One naturally turns first to literature to see the reflection of the life of a period. The man[3] who seems in the eyes of all Englishmen, so far as one can make out, to have represented during this century the claims of humanity, of dignity, of what is called the spiritual side of life, was Carlyle; and Carlyle has been likened again and again to the Joels and Jeremiahs of that most material Hebrew race. The whole of his long day was spent in crying out to a faithless and perverse16 generation. Therefore Carlyle never attained17 the serenity19 and hilarity20 of those two great spirits, Goethe and Emerson, between whom he stood midway. Nor is it surprising that he was often blinded by the smoke and heat of a land that had become one huge Black Country, and that he fought against freedom, and sometimes mistook his friends for enemies. Nor again is it surprising that of the two great poets who occupy the centre of the century, one found inspiration in the blunders of a Crimean war and the royal representative of respectable middle-class chivalry21, while the other gave himself up to marvellous feats23 of psychological gymnastic. Matthew Arnold, for his part, resolved the discords24 of his time in the austere25 calm of Stoicism; the calm of souls
“who weigh
Life well and find it wanting, nor deplore26;
But in disdainful silence turn away,
Stand mute, self-centred, stern, and dream no more:”
practically, however, Arnold found it neces[4]sary neither to turn away nor to be silent. There was yet another solution for sensitive souls: to hide the heart in a nest of roses away from the world, just as Schopenhauer, who in Germany represented in more philosophic27 vesture this same vague unrest, resolved it by the aid of his profound religious sense in refined and ?sthetic joy. That is the solution sought in what seems to me one of the most exquisite28 and significant books of the century, “Marius the Epicurean.” For Marius, life is made up of a few rare and lovely visions. All the rough sorrow and gladness of the world, its Dantesque bitterness or its Rabelaisian joy, only reaches him through a long succession of mirrors, and every strong human impulse as an attenuated29 echo. This serious, sweet, and thoughtful book is the summary of the “sensations and ideas” of the finest natures of an era; as in certain of the distinguished30 opium-eaters of the beginning of the century, Coleridge or De Quincey, we see a refined development of the passive sensory31 sides of the human organism with corresponding atrophy32 of the motor sides. It is clearly impossible to go any farther on that road.
There is no renascence of the human spirit unless some mighty33 leverage34 has been at work long previously35. Such forces work underground, slowly and coarsely and patiently, during barren periods, and they meet with much contempt as[5] destructive of man’s finer and higher nature; but, in the end, it is by these that the finer and higher is lifted to new levels. No great spiritual eruption36 can take place without the aid of such levers. What forces have been at work during the century that is now drawing to a close? Three, I think, stand clearly forth37.
At the end of the sixteenth century, it was above all the sudden expansion of the world that inspired human effort and aspiration38. In later days science has carried on the same movement by revealing world within world. A chief element in the spirit of the French Revolution was, as Taine pointed39 out, that scientific activity which centred around Newton. In our own time the impulse has come from scientific discoveries much more revolutionary, far-reaching and relative to life, than any of Newton’s. The conception of evolution has penetrated40 every department of organic science, especially where it touches man. Darwin personally, to whom belongs the chief place of honour in the triumph of a movement which began with Aristotle, has been a transforming power by virtue41 of his method and spirit, his immense patience, his keen observation, his modesty42 and allegiance to truth; no one has done so much to make science—that is to say, all inquiry43 into the traceable causes or relations of things—so attractive. The great and growing sciences of to-day are the sciences[6] of man—anthropology, sociology, whatever we like to call them, including also that special and older development, now become a new thing, though still retaining its antiquated44 name of Political Economy. It is difficult for us to-day to enter into the state of mind of those who once termed this the dismal45 science; if the question of a man’s right to a foothold on the earth is not interesting, what things are interesting? Our hopes for the evolution of man, and our most indispensable guide, are bound up with all that we can learn of man’s past and all that we can measure of his present. It was by a significant coincidence that that great modern science which has man himself for its subject was created by Broca, when he founded the Société d’Anthropologie of Paris in the same memorable year of 1859 which first saw “The Origin of Species.” Man has been brought into a line with the rest of life; a mysterious chasm46 has been filled up; a few fruitful hints have been received which help to make the development of all life more intelligible47. This has, on the one hand, given a mighty impulse to the patient study of nature and to the accumulation of facts now seen to bear such infinite possibilities of farther advance; just as the discovery of America in the sixteenth century produced a like spirit of adventure which led men to all parts of the globe. On the other hand, this devotion to truth, this instinctive48[7] search after the causes of things, has become what may be called a new faith. The fruits of this scientific spirit are sincerity49, patience, humility50, the love of nature and the love of man. “Wisdom is to speak truth and consciously to act according to nature.” So spake the old Ephesian, Heraclitus, to whom, rather than to Socrates, men are now beginning to look back as the exponent51 of the true Greek spirit; and so also speaks modern science. It is a faith that has become a living reality to many; Clifford, for instance, as revealed in his “Lectures and Essays,” has long been a brilliant and inspiring member, often called typical, of the company of those who are filled with the scientific spirit. Huxley, one of the most militant52 and indefatigable53 exponents54 of the scientific spirit during the past half century, has lately set forth its aim, which has been that of his own life:—“To promote the increase of natural knowledge and to forward the application of scientific methods of investigation55 to all the problems of life to the best of my ability, in the conviction, which has grown with my growth and strengthened with my strength, that there is no alleviation56 for the sufferings of mankind except veracity57 of thought and of action, and the resolute58 facing of the world as it is, when the garment of make-believe, by which pious59 hands have hidden its uglier features, is stripped[8] off.” It is important to note that this spirit is becoming widely diffused60; it would be easy to point to manifestations63 in various departments of this open-eyed, sensitive observation, not pretending to know prematurely64, ready to throw away all prepossessions and to follow Nature whithersoever her caprices lead, without crying “Out upon her!” It is impossible to forecast the magnitude of the results that will flow from this growing willingness to search out the facts of things, and to found life upon them, broadly and simply, rather than to shape it to the form of unreasoned and traditional ideals. There was long abroad in the world a curious dread65 of all attempts to face simply and sincerely the facts of life. This audacious frankness and scarcely less audacious humility aroused horror and suspicion; and those who marched at the front heard with considerable pain many members of the rear black-guard hurling66 “Materialist!” and other such terms of scorn at their backs. The sting has now died out of these terms. We know that wherever science goes the purifying breath of spring has passed and all things are re-created. We realize that it is, above all, by following the light that is shed by the low and neglected things—the “survivals”—of the world, that the reasonable path of progress becomes clear. We cried for the moon for so many thousand years before we conquered the world.[9] We know at last that it must be among our chief ethical67 rules to see that we build the lofty structure of human society on the sure and simple foundations of man’s organism.
These three great movements are clearly allied68, and certainly the practical applications of this scientific spirit, of which there is more to say immediately, will rest very largely in the hands of women. The great wave of emancipation69 which is now sweeping70 across the civilized71 world means nominally72 nothing more than that women should have the right to education, freedom to work, and political enfranchisement73—nothing in short but the bare ordinary rights of an adult human creature in a civilized democratic state. But many other changes will follow in the train of these very simple and matter-of-fact changes, and it is no wonder that many worthy75 people look with dread upon the slow invasion by women of all the concerns of life—which are, after all, as much their own concerns as anyone’s—as nothing less than a new irruption of barbarians76. These good people are unquestionably right. The development of women means a reinvigoration as complete as any brought by barbarians to an effete77 and degenerating78 civilization. When we turn to those early societies, which are as lamps to us in our social progress, we find that the arts of life are in the possession of women. There[10]fore when the torch of science is placed in the hands of women we must expect them to use it as a guide with audacious simplicity79 and directness, because of those instincts for practical life which they have inherited.
The rise of women—who form the majority of the race in most civilized countries—to their fair share of power, is certain. Whether one looks at it with hope or with despair one has to recognize it. For my own part I find it an unfailing source of hope. One cannot help feeling that along the purely80 masculine line no striking social advance is likely to be made. Men are idealists, in search of wealth usually, sometimes of artistic81 visions; they have little capacity for social organization. It is sometimes said that the fundamental inferiority of women is shown by the very few surpassing women of genius in the world’s history. In their anxiety to combat this argument women have even enlisted82 Semiramis and Dido into their ranks. But it is a fact. For all great solitary83 and artistic achievements—the writing of Divine Comedies, the painting of Transfigurations, the construction of systems of metaphysic, the inauguration84 of new religions—men are without rivals; the more abstract and unsocial an art is, the easier it is for men to attain18 eminence in it; in music and in the art of erecting85 philosophies men have had, least of all,[11] any occasion to fear the rivalry86 of women. Such things are precious, although it may be that what we call “genius” is something abnormal and distorted, like those centres of irritation87 which result in the pearls we likewise count so precious. Women are comparatively free from “genius.” Yet it might probably be maintained that the average level of women’s intelligence is fully14 equal to that of men’s. Compare the men and women among settlers in the Australian bush, or wherever else men and women have been set side by side to construct their social life as best they may, and it will often be to the disadvantage of the men. In practical and social life—even perhaps, though this is yet doubtful, in science—women will have nothing to fear. The most important mental sexual difference lies in the relative and absolute preponderance in women of the lower, that is, the more important and fundamental nervous centres.[1] What new forms the influence of women will give to society we cannot tell. Our most strenuous88 efforts will be needed to see to it that women gain the wider experience of life, the larger education in the full sense of the word, the entire freedom of development, without[12] which their vast power of interference in social organization might have disastrous89 as well as happy results.
We most of us began in youth with literature; the seeds of art and imagination found a kindly90 soil in childhood and puberty; and we spent our enthusiasm on Scott or Shelley, on Gautier or Swinburne. As we grew older we tired of these, developing instincts that craved91 other satisfaction, discovering sometimes even that our idols92 had clay feet. Then we turned to the things that had seemed to us before so dull and stupid that we had scarcely looked at them; we began to be fascinated by economics and the growth of society, the problem of surplus value turns out to be full of attraction, and the historic development of the relationship between men and women as charming as any novel. In the same way the men of 1859, who were nurtured93 on “The Origin of Species,” naturally and rightly turned their militant energies against theology and fought over the book of Genesis. To-day, when social rather than theological questions seem to be the legitimate94 outcome of the scientific spirit, and when all things connected with social organization have become the matters of most vital interest to those who are really alive to the time in which they live, even in youth such questions begin to grow enchanting95, and those who are older feel the same fascination;[13] the man who shared with Darwin the honour of initiating96 a new scientific era becomes a land nationaliser, William Morris a socialist97, and the poet laureate who sixty years earlier had sung fantastic poems of a coming Utopia grasps at length the concrete problems with which we have to deal. All this is hopeful, for we have scarcely yet got to the bottom of the questions raised by the growth of democracy.
The influence of science on life is an accomplished98 fact, and we can distinctly trace its gradual development; the influence of women is on the eve of attaining99 its outward consummation, and it is not altogether impossible to forecast some of the changes which it will involve. But the influence of democracy, more talked of than either of the others, is much more vague, complex, and uncertain. Once it was thought that we had but to give a vote to every adult—outside the asylum100 and perhaps the prison—and democracy would be achieved. This crude notion has long since become ridiculous. We see now that the vote and the ballot-box do not make the voter free from even external pressure; and, which is of much more consequence, they do not necessarily free him from his own slavish instincts. We see that enfranchisement does not mean freedom, since the enfranchised101 are capable of running in a brainless and compact mob after any man who is clever enough to gain despotic[14] influence over them. This is not democracy, though it is doubtless a step towards it. If we test the intelligence of the enfranchised by examining the persons whom they elect as their representatives, we soon realize the trifling102 character of the step. Even the free and generously democratic colonies of Australia show few brilliant results by this test. It is hard to get rid of the old distinction between a governing class and a governed, and to recognize that every man must be a member of the government.
If democracy means a state in which every man shall be a freeman, neither in economic nor intellectual nor moral subjection, two processes at least are needed to render democracy possible—on the one hand a large and many-sided education; on the other the reasonable organization of life.
The conception of education has within recent times undergone a curious development. Some of us can still remember the time when the word “education” meant as a matter of course the rudiments103 of intellectual education only, and when such education was regarded as a panacea104 for many evils; this kind of education has, in consequence, we may take it, been virtually secured to every child in all civilized countries. To this kind of education, however, it is no longer possible to attribute any satisfying[15] sort of virtue. It may produce a very inferior order of clerk; but education—the reasonable development of the individual—it cannot deserve to be called; it merely puts a certain rude intellectual instrument into the hands of a still thoroughly106 uneducated person. Education, as we understand it now, must be founded on the harmonious107 exercise of body, senses, and emotions, as well as intellect; the whole environment is the agent of education. That is why we are now extending the meaning of the word indefinitely. Fresh air, good food, manual training, the cultivation108 of the art instincts, physical exercise and abundant recreation, wholesome109 home relationships—these are a few of the things which we now recognize as essential parts of the rational education of every boy and girl, and which we are seeking to obtain for all. Nor is education in this sense incompatible110 with intellectual development; on the contrary, it is the only sound foundation for such development. There is here no need for fear. We seem, indeed, to be rapidly approaching a period in which the excessive intension of knowledge, its confinement111 to a few persons, will give way to a marked extension of knowledge. Such a process is in the lines of our democratic advance. It is for the advantage of the men of science who have paid for the seclusion112 of extreme specialism by incapacity to understand popular[16] movements and popular needs; it is to the advantage of all that there should be no impassable gulf113 between those who know and those who are ignorant. It is well to sacrifice much, if we may thereby114 help to diffuse61 the best things that are known and thought in the world, and make the scientific attitude, even more than scientific results, a common possession.
It is clear that education thus understood leads directly to the other great factor of democracy. Education is impossible without social organization: no advanced stage of social organization is possible without a complex and diffused education; they lead up to each other and go hand in hand. The average working man, in England at all events, is not an enthusiast115 for schemes of technical education; as things stand, such schemes constitute a method for supplying the capitalist with cheap instruments, and the working man cannot be expected to view with enthusiasm his own depreciation116 in the market. At the same time his lack of education leads him to overrate the value of a tawdry intellectual equipment, and he views with little anxiety the growth of a race of inferior clerks, for whom the world has few uses.
In England the love of independent individual initiative and the dislike of all harmonious social organization is certainly stronger than elsewhere; it is intimately associated with the best and worst[17] qualities of the race, and it has spread over all the countries we have overrun. For three hundred years this tendency has had a free field. But during the last fifty years a new instinct of social organization has been slowly developing and gaining strength. Trades unions have been one of the most potent117 influences in this direction. All our factory legislation has been a sign of its growth, and the same movement has given enthusiasm to the County Council. There are very few things in our daily life which this spirit of social organization is not embracing or promising118 to embrace. The old bugbear of “State interference” (a real danger under so many circumstances) vanishes when a community approaches the point at which the individual himself becomes the State. It might be added that under no circumstances could the temper of the English people tolerate any considerable amount of “State interference.” The communalization of certain social functions corresponds—without being an exact analogy—to the process by which physiological120 actions become automatic. As it becomes a State function commerce will cease to absorb the best energy and enterprise of the world, and will become merely mechanical.
It may not be out of place to point out that while this process of socialization is rapidly developing, individual development so far from[18] stopping, is progressing no less rapidly. It is too often forgotten that the former is but the means to secure the latter. While we are socializing all those things of which all have equal common need, we are more and more tending to leave to the individual the control of those things which in our complex civilization constitute individuality. We socialize what we call our physical life in order that we may attain greater freedom for what we call our spiritual life.
The growth of social organization is now beginning to open up possibilities which a few years ago would have seemed Utopian. It cannot remain limited within merely national bounds. It is concerned with the things of which all have a common need, and the interests of nations are here inextricably intertwined. This must sooner or later result in the formation of international tribunals, and this again will have decisive results in relation to war—a method of dispute rapidly becoming antiquated. Twenty-eight millions of men, ready to be put into the field (is not this a suggestive euphemism121?) at a moment’s notice, in a corner of the world! Take a plébiscite of the adult population of Europe, of whose life-blood these twenty-eight millions are, to-morrow—and what would the régime of militarism be worth? We must certainly expect to see the same process repeated between nations which has everywhere taken place among individuals.[19] When a strong power to which appeal can be made is established, individuals cease to fight and become litigants122; this was seen in the Middle Ages, and again, as Maine pointed out, when a strong British executive was established in India. As soon as a sufficiently123 strong tribunal is formed, nations who once went to war must in the same way become litigants. This again will have its reaction on democracy and social life.
Along another line we may observe the approaching disappearance124 of war. The wars of modern times have, to a large extent, had commercial causes at their roots. The downfall of unrestricted competition, and the organization of industrialism, will remove this cause of war. In the profoundly interesting movement, witnessed to-day in the direction of trusts and syndicates, we see the natural and inevitable125 transition to a new era. Like all transitions, it can only be effected with much friction126. From one point of view it is the last barricade127 of capitalism128; from a wider stand-point it is the forging of a huge instrument to be taken up eventually by a vast international community who will thus control the means of providing for themselves by methods of simple and uneventful routine.
Before international organization can be realized there seems little doubt that a period of protective national organization must intervene.[20] At present there is a floating population of the weakest and less capable—unable to emigrate to a new country—always flowing from a poorer country into a less poor country, and bearing with them the seeds of vagrancy129 and crime. No progress is possible if every little redeemed130 patch is at once flooded from over sea. It must be remembered also, that the dykes131 necessary to regulate the floating population are required even in the interests of the poorer countries. We are approaching a time when the general spread of information, especially by means of newspapers, will render it impossible for any country to tolerate the fact that the general level of its people’s existence should exceed in wretchedness that of any other nation. The evolution of a better state can only take place by the pressure resulting from the presence of these outcast elements of society. To reject them is but to disguise the condition of a nation and to imperil its destiny.
The destiny and fate of nations has always fascinated the popular imagination, and the destinies of nations are now shaping themselves before our eyes with singular clearness. Within a measurable period of time France will have become a beautiful dream; all Frenchmen will be Belgians or Italians, the races which have already in large measure taken possession of the country; it is a process which Frenchmen[21] themselves observe and chronicle with painful interest. But France has already accomplished a great work among the nations. Of wider significance is the development of Russia. For various reasons the position of Russia is peculiar132. The youngest of European nations in civilization, with a strong Asiatic element by position and race, Russia is approaching the task of social organization with a different endowment from that possessed133 by any other nation. This racial endowment, while imparting a curious freshness to its methods of dealing134 with European problems, especially fits it for its great mission of dominating Asia. To the English it has never been easy to find a modus vivendi with lower races, or races which we are pleased to consider lower; the very qualities which give us insular135 independence and toughness of fibre, unfit us for the other task. But the Russian temperament136, as is now generally recognized, is peculiarly adapted for mingling137 harmoniously138 even with the fiercest yellow races and bringing them into relation with the best European influences; all those who care for humanity view with satisfaction the growing influence of Russia in the East, an influence which, we may reasonably hope, will overspread the continent. A very large field indeed is still left for the other great expanding race of the world. The English-speaking races have in their hands the greater[22] part of North America, and nearly all Australia, and here their special qualities find ample scope. This division gives no ground for quarrel; the Russians have never had much capacity for emigration in the English sense, and the English are beginning to learn by bitter experience that they are not suited for the mission of civilizing139 Asia; the Spanish races have, as a field for their renascence, now so rapidly taking place, nearly the whole of the rich continent of South America; while those slow, yet tenacious140 and admirable colonists141, the Germans, will be able to gain ground in that African continent to which they are most attracted, and which was long ago claimed by the Dutch for this division of the Teutonic race. If we English are certain to make little progress where, as in Asia, the great task is conciliation144, when it is a question of stamping out a lower race—then is our time! It has to be done; it is quite clear that the fragile Red men of America and the strange wild Blacks of Australia must perish at the touch of the White man. On the whole we stamp them out as mercifully as may be, supplying our victims liberally with missionaries145 and blankets.
It is the English race, not England, that is thus possessing so large a part of the earth. And it is interesting to observe that both the races—almost the latest of the great European[23] nations to emerge from barbarism—that now promise to dominate the world are by temperament disinclined for monarchic146 government. With the Russians their despotic Empire has been an exotic which they may have worshipped at a distance, but which, except as a symbol of the ideal, has had little influence on their lives. We can only determine the institutions that will develop healthfully in a country by a careful and patient study of that nation’s origin. Why is the parliamentary system a dubious147 success in France, and the jury an acknowledged failure in Italy? One watches anxiously to see whether Russia will find the methods of national progress in the brilliant but fatal examples of a foreign Western civilization or in the fundamental instincts of its own race. The English have always been impatient of kings and governors, and have taken every opportunity to establish republican government. We see this in the United States. In Australia the race is developing its most intensely democratic instincts, and the Australians will certainly not tolerate any attempt to draw them closer to any country outside their own land. England has, during the present century, owing to special conditions, occupied a position in the world enormously disproportioned to its size. These special conditions are now rapidly ceasing; the Suez Canal, which has dealt so decisive a blow to the com[24]mercial greatness of England, has made it more difficult than ever for us to maintain the artificial position of advantage which we possessed as distributors; so that England, as a distributing power, is being reduced by the failure of the Cape148 route to the same condition as Venice was reduced to by its discovery. Nor is it merely as a distributing power that England is losing its position; it is losing its position—relatively, that is—as one of the great producing powers of the world. There will soon be no reason why the coarse products of a great part of the earth should be sent all the way to a small northern country to be returned in a more or less ugly and adulterate manufactured condition. We witness to-day the wonderful development of India as a centre of production. In the colonies the beginnings are small, but they are rapidly increasing; in these matters it is the first step that costs; while a well-marked tendency to protection, not likely on the whole to diminish, tends to make both America and Australia self-dependent, and, in the East, Japan is becoming a controlling force that has to be reckoned with. We are still, indeed, far from the time when the chief industry of England will be the Fremdenindustrie, but we may already trace the development of England as a museum of antiquities149 and as a Holy Land for the whole English-speaking race. Everywhere, for those who have been born in the[25] colonies, England is a remote land of glamour150 and tradition, a land of sacred associations and strange old-world customs, and the most radical151 colonist142 is a conservative where the old country is concerned. Everyone who has lived in the colonies has come upon this attitude of sentiment, perhaps with a shock of surprise; nor is it easy at once for a prosaic152 Londoner to realize the feelings of the man who arrives for the first time in the land of his fathers and beholds153 Fenchurch Street and Cheapside through an atmosphere of old romance. Yet this emotional attitude will develop mightily154 with the development of English-speaking nations, and will but be strengthened by the dying down of England’s political and commercial activity. Every country must succumb155 at last, but to succumb to its own children is a happier fate than ever befell any great country of old.
It has been necessary to take this brief survey of the influences that are now modifying the face of the civilized world, for it is in this theatre and under these conditions that the three great modern forces that we shall meet with throughout this book are acting156. What impresses one is the vast resonance157 which now accompanies every human achievement, because of the communalization and extension of the methods of intercourse158. It has become one of the chief tasks of science to attain unity119, unity of standard[26] and measure and nomenclature; this has been the object of numberless conferences. It is to attain this end that the efforts to manufacture a universal language have obtained some support, fruitless as they have hitherto been. It was by a wholesome instinct that men formerly159 clung to Latin as the universal language of educated Christendom; the humanizing intercourse which by means of a common language broke through the barriers of race, forms one of the most charming features of the early Middle Ages. The equally wholesome instinct of individual development has intervened; but the other again becomes dominant160, and the universal language becomes more and more inevitable every day. Around it will centre the chief struggle and the chief triumph of the scientific spirit.
The very splendour and inevitable impetus161 of these modern movements is producing, here and there among us, a reasonable reaction, a reaction against the hurry and excitement of modern life. And yet, perhaps, less a reaction than their natural outcome and development.
It is by art and religion that men have always sought rest. Art is a world of man’s own making, in which he finds harmonious development, a development that satisfies because framed to the measuring-rod of his most delicate senses. Religion is the anodyne162 cup—indeed of our own blood—at which we slake163 our thirst when our[27] hearts are torn by personal misery164, or weary and distracted by life’s heat and restless hurry. At times, the great motor instincts of our nature, impelling165 us by a force that we cannot measure or control, cause us to break up our dainty house of art, or to dash down bravely the cup of healing. But we shall always return to them again; they, too, represent an instinct at the root of our being. In the recognition of this harmony lies the secret of wise living.
Religion is hidden by many a strange garment, but its heart is the same, and built firmly into the human structure. The old mystic spoke166 truly when he defined God as an unutterable sigh. Now and again we must draw a deep breath of relief—and that is religion. That no intellectual belief or opinion is necessarily bound up with religion, it is nowadays unnecessary to show. To how many has Schopenhauer—an indifferent philosopher, but a great master of the secrets of religion—brought from afar, into the light of the modern world, the mysteries of the soul that seeks for consolation167? A weary and distracted creature, at war even with himself, he was of those for whom the Kingdom of Heaven is especially made; he sought and found, and moulded into the sweet harmonics of his prose, the things that make for rest and for consolation—and who is not sometimes weary and distracted, and in need of rest? We English, it is[28] true, are not an aboriginally religious people; we are great in practical life, and we are marvellous poets; but while we have an immense appetite for imported religion, we have never ourselves even produced one of those manuals of piety168 which, since the days of Lao-tsze, have become the common possession of the devout169 everywhere. One little Encheiridion alone there is, so far as I know, in which, during recent years, an English writer has brought echoes of old times, of exhilaration or of peace, into forms which enable the children of to-day to be at one with those of former days. “Quid nobis cum generibus et speciebus?” asked the author of the “Imitation.” Hugo de St. Victor was driven to religion by the barrenness of dialectics: “Truth cannot be discovered by ratiocination,” he said; “it is by what he is that man finds truth.” To-day, Edward Carpenter escapes from the burden of science to find joy for awhile in the perennial170 fountain which springs up within, and which the measuring-rod of science has never meted171. “Towards Democracy” has a quality of its own, which many have tasted with delight, and which will probably give it place with those sources of joy known to few, but well loved of those few.
For religion is a mystery, into which not all of us are initiated172. The road to the Kingdom of Heaven, as it was well said of old time, is[29] narrow, and blessed are they who, having reached it, stay but a little while! To drink deep of that cup is to have all the motor energies of life paralyzed. Art remains173 to give us the same joy and refreshment174, in more various, wholesome, and acceptable forms. For art is nothing less than the world as we ourselves make it, the world re-moulded nearer to the heart’s desire. In this construction of a world around us, in harmonious response to all our senses, we have at once a healthy exercise for our motor activities, and the restful satisfaction of our sensory needs. Art, as no mere105 passive hyper?sthesia to external impressions, or exclusive absorption in a single sense, but as a many-sided and active delight in the wholeness of things, is the great restorer of health and rest to the energies distracted by our turbulent modern movements. Thus understood, it has the firmest of scientific foundations; it is but the reasonable satisfaction of the instinctive cravings of the organism, cravings that are not the less real for being often unconscious. Its satisfaction means the presence of joy in our daily life, and joy is the prime tonic143 of life. It is the gratification of the art-instinct that makes the wholesome stimulation175 of labour joyous176; it is in the gratification of the art-instinct that repose177 becomes joyous. The fanatical commercialism that has filled so much of our century made art impossible—so impossible that beyond[30] one or two voices, raised to hysterical178 scream, no one dared to protest against it. The satisfaction of the art-instinct is now one of the most pressing of social needs. In England, William Morris probably stands first among those who have perceived this weighty fact. A man of immense energies and varied179 activities, one of the greatest modern masters of English speech and poet-craft, an ardent180 advocate of the most advanced social ideas of his time, he has slowly felt his way to the realization181 of the truth, that the secret of good living is even economically involved in the communalization of art. Our most glorious dreamer, he has placed this conception at the foundation of his lovely and substantial visions.
It is true, indeed, that we have already an art in which for the great mass of people to-day our desires and struggles and ideals are faithfully mirrored. The great art of the century has been fiction. It is common, among some writers, to speak contemptuously of novels, but the mass of contemporary fiction has a value that is little realized, and perhaps is not likely to be realized, for some time to come. There is a very large and wonderful and little-read collection of fiction, the “Acta Sanctorum,” in which the whole life and soul of a remote period are laid bare to us. It is, like our own fiction, a fiction that is more than half reality, and it has[31] often seemed to me that the novels of this century will in the future be found to have precisely182 the same value as the “Acta Sanctorum.” For the novel is contemporary moral history in a deeper sense than the De Goncourts meant. Many novels of to-day will be found to express the distinctive183 features of our age as truly as the distinctive features of another age, its whole inner and outer life, are expressed in Gothic architecture.
William Morris looks back wistfully towards the popular art of the Middle Ages, and deals out scorn to the novel; he is unjust to our modern popular art. Yet, by a wholesome instinct. For fiction is, more than any other art, the art of a period of repression184. The world’s great ages have never much cared to rehearse themselves in the brooding solitudes185 that the story-teller demands. Our faces now are turned in another direction.
I have tried to obtain and present here a faint tracing of the evolution of the modern spirit, as it strikes a contemporary. In the subsequent chapters we shall be able to trace it yet more distinctly, at different stages, and in various phases. Diderot, eclipsed once, is seen now, as, in a manifold sense which may be claimed for no other man, the initiator of our own day in all its varied manifestations, and, above all, in its practical scientific spirit. In Heine we see the[32] most characteristic, if not the finest, artist of the second quarter of our century, the melodious186 embodiment of all its discords, the impersonation of a transition which we have all passed through, and which draws us to him with cords of a peculiarly personal tenderness. Whitman represents, for the first time since Christianity swept over the world, the re-integration, in a sane187 and whole-hearted form, of the instincts of the entire man, and therefore he has a significance which we can scarcely over-estimate. Goethe had done something of this in a more artistic and intellectual shape; it is from no lack of love or reverence188 for Goethe that I have chosen the American, a democrat74 rather than an aristocrat189, the very roughness of whose grasp of life serves but to reveal the genuine instinct of the modern Greek. All that is finest in aristocracy we see revealed in Ibsen, a keen and sombre figure that reminds one perpetually of Dante—the same curt190 and awful contempt for lies and for shams191, the same vision of a Heaven beyond. Into such Kingdoms of Heaven it needs but a child to enter, and when I see this man with that little diamond wedge of sincerity and the mighty Thor’s hammer of his art, I feel as though no mountain of error could resist the new spirit that he represents. In Tolstoi we see the manifestation62 of another great modern force; no keenness or clearness here indeed in[33] the interpretation192 of life, though such a marvellous power of presentation; yet a massive elemental force, groping slowly and incoherently towards the light, so interesting to us because we seem to be conscious of the heart of a whole nation, the great nation of the future, towards which all eyes are turned.
Certainly old things are passing away; not the old ideals only, but even the regret they leave behind is dead, and we are shaping instinctively193 our new ideals. Yet we are at peace with the past. The streams of hot lava194 flow forth and cover the world; the lava is but the minute fragments of former life. We marvel22 at the prodigality195 of nature, but how marvellous, too, the economy! The old cycles are for ever renewed, and it is no paradox196 that he who would advance can never cling too close to the past. The thing that has been is the thing that will be again; if we realize that, we may avoid many of the disillusions197, miseries198, insanities199, that for ever accompany the throes of new birth. Set your shoulder joyously200 to the world’s wheel: you may spare yourself some unhappiness if, beforehand, you slip the book of Ecclesiastes beneath your arm.
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memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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renaissance
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| n.复活，复兴，文艺复兴 | |
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eminence
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| n.卓越，显赫；高地，高处；名家 | |
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primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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scholastic
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| adj.学校的，学院的，学术上的 | |
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diligently
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| ad.industriously;carefully | |
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suffocated
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| （使某人）窒息而死( suffocate的过去式和过去分词 )； （将某人）闷死； 让人感觉闷热； 憋气 | |
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everlasting
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| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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edifice
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| n.宏伟的建筑物(如宫殿，教室) | |
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deluge
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| n./vt.洪水，暴雨，使泛滥 | |
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crest
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| n.顶点；饰章；羽冠；vt.达到顶点；vi.形成浪尖 | |
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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outlets
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| n.出口( outlet的名词复数 )；经销店；插座；廉价经销店 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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supremacy
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| n.至上；至高权力 | |
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perverse
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| adj.刚愎的；坚持错误的，行为反常的 | |
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attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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attain
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| vt.达到，获得，完成 | |
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serenity
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| n.宁静，沉着，晴朗 | |
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hilarity
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| n.欢乐；热闹 | |
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chivalry
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| n.骑士气概，侠义；（男人）对女人彬彬有礼，献殷勤 | |
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marvel
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| vi.(at)惊叹vt.感到惊异；n.令人惊异的事 | |
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feats
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| 功绩，伟业，技艺( feat的名词复数 ) | |
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discords
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| 不和（discord的复数形式） | |
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austere
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| adj.艰苦的；朴素的，朴实无华的；严峻的 | |
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deplore
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| vt.哀叹，对...深感遗憾 | |
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philosophic
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| adj.哲学的，贤明的 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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attenuated
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| v.（使）变细( attenuate的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）变薄；（使）变小；减弱 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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sensory
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| adj.知觉的，感觉的，知觉器官的 | |
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atrophy
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| n./v.萎缩，虚脱，衰退 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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leverage
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| n.力量，影响；杠杆作用，杠杆的力量 | |
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previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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eruption
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| n.火山爆发；（战争等）爆发；（疾病等）发作 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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aspiration
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| n.志向，志趣抱负；渴望；(语)送气音；吸出 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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penetrated
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| adj. 击穿的，鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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antiquated
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| adj.陈旧的，过时的 | |
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dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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chasm
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| n.深坑，断层，裂口，大分岐，利害冲突 | |
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intelligible
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| adj.可理解的，明白易懂的，清楚的 | |
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instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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exponent
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| n.倡导者，拥护者；代表人物；指数，幂 | |
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militant
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| adj.激进的，好斗的；n.激进分子，斗士 | |
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indefatigable
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| adj.不知疲倦的，不屈不挠的 | |
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exponents
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| n.倡导者( exponent的名词复数 )；说明者；指数；能手 | |
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investigation
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| n.调查，调查研究 | |
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alleviation
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| n. 减轻，缓和，解痛物 | |
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veracity
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| n.诚实 | |
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resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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diffused
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| 散布的，普及的，扩散的 | |
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diffuse
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| v.扩散；传播；adj.冗长的；四散的，弥漫的 | |
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manifestation
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| n.表现形式；表明；现象 | |
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manifestations
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| n.表示，显示（manifestation的复数形式） | |
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prematurely
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| adv.过早地，贸然地 | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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66
hurling
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| n.爱尔兰式曲棍球v.猛投，用力掷( hurl的现在分词 )；大声叫骂 | |
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67
ethical
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| adj.伦理的，道德的，合乎道德的 | |
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allied
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| adj.协约国的；同盟国的 | |
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emancipation
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| n.（从束缚、支配下）解放 | |
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sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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civilized
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| a.有教养的，文雅的 | |
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nominally
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| 在名义上，表面地； 应名儿 | |
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enfranchisement
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| 选举权 | |
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democrat
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| n.民主主义者，民主人士；民主党党员 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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barbarians
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| n.野蛮人( barbarian的名词复数 )；外国人；粗野的人；无教养的人 | |
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effete
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| adj.无生产力的，虚弱的 | |
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degenerating
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| 衰退，堕落，退化( degenerate的现在分词 ) | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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enlisted
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| adj.应募入伍的v.（使）入伍， （使）参军( enlist的过去式和过去分词 )；获得（帮助或支持） | |
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83
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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inauguration
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| n.开幕、就职典礼 | |
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85
erecting
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| v.使直立，竖起( erect的现在分词 )；建立 | |
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rivalry
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| n.竞争，竞赛，对抗 | |
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irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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strenuous
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| adj.奋发的，使劲的；紧张的；热烈的，狂热的 | |
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disastrous
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| adj.灾难性的，造成灾害的；极坏的，很糟的 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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91
craved
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| 渴望，热望( crave的过去式 )； 恳求，请求 | |
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idols
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| 偶像( idol的名词复数 )； 受崇拜的人或物； 受到热爱和崇拜的人或物； 神像 | |
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93
nurtured
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| 养育( nurture的过去式和过去分词 )； 培育； 滋长； 助长 | |
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94
legitimate
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| adj.合法的，合理的，合乎逻辑的；v.使合法 | |
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enchanting
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| a.讨人喜欢的 | |
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initiating
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| v.开始( initiate的现在分词 )；传授；发起；接纳新成员 | |
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socialist
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| n.社会主义者；adj.社会主义的 | |
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accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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99
attaining
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的现在分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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100
asylum
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| n.避难所，庇护所，避难 | |
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101
enfranchised
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| v.给予选举权( enfranchise的过去式和过去分词 )；（从奴隶制中）解放 | |
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102
trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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103
rudiments
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| n.基础知识，入门 | |
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104
panacea
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| n.万灵药；治百病的灵药 | |
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105
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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106
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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107
harmonious
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| adj.和睦的，调和的，和谐的，协调的 | |
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108
cultivation
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| n.耕作，培养，栽培（法），养成 | |
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109
wholesome
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| adj.适合；卫生的；有益健康的；显示身心健康的 | |
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110
incompatible
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| adj.不相容的，不协调的，不相配的 | |
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111
confinement
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| n.幽禁，拘留，监禁；分娩；限制，局限 | |
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112
seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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113
gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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114
thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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115
enthusiast
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| n.热心人，热衷者 | |
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116
depreciation
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| n.价值低落，贬值，蔑视，贬低 | |
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117
potent
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| adj.强有力的，有权势的；有效力的 | |
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118
promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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119
unity
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| n.团结，联合，统一；和睦，协调 | |
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120
physiological
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| adj.生理学的，生理学上的 | |
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121
euphemism
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| n.婉言，委婉的说法 | |
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122
litigants
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| n.诉讼当事人( litigant的名词复数 ) | |
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123
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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124
disappearance
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| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
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125
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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126
friction
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| n.摩擦，摩擦力 | |
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127
barricade
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| n.路障，栅栏，障碍；vt.设路障挡住 | |
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128
capitalism
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| n.资本主义 | |
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129
vagrancy
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| （说话的，思想的）游移不定； 漂泊； 流浪； 离题 | |
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130
redeemed
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| adj. 可赎回的，可救赎的 动词redeem的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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131
dykes
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| abbr.diagonal wire cutters 斜线切割机n.堤( dyke的名词复数 )；坝；堰；沟 | |
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132
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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133
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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134
dealing
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| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
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135
insular
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| adj.岛屿的，心胸狭窄的 | |
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136
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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137
mingling
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| adj.混合的 | |
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138
harmoniously
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| 和谐地，调和地 | |
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139
civilizing
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| v.使文明，使开化( civilize的现在分词 ) | |
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140
tenacious
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| adj.顽强的，固执的，记忆力强的，粘的 | |
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141
colonists
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| n.殖民地开拓者，移民，殖民地居民( colonist的名词复数 ) | |
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142
colonist
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| n.殖民者，移民 | |
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143
tonic
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| n./adj.滋补品，补药，强身的，健体的 | |
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144
conciliation
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| n.调解，调停 | |
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145
missionaries
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| n.传教士( missionary的名词复数 ) | |
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146
monarchic
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| 国王的，君主政体的 | |
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147
dubious
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| adj.怀疑的，无把握的；有问题的，靠不住的 | |
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148
cape
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| n.海角，岬；披肩，短披风 | |
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149
antiquities
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| n.古老( antiquity的名词复数 )；古迹；古人们；古代的风俗习惯 | |
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150
glamour
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| n.魔力，魅力；vt.迷住 | |
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151
radical
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| n.激进份子，原子团，根号；adj.根本的，激进的，彻底的 | |
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152
prosaic
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| adj.单调的，无趣的 | |
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153
beholds
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| v.看，注视( behold的第三人称单数 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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154
mightily
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| ad.强烈地；非常地 | |
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155
succumb
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| v.屈服，屈从；死 | |
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156
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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157
resonance
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| n.洪亮；共鸣；共振 | |
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158
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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159
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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160
dominant
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| adj.支配的，统治的；占优势的；显性的；n.主因，要素，主要的人(或物)；显性基因 | |
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161
impetus
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| n.推动，促进，刺激；推动力 | |
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162
anodyne
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| n.解除痛苦的东西，止痛剂 | |
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163
slake
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| v.解渴，使平息 | |
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164
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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165
impelling
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| adj.迫使性的，强有力的v.推动、推进或敦促某人做某事( impel的现在分词 ) | |
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166
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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167
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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168
piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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169
devout
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| adj.虔诚的，虔敬的，衷心的 (n.devoutness) | |
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170
perennial
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| adj.终年的；长久的 | |
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171
meted
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| v.（对某人）施以，给予（处罚等）( mete的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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172
initiated
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| n. 创始人 adj. 新加入的 vt. 开始，创始，启蒙，介绍加入 | |
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173
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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174
refreshment
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| n.恢复，精神爽快，提神之事物；（复数）refreshments:点心，茶点 | |
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175
stimulation
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| n.刺激，激励，鼓舞 | |
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176
joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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177
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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178
hysterical
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| adj.情绪异常激动的，歇斯底里般的 | |
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179
varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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180
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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181
realization
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| n.实现；认识到，深刻了解 | |
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182
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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183
distinctive
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| adj.特别的，有特色的，与众不同的 | |
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184
repression
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| n.镇压，抑制，抑压 | |
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185
solitudes
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| n.独居( solitude的名词复数 )；孤独；荒僻的地方；人迹罕至的地方 | |
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186
melodious
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| adj.旋律美妙的，调子优美的，音乐性的 | |
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187
sane
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| adj.心智健全的，神志清醒的，明智的，稳健的 | |
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188
reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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189
aristocrat
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| n.贵族，有贵族气派的人，上层人物 | |
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190
curt
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| adj.简短的，草率的 | |
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191
shams
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| 假象( sham的名词复数 )； 假货； 虚假的行为（或感情、言语等）； 假装…的人 | |
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192
interpretation
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| n.解释，说明，描述；艺术处理 | |
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193
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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194
lava
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| n.熔岩，火山岩 | |
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195
prodigality
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| n.浪费，挥霍 | |
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196
paradox
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| n.似乎矛盾却正确的说法；自相矛盾的人(物) | |
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197
disillusions
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| 使不再抱幻想，使理想破灭( disillusion的第三人称单数 ) | |
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198
miseries
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| n.痛苦( misery的名词复数 )；痛苦的事；穷困；常发牢骚的人 | |
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199
insanities
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| 精神错乱( insanity的名词复数 )； 精神失常； 精神病； 疯狂 | |
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200
joyously
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| ad.快乐地, 高兴地 | |
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