Wednesday, October 4, 2017
The Life of Jane Austen by Edwin L. Miller 1917
The Life of Jane Austen (1775-1817) by Edwin Lillie Miller 1917
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"Shakespeare has neither equal nor second. But, among the writers who have approached nearest to the manner of the great master, we have no hesitation in placing Jane Austen."—Macaulay.
"The realism and life-likeness of Miss Austen's Dramatis Personae come nearest to those of Shakespeare."—Tennyson.
"She produced novels that come nearer to artistic perfection than any others in the English language."—Harold Child.
Jane Austen, one of the most famous and gifted of English novelists, was born December 16, 1775, at Steventon in Hampshire. Her father, George Austen, came of a good family, was a man of excellent intellect, had been left penniless at an early age, had become a fellow at Oxford, had taken orders, and had been presented by relatives with two livings, Deane and Steventon. These were within a mile and a half of each other and contained together not over 300 souls. Jane's mother, Cassandra Leigh, came from an equally good family and appears to have possessed in a large measure the wit and good nature which were preeminently characteristic of her gifted daughter. The standing of both father and mother is clearly indicated by the fact that Warren Hastings, the Governor-General of India whose reputation was destroyed by Burke and whose fame has been preserved by Macaulay, during one of his absences from England left his eldest son in their charge.
Jane was the youngest child in a family of five sons and two daughters. As was then the almost universal custom among the gentry of England and France, she was sent as soon as possible after her birth to a farmer's wife, where she was kept until she had reached such an age that her presence in her own home was not particularly inconvenient to her parents. In France parents who thus farmed out their babies often sent with them blank death certificates for their foster parents to fill up in case they died. Whether such a document did or did not accompany Jane is unknown; at all events it was not used, for she throve and in due time was returned to Steventon.
Steventon is located about seventy miles from London in a region that is sufficiently commonplace, being, as Miss Austen herself said, neither pleasant nor dreary, hilly nor flat. The society of the place was in keeping with its topography. Mr. Austen was once asked by one of his neighbors, a wealthy squire: "You know all about these things. Do tell us. 'Is Paris in France or France in Paris? For my wife has been disputing with me about it.'" Fortunately Jane was not dependent for spiritual nourishment on either the scenery or society of Steventon. In her sister Cassandra, who was her senior by four years, she found a companion whose presence speedily became so essential to her happiness that she could not bear to have her leave to go to school. Mrs. Austen used to say: "If Cassandra were going to have her head cut off, Jane would insist on sharing her fate." The girls were taught together, chiefly at home, though in this day of higher education for women the instruction they got seems meagre enough. Jane became a first-rate needlewoman, a fair musician, and an excellent French scholar. Of Italian she learned a little, of German and Latin nothing. Even her knowledge of English literature was curiously deficient, being confined, it appears, chiefly to Crabbe, Johnson, Cowper, and Scott, among whom she preferred Crabbe; indeed, it was a standing joke in the family that she would have gladly become Mrs. Crabbe if she had personally known the poet. She was herself quite aware of the insufficiency of her mental equipment, and always stoutly maintained that she was "ignorant and uninformed " and hated solid reading.
Aside from one or two attempts to write fiction and the usual effort to produce a play which, like the measles, attacks every person of literary talent during the early teens, Jane, up to 1795, lived the simple life of a nice girl in a country parsonage. At twenty, as she herself puts it, came her turn to be grown up and have a fine complexion and wear great square muslin shawls. Two portraits which still exist show her to have been at that time fair, handsome, elegant, with beautiful eyes, full lips, a profusion of curly hair, and an expression of playful good humor that makes one wonder how she could have contrived to remain Miss Austen all her life. That she had all of the balls and beaux she wanted is certain. Among her admirers the most conspicuous appears to have been Mr. Thomas Lefroy, afterward Chief Justice of Ireland, for whom she declared she didn't care sixpence, and who, as he was three times married and lived to be about ninety, we may conclude was not inconsolable because of losing her. Probably she was too fastidious, too happy in her home, and too much engrossed in her intellectual pursuits to think seriously of matrimony.
At all events, between the ages of twenty and twenty-five she was busy with her pen. Between October, 1796, and August, 1797, she wrote a novel which is now considered by many to be her masterpiece and which is surely one of the finest compositions of its kind in any language. This story, which was then named "First Impressions" and is now known as "Pride and Prejudice," like all of Miss Austen's books, is indescribable. That is to say, no extracts or analyses can convey an adequate idea of its charm. In it, as in all of her novels, she depicts character, not by description, but by showing what her people are by their speech and actions. And they are real. They are never too bright or good for human nature's daily food. Darcy, the hero, has ten thousand pounds a year, a park, and so much adulation that, in spite of his natural good sense, he is, or appears to be, inflated with sinful Pride. Elizabeth Bennett, the heroine, conceives a violent prejudice against him on account of this superficial fault, while he takes a perfectly reasonable dislike to her mother, whose sole purpose in life is to get her daughters married. After these external causes have produced a situation which makes it apparently impossible that Elizabeth and Darcy shall ever again even so much as see each other, except by accident, mutual respect and that irresistible attraction which is called love break down all barriers and the story ends as all good stories should. One of the pleasantest features of the book is the picture of the relations of Elizabeth Bennett and her father; they are what we should now call good chums. But its greatest superiority over the works of Miss Burney and Miss Edgeworth, who were Jane Austen's chief contemporary rivals as writers of fiction, is, as Mrs. Charles Maiden says, that she ventures "to omit the moralizing which our ancestors considered necessary to counteract the baleful effects of being amused." "Their works," adds the same writer, "in consequence are little read by a generation which prefers drawing its own moral to finding it ready made."
When Jane had finished "Pride and Prejudice" she read it to her family, who pronounced it superior to "Evelina," Miss Burney's masterpiece, one of the few instances in which family pride and disinterested criticism have arrived at the same verdict. Her father seems to have been especially pleased, perhaps because he was unconsciously flattered by the portrait of Mr. Bennett. At all events, he was so impressed with the book's merits that he made to Mr. Cadell, a well-known publisher, a proposition to print it at the author's risk. But George Austen was destined never to have the happiness of witnessing his daughter's fame. By return mail Mr. Cadell refused to undertake the enterprise on any terms, and "Pride and Prejudice" remained in manuscript for sixteen years. Six years later, while living at Bath, Miss Austen had so far recovered from the mortification of this refusal that she offered "Northanger Abbey" to a local publisher, who accepted it and paid her for the copyright the munificent sum of ten pounds. He seems, however, to have regarded it as a bad bargain, for he never published the book. Thirteen years later, that is, in 1816, Jane sent her brother Henry to repurchase the manuscript, which he easily did by paying back the original ten pounds, an arrangement of which the luckless printer probably repented when the triumphant Henry allowed himself the luxury of informing him that the book was by the author of "Pride and Prejudice."
Fortunately Mr. Cadell's refusal did not discourage Jane. Three months after "Pride and Prejudice" had been finished, we find her hard at work on a new novel, or rather a revision of an old novel, "Elinor and Marianne," which she had originally written in the form of letters, after the manner of Samuel Richardson. This, when it was finished, she rechristened "Sense and Sensibility." Though inferior to "Pride and Prejudice," this work is about as well worth reading as any novel which, up to that time, had been written in the English language. There is no superfluity of tiresome description. The characters are real. Though both lovable girls, Elinor and Marianne are as imperfect and as different as sisters are apt to be in real life. Vulgar match-making Mrs. Jennings, as Austin Dobson calls her, like many a flesh and blood dowager, at first repels us by her foolish prattle and finally wins our respect by her kindness. Sir John Middleton, with his horror of being alone; Lady Middleton, with her horror of impropriety; Miss Steele, who can always be made happy by being teased about the Doctor; Lucy Steele, pretty, clever, not overfastidious in her principles, and abominably weak in her grammar; Robert Ferrars, whose airs are justly punished by his marriage to Lucy; Mrs. Ferrars, who contrives to be uniformly unamiable; Mrs. John Dashwood, fit daughter to such a mother; and Mr. John Dashwood, fit husband to such a wife—together form a gallery of portraits of which any author might be proud. The book, too, is rich in humor. Among other delightful things we read of a will which, like almost every other will, gave as much disappointment as pleasure; of a child of three, who possesses the usual charms of that age, an imperfect articulation, an earnest desire of having his own way, many cunning tricks, and a great deal of noise; of apricot marmalade applied successfully as a remedy for a bruised temple; of a company who met to eat, drink, and laugh together, to play at cards or consequences, or any other game that was sufficiently noisy; of a husband who is always making remarks which his wife considers so droll but cannot remember; of Constantia wine, which is equally good for colicky gout and broken hearts; of a face of strong natural sterling insignificance; of a girl who is pleased that a man called and still more pleased that she missed him; of a woman of few words, for, unlike people in general, she proportioned them to the number of her ideas; of a newspaper item that interested nobody except those who knew its contents before; and of a man who was perfectly the gentleman in his behavior to guests and only occasionally rude to his wife and mother-in-law. It is true that the two heroes are not very heroic, Edward Ferrars being only a curate and Colonel Brandon a poor old man of thirty-six with a flannel waistcoat, but the latter is pretty thoroughly the gentleman and the former gives up a fortune of 30,000 pounds in order to marry a girl whom he does not love, thereby furnishing, if not an example of good sense, at least an agreeable contrast to Marianne's Willoughby, who marries a girl whom he does not love in order to get the money which he is too genteel to earn. On the whole, when all is said and done, it is a wonderful book to have been written by a girl of twenty-one.
After finishing "Sense and Sensibility," Jane Austen went to work almost immediately on "Northanger Abbey," in which she essayed, not, as in all of her other novels, to hold the mirror up to nature, but to parody and burlesque those popular novels of her day in which the heroes and heroines were forced into hair-raising situations and extricated therefrom by impossible means. The heroine, Catherine Moreland, goes to Bath to live with Mrs. Allen, who is so unattractive that one wonders how any man could like her well enough to marry her. At Bath she is introduced by an acquaintance to "Udolpho," "The Castle of Wolfenbach," "Clermont," "Mysterious Warnings," "The Necromancer of the Black Forest," "The Midnight Bell," "The Orphan of the Rhine," and "Horrid Mysteries," all novels which abound in black veils and are otherwise perfectly awful. After she has supped full on these horrors, she is invited to visit Northanger Abbey, the home of Harry Tilney, with whom she is in love. She goes thither expecting to have adventures similar to those depicted in the books she has been reading, and Henry amuses himself by assuring her that she may expect plenty of horror and mystery. The result is that she makes herself very ridiculous, gets a juster notion of Mrs. Radcliffe's novels, and, after a sufficient amount of rage on the part of General Tilney, Henry's father, marries that young man.
"Northanger Abbey" was finished in 1798. In 1801, owing to the failure of his health, George Austen removed with his family from Steventon to Bath, where they resided until his death four years later. During this period Jane wrote little. Anxiety on her father's account or uncongenial surroundings were perhaps responsible. At all events, she appears to have rejoiced when the opportunity came to escape from the more or less gay health resort to the more normal atmosphere of Southampton. Here, during four more years, the Austens resided, but here, too, they failed to feel thoroughly at home; and when, in 1809, Jane's second brother, Edward, offered them Chawton Cottage on his estate in Hampshire, they gladly accepted the opportunity to escape from Southampton.
At Chawton Jane's life was enriched by frequent visits from her brother's children, one of whom tells us that, though he must have grievously interrupted her writing by his visits, she never caused him, either by open protests or repressed marks of annoyance, to feel that he was unwelcome. Another writes: "As a very little girl I was always creeping up to Aunt Jane and following her whenever I could. Her first charm to children was great sweetness of manner. She seemed to love you and you loved her in return. This was what I felt in my early days before I was old enough to be amused by her cleverness. But soon came the delight of her playful talk; she could make everything amusing to a child. Then, as I got older, when cousins came to share the entertainment, she would tell us the most delightful stories, chiefly of Fairyland, and her fairies had all characters of their own. The tale was invented, I am sure, at the moment, and was continued for two or three days if occasion served."
Under the genial influence of her new environment, Jane's literary ambition revived to such an extent that she ventured to offer "Sense and Sensibility" for publication to Egerton. He accepted it and in 1811 the book appeared anonymously. Fearful lest the venture prove a financial loss, she is said to have saved enough from her income to meet any possible deficit. The precaution, happily, proved needless. She was soon gladdened by a check for 150 pounds, which she received with the remark that it was a great deal to earn for so little trouble.
Like all of the novels that she published herself, "Sense and Sensibility" appeared without Miss Austen's name, though, unlike George Eliot, she is said never to have denied having written them. She probably dreaded the inroads on her privacy which are apt to come with successful authorship. At all events, we find Aunt Cassandra about this time writing to one of her nieces to caution her not to tell anybody that Aunt Jane is the author of "Sense and Sensibility." Aunt Jane, indeed, was very modest about her creations. She called them paintings on "little bits of ivory two inches wide," having reference no doubt to the commonplaceness of her material. Herein, however, is perhaps the truest mark of her genius. While many great writers have built grandly with grand material, she reared an immortal structure out of nothing. So narrowly confined, indeed, are her subjects to the environment in which she lived that her readers are apt to think her characters portraits of real people. But they are not. They are everlasting types. We have met them all in real life. She herself, when somebody suggested that she had been drawing likenesses, said: "Pray do not think me guilty of such an invasion of the social proprieties. I am too proud of my gentlemen to admit that they are only Mr. A. or Col. B."
Emboldened by the success of " Sense and Sensibility," in 1813 she gave " Pride and Prejudice " to the world. Though her name did not appear on the book, a great many expressions of admiration reached her, the most conspicuous person who declared himself a Jane Austen enthusiast being Warren Hastings. Her happiness was completed when Dr. Isham said he was sure that he would not like Madame D'Arblay's new novel half so well.
"Pride and Prejudice," "Sense and Sensibility," and "Northanger Abbey" are the works of a girl; in her remaining novels, "Mansfield Park," "Emma," and "Persuasion," the motives and actions of the characters are more complex, the satire gentler, the feelings more womanly. The plots in the latter group unfold more slowly and naturally. In the earlier novels, as a critic has pointed out, the really predominant passion is the love of the sisters for each other; in each of her last three and greatest novels Jane Austen has painted a woman loving sincerely and with good cause but uncertain if her love is returned.
Mansfield Park is the ancestral home of the Bertram family. Sir Thomas and Lady Bertram have two sons, Tom and Edmund, and two daughters, Maria and Julia. One of Lady Bertram's sisters, Mrs. Price, has married to disoblige her family and has succeeded so thoroughly that she has been reduced to a state of comparative poverty. To assist her, Sir Thomas and Lady Bertram take her daughter, Fanny Price, into their home, to bring her up. Miss Austen tells with great skill and charm how Maria and Julia despise their poor cousin because she cannot tell the principal rivers in Russia or the chronological order of the kings of England; how Edmund, who is destined for the church, is kind to her; how, in the absence of Sir Thomas Bertram, the young people devise amateur theatricals, the rehearsals of which, depicted with admirable humor, result in a vast amount of flirtation; how Edmund thinks he is in love with Mary Crawford, a rich and hardened coquette; how Henry Crawford, her brother, first falls in love with Fanny Price and then runs away with Julia Bertram; and how, finally, Edmund discovers that he loves Fanny, who has known for a long time that she loves him, the result being a very satisfactory marriage. Fanny is a lovely girl, Edmund a typical English gentleman. The book is long, but readable from cover to cover.
"Mansfield Park" was printed in 1814; "Emma," Miss Austen's next novel, in 1816. In "Mansfield Park" Fanny is introduced to us as a poor self-effacing little girl; in "Emma," Emma Woodhouse, when we first know her, has so much leisure and luxury that, wanting occupation, she busies herself injudiciously in other people's affairs. But, though they start from opposite directions, both heroines reach the same goal; both become happy and excellent women. Emma induces Harriet Smith to reject the love of a young farmer named Martin because he is so ungenteel as to earn an honest living; and persuades her, instead, to set her cap for Mr. Elton, a silly young curate, who is not fit to tie Martin's shoe strings. Elton thinks Emma is herself in love with him, and, to her amazement, proposes, so that she has to reject him and at the same time inform Harriet that her plans have gone a-gley. Then appears Frank Churchill, who is secretly engaged to Jane Fairfax, but who, in order to conceal that fact, starts a flirtation with Emma. In this gentle art he is such an adept that Emma almost persuades herself that she loves him, but Jane becomes jealous and the true state of affairs has to be revealed. In the meantime Harriet Smith has fallen in love with Mr. Knightley, "one of the few people who could see the faults in Emma Woodhouse and the only one who ever told her of them." Knightley is a real man and, as soon as Emma learns that Harriet has dared to aspire to him, it is definitely revealed to her that she loves him herself. In the end, Emma gets Knightley; Jane, Churchill; and Harriet, Martin. "Emma" in some respects is the best of Miss Austen's novels.
While she was in London seeing it through the press, her brother fell ill and was attended by the Prince Regent's physician, whose royal master was such an enthusiastic admirer of her works that he kept duplicate copies of them at his various houses. He told the Prince that Miss Austen was in London and the latter was gracious enough to send his librarian to her with an intimation that he would not be displeased to receive the dedication of her next novel.
It is to be hoped that this mark of royal favor was gratifying to Miss Austen, for it was one of the last tributes to her genius that she received. During 1816 her health grew worse and worse, and in May, 1817, she moved with her sister to Winchester in order to be near an eminent physician. His skill, however, was unavailing, and she died July 18. She rests in Winchester Cathedral.
She left two unpublished novels, "Northanger Abbey," written 1798, and "Persuasion," which she had finished only a twelve-month before her death. Though inferior in some respects to "Emma," the latter is characterized by a beauty and tenderness found in none of her other works. It is a simple story. Anne Elliot, the second daughter of Sir Walter Elliot of Kellynch Hall, at the age of nineteen is wooed and won by a young naval officer, Frederick Wentworth, who is in every way worthy of her except that he is not titled or rich. For these reasons her relatives persuade her to break their engagement. Eight years go by, and, meeting again, they find by degrees that they are still necessary to each other's happiness. "Dear, charming Anne Elliot!" writes Mrs. Maiden. "We rejoice to feel that we are leaving her in the midst of such a tender radiant Indian summer of happiness. ..."Persuasion" is the swan song of Jane Austen's authorship, and, true to its character, the saddest and sweetest of her works."
"Persuasion" and "Northanger Abbey" were published together in 1818, being the first of her novels to appear under her own name. Since then her fame has steadily grown. In 1821 Dr. Whateley, Archbishop of Dublin, published in the "Quarterly Review " an article on her works, in which he said:
"They may be safely recommended not only as among the most unexceptionable of their class, but as combining, in an eminent degree, instruction with amusement, though without the direct effort at the former of which we have complained as sometimes defeating its object. For those who cannot or will not learn anything from productions of this kind, she has provided entertainment which entitles her to thanks."
Sir Walter Scott wrote in his Journal:
"Read again, for the third time at least, Miss Austen's finely written novel of "Pride and Prejudice." That young lady has a talent for describing the involvements and feelings and characters of ordinary life, which is, to me, the most wonderful I have ever met with. The big Bow-Wow strain I can do myself like any now going; but the exquisite touch which renders ordinary commonplace things and characters interesting from the truth of the description and the sentiment is denied to me. What a pity such a gifted creature died so early!"
Among her other early admirers were Sydney Smith, Southey, Coleridge, Guizot, and Lord Macaulay. Trevelyan, in his biography of the last-named enthusiast, says: "Amidst the infinite variety of lighter literature with which he beguiled his leisure, " Pride and Prejudice" and the five sister novels remained without a rival in his affections. He never for a moment wavered in his allegiance to Miss Austen. In 1858 he notes in his Journal: 'If I could get materials, I really would write a short life of that wonderful woman, and raise a little money to put up a monument to her in Winchester Cathedral.'" George Henry Lewes calls her one of the greatest writers that ever lived. Tennyson read and reread her novels, on which he thus commented: "The realism and life-likeness of Miss Austen's dramatis persona come nearest to those of Shakespeare. Shakespeare, however, is a sun to which Jane Austen, though a bright and true little world, is but an asteroid." George Eliot called her "the greatest artist that has ever written, the most perfect master over the means to her end." George Saintsbury, perhaps the greatest of living critics, considers her the first of all novelists.
In spite of all this appreciation from those best fitted to judge of her powers, it was not until 1870 that the life of Jane Austen was given to the world. In that year her nephew, the Reverend J. Austen Leigh, published a biography of his gifted aunt. At the present time her fame is secure, though, like Milton, her popularity seems destined to be confined to the fit and few. Indeed, one eminent man has said, half in jest and half in earnest, that, in order to determine whether a person has or has not ability, one has only to ascertain whether he does or does not like Miss Austen's books.
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Tuesday, October 3, 2017
What Rand Meant by Altruism
Rand sold more than 30 million books. Atlas Shrugged has been ranked behind only the Bible as an influence on readers’ lives. She has also been stridently attacked for issues such as her militant atheism. But perhaps least understood has been her full-bore rejection of altruism. On her birthday, it is worth reconsideration.
Modern usage has eroded the meaning of altruism from Rand's hated concept to a mere synonym for generosity.
Altruism has commonly been held up as the standard for moral behavior. But Rand rejected it, asserting it was “incompatible with freedom, with capitalism, and with individual rights,” and therefore “the basic evil behind today’s ugliest phenomena.”
That head-on collision arises from French philosopher Auguste Comte, coiner of the term altruism. The altruists.org website says he believed “the only moral acts were those intended to promote the happiness of others.” Comte’s Catechisme Positiviste asserts that altruism “gives a direct sanction exclusively to our instincts of benevolence,” and, therefore, “cannot tolerate the notion of rights, for such a notion rests on individualism.”
In Comte’s view, any act performed for any reason beyond solely that of advancing someone else’s well-being is not morally justified. That implies taking a tax deduction for a charitable act strips it of its morality. The same is true when done because “what goes around comes around.” Something as seemingly innocuous as feeling good about doing good also fails Comte’s joyless standards. Even “love your neighbor as yourself” fails his unlimited duty of altruism. As George H. Smith summarized it, “One should love one’s neighbor more than oneself.”
Ayn Rand’s attacks on altruism are aimed at Comte’s definition. However, modern usage has eroded his meaning of altruism to little more than a synonym for generosity, so Rand’s rejection of the original meaning is now often taken as a rejection of generosity, which it is not. In Roderick Long’s words,
… her sometimes misleading rhetoric about the “virtue of selfishness”… was not to advocate the pursuit of one’s own interest at the expense of others … she rejected not only the subordination of one’s interest to those of others, (and it is this, rather than mere benevolence, that she labeled “altruism”), but also the subordination of others’ interest to one’s own.Rand’s categorical rejection of altruism was a rejection of Comte’s requirement of total selflessness, because that was inconsistent with any individuals mattering for their own sake. Rand vehemently opposed such an invalidation of individuals’ significance.
The basic principle of altruism is that man has no right to exist for his own sake, that service to others is the only justification of his existence, and that self-sacrifice is his highest moral duty, virtue, and value.
Rand’s “virtue of selfishness” was a response to Comte’s demand for complete selflessness. Not only is a requirement for everyone to completely disregard themselves an unattainable ideal, it is self-contradictory. You cannot possibly sacrifice yourself fully for me, while I am also sacrificing myself fully for you. And if no one has any intrinsic value, why would the results, even if possible, be meritorious? With Comte as a starting point, more attention to people’s own well-being – more selfishness, in Rand’s terminology – is the only way to move toward recognizing value in each individual and significance in each life.
Comte’s conception of altruism is also inconsistent with liberty, which was Ayn Rand’s focus. The duty to put others first at all times and in all circumstances denies self-ownership and the power to choose that derives from it. Everyone else maintains never-ending presumptive claims on every individual, overriding any rights they may have. In contrast, benevolence involves voluntary choices to benefit others of one’s own choosing, in ways and to the extent individuals choose for themselves.
This is why Rand criticized equating altruism with benevolence. The key distinction is between benevolence’s individual discretion, which recognizes our rights over ourselves and our resources, and altruism’s unconditional requirement to always sacrifice for others.
An omnipresent duty of self-sacrifice also makes people vulnerable to manipulation by those who disguise power over others as “really” a means to attain some noble goal. The desire to sacrifice for the good of others can be transformed into the requirement to sacrifice to the desires of leaders. As Rand expressed it:
Those who start by saying: “It is selfish to pursue your own wishes, you must sacrifice them to the wishes of others” – end up by saying: “It is selfish to uphold your convictions, you must sacrifice them to the convictions of others.”The key here is Rand’s emphasis on duty:
When A needs something, in B’s opinion, if C, who can do something about it refuses … C is pilloried as someone who is selfish rather than altruistic for not choosing to support B’s cause. The faulty syllogism remains that “C is failing to do his duty here. C should do his duty. So C should be made to do it.” And … that syllogism as a bludgeon remains an ever-present threat from everyone who wants to do good with someone else’s resources, and finds coercion an acceptable mechanism.To Rand, Comte’s view of altruism is logically impossible, joyless, and liberty-excluding, and has enabled vast harms to be imposed on vast numbers. It does not deserve deference as a guide to morality. However, Rand offers no criticism of voluntary benevolence. That is why we should still care about her objections to altruism, which we now mistakenly take to mean whatever voluntary individual choices people make to be generous to others.
Rand reminds us of the central defense against the threat of coercion lurking beyond altruistic demands placed on people. It lies in protecting individual self-ownership and the property rights that derive from it. When that is maintained as fundamental, my power to choose what to do with myself and my property – including when my conclusion is, “I could contribute to cause X, but I choose not to” – is accepted as legitimate. Thus we would soundly reject the view that “Apart from such times as [someone] manages to perform some act of self-sacrifice, he possesses no moral significance.”
Without the coercive violation of rights, liberty can be maintained. The vast majority of people would not only be generous, they would have far more to be generous with. Their voluntary arrangements, including their chosen generosity, creates a better world than Comte’s altruism.
Gary M. Galles
This article was originally published on FEE.org. Read the original article.
The Ballad of the Dog by William Hayley 1805
The Ballad of the Dog by William Hayley 1805
Of all the speechless friends of man
The faithful dog I deem
Deserving from the human clan
The tenderest esteem:
This feeling creature form'd to love,
To watch, and to defend,
Was given to man by powers above,
A guardian, and a friend!
I sing, of all e'er known to live
The truest friend canine;
And glory if my verse may give,
Brave Fido! it is thine.
A dog of many a sportive trick,
Tho' rough and large of limb.
Fido would chase the floating stick
When Lucy cried, "go swim."
And what command could Lucy give,
Her dog would not obey
For her it seemed his pride to live,
Blest in her gentle sway!
For conscious of her every care
He strain'd each feeling nerve,
To please that friend, his lady fair
Commanded him to serve.
Of many friends to Lucy dear,
One rose above the rest;
Proclaim'd, in glory's bright career.
The monarch of her breast.
Tender and brave, her Edward came
To bid his fair adieu;
To India call'd, in honour's name,
To honour he was true.
The farewell rack'd poor Lucy's heart,
Nor pain'd her lover less;
And Fido, when he saw them part,
Seem'd full of their distress.
Lucy, who thro' her tears descried
His sympathetic air,
"Go! with him, Fido!" fondly cried,
"And make his life thy care!"
The dog her order understood,
Or seem'd to understand,
It was his glory to make good
Affection's kind command.
How he obeyed;—the price how great
His brave obedience cost,
Fancy would faulter to relate,
In wild conjecture lost.
But Truth and Love, the upright pair,
Who witnessed Fido's worth,
His wond'rous virtue shall declare,
A lesson to the earth!
Not in the battle's gory tide,
Nor in the stormy seas,
No! Fido's noble faith was tried
In scenes of sportive ease.
Often in India's sultry soil
To brace the languid limb,
'Twas Edward's pleasure, after toil,
To take a fearless swim.
Bold in a flood he lov'd to leap.
When full the current flow'd;
Nor dreamt the water, dark, and deep.
The crocodile's abode.
And fearless he and Fido oft,
Along the stream would glide;
Their custom from the bank aloft
To vault into the tide!
But once, when Edward had begun
To cast his clothes aside,
Round him his dog would anxious run,
And much to check him tried.
So much, that had dumb Fido said
"Avoid the stream to day!"
Those words could scarce have plainer made
What duty wish'd to say.
Edward, too eager to enjoy
The sport, where danger lay,
Scolds him for gestures, that annoy,
And beats his guard away:
And naked now, and dreaming not
How cruel was that blow,
He hurries to the lofty spot,
In haste to plunge below,
His faithful friend, with quicker pace,
And now with silent tongue,
Out-stript his master in the race,
And swift before him sprung.
Heaven! how the heart of Edward swell'd
Upon the river's brink,
When his brave guardian he beheld
A glorious victim sink!
Sink in a watery monster's jaw,
That near the river's side
Too late th' astonish'd Edward saw,
And shriek'd, as Fido died.
In vain he shriek'd; and soon his tears
His heart-felt loss deplore;
"Lucy!" he cries, as if she hears,
"Thy Fido is no more!"
"Calamitously lost, his form,
So often thy delight!
No artist's hand, with genius warm,
Can rescue for thy sight;"
"But if 'tis sung by friendly bard
How he resign'd his breath;
Thy dog must win the world's regard,
Immortal in his death!"
'Twas thus the feeling Edward griev'd,
Nor could his grief divine,
What honours, by pure love conceived,
Brave Fido, would be thine!
When Lucy heard of Fido's fate,
What showers of tears she shed!
No cost would she have thought too great
To celebrate the dead.
But gold had not the power to raise
A semblance of her friend;
Yet kind compassion, who surveys,
Soon bids her sorrow end.
A sculptor, pity's genuine son!
Knew her well-founded grief;
And quickly, tho' he promised none,
Gave her the best relief;
He, rich in Lucy's sister's heart,
By love and friendship's aid,
Of Fido, with the happiest art,
A secret statue made.
By stealth in Lucy's chamber plac'd,
It charm'd the mourner there,
Till Edward, with new glory grac'd,
Rejoin'd his faithful fair.
The marble Fido in their sight,
Enhanc'd their nuptial bliss;
And Lucy every morn, and night,
Gave him a grateful kiss.
Of all the speechless friends of man
The faithful dog I deem
Deserving from the human clan
The tenderest esteem:
This feeling creature form'd to love,
To watch, and to defend,
Was given to man by powers above,
A guardian, and a friend!
I sing, of all e'er known to live
The truest friend canine;
And glory if my verse may give,
Brave Fido! it is thine.
A dog of many a sportive trick,
Tho' rough and large of limb.
Fido would chase the floating stick
When Lucy cried, "go swim."
And what command could Lucy give,
Her dog would not obey
For her it seemed his pride to live,
Blest in her gentle sway!
For conscious of her every care
He strain'd each feeling nerve,
To please that friend, his lady fair
Commanded him to serve.
Of many friends to Lucy dear,
One rose above the rest;
Proclaim'd, in glory's bright career.
The monarch of her breast.
Tender and brave, her Edward came
To bid his fair adieu;
To India call'd, in honour's name,
To honour he was true.
The farewell rack'd poor Lucy's heart,
Nor pain'd her lover less;
And Fido, when he saw them part,
Seem'd full of their distress.
Lucy, who thro' her tears descried
His sympathetic air,
"Go! with him, Fido!" fondly cried,
"And make his life thy care!"
The dog her order understood,
Or seem'd to understand,
It was his glory to make good
Affection's kind command.
How he obeyed;—the price how great
His brave obedience cost,
Fancy would faulter to relate,
In wild conjecture lost.
But Truth and Love, the upright pair,
Who witnessed Fido's worth,
His wond'rous virtue shall declare,
A lesson to the earth!
Not in the battle's gory tide,
Nor in the stormy seas,
No! Fido's noble faith was tried
In scenes of sportive ease.
Often in India's sultry soil
To brace the languid limb,
'Twas Edward's pleasure, after toil,
To take a fearless swim.
Bold in a flood he lov'd to leap.
When full the current flow'd;
Nor dreamt the water, dark, and deep.
The crocodile's abode.
And fearless he and Fido oft,
Along the stream would glide;
Their custom from the bank aloft
To vault into the tide!
But once, when Edward had begun
To cast his clothes aside,
Round him his dog would anxious run,
And much to check him tried.
So much, that had dumb Fido said
"Avoid the stream to day!"
Those words could scarce have plainer made
What duty wish'd to say.
Edward, too eager to enjoy
The sport, where danger lay,
Scolds him for gestures, that annoy,
And beats his guard away:
And naked now, and dreaming not
How cruel was that blow,
He hurries to the lofty spot,
In haste to plunge below,
His faithful friend, with quicker pace,
And now with silent tongue,
Out-stript his master in the race,
And swift before him sprung.
Heaven! how the heart of Edward swell'd
Upon the river's brink,
When his brave guardian he beheld
A glorious victim sink!
Sink in a watery monster's jaw,
That near the river's side
Too late th' astonish'd Edward saw,
And shriek'd, as Fido died.
In vain he shriek'd; and soon his tears
His heart-felt loss deplore;
"Lucy!" he cries, as if she hears,
"Thy Fido is no more!"
"Calamitously lost, his form,
So often thy delight!
No artist's hand, with genius warm,
Can rescue for thy sight;"
"But if 'tis sung by friendly bard
How he resign'd his breath;
Thy dog must win the world's regard,
Immortal in his death!"
'Twas thus the feeling Edward griev'd,
Nor could his grief divine,
What honours, by pure love conceived,
Brave Fido, would be thine!
When Lucy heard of Fido's fate,
What showers of tears she shed!
No cost would she have thought too great
To celebrate the dead.
But gold had not the power to raise
A semblance of her friend;
Yet kind compassion, who surveys,
Soon bids her sorrow end.
A sculptor, pity's genuine son!
Knew her well-founded grief;
And quickly, tho' he promised none,
Gave her the best relief;
He, rich in Lucy's sister's heart,
By love and friendship's aid,
Of Fido, with the happiest art,
A secret statue made.
By stealth in Lucy's chamber plac'd,
It charm'd the mourner there,
Till Edward, with new glory grac'd,
Rejoin'd his faithful fair.
The marble Fido in their sight,
Enhanc'd their nuptial bliss;
And Lucy every morn, and night,
Gave him a grateful kiss.
The Specter Bride by W. Bob Holland 1904
The Specter Bride by W. Bob Holland 1904
The winter nights up at Sault Ste. Marie are as white and luminous as the Milky Way. The silence that rests upon the solitude appears to be white also. Nature has included sound in her arrestment. Save the still white frost, all things are obliterated. The stars are there, but they seem to belong to heaven and not to earth. They are at an immeasurable height, and so black is the night that the opaque ether rolls between them and the observer in great liquid billows.
In such a place it is difficult to believe that the world is peopled to any great extent. One fancies that Cain has just killed Abel, and that there is need for the greatest economy in the matter of human life.
The night Ralph Hagadorn started out for Echo Bay he felt as if he were the only man in the world, so complete was the solitude through which he was passing. He was going over to attend the wedding of his best friend, and was, in fact, to act as the groomsman. Business had delayed him, and he was compelled to make his journey at night. But he hadn’t gone far before he began to feel the exhilaration of the skater. His skates were keen, his legs fit for a longer journey than the one he had undertaken, and the tang of the frost was to him what a spur is to a spirited horse.
He cut through the air as a sharp stone cleaves the water. He could feel the tumult of the air as he cleft it. As he went on he began to have fancies. It seemed to him that he was enormously tall—a great Viking of the Northland, hastening over icy fiords to his love. That reminded him that he had a love—though, indeed, that thought was always present with him as a background for other thoughts. To be sure, he had not told her she was his love, because he had only seen her a few times and the opportunity had not presented itself. She lived at Echo Bay, too, and was to be the maid of honor to his friend’s bride—which was another reason why he skated on almost as swiftly as the wind, and why, now and then, he let out a shout of exhilaration.
The one drawback in the matter was that Marie Beaujeu’s father had money, and that Marie lived in a fine house and wore otter skin about her throat and little satin-lined mink boots on her feet when she went sledding, and that the jacket in which she kept a bit of her dead mother’s hair had a black pearl in it as big as a pea. These things made it difficult—nay, impossible—for Ralph Hagadorn to say anything more than “I love you.” But that much he meant to have the satisfaction of saying, no matter what came of it.
With this determination growing upon him he swept along the ice which gleamed under the starlight. Indeed, Venus made a glowing path toward the west and seemed to reassure him. He was sorry he could not skim down that avenue of light from the love star, but he was forced to turn his back upon it and face toward the northeast.
It came to him with a shock that he was not alone. His eyelashes were a good deal frosted and his eyeballs blurred with the cold, and at first he thought it an illusion. But he rubbed his eyes hard and at length made sure that not very far in front of him was a long white skater in fluttering garments who sped over the snows fast as ever werewolf went. He called aloud, but there was no answer, and then he gave chase, setting his teeth hard and putting a tension on his firm young muscles. But however fast he might go the white skater went faster. After a time he became convinced, as he chanced to glance for a second at the North Star, that the white skater was leading him out of his direct path. For a moment he hesitated, wondering if he should not keep to his road, but the strange companion seemed to draw him on irresistibly, and so he followed.
Of course it came to him more than once that this might be no earthly guide. Up in those latitudes men see strange things when the hoar frost is on the earth. Hagadorn’s father, who lived up there with the Lake Superior Indians and worked in the copper mines, had once welcomed a woman at his hut on a bitter night who was gone by morning, and who left wolf tracks in the snow—yes, it was so, and John Fontanelle, the half-breed, could tell you about it any day—if he were alive. (Alack, the snow where the wolf tracks were is melted now!)
Well, Hagadorn followed the white skater all the night, and when the ice flushed red at dawn and arrows of lovely light shot up into the cold heavens, she was gone, and Hagadorn was at his destination. Then, as he took off his skates while the sun climbed arrogantly up to his place above all other things, Hagadorn chanced to glance lakeward, and he saw there was a great wind-rift in the ice and that the waves showed blue as sapphires beside the gleaming ice. Had he swept along his intended path, watching the stars to guide him, his glance turned upward, all his body at magnificent momentum, he must certainly have gone into that cold grave. The white skater had been his guardian angel!
Much impressed, he went up to his friend’s house, expecting to find there the pleasant wedding furore. But someone met him quietly at the door, and his friend came downstairs to greet him with a solemn demeanor.
“Is this your wedding face?” cried Hagadorn. “Why, really, if this is the way you are affected, the sooner I take warning the better.”
“There’s no wedding to-day,” said his friend.
“No wedding? Why, you’re not——”
“Marie Beaujeu died last night——”
“Marie——”
“Died last night. She had been skating in the afternoon, and she came home chilled and wandering in her mind, as if the frost had got in it somehow. She got worse and worse and talked all the time of you.”
“Of me?”
“We wondered what it all meant. We didn’t know you were lovers.”
“I didn’t know it myself; more’s the pity.”
“She said you were on the ice. She said you didn’t know about the big breaking up, and she cried to us that the wind was off shore. Then she cried that you could come in by the old French Creek if you only knew——?”
“I came in that way,” interrupted Hagadorn.
“How did you come to do that? It’s out of your way.”
So Hagadorn told him how it came to pass.
And that day they watched beside the maiden, who had tapers at her head and feet, and over in the little church the bride who might have been at her wedding said prayers for her friend. Then they buried her in her bridesmaid’s white, and Hagadorn was there before the altar with her, as he intended from the first. At midnight the day of the burial her friends were married in the gloom of the cold church, and they walked together through the snow to lay their bridal wreaths on her grave.
Three nights later Hagadorn started back again to his home. They wanted him to go by sunlight, but he had his way and went when Venus made her bright path on the ice. He hoped for the companionship of the white skater. But he did not have it. His only companion was the wind. The only voice he heard was the baying of a wolf on the north shore. The world was as white as if it had just been created and the sun had not yet colored nor man defiled it.
Joseph Smith from a Philosophical Point of View by Lee E. Young 1900
Joseph Smith from a Philosophic Point of View by Lee Edgar Young 1900
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[The following lecture, the notes excepted, was delivered by the author before the students of philosophy, at Harvard University]
My inward feelings tell me of the thoughts that are uppermost in the minds of my hearers when I take up the subject, Joseph Smith. Every man before me has heard of the name, and of the sect that was founded by this prophet of the nineteenth century. Well do I realize that "Mormonism" and its founder have but little interest to the citizens of the civilized world today; and were each of you asked your opinion, I dare say that your answer would be that the thoughts and teachings of Joseph Smith will have but little weight on the minds of future generations. In responding to this subject, however, I must state, at the outset, that my basis of reasoning will differ somewhat from yours. Yet it is not because you, as physiological-psychologists, can not explain the different characteristic phenomena of the mind when you look at them as a result of natural law. [Physiological-psychology is that branch of philosophy which teaches that all mental life and phenomena are conditioned by the organism, and that we know nothing of mind apart from body.] But I do believe that there are certain states of the spiritual make-up, and certain strange phenomena more or less miraculous, which no phase of science or philosophy can explain.
We look at the human brain and well do we know that the school of physiological-psychologists has discovered the fact that brain molecular action must precede thought, and that thought precedes all action. To a certain lobe of the brain we ascribe memory; to another, imagination; and to another, perception, yet keeping in mind all the time that the brain works as a whole in perfect harmony. Any reasonable man, understanding these facts, readily appreciates the human body, the masterpiece of creation.
But what a world of skepticism this knowledge has caused! For how can there be mind and spirit when the brain decays? How can the mind act when there is no external playing on the ganglions of the nervous system? Magazines and scientific books have bristled with such questions, of late; but who can answer them? We accept the truths discovered by this school of thinkers, and appreciate with Holmes that the "brain is a seventy-year clock wound up by the Angel of Life." Yet with it all, we know that there are some phases of thought that no human being can explain, though he reason a thousand years.
Let me ask the psychologist a question. What is it in man that gives him that divine hope, and faith that God lives and that death is not the end of life? What is it that makes man an aspiring creature whose soul becomes purely angelic when he kneels in humbleness? Is it intuition? Is it instinct? Surely these do not explain. They are shades of feeling and emotion that are felt and experienced, yet cannot be described. Physiological-psychology has its bounds, and to try to explain all mind action from a purely materialistic point of view is flagrantly and palpably absurd. So, too, whatever progress scientific psychology may make, it will never be able to answer what a real prophet is, nor what revelation means.
To answer whether or not Joseph Smith was a prophet of God, and a revelator, I think it is necessary to know what God is, and His relation to man. I shall assume as a starting point the empirical argument of Descartes which he uses to prove the existence of God. Said he: "No idea is higher or clearer than the idea of God, or the most perfect being." Whence comes this idea? That every idea has a cause, comes from the principle that nothing produces nothing. There must be as much cause as there is effect, and as I conceive of a being more perfect than I, this conception can only come from some one who is more perfect in reality than I. This idea of God is implanted in one by God Himself. It is an original endowment, and is as innate as the idea of myself. This is really the ontological argument: we have a concept of God, hence there must be a God. Then, to go farther, we cannot think of God as apart from an existing individual.
The Christian world says this God is omnipotent, all merciful, and all loving. He is our Creator, and as He is infinite in His government, so He is in His love for His children. This God must, then, have a perfect law of living; and, if man is His child, God naturally speaks to him and gives him principles by which he can come to the truest happiness. This truest happiness, we will all agree, is the living in harmony with the laws of nature which are governed by the law of God.
Can there be a more beautiful conception of man's relation to the Deity than this? God points out the way by giving a Gospel plan of salvation to the race.
Let us make a contrast. Take a negative view. Let mankind throughout civilization deny the existence of a Maker and an allwise Protector. Can you imagine the terror and horror that this world would be steeped in, within a short time? Man would soon become a mere creature of passions, a mere animal. Think of the condition of the people of Paris, at the time of the French Revolution, when they declared that the Revolution should not cease until it had "dethroned the King of Heaven as well as the kings of earth."
We say that God spoke to Joseph Smith and revealed to him the holy law of heaven. You say, "No. Joseph Smith's visions and revelations were the result of some abnormal frame of mind." Can this appear reasonable when we look into the life of the man and the status of his work?
John Bunyan asserted that God spoke to him; so did George Fox and Emanuel Swedenborg. In fact every age has had its men who have asserted that divine revelation has been given to them. Whether these men really saw God and talked with Him, I cannot say; but I do know that Joseph Smith has given to the world a book which has caused wise men to think, and students to ponder over its teachings. I refer to the Book of Mormon.
Regarding this work the conscientious person must come to one of two conclusions; either that it is the work of a scholar whose brain was as great as that of a Kant or a Bacon, or that God revealed to the Prophet the records from which it was translated. You may ask the question whether or not the "Principia" of Newton or the "La Mecanique Celeste" of Laplacet are not greater books. I say, No. The truths of the Book of Mormon could never be the result of mere "man-made" investigation any more than the Bible could be.
In the Book of Mormon, there is philosophically worked out a grand conception of life and its meaning; of death, and the immortality of the soul; and it contains a history that no human brain could concoct.
Joseph Smith left us ideas on all phases of learning. He laid down a philosophy of life, and gave to man a plan of human redemption, which only humble study can make him understand. He has embodied in his teachings an ideal life here on earth. He saw in man grand capabilities and powers, and pointed out the way for him to become free, pure and virtuous; and asserted by his life that the "pure in heart could see God."
Joseph Smith's teachings were utilitarian, yet very ideal in their tendency. He lived a life of sacrifice, thereby teaching the one essential thing in human life—love. He had a sublime feeling for the external world—he had every confidence in the grand development of the human race. He taught the principles of faith, love, and good works, that the glory of God is intelligence; and that knowledge—real knowledge—is the path which leads to heaven. To him the universal brotherhood of mankind is the ultimate reality of society; and he asserted that work, with faith in Jesus Christ, will finally bring the race to this perfection.
It is a sorrowful thing, yet nevertheless true, that Joseph Smith's teachings are not understood today. Neither were the teachings of ancient prophets clearly understood by the peoples of their times. In making a study of the results of the works of our "Mormon Prophet," we can safely say with Temilron, a French writer: "Men's eyes do not focus well enough to note readily the advent hour of the world's Messiahs. By by-paths, not by thoroughfares or by highways, does truth come to its kingdom among men. Good never gallops to victory here in this earth, nor in any instance does truth march to its crown in a dress parade. It enters its kingdom always by Golgotha, a jeering mob, brandishing sticks, accompanying, even its best disciples following afar off, the women staying nearest, and is lifted to its crown on a cross between reviling thieves."
I do not think that the work of Joseph Smith can be explained in its entirety by the psychologist.
There is a higher law than earthly laws. There is the law of Heaven. That law we come to know only through the development of the divine nature within us.
Philosophy has its bounds; but the truths of God are infinite and are only to be known through the Spirit of God. We accept the truths discovered by all investigators; but what Hamlet said to Horatio is true: "There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy."
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Monday, October 2, 2017
Arthur Conan Doyle and Spiritualism 1917
Arthur Conan Doyle and His Belief in Spiritualism, article in the Current Opinion 1917
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“IN spite of occasional fraud and wild imaginings, there remains a solid core in this whole spiritual movement which is infinitely nearer to positive proof than any other religious development with which I am acquainted.” So writes Sir Arthur Conan Doyle in an article commended by Sir Oliver Lodge and published in the London Spiritualist weekly, Light. Sir Arthur’s leaning toward Spiritualism, we learn from this article, dates back thirty years. He tells us that he is one of the oldest members of the Psychical Research Society. But we do not recall any statement of his
views so sympathetic with Spiritualist doctrines as that contained in the present article. It may be noted that while the name Conan Doyle was made famous as that of a novelist, the bearer was a physician before he was a novelist. He was at one time senior physician at the Langman Field Hospital in South Africa.
The days are past, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle maintains, when the considered opinions of such men as Crookes, Wallace, Flammarion, Lodge, Barrett, Generals Drayson and Turner, Sergeant Ballantine, W. T. Stead, Judge Edmonds, Vice-Admiral Usborne Moore, the late Archdeacon Wilberforce and a cloud of other witnesses, can be dismissed as negligible. The time has come when “further proof is superfluous and the weight of disproof lies upon those who deny.” If, “to take one of a thousand examples," the only evidence for unknown intelligent forces lay in the experiments of Dr. Crawford recorded in Light, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle does not see how it could be shaken. He continues:
“We should now be at the close of the stage of investigation and beginning the period of religious construction.
“For what is this movement? Are we to satisfy ourselves by observing phenomena with no attention to what the phenomena mean, as a group of savages might stare at a wireless installation with no appreciation of the messages coming through it, or are we resolutely to set ourselves to 'define these subtle and elusive utterances from beyond, and to construct from them a religious scheme which shall he founded upon human reason on this side and upon spirit inspiration on the other? These phenomena have passed through the stage of being a parlor game; they are now emerging from that of a debatable scientific novelty; and they are, or should be, taking shape as the foundations of a definite system of religious thought, in some ways confirmatory of ancient systems, in some ways entirely new.
The spiritistic phenomena, Sir Arthur proceeds, are confirmatory of the old doctrines in upholding those moral laws which are common to most human systems and which are so sanctioned by reason that where reason is developed they need no further support. They are confirmatory as to the unhappy results of sin, "tho adverse to the idea that those results are permanent." They are confirmatory as to the idea of higher beings whom we may call angels. And, finally, they are confirmatory as to the existence of a "Summer-land" or heaven. When he comes to a discussion of the points at which the new doctrine corrects or supplements the old, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle says:
“These take the form of more positive teaching as to the nature of death and of the world beyond. By this teaching death makes no abrupt change in the process of development, nor does it make an impassable chasm between those who are on either side of it. No trait of the form and no peculiarity of the mind are changed by death, but all are continued in that spiritual body which is the counterpart of the earthly one at its best, and still contains within it that core of spirit which is the very inner essence of the man.
"Nature develops slowly, and not by enormous leaps, so that it would seem natural that the soul should not suddenly become devil or angel but should continue upon its slow growth. Such would appear to be a reasonable solution, and such is the spiritual teaching from beyond. Nor apparently are the spirit's surroundings, experiences, feelings, and even foibles very different from those of earth. A similar nature in the being would seem to imply a similar atmosphere around the being to meet the needs of that nature, all etherealized to the same degree.”
It is in the possibility of communication between the living and the dead that the main feature of this new teaching lies, and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle takes his position with those who believe that such communication has been established. “Many ways have been devised, all imperfect,” he says, “but some of them wonderfully and fitfully successful. Clairvoyance, clair-audience, the direct voice, automatic writing, spirit control—these are the various methods, all depending upon that inexplicable thing called mediumship, a thing so sacred and sometimes so abused."
There are only two reasonable attitudes, in Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s view, that we can take toward Spiritualism. Either we must recognize that “in recent years there has come to us from divine sources a new revelation which constitutes by far the greatest religious event since the death of Christ, a revelation which alters the whole aspect of death and the fate of man”; or else we must hold that “there has been an outbreak of lunacy extending over two generations of mankind and two great continents — a lunacy which assails men and women who are otherwise eminently sane." Sir Arthur concludes:
"Between these two suppositions I can see no solid position. Theories of fraud or of delusion will not meet the evidence. It is absolute lunacy or it is a revolution in religious thought, a revolution which gives us as by-products an utter fearlessness of death and an immense consolation when those who are dear to us pass behind the veil.
"There are many superficial inquirers to whom the ideas of a divine revelation and of such humble phenomena as Rochester rappings or moving tables seem incompatible. The greatest things have always come from the smallest seeds. The twitching leg of a frog ,suggested the whole development of electric science, and the rattling lid of a kettle was the father of steam, as the falling apple is said to have suggested the law of gravity. It is the simple thing that catches the eye. But the wise investigator does not dwell too much upon the first suggestions, but passes onward to consider what they have suggested and whither they have led.
“There remains the question which troubles many earnest souls as to whether such communion is right. Personally I am not aware of any human power which has been given us without our having the right under any circumstances to use it. On the other hand, I know no human power which may not be abused. It is an abuse of such a power as this that it should be used in a spirit of levity or that it should be used in a spirit of mere curiosity.
“It is either an absurd farce or the most solemn and sacred of functions. But when one knows, as I know, of widows who are assured that they hear the loved voice once again, or of mothers whose hands, groping in the darkness, clasp once again those of the vanished child, and when one considers the loftiness of their intercourse and the serenity of spirit which succeeds it, I feel sure that a fuller knowledge would calm the doubt of the most scrupulous conscience. Men talk of a great religious revival after the war. Perhaps it is in this direction that it will be."
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Sunday, October 1, 2017
On Victorian Literature by Charles L Moore 1907
The Victorian Literature by Charles Leonard Moore 1907
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A rush of Maanads across the scene; Furies darting here and there with fiery torches and hissing tresses; Bacchanals dancing tipsily in, escorting a hero’s catafalque; in front, orgies over a grave; in the background the blaze of battle sunsets and the wreaths of snow-clad heights: — by some such picture as this one might image forth the Georgian times in England. Then England was at the storm centre of the world. In the French Revolution, the American Revolution, the Napoleonic wars, it was either protagonist or antagonist. And its literature was coincident and coequal with its deeds, which is more than could be said of France at that time. Burns preached the revolt of the natural man and the political man. Burke grappled single-handed with the French Revolution. Byron launched himself on a lonely crusade against the powers of reaction. Scott created a nation and revealed the past of Europe. Wordsworth, like a Druid seer, stood upon his rocky heights and laid his commands on Nature itself. Coleridge unlocked the door where the Supernatural was sealed away. Shelley sang the strains of an impossible perfection, and Keats bodied forth the last charm of sensuous life. All was daring, original, vivid, and alive. This age in England seems to me on the whole the greatest literary epoch of the last two hundred and fifty years. No other recent period has lifted so blazing a torch or shook its sparks so far abroad to kindle conflagrations in distant lands. Goethe and his compeers did work quite as solid and enduring, but, as they realized themselves, something of natural power, of daemonic inspiration, was wanting to them. Man for man, the Frenchmen of 1830 were inferior to their English predecessors.
Turn now to the succeeding age in England. If we shut our eyes and try to conjure up a generalized picture of it, the scene would be something like this: A gentle valley bedded deep with the green of trees and grass. On one side, a village with houses of old-time charm from which look forth or emerge girls of graceful loveliness and tranquil mien. In the middle, a field where lithe young athletes contend in various games. Toward the rear, an inn the very air about which is redolent of good cheer. And in the background manor-houses and mansions, each one looking down upon the world from its own seclusion. All is peace and rest and content.
It would be an error, of course, to say that during Victoria’s long reign
“No drum with beaten sound
Was heard the whole world round,”
but in comparison with most ages in the history of the world, it was a time of calm, of prosperity, of material development. And its literature was like unto it. It was a literature of the idyllic and the lyric in poetry, of humor and light comedy in the novel.
The predominant note of the Victorian literature is, I think, its virginal purity. Never before, except in the Greek poets and in Shakespeare, was the young girl drawn with such tender respect and admiration. And, without exception, she was never before so permitted to stamp herself upon a literature. and stamp out all that might offend her instincts or interest. By the side of Homer's chivalrous portraits of women and girls there is Hesiod with his rather low judgment of the lovelier sex. By the side of Sophocles and Euripides, with their lofty heroines, is Aristophanes with his utter irreverence and world-upsetting indecency. And in Chaucer and Shakespeare, women of the coarsest and basest type jostle their fair and fragrant sisters.
But the Victorian poets and novelists are the slaves of the young girl and the virtuous matron. They draw their chariots. Tennyson’s poetry is a gallery of fair women; they dominate his books almost to the exclusion of any male interest. Coventry Patmore instituted a new religion of the Virgin. In Browning, man is merely the attendant planet which revolves around a female sun. It is the same with the novelists. They treat their heroines with adoring worship, as something more than human. When Thackeray wished to draw the picture of a thoroughly bad woman, he hardly dared to hint that in some matters she was not quite all she ought to be.
This chivalry, characteristic of the Celtic temperament, is not characteristic of the Saxon mind. There is a vast region of English literature, extending from Dryden and Wycherley down through Fielding and Smollett and Sterne, where it is not in evidence at all. Perhaps the comparative peacefulness of the Victorian age is the reason why the feminine influence became so powerful. Not only laws, but women, are silent amid the clash of arms.
A second feature of the Victorian literature is its domesticity— its concern for the narrow things of the household. It is the literature of the home; and the home may be either a shrine or a prison. It makes for goodness, but it does not make for freedom. There is a spirit of adventure, a carelessness of consequence, in all older literatures, which is largely wanting in the books of this age. Generally in the plays and poems and novels of the past, the mere fact of getting a living, the mere furniture and surroundings of life, are taken for granted, relegated to the background, or treated as a joke. But money, property, position, these are the serious things to the Victorian writers. The reward of virtue with them is a coach-and-four, a country house with pleasant grounds, the being on calling terms with the best families. It was not for nothing that the “Book of Snobs” was written in this age. Nearly everyone, from Tennyson down, was tainted with the worship of caste. Perhaps it came out most strongly in Bulwer, a man of genius to whom bad taste clung like a Nessus shirt. Carlyle blew the trumpet of revolt against this worship, and one can measure the work he had to do by the effort he had to make.
The understanding of the power of money and the comforts of home is the beginning of realism. Idealism is possible to a poet who, like Horace, could go singing through a wood filled with robbers; it is possible to a hermit like Wordsworth or Thoreau. But a writer who likes to have everything comfortable about him must unconsciously picture man as he is, not man as he ought to be. He must fail of sympathy with the great ideas, the great ambitions, the heroic actions of life.
Notwithstanding its snobbery, the Victorian age saw, if not the beginning, an immense development of sympathy for the poor and lowly. The short and simple annals of the poor were found capable of infinite illustration. Low-life has always been the haunt of humor; but Dickens discovered that the poor have not only more fun among them, but more freedom and happiness than their superiors. Joy is the thing that makes literature permanent—not the vulgar joy which can only see happiness in pink and white colors, in a succession of sugar-plums, in the negation of pain, but the joy which springs from keen and lofty effort, whether foredoomed to failure or success. Dick Swiveller barricading himself round by a circle of unpaid scores for “the rosy,” Micawber strenuously waiting for something to turn up, doubtless felt, when either of them did raise the wind by some lucky expedient, the same exalted joy that filled the stadium runner of Greece when he touched the post; and they communicate this joy to us. It is by reason of his discovery of the immense resources of happiness among the poor that Dickens’s work is the great literary creation of the age. Squalid and gloomy and horrible, you say his pictures are. Yes; but out of this squalor and gloom and horror spring the most beautiful flowers of life-—self-sacrifice, heroism, patient kindness, and sparkling wit. The relations of tragedy to joy in literature are universally mistaken. We sympathize with the effort rather than with the end. Who would not accept Achilles’ early death, if he could deck himself in the splendor of that hero? Who would not go through Hamlet's troubles, if he could do it with the kingly mien, the intellectual dominance of the Dane? We do not love death or pain or poverty, but we love the great spirits which can react against these dark, hard things, and strike out light for the centuries.
Mild religious doubt was a great preoccupation of the Victorian writers. The day of defiance was past. Byron and Shelley had been Titans hurling mountains at Zeus; but Tennyson, Arnold, Browning. Newman, were simply disillusioned clergymen, timidly picking flaws in the plan of the universe, or falling back upon faith and authority. England had to go to a not very distinguished Persian poet of the past to get its most thorough-going statement of the eternal problems.
The Scientific spirit, and the rise of the Evolutionary theory, which last had its home in England, have been accused of or praised for great influence on modern literature and life. But it seems to me that their power has been vastly overrated. The general conceptions of the creed of Evolution, which are all the world takes note of, are at least as old as Greek philosophy, and there have been no great doings from them in the past. At the most, they can but alter the special forms of religious belief. They cannot shake the basis of faith. Men will go on believing in God, and the immortality of the soul, and redemption for sin, in the future as they always have in the past. If the old theologies fail to satisfy, they will frame new ones.
There remains to be said something about the technical qualities of the Victorian literature. In style - which, in its limited sense, I take to mean concentration, vividness and freshness of speech - the age must stand or fall with its leader, Tennyson. Now it seems to me that in most of the great excellences of style, he is inferior not only to Shakespeare and Milton but to Gray and Collins, Coleridge, Wordsworth, and Keats. His best work brought into juxtaposition with theirs already shows a little faded. It has not the final simplicity, the jewel-like sparkle, the lasting memorable weight, of theirs. In prose, it may be said at once that the age had no original technical gift. All the weapons of English prose were forged long before and used with more effect. In simple prose it did not beat Swift or Defoe; in eloquent prose it did not reach the heights of Jeremy Taylor, Milton, or Burke; and in perfect prose it has nothing which can compare with that of Shakespeare, Congreve, or Goldsmith.
One technical quality, however, the age did revive, resuscitate, and carry to great triumphs. This is the almost invaluable quality of tone, by which a. piece of literature is projected forth all of one piece, with its own special atmosphere and light. The supreme examples of this excellence in art are the best plays of Shakespeare. “Macbeth” and “King Lear,” "Cymbeline," “Twelfth Night,” “A Merchant of Venice,” “As You Like It,” “The Midsummer Night’s Dream,” were thrown out by Shakespeare’s creating mind, each flawless in its unity of color, like the red and blue and green and mauve and yellow stars which dance in the tangles of the Pleiades. After Shakespeare this virtue in literature fell into abeyance - for Milton's elevation and majesty are quite different things. The wits and novel-writers who succeeded thought that all that went to the making of a book was a vast amount of human incident and a great bundle of brilliant sayings. In Gray's “Elegy” the thing was born again; and in the best pieces of Collins - the “Ode to Evening” and the “Highland Ode” - it attained a high perfection. Four or five poems by Coleridge and as many by Keats show the virtue to the full. And by a special miracle, Scott in one story, “The Bride of Lammermoor," attains a truth of tone which makes that novel rank above all his others. Now the gift of tone was habitual with Tennyson. Not only in his shorter and earlier pieces - like “The Dying Swan,” “The Two Sisters,” “Mariana” — but in his more ambitious works - “Maud,” “The Princess,” “The Idylls” - is this excellence innate and of imperative appeal. Tone was, if not Rossetti’s sole stock in trade, at least his most valuable asset. It is implicit, though not overwhelmingly apparent, in Arnold. James Thomson's “City of Dreadful Night” is a remarkable example of it. The novel writers, too, possess the gift. Three such varying tales as “Barnaby Rudge,” "Wuthering Heights," and “Armadale” are fulfilled with it almost in extreme measure. And in a different kind, "Pickwick,” “Cranford," and “Silas Marner” are perfect in atmosphere. The cultivation of tone is, I should say, the most valuable technical achievement of modern English literature.
On the whole, however, the Victorian literature is deficient in greatness, originality, daring, soul. For strife it substituted comfort, for splendor it substituted charm, for fierce satire or soul-shattering tragedy it substituted gentle irony and light humor. There are to-day, and there always will he, innumerable readers to whom these secondary qualities appeal most. But every age can supply them for itself. I am inclined to think that future generations will prefer to light their torches at the battle-beacons of the Georgian epoch rather than at the modest hearth-fires of the Victorian age.
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