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cess of “thinking" is we know likewise from our own experience. In contemplating the phenomena of reasoning and of conscious deliberation it really seems as if it were impossible to sever it from the idea of a double personality. Tennyson's poem of the Two Voices" is no poetic exaggeration of the duality of which we are conscious when we attend to the mental operations of our own most complex nature. It is as if there were within us one Being always receptive of suggestions, and always responding in the form of impulse-and another Being capable of passing these suggestions in reviews before it, and of allowing or disallowing the impulses to which they give rise. There is a profound There is a profound difference between creatures in which one only of these voices speaks, and man, whose ears are, as it were, open to them both. The things which we do in obedience to the lower and simpler voice are indeed many, various, and full of a true and wonderful significance. But the things which we do and the affections which we cherish, in obedience to the higher voice have a rank, a meaning, and a scope which is all their own. There is no indication in the lower animals of this double personality. They hear no voice but one; and the whole law of their being is perfectly fulfilled in following it. This it is which gives its restfulness to Nature, whose abodes are indeed what Wordsworth calls them

"Abodes where Self-disturbance hath no part."

On the other hand, the double personality, the presence of "Two Voices," is never wholly wanting even in the most degraded of human beings their thoughts everywhere "accusing or else excusing one another.'

Knowing, therefore, in ourselves both these kinds of operation, we can measure the difference between them, and we can thoroughly understand how animals may be able to do all that they actually perform, without ever passing through the processes of augmentation by which we reach the conclusions of conscious reason and of moral obligation. Moreover, seeing and feeling the difference, we can see and feel the relations which obtain between the two

classes of mental work. The plain truth is, that the higher and more complicated work is done, and can only be done in this life, with the material supplied by the lower and simpler tools. Nay, more, the very highest and most aspiring mental processes rest upon the lower, as a building rests upon its foundation-stones. They are like the rude but massive substructions from which some great temple springs. Not only is the impulse, the disposition, and the ability to reason as purely intuitive and congenital in man as the disposition to eat, but the fundamental axioms on which all reasoning rests are, and can only be, intuitively perceived. This, indeed, is the essential character of all the axioms or self-evident propositions which are the basis of reasoning, that the truth of them is perceived by an act of apprehension which, if it depends on any process, depends on a process unconscious, involuntary, and purely automatic. But this is the definition, the only definition, of instinct or intuition. All conscious reasoning thus starts from the data which this great faculty supplies; and all our trust and confidence in the results of reasoning must depend on our trust and confidence in the adjusted harmony which has been established between instinct and the truths of Nature. Not only is the idea of mechanism consistent with this confidence, but it is inseparable from it. No firmer ground for that confidence can be given us in thought than this conception that as the eye of sense is a mechanism specially adjusted to receive the light of heaven, so is the mental eye a mechanism specially adjusted to perceive those realities which are in the nature of necessary and eternal truth. Moreover, the same conception helps us to understand the real nature of those limitations upon our faculties which curtail their range, and which yet, in a sense, we may be said partially to overpass in the very act of becoming conscious of them. We see it to be a great law prevailing in the instincts of the lower animals, and in our own, that they are true not only as guiding the animal rightly to the satisfaction of whatever appetite is immediately concerned, but true also as ministering to ends of which the animal

knows nothing, although they are ends of the highest importance, both in its own economy and in the far-off economies of creation. In direct proportion as our own minds and intellects partake of the same nature, and are founded on the same principle of adjustment, we may feel assured that the same law prevails in their nobler, work and functions. And the glorious law is no less than this-that the work of instinct is true not only for the short way it goes, but for that infinite distance into which it leads in a true direction.

I know no argument better fitted than this to dispel the sickly dreams, the morbid misgivings, of the agnostic. Nor do I know of any other conception as securely founded on science, properly so-called, which better serves to render intelligible and to bring within the familiar analogies of Nature those higher and rarer mental gifts which we know as genius, and even that highest and rarest of all which we understand as inspiration. That the human mind is always in some degree, and that certain individual minds have been in a special degree, reflecting surfaces, as it were, for the verities of the unseen and eternal world, is a conception having all the characters of coherence which assure us of its harmony with the general constitution and the common course of things.

corresponding dignity and of corresponding scope.

Nor can this conception of the mind of man being connected with an adjusted mechanism cast, as has been suggested, any doubt on the freedom of the will-such as by the direct evidence of consciousness we know that freedom to be. This suggestion is simply a repetition of the same inveterate confusion of thought which has been exposed before. The question what our powers are is in no way affected by the administration or discovery that they are all connected with an apparatus. Consciousness does not tell us that we stand unrelated to the system of things of which we form a part. We dreamor rather we simply rave-if we think we are free to choose among things which are not presented to our choice

-or if we think that choice itself can be free from motives-or if we think that we can find any motive outside the number of those to which by the structure of our minds and of its organ we have been made accessible. The only freedom of which we are really conscious is freedom from compulsion in choosing among things which are presented to our choice-consciousness also attesting the fact that among those things some are coincident, and some are not coincident, with acknowledged obligation. This, and all other direct And so this doctrine of animal autom- perceptions, are not weakened but conatism-the notion that the mind of man is firmed by the doctrine that our minds indeed a structure and a mechanism-a are connected with an adjusted mechannotion which is held over our heads as ism. Because the first result of this a terror and a doubt becomes, when conception is to establish the evidence closely scrutinized, the most comforting of consciousness when given under and reassuring of all conceptions. No healthy conditions, and when properly stronger assurance can be given us that ascertained, as necessarily the best and our faculties, when rightly used, are the nearest representation of the truth. powers on which we can indeed rely. It This it does in recognizing ourselves, reveals what may be called the strong and all the faculties we possess, to be physical foundations on which the truth- nothing but the result and index of an fulness of reason rests. And more adjustment contrived by and reflecting than this-it clothes with the like the mind which is supreme in Nature. character of trustworthiness every in- We are derived and not original. We stinctive and intuitive affection of the have been created, or-if any one likes human soul. It roots the reasonable- the phrase better-we have been "evolness of faith in our conviction of the ved;" not, however, out of nothing, Unities of Nature. It tells us that as nor out of confusion, nor out of lieswe know the instincts of the lower but out of "Nature," which is but a animals to be the index and the result word for the sum of all existence-the of laws which are out of sight to them, source of all order, and the very ground so also have our own higher instincts the of all truth-the fountain in which all same relation to truths which are of fulness dwells.-Contemporary Review. NEW SERIES.-VoI.. XXXIII., No. I

4

SOCIAL LIFE AMONG THE ANCIENT GREEKS.

As a schoolboy I had often longedespecially in school on hot summer after noons-that I could only travel. And of all countries Greece interested me most. When at length I could indulge my wish I determined to visit ancient rather than modern Greece. One reason was that I knew the language better; another, that I believed I should see more Greeks.

I thought Syracuse a convenient place to start from. So I went there first, bought an outfit of the ancient fashion, purchased a slave (whom I immediately set free, without, of course, telling him so), and for a ridiculously small sumonly three drachmæ, I remember-took a passage in a ship bound for Athens with a cargo of wine and cheeses.

I left about the middle of March in the year 423 B.C. On landing at Piræus I found myself hemmed in by a swarm of men and heaps of merchandise, which made free movement difficult. The quays were cumbered with pottery for exportation, and ships were delivering cargoes of fine woollen stuffs and carpets, paper, glass, saltfish, corn, and ship timber. With sad interest I watched the loading also of a cargo of slaves. In the background were long lines of wharves and warehouses, shops, and bazaars, betokening a large and various commerce. The delight of some of my fellowpassengers at setting foot on land was unbounded, and expressed itself in tears and laughter, and vows and thanksgivings to the gods. I also quietly congratulated myself; for the tales I had heard on board of pirates and kidnap pers made me rather nervous when coasting; while the extremely deferential attitude of our skipper toward wind and waves inspired anything but confidence when in open sea.

On my way up to Athens I could not help reflecting what a happy arrangement it was of a seaport town to split and have the seaport four miles from the town. I was leaving behind me noise and roughness, the bustle and vulgarity of trade, the reckless riot of seafaring men, and escaping to a serener and purer air.

The day was closing as I reached the

city. Never did I come so near to worshipping Athena as when I saw her glorious temple standing clear against the sky, and glowing in the saffron light of the setting sun. I had yet to become acquainted with the delicate beauty of the temple itself, and the marvels it contained. I saw but the crowned Acropolis, dominating city and plain, and could almost believe it was indeed the seat chosen of old and beloved by a goddess, who, touched by the devotion of a faithful people, had adopted the city laid submissively at her feet.

I bore a letter of introduction to an Athenian gentleman. I was told to expect from him the most generous hospitality, as he not merely accepted gladly the customary duties of a foreign friend, but was a man of wealth distinguished by public spirit. On my way to his house in the street of Tripods, I took my earliest impressions of the city. What struck me then most was its flatness. No spires, no towers, no pinnacles, no tall chimneys. The houses of the better class were not much higher than our garden walls, and almost as blank, for they had no ground-floor windows which looked into the street. The efect would have been both gloomy and unsocial, if the temples and public buildings had not made ample compensation in their number and splendor, and if open squares here and there had not relieved the sense of moroseness.

I did not know then that to an Athenian the whole city was his house, and his house merely his private room. From choice he lived in public; but still he loved seclusion for his family, if not for himself. The house I entered showed externally not a sign of life within. But in an instant my knock was answered by a porter who dwelt just within the porch, and I found myself in a narrow hall. The porter handed me on to a servant, by his manner obviously a domestic-inchief, who came forward at the moment, and led me in silence to the master.

My first impression of an Athenian gentleman at home was picturesque and pleasant. In a small room hung with pictorial tapestry, and lighted by a single lamp placed on a tripod near the door,

was a low broad couch, of dark wood inlaid with ivory. On this, the white folds of his dress in striking contrast with the rich coverlets and the bright banded Colors of the pillow he was resting on, lay a dark handsome man, of clear but sun-tanned complexion; and in front of him was standing a boy, with long black hair, whose lithe figure was well set off by a simple flannel tunic, belted round the waist with a red scarf. Close by him was a small low table, on which were a silver goblet and jug, and near them a small flute. This was the picture that met my eye as I entered; and from sounds which had met my ear as I neared the door it was plain that I had surprised a father delighting himself after dinner in his son's essays in music and recitation.

My host's ready smile told me, before he spoke, that I was expected and welcome. With a kiss and a friendly pat on the head he dismissed the lad, who, though from shyness he hardly ventured to look up, bowed low to me as he took up his flute and ran off. After the interchange of a few civilities, I was conducted to my quarters. Two guest-rooms were assigned ine, both opening on a covered cloister which bordered-as did the dining-room I had left-on a square court, in the centre of which stood a rude, weather-worn statue of the tutelar deity of the family, facing an altar from which rose a tiny fountain of smoke. These rooms were very small, and had no other entrance for light than the doorway, which was closed only by a curtain. In one was a bedstead supporting a woollen mattress laid on girths, on which were lying loosely blankets of colored wool. In the other was a chair, a stool, a cushion, and a lamp. This simple furniture was of singularly rich workmanship, and most graceful in design. I felt in luxury, though there were two or three articles absent which I was accustomed to require, one of which was certainly a table. It had been explained to me, by my friend to whom I owed this introduction, that being hospitably entertained at Athens would mean having separate rooms given me in the house, together with light, firing, and salt; that I might expect to be asked pretty frequently to the family dinner, and to receive from the family

some occasional presents of wine, or fruit, or vegetables; but that I must cater for myself, and should enjoy entire liberty of action. This was exactly the position in which I found myself for some weeks, though my host, as time went on, asked permission to treat me more as a brother than as a guest. That evening I was summoned back to the dining-room, where supper had in the meantime been served on a light portable table. An hour was spent in conversation, and I went to my couch.

At daybreak I was aroused by the entrance of a slave bringing bread and wine, which he placed on a small table by the side of my bed. This I took as a hint to rise. I was fortunately in one of the few wealthy houses that could boast of a private bath, so that the desire toward the tub was pretty liberally met. I found my host up and carefully dressed. He had already been out to make a call on a friend, and was now ready for the usual morning walk. Before leaving England I had been told by Mr. Mahaffy, who had been in ancient Greece some time before, that I should find many ways of thought at Athens strikingly modern. I was reminded of this when my host, without a hint from me, or any knowledge whatever of my tastes, supposed as a matter of course that I should like to see the sights of Athens, the Pantheon, and the other temples and public buildings, and asked me if I cared for statues and paintings, and architecture. Under his guidance I had my first acquaintance with the masterpieces of Pheidias and Polygnotus. He was not learned in art, but he was proud of the glories of his city, and had a genuine delight in beauty.

He said he felt happier, more serene, more religious for having beautiful forms about him; and that the gods. also were pleased to dwell in fair houses. He thought it showed a high wisdom in Pericles and Cimon to devote public money to such ornament, as Athens thereby gained a name among cities everywhere-his' everywhere' was rather limited perhaps and her citizens must needs be elevated by the daily contemplation of what was fair and noble.

As, toward noon, we passed through the market-place on our way home, it was evident that others beside ourselves

thought their morning's work to be over. The bankers were clearing their tables and locking their cash-boxes; stalls were being covered up from the heat and dust, and the market-people were already settling themselves in sheltered corners, to eat and drink, or to sleep.

Breakfast was awaiting our return; and I was not sorry to find it a substantial meal. Fresh fish, soup, vegetables, bread, cheese, fruit, and honey-cakes in succession were brought in; and there, lying beside them in the cool, dark little dining-room, my host and I discussed the rival merits of the statues of Athena, compared the place of Assembly with the theatre of Dionysus, talked over the frescoes in the market-place and in the Propylæa, and forgot the glare and dust outside.

Breakfast over, it was hinted to me that sweet and healthful was the midday sleep. So I retired to my private quarters and fell in with Athenian cus

tom.

After the siesta I was studying with grave attention the features of the tutelar of the house, whom I have before described as standing in the court, when my host approached from the inner part of the house, which I afterward found to be a second court behind

ours,

SO

where the women-folk dwelt apart. It was now late afternoon, and he proposed a stroll toward the Gymnasium. I had heard much of this national institution, and was glad to see it under such good escort. We turned our steps toward the Lyceum, our slaves of course in attendance. I need not describe the building, as we all have read Vitruvius. But I wish I could describe the scene within that my readers might see it as distinctly as I can recall it. We Englishmen can understand well enough the interest of watching games in which we once excelled, and of looking on at feats of strength or skill which we used to practice. It conies natural, therefore, to us to imagine the middle-aged and elders of Athens often looking in to see their youngsters trained to manly vigor and activity. Up to eighteen years of age themselves had wrestled, and run, and boxed, and leaped, and thrown quoits with as much energy, I suppose, as we give to cricket, and rackets, and foot

ball. We do not all of us care to watch the feats of the gymnasium, for the reason that some of us were born in the pre-gymnastic age in England, and so cannot truly criticise them or enter into their spirit. Indeed we do not all set a high value on them; and many of us would prefer to see our sons handle a bat or an oar well, or ride well to hounds, or excel in skating, shooting, or any of our own sports. But given that we had all been trained in a regular course of athletics, and all our lives called them "thoroughly English," and that we were accustomed to think our national superiority due to our pre-eminence in such training. I suppose we might, if time had to be killed-as it always had to be at Athens in the afternoon-frequent a gymnasium daily, even when there was no match on. I was not surprised, therefore, to see groups of men all over the grounds, eagerly watching the jumping or the quoitplay, or the spear-hurling. Here and there two or three youngsters were practising by themselves apart, under no instructor. Where a crowd was, you knew that a contest of more than usual interest was going on.

That the lads were stripped for their exercise seemed suitable with the conditions. But the sight of them all oiled and sanded made a strange impression, as of animated terra-cotta statues.

Colonnades for the accommodation of spectators were an obvious necessity, when few gentlemen wore hats of any kind, and the sun was strong. Stone or marble seats were ranged about, in the open air or under cover, in one of the many rooms, large and small, which opened out of the colonnades. Some of these benches were of that semicircular form which a talkative people would naturally hit upon, and which we see among ourselves in village inns, survivals of a time when the villagers met to talk, and "news much older than the ale went round," before men had invented the sociable custom of retiring apart each behind his newspaper.

I was certainly surprised at first to find so many people assembled there, and thought it must be a field-day, or a festival. But I soon found that all Athens men turned out in the afternoon as regularly as Oxford or Cambridg

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