-
chical phenomena are no longer manifested.
From first to last, therefore, our appeal to ex-
perience gets but one response. We have not
the faintest shadow of evidence wherewith to
make it seem probable that Mind can exist
except in connection with a material body.
Viewed from this standpoint of terrestrial expe-
rience, there is no more reason for supposing
that consciousness survives the dissolution of
the brain than for supposing that the pungent

59

THE UNSEEN WORLD

flavour of table-salt survives its decomposition
into metallic sodium and gaseous chlorine.

Our answer from this side is thus unequiv-
ocal enough. Indeed, so uniform has been the
teaching of experience in this respect that even
in their attempts to depict a life after death,
men have always found themselves obliged to
have recourse to materialistic symbols. To the
mind of a savage the future world is a mere
reproduction of the present, with its everlasting
huntings and fightings. The early Christians
looked forward to a renovation of the earth and
the bodily resurrection from Sheol of the right-
eous. The pictures of hell and purgatory, and
even of paradise, in Dante's great poem, are so
intensely materialistic as to seem grotesque in
this more spiritual age. But even to-day the
popular conceptions of heaven are by no means
freed from the notion of matter ; and persons
of high culture, who realize the inadequacy of
these popular conceptions, are wont to avoid
the difficulty by refraining from putting their
hopes and beliefs into any definite or describ-
able form. Not unfrequently one sees a smile
raised at the assumption of knowledge or insight
by preachers who describe in eloquent terms
the joys of a future state; yet the smile does
not necessarily imply any scepticism as to the
abstract probability of the soul's survival. The

60

THE UNSEEN WORLD

scepticism is aimed at the character of the de-
scription rather than at the reality of the thing
described. It implies a tacit agreement, among
cultivated people, that the unseen world must
be purely spiritual in constitution. The agree-
ment is not habitually expressed in definite
formulas, for the reason that no mental image
of a purely spiritual world can be formed.
Much stress is commonly laid upon the recog-
nition of friends in a future life ; and however
deep a meaning may be given to the phrase
" the love of God," one does not easily realize
that a heavenly existence could be worth the
longing that is felt for it, if it were to afford no
further scope for the pure and tender household
affections which give to the present life its pow-
erful though indefinable charm. Yet the recog-
nition of friends in a purely spiritual world is
something of which we can frame no concep-
tion whatever. We may look with unspeakable
reverence on the features of wife or child, less
because of their physical beauty than because of
the beauty of soul to which they give expres-
sion, but to imagine the perception of soul by
soul apart from the material structure and ac-
tivities in which soul is manifested, is something
utterly beyond our power. Nay, even when we
try to represent to ourselves the psychical activ-
ity of any single soul by itself as continuing

61

THE UNSEEN WORLD

without the aid of the physical machinery of
sensation, we get into unmanageable difficulties.
A great part of the contents of our minds con-
sists of sensuous (chiefly visual) images, and
though we may imagine reflection to go on
without further images supplied by vision or
hearing, touch or taste or smell, yet we cannot
well see how fresh experiences could be gained
in such a state. The reader, if he require fur-
ther illustrations, can easily follow out this line
of thought. Enough has no doubt been said to
convince him that our hypothesis of the sur-
vival of conscious activity apart from material
conditions is not only utterly unsupported by
any evidence that can be gathered from the
world of which we have experience, but is ut-
terly and hopelessly inconceivable.

It is inconceivable because it is entirely with-
out foundation in experience. Our powers of
conception are closely determined by the limits
of our experience. When a proposition, or com-
bination of ideas, is suggested, for which there
has never been any precedent in human expe-
rience, we find it to be unthinkable^ — the ideas
will not combine. The proposition remains
one which we may utter and defend, and perhaps
vituperate our neighbours for not accepting, but
it remains none the less an unthinkable propo-
sition. It takes terms which severally have
meanings and puts them together into a phrase
62

THE UNSEEN WORLD

which has no meaning.1 Now when we try to
combine the idea of the continuance of conscious
activity with the idea of the entire cessation of
material conditions, and thereby to assert the
existence of a purely spiritual world, we find
that we have made an unthinkable proposition.
We may defend our hypothesis as passionately
as we like, but when we strive coolly to realize
it in thought we find ourselves baulked at every
step.

But now we have to ask, How much does
this inconceivability signify ? In most cases,
when we say that a statement is inconceivable,
we practically declare it to be untrue ; when
we say that a statement is without warrant
in experience, we plainly indicate that we con-
sider it unworthy of our acceptance. This is
legitimate in the majority of cases with which
we have to deal in the course of life, because
experience, and the capacities of thought called
out and limited by experience, are our only
guides in the conduct of life. But every one
will admit that our experience is not infinite,
and that our capacity of conception is not coex-
tensive with the possibilities of existence. It is
not only possible, but in the very highest de-
gree probable, that there are many things in
heaven, if not on earth, which are undreamed

1 See my Outlines of Cosmic Philosophy, part i., chap,
iii.

63

THE UNSEEN WORLD

of in our philosophy. Since our ability to con-
ceive anything is limited by the extent of our
experience, and since human experience is very
far from being infinite, it follows that there may
be, and in all probability is, an immense region
of existence in every way as real as the region
which we know, yet concerning which we can-
not form the faintest rudiment of a conception.
Any hypothesis relating to such a region of ex-
istence is not only not disproved by the total fail-
ure of evidence in its favour, but the total failure
of evidence does not raise even the slightest
prima facie presumption against its validity.

These considerations apply with great force
to the hypothesis of an unseen world in which
psychical phenomena persist in the absence of
material conditions. It is true, on the one hand,
that we can bring up no scientific evidence in
support of such an hypothesis. But on the other
hand it is equally true that in the very nature
of things no such evidence could be expected
to be forthcoming : even were there such evi-
dence in abundance, it could not be accessible
to us. The existence of a single soul, or con-
geries of psychical phenomena,, unaccompanied
by a material body, would be evidence sufficient
to demonstrate the hypothesis. But in the na-
ture of things, even were there a million such
souls round about usr we could not become
aware of the existence of one of them, for we

THE UNSEEN WORLD

have no organ or faculty for the perception of
soul apart from the material structure and ac-
tivities in which it has been manifested through-
out the whole course of our experience. Even
our own self-consciousness involves the con-
sciousness of ourselves as partly material bodies.
These considerations show that our hypothesis
is very different from the ordinary hypotheses
with which science deals. The entire absence of
testimony does not raise a negative presumption
except in cases where testimony is accessible. In
the hypotheses with which scientific men are
occupied, testimony is always accessible ; and if
we do not find any, the presumption is raised
that there is none. When Dr. Bastian tells us
that he has found living organisms to be gener-
ated in sealed flasks from which all living germs
had been excluded, we demand the evidence for
his assertion. The testimony of facts is in this
case hard to elicit, and only skilful reasoners
can properly estimate its worth. But still it is
all accessible. With more or less labour it can
be got at ; and if we find that Dr. Bastian has
produced no evidence save such as may equally
well receive a different interpretation from that
which he has given it, we rightly feel that a
strong presumption has been raised against his
hypothesis. It is a case in which we are enti-
tled to expect to find the favouring facts if there
are any, and so long as we do not find such, we

65

THE UNSEEN WORLD

are justified in doubting their existence. So
when our authors propound the hypothesis of
an unseen universe consisting of phenomena
which occur in the interstellar ether, or even in
some primordial fluid with which the ether has
physical relations, we are entitled to demand
their proofs. It is not enough to tell us that
we cannot disprove such a theory. The bur-
den of proof lies with them. The interstellar
ether is something concerning the physical pro-
perties of which we have some knowledge; and
surely, if all the things are going on which they
suppose in a medium so closely related to or-
dinary matter, there ought to be some traceable
indications of the fact. At least, until the con-
trary can be shown, we must refuse to believe
that all the testimony in a case like this is ut-
terly inaccessible ; and accordingly, so long as
none is found, especially so long as none is
even alleged, we feel that a presumption is
raised against their theory.

These illustrations will show, by sheer con-
trast, how different it is with the hypothesis of
an unseen world that is purely spiritual. The
testimony in such a case must, under the con-
ditions of the present life, be forever inaccessible.
It lies wholly outside the range of experience.
However abundant it may be, we cannot expect
to meet with it. And accordingly our failure
to produce it does not raise even the slightest
66

THE UNSEEN WORLD

presumption against our theory. When con-
ceived in this way, the belief in a future life is
without scientific support ; but at the same time
it is placed beyond the need of scientific support
and beyond the range of scientific criticism. It
is a belief which no imaginable future advance
in physical discovery can in any way impugn.
Jt is a belief which is in no sense irrational,
and which may be logically entertained without
in the least affecting our scientific habit of mind
or influencing our scientific conclusions.

To take a brief illustration : we have alluded
to the fact that in the history of our present
world the development of mental phenomena
has gone on hand in hand with the develop-
ment of organic life, while at the same time we
have found it impossible to explain mental
phenomena as in any sense the product of ma-
terial phenomena. Now there is another side
to all this. The great lesson which Berkeley
taught mankind was that what we call material
phenomena are really the products of con-
sciousness co-operating with some Unknown
Power (not material) existing beyond conscious-
ness. We do very well to speak of " matter "
in common parlance, but all that the word
really means is a group of qualities which have
no existence apart from our minds. Mod-
ern philosophers have quite generally accepted
this conclusion, and every attempt to overturn

THE UNSEEN WORLD

Berkeley's reasoning has hitherto resulted in
complete and disastrous failure. In admitting
this, we do not admit the conclusion of Abso-
lute Idealism, that nothing exists outside of
consciousness. What we admit as existing in-
dependently of our own consciousness is the
Power that causes in us those conscious states
which we call the perception of material quali-
ties. We have no reason for regarding this
Power as in itself material : indeed, we cannot
do so, since by the theory material qualities
have no existence apart from our minds. I
have elsewhere sought to show that less diffi-
culty is involved in regarding this Power out-
side of us as quasi-psychical, or in some mea-
sure similar to the mental part of ourselves ;
and I have gone on to conclude that this
Power may be identical with what men have,
in all times and by the aid of various imperfect
symbols, endeavoured to apprehend as Deity.1
We are thus led to a view of things not very
unlike the views entertained by Spinoza and
Berkeley. We are led to the inference that
what we call the material universe is but the
manifestation of infinite Deity to our finite
minds. Obviously, on this view, Matter — the
only thing to which materialists concede real
existence — is simply an orderly phantasma-

1 See my Outlines of Cosmic Philosophy, part i., chap, iv.;
part iii., chaps, iii., iv.

68

THE UNSEEN WORLD

goria ; and God and the Soul — which materi-
alists regard as mere fictions of the imagina-
tion — are the only conceptions that answer to
real existences.

In the foregoing paragraph I have been set-
ting down opinions with which I am prepared
to agree, and which are not in conflict with
anything that our study of the development of
the objective world has taught us. In so far
as that study may be supposed to bear on the
question of a future life, two conclusions are
open to us. First we may say that since the
phenomena of mind appear and run their
course along with certain specialized groups of
material phenomena, so, too, they must disap-
pear when these specialized groups are broken
up. Or, in other words, we may say that every
living person is an organized whole ; conscious-
ness is something which pertains to this or-
ganized whole, as music belongs to the harp
that is entire ; but when the harp is broken it
is silent, and when the organized whole of
personality falls to pieces consciousness ceases
forever. To many well-disciplined minds this
conclusion seems irresistible ; and doubtless it
would be a sound one — a good Baconian con-
clusion — if we were to admit, with the ma-
terialists, that the possibilities of existence are
limited by our tiny and ephemeral experience.

But now, supposing some Platonic specu-

THE UNSEEN WORLD

lator were to come along and insist upon our
leaving room for an alternative conclusion ;
suppose he were to urge upon us that all this
process of material development, with the dis-
covery of which our patient study has been re-
warded, may be but the temporary manifesta-
tion of relations otherwise unknown between
ourselves and the infinite Deity ; suppose he
were to argue that psychical qualities may be
inherent in a spiritual substance which under
certain conditions becomes incarnated in mat-
ter, to wear it as a perishable garment for a
brief season, but presently to cast it off and
enter upon the freedom of a larger existence,
— what reply should we be bound to make,
bearing in mind that the possibilities of exist-
ence are in no wise limited by our experience ?
Obviously we should be bound to admit that
in sound philosophy this conclusion is just as
likely to be true as the other. We should, in-
deed, warn him not to call on us to help him
to establish it by scientific arguments ; and we
should remind him that he must not make il-
licit use of his extra-experiential hypotheses by
bringing them into the treatment of scientific
questions that lie within the range of experi-
ence. In science, for example, we make no use
of the conception of a " spiritual substance "
(or of a " material substance " either), because
we can get along sufficiently well by dealing

70

THE UNSEEN WORLD

solely with qualities. But with this general
understanding we should feel bound to con-
cede the impregnableness of his main position.

I have supposed this theory only as an il-
lustration, not as a theory which I am pre-
pared to adopt. My present purpose is not
to treat as an advocate the question of a future
life, but to endeavour to point out what con-
ditions should be observed in treating the
question philosophically. It seems to me that
a great deal is gained when we have distinctly
set before us what are the peculiar conditions
of proof in the case of such transcendental
questions. We have gained a great deal when
we have learned how thoroughly impotent,
how truly irrelevant, is physical investigation
in the presence of such a question. If we get
not much positive satisfaction for our unquiet
yearnings, we occupy at any rate a sounder
philosophic position when we recognize the
limits within which our conclusions, whether
positive or negative, are valid.

It seems not improbable that Mr. Mill may
have had in mind something like the foregoing
considerations when he suggested that there is
no reason why one should not entertain the
belief in a future life if the belief be necessary
to one's spiritual comfort. Perhaps no sug-
gestion in Mr. Mill's richly suggestive posthu-
mous work has been more generally condemned

THE UNSEEN WORLD

as unphilosophical, on the ground that in mat-
ters of belief we must be guided, not by our
likes and dislikes, but by the evidence that is
accessible. The objection is certainly a sound
one so far as it relates to scientific questions
where evidence is accessible. To hesitate to
adopt a well-supported theory because of some
vague preference for a different view is in
scientific matters the one unpardonable sin, —
a sin which has been only too often committed.
Even in matters which lie beyond the range of
experience, where evidence is inaccessible, desire
is not to be regarded as by itself an adequate
basis for belief. But it seems to me that Mr.
Mill showed a deeper knowledge of the limi-
tations of scientific method than his critics,
when he thus hinted at the possibility of en-
tertaining a belief not amenable to scientific
tests. The hypothesis of a purely spiritual
unseen world, as above described, is entirely
removed from the jurisdiction of physical in-
quiry, and can only be judged on general
considerations of what has been called " moral
probability ; " and considerations of this sort
are likely, in the future as in the past, to pos-
sess different values for different minds. He
who, on such considerations, entertains a be-
lief in a future life may not demand that his
sceptical neighbour shall be convinced by the
same considerations ; but his neighbour is at

72

THE UNSEEN WORLD

the same time estopped from stigmatizing his
belief as unphilosophical.

The consideration which must influence most
minds in their attitude toward this question, is
the craving, almost universally felt, for some
teleological solution to the problem of existence.
Why we are here now is a question of even
profounder interest than whether we are to live
hereafter. Unfortunately its solution carries us
no less completely beyond the range of experi-
ence. The belief that all things are working
together for some good end is the most essen-
tial expression of religious faith : of all intel-
lectual propositions it is the one most closely
related to that emotional yearning for a higher
and better life which is the sum and substance
of religion. Yet all the treatises on natural the-
ology that have ever been written have barely
succeeded in establishing a low degree of scien-
tific probability for this belief. In spite of the
eight Bridgewater Treatises, and the " Ninth "
beside, dysteleology still holds full half the field
as against teleology. Most of this difficulty,
however, results from the crude anthropomor-
phic views which theologians have held con-
cerning God. Once admitting that the Divine
attributes may be (as they must be) incommen-
surably greater than human attributes, our faith
that all things are working together for good
may remain unimpugned.

73

THE UNSEEN WORLD

To many minds such a faith will seem incom-
patible with belief in the ultimate destruction
of sentiency amid the general doom of the
material universe. A good end can have no
meaning to us save in relation to consciousness
that distinguishes and knows the good from
the evil. There could be no better illustration
of how we are hemmed in than the very inade-
quacy of the words with which we try to dis-
cuss this subject. Such words have all gained
their meanings from human experience, and
hence of necessity carry anthropomorphic im-
plications. But we cannot help this. We must
think with the symbols with which experience
has furnished us ; and when we so think, there
does seem to be little that is even intellectually
satisfying in the awful picture which science
shows us, of giant worlds concentrating out of
nebulous vapour, developing with prodigious
waste of energy into theatres of all that is grand
and sacred in spiritual endeavour, clashing and
exploding again into dead vapour-balls, only to
renew the same toilful process without end, —
a senseless bubble-play of Titan forces, with
life, love, and aspiration brought forth only to
be extinguished. The human mind, however
" scientific " its training, must often recoil from
the conclusion that this is all; and there are
moments when one passionately feels that this
cannot be all. On warm June mornings in green

74

THE UNSEEN WORLD

country lanes, with sweet pine-odours wafted in
the breeze which sighs through the branches,
and cloud-shadows flitting over far-off blue
mountains, while little birds sing their love-
songs, and golden-haired children weave gar-
lands of wild roses ; or when in the solemn
twilight we listen to wondrous harmonies of
Beethoven and Chopin that stir the heart like
voices from an unseen world ; at such times
one feels that the profoundest answer which
science can give to our questionings is but a
superficial answer after all. At these moments,
when the world seems fullest of beauty, one
feels most strongly that it is but the harbinger
of something else, — that the ceaseless play of
phenomena is no mere sport of Titans, but an
orderly scene, with its reason for existing, its

" One divine far-off event
To which the whole creation moves."

Difficult as it is to disentangle the elements
of reasoning that enter into these complex
groups of feeling, one may still see, I think, that
it is speculative interest in the world, rather
than anxious interest in self, that predominates.
The desire for immortality in its lowest phase
is merely the outcome of the repugnance we
feel toward thinking of the final cessation of
vigorous vital activity. Such a feeling is natu-
rally strong with healthy people. But in the
mood which I have above tried to depict, this

75

THE UNSEEN WORLD

feeling, or any other which is merely self-re-
garding, is lost sight of in the feeling which
associates a future life with some solution of
the burdensome problem of existence. Had
we but faith enough to lighten the burden of
this problem, the inferior question would per-
haps be less absorbing. Could we but know
that our present lives are working together to-
wards some good end, even an end in no wise
anthropomorphic, it would be of less conse-
quence whether we were individually to endure.
To the dog under the knife of the experimenter,
the world is a world of pure evil ; yet could
the poor beast but understand the alleviation
of human suffering to which he is contributing,
he would be forced to own that this is not quite
true ; and if he were also a heroic or Christian
dog, the thought would perhaps take away from
death its sting. The analogy may be a crude
one ; but the reasonableness of the universe is
at least as far above our comprehension as the
purposes of man surpass the understanding of
the dog. Believing, however, though as a sim-
ple act of trust, that the end will crown the
work, we may rise superior to the question
which has here concerned us, and exclaim, in
the supreme language of faith, " Though He
slay me, yet will I trust in Him ! "
1875-

76

II

"THE TO-MORROW OF DEATH"

FEW of those who find pleasure in fre-
quenting bookstores can have failed to
come across one or more of the pro-
fusely illustrated volumes in which M. Louis
Figuier has sought to render dry science enter-
taining to the multitude. And of those who
may have casually turned over their pages, there
are probably none, competent to form an opin-
ion, who have not speedily perceived that these
pretentious books belong to the class of pests
and unmitigated nuisances in literature. Anti-
quated views, utter lack of comprehension of
the subjects treated, and shameless unscrupu-
lousness as to accuracy of statement, are faults
but ill atoned for by sensational pictures of the
" dragons of the prime that tear each other in
their slime," or of the Newton-like brow and
silken curls of that primitive man in contrast
with whom the said dragons have been likened
to " mellow music."

Nevertheless, the sort of scientific reputation
which these discreditable performances have
gained for M. Figuier among an uncritical pub-

77

THE UNSEEN WORLD

ic is such as to justify us in devoting a few
paragraphs to a book l which, on its own mer-
its, is unworthy of any notice whatever. " The
To-morrow of Death " — if one were to put his
trust in the translator's prefatory note — dis-
cusses a grave question upon " purely scientific
methods." We are glad to see this remark,
because it shows what notions may be enter-
tained by persons of average intelligence with
reference to " scientific methods." Those — and
they are many — who vaguely think that science
is something different from common-sense, and
that any book is scientific which talks about
perihelia and asymptotes and cetacea, will find
their vague notions here well corroborated.
Quite different will be the impression made
upon those — and they are yet too few — who
have learned that the method of science is the
common-sense method of cautiously weighing
evidence and withholding judgment where evi-
dence is not forthcoming. If talking about
remote and difficult subjects suffice to make one
scientific, then is M. Figuier scientific to a quite
terrible degree. He writes about the starry
heavens as if he had been present at the hour
of creation, or had at least accompanied the
Arabian prophet on his famous night-journey.

1 The To-morrotv of Death ; or, The Future Life accord-
ing to Science. By Louis Figuier. Translated from the
French by S. R. Crocker. Boston: Roberts Brothers. 1872.

78

"THE TO-MORROW OF DEATH"

Nor is his knowledge of physiology and other
abstruse sciences at all less remarkable. But
these things will cease to surprise us when we
learn the sources, hitherto suspected only in
mythology, from which favoured mortals can
obtain a knowledge of what is going on outside
of our planet.

The four inner planets being nearly alike in
size (?) and in length of day, M. Figuier infers,
by strictly scientific methods, that whatever is
true of one of them, as our earth, will be true
of the others (p. 34). Hence, they are all in-
habited by human beings. It is true that human
beings must find Venus rather warm, and are
not unlikely to be seriously incommoded by
the tropical climate of Mercury. But we must
remember that " the men of Venus and Mer-
cury are made by nature to resist heat, as those
of Jupiter and Saturn are made to endure cold,
and those of the Earth and Mars to live in
a mean temperature : otherwise they could not
exist" (p. 72). In view of this charming speci-
men of a truly scientific inference, it is almost
too bad to call attention to the fact that M.
Figuier is quite behind the age in his statement
of facts. So far from Jupiter and Saturn being
cold, observation plainly indicates that they are
prodigiously hot, if not even incandescent and
partly self-luminous ; the explanation being
that, by reason of their huge bulk, they still
79

THE UNSEEN WORLD

retain much of the primitive heat which smaller
planets have more quickly radiated away. As
for M. Figuier's statement, that polar snows
have been witnessed on these planets, it is
simply untrue; no such thing has ever been
seen there. Mars, on the other hand, has been
observed to resemble in many important re-
spects its near neighbour, the Earth ; whence
our author declares that if an aeronaut were to
shoot clear of terrestrial gravitation and land
upon Mars, he would unquestionably suppose
himself to be still upon the Earth. For aero-
lites, it seems, are somehow fired down upon
our planet both from Mars and from Venus ;
and aerolites sometimes contain vegetable mat-
ter (?). Therefore, Mars has a vegetation, and
very likely its red colour is caused by its luxu-
riant autumnal foliage (p. 47) ! To return to
Jupiter : this planet, indeed, has inconveniently
short days. " In his c Picture of the Heavens/
the German astronomer, Littrow (these Ger-
mans think of nothing but gormandizing), asks how
the people of Jupiter order their meals in the
short interval of five hours." Nevertheless, says
our author, the great planet is compensated for
this inconvenience by its equable and delicious
climate.

In view, however, of our author's more
striking and original disclosures, one would
suppose that all this discussion of the physical

80

"THE TO-MORROW OF DEATH"

conditions of existence on the various planets
might have been passed over without detriment
to the argument. After these efforts at proving
(for M. Figuier presumably regards this rigma-
role as proof) that all the members of our solar
system are habitable, the interplanetary ether is
forthwith peopled thickly with " souls," with-
out any resort to argument. This, we suppose,
is one of those scientific truths which, as M.
Figuier tells us, precede and underlie demon-
stration. Upon this impregnable basis is reared
the scientific theory of a future life. When we
die our soul passes into some other terrestrial
body, unless we have been very good, in which
case we at once soar aloft and join the noble
fraternity of the ether-folk. Bad men and young
children, on dying, must undergo renewed pro-
bation here below, but ultimately all pass away
into the interplanetary ether. The dweller in
ether is chiefly distinguished from the mundane
mortal by his acute senses and his ability to
subsist without food. He can see as if through
a telescope and microscope combined. His
intelligence is so great that in comparison an
Aristotle would seem idiotic. It should not be
forgotten, too, that he possesses eighty-five per
cent of soul to fifteen per cent of body, whereas
in terrestrial man the two elements are mixed in
equal proportions. There is no sex among the
ether-folk, their numbers being kept up by the
81

THE UNSEEN WORLD

influx of souls from the various planets. " Ali-
mentation, that necessity which tyrannizes over
men and animals, is not imposed upon the
inhabitants of ether. Their bodies must be re-
paired and sustained by the simple respiration
of the fluid in which they are immersed, that is,
of ether." Most likely, continues our scientific
author, the physiological functions of the ether-
folk are confined to respiration, and that it is
possible to breathe " without numerous organs
is proved by the fact that in all of a whole class
of animals — the batrachians — the mere bare
skin constitutes the whole machinery of respira-
tion " (p. 95). Allowing for the unfortunate
slip of the pen by which " batrachians " are sub-
stituted for " fresh-water polyps," how can we
fail to admire the severity of the scientific
method employed in reaching these interesting
conclusions ?

But the King of Serendib must die, nor will
the relentless scythe of Time spare our Ethe-
rians, with all their exalted attributes. They
will die repeatedly ; and after having through
sundry periods of probation attained spiritual
perfection, they will all pour into the sun. Since
it is the sun which originates life and feeling and
thought upon the surface of our earth, " why
may we not declare that the rays transmitted by
the sun to the earth and the other planets are

"THE TO-MORROW OF DEATH"

nothing more nor less than the emanations of
these souls ? " And now we may begin to form
an adequate conception of the rigorously scien-
tific character of our author's method. There
have been many hypotheses by which to account
for the supply of solar radiance. One of the
most ingenious and probable of these hypo-
theses is that of Helmholtz, according to which
the solar radiance is due to the arrested motion
of the sun's constituent particles towards their
common centre of gravity. But this is too fan-
ciful to satisfy M. Figuier. The speculations of
Helmholtz " have the disadvantage of resting
on the idea of the sun's nebulosity, — an hy-
pothesis which would need to be more closely
examined before serving as a basis for so impor-
tant a deduction." Accordingly, M. Figuier
propounds an explanation which possesses the
signal advantage that there is nothing hypothet-
ical in it. "In our opinion, the solar radiation
is sustained by the continual influx of souls
into the sun." This, as the reader will perceive,
is the well-known theory of Mayer, that the so-
lar heat is due to a perennial bombardment of
the sun by meteors, save that, in place of gross
materialistic meteors, M. Figuier puts ethereal
souls. The ether-folk are daily raining into the
solar orb in untold millions, and to the unceas-
ing concussion is due the radiation which main-

83

THE UNSEEN WORLD

tains life in the planets, and thus the circle is
complete.

In spite of their exalted position, the ether-
folk do not disdain to mingle with the affairs
of terrestrial mortals. They give us counsel in
dreams, and it is from this source, we presume,
that our author has derived his rigid notions as
to scientific method. In evidence of this dream-
theory we have the usual array of cases, " a cele-
brated journalist, M. R.," " M. L., a lawyer,"
etc., etc., as in most books of this kind.

M. Figuier is not a Darwinian : the derivation
of our bodies from the bodies of apes is a con-
ception too grossly materialistic for him. Our
souls, however, he is quite willing to derive from
the souls of lower animals. Obviously we have
pre-existed ; how are we to account for Mozart's
precocity save by supposing his pre-existence ?
He brought with him the musical skill acquired
in a previous life. In general, the souls of mu-
sical children come from nightingales, while the
souls of great architects have passed into them
from beavers (p. 247). We do not remember
these past existences, it is true ; but when we
become ether-folk, we shall be able to look back
in recollection over the whole series.

Amid these sublime inquiries, M. Figuier is
sometimes notably oblivious of humbler truths,
as might indeed be expected. Thus he repeat-

"THE TO-MORROW OF DEATH"

edly alludes to Locke as the author of the doc-
trine of innate ideas (! I),1 and he informs us
that Kepler never quitted Protestant England
(p. 335), though we believe that the nearest
Kepler ever came to living in England was the
refusing of Sir Henry Wotton's request that he
should move thither.

And lastly, we are treated to a real dialogue,
with quite a dramatic mise en scene. The au-
thor's imaginary friend, Theophilus, enters,
" seats himself in a comfortable chair, places an
ottoman under his feet, a book under his elbow
to support it, and a cigarette of Turkish tobacco
between his lips, and sets himself to the task of
listening with a grave air of collectedness, re-
lieved by a certain touch of suspicious severity,
as becomes the arbiter in a literary and philo-
sophic matter." " And so," begins our author,
" you wish to know, my dear Theophilus, where
I locate God? I locate him in the centre of
the universe, or, in better phrase, at the central
focus, which must exist somewhere, of all the
stars that make the universe, and which, borne
onward in a common movement, gravitate to-
gether around this focus."

Much more, of an equally scientific character,

1 Pages 251, 252, 287. So in the twenty-first century
some avatar of M. Figuier will perhaps describe the late Pro-
fessor Agassiz as the author of the Darwinian theory.

THE UNSEEN WORLD

follows ; but in fairness to the reader, who is
already blaming us for wasting the precious
moments over such sorry trash, we may as well
conclude our sketch of this new line of specu-
lation.

May, 1872.

86

Ill

THE JESUS OF HISTORY1

OF all the great founders of religions,
Jesus is at once the best known and
the least known to the modern scholar.
From the dogmatic point of view he is the best

1 The Jesus of History. Anonymous. 8vo. pp. 426.
London : Williams & Norgate, 1869.

Vie de Jesus, par Ernest Renan. Paris, 1867. (Thir-
teenth edition, revised and partly rewritten. )

In republishing this and the following article on " The
Christ of Dogma/' I am aware that they do but scanty jus-
tice to their very interesting subjects. So much ground is
covered that it would be impossible to treat it satisfactorily in
a pair of review-articles ; and in particular the views adopted
with regard to the New Testament literature are rather indi-
cated than justified. These defects I hope to remedy in a
future work on "Jesus of Nazareth, and the Founding of
Christianity," for which the present articles must be regarded
as furnishing only a few introductory hints. This work has
been for several years on my mind, but as it may still be long
before I can find the leisure needful for writing it out, it seemed
best to republish these preliminary sketches which have been
some time out of print. The projected work, however, while
covering all the points here treated, will have a much wider
scope, dealing on the one hand with the natural genesis of the
complex aggregate of beliefs and aspirations known as Chris-
tianity, and on the other hand with the metamorphoses which

87

THE UNSEEN WORLD

known, from the historic point of view he is the
least known. The Christ of dogma is in every
lineament familiar to us from early childhood;
but concerning the Jesus of history we possess
but few facts resting upon trustworthy evidence,
and in order to form a picture of him at once
consistent, probable, and distinct in its out-
lines, it is necessary to enter upon a long and
difficult investigation, in the course of which
some of the most delicate apparatus of modern
criticism is required. This circumstance is suf-
ficiently singular to require especial explanation.
The case of Sakyamuni, the founder of Bud-
dhism, which may perhaps be cited as parallel,

are being wrought in this aggregate by modern knowledge and
modern theories of the world.

The views adopted in the present essay as to the date of
the synoptic gospels may seem over-conservative to those
who accept the ably-argued conclusions of " Supernatural Re-
ligion." Quite possibly in a more detailed discussion these
briefly-indicated data may require revision ; but for the pre-
sent it seems best to let the article stand as it was written.
The author of " Supernatural Religion " would no doubt ad-
mit that, even if the synoptic gospels had not assumed their
present form before the end of the second century, neverthe-
less the body of tradition contained in them had been com-
mitted to writing very early in that century. So much appears
to be proved by the very variations of text upon which his
argument relies. And if this be granted, the value of the syn-
optics as historical evidence is not materially altered. With
their value as testimony to so-called supernatural events, the
present essay is in no way concerned.

88

THE JESUS OF HISTORY

is in reality wholly different. Not only did Sak-
yamuni live five centuries earlier than Jesus,
among a people that have at no time possessed
the art of insuring authenticity in their records
of events, and at an era which is at best but
dimly discerned through the mists of fable and
legend, but the work which he achieved lies
wholly out of the course of European history,
and it is only in recent times that his career has
presented itself to us as a problem needing to
be solved. Jesus, on the other hand, appeared
in an age which is familiarly and in many re-
spects minutely known to us, and among a peo-
ple whose fortunes we can trace with historic
certainty for at least seven centuries previous to
his birth ; while his life and achievements have
probably had a larger share in directing the en-
tire subsequent intellectual and moral develop-
ment of Europe than those of any other man
who has ever lived. Nevertheless, the details
of his personal career are shrouded in an obscu-
rity almost as dense as that which envelops the
life of the remote founder of Buddhism.

This phenomenon, however, appears less
strange and paradoxical when we come to ex-
amine it more closely. A little reflection will
disclose to us several good reasons why the
historical records of the life of Jesus should be
so scanty as they are. In the first place, the
activity of Jesus was private rather than public.

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Confined within exceedingly narrow limits, both
of space and of duration, it made no impression
whatever upon the politics or the literature of
the time. His name does not occur in the pages
of any contemporary writer, Roman, Greek, or
Jewish. Doubtless the case would have been
wholly different, had he, like Mohammed, lived
to a ripe age, and had the exigencies of his pecul-
iar position as the Messiah of the Jewish peo-
ple brought him into relations with the Empire ;
though whether, in such case, the success of his
grand undertaking would have been as complete
as it has actually been, may well be doubted.

Secondly, Jesus did not, like Mohammed
and Paul, leave behind him authentic writings
which might serve to throw light upon his
mental development as well as upon the ex-
ternal facts of his career. Without the Koran
and the four genuine Epistles of Paul, we should
be nearly as much in the dark concerning these
great men as we now are concerning the his-
torical Jesus. We should be compelled to rely,
in the one case, upon the untrustworthy gossip
of Mussulman chroniclers, and in the other case
upon the garbled statements of the " Acts of
the Apostles," a book written with a distinct
dogmatic purpose, sixty or seventy years after
the occurrence of the events which it professes
to record.

It is true, many of the words of Jesus, pre-
90

THE JESUS OF HISTORY

served by hearsay tradition through the gen-
eration immediately succeeding his death, have
come down to us, probably with little alteration,
in the pages of the three earlier evangelists.
These are priceless data, since, as we shall see,
they are almost the only materials at our com-
mand for forming even a partial conception of
the character of Jesus' work. Nevertheless,
even here the cautious inquirer has only too
often to pause in face of the difficulty of dis-
tinguishing the authentic utterances of the great
teacher from the later interpolations suggested
by the dogmatic necessities of the narrators.
Bitterly must the historian regret that Jesus
had no philosophic disciple, like Xenophon, to
record his Memorabilia. Of the various writ-
ings included in the New Testament, the Apo-
calypse alone (and possibly the Epistle of Jude)
is from the pen of a personal acquaintance of
Jesus ; and besides this, the four epistles of
Paul, to the Galatians, Corinthians, and Ro-
mans, make up the sum of the writings from
which we may expect contemporary testimony.
Yet from these we obtain absolutely nothing
of that for which we are seeking. The brief
writings of Paul are occupied exclusively with
the internal significance of Jesus' work. The
Epistle of Jude — if it be really written by
Jesus' brother of that name, which is doubtful
— is solely a polemic directed against the inno-

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vations of Paul. And the Apocalypse, the work
of the fiery and imaginative disciple John, is
confined to a prophetic description of the Mes-
siah's anticipated return, and tells us nothing
concerning the deeds of that Messiah while on
the earth.

Here we touch upon our third considera-
tion, — the consideration which best enables
us to see why the historic notices of Jesus are
so meagre. Rightly considered, the statement
with which we opened this article is its own
explanation. The Jesus of history is so little
known just because the Christ of dogma is
so well known.1 Other teachers — Paul, Mo-
hammed, Sakyamuni — have come merely as
preachers of righteousness, speaking in the
name of general principles with which their
own personalities were not directly implicated.
But Jesus, as we shall see, before the close of
his life, proclaimed himself to be something
more than a preacher of righteousness. He
announced himself — and justly, from his own
point of view — as the long-expected Messiah
sent by Jehovah to liberate the Jewish race.
Thus the success of his religious teachings be-
came at once implicated with the question of
his personal nature and character. After the

1 " Wer einmal vergottert worden 1st, der hat seine
Menschheit unwiederbringlich eingebiisst." — Strauss, Der
alte und der neue Glaube, p. 76.

92

THE JESUS OF HISTORY

sudden and violent termination of his career,
it immediately became all-important with his
followers to prove that he was really the Mes-
siah, and to insist upon the certainty of his
speedy return to the earth. Thus the first gen-
eration of disciples dogmatized about him, in-
stead of narrating his life, — a task which to
them would have seemed of little profit. For
them the all-absorbing object of contemplation
was the immediate future rather than the im-
mediate past. As all the earlier Christian litera-
ture informs us, for nearly a century after the
death of Jesus, his followers lived in daily anti-
cipation of his triumphant return to the earth.
The end of all things being so near at hand,
no attempt was made to insure accurate and
complete memoirs for the use of a posterity
which was destined, in Christian imagination,
never to arrive. The first Christians wrote but
little ; even Papias, at the end of a century,
preferring second-hand or third-hand oral tra-
dition to the written gospels which were then
beginning to come into circulation.1 Memoirs
of the life and teachings of Jesus were called

1 «« Roger was the attendant of Thomas [Becket] during
his sojourn at Pontigny. We might have expected him to be
very full on that part of his history ; but, writing doubtless
mainly for the monks of Pontigny, he says that he will not
enlarge upon what every one knows, and cuts that part very
short.'* — Freeman, Historical Essays, 1st series, p. 90.

93

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forth by the necessity of having a written stand-
ard of doctrine to which to appeal amid the
growing differences of opinion which disturbed
the Church. Thus the earlier gospels exhibit,
though in different degrees, the indications of
a modifying, sometimes of an overruling dog-
matic purpose. There is, indeed, no conscious
violation of historic truth, but from the varied
mass of material supplied by tradition, such in-
cidents are selected as are fit to support the
views of the writers concerning the personality
of Jesus. Accordingly, while the early gospels
throw a strong light upon the state of Christian
opinion at the dates when they were succes-
sively composed, the information which they
give concerning Jesus himself is, for that very
reason, often vague, uncritical, and contradict-
ory. Still more is this true of the fourth gospel,
written late in the second century, in which
historic tradition is moulded in the interests
of dogma until it becomes no longer recogniza-
ble, and in the place of the human Messiah
of the earlier accounts, we have a semi-divine
Logos or jEon, detached from God, and incar-
nate for a brief season in the likeness of man.

Not only was history subordinated to dogma
by the writers of the gospel-narratives, but in
the minds of the Fathers of the Church who
assisted in determining what writings should be
considered canonical, dogmatic prepossession
94

THE JESUS OF HISTORY

went very much further than critical acumen.
Nor is this strange when we reflect that critical
discrimination in questions of literary authen-
ticity is one of the latest acquisitions of the
cultivated human mind. In the early ages of
the Church the evidence of the genuineness of
any literary production was never weighed crit-
ically ; writings containing doctrines acceptable
to the majority of Christians were quoted as
authoritative, while writings which supplied no
dogmatic want were overlooked, or perhaps
condemned as apocryphal. A striking instance
of this is furnished by the fortunes of the Apoc-
alypse. Although perhaps the best authenti-
cated work in the New Testament collection,
its millenarian doctrines caused it to become
unpopular as the Church gradually ceased to
look for the speedy return of the Messiah, and,
accordingly, as the canon assumed a definite
shape, it was placed among the " Antilego-
mena," or doubtful books, and continued to
hold a precarious position until after the time
of the Protestant Reformation. On the other
hand, the fourth gospel, which was quite un-
known and probably did not exist at the time
of the Quartodeciman controversy (A. D. 168),
was accepted with little hesitation, and at the
beginning of the third century is mentioned by
Irenaeus, Clement, and Tertullian, as the work
of the Apostle John. To this uncritical spirit,

95

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leading to the neglect of such books as failed
to answer the dogmatic requirements of the
Church, may probably be attributed the loss of
so many of the earlier gospels. It is doubtless
for this reason that we do not possess the Ara-
maean original of the " Logia " of Matthew, or
the " Memorabilia " of Mark, the companion
of Peter, — two works to which Papias (A. D.
120) alludes as containing authentic reports of
the utterances of Jesus.

These considerations will, we believe, suffi-
ciently explain the curious circumstance that,
while we know the Christ of dogma so inti-
mately, we know the Jesus of history so slightly.
The literature of early Christianity enables us
to trace with tolerable completeness the pro-
gress of opinion concerning the nature of Jesus,
from the time of Paul's early missions to the
time of the Nicene Council ; but upon the ac-
tual words and deeds of Jesus it throws a very
unsteady light. The dogmatic purpose every-
where obscures the historic basis.

This same dogmatic prepossession which has
rendered the data for a biography of Jesus so
scanty and untrustworthy, has also until com-
paratively recent times prevented any unbiassed
critical examination of such data as we actually
possess. Previous to the eighteenth century
any attempt to deal with the life of Jesus upon
purely historical methods would have been not

THE JESUS OF HISTORY

only contemned as irrational, but stigmatized
as impious. And even in the eighteenth cen-
tury, those writers who had become wholly
emancipated from ecclesiastic tradition were so
destitute of all historic sympathy and so un-
skilled in scientific methods of criticism, that
they utterly failed to comprehend the require-
ments of the problem. Their aims were in the
main polemic, not historical. They thought
more of overthrowing current dogmas than of
impartially examining the earliest Christian lit-
erature with a view of eliciting its historic con-
tents ; and, accordingly, they accomplished but
little. Two brilliant exceptions must, however,
be noticed. Spinoza, in the seventeenth cen-
tury, and Lessing, in the eighteenth, were men
far in advance of their age. They are the
fathers of modern historical criticism ; and to
Lessing in particular, with his enormous erudi-
tion and incomparable sagacity, belongs the
honour of initiating that method of inquiry
which, in the hands of the so-called Tubingen
School, has led to such striking and valuable
conclusions concerning the age and character
of all the New Testament literature. But it
was long before any one could be found fit to
bend the bow which Lessing and Spinoza had
wielded. A succession of able scholars — Sem-
ler, Eichhorn, Paulus, Schleiermacher, Bret-
schneider, and De Wette — were required to ex-

97

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amine, with German patience and accuracy, the
details of the subject, and to propound various
untenable hypotheses, before such a work could
be performed as that of Strauss. The " Life of
Jesus," published by Strauss when only twenty-
six years of age, is one of the monumental
works of the nineteenth century, worthy to
rank, as a historical effort, along with such
books as Niebuhr's " History of Rome," Wolf's
" Prolegomena," or Bentley's " Dissertations
on Phalaris." It instantly superseded and ren-
dered antiquated everything which had pre-
ceded it ; nor has any work on early Christian-
ity been written in Germany for the past thirty
years which has not been dominated by the
recollection of that marvellous book. Never-
theless, the labours of another generation of
scholars have carried our knowledge of the New
Testament literature far beyond the point which
it had reached when Strauss first wrote. At
that time the dates of but few of the New Tes-
tament writings had been fixed with any ap-
proach to certainty ; the age and character of
the fourth gospel, the genuineness of the Paul-
ine epistles, even the mutual relations of the
three synoptics, were still undetermined ; and,
as a natural result of this uncertainty, the pro-
gress of dogma during the first century was ill
understood. At the present day it is impossible
to read the early work of Strauss without being

THE JESUS OF HISTORY

impressed with the necessity of obtaining posi-
tive data as to the origin and dogmatic char-
acter of the New Testament writings, before
attempting to reach any conclusions as to the
probable career of Jesus. These positive data
we owe to the genius and diligence of the
Tubingen School, and, above all, to its founder,
Ferdinand Christian Baur. Beginning with
the epistles of Paul, of which he distinguished
four as genuine, Baur gradually worked his way
through the entire New Testament collection,
detecting — with that inspired insight which
only unflinching diligence can impart to original
genius — the age at which each book was writ-
ten, and the circumstances which called it forth.
To give any account of Baur's detailed conclu-
sions, or of the method by which he reached
them, would require a volume. They are very
scantily presented in Mr. Mackay's work on
the " Tubingen School and its Antecedents,"
to which we may refer the reader desirous of
farther information. We can here merely say
that twenty years of energetic controversy have
only served to establish most of Baur's leading
conclusions more firmly than ever. The pri-
ority of the so-called gospel of Matthew, the
Pauline purpose of " Luke," the second in date
of our gospels, the derivative and second-hand
character of" Mark," and the unapostolic origin
of the fourth gospel, are points which may for

99

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the future be regarded as wellnigh established
by circumstantial evidence. So with respect to
the pseudo-Pauline epistles, Baur's work was
done so thoroughly that the only question still
left open for much discussion is that concerning
the date and authorship of the first and second
" Thessalonians," — a point of quite inferior
importance, so far as our present subject is con-
cerned. Seldom have such vast results been
achieved by the labour of a single scholar.
Seldom has any historical critic possessed such
a combination of analytic and of co-ordinating
powers as Baur. His keen criticism and his
wonderful flashes of insight exercise upon the
reader a truly poetic effect like that which is
felt in contemplating the marvels of physical
discovery.

The comprehensive labours of Baur were fol-
lowed up by Zeller's able work on the " Acts
of the Apostles," in which that book was shown
to have been partly founded upon documents
written by Luke, or some other companion of
Paul, and expanded and modified by a much
later writer with the purpose of covering up
the traces of the early schism between the Paul-
ine and the Petrine sections of the Church.
Along with this, Schwegler's work on the " Post-
Apostolic Times " deserves mention as clear-
ing up many obscure points relating to the
early development of dogma. Finally, the
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THE JESUS OF HISTORY

" New Life of Jesus," by Strauss, adopting and
utilizing the principal discoveries of Baur and
his followers, and combining all into one grand
historical picture, worthily completes the task
which the earlier work of the same author had
inaugurated.

The reader will have noticed that, with the
exception of Spinoza, every one of the names
above cited in connection with the literary
analysis and criticism of the New Testament is
the name of a German. Until within the last
decade, Germany has indeed possessed almost
an absolute monopoly of the science of Biblical
criticism ; other countries having remained not
only unfamiliar with its methods, but even
grossly ignorant of its conspicuous results, save
when some German treatise of more than ordi-
nary popularity has now and then been trans-
lated. But during the past ten years France
has entered the lists; and the writings of
Reville, Reuss, Nicolas, D'Eichthal, Scherer,
and Colani testify to the rapidity with which
the German seed has fructified upon her soil.1

None of these books, however, has achieved
such wide-spread celebrity, or done so much
towards interesting the general public in this
class of historical inquiries, as the " Life of

1 But now, in annexing Alsace, Germany has '« annexed "
pretty much the whole of this department of French scholar-
ship, — a curious incidental consequence of the late war.
101

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Jesus," by Renan. This pre-eminence of fame
is partly, but not wholly, deserved. From a
purely literary point of view, Kenan's work
doubtless merits all the celebrity it has gained.
Its author writes a style such as is perhaps sur-
passed by that of no other living Frenchman.
It is by far the most readable book which has
ever been written concerning the life of Jesus.
And no doubt some of its popularity is due to
its very faults, which, from a critical point of
view, are neither few nor small. For Renan is
certainly very faulty, as a historical critic, when
he practically ignores the extreme meagreness
of our positive knowledge of the career of Jesus,
and describes scene after scene in his life as
minutely and with as much confidence as if he
had himself been present to witness it all. Again
and again the critical reader feels prompted to
ask, How do you know all this ? or why, out
of two or three conflicting accounts, do you
quietly adopt some particular one, as if its
superior authority were self-evident? But in
the eye of the uncritical reader, these defects
are excellences ; for it is unpleasant to be kept
in ignorance when we are seeking after definite
knowledge, and it is disheartening to read page
after page of an elaborate discussion which ends
in convincing us that definite knowledge cannot
be gained.

In the thirteenth edition of the " Vie de
102

THE JESUS OF HISTORY

Jesus," Renan has corrected some of the most
striking errors of the original work, and in par-
ticular has, with praiseworthy candour, aban-
doned his untenable position with regard to the
age and character of the fourth gospel. As is
well known, Renan, in his earlier editions, as-
cribed to this gospel a historical value superior
to that of the synoptics, believing it to have
been written by an eye-witness of the events
which it relates ; and from this source, accord-
ingly, he drew the larger share of his materials.
Now, if there is any one conclusion concerning
the New Testament literature which must be
regarded as incontrovertibly established by the
labours of a whole generation of scholars, it is
this, that the fourth gospel was utterly unknown
until about A. D. 170, that it was written by
some one who possessed very little direct know-
ledge of Palestine, that its purpose was rather
to expound a dogma than to give an accurate
record of events, and that as a guide to the
comprehension of the career of Jesus it is of
far less value than the three synoptic gospels.
It is impossible, in a brief review like the pre-
sent, to epitomize the evidence upon which this
conclusion rests, which may more profitably be
sought in the Rev. J. J. Tayler's work on " The
Fourth Gospel," or in Davidson's " Introduc-
tion to the New Testament." It must suffice
to mention that this gospel is not cited by
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Papias ; that Justin, Marcion, and Valentinus
make no allusion to it, though, since it furnishes
so much that is germane to their views, they
would gladly have appealed to it, had it been
in existence, when those views were as yet under
discussion ; and that, finally, in the great Quar-
todeciman controversy, A. D. 168, the gospel
is not only not mentioned, but the authority of
John is cited by Polycarp in flat contradiction
of the view afterwards taken by this evangelist.
Still more, the assumption of Renan led at
once into complicated difficulties with reference
to the Apocalypse. The fourth gospel, if it
does not unmistakably announce itself as the
work of John, at least professes to be Johannine ;
and it cannot for a moment be supposed that
such a book, making such claims, could have
gained currency during John's lifetime without
calling forth his indignant protest. For, in
reality, no book in the New Testament collec-
tion would so completely have shocked the
prejudices of the Johannine party. John's own
views are well known to us from the Apocalypse.
John was the most enthusiastic of millenarians
and the most narrow and rigid of Judaizers.
In his antagonism to the Pauline innovations
he went farther than Peter himself. Intense
hatred of Paul and his followers appears in sev-
eral passages of the Apocalypse, where they are
stigmatized as " Nicolaitans," " deceivers of the
104

THE JESUS OF HISTORY

people," " those who say they are apostles and
are not," " eaters of meat offered to idols,"
" fornicators," " pretended Jews," " liars,"
" synagogue of Satan," etc. (chap. ii.). On the
other hand, the fourth gospel contains nothing
millenarian or Judaical ; it carries Pauline uni-
versalism to a far greater extent than Paul
himself ventured to carry it, even condemning
the Jews as children of darkness, and by impli-
cation contrasting them unfavourably with the
Gentiles ; and it contains a theory of the nature
of Jesus which the Ebionitish Christians, to
whom John belonged, rejected to the last.

In his present edition Renan admits the in-
superable force of these objections, and aban-
dons his theory of the apostolic origin of the
fourth gospel. And as this has necessitated the
omission or alteration of all such passages as
rested upon the authority of that gospel, the
book is to a considerable extent rewritten, and
the changes are such as greatly to increase its
value as a history of Jesus. Nevertheless, the
author has so long been in the habit of shaping
his conceptions of the career of Jesus by the aid
of the fourth gospel, that it has become very
difficult for him to pass freely to another point
of view. He still clings to the hypothesis that
there is an element of historic tradition contained
in the book, drawn from memorial writings
which had perhaps been handed down from
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John, and which were inaccessible to the syn-
optists. In a very interesting appendix, he col-
lects the evidence in favour of this hypothesis,
which indeed is not without plausibility, since
there is every reason for supposing that the
gospel was written at Ephesus, which a century
before had been John's place of residence. But
even granting most of Kenan's assumptions, it
must still follow that the authority of this gos-
pel is far inferior to that of the synoptics, and
can in no case be very confidently appealed to.
The question is one of the first importance to
the historian of early Christianity. In inquiring
into the life of Jesus, the very first thing to do
is to establish firmly in the mind the true rela-
tions of the fourth gospel to the first three.
Until this has been done, no one is competent
to write on the subject ; and it is because he has
done this so imperfectly, that Kenan's work is,
from a critical point of view, so imperfectly
successful.

The anonymous work entitled " The Jesus
of History," which we have placed at the head
of this article, is in every respect noteworthy as
the first systematic attempt made in England
to follow in the footsteps of German criticism
in writing a life of Jesus. We know of no good
reason why the book should be published an-
onymously ; for as a historical essay it possesses
extraordinary merit, and does great credit not
1 06

THE JESUS OF HISTORY

only to its author, but to English scholarship
and acumen.1 It is not, indeed, a book calcu-
lated to captivate the imagination of the reading
public. Though written in a clear, forcible, and
often elegant style, it possesses no such wonder-
ful rhetorical charm as the work of Renan ; and
it will probably never find half a dozen readers
where the " Vie de Jesus " has found a hundred.
But the success of a book of this sort is not to
be measured by its rhetorical excellence, or by
its adaptation to the literary tastes of an uncrit-
ical and uninstructed public, but rather by the
amount of critical sagacity which it brings to
bear upon the elucidation of the many difficult
and disputed points in the subject of which it
treats. Measured by this standard, " The Jesus
of History " must rank very high indeed. To
say that it throws more light upon the career of
Jesus than any work which has ever before been
written in English would be very inadequate
praise, since the English language has been
singularly deficient in this branch of historical
literature. We shall convey a more just idea of
its merits if we say that it will bear comparison
with anything which even Germany has pro-
duced, save only the works of Strauss, Baur,
and Zeller.

The fitness of our author for the task which

1 The Jesus of History is now known to have been written
by Sir Richard Hanson, Chief Justice of South Australia.
107

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he has undertaken is shown at the outset by his
choice of materials. In basing his conclusions al-
most exclusively upon the statements contained
in the first gospel, he is upheld by every sound
principle of criticism. The times and places at
which our three synoptic gospels were written
have been, through the labours of the Tubingen
critics, determined almost to a certainty. Of the
three, " Mark " is unquestionably the latest ;
with the exception of about twenty verses, it
is entirely made up from " Matthew " and
" Luke," the diverse Petrine and Pauline ten-
dencies of which it strives to neutralize in con-
formity to the conciliatory disposition of the
Church at Rome, at the epoch at which this
gospel was written, about A. D. 130. The third
gospel was also written at Rome, some fifteen
years earlier. In the preface, its author describes
it as a compilation from previously existing
written materials. Among these materials was
certainly the first gospel, several passages of
which are adopted word for word by the author
of " Luke." Yet the narrative varies materially
from that of the first gospel in many essential
points. The arrangement of events is less nat-
ural, and, as in the " Acts of the Apostles," by
the same author, there is apparent throughout
the design of suppressing the old discord be-
tween Paul and the Judaizing disciples, and of
representing Christianity as essentially Pauline
108

THE JESUS OF HISTORY

from the outset. How far Paul was correct in
his interpretation of the teachings of Jesus, it is
difficult to decide. It is, no doubt, possible that
the first gospel may have lent to the words of
Jesus an Ebionite colouring in some instances,
and that now and then the third gospel may
present us with a truer account. To this su-
premely important point we shall by and by
return. For the present it must suffice to ob-
serve that the evidences of an overruling dog-
matic purpose are generally much more con-
spicuous in the third synoptist than in the first ;
and that the very loose manner in which this
writer has handled his materials in the " Acts "
is not calculated to inspire us with confidence
in the historical accuracy of his gospel. The
writer who, in spite of the direct testimony of
Paul himself, could represent the apostle to the
Gentiles as acting under the direction of the dis-
ciples at Jerusalem, and who puts Pauline senti-
ments into the mouth of Peter, would certainly
have been capable of unwarrantably giving a
Pauline turn to the teachings of Jesus himself.
We are therefore, as a last resort, brought back
to the first gospel, which we find to possess, as
a historical narrative, far stronger claims upon
our attention than the second and third. In all
probability it had assumed nearly its present
shape before A. D. 100 ; its origin is unmistak-
ably Palestinian ; it betrays comparatively few
109

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indications of dogmatic purpose ; and there are
strong reasons for believing that the speeches
of Jesus recorded in it are in substance taken
from the genuine " Logia " of Matthew men-
tioned by Papias, which must have been written
as early as A. D. 60-70, before the destruction
of Jerusalem. Indeed, we are inclined to agree
with our author that the gospel, even in its pre-
sent shape (save only a few interpolated pas-
sages), may have existed as early as A. D. 80,
since it places the time of Jesus' second coming
immediately after the destruction of Jerusalem ;
whereas the third evangelist, who wrote forty-
five years after that event, is careful to tell us,
"The end is not immediately." Moreover, it
must have been written while the Paulo-Petrine
controversy was still raging, as is shown by the
parable of the " enemy who sowed the tares,"
which manifestly refers to Paul, and also by the
allusions to " false prophets " (vii. 1 5), to those
who say " Lord, Lord," and who " cast out
demons in the name of the Lord " (vii. 21-23),
teaching men to break the commandments (v.
17—20). There is, therefore, good reason for
believing that we have here a narrative written
not much more than fifty years after the death
of Jesus, based partly upon the written memori-
als of an apostle, and in the main trustworthy,
save where it relates occurrences of a marvellous
and legendary character. Such is our author's
no

THE JESUS OF HISTORY

conclusion, and in describing the career of the
Jesus of history, he relies almost exclusively
upon the statements contained in the first gos-
pel. Let us now, after this long but inadequate
introduction, give a brief sketch of the life of
Jesus, as it is to be found in our author.

Concerning the time and place of the birth of
Jesus, we know next to nothing. According to
uniform tradition, based upon a statement of the
third gospel, he was about thirty years of age
at the time when he began teaching. The same
gospel states, with elaborate precision, that the
public career of John the Baptist began in the
fifteenth year of Tiberius, or A. D. 28. In the
winter of A. D. 35—36, Pontius Pilate was re-
called from Judaea, so that the crucifixion could
not have taken place later than in the spring of
35. Thus we have a period of about six years
during which the ministry of Jesus must have
begun and ended ; and if the tradition with re-
spect to his age be trustworthy, we shall not be
far out of the way in supposing him to have
been born somewhere between B. c. 5 and A. D. 5.
He is everywhere alluded to in the gospels as
Jesus of Nazareth in Galilee, where lived also
his father, mother, brothers, and sisters, and
where very likely he was born. His parents'
names are said to have been Joseph and Mary.
His own name is a Hellenized form of Joshua,
in

THE UNSEEN WORLD

a name very common among the Jews. Accord-
ing to the first gospel (xiii. 55), he had four
brothers, — Joseph and Simon ; James, who
was afterwards one of the heads of the church
at Jerusalem, and the most formidable enemy
of Paul ; and Judas or Jude, who is perhaps
the author of the anti-Pauline epistle commonly
ascribed to him.

Of the early youth of Jesus, and of the cir-
cumstances which guided his intellectual devel-
opment, we know absolutely nothing, nor have
we the data requisite for forming any plausible
hypothesis. He first appears in history about
A. D. 29 or 30, in connection with a very re-
markable person whom the third evangelist de-
scribes as his cousin, and who seems, from his
mode of life, to have been in some way con-
nected with or influenced by the Hellenizing
sect of Essenes. Here we obtain our first clue
to guide us in forming a consecutive theory of
the development of Jesus' opinions. The sect
of Essenes took its rise in the time of the Mac-
cabees, about B. c. 170. Upon the fundamental
doctrines of Judaism it had engrafted many
Pythagorean notions, and was doubtless in the
time of Jesus instrumental in spreading Greek
ideas among the people of Galilee, where Juda-
ism was far from being so narrow and rigid as
at Jerusalem. The Essenes attached but little
importance to the Messianic expectations of the

112

THE JESUS OF HISTORY

Pharisees, and mingled scarcely at all in national
politics. They lived for the most part a strictly
ascetic life, being indeed the legitimate prede-
cessors of the early Christian hermits and monks.
But while pre-eminent for sanctity of life, they
heaped ridicule upon the entire sacrificial service
of the Temple, despised the Pharisees as hypo-
crites, and insisted upon charity towards all men
instead of the old Jewish exclusiveness.

It was once a favourite theory that both John
the Baptist and Jesus were members of the Esse-
nian brotherhood ; but that theory is now gen-
erally abandoned. Whatever may have been the
case with John, who is said to have lived like
an anchorite in the desert, there seems to have
been but little practical Essenism in Jesus, who
is almost uniformly represented as cheerful and
social in demeanour, and against whom it was
expressly urged that he came eating and drink-
ing, making no pretence of puritanical holiness.
He was neither a puritan, like the Essenes, nor
a ritualist, like the Pharisees. Besides which,
both John and Jesus seem to have begun their
careers by preaching the un-Essene doctrine of
the speedy advent of the " kingdom of heaven,"
by which is meant the reign of the Messiah
upon the earth. Nevertheless, though we cannot
regard Jesus as actually a member of the Esse-
nian community or sect, we can hardly avoid the
conclusion that he, as well as John the Baptist,

THE UNSEEN WORLD

had been at some time strongly influenced by
Essenian doctrines. The spiritualized concep-
tion of the " kingdom of heaven " proclaimed
by him was just what would naturally and logi-
cally arise from a remodelling of the Messianic
theories of the Pharisees in conformity to ad-
vanced Essenian notions. It seems highly prob-
able that some such refined conception of the
functions of the Messiah was reached by John,
who, stigmatizing the Pharisees and Sadducees
as a " generation of vipers," called aloud to the
people to repent of their sins, in view of the
speedy advent of the Messiah, and to testify to
their repentance by submitting to the Essenian
rite of baptism. There is no positive evidence
that Jesus was ever a disciple of John ; yet the
account of the baptism, in spite of the legendary
character of its details, seems to rest upon a his-
torical basis ; and perhaps the most plausible
hypothesis which can be framed is, that Jesus
received baptism at John's hands, became for a
while his disciple, and acquired from him a know-
ledge of Essenian doctrines.

The career of John seems to have been very
brief. His stern puritanism brought him soon
into disgrace witn the government of Galilee.
He was seized by Herod, thrown into prison,
and beheaded. After the brief hints given as to
the intercourse between Jesus and John, we next
hear of Jesus alone in the desert, where, like
114

THE JESUS OF HISTORY

Sakyamuni and Mohammed, he may have
brooded in solitude over his great project. Yet
we do not find that he had as yet formed any
distinct conception of his own Messiahship.
The totaJ neglect of chronology by our authori-
ties 1 renders it impossible to trace the develop-
ment of his thoughts step by step ; but for some
time after John's catastrophe we find him calling
upon the people to repent, in view of the speedy
approach of the Messiah, speaking with great
and commanding personal authority, but using
no language which would indicate that he was
striving to do more than worthily fill the place
and add to the good work of his late master.
The Sermon on the Mount, which the first gos-
pel inserts in this place, was perhaps never
spoken as a continuous discourse ; but it no
doubt for the most part contains the very words
of Jesus, and represents the general spirit of his
teaching during this earlier portion of his career.
In this is contained nearly all that has made
Christianity so powerful in the domain of ethics.
If all the rest of the gospel were taken away,
or destroyed in the night of some future barba-

1 " The biographers [of Becket] are commonly rather
careless as to the order of time. Each . . . recorded what
struck him most or what he best knew ; one set down one
event and another another ; and none of them paid much re-
gard to the order of details." — Freeman, Historical Essays,
1st series, p. 94.

"5

THE UNSEEN WORLD

rian invasion, we should still here possess the
secret of the wonderful impression which Jesus
made upon those who heard him speak. Added
to the Essenian scorn of Pharisaic formalism,
and the spiritualized conception of the Messi-
anic kingdom, which Jesus may probably have
shared with John the Baptist, we have here for
the first time the distinctively Christian concep-
tion of the fatherhood of God and the brother-
hood of men, which ultimately insured the suc-
cess of the new religion. The special point of
originality in Jesus was his conception of Deity.
As Strauss well says, "He conceived of God,
in a moral point of view, as being identical in
character with himself in the most exalted mo-
ments of his religious life, and strengthened in
turn his own religious life by this ideal. But
the most exalted religious tendency in his own
consciousness was exactly that comprehensive
love, overpowering the evil only by the good,
which he therefore transferred to God as the
fundamental tendency of His nature." From
this conception of God, observes Zeller, flowed
naturally all the moral teaching of Jesus, the in-
sistence upon spiritual righteousness instead of
the mere mechanical observance of Mosaic pre-
cepts, the call to be perfect even as the Father
is perfect, the principle of the spiritual equality
of men before God, and the equal duties of all
men towards each other.
116

THE JESUS OF HISTORY

How far, in addition to these vitally impor-
tant lessons, Jesus may have taught doctrines
of an ephemeral or visionary character, it is very
difficult to decide. We are inclined to regard
the third gospel as of some importance in
settling this point. The author of that gospel
represents Jesus as decidedly hostile to the rich.
Where Matthew has " Blessed are the poor in
spirit," Luke has " Blessed are ye poor." In
the first gospel we read, " Blessed are they who
hunger and thirst after righteousness, for they
will be filled ; " but in the third gospel we find,
" Blessed are ye that hunger now, for ye will be
filled ; " and this assurance is immediately fol-
lowed by the denunciation, " Woe to you that
are rich, for ye have received your consolation !
Woe to you that are full now, for ye will hun-
ger." The parable of Dives and Lazarus illus-
trates concretely this view of the case, which is
still further corroborated by the account, given
in both the first and the third gospels, of the
young man who came to seek everlasting life.
Jesus here maintains that righteousness is insuf-
ficient unless voluntary poverty be superadded.
Though the young man has strictly fulfilled the
greatest of the commandments, — to love his
neighbour as himself, — he is required, as a
needful proof of his sincerity, to distribute all
his vast possessions among the poor. And
when he naturally manifests a reluctance to
117

THE UNSEEN WORLD

perform so superfluous a sacrifice, Jesus ob-
serves that it will be easier for a camel to go
through the eye of a needle than for a rich man
to share in the glories of the anticipated Mes-
sianic kingdom. It is difficult to escape the con-
clusion that we have here a very primitive and
probably authentic tradition ; and when we re-
member the importance which, according to the
" Acts," the earliest disciples attached to the
principle of communism, as illustrated in the le-
gend of Ananias and Sapphira, we must admit
strong reasons for believing that Jesus himself
held views which tended towards the abolition
of private property. On this point, the testi-
mony of the third evangelist singly is of con-
siderable weight ; since at the time when he
wrote, the communistic theories of the first
generation of Christians had been generally
abandoned, and in the absence of any dogmatic
motives, he could only have inserted these par-
ticular traditions because he believed them to
possess historical value. But we are not depen-
dent on the third gospel alone. The story just
cited is attested by both our authorities, and is
in perfect keeping with the general views of
Jesus as reported by the first evangelist. Thus
his disciples are enjoined to leave all, and follow
him ; to take no thought for the morrow ; to
think no more of laying up treasures on the
earth, for in the Messianic kingdom they shall
118

THE JESUS OF HISTORY

have treasures in abundance, which can neither
be wasted nor stolen. On making their jour-
neys, they are to provide neither money, nor
clothes, nor food, but are to live at the expense
of those whom they visit ; and if any town re-
fuse to harbour them, the Messiah, on his ar-
rival, will deal with that town more severely
than Jehovah dealt with the cities of the plain.
Indeed, since the end of the world was to come
before the end of the generation then living
(Matt. xxiv. 34; i Cor. xv. 51-56, vii. 29),
there could be no need for acquiring property
or making arrangements for the future ; even
marriage became unnecessary. These teachings
of Jesus have a marked Essenian character, as
well as his declaration that in the Messianic
kingdom there was to be no more marriage,
perhaps no distinction of sex (Matt. xxii. 30).
The sect of Ebionites, who represented the ear-
liest doctrine and practice of Christianity before
it had been modified by Paul, differed from
the Essenes in no essential respect save in the
acknowledgment of Jesus as the Messiah, and
the expectation of his speedy return to the
earth.

How long, or with what success, Jesus con-
tinued to preach the coming of the Messiah
in Galilee, it is impossible to conjecture. His
fellow-townsmen of Nazareth appear to have
ridiculed him in his prophetical capacity ; or, if
119

THE UNSEEN WORLD

we may trust the third evangelist, to have arisen
against him with indignation, and made an at-
tempt upon his life. To them he was but a car-
penter, the son of a carpenter (Matt. xiii. 55 ;
Mark vi. 3), who told them disagreeable truths.
Our author represents his teaching in Galilee to
have produced but little result, but the gospel
narratives afford no definite data for deciding
this point. We believe the most probable con-
clusion to be that Jesus did attract many fol-
lowers, and became famous throughout Galilee ;
for Herod is said to have regarded him as John
the Baptist risen from the grave. To escape the
malice of Herod, Jesus then retired to Syro-
Phoenicia, and during this eventful journey the
consciousness of his own Messiahship seems for
the first time to have distinctly dawned upon
him (Matt. xiv. i, 13; xv. 21 ; xvi. 13-20).
Already, it appears, speculations were rife as to
the character of this wonderful preacher. Some
thought he was John the Baptist, or perhaps one
of the prophets of the Assyrian period returned
to the earth. Some, in accordance with a gen-
erally received tradition, supposed him to be
Elijah, who had never seen death, and had now
at last returned from the regions above the fir-
mament to announce the coming of the Messiah
in the clouds. It was generally admitted, among
enthusiastic hearers, that he who spake as never
man spake before must have some divine com-

I2O

THE JESUS OF HISTORY

mission to execute. These speculations, coming
to the ears of Jesus during his preaching in Gali-
lee, could not fail to excite in him a train of
self-conscious reflections. To him also must
have been presented the query as to his own
proper character and functions ; and, as our
author acutely demonstrates, his only choice lay
between a profitless life of exile in Syro-Phoeni-
cia, and a bold return to Jewish territory in
some pronounced character. The problem be-
ing thus propounded, there could hardly be a
doubt as to what that character should be. Jesus
knew well that he was not John the Baptist ;
nor, however completely he may have been
dominated by his sublime enthusiasm, was it
likely that he could mistake himself for an
ancient prophet arisen from the lower world of
shades, or for Elijah descended from the sky.
But the Messiah himself he might well be.
Such indeed was the almost inevitable corollary
from his own conception of Messiahship. We
have seen that he had, probably from the very
outset, discarded the traditional notion of a
political Messiah, and recognized the truth that
the happiness of a people lies not so much in
political autonomy as in the love of God and
the sincere practice of righteousness. The peo-
ple were to be freed from the bondage of sin,
of meaningless formalism, of consecrated hy-
pocrisy, — a bondage more degrading than the

121

THE UNSEEN WORLD

payment of tribute to the emperor. The true
business of the Messiah, then, was to deliver his
people from the former bondage ; it might be
left to Jehovah, in his own good time, to deliver
them from the latter. Holding these views, it
was hardly possible that it should not sooner or
later occur to Jesus that he himself was the per-
son destined to discharge this glorious function,
to liberate his countrymen from the thraldom
of Pharisaic ritualism, and to inaugurate the real
Messianic kingdom of spiritual righteousness.
Had he not already preached the advent of this
spiritual kingdom, and been instrumental in rais-
ing many to loftier conceptions of duty, and to
a higher and purer life ? And might he not now,
by a grand attack upon Pharisaism in its central
stronghold, destroy its prestige in the eyes of
the people, and cause Israel to adopt a nobler
religious and ethical doctrine ? The temerity
of such a purpose detracts nothing from its sub-
Jimity. And if that purpose should be accom-
plished, Jesus would really have performed the
legitimate work of the Messiah. Thus, from his
own point of view, Jesus was thoroughly con-
sistent and rational in announcing himself as the
expected Deliverer ; and in the eyes of the im-
partial historian his course is fully justified.

" From that time," says the first evangelist,
"Jesus began to show to his disciples that he
must go to Jerusalem, and suffer many things

122

THE JESUS OF HISTORY

from the elders and chief priests and scribes,
and be put to death, and rise again on the
third day." Here we have, obviously, the
knowledge of the writer, after the event, re-
flected back and attributed to Jesus. It is of
course impossible that Jesus should have pre-
dicted with such definiteness his approaching
death ; nor is it very likely that he entertained
any hope of being raised from the grave " on
the third day." To a man in that age and
country, the conception of a return from the
lower world of shades was not a difficult one to
frame ; and it may well be that Jesus' sense of
his own exalted position was sufficiently great
to inspire him with the confidence that, even
in case of temporary failure, Jehovah would
rescue him from the grave and send him back
with larger powers to carry out the purpose of
his mission. But the difficulty of distinguish-
ing between his own words and the interpre-
tation put upon them by his disciples becomes
here insuperable ; and there will always be
room for the hypothesis that Jesus had in view
no posthumous career of his own, but only ex-
pressed his unshaken confidence in the success
of his enterprise, even after and in spite of his
death.

At all events, the possibility of his death
must now have been often in his mind. He
was undertaking a wellnigh desperate task, —
123

THE UNSEEN WORLD

to overthrow the Pharisees in Jerusalem itself.
No other alternative was left him. And here
we believe Mr. F. W. Newman to be sin-
gularly at fault in pronouncing this attempt
of Jesus upon Jerusalem a foolhardy attempt.
According to Mr. Newman, no man has any
business to rush upon certain death, and it is
only a crazy fanatic who will do so.1 But such
"glittering generalizations" will here help us
but little. The historic data show that to go
to Jerusalem, even at the risk of death, was
absolutely necessary to the realization of Je-
sus' Messianic project. Mr. Newman certainly
would not have had him drag out an inglorious
and baffled existence in Syro-Phoenicia. If the
Messianic kingdom was to be fairly inaugu-
rated, there was work to be done in Jerusalem,
and Jesus must go there as one in authority,
cost what it might. We believe him to have
gone there in a spirit of grand and careless
bravery, yet seriously and soberly, and under
the influence of no fanatical delusion. He
knew the risks, but deliberately chose to incur
them, that the will of Jehovah might be ac-
complished.

We next hear of Jesus travelling down to

Jerusalem by way of Jericho, and entering the

sacred city in his character of Messiah, attended

by a great multitude. It was near the time of

1 Phases of Faith, pp. 158-164.

124

THE JESUS OF HISTORY

the Passover, when people from all parts of
Galilee and Judaea were sure to be at Jeru-
salem, and the nature of his reception seems to
indicate that he had already secured a consid-
erable number of followers upon whose assist-
ance he might hope to rely, though it nowhere
appears that he intended to use other than
purely moral weapons to insure a favourable
reception. We must remember that for half
a century many of the Jewish people had been
constantly looking for the arrival of the Mes-
siah, and there can be little doubt that the
entry of Jesus riding upon an ass in literal ful-
filment of prophecy must have wrought power-
fully upon the imagination of the multitude.
That the believers in him were very numerous
must be inferred from the cautious, not to say
timid, behaviour of the rulers at Jerusalem,
who are represented as desiring to arrest him,
but as deterred from taking active steps through
fear of the people. We are led to the same
conclusion by his driving the money-changers
out of the Temple ; an act upon which he
could hardly have ventured, had not the popu-
lar enthusiasm in his favour been for the
moment overwhelming. But the enthusiasm
of a mob is short-lived, and needs to be fed
upon the excitement of brilliant and dramati-
cally arranged events. The calm preacher of
righteousness, or even the fiery denouncer of
125

THE UNSEEN WORLD

the scribes and Pharisees, could not hope to
retain undiminished authority save by the dis-
play of extraordinary powers to which, so far
as we know, Jesus (like Mohammed) made no
pretence (Matt. xvi. 1-4). The ignorant and
materialistic populace could not understand
the exalted conception of Messiahship which
had been formed by Jesus, and as day after day
elapsed without the appearance of any marvel-
lous sign from Jehovah, their enthusiasm must
naturally have cooled down. Then the Phari-
sees appear cautiously endeavouring to entrap
him into admissions which might render him
obnoxious to the Roman governor. He saw
through their design, however, and foiled them
by the magnificent repartee, " Render unto Cae-
sar the things that are Caesar's, and unto God
the things that are God's." Nothing could
more forcibly illustrate the completely non-
political character of his Messianic doctrines.
Nevertheless, we are told that, failing in this
attempt, the chief priests suborned false wit-
nesses to testify against him : this Sabbath-
breaker, this derider of Mosaic formalism, who
with his Messianic pretensions excited the peo-
ple against their hereditary teachers, must at all
events be put out of the way. Jesus must suf-
fer the fate which society has too often had in
store for the reformer ; the fate which Sokrates
and Savonarola, Vanini and Bruno, have suf-
126

THE JESUS OF HISTORY

fered for being wiser than their own genera-
tion. Messianic adventurers had already given
much trouble to the Roman authorities, who
were not likely to scrutinize critically the
peculiar claims of Jesus. And when the chief
priests accused him before Pilate of professing
to be " King of the Jews," this claim could
in Roman apprehension bear but one interpre-
tation. The offence was treason, punishable,
save in the case of Roman citizens, by crucifix-
ion.

Such in its main outlines is the historic
career of Jesus, as constructed by our author
from data furnished chiefly by the first gospel.
Connected with the narrative there are many
interesting topics of discussion, of which our
rapidly diminishing space will allow us to select
only one for comment. That one is perhaps
the most important of all, namely, the question
as to how far Jesus anticipated the views of
Paul in admitting Gentiles to share in the
privileges of the Messianic kingdom. Our
author argues, with much force, that the de-
signs of Jesus were entirely confined to the
Jewish people, and that it was Paul who first,
by admitting Gentiles to the Christian fold
without requiring them to live like Jews, gave
to Christianity the character of a universal re-
ligion. Our author reminds us that the third
gospel is not to be depended upon in deter-
127

THE UNSEEN WORLD

mining this point, since it manifestly puts
Pauline sentiments into the mouth of Jesus,
and in particular attributes to Jesus an acquaint-
ance with heretical Samaria which the first
gospel disclaims. He argues that the apostles
were in every respect Jews, save in their belief
that Jesus was the Messiah ; and he- per-
tinently asks, if James, who was the brother
of Jesus, and Peter and John, who were his
nearest friends, unanimously opposed Paul and
stigmatized him as a liar and heretic, is it at all
likely that Jesus had ever distinctly sanctioned
such views as Paul maintained ?

In the course of many years' reflection upon
this point, we have several times been inclined
to accept the narrow interpretation of Jesus'
teaching here indicated ; yet, on the whole, we
do not believe it can ever be conclusively estab-
lished. In the first place it must be remem-
bered that if the third gospel throws a Pauline
colouring over the events which it describes,
the first gospel also shows a decidedly anti-
Pauline bias, and the one party was as likely as
the other to attribute its own views to Jesus
himself. One striking instance of this tendency
has been pointed out by Strauss, who has
shown that the verses Matt. v. 17—20 are an
interpolation. The person who teaches men to
break the commandments is undoubtedly Paul,
and in order to furnish a text against Paul's
128

THE JESUS OF HISTORY

followers, the " Nicolaitans," Jesus is made to
declare that he came not to destroy one tittle
of the law, but to fulfil the whole in every par-
ticular. Such an utterance is in manifest con-
tradiction to the spirit of Jesus' teaching, as
shown in the very same chapter, and through-
out a great part of the same gospel. He who
taught in his own name and not as the scribes,
who proclaimed himself Lord over the Sabbath,
and who manifested from first to last a more
than Essenian contempt for rites and ceremo-
nies, did not come to fulfil the law of Mosaism,
but to supersede it. Nor can any inference
adverse to this conclusion be drawn from the
injunction to the disciples (Matt. x. 5—7) not to
preach to Gentiles and Samaritans, but only
" to the lost sheep of the house of Israel; " for
this remark is placed before the beginning of
Jesus' Messianic career, and the reason assigned
for the restriction is merely that the disciples
will not have time even to preach to all the
Jews before the coming of the Messiah, whose
approach Jesus was announcing (Matt. x. 23).
These examples show that we must use cau-
tion in weighing the testimony even of the first
gospel, and must not too hastily cite it as proof
that Jesus supposed his mission to be restricted
to the Jews. When we come to consider what
happened a few years after the death of Jesus,
we shall be still less ready to insist upon the
129

THE UNSEEN WORLD

view defended by our anonymous author. Paul,
according to his own confession, persecuted the
Christians unto death. Now what, in the the-
ories or in the practice of the Jewish disciples
of Jesus, could have moved Paul to such fanatic
behaviour ? Certainly not their spiritual inter-
pretation of Mosaism, for Paul himself be-
longed to the liberal school of Gamaliel, to the
views of which the teachings and practices of
Peter, James, and John might easily be accom-
modated. Probably not their belief in Jesus as
the Messiah, for at the riot in which Stephen
was murdered and all the Hellenist disciples
driven from Jerusalem, the Jewish disciples
were allowed to remain in the city unmolested.
(See Acts viii. i, 14.) This marked difference
of treatment indicates that Paul regarded Ste-
phen and his friends as decidedly more hereti-
cal and obnoxious than Peter, James, and John,
whom, indeed, Paul's own master Gamaliel had
recently (Acts v. 34) defended before the coun-
cil. And this inference is fully confirmed by
the account of Stephen's death, where his mur-
derers charge him with maintaining that Jesus
had founded a new religion which was destined
entirely to supersede and replace Judaism (Acts
vi. 14). The Petrine disciples never held this
view of the mission of Jesus ; and to this dif-
ference it is undoubtedly owing that Paul and
his companions forbore to disturb them. It
130

THE JESUS OF HISTORY

would thus appear that even previous to Paul's
conversion, within five or six years after the
death of Jesus, there was a prominent party
among the disciples which held that the new
religion was not a modification but an abroga-
tion of Judaism ; and their name "Hellenists "
sufficiently shows either that there were Gen-
tiles among them or that they held fellowship
with Gentiles. It was this which aroused Paul
to persecution, and upon his sudden conversion
it was with these Hellenistic doctrines that he
fraternized, taking little heed of the Petrine dis-
ciples (Galatians i. 17), who were hardly more
than a Jewish sect.

Now the existence of these Hellenists at
Jerusalem so soon after the death of Jesus is
clear proof that he had never distinctly and
irrevocably pronounced against the admission
of Gentiles to the Messianic kingdom, and it
makes it very probable that the downfall of
Mosaism as a result of his preaching was by
no means unpremeditated. While, on the other
hand, the obstinacy of the Petrine party in
adhering to Jewish customs shows equally that
Jesus could not have unequivocally committed
himself in favour of a new gospel for the Gen-
tiles. Probably Jesus was seldom brought into
direct contact with others than Jews, so that the
questions concerning the admission of Gentile
converts did not come up during his lifetime ;

THE UNSEEN WORLD

and thus the way was left open for the con-
troversy which soon broke out between the
Petrine party and Paul. Nevertheless, though
Jesus may never have definitely pronounced
upon this point, it will hardly be denied that
his teaching, even as reported in the first gos-
pel, is in its utter condemnation of formalism
far more closely allied to the Pauline than to
the Petrine doctrines. In his hands Mosaism
became spiritualized until it really lost its iden-
tity, and was transformed into a code fit for the
whole Roman world. And we do not doubt
that if any one had asked Jesus whether cir-
cumcision were an essential prerequisite for
admission to the Messianic kingdom, he would
have given the same answer which Paul after-
wards gave. We agree with Zeller and Strauss
that, "as Luther was a more liberal spirit than
the Lutheran divines of the succeeding genera-
tion, and Sokrates a more profound thinker than
Xenophon or Antisthenes, so also Jesus must
be credited with having raised himself far higher
above the narrow prejudices of his nation than
those of his disciples who could scarcely under-
stand the spread of Christianity among the
heathen when it had become an accomplished
fact."

January, 1870.

132

IV
THE CHRIST OF DOGMA1

THE meagreness of our information con-
cerning the historic career of Jesus
stands in striking contrast with the
mass of information which lies within our reach
concerning the primitive character of Christo-
logic speculation. First we have the four epis-
tles of Paul, written from twenty to thirty years
after the crucifixion, which, although they tell
us next to nothing about what Jesus did, never-
theless give us very plain information as to the
impression which he made. Then we have the
Apocalypse, written by John, A. D. 68, which
exhibits the Messianic theory entertained by
the earliest disciples. Next we have the epistles
to the Hebrews, Philippians, Colossians, and
Ephesians, besides the four gospels, constitut-
ing altogether a connected chain of testimony

1 Saint-Paul, par Ernest Renan. Paris, 1869.

Histoire du Dogme de la Divinite de Jesus- Christ, par
Albert Reville. Paris, 1869.

The End of the World and the Day of Judgment. Two
Discourses by the Rev. W. R. Alger. Boston : Roberts
Brothers, 1870.

133

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to the progress of Christian doctrine from
the destruction of Jerusalem to the time of
the Quartodeciman controversy (A. D. 70-170).
Finally, there is the vast collection of apocry-
phal, heretical, and patristic literature, from the
writings of Justin Martyr, the pseudo-Clement,
and the pseudo-Ignatius, down to the time of
the Council of Nikaia, when the official theories
of Christ's person assumed very nearly the shape
which they have retained, within the orthodox
churches of Christendom, down to the present
day. As we pointed out in the foregoing essay,
while all this voluminous literature throws but
an uncertain light upon the life and teachings
of the founder of Christianity, it nevertheless
furnishes nearly all the data which we could
desire for knowing what the early Christians
thought of the master of their faith. Having
given a brief account of the historic career of
Jesus, so far as it can now be determined, we
propose here to sketch the rise and progress of
Christologic doctrine, in its most striking fea-
tures, during the first three centuries. Begin-
ning with the apostolic view of the human
Messiah sent to deliver Judaism from its spirit-
ual torpor, and prepare it for the millennial
kingdom, we shall briefly trace the progressive
metamorphosis of this conception until it com-
pletely loses its identity in the Athanasian the-
ory, according to which Jesus was God himself,
134

THE CHRIST OF DOGMA

the Creator of the universe, incarnate in human
flesh.

The earliest dogma held by the apostles con-
cerning Jesus was that of his resurrection from
the grave after death. It was not only the ear-
liest, but the most essential to the success of
the new religion. Christianity might have over-
spread the Roman Empire, and maintained its
hold upon men's faith until to-day, without the
dogmas of the incarnation and the Trinity ; but
without the dogma of the resurrection it would
probably have failed at the very outset. Its
lofty morality would not alone have sufficed to
insure its success. For what men needed then,
as indeed they still need, and will always need,
was not merely a rule of life and a mirror to the
heart, but also a comprehensive and satisfactory
theory of things, a philosophy or theosophy.
The times demanded intellectual as well as
moral consolation ; and the disintegration of
ancient theologies needed to be repaired, that
the new ethical impulse imparted by Christian-
ity might rest upon a plausible speculative basis.
The doctrine of the resurrection was but the
beginning of a series of speculative innovations
which prepared the way for the new religion to
emancipate itself from Judaism, and achieve the
conquest of the Empire. Even the faith of the
apostles in the speedy return of their master
the Messiah must have somewhat lost ground,

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had it not been supported by their belief in his
resurrection from the grave and his consequent
transfer from Sheol, the gloomy land of shad-
ows, to the regions above the sky.

The origin of the dogma of the resurrection
cannot be determined with certainty. The ques-
tion has, during the past century, been the sub-
ject of much discussion, upon which it is not
necessary for us here to comment. Such appar-
ent evidence as there is in favour of the old the-
ory of Jesus' natural recovery from the effects
of the crucifixion may be found in Salvador's
" Jesus-Christ et sa Doctrine ; " but, as Zeller
has shown, the theory is utterly unsatisfactory.
The natural return of Jesus to his disciples
never could have given rise to the notion of
his resurrection, since the natural explanation
would have been the more obvious one ; besides
which, if we were to adopt this hypothesis, we
should be obliged to account for the fact that
the historic career of Jesus ends with the cruci-
fixion. The most probable explanation, on the
whole, is the one suggested by the accounts in
the gospels, that the dogma of the resurrection
is due originally to the excited imagination
of Mary of Magdala.1 The testimony of Paul
may also be cited in favour of this view, since
he always alludes to earlier Christophanies in
just the same language which he uses in de-
1 See Taine, De r Intelligence, ii. 192.

136

THE CHRIST OF DOGMA

scribing his own vision on the road to Damas-
cus.

But the question as to how the belief in the
resurrection of Jesus originated is of less impor-
tance than the question as to how it should have
produced the effect that it did. The dogma of
the resurrection has, until recent times, been so
rarely treated from the historical point of view,
that the student of history at first finds some
difficulty in thoroughly realizing its import to
the minds of those who first proclaimed it. We
cannot hope to understand it without bearing
in mind the theories of the Jews and early
Christians concerning the structure of the world
and the cosmic location of departed souls. Since
the time of Copernicus modern Christians no
longer attempt to locate heaven and hell ; they
are conceived merely as mysterious places re-
mote from the earth. The theological universe
no longer corresponds to that which physical
science presents for our contemplation. It was
quite different with the Jew. His conception
of the abode of Jehovah and the angels, and
of departed souls, was exceedingly simple and
definite. In the Jewish theory the universe is
like a sort of three-story house. The flat earth
rests upon the waters, and under the earth's
surface is the land of graves, called Sheol, where
after death the souls of all men go, the right-
eous as well as the wicked, for the Jew had not

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arrived at the doctrine of heaven and hell. The
Hebrew Sheol corresponds strictly to the Greek
Hades, before the notions of Elysium and Tar-
tarus were added to it, — a land peopled with
flitting shadows, suffering no torment, but ex-
periencing no pleasure, like those whom Dante
met in one of the upper circles of his Inferno.
Sheol is the first story of the cosmic house ; the
earth is the second. Above the earth is the fir-
mament or sky, which, according to the book
of Genesis (chap. i. v. 6, Hebrew text), is a vast
plate hammered out by the gods, and supports
a great ocean like that upon which the earth
rests. Rain is caused by the opening of little
windows or trap-doors in the firmament, through
which pours the water of this upper ocean.
Upon this water rests the land of heaven, where
Jehovah reigns, surrounded by hosts of angels.
To this blessed land two only of the human
race had ever been admitted, — Enoch and
Elijah, the latter of whom had ascended in a
chariot of fire, and was destined to return to
earth as the herald and forerunner of the Mes-
siah. Heaven forms the third story of the cos-
mic house. Between the firmament and the
earth is the air, which is the habitation of evil
demons ruled by Satan, the " prince of the
powers of the air."

Such was the cosmology of the ancient Jew ;
and his theology was equally simple. Sheol

138

THE CHRIST OF DOGMA

was the destined abode of all men after death,
and no theory of moral retribution was at-
tached to the conception. The rewards and
punishments known to the authors of the Pen-
tateuch and the early Psalms are all earthly re-
wards and punishments. But in course of time
the prosperity of the wicked and the misfor-
tunes of the good man furnished a troublesome
problem for the Jewish thinker ; and after the
Babylonish Captivity, we find the doctrine of
a resurrection from Sheol devised in order to
meet this case. According to this doctrine —
which was borrowed from the Zarathustrian
theology of Persia — the Messiah on his ar-
rival was to free from Sheol all the souls of the
righteous, causing them to ascend reinvested
in their bodies to a renewed and beautiful
earth, while on the other hand the wicked
were to be punished with tortures like those
of the valley of Hinnom, or were to be im-
mersed in liquid brimstone, like that which
had rained upon Sodom and Gomorrah. Here
we get the first announcement of a future state
of retribution. The doctrine was peculiarly
Pharisaic, and the Sadducees, who were strict
adherents to the letter of Mosaism, rejected it
to the last. By degrees this doctrine became
coupled with the Messianic theories of the Phar-
isees. The loss of Jewish independence under
the dominion of Persians, Macedonians, and
139

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Romans, caused the people to look ever more
earnestly towards the expected time when the
Messiah should appear in Jerusalem to de-
liver them from their oppressors. The moral
doctrines of the Psalms and earlier prophets
assumed an increasingly political aspect. The
Jews were the righteous " under a cloud,"
whose sufferings were symbolically depicted by
the younger Isaiah as the afflictions of the " ser-
vant of Jehovah ; " while on the other hand,
the " wicked " were the Gentile oppressors of
the holy people. Accordingly the Messiah, on
his arrival, was to sit in judgment in the valley
of Jehoshaphat, rectifying the wrongs of his
chosen ones, condemning the Gentile tyrants
to the torments of Gehenna, and raising from
Sheol all those Jews who had lived and died
during the evil times before his coming.
These were to find in the Messianic kingdom
the compensation for the ills which they had
suffered in their first earthly existence. Such
are the main outlines of the theory found in the
Book of Enoch, written about B. c. 100, and
it is adopted in the Johannine Apocalypse,
with little variation, save in the recognition of
Jesus as the Messiah, and in the transference
to his second coming of all these wonderful
proceedings. The manner of the Messiah's
coming had been variously imagined. Accord-
ing to an earlier view, he was to enter Jerusalem
140

THE CHRIST OF DOGMA

as a King of the house of David, and therefore
of human lineage. According to a later view,
presented in the Book of Daniel, he was to
descend from the sky, and appear among the
clouds. Both these views were adopted by the
disciples of Jesus, who harmonized them by
referring the one to his first and the other to
his second appearance.

Now to the imaginations of these earliest
disciples the belief in the resurrection of Jesus
presented itself as a needful guarantee of his
Messiahship. Their faith, which must have
been shaken by his execution and descent into
Sheol, received welcome confirmation by the
springing up of the belief that he had been
again seen upon the face of the earth. Apply-
ing the imagery of Daniel, it became a logical
conclusion that he must have ascended into
the sky, whence be might shortly be expected
to make his appearance, to enact the scenes
foretold in prophecy. That such was the ac-
tual process of inference is shown by the le-
gend of the Ascension in the first chapter of
the "Acts," and especially by the words,
"This Jesus who hath been taken up from
you into heaven, will come in the same manner
in which ye beheld him going into heaven."
In the Apocalypse, written A. D. 68, just after
the death of Nero, this second coming is de-
scribed as something immediately to happen,
141

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and the colours in which it is depicted show
how closely allied were the Johannine notions
to those of the Pharisees. The glories of the
New Jerusalem are to be reserved for Jews,
while for the Roman tyrants of Judaea is re-
served a fearful retribution. They are to be
trodden underfoot by the Messiah, like grapes
in a wine-press, until the gushing blood shall
rise to the height of the horse's bridle.

In the writings of Paul the dogma of the
resurrection assumes a very different aspect.
Though Paul, like the older apostles, held
that Jesus, as the Messiah, was to return to
the earth within a few years, yet to his catho-
lic mind this anticipated event had become
divested of its narrow Jewish significance. In
the eyes of Paul, the religion preached by
Jesus was an abrogation of Mosaism, and the
truths contained in it were a free gift to the
Gentile as well as to the Jewish world. Accord-
ing to Paul, death came into the world as a
punishment for the sin of Adam. By this he
meant that, had it not been for the original
transgression, all men escaping death would
either have remained upon earth or have been
conveyed to heaven, like Enoch and Elijah,
in incorruptible bodies. But in reality, as a
penance for disobedience, all men, with these
two exceptions, had suffered death, and been
exiled to the gloomy caverns of Sheol. The
142

THE CHRIST OF DOGMA

Mosaic ritual was powerless to free men from
this repulsive doom, but it had nevertheless
served a good purpose in keeping men's minds
directed towards holiness, preparing them, as
a schoolmaster would prepare his pupils, to
receive the vitalizing truths of Christ. Now,
at last, the Messiah or Christ had come as a
second Adam, and being without sin had been
raised by Jehovah out of Sheol and taken up
into heaven, as testimony to men that the
power of sin and death was at last defeated.
The way henceforth to avoid death and escape
the exile to Sheol was to live spiritually like
Jesus, and with him to be dead to sensual re-
quirements. Faith, in Paul's apprehension, was
not an intellectual assent to definitely pre-
scribed dogmas, but, as Matthew Arnold has
well pointed out, it was an emotional striving
after righteousness, a developing consciousness
of God in the soul, such as Jesus had pos-
sessed, or, in Paul's phraseology, a subjugation
of the flesh by the spirit. All those who should
thus seek spiritual perfection should escape the
original curse. The Messiah was destined to
return to the earth to establish the reign of
spiritual holiness, probably during Paul's own
lifetime (i Cor. xv. 51). Then the true fol-
lowers of Jesus should be clothed in ethereal
bodies, free from the imperfections of " the
flesh," and should ascend to heaven without

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suffering death, while the righteous dead should
at the same time be released from Sheol, even
as Jesus himself had been released.

To the doctrine of the resurrection, in which
ethical and speculative elements are thus hap-
pily blended by Paul, the new religion doubt-
less owed in great part its rapid success. Into
an account of the causes which favoured the
spreading of Christianity, it is not our purpose
to enter at present. But we may note that the
local religions of the ancient pagan world had
partly destroyed each other by mutual inter-
mingling, and had lost their hold upon people
from the circumstance that their ethical teaching
no longer corresponded to the advanced ethical
feeling of the age. Polytheism, in short, was
outgrown. It was outgrown both intellectually
and morally. People were ceasing to believe in
its doctrines, and were ceasing to respect its pre-
cepts. The learned were taking refuge in phi-
losophy, the ignorant in mystical superstitions
imported from Asia. The commanding ethical
motive of ancient republican times had been
patriotism, — devotion to the interests of the
community. But Roman dominion had de-
stroyed patriotism as a guiding principle of life,
and thus in every way the minds of men were
left in a sceptical, unsatisfied state, — craving
after a new theory of life, and craving after a new
stimulus to right action. Obviously the only
144

THE CHRIST OF DOGMA

theology which could now be satisfactory to
philosophy or to common-sense was some form
of monotheism, — some system of doctrines
which should represent all men as spiritually
subjected to the will of a single God, just as
they were subjected to the temporal authority
of the Emperor. And similarly the only sys-
tem of ethics which could have a chance of
prevailing must be some system which should
clearly prescribe the mutual duties of all men
without distinction of race or locality. Thus
the spiritual morality of Jesus, and his concep-
tion of God as a father and of all men as
brothers, appeared at once to meet the ethical
and speculative demands of the time.

Yet whatever effect these teachings might
have produced, if unaided by further doctrinal
elaboration, was enhanced myriadfold by the
elaboration which they received at the hands of
Paul. Philosophic Stoics and Epicureans had
arrived at the conception of the brotherhood of
men, and the Greek hymn of Kleanthes had
exhibited a deep spiritual sense of the father-
hood of God. The originality of Christianity
lay not so much in its enunciation of new ethi-
cal precepts as in the fact that it furnished a new
ethical sanction, — a commanding incentive to
holiness of living. That it might accomplish
this result, it was absolutely necessary that it
should begin by discarding both the ritualism

HS

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and the narrow theories of Judaism. The mere
desire for a monotheistic creed had led many
pagans, in Paul's time, to embrace Judaism, in
spite of its requirements, which to Romans and
Greeks were meaningless, and often disgusting ;
but such conversions could never have been
numerous. Judaism could never have con-
quered the Roman world ; nor is it likely that
the Judaical Christianity of Peter, James, and
John would have been any more successful.
The doctrine of the resurrection, in particular,
was not likely to prove attractive when accom-
panied by the picture of the Messiah treading
the Gentiles in the wine-press of his righteous
indignation. But here Paul showed his pro-
found originality. The condemnation of Jew-
ish formalism which Jesus had pronounced,
Paul turned against the older apostles, who
insisted upon circumcision. With marvellous
flexibility of mind, Paul placed circumcision and
the Mosaic injunctions about meats upon a
level with the ritual observances of pagan na-
tions, allowing each feeble brother to perform
such works as might tickle his fancy, but bid-
ding all take heed that salvation was not to be
obtained after any such mechanical method, but
only by devoting the whole soul to righteous-
ness, after the example of Jesus.

This was the negative part of Paul's work.
This was the knocking down of the barriers
146

THE CHRIST OF DOGMA

which had kept men, and would always have
kept them, from entering into the kingdom of
heaven. But the positive part of Paul's work
is contained in his theory of the salvation of
men from death through the second Adam,
whom Jehovah rescued from Sheol for his sin-
lessness. The resurrection of Jesus was the visi-
ble token of the escape from death which might
be achieved by all men who, with God's aid,
should succeed in freeing themselves from the
burden of sin which had encumbered all the
children of Adam. The end of the world was
at hand, and they who would live with Christ
must figuratively die with Christ, — must be-
come dead to sin. Thus to the pure and spir-
itual ethics contained in the teachings of Jesus,
Paul added an incalculably powerful incentive
to right action, and a theory of life calculated
to satisfy the speculative necessities of the pagan
or Gentile world. To the educated and scepti-
cal Athenian, as to the critical scholar of mod-
ern times, the physical resurrection of Jesus
from the grave, and his ascent through the
vaulted floor of heaven, might seem foolishness
or naivete. But to the average Greek or Ro-
man the conception presented no serious diffi-
culty. The cosmical theories upon which the
conception was founded were essentially the
same among Jews and Gentiles, and indeed
were but little modified until the establishment
H7

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of the Copernican astronomy. The doctrine
of the Messiah's second coming was also re-
ceived without opposition, and for about a cen-
tury men lived in continual anticipation of that
event, until hope long deferred produced its
usual results ; the writings in which that event
was predicted were gradually explained away,
ignored, or stigmatized as uncanonical ; and the
Church ended by condemning as a heresy the
very doctrine which Paul and the Judaizing
apostles, who agreed in little else, had alike
made the basis of their speculative teachings.
Nevertheless, by the dint of allegorical inter-
pretation, the belief has maintained an obscure
existence even down to the present time ; the
Antiochus of the Book of Daniel and the
Nero of the Apocalypse having given place to
the Roman Pontiff or to the Emperor of the
French.

But as the millenarism of the primitive
Church gradually died out during the second
century, the essential principles involved in it
lost none of their hold on men's minds. As the
generation contemporary with Paul died away
and was gathered into Sheol, it became appar-
ent that the original theory must be somewhat
modified, and to this question the author of the
second epistle to the Thessalonians addresses
himself. Instead of literal preservation from
death, the doctrine of a resurrection from the
148

THE CHRIST OF DOGMA

grave was gradually extended to the case of
the new believers, who were to share in the
same glorious revival with the righteous of
ancient times. And thus by slow degrees the
victory over death, of which the resurrection of
Jesus was a symbol and a witness, became met-
amorphosed into the comparatively modern
doctrine of the rest of the saints in heaven,
while the banishment of the unrighteous to
Sheol was made still more dreadful by coupling
with the vague conception of a gloomy subter-
ranean cavern the horrible imagery of the lake
of fire and brimstone borrowed from the apo-
calyptic descriptions of Gehenna. But in this
modification of the original theory, the funda-
mental idea of a future state of retribution was
only the more distinctly emphasized ; although,
in course of time, the original incentive to
righteousness supplied by Paul was more and
more subordinated to the comparatively degrad-
ing incentive involved in the fear of damnation.
There can hardly be a doubt that the definite-
ness and vividness of the Pauline theory of a
future life contributed very largely to the rapid
spread of the Christian religion ; nor can it be
doubted that to the desire to be holy like Jesus,
in order to escape death and live with Jesus, is
due the elevating ethical influence which, even
in the worst times of ecclesiastic degeneracy,
Christianity has never failed to exert. Doubt-
149

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less, as Lessing long ago observed, the notion
of future reward and punishment needs to be
eliminated in order that the incentive to holi-
ness may be a perfectly pure one. The highest
virtue is that which takes no thought of reward
or punishment ; but for a conception of this sort
the mind of antiquity was not ready, nor is the
average mind of to-day yet ready ; and the sud-
den or premature dissolution of the Christian
theory — which is fortunately impossible —
might perhaps entail a moral retrogradation.

The above is by no means intended as a com-
plete outline of the religious philosophy of Paul.
We have aimed only at a clear definition of the
character and scope of the doctrine of the resur-
rection of Jesus, at the time when it was first
elaborated. We have now to notice the influ-
ence of that doctrine upon the development of
Christologic speculation.

In neither of the four genuine epistles of Paul
is Jesus described as superhuman, or as differ-
ing in nature from other men, save in his free-
dom from sin. As Baur has shown, " the proper
nature of the Pauline Christ is human. He is a
man, but a spiritual man, one in whom spirit or
pneuma was the essential principle, so that he was
spirit as well as man. The principle of an ideal
humanity existed before Christ in the bright
form of a typical man, but was manifested to
mankind in the person of Christ." Such, ac-
150

THE CHRIST OF DOGMA

cording to Baur, is Paul's interpretation of the
Messianic idea. Paul knows nothing of the
miracles, of the supernatural conception, of the
incarnation, or of the Logos. The Christ whom
he preaches is the man Jesus, the founder of a
new and spiritual order of humanity, as Adam
was the father of humanity after the flesh. The
resurrection is uniformly described by him as a
manifestation of the power of Jehovah, not of
Jesus himself. The later conception of Christ
bursting the barred gates of Sheol, and arising
by his own might to heaven, finds no warrant
in the expressions of Paul. Indeed, it was essen-
tial to Paul's theory of the Messiah as a new
Adam, that he should be human and not divine ;
for the escape of a divine being from Sheol could
afford no precedent and furnish no assurance of
the future escape of human beings. It was ex-
pressly because the man Jesus had been rescued
from the grave because of his spirituality, that
other men might hope, by becoming spiritual
like him, to be rescued also. Accordingly Paul
is careful to state that " since through man came
death, through man came also the resurrection
of the dead" (i Cor. xv. 21); a passage which
would look like an express denial of Christ's
superhuman character, were it probable that any
of Paul's contemporaries had ever conceived of
Jesus as other than essentially human.

But though Paul's Christology remained in

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this primitive stage, it contained the germs of
a more advanced theory. For even Paul con-
ceived of Jesus as a man wholly exceptional in
spiritual character; or, in the phraseology of
the time, as consisting to a larger extent of
pueuma than any man who had lived before him.
The question was sure to arise, Whence came
this pneuma or spiritual quality ? Whether the
question ever distinctly presented itself to Paul's
mind cannot be determined. Probably it did
not. In those writings of his which have come
down to us, he shows himself careless of meta-
physical considerations. He is mainly con-
cerned with exhibiting the unsatisfactory char-
acter of Jewish Christianity, and with inculcating
a spiritual morality, to which the doctrine of
Christ's resurrection is made to supply a sur-
passingly powerful sanction. But attempts to
solve the problem were not long in coming.
According to a very early tradition, of which
the obscured traces remain in the synoptic gos-
pels, Jesus received the pneuma at the time of
his baptism, when the Holy Spirit, or visible
manifestation of the essence of Jehovah, de-
scended upon him and became incarnate in him.
This theory, however, was exposed to the ob-
jection that it implied a sudden and entire trans-
formation of an ordinary man into a person
inspired or possessed by the Deity. Though
long maintained by the Ebionites or primitive

152

THE CHRIST OF DOGMA

Christians, it was very soon rejected by the great
body of the Church, which asserted instead that
Jesus had been inspired by the Holy Spirit from
the moment of his conception. From this it was
but a step to the theory that Jesus was actually
begotten by or of the Holy Spirit ; a notion
which the Hellenic mind, accustomed to the
myths of Leda, Anchises, and others, found
no difficulty in entertaining. According to the
Gospel of the Hebrews, as cited by Origen, the
Holy Spirit was the mother of Jesus, and Jo-
seph was his father. But according to the pre-
vailing opinion, as represented in the first and
third synoptists, the relationship was just the
other way. With greater apparent plausibility,
the divine aeon was substituted for the human
father, and a myth sprang up, of which the ma-
terialistic details furnished to the opponents of
the new religion an opportunity for making the
most gross and exasperating insinuations. The
dominance of this theory marks the era at which
our first and third synoptic gospels were com-
posed,— from sixty to ninety years after the
death of Jesus. In the luxuriant mythologic
growth there exhibited, we may yet trace the
various successive phases of Christologic specu-
lation but imperfectly blended. In " Matthew "
and " Luke " we find the original Messianic
theory exemplified in the genealogies of Jesus, in
which, contrary to historic probability (cf. Matt.

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xxii. 41—46), but in accordance with a time-hon-
oured tradition, his pedigree is traced back to
David ; " Matthew " referring him to the royal
line of Judah, while " Luke " more cautiously
has recourse to an assumed younger branch.
Superposed upon this primitive mythologic stra-
tum, we find, in the same narratives, the account
of the descent of the pneuma at the time of the
baptism ; and crowning the whole, there are the
two accounts of the nativity which, though con-
flicting in nearly all their details, agree in repre-
senting the divine fueuma as the father of Jesus.
Of these three stages of Christology, the last
becomes entirely irreconcilable with the first ;
and nothing can better illustrate the uncritical
character of the synoptists than the fact that the
assumed descent of Jesus from David through
his father Joseph is allowed to stand side by side
with the account of the miraculous conception
which completely negatives it. Of this difficulty
" Matthew " is quite unconscious, and " Luke,"
while vaguely noticing it (iii. 23), proposes no
solution, and appears undisturbed by the con-
tradiction.

Thus far the Christology with which we have
been dealing is predominantly Jewish, though
to some extent influenced by Hellenic concep-
tions. None of the successive doctrines pre-
sented in Paul, " Matthew," and " Luke" assert
or imply the pre-existence of Jesus. At this
'54

THE CHRIST OF DOGMA

early period he was regarded as a human being
raised to participation in certain attributes of
divinity ; and this was as far as the dogma could
be carried by the Jewish metaphysics. But soon
after the date of our third gospel, a Hellenic
system of Christology arose into prominence,
in which the problem was reversed, and Jesus
was regarded as a semi-divine being temporarily
lowered to participation in certain attributes of
humanity. For such a doctrine Jewish mythol-
ogy supplied no precedents ; but the Indo-Eu-
ropean mind was familiar with the conception
of deity incarnate in human form, as in the ava-
tars of Vishnu, or even suffering in the interests
of humanity, as in the noble myth of Prome-
theus. The elements of Christology pre-exist-
ing in the religious conceptions of Greece, India,
and Persia, are too rich and numerous to be
discussed here. A very full account of them is
given in Mr. R. W. Mackay's acute and learned
treatise on the " Religious Development of the
Greeks and Hebrews."

It was in Alexandria, where Jewish theology
first came into contact with Hellenic and Ori-
ental ideas, that the way was prepared for the
dogma of Christ's pre-existence. The attempt
to rationalize the conception of deity as em-
bodied in the Jehovah of the Old Testament
gave rise to the class of opinions described as
Gnosis, or Gnosticism. The signification of

'55

THE UNSEEN WORLD

Gnosis is simply " rationalism," — the endeav-
our to harmonize the materialistic statements of
an old mythology with the more advanced spir-
itualistic philosophy of the time. The Gnostics
rejected the conception of an anthropomorphic
deity who had appeared visibly and audibly to
the patriarchs ; and they were the authors of
the doctrine, very widely spread during the sec-
ond and third centuries, that God could not in
person have been the creator of the world. Ac-
cording to them, God, as pure spirit, could not
act directly upon vile and gross matter. The
difficulty which troubled them was curiously
analogous to that which disturbed the Cartesians
and the followers of Leibnitz in the seventeenth
century ; how was spirit to act upon matter,
without ceasing, pro tanto, to be spirit ? To
evade this difficulty, the Gnostics postulated a
series of emanations from God, becoming suc-
cessively less and less spiritual and more and
more material, until at the lowest end of the
scale was reached the Demiurgus or Jehovah
of the Old Testament, who created the world
and appeared, clothed in material form, to the
patriarchs. According to some of the Gnostics
this lowest aeon or emanation was identical with
the Jewish Satan, or the Ahriman of the Per-
sians, who is called " the prince of this world,"
and the creation of the world was an essentially
evil act. But all did not share in these extreme

156

THE CHRIST OF DOGMA

opinions. In the prevailing theory, this last of
the divine emanations was identified with the
" Sophia," or personified " Wisdom," of the
Book of Proverbs (viii. 22-30), who is described
as present with God before the foundation of
the world. The totality of these aeons consti-
tuted thepleroma, or " fulness of God " (Coloss.
i. 20 ; Eph. i. 23), and in a corollary which bears
unmistakable marks of Buddhist influence, it
was argued that, in the final consummation of
things, matter should be eliminated and all
spirit reunited with God, from whom it had pri-
marily flowed.

It was impossible that such views as these
should not soon be taken up and applied to the
fluctuating Christology of the time. According
to the "Shepherd of Hermas," an apocalyptic
writing nearly contemporary with the gospel of
" Mark," the aeon or son of God who existed
previous to the creation was not the Christ, or
the Sophia, but the Pneuma or Holy Spirit, re-
presented in the Old Testament as the " angel
of Jehovah." Jesus, in reward for his perfect
goodness, was admitted to a share in the privi-
leges of this Pneuma (Reville, p. 39). Here, as
M. Reville observes, though a Gnostic idea is
adopted, Jesus is nevertheless viewed as ascend-
ing humanity, and not as descending divinity.
The author of the " Clementine Homilies " ad-
vances a step farther, and clearly assumes the pre-

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existence of Jesus, who, in his opinion, was the
pure, primitive man, successively incarnate in
Adam, Enoch, Noah, Abraham, Isaac, Jacob,
Moses, and finally in the Messiah or Christ.
The author protests, in vehement language,
against those Hellenists who, misled by their
polytheistic associations, would elevate Jesus into
a god. Nevertheless, his own hypothesis of pre-
existence supplied at once the requisite fulcrum
for those Gnostics who wished to reconcile a strict
monotheism with the ascription of divine attri-
butes to Jesus. Combining with this notion of
pre-existence the pneumatic or spiritual quality
attributed to Jesus in the writings of Paul, the
Gnosticizing Christians maintained that Christ
was an aeon or emanation from God, redeeming
men from the consequences entailed by their
imprisonment in matter. At this stage of Chris-
tologic speculation appeared the anonymous
epistle to the " Hebrews,'* and the pseudo-
Pauline epistles to the " Colossians," " Ephe-
sians," and " Philippians " (A. D. 130). In these
epistles, which originated among the Pauline
Christians, the Gnostic theosophy is skilfully
applied to the Pauline conception of the scope
and purposes of Christianity. Jesus is de-
scribed as the creator of the world (Coloss.
i. 1 6), the visible image of the invisible God,
the chief and ruler of the " thrones, dominions,
principalities, and powers," into which, in Gnos-

THE CHRIST OF DOGMA

tic phraseology, the emanations of God were
classified. Or, according to " Colossians " and
" Philippians," all the aeons are summed up in
him, in whom dwells the pleroma, or " fulness
of God." Thus Jesus is elevated quite above
ordinary humanity, and a close approach is
made to ditheism, although he is still emphat-
ically subordinated to God by being made the
creator of the world, — an office then regarded
as incompatible with absolute divine perfection.
In the celebrated passage, "Philippians" ii. 6—
1 1, the aeon Jesus is described as being the form
or visible manifestation of God, yet as humbling
himself by taking on the form or semblance of
humanity, and suffering death, in return for
which he is to be exalted even above the arch-
angels. A similar view is taken in " Hebrews ; "
and it is probable that to the growing favour
with which these doctrines were received, we
owe the omission of the miraculous conception
from the gospel of " Mark," — a circumstance
which has misled some critics into assigning to
that gospel an earlier date than to " Matthew "
and " Luke." Yet the fact that in this gospel
Jesus is implicitly ranked above the angels
(Mark xiii. 32), reveals a later stage of Chris-
tologic doctrine than that reached by the first
and third synoptists ; and it is altogether prob-
able that, in accordance with the noticeable con-
ciliatory disposition of this evangelist, the su-

THE UNSEEN WORLD

pernatural conception is omitted out of deference
to the Gnosticizing theories of "Colossians"
and " Philippians," in which this materialistic
doctrine seems to have had no assignable place.
In " Philippians " especially, many expressions
seem to verge upon Docetism, the extreme form
of Gnosticism, according to which the human
body of Jesus was only a phantom. Valenti-
nus, who was contemporary with the Pauline
writers of the second century, maintained that
Jesus was not born of Mary by any process of
conception, but merely passed through her, as
light traverses a translucent substance. And
finally Marcion (A. D. 140) carried the theory
to its extreme limits by declaring that Jesus was
the pure Pneuma or Spirit, who contained no-
thing in common with carnal humanity.

The pseudo-Pauline writers steered clear of
this extravagant doctrine, which erred by break-
ing entirely with historic tradition, and was
consequently soon condemned as heretical.
Their language, though unmistakably Gnostic,
was sufficiently neutral and indefinite to allow
of their combination with earlier and later ex-
positions of dogma, and they were therefore
eventually received into the canon, where they
exhibit a stage of opinion midway between that
of Paul and that of the fourth gospel.

For the construction of a durable system of
Christology, still further elaboration was neces-
160

THE CHRIST OF DOGMA

sary. The pre-existence of Jesus, as an emana-
tion from God, in whom were summed up the
attributes of the pleroma or full scale of Gnostic
aeons, was now generally conceded. But the
relation of this pleroma to the Godhead of which
it was the visible manifestation needed to be
more accurately defined. And here recourse
was had to the conception of the Logos, — a
notion which Philo had borrowed from Plato,
lending to it a theosophic significance. In the
Platonic metaphysics objective existence was
attributed to general terms, the signs of general
notions. Besides each particular man, horse,
or tree, and besides all men, horses, and trees,
in the aggregate, there was supposed to exist an
ideal Man, Horse, and Tree. Each particular
man, horse, or tree consisted of abstract existence
plus a portion of the ideal man, horse, or tree.
Sokrates, for instance, consisted of Existence,
plus Animality, plus Humanity, plus Sokra-
ticity. The visible world of particulars thus
existed only by virtue of its participation in the
attributes of the ideal world of universals. God
created the world by encumbering each idea
with an envelopment or clothing of visible
matter ; and since matter is vile or imperfect,
all things are more or less perfect as they par-
take more or less fully of the idea. The pure
unencumbered idea, the " Idea of ideas," is the
Logos, or divine Reason, which represents the
161

THE UNSEEN WORLD

sum-total of the activities which sustain the
world, and serves as a mediator between the
absolutely ideal God and the absolutely non-
ideal matter. Here we arrive at a Gnostic con-
ception, which the Philonists of Alexandria
were not slow to appropriate. The Logos, or
divine Reason, was identified with the Sophia,
or divine Wisdom of the Jewish Gnostics,
which had dwelt with God before the creation
of the world. By a subtle play upon the double
meaning of the Greek term (logos = " reason "
or " word "), a distinction was drawn between
the divine Reason and the divine Word. The
former was the archetypal idea or thought of
God, existing from all eternity ; the latter was
the external manifestation or realization of that
idea which occurred at the moment of creation,
when, according to Genesis, God spoke, and the
world was.

In the middle of the second century, this
Philonian theory was the one thing needful to
add metaphysical precision to the Gnostic and
Pauline speculations concerning the nature of
Jesus. In the writings of Justin Martyr (A. D.
150-166), Jesus is for the first time identified
with the Philonian Logos or " Word of God."
According to Justin, an impassable abyss ex-
ists between the Infinite Deity and the Finite
World ; the one cannot act upon the other ;
pure spirit cannot contaminate itself by contact
162

THE CHRIST OF DOGMA

with impure matter. To meet this difficulty,
God evolves from himself a secondary God, the
Logos, — yet without diminishing himself any
more than a flame is diminished when it gives
birth to a second flame. Thus generated, like
light begotten of light (lumen de lumine\ the
Logos creates the world, inspires the ancient
prophets with their divine revelations, and
finally reveals himself to mankind in the person
of Christ. Yet Justin sedulously guards him-
self against ditheism, insisting frequently and
emphatically upon the immeasurable inferiority
of the Logos as compared with the actual God
(6 oz>ro>9 #eog).

We have here reached very nearly the ulti-
mate phase of New Testament speculation con-
cerning Jesus. The doctrines enunciated by
Justin became eventually, with slight modifica-
tion, the official doctrines of the Church ; yet
before they could thus be received, some further
elaboration was needed. The pre-existing Lo-
gos-Christ of Justin was no longer the human
Messiah of the first and third gospels, born of
a woman, inspired by the divine Pneuma> and
tempted by the Devil. There was danger that
Christologic speculation might break quite loose
from historic tradition, and pass into the meta-
physical extreme of Docetism. Had this come
to pass, there might perhaps have been a fatal
schism in the Church. Tradition still remained

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Ebionitish ; dogma had become decidedly Gnos-
tic ; how were the two to be moulded into har-
mony with each other ? Such was the problem
which presented itself to the author of the
fourth gospel (A. D. 170-180). As M. Re-
ville observes, " if the doctrine of the Logos
were really to be applied to the person of
Jesus, it was necessary to remodel the evangel-
ical history." Tradition must be moulded so
as to fit the dogma, but the dogma must be
restrained by tradition from running into Do-
cetic extravagance. It must be shown histori-
cally how " the Word became flesh " and dwelt
on earth (John i. 14), how the deeds of Jesus of
Nazareth were the deeds of the incarnate Logos,
in whom was exhibited the pleroma or fulness
of the divine attributes. The author of the
fourth gospel is, like Justin, a Philonian Gnos-
tic ; but he differs from Justin in his bold and
skilful treatment of the traditional materials
supplied by the earlier gospels. The process
of development in the theories and purposes of
Jesus, which can be traced throughout the
Messianic descriptions of the first gospel, is
entirely obliterated in the fourth. Here Jesus
appears at the outset as the creator of the
world, descended from his glory, but destined
soon to be reinstated. The title " Son of Man "
has lost its original significance, and become
synonymous with " Son of God.1' The temp-
164

THE CHRIST OF DOGMA

tation, the transfiguration, the scene in Geth-
semane, are omitted, and for the latter is sub-
stituted a Philonian prayer. Nevertheless, the
author carefully avoids the extremes of Docet-
ism or ditheism. Not only does he represent
the human life of Jesus as real, and his death as
a truly physical death, but he distinctly asserts
the inferiority of the Son to the Father (John
xiv. 28). Indeed, as M. Reville well observes,
it is part of the very notion of the Logos that
it should be imperfect relatively to the absolute
God ; since it is only its relative imperfection
which allows it to sustain relations to the world
and to men which are incompatible with abso-
lute perfection, from the Philonian point of
view. The Athanasian doctrine of the Trinity
finds no support in the fourth gospel, any
more than in the earlier books collected in the
New Testament.

The fourth gospel completes the speculative
revolution by which the conception of a divine
being lowered to humanity, was substituted for
that of a human being raised to divinity. We
have here travelled a long distance from the
risen Messiah of the genuine Pauline epistles,
or the preacher of righteousness in the first
gospel. Yet it does not seem probable that the
Church of the third century was thoroughly
aware of the discrepancy. The authors of the
later Christology did not regard themselves as

THE UNSEEN WORLD

adding new truths to Christianity, but merely
as giving a fuller and more consistent interpre-
tation to what must have been known from the
outset. They were so completely destitute of
the historic sense, and so strictly confined to
the dogmatic point of view, that they projected
their own theories back into the past, and vitu-
perated as heretics those who adhered to tradi-
tion in its earlier and simpler form. Examples
from more recent times are not wanting, which
show that we are dealing here with an invet-
erate tendency of the human mind. New facts
and new theories are at first condemned as
heretical or ridiculous ; but when once firmly
established, it is immediately maintained that
every one knew them before. After the Coper-
nican astronomy had won the day, it was tacitly
assumed that the ancient Hebrew astronomy
was Copernican, and the Biblical conception of
the universe as a kind of three-story house was
ignored, and has been, except by scholars, quite
forgotten. When the geologic evidence of the
earth's immense antiquity could no longer be
gainsaid, it was suddenly ascertained that the
Bible had from the outset asserted that anti-
quity ; and in our own day we have seen an ele-
gant popular writer perverting the testimony
of the rocks and distorting the Elohistic cos-
mogony of the Pentateuch, until the twain have
been made to furnish what Bacon long ago de-
166

THE CHRIST OF DOGMA

scribed as " a heretical religion and a false phi-
losophy." Now just as in the popular thought
of the present day the ancient Elohist is accredi-
ted with a knowledge of modern geology and
astronomy, so in the opinion of the fourth
evangelist and his contemporaries the doctrine
of the Logos-Christ was implicitly contained
in the Old Testament and in the early tradi-
tions concerning Jesus, and needed only to be
brought into prominence by a fresh interpre-
tation. Hence arose the fourth gospel, which
was no more a conscious violation of historic
data than Hugh Miller's imaginative descrip-
tion of the " Mosaic Vision of Creation." Its
metaphysical discourses were readily accepted
as equally authentic with the Sermon on the
Mount. Its Philonian doctrines were imputed
to Paul and the apostles, the pseudo-Pauline
epistles furnishing the needful texts. The Ebi-
onites — who were simply Judaizing Christians,
holding in nearly its original form the doctrine
of Peter, James, and John — were ejected from
the Church as the most pernicious of heretics ;
and so completely was their historic position
misunderstood and forgotten, that, in order to
account for their existence, it became necessary
to invent an eponymous heresiarch, Ebion, who
was supposed to have led them astray from the
true faith !

The Christology of the fourth gospel is sub-

THE UNSEEN WORLD

stantially the same as that which was held in
the next two centuries by Tertullian, Clement
of Alexandria, Origen, and Arius. When the
doctrine of the Trinity was first announced by
Sabellius (A. D. 250—260), it was formally con-
demned as heretical, the Church being not yet
quite prepared to receive it. In 269 the Council
of Antioch solemnly declared that the Son was
not consubstantial with the Father, — a declara-
tion which, within sixty years, the Council of
Nikaia was destined as solemnly to contradict.
The Trinitarian Christology struggled long for
acceptance, and did not finally win the victory
until the end of the fourth century. Yet from
the outset its ultimate victory was hardly doubt-
ful. The peculiar doctrines of the fourth gos-
pel could retain their integrity only so long as
Gnostic ideas were prevalent. When Gnosti-
cism declined in importance, and its theories
faded out of recollection, its peculiar phrase-
ology received of necessity a new interpretation.
The doctrine that God could not act directly
upon the world sank gradually into oblivion
as the Church grew more and more hostile to
the Neo-Platonic philosophy. And when this
theory was once forgotten, it was inevitable that
the Logos, as the Creator of the world, should
be raised to an equality or identity with God
himself. In the view of the fourth evangelist,
the Creator was necessarily inferior to God ; in
168

THE CHRIST OF DOGMA

the view of later ages, the Creator could be
none other than God. And so the very phrases
which had most emphatically asserted the sub-
ordination of the Son were afterward interpreted
as asserting his absolute divinity. To the Gnos-
tic formula, lumen de famine, was added the
Athanasian scholium, Deum verum de Deo vero ;
and the Trinitarian dogma of the union of per-
sons in a single Godhead became thus the only
available logical device for preserving the purity
of monotheism.

February, 1870.

A WORD ABOUT MIRACLES1

IT is the lot of every book which attempts to
treat the origin and progress of Christianity
in a sober and scientific spirit to meet with
unsparing attacks. Critics in plenty are always
to be found, who, possessed with the idea that
the entire significance and value of the Christian
religion are demolished unless we regard it as a
sort of historical monstrosity, are only too eager
to subject the offending work to a scathing scru-
tiny, displaying withal a modicum of righteous
indignation at the unblushing heresy of the au-
thor, not unmixed with a little scornful pity at
his inability to believe very preposterous stories
upon very meagre evidence. " Conservative "
polemics of this sort have doubtless their func-
tion. They serve to purge scientific literature
of the awkward and careless statements too often
made by writers not sufficiently instructed or
cautious, which in the absence of hostile criti-

1 These comments on Mr. Henry Rogers' s review of M.
Renan's Les Apotres, contained in a letter to Mr. Lewes,
were shortly afterwards published by him in the Fortnightly
Review, September 15, 1866.
170

A WORD ABOUT MIRACLES

cism might get accepted by the unthinking reader
along with the truths which they accompany.
Most scientific and philosophical works have
their defects ; and it is fortunate that there is
such a thing as dogmatic ardour in the world,
ever sharpening its wits to the utmost, that it
may spy each lurking inaccuracy and ruthlessly
drag it to light. But this useful spirit is wont
to lead those who are inspired by it to shoot be-
yond the mark, and after pointing out the errors
of others, to commit fresh mistakes of their own.
In the skilful criticism of M. Kenan's work on
the Apostles, in No. 29 of the " Fortnightly
Review," there is now and then a vulnerable
spot through which a controversial shaft may
perhaps be made to pierce.

It may be true that Lord Lyttelton's tract on
the Conversion of St. Paul, as Dr. Johnson
and Mr. Rogers have said, has never yet been
refuted ; but if I may judge from my own re-
collection of the work, I should say that this must
be because no competent writer ever thought it
worth his pains to criticise it. Its argument con-
tains about as much solid consistency as a dis-
tended balloon, and collapses as readily at the
first puncture. It attempts to prove, first, that
the conversion of St. Paul cannot be made in-
telligible except on the assumption that there
was a miracle in the case ; and secondly, that if
Paul was converted by a miracle, the truth of
171

THE UNSEEN WORLD

Christianity is impregnable. Now, if the first of
these points be established, the demonstration is
not yet complete, for the second point must be
proved independently. But if the first point be
overthrown, the second loses its prop and falls
likewise.

Great efforts are therefore made to show that
no natural influences could have intervened to
bring about a change in the feelings of Paul.
He was violent, " thorough," unaffected by pity
or remorse ; and accordingly he could not have
been so completely altered as he was had he not
actually beheld the risen Christ : such is the ar-
gument which Mr. Rogers deems so conclusive.
I do not know that from any of Paul's own as-
sertions we are entitled to affirm that no shade
of remorse had ever crossed his mind previous
to the vision near Damascus. But waiving this
point, I do maintain that, granting Paul's feel-
ings to have been as Mr. Rogers thinks they
were, his conversion is inexplicable, even on
the hypothesis of a miracle. He that is deter-
mined not to believe, will not believe, though
one should rise from the dead. To make Paul
a believer, it was not enough that he should
meet his Lord face to face : he must have been
already prepared to believe. Otherwise he
would have easily found means of explaining
the miracle from his own point of view. He
would certainly have attributed it to the wiles
172

A WORD ABOUT MIRACLES

of the demon, even as the Pharisees are said to
have done with regard to the miraculous cures
performed by Jesus. A " miraculous " occur-
rence in those days did not astonish as it would
at present. " Miracles " were rather the order
of the day, and in fact were lavished with such
extreme bounty on all hands that their convin-
cing power was very slight. Neither side ever
thought of disputing the reality of the miracles
supposed to be performed on the other ; but
each side considered the miracles of its antago-
nist to be the work of diabolic agencies. Such
being the case, it is useless to suppose that Paul
could have distinguished between a true and a
false miracle, or that a real miracle could of it-
self have had any effect in inducing him to de-
part from his habitual course of belief and action.
As far as Paul's mental operations were con-
cerned, it could have made no difference whether
he met with his future Master in person, or
merely encountered him in a vision. The sole
point to be considered is whether or not he be-
lieved in the Divine character and authority of
the event which had happened. What the event
might have really been was of no practical con-
sequence to him or to any one else. What he
believed it to be was of the first importance.
And since he did believe that he had been di-
vinely summoned to cease persecuting and com-
mence preaching the new faith, it follows that

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his state of mind must have been more or less
affected by circumstances other than the mere
vision. Had he not been ripe for change, neither
shadow nor substance could have changed him.
This view of the case is by no means so ex-
travagant as Mr. Rogers would have us suppose.
There is no reason for believing that Paul's
character was essentially different afterwards
from what it had been before. The very fer-
vour which caused him, as a Pharisee, to exclude
all but orthodox Jews from the hope of salvation
would lead him, as a Christian, to carry the
Christian idea to its extreme development, and
admit all persons whatever to the privileges of
the Church. The same zeal for the truth which
had urged him to persecute the Christians unto
the death afterwards led him to spare no toil and
shun no danger which might bring about the
triumph of their cause. It must not be forgotten
that the persecutor and the martyr are but one
and the same man under different circumstances.
He who is ready to die for his own faith will
sometimes think it fair to make other men die
for theirs. Men of a vehement and fiery tem-
perament, moreover, — such as Paul always
was, — never change their opinions slowly,
never rest in philosophic doubt, never take a
middle course. If they leave one extreme for
an instant, they are drawn irresistibly to the
other ; and usually very little is needed to work
'74

A WORD ABOUT MIRACLES

the change. The conversion of Omar is a strik-
ing instance in point, and has been cited by M.
Renan himself. The character of Omar bears a
strong likeness to that of Paul. Previous to his
conversion, he was a conscientious and virulent
persecutor of Mohammedanism.1 After his con-
version, he was Mohammed's most efficient dis-
ciple, and it may be safely asserted that for dis-
interestedness and self-abnegation he was not
inferior to the Apostle of the Gentiles. The
change in his case was, moreover, quite as sudden
and unexpected as it was with Paul ; it was
neither more nor less incomprehensible ; and if
Paul's conversion needs a miracle to explain it,
Omar's must need one likewise. But in truth,
there is no difficulty in the case, save that which
stupid dogmatism has created. The conversions
of Paul and Omar are paralleled by innumerable
events which occur in every period of religious
or political excitement. Far from being extraor-
dinary, or inexplicable on natural grounds, such
phenomena are just what might occasionally be
looked for.

But, says Mr. Rogers, " is it possible for a
moment to imagine the doting and dreaming
victim of hallucinations (which M. Renan's
theory represents Paul) to be the man whose
masculine sense, strong logic, practical pru-
dence, and high administrative talent appear in
1 Saint- Hilaire : Mahomet et le Cor an, p. 109.

THE UNSEEN WORLD

the achievements of his life, and in the Epistles
he has left behind him ? " M. Kenan's theory
does not, however, represent Paul as the " vic-
tim of hallucinations " to a greater degree than
Mohammed. The latter, as every one knows,
laboured during much of his life under almost
constant " hallucination ; " yet " masculine
sense, strong logic," etc., were qualities quite
as conspicuous in him as in St. Paul.

Here, as throughout his essay, Mr. Rogers
shows himself totally unable to comprehend
the mental condition of men in past ages. If
an Apostle has a dream or sees a vision, and
interprets it according to the ideas of his time
and country, instead of according to the ideas
of scientific England in the nineteenth century,
Mr. Rogers thinks he must needs be mad :
and when, according to the well-known law
that mental excitement is contagious,1 several
persons are said to have concurred in inter-
preting some phenomenon supernaturally, Mr.
Rogers cannot see why so many people should
all go mad at once ! " To go mad," in fact, is
his favourite designation for a mental act which
nearly all the human race have habitually per-
formed in all ages ; the act of mistaking sub-
jective impressions for outward realities. The
disposition to regard all strange phenomena
as manifestations of supernatural power was
1 Hecker's Epidemics of the Middle Ages, pp. 87-125.

176

A WORD ABOUT MIRACLES

universally prevalent in the first century of
Christianity, and long after. Neither greatness
of intellect nor thoroughness of scepticism gave
exemption. Even Julius Caesar, the greatest
practical genius that ever lived, was some-
what superstitious, despite his atheism and his
vigorous common-sense. It is too often ar-
gued that the prevalence of scepticism in the
Roman Empire must have made men scrupu-
lous about accepting miracles. By no means.
Nothing but physical science ever drives out
miracles : mere doctrinal scepticism is power-
less to do it. In the age of the Apostles,
little if any radical distinction was drawn be-
tween a miracle and an ordinary occurrence.
No one supposed a miracle to be an infrac-
tion of the laws of nature, for no one had
a clear idea that there were such things as laws
of nature. A miracle was simply an extraor-
dinary act, exhibiting the power of the person
who performed it. Blank, indeed, would the
evangelists have looked, had any one told them
what an enormous theory of systematic med-
dling with nature was destined to grow out of
their beautiful and artless narratives.

The incapacity to appreciate this frame of
mind renders the current arguments in behalf
of miracles utterly worthless. From the fact
that Celsus and others never denied the reality
of the Christian miracles, it is commonly in-

177

THE UNSEEN WORLD

ferred that those miracles must have actually
happened. The same argument would, how-
ever, equally apply to the miracles of Apol-
lonius and Simon Magus, for the Christians
never denied the reality of these. What these
facts really prove is that the state of human
intelligence was as I have just described it:
and the inference to be drawn from them is
that no miraculous account emanating from an
author of such a period is worthy of serious
attention. When Mr. Rogers supposes that if
the miracles had not really happened they
would have been challenged, he is assuming
that a state of mind existed in which it was
possible for miracles to be challenged ; and
thus commits an anachronism as monstrous as
if he had attributed the knowledge of some
modern invention, such as steamboats, to those
early ages.

Mr. Rogers seems to complain of M. Renan
for " quietly assuming " that miracles are in-
variably to be rejected. Certainly a historian
of the present day who should not make such
an assumption would betray his lack of the
proper qualifications for his profession. It is
not considered necessary for every writer to
begin his work by setting out to prove the
first principles of historical criticism. They are
taken for granted. And, as M. Renan justly
says, a miracle is one of those things which

A WORD ABOUT MIRACLES

must be disbelieved until it is proved. The
onus probandi lies on the assertor of a fact
which conflicts with universal experience.
Nevertheless, the great number of intelligent
persons who, even now, from dogmatic rea-
sons, accept the New Testament miracles, for-
bids that they should be passed over in silence
like similar phenomena elsewhere narrated.
But, in the present state of historical science,
the arguing against miracles is, as Colet re-
marked of his friend Erasmus's warfare against
the Thomists and Scotists of Cambridge, " a
contest more necessary than glorious or diffi-
cult." To be satisfactorily established, a mira-
cle needs at least to be recorded by an eye-
witness ; and the mental attainments of the
witness need to be thoroughly known besides.
Unless he has a clear conception of the dif-
ference between the natural and the unnatural
order of events, his testimony, however unim-
peachable on the score of honesty, is still
worthless. To say that this condition was ful-
filled by those who described the New Testa-
ment miracles, would be absurd. And in the
face of what German criticism has done for the
early Christian documents, it would be an ex-
cess of temerity to assert that any one of the
supernatural accounts contained in them rests
on contemporary authority. Of all history,
the miraculous part should be attested by the
179

THE UNSEEN WORLD

strongest testimony, whereas it is invariably
attested by the weakest. And the paucity of
miracles wherever we have contemporary rec-
ords, as in the case of primitive Islamism, is a
most significant fact.

In attempting to defend his principle of
never accepting a miracle, M. Renan has in-
deed got into a sorry plight, and Mr. Rogers,
in controverting him, has not greatly helped the
matter. By stirring M. Renan's bemuddled
pool, Mr. Rogers has only bemuddled it the
more. Neither of these excellent writers seems
to suspect that transmutation of species, the
geologic development of the earth, and other
like phenomena do not present features con-
flicting with ordinary experience. Sir Charles
Lyell and Mr. Darwin would be greatly as-
tonished to be told that their theories of in-
organic and organic evolution involved any
agencies not known to exist in the present
course of nature. The great achievement of
these writers has been to show that all past
changes of the earth and its inhabitants are to
be explained as resulting from the continuous
action of causes like those now in operation,
and that throughout there has been nothing
even faintly resembling a miracle. M. Renan
may feel perfectly safe in extending his prin-
ciple back to the beginning of things ; and
Mr. Rogers's argument, even if valid against
1 80

A WORD ABOUT MIRACLES

M. Renan, does not help his own case in the
least.

On some points, indeed, M. Renan has laid
himself open to severe criticism, and on other
points he has furnished good handles for his
orthodox opponents. His views in regard to
the authorship of the fourth gospel and the
Acts are not likely to be endorsed by many
scholars ; and his revival of the rationalistic
absurdities of Paulus merits in most instances
all that Mr. Rogers has said about it. As was
said at the outset, orthodox criticisms upon het-
erodox books are always welcome. They do
excellent service. And with the feeling which
impels their authors to defend their favourite
dogmas with every available weapon of contro-
versy, I for one can heartily sympathize. Their
zeal in upholding what they consider the truth
is greatly to be respected and admired. But
so much cannot always be said for the mode of
argumentation they adopt, which too often jus-
tifies M. Renan's description, when he says,
u Raisonnements triomphants sur des choses
que 1'adversaire n'a pas dites, cris de victoire
sur des erreurs qu'il n'a pas commises, rien ne
parait deloyal a celui qui croit tenir en main
les interets de la verite absolue."

August , 1866.

181

VI

DRAPER ON SCIENCE AND RELI-
GION1

SOME twelve years ago, Dr. Draper pub-
lished a bulky volume entitled " A His-
tory of the Intellectual Development of
Europe," in which his professed purpose was
to show that nations or races pass through cer-
tain definable epochs of development, analogous
to the periods of infancy, childhood, youth,
manhood, and old age in individuals. But
while announced with due formality, the carry-
ing out of the argument was left for the most
part to the headings and running titles of the
several chapters, while in the text the author
peacefully meandered along down the stream
of time, giving us a succession of pleasant
though somewhat threadbare anecdotes, as well
as a superabundance of detached and fragmen-
tary opinions on divers historical events, having
apparently quite forgotten that he had started

1 History of the Conflict between Religion and Science.
By John William Draper, M. D., LL. D. Fourth edition.
New York: D. Appleton & Co. 1875. I2mo, pp. xxii,
373. (International Scientific Series, xii.)
182

DRAPER ON SCIENCE AND RELIGION

with a thesis to prove. In the arrangement of
his " running heads," some points were suffi-
ciently curious to require a word of explanation,
as, for example, when the early ages of Chris-
tianity were at one time labelled as an epoch of
progress and at another time as an epoch of de-
crepitude. But the argument and the contents
never got so far en rapport with each other as
to clear up such points as this. On the con-
trary, each kept on the even tenor of its way
without much regard to the other. From the
titles of the chapters one was led to expect some
comprehensive theory of European civilization
continuously expounded. But the text merely
showed a great quantity of superficial and sec-
ond-hand information, serving to illustrate the
mental idiosyncrasies of the author. Among
these idiosyncrasies might be noted a very in-
adequate understanding of the part played by
Rome in the work of civilization, a singular
lack of appreciation of the political and philo-
sophical achievements of Greece under Athe-
nian leadership, a strong hostility to the Catholic
Church, a curious disposition to overrate semi-
barbarous or abortive civilizations, such as those
of the old Asiatic and native American com-
munities, at the expense of Europe, and, above
all, an undiscriminating admiration for every-
thing, great or small, that has ever worn the
garb of Islam or been associated with the career

183

THE UNSEEN WORLD

of the Saracens. The discovery that in some
respects the Mussulmans of the Middle Ages
were more highly cultivated than their Christian
contemporaries has made such an impression
on Dr. Draper's mind that it seems to be as
hard for him to get rid of it as it was for Mr.
Dick to keep the execution of Charles I. out
of his " Memorial." Even in an essay on the
" Civil Policy of America/' the turbaned sage
figures quite prominently ; and it is needless to
add that he reappears, as large as life, when the
subject of discussion is the attitude of science
towards religion.

Speaking briefly with regard to this matter,
we may freely admit that the work done by the
Arabs, in scientific inquiry as well as in the
making of events, was very considerable. It
was a work, too, the value of which is not com-
monly appreciated in the accounts of European
history written for the general reader, and we
have no disposition to find fault with Dr. Draper
for describing it with enthusiasm. The phi-
losophers of Bagdad and Cordova did excellent
service in keeping alive the traditions of Greek
physical inquiry at a time when Christian
thinkers were too exclusively occupied with
transcendental speculations in theology and
logic. In some departments, as in chemistry
and astronomy, they made original discoveries
of considerable value ; and if we turn from
184

DRAPER ON SCIENCE AND RELIGION

abstract knowledge to the arts of life, it cannot
be denied that the mediaeval Mussulmans had
reached a higher plane of material comfort than
their Christian contemporaries. In short, the
work of all kinds done by these people would
furnish the judicious advocate of the claims of
the Semitic race with materials for a pleasing
and instructive picture. Dr. Draper, however,
errs, though no doubt unintentionally, by so
presenting the case as to leave upon the reader's
mind the impression that all this scientific and
practical achievement was the work of Islamism,
and that the Mohammedan civilization was of
a higher type tHan the Christian. It is with
an apparent feeling of regret that he looks upon
the ousting of the Moors from dominion in
Spain ; but this is a mistaken view. As regards
the first point, it is a patent fact that scientific
inquiry was conducted at the cost of as much
theological obloquy in the Mohammedan as in
the Christian world. It is true there was more
actual tolerance of heresy on the part of Mos-
lem governments than was customary in Europe
in those days ; but this is a superficial fact,
which does not indicate any superiority in Mos-
lem popular sentiment. The caliphate or emir-
ate was a truly absolute despotism, such as the
Papacy has never been, and the conduct of a
sceptical emir in encouraging scientific inquiry
goes but little way towards proving anything

THE UNSEEN WORLD

like a general prevalence of tolerance or of free-
thinking. And this brings us to the second
point, — that Mohammedan civilization was, on
the whole, rather a skin-deep affair. It was
superficial because of that extreme severance be-
tween government and people which has never
existed in European nations within historic
times, but which has always existed among the
principal races that have professed Moslemism.
Nowhere in the Mohammedan world has there
ever been what we call a national life, and no-
where do we find in its records any trace of such
an intellectual impulse, thrilling through every
fibre of the people and begetting prodigious
achievements in art, poetry, and philosophy, as
was awakened in Europe in the thirteenth cen-
tury and again in the fifteenth. Under the
peculiar form of unlimited material and spiritual
despotism exemplified in the caliphate, a few
men may discover gases or comment on Aris-
totle, but no general movement towards political
progress or philosophical inquiry is possible.
Such a society is rigid and inorganic at bottom,
whatever scanty signs of flexibility and life it
may show at the surface. There is no better
illustration of this, when well considered, than
the fact that Moorish civilization remained,
politically and intellectually, a mere excrescence
in Spain, after having been fastened down over
half the country for nearly eight centuries.
186

DRAPER ON SCIENCE AND RELIGION

But we are in danger of forgetting our main
theme, as Dr. Draper seems to do, while we
linger with him over these interesting wayside
topics. We may perhaps be excused, however,
if we have not yet made any very explicit allu-
sion to the " Conflict between Religion and
Science," because this work seems to be in the
main a repetition en petit of the " Intellectual
Development of Europe," and what we have
said will apply as well to one as to the other.
In the little book, as in the big one, we hear a
great deal about the Arabs, and something
about Columbus and Galileo, who made men
accept sundry truths in the teeth of clerical
opposition ; and, as before, we float gently down
the current of history without being over well-
informed as to the precise didactic purpose of
our voyage. Here, indeed, even our headings
and running titles do not materially help us,
for though we are supposed to be witnessing,
or mayhap assisting in, a perennial conflict be-
tween " science " and " religion," we are nowhere
enlightened as to what the cause or character of
this conflict is, nor are we enabled to get a good
look at either of the parties to the strife. With
regard to " religion " especially are we left in
the dark. What this dreadful thing is towards
which " science " is always playing the part of
Herakles towards the Lernaean Hydra, we are
left to gather from the course of the narrative.

THE UNSEEN WORLD

Yet, in a book with any valid claim to clear-
sightedness, one would think such a point as
this ought to receive very explicit preliminary
treatment.

The course of the narrative, however, leaves
us in little doubt as to what Dr. Draper means
by a conflict between science and religion.
When he enlarges on the trite story of Galileo,
and alludes to the more modern quarrel be-
tween the Church and the geologists, and does
this in the belief that he is thereby illustrating
an antagonism between religion and science, it
is obvious that he identifies the cause of the
anti-geologists and the persecutors of Galileo
with the cause of religion. The word " reli-
gion " is to him a symbol which stands for
unenlightened bigotry or narrow-minded un-
willingness to look facts in the face. Such a
conception of religion is common enough, and
unhappily a great deal has been done to
strengthen it by the very persons to whom the
interests of religion are presumed to be a pro-
fessional care. It is nevertheless a very super-
ficial conception, and no book which is vitiated
by it can have much philosophic value. It is
simply the crude impression which, in minds
unaccustomed to analysis, is left by the fact that
theologians and other persons interested in
religion are usually alarmed at new scientific
truths, and resist them with emotions so highly
188

DRAPER ON SCIENCE AND RELIGION

wrought that they are not only incapable of
estimating evidence, but often also have their
moral sense impaired, and fight with foul means
when fair ones fail. If we reflect carefully on
this class of phenomena, we shall see that some-
thing besides mere pride of opinion is involved
in the struggle. At the bottom of changing
theological beliefs there lies something which
men perennially value, and for the sake of
which they cling to the beliefs as long as possi-
ble. That which they value is not itself a mat-
ter of belief, but it is a matter of conduct ; it
is the searching after goodness, — after a higher
life than the mere satisfaction of individual de-
sires. All animals seek for fulness of life ; but
in civilized man this craving has acquired a
moral significance, and has become a spiritual
aspiration ; and this emotional tendency, more
or less strong in the human race, we call reli-
gious feeling or religion. Viewed in this light,
religion is not only something that mankind is
never likely to get rid of, but it is incomparably
the most noble as well as the most useful attri-
bute of humanity.

Now, this emotional prompting towards com-
pleteness of life requires, of course, that conduct
should be guided, as far as possible, in accord-
ance with a true theory of the relations of man
to the world in which he lives. Hence, at any
given era the religious feeling will always be
189

THE UNSEEN WORLD

found enlisted in behalf of some theory of the
universe. At any time, whatever may be their
shortcomings in practice, religious men will aim
at doing right according to their conceptions of
the order of the world. If men's conceptions
of the order of nature remained constant, no
apparent conflict between their religious feel-
ings and their knowledge need ever arise. But
with the first advance in our knowledge of
nature the case is altered. New and strange
theories are naturally regarded with fear and
dislike by persons who have always been accus-
tomed to find the sanction and justification of
their emotional prompting towards righteous-
ness in old familiar theories which the new ones
are seeking to supplant. Such persons oppose
the new doctrine because their engrained men-
tal habits compel them to believe that its estab-
lishment will in some way lower men's standard
of life, and make them less careful of their spir-
itual welfare. This is the case, at all events,
when theologians oppose scientific conclusions
on religious grounds, and not simply from
mental dulness or rigidity. And, in so far as it
is religious feeling which thus prompts resist-
ance to scientific innovation, it may be said,
with some appearance of truth, that there is a
conflict between religion and science.

But there must always be two parties to a
quarrel, and our statement has to be modified
190

DRAPER ON SCIENCE AND RELIGION

as soon as we consider what the scientific inno-
vator impugns. It is not the emotional prompt-
ing towards righteousness, it is not the yearn-
ing to live im Guten^ Ganzen, Wahren^ that he
seeks to weaken ; quite likely he has all this as
much at heart as the theologian who vituperates
him. Nor is it true that his discoveries, in spite
of him, tend to destroy this all-important men-
tal attitude. It would be ridiculous to say that
the fate of religious feeling is really involved in
the fate of grotesque cosmogonies and theoso-
phies framed in the infancy of men's knowledge
of nature ; for history shows us quite the con-
trary. Religious feeling has survived the helio-
centric theory and the discoveries of geologists ;
and it will be none the worse for the establish-
ment of Darwinism. It is the merest truism to
say that religion strikes its roots deeper down
into human nature than speculative opinion, and
is accordingly independent of any particular set
of beliefs. Since, then, the scientific innovator
does not, either voluntarily or involuntarily,
attack religion, it follows that there can be no
such " conflict " as that of which Dr. Draper
has undertaken to write the history. The real
contest is between one phase of science and
another ; between the more-crude knowledge
of yesterday and the less-crude knowledge of
to-day. The contest, indeed, as presented in
history, is simply the measure of the difficulty
191

THE UNSEEN WORLD

which men find in exchanging old views for new
ones. All along, the practical question has
been, whether we should passively acquiesce in
the crude generalizations of our ancestors or
venture actively to revise them. But as for the
religious sentiment, the perennial struggle in
which it has been engaged has not been with
scientific inquiry, but with the selfish propen-
sities whose tendency is to make men lead the
lives of brutes.

The time is at hand when the interests of
religion can no longer be supposed to be sub-
served by obstinate adherence to crude specu-
lations bequeathed to us from pre-scientific an-
tiquity. One good result of the doctrine of
evolution, which is now gaining sway in all de-
partments of thought, is the lesson that all our
opinions must be held subject to continual re-
vision, and that with none of them can our
religious interests be regarded as irretrievably
implicated. To any one who has once learned
this lesson, a book like Dr. Draper's can be
neither interesting nor useful. He who has
not learned it can derive little benefit from a
work which in its very title keeps open an old
and baneful source of error and confusion.

November, 1875.

192

VII
NATHAN THE WISE1

THE fame of Lessing is steadily grow-
ing. Year by year he is valued more
highly, and valued by a greater num-
ber of people. And he is destined, like his
master and forerunner Spinoza, to receive a yet
larger share of men's reverence and gratitude
when the philosophic spirit which he lived
to illustrate shall have become in some mea-
sure the general possession of the civilized
part of mankind. In his own day, Lessing,
though widely known and greatly admired,
was little understood or appreciated. He was
known to be a learned antiquarian, a terrible
controversialist, and an incomparable writer.
He was regarded as a brilliant ornament to
Germany ; and a paltry Duke of Brunswick

1 Nathan the Wise : A Dramatic Poem, by Gotthold
Ephraim Lessing. Translated by Ellen Frothingham. Pre-
ceded by a brief account of the poet and his works, and fol-
lowed by an essay on the poem by Kuno Fischer. Second
edition. New York : Leypoldt & Holt. 1868.

Le Christianisme Moderne. Etude sur Lessing. Par Er-
nest Fontanes. Paris: Bailliere. 1867.

193

THE UNSEEN WORLD

thought a few hundred thalers well spent in
securing the glory of having such a man to
reside at his provincial court. But the majority
of Lessing's contemporaries understood him as
little perhaps as did the Duke of Brunswick.
If anything were needed to prove this, it would
be the uproar which was made over the publi-
cation of the " Wolfenbuttel Fragments," and
the curious exegesis which was applied to the
poem of " Nathan " on its first appearance. In
order to understand the true character of this
great poem, and of Lessing's religious opinions
as embodied in it, it will be necessary first to
consider the memorable theological controversy
which preceded it.

During Lessing's residence at Hamburg, he
had come into possession of a most impor-
tant manuscript, written by Hermann Samuel
Reimarus, a professor of Oriental languages,
and bearing the title of an " Apology for the
Rational Worshippers of God." Struck with
the rigorous logic displayed in its arguments,
and with the quiet dignity of its style, while
yet unable to accept its most general conclu-
sions, Lessing resolved to publish the manu-
script, accompanying it with his own comments
and strictures. Accordingly in 1774, availing
himself of the freedom from censorship enjoyed
by publications drawn from manuscripts de-
posited in the Ducal Library at Wolfenbuttel,
194

Gottbold Epkraim Lessing

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NATHAN THE WISE

of which he was librarian, Lessing published
the first portion of this work, under the title
of " Fragments drawn from the Papers of an
Anonymous Writer." This first Fragment, on
the " Toleration of Deists," awakened but
little opposition ; for the eighteenth century,
though intolerant enough, did not parade its
bigotry, but rather saw fit to disclaim it. A
hundred years before, Rutherford, in his " Free
Disputation," had declared " toleration of alle
religions to bee not farre- removed from blas-
phemie." Intolerance was then a thing to be
proud of, but in Lessing's time some progress
had been achieved, and men began to think it
a good thing to seem tolerant. The succeed-
ing Fragments were to test this liberality and
reveal the flimsiness of the stuff of which it
was made. When the unknown disputant be-
gan to declare " the impossibility of a revelation
upon which all men can rest a solid faith," and
when he began to criticise the evidences of
Christ's resurrection, such a storm burst out in
the theological world of Germany as had not
been witnessed since the time of Luther. The
recent Colenso controversy in England was
but a gentle breeze compared to it. Press and
pulpit swarmed with " refutations," in which
weakness of argument and scantiness of erudi-
tion were compensated by strength of acrimony
and unscrupulousness of slander. Pamphlets

195

THE UNSEEN WORLD

and sermons, says M. Fontanes, " were mul-
tiplied, to denounce the impious blasphemer,
who, destitute alike of shame and of courage,
had sheltered himself behind a paltry fiction,
in order to let loose upon society an evil spirit
of unbelief." But Lessing's artifice had been
intended to screen the memory of Reimarus,
rather than his own reputation. He was not
the man to quail before any amount of human
opposition ; and it was when the tempest of
invective was just at its height that he pub-
lished the last and boldest Fragment of all, —
on " The Designs of Jesus and his Disciples."
The publication of these Fragments led to a
mighty controversy. The most eminent, both
for uncompromising zeal and for worldly posi-
tion, of those who had attacked Lessing, was
Melchior Goetze, "pastor primarius" at the
Hamburg Cathedral. Though his name is now
remembered only because of his connection with
Lessing, Goetze was not destitute of learning
and ability. He was a collector of rare books,
an amateur in numismatics, and an antiquarian
of the narrow-minded sort. Lessing had known
him while at Hamburg, and had visited him so
constantly as to draw forth from his friends ma-
licious insinuations as to the excellence of the
pastor's white wine. Doubtless Lessing, as a
wise man, was not insensible to the attractions
of good Moselle ; but that which he chiefly
196

NATHAN THE WISE

liked in this theologian was his logical and rig-
orously consistent turn of mind. " He always,"
says M. Fontanes, " cherished a holy horror of
loose, inconsequent thinkers ; and the man of
the past, the inexorable guardian of tradition,
appeared to him far more worthy of respect
than the heterodox innovator who stops in
mid-course, and is faithful neither to reason nor
to faith."

But when Lessing published these unhallowed
Fragments, the hour of conflict had sounded,
and Goetze cast himself into the arena with a
boldness and impetuosity which Lessing, in his
artistic capacity, could not fail to admire. He
spared no possible means of reducing his enemy
to submission. He aroused against him all the
constituted authorities, the consistories, and
even the Aulic Council of the Empire, and he
even succeeded in drawing along with him the
chief of contemporary rationalists, Semler, who
so far forgot himself as to declare that Lessing,
for what he had done, deserved to be sent to
the madhouse. But with all Goetze's orthodox
valour, he was no match for the antagonist whom
he had excited to activity. The great critic re-
plied with pamphlet after pamphlet, invincible
in logic and erudition, sparkling with wit, and
irritating in their utter coolness. Such pam-
phlets had not been seen since Pascal published
the " Provincial Letters." Goetze found that he
197

THE UNSEEN WORLD

had taken up arms against a master in the arts
of controversy, and before long he became well
aware that he was worsted. Having brought the
case before the Aulic Council, which consisted
in great part of Catholics, the stout pastor, for-
getting that judgment had not yet been ren-
dered, allowed himself to proclaim that all who
do not recognize the Bible as the only source
of Christianity are not fit to be called Christians
at all. Lessing was not slow to profit by this
unlucky declaration. Questioned, with all man-
ner of ferocious vituperation, by Goetze, as to
what sort of Christianity might have existed
prior to and independently of the New Testa-
ment canon, Lessing imperturbably answered :
" By the Christian religion I mean all the con-
fessions of faith contained in the collection of
creeds of the first four centuries of the Christian
Church, including, if you wish it, the so-called
creed of the apostles, as well as the creed of
Athanasius. The content of these confessions
is called by the earlier Fathers the regula fidei,
or rule of faith. This rule of faith is not drawn
from the writings of the New Testament. It ex-
isted before any of the books in the New Tes-
tament were written. It sufficed not only for the
first Christians of the age of the apostles, but for
their descendants during four centuries. And it
is, therefore, the veritable foundation upon which
the Church of Christ is built ; a foundation not
198

NATHAN THE WISE

based upon Scripture." Thus, by a master-
stroke, Lessing secured the adherence of the
Catholics constituting a majority of the Aulic
Council of the Empire. Like Paul before him,
he divided the Sanhedrim. So that Goetze,
foiled in his attempts at using violence, and
disconcerted by the patristic learning of one
whom he had taken to be a mere connoisseur
in art and writer of plays for the theatre, con-
cluded that discretion was the surest kind of
valour, and desisted from further attacks.

Lessing's triumph came opportunely ; for al-
ready the ministry of Brunswick had not only
confiscated the Fragments, but had prohibited
him from publishing anything more on the sub-
ject without first obtaining express authority to
do so. His last replies to Goetze were published
at Hamburg ; and as he held himself in readi-
ness to depart from Wolfenbuttel, he wrote to
several friends that he had conceived the design
of a drama, with which he would tear the theo-
logians in pieces more than with a dozen Frag-
ments. " I will try and see," said he, " if they
will let me preach in peace from my old pulpit,
the theatre." In this way originated " Nathan
the Wise." But it in no way answered to the
expectations either of Lessing's friends or of his
enemies. Both the one and the other expected
to see the controversy with Goetze carried on,
developed, and generalized in the poem. They
199

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looked for a satirical comedy, in which ortho-
doxy should be held up for scathing ridicule,
or at least for a direful tragedy, the moral of
which, like that of the great poem of Lucretius,
should be

"Tantum religio potuit saudere malorum."
Had Lessing produced such a poem, he would
doubtless have gratified his free-thinking friends
and wreaked due literary vengeance upon his
theological persecutors. He would, perhaps,
have given articulate expression to the radical-
ism of his own time, and, like Voltaire, might
have constituted himself the leader of the age,
the incarnation of its most conspicuous tenden-
cies. But Lessing did nothing of the kind ; and
the expectations formed of him by friends and
enemies alike show how little he was understood
by either. " Nathan the Wise " was, as we shall
see, in the eighteenth century an entirely new
phenomenon ; and its author was the pioneer
of a quite new religious philosophy.

Reimarus, the able author of the Fragments,
in his attack upon the evidences of revealed re-
ligion, had taken the same ground as Voltaire
and the old English deists. And when we have
said this, we have sufficiently defined his posi-
tion, for the tenets of the deists are at the pre-
sent day pretty well known, and are, moreover,
of very little vital importance, having long since
been supplanted by a more just and compre-
200

NATHAN THE WISE

hensive philosophy. Reimarus accepted neither
miracles nor revelation ; but in accordance with
the rudimentary state of criticism in his time,
he admitted the historical character of the earli-
est Christian records, and was thus driven to
the conclusion that those writings must have
been fraudulently composed. How such a set
of impostors as the apostles must on this hy-
pothesis have been, should have succeeded in
inspiring large numbers of their contempora-
ries with higher and grander religious notions
than had ever before been conceived ; how they
should have laid the foundations of a theologi-
cal system destined to hold together the most
enlightened and progressive portion of human
society for seventeen or eighteen centuries,
— does not seem to have entered his mind.
Against such attacks as this, orthodoxy was
comparatively safe ; for whatever doubt might
be thrown upon some of its leading dogmas,
the system as a whole was more consistent and
rational than any of the theories which were
endeavouring to supplant it. And the fact that
nearly all the great thinkers of the eighteenth
century adopted this deistic hypothesis shows,
more than anything else, the crudeness of their
psychological knowledge and their utter lack
of what is called " the historical sense."

Lessing at once saw the weak point in Rei-
marus's argument, but his method of disposing
20 1

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of it differed signally from that adopted by his
orthodox contemporaries. The more advanced
German theologians of that day, while accept-
ing the New Testament records as literally his-
torical, were disposed to rationalize the accounts
of miracles contained in them, in such a way as
to get rid of any presumed infractions of the
laws of nature. This method of exegesis, which
reached its perfection in Paulus, is too well
known to need describing. Its unsatisfactory
character was clearly shown, thirty years ago,
by Strauss, and it is now generally abandoned,
though some traces of it may still be seen in
the recent works of Renan. Lessing steadily
avoided this method of interpretation. He had
studied Spinoza to some purpose, and the out-
lines of Biblical criticism laid down by that re-
markable thinker Lessing developed into a sys-
tem wonderfully like that now adopted by the
Tubingen School. The cardinal results which
Baur has reached within the past generation
were nearly all hinted at by Lessing, in his com-
mentaries on the Fragments. The distinction
between the first three, or synoptic gospels,
and the fourth, the later age of the fourth, and
the method of composition of the first three,
from earlier documents and from oral tradition,
are all clearly laid down by him. The dis-
tinct points of view from which the four ac-
counts were composed, are also indicated, — the
202

NATHAN THE WISE

Judaizing disposition of " Matthew," the Paul-
ine sympathies of " Luke," the compromising
or Petrine tendencies of " Mark," and the ad-
vanced Hellenic character of " John." Those
best acquainted with the results of modern crit-
icism in Germany will perhaps be most surprised
at finding such speculations in a book written
many years before either Strauss or Baur were
born.

But such results, as might have been expected,
did not satisfy the pastor Goetze or the public
which sympathized with him. The valiant pas-
tor unhesitatingly declared that he read the ob-
jections which Lessing opposed to the Frag-
mentist with more horror and disgust than the
Fragments themselves ; and in the teeth of the
printed comments he declared that the editor
was craftily upholding his author in his deistical
assault upon Christian theology. The accusation
was unjust, because untrue. There could be no
genuine co-operation between a mere iconoclast
like Reimarus, and a constructive critic like Les-
sing. But the confusion was not an unnatural one
on Goetze's part, and I cannot agree with M.
Fontanes in taking it as convincing proof of the
pastor's wrong-headed perversity. It appears to
me that Goetze interpreted Lessing's position
quite as accurately as M. Fontanes. The latter
writer thinks that Lessing was a Christian of the
liberal school since represented by Theodore
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Parker in this country and by M. Reville in
France ; that his real object was to defend and
strengthen the Christian religion by relieving
it of those peculiar doctrines which to the free-
thinkers of his time were a stumbling-block
and an offence. And, in spite of Lessing's own
declarations, he endeavours to show that he was
an ordinary theist, — a follower of Leibnitz ra-
ther than of Spinoza. But I do not think he
has made out his case. Lessing's own confes-
sion to Jacobi is unequivocal enough, and can-
not well be argued away. In that remarkable
conversation, held toward the close of his life,
he indicates clearly enough that his faith was
neither that of the ordinary theist, the atheist,
nor the pantheist, but that his religious theory
of the universe was identical with that suggested
by Spinoza, adopted by Goethe, and recently
elaborated in the first part of the " First Prin-
ciples " of Mr. Herbert Spencer. Moreover,
while Lessing cannot be considered an antago-
nist of Christianity, neither did he assume the
attitude of a defender. He remained outside
the theological arena ; looking at theological
questions from the point of view of a layman,
or rather, as M. Cherbuliez has happily ex-
pressed it, of a pagan. His mind was of decid-
edly antique structure. He had the virtues of
paganism : its sanity, its calmness, and its prob-
ity ; but of the tenderness of Christianity, and
204

NATHAN THE WISE

its quenchless aspirations after an indefinable
ideal, of that feeling which has incarnated itself
in Gothic cathedrals, masses* and oratorios, he
exhibited but scanty traces. His intellect was
above all things self-consistent and incorrupti-
ble. He had that imperial good sense which
might have formed the ideal alike of Horace
and of Epictetus. No clandestine preference
for certain conclusions could make his reason
swerve from the straight paths of logic. And
he examined and rejected the conclusions of
Reimarus in the same imperturbable spirit with
which he examined and rejected the current
theories of the French classic drama.

Such a man can have had but little in com-
mon with a preacher like Theodore Parker, or
with a writer like M. Fontanes, whose whole
book is a noble specimen of lofty Christian elo-
quence. His attribute was light, not warmth.
He scrutinized, but did not attack or defend.
He recognized the transcendent merits of the
Christian faith, but made no attempt to rein-
state it where it had seemed to suffer shock.
It was therefore with the surest of instincts, with
that same instinct of self-preservation which had
once led the Church to anathematize Galileo, that
Goetze proclaimed Lessing a more dangerous foe
to orthodoxy than the deists who had preceded
him. Controversy, he doubtless thought, may
be kept up indefinitely, and blows given and
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returned forever; but before the steady gaze
of that scrutinizing eye which one of us shall
find himself able t& stand erect ? It has become
fashionable to heap blame and ridicule upon
those who violently defend an antiquated order
of things ; and Goetze has received at the hands
of posterity his full share of abuse. His wrath
contrasted unfavourably with Lessing's calm-
ness ; and it was his misfortune to have taken
up arms against an opponent who always knew
how to keep the laugh upon his own side.
For my own part I am constrained to admire
the militant pastor, as Lessing himself admired
him. From an artistic point of view he is not
an uninteresting figure to contemplate. And
although his attempts to awaken persecution
were reprehensible, yet his ardour in defending
what he believed to be vital truth is none the
less to be respected. He had the acuteness to
see that Lessing's refutation of deism did not
make him a Christian, while the new views pro-
posed as a substitute for those of Reimarus were
such as Goetze and his age could in no wise
comprehend.

Lessing's own views of dogmatic religion are
to be found in his work entitled, " The Educa-
tion of the Human Race." These views have
since so far become the veriest commonplaces
of criticism, that one can hardly realize that,
only ninety years ago, they should have been
206

NATHAN THE WISE

regarded as dangerous paradoxes. They may
be summed up in the statement that all great
religions are good in their time and place ; that,
" as there is a soul of goodness in things evil,
so also there is a soul of truth in things erro-
neous." According to Lessing, the successive
phases of religious belief constitute epochs in
the mental evolution of the human race. So
that the crudest forms of theology, even fetich-
ism, now to all appearance so utterly revolting,
and polytheism, so completely inadequate, have
once been the best, the natural and inevitable
results of man's reasoning powers and appli-
ances for attaining truth. The mere fact that
a system of religious thought has received the
willing allegiance of large masses of men shows
that it must have supplied some consciously
felt want, some moral or intellectual craving.
And the mere fact that knowledge and moral-
ity are progressive implies that each successive
system may in due course of time be essentially
modified or finally supplanted. The absence
of any reference to a future state of retribution,
in the Pentateuch and generally in the sacred
writings of the Jews, and the continual appeal
to hopes and fears of a worldly character, have
been pronounced by deists an irremediable de-
fect in the Jewish religion. It is precisely this,
however, says Lessing, which constitutes one
of its signal excellences. " That thy days may
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be long in the land which Jehovah thy God
giveth thee," was an appeal which the uncivi-
lized Jew could understand, and which could
arouse him to action ; while the need of a future
world, to rectify the injustices of this, not yet
being felt, the doctrine would have been of but
little service. But in later Hebrew literature,
many magnificent passages revealed the despair
felt by prophet and thinker over the insoluble
problem presented by the evil fate of the good
and the triumphant success of the wicked ; and
a solution was sought in the doctrine of a
Messianic kingdom, until Christianity with its
proclamation of a future life set the question
entirely aside. By its appeal to what has been
aptly termed " other-worldliness," Christianity
immeasurably intensified human responsibility,
besides rendering clearer its nature and limits.
But according to Lessing, yet another step re-
mains to be taken ; and here we come upon
the gulf which separates him from men of the
stamp of Theodore Parker. For, says Lessing,
the appeal to unearthly rewards and punish-
ments is after all an appeal to our lower feelings ;
other-worldliness is but a refined selfishness ;
and we are to cherish virtue for its own sake,
not because it will lead us to heaven. Here is
the grand principle of Stoicism. Lessing be-
lieved, with Mr. Mill, that the less we think
about getting rewarded either on earth or in
208

NATHAN THE WISE

heaven the better. He was cast in the same
heroic mould as Muhamad Efendi, who when
led to the stake exclaimed : " Though I have
no hope of recompense hereafter, yet the love
of truth constraineth me to die in its defence ! "
With the truth or completeness of these
views of Lessing we are not here concerned ;
our business being not to expound our own
opinions, but to indicate as clearly as possible
Lessing's position. Those who are familiar with
the general philosophical spirit of the present
age, as represented by writers otherwise so
different as Littre and Sainte-Beuve, will best
appreciate the power and originality of these
speculations. Coming in the last century, amid
the crudities of deism, they made a well-defined
epoch. They inaugurated the historical method
of criticism, and they robbed the spirit of in-
tolerance of its only philosophical excuse for
existing. Hitherto the orthodox had been in-
tolerant towards the philosophers because they
considered them heretics ; and the philosophers
had been intolerant towards the orthodox be-
cause they considered them fools. To Voltaire
it naturally seemed that a man who could believe
in the reality of miracles must be what in French
is expressively termed a sot. But henceforth, to
the disciple of Lessing, men of all shades of
opinion were but the representatives and expo-
nents of different phases in the general evolu-
209

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tion of human intelligence, not necessarily to be
disliked or despised if they did not happen to
represent the maturest phase.

Religion, therefore, from this point of view,
becomes clearly demarcated from theology. It
consists no longer in the mental assent to cer-
tain prescribed formulas, but in the moral obe-
dience to the great rule of life ; the great com-
mandment laid down and illustrated by the
Founder of the Christian religion, and concern-
ing which the profoundest modern philosophy
informs us that the extent to which a society
has learned to conform to it is the test and
guage of the progress in civilization which that
society has achieved. The command " to love
one another," to check the barbarous impulses
inherited from the pre-social state, while giving
free play to the beneficent impulses needful for
the ultimate attainment of social equilibrium,
— or as Tennyson phrases it, to " move up-
ward, working out the beast, and letting the ape
and tiger die," — was, in Lessing's view, the
task set before us by religion. The true reli-
gious feeling was thus, in his opinion, what the
author of " Ecce Homo " has finally termed
" the enthusiasm of humanity." And we shall
find no better language than that of the writer
just mentioned, in which to describe Lessing's
conception of faith : —

" He who, when goodness is impressively
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NATHAN THE WISE

put before him, exhibits an instinctive loyalty
to it, starts forward to take its side, trusts himr
self to it, such a man has faith, and the root of
the matter is in such a man. He may have
habits of vice, but the loyal and faithful instinct
in him will place him above many that practise
virtue. He may be rude in thought and char-
acter, but he will unconsciously gravitate toward
what is right. Other virtues can scarcely thrive
without a fine natural organization and a happy
training. But the most neglected and ungifted
of men may make a beginning with faith. Other
virtues want civilization, a certain amount of
knowledge, a few books ; but in half-brutal
countenances faith will light up a glimmer of
nobleness. The savage, who can do little else,
can wonder and worship and enthusiastically
obey. He who cannot know what is right can
know that some one else knows ; he who has
no law may still have a master ; he who is
incapable of justice may be capable of fidelity ;
he who understands little may have his sins for-
given because he loves much."

Such was Lessing's religion, so far as it can
be ascertained from the fragmentary writings
which he has left on the subject. Undoubtedly
it lacked completeness. The opinions which we
have here set down, though constituting some-
thing more than a mere theory of morality, cer-
tainly do not constitute a complete theory of

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religion. Our valiant knight has examined but
one side of the shield, — the bright side, turned
toward us, whose marvellous inscriptions the
human reason can by dint of unwearied effort
decipher. But the dark side, looking out upon
infinity, and covered with hieroglyphics the
meaning of which we can never know, he has
quite forgotten to consider. Yet it is this side
which genuine religious feeling ever seeks to
contemplate. It is the consciousness that there
is about us an omnipresent Power, in which we
live and move and have our being, eternally
manifesting itself throughout the whole range
of natural phenomena, which has ever disposed
men to be religious, and lured them on in the
vain effort to construct adequate theological
systems. We may, getting rid of the last traces
of fetichism, eliminate arbitrary volition as much
as we will or can. But there still remains the
consciousness of a divine Life in the universe,
of a Power which is beyond and above our com-
prehension, whose goings out and comings in
no man can follow. The more we know, the
more we reach out for that which we cannot
know. And who can realize this so vividly as
the scientific philosopher ? For our knowledge
being, according to the familiar comparison, like
a brilliant sphere, the more we increase it the
greater becomes the number of peripheral points
at which we are confronted by the impenetrable

212

NATHAN THE WISE

darkness beyond. I believe that this restless
yearning, — vague enough in the description,
yet recognizable by all who, communing with
themselves or with nature, have felt it, — this
constant seeking for what cannot be found,
this persistent knocking at gates which, when
opened, but reveal others yet to be passed, con-
stitutes an element which no adequate theory
of religion can overlook. But of this we find
nothing in Lessing. With him all is sunny,
serene, and pagan. Not the dim aisle of a vast
cathedral, but the symmetrical portico of an
antique temple, is the worshipping-place into
which he would lead us.

But if Lessing's theology must be considered
imperfect, it is none the less admirable as far
as it goes. With its peculiar doctrines of love
and faith, it teaches a morality far higher than
any that Puritanism ever dreamed of. And
with its theory of development it cuts away
every possible logical basis for intolerance. It
is this theology to which Lessing has given
concrete expression in his immortal poem of
" Nathan."

The central idea of " Nathan " was suggested
to Lessing by Boccaccio's story of" The Three
Rings," which is supposed to have had a Jewish
origin. Saladin, pretending to be inspired by a
sudden, imperious whim, such as is " not un-
becoming in a Sultan," demands that Nathan
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shall answer him on the spur of the moment
which of the three great religions then known
— Judaism, Mohammedanism, Christianity —
is adjudged by reason to be the true one. For
a moment the philosopher is in a quandary. If
he does not pronounce in favour of his own
religion, Judaism, he stultifies himself; but if
he does not award the precedence to Moham-
medanism, he will apparently insult his sover-
eign. With true Oriental tact he escapes from
the dilemma by means of a parable. There was
once a man, says Nathan, who possessed a ring
of inestimable value. Not only was the stone
which it contained incomparably fine, but it
possessed the marvellous property of rendering
its owner agreeable both to God and to men.
The old man bequeathed this ring to that one
of his sons whom he loved the most ; and the
son, in turn, made a similar disposition of it.
So that, passing from hand to hand, the ring
finally came into the possession of a father who
loved his three sons equally well. Unto which
one should he leave it ? To get rid of the per-
plexity, he had two other rings made by a jew-
eller, exactly like the original, and to each of
his three sons he bequeathed one. Each then
thinking that he had obtained the true talisman,
they began violently to quarrel, and after long
contention agreed to carry their dispute before
the judge. But the judge said : " Quarrelsome
214

NATHAN THE WISE

fellows ! You are all three of you cheated
cheats. Your three rings are alike counterfeit.
For the genuine ring is lost, and to conceal the
loss, your father had made these three substi-
tutes." At this unexpected denouement the Sul-
tan breaks out in exclamations of delight ; and
it is interesting to learn that when the play was
brought upon the stage at Constantinople a few
years ago, the Turkish audience was similarly
affected. There is in the story that quiet,
stealthy humour which is characteristic of many
mediaeval apologues, and in which Lessing him-
self loved to deal. It is humour of the kind
which hits the mark, and reveals the truth. In
a note upon this passage, Lessing himself said :
" The opinion of Nathan upon all positive reli-
gions has for a long time been my own." Let
him who has the genuine ring show it by mak-
ing himself loved of God and man. This is the
central idea of the poem. It is wholly unlike
the iconoclasm of the deists, and, coming in
the eighteenth century, it was like a veritable
evangel.

" Nathan " was not brought out until three
years after Lessing's death, and it kept posses-
sion of the stage for but a short time. In a
dramatic point of view, it has hardly any merits.
Whatever plot there is in it is weak and improb-
able. The decisive incidents seem to be brought
in like the deus ex machina of the later Greek
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drama. There is no movement, no action, no
development. The characters are poetically
but not dramatically conceived. Considered as
a tragedy, " Nathan " would be weak ; consid-
ered as a comedy, it would be heavy. With
full knowledge of these circumstances, Lessing
called it not a drama, but a dramatic poem ; and
he might have called it still more accurately a
didactic poem, for the only feature which it has
in common with the drama is that the person-
ages use the oratio directa.

" Nathan " is a didactic poem : it is not a
mere philosophic treatise written in verse, like
the fragments of Xenophanes. Its lessons are
conveyed concretely and not abstractly ; and its
characters are not mere lay figures, but living
poetical conceptions. Considered as a poem
among classic German poems, it must rank
next to, though immeasurably below, Goethe's
" Faust."

There are two contrasted kinds of genius,
the poetical and the philosophical ; or, to speak
yet more generally, the artistic and the critical.
The former is distinguished by a concrete, the
latter by an abstract, imagination. The former
sees things synthetically, in all their natural
complexity ; the latter pulls things to pieces
analytically, and scrutinizes their relations. The
former sees a tree in all its glory, where the
latter sees an exogen with a pair of cotyledons.
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NATHAN THE WISE

The former sees wholes, where the latter sees

aggregates-
Corresponding with these two kinds of

genius there are two classes of artistic produc-
tions. When the critical genius writes a poem
or a novel, he constructs his plot and his char-
acters in conformity to some prearranged theory,
or with a view to illustrate some favourite doc-
trine. When he paints a picture, he first thinks
how certain persons would look under certain
given circumstances, and paints them accord-
ingly. When he writes a piece of music, he
first decides that this phrase expresses joy, and
that phrase disappointment, and the other
phrase disgust, and he composes accordingly.
We therefore say ordinarily that he does not
create, but only constructs and combines. It is
far different with the artistic genius, who, with-
out stopping to think, sees the picture and
hears the symphony with the eyes and ears of
imagination, and paints and plays merely what
he has seen and heard. When Dante, in im-
agination, arrived at the lowest circle of hell,
where traitors like Judas and Brutus are pun-
ished, he came upon a terrible frozen lake,
which, he says, —

" Ever makes me shudder at the sight of frozen pools. "

I have always considered this line a marvellous

instance of the intensity of Dante's imagination.

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It shows, too, how Dante composed his poem.
He did not take counsel of himself and say :
" Go to, let us describe the traitors frozen up
to their necks in a dismal lake, for that will be
most terrible." But the picture of the lake, in
all its iciness, with the haggard faces staring
out from its glassy crust, came unbidden before
his mind with such intense reality that, for the
rest of his life, he could not look at a frozen
pool without a shudder of horror. He described
it exactly as he saw it ; and his description
makes us shudder who read it after all the cen-
turies that have intervened. So Michael Angelo,
a kindred genius, did not keep cutting and
chipping away, thinking how Moses ought to
look, and what sort of a nose he ought to have,
and in what position his head might best rest
upon his shoulders. But he looked at the rec-
tangular block of Carrara marble, and behold-
ing Moses grand and lifelike within it, knocked
away the environing stone, that others also
might see the mighty figure. And so Beethoven,
an artist of the same colossal order, wrote out
for us those mysterious harmonies which his
ear had for the first time heard ; and which, in
his mournful old age, it heard none the less
plainly because of its complete physical deaf-
ness. And in this way Shakespeare wrote his
" Othello ; " spinning out no abstract thoughts
about jealousy and its fearful effects upon a
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NATHAN THE WISE

proud and ardent nature, but revealing to us
the living concrete man, as his imperial imagi-
nation had spontaneously fashioned him.

Modern psychology has demonstrated that
this is the way in which the creative artistic im-
agination proceeds. It has proved that a vast
portion of all our thinking goes on uncon-
sciously ; and that the results may arise into
consciousness piecemeal and gradually, check-
ing each other as they come ; or that they may
come all at once, with all the completeness and
definiteness of perceptions presented from with-
out. The former is the case with the critical,
and the latter with the artistic intellect. And
this we recognize imperfectly when we talk of
a genius being " inspired." All of us probably
have these two kinds of imagination to a certain
extent. It is only given to a few supremely
endowed persons like Goethe to possess them
both to an eminent degree. Perhaps of no
other man can it be said that he was a poet
of the first order, and as great a critic as poet.
It is therefore apt to be a barren criticism which
studies the works of creative geniuses in order
to ascertain what theory lies beneath them. How
many systems of philosophy, how many subtle
speculations, have we not seen fathered upon
Dante, Cervantes, Shakespeare, and Goethe !
Yet their works are, in a certain sense, greater
than any systems. They partake of the infinite
219

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complexity and variety of nature, and no more
than nature itself can they be narrowed down
to the limits of a precise formula.

Lessing was wont to disclaim the title of
poet ; but, as Goethe said, his immortal works
refute him. He had not only poetical, but dra-
matic genius ; and his " Emilia Galotti " has
kept the stage until to-day. Nevertheless, he
knew well what he meant when he said that he
was more of a critic than a poet. His genius was
mainly of the critical order ; and his great work,
" Nathan the Wise," was certainly constructed
rather than created. It was intended to convey
a doctrine, and was carefully shaped for the pur-
pose. And when we have pronounced it the
greatest of all poems that have been written for
a set purpose, and admit of being expressed in
a definite formula, we have classified it with
sufficient accuracy.

For an analysis of the characters in the poem,
nothing can be better than the essay by Kuno
Fischer, appended to the present volume. The
work of translation has been admirably done ;
and thanks are due to Miss Frothingham for
her reproduction of this beautiful poem.

June, 1868.

2 2O

VIII
HISTORICAL DIFFICULTIES1

HISTORY, says Sainte-Beuve, is in great
part a set of fables which people agree
to believe in. And, on reading books
like the present, one certainly needs a good deal
of that discipline acquired by long familiarity
with vexed historical questions, in order to check
the disposition to accept the great critic's iron-
ical remark in sober earnest. Much of what is
currently accredited as authentic history is in
fact a mixture of flattery and calumny, myth
and fable. Yet in this set of fables, whatever
may have been the case in past times, people
will no longer agree to believe. During the pre-
sent century the criticism of recorded events has
gone far towards assuming the developed and
systematized aspect of a science, and canons of
belief have been established which it is not safe
to disregard. Great occurrences, such as the
Trojan War and the Siege of Thebes, not long
ago faithfully described by all historians of

1 Historical Difficulties and Contested Events. By Octave
Delepierre, LL. D., F. S. A., Secretary of Legation to the
King of the Belgians. 8vo. London : John Murray. 1868.
221

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Greece, have been found to be part of the com-
mon mythical heritage of the Aryan nations.
Achilleus and Helena, Oidipous and lokasta,
Oinone and Paris, have been discovered in India
and again in Scandinavia, and so on, until their
nonentity has become the legitimate inference
from their very ubiquity. Legislators like Rom-
ulus and Numa, inventors like Kadmos, have
evaporated into etymologies. Whole legions of
heroes, dynasties of kings, and adulteresses as
many as Dante saw borne on the whirlwind,
have vanished from the face of history, and ter-
rible has been the havoc in the opening pages
of our chronological tables. Nor is it primitive
history alone which has been thus metamor-
phosed. Characters unduly exalted or defamed
by party spirit are daily being set before us in
their true, or at least in a truer light. What
Mr. Froude has done for Henry VIII. we
know ; and he might have done more if he had
not tried to do so much. Humpbacked Rich-
ard turns out to have been one of the hand-
somest kings that ever sat on the throne of
England. Edward I., in his dealings with Scot-
land, is seen to have been scrupulously just ;
while the dignity of the patriot hero Wallace
has been somewhat impaired. Elizabeth is
proved to have befriended the false Mary Stu-
art much longer than was consistent with her
personal safety. Eloquent Cicero has been held

222

HISTORICAL DIFFICULTIES

up as an object of contempt ; and even weighty
Tacitus has been said to owe much of his repu-
tation to his ability to give false testimony with
a grave face. It has lately been suspected that
gloomy Tiberius, apart from his gloominess,
may have been rather a good fellow ; not so licen-
tious as puritanical, not cruel so much as excep-
tionally merciful, — a rare general, a sagacious
statesman, and popular to boot with all his sub-
jects save the malignant oligarchy which he con-
sistently snubbed, and which took revenge on
him by writing his life. And, to crown all, even
Catiline, abuser of our patience, seducer of
vestal nuns, and drinker of children's blood, —
whose very name suggests murder, incest, and
robbery, — even Catiline has found an able de-
fender in Professor Beesly. It is claimed that
Catiline was a man of great abilities and average
good character, a well-calumniated leader of the
Marian party which Caesar afterwards led to
victory, and that his famous plot for burning
Rome never existed save in the unscrupulous
Ciceronian fancy. And those who think it easy
to refute these conclusions of Professor Beesly
had better set to work and try it. Such are a
few of the surprising questions opened by recent
historical research ; and in the face of them the
public is quite excusable if it declares itself at a
loss what to believe.

These, however, are cases in which criticism
223

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has at least made some show of ascertaining the
truth and detecting the causes of the prevalent
misconception. That men like Catiline and
Tiberius should have had their characters black-
ened is quite easily explicable. President John-
son would have little better chance of obtaining
justice at the hands of posterity, if the most
widely read history of his administration should
happen to be written by a radical member of
the Rump Congress. But the cases which Mr.
Delepierre invites us to contemplate are of a
different character. They come neither under
the head of myths nor under that of misrepre-
sentations. Some of them are truly vexed ques-
tions which it may perhaps always be impossible
satisfactorily to solve. Others may be dealt
with more easily, but afford no clue to the
origin of the popularly received error. Let us
briefly examine a few of Mr. Delepierre's " dif-
ficulties." And first, because simplest, we will
take the case of the Alexandrian Library.

Every one has heard how Amrou, after his
conquest of Egypt, sent to Caliph Omar to
know what should be done with the Alexandrian
Library. " If the books agree with the Koran,"
said the Caliph, " they are superfluous ; if they
contradict it, they are damnable ; in either case,
destroy them." So the books were taken and
used to light the fires which heated water for
the baths ; and so vast was the number that,
224

HISTORICAL DIFFICULTIES

used in this way, they lasted six months ! All
this happened because John the Grammarian
was over-anxious enough to request that the
books might be preserved, and thus drew Am-
rou's attention to them. Great has been the
obloquy poured upon Omar for this piece of
vandalism, and loud has been the mourning
over the treasures of ancient science and litera-
ture supposed to have been irrecoverably lost in
this ignominious conflagration. Theologians,
Catholic and Protestant, have been fond of
quoting it as an instance of the hostility of Ma-
hometanism to knowledge, and we have even
heard an edifying sermon preached about it.
On seeing the story put to such uses, one feels
sometimes like using the ad hominem argument,
and quoting the wholesale destruction of pagan
libraries under Valens, the burning of books by
the Latin stormers of Constantinople, the al-
leged annihilation of 100,000 volumes by Gen-
oese crusaders at Tripoli, the book-burning ex-
ploits of Torquemada, the bonfire of 80,000
valuable Arabic manuscripts, lighted up in the
square of Granada by order of Cardinal Xi-
menes, and the irreparable cremation of Aztec
writings by the first Christian bishops of Mex-
ico. These examples, with perhaps others
which do not now occur to us, might be applied
in just though ungentle retort by Mahometan
doctors. Yet the most direct rejoinder would
225

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probably not occur to them : the Alexandrian
Library was not destroyed by the orders of
Omar, and the whole story is a figment !

The very pithiness of it, so characteristic of
the excellent but bigoted Omar, is enough to
cast suspicion upon it. De Quincey tells us
that " if a saying has a proverbial fame, the
probability is that it was never said." How
many amusing stories stand a chance of going
down to posterity as the inventions of President
Lincoln, of which, nevertheless, he is doubtless
wholly innocent ! How characteristic was Cae-
sar's reply to the frightened pilot ! Yet in all
probability Caesar never made it.

Now for the evidence. Alexandria was cap-
tured by Amrou in 640. The story of the
burning of the library occurs for the first time
in the works of Abulpharagius, who flourished
in 1264. Six hundred years had elapsed. It
is as if a story about the crusades of Louis IX.
were to be found for the first time in the writ-
ings of Mr. Bancroft. The Byzantine histo-
rians were furiously angry with the Saracens ;
why did they, one and all, neglect to mention
such an outrageous piece of vandalism ? Their
silence must be considered quite conclusive.
Moreover we know " that the caliphs had for-
bidden under severe penalties the destruction "
of Jewish and Christian books, a circumstance
wholly inconsistent with this famous story.
226

HISTORICAL DIFFICULTIES

And finally, what a mediaeval recklessness of
dates is shown in lugging into the story John
the Grammarian, who was dead and in his
grave when Alexandria was taken by Amrou !

But the chief item of proof remains to be
mentioned. The Saracens did not burn the
library, because there was no library there for
them to burn ! It had been destroyed just two
hundred and fifty years before by a rabble of
monks, incited by the patriarch Theophilus,
who saw in such a vast collection of pagan lit-
erature a perpetual insult and menace to reli-
gion. In the year 390 this turbulent bigot
sacked the temple of Serapis, where the books
were kept, and drove out the philosophers who
lodged there. Of this violent deed we have
contemporary evidence, for Orosius tells us
that less than fifteen years afterwards, while
passing through Alexandria, he saw the empty
shelves. This fact disposes of the story.

Passing from Egypt to France, and from the
seventh century to the fifteenth, we meet with
a much more difficult problem. That Jeanne
d'Arc was burnt at the stake, at Rouen, on the
joth of May, 1431, and her bones and ashes
thrown into the Seine, is generally supposed to
be as indisputable as any event in modern his-
tory. Such is, however, hardly the case. Plau-
sible evidence has been brought to prove that
Jeanne d'Arc was never burnt at the stake,
227

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but lived to a ripe age, and was even happily
married to a nobleman of high rank and repu-
tation. We shall abridge Mr. Delepierre's
statement of this curious case.

In the archives of Metz, Father Vignier dis-
covered the following remarkable entry : " In
the year 1436, Messire Phlin Marcou was
Sheriff of Metz, and on the 2oth day of May
of the aforesaid year came the maid Jeanne,
who had been in France, to La Grange of Ormes,
near St. Prive, and was taken there to confer
with any one of the sieurs of Metz, and she
called herself Claude ; and on the same day
there came to see her there her two brothers,
one of whom was a knight, and was called Mes-
sire Pierre, and the other c petit Jehan,' a squire,
and they thought that she had been burnt, but
as soon as they saw her they recognized her
and she them. And on Monday, the 2ist day
of the said month, they took their sister with
them to Boquelon, and the sieur Nicole, being
a knight, gave her a stout stallion of the value
of thirty francs, and a pair of saddle-cloths ; the
sieur Aubert Boulle, a riding-hood ; the sieur
Nicole Groguet, a sword ; and the said maiden
mounted the said horse nimbly, and said sev-
eral things to the sieur Nicole by which he well
understood that it was she who had been in
France ; and she was recognized by many
tokens to be the maid Jean of France who
228

HISTORICAL DIFFICULTIES

escorted King Charles to Rheims, and several
declared that she had been burnt in Normandy,
and she spoke mostly in parables. She after-
wards returned to the town of Marnelle for the
feast of Pentecost, and remained there about
three weeks, and then set off to go to Notre
Dame d' Alliance. And when she wished to
leave, several of Metz went to see her at the
said Marnelle and gave her several jewels, and
they knew well that she was the maid Jeanne
of France ; and she then went to Erlon, in the
Duchy of Luxembourg, where she was thronged,
. . . and there was solemnized the marriage of
Monsieur de Hermoise, knight, and the said
maid Jeanne, and afterwards the said sieur
Hermoise, with his wife, the Maid, came to live
at Metz, in the house the said sieur had, oppo-
site St. Seglenne, and remained there until it
pleased them to depart."

This is surprising enough ; but more remains
behind. Dining shortly afterwards with M. des
Armoises, member of one of the oldest families
in Lorraine, Father Vignier was invited to look
over the family archives, that he might satisfy
his curiosity regarding certain ancestors of his
host. And on looking over the family register,
what was his astonishment at finding a con-
tract of marriage between Robert des Armoises,
Knight, and Jeanne SArcy, the so-called Maid
of Orleans !

229

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In 1740, some time after these occurrences,
there was found, in the town hall of Orleans,
a bill of one Jacques 1'Argentier, of the year
1436, in which mention is made of a small sum
paid for refreshments furnished to a messenger
who had brought letters from the Maid of Or-
leans, and of twelve livres given to Jean du Lis,
brother of Jeanne d'Arc, to help him pay the
expenses of his journey back to his sister. Then
come two charges which we shall translate liter-
ally. " To the sieur de Lis, i8th October, 1436,
for a journey which he made through the said
city while on his way to the Maid, who was then
at Erlon in Luxembourg, and for carrying letters
from Jeanne the Maid to the King at Loicher,
where he was then staying, six livres." And
again: "To Renard Brune, 25th July, 1435,
at evening, for paying the hire of a messenger
who was carrying letters from Jeanne the Maid,
and was on his way to William Beliers, bailiff
of Troyes, two livres."

As no doubt has been thrown upon the genu-
ineness of these documents, it must be consid-
ered established that in 1436, five years after
the public execution at Rouen, a young woman,
believed to be the real Jeanne d'Arc, was alive
in Lorraine and was married to a M. Hermoise
or Armoises. She may, of course, have been an
impostor ; but in this case it is difficult to be-
lieve that her brothers, Jean and Pierre, and the
230

HISTORICAL DIFFICULTIES

people of Lorraine, where she was well known,
would not have detected the imposture at once.
And that Jean du Lis, during a familiar inter-
course of at least several months, as indicated
in the above extracts, should have continued to
mistake a stranger for his own sister, with whom
he had lived from childhood, seems a very ab-
surd supposition. Nor is it likely that an im-
postor would have exposed herself to such a
formidable test. If it had been a bold charlatan
who, taking advantage of the quite general be-
lief, to which we have ample testimony, that
there was something more in the execution at
Rouen than was allowed to come to the surface,
had resolved to usurp for herself the honours due
to the woman who had saved France, she would
hardly have gone at the outset to a part of the
country where the real Maid had spent nearly
all her life. Her instant detection and exposure,
perhaps a disgraceful punishment, would have
been inevitable. But if this person were the real
Jeanne, escaped from prison or returning from
an exile dictated by prudence, what should she
have done but go straightway to the haunts of
her childhood, where she might meet once more
her own friends and family ?

But the account does not end here. M.

Wallon, in his elaborate history of Jeanne d'Arc,

states that in 1436 the supposed Maid visited

France, and appears to have met some of the

231

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men-at-arms with whom she had fought. In
1439 she came to Orleans, for in the accounts
of the town we read, " July 28, for ten pints of
wine presented to Jeanne des Armoises, 14
sous." And on the day of her departure, the
citizens of Orleans, by a special decree of the
town-council, presented her with 210 livres,
" for the services which she had rendered to the
said city during the siege." At the same time
the annual ceremonies for the repose of her soul
were, quite naturally, suppressed. Now we may
ask if it is at all probable that the people of
Orleans, who, ten years before, during the siege,
must have seen the Maid day after day, and to
whom her whole appearance must have been
perfectly familiar, would have been likely to
show such attentions as these to an impostor ?
"In 1440," says Mr. Delepierre, "the people
so firmly believed that Jeanne d'Arc was still
alive, and that another had been sacrificed in
her place, that an adventuress who endeavoured
to pass herself off as the Maid of Orleans was
ordered by the government to be exposed before
the public on the marble stone of the palace hall,
in order to prove that she was an impostor.
Why were not such measures taken against the
real Maid of Orleans, who is mentioned in so
many public documents, and who took no pains
to hide herself?"

There is yet another document bearing on
232

HISTORICAL DIFFICULTIES

this case, drawn from the accounts of the audi-
tor of the Orleans estate, in the year 1444,
which we will here translate. " An island on the
River Loire is restored to Pierre du Lis, knight,
c on account of the supplication of the said
Pierre, alleging that for the acquittal of his debt
of loyalty toward our Lord the King and M. the
Duke of Orleans, he left his country to come
to the service of the King and M. the Duke,
accompanied by his sister, Jeanne the Maid,
with whom, down to the time of her departure,
and since, unto the present time, he has exposed
his body and goods in the said service, and in
the King's wars, both in resisting the former
enemies of the kingdom who were besieging the
town of Orleans, and since then in divers enter-
prises/ etc., etc." Upon this Mr. Delepierre
justly remarks that the brother might have pre-
sented his claims in a much stronger light, " if
in 1444, instead of saying cup to the time of
her departure,' he had brought forward the mar-
tyrdom of his sister, as having been the means
of saving France from the yoke of England."
The expression here cited and italicized in the
above translation, may indeed be held to refer
delicately to her death, but the particular French
phrase employed, fc jusques a son absentement"
apparently excludes such an interpretation. The
expression, on the other hand, might well refer
to Jeanne's departure for Lorraine, and her mar-

233

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riage, after which there is no evidence that she
returned to France, except for brief visits.

Thus a notable amount of evidence goes to
show that Jeanne was not put to death in
1431, as usually supposed, but was alive, mar-
ried, and flourishing in 1444. Upon this sup-
position, certain alleged difficulties in the tra-
ditional account are easily disposed of. Mr.
Delepierre urges upon the testimony of Per-
ceval de Cagny, that at the execution in Rouen
" the victim's face was covered when walking
to the stake, while at the same time a spot had
been chosen for the execution that permitted
the populace to have a good view. Why this
contradiction ? A place is chosen to enable the
people to see everything, but the victim is
carefully hidden from their sight." Whether
otherwise explicable or not, this fact is cer-
tainly consistent with the hypothesis that some
other victim was secretly substituted for Jeanne
by the English authorities.

We have thus far contented ourselves with
presenting and re-enforcing Mr. Delepierre's
statement of the case. It is now time to inter-
pose a little criticism. We must examine our
data somewhat more closely, for vagueness of
conception allows a latitude to belief which ac-
curacy of conception considerably restricts.

On the hypothesis of her survival, where
was Jeanne, and what was she doing all the
234

HISTORICAL DIFFICULTIES

time from her capture before Compiegne, May
24, 1430, until her appearance at Metz, May
20,* 1436? Mr. Delepierre reminds us that
the Duke of Bedford, regent of France for
the English king, died in 1435, anc^ "that
most probably Jeanne d'Arc was released from
prison after this event." Now this supposi-
tion lands us in a fatally absurd conclusion.
We are, in fact, asked to believe that the Eng-
lish, while holding Jeanne fast in their clutches,
gratuitously went through the horrid farce of
burning some one else in her stead ; and that,
after having thus inexplicably behaved, they
further stultified themselves by letting her go
scot-free, that their foolishness might be duly
exposed and confuted. Such a theory is child-
ish. If Jeanne d'Arc ever survived the 3Oth
May, 1431, it was because she escaped from
prison and succeeded in hiding herself until
safer times. When could she have done this ?
In a sortie from Compiegne, May 24, 1430,
she was thrown from her horse by a Pi card
archer and taken prisoner by the Bastard of
Vendome, who sold her to John of Luxem-
bourg. John kept her in close custody at
Beaulieu until August. While there, she made
two attempts to escape ; first, apparently, by
running out through a door, when she was at
once caught by the guards ; secondly, by jump-
ing from a high window, when the shock of

THE UNSEEN WORLD

the fall was so great that she lay insensible on
the ground until discovered. She was then re-
moved to Beaurevoir, where she remained un-
til the beginning of November. By this time,
Philip " the Good," Duke of Burgundy, had
made up his mind to sell her to the English
for 10,000 francs; and Jeanne was accord-
ingly taken to Arras, and thence to Cotoy,
where she was delivered to the English by
Philip's officers. So far, all is clear ; but here
it may be asked, was she really delivered to
the English, or did Philip, pocketing his 10,-
ooo francs, cheat and defraud his allies with
a counterfeit Jeanne ? Such crooked dealing
would have been in perfect keeping with his
character. Though a far more agreeable and
gentlemanly person, he was almost as consum-
mate and artistic a rascal as his great-great-
great-grandson and namesake, Philip II. of
Spain. His duplicity was so unfathomable and
his policy so obscure, that it would be hardly
safe to affirm a priori that he might not, for
reasons best known to himself, have played a
double game with his friend the Duke of Bed-
ford. On this hypothesis, he would of course
keep Jeanne in close custody so long as there
was any reason for keeping his treachery secret.
But in 1436, after the death of Bedford and
the final expulsion of the English from France,
no harm could come from setting her at liberty.
236

HISTORICAL DIFFICULTIES

But as soon as we cease to reason a priori,
this is seen to be, after all, a lame hypothesis.
No one can read the trial of Jeanne at Rouen,
the questions that were put to her and the
answers which she made, without being con-
vinced that we are here dealing with the genu-
ine Maid and not with a substitute. The
first step of a counterfeit Jeanne would have
naturally been to save herself from the flames
by revealing her true character. Moreover,
among the multitudes who saw her during her
cruel trial, it is not likely that none were ac-
quainted with the true Jeanne's voice and
features. We must therefore conclude that
Jeanne d'Arc was really consigned to the ten-
der mercies of the English. About the 2ist
of November she was taken on horseback,
strongly guarded, from Cotoy to Rouen, where
the trial began January 9, 1431. On the 2ist
of February she appeared before the court ; on
the i jth of March she was examined in the
prison by an inquisitor; and on May 24, the
Thursday after Pentecost, upon a scaffold con-
spicuously placed in the Cemetery of St. Ouen,
she publicly recanted, abjuring her " heresies "
and asking the Church's pardon for her " witch-
craft." We may be sure that the Church digni-
taries would not knowingly have made such
public display of a counterfeit Jeanne ; nor
could they well have been deceived themselves
237

THE UNSEEN WORLD

under such circumstances. It may indeed be
said, to exhaust all possible suppositions, that
a young girl wonderfully similar in feature and
voice to Jeanne d'Arc was palmed off upon
the English by Duke Philip, and afterwards,
on her trial, comported herself like the Maid,
trusting in this recantation to effect her re-
lease. But we consider such an hypothesis ex-
tremely far-fetched, nor does it accord with the
events which immediately followed. It seems
hardly questionable that it was the real Jeanne
who publicly recanted on the 24th of May.
This was only six days before the execution.
Four days after, on Monday the 28th, it was
reported that Jeanne had relapsed, that she
had, in defiance of the Church's prohibition,
clothed herself in male attire, which had been
left in a convenient place by the authorities,
expressly to test her sincerity. On the next
day but one, the woman purporting to be the
Maid of Orleans was led out, with her face
carefully covered, and burnt at the stake.

Here is the first combination of circum-
stances which bears a suspicious look. It dis-
poses of our Burgundy hypothesis, for a false
Jeanne, after recanting to secure her safety,
would never have stultified herself by such a
barefaced relapse. But the true Jeanne, after
recanting, might certainly have escaped. Some
compassionate guard, who before would have

238

HISTORICAL DIFFICULTIES

scrupled to assist her while under the ban of
the Church, might have deemed himself ex-
cusable for lending her his aid after she had
been absolved. Postulating, then, that Jeanne
escaped from Rouen between the 24th and the
28th, how shall we explain what happened im-
mediately afterwards ?

The English feared Jeanne d'Arc as much
as they hated her. She had, by her mere pre-
sence at the head of the French army, turned
their apparent triumph into ignominious de-
feat. In those days the true psychological
explanation of such an event was by no means
obvious. While the French attributed the re-
sult to celestial interposition in their behalf,
the English, equally ready to admit its super-
natural character, considered the powers of
hell rather than those of heaven to have been
the prime instigators. In their eyes Jeanne
was a witch, and it was at least their cue to
exhibit her as such. They might have put
her to death when she first reached Rouen.
Some persons, indeed, went so far as to advise
that she should be sewed up in a sack and
thrown at once into the Seine ; but this was
not what the authorities wanted. The whole
elaborate trial, and the extorted recantation,
were devised for the purpose of demonstrating
her to be a witch, and thus destroying her
credit with the common people. That theyin-
239

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tended afterwards to burn her cannot for an
instant be doubted ; that was the only fit con-
summation for their evil work.

Now when, at the end of the week after Pen-
tecost, the bishops and inquisitors at Rouen
learned, to their dismay, that their victim had
escaped, what were they to do ? Confess that
they had been foiled, and create a panic in the
army by the news that their dreaded enemy
was at liberty ? Or boldly carry out their pur-
poses by a fictitious execution, trusting in the
authority which official statements always carry,
and shrewdly foreseeing that, after her recanta-
tion, the disgraced Maid would no more ven-
ture to claim for herself the leadership of the
French forces ? Clearly, the latter would have
been the wiser course. We may assume, then,
that, by the afternoon of the 28th, the story of
the relapse was promulgated, as a suitable pre-
paration for what was to come ; and that on the
3Oth the poor creature who had been hastily
chosen to figure as the condemned Maid was
led out, with face closely veiled, to perish by a
slow fire in the old market-place. Meanwhile
the true Jeanne would have made her way,
doubtless, in what to her was the effectual dis-
guise of a woman's apparel, to some obscure
place of safety, outside of doubtful France and
treacherous Burgundy, perhaps in Alsace or the
Vosges. Here she would remain, until the
240

HISTORICAL DIFFICULTIES

final expulsion of the English and the conclu-
sion of a treaty of peace in 1436 made it safe
for her to show herself, when she would natu-
rally return to Lorraine to seek her family.

The comparative obscurity in which she
must have remained for the rest of her life,
otherwise quite inexplicable on any hypothesis
of her survival, is in harmony with the above-
given explanation. The ingratitude of King
Charles towards the heroine who had won him
his crown is the subject of common historical
remark. M. Wallon insists upon the circum-
stance that, after her capture at Compiegne, no
attempts were made by the French Court to
ransom her or to liberate her by a bold coup de
main. And when, at Rouen, she appealed in
the name of the Church to the Pope to grant
her a fair trial, not a single letter was written by
the Archbishop of Rheims, High Chancellor
of France, to his suffragan, the Bishop of Beau-
vais, demanding cognizance of the proceedings.
Nor did the King make any appeal to the Pope,
to prevent the consummation of the judicial
murder. The Maid was deliberately left to her
fate. It is upon her enemies at court, La Tre-
mouille and Regnault de Chartres, that we must
lay part of the blame for this wicked negligence.
But it is also probable that the King, and es-
pecially his clerical advisers, were at times al-
most disposed to acquiesce in the theory of
241

THE UNSEEN WORLD

Jeanne's witchcraft. Admire her as they might,
they could not help feeling that in her whole
behaviour there was something uncanny ; and,
after having reaped the benefits of her assist-
ance, they were content to let her shift for her-
self. This affords the clue to the King's in-
consistencies. It may be thought sufficient to
explain the fact that Jeanne is said to have re-
ceived public testimonials at Orleans, while we
have no reason to suppose that she visited Paris.
It may help to dispose of the objection that
she virtually disappears from history after the
date of the tragedy at Rouen.

Nevertheless, this last objection is a weighty
one, and cannot easily be got rid of. It appears
to me utterly incredible that, if Jeanne d'Arc
had really survived, we should find no further
mention of her than such as haply occurs in one
or two town-records and dilapidated account-
books. If she was alive in 1436, and corre-
sponding with the King, some of her friends
at court must have got an inkling of the true
state of things. Why did they not parade their
knowledge, to the manifest discomfiture of La
Tremouille and his company ? Or why did
not Pierre du Lis cause it to be proclaimed
that the English were liars, his sister being
safely housed in Metz ?

In the mere interests of historical criticism,
we have said all that we could in behalf of Mr.
242

HISTORICAL DIFFICULTIES

Delepierre's hypothesis. But as to the facts
upon which it rests, we may remark, in the
first place, that the surname Arc or " Bow "
was not uncommon in those days, while the
Christian name Jeanne was and now is the very
commonest of French names. There might
have been a hundred Jeanne d'Arcs, all defin-
able as fucelle or maid, just as we say " spin-
ster : " we even read of one in the time of the
Revolution. We have, therefore, no doubt that
Robert des Armoises married a Jeanne d'Arc,
who may also have been a maid of Orleans;
but this does not prove her to have been the
historic Jeanne. Secondly, as to the covering
of the face, we may mention the fact, hitherto
withheld, that it was by no means an uncom-
mon circumstance : the victims of the Spanish
Inquisition were usually led to the stake with
veiled faces. Thirdly, the phrase " jusques a son
absentement " is hopelessly ambiguous, and may
as well refer to Pierre du Lis himself as to his
sister.

These brief considerations seem to knock
away all the main props of Mr. Delepierre's
hypothesis, save that furnished by the apparent
testimony of Jeanne's brothers, given at second-
hand in the Metz archives. And those who
are familiar with the phenomena of mediaeval
delusions will be unwilling to draw too hasty
an inference from this alone. From the Em-

THE UNSEEN WORLD

peror Nero to Don Sebastian of Portugal, there
have been many instances of the supposed re-
appearance of persons generally believed to be
dead. For my own part, therefore, I am by no
means inclined to adopt the hypothesis of
Jeanne's survival, although I have endeavoured
to give it tangible shape and plausible consist-
ency. But the fact that so much can be said
in behalf of a theory running counter not only
to universal tradition, but also to such a vast
body of contemporaneous testimony, should
teach us to be circumspect in holding our opin-
ions, and charitable in our treatment of those
who dissent from them. For those who can
discover in the historian Renan and the critic
Strauss nothing but the malevolence of incredu-
lity, the case of Jeanne d'Arc, duly contem-
plated, may serve as a wholesome lesson.

We have devoted so much space to this
problem, by far the most considerable of those
treated in Mr. Delepierre's book, that we have
hardly room for any of the others. But a false
legend concerning Solomon de Caus, the sup-
posed original inventor of the steam-engine, is
so instructive that we must give a brief account
of it.

In 1 834 "there appeared in the Muste des

Families a letter from the celebrated Marion

Delorme, supposed to have been written on the

3d February, 1641, to her lover Cinq-Mars/*

244

HISTORICAL DIFFICULTIES

In this letter it is stated that De Caus came
four years ago [1637] from Normandy, to
inform the King concerning a marvellous inven-
tion which he had made, being nothing less
than the application of steam to the propulsion
of carriages. " The Cardinal [Richelieu] dis-
missed this fool without giving him a hearing."
But De Caus, nowise discouraged, followed
close upon the autocrat's heels wherever he
went, and so teased him, that the Cardinal, out
of patience, sent him off to a madhouse, where
he passed the remainder of his days behind a
grated window, proclaiming his invention to
the passengers in the street, and calling upon
them to release him. Marion gives a graphic
account of her visit, accompanied by the famous
Lord Worcester, to the asylum at Bicetre,
where they saw De Caus at his window ; and
Worcester, in whose mind the conception of
the steam-engine was already taking shape,
informed her that the raving prisoner was not a
madman, but a genius. A great stir was made
by this letter. The anecdote was copied into
standard works, and represented in engravings.
Yet it was a complete hoax. De Caus was not
only never confined in a madhouse, but he was
architect to Louis XIII. up to the time of his
death, in 1630, just eleven years before Marion
Delorme was said to have seen him at his grated
window !

245

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" On tracing this hoax to its source," says
Mr. Delepierre, "we find that M. Henri Ber-
thoud, a literary man of some repute, and a
constant contributor to the Mus'ee des Families,
confesses that the letter attributed to Marion
was in fact written by himself. The editor of
this journal had requested Gavarni to furnish
him with a drawing for a tale in which a mad-
man was introduced looking through the bars
of his cell. The drawing was executed and
engraved, but arrived too late ; and the tale,
which could not wait, appeared without the
illustration. However, as the wood-engraving
was effective, and, moreover, was paid for, the
editor was unwilling that it should be useless.
Berthoud was, therefore, commissioned to look
for a subject and to invent a story to which the
engraving might be applied. Strangely enough,
the world refused to believe in M. Berthoud's
confession, so great a hold had the anecdote
taken on the public mind ; and a Paris news-
paper went so far even as to declare that the
original autograph of this letter was to be seen
in a library in Normandy! M. Berthoud wrote
again, denying its existence, and offered a mil-
lion francs to any one who would produce the
said letter."

From this we may learn two lessons, the first
being that utterly baseless but plausible stories
may arise in queer ways. In the above case, the
246

HISTORICAL DIFFICULTIES

most far-fetched hypothesis to account for the
origin of the legend could hardly have been as
apparently improbable as the reality. Secondly,
we may learn that if a myth once gets into the
popular mind, it is next to impossible to get it
out again. In the Castle of Heidelberg there
is a portrait of De Caus, and a folio volume of
his works, accompanied by a note, in which this
letter of Marion Delorme is unsuspectingly
cited as genuine. And only three years ago,
at a public banquet at Limoges, a well-known
French Senator and man of letters made a
speech, in which he retailed the story of the
madhouse for the edification of his hearers.
Truly a popular error has as many lives as a
cat ; it comes walking in long after you have
imagined it effectually strangled.

In conclusion, we may remark that Mr. Dele-
pierre does very scant justice to many of the
interesting questions which he discusses. It is
to be regretted that he has not thought it worth
while to argue his points more thoroughly,
and that he has not been more careful in mak-
ing statements of fact. He sometimes makes
strange blunders, the worst of which, perhaps, is
contained in his article on Petrarch and Laura.
He thinks Laura was merely a poetical alle-
gory, and such was the case, he goes on to say,
"with Dante himself, whose Beatrice was a

247

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child who died at nine years of age." Dante's
Beatrice died on the 9th of June, 1290, at the
age of twenty-four, having been the wife of
Simone dei Bardi rather more than three years.

October, 1868.

248

IX

THE FAMINE OF 1770 IN BENGAL1

NO intelligent reader can advance fifty
pages in this volume without becoming
aware that he has got hold of a very
remarkable book. Mr. Hunter's style, to begin
with, is such as is written only by men of large
calibre and high culture. No words are wasted.
The narrative flows calmly and powerfully
along, like a geometrical demonstration, omit-
ting nothing which is significant, admitting
nothing which is irrelevant, glowing with all the
warmth of rich imagination and sympathetic
genius, yet never allowing any overt manifes-
tation of feeling, ever concealing the author's
personality beneath the unswerving exposition
of the subject-matter. That highest art, which
conceals art, Mr. Hunter appears to have
learned well. With him, the curtain is the pic-
ture.

1 The Annals of Rural Bengal. By W. W. Hunter.
Vol. i. The Ethnical Frontier of Lower Bengal, with the
Ancient Principalities of Beerbhoom and Bishenpore. Second
Edition. New York: Leypoldt and Holt. 1868. 8vo,
pp. xvi, 475.

249

THE UNSEEN WORLD

Such a style as this would suffice to make
any book interesting, in spite of the remoteness
of the subject. But the " Annals of Rural Ben-
gal " do not concern us so remotely as one
might at first imagine. The phenomena of the
moral and industrial growth or stagnation of a
highly-endowed people must ever possess the
interest of fascination for those who take heed
of the maxim that " history is philosophy teach-
ing by example." National prosperity depends
upon circumstances sufficiently general to make
the experience of one country of great value
to another, though ignorant Bourbon dynasties
and Rump Congresses refuse to learn the les-
son. It is of the intimate every-day life of rural
Bengal that Mr. Hunter treats. He does not,
like old historians, try our patience with a bead-
roll of names that have earned no just title to
remembrance, or dazzle us with a bountiful dis-
play of " barbaric pearls and gold," or lead us
in the gondolas of Buddhist kings down sacred
rivers, amid <c a summer fanned with spice ; "
but he describes the labours and the sufferings,
the mishaps and the good fortune, of thirty
millions of people, who, however dusky may be
their hue, tanned by the tropical suns of fifty
centuries, are nevertheless members of the
imperial Aryan race, descended from the cool
highlands eastward of the Caspian, where, long
before the beginning of recorded history, their
250

THE FAMINE OF 1770 IN BENGAL

ancestors and those of the Anglo-American were
indistinguishably united in the same primitive
community.

The narrative portion of the present volume
is concerned mainly with the social and econom-
ical disorganization wrought by the great famine
of 1770, and with the attempts of the English
government to remedy the same. The remain-
der of the book is occupied with inquiries into
the ethnic character of the population of Bengal,
and particularly with an exposition of the pecu-
liarities of the language, religion, customs, and
institutions of the Santals, or hill-tribes of
Beerbhoom. A few remarks on the first of
these topics may not be uninteresting.

Throughout the entire course of recorded
European history, from the remote times of
which the Homeric poems preserve the dim
tradition down to the present moment, there
has occurred no calamity at once so sudden and
of such appalling magnitude as the famine which
in the spring and summer of 1770 nearly exter-
minated the ancient civilization of Bengal. It
presents that aspect of preternatural vastness
which characterizes the continent of Asia and all
that concerns it. The Black Death of the four-
teenth century was, perhaps, the most fearful
visitation which has ever afflicted the Western
world. But in the concentrated misery which
it occasioned the Bengal famine surpassed it,
251

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even as the Himalayas dwarf by comparison the
highest peaks of Switzerland. It is, moreover,
the key to the history of Bengal during the next
forty years ; and as such, merits, from an eco-
nomical point of view, closer attention than it
has hitherto received.

Lower Bengal gathers in three harvests each
year ; in the spring, in the early autumn, and in
December, the last being the great rice-crop, the
harvest on which the sustenance of the people
depends. Through the year 1769 there was
great scarcity, owing to the partial failure of the
crops of 1768, but the spring rains appeared to
promise relief, and in spite of the warning ap-
peals of provincial officers, the government was
slow to take alarm, and continued rigorously to
enforce the land-tax. But in September the
rains suddenly ceased. Throughout the au-
tumn there ruled a parching drought ; and the
rice-fields, according to the description of a na-
tive superintendent of Bishenpore, " became
like fields of dried straw." Nevertheless, the
government at Calcutta made — with one lam-
entable exception, hereafter to be noticed — no
legislative attempt to meet the consequences
of this dangerous condition of things. The
administration of local affairs was still, at that
date, intrusted to native officials. The whole
internal regulation was in the hands of the fa-
mous Muhamad Reza Khan. Hindu or Mus-
252

THE FAMINE OF 1770 IN BENGAL

sulman assessors pried into every barn and
shrewdly estimated the probable dimensions of
the crops on every field ; and the courts, as well
as the police, were still in native hands. " These
men," says our author, " knew the country, its
capabilities, its average yield, and its average re-
quirements, with an accuracy that the most
painstaking English official can seldom hope to
attain to. They had a strong interest in repre-
senting things to be worse than they were ; for
the more intense the scarcity, the greater the
merit in collecting the land-tax. Every con-
sultation is filled with their apprehensions and
highly-coloured accounts of the public distress ;
but it does not appear that the conviction en-
tered the minds of the Council during the pre-
vious winter months, that the question was not
so much one of revenue as of depopulation/'
In fact, the local officers had cried "Wolf!"
too often. Government was slow to believe
them, and announced that nothing better could
be expected than the adoption of a generous
policy toward those landholders whom the
loss of harvest had rendered unable to pay
their land-tax. But very few indulgences were
granted, and the tax was not diminished, but
on the contrary was, in the month of April,
1770, increased by ten per cent for the follow-
ing year. The character of the Bengali people
must also be taken into the account in explain-
253

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ing this strange action on the part of the gov-
ernment.

" From the first appearance of Lower Bengal
in history, its inhabitants have been reticent,
self-contained, distrustful of foreign observa-
tion, in a degree without parallel among other
equally civilized nations. The cause of this taci-
turnity will afterwards be clearly explained ;
but no one who is acquainted either with the
past experiences or the present condition of the
people can be ignorant of its results. Local
officials may write alarming reports, but their
apprehensions seem to be contradicted by the
apparent quiet that prevails. Outward, palpable
proofs of suffering are often wholly wanting;
and even when, as in 1770, such proofs abound,
there is generally no lack of evidence on the
other side. The Bengali bears existence with a
composure that neither accident nor chance can
ruffle. He becomes silently rich or uncomplain-
ingly poor. The emotional part of his nature is
in strict subjection, his resentment enduring but
unspoken, his gratitude of the sort that silently
descends from generation to generation. The
passion for privacy reaches its climax in the
domestic relations. An outer apartment, in
even the humblest households, is set apart for
strangers and the transaction of business, but
everything behind it is a mystery. The most
intimate friend does not venture to make those

THE FAMINE OF 1770 IN BENGAL

commonplace kindly inquiries about a neigh-
bour's wife or daughter which European cour-
tesy demands from mere acquaintances. This
family privacy is maintained at any price. Dur-
ing the famine of 1866 it was found impossible
to render public charity available to the female
members of the respectable classes, and many
a rural household starved slowly to death with-
out uttering a complaint or making a sign.

"All through the stifling summer of 1770
the people went on dying. The husbandmen
sold their cattle ; they sold their implements of
agriculture ; they devoured their seed-grain ;
they sold their sons and daughters, till at length
no buyer of children could be found ; they ate
the leaves of trees and the grass of the fields ;
and in June, 1770, the Resident at the Durbar
affirmed that the living were feeding on the
dead. Day and night a torrent of famished and
disease-stricken wretches poured into the great
cities. At an early period of the year pestilence
had broken out. In March we find small-pox
at Moorshedabad, where it glided through the
vice-regal mutes, and cut off the Prince Syfut
in his palace. The streets were blocked up with
promiscuous heaps of the dying and dead. In-
terment could not do its work quick enough ;
even the dogs and jackals, the public scavengers
of the East, became unable to accomplish their
revolting work, and the multitude of mangled

THE UNSEEN WORLD

and festering corpses at length threatened the
existence of the citizens. ... In 1770, the
rainy season brought relief, and before the end
of September the province reaped an abundant
harvest. But the relief came too late to avert
depopulation. Starving and shelterless crowds
crawled despairingly from one deserted village
to another in a vain search for food, or a resting-
place in which to hide themselves from the rain.
The epidemics incident to the season were thus
spread over the whole country ; and, until the
close of the year, disease continued so prevalent
as to form a subject of communication from the
government in Bengal to the Court of Direc-
tors. Millions of famished wretches died in the
struggle to live through the few intervening
weeks that separated them from the harvest,
their last gaze being probably fixed on the
densely-covered fields that would ripen only
a little too late for them. . . . Three months
later, another bountiful harvest, the great rice-
crop of the year, was gathered in. Abundance
returned to Bengal as suddenly as famine had
swooped down upon it, and in reading some of
the manuscript records of December it is diffi-
cult to realize that the scenes of the preceding
ten months have not been hideous phantas-
magoria or a long, troubled dream. On Christ-
mas eve, the Council in Calcutta wrote home
to the Court of Directors that the scarcity had
256

THE FAMINE OF 1770 IN BENGAL

entirely ceased, and, incredible as it may seem,
that unusual plenty had returned. ... So gen-
erous had been the harvest that the govern-
ment proposed at once to lay in its military
stores for the ensuing year, and expected to ob-
tain them at a very cheap rate."

Such sudden transitions from the depths of
misery to the most exuberant plenty are by no
means rare in the history of Asia, where the va-
rious centres of civilization are, in an economi-
cal sense, so isolated from each other that the
welfare of the population is nearly always abso-
lutely dependent on the irregular and apparently
capricious bounty of nature. For the three years
following the dreadful misery above described,
harvests of unprecedented abundance were
gathered in. Yet how inadequate they were to
repair the fearful damage wrought by six months
of starvation, the history of the next quarter of a
century too plainly reveals. " Plenty had indeed
returned," says our annalist, " but it had re-
turned to a silent and deserted province." The
extent of the depopulation is to our Western im-
aginations almost incredible. During those six
months of horror, more than ten millions of peo-
ple had perished ! It was as if the entire popu-
lation of our three or four largest States — man,
woman, and child — were to be utterly swept
away between now and next August, leaving
the region between the Hudson and Lake
257

THE UNSEEN WORLD

Michigan as quiet and deathlike as the buried
streets of Pompeii. Yet the estimate is based
upon most accurate and trustworthy official re-
turns ; and Mr. Hunter may well say that " it
represents an aggregate of individual suffering
which no European nation has been called upon
to contemplate within historic times."

This unparalleled calamity struck down im-
partially the rich and the poor. The old, aristo-
cratic families of Lower Bengal were irretrievably
ruined. The Rajah of Burdwan, whose posses-
sions were so vast that, travel as far as he would,
he always slept under a roof of his own and
within his own jurisdiction, died in such indi-
gence that his son had to melt down the family
plate and beg a loan from the government in
order to discharge his father's funeral expenses.
And our author gives other similar instances.
The wealthy natives who were appointed to
assess and collect the internal revenue, being
unable to raise the sums required by the gov-
ernment, were in many cases imprisoned, or
their estates were confiscated and re-let in order
to discharge the debt.

For fifteen years the depopulation went on
increasing. The children in a community, re-
quiring most nourishment to sustain their activ-
ity, are those who soonest succumb to famine.
" Until 1785," says our author, " the old died
off without there being any rising generation to

258

THE FAMINE OF 1770 IN BENGAL

step into their places. " From lack of cultiva-
tors, one third of the surface of Bengal fell out
of tillage and became waste land. The landed
proprietors began each " to entice away the ten-
ants of his neighbour, by offering protection
against judicial proceedings, and farms at very
low rents." The disputes and deadly feuds
which arose from this practice were, perhaps, the
least fatal of the evil results which flowed from
it. For the competition went on until, the ten-
ants obtaining their holdings at half-rates, the
resident cultivators — who had once been the
wealthiest farmers in the country — were no
longer able to compete on such terms. They
began to sell, lease, or desert their property,
migrating to less afflicted regions, or flying to
the hills on the frontier to adopt a savage life.
But, in a climate like that of Northeastern In-
dia, it takes but little time to transform a tract
of untilled land into formidable wilderness.
When the functions of society are impeded, na-
ture is swift to assert its claims. And accord-
ingly, in 1789, " Lord Cornwallis, after three
years' vigilant inquiry, pronounced one third of
the company's territories in Bengal to be a jun-
gle, inhabited only by wild beasts."

On the Western frontier of Beerbhoom the

state of affairs was, perhaps, most calamitous.

In 1776, four acres out of every seven remained

untilled. Though in earlier times this district

259

THE UNSEEN WORLD

had been a favourite highway for armies, by the
year 1780 it had become an almost impassable
jungle. A small company of Sepoys, which in
that year by heroic exertions forced its way
through, was obliged to traverse 1 20 miles of
trackless forest, swarming with tigers and black
shaggy bears. In 1789 this jungle " continued
so dense as to shut off all communication be-
tween the two most important towns, and to
cause the mails to be carried by a circuit of fifty
miles through another district."

Such a state of things it is difficult for us to
realize ; but the monotonous tale of disaster
and suffering is not yet complete. Beerbhoom
was, to all intents and purposes, given over to
tigers. " A belt of jungle, filled with wild beasts,
formed round each village/* At nightfall the
hungry animals made their dreaded incursions,
carrying away cattle, and even women and chil-
dren, and devouring them. " The official rec-
ords frequently speak of the mail-bag being
carried off by wild beasts." So great was the
damage done by these depredations, that " the
company offered a reward for each tiger's head,
sufficient to maintain a peasant's family in com-
fort for three months ; an item of expenditure
it deemed so necessary, that, when under ex-
traordinary pressure it had to suspend all pay-
ments, the tiger-money and diet allowance for
prisoners were the sole exceptions to the rule."
260

THE FAMINE OF 1770 IN BENGAL

Still more formidable foes were found in the
herds of wild elephants, which came trooping
along in the rear of the devastation caused by
the famine. In the course of a few years fifty-
six villages were reported as destroyed by ele-
phants, and as having lapsed into jungle in
consequence ; " and an official return states that
forty market-towns throughout the district had
been deserted from the same cause. In many
parts of the country the peasantry did not dare
to sleep in their houses, lest they should be
buried beneath them during the night." These
terrible beasts continued to infest the province
as late as 1810.

But society during these dark days had even
worse enemies than tigers and elephants. The
barbarous highlanders, of a lower type of man-
kind, nourishing for forty centuries a hatred of
their Hindu supplanters, like that which the
Apache bears against the white frontiersman,
seized the occasion to renew their inroads upon
the lowland country. Year by year they de-
scended from their mountain fastnesses, plun-
dering and burning. Many noble Hindu fami-
lies, ousted by the tax-collectors from their
estates, began to seek subsistence from robbery.
Others, consulting their selfish interests amid
the general distress, " found it more profitable
to shelter banditti on their estates, levying black-
mail from the surrounding villages as the price
261

THE UNSEEN WORLD

of immunity from depredation, and sharing in
the plunder of such as would not come to terms.
Their country houses were robber strongholds,
and the early English administrators of Bengal
have left it on record that a gang-robbery never
occurred without a landed proprietor being at
the bottom of it." The peasants were not slow
to follow suit, and those who were robbed of
their winter's store had no alternative left but
to become robbers themselves. The thieveries
of the Fakeers, or religious mendicants, and the
bold, though stealthy attacks of Thugs and
Dacoits — members of Masonic brotherhoods
which at all times have lived by robbery and
assassination — added to the general turmoil.
In the cold weather of 1772 the province was
ravaged far and wide by bands of armed free-
booters, fifty thousand strong ; and to such a
pass did things arrive that the regular forces sent
by Warren Hastings to preserve order were twice
disastrously routed ; while, in Mr. Hunter's
graphic language, " villages high up the Ganges
lived by housebreaking in Calcutta." In Eng-
lish mansions " it was the invariable practice for
the porter to shut the outer door at the com-
mencement of each meal, and not to open it till
the butler brought him word that the plate was
safely locked up." And for a long time nearly
all traffic ceased upon the imperial roads.

This state of things, which amounted to chronic
262

THE FAMINE OF 1770 IN BENGAL

civil war, induced Lord Cornwallis in 1788 to
place the province under the direct military
control of an English officer. The administration
of Mr. Keating — the first hardy gentleman to
whom this arduous office was assigned — is mi-
nutely described by our author. For our present
purpose it is enough to note that two years of
severe campaigning, attended and followed by
relentless punishment of all transgressors, was
required to put an end to the disorders.

Such was the appalling misery, throughout a
community of thirty million persons, occasioned
by the failure of the winter rice-crop in 1769.
In abridging Mr. Hunter's account we have ad-
hered as closely to our original as possible, but
he who would obtain adequate knowledge of
this tale of woe must seek it in the ever memo-
rable description of the historian himself. The
first question which naturally occurs to the
reader — though, as Mr. Hunter observes, it
would have been one of the last to occur to the
Oriental mind — is, Who was to blame? To
what culpable negligence was it due that such a
dire calamity was not foreseen, and at least par-
tially warded off? We shall find reason to be-
lieve that it could not have been adequately
foreseen, and that no legislative measures could
in that state of society have entirely prevented
it. Yet it will appear that the government, with
the best of intentions, did all in its power to
263

THE UNSEEN WORLD

make matters worse ; and that to its blundering
ignorance the distress which followed is largely
due.

The first duty incumbent upon the govern-
ment in a case like that of the failure of the winter
rice-crop of 1769 was to do away with all hin-
drance to the importation of food into the pro-
vince. One chief cause of the far-reaching distress
wrought by great Asiatic famines has been the al-
most complete commercial isolation of Asiatic
communities. In the Middle Ages the European
communities were also, though to a far less ex-
tent, isolated from each other, and in those days
periods of famine were comparatively frequent
and severe. And one of the chief causes which
now render the occurrence of a famine on a great
scale almost impossible in any part of the civi-
lized world is the increased commercial solidarity
of civilized nations. Increased facility of distri-
bution has operated no less effectively than im-
proved methods of production.

Now, in 1770 the province of Lower Bengal
was in a state of almost complete commercial
isolation from other communities. Importation
of food on an adequate scale was hardly possi-
ble. " A single fact speaks volumes as to the
isolation of each district. An abundant harvest,
we are repeatedly told, was as disastrous to the
revenues as a bad one ; for, when a large quan-
tity of grain had to be carried to market, the
264

THE FAMINE OF 1770 IN BENGAL

cost of carnage swallowed up the price obtained.
Indeed, even if the means of intercommunication
and transport had rendered importation practi-
cable, the province had at that time no money
to give in exchange for food. Not only had
its various divisions a separate currency which
would pass nowhere else except at a ruinous
exchange, but in that unfortunate year Ben-
gal seems to have been utterly drained of its
specie. . . . The absence of the means of im-
portation was the more to be deplored, as the
neighbouring districts could easily have supplied
grain. In the southeast a fair harvest had been
reaped, except in circumscribed spots ; and we
are assured that, during the famine, this part of
Bengal was enabled to export without having
to complain of any deficiency in consequence.
. . . Indeed, no matter how local a famine might
be in the last century ', the effects were equally dis-
astrous. Sylhet, a district in the northeast of
Bengal, had reaped unusually plentiful harvests
in 1780 and 1781, but the next crop was de-
stroyed by a local inundation, and, notwithstand-
ing the facilities for importation afforded by
water-carriage, one third of the people died."

Here we have a vivid representation of the
economic condition of a society which, however
highly civilized in many important respects, still
retained, at the epoch treated of, its aboriginal
type of organization. Here we see each com-
265

THE UNSEEN WORLD

munity brought face to face with the impossible
task of supplying, unaided, the deficiencies of
nature. We see one petty district a prey to the
most frightful destitution, even while profuse
plenty reigns in the districts round about it.
We find an almost complete absence of the com-
mercial machinery which, by enabling the starv-
ing region to be fed out of the surplus of more
favoured localities, has in the most advanced
countries rendered a great famine practically
impossible.

Now this state of things the government of
1770 was indeed powerless to remedy. Legis-
lative power and wisdom could not anticipate
the invention of railroads ; nor could it intro-
duce throughout the length and breadth of
Bengal a system of coaches, canals, and cara-
vans ; nor could it all at once do away with the
time-honoured brigandage which increased the
cost of transport by decreasing the security of
it ; nor could it in a trice remove the curse
of a heterogeneous coinage. None, save those
uninstructed agitators who believe that govern-
ments can make water run up-hill, would be
disposed to find fault with the authorities in
Bengal for failing to cope with these difficulties.
But what we are to blame them for — though it
was an error of the judgment and not of the
intentions — is their mischievous interference
with the natural course of trade, by which,
266

THE FAMINE OF 1770 IN BENGAL

instead of helping matters, they but added an-
other to the many powerful causes which were
conspiring to bring about the economic ruin
of Bengal. We refer to the act which in 1770
prohibited under penalties all speculation in
rice.

This disastrous piece of legislation was due
to the universal prevalence of a prejudice from
which so-called enlightened communities are
not yet wholly free. It is even now customary
to heap abuse upon those persons who in a
season of scarcity, when prices are rapidly
rising, buy up the " necessaries of life," thereby
still increasing for a time the cost of living.
Such persons are commonly assailed with spe-
cious generalities to the effect that they are
enemies of society. People whose only ideas
are " moral ideas " regard them as heartless
sharpers who fatten upon the misery of their
fellow-creatures. And it is sometimes hinted
that such " practices " ought to be stopped by
legislation.

Now, so far is this prejudice, which is a very
old one, from being justified by facts, that,
instead of being an evil, speculation in bread-
stuffs and other necessaries is one of the chief
agencies by which in modern times and civilized
countries a real famine is rendered almost im-
possible. This natural monopoly operates in
two ways. In the first place, by raising prices,
267

THE UNSEEN WORLD

it checks consumption, putting every one on
shorter allowance until the season of scarcity
is over, and thus prevents the scarcity from
growing into famine. In the second place, by
raising prices, it stimulates importation from
those localities where abundance reigns and
prices are low. It thus in the long run does
much to equalize the pressure of a time of
dearth and diminish those extreme oscillations
of prices which interfere with the even, healthy
course of trade. A government which in a
season of high prices does anything to check
such speculation, acts about as sagely as the
skipper of a wrecked vessel who should refuse
to put his crew upon half rations.

The turning-point of the great Dutch Revo-
lution, so far as it concerned the provinces
which now constitute Belgium, was the famous
siege and capture of Antwerp by Alexander
Farnese, Duke of Parma. The siege was a
long one, and the resistance obstinate, and the
city would probably not have been captured if
famine had not come to the assistance of the be-
siegers. It is interesting, therefore, to inquire
what steps the civic authorities had taken to pre-
vent such a calamity. They knew that the strug-
gle before them was likely to be the life-and-
death struggle of the Southern Netherlands ;
they knew that there was risk of their being
surrounded so that relief from without would be
268

THE FAMINE OF 1770 IN BENGAL

impossible ; they knew that their assailant was
one of the most astute and unconquerable of men,
by far the greatest general of the sixteenth cen-
tury. Therefore they proceeded to do just what
our Republican Congress, under such circum-
stances, would probably have done, and just what
the " New York Tribune," if it had existed in
those days, would have advised them to do.
Finding that sundry speculators were accumulat-
ing and hoarding up provisions in anticipation
of a season of high prices, they hastily decided,
first of all to put a stop to such " selfish in-
iquity." In their eyes the great thing to be
done was to make things cheap. They therefore
affixed a very low maximum price to everything
which could be eaten, and prescribed severe
penalties for all who should attempt to take
more than the sum by law decreed. If a baker
refused to sell his bread for a price which would
have been adequate only in a time of great
plenty, his shop was to be broken open, and
his loaves distributed among the populace. The
consequences of this idiotic policy were two-
fold.

In the first place, the enforced lowness of
prices prevented any breadstuff's or other pro-
visions from being brought into the city. It
was a long time before Farnese succeeded in so
blockading the Scheldt as to prevent ships
laden with eatables from coming in below.
269

THE UNSEEN WORLD

Corn and preserved meats might have been
hurried by thousands of tons into the belea-
guered city. Friendly Dutch vessels, freighted
with abundance, were waiting at the mouth of
the river. But all to no purpose. No merchant
would expose his valuable ship, with its cargo,
to the risk of being sunk by Farnese's batteries,
merely for the sake of finding a market no
better than a hundred others which could be
entered without incurring danger. No doubt
if the merchants of Holland had followed out
the maxim Fivre pour autrui, they would have
braved ruin and destruction rather than behold
their neighbours of Antwerp enslaved. No
doubt if they could have risen to a broad philo-
sophic view of the future interests of the
Netherlands, they would have seen that Ant-
werp must be saved, no matter if some of them
were to lose money by it. But men do not yet
sacrifice themselves for their fellows, nor do
they as a rule look far beyond the present
moment and its emergencies. And the business
of government is to legislate for men as they
are, not as it is supposed they ought to be. If
provisions had brought a high price in Antwerp,
they would have been carried thither. As it
was, the city, by its own stupidity, blockaded
itself far more effectually than Farnese could
have done it.

In the second place, the enforced lowness of
270

THE FAMINE OF 1770 IN BENGAL

prices prevented any general retrenchment on
the part of the citizens. Nobody felt it neces-
sary to economize. Every one bought as much
bread, and ate it as freely, as if the government
by insuring its cheapness had insured its abun-
dance. So the city lived in high spirits and
in gleeful defiance of its besiegers, until all at
once provisions gave out, and the government
had to step in again to palliate the distress
which it had wrought. It constituted itself
quartermaster-general to the community, and
doled out stinted rations alike to rich and poor,
with that stern democratic impartiality peculiar
to times of mortal peril. But this served only,
like most artificial palliatives, to lengthen out
the misery. At the time of the surrender, not
a loaf of bread could be obtained for love or
money.

In this way a bungling act of legislation
helped to decide for the worse a campaign
which involved the territorial integrity and
future welfare of what might have become a
great nation performing a valuable function in
the system of European communities.

The striking character of this instructive
example must be our excuse for presenting it
at such length. At the beginning of the famine
in Bengal the authorities legislated in very
much the same spirit as the burghers who had
to defend Antwerp against Parma.
271

THE UNSEEN WORLD

" By interdicting what it was pleased to
term the monopoly of grain, it prevented prices
from rising at once to their natural rates.
The Province had a certain amount of food in
it, and this food had to last about nine months.
Private enterprise if left to itself would have
stored up the general supply at the harvest,
with a view to realizing a larger profit at a
later period in the scarcity. Prices would in
consequence have immediately risen, compel-
ling the population to reduce their consump-
tion from the very beginning of the dearth.
The general stock would thus have been hus-
banded, and the pressure equally spread over
the whole nine months, instead of being con-
centrated upon the last six. The price of
grain, in place of promptly rising to three half-
pence a pound as in 1865-66, continued at
three farthings during the earlier months of
the famine. During the latter ones it advanced
to twopence, and in certain localities reached
fourpence."

The course taken by the great famine of
1866 well illustrates the above views. This
famine, also, was caused by the total failure of
the December rice-crop, and it was brought to
a close by an abundant harvest in the succeed-
ing year.

" Even as regards the maximum price
reached, the analogy holds good, in each case
272

THE FAMINE OF 1770 IN BENGAL

rice having risen in general to nearly two-
pence, and in particular places to fourpence, a
pound ; and in each the quoted rates being
for a brief period in several isolated localities
merely nominal, no food existing in the mar-
ket, and money altogether losing its inter-
changeable value. In both the people endured
silently to the end, with a fortitude that cas-
ual observers of a different temperament and
widely dissimilar race may easily mistake for
apathy, but which those who lived among the
sufferers are unable to distinguish from qualities
that generally pass under a more honourable
name. During 1866, when the famine was
severest, I superintended public instruction
throughout the southwestern division of Lower
Bengal, including Orissa. The subordinate
native officers, about eight hundred in num-
ber, behaved with a steadiness, and when called
upon, with a self-abnegation, beyond praise.
Many of them ruined their health. The touch-
ing scenes of self-sacrifice and humble heroism
which I witnessed among the poor villagers on
my tours of inspection will remain in my
memory till my latest day."

But to meet the famine of 1866 Bengal was
equipped with railroads and canals, and better
than all, with an intelligent government. Far
from trying to check speculation, as in 1770,
the government did all in its power to stimu-
273

THE UNSEEN WORLD

late it. In the earlier famine one could hardly
engage in the grain trade without becoming
amenable to the law. "In 1866 respectable
men in vast numbers went into the trade ; for
government, by publishing weekly returns of
the rates in every district, rendered the traffic
both easy and safe. Every one knew where to
buy grain cheapest, and where to sell it dearest,
and food was accordingly brought from the
districts that could best spare it, and carried to
those which most urgently needed it. Not
only were prices equalized so far as possible
throughout the stricken parts, but the publicity
given to the high rates in Lower Bengal in-
duced large shipments from the upper pro-
vinces, and the chief seat of the trade became
unable to afford accommodation for landing the
vast stores of grain brought down the river.
Rice poured into the affected districts from all
parts, — railways, canals, and roads vigorously
doing their duty."

The result of this wise policy was that scar-
city was heightened into famine only in one
remote corner of Bengal. Orissa was commer-
cially isolated in 1866, as the whole country
had been in 1770. " As far back as the records
extend, Orissa has produced more grain than it
can use. It is an exporting, not an importing
province, sending away its surplus grain by
sea, and neither requiring nor seeking any com-
274

THE FAMINE OF 1770 IN BENGAL

munication with Lower Bengal by land." Long
after the rest of the province had begun to
prepare for a year of famine, Orissa kept on
exporting. In March, when the alarm was
first raised, the southwest monsoon had set in,
rendering the harbours inaccessible. Thus the
district was isolated. It was no longer possi-
ble to apply the wholesome policy which was
operating throughout the rest of the country.
The doomed population of Orissa, like pas-
sengers in a ship without provisions, were
called upon to suffer the extremities of famine ;
and in the course of the spring and summer of
1866, some seven hundred thousand people
perished.

January, 1869.

275

SPAIN AND THE NETHERLANDS1

TANDEM fit surculus arbor : the twig
which Mr. Motley in his earlier vol-
umes has described as slowly putting
forth its leaves and rootlets, while painfully
struggling for existence in a hostile soil, has at
last grown into a mighty tree of liberty, drawing
sustenance from all lands, and protecting all
civilized peoples with its pleasant shade. We
congratulate Mr. Motley upon the successful
completion of the second portion of his great
work; and we think that the Netherlanders
of our time have reason to be grateful to the
writer who has so faithfully and eloquently told
the story of their country's fearful struggle
against civil and ecclesiastical tyranny, and its
manifold contributions to the advancement of
European civilization.

Mr. Motley has been fortunate in his selec-
tion of a subject upon which to write. Probably

1 History of the United Netherlands : from the Death of
William the Silent to the Twelve Years' Truce, 1609. By
John Lothrop Motley, D. C. L. In four volumes. Vols.
iii. and iv. New York. 1868.

276

John Lothrop Motley

SPAIN AND THE

TANDEM jit

which Mr. Motley in
umes has described as slowly putting
forth its leaves and rootlets, while painfully
struggling for existence in a hostile soil, has at
last grown into a mighty tree of liberty, drawing
sustenance f<\w; a.' r all

>e«v» . •• \\

of our the

wrii«rr v- nly told

the fearful struggle

again M tyranny, and its

muni fold contributions to the advancement of
European civilization.

r. Motley has been fortunate in h:
of a subject upon which to write. I

from
) the Twelve Years

in. and iv,

SPAIN AND THE NETHERLANDS

no century of modern times lends itself to the
purposes of the descriptive historian so well as
the sixteenth. While on the one hand the prob-
lems which it presents are sufficiently near for
us to understand them without too great an
effort of the imagination, on the other hand
they are sufficiently remote for us to study
them without passionate and warping prejudice.
The contest between Catholicism and the re-
formed religion — between ecclesiastical auto-
cracy and the right of private investigation —
has become a thing of the past, and constitutes
a closed chapter in human history. The epoch
which begins where Mr. Motley's history is
designed to close — at the peace of Westphalia
— is far more complicated. Since the middle
of the seventeenth century a double movement
has been going on in religion and philosophy,
society and politics, — a movement of destruc-
tion typified by Voltaire and Rousseau, and a
constructive movement represented by Diderot
and Lessing. We are still living in the midst
of this great epoch : the questions which it pre-
sents are liable to disturb our prejudices as well
as to stimulate our reason ; the results to which
it must sooner or later attain can now be only
partially foreseen ; and even its present tenden-
cies are generally misunderstood, and in many
quarters wholly ignored. With the sixteenth
century, as we have said, the case is far differ-
277

THE UNSEEN WORLD

ent. The historical problem is far less complex.
The issues at stake are comparatively simple,
and the historian has before him a straightfor-
ward story.

From the dramatic, or rather from the epic,
point of view, the sixteenth century is pre-emi-
nent. The essentially transitional character of
modern history since the breaking up of the
papal and feudal systems is at no period more
distinctly marked. In traversing the sixteenth
century we realize that we have fairly got out
of one state of things and into another. At the
outset, events like the challenge of Barletta may
make us doubt whether we have yet quite left
behind the Middle Ages. The belief in the
central position of the earth is still universal,
and the belief in its rotundity not yet, until
the voyage of Magellan, generally accepted.
We find England — owing partly to the intro-
duction of gunpowder and the consequent dis-
use of archery, partly to the results of the recent
integration of France under Louis XI. — fallen
back from the high relative position which it
had occupied under the rule of the Plantage-
nets ; and its policy still directed in accordance
with reminiscences of Agincourt, and Barnet,
and Burgundian alliances. We find France just
beginning her ill-fated career of intervention in
the affairs of Italy ; and Spain, with her Moors
finally vanquished and a new world beyond the
278

SPAIN AND THE NETHERLANDS

ocean just added to her domain, rapidly devel-
oping into the greatest empire which had been
seen since the days of the first Caesars. But at
the close of the century we find feudal life in
castles changed into modern life in towns ; chi-
valric defiances exchanged for over-subtle diplo-
macy ; Maurices instead of Bayards ; a Henry
IV. instead of a Gaston de Foix. We find the
old theory of man's central position in the uni-
verse— the foundation of the doctrine of final
causes and of the whole theological method
of interpreting nature — finally overthrown by
Copernicus. Instead of the circumnavigability
of the earth, the discovery of a Northwest pas-
sage — as instanced by the heroic voyage of
Barendz, so nobly described by Mr. Motley —
is now the chief geographical problem. East
India Companies, in place of petty guilds of
weavers and bakers, bear witness to the vast
commercial progress. We find England, fresh
from her stupendous victory over the whole
power of Spain, again in the front rank of na-
tions ; France, under the most astute of mod-
ern sovereigns, taking her place for a time as
the political leader of the civilized world ; Spain,
with her evil schemes baffled in every quarter,
sinking into that terrible death-like lethargy,
from which she has hardly yet awakened, and
which must needs call forth our pity, though
it is but the deserved retribution for her past
279

THE UNSEEN WORLD

behaviour. While the little realm of the Neth-
erlands, filched and cozened from the unfor-
tunate Jacqueline by the " good " Duke of
Burgundy, carried over to Austria as the mar-
riage-portion of Lady Mary, sent down to Spain
as the personal inheritance of the " prudent "
Philip, and by him intolerably tormented with
an Inquisition, a Blood-Council, and a Duke
of Alva, has after a forty years' war of inde-
pendence taken its position for a time as the
greatest of commercial nations, with the most
formidable navy and one of the best disciplined
armies yet seen upon the earth.

But the central phenomenon of the sixteenth
century is the culmination of the Protestant
movement in its decisive proclamation by Lu-
ther. For nearly three hundred years already
the power of the Church had been declining,
and its function as a civilizing agency had been
growing more and more obsolete. The first
great blow at its supremacy had been directed
with partial success in the thirteenth century by
the Emperor Frederick II. Coincident with
this attack from without, we find a reformation
begun within, as exemplified in the Dominican
and Franciscan movements. The second great
blow was aimed by Philip IV. of France, and
this time it struck with terrible force. The
removal of the Papacy to Avignon, in 1305,
was the virtual though unrecognized abdication
280

SPAIN AND THE NETHERLANDS

of its beneficent supremacy. Bereft of its dig-
nity and independence, from that time forth it
ceased to be the defender of national unity
against baronial anarchy, of popular rights
against monarchical usurpation, and became a
formidable instrument of despotism and oppres-
sion. Through the vicissitudes of the great
schism in the fourteenth century, and the refrac-
tory councils in the fifteenth, its position be-
came rapidly more and more retrograde and
demoralized. And when, in 1530, it joined its
forces with those of Charles V., in crushing the
liberties of the worthiest of mediaeval republics,
it became evident that the cause of freedom and
progress must henceforth be intrusted to some
more faithful champion. The revolt of North-
ern Europe, led by Luther and Henry VIII.,
was but the articulate announcement of this
altered state of affairs. So long as the Roman
Church had been felt to be the enemy of tyran-
nical monarchs and the steadfast friend of the
people, its encroachments, as represented by
men like Dunstan and Becket, were regarded
with popular favour. The strength of the
Church lay ever in its democratic instincts;
and when these were found to have abandoned
it, the indignant protest of Luther sufficed to
tear away half of Europe from its allegiance.

By the end of the sixteenth century, we find
the territorial struggle between the Church and
281

THE UNSEEN WORLD

the reformed religion substantially decided.
Protestantism and Catholicism occupied then
the same respective areas which they now oc-
cupy. Since 1600 there has been no instance
of a nation passing from one form of worship
to the other ; and in all probability there never
will be. Since the wholesale dissolution of re-
ligious beliefs wrought in the last century, the
whole issue between Romanism and Protes-
tantism, regarded as dogmatic systems, is prac-
tically dead. M. Renan is giving expression
to an almost self-evident truth, when he says
that religious development is no longer to pro-
ceed by way of sectarian proselytism, but by
way of harmonious internal development. The
contest is no longer between one theology and
another, but it is between the theological and
the scientific methods of interpreting natural
phenomena. The sixteenth century has to us,
therefore, the interest belonging to a rounded
and completed tale. It contains within itself
substantially the entire history of the final stage
of the theological reformation.

This great period falls naturally into two
divisions, the first corresponding very nearly
with the reigns of Charles V. and Henry VIII.,
and the second with the age of Philip II. and
Elizabeth. The first of these periods was filled
with the skirmishes which were to open the
great battle of the Reformation. At first the
282

SPAIN AND THE NETHERLANDS

strength and extent of the new revolution were
not altogether apparent. While the Inquisition
was vigorously crushing out the first symptoms
of disaffection in Spain, it at one time seemed
as if the Reformers were about to gain the whole
of the Empire, besides acquiring an excellent
foothold in France. Again, while England
was wavering between the old and the new
faith, the last hopes of the Reform in Germany
seemed likely to be destroyed by the military
genius of Charles. But in Maurice, the red-
bearded hero of Saxony, Charles found more
than his match. The picture of the rapid and
desperate march of Maurice upon Innspruck,
and of the great Emperor flying for his life at
the very hour of his imagined triumph, has still
for us an intenser interest than almost any other
scene of that age ; for it was the event which
proved that Protestantism was not a mere local
insurrection which a monarch like Charles could
easily put down, but a gigantic revolution
against which all the powers in the world might
well strive in vain.

With the abdication of Charles in 1556 the
new period may be said to begin, and it is here
that Mr. Motley's history commences. Events
crowded thick and fast. In 1556 Philip II., a
prince bred and educated for the distinct pur-
pose of suppressing heresy, succeeded to the
rule of the most powerful empire which had
283

THE UNSEEN WORLD

been seen since the days of the Antonines. In
the previous year a new era had begun at the
court of Rome. The old race of pagan pontiffs,
the Borgias, the Farneses, and the Medicis, had
come to an end, and the papal throne was oc-
cupied by the puritanical Caraffa, as violent a
fanatic as Robespierre, and a foe of freedom as
uncompromising as Philip II. himself. Under
his auspices took place the great reform in the
Church signalized by the rise of the Jesuits, as
the reform in the thirteenth century had been
attended by the rise of the Cordeliers and Do-
minicans. His name should not be forgotten,
for it is mainly owing to the policy inaugurated
by him that Catholicism was enabled to hold
its ground as well as it did. In 1557, the next
year, the strength of France was broken at St.
Quentin, and Spain was left with her hands free
to deal with the Protestant powers. In 1558,
by the accession of Elizabeth, England became
committed to the cause of Reform. In 1559,
the stormy administration of Margaret began
in the Netherlands. In 1 560 the Scotch nobles
achieved the destruction of Catholicism in North
Britain. By this time every nation, except
France, had taken sides in the conflict which
was to last, with hardly any cessation, during
two generations.

Mr. Motley, therefore, in describing the rise
and progress of the united republic of the
284

SPAIN AND THE NETHERLANDS

Netherlands, is writing not Dutch, but Euro-
pean history. On his pages France, Spain, and
England make almost as large a figure as Hol-
land itself. He is writing the history of the
Reformation during its concluding epoch, and
he chooses the Netherlands as his main subject,
because during that period the Netherlands
were the centre of the movement. They con-
stituted the great bulwark of freedom, and upon
the success or failure of their cause the future
prospect of Europe and of mankind depended.
Spain and the Netherlands, Philip II. and Wil-
liam the Silent, were the two leading antago-
nists, and were felt to be such by the other na-
tions and rulers that came to mingle in the
strife. It is therefore a stupid criticism which
we have seen made upon Mr. Motley, that,
having brought his narrative down to the truce
of 1609, ne ougnt> instead of describing the
Thirty Years' War, to keep on with Dutch
history, and portray the wars against Cromwell
and Charles II., and the struggle of the second
William of Orange against Louis XIV. By
so doing he would only violate the unity of his
narrative. The wars of the Dutch against
England and France belong to an entirely dif-
ferent epoch in European history, — a modern
epoch, in which political and commercial inter-
ests were of prime importance, and theologi-
cal interests distinctly subsidiary. The natural
285

THE UNSEEN WORLD

terminus of Mr. Motley's work is the Peace
of Westphalia. After bringing down his his-
tory to the time when the independence of the
Netherlands was virtually acknowledged, after
describing the principal stages of the struggle
against Catholicism and universal monarchy, as
carried on in the first generation by Elizabeth
and William, and in the second by Maurice
and Henry, he will naturally go on to treat of
the epilogue as conducted by Richelieu and
Gustavus, ending in the final cessation of reli-
gious wars throughout Europe.

The conflict in the Netherlands was indeed
far more than a mere religious struggle. In its
course was distinctly brought into prominence
the fact which we have above signalized, that
since the Roman Church had abandoned the
liberties of the people they had found a new
defender in the reformed religion. The Dutch
rebellion is peculiarly interesting, because it
was a revolt not merely against the Inquisition,
but also against the temporal sovereignty of
Philip. Besides changing their religion, the
sturdy Netherlanders saw fit to throw off the
sway of their legitimate ruler, and to proclaim
the thrice heretical doctrine of the sovereignty
of the people. In this one respect their views
were decidedly more modern than those of
Elizabeth and Henry IV. These great mon-
archs apparently neither understood nor rel-
286

SPAIN AND THE NETHERLANDS

ished the republican theories of the Holland-
ers ; though it is hardly necessary for Mr.
Motley to sneer at them quite so often because
they were not to an impossible degree in ad-
vance of their age. The proclamation of a re-
public in the Netherlands marked of itself the
beginning of a new era, — an era when flourish-
ing communities of men were no longer to be
bought and sold, transferred and bequeathed
like real estate and chattels, but were to have and
maintain the right of choosing with whom and
under whom they should transact their affairs.
The interminable negotiations for a truce, which
fill nearly one third of Mr. Motley's conclud-
ing volume, exhibit with striking distinctness
the difference between the old and new points
of view. Here again we think Mr. Motley errs
slightly, in calling too much attention to the
prevaricating diplomacy of the Spanish court,
and too little to its manifest inability to com-
prehend the demands of the Netherlander.
How should statesmen brought up under
Philip II. and kept under the eye of the In-
quisition be expected to understand a claim for
liberty originating in the rights of the common
people and not in the gracious benevolence or
intelligent policy of the King ? The very idea
must have been practically inconceivable by
them. Accordingly, they strove by every avail-
able device of chicanery to wheedle the Nether-

287

THE UNSEEN WORLD

landers into accepting their independence as
a gift from the King of Spain. But to such
a piece of self-stultification the clear-sighted
Dutchmen could by no persuasion be brought
to consent. Their independence, they argued,
was not the King's to give. They had won it
from him and his father, in a war of forty
years, during which they had suffered atrocious
miseries, and all that the King of Spain could
do was to acknowledge it as their right, and
cease to molest them in future. Over this
point, so simple to us but knotty enough in
those days, the commissioners wrangled for
nearly two years. And when the Spanish gov-
ernment, unable to carry on the war any longer
without risk of utter bankruptcy, and daily
crippled in its resources by the attacks of the
Dutch navy, grudgingly agreed to a truce
upon the Netherlander' terms, it virtually ac-
knowledged its own defeat and the downfall
of the principles for which it had so obsti-
nately fought. By the truce of 1609 tne re~
publican principle was admitted by the most
despotic of governments.

Here was the first great triumph of repub-
licanism over monarchy ; and it was not long in
bearing fruits. For the Dutch revolution, the
settlement of America by English Puritans,
the great rebellion of the Commons, the Revo-
lution of 1688, the revolt of the American
288

SPAIN AND THE NETHERLANDS

Colonies, and the general overthrow of feu-
dalism in 1789, are but successive acts in the
same drama. William the Silent was the
worthy forerunner of Cromwell and Washing-
ton ; and but for the victory which he won,
during his life and after his untimely death,
the subsequent triumphs of civil liberty might
have been long postponed.

Over the sublime figure of William — sterns
tranquillus in undis — we should be glad to
dwell, but we are not reviewing the " Rise
of the Dutch Republic," and in Mr. Mot-
ley's present volumes the hero of toleration ap-
pears no longer. His antagonist, however, —
the Philip whom God for some inscrutable
purpose permitted to afflict Europe during a
reign of forty-two years, — accompanies us
nearly to the end of the present work, dying
Justin time for the historian to sum up the
case against him, and pronounce final judg-
ment. For the memory of Philip II. Mr.
Motley cherishes no weak pity. He rarely
alludes to him without commenting upon his
total depravity, and he dismisses him with the
remark that " if there are vices — as possibly
there are — from which he was exempt, it is
because it is not permitted to human nature
to attain perfection in evil." The verdict is
none the less just because of its conciseness.
If there ever was a* strife between Hercules and
289

THE UNSEEN WORLD

Cacus, between Ormuzd and Ahriman, between
the Power of Light and the Power of Dark-
ness, it was certainly the strife between the
Prince of Orange and the Spanish Monarch.
They are contrasted like the light and shade
in one of Dore's pictures. And yet it is per-
haps unnecessary for Mr. Motley to say that
if Philip had been alive when Spinola won
for him the great victory of Ostend, " he
would have felt it his duty to make immediate
arrangements for poisoning him." Doubtless
the imputation is sufficiently justified by what
we know of Philip ; but it is uncalled for. We
do not care to hear about what the despot
might have done. We know what he did do,
and the record is sufficiently damning. There
is no harm in our giving the Devil his due, or
as Llorente wittily says, " II ne faut pas calom-
nier meme I'lnquisition."

Philip inherited all his father's bad qualities,
without any of his good ones ; and so it is
much easier to judge him than his father.
Charles, indeed, is one of those characters
whom one hardly knows whether to love or
hate, to admire or despise. He had much bad
blood in him. Charles the Bold and Ferdi-
nand of Aragon were not grandparents to be
proud of. Yet with all this he inherited from
his grandmother Isabella much that one can
like, and his face, as preserved by Titian, in
290

. SPAIN AND THE NETHERLANDS

spite of its frowning brow and thick Burgun-
dian lip, is rather prepossessing, while the face
of Philip is simply odious. In intellect he must
probably be called great, though his policy
often betrayed the pettiness of selfishness. If,
in comparison with the mediaeval emperor
whose fame he envied, he may justly be called
Charles the Little, he may still, when com-
pared to a more modern emulator of Charle-
magne, — the first of the Bonapartes, — be
considered great and enlightened. If he could
lie and cheat more consummately than any
contemporary monarch, not excepting his rival,
Francis, he could still be grandly magnani-
mous, while the generosity of Francis flowed
only from the shallow surface of a maudlin
good-nature. He spoke many languages and
had the tastes of a scholar, while his son had
only the inclinations of an unfeeling peda-
gogue. He had an inkling of urbanity, and
could in a measure become all things to all
men, while Philip could never show himself
except as a gloomy, impracticable bigot. It is
for some such reasons as these, I suppose,
that Mr. Buckle — no friend to despots —
speaks well of Charles, and that Mr. Froude
is moved to tell the following anecdote : While
standing by the grave of Luther, and musing
over the strange career of the giant monk
whose teachings had gone so far to wreck his
291

THE UNSEEN WORLD

most cherished schemes and render his life a
failure, some fanatical bystander advised the
Emperor to have the body taken up and
burned in the market-place. " There was no-
thing," says Mr. Froude, "unusual in the
proposal ; it was the common practice of the
Catholic Church with the remains of heretics,
who were held unworthy to be left in repose in
hallowed ground. There was scarcely, perhaps,
another Catholic prince who would have hesi-
tated to comply. But Charles was one of
nature's gentlemen. He answered, f I war not
with the dead/ ' Mr. Motley takes a less
charitable view of the great Emperor. His
generous indignation against all persecutors
makes him severe ; and in one of his earlier
volumes, while speaking of the famous edicts
for the suppression of heresy in the Nether-
lands, he somewhere uses the word " mur-
der." Without attempting to palliate the crime
of persecution, I doubt if it is quite fair to
Charles to call him a murderer. We must not
forget that persecution, now rightly deemed an
atrocious crime, was once really considered by
some people a sacred duty ; that it was none
other than the compassionate Isabella who
established the Spanish Inquisition ; and that
the " bloody " Mary Tudor was a woman who
would not wilfully have done wrong. With
the progress of civilization the time will doubt-
292

SPAIN AND THE NETHERLANDS

less come when warfare, having ceased to be
necessary, will be thought highly criminal ; yet
it will not then be fair to hold Marlborough
and Wellington accountable for the lives lost in
their great battles. We still live in an age
when war is, to the imagination of some per-
sons, surrounded with false glories ; and the
greatest of modern generals 1 has still many
undiscriminating admirers. Yet the day is no
less certainly at hand when the edicts of
Charles V. will be deemed a more pardonable
offence against humanity than the wanton
march to Moscow.

Philip II. was different from his father in
capacity as a drudging clerk, like Boutwell, is
different from a brilliant financier like Glad-
stone. In organization he differed from him
as a boor differs from a gentleman. He seemed
made of a coarser clay. The difference between
them is well indicated by their tastes at the
table. Both were terrible gluttons, a fact which
puritanic criticism might set down as equally to
the discredit of each of them. But even in in-
temperance there are degrees of refinement, and
the impartial critic of life and manners will no
doubt say that if one must get drunk, let it be
on Chateau Margaux rather than on commis-
sary whiskey. Pickled partridges, plump ca-

1 This was written before the deeds of Moltke had
eclipsed those of Napoleon.

293

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pons, syrups of fruits, delicate pastry, and rare
fish went to make up the diet of Charles in his
last days at Yuste. But the beastly Philip would
make himself sick with a surfeit of underdone
pork.

Whatever may be said of the father, we can
hardly go far wrong in ascribing the instincts
of a murderer to the son. He not only burned
heretics, but he burned them with an air of en-
joyment and self-complacency. His nuptials
with Elizabeth of France were celebrated by a
vast auto-da-fe. He studied murder as a fine
art, and was as skilful in private assassinations
as Cellini was in engraving on gems. The se-
cret execution of Montigny, never brought to
light until the present century, was a veritable
chef cTceuvre of this sort. The cases of Esco-
bedo and Antonio Perez may also be cited in
point. Dark suspicions hung around the pre-
mature death of Don John of Austria, his too
brilliant and popular half-brother. He planned
the murder of William the Silent, and rewarded
the assassin with an annuity furnished by the
revenues of the victim's confiscated estates.
He kept a staff" of ruffians constantly in service
for the purpose of taking off Elizabeth, Henry
IV., Prince Maurice, Olden-Barneveldt, and
St. Aldegonde. He instructed Alva to execute
sentence of death upon the whole population
of the Netherlands. He is partly responsible
294

SPAIN AND THE NETHERLANDS

for the martyrdoms of Ridley and Latimer, and
the judicial murder of Cranmer. He first con-
ceived the idea of the wholesale massacre of St.
Bartholomew, many years before Catharine de'
Medici carried it into operation. His ingrati-
tude was as dangerous as his revengeful fanati-
cism. Those who had best served his interests
were the least likely to escape the consequences
of his jealousy. He destroyed Egmont, who
had won for him the splendid victories of St.
Quentin and Gravelines ; and " with minute
and artistic treachery " he plotted " the disgrace
and ruin " of Farnese, " the man who was his
near blood-relation, and who had served him
most faithfully from earliest youth." Contem-
porary opinion even held him accountable for
the obscure deaths of his wife Elizabeth and his
son Carlos ; but M. Gachard has shown that
this suspicion is unfounded. Philip appears
perhaps to better advantage in his domestic
than in his political relations. Yet he was ad-
dicted to vulgar and miscellaneous incontinence ;
towards the close of his life he seriously con-
templated marrying his own daughter Isabella;
and he ended by taking for his fourth wife his
niece, Anne of Austria, who became the mother
of his half-idiotic son and successor. We know
of no royal family, unless it may be the Claudians
of Rome, in which the transmission of moral
and intellectual qualities is more thoroughly
295

THE UNSEEN WORLD

illustrated than in this Burgundian race which
for two centuries held the sceptre of Spain.
The son Philip and the grandmother Isabella
are both needful in order to comprehend the
strange mixture of good and evil in Charles.
But the descendants of Philip — two genera-
tions of idiocy, and a third of utter impotence
— are a sufficient commentary upon the organ-
ization and character of their progenitor.

Such was the man who for two generations
had been considered the bulwark of the Catho-
lic Church; who, having been at the bottom
of nearly all the villainy that had been wrought
in Europe for half a century, was yet able to
declare upon his death-bed that " in all his life
he had never consciously done wrong to any
one." At a ripe old age he died of a fearful
disease. Under the influence of a typhus fever,
supervening upon gout, he had begun to de-
compose while yet alive. "His sufferings,"
says Mr. Motley, " were horrible, but no saint
could have manifested in them more gentle
resignation or angelic patience. He moralized
on the condition to which the greatest princes
might thus be brought at last by the hand of
God, and bade the Prince observe well his
father's present condition, in order that when he
too should be laid thus low, he might likewise
be sustained by a conscience void of offence."
What more is needed to complete the disgust-
296

SPAIN AND THE NETHERLANDS

ing picture ? Philip was fanatical up to the
point where fanaticism borders upon hypocrisy.
He was possessed with a " great moral idea/'
the idea of making Catholicism the ruler of the
world, that he might be the ruler of Catholicism.
Why, it may be said, shall the charge of fanat-
icism be allowed to absolve Isabella and exten-
uate the guilt of Charles, while it only strength-
ens the case against Philip ? Because Isabella
persecuted heretics in order to save their souls
from a worse fate, while Philip burnt them in
order to get them out of his way. Isabella
would perhaps have gone to the stake herself,
if thereby she might have put an end to heresy.
Philip would have seen every soul in Europe
consigned to eternal perdition before he would
have yielded up an iota of his claims to univer-
sal dominion. He could send Alva to brow-
beat the Pope, as well as to oppress the Nether-
landers. He could compass the destruction of
the orthodox Egmont and Farnese, as well as
of the heretical William. His unctuous piety
only adds to the abhorrence with which we re-
gard him ; and his humility in face of death is
neither better nor worse than the assumed hu-
mility which had become second nature to Uriah
Heep. In short, take him for all in all, he was
probably the most loathsome character in all
European history. He has frequently been
called, by Protestant historians, an incarnate
297

THE UNSEEN WORLD

devil ; but we do not think that Mephistopheles
would acknowledge him. He should rather be
classed among those creatures described by
Dante as " a Dio spiacenti ed ai nemici sui."

The abdication of Charles V. left Philip ruler
over wider dominions than had ever before been
brought together under the sway of one man.
In his own right Philip was master not only of
Spain, but of the Netherlands, Franche Comte,
Lombardy, Naples, and Sicily, with the whole
of North and South America; besides which
he was married to the Queen of England. In
the course of his reign he became possessed of
Portugal, with all its vast domains in the East
Indies. His revenues were greater than those
of any other contemporary monarch ; his navy
was considered invincible, and his army was
the best disciplined in Europe. All these great
advantages he was destined to throw to the
winds. In the strife for universal monarchy, in
the mad endeavour to subject England, Scot-
land, and France to his own dominion and the
tyranny of the Inquisition, besides reconquer-
ing the Netherlands, all his vast resources were
wasted. The Dutch war alone, like a bottom-
less pit, absorbed all that he could pour into
it. Long before the war was over, or showed
signs of drawing to an end, his revenues were
wasted, and his troops in Flanders were muti-
nous for want of pay. He had to rely upon
298

SPAIN AND THE NETHERLANDS

energetic viceroys like Farnese and the Spi-
nolas to furnish funds out of their own pockets.
Finally, he was obliged to repudiate all his
debts ; and when he died the Spanish empire
was in such a beggarly condition that it quaked
at every approach of a hostile Dutch fleet.
Such a result is not evidence of a statesmanlike
ability; but Philip's fanatical selfishness was
incompatible with statesmanship. He never
could be made to believe that his projects had
suffered defeat. No sooner had the Invincible
Armada been sent to the bottom by the guns
of the English fleet and the gales of the Ger-
man Ocean, than he sent orders to Farnese to
invade England at once with the land force
under his command ! He thought to obtain
Scotland, when, after the death of Mary, it had
passed under the undisputed control of the
Protestant noblemen. He dreamed of securing
for his family the crown of France, even after
Henry, with free consent of the Pope, had
made his triumphal entry into Paris. He as-
serted complete and entire sovereignty over
the Netherlands, even after Prince Maurice
had won back from him the last square foot
of Dutch territory. Such obstinacy as this can
only be called fatuity. If Philip had lived in
pagan times, he would doubtless, like Caligula,
have demanded recognition of his own divinity.
The miserable condition of the Spanish peo-
299

THE UNSEEN WORLD

pie under this terrible reign, and the causes
of their subsequent degeneracy, have been well
treated by Mr. Motley. The causes of the fail-
ure of Spanish civilization are partly social and
partly economical ; and they had been operat-
ing for eight hundred years when Philip suc-
ceeded to the throne. The Moorish conquest
in 711 had practically isolated Spain from the
rest of Europe. In the Crusades she took no
part, and reaped none of the signal advantages
resulting from that great movement. Her whole
energies were directed towards throwing off the
yoke of her civilized but " unbelieving " oppres-
sors. For a longer time than has now elapsed
since the Norman Conquest of England, the
entire Gothic population of Spain was engaged
in unceasing religious and patriotic warfare. The
unlimited power thus acquired by an unscrupu-
lous clergy, and the spirit of uncompromising
bigotry thus imparted to the whole nation, are
in this way readily accounted for. But in spite
of this, the affairs of Spain at the accession of
Charles V. were not in an unpromising condi-
tion. The Spanish Visigoths had been the least
barbarous of the Teutonic settlers within the
limits of the empire ; their civil institutions
were excellent ; their cities had obtained muni-
cipal liberties at an earlier date than those of
England ; and their Parliaments indulged in a
liberty of speech which would have seemed ex-
300

SPAIN AND THE NETHERLANDS

travagant even to De Montfort. So late as the
time of Ferdinand, the Spaniards were still justly
proud of their freedom ; and the chivalrous am-
bition which inspired the marvellous expedition
of Cortes to Mexico, and covered the soil of
Italy with Spanish armies, was probably in the
main a healthy one. But the forces of Spanish
freedom were united at too late an epoch ; in
1492, the power of despotism was already in
the ascendant. In England the case was dif-
ferent. The barons were enabled to combine
and wrest permanent privileges from the crown,
at a time when feudalism was strong. But the
Spanish communes waited for combined action
until feudalism had become weak, and modern
despotism, with its standing armies and its con-
trol of the spiritual power, was arrayed in the
ranks against them. The War of the Communes,
early in the reign of Charles V., irrevocably de-
cided the case in favour of despotism, and from
that date the internal decline of Spain may be
said to have begun.

But the triumphant consolidation of the spirit-
ual and temporal powers of despotism, and the
abnormal development of loyalty and bigotry,
were not the only evil results of the chronic
struggle in which Spain had been engaged. For
many centuries, while Christian Spain had been
but a fringe of debatable border-land on the
skirts of the Moorish kingdom, perpetual guer-
301

THE UNSEEN WORLD

rilla warfare had rendered consecutive labour
difficult or impracticable ; and the physical con-
figuration of the country contributed in bringing
about this result. To plunder the Moors across
the border was easier than to till the ground at
home. Then as the Spaniards, exemplifying
the military superiority of the feudal over the
sultanic form of social organization, proceeded
steadily to recover dominion over the land, the
industrious Moors, instead of migrating back-
ward before the advance of their conquerors,
remained at home and submitted to them.
Thus Spanish society became compounded of
two distinct castes, — the Moorish Spaniards,
who were skilled labourers, and the Gothic
Spaniards, by whom all labour, crude or skil-
ful, was deemed the stigma of a conquered race,
and unworthy the attention of respectable peo-
ple. As Mr. Motley concisely says : —

" The highest industrial and scientific civili-
zation that had been exhibited upon Spanish
territory was that of Moors and Jews. When
in the course of time those races had been sub-
jugated, massacred, or driven into exile, not only
was Spain deprived of its highest intellectual
culture and its most productive labour, but in-
telligence, science, and industry were accounted
degrading, because the mark of inferior and de-
tested peoples."

This is the key to the whole subsequent his-
302

SPAIN AND THE NETHERLANDS

tory of Spain. Bigotry, loyalty, and consecrated
icUeness are the three factors which have made
that great country what it is to-day, — the most
backward region in Europe. In view of the cir-
cumstances just narrated, it is not surprising to
learn that in Philip II. 's time avast portion of
the real estate of the country was held by the
Church in mortmain ; that forty-nine noble fami-
lies owned all the rest ; that all great estates were
held in tail ; and that the property of the aris-
tocracy and the clergy was completely exempt
from taxation. Thus the accumulation and the
diffusion of capital were alike prevented ; and
the few possessors of property wasted it in un-
productive expenditure. Hence the fundamen-
tal error of Spanish political economy, that wealth
is represented solely by the precious metals ; an
error which well enough explains the total fail-
ure, in spite of her magnificent opportunities, of
Spain's attempts to colonize the New World.
Such was the frightful condition of Spanish so-
ciety under Philip II. ; and as if this state of
things were not bad enough, the next king,
Philip III., at the instigation of the clergy, de-
cided to drive into banishment the only class of
productive labourers yet remaining in the coun-
try. In 1 6 1 o, this stupendous crime and blunder
— unparalleled even in Spanish history — was
perpetrated. The entire Moorish population
were expelled from their homes and driven into

303

THE UNSEEN WORLD

the deserts of Africa. For the awful conse-
quences of this mad action no remedy was pos-
sible. No system of native industry could be
created on demand, to take the place of that
which had been thus wantonly crushed forever.
From this epoch dates the social ruin of Spain.
In less than a century her people were riotous
with famine ; and every sequestered glen and
mountain pathway throughout the country had
become a lurking-place for robbers. Whoever
would duly realize to what a lamentable condi-
tion this beautiful peninsula had in the seven-
teenth century been reduced, let him study the
immortal pages of Lesage. He will learn afresh
the lesson, not yet sufficiently regarded in the
discussion of social problems, that the laws of
nature cannot be violated without entailing a
penalty fearful in proportion to the extent of
the violation. But let him carefully remember
also that the Spaniards are not and never have
been a despicable people. If Spain has produced
one of the lowest characters in history, she has
also produced one of the highest. That man
was every inch a Spaniard who, maimed, dis-
eased, and poor, broken down by long captivity,
and harassed by malignant persecution, lived
nevertheless a life of grandeur and beauty fit to
be a pattern for coming generations, — the au-
thor of a book which has had a wider fame than
any other in the whole range of secular litera-
304

SPAIN AND THE NETHERLANDS

ture, and which for delicate humour, exquisite
pathos, and deep ethical sentiment, remains to-
day without a peer or a rival. If Philip II. was
a Spaniard, so, too, was Cervantes.

Spain could not be free, for she violated every
condition by which freedom is secured to a peo-
ple. " Acuteness*of intellect, wealth of imagina-
tion, heroic qualities of heart and hand and brain,
rarely surpassed in any race and manifested on
a thousand battle-fields, and in the triumphs of
a magnificent and most original literature, had
not been able to save a whole nation from the
disasters and the degradation which the mere
words Philip II. and the Holy Inquisition sug-
gest to every educated mind." Nor could Spain
possibly become rich, for, as Mr. Motley con-
tinues, " nearly every law, according to which
the prosperity of a country becomes progressive,
was habitually violated." On turning to the
Netherlands we find the most complete contrast,
both in historical conditions and in social results ;
and the success of the Netherlands in their long
struggle becomes easily intelligible. The Dutch
and Flemish provinces had formed a part of the
renovated Roman Empire of Charles the Great
and the Othos. Taking advantage of the peren-
nial contest for supremacy between the popes
and the Roman emperors, the constituent baro-
nies and municipalities of the Empire succeeded
in acquiring and maintaining a practical though

305

THE UNSEEN WORLD

unrecognized independence ; and this is the
original reason why Italy and Germany, unlike
the three western European communities, have
remained fragmentary until our own time. By
reason of the practical freedom of action thus
secured, the Italian civic republics, the Hanse
towns, and the cities of Holland and Flanders,
were enabled gradually to develop a vast com-
merce. The outlying position of the Nether-
lands, remote from the imperial authorities, and
on the direct line of commerce between Italy
and England, was another and a peculiar advan-
tage. Throughout the Middle Ages the Flemish
and Dutch cities were of considerable political
importance, and in the fifteenth century the
Netherland provinces were the most highly civi-
lized portion of Europe north of the Alps.
For several generations they had enjoyed, and
had known how to maintain, civic liberties, and
when Charles and Philip attempted to fasten
upon them their " peculiar institution," the
Spanish Inquisition, they were ripe for political
as well as theological revolt. Natural laws were
found to operate on the Rhine as well as on the
Tagus, and at the end of the great war of inde-
pendence, Holland was not only better equipped
than Spain for a European conflict, but was rap-
idly ousting her from the East Indian countries
which she had in vain attempted to colonize.
But if we were to take up all the interesting
306

SPAIN AND THE NETHERLANDS

and instructive themes suggested by Mr. Mot-
ley's work, we should never come to an end.
We must pass over the exciting events narrated
in these last volumes ; the victory of Nieuport,
the siege of Ostend, the marvellous career of
Maurice, the surprising exploits of Spinola.
We have attempted not so much to describe
Mr. Motley 's book as to indulge in sundry re-
flections suggested by the perusal of it. But we
cannot close without some remarks upon a great
man, whose character Mr. Motley seems to have
somewhat misconceived.

If Mr. Motley exhibits any serious fault, it
is perhaps the natural tendency to take sides in
the events which he is describing, which some-
times operates as a drawback to complete and
thoroughgoing criticism. With every intention
to do justice to the Catholics, Mr. Motley still
writes as a Protestant, viewing all questions from
the Protestant side. He praises and condemns
like a very fair-minded Huguenot, but still like a
Huguenot. It is for this reason that he fails to
interpret correctly the very complex character
of Henry IV., regarding him as a sort of selfish
renegade whom he cannot quite forgive for ac-
cepting the crown of France at the hands of the
Pope. Now this very action of Henry, in the
eye of an impartial criticism, must seem to be
one of his chief claims to the admiration and
gratitude of posterity. Henry was more than a

307

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mere Huguenot : he was a far-seeing statesman.
He saw clearly what no ruler before him, save
William the Silent, had even dimly discerned,
that not Catholicism and not Protestantism, but
absolute spiritual freedom was the true end to
be aimed at by a righteous leader of opinion.
It was as a Catholic sovereign that he could
be most useful even to his Huguenot subjects ;
and he shaped his course accordingly. It was as
an orthodox sovereign, holding his position by
the general consent of Europe, that he could
best subserve the interests of universal tolera-
tion. This principle he embodied in his admira-
ble edict of Nantes. What a Huguenot prince
might have done, may be seen from the shame-
ful way in which the French Calvinists abused
the favour which Henry — and Richelieu after-
wards — accorded to them. Remembering how
Calvin himself " dragooned " Geneva, let us be
thankful for the fortune which, in one of the
most critical periods of history, raised to the
highest position in Christendom a man who was
something more than a sectarian.

With this brief criticism, we must regretfully
take leave of Mr. Motley's work. Much more
remains to be said about a historical treatise
which is, on the whole, the most valuable and
important one yet produced by an American ;
but we have already exceeded our limits. We
trust that our author will be as successful in the
308

SPAIN AND THE NETHERLANDS

future as he has been in the past ; and that we
shall soon have an opportunity of welcoming
the first instalment of his " History of the
Thirty Years' War."

March, 1868.

3°9

XI
LONGFELLOW'S DANTE1

THE task of a translator is a thankless
one at best. Be he never so skilful
and accurate, be he never so amply
endowed with the divine qualifications of the
poet, it is still questionable if he can ever suc-
ceed in saying satisfactorily with new words that
which has once been inimitably said — said for
all time — with the old words. Psychologically,
there is perhaps nothing more complex than an
elaborate poem. The sources of its effect upon
our minds may be likened to a system of forces
which is in the highest degree unstable ; and
the slightest displacement of phrases, by dis-
turbing the delicate rhythmical equilibrium of
the whole, must inevitably awaken a jarring sen-
sation.2 Matthew Arnold has given us an ex-

1 The Divine Comedy of Dante Alighieri. Translated by
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 3 vols. Boston : Ticknor
& Fields, 1867.

2 As Dante himself observes, " E pero sappia ciascuno, che
nulla cosa per legame musaico armonizzata si puo della sua lo-
quela in altra trasmutare sanza rompere tutta sua dolcezza e
armonia. E questa e la ragione per che Omero non si muto
di greco in latino, come 1' altre scritture che avemo da loro : e

310

LONGFELLOW'S DANTE

cellent series of lectures upon translating Ho-
mer, in which he doubtless succeeds in showing
that some methods of translation are preferable
to others, but in which he proves nothing so
forcibly as that the simplicity and grace, the ra-
pidity, dignity, and fire, of Homer are quite in-
communicable, save by the very words in which
they first found expression. And what is thus
said of Homer will apply to Dante with per-
haps even greater force. With nearly all of Ho-
mer's grandeur and rapidity, though not with
nearly all his simplicity, the poem of Dante
manifests a peculiar intensity of subjective feel-
ing which was foreign to the age of Homer, as
indeed to all pre-Christian antiquity. But con-
cerning this we need not dilate, as it has often
been duly remarked upon, and notably by Car-
lyle in his " Lectures on Hero- Worship." Who
that has once heard the wail of unutterable de-
spair sounding in the line —

" Ahi, dura terra, perche non t' apristi ? "
can rest satisfied with the interpretation —

" Ah, obdurate earth, wherefore didst thou not open ? "
Yet this rendering is literally exact.

questa e la ragione per che i versi del Psaltero sono sanza dol-
cezza di musica e dj armonia ; che essi furono trasmutati d' eb-
reo in greco, e di greco in latino, e nella prima trasmutazione
tutta quella dolcezza venne meno." Cenvito, I. 7, Opere
Minori, Tom. III., p. 80. The noble English version of the
Psalms possesses a beauty which is all its own.

311

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A second obstacle, hardly less formidable,
hardly less fatal to a satisfactory translation, is
presented by the highly complicated system of
triple rhyme upon which Dante's poem is con-
structed. This, which must ever be a stumbling-
block to the translator, seems rarely to interfere
with the free and graceful movement of the
original work. The mighty thought of the mas-
ter felt no impediment from the elaborate ar-
tistic panoply which must needs obstruct and
harass the interpretation of the disciple. Dante's
terza rima is a bow of Odysseus which weaker
mortals cannot bend with any amount of tug-
ging, and which Mr. Longfellow has judi-
ciously refrained from trying to bend. Yet no
one can fail to remark the prodigious loss en-
tailed by this necessary sacrifice of one of the
most striking characteristics of the original poem.
Let any one who has duly reflected upon the
strange and subtle effect produced on him by
the peculiar rhyme of Tennyson's "In Memo-
riam," endeavour to realize the very different ef-
fect which would be produced if the verses were
to be alternated or coupled in successive pairs, or
if rhyme were to be abandoned for blank verse.
The exquisite melody of the poem would be
silenced. The rhyme-system of the " Divine
Comedy " refuses equally to be tampered with
or ignored. Its effect upon the ear and the
mind is quite as remarkable as that of the rhyme-
312

LONGFELLOW'S DANTE

system of "In Memoriam;" and the impossi-
bility of reproducing it is one good reason why
Dante must always suffer even more from trans-
lation than most poets.

Something, too, must be said of the difficul-
ties inevitably arising from the diverse structure
and genius of the Italian and English languages.
None will deny that many of them are insur-
mountable. Take the third line of the first
canto, -

" Che la diritta via era smarrita,"

which Mr. Longfellow translates —

" For the straightforward pathway had been lost.*'

Perhaps there is no better word than " lost "
by which to translate smarrita in this place ;
yet the two words are far from equivalent in
force. About the word smarrita there is thrown
a wide penumbra of meaning which does not
belong to the word lost.1 By its diffuse conno-
tations the word smarrita calls up in our minds
an adequate picture of the bewilderment and
perplexity of one who is lost in a trackless
forest. The high-road without, beaten hard by
incessant overpassing of men and beasts and
wheeled vehicles, gradually becomes metamor-
phosed into the shady lane, where grass sprouts
up rankly between the ruts, where bushes en-
croach upon the roadside, where fallen trunks
1 See Diez, Romance Dictionary, /. v. "Marrir."

THE UNSEEN WORLD

now and then intercept the traveller ; and this
in turn is lost in crooked by-ways, amid bram-
bles and underbrush and tangled vines, growing
fantastically athwart the path, shooting up on
all sides of the bewildered wanderer, and ren-
dering advance and retreat alike hopeless. No
one who in childhood has wandered alone in
the woods can help feeling all this suggested by
the word smarrita in this passage. How bald
in comparison is the word lost, which might
equally be applied to a pathway, a reputation,
and a pocket-book ! * The English is no doubt
the most copious and variously expressive of
all living languages, yet I doubt if it can fur-
nish any word capable by itself of calling up
the complex images here suggested by smarrita?
And this is but one example, out of many that
might be cited, in which the lack of exact par-
allelism between the two languages employed
causes every translation to suffer.

All these, however, are difficulties which lie
in the nature of things, — difficulties for which
the translator is not responsible; of which he
must try to make the best that can be made,

1 On literally retranslating lost into Italian, we should get
the quite different word perduta.

2 The more flexible method of Dr. Parsons leads to a more
satisfactory but still inadequate result: —

" Half-way on our life's journey, in a wood,
From the right path I found myself astray"

LONGFELLOW'S DANTE

but which he can never expect wholly to sur-
mount. We have now to inquire whether there
are not other difficulties, avoidable by one
method of translation, though not by another;
and in criticising Mr. Longfellow, we have
chiefly to ask whether he has chosen the best
method of translation, — that which most surely
and readily awakens in the reader's mind the
ideas and feelings awakened by the original.

The translator of a poem may proceed upon
either of two distinct principles. In the first
case, he may render the text of his original into
English, line for line and word for word, pre-
serving as far as possible its exact verbal se-
quences, and translating each individual word
into an English word as nearly as possible
equivalent in its etymological force. In the
second case, disregarding mere syntactic and
etymologic equivalence, his aim will be to re-
produce the inner meaning and power of the
original, so far as the constitutional difference
of the two languages will permit him.

It is the first of these methods that Mr.
Longfellow has followed in his translation of
Dante. Fidelity to the text of the original has
been his guiding principle ; and every one must
admit that, in carrying out that principle, he
has achieved a degree of success alike delightful
and surprising. The method of literal transla-
tion is not likely to receive any more splendid
315

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illustration. It is indeed put to the test in such
a way that the shortcomings now to be noticed
bear not upon Mr. Longfellow's own style of
work so much as upon the method itself with
which they are necessarily implicated. These
defects are, first, the too frequent use of syn-
tactic inversion, and secondly, the too manifest
preference extended to words of Romanic over
words of Saxon origin.

To illustrate the first point, let me give a few
examples. In Canto I. we have : —
" So bitter is it, death is little more ;
But of the good to treat which there I found,
Speak will I of the other things I saw there ; "

which is thus rendered by Mr. Gary, —

" Which to remember only, my dismay
Renews, in bitterness not far from death.
Yet to discourse of what there good befell,
All else will I relate discovered there ; "

and by Dr. Parsons, —

" Its very thought is almost death to me ;
Yet, having found some good there, I will tell
Of other things which there I chanced to see." l

Again in Canto X. we find : —

" Their cemetery have upon this side
With Epicurus all his followers,
Who with the body mortal make the soul ; ' ' —

1 "Tanto e amara, che poco e piu morte :
Ma per trattar del ben ch' i' vi trovai,
Diro delP altre cose, ch* io v' ho scorte."

Infer no y I. 7-10.

LONGFELLOW'S DANTE

an inversion which is perhaps not more unidio-

matic than Mr. Gary's, —

" The cemetery on this part obtain
With Epicurus all his followers,
Who with the body make the spirit die ; "

but which is advantageously avoided by Mr.

Wright,—

" Here Epicurus hath his fiery tomb,

And with him all his followers, who maintain
That soul and body share one common doom ; "

and is still better rendered by Dr. Parsons, —
" Here in their cemetery on this side,
With his whole sect, is Epicurus pent,
Who thought the spirit with its body died." 1

And here my eyes, reverting to the end of
Canto IX., fall upon a similar contrast between
Mr. Longfellow's lines, —

" For flames between the sepulchres were scattered,
By which they so intensely heated were,
That iron more so asks not any art," —

and those of Dr. Parsons, —

" For here mid sepulchres were sprinkled fires,

Wherewith the enkindled tombs all-burning gleamed ;
Metal more fiercely hot no art requires." 2

1 " Suo cimitero da questa parte hanno
Con Epicuro tutti i suoi seguaci,
Che T anima col corpo morta fanno."

Inferno, X. 13-15.

a " Che tra gli avelli fiamme erano sparte,
Per le quali eran si del tutto accesi,
Che ferro piu non chiede verun' arte."

Inferno, YK. 118-120.

31?

THE UNSEEN WORLD

Does it not seem that in all these cases Mr.
Longfellow, and to a slightly less extent Mr.
Gary, by their strict adherence to the letter,
transgress the ordinary rules of English con-
struction ; and that Dr. Parsons, by his compar-
ative freedom of movement, produces better
poetry as well as better English? In the last
example especially, Mr. Longfellow's inversions
are so violent that to a reader ignorant of the
original Italian, his sentence might be hardly
intelligible. In Italian such inversions are per-
missible ; in English they are not ; and Mr.
Longfellow, by transplanting them into English,
sacrifices the spirit to the letter, and creates an
obscurity in the translation where all is lucidity
in the original. Does not this show that the
theory of absolute literality, in the case of two
languages so widely different as English and
Italian, is not the true one ?

Secondly, Mr. Longfellow's theory of trans-
lation leads him in most cases to choose words
of Romanic origin in preference to those of
Saxon descent, and in many cases to choose an
unfamiliar instead of a familiar Romanic word,
because the former happens to be etymologi-
cally identical with the word in the original. Let
me cite as an example the opening of Canto III. :

" Per me si va nella citta dolente,
Per me si va nelF eterno dolore,
Per me si va tra la perduta gente."

318

LONGFELLOW'S DANTE

Here are three lines which, in their matchless
simplicity and grandeur, might well excite de-
spair in the breast of any translator. Let us
contrast Mr. Longfellow's version, —

" Through me the way is to the city dolent ;
Through me the way is to eternal dole ;
Through me the way among the people lost," —

with that of Dr. Parsons, —

" Through me you reach the city of despair ;
Through me eternal wretchedness ye find ;
Through me among perdition's race ye fare."

I do not think any one will deny that Dr. Par-
sons's version, while far more remote than Mr.
Longfellow's from the diction of the original, is
somewhat nearer its spirit. It remains to seek
the explanation of this phenomenon. It remains
to be seen why words the exact counterpart of
Dante's are unfit to call up in our minds the
feelings which Dante's own words call up in the
mind of an Italian. And this inquiry leads to
some general considerations respecting the re-
lation of English to other European languages.
Every one is aware that French poetry, as
compared with German poetry, seems to the
English reader very tame and insipid ; but the
cause of this fact is by no means so apparent
as the fact itself. That the poetry of Germany
is actually and intrinsically superior to that of
France may readily be admitted ; but this is not
enough to account for all the circumstances of
319

THE UNSEEN WORLD

the case. It does not explain why some of the
very passages in Corneille and Racine, which to
us appear dull and prosaic, are to the French-
man's apprehension instinct with poetic fervour.
It does not explain the undoubted fact that we,
who speak English, are prone to underrate
French poetry, while we are equally disposed to
render to German poetry even more than its due
share of merit. The reason is to be sought in
the verbal associations established in our minds
by the. peculiar composition of the English lan-
guage. Our vocabulary is chiefly made up on
the one hand of indigenous Saxon words, and
on the other hand of words derived from Latin
or French. It is mostly words of the first class
that we learn in childhood, and that are associ-
ated with our homeliest and deepest emotions ;
while words of the second class — usually ac-
quired somewhat later in life and employed in
sedate abstract discourse — have an intellectual
rather than an emotional function to fulfil.
Their original significations, the physical meta-
phors involved in them, which are perhaps still
somewhat apparent to the Frenchman, are to us
wholly non-existent. Nothing but the deriva-
tive or metaphysical signification remains. No
physical image of a man stepping over a boun-
dary is presented to our minds by the word
transgress, nor in using the word comprehension
do we picture to ourselves any manual act of
320

LONGFELLOW'S DANTE

grasping. It is to this double structure of the
English language that it owes its superiority
over every other tongue, ancient or modern, for
philosophical and scientific purposes. Albeit
there are numerous exceptions, it may still be
safely said, in a general way, that we possess and
habitually use two kinds of language, — one that
is physical, for our ordinary purposes, and one
that is metaphysical, for purposes of abstract
reasoning and discussion. We do not say, like
the Germans, that we " begripe " (begreifen) an
idea, but we say that we " conceive " it. We
use a word which once had the very same ma-
terial meaning as begreifen, but which has in our
language utterly lost it. We are accordingly
able to carry on philosophical inquiries by
means of words which are nearly or quite free
from those shadows of original concrete mean-
ing which, in German, too often obscure the ac-
quired abstract signification. Whoever has dealt
in English and German metaphysics will not
fail to recognize the prodigious superiority of
English in force and perspicuity, arising mainly
from the causes here stated. But while this
homogeneity of structure in German injures it
for philosophical purposes, it is the very thing
which makes it so excellent as an organ for poet-
ical expression, in the opinion of those who
speak English. German being nearly allied to
Anglo-Saxon, not only do its simple words
321

THE UNSEEN WORLD

strike us with all the force of our own homely
Saxon terms, but its compounds also, preserving
their physical significations almost unimpaired,
call up in our minds concrete images of the
greatest definiteness and liveliness. It is thus
that German seems to us pre-eminently a poet-
ical language, and it is thus that we are natu-
rally inclined to overrate rather than to depre-
ciate the poetry that is written in it.

With regard to French, the case is just the
reverse. The Frenchman has no Saxon words,
but he has, on the other hand, an indigenous
stock of Latin words, which he learns in early
childhood, which give outlet to his most inti-
mate feelings, and which retain to some extent
their primitive concrete picturesqueness. They
are to him just as good as our Saxon words are
to us. Though cold and merely intellectual to
us, they are to him warm with emotion ; and
this is one reason why we cannot do justice to
his poetry, or appreciate it as he appreciates it.
To make this perfectly clear, let us take two or
three lines from Shakespeare : —

" Blow, blow, thou winter wind !
Thou art not so unkind
As man's ingratitude.
Thy tooth is not so keen," etc., etc. ;

which I have somewhere seen thus rendered
into French : —

322

LONGFELLOW'S DANTE

«« Souffle, souffle, vent d'hiver !
Tu n'es pas si cruel
Que Pingratitude de Phomme.
Ta dent n'est pas si penetrante," etc., etc.

Why are we inclined to laugh as we read this?
Because it excites in us an undercurrent of con-
sciousness which, if put into words, might run
something like this : —

" Insufflate, insufflate, wind hibernal !
Thou art not so cruel
As human ingratitude.
Thy dentition is not so penetrating," etc., etc.

No such effect would be produced upon a
Frenchman. The translation would strike him
as excellent, which it really is. The last line in
particular would seem poetical to us, did we not
happen to have in our language words closely
akin to dent and -penetrante^ and familiarly em-
ployed in senses that are not poetical.

Applying these considerations to Mr. Long-
fellow's choice of words in his translation of
Dante, we see at once the unsoundness of the
principle that Italian words should be rendered
by their Romanic equivalents in English.
Words that are etymologically identical with
those in the original are often, for that very
reason, the worst words that could be used.
They are harsh and foreign to the English ear,
however homelike and musical they may be to
the ear of an Italian. Their connotations are

THE UNSEEN WORLD

unlike in the two languages ; and the transla-
tion which is made literally exact by using them
is at the same time made actually inaccurate, or
at least inadequate. Dole and dolent are doubt-
less the exact counterparts of dolore and dolentey
so far as mere etymology can go. But when we
consider the effect that is to be produced upon
the mind of the reader, wretchedness and despair-
ing are far better equivalents. The former may
compel our intellectual assent, but the latter
awaken our emotional sympathy.

Doubtless by long familiarity with the Ro-
manic languages, the scholar becomes to a great
degree emancipated from the conditions imposed
upon him by the peculiar composition of his
native English. The concrete significance of
the Romanic words becomes apparent to him,
and they acquire energy and vitality. The ex-
pression dolent may thus satisfy the student
familiar with Italian, because it calls up in his
mind, through the medium of its equivalent
dolente, the same associations which the latter
calls up in the mind of the Italian himself.1
But this power of appreciating thoroughly the
beauties of a foreign tongue is in the last degree

1 A consummate Italian scholar, the delicacy of whose
taste is questioned by no one, and whose knowledge of
Dante's diction is probably not inferior to Mr. Longfellow's,
has told me that he regards the expression as a noble and
effective one, full of dignity and solemnity.

LONGFELLOW'S DANTE

an acquired taste, — as much so as the taste for
olives and kirschenwasser to the carnal palate.
It is only by long and profound study that we
can thus temporarily vest ourselves, so to speak,
with a French or Italian consciousness in ex-
change for our English one. The literary epi-
cure may keenly relish such epithets as dolent ;
but the common English reader, who loves
plain fare, can hardly fail to be startled by it.
To him it savours of the grotesque ; and if
there is any one thing especially to be avoided
in the interpretation of Dante, it is grotesque-
ness.

Those who have read over Dante without
reading into him, and those who have derived
their impressions of his poem from M. Dore's
memorable illustrations, will here probably
demur. What ! Dante not grotesque ! That
funnel-shaped structure of the infernal pit ;
Minos passing sentence on the damned by coil-
ing his tail ; Charon beating the lagging shades
with his oar ; Antaios picking up the poets with
his fingers and lowering them in the hollow of
his hand into the Ninth Circle ; Satan crunch-
ing in his monstrous jaws the arch-traitors,
Judas, Brutus, and Cassius ; Ugolino appeasing
his famine upon the tough nape of Ruggieri ;
Bertrand de Born looking (if I may be allowed
the expression) at his own dissevered head ; the
robbers exchanging form with serpents ; the

THE UNSEEN WORLD

whole demoniac troop of Malebolge, — are
not all these things grotesque beyond every-
thing else in poetry ? To us, nurtured in this
scientific nineteenth century, they doubtless
seem so ; and by Leigh Hunt, who had the
eighteenth-century way of appreciating other
ages than his own, they were uniformly treated
as such. To us they are at first sight grotesque,
because they are no longer real to us. We have
ceased to believe in such things, and they no
longer awaken any feeling akin to terror. But
in the thirteenth century, in the minds of
Dante and his readers, they were living, terrible
realities. That Dante believed literally in all
this unearthly world, and described it with such
wonderful minuteness because he believed in it,
admits of little doubt. As he walked the streets
of Verona the people whispered, " See, there is
the man who has been in hell ! " Truly, he
had been in hell, and described it as he had seen
it, with the keen eyes of imagination and faith.
With all its weird unearthliness, there is hardly
another book in the whole range of human lit-
erature which is marked with such unswerving
veracity as the " Divine Comedy." Nothing is
there set down arbitrarily, out of wanton caprice
or for the sake of poetic effect, but because to
Dante's imagination it had so imposingly shown
itself that he could not but describe it as he saw
it. In reading his cantos we forget the poet,
326

LONGFELLOW'S DANTE

and have before us only the veracious traveller
in strange realms, from whom the shrewdest
cross-examination can elicit but one consistent
account. To his mind, and to the mediaeval mind
generally, this outer kingdom, with its wards
of Despair, Expiation, and Beatitude, was as
real as the Holy Roman Empire itself. Its ex-
traordinary phenomena were not to be looked
on with critical eyes and called grotesque, but
were to be seen with eyes of faith, and to be
worshipped, loved, or shuddered at. Rightly
viewed, therefore, the poem of Dante is not
grotesque, but unspeakably awful and solemn;
and the statement is justified that all grotesque-
ness and bizarrerie in its interpretation is to be
sedulously avoided.

Therefore, while acknowledging the accuracy
with which Mr. Longfellow has kept pace with
his original through line after line, following
the " footing of its feet," according to the motto
quoted on his title-page, I cannot but think that
his accuracy would have been of a somewhat
higher kind if he had now and then allowed
himself a little more liberty of choice between
English and Romanic words and idioms.

A few examples will perhaps serve to
strengthen as well as to elucidate still further
this position.

" Inferno," Canto III., line 22, according to
Longfellow : —

327

THE UNSEEN WORLD

" There sighs, complaints, and ululations loud
Resounded through the air without a star,
Whence I at the beginning wept thereat."

According to Gary : —

" Here sighs, with lamentations and loud moans

Resounded through the air pierced by no star,

That e'en I wept at entering."

According to Parsons : —

" Mid sighs, laments, and hollow howls of woe,
Which, loud resounding through the starless air,
Forced tears of pity from mine eyes at first." 1

Canto V., line 84 : —

LONGFELLOW. — " Fly through the air by their volition

borne."

GARY. — " Cleave the air, wafted by their will along."
PARSONS. — " Sped ever onward by their wish alone." 2

Canto XVII., line 42 : —

LONGFELLOW. — " That he concede to us his stalwart shoul-
ders."
GARY. — " That to us he may vouchsafe

The aid of his strong shoulders."
PARSONS. — " And ask for us his shoulders' strong support.

Canto XVI I., line 25: —

LONGFELLOW. — " His tail was wholly quivering in the void,
Contorting upwards the envenomed fork
That in the guise of scorpion armed its
point. ' '

1 " Quivi sospiri, pianti ed alti guai
Risonavan per 1* aer senza stelle,
Perch' io al cominciar ne lagrimai."
? " Volan per 1' aer dal voler portate."
* " Che ne conceda i suoi omeri ford."

328

LONGFELLOW'S DANTE

CARY. — "In the void

Glancing, his tail upturned its venomous fork,
With sting like scorpions armed."

PARSONS. — "In the void chasm his trembling tail he showed,
As up the envenomed, forked point he swung,
Which, as in scorpions, armed its tapering
end." i

Canto V., line 51 : —

LONGFELLOW. — " People whom the black air so castigates."
GARY. — "By the black air so scourged." 2

Line 136 : —

LONGFELLOW. — " Kissed me upon the mouth all palpitat-
ing."
GARY. — " My lips all trembling kissed." 8

" Purgatorio," Canto XV., line 139 : —

LONGFELLOW. — " We passed along, athwart the twilight

peering

Forward as far as ever eye could stretch
Against the sunbeams serotine and lucent " *

Mr. Cary's " bright vespertine ray " is only a
trifle better ; but Mr. Wright's " splendour of
the evening ray " is, in its simplicity, far prefer-
able.

Canto XXXI., line 131 : —

1 tt Nei vano tutta sua coda guizzava,

Torcendo in su la venenosa forca,

Che, a guisa di scorpion, la punta armava."

2 " Genti che P aura nera si gastiga."

8 "La bocca mi bacio tutto tremante."
4 " Noi andavam per lo vespero attenti

Oltre, quanto potean gli occhi allungarsi,

Contra i raggi serotini e lucenti."

329

THE UNSEEN WORLD

LONGFELLOW. — " Did the other three advance

Singing to their angelic saraband"
CARY. — " To their own carol on they came

Dancing, in festive ring angelical."
WRIGHT. — " And songs accompanied their angel dance."

Here Mr. Longfellow has apparently fol-
lowed the authority of the Crusca, reading
" Cantando al loro angelico carribo,"

and translating carribo by saraband, a kind of
Moorish dance. The best manuscripts, how-
ever, sanction M. Witte's reading : —
" Danzando al loro angelico carribo."

If this be correct, carribo cannot signify " a
dance," but rather "the song which accom-
panies the dance ; " and the true sense of the
passage will have been best rendered by Mr.
Gary.1

Whenever Mr. Longfellow's translation is
kept free from oddities of diction and construc-
tion, it is very animated and vigorous. No-
thing can be finer than his rendering of " Pur-
gatorio," Canto VI., lines 97-117 : —

" O German Albert ! who abandonest

Her that has grown recalcitrant and savage,
And oughtest to bestride her saddle-bow,
May a just judgment from the stars down fall
Upon thy blood, and be it new and open,
That thy successor may have fear thereof :
Because thy father and thyself have suffered,

By greed of those transalpine lands distrained,
1 See Blanc, Vocabolario Dantesco, s. v. " caribo."

330

LONGFELLOW'S DANTE

The garden of the empire to be waste.
Come and behold Montecchi and Cappelletti,

Monaldi and Filippeschi, careless man !

Those sad already, and these doubt-depressed !
Come, cruel one ! come and behold the oppression

Of thy nobility, and cure their wounds,

And thou shalt see how safe [?] is Santafiore.
Come and behold thy Rome that is lamenting,

Widowed, alone, and day and night exclaims

« My Caesar, why hast thou forsaken me ? '
Come and behold how loving are the people ;

And if for us no pity moveth thee,

Come and be made ashamed of thy renown." *

" O Alberto Tedesco, che abbandoni

Costei ch' e fatta indomita e selvaggia,
E dovresti inforcar li suoi arcioni,

Giusto giudizio dalle stelle caggia
Sopra il tuo sangue, e sia nuovo ed aperto,
Tal che il tuo successor temenza n' aggia :

Che avete tu e il tuo padre sofFerto,
Per cupidigia di costa distretti,
Che il giardin dell' imperio sia diserto.

Vieni a veder Montecchi e Cappelletti,
Monaldi e Filippeschi, uom senza cura :
Color gia tristi, e questi con sospetti.

Vien, crudel, vieni, e vedi la pressura
De' tuoi gentili, e cura lor magagne,
E vedrai Santafior com* e oscura [secura ? ].

Vieni a veder la tua Roma che piagne,
Vedova e sola, e di e notte chiama :
Cesare mio, perche non mj accompagne ?

Vieni a veder la gente quanto s* ama ;
E se nulla di noi pieta ti move,
A vergognar ti vien della tua fama."

331

THE UNSEEN WORLD
So, too, Canto III., lines 79-84 : —

" As sheep come issuing forth from out the fold

By ones, and twos, and threes, and the others stand
Timidly holding down their eyes and nostrils,
And what the foremost does the others do
Huddling themselves against her if she stop,
Simple and quiet, and the wherefore know not." 1

Francesca's exclamation to Dante is thus
rendered by Mr. Longfellow : —

" And she to me : There is no greater sorrow
Than to be mindful of the happy time
In misery." 2

This is admirable, — full of the true poetic
glow, which would have been utterly quenched
if some Romanic equivalent of do lore had been
used instead of our good Saxon sorrow? So,
too, the " Paradiso," Canto I., line 100 : —

1 " Come le pecorelle escon del chiuso

Ad una, a due, a tre, e 1' altre stanno
Timidette atterrando P occhio e il muso ;
E cio che fa la prima, e 1' altre fanno,
Addossandosi a lei sj ella s* arresta,
Semplipi e quete, e lo 'mperche non sanno."

2 " Ed ella a me : Nessun maggior dolore

Che ricordarsi del tempo felice

Nella miseria. * ' Inferno, V. 121-123.

8 Yet admirable as it is, I am not quite sure that Dr.
Parsons, by taking further liberty with the original, has not
surpassed it : —

" And she to me : The mightiest of all woes
Is in the midst of misery to be cursed
With bliss remembered."

332

LONGFELLOW'S DANTE

" Whereupon she, after a pitying sigh,
Her eyes directed toward me with that look
A mother casts on a delirious child. ' ' 1

And finally the beginning of the eighth canto

of the " Purgatorio : " —

" 'T was now the hour that turneth back desire

In those who sail the sea, and melts the heart,
The day they *ve said to their sweet friends farewell ;
And the new pilgrim penetrates with love,
If he doth hear from far away a bell
That seemeth to deplore the dying day." 2

This passage affords an excellent example of
what the method of literal translation can do
at its best. Except in the second line, where
" those who sail the sea " is wisely preferred to
any Romanic equivalent of navigantiy the ver-
sion is utterly literal ; as literal as the one the
school-boy makes, when he opens his Virgil
at the Fourth Eclogue, and lumberingly reads,
" Sicilian Muses, let us sing things a little
greater." But there is nothing clumsy, nothing
which smacks of the recitation-room, in these
lines of Mr. Longfellow. For easy grace and

1 " Ond' ella, appresso d' un pio sospiro,

Gli occhi drizzo ver me con quel sembiante,
Che madre fa sopra figliuol deliro."

2 " Era gia 1' ora che volge il disio

Ai naviganti, e intenerisce il core
Lo di ch' han detto ai dolci amici addlo ;
E che lo nuovo peregrin d' amore
Punge, se ode squilla di lontano,
Che paia il giorno pianger che si more."

333

THE UNSEEN WORLD

exquisite beauty it would be difficult to surpass
them. They may well bear comparison with
the beautiful lines into which Lord Byron has
rendered the same thought : —
" Soft hour which wakes the wish, and melts the heart,

Of those who sail the seas, on the first day
When they from their sweet friends are torn apart ;

Or fills with love the pilgrim on his way,
As the far bell of vesper makes him start,
Seeming to weep the dying day's decay.
Is this a fancy which our reason scorns ?
Ah, surely nothing dies but something mourns ! ' ' 1

Setting aside the concluding sentimental gener-
alization,— which is much more Byronic than
Dantesque, — one hardly knows which version
to call more truly poetical ; but for a faithful
rendering of the original conception one can
hardly hesitate to give the palm to Mr. Long-
fellow.

Thus we see what may be achieved by the
most highly gifted of translators who contents
himself with passively reproducing the diction
of his original, who constitutes himself, as it
were, a conduit through which the meaning of
the original may flow. Where the differences
inherent in the languages employed do not in-
tervene to alloy the result, the stream of the
original may, as in the verses just cited, come
out pure and unweakened. Too often, how-
ever, such is the subtle chemistry of thought,
1 Don Juan, III. 108.

334

LONGFELLOW'S DANTE

it will come out diminished in its integrity, or
will appear, bereft of its primitive properties, as
a mere element in some new combination. Our
channel is a trifle too alkaline perhaps ; and
that the transferred material may preserve its
pleasant sharpness, we may need to throw in a
little extra acid. Too often the mere differ-
ences between English and Italian prevent
Dante's expressions from coming out in Mr.
Longfellow's version so pure and unimpaired
as in the instance just cited. But these differ-
ences cannot be ignored. They lie deep in the
very structure of human speech, and are nar-
rowly implicated with equally profound nuances
in the composition of human thought. The
causes which make dolente a solemn word to the
Italian ear, and dolent a queer word to the Eng-
lish ear, are causes which have been slowly op-
erating ever since the Italican and the Teuton
parted company on their way from Central
Asia. They have brought about a state of
things which no cunning of the translator can
essentially alter, but to the emergencies of which
he must graciously conform his proceedings.
Here, then, is the sole point on which we dis-
agree with Mr. Longfellow, the sole reason we
have for thinking that he has not attained the
fullest possible measure of success. Not that he
has made a " realistic " translation, — so far we
conceive him to be entirely right ; but that,

335

THE UNSEEN WORLD

by dint of pushing sheer literalism beyond its
proper limits, he has too often failed to be
truly realistic. Let us here explain what is
meant by realistic translation.

Every thoroughly conceived and adequately
executed translation of an ancient author must
be founded upon some conscious theory or
some unconscious instinct of literary criticism.
As is the critical spirit of an age, so among
other things will be its translations. Now the
critical spirit of every age previous to our own
has been characterized by its inability to appre-
ciate sympathetically the spirit of past and by-
gone times. In the seventeenth century criti-
cism made idols of its ancient models ; it ac-
knowledged no serious imperfections in them ;
it set them up as exemplars for the present and
all future times to copy. Let the genial Epi-
curean henceforth write like Horace, let the
epic narrator imitate the supreme elegance of
Virgil, — that was the conspicuous idea, the
conspicuous error, of seventeenth-century criti-
cism. It overlooked the differences between
one age and another. Conversely, when it
brought Roman patricians and Greek oligarchs
on to the stage, it made them behave like
French courtiers or Castilian grandees or Eng-
lish peers. When it had to deal with ancient
heroes, it clothed them in the garb and imputed
to them the sentiments of knights-errant. Then

336

LONGFELLOW'S DANTE

came the revolutionary criticism of the eigh-
teenth century, which assumed that everything
old was wrong, while everything new was right.
It recognized crudely the differences between
one age and another, but it had a way of look-
ing down upon all ages except the present.
This intolerance shown towards the past was
indeed a measure of the crudeness with which
it was comprehended. Because Mohammed,
if he had done what he did, in France and in
the eighteenth century, would have been called
an impostor, Voltaire, the great mouthpiece and
representative of this style of criticism, por-
trays him as an impostor. Recognition of the
fact that different ages are different, together
with inability to perceive that they ought to be
different, that their differences lie in the nature of
progress, — this was the prominent characteristic
of eighteenth-century criticism. Of all the great
men of that century, Lessing was perhaps the
only one who outgrew this narrow critical habit.
Now nineteenth-century criticism not only
knows that in no preceding age have men
thought and behaved as they now think and
behave, but it also understands that old-fash-
ioned thinking and behaviour was in its way
just as natural and sensible as that which is now
new-fashioned. It does not flippantly sneer at
an ancient custom because we no longer cherish
it ; but with an enlightened regard for every-

337

THE UNSEEN WORLD

thing human, it inquires into its origin, traces
its effects, and endeavours to explain its decay.
It is slow to characterize Mohammed as an im-
postor, because it has come to feel that Arabia
in the seventh century is one thing and Europe
in the nineteenth another. It is scrupulous
about branding Caesar as an usurper, because it
has discovered that what Mr. Mill calls repub-
lican liberty and what Cicero called republican
liberty are widely different notions. It does
not tell us to bow down before Lucretius and
Virgil as unapproachable models, while lament-
ing our own hopeless inferiority ; nor does it
tell us to set them down as half-skilled appren-
tices, while congratulating ourselves on our own
comfortable superiority ; but it tells us to study
them as the exponents of an age forever gone,
from which we have still many lessons to learn,
though we no longer think as it thought or
feel as it felt. The eighteenth century, as re-
presented by the characteristic passage from
Voltaire, cited by Mr. Longfellow, failed ut-
terly to understand Dante. To the minds of
Voltaire and his contemporaries the great medi-
aeval poet was little else than a Titanic mon-
strosity, — a maniac, whose ravings found
rhythmical expression ; his poem a grotesque
medley, wherein a few beautiful verses were
buried under the weight of whole cantos of non-
sensical scholastic quibbling. This view, some-

338

LONGFELLOW'S DANTE

what softened, we find also in Leigh Hunt,
whose whole account of Dante is an excellent
specimen of this sort of criticism. Mr. Hunt's
fine moral nature was shocked and horrified
by the terrible punishments described in the
" Inferno." He did not duly consider that in
Dante's time these fearful things were an indis-
pensable part of every man's theory of the
world ; and, blinded by his kindly prejudices,
he does not seem to have perceived that Dante,
in accepting eternal torments as part and parcel
of the system of nature, was nevertheless, in
describing them, inspired with that ineffable
tenderness of pity which, in the episodes of
Francesca and of Brunetto Latini, has melted the
hearts of men in past times, and will continue
to do so in times to come. " Infinite pity, yet
infinite rigour of law ! It is so Nature is made :
it is so Dante discerned that she was made." *
This remark of the great seer of our time is
what the eighteenth century could in no wise
comprehend. The men of that day failed to
appreciate Dante, just as they were oppressed
or disgusted at the sight of Gothic architecture ;
just as they pronounced the scholastic philoso-
phy an unmeaning jargon ; just as they consid-
ered mediaeval Christianity a gigantic system
of charlatanry, and were wont unreservedly to
characterize the Papacy as a blighting despotism.
1 Carlyle, Heroes and Hero- Worship, p. 84.

339

THE UNSEEN WORLD

In our time cultivated men think differently.
We have learned that the interminable hair-
splitting of Aquinas and Abelard has added
precision to modern thinking.1 We do not
curse Gregory VII. and Innocent III. as ene-
mies of the human race, but revere them as
benefactors. We can spare a morsel of hearty
admiration for Becket, however strongly we
may sympathize with the stalwart king who
did penance for his foul murder ; and we can
appreciate Dante's poor opinion of Philip the
Fair no less than his denunciation of Boniface
VIII. The contemplation of Gothic archi-
tecture, as we stand entranced in the sublime
cathedrals of York or Rouen, awakens in our
breasts a genuine response to the mighty aspira-
tions which thus became incarnate in enduring
stone. And the poem of Dante — which has
been well likened to a great cathedral — we
reverently accept, with all its quaint carvings
and hieroglyphic symbols, as the authentic ut-
terance of feelings which still exist, though they
no longer choose the same form of expression.

A century ago, therefore, a translation of
Dante such as Mr. Longfellow's would have
been impossible. The criticism of that time
was in no mood for realistic reproductions of
the antique. It either superciliously neglected
the antique, or else dressed it up to suit its

1 See my Outlines of Cosmic Philosophy, part i., chap. v.
340

LONGFELLOW'S DANTE

own notions of propriety. It was not like a
seven-league boot which could fit everybody,
but it was like a Procrustes-bed which every-
body must be made to fit. Its great exponent
was not a Sainte-Beuve, but a Boileau. Its
typical sample of a reproduction of the antique
was Pope's translation of the Iliad. That
book, we presume, everybody has read; and
many of those who have read it know that,
though an excellent and spirited poem, it is no
more Homer than the age of Queen Anne was
the age of Peisistratos. Of the translations of
Dante made during this period, the chief was
unquestionably Mr. Gary's.1 For a man born
and brought up in the most unpoetical of
centuries, Mr. Gary certainly made a very
good poem, though not so good as Pope's.
But it fell far short of being a reproduction of
Dante. The eighteenth-century note rings out
loudly on every page of it. Like much other
poetry of the time, it is laboured and artificial.
Its sentences are often involved and occasion-
ally obscure. Take, for instance, Canto IV.
25-36 of the " Paradiso : " —

" These are the questions which they will
Urge equally ; and therefore I the first
Of that will treat which hath the more of gall.
Of seraphim he who is most enskied,

1 This work comes at the end of the eighteenth-century
period, as Pope's translation of Homer comes at the beginning.

341

THE UNSEEN WORLD

Moses, and Samuel, and either John,

Choose which thou wilt, nor even Mary's self,

Have not in any other heaven their seats,

Than have those spirits which so late thou saw'st ;

Nor more or fewer years exist ; but all

Make the first circle beauteous, diversely

Partaking of sweet life, as more or less

Afflation of eternal bliss pervades them."

Here Mr. Gary not only fails to catch
Dante's grand style ; he does not even write a
style at all. It is too constrained and awkward
to be dignified, and dignity is an indispen-
sable element of style. Without dignity we
may write clearly, or nervously, or racily, but
we have not attained to a style. This is the
second shortcoming of Mr. Gary's translation.
Like Pope's, it fails to catch the grand style
of its original. Unlike Pope's, it frequently
fails to exhibit any style.

It is hardly necessary to spend much time
in proving that Mr. Longfellow's version is
far superior to Mr. Gary's. It is usually easy
and flowing, and save in the occasional use
of violent inversions, always dignified. Some-
times, as in the episode of Ugolino, it even
rises to something like the grandeur of the
original : —

" When he had said this, with his eyes distorted,
The wretched skull resumed he with his teeth,
Which, as a dog's, upon the bone were strong." 1

1 " Quand' ebbe detto cio, con gli occhi torti
342

LONGFELLOW'S DANTE

That is in the grand style, and so is the
following, which describes those sinners locked
in the frozen lake below Malebolge : —

" Weeping itself there does not let them weep,
And grief that finds a barrier in the eyes
Turns itself inward to increase the anguish.'* *

And the exclamation of one of these poor
" wretches of the frozen crust " is an exclama-
tion that Shakespeare might have written : —

" Lift from mine eyes the rigid veils, that I

May vent the sorrow which impregns my heart." 2

There is nothing in Mr. Gary's translation
which can stand a comparison with that. The
eighteenth century could not translate like that.
For here at last we have a real reproduction
of the antique. In the Shakespearian ring of
these lines we recognize the authentic render-
ing of the tones of the only man since the
Christian era who could speak like Shake-
speare.

Riprese il teschio misero coi denti,

Che furo alP osso, come d* un can, forti."

Inferno, XXXIII. 76.

1 " Lo pianto stesso li pianger non lascia,

E il duol, che trova in sugli occhi rintoppo,
Si volve in entro a far crescer P ambascia."

Ib., 94.

2 " Levatemi dal viso i duri veli,

Si ch' io sfoghi il dolor che il cor m' impregna."

Ib., 112.

343

THE UNSEEN WORLD

In this way Mr. Longfellow's translation is,
to an eminent degree, realistic. It is a work
conceived and executed in entire accordance
with the spirit of our time. Mr. Longfellow
has set about making a reconstructive trans-
lation, and he has succeeded in the attempt.
In view of what he has done, no one can ever
wish to see the old methods of Pope and Gary
again resorted to. It is only where he fails to
be truly realistic that he comes short of success.
And, as already hinted, it is oftenest through
sheer excess of literalism that he ceases to be
realistic, and departs from the spirit of his
author instead of coming nearer to it. In the
" Paradiso," Canto X. 1-6, his method leads
him into awkwardness : —

" Looking into His Son with all the love
Which each of them eternally breathes forth,
The primal and unutterable Power
Whatever before the mind or eye revolves
With so much order made, there can be none
Who this beholds without enjoying Him."

This seems clumsy and halting, yet it is an
extremely literal paraphrase of a graceful and
flowing original : —

" Guardando nel suo figlio con 1* amore

Che 1* uno e P altro eternalmente spira,
Lo primo ed ineffabile Valore,
Quanto per mente o per loco si gira

Con tanto ordine fe' , ch' esser non puote
Senza gustar di lui chi cio rimira. * '

344

LONGFELLOW'S DANTE

Now to turn a graceful and flowing sentence
into one that is clumsy and halting is certainly
not to reproduce it, no matter how exactly the
separate words are rendered, or how closely
the syntactic constructions match each other.
And this consideration seems conclusive as
against the adequacy of the literalist method.
That method is inadequate, not because it
is too realistic, but because it runs continual
risk of being too verbalistic. It has recently
been applied to the translation of Dante by
Mr. Rossetti, and it has sometimes led him to
write curious verses. For instance, he makes
Francesca say to Dante, —

" O gracious and benignant animal! "

for

" O animal grazioso e benigno ! "

Mr. Longfellow's good taste has prevented his
doing anything like this, yet Mr. Rossetti's
extravagance is due to an unswerving ad-
herence to the very rules by which Mr. Long-
fellow has been guided.

Good taste and poetic genius are, however,
better than the best of rules, and so, after all
said and done, we can only conclude that Mr.
Longfellow has given us a great and noble
work not likely soon to be equalled. Leopardi
somewhere, in speaking of the early Italian
translators of the classics and their well-earned
popularity, says, Who knows but Caro will

345

THE UNSEEN WORLD

live in men's remembrance as long as Virgil ?
" La belle destinee," adds Sainte-Beuve, " de
ne pouvoir plus mourir, sinon avec un im-
mortel ! " Apart from Mr. Longfellow's other
titles to undying fame, such a destiny is surely
marked out for him, and throughout the Eng-
lish portions of the world his name will always
be associated with that of the great Florentine.

June, 1867.

346

XII
PAINE'S "ST. PETER"

FOR music-lovers in America the great
event of the season has been the per-
formance of Mr. Paine's oratorio, " St.
Peter," at Portland, June 3. This event is
important, not only as the first appearance of
an American oratorio, but also as the first
direct proof we have had of the existence of
creative musical genius in this country. For
Mr. Paine's Mass in D — a work which was
brought out with great success several years
ago in Berlin — has, for some reason or other,
never been performed here. And, with the
exception of Mr. Paine, we know of no Ameri-
can hitherto who has shown either the genius
or the culture requisite for writing music in
the grand style, although there is some of the
Kapellmeister music, written by our leading
organists and choristers, which deserves hon-
ourable mention. Concerning the rank likely
to be assigned by posterity to " St. Peter," it
would be foolish now to speculate ; and it
would be equally unwise to bring it into di-
rect comparison with masterpieces like the
347

THE UNSEEN WORLD

" Messiah," " Elijah," and " St. Paul," the
greatness of which has been so long acknow-
ledged. Longer familiarity with the work is
needed before such comparisons, always of
somewhat doubtful value, can be profitably
undertaken. But it must at least be said, as
the net result of our impressions derived both
from previous study of the score and from
hearing the performance at Portland, that Mr.
Paine's oratorio has fairly earned for itself the
right to be judged by the same high standard
which we apply to these noble works of Men-
delssohn and Handel.

In our limited space we can give only the
briefest description of the general structure of
the work. The founding of Christianity, as
illustrated in four principal scenes of the life
of St. Peter, supplies the material for the dra-
matic development of the subject. The over-
ture, beginning with an adagio movement in
B-flat minor, gives expression to the vague
yearnings of that time of doubt and hesitancy
when the " oracles were dumb," and the dawn-
ing of a new era of stronger and diviner faith
was matter of presentiment rather than of defi-
nite hope or expectation. Though the tonality
is at first firmly established, yet as the move-
ment becomes more agitated, the final tendency
of the modulations also becomes uncertain, and
for a few bars it would seem as if the key of
348

'John Knowles Paine

HE UN;: LD

;h," "Elijah; St. Paul," thi

n :-ss of which has .;> Jong acknow-

i. Longer hmil -th the work is

iccded before such c. ;jn% always of

somewhat rl be profitably

undertaken* Bur it must at least be said, as
the net result of our m as derived both

from previous study of
hearing the performan;

tine's oratorio has fa ,ed for itself the

right to br judged by t c high standard

which wr apply to these noble works of Men-
delssohn and Handel.

* limited space we can give only the
briefest description of
tbc work, The fount-'.
-.-•itcd in ibu!

turei •*•• ovement in

>n to the vague

>'(-ai oubt and hesitancy

wne nb/' and the dawn-

ing onger and diviner

w*8 ! .tirnent rather than of

i. Though the
hed, yet as th<
ated, the final t

omes u)

/ of

PAINE'S "ST. PETER"

F-sharp minor might be the point of destina-
tion. But after a short melody by the wind
instruments, accompanied by a rapid upward
movement of strings, the dominant chord of
C major asserts itself, being repeated, with sun-
dry inversions, through a dozen bars, and lead-
ing directly into the triumphant and majestic
chorus, " The time is fulfilled, and the king-
dom of heaven is at hand." The second sub-
ject, introduced by the word " repent " de-
scending through the interval of a diminished
seventh and contrasted with the florid counter-
point of the phrase, " and believe the glad tid-
ings of God," is a masterpiece of contrapuntal
writing, and, if performed by a choir of three or
four hundred voices, would produce an over-
powering effect. The divine call of Simon
Peter and his brethren is next described in a
tenor recitative ; and the acceptance of the glad
tidings is expressed in an aria, " The spirit of
the Lord is upon me," which, by an original
but appropriate conception, is given to the
soprano voice. In the next number, the disci-
ples are dramatically represented by twelve
basses and tenors, singing in four-part har-
mony, and alternating or combining with the
full chorus in description of the aims of the
new religion. The proem ends with the choral,
" How lovely shines the Morning Star ! "
Then follows the sublime scene from Matthew

349

THE UNSEEN WORLD

xvi. 14-183 where Peter declares his Master to
be " the Christ, the Son of the living God/* —
one of the most impressive scenes, we have
always thought, in the gospel history, and here
not inadequately treated. The feeling of mys-
terious and awful grandeur awakened by Peter's
bold exclamation, " Thou art the Christ," is
powerfully rendered by the entrance of the
trombones upon the inverted subdominant triad
of C-sharp minor, and their pause upon the
dominant of the same key. Throughout this
scene the characteristic contrast between the
ardent vigour of Peter and the sweet serenity
of Jesus is well delineated in the music. After
Peter's stirring aria, " My heart is glad," the
dramatic climax is reached in the C-major cho-
rus, " The Church is built upon the foundation
of the apostles and prophets."

The second scene is carried out to somewhat
greater length, corresponding nearly to the last
half of the first part of" Elijah," from the point
where the challenge is given to the prophets of
Baal. In the opening passages of mingled reci-
tative and arioso, Peter is forewarned that he
shall deny his Master, and his half-indignant
remonstrance is sustained, with added emphasis,
by the voices of the twelve disciples, pitched a
fourth higher. Then Judas comes, with a great
multitude, and Jesus is carried before the high-
priest. The beautiful F-minor chorus, " We
350

PAINE'S "ST. PETER"

hid our faces from him," furnishes the musical
comment upon the statement that cc the disci-
ples all forsook him and fled." We hardly dare
to give full expression to our feelings about this
chorus (which during the past month has been
continually singing itself over and over again
in our recollection), lest it should be supposed
that our enthusiasm has got the better of our
sober judgment. The second theme, " He was
brought as a lamb to the slaughter, yet he
opened not his mouth," is quite Handel-like in
the simplicity and massiveness of its magnificent
harmonic progressions. With the scene of the
denial, for which we are thus prepared, the dra-
matic movement becomes exceedingly rapid,
and the rendering of the events in the high-
priest's hall — Peter's bass recitative alternating
its craven protestations with the clamorous agi-
tato chorus of the servants — is stirring in the
extreme. The contralto aria describing the
Lord's turning and looking upon Peter is fol-
lowed by the orchestra with a lament in B-flat
minor, introducing the bass aria of the repent-
ant and remorse-stricken disciple, " O God, my
God, forsake me not." As the last strains of
the lamentation die away, a choir of angels
is heard, of sopranos and contraltos divided,
singing, " Remember from whence thou art
fallen," to an accompaniment of harps. The
second theme, " He that overcometh shall re-
351

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ceive a crown of life," is introduced in full
chorus, in a cheering allegro movement, pre-
paring the way for a climax higher than any yet
reached in the course of the work. This climax
— delayed for a few moments by an andante
aria for a contralto voice, " The Lord is faithful
and righteous " — at last bursts upon us with
a superb crescendo of strings, and the words,
" Awake, thou that sleepest, arise from the
dead, and Christ shall give thee light." This
chorus, which for reasons presently to be given
was heard at considerable disadvantage at Port-
land, contains some of the best fugue-writing in
the work, and is especially rich and powerful
in its instrumentation.

The second part of the oratorio begins with
the crucifixion and ascension of Jesus. Here we
must note especially the deeply pathetic open-
ing chorus, " The Son of Man was delivered
into the hands of sinful men," the joyous alle-
gro, " And on the third day he rose again," the
choral, "Jesus, my Redeemer, lives," and the
quartet, " Feed the flock of God," comment-
ing upon the command of Jesus, " Feed my
lambs." This quartet has all the heavenly
sweetness of Handel's " He shall feed his
flock," which it suggests by similarity of sub-
ject though not by similarity of treatment ; but
in a certain quality of inwardness, or religious
meditativeness, it reminds one more of Mr.
352

PAINE'S "ST. PETER"

Paine's favourite master, Bach. The choral, like
the one in the first part and the one which fol-
lows the scene of Pentecost, is taken from the
Lutheran Choral Book, and arranged with origi-
nal harmony and instrumentation, in accord-
ance with the custom of Bach, Mendelssohn,
and other composers, " of introducing into their
sacred compositions the old popular choral
melodies which are the peculiar offspring of a
religious age." Thus the noblest choral ever
written, the " Sleepers, wake," in " St. Paul,"
was composed in 1604 by Praetorius, the har-
monization and accompaniment only being the
work of Mendelssohn.

In « St. Peter," as in « Elijah," the second
part, while forming the true musical climax of
the oratorio, admits of a briefer description than
the first part. The wave of emotion answer-
ing to the sensuously dramatic element having
partly spent itself, the wave of lyric emotion
gathers fresh strength, and one feels that one
has reached the height of spiritual exaltation,
while, nevertheless, there is not so much which
one can describe to others who may not happen
to have gone through with the same experience.
Something of the same feeling one gets in
studying Dante's " Paradise," after finishing the
preceding divisions of his poem : there is less
which can be pictured to the eye of sense, or
left to be supplied by the concrete imagination.
353

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Nevertheless, in the scene of Pentecost, which
follows that of the Ascension, there is no lack
of dramatic vividness. Indeed, there is nothing
in the work more striking than the orchestra-
tion of the introductory tenor recitative, the
mysterious chorus, "The voice of the Lord
divideth the flames of fire," or the amazed
query which follows, " Behold, are not all these
who speak Galileans? and how is it that we
every one hear them in our own tongue
wherein we were born ? " We have heard the
opinion expressed that Mr. Paine's oratorio
must be lacking in originality, since it suggests
such strong reminiscences of "St. Paul." Now,
this suggestion, it seems to us, is due partly to
the similarity of the subjects, independently of
any likeness in the modes of treatment, and
partly, perhaps, to the fact that Mr. Paine, as
well as Mendelssohn, has been a devoted
student of Bach, whose characteristics art so
strong that they may well have left their mark
upon the works of both composers. But espe-
cially it would seem that there is some real
though very general resemblance between this
colloquial chorus, " Behold," etc., and some
choruses in " St. Paul," as, for example, Nos.
29 and 36-38. In the same way the scene in
the high-priest's hall might distantly suggest
either of these passages, or others in " Elijah."
These resemblances, however, are very super-
354

PAINE'S "ST. PETER"

ficial, pertaining not to the musical but to the
dramatic treatment of situations which are ge-
nerically similar in so far, and only in so far, as
they represent conversational passages between
an apostle or prophet and an ignorant multi-
tude, whether amazed or hostile, under the
sway of violent excitement. As regards the
musical elaboration of these terse and striking
alternations of chorus and recitative, its origi-
nality can be questioned only after we have
decided to refer all originality on such matters
to Bach, or, indeed, even behind him, into the
Middle Ages.

After the preaching of Peter, and the sweet
contralto aria, " As for man, his days are as
grass," the culmination of this scene comes in
the D-major chorus, " This is the witness of
God." What follows, beginning with the choral,
" Praise to the Father," is to be regarded as an
epilogue or peroration to the whole work. It
is in accordance with a sound tradition that the
grand sacred drama of an oratorio should con-
clude with a lyric outburst of thanksgiving, a
psalm of praise to the Giver of every good and
perfect gift. Thus, after Peter's labours are
ended in the aria, " Now as ye were redeemed,"
in which the twelve disciples and the full chorus
join, a duet for tenor and soprano, " Sing unto
God," brings us to the grand final chorus in C

355

THE UNSEEN WORLD

major, " Great and marvellous are thy works,
Lord God Almighty."

The cadence of this concluding chorus re-
minds us that one of the noteworthy points in
the oratorio is the character of its cadences. The
cadence prepared by the f chord, now become
so hackneyed from its perpetual and wearisome
repetition in popular church music, seems to be
especially disliked by Mr. Paine, as it occurs
but once or twice in the course of the work. In
the great choruses the cadence is usually reached
either by a pedal on the tonic, as in the chorus,
"Awake, thou that sleepest," or by a pedal on
the dominant culminating in a chord of the ma-
jor ninth, as in the final chorus ; or there is a
plagal cadence, as in the first chorus of the second
part ; or, if the f chord is introduced, as it is in
the chorus, " He that overcometh," its ordinary
effect is covered and obscured by the movement
of the divided sopranos. We do not remember
noticing anywhere such a decided use of the f
chord as is made, for example, by Mendelssohn,
in " Thanks be to God," or in the final chorus
of " St. Paul." Perhaps if we were to confess
our lingering fondness for the cadence prepared
by the f chord, when not too frequently intro-
duced, it might only show that we retain a
liking for New England " psalm-tunes ; " but it
does seem to us that a sense of final repose, of
entire cessation of movement, is more effectually

356

PAINE'S "ST. PETER"

secured by this cadence than by any other. Yet
while the f cadence most completely expresses
finality and rest, it would seem that the plagal
and other cadences above enumerated as pre-
ferred by Mr. Paine have a certain sort of supe-
riority by reason of the very incompleteness
with which they express finality. There is no
sense of finality whatever about the Phrygian
cadence ; it leaves the mind occupied with the
feeling of a boundless region beyond, into which
one would fain penetrate ; and for this reason
it has, in sacred music, a great value. Some-
thing of the same feeling, too, attaches to those
cadences in which an unexpected major third
usurps the place of the minor which the ear was
expecting, as in the " Incarnatus " of Mozart's
" Twelfth Mass," or in Bach's sublime " Pre-
lude," Part I., No. 22 of the "Well-tempered
Clavichord." In a less degree, an analogous
effect was produced upon us by the cadence with
a pedal on the tonic in the choruses, " The
Church is built," and " Awake, thou that sleep-
est." On these considerations it may become
intelligible that to some hearers Mr. Paine's
cadences have seemed unsatisfactory, their ears
having missed the positive categorical assertion
of finality which the f cadence alone can give.
To go further into this subject would take us
far beyond our limits.

The pleasant little town of Portland has
357

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reason to congratulate itself, first, on being the
birthplace of such a composer as Mr. Paine ;
secondly, on having been the place where the
first great work of America in the domain of
music was brought out ; and thirdly, on pos-
sessing what is probably the most thoroughly
disciplined choral society in this country. Our
New York friends, after their recent experiences,
will perhaps be slow to believe us when we say
that the Portland choir sang this new work even
better, in many respects, than the Handel and
Haydn Society sing the old and familiar " Eli-
jah ; " but it is true. In their command of the
pianissimo and the gradual crescendo, and in
the precision of their attack, the Portland singers
can easily teach the Handel and Haydn a quar-
ter's lessons. And, besides all this, they know
how to preserve their equanimity under the
gravest persecutions of the orchestra ; keeping
the even tenor of their way where a less dis-
ciplined choir, incited by the excessive blare of
the trombones and the undue scraping of the
second violins, would be likely to lose its pre-
sence of mind and break out into an untimely
fortissimo.

No doubt it is easier to achieve perfect chorus-
singing with a choir of one hundred and twenty-
five voices than with a choir of six hundred.
But this diminutive size, which was an advantage
so far as concerned the technical excellence of

358

PAINE'S "ST. PETER"

the Portland choir, was decidedly a disadvantage
so far as concerned the proper rendering of the
more massive choruses in " St. Peter." All the
greatest choruses — such as Nos. i, 8, 19, 20,
28, 35> and 39 — were seriously impaired in
the rendering by the lack of massiveness in the
voices. For exam pie, the grand chorus, " Awake,
thou that sleepest," begins with a rapid crescendo
of strings, introducing the full chorus on the
word " Awake," upon the dominant triad of D
major ; and after a couple of beats the voices
are reinforced by the trombones, producing the
most tremendous effect possible in such a cres-
cendo. Unfortunately, however, the brass as-
serted itself at this point so much more emphat-
ically than the voices that the effect was almost
to disjoin the latter portion of the chord from
its beginning, and thus to dwarf the utterance
of the word " Awake." To us this effect was
very disagreeable ; and it was obviously contrary
to the effect intended by the composer. But
with a weight of four or five hundred voices,
the effect would be entirely different. Instead
of entering upon the scene as intruders, the
mighty trombones would only serve to swell
and enrich the ponderous chord which opens
this noble chorus. Given greater weight only,
and the performance of the admirable Portland
choir would have left nothing to be desired.
We cannot speak with so much satisfaction
359

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of the performance of the orchestra. The in-
strumentation of " St. Peter " is remarkably
fine. But this instrumentation was rather clum-
sily rendered by the orchestra, whose doings
constituted the least enjoyable part of the per-
formance. There was too much blare of brass,
whine of hautboy, and scraping of strings. But
in condonation of this serious defect, one must
admit that the requisite amount of rehearsal is
out of the question when one's choir is in Port-
land and one's orchestra in Boston ; besides
which the parts had been inaccurately copied.
For a moment, at the beginning of the orches-
tral lament, there was risk of disaster, the wind
instruments failing to come in at the right time,
when Mr. Paine, with fortunate presence of
mind, stopped the players, and the movement
was begun over again, — the whole occurring so
quickly and quietly as hardly to attract atten-
tion.

In conclusion we would say a few words sug-
gested by a recent critical notice of Mr. Paine's
work in the " Nation." While acknowledging
the importance of the publication of this ora-
torio, as an event in the art-history of America,
the writer betrays manifest disappointment that
this work should not rather have been a sym-
phony,1 and thus have belonged to what he calls

1 Now within two years, Mr. Paine* s C-minor symphony
has followed the completion of his oratorio.
360

PAINE'S "ST. PETER"

the " domain of absolute music." Now with re-
gard to the assumption that the oratorio is not
so high a form of music as the symphony, or, in
other words, that vocal music in general is artis-
tically inferior to instrumental music, we may
observe, first, that Ambros and Dommer — two
of the most profound musical critics now living
— do not sustain it. It is Beauquier, we think,
who suggests that instrumental music should
rank above vocal, because it is " pure music,"
bereft of the factitious aids of language and of
the emotional associations which are grouped
about the peculiar timbre of the human voice.1
At first the suggestion seems plausible ; but on
analogous grounds we might set the piano above
the orchestra, because the piano gives us pure
harmony and counterpoint, without the ad-
ventitious aid of variety in timbre. And it is
indeed true that, for some such reason as this,
musicians delight in piano-sonatas, which are
above all things tedious and unintelligible to
the mind untrained in music. Nevertheless, in
spite of its great and peculiar prerogatives, it
would be absurd to prefer the piano to the or-
chestra; and there is a kindred absurdity in-
volved in setting the orchestra above that mighty

1 These peculiar associations are no doubt what is chiefly
enjoyed in music, antecedent to a properly musical culture.
Persons of slight acquaintance with music invariably prefer the
voice to the piano.

THE UNSEEN WORLD

union of orchestra, organ, and voices which we
get in the oratorio. When the reason alleged
for ranking the symphony above the oratorio
leads us likewise to rank the sonata above the
symphony, we seem to have reached a reductio
ad absurdum.

Rightly considered, the question between vo-
cal and instrumental music amounts to this,
What does music express ? This is a great psy-
chological question, and we have not now the
space or the leisure requisite for discussing it,
even in the most summary way. We will say,
however, that we do not see how music can in
any way express ideas, or anything but moods
or emotional states to which the ideas given in
language may add determination and precision.
The pure symphony gives utterance to moods,
and will be a satisfactory work of art or not, ac-
cording as the composer has been actuated by
a legitimate sequence of emotional states, like
Beethoven, or by a desire to produce novel and
startling effects, like Liszt. But the danger in
purely instrumental music is that it may run
riot in the extravagant utterance of emotional
states which are not properly concatenated by
any normal sequence of ideas associated with
them. This is sometimes exemplified in the
most modern instrumental music.

Now, as in real life our sequent clusters of
emotional states are in general determined by
362

PAINE'S "ST. PETER"

their association with our sequent groups of
intellectual ideas, it would seem that music, re-
garded as an exponent of psychical life, reaches
its fullest expressiveness when the sequence of
the moods which it incarnates in sound is deter-
mined by some sequence of ideas, such as is
furnished by the words of a libretto. Not that
the words should have predominance over the
music, or even coequal sway with it, but that
they should serve to give direction to the suc-
cession of feelings expressed by the music.
" Lift up your heads " and " Hallelujah " do
not owe their glory to the text, but to that tre-
mendous energy of rhythmic and contrapuntal
progression which the text serves to concentrate
and justify. When precision and definiteness
of direction are thus added to the powerful phy-
sical means of expression which we get in the
combination of chorus, orchestra, and organ, we
have attained the greatest sureness as well as
the greatest wealth of musical expressiveness.
And thus we may see the reasonableness of
Dommer's opinion that in order to restrain in-
strumental music from ruining itself by mean-
ingless extravagance, it is desirable that there
should be a renaissance of vocal music, such as
it was in the golden age of Palestrina and Or-
lando Lasso.

We are not inclined to deny that in struc-
tural beauty — in the symmetrical disposition

363

THE UNSEEN WORLD

and elaboration of musical themes — the sym-
phony has the advantage. The words, which in
the oratorio serve to give definite direction to the
currents of emotion, may also sometimes ham-
per the free development of the pure musical
conception, just as in psychical life the obtru-
sive entrance of ideas linked by association may
hinder the full fruition of some emotional state.
Nevertheless, in spite of this possible drawback,
it may be doubted if the higher forms of poly-
phonic composition fall so very far short of the
symphony in capability of giving full elabora-
tion to the musical idea. The practical testi-
mony of Beethoven, in his Ninth Symphony, is
decidedly adverse to any such supposition.

But to pursue this interesting question would
carry us far beyond our limits. Whatever may
be the decision as to the respective claims of
vocal and instrumental music, we have every
reason for welcoming the appearance, in our
own country, of an original work in the highest
form of vocal music. It is to be hoped that we
shall often have the opportunity to " hear with
our ears " this interesting work ; for as a rule
great musical compositions are peculiarly un-
fortunate among works of art, in being known
at first hand by comparatively few persons. In
this way is rendered possible that pretentious
kind of dilettante criticism which is so common
in musical matters, and which is often positively
364

PAINE'S "ST. PETER"

injurious, as substituting a factitious public
opinion for one that is genuine. We hope that
the favour with which the new oratorio has
already been received will encourage the author
to pursue the enviable career upon which he
has entered. Even restricting ourselves to
vocal music, there is still a broad field left open
for original work. The secular cantata — at-
tempted in recent times by Schumann, as well as
by English composers of smaller calibre — is a
very high form of vocal music ; and if founded
on an adequate libretto, dealing with some
supremely grand or tragical situation, is capable
of being carried to an unprecedented height of
musical elaboration. Here is an opportunity
for original achievement, of which it is to be
hoped that some gifted and well-trained com-
poser, like the author of " St. Peter," may find
it worth while to avail himself.

June, 1873.

365

XIII
A PHILOSOPHY OF ART1

WE are glad of a chance to introduce
to our readers one of the works of
a great writer. Though not yet2
widely known in this country, M. Taine has
obtained a very high reputation in Europe. He
is still quite a young man, but is nevertheless
the author of nineteen goodly volumes, witty,
acute, and learned ; and already he is often
ranked with Renan, Littre, and Sainte-Beuve,
the greatest living French writers.

Hippolyte Adolphe Taine was born at Vou-
ziers, among the grand forests of Ardennes, in
1828, and is therefore about forty years old.
His family was simple in habits and tastes, and
entertained a steadfast belief in culture, along
with the possession of a fair amount of it. His
grandfather was sub-prefect at Rocroi, in 1814
and 1815, under the first restoration of the
Bourbons. His father, a lawyer by profession,
was the first instructor of his son, and taught

By H. Taine. New York :

1 The Philosophy of Art.
Leypoldt & Holt. 1867.

2 That is, in 1868.

366

A PHILOSOPHY OF ART

him Latin, and from an uncle, who had been
in America, he learned English, while still a
mere child. Having gone to Paris with his
mother in 1842, he began his studies at the
College Bourbon and in 1 848 was promoted to
the Ecole Normale. Weiss, About, and Pre-
vost-Paradol were his contemporaries at this
institution. At that time great liberty was en-
joyed in regard to the order and the details
of the exercises ; so that Taine, with his sur-
prising rapidity, would do in one week the
work laid out for a month, and would spend
the remainder of the time in private reading.
In 1851 he left college, and after two or three
unsatisfactory attempts at teaching, in Paris and
in the provinces, he settled down at Paris as a
private student. He gave himself the very best
elementary preparation which a literary man can
have, — a thorough course in mathematics and
the physical sciences. His studies in anatomy
and physiology were especially elaborate and
minute. He attended the School of Medicine
as regularly as if he expected to make his daily
bread in the profession. In this way, when at
the age of twenty-five he began to write books,
M. Taine was a really educated man ; and his
books show it. The day is past when a man
could write securely, with a knowledge of the
classics alone. We doubt if a philosophical
critic is perfectly educated for his task, unless
367

THE UNSEEN WORLD

he can read, for instance, Donaldson's " New
Cratylus " on the one hand, and Rokitansky's
" Pathological Anatomy " on the other, for the
sheer pleasure of the thing. At any rate, it was
an education of this sort which M. Taine, at
the outset of his literary career, had secured.
By this solid discipline of mathematics, chem-
istry, and medicine, M. Taine became that
which above all things he now is, — a man
possessed of a central philosophy, of an exact,
categorical, well-defined system, which accom-
panies and supports him in his most distant
literary excursions. He does not keep throw-
ing out ideas at random, like too many literary
critics, but attaches all his criticisms to a com-
mon fundamental principle; in short, he is not
a dilettante, but a savant.

His treatise on La Fontaine, in 1853, at-
tracted much attention, both the style and the
matter being singularly fresh and original. He
has since republished it with alterations which
serve to show that he can be docile toward in-
telligent criticisms. About the same time he
prepared for the French Academy his work
upon the historian Livy, which was crowned in
1855. Suffering then from overwork, he was
obliged to make a short journey to the Pyre-
nees, which he has since described in a charm-
ing little volume, illustrated by Dore.

His subsequent works are a treatise on the
368

A PHILOSOPHY OF ART

French philosophers of the present century, in
which the vapid charlatanism of M. Cousin is
satisfactorily dealt with ; a history of English
literature in five volumes ; a humorous book
on Paris ; three volumes upon the general the-
ory of art ; and two volumes of travels in Italy ;
besides a considerable collection of historical
and critical essays. We think that several of
these works would be interesting to the Amer-
ican public, and might profitably be translated.

Some three or four years ago, M. Taine was
appointed Professor in the Ecole des Beaux
Arts, and we suppose his journey to Italy must
have been undertaken partly with a view to
qualify himself for his new position. He vis-
ited the four cities which may be considered
the artistic centres of Italy, — Rome, Naples,
Florence, and Venice, — and a large part of his
account of his journey is taken up with descrip-
tions and criticisms of pictures, statues, and
buildings.

This is a department of criticism which, we
may as well frankly acknowledge, is far better
appreciated on the continent of Europe than in
England or America. Over the English race
there passed, about two centuries ago, a deluge
of Puritanism, which for a time almost drowned
out its artistic tastes and propensities. The
Puritan movement, in proportion to its success,
was nearly as destructive to art in the West, as
369

THE UNSEEN WORLD

Mohammedanism had long before been in the
East. In its intense and one-sided regard for
morality, Puritanisrn not only relegated the love
for beauty to an inferior place, but contemned
and spat upon it, as something sinful and de-
grading. Hence, the utter architectural impo-
tence which characterizes the Americans and the
modern English ; and hence the bewildered ig-
norant way in which we ordinarily contemplate
pictures and statues. For two centuries we have
been removed from an artistic environment, and
consequently can with difficulty enter into the
feelings of those who have all this time been
nurtured in love for art, and belief in art for its
own sake. These peculiarities, as Mr. Mill has
ably pointed out, have entered deep into our
ethnic character. Even in pure morals there is
a radical difference between the Englishman
and the inhabitant of the continent of Europe.
The Englishman follows virtue from a sense of
duty, the Frenchman from an emotional aspi-
ration toward the beautiful. The one admires
a noble action because it is right, the other be-
cause it is attractive. And this difference under-
lies the moral judgments upon men and events
which are to be found respectively in English
and in continental literature. By keeping it
constantly in view, we shall be enabled to un-
derstand many things which might otherwise
surprise us in the writings of French authors.

37°

A PHILOSOPHY OF ART

We are now slowly outgrowing the extra-
vagances of Puritanism. It has given us an
earnestness and sobriety of character, to which
much of our real greatness is owing, both here
and in the mother country. It has made us
stronger and steadier, but it has at the same
time narrowed us in many respects, and ren-
dered our lives incomplete. This incomplete-
ness, entailed by Puritanism, we are gradually
getting rid of; and we are learning to admire
and respect many things upon which Puritan-
ism set its mark of contempt. We are begin-
ning, for instance, to recognize the transcend-
ent merits of that great civilizing agency, the
drama; we no longer think it necessary that
our temples for worshipping God should be
constructed like hideous barracks ; we • are
gradually permitting our choirs to discard the
droning and sentimental modern " psalm-tune "
for the inspiring harmonies of Beethoven and
Mozart ; and we admit the classical picture and
the undraped statue to a high place in our
esteem. Yet with all this it will probably be
some time before genuine art ceases to be an
exotic among us, and becomes a plant of un-
hindered native growth. It will be some time
before we cease to regard pictures and statues
as a higher species of upholstery, and place
them in the same category with poems and
dramas, duly reverencing them as authentic

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revelations of the beauty which is to be found
in nature. It will be some time before we
realize that art is a thing to be studied, as well
as literature, and before we can be quite re-
conciled to the familiar way in which a French-
man quotes a picture as we would quote a
poem or novel.

Artistic genius, as M. Taine has shown, is
something which will develop itself only under
peculiar social circumstances ; and, therefore,
if we have not art, we can perhaps only wait
for it, trusting that when the time comes it will
arise among us. But without originating, we
may at least intelligently appreciate. The na-
ture of a work of art, and the mode in which
it is produced, are subjects well worthy of
careful study. Architecture and music, poetry,
painting and sculpture, have in times past
constituted a vast portion of human activity ;
and without knowing something of the philos-
ophy of art, we need not hope to understand
thoroughly the philosophy of history.

In entering upon the study of art in gen-
eral, one may find many suggestive hints in
the little books of M. Taine, reprinted from
the lectures which he has been delivering at
the Ecole des Beaux Arts. The first, on the
Philosophy of Art, designated at the head of
this paper, is already accessible to the Ameri-
can reader ; and translations of the others are

A PHILOSOPHY OF ART

probably soon to follow. We shall for the
present give a mere synopsis of M. Taine's
general views.

And first it must be determined what a work
of art is. Leaving for a while music and ar-
chitecture out of consideration, it will be ad-
mitted that poetry, painting, and sculpture
have one obvious character in common : they
are arts of imitation. This, says Taine, appears
at first sight to be their essential character. It
would appear that their great object is to
imitate as closely as possible. It is obvious
that a statue is intended to imitate a living
man, that a picture is designed to represent
real persons in real attitudes, or the interior
of a house, or a landscape, such as it exists in
nature. And it is no less clear that a novel or
drama endeavours to represent with accuracy
real characters, actions, and words, giving as
precise and faithful an image of them as pos-
sible. And when the imitation is incomplete,
we say to the painter, " Your people are too
largely proportioned, and the colour of your
trees is false ; " we tell the sculptor that his
leg or arm is incorrectly modelled ; and we
say to the dramatist, " Never has a man felt or
thought as your hero is supposed to have felt
and thought."

This truth, moreover, is seen both in the
careers of individual artists, and in the gen-

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eral history of art. According to Taine, the
life of an artist may generally be divided into
two parts. In the first period, that of natural
growth, he studies nature anxiously and mi-
nutely, he keeps the objects themselves before
his eyes, and strives to represent them with
scrupulous fidelity. But when the time for
mental growth ends, as it does with every
man, and the crystallization of ideas and im-
pressions commences, then the mind of the
artist is no longer so susceptible to new im-
pressions from without. He begins to nourish
himself from his own substance. He abandons
the living model, and with recipes which he
has gathered in the course of his experience,
he proceeds to construct a drama or novel, a
picture or statue. Now, the first period, says
Taine, is that of genuine art ; the second is
that of mannerism. Our author cites the case
of Michael Angelo, a man who was one of
the most colossal embodiments of physical and
mental energy that the world has ever seen.
In Michael Angelo's case, the period of
growth, of genuine art, may be said to have
lasted until after his sixtieth year. But look,
says Taine, at the works which he executed
in his old age ; consider the Conversion of St.
Paul, and the Last Judgment, painted when
he was nearly seventy. Even those who are
not connoisseurs can see that these frescoes are
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A PHILOSOPHY OF ART

painted by rule, that the artist, having stocked
his memory with a certain set of forms, is
making use of them to fill out his tableau ;
that he wantonly multiplies queer attitudes
and ingenious foreshortenings ; that the lively
invention, the grand outburst of feeling, the
perfect truth, by which his earlier works are
distinguished, have disappeared ; and that, if
he is still superior to all others, he is neverthe-
less inferior to himself. The careers of Scott,
of Goethe, and of Voltaire will furnish parallel
examples. In every school of art, too, the
flourishing period is followed by one of de-
cline ; and in every case the decline is due to a
failure to imitate the living models. In paint-
ing, we have the exaggerated foreshorteners and
muscle-makers who copied Michael Angelo;
the lovers of theatrical decorations who suc-
ceeded Titian and Giorgione, and the degen-
erate boudoir-painters who followed Claude and
Poussin. In literature, we have the versifiers,
epigrammatists, and rhetors of the Latin deca-
dence ; the sensual and declamatory drama-
tists who represent the last stages of old Eng-
lish comedy ; and the makers of sonnets and
madrigals, or conceited euphemists of the Gon-
gora school, in the decline of Italian and
Spanish poetry. Briefly it may be said, that
the masters copy nature and the pupils copy
the masters. In this way are explained the

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constantly recurring phenomena of decline in
art, and thus, also, it is seen that art is perfect
in proportion as it successfully imitates nature.
But we are not to conclude that absolute
imitation is the sole and entire object of art.
Were this the case, the finest works would be
those which most minutely correspond to their
external prototypes. In sculpture, a mould
taken from the living features is that which
gives the most faithful representation of the
model ; but a well-moulded bust is far from
being equal to a good statue. Photography is
in many respects more accurate than painting ;
but no one would rank a photograph, however
exquisitely executed, with an original picture.
And finally, if exact imitation were the supreme
object of art, the best tragedy, the best comedy,
and the best drama would be a stenographic
report of the proceedings in a court of justice,
in a family gathering, in a popular meeting, in
the Rump Congress. Even the works of artists
are not rated in proportion to their minute
exactness. Neither in painting nor in any other
art do we give the precedence to that which
deceives the eye simply. Every one remembers
how Zeuxis was said to have painted grapes so
faithfully that the birds came and pecked at
them ; and how Parrhasios, his rival, surpassed
even this feat by painting a curtain so natural
in its appearance that Zeuxis asked him to pull
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A PHILOSOPHY OF ART

it aside and show the picture behind it. All
this is not art, but mere knack and trickery.
Perhaps no painter was ever so minute as Den-
ner. It used to take him four years to make
one portrait. He would omit nothing, — nei-
ther the bluish lines made by the veins under
the skin, nor the little black points scattered
over the nose, nor the bright spots in the eye
where neighbouring objects are reflected ; the
head seems to start out from the canvas, it is
so like flesh and blood. Yet who cares for
Denner's portraits ? And who would not give
ten times as much for one which Van Dyck or
Tintoretto might have painted in a few hours ?
So in the churches of Naples and Spain we find
statues coloured and draped, saints clothed in
real coats, with their skin yellow and bloodless,
their hands bleeding, and their feet bruised;
and beside them Madonnas in royal habili-
ments, in gala dresses of lustrous silk, adorned
with diadems, precious necklaces, bright rib-
bons, and elegant laces, with their cheeks rosy,
their eyes brilliant, their eyelashes sweeping.
And by this excess of literal imitation, there is
awakened a feeling, not of pleasure, but always
of repugnance, often of disgust, and sometimes
of horror. So in literature, the ancient Greek
theatre and the best Spanish and English dra-
matists alter on purpose the natural current of
human speech, and make their characters talk
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under all the restraints of rhyme and rhythm.
But we pronounce this departure from literal
truth a merit and not a defect. We consider
Goethe's second " Iphigenie," written in verse,
far preferable to the first one written in prose ;
nay, it is the rhythm or metre itself which com-
municates to the work its incomparable beauty.
In a review of Longfellow's " Dante/' pub-
lished last year, we argued this very point in
one of its special applications ; the artist must
copy his original, but he must not copy it too
literally.

What then must he copy ? He must copy,
says Taine, the mutual relations and interde-
pendences of the parts of his model. And more
than this, he must render the essential charac-
teristic of the object — that characteristic upon
which all the minor qualities depend — as sali-
ent and conspicuous as possible. He must put
into the background the traits which conceal it,
and bring into the foreground the traits which
manifest it. If he is sculpturing a group like
the Laocoon, he must strike upon the supreme
moment, that in which the whole tragedy re-
veals itself, and he must pass over those insig-
nificant details of position and movement which
serve only to distract our attention and weaken
our emotions by dividing them. If he is writ-
ing a drama, he must not attempt to give us
the complete biography of his character; he

378

A PHILOSOPHY OF ART

must depict only those situations which stand
in direct subordination to the grand climax or
denouement. As a final result, therefore, Taine
concludes that a work of art is a concrete repre-
sentation of the relations existing between the
parts of an object, with the intent to bring the
essential or dominating character thereof into
prominence.

We should overrun our limits if we were to
follow out the admirable discussion in which
M. Taine extends this definition to architecture
and music. These closely allied arts are distin-
guished from poetry, painting, and sculpture,
by appealing far less directly to the intelligence,
and far more exclusively to the emotions. Yet
these arts likewise aim, by bringing into promi-
nence certain relations of symmetry in form as
perceived by the eye, or in aerial vibrations as
perceived by the ear, to excite in us the states
of feeling with which these species of symmetry
are by subtle laws of association connected.
They, too, imitate, not literally, but under the
guidance of a predominating sentiment or emo-
tion, relations which really exist among the
phenomena of nature. And here, too, we esti-
mate excellence, not in proportion to the direct,
but to the indirect imitation. A Gothic cathe-
dral is not, as has been supposed, directly imi-
tated from the towering vegetation of Northern
forests ; but it may well be the expression of
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the dim sentiment of an unseen, all-pervading
Power, generated by centuries of primeval life
amid such forests. So the sounds which in a
symphony of Beethoven are woven into a web
of such amazing complexity may exist in differ-
ent combinations in nature ; but when a musi-
cian steps out of his way to imitate the crowing
of cocks or the roar of the tempest, we regard
his achievement merely as a graceful conceit.
Art is, therefore, an imitation of nature ; but it
is an intellectual and not a mechanical imita-
tion ; and the performances of the camera and
the music-box are not to be classed with those
of the violinist's bow or the sculptor's chisel.

And lastly, in distinguishing art from science,
Taine remarks, that in disengaging from their
complexity the causes which are at work in
nature, and the fundamental laws according to
which they work, science describes them in
abstract formulas conveyed in technical lan-
guage. But art reveals these operative causes
and these dominant laws, not in arid definitions,
inaccessible to most people, intelligible only to
specially instructed men, but in a concrete sym-
bol, addressing itself not only to the under-
standing, but still more to the sentiments of the
ordinary man. Art has, therefore, this pecu-
liarity, that it is at once elevated and popular,
that it manifests that which is often most recon-
dite, and that it manifests it to all.
380

A PHILOSOPHY OF ART

Having determined what a work of art is,
our author goes on to study the social condi-
tions under which works of art are produced ;
and he concludes that the general character of
a work of art is determined by the state of in-
tellect and morals in the society in which it is
executed. There is, in fact, a sort of moral
temperature which acts upon mental develop-
ment much as physical temperature acts upon
organic development. The condition of society
does not produce the artist's talent ; but it as-
sists or checks its efforts to display itself; it
decides whether or not it shall be successful.
And it exerts a " natural selection " between
different kinds of talents, stimulating some and
starving others. To make this perfectly clear,
we will cite at some length Taine's brilliant
illustration.

The case chosen for illustration is a very
simple one, — that of a state of society in which
one of the predominant feelings is melancholy.
This is not an arbitrary supposition, for such a
time has occurred more than once in human
history; in Asia, in the sixth century before
Christ, and especially in Europe, from the
fourth to the tenth centuries of our era. To
produce such a state of feeling, five or six gen-
erations of decadence, accompanied with dimi-
nution of population, foreign invasions, famines,
pestilences, and increasing difficulty in procur-

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ing the necessaries of life, are amply sufficient.
It then happens that men lose courage and
hope, and consider life an evil. Now, admit-
ting that among the artists who live in such a
time, there are likely to be the same relative
numbers of melancholy, joyous, or indifferent
temperaments as at other times, let us see how
they will be affected by reigning circumstances.

Let us first remember, says Taine, that the
evils which depress the public will also depress
the artist. His risks are no less than those of
less gifted people. He is liable to suffer from
plague or famine, to be ruined by unfair taxa-
tion or conscription, or to see his children mas-
sacred and his wife led into captivity by bar-
barians. And if these ills do not reach him
personally, he must at least behold those around
him affected by them. In this way, if he is
joyous by temperament, he must inevitably be-
come less joyous ; if he is melancholy, he must
become more melancholy.

Secondly, having been reared among melan-
choly contemporaries, his education will have
exerted upon him a corresponding influence.
The prevailing religious doctrine, accommo-
dated to the state of affairs, will tell him that
the earth is a place of exile, life an evil, gayety a
snare, and his most profitable occupation will
be to get ready to die. Philosophy, construct-
ing its system of morals in conformity to the
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A PHILOSOPHY OF ART

existing phenomena of decadence, will tell him
that he had better never have been born.
Daily conversation will inform him of horrible
events, of the devastation of a province, the
sack of a town by the Goths, the oppression of
the neighbouring peasants by the imperial tax-
collectors, or the civil war that has just burst
out between half a dozen pretenders to the
throne. As he travels about, he beholds signs
of mourning and despair, crowds of beggars,
people dying of hunger, a broken bridge which
no one is mending, an abandoned suburb which
is going to ruin, fields choked with weeds, the
blackened walls of burnt houses. Such sights
and impressions, repeated from childhood to
old age (and we must remember that this has
actually been the state of things in what are
now the fairest parts of the globe), cannot fail
to deepen whatever elements of melancholy
there may be already in the artist's disposition.
The operation of all these causes will be en-
hanced by that very peculiarity of the artist
which constitutes his talent. For, according to
the definitions above given, that which makes
him an artist is his capacity for seizing upon
the essential characteristics and the salient traits
of surrounding objects and events. Other men
see things in part fragmentarily ; he catches the
spirit of the ensemble. And in this way he will

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very likely exaggerate in his works the general
average of contemporary feeling.

Lastly, our author reminds us that a man
who writes or paints does not remain alone be-
fore his easel or his writing-desk. He goes
out, looks about him, receives suggestions from
friends, from rivals, from books, and works
of art whenever accessible, and hears the criti-
cisms of the public upon his own productions
and those of his contemporaries. In order to
succeed, he must not only satisfy to some ex-
tent the popular taste, but he must feel that the
public is in sympathy with him. If in this
period of social decadence and gloom he en-
deavours to represent gay, brilliant, or trium-
phant ideas, he will find himself left to his own
resources ; and, as Taine rightly says, the power
of an isolated man is always insignificant. His
work will be likely to be mediocre. If he at-
tempts to write like Rabelais or paint like
Rubens, he will get neither assistance nor sym-
pathy from a public which prefers the pictures
of Rembrandt, the melodies of Chopin, and the
poetry of Heine.

Having thus explained his position by this
extreme instance, signified for the sake of clear-
ness, Taine goes on to apply such general con-
siderations to four historic epochs, taken in all
their complexity. He discusses the aspect pre-
sented by art in ancient Greece, in the feudal
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A PHILOSOPHY OF ART

and Catholic Middle Ages, in the centralized
monarchies of the seventeenth century, and in
the scientific, industrial democracy in which we
now live. Out of these we shall select, as per-
haps the simplest, the case of ancient Greece,
still following our author closely, though neces-
sarily omitting many interesting details.

The ancient Greeks, observes Taine, under-
stood life in a new and original manner. Their
energies were neither absorbed by a great reli-
gious conception, as in the case of the Hindus
and Egyptians, nor by a vast social organiza-
tion, as in the case of the Assyrians and Per-
sians, nor by a purely industrial and commer-
cial r'egime) as in the case of the Phoenicians
and Carthaginians. Instead of a theocracy or a
rigid system of castes, instead of a monarchy
with a hierarchy of civil officials, the men of
this race invented a peculiar institution, the
City, each city giving rise to others like itself,
and from colony to colony reproducing itself
indefinitely. A single Greek city, for instance,
Miletos, produced three hundred other cities,
colonizing with them the entire coast of the
Black Sea. Each city was substantially self-
ruling ; and the idea of a coalescence of several
cities into a nation was one which the Greek
mind rarely conceived, and never was able to
put into operation.

In these cities, labour was for the most part

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carried on by slaves. In Athens there were four
or five for each citizen, and in places like Kor-
inth and Aigina the slave population is said to
have numbered four or five hundred thousand.
Besides, the Greek citizen had little need of
personal service. He lived out of doors, and,
like most Southern people, was comparatively
abstemious in his habits. His dinners were
slight, his clothing was simple, his house was
scantily furnished, being intended chiefly for a
den to sleep in.

Serving neither king nor priest, the citizen
was free and sovereign in his own city. He
elected his own magistrates, and might himself
serve as city-ruler, as juror, or as judge. Repre-
sentation was unknown. Legislation was carried
on by all the citizens assembled in mass. There-
fore politics and war were the sole or chief em-
ployments of the citizen. War, indeed, came in
for no slight share of his attention. For society
was not so well protected as in these modern
days. Most of these Greek cities, scattered
over the coasts of the Aigeian, the Black Sea,
and the Mediterranean, were surrounded by
tribes of barbarians, Scythians, Gauls, Span-
iards, and Africans. The citizen must there-
fore keep on his guard, like the Englishman
of to-day, in New Zealand, or like the inhabit-
ant of a Massachusetts town in the seventeenth
century. Otherwise Gauls, Samnites, or Bithyn-
386

A PHILOSOPHY OF ART

ians, as savage as North American Indians,
would be sure to encamp upon the blackened
ruins of his town. Moreover, the Greek cities
had their quarrels with each other, and their
laws of war were very barbarous. A conquered
city was liable to be razed to the ground, its
male inhabitants put to the sword, its women
sold as slaves. Under such circumstances, ac-
cording to Taine's happy expression, a citizen
must be a politician and warrior, on pain of
death. And not only fear, but ambition also
tended to make him so. For each city strove
to subject or to humiliate its neighbours, to
acquire tribute, or to exact homage from its
rivals. Thus the citizen passed his life in the
public square, discussing alliances, treaties, and
constitutions, hearing speeches, or speaking
himself, and finally going aboard of his ship to
fight his neighbour Greeks, or to sail against
Egypt or Persia.

War (and politics as subsidiary to it) was
then the chief pursuit of life. But as there was
no organized industry, so there were no ma-
chines of warfare. All fighting was done hand
to hand. Therefore, the great thing in prepar-
ing for war was not to transform the soldiers
into precisely-acting automata, as in a modern
army, but to make each separate soldier as
vigorous and active as possible. The leading
object of Greek education was to make men

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physically perfect. In this respect, Sparta may
be taken as the typical Greek community, for
nowhere else was physical development so en-
tirely made the great end of social life. In these
matters Sparta was always regarded by the other
cities as taking the lead, — as having attained
the ideal after which all alike were striving.
Now Sparta, situated in the midst of a numer-
ous conquered population of Messenians and
Helots, was partly a great gymnasium and
partly a perpetual camp. Her citizens were
always in training. The entire social constitu-
tion of Sparta was shaped with a view to the
breeding and bringing up of a strong and beau-
tiful race. Feeble or ill-formed infants were
put to death. The age at which citizens might
marry was prescribed by law ; and the State
paired off men and women as the modern
breeder pairs off horses, with a sole view to the
excellence of the offspring. A wife was not a
helpmate, but a bearer of athletes. Women
boxed, wrestled, and raced ; a circumstance
referred to in the following passage of Aristo-
phanes, as rendered by Mr. Felton : —

LYSISTRATA.

Hail ! Lampito, dearest of Lakonian women.
How shines thy beauty, O my sweetest friend !
How fair thy colour, full of life thy frame !
Why, thou couldst choke a bull.

A PHILOSOPHY OF ART

LAMPITO.

Yes, by the Twain ;
For I do practise the gymnastic art,
And, leaping, strike my backbone with my heels.

LYSISTRATA.
In sooth, thy bust is lovely to behold.

The young men lived together, like soldiers
in a camp. They ate out of doors, at a public
table. Their fare was as simple as that of
a modern university boat-crew before a race.
They slept in the open air, and spent their
waking hours in wrestling, boxing, running
races, throwing quoits, and engaging in mock
battles. This was the way in which the Spar-
tans lived ; and though no other city carried
this discipline to such an extent, yet in all a
very large portion of the citizen's life was spent
in making himself hardy and robust.

The ideal man, in the eyes of a Greek, was,
therefore, not the contemplative or delicately
susceptible thinker, but the naked athlete, with
firm flesh and swelling muscles. Most of their
barbarian neighbours were ashamed to be seen
undressed, but the Greeks seem to have felt
little embarrassment in appearing naked in
public. Their gymnastic habits entirely trans-
formed their sense of shame. Their Olympic
and other public games were a triumphant dis-
play of naked physical perfection. Young men
of the noblest families and from the farthest
389

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Greek colonies came to them, and wrestled and
ran, undraped, before countless multitudes of
admiring spectators. Note, too, as significant,
that the Greek era began with the Olympic
games, and that time was reckoned by the in-
tervals between them ; as well as the fact that
the grandest lyric poetry of antiquity was writ-
ten in celebration of these gymnastic contests.
The victor in the foot-race gave his name to
the current Olympiad; and on reaching home
was received by his fellow-citizens as if he had
bee*n a general returning from a successful cam-
paign. To be the most beautiful man in Greece
was in the eyes of a Greek the height of human
felicity; and with the Greeks, beauty neces-
sarily included strength. So ardently did this
gifted people admire corporeal perfection that
they actually worshipped it. According to He-
rodotos, a young Sicilian was deified on account
of his beauty, and after his death altars were
raised to him. The vast intellectual power of
Plato and Sokrates did not prevent them from
sharing this universal enthusiasm. Poets like
Sophokles, and statesmen like Alexander,
thought it not beneath their dignity to engage
publicly in gymnastic sports.

Their conceptions of divinity were framed in

accordance with these general habits. Though

sometimes, as in the case of Hephaistos, the

exigencies of the particular myth required the

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A PHILOSOPHY OF ART

deity to be physically imperfect, yet ordinarily
the Greek god was simply an immortal man,
complete in strength and beauty. The deity
was not invested with the human form as a
mere symbol. They could conceive no loftier
way of representing him. The grandest statue,
expressing most adequately the calmness of
absolutely unfettered strength, might well, in
their eyes, be a veritable portrait of divinity.
To a Greek, beauty of form was a consecrated
thing. More than once a culprit got off with
his life because it would have been thought
sacrilegious to put an end to such a symmet-
rical creature. And for a similar reason, the
Greeks, though perhaps not more humane than
the Europeans of the Middle Ages, rarely
allowed the human body to be mutilated or
tortured. The condemned criminal must be
marred as little as possible ; and he was, there-
fore, quietly poisoned, instead of being hung,
beheaded, or broken on the wheel.

Is not the unapproachable excellence of
Greek statuary — that art never since equalled,
and most likely, from the absence of the need-
ful social stimulus, destined never to be
equalled — already sufficiently explained ? Con-
sider, says our author, the nature of the Greek
sculptor's preparation. These men have ob-
served the human body naked and in move-
ment, in the bath and the gymnasium, in sacred

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dances and public games. They have noted
those forms and attitudes in which are revealed
vigour, health, and activity. And during three
or four hundred years they have thus modified,
corrected, and developed their notions of cor-
poreal beauty. There is, therefore, nothing sur-
prising in the fact that Greek sculpture finally
arrived at the ideal model, the perfect type,
as it was, of the human body. Our highest
notions of physical beauty, down to the present
day, have been bequeathed to us by the Greeks.
The earliest modern sculptors who abandoned
the bony, hideous, starveling figures of the
monkish Middle Ages, learned their first les-
sons in better things from Greek bas-reliefs.
And if, to-day, forgetting our half-developed
bodies, inefficiently nourished, because of our
excessive brain-work, and with their muscles
weak and flabby from want of strenuous exer-
cise, we wish to contemplate the human form
in its grandest perfection, we must go to Hel-
lenic art for our models.

The Greeks were, in the highest sense of
the word, an intellectual race ; but they never
allowed the mind to tyrannize over the body.
Spiritual perfection, accompanied by corporeal
feebleness, was the invention of asceticism ;
and the Greeks were never ascetics. Diogenes
might scorn superfluous luxuries, but if he ever
rolled and tumbled his tub about as Rabelais
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A PHILOSOPHY OF ART

says he did, it is clear that the victory of spirit
over body formed no part of his theory of
things. Such an idea would have been incom-
prehensible to a Greek in Plato's time. Their
consciences were not over active. They were
not burdened with a sense of sinfulness. Their
aspirations were decidedly finite ; and they
believed in securing the maximum complete-
ness of this terrestrial life. Consequently they
never set the physical below the intellectual.
To return to our author, they never in their
statues subordinated symmetry to expression,
the body to the head. They were interested
not only in the prominence of the brows, the
width of the forehead, and the curvature of the
lips, but quite as much in the massiveness of
the chest, the compactness of the thighs, and
the solidity of the arms and legs. Not only the
face, but the whole body, had for them its phy-
siognomy. They left picturesqueness to the
painter, and dramatic fervour to the poet ; and
keeping strictly before their eyes the narrow but
exalted problem of representing the beauty of
symmetry, they filled their sanctuaries and pub-
lic places with those grand motionless people of
brass, gold, ivory, copper, and marble, in whom
humanity recognizes its highest artistic types.
Statuary was the central art of Greece. No
other art was so popular, or so completely
expressed the national life. The number of
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statues was enormous. In later days, when
Rome had spoiled the Greek world of its trea-
sures, the Imperial City possessed a population
of statues almost equal in number to its popu-
lation of human beings. And at the present
day, after all the destructive accidents of so
many intervening centuries, it is estimated that
more than sixty thousand statues have been
obtained from Rome and its suburbs alone.

In citing this admirable exposition as a speci-
men of M. Taine's method of dealing with his
subject, we have refrained from disturbing the
pellucid current of thought by criticisms of our
own. We think the foregoing explanation cor-
rect enough, so far as it goes, though it deals
with the merest rudiments of the subject, and
really does nothing towards elucidating the
deeper mysteries of artistic production. For this
there is needed a profounder psychology than
M. Taine's. But whether his theory of art be
adequate or not, there can be but one opinion
as to the brilliant eloquence with which it is set
forth.

June, 1868.

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ATHENIAN AND AMERICAN LIFE

IN a very interesting essay on British and
Foreign Characteristics, published a few
years ago, Mr. W. R. Greg quotes the
famous letter of the Turkish cadi to Mr. Lay-
ard, with the comment that " it contains the
germ and element of a wisdom to which our
busy and bustling existence is a stranger ; " and
he uses it as a text for an instructive sermon on
the "gospel of leisure." He urges, with justice,
that the too eager and restless modern man,
absorbed in problems of industrial develop-
ment, may learn a wholesome lesson from the
contemplation of his Oriental brother, who cares
not to say, " Behold, this star spinneth round
that star, and this other star with a tail cometh
and goeth in so many years ; " who aspires not
after a " double stomach," nor hopes to attain
to Paradise by " seeking with his eyes." If any
one may be thought to stand in need of some
such lesson, it is the American of to-day. Just
as far as the Turk carries his apathy to excess,
does the American carry to excess his restless-
ness. But just because the incurious idleness of
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the Turk is excessive, so as to be detrimental
to completeness of living, it is unfit to supply
us with the hints we need concerning the
causes, character, and effects of our over-activ-
ity. A sermon of leisure, if it is to be of practi-
cal use to us, must not be a sermon of laziness.
The Oriental state of mind is incompatible with
progressive improvement of any sort, physical,
intellectual, or moral. It is one of the phe-
nomena attendant upon the arrival of a com-
munity at a stationary condition before it has
acquired a complex civilization. And it appears
serviceable rather as a background upon which
to exhibit in relief our modern turmoil, than
by reason of any lesson which it is itself likely
to convey. Let us in preference study one of
the most eminently progressive of all the com-
munities that have existed. Let us take an
example quite different from any that can be
drawn from Oriental life, but almost equally
contrasted with any that can be found among
ourselves ; and let us, with the aid of it, exam-
ine the respective effects of leisure and of hurry
upon the culture of the community.

What do modern critics mean by the " healthy
completeness " of ancient life, which they are so
fond of contrasting with the " heated," " discon-
tented," or imperfect and one-sided existence of
modern communities ? Is this a mere set of
phrases, suited to some imaginary want of the
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literary critic, but answering to nothing real ?
Are they to be summarily disposed of as resting
upon some tacit assumption of that old-granny-
ism which delights in asseverating that times
are not what they used to be ? Is the contrast
an imaginary one, due to the softened, cheerful
light with which we are wont to contemplate
classic antiquity through the charmed medium
of its incomparable literature ? Or is it a real
contrast, worthy of the attention and analysis
of the historical inquirer ? The answer to these
queries will lead us far into the discussion of
the subject which we have propounded, and we
shall best reach it by considering some aspects
of the social condition of ancient Greece. The
lessons to be learned from that wonderful coun-
try are not yet exhausted. Each time that we
return to that richest of historic mines, and delve
faithfully and carefully, we shall be sure to dig
up some jewel worth carrying away.

And in considering ancient Greece, we shall
do well to confine our attention, for the sake of
definiteness of conception, to a single city. Com-
paratively homogeneous as Greek civilization
was, there was nevertheless a great deal of dif-
ference between the social circumstances of sun-
dry of its civic communities. What was true of
Athens was frequently not true of Sparta or
Thebes, and general assertions about ancient
Greece are often likely to be correct only in a

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loose and general way. In speaking, therefore,
of Greece, I must be understood in the main as
referring to Athens, the eye and light of Greece,
the nucleus and centre of Hellenic culture.

Let us note first that Athens was a large city
surrounded by pleasant village-suburbs, — the
demes of Attika, — very much as Boston is
closely girdled by rural places like Brookline,
Jamaica Plain, and the rest, village after village
rather thickly covering a circuit of from ten to
twenty miles' radius. The population of Athens
with its suburbs may perhaps have exceeded
half a million ; but the number of adult freemen
bearing arms did not exceed twenty-five thou-
sand.1 For every one of these freemen there were
four or five slaves ; not ignorant, degraded la-
bourers, belonging to an inferior type of hu-
manity, and bearing the marks of a lower caste
in their very personal formation and in the
colour of their skin, like our lately enslaved
negroes ; but intelligent, skilled labourers, be-
longing usually to the Hellenic, and at any rate
to the Aryan race, as fair and perhaps as hand-
some as their masters, and not subjected to
especial ignominy or hardship. These slaves, of
whom there were at least one hundred thousand
adult males, relieved the twenty-five thousand
freemen of nearly all the severe drudgery of life ;

1 See Herod, v. 97 ; Aristoph. Ekkl. 432 ; Thukyd. ii.
13 ; Plutarch, Perikl. 37.

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and the result was an amount of leisure perhaps
never since known on an equal scale in history.
The relations of master and slave in ancient
Athens constituted, of course, a very different
phenomenon from anything which the history
of our own Southern States has to offer us.
Our Southern slaveholders lived in an age of
industrial development ; they were money-
makers : they had their full share of business in
managing the operations for which their labour-
ers supplied the crude physical force. It was
not so in Athens : the era of civilization founded
upon organized industry had not begun ; money-
making had not come to be, with the Greeks,
the one all-important end of life ; and mere
subsistence, which is now difficult, was then easy.
The Athenian lived in a mild, genial, healthy
climate, in a country which has always been
notable for the activity and longevity of its in-
habitants. He was frugal in his habits, — a
wine-drinker and an eater of meat, but rarely
addicted to gluttony or intemperance. His dress
was inexpensive, for the Greek climate made
but little protection necessary, and the gymnastic
habits of the Greeks led them to esteem more
highly the beauty of the body than that of its
covering. His house was simple, not being in-
tended for social purposes, while of what we
should call home-life the Greeks had none.
The house was a shelter at night, a place where
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the frugal meal might be taken, a place where
the wife might stay, and look after the house-
hold slaves or attend to the children. And this
brings us to another notable feature of Athenian
life. The wife having no position in society,
being nothing, indeed, but a sort of household
utensil, how greatly was life simplified ! What
a door for expenditure was there, as yet securely
closed, and which no one had thought of open-
ing ! No milliner's or dressmaker's bills, no
evening parties, no Protean fashions, no elegant
furniture, no imperious necessity for Kleanthes
to outshine Kleon, no coaches, no Chateau
Margaux, no journeys to Arkadia in the sum-
mer ! In such a state of society, as one may
easily see, the labour of one man would support
half a dozen. It cost the Athenian but a few
cents daily to live, and even these few cents
might be earned by his slaves. We need not,
therefore, be surprised to learn that in ancient
Athens there were no paupers or beggars. There
might be poverty, but indigence was unknown ;
and because of the absence of fashion, style, and
display, even poverty entailed no uncomfortable
loss of social position. The Athenians valued
wealth highly, no doubt, as a source of contri-
butions to public festivals and to the necessities
of the state. But as far as the circumstances
of daily life go, the difference between the rich
man and the poor man was immeasurably less
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than in any modern community, and the incen-
tives to the acquirement of wealth were, as a
consequence, comparatively slight.

I do not mean to say that the Athenians did
not engage in business. Their city was a com-
mercial city, and their ships covered the Medi-
terranean. They had agencies and factories at
Marseilles, on the remote coasts of Spain, and
along the shores of the Black Sea. They were
in many respects the greatest commercial people
of antiquity, and doubtless knew, as well as other
people, the keen delights of acquisition. But
my point is, that with them the acquiring of
property had not become the chief or only
end of life. Production was carried on almost
entirely by slave-labour ; interchange of com-
modities was the business of the masters, and
commerce was in those days simple. Banks,
insurance companies, brokers' boards, — all
these complex instruments of Mammon were
as yet unthought of. There was no Wall Street
in ancient Athens ; there were no great failures,
no commercial panics, no over-issues of stock.
Commerce, in short, was a quite subordinate
matter, and the art of money-making was in its
infancy.

The twenty-five thousand Athenian freemen

thus enjoyed, on the whole, more undisturbed

leisure, more freedom from petty harassing

cares, than any other community known to

401

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history. Nowhere else can we find, on careful
study, so little of the hurry and anxiety which
destroys the even tenor of modern life, — no-
where else so few of the circumstances which
tend to make men insane, inebriate, or phthisi-
cal, or prematurely old.

This being granted, it remains only to state
and illustrate the obverse fact. It is not only
true that Athens has produced and educated a
relatively larger number of men of the highest
calibre and most complete culture than any
other community of like dimensions which has
ever existed ; but it is also true that there has
been no other community, of which the mem-
bers have, as a general rule, been so highly
cultivated, or have attained individually such
completeness of life. In proof of the first
assertion it will be enough to mention such
names as those of Solon, Themistokles, Peri-
kles, and Demosthenes ; Isokrates and Lysias ;
Aristophanes and Menander ; Aischylos, So-
phokles, and Euripides ; Pheidias and Praxi-
teles ; Sokrates and Plato ; Thukydides and
Xenophon : remembering that these men, dis-
tinguished for such different kinds of achieve-
ment, but like each other in consummateness
of culture, were all produced within one town
in the course of three centuries. At no other
time and place in human history has there
been even an approach to such a fact as this.
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ATHENIAN AND AMERICAN LIFE

My other assertion, about the general cul-
ture of the community in which such men were
reared, will need a more detailed explanation.
When I say that the Athenian public was, on
the whole, the most highly cultivated public
that has ever existed, I refer of course to some-
thing more than what is now known as literary
culture. Of this there was relatively little in
the days of Athenian greatness ; and this was
because there was not yet need for it or room
for it. Greece did not until a later time begin
to produce scholars and savants ; for the func-
tion of scholarship does not begin until there
has been an accumulation of bygone literature
to be interpreted for the benefit of those who
live in a later time. Grecian greatness was al-
ready becoming a thing of the past, when
scholarship and literary culture of the modern
type began at Rome and Alexandria. The
culture of the ancient Athenians was largely
derived from direct intercourse with facts of
nature and of life, and with the thoughts
of rich and powerful minds orally expressed.
The value of this must not be underrated. We
moderns are accustomed to get so large a por-
tion of our knowledge and of our theories of
life out of books, our taste and judgment are
so largely educated by intercourse with the
printed page, that we are apt to confound cul-
ture with book-knowledge ; we are apt to for-
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get the innumerable ways in which the highest
intellectual faculties may be disciplined without
the aid of literature. We must study antiquity
to realize how thoroughly this could be done.
But even in our day, how much more fruitful
is the direct influence of an original mind over
us, in the rare cases when it can be enjoyed,
than any indirect influence which the same
mind may exert through the medium of printed
books ! What fellow of a college, placed amid
the most abundant and efficient implements
of study, ever gets such a stimulus to the
highest and richest intellectual life as was af-
forded to Eckermann by his daily intercourse
with Goethe? The breadth of culture and
the perfection of training exhibited by John
Stuart Mill need not surprise us when we
recollect that his earlier days were spent in
the society of James Mill and Jeremy Ben-
tham. And the remarkable extent of view,
the command of facts, and the astonishing
productiveness of such modern Frenchmen
as Sainte-Beuve and Littre become explicable
when we reflect upon the circumstance that so
many able and brilliant men are collected in
one city, where their minds may continually
and directly react upon each other. It is from
the lack of such personal stimulus that it is
difficult or indeed wellnigh impossible, even
for those whose resources are such as to give
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ATHENIAN AND AMERICAN LIFE

them an extensive command of books, to keep
up to the highest level of contemporary cul-
ture while living in a village or provincial
town. And it is mainly because of the per-
sonal stimulus which it affords to its students,
that a great university, as a seat of culture, is
immeasurably superior to a small one.

Nevertheless, the small community in any
age possesses one signal advantage over the
large one, in its greater simplicity of life and
its consequent relative leisure. It was the pre-
rogative of ancient Athens that it united the
advantages of the large to those of the small
community. In relative simplicity of life it
was not unlike the modern village, while at
the same time it was the metropolis where
the foremost minds of the time were en-
abled to react directly upon one another. In
yet another respect these opposite advantages
were combined. The twenty-five thousand
free inhabitants might perhaps all know some-
thing of each other. In this respect Athens
was doubtless much like a New England
country town, with the all-important differ-
ence that the sordid tone due to continual
struggle for money was absent. It was like
the small town in the chance which it afforded
for publicity and community of pursuits among
its inhabitants. Continuous and unrestrained
social intercourse was accordingly a distinctive
405

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feature of Athenian life. And, as already
hinted, this intercourse did not consist in even-
ing flirtations, with the eating of indigestible
food at unseasonable hours, and the dancing
of " the German." It was carried on out-of-
doors in the brightest sunlight ; it brooked
no effeminacy ; its amusements were athletic
games, or dramatic entertainments, such as
have hardly since been equalled. Its arena was
a town whose streets were filled with statues
and adorned with buildings, merely to behold
which was in itself an education. The partici-
pators in it were not men with minds so dwarfed
by exclusive devotion to special pursuits that
after " talking shop " they could find nothing
else save wine and cookery to converse about.
They were men with minds fresh and open
for the discussion of topics which are not for
a day only.

A man like Sokrates, living in such a com-
munity, did not need to write down his wis-
dom. He had no such vast public as the
modern philosopher has to reach. He could
hail any one he happened to pass in the street,
begin an argument with him forthwith, and set
a whole crowd thinking and inquiring about
subjects the mere contemplation of which
would raise them for the moment above mat-
ters of transient concern. For more than half
a century any citizen might have gratis the
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ATHENIAN AND AMERICAN LIFE

benefit of oral instruction from such a man as
he. And I sometimes think, by the way, that
— curtailed as it is to literary proportions in
the dialogues of Plato, bereft of all that per-
sonal potency which it had when it flowed, in-
stinct with earnestness, from the lips of the
teacher — even to this day the wit of man has
perhaps devised no better general gymnastics
for the understanding than the Sokratic dia-
lectic. I am far from saying that all Athens
listened to Sokrates or understood him : had it
been so, the caricature of Aristophanes would
have been pointless, and the sublime yet
mournful trilogy of dialogues which portray
the closing scenes of the greatest life of anti-
quity would never have been written. But the
mere fact that such a man lived and taught in
the way that he did goes far in proof of the
deep culture of the Athenian public. Further
confirmation is to be found in the fact that
such tragedies as the Antigone, the Oidipous,
and the Prometheus were written to suit the
popular taste of the time ; not to be read by
literary people, or to be performed before
select audiences such as in our day listen to
Ristori or Janauschek, but to hold spell-bound
that vast concourse of all kinds of people
which assembled at the Dionysiac festivals.

Still further proof is furnished by the exqui-
site literary perfection of Greek writings. One
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of the common arguments in favour of the
study of Greek at the present day is based
upon the opinion that in the best works extant
in that language tho art of literary expression
has reached wellnigh absolute perfection. I fully
concur in this opinion, so far as to doubt if
even the greatest modern writers, even a Pascal
or a Voltaire, can fairly sustain a comparison
with such Athenians as Plato or Lysias. This
excellence of the ancient books is in part im-
mediately due to the fact that they were not
written in a hurry, or amid the anxieties of an
over-busy existence ; but it is in greater part
due to the indirect consequences of a leisurely
life. These books were written for a public
which knew well how to appreciate the finer
beauties of expression ; and, what is still more
to the point, their authors lived in a com-
munity where an elegant style was habitual.
Before a matchless style can be written, there
must be a good style " in the air," as the French
say. Probably the most finished talking and
writing of modern times has been done in and
about the French court in the seventeenth cen-
tury; and it is accordingly there that we find
men like Pascal and Bossuet writing a prose
which for precision, purity, and dignity has
never since been surpassed. It is thus that
the unapproachable literary excellence of ancient
Greek books speaks for the genuine culture of
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ATHENIAN AND AMERICAN LIFE

the people who were expected to read them,
or to hear them read. For one of the surest
indices of true culture, whether professedly lit-
erary or not, is the power to express one's self
in precise, rhythmical, and dignified language.
We hardly need a better evidence than this of
the superiority of the ancient community in the
general elevation of its tastes and perceptions.
Recollecting how Herodotos read his history
at the Olympic games, let us try to imagine
even so picturesque a writer as Mr. Parkman
reading a few chapters of his " Jesuits in North
America " before the spectators assembled at
the Jerome Park races, and we shall the better
realize how deep-seated was Hellenic culture.

As yet, however, I have referred to but one
side of Athenian life. Though " seekers after
wisdom," the cultivated people of Athens did
not spend all their valuable leisure in dialectics
or in connoisseurship. They were not a set of
dilettanti or dreamy philosophers, and they were
far from subordinating the material side of life
to the intellectual. Also, though they dealt not
in money-making after the eager fashion of
modern men, they had still concerns of imme-
diate practical interest with which to busy them-
selves. Each one of these twenty-five thousand
free Athenians was not only a free voter, but
an office-holder, a legislator, a judge. They did
not control the government through a repre-
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sentative body, but they were themselves the
government. They were, one and all, in turn
liable to be called upon to make laws, and to
execute them after they were made, as well as
to administer justice in civil and criminal suits.
The affairs and interests, not only of their own
city, but of a score or two of scattered depend-
encies, were more or less closely to be looked
after by them. It lay with them to declare war,
to carry it on after declaring it, and to pay the
expenses of it. Actually and not by deputy
they administered the government of their own
city, both in its local and in its imperial rela-
tions. All this implies a more thorough, more
constant, and more vital political training than
that which is implied by the modern duties of
casting a ballot and serving on ajury. The life
of the Athenian was emphatically a political life.
From early manhood onward, it was part of his
duty to hear legal questions argued by powerful
advocates, and to utter a decision upon law and
fact; or to mix in debate upon questions of
public policy, arguing, listening, and pondering.
It is customary to compare the political talent
of the Greeks unfavourably with that displayed
by the Romans, and I have no wish to dispute
this estimate. But on a careful study it will
appear that the Athenians, at least, in a higher
degree than any other community of ancient
times, exhibited parliamentary tact, or the abil-
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ATHENIAN AND AMERICAN LIFE

ity to sit still while both sides of a question are
getting discussed, — that sort of political talent
for which the English races are distinguished,
and to the lack of which so many of the polit-
ical failures of the French are egregiously due.
One would suppose that a judicature of the
whole town would be likely to execute a sorry
parody of justice ; yet justice was by no means
ill-administered at Athens. Even the most un-
fortunate and disgraceful scenes, — as where the
proposed massacre of the Mytilenaians was dis-
cussed, and where summary retribution was dealt
out to the generals who had neglected their duty
at Arginusai, — even these scenes furnish, when
thoroughly examined, as by Mr. Grote, only
the more convincing proof that the Athenian
was usually swayed by sound reason and good
sense to an extraordinary degree. All great
points, in fact, were settled rather by sober
appeals to reason than by intrigue or lobbying;
and one cannot help thinking that an Athenian
of the time of Perikles would have regarded with
pitying contempt the trick of the "previous
question." And this explains the undoubted pre-
eminence of Athenian oratory. This accounts
for the fact that we find in the forensic annals
of a single city, and within the compass of a
single century, such names as Lysias, Isokrates,
Andokides, Hypereides, Aischines, and Demos-
thenes. The art of oratory, like the art of sculp-
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ture, shone forth more brilliantly then than ever
since, because then the conditions favouring its
development were more perfectly combined than
they have since been. Now, a condition of so-
ciety in which the multitude can always be made
to stand quietly and listen to a logical discourse is
a condition of high culture. Readers of Xeno-
phon's Anabasis will remember the frequency
of the speeches in that charming book. When-
ever some terrible emergency arose, or some
alarming quarrel or disheartening panic occurred,
in the course of the retreat of the Ten Thou-
sand, an oration from one of the commanders
— not a demagogue's appeal to the lower pas-
sions, but a calm exposition of circumstances
addressed to the sober judgment — usually
sufficed to set all things in order. To my mind
this is one of the most impressive historical
lessons conveyed in Xenophon's book. And
this peculiar kind of self-control, indicative
of intellectual sobriety and high moral train-
ing, which was more or less characteristic of
all Greeks, was especially characteristic of the
Athenians.

These illustrations will, I hope, suffice to
show that there is nothing extravagant in the
high estimate which I have made of Athenian
culture. I have barely indicated the causes of
this singular perfection of individual training in
the social circumstances amid which the Athe-
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ATHENIAN AND AMERICAN LIFE

nians lived. I have alleged it as an instance of
what may be accomplished by a well-directed
leisure, and in the absence or very scanty de-
velopment of such a complex industrial life as
that which surrounds us to-day. But I have
not yet quite done with the Athenians. Before
leaving this part of the subject, I must mention
one further circumstance which tends to make
ancient life appear in our eyes more sunny
and healthy, and less distressed, than the life
of modern times. And in this instance, too,
though we are not dealing with any immediate
or remote effects of leisureliness, we still have
to note the peculiar advantage gained by the
absence of a great complexity of interests in
the ancient community.

With respect to religion, the Athenians were
peculiarly situated. They had for the most
part outgrown the primitive terrorism of fetich-
istic belief. Save in cases of public distress, as
in the mutilation of the Hermai, or in the re-
fusal of Nikias to retreat from Syracuse because
of an eclipse of the moon, they were no longer,
like savages, afraid of the dark. Their keen,
aesthetic sense had prevailed to turn the hor-
rors of a primeval nature-worship into beauties.
Their springs and groves were peopled by their
fancy with naiads and dryads, not with trolls
and grotesque goblins. Their feelings towards
the unseen powers at work about them were in
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the main pleasant ; as witness the little story
about Pheidippides meeting the god Pan as he
was making with hot haste toward Sparta to
announce the arrival of the Persians. Now,
while this original source of mental discomfort,
which afflicts the uncivilized man, had ceased
materially to affect the Athenians, they on the
other hand lived at a time when the vague sense
of sin and self-reproof which was characteristic
of the early ages of Christianity had not yet
invaded society. The vast complication of life
brought about by the extension of the Roman
Empire led to a great development of human
sympathies, unknown in earlier times, and called
forth unquiet yearnings, desire for amelioration,
a sense of short-coming, and a morbid self-con-
sciousness. It is accordingly under Roman
sway that we first come across characters approx-
imating to the modern type, like Cicero, Seneca,
Epictetus, and Marcus Aurelius. It is then
that we find the idea of social progress first
clearly expressed, that we discover some glim-
merings of a conscious philanthropy, and that
we detect the earliest symptoms of that un-
healthy tendency to subordinate too entirely
the physical to the moral life, which reached its
culmination in the Middle Ages. In the palmy
days of the Athenians it was different. When
we hint that they were not consciously philan-
thropists, we do not mean that they were not
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ATHENIAN AND AMERICAN LIFE

humane ; when we accredit them with no idea
of progress, we do not forget how much they
did to render both the idea and the reality pos-
sible ; when we say that they had not a distress-
ing sense of spiritual unworthiness, we do not
mean that they had no conscience. We mean
that their moral and religious life sat easily on
them, like their own graceful drapery, — did
not gall and worry them, like the haircloth gar-
ment of the monk. They were free from that
dark conception of a devil which lent terror to
life in the Middle Ages ; and the morbid self-
consciousness which led mediaeval women to
immure themselves in convents would have
been to an Athenian quite inexplicable. They
had, in short, an open and childlike conception
of religion ; and, as such, it was a sunny con-
ception. Any one who will take the trouble to
compare an idyl of Theokritos with a modern
pastoral, or the poem of Kleanthes with a mod-
ern hymn, or the Aphrodite of Melos with a
modern Madonna, will realize most effectually
what I mean.

And, finally, the religion of the Athenians
was in the main symbolized in a fluctuating
mythology, and had never been hardened into
dogmas. The Athenian was subject to no priest,
nor was he obliged to pin his faith to any for-
mulated creed. His hospitable polytheism left
little room for theological persecution, and none

415

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for any heresy short of virtual atheism. The
feverish doubts which rack the modern mind
left him undisturbed. Though he might sink
to any depth of scepticism in philosophy, yet
the eternal welfare of his soul was not supposed
to hang upon the issue of his doubts. Accord-
ingly Athenian society was not only character-
ized in the main by freedom of opinion, in
spite of'the exceptional cases of Anaxagoras and
Sokrates ; but there was also none of that
Gothic gloom with which the deep-seated Chris-
tian sense of infinite responsibility for opinion
has saddened modern religious life.

In these reflections I have wandered a little
way from my principal theme, in order more
fully to show why the old Greek life impresses
us as so cheerful. Returning now to the key-
note with which we started, let us state suc-
cinctly the net result of what has been said
about the Athenians. As a people we have seen
that they enjoyed an unparalleled amount of
leisure, living through life with but little tur-
moil and clatter. Their life was more sponta-
neous and unrestrained, less rigorously marked
out by uncontrollable circumstances, than the
life of moderns. They did not run so much in
grooves. And along with this we have seen
reason to believe that they were the most pro-
foundly cultivated of all peoples ; that a larger
proportion of men lived complete, well-rounded,
416

ATHENIAN AND AMERICAN LIFE

harmonious lives in ancient Athens than in
any other known community. Keen, nimble-
minded, and self-possessed ; audacious specu-
lators, but temperate and adverse to extrava-
gance ; emotionally healthy, and endowed with
an unequalled sense of beauty and propriety ;
how admirable and wonderful they seem when
looked at across the gulf of ages intervening, —
and what a priceless possession to humanity, of
what noble augury for the distant future, is the
fact that such a society has once existed !

The lesson to be drawn from the study of
this antique life will impress itself more deeply
upon us after we have briefly contemplated the
striking contrast to it which is afforded by the
phase of civilization amid which we live to-day.
Ever since Greek civilization was merged in
Roman imperialism, there has been a slowly
growing tendency towards complexity of social
life, — towards the widening of sympathies, the
multiplying of interests, the increase of the
number of things to be done. Through the
later Middle Ages, after Roman civilization had
absorbed and disciplined the incoming barbar-
ism which had threatened to destroy it, there
was a steadily increasing complication of soci-
ety, a multiplication of the wants of life, and a
consequent enhancement of the difficulty of
self-maintenance. The ultimate causes of this
phenomenon lie so far beneath the surface that
417

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they could be satisfactorily discussed only in a
technical essay on the evolution of society. It
will be enough for us here to observe that the
great geographical discoveries of the sixteenth
century and the somewhat later achievements
of physical science have, during the past two
hundred years, aided powerfully in determin-
ing the entrance of the Western world upon
an industrial epoch, — an epoch which has for
its final object the complete subjection of the
powers of nature to purposes of individual com-
fort and happiness. We have now to trace
some of the effects of this lately-begun indus-
trial development upon social life and individual
culture. And as we studied the leisureliness of
antiquity where its effects were most conspicu-
ous, in the city of Athens, we shall now do well
to study the opposite characteristics of modern
society where they are most conspicuously ex-
emplified, in our own country. The attributes
of American life which it will be necessary to
signalize will be seen to be only the attributes
of modern life in their most exaggerated phase.
To begin with, in studying the United States,
we are no longer dealing with a single city, or
with small groups of cities. The city as a polit-
ical unit, in the antique sense, has never existed
among us, and indeed can hardly be said now
to exist anywhere. The modern city is hardly
more than a great emporium of trade, or a place
418

ATHENIAN AND AMERICAN LIFE

where large numbers of people find it con-
venient to live huddled together ; not a sacred
fatherland to which its inhabitants owe their
highest allegiance, and by the requirements of
which their political activity is limited. What
strikes us here is that our modern life is dif-
fused or spread out, not concentrated like the
ancient civic life. If the Athenian had been the
member of an integral community, comprising
all peninsular Greece and the mainland of Asia
Minor, he could not have taken life so easily as
he did.

Now our country is not only a very large
one, but compared to its vast territorial extent
it contains a very small population. If we go
on increasing at the present rate, so that a cen-
tury hence we number four or five hundred
millions, our country will be hardly more
crowded than China is to-day. Or if our whole
population were now to be brought east of Niag-
ara Falls, and confined on the south by the Po-
tomac, we should still have as much elbow-room
as they have in France. Political economists can
show the effects of this high ratio of land to in-
habitants, in increasing wages, raising the inter-
est of money, and stimulating production. We
are thus living amid circumstances which are
goading the industrial activity characteristic of
the last two centuries, and notably of the Eng-
lish race, into an almost feverish energy. The
419

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vast extent of our unwrought territory is con-
stantly draining fresh life from our older dis-
tricts, to aid in the establishment of new frontier
communities of a somewhat lower or less highly
organized type. And these younger commu-
nities, daily springing up, are constantly striving
to take on the higher structure, — to become
as highly civilized and to enjoy as many of the
prerogatives of civilization as the rest. All this
calls forth an enormous quantity of activity,
and causes American life to assume the aspect
of a life-and-death struggle for mastery over the
material forces of that part of the earth's surface
upon which it thrives.

It is thus that we are traversing what may
properly be called the barbarous epoch of our
history, — the epoch at which the predominant
intellectual activity is employed in achievements
which are mainly of a material character. Mili-
tary barbarism, or the inability of communities
to live together without frequent warfare, has
been nearly outgrown by the whole Western
world. Private wars, long since made everywhere
illegal, have nearly ceased ; and public wars,
once continual, have become infrequent. But
industrial barbarism, by which I mean the in-
ability of a community to direct a portion of its
time to purposes of spiritual life, after provid-
ing for its physical maintenance, — this kind of
barbarism the modern world has by no means
420

ATHENIAN AND AMERICAN LIFE

outgrown. To-day, the great work of life is to
live ; while the amount of labour consumed in
living has throughout the present century been
rapidly increasing. Nearly the whole of this
American community toils from youth to old
age in merely procuring the means for satisfying
the transient wants of life. Our time and ener-
gies, our spirit and buoyancy, are quite used up
in what is called "getting on."

Another point of difference between the
structure of American and of Athenian society
must not be left out of the account. The time
has gone by in which the energies of a hundred
thousand men and women could be employed
in ministering to the individual perfection of
twenty-five thousand. Slavery, in the antique
sense, — an absolute command of brain as well
as of muscle, a slave-system of skilled labour,
— we have never had. In our day it is for each
man to earn his own bread ; so that the struggle
for existence has become universal. The work
of one class does not furnish leisure for another
class. The exceptional circumstances which
freed the Athenian from industrial barbarism,
and enabled him to become the great teacher
and model of culture for the human race, have
disappeared forever.

Then the general standard of comfortable
living, as already hinted, has been greatly raised,
and is still rising. What would have satisfied
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the ancient would seem to us like penury. We
have a domestic life of which the Greek knew
nothing. We live during a large part of the
year in the house. Our social life goes on un-
der the roof. Our houses are not mere places
for eating and sleeping, like the houses of the
ancients. It therefore costs us a large amount
of toil to get what is called shelter for our heads.
The sum which a young married man, in " good
society," has to pay for his house and the fur-
niture contained in it, would have enabled an
Athenian to live in princely leisure from youth
to old age. The sum which he has to pay out
each year, to meet the complicated expense of
living in such a house, would have more than
sufficed to bring up an Athenian family. If
worthy Strepsiades could have got an Asmodean
glimpse of Fifth Avenue, or even of some un-
pretending street in Cambridge, he might have
gone back to his aristocratic wife a sadder but
a more contented man.

Wealth — or at least what would until lately
have been called wealth — has become essential
to comfort ; while the opportunities for acquir-
ing it have in recent times been immensely
multiplied. To get money is, therefore, the
chief end of life in our time and country. " Suc-
cess in life " has become synonymous with " be-
coming wealthy." A man who is successful in
what he undertakes is a man who makes his
422

ATHENIAN AND AMERICAN LIFE

employment pay him in money. Our normal
type of character is that of the shrewd, circum-
spect business man ; as in the Middle Ages it
was that of the hardy warrior. And as in those
days when fighting was a constant necessity,
and when the only honourable way for a gentle-
man of high rank to make money was by free-
booting, fighting came to be regarded as an end
desirable in itself; so in these days the mere
effort to accumulate has become a source of
enjoyment rather than a means to it. The
same truth is to be witnessed in aberrant types
of character. The infatuated speculator and the
close-fisted millionnaire are our substitutes for
the mediaeval berserkir, — the man who loved
the pell-mell of a contest so well that he would
make war on his neighbour just to keep his
hand in. In like manner, while such crimes as
murder and violent robbery have diminished in
frequency during the past century, on the other
hand such crimes as embezzlement, gambling
in stocks, adulteration of goods, and using
of false weights and measures, have probably
increased. If Dick Turpin were now to be
brought back to life, he would find the New
York Custom-House a more congenial and
profitable working-place than the king's high-
way.

The result of this universal quest for money
is that we are always in a hurry. Our lives pass
423

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by in a whirl. It is all labour and no fruition.
We work till we are weary ; we carry our work
home with us ; it haunts our evenings, and
disturbs our sleep as well as our digestion.
Our minds are so burdened with it that our
conversation, when serious, can dwell upon
little else. If we step into a railway-car, or the
smoking-room of a hotel, or any other place
where a dozen or two of men are gathered to-
gether, we shall hear them talking of stocks, of
investments, of commercial paper, as if there
were really nothing in this universe worth
thinking of, save only the interchange of dol-
lars and commodities. So constant and unre-
mitted is our forced application, that our minds
are dwarfed for everything except the prosecu-
tion of the one universal pursuit.

Are we now prepared for the completing of
the contrast ? Must we say that, as Athens was
the most leisurely and the United States is the
most hurried community known in history, so
the Americans are, as a consequence of their
hurry, lacking in thoroughness of culture ? Or,
since it is difficult to bring our modern culture
directly into contrast with that of an ancient
community, let me state the case after a different
but equivalent fashion. Since the United States
presents only an exaggerated type of the modern
industrial community, since the turmoil of in-
cessant money-getting, which affects all modern
424

ATHENIAN AND AMERICAN LIFE

communities in large measure, affects us most
seriously of all, shall it be said that we are, on
the whole, less highly cultivated than our con-
temporaries in Western Europe? To a certain
extent we must confess that this is the case.
In the higher culture — in the culture of the
whole man, according to the antique idea — we
are undoubtedly behind all other nations with
which it would be fair to compare ourselves. It
will not do to decide a question like this merely
by counting literary celebrities, although even
thus we should by no means get a verdict in
our favour. Since the beginning of this century,
England has produced as many great writers
and thinkers as France or Germany ; yet the
general status of culture in England is said —
perhaps with truth — to be lower than it is in
these countries. It is said that the average
Englishman is less ready than the average Ger-
man or Frenchman to sympathize with ideas
which have no obvious market-value. Yet in
England there is an amount of high culture
among those not professionally scholars which
it would be vain to seek among ourselves. The
purposes of my argument, however, require
that the comparison should be made between
our own country and Western Europe in gen-
eral. Compare, then, our best magazines —
not solely with regard to their intrinsic excel-
lence, but also with regard to the way in which
425

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they are sustained — with the " Revue des
Deux Mondes " or the " Journal des Debats."
Or compare our leading politicians with men
like Gladstone, Disraeli, or Sir G. C. Lewis ; or
even with such men as Brougham or Thiers.
Or compare the slovenly style of our newspaper
articles, I will not say with the exquisite prose
of the lamented Prevost-Paradol, but with the
ordinary prose of the French or English news-
paper. But a far better illustration — for it goes
down to the root of things — is suggested by
the recent work of Matthew Arnold on the
schools of the continent of Europe. The coun-
try of our time where the general culture is
unquestionably the highest is Prussia. Now, in
Prussia, they are able to have a Minister of
Education, who is a member of the Cabinet.
They are sure that this minister will not appoint
or remove even an assistant professor for po-
litical reasons. Only once, as Arnold tells us,
has such a thing been done ; and then public
opinion expressed itself in such an emphatic
tone of disapproval that the displaced teacher
was instantly appointed to another position.
Nothing of this sort, says Arnold, could have
occurred in England ; but still less could it
occur in America. Had we such an educational
system, there would presently be an " Educa-
tion Ring " to control it. Nor can this differ-
ence be ascribed to the less eager political
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ATHENIAN AND AMERICAN LIFE

activity of Germany. The Prussian state of
things would have been possible in ancient
Athens, where political life was as absorbing
and nearly as turbulent as in the United States.
The difference is due to our lack of faith in
culture, a lack of faith in that of which we have
not had adequate experience.

We lack culture because we live in a hurry,
and because our attention is given up to pur-
suits which call into activity and develop but
one side of us. On the one hand contemplate
Sokrates quietly entertaining a crowd in the
Athenian market-place, and on the other hand
consider Broadway with its eternal clatter, and
its throngs of hurrying people elbowing and
treading on each other's heels, and you will get
a lively notion of the difference between the
extreme phases of ancient and modern life. By
the time we have thus rushed through our day,
we have no strength left to devote to things
spiritual. To-day finds us no nearer fruition
than yesterday. And if perhaps the time at
last arrives when fruition is practicable, our
minds have run so long in the ruts that they
cannot be twisted out.

As it is impossible for any person living
in a given state of society to keep himself
exempt from its influences, detrimental as well
as beneficial, we find that even those who strive
to make a literary occupation subservient to
427

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purposes of culture are not, save in rare cases,
spared by the general turmoil. Those who
have at once the ability, the taste, and the
wealth needful for training themselves to the
accomplishment of some many-sided and per-
manent work are of course very few. Nor have
our universities yet provided themselves with
the means for securing to literary talent the
leisure which is essential to complete mental
development, or to a high order of productive-
ness. Although in most industrial enterprises
we know how to work together so successfully,
in literature we have as yet no co-operation.
We have not only no Paris, but we have not
even a Tubingen, a Leipsic, or a Jena, or any-
thing corresponding to the fellowships in the
English universities. Our literary workers
have no choice but to fall into the ranks, and
make merchandise of their half-formed ideas.
They must work without co-operation, they
must write in a hurry, and they must write for
those who have no leisure for aught but hasty
and superficial reading.

Bursting boilers and custom-house frauds
may have at first sight nothing to do with each
other or with my subject. It is indisputable,
however, that the horrible massacres perpetrated
every few weeks or months by our common
carriers, and the disgraceful peculation in which
we allow our public servants to indulge with
428

ATHENIAN AND AMERICAN LIFE

hardly ever an effective word of protest, are
alike to be ascribed to the same causes which
interfere with our higher culture. It is by no
means a mere accidental coincidence that for
every dollar stolen by government officials in
Prussia, at least fifty or a hundred are stolen
in the United States. This does not show that
the Germans are our superiors in average hon-
esty, but it shows that they are our superiors
in thoroughness. It is with them an impera-
tive demand that any official whatever shall
be qualified for his post ; a principle of public
economy which in our country is not simply
ignored in practice, but often openly laughed
at. But in a country where high intelligence
and thorough training are imperatively de-
manded, it follows of necessity that these quali-
fications must insure for their possessors a
permanent career in which the temptations to
malfeasance or dishonesty are reduced to the
minimum. On the other hand, in a country
where intelligence and training have no surety
that they are to carry the day against stupidity
and inefficiency, the incentives to dishonourable
conduct are overpowering. The result in our
own political life is that the best men are driven
in disgust from politics, and thus one of the
noblest fields for the culture of the whole man
is given over to be worked by swindlers and
charlatans. To an Athenian such a severance
429

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of the highest culture from political life would
have been utterly inconceivable. Obviously the
deepest explanation of all this lies in our lack
of belief in the necessity for high and thorough
training. We do not value culture enough to
keep it in our employ or to pay it for its ser-
vices ; and what is this short-sighted negligence
but the outcome of the universal shiftlessness
begotten of the habit of doing everything in a
hurry ? On every hand we may see the fruits
of this shiftlessness, from buildings that tumble
in, switches that are misplaced, furnaces that are
ill-protected, fire-brigades that are without dis-
cipline, up to unauthorized meddlings with the
currency, and revenue laws which defeat their
own purpose.

I said above that the attributes of American
life which we should find it necessary for our
purpose to signalize are simply the attributes
of modern life in their most exaggerated phase.
Is there not a certain sense in which all modern
handiwork is hastily and imperfectly done ? To
begin with common household arts, does not
every one know that old things are more dur-
able than new things ? Our grandfathers wore
better shoes than we wear, because there was
leisure enough to cure the leather properly. In
old times a chair was made of seasoned wood,
and its joints carefully fitted ; its maker had
leisure to see that it was well put together.

430

ATHENIAN AND AMERICAN LIFE

Now a thousand are turned off at once by
machinery, out of green wood, and, with their
backs glued on, are hurried off to their evil
fate, — destined to drop in pieces if they happen
to stand near the fireplace, and liable to collapse
under the weight of a heavy man. Some of us
still preserve, as heirlooms, old tables and bed-
steads of Cromwellian times : in the twenty-
first century what will have become of our
machine-made bedsteads and tables ?

Perhaps it may seem odd to talk about tan-
ning and joinery in connection with culture, but
indeed there is a subtle bond of union holding
together all these things. Any phase of life can
be understood only by associating with it some
different phase. Sokrates himself has taught
us how the homely things illustrate the grand
things. If we turn to the art of musical com-
position, and inquire into some of the differ-
ences between our recent music and that of
Handel's time, we shall alight upon the very
criticism which Mr. Mill somewhere makes in
comparing ancient with modern literature : the
substance has improved, but the form has in
some respects deteriorated. The modern music
expresses the results of a richer and more varied
emotional experience, and in wealth of harmonic
resources, to say nothing of increased skill in
orchestration, it is notably superior to the old
music. Along with this advance, however, there

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is a perceptible falling off in symmetry and com-
pleteness of design, and in what I would call
spontaneousness of composition. I believe that
this is because modern composers, as a rule, do
not drudge patiently enough upon counterpoint.
They do not get that absolute mastery over
technical difficulties of figuration which was the
great secret of the incredible facility and spon-
taneity of composition displayed by Handel
and Bach. Among recent musicians Mendels-
sohn is the most thoroughly disciplined in the
elements of counterpoint ; and it is this perfect
mastery of the technique of his art which has
enabled him to outrank Schubert and Schu-
mann, neither of whom would one venture to
pronounce inferior to him in native wealth of
musical ideas. May we not partly attribute
to rudimentary deficiency in counterpoint the
irregularity of structure which so often disfig-
ures the works of the great Wagner and the
lesser Liszt, and which the more ardent admir-
ers of these composers are inclined to regard as
a symptom of progress ?

I am told that a similar illustration might be
drawn from the modern history of painting ;
that, however noble the conceptions of the great
painters of the present century, there are none
who have gained such a complete mastery over
the technicalities of drawing and the handling
of the brush as was required in the times of
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ATHENIAN AND AMERICAN LIFE

Raphael, Titian, and Rubens. But on this
point I can only speak from hearsay, and am
quite willing to end here my series of illus-
trations, fearing that I may already have been
wrongly set down as a laudator temporis acti.
Not the idle praising of times gone by, but the
getting a lesson from them which may be of
use to us, has been my object. And I believe
enough has been said to show that the great
complexity of modern life, with its multiplicity
of demands upon our energy, has got us into
a state of chronic hurry, the results of which
are everywhere to be seen in the shape of less
thorough workmanship and less rounded cul-
ture.

For one moment let me stop to note a further
source of the relative imperfection of modern
culture, which is best illustrated in the case of
literature. I allude to the immense, unorganized
mass of literature in all departments, represent-
ing the accumulated acquisitions of past ages,
which must form the basis of our own achieve-
ment, but with which our present methods of
education seem inadequate to deal properly.
Speaking roughly, modern literature may be
said to be getting into the state which Roman
jurisprudence was in before it was reformed by
Justinian. Philosophic criticism has not yet
reached the point at which it may serve as a
natural codifier. We must read laboriously and
433

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expend a disproportionate amount of time and
pains in winnowing the chaff from the wheat.
This tends to make us " digs " or literary
drudges ; but I doubt if the " dig " is a thor-
oughly developed man. Goethe, with all his
boundless knowledge, his universal curiosity,
and his admirable capacity for work, was not a
" dig." But this matter can only be hinted at :
it is too large to be well discussed at the fag end
of an essay while other points are pressing for
consideration.

A state of chronic hurry not only directly
hinders the performance of thorough work, but
it has an indirect tendency to blunt the enjoy-
ment of life. Let us consider for a moment one
of the psychological consequences entailed by
the strain of a too complex and rapid activity.
Every one must have observed that in going
off for a vacation of two or three weeks, or in
getting freed in any way from the ruts of every-
day life, time slackens its gait somewhat, and the
events which occur are apt a few years later to
cover a disproportionately large area in our re-
collections. This is because the human organism
is a natural timepiece in which the ticks are con-
scious sensations. The greater the number of
sensations which occupy the foreground of con-
sciousness during the day, the longer the day
seems in the retrospect. But the various groups
of sensations which accompany our daily work
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ATHENIAN AND AMERICAN LIFE

tend to become automatic from continual repe-
tition, and to sink into the background of con-
sciousness ; and in a very complex and busied
life the number of sensations or states of con-
sciousness which can struggle up to the front
and get attended to, is comparatively small. It
is thus that the days seem so short when we are
busy about every-day matters, and that they get
blurred together, and as it were individually
annihilated in recollection. When we travel, a
comparatively large number of fresh sensations
occupy attention, there is a maximum of con-
sciousness, and a distinct image is left to loom
up in memory. For the same reason the weeks
and years are much longer to the child than to
the grown man. The life is simpler and less
hurried, so that there is time to attend to a great
many sensations. Now this fact lies at the bot-
tom of that keen enjoyment of existence which
is the prerogative of childhood and early youth.
The day is not rushed through by the automatic
discharge of certain psychical functions, but each
sensation stays long enough to make itself re-
cognized. Now when once we understand the
psychology of this matter, it becomes evident
that the same contrast that holds between the
child and the man must hold also between the
ancient and the modern. The number of ele-
ments entering into ancient life were so few
relatively, that there must have been far more

435

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than there is now of that intense realization of
life which we can observe in children and remem-
ber of our own childhood. Space permitting, it
would be easy to show from Greek literature
how intense was this realization of life. But my
point will already have been sufficiently appre-
hended. Already we cannot fail to see how dif-
ficult it is to get more than a minimum of con-
scious fruition out of a too complex and rapid
activity.

One other point is worth noticing before we
close. How is this turmoil of modern existence
impressing itself upon the physical constitutions
of modern men and women ? When an indi-
vidual man engages in furious productive ac-
tivity, his friends warn him that he will break
down. Does the collective man of our time need
some such friendly warning ? Let us first get a
hint from what foreigners think of us ultra-mod-
ernized Americans. Wandering journalists, of
an ethnological turn of mind, who visit these
shores, profess to be struck with the slenderness,
the apparent lack of toughness, the dyspeptic
look, of the American physique. And from such
observations it has been seriously argued that
the stalwart English race is suffering inevitable
degeneracy in this foreign climate. I have even
seen it doubted whether a race of men can ever
become thoroughly naturalized in a locality to
which it is not indigenous. To such vagaries it

43 6

ATHENIAN AND AMERICAN LIFE

is a sufficient answer that the English are no
more indigenous to England than to America.
They are indigenous to Central Asia, and as
they have survived the first transplantation, they
may be safely counted on to survive the second.
A more careful survey will teach us that the slow
alteration of physique which is going on in this
country is only an exaggeration of that which
modern civilization is tending to bring about
everywhere. It is caused by the premature and
excessive strain upon the mental powers requi-
site to meet the emergencies of our complex life.
The progress of events has thrown the work of
sustaining life so largely upon the brain that we
are beginning to sacrifice the physical to the in-
tellectual. We are growing spirituelle in appear-
ance at the expense of robustness. Compare
any typical Greek face, with its firm muscles,
its symmetry of feature, and its serenity of ex-
pression, to a typical modern portrait, with its
more delicate contour, its exaggerated forehead,
its thoughtful, perhaps jaded look. Or consider
in what respects the grand 'faces of the Plan-
tagenet monarchs differ from the refined counte-
nances of the leading English statesmen of to-
day. Or again, consider the familiar pictures of
the Oxford and Harvard crews which rowed a
race on the Thames in 1869, and observe how
much less youthful are the faces of the Ameri-
cans. By contrast they almost look careworn.

437

THE UNSEEN WORLD

The summing up of countless such facts is that
modern civilization is making us nervous. Our
most formidable diseases are of nervous origin.
We seem to have got rid of the mediaeval plague
and many of its typhoid congeners ; but instead
we have an increased amount of insanity, metho-
mania, consumption, dyspepsia, and paralysis.
In this fact it is plainly written that we are suf-
fering physically from the over-work and over-
excitement entailed by excessive hurry.

In view of these various but nearly related
points of difference between ancient and modern
life as studied in their extreme manifestations,
it cannot be denied that while we have gained
much, we have also lost a good deal that is valu-
able, in our progress. We cannot but suspect
that we are not in all points more highly favoured
than the ancients. And it becomes probable that
Athens, at all events, which I have chosen as
my example, may have exhibited an adumbration
of a state of things which, for the world at large,
is still in the future, — still to be remotely hoped
for. The rich complexity of modern social
achievement is attained at the cost of individual
many-sidedness. As Tennyson puts it, " The
individual withers and the world is more and
more." Yet the individual does not exist for
the sake of society, as the positivists would have
us believe, but society exists for the sake of the
individual. And the test of complete social life
438

ATHENIAN AND AMERICAN LIFE

is the opportunity which it affords for com-
plete individual life. Tried by this test, our
contemporary civilization will appear seriously
defective, — excellent only as a preparation for
something better.

This is the true light in which to regard it.
This incessant turmoil, this rage for accumula-
tion of wealth, this crowding, jostling, and tram-
pling upon one another, cannot be regarded as
permanent, or as anything more than the accom-
paniment of a transitional stage of civilization.
There must be a limit to the extent to which
the standard of comfortable living can be raised.
The industrial organization of society, which is
now but beginning, must culminate in a state
of things in which the means of expense will ex-
ceed the demand for expense, in which the hu-
man race will have some surplus capital. The
incessant manual labour which the ancients rele-
gated to slaves will in course of time be more
and more largely performed by inanimate ma-
chinery. Unskilled labour will for the most
part disappear. Skilled labour will consist in
the guiding of implements contrived with ver-
satile cunning for the relief of human nerve and
muscle. Ultimately there will be no unsettled
land to fill, no frontier life, no savage races to
be assimilated or extirpated, no extensive mi-
gration. Thus life will again become compara-
tively stationary. The chances for making great
439

THE UNSEEN WORLD

fortunes quickly will be diminished, while the
facilities for acquiring a competence by steady
labour will be increased. When every one is
able to reach the normal standard of comfort-
able living, we must suppose that the exagger-
ated appetite for wealth and display will gradu-
ally disappear. We shall be more easily satisfied,
and thus enjoy more leisure. It may be that
there will ultimately exist, over the civilized
world, conditions as favourable to the complete
fruition of life as those which formerly existed
within the narrow circuit of Attika ; save that
the part once played by enslaved human brain
and muscle will finally be played by the en-
slaved forces of insentient nature. Society will
at last bear the test of providing for the com-
plete development of its individual members.

So, at least, we may hope ; such is the prob-
ability which the progress of events, when care-
fully questioned, sketches out for us. " Need
we fear," asks Mr. Greg, " that the world would
stagnate under such a change ? Need we guard
ourselves against the misconstruction of being
held to recommend a life of complacent and in-
glorious inaction ? We think not. We would
only substitute a nobler for a meaner strife, —
a rational for an excessive toil, — an enjoyment
that springs from serenity for one that springs
from excitement only. . . . To each time its
own preacher, to each excess its own counterac-
440

ATHENIAN AND AMERICAN LIFE

tion. In an age of dissipation, languor, and stag-
nation we should join with Mr. Carlyle in preach-
ing the c Evangel of Work/ and say with him,
c Blessed is the man who has found his work, —
let him ask no other blessedness/ In an age of
strenuous, frenzied, . . . and often utterly irra-
tional and objectless exertion, we join Mr. Mill
in preaching the milder and more needed c Evan-
gel of Leisure/ '

Bearing all these things in mind, we may un-
derstand the remark of the supremely cultivated
Goethe, when asked who were his masters : Die
Griechen, die Griechen, und immer die Griechen.
We may appreciate the significance of Mr.
Mill's argument in favour of the study of anti-
quity, that it preserves the tradition of an era
of individual completeness. There is a disposi-
tion growing among us to remodel our methods
of education in conformity with the temporary
requirements of the age in which we live. In
this endeavour there is much that is wise and
practical ; but in so far as it tends to the neglect
of antiquity, I cannot think it well-timed. Our
education should not only enhance the value of
what we possess ; it should also supply the con-
sciousness of what we lack. And while, for gen-
erations to come, we pass toilfully through an
era of exorbitant industrialism, some fragment
of our time will not be misspent in keeping
alive the tradition of a state of things which was
441

THE UNSEEN WORLD

once briefly enjoyed by a little community, but
which, in the distant future, will, as it is hoped,
become the permanent possession of all man-
kind.

January, 1873.

INDEX

INDEX

ABULPHARAGIUS on the Alexandrian
Library, 226.

Acts of the Apostles, garbled state-
ments of, 90, 109 j authorship
of, 100.

./Eons, Gnostic theory of, 156.

Ahriman, 156.

Alexandrian Library, the legend of
its destruction by Omar, 22.4,
227 j Mahometanism and, 225 ;
Abulpharagius on the burning of,
226 j destroyed by Theophilus,
227.

Alger, W. R., The End of the
World and the Day of Judgment,

133-

Ambros, A. W., on vocal and in-
strumental music, 361.

American civilization defective, 439.

American life, restlessness and hurry

°f, 395, 396, 423, 4*4, 433 J
complexity of, 417, 418, 433,
437, 438) necessity of work in,

421 j standard of living, 421,

422 ; lack of culture in, 424-
427, 433 ; literary occupation in,
hampered, 427, 428 ; intelligence
and training count for little, 428—
430 j lack of thoroughness, 430-

433-

American physique, 436.

Amrou, capture of Alexandria, 226,
227.

Anaxagoras, 416.

Antioch, Council of, on doctrine of
the Trinity, 168.

Antique in literature, eighteenth-
century reproduction of, 340 ; a
real reproduction of, 343.

Antiquity, study of, in education,
441.

Antwerp, famine during the siege of,
268-271.

Apocalypse, authorship and character
of, 91 ; doubts in regard to, 95 j
expresses the dogmatic views of
its author, 104; date of, 133,
141 ; and Jewish theology, 140 j
on Christ's second coming, 141.

Arab contributions to science, 184.

Arabic manuscripts burned by Xi-
menes, 225.

Architecture in art, 379.

Aristophanes, passage from Lysis-
trata, 388.

Arius, Christology of, 1 68.

Arnold, Matthew, on Paul's faith,
143 j on translating Homer, 310,
3115 on state education in Prus-
sia, 426.

Art, Taine's Philosophy of Art>
366, 372-394 ; imitation in,
373-380 ; genuine art, and man-
nerism in art, 374-376 ; true re-
presentation in, 379 j and sci-
ence, 380 } and social conditions,
381 ; and the public, 384 ; in his-
tory, 384 ; Puritanism and, 369.

Artistic and critical genius com-
pared, 216, 219.

Ascension of Jesus, legend of, 141.

Athanasian theory, 1 34.

Athenian and American Life, 395-
442.

Athens, ancient, size of, 398 j popu-
lation of, 398 j slaves in, 398-
400 ; habits of life and dress in,
386, 399 j wives in, 400 j cost

445

INDEX

of living in, 400 ; distribution of
wealth in, 400 j business and
money-getting in, 401 ; leisure
in, 399, 401, 416; great men
in, 402 ; culture in, 403, 406-
409, 41 6 j combined the advan-
tages of a large and a small com-
munity, 405, 406 ; political and
judicial side of life in, 409—412 ;
oratory in, 411 ; moral and reli-
gious life of the inhabitants, 413-
4165 standard of living in, 421,
422.

Athletics, Greek, 389.

Atoms, indestructibleness of, 3 1 , 3 3 ;
indivisibility of, 33 ; hardness of,
33 j invisibility of, 52 ; size of,
52 j vortex theory of, 29-36,

38.

Attika, demes of, 398.
Automatism of repeated impressions,

434, 435-

Babbage, Charles, Ninth Bridge-
ivater Treatise, 43, 73.

Bach, J. S., Prelude, 357 j his fa-
cility of composition, 432.

Baptism of Jesus, 114, 152.

Barbarism of present age, 420.

Barthelemy Saint-Hilaire, Jules, Ma-
homet et le Cor an, 175.

Bastian, H. C., on spontaneous gen-
eration, 65.

Baur, F. C., and the Tubingen
School, 99 ; work on New Testa-
ment literature, 99, 100, 107 ;
on the Pauline Christ, 1505 an-
ticipated by Lessing, 202.

Beauquier, on vocal and instrumental
music, 361.

Becket, Thomas a, biographers of,

93, "5-

Beerbhoom, results of famine of
1770 in, 259, 260. See also
Bengal.

Beesly, E. S., on Catiline, 223.

Beethoven, Ludwig van, 75, 364 ;
the character of his genius, 218.

Bengal, character of its people, 250,

a54, 273 5 the famine of 1770
in, 251-273; depopulation of,
255, 257, 258 ; land laid waste
in, 259 j inroads of tigers and
elephants, 260, 261 ; inroads of
barbarians, 261 ; inroads of rob-
bers and freebooters, 26 ij com-
mercial isolation of Lower Ben-
gal in 1770, 264 5 speculation in
rice prohibited in, 267, 271 j
famine of 1866 in, 272, 273.

Berkeley, George, on idealism, 67.

Berserkirs, our substitutes for, 423.

Berthoud, Henri, his hoax about
Solomon de Caus, 246.

Biblical criticism, Spinoza and Les-
sing its real inaugurators, 97,
202 ; F. C. Baur the greatest
worker in this field, 99 ; monopo-
lized by Germany, 101.

Boccaccio, Giovanni, The Three
Rings, 213.

Boileau - Despreaux, Nicolas, and
eighteenth-century criticism, 341.

Book-burning by fanatics, 224, 225.

Bossuet, J. B., prose of, 408.

Brain, molecular motion in, 54.

Bretschneider, K. G., on New Testa-
ment literature, 97.

Bridgewater Treatises, 73.

Biichner, F. K. C. L., on nature
of consciousness, 47, 54.

Cadences in music, 356.

Caesar, Julius, superstition of, 177.

Cagny, Perceval de, on Jeanne d' Arc,

234-

Canon of New Testament, its for-
mation guided rather by dogmatic
prepossession than by critical con-
siderations, 94, 95.

Cantata a high form of music, 365.

Caraffa, G. P. (Paul IV.), and re-
form in the Church, 284.

Carlyle, Thomas, Lectures on Hero-
Worship, 311; on the Evangel
of Work, 441.

Cartesian puzzle concerning the in-
teraction of spirit and matter, 156.

446

INDEX

Gary, H. F., translation of Dante,

34 1 :

Catharine de' Medici and massacre
of St. Bartholomew, 295.

Catiline in the light of modern criti-
cism, 223.

Caus, Solomon de, false legend con-
cerning, 244, 247.

Causation, law of, universal assump-
tion of, 7.

Cervantes Saavedra, M. de, charac-
ter of his work, 219; greatness
of, 304.

Charles the Bold, 290.

Charles V. of Spain, Protestant Re-
formation in the reign of, 282 ;
character of, 290; and Luther,
291.

Charles VII. of France and Jeanne
d'Arc, 241.

Chemical composition of stars like
that of sun and planets, 19.

Cherbuliez, Victor, Lessing and the-
ology, 204.

Chopin, F. F., melody of, 75, 384.

Christ of Dogma, The, 1 3 3-1 69.

Christianity, doctrine of the resur-
rection essential to, 135, 144;
Pauline theory of a future life
and, 149 ; incentive to holiness
in, 150; compared with religion
of the ancient Athenians, 414-
416.

Christology, doctrine of the resur-
rection in, 135—150; Jewish sys-
tem of, 154; Hellenic system of,
155; Gnosticism in, 157-161 ;
the Logos in, 162, 163; the
fourth gospel in, 164—167; doc-
trine of the Trinity in, 1 68.

Cicero in the light of modern criti-
cism, 222.

City, the ancient Greek, 385 ; an-
cient and modern compared, 418,
419.

Clairvoyance, 57.

Clement of Alexandria, on the au-
thorship of the fourth gospel, 95 ;

' Christology of, 1 68.

Clementine Homilies, on the preex-
istence of Jesus, 157.

Clifford, W. K.., his doubts as to the
eternity of mechanical laws, 23 j
his illustrations of vortex motion,
29 ; on matter and ether, 32.

Colani, Timothee, and Biblical criti-
cism, 101.

Colossians, Epistle to the, shows
progress of Christian doctrine,
133; on the pleromO) 157.

Commercial isolation, a cause of
famine in Asia, 264, 265 ; of
Lower Bengal in 1770, 264; of
Orissa in 1866, 274.

Consciousness, nature of, 46 ; and
molecular motion in the brain,
54 ; survival of conscious activity
apart from material conditions,
58-63 ; no evidence that con-
sciousness survives the dissolution
of the brain, 59 ; in production
of material phenomena, 67.

Continuity, principle of, its universal
assumption, 7; in the physical uni-
verse, 8.

Copernican theory, as relating to hea-
ven and hell, 137, 1 66 ; as re-
lating to final causes, 279.

Corinthians, First Epistle to the, on
Christ's second coming, 143 j on
the resurrection, 151.

Cosmic Philosophy, Outlines ofy 9 j
on consciousness and molecular
motion in the brain, 46, 55 ; on
inconceivability, 62 ; on Deity as
quasi-psychical, 68 ; on modern
thinking, 340.

Cosmic theism, 6.

Cosmical work, cessation of, 23.

Counterpoint not enough studied by
recent composers, 432.

Cranmer, Thomas, 295.

Creation, Gnostic theory of, 156.

Critical and artistic genius compared,
216, 219.

Criticism, and history, 221-224 ;
effect of, on some supposed histori-
cal events, 221 ; on some histori-

447

INDEX

cal characters, 222 ; in the seven-
teenth century, 336 ; in the eight-
eenth century, 337, 338, 340}
in the nineteenth century, 337,
340.

Crocker, S. R., translation of Fi-
guier's The To-morronv of Death,
77-8 6.

Culture, in ancient Athens, 403,
406-409, 416 ; and book-know-
ledge, 403, 404; lack of, in
America, 424-427, 433 ; in Eng-
land, 425 ; in France, 425 ; in
Germany, 425, 426 ; modern,
relative imperfection of, 433.

Custom-houses and highwaymen,
423, 428.

Dacoits in Bengal, 262.

Daniel, Book of, on the coming of
the Messiah, 141.

Dante Alighieri, his materialistic
descriptions of the future life, 60 ;
intensity of imagination in, 217,
326 ; Longfellow's translation of
the Divine Comedy , 310-378 ;
difficulty of translating, 311-325;
compared with Homer, 311;
rhyme in, 312; no grotesqueness
in, 325—327 ; eighteenth-century
criticism of, 338.

Davidson, Samuel, Introduction to
the New Testament, 103.

Death but a transfer from one physi-
cal state of existence to another,
46.

Deism, 200.

Deity, how far to be regarded as
quasi-psychical, 68.

Delepierre, Octave, Historical Diffi-
culties and Contested Events, 221-
248.

Delorme, Marion, and Solomon de
Caus, 244.

Demes of Attika, 398.

Demiurgus in Gnosticism, 156.

Denner, Balthasar, his portraits, 377.

Descartes, Rene, on thought and
matter, 53.

Designs of Jesus and his Disciples,
The, 196.

Desire no adequate basis for belief,
72.

De Wette, W. M. L., and New
Testament literature, 97.

"Digs," 434.

Diogenes and his tub, 392.

Disciples, early Christian, persecuted
by Paul, 130.

Disciples, Hellenist, driven from Je-
rusalem, 130; date of the appear-
ance of the sect, 131; received
Paul into their number, 131.

Disciples, Petrine, their view of Jesus*
mission, 130, 1315 unheeded by
Paul, 130, 131.

Diseases, ancient and modern, 438.

Dissipation of energy, 15-18, 21-

*3-

Docetism, 1 60, 163.

Dogmatism, of gospel writers, 92—
94 ; obscures the history of Jesus,
93 j of Fathers of the Church,
94 ; and New Testament litera-
ture, 96.

Dominicans, 280.

Dommer, Arrey von, on vocal and
instrumental music, 361, 363.

Drama, the, in Athens, 407.

Draper, J. W., A History of the
Intellectual Development of Eu-
rope, 182-184; History of the
Conflict between Religion and Sci-
ence, 182-192.

Dysteleology, 73.

Earth formerly a fluid mass, 9.

Ebionites, doctrines of the, 119; on
the pneuma, 152 ; misunderstood
and forgotten, 167.

Ecce Homo quoted, 2IO.

Eckermann, J. P., his daily inter-
course with Goethe, 404.

Edward I. of England in the light of
modern criticism, 222.

Egmont, Lamoral, Count of, 295.

Eichhorn, J. G., and New Testa-
ment literature, 97.

448

INDEX

Eichthal, Gustave d', and Bibfical
criticism, 101.

Elasticity of ether, 27, 32, CO.

Electric current, passage of, to mag-
netic needle not demonstrable but
thinkable, 56.

Elephants, inroads of, in Beerbhoom,
260, 261.

Elijah, the Prophet, his return from
the heavens as Jesus, 120, 121 ;
his place in Jewish cosmology,

138-

Elizabeth, Queen, in the light of
modern criticism, 222 } republican-
ism and, 286.

Emanations, Gnostic theory of, 156.

End of the world looked for by early
Christians, 143.

Energy, dissipation of, 15-18, 21-
23. See also Heat and Solar heat.

England, culture in, 425.

English language, relation of, to
other European languages, 319 ;
remarkable composition of, 320.

Enoch, Book of, and Jewish theology,
138, 140.

Enthusiasm of humanity, the, 210.

Ephesians, Epistle to the, shows pro-
gress of Christian doctrine, 1335
on the pleroma, 157.

Essenes, rise of the, 112; their doc-
trines, 112; John the Baptist as
a disciple of, 112; legitimate pre-
decessors of Christian hermits, 113;
Jesus probably not a disciple of,
113, 119.

Ether, friction attributed to, 14, 35 ;
question as to whether it is infinite
in extent, 25 ; character of, 26-
29, 48 ; elasticity of, 27, 32, 50 j
primitive form of matter, 29, 32 ;
alleged as complement of the world
of matter, 44.

Ether-folk, as a part of Figuier's
theory of a future life, 81-84.

Evidence, when essential to a hypo-
thesis, 64, 65.

Existence, problem of, 73.

Experience, determines our capacities

of conception, 62 j not infinite,

63.

Extinction of species, 6.

Faces, ancient and modern, 437.

Fairy tales a primitive style of
thought, 2.

Faith, Paul's idea of, 1435 Lessmg's
conception of, 210.

Fakeers in Bengal, 262.

Famine, of 1770 in Bengal, 249-
273 ; action of the government
during, 252, 263, 267, 271 j
depopulation through the, 255,
257, 258 ; effect upon the coun-
try, 257-263 ; causes of, 264-
268; of 1866 in Bengal, 273-
275 ; speculation in breadsturTs
during, 273 ; Orissa during, 274;
during the siege of Antwerp, 268-
271.

Farnese, Alexander, 268, 295.

Ferdinand of Aragon, 290.

Figuier, Louis, The To-morrotu of
Death classed as literary nuisance,
77, 86; on the planets, 79 ; on
ether-folk, 81-84 ; on solar heat,

S3-

Fontanes, Ernest, Le Christianisme
ModernCy 193 ; on Lessing's phi-
losophy, 203.

Force, persistence of, 7.

Fragments drawn from the Papers of
an Anonymous Writer^ by G. E.
Lessing, 195.

France, culture in, 425.

Francis I., 291.

Franciscans, 280.

Frederick II. and power of the
Church, 280.

Freeman, E. A., Historical Essays,

93> "5-

French Biblical criticism " annexed"
by Germany, 101 n.

French language in relation to the
English language, 322.

French poetry underrated by Eng-
lish readers, 319.

French writers, and Biblical criticism,

449

INDEX

lot j productiveness of, 404 ;
literary excellence of, 408.

Frictionless fluid, has no more real
existence than a line without
breadth, 34 $ Helmholtz's theory
of vortex-motion in, 30—34.

Frothingham, Ellen, translation of
Nathan the Wise, 193, 220.

Froude, J. A., anecdote of Charles
V. of Spain, 291.

Future life, physical theory of, 41-
53 ; psychical in constitution, 53,
56, 67 j cannot be described, 60 ;
recognition of friends in, 61 ; the
" Unknown Power " and the,
67—76 j teleological solution of,
73 ; the Jewish idea of retribution
in, 139, 149.

Galilee less rigidly Jewish than Ju-
daea, 112.

Gamaliel, defence of Petrine disci-
ples, 130.

Gehenna, 140, 149.

Genius, critical and artistic, compared,
216, 219 j of Dante, 217; of
Michael Angelo, 218 ; of Bee-
thoven, 218 j of Shakespeare,
218.

Gentiles, their share in the Mes-
sianic kingdom discussed, 127-
132; their connection with Hel-
lenists, 131.

German language allied to English
language, 320, 321.

German writers and Biblical criti-
cism, 101.

Germany, slow in consolidating into
a nation, 306 j culture in, 425,
426 ; character of public servants
in, 429.

Ghosts, origin of, 49 j gross material-
istic notion of, 57.

Gnosis, signification of the word,
156.

Gnosticism, its doctrines, 156 ; and
Christology, 157-161 ; of pseudo-
Pauline writers, 158-160; Do-
cetism, the extreme form of, 1 60 ;

and Philonian theories, 162 j de-
cline in importance of, 1 68.

God, in nature, 6 ; a universal cause
of conscious states, 68 ; and the
soul, the only conceptions that an-
swer to real existences, 69 ; and
the Logos, 163, i68j Christ
identified with, 168, 169.

Goethe, J. W. von, his philosophy
compared with Lessing's, 2045
his Faust compared with Nathan
the Wise, 216; possessed both
critical and artistic imagination,
219 ; his Iphigenie, 378 ; and
Eckermann, 404; not a "dig,"
434 ; the Greeks his masters,
441.

Goetz, Melchior, controversy with
Lessing, 196, 206 ; his idea of
Lessing's philosophy, 203, 206.

Gospel, the fourth, no proof that it
was written by the apostle John,
103-106 ; harmonizing of tra-
dition and dogma in, 164-167;
its place in Christology, 167, 168.

Gospels, the synoptic, when and
where written, 108.

Gothic cathedral, what it expresses,

379-

Gravitation as a differential result of
pressure, 35.

Greek life, sketch of, in connection
with art, 385-394.

Greek literary style, its unapproach-
able perfection, 408.

Greg, W. R., on British and For-
eign Characteristics, 395, 440.

Guesswork, lies at the foundation of
all scientific knowledge, 4 ; lim-
ited by growing experience, 5—7.

Hades, 138.

Handel, G. F., simplicity and sweet-
ness in, 351, 352 ; his facility of
composition, 432.

Hanson, Sir Richard, author of The
Jesus of History, 107 n.

Heat, generation and dissipation of,
in the solar system, 12, 15-18,

450

INDEX

21-43; waste of, 16, 23, 42 j
tends toward equalization, 22.

Heaven in Jewish cosmology, 137.

Hebrews, Epistle to the, Gnostic doc-
trines in, 158.

Hebrews, Gospel of the, 153.

Hecker, J. F. K., Epidemics of the
Middle Ages, 176.

Hellenist disciples, driven from Jeru-
salem, 130; date of appearance
of, 131 ; received Paul into their
number, 131.

Helmholtz, H. L. F., his theory of
vortex-motion in a frictionless fluid,
30-34 ; his theory of source of
solar heat, 83.

Henry IV. of France, republicanism
and, 286; character of, 307.

Henry VIII., J. A. Froudeon, 222 ;
and Protestant Reformation, 281.

Hephaistos, 390.

Herod and Jesus, 120.

Herodotos reads his History at the
Olympic games, 409.

Herschel, Sir John, on the elasticity
of ether, 27.

Historical difficulties, 221-248.

Historical sense, lack of, in eight-
eenth century deists, 20 1.

History, Historical Difficulties and
Contested Events, 221—248 ; ad-
vantage of the sixteenth century
in, 277 ; and art, 384.

Homer, difficulty of translating, 311;
Pope's translation of the Iliad,

341.

Hunt, Leigh, on Dante, 326, 339.

Hunter, W. W., his powerful style,
249 ; The Annals of Rural Ben-
gal, 249.

Hurry, of modern life, 395, 396,
423, 424, 433 ; a psychological
consequence of, 434—436 ; its
effect on the physical constitution,
436-438.

Huyghens, Christian, on wave theory
of light, 31, 38.

Hypothesis, lies at the foundation of
all scientific knowledge, 4 ; as

guesswork, 4 ; as inference, 7 j
absence of evidence in, 64, 65.

Idealism, 66, 67.

Imagination, abstract and concrete,
compared, 219 j modern psycho-
logy and, 219.

Imitation in art, 373-380.

Immortality in physical universe, 41.

Inconceivability of that which is be-
yond experience, 62.

Indivisibility of atoms, 33.

Interstellar ether, question as to its
extent, 24.

Irenaeus on the fourth gospel, 95.

Isabella of Spain, her fanaticism com-
pared with that of Philip II., 297.

Italy slow in consolidating into a na-
tion, 306.

Jacqueline of Holland, 280.

James, brother of Jesus, an enemy

of Paul, 112, 128.
Jeanne d'Arc, theory that she was
not .burnt at Rouen, 227-244;
documents in proof of theory,
228-232 ; criticism upon theory,
234-244; the execution at Rouen,
234, 238-240 ; taken prisoner
by the French, 235 ; sold to the
English by Philip, Duke of Bur-
gundy, 236 ; her trial at Rouen,
237 ; her recantation, 237 ; her
possible escape, 238-242 ; vir-
tually disappears from history after
the execution, 242.
Jerusalem, destruction of, no.
Jesus, meagreness of our information
about him, 88 ; his activity pri-
vate rather than public, 89 ; his-
torical records of his life scanty,
89-96 ; left no writings of his
own, 90 ; his written history ob-
scured by dogmatism of gospel
writers, 92-94 ; his belief in him-
self as the Messiah, 92, 115, 120-
122, 124, 126; his birth and
date of his ministry, 1 1 1 ; family
relations, in j development of

45 *

INDEX

his opinions, 112, 115, 120-122,
126 ; connection with John the
Baptist, 112-114, 120, 121 j in-
fluenced by Essene doctrines, 113,
119,1295 baptism of, 114, 152;
his Sermon on the Mount, 115 ;
his conception of Deity and of bro-
therhood of man, 1 1 6 ; his al-
leged hostility to the rich, 117-
119 ; his teachings not well re-
ceived at Nazareth, 119; retires
to Syro- Phoenicia, 120 ; his grow-
ing renown, 120 ; his alleged pre-
diction of his death, 123 ; predic-
tion of his resurrection, 123 ;
entry into Jerusalem, 1 24 ; made
no pretence to miraculous power,
126 j questioned by the Pharisees,
126; fatal accusation of treason
brought against him, 127 ; on the
restriction of his mission to the
Jews, 127-1325 his teachings fol-
low Pauline rather than Petrine
doctrine, 132; his resurrection,
135—148; his ascension, 141;
his second coming, 141, 143,
1 48 ; not regarded as superhuman
by Paul, 150; reception of pneuma
at his baptism, 152; genealogies
of, in first and third gospels,
1535 myth of his immaculate
conception, 153, 159 ; his preex-
istence, 154, 155-161 ; Gnostic
doctrine of emanations applied to
him in Colossians, PhUippians,
and Ephesians, 158-161 ; iden-
tified with the Philonian Logos
by Justin Martyr, 162; described
as Son of God in the fourth gos-
pel, 1 64 ; finally identified with
God, 1 68 ; Sir Richard Hanson's
Life of, 106, 111-127; Kenan's
Life of, 87, 102, 105 ; Strauss's
Life of, 98, 107.

Jesus of History, The, 87-132.

Jevons, W. S., on ether, 27, 50 ;
Principles of Science, 44.

Jewish people, their reception of Je-
sus in Jerusalem, 125, 126; their

Messiah, 125, 139-141; Jesus'
mission and, 127; their cos-
mology, 137; their Sheol, 137,
138, 139; their Heaven, 137;
their theology, 138; their idea
of a future life, 139, 140.

John of Luxembourg, 235.

John the Apostle, and the fourth
gospel, 94, 95, 104 ; the Apoc-
alypse of, 95, 133, 141.

John the Baptist, date of his minis-
try, in ; connection with Es-
senes, 112; his relations with
Jesus, 112-114, 120; beheaded
by Herod, 114.

John the Grammarian and the Alex-
andrian Library, 225, 227.

Johnson, Andrew, point of view in
regard to, 224.

Joseph, father of Jesus, 153.

Judas, or Jude, brother of Jesus,
epistle of, 91, 112.

Jupiter, the planet, has short days,
u, 80; heat of, 12, 79.

Justin Martyr, on the fourth gospel,
104; and Christology, 134, 163 j
on Jesus and the Logos, 162.

Kepler, Johann, his laws the result
of indefatigable guessing, 4.

Kingdom of heaven, its speedy com-
ing, 113.

Kleanthes, 145.

Koran, the, 90.

Laplace, P. S. de, nebular theory,
10.

Layard, A. H., letter of Turkish
cadi to, 395.

Leisure, of Turkish life, 395, 396 ;
of Athenian life, 399, 401, 416 ;
to be attained in the future in
American life, 440, 441.

Leopardi, Giacomo, on early transla-
tors of the classics, 345.

Le Sage, G. L., on gravitation, 35.

Lesage, A. R., and Spain, 304.

Lessing, G. E., forerunner of the
Tiibingen School, 97, 202 ; on

452

INDEX

rewards and punishments after
death, 150, 208 j his Nathan the
Wise, 193-220 j his fame, 193 j
publishes the Wolfenbiittel Frag-
ments, 194-1975 contemporary
with Goetz, 196-199 j how Na-
than the Wise came to be written,
199} his position with regard to
Christianity, 203-206 j his con-
fession to Jacobi, 204.; his view
of religious development, 206 j of
other-worldliness, 208-210 } his
conception of faith, 210 j char-
acter of his genius, 220 j his
Emilia Galotti, 220.

Libraries, fanatical destruction of,
225. See also Alexandrian Li-
brary.

Life, will eventually disappear from
solar system, 13, 23 j develop-
ment of, the result of solar heat,
1 6, 17, 23 j of humanity, 39 j
question of permanence of, 40.

Life, future. See Future life.

Life, social, ancient Athenian, 386,
398-4175 simplicity of, in an-
cient Athens, 405, 413$ com-
plexity of modern, 417, 418,
43 3 j American, 420-43 1 ; stan-
dard of living in ancient Athens
and in America, 421, 422.

Light, partially absorbed by the ether,
35 j wave theory of, firmly es-
tablished, 38.

Liszt, Franz, character of his music,

432-

Literary occupation in America ham-
pered by state of society, 427,
428.

Literature, uncodified mass of, 43 3 .

Llorente, J. A., on calumniating
the Inquisition, 290.

Logos, 1 6 1, 1625 identified with
Jesus, 162, 164, 167.

Longfellow's translation of The Di-
vine Comedy of Dante Alighieri,
310-346, 378 j literalist methods
in, 31$, 3*3* 3*7, 334, 344}
syntactic inversion in, 3165 Ro-

manic words preferred to Saxon
in, 318, 323-330 j wherein real-
istic, 344.

Lucretian theory of hardness of
atoms, 33.

Luke, his Acts of the Apostles,
90, looj the gospel attributed
to (the third gospel), Pauline
purpose of, 99, 108, 127; when
and where written, 1 08 j histori-
cal accuracy of, questioned, 109 j
on Jesus' alleged hostility to the
rich, 117-1195 genealogy of
Jesus in, 153.

Luther, Martin, and Charles V.,
291.

Lysias, 408.

Lysistrata of Aristophanes, 388.

Lyttelton, George, Lord, tract on
the Conversion of St. Paul, 171.

Mackay, R. W., on the Tubingen
School, 99 ; his Religious Develop-
ment of the Greeks and Hebrews,

I5S-.

Mannerism in art, 374.

Marcion, on the fourth gospel, 104 ;
on Jesus as the Pneumay 1 60.

Mark, loss of his Memorabilia, 96 ;
gospel attributed to him (the sec-
ond gospel), 108, 1595 myth
of immaculate conception omitted
by, 159.

Mars, the planet, 79, 80.

Mary of Magdala and the doctrine
of the resurrection, 136.

Mary I. of England, 292.

Mary Stuart, 222.

Material phenomena, and psychical,
incommensurable, 53 ; according
to Berkeley, 67.

Material substance, 70.

Materialism and consciousness, 47.

Matter, concentration of, 21, 23 j
structure of, 325 question of its
eternal duration, 35 ; how it re-
gisters events, 43 5 mind and, 48,
54-5 6» 58> 67 } as gross or spir-
itual, 49 j mind always manifested

453

INDEX

through, 58 ; as a group of quali-
ties, 67; and Gnosticism, 156.
Matthew, his Login, 96, no; gos-
pel attributed to him (the first
gospel), 99 ; date of, 109 ; value
as a historical narrative, 109,
uoj its anti-Pauline bias, no,
128 j the genealogy of Jesus in,

153.

Maurice of Saxony, 283.

Mayer, J. R., on the origin of solar
heat, 83.

Mendelssohn- Bartholdy, J. L. F., his
St. Paul, 354; his mastery of
counterpoint, 432.

Mercury, the planet, 79.

Messiah, assumption of the charac-
ter by Jesus, 92, 115, 120-122,
124, 126 ; Essene notions of,
112, 114; Pharisaic theory of,
114, 121, 139-141 ; Paul's con-
ception of, 151, 165.

Michael Angelo Buonarroti, his
Moses, 218 ; character of his
genius, 374.

Middle Ages, compared with age of
the ancient Athenians, 414, 415 ;
increase of complexity of life in,
417 j freebooting in, 423.

Mill, J. S., on belief in a future life,
71 ; on rewards and punishments,
208 ; on English and French in-
centives to virtue, 370 ; his breadth
of culture, 404 ; his comparison of
ancient and modern literature,
431 j on the study of antiquity,
441.

Millenarism of primitive church,
143, 148.

Miller, Hugh, Mosaic Vision of
Creation, 167.

Mind, and matter, 48, 54-56, 58,
67 ; always associated with mat-
ter in our experience, 58.

Miracles, the conversion of the apos-
tle Paul as a miracle, 171-175 ;
state of human intelligence in the
age of, 176-179; disproved by
the laws of physical science, 177,

1 80 ; must be proved by contem-
porary authority, 179.

Mohammed, 338 ; compared with
Jesus, 92, 115, 126.

Mohammedan civilization, compared
with Christian, 185, 186 ; Dr.
Draper on, 185.

Molecules, material, structure of,

3*-

Moleschott, Jacob, on nature or
consciousness, 47.

Monotheism, some form of, de-
manded, 145.

Moon, formerly a part of the earth's
zone, 9 ; now a cold body, 12.

Moons, more abundant among the
outer planets, II.

Moors, conquered by the Spaniards,
302 ; driven from Spain, 303.

Mosaism, the law of, transformed by
Jesus, 129, 131, 132; Paul's
idea of, 143.

Motion, of the planets, 10-15 ; as
heat, 15 ; vortex, 29.

Motley, J. L. , History of the United
Netherlands, 276-309.

Mozart, W. A., cadence in his
Twelfth Mass, 357.

Muhamad Efendi, 209.

Muhamad Reza Khan and the fam-
ine in Bengal, 252.

Music, vocal and instrumental com-
pared, 361 ; as an expression of
emotions, 362-364 ; old and new
compared, 431, 432.

Mussulmans, their tales of Moham-
med untrustworthy, 90 j their
civilization, 184.

Mytilenaians, proposal for massacre
of, 411.

Nathan the Wise, 193-220; how
originated, 199; expresses Les-
sing's theology, 213 ; synopsis of,
213 ; its dramatic qualities, 215 ;
the greatest of all poems with a
set purpose, 216, 220.

Nature the manifestation of an in-
finite God, 6.

454

INDEX

Nazareth, early home of Jesus, ill ;
Jesus' work in, 120.

Nebulae, primeval, 9 ; motion of,
155 found in different stages of
development, 19.

Nebular Hypothesis, 9-26 ; a well-
established theory, 38.

Negative-image theory, 44-51 ;
weakness of, 47.

Netherlands, Motley's History of the
United Netherlands, 2,76—309 ;
in the Protestant Reformation,
285 ; the rebellion in, 286 ; re-
publicanism in, 286-288 ; truce
negotiations with Spain, 287,
288 ; conditions favourable to,
under the Roman Empire of
Charles the Great, 305.

Newman, F. W., on the proceed-
ings of Jesus at Jerusalem, 124.

New Testament literature, critical
study of, obscured by dogmatism,
96 ; work on, by F. C. Baur
and the Tubingen School, 97, 99,
107.

Nicolaitans, Paul's followers, 129.

Nikaia, Council of, on doctrine of
the Trinity, 168.

Olympic games, 389.

Omar, compared with the apostle
Paul, 175 ; and the Alexandrian
Library, 224-227.

Oratorio, the, and symphony com-
pared, 361-364; as an expres-
sion of the emotions, 363.

Oratory at Athens, 411.

Oriental life, character of, 395, 396.

Origen, on miraculous conception of
Jesus, 153; Christology of, 168.

Orissa, famine of 1866 in, 274.
See also Bengal.

Orosius on Alexandrian Library,227-

Other-worldliness, 150, 208.

Paine's (J. K.) oratorio of St.
Peter, 347-365 ; rendering of, at
Portland, 347,357; general struc-
ture of, 348 ; its originality, 354,

355 j character of its cadences,
35.6.

Painting, in art, 373; ancient and
modern, compared, 432.

Papacy, removal of, to Avignon,
280.

Papias, preferred oral traditions of
Jesus to written gospels, 93 ; on
the Logia and Memorabilia of
Matthew and Mark, 96 j on the
fourth gospel, 104.

Parker, Theodore, his philosophy
and Lessing's compared, 204, 206,
208.

Parma, Alexander Farnese, Duke of,
and the siege of Antwerp, 268.

Parrhasios and Zeuxis, 376.

Parsons, T. W., his translation of
Dante, 314.

Pascal, Blaise, prose of, 408.

Paul, the Apostle, the four genuine
epistles of, 90, 91 ; spurious epis-
tles, loo ; attacked in the Apoc-
alypse, 104 ; attacked in the first
gospel, no, 128; admission of
the Gentiles to Messianic king-
dom, preached by, 127; his per-
secution of the Christians, 1 30 ;
his connection with the Hellenists,
131 ; the doctrine of the resur-
rection and, 136, 142—150; on
Jesus as Messiah, 143 ; his appre-
hension of faith, 143 ; his pro-
found originality, 146 ; his theory
of salvation through the second
Adam, 147 ; on a future life,
149 ; did not regard Jesus as su-
perhuman, 150 ; the miraculous
character of his conversion, 171-

'75-

Paulo-Petrine controversy, no.

Paulus, H. E. G., on New Testa-
ment literature, 97.

Pentateuch says nothing about future
state of retribution, 207.

Persecution and murder, 292.

Persistence of force, 7.

Peter opposed Paul, 128.

Petrine disciples, their view of

455

INDEX

Christ's mission, 130, 131 j un-
heeded by Paul, 130, 131 j the
teachings of Jesus and, 132.

Pharisees, overthrow of, 1245 ques-
tioning Jesus, 1-3.6.

Pheidippides and Pan, 414.

Philip the Good of Burgundy and
Jeanne d'Arc, 236.

Philip II. of Spain, Protestant Re-
formation in reign of, 283 ; J. L.
Motley on, 289 ; his character,
293—298 ; his murderous deeds,
294, 295 ; his death, 296 ; his
fanaticism, 297 ; waste of his vast
resources, 298 ; his lack of states-
manship, 299 j condition of the
Spanish people under, 299—303.

Philip III. and expulsion of the
Moors from Spain, 303.

Philip IV. of France and the power
of the Church, 280.

Philippians, Epistle to the, shows
progress of Christian doctrine, 1335
Gnostic doctrines in, 158—160.

Philonian theory, 161, 1162.

Philosophy, ancient, methods of,
hampered by imperfections of lan-
guage, 2 j fairy tales a form of, 2 j
theories of, largely guesswork, 4.

Philosophy of Art, A, 366-394.

Phrygian cadence, 357.

Pilate, Pontius, in.

Planets, and the nebular hypothesis,
9-26 5 motion of, 10-15 ; re^a~
rive size of, u j ultimate fate of,

12.

Platonic notion of "grossness" of
matter, 49 ; Platonic metaphysics,
161 j Platonic dialogues, 407.

P/eroma, or tf fulness of God," 157,
159$ in Christ, 161, 164.

Pneumoj as a constituent of Jesus,
150, 152, 154, 1605 as the son
of God, 157.

Poetry in art, 373.

Political life, of ancient Athenians,
410 ; in America, 429.

Polycarp on the Apostle John, 104.

Polytheism outgrown, 144.

Pope, Alexander, his translation of

Homer, 341.
Portinari, Beatrice, date of death of,

247.

Portland choral society, 357.
Power, Unknown, in production of

material phenomena, 67, 68 j

may be identical with Deity, 68.
Praetorius, 353.
Prevost-Paradol, L. A., prose of,

426.
Priestley, Joseph, on the future life,

47-

Primordial medium, as spiritual, 49.
Protestant Reformation, resume of,

280-284 j pkce of the Nether-
lands in, 285.
Proverbial sayings, improbability of,

226.

Prussia, education in, 426.
Psychical phenomena and material

phenomena, incommensurable, 53;

in present and unseen world, 57.

See also Consciousness, Thought.
Puritanism and art in England and

America, 369.

Quartodeciman controversy, and the
fourth gospel, 95, 104.

Rain, Jewish theory of, 138.

Recognition of friends in a future
life, 61.

Eleimarus, H. S., his Apology for
the Rational Worshippers of Godt
194-197 ; deistic views of, 200.

Religion, real harmony between
science and, 3, 7 ; so-called con-
flict between science and, 3, 187,
190, 191 5 Draper on science
and, 182-192; essence of true,
189 ; with what it conflicts, 192 ;
Lessing's view of, 206-213 ; the
dark side of, 212 j of the ancient
Athenians, 413—416.

leligious development, M. Renan
on, 282.

ienan, Ernest, his Vie de Jesus, 87,
IOI j his Saint- Paul, 133 j his

456

INDEX

Let Apotres, 1 70 j on the Apostle
Paul, 175 j on rejection of mira-
cles, 178.

Republicanism inaugurated by the
Dutch, 288.

Resurrection, doctrine of the, essen-
tial to the success of Christianity,
135, 144 ; origin of, 136 ; how
it should have produced the effect
it did, 1375 necessary to prove
Christ's Messiahship, 141 j Paul-
ine theory of, 142-150 ; original
theory modified, 148 j influence
of, on Christological speculation,
150.

Retribution, future state of, 142,
208.

Reuss, E. G. E., and Biblical criti-
cism, 1 01.

Reville, Albert, and Biblical criti-
cism, 10 1 ; his Histoire du Dogme
de la Di'vinite de Jesus-Christ,
1335 on the Pneuma, 157; on
Jesus and the Logos, 164, 165.

Rhyme in Dante and in Tennyson,
312.

Richard III. of England in the light
of modern criticism, 222.

Roger of Pontigny and Thomas a
Becket, 93.

Rogers, Henry, review of M. Re-
nan's Les Apotres, 170.

Rossetti, W. M., translation of
Dante, 345.

Rotation of system of particles, 10.

Rutherford, Thomas, on religious
toleration, 195.

Sabellius on doctrine of the Trinity,

168.
Sainte-Beuve, C. A., remark on

history, 221 ; productiveness of,

404.
St. Peter, oratorio of, 347-365.

See Paine.

Sakyamuni and Jesus, 88, 92, 115.
Salvador, Joseph, Jesus- Christ et sa

Doctrine, 136.
Satan, the Jewish, 138, 156.

Saturn, moons and rings of, 1 1 j
heat of, 12, 79.

Savonarola, Girolamo, fate compared
with that of Jesus, 126.

Scherer, Edmond, and Biblical criti-
cism, 101.

Schleiermacher, F. E. D., on New
Testament literature, 97.

Schubert, F. P., inferior to Men-
delssohn in technique, 432.

Schumann, Robert, inferior to Men-
delssohn in technique, 432.

Schwegler, A. F. K. F., his Post-
Apostolic Times, 100.

Science, real harmony between reli-
gion and, 3, 7 ; so-called conflict
between religion and, 3, 187, 190,
191 j more-crude and less-crude
opinions in, 3, 1915 and com-
mon-sense, 78 5 Draper on science
and religion, 182-192 ; the theo-
logian and, 190 5 art and, 380.

Sculpture, in art, 3735 Greek, 391,

393-

Semler, J. S., on New Testament
literature, 97 ; and Lessing, 197.

Sermon on the Mount, 115.

Shakespeare, William, his Othello,
218.

Sheol, in Jewish cosmology, 137 j
in Jewish theology, 139.

Shepherd of Hermas, 157.

Sidereal evolution, 20.

Sirius, 20.

Sixteenth century, advantage of its
position in history, 277 ; transi-
tional character of its history,
278 ; position of physical science,
England, France, Spain, and the
Netherlands in, 278-280 ; Pro-
testant Reformation in, 280-283.

Slavery, at Athens, 386, 398 ; re-
lations of master and slave, 399 j
compared with slavery in Southern
States, 399, 421.

Smarrita, significance of the Italian
word, 313.

Social conditions and art, 381.

Society and individuals, 438, 439.

457

INDEX

Sokrates, fate compared with that of
Jesus, 126; his life and method
of teaching, a sign of culture
among the Athenians, 406, 407 ;
his freedom of opinion, 416.

Solar heat, generation and dissipation
of, 12, 15-18 ; amount of, 12 j
waste of, 1 6 j develops and sus-
tains life, 1 6, 17 j Helmholtz's
theory of, 83.

Solar nebula, primitive, 9.

Sophia or personified Wisdom, 157 j
identified with the Logos, 162.

Soul, question of its existence apart
from physical phenomena, 61,
64-66 ; God and the soul the
only conceptions that answer to
real existences, 69.

Spain, causes of the failure of its
civilization, 300 5 results of un-
ceasing religious warfare in, 300,
301, 303 j despotism in, 301 ;
Moors in, 301, 303 ; idleness in,
302; literary achievement of Cer-
vantes an honor to, 304.

Spain and the Netherlands, 276-309.

Sparta, social constitution of, 3 8 8 , 3 89.

Species, extinction of, 6.

Speculation in breadstuff's, a safe-
guard against famine, 267 ; for-
bidden during the Bengal famine
of 1770, 267; forbidden during
the siege of Antwerp, 269-271 j
allowed during the Bengal famine
of 1866, 273.

Spencer, Herbert, his philosophy
compared with Lessing' s, 204.

Spheroidal shape of nebulae due to
rotation, 10.

Spinoza, Benedikt or Baruch de,
founder of modern Biblical criti-
cism, 97, 202 j influence on
Lessing, 202.

Spiritual body, 48.

Spiritual substance, 70.

Stars, lie mostly in one plane, 19 ;
resemble sun and planets in chemi-
cal composition, 19-21.

Stephen, death of, 130.

Stewart, Balfour, Unseen Universe,
or Physical Speculations on a Fu-
ture State, 8.

Stoicism, 208.

Strauss, D. F., his Der alte und der
neue Glaube, 76 5 his Life of
Jesus, 98, 107 j his Neiv Life
of Jesus, 1 01 ; on Jesus' con-
ception of Deity, 116 ; on anti-
Pauline bias of Matthew, 128 j
on liberal spirit of Jesus, 1325
anticipated by Lessing, 202, 203.

Strepsiades, 422.

Struve's theory of absorption of light
rays by ether, 35.

Style, literary, 408.

Success, American idea of, 422.

Sun, as nebulous mass, 9, 15, 1 8 j
heat of, 12, 1 6-1 8; must ulti-
mately become cold, 13.

Sun spots, periodicity of, 13.

Symphony, the, and oratorio com-
pared, 361-364 ; as an expression
of emotions, 362.

Tacitus in the light of modern criti-
cism, 223.

Taine, H. A., his life, 366-368;
his works, 368 ; The Philosophy

°f Art-> 366> 37*-394.

Tait, P. G., Unseen Universe, or
Physical Speculations on a Future
State, 8.

Tayler, J. J., The Fourth Gospel,
103. ^

Teleological solution of the problem
of existence craved, 73.

Temperature of solar system, 12.

Tennyson, Alfred, and religion, 210;
rhyme in In Memoriam, 312;
and individuality, 438.

Tertullian, on the fourth gospel, 95 j
Christology of, 168.

Theophilus, destroyer of the Alexan-
drian Library, 227.

Thessalonians, Second Epistle to the,
on millenarism, 148.

Thomson, Sir William, on dissipa-
tion of energy, 22, 24 ; on theory

458

INDEX

of vortex-atoms, 31-35, 38} on

the size of atoms, 52.
Thought, as affecting the seen and

the unseen world simultaneously,

45 ; and molecular motion in the

brain, 54.

Thugs in Bengal, 262.
Tiberius, Roman Emperor, 1 1 1 ; in

the light of modern criticism,

223.
Tides, their effect upon planetary and

solar rotation, 13.
Toleration of Deists, by Lessing,

*95-

To-morrow of Death, The, 77-86.

Torquemada, burner of books, 225.

Translating, a difficult task, 310;
of poetry, two methods of, 3155
realistic method of, 335, 345.

Trinity, doctrine of the, in the
fourth gospel, 1 65 j in Christology,
168, 169.

Tubingen School, and New Testa-
ment literature, 97, 99 j on date
and place of synoptic gospels, 108 ;
its work anticipated by Lessing,

202.

Turkish cadi's letter to Mr. Layard,

395-

Turks, idleness of, 395, 396.
Tyndall, John, on thought and

molecular motion in the brain,

55-

Undulatory theory, of heat, 24 ; of
light, 27 j well established, 38.

Uniformity of nature, universal as-
sumption of, 7.

United States, population in, 419.
See American civilization.

Universe, in what sense infinite, 25 ;
no evidence of immortality in, 41 ;
is the manifestation of infinite
Deity to our finite minds, 68.

Unseen universe, illegitimate use of
the phrase, 51.

Unseen world, as purely spiritual, 53,
56, 61-66 ; removed from the
jurisdiction of physical inquiry, 72.

Valens, destruction of pagan libraries,

225.
Valentinus, on the fourth gospel,

104; on miraculous conception of

Jesus, 1 60.
Vignier, Father, discovery of papers

relating to Jeanne d'Arc, 228.
Visigoths in Spain, 300.
Voltaire, F. M. A. de, 209, 408.
Vortex-atom theory, 29-36.
Vortex-motion, defined, 29 j in a

frictionless fluid, 30-34.

Wagner, Richard, irregularity of his

musical structure, 432.
Wallace, William, in the light of

modern criticism, 222.
Wallon, H. A., history of Jeanne

d'Arc, 231, 241.
Wars, considered criminal, 293 j

public and private, 420.
Wealth, chief end of life in America,

422, 423.

Westphalia, peace of, 277.
William the Silent, and civil liberty,

289 j murder of, 294.
Wisdom, personified, 162.
Witte, Karl, his translation of Dante,

33°-

Wives in Athens, 400.
Word about Miracles, A, 170-181.
Worlds, mutually interpenetrating,

28.
Wright, I. C., his translation of

Dante, 317.

Xenophon's Anabasis, 412.
Ximenes, Cardinal, burning of Arabic
manuscripts by, 225.

Young, Thomas, on interpenetrating
worlds, 28.

Zeller, Eduard, his Acts of the Apos-
tles, 100 ; on Jesus' conception of
Deity, 1 1 6 ; on liberal spirit of
Jesus, 132; on Christ's resurrec-
tion, 136.

Zeuxis and Parrhasios, 376.

459

fitoersibe

Electrotyped and printed by H. O. Houghton &» Co.
Cambridge, Mass., U.S.A.

AC

8

F52

1902

v.6

Fiske, John

The miscellaneous writings
Standard library ed.

v. 6

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