PRESENTIiD RY 
 
^^ 
 
I 
 
 
 Philip Gilbert Hamerton. 
 
H. M. CALDWELL CO., PUBLISHERS 
 NEW YORK AND BOSTON Ji ^ 
 

 
'3; 
 
 TO EUGENIE H. 
 
 "We have shared together many hours of 
 study, and you have been wilHng, at the cost 
 of much patient labor, to cheer the difficult 
 paths of intellectual toil by the unfailing sweet- 
 ness of your beloved companionship. It seems 
 'm me that all those things which we have 
 learned together are doubly my own ; whilst 
 i^hose other studies which I have pursued in 
 solitude have never yielded me more than 
 i maimed and imperfect satisfaction. The 
 dream of my life would be to associate you 
 with all I do if that were possible ; but since 
 •^he ideal can never be wholly realized, let me 
 at least rejoice that we have been so little sep- 
 arated, and that the subtle influence of your 
 iiner taste and more delicate perception is 
 ever, like some penetrating perfume, in the 
 whole atmosphere aroimd me. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 I PROPOSE, in the following pages, to con- 
 sider the possibilities of a satisfactory intel- 
 lectual life under various conditions of ordi- 
 nary human existence. It will form a part 
 of my plan to take into account favorable and 
 unfavorable influences of many kinds; and 
 my chief purpose, so far as any effect upon 
 others may be hoped for, will be to guard 
 some who may read the book alike against 
 the loss of time caused by unnecessary dis- 
 couragement, and the waste of effort which is 
 the consequence of misdirected energies. 
 
 I have adopted the form of letters addressed 
 to persons of very different position in order 
 that every reader may have a chance of find- 
 ing what concerns him. The letters, it is un- 
 necessary to observe, are in one sense as fic- 
 titious as those we "find in novels, for they 
 have never been sent to anybody by the post. 
 yet the persons to whom they are addressed 
 are not imaginary. I made it a rule, from 
 the beginning, to think of a real person when 
 writing, from an apprehension that by dwell- 
 ing in a world too exclusively ideal 1 might 
 lose sight of many impediments which beset 
 all actual lives, even the most exceptional and 
 fortunate. 
 
-vi PREFACE. 
 
 The essence of the book may be expressed 
 in a few sentences, the rest being httle more 
 than evidence or illustration. First, it ap- 
 pears that all who are born with considerable 
 intellectual faculties are urged towards the 
 intellectual life by irresistible instincts, as 
 water-fowl are urged to an aquatic life; but 
 the lower animals have this advantage over 
 man, that as their purposes are simpler, so 
 they attain them more completely than he 
 does. The life of a wild duck is in perfect ac- 
 cordance with its instincts, but the life of an 
 Intellectual man is never on all points per- 
 fectly in accordance with his instincts. Many 
 of the best intellectual lives known to us have 
 been hampered by vexatious impediments of 
 the most various and complicated kinds ; and 
 when we come to have accurate and intimate 
 knowledge of the lives led by our intellectual 
 contemporaries, we are always quite sure to 
 find that each of them has some great thwart- 
 ing difficulty to contend against. Nor is it 
 too much to say that if a man were so placed 
 and endowed in every way that all his work 
 should be made as easy as the ignorant imag- 
 ine it to be, that man would find in that very 
 facility itself a condition most unfavorable to 
 his intellectual growth. So that, however 
 circumstances may help us or hinder us, the 
 intellectual life is always a contest or a disci- 
 pline, and the art or skill of living intellectu- 
 ally does not so much consist in surrounding 
 ourselves with what is reputed to be advan- 
 tageous as in compelling every circumstance 
 
PREFACE. vii 
 
 and condition of our lives to yield us some 
 tribute of intellectual benefit and force. The 
 needs of the intellect are as various as intel- 
 lects themselves are various: and if a man 
 has got high mental culture during his pas- 
 sage through life it is of little consequence 
 where he acquired it, or how. The school of 
 the intellectual man is the place where he 
 happens to be, and his teachers are the people, 
 books, animals, plants, stones, and earth 
 roimd about him. The feeling almost always 
 predominant in the minds of intellectual men 
 as they grow older, is not so much one of re- 
 gret that their opportunities were not more 
 abundant, as of regret that they so often 
 miissed opportunities which they might have 
 turned to better account. 
 
 I have written for all classes, in the convic- 
 tion that the intellectual life is really within 
 the reach of every one who earnestly desires 
 it. The highest culture can never be within 
 the reach of those who cannot give the years 
 of labor which it costs; and if we cultivate 
 ourselves to shine in the eyes of others, to be- 
 come famous in literature or science, then of 
 course we must give many more hours of la- 
 bor than can be spared from a life of practical 
 industry. But I am fully convinced of this, 
 convinced by the observation of living in- 
 stances in all classes, that any man or woman 
 of large natural capacity may reach the tone 
 of thinking which may justly be called intel- 
 lectual, even though that thinking may not 
 be expressed in the most perfect language. 
 
viii PBEFACE. 
 
 The essence of intellectual living does not re- 
 side in extent of science or in perfection of 
 expression, but in a constant preference for 
 higher thoughts over lower thoughts, and this 
 preference may be the habit of a mind which 
 has not any very considerable amount of in- 
 formation. This may be very easily demon- 
 strated by a reference to men who lived intel- 
 lectually in ages when science had scarcely 
 begun to exist, and when there was but little 
 literature that could be of use as an aid to 
 culture. The humblest subscriber to a me- 
 chanics' institute has easier access to sound 
 learning than had either Solomon or Aristotle, 
 yet both Solomon and Aristotle lived the in- 
 tellectual life. Whoever reads English is 
 richer in the aids to culture than Plato was, 
 yet Plato thought intellectually. It is not 
 erudition that makes the intellectual man, 
 but a sort of virtue which delights in vigor- 
 ous and beautiful thinking, just as moral vir- 
 tue delights in vigorous and beautiful con- 
 duct. Intellectual living is not so much an 
 accomplishment as a state or condition of 
 the mind in which it seeks earnestly for the 
 highest and purest truth. It is the continual 
 exercise of a firmly noble choice between the 
 larger truth and the lesser, between that 
 which is perfectly just and that which falls 
 a little short of justice. The ideal life would 
 be to choose thus firmly and delicately al- 
 ways, yet if we often blunder and fail for 
 want of perfect wisdom and clear light, have 
 we not the inward assurance that our aspira- 
 
PREFACE. ix 
 
 tion has not been all in vain, that it has 
 brought us a little nearer to the Supreme In- 
 tellect whose effulgence draws us whilst it 
 dazzles? Here is the true secret of that fasci- 
 nation which belongs to intellectual pursuits, 
 that they reveal to us a little more, and yet a 
 little more, of the eternal order of the Uni- 
 verse, establishing us so firmly in what is 
 known, that we acquire an unshakable confi- 
 dence in the laws which govern what is noti» 
 and never can be, known. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PART I. 
 
 THE PHYSICAIi BASISo 
 
 :jetter pages 
 
 lo To a young man of letters who worked 
 
 excessively .»........«....,«<,.. IT 
 
 II. To the same , ........ „ 22 
 
 III. To a student in uncertain health ........ 27 
 
 lYo To a muscular Christian ...» 42 
 
 Yo To a student who neglected bodily exer- 
 cise . ... C 
 
 yi. To an author in mortal disease 5i 
 
 VII. To a young man of brilliant ability, who 
 
 had just taken his degree. o*? 
 
 PART II. 
 
 THE MORAL, BASIS. 
 
 1. To a :^ioralist who had said that there was 
 a want of moral fibre in the intellectual, 
 
 especially in poets and artists 87 
 
 IL To an undisciplined writer 80 
 
 III. To a friend who suggested the speculation 
 "which of the moral virtues was most 
 essential to the intellectual life " 91 
 
 lYo To a moralist who said that intellectual 
 culture was not conducive to sexual 
 morality... 98 
 
idi CONTENTS. 
 
 PART III. 
 
 OF EDUCATION, 
 
 L To a friend who recommended tAe au- 
 thor to learn this thing and that 104 
 
 II. To a friend who studied many things. . . 110 
 
 III. To the same 120 
 
 IVo To a student of literature 130 
 
 Yo To a country gentleman who regretted 
 that his son had the tendencies of a 
 
 dilettant 134 
 
 TI. To the principal of a French college 137 
 
 Til. To the same 143 
 
 /III. To a student of modern languages. ..... 149 
 
 IX. To the same 153 
 
 X. To a student who lamented his defec- 
 tive memory. 165 
 
 SI. To a master of arts who said that a cer- 
 tain distinguished painter was half- 
 educated .,,... 170 
 
 PART IV. 
 
 THE POWEB OF TIME. 
 
 f. To a man of leisure who complained of 
 
 want of time 176 
 
 XI. To a young man of great talent and energy 
 
 who had magnificent plans for the future 185 
 xH. To a man of business who desired to make 
 himself better acquainted with litera- 
 ture, but whose time for reading was 
 
 limited. 200 
 
 lYc To a student who felt hurried and driven. 207 
 To To a friend who, though he had no pro- 
 fession, could not find time for his vari- 
 ous intellectual pursuits 212 
 
CONTENTS. xiii 
 
 PART Yo 
 
 THE INFLUENCES CF MONEY. 
 
 LKTTER PAGE 
 
 I. To a very ricli student 216 
 
 11. To a genius careless in money matters. . . 224 
 IIIo To a student in great poverty 239 
 
 PAET YI. 
 
 CUSTOM AND TRADITION. 
 
 I. To a young gentleman who had firmly re- 
 solved never to wear anything but a gray 
 
 coat 246 
 
 II. To a conservative who had accused the 
 
 author of a want of respect for tradition 254 
 
 III. To a lady who lamented that her son had 
 intellectual doubts concerning the dog- 
 mas of the church . . 263 
 
 lYo To the son of the lady to whom the pre- 
 ceding letter was addressed 269 
 
 Yo To a friend who seemed to take credit to 
 himself, intellectually, from the nature 
 of his religious belief o . . 276 
 
 Tie To a Roman Catholic friend who accused 
 the intellectual class of a want of rever- 
 ence for authority 28C 
 
 PART YII. 
 
 WOMEN AND MAEEIAGE. 
 
 I. To a young gentleman of intellectual 
 tastes, who, without having as yet any 
 particular lady in view, had expressed, 
 in a gene7'al way, his determination to 
 get married 285 
 
XIV 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 5JETTER, PAGK 
 
 II. To a young gentleman who contemplated 
 
 marriage 291 
 
 III. To the same 299 
 
 lYo To the same 306 
 
 Vo To the same. -312 
 
 VI. To a solitary student 322 
 
 VII. To a lady of high culture who found it 
 difficult to associate with persons of 
 
 her own sex 325 
 
 VIII. To a lady of high culture 330 
 
 IX. To a young man of the middle class, well 
 educated, who complained that it was 
 difficult for him to live agreeably with 
 his mother, a person of somewhat au- 
 thoritative disposition, but uneducated 333 
 
 PAKT YIII. 
 
 AEISTOCRACY AND DEMOCKACYo 
 
 Ic To a young English nobleman. ............ 341 
 
 Ho To an English democrat ....... .......... . 358 
 
 PAET IX. 
 
 SOCIETY AND SOLITUDE. 
 
 I. To a lady who doubted the reality of in- 
 tellectual friendships 374 
 
 11. To a young gentleman who lived much in 
 
 fashionable society 379 
 
 III. To the same 384 
 
 lY. To the same 391 
 
 Yo To a young gentleman who kept entirely 
 
 out of company. 397 
 
 VI. To a friend who kindly warned the author 
 
 of the bad effects of solitude . . ...... 402 
 
CONTENTS. XT 
 
 PAET X. 
 
 INTELLECTUAL HYGIENICS. 
 liKTTER PAGE 
 
 I. To a young author whilst he was writing 
 
 his first book 415 
 
 II. To a student in the first ardor of intel- 
 lectual ambition 422 
 
 III. To an intellectual man who desired an 
 
 outlet for his energies 431 
 
 lYo To the friend of a man of high culture 
 
 who produced nothing 441 
 
 Y. To a student who felt hurried and driven 446 
 VI. To an ardent friend who took no rest. . 451 
 
 VII. To the same 456 
 
 VIII. To a friend (highly cultivated) who con- 
 gratulated himself on having entirely 
 abandoned the habit of reading news- 
 papers 46G 
 
 IX. To an author who appreciated contem- 
 porary literature 470 
 
 X. To an author who kept very irregular 
 
 hours 476 
 
 ?AET XL 
 
 TRADES AND PEOFESSIONS. 
 
 L To a young gentleman of ability and cult- 
 ure who had not decided about his pro- 
 fession , 488 
 
 11. To a yoimg gentleman who had literary 
 
 and artistic tastes, but no i^rof ession 499 
 
 III. To a young gentleman who wished to de- 
 vote himself to literature as a profession 604 
 IV To an energetic and successful cotton 
 
 manufacturer, 513 
 
xvi CONTENTS. 
 
 I*ETTER PAGE 
 
 Y. To a young Etonian who thought of he- 
 coming a cotton-spinner 522 
 
 PART XII. 
 
 STJEBOUlSrDIIirGS, 
 
 I. To a friend who often changed his place of 
 
 residence 580 
 
 II. To a friend who maintained that surround- 
 ings were a matter of indifference to a 
 
 thoroughly occupied mind 539 
 
 III. To an artist who was fitting up a magnifi- 
 cent new studio 546 
 
THE 
 
 INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 PAET I. 
 
 THE PHYSICAL BASIS, 
 
 LETTER I. 
 
 TO A YOUNG MAN OF LETTERS WHO WORKED 
 EXCESSIVELY. 
 
 Mental labor believed to be innocuous to healthy persons-* 
 Difficulty of testing this — Case of the poet Wordsworth—* 
 Case of an eminent living author — Case of a literary clergy- 
 man—Case of an energetic tradesman — Instances of two 
 Londoners who wrote professionally — Scott's paralysis- 
 Byron's death — All intellectual labor proceeds on a phys- 
 ical basis. 
 
 So little is really known about the action of 
 the nervous system, that to go into the sub- 
 ject from the physiological point of view 
 would be to undertake a most difficult in- 
 vestigation, entirely beyond the competence 
 of an unscientific person like your present 
 correspondent. You will, therefore, permit 
 me, in reference to this, to leave you to the 
 teaching of the most advanced physiologists 
 2 
 
^ THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 of the time ; but I may be able to offer a few 
 practical suggestions, based on the experience 
 of intellectual workers, which may be of use 
 to a man whose career is likely to be one of 
 severe and almost uninterrupted intellectual 
 labor. 
 
 A paper was read several years ago before 
 the members of a society in London, in which 
 the author maintained that mental labor was 
 ^never injurious to a perfectly healthy human 
 organization, and that the numerous cases of 
 l)reak-down, which are commonly attributed 
 to excessive brain- work, are due, in reality, to 
 the previous operation of disease. 
 
 This is one of those assertions which cannot 
 Ibe answered in a sentence. Concentrated 
 'within the briefest expression it comes to this, 
 that mental labor cannot produce disease, but 
 may aggravate the consequences of disease 
 ■which already exists. 
 
 The difficulty of testing this is obvious ; for 
 BO long as health remains quite perfect, it re- 
 mains perfect, of course, whether the brain is 
 "used or not ; and when failure of health be- 
 comes manifest, it is not always easy to decide 
 in what degree mental labor may have been 
 the cause of it. Again, the accuracy of so 
 general a statement cannot be proved by any 
 number of instances in its favor, since it is 
 Universally admitted that brain-work is not 
 the only cause of disease, and no one affirms 
 that it is more than one amongst many causes 
 which may impede the bodily functions. 
 
 When the poet Wordsworth was engaged in 
 
THE PHYSICAL BASIS. 19 
 
 composing the ' ' White Doe of Eylstone, " he 
 received a wound in his foot, and he observed 
 that the continuation of the Hterary labor 
 increased the irritation of the wound ; where- 
 as by suspending his work he could diminish 
 it, and absokite mental rest produced a perfect 
 cure. In connection with this incident he 
 remarked that poetic excitement, accompanied 
 by protracted labor in composition, always 
 brought on more or less of bodily derange- 
 ment. He preserved himself from perma- 
 nently injurious consequences by his excellent 
 habits of life. 
 
 A very eminent living author, whose name 
 I do not feel at liberty to mention, is always 
 prostrated by severe illness at the conclusion 
 of each of his works ; another is unwell every 
 Sunday, because he does not write on that 
 day, and the recoil after the mental stretch of 
 the week is too much for him. 
 
 In the case of Wordsworth, the physical 
 constitution is believed to have been sound. 
 His health at seventy -two was excellent ; the 
 two other instances are more doubtful in this 
 respect, yet both these writers enjoy very fair 
 health, after the pressure of brain-work has 
 been removed for any considerable time. A 
 clergyman of robust organization, who does 
 a good deal of literary work at intervals, told 
 me that, whenever he had attempted to Eaake 
 it regular, the consequence had always been 
 distressing nervous sensations, from which at 
 other times he was perfectly free. A trades- 
 man, whose business affords an excellent out- 
 
20 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 let for energetic bodily activity, told me that 
 having attempted, in addition to his ordinary 
 work, to acquire a foreign language which 
 seemed likely to be useful to him, he had been 
 obliged to abandon it on account of alarming 
 cerebral symptoms. This man has immense 
 vigor and energy, but the digestive fimctions, 
 in this instance, are sluggish. However, 
 when he abandoned study, the cerebral incon- 
 veniences disappeared^ and have never re- 
 turned since. 
 
 Two Londoners who followed literature as a 
 profession, and who both worked to excess, 
 had cerebral attacks of a still more decided 
 kind. One of them, after his recovery, re- 
 solved to regulate his work in future, so that 
 it might never pass the limits of moderation. 
 He is now living, and in possession of a re- 
 markably clear and richly furnished intel- 
 lect. The other, who returned to his old hab- 
 its, died in two years from softening of the 
 brain. I am not aware that in these cases 
 there was any other disease than that pro- 
 duced by an immoderate use of the mental 
 powers. 
 
 The health of Sir Walter Scott— we have 
 this on his own testimony — was uncommonly 
 robust, and there is every reason to believe 
 that his paralysis was brought on by the ex- 
 cessive labor which resulted from his pecun- 
 iary embarrassments, and that without sucli 
 excessive mental labor and anxiety he would 
 have preserved his health much longer. The 
 death of Byron was due, no doubt, quite as 
 
THE PHYSICAL BASIS. 21 
 
 much to habits of dissipation as to poetical ex- 
 citement; still it is probable that he would 
 have borne either of these evil influences if it 
 had not been accompanied by the other ; and 
 that to a man whose way of life was so ex- 
 hausting as Byron's was, the addition of con- 
 stant poetical excitement and hard work in 
 production, may be said without exaggeration 
 to have killed him. We know that Scott, 
 with all his facility, had a dread of that kind 
 of excitement, and withdrew from the poet- 
 ical arena to avoid it. V/e know, too, that 
 the brain of Southey proved ultimately unable 
 to endure the burden of the tasks he laid 
 upon it. 
 
 Difhcult as it may be in some instances to 
 ascertain quite accurately whether an over- 
 worked man had perfectly sound bodily liealtb 
 to begin with, obvious as it may be that in 
 many breakdowns the final failure lias been 
 accelerated by diseases independent of mental 
 work, the facts remain, that the excessive ex- 
 ercise of the mental powers is injurious to 
 bodily health and that all intellectual labor 
 proceeds upon a physical basis. No man can 
 safely forget this, and act as if he were a pure 
 spirit, superior to physical considerations. 
 Let me then, in other letters on this subject, 
 direct your attention to the close connection 
 which exists between intellectual production 
 and the state of the body and the brain ; not 
 with the authority of a physician, but with 
 the sympathy of a fellow-laborer, who has 
 learned something from his own experience. 
 
22 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 and still more from the more varied experi 
 ence of his friends. 
 
 LETTER II. 
 
 TO A YOUNG MAN OF LETTERS WHO WORKED 
 EXCESSIVELY. 
 
 Mental labor rarely compatible with the best physical condi- 
 tions—Wordsworth's manner of composition — Mr. W. F. 
 A. Delane— George Sand working under pressure— Sir 
 Walter Scott's field-sports— Physical exercise the best 
 tranquilhzer of the nervous system — Eugene Sue — Shel- 
 ley's love of boating — Nervousness the affliction of brain- 
 workers— Nature's kindly warning— Working by spurts— 
 Beckford— Byron— Indolence of men of genius fortunate 
 — Distressing nature of cerebral fatigue. 
 
 It is possible that many of the worst results 
 of intellectual labor may be nothing more 
 than indirect results. We may suffer, not 
 from the work itself, but from sedentary 
 confinement, from want of exercise, from 
 insufficient variety and amusement. 
 
 Mental labor is seldom compatible with 
 the best physical conditions; it is so some- 
 times, however, or may be made so by an 
 effort of will and resolution. Worasworth 
 composed his poetry in the open air, as he 
 walked, and so preserved himself from the 
 evil of close confinement to the desk. Mr. 
 W. F. A. Delane, who did so much for the 
 organization of the Ti^nes newspaper when it 
 was under his management, began by doing 
 law reports for that paper, in London and on 
 circuit. His appearance of rude health sur- 
 
THE PHYSICAL BASIS, 21 
 
 prised other members of his profession, but 
 he accounted for it by the care he took to 
 compensate for the bad air and sedentary la* 
 bor in the courts of law by travelling between 
 the assize towns on horseback, and also by a 
 more than commonly temperate way of life, 
 since he carefully avoided the bar dinners, 
 eating and drinking for health alone. It is 
 possible to endure the most unhealthy labor 
 when there are frequent intervals of invigor- 
 ating exercise, accompanied by habits of 
 strict sobriety. The plan, so commonly re- 
 sorted to, of trying to get health in stock for 
 the rest of the year by a fortnight's hurried 
 travelling in the autumn, is not so good as 
 Mr. Delane's way of getting the week's sup- 
 ply of health during the course of the week 
 itself. 
 
 It happened once that George Sand was 
 hurried by the proprietor of a newspaper who 
 wanted one of her novels as a feuilleton. 
 She has always been a careful and deliberate 
 worker, very anxious to give all necessary 
 labor in preparation, and, like all such con- 
 scientious laborers, she can scarcely endure 
 to be pushed. However, on this occasion she 
 worked overtime, as they say in Lancashire^ 
 and to enable herself to bear the extra pres- 
 sure she did part of the work at night in or- 
 der to keep several hours of daylight clear 
 for her walks in the country, where she lived. 
 Many writers, in the same sitvation, would 
 have temporarily abandoned exercise, but 
 George Sand clung to it all the more at a 
 
24 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 time when it was especially necessary that 
 she should be well. In the same way Sir 
 Walter Scott counterbalanced the effects of 
 sedentary occupation by his hearty enjoy- 
 ment of field-sports. It has been supposed 
 that his outdoor exercise, which to weaker 
 persons appears excessive, may have helped 
 to bring on the stroke of paralysis which final* 
 ly disabled him ; but the fact is, that when the 
 stroke arrived Sir Walter had altered his 
 habits of life in obedience to what he believed 
 to be his duty, and had abandoned, or nearly 
 so, the active amusements of his happier 
 years. I believe rather that whilst he took so 
 much exercise his robust constitution not 
 only enabled him to endure it without injury, 
 but required it to keep the nervous system 
 healthy, in spite of his hard work in literary 
 composition. Physical exercise, when the 
 constitution is strong enough to endure it, is 
 by far the best tranquillizer of the nervous 
 system which has yet been discovered, and 
 Sir Walter's life at Abbotsford was, in this 
 respect at least, grounded on the true philoso^ 
 phy of conduct. The French romancer, Eu- 
 gene Sue, wrote till ten o'clock every moru' 
 ing, and passed the rest of the day, when at 
 his country house, either in horse-exercise, or 
 field-sports, or gardening, for all of which he 
 had a liking which amounted to passion. 
 Shelley's delight was boating, which at once 
 exercised his muscles and relieved his mind 
 from the weariness of incessant invention or 
 speculation. It will generally be found, that 
 
THE PHYSICAL BASIS. 25 
 
 whenever a man of much intellectual distinc- 
 tion has maintained his powers in full activ- 
 ity, it has been by avoiding the bad effects of 
 an entirely sedentary life. 
 
 I well believe that a person naturally ro- 
 bust, with a, clear and powerful bra^in, could 
 bear twelve or fourteen hours' work every 
 davj^ for years together so far as the work it- 
 self is concerned, if only so large an expendi- 
 ture of time left a sufficient margin for amuse- 
 ment, and exercise, and sleep. But the pri- 
 vation of exercise, by weakening the digestive 
 and assimilative powers, reduces the flow of 
 healthy and rich blood to the brain — the brain 
 requires an enormous quantity of blood, es- 
 pecially when the cerebral matter is rapidly 
 destroyed by intellectual labor —and usually 
 brings on nervousness, the peculiar affliction 
 of the over-driven mental laborer. This ner- 
 vousness is Nature's kindly warning, preserv- 
 ing us, if we attend to it in time, from much 
 more serious consequences. The best prevent- 
 ive of it, and often the only cure, is plenty of 
 moderate exercise. The customs of the up- 
 per classes in England happily j)rovide this 
 in the best shape, that of amusement enjoyed 
 in society, but our middle classes in large 
 towns do not get nearly enough of it, and the 
 most studious are always strongly tempted to 
 neglect it altogether. 
 
 Men of great imaginative power are com- 
 monly addicted to a habit which is peculiarly 
 dangerous. They work as race-horses work, 
 with the utmost intensity of effort during 
 
26 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 short spaces of time, taxing all their powers 
 whilst the brilliant effort lasts. When Beck- 
 ford wrote the wonderful tale " Vathek " in 
 his twentieth year, he did it at a single sit- 
 ting, which lasted for three days and two 
 nights, and it cost him a serious illness. Sev- 
 eral of the best poems by Byron were written, 
 if not quite with equal rapidity, still on the 
 same principle of composition at white heat. 
 In cases of this kind, Nature provides her 
 own remedy in the indolence of the imagina- 
 tive temperament, which leaves large spaces 
 of time for the action of the recuperative proc- 
 esses. The same law governs the physical 
 energies of the carnivora, which maintain, or 
 recover, their capacity for extraordinary ef- 
 fort by intervals of absolute repose. In its 
 long spaces of mental rest the imaginative 
 temperament recruits itself by amusement, 
 which in England usually includes physical 
 exercise of some kind. 
 
 This fortunate indolence of men of genius 
 would in most instances ensure their safety if 
 they were not impelled by necessity to labor 
 beyond the suggestions of inclinatio«i. The 
 exhausted brain never of itself seeks the ad- 
 ditional exhaustion of hard work. You know 
 very well when you are tired, and at such 
 times the natural man in you asks plainly 
 enough for rest and recreation. The art is so 
 to arrange our lives that the natural man may 
 sometimes have his way, and forget, if only 
 for a time, the labors which lead to weari- 
 ness—not to that pleasant woariness of the 
 
THE PHYSICAL BASIS. 2t 
 
 Dody which promises soundest sleep, but the 
 distressing fatigue of the exhausted spirit 
 which is tortured by the importunity of ideas 
 which it is unable to express, and apprehen- 
 sions that it cannot dismiss, which fights 
 through the sleepless night the phantoms of 
 unconquerable horror. 
 
 Note.— The bad effect of literary composition on the physi- 
 cal state which was observed by Wordsworth in his own case 
 was also noticed by SheUey dui'ing the composition of the 
 " Cenci," which, he said, had been a fine antidote to nervous 
 medicines, and kept, he beheved, the pain in his side " as sticks 
 do a fire. ' ' These influences are best obsei'ved in people whose 
 health is delicate. Although Joubert, for example, had an 
 extremely clear intellect, he could scarcely write at all on ac- 
 coimt of the physical consequences. I have come to the con- 
 clusion that hterary work acts simjyly as a strong stimulant. 
 In moderate quantities it is not only innocent, but decidedly 
 beneficial; in excess it acts like poison on the nervous system. 
 What constitutes excess every man has to find out by his own 
 experience. A page was excess to Joubert, a chapter was 
 moderation to Alexandre Dumas. 
 
 LETTER III. 
 
 TO A STUDENT IN UNCERTAIN HEALTH. 
 
 Habits of Kant, the philosopher — Objection to an over-minute 
 regularity of habit— Value of independence of character— 
 Case of an English ciitlior— Case of an Eui^lish resident 
 in Paris — Scott an abundant eater anc. drinker — Goethe 
 also — An eminent French publisher — Turgot — Importance 
 of good cookery — Wine drinking — Ale — The aid of stimu- 
 lants treacherous — The variou:: off ects of tobacco — Tea and 
 coffee— Case of an English clergyman — Balzac— The Ara- 
 bia custom o^" coffee-drinking — Wisdom of occasionally 
 using stimulants. 
 
 Immanuei. Kant, who was a master in the 
 art of taking care of himself, had by practice 
 
»: THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE, 
 
 aer;aired a dexterous mode of folding himself 
 up in the bed-clothes, by passing them over 
 and under his shoulders, so that, when the 
 operation was complete, he was shut up like 
 the silkworm in his cocoon. ' ' When I am 
 thus snugly folded up in my bed," he would 
 say to his friends, "I say to myself, can any 
 m.an be in better health than I am? " 
 
 There is nothing in the lives of philosophers 
 more satisfactory than this little passage. If 
 Kant had said to himself, ' ' Can anybody be 
 wiser, more learned, more justly deserving of 
 immortal fame than I am? " we should have 
 felt, that however agreeable this ojpinion might 
 have been to the philosopher who held it, his 
 private satisfaction stood in need of confirma- 
 tion from without ; and even if he had really 
 been all this, we might have reflected that 
 wisdom and learning still leave their pos- 
 sessor exx3osed to the acutest kinds of suffer- 
 ing. But when a philosopher rolls himself up 
 at night, and congratulates himself on the 
 possession of perfect health, we only think 
 what a happy man he was to possess that first 
 of blessings, and what a sensible man to know 
 the value of it ! And Kant had a deeper hap- 
 piness in this reflection than any which could 
 spring from the mere consciousness of possess- 
 ing one of the unearned gifts of nature. The 
 excellence of his health was due in part to a 
 sufficiently good constitution, but it was due 
 also to his own extreme carefulness about his 
 habits. By an unceasing observation of his 
 own bodily life, as far as possible removed 
 
THE PHYSICAL BASIS. 29 
 
 from, the anxiety of hypochondriacs, he man- 
 aged to keep the physical machine in such 
 regular order, that for more than thirty years 
 he always rose precisely at the same minute. 
 If his object had been health for health's 
 sake, the result would still have been well 
 worth any sacrifices of momentary inclination 
 that it cost him ; but Kant had a higher pur- 
 pose. He well knew that the regularity of 
 the intellectual life depended entirely on the 
 regularity of the bodily functions, and, un- 
 like the foolish men alluded to by Goethe who 
 pass the day in complaining of headache, 
 and the night in drinking the wine that pro- 
 duces it, Kant not only knew that regular 
 health was necessary to his work as a philos- 
 opher, but did everything in his power to 
 preserve it. Few intellectual laborers have 
 in this respect given evidence of such persist- 
 ent strength of will. 
 
 In his manner of living he did not consult 
 custom, but the needs of his individual na- 
 ture. It is not always easy for great brain- 
 workers to follow with perfect fidelity the 
 customs of the people about them. These 
 usages have been gradually formed by the 
 majority to suit the needs of the majority; 
 but there are cases where a close adher- 
 ence to them would be a serious hindrance 
 to the highest and best activity. A good 
 example of this is Kant's intense antipathy 
 to beer. It did not suit him, and he was 
 right in his non-conformity to German usage 
 on this point, but he was mistaken in believ- 
 
so THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 ing beer to be universally injurious. There 
 is a very general belief in England that what 
 is called a good breakfast is the foundation of 
 the labor of the day. Kant's breakfast, which 
 lie took at five in the morning at all seasons 
 of the year, consisted of a cup of tea and a 
 pipe of tobacco. On this he worked eight 
 hours, either in lecturing or writing — a long 
 stretch of uninterrupted labor. He dined at 
 one, and this was his only meal, for he had 
 no supper. The single repast was a deviation 
 from ordinary usage, but Kant found that it 
 suited him, probably because he read in the 
 evening from six till a quarter to ten, and a 
 second meal might have interfered with this 
 by diminishing his power of attention. There 
 exists a strong medical objection to this habit 
 of taking only one meal in twenty-four 
 hours, which indeed is almost unknown in 
 England, though not extremely rare on the 
 Continent. I know an old gentleman who 
 for forty years has lived as Kant did, and 
 enjoys excellent health and uncommon men- 
 tal clearness. 
 
 A detail which illustrates Kant's attention 
 to whatever could affect his physical life, is 
 his rule to withdraw his mind from every- 
 thing requiring effort fifteen minutes before 
 he went to bed. His theory, which is fully 
 confirmed by the experience of others, was, 
 that there was a risk of missing sleep if the 
 brain was not tranquillized before bed-time. 
 He knew that the intellectual life of the day 
 depended on the night's rest, and he took this 
 
THE PHYSICAL BASIS. 32 
 
 precaution to secure it. The regularity of 
 his daily walk, taken during the afternoon in 
 all weathers, and the strict limitation of the 
 hours of rest, also helped the soundness of his 
 sleep. 
 
 He would not walk out in company, for the 
 whimsical reason that if he opened his mouth 
 a colder air would reach his lungs than that 
 which passed through the nostrils; and he 
 would not eat alone, but always had guests to 
 dinner. There are good physiological reasons 
 in favor of pleasant society at table, and, be- 
 sides these, there are good intellectual rea- 
 sons also. 
 
 By attention to these rules of his, Kant man- 
 aged to keep both body and mind in a work- 
 ing order, more uninterrupted than is usual 
 with men who go through much intellectual 
 labor. The solitary objection to his system is 
 the excessive regularity of habit to which it 
 bound him by chains of his own forging. He 
 found a quiet happiness in this regularity; 
 indeed, happiness is said to be more commonly 
 found in habit that in anything else, so deeply 
 does it satisfy a great permanent instinct of 
 our nature. But a minute regularity of habit 
 is objectionable, because it can only be prac- 
 ticable at home, and is compatible only w^ith 
 an existence of the most absolute tranquillity. 
 Kant did not travel, and never could have 
 travelled. He was a bachelor, and could not 
 have ceased to be a bachelor, without a 
 disturbance that would have been intolera- 
 ble to him. He enjoyed the full benefits of 
 
32 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 his system without experiencing its disad 
 vantages, but any considerable change of sit- 
 uation would have made the disadvantages 
 apparent. Few lives can be so minutely reg- 
 ulated without risk of future inconvenience. 
 Kant's example is a good one so far as this, 
 that it proved a sort of independence of char- 
 acter which would be valuable to every stu- 
 dent. All who need to keep their minds in the 
 best possible condition ought to have resolu- 
 tion enough to regulate their living in a man- 
 ner which experience, in their case, proves to 
 be most favorable. Whatever may be the 
 authority of custom, a wise man makes 
 himself independent of usages which are im- 
 pediments to his best activity. I know an 
 author who was always unwell about eleven 
 o'clock in the morning — so unwell tha,t he 
 could do nothing but lament his miserable 
 fate. Knowing by experience the powerful 
 eifect of regimen, I inquired whether he en- 
 joyed his breakfast. "No, he did not." 
 ' ' Then why did he attempt to eat any break- 
 fast? " It turned out that this foolish man 
 swallowed every morning two cups of bad 
 coffee and a quantity of greasy food, from a 
 patriotic deference to the customs of his coun- 
 try. He was persuaded to abandon this un- 
 suitable habit and to eat nothing till half-pa-st 
 ten, when his adviser prescribed a well-cooked 
 little dejeuner a la fourchette, accompanied by 
 half a bottle of sound Bordeaux. The effect 
 was magical. My friend felt light and cheer- 
 ful before dejeuner, and worked quite happily 
 
THE PHYSICAL BASIS, 88 
 
 and well, T<^hilst after dejeuner he felt like a 
 horse that has eaten his corn. Nor was the 
 good effect a transitory one ; the bad symp- 
 toms never returned and he still adheres to 
 his new ar rangemen i . This little reform made 
 a wretched existence nappy, and has had for 
 its result an increase in production with a dim- 
 inution of fatigue. The explanation is that 
 the stomach did not ask for the early break- 
 fast, and had a hard fight to overcome it, 
 after which came exhaustion and a distaste 
 both for food and work. There are cases where 
 an opposite rule is the right one. An English- 
 man living in Paris found the French de~ 
 jeuner unsuitable for him, and discovered that 
 he worked best on a substantial English break- 
 fast, with strong tea, at eight in the morning, 
 after which he went on working all day with- 
 out any further nourishment till dinner at six 
 in the evening. A friend of Sir Walter Scott's, 
 who had stayed with him at Abbotsford. told 
 me that Sir Walter ate and drank like every- 
 body else as to times and seasons, but much 
 more abundantly than people of less vigorous 
 organization. Goethe used to work till eleven 
 without taking anything, then he drank a cup 
 of chocolate and worked till one. "At two 
 he dined. This meal was the imj)ortant meal 
 of the day. His appetite was immense. Even 
 on the days when he complained of not being 
 hungry he ate much more than most men. 
 Puddings, sweets, and cakes were always wel- 
 come. He sat a long while over his wine. 
 He was fond of wine, and drank daily his two 
 3 
 
M THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE, 
 
 or three bottles." An eminent French pub« 
 lisher, one of the most clear-headed and 
 hard-working men of his generation, never 
 touched food or drink till six in the evening, 
 when he ate an excellent dinner with his 
 guests. He found this system favorable to 
 his work, but a man of less robust constitution 
 would have felt exhausted in the course of the 
 day. 
 
 Turgot could not work well till after he had 
 dined copiously, but many men cannot think 
 after a substantial meal ; and here, in spite of 
 the example set by Scott and Goethe, let me 
 observe that nothing interferes so much with 
 brainwork as over-eating. The intellectual 
 ■*p"orkman requires nourishment of the best 
 possible quality, but the quantity ought 
 always to be well within the capacity of his 
 digestive powers. The truth appears to be, 
 that whilst the intellectual life makes very 
 large demands upon nutrition — for cerebral 
 activity cannot go forward without constant 
 supplies of force, which must come ultimate- 
 ly from what we have eaten — this kind of life, 
 being sedentary, is unfavorable to the work 
 of digestion. Brain-workers cannot eat like 
 sportsmen and farmers without losing many 
 hours in torpor, and yet they need nutrition 
 as much as if they led active lives. The only 
 way out of this difficulty is to take care that 
 the food is good enough for a moderate quan- 
 tity of it to maintain the physical and mental 
 powers. The importance of scientific cookery 
 can hardly be exaggerated. Intellectual la- 
 
THE PHYSICAL BASIS. 35 
 
 bor is, in its origin, as dependent upon the. 
 art of cookery as the dissemination of its ro-^ 
 suits is dependent upon paper-making and 
 printing. This is one of those matters which 
 people cannot be brought to consider serious- 
 ly ; but cookery in its perfection — the great sci • 
 ence of preparing food in the way best suited 
 to our use — is really the most important of all 
 sciences, and the mother of the arts. The 
 wonderful theory that the most ignorant 
 cookery is the most favorable to health is 
 only fit for the dark ages. It is grossly and 
 stupidly untrue. A scientific cook will 
 keep you in regular health, when an ignorant 
 one will offer you the daily alternative ot 
 starving or indigestion. 
 
 The great question of drinks is scarcely less 
 important. Sound natural wines, not strength- 
 ened by any addition of alcohol, are known 
 to supply Doth stimulus and nourishment to 
 the brain. Goethe's i^ractice was not irra- 
 tional, though he drank fifty thousand bottles 
 in his lifetime. Still it is not necessary to 
 imitate him to this extent. The wine-drink- 
 ing populations have keener and livelier wits 
 than those who use other beverages. It is 
 proved by long experience that the pure juice 
 of the grape sustains the force and activity of 
 the brain. The poets who from age to age 
 have sung the praise of wine were not wholly 
 either deceivers or deceived. In the lands o'i 
 the vine, where the plant is looked upon as a 
 nursing mother, men do not injure their health 
 by drinking ; but in the colder North, where 
 
36 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 the grape can never ripen, the deaths from 
 intemperance are frequent. Bread and wine 
 are almost pure gifts of nature, though both 
 are prepared by man after the old traditional 
 ways. These are not poisons, but gin and 
 absinthe are poisons, madness poured out 
 from a bottle ! Kant and Goethe loved the 
 pure Rhine wine, a nd their brains were clear 
 and vigorous to the utmost span of life. It 
 was not wine that ruined Burns and Byron, 
 or Baudelaire, or Alfred de Musset. 
 
 Notwithstanding Kant's horror of beer, that 
 honest northern drink deserves our friendly 
 recognition. It has quite a peculiar effect 
 upon the nervous system, giving a rest and 
 calm which no other drink can procure for it 
 so safely. It is said that beer drinkers are 
 slow, and a little stupid ; that they have an 
 ox-like placidity not quite favorable^to any 
 brilliant intellectual display. But there are 
 times when this placidity is what the laboring 
 brain most needs. After the agitations of too 
 active thinking there is safety in a tankard of 
 ale. The wine drinkers are agile, but they 
 are excitable; the beer drinkers are heavy, 
 but in their heaviness there is peace. In that 
 clear golden drink which England has brewed 
 for more than a thousand Octobers, and will 
 brew for a thousand more, we may find per- 
 haps some explanation of that absence of ir- 
 ritability which is the safe-guard of the na- 
 tional character, which makes it faithful in 
 its affections, easy to govern, not easy to ex- 
 cite to violence. 
 
THE PHYSICAL BASIS. 8^f 
 
 If I have spoken favorably of beer and wine 
 as having certain intellectual uses, please re- 
 member that I recommend only the habitual 
 use of them, not mad rites of Bacchus, and 
 even the habitual use only just so far as it 
 may suit the individual constitution. The 
 liberal regimen of Scott and Goethe would 
 not answer in every case, and there are or- 
 ganizations, often very robust, in which in- 
 toxicating drinks of all kinds, even in the 
 most moderate quantity, impede the brain's 
 action instead of aiding it. Two of the most 
 able men I have ever known could not drink 
 pure wine of any kind because it sent the 
 blood to the head, with consequent cerebral 
 oppression. And whilst on this subject I 
 ought to observe, that the aid which these 
 stimulants afford, even when the body grate- 
 fully accepts them, is often treacherous from 
 its very acceptability. Men who are over- 
 driven — and the number of such men is un- 
 happily very great in these days — say th?ct 
 without stimulants they could not get through 
 their labor; but the stimulants often delude 
 us as to the limits of our natural powers and 
 encourage us to attempt too much. The help 
 they give us is not altogether illusory ; under 
 certain limitations it is real, but many have 
 gone farther than the realitj^ of the assistance 
 warranted. The ally brings to us an increase 
 of forces, but he comes with appearances of 
 power surpassing the reality, and we under- 
 take tasks beyond our strength. In drinking, 
 as in eating, the best rule for the intellectual 
 
^■8 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 is moderation in quantity with good quality, 
 a sound wine, and not enough of it to foster 
 self-delusion. 
 
 The use of tobacco has so much extended it- 
 self in the present generation that we are all 
 obliged to make a decision for ourselves on 
 the ancient controversy between its friends 
 and enemies. We cannot form a reasonable 
 opinion about tobacco without bearing in 
 mind that it produces, according to circum- 
 stances, one of two entirely distinct and even 
 opposite classes of effects. In certain states 
 of the body it acts as a stimulant, in other 
 states as a narcotic. People who have a dis- 
 like to smoking affirm that it stupefies ; but 
 this assertion, at least so far as the temporary 
 consequences are concerned, is not supported 
 by experience. Most of the really brilliant 
 conversations that I have listened to have 
 been accompanied by clouds of tobacco- 
 smoke ; and a great deal of the best literary 
 composition that is produced by contemporary 
 authors is wrought by men who are actually 
 smoking whilst they work. My own expe- 
 rience is that very moderate smoking acts as 
 a pleasant stimulus upon the brain, whilst it 
 produces a temporary lassitude of the mus- 
 cular system, not perceptible in times of rest, 
 but an appreciable hindrance in times of mus- 
 cular exertion. It is better therefore for men 
 who feel these effects from tobacco to avoid it 
 when they are in exercise, and to use it only 
 when the body rests and the mind labors. 
 Pray remember, however, that this is the ex- 
 
IHE PHYSICAL BASIS. 3& 
 
 perience of an exceedingly moderate smoker, 
 who has not yet got hmiself into the general 
 condition of body which is brought on by a 
 Jarger indulgence in tobacco. On the other 
 hand, it is evident that men engaged in phys- 
 ical labor find a muscular stimulus in occa- 
 sional smoking, and not a temporary lassitude. 
 It is probable that the effect varies with in- 
 dividual cases, and is never precisely what 
 our own experience would lead us to imagine. 
 For excessive smokers, it appears to be little 
 more than the tranquillizing of a sort of un- 
 easiness, the continual satisfaction of a con- 
 tinual craving. I have never been able to as- 
 certain that moderate smoking diminished in- 
 fcellectual force ; but I have observed in exces- 
 sive smokers a decided weakening of the will, 
 and a preference for talking about work to 
 the effort of actual labor. The oj^inions of 
 medical men on this subject are so much at 
 variance that their science only adds to our 
 uncertainty. One doctor tells me that the 
 most moderate smoking is unquestionably in- 
 jurious, whilst others affirm that it is inno- 
 cent. Speaking simply from self -observation, 
 I find that in my own case tea and coffee are 
 far more jjerilous than tobacco. 
 
 Almost all English people are habitual tea- 
 drinkers, and as the tea they drink is very 
 strong, they may be said to use it in excess. 
 The unpleasant symptoms which tea-poison- 
 ing produces in a patient not inured by habit, 
 disappear in the seasoned tea-drinker, leaving 
 only a certain exhilaration, which appears to 
 
40 TRE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 be perfectly innocuous. If tea is a safe stim- 
 ulant, it is certainly an agreeable one, and 
 there seems to be no valid reason why brain- 
 workers should refuse themselves that solace. 
 I knew a worthy clergyman many years ago 
 who from the most conscientious motives de- 
 nied himself ale and wine, but found a foun- 
 tain of consolation in the tea-pot. His usual 
 allowance was sixteen cups, all of heroic 
 strength, and the effect upon his brain seems 
 to have been altogether favorable, for his ser- 
 mons were both long and eloquent, and to 
 this day he is preaching still, without any 
 diminution of his powers. French people 
 find in coffee the most efficacious remedy for 
 the temporary torpor of the mind which re- 
 sults from the processes of digestion. Balzac 
 drank great quantities of coffee whilst ho 
 wrote; and this, it is believed, brought on 
 the terrible nervous disease that accelerated 
 his end. The best proof that tea and coffee 
 are favorable to intellectual expression is that 
 all nations use one or the other as aids to 
 conversation. In Mr. Palgrave's Travels in 
 Arabia there is never any talk without the 
 inevitable coffee, that fragrant Arabian berry 
 prepared with such dehcate cunning that it 
 yields the perfect aroma. 
 
 The wisdom of occasionally using these va- 
 rious stimulants for intellectual purposes is 
 proved by a single consideration. Each of 
 us has a little cleverness and a great deal of 
 sluggish stupidity. There are certain occa- 
 sions when we absolutely need the little clev- 
 
THE PHYSICAL BJ i'^.S. 41 
 
 erness that we possess. The orato* ne^s it 
 when he speaks, the poet when he versifies, 
 but neither cares how stupid he may become 
 when the oration is deUvered and the lyric 
 set down on paper. The stimulant serves to 
 bring out the talent when it is wanted, like 
 the wind in the pipes of an organ. "What 
 will it matter if I am even a little duller after- 
 wards? " says the genius ; "I can afford to be 
 dull when I have done." But the truth still 
 remains that there are stimulants and stimu- 
 lants. Not the nectar of the gods themselves 
 wero worth the dash of a wave upon the 
 beaxh, and the pure cool air of the morning. 
 
 Note. — What is said in the above letter about the employ- 
 ment of stimulants is intended to apply only to cases in which 
 there is no organic disease. The harm which diseased per- 
 sons do to themselves by conforming to customs which are 
 innocent for others is as lamentable as it is easily avoidable. 
 Two bottles of any natural wine grown above the latitude of 
 Lyons are a permissible daily allowance to a man whose or- 
 gans are all sound ; but the doctors in the wine districts unan- 
 imously forbid pure wine when there is a chronic inflamma- 
 tory tendency. In these cases even the most honest Bordeaux 
 ought to be diluted with twice its volmne of water. Ther» 
 are many chronic diseases which tobacco irritates and acc«l- 
 elates. Both wine and tobacco are injurious to weak eyes. 
 
42 TEE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 LETTER rV. 
 
 TO A MUSCULAR CHRISTIAN. 
 
 Muscular and intellectual tendencies in two boys— Diificulty 
 of finding time to satisfy both — Plato on the influences of 
 music and gymnastics— Somnolence and digestion — Neg- 
 lect of literature — Natural restlessness of the active tem- 
 perament—Case of a Garibaldian officer— Difficulty of 
 taking a sufficient interest in exercise — A boar hunt. 
 
 I KNOW two little boys, sons of a near neigh- 
 bor, who have from, childhood exhibited op- 
 posite tendencies. One of them is incessant- 
 ly active, always out of doors in any weather, 
 busy about horses, and farming, and game, 
 heedless of his books, and studying only un- 
 der positive compulsion. The other sits at 
 home with his lessons or a story book, and 
 only goes out because he is incited by the fra- 
 ternal example. The two lads represent two 
 distinct varieties of human life, the active 
 and the intellectual. The elder is happiest 
 during physical exertion; the younger is 
 happiest when his brain is fully occupied. 
 Left entirely to themselves, without the 
 equalizing influence of the outside world and 
 the ways of living which general custom has 
 established, they would lead the most opposite 
 lives. The elder would inevitably become a 
 farmer, that he might live in the country and 
 take exercise all day long, or else he would 
 seek adventure in wild travel, or in romantic 
 warfare ; but the younger would very quick- 
 ly be taken possession of by some engrossing 
 intellectual pursuit, and lead the life of a sed- 
 
THE PHYSICAL BASIS. 4« 
 
 entary student. The problem which these 
 two young lives have before them is the rec- 
 onciliation of their tendencies. Since they 
 come of cultivated parents, the intellectual 
 lad has the better chance of following his own 
 bent. Both will have to take their Universi- 
 ty degrees, and the younger has the advan- 
 tage there. Still there are powerful influ- 
 ences in favor of the elder. His activity will be 
 encouraged by the admiration of his compan- 
 ions, and by the example of the country gen- 
 tlemen who are his neighbors. He can ride, 
 and row, and swim ; he is beginning to shoot ; 
 at twenty he will be a sportsman. When 
 once he has taken his degree, I wonder what 
 will be the advances in his intellectual culture. 
 Fraternal and social influences will preserve 
 the younger from absolute physical inaction ; 
 but there are not any influences powerful 
 enough to keep the elder safe from intellect- 
 ual rust. 
 
 If you, who are a distinguished sportsman 
 and athlete, would kindly inform us with 
 perfect frankness of the line which your stud- 
 ies have followed since you quitted Eton, we 
 should be the wiser for your experience. 
 Have gymnastic exercises hardened you, as 
 Plato said they did, when pursued excess- 
 ively? and do you need the musical studies 
 which he both valued and dreaded as the most 
 powerful of softening influences? If you have 
 energy enough to lead both lives, pray how 
 do you find the time? 
 
 As to Plato's musical influence, you invite 
 
44 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE, 
 
 ifc, and yet you treacherously elude its pow- 
 er. After being out all day in the pursuit 
 of sylvan pleasures (if shooting on treeless 
 wastes can be called a sylvan pleasure), you 
 come home at nightfall ravenous. Then you 
 do ample justice to your dinner, and having 
 satisfied your faim de chasseur, you ^o into 
 the drawing-room, and ask your wife to play 
 and sing to you. If Plato could witness that 
 pretty scene, he would approve your obedi- 
 ence to his counsels. He would behold an 
 athletic Englishman stretching his mighty 
 limbs on a couch of soft repose, and letting 
 his soul grow tender as his ears drank ravish- 
 ing harmonies. If, however, the ancient 
 sage, delighted with so sweet a picture of 
 strength refined by song, were to dwell upon 
 the sight as I have done, he would perceive 
 too soon that, although your body was pres- 
 ent indeed, your soul had become deaf in 
 sleep's oblivion. So it happens to you night 
 after night, and the music reaches you no 
 more than the songs of choristers reach the 
 dead in the graves below. 
 
 And the elevating influences of literature? 
 You have books, of course, in abundance. 
 There is a library, amongst other luxuries of 
 your home. But the literature your intellect 
 feeds upon is in the columns of the Field, 
 your newspaper. Yet this neglect of the 
 means of culture is not due to any natural 
 feebleness of the mind. Your brain, by its na- 
 ture, is as vigorous as your vigorous body. 
 It is sleep, and weariness, and the great neces' 
 
TEE PHYSICAL BASIS. 45 
 
 sary business of digestion, that drown your 
 inreilectual energies. The work of repairing 
 so great a destruction of muscle is nature's 
 chief concern. Since you became the mighty 
 hunter that you are, the wear and tear have 
 been enormous, and the necessary rapidity of 
 reconstruction has absorbed your rich vi- 
 tah'.ty. 
 
 I will not question the wisdom of your 
 choice, if there has been any deliberate 
 choice, though perhaps the life of action that 
 you lead may have grown rather out ot cir- 
 cumstances determining habit than from any 
 conscious resolution. Health is so much 
 miore necessary to happiness tha.n culture, 
 that few who could choose between them 
 would sacrifice it for learning, unless they 
 were impelled by irresistible instincts. And 
 beyond the great delight of health and 
 strength there is a restlessness in men born to 
 be active which must have its outlet in activ- 
 ity. I knew a brave Italian who had fol- 
 lowed Garibaldi in all his romantic enter- 
 prises, who had suffered from privation and 
 from wounds, who had not only faced death 
 in the wildest adventures, but, what is even 
 more terrible to the active temperament, had 
 risked health from frequent exposure; and 
 when I asked him whether it was affection to 
 his famous chief, or faith in a political creed, 
 or some more personal motive that had led 
 him to this scorn of prudence, he answered 
 that, after honest self-examination, he be- 
 lieved the most powerful motive to be the 
 
46 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 passion for an active life. The active teni« 
 perament likes physical action for its own 
 sake, and not as a means of health. Activity 
 renews itself and claims larger and larger 
 satisfaction, till at last the habit of it absorbs 
 the whole energy of the man. 
 
 Although such a life as yoiirs would be in- 
 compatible with the work I have to do, it 
 would be an unmixed benefit to me to take a 
 greater interest in exercise. If you could 
 but communicate that interest, how willingly 
 would I become your pupil ! The fatal law of 
 the studious temperament is, that in exercise' 
 itself it must find some intellectual charm, so 
 that we quit our books in the library only to 
 go and read the infinite book of nature. We 
 cannot go out in the country without inces- 
 santly thinking about either botany, or geol- 
 ogy, or landscape painting, and it is difiicult 
 for us to find a refuge from the importunate 
 habit of, investigation. Sport is the only ref- 
 uge, but the difiiculty is to care about it suffi- 
 ciently to avoid ennui. When you have not 
 the natural instinct, how are you to supply 
 its place by any make-believe excitement? 
 There is no position in the world more weari- 
 some than that of a man inwardly indifferent 
 to the amusement in which he is trying to 
 take part. You can watch for game with an 
 invincible patience, for you have the natural 
 instinct, but after the first ten minutes on the 
 skirts of the wood I lay my gun down and be- 
 gin to botanize. Last week a friendly neigh- 
 bor invited me to a boar-hunt. The boar was 
 
THE PHYSICAL BASIS. 47 
 
 supposed to be in the middle of a great im- 
 penetrable plantation, and all I did during 
 the whole morning was to sit in my saddle 
 awaiting the exit of the beast, cantering from 
 one point of the wood's circumference to an- 
 other, as the cry of the dogs guided me. Was 
 it pleasure? A true hunter would have found 
 interest enough in expectation, but I felt like 
 a man on a railway-platform who is waiting: 
 for a train that is late. 
 
 LETTER V. 
 
 TO A STUDENT WHO NEGLECTED BODILY EXER- 
 CISE. 
 
 Difficulty of conciliating the animal and the intellectual lives 
 — Bodily activity sometimes preserved by an effort of the 
 will— Necessity of faith in exercise — Incompatibility be- 
 tween physical and intellectual living disappears in large 
 spaces of time — Franklin's theory about concentration in 
 exercise— Time an essential factor — Health of a rural 
 postman — Pedestrian habits of Wordsworth — Pedestrian 
 and equestrian habits of Sir Walter Scott — Goethe's wild 
 delight in physical exercise — Alexander Hmnboldt com^ 
 bated early delicacy by exercise— Intellectual utihties ot 
 physical action. 
 
 *'We have done those things which we 
 ought not to have done ; we have left undone 
 those things which we ought to have done, 
 and there is no health in us." 
 
 How applicable, my dear brother, are these 
 words which the Church, in her wisdom, has 
 seen to be adapted to all sinners — how appli- 
 cable, I say, are they to students most espe- 
 
48 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 cially! They have quite a personal applicsu 
 bility to you and me. We have read all day 
 long, and written till three o'clock in the 
 morning; we have taken no exercise for 
 weeks, and there is no health in us. The doc- 
 tor scrutinizes our wearied eyes, and knows- 
 that our brains are weary. Little do we need 
 his warnings, for does not Nature herself re 
 mind us of our disobedience, and tell us in. 
 language not to be misinterpreted, to amend. 
 the error of our ways? Our digestion is 
 sluggish and imperfect ; we are as nervous as 
 delicate ladies, and there is no health in 
 us. 
 
 How easy it is to follow one of the twa 
 lives — the animal or the intellectual! how 
 difficult to conciliate the two ! In every one 
 of us there exists an animal which might 
 have been as vigorous as wolves and foxes, if 
 it had been left to develop itself in freedom. 
 But besides the animal, there existed also a 
 m.ind, and the mental activity restramed the 
 bodily activity, till at last there is a serious 
 danger of putting an end to it altogether. 
 
 I know two men, a,bout fifty-five years old 
 both of them, and both of them admirably ac- 
 tive. They tell me that their bodily activity 
 has been preserved by an effort of the will;, 
 that if they had not resolutely kept up the 
 habit of using legs and arms in daily work or 
 amusement their limbs would have stiffened 
 into uselessness, and their constitutions would: 
 have been unable to bear the call of any sud- 
 den emergency. One of them has font* resi 
 
THE PHYSICAL BASIS. 49 
 
 dences in different parts of the same county, 
 and yet he will not keep a caj:'riage, but is a 
 pedestrian terrible to his friends ; the other is 
 at the head of a great business, and gives an 
 example of physical activity to his work- 
 people. Both have an absolute faith in habit- 
 ual exercise ; and both affirm that if the habit 
 were once broken they could never after- 
 wards resume it. 
 
 We need this faith in exercise — this firm 
 conviction of its necessity — the sort of con- 
 viction that makes a man go out in all weath- 
 ers, and leave the most urgent intellectual 
 labor for the mere discipline and hardening 
 of the body. Few students possess this faith 
 in its purity. It is hard to believe that we 
 shall get any good from exercise ]3roportion- 
 ate to the sacrifice of time. 
 
 The incompatibility between the physical 
 and the intellectual lives is often very marked 
 if you look at small spaces of time only ; but 
 if you consider broader spaces, such as a 
 lifetime, then the incompatibility is not so 
 marked, and gives place to a manifest concili- 
 ation. The brain is clearer in vigorous health 
 than it can be in the gloom and misery of 
 sickness ; and a^lthough health may lust for a 
 while without renewal from exercit^^, so that 
 if you are working under pressvire for a 
 month the time given to exercise is so much 
 deducted from the result, it is not so for the 
 life's performance. Health sustained for 
 many years is so useful to the realization of 
 all considerable intellectual undertakings, 
 4 
 
60 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 that the sacrifice to the bodily well-being is 
 the best of all possible investments. 
 
 FrankKn's theory about concentrating his 
 exercise for the economy of time was founded 
 upon a mistake. Violent exertion for minutes 
 is not equivalent to moderate exercise for 
 hours. The desire to concentrate good of va- 
 rious kinds into the smallest possible space is 
 one of the commonest of human wishes, but 
 it is not encouraged by the broader economy 
 of nature. In the exercise of the mind every 
 teacher is well aware that time is an essential 
 factor. It is necessary to live with a study 
 for hundreds or thousands of hours before 
 the mind can assimilate as much of the sub- 
 ject as it may need ; and so it is necessary to 
 live in exercise during a thousand hours of 
 every year to make sure of the physical bene- 
 fits. Even the fresh air itself requires time 
 to renovate our blood. The fresh air cannot 
 je concentrated ; and to breathe the prodig- 
 ious quantities of it which are needed for per- 
 fect energy, we must be out in it frequently 
 and long. 
 
 The inhabitants of great cities have recourse 
 to gymnastics as a substitute for the sports of 
 the country. These exercises have one ad- 
 vantage — they can be directed scientifically 
 so as to strengthen the limbs that need devel- 
 opment ; but no city gymnasium can offer the 
 invigorating breezes of the mountain. We 
 require not only exercise but exposure- -daily 
 exposure to the health-giving inclemencies of 
 the weather. The postman who brings my 
 
THE PHYSICAL BASIS. 61 
 
 letters walks eight thousand miles a year, and 
 enjoys the most perfect regularity of health. 
 There are operatives in factories who go 
 through quite as much bodily exertion, but 
 they have not his fine condition. He is as 
 merry as a lark, and announces himself every 
 morning like a bearer of joyful tidings. 
 What the postman does from necessity an old 
 gentleman did as regularly, though more mod- 
 erately, for the preservation of his health and 
 faculties. He went out every day ; and as he 
 never consulted the weather, so he never had 
 to consult the physicians. 
 
 Nothing in the habits of Wordsworth — that 
 model of excellent habits — can be better as an 
 example to men of letters than his love of 
 pedestrian excursions. Wherever he hap- 
 pened to be, he explored the whole neighbor- 
 hood on foot, looking into every nook and 
 cranny of it ; and not merely the immediatf 
 neighborhood, but extended tracts of country: 
 and in this way he met with much of his best 
 material. Scott was both a pedestrian and an 
 equestrian traveller, having often, as he tells 
 us, walked thirty miles or ridden a hundred 
 in those rich and beautiful districts which af- 
 terwards proved to him such a mine of hter- 
 ary wealth. Goethe took a wild delight in all 
 sorts of physical exercise — swimming in the 
 Ilm by moonlight, skating with the merry 
 little Weimar court on the Schwansee, riding 
 about the country on horseback, and becom- 
 ing at times quite outrageous in the rich exu- 
 berance of his energy. Alexander Humboldt 
 
o2 TRE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 was delicate in his youth, but the longing for 
 great enterprises made him dread the hin- 
 drances of physical insufficiency, so he accus- 
 tomed his body to exercise and fatigue, and 
 prepared himself for those wonderful explor- 
 ations which opened his great career. Here 
 are intellectual lives which were forwarded in 
 '-heir special aims by habits of physical exer- 
 cise ; and, in an earlier age, have we not also 
 the example ol the greatest intellect of a great 
 epoch, the astonishing Leonardo da Vinci, 
 who took such a delight in horsemanship that 
 although, as Vasari tells us, poverty visited 
 him often, he never could sell his horses or 
 dismiss his grooms ? 
 
 The physical and intellectual lives are not 
 incompatible. I may go farther, and affirm 
 that the physical activity of men eminent in 
 literature has added abundance to their mate- 
 rial and energy to their style; that the activ- 
 ity of scientific men has led them to innumer- 
 able discoveries; and that even the more 
 sensitive and contemplative study of the fine 
 arts has been carried to a higher j^erf ection by 
 artists who painted action in which they had 
 had their part, or natural beauty, which they 
 had travelled far to see. Even philosophy 
 itself owes much to mere physical courage 
 and endurance. How much that is noblest 
 in ancient thinking may be due to the hardy 
 he-alth of Socrates 1 
 
THE PHYSICAL BASIS. 68 
 
 LETTER YI. 
 
 TO AN AUTHOR IN MORTAL DISEASE. 
 
 Considering death as a certainty— The wisdom learned from 
 suffering — Employment of happier intervals — The teach- 
 ing of the diseased not to be rejected — Their double expe- 
 rience — Ignorance of Nature's spoiled children — Bene-fit 
 of disinterested thought — Reasons for pursuing intellect- 
 ual labors to the last— Geoffroy Saint-Hilaire. 
 
 When Alexandre Bixio lay on his death-bed, 
 his friend Labrousse visited him, and ex- 
 claimed on entering the room, "How well 
 you are looking to-day ! " To this, Bixio, who 
 was clearly aware of his condition, answered 
 in these words: — "Voyons, mon pauvre La- 
 brousse ; tu viens voir un homme qui n'a plus 
 qu'un quart d'heure a vivre, et tu veux lui 
 faire croire qu'il a bonne mine; allons, un© 
 poignee de main, cela vaut mieux jDour un 
 homme que tous ces petits mensonges-la. " 
 
 I will vex you with none of i-hese well- 
 meant but wearisome little falsehoods. We 
 both of us know your state; we both know 
 that your malady, though it may be allevia- 
 ted, can never be cured; and that the fatal 
 termination of it, though delayed by all the 
 artifices of science, will certainly arrive at 
 last. The cheerful courage which enables you 
 to look this certainty in the face has also ena- 
 bled you to extract from years of suffering 
 that prof oundest wisdom which (as one of the 
 wisest of living Englishmen has told us) cai> 
 be learned from suffering alone. The admira* 
 
64 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 "ble elasticity of your intellectual and moral 
 nature has enabled you, in the intervals of 
 physical uneasiness or pain, to cast aside 
 every morbid thought, to enter quite fully and 
 heartily into the healthy life of others, and to 
 enjoy the magnificent spectacle of the uni- 
 verse with contented submission to its laws — 
 those beneficent yet relentless laws which to 
 you bring debility and death. You have con- 
 tinued to write notwithstanding the progress 
 of your malady ; and yet, since it has so piti- 
 lessly held you, there is no other change in 
 the spirit of your compositions than the deep- 
 ening of a graver beauty, the addition of a 
 sweeter seriousness. Not one sentence that 
 you have written betrays either the injustice 
 of the invalid, or his irritability. Your mind 
 is not clouded by any mist from the fever 
 marshes, but its sympathies are far more ac- 
 tive than they were. Your pain has taught 
 you a tender pity for all the pain that is out- 
 sSide of you, and a patient gentleness which 
 was wanting to your nature in its days of bar- 
 barian health. 
 
 Surely it would be a lamentable error if 
 mankind were to carry out the recommenda- 
 tion of certain ruthless philosophers, and re- 
 ject the help and teaching of the diseased. 
 Without undervaluing the Yobust perform- 
 ance of healthy natures, and without encoui* 
 aging literature that is morbid, that is fev- 
 ered, impatient, and perverse, we may still 
 prize the noble teaching which is the testa- 
 ment of sufferers to the world. The diseased 
 
THE PHYSICAL BASIS. 58 
 
 have a peculiar and mysterious experience; 
 they have known the sensations of health, and 
 then, in addition to this knowledge, they have 
 gained another knowledge which enables them 
 to think more accurately even of health itself. 
 A life without suffering would be like a pict- 
 ure without shade. The pets of Nature, who 
 do not know what suffering is, and cannot 
 realize it, have always a certain rawness, like 
 foolish landsmen who laugh at the terrors of 
 the ocean, because they have neither experi- 
 ence enough to know what those terrors are, 
 nor brains enough to imagine them. 
 
 You who are borne along, slowly but irresist- 
 ibly, to that Niagara which plunges into the 
 gulf of death, — you who, with perfect self-pos- 
 session and heroic cheerfulness, are counting 
 the last miles of the voyage, — find leisure to 
 study and think as the boat glides onwards 
 silently to the inevitable end. It is one of the 
 happiest privileges of the high intellectual life 
 that it can elevate us — at least in the intervals 
 of relief from complete prostration or acute 
 pain — to regions of disinterested thought, 
 where all personal anxieties are forgotten. 
 To feel that he is still able, even in days of 
 physical weakness and decline, to add some- 
 thing to the world's inheritance of knowledge, 
 or to bequeath to it some new and noble 
 thought in the pearl of complete expression, 
 is a profound satisfaction to the active mind 
 that is lodged in a perishing body. Many 
 diseases fortunately permit this activity to 
 the last ; and I do not hesitate to affirm, that 
 
56 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 the work done in the time of physical decline 
 has in not a few instances been the most per- 
 fect and the most permanently valuable. It 
 is not accurately true that the mind and the 
 body invariably fail together. Physicians 
 who know how prevalent chronic diseases 
 are, and how many eminent men are physi- 
 cally inconvenienced by them, know also 
 that minds of great spiritual energy possess 
 the wonderful faculty of indefinitely improv- 
 ing themselves whilbt the body steadily de- 
 teriorates. Nor is there anything irrational 
 in this persisient improvement of the mind, 
 even to the extremest limit of material decay; 
 for the mind of every intellectual human 
 being is part and parcel of the great perma- 
 nent mind of humanity ; and even if its in- 
 fluence soon ceases to be traceable — if the 
 spoken words are forgotten — if the written 
 volume is not reprinted or even quoted, it 
 has not worked in vain. The intellectual 
 light of Europe in this century is not only 
 due to great luminaries whom every one can 
 name, but to millions of thoughtful persons, 
 now utterly forgotten, who in their time 
 loved the light, and guarded it, and incl^eased 
 it, and carried it into many lands, and be- 
 queathed it as a sacred trust. He who la- 
 bors only for his personal pleasure may well 
 be discouraged by the shortness and uncer- 
 tainty of life, and cease from his selfish toil 
 on the first approaches of disease ; but who- 
 ever has fully realized the grand continuity 
 of intellectual tradition, and taken his own 
 
THE PHYSICAL BASIS. 57 
 
 place in it between the future and the past, 
 will work till lie can work no more, and then 
 gaze hopefully on the world's great future, 
 like Geoff roy Saint "Allaire, when his blind 
 eyes beheld the future of zoology. 
 
 LETTER VII. 
 
 TO A YOUNG MAW OF BRILLIANT ABILITY, WHO 
 HAD JUST TAKEN HIS DEGREE. 
 
 A domestic picture— Thoughts suggested by it— Importance 
 of the senses in intellectual pursuits — Importance of 
 hearing to Madame de Stael — Importance of seeing to Mr. 
 Ruskin— Mr. Prescott, the historian — How blindness re- 
 tarded his work — "Value of all the five senses— Self-govern- 
 ment indispensable to their perfection — Great value of 
 longevity to the intellectual life. 
 
 It is always a great pleasure to me to pass 
 an evening at your father's house ; but on the 
 last occasion that pleasure was very much 
 enhanced because you were once more with 
 us. I watched your mother's eyes as she sat 
 in her place in the drawing-room. They fol- 
 lowed you almost without ceasing, and there 
 was the sweetest, happiest expression on her 
 dear face, that betrayed her tender maternal 
 love for you and her legitimate maternal 
 pride. Your father was equally happy in his 
 own way ; he was much more gay and talkative 
 than I have seen him for two or three anxious 
 years; he told amusing stories; he entered 
 playfully into the jests of others; he had 
 pleasant projects for the future, and spok« 
 
58 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 of them with facetious exaggeration. I sat 
 quietly in my corner, slyly observing my old 
 friends, and amusing myself by discovering 
 (it did not need much perspicacity for that) 
 the hidden sources of the happiness that was 
 so clearly visible. They were gladdened by 
 the first successes of your manhood ; by the 
 evidence of your strength ; by the realization 
 of hopes long cherished. 
 
 Watching this charming picture with a 
 perfect sympathy, I began to have certain 
 thoughts of my own which it is my present 
 purpose to communicate to you without dis- 
 guise. I thought, first, how agreeable it was 
 to be the spectator of so pretty a picture ; but 
 then my eyes wandered to a painting that 
 hung upon the walls, in which also there were 
 a mother and her son, and this led me a long 
 way. The painting was a hundred years old ; 
 but although the colors were not quite so fresh, 
 as when they left the palette of the artist, the 
 beautiful youth who stood radiant like a 
 young Apollo in the centre of the composition 
 had not lost one of the great gifts with which 
 his cunning human creator had endowed him. 
 The fire of his eye had not been quenched by 
 time; the bloom of his cheek still flushed 
 with faint vermilion; his lip was full and 
 imperious; his limbs athletic; his bearing 
 haughty and dauntless. All life seemed 
 spread before him like a beautiful rich estate 
 of which every acre was his own. How easily 
 Will he conquer fame ! how easily kindle pas- 
 sion. Who shall withstand this pink and per- 
 
THE PHYSICAL BASIS, 59 
 
 fection of aristocracy — this ideal of the age 
 of fine gentlemen, with all the gifts of nature 
 helped by all the inventions of art? 
 
 Then I thought farther : ' ' That splendid 
 young nobleman in the picture will look just 
 as young as he does now when we shall be 
 either superannuated or dead." And I looked 
 at you and your mother again and thought: 
 " It is just five minutes since I saw these two 
 living beings, and in this little space of time 
 they have both of them aged a little, though 
 no human observer has enough delicacy of 
 perception to detect so inappreciable an alter- 
 ation. " I went gradually on and on into the 
 future, trying to imagine the changes which 
 would come over yourself more especially (for 
 it was you who were the centre of my rev- 
 erie), till at last I imagined pretty accurately 
 what you might be at sixty; but there it be- 
 came necessary to stop, because it was too 
 difficult to conceive the processes of decay. 
 
 After this, one thought grew upon me and 
 became dominant. I thought, at present he 
 has all the senses in their perfection, and they 
 serve him without a hitch. He is an intelli- 
 gence served by organs, and the organs are 
 all doing their duty as faithfully as a postman 
 who brings letters. When the postman be- 
 comes too infirm to do his work he will retire 
 on his little pension, and another will take his 
 place and bring the letters just as regularly; 
 but when the human organs become infirm 
 they cannot be taken out and replaced by 
 new ones, so that we must content ourselves^ 
 
60 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE, 
 
 to the end, with their service, such as it may 
 be. Then I reflected how useful the senses 
 are to the high intellectual life, and how wise 
 it is, even for intellectual purposes, to pre- 
 serve them as long as possible in their perfec- 
 tion. 
 
 To be able to see and hear well — to feel 
 healthy sensations — even to taste and smell 
 properly, are most important qualifications 
 for the pursuit of literature, and art, and 
 science. If you read attentively the work of 
 any truly illustrious poet, you will find that 
 the whole of the imagery which gives power 
 and splendor to his verse is derived from, na- 
 ture through one or other of these ordinary 
 channels. Some philosophers have gone much 
 farther than this, and have affirmed that the 
 entire intellectual life is based ultimately upon 
 remembered physical sensations; that we 
 have no mental conception that is really inde- 
 pendent of sensuous experience ; and that the 
 most abstract thought is only removed from 
 sensation by successive processes of substitu- 
 tion, I have not space to enter into so great 
 and mysterious a subject as this ; but I desire 
 to draw your attention to a truth very com- 
 monly overlooked by intellectual people, 
 which is the enormous importance of the 
 organs of sense in the highest intellectual 
 pursuits. I will couple together two namesr 
 which have owed their celebrity, one chiefly 
 to the use of her ears, the other to the use of 
 his eyes. Madame de Stael obtained her lit- 
 erary material almost exclusively by mieansr 
 
THE PHYSICAL BASIS. et 
 
 of conversation. She directed, systematic- 
 ally, the talk of the learned and brilliant 
 men amongst whom she lived to the subject 
 which for the moment happened to occupy 
 her thoughts. Her literary process (which is 
 known to us in detail through the revelations 
 of her friends) was purpos.ely invented to 
 catch everything that she heard, as a net 
 catches fish in a river. First, she threw down 
 on paper a very brief rough draft of the in- 
 tended literary project. This she showed to 
 few, but from it she made a second ' ' state " 
 (as an engraver would say), which she exhib- 
 ited to some of her trusted friends, profiting 
 by their hints and suggestions. Her secre- 
 tary copied the corrected manuscript, incor- 
 porating the new matter, on paper with a 
 very broad margin for farther additions. 
 During all the time that it took to carry her 
 work through these successive states, that in- 
 genious woman made the best possible use of 
 her ears, which were her natural providers. 
 She made everybody talk who was likely to bT 
 of any use to her, and then immediately added 
 what she had caught on the wide margin re- 
 served for that purpose. She used her eyes 
 so little that she might almost as well have 
 been blind. We have it on her own author- 
 ity, that were it not out of respect to custom, 
 she would not open her window to see the- 
 Bay of Naples for the first time, whereas she 
 would travel five hundred leagues to talk with 
 a clever man whom she had never met. 
 Now since Madame de Stael's geuiua fed it- 
 
62 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 self exclusively through the faculty of hear- 
 ing, what an enormous difference it would 
 have made to her if she had been deaf ! It is 
 probable that the whole of her literary repu- 
 tation was dependent on the condition of her 
 ears. Even a very moderate degree of deaf- 
 ness (j^st enough to make listening irk- 
 some) might have kept her in perpetual ob- 
 scurity. 
 
 The next instance I intend to give is that of 
 a distinguished contemporary, Mr, Euskin. 
 His peculiar position in literature is due to his 
 being able to see as cultivated artists see. 
 Everything that is best and most original in 
 his writings is invariably either an account of 
 what he has seen in his own independent in- 
 imitable way, or else a criticism of the accu- 
 rate or defective sight of others. His meth- 
 od of study, by drawing and taking written 
 memoranda of what he has seen, is entirely 
 different from Madame de Stael's method, but 
 refers always, as hers did, to the testimony 
 of the predominant sense. Every one whose 
 attention has been attracted to the subject is 
 aware that, amongst people who are com- 
 monly supposed to see equally well, and who 
 are not suspected of any tendency to blind- 
 ness, the degrees of perfection in this sense 
 vary to infinity. Suppose that Mr. Ruskin 
 (to our great misfortune) had been endowed 
 with no better eyes than many persons who 
 see fairly well in the ordinary sense, his en 
 joyment and use of sight would have been so 
 much diminished that he would have had lit- 
 
THE PHYSICAL BASIS, 63 
 
 tie enthusiasm about seeing, and yet tliat kind 
 of enthusiasm was quite essential to his work. 
 
 The well-known instance of Mr. Prescott, 
 the historian, is no doubt a striking proof 
 what may be accomi)lished by a man of re- 
 markable intellectual ability without the help 
 of sight, or rather helped by the sight of 
 others. We have also heard of a blind trav- 
 eller, and even of a blind entomologist ; but in 
 all cases of this kind they are executive diffi- 
 culties to be overcome, such that only the 
 most resolute natures would ever dream of 
 encountering them. When the materials for 
 the "Reign of Ferdinand and Isabella "ar- 
 rived in Prescott's house from Europe, his 
 remaining eye had just suffered from over- 
 exertion to such a degree that he could not 
 use it again for years. '- 1 well remember," 
 he wrote in a letter to a friend, "the blank 
 despair which I felt when my literary treas- 
 ures arrived, and I saw the mine of wealth 
 lying around me which I was forbidden to 
 explore." And although, by a most tedious 
 process, which would have worn out the pa- 
 tience of any other author, Mr. Prescott did 
 at last arrive at the conclusion of his work, iii 
 cost him ten years of labor — probably thrice 
 as much time as would have been needed by 
 an author of equal intellectual ability without 
 any infirmity of sight. 
 
 Although, of the five senses which God has 
 given us, sight and hearing are the most nec- 
 essary to the intellectual life, it may easily 
 be demonstrated that the lower ones are nojr 
 
64 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 without their intellectual uses. Perfect liter- 
 ature and art can only be produced by men 
 who are perfect in all their natural faculties. 
 The great creative intellects have never been 
 ascetics ; they have been rightly and healthily 
 sensitive to every kind of pleasure. The taste 
 of fruits and wines, the perfume of flowers are 
 a part of the means by which the spirit ofj 
 Nature influences our most secret thoughts, 
 and conveys to us suggestions, or carries us 
 into states of feeling which have an enormous 
 effect upon our thinking, though the manner 
 in which the effect is produced is one of the 
 deepest mysteries of our mysterious being. 
 When the Caliph Vathek added five wings to 
 the palace of Alkoremmi, on the hill of Pied 
 Horses, for the particular gratification of 
 each of his five senses, he only did on a use- 
 lessly large scale what every properly-en- 
 dowed human being does, when he can afford 
 it, on a small one. 
 
 You will not suspect me of preaching un- 
 limited indulgence. The very object of this 
 letter is to recommend, for intellectual pur- 
 poses, the careful preservation of the senses 
 in the freshness of their perfection, and this 
 is altogether incompatible with every species 
 of excess. If you are to see clearly all your 
 life, you must not sacrifice eyesight by over- 
 straining it ; and the same law of moderation 
 is the condition of preserving every other 
 faculty. I want you to know the exquisite 
 taste of common dry bread ; to enjoy the per- 
 fume of a larch wood at a distance; to fe^ 
 
THE PHYSICAL BASIS. 65 
 
 delight when a sea-wave dashes over you. I 
 want your eye to be so sensitive that it shall 
 discern the faintest tones of a gray cloud, and 
 yet so strong that it shall bear to gaze on a 
 white one in the dazzling glory of sunshine. 
 I would have your hearing sharp enough to 
 detect the music of the spheres, if it were but 
 audible, and yet your nervous system robust 
 enough to endure the shock of the guns on an 
 ironclad. To have and keep these powers we 
 need a firmness of self-government that is rare. 
 Young men are careless of longevity ; but 
 how precious are added years to the fulness 
 of the intellectual life ! There are lives, such 
 as that of Major Pendennis, which only dimin- 
 ish in value as they advance — when the man 
 of fashion is no longer fashionable, and the 
 sportsman can no longer stride over the 
 ploughed fields. The old age of the Major 
 Pendennises is assuredly not to be envied: 
 but how rich is the age of the Hunboldts ! I 
 compare the life of the intellectual to a long 
 wedge of gold — the thin end of it begins at 
 birth, and the depth and value of it go on in- 
 definitely increasing till at last comes Death (a 
 personage for whom Nathaniel Hawthorne 
 had a peculiar dislike, for his unmannerly 
 habit of interruption), who stops the aurifer- 
 ous processes. Oh, the mystery of the name- 
 less ones who have died when the wedge was 
 thin and looked so poor and light! Oh, the 
 happiness of the fortunate old men whose 
 thoughts went deeper and deeper like a wall 
 that runs out into the sea I 
 s 
 
66 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 Note- -One of the most painful cases of interruption caused 
 by death is that of Cuvier. His paralysis came upon him 
 whilst he was still in full activity, and death prevented him 
 from arranging a great accumulation of scientific material. 
 He said to M. Pasquier, "I had great things still to do; all 
 was ready in my head. After thirty years of labor and re- 
 search, there remained but to write, and now the hands fail, 
 and carry with them the head." But the most lamentable in- 
 stances of this kind of interruption are, from the nat'ure of 
 things, unknown to us. Even the friends of the deceased 
 cannot estimate the extent of the loss, for a man's immediate 
 neighbors are generally the very last persons to become 
 aware of the natui'e of his powers or the value of his acquire- 
 menlHS. 
 
PART II. 
 
 THE MORAL BASIS, 
 
 LETTER I. 
 
 TO A MORALIST WHO KAD SAID THAT THERE 
 WAS A WANT OF MORAL FIBRE IN THE IN- 
 TELLECTUAL, ESPECIALLY IN POETS AND 
 ARTISTS. 
 
 The love of intellectual pleasure— The seeking for a stimulus 
 — Intoxication of poetry and oratory — Other mental in-, 
 toxications — The Bishop of Exeter on drudgeiy— The labor 
 of composition in poetry — Wordsworth's dread of it- 
 Moore — His trouble with "Lalla Rookh" — His painstak- 
 ing in preparation — Necessity of patient industry in othex" 
 arts — John Lewis, Meissonier, Mulready — Drudgeiy iu 
 struggling against technical difficulties — Water-color 
 painting, etching, oil-painting, fresco, line-engraving- 
 Labor undergone for mere discipline — Moral strength of 
 students — Giordano Bruno, 
 
 You told me the other day that you believed 
 the inducement to what I called intellectual 
 living to be merely the love of pleasure— ' 
 pleasure of a higher kind, no doubt, than 
 that which we derive from wine, yet fairly 
 comparable to it. You went on to say that 
 you could not, from the moral point of view^ 
 discern any appreciable difference between 
 intoxicating oneself by means of literature or 
 art and getting tipsy on port wine or brandy; 
 
68 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 that the reading of poetry, most especially 
 ^vas clearly self-intoxication — a service of Ve- 
 nus and Bacchus, in which the suggestions of 
 artfully-ordered words were used as substi- 
 tutes for the harem and the wine-flask. Com- 
 pleting the expression of this idea, you said 
 that the excitement produced by oratory was 
 exactly of the same nature as the excitement 
 produced by gin, so that Mr. Brig-ht and M. 
 -Gambetta — nay, even a gentleman so respect- 
 able as the late Lord Derby — belonged strictly 
 to the same profession as the iDublicans, being 
 dealers in stimulants, and no more. The 
 habitual student was, in your view, nothing 
 better than the helpless victim of unresisted 
 appetite, to whom intellectual intoxication, 
 having been at first a pleasure, had finally 
 become a necessity. You added that any ra- 
 tional person who found himself sinking into 
 such a deplorable condition as this, would 
 liave recourse to some severe discipline as a 
 preservative — a disciphne requiring close at- 
 tention to common things, and rigorously ex- 
 cluding every variety of thought which could 
 possibly be considered intellectual. 
 
 It is strictly true that the three intellectual 
 pursuits — literature, science, and the fine arts 
 — are all of them strong stimulants, and that 
 men are attracted to them by the stimulus 
 they give. But these occupations are morally 
 much nearer to the common level of other oc- 
 cupations than you suppose. There is no 
 doubt a certain intoxication in poetry and 
 painting ; but I have seen a tradesman find a 
 
THE MORAL BASIS. 69 
 
 fully equivalent intoxication in an addition 
 of figures showing a delightful balance at his 
 banker's. I have seen a young poet intoxicat- 
 ed with the love of poetry; but I have also 
 seen a young mechanical genius on whom the 
 sight of a locomotive acted exactly like a bot- 
 tle of champagne. Everything that is capa- 
 ble of exciting or moving man, everything 
 that fires him with enthusiasm, everything 
 that sustains his energies above the dead 
 level of merely animal existence, may be 
 compared, and not very untruly, to the action 
 of generous wine. The two most powerful 
 mental stimulants — since they overcome even 
 the fear of death — are unquestionably re- 
 ligion and patriotism : ardent states of feeling 
 both of them when they are genuine ; yet this 
 ardor has a great utility. It enables men to 
 bear much, to perform much which would be 
 beyond their natural force if it were not sus- 
 tained by powerful mental stimulants. And 
 so it is in the intellectual life. It is because 
 its labors are so severe that its pleasures are 
 so glorious. The Creator of intellectual man 
 set him the most arduous tasks — tasks that re- 
 quired the utmost possible patience, courage, 
 self-discipline, and which at the same time 
 were for the most part, from their very na- 
 ture, likely to receive only the most meagre 
 and precarious pecuniary reward. There- 
 fore, in order that so poor and weak a creat- 
 ure might execute its gigantic works with 
 the energy necessary to their permanence, 
 the labor itself was made intensely attractive 
 
70 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 and interesting to the few who were fitted for 
 it by their constitution. Since their courage 
 could not be maintained by any of the com- 
 mon motives which carry men through or- 
 dinary drudgery — since neither wealth nor 
 worldly position was in their prospects, the 
 drudgery they had to go through was to be 
 rewarded by the triumphs of scientific discov- 
 ery, by the felicities of artistic expression. A 
 divine drunkenness was given to them for 
 their encouragement, surpassing the gift of 
 the grape. 
 
 But now that I have acknowledged, not un- 
 gratefully^, the necessity of that noble excite- 
 ment which is the life of life, it is time for me 
 to add that, in the daily labor of all intellectual 
 workers, much has to be done which requires 
 a robustness of the moral constitution beyond 
 what you appear to be aware of. It is not 
 long since the present Bishop of Exeter truly 
 afiirmed, in an address to a bodj^ of students, 
 that if there were not weariness in work, tha.t 
 work was not so thorough-going as it ought 
 to be. ' ' Of all work, " the Bishop said, ' ' that 
 produces results, nine-tenths must be drudg- 
 ery. There is no work, from the highest to 
 the lowest, which can be done well hj any 
 man who is unwilling to make that sacrifice. 
 Part of the very nobility of the devotion of 
 the true workman to his work consists in the 
 fact that a man is not daunted by finding 
 that drudgery must be done; and no man 
 can really succeed in any walk of life with- 
 out a good deal of what in ordinary English 
 
THE MORAL BASIS, Yl 
 
 is called pluck. That is the condition of all 
 work whatever, and it is the condition of all 
 success. And there is nothing which so truly 
 repays itself as this very perseverance against 
 weariness." 
 
 You understand, no doubt, that there is 
 drudgery in the work of a lawyer or an ac- 
 countant, but you imagine that there is no 
 drudgery in that of an artist, or author, or 
 man of science. In these cases you fancy 
 that there is nothing but a pleasant intoxica- 
 tion, like the puffing of tobacco or the sipping 
 of claret after dinner. The Bishop sees more 
 accurately. He knows that ' ' of all work 
 that produces results nme-tenths must be 
 drudgery." He makes no exceptions in favor 
 of the arts and sciences ; if he had made any 
 such exceptions, they would have proved the 
 absence of culture in himself. Eeal work of 
 all descriptions, even including the composi- 
 tion of poetry (the most intoxicating of all 
 human pursuits), contains drudgery in so 
 large a proportion that considerable moral 
 courage is necessary to carry it to a success- 
 ful issue. Some of the most popular writers 
 of verse have dreaded the labor of composi- 
 tion. Wordsworth shrank from it much 
 more sensitively than he did from his prosaic 
 labors as a distributor of stamps. He had 
 that horreur de la plume which is a frequent 
 malady amongst literary men. But we feel, in 
 reading Wordsworth, that comjDosition was a 
 serious toil to him — the drudgery is often 
 visible. Let nie take, then, the case of a 
 
72 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 writer of verse distinguished especially fou 
 fluency and ease— the lightest, gayest, appar- 
 ently most thoughtless of modern minstrels — 
 the author of "The Irish Melodies" and 
 "Lalla Rookh." Moore said — I quote from, 
 memory and may not give the precise words, 
 but they were to this effect — that although 
 the first shadowy imagining of a new poem 
 was a delicious fool's paradise, the labor of 
 actual composition was something altogether 
 different. He did not, I believe, exactly use 
 the word "drudgery," but his expression im- 
 plied that there was painful drudgery in the 
 work. When he began to write ' ' Lalla 
 Rookh " the task was anything but easy to 
 him. He said that he was ' ' at all times a far 
 more slow and jMinstaking workman than 
 would ever be guessed from the result. " For 
 a long time after the conclusion of the agree- 
 ment with Messrs. Longman, ' ' though gener- 
 ally at work with a view to this task, he made 
 but very little real progress in it." After 
 many unsatisfactory attempts, finding that 
 his subjects were so slow in kindling his own 
 sympathies, he began to despair of their ever 
 touching the hearts of others. ' ' Had this se- 
 ries of disheartening experiments been carried 
 on much further, I must have thrown aside 
 the work in despair." He took the greatest 
 pains in long and laboriously preparing him- 
 self by reading. " To form a storehouse, as 
 it were, of illustrations purely Oriental, and 
 so famiharize myself with its various treas- 
 ures that, quick as Fancy required the aid of 
 
THE MOBAL BASIS. 7a 
 
 fact in her spiritings, the memory was ready- 
 to furnish materials for the spell- work ; such 
 was, for a long while, the sole object of my 
 studies." After quoting some opinions favor- 
 able to the truth of his Oriental coloring, ho. 
 says: " Whatever of vanity there may be in. 
 citing such tributes, they show, at least, of: 
 what great value, even in poetry, is that pro- 
 saic quality, industry, since it was in a slow 
 and laborious collection of small facts that the 
 first foundations of this fanciful romance 
 were laid." 
 
 Other fine arts make equally large claims 
 upon the industry of their professors. We 
 see the charming result, which looks as if it 
 were nothing but pleasure — the mere sensu- 
 ous gratification of an appetite for melody or 
 color; but no one ever eminently succeeded 
 in music or painting without patient submis- 
 sion to a discipline far from attractive or en- 
 tertaining. An idea was very prevalent 
 amongst the upper classes in England, be- 
 tween twenty and thirty years ago, that art 
 was not a serious pursuit, and that French- 
 men were too frivolous to apply themselves 
 seriously to anything. When, however, the 
 different schools of art in Europe came to be 
 exhibited together, the truth began to dawn 
 upon people's minds that the French and 
 Belgian schools of painting had a certain su- 
 periority over the rest — a superioritj^ of quite 
 a peculiar sort ; and when the critics applied 
 themselves to discover the hidden causes of 
 this generally perceived superiority, thejj 
 
♦74 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 found out that it was due in great measure to 
 the patient drudgery submitted to by those 
 foreign artists in their youth. English paint- 
 ers who have attained distinction have gone 
 through a hke drudgery, if not in the public 
 atelier at least in secrecy and solitude. Mr. 
 John Lewis, in reply to an application for a 
 drawing to be reproduced by the autotype 
 process, and published in the Portfolio, said 
 that his sketches and studies were all in 
 oolor, but if we liked to examine them we 
 were welcome to select anything that might 
 be successfully photographed. Not being in 
 London at the time, I charged an experienced 
 friend to go and see if there were anything 
 that would answer our purpose. Soon after- 
 ward he wrote : " I have just been to see John 
 Lewis, and have come av/ay astounded.''^ He 
 had seen the vast foundations of private in- 
 dustry on which the artist's public work had 
 been erected, — innumerable studies in color, 
 Wrought with the most perfect care and fin- 
 ish, and all for self -education merely, not for 
 any direct reward in fame. We have all ad- 
 :mired the extraordinaiy power of representa- 
 tion in the little pictures of Meissonier ; that 
 power was acquired by painting studies life- 
 size for self-instruction, and the artist has 
 sustained his knowledge by persistence in that 
 practice. Mulready, between the concei)tion 
 of a new picture and the execution of it, used 
 to give himself a special training for the in- 
 tended work by painting a study in color of 
 every separate thing that was to form part 
 
THE MORAL BASIS. 75 
 
 of the composition. It is useless to go on 
 multiplying these examples, since all great, 
 artists, without exception, have been distin- 
 guished for their firm faith in steady well-di- 
 rected labor. This faith was so strong in Rey- 
 nolds that it limited his reasoning powers, and 
 prevented him from assigning their due im- 
 portance to the inborn natural gifts. 
 
 Not only in their preparations for worfe^ 
 but even in the work itself, do artists under- 
 go drudgery. It is the peculiarity of their 
 work that, more than any other human work, 
 it displays whatever there may be in it or 
 pleasure and felicity, putting the drudgery as 
 much out of sight as possible; but all who 
 know the secrets of the studio are avv^are of 
 the ceaseless struggles against technical dif-. 
 ficulty which are the price of the chtirms that 
 pleasantly deceive us. The amateur tries to 
 paint in water-color, and finds that the gra- 
 dation of his sky will not come right ; instead, 
 of being a sound gradation like that of the 
 heavenly blue, it is all in spots and patches. 
 Then he goes to some clever artist who seems 
 to get the right thing with enviable ease. ' ' Is 
 my paper good? have my colors been prop- 
 erly ground?" The materials are sound 
 enough, but the artist confesses one of the 
 discouraging little secrets of his craft. ' ' The 
 fact is," he says, "those spots that you com- 
 plain of happen to all of us, and very trouble- 
 some they are, especially in dark tints; the 
 only way is to remove them as patiently as 
 we can, and it sometimes takes several days.. 
 
t6 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 If one or two of them remain in spite of us, 
 "we turn them into birds." In etching, the 
 most famous practitioners get into messes 
 ^ith the treacherous chemistry of their acids, 
 and need an invincible patience. Even Mer- 
 yon was always very anxious when the time 
 <came for confiding his work to what he called 
 the traitresse liqueur; and whenever I give a 
 commission to an etcher, I am always expect- 
 ing some such despatch as the following: 
 '^' Plate utterly ruined in the biting. Very 
 ■sorry. Will begin another immediately." 
 We know what a dreadful series of mishaps 
 attended our fresco-painters at Westminster, 
 and now even the promising water-glass proc- 
 ess, in which Maclise trusted, shows the 
 bloom of premature decay. The safest and 
 best known of modern processes, simple oil- 
 painting has its own dangers also. The colors 
 ^3ink and alter ; they lose their relative values ; 
 they lose their pearly purity, their giow^ing 
 transparence — they turn to buff and black. 
 The fine arts bristle all over with technical 
 difficulties, and are, I will not say the best 
 school of patience in the world, for many 
 •other pursuits are also very good schools of 
 patience; but I will say, without much fear 
 x:>f contradiction from anybody acquainted 
 'with the subject, that the fine arts offer 
 ^irudgery enough, and disappointment enough, 
 to be a training both in patience and in hu- 
 mility. 
 
 In the labor of the line-engraver both these 
 •qualities are developed to the pitch of perfect 
 
THE MORAL BASIS. 77 
 
 heroism. He sits down to a great surface of 
 steel or copper, and day by day, week after 
 week, month after month, ploughs slowly his 
 marvellous lines. Sometimes the picture be- 
 fore him is an agreeable companion ; he is in 
 sympathy with the painter ; he enjoys every 
 touch that he has to translate. But some- 
 times, on the contrary, he hates the picture, 
 and engraves it as a professional duty. I 
 happened to call upon a distinguished English 
 engraver — a man of the greatest taste and 
 knowledge, a refined and cultivated critic — 
 and I found him seated at work before a 
 thing which had nothing to do with fine art 
 — a medley of ugly portraits of temperance 
 celebrities on a platform. "Ah! " he said to 
 me sadly, ' ' you see the dark side of our pro- 
 fession ; fancy sitting down to a desk all day 
 long for two years together with that thing 
 to occupy your thoughts ! " How much mor- 
 al fibre was needed to carry to a successful 
 issue so repulsive a task as that ! You may 
 answer that a stone-breaker on the roadside 
 surpasses my line-engraver both in patience 
 and in humility; but whereas the sensitive- 
 ness of the stone-breaker has been deadened 
 by his mode of life, the sensitiveness of the 
 engraver has been continually fostered and 
 increased. An ugly picture was torture to 
 his cultivated eye, and he had to bear the 
 torture all day long, like the pain of an irrita- 
 ting disease. 
 
 Still even the line-engraver has secret 
 sources of entertainment to relieve the mor- 
 
78 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 tal tedium of his task- work. The picture 
 may be hideous, but the engraver has hidden 
 consolations in the exercise of his wonderful 
 art. He can at least entertain hunseif with 
 feats of interpretative skill, with the gentle 
 treacheries of improving here and there upon 
 the hatefulness of the intolerable original. 
 He may congratulate himself in the CTening, 
 that one more frightful hat or coat has been, 
 got rid of ; that the tiresome task has been re- 
 duced by a space measurable in eights of an 
 inch. The heaviest work which shows prog- 
 ress is not without one element of cheerful- 
 ness. 
 
 There is a great deal of intellectual labor, 
 undergone simply for discipline, which shows 
 no present result that is appreciable, and 
 which therefore requires, in addition to pa- 
 tience and humility, one of the noblest of the 
 moral virtues, faith. Of all the toils in v/hich 
 men engage, none are nobler in their origin 
 or their aim than those by which they en- 
 deavor to become more wise. Pray observe 
 that whenever the desire for greater wisdom 
 is earnest enough to sustain men in these 
 high endeavors, there must be both humility 
 and faith — the humility which acknowledges 
 present insufficiency, the faith that relies 
 upon the mysterious laws which govern our 
 intellectual being. Be sure that there has 
 been great moral strength in all who have 
 come to intellectual greatness. During some 
 brief moments of insight the mist has rolled 
 away, and they have beheld, like a celestial 
 
THE MORAL BASIS. 79 
 
 city, the home of their highest aspirations; 
 but the cloud has gathered round them again, 
 and still in the gloom they have gone steadily 
 forwards, stumbling often, yet maintaining 
 their unconquerable resolution. It is to this 
 subhme persistence of the intellectual in other 
 ages that the world owes the treasures which 
 they won ; it is by a like persistence that we 
 may hope to hand them down, augmented, 
 to the future. Their intellectual purposes did 
 not weaken their moral nature, but exercised 
 and exalted it. All that was best and high- 
 est in the imperfect moral nature of Giordano 
 Bruno had its source in that noble passion for 
 Philosophy, which made him declare that for 
 her sake it was easy to endure labor and pain 
 and exile, since he had found ' ' in brevi labore 
 diutumam requiem, in levi dolore immensum 
 gaudium, in angusto exilio patriam amplis- 
 simam." 
 
80 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 LETTER II. 
 
 TO AN UNDISCIPLINED WRITER. 
 
 Early indocility of great workers— External discipline only 
 a substitute for inward discipline— Necessity for inward 
 discipline— Origin of the idea of discipline— Authors pecul- 
 iarly liable to overlook its uses— Good examples— Sir Ar- 
 thur Helps— Sainte-Beuve— The central authority in the 
 mind— Locke's opinion— Even the creative faculty may 
 be commanded— Charles Baudelaire— Discipline in com- 
 mon trades and professions — Lawyers and surgeons— Hal- 
 ler— Mental refusals not to be altogether disregarded — 
 The idea of discipUne the moral basis of the intellectual 
 life— Alexander Humboldt. 
 
 Sir Arthur Helps, in that Avise book of his 
 "Thoughts upon Grovernment, " says that 
 ' ' much of the best and greatest work in the 
 world has been done by those who were any- 
 thing but docile in their youth." He believes 
 that ' ' this bold statement applies not only to 
 the greatest men in Science, Literature, and 
 Art, but also to the greatest men in official 
 life, in diplomacy, and in the general busi- 
 ness of the world." 
 
 Many of us who were remarkable for our 
 indocility in boyhood, and remarkable for 
 nothing else, have found much consolation in 
 this passage. It is most agreeable to be told, 
 by a writer very eminent both for wisdom 
 and for culture, that our untowardness was a 
 hopeful sign. Another popular modern writ- 
 er has also encouraged us by giving a long 
 list of dunces who have become illustrious. 
 
 Yet, however flattering it may be to find 
 ourselves in such excellent company, at least 
 
THE MOBAL BASIS, 81 
 
 so far as the. earlier half of life may be con- 
 cerned, we cannot quite forget the very nu~ 
 merous instances of distinguished persons 
 ^'•ho began by submitting to the discipline of 
 school and college, and gained honors and 
 reputation there, before encountering the 
 competition of the world. 
 
 The external discipline applied by school- 
 masters is a substitute for that inward dis- 
 cipline which we all so greatly need, and 
 which is absolutely indispensable to culture* 
 Whether a boy happens to be a dunce afe 
 school or a youth of brilliant promise, his 
 future intellectual career will depend very 
 much on his moral force. The distinguished 
 men who derived so little benefit from early 
 discipline have invariably subjected them- 
 selves to a discipline of another kind wliicb. 
 prepared them for the labor of their man- 
 hood. It may be a pure assumption to say 
 this, but the assumption is confirmed by 
 every instance that is known to me. JMany 
 eminent men have undergone the discipline 
 of business, many like Franklin have been 
 self -disciplined, but I have never heard of a 
 person who had risen to intellectual eminence, 
 without voluntary submission to an intellect-- 
 ual discipline of some kind. 
 
 There are, no doubt, great pleasures at-- 
 tached to the intellectual life, and quite pe- 
 culiar to it ; but these pleasures are the sup- 
 port of discipline and not its negation. They 
 give us the cheerfulness neces.sary for our 
 work, but they do not excuse us from the 
 6 
 
^2 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 work. They are like the cup of coiTee served 
 to a soldier on duty, not like the opium which 
 incapacitates for everything but dreaming. 
 
 I have been led into these observations by a 
 perusal of the new book which you sent me. 
 It has many qualities which in a young writer 
 are full of promise. It is earnest, and lively, 
 and exuberant, but at the same time it is un- 
 disciplined. 
 
 Now I believe it may be affirmed, that al- 
 though there has been much literature in 
 former ages which was both vigorous and un- 
 disciplined, still when an age presents, as ours 
 does, living examples of perfect intellectual 
 discipline, whoever falls below them in this 
 ^'espect contents himself with the very kind 
 of inferiority which of all inferiorities is the 
 easiest to avoid. You cannot, by an effort of 
 the will, hope to rival the brilliance of a gen- 
 ius, but you may quite reasonably expect to 
 obtain as complete a control over your own 
 facidties and your own vfork as any other 
 liighly-cultivated person. 
 
 The origin of discipline is the desire to do 
 not merely our best with the degree of power 
 and knowledge which at the time we do act- 
 ually happen to possess, but with that which 
 we might possess if we submitted to the nec- 
 essary training. The powers given to us by 
 Nature are little more than a power to be- 
 come, and this becoming is always conditional 
 'on some sort of exercise — what sort we have 
 iio discover for ourselves. 
 
 ^o class of persons are so liable to overlook 
 
THE MORAL BASIS. 83 
 
 the uses of discipline as authors are. Any- 
 body can write a book, thougii few can write 
 that which deserves the name of Hterature. 
 There are great technical differences between 
 literature and book-making, but few can 
 clearly explain these differences, or detect, in 
 their own case, the absence of the necessary 
 qualities. In painting, the most perfect finish 
 is recognized at a glance, but the mind only 
 -can perceive it in the book. It was an odd 
 notion of the authorities to exhibit literature 
 in the international exhibitions; but if they 
 could have made people see the difference be- 
 tween sound and unsound workmanship in 
 the literary craft, they would liave rendered 
 a great service to the higher intellectual dis- 
 cipline. Sir Arthur Helps might have served 
 as an example to English writers, because he 
 has certain qualities in which we are griev- 
 ously deficient. He can say a thing in the 
 words that are most fit and necessary, and 
 then leave it. Sainte-Beuve would have been 
 another admirable example of self -discipline, 
 especially to Frenchmen, who would do well 
 to imitate him in his horror of the a peu pres. 
 He never began to write about anything until 
 he had cleared the ground well before him. 
 He never spoke about any character or doc- 
 trine that he had not bottomed (to use Locke's 
 word) as far as he was able. He had an ex- 
 traordinary aptitude for collecting exactly 
 i;he sort of material that he needed, for ar- 
 ranging and classifying material, for perceiv- 
 ing its mutual relations. Very few French- 
 
84 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 men have had Sainte-Beuve's intense repug- 
 nance to insufficiency of information and in- 
 accuracy of language. Few indeed are the 
 French journalists of whom it might be said, 
 as it may be truly said of Sainte-Beuve, that 
 he never wrote even an article for a news- 
 paper without having subjected his mind to a 
 special training for that particular article. 
 The preparations for one of his Lundis were 
 the serious occupation of several laborious 
 days; and before beginning the actual com- 
 position, his mind had been disciplined mto a 
 state of the most complete readiness, like the 
 fingers of a musician who has been practising 
 a piece before he executes it. 
 
 The object of intellectual discipline is the 
 establishment of a. strong central authority 
 in the mind by which all its powers are regu- 
 lated and directed as the military forces of a 
 nation are directed by the strategist who ar- 
 ranges the operations of a war. The presence 
 of this strong central authority is made man- 
 ifest in the unity and proportion of the re- 
 sults ; v/hen this authority is absent (it is fre- 
 quently entirely absent from the minds of 
 undisciplined persons, especially of the female 
 sex), you have a chaos of complete confusion; 
 when the authority without being absent is 
 not strong enough to regulate the lively ac- 
 tivity of the intellectual forces, you have too 
 much energy in one direction, too little in an- 
 other, a brigade where a regiment could have 
 d-one the w^ork, and light artillery where you 
 want guns of the heaviest calibre. 
 
THE MORAL BASIS. 85 
 
 To establish this central authority it is only- 
 necessary, in any vigorous and sound mind, 
 to exercise it. Without such a central power 
 there is neither liberty of action nor security 
 of possession. "The mind," says Locke, 
 " should always be free and ready to turn it- 
 self to the variety of objects that occur, and 
 allow them as much consideration as shall, 
 for that time, be thought fit. To be engrossed 
 so by one subject as not to be prevailed on to 
 leave it for another that we judge fitter for 
 our contemplation, is to make it of no use to 
 us. Did this state of mind always remain so, 
 every one would, without scruple, give it the 
 name of perfect madness ; and whilst it does 
 last, at whp^tever intervals it returns, such a 
 rotation of thoughts about the same object no 
 more carries us forward toward the attain- 
 ment of knowledge, than getting upon a mill- 
 horse whilst he jogs on his circular track, 
 would carry a man on a journey." 
 
 Writers of imaginative literature have 
 found in practice that even the creative fac- 
 ulty might be commanded. Charles Baude- 
 laire, who had the poetical organization with 
 all its worst inconveniencies, said neverthe- 
 less that "inspiration is decidedly the sister 
 of daily labor. These two contraries do not 
 exclude each other more than all the other 
 contraries which constitute nature. Inspira- 
 tion obeys like hunger, like digestion, like 
 sleep. There is, no doubt, in the mind a sort 
 of celestial mechanism, of which we need not 
 be ashamed, but we ought to make the best 
 
86 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 use of it. If we will only live in a resolute 
 contemplation of next clay's work, the daily 
 labor will serve inspiration." In cases where 
 discipline is felt to be very difficult, it is gen- 
 erally at the same time felt to be very desir- 
 able. George Sand complains that although 
 "to overcome the indiscipline of her brain, 
 she had imposed upon herself a regular way 
 of hving, and a daily labor, still twenty times 
 out of thirty she catches herself reading or 
 dreaming, or writing something entirely 
 apart from the work in hand. " She adds that 
 without this frequent intellectual Jldnerie, 
 she would have acquired information which 
 has been her perpetual but unrealized desire. 
 It is the triumph of discipline to overcome 
 both small and great repugnances. We bring 
 ourselves, by its help, to face petty details 
 that are wearisome, and heavy tasks that are 
 almost appaling. Nothing shows the power 
 of discipline more than the application of the 
 mind in the common trades and professions 
 to subjects which have hardly any interest in 
 themselves. Lawyers are especially admir- 
 able for this. They acquire the faculty of 
 resolutely applying their minds to the dryest 
 documents, with tenacity enough to end in 
 the perfect mastery of their contents ; a feat 
 which is utterly beyond the capacity of any 
 undisciplined intellect, however gifted by 
 Nature. In the case of lawyers there are fre- 
 quent intellectual repugnances to be over- 
 come ; but surgeons and other men of science 
 have to vanquish a class of repugnances even 
 
THE MORAL BASIS, 81 
 
 less within the power of the will — the instinc- 
 tive physical repugnances. These are often 
 so strong as to seem apparently insurmount- 
 able, but they yield to persevering discipline. 
 Although Haller surpassed his contempora- 
 ries in anatomy, and published several im- 
 portant anatomical works, he was troubled 
 at the outset with a horror of dissection be- 
 yond what is usual with the inexperienced, 
 and it was only by firm self-discipline that he 
 became an anatomist at all. 
 
 There is, however, one reserve to be made 
 about discipline, which is this : We ought not 
 to disregard altogether the mind's preferences 
 and refusals, because in most cases they are 
 the indication of our natural powers. They 
 are not so always ; many have felt attracted 
 to pursuits for which they had no capacity 
 (this happens continually in literature and 
 the fine arts), whilst others have greatly dis- 
 tinguished themselves in careers which were 
 not of their own choosing, and for which they 
 felt no vocation in their youth. Still there ex- 
 ists a certain relation between preference and 
 capacity, which may often safely be relied 
 upon when there are not extrinsic circumstan- 
 ces to attract men or repel them. Discipline 
 becomes an evil, and a very serious evil, caus- 
 ing immense losses of special talents to the 
 community, when it overrides the personal 
 preferences entirely. We are less in danger 
 of this evil, however, from the discipline which 
 we impose upon ourselves than from that 
 which is imposed upon us by the opinion of 
 
88 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 the society in which we live. The intellect- 
 ual life has this remarkable peculiarity as to 
 discipline, that whilst very severe discipline is 
 indispensable to it, that which it really needs 
 is the obedience to an inward law, an obedi- 
 ence which is not only compatible with revolt 
 against other people's notions of what the in- 
 tellectuaL man ought to think and do, but 
 which often directly leads to such revolt as its 
 own inevitable result. 
 
 In the attempt to subject ourselves to the 
 inward law, we may encounter a class of men- 
 tal refusals which indicate no congenital in- 
 capacity, but prove that the mind has been in- 
 capacitated by its acquired habits and its or- 
 dinary occupations. I think that it is partic- 
 ularly important to pay attention to this 
 class of mental refusals, and to give them the 
 fullest consideration. Suppose the case of a 
 man who has a fine natural capacity for paint- 
 ing, but whose time has been taken up by 
 some profession which has formed in him men- 
 tal habits entirely different from the mental 
 habits of an artist. The inborn capacity for 
 art might whisper to this man, " What if you 
 were to abandon your profession and turn 
 painter?" But to this suggestion of the in- 
 born capacity the acquired unfitness would, 
 in a man of sense, most probably reply, "No; 
 painting is an art bristling all over with the 
 most alarming technical difficulties, which I 
 am too lazy to overcome ; let younger men at- 
 tack them if they like. " Here is a mental re 
 fusal of a kind which the severest self-discip 
 
THE MOBAL BASIS. 89 
 
 • 
 linarian ought to listen to. This is Nature's 
 way of keeping us to our specialities ; she pro- 
 tects us by means of what superficial moral- 
 ists condemn as one of the minor vices — the 
 disinclination to trouble ourselves without ne- 
 cessity, when the work involves the acquisi- 
 tion of new habits. 
 
 The moral basis of the intellectual life ap- 
 pears to be the idea of discipline ; but the dis- 
 cipline is of a very peculiar kind, and varies 
 v/ith every individual. People of original 
 power have to discover the original discipline 
 that they need. They pass their lives in 
 thoughtfully altering this ]3rivate rule of con- 
 duct as their needs alter, as tne legislature of 
 a progressive State makes unceasing altera- 
 tions in its laws. When we look back upon 
 the years that are gone, this is our bitterest 
 regret, that whilst the precious time, the irre- 
 coverable, was passing by so rapidly, we were 
 intellectually too undisciplined to make the 
 best personal use of all the opportunities that 
 it brought. Those men may be truly esteemed 
 happy and fortunate who can say to them- 
 selves in the evening of their days — "I had so 
 prepared myself for every successive enter- 
 prise, that when the time came for it to be 
 carried into execution my training ensured 
 success." 
 
 I had thought of some examples, and there 
 are several great men who have left us noble 
 examples of self -discipline ; but, in the range 
 and completeness of that disciphne, in the 
 foresight to discern what would be wanted, in 
 
90 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 • 
 
 the hiunility to perceive that it was wanting, 
 in the resokition that it should not be wanting 
 when the time came that such knowledge or 
 faculty should be called for, one colossal fig- 
 ure so far excels all others that I cannot write 
 down their names with that of Alexander 
 Humboldt. The world sees the intellectual 
 greatness of such a man, but does not see the 
 substantial moral basis on which the towering 
 structure rose. When I think of his noble 
 dissatisfaction with what he knew ; his cease- 
 less eagerness to know more, and know it bet- 
 ter ; of the rare combination of teachableness, 
 that despised no help (for he accepted without 
 jealousy the aid of everybody who could as- 
 sist him), with self-reliance that kept him al- 
 ways calm and observant in the midst of per- 
 sonal danger, I know not which is the more 
 magnificent spectacle, the splendor of int'Ol- 
 lectual light, or the beauty and solidity of the 
 moral constitution that sustained it. 
 
THE MORAL BASIS. 91 
 
 LETTER III. 
 
 TO A FRIEND WHO SUGGESTED THE SPECULATION 
 
 "which op THE MORAL VIRTUES WAS MOST 
 
 ESSENTIAL TO THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE." 
 
 I 
 
 The most essential virtue is disinterestedness— The other vir-i 
 tues possessed by the opponents of intellectual liberty — 
 The Ultramontane party— Difflculty of thinking disinter- 
 estedly even about the affairs of another nation— English 
 newspapers do not write disinterestedly about foreign af- 
 fairs — DifQculty of disinterestedness in recent history- 
 Poets and their readers feel it — Fine subjects for i oel^^ry 
 hi recent events not yet available — Even liistory of past 
 times rarely disinterested— Advantages of the study of 
 the dead languages in this respect — Physicians do not 
 trust their own judgment about their personal health — The 
 virtue consists in endeavoring to be disinterested. 
 
 I THINK there cannot be a doubt that the 
 most essential virtue is disinterestedness. 
 
 Let nie tell you, after this decided answer, 
 what are the considerations which have led 
 me to it. I began by taking the other impor- 
 tant virtues one by one — industry, persever- 
 ance, courage, discipline, humility, and the 
 rest; and then asked myself whether any 
 class of persons possessed and cultivated 
 these virtues who were nevertheless opposed 
 to intellectual liberty. The answer came im- 
 mediately, that there have in every age been 
 men deservedly respected for these virtues 
 who did all in their power to repress the free 
 action of the intellect. What is called the 
 Ultrainontane party in the present day in- 
 cludes great numbers of talented adherents 
 who are most mdustrious, most persevering, 
 
92 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 who willingly submit to the severest discip- 
 line — who are learned, self-denying, and 
 humble enough to accept the most obscure 
 and ill-requited duties. Some of these men 
 possess nine-tenths of the qualifications that 
 are necessary to the highest intellectual life — ■ 
 they have brilliant gifts of nature ; they are 
 well-educated ; they take a delight in the ex- 
 ercise of noble faculties, and yet instead of 
 employing their time and talents to help the 
 intellectual advancement of mankind, they 
 do all in their power to retard it. They have 
 many most respectable virtues, but one is 
 wanting. They have industry, perseverance, 
 discipline, but they have not disinterested- 
 ness. 
 
 I do not mean disinterestedness in its ordi- 
 nary sense as the absence of selfish care about 
 money. The Church of Eome has thousands 
 of devoted servants who are content to labor 
 in her cause for stipends so miserable that it 
 is clear they have no selfish aim ; whilst they 
 abandon all those possibilities of fortime 
 which exist for every active and enterprising 
 layman. But their thinking can never be 
 disinterested so long as their ruling motive is 
 devotion to the interests of their Church. 
 Some of them are personally known to me, 
 and we have discussed together many of the 
 greatest questions which agitate the conti- 
 nental nations at the present time. They 
 have plenty of intellectual acumen; but 
 whenever the discussion touches, however re- 
 motely, the ecclesiastical interests that are 
 
TRE MOBAL BASIS. 9S 
 
 iear to them, they cease to be observers— 
 they become passionate advocates. It is this 
 habit of advocacy which debars them from 
 all elevated speculation about the future of 
 the human race, and which so often induces 
 ihem to take a side with incapable and retro- 
 grade governments, too willingly overlook- 
 ing their deficiencies in the expectation of 
 services to the cause. Their predecessors 
 have impeded, as far as they were able, the 
 early growth of science — not for intellectual 
 reasons, but because they instinctively felt 
 that there was something in the scientific 
 spirit not favorable to those interests Avhich 
 they placed far above the knowledge of mere 
 matter. 
 
 I have selected the Ultramontane party in 
 the Church of Rome as the most prominent 
 example of a party eminent for many intel- 
 lectual virtues, and yet opposed to the intel- 
 lectual life from its own want of disinterested- 
 ness. But the same defect exists, to some de- 
 gree, in every partisan — exists in you and 
 me so far as we are partisans. Let us sup- 
 pose, for example, that we desired to find out 
 the truth about a question much agitated in a 
 neighboring country at the present time — the 
 question whether it would be better for that 
 country to attempt the restoration of its an- 
 cient Monarchy or to try to consolidate a Ee- 
 publican form of government. How difficult 
 it is to think out such a problem disinterest- 
 edly, and yet how necessary to the justice of 
 our conclusions that we should think disin- 
 
04 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 terestedly if we pretend to think at all ! It is 
 true that we have one circumstance in our 
 favor — ^we are not French subjects, and this 
 is much. Still we are not disinterested, since 
 we know that the settlement of a great polit- 
 ical problem such as this, even though on 
 foreign soil, cannot fail to have a powerful 
 influence on opinion in our own country, and 
 consequently upon the institutions of our na- 
 tive land. We are spectators only, it is true ; 
 but we are far from being disinterested spec- 
 tators. And if you desire to measure the ex- 
 act degree to which we are interested in the 
 result, you need only look at the newspapers. 
 The English newspapers always treat French 
 affairs from the standpoint of their own 
 party. The Conservative journalist in Eng- 
 land is a Monarchist in France, and has no 
 hopes for the Republic; the Liberal journalist 
 in England believes that the French dynas- 
 ties are used up, and sees no chance of tran- 
 quillity outside of republican institutions. In 
 both cases there is an impediment to the intel- 
 lectual appreciation of the problem. 
 
 This difficulty is so strongly felt by those 
 who write and read the sort of literature 
 which aspires to permanence, and which, 
 therefore, ought to have a substantial intel- 
 lectual basis, that either our distinguished 
 poets choose their subjects in actions long 
 past and half -forgotten, or else, when tempted 
 by present excitement, they produce work 
 which is artistically far inferior to their best. 
 Our own generation has witnessed three re- 
 
THE MORAL BASIS. 95 
 
 ..laarkable events which are poetical in the 
 highest degree. The conquest of the Two 
 (SiciHes by Garibaldi is a most perfect subject 
 for a heroic poem; the events which led to 
 the execution of the Emperor Maxunilian and 
 deprived his Empress of reason, would, in tho 
 hands of a great dramatist, afford the finest 
 possible material for a tragedy ; the invasion 
 of France by the Germans, the overthrow of 
 Napoleon III. , the siege of Paris, are an epic 
 ready to hand that only awaits its Homer; 
 yet, with the exception of Victor Hugo, who 
 is far gone in intellectual decadence, no great 
 poet has sung of these things yet. The sub- 
 jects are as good as can be, but too near. 
 Neither poet nor reader is disinterested 
 enough for the intellectual enjoyment of 
 these subjects : the poet would not see his way 
 clearly, the reader would not follow unre- 
 servedly. 
 
 It may be added, however, in this connec- 
 tion, that even past history is hardly ever 
 written disinterestedly. Historians write with 
 one eye on the past and the other on the 
 pre-occupations of the present. So far as 
 they do this they fall short of the intellectual 
 standard. An ideally perfect history would 
 tell the pure truth, and all the truth, so far as 
 it was ascertainable. 
 
 Artists are seldom good critics of art, be- 
 cause their own practice biasses them, and 
 they are not disinterested. The few artists 
 who have written soundly about art have 
 succeeded in the difficult task of detaching 
 
y6 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 saying from doing; they have, in fact, be- 
 come two distinct persons, each obhvious of 
 the other. 
 
 The strongest of all the reasons in favor of 
 the study of the dead languages and the liter- 
 atures preserved in them, has always ap- 
 peared to me to consist in the m.ore perfect 
 disinterestedness with which we moderns can 
 apiDroach them. The men and events are sep- 
 arated from us by so wide an interval, not 
 only of time and locality, but especially of 
 modes of thought, that our pa-ssions are not 
 often enlisted, and the intellect is suliiciently 
 free. 
 
 It may be noted that medical men, who are 
 a scientific class, and therefore more than 
 commonly aware of the great importance of 
 disinterestedness in intellectual action, never 
 trust their own judgment when they feel the 
 approaches of disease. They know that it is 
 difficult for a man, however learned in medi- 
 cine, to arrive at accurate conclusions about 
 the state of a human body that concerns him 
 so nearly as his own, even although the person 
 who suffers has the advantage of actually ex- 
 periencing the morbid sensations. 
 
 To all this you may answer that intellectual 
 disinterestedness seems more an accident of 
 situation than a virtue. The virtue is not to 
 have it, but to seek it in all earnestness ; to be 
 ready to accept the truth even when it is most 
 unfavorable to ourselves. I can illustrate my 
 meaning by a reference to a matter of every- 
 day experience. There are people who cannot 
 
THE MOEAL BASIS. &7 
 
 bear to look into their own accounts from a 
 dread that the clear revelation of figures may 
 be less agreeable to them than the illusions 
 which they cherish. There are others who 
 possess a kind of virtue which enables them 
 to see their own affairs as clearly as if they 
 had no personal interest in them. The weak- 
 ness of the first is one of the .^^t fatal of in- 
 tellectual weaknesses; the mental indepen- 
 dence of the second is one of the most desira- 
 ble of intellectual quahties. The endeavor to 
 attain it, or to strengthen it, is a great vir- 
 tue, and of all the virtues the one most indis- 
 pensable to the nobility of the intellectual life. 
 
 Note. — The reader may feel some surprise that I have not 
 laentioned honesty as an unportaut iutellectual virtue. Hon- 
 esty is of great importance, no doubt, but it appears to be (as 
 to practical effects) included in disinterestedness, and to be 
 less comprehensively useful. There is no reason to susi>3ct 
 the honesty of many political and theological partisans, yet 
 their honesty does not preserve them from the worst intellect- 
 ual habits, such as the habit of " begging the question," of mis 
 representing the arguments on the opposite side, of shutting 
 their eyes to every fact wliich is not pei'fectly agi-eeable to 
 them. The truth is, that mere honesty, though a most re- 
 spectable and necessary virtue, goes a veiy little way toward 
 the forming of an effective intellectual character. It is valu- 
 able rather in the relations of the intellectual man to the outer 
 ■world around him, and even here it is dangerous unless tem- 
 pered by discretion. A perfect disinterestedness v/ould en- 
 sure the best effects of honesty, and yet avoid some serious 
 evils, against which honesty is not, in itself, a safeguard. 
 
 % 
 
98 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 LETTER IV. 
 
 TO A MORALIST WHO SAID THAT INTELLECTUAIi 
 CULTURE WAS NOT CONDUCIVE TO SEXUAI* 
 MORALITY. 
 
 That the Author does not write in the spirit of advocacy— TwG 
 different kinds of immorality— Byron and Shelley— A pe- 
 culiar temptation for the intellectual— A distinguished 
 foreign writer— Reaction to coarseness from ovei'-refine- 
 ment— Danger of intellectual excesses— Moral utility o£ 
 culture—The most cultivated classes at the same time the 
 most moral— That men of high intellectual aims have an 
 especially strong reason for morahty— M. Taine's opinion. 
 
 A CRITIC in one of the quarterlies once 
 treated me as a feeble defender of my opinions, 
 because I gave due consideration to both sides 
 of a question. He said that, like a wise com- 
 mander, I capitulated beforehand in case my 
 arguments did not come up for my relief ; nay, 
 more, that I gave up my arms in uncondi- 
 tional surrender. To this let me answer, that 
 I have nothing to do with the polemical 
 method, that I do not look upon an opponent 
 as an enemy to be repelled, but as a torch- 
 bearer to be welcomed for wnj light that he 
 may bring ; that I defend nothing, but try ta 
 explore everything that lies near enough. 
 
 You need not expect me, therefore, to de- 
 fend very vigorously the morality of the in- 
 tellectual life. An advocate could do it brill- 
 iantly ; there are plenty of materials, but so 
 clumsy an advocate as your present corres- 
 pondent would damage the best of causes by 
 unseasonable indiscretions. So I begin by ad- 
 
THE MORAL BASIS. 99 
 
 mitting that your accusations are most of 
 them well founded. Many intellectual peo- 
 ple have led immoral lives, others have led 
 lives which, although m strict conformity to 
 their own theories of morality, were in oppo- 
 sition to the morality of their country and 
 their age. Byron is a good instance of the 
 first, and Shelley of the second. Byron 
 was really and knowingly inmiioral ; Shelley, 
 on the other hand, hated what he considered 
 to be immorality, and lived a life as nearly 
 as possible in accordance with the moral ideal 
 in his own conscience ; still he did not respect 
 the moral rule of his country, but lived with 
 Mary Godwin, whilst Harriet, his first wife, 
 was still alive. There is a clear distinction 
 between the two cases ; yet both have the de- 
 fect that the person takes in hand the regula- 
 tion of his own morality, which it is hardly 
 safe for any one to do, considering the prodi- 
 gious force of passion. 
 
 I find even in the lives of intellectual people 
 a peculiar temptation to immorality from 
 which others are exempt. It is in their na- 
 ture to feel an eager desire for intellectual 
 companionship, and yet at the same time to 
 exhaust very rapidly whatever is congenial to 
 them in the intellect of their friends. They 
 feel a strong intellectual attraction to person* 
 of the opposite sex ; and the idea of living 
 with a person whose conversation is believed 
 at the time to promise an increasing inter- 
 est, is attractive in ways of which those who 
 have no such wants can scarcely form a con- 
 
100 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 ception. A most distinguished foreign writ- 
 er, of the female sex, has made a succession 
 of domestic arrangements which, if generally 
 imitated by others, would be subversive of any 
 conceivable system of morality ; and yet it is 
 clear in this case that the temptation was 
 chiefly, if not entirely, intellectual. The suc- 
 cessive companions of this remarkable woman 
 were all of them men of exceptional intellect- 
 ual power, and her motive for changing them 
 was an unbridled intellectual curiosity. 
 
 This is the sort of immorality to which cul- 
 tivated people are most exposed. It is dan- 
 gerous to the well-being of a community be- 
 cause it destroys the sense of security on 
 which the idea of the family is founded. If 
 we are to leave our wives when their conver- 
 sation ceases to be interesting, the foundations 
 of the home will be unsafe. If they are to 
 abandon us when we are dull, to go away with 
 some livelier and more talkative companion, 
 can we ever hope to retain them perma- 
 nently? 
 
 There is another danger which must be 
 looked fairly in the face. When the lives of 
 men are refined beyond the real needs of 
 their organization, Nature is very apt to bring 
 about the most extraordinary reactions. 
 Thus the most exquisitely delicate artists in 
 literature and painting have frequently had 
 reactions of incredible coarseness. Within 
 the Chateaubriand of Atala there existed an 
 obscene Chateaubriand that would burst forth 
 occasionally in talk that no biographer could 
 
THE MOBAL BASIS. 101 
 
 repeat. I have heard the same thing of the 
 sentimental Lamartine. We know that 
 Turner, dreamer of enchanted landscapes, 
 took the pleasures of a sailor on the spree. 
 A friend said to me of one of the most exquis- 
 ite living geniuses : ' ' You can have no con- 
 ception of the coarseness of his tastes ; he as- 
 sociates with the very lowest women, and en- 
 joys their rough brutality. " 
 
 These cases only prove, what I have aL 
 •ways willingly admitted, that the intellectual 
 life is not free from certain dangers if we 
 lead it too exclusively. Intellectual excesses, 
 by the excitement which they communicate 
 to the whole system, have a direct tendency 
 to drive men into other excesses, and a too 
 great refinement in one direction may pro- 
 duce degrading reactions in another. Still 
 the cultivation of the mind, reasonably pur- 
 sued, is, on the whole, decidedly favorable to 
 morality; and we may easily understand 
 that it should be so, when we remember that 
 people have recourse to sensual indulgences 
 simply from a desire for excitement, whilst 
 intellectual pursuits supply excitement of a 
 more innocent kind and in the utmost vari- 
 ety and abundance. If, instead of taking a 
 few individual instances, you broadly ob- 
 serve whole classes, you will recognize the 
 moral utility of culture. The most cultivated 
 classes in our own country are also the most 
 moral, and these classes have advanced in 
 morahty at the same time that they have ad- 
 vanced in culture. English gentlemen of the 
 
i02 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 present day are superior to their forefathers 
 whom Fielding described.; they are better 
 educated, and thy read more ; they are at the 
 same time both more sober and more chaste. 
 
 I may add that intellectual men have pecu- 
 liar and most powerful reasons for avoiding 
 the excesses of immorality, reasons which to 
 any one who has a noble ambition are quite 
 enough to encourage him in self-control. 
 Those excesses are the gradual self-destruc- 
 tion of the intellectual forces, for they 
 weaken the spring of the mind, not leaving 
 it will enough to face the drudgery that is 
 inevitable in every career. Even in cases 
 where thej^ do not immediately lead to visible 
 imbecility, they make the man less efficient 
 and less capable than he might have been; 
 a.nd all experienced wrestlers with fate and 
 fortune know well that success has often, at 
 the critical time, depended upon some very 
 trifling advantage which the slightest diminu- 
 tion of power would have lost to them. No 
 one knows the full immensity of the difference 
 between having i30wer enough to make a lit- 
 tle headwaj^ against obstacles, and just fall- 
 ing short of the power which is necessary at 
 the time. In every great intellectual career 
 there are situations like that of a steamer 
 with a storm-wind directly against her and 
 an iron-bound coa,st behind. If the engines 
 are strong enough to gain an inch an hour she 
 is safe, but if they lose there is no hope. In- 
 tellectual successes are so rewarding that 
 they are worth any sacrifice of pleasure ; the 
 
THE MOBAL BASIS. 103 
 
 sense of defeat is so humiliating that fair Ve- 
 nus herself could not offer a consolation for 
 it. An ambitious man will govern himself 
 for the sake of his ambition, and withstand 
 the seductions of the senses. Can he be ever 
 strong enough, can his brain ever be lucid 
 enough for the immensity of the task before 
 him? 
 
 "Le jeune homme," says M. Taine, "ignore 
 qu'il n'y a pas de pire deperdition de forces, 
 que de tels commerces abaissent le coeur, 
 qu'apres dix ans d'une vie pareille il aura 
 perdu la moitie de sa volonte, que ses pensees 
 auront un arriere-gout habituel d'amertume 
 et de tristesse, que son ressort interieur sera 
 amolli ou fausse. II s'excuse a ses propres 
 yeux, en se disant qu'un homme doit tout 
 toucher pour tout connaitre. De fait, il ap- 
 prend la vie, mais bien souvent aussi il t>erd 
 I'energie, la chaleur d'ame, la capacite d'aj^ir, 
 et a trente ans il n'est plus bon qu'a faipv un 
 employe, un dilettante, ou un rentier." 
 
PART in. 
 
 OF EDUCATION. 
 
 LETTER I. 
 
 TO A FRIEND WHO RECOMMENDED THE AUTHOB 
 TO LEARN THIS THING AND THAT. 
 
 Lesson learned from a cook— The ingredients of knowledge- 
 Importance of proportion in the ingredients— Case of an 
 English author— Tsvo landscape painters— The unity and 
 charm of character often dependent upon the limitations 
 of culture— The burden of knowledge may diminish the 
 energy of action— Difficulty of suggesting a safe rule for 
 the selection of our knowledge— Men qualified for their 
 work by ignorance as well as by knowledge— Men remark- 
 able for the extent of their studies— Franz Wcepke— 
 Goethe— Hebrew proverb. 
 
 I HAPPENED one day to converse with an ex- 
 cellent French cook about the delicate art 
 which he professed, and he comprised the 
 whole of it under two heads — the knowledge 
 of the mutual influences of ingredients, and 
 the judicious management of heat. It struck 
 me that there existed a very close analogy 
 between cookery and education ; and, on fol- 
 lowing out the subject in my own way, I 
 found that what he told me suggested several 
 considerations of the very highest importance 
 in the culture of the human intellect. 
 
OF ED UCA TION. 105 
 
 Amongst the dishes for which my friend 
 had a deserved reputation was a certain gd- 
 teau de foie which had a very exquisite fla- 
 vor. The principal ingredient, not in quan- 
 tity but in power, was the hver of a fowl ; but 
 there were several other ingredients also, and 
 amongst these a leaf or two of parsley. He 
 told me that the influence of the parsley was 
 a good illustration of his theory about his art. 
 If the parsley were omitted, the flavor he 
 aimed at was not produced at all ; but, on the 
 other hand, if the quantity of parsley was in 
 the least excessive, then the gateau instead of 
 being a delicacy for gourmets became an un- 
 eatable mess. Perceiving that I was really 
 interested in the subject, he kindly promised 
 a practical evidence of his doctrine, and the 
 next day intentionally spoiled his dish by a 
 trifling addition of parsley. He had not ex- 
 aggerated the consequences ; the delicate fla- 
 vor entirely departed, and left a nauseous bit- 
 terness in its place, like the remembrance of 
 pn ill-spent youth. 
 
 And so it is, I thought, with the different 
 ingredients of knowledge which are so eagerly 
 ind indiscriminately recommended. We are 
 told that we ought to learn this thing and 
 that, as if every new ingredient did not affect 
 Cie whole flavor of the mind. There is a sort 
 UL intellectual chemistry which is quite as 
 marvellous as material chemistry, and a thou- 
 sand times more difficult to observe. One 
 general truth may, however, be relied upon 
 as surely and permanently our own. It ia 
 
106 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 true that everything we learn affects the 
 whole character of the mind. 
 
 Consider how incalculably important be- 
 comes the question of proportion in our knowl- 
 edge, and how that which we are is dependent 
 as much upon our ignorance as our science. 
 What we call ignorance is only a smaller pro- 
 portion — what we call science only a larger. 
 The larger quantity is recommended as an un- 
 questionable good, but the goodness of it is 
 entirely dependent on the mental product that 
 we want. Aristocracies have always instinc- 
 tively felt this, and have decided that a gen- 
 tleman ought not to know too much of cer- 
 tain arts and sciences. The character which 
 they had accepted as their ideal would have 
 been destroyed by indiscriminate additions 
 to those ingredients of which long experience 
 had fixed the exact proportions. The same 
 feeling is strong in the various professions: 
 there is an apprehension that the dispropor- 
 tionate knowledge may destroy the profes- 
 sional nature. The less intelligent members 
 of the profession will tell you that they dread 
 an unprofessional use of time ; but the more 
 thoughtful are not so apprehensive about 
 hours and days, they dread that sure trans- 
 formation of the whole intellect which follows 
 every increase of knowledge. 
 
 I knew an English author who by great 
 care and labor had succeeded in forming a 
 style which harmonized quite perfectly with 
 the character of his thinking, and served as 
 an unfailing means of communication with 
 
OF ED UCA TlOJSr. 107 
 
 his readers. Every one recognized its simple 
 ease and charm, and he might have gone on 
 writing with that enviable facility had he 
 not determined to study Locke's philosophi- 
 cal compositions. Shortly afterwards my 
 friend's style suddenly lost its grace; he be- 
 gan to write with difficulty, and what he 
 wrote was unpleasantly difficult to read. 
 Even the thinking was no longer his own 
 thinking. Having been in too close commu- 
 nication with a writer who was not a literary 
 artist, his own art had deteriorated in conse- 
 quence. 
 
 I could mention an English landscape 
 painter who diminished the pictorial excel- 
 lence of his works by taking too much inter- 
 est in geology. His landscapes became geo- 
 logical illustrations, and no longer held 
 together pictorially. Another landscape 
 painter, who began by taking a healthy de- 
 light in the beauty of natural scenery, became 
 morbidly religious after an illness, and thence- 
 forth passed by the loveliest European scenery 
 as comparatively unworthy of his attention, 
 to go and make ugly pictures of places that 
 had sacred associations. 
 
 For people who produce nothing these risks 
 appear to be less serious ; and yet there have 
 been admirable characters, not productive, 
 whose admirableness might have been less> 
 ened by the addition of certain kinds of learn- 
 ing. The last generation of the English coun- 
 try aristocracy was particularly rich in char- 
 acters whose unity and charm was dependent 
 
108 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 upon the limitations of their culture, and 
 which would have been entirely altered, per- 
 haps not for the better, by simply knowing a 
 science or a literature that was closed to 
 them. 
 
 Abundant illustrations might be collected 
 in evidence of the well-known truth that the 
 burden of knowledge may diminish the en- 
 ergy of action ; but this is rather outside of 
 what we are considering, which is the influ- 
 ence of knowledge upon the intellectual and 
 not the active life. 
 
 I regret very much not to be able to suggest 
 anything like a safe rule for the selection of 
 our knowledge. The most rational one vv^hich 
 has been hit upon as yet appears to be a sim- 
 ple confidence in the feeling that we inwardly 
 want to know. If I feel the inward want for 
 a certain kind of knowledge, it may perhaps 
 be presumed that it would be good for me ; 
 but even this feeling is not perfectly reliable, 
 since people are often curious about things 
 that do not closely concern them, whilst they 
 neglect what it is most important for them to 
 ascertain. All that I venture to insist upon 
 is, that we cannot learn any new thing with- 
 out changing our whole intellectual composi- 
 tion as a chemical compound is changed by 
 another ingredient ; that the mere addition of 
 knowledge may be good for us or bad for us ; 
 and that whether it will be good or bad is usu- 
 ally a more obscure problem than the enthu- 
 siasm of educators will allow. That depends 
 entirely on the work we have to do. Men are 
 
OF EDUCATION, 109 
 
 qualified for their work by knowledge, but 
 they are also negatively qualified for it by 
 their ignorance. Nature herself appears to 
 take care that the workman shall not know 
 too much — she keeps him steadily to his task ; 
 fixes him in one place mentally if not corpo- 
 really, and conquers his restlessness by fa- 
 tigue. As we are bound to a little planet, and 
 hindered by impassable gulfs of space from 
 wandering in stars where we have no busi- 
 ness, so we are kept by the force of circum- 
 stances to the limited studies that belong to 
 us. If we have any kind of efficiency, very 
 much of it is owing to our narrowness, which 
 is favorable to a powerful individuality. 
 
 Sometimes, it is true, we meet with instances 
 of men remarkable for the extent of their 
 studies. Franz Woepke, who died in 1864, 
 was an extraordinary example of this kind. 
 In the course of a short life he became, al- 
 though unknown, a prodigy of various learn- 
 ing. His friend M. Taine says that he was 
 erudite in many eruditions. His favorite 
 pursuit was the history of mathematics, but 
 as auxiliaries he had learned Arabic, and Per- 
 sian, and Sanskrit. He was classically edu- 
 cated, he wrote and spoke the principal mod- 
 ern languages easily and correctly;* his 
 printed works are in three languages. He 
 had lived in several nations, and known their 
 leading men of science. And yet this aston- 
 ishing list of acquirements may be reduced to 
 
 * Accoraing to M. Taiue. I have elsewhere expressed a 
 doubt about polyglots. 
 
110 TUE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 the exercise of two decided and natural tastea 
 Franz Woepke had the gift of the linguist and 
 an interest in mathematics, the first serving 
 as auxihary to the second. 
 
 Goethe said that " a vast abundance of ob- 
 jects must he before us ere we can think upon 
 them." Woepke felt the need of this abund- 
 ance, but he did not go out of his way to find 
 it. The objectionable seeking after knowledge 
 is the seeking after the knowledge which does 
 not belong to us. In vain you urge me to 
 go in quest of sciences for which I have no 
 natural aptitude. Would you have me act 
 like that foolish camel in the Hebrew proverb, 
 which ingoing to seek horns lost his ears? 
 
 LETTER II. 
 
 TO A FRIEND WHO STUDIED MANY THINGS. 
 
 Men carmot restrict themselves in learning— Description ot 
 a Latin scholar of two generations since — What is at^ 
 tempted by a cultivated contemporary — Advantages of a^ 
 more restricted field — Privilege of instant admission^ 
 Many pursuits cannot be kept up simultaneously — The 
 deterioration of knowledge through neglect — ^What it 
 reaUy is— The only available knowledge that which we 
 habitually use — Difficulty in modern education — That it is 
 Inevitably a beginning of many things and no more — The 
 simpler education of an ancient Greek — That of Alcibia- 
 des — How the Romans were situated as to this— The privi- 
 lege of limited studies belongs to the earher ages— They 
 learned and we attempt to learn. 
 
 It appears to be henceforth inevitable that 
 men should be unable to restrict themselves 
 to one or two pursuits, and you who are in 
 
OF EDUCATION, IH 
 
 most respects a very perfect specimen of what 
 the age naturally produces in the way of cul- 
 ture, have studied subjects so many and so 
 various that a mere catalogue of them would 
 astonish your grandfather if his shade could 
 revisit his old home. And yet your grandfa- 
 ther was considered a very highly cultivated 
 gentleman according to the ideas and require- 
 ments of his time. He was an elegant scholar, 
 but in Latin chiefly, for he said that he never 
 read G-reek easily, and indeed he abandoned 
 that language entirely on leaving the Univer- 
 sity. But his Latin, from daily use and prac- 
 tice (for he let no day slip hj without reading 
 some ancient author) and from the thorough- 
 ness and accuracy of his scholarship, was 
 always as ready for ser\'ice as the saddled 
 steeds of Branksome. I think he got more 
 culture, more of the best effects of good liter- 
 ature, out of that one language than some 
 polyglots get out of a dozen. He knew no 
 modern tongue, he had not even the common 
 pretension to read a little French, and in his 
 day hardly anybody studied German. He 
 had no scientific training of any kind except 
 mathematics, in which I have heard him say 
 that he had never been proficient. Of the fine 
 arte his ignorance was complete, so complete 
 that I doubt if he could have distinguished 
 Higaud from Reynolds, and he had never 
 played upon any musical instrument. The 
 leisure which he enjoyed during a long and 
 tranquil existence he gave entirely to Latin 
 and English literature, but of the two he en- 
 
112 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 joyed Latin the more, not with the preference 
 of a pedan t, but because it carried him more 
 completely out of the present, and gave him 
 the refreshment of a more perfect change. 
 He produced on all who knew him the im- 
 pression of a cultivated gentleman, which he 
 was. 
 
 There is only an interval of one generation 
 between you and that good Latinist, but how 
 wide is the difference in your intellectual reg- 
 imen? You have studied — well, here is a lit- 
 tle list of Avhat you have studied, and prob- 
 ably even this is not complete : — 
 
 Greek, Latin, French, German, Italian, 
 mathematics, chemistry, mineralogy, geol- 
 ogy, botany, the theory of music, the practice 
 of music on two instruments, much theory 
 about painting, the practice of painting in oil 
 and water-color, photography, etching on cop- 
 per, etc., etc., etc. 
 
 That is to say, six literatures (including 
 English), six sciences (counting mineralogy 
 and geology as one), and five branches or de- 
 partments of the fine arts. 
 
 Omitting English literature from our total, 
 as that may be considered to come by nature 
 to an Englishman, though any real profi- 
 ciency in it costs the leisure of years, we 
 have hero no less than sixteen different pur- 
 suits. If you like to merge the theory of 
 music and painting in the practice of those 
 arts, though as a branch of study the theory 
 is really distinct, we have still fourteen pur- 
 suits, any one of which is enough to occupy 
 
OF EDUCATION. 113 
 
 the whole of one man's time. If you ga^e 
 some time daily to each of these pursuits, you 
 could scarcely give more than half an hour, 
 even supposing that you had no professional 
 occupation, and that you had no favorite 
 study, absorbing time to the detriment of the 
 rest. 
 
 Now your grandfather, though he would be 
 considered quite an ignorant country gentle- 
 man in these days, had in reality certain in- 
 tellectual advantages over his more accom- 
 plished descendant. In the first place, he en- 
 tirely escaped the sense of pressure, the feel- 
 ing of not having time enough to do what he 
 wanted to do. He accumulated his learning 
 as quietly as a stout lady accumulates her fat, 
 by the daily satisfaction of his appetite. 
 And at the same time that he escaped the 
 sense of pressure, he escaped also the miser- 
 able sense of im.perfection. Of course he did 
 not know Latin like an ancient Roman, but 
 then he never met with any ancient Romans 
 to humiliate him by too rapid and half -intel- 
 ligible conversation. He met the best Latin- 
 ists of his day; and felt himself a master 
 amongst masters. Every time he went into 
 his study, to pass delightful hours with the 
 noble authors that he loved, he knew that his 
 admission into that august society would be 
 iuunediate and complete. He had to wait in 
 no antechamber of mere linguistic difficulty, 
 but passed at once into the atmosphere of 
 ancient thought, and breathed its delicate 
 perfume. In this great privilege of instant 
 
114 TEE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 admission tlie man of one study has always 
 the advantage of men more variously culti- 
 vated. Their misfortune is to be perpetually 
 waiting in antechambers, and losing time in 
 them. Grammars and dictionaries are ante- 
 chambers, bad drawing and bad coloring are 
 antechambers, musical practice with imper- 
 fect intonation is an antechamber. And the 
 worst is that even when a man, like 3^ourself 
 for instance, of very various culture, has at 
 one time fairly penetrated beyond the ante- 
 chamber, he is not sure of admittance a year 
 hence, because in the mean tiixie the door may 
 have been closed against him. The rule of 
 each separate hall or saloon of knowledge is 
 that he alone is to be instantly admitted who 
 calls there every day. 
 
 The man of various pursuits does not, in 
 any case, keep them up simultaneously ; he is 
 led by inclination or compelled by necessity 
 3o give predominance to one or another. If 
 you have fifteen different pursuits, ten of 
 them, at any given time, will be lying by 
 neglected. The metaphor commonly used in 
 reference to neglected pursuits is borrowed 
 from the oxidation of metal; it is said that 
 they become rusty. This metaphor is too 
 mild to be exact. Eust on metal, even on 
 polished steel, is easily guarded against by 
 care, and a gun or a knife does not need to be 
 constantly used to keep it from being pitted. 
 The gunsmith and the cutler know how to 
 keep these things, in great quantity, without 
 using them at all. But no one can retail 
 
OF EDUCATION. 115 
 
 fcnowledgs without using it. The metaphor 
 fails still more seriously in perpetuating a 
 false conception of the deterioration of knowl- 
 edge through neglect. It is not simply a loss 
 of polish which takes place, not a loss of mere 
 surface-beauty, but absolute disorganization, 
 like the disorganization of a carriage when 
 the axle-tree is taken away. A rusty thing 
 may still be used, but a disorganized thing 
 cannot be used until the lost organ has been 
 replaced. There is no equivalent, amongst 
 ordinary material losses, to the intellectual 
 loss that we incur by ceasing from a pur- 
 suit. But we may consider neglect as an en- 
 emy who carries away the girths from our 
 saddles, the bits from our bridles, the oars 
 from our boats, and one wheel from each of 
 our carriages, leaving us indeed still nominal- 
 ly possessors of all these aids to locomotion, 
 but practically in the same position as if we 
 were entirely without them. And as an 
 enemy counts upon the delays caused by 
 these vexations to execute his designs whilst 
 we are helpless, so whilst we are laboring to 
 replace the lost parts of our knowledge the 
 occasion slips by when we most need it. The 
 only knowledge which is available when it is 
 wanted is that which we habitually use. 
 Studies which from their nature cannot be 
 commonly used are always retained with 
 gi^eat difficulty. The study of anatomy is 
 perhaps the best instance of this; every one 
 who has attempted it knows with what diffi- 
 culty it is kept by the memory. Anatomists 
 
116 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 say that it has to be learned and forgotten si^ 
 times before it can be counted as a possession. 
 "This is because anatomy lies so much outside 
 of what is needed for ordinary hfe that very 
 few people are ever called upon to use it ex- 
 cept during the hours when they are actually 
 studying it. The few who need it every day 
 remember is as easily as a man remembers 
 the language of the country which he inhab- 
 its. The workmen in the establishment at 
 Saint Aubin d'Ecroville, where Dr. Auzoux 
 manufactures his wonderful anatomical mod- 
 els, are as familiar with anatomy as a painter 
 is with the colors on his palette. Tliey never 
 forget it. Their knowledge is never made 
 practically valueless by some yawning hiatus, 
 causing 'temporary incompetence and delay. 
 
 To have one favorite study and live in it 
 with happy familiarity, and cultivate every 
 portion of it diligently and lovingly, as a 
 small yeoman proprietor cultivates his own 
 land, this, as to study, at least, is the most 
 enviable intellectual life. But there is an- 
 other side to the question which has to be 
 <ionsidered. 
 
 The first difficulty for us is in our educa- 
 tion. Modern education is a beginning of 
 xxiany things, and it is httle more than a be- 
 ginning. ' ' My notion of educating my boy, '* 
 said a rich Englishman, ' ' is not to make him 
 particularly clever at anything during his mi' 
 nority, but to make him overcome the rudi- 
 mentary difficulties of many things, so that 
 Jhen ke selects for himself his own line of 
 
OF ED UCA TlOJSr, 117 
 
 culture in the future, it cannot be altogether 
 strange to him, whatever line he may happen 
 to select." A modern father usually allows 
 his son to learn many things from a feeling of 
 timidity about making a choice, if only one 
 thing had to be chosen. He might so easily 
 make a wrong choice ! When the inheritance 
 of the human race was less rich, there was no 
 embarrassment of that kind. Look at the ed- 
 ucation of an ancient Greek, at the education 
 of one of the most celebrated Athenians, a 
 man living in the most refined and intellect- 
 ual society, himself mentally and bodily the 
 perfect type of his splendid race, an eloquent 
 and powerfid speaker, a most capable com- 
 mander both by sea and land — look at the 
 education of the brilliant Alcibiades ! When 
 Socrates gave the list of the things that Al- 
 cibiades had learned, Alcibiades could add to 
 it no other even nominal accomplishment, and 
 what a meagre, short catalogue it was ! ' ' But 
 indeed I also pretty accurately know what 
 thou hast learned ; thou wilt tell me if any- 
 thing has escaped my notice. Thou hast 
 learned then thy letters {ypaiujuaTa)^ to play on 
 the cithara {KLdapl[,ELv) and to wrestle {Tralaieiv)^ 
 for thou hast not cared to learn to play upon 
 the flute. This is all that thou hast learned, 
 unless something has escaped me." The 
 ypdfz/nara which Alcibiades had learned with a 
 master meant reading and writing, for he ex- 
 pressly says later on, that as for speaking 
 G-reek, ellrjvi(,£Lv, he learned that of no other 
 master than the people. An English educa* 
 
118 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 tion equivalent to that of Alcibiades would 
 therefore consist of reading and writing, 
 wrestling and guitar-playing, the last acconi' 
 plishment being limited to very simple music. 
 Such an education was possible to an Athen- 
 ian (though it is fair to add that Socrates does 
 not seem to have thought much of it) because 
 a man situated as Alcibiades was situated in 
 the intellectual history of the world, had no 
 past behind him which deserved his attention 
 more than the present which surrounded him. 
 Simply to speak Greek, kXkrivi(,uv^ was really 
 then the most precious of all accomplishraents, 
 and the fact that Alcibiades came by it easily 
 does not lessen its value. Amongst a people 
 like the Athenians, fond of intellectual talk, 
 conversation was one of the best and readiest 
 means of informing the mind, and certainly 
 the very best means of developing it. It was 
 not a slight advantage to speak the language 
 of Socrates, and have him for a companion. 
 
 The cleverest and most accomplished Eo- 
 mans were situated rather more like ourselves, 
 or at least as we should be situated if we had not 
 to learn Latin and Greek, and if there were 
 no modern language worth studying except 
 French. They went to Greece to perfect 
 themselves in Greek, and improve their ac- 
 cent, just as our young gentlemen go to Paris 
 or Touraine. Still, the burden of the past 
 "was comparatively light upon their shoulders. 
 An Englishman who had attempted no more 
 than they were bound to attemi^t might be a 
 scholar, but he would not be considered so. 
 
OF EDUCATION, 11^ 
 
 He might be a thorough scholar in French and 
 English, — that is, he might possess the cream 
 of two great literatures, — but he would be 
 spoken of as a person of defective education. 
 It is the fashion, for example, to speak of Sir 
 Walter Scott as a half-educated man, because 
 he did not know much Greek, yet Sir Walter 
 had studied German with success, and with 
 his habit of extensive reading, and his im- 
 mense memory, certainly knew incompara- 
 bly more about the generations which pre- 
 ceded him than Horace knew of those which 
 preceded the Augustan era. 
 
 The privilege of limiting their studies, from 
 the beginning, to one or two branches of 
 knowledge, belonged to earlier ages, and 
 every successive accumulation of the world's 
 knowledge has gradually lessened it. School- 
 boys in our time are expected to know more, 
 or to have attempted to learn more, than the 
 most brilliant intellectual leaders of former 
 times. What English parent, in easy circum- 
 stances, would be content that his son should 
 have the education of Alcibiades, or an educa- 
 tion accurately corresponding to that of 
 Horace, or to that which sufficed for Shakes- 
 peare? Yet although the burdens laid upon 
 the memory have been steadily augmented, 
 its powers have not increased. Our brains 
 are not better constituted than those of our 
 forefathers, although where they learned one 
 thing we attempt to learn six. They learned^ 
 and we attempt to learn. The only hope for 
 us is to make a selection from the attempts of 
 
120 THE IN2ELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 our too heavily burdened youth, and in those 
 selected studies to emulate in after-life the 
 thoroughness of our forefathers. 
 
 LETTEE III. 
 
 TO A FRIEND WHO STUDIED MANY THINGS. 
 
 An idealized portrait — The scholars of the sixteenth century 
 —Isolated students— French students of Enghsh when is- 
 olated from EngUshmen— How one of them read Tennyson 
 — ^Importance of sounds— Illusions of scholarship — Diffi- 
 culty of appreciating the sense — That Latin may stni be 
 made a spoken language— The early education of Mou- 
 taigne — A contemporary instance— Dream of a Latin is- 
 land—Rapid coiTuption of a language taught artificially. 
 
 In your answer to my letter about the muL 
 tiplicity of modern studies you tell me that 
 my portrait of your grandfather is considera- 
 bly idealized, and that, notwithstanding all 
 the respect which you owe to his memory, you 
 have convincing proof in his manuscri^Dt an- 
 notations to Latin authors that his scholarship 
 cannot have been quite so thorough as I rep- 
 resented it. You convey, moreover, though 
 with perfect modesty in form, the idea that 
 you believe your own Latin superior to your 
 grandfather's, notwithstanding the far great- 
 er variety of your studies. Let me confess 
 that I did somewhat idealize that description 
 of your grandfather's intellectual life. I de- 
 scribed rather a life which might have been 
 than a life which actually was. And even this 
 ^' might have been " is problematical. It may 
 
OF EDUCATION. 121 
 
 be doubted whether any modern has ever 
 really mastered Latin. The most that can be 
 said is that a man situated like your grand- 
 f atl^er, without a profession, without our iDres- 
 ent temi^tation to scatter effort in many pur- 
 suits, and who made Latin scholarship his 
 unique intellectual purpose, would probably 
 go nearer to a satisfactory degree of attain- 
 ment than we whose time and strength have 
 been divided into so many fragments. But 
 the picture of a perfect modern Latinist is 
 purely ideal, and the prevalent notion of high 
 attainment in a dead language is not fixed 
 enough to be a standard, whilst if it were 
 fixed it would certainly be a very low stand- 
 ard. The scholars of this century do not 
 write Latin except as a mere exercise ; they 
 do not write books in Latin, and they never 
 speak it at all. They do not use the language 
 actively; they only read it, which is not 
 really using it, but only seeing how other men 
 have used it. There is the same difference 
 between reading a language and writing or 
 speaking it that there is between looking at 
 pictures intelligently and painting them. 
 The scholars of the sixteenth century spoke 
 Latin habitually, and wrote it with ease and 
 fluency. "Nicholas Grouchy," says Mon- 
 taigne, ' ' who wrote a book de Comitiis Roma- 
 norum; William Guerente, who has written a 
 commentary upon Aristotle ; George Buchan- 
 an, that great Scotch poet; and Marc An- 
 thony Muret, whom both France and Italy 
 have acknowledged for the best orator of his 
 
122 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 time, my domestic tutors (at college), have 
 all of them, often told me that I had in my in- 
 fancy that language so very fluent and ready 
 that they were afraid to enter into discourse 
 with me," This passage is interesting for two 
 reasons; it shows that the scholars of that 
 age spoke Latin ; but it proves at the same 
 time that they cannot have been really mas- 
 ters of the language, since they were ' ' afraid 
 to enter into discourse " with a clever child. 
 Fancy an Englishman who professed to be a 
 French scholar and yet ' ' was afraid to enter 
 into discourse " with a French boy, for fear he 
 should speak too quickly! The position of 
 these scholars relatively to Latin was in fact 
 too isolated for it to have been possible that 
 they should reach the point of mastery. Sup- 
 pose a society of Frenchmen, in some seclud- 
 ed little French village where no Englishman 
 ever penetrates, and that these Frenchmen 
 learn English from dictionaries, and set them- 
 selves to speak English with each other, with^ 
 out anybody to teach them the colloquial lan- 
 guage or its pronunciation, without ever once 
 hearing the sound of it from English lips, 
 what sort of English would they create 
 amongst themselves? This is a question that 
 I happen to be able to answer very accurately, 
 because I have known two Frenchmen who 
 studied English literature just as the French- 
 men of the sixteenth century studied the lit- 
 erature of ancient Rome. One of them, es- 
 pecially, had attained what would certainly 
 in the case of a dead language be considered 
 
OF EDUCATION. 123 
 
 a very high degree of scholarship indeed. 
 Most of our great authors were known to him, 
 even down to the close critical comparison of 
 different readings. Aided by the most pow- 
 erful memory I ever knew, he had amassed 
 such stores that the acquisitions, even of cul- 
 tivated Englishmen, would in many cases 
 have appeared inconsiderable beside them. 
 But he could not write or speak English in a 
 manner tolerable to an Englishman ; and al- 
 though he knew nearly all the words in the 
 language, it was dictionary knowledge, and 
 so different from an Englishman's apprehen- 
 sion of the same words that it was only a sort 
 of pseudo-English that he knew, and not our 
 living tongue. His appreciation of our au- 
 thors, especially of our poets, differed so wide- 
 ly from English criticism and English feeling 
 that it was evident he did not understand 
 them as we understand them. Two things es- 
 pecially proved this : he frequently mistook 
 declamatory versification of the most medio- 
 cre quality for poetry of an elevated order ; 
 whilst, on the other hand, his ear failed to per- 
 ceive the music of the musical poets, as Byron 
 and Tennyson. How could he hear their mu- 
 sic, he to whom our English sounds were all 
 unknown? Here, for example, is the way he 
 read " Claribel: " — 
 
 *' At ev ze bittle bommess 
 
 Azvart ze zeeket Ion 
 At none ze veeld be onuness 
 
 Aboot ze most edston 
 At meedneeg ze mon commess 
 
 An lokez dovn alon 
 
124 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 Ere songg ze lintveet svelless 
 Ze clirvoic-ed niavi dvelless 
 
 Ze fledgling srost lispess 
 Ze slombroos vav ootvelless 
 
 Ze babblang ronuel ereespess 
 Ze ollov grot replee-ess 
 Vere Claribel lovlee-ess. ' ' 
 
 This, as nearly as I have been able to ren- 
 der it in English spelling, was the way in 
 which a French gentleman of really high 
 culture was accustomed to read English 
 poetry to himself. Is it surprising that he 
 should have failed to appreciate the music of 
 our musical verse? He did not, however, 
 seem to be aware that there existed any ob- 
 stacle to the accuracy of his decisions, but 
 gave his opinion with a good deal of author- 
 ity, which might have surprised me had I not 
 so frequently heard Latin scholars do exactly 
 the same thing. My French friend read 
 " Claribel " in a ridiculous manner; but Eng- 
 lish scholars all read Latin poetry in a man- 
 ner not less ridiculous. You laugh to hear 
 "Claribel" read with a foreign pronuncia- 
 tion, and you see at once the absurdity of 
 affecting to judge of it as poetry before the 
 reader has learned to pronounce the sounds ; 
 but you do not laugh to hear Latin joetry 
 read with a foreign pronunciation, and you 
 do not perceive that we are all of us disqual- 
 ified, by our profound ignorance of the pro- 
 nunciation of the ancient Romans, for any 
 competent criticism of their verse. In all 
 poetry, in all oratory, in much of the best 
 and most artistic prose-writing also, sound 
 
OF ED UCA TION. 125 
 
 has a great influence upon sepse: a great 
 deal is conveyed by it, especially in the way 
 of feeling. If we do not thoroughly know 
 and practise the right pronunciation (and by 
 the right pronunciation I mean that which 
 the author himself thought in whilst he 
 wrote), we miss tliose delicate tones and ca' 
 dences which are in literature like the modu- 
 lations of the voice in speech. Nor can we 
 properly appreciate the artistic choice of 
 beautiful names for persons and places unless 
 we know the sounds of them quite accurately, 
 and have already in our minds the associa- 
 tions belonging to the sounds. Names which 
 are selected with the greatest care by our 
 English poets, and which hold their place 
 like jewels on the finely-wrought texture of 
 the verse, lose all their value when they are 
 read with a vicious foreign pronunciation. 
 So it must be with Latin poetry when read 
 by an Englishman, and it is probable that we 
 are really quite insensible to the delicate art 
 of verbal selection as it was practised by th^ 
 most consummate masters of antiquity. 
 
 I know that scholars think that they hear 
 the Roman music still ; but this is one of the 
 illusions of scholarship. In each country 
 Latin scholars have adopted a conventional 
 style of reading, and the sounds which are in 
 conformity with that style seem to them to 
 be musical, whilst other than the accepted 
 sounds seem ridiculous, and grate harshly on 
 the unaccustomed ear. The music which the 
 Englishman hears, or imagines that he hears, 
 
126 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE, 
 
 in the language of ancient Rome, is certainly 
 not the music which the Roman authors in- 
 tended to note in words. It is as if my 
 Frenchman, having read "Claribel" in his 
 own way, had affirmed that he heard the mu- 
 sic of the verse. If he heard music at all, it 
 "was not Tennyson's. 
 
 Permit me to add a few observations about 
 sense. My French friend certainly under- 
 stood English in a very remarkable manner 
 for a student who had never visited our coun- 
 try ; he knew the dictionary meaning of every 
 word he encountered, and yet there ever re- 
 mained between him and our English tongue 
 a barrier or wall of separation, hard to define, 
 but easy to perceive. In the true deep sense 
 he never understood the language. He 
 studied it, laid regular siege to it, mastered it 
 to all appearance, yet remained, to the end, 
 outside of it. His observations, and especially 
 his unfavorable criticisms, proved this quite 
 oonclusively. Expressions often appeared to 
 hirr.. faulty, in which no English reader would 
 see anything to remark upon; it may be 
 added that (by way of compensation) he was 
 unable to appreciate the oddity of those in- 
 tentionally quaint turns of expression which 
 are invented by the craft of humorists. It 
 may even be doubted whether his English 
 was of any ascertainable use to him. He 
 might probably have come as near to an un- 
 derstanding of our authors by the help of 
 translations, and he could not converse in 
 English, for the spoken language was entirely 
 
OF EDUCATION. 127 
 
 tinintelligible to him. An acquisition of this 
 kind seems scarcely an adequate reward for 
 the labor that it costs. Compared with living 
 Englishmen my French fi'iend was nowhere, 
 but if English had been a dead language, he 
 would have been looked up to as a very emi- 
 nent scholar, and would have occupied a pro- 
 fessor's chair in the university. 
 
 A little more life might be given to the 
 study of Latin by making it a spoken lan- 
 guage. Boys might be taught to speak Latin 
 in their schooldays with the modern Roman 
 pronunciation, which, though probably a 
 deviation from the ancient, is certainly nearer 
 to it than our own. If colloquial Latin were 
 made a subject of special research, it is likely 
 that a sufficiently rich phrase-book might be 
 constructed from the plays. If this plan were 
 pursued throughout Europe (always adopting 
 the Roman pronunciation) all educated men 
 would possess a common tongue which might 
 be enriched to suit modern requirements with- 
 out any serious departure from classical con- 
 struction. The want of such a system as thiS: 
 was painfully felt at the council of the Vati- 
 can, where the assembled prelates discovered 
 that their Latin was of no practical use, al- 
 though the Roman Catholic clergy employ 
 Latin more habitually than any other body 
 of men in the world. That a modern may be 
 taught to think in Latin, is proved by the 
 early education of Montaigne, and I may 
 mention a much more recent instance. My 
 brother-in-law told me that, in the spring of- 
 
128 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 1871, a friend of his had come to stay with 
 him accompanied by his little son, a boy 
 seven years old. This child spoke Latin with 
 the utmost fluency, and he spoke nothing else. 
 "What I am going to suggest is a Utopian 
 dream, but let us suppose that a hundred 
 fathers could be found in Europe, all of this 
 way of thinking, all resolved to submit to 
 some inconvenience in order that their sons 
 might speak Latin as a living language. A 
 small island might be rented near the coast 
 of Italy, and in that island Latin alone might 
 foe permitted. Just as the successive govern- 
 ments of France inaintain the establishments 
 of Sevres and the Gobelins to keep the manu- 
 factures of porcelain and tapestry up to a 
 recognized high standard of excellence, so 
 this Latin island might be maintained to give 
 more vivacity to scholarship. If there were 
 but one little corner of ground on the wide 
 earth where pure Latin was constantly spoken, 
 our knowledge of the classic writers would 
 become far more sympathetically intimate. 
 After living in the Latin island we should 
 think in Latin as we read, and read without 
 translating. 
 
 But this is dreaming. It is too certain that 
 on returning from the Latin island into the 
 atmasphere of modern colleges an evil change 
 would come over our young Latinists like 
 tha't which came upon the young Montaigne 
 when his father sent him to the college of 
 Guienne, "at that time the best and most 
 flourishing in France." Montaigne tells us 
 
OF EDUCATION, 129 
 
 that, notwithstanding all his father's precau- 
 tions, the place "was a college still." "My 
 Latin," he adds, ''^ inuned lately grew corrupt, 
 and by discontinuance I have since lost all 
 manner of use of it.''^ If it were the custom 
 to speak Latin, it would be the custom to 
 speak it badly; and a master of the lan- 
 guage would have to conform to the evil 
 usages around him. Our present state of ig- 
 norance has the charm of being silent, except 
 when old-fashioned gentlemen in the House 
 of Commons quote poetry which they cannot 
 pronounce to hearers who cannot understand 
 it. 
 
 Note. — An English orator quoted from Cicero the sentence 
 *' Non intelligunt homines quam magnum vectigal sit parsi. 
 monia." He made the second vowel in vectigal short, and 
 the House laughed at him; he tried again and pronounced it 
 with the long sound of the English i, on which the critical 
 body he addressed was perfectly satisfied. But if a Roman 
 had been present it is probable that, of the two, the short 
 English i would have astonished his ears the less, for our 
 short i does bear some resemblance to the southern i 
 whereas our long i resembles no single letter in any alphabet 
 of the Latin family of languages. We are scrupulously care- 
 ful to avoid what we call false quantities, we are quite utterly 
 and ignorantly unscrupulous about false sounds. One of the 
 best instances is the well-known " veni, vidi, vici," which we 
 pronounce very much as if it had been written vinai, vaidaif 
 vaisai, in Italian letters. 
 
ISO THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 LETTER IV. 
 
 TO A STUDENT OF LITERATURE. 
 
 Studies, whatever they may be, always considered, by some) 
 a waste of time— The classical langua,2:es— The highei 
 mathematics— The accomplishments— Indirect uses oi 
 different studies — Influence of music — Studies indirectly 
 useful to authors — What induced Mr. Roscoe to write the 
 lives of Lorenzo de' Medici and Leo X. 
 
 Whatever you study, some one will con- 
 sider that particular study a foolish waste 
 of time. 
 
 If you were to abandon successively every 
 subject of intellectual labor which had, in its 
 turn, been condemned by some adviser as use- 
 less, the result would be simple intellectual 
 nakedness. The classical languages, to begin 
 with, have long been considered useless by the 
 majority of practical people — and pray, what 
 to shopkeepers, doctors, attorneys, artists, 
 can be the use of the higher mathematics? 
 And if these studies, which have been con- 
 ventionally classed as serious studies, are con- 
 sidered unnecessary notwithstanding the tre- 
 mendous authority of custom, how much the 
 more are those studies exposed to a like con- 
 tempt which belong to the category of accom- 
 plishments ! What is the use of drawing, for 
 it ends in a worthless sketch? Why should 
 we study music when after wasting a thousand 
 hours the amateur cannot satisfy the ear? A 
 quoi bon modern languages when the accom- 
 plishment only enables us to call a waiter in 
 
OF ED UCA TION. 131 
 
 French or German who is sure to answer ua 
 in Enghsh? And what, when it is not your 
 trade, can be the good of dissecting animals 
 or plants? 
 
 To all questionings of this kind there is but 
 one reply. AVe work for culture. We work; 
 to enlarge the intelligence, and to make it a, 
 better and more effective instrument. This ia 
 our mam purpose ; but it may be added that^ 
 even for our special labors it is always diffi- 
 cult to say beforehand exactly what will turu 
 out in the end to be most useful. What, iu 
 appearance, can be more entirely outside the 
 work of a landscape painter than the study of 
 ancient history? and yet I can show you how 
 an interest in ancient history might indirectly 
 be of great service to a landscape painter. Its 
 would make him profoundly feel the humaOi 
 associations of many localities which to an ig- 
 norant man would be devoid of interest or 
 meaning ; and this human interest in the scenes 
 where great events have taken place, or which, 
 have been distinguished by the habitation of 
 illustrious men in other ages, is in fact one of 
 the great fundamental motives of landscape 
 painting. It has been very much questioned, 
 especially by foreign critics, whether the in- 
 terest in botany which is taken by some of 
 the more cultivated English landscape paint- 
 ers is not for them a false direction and, 
 wrong employment of the mind ; but a land- 
 scape painter may feel his interest in vegeta- 
 tion infinitely increased by the accurate 
 knowledge of its laws, and such an increaso 
 
132 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 of interest would make him work more zeal* 
 ously, and with less danger of weariness and 
 ennui, besides being a very useful help to the 
 memorj in retaining the authentic vegetable 
 forms. It may seem more difficult to show 
 the possible utility of a study apparently so 
 entirely outside of other studies as music is; 
 and yet music has an important influence on 
 the whole of our emotional nature, and indi- 
 rectly upon expression of all kinds. He who 
 lias once learned the self-control of the musi- 
 cian, the use of piano and forte, each in its 
 -right place, when to be lightly swift or majes- 
 tically slow, and especially how to keep to the 
 key once chosen till the right time has come 
 for changing it ; he who has once learned this 
 ■knows the secret of the arts. No painter, 
 writer, orator, who had the power and judg- 
 ment of a thoroughly cultivated musician, 
 could sin against the broad principles of tastOo 
 More than all other men have authors rea^ 
 son to appreciate the indirect utihties of 
 knowledge that is apparently irrelevant. 
 Who can tell what knowledge will be of most 
 use to them'^ Even the very greatest of au- 
 thors are indebted to miscellaneous reading, 
 often in several diiferent languages, for the 
 suggestion of their most original works, and 
 for the light which has kindled many a shin- 
 ing thought of their own. And authors who 
 seem to have less need than others of an out- 
 ward help, poets whose compositions mignt 
 appear to be chiefly inventive and emotional, 
 novelists who are free from the restraints and 
 
OF EDUCATION, 183 
 
 the researches of the historian, work up what 
 they know into what they write ; so that if 
 you could remove every hue which is based 
 on studies outside the strict hmits of their art, 
 you would blot out half their compositions. 
 Take the antiquarian element out of Scott, 
 and see how many of his works could never 
 have been written. Remove from Gold- 
 smith's brain the recollection of his wayward 
 studies and strange experiences, and you 
 would remove the rich material of the ' ' Trav- 
 eller" and the Essays, and mutilate even the 
 immortal "Vicar of Wakefield." Without a 
 classical education and foreign travel, Byron 
 would not have composed "Childe Harold;" 
 without the most catholic interest in the liter- 
 ature of all the ages, and of many different 
 peoples from the North Sea to the Mediterra- 
 nean, our contemporarj^ William Morris 
 would never have conceived, and could not 
 have executed, that strong work ' ' The Earth- 
 ly Paradise." It may not seem necessary to 
 learn Italian, yet Mr. Roscoe's celebrity as an 
 author was due in the first place to his private 
 fondness for Italian literature. He did not 
 learn Italian in order that he might write his 
 biographies, but he wrote about Lorenzo and 
 Leo because he had mastered Italian, and be- 
 cause the language led him to take an interest 
 in the gi*eatest house of Florence. The way 
 in which authors are led by their favorite 
 studies indirectly to the great performance of 
 their lives has never been more clearly illus- 
 trated than in this instance. 
 
134 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 When William Eoscoq was a young man he 
 had for his friend Francis Holden, nephew of 
 Mr. Richard Holden, a schoolmaster in Liver^ 
 pool, Francis Holden was a young man of un- 
 common culture, having at the same time 
 really sound scholarship in several languages, 
 and an ardent enthusiasm for literature. He 
 urged Roscoe to study languages, and used es- 
 pecially, in their evening walks together, to rC' 
 peat to him passages from the noblest poets 
 of Italy. In this way Roscoe was led to at- 
 tempt Italian, and, having once begun, went 
 on till he had mastered it. ' ' It was in the 
 course of these studies," says his biographer, 
 ' ' that he first formed the idea of writing the 
 Life of Lorenzo de' Medici." 
 
 LETTER Y. 
 
 TO A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN WHO REGRETTED 
 THAT HIS SON HAD THE TENDENCIES OF A DI- 
 LETTANT. 
 
 Inaccuracy of the common distinction between amateur pui> 
 suits and more serious studies—All of us are amateurs in 
 many things— Prince Albert— The Emperor Napoleon HI. 
 — Contrast between general and professional education 
 — The price of high accomplishment. 
 
 I AGREE with you that amateurship, as 
 generally practised, may be a waste of time, 
 but the common distinction between amateur 
 pursuits and serious studies is inconsistent. 
 A painter whose art is imperfect and who 
 
OF EDUCATION. 135 
 
 does not work for money is called an ama- 
 teur; a scholar who writes imperfect Latin, 
 not for money, escapes the imputation of 
 amateurship, and is called a learned man. 
 Surely we have been bhnded by custom in 
 these things. Ideas of frivolity are attached 
 to imperfect acquirement in certain direc- 
 tions, and ideas of gravity to equally imper- 
 fect acquirement in others. To write bad 
 Latin poetry is not thought to be frivolous, 
 but it is considered frivolous to compose im- 
 perfectly and unprofessionally in other fine 
 arts. 
 
 Yet are we not all of us amateurs in those 
 pursuits which constituted our education — 
 amateurs at the best, if we loved them, and 
 even inferior to amateurs if we disliked them? 
 We have not sounder knowledge or more 
 perfect skill in the ancient languages than 
 Prince Albert had in music. We know some- 
 thing of them, yet in comparison with perfect 
 mastery such as that of a cultivated old Greek 
 or Roman, our scholarship is at the best on a 
 level with the musical scholarship of a culti- 
 vated amateur like the Prince Consort. 
 
 If the assence of dilettantism is to be con- 
 tented with imperfect attainment, I fear that 
 all educated people must be considered dilet- 
 tants. 
 
 It is narrated of the Emperor Napoleon III. 
 that in answer to some one who inqmred of 
 his Majesty whether the Prince Imperial was 
 a musician, he replied that he discouraged 
 dilettantism, and ' ' did not wish his son to 
 
139 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE, 
 
 be a Coburg.'" But the Emperor himself waa 
 quite as much a dilettant as Prince Albert ; 
 though their dilettantism did not lie in the 
 same directions. The Prince was an amateur 
 musician and artist; the Emperor was an 
 amateur historian, an amateur scholar, and 
 antiquary. It may be added that Napoleon 
 III. indulged in another and more dangerous 
 kind of amateurship. He had a taste for 
 amateur generalship, and the consequences of 
 his indulgence of this taste are known to 
 every one. 
 
 The variety of modern education encour- 
 ages a scattered dilettantism. It is only in 
 professional life that the energies of young 
 men are powerfully concentrated. There is 
 a steadying effect in thorough professional 
 training which school education does not sup- 
 ply. Our boys receive praise and prizes for 
 doing many things most imperfectly, and it 
 is not their fault if they remain ignorant of 
 what perfection really is, and of the immensi- 
 ty of the labor which it costs. I thuik that 
 you would do well, perhaps, without discour- 
 aging your son too much by chillingly accurate 
 estimates of the value of what he has done, to 
 make him on all proper occasions feel and see 
 the difference between half-knowledge and 
 thorough mastery. It would be a good thmg 
 for a youth to be made clearly aware how 
 enormous a price of labor Nature has set 
 upon high accomplishment in everything 
 that is really worthy of his pursuit. It is 
 this persuasion, which men usually arrive at 
 
OF ED UCA TION, 137 
 
 only in their maturity, that operates as the 
 most effectual tranquillizer of frivolous activ- 
 ities. 
 
 LETTER VI. 
 
 TO THE PRINCIPAL OF A FRENCH COLLEGE. 
 
 The Author's dread of proteetton in mtelleetual pursuits— Ex 
 ample from the Fine Art« — Prize poems— Governmental 
 encouragement of' learning- -The bad effects of it — Pet 
 pursuits—Ob.iection to the interference of Minister's— A 
 project for separate examinations. 
 
 What I am. going to say will seem very 
 strange to you, and is not unlikely to arouse 
 as much professional animosity as you are ca 
 pable of feeling against an old friend. You 
 who are a digTiitary of the University, and 
 have earned your various titles in a fair field, 
 as a soldier wins his epaulettes before the en- 
 emy, are not the likeliest person to hear with 
 patience the unauthorized theories of an inno- 
 vator. Take them, then, as mere specula- 
 tions, if you will — not altogether unworthy 
 of consideration, for they are suggested by a 
 sincere anxiety for the best interests of learn 
 ing, and yet not very dangerous to vested in- 
 terests of any kind, since they can have little 
 influence on the practice or opinion of the 
 world. 
 
 I feel a great dread of what may be called 
 protection in intellectual pursuits. It seems 
 to me that when the Government oi a coun- 
 try applies an artificial stimulus to <iertaiB 
 
138 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 branches of study for their encouragement, 
 by the offer of rewards in honor or in money 
 beyond the rewards inherent in the studies 
 themselves, or coming naturally from theii^ 
 usefulness to mankind, there is a great dan- 
 ger that men may give a disproportionate at- 
 tention to those favored branches of study. 
 Let me take an example from the p: : ,ctice of 
 the Fine Arts. A Government, by medals 
 and crosses, or by money, can easily create 
 and foster a school of painting which is en- 
 tirely out of relation to the century in which 
 it exists, and quite incapable of working har- 
 moniously with the contemporary national 
 life. This has actually been done to a consid- 
 erable extent in various countries, especially 
 in France and in Bavaria. A sort of classi- 
 cism which had scarcely any foundation in 
 sincerity of feeling was kept up artificially by 
 a system of encouragement which offered in- 
 ducements outside the genuine ambition of 
 a,n artist. The true enthusiasm which is the 
 life of art impels the artist to express his own 
 f eehng for the delight of others. The offer of 
 a medal or a pen ion induces him to make 
 the sort of pictuK which is likely to satisfy 
 the authorities. He first ascertains what is 
 according to the rule, and then follows it as 
 nearly as he is able. He works in a temper of 
 simple conformity, remote indeed from the 
 passionate enthusiasm of creation. It is so 
 with prize poems. We all know the sort of 
 poetry which is composed in order to gain 
 |)rizes. The anxiety of the versifier is to ba 
 
OF JEDUCATION. 13a 
 
 Bafe: he tries to compose what will escape 
 censure ; he dreads the originality that may 
 give offence. But all powerful pictures and 
 poems have been wroughly in the energy of in- 
 dividual feeling, not in conformity to a pat- 
 tern. 
 
 Now, suppose that, instead of encouraging 
 poetry or painting, a Government resolves to 
 encourage learning. It will patronize certain 
 pursuits to the neglect of others, or it will en- 
 courage certain pursuits more hberally than 
 others. The subjects of such a Government 
 will not follow learning exclusively for its de- 
 lightfulness or its utility ; another considera. 
 tion will affect their choice. They will inquire 
 which pursuits are rewarded by prizes in 
 honor or money, and they will be strongly 
 tempted to select them. Therefore, unless the 
 Government has exercised extraordinary wis- 
 dom, men will learn what they do not really 
 care for and may never practically want, mere- 
 ly in order to win some academical grade. So 
 soon as this object has bt. . attained, they 
 will immediately abandon the studies by 
 which they attained it. 
 
 Can it be said that in these cases the 
 purposes of the Government were fulfilled? 
 Clearly not, if it desired to form a permanent 
 taste for learning. But it may have done 
 worse than fail in this merely negative way ; 
 it may have diverted its youth from pursuits 
 to which Nature called them, and in which 
 they mighl have effectually aided the ad- 
 vancement and the prosperity of the State. 
 
140 TUE INTELLECTUAL LIFE, 
 
 Let us Buppose that a Government were to 
 have a pet study, and offer great artificial in* 
 ducements for success in it. Suppose that 
 the pet study were entomology. All the most 
 promising youth of the country would spend 
 ten years in emulating Messrs. Kirby and 
 Spence, and take their degrees as entomolog- 
 ical bachelors. But might it not easily hap- 
 pen that to a majority of the young gentlemen 
 this pursuit would have acted positively as a 
 hindrance by keeping them from other pur- 
 suits more likely to help them in their pro- 
 fessions? It would not only cost a great deal 
 of valuable time, it would absorb a quantity 
 of youthful energy which the country can iU 
 afford to lose. The Government would prob- 
 ably affirm that entomology, if not always 
 practically useful in itself, was an invaluable 
 intellectual training; but what if this train- 
 ing used up the early vigor which might 
 be needed for other pursuits, and of which 
 every human being has only a limited sup- 
 ply? We should be told, no doubt, that this 
 powerful encouragement was necessary to 
 the advancement of science, and it is true 
 that under such a system the rudiments of 
 entomology would be more generally known. 
 But the vulgarization of rudiments is not 
 the advancement of knowledge. Entomology 
 has gone quite as far in discovery, though 
 pursued simply for its own sake, as it would 
 have gone if it had been made necessary to a 
 bachelor's degree. 
 
 You will ask whether I would go so far aa 
 
OF EDUCATION. 141 
 
 to abolish degrees of all kinds. Cei-taiiily 
 not; that is not my project. But I believe 
 that no Government is competent to make a 
 selection amongst intellectual pursuits and 
 say, "This or that pursuit shall be encour- 
 aged by university degrees, whilst other pur- 
 suits of intellectual men shall have no en- 
 couragement whatever." I may mention by 
 name your present autocrat of Public In- 
 struction, Jules Simon, He is a literary man 
 of some eminence ; he has written several in 
 teresting books, and on the whole he is prob- 
 ably more competent to deal with these ques. 
 tions than many of his predecessors. But 
 however capable a man may be, he is sure to 
 be biassed by the feeling common to all intel- 
 lectual men which attributes a peculiar im- 
 portance to their own pursuits. I do not like 
 to see any Minister, or any Cabinet of Minis- 
 ters, settling what all the young men of a 
 country are to learn under penalty of exclu- 
 sion from all the liberal professions. 
 
 What I should think more reasonable would 
 be some such arrangement as the following. 
 There might be a board of thoroughly compe- 
 tent examiners for each branch of study sepa- 
 rately, authorized to confer certificates of com- 
 petence. When a man believed himself to have 
 mastered a branch of study, he would go and 
 try to get a certificate for that. The various 
 studies would then be followed according to the 
 public sense of their importance, and would 
 fall quite naturally into the rank which they 
 ought to occupy at any given period of the 
 
142 THE ^n .LLECTUAL LIFE, 
 
 national history. These separate examina 
 tions should be severe enough to ensure a ser- 
 viceable degree of proficiency. Nobody should 
 be allowed to teach anything who had not got a 
 certificate for the particular thing he intended 
 to profess. In the confusion of your present 
 system, not only do you fail to insure the 
 thoroughness of pupils, but the teachers them- 
 selves are too frequently incompetent in some 
 speciality which accidentally falls to their 
 share. I think that a Greek master ought to 
 be a complete Hellenist, but surely it is not 
 necessary that he should be half a mathema- 
 tician. 
 
 To sum up. It seems to me that a Govern- 
 ment has no business to favor some intellect- 
 ual pursuits more than others, but that it 
 ought to recognize competent attainment in 
 every one of them by a sort of diploma or cer- 
 tificate, leaving the relative rank of different 
 pursuits to be settled by public opinion. And 
 as to the educators themselves, I think that 
 when a man has proved his competence in 
 one thing, he ought to be allowed to teach 
 that one thing in the University without be- 
 ing required to pass an examination in any 
 Dther thing. 
 
OF EDUCATION. 143 
 
 LETTEK VII. 
 
 TO THE PRINCIPAL OF A FRENCH COLLEGE. 
 
 Loss of time to acquire an ancient language too imperfectly 
 for it to be useful— Dr. Arnold— Mature life leaves little 
 time for culture — Modern indifference to ancient think- 
 ing — Larger experience of the moderns — The moderns 
 older than the ancients — The Author's regret that Latin 
 has ceased to be a living language — The shortest way to 
 learn to read a language — The recent interest in modern 
 languages— A French student of Hebrew. 
 
 I WAS happy to learn your opinion of the re- 
 form so recently introduced by the Minister of 
 Public Instruction, and the more so that I was 
 glad to find the views of so inexperienced a 
 person as myself confirmed by your wider 
 knowledge. You went even farther than M. 
 Jules Simon, for you openly expressed a de- 
 sire for the complete withdrawal of Greek 
 from the ordinary school curriculum. Not 
 that you undervalue Greek, — no one of your 
 scholarship would be likely to undervalue a 
 great literature, — but you thought it a loss of 
 time to acquire a language so imperfectly that 
 the literature still remained practically closed 
 whilst thousands of valuable hours had been 
 wasted on the details of grammar. The truth 
 is, that although the principle of beginning 
 many things in school education with the idea 
 that the pupil will in maturer life pursue them 
 to fuller accomplishment may in some in- 
 stances be justified by the prolonged studies 
 of men who have a natural taste for erudition, 
 it is idle to shut one's eyes to the fact that 
 
144 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 most men have no inclination for school-work 
 after they have left school, and if they had 
 the inclination they have not the time. Our 
 own Dr. Arnold, the model English schoolmas- 
 ter, said, " It is so hard to begin anything in 
 after-life, and so comparatively easy to con- 
 tinue what has been begun, that I think we 
 are bound to break ground, as it were, into 
 several of the mines of knowledge with our pu- 
 pils ; that the first difficulties may be overcome 
 by them whilst there is yet a power from with- 
 out to aid their own faltering resolution, and 
 that so they may be enabled, if they will, to 
 go on with the study hereafter." The princi- 
 ple here expressed is no doubt one of the im- 
 portant principles of all early education, and 
 yet I think that it cannot be safely followed 
 without taking account of human nabure, 
 such as it is. Everything hangs on chat lit- 
 tle parenthesis "if they will." And if they 
 will not, how then? The time spent in break- 
 ing the ground has been wasted, except so far 
 as the exercise of breaking the ground may 
 have been useful in mental gjrmnastics. 
 
 Mature life brings so many professional or 
 social duties that it leaves scant time for cult- 
 ure; and those who care for culture most 
 earnestly and sincerely, are the very persons 
 who will economize time to the utmost. Now, 
 to read a language that has been very imper- 
 fectly mastered is felt to be a bad economy ot 
 time. Suppose the case of a man occupied in. 
 business who has studied Greek rather assid- 
 uously in youth and yet not enough to read it 
 
OF EDUCATION. 145 
 
 with facility. Suppose that this man wants t(^ 
 get at the mind of Plato. He can read the orig- 
 inal, but he reads it so slowly that it would 
 cost him more hours than he can spare, and 
 this is why he has recourse to a translation. 
 In this case there is no indifference to Greek 
 culture; on the contrary, the reader desires. 
 to assimilate what he can of it, but the very 
 earnestness of his wish to have free access to- 
 ancient thought makes him prefer it in mod- 
 ern language. 
 
 This is the most favorable instance that can 
 be imagined, except, of course, those exceed- 
 ingly rare cases where a man has leisure 
 enough, and enthusiasm enough, to become a 
 Hellenist. The great majority of our con- 
 temporaries do not care for ancient thought 
 at all, it is so remote from them, it belongs to 
 conditions of civilization so different from 
 their own, it is encumbered with so many 
 lengthy discussions of questions which have 
 been settled by the subsequent experience of 
 the world, that the modern mind prefers to 
 occupy itself with its own anxieties and its 
 own speculations. It is a great error to sup- 
 pose that indifference to ancient thinking is- 
 peculiar to the spirit of Philistinism ; for the 
 most cultivated contemporary intellects seek 
 light from each other rather than from the- 
 ancients. One of the most distinguished of 
 modern thinkers, a scholar of the rarest clas- 
 sical attainments, said to me in reference to 
 some scheme of mine for renewing my classi- 
 cal studies, that they would be of no more use 
 10 
 
148 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE, 
 
 to me than numismatics. It is this feeling, the 
 feeling that Greek speculation is of less conse- 
 quence to the modern world than German and 
 [French speculation, which causes so many of 
 tis, rightly or wrongly, to regard it as a palseon- 
 tological curiosity, interesting for those who 
 are curious as to the past of the human mind, 
 but not likely to be influential upon its fu- 
 ture. 
 
 This estimate of ancient thinking is not oft- 
 en expressed quite so openly as I have just 
 -expressed it, and yet it is very generally prev- 
 alent even amongst the most thoughtful peo- 
 ple, especially if modern science has had any 
 conspicuous influence in the formation of 
 their minds. The truth is, as Sydney Smith 
 observed many years ago, that there is a con- 
 fusion of language in the use of the word ' ' an- 
 cient."" We say "the ancients," as if they 
 were older and more experienced men than 
 'we are, whereas the age and experience are 
 •entirely on our side. They were the clever 
 -children, ' ' and we only are the white-bearded, 
 silver-headed ancients, who have treasured 
 up, and are prepared to profit by, all the ex- 
 perience which human life can supply. " The 
 sense of our larger experience, as it grows in 
 us and becomes more distinctly conscious, 
 produces a corresponding decline in oiu' feel- 
 ings of reverence for classic times. The past 
 has bequeathed to us its results, and we have 
 incorporated them into our own edifice, but 
 we have used them rather as materials than 
 •as models. 
 
OF ED UCA TION. 147 
 
 In your practical desire to retain in educa- 
 tion only what is likely to be used, you are 
 willing to preserve Latin. M. Jules Simon 
 says that Latin ought to be studied only to bo 
 read. On this point permit me to offer an 
 observation. The one thing I regret about 
 Latin is that we have ceased to speak it. The 
 natural method, and by far the most rapid 
 and sure method of learning a language, is to 
 begin by acquiring words in order to use 
 them to ask for what we want ; after that we 
 acquire other words for narration and the ex- 
 pression of our sentiments. By far the short- 
 est way to learn to read a language is to be- 
 gin by speaking it. The colloquial tongue is 
 the basis of the literary tongue. This is so 
 true that with all the pains and trouble you 
 give to the Latin education of your pupils, 
 you cannot teach them as mucn Latin, for 
 reading only, in the course of ten years, as a 
 living foreigner will give tnem of his own 
 language in ten months. I seriously believe 
 that if your object is to make boys read Latin 
 easily, you begin at the wrong end. It is de- 
 plorable that the learned should ever have 
 allowed Latin to become a dead language, 
 since in pernaitting this they have enormously 
 Increased the difficulty of acquiring it, even 
 for the purposes of scholarship. 
 
 No foreigner who knows the French people 
 will disapprove of the novel desire to know 
 the modern languages, which has been one 
 of the most unexpected consequences of the 
 war. Their extreme ignorance of the litera- 
 
148 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 ture of other nations has been the cause of 
 enormous evils. Notwithstanding her cen- 
 tral position, France has been a very iso- 
 lated country intellectually, much more iso- 
 lated than England, more isolated even than 
 Transylvania, where foreign literatures are fa- 
 miliar to the cultivated classes. This isola- 
 tion has produced very lamentable effects, 
 not only on the national culture but most 
 especially on the national character. No mod- 
 ern nation, however important, can safely re- 
 main in ignorance of its contemporaries. 
 The Frenchman was like a gentleman shut up 
 within his own park-wall, having no inter- 
 course with his neighbors, and reading noth- 
 ing but the history of his own ancestors — for 
 the Romans were your ancestors, intellect- 
 ually. It is only by the study of living lan- 
 guages, and their continual use, that we can 
 learn our true place in the world. A French- 
 man was studying Hebrew; I ventured to 
 suggest that German might possibly be more 
 useful. To this he answered, that there was 
 no literature in Gerinan. ' ' Vous avez Goethe^ 
 vous avez Schiller, et vous avez Lessi7ig, mais 
 en dehors de ces trois nonis il n'y a rien. " This 
 meant simply that my student of Hebrew 
 measured German literature by his own 
 knowledge of it. Three names had reached 
 him. only names, and only three of them. 
 As to the men who were unknown to him he 
 had decided that they did not exist. Certainly 
 if there are many Frenchmen in this condition^ 
 it is time that they learned a little German. 
 
OF ED UCA TIO IV, 1«| 
 
 LETTER Vlll. 
 TO A STUDENT OF MODERN LANGUAGES. 
 
 Standard of attainment in living languages higher tlmn in 
 ancient ones— Difficulty of maintaining high pretensions 
 —Prevalent illusion about the facility of modern lan- 
 guages—Easy to speak the)ii badly— Some propositions 
 based upon expei'ience— Expectations and disappoint- 
 ments. 
 
 Had your main purpose in the education 
 of youi^elf (I do not say self-education, for 
 you wisely accept all help from others) been 
 the attaimnent of classical scholarship, I 
 might have observed that as the received 
 standard in that kind of learning is not a very 
 elevated one, you might reasonably hope to 
 reach it with a certain calculable quantity of 
 effort. The classical student has only to con- 
 tend against other students who are and have 
 been situated very much as he is situated him- 
 self. They have learned Latin and Greek 
 fi'om grammars and dictionaries as he is learn- 
 ing them, and the only natural advantages 
 which any of his predecessors may have pos- 
 sessed are superiorities of memory which may 
 be compensated by his greater perseverance, 
 or superiorities of sympathy to which he 
 may "level up" by that acquired and ar- 
 tificial interest which comes from protracted 
 application. But the student of modern lan- 
 guages has to contend against advantages of 
 situation, as the gardeners of an inhospitable 
 climate contend against the natural sunshine 
 
150 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 of the south. How easy it is to have a fruit- 
 ful date-tree in Arabia, how difficult in Eng- 
 land ! How easy for the Florentine to speak 
 Italian, how difficult for us! The modern 
 linguist can never fence himself behind that 
 stately unquestionableness which shields the 
 classical scholar. His knowledge may at any 
 time be put to the severest of all tests, to a 
 test incomparably more severe than the strict- 
 est university examination. The first native 
 that he meets is his examiner, the first for- 
 eign city is his Oxford. And this is probably 
 one reason why accomplishment in modern 
 languages has been rather a matter of utility 
 than of dignity, for it is difficult to keep up 
 great pretensions in the face of a multitude 
 of critics. What would the most learned- 
 looking gown avail, if a malicious foreigner 
 were laughing at us? 
 
 But there is a deep satisfaction in the se- 
 verity of the test. An honest and courageous 
 student likes to be clearly aware of the exact 
 value of his acquisitions. He takes his French 
 to Paris and has it tested there as we take our 
 plate to the silversmith, and after that he 
 knows, or may know, quite accurately what 
 it is worth. He has not the dignity of schol- 
 arship, he is not held to be a learned man, but 
 he has acquired something which may be of 
 daily use to him in society, or in commerce, 
 or in literature ; and there are thousands of 
 educated natives who can accurately estimate 
 his attainment and help him to a higher per- 
 fection. -^-^ his is deeply satisfying to a 
 
OF EDUCATION, 15t 
 
 lover of intellectual realities. The modern 
 lin^ist is always on firm ground, and in 
 broad daylight. He may impede his own 
 progress by the illusions of solitary self-con- 
 ceit, but the atmosphere outside is not fav- 
 orable to such illusions. It is well for him 
 that the temptations to charlatanism are so 
 few, that the risks of exposure are so fre 
 quent. 
 
 Still there are illusions, and the commonest 
 of them is that a modern language may be 
 very easily mastered. There is a popular 
 idea that French is easy, that Italian is easy, 
 that German is more difficult, yet by no 
 means insuperably difficult. It is believed 
 that when an Englishman has spent all the 
 best years of his youth in attempting to learn 
 Latin and Greek, he may acquire one or two 
 modern languages with little effort during a 
 brief residence on the Continent. It is cer- 
 tainly true that we may learn any number of 
 foreign languages so as to speak them badly, 
 but it surely cannot be easy to speak them 
 well. It may be inferred that this is not easy 
 because the accomi3lishment is so rare. The 
 inducements are common, the accomplish- 
 ment is rare. Thousands of English people 
 have very strong reasons for learning French, 
 thousands of French people could improve 
 their position by learning English ; but rare 
 indeed are the men and women who know 
 both languages thoroughly. 
 
 The following propositions, based on much 
 observation of a kind wholly unprejudiced^ 
 
r 
 
 152 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 and tested by a not inconsiderable experience! 
 will be found, I believe, unassailable. 
 
 1. Whenever a foreign language is perfectly 
 acquired there are peculiar family conditions. 
 The person has either married a person of the 
 other nation^ or is of mixed blood. 
 
 2. When a foreign language has been ac- 
 quired (there are instances of this) in quite 
 absolute perfection, there is almost always 
 some loss in the native tongue. Either the 
 native tongue is not spoken correctly, or it is 
 not spoken with perfect ease. 
 
 3. A man sometimes speaks two languages 
 correctly, his father's and his mother's, or 
 Ms oivn and his wife's, but never three. 
 
 4. Children can speak several languages ex- 
 actly like natives, but in succession, never 
 simultaneously. They forget the first in ac- 
 quiring the second, and so on. 
 
 5. A language cannot be learned by an 
 adult without five years' residence in the 
 country where it is spoken, and without hab- 
 its of close observation a residence of twenty 
 years is insufficient. 
 
 This is not encouraging, but it is the truth. 
 Happily, a knowledge which falls far short of 
 mastery may be of much practical use in the 
 common affairs of life, and may even afford 
 some initiation into foreign literatures. I do 
 not argue that because perfection is denied of 
 us by the circumstances of our lives or the 
 necessities of our organization we are there- 
 fore to abandon the study to every language 
 but the mother tongue. It may be of use to 
 
OF EDUCATION. 15S 
 
 us to know severcil languages imperfectly, if 
 only we confess the hopelessness of absolute 
 attainment. That which is truly, and deeply, 
 and vseriously an injury to our intellectual 
 life, is the foolishness of the two common 
 vanity whicii first deludes itself with childish 
 expectations and then tortures itself with 
 late regret foi failure which might have beea 
 easily foreseen. 
 
 LETTER IX. 
 
 TO A STUDENT OF MODERN LANGUAGES. 
 
 Oases Known to the Author — Opinion of an English linguist- 
 Family conditions — An Englishman who lived forty years 
 in France — Influence of children — An Itahan in France — 
 Displacement of one language by another English lady 
 maiTied to a Frenchman— An Italian in Garibaldi's army — 
 Corruption of languages by the luieducated when they 
 learn more than one — Neapohtan servant of an English 
 gentleman — A Scotch servant-woman — The author's eld- 
 est boy— Substitution of one language for another— In ma- 
 ture Uf e we lose facility — The resisting power of adults — 
 Seen in international marriages — Case of a retired Enghsh 
 officer — Two Germans in Finance— Germans in London — 
 The innocence of the ear — Imperfect attainment of little 
 intellectual use — Too many languages attempted m educa- 
 tion—Polyglot waiters — Indirect benefits. 
 
 My five propositions about learning modern 
 languages appear from your answer to have 
 rather surprised you, and you ask for some 
 instances in illustration. I am aware that 
 ray last letter was dogmatic, so let me begin 
 by begging your pardon for its dogmatism. 
 The present communication loasij steer clear 
 
154 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 of that rock of offence, for it shall confine 
 itself to an account of cases that I have 
 known- 
 One of the most accomplished of English 
 linguists remarked to me that after much 
 observation of the labors of others, and a fair 
 estimate of his own, he had come to the 
 rather discouraging conclusion that it was 
 not possible to learn a foreign language. He 
 did not take account of the one exceptional 
 class of cases where the family conditions 
 make the use of two languages habitual. The 
 most favorable family conditions are not in 
 themselves sufficient to ensure the acquisi- 
 tion of a language, but wherever an instance 
 of perfect acquisition is to be found, these 
 family conditions are always found along 
 with it. My friend W., an English artist 
 living in Paris, speaks French with quite ab- 
 solute accuracy as to grammar and choice of 
 expression, and with accuracy of pronuncia- 
 tion so nearly absolute that the best French 
 ears can detect nothing wrong but the pro- 
 nunciation of the letter "r." He has lived 
 in France for the space of forty years, but it 
 may be doubted whether in forty years he 
 could have mastered the language as he has 
 done if he had not married a native. French 
 has been his home language for SO years and 
 more, and the perfect ease and naturalness 
 of his diction are due to the powerful home 
 influences, especially to the influence of chil- 
 dren. A child is born that speaks the foreign 
 tongue from the first inarticulate beginnings. 
 
OF EDUCATION. 155 
 
 It makes its own child language, and the 
 father as he hears it is born over again in the 
 foreign land by tender paternal sympathy. 
 Gradually the sweet child-talk gives place to 
 the perfect tongue and the father follows it 
 by insensible gradations, himself the most 
 docile of pupils, led onward rather than in- 
 structed by the winning and playful little 
 master, incomparably the best of masters. 
 The process here is nature's own inimitable 
 process. Every new child that is bom to a 
 man so situated carries him through a repeti- 
 tion of that marvellous course of teaching. 
 The language grows in his brain from the first 
 rudiments — the real natural rudiments, not 
 the hard rudiments of the grammarian — just 
 as plants grow naturally from their seeds. 
 It has not been built by human processes of 
 piecing together, but has developed itself like 
 a living creature. This way of learning a 
 language possesses over the dictionary proc- 
 ess exactly the kind of superiority which a 
 living man, developed naturally from the 
 foetus, possesses over the clastic anatomical 
 man-model of the ingenious doctor Auzoux. 
 The doctor's models are remarkably perfect 
 in construction, they have all the organs, but 
 they have not life. 
 
 When, however, this natural process of 
 growth is allowed to go forward without 
 watchful care, it is likely to displace the 
 mother tongue. It is sometimes afiirmed 
 that the impressions of childhood are never 
 effaced, that the mother tongue is never for- 
 
156 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 gotten. It may be that it is never wholly 
 forgotten, except in the case of young chil- 
 dren, but it may become so imperfect as to be 
 practically of little use. I knew an Itahan 
 who came to France as a young man and 
 learned his profession there. He was after- 
 wards naturalized, married a French lady, 
 had several children, pursued a very success- 
 ful career in Paris, and became ultimately 
 French Ambassador at the court of Victor 
 Emmanuel. His French was so perfect that 
 it was quite impossible for any one to detect 
 the usual Italian accents. I used to count 
 him as a remarkable and almost solitary in- 
 stance of a raan speaking two languages in 
 their perfection, but I learned since then that 
 his French had displaced his Italian, and so 
 completely that he was quite unable to speak 
 Italian correctly, and made use of French in- 
 variably when in Italy. The risk of this dis- 
 placement is always greatest in cases where 
 the native tongue is not kept up by means of 
 literature. Byron and Shelley, or our contem- 
 porary Charles Lever, would run little risk of 
 losing English by continental residence, but 
 people not accustomed to reading and writing 
 often forget the mother tongue in a few years, 
 even when the foreign one which has dis- 
 placed it is still in a state of imperfection. 
 Madame L. is an English lady who married a 
 Frenchman; neither her husband nor her 
 children speak Enghsh, and as her relatives 
 live in one of our most distant colonies, she 
 has been separated from them for many 
 
OF ED UCA HON. 157 
 
 years. Isolated thus from English society, 
 living in a part of France rarely visited by 
 her countrymen, never reading English, and 
 writing it little and at long intervals, she 
 speaks it now with much difficulty and diffi- 
 dence. Her French is not grammatical, though 
 she has lived for many years with people who 
 speak grammatically ; but then her French is 
 fluent and alive, truly her own living lan- 
 guage now, whilst English is, if not wholly 
 forgotten, dead almost as our Latin is dead. 
 She and I always speak French together when 
 we meet, because it is easier for her than 
 English, and a more natural expression. I 
 have known some other cases of displace- 
 ment of the native tongue, and have lately 
 had the opportunity of watching a case of 
 such displacement during its progress. A 
 sergeant in the Italian army deserted to join 
 Garibaldi in the campaign of 1870. On the 
 conclusion of peace it was impossible for him 
 to return to Italy, so he settled in France and 
 married there. I found some work for him, 
 and for some months saw him frequently. 
 Up to the date of his marriage he spoke no 
 language but Italian, which he could read 
 and write correctly, but after his marriage 
 the process of displacement of the native 
 tongue began immediately by the corruption 
 of it. He did not keep his Italian satoiy by 
 itself, puWing the French in a place oi its own 
 as he gradually acquired it, but he mixed the 
 two inextricably together. Imagine the case 
 of a man who, having a bottle half full of 
 
158 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 ■wine, gets some beer given him and pours it 
 immediately into the wine-bottle. The beer 
 will never be pure beer, but it will effectually 
 spoil the wine. This process is not so much 
 one of displacement as of corruption, it 
 takes place readily in uncultivated minds, 
 with feeble separating powers. Another ex- 
 ample of this was a Neapolitan servant of an 
 English gentleman, who mixed his Italian 
 twice, first with French and afterwards with 
 English, producing a compound intelligible to 
 nobody but himself, if indeed he himself un- 
 derstood it. At the time I knew him, the 
 man had no means of communication with 
 his species. When his master told him to do 
 anything, he made a guess at what was likely 
 to be for the moment his master's most prob- 
 able want, and sometimes hit the mark, but 
 more generally missed it. The man's name 
 was Alberino, and I remember on one occa- 
 sion profiting by a mistaken guess of his. 
 After a visit to Alberino's master, my servant 
 brought forth a magnificent basket of trout, 
 which surprised me, as nothing had been said 
 about them. However, we ate them, and 
 only discovered afterwards that the present 
 was due to an illusion of Alberino's. His 
 master had never told him to give me the 
 trout, but he had interpreted some other or- 
 der in that sense. When you asked him for 
 mustard, he would first touch the salt, and 
 then the pepper, etc., looking at you inquir- 
 ingly till you nodded assent. Any attempt at 
 conversation with Alberino was sure to lead 
 
OF EI) UCA TION, 15S 
 
 to a ]3erfect comedy of misunderstandings. 
 He never had the remotest idea of what hig 
 interlocutor was talking about; but he pre- 
 tended to catch your meaning, and answered 
 at haphazard. He had a habit of talking 
 aloud to himself, "but in a tongue no man 
 could understand." 
 
 It is a law that cultivated people can keep 
 languages apart, and in their purity, better 
 than persons who have not habits of intellect- 
 ual analysis. When I lived in Scotland three 
 languages were spoken in my house all day 
 long, and a housemaid came to us from the 
 Lowlands who spoke nothing but Lowland 
 Scotch. She used to ask what was the French 
 for this thing or that, and then what was the 
 Gaelic for it. Having been answered, she in- 
 variably asked the further question which of 
 the three words, French, Gaelic, or English, 
 was the right word. She remained, to the 
 last, entirely incapable of conceiving how all 
 the three could be right. Had she learned an- 
 other language, it must have been b3^ substi- 
 tution for her own. This is exactly the natu- 
 ral process which takes place in the brains of 
 children who are transferred from one coun- 
 try to another. My eldest boy spoke English 
 in childhood as well as any other English 
 child of his age. He was taken to the south 
 of France, and in three months he replaced 
 his English with Provengal, which he learned 
 from the servants about him. There were 
 two ladies in the house who spoke English 
 well, and did all in their power, in compliance 
 
160 THii INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 with my urgent entreaties, to preserve the 
 boy's native language; but the substitution 
 took place too rapidly, and was beyond con- 
 crol. He began by an unwillingneas to use 
 English words whenever he could use Pro- 
 vencal instead, and in a remarkably short 
 time this unwillingness was succeeded by in- 
 ability. The native language was as com- 
 pletely taken out of his brain as a violin is 
 taken out of its case : nothing remained, noth- 
 ing^ not one word, not any echo of an accent. 
 And as a violinist may put a new instrument 
 into the case from which he has removed the 
 old one, so the new language occupied the 
 whole space which had been occupied by Eng- 
 lish. When I saw the chikT again, there was 
 no means of communication between us. 
 
 After that, he was removed to the north of 
 France, and the same process began again. 
 As Provengal had pushed out English, so 
 French began to push out Provengal. The 
 process was wonderfully rapid. The child 
 heard people speak French, and he began to 
 speak French Hke them without any formal 
 teaching. He spoke the language as he 
 breathed the air. In a few weeks he did not 
 retain the least remnant of his Provengal ; it 
 ^^as gone after his English into the limbo of 
 the utterly forgotten. 
 
 Novelists have occasionally made use of 
 cases similar to this, but they speak of the 
 forgotten language as being forgotten in the 
 maMner that Scott lorgoi the manuscript of 
 *'Waverley," whicJi he found afterwards in 
 
OF EDUCATION. 161 
 
 the drawers of an old writing-desk when he 
 was seeking for fishing-tackle. They assume 
 (conveniently for the purposes of their art) 
 that the first language we learn is never really 
 lost, but may be as it were under certain cir- 
 cumstances mislaid, to be found again at some 
 future period. Now, although something of 
 this kind may be possible when the first lan- 
 guage has been spoken in rather advanced 
 boyhood, I am convinced that in childhood 
 a considerable number of languages might 
 succeed each other without leaving any trace 
 whatever. I might have remarked that in 
 addition to English, Provencal, and French, 
 my boy had understood Gaelic in his infancy, 
 at least to some extent, though he did not 
 speak it. The languages in his case succeeded 
 each other without any cost of effort, and 
 without any appreciable effect on health. The 
 pronunciation of each language was quite 
 faultless so far as foreign accent went; the 
 child had the defects of children, but of chil- 
 dren born in the different countries where he 
 live. 
 
 As we grow older this facility of acquisition 
 gradually leaves us. M. Philarete Chasles 
 says that it is quite impossible for any adult 
 to learn German : an adult may leam German 
 as Dr. Arnold did for purposes of erudition, 
 for which it is enough to know a language as 
 we know Latin, but this is not mastery. You 
 have met with many foreign residents in Eng- 
 land, who after staying in the country for 
 many years can barely make themselves in- 
 11 
 
162 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 telligible, and must certainly be incapable of 
 appreciating thos e beauties of our literature 
 which are dependent upon arrangements of 
 sound. The resisting power of the adult brain 
 is quite as remarkable as the assimilating power 
 of the immature brain. A child hears a sound, 
 and repeats it with perfect accuracy ; a man 
 hears a sound, and by way of imitation utters 
 something altogether different, being never- 
 theless persuaded that it is at least a close and 
 satisfactory approximation. Children imitate 
 well, but adults badly, and the acquisition of 
 languages depends mainly on imitation. The 
 resisting power of adults is often seen very 
 remarkably in international marriages. In 
 those classes of society where there is not 
 much culture, or leisure or disposition for cult- 
 ure, the one will not learn the other's lan- 
 guage from opportunity or from affection, 
 but only under absolute necessity. It seems 
 as if two people living always together would 
 gain each other's languages as a matter of 
 course, but the fact is that they do not. 
 French people who marry foreigners do not 
 usually acquire the foreign language if the 
 pair remain in France ; English people under 
 similar conditions make the attempt more 
 frequently, but they rest contented with im- 
 perfect attainment. 
 
 If the power of resistance is so great in 
 people who being wedded together for life 
 have pecuharly strong inducements for learn- 
 ing each other's languages, it need surprise 
 us little to find a like power of resistance in 
 
OF EDUCATION, 161 
 
 cases where motives of affection are alto- 
 gether absent. Englishmen who go to France 
 as adults, and settle there, frequently remain 
 for many years in a state of half -knowledge 
 which, though it may carry them through 
 the little difficulties of life at railway stations 
 and restaurants, is for any intellectual pur- 
 pose of no conceivable utility. I knew a re- 
 tired English officer, a bachelor, who for 
 many years had lived in Paris without any 
 intention of returning to England. His 
 French just barely carried him through the 
 small transactions of his daily life, but was 
 so limited and so incorrect that he could 
 not maintain a conversation. His vocabulary 
 was very meagre ; his genders were all wrong, 
 and he did not know one single verb, literally 
 not one. His pronunciation was so foreign as 
 to be very nearly unintelligible, and he hesi- 
 tated so much that it was painful to have to 
 listen to him. I could mention a celebrated 
 German, who has lived in or near Paris for 
 the last twenty years, and who can neither 
 speak nor write the language with any ap- 
 proach to accuracy. Another German, who 
 settled in France as a master of languages, 
 wrote French tolerably, but spoke it mtoler- 
 ably. There are Germans in London, who 
 have lived there long enough to have families 
 and make fortunes, yet who continue to re- 
 peat the ordinary German faults of pronunci- 
 ation, the same faults which they committed 
 years ago, when first they landed on our 
 shores. 
 
164 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 The child hears and repeats the true sound, 
 the adult misleads himself by the spelling. 
 Seldom indeed can the adult recover the inno- 
 cence of the ear. It is like the innocence of 
 the eye, which has to be recovered before we 
 can paint from nature, and which belongs 
 only to infancy and to art. 
 
 Let me observe, in conclusion, that al- 
 though to know a foreign language perfectly 
 is a most valuable aid to the intellectual life, I 
 have never known an instance of very imper- 
 fect attainment which seemed to enrich the 
 student intellectually. Until you can really 
 feel the refinements of a language, your men- 
 tal culture can get little help or furtherance 
 from it of any kind, nothing but an intermin- 
 able series of misunderstandings. I think 
 that in the education of our boys too many 
 languages are attempted, and that their minds 
 would profit more by the perfect acquisition 
 of a single language in addition to the native 
 tongue. This, of course, is looking at the 
 raatter simply from the intellectual point of 
 view. There may be practical reasons for 
 knowing several languages imperfectly. It 
 may be of use to many men in commercial 
 situations to know a little of several lan- 
 guages, even a few words and. phrases are 
 valuable to a traveller, but all intellectual la- 
 bor of the higher kind requires much more 
 than that. It is of use to society that there 
 should be polyglot waiters who can tell us 
 when the train starts in four or five lan- 
 guages ; but the polyglot waiters themselves 
 
OF ED UCA TION. 16B 
 
 are not intellectually advanced by their ac- 
 complishment ; for, after all, the facts of the 
 railway time-table are always the same small 
 facts, in however many languages they 
 may be announced. True culture ought to 
 strengthen the faculty of thinking, and to 
 provide the material upon which that noble 
 faculty may operate. An accomplishment 
 which does neither of these two things for us 
 is useless for our culture, though it may be of 
 considerable practical convenience in the af- 
 fairs of ordinary life. It is right to add, how- 
 ever, that there is sometimes an indirect in- 
 tellectual benefit from such accomplishments. 
 To be able to order dinner in Spanish is not 
 in itself an intellectual advantage ; but if the 
 dinner, when you have eaten it, enables you 
 to visit a cathedral whose architecture you 
 are qualified to appreciate, there is a clear in- 
 tellectual gain, though an indirect one. 
 
 LETTER X. 
 
 TO A STUDENT WHO LAMENTED HIS DEFECTIVE 
 MEMORY. 
 
 The author rather inclined to congratulation than to condo- 
 lence — Value of a selecting memory— Studies of the young 
 Goethe — His great faculty of assimilation — A good liter- 
 ary memory like a well-edited periodical— The selecting 
 memory in art — Treacherous memories — Cm-es suggested 
 for them — The mnemotechnic art contrary to the true dis- 
 cipUne of the mind— Two instances— The memory safely 
 aided only by right association. 
 
 So far from writing, as you seem to expect 
 me to do, a letter of condolence on the subject 
 
166 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 of what you are pleased to call your ' ' misera- 
 ble memory," I feel disposed rather to indite 
 a letter of congratulation. It is possible that 
 you may be blessed with a selecting memory, 
 which is not only useful for what it retains but 
 for what it rejects. In the immense mass of 
 facts which come before you in literature and 
 in life, it is well that you should suffer from, 
 as little bewilderment as possible. The na- 
 ture of your memory saves you from this oy 
 unconsciously selecting what has interested, 
 you, and letting the rest go by. What in- 
 terests you is what concerns you. 
 
 In saying this I speak simply from the in- 
 tellectual point of view, and suppose you ta 
 be an intellectual man by the natural organi- 
 zation of your brain, to begin with. In saying 
 that what interests you is what concerns you, 
 I mean intellectually, not materially. It may 
 concern you, in the pecuniary sense, to take 
 an interest in the law ; yet your mind, left ta 
 itself, would take httle or no interest in law, 
 but an absorbing interest in botany. The 
 passionate studies of the young Goethe, in 
 many different directions, always in obedi- 
 ence to the predominant interests of the mo- 
 ment, are the best example of the way in 
 which a great intellect, with remarkable pow- 
 ers of acquisition and liberty to grow in free 
 luxuriance, sends its roots into various soils 
 and draws from them the constituents of its> 
 sap. As a student of law, as a university 
 student even, he was not of the type which 
 parents and professors consider satisfactory. 
 
OF EDUCATION. 167 
 
 He neglected jurisprudence, he neglected even 
 his college studies, but took an interest in so 
 many other pursuits that his mind became 
 rich indeed. Yet the wealth which his mind 
 acquired seems to have been due to that lib- 
 erty of ranging by which it was permitted to 
 him to seek his own everywhere, according to 
 the maxim of French law, chacun prend son 
 bien on il le trouve. Had he been a poor stu- 
 dent, bound down to the exclusively legal stud- 
 ies, which did not greatly interest him, it is 
 likely that no one would ever have suspected 
 his immense faculty of assimilation. In this 
 way men who are set by others to load their 
 memories with what is not their proper in- 
 tellectual food, never get the credit of having 
 any memory at all, and end by themselves be- 
 lieving that they have none. These bad 
 memories are often the best, they are often 
 the selecting memories. They seldom win dis- 
 tinction in examinations, but in literature 
 and art. They are quite incomparably su- 
 perior to the miscellaneous memories that re- 
 ceive only as boxes and drawers receive what 
 is put into them. A good literary or artistic 
 memory is not like a post-office that takes in 
 everything, but like a very well-edited period- 
 ical which prints nothing that does not har- 
 monize with its intellectual life. A well- 
 known author gave me this piece of advice : 
 ' ' Take as many notes as you like, but when 
 you write do not look at them — what you re- 
 member is what you must write, and you 
 ought to give things exactly the degree of 
 
168 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 relanVe importance that they have in your 
 memoiy. If you forget much, it is well, it 
 will only Save beforehand the labor of era,s- 
 ure." This advice would not be suitable to 
 every author ; an author who dealt much in 
 minute facts ought to be allowed to refer to 
 his memoranda ; but from the artistic point 
 of view in literature the advice was wise in- 
 deed. In painting, our preferences select 
 whilst we are in the presence of nature, and 
 our memory selects when we are away from 
 nature. The most beautiful compositions are 
 produced by the selectmg office of the mem- 
 ory, which retains some features, and even 
 greatly exaggerates them, whilst it dimin- 
 ishes others and often altogether omits them. 
 An artist who blamed himself for these exag- 
 gerations and omissions would blame him- 
 self tor being an artist. 
 
 Let me add a protest against the common 
 methods of curing what are called treacherous 
 memories. They are generally founded upon 
 the association of ideas, which is so far ra- 
 tional, but then the sort of association which 
 they have recourse to is unnatural, and pro- 
 duces precisely the sort of disorder which 
 would be produced in dress if a man were in- 
 sane enough to tie, let us say, a frying-pan to 
 one of his coat-tails and a child's kite to the 
 other. The true discipline of the mind is to 
 be effected only by associating those things to- 
 gether which have a real relation of some 
 kind, and the profounder the relation, the 
 more it is based upon the natural constitution 
 
OF EDUCATION. 169 
 
 of things, and the less it concerns trifling ex- 
 ternal details, the better will be the order of 
 the intellect. The mnemotechnic art wholly 
 disregards this, and is therefore unsuited for 
 intellectual persons, though it may be of some 
 practical use in ordinary life. A little book 
 on memory, of which many editions have 
 been sold, suggests to men who forget their 
 umbrelkis that they ought always to associate 
 the image of an umbrella with that of an open 
 door, so that they could never leave any 
 house without thinking of one. But would it 
 not be preferable to lose two or three guineas 
 annually rather than see a spectral umbrella 
 in every doorway ? The same writer suggests 
 an idea which appears even more objectiona- 
 ble. Because we are apt to lose time, we 
 ought, he says, to imagine a skeleton clock- 
 face on the visage of every man we talk with ; 
 that is to say, we ought systematically to set 
 about producing in our brains an absurd asso- 
 ciation of ideas, which is quite closely allied 
 to one of the most common forms of insanity. 
 It is better to forget umbrellas and lose hours 
 than fill our minds with associations of a kind 
 which every disciplined intellect does all it 
 can to get rid of. The rational art of memory 
 is that used in natural science. We remem- 
 ber anatomy and botany because, although 
 the facts they teach are infinitely numerous, 
 they are arranged according to the construct- 
 ive order of nature. Unless there were a 
 clear relation between the anatomy of one an- 
 imal and that of others, the memory would r^ 
 
170 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 fuse to burden itself with the details of their 
 structure. So in the study of languages 
 we learn several languages by perceiving 
 their true structural relations, and remember- 
 ing these. Association of this kind, and the 
 maintenance of order in the mind, are the 
 only arts of memory compatible with the 
 right government of the intellect. Incongru- 
 ous, and even superficial associations ought to 
 be systematically discouraged, and we ought 
 to value the negative or rejecting power of 
 the memory. The finest intellects are as re- 
 markable for the ease with which they resist 
 and throw off what does not concern them as 
 for the permanence with which their own 
 truths engrave themselves. They are like 
 clear glass, which fluoric acid etches indelibly, 
 but which comes out of vitriol intact. 
 
 LETTER XI. 
 
 TO A MASTER OF ARTS WHO SAID THAT A CERTAIN 
 DISTINGUISHED PAINTER WAS HALF-EDUCATED. 
 
 Conventional idea about the completeness of education — Tte 
 estimate of a schoolmaster — No one can be fully educated 
 — Even Leonardo da Vinci f eU short of the complete ex- 
 pression of his faculties — The word " education " used in 
 two different senses — The acquisition of knowledge — Who 
 are the learned? — Quotation from Sydney Smith — What 
 a " half -educated " painter had learned — What faculties 
 he had developed. 
 
 An intelligent lady was lamenting to me 
 the other day that when she heard anything 
 
OF ED UCA TION. 171 
 
 she did not quite agree with, it only set her 
 thinking, and did not suggest any immediate 
 reply. " Three hours afterwards," she added, 
 ' ' I arrive at the answer which ought to have 
 been given, but then it is exactly three hours 
 too late." 
 
 Being afflicted with precisely the same piti- 
 able infirmity, I said nothing in reply to a 
 statement you made yesterday evening at 
 dinner, but it occupied me in the hansom as 
 it rolled between the monotonous lines of 
 houses, and followed me even into my bed- 
 room. I should like to answer it this morn- 
 ing, as one answers a letter. 
 
 You said that our friend the painter was 
 '' half -educated." This made me try to un- 
 derstand what it is to be three-quarters edu- 
 cated, and seven-eighths educated, and finally 
 what must be that quite perfect state of the 
 man who is whole-educated. 
 
 I fear that you must have adopted some 
 conventional idea about completeness of edu- 
 cation, since you believe that there is any 
 such thing as completeness, and that educa- 
 tion can be measured by fractions, like the 
 divisions of a two-foot rule. 
 
 Is not such an idea just a little arbitrary? 
 It seems to be the idea of a schoolmaster, 
 with his little list of subjects and his profes- 
 sional habit of estimating the progress of his 
 boys by the good marks they are likely to ob- 
 tain from their examiners. The half -educat- 
 ed schoolboy would be a schoolboy half-way 
 towards his bachelor's degree — is that it? 
 
172 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 In the estimates of school and college this 
 may be so, and it may be well to keep up the 
 illusion, during boyhood, that there is such a 
 thing attainable as the complete education 
 that you assume. But the wider experience 
 of manhood tends rather to convince us that 
 no one can be fully educated, and that the 
 more rich and various the natural talents, 
 the greater will be the difficulty of educating 
 the whole of them. Indeed it does not ap- 
 pear that in a state of society so advanced in 
 the different specialities as ours is, men werS 
 ever intended to do more than develop by ed- 
 ucation a few of their natural gifts. The only 
 man who came near to a complete education 
 was Leonardo da Vinci, but such a personage 
 would be impossible to-day. No contempo- 
 rary Leonardo could be at the same time a 
 leader in fine art, a great military and civil 
 engineer, and a discoverer in theoretical 
 science ; the specialists have gone too far for 
 him. Born in our day, Leonardo would have 
 been either a specialist or an amateur. Situ- 
 ated even as he was, in a time and country 
 so remarkably favorable to the general devel- 
 opment of a variously gifted man, he stiU fell 
 short of the complete expansion of all his ex- 
 traordinary faculties. He was a great artist, 
 and yet his artistic power was never devel- 
 oped beyond the point of elaborately careful 
 labor ; he never attained the assured manipu- 
 lation of Titian and Paul Veronese, not to 
 mention the free facility of Velasquez, or the 
 splendid audacity of Eubens. His natural 
 
OF EDUCATION, 173 
 
 gifts were grand enough to have taken him 
 to a pitch of mastery that he never reached, 
 but his mechanical and scientific tendencies 
 would have their development also, and with- 
 drew so much time from art that every re- 
 newal of his artistic labor was accompanied 
 hj long and anxious reflection. 
 
 The word "education " is used in senses so 
 different that confusion is not always avoided. 
 Some people mean by it the acquisition of 
 knowledge, others the development of fac- 
 ulty. If you mean the first, then the half -ed- 
 ucated man would be a man who knew haH 
 what he ought to know, or who only half 
 knew the diflerent sciences, which the wholly 
 educated know thoroughly. Who is to fix 
 the subjects? Is it the opinion of the learned? 
 — if so, who are the learned? "A learned 
 man ! — a scholar ! — a man of erudition ! Upon 
 whom are these epithets of approbation be- 
 stowed? Are they given to men acquainted 
 with the science of government? thoroughly 
 masters of the geographical and commercial 
 relations of Europe? to men who know the 
 properties of bodies, and their action upon 
 each other? No: this is not learning; it is 
 chemistry, or political economy, not learning. 
 The distinguishing abstract term, the epithet 
 of Scholar, is reserved for him who writes on 
 the ^olic reduplication, and is famihar with 
 the Sylburgian method of arranging defect- 
 ives in 0) and i^t. The picture which a young 
 Englishman, addicted to the pursuit of knowl- 
 edge, draws — his beau ideal of human nature 
 
174 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 — ins top and consumraation of man^s powers 
 — is a knowledge of the Greek language. His. 
 object is not to reason, to imagine, or to in- 
 vent; but to conjugate, decline, and derive. 
 The situations of imaginary glory which he 
 draws for himself , are the detection of an an- 
 apaest in the wrong place, or the restoration 
 of a dative case which Cranzius had passed 
 over, and the never-dying Ernesti failed to 
 observe." 
 
 By the help of the above passage from an 
 article written sixty-three years ago by Syd- 
 ney Smith, and by the help of another pas- 
 sage in the same paper where he tells us that 
 the English clergy bring up the first young 
 men of the country as if they were all to keep 
 grammar schools in little country towns, I 
 begin to understand what you mean by a 
 half-educated person. You mean a person, 
 who is only half qualified for keeping a gram- 
 mar school. In this sense it is very possible 
 that our friend the painter possesses nothing 
 beyond a miserable fraction of education. 
 And yet he has picked up a good deal of val- 
 uable knowledge outside the technical ac- 
 quirement of a most difficult profession. He 
 studied two years in Paris, and four years in 
 Florence and Rome. He speaks French and 
 Italian quite fluently, and with a fair degree 
 of correctness. His knowledge of those two 
 languages is incomparably more complete, in 
 the sense of practical possession, than our 
 fossilized knowledge of Latin, and he reads 
 them almost asv^e read English, currently. 
 
OF EDUCATION, 175 
 
 and without translating. He has the heart- 
 iest enjoyment of good literature; there is 
 evidence in his pictures of a most intelligent 
 sympathy with the greatest inventive writ- 
 ers. Without having a scientific nature, he 
 knows a good deal about anatomy. He has 
 not read Greek poetry, but he has studied the 
 old Greek mind in its architecture and sculpt- 
 ure. Nature has also endowed him with a 
 just appreciation of music, and he knows the 
 immortal masterpieces of the most illustrious 
 composers. All these things would not qual- 
 ify him to teach a grammar school, and yet 
 what Greek of the age of Pericles ever knew 
 Jialf so much ? 
 
 This for the acquisition of knowledge ; now 
 for the development of faculty. In this re- 
 spect he excels us as performing athletes ex- 
 cel the people in the streets. Consider the 
 marvellous accuracy of his eye, the precision 
 of his hand, the closeness of his observation, 
 liie vigor of his memory and \nvention! 
 How clumsy and rude is the most learned 
 pedant in comparison with the refinement of 
 this delicate organization! Try to imagine 
 what a disciplined creature he has become, 
 how obedient are all his faculties to the com- 
 mands of the central will! The brain con- 
 ceives some image of beauty or wit, and im- 
 mediately that clear conception is telegraphed 
 to the well-trained fingers. Surely, if the re- 
 sults of education may be estimated from the 
 evidences of skill, here are some of the most 
 ■wonderful of such results. 
 
PAET IV. 
 
 THE POWER OF TIME. 
 
 LETTER I. 
 
 TO A MAN OF LEISURE WHO COMPLAINED OF 
 WANT OF TIME. 
 
 Necessity for time-thrift in all cases — Serious men not much, 
 in danger from mere frivolity — Greater danger of losing 
 time in our serious pursuits themselves — Time thrown 
 away when we do not attain proficiency — Soundness of 
 former scholarship a good example — Browning's Gram- 
 marian — Knowledge an organic whole — Soundness the 
 possession of essential parts— Necessity of feed limits in 
 our projects of study — Limitation of purpose in the fine 
 arts— In languages — Instance of M. Louis Enaiilt — In 
 music— Time saved by following kindred pursuits— Order 
 and proportion the true secrets of time-thrift — ^A waste 
 of time to leave fortresses untaken in oiu- rear. 
 
 You complain of want of time — you, with, 
 your boundless leisure ! 
 
 It is true that the most absolute master of 
 his own hours still needs thrift if he would 
 turn them to account, and that too many 
 never learn this thrift, whilst others learn it 
 late. Will you permit me to offer briefly a 
 few observations on time-thrift which have 
 been suggested to me by my own experience 
 and hj the experience of intellectual friends? 
 
THE POWER OF TIME. , 177 
 
 It may be accepted for certain, to begin, 
 with, that men who Hke yourself seriously 
 care for culture, and make it, next to moral 
 duty, the principal object of their lives, are 
 but little exposed to waste time in downright 
 frivolity of any kind. You may be perfectly 
 idle at your own times, and perfectly frivo- 
 lous even, whenever you have a mind to be 
 frivolous, but then you will be clearly aware 
 how the time is passing, and you will tlirow it 
 away knowingly, as the most careful of mon- 
 ey-economists will throw away a few sover- 
 eigns in a confessedly foolish amusement, 
 merely for the relief of a break in the habit of 
 his life. To a man of your tastes and temper 
 there is no danger of wasting too much time 
 so long as the waste is intentional ; but you 
 are exposed to time-losses of a much more in- 
 sidious character. 
 
 It is in our pursuits themselves that we 
 throw away our most valuable time. Few in- 
 tellectual men have the art of economizing 
 the hours of study. The very necessity, 
 which every one acknowledges, of giving vast 
 portions of life to attain proficiency in any- 
 thing makes us prodigal where we ought to be 
 parsimonious, and careless where we have 
 need of unceasing vigilance. The best time- 
 savers are the love of soundness in all we 
 learn or do, and a cheerful acceptance of in- 
 evitable limitations. There is a certain point 
 of proficiency at which an acquisition begins 
 to be of use, and unless we have the time and 
 resolution necessary to reach that point, our 
 
5 ;8 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 labor is as completely thrown away as that of 
 a mechanic who began to make an engine but 
 never finished it. Each of us has acquisi- 
 tions which remain permanently unavailable 
 from their unsoundness, a language or two 
 that we can neither speak nor write, a science 
 of which the elements have not been mastered, 
 an art which we cannot practice with satisfac- 
 tion either to others or to ourselves. Now the 
 time spent on these unsound accomplishments 
 has been in great measure wasted, not quite 
 absolutely wasted, since the mere labor of try- 
 ing to learn has been a discipline for the 
 mind, but wasted so far as the accomplish- 
 ments themselves are concerned. And even 
 this mental discipline, on which so much 
 stress is laid by those whose interest it is to 
 encourage unsound accomplishment, might 
 be obtained more perfectly if the subjects of 
 ^tudy were less numerous and more thorough- 
 ly understood. Let us not therefore in the 
 studies of our maturity repeat the error of 
 our youth. Let us determine to have sound- 
 ness, that is, accurately organized knowledge 
 in the studies we continue to pursue, and let 
 us resign ourselves to the necessity for aban- 
 doning those pursuits in which soundness 
 is not to be hoped for. 
 
 The old-fashioned idea about scholarship in 
 Latin and Greek, that it ought to be based 
 upon thorough grammatical knowledge, is $i 
 good example, so far as it goes, of what 
 soundness really is. That ideal of scholar- 
 ship failed only because it fell short of sound- 
 
THE PO WEE OF TIME. 179 
 
 ness in other directions and was not conscious 
 of its failure. But there existed, in the minds 
 of the old scholars, a fine resolution to be a,c- 
 curate, and a determination to give however 
 much labor might be necessary for the attain- 
 ment of accuracy, in which there was much 
 grandeur. Like Mr. Browning's Gramma- 
 rian, they said — 
 
 " Let me know all I Prate not of most or least 
 Painful or easy: " 
 
 and so at least they came to know the ancient 
 tongues grammatically, which few of us do in 
 these days. 
 
 I should define each kind of knowledge as 
 an organic whole and soundness as the com- 
 plete i^ossession of all the essential parts. 
 For example, soundness in violin-playing con- 
 sists in being able to play the notes in all the 
 positions, in tune, and with a pure intonation, 
 w^hatever may be the degree of rapidity indi- 
 -cated by the musical composer. Soundness 
 in painting consists in being able to lay a 
 patch of color having exactly the right shape 
 and tint. Soundness in the use of language 
 consists in being able to put the right word in 
 the right place. In each of the sciences, there 
 are certain'elementary notions without which 
 sound knowledge is not possible, but these el- 
 ementary notions are more easily and rapidly 
 acquired than the elaborate knowledge or con- 
 firmed skill necessary to the artist or the lin- 
 guist. A man may be a sound botanist without 
 knowing a very great number of plants, and 
 
180 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE, 
 
 the elements of sound botanical knowledge 
 maybe printed in a portable volume. And so 
 it is with all the physical sciences; the ele- 
 mentary notions which are necessary to sound- 
 ness of knowledge may be acquired rapidly and 
 at any age. Hence it follows that all whose 
 leisure for culture is limited, and who value 
 soundness of knowledge, do wisely to pursue 
 some branch of natural history rather than 
 languages or the fine arts. 
 
 It is well for every one who desires to attain 
 a perfect economy of time, to make a list of 
 the different pursuits to which he has devoted 
 himself, and to put a note opposite to each of 
 them indicating the degree of its unsoundness 
 with as little self-delusion as may be. After 
 having done this, he may easily ascertain in 
 how many of these pursuits a sufficient de- 
 gree of soundness is atta,inable for him, and 
 when this has been decided he may at once 
 effect a great saving by the total renuncia- 
 tion of the rest. With regard to those which 
 remain, and which are to be carried farther, 
 the next thing to be settled is the exact limit 
 of their cultivation. Nothing is so favorable 
 to sound culture as the definite fixing of lim- 
 its. Suppose, for example, that the student 
 said to himself ' ' I desire to know the flora of 
 the valley I live in," and then set to work 
 systematically to make a herbarium illustrat- 
 ing that flora, it is probable that his labor 
 would be more thorough, his temper more 
 watchful and hopeful, than if he set himself to 
 jhe boundless task of the illimitable flora of 
 
THE PO WEB OF TIME. 181 
 
 the world. Or in the pursuit of fine art, an 
 amateur discouraged by the glaring unsound- 
 ness of the kind of art taught by ordinary 
 drawing-masters, would find the basis of 
 a more substantial superstructure on a nar- 
 rower but firmer ground. Suppose that in- 
 stead of the usual messes of bad color and 
 bad form, the student produced work having 
 some definite and not unattainable purpose, 
 would there not be, here also, an assured econ- 
 omy of time? Accurate drawing is the basis 
 of soundness in the fine arts, and an amateur, 
 by perseverance, may reach accuracy in draw- 
 ing; this, at least, has been proved by some 
 examples — not by many, certainly, but by 
 some. In languages we may have a limited 
 purpose also. That charming and most intelli- 
 gent traveller, Louis Enault, tells us that he 
 regularly gave a week to the study of each 
 new language that he needed, and found that 
 week sufficient. The assertion is not so pre- 
 sumptuous as it appears. For the practical 
 necessities of travelling M. Enault found that 
 he required about four hundred words, and 
 that, having a good memory, he was able to 
 learn about seventy words a day. The secret 
 of his success was the invaluable art of selec- 
 tion, and the strict limitation of effort in ac- 
 cordance with a preconceived design. A. 
 traveller not so well skilled in selection might 
 have learned a thousand words with less ad- 
 vantage to his travels, and a traveller less de- 
 cided in purpose might have wasted several 
 months on the frontier of every new country 
 
182 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 in hopeless efforts to master the intricacies of 
 grammatical form^ It is evident that in the 
 strictest sense M. Enault's knowledge of Nor- 
 wegian cannot have been sound, since he did 
 not master the grammar, but it was sound in 
 its own strictly limited way, since he got pos- 
 session of the four hundred words which were 
 to serve him as current coin. On the same 
 principle it is a good plan for students of Latin 
 and Greek who have not time to reach true 
 scholarship (half a lifetime is necessary for 
 that), to propose to themselves simply the 
 reading of the original authors with the help 
 of a literal translation. In this way they 
 may attain a closer acquaintance with an- 
 cient literature than would be possible by 
 translation alone, whilst on the other hand 
 their reading will be much more extensive 
 on account of its greater rapidity. It is, for 
 most of us, a waste of time to read Latin and 
 Greek without a translation, on account of 
 the comparative slowness of the process ; but 
 it is always an advantage to know what was 
 really said in the original, and to test the ex- 
 actness of the translator by continual refer- 
 ence to the ipsissima verba of the author. 
 When the knowledge of the ancient language 
 is not sufficient even for this, it may stUl be 
 of use for occasional comparison, even though 
 the passage has to be fought through a coupes 
 de dictionnaire. What most of us need in 
 reference to the ancient languages is a frank 
 resignation to a restriction of some kind. It 
 is simply impossible for men occupied as most 
 
THE POWER OF TIME. 183 
 
 of us are in other pursuits to reach perfect 
 scholarship in those languages, and if we 
 reached it we should not have time to main- 
 tain it. 
 
 In modern languages it is not so easy to fix 
 limits satisfactorily. You may resolve to 
 read French or German without either writ- 
 ing or speaking them, and that would be an 
 effectual limit, certainly. But in practice it 
 is found difficult to keep within that boun- 
 dary if ever you travel or have intercourse 
 with foreigners. And when once you begin 
 to speak, it is so humiliating to speak badly, 
 that a lover of soundness in accomphshment 
 will never rest perfectly satisfied until he 
 speaks like a cultivated native, which nobody 
 ever did except under peculiar family condi- 
 tions. 
 
 In music the limits are found more easily. 
 The amateur musician is frequently not infe- 
 rior in feeling and taste to the more accom- 
 plished professional, and by selecting those 
 compositions which require much feeling and 
 taste for their interpretation, but not so much 
 manual skill, he may reach a sufficient suc- 
 cess. The art is to choose the very simplest 
 music (provided of course that it is beautiful, 
 which it frequently is) , and to avoid all tech- 
 nical difficulties which are not really neces- 
 sary to the expression of feeling. The ama- 
 teur ought also to select the easiest instru- 
 ment, an instrument in which the notes are 
 made for him already, rather than one which, 
 compels him to fix the notes as he is playing. 
 
184 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 The violin tempts amateurs who have a deep 
 feeling for music because it renders feeling as 
 no other instrument can render it, but the 
 diflficulty of just intonation is almost insuper- 
 able unless the whole time is given to that 
 one instrument. It is a fatal error to perform 
 on several different instruments, and an 
 amateur who has done so may find a desirable 
 limitation in restricting himself to one. 
 
 Much time is saved by following pursuits 
 w^hich help each other. It is a great help to a 
 landscape painter to know the botany of the 
 country he works in, for botany gives the 
 greatest possible distinctness to his memory 
 of all kinds of vegetation. Therefore, if a 
 landscape painter takes to the study of science 
 at all, he would do well to study botany, 
 which would be of use in his painting, rather 
 than chemistry or mathematics, which would 
 be entirely disconnected from it. The mem- 
 ory easily retains the studies which are aux- 
 iliary to the chief pursuit. Entomologists 
 remember plants well, the reason being that 
 they find insects in them, just as Leslie the 
 painter had an excellent memory for houses 
 where there were any good pictures to be 
 found. 
 
 The secret of order and proportion in our 
 studies is the true secret of economy in time. 
 To have one main pursuit and several auxil- 
 iaries, but none that are not auxiliary, is the 
 true principle of arrangement. Many hard 
 workers have followed pursuits as widely dis- 
 connected as possible, but this was for the 
 
THE POWER OF TIME. 185 
 
 refreshment of absolute change, not for the 
 economy of time. 
 
 Lastly, it is a deplorable waste of time to 
 leave fortresses untaken in our rear. What- 
 ever has to be mastered ought to be mastered 
 so thoroughly that we shall not have to come 
 back to it when we ought to be carrying the 
 war far into the enemy's country. But to 
 study on this sound principle, we require not 
 to be hurried. And this is why, to a sincere 
 student, all external pressure, whether of 
 examiners, or poverty, or business engage- 
 ments, which causes him to leave work be- 
 hind him which was not done as it ought to 
 have been done, is so grievously, so intoler- 
 ably vexatious. 
 
 LETTER II. 
 
 TO A YOUNG MAN OF GREAT TALENT AND EN- 
 ERGY WHO HAD MAGNIFICENT PLANS FOR THE 
 FUTURE. 
 
 Mistaken estimates about time and occasion — The Unku own 
 Element —Procrastination often time's best preserver — 
 Napoleon's advice to do nothing at ail — Use of dehbera- 
 tiou and of intervals of leisure— Artistic advantages of 
 calculating time— Prevalent childishness about time — Illu- 
 sions about reading — Bad economy of reading in lan- 
 guages we have not mastered — That we ought to be 
 tiirifty of time, but not avaricious — Time necessary in 
 production — Men who work best under the sense of pres- 
 sure — Rossini— That these cases prove nothing against 
 time- tlu-ift— The waste of time from miscalculation — Peo- 
 ple calculate accurately for short spaces, but do not cal- 
 
186 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 culate so well for long ones— Reason for this— Stupidity 
 of the Philistines about wasted time— TSpffer and Claude 
 TilUer— Retrospective miscalculations, and the regrets 
 that result from them. 
 
 Have you ever observed that we pay much 
 more attention to a wise passage when it is 
 quoted, than when we read it in the original 
 author? On the same principle, people will 
 give a higher price to a picture-dealer than 
 they would have given to the painter himself. 
 The picture that has been once bought has a 
 recommendation, and the quoted passage is 
 both recommended and isolated from the con- 
 text. 
 
 Trusting to this well-known principle, al- 
 though I am aware that you have read every- 
 thing that Sir Arthur Helps has published, I 
 proceed to make the following quotation from 
 one of his wisest books. 
 
 " Time and occasion are the two important 
 circumstances in human life, as regards which 
 the most mistaken estimates are made. And 
 the error is universal. It besets even the 
 most studious and philosophic men. This 
 may notably be seen in the present day, wheu 
 many most distinguished men have laid down 
 projects for literature and philosophy, to be 
 accomplished by them in their own lifetime, 
 which would require several men and many 
 lifetimes to complete; and, generally speak- 
 ing, if any person, who has passed the merid- 
 ian of hf e, looks back upon his career, he will 
 probably own that his greatest errors have 
 arisen from his not having made sufficient 
 
THE POWER OF TIME. 187 
 
 allowance for the length of time which his 
 various scheixies required for their fulUl- 
 ment." 
 
 There are many traditional maxims about 
 time which insist upon its brevity, upon the 
 necessity of using it whilst it is there, upon 
 the impossibility of recovering what is lost ; 
 but the practical effect of these maxims upon 
 conduct can scarcely be said to ansv.^er to 
 their undeniable importance. The truth is, 
 that although they tell us to economize our 
 time, they cannot, in the nature of things, in- 
 struct us as to the methods by which it is to be 
 economized. Human life is so extremely va- 
 rious and complicated, M^hilst it tends every 
 day to still greater variety and complication, 
 that all maxims of a general nature require 
 a far higher degree of intelligence in their 
 application to individual cases than it ever 
 cost originally to invent them. Any person 
 gifted with ordinary conmion sense can per- 
 ceive that life is short, that time flies, that 
 we ought to make good use of the present; 
 but it needs the union of much experience, 
 with the most consummate wisdom, to know 
 exactly what ought to be done and what 
 ought to be left undone — the latter being 
 frequently by far the more important of the 
 two. 
 
 Amongst the favorable influences of my 
 early life was the kindness of a venerable 
 country gentleman, who had seen a great 
 deal of the world and passed many years, be- 
 fore he inherited his estates, in the practice 
 
188 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 of a laborious profession. I remember a the- 
 ory of his, that experience was much less 
 valuable than is generally supposed, because, 
 except in matters of simple routine, the prob- 
 lems that present themselves to us for solU' 
 tion are nearly always dangerous from the 
 presence of some unknown element. The un- 
 ^known element he regarded as a hidden pit' 
 'fall, and he warned me that in my progress 
 through life I might always expect to tumble 
 into it. This saying of his has been so often 
 confirmed since then, that I now count upon 
 the pitfall quite as a matter of certainty. 
 Yery frequently I have escaped it, but more 
 by good luck than good management. Some- 
 times I have tumbled into it, and when this 
 misfortune occurred it has not unfrequently 
 been in consequence of having acted upon the 
 advice of some very knowing and experi- 
 enced person indeed. We have all read, 
 when we were boys, Captain Marryat's ' ' Mid- 
 shipman Easy. " There is a passage in that 
 story which may serve as an illustration of 
 what is constantly happening in actual life. 
 The boats of the Harpy were ordered to board 
 one of the enemy's vessels ; young Easy was 
 in command of one of these boats, and as 
 they had to wait he began to fish. After they 
 had received the order to advance, he delayed 
 a little to catch his fish, and this delay not 
 only saved him from being sunk Dy the en- 
 emy's broadside, but enabled him to board 
 the Frenchman. Here the pitfall was avoid- 
 ed by idling away a minute of time on an oc* 
 
TUE POWER OF TIME, 189 
 
 casion when minutes were like hours ; yet it 
 was mere luck, not wisdom, which led to the 
 good result. There was a sad railway acci- 
 dent on one of the continental Unes last 
 autumn; a notable personage would have 
 been in the train if he had arrived in time for 
 it, but his miscalculation saved him. In mat- 
 ters where there is no risk of the loss of life, 
 but only of the waste of a portion of it in un- 
 profitable employment, it frequently happens 
 that procrastination, which is reputed to be 
 the thief of time, becomes its best preserver. 
 Suppose that you undertake an enterprise, 
 but defer the execution of it from day to day : 
 it is quite possible that in the interval some 
 fact may accidentally come to your knowl- 
 edge which would cause a great modification 
 of your plan, or even its complete abandon- 
 ment. Every thinking person is well aware 
 that the enormous loss of time caused by the 
 friction of our legislative machinery has pre- 
 served the country from a great deal of crude 
 and ill- digested legislation. Even Napoleop 
 the Great who had a rapidity of conception 
 and of action so far surpassing that of other 
 kings and commanders that it seems to us al- 
 most supernatural, said that when you did 
 not quite know what ought to be done it was 
 best to do nothing at all. One of the most 
 distinguished of living painters said exactlj^ 
 the same thing with reference to the practice 
 of his art, and added that very little time 
 would be needed for the actual execution of a 
 picture if only the artist knew beforehand 
 
190 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 how and where to lay the color. It so often 
 happens that mere activity is a waste of time, 
 that people who have a morbid habit of being 
 busy are often terrible time-wasters, whilst, 
 on the contrary, those who are judiciously de- 
 liberate, and allow themselves intervals of 
 leisure, see the way before them in those in- 
 tervals, and save time by the accuracy of 
 their calculations. 
 
 A largely intelligent thrift of time is neces- 
 sary to all great works — and many works are 
 very great indeed relatively to the energies 
 of a single, individual, which pass unper- 
 <;eived in the tumult of the world. The ad- 
 "vantages of calculating time are artistic as 
 well as economical. I think that, in this 
 respect, magnificent as are the cathedrals 
 which the Gothic builders have left us, they 
 committed an artistic error in the very im- 
 mensity of their plans. They do not appear 
 to have reflected that from the continual 
 ohanges of fashion in architecture, incongru- 
 ous work would be sure to intrude itself be- 
 fore their gigantic projects could be realized 
 by the generations that were to succeed them. 
 For a work of that kind to possess artistic 
 unity, it ought to be completely realized 
 within the space of forty years. How great 
 is the charm of those perfect edifices which, 
 like the Sainte Chapelle, are the realization 
 ■of one sublime idea? And those changes in 
 national thought which have made the old 
 cathedrals a jumble of incongruous styles, 
 have their parallel in the life of every indi- 
 
THE POWER OF TIME. 191 
 
 vidua! workman. We change from year to 
 year, and any work which occupies us for 
 very long will be wanting in unity of manner. 
 Men are apt enough of themselves to fall 
 into the most astonishing delusions about the 
 opportunities whicii time affords, but they 
 are even more deluded by the talk of the; 
 people about them. When children hear 
 that a new carriage has been ordered of the 
 builder, they expect to see it driven up to the 
 door in a fortnight, with the paint quite dry 
 on the panels. All people are children in this 
 respect, except the workman, who knows the 
 endless details of production ; and the work- 
 man himself, notwithstanding the lessons of 
 experience, makes light of the future task. 
 What gigantic plans we scheme, and how lit- 
 tle we advance in the labor of a day ! Three 
 pages of the book (to be half erased to-mor- 
 row), a bit of drapery in the picture that wilL 
 probably have to be done over again, the im- 
 perceptible removal of an ounce of marble- 
 dust from the statue that seems as if it never 
 would be finished; so much from dawn to 
 twilight has been the accomphshment of the 
 golden hours. If there is one lesson which 
 experience teaches, surely it is this, to make 
 plans that are strictly limited, and to arrange 
 our work in a practicable way within the 
 limits that we must accept. Others expect 
 so much from us that it seems as if we had 
 accomplished nothing. "What! have you. 
 done only that?" they say, or we know by 
 their looks that they are thinking it. 
 
192 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 The most illusory of all the work that we 
 propose to ourselves is reading. It seems so 
 easy to read, that we intend, in the indefinite 
 future, to master the vastest literatures. We 
 cannot bring ourselves to admit that the li- 
 brary we have collected is in great part closed 
 to us simply by want of time. A dear friend 
 of mine, who was a solicitor with a large prac- 
 tice, indulged in wonderful illusions about 
 residing, and collected several thousand vol- 
 umes, all fine editions, but he died without 
 having cut their leaves. I like the university 
 habit of making reading a business, and esti- 
 mating the mastery of a few authors as a just 
 title to consideration for scholarship. I should 
 like very well to be shut up in a garden for a 
 whole summer with no literature but the ' ' Fae- 
 ry Queene," and one year I very nearly real- 
 ized that project, but publishers and the post- 
 mau. iiDterf ered with it. After all, this business 
 of reading ought to be less illusory than most 
 others, for printers divide books into pages, 
 which they number, so that, with a moderate 
 skill in arithmetic, one ought to be able to 
 foresee the limits of his possibilities. There is 
 another observation which may be suggested, 
 and that is to take note of the time required 
 for reading difierent languages. We read 
 very slowly when the language is imperfectly 
 naastered, and we need the dictionary, where- 
 as in the native tongue we see the whole page 
 almost at a glance, as if it were a picture. 
 People whose time for reading is limited 
 ought not to waste it in graiimiars and die- 
 
THE POWER OF TIME. 193 
 
 tionaries, but to confine themselves resolutely 
 to a couple of languages, or three at the very 
 utmost, notwithstanding the contempt of 
 polyglots, who estimate your learning by the 
 variety of your tongues. It is a fearful throw- 
 ing away of time, from the literary point of 
 view, to begin more languages than you can 
 master or retain, and to be always puzzling 
 yourself about irregular verbs. 
 
 All plans for sparing time in intellectual 
 matters ought, however, to proceed upon the 
 principle of thrift, and not upon the princi- 
 ple of avarice. The object of the thrifty 
 man in money matters is so to lay out his 
 money as to get the best possible result from 
 his expenditure ; the object of the avaricious 
 man is to spend no more money than he can 
 help. An artist who taught me painting often 
 repeated a piece of advice which is valuable 
 in other things than art, and which I try to 
 remember whenever patience fails. He used 
 to say to me, ' ' Give it time. " The mere length 
 of time that we bestow upon our work is in 
 itself a most important element of success, 
 and if I object to the use of languages that we 
 only half know, it is not because it takes us a 
 long time to get through a chapter, but be- 
 cause we are compelled to think about syntax 
 and conjugations which did not in the least 
 occupy the mind of the author, when we 
 ought rather to be thinking about those things 
 which did occupy his mind, about the events 
 which he narrated, or the characters that he 
 imagined or described. There are, in truth, 
 13 
 
194 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 only two ways of impressing anything on the 
 memory, either intensity or duration. If you 
 saw a man struck down by an assassin, you 
 would remember the occurrence all your life ; 
 but to remember with equal vividness a pict- 
 ure of the assassination, you would probably 
 be obliged to spend a month or two in copying 
 it. The subjects of our studies rarely produce 
 an intensity of emotion sufficient to ensure 
 perfect recollection without the expenditure 
 of time. And when your object is not to 
 learn, but to produce, it is well to bear in mind 
 that everything requires a certain definite 
 time-outlay, which cannot be reduced without 
 an inevitable injury to quality. A most ex- 
 perienced artist, a man of the very rarest ex- 
 ecutive ability, wrote to me the other day 
 about a set of designs I had suggested. ' ' If 
 I could but get the TIME," — the large capitals 
 are his own, — "for, somehow or other, let a 
 design be never so studiously simple in the 
 masses, it ivill fill itself as it goes on, like the 
 weasel in the fable who got into the meal-tub ; 
 and when the pleasure begins in attempting 
 tone and mystery and intricacy, away go the 
 hours at a gallop. " A well-known and very 
 successful English dramatist wrote to me: 
 ' ' When I am hurried, and have undertaken 
 more work than I can execute in the time at 
 my disposal, I am always perfectly paralyzed. '» 
 There is another side to this subject which 
 deserves attention. Some men work best un- 
 der the sense of pressure. Simple compres- 
 sion evolves heat from iron, so that there is 
 
THE POWER OF TIME. 195 
 
 a flash of fire when a ball hits the side of an 
 ironclad. The same law seems to hold good 
 in the intellectual life of man, whenever he 
 needs the stimulus of extraordinary excite- 
 ment. Rossini positively advised a young 
 composer never to write his overture until 
 the evening before the first performance. 
 "Nothing," he said, " excites inspiration like 
 necessity ; the presence of a copyist waiting 
 for your work, and the view of a manager in 
 despair tearing out his hair by handfuls. In 
 Italy in my time all the managers were bald 
 at thirty. I composed the overture to ' Oth- 
 ello ' in a small room in the Barbaja Palace, 
 where the baldest and most ferocious of man- 
 agers had shut me up by force with nothing^ 
 but a dish of maccaroni, and the threat that I 
 should not leave the place alive until I had 
 written the last note. I wrote the overture 
 to the 'Gazza Ladra' on tlie day of the first 
 performance, in the upper loft of the La 
 Scala, where I had been confined by the man- 
 ager, under the guard of four scene-shifters 
 who had orders to throw my text out of the 
 window bit by bit to copyists, who were wait- 
 ing below to transcribe it. In default of 
 music I was to be thrown out myself." 
 
 I have quoted the best instance known to 
 me of this voluntary seeking after pressure, 
 but striking as it is, even this instance 
 does not weaken what I said before. For 
 observe, that although Rossini deferred the 
 composition of his overture till the evening 
 before the first performance, he knew very 
 
196 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE, 
 
 well that he could do it thoroughly in the 
 time. He was like a clever schoolboy who 
 knows that he can learn his lesson in the 
 quarter of an hour before the class begins ; or 
 Se was like an orator who knows that he can 
 deliver a passage and compose at the same 
 time the one which is to follow, so that he 
 prefers to arrange his speech in the presence 
 of his audience. Since Eossini always al- 
 lowed himself all the time that was necessary 
 for what he had to do, it is clear that he did 
 not sin against the great time-necessity. The 
 express which can travel from London to 
 Edinburgh in a night may leave the English 
 .metropolis on Saturday evening although it 
 -is due in Scotland on Sunday, and still act 
 with the strictest consideration about time. 
 The blameable error lies in miscalculation, 
 and not in rapidity of performance. 
 
 Nothing wastes time hke miscalculation. It 
 negatives all results. It is the parent of in- 
 completeness, the great author of the Unfin- 
 ished and the Unserviceable. Almost every 
 intellectual man has laid out great masses of 
 time on five or six different branches of knowl- 
 edge which are not of the least use to him. 
 simply because he has not carried them far 
 enough, and could not carry them far enough 
 in the time he had to give. Yet this might have 
 been ascertained at the beginning by the sim- 
 plest arithmetical calculation. The experience 
 of students in all departments of knovv^ledge 
 has quite definitely ascertained the amount of 
 time that is necessary for success in them, and 
 
THE POWER OF TIME. 197 
 
 the successful student can at once inform the 
 aspirant how far he is likely to travel along 
 the road. What is the use, to anybody, of 
 having just enough skill to feel vexed with 
 himself that he has no more, and yet angry at 
 other people for not admiring the little that he 
 possesses? 
 
 I wish to direct your attention to a cause 
 which more than any other produces disap- 
 pointment in ordinary intellectual pursuits. 
 It is this. People can often calculate with the 
 utmost accuracy what they can accomplish in 
 ten minutes or even in ten hours, and yet the 
 very same persons will make the most absurd 
 miscalculations about what they can accom- 
 plish in ten years. There is of course a rea- 
 son for this : if there were not, so many sensi- 
 ble people would not suffer from the delusion. 
 The reason is, that owing to the habits of hu- 
 man life there is a certain elasticity in large 
 spaces of time that include nights, and meal- 
 times, and holidays. We fancy that we shall 
 be able, by working harder than we have been 
 accustomed to work, and by stealing hours 
 from all the different kinds of rest and amuse- 
 ment, to accomplish far more in the ten years 
 that are to come than we have ever actually 
 accomplished in the same space. And to a 
 certain extent this may be very true. No doubt 
 a man whose mind has become seriously aware 
 of the vast importance of economizing his time 
 will economize it better than he did in the days 
 before the new conviction came to him. No 
 doubt, after skill in our work has been con- 
 
198 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE, 
 
 firmed, we shall perform it with increased 
 speed. But the elasticity of time is rather 
 that of leather than that of india-rubber. 
 There is certainly a degree of elasticity, but 
 the degree is strictly limited. The true mas- 
 >.r of time-thrift would be no more liable to 
 ^lasion about years than about hours, and 
 would act as prudently when working for re- 
 mote results as for near ones. 
 
 Not that we ought to work as if we were al- 
 ways under severe pressure. Little books are 
 occasionally published in which we are told 
 that it is a sin to lose a minute. From the in- 
 tellectual point of view this doctrine is simply 
 stupid. What the Philistines call wasted 
 time is often rich in the most varied experience 
 to the intelligent. If all that we have learned 
 in idle moments could be suddenly expelled 
 from our minds by some chemical process, it 
 is probable that they would be worth very ht- 
 tle afterwards. What, after such a process, 
 would have remained to Shakespeare, Scott, 
 Cervantes, Thackeray, Dickens, Hogarth, 
 Goldsmith, Moliere? When these great stu- 
 dents of human nature were learning most, 
 the sort of people who write the foolish little 
 books just alluded to would have wanted to 
 send them home to the dictionary or the 
 desk. Topffer and Claude Tillier, both men of 
 delicate and observant genius, attached the 
 greatest importance to hours of idleness. 
 Topff er said that a year of downright loitering 
 was a desirable element in a liberal education ; 
 whilst Claude Tillier went even farther, and 
 
THE POWEB OF TIME. 199 
 
 boldly affirmed that ' ' le temps le mieux em- 
 ploye est celui que Ton perd." 
 
 Let us not think too contemptuously of the 
 niiscalculators of time, since not one of us is 
 exempt from their folly. We have all made 
 miscalculations, or more frequently have sim- 
 ply omitted calculation altogether, preferring 
 childish illusion to a manly examination of 
 realities; and afterwards as life advances 
 another illusion steals over us not less vain 
 than the early one, but bitter as that was 
 sweet. We now begin to reproach ourselves 
 with all the opportunities that have been 
 neglected, and now our folly is to imagine 
 that we might have done impossible wonders 
 if we had only exercised a little resolution. 
 We might have been thorough classical schol- 
 ars, and spoken all the great modern lan- 
 guages, and w^ritten immortal books, and 
 made a colossal fortune. Miscalculations 
 again, and these the most imbecile of all ; for 
 the youth who forgets to reason in the glow 
 of happiness and hope, is wiser than the man 
 who overestimates what was once possible 
 that he may embitter the days which remain 
 to him. 
 
iSOO THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 LETTER III. 
 
 TO A MAN OF BUSINESS WHO DESIRED TO MAKH 
 HIMSELF BETTER ACQUAINTED WITH LITERA- 
 TURE, BUT WHOSE TIME FOR READING WAS 
 LIMITED. 
 
 Victor Jacquemont on the intellectual labors of the Germans 
 — Business may be set off as the equivalent to one of their 
 pursuits — Necessity for regularity in the economy of time 
 — ^What may be done in two hom'S a day — Evils of inter- 
 ruption—Florence Nightingale — Real nature of interrup- 
 tion — Instance from the Apology of Socrates. 
 
 In the charming and precious letters of 
 Victor Jacquemont, a man whose hfe was 
 dedicated to culture, and who not only lived 
 for it, but died for it, there is a passage about 
 the intellectual labors of Germans, which 
 takes due account of the expenditure of time. 
 "Comme j'etais etonne," he says, "de la 
 prodigieuse variete et de I'etendue de connais- 
 sances des AUemands, je demandai un jour a 
 I'un de mes amis, Saxon de naissance et I'un 
 des premiers geologues de I'Europe, comment 
 ses compatriotes s'y prenaient pour savoir 
 tant de choses. Voici sa reponse, a peu pres : 
 ' Un AUemand (moi excepte qui suis le plus 
 paresseux des hommes) se leve de bonne heure, 
 ete et hiver, a cinq heures environ. II tra- 
 vaille quatre heures avant le dejeuner, f umant 
 quelquefois pendant tout ce temps, sans que 
 cela nuise a son application. Son dejeuner 
 dure une demi-heure, et il reste, apres, une 
 autre demi-heure a causer avec sa femme et a 
 
THE POWER OF TIME. 201 
 
 faire jouer ses enfants. II retourne aii travail 
 pour six heures ; dine sans se presser ; fume 
 une heure apres le diner, jouant encore avec 
 ses enfants; et avant de se coucher il tra- 
 vaille encore quatre heures. II recommence 
 tous les jours, ne sortant jamais. — Voila,' me, 
 dit mon ami, ' comment Oersted, le plus grandl 
 physicien de I'Allemagne, en est aussi le plus; 
 grand medecin ; voila comment Kant le met- 
 aphysicien etait un des plus savants astrono- 
 mes de I'Europe, et comment Goethe, qui en 
 est actuellement le premier litterateur, dans 
 presque tous les genres, et le plus fecond, est 
 excellent botaniste, mineralogiste, physi- 
 cien.'" * 
 
 Here is something to encourage, and some- 
 thing to discourage you at the same time. 
 
 * " Being astonished at the prodigious variety and at the 
 extent of knowledge possessed by the Germans, I begged oue 
 of my friends, Saxon by birth, and one of the foremost geol- 
 ogists in Europe, to tell me how his countrymen managed to 
 know so many things. Here is his answer, nearly in his own 
 words:— 'A German (except myself, who am the idlest of 
 men) gets up early, summer and winter, at about five o'clock. 
 He works four hours before breakfast, sometimes smoking 
 aU the time, which does not interfere with his application. 
 His breakfast lasts half an hour, and he remains, afterwards, 
 another half -hour talking with his wife and playing with his 
 children. He returns to his work for six hours, dines without: 
 hurrying himself, smokes an hour after dinner, playing agaiix 
 with his children, and before he goes to bed he works four 
 hours more. He begins again every day, and never goes out.. 
 This is how it comes to' pass that Oersted, the greatest nat- 
 ural philosopher in Germany, is at the same time the greatest 
 physician ; this is how Kant the metaphysician was one of 
 the most learned astronomers in Europe, and how Goethe, 
 who is at present the first and most fertile author in Germany 
 in almost all kinds of literature, is an excellent botAniat, miBr 
 walogist, and natural philosopher.' " 
 
S02 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 !rhe number of hours which these men have 
 given in order to become what they were, is 
 so great as to be past all possibility of imita- 
 tion by a man occupied in business. It is clear 
 that, with your counting-house to occupy you 
 during the best hours of every day, you can 
 never labor for your intellectual culture with 
 that unremitting application which these men 
 have given for theirs. But, on the other hand, 
 you will perceive that these extraordinary 
 workers have hardly ever been wholly dedi- 
 cated to one pursuit, and the reason for this 
 in most cases is clear. Men who go through 
 a prodigious amount of work feel the necessity 
 for varying it. The greatest intellectual work- 
 ers I have known personally have varied their 
 studies as Kant and Goethe did, often taking 
 tip subjects of the most opposite kin^ds, as for 
 instance imaginative literature and the higher 
 mathematics, the critical and practical study 
 of fine art and the natural sciences, music, 
 and political economy. The class of intellects 
 which arrogate to themselves the epithet 
 "practical," but which we call Philistine, 
 always oppose this love of variety, and have 
 an unaffected contempt for it, but these are 
 matters beyond their power of judgment. 
 They cannot know the needs of the intellectual 
 life, because they have never lived it. The 
 practice of all the greatest intellects has been 
 to cultivate themselves variously, and if they 
 have always done so, it must be because they 
 have felt the need of it. 
 
 The encouraging inference which you may 
 
THE POWER OF TIME. 203 
 
 draw from this in reference to your own case 
 is that, since all intellectual men have had 
 more than one pursuit, you may set off your 
 business against the most absorbing of their 
 pursuits, and for the rest be still almost as 
 rich in time as they have been. You may 
 study literature as some painters have studied 
 it, or science as some literary men have 
 studied it. 
 
 The first step is to establish a regulated 
 economy of your time, so that, without inter- 
 fering with a due attention to business and to 
 health, you may get two clear hours every day 
 for reading of the best kind. It is not much, 
 some men would tell you that it is not enough, 
 but I purposely fix the expenditure of time at 
 a low figure because I want it to be always 
 practicable consistently with all the duties 
 and necessary pleasures of your life. If I told 
 you to read four hours every day, I know be- 
 forehand what would be the consequence. 
 You would keep the rule for three days, by 
 an effort, then some engagement would occur 
 to break it, and you would have no rule at all. 
 And please observe that the two hours are to 
 be given quite regularly, because, when the 
 time given is not much, regularity is quite 
 essential. Two hours a day, regularly, make 
 more than seven hundred hours in a year, and 
 in seven hundred hours, wisely and uninter- 
 ruptedly occupied, much may be done in any- 
 thing. 
 
 Permit me to insist upon that word unin- 
 terruptedly. Few people realize the full evil 
 
204 TEE INTELLECTUAL LIFE 
 
 of an interruption, few people know all that is 
 implied by it. After warning nurses against 
 the evils of interruption, Florence Nightin- 
 gale says : — 
 
 "These things are not fancy. If we con- 
 sider that, with sick as with well, every 
 thought decomposes some nervous matter — 
 that decomposition as well as re-composition 
 lof nervous matter is always going on, and 
 more quickly with the sick than with the 
 ^ell, — that to obtrude another thought upon 
 the brain whilst it is in the act of destroying 
 nervous matter by thinking, is calling upon it 
 to make a new exertion — if we consider these 
 things, which are facts, not fancies, we shall 
 remember that we are doing positive injury 
 by interrupting, by startling a ' fanciful ' per- 
 son, as it is called, Alas, it is no fancy. 
 
 " If the invalid is forced by his avocations to 
 continue occupations requiring much think- 
 ing, the injury is doubly great. In feeding a 
 patient suffering under delirium or stupor 
 you may suffocate him by giving him his 
 food suddenly, but if you rub his lips gently 
 with a spoon and thus attract his attention, he 
 'will swallow the food unconsciously, but with 
 perfect safety. Thus it is with the brain. If 
 you offer it a thought, especially one requir- 
 ing a decision, abruptly, you do it a real, not 
 fanciful, injury. Never speak to a sick per- 
 son suddenly; but, at the same time, do not 
 keep his expectation on the tiptoe." 
 
 To this you will already have answered, 
 mentally, that you are not a patient suffering 
 
THE POWER OF TIME. 205 
 
 under either delirium or stupor, and that no- 
 body needs to rub your lips gently with a 
 spoon. But Miss Nightingale does not con- 
 sider interruption baneful to sick persons 
 only. 
 
 " This rule indeed," she continues, "applies 
 to the well quite as much as to the sick. I 
 have never known persons who exposed the^n- 
 selves for years to constant interruption who 
 did not muddle away their intellects by it at 
 last. The process, with them, may be accom- 
 plished without pain. With the sick, pain 
 gives warning of the injury. " 
 
 Interruption is an evil to the reader which 
 must be estimated very differently from ordi- 
 nary business interruptions. The great ques- 
 tion about interruption is not whether it com- 
 pels you to divert your attention to other 
 facts, but whether it compels you to tune 
 your whole mind to another diapason. Shop- 
 keepers are incessantly compelled to change 
 the subject; a stationer is asked for note- 
 paper one minute, for sealing-wax the next, 
 and immediately afterwards for a particular 
 sort of steel pen. The subjects of his thoughts 
 are changed very rapidly, but the general 
 state of his mind is not changed ; he is always 
 strictly in his shop, as much mentally as 
 physically. When an attorney is interrupted 
 in the study of a case by the arrival of a cli- 
 ent who asks him questions about another 
 case, the change is more difficult to bear ; yet 
 even here the general state of mind, the legal 
 state of mind, is not interfered with. Bu^ 
 
206 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 now suppose a reader perfectly absorbed in 
 his author, an author belonging very likely 
 to another age and another civilization en- 
 tirely different from ours. Suppose that you 
 are reading the Defence of Socrates in Plato, 
 and have the whole scene before you as in a 
 picture: the tribunal of the Five Hundred, 
 the pure Greek architecture, the interested 
 Athenian public, the odious Melitus, the en- 
 vious enemies, the beloved and grieving 
 friends whose names are dear to us, and im- 
 mortal ; and in the centre you see one figure 
 draped like a poor man, in cheap and com- 
 mon cloth, that he wears winter and summer, 
 with a face plain to downright ugliness, but 
 an air of such genuine courage and self-pos- 
 session that no acting could imitate it; and 
 you hear the firm voice say >ng — 
 
 Tt/itarai 6' ovv [lot dvrjp davdrov 
 Elev* 
 
 You are just beginning the splendid para 
 graph where Socrates condemns himself to 
 maintenance in the Prytaneum, and if you 
 can only be safe from interruption till it is 
 finished, you will have one of those minutes 
 of noble pleasure which are the rewards of 
 intellectual toil. But if you are reading in 
 the daytime in a house where there are wom- 
 en and children, or where people can fasten 
 upon you for pottering details of business, 
 you may be sure that you will not be able to 
 get to the end of the passage without in some 
 
 * The man, then, judges me worthy of death. Be it so. 
 
TBE POWER OF TIME, 207 
 
 way 01 other being rudely awakened from 
 your dream, and suddenly brought back into 
 the common world. The loss intellectually is 
 greater than any one who had not suffered 
 from it could imagine. People think that an 
 interruption is merely the unhooking of an 
 electric chain, and that the current will flow, 
 when the chain is hooked on again, just as it 
 did before. To the intellectual and imagina- 
 tive student an interruption is not that ; it is 
 the destruction of a picture. 
 
 LETTER IV. 
 
 *£0 A STUDENT S7HO F^LT HURRIED AND DRIVEN. 
 
 People who like +o be hurried— Sluggish temperaments gain 
 vivacity under pressure— Routine work may be done at in- 
 creased speed — The higher intellectual work cannot be done 
 huiTiedly— The art of avoiding hurry consists in Selection — 
 How it was practised by a good landscape painter— Selec- 
 tion in readuig and writing— Some studies allow the play of 
 selection moi-e than others do — Languages permit it less 
 +i^an natural sciences— Difficulty of using selection in the 
 iulfilment of literary engagements. 
 
 So you have got yourself into that pleasant 
 condition which is about as agreeable, and as 
 favorable to fruitful study and observation, 
 as the condition of an ove*"-driven cab-horse ! 
 
 Very indolent men, who will not work at 
 all unless under the pressure of immediate 
 urgency, sometimes tell us that they actually 
 like to be hurried ; but although certain kinds 
 of practical work which have become per- 
 fectly easy from habit may be got through at 
 a great pace when the workman feels that 
 
208 TRJE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 there is an immediate necessity for effort, it 
 is certainly not true that hurry is favorable 
 to sound study of any kind. Work which 
 merely runs in a fixed groove may be urged 
 on occasionally at express speed without any 
 perceptible injury to the quality of it. A 
 clever violinist can play a passage prestissimo 
 as correctly as if he played it adagio ; a bank- 
 er's clerk can count money very rapidly with 
 positively less risk of error than if he counted 
 it as you and I do. A person of sluggish tem- 
 perament really gains in vivacity when he is 
 pressed for time, and becomes during those 
 moments of excited energy a clearer-headed 
 and more able person than he is under ordi- 
 nary circumstances. It is therefore not sur- 
 prising that he should find himself able to ac- 
 complish more under the great stimulus of an 
 immediate necessity than he is able to do in 
 the dulness of his every-day existence. Great 
 prodigies of labor have been performed in 
 this way to avert impending calamity, espe- 
 cially by military officers in critical times like 
 those of the Sepoy rebellion ; and in the ob- 
 scurer lives of tradesmen, immense exertions 
 are often made to avert the danger of bank- 
 ruptcy, when without the excitement of a se- 
 rious anxiety of that kind the tradesman 
 would not feel capable of more than a moder- 
 ate and reasonable degree of attention to his 
 affairs. But notwithstanding the many in- 
 stances of this kind which might be cited, 
 and the many more which might easily be 
 collected, the truth remains that the highest 
 
THE POWER OF TIME, 209 
 
 kinds of intellectual labor can hardly ever be 
 properly performed when the degree of press- 
 ure is in the least excessive. You may, for 
 example, if you have the kind of abihty 
 which makes a good journalist, write an ef- 
 fective leader with your watch lying on the 
 table, and finish it exactly when the time is 
 up ; but if you had the kind of ability which 
 makes a good poet, you could not write any- 
 thing like highly-finished poetry against time. 
 It is equally clear that scientific discovery, 
 which, though it may flash suddenly upon 
 the mind of the discoverer, is always the re- 
 sult of long brooding over the most patient 
 observations, must come at its own moments, 
 and cannot be commanded. The activity of 
 poets and discoverers would be paralyzed by 
 exigencies which stimulate the activity of 
 soldiers and men of business. The truth is, 
 that intelligence and energy are beneficially . 
 stimulated by pressure from without, where- 
 as the working of the higher intellect is im- 
 peded by it, and that to such a degree that in 
 times of the greatest pressure the high intel- 
 leetual life is altogether suspended, to leave 
 free play to the lower but more immediately 
 serviceable intelligence. 
 
 This being so, it becomes a necessary part, 
 of the art of intellectual living so to order our 
 work as to shield ourselves if possible, at 
 least during a certain portion of our time„ 
 from the evil consequences of hurry. The 
 whole secret lies in a single word — Selection. 
 An excellent landscape, painter told me that 
 14 
 
210 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 Whatever he had to do, he always took the 
 neatest pains to arrange his work so as 
 never to have his tranquillity disturbed by 
 haste. His system, which is quite applicable 
 to many other things than landscape paint- 
 ing, was based on the principle of selection. 
 He always took care to determine beforehand 
 how much time he could devote to each 
 sketch or study, and then, from the mass of 
 natural facts before him, selected the most 
 valuable facts which could be recorded in the 
 time at his disposal. But however short that 
 time might be, he was always perfectly cool 
 and deliberate in the employment of it. In- 
 deed this coolness and his skill in selection 
 helped each other mutually, for he chose 
 wisely because he was cool, and he had time 
 to be cool by reason of the wisdom of his 
 selection. In his little memoranda, done in 
 five minutes, the lines were laid just as de- 
 liberately as the tints on an elaborate ]3icture ; 
 the difference being in choice only, not ir. 
 'speed. 
 
 Now if we apply this art of selection to all 
 our labors it will give us much of that land- 
 scape painter's enviable coolness, and enable 
 us to w^ork more satisfactorily. Suppose that 
 instead of painting and sketching we have to 
 do a great deal of reading and writing: the 
 •art is to select the reading which will be most 
 useful to our purpose, and, in writing, to se- 
 lect the words which will express our meam 
 ing with the greatest clearness in a little 
 space. The art of reading is to skip judi- 
 
THE POWER OF TIME. 211 
 
 ciously. Whole libraries niay be skipped in 
 these days, when we have the results of them 
 in our modern culture without going over the 
 ground again. And even of the books we de- 
 cide to read, there are almost always large 
 portions which do not concern us, and which 
 we are sure to forget the day after we have 
 read them. The art is to skip aU that does 
 not concern us, whilst missing nothing that 
 we really need. No external guidance can 
 teach us this ; for nobody but ourselves can 
 guess what the needs of our intellect may be. 
 But let us select with decisive firmness, inde- 
 pendently of other people's advice, independ- 
 ently of the authority of custom. In every 
 newspaper that comes to hand there is a little 
 bit that we ought to read ; the art is to find 
 that httle bit, and waste no time over the 
 rest. 
 
 Some studies permit the exercise of selec- 
 tion better than others do. A language, once 
 undertaken, permits very little selection in- 
 deed, since you must know the whole vocab- 
 ulary, or nearly so, to be able to read and 
 speak. On the other hand, the natural sci- 
 ences permit the most prudent exercise of se- 
 lection. For example, in botany you may 
 study as few plants as you choose. 
 
 In writing, the art of selection consists in 
 giving the utmost effect to expression in the 
 fewest words ; but of this art I say little, for 
 who can contend against an inevitable trade- 
 necessity? Almost every author of ordinary 
 skill could, when pressed for time, find a 
 
212 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 briefer expression for his thoughts, but the 
 real difficulty in fulfilling literary engage- 
 ments does not lie in the expression of the 
 thought, it lies in the sufficiently rapid pro- 
 duction of a certain quantity of copy. For 
 this purpose I fear that selection would be of 
 very little use — of no more use, in fact, than 
 in any other branch of manufacture where (if 
 a certain standard is kept up to) quantity in 
 sale is more important than quality of mate- 
 rial. 
 
 LETTER V. 
 
 TO A FRIEND WHO, THOUGH HE HAD NO PRO- 
 FESSION, COULD NOT FIND TIME FOR HIS VA- 
 RIOUS INTELLECTUAL PURSUITS. 
 
 Compensations resulting from the necessity for time — Oppor- 
 tunity only exists for us so far as we have time to make 
 use of it — This or that, not tliis and that — Danger of ap- 
 parently tmlimited opportunities— The intellectual train- 
 ing of our ancestors— Montaig-ne the Essayist — Reliance 
 upon the compensations. 
 
 It has always seemed to me that the great 
 and beautiful principle of compensation is 
 more clearly seen in the distribution and 
 effects of time than in anything else within 
 the scope of our experience. The good use of 
 one opportunity very frequently compensates 
 us for the absence of another, and it does so 
 because opportunity is itself so dependent 
 upon time that, although the best opportuni- 
 ties may apparently be presented to us, we 
 
THE PO WEB OF TIME. 21S 
 
 can make no use of them unless we are able 
 to giYQ them the time that they require. You, 
 who have the best possible opportunities for 
 culture, find a certain sadness and disappoint- 
 ment because you cannot avail yourself of all 
 of them ; but the truth is, that opportunity 
 only exists for us just so far as we are able to 
 make .use of it, and our power to do so is 
 often nothing but a question of time. If our 
 days are well employed we are sure to have 
 done some good thing which we should have 
 been comi3elled to neglect if we had been oc- 
 cupied about anything else. Hence every 
 genuine worker has rich compensations 
 which ought to console him amply for his 
 shortcomings, and to enable him to meet 
 comparisons without fear. 
 
 Those who aspire to the intellectual life, but 
 have no experience of its difficulties, very fre- 
 quently envy men so favorably situated as 
 you are. It seems to them that all the world's 
 knowledge is accessible to you, and that you 
 have simply to cull its fruits as we gather 
 grapes in a vineyard. They forget the power 
 of Time, and the restrictions which Time im- 
 poses. "This or that, not this and that," is 
 the rule to which all of us have to submit, and 
 it strangely equalizes the destinies of men. 
 The time given to the study of one thing is 
 withdrawn from the study of another, and the 
 hours of the day are limited alike for all of us. 
 How difficult it is to reconcile the interests of 
 our different pursuits ! Indeed it seems lik^ 
 a sort of polygamy to have different pursuits^ 
 
214 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 It is natural to think of them as jealous wives 
 tormenting some Mormon prophet. 
 
 There is great danger in apparently unlim- 
 ited opportunities, and a splendid compensa- 
 tion for those who are confined by circum- 
 stances to a narrow but fruitful field. The 
 Englishman gets more civilization out of a 
 farm and a garden than the Red Indian out of 
 the space encircled by his horizon. Our cult - 
 ure gains in thoroughness what it loses in ex- 
 tent. 
 
 This consideration goes far to explain the fact 
 that although our ancestors were so much less 
 favorably situated than we are, they often got 
 as good an intellectual training from the liter- 
 ature that was accessible to them, as we from 
 our vaster stores. We live in an age of es- 
 sayists, and yet what modern essayist writes 
 better than old Montaigne ? All that a thought- 
 ful and witty writer needs for the sharpening 
 of his intellect, Montaigne found in the ancient 
 literature that was accessible to him, and in 
 the life of the age he lived in. Born in our own 
 century, he would have learned many other 
 things, no doubt, and read many other books, 
 but these would have absorbed the hours that 
 he employed not less fruitfully with the 
 authors that he loved in the little library up 
 in the third story of his tower, as he tells us, 
 where he could see all his books at once, set 
 upon five rows of shelves round about him. 
 In earlier life he bought "this sort of furni- 
 ture " for "ornament and outward show," 
 but afterwards quite abandoned that, and 
 
THE POWER OF TIME. 215. 
 
 procured such volumes only ' ' as supplied his 
 own need." 
 
 To supply our own need, within the narrow 
 limits of the few and transient hours that we 
 can call our own, is enough for the wise every- 
 where, as it was for Montaigne in his tower. 
 Let us resolve to do as much as that, not 
 more, and then rely upon the golden compen- 
 sations. 
 
 Note. — " Supposing that the executive and critical powers 
 always exist in some correspondent degree in the same per- 
 son, still they cannot be cultivated to the same extent. The 
 attention required for the development of a theory is necessa- 
 rily withdrawn from the design of a drawing, and the time 
 devoted to the realization of a form is lost to the solution of 
 a problem." — Mr. Ruskin, in the preface to the third volume 
 of " Modern Painters.'''' 
 
 In the case of Mr. Ruskin, in that of Mr. Dante Rossetti, 
 and in all cases where the literary and artistic gifts are natur- 
 ally pretty evenly balanced, the preponderance of an hour a 
 day given to one or the other class of studies may have set- 
 tled the question whether the student was to be chiefly artist 
 or chiefly author. The enormous importance of the distribu- 
 tion of time is never more clearly manifested than in cases of 
 this kind. Mr. Ruskin might certainly have attained rank as 
 a painter, Rossetti might have been as prolific in poetry as 
 he is excellent. What these gifted men are now is not so 
 much a question of talent as of time. In like manner the 
 question whether Ingres was to be known as a painter or as a 
 vioUnist was settled by the employment of hours rather than 
 by any preponderance of faculty. 
 
PAET V. 
 
 THE INFLUENCES OF MONEY. 
 
 LETTER I. 
 
 TO A VERY RICH STUDENT. 
 
 Ihe author of " Vathek " — The double temptation of wealth- 
 Rich men tempted to follow occupations in which their 
 wealth is useful — Pressure of social duties on the rich— 
 The Duchess of Orleans— The rich man's time not his 
 own — The rich may help the general intellectual advance- 
 ment by the exercise of patronage — Dr. Carpenter — Franz 
 "Woepke. 
 
 It has always seemed to me a very remark- 
 able and noteworthy circumstance that al- 
 though Mr. Beckford, the author of "Vat- 
 hek," produced in his youth a story which 
 hears all the signs of true inventive genius, he 
 never produced anything in after-life which 
 posterity cares to preserve. I read ' ' Vathek " 
 again quite recently, to see how far my early 
 enthusiasm for it might have been due to 
 that passion for orientalism which reigned 
 amongst us many years ago, but this fresh 
 perusal left an impression which only genius 
 leaves. Beckford really had invention, and 
 an extraordinary narrative power. That 
 such faculties, after having once revealed 
 themselves, should contentedly have re- 
 mained dormant ever afterwards, is one of 
 
TKE INFLUENCES OF MONEY. 217 
 
 the most curious facts in the history of the 
 human mind, and it is the more curious that 
 Beckford hved to a very advanced age. 
 
 Beckford's case appears to have been one of 
 those in which great wealth dmiinishes or 
 wholly paralyzes the highest energy of the 
 intellect, leaving the lower energies free to 
 exert less noble kinds of activity. A refined 
 self-indulgence became the habit of his life, 
 and he developed simply into a dilettant. 
 Even his love for the fine arts did not rise 
 above the indulgence of an elegant and culti- 
 vated taste. Although he lived at the very 
 time most favorable to the appearance of a 
 great critic in architecture and painting, the 
 time of a great architectural revival and of 
 the growth of a vigorous and independent 
 school of contemporary art, he exercised no 
 influence beyond that of a wealthy virtuoso. 
 His love of the beautiful began and ended in 
 simple personal gratification; it led to no 
 noble labor, to no elevating severity of disci- 
 pline. Englishman though he was, he filled 
 his Oriental tower with masterpieces from 
 Italy and Holland, only to add form and color 
 to the luxuries of his reverie, behind his gilded 
 lattices. 
 
 And when he raised that other tower at 
 Ponthill, and the slaves of the lamp toiled at 
 it by torchlight to gratify his Oriental impa- 
 tience, he exercised no influence upon the con- 
 fusion of his epoch more durable than that 
 hundred yards of masonry which sank into a 
 shapeless heap whilst as yet Azrael spared its 
 
218 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 author. He to whom Nature and Fortune 
 had been so prodigal of their gifts, he whom 
 Reynolds painted and Mozart instructed, who 
 knew the poets of seven literatures, culling 
 their jewels like flowers in seven enchanted 
 gardens — he to whom the palaces of knowl- 
 edge all opened their golden gates even in his 
 earliest youth, to whom were also given riches 
 and length of days, for whom a thousand 
 craftsmen toiled in Europe and a thousand 
 slaves beyond the sea,* — what has this gifted 
 mortal left as the testimony of his power, as 
 the trace of his fourscore years upon the earth ? 
 Only the reminiscence of a vague splendor, 
 like the fast-fading recollection of a cloud 
 that burned at sunset, and one small gem of 
 intellectual creation that lives like a tiny star. 
 If wealth had oiAj pleasure to offer as a 
 temptation from intellectual labor, its influ- 
 ence would be easier to resist. Men of the 
 English race are often grandly strong in resist- 
 ance to every form of voluptuousness ; the race 
 is fond of comfort and convenience, but it does 
 not sacrifice its energy to enervating self-in- 
 dulgence. There is, however, another order 
 of temptations in great wealth, to which Eng- 
 lishmen not only yield, but yield with a satis- 
 fied conscience, even with a sense of obedience 
 
 * This sounds like a poetical exaggeration, but it is less 
 than the bare truth. There were fifteen hundred slaves on 
 two West Indian estates that Beckf ord lost in a lawsuit. It 
 is quite certain, considering his lavish expenditiu-e, that fully 
 a thousand men must have worked for the maintenance of 
 Ms luxury in Europe. So much for his command of labor. 
 
THE INFLUENCES OF MONEY. 219 
 
 to duty. Wealth carries pleasure in her left 
 hand, but in her right she bears honor and 
 power. The rich man feels that he can do so 
 much by the mere exercise of his command 
 over the labor of others, and so httle by any 
 unaided labor of his own, that he is always 
 strongly tempted to become, not only phys- 
 ically but intellectually, a director of work 
 rather that a workman. Even his modesty, 
 when he is modest, tends to foster his reliance 
 on others rather than himself. All that he 
 tries to &(} is done so much better by those 
 who make it their profession, that he is al- 
 ways tempted to fall back upon his paying 
 power as his most satisfactory and effective 
 force. There are cases in which this tempta- 
 tion is gloriously overcome, where men of 
 great wealth compel every one to acknowledge 
 that their money is nothing more than a help 
 to their higher life, like the charger that bore 
 Wellington at Waterloo, serving him indeed 
 usefully, but not detracting from the honor 
 which is his due. But in these cases the life 
 is usually active or administrative rather than 
 intellectual. The rich man does not generally 
 feel tempted to enter upon careers in which 
 his command over labor is not an evident ad- 
 vantage, and this because men naturally seek 
 those fields in which all their superiorities 
 tell. Even the well known instance of Lord 
 Eosse can scarcely be considered an exception 
 to this rule, for although he was eminent in a 
 science which has been followed by poor men 
 with great distinction, his wealth was of use 
 
220 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 in the construction of his colossal telescope, 
 which gave him a clear advantage over 
 merely professional contemporaries. 
 
 Besides this natural desire to pursue careers 
 in which their money may lessen the number 
 of competitors, the rich are often diverted 
 from purely intellectual pursuits by the social 
 duties of their station, duties which it is im- 
 possible to avoid and difficult to keep within 
 limits. The Duchess of Orleans (mother of 
 the present Count of Paris) arranged her time 
 with the greatest care so as to reserve a little of 
 it for her own culture in uninterrupted soh- 
 tude. By an exact system, and the exercise 
 of the rarest firmness, she contrived to ste?J 
 half an hour here and an hour there — enough 
 no doubt, when employed as she employed 
 them, to maintain her character as a very dis- 
 tinguished lady, yet still far from sufficient 
 for the satisfactory pursuit of any great art 
 or science. If it be difficult for the rich man 
 to enter into the kingdom of heaven, it is also 
 difficult for him to secure that freedom from 
 interruption which is necessary to fit him for 
 his entrance into the Intellectual Kingdom. 
 He can scarcely allow himself to be absorbed 
 in any great study, when he reflects on all the 
 powerful means of social influence which he 
 is suffering to lie idle. He is sure to possess 
 by inheritance, or to have acquired in obedi- 
 ence to custom, a complicated and expensive 
 machinery for the pleasures and purposes of 
 society. There is game to be shot ; there are 
 hunters to be exercised ; great houses to be 
 
THE INFLUENCES OF MONET, 221 
 
 filled with guests. So much is expected of the 
 rich man, both in business and in pleasure, 
 that his time is not his own, and he could not 
 quit his station if he would. And yet the In- 
 tellectual Life, in its fruitful perfection, re- 
 quires, I do not say the complete abandon- 
 ment of the world, but it assuredly requires 
 free and frequent spaces of labor in tranquil 
 solitude, "retreats" like those commanded by 
 the Church of Rome, but with more of study 
 and less of contemplation. 
 
 It would be useless to ask you to abdicate 
 your power, and retreat into some hermitage 
 with a library and a laboratory, without a 
 thought of returning to your pleasant hall in 
 Yorkshire and your house in Mayfair. You 
 wiU not sell all and follow the ^Light, but 
 there is a life which you may powerfully en- 
 courage, yet only partially share. Notwith- 
 standing the increased facilities for earning 
 a living which this age offers to the intellect- 
 ual, the time that they are often compelled to 
 give to the satisfaction of common material 
 necessities is so much time withdrawn from 
 the work which they alone can do. It is a la- 
 mentable waste of the highest and rarest kind 
 of energy to compel minds that are capable of 
 original investigation, of discovery, to occupy 
 themselves in that mere vulgarization of 
 knowledge, in popular lecturing and litera- 
 ture, which could be done just as efficiently 
 by minds of a common order. It is an error 
 of the present age to believe that the time for 
 what is called patronage is altogether passed 
 
222 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE, 
 
 away. Let me mention two instances to the 
 contrary: one in which kindly help would 
 have saved fifteen years of a noble life; 
 another in which that kindly help did actual- 
 ly permit a man of exceptional endowment 
 and equally exceptional industry to pursue 
 investigations for which no other human be- 
 ing was so well qualified, and which were en- 
 tirely incompatible with the earning of the 
 daily bread. Dr. Carpenter has lately told us 
 that, finding it impossible to unite the work of 
 a general practitioner with the scientific re- 
 searches upon which his heart was set, he 
 gave up nine-tenths of his time for twenty 
 years to popular lecturing and writing, in or- 
 der that he might exist and devote the other 
 tenth to science. "Just as he was breaking 
 down from the excessive strain upon mind 
 and body which this life involved, an appoint- 
 m.ent was offered to Dr. Carpenter which gave 
 him competence and sufficient leisure for the 
 investigations which he has conducted to such 
 important issues." Suppose that during those 
 twenty years of struggle he had broken down 
 like many another only a little less robust — 
 what then? A mind lost to his country and 
 the world. And would it not have been hap- 
 pier for him and for us if some of those men 
 (of whom there are more in England than in 
 any other land), who are so wealthy that 
 their gold is positively a burden and an en- 
 cumbrance, like too many coats in summer, 
 had helped Dr. Carpenter at least a few years 
 earlier, in some form that a man of high feel- 
 
THE INFLUENCES OF MONEY, 223 
 
 ing might honorably accept? The other ex- 
 ample that I shall mention is that of Franz 
 Woepke, the mathematician and orientalist. 
 A modest pension, supplied by an Italia^ 
 prince who was interested in the history oi 
 mathematics, gave Woepke that peace which 
 is incompatible with poverty, and enabled 
 him to live grandly in his narrow lodging the 
 noble intellectual life. Was not this rightly 
 and well done, and probably a much more ef- 
 fectual employment of the power of gold than 
 if that Italian prince had added some rare 
 manuscripts to his own library without hav- 
 ing time or knowledge to decipher them? I 
 cannot but think that the rich may serve the 
 cause of culture best by a judicious exercise of 
 patronage — unless, indeed, they have within 
 themselves the sense of that irresistible voca- 
 tion which made Humboldt use his fortune 
 as the servant of his high ambition. The 
 Humboldts never are too rich; they possess 
 their gold and are not possessed by it, and 
 they are exempt from the duty of aiding 
 others because they themselves have a use 
 for all their powers. 
 
224 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE, 
 
 LETTER II. 
 
 TO A GENIUS CARELESS IN MONEY MATTERS. 
 
 Danger of carelessness — Inconveniences of poverty unfavor- 
 able to the Intellectual Life — Necessity advances men in. 
 industrial occupations, but disturbs and interrupts the 
 higher intellectual life— Instances in science, literature, 
 and art — Careers aided by wealth — Mr. Ruskin — De Saus- 
 siu-e — Work spoiled by poverty in the doing — The central 
 passion of men of ability is to do their work well — ^The 
 want of money the most common hindrance to excellence 
 of svork — De Senancour — Bossuet — Sainte-Beuve— Shelley 
 — ^V/ordsworth— Scott — Kepler— Tycho Brahe—Schiller — 
 Goethe — Case of a,n eminent English philosopher, and of a 
 French writer of school-primers— Loss of time in making 
 experiments on public taste — Surtout ne pas trop ecrire — 
 Auguste Comte— The reaction of the intellectual against 
 money-making — Money the protector of the intellectual 
 Life. 
 
 I HAVE been anxious for you lately, and vent- 
 ure to write to you about the reasons for this 
 anxiety. 
 
 You are neither extravagant nor self-indul- 
 gent, yet it seems to me that your entire ab- 
 sorption in the higher intellectual pursuits 
 has produced in you, as it frequently does, a 
 carelessness about material interests of all 
 kinds which is by far the most dangerous of 
 all tempers to the pecuniary well-being of a, 
 man. Sydney Smith declared that no fortune 
 could stand that temper long, and that we are 
 on the high road to ruin the moment we think 
 ourselves rich enough to be careless. 
 
 Let me observe, to begin with, that although 
 the pursuit of wealth is not favorable to the 
 intellectual life, the inconveniences of poverty 
 are even less favorable to it. We are some- 
 
THE INFLUENCES OF MONEY, 225 
 
 times lectured on the great benefits of neces- 
 sity as a stimulant to exertion, and it is im- 
 plied that comfortable people would go much 
 farther on the road to distinction if they were 
 made uncomfortable by having to think per- 
 petually about money. Those who say this 
 confound together the industry of the indus- 
 trial and professional classes, and the labors 
 of the more purely intellectual. It is clear 
 that when the labor a man does is of such a 
 nature that he will be paid for it in strict pro- 
 portion to the time and effort he bestows, the 
 need of money will be a direct stimulus to the 
 best exertion he may be capable of. In all 
 simple industrial occupations the need of 
 money does drive a man forwards, and is 
 often, when he feels it in early life, the very 
 origin and foundation of his fortune. There 
 exists, in such occupations, a perfect harmony 
 between the present necessity and the ulti- 
 mate purpose of the life. Wealth is the ob- 
 ject of industry, and the first steps towards 
 the possession of it are steps on the chosen 
 path. The future captain of industry, who 
 will employ thousands of workpeople and ac- 
 cumulate millions of money, is going straight 
 to his splendid future when he gets up at five 
 in the morning to work in another person's 
 factory. To learn to be a builder of steam-ves- 
 sels, it is necessary, even when you begin 
 with capital, to pass through the manual 
 trades, and you will only learn them the bet- 
 ter if the wages are necessary to your exist- 
 ence. Poverty in these cases only makes an 
 15 
 
226 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 intelligent man ground himself all the better 
 in that stern practical training which is the 
 basis of his future career. Well, therefore, 
 may those who have reached distinguished 
 success in fields of practical activity extol the 
 teachings of adversity. If it is a necessary 
 part of your education that you should ham- 
 mer rivets inside a steam-boiler, it is as well 
 that your early habits should not be over- 
 dainty. So it is observed that horny hands, 
 in the colonies, get gold into them sooner 
 than white ones. 
 
 Even in the liberal professions young men 
 get on all the better for not being too comfort- 
 ably off. If you have a comfortable private 
 income to begin with, the meagre early re- 
 wards of professional life will seem too paltry 
 to be worth hard striving, and so you will 
 very likely miss the more ample rewards of 
 maturity, since the common road to success 
 is nothing but a gradual increase. And you 
 miss education at the same time, for practice 
 is the best of pf'ofessional educators, and 
 many successful lawyers and artists have 
 had scarcely any other training. The daily 
 habit of affairs trains men for the active 
 business of the world, and if the purpose of 
 their lives is merely to do what they are do- 
 ing or to command others to do the same 
 things, the more closely circumstances tie 
 them down to their work, the better. 
 
 But in the higher intellectual pursuits the 
 necessity for immediate earning has an en- 
 tirely differetit result. It comes, not as ac 
 
THE INFLUENCES OF MONET, 227 
 
 educator, but as an interruption or suspension 
 of education. All intellectual lives, however 
 much they may differ in the variety of their 
 purposes, have at least this purpose in com- 
 mon, that they are mainly devoted to self- 
 education of one kind or another. An intel- 
 lectual man who is forty years old is as much 
 at school as an Etonian of fourteen, and if 
 you set him to earn more money than that 
 which comes to him without especial care 
 about it, you interrupt his schooling, exactly 
 as selfish parents used to do when they sent 
 their young children to the factory and pre- 
 vented them from learning to read. The idea 
 of the intellectual life is an existence passed 
 almost entirely in study, yet preserving the 
 results of its investigations. A day's writing 
 will usually suffice to record the outcome of 
 a month's research. 
 
 Necessity, instead of advancing your stud- 
 ies, stops them. Whenever her harsh voice 
 speaks it becomes your duty to shut your 
 books, put aside your instruments, and do 
 something that will fetch a price in the mar- 
 ket. The man of science has to abandon the 
 pursuit of a discovery to go and deliver a 
 popular lecture a hundred miles off, for 
 which he gets five pounds and his railway 
 fare. The student of ancient literature has 
 to read some feeble novel, and give three days 
 of a valuable life to write an anonymous review 
 which will bring him two pounds ten. The 
 artist has to leave his serious picture to man- 
 ufacture ' ' pot-boilers, " which will teach him 
 
228 TC]^ INTELLECTUAL LIFh^ 
 
 nothing, but only spoil his hands and vitiate 
 the public taste. The poet suspends his poem 
 (which is promised to a publisher for Christ- 
 mas, and will be spoiled in consequence by 
 hurry at the last) in order to write newspa- 
 per articles on subjects of which he has little 
 knowledge and in which he takes no interest. 
 And yet these are instances of those compar- 
 atively happy and fortunate needy who are 
 only compelled to suspend their intellectual 
 life, and who can cheer themselves in their 
 enforced labor with the hope of shortly re- 
 newing it. What of those others who are 
 pushed out of their path forever by the buf- 
 fets of unkindly fortune? Many a fine intel- 
 lect has been driven into the deep quagmire, 
 and has struggled in it vainly till death came, 
 which but for that grim necessity might have 
 scaled the immortal mountains. 
 
 This metaphor of the mountains has led me, 
 by a natural association of ideas, to think of 
 s, writer who has added to our enjoyment of 
 their beauty, and I think of him the more 
 readily that his career will serve as an illus- 
 tration — far better than any imaginary ca- 
 reer — of the very subject which just now oc- 
 €upieis my mind. Mr. Ruskin is not only one 
 of the best instances, but he is positively the 
 very best [instance except the two Hum- 
 boldts, of an intellectual career which has 
 been greatly aided by material prosperity, 
 and which would not have been possible with- 
 out it. This does not in the least detract 
 from the merit of the author of "Modem 
 
TBE INFLUENCES OF MONEY. 229 
 
 Painters," for it needed a rare force of resolu- 
 tion, or a powerful instinct of genius, to lead 
 the life of a severe student under every temp- 
 tation to indolence. Still it is true that Mr. 
 Buskin's career would have been impossible 
 for a poor man, however gifted. A poor 
 man would not have had access to Mr. Rus- 
 kin's materials, and one of his chief superior- 
 ities has always been an abundant wealth of 
 material. And if we go so far as to suppose 
 that the poor man might have found other 
 materials perhaps equivalent to these, v/e 
 know that he could not have turned them to 
 that noble use. The poor critic would be im- 
 mediately absorbed in the ocean of anony- 
 mous periodical literature ; he could not find 
 time for the incubation of great works. 
 "Modern Painters," the result of seventeen 
 years of study, is not simply a work of gen- 
 ius but of genius seconded by wealth. Close 
 to it on my shelves stand four volumes which 
 are the monument of another intellectual life 
 devoted to the investigation of nature. De 
 Saussure, whom Mr. Ruskin reverences as 
 one of his ablest teachers, and whom all sin- 
 cere students of nature regard as a model 
 observer, pursued for many laborious years a 
 kind of life which was not, and could not be, 
 self-supporting in the pecuniary sense. Many 
 other patient laborers, who have not the celeb- 
 rity of these, work steadily in the same way, 
 and are enabled to do so by the possession of 
 independent fortune. I know one such who 
 gives a whole summer to the examination of 
 
230 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 three or four acres of mountain-ground, the 
 tangible result being comprised in a few mem- 
 oranda, which, considered as literary ma- 
 terial, might (in the hands of a skilled pro- 
 fessional writer) just possibly be worth five 
 pounds. 
 
 Not only do narrow pecuniary means often 
 render high intellectual enterprises absolute- 
 ly impossible, but they do what is frequently 
 even more trying to the health and charac- 
 ter, they permit you to undertake work that 
 would be worthy of you if you might only 
 have time and materials for the execution of 
 it, and then spoil it in the doing. An intel- 
 lectual laborer will bear anything except 
 that. You may take away the very table he 
 is writing upon, if you let him have a deal 
 board for his books and papers; you may 
 take away all his fine editions, if you leave 
 him common copies that are legible; you 
 may remove his very candlestick, if you 
 leave him a bottle-neck to stick his candle in, 
 and he will go on working cheerfully still. 
 But the moment you do anything to spoil the 
 quality of the work itself, you make him irri- 
 table and miserable. "You think," says Sir 
 Arthur Helps, ' ' to gain a good man to man- 
 age your affairs because he happens to have 
 a small share in your undertaking. It is a 
 great error. You want him to do something 
 well which you are going to tell him to do. 
 If he has been wisely chosen, and is an able 
 man, his pecuniary interest in the matter wiU 
 be mere dust in the balance, when compared 
 
THE INFLUENCES OF MONEY. 231 
 
 with the desire which belongs to all such men 
 to do their work well. " Yes, this is the cen- 
 tral passion of all men of true ability, to do 
 their work well ; their happiness lies in that, 
 and not in the amount of their profits, or 
 even in their reputation. But then, on the 
 other hand, they suffer indescribable mental 
 misery when circumstances compel them to 
 do their work less well than they know that, 
 under more favorable circumstances, they 
 "would be capable of doing it. The want of 
 money is, in the higher intellectual pursuits, 
 the most common hindrance to thoroughness 
 and excellence of work. De Senancour, who, 
 in consequence of a strange concatenation of 
 misfortunes, was all his life struggling in 
 shallows, suffered not from the privations 
 themselves, but from the vague feeling that 
 they stunted his intellectual growth; and 
 any experienced student of human nature 
 must be aware that De Senancour was right. 
 With larger means he would have seen more 
 of the world, and known it better, and writ- 
 ten of it with riper wisdom. He said that 
 the man ' ' who only saw in poverty the direct 
 effect of the money-privation, and only com- 
 pared, for instance, an eight-penny dinner to 
 one that cost ten shillings, would have no 
 oenception of the true nature of misfortune, 
 for not to spend money is the least of tha 
 -evils of poverty." Bossuet said that he "had 
 no attachment to riches, and still if he had 
 only what is barely necessary, if he felt him- 
 self narrowed, he would lose more than half 
 
232 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 his talents. " Sainte-Beuve said, ' ' Only think a 
 little what a difference there is in the starting 
 point and in the employment of the faculties 
 between a Due de Luynes and a Senancour.'* 
 How many of the most distinguished authors 
 have been dependent upon private means^ 
 not simply for physical sustenance, but for 
 the opportunities which they afforded of gain- 
 ing that experience of life which was abso- 
 lutely essential to the full growth of their 
 mental faculties. Shelley's writings brought 
 him no profit whatever, and without a private 
 income he could not have produced them, for 
 he had not a hundred buyers. Yet his luhole 
 time was employed in study or in tra,vel, 
 which for him was study of another kind, or 
 else in the actual labor of composition. 
 Wordsworth tried to become a London jour- 
 nalist and failed. A young man called Raisley^ 
 Calvert died and left him 900 Z. ; this saved 
 the poet in Wordsworth, as it kept him till 
 the publication of the ' ' Lyrical Ballads, " and 
 afterwards other pieces of good luck happened 
 to him, so that he could think and compose at 
 leisure. Scott would not venture to devote 
 himself to literature until he had first se- 
 cured a comfortable income outside of it. 
 Poor Kepler stru^^led with constant anxie- 
 ties, and told fortunes by astrology for a 
 livelihood, saying that astrology as the 
 daughter of astronomy ought to keep her 
 mother ; but fancy a man of science wasting 
 precious time over horoscopes ! "I suppli- 
 cate you," he writes to Moestlin, "if there is 
 
THE INFLUENCES OF MONEY. 23a 
 
 a situation vacant at Tubingen, do what you 
 can to obtain it for me, and let nie know the 
 prices of bread and wine and other necessa- 
 ries of hfe, for my wife is not accustomed to 
 live on beans." He had to accept all sorts 
 of jobs; he made almanacs, and served any 
 one who would pay him. His only tranquil 
 time for study was when he lived in Styria, 
 on his wife's income, a tranquillity that did 
 not last for long, and never returned. How 
 different is this from the princely ease of Ty- 
 cho Brahe, who labored for science alone, 
 with all the help that the ingenuity of his 
 age could furnish! There is the same con- 
 trast, in a later generation, between Schiller 
 and Goethe. Poor Schiller ' ' wasting so nmch 
 of his precious life in literary hack-work, 
 translating French books for a miserable pit- 
 tance ; " Goethe, fortunate in his pecuniary 
 independence as in all the other great circum- 
 stances of his life, and this at a time when 
 the pay of authors was so miserable that thej^ 
 could hardly exist by the pen. Schiller got a 
 shilling a page for his translations. Merck 
 the publisher offered three pounds sterling 
 for a drama of Goethe. "If Europe praised 
 me," Goethe said, "what has Europe done for 
 me? Nothing. Even 7ny works have been an 
 expense to me." 
 
 The pecuniary rewards which men receive 
 for their labor are so absurdly (yet inevitably) 
 disproportionate to the intellectual power that 
 is needed for the task, and also to the toil in- 
 volved, that no one can safely rely upon the 
 
234 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 higher intellectual pursuits as a protection 
 from money-anxieties. I will give you two 
 instances of this disproportion, real instances, 
 of men who are known to me personally. 
 One of them is an eminent Englishman of 
 most remarkable intellectual force, who for 
 many years past has occupied his leisure in 
 the composition of works that are valued by 
 the thinking public to a degree which it would 
 be difficult to exaggerate. But this thinking 
 public is not numerous, and so in the year 
 1866 this eminent philosopher, "unable to 
 continue losing money in endeavoring to en- 
 lighten his contemporaries, was compelled to 
 announce the termination of his series." On 
 the other hand, a Frenchman, also known to 
 me personally, one day conceived the fortu- 
 nate idea that a new primer might possibly 
 be a saleable commodity. So'he composed a 
 little primer, beginning with the alphabet, ad- 
 vancing to a, b, aJb; b, a, ha; and even going 
 so far in history as to affirm that Adam was 
 the first man and Abraham the father of the 
 faithful. He had the wisdom to keep the copy- 
 right of this little publication, which employed 
 (in the easiest of all imaginable literary labor) 
 the evenings of a single week. It has brought 
 him in, ever since, a regular income of 1201. a 
 year, which, so far from showing any signs of 
 diminution, is positively improving. This suc- 
 cess encouraged the same intelligent gentle- 
 man to compose more literature of the same 
 order, and he is now the enviable owner of 
 several other such copyrights, all of them 
 
THE INFLUENCES OF MONEY. 235 
 
 very valuable ; in fact as good properties as 
 house-leases in London. Here is an author 
 who, from the pecuniary point of view, was 
 incomparably more successful than Milton, or 
 Shelley, or Goethe. If every intellectual man 
 could shield his higher life by writing primers 
 for children wliich should be as good as house- 
 leases, if the proverb Qui pent le plus peui le 
 mains were a true proverb, which it is not, 
 then of course all men of culture would be per- 
 fectly safe, since they all certainly know the 
 conteiits of a primer. But you may be able to 
 write the most learned philosophical treatise 
 and still not be able to earn your daily 
 bread. 
 
 Consider, too, the lamentable loss of time 
 which people of high culture incur in making 
 experiments on public taste, when money be- 
 comes one of their main objects. Whilst they 
 are writing stories for children, or elementary 
 educational books which people of far inferior 
 attainment could probably do much better, 
 their own self -improvement comes to a stand- 
 still. If it could only be ascertained without 
 delay v/hat sort of work would bring in the 
 money they require, then there would be some 
 chance of apportioning time so as to make re- 
 serves for self-improvement; but when they 
 have to write a score of volumes merely to as- 
 certain the humor of the public, there is little 
 chemce of leisure. The life of the professional 
 author who has no reputation is much less 
 favorable to high culture than the life of a 
 tradesman in moderately easy circumstances?' 
 
336 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE, 
 
 Tvho can reserve an hour or two every day for 
 some beloved intellectual pursuit. 
 
 Sainte-Beuve tells us that during certain 
 years of his life he had endeavored, and had 
 "been able, so to arrange his existence that it 
 should have both sweetness and dignity, writ- 
 ing from time to time what was agreeable, 
 reading what was both agreeable and serious, 
 cultivating friendships, throwing much of his 
 mind into the intimate relations of every day, 
 giving more to his friends than to the public, 
 reserving what was most tender and delicate 
 for the inner life, enjoying with moderation; 
 such for him was the dream of an intellectual 
 existence in which things truly precious were 
 valued according to their worth. And *' above 
 all,'''' he said, above all his desire was not to 
 ■write too much, " surtout ne pas trop ecrire.''^ 
 And then comes the regret for this wise, well- 
 ordered life enjoyed by him only for a time. 
 *'La necessite depuis m'a saisi et m'a con- 
 traint de renoncer a ce que je considerais 
 comme le seul bonheur ou la consolation ex- 
 quise du melancolique et du sage." 
 
 Auguste Comte lamented in like manner the 
 evil intellectual consequences of anxieties 
 about material needs. "There is nothing," 
 he said, ' ' more mortal to my mind than the 
 necessity, pushed to a certain degree, to have 
 to think each day about a provision for the 
 next. Happily I think little and rarely about 
 all that ; but whenever this happens to me I 
 pass through moments of discouragement and 
 positive despair, which if the influence of 
 
THE INFLUENCES OF MONEY. 237 
 
 them became habitual would make me re- 
 nounce all my labors, all my philosophical 
 projects, to end my days like an ass." 
 
 There are a hundred rules for getting rich, 
 but the instinct of accumulation is worth all 
 suich rules put together. This instinct is rarely 
 found in combination with high intellectual 
 gifts, and the reason is evident. To advance 
 from a hundred pounds to a thousand is not 
 an intellectual advance, and there is no intel- 
 lectual interest in the addition of a cipher at 
 the bankers'. Simply to accumulate money 
 that you are never to use is, from the intel- 
 lectual point of view, as stupid an operation 
 as can be imagined. We observe, too, that 
 the great accumulators, the men who are 
 gifted by nature with the true instinct, are 
 not usually such persons as we feel any ambi- 
 tion to become. Their faculties are concen- 
 trated on one point, and that point, as it seems 
 to us, of infinitely little importance. "We can- 
 not see that it signifies much to the intellect- 
 ual well-being of humanity that John Smith 
 should be worth his million when he dies, 
 since we know quite well that John Smith's 
 mind will be just as ill-furnished then as it is 
 now. In places where much money is made 
 we easily acquire a positive disgust for it, and 
 the curate seems the most distinguished gen- 
 tleman in the community, with his old black 
 coat and his seventy pounds a year. We come 
 to hate money-matters when we find that they 
 exclude all thoughtful and disinterested con- 
 versation, and we fly to the society of people 
 
238 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 ■with fixed incomes, not large enough for mucli 
 saving, to escape the perpetual talk about in- 
 vestments. Our happiest hours have been 
 spent with poor scholars, and artists, and men 
 of science, Avhose words remain in the mem- 
 ory and make us rich indeed. Then we dis- 
 like money because it rules and restrains us, 
 and because it is unintelligent and seems 
 hostile, so far as that which is unintelligent 
 can be hostile. And yet the real truth is that 
 money is the strong protector of the intellect- 
 ual life. The student sits and studies, toa 
 often despising the power that shelters him 
 from the wintry night, that gives him roof 
 and walls, and lamp, and books, and fire. For 
 money is simply the accumulated labor of the 
 past, guarding our peace as fleets and armies 
 guard the industry of England, or like some 
 mighty fortress-wall within which men follow 
 the most peaceful avocations. The art is to use 
 money so that it shall be the protector and 
 not the scatterer of our time, the body-guard 
 of the sovereign Intellect and Will. 
 
THE INFLUENCES OF MONEY. 239 
 LETTER III. 
 
 TO A STUDENT IN GREAT POVERTY. 
 
 Poverty really a great obstacle— Difference between a thou- 
 sand rich men and a thousand poor men taken from per- 
 sons of average natural gifts— The Houses of Parliament 
 — The English recognize the natural connection between 
 wealth and culture — Connection between ignorance and 
 parsimony in expenditure — What may be honestly said for 
 the encoiu-agement of a very poor student. 
 
 As it seems to me that to make light of the 
 difficulties which lie in the path of another is 
 not to show true sympathy for him, even 
 though it is done sometimes out of a sort of 
 awkward kindness and for his encourage- 
 ment, I will not begin by pretending that 
 poverty is not a great obstacle to the perfec- 
 tion of the intellectual life. It is a great ob- 
 stacle; it is one of the very greatest of all 
 obstacles. Only observe how riches and pov- 
 erty operate upon mankind in the mass. 
 Here and there no doubt a very poor man at- 
 tains intellectual distinction when he has ex- 
 ceptional strength of will, and health enough 
 to bear a great strain of extra labor that he 
 imposes upon himself, and natural gifts so 
 brilliant that he can learn in an hour what 
 common men learn in a day. But consider 
 mankind in the mass. Look, for instance, at 
 our two Houses of Parliament. They are 
 composed of men taken from the average run 
 of Englishmen with very little reference to 
 ability, but almost all of them are rich men ; 
 not one of them is poor, as you are poor; 
 
240 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 not one of them has to contend against the 
 stem realities of poverty. Then consider the 
 very high general level of intellectual attain- 
 ment which distinguishes those two assem- 
 blies, and ask yourself candidly whether a. 
 thousand men taken from the beggars in th& 
 streets, or even from the far superior class of 
 our manufacturing operatives, would be 
 likely to understand, as the two Houses of: 
 Parliament understand, the many compli- 
 cated questions of legislation and of policy 
 which are continually brought before them. 
 We all know that the poor are too limited in 
 knowledge and experience, from the want of 
 the necessary opportunities, and too little 
 accustomed to exercise their minds in the- 
 tranquil investigations of great questions, ta 
 be competent for the work of Parliament. It. 
 is scarcely necessary to insist upon this fact 
 to an Englishman, because the English have 
 always recognized the natural connection be- 
 tween wealth and culture, and have preferred 
 to be governed by the rich from the belief 
 that they are likely to be better informed, and 
 better situated for intellectual activity of a 
 disinterested kind, than those members of the 
 community whose time and thoughts are al- 
 most entirely occupied in winning their daily^ 
 bread by the incessant labor of their hands. 
 And if you go out into the world, if you mix 
 with men of very different classes, you will 
 find that in a broad average way (I am not 
 speaking just now of the exceptions) the 
 richer classes are much more capable of enter- 
 
THE INFLUENCES OF MONEY. 241 
 
 ing into the sort of thinking which may be 
 called intellectual than those whose money is 
 less plentiful, and whose opportunities have 
 therefore been less abundant. Indeed it may 
 be asserted, roughly and generally, that the 
 narrowness of nien'.s ideas is in direct propor- 
 tion to their parsimony in expenditure. I do 
 not mean to affirm that all who spend largely 
 attain large intellectual results, for of course 
 we know that a man may spend vast sums on 
 pursuits which do not educate him in any- 
 thing worth knowing, but the advantage is 
 that with habits of free expenditure the germs 
 of thought are well tilled and watered, where- 
 as parsimony denies them every ex+^ernal 
 help. The most spending class in Europe is the 
 English gentry, it is also the class most strik- 
 ingly characterized by a high general average 
 of information ; * the most parsimonious class 
 in Europe is the French peasantry ; it is also 
 the class most strikingly characterized by ig- 
 norance and intellectual apathy. The Eng- 
 lish gentleman has cultivated himself by va- 
 rious reading and extensive travel, but the 
 French peasant will not go anywhere except 
 to the market-town, and could not pardon the 
 extravagance of buying a book, or a candle 
 to read it by in the evening. Between these 
 extremes we have various grades of the mid- 
 dle classes in which culture usually increases 
 
 * The reader will please to bear in mind that I am speaking; 
 here of broad effects on great numbers. I do not think that 
 aristocracy, in its spirit, is quite favorable to the exception- 
 ally highest intellectual life. 
 16 
 
242 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 very much in proportion to the expenditure. 
 The rule is not without its exceptions ; there 
 are rich vulgar people who spend a great deal 
 without improving themselves at all — who 
 only, by unlimited self-indulgence, succeed in 
 making themselves so uncomfortably sensi- 
 tive to every bodily inconvenience that they 
 have no leisure, even in the midst of an un- 
 occupied life, to think of anything but their 
 own bellies and their own skins — people 
 "whose power of attention is so feeble that the 
 smallest external incident distracts it, and 
 "who ren^ember nothing of their travels but a 
 catalogue of trivial annoyances. But people 
 of this kind do not generally belong to fami- 
 lies on whom wealth has had time to produce 
 its best effects. What I mean is, that a fam- 
 ily which has been for generations in the 
 Tiabit of spending four thousand a year will 
 Tisually be found to have a more cultivated 
 c/One than one that has only spent four hun- 
 dred. 
 
 I have come to the recognition of this truth 
 irery reluctantly indeed, not because I dislike 
 rich people, but merely because they are nec- 
 essarily a very small minority, and I should 
 like every human being to have the best bene- 
 iits of culture if it were only possible. The 
 plain living and high thinking that Words- 
 V7orth so much valued is a cheering ideal, for 
 most men have to live plainly, and if they 
 could only think with a certain elevation we 
 might hope to solve the great problem of hu- 
 man life, the reconciliation of poverty and 
 
THE INFLrlENCES OF MONEY, 243 
 
 the soul. There certainly is a slow move- 
 ment in that direction, and the shortening of 
 the hours of labor may afford some margin 
 of leisure; but we who work for culture 
 every day and all day long, and still feel that 
 we know very little, and have hardly skill 
 enough to make any effective use of the httle 
 that we know, can scarcely indulge in very 
 enthusiastic anticipations of the future cult- 
 ure of the poor. 
 
 Still, there are some things that may be 
 rationally and truly said to a poor man who 
 desires culture, and which are not without a 
 sort of Spartan encouragement. You are re- 
 stricted by your poverty, but it is not always 
 a bad thing to be restricted, even from the 
 intellectual point of view. The intellectual 
 powers of well-to-do people are very common- 
 ly made ineffective by the enormous multi- 
 plicity of objects that are presented to their 
 attention, and which claim from them a sort 
 of polite notice like the greeting of a great 
 lady to each of her thousand guests. It re- 
 quires the very rarest strength of mind, in a 
 rich man, to concentrate his attention on any- 
 thing — there are so many things that he is 
 expected to make a pretence of knowing ; but 
 nobody expects you to know anything, and 
 this is an incalculable advantage. I think 
 that all poor men who have risen to subse- 
 quent distinction have been greatly indebted 
 to this independence of public opinion as to 
 what they ought to know. In trying to 
 satisfy that public opinion by getting up a 
 
244 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 pretence of various sorts of knowledge, which, 
 is only a sham, we sacrifice not only much 
 precious time, but we blunt our natural in- 
 terest in things. That interest you preserve 
 in all its virgin force, and this force carries a 
 man far. Then, again, although the opportu- 
 nities of rich people are very superior to 
 yours, they are not altogether so superior as 
 they seem. There exists a great equalizing 
 power, the limitation of human energy. A. 
 rich man may sit down to an enormous ban- 
 quet, but he can only make a good use of the 
 little that he is able to digest. So it is with the 
 splendid intellectual banquet that is spread 
 before the rich man's eyes. He can only pos- 
 sess what he has energy to master, and too 
 frequently the manifest impossibility of 
 mastering everything produces a feeling of 
 discouragement that ends in his mastering 
 nothing. A poor student, especially if he 
 lives in an out-of-the-way place where there 
 are no big libraries to bewilder him, may 
 apply his energy with effect in the study of a 
 few authors. 
 
 I used to believe a great deal more in op- 
 portunities and less in application than I do 
 now. Time and health are needed, but with 
 these there are always opportunities. Rich 
 people have a fancy for spending money very 
 uselessly on their culture because it seems to 
 them more valuable when it has been costly ; 
 but the truth is, that by the blessing of good 
 and cheap literature, intellectual light has 
 ^become almost as accessible as daylight. 1 
 
THE INFLUENCES OF MONEY. 245 
 
 have a rich friend who travels more, and 
 buys more costly things, than I do, but he 
 does not really learn more or advance farther 
 in the twelvemonth. If my days are fully 
 occupied, what has he to set against them? 
 only other well-occupied days, no more. If 
 he is getting benefit at St. Petersburg he is 
 missing the benefit I am getting round my 
 house, and in it. The sum of the year's bene- 
 fit seems to be surprisingly alike in both 
 cases. So if you are reading a piece of thor- 
 oughij'^ good literature. Baron Rothschild may 
 l^ossibly be as well occupied as you — he is 
 certainly not better occupied. When I open 
 a noble volume I say to myself, " Now the 
 only Croesus that I envy is he who is reading 
 a better book than this." 
 
PART VI. 
 
 CUSTOM AND TRADITION, 
 
 LETTER I. 
 
 TO A YOUNG GENTLEMAN WHO HAD FIRMLY 
 RESOLVED NEVER TO WEAR ANYTHING BuT 
 A GRAY COAT.* 
 
 Secret enjoyment of rebellion against custom, and of the dis- 
 abilities resulting from it — Penalties imposed by Society 
 and by Nature out of proportion to the off ence— Instances 
 —What we consider penalties not really penalties, but 
 only consequences — Society likes harmony, and is of- 
 fended by dissonance — Utility of rebels against custons — 
 That they ought to reserve their power of rebellion for 
 great occasions— Uses of custom — Duty of the intellect- 
 ual class— Best way to procure the abohtion of a custom 
 we disapprove — Bad customs — Eccentricity sometimes a 
 duty. 
 
 When I had the pleasure of staying at 
 your father's house, you told me, rather to my 
 surprise, that it was impossible for you to go 
 to balls and dinner-parties because you did 
 not possess such a thing as a dress-coat. The 
 reason struck me as being scarcely a valid 
 one, considering the rather high scale of ex- 
 penditure adopted in the paternal mansion. 
 It seemed clear that the eldest son of a family 
 which lived after the liberal fashion of York- 
 
 * The title of this letter seems so odd, that it may be neces- 
 sary to inform the reader that it was addressed to a real 
 person. 
 
CUSTOM AND TRADITION. 247 
 
 shire country gentlemen could afford himself 
 a dress-coat if he liked. Then I wondered 
 whether you disliked dress-coats from a be- 
 lief that they were unbecoming to your per- 
 son; but a very little observation of your 
 character convinced me that, whatever might 
 be your weaknesses (for everybody has some 
 weaknesses), anxiety about personal appear- 
 ance was not one of them. 
 
 The truth is, that you secretly enjoy this 
 little piece of disobedience to custom, and all 
 the disabilities which result from it. This lit- 
 tle rebellion is connected with a larger rebel- 
 Hon, and it is agreeable to you to demonstrate 
 the unreasonableness of society by incurring 
 a very severe penalty for a very trifling of- 
 fence. You are always dressed decently, you 
 offend against no moral rule, you have culti- 
 vated your mind by study and reflection, and 
 it rather pleases you to think that a young 
 gentleman so well qualified for society in 
 everything of real importance should be ex- 
 cluded from it because he has not purchased 
 a permission from his tailor. 
 
 The penalties imposed by society for the in- 
 fraction of very trifling details of custom are 
 often, as it seems, out of all proportion to the 
 offence ; but so are the penalties of nature. 
 Only three days before the date of this letter, 
 an intimate friend of mine was coming home 
 from a day's shooting. His nephew, a fine 
 young man in the full enjoyment of exist- 
 ence, was walking ten paces in advance. A 
 covey of partridges suddenly cross the road :: 
 
-m THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 my friend in shouldering his gun touches the 
 trigger just a second too soon, and kills his 
 nephew. Now, think of the long years of 
 mental misery that will be the punishment of 
 that very trifling piece of carelessness ! My 
 poor friend has passed, in the space of a single 
 instant, from a joyous life to a life that is per- 
 manently and irremediably saddened. It is 
 as if he had left the summer sunshine to 
 enter a gloomy dungeon and begin a perpet- 
 ual imprisonment. And for what? For hav- 
 ing touched a trigger, without evil intention, 
 a little too precipitately. It seems harder 
 still for the victim, who is sent out of the 
 world in the bloom of perfect manhood be- 
 cause his uncle was not quite so cool as he 
 ought to have been. Again, not far from 
 w^here I live, thirty -five men were killed last 
 week in a coal-pit from an explosion of fire- 
 damp. One of their number had struck a 
 lucifer to light his pipe : for doing this in a 
 place where he ought not to have done it, the 
 man suffers the penalty of death, and thirty- 
 four others with him. The fact is simply 
 that Nature will be obeyed, and makes no at- 
 tempt to proportion punishments to offences : 
 indeed, what in our human way we call pun- 
 ishments are not punishments, but simple 
 consequences. So it is with the great social 
 penalties. Society will be obeyed: if you re- 
 fuse obedience, you must take the consequen- 
 ces. Society has only one law, and that is 
 custom. Even religion itself is socially power- 
 ful only just so far as it has custom on its side. 
 
CUSTOM AND TBADITION, 249 
 
 Nature does not desire that thirty -five men 
 should be destroyed because one could not re- 
 sist the temptation of a pipe ; but fire-damp is 
 highly inflammable, and the explosion is a 
 simple consequence. Society does not desire 
 to exclude you because you will not wear even- 
 ing dress; but the dress is customary, and 
 your exclusion is merely a consequence of your 
 nonconformity. The view of society goes no 
 farther in this than the artistic conception 
 , (not very delicately artistic, perhaps) that it is 
 prettier to see men in black coats regularly 
 placed between ladies round a dinner-table 
 than men in gray coats or brown coats. The 
 uniformity of costume appears to represent 
 uniformity of sentiment and to ensure a sort 
 of harmony amongst the convives. What so- 
 ciety really cares for is harmony ; what it dis- 
 likes is dissent and nonconformity. It wants 
 peace in the dining-room, peace in the draw- 
 ing-room, peace everywhere in its realm of 
 tranquil pleasure. You come in your shoot- 
 ing-coat, which was in tune upon the moors, 
 but is a dissonance amongst ladies in full 
 dress. Do you not perceive that fustian and 
 velveteen, which were natural amongst game- 
 keepers, are not so natural on gilded chairs 
 covered with silk, with lace and diamonds at 
 a distance of three feet? You don't perceive 
 it? Very well: society does not argue the 
 point with you, but only excludes you. 
 
 It lias been said that in the life of every in- 
 tellectual man there comes a time when he 
 questions custom at all points. This seems to 
 
250 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 be a provision of nature for the reform and 
 progress of custom itself, which without such 
 questioning would remain absolutely station- 
 ary and irresistibly despotic. You rebels 
 against the established custom have your 
 place in the great work of progressive civiliz- 
 ation. Without you, Western Europe would 
 have been a second China. It is to the contin- 
 ual rebellion of such persons as yourself that 
 we owe whatever progress has been accom- 
 plished since the times of our remotest fore- 
 fathers. There have been rebels always, and 
 the rebels have not been, generally speaking, 
 the most stupid part of the nation. 
 
 But what is the use of wasting this benefi- 
 cial power of rebellion on matters too trivial 
 to be worth attention? Does it hurt your con- 
 science to appear in a dress-coat? Certainly 
 not, and you would be as good-looking in it as 
 you are in your velveteen shooting-jacket 
 with the pointers on the bronze buttons. Let 
 us conform in these trivial matters, which no- 
 body except a tailor ought to consider worth a 
 moment's attention, in order to reserve our 
 strength for the protection of intellectual lib- 
 erty. Let society arrange your dress for you 
 (it will save you infinite trouble), but never 
 permit it to stifle the expression of your 
 thought. You find it convenient, because you 
 are timid, to exclude yourself from the world 
 by refusing to wear its costume ; but a bolder 
 man would let the tailor do his worst, and 
 then go into the world and courageously de- 
 fend there the peicsons and causes that are 
 
CUSTOM AND TBADITION, 251 
 
 misunderstood and slanderously misrepre- 
 sented. The fables of Spenser are fables only 
 in form, and a noble knight may at any time 
 go forth, armed in the panoply of a tail-coat, 
 a dress waistcoat, and a manly moral courage, 
 to do battle across the dinner-table and in the 
 drawing-room for those who have none to de- 
 fend them. 
 
 It is unphilosophical to set ourselves obsti- 
 nately against custom in the mass, for it mul- 
 tiplies the power of men by settling useless 
 discussion and clearing the ground for our 
 best and most prolific activity. The business 
 of the world could not be carried forward one 
 day without a most complex code of customs ; 
 and law itself is little more than custom slight- 
 ly improved upon by men reflecting together 
 at their leisure, and reduced to codes and sys- 
 tems. We ought to think of custom as a most 
 precious legacy of the past, saving us infinite 
 perplexity, yet not as an infallible rule. The 
 most intelligent community would be conser- 
 vative in its habits, yet not obstinately con- 
 servative, but willing to hear and adopt the 
 suggestions of advancing reason. The great 
 duty of the intellectual class, and its especial 
 function, is to confirm what is reasonable in 
 the customs that have been handed down to 
 us, and so maintain their authority, yet at the 
 same time to show that custom is not final, 
 but merely a form suited to the world's con- 
 venience. And whenever you are convinced 
 that a custom is no longer serviceable, the way 
 to procure the abolition of it is to lead men 
 
%2 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE, 
 
 very gradually away from it, by offering a 
 substitute at first very slightly different from 
 what they have been long used to. If the 
 English had been in the habit of tattooing, the 
 best way to procure its abolition would have 
 been to admit that it was quite necessary to 
 cover the face with elaborate patterns, yet 
 gftntly to suggest that these patterns would 
 be still more elegant if delicately painted in 
 water- colors. Then you might have gone on 
 arguing — still admitting, of course, the ab- 
 solute necessity for ornament of some kind — 
 that good taste demanded only a moderate 
 amount of it ; and so you would have brought 
 people gradually to a little flourish on the nose 
 or forehead, when the most advanced reform- 
 ers might have set the example of dispensing 
 with ornament altogether. Many of our 
 contemporaries have abandoned shaving in 
 this gradual way, allowing the whiskers to 
 encroach imperceptibly, till at last the razor 
 lay in the dressing-case unused. The abomi- 
 nable black cylinders that covered our heads 
 a few years ago were vainly resisted by radi- 
 cals in custom, but the moderate reformers 
 gradually reduced their elevation, and now 
 they are things of the past. 
 
 Though I think we ought to submit to cus- 
 tom in matters of indifference, and to reform it 
 gradually, whilst affecting submission in mat- 
 ters altogether indifferent, still there are other 
 matters on which the only attitude worthy of 
 a man is the most bold and open resistance to 
 its dictates. Custom may have a right to nu- 
 
CUSTOM AJN^D TRADITION, 253 
 
 thority over your wardrobe, but it cannot 
 have any right to ruin your self-respect. Not 
 only the virtues most advantageous to well- 
 being, but also the most contemptible and de- 
 grading vices, have at various periods of the 
 world's history been sustained by the full au- 
 thority of custom. There are places where, 
 forty years ago drunkenness was conformity to 
 custom, and sobriety an eccentricity. There 
 are societies, even at the present day, where 
 licentiousness is the rule of custom, and 
 chastity the sign of weakness or want of spirit. 
 There are communities (it cannot be necessary 
 to name them) in which successful fraud, es- 
 pecially on a large scale, is respected as the 
 proof of smartness, whilst a man who remains 
 poor because he is honest is despised for slow- 
 ness and incapacity. There are whole nations 
 in which religious hypocrisy is strongly ap- 
 proved by custom, and honesty severely con- 
 demned. The Wahabee Arabs may be men- 
 tioned as an instance of this, but the Wahabee 
 Arabs are not the only people, nor is NejeC 
 the only place, where it is held to be more 
 virtuous to lie on the side of custom than to be 
 an honorable man in independence of it. In 
 all communities where vice and hypocrisy are 
 sustained by the authority of custom, eccen- 
 tricity is a moral duty. In all «)mmunities 
 where a low standard of thinking is received 
 as infallible common sense, eccentricity be- 
 comes an intellectual duty. There are hun- 
 dreds of places in the provinces where it is im- 
 possible for any man to lead the intellectual 
 
254 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 life without being condemned as an eccentric. 
 It is the duty of intellectual men who are thus 
 isolated to set the example of that which their 
 neighbors call eccentricity, but which may be 
 more accurately described as superiority. 
 
 LETTEE n. 
 
 TO A CONSERVATIVE WHO HAD ACCUSED THE 
 AUTHOR OF A WANT OF RESPECT FOR TRA- 
 DITION. 
 
 JVansition from the ages of tradition to that of experiment-^ 
 Attraction of the future — Joubert — Saint-Marc Girai'din — 
 Solved and unsolved problems — The introduction of a 
 new element — Inapplicability of past experience — An ar- 
 gimient against Republics — The lessons of history — Mista- 
 ken predictions that have been based on them — ^MoraUty 
 ^nd ecclesiastical authority— Compatibihty of hopes for 
 the future with gratitude to the past — That we are more 
 respectful to the past than previous ages have been — Our 
 feelings towards tradition — An incident at Warsaw — The 
 reconstruction of the navy. 
 
 The astonishing revolution in thought and 
 practice which is taking place amongst the 
 intelligent Japanese, the throwing away of a 
 traditional system of living in order to estab- 
 lish in its stead a system which, for an Asi- 
 atic people, is nothing more than a vast ex- 
 periment, has its counterpart in many an in- 
 dividual life in Europe. We are like travel- 
 lers crossing an isthmus between two seas, 
 who have left one ship behind them, who 
 have not yet seen the vessel that waits on the 
 distant shore, and who experience to the full 
 all the discomforts and inconveniences of the 
 
CUSTOM AND TRADITION, 255 
 
 passage from one sea to the other. There is a. 
 break between the existence of our forefathers, 
 and that of our posterity, and it is we wha 
 have the misfortune to be situated exactly 
 where the break occurs. We are leaving be- 
 hind us the security, I do not say the safety^ 
 but the feeling of tranquillity which belonged 
 to the ages of tradition ; we are entering upon 
 ages whose spirit we foresee but dimly, whose 
 institutions are the subject of guesses and 
 conjectures. And yet this future, of which 
 we know so little, attracts us more by the. 
 very vastness of its enigma than the rich his- 
 tory of the past, so full of various incident, of 
 powerful personages, of grandeur, and suffer- 
 ing, and sorrow. Joubert already noticed, 
 this forward-looking of the modern mind. 
 " The ancients," he observed, "said, ' Our an- 
 cestors ; ' we say, ' Posterity. ' We do not 
 love as they did la patrie, the country and 
 laws of our forefathers; we love rather the 
 laws and the country of our children. It is; 
 the magic of the future, and not that of the 
 past, which seduces us." Commenting on. 
 this thought of Joubert's, Saint-Marc Girardin ' 
 said that we loved the future because we 
 loved Ourselves, and fashioned the future in 
 our own image ; and he added, with partial but. 
 not complete injustice, that our ignorance of 
 the past was a cause of this tendency in our 
 minds, since it is shorter to despise the past 
 than to study it. These critics and accusers 
 of the modern spirit are not, however, alto- 
 gether fair to it. If the modern spirit looks 
 
256 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 SO much to the future, it is because the prob- 
 lems of the past are solved problems, whilst 
 those of the future have the interest of a 
 game that is only just begun. We know 
 what became of feudalism, we know the 
 work that it accomplished and the services 
 that it rendered, but we do not yet know 
 what will be the effects of modern democracy 
 and of the scientific and industrial spirit. It 
 is the novelty of this element, the scientific 
 spirit and the industrial development which 
 is a part (but only a part) of its results, that 
 makes the past so much less reliable as a 
 guide than it would have been if no new ele- 
 ment had intervened, and therefore so much 
 less interesting for us. As an example of the 
 inapplicability of past experience, I may men- 
 tion an argument against Republics which 
 has been much used of late by the partisans 
 of monarchy in France. They have fre- 
 quently told us that Republics had only suc- 
 ceeded in very small States, and this is true 
 of ancient democracies ; but it is not less true 
 that railways, and telegraphs, and the news- 
 paper press have made great countries like 
 France and the United States just as capable 
 of feeling and acting simultaneously as the 
 smallest Republics of antiquity. The parties 
 which rely on what are called the lessons of 
 history are continually exposed to great de- 
 €eptions. In France, what may be called the 
 historical party would not believe in the pos- 
 sibility of a united Germany, because fifty 
 years ago, with the imperfect means of com- 
 
CUSTOM INJJ TRADITION. 267 
 
 miiiiication which then existed, Germany- 
 was not and could not be united. The same 
 historical party refused to believe that the 
 Italian kingdom could ever hold together. 
 In Eaghmd, the liistorical partj^ predicted 
 the dismemberment of the United States, and 
 in some other countries it has been a favorite 
 article of faith that England could not keep 
 her possessions. But theories of this kind are 
 iilways of very doubtful applicability to the 
 present, and their applicability to the future 
 is even more doubtful still. Steam and elec- 
 tricity have made great modern States prac- 
 tically like so man}- great cities, so that Man- 
 chester is like a suburb of London, and 
 Havre the Pira>us of Paris, whilst the most 
 trifling occasions bring the Sovereign of Italy 
 to any of the Italian capitals. 
 
 In the intellectual sphere the experience of 
 the past is at least equally unreliable. If the 
 povver of the Catholic Church had been sud- 
 denly removed from the Europe of the four- 
 teenth century, the consequence would have 
 been a moral anarchy difficult to conceive; 
 but in our own day the re<al regulator of mor- 
 ality is not the Church, but public opinion, 
 in the formation of. which the Church has a 
 share, but only a share. It would therefore 
 be unsafe to conclude that the weakening of 
 ecclesiiistical authority must of necessity, in 
 the future, be followed by moral anarchy, 
 since it is possible, and even probable, that 
 the other great influences upon public opin- 
 ion may gain strength as this declines. And 
 17 
 
258 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 ill point of fact we have already lived long 
 enough to witness a remarkable decline of ec- 
 clesiastical authority, which is proved by the 
 avowed independence of scientific writers and 
 thinkers, and by the open opposition of al- 
 most all the European Governments. The 
 secular power resists the ecclesiastical in Ger- 
 many and Spain. In France it establishes a 
 form of government which the Church de- 
 tests. In Ireland it disestablishes and disen- 
 dows a hierarchy. In Switzerland it resists 
 the whole power of the Papacy. In Italy it 
 seizes the sacred territory and plants itself 
 within the very walls of Rome. And yet the 
 tinae wkich has witnessed this unprecedented 
 self-assertion of the laity has witnessed a 
 positive increase in the morality of public 
 sentiment, especially in the love of justice 
 and the willingness to hear truth, even when 
 truth is not altogether agreeable to the listen- 
 er, and in the respect paid by opponents to 
 able and sincere men, merely for their ability 
 and sincerity. This love of justice, this pa- 
 tient and tolerant hearing of new truth, in 
 which our age immeasurably exceeds all the 
 ages that have preceded it, are the direct re- 
 sults of the scientific spirit, and are not only 
 in themselves eminently moral, but condu- 
 cive to moral health generally. And this ad- 
 vancement may be observed in countries 
 which were least supposed to be capable of 
 it. Even the French, of whose immorality 
 we have heard so much, have a public opin- 
 ion which is gradually gaining a salutary 
 
CUSTOM AND TBABITION. 25Q 
 
 strength, an increasing dislike for barbarity 
 and injustice, and a more earnest desire that 
 no citizen, except by his own fault, should be 
 excluded from the benefits of civilization. 
 The throne which has lately fallen was under- 
 mined by the currents of this public opinion, 
 before it sank in military disaster. "Aussi 
 me contenterai-je, " says Littre, " d'appeler 
 I'attention sur la guerre, dont I'opinion pub- 
 lique ne tolere plus les antiques barbaries; 
 sur la magistrature, qui repudie avec hor- 
 reur les tortures et la question ; sur la toler- 
 ance, qui a banni les persecutions religieuses ; 
 sur I'equite, qui soumet tout le monde aux 
 charges communes ; sur le sentiment de soli- 
 darite qui du sort des classes pauvres fait le, 
 plus pressant et le plus noble probleme du 
 temps present. Pour moi, je ne sais carao 
 teriser ce spectacle si hautement moral qu'en 
 disant que Thumanite, amelioree, accepte de 
 plus en plus le devoir et la tache d'etendre le 
 domaine de la justice et de la bonte." 
 
 Yet this partial and comparative satisfac- 
 tion that we find in the present, and our 
 larger hopes for the future, are quite com- 
 patible with gratitude to all who in the past 
 have rendered such improvement possible for 
 us, and the higher improvement that we hoiio 
 for possible to those who will come after us. 
 I cannot think that the present age may bo 
 accused with justice of exceptional ignorance 
 or scorn of its predecessors. We have beeij 
 told that we scorn our forefathers because old 
 buildings are removed to suit modern con* 
 
260 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE, 
 
 leniences, because the walls of old York have 
 been pierced for the railway, and a tower of 
 C5onway Castle has been undermined that the 
 Holyhead mail may pass. But the truth is, 
 %hat whilst we care a little for our predeces- 
 'sors, they cared still less for theirs. The 
 mediaeval builders not only used as quarries 
 ^ny Roman remains that happened to come 
 in their way, but they spoiled the work of 
 their own fathers and grandfathers by in- 
 truding their new fashions on buildings origi- 
 iially designed in a different style of art. 
 When an architect in the present day has to 
 i*estore some venerable church, he endeavors 
 to do so in harmony vfith the design of the 
 iirst builder ; but such humility as this was 
 bitterly foreign to the mediaeval mind, which 
 often destroyed the most lovely and neces- 
 saTy details to replace them with erections in 
 the fashion of the day, but artistically un- 
 isuitable. The same disdain for the labors of 
 other ages has prevailed until within the 
 memory of living men, and our age is really 
 the first that has made any attempt to con- 
 form itself, in these things, to the intentions 
 o£ the dead. I may also observe, that al- 
 though history is less relied upon as a guide 
 4o the future than it was formerly, it is more 
 ^<;arefully and thoroughly investigated from 
 :!an intellectual interest in itself. 
 
 To conclude. It seems to me that tradition 
 lias much less influence of an authoritative 
 kind than it had formerly, and that the au- 
 tiiority which it still possesses is everywhere 
 
CUSTOM AND TRADITION, 261 
 
 steadily declining ; that as a guide to the fu' 
 tiire of the world it is more likely to mislead 
 than to enlighten us, and still that all intel- 
 lectual and educated people must always take 
 a, great interest in tradition, and have a certain 
 sentiment of respect for it. Consider what 
 our feelings are towards the Church of Eome, 
 the living embodiment of tradition. No well- 
 informed person can forget the immense serv- 
 ices that in former ages she has rendered to 
 European civilization, and yet at the same 
 time such a person would scarcely wish to 
 place modern thought under her direction, 
 nor would he consult the Pope about the ten- 
 dencies of the modern world. When in 1829 
 the city of Warsaw erected a monument to 
 Copernicus, a scientific society there waited 
 in the Church of the Holy Cross for a service 
 that was to have added solemnity to their 
 commemoration. They waited vainly. Not 
 a single priest appeared. The clergy did not 
 feel authorized to countenance a scientific dis- 
 covery which, in a former age, had been con- 
 demned by the authority of the Church. 
 This incident is delicately and accurately typ- 
 ical of the relation between the modern and 
 the traditional spirit. The modern spirit is 
 not hostile to tradition, and would not object 
 to receive any consecration which tradition 
 might be able to confer, but there are dif- 
 ficulties in bringing the two elements to- 
 gether. 
 We need not, however, go so far as War- 
 
262 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 saw, or back to the year 1829, for examples of 
 an unwillingness on the part of the modem 
 mind to break entirely with the traditional 
 spirit. Our own country is remarkable both 
 for the steadiness of its advance towards 3, 
 future widely different from the past, and f oi 
 an affectionate respect for the ideas and in- 
 stitutions that it gradually abandons, as it is 
 forced out of them by new conditions of exist- 
 ence, I may mention, as one example out of 
 very many, our feeling about the reconstruc- 
 tion of the navy. Here is a matter in which 
 science has compelled us to break with tradi- 
 tion absolutely and irrevocably ; we have done 
 so, but we have done so with the greatest re- 
 gret. The ships of the line that our hearts 
 and imaginations love are the ships of Nelson 
 and Collingwood and Cochrane. We think of 
 the British fleets that bore doAvn upon the 
 enemy with the breeze in their white sails ; 
 we think of the fine qualities of seamanship 
 that were fostered in our Agameninons, and 
 Victories, and Temeraires. Will the navies 
 of the future ever so clothe their dreadful 
 powers with beauty, as did the ordered col- 
 umns of Nelson, when they came with a fair 
 wind and all sails set, at eleven o'clock in the 
 morning into Trafalgar Bay? We see the 
 smoke of their broadsides rising up to their 
 sails like mists to the snowy Alps, and high 
 above, against heaven's blue, the unconquered 
 flag of England ! Nor do we perceive now for 
 the first time that there was poetry in those 
 
CUSTOM AND TRADITION. 263 
 
 fleets of old ; our forefathers felt it then, and 
 expressed it in a thousand songs.* 
 
 LETTER III. 
 
 TO A LADY WHO LAMENTED THAT HER SON HAD 
 INTELLECTUAL DOUBTS CONCERNING THE DOG- 
 ' MAS OF THE CHURCH. 
 
 The situation of mother and son a very common one — ^Painful 
 only when the parties are in earnest — The knowledge of 
 the difference evidence of a deeper xmity — Value of hon- 
 esty—Evil of a splendid official religion not believed by 
 men of culture — Diversity of belief an evidence of relig- 
 ious vitality — Criticism not to be ignored — Desire for the 
 highest attainable truth— Letter from Lady Westmorland 
 about her son. Julian Fane. 
 
 The difference which you describe as hav- 
 ing arisen between your son and you on the 
 most grave and important subject which can 
 occupy the thoughts of men, gives the outline 
 of a situation painful to both the parties con- 
 
 * I had desired to say something about the uses of tradition 
 in the industrial arts and in the fine arts, but the subject is a 
 veiy large one, and I have not time or space to treat it prop- 
 erly here. I may observe, however, bi'iefly, that the genuine 
 spirit of tradition has almost entirely disappeared from Eng- 
 lish industry and art, where it has been replaced by a spirit 
 of scientific investigation and experiment. The true tradi- 
 tional spirit was still in full vigor in Jaj^an a few years ago, 
 and it kept the industry and art of that country up to a re- 
 markably high standard. The traditional spirit is most fa- 
 vorable to professional skill, because, under its influence, the 
 apprentice learns thoroughly, whereas under other influences 
 he oft<>n learns very imperfectly. The inferiority of English 
 painting to French (considered technically) has been due to 
 the prevalence of a tracUtional spirit in the French school 
 wliich was almost entirely absent from our own. 
 
264 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 cerned, and which lays on each of them new 
 and delicate obligations. You do not know 
 how commbn this situation is, and how sadly 
 it interferes with the happiness of the very 
 best and most pure-minded souls alive. For 
 such a situation produces pain only where 
 both parties are earnest and sincere ; and the 
 more earnest both are, the more painful does 
 the situation become. If you and your son 
 thought of religion merely from the conven- 
 tional point of view, as the world does only 
 too easily, you would meet on a common 
 ground, and might pass through life without 
 ever becoming aware of any gulf of separa- 
 tion, even though the hoUowness of your sev- 
 eral professions were of widely different 
 kinds. But as it happens, unfortunately for 
 your peace (yet would you have it other- 
 wise?), that you are both in earnest, both 
 anxious to believe what is true and do what 
 you believe to be right, you are likely to 
 cause each other much suffering of a kind 
 altogether unknown to less honorable and de- 
 voted natures. There are certain forms of 
 suffering which affect only the tenderest and 
 truest hearts ; they have so many privileges, 
 that this pain has been imposed upon them 
 as the shadow of their sunshine. 
 
 Let me suggest, as some ground of consola- 
 tion and of hope, that your very knowledge 
 of the difference which pains you is in itself 
 the evidence of a deeper unity. If your son 
 has told you the fuU truth about the changes 
 in his belief, it is probably because you your- 
 
CUSTOM AND TRADITION. 265 
 
 self have educated him in the habit of truth- 
 fulness, which is as much a law of religion as 
 it is of honor. Do you wish this part of his 
 education to be enfeebled or obliterated? 
 Could the Church herself reasonably or con- 
 sistently blame him for practising the onos 
 virtue which, in a peaceful and luxurious so- 
 ciety, demands a certain exercise of courage? 
 Our beliefs are independent of our will, but 
 our honesty is not; and he who keeps his 
 honesty keeps one of the most precious pos-- 
 sessions of all true Christians and gentlemen. 
 What state of society can be more repugnant 
 to high religious feeling than a state ol: 
 smooth external unanimity combined witlx 
 the indifference of the heart, a state in which 
 some splendid official religion performs its 
 daily ceremonies as the costliest functionary 
 of the Government, whilst the men of culture 
 take a share in them out of conformity to the 
 customs of society, without either the assent 
 of the intellect or the emotion of the soul? 
 All periods of great religious vitality have 
 been marked by great and open diversity of 
 behef ; and to this day those countries where 
 religion is most alive are the farthest removed 
 from unanimity in the details of rehgious 
 doctrine. If your son thinks these things of 
 such importance to his conscience that het 
 feels compelled to inflict upon you the slight* 
 est pain on their account, you may rest as- 
 sured that his religious fibre is still full of vi- 
 tality. If it were deadened, he would argue 
 very much as follows. He would say,^ 
 
266 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 *' These old doctrines of the Church are not 
 of sufficient consequence for me to disturb 
 my mother about them. What is the use of 
 alluding to them ever? " And then you 
 "would have no anxiety; and he himself 
 would have the feeling of settled peace which 
 comes over a battle-field when the dead are 
 buried out of sight. It is the peculiarity — 
 some would say the evil, but I cannot think 
 it an evil — of an age of great intellectual ac- 
 tivity to produce an amount of critical in- 
 quiry into religious doctrine which is entire- 
 ly unknown to times of simple tradition. 
 And in these days the critical tendency has 
 received a novel stimulus from the succes- 
 sive suggestions of scientific discovery. No 
 one who, like your son, fully shares in the in- 
 tellectual life of the times in which ho hves, 
 can live as if this criticism did not exist. If 
 he affected to ignore it, as an objection 
 already answered, there would be disingenu- 
 ousness in the affectation. Fifty years ago, 
 even twenty or thirty years ago, a highly in- 
 tellectual young man might have hardened 
 into the fixed convictions of middle age with- 
 out any external disturbance, except such as 
 might have been easily avoided. The criti- 
 cism existed then, in certain circles; but it 
 was not in the air, as it is now. The life of 
 mankind resembles that of a brook which 
 has its times of tranquillity, but farther on its 
 times of trouble and unrest. Our immediate 
 forefathers had the peaceful time for their 
 lot ; those who went before them had passed 
 
CUSTOM AND TEABITJON. 267 
 
 over very rough ground at the Reformation, 
 For us, in our turn, conies the recurrent rest^ 
 lessness, though not in the same place.. 
 What we are going to, who can tell? What 
 we suffer just now, you and many others 
 know too accurately. There are gulfs of sep- 
 aration in homes of the most perfect love. 
 Our only hope of preserving what is best in 
 that purest of earthly felicities lies in tha 
 practice of an immense charity, a wide toler- 
 ance, a sincere respect for opinions that are. 
 not ours, and a deep trust that the loyal pur- 
 suit of truth cannot but be in perfect accord- 
 ance with the intentions of the Creator, who 
 endowed the noblest races of inankind with 
 the indefatigable curiosity of science. Not 
 to inquire was possible for our fore-fathers, 
 but it is not possible for us. With our in- 
 tellectual growth has come an irrepressible 
 anxiety to possess the highest truth attain- 
 able by us. This desire is not sinful, not 
 presumptuous, but really one of the best and 
 purest of our instincts, being nothing else 
 than the sterling honesty of the intellect, 
 seeking the harmony of concordant truths 
 and utterly disinterested. 
 
 I may quote, as an illustration of the ten- 
 dencies prevalent amongst the noblest and 
 most cultivated young men, a letter from. 
 Lady Westmorland to Mr. Robert Lytton 
 about her accomplished son, the now cele- 
 brated Julian Fane. "We had," she said, 
 *' several conversations, during his last ill- 
 ness, upon religious subjects, about which he 
 
S68 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 had his own peculiar views. The disputes 
 and animosities between High and Low 
 CJhurch, and all the feuds of religious sectari- 
 anism, caused him the deepest disgust. I 
 think, indeed, that he carried this feeling too 
 far. He had a horror of cant, which I also 
 think was exaggerated ; for it gave him. a re- 
 pulsion for all outward show of religious ob- 
 servances. He often told me that he never 
 missed the practice of prayer, at morning and 
 evening, and at other tunes. But his prayers 
 "were his own: his own thoughts in hi^ own 
 "words. He said that he could not pray in the 
 set words of another ; nor unless he was alone. 
 As to joining in family prayers, or praying 
 at church, he found it impossible. He con- 
 stantly read the New Testament. He depre- 
 cated the indiscriminate reading of the Bible. 
 He firmly believed in the efScacy of sincere 
 prayer ; and was always pleased when I told 
 liim I had prayed for him.-' 
 
 To this it may be added, that many recent 
 conversions to the Church of Rome, though 
 apparently of an exactly opposite chapacter, 
 have in reality also been brought al)out by 
 the scientific inquiries of the age. The relig- 
 ious sentiment, alarmed at the prospect of a 
 possible taking away of that which it feeds 
 upon, has sought in many instances to pre- 
 serve it permanently under the guardianship 
 of the strongest ecclesiastical authority. In 
 an age of less intellectual disturbance this 
 anxiety would scarcely have been felt; and 
 the degree of authority claimed by one of the 
 
CUSTOM AND TRADITION. 26A 
 
 reformed Churches would have been accepted 
 as sufficient. Here again the agitations of the 
 modern intellect have caused division in fam- 
 ilies; and as you are lamenting the hetero- 
 doxy of your son, so other parents regret the 
 Roman orthodoxy of theirs. 
 
 LETTER IV. 
 
 TO THE SON OF THE LADY TO WHOM THE PRE- 
 CEDING LETTER WAS ADDRESSED. 
 
 Difficulty of detaching intellectual from religious questions 
 — The sacerdotal system— Necessary to ascertain ^vhat 
 religion is — Intellectual religion really nothing but philos- 
 ophy — The popular instinct. — The test of belief— PubUc 
 worship — The intellect moral, but not religious — Intellect- 
 ual activity sometimes in contradiction to dogma — DuTer- 
 ences between the intellectual and religious lives. 
 
 Your request is not so simple as it appears. 
 You ask me for a frank opinion as to the 
 course your mind is taking in reference to very 
 important subjects ; but you desire only intel- 
 lectual, and not religious guidance. The dif- 
 ficulty is to effect any clear demarcation be- 
 tween the two. Certainly I should never take 
 upon myself to offer religious advice to any 
 one; it is difficult for those who have not qual- 
 ified themselves for the priestly oiilce to do 
 that with force and effect. The manner in 
 which a priest leads and manages a mind that 
 has from the first been moulded in the beliefs 
 and observances of his Church, cannot be im- 
 itated by a layman. A priest starts always 
 
270 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 from authority ; his method, which has been 
 in use frcm the earhest ages, consists first in 
 claiming your unquestioning assent to certain 
 doctrines, from which he immediately pro- 
 ceeds to deduce the inferences that may affect 
 your conduct or regulate your thoughts. It 
 is a method perfectly, adapted to its own ends. 
 It can deal with all humanity, and produce 
 the most immediate practical results. So long 
 as the assent to the doctrines is sincere, the 
 sacerdotal system may contend successfully 
 against some of the strongest forms of evil ; 
 but when the assent to the doctrines has 
 ceased to be complete, when some of them are 
 half -believed and others not believed at all, the 
 system loses much of its primitive efficiency. 
 It seems likely that your difficulty, the diffi- 
 culty of so many intellectual men in these 
 days, is to know where the intellectual ques- 
 tions end and the purely religious ones can bo 
 considered to begin. If you could once ascer- 
 tain that, in a manner definitely satisfactory,, 
 you would take your religious questions to a. 
 clergyman and your intellectual ones to a 
 man of science, and so get each solved inde- 
 pendently. 
 
 Without presuming to offer a solution of so 
 complex a difficulty as this, I may suggest to 
 you that it is of some importance to your in- 
 tellectual life to ascertain wha.t religion is. A 
 book was published many years ago by a very 
 learned author, in which he endeavored to 
 show that what is vulgarly called scepticism 
 may be intellectual religion. Now, although 
 
CUSTOM AND TRADITION. 271 
 
 nothing can be more distasteful to persons of 
 culture than the bigotry which refuses the 
 name of religion to other people's opinions, 
 merely because they are other people's opin- 
 ions, I suspect that the popular instinct is 
 right in denying the name of religion to the 
 inferences of the intellect. The description 
 which the author just alluded to gave of what 
 he called intellectual religion was in fact 
 simply a description of philosophy, and of 
 that discipline which the best philosophy im- 
 poses upon the heart and the passions. On 
 the other hand, Dr. Arnold, when he says 
 that by religion he always understands Chris- 
 tianity, narrows the word as much as he 
 would have narrowed the word " patriotism " 
 had he defined it to mean a devotion to the 
 interests of England. I think the popular in- 
 stinct, though of couree quite unable to con- 
 struct a definition of religion, is in its vague 
 way very well aware of the peculiar nature of 
 religious thought and feeling. The popular 
 instinct would certainly never confound relig- 
 ion with philosophy on the one hand, nor, on 
 the other, unless excited to opposition, would 
 it be likely to refuse the name of religion to 
 another worship, such as Mahometanism, for 
 instance. 
 
 According to the popular instinct, then, 
 which on a subject of this kind appears the 
 safest of all guides, a religion involves first a 
 belief and next a public practice. The nature 
 of the belief is in these days wholly peculiar 
 to religion ; in other times it was not so, be- 
 
272 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 cause then people believed other things much 
 in the same way. But in these days the test 
 of religious belief is that it should make men 
 accept as certain truth what they would dis- 
 believe on any other authority. For example, 
 a true Roman Catholic believes that the con- 
 secrated host is the body of Christ, and so 
 long as he lives in the purely religious spirit 
 he continues to believe this ; but so soon as 
 the power of his religious sentiment declines 
 he ceases to believe it, and the wafer appears 
 to him a wafer, and no more. And so 
 amongst Protestants the truly religious be- 
 lieve many things which no person not being 
 under the authority of religion could by any 
 effort bring himself to believe. It is easy, for 
 example, to believe that Joshua arrested tha 
 sun's apparent motion, so long as the religious 
 authority of the Bible remains perfectly in- 
 tact ; but no sooner does the reader become 
 critical than the miracle is disbelieved. In 
 all ages, and in all countries, religions have 
 nsi'rated marvellous things, and the people 
 have always affirmed that not to believe these 
 narratives constituted the absence of religion, 
 or what they called atheism. They have 
 equally, in aU ages and countries, held the 
 public act of participation in religious worship 
 to be an essential part of what they called re- 
 ligion. They do not admit the sufficiency of 
 secret prayer. 
 
 Can these popular instincts help us to a defi- 
 nition? They may help us at least to mark 
 the dividing line between religion and moral- 
 
CUSTOM AND TRADITION, 273 
 
 ity, between religion and philosophy. No one 
 has ever desired, more earnestly and eagerly 
 than I, to discover the foundations of the in« 
 tellectual religion ; no one has ever felt more 
 chilling disappointment in the perception of 
 the plain bare fact that the intellect gives 
 morality, philosophy, precious things indeed, 
 but not religion. It is like seeking art by- 
 science. Thousands of artists, whole schools 
 from generation to generation, have sought, 
 fine art through anatomy and perspective; 
 and although these sciences did not hinder, 
 the bom artists from coming to art at last, 
 they did not ensure their safe an*ival in the 
 art-paradise ; in many instances they even led 
 men away from art. So it is with the great 
 modern search for the intellectual religion; 
 the idea of it is scientific in its source, and the, 
 result of it, the last definite attainment, is, 
 simply intellectual morality, not religion in 
 the sense which all humanity has attached to^ 
 religion during all the ages that have preceded, 
 ours. We may say that philosophy is the re- 
 ligion of the intellectual ; and if we go scru- 
 pulously to Latin derivations, it is so. But 
 taking frankly the received meaning of the 
 word as it is used by mankind everywhere^ 
 we must admit that, although high intellect, 
 would lead us inevitably to high and pure, 
 morality, and to m.ost scrupulously beautiful 
 conduct in everything, towards men, towards, 
 women, towards even the lower and lowest 
 animals, still it does not lead us to that belief 
 in the otherwise unbelievable, or to that d% 
 IS 
 
274 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 tailed cultus which is meant by religion in the 
 ^iniversally accepted sense. It is disingenu- 
 ous to take a word popularly; respected and 
 3^ttribute to it another sense. Such a course 
 is not strictly honest, and therefore not purely 
 intellectual ; for the foundation of the intel- 
 lectual life is honesty. 
 
 The difluLculty of the intellectual life is, that 
 whilst it can never assume a position of hos- 
 tility to religion, which it must always recog- 
 nize as the greatest natural force for the ame- 
 lioration of mankind, it is nevertheless com- 
 pelled to enunciate truths which may happen 
 to be in contradiction with dogmas received 
 ^t this or that particular time. That you 
 may not suspect me of a disposition to dwell 
 tiontinually on safe generalities and to avoid 
 details out of timidity, let me mention two 
 cases on which the intellectual and scientific 
 find themselves at variance with the clergy. 
 The clergy tell us that mankind descend from 
 a single pair, and that in the earlier ages the 
 human race attained a longevity counted not 
 by decades but by centuries. Alexander 
 Humboldt disbelieves the first of these propo- 
 sitions. Professor Owen disbelieves the sec- 
 ond. Men of science generally are of the 
 same opinion. Few men of science accept 
 Adam and Eve, few accept Methuselah. Pro- 
 fessor Owen argues that, since the oldest 
 skeletons known have the same system of 
 teething that we have, man can never have 
 lived long enough to require nine sets of 
 teeth. In regard to these, and a huAdred 
 
CUSTOM AND TRADITION. 275 
 
 other points on which science advances new 
 views, the question which concerns us is how 
 we are to maintain the integrity of the intel- 
 lectual life. The danger is the loss of in^^^ard 
 ingenuousness, the attempt to persuade our- 
 selves that we believe opposite staten^ents. 
 If once we admit disingenuousness into the 
 mind, the intellectual life is no longer serene 
 and pure. The plain course for the preserva- 
 tion of our honesty, which is the basis of 
 truly intellectual thinking, is to receive the 
 truth, whether agreeable or the contrary, 
 with all its train of consequences, however 
 repulsive or discouraging. In attempting to 
 reconcile scientific truth with the oldest tradi- 
 tions of humanity, there is but one serious 
 danger, the loss of intellectual integrity. Of 
 that possession modern society has little left 
 to lose. 
 
 But let us understand that the intellectual 
 life and the religious life are as distinct as the 
 scientific and the artistic lives. They may 
 be led by the same person, but by the same 
 person in different moods. They coincide on 
 some points, accidentally. Certainly, the 
 basis of high thinking is perfect honesty, and 
 honesty is a recognized religious virtue. 
 Where the two minds differ is on the impor- 
 tance of authority. The religious life is 
 based upon authority, the intellectual hfe is 
 based upon personal investigation. From the 
 intellectual point of view I cannot advise 
 you to restrain the spirit of investigation, 
 which is the scientific spii'it. It may lead 
 
276 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 you very far, yet always to truth, ultimately, 
 — you, or those after you, whose path you 
 may be destined to prepare. Science requires 
 a certain inward hea,t and heroism in her vo- 
 taries, notwithstanding the apparent coldness 
 of her statements. Especially does she re- 
 quire that intellectual fearlessness which ac- 
 cepts a proved fact without reference to its 
 personal or its social consequences. 
 
 LETTER V. 
 
 TO A FRIEND WHO SEEMED TO TAKE CREDIT TO 
 HIMSELF, INTELLECTUALLY, FROM THE NA- 
 TURE OF HIS RELIGIOUS BELIEF. 
 
 Anecdote of a Swiss gentleman — Religious belief protects tra- 
 ditions, but does not weaken the critical faculty itself— 
 Illustration from the art of etching — Sydney Smith — Dr. 
 Arnold — Earnest religious behef of Ampere — Comte and 
 Sainte-Beuve — Faraday — Behef or unbehef proves nothing 
 for or against intellectual capacity. 
 
 I HAPPENED once to be travelling in Switzer- 
 land with an eminent citizen of that country, 
 and I remember how in speaking of some 
 place we passed through he associated to- 
 gether the ideas of Protestantism and intel- 
 lectual superiority in some such phrase as 
 this: "The people here are very superior; 
 they are Protestants." There seemed to ex- 
 ist, in my companion's mind, an assumption 
 that Protestants would be superior people in- 
 tellectually, or that superior people would be 
 
CUSTOM AND TRADITION. 277 
 
 Protestants ; and this set me thinking whether^ 
 in the course of such experience as had fallen 
 in my way, I had found that religious creed 
 had made much difference in the matter of 
 intellectual acumen or culture. 
 
 The exact truth appears to be this. A re- 
 ligious belief protects this or that subject 
 against intellectual action, but it does not 
 alf ect the energy of the intellectual action up- 
 on subjects which are not so protected. Let 
 me illustrate this by a reference to one of the 
 fine arts, the art of etching. The etcher pro- 
 tects a copper-plate by means of a waxy cover- 
 ing called etching-ground, and wherever this 
 ground is removed the acid bites the cojoper. 
 The waxy ground does not in the least affect 
 the strength of the acid, it only intervenes 
 between it and the metal plate. So it is in the 
 mind of man with regard to his intellectual 
 acumen and his religious creed. The creed 
 may protect a tradition from the operation of 
 the critical faculty, but it does not weaken 
 the critical faculty itself. In the English 
 Church, for example, the Bible is protected 
 against criticism; but this does not weaken 
 the critical faculty of English clergymen 
 with reference to other literature, and many 
 of them give evidence of a strong critical 
 faculty in all matters not protected by their 
 creed. Think of the vigorous common sense 
 of Sydney Smith, exposing so many abuses at 
 a time when it needed not only much courage 
 but great originality to expose them! Re- 
 member the intellectual force of Arnold, a 
 
278 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 great natural force if ever there was one — so 
 direct in action, so independent of contemp- 
 orary opinion! Intellectual forces of this 
 kind act freely not only in the Church of 
 England, but in other Churches, even in the 
 Church of Rome. Who amongst the scien- 
 tific men of this century has been more pro- 
 foundly scientific, more capable of original 
 scientific discovery than Ampere? Yet Am- 
 pere was a Roman Catholic, and not a Ro- 
 man Catholic in the conventional sense 
 merely, like the majority of educated French- 
 men, but a hearty and enthusiastic believer 
 in the doctrines of the Church of Rome. 
 The belief in transubstantiation did not pre- 
 vent Ampere from becoming one of the best 
 chemists of his time, just as the belief in the 
 plenary inspiration of the New Testament 
 does not prevent a good Protestant from be- 
 coming an acute critic of Greek literature 
 generally. A man may have the finest scien- 
 tific faculty, the most advanced scientific 
 culture, and still believe the consecrated wa- 
 fer to the body of Jesus Christ. For since 
 he still believes it to be the body of Christ un- 
 der the apparent form of a wafer, it is evident / 
 that the wafer under chemical analysis would' 
 resolve itself into the same elements as before 
 consecration ; therefore why consult chemis- 
 try? What has chemistry to say to a mys- 
 tery of this kind, the essence of which is the 
 complete disguise of a human body under a 
 form in all respects answering the material 
 semblance of a wafer? Ampere must have 
 
CUSTOM AND TRADITION, 27» 
 
 ft)reseen the certain results of analysis as 
 elearly as the best chemist educated in tho 
 principles of Protestantism, but this did not 
 prevent him from adoring the consecrated 
 host in all the sincerity of his heart. 
 
 I say that it does not follow, because M. or 
 N. happens to be a Protestant, that he is in- 
 tellectually superior to Ampere, or because 
 M. or N. happens to be a Unitarian, or a Deist, 
 or a Positivist, that he is intellectually supe- 
 rior to Dr. Arnold or Sydney Smith. And on 
 the other side of this question it is equally 
 unfair to conclude that because a man does 
 not share whatever may be our theological 
 beliefs on the positive side, he must be less 
 capable intellectually than we are. Two of 
 the finest and most disciplined modern intel- 
 lects, Comte and Sainte-Beuve, were neither 
 Catholics, nor Protestants, nor Deists, but 
 convinced atheists; yet Comte until the pe- 
 riod of his decline, and Sainte-Beuve up to the 
 very hour of his death, were quite in the 
 highest rank of modern scientific and literary 
 intellect. 
 
 The inference from these facts which con- 
 cerns every one of us is, that we are not to 
 build up any edifice of intellectual self-satis- 
 faction on the ground that in theological 
 matters we believe or disbelieve this thing or 
 that. If Ampere believed the doctrines of 
 the Church of Rome, w^hich to us seem so in- 
 credible, if Faraday remained throughout his 
 brilliant intellectual career (certainly one of 
 the most brilliant ever lived through by a 
 
280 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 human being) a sincere member of the ob- 
 scure sect of the Sandemanians, we are not 
 warranted in the conclusion that we are in- 
 tellectually their betters because our theology 
 is more novel, or more fashionable, or more 
 in harmony with reason. Nor, on the other 
 hand, does our orthodoxy prove anything in. 
 favor of our mental force and culture. Who, 
 amongst the most orthodox writers, has a 
 more forcible and cultivated intellect than 
 Sainte-Beuve? — who can better give us the 
 tone of perfect culture, with its love of jus- 
 tice, its thoroughness in preparation, its su- 
 periority to all crudeness and violence? An- 
 glican or Romanist, dissenter or heretic, may 
 be our master in the intellectual sphere, from 
 which no sincere and capable laborer is ex- 
 cluded, either by his belief or by his unbelief. 
 
 LETTER VI. 
 
 TO A ROMAN CATHOLIC FRIEND WHO ACCUSED 
 THE INTELLECTUAL CLASS OF A WANT OF 
 REVERENCE FOR AUTHORITY. 
 
 Necessity for treating affirmations as if they were doubtful — 
 The Papal Infallibility— The Infallibility of the Sacred 
 Scriptures— Opposition of method between Intellect and 
 Faith— The perfection of the intellectual life requires in- 
 tellectual methods— Inevitable action of the inieilectual 
 forces. 
 
 It is very much the custom, in modern 
 writing about liberty of thought, to pass 
 lightly over the central difficulty, which 
 sooner or later will have to be considered. 
 
CUSTOM AND TRABITION. 281 
 
 The difficulty is this, that the freedom of the 
 intellectual life can never be secured except 
 by treating as if they were doubtful several 
 affirmations which large masses of mankind 
 hold to be certainties as indisputable as the 
 facts of science. One of the most recently 
 conspicuous of these affirmations is the infal- 
 libility of the Pope of Rome. Nothing can 
 be more certain in the opinion of immense 
 numbers of Roman CathoHcs than the infalli- 
 ble authority of the Supreme Pontiff on all 
 matters affecting doctrine. But then the 
 matters affecting doctrine include many sub- 
 jects which come within the circle of the 
 sciences. History is one of those subjects 
 which modern intellectual criticism takes 
 leave to study after its own methods, and yet 
 certain Iprevalent views of history are offen- 
 sive to the Pope and explicitly condemned by 
 him. The consequence is, that in order to 
 study history with mental liberty, we have 
 to act practically as if there existed a doubt 
 of the Papal infallibility. The same difficulty 
 occurs with reference to the great Protestant 
 docti'ine which attributes a similar infalli- 
 bility to the various authors who composed 
 what are now known to us as the Holy Script- 
 ures. Our men of science act, and the laws 
 of scientific investigation compel them to act, 
 as if it were not quite certain that the views 
 of scientific subjects held by those early 
 writers were so final as to render modern in- 
 vestigation superfluous. It is useless to dis- 
 guise the fact that there is a real opposition 
 
282 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 of method between intellect and faith, and 
 that the independence of the intellectual life 
 can never be fully secured unless all affirma- 
 tions based upon authority are treated as if 
 they were doubtful. This implies no change 
 of manner in the intellectual classes towards 
 those classes whose mental habits are founded 
 upon obedience. I mean that the man of sci- 
 ence does not treat the affirmations of any 
 priesthood with less respect than the affirma- 
 tions of his own scientific brethren; he a,p- 
 plies with perfect impartiality the same criti- 
 cism to all affirmations, from whatever source 
 they emanate. The intellect does not recog- 
 nize authority in any one, and intellectual 
 men do not treat the Pope, or the author of 
 Genesis, with less consideration than those 
 famous persons who in their day have been 
 the brightest luminaries of science. The dif- 
 ficulty, however, remains, that whilst the in- 
 tellectual class has no wish to offend either 
 those who believe in the infallibility of the 
 Pope, or those who believe in the infallibility 
 of the author of Grenesis,'it is compelled to 
 conduct its own investigations as if those in- 
 fallibilities were matters of doubt and not of 
 certainty. 
 
 Why this is so, may be shown by a refer- 
 ence to the operation of Nature in other ways. 
 The rewards of physical strength and health 
 are not given to the most moral, to the most 
 humane, to the most gentle, but to those who 
 have acted, and whose forefathers have acted, 
 in the most perfect accordance with the laws 
 
CUSTOM AND TRADITION. 283 
 
 of their physical constitution. So the perfec- 
 tion of the intellectual life is not given to the 
 most humble, the most believing, the most 
 obedient, but to those who use their minds 
 according to the most purely intellectual meth- 
 ods. One of the most important truths that 
 human beings can know is the perfectly in 
 dependent working of the natural laws : one 
 of the best practical conclusions to be drawn 
 from the observation of Nature is that in the 
 conduct of our own understandings we should 
 use a like independence. 
 
 It would be wrong, in writing to you on 
 subjects so important as these, to shrink from 
 handling the real difficulties. Every one now 
 is aware that science must and will pursue 
 her own methods and work according to her 
 own laws, without concerning herself with 
 the most authoritative affirmations from with- 
 out. But if science said one thing and au- 
 thoritative tradition said another, no perfectly 
 ingenuous person could rest contented until 
 he had either reconciled the two or decidedly 
 rejected one of them. It is impossible for a 
 mind which is honest towards itself to admit 
 that a proposition is true and false at the same 
 time, true in science and false in theology. 
 Therefore, although the intellectual methods 
 are entirely independent of tradition, it may 
 easily happen that the indirect results of our 
 following those methods may be the over- 
 throw of some dogma which has for many 
 generations been considered indispensable to 
 man s spiritual welfare. With regard to this 
 
284 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 contingency it need only be observed that 
 the intellectual forces of humanity must act, 
 like floods and winds, according to their own 
 laws ; and that if they cast down any edifice 
 too weak to resist them, it must be because 
 the original constructors had not built it sub- 
 stantially, or because those placed in charge 
 ,of it had neglected to keep it in repair. This 
 is their business, not ours. Our work is sim- 
 ply to ascertain truth by our own independ- 
 ent methods, alike without hostility to any 
 persons claiming authority, and without def- 
 erence to thera. 
 
PAET VIL 
 
 WOMEN AND MARRIAGE, 
 
 LETTER I. 
 
 TO A YOUNG GENTLEMAN OF INTELLECTUAL 
 TASTES, WHO, WITHOUT HAVING AS YET ANY 
 PARTICULAR LADY IN VIEW, HAD EXPRESSED, 
 IN A GENERAL WAY, HIS DETERMINATION TO 
 GET MARRIED. 
 
 How ignorant we all are about marriage— People wrong in 
 their estimates of the marriages of others — Effects of mar- 
 riage on the intellectvial hfe — Two courses open — A wife 
 who would not interfere with elevated pursuits — A wife 
 capable of understanding them— Madame Ingres— Differ- 
 ence in the education of the sexes— Difficulty of educating 
 a wife. 
 
 The subject of marriage is one concerning 
 which neither I nor anybody else can have 
 more than an infinitesimally small atom of 
 knowledge. Each of us knows how his or 
 her own marriage has turned out ; but that, 
 in comparison with a knowledge of marriage 
 generally, is hke a single plant in comparison 
 with the flora of the globe. The utmost ex- 
 perience on this subject to be found in this 
 country extends to about three trials or ex- 
 periments. A man naay become twice a wid- 
 ower, and then marry a third time, but it 
 may be easily shown that the variety of his 
 
286 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 experience is more than counterbalanced by 
 its incompleteness in each instance. For the 
 experiment to be conclusive even as to the 
 wisdom of one decision, it must extend over 
 half a lifetime. A true marriage is not a 
 mere temporary arrangement, and although 
 a young couple are said to be married as soon 
 as the lady has changed her name, the truth 
 is that the real marriage is a long slow inter- 
 growth, like that of two trees planted quite 
 close together in the forest. 
 
 The subject of marriage generally is one of 
 which men know less than they know of any 
 other subject of universal interest. People 
 are almost always wrong in their estimates of 
 the marriages of others, and the best proof 
 how little we know the real tastes and needs 
 of those with whom we have been most inti- 
 mate, is our unfailing surprise at the mar- 
 riages they make. Very old and experienced 
 people fancy they know a great deal about 
 younger couples, but their guesses, there is 
 good reason to believe, never exactly hit the 
 mark. 
 
 Ever since this idea, that marriage is a sub- 
 ject we are all very ignorant about, had taken 
 root in my own mind, many little incidents 
 were perpetually occurring to confirm it ; they 
 proved to me, on the one hand, how often I 
 had been mistaken about other people, and, 
 on the other hand, how mistaken other peo- 
 ple were concerning the only marriage I pro- 
 fess to know anything about, namely, my 
 own. 
 
WOMEN AND MARRIAGE. 287 
 
 Our ignorance is all the darker that few 
 men tell us the little that they know, that lit- 
 tle being too closely bound up with that in- 
 nermost privacy of life which every man of 
 right feeling respects in his own case, as in 
 the case of another. The only instances 
 which are laid bare to the public view are the 
 unhappy marriages, which are really not mar- 
 riages at all. An unhappy alliance bears ex- 
 actly the same relation to a true marriage 
 that disease does to health, and the quai'rels 
 and misery of it are the crises by which Na- 
 ture tries to bring about either the recovery 
 of happiness, or the endurable peace of a set- 
 tled separation. 
 
 All that we really know about marriage is 
 that it is based upon the most powerful of all 
 our instincts, and that it shows its own justi- 
 fication in its fruits, especially in the pro- 
 longed and watchful care of children. But 
 marriage is very complex in its effects, and 
 there is one set of effects, resulting from it, to 
 which remarkably little attention has been 
 paid hitherto, — I mean its effects upon the in- 
 tellectual life. Surely they deserve consider- 
 ation by all who value culture. 
 
 I believe that for an intellectual man, only 
 two courses are open; either he ought to 
 marry some simple dutiful woman who will 
 bear him children, and see to the household 
 matters, and love him in a trustful spirit with- 
 out jealousy of his occupations; or else, on 
 the other hand, he ought to marry some highly 
 intelligent lady, able to carry her education 
 
288 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 far beyond school experiences, and willing to 
 become his companion in the arduous paths 
 of intellectual labor. The danger in the first 
 of the two cases is that pointed out by "W ords- 
 worth in some verses addressed to lake-tour- 
 ists who might feel inclined to buy a peasant's 
 cottage in Westmoreland. The tourist would 
 spoil the little romantic spot if he bought it ; 
 the charm of it is subtly dependent upon the 
 poetry of a simple life, and would be brushed 
 away by the influence of the things that are 
 necessary to people in the middle class. I 
 remember dining in a country inn with an 
 English officer whose ideas were singularly 
 unconventional. We were waited upon by 
 our host's daughter, a beautiful girl, whose 
 manners were remarkable for their natural 
 elegance and distinction. It seemed to us 
 both that no lady of rank could be more dis- 
 tinguished than she was ; and my companion 
 said that he thought a gentleman might do 
 worse than ask that girl to marry him, and 
 settle down quietly in that quiet mountain 
 village, far from the cares and vanities of the 
 world. That is a sort of dream which has oc- 
 curred no doubt to many an honorable man. 
 Some men have gone so far as to try to make 
 the dream a reality, and have married the 
 beautiful peasant. But the difficulty is that 
 she does not remain what she was ; she be- 
 comes a sort of make-belief lady, and then her 
 ignorance, which in her natural condition was 
 a charming naiveU, becomes an irritating de- 
 fect. If, however, it were possible for an in- 
 
WOMEN AND MAEEIAGE. 289 
 
 tellectual man to marry some simple-hearted 
 peasant girl, and keep her carefully in her 
 original condition, I seriously believe that the 
 venture would be less perilous to his culture 
 than an alhance with some woman of our 
 Philistine classes, equally incapable of com- 
 prehending his pursuits, but much more like- 
 ly to interfere with them. I once had a con- 
 versation on this subject with a distinguished 
 artist, who is now a widower, and who is cer- 
 tainly not likely to be prejudiced against mar- 
 riage by his own experience, which had been 
 an unusually happy one. His view was that 
 a man devoted to art might marry either a 
 plain-minded woman, who would occupy her- 
 self exclusively with household matters and 
 shield his peace by taking these cares upon 
 herself, or else a woman quite capable of en- 
 tering into his artistic life ; but he was con- 
 vinced that a marriage which exposed him to 
 unintelligent criticism and interference would 
 be dangerous in the highest degree. And of 
 the two kinds of marriage which he consid- 
 ered possible he preferred the former, that 
 with the entirely ignorant and simple person, 
 from whom no interference was to be appre- 
 hended. He considered the first Madame In- 
 gres the true model of an artist's wife, be- 
 cause she did all in her power to guard her 
 husband's peace against the daily cares of hfe 
 and never herself disturbed it, acting the part 
 of a breakwater which protects a space of 
 calm, and never destroys the peace that it 
 has made. This may be true for artists whose 
 19 
 
290 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 occupation is rather sesthetic than intellect- 
 ual, and does not get much help or benefit 
 from talk ; but the ideal marriage for a man 
 of great literary culture would be one permit- 
 ting some equality of companionship, or, if 
 not equality, at least interest. That this ideal 
 is not a mere dream, but may consolidate into 
 a happy reality, several examples prove ; yet 
 these examples are not so numerous as to re- 
 lieve me from anxiety about your chances of 
 finding such companionship. The different 
 education of the two sexes separates them 
 widely at the beginning, and to meet on any 
 common ground of culture a second educa- 
 tion h3.s to be gone through. It rarely hap- 
 pens thfl,t there is resolution enough for this. 
 
 The want of thoroughness and reality in 
 the education of both sexes, but especially in 
 that of women, may be attributed to a sort of 
 policy which is not very favorable to com- 
 panionship ip married life. It appears to bo 
 thought wise to teach boys things which 
 women do not learn, in order to give women 
 a degree of respect for men's attainments, 
 which they would not be so likely to feel if 
 they were prepared to estimate them criti- 
 cally; whilst girls are taught arts and lan- 
 guages which until recently were all but ex- 
 cluded from our public schools, and won no 
 rank at our universities. Men and women 
 had consequently scarcely any common 
 ground to meet upon, and the absence of se- 
 rious mental discipline in the training of 
 women made them indisposed to submit to 
 
WOMEN AND MARRIAGE. 291 
 
 the irksomeness of that earnest intellectual 
 labor which might have remedied the defi- 
 ciency. The total lack of accuracy in their 
 mental habits was then, and is still. for the 
 immense majority of women, the least easily 
 surmountable impediment to culture. The 
 history of many marriages which have failed 
 to realize intellectual companionship is com- 
 prised in a sentence which was actually ut- 
 tered by one of the most accomplished of my 
 friends: "She knew nothing when I married 
 her. I tried to teach her something ; it made 
 her angry, and I gave it up." 
 
 LETTER II. 
 
 TO A YOUNG GENTLEMAN WHO CONTEMPLATED 
 MARRIAGE. 
 
 The foundations of the intellectual marriage—Marriage not a 
 snare or pitfall for the intellectual — Men of culture, who 
 many badly, often have themselves to blame — For evei-y 
 grade of the masculine intellect there exists-a correspond- 
 ing grade of the feminine intellect — Difficulty of finding 
 the true mate — French University Professors — An extreme 
 case of intellectual separation — Regrets of a widow^ 
 Women help us less by adding to our knowledge than 
 by understanding us. 
 
 In several letters which have preceded this 
 I have indicated some of the differences be- 
 tween the female sex and ours, and it is time 
 to examine the true foundations of the intel- 
 lectual marriage. Let me affirm, to begin 
 with, my profound faith in the natural ar- 
 rangement. There is in nature so much evi- 
 
292 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE, 
 
 dent care for the development ot the Intel 
 lectual life, so much protection of it in the so- 
 cial order, there are such admirable contri- 
 vances for continuing it from century to cent- 
 ury, that we may fairly count upon some 
 provision for its necessities in marriage. In- 
 tellectual men are not less alive to the charms 
 of women than other men are ; indeed the 
 greatest of them have always delighted in the 
 society of women. If marriage were really 
 dangerous to the intellectual life, it would be 
 a moral snare or pitfall, from which the best 
 and noblest would be least likely to escape. 
 It is hard to believe that the strong passions 
 which so often accompany high intellectual 
 gifts were intended either to drive their pos- 
 sessors into immorality or else to the misery 
 of ill-assorted unions. 
 
 No, there is such a thing as the intellectual 
 marriage, in which the intellect itself is mar- 
 ried. If such marriages are not frequent, it 
 is that they are not often made the deliberate 
 purpose of a wise alliance. Men choose their 
 wives because they are pretty, or because 
 they are rich, or because they are well-con- 
 nected, but rarely for the permanent interest 
 of their society. Yet who that had ever been 
 condemned to the dreadful embarrassments 
 of a tete-a-tete with an uncompanionable per- 
 son, could reflect without apprehension on a 
 lifetime of such tete-d-tetesf 
 
 When intellectual men suffer from this 
 misery they have themselves to blame. 
 What is the use of having any mental supe- 
 
WOMEN AND MABBIAGE. 293 
 
 riority, if, in a matter so enormously impor- 
 tant as the choice of a companion for life, it 
 fails to give us a warning when the choice is 
 absurdly unsuitable? When men complain, 
 as they do not unfrequently, that their wives 
 have no ideas, the question inevitably sug- 
 gests itself, why the superiority of the mascu- 
 line intellect did not, in these cases, permit it 
 to discover the defect in time? If we are so 
 clever as to be "bored by ordinary women, 
 why cannot our cleverness find out the femi- 
 nine cleverness which would respond to it? 
 
 What I am going to say now is in its very 
 nature incapable of proof, and yet the longer 
 I live the more the truth of it is ' ' borne in 
 upon me." I feel convinced that for every 
 grade of the masculine intellect there exists a 
 corresponding grade of the feminine intellect, 
 so that a precisely suitable intellectual mar- 
 riage is always possible for every one. But 
 since the higher intellects are rare, and rare 
 in proportion to their elevation, it follows that 
 the difficulty of finding the true mate increases 
 with the mental strength and culture of the 
 man. If the "mental princes," as Blake 
 called himself, are to marry the mental prin- 
 cesses, they will not always discover them 
 quite so easily as kings' sons find kings* 
 daughters. 
 
 This difficulty of finding the true mate is 
 the real reason why so many clever men marry 
 silly or stupid women. The women about 
 them seem to be all very much alike, mentally ; 
 it seems hopeless to expect any real compan- 
 
294 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 ionahip, and the clever men are decided by 
 the color of a ghi's eyes, or a thousand pounds 
 more in her dowry, or her relationship to a 
 peer of the realm. 
 
 It was remarked to me by a French univer- 
 sity professor, that although men in his po- 
 sition had on the v,^hole much more culture 
 than the middle class, they had an extraordi- 
 nary talent for winning the most vulgar and 
 ignorant wives. The explanation is, that 
 their marriages are not intellectual marriages 
 at a] 1. The class of French professors is not ad- 
 vantageously situated ; it has not great facil- 
 ities for choice. Their incomes ai'e so small 
 that, unless helped by private means, the first 
 thing they can prudently look to in a wife ie 
 her utility as a domestic servant, which, in 
 fact, it is her destiny to become. The intei - 
 lectual disparity is from the beginning likely 
 to be very great, because the professor is con- 
 fined to t]ie country-town where his Lycee 
 haiDpens to be situated, and in that tov/n he 
 does not always see the most cultivated soci- 
 ety. He may be an intellectual prince, but 
 where is he to find his princess? The mar- 
 riage begins without the idea of intellectual 
 companionship, and it continues as it began. 
 The girl was uneducated : it seems hopeless to 
 try to educated the woman ; and then there is 
 the supreme difficulty, only to be overcome 
 by two wills at once most resolute and most 
 persistent, namely, how to find the time. 
 Years pass ; the husband is occupied all day j 
 the wife needs to cheer herself with a little so- 
 
WOMEN AND MARRIAGE. 295 
 
 ciety, and goes to sit with neighbors who are 
 not hkely to add anything vahiable to her 
 Jinowledge or to give any elevation to her 
 thoughts. Then conies the final fixing and 
 crystallization of her intellect, after which, 
 however much pains and labor might be taken 
 by the pair, she is past the possibility of 
 change. 
 
 These women are often so good and devoted 
 that their husbands enjoy great happiness; 
 but it is a kind of happiness curiously inde- 
 pendent of the lady's presence. The professor 
 may love his wife, and fully appreciate her 
 qualities as a housekeeper, but he passes a 
 3ore interesting evening with some male 
 friend whose reading is equal to his own. 
 Sometimes the lady perceives this, and it is an 
 clement of sadness in her life. 
 
 "I never see my husband," she tells you, 
 not in anger. ' ' His work occupies him all 
 day, and in the evening he sees his friends. " 
 The pair walk out together twice a week. I 
 sometimes wonder what they say to each 
 other during those conjugal promenades. 
 They talk about their children, probably, and 
 the little recurring difficulties about money. 
 He cannot talk about his studies, or the in- 
 tellectual speculations which his studies con- 
 tinually suggest. 
 
 The most extreme cases of intellectual sepa- 
 ration between husband and wife that ever 
 came under my observation was, however, 
 not that of a French professor, but a highly- 
 cultivated Scotch lawyer. He was one of the 
 
296 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 most intellectual men I ever knew — a little 
 cynical, but full of original power, and un- 
 commonly well-informed. His theory was, 
 that women ought not to be admitted into 
 the region of masculine thought — that it was 
 not good for them ; and he acted bo consist' 
 ently up to this theory, that although he 
 would open his mind with the utmost frank- 
 ness to a male acquaintance over the evening 
 whisky-toddy, there was not whisky enough 
 in all Scotland to make him frank in the 
 presence of his wife. She really knew nothing 
 whatever about his intellectual existence; 
 and yet there was nothing in his ways of 
 thinking which an honorable man need con- 
 ceal from an intelligent woman. His theory 
 worked well enough in practice, and his re- 
 serve was so perfect that it may be doubted 
 whether even feminine subtlety ever suspected 
 it. The explanation of his system may per- 
 haps have been this. He was an exceedingly 
 busy man ; he felt that he had not time to teach 
 his wife to know him as he was, and so pre- 
 ferred to leave her with her own conception 
 of him, rather than disturb that conception 
 when he believed it impossible to replace it 
 by a completely true one. We all act in that 
 way with those whom we consider quite ex- 
 cluded from our private range of thought. 
 
 All this may be very prudent and wiser 
 there may be degrees of conjugal felicity, sat- 
 isfactory in their way, without intellectual 
 intercourse, and yet I cannot think that any 
 man of high culture could regard his marriage 
 
WOMEJS^ AND MARRIAGE. 297 
 
 as altogether a successful one so long as his 
 wife remained shut out from his mental life. 
 Nor is the exclusion always quite agreeable 
 to the lady herself. A widow said to me 
 that her husband had never thought it nec- 
 et>sary to try to raise her to his own level, 
 yei she believed that with his kindly help 
 she might have attained it. 
 
 You with your masculine habits, may ob- 
 serve, as to this, that if the lady had seriously 
 cared to attain a higher level she might have 
 achieved it by her own private independent 
 effort. But this is exactly what the feminine 
 nature never does. A clever woman is the 
 best of pupils, when she loves her teacher, but 
 the worst of solitary learners. 
 
 It is not by adding to our knowledge, but 
 by understanding us, that women are oui* 
 helpers. They understand us far better than 
 men do, when once they have the degree of 
 prehminary information which enables them 
 to enter into our pursuits. Men are occupied 
 with their personal works and thoughts, and 
 have wonderfully little sympathy left to en- 
 able them to comprehend us ; but a woman, 
 by her divine sympathy — divine indeed, since 
 it was given by Grod for this — can enter into 
 our inmost thought, and make allowances for 
 all our difficulties. Talk about your work 
 and its anxieties to a club of masculine friends, 
 they will give very little heed to you; they 
 are all thinking about themselves, and they 
 will dislike your egotism because they have 
 so much egotism of their own, which yours 
 
298 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE, 
 
 invades and inconveniences. But talk in the 
 same way to any woman who has education 
 enough to enable her to follow you, and she 
 will listen so kindly, and so very intelligently, 
 that you wUl be betrayed into interminable 
 ■confidences. 
 
 Now, although an intellectual man may not 
 care to make himself understood by all the 
 people in the street, it is not a good thing for 
 him to feel that he is understood by nobody. 
 The intellectual life is sometimes a fearfully 
 solitary one. Unless he lives in a great capi- 
 tal the man devoted to that life is more than 
 all other men liable to suffer from isolation, 
 to feel utterly alone beneath the deafness of 
 •space and the silence of the stars. Give him 
 one friend who can understand him, who will 
 not leave him, who will always be accessible 
 by day and night — one friend, one kindly 
 listener, just one, and the whole universe is 
 changed. It is deaf and indifferent no longer, 
 a,nd whilst she listens, it seems as if all men 
 and angels listened also, so perfectly his 
 thought is mirrored in the light of her answer- 
 ing eyes. 
 
WOMEN AND MARRIAGE, 299 
 
 LETTER III. 
 
 JO A YOUNG GENTLEMAN WHO CONTEMPLATED 
 MARRIAGE. 
 
 The intellectual ideal of marriage — The danger of dulness — 
 To be counteracted only by the renewal of both minds — 
 Example of Lady Baker — Separation of the sexes by an 
 old prejudice about education— This prejudice on the de- 
 cline—Influence of the late Prince Consort. 
 
 How far may you hope to realize the intel- 
 lectual ideal of marriage? Have I ever ob- 
 served in actual life any approximate realiza- 
 tion of that ideal? 
 
 These are the two questions which conclude 
 and epitomize the last of your recent letters. 
 Let me endeavor to answer them as satisfac- 
 torily as the obscurity of the subject will per- 
 mit. 
 
 The intellectual ideal seems to be that of a 
 conversation on all the subjects you most care 
 about, which should never lose its interest. 
 Is it possible that tv/o people should live to- 
 gether and talk to each other every day for 
 twenty years without knowing each other's 
 views too well for them to seem worth ex- 
 pressing or worth listening to? There are 
 friends whom we know too well, so that our 
 talk with them has less of refreshment and 
 entertamment than a conversation with the 
 first intelligent stranger on the quarter-deck 
 of the steamboat. It is evident that from the 
 intellectual point of view this is the great 
 danger of marriage. It may become dull, 
 
900 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 not because the mental force of either of the 
 parties has decHned, but because each has 
 come to know so accurately beforehand what 
 the other will say on any given topic, that 
 inquiry is felt to be useless. This too perfect 
 intimacy, which has ended many a friend- 
 ship outside of marriage, may also terminate 
 the intellectual life in matrimony itself. 
 
 Let us not pass too lightly over this danger, 
 for it is not to be denied. Unless carefully 
 provided against, it will gradually extinguish 
 the light that plays between the wedded in- 
 telhgences as the electric hght burns between 
 two carbon points. 
 
 I venture to suggest, however, that this 
 evil may be counteracted by persons of some 
 energy and originality. This is one of those 
 very numerous cases in which an evil is sure 
 to arrive if nothing is done to prevent it, yet 
 in which the evil need not arrive when those 
 whom it menaces are forewarned. To ta,ke 
 an illustration intelligible in these days of 
 steam-engines. We know that if the water 
 is allowed to get very low in the boiler a de- 
 structive explosion will be the consequence ; 
 yet, since every stoker is aware of this, such 
 explosions are not of frequent occurrence. 
 That evU is continually approaching and yet 
 continually averted by the exercise of human 
 foresight. 
 
 Let us suppose that a married couple are 
 clearly aware that in the course of years their 
 society is sure to become mutually uninter- 
 esting: unless something is done to preserve 
 
WOMEN AND MAEBIAGE. 301 
 
 the earlier zest of it. What is that some- 
 thing? 
 
 That which an author does for the unknown 
 multitude of his readers. 
 
 Every author who succeeds takes the 
 trouble to renew his mind either by fresh 
 knowledge or new thoughts. Is it not at least 
 equally worth while to do as much to preserve 
 the interest of marriage ? Without undervalu- 
 ing the friendly adhesion of many readers, 
 without affecting any contempt for fame, 
 which is dearer to the human heart than 
 wealth itself w^henever it appears to be not 
 wholly unattainable, may not I sixfely affirm 
 that the interest of married life, from its very 
 nearness, has a still stronger influence upon 
 the mind of any thinking person, of either sex, 
 than the approbation of unnumbered readers 
 in distinct countries or continents ? You never 
 see the effect of your thinking on your read- 
 ers ; they live and die far away from you, a 
 few write letters of praise or criticism, the 
 thousands give no sign. But the wife is with 
 you always, she is almost as near to you as 
 your own body ; the world, to you, is a fig- 
 ure-picture in which there is one figure, the 
 rest is merely background. And if an author 
 takes pains to renew his mind for the people 
 in the background, is it not at least equally 
 worth your while to bring fresh thought for 
 the renewal of your life with her? 
 
 This, then, is my theory of the intellectual 
 marriage, that the two wedded intellects 
 ought to renew themselves continually for 
 
302 THE INTELLEOTUAL LIFE, 
 
 each otlier. And I argue that if this were 
 done in earnest, the otherwise inevitable dul- 
 ness would be perpetually kept at bay. 
 
 To the other question, whether in actual life 
 I have ever seen this realized, I answer yes, 
 in several instances. 
 
 Not in very many instances, yet in more 
 than one. Women, when they have conceived 
 the idea that this renewal is necessary, have 
 resolution enough for the realization of it. 
 There is hardly any task too hard for them, 
 if they believe it essential to the conjugal life. 
 I could give you the name and address of one 
 who mastered Greek in order not to be ex- 
 cluded from her husband's favorite pursuit; 
 others have mastered other languages for the 
 same object, and even some branch of science 
 for which the feminine mind has less natural 
 affinity than it has for imaginative litera- 
 ture. Their remarkable incapacity for inde- 
 pendent mental labor is accompanied by an 
 equally remarkable capacity for labor under 
 an accepted masculine guidance. In this 
 connection I may without impropriety men- 
 tion one Englishwoman, for she is already 
 celebrated, the wife of Sir Samuel Baker, the 
 discoverer of the Albert Nyanza. She stood 
 with him on the shore of that unknown sea, 
 when first it was beheld by English eyes ; she 
 had passed with him through all the hard pre- 
 liminary toils and trials. She had learned 
 Arabic with him in a year of necessary but 
 wearisome delay; her mind had travelled with 
 his mind as her feet had followed his footsteps. 
 
WOMEN AND MARRIAGE. Z'O'^ 
 
 Scarcely less beautiful, if less heroic, is the 
 picture of the geologist's wife, Mrs. Buckland, 
 who taught herself to reconstruct broken fos- 
 sils, and did it with a surprising delicacy, and 
 patience, and skill, full of science, yet more 
 than science, the perfection of feminine art . 
 
 The privacy of married life often prevents 
 us from knowing the extent to which intelli- 
 gent women have renewed their minds by 
 fresh and varied culture for the purpose of re- 
 taining their ascendency over their husbands, 
 or to keep up the interest of their lives. It is 
 done much more frequently by women than 
 by men. They have so much less egotism, so 
 much more adaptability, that they fit them- 
 selves to us oftener than we adapt ourselves 
 to them. But in a quiet perfect marriage these 
 efforts would be mutual. The husband would 
 endeavor to make life interesting to his com- 
 panion by taking a share in some pursuit which 
 vi^as really her own. It is easier for us than 
 it was for our ancestors to do this — at least 
 for our immediate ancestors. There existed, 
 fifty years ago, a most irrational prejudice, 
 very strongly rooted in the social conventions 
 of the time, about masculine and feminine ac- 
 complishments. The educations of the two 
 sexes were so trenchantly separated that 
 neither had access to the knowledge of the 
 other. The men had learned Latin and G-reek, 
 of which the women were ignorant; the 
 w^omen had learned French or Italian, which 
 the men could neither read nor speak. The 
 ladies studied fine art, not seriously, but it occu- 
 
304 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 pied a good deal of their time and thought^;, 
 the gentlemen had a manly contempt for it,. 
 which kept them, as contempt always does, in 
 a state of absolute ignorance. The intellectual 
 separation of the sexes was made as complete 
 as possible by the conventionally received idea 
 that a man could not learn what girls learned 
 without effeminacy, and that if women aspired 
 to men's knowledge they would forfeit the 
 delicacy of their sex. This illogical prejudice 
 was based on a bad syllogism of this kind : — 
 Girls speak French, and learn music and 
 
 drawing. 
 Benjamin speaks French, and learns music 
 
 and drawing. 
 Benjamin is a girl. 
 
 And the prejudice, powerful as it was, had 
 not even the claim of any considerable antiq- 
 uity. Think how strange and unreasonable 
 it would have seemed to Lady Jane G-rey and 
 Sir Philip Sidney ! In their time, ladies and 
 gentlemen studied the same things, the world 
 of culture was the same for both, and they 
 could meet in it as in a garden. 
 
 Happily we are coming back to the old ra- 
 tional notion of culture as independent of the 
 question of sex. Latin and Greek are not un- 
 feminine; they were spoken by women in^ 
 Athens and Rome ; the modern languages are- 
 fit for a man to learn, since men use them 
 continually on the battle-fields and in the par- 
 liaments and exchanges of the world. Art is 
 a manly business, if ever any human occupa- 
 tion could be called manly, for the utmost 
 
WOMEN AND MARRIAGE. 305 
 
 efforts of the strongest men are needed for 
 success in it. 
 
 The increasing interest in the fine arts, the 
 more important position given to modern lan- 
 guages in the universities, the irresistible at- 
 tractions and growing authority of science, 
 all tend to bring men and women together on 
 subjects understood by both, and therefoi'e 
 operate directly in favor of intellectual inter- 
 ests in marriage. You will not suspect me of 
 a snobbish desire to pay compliments to royal- 
 ty if I trace some of these changes in public 
 opinion to the example and influence of the 
 Prince Consort, operating with some effect 
 during his life, yet with far greater force 
 since he was taken away from us. The truth 
 is, that the most modern English ideal of gen- 
 tlemanly culture is that which Prince Albert,, 
 to a great extent, realized in his own person. 
 Perhaps his various accomplishments may be 
 a little embellished or exaggerated in the pop- 
 ular belief, but it is unquestionable that his^ 
 notion of culture was very large and liberal, 
 and quite beyond the narrow pedantry of the 
 preceding age. There was nothing in it to 
 exclude a woman, and we know that she who 
 loved him entered largely into the works and 
 recreations of his life. 
 20 
 
306 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 LETTER IV. 
 
 TO A YOUNG GENTLEMAN WHO CONTEMPLATED 
 MARRIAGE. 
 
 "Women do not of themselves undertake intellectual labor— 
 Their resignation to ignorance — Absence of scientific cxu-i- 
 osity in women — They do not accumulate accurate knowl- 
 edge — Archimedes in his bath — Rarity of inventions due to 
 women — Exceptions. 
 
 Before saying much about the influence of 
 marriage on the intellectual life, it is neces- 
 sary to make some inquiry into the intellect- 
 ual nature of women. 
 
 The first thing to be noted is that, with ex- 
 ceptions so rare as to be practically of no 
 importance to an argument, women do not 
 of themselves undertake intellectual labor. 
 Even in the situations most favorable for labor 
 of that kind, women do not undertake it un- 
 less they are urged to it, and directed in it, by 
 some powerful masculine influence. In the 
 absence of that influence, although their minds 
 are active, that activity neither tends to dis- 
 cipline nor to the accumulation of knowledge. 
 Women who are not impelled by some mas- 
 culine influence are not superior, either in 
 knowledge or discipline of the mind, at the 
 .age of fifty to what they were at the age of 
 twenty -five. In other words, they have not 
 in themselves the motive powers which can 
 cause an intellectual advance. 
 
 The best illustration of this is a sisterhood 
 of three or four rich old maids, with all the 
 
WOMEN AND MAERUiGE, 307 
 
 advantages of leisure. You will observe that 
 they invariably remain, as to their education, 
 where they were left by their teachers many 
 years before. They will often lament, per- 
 haps, that in their day education was very in- 
 ferior to what it is now ; but it never occurs 
 "to them that the large leisure of subsequent 
 years might, had it been well employed, have 
 supplied those deficiencies of which they are 
 sensible. Nothing is more curiously remote 
 from masculine habits than the resignation to 
 particular degrees of ignorance, as to the in- 
 evitable, which a woman will express in a, 
 manner which says : ' ' You know I am so ; you 
 know that I cannot make myself better in- 
 formed.'" They are like perfect billiard-balls 
 on a perfect table, which stop when no longer 
 impelled, wherever they may happen to be. 
 
 It is this absence of intellectual initiative 
 w^hich causes the great ignorance of women. 
 What they have been well taught, that they 
 know, but they do not increase their stores of 
 knowledge. Even in Avhat most interests 
 them, theology, they repeat, but do not ex- 
 tend, their information. All the effort of their 
 minds appears (so far as an outside observer 
 may presume to judge) to act like water on a 
 picture, which brings out the colors that al- 
 ready exist upon the canvas but does not add 
 anything to the design. There is a great and 
 perpetual freshness and vividness in their con- 
 ceptions, which is often lacking in our own. 
 Our conceptions fade, and are replaced ; theirs 
 are not replaced, but refreshed. 
 
308 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 What many women do for their theological 
 conceptions or opinions, others do with refer- 
 ence to the innumerable series of questions of 
 all kinds which present themselves in the 
 course of life. They attempt to solve them 
 by the help of knowledge acquired in girl- 
 hood ; and if that cannot be done, they either 
 give them up as beyond the domain of women, 
 or else trust to hearsay for a solution. What 
 they will not do is to hunt the matter out un- 
 aided, and get an accurate answer by dint of 
 independent investigation. 
 
 There is another characteristic of women, 
 not peculiar to them, for many men have it in 
 an astonishing degree, and yet more general 
 in the female sex than in the male : I allude 
 to the absence of scientific curiosity. Ladies, 
 see things of the greatest wonder and interest 
 working in their presence and for their ser- 
 vice without feeling impelled to make any in- 
 quiries into the manner of their working. I 
 could mention many very curious instances 
 of this, but I select one which seems typical. 
 Many years ago I happened to be in a room 
 filled with English ladies, most of whom were 
 highly intelligent, and the conversation hap- 
 pened to turn upon a sailing-boat which be- 
 longed to me. One of the ladies observed 
 that sails were not of much use, since they 
 could only be available to push the boat in 
 the direction of the wind ; a statement whick 
 all the other ladies received with approbation. 
 Now, all these ladies had seen ships working- 
 ander canvas against head-winds, and they 
 
WOMEN AJ^D MARRIAGE. 300 
 
 might have reflected that without that por- 
 tion of the art of seamanship every vessel un- 
 provided with steam would assuredly drift 
 upon a lee-shore ; but it was not in the fem- 
 inine nature to make a scientific observation 
 of that kind. You will answer, perhaps, that 
 I could scarcely expect ladies to investigate 
 men's business, and that seamanship is essen- 
 tially the business of our own sex. But the 
 truth is, that all English people, no matter of 
 what sex, have so direct an interest in the 
 maritime activity of England, that they might 
 reasonably be expected to know the one pri- 
 mary conquest on which for many centuries 
 that activity has depended, the conquest of 
 the opposing wind, the sublimest of the early 
 victories of science. And this absence of 
 curiosity in women extends to things they 
 use every day. They never seem to want to 
 know the insides of things as we do. All 
 ladies know that steam makes a locomotive 
 go ; but they rest satisfied with that, and do 
 not inquire further hon^ the steam sets the 
 wheels in motion. They know that it is nec- 
 essary to wind up their watches, but they do 
 not care to inquire into the real effects of that 
 little exercise of force. 
 
 Now this absence of the investigating spirit 
 has very wide and important consequences. 
 The first consequence of it is that women do 
 not naturally accumulate accurate knowl- 
 edge. Left to themselves, they accept various 
 kinds of teaching, but they do not by any 
 analysis of their own either put that teaching 
 
310 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE, 
 
 to any serious intellectual test, or qualify 
 themselves for any extension of it by inde- 
 pendent and original discovery. We of the 
 male sex are seldom clearly aware how much 
 of our practical force, of the force which dis- 
 covers and originates, is due to our common 
 habit of analytical observation; yet it is 
 scarcely too much to say that most of our in- 
 ventions have been suggested by actually or 
 intellectually pulling something else in pieces. 
 And such of our discoveries as cannot be 
 traced directly to analysis are almost always 
 due to habits of general observation which 
 lead us to take note of some fact apparently 
 quite remote from what it helps us to arrive 
 at. One of the best instances of this indirect 
 utility of habitual observation, as it is one of 
 the earliest, is what occurred to Archimedes 
 in his bath. When the water displaced by 
 his body overflowed, he noticed the fact of 
 displacement, and at once perceived its appli- 
 cability to the cubic measurement of compli- 
 cated bodies. It is possible that if his mind 
 had not been exercised at the time about the 
 adulteration of the royal crown, it would not 
 have been led to anything by the overflowing 
 of his bath ; but the capacity to receive a sug- 
 gestion of that kind is, I believe, a capacity 
 exclusively masculine. A woman would have 
 noticed the overflowing, but she would have 
 noticed it only as a cause of disorder or in- 
 convenience. 
 
 This absence of the investigating and dis- 
 covering tendencies in women is confirmed 
 
WOMEN AND MARBIAGE. 311 
 
 by the extreme rarity of inventions due to 
 women, even in the things which most inter- 
 est and concern them. The stocking-loom 
 and the sewing-machine are the two inven- 
 tions which would most naturally have been 
 hit upon by women, for people are naturally 
 inventive about things which relieve them- 
 selves of labor, or which increase their own 
 possibihties of production ; and yet the stock- 
 ing-loom and the sewing-machine are both of 
 them masculine ideas, carried out to practical 
 efficiency by masculine energy and perse- 
 verance. So I believe that all the improve- 
 ments in pianos are due to men, though wom- 
 en have used pianos much more than men 
 have used them. 
 
 This, then, is in my view the most impor- 
 tant negative characteristic of women, that 
 they do not push forwards intellectually by 
 their own force. There have been a few in- 
 stances in which they have written with 
 power and originality, have become learned, 
 and greatly superior, no doubt, to the major- 
 ity of men. There are three or four women 
 in England, and as many on the Continent, 
 who have lived intellectually in harness for 
 many years, and who unaffectedly delight in 
 strenuous intellectual labor, giving evidence 
 both of fine natural powers and the most per- 
 severing culture ; but these women have usu- 
 ally been encouraged in their work by some 
 near masculine influence. And even if it 
 were possible, which it is not, to point ta 
 some female Archimedes or Leonardo da 
 
312 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 Vinci, it is not the rare exceptions which con- 
 cern us, but the prevalent rule of Nature. 
 Without desiring to compare our most 
 learned ladies with anything so disagreeable 
 to the eye as a bearded woman, I may ob- 
 serve that Nature generally has a few excep- 
 tions to all her rules, and that as women hav- 
 ing beards are a physical exception, so wom- 
 en who naturally study and investigate are 
 intellectual exceptions. Once more let me 
 repudiate any mahcious intention in estab- 
 lishing so unfortunate and rtialadroite an as- 
 sociation of ideas, for nothing is less agreea- 
 ble than a woman with a beard, whilst, on 
 the contrary, the most intellectual of women 
 may at the same time be the most perma- 
 nently charming. 
 
 LETTER V. 
 
 TO A YOUNG GENTLEMAN WHO CONTEMPLATED 
 MARRIAGE. 
 
 The danger of deviation — Danger from increased expenditure 
 — Nowhere so great as in England— Complete absorption 
 in business— Case of a tradesman— Case of a soMcitor — 
 The pursuit of comfort dangerous to the Intellectual Life 
 — The meanness of its results — Fireside purposes — Danger 
 of deviation in rich marriages — George Sand 's study of 
 this in her story of " ValvMre." 
 
 Amongst the dangers of marriage, one of 
 those most to be dreaded by a man given to 
 intellectual pursuits is the deviation which, 
 in one way or other, marriage inevitably 
 
WOMEN AND MABBIAGE. 313 
 
 produces. It acts like the pointsman on a 
 railway, who, by pulling a lever, sends the 
 train in another direction. The married man 
 never goes, or hardly ever goes, exactly on 
 the same intellectual lines which he would 
 have followed if he had remained a bachelor. 
 This deviation may or may not be a gain ; it 
 is always a most serious danger. 
 
 Sometimes the deviation is produced by the 
 necessity for a stricter attention to money, 
 causing a more unremitting application to 
 work that pays well, and a proportionate neg- 
 lect of that which can only give extension to 
 our knowledge and clearness to our views. 
 
 In no country is this danger so great as it 
 is in England, where the generally expensive 
 manner of living, and the prevalent desire to 
 keep families in an ideally perfect state of 
 physical comfort, produce an absorption in 
 business which in all but the rarest instances 
 leaves no margin for intellectual labor. 
 There are, no doubt, some remarkable ex- 
 amples of men earning a large income by a 
 laborious profession, who have gained repu- 
 tation in one of the sciences or in some 
 branch of literature, but these are very ex- 
 ceptional cases. A man who works at his 
 profession as most Englishmen with large 
 families have to work, can seldom enjoy that 
 surplus of nervous energy which would be 
 necessary to carry him far in literature or 
 science. I remember meeting an English 
 tradesman in the railway between Paris and 
 the coast, who told me that he was obliged to 
 
314 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 visit France very frequently, yet could not 
 speak French, which was a great deficiency 
 and inconvenience to him. ' ' Why not learn ? '* 
 I then asked, and received the following an- 
 swer: 
 
 ' ' I have to work at my business all day 
 long, and often far into the night. When 
 the day's work is over I generally feel very 
 tired, and want rest ; but if I don't happen to 
 feel quite so tired, then it is not work that I 
 need, but recreation, of which I get very lit- 
 tle. I never feel the courage to set to work 
 at the French grammar, though it would be 
 both pleasant and useful to me to know 
 French ; indeed, I constantly feel the want of 
 it. It might, perhaps, be possible to learn 
 from a phrase-book in the railway train, but 
 to save time I always travel at night. Being 
 a married man, I have to give my whole at- 
 tention to my business." 
 
 A solicitor with a large practice in London 
 held nearly the same language. He worked 
 at his office all day, and often brought homo 
 the most difficult work for the quiet of his 
 own private study after the household had 
 gone to bed. The little reading that he could 
 indulge in was light reading. In reahty the 
 profession intruded even on his few hours of 
 leisure, for he read many of the columns in 
 the Times which relate to law or, legislation, 
 and these make at the end of a few years an 
 amount of reading sufficient for the mastery 
 of a foreign literature. This gentleman an- 
 swered very accurately to M. Taine's descrip- 
 
WOMEN AND MABEIAGE. 315 
 
 tion of the typical Englishman, absorbed in 
 business and the Times. 
 
 In these cases it is likely that the effect of 
 marriage was not inwardly felt as a devia- 
 tion; but when culture has been fairly be- 
 gim, and marriage hinders the pursuit of it, 
 or makes it deviate from the chosen path, 
 then there is often an inward consciousness 
 of the fact, not without its bitterness. 
 
 A remarkable article on ''Luxury," in the 
 second volume of the Cornhill Magazine^ 
 deals with this subject in a manner evidently 
 suggested by serious reflection and experi- 
 ence. The writer considers the effects of the 
 pursuit of comfort (never cariied so far as it 
 is now) on the higher moral and intellectual 
 life. The comforts of a bachelor were not 
 what the writer meant ; these are easily pro- 
 cured, and seldom require the devotion of all 
 the energies. The "comfort " which is really 
 dangerous to intellectual growth is that of a 
 family establishment, because it so easily be- 
 comes the one absorbing object of existence. 
 Men who began life with the feeling that they 
 would willingly devote their powers to great 
 purposes, like the noble examples of past 
 times who labored and suffered for the intel- 
 lectual advancement of their race, and had 
 starvation for their reward, or in some cases 
 even the prison and the stake — men who in 
 their youth felt themselves to be heirs of a 
 nobility of spirit like that of Bruno, of Swam- 
 merdam, of Spinoza, have too often found 
 themselves in the noon of life concentrating 
 
316 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 all the energies of body and soul on the a/O 
 quisition of ugly millinery and uglier uphol- 
 stery, and on spreading extravagant tables tc 
 feed uncultivated guests. 
 
 "It is impossible," says the writer of the 
 article just alluded to, "it is impossible to 
 say why men were made, but assuming that 
 they were made for some purpose, of which 
 the faculties which they possess afford evi- 
 dence, it follows that they were intended to 
 do many other things besides providing for 
 their families and enjoying their society. 
 They were meant to know, to act, and to feel 
 — to know everything which the mind is able 
 to contemplate, to name, and to classify; to 
 do everything which the will, prompted by 
 the passions and guided by the conscience, 
 can undertake; and, subject to the same 
 guidance, to feel in its utmost vigor every 
 emotion which the contemplation of the va- 
 rious persons and objects which surround us 
 can excite. This view of the objects of life 
 affords an almost infinite scope for human 
 activity in different directions; but it also 
 shows that it is in the highest degree danger- 
 ous to its beauty and its worth to allow any 
 one side of life to become the object of idola- 
 try ; and there are many reasons for thinking 
 that domestic happiness is rapidly assuming 
 that position in the minds of the more com- 
 fortable classes of Englishmen. ... It is a 
 singular and affecting thing, to see how every 
 manifestation of human energy bears witness 
 to the shrewdness of the current maxun that 
 
WOMEN AND MARRIAGE. 311 
 
 a large income is a necessary of life. What- 
 ever is done for money is done admirably 
 well. Give a man a specific thing to make or 
 to write, and pay him well for it, and you may 
 with a little trouble secure an excellent arti- 
 cle; but the ability which does these things 
 so well, might have been and ought to have 
 been trained to far higher things, which for 
 the most part are left undone, because the 
 clever workman thinks himself bound to 
 earn what will keep himself, his wife, and his 
 six or seven children, up to the established 
 standard of comfort. What was at first a 
 necessity, perhaps an unwelcome one, be- 
 comes by degrees a habit and a pleasure, and 
 men who might have done memorable and 
 noble things, if they had learnt in time to 
 consider tlie doing of such things an object 
 worth living for, lose the power and the wish 
 to live K'or other than fireside purposes.'* 
 
 But thie* kind of intellectual deviation, you 
 may answer, is not strictly the consequence 
 of marriage, qud marriage; it is one of the 
 consequences of a degree of relative poverty, 
 produced by the larger expenditure of mar- 
 ried life, but which might be just as easily 
 produced by a certain degree of money-pres- 
 sure in the condition of a bachelor. Let me 
 therefore point out a kind of deviation which 
 may be as frequently observed in rich mar- 
 riages as in poor ones. Suppose the case of a 
 bachelor with a small but perfectly indepen- 
 dent income amounting to some hundreds a 
 year, who is devoted to intellectual pursuits, 
 
318 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 and spends his time in study or with culti- 
 vated friends of his own, choosing friends 
 whose society is an encouragement and a 
 help. Suppose that this man makes an ex- 
 <ieedingly prudent marriage, with a rich wom- 
 an, you may safely predict, in this instance, 
 intellectual deviations of a kind perilous to 
 the highest culture. He will have new calls 
 upon his time, his society will no longer be 
 entirely of his own choosing, he will no long- 
 er be able to devote himself with absolute 
 .singleness of purpose to studies from which 
 -his wife must necessarily be excluded. If he 
 were to continue faithful to his old habits, 
 and shut himself up every day in his library 
 or laboratory, or set out on frequent scien- 
 tific expeditions, his wife would either be a 
 lady of quite extraordinary perfection of tem- 
 per, or else entirely indifferent in her feelings 
 towards him, if she did not regard his pur- 
 suits with quickly-mcr easing jealousy. She 
 would think, and justifiably think, that he 
 ought to give more of his time to the enjoy- 
 ment of her society, that he ought to be more 
 by her side in the carriage and in the draw- 
 ing-room, and if he loved her he would yield 
 to these kindly and reasonable wishes. He 
 would spend many hours of every day in a 
 manner not profitable to his great pursuits, 
 and many weeks of every year in visits to 
 her friends. His position would be even less 
 favorable to study in some respects than that 
 of a professional man. It would be difiicult 
 for him, if an amateur artist, to give that un- 
 
WOMEI^ AND MARRIAGE, 319 
 
 remitting attention to painting Avhich the 
 professional painter gives. He could not say, 
 "I do this for you and for our children; " he 
 could only say, "I do it for my own pleas- 
 ure," which is not so graceful an excuse. As 
 a bachelor, he might work as professional 
 people w^ork, but his marriage would strongly 
 accentuate the amateur character of his posi- 
 tion. It is possible that if his labors had won. 
 great fame the lady might bear the separa- 
 tion more easily, for ladies always take a no- 
 ble pride in the celebrity of their husbands ; 
 but the best and worthiest intellectual labor 
 often brings no fame whatever, and notoriety 
 is a mere accident of some departments of 
 the intellectual life, and not its ultimate ob- 
 ject. 
 
 George Sand, in her admirable novel " Val- 
 vedre," has depicted a situation of this kind 
 with the most careful delicacy of touch. Val- 
 vedre was a man of science, w^ho attempted 
 to continue the labors of his intellectual life 
 after marriage had united him to a lady inca- 
 pable of sharing them. The reader pities 
 both, and sympathizes with both. It is hard, 
 on the one hand, that a man endowed by na- 
 ture with great talents for scientific work 
 should not go on with a career already glori- 
 ously begun; and yet, on the other hand, a 
 woman who is so frequently abandoned for 
 science may blamelessly feel some jealousy 
 of science. 
 
 Valvedre, in narrating the story of his 
 unhappy wedded life, said that Alida wished 
 
320 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 to have at her orders a perfect gentleman to 
 accompany her, but that he felt in himseli: 
 a more Berious ambition. He had not aimed 
 at fame, but he had thought it possible to be- 
 come a useful servant, bringing his share of 
 patient and courageous seekings to the edifice 
 of the sciences. He had hoped that Alida 
 would understand this. " 'There is time 
 enough for everything, ' she said, still retain- 
 ing him in the useless wandering life that she 
 had chosen. ' Perhaps, ' he answered, ' but 
 on condition that I lose no more of it ; and it 
 is not in this wandering life, cut to pieces by 
 a thousand unforeseen interruptions, that I 
 can make the hours yield their profit. ' 
 . "'Ah! we come to the point!' exclaimed 
 Alida impetuously. ' You wish to leave me, 
 and to travel alone in impossible regions. ' 
 
 " ' No, I will work near you and abandon 
 certain observations which it would be neces- 
 sary to make at too great a distance, but you 
 also will sacrifice something : we will not see 
 so many idle people, we will settle somewhere 
 for a fixed time. It shall be where you will, 
 and if the place does not suit you, we will try 
 another ; but from time to time you will per- 
 mit me a phase of sedentary work. ' 
 
 ' ' ' Yes, yes, you want to live for yourself 
 alone ; you have lived enough for me. I un- 
 derstand; your love is satiated and at an 
 end.' 
 
 ' ' Nothing could conquer her conviction 
 that study was her rival, and that love was 
 only possible in idleness. 
 
WOMEN AND MABBIAGE. 321 
 
 " ' To love is everything,' she said ; ' and he 
 who loves has not time to concern himself 
 "With anything else. Whilst the husband is 
 intoxicating himself with the marvels of 
 science, the wife languishes and dies. It is 
 the destiny which awaits me ; and since I am 
 a burden to you, I should do better to die at 
 once.' 
 
 "A little later Yalvedre ventured to hint 
 something about work, hoping to conquer his 
 wife's ennui, on which she proclaimed the 
 hatred of work as a sacred right of her nature 
 and position. 
 
 ' ' ' Nobody ever taught me to work, ' she 
 said, ' and I did not marry under a promise 
 to begin again at the a, 6, c of things. What- 
 ever I know I have learned by intuition, by 
 reading without aim or method. I am a 
 woman; my destiny is to love my husband 
 and bring up children. It is very strange 
 that my husband should be the person who 
 counsels me to think of something better.' " 
 
 I am far from suggesting that Madame 
 Valvedre is an exact representative of her 
 sex, but the sentiments which in her are ex- 
 aggerated, and expressed with passionate 
 plainness, are in much milder form very preva- 
 lent sentiments indeed ; and Valvedre's great 
 difficulty, how to get leave to prosecute his 
 studies with the degree of devotion necessary 
 t-o make them fruitful, is not at all an uncom- 
 mon difficulty with intellectual men after 
 marriage. The character of Madame Valve- 
 dre, being passionate and excessive, led her 
 21 
 
322 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 to an open expression of her feelings; but 
 feelings of a like kind, though milder in de- 
 gree, exist frequently below the surface, and 
 may be detected by any vigilant observer of 
 human nature. That such feelings are very 
 natural it is impossible even for a savant to 
 deny ; but whilst admitting the clear right of 
 a woman to be preferred by a man to science 
 when once he has married her, let me observe 
 that the man might perhaps do wisely, before 
 the knot is tied, to ascertain whether her in- 
 tellectual dowry is rich enough to compensate 
 him for the sacrifices she is likely to exact. 
 
 LETTER VI. 
 
 TO, A SOLITARY STUDENT. 
 
 Need of a near intellectual friendship in solitude — ^Persons 
 who hve independently of custom run a peculiar risk in 
 marriage — Women by nature more subservient to custom 
 than men are — Difficulty of conciliating solitude and mar- 
 riage— De Senancour — The marriages of eccentrics — Their 
 wives either protect them or attempt to reform them. 
 
 Isolated as you are, by the very superior- 
 ity of your culture, from the ignorant provin- 
 cial world around you, I cannot but believe 
 that marriage is essential to your intellectual 
 health and welfare. If you married some 
 cultivated woman, bred in the cultivated so- 
 ciety of a great capital, that companionship 
 would give you an independence of surround- 
 ing influences which nothing else can give. 
 You fancy that by shutting yourself up in a 
 
WOMEN AND MABBIAGE. 5z3 
 
 country house you are uninfluenced by the 
 world around you. It is a great error. You 
 know that you are isolated, that you are 
 looked upon and probably ridiculed as an eC' 
 centric, and this knowledge, which it is ini' 
 possible to banish from your mind, deprives 
 your thinking of elasticity and grace. You 
 urgently need the support of an intellectual 
 friendship quite near to you, under your own 
 roof. Bachelors in great cities feel this ne- 
 cessity less. 
 
 Still remember, that whoever has arranged 
 his life independently of custom runs a pecul- 
 iar risk in marriage. Women are by nature 
 far more subservient to custom than we are, 
 more than we can easily conceive. The dan- 
 ger of marriage, for a person of your tastes, is: 
 that a woman entering your house might enter 
 it as the representative of that minutely-inter- 
 fering authority which you continually ignore. 
 And let us never forget that a perfect obedi- 
 ence to custom requires great sacrifices of 
 time and money that you might not be dis- 
 posed to make, and which certainly would 
 interfere with study. You value and enjoy 
 your solitude, well knowing how great a thing 
 it is to be master of all your hours. It is dif- 
 ficult to conciliate solitude, or even a wise 
 and suitable selection of acquaintances, with 
 the semi-publicity of marriage. Heads of 
 families receive many persons in their houses 
 whom they would never have invited, and 
 from whose society they derive little pleasure 
 and no profit. De Senancour had plans of 
 
324 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE, 
 
 studious retirement, and hoped that the 
 *' douce intimite " of marriage might be com- 
 patible with these cherished projects. But 
 marriage, he found, drew him into the circle 
 of ordinary provincial life, and he always 
 suffered from its influences. 
 
 You are necessarily an eccentric. In the 
 neighborhood where you live it is an eccen- 
 tricity to study, for nobody but you studiesr 
 anything. A man so situated is fortunate 
 when this feeling of eccentricity is alleviated, 
 and unfortunate when it is increased, ii 
 wife would certainly do one or ilie other. 
 Married < to a very superior woman, able to 
 understand the devotion to intellectual aims, 
 you would be much relieved of the painfin 
 •consciousness of eccentricity; but a woman 
 of less capacity would intensify it. 
 
 So far as we can observe the married life ot 
 others, it seems to me that I have met with 
 instances of men, constituted and occupied 
 very much as you are, who have found in 
 marriage a strong protection against the ig- 
 norant judgments of their neighbors, and an 
 assurance of intellectual peace; whilst in 
 other cases it has appeared rather as if their 
 solitude were made more a cause of conscious 
 suffering, as if the walls of their cabinets 
 were pulled down for the boobies outside to 
 stare at them and laugh at them. A woman 
 will either take your side against the customs 
 of the little world around, or she will take 
 the side of custom against you. If she loves 
 you deeply, and if there is some visible result 
 
WOMEN AND MABBIAGE. 325 
 
 of your labors in fame and money, she may 
 possibly do the first, and then she will pro- 
 tect your tranquillity better than a force of 
 policemen, and give you a delightful sense of 
 reconciliation with all humanity; but many 
 of her most powerful instincts tend the other 
 way. She has a natural sympathy with all 
 the observances of custom, and you neglect 
 them ; she is fitted for social life, which you 
 are not. Unless you win her wholly to your 
 side, she may undertake the enterprise of 
 curing your eccentricities and adapting you 
 to the ideal of her caste. This may be high- 
 ly satisfactory to the operator, but it is full 
 of inconveniences to the patient. 
 
 LETTER VII. 
 
 TO A LADY OF HIGH CULTURE WHO FOUND IT 
 DIFFICULT TO ASSOCIATE WITH PERSONS OF 
 HER OWN SEX. 
 
 Men are not very good judges of feminine conversation— The 
 interest of it would be increased if women could be more 
 freely initiated into great subjects — Small subjects inter- 
 esting when seen in relation to central ideas— That ladies 
 of superior faculty ought rather to elevate female society 
 than withdraw from it — Women when displaced do not 
 appear happy. 
 
 What you confided to me in our last inter- 
 esting conversation has given me material 
 for reflection, and afforded a glimpse of a 
 state of things which I have sometimes sus- 
 pected without having data for any positive 
 
326 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE, 
 
 conclusion. The society of women is usually 
 sought by men during hours of mental relax- 
 ation, and we naturally find such a charm in 
 their mere presence, especially when they 
 are graceful or beautiful, that we are not 
 very severe or even accurate judges of the 
 abstract intellectual quality of their talk. 
 But a woman cannot feel the indescribable 
 charm which wins us so easily, and I have 
 sometimes thought that a superior person 
 of your sex might be aware of certain de- 
 ficiencies in her sisters which men very read- 
 ily overlook. You tell me that you feel em- 
 barrassed in the society of ladies, because 
 they know so little about the subjects which 
 interest you, and are astonished when you 
 speak about anything really worth attention. 
 On the other hand, you feel perfectly at ease 
 with men of ability and culture, and most at 
 your ease with men of the best ability and 
 the most eminent attainments. ¥7hat you 
 complain of chiefly in women seems to be 
 their impatience of varieties of thought 
 which are unfamiliar to them, and their con- 
 stant preference for small topics. 
 
 It has long hQQw felt by men that if women 
 could be more freely initiated into great sub- 
 jects the interest of general conversation 
 would be much increased. The difficulty ap- 
 pears to lie in their instinctive habit of mak- 
 ing all questions personal questions. The eti- 
 quette of society makes it quite impossible 
 for men to speak to ladies in the manner 
 which would be intellectually most prolitable 
 
WOMEN AND MABEIAGE. 327 
 
 to them. We may not teach because it is 
 pedantic, and we may not contradict, because 
 it is rude. Most of the great subjects are 
 conventionally held to be closed, so that it is 
 a sin against good taste to discuss them. In 
 every house the ladies have a set of fixed 
 convictions of some kind, which it is not po- 
 lite in any man to appear to doubt. The con- 
 sequence of these conventional rules is that 
 women live in an atmosphere of acquiescence 
 which makes them intolerant of anything like 
 bold and original thinking on important sub- 
 jects. But as the mind always requires free 
 play of some kind, when all the great subjects 
 are forbidden it will use its activity in play- 
 ing about little ones. 
 
 For my part I hardly think it desirable for 
 any of us to be incessantly coping with great 
 subjects, and the ladies are right in taking a 
 lively interest in the small events around 
 them. But even the small events would have 
 a deeper interest if they were seen in their 
 true relations to the great currents of Euro- 
 pean thought and action. It is probably the 
 ignorance of these relations which, more than 
 the smallness of the topics themselves, makes 
 feminine talk fatiguing to you. Very small 
 things indeed have an interest when exhibit- 
 ed in relation to larger, as men of science are 
 continually demonstrating. I have been tak- 
 ing note lately of the talk that goes on around 
 me, and I find that when it is shallow and 
 wearisome it is always because the facts men- 
 tioned bear no reference to any central or 
 
328 TRE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 governing idea, and do not illustrate anything. 
 Conversation is interesting in proportion to 
 the originality of the central ideas which 
 serve as pivots, and the fitness of the little 
 facts and observations which are contributed 
 by the talkers. For instance, if people hap- 
 pened to be talking about rats, and some one 
 informed you that he had seen a rat last week, 
 that would be quite uninteresting : but you 
 would listen with greater attention if he said ; 
 "The other night, as I was going up stairs 
 very late, I followed a very fine rat who was 
 going up stairs too, and he was not in the 
 least hurried, but stopped after every two or 
 three steps to have a look at me and my can- 
 dle. He was very prettily marked about the 
 face and tail, so I concluded that he was not 
 a common rat, but probably a lemming. Two 
 nights afterwards I met him again, and this 
 time he seemed almost to know me, for he 
 quietly made room for me as I passed. Very 
 likely he might be easily tamed." This is in- 
 teresting, because, though the fact narrated 
 is still trifling, it illustrates animal character. 
 If you will kindly pardon an "improve- 
 ment " of this subject, as a preacher would 
 call it, I might add that an intellectual lady 
 like yourself might, perhaps, do better to 
 raise the tone of the feminine talk around 
 her than to withdraw from it in weariness. 
 There are always, in every circle, a few supe- 
 rior persons who, either from natural diffi- 
 dence, or because they are not very rich, or 
 because they are too young, suffer themselves 
 
WOMEN AND MABBIAGE. 329 
 
 to be entirely overwhelmed by the established 
 mediocrity around them. What they need 
 is a leader, a deliverer. Is it not in your 
 power to render services of this kind? Could 
 you not select from the younger ladies whom 
 you habitually meet, a few who, like yourself^ 
 feel bored by the dulness or triviality of what 
 you describe as the current feminine conver- 
 sation? There is often a painful shyness 
 which prevents people of real ability from 
 using it for the advantage of others, and this 
 shyness is nowhere so common as in England, 
 especially provincial England. It feels the 
 want of a hardy example. A lady who 
 talked really well would no doubt run some 
 risk of being rather unpleasantly isolated at 
 first, but surely, if she tried, she might ulti- 
 mately find accomplices. You could do much, 
 to begin with, by recommending high-toned 
 literature, and gradually awakening an inter- 
 est in what is truly worth attention. It 
 seems lamentable that every cultivated wo- 
 man should be forced out of the society of 
 her own sex, and made to depend upon ours 
 for conversation of that kind which is an ab- 
 solute necessity to the intellectual. The truth 
 is, that women so displaced never appear 
 altogether happy. And culture costs so much 
 downright hard work, that it ought not to be 
 paid for by any suffering beyond those toils 
 which are its fair and natural price. 
 
LETTER Vni. 
 
 TO A LADY OF HIGH CULTURE. 
 
 Greatest misf ortuiie in the intellectual life of women— They do 
 not hear truth — Men disguise their thoughts for women- 
 Cream and curagoa — Probable permanence of the desire 
 to please women — Most truth in cultivated society — Hopes 
 from the increase of cultiu-e. 
 
 I THINK that the greatest misfortune in the 
 intellectual life of women is that they do not 
 hear the truth from men. 
 
 All men in cultivated society say to women 
 as much as possible that which they may be 
 supposed to wish to hear, and women are so 
 much accustomed to this that they can 
 scarcely hear without resentment an expres- 
 sion of opinion which takes no account of their 
 personal and private feeling. The considera- 
 tion for the feelings of women gives an agree- 
 able tone to society, but it is fatal to the sever- 
 ity of truth. Observe a man of the world 
 whose opinions are well known to you, — notice 
 the little pause before he speaks to a lady. 
 During that little pause he is turning over 
 what he has to say, so as to j)i'esent it in the 
 ni^anner that will please her best; and you 
 may be sure that the integrity of truth will 
 suffer in the process. If we compare what we 
 know of the man with that which the lady 
 hears from him, we perceive the immense dis- 
 advantages of her position. He ascertains 
 
WOMEN AND MARBIAGE, 331' 
 
 what will please her, and that is what he ad- 
 ministers. He professes to take a deep interest 
 in things which he does not care for in the 
 least, and he passes lightly over subjects and. 
 events which he knows to be of the most mo- 
 mentous importance to the world. Tlie lady 
 spends an hour more agreeably than if she 
 heard opinions which would irritate, and prog- 
 nostics which would alarm her, but she has 
 missed an opportunity for culture, she has 
 been confirmed in feminine illusions. If this 
 happened only from time to time, the effect 
 would not tell so much on the mental consti- 
 tution; but it is incessant, it is continual. 
 Men disguise their thoughts for women as if 
 to venture into the feminine world were as 
 dangerous as travelling in Arabia, or as if the 
 thoughts themselves were criminal. 
 
 There appeared two or three years ago in 
 Punch a clever drawing which might have 
 served as an illustration to this subject. A 
 fashionable doctor was visiting a lady in Bel- 
 gravia who complained that she suffered from 
 debility. Cod-liver oil being repugnant to her 
 taste, the agreeable doctor, wise in his gener- 
 ation, blandly suggested as an effective sub- 
 stitute a mixture of cream and curagoa. 
 What that intelligent man did for his patient's 
 physical constitution, all men of politeness do 
 for the intellectual constitution of ladies. In- 
 stead of administering the truth which would 
 strengthen, though unpalatable, they admin- 
 ister intellectual cream and curagoa. 
 
 The primary cause of this tendency to say 
 
.S32 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 "what is most pleasing to women is likely to be 
 Bs permanent as the distinction of sex itself. 
 It springs directly from sexual feelings, it id 
 liereditary and instinctive. Men will never 
 talk to women with that rough frankness 
 "which they use between themselves. Conver- 
 sation between the sexes will always be par- 
 tially insincere. Still I think that the more 
 women are respected, the more men will de- 
 sire to be approved by them for what they are 
 in reality, and the less they will care for ap- 
 proval which is obtained by dissimulation. It 
 -may be observed already that, in the most in- 
 l3ellectual society of great capitals, men are 
 considerably more outspoken before women 
 than they are in the provincial middle-classes. 
 Where women have most culture, men are 
 most open and sincere. Indeed, the highest 
 culture has a direct tendency to conmaand sin- 
 cerity in others, both because it is tolerant ot 
 variety in opinion, and because it is so pene- 
 trating that dissimulation is felt to be of no 
 use. By the side of an uncultivated woman, 
 a man feels that if he says anything different 
 from what she has been accustomed to she 
 will take offence, whilst if he says anything 
 beyond the narrow range of her information 
 lie will make her cold and uncomfortable. 
 The most honest of men, in such a position, 
 finds it necessary to be very cautious, and can 
 scarcely avoid a little insincerity. But with 
 a woman of culture equal to his own, these 
 causes for apprehension have no existence 
 and he can safely be more himself. 
 
n^OMEN AND MABRIAGE, 333 
 
 These considerations lead me to hope that 
 as culture becomes more general women will 
 hear truth more frequently. Whenever this 
 comes to pass, it will be, to them, an immense 
 intellectual gain. 
 
 ZETTER IX. 
 
 TO A YOUNG MAN OF THE MIDDLE CLASS, WELL 
 EDUCATED, WHO COMPLAINED THAT IT WAS 
 DIFFICULT FOR HIM TO LIVE AGREEABLY WITH 
 HIS MOTHER, A PERSON OF SOMEWHAT AU- 
 THORITATIVE DISPOSITION, BUT UNEDUCATED. 
 
 A sort of misunderstanding common in modern households- 
 Intolerance of inaccuracy — A false position — A. lady not 
 easily intimidated — Difficulty of arguing when you have to 
 teach — Instance about the American War— The best com-se 
 in discussion with ladies — Women spoilt by non-contradic- 
 tion — They make all questions personal — The strength of 
 their feelings — Their indifference to matters of fact. 
 
 I HAVE been thinking a good deal, and seri- 
 ously, since we last met, about the subject of 
 our conversation, which though a painful one 
 is not to be timidly avoided. The degree of 
 unhappiness in your little household, which 
 ought to be one of the pleaspaitest of house- 
 holds, yet which, as you confided to nie, is 
 overshadowed by a continual misunderstand- 
 ing, is, I fear, very common indeed at the 
 present day. It is only by great forbearance, 
 and great skill, that any household in which 
 persons of very different degrees of culture 
 have to live together on terms of equality, 
 
334 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE, 
 
 can be maintained in perfect peace ; and nei- 
 ther the art nor the forbearance is naturally 
 an attribute of youth. A man whose schol- 
 arly attainments were equal to your own, 
 and whose experience of men and women 
 was wider, could no doubt offer you counsel 
 both wise and practical, yet I can hardly say 
 . that I should like you better if you followed 
 it. I cannot blame you for having the nat- 
 ural characteristics of your years, an honest 
 love of the best truth that you have attained 
 to, an intolerance of inaccuracy on all sub- 
 jects, a simple faith in the possibility of teach- 
 ing others, even elderly ladies, when they 
 happen to know less than yourself. All these 
 characteristics are in themselves blameless; 
 and yet in your case, and in thousands of 
 other similar cases, they often bring clouds 
 of storm and trial upon houses which, in a 
 less rapidly progressive century than our own, 
 might have been blessed with uninterrupted 
 peace. The truth is, that you are in a false 
 position relatively to your mother, and your 
 mother is in a false position relatively to you. 
 She expects deference, and deference is 
 scarcely compatible with contradiction; cer- 
 tainly, if there be contradiction at all, it must 
 be very rare, very careful, and very delicate. 
 You, on the other hand, although no doubt 
 full of respect and affection for your mother 
 in your heart, cannot hear her authoritatively 
 enunciating anything that you know to be 
 erroneous, without feeling irresistibly urged 
 to set her right. She is rather a talkative 
 
iVOMEN AND MARRIAGE, 335 
 
 itedy ; she does not like to hear a conversation 
 going forward without taking a part in it, and 
 rather an important part, so that whatever 
 subject is talked about in her presence, that 
 subject she will talk about also. Even before 
 specialists your mother has an independence 
 of opinion, and a degree of faith in her own 
 conclusions, which would be admirable if 
 ^hey were founded upon right reason and a 
 careful study of the subject. Medical men, 
 And even lawyers, do not intimidate her ; she 
 IS convinced that she knows more about dis- 
 ease than the physician, and more about legal 
 business than an old attorney. In theology 
 no parson can approach her ; but here a wom- 
 an may consider herself on her own ground, 
 as theology is the speciality of women. 
 
 All this puts you out of patience, and it is 
 intelligible that, for a young gentleman of in- 
 tellectual habits and somewhat ardent tem- 
 perament like yourself, it must be at times 
 rather trying to have an Authority at hand 
 ever ready to settle all questions in a decisive 
 manner. To you I have no counsel to offer 
 but that of unconditional submission, You 
 have the weakness to enter into arguments 
 when to sustain them you must assume the 
 part of a teacher. In arguing with a person 
 already well-informed upon the subject in 
 dispute, you may politely refer to knowledge 
 which he already possesses, but when he does 
 not possess the knowledge you cannot argue 
 with him; you must first teach him, you 
 must become didactic, and therefore odious. 
 
836 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 I remeniber a great scene which took place 
 between you and your mother concerning the 
 American War. It was brought on by a too 
 precise answer of yours relatively to your 
 friend B., who had emigrated to America. 
 You mother asked to what part of America 
 B. had emigrated, and you answered, "The 
 Argentine Eepublic." A shade of displeasure 
 clouded your mother's countenance, because 
 she did not know where the Argentine Eepub- 
 lic might be, and betrayed it by her manner. 
 You imprudently added that it was in South 
 America. " Yes, yes, I know very well," she 
 answered; "there was a great battle there 
 during the American War. It is well your 
 friend was not there under Jefferson Davis.'* 
 Now, permit me to observe, my estimable 
 young friend, that this was what the French 
 call a fine opportunity for holding your 
 tongue, but your missed it. Fired with an 
 enthusiasm for truth (always dangerous to 
 the peace of families), you began to exx^lain 
 to the good lady that the Argentine Eepub- 
 lic, though in South America, was not one of 
 the Southern States of the Union. This led 
 to a scene of which I was the embarrassed 
 and unwilling witness. Your mother vehe- 
 mently affirmed that all the Southern States 
 had been under Jefferson Davis, that she 
 knew the fact perfectly, that it had always 
 been known to every one during the war, and 
 that, consequently, as the Argentine Eepub- 
 lic was in South America, the Argentine Re* 
 pubUc had been ^ander Jefferson Davis. Rap* 
 
WOMEN AND MABBIAGE. 33T 
 
 idly warming with this discussion, your 
 mother " supposed that you would deny next 
 that there had ever been such a thing as a 
 war between the North and the South." 
 Then you, in your turn, lost temper, and you 
 fetched an atlas for the purpose of explaining 
 that the southern division of the continent 
 of America was not the southern half of the^ 
 CJnited States. You were landed, as peoplo 
 always are landed when they prosecute an 
 argiunent with the ignorant, in the thankless 
 office of the schoolmaster. You were actual- 
 ly trying to give your mother a lesson in ge- 
 ography! She was not grateful to you for 
 your didactic attentions. She glanced at th& 
 book as people glance at an offered dish 
 which they dislike. She does not understand 
 maps; the representation of places in geo- 
 graphical topography has never been quite 
 clear to her. Your little geographical lectura 
 irritated, but did not inform; it clouded the 
 countenance, but did not illuminate the un- 
 derstanding. The distinction between South 
 America and the Southern States is not easy 
 to the non-analytic mind under any circum- 
 stances, but when amour propre is involved 
 it becomes impossible. 
 
 I believe that the best course in discussions 
 of this kind with ladies is simply to say once 
 what is true, for the acquittal of your own 
 conscience, but after that to remain silent on, 
 that topic, leaving the last word to the lady^ 
 who will probably simply re-affirm what she 
 has already said. For example, in the dis- 
 22 
 
S38 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 cussion about the Argentine Eepublic, your 
 proper course would have been to say first, 
 firmly, that the territory in question was not 
 a part of the seceded States and had never 
 been in the Union, with a brief and decided 
 geographical explanation. Your mother 
 would not have been convinced by this, and 
 would probably have had the last; word, but 
 the matter would have ended there. Another 
 friend of mine, who is in a position very like 
 your own, goes a step farther, and is deter- 
 mined to agree with his mother-in-lav/ in 
 everything. He alv/ays assents to her prop- 
 ositions. She is a French v/oman, and has 
 been accustomed to use Algerie and Afrique 
 as convertible terms. Somebody spoke of the 
 Cape of Good Hope as being in Africa. 
 " Then it belongs to France, as Africa belongs 
 to France." " Oui, cheremere," he answered, 
 in his usual formula ; " vous avez raison." 
 
 He alluded to this afterwards when we were 
 alone together. ' ' I was foolish enough some 
 years since," he said, "'to argue with my belle 
 mere and try to teach her little things fronn 
 time to time, but it kept her in a state of 
 chronic ill-humor and led to no good; it 
 spoiled her temper, and it did not improve 
 her mind. But since I have adopted the plan 
 of perpetual assent we get on charmingly. 
 Whatever she affirms I assent to at once, and 
 all is well. My friends are in the secret, and 
 so no contradictory truth disturbs our amia- 
 ble tranquillity." 
 
 A system of this kind spoils women com- 
 
WOMEN AND MABBIAGE. 33ft 
 
 pletely, and makes the least contradiction in- 
 tolerable to them. It is better that they 
 should at least have the opportunity of hear- 
 ing truth, though no attempt need be made 
 to force it upon them. The position of ladies 
 of the generation which preceded ours is in 
 many respects a very trying one, and we do 
 not always adequately realize it. A lady like 
 your mother, who never really went through 
 any intellectual discipline, who has no no- 
 tion of intellectual accuracy in anything, is 
 compelled by the irresistible feminine instinct 
 to engage her strongest feelings in every dis- 
 cussion that arises. A woman can rarely de- 
 tach her mind from questions of persons to 
 apply it to questions of fact. She does not 
 think simply, " Is that true of such a thing? " 
 but she thinks, ' ' Does he love me or respect 
 me?" The facts about the Argentine Repub- 
 lic and the American War were probably 
 quite indifferent to your mother; but your 
 opposition to what she had asserted seemed 
 to her a failure in affection, and your attempt 
 to teach her a failure in respect. This feeling 
 in women is far from being ^v^holly egoistic. 
 They refer everything to pot'sons, but not nec- 
 essarily to their own persons. Whatever you 
 a,fl8.rm as a fact, they find means of interpret- 
 ing as loyalty or disloyalty to some person 
 whom they either venerate or love, to the 
 head of religion, or of the State, or of the 
 family. Hence it is always dangerous to en 
 ter upon intellectual discussion of any kind 
 -with women, for you are almo<^t certai«» to of 
 
340 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 fend them by setting aside the sentiments of 
 veneration, affection, love, which they have 
 in great strength, in order to reach accuracy 
 in matters of fact, which they neither have 
 nor care for. 
 
PART VIIL 
 
 AEISTOCBACY AND DEMOCRACY. 
 
 LETTER I. 
 
 TO A YOUNG ENGLISH NOBLEMAN. 
 
 A contrast— A poor student — His sad fate — Class-sentiment— 
 Tycho Brahe^Robert Burns — Shelley's opinion of Byron 
 —Charles Dickens-Shopkeepers in English literature — • 
 Pride of aristocratic ignorance — Pursuits tabooed by the 
 spirit of caste — Affected prefweuces in intellectual piu*- 
 suits — Studies that add to gentihty— Sincerity of interest 
 needed for genuine culture — The exclusiveness of schol- 
 arly caste — Its bad influence on outsiders — Feeling of 
 Burns toward scholars — Sureness of class-instinct — Un- 
 foreseen effect of railways — Retui-n to nomadic life and 
 the chase — Advantages and possibilities to Ufe in the 
 higher classes. 
 
 It is one of the privileges of authorship to 
 have correspondents in the most widely dif- 
 ferent positions, and by means of their frank 
 and friendly letters (usually much more frank 
 than any oral communication) to gain a singu- 
 larly accurate insight into the working of 
 circumstances on the human intellect and 
 character. The same post that brought me 
 your last letter brought news about another 
 of my friends whose lot has been a striking 
 contrast to your own. * 
 
 * I think it right to inform the reader that there is no fiction 
 in this letter. 
 
342 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 Let me dwell upon this contrast for a few 
 minutes. All the sunshine appears to have 
 been on your side, and all the shadow on his. 
 Born of highly cultivated parents, in the 
 liighest rank in England under royalty, you 
 liave lived from the beginning amongst the 
 most efficient aids to culture, and Nature has 
 ,so endowed you that, instead of becoming in- 
 different to these things from familiarity, 
 you have learned to value them more and 
 more in every successive year. The plainest 
 statement of your advantages would sound 
 like an extract from one of Disraeli's 
 novels. Your father's principal casxie is sit- 
 uated amongst the finest scenery in Britain, 
 and his palace in London is filled with master- 
 pieces of art. Wherever you have lived you 
 have been surrounded by good literature and 
 cultivated friends. Your health is steadily 
 robust, you can travel wherever you choose, 
 and all the benefits of all the capitals of 
 Europe belong to you as much as to their own 
 citizens. In all these gifts and opportunities 
 there is but one evil— the bewilderment of 
 their multiplicity. 
 
 My other correspondent has been less for- 
 tunately situated. ' ' I began school, " he says, 
 *'when six years old, was taken from it at 
 eleven and sent to the mines to earn a little 
 towards my own support. I continued there 
 till fourteen, when through an unlucky inci- 
 dent I was made a hopeless cripple. At that 
 day I was earning the noble sum of eightpence 
 per day, quite as much as any boy of that age 
 
ABISTOCRACY AND DEMOCRACY. 343 
 
 got in the lead mines. I suffered much for 
 two years; after that, became much easier^ 
 but my legs were quite useless, and have con- 
 tinued so up to the present time. The right 
 thigh-bone is decayed, has not got worse these 
 nine years ; therefore I conclude that I may 
 live — say anotiier thirty years. I should likCy 
 at all events, for life is sweet even at this, 
 cost ; not but what I could die quietly enough, 
 I dare say. I have not been idle these 
 years. ..." 
 
 (Here permit me to introduce a parenthesis. 
 He certainly had not been idle. He had edu- 
 cated himself up to such a point that he could 
 really appreciate both literature and art, and 
 had attained some genuine skill in both. His 
 letters to me were the letters of a cultivated 
 gentleman, and he used invariably to insert 
 little pen-sketches, which were done with a 
 light and refined hand.) 
 
 ' ' I can do anything almost in bed — except 
 getting up. I am now twenty-two years old. 
 My father was a miner, but is now unable to 
 work. I have only one brother working, and 
 we are about a dozen of us ; consequently we 
 are not in the most flourishing circumstances, 
 but a friend has put it in my power to learn 
 to etch. I have got the tools and your hand- 
 book on the subject." 
 
 These extracts are from his first letter. 
 Afterwards he wrote me others which made 
 me feel awed and humbled by the manly 
 cheerfulness with which he bore a lot so 
 dreary, and by the firmness of resolution he 
 
SM THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE, 
 
 showed in his pursuits. He could not quit 
 his bed, but that was not the worst ; he could 
 not even sit up in bed, and yet he contrived, 
 I know not how, both to write and draw and 
 etch on copper, managing the plaguy chemi- 
 cals, and even printing his own proofs. His 
 bed was on wheels, on a sort of light iron car- 
 riage, and he saw nature out-of-doors. All 
 the gladness of physical activity was com- 
 pletely blotted out of his existence, and in 
 that respect his prospects were without hope. 
 And still he said that "hfe was sweet." O 
 marvel of all marvels, how could that life be 
 sweet ! 
 
 Aided by a beautiful patience and resigna- 
 tion the lamp of the mind burned with a 
 steady brightness, fed by his daily studies. 
 In the winters, however, the diseased limb 
 gave him prolonged agony, and in the au- 
 tumn of 1872, to avoid the months of torture 
 that lay before him, he had himself put in 
 the railway and sent off, in his bed, to Edin- 
 burgh, sleeping in a waiting-room on the 
 way. There was no one to attend him, but 
 he trusted, not vainly, to the humanity of 
 strangers. Just about the same time your 
 lordship went northwards also, with many 
 friends, to enjoy the noble scenery, and the 
 excitement of noble sport. My poor cripple 
 got to Edinburgh, got a glimpse of Scott's 
 monument and the Athenian pillars, and sub- 
 naitted himself to the surgeons. They ren- 
 dered him the best of services, for they ended 
 his pains forever. 
 
ABISTOCBACY AND DEMOCEACY. a45 
 
 So I am to get no more of those wonderful- 
 Ij brave and cheerful letters that were writ- 
 ten from the little bed on wheels. I miss 
 them for the lessons they quite unconsciously 
 conveyed. He fancied that he was the learn- 
 er, poor lad! and I the teacher, whereas it 
 was altogether the other way. He made me 
 feel what a blessing it is, even from the 
 purely intellectual point of view, to be able 
 to get out of bed after the night's rest, and 
 go from one room to another. He made me 
 understand the value of every liberty and 
 every power whilst at the same time he 
 tai^^^ht me to bear more patiently every limit, 
 aua inconvenience, and restriction. 
 
 In comparing his letters with yours I have 
 been struck by one reflection predominantly, 
 which is, the entire absence of class-senti- 
 ment in both of you. Nobody, not in the se- 
 cret, could guess that one set of letters came 
 from a palace and the other set from a poor 
 miner's cottage ; and even to me, v/ho do not 
 see the habitations except by an effort of the 
 memory or imagination, tiiere is nothing to 
 recall the immensity of the social distance 
 that separated my two friendly and welcome 
 correspondents. It is clear, of course, that 
 one of them had enjoj^ed greater advantages 
 than the other, but neither wrote from the 
 point of view which marks his caste or class. 
 It was my habit to write to you, and to him, 
 exactly in the same tone, yet this was not felt 
 to be unsuitable by either. 
 
 Is it not that the love and pursuit of cult- 
 
346 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 Tire lead each of us out of his class, and 
 that class- views of any kind, whether of the 
 aristocracy, or of the middle class, or of the 
 people, inevitably narrow the mind and hin- 
 der it from receiving pure truth? Have you 
 ever known any person who lived habitually 
 in the notions of a caste, high or low, with- 
 out incapacitating himself in a greater or less 
 degree for breadth and delicacy of percep- 
 tion? It seems to me that the largest and 
 best minds, although they have been born and 
 nurtured in this caste or that, and may con- 
 tinue to conform externally to its customs, 
 always emancipate themselves from it intel- 
 lectually, and arrive at a sort of neutral re- 
 gion, where the light is colorless, and clear,, 
 and equal, like plain daylight out of doors. 
 So soon as we attain the f orgetfulness of self, 
 and become absorbed in our pursuits for their 
 own sakes, the feeling of caste drops off from, 
 us. It was not a mark of culture in Tycho 
 Brahe, but rather of the imperfections of his- 
 culture, that he felt so strongly the difficulty 
 of conciliating scientific pursuits with the 
 obligations of noble birth, and began his pub- 
 lic discourses on astronomy by telling his 
 audience that the work was ill-suited to his 
 social position — hesitating, too, even about 
 authorship from a dread of social degrada- 
 tion. And to take an instance from the op- 
 posite extreme of human society, Eobert 
 Burns betrayed the same imperfection of 
 culture in his dedication to the members of 
 the Caledonian Hunt, when he spoke of his 
 
ABISTOCBACY AND BEMOCBACY. 34T 
 
 *' honest rusticity," and told the gentlefolks 
 that he was "bred to the plough, and inde- 
 pendent." Both of these men had been un- 
 favorably situated for the highest culture, 
 the one by the ignorance of his epoch the 
 other by the ignorance of his class; hence 
 this uneasiness about themselves and their 
 social position. Shelley said of Byron, " The 
 canker of aristocracy wants to be cut out ; " 
 and he did not say this from the point of 
 view of a democrat, for Shelley was not pre- 
 cisely a democrat, but from the broadly hu- 
 man point of view, on which the finest intel- 
 lects like to take their stand. Shelley per- 
 ceived that Byron's aristocracy narrowed 
 him, and made his sympathies less catholic 
 than they might have been, nor can there be 
 any doubt of the accuracy of this estimate of 
 Shelley's; if a doubt existed it would be re- 
 moved by Byron's alternative for a poet, 
 "solitude, or high life." Another man of 
 genius, whose loss we have recently deplored, 
 was narrowed by his antipathy to the aristo- 
 cratic spirit, though it is necessary to add, 
 in justice, that it did not prevent him from 
 valuing the friendship of noblemen whom he 
 esteemed. The works of Charles Dickens 
 would have been more accurate as pictures of 
 English life, certainly more comprehensively 
 accurate, if he could have felt for the aristoc- 
 racy that hearty and loving sympathy which 
 he felt for the middle classes and the people. 
 But the narrowness of Dickens is more excus- 
 able than that of Byron, because a kindly 
 
548 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 heart more easily enters into the feelings of 
 those whom it can often pity than of those 
 who appear to be lifted above pity (though 
 this is nothing but an appearance) and also 
 because it is the habit of aristocracies to repel 
 such sympathy by their manners, which the 
 poor do not. 
 
 I have often thought that a sign of aristo- 
 fcratic narrowness in many English authors, 
 including some of the most popular authors 
 of the day, is the way they speak of shop- 
 keepers. This may be due to simple igno- 
 rance ; but if so, it is ignorance that might be 
 easily avoided. Happily for our convenience 
 there are a great many shopkeepers in Eng- 
 land, so that there is no lack of the materials 
 for study; but our novelists appear to con- 
 sider this important class of Englisiimen as 
 unworthy of any patient and serious portrait- 
 ure. You may remember Mr. Anthony Trol- 
 lope's *' Struggles of Brown, Jones, and Eob- 
 inson," which appeared in the Cornhill 
 Magazine, under Thackeray's editorship. 
 That was an extreme instance of the way the 
 class is treated in our literature : and then in 
 poetry we have some disdainful verses of Mr. 
 Tennyson's. It may be presumed that there 
 is material for grave and respectful treat- 
 ment of this extensive class, but our poets 
 and novelists do not seem to have discovered, 
 or sought to discover, the secret of that treat- 
 ment. The intensity of the prejudices of 
 caste prevents them from seeing any possibil- 
 ity of true gentlemanhood in a draper or a 
 
ARISTOCBACT AND DEMOCRACY. 349 
 
 grocer, and blinds them to the aesthetic 
 beauty or grandeur which may be as per- 
 fectly compatible with what is disdainful- 
 ly called " counter- jumping " as it is admit- 
 ted to be -stith the jumping of five-barred 
 gates. 
 
 The same caste prejudices have often kept 
 the mass of the upper classes in ignorance 
 of most valuable and important branches oi 
 knowledge. The poor have been ignorant, 
 yet neVer proud of their ignorance; the ig- 
 norance that men are proud of belongs to 
 caste always, not always to what we should 
 call an aristocratic caste, but to the caste- 
 feeling in one class or another. The pride of 
 the feudal baron in being totally illiterate 
 amounted to self- exclusion from all intellect- 
 ual culture, and we may still find living in- 
 stances of partial self-exclusion from culture, 
 of which pride is the only motive. There are 
 people who pass their time in what are con- 
 sidered amusements (that do not amuse), be- 
 cause it seems to them a more gentlemanly 
 sort of life than the devotion to some great 
 a,nd worthy pursuit which would have given 
 the keenest zest and relish to their whole ex- 
 istence (besides making them useful members 
 of society, which they are not), but which 
 happens to be tabooed for them by the preju- 
 dices of their caste. There are many studies, 
 in themselves noble and useful, that a man of 
 good family cannot follow with the earnest- 
 ness and the sacrifice of time necessary to 
 success in them, without incurring the disap- 
 
350 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 probation of his friends. If this disapproba- 
 tion were visited on the breaker of caste-reg- 
 ulations because he neglected some other 
 culture, there would still be something reason- 
 able in it ; but this is not the case. The caste- 
 regulation forbids the most honorable and 
 instructive labor when it does not forbid the 
 most unprofitable idleness, the most utter 
 throwing away of valuable time and faculty. 
 Tycho Brahe feared to lose caste in becoming 
 the most illustrious astronomer of his time ; 
 but he would have had no such apprehension, 
 nor any ground for such apprehension, if 
 instead of being impelled to noble work by a 
 high intellectual instinct, he had been im- 
 pelled by meaner passions to unlimited self- 
 indulgence. Even, in our own day these 
 prejudices are still strong enough, or have 
 been until very lately, to keep our upper 
 classes in great darkness about natural 
 knowledge of all kinds, and about its applica- 
 tion to the arts of life. How few gentlemen 
 have been taught to draw accurately, and 
 how few are accurately acquainted with the 
 great practical inventions of the age ! The 
 caste-sentiment does not, in these days, keep 
 them ignorant of literature, but it keeps them 
 ignorant of things. A friend who had a 
 strong constructive and experimental turn, 
 told me that, as a rule, he found gentlemen 
 less capable of entering into his ideas than 
 common joiners and blacksmiths, because 
 these humble workmen, from their habit of 
 dealing with matter, had acquired some ex- 
 
ARISTOCEACY AND DEMOCBACY. 351 
 
 perience of its nature. For my own part, I 
 have often been amazed by the difficulty of 
 making something clear to a classically edu- 
 cated gentleman which any intelligent me- 
 chanic would have seen to the bottom, and all 
 round, after five or six minutes of explana- 
 tion. There is a certain French nobleman 
 whose ignorance I have frequent opportuni- 
 ties of fathoming, always with fresh astonish- 
 ment at the depths of it, and I declare that he 
 knows no more about the properties of stone, 
 and timber, and metal, than if he were a 
 cherub in the clouds of heaven ! 
 
 But there is something in caste-sentiment 
 even more prejudicial to culture than igno- 
 rance itself, and that is the affectation of 
 strong preferences for certain branches of 
 knowledge in which people are not seriously 
 interested. There is nothing which people 
 "will not pretend to like, if a liking for it is 
 supposed to be one of the marks and indica- 
 tions of gentility. There has been an im- 
 mense amount of this kind of affectation in 
 regard to classical scholarship, and we know 
 for a certainty that it is affectation whenever 
 people are loud in their praise of classical 
 authors whom they never take the trouble 
 to read. It may have happened to you, as 
 it has happened to me from time to time, 
 to hear men affirm the absolute necessity of 
 classical reading to distinction of thought 
 and manner, and yet to be aware at the same 
 time, from close observation of their habits, 
 that those very men entirely neglected the 
 
352 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE, 
 
 sources of that culture in which they pro- 
 fessed such earnest faith. The explanation 
 is, that as classical accomplishments are con- 
 sidered to be one of the evidences of gentility, 
 whoever speaks loudly in their favor affirms 
 that he has the tastes and preferences of a 
 gentleman. It is like professing the fashion- 
 able religion, or belonging to an aristocratic 
 shade of opinion in politics. I have not a 
 doubt that all affectations of this kind are in- 
 jurious to genuine culture, for genuine cult- 
 ure requires sincerity of interest before 
 everything, and the fashionable affectations, 
 so far from attracting sincere men to the de- 
 partments of learning which happen to be a 
 la mode, positively drive them away, just as 
 many have become Nonconformists because 
 the established religion was considered neces- 
 sary to gentility, who might have remained 
 contented with its ordinances as a simple dis- 
 cipline for their souls. 
 
 I dislike the interference of genteel notions 
 in our studies for another reason. They de- 
 prive such culture as we may get from them, 
 of one of the most precious results of culture, 
 the enlargement of our sympathy for others. 
 If we encourage ourselves in the pride of 
 scholarly caste, so far as to imagine that we 
 who have made Latin verses are above com- 
 parison with aU who have never exercised 
 their ingenuity in that particular way, we are 
 not hkely to give due and serious attention to 
 the ideas of people whom we are pleased to 
 consider uneducated ; and yet it may happen 
 
ABI8T0CBACY AND DEMOCRACY. 35S 
 
 that these people are sometimes our intellect- 
 ual superiors, and that their ideas concern us 
 very closely. But this is only half the evil. 
 The consciousness of our contempt embitters 
 the feelings of men in other castes, and pre- 
 vents them from accepting our guidance 
 when it might be of the greatest practical 
 utility to them. I may mention Robert 
 Burns as an instance of a man of genius who 
 would have been happier and more fortu- 
 nate if he had felt no barrier of separation 
 between himself and the culture of his time. 
 His poetry is as good rustic poetry as the best 
 that has come down to us from antiquity, and 
 instead of feeling towards the poets of times 
 past the kind of soreness which a parvenu 
 feels towards families of ancient descent, he 
 ought rather to have rejoiced in the con- 
 sciousness that he was their true and legiti- 
 mate successor, as the clergy of an authentic 
 Church feel themselves to be successors and 
 representatives of saints and apostles who are 
 gathered to their everlasting rest. But poor 
 Burns knew that in an age when what is 
 called scholarship gave all who had acquired 
 it a right to look down upon poets who had 
 only genius as the illegitimate offspring of 
 nature, his position had not that solidity 
 which belonged to the scholarly caste, and the 
 result was a perpetual uneasiness which broke 
 out in frequent defiance. 
 
 " There's ither poets, much your betters. 
 Far seen in Greek, deep men o' letters, 
 Hae thought they had ensur'd their debtors 
 
 33 
 
354 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE, 
 
 A' future ages ; 
 Now moths deform in shapeless tattert^ 
 Tlieir unknown pagea,^'' 
 
 And again, in another poem — 
 
 " A set o' dull, conceited hashes 
 Confuse their brains in college classes 1 
 They gang in stlrks, and come out asses, 
 
 Plain truth to speak; 
 An'' syne they think to climb Parnassus 
 By dint o' Greek ! " 
 
 It was the influence of caste that made 
 Burns write in this way, and how unjust it 
 was every modern reader knows. The great 
 majority of poets have been well-educated 
 men, and instead of ganging into college like 
 stirks and coming out like asses, they have, 
 as a rule, improved their poetic faculty by an 
 acquaintaMce with the masterpieces of their 
 art. Yet Burns is not to be blamed for this in- 
 justice; he sneered at Greek because Greek 
 was the mark of a disdainful and exclusive 
 caste, but he never sneered at French or Ital- 
 ian. He had no soreness against culture for 
 its own sake ; it was the pride of caste that 
 galled him. 
 
 How surely the wonderful class-instinct 
 guided the aristocracy to the kind of learning 
 likely to be the most eif ectual barrier against 
 fellowship with the mercantile classes and the 
 people ! The uselessness of Greek in industry 
 and commerce was a guarantee that those 
 who had to earn their bread would never find 
 time to master it, and even the strange diffi- 
 cult look of the alphabet (though in reality 
 
ARISTOCRACY AND DEMOCRACY. 355 
 
 the alphabet was a gate of gossamer), ensured 
 a degree of awful veneration for those initiat- 
 ed into its mysteries. Then the habit our 
 forefathers had of quoting Latin and Greek 
 to keep the ignorant in their places, was a 
 strong defensive weapon of their caste, and 
 they used it without scruple. Every year re- 
 moves this passion for exclusiveness farther 
 and farther into the past ; every year makes 
 learning of every kind less available as the 
 armor of a class, and less to be relied upon as 
 a means of social advancement and considera- 
 tion. Indeed, we have already reached a con- 
 dition which is drawing back many members 
 of the aristocracy to a state of feeling about 
 intellectual culture resembling that of their 
 forefathers in the middle ages. The old bar- 
 barian feeling has revived of late, a feeling 
 which (if it were self-conscious enough) might 
 find expression in some such w^ords as 
 these : — 
 
 "It is not by learning and genius that we 
 can hold the highest place, but by the daz- 
 zling exhibition of external splendor in those 
 costly pleasures which are the plainest evi- 
 dence of our power. Let us have beautiful 
 equipages on the land, beautiful yachts upon 
 the sea; let our recreations be public and 
 expensive, that the people may not easily 
 lose sight of us, and may know that there is 
 a gulf of difference between our life and 
 theirs. Why should we toil at books that 
 the poorest students read, we M'ho have 
 lordly pastimes for every month in the year? 
 
356 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 To be able to revel imniensely in pleasures 
 which those below us taste rarely or not at all, 
 this is the best evidence of our superiority. 
 So let us take them magnificently, like Eng- 
 lish princes and lords. " 
 
 Even the invention of railways has pro- 
 'duced the unforeseen result of a return in 
 the direction of barbarism. If there is one 
 thing which distinguishes civilization it is 
 fixity of residence ; and it is essential to the 
 tranquil following of serious intellectual pur- 
 poses that the student should remain for 
 many months of the year in his own library 
 or laboratory, surrounded by all his imple- 
 ments of culture. But there are people of the 
 highest rank in the England of to-day whose 
 existence is as much nomadic as that of Red 
 Indians in the reserved territories of North 
 America. You cannot ascertain their where- 
 abouts without consulting the most recent 
 newspaper. Their life may be quite accur- 
 ately described as a return, on a scale of un- 
 precedented splendor and comfort, to the life 
 of tribes in that stage of human development 
 which is known as the period of the chase. 
 They migrate from one hunting-ground to 
 another as the diminution of the game impels 
 them. Their residences, vast and substantial 
 as they are, serve only as tents and wigwams. 
 The existence of a monk in the cloister, of a 
 prisoner in a fortress, is more favorable to the 
 intellect than theirs. 
 
 And yet notwithstanding these re-appear- 
 ances of the savage nature at the very sum- 
 
ARISTOCRACY AND DEMOCRACY. 357 
 
 mit of raodern civilization, the life of a great 
 English nobleman of to day commands so 
 m.uch of what the intellectual know to be 
 tiaily desirable, that it seems as if only a little 
 firmness of resolution were needed to make 
 all advantages his own. Surrounded by 
 every aid, and having all gates open, he sees 
 the paths of knowledge converging towards 
 him like railways to some rich central city. 
 He has but to choose his route, and travel 
 along it with the least possible hindrance 
 from every kind of friction, in the society of 
 the best companions, and served by the most 
 perfectly trained attendants. Might not our 
 lords be like those brilliant peers who shone 
 like intellectual stars around the throne of 
 Elizabeth, and our ladies like that great lady 
 of whom said a learned Italian, " che non vi 
 aveva altra dama al mondo che la pareggiasse 
 nella cognizione delle arti e nella notizia delle 
 scienze e delle lingue," wherefore he called 
 her boldly, in the enthusiasm of his admira- 
 tion, '' grande anfitrite, Diana nuTne delta 
 terra ! " 
 
358 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE, 
 
 LETTER II. 
 
 TO AN ENGLISH DEMOCRAT. 
 
 The liberal and illiberal spirit of aristocracy— The desire to 
 draw a line — Substitution of external hmitations for real- 
 ities—The high life of nature— Value of gentlemen in a 
 State— Odiousness of the narrow class-spirit — Juhan Fane 
 — Perfect knighthood— Democracies intolerant of dignity 
 — Tendency of democracies to fix one uniform type of 
 manners — That type not a high one — A descriptive anec- 
 dote — Knowledge and taste reveal themselves in man- 
 ners — Dr. Arnold on the absence of gentlemen in France 
 and Italy — Absence of a class with traditional good man- 
 ners—Language defiled by the vulgarity of popular taste 
 — Influence of aristocratic opinion hmited, that of demo- 
 cratic opinion universal — ^Want of elevation in the French 
 bourgeoisie — Spirit of the provincial democracy — Spirit of 
 the Parisian democracy — Sentiments and acts of the Com- 
 munards — Romantic feeling towards the past — Hopes for 
 liberal culture in the democratic idea — Aristocracies think 
 too much of persons and positions — That we ought to for. 
 get persons and apply our minds to tilings, and phenom- 
 ena, and ideas. 
 
 All you say against the narrowness of the 
 aristocratic spirit is true and to the point ; but. 
 I think that you and your party are apt to 
 confound together two states of feeling which 
 are essentially distinct from each other. 
 There is an illiberal spirit of aristocracy, and 
 there is also a liberal one. The illiberal spirit 
 does not desire to improve itself, having a full 
 and firm belief in its own absolute perfection ;, 
 its sole anxiety is to exclude others, to draw 
 a circular line, the smaller the better, pro- 
 vided always that it gets inside and can keep 
 the millions out. We see this spirit, not only 
 in reference to birth, but in even fuller activ- 
 
ABISTOCBACY AND DEMOCRACY. 359 
 
 ity with r<3gard to education and employment 
 — in tiie preference for certain schools and 
 'Colleges, for class reasons, without regard to 
 the quality of the teaching — in the contempt 
 for all professions but two or three, without 
 regard to the inherent baseness or nobility of 
 "the work that has to be done in them : so that 
 the question asked by persons of this temper 
 is not whether a man has been well trained 
 in his youth, but if he has been to Eton and 
 Oxford ; not whether he is honorably laborious 
 in his manhood, but whether he belongs to the 
 JBar, or the Army, or the Church, This spirit 
 is evil in its influence, because it substitutes 
 external limitations for the realities of the in- 
 tellect and the soul, and makes those realities 
 themselves of no account wherever its tradi- 
 tions prevail. This spirit cares nothing for 
 culture, nothing for excellence, nothing for 
 the superiorities that make men truly great ; 
 all it cares for is to have reserved seats in the 
 great assemblage of the world. Whatever 
 you do, in fairness and honesty, against this 
 evil and inhuman spirit of aristocracy, the 
 best minds of this age approve ; but there is 
 -another spirit of aristocracy which does not 
 always receive the fairest treatment at your 
 liands, and which ought to be resolutely de- 
 fended against you. 
 
 There is really, in nature, such a thing as 
 high life. There is really, in nature, a differ- 
 ence between the life of a gentleman who has 
 culture, and fine bodily health, and indepen- 
 dence, and the life of a Sheffield dry-grinder 
 
360 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 who cannot have any one of these three 
 things. It is a good and not a bad sign of the 
 state of popular intelhgence when the people 
 does not wilfully shut its eyes to the differ- 
 ences of condition amongst men, and when 
 those who have the opportunity of leading 
 what is truly the high life accept its disci- 
 pline joyfully and have a just pride in keep- 
 ing themselves up to their ideal. A life of 
 health, of sound morality, of disinterested in- 
 tellectual activity, of freedom from petty 
 cares, is higher than a life of disease, and 
 vice, and stupidity, and sordid anxiety. I 
 maintain that it is right and wise in a nation 
 to set before itself the highest attainable ideal 
 of human life as the existence of the complete 
 gentleman, and that an envious democracy, 
 instead of rendering a service to itself, does 
 exactly the contrary when it cannot endure 
 and will not tolerate the presence of high- 
 spirited gentlemen in the State. There are 
 things in this world that it is right to hate, 
 that we are the better for hating with all our 
 hearts; and one of the things that I hate 
 most, and with most reason, is the narrow 
 class-spirit when it sets itself against the great 
 interests of mankind. It is odious in the nar- 
 row-minded, pompous, selfish, pitiless aristo- 
 crat who thinks that the sons of the people 
 were made by Almighty God to be his lack- 
 eys and their daughters to be his mistresses ; 
 it is odious also, to the full as odious, in the 
 narrow-minded, envious democrat who can- 
 not bear to see any elegance of living, or 
 
ARISTOCRACY AND DEMOCRACY. 361 
 
 grace of manner, or culture of mind above 
 the range of his own capacity or his own 
 purse. 
 
 Let me recommend to your consideration 
 the following words, written by one young 
 nobleman about another young nobleman, 
 and reminding us, as we much need to be re- 
 minded, that life may be not only honest 
 and vigorous, but also noble and beautiful. 
 Robert Lytton says of Julian Fane — 
 
 "He was, I think, the most graceful auci 
 accomplished gentleman of the generation he 
 adorned, and by this generation, at least, ap- 
 propriate place should be reserved for the 
 memory of a man in whose character the most 
 universal sympathy with all the intellectual 
 culture of his age was united to a refinement 
 of social form, and a perfection of personal 
 grace, which, in spite of all its intellectual cult- 
 ure, the age is sadly in want of. There is an 
 aji'tistry of life as well as of literature, and the 
 perfect knighthood of Sidney is no less pre- 
 cious to the world than the genius of Spenser.'* 
 
 It is just this " perfect knighthood " that an 
 envious democracy sneers at and puts down. 
 I do not say that all democracies are necessa- 
 rily envious, but they often are so, especially 
 when they first assert themselves, and whilst 
 in that temper they are very willing to ostra- 
 cize gentlemen, or compel them to adopt bad 
 manners. I have some hopes that the democ- 
 racies of the future maybe taught by authors 
 and artists to appreciate natural gentleman- 
 hood ; but so far as we know them hitherto 
 
362 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 they seem intolerant of dignity, and disposed 
 to attribute it (very unjustly) to individual 
 self-conceit. The personages most popular in 
 democratic countries are often remarkably 
 deficient in dignity, and liked the better for 
 the want of it, whilst if on the positive side 
 they can display occasional coarseness they 
 become more popular still. Then I should 
 say, that although democratic feeling raises 
 the lower classes and increases their self-re- 
 Bpect, which is indeed one of the greatest im- 
 aginable benefits to a nation, it has a tendency 
 to fix one uniform type of behavior and of 
 thought as the sole type in conformity with 
 "what is accepted for "common sense," and 
 that type can scarcely, in the nature of things, 
 be a very elevated one. I have been much 
 struck, in France, by the prevalence of what 
 may be not inaccurately defined as the com- 
 mercial traveller type, even in classes where 
 you would scarcely expect to meet with it. 
 One little descriptive anecdote will illustrate 
 what I mean. Having been invited to a stag- 
 liunt in the Cote d'Or, I sat down to dejeuner 
 Avith the sportsmen in a good country-house 
 or chateau (it was an old place with four 
 towers), and in the midst of the meal in came 
 a man smoking a cigar. After a bow to the 
 ladies he declined to eat anything, and took a 
 •chair a little apart, but jtist opposite me. He 
 resumed his hat and went on smoking with a 
 sans-gene that rather surprised me under the 
 circumstances. He put one arm on the side- 
 board : the hand hung down, and I perceived 
 
AEISTOCBACY AND DEMOCBACY. 86S 
 
 that it was dirty (so was the shirt), and that 
 the nails had edges of ebony. On his chin 
 there was a black stubble of two days' growth. 
 He talked very loudly, and his dress and man- 
 ners were exactly those of a bagman just ar- 
 rived at his inn. Who and what could the 
 man be? I learned afterwards that he had 
 begun life as a distinguished pupiJ of the Ecole 
 Poly technique, that since then he had distin- 
 guished himself as an officer of artillery and 
 had won the Legion of Honor on the field of 
 battle, that he belonged to one of the princi- 
 pal families in the neighborhood, and had 
 nearly 2000Z. a year from landed property. 
 
 Now, it may be a good thing for the roughs 
 at the bottom of the social scale to level u^ to 
 the bagman-ideal, but it does seem rather a 
 ])ity (does it not?) that a born gentleman ot 
 more than common bravery and ability should 
 level doivn to it. And it is here that lies the- 
 principle objection to democracj^ from the 
 point of view of culture, that its notion of life 
 and manners is a uniform notion, not admit- 
 ting much variety of classes, and not allow- 
 ing the high development of graceful and ac- 
 complished humanity in any class which an 
 aristocracy does at least encourage in one 
 class, though it may be numerically a small 
 class. I have not forgotten what Saint-Simon 
 and La Bruyere have testified about the ig- 
 norance of the old noblesse. Saint-Sim.on 
 said that they were fit for nothing but fight- 
 ing, and only quaUfied for promotion even in 
 the army by seniority ; that the rest of their 
 
S64 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 time was passed in " the most deadly useless- 
 ness, the consequence of their indolence and 
 distaste for all instruction." lam sure that 
 my modern artillery captain, notwithstand- 
 his bad manners, knew more than any of 
 his forefathers; but where was his "perfect 
 knighthood?" And we easily forget "how 
 much talent runs into manners, " as Emerson 
 says. From the artistic and poetical point of 
 view, behavior is an expression of knowledge 
 and taste and feeling in combination, as clear 
 and legible as literature or painting, so that 
 when the behavior is coarse and unbecoming 
 we know that the perceptions cannot be deli- 
 cate, whatever may have been learned at 
 school. When Dr. Arnold travelled on the 
 Continent, nothing struck him more than the 
 absence of gentlemen. "We see no gentle- 
 men anywhere," he writes from Italy. From 
 France he writes: "Again I have been struck 
 with the total absence of all gentlemen, and 
 of all persons of the education and feelings 
 of gentlemen." Now, although Dr. Arnold 
 spoke merely from the experience of a tour- 
 ist, and was perhaps not quit« com.petent to 
 judge of Frenchmen and Italians otherwise 
 than from externals, still there was much 
 truth in his observation. It was not quite 
 absolutely true. I have known two or three 
 Italian oflScers, and one Savoyard nobleman, 
 and a Frenchman here and there, who were 
 as perfect gentlemen as any to be found in. 
 England, but they were isolated like poets, 
 and were in fact poets in behavior and self 
 
ARISrOCIiACY AND DEMOCRACY. 3G5 
 
 di^apline. The plain truth is, that there is 
 no distinct class in France maintaining good 
 inanners as a tradition common to all its 
 members ; and this seems to be the inevitable 
 defect of a democracy. It may be observed, 
 further, that language itself is defiled by the 
 vulgarity of the popular taste; that expres- 
 sions are used continually, even by the upper 
 middle class, which it is impossible to print, 
 and which are too grossly indecent to find a 
 place even in the dictionaries ; that respecta- 
 ble men, having become insensible to the 
 ixieaning of these expressions from hearing 
 them used without intention, employ them 
 constantly from habit, as they decorate their 
 speech with oaths, whilst only purists refrain 
 from them altogether. 
 
 An aristocracy may be very narrow and 
 intolerant, but it can only exclude from its 
 own pale, whereas when a democracy is in- 
 tolerant it excludes from all human inter- 
 ooui^e. Our own aristocracy, as a class, 
 rejects Dissenters, and artists, and men of 
 science, but they flourish quite happily out- 
 side of it. Now try to picture to youreelf a 
 great democracy having the same prejudices, 
 who could get out of the democracy? All 
 aristocracies are intolerant with reference, I 
 will not say to religion, but, more accurately, 
 w^th reference to the outward forms of relig- 
 ion, and yet this aristocratic intolerance has 
 not prevented the development of religious 
 liberty, because the lower classes were not 
 strictly bound by the customs of the nobility 
 
^66 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 and gentry. The unwritten law appears to 
 be that members of an aristocracy shall con- 
 form either to what is actually the State 
 Church or to what has been the State Church 
 at some former period of the national history. 
 Although England is a Protestant country, 
 an English gentleman does not lose caste when 
 he joins the Roman Catholic communion; 
 but he loses caste when he becomes a Dis- 
 senter. The influence of this caste-law in 
 keeping the upper classes within the Churches 
 of England and of Rome has no doubt been 
 very considerable, but its influence on the 
 nation generally has been incomparably less 
 considerable than that of some equally de- 
 cided social rule in the entire mind of a 
 democracy. Had this rule of conformity to- 
 the religion of the State been that of the Eng- 
 lish democracy, religious liberty would have^ 
 been extinguished throughout the length a.nd 
 breadth of England. I say that the customs 
 and convictions of a democracy are more 
 dangerous to intellectual liberty than those 
 of an aristocracy, because, in matters of cus- 
 tom, the gentry rule only within their own 
 park -palings, whereas the people, when power 
 resides with them, rule wherever the breezes 
 blow. A democracy that dislikes refinement 
 and good inanners can drive men of culture 
 into solitude, and make morbid hermits of 
 the very persons who ought to be the lights 
 and leaders of humanity. It can cut short 
 the traditions of good-breeding, the traditions 
 of polite learning, the traditions of thoughtful 
 
ABISTOCRACY AND DEMOCRACY. 367 
 
 leisure, and reduce the various national types 
 of character to one type, that of the commis- 
 voyageur. All men of refined sentiment in 
 modern France lament the want of elevation 
 in the bourgeoisie. They read nothing, they 
 learn nothing, they think of nothing but 
 money and the satisfaction of their appetites. 
 There are exceptions, of course, but the tone 
 of the class is mean and low, and devoid of 
 natural dignity or noble aspiration. Their 
 ignorance passes belief, and is accompanied 
 by an absolute self-satisfaction. "La fin de 
 la bourgeoisie," says an eminent French 
 author, ' ' commence parcequ'elle a les senti- 
 ments de la populace. Je ne vois pas qu'elle 
 lise d'autres journaux, qu'elle se regale d'une 
 musique differente, qu'elle ait des plaisirs 
 plus eleves. Chez I'une comme cliez I'autre, 
 c'est le meme amour de Targent, le meme 
 respect du fait accompli, le meme besoin 
 d'idoles pour les detruire, la meme haine de 
 toute superiority, le meme esprit de denigre- 
 m.ent, la meme crasse ignorance ! " M. Renan 
 also complains that during the Second Empire 
 the country sank deeper and deeper into vul- 
 garity, forgetting its past history and its 
 noble enthusiasms. ' ' Talk to the peasant, to 
 the socialist of the International, of France, 
 ■of her past history, of her genius, he will not 
 understand you. Military honor seems mad- 
 ness to him; the taste for great things, the 
 glory of the mind, are vain dreams; money 
 -spent for art and science is raoney thrown 
 away foolishly. Such is the provincial spirit. " 
 
368 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 And if this is the provincial spirit, what is the 
 spirit of the metropohtan democracy? Is it 
 not clearly known to us by its acts? It had 
 the opportunity, under the Commune, of 
 showing the world how tenderly it cared for 
 the monuments of national history, how anx- 
 ious it was for the preservation of noble archi- 
 tecture, of great libraries, of pictures that can 
 never be replaced. Whatever may have been 
 our illusions about the character of the Pa- 
 risian democracy, we know it very accurately 
 now. To say that it is brutal would be an 
 inadequate use of language, for the brutes are 
 only indifferent to history and civilization, 
 not hostile to them. So far as it is possible 
 for us to understand the temner of that democ- 
 racy, it appears to cherish an active and 
 intense hatred for every conceivable kind of 
 superiority, and an instinctive eagerness to 
 abolish the past; or, as that is not possible, 
 since the past will always have been in spite 
 of it, then at least to efface all visible me- 
 morials and destroy the bequests of all pre- 
 ceding generations. If any one had affirmed, 
 before the fail of Louis Napoleon, that the 
 democratic spirit was capable of setting fire 
 to the Louvre and the national archives and 
 libraries, of deliberately planning the de- 
 struction of all those magnificent edifices, 
 ecclesiastical and civil, which were the glory 
 of France and the delight of Europe, we 
 should have attributed such an assertion to 
 the exaggerations of reactiona,ry fears. But 
 since the year 1870 we do not speculate about 
 
ABISTOCEACY AND BEMOCBACY. 3^ 
 
 the democratic temper in its intensest expres- 
 sion ; we have seen it at work, and we know 
 it. We know that every beautiful building, 
 every precious manuscript and picture, has 
 to be protected against the noxious swarm of 
 Communards as a sea- jetty against the Pholas 
 and the Teredo. 
 
 Compare this temper with that of a Mar- 
 quis of Hertford, a Duke of Devonshire, a 
 Due de Luynes ! True guardians of the means 
 of culture, these men have given splendid 
 hospitality to the great authors and artists of 
 past times, by keeping their works for the fu- 
 ture with tender and reverent care. Nor has 
 this function of high stewardship ever been 
 more nobly exercised than it is to-day by that 
 true knight and gentleman. Sir Richard Wal- 
 lace. Tiiink of the difference between this 
 great-hearted guardian of priceless treasures^ 
 keeping them for the people, for civilization, 
 and a base -spirited Communard setting fire 
 to the library of the Louvre. 
 
 The ultra-democratic spirit is hostile to cult- 
 ure, from its hatred of all delicate and ro- 
 mantic sentiment, from its scorn of the ten- 
 derer and finer feelings of our nature, and es- 
 pecially from its brutish incapacity to com- 
 prehend the needs of the higher life. If it had 
 its way we should be compelled by public 
 opinion to cast all the records of our ances- 
 tors, and the shields they wore in battle, into 
 the foul waters of an eternal Lethe. The in- 
 tolerance of the sentiment of birth, that noble 
 sentiment which has animated so many heartit 
 24 
 
370 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 with heroism, and urged them to deeds of 
 honor, associated as it is with a cynical dis- 
 behef in the existence of female virtue,* is 
 one of the commonest signs of this evil spirit 
 of detraction. It is closely connected with an 
 ungrateful indifference towards all that our 
 forefathers have done to make civilization 
 possible for us. Now, although the intellect- 
 Tial spirit studies the past critically, and does 
 not accept history as a legend is accepted by 
 the credulous, still the intellectual spirit has 
 a deep resj^ect for all that is noble in the past, 
 and would preserve the record of it forever. 
 Oan you not imagine, have you not actually 
 seen, the heir of some ancient house who 
 shares to the full the culture and aspirations 
 of the age in which we live, and who never- 
 theless preserves, with pious reverence, the 
 towers his forefathers built on the ancestral 
 ■earth, and the oaks they planted, and the 
 shields that were carved on the tombs where 
 the knights and their ladies rest? Be sure 
 that a right understanding of the present is 
 compatible with a right and reverent under- 
 standing of the past, and that, although we 
 may closely question history and tradition, no 
 longer with childlike faith, still the spirit of 
 true culture would never efface their vestiges. 
 It was not Michelet, not Renan, not Hugo, 
 -who set fire to the Palace of Justice and im- 
 perilled the Sainte-Chapelle. 
 
 * The association between the two is this. K you believe 
 that you are descended from a distinguished ancestor, you 
 ■ are simple enough to believe in his wife's fidelity. 
 
ABISTOCBACY AND DEMOCRACY. Z11 
 
 And yet, notwithstanding all these vices 
 and excesses of the democratic spirit, not- 
 withstanding the meanness of the middle 
 classes and the violence of the mob, there is 
 one all-powerful reason why our best hopes 
 for the liberal culture of the intellect are cen- 
 tred in the democratic idea. The reason is, 
 that aristocracies think too much of persons 
 and positions to weigh facts and opinions 
 justly. In an aristocratic society it is thought 
 unbecoming to state your views in their full 
 force in the presence of any social superior. 
 If you state them at all you must soften them 
 to suit the occasion, or you will be a sinner 
 against good-breeding. Observe how timid 
 and acquiescent the ordinary Englishman be- 
 comes in the presence of a lord. No right- 
 minded person likes to be thought ijnpudent, 
 and where the tone of society refers every- 
 thing to position, you are considered impu- 
 dent when you forget your station. But 
 what has my station to do with the truths the 
 intellect perceives, that lie entirely outside of 
 me? From the intellectual point of view, it 
 is a necessary virtue to forget your station, to 
 forget yourself entirely, and to think of the 
 subject only, in a manner perfectly disinter- 
 ested. Anonymous journalism was a device 
 to escape from that continual reference to the 
 rank and fortune of the speaker which is an 
 inveterate habit in all aristocratic communi- 
 ties. A young man without title or estate 
 knows that he would not be listened to in the 
 presence of his social superiors, so he holds 
 
372 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE, 
 
 his tongue in society and relieves himself by 
 an article in the Times. The anonymous 
 newspapers and reviews are a necessity in an 
 aristocratic community, for they are the only 
 means of attracting attention to facfcs and 
 opinions without attracting it to yourself, the 
 only way of escaping the personal question, 
 ' ' Who and what are you, that you venture 
 to speak so plainly, and where is your stake 
 in the country? " 
 
 The democratic idea, by its theoretic equal- 
 ity amongst men, affords an almost complete 
 relief from this impediment to intellectual 
 conversation. The theory of equality is good, 
 because it negatives the interference of rank 
 and wealth in matters that appertain to the 
 intellect or to the moral sense. It may even 
 go one step farther with advantage, and ig- 
 nore intellectual authority also. The perfec- 
 tion of the intellectual spirit is the entire for- 
 getfulness of persons, in the application of the 
 whole power of the mind to things, and phe- 
 nomena, and ideas. Not to mind whether the 
 speaker is of noble or humble birth, rich or 
 poor ; this indeed is much, but we ought to at- 
 tain a like indifference to the authority of the 
 most splendid reputation. "Every great ad- 
 vance in natural knowledge," says Professor 
 Huxley, ' ' has involved the absolute rejection 
 of authority, the cherishing of the keenest 
 scepticism, the annihilation of the spirit of 
 blind faith; and the most ardent votary of 
 science holds his firmest convictions, not be- 
 .^use the men he most venerates hold them. 
 
ARISTOCEACY ANB DEMOCRACY. 373 
 
 not because their verity is testified by por- 
 tents and wonders, but because his experience 
 teaches him that whenever he chooses to 
 bring these convictions into contact with 
 their primary source, Nature — whenever he 
 thinks fit to test them by appeahng to expe- 
 riment and to observation — Nature will con- 
 firm them." 
 
PART IX. 
 
 SOCIETY AND SOLITUDE. 
 
 LETTER I. 
 
 TO A LADY WHO DOUBTED THE REALITY OF E^- 
 TELLECTUAL FRIENDSHIPS. 
 
 That intellectual friendships are in their nature temporary^ 
 when there is no basis of feeling to support them — Their 
 f reslxness soon disappears — Danger of satiety — Temporary 
 acquaintances — Succession m friendships — Free commu- 
 nication of intellectual results — Friendships between ripe 
 and immature men — Rembrandt and Hoogstraten — Tradi- 
 tion transmitted through these friendships. ■ 
 
 I HEARTILY agree with you so far as this, 
 that intellectual relations will not sustain 
 "friendship for very long, unless there is also 
 some basis of feeling to sustain it. And still 
 there is a certain reality in the friendships of 
 the intellect whilst they last, and they are re- 
 membered gratefully for their profit when in 
 the course of nature they have ceased. We 
 may wisely contract them, and blamelessly 
 dissolve them when the occasion that created 
 them has gone by. They are like business 
 partnerships, contracted from motives of in- 
 terest, and requiring integrity above all 
 things, with mutual respect and consideration, 
 yet not necessarily either affection or the sem.' 
 
SOCIETY AND SOLITUDE. 375 
 
 blance of it. Since the motive of the intellect- 
 ual existence is the desire to ascertain and 
 communicate truth, a sort of positive and 
 negative electricity immediately establishes 
 itself between those who want to know and 
 those who desire to communicate their knowl- 
 edge ; and the connection is mutually agreea- 
 ble until these two desires are satisfied. 
 When this happens, the connection naturally 
 ceases ; but the memory of it usually leaves a 
 permanent feeling of good- will, and a perma- 
 nent disposition to render services of the same 
 order. This, in brief, is the v/hole philosophy 
 of the subject ; but it may be observed far- 
 ther, that the purely intellectual intercourse 
 which often goes by the name of friendship 
 affords excellent opportunities for the forma- 
 tion of real friendship, since it cannot be long 
 continued without revealing much of the 
 whole nature of the associates. 
 
 We do not easily exhaust the mind of an- 
 other, but we easily exhaust what is accessi- 
 ble to us in his mind ; and when we have done 
 this, the first benefit of intercourse is at an 
 end. Then comes a feeling of dulness and 
 disappointment, which is full of the bitterest 
 discouragement to the inexperienced. In ma- 
 turer life we are so well prepared for this that 
 it discourages us no longer. We know before- 
 hand that the freshness of the mind that was 
 new to us will rapidly wear away, that we 
 shall soon assimilate the fragment of it which 
 is all that ever can be made our own, so we 
 enjoy the freshness whilst it lasts, and are 
 
S76 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 even careful of it as a fruiterer is of the bloom 
 upon his grapes and plums. It may seem a 
 hard and worldly thing to say, but it appears 
 to me that a wise man might limit his inter- 
 course with others before there was any dan- 
 ger of satiety, as it is wisdom in eating to rise 
 from table with an appetite. Certainly, if the 
 friends of our intellect live near enough for 
 us to anticipate no permanent separation by 
 mere distance, if we may expect to meet them 
 frequently, to have many opportunities for a 
 more thorough and searching exploration of 
 their minds, it is a wise policy not to exhaust 
 them all at once. With the chance acquaint- 
 ances we make in travelling, the case is alto- 
 gether different; and this is, no doubt, the 
 reason why men are so astonishingly com- 
 municative when they never expect to see 
 each other any more. You feel an intense 
 curiosity about some temporary companion ; 
 you make many guesses about him ; and to 
 induce him to tell you as much as possible in 
 the short time you are likely to be together, 
 you win his confidence by a frankness that 
 ^ would perhaps considerably surprise your 
 nearest neighbors and relations. This is due 
 to the shortness of the opportunity ; but with 
 people who live in the same place, you will 
 proceed much more deliberately. 
 
 Whoever would remain regularly provided 
 with intellectual friends, ought to arrange a 
 siiccession of friendships, as gardeners do 
 with peas and strawberries, so that, whilst 
 some are fully ripe, others should be ripening 
 
SOCIETY AND SOLITUDE. 377 
 
 to replace them. Th^s doctrine sounds like 
 ■blasphemy against friendship; but it is not 
 intended to apply to the sacred friendship of 
 the heart, which ought to be permanent Uke 
 marriage, only to the friendship of the head, 
 which is of the utmost utility to culture, yet 
 in its nature temporary. I know a distin- 
 guished Englishman who is quite remarkable 
 for the talent with which he arranges his in- 
 intellectual friendships, so as never to be de- 
 pendent on any one, but always sure of the in- 
 tercourse he needs, both now and in the fu- 
 ture. He will never be isolated, never with- 
 out some fresh and living interest in human- 
 ity. It may seem to you that there is a la- 
 mentable want of faith in this ; and I grant 
 at once that a system of this kind does pre- 
 suppose the extinction of the boyish belief in 
 the permanence of human relations; still it 
 indicates a large-minded confidence in the 
 value of human intercourse, an enjoyment of 
 the present, a hope for the future, and a right 
 appreciation of the past. 
 
 Nothing is more beautiful in the intellectual 
 life than the willingness of all cultivated people 
 — unless they happen to be accidentally soared 
 by circumstances that have made them 
 wretched — to communicate to others the re- 
 sults of all their toil. It is true that they ap- 
 parently lose nothing by the process, and that 
 a rich man who gives some portion of his ma' 
 terial wealth exercises a greater self-denial; 
 still, when you consider that men of culture, 
 in teaching others, abandon something of their 
 
378 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 relative superiority, and often voluntarily in* 
 cur the sacrifice of what is most precious to 
 them, namely, their time, I think you will ad- 
 mit that their readiness in this kind of gener- 
 osity is one of the finest characteristics of 
 highly-developed humanity. Of all intellect- 
 ual friendships, none are so beautiful as those 
 which subsist between old and ripe men and 
 their younger brethren in science, or litera- 
 ture, or art. It is by these private friendships, 
 even more than by public performance, that 
 the tradition of sound thinking and great do- 
 ing is perpetuated from age to age. Hoog- 
 straten, who was a pupil of Rembrandt, asked 
 him many questions, which the great master 
 answered thus : — " Try to put well in practice 
 what you already know ; in so doing you will, 
 in good time, discover the hidden things which 
 you now inquire about." That answer of 
 Eembrandt's is typical of the maturest teach- 
 ing. How truly friendly it is; how full of 
 encouragement; how kind in its admission 
 that the younger artist did already kno^r 
 something worth putting into practice ; and 
 yet, at the same time, how judicious in its re- 
 serve ! Few of us have been so exceptionally 
 unfortunate as not to find, in our own age, 
 some experienced friend who has helped us by 
 precious counsel, never to be forgotten. We 
 cannot render it in kind ; but perhaps in the 
 fulness of time it may become our noblest duty 
 to aid another as we have ourselves been aid- 
 ed, and to transmit to him an invaluable treas- 
 ure, the tradition of the intellectual life. 
 
SOCIETY AND SOLITUDE. 379 
 
 LETTER II. 
 
 TO A YOUNG GENTLEMAN WHO LIVED MUCH IN 
 FASHIONABLE SOCIETY, 
 
 Certain dangers to the intellectual life — Difficult to resist the 
 influences of society — Gilding — Fashionable education — 
 Affectations of knowledge — Not easy to ascertain what 
 people really know — Value of real knowledge diminishei 
 — Some good effects of affectations — Theii- bad effect on 
 workers — Skill in amusements. 
 
 The kind of life which you have been lead- 
 ing for the last three or four years will alwa^v^s 
 be valuable to you as a past experience, but if 
 the intellectual ambition you confess to me is 
 quite serious, I would venture to suggest tliat 
 there are certain dangers in the continuation 
 of your present existence if altogether unin- 
 terinipted. Pray do not suspect me of any 
 narrow prejudice against human intercourse, 
 or of any wish to make a hermit of you before 
 your time, but believe that the few observa- 
 tions I have to make are grounded simply 
 on the desire that your career should be en- 
 tirely satisfactory to your own maturer judg- 
 ment, when you will look back upon it after 
 many years. 
 
 An intellectual man may go into general 
 society quite safely if only he can resist its 
 influence upon his serious work ; but such re- 
 sistance is difficult in maturity and impossi- 
 ble in youth. 
 
 The sort of influence most to be dreaded is 
 this. Society is, and must be, based upon ap- 
 pearances, and not upon the deepest realities. 
 
880 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE, 
 
 It requires some degree of reality to produce 
 the appearance, but not a substantial reality. 
 Gilding is the perfect type of what Society 
 requires. A certain quantity of gold is neces- 
 sary for the work of the gilder, but a very 
 small quantity, and skill in applying the 
 metal so as to cover a large surface, is of 
 greater consequence than the weight of the 
 metal itself. The mind of a fashionable per- 
 son is a carefully gilded mind. 
 
 Consider fashionable education. Society 
 imperatively requires an outside knowledge 
 of many things; not permitting the frank 
 confession of ignorance, whilst it is yet satis- 
 fied with a degree of knowledge differing 
 only from avowed ignorance in permitting 
 you to be less sincere. All young ladies, 
 whether gifted by nature with any musica,! 
 talent or not, are compelled to say chat they 
 have learned to play upon the piano; all 
 young gentlemen are compelled to aifect to 
 know Latin. In the same way the pubhc 
 opinion of Society compels its members to 
 pretend to know and appreciate the master- 
 pieces of literature and art. There is, in 
 truth, so much compulsion of this kind that it 
 is not easy to ascertain what people do really 
 know and care about until they admit you 
 into their confidence. 
 
 The inevitable effect of these affectations is 
 to diminish the value, in Society, of genuine 
 knowledge and accomplishment of all kinds. 
 I know a man who is a Latin scholar ; he is 
 one of the few moderns who have really 
 
SOCIETY AND SOLITUDE. 381 
 
 learned Latin ; but in fashionable society this 
 brings him no distinction, because we are all 
 supposed to know Latin, and the true scholar, 
 when he appears, cannot be distinguished 
 from the multitude of fashionable pretenders. 
 I know another man who can draw; there 
 are not many men, even amongst artists, 
 who can draw soundly ; yet in fashionable so- 
 ciety he does not get the serious sort of re- 
 spect which he deserves, because fashionable 
 people believe that drawing is an accomplish- 
 ment generally attainable by young ladies 
 and comnmnicable by governesses. I have 
 no wish to insinuate that Society is wrong, in 
 requiring a certain pretence to education in 
 various subjects, and a certain affectation of 
 interest in masterpieces, for these pretences 
 and affectations do serve to deliver it from 
 the darkness of a quite absolute ignorance. 
 A society of fashionable people who think it 
 necessary to be able to talk superficially 
 about the labors of men really belonging to 
 the intellectual class, is always sure to be 
 much better informed than a Society such as 
 that of the French peasantry, for example, 
 where nobody is expected to know anything. 
 It is well for Society itself that it should pro- 
 fess a deep respect for classical learning, for 
 the great modern poets and painters, for sci- 
 entific discoverers, even though the majority 
 of its members do not seriously care about 
 them. The pretension itself requires a cer- 
 tain degree of knowledge, as gilding requires 
 a certain quantity of gold. 
 
582 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 The evil effects of these affectations may be 
 summed up in a sentence. They diminish 
 the apparent value of the realities which they 
 imitate, and they tend to weaken our enthusi- 
 asm for those great realities, and our ardor in 
 the pursuit of them. The impression which 
 fashionable society produces upon a student 
 who has strength enough to resist it, is a 
 painful sense of isolation in his earnest work. 
 If he goes back to the work with courage un- 
 diminished, he still clearly realizes — what it 
 would be better for him not to realize quite 
 so clearly — the uselessness of going beyond 
 fashionable standards, if he aims at social 
 success. And there is still another thing to be 
 said which concerns you just now very par- 
 ticularly. Whoever leads the intellectual life 
 in earnest is sure on some points to fail in 
 strict obedience to the exigencies of fashion- 
 able life, so that, if fashionable successes are 
 still dear to him, he will be constantly tempt- 
 ed to make some such reflections as the fol- 
 loY/ing: — " Here am I, giving years and years 
 of labor to a pursuit which brings no external 
 reward, when half as much work would keep 
 me abreast of the society I live with, in every- 
 thing it really cares about. I know quite 
 TveU all that my learning is costing me. 
 Other men outshine me easily in social pleas- 
 ures and accomplishments. My skill at bill- 
 iards and on the moors is evidently declin- 
 ing, and I cannot ride or drive so well as fel- 
 lows who do very little else. In fact I am be- 
 coming an old muff, and all I have to show 
 
SOCIETY AND SOLITUDE. 38S 
 
 on the other side is a degree of scholarship 
 which only six men in Europe can appreciate, 
 and a speciality in natural science in which 
 my little discoveries are sure to be either an- 
 ticipated or left behind." 
 
 The truth is, that to succeed well in fashion- 
 able society the higher intellectual attain- 
 ments are not so useful as distinguished skiiL 
 in those amusements which are the real busi- 
 of the fashionable world. The three things 
 which tell best in your favor amongst young 
 gentlemen are to be an excellent shot, to ride' 
 well to hounds, and to play billiards with 
 great skill. I wish to say nothing against an^ 
 of these accomplishments, having an espe- 
 cially hearty admiration and respect for all 
 good horsemen, and considering the game of 
 billiards the most perfectly beautiful of games ; 
 still, the fact remains that to do these things 
 as well as some young gentlemen do them, we 
 must devote the time which they devote, and 
 if we regularly give nine hours a daj^ to grav- 
 er occupations, pray, how and where are we 
 to find it? 
 
384 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE, 
 
 LETTER in. 
 
 TO A YOUNG GENTLEMAN WHO LIVED MUCH IN 
 FASHIONABLE SOCIETY. 
 
 Some exceptional men may live alternately in different worlds 
 — Instances — Differences between the fashionable and the 
 intellectual spirit — Men sometimes made unfashionable by, 
 special natural gifts — Sometimes by triiling external cir- 
 cumstances — Anecdote of Ampere — lie did not shine in so- 
 ciety — His viife's anxieties about his mateiial wants — Ap- 
 parent contrast between Ampere and Oliver Goldsmith. 
 
 You ask me why there should be any fun- 
 danientai inconipatibihty between the fash- 
 ionable and the intellectual lives. It seems to 
 you that the two might possibly be reconciled, 
 and you mention instances of men who at- 
 tained intellectual distinction without desert- 
 ing the fashionable world. 
 
 Yes, there have been a few examples of men 
 endowed with that overflow of energy vfhich 
 permits the most opposite pursuits, and ena- 
 bles its possessors to live, apparently, in two 
 worlds between which there is not any nat- 
 ural affinity. A famous French novelist once 
 took the trouble to elaborate the portrait of a 
 lady who passed one half of her time in virtue 
 and churches, whilst she employed the other 
 lialf in the wildest adventures. In real life 
 I may allude to a distinguished English en- 
 graver, who spent a fortnight over his plate 
 and a fortnight in some fashionable watering- 
 place, alt'Cmately, and who found this distribu- 
 tion of his time not unfavorable to the elasticity 
 
SOCIETY AND SOLITUDE. 385 
 
 of his mind. Many hard-working Londoners, 
 who fairly deserve to be considered intellect- 
 ual men, pass their days in professional labor 
 and their evenings in fashionable society. 
 But in ail instances of this kind the profes- 
 sional work is serious enough, and regular 
 enough, to give a very substantial basis to the 
 life, so that the times of recreation are kept 
 daily subordinate by the very necessity of cir- 
 cumstances. If you had a profession, and 
 were obliged to follow it in earnest six or eight 
 hours a day, the more Society amused you, 
 the better. The danger in your case is that 
 your whole existence may take a fashionable 
 tone. 
 
 The esprit or tone of fashion differs from the 
 intellectual tone in ways which I will attempt 
 to define. Fashion is nothing more than tht:. 
 temporary custom of rich and idle people who 
 make it their principal business to study the 
 external elegance of life. This custom inces- 
 santly changes. If your habits of mind and 
 life change with it you are a fashionable per- 
 son, but if your habits of mind and life either 
 remain permanently fixed or follow some law 
 of your own individual nature, then you are 
 outside of fashion. The intellectual spirit is 
 remarkable for its independence of custom, 
 and therefore on many occasions it will clash 
 v/ith the fashionable spirit. It does so most 
 frequently in the choice of pursuits, and in 
 the proportionate importance which the indi- 
 vidual student will (in his own case) assign to 
 hi? pursuits. The regulations of fashionable 
 25 
 
S86 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 life have fixed, at the least temporarily, the 
 degree of time and attention which a fashion- 
 able person may devote to this thing or that. 
 The intellectual spirit ignores these regula- 
 tions, and devotes its possessor, or more ac- 
 curately its possessed, to the intellectual spe- 
 ciality for which he has most aptitude, often 
 leaving him ignorant of what fashion has de- 
 cided to be essential. After living the intel- 
 lectual life for several years he will know too 
 much of one thing and too little of some other 
 bhings to be in conformity with the fashion- 
 able ideal. For example, the fashionable ideal 
 of a gentleman requires classical scholarship, 
 but it is so difficult for artists and men of sci- 
 ence to be classical scholars also that in this 
 respect they are likely to fall short. I knew 
 a man who became unfashionable because he 
 had a genius for mechanics. He was always 
 about steam-engines, and, though a gentleman 
 by birth, associated from choice with men 
 who understood the science that chiefly inter- 
 ested him, of which all fashionable people 
 were so profoundly ignorant that he habit- 
 ually kept out of their way. He, on his part, 
 neglected scholarship and literature and all 
 that "artistry of life," as Mr. Eobert Lytton 
 3alls it, in which fashionable society excels. 
 Men are frequently driven into unfashionable 
 existence by the very force and vigor of their 
 own intellectual gifts, and sometimes by ex- 
 ternal circumstances, apparently most trifling, 
 yet of infinite influence on human destiny. 
 There is a good instance of this in a letter from 
 
SOCIETY AND SOLITUDE. 38.7 
 
 Ampere to his young wife, that "Julie " whv^ 
 was lost to him so soon. ' ' I went to dino 
 yesterday at Madame Beauregard's with 
 hands blackened by a harmless drug which 
 stains the skin for three or four days. She de- 
 clared that it looked like manure, and left 
 the table, saying that she would dine when. 
 I was at a distance. I promised not to re-- 
 turn there before my hands were white. Of 
 course I shall never enter the house again." 
 
 Here we have an instance of a man of sci- 
 ence Yfho has temporarily disqualified him- 
 self for polite society by an experiment in the 
 pursuit of knowledge. What do you think 
 of the vulgarity of Madame Beauregard? To 
 me it appears the perfect type of that pre-oc- 
 cupation about appeara,nces which blinds the 
 genteel vulgar to the true nobility of life. 
 "Were not An\pere's stained hands nobler 
 than many white ones? It is not necessary 
 for every intellectual worker to blacken his 
 fingers with chemicals, but a kind of rust 
 very frequently coines over him which ought 
 to be as readily forgiven, yet rarely is for- 
 given. "In his relations with the world," 
 writes the biographer of Ampere, "the au- 
 thority of superiority disappeared. To this 
 the course of years brought no alternative. 
 Ampere become celebrated, laden with honor- 
 able distinctions, the great Ampere ! outside 
 the speculations of the intellect, was hesitat- 
 ing and timid again, disquieted and troubled, 
 and more disposed to accord his confidence 
 to others than to himself." 
 
588 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE, 
 
 Intellectual pursuits did not qualify Ampere, 
 they do not qualify any one, for success in 
 fashionable society. To succeed in the world 
 you ought to be of the world, so as to share 
 the things which interest it without too wide 
 a deviation from the prevalent current of 
 your thoughts. Its passing interests, its tem^ 
 porary customs, its transient phases of senti- 
 ment and opinion, ought to be for the moment 
 your own interests, your own feelings and 
 opinions. A mind absorbed as Ampere's was 
 in the contemplation and elucidation of the 
 imchangeable laws of nature, is too much 
 fixed upon the permanent to adapt itself 
 :naturally to these ever-varying estimates. 
 He did not easily speak the world's lighter 
 language, he could not move with its mobili- 
 ty. Such men forget even what they eat and 
 what they put on ; Ampere's young wife was 
 in constant anxiety, whilst the pair were 
 separated by the severity of their fate, as 
 to the sufficiency of his diet and the de- 
 cency of his appearance. One day she writes 
 to him to mind not to go out in his shabby old 
 eoat, and in the same letter she entreats him 
 to purchase a bottle of wine, so that when he 
 took no milk or broth he would find it, and 
 ^F^hen it was all • drunk she tells him to buy 
 ^another bottle. Afterwards she asks him 
 whether he makes a good fire, and if he has 
 any chairs in his room. In another letter she 
 inquires if his bed is comfortable, and in 
 another she tells him to mind about his acids, 
 for he has burnt holes in his blue stockings. 
 
SOCIETY AND SOLITUDE. 389 
 
 Again, she begs him to try to have a passably 
 decent appearance, because that will give 
 pleasure to his poor wife. He ansv/ers, to 
 tranquillize her, that he does not burn his 
 things now, and that he makes chemical ex- 
 periments only in his old breeches with his 
 gray coat and his waistcoat of greenish velvet. 
 But one day he is forced to confess that she 
 must send him new trousers if he is to ap- 
 pear before MM. Delambre and Villars. He 
 " does not. know what to do," his best breeches 
 still smell of turpentine, and, having wished 
 to put on trousers to go to the Society of Emu- 
 lation, he saw the hole which Barrat fan<3ied 
 he had mended become bigger than ever, so 
 that it showed the piece of different cloth 
 Avhich he had sown under it. He adds that 
 his wife will be afraid that he will spcil his 
 " heau pantalon,^'' but he promises to send it 
 back to her as clean as when he received it. 
 How dillerent is all this from that watchful 
 care about externals which marks the man of 
 fashion! Ampere was quite a young man 
 then, still almost a bridegroom, yet he is al 
 ready so absorbed in the intellectual life as to 
 forget appearances utterly, except when Ju- 
 lie, with feminine watchfulness, writes to re- 
 call them to his mind. I am not defending 
 or advocating this carelessness. It is better 
 to be neat and tidy than to go in holes and 
 patches ; but I desire to insist upon the radi- 
 cal difference between the fashionable spirit 
 and the intellectual spirit. And this differ- 
 ence, which shows itself in these external 
 
390 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 things, is not less evident in the clothing op 
 preparation of the mind. Ampere's intellect, 
 great and noble as it was, could scarcely 
 be considered more suitable for le grand 
 monde than the breeches that smelt of tur- 
 pentine, or the trousers made ragged by 
 aquafortis. 
 
 A splendid contrast, as to tailoring, was 
 our own dear Oliver Goldsmith, who dis- 
 played himself in those wonderful velvet 
 coats and satin small-clothes from Mr. Fil- 
 by's, which are more famous than the finest 
 garments ever worn by prince or peer. Who 
 does not remember that bloom-colored coat 
 which the ablest painters have studiously im- 
 mortalized, made by John Filby, at the Har- 
 row, in Water Lane (best advertised of tail- 
 ors!), and that charming blue velvet suit^ 
 which Mr. Filby was never paid for? Surely 
 a poet so splendid was fit for the career of 
 fashion! No, Oliver Goldsmith's velvet and 
 lace were the expression of a deep and pain- 
 ful sense of personal unfitness. They were 
 the fine frame which is intended to pass off 
 an awkward and imperfect picture. There 
 was a quieter dignity in Johnson's threadbare 
 sleeves. Johnson, the most influential though 
 not the most elegant intellect of his time, is 
 grander in his neglect of fashion than Gold- 
 smith in his ruinous subservience. And if it 
 were permitted to me to speak of two or 
 three great geniuses who adorn the age in 
 which we ourselves are hving, I might add 
 that they seem to follow the example of the 
 
SOCIETY AND SOLITUDE 391 
 
 author of " Rasselas " rather than that of Mr. 
 Filby's illustrious customer. They remind 
 me of a good old squire who, from a fine sen- 
 timent of duty, i)ermitted the village artist 
 to do his worst upon him, and incurred there- 
 by this withering observation from his met- 
 ropolitan tailor: "You are covei'ed, sir, but 
 you are not dressed ! " 
 
 LETTER IV. 
 
 TO A YOUNG GENTLEMAN WHO LIVED MUCH IN 
 FASHIONABLE SOCIETY. 
 
 Test of professions — Mobility of fashionable taste — Practical 
 service of an external deference to culture — Incompati- 
 bility between fashionable and intellectual lives— What 
 each has to offer. 
 
 Your polite, almost diplomatic answer to 
 my letter about fashionable society may be 
 not unfairly concentrated into some such par- 
 agraph as the following : — 
 
 ' ' What grounds have I for concluding that 
 the professed tastes and opinions of Society 
 are in any degree insincere? May not society 
 be quite sincere in the preferences which it 
 professes, and are not the preferences them 
 selves almost always creditable to the good 
 taste and really advanced culture of the So- 
 ciety which I suspect of a certain degree of 
 affectation ? " 
 
 This is the sense of your letter, and in reply 
 to it I give you a simple but sure test. Is the 
 
392 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 professed opinion carried out in practice, 
 when there are fair opportunities for prac- 
 tice? 
 
 Let us go so far as to examine a particular 
 instance. Your friends profess to appreciate 
 classical literature. Do they read it? Or, on 
 the other hand, do they confine themselves 
 to believing that it is a good thing for other 
 people to read it? 
 
 When I was a schoolboy, people told me 
 that the classical authors of antiquity were 
 eminently useful, and indeed absolutely nec- 
 essary to the culture of the human mind, 
 but I perceived that they did not read them. 
 So I have heard many people express great 
 respect for art and science, only they did not 
 go so far as to master any department of art 
 or science. 
 
 If you will apply this test to the professions 
 of what is especially called fashionable society 
 it is probable that you will arrive at the con- 
 clusions of the minority, which I have endeav- 
 ored to express. You will find that the fash- 
 ionable world remains very contentedly out- 
 side the true working intellectual life, and 
 does not really share either its labors or its 
 aspirations. 
 
 Another kind of evidence, which tells in the 
 same direction, is the mobility of fashionable 
 taste. At one time some studies are fash- 
 ionable, at another time these are neglected 
 and others have taken their place. You will 
 not find this fickleness in the true intellectual 
 world, which steadily pursues all its various 
 
SOCIETY AND SOLITUDE. 393 
 
 studies, and keeps them well abreast, century 
 after century. 
 
 If I insist upon this distinction with refer- 
 ence to you, do not accuse me of hostility evem 
 to fashion itself. Fashion is one of the great: 
 Divine institutions of human society, and the 
 best philosophy rebels against none of the au- 
 thorities that be, but studies and endeavors to 
 explain them. The external deference which 
 Society yields to culture is practically of great 
 service, although (I repeat the epithet) it is 
 external. The sort of good effect is in the in- 
 tellectual sphere what the good effect of a gen- 
 eral religious profession is in the moral sphere. 
 All fashionable society goes to church. Fash- 
 ionable religion differs from the religion of 
 Peter and Paul as fashionable science differs 
 from that of Humboldt and Arago, yet, not- 
 withstanding this difference, the profession of 
 religion is useful to Society as some restraint^ 
 at least during one day out of seven, upon its 
 inveterate tendency to live exclusively for its 
 amusement. And if any soul happens to 
 come into existence in the fashionable world 
 which has the genuine religious nature, that, 
 nature has a chance of developing itself, and 
 of finding ready to hand certain customs 
 which are favorable to its well-being. So it 
 is, though in quite a different direction, with 
 the esteem which Society professes for intel- 
 lectual pursuits. It is an esteem in great part 
 merely nominal, as fashionable Christianity is 
 nominal, and still it helps and favors the earlyi- 
 development of the genuine faculty where ii 
 
S94 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 exists. It is certainly a great help to us that 
 fashionable society, which has such a tremen- 
 dous, such an almost irresistible power for 
 good or evil, does not openly discourage our 
 pursuits, but on the contrary regards them 
 with great external deference and respect. 
 The recognition which Society has given to 
 artists has been wanting in frankness and in 
 promptitude, though even in this case much 
 may be said to excuse a sort of hesitation 
 leather than refusal which was attributable to 
 the strangeness and novelty of the artistic 
 caste, in England ; but Society has far more 
 than a generation professed a respect for liter- 
 ature and erudition which has helped those 
 two branches of culture more effectually than 
 great subsidies of money. The exact truth 
 seems to be that Society is sincere in approv- 
 ing our devotion to these pursuits, but is not 
 yet sufficiently interested in them to appreci- 
 ate them otherwise than from the outside, just 
 as a father and mother applaud their boys for 
 reading Thucydides, yet do not read him 
 themselves, either in the original or in a trans- 
 lation. 
 
 All that I care to insist upon is that there 
 is a degree of incompatibility between the 
 fashionable and the intellectual Uves which 
 makes it necessary, at a certain tune, to 
 choose one or the other as our own. There is 
 no hostility, there need not be any uncharit- 
 able feeling on one side or the other, but there 
 must be a resolute choice between the two. 
 If you decide for the intellectual hfe, you will 
 
SOCIETY AND SOLITUDE. 395 
 
 incur a definite loss to set against your gain. 
 Your existence may have calmer and pro- 
 founder satisfactions, but it will be less amus- 
 ing, and even in an appreciable degree less 
 hiiynan; less in harmony, I mean, with tho 
 common instincts and feelings of humanity 
 For the fashionable world, although decorat- 
 ed by habits of expense, has enjoyment for 
 its object, and arrives at enjoyment by those 
 methods which the experience of generations 
 has proved to be most efficacious. Variety 
 of amusement, frequent change of wcenery 
 and society, healthy exercise, pleaorttit occu- 
 pation of the mind without fatigue — these 
 things do indeed make existence agreeable to 
 human nature, and the science of living agree- 
 ably is better understood in the fashionable 
 society of England than by laborious students 
 and savans. The life led by that society is 
 the true heaven of the natural man, who 
 likes to have frequent feasts and a hearty 
 appetite, who enjoys the varying spectacle 
 of wealth, and splendor, and pleasure, who 
 loves to watch, from the Olympus of his per- 
 sonal ease, the curious results of labor in 
 which he takes no part, the interesting inge- 
 nuity of the toiling world below. In ex- 
 change for these varied pleasures of the spec- 
 tator the intellectual life can offer you but 
 one satisfaction, for all its promises are re- 
 ducible simply to this, that you shall come at 
 last, after infinite labor, into contact with 
 some great reality — that you shall know, and 
 do, in such sort that you will feel yourself on 
 
m THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 firm ground and be recognized — probably not 
 much applauded, but yet recognized — as a 
 fellow-laborer by other knowers and doers. 
 Before you come to this, most of your present 
 accomplishments will be abandoned by your- 
 self as unsatisfactory and insufficient, but one 
 4)r two of them wiU be turned to better ac- 
 <30unt, and will give you after many years a 
 tranquil self-respect, and, what is still rarer 
 and better, a very deep and earnest reverence 
 for the greatness which is above you. Severed 
 from the vanities of the Illusory, you will live 
 with the realities of knowledge, as one v/ho 
 lias quitted the painted scenery of the theatre 
 to listen by the eternal ocean or gaze at the 
 granite hills. 
 
 LETTER Y. 
 
 TO A YOUNG GENTLEMAN WHO KEPT ENTIRELY 
 
 OUT OF COMPANY. 
 
 That Society which is frivolous in the mass contains individ- 
 uals who are not frivolous — A piece of the author's early 
 experience — Those who keep out of Society miss oppor- 
 tunities—People talk about what they have in common — 
 That we ought to be tolerant of dulness— The loss to 
 Society if superior men all.held aloof— Utility of the gifted 
 in general society — They ought n»t to submit to expul- 
 sion. 
 
 I WILLINGLY concede all that you say against 
 fashionable society as a whole. It is, as you 
 say, frivolous, bent on amusement, incapable 
 of attention sufficiently prolonged to grasp 
 ^ny serious subject, and liable both to confu- 
 
SOCIETY AND SOLITUDE. SOI 
 
 sion and inaccuracy in the ideas wliicli it 
 hastily forms or easily receives. You do 
 right, assuredly, not to let it waste your most 
 valuable hours, but I believe also that you do 
 wrong in keeping out of it altogether. 
 
 The society which seems so frivolous in 
 masses contains individual members who, if 
 you knew them better, would be able and 
 willing to render you the most efficient intel- 
 lectual help, and you miss this help by 
 restricting yourself exclusively to books. 
 Nothing can replace the conversation of liv- 
 ing men and women; not even the richest 
 literature can replace it. 
 
 Many years ago I was thrown by accident 
 amongst a certain society of Englishmen who, 
 when they were all together, never talked 
 about anything w^orth talking about. Their 
 general conversations were absolutely empty 
 and null, and I concluded, as young men so 
 easily conclude, that those twenty or thirty 
 gentlemen had not half a dozen ideas amongst 
 them. A little reflection might have remind- 
 ed me that my own talk was no better than 
 theirs, and consequently that there might be 
 others in the company who also knew more 
 and thought more than they expressed. I 
 found out, by accident, after awhile, that 
 some of these men had more than common 
 culture in various directions ; one or two had 
 travelled far, and brought home the results of 
 much observation; one or two had read 
 largely, and with profit ; more than one had 
 studied a science ; five or six had seen a great 
 
398 TRE INTELLECTUAL LI7E. 
 
 deal of the world. It was a youthful mistake 
 to conclude that, because their general con- 
 versation was very dull, the men were dull 
 individually. The general conversations of 
 English society ar^e dull; it is a national 
 characteristic. But the men themselves are 
 individually often very well informed, and 
 quite capable of imparting their information 
 to a single interested listener. The art is to 
 be that listener. Englishmen have the great- 
 est dread of producing themselves in the semi- 
 publicity of a general conversation, beca,use 
 they fear that their special topics may not be 
 cared for by some of the persons present ; but 
 if you can get one of them into a quiet corner 
 by himself, and humor his shyness with suffi- 
 cient delicacy and tact, he will disburden his 
 mind at last, and experience a relief in so 
 doing. 
 
 By keeping out of society altogether you 
 miss these precious opportunities. The wise 
 course is to mix as much with the world as 
 may be possible without withdrawing too 
 much time from your serious studies, but not 
 to expect anything valuable from the general 
 talk, which is nothing but a neutral medium. 
 in which intelligences float and move as 
 yachts do in sea-water, and for which they 
 ought not to be held individually responsible. 
 The talk of Society answers its purpose if it 
 simply permits many different people to coma 
 together without clashing, and the purpose 
 of its conventions is the avoidance of colli- 
 sion. In England the smaU talk is heavy. 
 
SOCIETY AND SOLITUDE, 399 
 
 like water; in France it is light as air; in 
 both countries it is a mediuni and no more. 
 
 Society talks, by preference, about amuse- 
 ments ; it does so because when people meet 
 for recreation they wish to relieve their 
 minds from serious cares, and also for the 
 practical reason that Society must talk about 
 what its members have in common, and their 
 amusements are more in comiuon than their 
 work. As M. Thiers recommended the repub- 
 hcan form of government in France on the 
 ground that it was the form which divided 
 his countrymen least, so a polite and highly 
 civilized society chooses for the subject of 
 general conversation the topic which is 
 least likely to sepa^rate the different people 
 who are present. It almost always happens 
 that the best topic having this recommenda- 
 tion is some species of amusement; since 
 amusements are easily learnt outside the busi- 
 ness of life, and we are all initiated into them. 
 in youth. 
 
 For these reasons I think that we ought to 
 be extremely tolerant of the dulness or frivol- 
 ity which may seem to prevail in any nu- 
 merous company, and not to conclude toa 
 hastily that the members of it are in any de- 
 gree more dull or frivolous than ourselves. 
 It is unfortunate, certainly, that the art of 
 general conversation is not so successfully 
 cultivated as it might be, and there are rea- 
 sons for believing that our posterity will sur- 
 pass us in this respect, because as culture in- 
 creases the spirit of toleration increases with 
 
401? THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 it, so that the great questions of politics and 
 religion, in which all are interested, may be 
 discussed more safely than they could be at 
 the present day, by persons of different ways 
 of thinking. But even the sort of generaF 
 conversation we have now, poor as it may 
 seem, still sufficiently serves as a medium for 
 human intercourse, and permits us to meet 
 on a common ground where we may select at 
 leisure the agreeable or instructive friends 
 that our higher intellect needs, and without 
 whom the intellectual life is one of the ghast- 
 liest of solitudes. 
 
 And now permit me to add a few observa- 
 tions on another aspect of this subject, which 
 is not without its importance. 
 
 Let us suppose that every one of rather 
 more than ordinary capacity and culture were 
 to act as you yourself are acting, and with- 
 draw entirely from general society. Let us 
 leave out of consideration for the present the 
 loss to their private culture which would be 
 the consequence of missing every opportunity 
 for forming new intellectual friendships. Let 
 us consider, this time, what would be the 
 consequence to Society itself. 
 
 If ail the cultivated men were withdrawn 
 from it, the general tone of Society would in. 
 evitably descend much lower even than it m 
 Sit present; it would sink so low that the 
 whole national intellect would undergo a sure 
 and inevitable deterioration. It is plainly the 
 duty of men situated as you are, who hava 
 been endowed by nature with superior facul- 
 
SOCIETY AND SOLITUBh 401 
 
 ties, and who have enlarged them by the ac- 
 quisition of knowledge, to preserve Society by 
 their presence from an evil so surely prolific 
 of bad consequences. If Society is less nar 
 row, and selfish, and intolerant, and apathetic 
 than it used to be, it is because they who are 
 the salt of the earth have not disdained to 
 mix with its grosser and earthier elements. 
 All the improvement in public sentiment, and 
 the advancement in general knowledge which 
 have marked the course of recent generations^ 
 are to be attributed to the wholesome influ- 
 ence of men who could think a,nd feel, and 
 who steadily exercised, often quite obscurely,, 
 yet not the less usefully in their time and 
 place, the subtle but powerful attraction of the 
 greater mind over the less. Instead of com- 
 plaining that people are ignorant and frivo- 
 lous, we ought to go amongst them and lead 
 them to the higher life. ' ' I know not how it 
 is," said one in a dull circle to a more gifted 
 friend who entered it occasionally, ' ' when 
 we are left to ourselves we are all lamentably 
 stupid, but whenever you are kind enough to 
 come amongst us we all talk very much bet- 
 ter, and of things that are well worth talking 
 about." The gifted man is always welcome, 
 if only he will stoop to conquer, and forge: 
 himself to give light and heat to others. The 
 low Philistinism of many a provincial town is 
 due mainly to the shy reserve of the one or 
 two superior men who fancy that they cannot 
 amalgamate with the common intellect of 
 the place. 
 26 
 
402 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 Not only would. I advocate a little patient 
 condescension, but even something of the 
 Sturdier temper which will not be driven out. 
 Are the Philistines to have all the talk to 
 themselves forever; are they to rehearse 
 their stupid old platitudes without the least 
 fear of contradiction? How long, O Lord? 
 how long? Let us resolve that even in gen- 
 eral society they shall not eternally have 
 things their own way. Somebody ought to 
 have the courage to enlighten them even at 
 their own tables, and in the protecting pres- 
 ence of their admiring wives and daughters. 
 
 LETTER VI. 
 
 TO A FRIEND WHO KINDLY WARNED THE AU- 
 THOR OP THE BAD EFFECTS OF SOLITUDE. 
 
 Fee soZzs— Society and solitude alike necessary — The use of 
 each — In solitude we know ourselves — Montaigne as a 
 book-buyer — Compensations of solitude— Description of 
 one who loved and sought it— How men are di'iven into 
 sohtude — Cultivated people in the provinces — Use of solL 
 tude as a protection for rare and delicate natures — Shel- 
 ley's dislike to general society— Wordsworth and Turner 
 — Sir Isaac Newton's repugnance to society — Augusta 
 Camte — His systematic isolation and unshakable firmness 
 of purpose — Milton and Bmiyan — The soKtude which is 
 really injurious — Painters and authors — An ideal divis- 
 ion of Life. 
 
 You cry to me Vcb solis ! and the cry seems 
 :not the less loud and stirring that it comes in 
 the folds of a letter. Just at iirst it quite 
 startled and alarmed me, and made mo 
 strangely dissatisfied with my life and work ; 
 
SOCIETY AND SOLITUDE. 403 
 
 but farther reflection has been gradually rec- 
 onciling me ever since, and now I feel cheer- 
 ful again, and in a humor to answer you. 
 
 Woe unto him that is alo7ie ! This has been 
 often said, but the studious recluse may an- 
 swer. Woe unto him that is never alone and 
 cannot hear to he alone ! 
 
 We need society, and we need solitude also, 
 as we need summer and winter, day and 
 night, exercise and rest. I thank heaven for 
 a thousand pleasant and profitable conversa- 
 tions with acquaintances and friends ; I thank 
 heaven also, and not less gratefully, for thou- 
 sands of sweet hours that have passed in sol- 
 itary thought or labor, under the silent 
 stars. 
 
 Society is necessary to give us our share 
 and place in the collective life of humanity, 
 but solitude is necessary to the maintenance 
 of the individual life. Society is to the indi- 
 vidual what travel and commerce are to a 
 nation; whilst solitude represents the home 
 life of the nation, during which it develops its 
 especial originality and genius. 
 
 The life of the perfect hermit, and that of 
 those persons who feel themselves nothing in- 
 dividually, and have no existence but what 
 they receive from others, are alike imperfect 
 lives. The perfect life is like that of a ship of 
 Avar which has its own place in the fleet and 
 can share in its strength and discipline, but 
 can also go forth alone in the solitude of the 
 infinite sea. We ought to belong to Society, 
 to liave our x^lace in it, and yet to be capable 
 
404 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 of a complete individual existence outeide oi 
 it. 
 
 Which of the two is the grander, the ship 
 in the disciplined fleet, arranged in order of 
 battle, or the ship alone in the tempest, a 
 thousand miles from land ? The truest grand- 
 eur of the ship is neither in one nor the other, 
 but in the capacity for both. What would 
 that captain merit who either had not seaman- 
 ship enough to work under the qjq of the ad- 
 miral, or else had not sufficient knowledge of 
 navigation to be trusted out of the range of 
 signals? 
 
 I value society for the abundance of ideas 
 that it brings before us, hke carriages in a fre- 
 quented street; but I value solitude for sin- 
 cerity and peace, and for the better under- 
 standing of the thoughts that are truly ours. 
 Only in solitude do we learn our inmost nature 
 and its needs. He who has lived for some 
 great space of existence apart from the tumult 
 of the world, has discovered the vanity of the 
 things for which he has no natural aptitude 
 or gift- -their relative vanity, I mean, their 
 uselessness to himself, personally ; and at the 
 same time he has learned what is truly pre- 
 cious and good for him. Surely this is knowl- 
 edge of inestimable value to a man : surely it 
 is a great thing for any one in the bewildering 
 confusion of distracting toils and pleasures to 
 have found out the labor that he is most fit 
 for and the pleasures that satisfy him best. 
 Society so encourages us in affectations that 
 it scarcely leaves us a chance of knowing our 
 
SOCIETY AND SOLITUDE. 405 
 
 own minds; but in solitude this knowledge 
 comes of itself, and delivers us from innu- 
 merable vanities. 
 
 Montaigne tells us that at one time he bought 
 books from ostentation, but that afterwards 
 he bought onl}^ such books as he wanted for 
 his private reading. In the first of these con- 
 ditions of mind we may observe the influence 
 of society ; in the second the effect of solitude. 
 The man of the world does not consult his own 
 intellectual needs, but considers the eyes of 
 his visitors; the solitary student takes his lit- 
 erature as a lonely traveller takes food v/hen 
 he is hungry, without reference to the ordered 
 courses of public hospitality 
 
 It is a traditional habit of mankind to see 
 only the disadvantages of solitude, without 
 considering its compensations ; but there are 
 great compensations, some of the greatest 
 being negative. The lonely man is lord of his 
 own hours and of his own purse ; his days are 
 long and unbroken, he escapes from every 
 form of ostentation, and may live quite simply 
 and sincerely in great calm breadths of leisure. 
 I knew one who passed his summers in the 
 heart of a vast forest, in a common thatched 
 cottage with furniture of common deal, and 
 for this retreat he quitted very gladly a rich 
 fine house in the city. He wore nothing but 
 old clothes, read only a few old books, with- 
 out the least regard to the opinions of the 
 learned, and did not take in a newspaper. 
 On the wall of his habitation he inscribed with 
 a piece of charcoal a quotation from De Sen 
 
406 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 ancour to this effect: "In the world a man 
 lives in his own age; in sohtude, in all the 
 ages." I observed in him the effects of a 
 lonely life, and he greatly aided my observa- 
 tions by frankly communicating his experi- 
 ences. That solitude had become inexpres- 
 sibly dear to him, but he admitted one evil 
 consequence of it, which was an increasing un- 
 fitness for ordinary society, though he cher- 
 ished a few tried friendships, and was grate- 
 ful to those who loved him and could enter 
 into his humor. He had acquired a horror of 
 towns and crowds, not from nervousness, but 
 because he felt imprisoned and impeded in his 
 thinking, which needed the depths of the 
 forest, the venerable trees, the communica- 
 tion with primaeval nature, from which he 
 drew a mysterious yet necessary nourishment 
 for the peculiar activity of his mind. I found 
 that his case answered very exactly to the 
 sentence he quoted from De Senancour; he 
 lived less in his own age than others do, but 
 he had a fine compensation in a strangely 
 vivid understanding of other ages. Like De 
 Senancour, he had a strong sense of the tran- 
 sitoriness of what is transitory, and a passion- 
 ate preference for all that the human mind 
 conceives to be relatively or absolutely per- 
 manent. This trait was very observable in 
 his talk about the peoples of antiquity, awd in 
 the dehght he took in dwelling rather upon 
 everything which they had in common with 
 ourselves than on those differences which are 
 more obvious to the modern spirit. Hip 
 
SOCIETY AND SOLITUDE. 407 
 
 temper was grave and earnest, but iimf ailingly 
 cheerful, and entirely free from any tendency 
 to bitterness. The habits of his life would have 
 been most unfavorable to the development of a 
 man of business, of a statesman, of a leader in 
 practical enterprise, but they were certainly 
 not unfavorable to the growth of a tranquil 
 and comprehensive intellect, capable of "just 
 judgment and high-hearted patriotism. " He 
 had not the spirit of the newspapers, he did 
 not live intensely in the present, but he had 
 the spirit which has animated great poets, 
 and saints, and sages, and far-seeing teachers 
 of humanity. Not in vain had he lived alone 
 with Nature, not in vain had he watched in 
 solemn twilights and witnessed many a dawn. 
 There is, there is a strength that coixies to us 
 in solitude from that shadowy, awful Presence 
 that f ri^ olous crowds repel ! 
 
 Solitude may be and is sometimes deliber- 
 ately accepted or chosen, but far more fre- 
 quently men are driven into it by Nature and 
 by Fate. They go into solitude to escape the 
 sense of isolation which is always most intol- 
 erable when there are many voices round us 
 in loud dissonance with our sincerest thought. 
 It is a great error to encourage in young peo- 
 ple the love of noble culture in the hope that 
 it may lead them more into what is called 
 good society. High culture always isolates, 
 always drives men out of their class and 
 makes it more difficult for them to share 
 naturally and easily the common class-life 
 around tliem. They seek the few companions 
 
40^ THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 who can Linderstand them, and when these 
 are not to be had within any traversable dis- 
 tance, they sit and work alone. Very possi- 
 bly too, in some instances, a superior culture 
 may compel the possessor of it to hold opin- 
 ions too far in advance of the opinions preva- 
 lent around him to be patiently listened to or 
 tolerated, and then he must either disguise 
 them, which is always highly distasteful to a 
 man of honor, or else submit to be treated as 
 an enemy to human welfare. Cultivated 
 people who live in London (their true home) 
 need never condemn themselves to solitude 
 from this cause, but in the provinces there 
 are many places where it is not easy for them 
 to live sociably without a degree of reserve 
 that is more wearisome than solitude itself. 
 And however much pains you take to keep 
 your culture well in the background, it al- 
 ivays makes you rather an object of suspicion 
 to people who have no culture. They per- 
 ceive that you are reserved, they know that 
 very much of what passes in your mind is a 
 mystery to them, and this feeling makes them 
 uneasy in your presence, even afraid of you, 
 and not indisposed to find a comi)ensation for 
 this uncomfortable feeling in sarcasms behind 
 your back. Unless you are gifted with a 
 truly extraordinary power of conciliating 
 goodwill, you are not likely to get on happily, 
 for long together, with people who feel them- 
 selves your inferiors. The very utmost skill 
 and caution will hardly avail to hide all your 
 modes of thought. Something of your higheJ 
 
SOCIETY AND SOLITUDE. 400 
 
 philosophy will escape in an unguarded mo- 
 ment, and give offence because it will seem 
 foolish or incomprehensible to your audience. 
 There is no safety for you but in a timely 
 withdrawal, either to a society that is pre- 
 pared to understand you, or else to a solitude 
 where your intellectual superiorities will 
 neither be a cause of irritation to others nor 
 of vexation to yourself. 
 
 Like all our instincts, the instinct of soli- 
 tude has its especial purpose, which appears 
 to be the protection of rare and delicate na- 
 tures from the commonplace world around 
 them. Though recluses are considered by 
 men of the world to be doomed to inevitable 
 incompetence, the fact is that many of them 
 have reached the highest distinction in intel- 
 lectual pursuits. If Shelley had not disliked 
 general society as he did, the originality of 
 his own living and thinking would have been 
 less complete ; the influences of mediocre peo- 
 ple, who, of course, are always in the major- 
 ity, would have silently but surely operated 
 to the destruction of that unequalled and per- 
 sonal delicacy of imaginaiion to which we 
 owe what is inimitable in his poetry. In the 
 last year of his life, he said to Trelawny of 
 Mary, his second wife, "She can't bear soli- 
 tude, nor I society — the quick coupled with 
 the dead." Here is a piteous prayer of his to 
 be delivered from a party that he dreaded: 
 "Mary says she will have a party! There 
 are English singers here, the Sinclair, and 
 she will ask them, and every one she or j^ou 
 
410 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 know. Oh the horror ! For pity go to Mary 
 and intercede for me ! I will submit to any 
 other species of torture than that of being 
 bored to death by idle ladies and gentlemen. " 
 Again, he writes to Mary : ' ' My greatest de- 
 light would be utterly to desert all human so- 
 ciety. I would retire with you and our child 
 to a solitary island in the sea ; would build a 
 boat, and shut upon my retreat the flood-gates 
 of the world. I would read no reviews and 
 talk with no authoi-s. If I dared trust mj 
 imagination it would tell me that there are 
 one or tAvo chosen companions beside your- 
 self whom I should desire. But to this I 
 would not listen ; where two or three are 
 gathered together, the devil is among them. " 
 At Marlow he knew little of his neighbors. 
 "I am not wretch enough," he said, " to tol- 
 erate an acquaintance." Wordsworth and 
 Turner, if less systematic in their isolation, 
 were still solitary workers, and much of the 
 peculiar force a,nd originality of their per- 
 formance is due to their independence of the 
 peojjle about them. Painters are especial suf- 
 ferers from the visits of talkative people who 
 know little or nothing of the art they talk 
 about, and yet who have quite influence 
 enough to disturb the painter's mind by prov- 
 ing to him that his noblest thoughts are surest 
 to be misunderstood. Men of science, too, find 
 solitu^.e favorable to their peculiar work, be- 
 cause it permits the concentration of their 
 powers during long periods of time. Newton 
 had a great repugnance to societ j^, and even 
 
SOCIETY AND SOLITUDE. 411 
 
 to notoriety — a feeling which is different, and 
 in men of genius more rare. No one can 
 doubt, however, that Newton's great intel- 
 lectual achievements were due in some meas- 
 ure to this peculiarity of his temper, which 
 permitted him to ripen them in the sustained 
 tranquillity necessary to difficult investiga- 
 tions. Auguste Comte isolated himself not 
 only from preference but on system, and 
 whatever may have been the defects of his 
 remarkable mind, and the weakness of its 
 ultimate decay, it is certain that his amazing 
 command over vast masses of heterogeneous 
 material would have been incompatible with 
 any participation in the passing interests of 
 the world. Nothing in intellectual history 
 has ever exceeded the unshakable firmness 
 of purpose with which he dedicated his whole 
 being to the elaboration of the Positive phi- 
 losophy. He sacrificed everything to it — 
 position, time, health, and all the amuse- 
 ments and opportunities of society. He 
 found that commonplace acquaintances dis- 
 turbed his work and interfered with his mas- 
 tery of it, so he resolutely renounced them. 
 Others have done great things in isolation 
 that was not of their own choosing, yet none 
 the less fruitful for them and for mankind. 
 It was not when Milton sa^y most of the 
 "world, but in the forced retirement of a man 
 who had lost health and eyesight, and whose 
 party was hopelessly defeated, that he com- 
 posed the "Paradise Lost." It was during 
 tedious years of imprisonment that Bunyan 
 
412 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 wrote his immortal allegory. Ma.ny a genius 
 has owed his best opportunities to poverty, 
 because poverty had happily excluded him 
 from society, and so preserved him from 
 time-devouring exigencies and frivolities. 
 
 The solitude which is really injurious is the 
 severance from all who are capable of under- 
 standing us. Painters say that they cannot 
 work effectively for very long together when 
 separated from the society of artists, and 
 that they must return to London, or Paris, 
 or Rome, to avoid an oppressive feeling of 
 discouragement which paral3^zes their pro- 
 ductive energy. Authors are more fortu- 
 nate, because all cultivated people are society 
 for them; yet even authors lose strength 
 and agility of thought when too long de- 
 prived of a genial intellectual atmosphere. 
 In the country you meet with cultivated in- 
 dividuals ; but we need more than this, we 
 need those general conversations in which 
 every speaker is worth listening to. The life 
 most favorable to culture would have its 
 times of open and equal intercourse with the 
 best TV 'lids, and also its periods of retreat. 
 My ideal would be a house in London, not far 
 from one or two houses that are so full of 
 light and warmth that it is a liberal educa- 
 tion to have entered them, and a solitary 
 tower on some island of the Hebrides, with 
 no companions but the sea-gulls and the 
 thundering surges of the Atlantic. One such 
 island I know well, and it is before my mind's 
 eye, clear as a picture, whilst I am writing. 
 
SOCIETY AND SOLITUDE. 413 
 
 It stands in the very entrance of a fine salt- 
 water loch, rising above two hundred feet 
 out of the water and setting its granite front 
 steep against the western ocean. When the 
 evenings are clear you can see Staffa and 
 lona like blue clouds between you and the 
 sunset; and on your left, close at hand, the 
 granite hills of Mull, with Ulva to the right 
 across the narrow strait. It was the dream 
 of my youth to build a tower there, with, 
 three or four little rooms in it, and walls as 
 strong as a lighthouse. There have been 
 more foolish dreams, and there have been 
 less competent teachei'S than the tempests 
 that would have roused me and the calms 
 that would have brought me peace. If any 
 serious thought, if any noble inspiration 
 might have been hoped for, surely it would 
 have been there, where only the clouds and 
 waves were transient, but the ocean before 
 me, and the stars above, and the mountains 
 on either hand, were emblems and evidences 
 of eternity. 
 
 Note. — There is a passage in Scott's novel, " The Pirate,'* 
 which illustrates what has been said in this letter about the 
 necessity for concealing superior culture in the presence of 
 less intellectual companions, and I quote it the more willing- 
 ly that Scott was so remarkably free from any morbid aver- 
 sion to society, and so capable of takmg a sincere interest In. 
 every human being. 
 
 Cleveland is speaking to Minna: — 
 
 "I thought over my former story, and saw that seeming 
 more brave, skilful, and entei-prising than others had gained 
 me command and respect, and that seeming more gently 
 nurtured and more civilized than they had made them envy 
 and hate me as a being of another species. / bargained unth 
 
414 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 myself then, that since 1 could not lay aside my superiority 
 of intellect and education, 1 would do my best to disguise, 
 and to sink, in the rude seaman, all appearance of better 
 feeling and better accomplishments. " 
 
 A similar policy is often quite as necessary in the society of 
 laudsmdu- 
 
PAET X. 
 
 INTELLECTUAL HYGIENICS. 
 
 LETTER I. 
 
 TO A YOUNG AUTHOR WHILST HE WAS WRITING 
 HIS FIRST BOOK. 
 
 Mr. Galtx5n's advice to young travellers— That we ought to 
 interest ourselves in the progress of a journey — The 
 same rule applicable in intellectual things — Women in the 
 cabin of a canal boat — Working hastily for temporary 
 purposes — Fevered eagerness to get work done — Begin- 
 ners have rarely acquired firm intellectual habits — Know- 
 ing the range of our own powers — The coolness of accom- 
 plished artists — Advice given by Ingres — Balzac's method 
 of work— Scott, Horace Vernet, John Phillip— Decided 
 workers are deliberate workers. 
 
 I READ the other day, in Galton's "Art of 
 Travel," a Httle bit which concerns you and 
 all of US, but I made the extract in my com- 
 monplace-book for your benefit rather than 
 my own, because the truth it contains has 
 been " borne in upon me " by my own experi- 
 ence, so that what Mr. Galton says did not 
 give me a new conviction, but only confirmed 
 me in an old one. He is speaking to explor- 
 ers who have not done so much in that way 
 as he has himself, and though the subject of his 
 
416 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE, 
 
 advice is the conduct of an exploring party 
 (in the wilds of Australia, for example) the 
 advice itself is equally useful if taken meta- 
 phorically, and applied to the conduct of in- 
 tellectual labors and explorations of all kinds. 
 
 "Interest yourself," says Mr. Galton, 
 ^' chiefly in the progress of your journey, and 
 do not look forward to its end with eagerness. 
 It is better to think of a return to civilization, 
 not as an end to hardship and a haven from 
 ill, but as a thing to be regretted, and as a 
 close to an adventurous and pleasant life. 
 In this way, risking less, you will insensibly 
 creep on, making connections, and learning 
 the capabilities of the country as you ad- 
 vance, which will be found invaluable in the 
 case of a hurried or a disastrous return. And 
 thus, when some months have passed by, you 
 will look back with surprise on the great dis- 
 tance travelled over ; for if you average only 
 three miles a day, at the end of the year you 
 will have advanced 1000, which is a very 
 considerable exploration. The fable of the 
 hare and the tortoise seems expressly in- 
 tended for travellers over wide and unknown 
 tracts." 
 
 Yes, we ought to interest ourselves chiefly 
 in the progress of our work, and not to look 
 forward to its end with eagerness. That 
 eagerness of which Mr. Galton speaks has 
 spoiled many a piece of work besides a geo- 
 graphical exploration, and it not only spoils 
 work, but it does worse, it spoils life also. 
 How am I to enjoy this year as I ought, if I 
 
INTELLECTUAL HYGIENICS. 417 
 
 am continually wishing it were over? A tru- 
 ly intellectual philosophy must begin by i^c- 
 ognizing the fact that the intellectual paths are 
 infinitely long, that there will always be new 
 horizons behind the hoiizon that is before us, 
 and that we must accept a gradual advance as 
 the law of our intellectual life. It is our busi- 
 ness to move forwards, but we ought to do so 
 without any greater feeling of hurry than that 
 which affects the most stationary of minds. 
 Not a bad example for us is a bargeman's 
 wife in a canal-boat. She moves; movement 
 is the law of her life ; yet see is as tranquil in 
 her little cabin as any goodwife on shore, 
 brewing her tea and preparing her buttered 
 toast without ever thinking about getting to 
 the end of her journey. For if that voyage 
 were ended, another would always succeed to 
 it, and another ! In striking contrast to the 
 unhurried bargeman's wife in her cabin is an 
 irritable Frenchman in the corner of a dili- 
 gence, looking at his watch every half -hour, 
 and wishing that the dust and rattle were 
 over, and he were in his own easy-chair at 
 home. Those who really lead the intellectual 
 life, and have embraced it for better and for 
 worse, are like the bargeman's wife; but 
 those who live the life from time to time only, 
 for some special purpose, wishing to be rid of 
 it as soon as that purpose is accomplished, 
 are like the sufferer in the purgatory of the 
 diligence. Is there indeed really any true in- 
 tellectual life at all when every hour of labor 
 is spoiled by a feverish eagerness to be at th« 
 27 
 
418 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 end of the projected task? You cannot take 
 a bit out of another man's hfe and live it, 
 without having lived the previous years that 
 led up to it, without having also the assured 
 hopes for the years that lie beyond. The at- 
 tempt is constantly made by amateurs of all 
 kinds, and by men of temporary purposes, 
 and it always fails. The amateur says when 
 he awakes on some fine summer morning, 
 and draws up his blind, and looks out on the 
 dewy fields: "Ah, the world of nature is 
 beautiful to-day: what if I were to lead the 
 life of an artist?" And after breakfast he 
 seeks up his old box of watercolor and his 
 blockbook, and stool, and white umbrella, 
 and what not, and sallies forth, and fixes him- 
 self on the edge of the forest or the banks of 
 the amber stream. The day that he passes 
 there looks like an artist's day, yet it is not. 
 It has not been preceded by the three or four 
 thousand days which ought to have led up to 
 it; it is not strong in the assured sense of 
 present skill, in the calm knowledge that the 
 hours will bear good fruit. So the chances 
 are that there will be some hurry, and fret- 
 fulness, and impatience, under the shadow of 
 that white parasol, and also that when the 
 day is over there will be a disappointment. 
 You cannot put an artist's day into the life of 
 any one but an artist. 
 
 Our impatiences come mainly, I think, 
 from an amateurish doubt about our own 
 capacity, which is accompanied by a fevered 
 eagerness to see the work done, because we 
 
INTELLECTUAL HYGIENICS. 419 
 
 are tormented both by hopes and fears so 
 long as it is in progress. We have fears that 
 it may not turn out as it ought to do, and we 
 have at the same tune hopes for its success. 
 Both these causes jDroduce eagerness, and 
 deprive us of the tranquilhty which distin- 
 guishes the thorough workman, and which is 
 necessary to thoroughness in the work itself. 
 Now please observe that I am not advising 
 you to set aside these hopes and fears by an 
 eif ort of the will ; when you have them they 
 are the inevitable result of your state of cult- 
 ure, and the will can no more get rid of them 
 than it can get rid of an organic disease. 
 When you have a limited amount of power 
 and of culture, and are not quite clear in your 
 own mind as to where the limits lie, it is 
 natural on the one hand that you should fear 
 the insufficiency of what you possess, and on 
 the other that in more sanguine moments 
 you should indulge in hopes which are 
 only extravagant because your powers have 
 not yet been accurately measured. You will 
 alternate between fear and hope, accord- 
 ing to the temporary predominance of sad- 
 dening or cheerful ideas, but both these feel- 
 , ings will urge you to complete the work in 
 hand, that you may see your own powers 
 reflected in it, and measure them more ex- 
 actly. This is the main cause of the eager- 
 ness of young authors, and the reason why 
 they often launch work upon the sea of pub- 
 licity which is sure to go immediately to the 
 bottom, from the unworkmanlike haste with 
 
420 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 which it has been put together. But beyond 
 this there is another cause, which is, that 
 beginners in hterature have rarely acquired 
 iirni intellectual habits, that they do not yet 
 lead the tranquil intellectual life, so that such 
 a piece of work as the composition of a book 
 keeps them in an unwholesome state of ex- 
 citement. When you feel this coming upon 
 you, pray remember Mr. Galton's wise trav- 
 eller in unknown tracts, or the bargeman's 
 "wife in the canal- boat. 
 
 Amongst the many advantages of experi- 
 ence, one of the most valuable is that we 
 come to know the range of our own powers, 
 and if we are wise we keep contentedly with- 
 in them. This relieves us from the malady 
 of eagerness ; we know pretty accurately be- 
 forehand what our work will be when it is 
 done, and therefore we are not in a hurry to 
 see it accomplished. The coolness of old 
 hands in all departments of labor is due in 
 part to the cooling of the temperament by 
 age, but it is due even more to the fulness of 
 acquired experience, for we do not find 
 middle-aged men so cool in situations where 
 they feel themselves incompetent. The con- 
 jluct of the most experienced painters in the 
 management of their work is a good example 
 of this masterly coolness, because we can see 
 them painting in their studios whereas we 
 cannot so easily see or so justly estimate the 
 coolness of scientific or literary workmen. A 
 painter of great experience will have, usually, 
 several pictures at a time upon his easels, 
 
INTELLECTUAL HYGIENICS. 421 
 
 and pass an hoLir upon one, or an hour upon 
 the other, simple as the state of the j)ignient 
 invites him without ever being tempted to 
 risk anything by hurrying a process. The 
 ugly preparatory daubing which irritates the 
 impatience of the beginner does not dis- 
 turb his equanimity ; he has laid it with a 
 view to the long-foreseen result, and it satis- 
 fies him temporarily as the right thing for 
 the time being. If you know what is the 
 right thing for the time being, and always do 
 it, you are sure of the calm of the thorough 
 workman. All his touches, except the very 
 last touch on each work, are touches of prep- 
 aration, leading gradually up to his result. 
 Ingres used to counsel his pupils to sketch 
 always, to sketch upon and within the first 
 sketch till the picture came right in the end ; 
 and this was strictly Balzac's method in lit- 
 erature. The literary and artistic labors of 
 these two men did not proceed so much 
 upon the principle of travelling as upon that 
 of cultivation. They took an idea in the 
 rough, as a settler takes a tract from wild na- 
 ture, and then they went over it repeatedly, 
 each time pushing the cultivation of it a little 
 farther. Scott, Horace Vernet, John Phillip, 
 and many others, have worked rather on the 
 principle of travelling, passing over the 
 ground once, and leaving it, never coming 
 back again to correct the mistakes of yester- 
 day. Both methods of work require delibera- 
 tion, but the latter needs it in the supreme 
 degree. All very decided workers, men wha 
 
422 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 did not correct, have been at the same time 
 very dehberate workers — rapid, in the sense 
 of accompUshing much in the course of the 
 year, or the hfe, but cautious and slow and 
 observant whilst they actually labored, think- 
 ing out very carefully every sentence before 
 they wrote it, every touch of paint before 
 they laid it. 
 
 LETTER II. 
 
 TO A STUDENT IN THE FIRST ARDOR OF INTEL- 
 LECTUAL AMBITION. 
 
 The first freshness— Why should it not be preserved?— The 
 dulness of the intellectual— Fictions and false promises — 
 Ennui in work itself— Diirer's engraving of Melancholy — 
 Scott about Dryden— Byron, Shelley, Wordsworth — Hum- 
 boldt, Cuvier, Goethe — Tennyson's " Maud " — Preventives 
 of ennui — Hard study for limited times — The ennui of 
 jaded faculties. 
 
 I HAVE been thinking about you frequently 
 of late, and the burden or refrain of my 
 thoughts has been "What a blessing he has 
 in that first freshness, if only he could keep 
 it ! " But now I am beginning more hopeful- 
 ly to ask myself, "Why should he not keep 
 it?" 
 
 It would be an experiment worth trying,, 
 so to order your intellectual life, that how- 
 ever stony and thorny your path might be, 
 however difficult and arduous, it should at 
 all events never be dull ; or, to express what 
 I mean more accurately, that you yourself 
 
INTELLECTUAL HYGIENICS. 423 
 
 should never feel the depressing influences of 
 dulness during the years when they are most 
 to be dreaded. I want you to live steadily 
 and happily in your intellectual labors, even 
 to the natural close of existence, and my best 
 ivish for you is that you may escape a long 
 and miserable malady which brain-workers 
 very commonly suffer from when the first 
 dreams of youth have been disappointed — a 
 malady in which the intellectual desires are 
 feeble, the intellectual hopes are few; whose 
 victim, if he has still resolution enough to 
 learn anything, acquires without satisfaction, 
 and, if he has courage to create, has neither 
 pride nor pleasure in his creations. 
 
 If I were to sing the praises of knowledge 
 as they have been so often sung by louder 
 harps than mine, I might avoid so dreary a 
 theme. It is easy to pretend to believe that 
 the intellectual life is always sure to be inter- 
 esting and delightful, but the truth is that, 
 either from an unwise arrangement of their 
 ivork, or from mental or physical causes 
 ivhich we wiU investigate to some extent be- 
 fore we have done with the subject, many 
 men whose occupations are reputed to be 
 amongst the most interesting have suffered 
 terribly from ennui, and that not during a 
 week or two at a time, but for consecutive 
 years and years. 
 
 There is a class of books written with the 
 praiseworthy intention of stimulating young 
 men to intellectual labor, in which this dan- 
 ger of the intellectual life is systematically 
 
424 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 ignored. It is assumed in these books that 
 the satisfactions of intellectual labor are cer- 
 tain; that although it may not always, or 
 often, result in outward and material pros- 
 perity, its inward joys will ne^er fail. Prom- 
 ises of this kind cannot safely be made to any 
 one. The satisfactions of intellectual riches 
 are not more sure than the satisfactions of 
 material riches; the feeling of dull indiffer- 
 ence which often so mysteriously clouds the 
 life of the rich man in the midst of the most 
 elaborate contrivances for his pleasure and 
 amusement, has its exact counterpart in the 
 lives of men who are rich in the best treas- 
 ures of the mind, and who have infinite intel- 
 lectual resources. However brilliant your 
 ability, however brave and persistent your 
 industry, however vast your knowledge, 
 there is always this dreadful possibility of en- 
 nui. People tell you that work is a specific 
 against it, but many a man has worked 
 steadily and earnestly, and suffered terribly 
 from ennui all the time that he was working, 
 although the labor was of his own choice, the 
 labor that he loved best, and for which Na- 
 ture evidently intended him. The poets, from 
 Solomon downwards, have all of them, so far 
 as I know, given utterance in one page or an- 
 other of their writings to this feeling of 
 dreary dissatisfaction, and Albert Diirer, in 
 his " Melencolia, " illustrated it. It is plain 
 that the robust female figure which has exer- 
 cised the ingenuity of so many commentators 
 is not melancholy either from weakness of 
 
INTELLECTUAL HYGIENICS. 425 
 
 the body or vacancy of the mind. She is 
 strong and she is learned; yet, though the 
 phimes of her wings are mighty, she sits 
 heavily and listlessly, brooding amidst the 
 implements of suspended labor, on the shore 
 of a waveless sea. The truth is that Diirer 
 engraved the melancholy that he himself only 
 too intimately knew. This is not the dulness 
 of the ignorant and incapable, whose minds 
 are a blank because they have no ideas, whose 
 hands are listless for want of an occupation ; 
 it is the sadness of the most learned, the most 
 intelligent, the most industrious; the weary 
 misery of those who are rich in the attain- 
 ments of culture, who have the keys of the 
 chambers of knowledge, and wings to bear 
 them to the heaven of the ideal. If you coun- 
 sel this "Melencolia" to work that she may 
 be merry, she will answer that she knows 
 the uses of labor and its vanity, and the pre- 
 cise amount of profit that a man hath of all 
 his labor which he taketh under the sun. All 
 things are full of labor, she will tell you ; and 
 in much wisdom is much grief, and he that 
 increaseth knowledge increaseth sorrow. 
 
 Can we escape this brooding melancholy of 
 the great workers — has any truly intellectual 
 person escaped it ever? The question can 
 never be answered with perfect certainty, be- 
 cause we can never quite accurately know 
 the whole truth about the life of another. I 
 have known several men of action, almost 
 entirely devoid of intellectual culture, whc 
 enjoyed an unbroken flow of animal energy 
 
426 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 and were clearly free from the melancholy of 
 Diirer; but I never intimately knew a really 
 cultivated person who had not suffered from 
 it more or less, and the greatest sufferers 
 were the most conscientious thinkers and 
 students. Amongst the illustrious dead, it 
 may be very safely answered that any poet 
 who has described it has written from his 
 own experience — a transient experience it 
 may be, yet his own. When Walter Scott, 
 a-propos of Dry den, spoke of "the appar- 
 ently causeless fluctuation of spirits incident 
 to one doomed to labor incessantly in the 
 feverish exercise of the imagination," and of 
 that "sinking of spirit which follows violent 
 mental exertion," is it not evident that his 
 kindly understanding of Dry den's case came 
 from the sympathy of a fellow-laborer who 
 knew by his own experience the gloomier and 
 more depressing passages of the imaginative 
 life? It would be prudent perhaps to omit 
 the mention of Byron, because some may at- 
 tribute his sadness to his immorality ; and if I 
 spoke of Shelley, they might answer that he 
 was "sad because he was impious; " but the 
 truth is, that quite independently of conduct, 
 and even of belief, it was scarcely possible 
 for natures so highly imaginative as these 
 two, and so ethereally intellectual as one of 
 the two, to escape those clouds of gloom 
 which darken the intellectual life. Words- 
 worth was not immoral, Wordsworth v/as 
 not unorthodox, yet he could be as ead in his 
 own sober way as Byron in the bitterness of 
 
INTELLECTUAL HYGIENICS 121 
 
 his desolation, or Shelley in his tenderest 
 wailing. The three men who seem to have 
 been the least subject to the sadness of intel- 
 lectual workers were Alexander Humboldt, 
 Cuvier, and Goethe. Alexander Humboldt, 
 so far as is known to us, lived always in a 
 clear and cheerful daylight ; his appetite for 
 learning was both strong and regular ; he em- 
 braced the intellectual life in his earliest man- 
 hood, and lived in it with an unhesitating 
 singleness of purpose, to the limits of extreme 
 old age. Cuvier was to the last a. model stu- 
 dent, of a^ temper at once most unflinching 
 and most kind, happy in all his studies, hap- 
 pier still in iiis unequalled facility of mental 
 self-direction. Goethe, as all know, lived a 
 life of unflagging interest in each of t-he three 
 great branches of intellectual labor. During 
 the whole of his long life he was interested iix 
 literature, in which he was a master : he wafcv 
 interested in science, in which he w^s a dis- 
 coverer, and in art, of which he wa,s an ar- 
 dent though not practically successful stu- 
 dent. His intellectual activity ceased only 
 on rare occasions of painful illness or t^^-er- 
 whelming afniction; he does not seem to 
 have asked himself ever whether knowledge 
 was worth its cost ; he was always ready ta 
 pay the appointed price of toil. Pie had no* 
 infirmity of intellectual doubt; the powerful 
 impulses from within assured him that knowl- 
 edge was good for him, and he went to it 
 urged by an unerring instinct, as a young 
 salmon bred in the slime of a river scekt? 
 
428 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 strength in the infinite sea. And yet, being 
 a poet and a man of strong passions, Goethe 
 did not altogether escape the green-sickness 
 which afflicts the imaginative temperament, 
 or he could never have written "Werther;" 
 but he cured himself very soon, and the au- 
 thor of "Werther" had no indulgence for 
 Wertherism — indeed we are told that he 
 grew ashamed of having written the book 
 which inoculated the younger minds of Eu- 
 rope with that miserable disease. In our 
 own time an illustrious poet has given in 
 *'Maud" a very perfect study of a young 
 mind in a morbid condition, a mind having 
 indeed the student-temper, but of a bad kind, 
 that which comes not from the genuine love 
 of study, but from sulky rage against the 
 world. 
 
 *' Thanks, for the fiend best knows whether woman or man 
 be the worse. 
 I will bury myself in my hooks, and the Devil may pipe to his 
 own." 
 
 This kind of self -burial in one's library -does 
 not come from the love of literature. The 
 recluse will not speak to his neighbor, yet 
 needs human intercourse of some kind, and 
 seeks it in reading, urged by an inward 
 necessity. He feels no gratitude towards the 
 winners of knowledge ; his morbid ill-nature 
 depreciates the intellectual laborers : — 
 
 ** The man of science himself is fonder of glory and rain; 
 An eye well-practised in natm-e, a spirit bounded and poor." 
 
 What is the life such a spirit will choose 
 
U^TELLECTUAL HYGIENICS. 429 
 
 for itself? Despising alike the ignorant and 
 the learned, the acuteness of the cultivated 
 and the simplicity of the poor, in what forin 
 of activity or inaction will he seek what all 
 men need, the harmony of a life well tuned? 
 
 *' Be mine a philosopher's life in the quiet woodland ways; 
 Where, if I cannot be gay, let a passionless peace be my lot. " 
 
 There are many different morbid states of 
 the mind, and this of the hero of "Maud " is 
 only one of them, but it is the commonest 
 amongst intellectual or semi-intellectual 
 young men. See how he has a little fit of 
 momentary enthusiasm (all he is capable of) 
 about a shell that suddenly and accidentally 
 attracts his attention. How true to the mor- 
 bid nature is that incident ! Unable to pur- 
 sue anjT- large and systematic observation, the 
 diseased mind is attracted to things suddenly 
 and accidentally, sees them out of all propor- 
 tion, and then falls into the inevitable fit of 
 scornful peevishness. 
 
 " What -■;: it? A learned man 
 Could give it a clumsy name: 
 Let him name it who can." 
 
 The question which concerns the world is, 
 *iow this condition of the mind may be 
 avoided. The cure Mr. Tennyson suggested 
 was war; but wars, though more frequent 
 than is desirable, are not to be had always. 
 And in your case, my friend, it is happily 
 not a cure but a preventive that is needed. 
 Let me recommend certain precautions which 
 taken together are likely to keep you safe. 
 
430 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 Care for the physical health in the first place, 
 for if there is a morbid mind the bodily organs! 
 are not doing their work as they ought to do. 
 Next, for the mind itself, I would heartily 
 recommend hard study, really hard study, 
 taken very regularly but in very moderate 
 quantity. The effect of it on the mind is as 
 bracing as that of cold water on the body, 
 but as you ought not to remain too long in 
 the cold bath, so it is dangerous to study hard 
 more tha,n a short time every day. Do some 
 work that is very difficult (such as reading 
 some language that you have to puzzle out a 
 coups de dictionnaire) two hours a day regu- 
 larly, to brace the fighting power of the in- 
 tellect, but let the rest of the day's work be 
 easier. Acquire especially, if jou possibly 
 can, the enviable faculty of getting entirely 
 rid of your work in the intervals of it, and of 
 taking a hearty interest in coinmon things, 
 in a garden, or stable, or dog-kennel, or 
 farm. If the work pursues you — if what is. 
 called unconscious cerebration, which ought 
 to go forward without your knowing it, be- 
 comes conscious cerebration, and bothers 
 you, then you have been w^orking beyond 
 your cerebral strength, and you are not safe. 
 An organization v/hich was intended by 
 Nature for the intellectual life cannot be 
 healthy and happy without a certain degree 
 of intellectual activity. Natures like those of 
 Humboldt and Goethe need immense labors 
 for their own felicity, smaller powers need less- 
 extensive labor. To all of us who have intel- 
 
INTELLECTUAL HYGIENICS. 431 
 
 lectual needs there is a certain supply of work 
 necessary to perfect health. If we do less, we 
 are in danger of that ennui which comes from 
 "want of intellectual exercise ; if we do more, 
 'we may suffer from that other ennui which is 
 due to the weariness of the jaded faculties, 
 and this is the more terrible of the two. 
 
 LETTER III. 
 
 TO AN INTELLECTUAL MAN WHO DESIRED AK 
 OUTLET FOR HIS ENERGIES. 
 
 Dissatisfaction of the intellectual when they have not an ex- 
 tensive influence — A consideration suggested to the author 
 by Mr. Matthew Arnold — Each individual mind a portion 
 of the national mind, which must rise or decline with the 
 minds of which it is composed — Influence of a townsman 
 in his town — Household influence — Charities and conde- 
 scendences of the highly cultivated— A suggestion of M. 
 Taiue— Conversation with inferiors— How to make it in- 
 teresting—That we ought to be satisfied with humble re- 
 sults and small successes. 
 
 There is a very marked tendency amongst 
 persons of culture to feel dissatisfied with 
 themselves and their success in life when they 
 do not exercise some direct and visible in- 
 fluence over a considerable portion of the pub- 
 lic. To put the case in a more concrete form, 
 it may be affirmed that if an intellectual 
 young man does not exercise influence by lit- 
 erature, or by oratory, or by one of the most 
 elevated forms of art, he is apt to think that 
 his culture and intelligence are lost upon the 
 
432 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 world, and either to blame himself for beins: 
 what he considers a failure, or else (and this 
 is more common) to find fault with the world 
 in general for not giving him a proper chance 
 of making his abilities tell. The facilities for 
 obtaining culture are now so many and great, 
 and within the reach of so many well-to-a> 
 people, that hundreds of persons become really 
 very clever in various ways who would have 
 remained utterlj^ uncultivated had they lived 
 in any previous century. A few of these dis- 
 tinguish themselves in literature and other 
 pursuits which bring notoriety to the success- 
 ful, but by far the greater number have to re- 
 main in positions of obscurity, often being 
 clearly conscious that they have abilities and 
 knowledge not much, if at all, inferior to the 
 abilities and knowledge of some who have 
 achieved distinction. The position of a clever 
 man who remains obscure is, if he has ambi- 
 tion, rather trying to the moral fibre, but 
 there are certain considerations which might 
 help to give a direction to his energy and so 
 procure him a sure relief, which reputation 
 too frequently fails to provide. 
 
 The first consideration is one which was of- 
 fered to me many years ago by Mr. Matthew 
 Arnold, and which I can give, though from 
 memory, very nearly in his own words. The 
 multiplicity of things which make claim to 
 the attention of the public is in these days 
 such that it requires either uncommon 
 strength of will or else the force of peculiar 
 circumstances to make men follow any '^Qvt- 
 
INTELLECTUAL HYGIENICS. 43S 
 
 ous study to good result, and the great ma- 
 jority content themselves with the general 
 enlightenment of the epoch, which they get 
 from newspapers and reviews. Hence the ef- 
 forts of the intellectual produce little effect, 
 and it requires either extraordinary talent or 
 extraordinary fanaticism to awaken the seri- 
 ous interest of any considerable number of 
 readers. Yet, in spite of these discourage- 
 ments, we ought to remember that our labors, 
 if not applauded by others, may be of infinite 
 value to ourselves, and also that beyond this 
 gain to the individual, his culture is a gain to 
 the nation, whether the nation formally rec- 
 ognizes it or not. For the intellectual life of 
 a nation is the sum of the lives of all intel- 
 lectual people belonging to it, and in this sense 
 your culture is a gain to England, whether 
 England counts you amongst her eminent 
 sons, or leaves you forever obscure. Is it 
 not a noble spectacle, a spectacle well worthy 
 of a highly civilized country, when a private 
 citizen, with an admirable combination of 
 patriotism and self-respect, says to himself as 
 he labors, ' ' I know that in a country so great 
 as England, where there are so many able 
 men, all that I do can count for very little in 
 public estimation, yet I w^ill endeavor to store 
 my mind with knowledge and make my judg- 
 ment sure, in order that the national mind of 
 England, of which my mind is a minute frac- 
 tion, may be enlightened by so much, be it 
 never so little " ? I thinlc the same noble feel- 
 ing might animate a citizen with reference to 
 28 
 
434 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 his native town; I think a good townsman 
 might say to himself, ' ' Our folks are not 
 much given to the cultivation of their minds, 
 and they need a few to set them an example. 
 I will be one of those few. I will work and 
 think, in order that our town may not get 
 into a state of perfect intellectual stagnation. '' 
 But if the nation or the city were too vast to 
 call forth any noble feeling of this kind, surely 
 the family is little enough and near enough. 
 Might not a man say, "I will go through a 
 good deal of intellectual drudgery in order 
 that my wife and children may unconsciously 
 get the benefit of it ; I v/iil learn facts for them 
 that they may be accurate, and get ideas for 
 them that they may share with me a more 
 elevated mental state; I will do something 
 towards raising the tone of the whole nouso- 
 hold"? 
 
 The practical difficulty in all projects of 
 uiiis kind is that the household does not care 
 to be intellectually elevated, and opposes the 
 re.oictance of gravitation. The household has 
 its natural intellectual level, and finds it as 
 mevitably as water that is free. Cultivated 
 men are surrounded in their homes by a group 
 of persons, wife, children, servants, who, in 
 their intercourse with one another, create the 
 household tone. What is a single individual 
 with his books against these combined and 
 active influences? Is he to go and preach the 
 gospel of the intellect in the kitchen? Will 
 he venture to present intellectual conclusions 
 ia the drawing-room ? The kitchen has a tone 
 
INTELLECTUAL HYGIENICS. 435 
 
 of its own which all our efforts cannot elevate, 
 and the drawing-room has its own atmos- 
 phere, an atmosphere unfavorable to severe 
 and manly thinking. You cannot make cooks 
 intellectual, and you must not be didactic 
 with ladies. Intellectual men always feel 
 this diflicidty, and most commonly keep their 
 intellect very much to themselves, when they 
 are at home. If they have not an outlet else- 
 where, either in society or in literature, they 
 grow morbid. 
 
 Yet, although it is useless to attempt to ele^ 
 vate any human being above his own intel- 
 lectual level unless he gradually climbs him- 
 self as a man ascends a mountain, there are 
 nevertheless certain charities or condescend- 
 ences of the highly cultivated v.diich may be 
 good for the lower intelligences that surround 
 them, as the streams from the Alpine snows 
 are good for the irrigation of the valleys, 
 though the meadows wdiich they w^ater must 
 forever remain eight or ten thousand feet 
 below them. And I believe that it would 
 greatly add to the happiness of the intellect- 
 Tjal portion of mankind if they could more 
 systematically exercise these charities. It is 
 quite clear that we can never ei^ect by cha,nce 
 conversation that total change in the mental 
 state which is gradually brought about by the 
 slow processes of education ; we cannot give 
 to an intellect that has never been developed, 
 and which has fixed itself in the undeveloped 
 state, that power and activity which come 
 only after years of labor; but we may be able 
 
436 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 on many occasions to offer the sort of he'll' 
 which a gentleman offers to an old woii\?Ln 
 when he invites her to get up into the rumble 
 behind his carriage. I knew an intellectual, 
 lady who lived habitually in the country, and 
 I may say without fanciful exaggeration that 
 the farmers' wives round about her were con- 
 siderably superior to what in all probability 
 they would have been without the advantage 
 of her kindly and instructive conversation. 
 She possessed the aappy art of conveying the 
 sort of knowledge which could be readilj^ re- 
 ceived by her hearers, and in a manner which 
 made it agr'^.eable to them, so that they drew 
 ideas from her quite naturally, and her mind 
 irrigated their minds, which would have re- 
 mained permanently barren without that help 
 and refreshment. It would be foolish to ex- 
 aggerate the benefits of such intellectual char- 
 ity as this, but it is well, on the other hand, 
 not to undervalue it. Such an influence can 
 never convey much solid instruction, but it 
 may convey some of its results. It may 
 produce a more thoughtful and reiisonable 
 condition of mind, it may preserve the igno- 
 rant from some of those preposterous theories 
 and beliefs which so easily gain currency 
 amongst them. Indirectly, it may have 
 rather an important political influence, hj 
 disposing people to vote for the better sort of 
 candidate. And the influence of such intel- 
 lectual charity on the material well being of 
 the humbler classes, on their health and 
 vTealth, may be quite as considerable as that 
 
INTELLECTUAL HYGIENICS. 43?r 
 
 of the other and more common sort of charity 
 which pastr^^es silver fro^n hand to hand. 
 
 Shortly alter the termination of the great 
 Franco-German conflict, M. Taine suggested 
 in the Temps that subscribers to the better 
 sort of journals might do a good deal for the 
 enlightenment of the humbler classes by 
 merely lending their newspapers in their 
 neighborhood. This was a good suggestion: 
 the best newspapers are an important intel- 
 lectual propaganda ; they awaken an interest 
 in the most various subjects, and supply not 
 only information but a stimulus. The danger 
 to persons of higher culture that the news- 
 paper may absorb time which would else be 
 devoted to more systematic study, does not 
 exist in the classes for whose benefit M. Taine 
 made his recommendation. The newspaper 
 is their only secular reading, and without it 
 : he}^ have no modern hterature of any kind.. 
 .'a\ addition to the praiseworthy habit of lend- 
 ing good newspapers, an intellectual man who 
 lives in the country might adopt the practice 
 of conversing with his neighbors about every- 
 thing in which they could be induced to taka 
 an interest, i5iving them some notion of what 
 goes on in the classes which are mtellectually 
 active, some idea of such discoveries and proj- 
 ects as an untutored mind may partially un- 
 derstand. For example, there is the great 
 tunnel under the Mont Cenis, and there is the 
 projected tunnel beneath the Channel, and 
 there is the cutting of the Isthmus of Suez. 
 A peasant can comprehend the greatness of 
 
438 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE, 
 
 these remarkable conceptions when they are 
 properly explained to him, and he will often 
 feel a lively gratitude for information of that 
 Mnd. We ought to remember what a slow 
 and painful operation reading is to the uned- 
 ucated. Merely to read the native tongue is 
 to them a labor so irksome that they are apt 
 to lose the sense of a paragraph in seeking for 
 that of a sentence or an expression. As they 
 would rather spea.k than have to write, so 
 they prefer hearing to reading, and they get 
 much more good from it, because they can 
 ask a question when the matter has not been 
 made clear to them. 
 
 One of the best ways of interesting and in- 
 structing your intellectual inferiors is to give 
 them an account of your travels. All peo- 
 ple like to hear a traveller tell his own tale, 
 and whilst he is telling it he may slip in a 
 good deal of information about many things, 
 and much sound doctrine. Accounts of for- 
 eign countries, even when you have not seen 
 them personally, nearly always awaken a 
 lively interest, especially if you are able to 
 give your hearers detailed descriptions of the 
 life led by foreigners who occupy positions 
 corresponding to their own. Peasants can 
 be made to take an interest in astronomy 
 even, though you cannot tell them anything 
 about the peasants in Jupiter and Mars, and 
 there is always, at starting, the great diffi- 
 culty of persuading them to trust science 
 about the motion and rotundity of the earth. 
 
 A very direct form of intellectual charity 
 
INTELLECTUAL HYGIENICS. 439 
 
 is that of gratuitous teaching, both in classes 
 and by pubHc lectures, open to all comers. 
 A great deal of light has in this way been 
 spread abroad in cities, but in country vil- 
 lages there is little encouragement to enter- 
 prises of this kind, the intelligence of farm 
 laborers being less awakened than that of the- 
 corresponding urban population. Let us re- 
 member, however, that one of the very high- 
 est and last achievements of the cultivated 
 intellect is the art of conveying to the uncul- 
 tivated, the untaught, the unprepared, the 
 best and noblest knowledge which they are 
 capable of assimilating. No one who, like the- 
 writer of these pages, has lived much in the 
 country, and much amongst a densely igno- 
 rant peasantry, will be likely in any plans of 
 enlightenment to err far on the side of enthu- 
 siastic hopefulness. The mind of a farm la- 
 borer, or that of a small farmer, is almost al- 
 ways sure to be a remarkably stiff soil, irt 
 which few intellectual conceptions can take 
 root ; yet these few may make the difference 
 between an existence worthy of a man, and 
 one that differs from the existence of a brute 
 in little beyond the possession of articulate 
 language. We to whom the rich inheritance 
 of intellectual humanity is so familir^r as to 
 have lost much of its freshness, are liable ta 
 underrate the value of thoughts and discov- 
 eries which to us have for years seemed com- 
 monplace. It is with our intellectual as with 
 our material wealth ; we do not realize how 
 precious some fragments of it might be to our 
 
440 TEE INTELLECTUAL LIFE, 
 
 poorer neighbors. The old clothes that W6 
 wear no longer may give comfort and confi- 
 dence to a man in naked destitution; the 
 truths which are so familiar to us that we 
 never think about them, may raise the utterly 
 ignorant to a sense of their human brother- 
 hood. 
 
 Above all, in the exercise of our intellectual 
 charities, let us accustomi ourselves to feel 
 satisfied with humble results and small suc- 
 cesses; and here let me m^ake a confession 
 which may be of some possible use to others. 
 When a young man, I taught a drawing-class 
 gratuitously, beginning with thirty-six pu- 
 pils, who dwindled gradually to eleven. Soon 
 afterwards I gave up the work from dissatis- 
 faction, on account of the meagre attendance. 
 This was very wrong — the eleven were worth 
 the thirty -six ; and so long as one of the eleven 
 remained I ought to have contentedly taught 
 him. The success of a teacher is not to be 
 measured by the numbers whom he immedi- 
 ately influences. It is enough, it has been 
 proved to be enough in more than one remark- 
 ^able instance, that a single living soul should 
 ^be in unison with the soul of a master, and 
 receive his thought by sympathy. The one 
 disciple teaches in his turn, and the ide^ is 
 propagated. 
 
INTELLECTUAL HYGIENICS. 441 
 
 LETTER IV. 
 
 TO THE FRIEND OF A MAN OF HIGH CULTURE 
 WHO PRODUCED NOTHING. 
 
 Joubert — "Not yet time," or else "The time is past "—His 
 "weakness for production — Three classes of minds — A 
 more jjerfect intellectual life attainable by the silent stu- 
 dent than by authors— He may follow his own genius — 
 Saving of time effected by abstinence from writing — The 
 xmproductive may be more influential than the prohfic. 
 
 When I met B. at your house last week, 
 you whispered to me in the drawing-room that 
 he was a man of the most remarkable attain- 
 ments, who, to the great regret of all his 
 friends, had never employed his abilities to 
 any visible purpose. We had not time for a 
 conversation on this subject, because B. him- 
 self immediately joined us. His talk remind- 
 ed me very much of Joubert — not that I ever 
 knew Joubert personally, though I have lived 
 very near to Villeneuve-sur-Yonne, where 
 Joubert lived ; but he is one of those charac- 
 ters whom it is possible to know without hav- 
 ing seen them in the flesh. His friends used 
 to urge him to write something, and then he 
 said, " Pas encore." "Not yet; I need a long 
 peace." Tranquillity came, and then he said 
 that God had only given force to his mind for 
 a limited time, and that the time was past. 
 Therefore, as Sainte-Beuve observed, for Jou- 
 bert there was no medium ; either it was not 
 yet time, or else the time was past. 
 
 Nothing is more common than for other 
 
442 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 people to say this of us. They often say *' Hf 
 is too young," as Napoleon said of Ingres, oi 
 else "He is too old," as Napoleon said ot 
 Greuze. It is more rare for a man himself to 
 shrink from every enterprise,^ first under the 
 persuasion that he is unprepared, and after- 
 wards because the time is no longer opportune. 
 Yet there does exist a certain very peculiar 
 class of highly-gifted, diffident, delicate, un- 
 productive minds, which impress those around 
 them with an almost superstitious belief in 
 their possibilities, yet never do anything ta 
 justify that belief. 
 
 But may it not be doubted whether these 
 minds have productive power of any kind? I 
 believe that the full extent of Joubert's pro- 
 ductive power is displayed in those sentences 
 of his which have been preserved, and which 
 reveal a genius of the rarest delicacy, but at 
 the same time singularly incapable of sus- 
 tained intellectual effort. He said that he 
 could only compose slowly, and with an ex- 
 treme fatigue. He believed, however, that 
 the weakness lay in the instrument alone, in 
 the composing faculties, and not in th _ facul- 
 ties of thought, for he said that behind his 
 weakness there was strength, as behind the 
 strength of some others there was weakness. 
 
 In saying this, it is probable that Joubert 
 did not overestimate himself. He had 
 strength of a certain kind, or rather he had 
 quality ; he had distinction, which is a sort of 
 strength in society and in literature. But he 
 had no productive force, and I do not believe 
 
INTELLECTUAL HYGIENICS. 443 
 
 that his unproductiveness was a productive- 
 ness checked by a fastidious taste ; I beheve 
 that it was real, that he was not organized for 
 production. 
 
 Sainte-Beuve said that a modern philoso- 
 pher was accustomed to distinguish three 
 classes of minds — 
 
 1. Those who are at once powerful and del- 
 icate, who excel as they propose, execute 
 what they conceive, and reach the great and 
 true beautiful — a rare elite amongst mortals. 
 
 2. A class of minds especially characterized 
 by their delicacy, who feel that their idea is 
 superior to their execution, their intelligence 
 greater than their talent, even when the tal- 
 ent is very real; they are easily dissatisfied 
 w^ith themselves, disdain easily won praises, 
 and would rather judge, taste, and abstain 
 from producing, than remain below their con- 
 ception and themselves. Or if they write it 
 is by fragments, for themselves only, at long 
 intervals and at rare moments. Their fecun- 
 dity is internal, and known to few. 
 
 3. Lastly, there is a third class of minds 
 more powerful and less delicate or difficult to 
 please, who go on producing and publishing 
 themselves without being too much dissatis- 
 fied with their work. 
 
 The majority of our active painters and 
 writers, who fill modern exhibitions, a,nd pro- 
 duce the current literature of the day, belong 
 to the last class, to which we are all greatly 
 indebted for the daily bread of literature and 
 art. 
 
*44 THE INTELLECTUAL LIF^. 
 
 But Sainte-Beuve believed that Joubert be- 
 longed to the second class, and I suspect that 
 both Sainte-Beuve and many others have 
 credited that class with a potential produc- 
 tiveness beyond its real endowments. Minds 
 of the Joubert class are admirable and valua- 
 ble in their way, but they are really, and not 
 apparently, sterile. 
 
 And why would we have it otherwise? 
 When we lament that a man of culture has 
 " done nothing," as we say, we mean that he 
 has not written books. Is it necessary, is it 
 desirable, that every cultivated person should 
 write books? 
 
 On the contrary, it seems that a more per- 
 fect intellectual life may be attained by the 
 silent student than by authors. The writer 
 for the public is often so far its slave that he 
 is compelled by necessity or induced by the 
 desire for success (since it is humiliating to 
 write unsaleable books as well as unprofit- 
 able) to deviate from his true path, to leave 
 the subjects that most interest him for other 
 subjects which interest him less, and there- 
 fore to acquire knowledge rather as a matter 
 of business than as a labor of love. But the 
 student who never publishes, and does not in- 
 tend to publish, may follow his own genius 
 and take the knowledge which belongs to him 
 by natural affinity. Add to this the immense 
 saving Qf time effected by abstinence from 
 writing. Whilst the writer is polishing his 
 periods, and giving hours to the artistic exi- 
 gencies of mere form, the reader is adding to 
 
INTELLECTUAL HYGIENICS. 445 
 
 his knowledge. Thackeray said that writers 
 were not great readers, because they had not 
 the time. 
 
 The most studious Frenchman I ever met 
 with used to say that he so hated the pen as 
 scarcely to resolve to write a letter. He re- 
 minded me of Joubert in this ; he often said, 
 " J'ai horreur de la plume." Since he had no 
 profession his leisure was unlimited, and he 
 employed it in educating himself without any 
 other purpose than this, the highest purpose 
 of all, to become a cultivated man. The very 
 prevalent idea that lives of this kind are fail- 
 ures unless they leave some visible achieve- 
 ment as a testimony and justification of their 
 labors, is based upon a narrow conception both 
 of duty and of utility. Men of this unproduc- 
 tive class are sure to influence their immedi' 
 ate neighborhood by the example of their life. 
 Isolated as they are too frequently in the prov- 
 inces, in the midst of populations destitute 
 of the higher culture, they often establish the 
 notion of it notwithstanding the contemptuous 
 estimates of the practical people around them. 
 A single intellectual life, thus modestly lived 
 through in the obscurity of a country -town, 
 may leave a tradition and becoine an enduring 
 influence. In this, as in all things, let us tmst 
 the arrangements of Nature. If men are at 
 the same time constitutionally studious and 
 constitutionally unproductive, in must be that 
 production is not the only use of study. Jou- 
 bert was right in keeping silence when he felt 
 no impulses to speak, right also in saying the 
 
446 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE, 
 
 little that he did say without a superfluous 
 word. His mind is more fully known, and 
 more influential, than many which are atun- 
 dantly productive. 
 
 LETTER V. 
 
 TO A aPTUDENT WHO FELT HURRIED AND DRIVEN. 
 
 Some intellectual products possible only in excitement— By- 
 ron's authority on the subject — Can inventive minds work 
 regularly?— Sir Walter Scott's opinion— Napoleon on the 
 winning of victories — The prosaic business of men of gen- 
 ius—" Waiting for inspiration "—Rembrandt's advica to a 
 yomig painter— Culture necessary to itisplration itself — 
 Byron, Keats, Mon'is — Men of genius may be regular as 
 students. 
 
 In my last letter to you on quiet regularity 
 of work, I did not give much consideration to 
 another matter which, in certain kinds of 
 work, has to be taken into account, for I pre- 
 ferred to make that the subject of a separate 
 letter. There are certain intellectual products 
 w^hich are only possible in hours or minutes of 
 great cerebral excitement. Byron said that 
 when people were surprised to find poets very 
 much like others in the ordinary intercourse 
 of life, their surprise was due to ignorance of 
 this. If people knew, Byron said, that poeti- 
 cal production came from an excitement 
 which from its intensity could only be tempo- 
 rary, they would not expect poets to be very 
 different from other people when not under 
 the influence of this excitement. Now, we 
 may take the word ' ' poet, " in this connection, 
 
INTELLECTUAL HYGIENICS. 44T 
 
 in the very largest sense. All men who have 
 the gift of invention are poets. The inven- 
 tive ideas come to them at unforeseen mo- 
 ments, and have to be seized when they come, 
 so that the true inventor works sometimes 
 with vertiginous rapidity, and afterwards re- 
 mains for days or weeks without exercising 
 the inventive faculty at all. The question is, 
 can you ix ake an inventive mind work on the 
 principle of measured and regular advance. 
 Is such counsel as that in my former letter 
 applicable to inventors? 
 
 Scott said, that although he had known 
 many men of ordinary abilities who were ca- 
 pable of perfect regularity in their habits, he^ 
 had never known a man of genius who was 
 so. The popular impression concerning men. 
 of genius is very strong in the same sense,, 
 but it is well not to attach too much impor- 
 tance to popular impressions concerning men 
 of genius, for the obvious reason that suclx 
 men come yqtj little under popular observa- 
 tion. When they work it is usually in the 
 most perfect solitude, and even people who 
 live in the same house know very little, real- 
 ly, of their intellectual habits. 
 
 The truth seems to be, first, that the mo- 
 ments of high excitement, of noblest inven- 
 tion, are rare, and not to be commanded by the 
 will ; but, on the other hand, that in order to 
 make the gift of invention produce its full ef- 
 fect in any department of human effort, vast 
 labors of preparation are necessary, and these 
 labors may be pursued as steadily as jow like. 
 
448 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 Napoleon I. used to say that battles were won 
 loj the sudden flashing of an idea through the 
 l>rain of the commander at a certain ciitical 
 instant. The capacity for generating this 
 sudden electric spark was military genius. 
 The spark flashed independently of the will ,• 
 the General could not win that vivid illumin- 
 ation by labor or by prayer ; it came only in 
 the brain of genius from the intense anxiety 
 and excitement of the actual conflict. Napo- 
 leon seems always to have counted upon it, 
 always to have believed that when the criti- 
 cal instant arrived the wild confusion of the 
 battle-field would be illuminated for him by 
 that burst of sudden flame. But if Napoleon 
 had been ignorant of the prosaic business of 
 his profession, to which he attended more 
 <3losely than any other commander, what 
 would these moments of supreme clearness 
 have availed him, or would they ever have 
 come to him at all? If they had come to him, 
 they would have revealed only the extent of 
 liis own negligence. Instead of showing him 
 what to do, they would have made painfully 
 evident what ought to Jiave been done. But it 
 is more probable that these clear moments 
 wouM never have occurred to a raind unpre- 
 pared by study. Clear military inspirations 
 never occur to shopkeepers and farmers, as 
 bright ideas about checkmates occur only to 
 persons who have studied chess. The prosaic 
 lousiness, then, of the man of genius is to ac- 
 •cumulate that preparatory knowledge with- 
 out which his genius can never be available, 
 
INTELLECTUAL HYGIENICS. 449 
 
 and he can do work of this kind as regularly 
 as he likes. 
 
 The one fatal mistake which is committed 
 habitually by people who have the scarcely 
 desirable gift of half-genius is "waiting for 
 inspiration." They pass week after week in 
 a state of indolence, unprofitable alike to the 
 mind and the purse, under pretext of waiting 
 for intellectual flashes like those which came 
 to Napoleon on his battle-fields. They ought 
 to remember the advice given by one of the 
 j^reatest artists of the seventeenth century to 
 a young painter of his acquaintance. "Prac- 
 tise assiduously what you already know, and 
 in course of time other things will become 
 clear to you." The inspirations come only to 
 the disciplined ; the indolent wait for them in 
 vain. 
 
 If you have genius, therefore, or believe 
 you have, it is admitted that you cannot be 
 perpetually in a state of intense excitement. 
 If you were in that state without ceasing, you 
 would go mad. You cannot be expected to 
 write poetry in the plodding ox-pace manner 
 advocated for intellectual work generally in 
 my last letter. As for that good old compari- 
 son between the hare and the tortoise, it may 
 be answered for you, simply, that you are not 
 a tortoise, and that what is a most wise pro- 
 cedure for tortoises may be impracticable for 
 you. The actual composition of poetry, es- 
 pecially poetry of a fiery kind, like — 
 
 "The isles of Greece, the isles of Greece," 
 29 
 
450 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 of Byron, is to be done not when the poet 
 will, but when he can, or rather, when he 
 must. 
 
 But if you are a wise genius you will feel 
 how necessary is culture even for work of 
 that kind. Byron would not have felt any 
 enthusiasm for the isles of Greece if he had 
 not known something of their history. The 
 verses are an inspiration, but they could 
 never have occurred to a quite uncultivated 
 person, however bright his inspirations. Even 
 more obviously was the genius of Keats de- 
 pendent upon his culture. He did not read 
 Greek, but from translations of Greek litera- 
 ture and from the direct study of Greek art 
 he got the sort of material that he needed. 
 And in our own day Morris has been evi- 
 dently a very diligent student of many liter- 
 atures. What I insist upon is, that we could 
 not have had the real Keats, the real Morris, 
 unless they had prepared themselves by cult- 
 ure. We see immediately that the work they 
 have done is their work, specially, that they 
 were specially adapted for it-- --inspired for it, 
 if you will. But how evident it is that the 
 inspiration could never have produced the 
 work, or anything like it, without labor in 
 the accumulation of material ! 
 
 Now, although men of genius cannot be 
 regularly progressive in actual production, 
 cannot write so many verses a day, regularly, 
 as you may spin yarn, they can be very regu- 
 lar as students, and some of the best of them 
 have been quite remarkable for unflinching 
 
INTELLECTUAL HYGIENICS. 451 
 
 steadiness of application in that way. The 
 great principle recommended by Mr. Galton, 
 of not looking forward eagerly to the end of 
 your journey, but interesting yourself chiefly 
 in the progress of it, is as applicable to the 
 studies of men of genius as to those of more 
 ordinary persons. 
 
 LETTER VI. 
 
 TO AN ARDENT FRIEND WHO TOOK NO REST. 
 
 Oa some verses of Goethe — Man not constituted like a planet 
 — Matthew Arnold's poem, " Self-dependence " — Poetry 
 and prose — The wind more imitable than the stars — Tha 
 stone in Glen Croe — Rest and be thankful. 
 
 "Rambling over the wild moors, with 
 thoughts oftentimes as wild and dreary as 
 those moors, the young Carlyle, who had 
 been cheered through his struggling sadness, 
 and strengthened for the part he was to play 
 in life, by the beauty and the wisdom which 
 Goethe had revealed to him, suddenly con- 
 ceived the idea that it would be a pleasant 
 and a fitting thing if some of the few admirers 
 in England forwarded to Weimar a trifling 
 token of their admiration. On reaching home 
 Mr. Carlyle at once sketched the design of a 
 seal to be engraved, the serpent of eternity 
 encircling a star, with the words ohne Hasf^ 
 ohne Rast (unhasting, unresting), in allusion 
 to the well-known verses — 
 
1^ THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 * Wie das Gestirn, 
 Ohne Hast 
 Aber oline Rast 
 Drehe sich jeder 
 Um die eigne Last.' 
 
 iftike a star, unhasting, unresting, be each 
 one fulfilling his God-given 'hest.') " * 
 
 This is said so beautifully, and seems so 
 "wise, that it may easily settle down into the 
 Mnind as a maxim and rule of life. Had we 
 t>een told in plain prose to take no rest, with- 
 out the beautiful simile of the star, and with- 
 K)ut the wise restriction about haste, our com- 
 i^non sense would have rebelled at once ; but 
 ?is both beauty and wisdom exist together in 
 the gem-like stanza, our judgment remains 
 silent in charmed acquiescence. 
 
 -Ij/et us ask ourselves, however, about this 
 Etella example, whether man is naturally so 
 cjonstituted as to be able to imitate it. A 
 ;pianet moves without haste, because it is inca- 
 pable of excitement ; and without rest, because 
 it is incapable of fatigue. A planet makes 
 jio effort, and encounters no friction or resist- 
 Jijace of any kind. Man is so constituted as to 
 |jg*i frequently the stimulus of excitement, 
 i5?p1m.g1i immediately translates itself either into 
 ftM^^jaal acceleration or into the desire for accel- 
 o^^ation — a desire which cannot be restrained 
 without an effort ; and whatever man under- 
 ^jakes to do he encounters friction and resist- 
 ^ance, which, for him, always sooner or later 
 
 inevitably induce fatigue. Man is neither 
 
 XT- — — — _____^ ■—— 
 
 * Lewes's " Life of Goethe," Book vii, chap. 8. 
 
INTELLECTUAL HYGIENICS. 453 
 
 constituted like a star nor situated like a star 
 and therefore it is not possible for him to exist 
 as stars exist. 
 
 You will object to this criticism that ic 
 handles a delicate little poem very roughly, 
 and you may tell me that I am unfit to re- 
 ceive the wisdom of the poets, which is al- 
 ways uttered with a touch of Oriental exag- 
 geration. Certainly Goethe could never 
 mean that a man should kill himself by labors 
 literally incessant. Goethe's own life is the 
 best elucidation of his true meaning. The 
 example of the star was held up to us to be 
 followed only within the limits of our human 
 nature, as a Christian points to the example 
 of Christ. In the same spirit Matthew Ar- 
 nold wrote his noble poem " Self-dependence," 
 in which he tells us to live like the stars and 
 the sea : — 
 
 '*' Ah, once more." I cried, "ye stars, ye waters, 
 On ni)^ heart yoiu' mighty charm renew; 
 
 Still, still let me, as I gaze upon you, 
 Feel my soul becoming vast like you." 
 
 From the intense, clear, star-sown vaiilt of heaven, 
 
 Over the lit sea's unquiet way, 
 In the rustling night-air came the answer: 
 
 " Wouldst thou be as these are? Live as they. 
 
 " Unaff righted by the silence round them, 
 
 Undistracted by the sights they see. 
 These demand not that the things without them 
 
 Yield them love, amusement, sympathy." 
 
 The true intention of poetical teachings like 
 these is in the influence they have over the 
 feelings. If a star makes me steadier in my 
 
454 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE, 
 
 labor, less of a victim to vain agitation, In 
 consequence of Goethe's verses; if the stars 
 and the sea together renew more fully their 
 mighty charm upon my heart because those 
 stanzas of Arnold have fixed themselves in 
 my memory, the poets have done their work. 
 But the more positive prosateur has his work 
 to do also, arid you, as it seems to me, need 
 this positive help of prose. 
 
 You are living a great deal too much like a 
 star, and not enough like a human being. 
 You do not hasten often, but you never rest, 
 except when Nature mercifully prostrates 
 you in irresistible sleep. Like the stars and 
 the sea in Arnold's poem, you do not ask sur- 
 rounding things to yield you love, amuse- 
 ment, sympathy. The stars and the sea can 
 do without these refreshments of the brain 
 and heart, but you cannot. Rest is necessary 
 to recruit your intellectual forces ; sympathy 
 is necessary to prevent your whole nature 
 from stiffening like a rotifer without moist- 
 ure ; love is necessary to make life beautiful 
 for you, as the plumage of certain birds be- 
 comes splendid when they pair ; and without 
 amusement you will lose the gayety which 
 wise men try to keep as the best legacy of 
 youth. 
 
 Let your rest be perfect in its season, like 
 the rest of waters that are still. If you will 
 have a model for your living, take neither 
 the stars, for they fly without ceasing, nor 
 the ocean that ebbs and flows, nor the river 
 that cannot stay, but rather let your life be 
 
INTELLECTUAL HYGIENICS. 455 
 
 ?ike that of the summer air, which has tiraies 
 of noble energy and times of perfect peace. 
 It fills the sails of ships upon the sea, and the 
 miller thanks it on the breezy uplands; it 
 works generously for the health and wealth 
 of all men, yet it claims its hours of rest. ' ' I 
 have pushed the fleet, I have turned the mill, 
 I have refreshed the city, and now, though 
 the captain may walk impatiently on the 
 •q^-iarter-deck, and the miller swear, and the 
 city stink, I will stir no more until it pleases 
 me. " 
 
 You have learned many things, my friend, 
 but one thing you have not learned — the art 
 of resting. That stone in Glen Croe ought to 
 have impressed its lesson on the mind of 
 many a traveller, long before Earl Russell 
 gave it a newspaper celebrity. Have we not 
 rested there together, you and I, a little in 
 advance of the coach, which the weary horses 
 Avere still slowly dragging up the tedious hill? 
 And as we sat on the turf, and looked down 
 the misty glen, did we not read the lesson 
 there engraven? How good and human the 
 idea was, the idea of setting up that graven 
 stone in the wilderness ; how full of sympathy 
 is that inscription for all the weakness and 
 weariness of humanity! Once, in the ardor 
 of youth, there shone before me a golden stai 
 in heaven, and on the deep azure around it 
 " Ohne Hast, ohne Bast,'''' in letters of steady 
 liame ; but now I see more frequently a plain 
 little stone set up in the earth, with the in- 
 scription, ' ' Rest, and be thankful ! " 
 
456 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 Is not the stone just a little like a grave- 
 stone, my friend? Perhaps it is. But if we 
 take rest when we require it during life, we 
 shall not need the grave's rest quite so soon. 
 
 LETTER VII. 
 
 TO AN ARDENT FRIEND WHO TOOK NO REST. 
 
 The regret for lost time often a needless one— TlUler's doc- 
 trine about fldnerie — How much is gained in idle 
 hoiirs — Sainte-Beuve's conviction that whatever he did he 
 studied the infinite book of the world and of Life — Harness 
 — Free play of the mind necessary— The freedom of a 
 grain of desert-sand— The freedom of. the wild bee. 
 
 If we asked any intellectual workman 
 what he would do if his life were to be lived 
 over again, I believe the answer, whatever 
 its form, would amount ultimately to this : 
 " I would economize my time better." Very 
 likely if the opportunity were granted him 
 he would do nothing of the sort ; very likely 
 he would waste his time in ways more au- 
 thorized by custom, yet waste it just as ex- 
 travagantly as he had done after his own 
 original fashion ; but it always seems to us as 
 if we could use the time better if we had it 
 over again. 
 
 It seems to me in looking ba<3k over the last 
 thirty ye^irs, that the only time reaUy wasted 
 has been that, spent in laborious obedience 
 to some external authority. It may be a 
 dangerous doctrine which Claude Tillier ex- 
 pressed in an immortal sentence, but danger- 
 
INTELLECTUAL HYGIENICS. 45T 
 
 ous or not, it is full of intellectual truth: " L© 
 temps le mieux employe est celui que Toii 
 perd." * If what we are accustom.ed to con- 
 sider lost time could be removed, as to its 
 effects at least, from the sum of our existence*, 
 it is certain that we should suffer from en. 
 great intellectual impoverishment. All the> 
 best knowledge of mankind, to begin with, is; 
 acquired in hours which hard-working people 
 consider lost hours — in hours, that is, of. 
 pleasure and recreation. Deduct all that we^ 
 have learnt about men in times of recreation^ 
 in clubs and smoking-rooms, on the hunting- 
 field, on the cricket-ground, on the deck ol 
 the yacht, on the box of the drag or the dog- 
 cart, would the residue be worth very much? 
 would it not be a mere heap of dry bones; 
 without any warm flesh to cover them§? 
 Even the education of most of us, such as it 
 is, has been in a great measure acquired out,-, 
 of school, as it were; I mean outside of th.^ 
 acknowledged duties of our more serious ex- 
 istence. Few Englishmen past forty havo^ 
 studied English literature either as a college* 
 exercise or a professional preparation; they 
 have read it privately, as an amusement. 
 Few Englishmen past forty have studied 
 modem languages, or science, or the fine arts^ 
 from any obedience to duty, but merely fron:^ 
 taste and inclination. And even if we stud- 
 ied these things formally, as young meii. 
 often do at the present day, it is not from th^ 
 
 * The best employed time is that which one loses». 
 
458 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 formal study that we should get the perfume 
 of the language or the art, but from idle 
 hours in foreign lands and galleries. It is su- 
 perfluous to recommend idleness to the unin- 
 tellectual, but the intellectual too often un- 
 dervalue it. The laborious intellect con- 
 tracts a habit of strenuousness which is some- 
 times a hindrance to its best activity, 
 
 "I have arrived," said Sainte-Beuve, "per- 
 liaps by way of secretly excusing my own 
 idleness, perhaps by a deeper feeling of the 
 principle that all comes to the same, at the 
 conclusion that whatever I do or do not, 
 working in the study at continuous labor, 
 scattering myself in articles, spreading my- 
 seK about in society, giving my time away to 
 troublesome ca,llers, to poor people, to rendez- 
 vous^ in the street, no matter to whom and to 
 what, I cease not to do one and the same 
 thing, to read one and the same book, the in- 
 finite book of the world and of life, that no 
 one ever finishes, in which the wisest read 
 farthest ; I read it then at all the pages which 
 present themselves, in broken fragments, 
 backwards, what matters it? I never cease 
 going on. The greater the medley, the more 
 frequent the interruption, the more I get on 
 with this book in which one is never beyond 
 the middle ; but the profit is to have had it 
 open before one at all sorts of different 
 pages." 
 
 A distinguished author wrote to another 
 author less distinguished : ' ' You have gone 
 through a good deal of really vigorous study, 
 
INTELLECTUAL HYGIENICS. 451» 
 
 )jux have not hee^i in harness yet. " By harness 
 he meant discipline settled beforehand like mil- 
 itary drill. Now, the advantages of drill are 
 evident and very generally recognized, but, 
 the advantages of intellectual fldnerie are not 
 so generally recognized. For the work of 
 the intellect to be clear and healthy, a great 
 deal of free play of the mind is absolutely 
 necessary. Harness is good for an hour or 
 two at a time, but the finest intellects have 
 never lived in harness. In reading any book 
 that has much vitality you are sure to meet, 
 with many allusions and illustrations which 
 the author hit upon, not when he was in har- 
 ness, but out at grass. Harness trains us to 
 the systematic performance of our work, and 
 increa,ses our practical strength by regulated 
 exercise, but it does not supply everything 
 that is necessary to the perfect development 
 of the mind. The truth is, that we need both 
 the discipline of harness and the abundant 
 nourishment of the free pasture. Yet may 
 not our freedom be the profitless, choiceless» 
 freedom of a grain of desert-sand, carried, 
 hither and thither by the wind, gaining noth- 
 ing and improving nothing, so that it does 
 not signify where it was carried yesterday or 
 where it may fall to-morrow, but rather the 
 liberty of the wild bee, whose coming and go- 
 ing are ordered by no master, nor fixed by 
 any premeditated regulation, yet which misses 
 no opportunity of increase, and comes home 
 laden in the twilight. Who knows where he 
 has wandered ; who can tell over wnat banks 
 
'460 TUE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 and streams the hum of his wings has sounded? 
 Is anything in nature freer than he is; can 
 sinything account better for a rational use oi 
 freedom? Would he do his work better if 
 tiny harness were ingeniously contrived foi 
 hun? Where then would be the golden honey, 
 and where the waxen cells? 
 
 LETTER YIII. 
 
 TO A FRIEND (HIGHLY CULTIVATED) WHO CON- 
 ORATULATED HIMSELF ON HAVING ENTIRELY 
 ABANDONED THE HABIT OP READING NEWS- 
 PAPERS. 
 
 Advantages in economy of time — Much of what we read in 
 newspapei-s is useless to our culture — The too great im- 
 portance which they attach to novelty — Distortion by 
 party spirit — An iustance of false presentation — 
 Gains to serenity by abstinence from newspapers — News- 
 papers keep up our daUy interest in each other — The 
 Preach peasantry — The newspaper-reading Americans— 
 An instance of total abstinence from newspapers— Au- 
 guste Comte — A suggeKtion of Emerson's — The work of 
 newspaper corres])on'-lj«)ts — War correspondents — ^Mr. 
 Stanley — M. Erdan, of the Temps. 
 
 Your abstinence from newspaper reading is 
 not anew experiment in itself, though it is 
 new in reference to your particular case, and 
 I await its effects with interest. I shall be 
 curious to observe the consequences, to an in- 
 tellect constituted as yours is, of that total 
 <3utting off from the public interests of your 
 own century which an abstinence from news- 
 papers implies. Ifc is clear that, whatever the 
 
INTELLECTUAL HYGIENICS. 401 
 
 loss may be, you have a definite gain to set 
 tigainst it. The time which you have hith- 
 erto given to newspapers, and which may be 
 roughly estimated at about five hundred 
 hours a year, is henceforth a vahiable time- 
 income to be apphed to whatever purposes 
 your best wisdom may select. When an in- 
 tellectual person has contrived by the force of 
 one simple resolution to effect so fine an 
 economy as this, it is natural that he should 
 congratulate himself. Your feelings must be 
 like those of an able finance minister who has 
 found means of closing a great leak in the 
 treasury — if any economy possible in the 
 finances of a State could ever relatively equal 
 that splendid stroke of time-thrift which your 
 force of will has enabled you to effect. In 
 those five hundred hours, which are now 
 your own, you may acquire a science or ob- 
 tain a more perfect command over one of the 
 languages which you have studied. Some de- 
 partment of your intellectual labors which 
 has hitherto been unsatisfactory to you, be- 
 cause it was too imperfectly cultivated, may 
 henceforth be as orderly and as fruitful as a 
 well-kept garden. You may become thorough- 
 ly conversant with the works of more than 
 one great author whom you have neglected, 
 not from lack of interest, but from want of 
 time. You may open some old chamber of 
 the memory that has been dark and disused 
 for many a year ; you may clear the cobwebs 
 away, and let the fresh light in, and make it 
 habitable once again. 
 
462 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE, 
 
 Against these gains, of which some to a mam 
 of your industry are certain, and ixiay be 
 counted upon, what must be our estimate of 
 the amount of sacrifice or loss? It is clear to 
 both of us that much of what we read in the 
 newspapers is useless to our culture. A large 
 proportion of newspaper-writing is occupied 
 with speculation on what is likely to happen 
 in the course of a few months ; therefore, by 
 waiting until the time is past, we know the 
 event without having wasted time in specula- 
 tions which could not effect it. Another rath- 
 er considerable fraction of newspaper matter 
 consists of small events which have interest 
 for the day, owing to their novelty, but vfhich 
 will not have the slightest permanent impor- 
 tance. The whole press of a newspaper-read- 
 ing country, like England or America, may 
 be Actively engaged during the space of a 
 week or a fortnight in discussing some inci- 
 dent which everybody will have forgotten in. 
 six months ; and besides these sensational in- 
 cidents, there are hundreds of less notorious 
 ones, often fictitious, inserted simply for the 
 temporary aniusement of the reader. The 
 greatest evil of newspapers, in their effect on 
 the intellectual life, is the enormous impor- 
 tance which they are obliged to attach to 
 mere novelty. From the intellectual point of 
 view, it is of no consequence whether a 
 thought occurred twenty-two centuries ago to 
 Aristotle or yesterday evening to Mr. Charles 
 Barwin, and it is one of the distinctive marks 
 of the truly intellectual to be able to take a 
 
INTELLECTUAL HYGIENICS. 463 
 
 hearty interest in all truth, independently of 
 the date of its discovery. The emphasis given 
 by newspapers to novelty exhibits things in 
 wrong relations, as the lantern shows you what 
 is nearest at the cost of making the general 
 landscape appear darker by the contrast. Be- 
 sides this exhibition of things in wrong rela- 
 tions, there is a positive distortion arising from 
 the unscj'upulousness of party, a distortion 
 which extends far beyond the limits of the 
 empire. 
 
 An essay might be written on the dis- 
 tortion of English affairs in the French 
 press, or of French affairs in the Englisk 
 press, by writers who are as strongly partisan 
 in another country as in their own. " It is 
 such a grand thing," wrote an English Paris 
 correspondent in 1870, " for A.dolplius Thiers, 
 son of a poor laborer of Aix, and in early life 
 a simple journalist, to be at the head of the 
 Government of France." This is a fair speci- 
 men of the kind of false presentation which is 
 so common in party journalism. The news- 
 paper from which I have quoted it was strong- 
 ly opposed to Thiers, being in fact one of the 
 principal organs of the English Bonapartists. 
 It is not true that Thiers was the son of a 
 poor laborer of Aix. His father was a work- 
 man of Marseilles, his mother belonging to a 
 family in which neither wealth nor culture 
 had been rare, and his mother's relatives had 
 him educated at the Lycee. The art of the 
 journalist in bringing together the two ex- 
 tremes of a cai'eer remarkable for its steady 
 
464 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE, 
 
 ascent had for its object to produce the idea of 
 incongruity, of sudden and unsuitable eleva 
 tion. Not only M. Thiers, however, but every 
 human being starts from a very small begin- 
 ning, since every man begins life as a baby. 
 It is a great rise for one baby to the Presi- 
 dency of the French Republic ; it was also a 
 great rise for other babies who have attained 
 the premiership of England. The question is, 
 not what Thiers may have been seventy years 
 ago, but what he was immediately before his 
 acceptance of the highest office of the State. 
 He was the most trusted and the most experi- 
 enced citizen, so that the last step in his 
 career was as natural as the elevation of 
 Reynolds to the presidency of the Acad- 
 emy. 
 
 It is difficult for any one who cares for jus- 
 tice to read party journals without frequent 
 irritation, and it does not signify which side 
 the newspaper takes. Men are so unfair in 
 controversy that we best preserve the seren- 
 ity of the intellect by studiously avoiding all 
 literature that has a controversial tone. By 
 your new rule of abstinence- from newspapers 
 you will no doubt gain almost as much in 
 serenity as in time. To the ordinary news- 
 paper reader there is little loss of serenity, be- 
 cause he reads only the newspaper that he 
 agrees with, and however unfair it is, he is 
 pleased by its unfairness. But the highest 
 and best culture makes us disapprove of un- 
 fairness on our own side of the question also. 
 We are pained by it ; we feel humiliated by 
 
INTELLECTUAL HYGIENICS, 465 
 
 it ; we lament its persistence and its perver- 
 sity. 
 
 I have said nearly all that has to be said in 
 favor of your rule of abstinence. I have 
 granted that the newspapers cost us much, 
 time, which, if er" ployed for great intellect- 
 ual purposes, would carry us very far ; that 
 they give disproportionate views of things by 
 the emphasis they give to novelty, and false 
 views by the unfairness which belongs to 
 party. I might have added that newspaper 
 writers give such a preponderance to politics 
 —not political philosophy, but to the every- 
 day work of politicians — tiiat intellectual cult- 
 ure is thrown into the background, and the- 
 election of a single member of Parliament ia 
 made to seem of greater national importance. 
 than the birth of a powerful idea. And yet, 
 notwithstanding all these considerations,, 
 which are serious indeed for the intellectuaL. 
 I believe that your resolution is unwise, and. 
 that you will find it to be untenable. One 
 momentous reason more than counterbalances 
 all these considerations put together. News- 
 papers are to the whole civilized world what 
 the daily house-talk is to the members of a 
 household ; they keep up our daily interest in 
 each other, they save us from the evils of iso- 
 lation. To live as a member of the great, 
 white race of men, the race that has filled. 
 Europe and America, and colonized or con- 
 quered whatever other territories it has been 
 pleased to occupy, to share from day to day 
 its cares, its thoughts, its aspirations^ it is 
 
 .HO 
 
THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE, 
 
 Necessary that every man should read his 
 daily newspaper. Why are the French peas- 
 ants so bewildered and at sea, so out of place iii 
 the modern world? It is because they never 
 jread a newspaper. And why are the inhabi- 
 tants of the United States, though scattered 
 over a territory fourteen times the area of 
 S'rance, so much more capable of concerted 
 political action, so much more alive and mod- 
 ern, so much more interested in new discov- 
 ^eries of all kinds and capable of selecting and 
 utilizing the best of them? It is because the 
 newspaper penetrates everywhere ; and even 
 the lonely dweller on the prairie or in the 
 forest is not intellectually isolated from the 
 great currents of public life which flow 
 through the telegraph and the press. 
 
 The experiment of doing without newspa- 
 pers has been tried by a whole class, the 
 French peasantry, with the consequences that 
 we know, and it has also from time to time 
 been tried by single individuals belonging to 
 more enlightened sections of society. Let us 
 take one instance, and let us note what appear 
 to have been the effects of this abstinence. 
 Auguste Comte abstained from newspapers 
 as a teetotaller abstains from spirituous liq- 
 uors. Now, Auguste Comte possessed a gift 
 of nature which, though common m minor 
 degrees, is in the degree in which he possessed 
 it rarer than enormous diamonds. That gift 
 was the power of dealing with abstract intel- 
 lectual conceptions, and living amidst them 
 always, as the practical mind lives in and 
 
INTELLECTUAL HYGIENICS. 467 
 
 deals with material things. And it happened 
 in Comte's case, as it usually does happen in 
 cases of very peculiar endowment, that the 
 gift was accompanied by the instincts neces- 
 sary to its perfect development and to its pres- 
 ervation. Comte instinctively avoided the 
 conversation of ordinary people, because he 
 felt it to be injurious to the perfect exercise of 
 his faculty, and for the same reason he would 
 not read newspapers. In imposing upon him- 
 self these privations he acted like a very emi- 
 nent living etcher, who, having the gift of an 
 extraordinary delicacy of hand, preserves it 
 by abstinence from everything that may efcecfc 
 the steadiness of the nerves. There is a cer- 
 tain difference, however, between the two 
 cases which I am anxious to accentuate. The 
 etcher runs no risk of any kind by his rule of 
 abstinence. He refrains from several common 
 indulgences, but he denies himself nothing 
 that is necessary to health. I may even go 
 farther, and say that the rules which he ob- 
 serves for the sake of perfection in his art, 
 might be observed with advantage by many 
 who are not artists, for the sake of their own 
 tranquillity, without the loss of anything but 
 pleasure. The rules which Comte made for 
 himself involved, on the other hand, a great 
 peril. In detaching himself so completely 
 from the interests and ways of thinking of 
 ordinary men, he elaborated, indeed, the con- 
 ceptions of the positive philosophy, but arrived 
 afterwards at a peculiar kind of intellectual 
 decadence from which it is possible — probable 
 
468 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 even — that the rough common sense of the 
 newspapers might have preserved him. They 
 would have saved him, I seriously believe, 
 from that mysticism which led to the inven- 
 tion of a religion far surpassing in unreasona- 
 bleness the least rational of the creeds of tra- 
 dition. It is scarcely imaginable, exce]3t on 
 the supposition of actual insanity, that any 
 regular reader of the Times, the Temps, the 
 Daily News, and the Saturday Review, should 
 believe the human race to be capable of receiv- 
 ing as the religion of its maturity the Comtist 
 Trinity and the Comtist Virgin Mother. A 
 Trinity consisting of the Great Being (or hu- 
 manity), the G-reat Fetish (or the earth), and 
 the Great Midst (or space) ; a hope for the hu- 
 man race (how uni)hysiological ! ) that women 
 might ultimately arrive at maternity inde- 
 pendently of virile help, — these are concep- 
 tions so remote, not only from the habits of 
 modern thought, but (what is more impor- 
 tant) from its tendencies, that they could not 
 occur to a mind in regular communication 
 with its contemporaries. 
 
 ' ' If you should transfer the amount of your 
 reading day by day from the newspaper to 
 the standard authors? " To this suggestion of 
 Emerson's it may be answered that the loss 
 would be greater than the gain. The w^riters 
 of Queen Anne's time could educate an Eng- 
 lishman of Queen Anne's time, but they can 
 only partially educate an Englishman of Queen 
 Yictoria's time. The mind is like a merchant's 
 ledger, it requires to be continually posted up 
 
INTELLECTUAL HYGIENICS. 46ft 
 
 to the latest date. Even the last telegram 
 may have upset some venerable theory that 
 has been received as infallible for ages. 
 
 In times when great historical events are 
 passing before our eyes, the journalist is to 
 future historians what the African traveller 
 is to the map-makers. His work is neither 
 complete nor orderly, but it is the fresh record 
 of an eye-witness, and enables us to become 
 ourselves spectators of the mighty drama of 
 the world. Never was this service so well 
 rendered a.s it is now, by correspondents who 
 achieve heroic feats of bodily and mental 
 prowess, exposing themselves to the greatest 
 dangers, and writing much and well in cir- 
 cumstances the most unfavorable to literary 
 composition. How vividly the English war 
 correspondents brought before us the repJity 
 of the great conflict betvfeen Germany and 
 France! What a romantic achievement^ 
 worthy to be sung in heroic verse, was the 
 finding of Livingstone by Stanley ! Not less 
 interesting have been the admirable series of 
 letters by M. Erdan in the Temps, in which, 
 with the firmness of a master-hand, he has 
 painted from the life, week after week, year 
 after year, the decline and fall of the temporal 
 power of the Papacy. I cannot think that 
 any page of Eoman history is better worth 
 reading than his letters, more interesting, in- 
 structive, lively, or authentic. Yet with your 
 contempt for newspapers you would lose all 
 this profitable entertainment, and seek instead 
 of it the accounts of former epochs not half so 
 
470 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 interesting as this fall of the temporal power, 
 accounts written in most cases by men in li- 
 braries who had not seen the sovereigns they 
 wrote about, nor talked with the people whose 
 condition they attempted to describe. You 
 have a respect for these accounts because they 
 are printed in books, and bound in leather, 
 and entitled "history," whilst you despise the 
 direct observation of a man like Erdan, be- 
 cause he is only a journalist, and his letters 
 are published in a newspaper. Is there not 
 some touch of prejudice in this, some mistake, 
 some narrowness of intellectual aristocracy? 
 
 LETTER IX. 
 
 TO AN AUTHOR WHO APPRECIATED CONTEMPO- 
 RARY LITERATURE. 
 
 Miss Mitford on the selfishness of authors — A suggestion of 
 Emerson's — A laconic rule of his— Traces of jealousy — 
 And of a more subtle feeling — A contradiction — Necessary 
 to resist the invasion of the present— A certain equihb- 
 rium— The opposite of a pedant — The best classics not 
 pedants, but artists. 
 
 Reading the other day a letter by Miss Mit- 
 ford, I was reminded of you as the eye is re-l 
 minded of green when it sees scarlet. You, 
 whose interest in literature has ever kept pace 
 with the time, to whom no new thing is un- 
 welcome if only it is good, are safe from her 
 accusations; but how many authors have de- 
 served them ! Miss Mitford is speaking of a 
 certain writer who is at the same time a cler- 
 
INTELLECTUAL HYGIENICS. 471 
 
 gyman, and whom it is not difficult to recog- 
 nize. 
 
 "I never," she says, "saw him. interested 
 in the slightest degree by the work of any 
 other author, except, indeed, one of his own 
 followers or of his own clique, and then only 
 as admiring or helping him. He has great 
 kindness and great sympathy with working 
 people, or with a dying friend, but I profess to 
 you I am amazed at the utter selfishness of au- 
 thors. I do not know one single poet who cares 
 for any man's poetry but nis own. In general 
 they read no books except such as may be nec- 
 essary to their own writings — that is to the 
 work they hapi3en to be about, and even then I 
 suspect that they only read the bits that they 
 may immediately want. You know the abso- 
 lute ignorance in which Wordsworth lived of 
 all modern works ; and if, out of compliment to 
 a visitor, he thought it needful to seem to read 
 or listen to two or three stanzas, he gave unhes- 
 itating praise to the writer himself, but took 
 especial care not to repeat the praise where it 
 might have done him good — utterly fair and 
 false." 
 
 There are touches of this spirit of indiffer- 
 ence to contemporary literature in several 
 writers and scholars whom we know. There 
 are distinct traces of it even in published 
 writings, though it is much more evident in 
 private life and habit. Emerson seriously 
 suggests that ' ' the human mind would per- 
 haps be a gainer if all the secondary writers 
 were lost — say, in England, all but Shakes- 
 
472 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE, 
 
 peare, Milton, and Bacon, through the pro- 
 founder study so drawn to those wonderful 
 minds." In the same spirit we have Emer- 
 son's laconic rule, " Never read any but famed 
 books," which suggests the remark that if 
 men had obeyed this rule from the beginning, 
 no book could ever have acquired reputation, 
 and nobody would ever have read anything. 
 The idea of hmiting English literature to a 
 holy trinity of Shakespeare, Milton, and 
 Bacon, and voluntarily losing all other au- 
 thors, seems to me the most intense expres- 
 sion of the spirit of aristocracy in reading. 
 It is as if a man were to decide in his own 
 mind that society would be the better if all 
 persons except the three Emperors were ex- 
 cluded from it. There is a want of reliance 
 upon one's own judgment, and an excess of 
 faith in the estimates of others, when we re- 
 solve to read only those books which come to 
 us in the splendor of a recognized intellectual 
 royalty. We read either to gain information, 
 to have good thinking suggested to us, or to 
 have our imagination stimulated. In the way 
 of knowledge the best authors are alw^^ys the 
 * most recent, so that Bacon could not suffice. 
 In the way of thinking, our methods have 
 gained in precision since Milton's time, and 
 we are helped by a larger experience than his. 
 The one thing which Shakespeare and Milton 
 can do for us quite perfectly still, is to fill our 
 imagination richly, and give it a fine stimu- 
 lus. But modern writers can render us the 
 same service. 
 
INTELLECTUAL HYGIENICS. 473 
 
 Is there not a little jealousy of contempo- 
 raries in the persistence with which some 
 authors avoid them, and even engage others 
 to av0id them? May not there be a shade of 
 another feeling than jealousy, a feeling more 
 subtle in operation, the undefined apprehen- 
 sion that we may find, even amongst our 
 more obscure contemporaries, merit equal to 
 our own? So long as we restrict our reading 
 to old books of great fame we are safe from 
 this apprehension, for if we find admirable 
 qualities, we know beforehand that the world 
 has handsomely acknowledged them, and we 
 indulge in the hope that our own admirable 
 qualities will be recognized by posterity with 
 equal hberality. But it creates an unpleasant 
 feeling of uneasiness to see quantities of ob- 
 scure contemporary work, done in a plain 
 way to earn a living by men of third or fourth- 
 rate reputation, or of no reputation at all, 
 which ill many respects would fairly sustain 
 a comparison with our own. It is clear that 
 an author ought to be the last person to 
 advise the public not to read contemporary 
 literature, since he is himself a maker of con- 
 temporary literature; and there is a direct 
 contradiction between the invitation to read 
 his book, which he circulates by the act of 
 publishing, and the advice which the book 
 contains. Emerson is more safe from this 
 obvious rejoinder when he suggests to us to 
 transfer our reading day by day from the 
 newspaper to the standard authors. But are 
 these suggestions anything more than the 
 
474 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 Teaction of an intellectual man against the 
 too prevalent customs of the world? The 
 reading practised by most people, by all who 
 do not set before themselves intellectual cult- 
 ure as one of the definite aims of life, is re- 
 markabla for the regularity with which it 
 neglects all the great authors of the past. 
 The books provided by the circulating library, 
 the reviews and magazines, the daily news- 
 papers, are read whilst they are novelties, 
 but the standard authors are left on their 
 shelves unopened. We require a firm resolu- 
 tion to resist this invasion of what is new, 
 beca^use it flows like an unceasing river, and 
 unless v/e protect our time against it by some 
 solid embankment of unshakable rule and 
 resolution, every nook and cranny of it will 
 be filled and flooded. An Englishman whose 
 life was devoted to culture, but who lived in 
 an out-of-the-way place on the Continent, told 
 me that he considered it a decided advantage 
 to his mind to live quite outside of the English 
 library system, because if he wanted to read 
 a new book he had to buy it and x^ay heavily 
 for carriage besides, Vv^hich made him very 
 careful in his choice. For the same reason 
 he rejoiced that the nearest English news- 
 room was two hundred miles from his resi- 
 dence. 
 
 But, on the other hand, what would be the 
 condition of a man's mind who never read 
 anything but the classic authors? He would 
 live in an intellectual monastery, and would 
 not even understand the classic authors them- 
 
INTELLECTUAL HYGIENICS. 475 
 
 selves, for we understand the past only by 
 referring it to what we know in the present. 
 
 It is best to preserve our minds in a state of 
 equilibrium, and not to allow our repugnance 
 to what we see as an evil to drive us into an 
 evil of an opposite kind. We are too often 
 like those little toy-fish with a bit of steel in 
 their mouths, which children attract with a 
 magnet. If you present the positive pole of 
 the magnet, the fish rushes at it at once, but 
 if jow offer the negative end it retreats con- 
 tinually. Everything relatively to our char- 
 acter has this positive or negative end, and we 
 either rush to things or rush away from them. 
 Some persons are actually driven away 
 from the most entertaining writers because 
 they happen to be what are called classics, be- 
 cause pedants boast of having read them. I 
 know a man who is exactly the opposite of a 
 2)edant, who has a horror of the charlatanism 
 which claims social and intellectual position 
 as the reward for having laboriously waded 
 through those authors who are conventionally 
 termed ' ' classical, " and this oj)position to 
 pedantry has given him an aversion to the 
 classics themselves, which he never opens. 
 The shallow pretence to admiration of famous 
 writers which is current in the world is so dis- 
 tasteful to the love of honesty and reality 
 which is the basis of his character, that by 
 an unhappy association of ideas he has ac- 
 quired a repugnance to the w^riters them- 
 selves. But such men as Horace, Terence, 
 Shakespeare, Moliere, though they have had 
 
THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 the misfortune to be praised and commen- 
 tated upon by pedants, were in their lives the 
 precise opposite of pedants ; they were artists 
 whose study was human nature, and who 
 lived without pretension in the common 
 world of men. The pedants have a habit of 
 considering these genial old artists as in some 
 mysterious way their own private property, 
 for do not the pedants live by expounding 
 them? And some of us are frightened away 
 from the fairest realms of poetry by the 
 fences of these grim guardians. 
 
 LETTER X. 
 
 TO AN AUTHOR WHO KEPT VERY IRREGULAR 
 HOURS. 
 
 Julian Fane — His late hours— Regularity produced by habit — 
 The time of the principal effort— That the chief work 
 should be done in the best hoxn^ — Physicians prefer early 
 to late work — The practice of Goethe and some modem 
 authors — The morning worker ought to live In a tranquil 
 neighborhood— Night- work — The medical objection to it— 
 The student's objection to day-work — Time to be kept in 
 masses by adults, but divided into small portions by chil- 
 dren — Rapid turning of the mind— Cuvier eminent for this 
 faculty — The Duke of Wellington — The faculty more avail- 
 able with some occupations than others — The slavery of a 
 minute obedience to the clock— Broad rules the best — 
 Books of agenda, good in business, but not in the higher 
 intellectual piirsuite. 
 
 What you told me of your habits in the 
 employment of your hours reminded me of 
 Julian Fane. Mr. Lytton tells us that "after 
 
INTELLECTUAL HYGIENICS. 477 
 
 a long day of professional business, followed 
 by a late evening of social amusement, he 
 would return in the small hours of the night 
 to his books, and sit, unwearied, till sunrise 
 in the study of them. Nor did he then seem 
 to suffer from this habit of late hours. His 
 nightly vigils occasioned no appearance of 
 fatigue the next day. , . . He rarely rose be- 
 fore noon, and generally rose much later." 
 
 But however irregular a man's distribution 
 of his time may be in the sense of wanting 
 the government of fixed rules, there always 
 comes in time a certain regularity by the 
 mere operation of habit. People who get up 
 very late hardly ever do so in obedience to a 
 rule ; many get up early by rule, and many 
 more are told that they ought to get up early, 
 and believe it, and aspire to that virtue, but 
 fail to carry it into practice. The late-risers 
 are rebels and sinners — in this respect— to a 
 man, and so persistently have the wise, from 
 Solomon downwards, harped upon the moral 
 loveliness of early rising and the degrada- 
 tion which follows the opposite practice, that 
 one can hardly get up after eight without 
 either an uncomfortable sense of guilt or an ex- 
 traordinary callousness. Yet the late-risers, 
 though obeying no rule, for the abandoned 
 sinner recognizes none, become regular in 
 their late rising from the gradual fixing pow- 
 er of habit. Even Julian Fane, though he 
 regretted his desultory ways, "and dwelt 
 with great earnestness on the importance 
 of regular habits of work," was perhaps 
 
478 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 less irregular than he himself believed. "We 
 are sure to acquire habits; what is impor- 
 tant is not so much that the habits should 
 be regular, as that their regularity should 
 "be of the kind most favorable in the long run 
 to the accomplishment of our designs, and 
 this never comes by chance, it is the result of 
 an enort of the will in obedience to govern- 
 ing wisdom. 
 
 The first question which every one who has 
 the choice of his hours must settle for him- 
 self is at what time of day he will make his 
 principal effort ; for the day of every intellect- 
 ual workman ought to be marked by a kind 
 of artistic composition; there ought to be 
 some one labor distinctly recognized as dom- 
 inant, with others in subordination, and sub- 
 ordination of various degrees. Now for the 
 hours at which the principal effort ought to 
 be made, it is not possible to fix them by 
 the clock so as to be suitable for everybody, 
 but a broad rule may be arrived at which is 
 applicable to all imaginable cases. The rule 
 is this — to do the chief work in the best hours ; 
 to give it the pick of your day ; and by day 
 I do not mean only the solar day, but the 
 whole of the twenty -four hours. There is an 
 important physiological reason for giving the 
 best hours to the most important work. The 
 better the condition of the brain and the body, 
 and the more favorable the surrounding cir- 
 cumstances, the smaller will be the cost to 
 the organization of the labor that has to be 
 done. It is always the safest way to do the 
 
INTELLECTUAL HYGIENICS. 479 
 
 heaviest (or most important) work at the 
 time and under the conditions which make it 
 the least costly. 
 
 Physicians are unanimous in their prefer- 
 ence of early to late work ; and no doubt, if 
 the question were not complicated by other 
 considerations, we could not do better than to 
 follow their advice in its sim.plicity. Goethe 
 wrote in the morning, with his faculties re- 
 freshed by sleep and not yet excited by any 
 stimulant. I could mention several living 
 authors of eminence who pursue the same 
 plan, and find it favorable alike to health 
 and to production. Tlie rule which they fol- 
 low is never to write after lunch, leav- 
 ing the rest of their time free for study 
 and society, both of which are absolutely 
 necessary to authors. According to this 
 system it is presumed that the hours be- 
 tween breakfast and lunch are the best 
 hours. In many cases they are so. A per- 
 son in fair health, after taking a light 
 early breakfast without any heavier stimu- 
 lant than tea or coffee, finds himself in a 
 state of freshness highly favorable to sound 
 and agreeable thinking. His brain will be in 
 still finer order if the breakfast has been pre- 
 ceded by a cold bath, with friction and a lit- 
 tle exercise. The feeling of freshness, cleanli- 
 ness, and moderate exhilaration, will last for 
 several hours, and during those hours the in- 
 tellectual work will probably be both lively 
 and reasonable. It is difficult for a man who 
 feels cheerful and refreshed, and whose ta^k 
 
480 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 seems easy and light, to write anything mor- 
 bid or perverse. 
 
 But for the morning to be so good as I have 
 just described it, the workman must be quite 
 favorably situated. He ought to live in a 
 very tranquil neighborhood, and to be as free 
 as possible from anxiety as to what the post- 
 man may have in reserve for him. If his 
 study- window looks out on a noisy street, and 
 if the day is sure, as it wears on, to bring 
 anxious business of its own, then the increas- 
 ing noise and the apprehension (even though 
 it be almost entirely unconscious) of impend- 
 ing business, will be quite sufficient to inter- 
 fere with the work of any man who is the 
 least in the world nervous, and almost a,ll in- 
 tellectual laborers are nervous, more or less. 
 Men who have the inestimable advantage of 
 absolute tranquillity, at all times, do well to 
 work in the morning, but those who can only 
 get tranquillity at times independent of their 
 own choice have a strong reason for working 
 at those times, whether they happen to be in 
 the morning or not. 
 
 In an excellent article on " Work " (evi- 
 dently written by an experienced intellectual 
 workman), which appeared in one of the early 
 numoers of the Cornhill Magazine, and was 
 remarkable alike for practical wisdom and 
 the entire absence of traditional dogmatism, 
 the writer speaks frankly in favor of night- 
 work, ' ' If you can work at all at night, one 
 hour at that time is worth any two in the 
 morning. The house is hushed, the brain is 
 
INTELLECTUAL HYGIENICS. 481 
 
 clear, the distracting influences of the day 
 are at an end. You have not to disturb your- 
 Beif with thoughts of what you are about to 
 do, or what you are about to suffer. You 
 know that there is a gulf between you and 
 the affairs of the outside world, almost like 
 the chasm of death ; and that you need not 
 take thought of the morrow until the mor- 
 row has come. There Jire few really great 
 thoughts, such as the world will not willingly 
 let die, that have not been conceived under 
 the quiet stars." 
 
 The medical objection to night- work in the 
 case of literary men would prooabiy be that 
 the night is too favorable to literary produc- 
 tion. The author of the Essay just quoted 
 says that at night ' ' you only drift into deep- 
 er silence and quicker inspiration. If the 
 right mood is upon you, you write on; if not, 
 your pillow awaits you. " Exactly so; that is 
 to say, the brain, owing to the complete ex- 
 ternal tranquillity, can so concentrate its ef- 
 forts on the subject in hand as to work itself 
 up into a luminous condition which is fed by 
 the most rapid destruction of the nervous 
 substance that ever takes place within the 
 walls of a human skull. " If the right mood 
 is upon you, you write on; " in other words, 
 if you have once well lighted your spirit-lamp, 
 It will go on burning so long as any spirit is 
 left in it, for the air is so tranquil that noth- 
 ing comes to blow it out. You drift into 
 deeper silence and "quicker inspiration." It 
 31 
 
482 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 is just this quicker inspiration that the phy- 
 sician dreads. 
 
 Against this objection may be placed the 
 equally serious objection to day-work, that 
 every interruption, when you are particularly 
 anxious not to be interrupted, causes a defi- 
 nite loss and injury to the nervous system. 
 The choice must therefore be made between 
 two dangers, and if they are equally balanced 
 there can be no hesitation, because all the lit- 
 erary interests of an author are on the side of 
 the most tranquil time. Literary work is al- 
 ways sure to be much better done when there 
 is no fear of disturbance than under the ap- 
 prehension of it; and precisely the same 
 amount of cerebral effort will produce, when 
 the work is uninterrupted, not only better 
 writing, but a much greater quantity of writ- 
 ing. The knowledge that he is working well 
 and productively is an element of health to 
 every workman because it encourages cheer- 
 ful habits of mind. 
 
 In the division of time it is an excellent rule 
 for adults to keep it as much as possible in 
 large masses, not giving a quarter of an hour 
 to one occupation and a quarter to another, 
 but giving three, four, or five hours to one 
 thing at a time. In the case of children an 
 opposite practice should be followed ; they are 
 able to change their attention from one sul> 
 ject to another much more easily than we can, 
 whilst at the same time they cannot fix their 
 minds for very long without cerebral fatigue 
 leading to temporary incapacity. The custom 
 
INTELLECTUAL HYGIENICS. 483 
 
 prevalent in schools, of making the boys learn 
 several different things in the course of the 
 day, is therefor ) founded upon the necessities 
 of the boy-nature, though most grown men 
 would find that changes so frequent would, 
 for them, have all the inconveniences of inter- 
 ruption. To boys they come as relief, to men 
 as interruption. The reason is that the phys- 
 ical condition of the brain is different in the 
 two cases; but in our loose way of talking 
 about these things we may say that the boy's 
 ideas are superficial, like the plates and dishes 
 on the surface of a dinner-table, which may 
 be rapidly changed without inconvenience, 
 whereas the man's ideas, having all struck 
 root down to the very depths of his nature, are- 
 more like the plants in a garden, which can- 
 not be removed without a temporary loss both 
 of vigor and of beauty, and the loss cannot be 
 instantaneously repaired. For a man to do his 
 work thoroughly well, it is necessary that he 
 should dwell in it long enough at a time to get 
 all the powers of his mind fully under com- 
 mand with reference to the particular work 
 in hand, and he cannot do this without tuning 
 his whole mind to the given diapason, as a 
 tuner tunes a piano. Some men can tune 
 their minds more rapidly, as violins are tuned, 
 and this faculty may to a certain extent be ac- 
 quired by efforts of the will very frequently 
 repeated. Cuvier had this faculty in the most 
 eminent degree. One of his biographers says : 
 " His extreme facility for study, and of direct- 
 ing all the powers of his mind to diverse occu- 
 
484 THJE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 pations of study, from one quarter of an houi 
 to another, was one of the most extraordinary 
 qualities of his mind." The Duke of Welling- 
 ton also cultivated the habit (inestimably val- 
 uable to a public man) of directing the whole 
 of his attention to the subject under consider- 
 ation, however frequently that subject might 
 happen to be changed. But although men of 
 exceptional power and very exceptional flexi- 
 bility may do this with apparent impunity, 
 that still depends very much on the nature of 
 the occupation. There are some occupations 
 which are not incompatible with a fragmen- 
 tary division of time, because these occupa- 
 tions are themselves fragmentary. For ex- 
 ample, you may study languages in phrase- 
 books during very small spaces of time, be- 
 cause the complete phrase is in itself a very 
 small thing, but you could not so easily break 
 and resume the thread of an elaborate argu- 
 ment. I suspect that though Cuvier appeared 
 to his contemporaries a mian remarkably able 
 to leave off and resume his work at will, he 
 must have taken care to do work that would 
 bear interruption at those times when he knew 
 himself to be most liable to it. And although, 
 w^hen a man's time is unavoidably broken up 
 into fragments, no talent of a merely auxil- 
 iary kind can be more precious than that of 
 turning each of those fragments to advan- 
 tage, it is still true that he whose time is at 
 his own disposal will do his work most calmly, 
 most deliberately, and therefore on the whole 
 most thoroughly and perfectly, when ho 
 
INTELLECTUAL HYUIENICS. 485 
 
 keeps it in fine masses. The mere knowledge 
 that you have three or four clear hours before 
 you is in itself a great help to the spirit of 
 thoroughness, both in study and in production. 
 It is agreeable too, when the sitting has come 
 to an end, to perceive that a definite advance 
 is the result of it, and advance in anything is 
 scarcely perceptible in less than three or four 
 hours. 
 
 There are several pursuits which cannot be 
 followed in fragments of time, on account of 
 the necessary preparations. It is useless to 
 begin oil-painting unless you have full time 
 to set your palette properly, to get your can- 
 vas into a proper state for working Uf^^^^^j '>^^ 
 pose the model as you wish, and settle down 
 to work with everything as it ought to be. 
 In landscape-painting from nature you re- 
 quire the time to go to the selected place, and 
 after your arrival to arrange your materials 
 and shelter yourself from the sun. In scien- 
 tific pursuits the preparations are usually at 
 least equally elaborate, and often much more 
 so. To prepare for an experiment, or for a 
 dissection, takes time which we feel to be dis- 
 proportionate when it leaves too little for the 
 scientific work itself. It is for this reason 
 more frequently than for any other that ama- 
 teurs who begin in enthusiasm, so commonly^ 
 after awhile, abandon the objects of their 
 pursuit. 
 
 There is a kind of slavery to which no 
 really intellpctual man would ever volunta- 
 rily submi% a minute obedience to the clock. 
 
486 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 Very conscientious people often impose upon 
 themselves this sort of slavery. A person 
 who has hampered himself with rules of this 
 kind will take up a certain book, for instance, 
 when the clock strikes nine, and begin at yes- 
 terday's mark, perhaps in the middle of a 
 paragraph. Then he will read with great 
 steadiness till a quarter-past nine, and exactly 
 on the instant when the minute-hand gets op- 
 posite the dot, he will shut his book, however 
 much the passage may happen to interest him. 
 It was in allusion to good people of this kind 
 that Sir Walter Scott said he had never 
 known a man of genius who could be per- 
 fectly regular in his habits, whilst he had 
 known many blockheads who could. It is 
 easy to see that a minute obedience to the 
 clock is unintellectual in its very nature, for 
 the intellect is not a piece of mechanism as a 
 clock is, and cannot easily be made to act 
 like one. There may be perfect correspond- 
 ence between the locomotives and the clocks 
 on a railway, for if the clocks are pieces of 
 mechanism the locomotives are so likewise, 
 but the intellect always needs a certain loose- 
 ness and latitude as to time. Very broad 
 rules are the best, such as "Write in the 
 morning, read in the afternoon, see friends in 
 the evening," or else " Study one day and pro- 
 duce another, alternately," or even "Work 
 one week and see the world another week, 
 alternately." 
 
 There is a fretting habit, much recom- 
 mended by men of business and of. great use 
 
INTELLECTUAL HYGIENICS. 487 
 
 to them, of writing the evening before the 
 duties of the day in a book of agenda. If 
 this is done at all by intellectual men with 
 reference to their pursuits, it ought to be 
 done in a very broad, loose way, never mi- 
 nutely. An intellectual worker ought never 
 to make it a matter of conscience (in intel- 
 lectual labor) to do a predetermined quantity 
 of little things. This sort of conscientiousness 
 frets and worries, and is the enemy of all se- 
 renity of thought. 
 
PART XL 
 
 TRADES AND PROFESSION'S. 
 
 LETTER I. 
 
 TO A YOUNG GENTLEMAN OF ABILITY AND CUL1> 
 URE WHO HAD NOT DECIDED ABOUT HIS PRO* 
 
 FESSION. 
 
 The Church- -Felicities and advantages of the clerical profes- 
 sion — Its elevated ideal — That it is favorable j noble stud- 
 les^i^'rench priests and English Clergymen — The profes- 
 sional point of view — Difficulty of disinterested thinking — 
 Colored light— Y/ant of strict acciu'acy — Quotation from a 
 serraon-The drawback to the clerical life — Provisional 
 nature of intellectual conclusions — The legal profession— 
 That it affords gratiflcation to the intellectual powers — 
 Wtint of intellectual disinterestedness in lawyers — Their 
 absorption in professional life — Anecdote of a London, 
 lawyer — Superiority of lawyers in their sense of affairs — 
 Medicine— The study of it a fine preparation for the intel- 
 lectual life — Social rise of medical men coincident with the- 
 mental progress of communities— Their probable futvu*» 
 influence on education — The heroic side of their profes- 
 sion—The military and naval professions— Bad effect oi 
 the privation of solitude — Interruxjtion— Anecdote of Cu- 
 vier — The fine arts — In what way they are favorable to 
 thought— Intellectual leisure of artists— Reasoning artists, 
 — Sciences included in the fine arts. 
 
 It may be taken for granted that to a mind 
 constituted as yours is, no profession will be 
 satisfactory which^ does not afford free play^ 
 to the intellectual powers. You might no 
 
TRADES AND PEOFESSIOJ^S. 48(4 
 
 doubt exercise resolution enough to bind 
 yourself down to uncongenial work for a 
 term of years, but it would be with the inten- 
 tion of retiring as soon as you had realized a 
 competency. The happiest life is that which 
 constantly exercises and educates what is 
 best m us. 
 
 You had thoughts, at one time, of the 
 Church, and the Church would have suited 
 you in many respects very happily, yet not, 
 I think, in all respects. The clerical profes- 
 sion has many great felicities and advan- 
 tages : it educates and develops, by its mild but 
 regular discipline, much of our higher nature; 
 it sets before us an elevated ideal, worth striv- 
 ing for at the cost of every sacrifice but one, 
 of which I intend to say something farther 
 on ; and it offers just that mixture of public 
 and private life which best affords the alter- 
 nation of activity and rest. It is an existence 
 in many respects most favorable to the no- 
 blest studies. It offers the happiest combina- 
 tion of duties that satisfy the conscience with 
 leisure for the cultivation of the mind; it 
 gives the easiest access to all classes of society, 
 providing for the parson himself a neutral 
 and independent position, so safe that he need 
 only conduct himself properly to preserve it. 
 How superior, from the intellectual point of 
 view, is this liberal existence to the narrower 
 one of a French cure de campagne ! I cer- 
 tainly think that if a good cure has an excey- 
 tional genius for sancitity, his chaiices of bv- 
 .coming a perfect saint are better than those 
 
490 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE, 
 
 of a comfortable English incumbent, who is 
 at the same time a gentleman and man of the 
 world, but he is not nearly so well situated 
 for leading the intellectual life. Our own 
 clergy have a sort of middle position between 
 the cure and the layman, which without at 
 all interfering with their spiritual vocation, 
 makes them better judges of the character of 
 laymen and more completely in sympathy 
 with it. 
 
 And yet, although the life of a clergyman 
 is favorable to culture in many ways, it is 
 not wholly favorable to it. There exists, in 
 clerical thinking generally, just one restric- 
 tion or impediment, which is the overwhelm- 
 ing importance of the professional point of 
 view. Of all the professions the ecclesiasti- 
 cal one is that which most decidedly and most 
 constantly affects the judgment of persons 
 and opinions. It is peculiarly difficult for a 
 clergyman to attain disinterestedness in his 
 thinking, to accept truth just as it may hap- 
 pen to present itself, without.passionately de- 
 siring that one doctrine may turn out to be 
 strong in evidence and another unsupported. 
 And so we find the clergy, as a class, anxious 
 rather to discover aids to faith, than the sim- 
 ple scientific truth ; and the more the special 
 priestly character develops itself, the more 
 we find them disposed to use their intellects 
 for the triumph of principles that are decided 
 upon beforehand. Sometimes this disposition 
 leads them to see the acts of laymen in a col- 
 ored light and to speak of them without strict 
 
TRADES AND PROFESSIONS. 491 
 
 accuracy. Here is an example of what I 
 mean. A Jesuit priest preached a sermon in 
 London very recently, in which he said that 
 "in Germany, France, Italy, and England, 
 gigantic efforts were being made to rob Chris- 
 tian children of the blessing of a Christian 
 education." "Herod, though dead," the 
 preacher continued, ' ' has left his mantle be- 
 hind him; and I wish that the soldiers of 
 Herod in those countries would plunge their 
 swords into the breasts of little children while 
 they were innocent, rather than have their 
 souls destroyed by means of an unchristian 
 and uncatholic education." No doubt this is 
 very earnest and sincere, but it is not accu- 
 rate and just thinking. The laity in the 
 countries the preacher mentioned have cer- 
 tainly a strong tendency to exclude theology 
 from State schools, because it is so difficult 
 for a modern State to impose any kind of the- 
 ological teaching without injustice to minori- 
 ties; but the laity do not desire to deprive 
 children of whatever instruction may be 
 given to them by the clergy of their re- 
 spective communions. May I add, that to 
 the mind of a layman it seems a sanguinary 
 desire that all little children should liave 
 swords plunged into their breasts rather than 
 be taught in schools not clerically directed? 
 The exact truth is, that the powerful lay ele- 
 ment is certainly separating itself from the 
 ecclesiastical element all over Europe, be- 
 cause it is found by experience tha>t the two 
 have a great and increasing difficulty in work- 
 
492 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 ing harmoniously together, but the ecclesias- 
 tical element is detached and not destroyed. 
 The quotation I have just made is in itself a 
 sufficient illustration of that very peculiarity 
 in the more exalted ecclesiastical tempera- 
 ment, which often makes it so difficult for 
 priests and governments, in these times, to 
 get on comfortably together. Here is first a 
 very inaccurate statement, and then an out- 
 burst of most passionate feeling, whereas the 
 intellect desires the strictest truth and the 
 most complete disinterestedness. As the tem- 
 per of the laity becomes more and more intel- 
 lectual (and that is the direction of its move- 
 ment), the sacerdotal habit will become more 
 and more remote from it. 
 
 The clerical life has many strong attrac- 
 tions for the intellectual, and just one draw- 
 back to counterbalance them. It offers tran- 
 quillity, shelter from the interruptions and 
 anxieties of the more active professions, and 
 powerful means of influence ready to hand ; 
 but it is compatible with intellectual freedom 
 and with the satisfaction of the conscience, 
 only just so long as the priest really remains a 
 believer in the details of his religion. Now, al- 
 though we may reasonably hope to retain the 
 chief elements of our belief, although what a 
 man believes at twenty-five is always what 
 he will most probably believe at fifty, still, in 
 an age when free inquiry is the common 
 habit of cultivated people of our sex, we may 
 well hesitate before taking upon ourselves 
 any formal engagement for the future, es- 
 
TBADES AND PEOFESSIONS. 493 
 
 pecially in matters of detail. The intellectual 
 spirit does not regard its conclusions as being 
 at any time final, but always provisional ; we 
 hold what we believe to be the truth until we 
 can replace it by some more perfect truth, 
 but cannot tell how much of to-day's beliefs 
 to-morrow will retain or reject. It may be 
 observed, however, that the regular perform- 
 ance of priestly functions is in itself a great 
 help to permanence in belief by connecting it 
 •closely with practical habit, so that the clergy 
 do really and honestly often retain through 
 life their hold on early beliefs which as lay- 
 men they might have lost. 
 
 The profession of the law provides ample 
 opportunities for a critical intellect with a 
 ■strong love of accuracy and a robust capac- 
 ity for hard work, besides which it is the best 
 of worldly educations. Some lawyers love 
 their work as passionately as artists do 
 theirs, others dislike it very heartily, most of 
 them seem to take it as a simple business to 
 be done for daily bread. Lawyers whose 
 ieart is in their work are invariably men of 
 superior ability, w^hich proves that there is 
 something in it that affords gratification to 
 the intellectual powers. However, in speak- 
 ing of lawyers, I feel ignorant and on the out- 
 side, because their profession is one of which 
 the interior feelings can be known to no one 
 who has not practised. One thing seems 
 clear, they get the habit of employing the 
 whole strength and energy of their minds for 
 -especial and temporary ends, the purpose be- 
 
494 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 ing the service of the client, certainly not the 
 revelation of pure truth. Hence, although 
 they become very acute, and keen judges of 
 that side of human nature which they habitu- 
 ally see (not the best side), they are not more 
 disinterested than clergymen.* Sometimes 
 they take up some study outside of their pro- 
 fession and follow it disinterestedly, but this. 
 is rare. A busy lawyer is much more likely 
 than a clergyman to become entirely absorbed 
 in his professional life, because it requires so 
 much more intellectual exertion. I remember 
 asking a very clever lawyer who lived in Lon- 
 don, whether he ever visited an exhibition of 
 pictures, and he answered me by the counter- 
 inquiry whether I had read Chitty on Con- 
 tracts, Collier on Partnerships, Taylor on Ev- 
 idence, Cruse's Digest, or Smith's Mercantile 
 Law? This seemed to me at the time a good 
 instance of the way a professional habit may 
 narrow one's views of things, for these law- 
 books were written for lawyers alone, whilst 
 the picture exhibitions were intended for the 
 public generally. My friend's answer would 
 have been more to the point if I had inquired 
 whether he had read Linton on Colors, and 
 Burnet on Chiaroscuro. 
 
 There is just one situation in which we all 
 may feel for a short time as lawyers feel ha- 
 bitually. Suppose that two inexperienced 
 players sit down to a game of chess, and that 
 
 * The word " disinterested " is used here in the sense ex- 
 plained in Part II. Letter III. 
 
TEADES AND PROFESSIONS. 495 
 
 jach is backed by a clever person who is con- 
 »itantly giving him hints. The two backers 
 i'epresent the lawyers, and the players repre- 
 sent their clients. There is not much disin- 
 terested thought in a situation of this kind, 
 but there is a strong stimulus to acute- 
 Tiess. 
 
 I think that lawyers are often superior to 
 philosophers in their sense of what is relatively 
 iiTipoi'tant in human affairs with reference to 
 limited spaces of time, such as half a century. 
 They especially know the enormous impor- 
 tance of custom, which the speculative mind 
 very readily forgets, and they have in the 
 liighest degree that peculiar sense which fits 
 men for dealing with others in the affairs of 
 ordinary life. In this respect they are remark- 
 ably superior to clergymen, and superior also 
 to artists and men of science. 
 
 The profession of medicine is, of all fairly 
 lucrative professions, the one best suited to the 
 development of the intellectual life. Having 
 to deal continually with science, being con- 
 stantly engaged in following and observing 
 "the operation of natural laws, it produces a 
 sense of the working of those laws which pre- 
 pares the mind for bold and original specula- 
 tion, and a reliance upon their unfailing regu- 
 larity, which gives it great firmness and as- 
 surance. A medical education is the best 
 possible preparation for philosophical pur- 
 suits, because it gives them a solid basis in 
 the ascertainable. The estimation in which 
 these studies are held is an accurate meter of 
 
THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 the intellectual advancement of a comniiinity. 
 When the priest is reverenced, as a being above- 
 ordinary humanity , and the physician slightly 
 esteemed, the condition of society is sure to 
 be that of comparative ignorance and barba- 
 rism ; and it is one of several signs which in- 
 dicate barbarian feeling in our own aristocra- 
 cy, that it has a contempt for the study of 
 medicine. The progress of society towards? 
 enlightenment is marked by the steady social 
 rise of the surgeon and the physician, a rise 
 which still continues, even in Western Europe. 
 It is probable that before very long the medi- 
 cal profession will exercise a powerful influ- 
 ence upon general education, and take an 
 active share in it. There are very strong rea- 
 sons for the opinion that schoolmasters edu- 
 cated in medicine would be peculiarly well 
 qualified to train both body and mind for a 
 vigorous and active manhood. An immense 
 advantage, even from the intellectual point of 
 view, in the pursuit of medicine and surgery, 
 is that they supply a discipline in mental 
 heroism. Other professions do this also, but 
 not to the same degree. The combination of 
 an accurate training in positive science with 
 the habitual contempt of danger and contem- 
 plation of suffering and death, is the finest 
 possible preparation for noble studies and 
 arduous discoveries. I ought to add, however,, 
 that medical men in the provinces, when they 
 have not any special enthusiasm for their 
 work, seem peculiarly liable to the deadening 
 influences of routine, and easily fall behind 
 
TEADES AND P110FESSI0N8. 4'Jl 
 
 their age. The medical periodicals provide 
 the best remedy for this. 
 
 The military and naval professions are too 
 active, and too much bound to obedience in 
 their activity, for the highest intellectual pur- 
 suits ; but their greatest evil in this respect iw 
 the continual privation of solitude, and tlio 
 frequency of interruption. A soldier's life in 
 the higher ranks, when there is great respon- 
 sibility and the necessity for personal decision^ 
 undoubtedly leads to the most brilliant em- 
 ployment of the mental powers, and develops 
 a manliness of character which is often of the 
 greatest use in intellectual work; so that a 
 man of science may find his force augmented, 
 and better under control, for having passed 
 through a military experience ; but the life of 
 ba^rracks and camps is destructive to contin- 
 uity of thinking. The incompatibility be- 
 comes strikingly manifest when we reiiect how 
 impossible it would have been for Ney or Mas- 
 sena to do the work of Cuvier ^r Comte., 
 Cuvier even declined to accompany the expe- 
 dition to Egypt, notwithstanding the pros- 
 pects of advantage that it offered. The rea- 
 son he gave for this refusal was, that lie 
 could do more for science in the tranquillity 
 of the Jardin des Plantes. He was a strict 
 economist of time, and dreaded the loss of it- 
 involved in following an army, even though 
 his mission would have been purely scientific. 
 How much more would Cuvier have dreaded 
 the interruptions of a really military exist- 
 ence ! It is these interruptions, and not aiiy 
 32 
 
498 TUJiJ INTELLECTUAL LIFE, 
 
 want of natural ability, that are the true ex* 
 planation of the intellectual poverty which 
 characterizes the military profession. Of all 
 the liberal professions it is the least studious. 
 Let me say a word in conclusion about the 
 practical pursuit of the fine arts. Painters 
 are often remai'kable for pleasant conversa- 
 tional power, and a degree of intelligence 
 strikingly superior to their literary culture. 
 This is because the processes of their art can 
 Ibe followed, at least under certain circum- 
 stances, by the exercise of hand and eye, 
 directed merely by artistic taste and experi- 
 ence, whilst the intellect is left free either for 
 reflection or conversation. Rubens liked to 
 be read to when he painted; many artists 
 like to hear people talk, and to take a share 
 occasionally in the conversation. The truth 
 is that artists, even when they work very as- 
 «>iduously, do in fact enjoy great spaces of 
 .eiitellectual leisure, and often profit by them. 
 Painting itself is also a fine discipline for 
 some of the best faculties of the mind, though 
 it is well known that the most gifted artists 
 think least about their art. Stiil there is a 
 large class of painters, including many emi- 
 nent ones, who proceed intellectually in the 
 execution of their works, who reason them 
 out philosophically step by step, and exercise 
 a continual criticism upon their manual labor 
 as it goes forward. I find, as I know art and 
 artists better, that this class is more numerous 
 than is commonly suspected, and that the 
 charming effects which we believe to be the 
 
TRADES AND PROFESSIONS. 49S 
 
 result of pure inspiration have often been 
 elaborately reasoned out like a problem in 
 mathematics. We are very apt to forget that 
 art includes a great science, the science of 
 natural appearances, and that the technical 
 work of painters and engravers cannot go 
 forward safely without the prof oundest knowl- 
 edge of certain delicate materials, this being 
 also a science, and a difficult one. The com- 
 mon tendency is to underrate (from ignorance) 
 wdiat is intellectual in the practice of the 
 fine arts; and yet the artists of past times 
 have left evidence enough that they thought 
 about art, and thought deeply. Artists are 
 often illiterate ; but it is possible to be at the 
 same time illiterate and intellectual; as m^o 
 see frequent examples of book-learning in 
 people who have scarcely a single idea of 
 their own. 
 
 LETTER II. 
 
 TO A YOUNG GENTLEMAN WHO HAD LITERARY 
 AND ARTISTIC TASTES, BUT NO PROFESSION. 
 
 The world only recognizes performance — Uselessness of botch- 
 work — Vastness of the hiterval between botch-work and 
 handicraft — Delusions of the well-to-do — Quotation from 
 Charles Lever — Indifference, and even contempt, for skUl 
 — Moral contempt for skill— The contempt which comes 
 from the pride of knowledge — Intellectual value of skill 
 and of professional discipline. 
 
 It is not a graceful thing for me to say, nor 
 pleasant for you to hear, that what you have 
 done hitherto in art and literature is neither 
 
500 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 of any value in itself nor likely to lead you 
 to that which is truly and permanently satis- 
 fying, I believe you have natural ability, 
 though it would not be easy for any critic to 
 measure its degree when it has never been 
 developed by properly-directed work. Most 
 critics would probably err on the unfavorable 
 side, for we are easily blind to powers that 
 are little more than latent. To see anything 
 encouraging in your present performance, it 
 would need the sympathy and intelligence of 
 the American sculptor Greenough, of whom 
 it was said that ' ' his recognition was not lim- 
 ited to achievement, but extended to latent 
 powers." The world, however, recognizes 
 nothing short of performance, because the 
 performance is what it needs, and promises 
 are of no use to it. 
 
 In this rough justice of the world there is a 
 natural distribution of rewards. You will be 
 paid, in fame and money, for all excellent 
 work ; and you will be paid, in money, though 
 not in fame, for all work that is even simply 
 good, provided it be of a kind that the world 
 needs, or fancies that it needs. But you will 
 never be paid at all for botch- work, neither 
 in money nor in fame, nor by your own in- 
 ward approval. 
 
 For we all of us either know that our botch- 
 work is worthless, or else have serious mis- 
 givings about it. That which is less common- 
 ly realized by those who have not undergone 
 the test of professional labor is the vastness 
 jf the interval that separates botch work 
 
TRADES AND PROFESSIONS. 501 
 
 from handicraft, and the difficulty of getting 
 )ver it. " There are few delusions," Charles 
 Lever said in "The Bramleighs, " "more 
 common with well-to-do people than the be- 
 lief that if ' put to it' they could earn their 
 own livelihood in a variety of ways. Almost 
 every man has some two or three or more ac- 
 comj^lishments which he fancies would be 
 quite adequate to his support; and remem- 
 bering with what success the exercise of 
 these gifts has ever been hailed in the society 
 of his friends, he has a sort of generous dis- 
 like to be obliged to eclipse some poor drudge 
 of a prote«sional, who, of course, will be con- 
 signed to utter oblivion after his own per- 
 formance. Augustus Bramleigh was certain- 
 ly not a conceited or a vain man, and yet he 
 had often in his palmy days imagined how 
 easy it would be for him to provide for his 
 own support. He was something of a musi- 
 cian ; he sang pleasingly ; he drew a little ; he 
 knew something of three or four modern lan- 
 guages; he had that sort of smattering ac- 
 quaintance with questions of religion, poli- 
 tics, and literature which the world calls be- 
 ing ' well-informed,' and jet nothing short of 
 the gra.ve necessity revealed to him that tow- 
 ards the object of securing a livelihood a 
 cobbler in his bulk was out-and-out his mas- 
 ter. The world has no need of the man of 
 small acquirements, and would rather have 
 its shoes mended by the veriest botch of a 
 professional than by the cleverest amateur 
 that ever studied a Greek sandal." 
 
«02 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 Something of this illusion, which Charles 
 Xiever has touched so truly, may be due to a 
 peculiarity of the English mind in its present 
 (not quite satisfactory) stage of development, 
 a peculiarity which I am not the first to point 
 •out, since it has been already indicated by 
 Mr. Pointer, the distinguished artist; and I 
 think that this peculiarity is to be found in 
 ^ery great force, perhaps in greater force than 
 elsewhere, in that well-to-do English middle 
 class in which you have been born and edu- 
 cated. It consists in a sort of indifference to 
 skill of all kinds, which passes into something 
 not very far from active contempt when a 
 call is made for attention, recognition, a.dmi- 
 ration. The source of this feeling will proba- 
 bly be found in the inordinate respect for 
 "wealth, between which and highly developed 
 personal skill, in anything, there is a certain 
 antagonism or incompatibility. The men of 
 real skill are almost alwaj^s men who earn 
 their living by their skill. The feeling of the 
 middle-class capitalists concerning the skilful 
 man may be expressed, not unjustly, as fol- 
 lows : ' ' Yes, he is very clever ; he may well 
 be clever — it is his trade ; he gets his living 
 loj it. " This is held to exonerate us from the 
 burden of admiration, and there is not any se- 
 rious interest in the achievements of hujnan 
 endeavor as evidence of the marvellous natural 
 endowments and capabilities of the human 
 organism. In some minds the indifference to 
 skill is more active and grows into very real, 
 though not openly expressed contempt. This 
 
TRADES AND PJWFESSIONS. 50^ 
 
 contempt is partly moral. The skilful man. 
 always rejoices in his skill with a heaven-be- 
 stowed joy and delight — one of the purest and 
 most divine pleasures given by God to man — 
 an encouragement to labor, and a reward, the 
 best reward, after his arduous apprenticeship. 
 But there is a sour and severe spirit, hating 
 all innocent pleasures, which despises the 
 gladness of the skilful as so much personal 
 vanity. 
 
 There is also the contempt for skill which 
 comes from the pride of knowledge. To at- 
 tain skill in anything a degree of application 
 is necessary which absorbs more time than 
 the acquisition of knowledge about the thing, 
 so that the remarkably skilful man is not 
 likely to be the erudite man. There have 
 been instances of men who possessed both 
 skill and learning. The American sculptor 
 Greenough, and the English painter Dyce, 
 were at the same time both eminently skilful 
 in their craft and eminently learned out of 
 it ; but the combination is very rare. There- 
 fore the possession of skill has come to be con- 
 sidered presumptive evidence of a want of 
 general information. 
 
 But the truth is that professional skill is 
 knowledge tested and perfected by practical 
 application, and therefore has a great intel- 
 lectual value. Professional life is to private 
 individuals what active warfare is to a mili- 
 tary state. It brings to light every deficiency, 
 and reveals our truest needs. And therefore 
 it seems to me a matter for regret that jom 
 
504 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 should pass your existence in irresponsible 
 privacy, and not have your attainments 
 tested by the exigencies of some professional 
 career. The discipline which such a career 
 affords, and which no private resolution can 
 ever adequately replace, may be all that is 
 wanting to your development. 
 
 LETTER III. 
 
 TO A YOUNG GENTLEMAN WHO WISHED tO DE- 
 VOTE HIMSELF TO LITERATURE AS A PROFES- 
 SION. 
 
 Syron's vexation at the idea of poetry being considered a 
 profession — Buff on could not bear to be called a natural- 
 ist — Cuvier would not be called a Hellenist — Faraday's 
 life not professional — The intellectual life frequently pro- 
 tected by professions outside of it— Professional work 
 ought to be plain business work — Michelet's account of 
 the incubation of a book— Necessity for too great rapidity 
 of production in professional hteratm-e — It does not pay to 
 do yoiu- best — Journalism and magazine-writing— Illustra- 
 tion from a sister art— Privilege of an author to be allowed 
 to write Uttle. 
 
 Do you remember how put out Byron was 
 ' ■when some reviewer spoke of Wordsworth as 
 being " at the head of the profession "? By- 
 ron's vexation was not entirely due to jeal- 
 ousy of Wordsworth, though that may have 
 had something to do with it, nor was it due 
 either to an aristocratic dislike of being in a 
 ' ' profession " himself, though this feeling jnay 
 have had a certain influence; it was due to 
 a Droper sense of the dignity of the intellect- 
 
TBABES AND PROFESSIONS. 505 
 
 iial life. Buff on could not bear to be called a 
 ''naturalist," and Cuvier in the same waj' 
 disliked the title of Hellenist, because it 
 sounded professional : he said that though he 
 knew more Greek than all the Academy he 
 was not a Hellenist as Gail was, because he 
 did not live by Greek. 
 
 Now, if this feeling had arisen merely from 
 a dislike to having it supposed that one is 
 obliged to earn his own living, it would have 
 been a contemptibly vulgar sentiment, who- 
 ever professed it. Nothing can be more hon- 
 orable to a man than to earn his bread by 
 lionest industry of any kind, whether it be 
 manual or intellectual, and still I feel with 
 Byron, and Buffon, and Cuvier, that the great 
 instruments of the world's intellectual culture 
 ought not to be, in the ordinary sense, profes- 
 sions. Byron said that poetry, as he under- 
 stood it, was "an art, an attribute," but not 
 what is understood by a " profession. " Surely 
 the same is true of all the highest intellectual 
 work, in whatever kind. You could scarcely 
 consider Faraday's life to be what is com- 
 monly understood by a professional life. Tyn • 
 dall says that if Faraday had chosen to em- 
 ploy his talents in analytical chemistry he 
 might have realized a fortune of 150,000?. 
 Now that would have been a professional ex- 
 istence ; but the career which Faraday chose 
 (happily for science) was not professional, bat 
 intellectual. The distinction between the 
 professional and the intellectual lives is per- 
 fectly clear in my own mind, and therefore I 
 
506 THE INTELLECTUJlL LIFE. 
 
 ought to be able to express it clearly. Let 
 me make the attempt. 
 
 The purpose of a profession, of a profession 
 pure and simple, is to turn knowledge and 
 talent to pecuniary profit. On the other hand, 
 the purpose of cultivated men, or men of gen- 
 ius, who work in an unprofessional spirit, is 
 to increase knowledge, or make it more "Hccu- 
 rate, or else simply to give free exercise to 
 high faculties which demand it. The distinc- 
 tion is so clear and trenchant that most intel- 
 lectual men, whose private fortunes are not 
 large, prefer to have a profession distinct 
 from their higher intellectual work, in order 
 to secure the perfect independence of the lat- 
 ter. Mr. Smiles, in his valuable book on 
 " Character,-' gives a list of eminent intellect- 
 ual men who have pursued real professional 
 avocations of various kinds separately from 
 their literary or scientific activity, and he 
 mentions an observation of Gilford's which is 
 much to my present purpose: — ^" Gifford, the 
 editor of the Quarterly^ who knew the drudg- 
 ery of writing for a living, once observed that 
 ' a single hour of composition, won from the 
 business of the day, is worth more than the 
 whole day's toil of him who works at the 
 trade of literature : in the one case, the spirit 
 comes joyfully to refresh itself, like a hart to 
 the water -brooks ; in the other, it pursues its 
 miserable way, panting and jaded, with the 
 dogs of hunger and necessity behind.'" So 
 Ooleridge said that ' ' three hours of leisure, 
 unalloyed by any alien anxiety, and looked 
 
TBADES AND PBOFESSIONS. 507 
 
 forward to with delight as a change and rec 
 reation, will suffice to reahze in literature a 
 larger product of what is truly genial than 
 weeks of compulsion. " Coleridge's idea of a 
 profession was, that it should be ' ' some regu- 
 lar employment which could be carried on so 
 far mechanically, that an average quantum 
 only of health, spirits, and intellectual exer- 
 tion are requisite to its faithful discharge." 
 Without in the least desiring to undervalue 
 good professional work of any kind, I may 
 observe that, to be truly professional, it ought 
 to be always at command, and therefore that 
 the average power of the man's intellect, not 
 his rare flashes of highest intellectual illumi- 
 nation, ought to suffice for it. Professional 
 work ought always to be plain business work, 
 requiring knowledge and skill, but not any 
 effort of genius. For example, in medicine, it 
 is professional work to prescribe a dose or am- 
 putate a limb, but not to discover the nervous 
 system or the circulation of the blood. 
 
 If literature paid sufficiently well to allow 
 it, a literary man might very wisely consider 
 study to be his profession, and not production. 
 He would then study regularly, say, six 
 hours a day, and write when he had some- 
 thing to say, and really wanted to express it. 
 His book, when it came out, would ha^e had 
 time to be properly hatched, and would prob- 
 ably have natural life in it. Michelet says of 
 one of his books: "Cette oeuvre a du nioins 
 le caractere d'etre venue comme vient toute 
 vraie creation vivante. Elle s'est f aite a. v«. 
 
508 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 chaleur d'une douce incubation." * It would 
 be impossible, in so short a space, to give a 
 more accurate description of the natural man- 
 ner in which a book comes into existence. A 
 book ought always to be "fait a la chaleur 
 d'une douce incubation. " 
 
 But when you make- a profession of litera- 
 ture this is what you can hardly ever get 
 leave to do. Literary men require to see 
 something of the world ; they can hardly be 
 hermits, and the world cannot be seen with- 
 out a const;iint running expenditure, which at 
 the end of the year represents an income. 
 Men of culture and refinement really cannot 
 live like very poor people without deteriorat- 
 ing in refinement, and falling behind in 
 knowledge of the world. When they are 
 married, sind have families, they can hardly 
 let their families live differently from them- 
 selves ; so that there are the usual expenses of 
 the English professional classes to be met, and 
 these are heavy when they have to be got out 
 of the profits of literature. The consequence 
 is, that if a book is to be written prudently it 
 must be written quickly, and with the least 
 amount of preparatory labor that can possibly 
 be made to serve. This is very different from 
 the ''douce incubation^' of Michelet. Gold- 
 smith said of hack-writing, that it was diffi- 
 cult to imagine a combination more prejudi- 
 cial to taste than that of the. author whose in- 
 
 * " This v.'ork has at any rate the character of having come 
 into the world like every really living creation. It has been 
 produced by the heat of a gentle incubation." 
 
TBADES AND PROFESSIONS. 50» 
 
 terest it is to write as much as possible, and 
 the bookseller, whose interest it is to pay as 
 little as possible. The condition of authors 
 has no doubt greatly improved since Gold- 
 smith's time, but still the fact remains that 
 the most careful and finished writing, requir- 
 ing extensive preparatory study, is a luxury 
 in which the professional writer can only in- 
 dulge himself at great risk. Careful writing 
 does, no doubt, occasionally pay for the time 
 it costs ; but such writing is more commonly 
 done by men who are either independent by 
 fortune, or who make themselves, as authors, 
 independent by the pursuit of some other pro- 
 fession, than by regular men of letters whose 
 whole income is derived from tlieir inkstands. 
 And when, by way of exception, the hack- 
 writer does produce very highly-finished and 
 concentrated work, based upon an elaborate 
 foundation of hard study, that work is sel- 
 dom professional in the strictest sense, but is 
 a labor of love, outside the hasty journalism 
 or magazine-writing that wins his daily breaC 
 In cases of this kind it is clear that the best 
 work is not done as a regular part of profes- 
 sional duty, and that the author might as well 
 earn his bread in some other calling, if he still 
 had the same amount of leisure for the com- 
 position of real literature. 
 
 The fault I find with writing as a profession 
 is that it does not pay to do your best. I don't 
 mean to insinuate that downright slovenly or 
 careless work is the most profitable ; but I do 
 mean to say that any high degree of conscien- 
 
SIO THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE, 
 
 tiousness, especially in the way of study and 
 research, is a direct injury to the professional 
 ■writer's purse. Suppose, for example, that he 
 is engaged in reviewing a book, and is to get 
 Zl. 10s. for the review when it is written. If 
 by the accident of previous accumulation his 
 knowledge is already fully equal to the de- 
 mand upon it, the review may be written rap- 
 idly, and the day's work will have been a prof- 
 itable one ; but if, on the other hand, it is nec- 
 essary to consult several authorities, to make 
 :some laborious researches, then the reviewer is 
 placed in a dilemma between literary thor- 
 oughness and duty to his family. He cannot 
 spend a week in reading up a subject for the 
 :sum of 3Z. 10s. Is it not much easier to string 
 together a few phrases which will effectually 
 hide his ignorance from everybody but the 
 half-dozen enthusiasts who have mastered the 
 "Subject of the book? It is strange that the 
 professional pursuit of literature should be a 
 direct discouragement to study ; yet it is so. 
 There are hack-writers who study, and they 
 •deserve much honor for doing so, since the 
 temptations the other way are always so press- 
 ing and immediate. Sainte-Beuve was a true 
 student, loving literature for its own sake, and 
 preparing for his articles with a diligence rare 
 in the profession. But he was scarcely a hack- 
 w^riter, having a modest independency, and 
 living besides with the quiet frugality of a 
 bachelor. 
 
 The truth seems to be that literature of the 
 highest kind can only in the most exceptional 
 
TBADES AND FROFESSIONS, 51i 
 
 cases be made a profession, yet that a skilful 
 writer may use his pen professionally if he 
 chooses. The production of the printed talk 
 of the day is a profession, requiring no more 
 than average ability, and the tone and temper 
 of ordinary educated men. The outcome of 
 it is journalism and magazine- writing ; and 
 now let me say a word or two about these. 
 
 The highest kind of journalism is very well 
 done in England ; the men who do it are often 
 either highly educated, or richly gifted by 
 nature, or both. The practice of journalism 
 is useful to an author in giving him a degree 
 of readiness and rapidity, a skill in turning 
 his materials to immediate account, and a 
 power of presenting one or two points effec- 
 tively, which may often be valuable in litera- 
 ture of a more permanent order. The danger 
 of it may be illustrated by a reference to a 
 sister art. I was in the studio of an English 
 landscape-painter when some pictures arrived 
 from an artist in the country to go along with 
 his own to one of the exhibitions. They were 
 all very pretty and very clever — indeed, so 
 clever were they, that their cleverness was al- 
 most offensive — and so long as they were 
 looked at by themselves, the brilliance of them 
 was rather dazzling. But the instant they 
 were placed by the side of thoroughly careful 
 and earnest work, it became strikingly evi- 
 dent that they had been painted hastily, and 
 would be ahnost immediately exhausted by 
 the purchaser. Now these pictures were the 
 journalism of painting ; and my friend told 
 
512 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE, 
 
 me that when once an artist has got into the 
 habit of doing hasty work like that, he sel- 
 dom acquires better habits afterwards. 
 
 Professional writers who follow journalism 
 for its immediate profits, are liable in like man- 
 ner to retain the habit of diffusen©ss in litera- 
 ture which ought to be more finished and more 
 concentrated. Therefore, although journal- 
 ism is a good teacher of promptitude and decis- 
 ion, it often spoils a hand for higher literature 
 by incapacitating it for perfect finish ; and it is 
 better for a writer who has ambition to write 
 little, hut always Ms best, than to dilute him- 
 self in daily columns. One of the greatest priv- 
 ileges which an author can aspire to is to be al 
 lowed to write little, and that is a privilege 
 which the professional writer does not enjoy, 
 except in such rare instances as that of Ten- 
 nyson, whose careful finish is as prudent in 
 the professional sense as it is satisfactory to 
 ihe scrupulous fastidiousness of the artist. 
 
TBAItSS AND PROFESSIONS, 5ia 
 
 LETTER IV. 
 
 T(f iJS ENERGETIC AND SUCCESSFUL COTTON MAN* 
 UFACTURER. 
 
 Two classes in their lower grades inevitably hostile — The spir- 
 itual and temporal powei"S — The functions of both not 
 easily exercised by the same person— Humboldt, Faraday, 
 Livingstone— The difficulty about time— Limits to the en- 
 ergy of the individual — Jealousy between the classes— 
 That this jealousy ouglit not to exist — Some of the sci- 
 ences based upon an industrial development — The work 
 of the intellectual class absolutely necessary in a highly 
 civilized community — That it groAvs in numbers and in- 
 fluence side by side with the industrial class. 
 
 Our last conversation together, in the pri- 
 vacy of your splendid new drawing-room after 
 the guests had gone away and the music had 
 ceased for the night, left me under the im- 
 pression that we had not arrived at a perfect 
 understanding of each other. This was due 
 in a great measure to my unfortunate inca- 
 pacity for expressing anything exactly by 
 spoken words. The constant habit of writing, 
 which permits a leisurely selection from one's 
 ideas, is often very unfavorable to readiness 
 in conversation. Will you permit me, then, 
 to go over the ground we traversed, this time 
 in my own way, pen in hand? 
 
 We represent, you and I, two classes which 
 in their lower grades are inevitably hostile ; 
 but the sui^erior members of these classes 
 ought not to feel any hostihty, since both are 
 equally necessary to the world. We are, in 
 truth, the sjDiritual and the temporal powers 
 38 / 
 
614 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 in their most modern form. The chief of in 
 dustry and the man of letters stand to-day in 
 the same relation to each other and to man- 
 kind as the baron and bishop of the Middle 
 Ages. We are no"^ recognized, either ot ns, by 
 formally conferred titles, we are both held to 
 ,be somev/hat intrusive by the representatives 
 of a former order of things, and there is, or 
 "was until very lately, a certain disposition to 
 deny what we consider our natural rights; 
 but we know that our powers are not to be re- 
 sisted, and we have the inward assurance that 
 the forces of nature are with us. 
 
 This, with reference to the outer world. 
 But there is a want of clearness in the rela- 
 tion between ourselves. You understand 
 your great temporal function, which is the 
 wise direction of the industry of masses, the 
 accumulation and distribution of wealth ; but 
 you do not so clearly understand the spiritual 
 function of the intellectual class, and you do 
 not think of it quite justly. This want of un- 
 derstanding is called by some of us your Phil 
 istinism. Will you i^ermit me to explain what 
 the intellectual class thinks of you, and what 
 is its opinion about itself? 
 
 Pray excuse any appearance of presump- 
 tion on my part if I say we of the intellectual 
 class and you of the industrial. My position 
 is something like that of the clergyman who 
 reads, ' ' Let him come to me or to some other 
 learned and discreet minister of God's word, " 
 thereby calling himself learned and discreet. 
 It is a simple matter of fact that I belong to 
 
TRADES AND PROFESSIONS. 515 
 
 the intellectual class, since I lead its life, just 
 as it is a fact that you have a quarter of a 
 million of money. 
 
 First, I want to show that the existence of 
 my class is necessary. 
 
 Although men in various occupations often 
 acquire a considerable degree of culture out- 
 side their trade, the highest results of cultures 
 can scarcely ever be attained by men whose 
 time is taken up in earning a fortune. Every 
 man has but a limited flow of mental energy 
 per day ; and if this is used up in an indus- 
 trial leadership, he cannot do much more in 
 the intellectual sphere than simply ascertain 
 what has been done by others. Now, although 
 we have a certain respect, and the respect ia 
 just, for those who know what others have 
 accomplished, it is clear that if no one did 
 more than this, if no one made any fresh dis- 
 coveries, the world would make no progress 
 whatever ; and in fact, if nobody ever had 
 been dedicated to intellectual pursuits in pre- 
 ceding ages, the men who only learn what 
 others have done, would in these days have 
 had nothing to learn. Past history proves 
 the immensity of the debt which the world 
 owes to men who gave their whole time and 
 attention to intellectual pursuits ; and if the 
 existences of these men could be eliminated 
 from the past of the human race, its present 
 would be very different from what it is. A 
 list has been published of men who have done 
 much good work in the intervals of business, 
 but still the fact remains that the great intel- 
 
«16 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 jfectual pioneers were absorbed and devoted 
 3nen, scorning wealth so far as it affected 
 themselves, and ready to endure everything 
 :for knowledge beyond the knowledge of their 
 times. Instances of such enthusiasm abound, 
 ^n enthusiasm fully justified by the value of 
 the results which it has achieved. Vv^hen 
 Alexander Humboldt sold his inheritance to 
 iiave the means for his great journey in South 
 America, and calmly dedicated the whole of 
 B long life, and the strength of a robust con- 
 stitution, to the advancement of natural 
 fciowledge, he acted foolishly indeed, if years, 
 and strength, and fortune are given to us only 
 to be well invested in view of money returns ; 
 l)ut the world has profited by his decision. 
 Faraday gave up the whole of his time to dis- 
 covery when he might have earned a large 
 fortune by the judicious investment of his 
 extraordinary skill in chemistry. Living- 
 istone has sacrificed everything to the pursuit 
 of his great work in Africa. Lives such as 
 these — and many resemble them in useful de- 
 votion of which we hear much less — are 
 clearly not compatible with much money-get- 
 Mng. A decent existence, free from debt, is 
 ^U that such men ought to be held answera- 
 Me for. 
 
 1 have taken two or three leading instances, 
 but there is quite a large class of intellectual 
 people who cannot in the nature of things 
 sei've society effectively in their own way 
 "without being quite outside of the industrial 
 life. There is a real incompatibility between 
 
TBABES AND PROFESSIONS. 517 
 
 some pursuits and others. I suspect that you 
 would have been a good general, for you are 
 a born leader and conunander of men ; but it 
 would have been difficult to unite a regular 
 mihtary career with strict personal attention 
 to your factories. We often find the same 
 difficulty in our intellectual pursuits. We 
 are not always quite so unpractical as you 
 thinli we are ; but the difficulty is how to find 
 the time, and how to arrange it so as not to 
 miss two or three distinct classes of oppor- 
 tunities. We are not all of us exactly imbe- 
 ciles in money matters, though the pecuniary 
 results of our labors seem no doubt pitiful 
 enough. There is a tradition that a Greek 
 philosopher, who was suspected by the prac- 
 tical men of his day of incapacity for affairs, 
 devoted a year to prove the contrary, and 
 traded so judiciously that he amassed 
 thereby great riches. It may be doubtful 
 whether he could do it in one year, but man;v 
 a fine intellectual capacity has overshadowed 
 a fine practical capacity in the same head by 
 the withdrawal of time and effort. 
 
 It is because the energies of one man are so 
 limited, and there is so little time in a single 
 human life, that the intellectual ana indus- 
 trial functions must, in their highest develop- 
 ment, be separated, Ko one man could unite 
 in his own person your life and Humboldt's, 
 tliough it is possible that he might have the 
 natural capacity for both. Grant us, then, 
 the liberty not to earn very much money, 
 and this being once granted, try to look upon 
 
518 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 our intellectual superiority as a simple natu- 
 ral fact, just as we look upon your pecuniary 
 superiority. 
 
 In saying in this plain way that we are in- 
 tellectually superior to you and your class, I 
 am guilty of no more pride and vanity than 
 you when you affirm or display your wealth. 
 The fact is there, in its simplicity. We have 
 culture because we have paid the twenty or 
 thirty years of labor which are the price of 
 culture, just as you have great factories and 
 estates which are the reward of your life's 
 patient and intelligent endeavor. 
 
 Why should there be any narrow jealousy 
 between us; why any contempt on the one 
 side or the other? Each has done his ap- 
 pointed work, each has caused to fructify the 
 talent which the Master gave. 
 
 Yet a certain jealousy does exist, if not be- 
 tween you and me personally, at least be- 
 tween our classes. The men who have cult- 
 ure without wealth are jealous of the power 
 and privileges of those who possess money 
 without culture ; and on the other hand, the 
 men whose time has been too entirely absorbed 
 by commercial pursuits to leave them any mar- 
 gin sufficient to do justice to their intellectual 
 powers, are often painfully sensitive to the 
 contempt of the cultivated, and strongly dis- 
 posed, from jealousy, to undervalue culture 
 itself. Both are wrong so far as they indulge 
 any unworthy and unreasonable feeling of 
 this kind. The existence of the two classes is 
 necessary to an advanced civihzation. The 
 
TBADES AND PROFESSIONS. 51& 
 
 science of accumulating a-nd administrating 
 material wealth, of wliich you yourself are a 
 great practical master, is the foundation of 
 the material prosperity of nations, and it is 
 only when this prosperity is fully assured to 
 great numbers that the arts and sciences can 
 develop themselves in perfect liberty and 
 "with the tranquil assurance of their own per- 
 manence. The advancement of material well- 
 being in modern states tends so directly to 
 the advancement of intellectual pursuits, 
 even when the makers of fortunes are them- 
 selves indifferent to this result, that it ought 
 always to be a matter of congratulation for 
 the intellectual class itself, which needs the 
 support of a great public with leisure to read 
 and think. It is easy to show how those arts 
 and sciences which our class delights to culti- 
 vate are built upon those developments of in- 
 dustry which have been brought about by the 
 energy of yours. Suppose the case of a scien- 
 tific chemist: the materials for his experi- 
 ments are provided ready to his hand by the 
 industrial class; the record of them is pre- 
 served on paper manufactured by the same 
 industrial class; and the public which en- 
 courages him by its attention is usually found 
 in great cities which are maintained by the 
 labors of the same useful servants of human- 
 ity. It is possible, no doubt, in these modern 
 times, that some purely pastoral or agricultu- 
 ral community might produce a great chem- 
 ist, because a man of inborn scientific genius 
 who came into the world in an agricultural 
 
520 THE INiSLLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 country might in these days get his books and 
 materials from industrial centres at a dis- 
 tance, but his work would still be ba^ed on 
 the industrial life of others. No pastoral or 
 agricultural community which was really 
 isolated from industrial communities evei 
 produced a chemist. And now consider hovT 
 enormously important this one science of 
 chemistry has proved itself even to our intel- 
 lectual life! Several other sciences have 
 been either greatly strengthened or else alto- 
 gether renewed by it, and the wonderful pho- 
 nographic processes have been for nature and 
 the fine arts what printing was for literature, 
 placing rehable and authentic materials for 
 study within the reach of every one. Litera- 
 ture itself has profited by the industrial prog- 
 ress of the present age, in the increased 
 cheapness of everything that is material in 
 books. I please myself with the reflection 
 that even you make paper cheaper by manu- 
 facturing so much cotton. 
 
 All these are reasons why we ought not to 
 be jealous of you ; and now permit me to in- 
 dicate a few other reasons why it is unreason- 
 able on your part to feel any jealousy of us. 
 
 Suppose we were to cease working to-mor- 
 row — cease working, I mean, in our peculiar 
 ways — ^and all of us become colliers and fac- 
 tory operatives instead, with nobody to sup- 
 ply our places. Or, since you may possibly 
 be of opinion that there is enough literature 
 and science in the world at the present day, 
 sKippose rather that at some preceding date 
 
TRADES AND PROFESSIONS. 62t 
 
 i 
 
 the whole literary and scientific and artistio 
 labor of the human race ; had come suddenly 
 to a standstill. Mind, I do not say of English- 
 iTien merely, but of the whole race, for if any 
 intellectual work had been done in France or 
 Germany, or even in Japan, you would have 
 imported it like cotton and foreign cereals^ 
 Well, I have no hesitation in telling you that 
 although there was a good deal of literature 
 and science in Elngland before the 1st of Jan- 
 uary, 1800, the present condition of the nations 
 would have been a very chaotic condition it 
 the intellectual class had ceased on that day 
 to think and observe and to place on record 
 its thoughts and observations. The life of a 
 progressive nation cannot long go forward ex- 
 clusively on the thinking of the past: its? 
 thoughtful men must not be all dead men,, 
 but living men who accompany it on its 
 course. It is they who make clear the les- 
 sons of experience; it is they who discover- 
 the reliable general laws upon which all safe 
 action must be founded in the future ; it is they 
 who give decision to human action in every di 
 rection by constantly registering, in language 
 of comprehensive accuracy, both its successes 
 and its failures. It is their great and ardu- 
 ous labor which makes knowledge a.cce6sible 
 to m^m of action at the co«t of little effort and 
 the swi&lleet possible expenditure of time. 
 The intellectual class grows in numbers and 
 in influence along with the numbers and in- 
 fluence of the materially productive popula- 
 tion of the State. And not only are the natit- 
 
S22 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 fal philosophers, the writers of contemporary 
 and past history, the discoverers in science, 
 necessary in the strictest sense to the hfe of 
 such a community as the modern English 
 community, but even the poets, the novehsts, 
 the artists are necessary to the perfection of 
 its hfe. Without them and their work the 
 national mind would be as incomplete as 
 would be the natural universe without beauty. 
 But this, perhaps, you will perceive less 
 clearly, or be less willing to admit. 
 
 LETTER V. 
 
 TO A YOUNG ETONIAN WHO THOUGHT OF BE- 
 COMING A COTTON-SPINNER. 
 
 Absurd old prejudices against commerce — Stigma attached 
 to the great majority of occupations — Traditions of feu- 
 dalism — Distinctions between one trade and another — A 
 real instance of an Etonian who had gone into the cotton- 
 trade — Observations on this case — The trade a fine field 
 for energy — A poor one for intellectual culture — It devel- 
 ops practical ability — Culture not possible without leisure 
 — The f oimders of commercial f ortimes. 
 
 It is agreeable to see various indications 
 that the absurd old prejudices against com- 
 merce are certainly declining. There still re- 
 mains quite enough contempt for trade in the 
 professional classes and the aristocracy, to 
 give us frequent opportunities for studying it 
 aa a relic of former superstition, unhappily 
 not yet rare enough to be quite a curiosity ; 
 but as time passes and people become more 
 
TRADES AND PROFESSIONS. 523 
 
 rational, it will retreat to out-of-the-way cor- 
 ners of old country mansions and rural par- 
 sonages, at a safe distance from the light -giv- 
 ing centres of industry. It is a surprising 
 fact, and one which proves the almost pa- 
 thetic spirit of deference and submission to 
 superiors which characterizes the English 
 people, that out of the hundreds of occupa- 
 tions which are followed by the busy classes 
 of this country, only three are entirely free 
 from some degrading stigma, so that they 
 may be followed by a high-born youth with- 
 out any sacrifice of caste. The wonder isf, 
 that the great active majority of the nation,, 
 the men who by their industry and intelli- 
 gence have made England what she is, should 
 ever have been willing to submit to so inso- 
 lent a rule as this rule of caste, which, instead 
 of honoring industry, honored idleness, and 
 attached a stigma to the most useful and im- 
 portant trades. The landowner, the soldier, 
 the priest, these three were pure from every 
 s-tain of degradation, and only these three 
 were quite absolutely and ethereally pure. 
 Next to them came the lawyer and the physi- 
 cian, on whom there rested some traces of the 
 lower earth; so that although the youthful 
 baron would fight or preach, he would nei- 
 ther plead nor heal. And after these came 
 the lower professions and the innumerable 
 trades, all marked with stigmas of deeper 
 and deeper degradation. 
 
 From the intellectual point of view these 
 prejudices indicate a state of society in which 
 
524 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 public ojanion has not emerged from barbar> 
 ism.. It understands the strength of the 
 feudal chief having land, with serfs or voters 
 on the land ; it knows the uses of the sword, 
 and it dreads the menaces of the priesthood. 
 Beyond this it knows little, and despises what 
 it does not understand. It is ignorant of sci- 
 ence, and industry, and art ; it despises them 
 'a,s servile occupations beneath its conception 
 of the gentleman. This is the tradition of 
 countries which retain the impressions of 
 ■feudalism; but notwithstanding all our phi- 
 losophy, it is difficult for us to avoid some feel- 
 ing of astonishment when we reflect that the 
 public opinion of England — a country that 
 owes so much of her greatness and nearly all 
 her wealth to commercial enterprise — should 
 be contemptuous towards commerce. 
 
 I may notice, in passing, a very curious 
 form of this narrowness. Trade is despised, 
 but distinctions are established between one 
 trade and another. A man who sells wine is 
 considered more of a gentleman than a man 
 w^ho sells figs and raisins ; and I believe you 
 will find, if you observe people carefully, that 
 a woollen manufacturer is thought to be a 
 shade less vulgar than a cotton manufacturer. 
 These distinctions are seldom based on rea- 
 son, for the work of commerce is generally 
 very much the same sort of work, mentally, 
 v^rhatever may be the materials it deals in. 
 You may be heartily congratulated on the 
 strength of mind, firmness of resolution, and 
 superiority to prejudice, which have led jou 
 
TRADES AND PBOFESSIONS. 525 
 
 to choose the business of a cotton-spinner. It 
 is an excellent business, and, in itself, every 
 whit as honorable as dealing in com and cat- 
 tle, which our nobles do habitually without 
 reproach. But now that I have disclaimed 
 any participation in the stupid narrowness 
 which despises trade in general, and the cot- 
 ton-trade in particular, let me add a few 
 words upon the effects of the cotton business 
 on the mind. 
 
 There appeared in one of the newspapers a 
 little time since a most interesting and evi- 
 dently genuine letter from an Etonian, who 
 had actually entered business in a cotton fac- 
 tory, and devoted himself to it so as to earn 
 the confidence of his employers and a salary 
 of 400/. a year as manager. He had waited 
 some time uselessly for a diplomatic appoint- 
 ment which did not arrive, and so, rather 
 than lose the best years of early manhood, as 
 a more indolent fellow would have done very 
 willingly, in pure idleness, he took the resolu- 
 tion of entering business, and carried out his 
 determination with admirable persistence. 
 At fii'st nobody would believe that the ' ' swell " 
 could be serious ; people thought that his idea 
 of manufacturing was a mere freak, and ex- 
 pected him to abandon it when he had to face 
 the tedium of the daily work ; but the swell 
 was serious — went to the mill at six in the 
 morning and stayed there till six at night, 
 from Monday till Saturday inclusive. After 
 a year of this, his new companions believed 
 in him. 
 
526 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE, 
 
 Now, all this is very admirable indeed as a 
 manifestation of energy, and that truest inde- 
 pendence which looks to fortune as the re- 
 ward of its own manly effort, but it may be 
 permitted to me to make a few observations 
 on this young gentleman's resolve. What he 
 did seems to me rather the act of an energetic 
 nature seeking an outlet for energy, than of 
 an intellectual nature seeking pasture and ex- 
 ercise for the intellect. I am far indeed from 
 desiring, by this comparison, to cast any dis- 
 paraging light on the young gentleman's 
 natural endowments, which appear to have 
 been valuable in their order and robust in 
 their degree, nor do I question the wisdom of 
 his choice; all I mean to imply is, that 
 although he had chosen a fine large field for 
 simple energy, it was a poor and barren field 
 for the intellect to pasture in. Consider for 
 one moment the difference in this respect be- 
 tween the career which he had abandoned 
 and the trade he had embraced. As an 
 attache he would have lived in capital cities, 
 have had the best opportunities for perfecting 
 Himself in modern languages, and for meeting 
 the most varied and the most interesting 
 society. In every day there would have been 
 precious hours of leisure, to be employed in 
 the increase of his culture. If an intellectual 
 man, having to choose between diplomacy 
 and cotton-spinning, preferred cotton-epin- 
 ning it would be from the desire for wealth, 
 or from the love of an English home. The 
 life of a cotton manufacturer, who personally 
 
TRADES AND PROFESSIONS. 527 
 
 attends to his business with that close super- 
 vision which has generally conducted to 
 success, leaves scarcely any margin for intel- 
 lectual pleasure or spare energy for intellect- 
 ual work. After ten hours in the mill, 
 it is difficult to sit down and study; and 
 even if there were energy enough, the mind 
 would not readily cast off the burden of great 
 practical anxieties and responsibilities so as 
 to attune itself to disinterested thinking. 
 The leaders of industry often display mental 
 power of as high an order as that which in 
 employed in the government of great empires ; 
 they show the highest administrative abili- 
 ty, they have to deal continually with finan- 
 cial questions which on their smaller scale re- 
 quire as much forethouglit and acumen as 
 those that concern the exchequer; but the 
 ability they need is always strictly practical, 
 and there is the widest difference between the 
 practical and the intellectual minds. A con- 
 stant and close pressure of practical consider- 
 ations develops the sort of power which 
 deals effectually with the present and its needs 
 but atrophies the higher mind. The two 
 minds which we call intelligence and intellect 
 resemble the feet and wings of birds. Eagles 
 and swallows walk badly or not at all, but 
 they have a marvellous strength of flight ; 
 ostriches are great pedestrians, but they 
 know nothing of the regions of the air. 
 The best that can be hoped for men immersed 
 in the details of business is that they may be 
 able, like partridges and pheasants, to take a 
 
628 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 short flight on an emergency, and rise, if 
 only for a few minutes, above the level of the 
 stubble and the copse. 
 
 Without, therefore, desiring to imply any 
 prejudiced contempt for trade, I do desire to 
 urge the consideration of its inevitable effects 
 upon the mind. For men of great practical 
 intelligence and abundant energy, trade is all- 
 sufficing, but it could never entirely satisfy 
 an intellectual nature. And although there 
 is drudgery in every pursuit, for even litera- 
 ture and painting are full of it, still there are 
 certain kinds of drudgery which intellectual 
 natures find to be harder to endure than 
 others. The drudgery which they bear least 
 easily is an incessant attention to duties 
 which have no intellectual interest, and yet 
 which cannot be properly performed mechani- 
 cally so as to leave the mind at liberty for its 
 own speculations. Deep thinkers are notori- 
 ously absent, for thought requires abstraction 
 from what surrounds us, and it is hard for 
 them to be denied the hberty of dreaming. 
 An intellectual person might be happy as a 
 stone-breaker on the roadside, because the 
 work would leave his mind at liberty ; but he 
 i would certainly be miserable as an engine- 
 / driver at a coal-pit shaft, where the abstrac- 
 tion of an instant would imperil the hves of 
 others. 
 
 In a recent address dehvered by Mr. Glad- 
 stone at Liverpool, he acknowledged the neg- 
 lect of culture which is one of the shortcom- 
 ings of our trading conmaunity, and held out 
 
TRADES AND PROFESSIONS, 529. 
 
 the hope (perhaps in some degree illusory) 
 fchat the same persons might become eminent 
 in commerce and in learning. No doubt there 
 have been instances of this; and when a 
 " concern " has been firmly established by tho 
 energy of a predecessor, the heir to it may be 
 satisfied with a royal sort of supervision^ 
 leaving the drudgery of detail to his mana- 
 gers, and so secure for himself that suflScient 
 leisure without which high culture is not pos- 
 sible. But the fomiders of great commercial 
 fortunes have, I believe, in every instance- 
 thrown ^heir whole energy into their trade, 
 making wealth their aim, and leaving culture 
 to be added in another generation. The 
 founders of commercial families are in this 
 country usually men of great mother- wit and 
 plenty of determination — but illiterate. 
 
PART XII 
 
 SUBRO UNDINGS, 
 
 LETTER I. 
 
 u^O A FRIEND WHO OFTEN CHANGED HIS PLACE 
 OF RESIDENCE. 
 
 An unsettled class of English people— Effect of localities on 
 the minci — Reaction against surroundings — Landscape- 
 painting a consequence of it — Crushing effect of too 
 much natural magnificence — The mind takes color from 
 its surroundings— Selection of a place of residence- 
 Charles Dickens — Hemi-ich Heine — Dr. Arnold at Eugby — 
 His house in the lake district— Tjcho Brahe — His estab. 
 lishment on the island of Hween — The young Hiunboldts 
 in the Castle of Tegel— Alexander Hujnboldt's apprecia- 
 tion of Paris — Dr. Johnson — Mr. Buckle— Cowper — Galileo. 
 
 I FIND that there is a whole class of English 
 subjects (you belong to that class) of whom it 
 is utterly impossible to predict where they 
 will be living in five years. Indeed, as you 
 are the worst of correspondents, I only 
 learned your present address, by sheer acci- 
 dent, from a perfect stranger, and he told 
 me, of course, that you had- plans for going 
 somewhere else, but where that might be he 
 knew not. The civilized English nomad is 
 usually, like yourself, a person of indepen- 
 dent means, rich enough to bear the expenses 
 
S UBB UN DINGS. 531 
 
 of frequent removals, but without the cares 
 of propertj^. His money is safely invested in 
 the funds, or in railways; and so, wherever 
 the postman can bring his dividends, he can 
 live in freedom from material cares. When 
 his wife is as unsettled as himself, the pair 
 seem to live in a balloon, or in a sort of 
 Noah's ark, which goes whither the wind 
 lists, and takes ground in the most unex- 
 pected places. 
 
 Have you ever studied the effect of locali- 
 ties on the mind — on your own mind? That 
 which we are is due in great part to the acci- 
 dent of our surroundings, which act upon us 
 in one or two quite opposite ways. Either we 
 feel in harmony with them, in which case 
 they produce a positive effect upon us, or else 
 we are out of harmony, and then they drive 
 us into the strangest reactions. A great ugly 
 English town, like Manchester, for instance, 
 makes some men such thorough townsmen 
 that they cannot live without smoky chim- 
 neys ; or it fills the souls of others with such 
 a passionate longing for beautiful scenery and 
 rustic retirement, that they find it absolutely 
 necessary to bury themselves from time to 
 time in the recesses of picturesque mountains. 
 The development of modern landscape-paint- 
 ing has not been due to habits of rural exist- 
 ence, but to the growth of very (big and hide- 
 ous modern cities, which made men long for 
 shady forests, and pure streams, and magnif- 
 icent spectacles of sunset, and dawn, and 
 moonlight. It is by this time a trite observa- 
 
632 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 tion that people who have always lived in 
 bea?vitif ul scenery do not, and cannot, appre- 
 ciate it ; that too much natural magnificence 
 positively crushes the activity of the intellect^ 
 and that its best effect is simply that of re 
 freshment for people who have not access ta 
 it every day. It happens too, in a converse 
 way, that rustics and mountaineers have the 
 strongest appreciation of the advantages of 
 great cities, and thrive in them often more 
 happily than citizens who are born in the 
 brick streets. Those who have great f acihties 
 for changing their place of residence ought 
 always to bear in mind that every locality is 
 like a dyer's vat, and that the residents take 
 its color, or some other color, from it just as 
 the clothes do that the dyer steeps in stain. 
 If you look back upon your past life, you will 
 assuredly admit that every place has colored 
 your mental habits ; and that altnough other 
 tints from other places have supervened, so 
 that it may be difficult to say precisely what 
 remains of the place you lived in vaoiry years 
 ago, still something does remain, like the 
 effect of the first painting on a picture, which 
 teUs on the whole work permanently, though 
 it may have been covered over and over again 
 by what painters call scumbhngs and glaz- 
 ings. 
 
 The selection of a place of residence, even 
 though we only intend to pass a few short 
 years in it, is from the intellectual point of 
 view a matter so important that one can 
 hardly exaggerate its consequences. We see 
 
IS UBR O UNDINGS. 533 
 
 this quite plainly in the case of authors, 
 whose minds are more visible to us than the 
 minds of other men, and therefore more easily 
 and conveniently studied. We need no biog- 
 rapher to inform us that Dickens was a Lon- 
 doner, that Browning had lived in Italy, that 
 Easkin had passed many seasons in Switzer- 
 land and Venice. Suppose for one moment 
 that these three autliors had been born in Ire- 
 land, and had never quitted it, is it not cer- 
 tain that their production would ha,ve been 
 different? Let us carry our supposition far- 
 ther still, and conceive, if we can, the diiier- 
 ence to their literary peri'on nance if they had 
 been born, not in Ireland, but in Iceland, and 
 lived there all their lives ! Is it not highly 
 probable that in this case their production 
 would have been so starved and impoverished 
 from insufHciency of material and of sugges- 
 tion, that they would have uttered nothing 
 but some simple expression of sentimxcnt and 
 imagination, some homely song or tale? All 
 sights and sounds have their influence on our 
 temper and on our thoughts, and our inmost 
 being is not the same in one place as in an- 
 other. We are like blank paper that takes a 
 tint by reflection from what is nearest, and 
 changes it as its surroundings change. In a 
 dull gray room, how gray and dull it looks ! 
 but it will be bathed in rose or amber if the 
 hangings are crimson or yellow. There are 
 natures that go to the streams of life in great 
 cities as the heart goes to the water-brooks ; 
 there are other natures that need the solitude 
 
534 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 of primseval forests and the silence of the 
 Alps. The most popular of English novelists 
 sometimes went to write in the tranquillity of 
 beautiful scenery, taking his manuscript to 
 the shore of some azure lake in Switzerland, 
 in sight of the eternal snow; but all that 
 beauty and peace, all that sweetness of pure 
 air and color, were not seductive enough to 
 overcome for many days the deep longing for 
 the London streets. His genius needed the 
 streets, as a bee needs the summer flowers, 
 and languished when long separated from 
 them. Others have needed the wild heather, 
 or the murmur of the ocean, or the sound of 
 autumn winds that strip great forest-trees. 
 Who does not deeply pity poor Heine in his 
 last sad years, when he lay fixed on his couch 
 of pain in that narrow Parisian lodging, and 
 comi^ared it to the sounding grave of Merlin 
 the enchanter, ' ' which is situated in the wood 
 of Brozeliande, in Brittany, under lofty oaks 
 whose tops taper, like emerald flames, tow- 
 ards heaven. O brother Merlin," he ex- 
 claims, and with what touching pathos ! " O 
 brother Merlin, I envy thee those trees, with 
 their fresh breezes, for never a green leaf rus- 
 tles about this mattress-grave of mine in 
 Paris, where from morning till night I hear 
 nothing but the rattle of wheels, the clatter 
 of hammers, street-brawls, and the jingling 
 of pianofortes ! " 
 
 In the biography of Dr. Arnold, his longing 
 for natural beauty recurs as one of the pecul- 
 iarities of his constitution. He did not need 
 
SUEROUNBINGS. 535 
 
 very grand scenery, though he enjoyed it 
 deeply, but some wild natural loveliness was 
 such a necessity for him that he pined for it 
 unhappily in its absence. Rugby could offer 
 him scarcely anything of this. " We h^. v-^o no 
 hills," he lamented, "no plains — not a single 
 wood, and but one single copse ; no heath, no 
 down, no rock, no river, no clear stream — 
 scarcely any flowers, for the lias is particu- 
 larly poor in them — nothing but one endless 
 monotony of enclosed fields and hedgerow^ 
 trees. This is to me a daily privation ; it robs 
 me of what is naturally my anti-attrition ; and 
 as I grow older I begin to feel it. . . . The pos- 
 itive dulness of the country about Rugby 
 makes it to me a mere working-place : I can- 
 not expatiate there even in my walks," 
 
 ' ' The monotonous character of the midland 
 scenery of Warwickshire," says Dr. Arnold's 
 biographer, "was to him, with his strong love 
 of natural beauty and variety, absolutely re- 
 pulsive; there was something almost touch- 
 ing in the eagerness with which, amidst that 
 'endless succession of fields and hedgerows,' 
 lie would make the most of any features of a 
 higher order; in the pleasure with which he 
 would cherish the few places where the cur- 
 rent of the Avon was perceptible, or where a 
 glimpse of the horizon could be discerned ; in 
 the humorous despair with which he would 
 gaze on the dull expanse of fields eastward 
 from Rugby. It is no wonder we do not like 
 looking that way, when one considers that 
 there is nothing fine between us and the Ural 
 
536 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 mountains. Conceive what you look over^ 
 for you just miss Sweden, and look over Hol- 
 land, the north of Germany, and the centre 
 of Eussia."* 
 
 This dreadful midland monotony impelled 
 Dr. Arnold to seek refreshment and compen- 
 sation in a hoUday home in the Lake district, 
 and there he found all that his eyes longed 
 for, streams, hills, woods, and wild-flowers. 
 Nor had his belief in the value of these sweet 
 natural surroundings been illusory ; such in- 
 stincts are not given for our betrayal, and the 
 soul of a wise man knows its own needs, both 
 before they are supplied, and after. West 
 moreland gave him all he had hoped from it, 
 and more. "Body and mind," he wrote, 
 "ahke seem to repose greedily in delicious 
 quiet, without dulness, which we enjoy in 
 Westmoreland." And again: "At Allan 
 Bank, in the summer, I worked on the Roman 
 history, and hope to do so again in the winter. 
 It is very inspiring to write with such a view 
 before one's eyes as that from our drawing- 
 room at Allan Bank, where the trees of the 
 shrubbery gradually run up into the trees of 
 the cUff, and the mountain-side, with its in- 
 Unite variety of rocky peaks and points upon 
 which the cattle expatiate, rises over the toi>s 
 of the trees." 
 
 Of all happily-situated mental laborers 
 who have worked since the days of Horace, 
 
 * How piirely this is the misery of a man of culture 1 4 
 peasant would not have gone so far. 
 
S UBR UNDIJSfGS. 637 
 
 surely Tycho Brahe Avas the happiest and 
 most to be envied. King Frederick of Den^ 
 mark gave him a dehghtf ul island for his hab- 
 itation, large enough for him not to feel im- 
 prisoned (the circumference being about five 
 miles), yet little enough for him to feel as 
 snugly at home there as Mr. Waterton in hia 
 high-walled park. The land was fertile and 
 rich in game, so that the scientific Eobinson 
 Cnisoe lived in material abundance ; and as 
 he was only about seven miles from Copen- 
 hagen, he could procure everything necessary 
 to his convenience. He built a great house on 
 the elevated land in the midst of the isle, 
 about three-quarters of a mile from the sea, a 
 palace of art and science, with statues and 
 paintings and all the apparatus which the in- 
 genuity of that age could contrive for the ad- 
 vancement of astronomical pursuits. Uniting 
 the case of a rich nobleman's existence with 
 every aid to science, including special erec- 
 tions for his instruments, and a printing estab- 
 lishment that worked under his own imme- 
 diate direction, he lived far enough from the 
 capital to enjoy the most perfect tranquillity, 
 yet near enough to escape the consequences 
 of too absolute isolation. Aided in all he un- 
 dertook by a staff of assistants that he himself 
 had trained, supported in his labor by the en- 
 couragement of his sovereign, and especially 
 by his own unflagging interest in scientific in- 
 vestigation, he led in that peaceful island the 
 ideal intellectual life. Of that mansion where 
 he labored, of the observatory where he 
 
538 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 •watched the celestial phenomena, surrounded 
 but not disturbed by the waves of a shallow 
 sea, there remains at this day literally not one 
 stone ujwn another; but many a less fortu- 
 nate laborer in the same field, harassed by 
 poverty, distracted by noise and interruption, 
 has remembered with pardonable envy the 
 splendid peace of Uranienborg. 
 
 It was one of the many fortunate circum- 
 stances in the position of the two Humboldts 
 that they passed their youth in the quiet old 
 castle of Tegel, separated from Berhn by a 
 X)ine-wood, and surrounded by walks and gar- 
 dens. They too, like Tycho Brahe, enjoyed 
 that happy combination of tranquillity with 
 the neighborhood of a capital city which is so 
 peculiarly favorable to culture. In later life, 
 when Alexander Humboldt had collected those 
 immense masses of material which were the 
 result of his travels in South America, he 
 warmly appreciated the unequalled advan- 
 tages of Paris. He knew how to extract from 
 the solitudes of primaeval nature what he 
 wanted for the enrichment of his mind ; but 
 he knew also how to avail himself of all the 
 assistance and opportunities whidi are only 
 to be had in great capitals. He was not at- 
 tracted to town-life, like Dr. Johnson and llr. 
 Buckle, to the exclusion of wild nature ; but 
 neither, on the other hand, had he that hor- 
 ror of towns which was a morbid defect in 
 Cowper, and which condemns those who 
 suffer from it to rusticity. Even Galileo, who 
 thought the country especially favorable to 
 
S URR O UN DINGS. 539 
 
 speculative intellects, and the walls of cities 
 an iniprisctfinient for them, declared that the 
 best years of his life were those he had spent 
 in Padua. 
 
 LETTER II. 
 
 TO A FRIEND WHO MAINTAINED THAT SUR- 
 ROUNDINGS WERE A MATTER OP INDIFFER- 
 ENCE TO A THOROUGHLY OCCUPIED MIND. 
 
 Archimedes at the siege of Syracuse— Geofifroy St. Hilaire ii.' 
 the besieged city of Alexandria— Goethe at the bombard- 
 ment of Verdun— Lullo, the Oriental missionary — Gior- 
 dano Bruno — Unacknowledged etjfect of svuTOundings- 
 Effect of Franlcf ort on Goethe— Great capitals— Goethe — 
 His garden-house — What he said about B6ranger and 
 Paris — Fortunate surrour^iings of Titian. 
 
 There are so many well-known instances ot 
 men who have been able to continue their in- 
 tellectual labors under the most unfavorable 
 conditions, that your argument might be pow- 
 erfully supported by an appeal to actual ex- 
 perience. There is Archimedes, of course, to 
 begin with, who certainly seems to have ab- 
 stracted himself sufficiently from the tumult 
 of a great siege to forget it altogether when 
 occupied with his mathematical problems 
 The prevalent stories of his death, though not 
 identical, point evidently to a habit of abstrac- 
 tion which had been remarked as a peculiar- 
 ity by those about him, and it is probable 
 enough that a great inventor in engineering 
 would follow his usual speculations under cir- 
 cumstances which, though dangerous, had 
 
540 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE, 
 
 lasted long enough to become habitual. Even 
 modern warfare, which from the use of gun- 
 powder is so much noisier than that which 
 raged at Syracuse, does not hinder men from 
 thinking and writing when they are used to 
 it. G-eoffroy St. Hilaire never worked more 
 steadily and regularly in his whole life than 
 he did in the midst of the besieged city of 
 Alexandria. "Knowledge is so sweet," he 
 said long afterwards, in speaking of this ex- 
 perience, "that it never entered my thoughts 
 how a bombshell might in an instant have 
 cast into the abyss both me and my docu- 
 ments." By good luck two electric fish had 
 been caught and given to him just then, so he 
 immediately began to make experiments, as 
 if he had been in his own cabinet in Paris, 
 and for three weeks he thought of nothing 
 else, utterly forgetting the fierce warfare that 
 filled the air with thunder and flame, and the 
 streets with victims. He had sixty-four hy- 
 potheses to amuse him, and it was necessary 
 to review his whole scientific acquirement 
 with reference to each of these as he consid- 
 ered them one by one. It may be doubted, 
 however, whether "he was more in danger 
 from the bombardment or from the intensity 
 of his own mental concentration. He grew 
 thin and haggard, slept one hour in the twen- 
 ty-four, and lived in a perilous condition of 
 nervous strain and excitement. Goethe at 
 the bombardment of Verdun, letting his mind 
 take its own course, found that it did not oc- 
 cupy itself Avith tragedies, or with anything 
 
SURROUNDINGS. 541 
 
 suggested by what was passing in the conflict 
 around him, but by scientific considerations 
 about the phenomena of colors. He noticed, 
 in a passing observation, the bad effect of war 
 upon the mind, how it makes people destruct- 
 ive one day and creative the next, how it ac- 
 customs them to phases intended to excite 
 hope in desperate circumstances, thus pro- 
 ducing a peculiar sort of hypocrisy different 
 from the priestly and courtly kind. This is 
 the extent of his interest in the war; but 
 when he finds some soldiers fishing he is at- 
 tracted to the spot and profoundly occupied 
 — not with the soldiers, but with the optical 
 phenomena on the water. He was never very 
 much moved by external events, nor did he 
 take that intense interest in the politics of the 
 day which we often find in people less studi- 
 ous of literature and science. Eaimond Lullo, 
 the Oriental missionary, continued to write 
 many volumes in the midst of the most con- 
 tinual difficulties and dangers, preserving as 
 much mental energy and clearness as if he 
 had been safe and tranquil in a library. Gi- 
 ordano Biimo worked constantly also in the 
 midst of political troubles and religious perse- 
 cutions, and his biographer tells us that " il 
 desiderio vivissimo della scienza aveva ben 
 piu efiScacia sull' animo del Bruno, che non 
 gli avvenimenti esterni." 
 
 These examples wliich have just occurred 
 to me, and many others that it would be easy 
 to collect, may be taken to prove at least so 
 much as this, that it is possible to be absorbed 
 
542 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE, 
 
 in private studies when surrounded by the 
 most disturbing influences ; but even in these 
 cases it would be a mistake to conclude that 
 the surroundings had no effect whatever. 
 There can be no doubt that Geoffrey St. Hilaire 
 was intensely excited by the siege of Alex- 
 andria, though he may not have attributed 
 his excitement to that cause. His mind was 
 occupied with the electrical fishes, but his 
 nervous system was wrought upon by the 
 siege, and kept in that state of tension which 
 at the same time enabled him to get through 
 a gigantic piece of intellectual labor and made 
 him incapable of rest. Had this condition 
 been prolonged it must have terminated 
 either in exhaustion or in madness. Men have 
 often engaged in literature or science to es- 
 cape the pressure of anxiety, which strenu- 
 ous mental labor permits us, at least tempo- 
 rarily, to forget ; but the circumstances which 
 surround us have invariably an influence of 
 some kind upon our thinking, though the 
 connection may not be obvious. Even in the 
 case of Goethe, who could study optics on 
 a battle-field, his English biographer recog- 
 nizes the effect of the Frankfort life which 
 surrounded the great author in his childhood. 
 " The old Frankfort city, with its busy 
 crowds, its fairs, its mixed population, and its 
 many sources of excitement, offered great 
 temptations and great pasture to so desultory 
 a genius. This is perhaps a case wherein cir- 
 cumstances may be seen influencing the di- 
 rection of character, ... A large continuity 
 
S UBRO UNDINGS. 54S 
 
 of thought and effort was perhaps radicallj^ 
 uncongenial to such a temperament ; yet one 
 cannot help speculating whether under other 
 circumstances he might not have achieved it. 
 Had he been reared in a quiet little old Ger- 
 man town, where he would have daily seen 
 the same faces in the silent streets, and come 
 in contact with the same chai'acters, his cul- 
 ture might have been less various, but it 
 might perhaps have been deeper. Had he 
 been reared in the country, with only the 
 changing seasons and the sweet serenities of 
 nature to occupy his attention when released 
 from study, he would certainly have been a 
 different poet. The long summer afternoons 
 spent in lonely rambles, the deepening twi- 
 lights filled with shadowy visions, the slow 
 uniformity of his external life necessarily 
 throwing him more and more upon the 
 subtler diversities of inward experience, 
 would inevitably have influenced his genius 
 in quite different directions, would have an- 
 imated his works with a very different spirit." 
 We are sometimes told that life in a great 
 "^apital is essential to the development of gen- 
 .as, but Frankfort was the largest town 
 Goethe ever lived in, and he never visited 
 either Paris or London. Much of the sanity 
 of his genius may have been due to his resi- 
 dence in so tranquil a place as Weimar, where 
 he could shut himself up in his ''garden- 
 house " and lock all the gates of the bridge 
 over the Ilm. "The solitude," says Mr. 
 Lewes, "is absolute, broken only by the oc- 
 
544 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 casional sound of the church clock, the music 
 from the barracks, and the screaming of tlie 
 peacocks spreading their superb beautj in 
 the park." Few men of genius have been 
 happier in their surroundings than Goethe. 
 He had tranquillity, and yet was not deprived 
 of intellectual intercourse ; the scenery with- 
 in excursion-distance from his home was in- 
 teresting and even inspiring, yet not so 
 splendid as to be overwhehning. We know 
 from his conversations that he was quite 
 aware of the value of those little centres of 
 culture to Germany, and yet in one place he 
 speaks of Beranger in the tone which seems 
 to imply an appreciation of the larger hfe of 
 Paris. " Fancy," he says, " this same Beran- 
 ger away from Paris, and the influence and 
 opportunities of a world-city, born as the 
 son of a poor tailor, at Jena or Weimar ; let 
 him run his wretched career in either of the 
 two small cities, and see what fruit would 
 have grown on such a soil and in such an at- 
 mosphere." 
 
 We cannot too frequently be reminded 
 that we are nothing of ourselves, and by our- 
 selves, and are only something by the place 
 we hold in the intellectual chain of humanity 
 by which electricity is conveyed to us and 
 through us — to be increased in the transmis- 
 sion if we have great natural power and are 
 favorably situated, but not otherwise. A 
 child is born to the Vecelli family at Cadore, 
 and when it is nine years old is taken to Yen- 
 ice and placed under the tuition of Sebastian 
 
8UBR0UNDING8. 645 
 
 Zuccato. Afterwards he goes to Bellini's 
 school, and there gets acquainted with an- 
 other student, one year his junior, whose 
 name is Barbarelli. They live together and 
 work together in Venice; then young Bar- 
 bai-elli (known to posterity as Giorgione), 
 after putting on certain spaces of wall and 
 squares of canvas such color as the world had 
 never before seen, dies in his etirly manhood 
 and leaves Vecellio, whom we call Titian, to 
 work on there in Venice till the plague stays 
 his hand in his hundredth year. The genius 
 came into the world, but all the possibilities 
 of his development depended upon the place 
 and the time. He came exactly in the right 
 place and precisely at the right time. To be 
 born not far from Venice in the days of Bel- 
 lini, to be taken there at nine years old, to 
 have Giorgione for one's comrade, all this 
 was as fortunate for an artistic career as the 
 circumstances of Alexander of Macedoo. w«re 
 for a career of conquwk 
 35 
 
m^ THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 LETTER III. 
 
 TO AN ARTIST WHO WAS FITTING UP A MAGJaBl^ 
 CENT NEW STUDIO. 
 
 Pleasure of planning a studio — Opinions of an outsider— Saint 
 Bernard— Father Ravignan— Goethe's study and bed-room 
 — Gustave Dor6's studio — Leslie's painting-room— Turner's 
 opinion— Habits of Scott and Dickens— Extremes good- 
 Vulgar mediocrity not so good— Value of beautiful views 
 to literary men— Montaigne— Views from the author's 
 windows. 
 
 Nothing in the life of an artist is more 
 agreeable than the building and furnishing of 
 the studio in which he hopes to produce his 
 most mature and perfect work. It is so pleas- 
 ant to labor when we are surrounded by 
 beauty and convenience, that painters find a 
 large and handsome studio to be an addition 
 to the happiness of their Uves, and they usually 
 dream of it, and plan it, several years before 
 the dream is realized. 
 
 Only a few days ago I was talking on this 
 very subject with an intellectual friend who 
 is not an artist, and who maintained that the 
 love of fine studios is in great part a mere illu- 
 sion. He admitted the necessity for size, and 
 for a proper kind of light, but laughed at 
 carved oak, and tapestry, and armor, and the 
 knicknacks that artists encumber themselves 
 with. He would have it that a mind thorough- 
 ly occupied with its own business knew noth- 
 ing whatever of the objects that surrounded 
 it, and he cited two examples — Saint Bernard, 
 
SUBROUNDINGS. 54T 
 
 who travelled all day by the shore of Lake 
 Leman without seeing it, and the p^re Eavig- 
 nan, who worked in a bare little room with a 
 common table of blackened pine and a cheap 
 rush-bottomed chair. On this I translated to 
 him, from Goethe's life by Lewes, a passage 
 which was new to him and delighted him as a 
 confirmation of his theory. The biographer 
 describes the poet's study as "a low-roofed 
 narrow room, somewhat dark, for it is lighted 
 only through two tiny windows, and fur- 
 nished with a simplicity quite touching to be- 
 hold. In the centre stands a plain oval table 
 of unpolished oak. No arm-chair is to be seen, 
 no sofa, nothing which speaks of ease. A 
 plain hard chair has beside it the basket in 
 which he used to place his handkerchief. 
 Against the wall, on the right, is a long pear- 
 tree table, with bookshelves, on which stand 
 lexicons and manuals. . . . On the side- wall 
 again, a bookcase with some works of poets. 
 On the wall to the left is a long desk of soft 
 wood, at which he was wont to write. A 
 sheet of paper with notes of contemporary his- 
 tory is fastened near the door. The same 
 door leads into a bed-room, if bed-room it can 
 be called, which no maid-of -all -work in Eng- 
 land would accept without a murmur : it is a 
 closet with a window. A simple bed, an arm 
 chair by its side, and a tiny washing- table 
 with a small white basin on it, and a sponge, 
 is all the furniture. To enter this room with 
 any feeling for the greatness and gooaness of 
 him who slept here, and who here slept hi^ 
 
648 Tim INTELLECTUAL LIFE, 
 
 last sleep, brings tears into our eyes, and 
 makes the breathing deep." 
 
 When I had finished reading this passage, 
 my friend exclaimed triumphantly, "There! 
 don't vou see that it was just because Goethe 
 had imaginative power of a strong and active 
 kind that h« cared nothing about what sur- 
 rounded him when he worked? He had stat- 
 ues and pictures to occupy his mind when it 
 was disengaged, but when he wrote he pre- 
 ferred that bare little cell where nothing was 
 to be seen that could distract his attention for 
 an instant. Depend upon it, Goethe acted in 
 this matter either from a deliberate and most 
 wise calculation, or else from the sure instinct 
 of genius." 
 
 Whilst we were on this subject I thought 
 over other instances, and remembered my 
 surprise on visiting Gustavo Dore in his 
 painting-room in Paris. Dore has a Gothic 
 exuberance of imagination, so I expected a 
 painting-room something like Victor Hugo's 
 house, rather barbarous, but very rich and 
 interesting, with plenty of carved cabinets, 
 and tapestry, and biblos, as they call pictur- 
 esque curiosities in Paris. To my surprise, 
 there was nothing (except canvases and 
 easels) but a small deal table, on which tubes 
 of oil-color were thrown in disorder, and two 
 cheap chairs. Here, evidently, the pleasure 
 of painting was sufficient to occupy the artist ; 
 and in the room where he made his illustra- 
 tions the characteristics were simplicity and 
 good practical arrangements for order, but 
 
^ UBH UN DING 3, Mi) 
 
 there was nothing to amuse the imagination. 
 Mr. Leslie used to paint in a room which 
 was just hke any other in the house, and 
 had none of the pecuharities of a studio. 
 Turner did not care in the least what sort of a 
 room he painted in, provided it had a door, 
 and a bolt on the inside. Scott could write 
 anywhere, even in the family sitting-room, 
 with talk going forward as usual ; and after 
 he had finished Abbotsford, he did not write 
 in any of its rich and noble rooms, but in a 
 simple closet with book-shelves round it. 
 Dickens wrote in a comfortable room, well 
 lighted and cheerful, and he liked to have 
 funny little bronzes on his writing-table. 
 
 The best way appears to be to surround 
 ourselves, whenever it can be conveniently 
 done, with whatever we know by experience 
 to be favorable to our work. I think the 
 barest cell monk ever prayed in would be a 
 good place for imaginative composition, and 
 so too would be the most magnificent rooms 
 in Chatsworth or Blenheim. A middling sort 
 of place with a Philistine character, vulgar 
 upholstery, and vulgar pictures or engrav- 
 ings, is really dangerous, because these things 
 often attract attention in the intervals of 
 labor and occupy it in a mean way . An art- 
 ist is always the better for having something 
 that may profitably anuise and occupy his 
 eye when he quits his picture, and I think it 
 is a right instinct which leads artists to sur- 
 round themselves with many picturesque and 
 beautiful things, not too orderly in their ar- 
 
mo THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 rangement, so that there may be pleasant 
 surprises for the eye, as there are in nature. 
 
 For literary men there is nothing so valua- 
 ble as a window with a cheerful and beautiful 
 prospect. It is good for us to have this re- 
 freshment for the eye when we leave off work- 
 ing, and Montaigne did wisely to have his 
 study up in a tower from which he had exten- 
 sive views. 
 
 There is a well-known objection to extensive 
 views, as wanting in snugness and comfort, 
 but this objection scarcely applies to the es- 
 pecial case of literary men. What we want 
 is not so much snugness as relief, refresh- 
 ment, suggestion, and we get these, as a gen- 
 eral rule, much better from wide prospects 
 than from limited ones. I have just alluded 
 to Montaigne, — will you permit me to imitate 
 that dear old philosopher in his egotism and 
 describe to you the view from the room I 
 write in, which cheers and amuses me con- 
 tinually? But before describing this let me 
 describe another of which the recollection is 
 very dear to me and as vivid as a freshly- 
 painted picture. In years gone by, I had 
 only to look up from my desk and see a noble 
 loch in its inexhaustible loveliness, and a 
 mountain in its majesty. It was a daily and 
 hourly delight to watch the breezes play 
 about the enchanted isles, on the delicate sil- 
 very surface, dimming some clear reflection, 
 or trailing it out in length, or cutting sharply 
 across it with acres of rippling blue. It was 
 a frequent pleasure to see the clouds play-* 
 
SURROUNDINGS. 551 
 
 about the crest of Ci-uachan and Ben Vorich's 
 golden head, gray mists that crept upwards 
 from the valleys till the sunshine suddenly 
 caught them and made them brighter than 
 the snows they shaded. And the leagues and 
 leagues of heather on the lower land to the 
 southward that became like the aniline dyes 
 of deepest purple and blue, when the sky was 
 gray in the evening — all save one orange- 
 streak! Ah, those were spectacles never to 
 be forgotten, splendors of light and glory, and 
 sadness of deepening gloom when the eyes 
 grew moist in the twihght and secretly drank 
 their tears. 
 
 And yet, wonderful as it was, that noble 
 and passionately beloved Highland scenery 
 was wanting in one great element that a 
 writer imperatively needs. In all that natu- 
 ral magnificence humanity held no place. 
 Hidden behind a fir-clad promontory to the 
 north, there still remained, it is true, the gray 
 ruin of old Kilchurn, and far to the south- 
 west, in another reach of the lake, the island- 
 fortress of Ardhonnel. But there was not a 
 visible city with spires and towers, there 
 were only the fir-trees on the little islands 
 and a few gravestones on the largest. Be- 
 yond, were the depopulated deserts of Bread- 
 albane. 
 
 Here, where I write to you now, it seems as 
 if mankind were nearer, and the legends of 
 the ages written out for me on the surface of 
 the world. Under the shadow of Jove's hill 
 rises before me one of the most ancient of 
 
552 THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. 
 
 European cities, soror et cemula Romce. She 
 bears on her walls and edifices the record of 
 ^ixty generations. Temple, and arch, and 
 ^pyramid, all these bear witness still, and so 
 do her ancient bulwarks, and many a stately 
 tower. High above all, the cathedral spire is 
 drawn dark in the morning mist, and often 
 in the clear summer evenings it comes 
 brightly in slanting sunshine against the 
 steep woods behind. Then the old city ar- 
 rays herself in the warmest and mellowest 
 tones, and glows as the shadows fall. She 
 reigns over the whole width of her valley to 
 the folds of the far blue hills. Even so ought 
 our life to be surrounded by the loveliness of 
 nature — surrounded, but not subdued 
 
INDEX. 
 
 Abolition of custom, how to effect, 253 
 Abstinence from newspaper reading. 461 
 Accomplishments, mascuUne and feminine, 30ft 
 Accumulation of preparatory knowledge, 448 
 Accumulators, great, of money, 237 
 Activity, mere, a waste of time, 190 
 Adult brain, the, 162 
 Advantages of few authors to poor, 244 
 
 — of experience, 420 
 Affectations of caste, 351 
 Affirmations based upon authority, 283 
 African traveller and map-makers, 460 
 Alcibiades, education of, 117 
 Alphabet, Greek, 354 
 Amateurism, 134 
 
 Ampere, profoundly scientific, 378 
 
 — anecdote of, 287 
 Amusement, necessity of, 454 
 Analytical observation, value of. 310 
 Anatomy, difficulty of study, 116 
 Ancients, incorrect use of word, 146 
 
 — and moderns compared, 255 
 Application and opportimities. 344 
 Arabia, use of coffee, 40 
 Archimedes in the bath, 310 
 
 — at Syracuse, 539 
 Aristocracy, liberal and illiberal, 3S8 
 
 — unwritten religious law ot, 366 
 
 — and democracy, 341 
 
 — spirit of, in reading, 472 
 Arnold, Dr., quoted, 144, 535 
 
 — definition of religion, 271 
 
 — intellectual force, 278 
 
 Arnold, Matthew, " Self-dependence '* quoted, 4fi| 
 
b64 INDEX. 
 
 Art of reading, 311 
 
 — of resting, 465 
 
 Artist, idea of happy marriage, 289 
 Artistic conception of black coats, 348 
 Artists, drudgery of, 75 
 
 — poor critics, 95 
 
 Arts, practical pursuit of, 498 
 Assimilating power of brain, 163 
 Assimilation, power of, 167 
 Association of idea*, 168 
 Atheism, popular construction, 3^ 
 Athenian education, 117 
 Attraction of the f uttire, 255 
 Author in mortal disease, to an, 53 
 
 — and tradesman compared, 236 
 
 — his adYt-io about notes, 167 
 
 — his study described, 561 
 
 Authors, dependence upon private meaBS, : 
 
 — young, eagerness of, 419 
 
 — seifishnees of, 471 
 
 — condition since Gtoldsmith's time, 509 
 Authorship, privilege of, 341 
 Available knowledge, 115 
 
 Baker, Sir Iakuel, and wife, 303 
 Balzac's method in literature, 421 
 Barbarian notions, return to, 356 
 Bargeman's wife, example of, 417 
 Basis, moral, the, 67 
 Baudelaire, Charies, quoted, 85 
 Beckford, Mr., autlior of " Vathek," 318 
 
 — two thousand slaves labor for, 218 
 Beer, use of, 36 
 
 Belgian school of painting, 73 
 Bixio, Alexandre, death-bed, 53 
 Black coats artistic at dinner table, 349 
 Blessing of good, cheap literature, 244 
 Boar-hunt, the author at, 46 
 Bodily exercise, neglect of, 48 
 Body and brain, close connection, 21 
 Book-making differs from literature, 88 
 Books and newspapers, 470 
 Bossuet, 282 
 
 Bourgeoisie, low condition, 367 
 Brain ana body, close connection, 31 
 
INDEX, 655 
 
 Brain work unfavorable to digestion, 34 
 
 •' Bramleighs, The," quoted, 501 
 
 Bruno, Giordano, passion for philosophy, T9 
 
 — constant work of, 541 
 Buckland, Mrs., 303 
 Bunyan, results of solitude, 411 
 Burns, quoted, 363 
 
 — separation from culture, 353 
 
 — injustice of, 354 
 
 Byron, cause of his death, 21 
 
 — aristocracy of, 347 
 
 — poetical inspiration of, 450 
 
 CAPAcrry and preference, relation, 87 
 
 Careers aided by wealth, 225 
 
 Carelessness, danger of, 224 
 
 Carpenter, Dr., surrender practice for science, HSKl 
 
 Caste, prejudices of, 34S 
 
 Catholic Church power in 14th century, 257 
 
 — Roman, belief of, 272 
 
 Central passion of men of ability, 231 
 
 Chance acquaintances, 376 
 
 Character, positive or negative end, 475 
 
 " Chai-acter " quoted, 507 
 
 Charity, intellectual, 438 
 
 Chemist, a product of Industrial communities, 63D 
 
 Chemistry, intellectual, 105 
 
 Children, imitative power, 162 
 
 — proper division of time, 4^ 
 Child-teaching, 155 
 Christian, muscular, to a, 43 
 Christianity, fashionable, 8^ 
 
 Church of Rome, embodiment of tradition, 261 
 
 — service to European civilization, 261 
 Class jealousy, 518 
 
 Classical accomplishments, 351 
 Clergy at variance with scientists, 274 
 
 — English, 490 
 
 — restrictions of, 490 
 
 — injustice and inaccuracy of, 491 
 Clerical profession, advantages, 489 
 
 — incompatible with intellectual freedom, 491 
 Code of customs constitutes law, 861 
 
 Coffee and tea, use of, 39 
 Colloquial use of language, 147 
 
556 INDEX. 
 
 Communard's hatred of superiority, 369 
 
 Conununicativeness of chance acquaintances, 876 
 
 Community, intelligent, is conservative, 251 
 
 Compensation, principle of, 212 
 
 Completeness of education, 171 
 
 Composition, drudgery of, 72 
 
 Comte, Auguste, laments consequences ot anxiety, d3t» 
 
 — atheist and scientist, 279 
 
 — voluntary isolation of, 411 
 
 — abstinence from newspapers, 466 
 
 — mysticism of, 468 
 
 Condescension, intellectual advised, 402 
 Conjugal felicity, degrees of, 297 
 Contemporary literature, indifference to, 471 
 Contempt for skill, 503 
 
 — for trade, 522 
 
 Continent, absence of gentlemen, 864 
 Controversy, unfairness of, 464 
 Conversation of women, 325 
 
 — between the sexes, 3i»2 
 
 — generally dull, 398 
 Cookery, science of, 35 
 Copernicus, monument at Warsaw, 261 
 Correspondents, the two contrasted, 345 
 Cotton-manufacturer, letter to, 513 
 Cotton-trade, effect on the mind, 525 
 Country people, ignorance of, 439 
 Cream and curacoa, 3?t 
 
 Creative faculty may be commanded, 85 
 Critical faculty of English clergy, 277 
 Critics, artists as, 95 
 Culture, moral utility, 101 
 
 — proper limitations of, 106 
 
 — how rich may best serve its cause, .T23 
 
 — of middle classes, 241 
 
 — independent of sex, 304 
 
 — induces sincerity, 332 
 
 — hostility of democracy, 369 
 
 — high, isolates, 407 
 
 — facilities for obtaining, 432 
 
 — individual, national gain, 433 
 
 Curate, poor, in prosperous commxmity, 28f 
 Custom and tradition, 246 
 
 — the one law of society, 248 
 
 — a necessaiy aid to religion. 248 
 
INDEX, 5r.: 
 
 Custom nature's provision for reform, 350 
 
 — precious les^acy of the past, 251 
 
 — not final, but a form, 251 
 
 — opposition unphilosophical, 251 
 
 — how to procure abohtion, 252 
 
 — resistance sometimes imperative, S5V 
 Cuvier, a model student, 427 
 
 Decline of old prejudices, 522 
 Democracy and aristocracy, 341 
 
 — envious, 360 
 
 — its leveUing doum tendency, 363 
 
 — intolerance of, 366 
 
 — metropolitan and provincial, 368 
 
 — hostile to culture, 369 
 De Saussm-e, labors of, 229 
 De Senancour, 232 
 
 — quoted, 406 
 Descent of man, 274 
 
 De Stael, Madame, literary methods, 61 
 Development of natural gifts, 172 
 
 — of faculty, 175 
 
 Deviation produced by marriage, 317 
 Dickens, narrowness of, 347 
 
 — study described, 549 
 Discipline necessary to success, 81 
 
 — object of, 84 
 
 "- value and necessity, 449 
 
 ^ of a professional career, 504 
 Discussions with ladies, best course, 337 
 Disease, effect of mental labor, 18 
 Diseased, experience of, 55 
 Disinterestedness, most essential virtue, 91 
 Displacement of native tongue, 157 
 Dissatisfaction of cultured persons, 431 
 Distinctions in trade, 521 
 Disuse of native tongue, 156 
 Diversity of belief in religion, 265 
 Domestic picture, a, 57 
 Dor6, Gustave, painting-room, 549 
 Dress-coat, the young gentleman lacking, 346 
 Drill, intellectual, advantages of, 459 
 Drinks, question of, 35 
 Drudgery in all work, 71 
 Ihilness of general conversation, 396 
 
558 INDEX, 
 
 Dunces, illustrious, 80 
 Diirer, Albert, Melencolia, 424 
 Duty, occasional, of eccentricity, 368 
 
 — of cultured men to society, 401 
 
 Eagerioiss of young authors, 419 
 Eccentricity sometimes a moral duty, 258 
 
 — sometimes an intellectual duty, 253 
 Ecclesiastical authority, remarkable decline, 286 
 Economy of time, 177 
 
 Education, 104 
 
 — use of the word, 173 
 
 — completeness of, 171 
 
 — want of thoroughness and reality, 290 
 
 — of sexes compared, 290 
 
 — fashionable, 380 
 
 Edueator, professional, practice the best, 226 
 
 Egotism of the uneducated mother, 324 
 
 Electricity practically annihilates distance, 857 
 
 Elevation of intellectual life, 55 
 
 Emerson's rule, 472 
 
 Empire, Second, vulgarity of, 367 
 
 finault, Louis, study of languages, 181 
 
 Encouragement to the poor student, 243 
 
 Energy, human, limitation of, 244 
 
 3nglish officer in Paris, 163 
 
 — strong to resist voluptuousness, 218 
 
 — recognize refining influence of wealth, 240 
 ^ gentry, free expenditures, 241 
 
 — gentleman, methods of culture, 241 
 
 — clergy, criticism of literature, 27T 
 
 — tradesman, anecdote of, 313 
 
 — correspondent quoted, 463 
 Enghshman, eminent, pvoor remuneration, 234 
 Engraving, 76 
 
 Ennui in work, 423 
 
 Equality, theoretic, 372 
 
 Erdan, M., letters by, 469 
 
 Essential virtue, disinterestedness, chief, 91 
 
 Etchers, the woes of, 76 
 
 Etiquette of society bar to intellectual advance, 896 
 
 European civilization, service of church, 261 
 
 — governments resist power of church, 258 
 Excesses, intellectual, dangers of, 101 
 Excitement, cerebral, intellectual products, 446 
 
INDEX, WH» 
 
 .lilrercise, bodily, need of, 49 
 Exeter, bishop of, quoted, 70 
 Experience, the lesson, 191 
 
 — advantages of, 420 
 Experiment replaces tradition, 354 
 Experiments on public taste, 235 
 
 Facilities for obtaining culture, 430 
 Facility of acquiring languages, 161 
 Faculty, development of, 175 
 Fane, Julian, religion of, 267 
 
 — late hours, 467 
 
 Faraday, intellectual career, 279, 505 
 
 — a Sandemanian, 280 
 Fashionable education, 380 
 
 — religion, 393 
 Fickleness of fashion, 392 
 
 Fine arts, technical difficulties, 76 
 
 — pursuit of, 498 
 
 Five facts regarding languages, 158 
 France, invasion by Germans, 95 
 
 — intellectual isolation, 148 
 
 — vulgar language of people, 365 
 
 — low condition of bourgeoisie, 367 
 French monarchy, question of, 94 
 
 — college, to a principal of, 137 
 
 — cook, perfection of art, 104 
 
 — officer, incident of, 362 
 
 — peasantry, intellectual apathy, 241 
 
 — peasantry, parsimony, 241 
 
 — peasantry vdthout newspapere, 466 
 
 — school of painting, 7'3 
 
 — students of English, isolated, 122 
 
 Frenchman writes a school-primer with good resultas, 234 
 Fresco-painters, troubles of, 76 
 Fi-iendships of the intellect, reality of, 375 
 
 — succession of, 376 
 Future, attraction of, 255 
 
 Galton, Mr., advice to travellers, 416 
 Garibaldi, Italian follower of, 45 
 Gfeneration, our, poetical events, 95 
 Genius, popular impression of, 447 
 
 — military, of Napoleon, 448 
 
 — dependent upcm culture, 450 
 
^'60 INDEX, 
 
 Gtentlemen, absence of, on Continent, 364 
 
 German invasion of France, 95 
 
 (Germans, intellectual labor of, 200 
 
 Germany, secular power resists ecclesiastical, 858 
 
 Girardin, St. Marc, 255 
 
 *' Give it time,"' 193 
 
 Goebhe, habits of, 33 
 
 — pecimiary independence, 233 
 
 — intellectual activity, 427 
 
 — interest in intellectual labor, 427 
 
 — production of Wertlier, 428 
 
 — at bombardment of Verdim, 540 
 Goldsmith, OUver, elaborate dress, 390 
 Good use of opportunity, 212 
 
 — and cheap literature, 244 
 
 Government patronage of intellectual pursuits, 138 
 
 — and priests lack harmony, 492 
 Great problem of himaan life, 242 
 Greek, general view of, 146 
 
 — uselessness in industry and commerce, 354 
 
 — alphabet, imaginary terrors, 355 
 Growing old, the rapidity of » 59 
 
 Habits, sure to be acquired, 478 
 
 Hack-writing, 508 
 
 Heine, last years of, 534 
 
 Helps, Sir Arthur, quoted, 186, 280 
 
 Hermit, experience of, 405 
 
 Highland scenery lacks humanity, 561 
 
 Historians, partiality of, 95 
 
 — future, value of journalist, 469 
 Historical party in England, 257 
 
 — party in France, 257 
 Honesty, importance of, rwte, 97 
 
 — value of, 265 
 
 — foundation of intellectual life, 274 
 Hoogstrateu and Rembrandt, 378 
 Hours of idleness, 198 
 Household, intellectual level of, 434 
 How to learn a language, 147 
 
 — women help men, 297 
 
 Hugo, Victor, intellectual decadence, 96 
 Himaan energy, limitation of, 244 
 
 — race, longevity, 274 
 
 Humboldt, Alexander, intellectual greatness, 90 
 
INDEX. 561 
 
 Humboldt, Alexander, fortune servant of ambition, 223 
 
 — in South America. 516 
 
 — youth of, 538 
 
 Hurry, evil consequences of, 209 
 Buxley, Professor, quoted, 372 
 Hygienics, intellectual, 416 
 
 Ideal division of life, 412 
 Ideas, association of, 168 
 
 — ratio of narrowness, 241 
 Idleness, hours of, 198 
 
 — value of, 458 
 
 Illusions, popular, concerning languages, 151 
 
 Immorality of intellectual people, 99 
 
 Inapplicability ot past experience, 256 
 
 Incompatibility, fashionable and intellectual life, 394 
 
 Incongruous associations, 170 
 
 Indirect uses of study, 131 
 
 Indolent men who Uke to be hm'ried, 207 
 
 Industrial classes, results of their labor, 520 
 
 Infallibility of the pope, 281 
 
 Infraction of custom, penalties, 247 
 
 Ingres, counsel to pupils, 421 
 
 Ingres, Madame, the first, 289 
 
 Inspiration, sister of daily labor, 85 
 
 — waiting for, 449 
 Instinct of accumulation, 237 
 
 — of solitude, 409 
 
 Intellect does not recognize authority, 282 
 Intellectual and religious questions, difference, 270 
 
 — attainments of two houses of Parliament, 240 
 
 — class necessary, 515 
 
 — deviations resulting from marriage, 317 
 
 — kingdom, difficult entrance of the rich, 230 
 
 — life, inward law, 88 
 Intellectual requirements of, 221 
 
 — foundation, difficulty, 274 
 
 — differs from religious life, 275 
 
 — based upon personal investigation, 273 
 
 — a solitary one. 298 
 
 — absence of caste, 346 
 
 — man rebels against custom, 250 
 
 — two courses open in marriage, 287 
 
 — methods independent of tradition. 28& 
 
 — nature of women, 306 
 
562 INDEX, 
 
 Intellectual natures need intellectual activity, 4SM) 
 
 — progress, necessity of, 521 
 
 — reaction sigainst money making, 229 
 
 — religion, foundations of, 272 
 
 — religion, search and result, 273 
 
 — separation of the sexes, 303 
 
 — stupidity of amassing money, ^7 
 
 — workers, suggestions to, 18 
 International marriages, 162 
 Interruption, evils of, 204 
 Intolerance of democracies, 366 
 Intoxication, Uterary, 67 
 Invasion of France by Gtermans, 95 
 Inventions a factor in politics, 256 
 
 — mainly due to men, 311 
 Inward law of intellectual life, 88 
 Irregular verbs, time-wasters, 193 
 Irrigation, intellectual, 436 
 Isolation of high cultui'e, 407 
 Italian deserter, the, 157 
 
 Jacquemont, Victor, letters of, ^X) 
 
 Japanese, revolution of thought and practice, ^ 
 
 Jealousy of class, 518 
 
 Johnson, dignity of his threadbare sleeves, 390 
 
 Joubert, 441 
 
 -~ productive power, 443 
 
 4[uoted, 255 
 JomTialism in England, 511 
 Journalist, value to future historians, 469 
 Journals, party, injustice of, 464 
 
 Kant, Immanttel, habits of, 27 
 
 Keats, genius dependent upon culture, 450 
 
 Kepler, early struggles, 232 
 
 Knight service in society, ^1 
 
 Knowledge of mankind, 457 
 
 — selection of, 108 
 
 liABOR, pecimiary rewards of, iSS 
 
 — of previous ages, disdain for, 260 
 
 — dominant and subordinate, 478 
 
 — of preparation, 448 
 
 lAiUa RooTch, Moore's trials, 72 
 JLonguage, Latin as a common, 1S7 
 
INDEX, tm 
 
 Language, facility of acquisition, 161 
 
 — in France, vulgarity of, 865 
 Langtnges, popular ill'isions, 161 
 
 — five facts, 152 
 
 — separation of, 150 
 Late hours, 477 
 
 Latin, modern ignorance of, 121 
 
 — island, a, 138 
 Latinist, the modem, 121 
 
 Law, complex code of customs, 251 
 
 — of society, 248 
 
 Lawyers, superiority of, in certain directions, 495 
 
 Lay element of Europe, powerful, 491 
 
 Legal profession, ad^ antages of, 493 
 
 Leslie's studio, 549 
 
 Levels, intellectual, 435 
 
 Lever, Charles, quoted » 501 
 
 Lewes' '* Life of Goethe " quoted, 451, 547 
 
 — quoted, 544 
 
 Lewis, John, practice work of, 74 
 
 Life, an ideal division of, 412 
 
 Limited knowledge and experience of the poor, ^4Q 
 
 Limitation of human energy, 244 
 
 Line-engraver, labor of, 76 
 
 Linguist, the modern, 150 
 
 Listening, the art of, 898 
 
 Literature, to a student of, 130 
 
 — good and cheap, 244 
 
 — criticism of English clergy, 277 
 
 — contemporaiy. indifference to, 471 
 Literary intoxication, 67 
 
 Littr6 quoted, 269 
 
 Locality, mental effect of, 530 
 
 Locke quoted, 85 
 
 Loitering element in liberal education, 196 ^ 
 
 Longevity, young men careless of, 65 
 
 — of human race, 274 
 Lost opportunities, 199 
 
 Louvre, wanton destruction of, 368 
 Love, necessity of, 454 
 LuUo, Raimond, Oriental missionary, 541 
 " Luxury," article in Comhill Magazine, S15 
 
 — quoted, 316 
 
 Lytton, Robert, letter of Lady Westmoreland, SW 
 
 — estimate of Julian Fane, 861 
 
56i INDEX, 
 
 Man unlike a planet, 452 
 
 — need of pluck, 70 
 
 Mankind, operations of riches and poverty, S6l) 
 
 — best knowledge of, 457 
 Marriage, 285 
 
 — true, a slow intergrowth, 286 
 
 — general ignorance regarding, 286 
 
 — complex effects, 287 
 
 — of intellectual men, 287 
 
 — a distinguished artist's views, 289 
 
 — ideal for man of literary culture, 290 
 
 — intellectual, 291 
 
 — how decided, 293 
 
 — of French professors, 294 
 
 — of the Scotch lawyer, 296 
 
 — the intellectual ideal, 299 
 
 — the necessity of keeping up its interest, 301 
 
 — frequently leads to inteUectual deviation, 317 
 
 — risk of ecceatric men, 323 
 
 — semi-publicity, 323 
 Marriages, international, 162 
 Maximilian, Emperor, execution of, 95 
 Mediasval builders, 260 
 
 Medicine, profession of, 495 
 Meissonier, practice for self -instruction, 74 
 " Melencolia " of Albert Durer, 424 
 Memory, defective, advantage of, 165 
 
 — selecting, 166 
 
 — rational art of, 169 
 
 Men, how helped by women, 296 
 
 — disguise their thoughts from women, 330 
 Mental labor not injurious to healthy persons, li 
 
 — may aggravate disease, 18 
 Mental stimulants, 69 
 
 — refusals should be heeded, 88 
 
 — powers, immoderate use, 20 
 
 — work, physical preparation, 479 
 Metaphor of the moimtains, 228 
 
 " Midshipman Easy," allusion to, 188 
 Military genius of Napoleon, 448 
 
 — profession, 497 
 
 — profession, intellectual poverty of, 498 
 Milton, forced retirement, 411 
 
 Mind of a fashionable person, 380 
 Hindg, three classes, 443 
 
INDEX, 666 
 
 ?«HracIes, belief in, 272 
 Miscalculation, bad res?ults, 196 
 Miscellaneous reading, our debt to, ICI 
 Mitford, Miss, quoted, 471 
 Mobility of fashionable taste, 398 
 Modern education, 116 
 
 — inventions, power of, 856 
 
 — languages, to student of, 14i) 
 
 — languages, limits of soundness, 188 
 
 — mind looks forward, 255 
 
 Modern Painters, result of long study, 230 
 
 — work of gopius and wealth, 229 
 Money, the Influences of, 216 
 
 — restraints of, 238 
 
 — the guardian of peace, 238 
 
 — accumulated labor of the past, 238 
 
 — protector of intellectual life, 238 
 Montaigne, early education of, 121 
 
 — purchases of books, 405 
 
 — his tower, 550 
 
 Moore's trials with " Lalla Rookh," 73 
 Moral basis, the, 67 
 
 — utility of culture, 101 
 Morality, individual theories, 99 
 
 — public opinion regulates, 257 
 " general advance of, 258 
 Morbid mind, cure for, 430 
 Morris, a diligent student, 450 
 
 Mother and son, difference In religious views, 961 , i 
 
 — the uneducated, 325 
 
 Mulready, preparation for new picture, 74 
 Multiplicity of modern studies, 120 
 Muscular Christian, to a, 42 
 Music, refining influence of, 44, 133 
 
 — limits of soundness, 183 
 
 Napoleon, military genius of, 448 
 
 Napoleon III., overthrow of, 95 
 
 National intellectual life, 433 
 
 Native tongue, results of disuse, 156 
 
 Natural connection between wealth and culture, 340 
 
 — gifts, development of, 172 
 
 — laws, independent working, 282 
 Nature, extraordinary reactions, 100 
 
 — high life in, 359 
 
566 INDEX, 
 
 Nature, provision for intellectxial life in marriage, 298 
 
 — toill be obeyed, >M8 
 Naval profession, 497 
 
 Navy, English, reconstruction of, i>69 
 Neapolitan servant, case of, 158 
 Necessity a help in Industrial pursuits, 5* 
 
 — disturbs higher intellectual life, 226, 238 
 Need of society and solitude, 403 
 Negative end of character, 475 
 
 — qualification for work, 109 
 Neighbors, education of, 437 
 Newspaper reading, abstinence from, 480 
 Newspapers as educators, 437 
 
 — daily house-talk of the world, 465 
 
 — in United States, 466 
 
 — in France, 466 
 
 Newton, desire for solitude, 410 
 Nervous system, physiological action, 17 
 Nightingale, Florence, quoted, 204 
 Night-work, medical objection to, 481 
 Noblesse, old, ignorance of, 363 
 Nomad, English, life of, 530 
 Nomadic habits of higher classes, 866 
 
 Obedience to nature, necessity of, 348 
 Object of intellectual discipline, 84 
 Occasion, mistaken estimates, 186 
 Opposition to custom unphilosophical, 251 
 
 — of method between intellect and faith, 283 
 Oil painting, dangers of, 76 
 
 Old prejudices declining, 522 
 Opportunities lost, 199 
 
 — unUmited, danger of, 214 
 
 — and application, 244 
 Origin of discipline, 82 
 Orleans, Duchess of, 220 
 
 — system of mental culture, 220 
 
 Orthodoxy no guaranty of intellectual capacity, 2S0 
 Outlet, intellectual, necessary, 435 
 
 Painthrs, intellectual discipline of, 498 
 Painting, different schools, 73 
 Palgrave's, Mr., " Travels in A-rabia," 40 
 Papacy, decline and fall of temporal power, 469 
 Papal infallibility, 281 
 
INDEX. 567 
 
 Paris, siege of, 95 
 
 Parliament, houses of, higti attainmenta, S40 
 
 Parsimony of French peasantry, 341 
 
 Party journals, injtistice, 464 
 
 Past, custom a precious legacy, 251 
 
 — not reliable as a guide, 256 
 Patriotism as a stimulant, 69 
 Peasants, instruction of, 438 
 Pecuniary rewards of labor, 283 
 Pendennis, Major, typical life, 65 
 Philistine intellects, 902 
 
 Philosophy, popular acceptation of term, 878 
 
 — a truly intellectual, 417 
 Physical basis, the, 17 
 
 — repugnances of surgeons, 87 
 
 — preparation for mental labor, 479 
 Physician, social rise of, 496 
 Physiological action of nervous system, 17 
 Pioneers, intellectual, 516 
 
 Planet, dissimilarity of man to, 452 
 
 Plans should be well arranged, 189 
 
 Pluck, value of, 70 
 
 Poet, the true, 447 
 
 Poetical events of our generation, 95 
 
 — teachings, true intentions, 463 
 PoUtical influence of cultm-e, 486 
 Politics, preponderance in newspapers, 465 
 Polyglot waiters, 165 
 
 Poor, limited knowledge and experience, 840 
 
 — incompetent for work of Parliament, 240 
 
 — independence of public opinion, 243 
 
 — man desirous of culture, consolation, 248 
 Pope of Rome, affirmed infallibility, 281 
 Popular illusions regarding languages, 151 
 
 — impression regarding genius, 447 
 Positive end of character, 475 
 Poverty and peace incompatible, 223 
 
 — mifavorable to intellectual life, 224 
 
 — advantage In liberal professions, 236 
 
 — obsta-cle to intellectual perfection, 289 
 Power of assimilation, 167 
 
 — of time, 176 
 
 Practical suggestions to intellectual workers, li 
 Practice, best professional as educator- ^'^ 
 
 — of journalism, 511 
 
568 INDEX, 
 
 Preference and capacity, relation. 87 
 Prejudices of caste, 348 
 
 — old, decline of, 522 
 Preparatory labor, 448 
 Prescott, Mr., instance of, 68 
 Preservation of the senses, 60, 64 
 Priests, manner of religious teaching, 3*0 
 
 — and government not harmonious, 493 
 Prince Consort, example and influence, 806 
 Problem, great, of life, 242 
 
 Products of cerebral excitement, 446 
 Professions, liberal, advantages of poverty, Sfl 
 
 — test of, 392 
 
 — and trades, 488 
 
 — pvurpose of, 507 
 Progress, satisfactions of, 79 
 ^- its debt to rebellion, 250 
 
 — of work, interest necessary, 416 
 Propositions about modern languages, 163 
 Protection in intellectual pursuits, 137 
 Public taste, experiments on, 235 
 
 — opinion, regulator of moralitr. 357 
 
 — opinion in France, 258 
 Purpose of a profession, 506 
 
 Qualifications for work, 109 
 
 Railways, unforeseen effect, 356 
 
 Rational art of memory, 169 
 
 Ravignon, pere, 547 
 
 Reactions of Nature, 100 
 
 Reading, miscellaneous, advantage of, 1S9 
 
 — painful to vmeducated, 438 
 
 — newspapers, abstinence from, 460 
 
 — pi-actised by most people, 474 
 Rebellion, debt of progress to, 250 
 Reconciliation of poverty and the soul, 9dS 
 Refinements of a language, 164 
 
 Reform and progress of custom, 250 
 
 Refusals, mental, should be heeded, 88 
 
 Regret for lost time, 456 
 
 Regularity of work, 446 
 
 Regulated economy of time, 203 
 
 Relation between preference and caimcity. W 
 
 — •f trivial events to great principles, 8S9 
 
INDEX. 569 
 
 Religion as a stimulant, 69 
 
 — requires aid of custom, 348 
 
 — different views of mother and son, 264 
 
 — indefinable, 271 
 
 — according to popular instinct, 878 
 
 — intellectual foundation of, 273 
 
 — influence of caste-law. 366 
 Religious vitality, periods of, 266 
 -- teaching, 270 
 
 ~ and intellectual questions, difference, 270 
 
 — creed does not weaken critical faculty, 277 
 
 — belief, test of, 272 
 
 Rembrandt, answer to Hoogstraten, 378 
 
 Renan, M., charges Second Empire with vulgarity, 807 
 
 Repugnances to be overcome, 87 
 
 Resisting power of adult brain, 162 
 
 Rest, necessary in intellectual labor, 454 
 
 Resting, the art of, 455 
 
 Restoration of French monarchy, 94 
 
 Restraints of money, 238 
 
 Retreats demanded by intellectual life, 221 
 
 Return to barbarism, 356 
 
 Rich man a director of work, 219 
 
 — social diversions of, 220 
 
 — vulgar people, 242 
 
 Road to success, commonly gradual increase, 886 
 
 Roman Catholic, belief of, 272 
 
 Romans, education of, 118 
 
 Roscoe, William, Italian studies, 134 
 
 Rosse, Lord, colossal telescope, 220 
 
 — useful application of wealth, 220 
 Rossini, advice to young composer, 195 
 Ruskin, Mr., value of artistic perception, 63 
 
 — extract from Modern Painters, 215 
 
 — wealth of material, 229 
 
 — career of, 229 
 
 Sacerdotal, system, 270 
 
 Sadness of ifttettectual workers, 426 
 
 Sainte Beuve, example of self -discipline, dl 
 
 — system of living, 236 
 
 — atheist and scientist, 279 
 
 — quoted, 458 
 
 Saint-Bernard at Lake Leman, 547 
 Saint-Hilaire, Geoffroy, in blindness, 57 
 
570 INDEX. 
 
 Salnt-Hilaire, Geoffrey, at Alexandria, 540 
 Sand, George, working under pressure, 28 
 
 — quoted, 86 
 
 — novel of " Valvddre," 319 
 Satisfactions of intellectual riches, 424 
 Schiller, hterary hack-work of, 283 
 Schoolmaster, thankless ofQce of, 337 
 Science, methods and laws of, 263 
 
 — reqmres heat and heroism, 276 
 
 — of hving, 396 
 
 Scientific cookery, importance of, 35 
 
 — writers and thinkers, independence, 258 
 
 — at variance with clergy, 274 
 
 Scott, Sir Walter, physical exercise, 24 
 
 — habits of, 33 
 
 — writing-closet, 549 
 
 Secular power resists ecclesiastical, 258 
 Selection of knowledge, 106 
 Selfishness of authors, 471 
 Senses, usefulness to intellectual life, 60 
 Separation of languages, 159 
 Shelley, boating exercise, 24 
 
 — the morality of, 99 
 
 — writings vinprofltable, 232 
 
 — desire for solitude, 409 
 Ships of the line, old, 262 
 
 Shopkeepers, treatment by English authors, 348 
 
 Siege of Paris, 95 
 
 Snent student, attainments, 444 
 
 Simon Jules, allusion to, 141 
 
 Sincerity induced by culture, 332 
 
 Skill, indifference to, 502 
 
 Skip judiciously in reading, 211 
 
 SmaU talk in England and France, 800 
 
 Smiles, Mr., Character quoted, 506 
 
 Smith, Sydney, quoted, 173 
 
 — common sense of, 277 
 Smoking, moderate and excessive, 89 
 Social diversions of the rich, 220 
 
 Society, penalties for infringing custom, 24f 
 
 — will he obeyed, 248 
 
 — desires harmony, 249 
 
 — and sohtude, 874 
 
 — fashionable demands, 890 
 
 — external deference to culture, 89t 
 
INDEX. cn 
 
 Solitude and society, 374 
 
 — traditional view of, 405 
 
 — effects upon man, 406 
 
 Soul and porerty, reconciliation, 249 
 Soundness, requisite to best success, 179 
 Spain, secular power resists ecclesiastical, tSA 
 Spenser the fables of, 251 
 State schools, exclusion of theology, 491 
 Station fetters intellect, 371 
 Steam makes cities of States, 257 
 Stimulante, effects of, 87 
 
 — mental, 69 
 
 Stone in Glen Croe, the, 455 
 Structural relations of languages, ITO 
 Student, the poor, encouragement, 24i 
 
 — the poor, sad story, 344 
 
 — dangers of society, 382 
 Study, indirect usee of, 131 
 
 — of medicine, 495 
 
 Substitution of experiment for tradition, 1^ 
 Success, result of discipline, 81 
 
 — common road, gradual increase, 220 
 Sue, Eugene, daily habits, 24 
 Svirgeon, social rise of, 496 
 Sm-roundings of cultivated men. 434, 531 
 Swiss gentleman, anecdote of, 276 
 Systematic arrangement of work, 478 
 
 Taste, public, experiments on, 235 
 
 Tea and coffee, use of, 39 
 
 Teachings, poetical, true intentions, 453 
 
 Telescope, colossal, of Lord Eosse, 220 
 
 Temptations of wealth, 218 
 
 Test of religious belief, 272 
 
 Theology, exclusion from state soJiools, 401 
 
 Theoretic equality amongst men, 872 
 
 Thiers, antecedents of, 463 
 
 — elevation of, 464 
 
 Thoughts upon " Government '* quoted, 80 
 Thrift, the principle of, 193 
 Tillier, Claude, doctrine of, 457 
 Time, the power of, 176 
 
 — loss of, 17? 
 
 — mistaken estimates, 186 
 
 — regulated economy, 208 
 
h'n INDEX. 
 
 Titian, early surroundings, 544 
 Tobacco, use of, 88 
 Trade distinctions. 521 
 
 ■ contempt for, 522 
 Trades and professions, 488 
 Tradition and custom, 246 
 
 — rejected for experiment, 254 
 
 — decline of authoritative influence, S90 
 
 — church of Rome, embodiment, 261 
 
 — in industrial and fine arts, note, 263 
 Training, intellectual, 214 
 
 Tranquillity conducive to intellectual success, '. 
 
 Travellers, Mr. Galton's advice, 416 
 
 Triumph of discipline, 86 
 
 Trivial events, relation to great principles, 338 
 
 Iruth a law of religion, 265 
 
 Turner's studi©, 549 
 
 Tyco Brahe. princely ease, 238 
 
 — surroundings of, 537 
 
 Ultramontane party, 91 
 
 Undisciplined writer, to an, 80 
 
 United States, influence of newspapers, 4^ 
 
 Unknown element of all problems, 188 
 
 Unproductive class, the, 444 
 
 Utility, moral, of culture, 101 
 
 " Valvedre," extract from, 819 
 Variety of labor for children, 482 
 Various pm^uits. objection to, 114 
 Vathek. written at a single sitting, 96 
 
 — author of, 216 
 Vatican, coimcil of, 127 
 
 Vinci, Leonardo da, education of, 173 
 
 Waiting for inspiration, 449 
 Want hinders intellectual piu-suita, 281 
 Warsaw, montunent to Copernicus, 26J 
 Wealth, double temptation of, 21b 
 
 — an obstacle to labor, 219 
 
 — inordinate r€fipect for, 502 
 
 Werther indicative of Goethe's ennui, 428 
 Westmoreland, Lady, letter to Robert Lytton, 1 
 Why men choose their wives, 292 
 Wine, use ot. 36 
 
INDEX, 575 
 
 WHes of French professors. 294 
 ■Women and marriage, 285 
 
 — how they help men, 297 
 
 — incapacity for solitary mental labor, 803 
 
 — intellectual nature of, 306 
 
 — absence of scientific curiosity, 308 
 
 — rarity of invention among, 310 
 
 — lack inherent force for advance, 311 
 
 — do not hear the truth from men, 330 
 
 — conversation of, 325 
 
 Wordsworth, love of pedestrian excursions, U 
 
 — failure as a London journalist, 232 
 
 — happy results of a legacy, 232 
 
 — advice to tourists, 288 
 
 Work, systematic arrangement desirable, 4?8 
 Work, article in Cornhill Magazine, 480 
 World recognizes performance only, 500 
 Woepke, Frana, remarkable extent of studies, 10# 
 
 — mathematioian and orientalist, 223 
 
 — pension of Italian prince, 223 
 Writing against time, 209 
 
 — as a profession, 509 
 
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 4