dle the imagination and ensure the obedi- "blameless and loved saints," but it is folly to think that common mortals can adopt their intellectual method. Similarly this caution is needed with regard to Emerson. Just as Mr. Matthew Arnold shows that Shakespeare, because of his very richness and fertility, is in many respects an unsafe guide for the young writer, so is Emerson an unsafe guide for the young thinker. His own idealisms are generally trustworthy because they are verified, so to speak, by his temperament before they find birth in words: in most cases his inherited sense nullifies the defects of his method. But for most of us this intuitionism is the worst procedure possible: what but chaos could result if every man were his own ultimate court of appeal? Life would be like a game at cards where each player makes his own trumps. We ought to be abundantly satisfied with the privilege of securing truth by working for it, and not to try to swing Richard's battle-axe when we have not Richard's arm. The need of this caution is proved by the extravagances and foolish speculations of many of the self-styled transcendentalists of New England, who took Emerson at his From this point of view the true signifiword as regards the true philosophic cance of Emerson may be seen. There method. Having frequently neither ac- can be no doubt that of the three questual experience nor intellectual training, tions in which, according to Kant, the they jumped at his assurance that they interest of human reason is centred, the had but to look within to become pos- second one is supreme in importance. sessed of all wisdom and knowledge. The interest of reason is the interest of "The Emersonida-those imbeciles," as humanity, and for humanity, alike in its Theodore Parker called them, out of the individual and in its collective form, the treasures of their hearts brought forth question of right conduct is paramount. things neither good nor evil, but utterly Beside it the question, "What can I incomprehensible. "A new philosophy know?" is of interest merely, and even has arisen," wrote one of the puzzled, "maintaining that nothing is everything in general, and everything is nothing in particular." To return, then, to the epitome of the conflict between the two rival schools of ethical doctrine, and the union of them which forms, as it seems to me, the new and true philosophic basis of ethics. On the one hand there is the transcendental school with its impressive superstructure of abstract right, of undemonstrable ideals, of imperative commands, but resting on a foundation weak because built not of experience nor supported by the test of practical life. On the other hand there is the empirical school, resting upon a broad and solid foundation of human experience and demonstrated fact, strengthened by every practical test that can be applied to it, but with no imposing structure rising above the surface to kin the question, "What may I hope ?" may be left for subsequent solution. The question, "What ought I to do?" is connected not only with the attainment of my own highest ideal, but also with the highest development of the human race itself. Therefore the essence of humanity lies in the correct theoretical answer to it, and he who in his own nature is the living embodiment of this answer is the truest man. one It only remains, in conclusion, to show that this explanation does explain, that this clue does really guide, and so to verify the previous argument as proves a sum in division. There is no space left for any detailed explanations, but a few words will serve to show how one or two typical problems presented by Emerson and his writings are solved by this interpretation. Beyond this it will be for any one who deems it of value to ap ply it to the questions which may arise in "Mr. as far as the explanation of it. Emerson," he says, seems to have bought his experience cheaply." Precisely. In fact he paid no more for it than an heir pays for his wealth; it was given to him. This, then, is the explana. tion the present interpretation gives of Emerson's inability or unwillingness to adopt the ordinary processes of reason. ing. His inconsistency is explained by the fact that, not being obliged to conduct any intellectual calculating operations, he simply transfers to us the contents of his mental note-book, which contained new matter every day. In conversation he once let fall a sentence which is a perfect commentary on all his writings, and which fully confirms this view. "I find myself," he said, "in the midst of a truth which I do not understand. I do not find that any one understands it. I only wish to make a clean transcript of my mind." First, then, take the most conspicuous of the many difficulties in connection with Emerson -the fact of his constant and conscious inconsistency, his utter inability to argue or even to give his own train of reasoning. He says of Plato, "Admirable texts can be quoted on both sides of every great question from him;" and this is equally true of himself. It is impossible to say of Emerson what view he holds upon many of the distinct questions which occupy men's minds. He is quite aware of this, and frankly says, "I am always insincere, as always knowing there are other moods;" and again, "A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds." And he will not argue or defend his views. "I delight in telling what I think," he wrote to a critical friend, "but if you ask me how I dare say so, or why it is so, I am the most helpless of mortal As a second and crucial test, does this men. This is sometimes very irritating. interpretation explain Emerson's great He challenges us with some stupendous secret -the secret of his stimulating assertion or startling paradox, but when power? That it does so is, to my mind, we accept the implied alternative of either its chief merit. If Emerson's personality believing it or refuting it, and demand his is the ethics that is to be, expressed in reasons or attack his logic, he promptly terms of humanity, if he embodies the escapes under cover of some such retort unity which we have found to be philo. as his favorite quotation from Saint Au- sophically true, then he is an ideal to us, gustine: "Let others wrangle, I will won- he is our idea actualized; but not an ideal der." Now, this refusal to argue is due at which we can directly aim, for we may to the fact that his own argumentation not adopt his method, but rather an ideal had been done beforehand for him. He which exhorts, for he is a living proof came into the world with his preliminary that our own theoretical views are corintellectual duties i.e., those in the do-rect, and therefore to be followed. Now, main of logic-done. It has been well an exhorting ideal is not that a suffisaid that "his genius was mature from cient key to his power? the start." His long line of hard-headed Finally, no doubt every human mind Puritan ancestors, full of experience from exhibits a unity similar in kind; it is the their struggle with the irresponsive soil vastness of the difference in degree which, of New England and their enforced solu- if the preceding argument is correct, tion of the problems consequent on be- shows how remarkably and peculiarly ginning a new life in a new country, had true of Emerson are Carlyle's words found out for him the major and minor about Scott: When he departed he premisses; it only remained for him to took a man's life with him." draw the conclusions. He would no more go back over the successive steps which led to the conclusions which he saw, than we who know that twelve times twelve are a hundred and forty-four should be will. ing to make twelve successive additions of twelve to reach the result, because the children around us do not know what the total is without doing so. Nor would HENRY NORMAN. From Macmillan's Magazine. THE WIZARD'S SON. CHAPTER XXXI. IN the early morning there is an hour more like paradise than anything else vouchsafed to our mortal senses as a symbol of the better world to come. The evening is infinitely sweet, but it implies labor and rest and consolation, which are ideas not entirely dissevered from pain; but in the first glory of the morning there | What haunts and refuges of happy life is an unearthly sweetness, a lustre as of might be there! what dreams of poetry the pristine world, unsoiled, untried, un- beyond the human! That lovely inveralloyed, a heavenly life and calm. The sion of all things, that more than mortal sunshine comes upon us with a surprise, freshness and sweetness and liquid glow with something of that exultant novelty of light, confused the mind with a kind of which it must have had to Adam; the drops involuntary bliss, a vision of a place of of dew shine like little separate worlds; escape, the never-attained country to the birds, most innocent of all the inhabi- which the soul, had it wings, might flee tants of earth, have the soft-breathing away and be at rest. universe to themselves: all their sweet domestic intercourses, the prattle of the little families, their trills of commentary touching everything that is going on in earth and heaven get accomplished, as the level line of sunshine penetrates from one glade to another, higher and higher, touching as it passes every bough into life. Awakening and vitality is in the very atmosphere which brings a new in a fierce, internal controversy which, to hope, a new day, a new world of possibility and life. New heavens and a new earth thus present themselves to mortal cognizance, for the most part quite unconscious of them, every day. If only we brought nothing with us from the old world that ended in the night! But, alas, we bring everything – ourselves, that "heritage of woe," our thoughts, our desires, baffled or eager, for other objects than those which are in harmony with that new life and blessedness. When the sun rose visibly into the blue, skimming the surface of Loch Houran, and waking all the woods, there stood one spectator upon the old battlements of the ruined castle who was altogether out of harmony with the scene. Walter had not slept all night. He had not even gone through the form of going to bed. He had come out as soon as there was a glimmer of daylight, which, in October, is long of coming, to get what refreshment was possible from the breath of the morning air, and thus had assisted at the reawakening of earth, and all the development of the new-born day. From where he stood there lay before him a paradise of sky and water, with everything repeated, embellished, made into an ideal of twofold sweetness, brightness, and purity, in the broad mirror of the lake. The autumn woods, the tracts of green field, or late yellow of the unreaped corn, all showed like another fairy-land underneath, a country still purer, more dazzling and brilliant, more still and fresh, than the morning land above. "The light that never was on sea or land" shone in those glorified and softly rippling woods, trending away into the infinite to the point beyond which mortal vision cannot go. But that soul had no wings which looked out from Walter's haggard countenance, as he leaned on the half-ruined wall. He gazed at the scene before him like one who had no lot or part in it. Its peace and brightness brought but into greater relief the restlessness of his own soul, the gloom and blackness in his heart. He had been struggling all night his own consciousness, was with another intelligence more powerful than his own, and yet might have been with himself, with the better part that kept up within him a protest for better things, with such representatives of conscience and the higher affections as still existed within him. However it was, he was exhausted with the struggle, his strength was worn out. That lull of pain which does not mean any cure, or even any beginning of healing, but is merely a sign that the power of the sufferer to endure has come to its limit, gave him a kind of rest. But the rest itself was restless and incapable of composure. He moved about like an uneasy spirit along the broken line of the old battlements, pausing here and there to plunge his eyes into the landscape, to take in the morning air with a long inspiration. And so unlike was the mood of his mind to his usual character and habits, that as he moved, Walter gave vent to a low moaning, such as gives a kind of fictitious relief to the old and suffering an involuntary utterance which it was terrible to hear coming with his breathing from a young man's lips, and in the midst of such a scene. Was he talking to himself? Was he only moaning as a dumb creature moans? By-and-by he half flung himself, in his weariness, into one of the ruinous embrasures, and remained there, leaning his back against one side of it. And then he said to himself, repeating the words over and over again, "Neither God's nor Oona's. Neither Oona's nor God's." Lord Erradeen had arrived at that lowest depth of self-estimation, which means despair. His own life had been forced upon him, represented before his eyes he 1 1 13 could not tell how. He had seen its motives disentangled, its course traced, all its wastes laid bare, with a distinctness against which he could offer no appeal. He could deny nothing; it was true; this was what he had done, with a repetition of folly, of selfishness, of baseness, for which he could offer no sort of excuse, which confounded and abased him. He had known it all, it is true, before; time after time he had pulled himself up and looked at the last scrap of his life, and pronounced it indefensible; then had pushed it from him and gone on again, escaping with all the haste he could from contemplation of the phenomena which were inexplicable, and which he did not desire to attempt to explain even to himself. He had said truly to Miss Milnathort that to know you are wrong is not always equivalent to being on the way to mend it. He had always known he was wrong; he had never been deficient in moral disapproval of others like himself, or even of himself, when in one of the pauses of his career he was brought face to face with that individual. But he had been able to put a sort of accidental gloss upon his own worst actions. He had not intended them; there had been no motive whatever in what he did; he had done so and so by chance by indolence, because it happened to be put before him to do it; but he had meant nothing by it. Out of this subterfuge he had been driven during the mental conflict of the night. And there was this peculiarity in his state, that he was not thus enlightened and convinced by the exertions of any reformatory influence, by any prophet bidding him repent. Conviction came from entirely the other side, and with a motive altogether different. "Who are you," his antagonist said, or seemed to say, "to take refuge with a pure woman, you who have never been pure? Who are you to lay claim to be God's, after ignoring God's existence altogether; or to be your own master, who have never ruled or guided yourself, but have been the slave of every folly, a feather blown on the wind, a straw carried away by the stream? All these accusations had been made as plain to him as the daylight. He had not been allowed to escape; the course of his life had been traced so clearly, that he could not protest, or object, or contradict; he was convinced the most terrible position in which a man can be. Whether any man, thoroughly persuaded of his own moral wretchedness and debasement ever does escape despair, is a The prodigal's question full of difficulty. sense that in his father's house every servant has enough and to spare while he perishes of hunger is a different matter. Father, I have sinned, I am no more worthy to be called thy son; make me as one of thy hired servants." There are still possibilities to a soul in such a position. But one who is driven from stronghold to stronghold, until at length he is forced to allow that there is no inducement which has not been tried and failed with him, that he has no claim to the suc cor of God, or man, or woman, that he has turned his back upon all, neglected all, wronged every power in heaven and earth that could help, what is he to do? He may be forgiven; but forgiveness in the entire abasement of that discovery is not what he wants. He wants a renovation for which there seems no means left; he wants, in the old language that language which we are said to have outgrown to be born again: and that is impossible impossible! What is there in heaven or earth that will prevent him from doing all over again what he has done before, the moment his circumstances permit it? So long as he is what he is nothing: and how shall he be made other than what he is? "Ye must be born again." Ah, what preacher can know that as he does? But how but how? Neither God's nor Oona's-and who, then, was to help him? He had caught at the woman in his despair; he had not even so much as thought of God till the last moment, and then had flown like a coward to a fetich, meaning nothing but to escape. Why should God bend down from those spotless heavens. to acknowledge the wretched runaway's clutch at his divine garments in the extremity of mortal terror? Would Oona have given him that hand of hers, had she known how his was stained? And would God attend to that coward's appeal made only when everything else failed? The young man sat in the corner of the embrasure, pressing himself against the rough stone-work for support. Despair had possession of his soul. What had he to do with the best and highest things, with freedom and love? After all why should he be his own master, why claim the right to judge for himself? If he had this freedom fully, what would be do with it? Throw it away next day in exchange for some nothing, some pleasure_that palled in the tasting. Pleasure! There was no pleasure, but only make-beliefs and deceptions. The old fellow was right, he began to say to himself, with a certain bitter humor. Had he exercised no coercion over the race, had the Methvens been left to their own devices, how much of them would have remained now? Instead of a peerage and great estates they would have died out in a ditch or in a sponging-house generations ago. Their lands would have gone bit by bit: their name would have disappeared -all as he said. And supposing now that Walter was left entirely free to do as he pleased what reason had he to believe that he would not squander everything he could squander, and bring down the prosperity of the race into the dust? That is what he would have done if left to himself. He would have resisted all claims of prudence or duty. He would have followed, he knew it, the caprice of the moment, just as he had done now. If no former Methvens had ruined the family it was in himself to do it. All these thoughts were in favor of the submission which seemed to him now almost the only thing before him. He thought of Miss Milnathort and her anxious addresses, and laughed to himself bitterly at her childish hope. Two that should be one, and that should be set on everything that was good. What a simpleton she was! He set on everything that was good! he was incapable of anything that was good. And Oona - could there be a greater folly than to think that Oona, when she knew, would pick him up out of the ruin, and give him a new starting-ground? He laughed at the thought aloud. Oona! Was not her very name the token of purity, the very sign of maidenhood and innocence? And to believe that she would mingle herself in his being which was unclean and false from its very beginning! He laughed at his own folly to think so. In ignorance she had been more kind than ever woman was. She had asked no questions, she had given him her hand, she had stood by him. In ignorance: but when she knew! He said to himself that he was not cad enough to let her go on in this ignorance. He would have to tell her what he had been, what he would be again if left to circumstances and his own fancy. He would not deceive her; he was not cad enough for that. And when he had told her, and had given up forever all hope of really making a stand against the tyrant of his race, or carrying out his theories of happiness, what would remain? What would remain? Subjection-misery "No," said a voice close by him, "something else -something very good in its way, and with which the greater majority of mankind are quite content, and may be very happy. The second best." Walter had started at the sound of this voice. He left his seat with nervous haste; and yet he had no longer any sense of panic. He had a certain doleful curiosity to see the man whom he had only seen in twilight rooms or by artificial light, in the open air and by the sunshine. Perhaps this strange personage divined his thoughts, for he came forward with a slight smile. There was nothing in his appearance to alarm the most timid. He was, as Miss Milnathort had called him, a grand gentleman. He had the air of one accustomed to command, with that ease of bearing which only comes to those largely experienced in the world. The path along the ruinous battlements was one that craved very wary walking, but he traversed it with the boldest step without a moment's hesitation or doubt. He made a little salutation with his hand as he approached. "You were laughing," he said. "You are taking, I hope, a less highflown view of the circumstances altogether. The absolute does not exist in this world. We must all be content with advantages which are comparative. I always regret," he continued, "resorting to heroic measures. To have to do with some one who will hear and see reason, is a great relief. I follow the course of your thoughts with interest. They are all perfectly just; and the conclusion is one which most wise men have arrived at. Men in general are fools. As a rule you are incapable of guiding yourselves; but only the wise among you know it." "I have no pretension to be wise." So "You are modest-all at once. long as you are reasonable that will do.. Adapt your life now to a new plan. The ideal is beyond your reach. By no fault of circumstances, but by your own, you have forfeited a great deal that is very captivating to the mind of youth, but very empty if you had it all to-morrow. You must now rearrange your conceptions and find yourself very well off with the second best." There was something in his very tone which sent the blood coursing through Walter's veins, and seemed to swell to bursting the great currents of life. He cried out, "You have driven me to despair! You have cut off from me every hope! And now you exhort me to find myself very well off, to adapt my life to a new plan. Is that all you know?" |