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In that fine passage, passion means not a mere susceptibility to an outward influence, but a dominating desire for some particular kind of outward influence, which, it is declared, may so occupy and possess the mind and character as to dethrone reason and drive men mad. Surely, no greater stride can be conceived than from the passive sense in which Locke and Bacon use passion" as a mere liability to be acted upon in any kind of way-to the sense in which Tennyson uses it, as a desire which may take such possession of the mind as, when yielded to, to drive strong men mad. Nor, again, can there be a much greater stride than the stride from this overpowering and bewildering obsession of the heart, to that higher sense of the word passion" in which we talk of the passion of Wordsworth, or the passion of Isaiah, or the passion of our Burial Service, or, far above every other sense, the passion of our Lord. It seem to us that there is a clearer les

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son in the " evolution' of the various meanings of such a word as this, than in the hypothesis as to the evolution of the highest forms of organized life out of the lowest forms. As the word "action" grows in intensity till it means, first, a struggle for victory in the Courts of law, and then a struggle for victory with an armed foc, so the word passion" grows in intensity till it means first a craving for something outside our selves that dominates and disfigures our whole being, and then a deliberate and voluntary participation in the manifold joys and sufferings of mankind, not for the satisfaction of any personal craving, but for the tempering, quieting, and relieving of all cravings by which mortal natures are tossed about and disfigured. And so, too, surely man's thoughts in general grow in intensity till the germ of what is little more than animal activity blossoms in heroism, and the germ of what is little more than abstract sensibility-liability to be bent and moulded from without-bears fruit in capacities so ennobling to human nature that heroism only expresses the lower level out of which these higher summits spring.

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And this is just what we want to draw attention to-that the word which in its origin is much the most humble and neutral, the word which expresses nothing but the openness of human nature to the force of external influences-just as the malleability of clay to the hand of the sculptor is used as a symbol of characterlessness, not of character-obtains in the end a far higher significance than the words which in its origin does express the initiative of human nature. Action never gets higher in meaning than a supreme struggle. Passion" reaches to a meaning far above that of supreme endurance, or supreme patience even-to the meaning of supreme sacrifice, the voluntary participation in all the deepest sufferings of others for the purpose of healing and purifying those sufferings. So that the passive word takes, after all, a higher meaning, even of the active kind, than the active word; that which begins by expressing mere liability to external influences, ends by expressing a more potent interference with those external influences than the very word which was built up on the idea of taking the initiative, instead of submitting to the initiative of others. "Action" beginning in the idea of man's initiative never gets beyond it, though it expresses the most vivid forms of that initiative. Passion'' which begins by denying man's initiative reaches to a meaning in which the intensest efforts of that initiative are included, as well as the intensest forms of that liability to be. influenced by the fate and feelings of others which seems to spring directly from the original meaning of the word. Is not that another way of saying that what theologians call the doctrine of prevenient grace' is true ?— in other words, that the highest form of human activity can only be produced in the mind which is open to receive the impulses of a higher inspiration; and that the form of activity which really begins in the will of man is a lower form of activity, which may reach heroism at best, but can never reach the saintly level. Passion, in its highest sense, includes action and the highest action. Action, in its highest sense, does not express the higher passion.

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To return to a much lower sense of the word. The use of the passions is,

as Tennyson makes his selfish intriguer level, to the level of what is eternal and

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Even in this lower sense, the passions make men much greater-though, it may be, not always better-than any energy which is not passionate can make them. It is the passions which make biography and history what they arejust as it is passion in a still higher sense which makes poetry what it is. With out the passions, we should not have had David, or Alexander, or Brutus, or Hannibal. Without a higher kind of passion, we should not have had Homer, or Tyrtæus, or Dante, or Shakespeare, or Milton, or Goethe. What we are pleased to call "originality," we all with one voice combine to declare not really original, but originated from some hidden source beyond itself. We speak of every original genius as inspired-in other words, as not original, but due to an origin above the will, above the power of the individual to make or mar. Thus, we regard that activity as most effectual which obeys a stimulus beyond itself; and that as least effectual or most insignificant which is most truly self-originated. And this applies even to the less noble passions -to ambition, to emulation, to the rapture of æsthetic feeling. These passions really do heat and fill with interest a life that might otherwise freeze into apathy, even when they are sufficiently ignoble, as ignoble as they are, for instance, in the breast of Tennyson's Galatian traitor. Even such passions carry men out of themselves-though, it may be, only to make them feel that they ought not to have been carried out of themselves by principles so poor-and teach how great a spur to effective action a dominant passion is. But the strange thing is that the same word should represent, first, that in us which is purely passive -next, that which keeps life from stagnating only by endangering a fall below the human level-and again, that which raises it to a point far above the human


divine. Doubtless, there is, as we have already noticed, an intermediate step between these last two meanings in the use of the word" passion" to express that higher kind of poetic inspiration which makes men voluntary partakers of the love, and joy, and suffering of others, almost for the mere sake of entering into them. Here you have, on the one hand, a dominant impulse of the imagination-very much like the love of beauty or the love of power-which spurs on the poet to imagine and delineate human joys and sufferings, and which so far, therefore, has no moral freedom and choice in it than the more selfish passions. But then, on the other hand, this imaginative passion has no selfish end in view; it asks nothing but to see and feel as other men see and feel in their moments of truest and most vivid life; and therefore it helps to bind men together in a new and closer unity than any they could reach without it. And hence even imaginative passion, as it involves a suffering with the sufferings of others, no less than a rejoicing in their joys, and therefore a very real extension of individual experience, at the cost frequently of the sacrifice of serenity, touches the still higher meaning of the word in which sacrifice for others is the predominant and essential quality. As a mere poetic impulse, which no true poet can suppress, imaginative passion is little raised above the other intellectual passions-little raised above the desire for knowledge, for instance. But in its uniting influences, and in the pain which it involves wherever a true poet enters honestly into "the pangs, the eternal pangs, of his race, it touches that higher level of passion, where passion and sacrifice are one. Surely there is hardly any story of evolution in existence which runs through so wide a diameter of being as the significance of this strange word, beginning as it does in the very emptiness and nakedness of our liability to be twisted and warped in any direction, however injurious, by external influence, and yet ending in that triumph of divine love over human sensitiveness which is possible only to the man impelled by God.-Spectator.

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SOME two years ago a political satire was published in New York, under the title of "Solid for Mulhooly," which did not receive from English politicians the attention which it undoubtedly deserved. It was not to be seen on the club tables in Pall Mall, nor was it in demand at Mudie's, and is now, I understand, out of print. Nevertheless, its interest is so great, and the conclusions which seem naturally to follow its story pierce the soul and marrow of modern English politics with so true and acute a rapier-point, that representative Radicals like Mr. Chamberlain, or disguised Radicals, as is Lord Randolph Churchill, might well republish the work for gratuitous distribution in the still unenlightened and unregenerate constituencies. Solid for Mulhooly" purported to be a new and novel satire on the Boss system in American politics, in which the mysterious methods of the leaders, the Ring and the Boss, were laid bare; and although, for the American public, which the chief living exponent of the science of political corruption asserts to have greater patience and longer ears than any other animal in the New World, there could be little that was novel in the revelations, there is much which is, fortunately, both new and useful for Englishmen.

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It cannot be expected that the arid wilderness of American politics should ever become a fair and pleasant garden in which English students may wander with delight and contentment. The subject is strange and distasteful, and from most points of view unprofitable, and Americans themselves turn from it with disgust. If but few educated Englishmen could explain the differences in dogma between the Republican and Democratic parties, an average American could do little more, seeing that to the eyes of impartial observers the only conflict between political parties is as to which should obtain the larger proportion of the spoils of victory-the fat offices given to unscrupulous wire-pullers; judgeships, the reward of the prostitution of justice; and contracts by


which the people pay three dollars for every one which is expended on its behalf.

There is, however, one light in which American politics have for Englishmen an engrossing interest, and to this I made reference in a recent article,* namely, the effect which democratic principles, carried to their extreme logical conclusions, have had upon a race identical in many particulars with the English from which it has sprung. Has this effect been such as to encourage us to apply these principles at home? Has the result been a nobler view of the obligations of citizenship; a more generous and unselfish use of wealth; a higher and purer municipal administration; a more patriotic, far-sighted, and courageous foreign policy? And even should a favorable answer be returned to these inquiries, there remains for Englishmen the practical question whether, if undiluted democracy be suited to the conditions of America, with its vast homogeneous territory and a population still scanty proportional to its area. secure from all foreign attack and selfcontained and self-sufficient in its resources, we could reasonably expect that it should be equally successful in England. For this country is the centre and omphalos of a world-wide empire, confronted in every land and on every sea with enemies or rivals; with an overgrown population crowded into cities and dependent on others for their very bread, and already enjoying a system of government which is not only the envy of less fortunate peoples, but which has had the force to make us, and may still possess the inherent virtue to maintain us, first among the nations of the earth?

A novel called "Democracy," giving a clever and amusing sketch of Washington society and the political intrigues which have their origin and development in the capital of the United States, excited considerable interest in

* 44 A Visit to Philistia." Fortnightly Review, January, 1884.


England a short time ago. It was written with much spirit, and its frankness was so condemnatory of American institutions that it was first supposed to be written by an Englishman. But there are no more severe critics of their political system than the Americans themselves, and the authorship of "Democracy

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is no secret at Washington, where I have met more than one of the persons whose presentment is supposed to be given in the novel. Another book lately published-"A Winter in Washington"-though of doubtful taste, and below criticism as a work of literary art, is fully as outspoken regarding the low tone of morality which prevails in political circles. But Solid for Mulhooly," the work which I have taken as the text for this article, is of a different quality. Its style disdains those half-lights and shadows and reticences which belong to romance, the conventional glamor which artistically obscures the naked truth. It carries the American political system into the dissectingroom, and pitilessly exposes the hidden seat of its disease. While "Democracy" shows the ultimate result of official corruption in the lobbies and drawing-rooms of Washington, "Solid for Mulhooly' discloses its genesis in the drinking-saloon and the gutter. Democracy" differs from it as a rainbow differs from the mathematical formulæ which express the laws that determine its shape and color. A short sketch of the plot, showing how a penniless adventurer became Member of Congress, rich without toil, like the lilies, influential without character, and famous through his very infamy, will not be unprofitable.

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Michael Mulhooly was born in those conditions which experience has shown to be eminently favorable to prominence in American statesmanship-a mud cabin among the bogs of County Tyrone, which he shared with his parents, his ten brothers and sisters, and. the pig. Fortune sent him early to America, where his struggles and subsequent successes form the subject of the story. Epitomized as was his history by the journal of the Reform party, it read thus:

"A bogtrotter by birth; a waif washed up on our shores; a scullion boy in a gin-mill fre

quented by thieves and shoulder-hitters; afterward a bar-tender in and subsequently the proprietor of this low groggery; a repeater* before he was of age; a rounder, bruiser, and shoulder-hitter; then made an American citizen by fraud after a residence of but two years; a leader of a gang of repeaters before the ink on his fradulent naturalization papers was dry; then a corrupt and perjured election officer; then for years a corrupt and perjured member of the Municipal Legislature, always to be hired or bought by the highest bidder, and always an uneducated, vulgar, flashily dressed, obscene creature of the Ring which made him what he is, and of which he is a worthy representative; such, in brief, is the man who has been forced upon this party by the most shame

less frauds as its candidate for the American Congress. This is filthy language, but it is the only way in which to describe the filthy subject to which it refers, as every man who reads it must admit that it is only the simple truth.

compelled to scour the gutter, the gin-mill, and "Is it possible that the American people are

the brothel for a candidate for Congress? Is it possible that the Ring which has already plundered the city for so many years, and which has so long abused our patience with its arbitrary nominations of the most unworthy people for the most honorable and responsible offices, will be permitted to crown its infamies by sending to Congress this creature who represents nothing decent and nothing fit to be named to decent

ears ?"

Though all this, with much more that the indignant journal wrote, was not only true but notorious, it had no effect upon the foregone conclusion of the contest. The Boss, who held in his hand the fifty thousand Irish Catholic votes of New York, called upon one of the judges whom he had made' to convict of libel the journal which had dared to tell the truth and condemn his favored nominee. Justice was dishonored and the truth was condemned. Meanwhile the campaign was fought between honesty and corruption. The candidate of the Reform party was a young man of good family, the highest character, possessed of wealth, genius, and eloquence, and he had at his back all the voters of respectability and posi

*Repeating is an amusing game much played at American elections. The repeater who, if possible, should be a professional bully and prize-fighter, represents himself to be and votes for some member of the party opposed to that which employs him. When the true voter

appears at the poll he is assailed as a fraudulent person who desires to register twice, and is kicked and beaten by the repeater and his friends. This game causes much innocent


tion. But he did not condescend to those arts which could alone insure success. He did not visit bar-rooms, or drink with and treat the party-workers, or bribe or cajole; and he declared war to the knife against the Boss and the Boss system, and the Ring, and the whole gang of confederated thieves who had for so long laughed at and plundered the people. The result was what might have been foreseen. The leaders, the Ring, and the Boss, and their thousands of dependents, were solid for Mulhooly,' who was elected Member of Congress by the grace of the municipal gods; manhood suffrage was vindicated, and the corrupt, obscure adventurer represented a Government of the people, by the people, and for the people.

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It will be asserted that this satire is exaggerated, and a caricature of the truth. But this is not the opinion of those educated and high-principled Americans with whom I have talked in the large cities, such as Washington, New York, Philadelphia, Chicago, Minneapolis, or Denver. They are generally willing to discuss the political situation with all frankness if they be only approached with discretion. Should the traveller commence with abuse of American institutions he will naturally meet with a rebuff; but should he sympathetically praise an administration wihich professes to be of and for the people, his listener will quickly open the floodgates of his invective against it. From my Colorado note-book I extract the ipsissima verba of one of the most prosperous and distinguished citizens of that State. Politics, said he, are nothing but a trade by which to live and grow fat, and an evil and a stinking trade. No one who respects himself can join it, and should a respectable man be chosen for office he refuses to

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accept the nomination. Everything connected with it is corrupt; and success being impossible to an honest man, the dirty work is left to the scallawags and scoundrels who live by it, and who degrade the name of politics throughout America.'

The city of New York has, for many years, been one of the most striking and convenient illustrations of what is known in America as Boss rule, and the

many millions that it has cost the people, in waste, peculation, and undisguised and unblushing robbery, form the price which they have had to pay for the pretence of freedom. Matters are now less openly scandalous than of old, but the same system, is in full force. Boss Kelly, who sways the destinies of New York, has been able, from his near connection with an Irish cardinal, to defend his position with spiritual as well as temporal weapons, and the whole Irish Catholic population vote solid as he bids them. The result of a generation of this régime has been disastrous. The commercial capital of the United States may now be fairly reckoned, for size and population, the second city in the world, if Brooklyn, New Jersey, and the suburbs be included within its boundaries. Its property is assessed at fifteen hundred million dollars, its foreign commerce is not far from a billion dollars, while its domestic trade reaches many hundred millions. But there is hardly a European city of any importance which is not infinitely its superior in municipal administration, convenience, beauty, and architectural pretensions. With the exception of the PostOffice and the unfinished Catholic cathedral, which is neither in size nor design a cathedral at all, there is scarcely a building which repays a visit. The City Hall, which cost ten or twelve millions of dollars, is certainly worth inspection as an instance of what swindling on a gigantic scale is able to accomplish, as is the Brooklyn Bridge, which cost seventeen millions, or three times the original estimate, and which was further unnecessary, as a subway would have been more convenient and have cost much less. Local taxation is crushingly heavy, and so inequitably assessed that the millionnaires pay least and the poor most. The paving of the streets is so rough as to recall Belgrade or Petersburg; the gas is as bad as the pavement, and it is only in Broadway and portions of Fifth Avenue that an unsystematic use of the electric light creates a brilliancy which but heightens the contrast with the gloom elsewhere. The Central Park, so called from being a magnificent expanse of wilderness in the centre of nothing, is ill-kept and ragged, and at night is unsafe for either sex.

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