By Thomas Carlyle




[May 5, 1840.]

We have undertaken to discourse here for a little on Great Men, their
manner of appearance in our world's business, how they have shaped
themselves in the world's history, what ideas men formed of them, what work
they did;—on Heroes, namely, and on their reception and performance; what
I call Hero-worship and the Heroic in human affairs.  Too evidently this is
a large topic; deserving quite other treatment than we can expect to give
it at present.  A large topic; indeed, an illimitable one; wide as
Universal History itself.  For, as I take it, Universal History, the
history of what man has accomplished in this world, is at bottom the
History of the Great Men who have worked here.  They were the leaders of
men, these great ones; the modellers, patterns, and in a wide sense
creators, of whatsoever the general mass of men contrived to do or to
attain; all things that we see standing accomplished in the world are
properly the outer material result, the practical realization and
embodiment, of Thoughts that dwelt in the Great Men sent into the world:
the soul of the whole world's history, it may justly be considered, were
the history of these.  Too clearly it is a topic we shall do no justice to
in this place!

One comfort is, that Great Men, taken up in any way, are profitable
company.  We cannot look, however imperfectly, upon a great man, without
gaining something by him.  He is the living light-fountain, which it is
good and pleasant to be near.  The light which enlightens, which has
enlightened the darkness of the world; and this not as a kindled lamp only,
but rather as a natural luminary shining by the gift of Heaven; a flowing
light-fountain, as I say, of native original insight, of manhood and heroic
nobleness;—in whose radiance all souls feel that it is well with them.  On
any terms whatsoever, you will not grudge to wander in such neighborhood
for a while.  These Six classes of Heroes, chosen out of widely distant
countries and epochs, and in mere external figure differing altogether,
ought, if we look faithfully at them, to illustrate several things for us.
Could we see them well, we should get some glimpses into the very marrow of
the world's history.  How happy, could I but, in any measure, in such times
as these, make manifest to you the meanings of Heroism; the divine relation
(for I may well call it such) which in all times unites a Great Man to
other men; and thus, as it were, not exhaust my subject, but so much as
break ground on it!  At all events, I must make the attempt.

It is well said, in every sense, that a man's religion is the chief fact
with regard to him.  A man's, or a nation of men's.  By religion I do not
mean here the church-creed which he professes, the articles of faith which
he will sign and, in words or otherwise, assert; not this wholly, in many
cases not this at all.  We see men of all kinds of professed creeds attain
to almost all degrees of worth or worthlessness under each or any of them.
This is not what I call religion, this profession and assertion; which is
often only a profession and assertion from the outworks of the man, from
the mere argumentative region of him, if even so deep as that.  But the
thing a man does practically believe (and this is often enough without
asserting it even to himself, much less to others); the thing a man does
practically lay to heart, and know for certain, concerning his vital
relations to this mysterious Universe, and his duty and destiny there, that
is in all cases the primary thing for him, and creatively determines all
the rest.  That is his religion; or, it may be, his mere scepticism and
no-religion:  the manner it is in which he feels himself to be
spiritually related to the Unseen World or No-World; and I say, if you tell
me what that is, you tell me to a very great extent what the man is, what
the kind of things he will do is.  Of a man or of a nation we inquire,
therefore, first of all, What religion they had?  Was it
Heathenism,—plurality of gods, mere sensuous representation of this
Mystery of Life, and for chief recognized element therein Physical Force?
Was it Christianism; faith in an Invisible, not as real only, but as the
only reality; Time, through every meanest moment of it, resting on
Eternity; Pagan empire of Force displaced by a nobler supremacy, that of
Holiness?  Was it Scepticism, uncertainty and inquiry whether there was an
Unseen World, any Mystery of Life except a mad one;—doubt as to all this,
or perhaps unbelief and flat denial?  Answering of this question is giving
us the soul of the history of the man or nation.  The thoughts they had
were the parents of the actions they did; their feelings were parents of
their thoughts:  it was the unseen and spiritual in them that determined
the outward and actual;—their religion, as I say, was the great fact about
them.  In these Discourses, limited as we are, it will be good to direct
our survey chiefly to that religious phasis of the matter.  That once known
well, all is known.  We have chosen as the first Hero in our series Odin
the central figure of Scandinavian Paganism; an emblem to us of a most
extensive province of things.  Let us look for a little at the Hero as
Divinity, the oldest primary form of Heroism.

Surely it seems a very strange-looking thing this Paganism; almost
inconceivable to us in these days.  A bewildering, inextricable jungle of
delusions, confusions, falsehoods, and absurdities, covering the whole
field of Life!  A thing that fills us with astonishment, almost, if it were
possible, with incredulity,—for truly it is not easy to understand that
sane men could ever calmly, with their eyes open, believe and live by such
a set of doctrines.  That men should have worshipped their poor fellow-man
as a God, and not him only, but stocks and stones, and all manner of
animate and inanimate objects; and fashioned for themselves such a
distracted chaos of hallucinations by way of Theory of the Universe:  all
this looks like an incredible fable.  Nevertheless it is a clear fact that
they did it.  Such hideous inextricable jungle of misworships, misbeliefs,
men, made as we are, did actually hold by, and live at home in.  This is
strange.  Yes, we may pause in sorrow and silence over the depths of
darkness that are in man; if we rejoice in the heights of purer vision he
has attained to.  Such things were and are in man; in all men; in us too.

Some speculators have a short way of accounting for the Pagan religion:
mere quackery, priestcraft, and dupery, say they; no sane man ever did
believe it,—merely contrived to persuade other men, not worthy of the name
of sane, to believe it!  It will be often our duty to protest against this
sort of hypothesis about men's doings and history; and I here, on the very
threshold, protest against it in reference to Paganism, and to all other
isms by which man has ever for a length of time striven to walk in this
world.  They have all had a truth in them, or men would not have taken them
up.  Quackery and dupery do abound; in religions, above all in the more
advanced decaying stages of religions, they have fearfully abounded:  but
quackery was never the originating influence in such things; it was not the
health and life of such things, but their disease, the sure precursor of
their being about to die!  Let us never forget this.  It seems to me a most
mournful hypothesis, that of quackery giving birth to any faith even in
savage men.  Quackery gives birth to nothing; gives death to all things.
We shall not see into the true heart of anything, if we look merely at the
quackeries of it; if we do not reject the quackeries altogether; as mere
diseases, corruptions, with which our and all men's sole duty is to have
done with them, to sweep them out of our thoughts as out of our practice.
Man everywhere is the born enemy of lies.  I find Grand Lamaism itself to
have a kind of truth in it.  Read the candid, clear-sighted, rather
sceptical Mr. Turner's Account of his Embassy to that country, and see.
They have their belief, these poor Thibet people, that Providence sends
down always an Incarnation of Himself into every generation.  At bottom
some belief in a kind of Pope!  At bottom still better, belief that there
is a Greatest Man; that he is discoverable; that, once discovered, we
ought to treat him with an obedience which knows no bounds!  This is the
truth of Grand Lamaism; the "discoverability" is the only error here.  The
Thibet priests have methods of their own of discovering what Man is
Greatest, fit to be supreme over them.  Bad methods:  but are they so much
worse than our methods,—of understanding him to be always the eldest-born
of a certain genealogy?  Alas, it is a difficult thing to find good methods
for!—We shall begin to have a chance of understanding Paganism, when we
first admit that to its followers it was, at one time, earnestly true.  Let
us consider it very certain that men did believe in Paganism; men with open
eyes, sound senses, men made altogether like ourselves; that we, had we
been there, should have believed in it.  Ask now, What Paganism could have

Another theory, somewhat more respectable, attributes such things to
Allegory.  It was a play of poetic minds, say these theorists; a shadowing
forth, in allegorical fable, in personification and visual form, of what
such poetic minds had known and felt of this Universe.  Which agrees, add
they, with a primary law of human nature, still everywhere observably at
work, though in less important things, That what a man feels intensely, he
struggles to speak out of him, to see represented before him in visual
shape, and as if with a kind of life and historical reality in it.  Now
doubtless there is such a law, and it is one of the deepest in human
nature; neither need we doubt that it did operate fundamentally in this
business.  The hypothesis which ascribes Paganism wholly or mostly to this
agency, I call a little more respectable; but I cannot yet call it the true
hypothesis.  Think, would we believe, and take with us as our
life-guidance, an allegory, a poetic sport?  Not sport but earnest is what
we should require.  It is a most earnest thing to be alive in this world;
to die is not sport for a man.  Man's life never was a sport to him; it was
a stern reality, altogether a serious matter to be alive!

I find, therefore, that though these Allegory theorists are on the way
towards truth in this matter, they have not reached it either.  Pagan
Religion is indeed an Allegory, a Symbol of what men felt and knew about
the Universe; and all Religions are symbols of that, altering always as
that alters:  but it seems to me a radical perversion, and even inversion,
of the business, to put that forward as the origin and moving cause, when
it was rather the result and termination.  To get beautiful allegories, a
perfect poetic symbol, was not the want of men; but to know what they were
to believe about this Universe, what course they were to steer in it; what,
in this mysterious Life of theirs, they had to hope and to fear, to do and
to forbear doing.  The Pilgrim's Progress is an Allegory, and a
beautiful, just and serious one:  but consider whether Bunyan's Allegory
could have preceded the Faith it symbolizes!  The Faith had to be already
there, standing believed by everybody;—of which the Allegory could then
become a shadow; and, with all its seriousness, we may say a sportful
shadow, a mere play of the Fancy, in comparison with that awful Fact and
scientific certainty which it poetically strives to emblem.  The Allegory
is the product of the certainty, not the producer of it; not in Bunyan's
nor in any other case.  For Paganism, therefore, we have still to inquire,
Whence came that scientific certainty, the parent of such a bewildered heap
of allegories, errors and confusions?  How was it, what was it?

Surely it were a foolish attempt to pretend "explaining," in this place, or
in any place, such a phenomenon as that far-distant distracted cloudy
imbroglio of Paganism,—more like a cloud-field than a distant continent of
firm land and facts!  It is no longer a reality, yet it was one.  We ought
to understand that this seeming cloud-field was once a reality; that not
poetic allegory, least of all that dupery and deception was the origin of
it.  Men, I say, never did believe idle songs, never risked their soul's
life on allegories:  men in all times, especially in early earnest times,
have had an instinct for detecting quacks, for detesting quacks.  Let us
try if, leaving out both the quack theory and the allegory one, and
listening with affectionate attention to that far-off confused rumor of the
Pagan ages, we cannot ascertain so much as this at least, That there was a
kind of fact at the heart of them; that they too were not mendacious and
distracted, but in their own poor way true and sane!

You remember that fancy of Plato's, of a man who had grown to maturity in
some dark distance, and was brought on a sudden into the upper air to see
the sun rise.  What would his wonder be, his rapt astonishment at the sight
we daily witness with indifference!  With the free open sense of a child,
yet with the ripe faculty of a man, his whole heart would be kindled by
that sight, he would discern it well to be Godlike, his soul would fall
down in worship before it.  Now, just such a childlike greatness was in the
primitive nations.  The first Pagan Thinker among rude men, the first man
that began to think, was precisely this child-man of Plato's.  Simple, open
as a child, yet with the depth and strength of a man.  Nature had as yet no
name to him; he had not yet united under a name the infinite variety of
sights, sounds, shapes and motions, which we now collectively name
Universe, Nature, or the like,—and so with a name dismiss it from us.  To
the wild deep-hearted man all was yet new, not veiled under names or
formulas; it stood naked, flashing in on him there, beautiful, awful,
unspeakable.  Nature was to this man, what to the Thinker and Prophet it
forever is, preternatural.  This green flowery rock-built earth, the trees,
the mountains, rivers, many-sounding seas;—that great deep sea of azure
that swims overhead; the winds sweeping through it; the black cloud
fashioning itself together, now pouring out fire, now hail and rain; what
is it?  Ay, what?  At bottom we do not yet know; we can never know at
all.  It is not by our superior insight that we escape the difficulty; it
is by our superior levity, our inattention, our want of insight.  It is
by not thinking that we cease to wonder at it.  Hardened round us,
encasing wholly every notion we form, is a wrappage of traditions,
hearsays, mere words.  We call that fire of the black thunder-cloud
"electricity," and lecture learnedly about it, and grind the like of it out
of glass and silk:  but what is it?  What made it?  Whence comes it?
Whither goes it?  Science has done much for us; but it is a poor science
that would hide from us the great deep sacred infinitude of Nescience,
whither we can never penetrate, on which all science swims as a mere
superficial film.  This world, after all our science and sciences, is still
a miracle; wonderful, inscrutable, magical and more, to whosoever will
think of it.

That great mystery of TIME, were there no other; the illimitable, silent,
never-resting thing called Time, rolling, rushing on, swift, silent, like
an all-embracing ocean-tide, on which we and all the Universe swim like
exhalations, like apparitions which are, and then are not:  this is
forever very literally a miracle; a thing to strike us dumb,—for we have
no word to speak about it.  This Universe, ah me—what could the wild man
know of it; what can we yet know?  That it is a Force, and thousand-fold
Complexity of Forces; a Force which is not we.  That is all; it is not
we, it is altogether different from us.  Force, Force, everywhere Force; we
ourselves a mysterious Force in the centre of that.  "There is not a leaf
rotting on the highway but has Force in it; how else could it rot?"  Nay
surely, to the Atheistic Thinker, if such a one were possible, it must be a
miracle too, this huge illimitable whirlwind of Force, which envelops us
here; never-resting whirlwind, high as Immensity, old as Eternity.  What is
it?  God's Creation, the religious people answer; it is the Almighty God's!
Atheistic science babbles poorly of it, with scientific nomenclatures,
experiments and what not, as if it were a poor dead thing, to be bottled up
in Leyden jars and sold over counters:  but the natural sense of man, in
all times, if he will honestly apply his sense, proclaims it to be a living
thing,—ah, an unspeakable, godlike thing; towards which the best attitude
for us, after never so much science, is awe, devout prostration and
humility of soul; worship if not in words, then in silence.

But now I remark farther:  What in such a time as ours it requires a
Prophet or Poet to teach us, namely, the stripping-off of those poor
undevout wrappages, nomenclatures and scientific hearsays,—this, the
ancient earnest soul, as yet unencumbered with these things, did for
itself.  The world, which is now divine only to the gifted, was then divine
to whosoever would turn his eye upon it.  He stood bare before it face to
face.  "All was Godlike or God:"—Jean Paul still finds it so; the giant
Jean Paul, who has power to escape out of hearsays:  but there then were no
hearsays.  Canopus shining down over the desert, with its blue diamond
brightness (that wild blue spirit-like brightness, far brighter than we
ever witness here), would pierce into the heart of the wild Ishmaelitish
man, whom it was guiding through the solitary waste there.  To his wild
heart, with all feelings in it, with no speech for any feeling, it might
seem a little eye, that Canopus, glancing out on him from the great deep
Eternity; revealing the inner Splendor to him.  Cannot we understand how
these men worshipped Canopus; became what we call Sabeans, worshipping
the stars?  Such is to me the secret of all forms of Paganism.  Worship is
transcendent wonder; wonder for which there is now no limit or measure;
that is worship.  To these primeval men, all things and everything they saw
exist beside them were an emblem of the Godlike, of some God.

And look what perennial fibre of truth was in that.  To us also, through
every star, through every blade of grass, is not a God made visible, if we
will open our minds and eyes?  We do not worship in that way now:  but is
it not reckoned still a merit, proof of what we call a "poetic nature,"
that we recognize how every object has a divine beauty in it; how every
object still verily is "a window through which we may look into Infinitude
itself"?  He that can discern the loveliness of things, we call him Poet!
Painter, Man of Genius, gifted, lovable.  These poor Sabeans did even what
he does,—in their own fashion.  That they did it, in what fashion soever,
was a merit:  better than what the entirely stupid man did, what the horse
and camel did,—namely, nothing!

But now if all things whatsoever that we look upon are emblems to us of the
Highest God, I add that more so than any of them is man such an emblem.
You have heard of St. Chrysostom's celebrated saying in reference to the
Shekinah, or Ark of Testimony, visible Revelation of God, among the
Hebrews:  "The true Shekinah is Man!"  Yes, it is even so:  this is no vain
phrase; it is veritably so.  The essence of our being, the mystery in us
that calls itself "I,"—ah, what words have we for such things?—is a
breath of Heaven; the Highest Being reveals himself in man.  This body,
these faculties, this life of ours, is it not all as a vesture for that
Unnamed?  "There is but one Temple in the Universe," says the devout
Novalis, "and that is the Body of Man.  Nothing is holier shall that high
form.  Bending before men is a reverence done to this Revelation in the
Flesh.  We touch Heaven when we lay our hand on a human body!"  This sounds
much like a mere flourish of rhetoric; but it is not so.  If well
meditated, it will turn out to be a scientific fact; the expression, in
such words as can be had, of the actual truth of the thing.  We are the
miracle of miracles,—the great inscrutable mystery of God.  We cannot
understand it, we know not how to speak of it; but we may feel and know, if
we like, that it is verily so.

Well; these truths were once more readily felt than now.  The young
generations of the world, who had in them the freshness of young children,
and yet the depth of earnest men, who did not think that they had finished
off all things in Heaven and Earth by merely giving them scientific names,
but had to gaze direct at them there, with awe and wonder:  they felt
better what of divinity is in man and Nature; they, without being mad,
could worship Nature, and man more than anything else in Nature.
Worship, that is, as I said above, admire without limit:  this, in the full
use of their faculties, with all sincerity of heart, they could do.  I
consider Hero-worship to be the grand modifying element in that ancient
system of thought.  What I called the perplexed jungle of Paganism sprang,
we may say, out of many roots:  every admiration, adoration of a star or
natural object, was a root or fibre of a root; but Hero-worship is the
deepest root of all; the tap-root, from which in a great degree all the
rest were nourished and grown.

And now if worship even of a star had some meaning in it, how much more
might that of a Hero!  Worship of a Hero is transcendent admiration of a
Great Man.  I say great men are still admirable; I say there is, at bottom,
nothing else admirable!  No nobler feeling than this of admiration for one
higher than himself dwells in the breast of man.  It is to this hour, and
at all hours, the vivifying influence in man's life.  Religion I find stand
upon it; not Paganism only, but far higher and truer religions,—all
religion hitherto known.  Hero-worship, heartfelt prostrate admiration,
submission, burning, boundless, for a noblest godlike Form of Man,—is not
that the germ of Christianity itself?  The greatest of all Heroes is
One—whom we do not name here!  Let sacred silence meditate that sacred
matter; you will find it the ultimate perfection of a principle extant
throughout man's whole history on earth.

Or coming into lower, less unspeakable provinces, is not all Loyalty akin
to religious Faith also?  Faith is loyalty to some inspired Teacher, some
spiritual Hero.  And what therefore is loyalty proper, the life-breath of
all society, but an effluence of Hero-worship, submissive admiration for
the truly great?  Society is founded on Hero-worship.  All dignities of
rank, on which human association rests, are what we may call a Heroarchy
(Government of Heroes),—or a Hierarchy, for it is "sacred" enough withal!
The Duke means Dux, Leader; King is Kon-ning, Kan-ning, Man that
knows or cans.  Society everywhere is some representation, not
insupportably inaccurate, of a graduated Worship of Heroes—reverence and
obedience done to men really great and wise.  Not insupportably inaccurate,
I say!  They are all as bank-notes, these social dignitaries, all
representing gold;—and several of them, alas, always are forged notes.
We can do with some forged false notes; with a good many even; but not with
all, or the most of them forged!  No:  there have to come revolutions then;
cries of Democracy, Liberty and Equality, and I know not what:—the notes
being all false, and no gold to be had for them, people take to crying in
their despair that there is no gold, that there never was any!  "Gold,"
Hero-worship, is nevertheless, as it was always and everywhere, and
cannot cease till man himself ceases.

I am well aware that in these days Hero-worship, the thing I call
Hero-worship, professes to have gone out, and finally ceased.  This, for
reasons which it will be worth while some time to inquire into, is an age
that as it were denies the existence of great men; denies the desirableness
of great men.  Show our critics a great man, a Luther for example, they
begin to what they call "account" for him; not to worship him, but take the
dimensions of him,—and bring him out to be a little kind of man!  He was
the "creature of the Time," they say; the Time called him forth, the Time
did everything, he nothing—but what we the little critic could have done
too!  This seems to me but melancholy work.  The Time call forth?  Alas, we
have known Times call loudly enough for their great man; but not find him
when they called!  He was not there; Providence had not sent him; the Time,
calling its loudest, had to go down to confusion and wreck because he
would not come when called.

For if we will think of it, no Time need have gone to ruin, could it have
found a man great enough, a man wise and good enough:  wisdom to discern
truly what the Time wanted, valor to lead it on the right road thither;
these are the salvation of any Time.  But I liken common languid Times,
with their unbelief, distress, perplexity, with their languid doubting
characters and embarrassed circumstances, impotently crumbling down into
ever worse distress towards final ruin;—all this I liken to dry dead fuel,
waiting for the lightning out of Heaven that shall kindle it.  The great
man, with his free force direct out of God's own hand, is the lightning.
His word is the wise healing word which all can believe in.  All blazes
round him now, when he has once struck on it, into fire like his own.  The
dry mouldering sticks are thought to have called him forth.  They did want
him greatly; but as to calling him forth—!  Those are critics of small
vision, I think, who cry:  "See, is it not the sticks that made the fire?"
No sadder proof can be given by a man of his own littleness than disbelief
in great men.  There is no sadder symptom of a generation than such general
blindness to the spiritual lightning, with faith only in the heap of barren
dead fuel.  It is the last consummation of unbelief.  In all epochs of the
world's history, we shall find the Great Man to have been the indispensable
savior of his epoch;—the lightning, without which the fuel never would
have burnt.  The History of the World, I said already, was the Biography of
Great Men.

Such small critics do what they can to promote unbelief and universal
spiritual paralysis:  but happily they cannot always completely succeed.
In all times it is possible for a man to arise great enough to feel that
they and their doctrines are chimeras and cobwebs.  And what is notable, in
no time whatever can they entirely eradicate out of living men's hearts a
certain altogether peculiar reverence for Great Men; genuine admiration,
loyalty, adoration, however dim and perverted it may be.  Hero-worship
endures forever while man endures.  Boswell venerates his Johnson, right
truly even in the Eighteenth century.  The unbelieving French believe in
their Voltaire; and burst out round him into very curious Hero-worship, in
that last act of his life when they "stifle him under roses."  It has
always seemed to me extremely curious this of Voltaire.  Truly, if
Christianity be the highest instance of Hero-worship, then we may find here
in Voltaireism one of the lowest!  He whose life was that of a kind of
Antichrist, does again on this side exhibit a curious contrast.  No people
ever were so little prone to admire at all as those French of Voltaire.
Persiflage was the character of their whole mind; adoration had nowhere a
place in it.  Yet see!  The old man of Ferney comes up to Paris; an old,
tottering, infirm man of eighty-four years.  They feel that he too is a
kind of Hero; that he has spent his life in opposing error and injustice,
delivering Calases, unmasking hypocrites in high places;—in short that
he too, though in a strange way, has fought like a valiant man.  They
feel withal that, if persiflage be the great thing, there never was such
a persifleur.  He is the realized ideal of every one of them; the thing
they are all wanting to be; of all Frenchmen the most French.  He is
properly their god,—such god as they are fit for.  Accordingly all
persons, from the Queen Antoinette to the Douanier at the Porte St. Denis,
do they not worship him?  People of quality disguise themselves as
tavern-waiters.  The Maitre de Poste, with a broad oath, orders his
Postilion, "Va bon train; thou art driving M. de Voltaire."  At Paris his
carriage is "the nucleus of a comet, whose train fills whole streets."  The
ladies pluck a hair or two from his fur, to keep it as a sacred relic.
There was nothing highest, beautifulest, noblest in all France, that did
not feel this man to be higher, beautifuler, nobler.

Yes, from Norse Odin to English Samuel Johnson, from the divine Founder of
Christianity to the withered Pontiff of Encyclopedism, in all times and
places, the Hero has been worshipped.  It will ever be so.  We all love
great men; love, venerate and bow down submissive before great men:  nay
can we honestly bow down to anything else?  Ah, does not every true man
feel that he is himself made higher by doing reverence to what is really
above him?  No nobler or more blessed feeling dwells in man's heart.  And
to me it is very cheering to consider that no sceptical logic, or general
triviality, insincerity and aridity of any Time and its influences can
destroy this noble inborn loyalty and worship that is in man.  In times of
unbelief, which soon have to become times of revolution, much down-rushing,
sorrowful decay and ruin is visible to everybody.  For myself in these
days, I seem to see in this indestructibility of Hero-worship the
everlasting adamant lower than which the confused wreck of revolutionary
things cannot fall.  The confused wreck of things crumbling and even
crashing and tumbling all round us in these revolutionary ages, will get
down so far; no farther.  It is an eternal corner-stone, from which they
can begin to build themselves up again. That man, in some sense or other,
worships Heroes; that we all of us reverence and must ever reverence Great
Men:  this is, to me, the living rock amid all rushings-down
whatsoever;—the one fixed point in modern revolutionary history, otherwise
as if bottomless and shoreless.

So much of truth, only under an ancient obsolete vesture, but the spirit of
it still true, do I find in the Paganism of old nations.  Nature is still
divine, the revelation of the workings of God; the Hero is still
worshipable:  this, under poor cramped incipient forms, is what all Pagan
religions have struggled, as they could, to set forth.  I think
Scandinavian Paganism, to us here, is more interesting than any other.  It
is, for one thing, the latest; it continued in these regions of Europe till
the eleventh century:  eight hundred years ago the Norwegians were still
worshippers of Odin.  It is interesting also as the creed of our fathers;
the men whose blood still runs in our veins, whom doubtless we still
resemble in so many ways.  Strange:  they did believe that, while we
believe so differently.  Let us look a little at this poor Norse creed, for
many reasons.  We have tolerable means to do it; for there is another point
of interest in these Scandinavian mythologies:  that they have been
preserved so well.

In that strange island Iceland,—burst up, the geologists say, by fire from
the bottom of the sea; a wild land of barrenness and lava; swallowed many
months of every year in black tempests, yet with a wild gleaming beauty in
summertime; towering up there, stern and grim, in the North Ocean with its
snow jokuls, roaring geysers, sulphur-pools and horrid volcanic chasms,
like the waste chaotic battle-field of Frost and Fire;—where of all places
we least looked for Literature or written memorials, the record of these
things was written down.  On the seabord of this wild land is a rim of
grassy country, where cattle can subsist, and men by means of them and of
what the sea yields; and it seems they were poetic men these, men who had
deep thoughts in them, and uttered musically their thoughts.  Much would be
lost, had Iceland not been burst up from the sea, not been discovered by
the Northmen!  The old Norse Poets were many of them natives of Iceland.

Saemund, one of the early Christian Priests there, who perhaps had a
lingering fondness for Paganism, collected certain of their old Pagan
songs, just about becoming obsolete then,—Poems or Chants of a mythic,
prophetic, mostly all of a religious character:  that is what Norse critics
call the Elder or Poetic Edda.  Edda, a word of uncertain etymology,
is thought to signify Ancestress.  Snorro Sturleson, an Iceland
gentleman, an extremely notable personage, educated by this Saemund's
grandson, took in hand next, near a century afterwards, to put together,
among several other books he wrote, a kind of Prose Synopsis of the whole
Mythology; elucidated by new fragments of traditionary verse.  A work
constructed really with great ingenuity, native talent, what one might call
unconscious art; altogether a perspicuous clear work, pleasant reading
still:  this is the Younger or Prose Edda.  By these and the numerous
other Sagas, mostly Icelandic, with the commentaries, Icelandic or not,
which go on zealously in the North to this day, it is possible to gain some
direct insight even yet; and see that old Norse system of Belief, as it
were, face to face.  Let us forget that it is erroneous Religion; let us
look at it as old Thought, and try if we cannot sympathize with it

The primary characteristic of this old Northland Mythology I find to be
Impersonation of the visible workings of Nature.  Earnest simple
recognition of the workings of Physical Nature, as a thing wholly
miraculous, stupendous and divine.  What we now lecture of as Science, they
wondered at, and fell down in awe before, as Religion The dark hostile
Powers of Nature they figure to themselves as "Jotuns," Giants, huge
shaggy beings of a demonic character.  Frost, Fire, Sea-tempest; these are
Jotuns.  The friendly Powers again, as Summer-heat, the Sun, are Gods.  The
empire of this Universe is divided between these two; they dwell apart, in
perennial internecine feud.  The Gods dwell above in Asgard, the Garden of
the Asen, or Divinities; Jotunheim, a distant dark chaotic land, is the
home of the Jotuns.

Curious all this; and not idle or inane, if we will look at the foundation
of it!  The power of Fire, or Flame, for instance, which we designate
by some trivial chemical name, thereby hiding from ourselves the essential
character of wonder that dwells in it as in all things, is with these old
Northmen, Loke, a most swift subtle Demon, of the brood of the Jotuns.
The savages of the Ladrones Islands too (say some Spanish voyagers) thought
Fire, which they never had seen before, was a devil or god, that bit you
sharply when you touched it, and that lived upon dry wood.  From us too no
Chemistry, if it had not Stupidity to help it, would hide that Flame is a
wonder.  What is Flame?—Frost the old Norse Seer discerns to be a
monstrous hoary Jotun, the Giant Thrym, Hrym; or Rime, the old word
now nearly obsolete here, but still used in Scotland to signify hoar-frost.
Rime was not then as now a dead chemical thing, but a living Jotun or
Devil; the monstrous Jotun Rime drove home his Horses at night, sat
"combing their manes,"—which Horses were Hail-Clouds, or fleet
Frost-Winds.  His Cows—No, not his, but a kinsman's, the Giant Hymir's
Cows are Icebergs:  this Hymir "looks at the rocks" with his devil-eye,
and they split in the glance of it.

Thunder was not then mere Electricity, vitreous or resinous; it was the God
Donner (Thunder) or Thor,—God also of beneficent Summer-heat.  The thunder
was his wrath:  the gathering of the black clouds is the drawing down of
Thor's angry brows; the fire-bolt bursting out of Heaven is the all-rending
Hammer flung from the hand of Thor:  he urges his loud chariot over the
mountain-tops,—that is the peal; wrathful he "blows in his red
beard,"—that is the rustling storm-blast before the thunder begins.
Balder again, the White God, the beautiful, the just and benignant (whom
the early Christian Missionaries found to resemble Christ), is the Sun,
beautifullest of visible things; wondrous too, and divine still, after all
our Astronomies and Almanacs!  But perhaps the notablest god we hear tell
of is one of whom Grimm the German Etymologist finds trace:  the God
Wunsch, or Wish.  The God Wish; who could give us all that we wished!
Is not this the sincerest and yet rudest voice of the spirit of man?  The
rudest ideal that man ever formed; which still shows itself in the latest
forms of our spiritual culture.  Higher considerations have to teach us
that the God Wish is not the true God.

Of the other Gods or Jotuns I will mention only for etymology's sake, that
Sea-tempest is the Jotun Aegir, a very dangerous Jotun;—and now to this
day, on our river Trent, as I learn, the Nottingham bargemen, when the
River is in a certain flooded state (a kind of backwater, or eddying swirl
it has, very dangerous to them), call it Eager; they cry out, "Have a care,
there is the Eager coming!" Curious; that word surviving, like the peak
of a submerged world!  The oldest Nottingham bargemen had believed in the
God Aegir.  Indeed our English blood too in good part is Danish, Norse; or
rather, at bottom, Danish and Norse and Saxon have no distinction, except a
superficial one,—as of Heathen and Christian, or the like.  But all over
our Island we are mingled largely with Danes proper,—from the incessant
invasions there were:  and this, of course, in a greater proportion along
the east coast; and greatest of all, as I find, in the North Country.  From
the Humber upwards, all over Scotland, the Speech of the common people is
still in a singular degree Icelandic; its Germanism has still a peculiar
Norse tinge.  They too are "Normans," Northmen,—if that be any great

Of the chief god, Odin, we shall speak by and by.  Mark at present so much;
what the essence of Scandinavian and indeed of all Paganism is:  a
recognition of the forces of Nature as godlike, stupendous, personal
Agencies,—as Gods and Demons.  Not inconceivable to us.  It is the infant
Thought of man opening itself, with awe and wonder, on this ever-stupendous
Universe.  To me there is in the Norse system something very genuine, very
great and manlike.  A broad simplicity, rusticity, so very different from
the light gracefulness of the old Greek Paganism, distinguishes this
Scandinavian System.  It is Thought; the genuine Thought of deep, rude,
earnest minds, fairly opened to the things about them; a face-to-face and
heart-to-heart inspection of the things,—the first characteristic of all
good Thought in all times.  Not graceful lightness, half-sport, as in the
Greek Paganism; a certain homely truthfulness and rustic strength, a great
rude sincerity, discloses itself here.  It is strange, after our beautiful
Apollo statues and clear smiling mythuses, to come down upon the Norse Gods
"brewing ale" to hold their feast with Aegir, the Sea-Jotun; sending out
Thor to get the caldron for them in the Jotun country; Thor, after many
adventures, clapping the Pot on his head, like a huge hat, and walking off
with it,—quite lost in it, the ears of the Pot reaching down to his heels!
A kind of vacant hugeness, large awkward gianthood, characterizes that
Norse system; enormous force, as yet altogether untutored, stalking
helpless with large uncertain strides.  Consider only their primary mythus
of the Creation.  The Gods, having got the Giant Ymer slain, a Giant made
by "warm wind," and much confused work, out of the conflict of Frost and
Fire,—determined on constructing a world with him.  His blood made the
Sea; his flesh was the Land, the Rocks his bones; of his eyebrows they
formed Asgard their Gods'-dwelling; his skull was the great blue vault of
Immensity, and the brains of it became the Clouds.  What a
Hyper-Brobdignagian business!  Untamed Thought, great, giantlike,
enormous;—to be tamed in due time into the compact greatness, not
giantlike, but godlike and stronger than gianthood, of the Shakspeares, the
Goethes!—Spiritually as well as bodily these men are our progenitors.

I like, too, that representation they have of the tree Igdrasil.  All Life
is figured by them as a Tree.  Igdrasil, the Ash-tree of Existence, has its
roots deep down in the kingdoms of Hela or Death; its trunk reaches up
heaven-high, spreads its boughs over the whole Universe:  it is the Tree of
Existence.  At the foot of it, in the Death-kingdom, sit Three Nornas,
Fates,—the Past, Present, Future; watering its roots from the Sacred Well.
Its "boughs," with their buddings and disleafings?—events, things
suffered, things done, catastrophes,—stretch through all lands and times.
Is not every leaf of it a biography, every fibre there an act or word?  Its
boughs are Histories of Nations.  The rustle of it is the noise of Human
Existence, onwards from of old.  It grows there, the breath of Human
Passion rustling through it;—or storm tost, the storm-wind howling through
it like the voice of all the gods.  It is Igdrasil, the Tree of Existence.
It is the past, the present, and the future; what was done, what is doing,
what will be done; "the infinite conjugation of the verb To do."
Considering how human things circulate, each inextricably in communion with
all,—how the word I speak to you to-day is borrowed, not from Ulfila the
Moesogoth only, but from all men since the first man began to speak,—I
find no similitude so true as this of a Tree.  Beautiful; altogether
beautiful and great.  The "Machine of the Universe,"—alas, do but think
of that in contrast!

Well, it is strange enough this old Norse view of Nature; different enough
from what we believe of Nature.  Whence it specially came, one would not
like to be compelled to say very minutely!  One thing we may say:  It came
from the thoughts of Norse men;—from the thought, above all, of the
first Norse man who had an original power of thinking.  The First Norse
"man of genius," as we should call him!  Innumerable men had passed by,
across this Universe, with a dumb vague wonder, such as the very animals
may feel; or with a painful, fruitlessly inquiring wonder, such as men only
feel;—till the great Thinker came, the original man, the Seer; whose
shaped spoken Thought awakes the slumbering capability of all into Thought.
It is ever the way with the Thinker, the spiritual Hero.  What he says, all
men were not far from saying, were longing to say.  The Thoughts of all
start up, as from painful enchanted sleep, round his Thought; answering to
it, Yes, even so!  Joyful to men as the dawning of day from night;—is it
not, indeed, the awakening for them from no-being into being, from death
into life?  We still honor such a man; call him Poet, Genius, and so forth:
but to these wild men he was a very magician, a worker of miraculous
unexpected blessing for them; a Prophet, a God!—Thought once awakened does
not again slumber; unfolds itself into a System of Thought; grows, in man
after man, generation after generation,—till its full stature is reached,
and such System of Thought can grow no farther; but must give place to

For the Norse people, the Man now named Odin, and Chief Norse God, we
fancy, was such a man.  A Teacher, and Captain of soul and of body; a Hero,
of worth immeasurable; admiration for whom, transcending the known bounds,
became adoration.  Has he not the power of articulate Thinking; and many
other powers, as yet miraculous?  So, with boundless gratitude, would the
rude Norse heart feel.  Has he not solved for them the sphinx-enigma of
this Universe; given assurance to them of their own destiny there?  By him
they know now what they have to do here, what to look for hereafter.
Existence has become articulate, melodious by him; he first has made Life
alive!—We may call this Odin, the origin of Norse Mythology:  Odin, or
whatever name the First Norse Thinker bore while he was a man among men.
His view of the Universe once promulgated, a like view starts into being in
all minds; grows, keeps ever growing, while it continues credible there.
In all minds it lay written, but invisibly, as in sympathetic ink; at his
word it starts into visibility in all.  Nay, in every epoch of the world,
the great event, parent of all others, is it not the arrival of a Thinker
in the world!—

One other thing we must not forget; it will explain, a little, the
confusion of these Norse Eddas.  They are not one coherent System of
Thought; but properly the summation of several successive systems.  All
this of the old Norse Belief which is flung out for us, in one level of
distance in the Edda, like a picture painted on the same canvas, does not
at all stand so in the reality.  It stands rather at all manner of
distances and depths, of successive generations since the Belief first
began.  All Scandinavian thinkers, since the first of them, contributed to
that Scandinavian System of Thought; in ever-new elaboration and addition,
it is the combined work of them all.  What history it had, how it changed
from shape to shape, by one thinker's contribution after another, till it
got to the full final shape we see it under in the Edda, no man will now
ever know:  its Councils of Trebizond, Councils of Trent, Athanasiuses,
Dantes, Luthers, are sunk without echo in the dark night!  Only that it had
such a history we can all know.  Wheresover a thinker appeared, there in
the thing he thought of was a contribution, accession, a change or
revolution made.  Alas, the grandest "revolution" of all, the one made by
the man Odin himself, is not this too sunk for us like the rest!  Of Odin
what history?  Strange rather to reflect that he had a history!  That
this Odin, in his wild Norse vesture, with his wild beard and eyes, his
rude Norse speech and ways, was a man like us; with our sorrows, joys, with
our limbs, features;—intrinsically all one as we:  and did such a work!
But the work, much of it, has perished; the worker, all to the name.
"Wednesday," men will say to-morrow; Odin's day!  Of Odin there exists no
history; no document of it; no guess about it worth repeating.

Snorro indeed, in the quietest manner, almost in a brief business style,
writes down, in his Heimskringla, how Odin was a heroic Prince, in the
Black-Sea region, with Twelve Peers, and a great people straitened for
room.  How he led these Asen (Asiatics) of his out of Asia; settled them
in the North parts of Europe, by warlike conquest; invented Letters, Poetry
and so forth,—and came by and by to be worshipped as Chief God by these
Scandinavians, his Twelve Peers made into Twelve Sons of his own, Gods like
himself:  Snorro has no doubt of this.  Saxo Grammaticus, a very curious
Northman of that same century, is still more unhesitating; scruples not to
find out a historical fact in every individual mythus, and writes it down
as a terrestrial event in Denmark or elsewhere.  Torfaeus, learned and
cautious, some centuries later, assigns by calculation a date for it:
Odin, he says, came into Europe about the Year 70 before Christ.  Of all
which, as grounded on mere uncertainties, found to be untenable now, I need
say nothing.  Far, very far beyond the Year 70!  Odin's date, adventures,
whole terrestrial history, figure and environment are sunk from us forever
into unknown thousands of years.

Nay Grimm, the German Antiquary, goes so far as to deny that any man Odin
ever existed.  He proves it by etymology.  The word Wuotan, which is the
original form of Odin, a word spread, as name of their chief Divinity,
over all the Teutonic Nations everywhere; this word, which connects itself,
according to Grimm, with the Latin vadere, with the English wade and
such like,—means primarily Movement, Source of Movement, Power; and is the
fit name of the highest god, not of any man.  The word signifies Divinity,
he says, among the old Saxon, German and all Teutonic Nations; the
adjectives formed from it all signify divine, supreme, or something
pertaining to the chief god.  Like enough!  We must bow to Grimm in matters
etymological.  Let us consider it fixed that Wuotan means Wading, force
of Movement.  And now still, what hinders it from being the name of a
Heroic Man and Mover, as well as of a god?  As for the adjectives, and
words formed from it,—did not the Spaniards in their universal admiration
for Lope, get into the habit of saying "a Lope flower," "a Lope dama," if
the flower or woman were of surpassing beauty?  Had this lasted, Lope
would have grown, in Spain, to be an adjective signifying godlike also.
Indeed, Adam Smith, in his Essay on Language, surmises that all adjectives
whatsoever were formed precisely in that way:  some very green thing,
chiefly notable for its greenness, got the appellative name Green, and
then the next thing remarkable for that quality, a tree for instance, was
named the green tree,—as we still say "the steam coach," "four-horse
coach," or the like.  All primary adjectives, according to Smith, were
formed in this way; were at first substantives and things.  We cannot
annihilate a man for etymologies like that!  Surely there was a First
Teacher and Captain; surely there must have been an Odin, palpable to the
sense at one time; no adjective, but a real Hero of flesh and blood!  The
voice of all tradition, history or echo of history, agrees with all that
thought will teach one about it, to assure us of this.

How the man Odin came to be considered a god, the chief god?—that surely
is a question which nobody would wish to dogmatize upon.  I have said, his
people knew no limits to their admiration of him; they had as yet no
scale to measure admiration by.  Fancy your own generous heart's-love of
some greatest man expanding till it transcended all bounds, till it
filled and overflowed the whole field of your thought!  Or what if this man
Odin,—since a great deep soul, with the afflatus and mysterious tide of
vision and impulse rushing on him he knows not whence, is ever an enigma, a
kind of terror and wonder to himself,—should have felt that perhaps he
was divine; that he was some effluence of the "Wuotan," "Movement",
Supreme Power and Divinity, of whom to his rapt vision all Nature was the
awful Flame-image; that some effluence of Wuotan dwelt here in him!  He was
not necessarily false; he was but mistaken, speaking the truest he knew.  A
great soul, any sincere soul, knows not what he is,—alternates between the
highest height and the lowest depth; can, of all things, the least
measure—Himself!  What others take him for, and what he guesses that he
may be; these two items strangely act on one another, help to determine one
another.  With all men reverently admiring him; with his own wild soul full
of noble ardors and affections, of whirlwind chaotic darkness and glorious
new light; a divine Universe bursting all into godlike beauty round him,
and no man to whom the like ever had befallen, what could he think himself
to be?  "Wuotan?"  All men answered, "Wuotan!"—

And then consider what mere Time will do in such cases; how if a man was
great while living, he becomes tenfold greater when dead.  What an enormous
camera-obscura magnifier is Tradition!  How a thing grows in the human
Memory, in the human Imagination, when love, worship and all that lies in
the human Heart, is there to encourage it.  And in the darkness, in the
entire ignorance; without date or document, no book, no Arundel-marble;
only here and there some dumb monumental cairn.  Why, in thirty or forty
years, were there no books, any great man would grow mythic, the
contemporaries who had seen him, being once all dead.  And in three hundred
years, and in three thousand years—!  To attempt theorizing on such
matters would profit little:  they are matters which refuse to be
theoremed and diagramed; which Logic ought to know that she cannot
speak of.  Enough for us to discern, far in the uttermost distance, some
gleam as of a small real light shining in the centre of that enormous
camera-obscure image; to discern that the centre of it all was not a
madness and nothing, but a sanity and something.

This light, kindled in the great dark vortex of the Norse Mind, dark but
living, waiting only for light; this is to me the centre of the whole.  How
such light will then shine out, and with wondrous thousand-fold expansion
spread itself, in forms and colors, depends not on it, so much as on the
National Mind recipient of it.  The colors and forms of your light will be
those of the cut-glass it has to shine through.—Curious to think how,
for every man, any the truest fact is modelled by the nature of the man!  I
said, The earnest man, speaking to his brother men, must always have stated
what seemed to him a fact, a real Appearance of Nature.  But the way in
which such Appearance or fact shaped itself,—what sort of fact it became
for him,—was and is modified by his own laws of thinking; deep, subtle,
but universal, ever-operating laws.  The world of Nature, for every man, is
the Fantasy of Himself.  this world is the multiplex "Image of his own
Dream."  Who knows to what unnamable subtleties of spiritual law all these
Pagan Fables owe their shape!  The number Twelve, divisiblest of all, which
could be halved, quartered, parted into three, into six, the most
remarkable number,—this was enough to determine the Signs of the Zodiac,
the number of Odin's Sons, and innumerable other Twelves.  Any vague
rumor of number had a tendency to settle itself into Twelve.  So with
regard to every other matter.  And quite unconsciously too,—with no notion
of building up " Allegories "!  But the fresh clear glance of those First
Ages would be prompt in discerning the secret relations of things, and
wholly open to obey these.  Schiller finds in the Cestus of Venus an
everlasting aesthetic truth as to the nature of all Beauty; curious:—but
he is careful not to insinuate that the old Greek Mythists had any notion
of lecturing about the "Philosophy of Criticism"!—On the whole, we must
leave those boundless regions.  Cannot we conceive that Odin was a reality?
Error indeed, error enough:  but sheer falsehood, idle fables, allegory
aforethought,—we will not believe that our Fathers believed in these.

Odin's Runes are a significant feature of him.  Runes, and the miracles
of "magic" he worked by them, make a great feature in tradition.  Runes are
the Scandinavian Alphabet; suppose Odin to have been the inventor of
Letters, as well as "magic," among that people!  It is the greatest
invention man has ever made!  this of marking down the unseen thought that
is in him by written characters.  It is a kind of second speech, almost as
miraculous as the first.  You remember the astonishment and incredulity of
Atahualpa the Peruvian King; how he made the Spanish Soldier who was
guarding him scratch Dios on his thumb-nail, that he might try the next
soldier with it, to ascertain whether such a miracle was possible.  If Odin
brought Letters among his people, he might work magic enough!

Writing by Runes has some air of being original among the Norsemen:  not a
Phoenician Alphabet, but a native Scandinavian one.  Snorro tells us
farther that Odin invented Poetry; the music of human speech, as well as
that miraculous runic marking of it.  Transport yourselves into the early
childhood of nations; the first beautiful morning-light of our Europe, when
all yet lay in fresh young radiance as of a great sunrise, and our Europe
was first beginning to think, to be!  Wonder, hope; infinite radiance of
hope and wonder, as of a young child's thoughts, in the hearts of these
strong men!  Strong sons of Nature; and here was not only a wild Captain
and Fighter; discerning with his wild flashing eyes what to do, with his
wild lion-heart daring and doing it; but a Poet too, all that we mean by a
Poet, Prophet, great devout Thinker and Inventor,—as the truly Great Man
ever is.  A Hero is a Hero at all points; in the soul and thought of him
first of all.  This Odin, in his rude semi-articulate way, had a word to
speak.  A great heart laid open to take in this great Universe, and man's
Life here, and utter a great word about it.  A Hero, as I say, in his own
rude manner; a wise, gifted, noble-hearted man.  And now, if we still
admire such a man beyond all others, what must these wild Norse souls,
first awakened into thinking, have made of him!  To them, as yet without
names for it, he was noble and noblest; Hero, Prophet, God; Wuotan, the
greatest of all.  Thought is Thought, however it speak or spell itself.
Intrinsically, I conjecture, this Odin must have been of the same sort of
stuff as the greatest kind of men.  A great thought in the wild deep heart
of him!  The rough words he articulated, are they not the rudimental roots
of those English words we still use?  He worked so, in that obscure
element.  But he was as a light kindled in it; a light of Intellect, rude
Nobleness of heart, the only kind of lights we have yet; a Hero, as I say:
and he had to shine there, and make his obscure element a little
lighter,—as is still the task of us all.

We will fancy him to be the Type Norseman; the finest Teuton whom that race
had yet produced.  The rude Norse heart burst up into boundless
admiration round him; into adoration.  He is as a root of so many great
things; the fruit of him is found growing from deep thousands of years,
over the whole field of Teutonic Life.  Our own Wednesday, as I said, is it
not still Odin's Day?  Wednesbury, Wansborough, Wanstead, Wandsworth:  Odin
grew into England too, these are still leaves from that root!  He was the
Chief God to all the Teutonic Peoples; their Pattern Norseman;—in such way
did they admire their Pattern Norseman; that was the fortune he had in
the world.

Thus if the man Odin himself have vanished utterly, there is this huge
Shadow of him which still projects itself over the whole History of his
People.  For this Odin once admitted to be God, we can understand well that
the whole Scandinavian Scheme of Nature, or dim No-scheme, whatever it
might before have been, would now begin to develop itself altogether
differently, and grow thenceforth in a new manner.  What this Odin saw
into, and taught with his runes and his rhymes, the whole Teutonic People
laid to heart and carried forward.  His way of thought became their way of
thought:—such, under new conditions, is the history of every great thinker
still.  In gigantic confused lineaments, like some enormous camera-obscure
shadow thrown upwards from the dead deeps of the Past, and covering the
whole Northern Heaven, is not that Scandinavian Mythology in some sort the
Portraiture of this man Odin?  The gigantic image of his natural face,
legible or not legible there, expanded and confused in that manner!  Ah,
Thought, I say, is always Thought.  No great man lives in vain.  The
History of the world is but the Biography of great men.

To me there is something very touching in this primeval figure of Heroism;
in such artless, helpless, but hearty entire reception of a Hero by his
fellow-men.  Never so helpless in shape, it is the noblest of feelings, and
a feeling in some shape or other perennial as man himself.  If I could show
in any measure, what I feel deeply for a long time now, That it is the
vital element of manhood, the soul of man's history here in our world,—it
would be the chief use of this discoursing at present.  We do not now call
our great men Gods, nor admire without limit; ah no, with limit enough!
But if we have no great men, or do not admire at all,—that were a still
worse case.

This poor Scandinavian Hero-worship, that whole Norse way of looking at the
Universe, and adjusting oneself there, has an indestructible merit for us.
A rude childlike way of recognizing the divineness of Nature, the
divineness of Man; most rude, yet heartfelt, robust, giantlike; betokening
what a giant of a man this child would yet grow to!—It was a truth, and is
none.  Is it not as the half-dumb stifled voice of the long-buried
generations of our own Fathers, calling out of the depths of ages to us, in
whose veins their blood still runs:  "This then, this is what we made of
the world:  this is all the image and notion we could form to ourselves of
this great mystery of a Life and Universe.  Despise it not.  You are raised
high above it, to large free scope of vision; but you too are not yet at
the top.  No, your notion too, so much enlarged, is but a partial,
imperfect one; that matter is a thing no man will ever, in time or out of
time, comprehend; after thousands of years of ever-new expansion, man will
find himself but struggling to comprehend again a part of it:  the thing is
larger shall man, not to be comprehended by him; an Infinite thing!"

The essence of the Scandinavian, as indeed of all Pagan Mythologies, we
found to be recognition of the divineness of Nature; sincere communion of
man with the mysterious invisible Powers visibly seen at work in the world
round him.  This, I should say, is more sincerely done in the Scandinavian
than in any Mythology I know.  Sincerity is the great characteristic of it.
Superior sincerity (far superior) consoles us for the total want of old
Grecian grace.  Sincerity, I think, is better than grace.  I feel that
these old Northmen wore looking into Nature with open eye and soul:  most
earnest, honest; childlike, and yet manlike; with a great-hearted
simplicity and depth and freshness, in a true, loving, admiring, unfearing
way.  A right valiant, true old race of men.  Such recognition of Nature
one finds to be the chief element of Paganism; recognition of Man, and his
Moral Duty, though this too is not wanting, comes to be the chief element
only in purer forms of religion.  Here, indeed, is a great distinction and
epoch in Human Beliefs; a great landmark in the religious development of
Mankind.  Man first puts himself in relation with Nature and her Powers,
wonders and worships over those; not till a later epoch does he discern
that all Power is Moral, that the grand point is the distinction for him of
Good and Evil, of Thou shalt and Thou shalt not.

With regard to all these fabulous delineations in the Edda, I will
remark, moreover, as indeed was already hinted, that most probably they
must have been of much newer date; most probably, even from the first, were
comparatively idle for the old Norsemen, and as it were a kind of Poetic
sport.  Allegory and Poetic Delineation, as I said above, cannot be
religious Faith; the Faith itself must first be there, then Allegory enough
will gather round it, as the fit body round its soul.  The Norse Faith, I
can well suppose, like other Faiths, was most active while it lay mainly in
the silent state, and had not yet much to say about itself, still less to

Among those shadowy Edda matters, amid all that fantastic congeries of
assertions, and traditions, in their musical Mythologies, the main
practical belief a man could have was probably not much more than this:  of
the Valkyrs and the Hall of Odin; of an inflexible Destiny; and that
the one thing needful for a man was to be brave.  The Valkyrs are
Choosers of the Slain:  a Destiny inexorable, which it is useless trying to
bend or soften, has appointed who is to be slain; this was a fundamental
point for the Norse believer;—as indeed it is for all earnest men
everywhere, for a Mahomet, a Luther, for a Napoleon too.  It lies at the
basis this for every such man; it is the woof out of which his whole system
of thought is woven.  The Valkyrs; and then that these Choosers lead
the brave to a heavenly Hall of Odin; only the base and slavish being
thrust elsewhither, into the realms of Hela the Death-goddess:  I take this
to have been the soul of the whole Norse Belief.  They understood in their
heart that it was indispensable to be brave; that Odin would have no favor
for them, but despise and thrust them out, if they were not brave.
Consider too whether there is not something in this!  It is an everlasting
duty, valid in our day as in that, the duty of being brave.  Valor is
still value.  The first duty for a man is still that of subduing Fear.
We must get rid of Fear; we cannot act at all till then.  A man's acts are
slavish, not true but specious; his very thoughts are false, he thinks too
as a slave and coward, till he have got Fear under his feet.  Odin's creed,
if we disentangle the real kernel of it, is true to this hour.  A man shall
and must be valiant; he must march forward, and quit himself like a
man,—trusting imperturbably in the appointment and choice of the upper
Powers; and, on the whole, not fear at all.  Now and always, the
completeness of his victory over Fear will determine how much of a man he

It is doubtless very savage that kind of valor of the old Northmen.  Snorro
tells us they thought it a shame and misery not to die in battle; and if
natural death seemed to be coming on, they would cut wounds in their flesh,
that Odin might receive them as warriors slain.  Old kings, about to die,
had their body laid into a ship; the ship sent forth, with sails set and
slow fire burning it; that, once out at sea, it might blaze up in flame,
and in such manner bury worthily the old hero, at once in the sky and in
the ocean!  Wild bloody valor; yet valor of its kind; better, I say, than
none.  In the old Sea-kings too, what an indomitable rugged energy!
Silent, with closed lips, as I fancy them, unconscious that they were
specially brave; defying the wild ocean with its monsters, and all men and
things;—progenitors of our own Blakes and Nelsons!  No Homer sang these
Norse Sea-kings; but Agamemnon's was a small audacity, and of small fruit
in the world, to some of them;—to Hrolf's of Normandy, for instance!
Hrolf, or Rollo Duke of Normandy, the wild Sea-king, has a share in
governing England at this hour.

Nor was it altogether nothing, even that wild sea-roving and battling,
through so many generations.  It needed to be ascertained which was the
strongest kind of men; who were to be ruler over whom.  Among the
Northland Sovereigns, too, I find some who got the title Wood-cutter;
Forest-felling Kings.  Much lies in that.  I suppose at bottom many of them
were forest-fellers as well as fighters, though the Skalds talk mainly of
the latter,—misleading certain critics not a little; for no nation of men
could ever live by fighting alone; there could not produce enough come out
of that!  I suppose the right good fighter was oftenest also the right good
forest-feller,—the right good improver, discerner, doer and worker in
every kind; for true valor, different enough from ferocity, is the basis of
all.  A more legitimate kind of valor that; showing itself against the
untamed Forests and dark brute Powers of Nature, to conquer Nature for us.
In the same direction have not we their descendants since carried it far?
May such valor last forever with us!

That the man Odin, speaking with a Hero's voice and heart, as with an
impressiveness out of Heaven, told his People the infinite importance of
Valor, how man thereby became a god; and that his People, feeling a
response to it in their own hearts, believed this message of his, and
thought it a message out of Heaven, and him a Divinity for telling it them:
this seems to me the primary seed-grain of the Norse Religion, from which
all manner of mythologies, symbolic practices, speculations, allegories,
songs and sagas would naturally grow.  Grow,—how strangely!  I called it a
small light shining and shaping in the huge vortex of Norse darkness.  Yet
the darkness itself was alive; consider that.  It was the eager
inarticulate uninstructed Mind of the whole Norse People, longing only to
become articulate, to go on articulating ever farther!  The living doctrine
grows, grows;—like a Banyan-tree; the first seed is the essential thing:
any branch strikes itself down into the earth, becomes a new root; and so,
in endless complexity, we have a whole wood, a whole jungle, one seed the
parent of it all.  Was not the whole Norse Religion, accordingly, in some
sense, what we called "the enormous shadow of this man's likeness"?
Critics trace some affinity in some Norse mythuses, of the Creation and
such like, with those of the Hindoos.  The Cow Adumbla, "licking the rime
from the rocks," has a kind of Hindoo look.  A Hindoo Cow, transported into
frosty countries.  Probably enough; indeed we may say undoubtedly, these
things will have a kindred with the remotest lands, with the earliest
times.  Thought does not die, but only is changed.  The first man that
began to think in this Planet of ours, he was the beginner of all.  And
then the second man, and the third man;—nay, every true Thinker to this
hour is a kind of Odin, teaches men his way of thought, spreads a shadow
of his own likeness over sections of the History of the World.

Of the distinctive poetic character or merit of this Norse Mythology I have
not room to speak; nor does it concern us much.  Some wild Prophecies we
have, as the Voluspa in the Elder Edda; of a rapt, earnest, sibylline
sort.  But they were comparatively an idle adjunct of the matter, men who
as it were but toyed with the matter, these later Skalds; and it is their
songs chiefly that survive.  In later centuries, I suppose, they would go
on singing, poetically symbolizing, as our modern Painters paint, when it
was no longer from the innermost heart, or not from the heart at all.  This
is everywhere to be well kept in mind.

Gray's fragments of Norse Lore, at any rate, will give one no notion of
it;—any more than Pope will of Homer.  It is no square-built gloomy palace
of black ashlar marble, shrouded in awe and horror, as Gray gives it us:
no; rough as the North rocks, as the Iceland deserts, it is; with a
heartiness, homeliness, even a tint of good humor and robust mirth in the
middle of these fearful things.  The strong old Norse heart did not go upon
theatrical sublimities; they had not time to tremble.  I like much their
robust simplicity; their veracity, directness of conception.  Thor "draws
down his brows" in a veritable Norse rage; "grasps his hammer till the
knuckles grow white."  Beautiful traits of pity too, an honest pity.
Balder "the white God" dies; the beautiful, benignant; he is the Sungod.
They try all Nature for a remedy; but he is dead.  Frigga, his mother,
sends Hermoder to seek or see him:  nine days and nine nights he rides
through gloomy deep valleys, a labyrinth of gloom; arrives at the Bridge
with its gold roof:  the Keeper says, "Yes, Balder did pass here; but the
Kingdom of the Dead is down yonder, far towards the North."  Hermoder rides
on; leaps Hell-gate, Hela's gate; does see Balder, and speak with him:
Balder cannot be delivered.  Inexorable!  Hela will not, for Odin or any
God, give him up.  The beautiful and gentle has to remain there.  His Wife
had volunteered to go with him, to die with him.  They shall forever remain
there.  He sends his ring to Odin; Nanna his wife sends her thimble to
Frigga, as a remembrance.—Ah me!—

For indeed Valor is the fountain of Pity too;—of Truth, and all that is
great and good in man.  The robust homely vigor of the Norse heart attaches
one much, in these delineations.  Is it not a trait of right honest
strength, says Uhland, who has written a fine Essay on Thor, that the old
Norse heart finds its friend in the Thunder-god?  That it is not frightened
away by his thunder; but finds that Summer-heat, the beautiful noble
summer, must and will have thunder withal!  The Norse heart loves this
Thor and his hammer-bolt; sports with him.  Thor is Summer-heat:  the god
of Peaceable Industry as well as Thunder.  He is the Peasant's friend; his
true henchman and attendant is Thialfi, Manual Labor.  Thor himself
engages in all manner of rough manual work, scorns no business for its
plebeianism; is ever and anon travelling to the country of the Jotuns,
harrying those chaotic Frost-monsters, subduing them, at least straitening
and damaging them.  There is a great broad humor in some of these things.

Thor, as we saw above, goes to Jotun-land, to seek Hymir's Caldron, that
the Gods may brew beer.  Hymir the huge Giant enters, his gray beard all
full of hoar-frost; splits pillars with the very glance of his eye; Thor,
after much rough tumult, snatches the Pot, claps it on his head; the
"handles of it reach down to his heels."  The Norse Skald has a kind of
loving sport with Thor.  This is the Hymir whose cattle, the critics have
discovered, are Icebergs.  Huge untutored Brobdignag genius,—needing only
to be tamed down; into Shakspeares, Dantes, Goethes!  It is all gone now,
that old Norse work,—Thor the Thunder-god changed into Jack the
Giant-killer:  but the mind that made it is here yet.  How strangely things
grow, and die, and do not die!  There are twigs of that great world-tree of
Norse Belief still curiously traceable.  This poor Jack of the Nursery,
with his miraculous shoes of swiftness, coat of darkness, sword of
sharpness, he is one.  Hynde Etin, and still more decisively Red Etin of
Ireland, in the Scottish Ballads, these are both derived from Norseland;
Etin is evidently a Jotun.  Nay, Shakspeare's Hamlet is a twig too of
this same world-tree; there seems no doubt of that.  Hamlet, Amleth I
find, is really a mythic personage; and his Tragedy, of the poisoned
Father, poisoned asleep by drops in his ear, and the rest, is a Norse
mythus!  Old Saxo, as his wont was, made it a Danish history; Shakspeare,
out of Saxo, made it what we see.  That is a twig of the world-tree that
has grown, I think;—by nature or accident that one has grown!

In fact, these old Norse songs have a truth in them, an inward perennial
truth and greatness,—as, indeed, all must have that can very long preserve
itself by tradition alone.  It is a greatness not of mere body and gigantic
bulk, but a rude greatness of soul.  There is a sublime uncomplaining
melancholy traceable in these old hearts.  A great free glance into the
very deeps of thought.  They seem to have seen, these brave old Northmen,
what Meditation has taught all men in all ages, That this world is after
all but a show,—a phenomenon or appearance, no real thing.  All deep souls
see into that,—the Hindoo Mythologist, the German Philosopher,—the
Shakspeare, the earnest Thinker, wherever he may be:

     "We are such stuff as Dreams are made of!"

One of Thor's expeditions, to Utgard (the Outer Garden, central seat of
Jotun-land), is remarkable in this respect.  Thialfi was with him, and
Loke.  After various adventures, they entered upon Giant-land; wandered
over plains, wild uncultivated places, among stones and trees.  At
nightfall they noticed a house; and as the door, which indeed formed one
whole side of the house, was open, they entered.  It was a simple
habitation; one large hall, altogether empty.  They stayed there.  Suddenly
in the dead of the night loud noises alarmed them.  Thor grasped his
hammer; stood in the door, prepared for fight.  His companions within ran
hither and thither in their terror, seeking some outlet in that rude hall;
they found a little closet at last, and took refuge there.  Neither had
Thor any battle:  for, lo, in the morning it turned out that the noise had
been only the snoring of a certain enormous but peaceable Giant, the
Giant Skrymir, who lay peaceably sleeping near by; and this that they took
for a house was merely his Glove, thrown aside there; the door was the
Glove-wrist; the little closet they had fled into was the Thumb!  Such a
glove;—I remark too that it had not fingers as ours have, but only a
thumb, and the rest undivided:  a most ancient, rustic glove!

Skrymir now carried their portmanteau all day; Thor, however, had his own
suspicions, did not like the ways of Skrymir; determined at night to put an
end to him as he slept.  Raising his hammer, he struck down into the
Giant's face a right thunder-bolt blow, of force to rend rocks.  The Giant
merely awoke; rubbed his cheek, and said, Did a leaf fall?  Again Thor
struck, so soon as Skrymir again slept; a better blow than before; but the
Giant only murmured, Was that a grain of sand?  Thor's third stroke was
with both his hands (the "knuckles white" I suppose), and seemed to dint
deep into Skrymir's visage; but he merely checked his snore, and remarked,
There must be sparrows roosting in this tree, I think; what is that they
have dropt?—At the gate of Utgard, a place so high that you had to "strain
your neck bending back to see the top of it," Skrymir went his ways.  Thor
and his companions were admitted; invited to take share in the games going
on.  To Thor, for his part, they handed a Drinking-horn; it was a common
feat, they told him, to drink this dry at one draught.  Long and fiercely,
three times over, Thor drank; but made hardly any impression.  He was a
weak child, they told him:  could he lift that Cat he saw there?  Small as
the feat seemed, Thor with his whole godlike strength could not; he bent up
the creature's back, could not raise its feet off the ground, could at the
utmost raise one foot.  Why, you are no man, said the Utgard people; there
is an Old Woman that will wrestle you!  Thor, heartily ashamed, seized this
haggard Old Woman; but could not throw her.

And now, on their quitting Utgard, the chief Jotun, escorting them politely
a little way, said to Thor:  "You are beaten then:—yet be not so much
ashamed; there was deception of appearance in it.  That Horn you tried to
drink was the Sea; you did make it ebb; but who could drink that, the
bottomless!  The Cat you would have lifted,—why, that is the Midgard-
snake, the Great World-serpent, which, tail in mouth, girds and keeps up
the whole created world; had you torn that up, the world must have rushed
to ruin!  As for the Old Woman, she was Time, Old Age, Duration:  with
her what can wrestle?  No man nor no god with her; gods or men, she
prevails over all!  And then those three strokes you struck,—look at these
three valleys; your three strokes made these!"  Thor looked at his
attendant Jotun:  it was Skrymir;—it was, say Norse critics, the old
chaotic rocky Earth in person, and that glove-house was some
Earth-cavern!  But Skrymir had vanished; Utgard with its sky-high gates,
when Thor grasped his hammer to smite them, had gone to air; only the
Giant's voice was heard mocking:  "Better come no more to Jotunheim!"—

This is of the allegoric period, as we see, and half play, not of the
prophetic and entirely devout:  but as a mythus is there not real antique
Norse gold in it?  More true metal, rough from the Mimer-stithy, than in
many a famed Greek Mythus shaped far better!  A great broad Brobdignag
grin of true humor is in this Skrymir; mirth resting on earnestness and
sadness, as the rainbow on black tempest:  only a right valiant heart is
capable of that.  It is the grim humor of our own Ben Jonson, rare old Ben;
runs in the blood of us, I fancy; for one catches tones of it, under a
still other shape, out of the American Backwoods.

That is also a very striking conception that of the Ragnarok,
Consummation, or Twilight of the Gods.  It is in the Voluspa Song;
seemingly a very old, prophetic idea.  The Gods and Jotuns, the divine
Powers and the chaotic brute ones, after long contest and partial victory
by the former, meet at last in universal world-embracing wrestle and duel;
World-serpent against Thor, strength against strength; mutually extinctive;
and ruin, "twilight" sinking into darkness, swallows the created Universe.
The old Universe with its Gods is sunk; but it is not final death:  there
is to be a new Heaven and a new Earth; a higher supreme God, and Justice to
reign among men.  Curious:  this law of mutation, which also is a law
written in man's inmost thought, had been deciphered by these old earnest
Thinkers in their rude style; and how, though all dies, and even gods die,
yet all death is but a phoenix fire-death, and new-birth into the Greater
and the Better!  It is the fundamental Law of Being for a creature made of
Time, living in this Place of Hope.  All earnest men have seen into it; may
still see into it.

And now, connected with this, let us glance at the last mythus of the
appearance of Thor; and end there.  I fancy it to be the latest in date of
all these fables; a sorrowing protest against the advance of
Christianity,—set forth reproachfully by some Conservative Pagan.  King
Olaf has been harshly blamed for his over-zeal in introducing Christianity;
surely I should have blamed him far more for an under-zeal in that!  He
paid dear enough for it; he died by the revolt of his Pagan people, in
battle, in the year 1033, at Stickelstad, near that Drontheim, where the
chief Cathedral of the North has now stood for many centuries, dedicated
gratefully to his memory as Saint Olaf.  The mythus about Thor is to this
effect.  King Olaf, the Christian Reform King, is sailing with fit escort
along the shore of Norway, from haven to haven; dispensing justice, or
doing other royal work:  on leaving a certain haven, it is found that a
stranger, of grave eyes and aspect, red beard, of stately robust figure,
has stept in.  The courtiers address him; his answers surprise by their
pertinency and depth:  at length he is brought to the King. The stranger's
conversation here is not less remarkable, as they sail along the beautiful
shore; but after some time, he addresses King Olaf thus:  "Yes, King Olaf,
it is all beautiful, with the sun shining on it there; green, fruitful, a
right fair home for you; and many a sore day had Thor, many a wild fight
with the rock Jotuns, before he could make it so.  And now you seem minded
to put away Thor.  King Olaf, have a care!" said the stranger, drawing down
his brows;—and when they looked again, he was nowhere to be found.—This
is the last appearance of Thor on the stage of this world!

Do we not see well enough how the Fable might arise, without unveracity on
the part of any one?  It is the way most Gods have come to appear among
men:  thus, if in Pindar's time "Neptune was seen once at the Nemean
Games," what was this Neptune too but a "stranger of noble grave
aspect,"—fit to be "seen"!  There is something pathetic, tragic for me in
this last voice of Paganism.  Thor is vanished, the whole Norse world has
vanished; and will not return ever again.  In like fashion to that, pass
away the highest things.  All things that have been in this world, all
things that are or will be in it, have to vanish:  we have our sad farewell
to give them.

That Norse Religion, a rude but earnest, sternly impressive Consecration
of Valor (so we may define it), sufficed for these old valiant Northmen.
Consecration of Valor is not a bad thing!  We will take it for good, so far
as it goes.  Neither is there no use in knowing something about this old
Paganism of our Fathers.  Unconsciously, and combined with higher things,
it is in us yet, that old Faith withal!  To know it consciously, brings us
into closer and clearer relation with the Past,—with our own possessions
in the Past.  For the whole Past, as I keep repeating, is the possession of
the Present; the Past had always something true, and is a precious
possession.  In a different time, in a different place, it is always some
other side of our common Human Nature that has been developing itself.
The actual True is the sum of all these; not any one of them by itself
constitutes what of Human Nature is hitherto developed.  Better to know
them all than misknow them.  "To which of these Three Religions do you
specially adhere?" inquires Meister of his Teacher.  "To all the Three!"
answers the other:  "To all the Three; for they by their union first
constitute the True Religion."

[May 8, 1840.]

From the first rude times of Paganism among the Scandinavians in the North,
we advance to a very different epoch of religion, among a very different
people:  Mahometanism among the Arabs.  A great change; what a change and
progress is indicated here, in the universal condition and thoughts of men!

The Hero is not now regarded as a God among his fellowmen; but as one
God-inspired, as a Prophet.  It is the second phasis of Hero-worship:  the
first or oldest, we may say, has passed away without return; in the history
of the world there will not again be any man, never so great, whom his
fellowmen will take for a god.  Nay we might rationally ask, Did any set of
human beings ever really think the man they saw there standing beside
them a god, the maker of this world?  Perhaps not:  it was usually some man
they remembered, or had seen.  But neither can this any more be.  The
Great Man is not recognized henceforth as a god any more.

It was a rude gross error, that of counting the Great Man a god.  Yet let
us say that it is at all times difficult to know what he is, or how to
account of him and receive him!  The most significant feature in the
history of an epoch is the manner it has of welcoming a Great Man.  Ever,
to the true instincts of men, there is something godlike in him.  Whether
they shall take him to be a god, to be a prophet, or what they shall take
him to be?  that is ever a grand question; by their way of answering that,
we shall see, as through a little window, into the very heart of these
men's spiritual condition.  For at bottom the Great Man, as he comes from
the hand of Nature, is ever the same kind of thing:  Odin, Luther, Johnson,
Burns; I hope to make it appear that these are all originally of one stuff;
that only by the world's reception of them, and the shapes they assume, are
they so immeasurably diverse.  The worship of Odin astonishes us,—to fall
prostrate before the Great Man, into deliquium of love and wonder over
him, and feel in their hearts that he was a denizen of the skies, a god!
This was imperfect enough:  but to welcome, for example, a Burns as we did,
was that what we can call perfect?  The most precious gift that Heaven can
give to the Earth; a man of "genius" as we call it; the Soul of a Man
actually sent down from the skies with a God's-message to us,—this we
waste away as an idle artificial firework, sent to amuse us a little, and
sink it into ashes, wreck and ineffectuality:  such reception of a Great
Man I do not call very perfect either!  Looking into the heart of the
thing, one may perhaps call that of Burns a still uglier phenomenon,
betokening still sadder imperfections in mankind's ways, than the
Scandinavian method itself!  To fall into mere unreasoning deliquium of
love and admiration, was not good; but such unreasoning, nay irrational
supercilious no-love at all is perhaps still worse!—It is a thing forever
changing, this of Hero-worship:  different in each age, difficult to do
well in any age.  Indeed, the heart of the whole business of the age, one
may say, is to do it well.

We have chosen Mahomet not as the most eminent Prophet; but as the one we
are freest to speak of.  He is by no means the truest of Prophets; but I do
esteem him a true one.  Farther, as there is no danger of our becoming, any
of us, Mahometans, I mean to say all the good of him I justly can.  It is
the way to get at his secret:  let us try to understand what he meant
with the world; what the world meant and means with him, will then be a
more answerable question.  Our current hypothesis about Mahomet, that he
was a scheming Impostor, a Falsehood incarnate, that his religion is a mere
mass of quackery and fatuity, begins really to be now untenable to any one.
The lies, which well-meaning zeal has heaped round this man, are
disgraceful to ourselves only.  When Pococke inquired of Grotius, Where the
proof was of that story of the pigeon, trained to pick peas from Mahomet's
ear, and pass for an angel dictating to him?  Grotius answered that there
was no proof!  It is really time to dismiss all that.  The word this man
spoke has been the life-guidance now of a hundred and eighty millions of
men these twelve hundred years.  These hundred and eighty millions were
made by God as well as we.  A greater number of God's creatures believe in
Mahomet's word at this hour, than in any other word whatever.  Are we to
suppose that it was a miserable piece of spiritual legerdemain, this which
so many creatures of the Almighty have lived by and died by?  I, for my
part, cannot form any such supposition.  I will believe most things sooner
than that.  One would be entirely at a loss what to think of this world at
all, if quackery so grew and were sanctioned here.

Alas, such theories are very lamentable.  If we would attain to knowledge
of anything in God's true Creation, let us disbelieve them wholly!  They
are the product of an Age of Scepticism:  they indicate the saddest
spiritual paralysis, and mere death-life of the souls of men:  more godless
theory, I think, was never promulgated in this Earth.  A false man found a
religion?  Why, a false man cannot build a brick house!  If he do not know
and follow truly the properties of mortar, burnt clay and what else be
works in, it is no house that he makes, but a rubbish-heap.  It will not
stand for twelve centuries, to lodge a hundred and eighty millions; it will
fall straightway.  A man must conform himself to Nature's laws, be verily
in communion with Nature and the truth of things, or Nature will answer
him, No, not at all!  Speciosities are specious—ah me!—a Cagliostro, many
Cagliostros, prominent world-leaders, do prosper by their quackery, for a
day.  It is like a forged bank-note; they get it passed out of their
worthless hands:  others, not they, have to smart for it.  Nature bursts up
in fire-flames, French Revolutions and such like, proclaiming with terrible
veracity that forged notes are forged.

But of a Great Man especially, of him I will venture to assert that it is
incredible he should have been other than true.  It seems to me the primary
foundation of him, and of all that can lie in him, this.  No Mirabeau,
Napoleon, Burns, Cromwell, no man adequate to do anything, but is first of
all in right earnest about it; what I call a sincere man.  I should say
sincerity, a deep, great, genuine sincerity, is the first characteristic
of all men in any way heroic.  Not the sincerity that calls itself sincere;
ah no, that is a very poor matter indeed;—a shallow braggart conscious
sincerity; oftenest self-conceit mainly.  The Great Man's sincerity is of
the kind he cannot speak of, is not conscious of:  nay, I suppose, he is
conscious rather of insincerity; for what man can walk accurately by the
law of truth for one day?  No, the Great Man does not boast himself
sincere, far from that; perhaps does not ask himself if he is so:  I would
say rather, his sincerity does not depend on himself; he cannot help being
sincere!  The great Fact of Existence is great to him.  Fly as he will, he
cannot get out of the awful presence of this Reality.  His mind is so made;
he is great by that, first of all.  Fearful and wonderful, real as Life,
real as Death, is this Universe to him.  Though all men should forget its
truth, and walk in a vain show, he cannot.  At all moments the Flame-image
glares in upon him; undeniable, there, there!—I wish you to take this as
my primary definition of a Great Man.  A little man may have this, it is
competent to all men that God has made:  but a Great Man cannot be without

Such a man is what we call an original man; he comes to us at first-hand.
A messenger he, sent from the Infinite Unknown with tidings to us.  We may
call him Poet, Prophet, God;—in one way or other, we all feel that the
words he utters are as no other man's words.  Direct from the Inner Fact of
things;—he lives, and has to live, in daily communion with that.  Hearsays
cannot hide it from him; he is blind, homeless, miserable, following
hearsays; it glares in upon him.  Really his utterances, are they not a
kind of "revelation;"—what we must call such for want of some other name?
It is from the heart of the world that he comes; he is portion of the
primal reality of things.  God has made many revelations:  but this man
too, has not God made him, the latest and newest of all?  The "inspiration
of the Almighty giveth him understanding:"  we must listen before all to

This Mahomet, then, we will in no wise consider as an Inanity and
Theatricality, a poor conscious ambitious schemer; we cannot conceive him
so.  The rude message he delivered was a real one withal; an earnest
confused voice from the unknown Deep.  The man's words were not false, nor
his workings here below; no Inanity and Simulacrum; a fiery mass of Life
cast up from the great bosom of Nature herself.  To kindle the world; the
world's Maker had ordered it so.  Neither can the faults, imperfections,
insincerities even, of Mahomet, if such were never so well proved against
him, shake this primary fact about him.

On the whole, we make too much of faults; the details of the business hide
the real centre of it.  Faults?  The greatest of faults, I should say, is
to be conscious of none.  Readers of the Bible above all, one would think,
might know better.  Who is called there "the man according to God's own
heart"?  David, the Hebrew King, had fallen into sins enough; blackest
crimes; there was no want of sins.  And thereupon the unbelievers sneer and
ask, Is this your man according to God's heart?  The sneer, I must say,
seems to me but a shallow one.  What are faults, what are the outward
details of a life; if the inner secret of it, the remorse, temptations,
true, often-baffled, never-ended struggle of it, be forgotten?  "It is not
in man that walketh to direct his steps."  Of all acts, is not, for a man,
repentance the most divine?  The deadliest sin, I say, were that same
supercilious consciousness of no sin;—that is death; the heart so
conscious is divorced from sincerity, humility and fact; is dead:  it is
"pure" as dead dry sand is pure.  David's life and history, as written for
us in those Psalms of his, I consider to be the truest emblem ever given of
a man's moral progress and warfare here below.  All earnest souls will ever
discern in it the faithful struggle of an earnest human soul towards what
is good and best.  Struggle often baffled, sore baffled, down as into
entire wreck; yet a struggle never ended; ever, with tears, repentance,
true unconquerable purpose, begun anew.  Poor human nature!  Is not a man's
walking, in truth, always that:  "a succession of falls"?  Man can do no
other.  In this wild element of a Life, he has to struggle onwards; now
fallen, deep-abased; and ever, with tears, repentance, with bleeding heart,
he has to rise again, struggle again still onwards.  That his struggle be
a faithful unconquerable one:  that is the question of questions.  We will
put up with many sad details, if the soul of it were true.  Details by
themselves will never teach us what it is.  I believe we misestimate
Mahomet's faults even as faults:  but the secret of him will never be got
by dwelling there.  We will leave all this behind us; and assuring
ourselves that he did mean some true thing, ask candidly what it was or
might be.

These Arabs Mahomet was born among are certainly a notable people.  Their
country itself is notable; the fit habitation for such a race.  Savage
inaccessible rock-mountains, great grim deserts, alternating with beautiful
strips of verdure:  wherever water is, there is greenness, beauty;
odoriferous balm-shrubs, date-trees, frankincense-trees.  Consider that
wide waste horizon of sand, empty, silent, like a sand-sea, dividing
habitable place from habitable.  You are all alone there, left alone with
the Universe; by day a fierce sun blazing down on it with intolerable
radiance; by night the great deep Heaven with its stars.  Such a country is
fit for a swift-handed, deep-hearted race of men.  There is something most
agile, active, and yet most meditative, enthusiastic in the Arab character.
The Persians are called the French of the East; we will call the Arabs
Oriental Italians.  A gifted noble people; a people of wild strong
feelings, and of iron restraint over these:  the characteristic of
noble-mindedness, of genius.  The wild Bedouin welcomes the stranger to his
tent, as one having right to all that is there; were it his worst enemy, he
will slay his foal to treat him, will serve him with sacred hospitality for
three days, will set him fairly on his way;—and then, by another law as
sacred, kill him if he can.  In words too as in action.  They are not a
loquacious people, taciturn rather; but eloquent, gifted when they do
speak.  An earnest, truthful kind of men.  They are, as we know, of Jewish
kindred:  but with that deadly terrible earnestness of the Jews they seem
to combine something graceful, brilliant, which is not Jewish.  They had
"Poetic contests" among them before the time of Mahomet.  Sale says, at
Ocadh, in the South of Arabia, there were yearly fairs, and there, when the
merchandising was done, Poets sang for prizes:—the wild people gathered to
hear that.

One Jewish quality these Arabs manifest; the outcome of many or of all high
qualities:  what we may call religiosity.  From of old they had been
zealous worshippers, according to their light.  They worshipped the stars,
as Sabeans; worshipped many natural objects,—recognized them as symbols,
immediate manifestations, of the Maker of Nature.  It was wrong; and yet
not wholly wrong.  All God's works are still in a sense symbols of God.  Do
we not, as I urged, still account it a merit to recognize a certain
inexhaustible significance, "poetic beauty" as we name it, in all natural
objects whatsoever?  A man is a poet, and honored, for doing that, and
speaking or singing it,—a kind of diluted worship.  They had many
Prophets, these Arabs; Teachers each to his tribe, each according to the
light he had.  But indeed, have we not from of old the noblest of proofs,
still palpable to every one of us, of what devoutness and noble-mindedness
had dwelt in these rustic thoughtful peoples?  Biblical critics seem agreed
that our own Book of Job was written in that region of the world.  I call
that, apart from all theories about it, one of the grandest things ever
written with pen.  One feels, indeed, as if it were not Hebrew; such a
noble universality, different from noble patriotism or sectarianism, reigns
in it.  A noble Book; all men's Book!  It is our first, oldest statement of
the never-ending Problem,—man's destiny, and God's ways with him here in
this earth.  And all in such free flowing outlines; grand in its sincerity,
in its simplicity; in its epic melody, and repose of reconcilement.  There
is the seeing eye, the mildly understanding heart.  So true every way;
true eyesight and vision for all things; material things no less than
spiritual:  the Horse,—"hast thou clothed his neck with thunder?"—he
"laughs at the shaking of the spear!"  Such living likenesses were never
since drawn.  Sublime sorrow, sublime reconciliation; oldest choral melody
as of the heart of mankind;—so soft, and great; as the summer midnight, as
the world with its seas and stars!  There is nothing written, I think, in
the Bible or out of it, of equal literary merit.—

To the idolatrous Arabs one of the most ancient universal objects of
worship was that Black Stone, still kept in the building called Caabah, at
Mecca.  Diodorus Siculus mentions this Caabah in a way not to be mistaken,
as the oldest, most honored temple in his time; that is, some half-century
before our Era.  Silvestre de Sacy says there is some likelihood that the
Black Stone is an aerolite.  In that case, some man might see it fall out
of Heaven!  It stands now beside the Well Zemzem; the Caabah is built over
both.  A Well is in all places a beautiful affecting object, gushing out
like life from the hard earth;—still more so in those hot dry countries,
where it is the first condition of being.  The Well Zemzem has its name
from the bubbling sound of the waters, zem-zem; they think it is the Well
which Hagar found with her little Ishmael in the wilderness:  the aerolite
and it have been sacred now, and had a Caabah over them, for thousands of
years.  A curious object, that Caabah!  There it stands at this hour, in
the black cloth-covering the Sultan sends it yearly; "twenty-seven cubits
high;" with circuit, with double circuit of pillars, with festoon-rows of
lamps and quaint ornaments:  the lamps will be lighted again this
night,—to glitter again under the stars.  An authentic fragment of the
oldest Past.  It is the Keblah of all Moslem:  from Delhi all onwards to
Morocco, the eyes of innumerable praying men are turned towards it, five
times, this day and all days:  one of the notablest centres in the
Habitation of Men.

It had been from the sacredness attached to this Caabah Stone and Hagar's
Well, from the pilgrimings of all tribes of Arabs thither, that Mecca took
its rise as a Town.  A great town once, though much decayed now.  It has no
natural advantage for a town; stands in a sandy hollow amid bare barren
hills, at a distance from the sea; its provisions, its very bread, have to
be imported.  But so many pilgrims needed lodgings:  and then all places of
pilgrimage do, from the first, become places of trade.  The first day
pilgrims meet, merchants have also met:  where men see themselves assembled
for one object, they find that they can accomplish other objects which
depend on meeting together.  Mecca became the Fair of all Arabia.  And
thereby indeed the chief staple and warehouse of whatever Commerce there
was between the Indian and the Western countries, Syria, Egypt, even Italy.
It had at one time a population of 100,000; buyers, forwarders of those
Eastern and Western products; importers for their own behoof of provisions
and corn.  The government was a kind of irregular aristocratic republic,
not without a touch of theocracy.  Ten Men of a chief tribe, chosen in some
rough way, were Governors of Mecca, and Keepers of the Caabah.  The Koreish
were the chief tribe in Mahomet's time; his own family was of that tribe.
The rest of the Nation, fractioned and cut asunder by deserts, lived under
similar rude patriarchal governments by one or several:  herdsmen,
carriers, traders, generally robbers too; being oftenest at war one with
another, or with all:  held together by no open bond, if it were not this
meeting at the Caabah, where all forms of Arab Idolatry assembled in common
adoration;—held mainly by the inward indissoluble bond of a common blood
and language.  In this way had the Arabs lived for long ages, unnoticed by
the world; a people of great qualities, unconsciously waiting for the day
when they should become notable to all the world.  Their Idolatries appear
to have been in a tottering state; much was getting into confusion and
fermentation among them.  Obscure tidings of the most important Event ever
transacted in this world, the Life and Death of the Divine Man in Judea, at
once the symptom and cause of immeasurable change to all people in the
world, had in the course of centuries reached into Arabia too; and could
not but, of itself, have produced fermentation there.

It was among this Arab people, so circumstanced, in the year 570 of our
Era, that the man Mahomet was born.  He was of the family of Hashem, of the
Koreish tribe as we said; though poor, connected with the chief persons of
his country.  Almost at his birth he lost his Father; at the age of six
years his Mother too, a woman noted for her beauty, her worth and sense:
he fell to the charge of his Grandfather, an old man, a hundred years old.
A good old man:  Mahomet's Father, Abdallah, had been his youngest favorite
son.  He saw in Mahomet, with his old life-worn eyes, a century old, the
lost Abdallah come back again, all that was left of Abdallah.  He loved the
little orphan Boy greatly; used to say, They must take care of that
beautiful little Boy, nothing in their kindred was more precious than he.
At his death, while the boy was still but two years old, he left him in
charge to Abu Thaleb the eldest of the Uncles, as to him that now was head
of the house.  By this Uncle, a just and rational man as everything
betokens, Mahomet was brought up in the best Arab way.

Mahomet, as he grew up, accompanied his Uncle on trading journeys and such
like; in his eighteenth year one finds him a fighter following his Uncle in
war.  But perhaps the most significant of all his journeys is one we find
noted as of some years' earlier date:  a journey to the Fairs of Syria.
The young man here first came in contact with a quite foreign world,—with
one foreign element of endless moment to him:  the Christian Religion.  I
know not what to make of that "Sergius, the Nestorian Monk," whom Abu
Thaleb and he are said to have lodged with; or how much any monk could have
taught one still so young.  Probably enough it is greatly exaggerated, this
of the Nestorian Monk.  Mahomet was only fourteen; had no language but his
own:  much in Syria must have been a strange unintelligible whirlpool to
him.  But the eyes of the lad were open; glimpses of many things would
doubtless be taken in, and lie very enigmatic as yet, which were to ripen
in a strange way into views, into beliefs and insights one day.  These
journeys to Syria were probably the beginning of much to Mahomet.

One other circumstance we must not forget:  that he had no school-learning;
of the thing we call school-learning none at all.  The art of writing was
but just introduced into Arabia; it seems to be the true opinion that
Mahomet never could write!  Life in the Desert, with its experiences, was
all his education.  What of this infinite Universe he, from his dim place,
with his own eyes and thoughts, could take in, so much and no more of it
was he to know.  Curious, if we will reflect on it, this of having no
books.  Except by what he could see for himself, or hear of by uncertain
rumor of speech in the obscure Arabian Desert, he could know nothing.  The
wisdom that had been before him or at a distance from him in the world, was
in a manner as good as not there for him.  Of the great brother souls,
flame-beacons through so many lands and times, no one directly communicates
with this great soul.  He is alone there, deep down in the bosom of the
Wilderness; has to grow up so,—alone with Nature and his own Thoughts.

But, from an early age, he had been remarked as a thoughtful man.  His
companions named him "Al Amin, The Faithful."  A man of truth and
fidelity; true in what he did, in what he spake and thought.  They noted
that he always meant something.  A man rather taciturn in speech; silent
when there was nothing to be said; but pertinent, wise, sincere, when he
did speak; always throwing light on the matter.  This is the only sort of
speech worth speaking!  Through life we find him to have been regarded as
an altogether solid, brotherly, genuine man.  A serious, sincere character;
yet amiable, cordial, companionable, jocose even;—a good laugh in him
withal:  there are men whose laugh is as untrue as anything about them; who
cannot laugh.  One hears of Mahomet's beauty:  his fine sagacious honest
face, brown florid complexion, beaming black eyes;—I somehow like too that
vein on the brow, which swelled up black when he was in anger:  like the
"horseshoe vein" in Scott's Redgauntlet.  It was a kind of feature in
the Hashem family, this black swelling vein in the brow; Mahomet had it
prominent, as would appear.  A spontaneous, passionate, yet just,
true-meaning man!  Full of wild faculty, fire and light; of wild worth, all
uncultured; working out his life-task in the depths of the Desert there.

How he was placed with Kadijah, a rich Widow, as her Steward, and travelled
in her business, again to the Fairs of Syria; how he managed all, as one
can well understand, with fidelity, adroitness; how her gratitude, her
regard for him grew:  the story of their marriage is altogether a graceful
intelligible one, as told us by the Arab authors.  He was twenty-five; she
forty, though still beautiful.  He seems to have lived in a most
affectionate, peaceable, wholesome way with this wedded benefactress;
loving her truly, and her alone.  It goes greatly against the impostor
theory, the fact that he lived in this entirely unexceptionable, entirely
quiet and commonplace way, till the heat of his years was done.  He was
forty before he talked of any mission from Heaven.  All his irregularities,
real and supposed, date from after his fiftieth year, when the good Kadijah
died.  All his "ambition," seemingly, had been, hitherto, to live an honest
life; his "fame," the mere good opinion of neighbors that knew him, had
been sufficient hitherto.  Not till he was already getting old, the
prurient heat of his life all burnt out, and peace growing to be the
chief thing this world could give him, did he start on the "career of
ambition;" and, belying all his past character and existence, set up as a
wretched empty charlatan to acquire what he could now no longer enjoy!  For
my share, I have no faith whatever in that.

Ah no:  this deep-hearted Son of the Wilderness, with his beaming black
eyes and open social deep soul, had other thoughts in him than ambition.  A
silent great soul; he was one of those who cannot but be in earnest; whom
Nature herself has appointed to be sincere.  While others walk in formulas
and hearsays, contented enough to dwell there, this man could not screen
himself in formulas; he was alone with his own soul and the reality of
things.  The great Mystery of Existence, as I said, glared in upon him,
with its terrors, with its splendors; no hearsays could hide that
unspeakable fact, "Here am I!"  Such sincerity, as we named it, has in
very truth something of divine.  The word of such a man is a Voice direct
from Nature's own Heart.  Men do and must listen to that as to nothing
else;—all else is wind in comparison.  From of old, a thousand thoughts,
in his pilgrimings and wanderings, had been in this man:  What am I?  What
is this unfathomable Thing I live in, which men name Universe?  What is
Life; what is Death?  What am I to believe?  What am I to do?  The grim
rocks of Mount Hara, of Mount Sinai, the stern sandy solitudes answered
not.  The great Heaven rolling silent overhead, with its blue-glancing
stars, answered not.  There was no answer.  The man's own soul, and what of
God's inspiration dwelt there, had to answer!

It is the thing which all men have to ask themselves; which we too have to
ask, and answer.  This wild man felt it to be of infinite moment; all
other things of no moment whatever in comparison.  The jargon of
argumentative Greek Sects, vague traditions of Jews, the stupid routine of
Arab Idolatry:  there was no answer in these.  A Hero, as I repeat, has
this first distinction, which indeed we may call first and last, the Alpha
and Omega of his whole Heroism, That he looks through the shows of things
into things.  Use and wont, respectable hearsay, respectable formula:
all these are good, or are not good.  There is something behind and beyond
all these, which all these must correspond with, be the image of, or they
are—Idolatries; "bits of black wood pretending to be God;" to the
earnest soul a mockery and abomination.  Idolatries never so gilded, waited
on by heads of the Koreish, will do nothing for this man.  Though all men
walk by them, what good is it?  The great Reality stands glaring there upon
him.  He there has to answer it, or perish miserably.  Now, even now, or
else through all Eternity never!  Answer it; thou must find an
answer.—Ambition?  What could all Arabia do for this man; with the crown
of Greek Heraclius, of Persian Chosroes, and all crowns in the Earth;—what
could they all do for him?  It was not of the Earth he wanted to hear tell;
it was of the Heaven above and of the Hell beneath.  All crowns and
sovereignties whatsoever, where would they in a few brief years be?  To
be Sheik of Mecca or Arabia, and have a bit of gilt wood put into your
hand,—will that be one's salvation?  I decidedly think, not.  We will
leave it altogether, this impostor hypothesis, as not credible; not very
tolerable even, worthy chiefly of dismissal by us.

Mahomet had been wont to retire yearly, during the month Ramadhan, into
solitude and silence; as indeed was the Arab custom; a praiseworthy custom,
which such a man, above all, would find natural and useful.  Communing with
his own heart, in the silence of the mountains; himself silent; open to the
"small still voices:"  it was a right natural custom!  Mahomet was in his
fortieth year, when having withdrawn to a cavern in Mount Hara, near Mecca,
during this Ramadhan, to pass the month in prayer, and meditation on those
great questions, he one day told his wife Kadijah, who with his household
was with him or near him this year, That by the unspeakable special favor
of Heaven he had now found it all out; was in doubt and darkness no longer,
but saw it all.  That all these Idols and Formulas were nothing, miserable
bits of wood; that there was One God in and over all; and we must leave all
Idols, and look to Him.  That God is great; and that there is nothing else
great!  He is the Reality.  Wooden Idols are not real; He is real.  He made
us at first, sustains us yet; we and all things are but the shadow of Him;
a transitory garment veiling the Eternal Splendor.  "Allah akbar, God is
great;"—and then also "Islam," That we must submit to God.  That our
whole strength lies in resigned submission to Him, whatsoever He do to us.
For this world, and for the other!  The thing He sends to us, were it death
and worse than death, shall be good, shall be best; we resign ourselves to
God.—"If this be Islam," says Goethe, "do we not all live in Islam?"
Yes, all of us that have any moral life; we all live so.  It has ever been
held the highest wisdom for a man not merely to submit to
Necessity,—Necessity will make him submit,—but to know and believe well
that the stern thing which Necessity had ordered was the wisest, the best,
the thing wanted there.  To cease his frantic pretension of scanning this
great God's-World in his small fraction of a brain; to know that it had
verily, though deep beyond his soundings, a Just Law, that the soul of it
was Good;—that his part in it was to conform to the Law of the Whole, and
in devout silence follow that; not questioning it, obeying it as

I say, this is yet the only true morality known.  A man is right and
invincible, virtuous and on the road towards sure conquest, precisely while
he joins himself to the great deep Law of the World, in spite of all
superficial laws, temporary appearances, profit-and-loss calculations; he
is victorious while he co-operates with that great central Law, not
victorious otherwise:—and surely his first chance of co-operating with it,
or getting into the course of it, is to know with his whole soul that it
is; that it is good, and alone good!  This is the soul of Islam; it is
properly the soul of Christianity;—for Islam is definable as a confused
form of Christianity; had Christianity not been, neither had it been.
Christianity also commands us, before all, to be resigned to God.  We are
to take no counsel with flesh and blood; give ear to no vain cavils, vain
sorrows and wishes:  to know that we know nothing; that the worst and
cruelest to our eyes is not what it seems; that we have to receive
whatsoever befalls us as sent from God above, and say, It is good and wise,
God is great!  "Though He slay me, yet will I trust in Him."  Islam means
in its way Denial of Self, Annihilation of Self.  This is yet the highest
Wisdom that Heaven has revealed to our Earth.

Such light had come, as it could, to illuminate the darkness of this wild
Arab soul.  A confused dazzling splendor as of life and Heaven, in the
great darkness which threatened to be death:  he called it revelation and
the angel Gabriel;—who of us yet can know what to call it?  It is the
"inspiration of the Almighty" that giveth us understanding.  To know; to
get into the truth of anything, is ever a mystic act,—of which the best
Logics can but babble on the surface.  "Is not Belief the true
god-announcing Miracle?" says Novalis.—That Mahomet's whole soul, set in
flame with this grand Truth vouchsafed him, should feel as if it were
important and the only important thing, was very natural.  That Providence
had unspeakably honored him by revealing it, saving him from death and
darkness; that he therefore was bound to make known the same to all
creatures:  this is what was meant by "Mahomet is the Prophet of God;" this
too is not without its true meaning.—

The good Kadijah, we can fancy, listened to him with wonder, with doubt:
at length she answered:  Yes, it was true this that he said.  One can fancy
too the boundless gratitude of Mahomet; and how of all the kindnesses she
had done him, this of believing the earnest struggling word he now spoke
was the greatest.  "It is certain," says Novalis, "my Conviction gains
infinitely, the moment another soul will believe in it."  It is a boundless
favor.—He never forgot this good Kadijah.  Long afterwards, Ayesha his
young favorite wife, a woman who indeed distinguished herself among the
Moslem, by all manner of qualities, through her whole long life; this young
brilliant Ayesha was, one day, questioning him:  "Now am not I better than
Kadijah?  She was a widow; old, and had lost her looks:  you love me better
than you did her?"—" No, by Allah!" answered Mahomet:  "No, by Allah!  She
believed in me when none else would believe.  In the whole world I had but
one friend, and she was that!"—Seid, his Slave, also believed in him;
these with his young Cousin Ali, Abu Thaleb's son, were his first converts.

He spoke of his Doctrine to this man and that; but the most treated it with
ridicule, with indifference; in three years, I think, he had gained but
thirteen followers.  His progress was slow enough.  His encouragement to go
on, was altogether the usual encouragement that such a man in such a case
meets.  After some three years of small success, he invited forty of his
chief kindred to an entertainment; and there stood up and told them what
his pretension was:  that he had this thing to promulgate abroad to all
men; that it was the highest thing, the one thing:  which of them would
second him in that?  Amid the doubt and silence of all, young Ali, as yet a
lad of sixteen, impatient of the silence, started up, and exclaimed in
passionate fierce language, That he would!  The assembly, among whom was
Abu Thaleb, Ali's Father, could not be unfriendly to Mahomet; yet the sight
there, of one unlettered elderly man, with a lad of sixteen, deciding on
such an enterprise against all mankind, appeared ridiculous to them; the
assembly broke up in laughter.  Nevertheless it proved not a laughable
thing; it was a very serious thing!  As for this young Ali, one cannot but
like him.  A noble-minded creature, as he shows himself, now and always
afterwards; full of affection, of fiery daring.  Something chivalrous in
him; brave as a lion; yet with a grace, a truth and affection worthy of
Christian knighthood.  He died by assassination in the Mosque at Bagdad; a
death occasioned by his own generous fairness, confidence in the fairness
of others:  he said, If the wound proved not unto death, they must pardon
the Assassin; but if it did, then they must slay him straightway, that so
they two in the same hour might appear before God, and see which side of
that quarrel was the just one!

Mahomet naturally gave offence to the Koreish, Keepers of the Caabah,
superintendents of the Idols.  One or two men of influence had joined him:
the thing spread slowly, but it was spreading.  Naturally he gave offence
to everybody:  Who is this that pretends to be wiser than we all; that
rebukes us all, as mere fools and worshippers of wood!  Abu Thaleb the good
Uncle spoke with him:  Could he not be silent about all that; believe it
all for himself, and not trouble others, anger the chief men, endanger
himself and them all, talking of it?  Mahomet answered:  If the Sun stood
on his right hand and the Moon on his left, ordering him to hold his peace,
he could not obey!  No:  there was something in this Truth he had got which
was of Nature herself; equal in rank to Sun, or Moon, or whatsoever thing
Nature had made.  It would speak itself there, so long as the Almighty
allowed it, in spite of Sun and Moon, and all Koreish and all men and
things.  It must do that, and could do no other.  Mahomet answered so; and,
they say, "burst into tears."  Burst into tears:  he felt that Abu Thaleb
was good to him; that the task he had got was no soft, but a stern and
great one.

He went on speaking to who would listen to him; publishing his Doctrine
among the pilgrims as they came to Mecca; gaining adherents in this place
and that.  Continual contradiction, hatred, open or secret danger attended
him.  His powerful relations protected Mahomet himself; but by and by, on
his own advice, all his adherents had to quit Mecca, and seek refuge in
Abyssinia over the sea.  The Koreish grew ever angrier; laid plots, and
swore oaths among them, to put Mahomet to death with their own hands.  Abu
Thaleb was dead, the good Kadijah was dead.  Mahomet is not solicitous of
sympathy from us; but his outlook at this time was one of the dismalest.
He had to hide in caverns, escape in disguise; fly hither and thither;
homeless, in continual peril of his life.  More than once it seemed all
over with him; more than once it turned on a straw, some rider's horse
taking fright or the like, whether Mahomet and his Doctrine had not ended
there, and not been heard of at all.  But it was not to end so.

In the thirteenth year of his mission, finding his enemies all banded
against him, forty sworn men, one out of every tribe, waiting to take his
life, and no continuance possible at Mecca for him any longer, Mahomet fled
to the place then called Yathreb, where he had gained some adherents; the
place they now call Medina, or "Medinat al Nabi, the City of the
Prophet," from that circumstance.  It lay some two hundred miles off,
through rocks and deserts; not without great difficulty, in such mood as we
may fancy, he escaped thither, and found welcome.  The whole East dates its
era from this Flight, hegira as they name it:  the Year 1 of this Hegira
is 622 of our Era, the fifty-third of Mahomet's life.  He was now becoming
an old man; his friends sinking round him one by one; his path desolate,
encompassed with danger:  unless he could find hope in his own heart, the
outward face of things was but hopeless for him.  It is so with all men in
the like case.  Hitherto Mahomet had professed to publish his Religion by
the way of preaching and persuasion alone.  But now, driven foully out of
his native country, since unjust men had not only given no ear to his
earnest Heaven's-message, the deep cry of his heart, but would not even let
him live if he kept speaking it,—the wild Son of the Desert resolved to
defend himself, like a man and Arab.  If the Koreish will have it so, they
shall have it.  Tidings, felt to be of infinite moment to them and all men,
they would not listen to these; would trample them down by sheer violence,
steel and murder:  well, let steel try it then!  Ten years more this
Mahomet had; all of fighting of breathless impetuous toil and struggle;
with what result we know.

Much has been said of Mahomet's propagating his Religion by the sword.  It
is no doubt far nobler what we have to boast of the Christian Religion,
that it propagated itself peaceably in the way of preaching and conviction.
Yet withal, if we take this for an argument of the truth or falsehood of a
religion, there is a radical mistake in it.  The sword indeed:  but where
will you get your sword!  Every new opinion, at its starting, is precisely
in a minority of one.  In one man's head alone, there it dwells as yet.
One man alone of the whole world believes it; there is one man against all
men.  That he take a sword, and try to propagate with that, will do
little for him.  You must first get your sword!  On the whole, a thing will
propagate itself as it can.  We do not find, of the Christian Religion
either, that it always disdained the sword, when once it had got one.
Charlemagne's conversion of the Saxons was not by preaching.  I care little
about the sword:  I will allow a thing to struggle for itself in this
world, with any sword or tongue or implement it has, or can lay hold of.
We will let it preach, and pamphleteer, and fight, and to the uttermost
bestir itself, and do, beak and claws, whatsoever is in it; very sure that
it will, in the long-run, conquer nothing which does not deserve to be
conquered.  What is better than itself, it cannot put away, but only what
is worse.  In this great Duel, Nature herself is umpire, and can do no
wrong:  the thing which is deepest-rooted in Nature, what we call truest,
that thing and not the other will be found growing at last.

Here however, in reference to much that there is in Mahomet and his
success, we are to remember what an umpire Nature is; what a greatness,
composure of depth and tolerance there is in her.  You take wheat to cast
into the Earth's bosom; your wheat may be mixed with chaff, chopped straw,
barn-sweepings, dust and all imaginable rubbish; no matter:  you cast it
into the kind just Earth; she grows the wheat,—the whole rubbish she
silently absorbs, shrouds it in, says nothing of the rubbish.  The yellow
wheat is growing there; the good Earth is silent about all the rest,—has
silently turned all the rest to some benefit too, and makes no complaint
about it!  So everywhere in Nature!  She is true and not a lie; and yet so
great, and just, and motherly in her truth.  She requires of a thing only
that it be genuine of heart; she will protect it if so; will not, if not
so.  There is a soul of truth in all the things she ever gave harbor to.
Alas, is not this the history of all highest Truth that comes or ever came
into the world?  The body of them all is imperfection, an element of
light in darkness:  to us they have to come embodied in mere Logic, in some
merely scientific Theorem of the Universe; which cannot be complete;
which cannot but be found, one day, incomplete, erroneous, and so die and
disappear.  The body of all Truth dies; and yet in all, I say, there is a
soul which never dies; which in new and ever-nobler embodiment lives
immortal as man himself!  It is the way with Nature.  The genuine essence
of Truth never dies.  That it be genuine, a voice from the great Deep of
Nature, there is the point at Nature's judgment-seat.  What we call pure
or impure, is not with her the final question.  Not how much chaff is in
you; but whether you have any wheat.  Pure?  I might say to many a man:
Yes, you are pure; pure enough; but you are chaff,—insincere hypothesis,
hearsay, formality; you never were in contact with the great heart of the
Universe at all; you are properly neither pure nor impure; you are
nothing, Nature has no business with you.

Mahomet's Creed we called a kind of Christianity; and really, if we look at
the wild rapt earnestness with which it was believed and laid to heart, I
should say a better kind than that of those miserable Syrian Sects, with
their vain janglings about Homoiousion and Homoousion, the head full of
worthless noise, the heart empty and dead!  The truth of it is embedded in
portentous error and falsehood; but the truth of it makes it be believed,
not the falsehood:  it succeeded by its truth.  A bastard kind of
Christianity, but a living kind; with a heart-life in it; not dead,
chopping barren logic merely!  Out of all that rubbish of Arab idolatries,
argumentative theologies, traditions, subtleties, rumors and hypotheses of
Greeks and Jews, with their idle wire-drawings, this wild man of the
Desert, with his wild sincere heart, earnest as death and life, with his
great flashing natural eyesight, had seen into the kernel of the matter.
Idolatry is nothing:  these Wooden Idols of yours, "ye rub them with oil
and wax, and the flies stick on them,"—these are wood, I tell you!  They
can do nothing for you; they are an impotent blasphemous presence; a horror
and abomination, if ye knew them.  God alone is; God alone has power; He
made us, He can kill us and keep us alive:  "Allah akbar, God is great."
Understand that His will is the best for you; that howsoever sore to flesh
and blood, you will find it the wisest, best:  you are bound to take it so;
in this world and in the next, you have no other thing that you can do!

And now if the wild idolatrous men did believe this, and with their fiery
hearts lay hold of it to do it, in what form soever it came to them, I say
it was well worthy of being believed.  In one form or the other, I say it
is still the one thing worthy of being believed by all men.  Man does
hereby become the high-priest of this Temple of a World.  He is in harmony
with the Decrees of the Author of this World; cooperating with them, not
vainly withstanding them:  I know, to this day, no better definition of
Duty than that same.  All that is right includes itself in this of
co-operating with the real Tendency of the World:  you succeed by this (the
World's Tendency will succeed), you are good, and in the right course
there.  Homoiousion, Homoousion, vain logical jangle, then or before or
at any time, may jangle itself out, and go whither and how it likes:  this
is the thing it all struggles to mean, if it would mean anything.  If it
do not succeed in meaning this, it means nothing.  Not that Abstractions,
logical Propositions, be correctly worded or incorrectly; but that living
concrete Sons of Adam do lay this to heart:  that is the important point.
Islam devoured all these vain jangling Sects; and I think had right to do
so.  It was a Reality, direct from the great Heart of Nature once more.
Arab idolatries, Syrian formulas, whatsoever was not equally real, had to
go up in flame,—mere dead fuel, in various senses, for this which was

It was during these wild warfarings and strugglings, especially after the
Flight to Mecca, that Mahomet dictated at intervals his Sacred Book, which
they name Koran, or Reading, "Thing to be read."  This is the Work he
and his disciples made so much of, asking all the world, Is not that a
miracle?  The Mahometans regard their Koran with a reverence which few
Christians pay even to their Bible.  It is admitted every where as the
standard of all law and all practice; the thing to be gone upon in
speculation and life; the message sent direct out of Heaven, which this
Earth has to conform to, and walk by; the thing to be read.  Their Judges
decide by it; all Moslem are bound to study it, seek in it for the light of
their life.  They have mosques where it is all read daily; thirty relays of
priests take it up in succession, get through the whole each day.  There,
for twelve hundred years, has the voice of this Book, at all moments, kept
sounding through the ears and the hearts of so many men.  We hear of
Mahometan Doctors that had read it seventy thousand times!

Very curious:  if one sought for "discrepancies of national taste," here
surely were the most eminent instance of that!  We also can read the Koran;
our Translation of it, by Sale, is known to be a very fair one.  I must
say, it is as toilsome reading as I ever undertook.  A wearisome confused
jumble, crude, incondite; endless iterations, long-windedness,
entanglement; most crude, incondite;—insupportable stupidity, in short!
Nothing but a sense of duty could carry any European through the Koran.  We
read in it, as we might in the State-Paper Office, unreadable masses of
lumber, that perhaps we may get some glimpses of a remarkable man.  It is
true we have it under disadvantages:  the Arabs see more method in it than
we.  Mahomet's followers found the Koran lying all in fractions, as it had
been written down at first promulgation; much of it, they say, on
shoulder-blades of mutton, flung pell-mell into a chest:  and they
published it, without any discoverable order as to time or
otherwise;—merely trying, as would seem, and this not very strictly, to
put the longest chapters first.  The real beginning of it, in that way,
lies almost at the end:  for the earliest portions were the shortest.  Read
in its historical sequence it perhaps would not be so bad.  Much of it,
too, they say, is rhythmic; a kind of wild chanting song, in the original.
This may be a great point; much perhaps has been lost in the Translation
here.  Yet with every allowance, one feels it difficult to see how any
mortal ever could consider this Koran as a Book written in Heaven, too good
for the Earth; as a well-written book, or indeed as a book at all; and
not a bewildered rhapsody; written, so far as writing goes, as badly as
almost any book ever was!  So much for national discrepancies, and the
standard of taste.

Yet I should say, it was not unintelligible how the Arabs might so love it.
When once you get this confused coil of a Koran fairly off your hands, and
have it behind you at a distance, the essential type of it begins to
disclose itself; and in this there is a merit quite other than the literary
one.  If a book come from the heart, it will contrive to reach other
hearts; all art and author-craft are of small amount to that.  One would
say the primary character of the Koran is this of its genuineness, of its
being a bona-fide book.  Prideaux, I know, and others have represented it
as a mere bundle of juggleries; chapter after chapter got up to excuse and
varnish the author's successive sins, forward his ambitions and quackeries:
but really it is time to dismiss all that.  I do not assert Mahomet's
continual sincerity:  who is continually sincere?  But I confess I can make
nothing of the critic, in these times, who would accuse him of deceit
prepense; of conscious deceit generally, or perhaps at all;—still more,
of living in a mere element of conscious deceit, and writing this Koran as
a forger and juggler would have done!  Every candid eye, I think, will read
the Koran far otherwise than so.  It is the confused ferment of a great
rude human soul; rude, untutored, that cannot even read; but fervent,
earnest, struggling vehemently to utter itself in words.  With a kind of
breathless intensity he strives to utter himself; the thoughts crowd on him
pell-mell:  for very multitude of things to say, he can get nothing said.
The meaning that is in him shapes itself into no form of composition, is
stated in no sequence, method, or coherence;—they are not shaped at all,
these thoughts of his; flung out unshaped, as they struggle and tumble
there, in their chaotic inarticulate state.  We said "stupid:"  yet natural
stupidity is by no means the character of Mahomet's Book; it is natural
uncultivation rather.  The man has not studied speaking; in the haste and
pressure of continual fighting, has not time to mature himself into fit
speech.  The panting breathless haste and vehemence of a man struggling in
the thick of battle for life and salvation; this is the mood he is in!  A
headlong haste; for very magnitude of meaning, he cannot get himself
articulated into words.  The successive utterances of a soul in that mood,
colored by the various vicissitudes of three-and-twenty years; now well
uttered, now worse:  this is the Koran.

For we are to consider Mahomet, through these three-and-twenty years, as
the centre of a world wholly in conflict.  Battles with the Koreish and
Heathen, quarrels among his own people, backslidings of his own wild heart;
all this kept him in a perpetual whirl, his soul knowing rest no more.  In
wakeful nights, as one may fancy, the wild soul of the man, tossing amid
these vortices, would hail any light of a decision for them as a veritable
light from Heaven; any making-up of his mind, so blessed, indispensable
for him there, would seem the inspiration of a Gabriel.  Forger and
juggler?  No, no!  This great fiery heart, seething, simmering like a great
furnace of thoughts, was not a juggler's.  His Life was a Fact to him; this
God's Universe an awful Fact and Reality.  He has faults enough.  The man
was an uncultured semi-barbarous Son of Nature, much of the Bedouin still
clinging to him:  we must take him for that.  But for a wretched
Simulacrum, a hungry Impostor without eyes or heart, practicing for a mess
of pottage such blasphemous swindlery, forgery of celestial documents,
continual high-treason against his Maker and Self, we will not and cannot
take him.

Sincerity, in all senses, seems to me the merit of the Koran; what had
rendered it precious to the wild Arab men.  It is, after all, the first and
last merit in a book; gives rise to merits of all kinds,—nay, at bottom,
it alone can give rise to merit of any kind.  Curiously, through these
incondite masses of tradition, vituperation, complaint, ejaculation in the
Koran, a vein of true direct insight, of what we might almost call poetry,
is found straggling.  The body of the Book is made up of mere tradition,
and as it were vehement enthusiastic extempore preaching.  He returns
forever to the old stories of the Prophets as they went current in the Arab
memory:  how Prophet after Prophet, the Prophet Abraham, the Prophet Hud,
the Prophet Moses, Christian and other real and fabulous Prophets, had come
to this Tribe and to that, warning men of their sin; and been received by
them even as he Mahomet was,—which is a great solace to him.  These things
he repeats ten, perhaps twenty times; again and ever again, with wearisome
iteration; has never done repeating them.  A brave Samuel Johnson, in his
forlorn garret, might con over the Biographies of Authors in that way!
This is the great staple of the Koran.  But curiously, through all this,
comes ever and anon some glance as of the real thinker and seer.  He has
actually an eye for the world, this Mahomet:  with a certain directness and
rugged vigor, he brings home still, to our heart, the thing his own heart
has been opened to.  I make but little of his praises of Allah, which many
praise; they are borrowed I suppose mainly from the Hebrew, at least they
are far surpassed there.  But the eye that flashes direct into the heart of
things, and sees the truth of them; this is to me a highly interesting
object.  Great Nature's own gift; which she bestows on all; but which only
one in the thousand does not cast sorrowfully away:  it is what I call
sincerity of vision; the test of a sincere heart.

Mahomet can work no miracles; he often answers impatiently:  I can work no
miracles.  I?  "I am a Public Preacher;" appointed to preach this doctrine
to all creatures.  Yet the world, as we can see, had really from of old
been all one great miracle to him.  Look over the world, says he; is it not
wonderful, the work of Allah; wholly "a sign to you," if your eyes were
open!  This Earth, God made it for you; "appointed paths in it;" you can
live in it, go to and fro on it.—The clouds in the dry country of Arabia,
to Mahomet they are very wonderful:  Great clouds, he says, born in the
deep bosom of the Upper Immensity, where do they come from!  They hang
there, the great black monsters; pour down their rain-deluges "to revive a
dead earth," and grass springs, and "tall leafy palm-trees with their
date-clusters hanging round.  Is not that a sign?"  Your cattle too,—Allah
made them; serviceable dumb creatures; they change the grass into milk; you
have your clothing from them, very strange creatures; they come ranking
home at evening-time, "and," adds he, "and are a credit to you!"  Ships
also,—he talks often about ships:  Huge moving mountains, they spread out
their cloth wings, go bounding through the water there, Heaven's wind
driving them; anon they lie motionless, God has withdrawn the wind, they
lie dead, and cannot stir!  Miracles?  cries he:  What miracle would you
have?  Are not you yourselves there?  God made you, "shaped you out of a
little clay."  Ye were small once; a few years ago ye were not at all.  Ye
have beauty, strength, thoughts, "ye have compassion on one another."  Old
age comes on you, and gray hairs; your strength fades into feebleness; ye
sink down, and again are not.  "Ye have compassion on one another:"  this
struck me much:  Allah might have made you having no compassion on one
another,—how had it been then!  This is a great direct thought, a glance
at first-hand into the very fact of things.  Rude vestiges of poetic
genius, of whatsoever is best and truest, are visible in this man.  A
strong untutored intellect; eyesight, heart:  a strong wild man,—might
have shaped himself into Poet, King, Priest, any kind of Hero.

To his eyes it is forever clear that this world wholly is miraculous.  He
sees what, as we said once before, all great thinkers, the rude
Scandinavians themselves, in one way or other, have contrived to see:  That
this so solid-looking material world is, at bottom, in very deed, Nothing;
is a visual and factual Manifestation of God's power and presence,—a
shadow hung out by Him on the bosom of the void Infinite; nothing more.
The mountains, he says, these great rock-mountains, they shall dissipate
themselves "like clouds;" melt into the Blue as clouds do, and not be!  He
figures the Earth, in the Arab fashion, Sale tells us, as an immense Plain
or flat Plate of ground, the mountains are set on that to steady it.  At
the Last Day they shall disappear "like clouds;" the whole Earth shall go
spinning, whirl itself off into wreck, and as dust and vapor vanish in the
Inane.  Allah withdraws his hand from it, and it ceases to be.  The
universal empire of Allah, presence everywhere of an unspeakable Power, a
Splendor, and a Terror not to be named, as the true force, essence and
reality, in all things whatsoever, was continually clear to this man.  What
a modern talks of by the name, Forces of Nature, Laws of Nature; and does
not figure as a divine thing; not even as one thing at all, but as a set of
things, undivine enough,—salable, curious, good for propelling steamships!
With our Sciences and Cyclopaedias, we are apt to forget the divineness,
in those laboratories of ours.  We ought not to forget it!  That once well
forgotten, I know not what else were worth remembering.  Most sciences, I
think were then a very dead thing; withered, contentious, empty;—a thistle
in late autumn.  The best science, without this, is but as the dead
timber; it is not the growing tree and forest,—which gives ever-new
timber, among other things!  Man cannot know either, unless he can
worship in some way.  His knowledge is a pedantry, and dead thistle,

Much has been said and written about the sensuality of Mahomet's Religion;
more than was just.  The indulgences, criminal to us, which he permitted,
were not of his appointment; he found them practiced, unquestioned from
immemorial time in Arabia; what he did was to curtail them, restrict them,
not on one but on many sides.  His Religion is not an easy one:  with
rigorous fasts, lavations, strict complex formulas, prayers five times a
day, and abstinence from wine, it did not "succeed by being an easy
religion."  As if indeed any religion, or cause holding of religion, could
succeed by that!  It is a calumny on men to say that they are roused to
heroic action by ease, hope of pleasure, recompense,—sugar-plums of any
kind, in this world or the next!  In the meanest mortal there lies
something nobler.  The poor swearing soldier, hired to be shot, has his
"honor of a soldier," different from drill-regulations and the shilling a
day.  It is not to taste sweet things, but to do noble and true things, and
vindicate himself under God's Heaven as a god-made Man, that the poorest
son of Adam dimly longs.  Show him the way of doing that, the dullest
day-drudge kindles into a hero.  They wrong man greatly who say he is to be
seduced by ease.  Difficulty, abnegation, martyrdom, death are the
allurements that act on the heart of man.  Kindle the inner genial life
of him, you have a flame that burns up all lower considerations.  Not
happiness, but something higher:  one sees this even in the frivolous
classes, with their "point of honor" and the like.  Not by flattering our
appetites; no, by awakening the Heroic that slumbers in every heart, can
any Religion gain followers.

Mahomet himself, after all that can be said about him, was not a sensual
man.  We shall err widely if we consider this man as a common voluptuary,
intent mainly on base enjoyments,—nay on enjoyments of any kind.  His
household was of the frugalest; his common diet barley-bread and water:
sometimes for months there was not a fire once lighted on his hearth.  They
record with just pride that he would mend his own shoes, patch his own
cloak.  A poor, hard-toiling, ill-provided man; careless of what vulgar men
toil for.  Not a bad man, I should say; something better in him than
hunger of any sort,—or these wild Arab men, fighting and jostling
three-and-twenty years at his hand, in close contact with him always, would
not have reverenced him so!  They were wild men, bursting ever and anon
into quarrel, into all kinds of fierce sincerity; without right worth and
manhood, no man could have commanded them.  They called him Prophet, you
say?  Why, he stood there face to face with them; bare, not enshrined in
any mystery; visibly clouting his own cloak, cobbling his own shoes;
fighting, counselling, ordering in the midst of them:  they must have seen
what kind of a man he was, let him be called what you like!  No emperor
with his tiaras was obeyed as this man in a cloak of his own clouting.
During three-and-twenty years of rough actual trial.  I find something of a
veritable Hero necessary for that, of itself.

His last words are a prayer; broken ejaculations of a heart struggling up,
in trembling hope, towards its Maker.  We cannot say that his religion made
him worse; it made him better; good, not bad.  Generous things are
recorded of him:  when he lost his Daughter, the thing he answers is, in
his own dialect, every way sincere, and yet equivalent to that of
Christians, "The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away; blessed be the name
of the Lord."  He answered in like manner of Seid, his emancipated
well-beloved Slave, the second of the believers.  Seid had fallen in the
War of Tabuc, the first of Mahomet's fightings with the Greeks.  Mahomet
said, It was well; Seid had done his Master's work, Seid had now gone to
his Master:  it was all well with Seid.  Yet Seid's daughter found him
weeping over the body;—the old gray-haired man melting in tears!  "What do
I see?" said she.—"You see a friend weeping over his friend."—He went out
for the last time into the mosque, two days before his death; asked, If he
had injured any man?  Let his own back bear the stripes.  If he owed any
man?  A voice answered, "Yes, me three drachms," borrowed on such an
occasion.  Mahomet ordered them to be paid:  "Better be in shame now," said
he, "than at the Day of Judgment."—You remember Kadijah, and the "No, by
Allah!"  Traits of that kind show us the genuine man, the brother of us
all, brought visible through twelve centuries,—the veritable Son of our
common Mother.

Withal I like Mahomet for his total freedom from cant.  He is a rough
self-helping son of the wilderness; does not pretend to be what he is not.
There is no ostentatious pride in him; but neither does he go much upon
humility:  he is there as he can be, in cloak and shoes of his own
clouting; speaks plainly to all manner of Persian Kings, Greek Emperors,
what it is they are bound to do; knows well enough, about himself, "the
respect due unto thee."  In a life-and-death war with Bedouins, cruel
things could not fail; but neither are acts of mercy, of noble natural pity
and generosity wanting.  Mahomet makes no apology for the one, no boast of
the other.  They were each the free dictate of his heart; each called for,
there and then.  Not a mealy-mouthed man!  A candid ferocity, if the case
call for it, is in him; he does not mince matters!  The War of Tabuc is a
thing he often speaks of:  his men refused, many of them, to march on that
occasion; pleaded the heat of the weather, the harvest, and so forth; he
can never forget that.  Your harvest?  It lasts for a day.  What will
become of your harvest through all Eternity?  Hot weather?  Yes, it was
hot; "but Hell will be hotter!"  Sometimes a rough sarcasm turns up:  He
says to the unbelievers, Ye shall have the just measure of your deeds at
that Great Day.  They will be weighed out to you; ye shall not have short
weight!—Everywhere he fixes the matter in his eye; he sees it:  his
heart, now and then, is as if struck dumb by the greatness of it.
"Assuredly," he says:  that word, in the Koran, is written down sometimes
as a sentence by itself:  "Assuredly."

No Dilettantism in this Mahomet; it is a business of Reprobation and
Salvation with him, of Time and Eternity:  he is in deadly earnest about
it!  Dilettantism, hypothesis, speculation, a kind of amateur-search for
Truth, toying and coquetting with Truth:  this is the sorest sin.  The root
of all other imaginable sins.  It consists in the heart and soul of the man
never having been open to Truth;—"living in a vain show."  Such a man
not only utters and produces falsehoods, but is himself a falsehood.  The
rational moral principle, spark of the Divinity, is sunk deep in him, in
quiet paralysis of life-death.  The very falsehoods of Mahomet are truer
than the truths of such a man.  He is the insincere man:  smooth-polished,
respectable in some times and places; inoffensive, says nothing harsh to
anybody; most cleanly,—just as carbonic acid is, which is death and

We will not praise Mahomet's moral precepts as always of the superfinest
sort; yet it can be said that there is always a tendency to good in them;
that they are the true dictates of a heart aiming towards what is just and
true.  The sublime forgiveness of Christianity, turning of the other cheek
when the one has been smitten, is not here:  you are to revenge yourself,
but it is to be in measure, not overmuch, or beyond justice.  On the other
hand, Islam, like any great Faith, and insight into the essence of man, is
a perfect equalizer of men:  the soul of one believer outweighs all earthly
kingships; all men, according to Islam too, are equal.  Mahomet insists not
on the propriety of giving alms, but on the necessity of it:  he marks down
by law how much you are to give, and it is at your peril if you neglect.
The tenth part of a man's annual income, whatever that may be, is the
property of the poor, of those that are afflicted and need help.  Good
all this:  the natural voice of humanity, of pity and equity dwelling in
the heart of this wild Son of Nature speaks so.

Mahomet's Paradise is sensual, his Hell sensual:  true; in the one and the
other there is enough that shocks all spiritual feeling in us.  But we are
to recollect that the Arabs already had it so; that Mahomet, in whatever he
changed of it, softened and diminished all this.  The worst sensualities,
too, are the work of doctors, followers of his, not his work.  In the Koran
there is really very little said about the joys of Paradise; they are
intimated rather than insisted on.  Nor is it forgotten that the highest
joys even there shall be spiritual; the pure Presence of the Highest, this
shall infinitely transcend all other joys.  He says, "Your salutation shall
be, Peace."  Salam, Have Peace!—the thing that all rational souls long
for, and seek, vainly here below, as the one blessing.  "Ye shall sit on
seats, facing one another:  all grudges shall be taken away out of your
hearts."  All grudges!  Ye shall love one another freely; for each of you,
in the eyes of his brothers, there will be Heaven enough!

In reference to this of the sensual Paradise and Mahomet's sensuality, the
sorest chapter of all for us, there were many things to be said; which it
is not convenient to enter upon here.  Two remarks only I shall make, and
therewith leave it to your candor.  The first is furnished me by Goethe; it
is a casual hint of his which seems well worth taking note of.  In one of
his Delineations, in Meister's Travels it is, the hero comes upon a
Society of men with very strange ways, one of which was this:  "We
require," says the Master, "that each of our people shall restrict himself
in one direction," shall go right against his desire in one matter, and
make himself do the thing he does not wish, "should we allow him the
greater latitude on all other sides."  There seems to me a great justness
in this.  Enjoying things which are pleasant; that is not the evil:  it is
the reducing of our moral self to slavery by them that is.  Let a man
assert withal that he is king over his habitudes; that he could and would
shake them off, on cause shown:  this is an excellent law.  The Month
Ramadhan for the Moslem, much in Mahomet's Religion, much in his own Life,
bears in that direction; if not by forethought, or clear purpose of moral
improvement on his part, then by a certain healthy manful instinct, which
is as good.

But there is another thing to be said about the Mahometan Heaven and Hell.
This namely, that, however gross and material they may be, they are an
emblem of an everlasting truth, not always so well remembered elsewhere.
That gross sensual Paradise of his; that horrible flaming Hell; the great
enormous Day of Judgment he perpetually insists on:  what is all this but a
rude shadow, in the rude Bedouin imagination, of that grand spiritual Fact,
and Beginning of Facts, which it is ill for us too if we do not all know
and feel:  the Infinite Nature of Duty?  That man's actions here are of
infinite moment to him, and never die or end at all; that man, with his
little life, reaches upwards high as Heaven, downwards low as Hell, and in
his threescore years of Time holds an Eternity fearfully and wonderfully
hidden:  all this had burnt itself, as in flame-characters, into the wild
Arab soul.  As in flame and lightning, it stands written there; awful,
unspeakable, ever present to him.  With bursting earnestness, with a fierce
savage sincerity, half-articulating, not able to articulate, he strives to
speak it, bodies it forth in that Heaven and that Hell.  Bodied forth in
what way you will, it is the first of all truths.  It is venerable under
all embodiments.  What is the chief end of man here below?  Mahomet has
answered this question, in a way that might put some of us to shame!  He
does not, like a Bentham, a Paley, take Right and Wrong, and calculate the
profit and loss, ultimate pleasure of the one and of the other; and summing
all up by addition and subtraction into a net result, ask you, Whether on
the whole the Right does not preponderate considerably?  No; it is not
better to do the one than the other; the one is to the other as life is
to death,—as Heaven is to Hell.  The one must in nowise be done, the other
in nowise left undone.  You shall not measure them; they are
incommensurable:  the one is death eternal to a man, the other is life
eternal.  Benthamee Utility, virtue by Profit and Loss; reducing this
God's-world to a dead brute Steam-engine, the infinite celestial Soul of
Man to a kind of Hay-balance for weighing hay and thistles on, pleasures
and pains on:—If you ask me which gives, Mahomet or they, the beggarlier
and falser view of Man and his Destinies in this Universe, I will answer,
it is not Mahomet!—

On the whole, we will repeat that this Religion of Mahomet's is a kind of
Christianity; has a genuine element of what is spiritually highest looking
through it, not to be hidden by all its imperfections.  The Scandinavian
God Wish, the god of all rude men,—this has been enlarged into a Heaven
by Mahomet; but a Heaven symbolical of sacred Duty, and to be earned by
faith and well-doing, by valiant action, and a divine patience which is
still more valiant.  It is Scandinavian Paganism, and a truly celestial
element superadded to that.  Call it not false; look not at the falsehood
of it, look at the truth of it.  For these twelve centuries, it has been
the religion and life-guidance of the fifth part of the whole kindred of
Mankind.  Above all things, it has been a religion heartily believed.
These Arabs believe their religion, and try to live by it!  No Christians,
since the early ages, or only perhaps the English Puritans in modern times,
have ever stood by their Faith as the Moslem do by theirs,—believing it
wholly, fronting Time with it, and Eternity with it.  This night the
watchman on the streets of Cairo when he cries, "Who goes? " will hear from
the passenger, along with his answer, "There is no God but God."  Allah
akbar, Islam, sounds through the souls, and whole daily existence, of
these dusky millions.  Zealous missionaries preach it abroad among Malays,
black Papuans, brutal Idolaters;—displacing what is worse, nothing that is
better or good.

To the Arab Nation it was as a birth from darkness into light; Arabia first
became alive by means of it.  A poor shepherd people, roaming unnoticed in
its deserts since the creation of the world:  a Hero-Prophet was sent down
to them with a word they could believe:  see, the unnoticed becomes
world-notable, the small has grown world-great; within one century
afterwards, Arabia is at Grenada on this hand, at Delhi on that;—glancing
in valor and splendor and the light of genius, Arabia shines through long
ages over a great section of the world.  Belief is great, life-giving.  The
history of a Nation becomes fruitful, soul-elevating, great, so soon as it
believes.  These Arabs, the man Mahomet, and that one century,—is it not
as if a spark had fallen, one spark, on a world of what seemed black
unnoticeable sand; but lo, the sand proves explosive powder, blazes
heaven-high from Delhi to Grenada!  I said, the Great Man was always as
lightning out of Heaven; the rest of men waited for him like fuel, and then
they too would flame.

[May 12, 1840.]

The Hero as Divinity, the Hero as Prophet, are productions of old ages; not
to be repeated in the new.  They presuppose a certain rudeness of
conception, which the progress of mere scientific knowledge puts an end to.
There needs to be, as it were, a world vacant, or almost vacant of
scientific forms, if men in their loving wonder are to fancy their
fellow-man either a god or one speaking with the voice of a god.  Divinity
and Prophet are past.  We are now to see our Hero in the less ambitious,
but also less questionable, character of Poet; a character which does not
pass.  The Poet is a heroic figure belonging to all ages; whom all ages
possess, when once he is produced, whom the newest age as the oldest may
produce;—and will produce, always when Nature pleases.  Let Nature send a
Hero-soul; in no age is it other than possible that he may be shaped into a

Hero, Prophet, Poet,—many different names, in different times, and places,
do we give to Great Men; according to varieties we note in them, according
to the sphere in which they have displayed themselves!  We might give many
more names, on this same principle.  I will remark again, however, as a
fact not unimportant to be understood, that the different sphere
constitutes the grand origin of such distinction; that the Hero can be
Poet, Prophet, King, Priest or what you will, according to the kind of
world he finds himself born into.  I confess, I have no notion of a truly
great man that could not be all sorts of men.  The Poet who could merely
sit on a chair, and compose stanzas, would never make a stanza worth much.
He could not sing the Heroic warrior, unless he himself were at least a
Heroic warrior too.  I fancy there is in him the Politician, the Thinker,
Legislator, Philosopher;—in one or the other degree, he could have been,
he is all these.  So too I cannot understand how a Mirabeau, with that
great glowing heart, with the fire that was in it, with the bursting tears
that were in it, could not have written verses, tragedies, poems, and
touched all hearts in that way, had his course of life and education led
him thitherward.  The grand fundamental character is that of Great Man;
that the man be great.  Napoleon has words in him which are like Austerlitz
Battles.  Louis Fourteenth's Marshals are a kind of poetical men withal;
the things Turenne says are full of sagacity and geniality, like sayings of
Samuel Johnson.  The great heart, the clear deep-seeing eye:  there it
lies; no man whatever, in what province soever, can prosper at all without
these.  Petrarch and Boccaccio did diplomatic messages, it seems, quite
well:  one can easily believe it; they had done things a little harder than
these!  Burns, a gifted song-writer, might have made a still better
Mirabeau.  Shakspeare,—one knows not what he could not have made, in the
supreme degree.

True, there are aptitudes of Nature too.  Nature does not make all great
men, more than all other men, in the self-same mould.  Varieties of
aptitude doubtless; but infinitely more of circumstance; and far oftenest
it is the latter only that are looked to.  But it is as with common men
in the learning of trades.  You take any man, as yet a vague capability of
a man, who could be any kind of craftsman; and make him into a smith, a
carpenter, a mason:  he is then and thenceforth that and nothing else.  And
if, as Addison complains, you sometimes see a street-porter, staggering
under his load on spindle-shanks, and near at hand a tailor with the frame
of a Samson handling a bit of cloth and small Whitechapel needle,—it
cannot be considered that aptitude of Nature alone has been consulted here
either!—The Great Man also, to what shall he be bound apprentice?  Given
your Hero, is he to become Conqueror, King, Philosopher, Poet?  It is an
inexplicably complex controversial-calculation between the world and him!
He will read the world and its laws; the world with its laws will be there
to be read.  What the world, on this matter, shall permit and bid is, as
we said, the most important fact about the world.—

Poet and Prophet differ greatly in our loose modern notions of them.  In
some old languages, again, the titles are synonymous; Vates means both
Prophet and Poet:  and indeed at all times, Prophet and Poet, well
understood, have much kindred of meaning.  Fundamentally indeed they are
still the same; in this most important respect especially, That they have
penetrated both of them into the sacred mystery of the Universe; what
Goethe calls "the open secret."  "Which is the great secret?" asks
one.—"The open secret,"—open to all, seen by almost none!  That divine
mystery, which lies everywhere in all Beings, "the Divine Idea of the
World, that which lies at the bottom of Appearance," as Fichte styles it;
of which all Appearance, from the starry sky to the grass of the field, but
especially the Appearance of Man and his work, is but the vesture, the
embodiment that renders it visible.  This divine mystery is in all times
and in all places; veritably is.  In most times and places it is greatly
overlooked; and the Universe, definable always in one or the other dialect,
as the realized Thought of God, is considered a trivial, inert, commonplace
matter,—as if, says the Satirist, it were a dead thing, which some
upholsterer had put together!  It could do no good, at present, to speak
much about this; but it is a pity for every one of us if we do not know it,
live ever in the knowledge of it.  Really a most mournful pity;—a failure
to live at all, if we live otherwise!

But now, I say, whoever may forget this divine mystery, the Vates,
whether Prophet or Poet, has penetrated into it; is a man sent hither to
make it more impressively known to us.  That always is his message; he is
to reveal that to us,—that sacred mystery which he more than others lives
ever present with.  While others forget it, he knows it;—I might say, he
has been driven to know it; without consent asked of him, he finds himself
living in it, bound to live in it.  Once more, here is no Hearsay, but a
direct Insight and Belief; this man too could not help being a sincere man!
Whosoever may live in the shows of things, it is for him a necessity of
nature to live in the very fact of things.  A man once more, in earnest
with the Universe, though all others were but toying with it.  He is a
Vates, first of all, in virtue of being sincere.  So far Poet and
Prophet, participators in the "open secret," are one.

With respect to their distinction again:  The Vates Prophet, we might
say, has seized that sacred mystery rather on the moral side, as Good and
Evil, Duty and Prohibition; the Vates Poet on what the Germans call the
aesthetic side, as Beautiful, and the like.  The one we may call a revealer
of what we are to do, the other of what we are to love.  But indeed these
two provinces run into one another, and cannot be disjoined.  The Prophet
too has his eye on what we are to love:  how else shall he know what it is
we are to do?  The highest Voice ever heard on this earth said withal,
"Consider the lilies of the field; they toil not, neither do they spin:
yet Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these."  A glance,
that, into the deepest deep of Beauty.  "The lilies of the field,"—dressed
finer than earthly princes, springing up there in the humble furrow-field;
a beautiful eye looking out on you, from the great inner Sea of Beauty!
How could the rude Earth make these, if her Essence, rugged as she looks
and is, were not inwardly Beauty?  In this point of view, too, a saying of
Goethe's, which has staggered several, may have meaning:  "The Beautiful,"
he intimates, "is higher than the Good; the Beautiful includes in it the
Good."  The true Beautiful; which however, I have said somewhere,
"differs from the false as Heaven does from Vauxhall!"  So much for the
distinction and identity of Poet and Prophet.—

In ancient and also in modern periods we find a few Poets who are accounted
perfect; whom it were a kind of treason to find fault with.  This is
noteworthy; this is right:  yet in strictness it is only an illusion.  At
bottom, clearly enough, there is no perfect Poet!  A vein of Poetry exists
in the hearts of all men; no man is made altogether of Poetry.  We are all
poets when we read a poem well.  The "imagination that shudders at the
Hell of Dante," is not that the same faculty, weaker in degree, as Dante's
own?  No one but Shakspeare can embody, out of Saxo Grammaticus, the
story of Hamlet as Shakspeare did:  but every one models some kind of
story out of it; every one embodies it better or worse.  We need not spend
time in defining.  Where there is no specific difference, as between round
and square, all definition must be more or less arbitrary.  A man that has
so much more of the poetic element developed in him as to have become
noticeable, will be called Poet by his neighbors.  World-Poets too, those
whom we are to take for perfect Poets, are settled by critics in the same
way.  One who rises so far above the general level of Poets will, to such
and such critics, seem a Universal Poet; as he ought to do.  And yet it is,
and must be, an arbitrary distinction.  All Poets, all men, have some
touches of the Universal; no man is wholly made of that.  Most Poets are
very soon forgotten:  but not the noblest Shakspeare or Homer of them can
be remembered forever;—a day comes when he too is not!

Nevertheless, you will say, there must be a difference between true Poetry
and true Speech not poetical:  what is the difference?  On this point many
things have been written, especially by late German Critics, some of which
are not very intelligible at first.  They say, for example, that the Poet
has an infinitude in him; communicates an Unendlichkeit, a certain
character of "infinitude," to whatsoever he delineates.  This, though not
very precise, yet on so vague a matter is worth remembering:  if well
meditated, some meaning will gradually be found in it.  For my own part, I
find considerable meaning in the old vulgar distinction of Poetry being
metrical, having music in it, being a Song.  Truly, if pressed to give a
definition, one might say this as soon as anything else:  If your
delineation be authentically musical, musical not in word only, but in
heart and substance, in all the thoughts and utterances of it, in the whole
conception of it, then it will be poetical; if not, not.—Musical:  how
much lies in that!  A musical thought is one spoken by a mind that has
penetrated into the inmost heart of the thing; detected the inmost mystery
of it, namely the melody that lies hidden in it; the inward harmony of
coherence which is its soul, whereby it exists, and has a right to be, here
in this world.  All inmost things, we may say, are melodious; naturally
utter themselves in Song.  The meaning of Song goes deep.  Who is there
that, in logical words, can express the effect music has on us?  A kind of
inarticulate unfathomable speech, which leads us to the edge of the
Infinite, and lets us for moments gaze into that!

Nay all speech, even the commonest speech, has something of song in it:
not a parish in the world but has its parish-accent;—the rhythm or tune
to which the people there sing what they have to say!  Accent is a kind
of chanting; all men have accent of their own,—though they only notice
that of others.  Observe too how all passionate language does of itself
become musical,—with a finer music than the mere accent; the speech of a
man even in zealous anger becomes a chant, a song.  All deep things are
Song.  It seems somehow the very central essence of us, Song; as if all the
rest were but wrappages and hulls!  The primal element of us; of us, and of
all things.  The Greeks fabled of Sphere-Harmonies:  it was the feeling
they had of the inner structure of Nature; that the soul of all her voices
and utterances was perfect music.  Poetry, therefore, we will call musical
Thought.  The Poet is he who thinks in that manner.  At bottom, it turns
still on power of intellect; it is a man's sincerity and depth of vision
that makes him a Poet.  See deep enough, and you see musically; the heart
of Nature being everywhere music, if you can only reach it.

The Vates Poet, with his melodious Apocalypse of Nature, seems to hold a
poor rank among us, in comparison with the Vates Prophet; his function,
and our esteem of him for his function, alike slight.  The Hero taken as
Divinity; the Hero taken as Prophet; then next the Hero taken only as Poet:
does it not look as if our estimate of the Great Man, epoch after epoch,
were continually diminishing?  We take him first for a god, then for one
god-inspired; and now in the next stage of it, his most miraculous word
gains from us only the recognition that he is a Poet, beautiful
verse-maker, man of genius, or such like!—It looks so; but I persuade
myself that intrinsically it is not so.  If we consider well, it will
perhaps appear that in man still there is the same altogether peculiar
admiration for the Heroic Gift, by what name soever called, that there at
any time was.

I should say, if we do not now reckon a Great Man literally divine, it is
that our notions of God, of the supreme unattainable Fountain of Splendor,
Wisdom and Heroism, are ever rising higher; not altogether that our
reverence for these qualities, as manifested in our like, is getting lower.
This is worth taking thought of.  Sceptical Dilettantism, the curse of
these ages, a curse which will not last forever, does indeed in this the
highest province of human things, as in all provinces, make sad work; and
our reverence for great men, all crippled, blinded, paralytic as it is,
comes out in poor plight, hardly recognizable.  Men worship the shows of
great men; the most disbelieve that there is any reality of great men to
worship.  The dreariest, fatalest faith; believing which, one would
literally despair of human things.  Nevertheless look, for example, at
Napoleon!  A Corsican lieutenant of artillery; that is the show of him:
yet is he not obeyed, worshipped after his sort, as all the Tiaraed and
Diademed of the world put together could not be?  High Duchesses, and
ostlers of inns, gather round the Scottish rustic, Burns;—a strange
feeling dwelling in each that they never heard a man like this; that, on
the whole, this is the man!  In the secret heart of these people it still
dimly reveals itself, though there is no accredited way of uttering it at
present, that this rustic, with his black brows and flashing sun-eyes, and
strange words moving laughter and tears, is of a dignity far beyond all
others, incommensurable with all others.  Do not we feel it so?  But now,
were Dilettantism, Scepticism, Triviality, and all that sorrowful brood,
cast out of us,—as, by God's blessing, they shall one day be; were faith
in the shows of things entirely swept out, replaced by clear faith in the
things, so that a man acted on the impulse of that only, and counted the
other non-extant; what a new livelier feeling towards this Burns were it!

Nay here in these ages, such as they are, have we not two mere Poets, if
not deified, yet we may say beatified?  Shakspeare and Dante are Saints of
Poetry; really, if we will think of it, canonized, so that it is impiety
to meddle with them.  The unguided instinct of the world, working across
all these perverse impediments, has arrived at such result.  Dante and
Shakspeare are a peculiar Two.  They dwell apart, in a kind of royal
solitude; none equal, none second to them:  in the general feeling of the
world, a certain transcendentalism, a glory as of complete perfection,
invests these two.  They are canonized, though no Pope or Cardinals took
hand in doing it!  Such, in spite of every perverting influence, in the
most unheroic times, is still our indestructible reverence for heroism.—We
will look a little at these Two, the Poet Dante and the Poet Shakspeare:
what little it is permitted us to say here of the Hero as Poet will most
fitly arrange itself in that fashion.

Many volumes have been written by way of commentary on Dante and his Book;
yet, on the whole, with no great result.  His Biography is, as it were,
irrecoverably lost for us.  An unimportant, wandering, sorrow-stricken man,
not much note was taken of him while he lived; and the most of that has
vanished, in the long space that now intervenes.  It is five centuries
since he ceased writing and living here.  After all commentaries, the Book
itself is mainly what we know of him.  The Book;—and one might add that
Portrait commonly attributed to Giotto, which, looking on it, you cannot
help inclining to think genuine, whoever did it.  To me it is a most
touching face; perhaps of all faces that I know, the most so.  Lonely
there, painted as on vacancy, with the simple laurel wound round it; the
deathless sorrow and pain, the known victory which is also
deathless;—significant of the whole history of Dante!  I think it is the
mournfulest face that ever was painted from reality; an altogether tragic,
heart-affecting face.  There is in it, as foundation of it, the softness,
tenderness, gentle affection as of a child; but all this is as if congealed
into sharp contradiction, into abnegation, isolation, proud hopeless pain.
A soft ethereal soul looking out so stern, implacable, grim-trenchant, as
from imprisonment of thick-ribbed ice!  Withal it is a silent pain too, a
silent scornful one:  the lip is curled in a kind of godlike disdain of the
thing that is eating out his heart,—as if it were withal a mean
insignificant thing, as if he whom it had power to torture and strangle
were greater than it.  The face of one wholly in protest, and lifelong
unsurrendering battle, against the world.  Affection all converted into
indignation:  an implacable indignation; slow, equable, silent, like that
of a god!  The eye too, it looks out as in a kind of surprise, a kind of
inquiry, Why the world was of such a sort?  This is Dante:  so he looks,
this "voice of ten silent centuries," and sings us "his mystic unfathomable

The little that we know of Dante's Life corresponds well enough with this
Portrait and this Book.  He was born at Florence, in the upper class of
society, in the year 1265.  His education was the best then going; much
school-divinity, Aristotelean logic, some Latin classics,—no
inconsiderable insight into certain provinces of things:  and Dante, with
his earnest intelligent nature, we need not doubt, learned better than most
all that was learnable.  He has a clear cultivated understanding, and of
great subtlety; this best fruit of education he had contrived to realize
from these scholastics.  He knows accurately and well what lies close to
him; but, in such a time, without printed books or free intercourse, he
could not know well what was distant:  the small clear light, most luminous
for what is near, breaks itself into singular chiaroscuro striking on
what is far off.  This was Dante's learning from the schools.  In life, he
had gone through the usual destinies; been twice out campaigning as a
soldier for the Florentine State, been on embassy; had in his thirty-fifth
year, by natural gradation of talent and service, become one of the Chief
Magistrates of Florence.  He had met in boyhood a certain Beatrice
Portinari, a beautiful little girl of his own age and rank, and grown up
thenceforth in partial sight of her, in some distant intercourse with her.
All readers know his graceful affecting account of this; and then of their
being parted; of her being wedded to another, and of her death soon after.
She makes a great figure in Dante's Poem; seems to have made a great figure
in his life.  Of all beings it might seem as if she, held apart from him,
far apart at last in the dim Eternity, were the only one he had ever with
his whole strength of affection loved.  She died:  Dante himself was
wedded; but it seems not happily, far from happily.  I fancy, the rigorous
earnest man, with his keen excitabilities, was not altogether easy to make

We will not complain of Dante's miseries:  had all gone right with him as
he wished it, he might have been Prior, Podesta, or whatsoever they call
it, of Florence, well accepted among neighbors,—and the world had wanted
one of the most notable words ever spoken or sung.  Florence would have had
another prosperous Lord Mayor; and the ten dumb centuries continued
voiceless, and the ten other listening centuries (for there will be ten of
them and more) had no Divina Commedia to hear!  We will complain of
nothing.  A nobler destiny was appointed for this Dante; and he, struggling
like a man led towards death and crucifixion, could not help fulfilling it.
Give him the choice of his happiness!  He knew not, more than we do, what
was really happy, what was really miserable.

In Dante's Priorship, the Guelf-Ghibelline, Bianchi-Neri, or some other
confused disturbances rose to such a height, that Dante, whose party had
seemed the stronger, was with his friends cast unexpectedly forth into
banishment; doomed thenceforth to a life of woe and wandering.  His
property was all confiscated and more; he had the fiercest feeling that it
was entirely unjust, nefarious in the sight of God and man.  He tried what
was in him to get reinstated; tried even by warlike surprisal, with arms in
his hand:  but it would not do; bad only had become worse.  There is a
record, I believe, still extant in the Florence Archives, dooming this
Dante, wheresoever caught, to be burnt alive.  Burnt alive; so it stands,
they say:  a very curious civic document.  Another curious document, some
considerable number of years later, is a Letter of Dante's to the
Florentine Magistrates, written in answer to a milder proposal of theirs,
that he should return on condition of apologizing and paying a fine.  He
answers, with fixed stern pride:  "If I cannot return without calling
myself guilty, I will never return, nunquam revertar."

For Dante there was now no home in this world.  He wandered from patron to
patron, from place to place; proving, in his own bitter words, "How hard is
the path, Come e duro calle."  The wretched are not cheerful company.
Dante, poor and banished, with his proud earnest nature, with his moody
humors, was not a man to conciliate men.  Petrarch reports of him that
being at Can della Scala's court, and blamed one day for his gloom and
taciturnity, he answered in no courtier-like way.  Della Scala stood among
his courtiers, with mimes and buffoons (nebulones ac histriones) making
him heartily merry; when turning to Dante, he said:  "Is it not strange,
now, that this poor fool should make himself so entertaining; while you, a
wise man, sit there day after day, and have nothing to amuse us with at
all?"  Dante answered bitterly:  "No, not strange; your Highness is to
recollect the Proverb, Like to Like;"—given the amuser, the amusee must
also be given!  Such a man, with his proud silent ways, with his sarcasms
and sorrows, was not made to succeed at court.  By degrees, it came to be
evident to him that he had no longer any resting-place, or hope of benefit,
in this earth.  The earthly world had cast him forth, to wander, wander; no
living heart to love him now; for his sore miseries there was no solace

The deeper naturally would the Eternal World impress itself on him; that
awful reality over which, after all, this Time-world, with its Florences
and banishments, only flutters as an unreal shadow.  Florence thou shalt
never see:  but Hell and Purgatory and Heaven thou shalt surely see!  What
is Florence, Can della Scala, and the World and Life altogether?  ETERNITY:
thither, of a truth, not elsewhither, art thou and all things bound!  The
great soul of Dante, homeless on earth, made its home more and more in that
awful other world.  Naturally his thoughts brooded on that, as on the one
fact important for him.  Bodied or bodiless, it is the one fact important
for all men:—but to Dante, in that age, it was bodied in fixed certainty
of scientific shape; he no more doubted of that Malebolge Pool, that it
all lay there with its gloomy circles, with its alti guai, and that he
himself should see it, than we doubt that we should see Constantinople if
we went thither.  Dante's heart, long filled with this, brooding over it in
speechless thought and awe, bursts forth at length into "mystic
unfathomable song; " and this his Divine Comedy, the most remarkable of
all modern Books, is the result.

It must have been a great solacement to Dante, and was, as we can see, a
proud thought for him at times, That he, here in exile, could do this work;
that no Florence, nor no man or men, could hinder him from doing it, or
even much help him in doing it.  He knew too, partly, that it was great;
the greatest a man could do.  "If thou follow thy star, Se tu segui tua
stella,"—so could the Hero, in his forsakenness, in his extreme need,
still say to himself:  "Follow thou thy star, thou shalt not fail of a
glorious haven!"  The labor of writing, we find, and indeed could know
otherwise, was great and painful for him; he says, This Book, "which has
made me lean for many years."  Ah yes, it was won, all of it, with pain and
sore toil,—not in sport, but in grim earnest.  His Book, as indeed most
good Books are, has been written, in many senses, with his heart's blood.
It is his whole history, this Book.  He died after finishing it; not yet
very old, at the age of fifty-six;—broken-hearted rather, as is said.  He
lies buried in his death-city Ravenna:  Hic claudor Dantes patriis
extorris ab oris.  The Florentines begged back his body, in a century
after; the Ravenna people would not give it.  "Here am I Dante laid, shut
out from my native shores."

I said, Dante's Poem was a Song:  it is Tieck who calls it "a mystic
unfathomable Song;" and such is literally the character of it.  Coleridge
remarks very pertinently somewhere, that wherever you find a sentence
musically worded, of true rhythm and melody in the words, there is
something deep and good in the meaning too.  For body and soul, word and
idea, go strangely together here as everywhere.  Song:  we said before, it
was the Heroic of Speech!  All old Poems, Homer's and the rest, are
authentically Songs.  I would say, in strictness, that all right Poems are;
that whatsoever is not sung is properly no Poem, but a piece of Prose
cramped into jingling lines,—to the great injury of the grammar, to the
great grief of the reader, for most part!  What we wants to get at is the
thought the man had, if he had any:  why should he twist it into jingle,
if he could speak it out plainly?  It is only when the heart of him is
rapt into true passion of melody, and the very tones of him, according to
Coleridge's remark, become musical by the greatness, depth and music of his
thoughts, that we can give him right to rhyme and sing; that we call him a
Poet, and listen to him as the Heroic of Speakers,—whose speech is Song.
Pretenders to this are many; and to an earnest reader, I doubt, it is for
most part a very melancholy, not to say an insupportable business, that of
reading rhyme!  Rhyme that had no inward necessity to be rhymed;—it ought
to have told us plainly, without any jingle, what it was aiming at.  I
would advise all men who can speak their thought, not to sing it; to
understand that, in a serious time, among serious men, there is no vocation
in them for singing it.  Precisely as we love the true song, and are
charmed by it as by something divine, so shall we hate the false song, and
account it a mere wooden noise, a thing hollow, superfluous, altogether an
insincere and offensive thing.

I give Dante my highest praise when I say of his Divine Comedy that it
is, in all senses, genuinely a Song.  In the very sound of it there is a
canto fermo; it proceeds as by a chant.  The language, his simple terza
rima, doubtless helped him in this.  One reads along naturally with a sort
of lilt.  But I add, that it could not be otherwise; for the essence and
material of the work are themselves rhythmic.  Its depth, and rapt passion
and sincerity, makes it musical;—go deep enough, there is music
everywhere.  A true inward symmetry, what one calls an architectural
harmony, reigns in it, proportionates it all:  architectural; which also
partakes of the character of music.  The three kingdoms, Inferno,
Purgatorio, Paradiso, look out on one another like compartments of a
great edifice; a great supernatural world-cathedral, piled up there, stern,
solemn, awful; Dante's World of Souls!  It is, at bottom, the sincerest
of all Poems; sincerity, here too,, we find to be the measure of worth.  It
came deep out of the author's heart of hearts; and it goes deep, and
through long generations, into ours.  The people of Verona, when they saw
him on the streets, used to say, "Eccovi l' uom ch' e stato all' Inferno,
See, there is the man that was in Hell!"  Ah yes, he had been in Hell;—in
Hell enough, in long severe sorrow and struggle; as the like of him is
pretty sure to have been.  Commedias that come out divine are not
accomplished otherwise.  Thought, true labor of any kind, highest virtue
itself, is it not the daughter of Pain?  Born as out of the black
whirlwind;—true effort, in fact, as of a captive struggling to free
himself:  that is Thought.  In all ways we are "to become perfect through
suffering."—But, as I say, no work known to me is so elaborated as
this of Dante's.  It has all been as if molten, in the hottest furnace of
his soul.  It had made him "lean" for many years.  Not the general whole
only; every compartment of it is worked out, with intense earnestness, into
truth, into clear visuality.  Each answers to the other; each fits in its
place, like a marble stone accurately hewn and polished.  It is the soul of
Dante, and in this the soul of the middle ages, rendered forever
rhythmically visible there.  No light task; a right intense one:  but a
task which is done.

Perhaps one would say, intensity, with the much that depends on it, is
the prevailing character of Dante's genius.  Dante does not come before us
as a large catholic mind; rather as a narrow, and even sectarian mind:  it
is partly the fruit of his age and position, but partly too of his own
nature.  His greatness has, in all senses, concentred itself into fiery
emphasis and depth.  He is world-great not because he is worldwide, but
because he is world-deep.  Through all objects he pierces as it were down
into the heart of Being.  I know nothing so intense as Dante.  Consider,
for example, to begin with the outermost development of his intensity,
consider how he paints.  He has a great power of vision; seizes the very
type of a thing; presents that and nothing more.  You remember that first
view he gets of the Hall of Dite:  red pinnacle, red-hot cone of iron
glowing through the dim immensity of gloom;—so vivid, so distinct, visible
at once and forever!  It is as an emblem of the whole genius of Dante.
There is a brevity, an abrupt precision in him:  Tacitus is not briefer,
more condensed; and then in Dante it seems a natural condensation,
spontaneous to the man.  One smiting word; and then there is silence,
nothing more said.  His silence is more eloquent than words.  It is strange
with what a sharp decisive grace he snatches the true likeness of a matter:
cuts into the matter as with a pen of fire.  Plutus, the blustering giant,
collapses at Virgil's rebuke; it is "as the sails sink, the mast being
suddenly broken."  Or that poor Brunetto Latini, with the cotto aspetto,
"face baked," parched brown and lean; and the "fiery snow" that falls on
them there, a "fiery snow without wind," slow, deliberate, never-ending!
Or the lids of those Tombs; square sarcophaguses, in that silent
dim-burning Hall, each with its Soul in torment; the lids laid open there;
they are to be shut at the Day of Judgment, through Eternity.  And how
Farinata rises; and how Cavalcante falls—at hearing of his Son, and the
past tense "fue"!  The very movements in Dante have something brief;
swift, decisive, almost military.  It is of the inmost essence of his
genius this sort of painting.  The fiery, swift Italian nature of the man,
so silent, passionate, with its quick abrupt movements, its silent "pale
rages," speaks itself in these things.

For though this of painting is one of the outermost developments of a man,
it comes like all else from the essential faculty of him; it is
physiognomical of the whole man.  Find a man whose words paint you a
likeness, you have found a man worth something; mark his manner of doing
it, as very characteristic of him.  In the first place, he could not have
discerned the object at all, or seen the vital type of it, unless he had,
what we may call, sympathized with it,—had sympathy in him to bestow on
objects.  He must have been sincere about it too; sincere and
sympathetic:  a man without worth cannot give you the likeness of any
object; he dwells in vague outwardness, fallacy and trivial hearsay, about
all objects.  And indeed may we not say that intellect altogether expresses
itself in this power of discerning what an object is?  Whatsoever of
faculty a man's mind may have will come out here.  Is it even of business,
a matter to be done?  The gifted man is he who sees the essential point,
and leaves all the rest aside as surplusage:  it is his faculty too, the
man of business's faculty, that he discern the true likeness, not the
false superficial one, of the thing he has got to work in.  And how much of
morality is in the kind of insight we get of anything; "the eye seeing in
all things what it brought with it the faculty of seeing"!  To the mean eye
all things are trivial, as certainly as to the jaundiced they are yellow.
Raphael, the Painters tell us, is the best of all Portrait-painters withal.
No most gifted eye can exhaust the significance of any object.  In the
commonest human face there lies more than Raphael will take away with him.

Dante's painting is not graphic only, brief, true, and of a vividness as of
fire in dark night; taken on the wider scale, it is every way noble, and
the outcome of a great soul.  Francesca and her Lover, what qualities in
that!  A thing woven as out of rainbows, on a ground of eternal black.  A
small flute-voice of infinite wail speaks there, into our very heart of
hearts.  A touch of womanhood in it too:  della bella persona, che mi fu
tolta; and how, even in the Pit of woe, it is a solace that he will
never part from her!  Saddest tragedy in these alti guai.  And the
racking winds, in that aer bruno, whirl them away again, to wail
forever!—Strange to think:  Dante was the friend of this poor Francesca's
father; Francesca herself may have sat upon the Poet's knee, as a bright
innocent little child.  Infinite pity, yet also infinite rigor of law:  it
is so Nature is made; it is so Dante discerned that she was made.  What a
paltry notion is that of his Divine Comedy's being a poor splenetic
impotent terrestrial libel; putting those into Hell whom he could not be
avenged upon on earth!  I suppose if ever pity, tender as a mother's, was
in the heart of any man, it was in Dante's.  But a man who does not know
rigor cannot pity either.  His very pity will be cowardly,
egoistic,—sentimentality, or little better.  I know not in the world an
affection equal to that of Dante.  It is a tenderness, a trembling,
longing, pitying love:  like the wail of AEolian harps, soft, soft; like a
child's young heart;—and then that stern, sore-saddened heart!  These
longings of his towards his Beatrice; their meeting together in the
Paradiso; his gazing in her pure transfigured eyes, her that had been
purified by death so long, separated from him so far:—one likens it to the
song of angels; it is among the purest utterances of affection, perhaps the
very purest, that ever came out of a human soul.

For the intense Dante is intense in all things; he has got into the
essence of all.  His intellectual insight as painter, on occasion too as
reasoner, is but the result of all other sorts of intensity.  Morally
great, above all, we must call him; it is the beginning of all.  His scorn,
his grief are as transcendent as his love;—as indeed, what are they but
the inverse or converse of his love?  "A Dio spiacenti ed a' nemici
sui, Hateful to God and to the enemies of God:  "lofty scorn, unappeasable
silent reprobation and aversion; "Non ragionam di lor, We will not speak
of them, look only and pass."  Or think of this; "They have not the
hope to die, Non han speranza di morte."  One day, it had risen sternly
benign on the scathed heart of Dante, that he, wretched, never-resting,
worn as he was, would full surely die; "that Destiny itself could not
doom him not to die."  Such words are in this man.  For rigor, earnestness
and depth, he is not to be paralleled in the modern world; to seek his
parallel we must go into the Hebrew Bible, and live with the antique
Prophets there.

I do not agree with much modern criticism, in greatly preferring the
Inferno to the two other parts of the Divine Commedia.  Such preference
belongs, I imagine, to our general Byronism of taste, and is like to be a
transient feeling.  Thc Purgatorio and Paradiso, especially the former,
one would almost say, is even more excellent than it.  It is a noble thing
that Purgatorio, "Mountain of Purification;" an emblem of the noblest
conception of that age.  If sin is so fatal, and Hell is and must be so
rigorous, awful, yet in Repentance too is man purified; Repentance is the
grand Christian act.  It is beautiful how Dante works it out.  The
tremolar dell' onde, that "trembling" of the ocean-waves, under the first
pure gleam of morning, dawning afar on the wandering Two, is as the type of
an altered mood.  Hope has now dawned; never-dying Hope, if in company
still with heavy sorrow.  The obscure sojourn of demons and reprobate is
underfoot; a soft breathing of penitence mounts higher and higher, to the
Throne of Mercy itself.  "Pray for me," the denizens of that Mount of Pain
all say to him.  "Tell my Giovanna to pray for me," my daughter Giovanna;
"I think her mother loves me no more!"  They toil painfully up by that
winding steep, "bent down like corbels of a building," some of
them,—crushed together so "for the sin of pride;" yet nevertheless in
years, in ages and aeons, they shall have reached the top, which is
heaven's gate, and by Mercy shall have been admitted in.  The joy too of
all, when one has prevailed; the whole Mountain shakes with joy, and a
psalm of praise rises, when one soul has perfected repentance and got its
sin and misery left behind!  I call all this a noble embodiment of a true
noble thought.

But indeed the Three compartments mutually support one another, are
indispensable to one another.  The Paradiso, a kind of inarticulate music
to me, is the redeeming side of the Inferno; the Inferno without it
were untrue.  All three make up the true Unseen World, as figured in the
Christianity of the Middle Ages; a thing forever memorable, forever true in
the essence of it, to all men.  It was perhaps delineated in no human soul
with such depth of veracity as in this of Dante's; a man sent to sing it,
to keep it long memorable.  Very notable with what brief simplicity he
passes out of the every-day reality, into the Invisible one; and in the
second or third stanza, we find ourselves in the World of Spirits; and
dwell there, as among things palpable, indubitable!  To Dante they were
so; the real world, as it is called, and its facts, was but the threshold
to an infinitely higher Fact of a World.  At bottom, the one was as
preternatural as the other.  Has not each man a soul?  He will not only
be a spirit, but is one.  To the earnest Dante it is all one visible Fact;
he believes it, sees it; is the Poet of it in virtue of that.  Sincerity, I
say again, is the saving merit, now as always.

Dante's Hell, Purgatory, Paradise, are a symbol withal, an emblematic
representation of his Belief about this Universe:—some Critic in a future
age, like those Scandinavian ones the other day, who has ceased altogether
to think as Dante did, may find this too all an "Allegory," perhaps an idle
Allegory!  It is a sublime embodiment, or sublimest, of the soul of
Christianity.  It expresses, as in huge world-wide architectural emblems,
how the Christian Dante felt Good and Evil to be the two polar elements of
this Creation, on which it all turns; that these two differ not by
preferability of one to the other, but by incompatibility absolute and
infinite; that the one is excellent and high as light and Heaven, the other
hideous, black as Gehenna and the Pit of Hell!  Everlasting Justice, yet
with Penitence, with everlasting Pity,—all Christianism, as Dante and the
Middle Ages had it, is emblemed here.  Emblemed:  and yet, as I urged the
other day, with what entire truth of purpose; how unconscious of any
embleming!  Hell, Purgatory, Paradise:  these things were not fashioned as
emblems; was there, in our Modern European Mind, any thought at all of
their being emblems!  Were they not indubitable awful facts; the whole
heart of man taking them for practically true, all Nature everywhere
confirming them?  So is it always in these things.  Men do not believe an
Allegory.  The future Critic, whatever his new thought may be, who
considers this of Dante to have been all got up as an Allegory, will commit
one sore mistake!—Paganism we recognized as a veracious expression of the
earnest awe-struck feeling of man towards the Universe; veracious, true
once, and still not without worth for us.  But mark here the difference of
Paganism and Christianism; one great difference.  Paganism emblemed chiefly
the Operations of Nature; the destinies, efforts, combinations,
vicissitudes of things and men in this world; Christianism emblemed the Law
of Human Duty, the Moral Law of Man.  One was for the sensuous nature:  a
rude helpless utterance of the first Thought of men,—the chief recognized
virtue, Courage, Superiority to Fear.  The other was not for the sensuous
nature, but for the moral.  What a progress is here, if in that one respect

And so in this Dante, as we said, had ten silent centuries, in a very
strange way, found a voice.  The Divina Commedia is of Dante's writing;
yet in truth it belongs to ten Christian centuries, only the finishing of
it is Dante's.  So always.  The craftsman there, the smith with that metal
of his, with these tools, with these cunning methods,—how little of all he
does is properly his work!  All past inventive men work there with
him;—as indeed with all of us, in all things.  Dante is the spokesman of
the Middle Ages; the Thought they lived by stands here, in everlasting
music.  These sublime ideas of his, terrible and beautiful, are the fruit
of the Christian Meditation of all the good men who had gone before him.
Precious they; but also is not he precious?  Much, had not he spoken, would
have been dumb; not dead, yet living voiceless.

On the whole, is it not an utterance, this mystic Song, at once of one of
the greatest human souls, and of the highest thing that Europe had hitherto
realized for itself?  Christianism, as Dante sings it, is another than
Paganism in the rude Norse mind; another than "Bastard Christianism" half-
articulately spoken in the Arab Desert, seven hundred years before!—The
noblest idea made real hitherto among men, is sung, and emblemed forth
abidingly, by one of the noblest men.  In the one sense and in the other,
are we not right glad to possess it?  As I calculate, it may last yet for
long thousands of years.  For the thing that is uttered from the inmost
parts of a man's soul, differs altogether from what is uttered by the outer
part.  The outer is of the day, under the empire of mode; the outer passes
away, in swift endless changes; the inmost is the same yesterday, to-day
and forever.  True souls, in all generations of the world, who look on this
Dante, will find a brotherhood in him; the deep sincerity of his thoughts,
his woes and hopes, will speak likewise to their sincerity; they will feel
that this Dante too was a brother.  Napoleon in Saint Helena is charmed
with the genial veracity of old Homer.  The oldest Hebrew Prophet, under a
vesture the most diverse from ours, does yet, because he speaks from the
heart of man, speak to all men's hearts.  It is the one sole secret of
continuing long memorable.  Dante, for depth of sincerity, is like an
antique Prophet too; his words, like theirs, come from his very heart.  One
need not wonder if it were predicted that his Poem might be the most
enduring thing our Europe has yet made; for nothing so endures as a truly
spoken word.  All cathedrals, pontificalities, brass and stone, and outer
arrangement never so lasting, are brief in comparison to an unfathomable
heart-song like this:  one feels as if it might survive, still of
importance to men, when these had all sunk into new irrecognizable
combinations, and had ceased individually to be.  Europe has made much;
great cities, great empires, encyclopaedias, creeds, bodies of opinion and
practice:  but it has made little of the class of Dante's Thought.  Homer
yet is veritably present face to face with every open soul of us; and
Greece, where is it?  Desolate for thousands of years; away, vanished; a
bewildered heap of stones and rubbish, the life and existence of it all
gone.  Like a dream; like the dust of King Agamemnon!  Greece was; Greece,
except in the words it spoke, is not.

The uses of this Dante?  We will not say much about his "uses."  A human
soul who has once got into that primal element of Song, and sung forth
fitly somewhat therefrom, has worked in the depths of our existence;
feeding through long times the life-roots of all excellent human things
whatsoever,—in a way that "utilities" will not succeed well in
calculating!  We will not estimate the Sun by the quantity of gaslight it
saves us; Dante shall be invaluable, or of no value.  One remark I may
make:  the contrast in this respect between the Hero-Poet and the
Hero-Prophet.  In a hundred years, Mahomet, as we saw, had his Arabians at
Grenada and at Delhi; Dante's Italians seem to be yet very much where they
were.  Shall we say, then, Dante's effect on the world was small in
comparison?  Not so:  his arena is far more restricted; but also it is far
nobler, clearer;—perhaps not less but more important.  Mahomet speaks to
great masses of men, in the coarse dialect adapted to such; a dialect
filled with inconsistencies, crudities, follies:  on the great masses alone
can he act, and there with good and with evil strangely blended.  Dante
speaks to the noble, the pure and great, in all times and places.  Neither
does he grow obsolete, as the other does.  Dante burns as a pure star,
fixed there in the firmament, at which the great and the high of all ages
kindle themselves:  he is the possession of all the chosen of the world for
uncounted time.  Dante, one calculates, may long survive Mahomet.  In this
way the balance may be made straight again.

But, at any rate, it is not by what is called their effect on the world, by
what we can judge of their effect there, that a man and his work are
measured.  Effect?  Influence?  Utility?  Let a man do his work; the
fruit of it is the care of Another than he.  It will grow its own fruit;
and whether embodied in Caliph Thrones and Arabian Conquests, so that it
"fills all Morning and Evening Newspapers," and all Histories, which are a
kind of distilled Newspapers; or not embodied so at all;—what matters
that?  That is not the real fruit of it!  The Arabian Caliph, in so far
only as he did something, was something.  If the great Cause of Man, and
Man's work in God's Earth, got no furtherance from the Arabian Caliph, then
no matter how many scimetars he drew, how many gold piasters pocketed, and
what uproar and blaring he made in this world,—he was but a
loud-sounding inanity and futility; at bottom, he was not at all.  Let us
honor the great empire of Silence, once more!  The boundless treasury
which we do not jingle in our pockets, or count up and present before men!
It is perhaps, of all things, the usefulest for each of us to do, in these
loud times.—

As Dante, the Italian man, was sent into our world to embody musically the
Religion of the Middle Ages, the Religion of our Modern Europe, its Inner
Life; so Shakspeare, we may say, embodies for us the Outer Life of our
Europe as developed then, its chivalries, courtesies, humors, ambitions,
what practical way of thinking, acting, looking at the world, men then had.
As in Homer we may still construe Old Greece; so in Shakspeare and Dante,
after thousands of years, what our modern Europe was, in Faith and in
Practice, will still be legible.  Dante has given us the Faith or soul;
Shakspeare, in a not less noble way, has given us the Practice or body.
This latter also we were to have; a man was sent for it, the man
Shakspeare.  Just when that chivalry way of life had reached its last
finish, and was on the point of breaking down into slow or swift
dissolution, as we now see it everywhere, this other sovereign Poet, with
his seeing eye, with his perennial singing voice, was sent to take note of
it, to give long-enduring record of it.  Two fit men:  Dante, deep, fierce
as the central fire of the world; Shakspeare, wide, placid, far-seeing, as
the Sun, the upper light of the world.  Italy produced the one world-voice;
we English had the honor of producing the other.

Curious enough how, as it were by mere accident, this man came to us.  I
think always, so great, quiet, complete and self-sufficing is this
Shakspeare, had the Warwickshire Squire not prosecuted him for
deer-stealing, we had perhaps never heard of him as a Poet!  The woods and
skies, the rustic Life of Man in Stratford there, had been enough for this
man!  But indeed that strange outbudding of our whole English Existence,
which we call the Elizabethan Era, did not it too come as of its own
accord?  The "Tree Igdrasil" buds and withers by its own laws,—too deep
for our scanning.  Yet it does bud and wither, and every bough and leaf of
it is there, by fixed eternal laws; not a Sir Thomas Lucy but comes at the
hour fit for him.  Curious, I say, and not sufficiently considered:  how
everything does co-operate with all; not a leaf rotting on the highway but
is indissoluble portion of solar and stellar systems; no thought, word or
act of man but has sprung withal out of all men, and works sooner or later,
recognizably or irrecognizable, on all men!  It is all a Tree:  circulation
of sap and influences, mutual communication of every minutest leaf with the
lowest talon of a root, with every other greatest and minutest portion of
the whole.  The Tree Igdrasil, that has its roots down in the Kingdoms of
Hela and Death, and whose boughs overspread the highest Heaven!—

In some sense it may be said that this glorious Elizabethan Era with its
Shakspeare, as the outcome and flowerage of all which had preceded it, is
itself attributable to the Catholicism of the Middle Ages.  The Christian
Faith, which was the theme of Dante's Song, had produced this Practical
Life which Shakspeare was to sing.  For Religion then, as it now and always
is, was the soul of Practice; the primary vital fact in men's life.  And
remark here, as rather curious, that Middle-Age Catholicism was abolished,
so far as Acts of Parliament could abolish it, before Shakspeare, the
noblest product of it, made his appearance.  He did make his appearance
nevertheless.  Nature at her own time, with Catholicism or what else might
be necessary, sent him forth; taking small thought of Acts of Parliament.
King Henrys, Queen Elizabeths go their way; and Nature too goes hers.  Acts
of Parliament, on the whole, are small, notwithstanding the noise they
make.  What Act of Parliament, debate at St. Stephen's, on the hustings or
elsewhere, was it that brought this Shakspeare into being?  No dining at
Freemason's Tavern, opening subscription-lists, selling of shares, and
infinite other jangling and true or false endeavoring!  This Elizabethan
Era, and all its nobleness and blessedness, came without proclamation,
preparation of ours.  Priceless Shakspeare was the free gift of Nature;
given altogether silently;—received altogether silently, as if it had been
a thing of little account.  And yet, very literally, it is a priceless
thing.  One should look at that side of matters too.

Of this Shakspeare of ours, perhaps the opinion one sometimes hears a
little idolatrously expressed is, in fact, the right one; I think the best
judgment not of this country only, but of Europe at large, is slowly
pointing to the conclusion, that Shakspeare is the chief of all Poets
hitherto; the greatest intellect who, in our recorded world, has left
record of himself in the way of Literature.  On the whole, I know not such
a power of vision, such a faculty of thought, if we take all the characters
of it, in any other man.  Such a calmness of depth; placid joyous strength;
all things imaged in that great soul of his so true and clear, as in a
tranquil unfathomable sea!  It has been said, that in the constructing of
Shakspeare's Dramas there is, apart from all other "faculties" as they are
called, an understanding manifested, equal to that in Bacon's Novum
Organum That is true; and it is not a truth that strikes every one.  It
would become more apparent if we tried, any of us for himself, how, out of
Shakspeare's dramatic materials, we could fashion such a result!  The
built house seems all so fit,—every way as it should be, as if it came
there by its own law and the nature of things,—we forget the rude
disorderly quarry it was shaped from.  The very perfection of the house, as
if Nature herself had made it, hides the builder's merit.  Perfect, more
perfect than any other man, we may call Shakspeare in this:  he discerns,
knows as by instinct, what condition he works under, what his materials
are, what his own force and its relation to them is.  It is not a
transitory glance of insight that will suffice; it is deliberate
illumination of the whole matter; it is a calmly seeing eye; a great
intellect, in short.  How a man, of some wide thing that he has witnessed,
will construct a narrative, what kind of picture and delineation he will
give of it,—is the best measure you could get of what intellect is in the
man.  Which circumstance is vital and shall stand prominent; which
unessential, fit to be suppressed; where is the true beginning, the true
sequence and ending?  To find out this, you task the whole force of insight
that is in the man.  He must understand the thing; according to the depth
of his understanding, will the fitness of his answer be.  You will try him
so.  Does like join itself to like; does the spirit of method stir in that
confusion, so that its embroilment becomes order?  Can the man say, Fiat
lux, Let there be light; and out of chaos make a world?  Precisely as
there is light in himself, will he accomplish this.

Or indeed we may say again, it is in what I called Portrait-painting,
delineating of men and things, especially of men, that Shakspeare is great.
All the greatness of the man comes out decisively here.  It is unexampled,
I think, that calm creative perspicacity of Shakspeare.  The thing he looks
at reveals not this or that face of it, but its inmost heart, and generic
secret:  it dissolves itself as in light before him, so that he discerns
the perfect structure of it.  Creative, we said:  poetic creation, what is
this too but seeing the thing sufficiently?  The word that will
describe the thing, follows of itself from such clear intense sight of the
thing.  And is not Shakspeare's morality, his valor, candor, tolerance,
truthfulness; his whole victorious strength and greatness, which can
triumph over such obstructions, visible there too?  Great as the world.  No
twisted, poor convex-concave mirror, reflecting all objects with its own
convexities and concavities; a perfectly level mirror;—that is to say
withal, if we will understand it, a man justly related to all things and
men, a good man.  It is truly a lordly spectacle how this great soul takes
in all kinds of men and objects, a Falstaff, an Othello, a Juliet, a
Coriolanus; sets them all forth to us in their round completeness; loving,
just, the equal brother of all.  Novum Organum, and all the intellect you
will find in Bacon, is of a quite secondary order; earthy, material, poor
in comparison with this.  Among modern men, one finds, in strictness,
almost nothing of the same rank.  Goethe alone, since the days of
Shakspeare, reminds me of it.  Of him too you say that he saw the object;
you may say what he himself says of Shakspeare:  "His characters are like
watches with dial-plates of transparent crystal; they show you the hour
like others, and the inward mechanism also is all visible."

The seeing eye!  It is this that discloses the inner harmony of things;
what Nature meant, what musical idea Nature has wrapped up in these often
rough embodiments.  Something she did mean.  To the seeing eye that
something were discernible.  Are they base, miserable things?  You can
laugh over them, you can weep over them; you can in some way or other
genially relate yourself to them;—you can, at lowest, hold your peace
about them, turn away your own and others' face from them, till the hour
come for practically exterminating and extinguishing them!  At bottom, it
is the Poet's first gift, as it is all men's, that he have intellect
enough.  He will be a Poet if he have:  a Poet in word; or failing that,
perhaps still better, a Poet in act.  Whether he write at all; and if so,
whether in prose or in verse, will depend on accidents:  who knows on what
extremely trivial accidents,—perhaps on his having had a singing-master,
on his being taught to sing in his boyhood!  But the faculty which enables
him to discern the inner heart of things, and the harmony that dwells there
(for whatsoever exists has a harmony in the heart of it, or it would not
hold together and exist), is not the result of habits or accidents, but the
gift of Nature herself; the primary outfit for a Heroic Man in what sort
soever.  To the Poet, as to every other, we say first of all, See.  If
you cannot do that, it is of no use to keep stringing rhymes together,
jingling sensibilities against each other, and name yourself a Poet;
there is no hope for you.  If you can, there is, in prose or verse, in
action or speculation, all manner of hope.  The crabbed old Schoolmaster
used to ask, when they brought him a new pupil, "But are ye sure he's not
a dunce?"  Why, really one might ask the same thing, in regard to every
man proposed for whatsoever function; and consider it as the one inquiry
needful:  Are ye sure he's not a dunce?  There is, in this world, no other
entirely fatal person.

For, in fact, I say the degree of vision that dwells in a man is a correct
measure of the man.  If called to define Shakspeare's faculty, I should say
superiority of Intellect, and think I had included all under that.  What
indeed are faculties?  We talk of faculties as if they were distinct,
things separable; as if a man had intellect, imagination, fancy, &c., as he
has hands, feet and arms.  That is a capital error.  Then again, we hear of
a man's "intellectual nature," and of his "moral nature," as if these again
were divisible, and existed apart.  Necessities of language do perhaps
prescribe such forms of utterance; we must speak, I am aware, in that way,
if we are to speak at all.  But words ought not to harden into things for
us.  It seems to me, our apprehension of this matter is, for most part,
radically falsified thereby.  We ought to know withal, and to keep forever
in mind, that these divisions are at bottom but names; that man's
spiritual nature, the vital Force which dwells in him, is essentially one
and indivisible; that what we call imagination, fancy, understanding, and
so forth, are but different figures of the same Power of Insight, all
indissolubly connected with each other, physiognomically related; that if
we knew one of them, we might know all of them.  Morality itself, what we
call the moral quality of a man, what is this but another side of the one
vital Force whereby he is and works?  All that a man does is physiognomical
of him.  You may see how a man would fight, by the way in which he sings;
his courage, or want of courage, is visible in the word he utters, in the
opinion he has formed, no less than in the stroke he strikes.  He is one;
and preaches the same Self abroad in all these ways.

Without hands a man might have feet, and could still walk:  but, consider
it,—without morality, intellect were impossible for him; a thoroughly
immoral man could not know anything at all!  To know a thing, what we can
call knowing, a man must first love the thing, sympathize with it:  that
is, be virtuously related to it.  If he have not the justice to put down
his own selfishness at every turn, the courage to stand by the
dangerous-true at every turn, how shall he know?  His virtues, all of them,
will lie recorded in his knowledge.  Nature, with her truth, remains to the
bad, to the selfish and the pusillanimous forever a sealed book:  what such
can know of Nature is mean, superficial, small; for the uses of the day
merely.—But does not the very Fox know something of Nature?  Exactly so:
it knows where the geese lodge!  The human Reynard, very frequent
everywhere in the world, what more does he know but this and the like of
this?  Nay, it should be considered too, that if the Fox had not a certain
vulpine morality, he could not even know where the geese were, or get at
the geese!  If he spent his time in splenetic atrabiliar reflections on his
own misery, his ill usage by Nature, Fortune and other Foxes, and so forth;
and had not courage, promptitude, practicality, and other suitable vulpine
gifts and graces, he would catch no geese.  We may say of the Fox too, that
his morality and insight are of the same dimensions; different faces of the
same internal unity of vulpine life!—These things are worth stating; for
the contrary of them acts with manifold very baleful perversion, in this
time:  what limitations, modifications they require, your own candor will

If I say, therefore, that Shakspeare is the greatest of Intellects, I have
said all concerning him.  But there is more in Shakspeare's intellect than
we have yet seen.  It is what I call an unconscious intellect; there is
more virtue in it than he himself is aware of.  Novalis beautifully remarks
of him, that those Dramas of his are Products of Nature too, deep as Nature
herself.  I find a great truth in this saying.  Shakspeare's Art is not
Artifice; the noblest worth of it is not there by plan or precontrivance.
It grows up from the deeps of Nature, through this noble sincere soul, who
is a voice of Nature.  The latest generations of men will find new meanings
in Shakspeare, new elucidations of their own human being; "new harmonies
with the infinite structure of the Universe; concurrences with later ideas,
affinities with the higher powers and senses of man."  This well deserves
meditating.  It is Nature's highest reward to a true simple great soul,
that he get thus to be a part of herself.  Such a man's works, whatsoever
he with utmost conscious exertion and forethought shall accomplish, grow up
withal unconsciously, from the unknown deeps in him;—as the oak-tree grows
from the Earth's bosom, as the mountains and waters shape themselves; with
a symmetry grounded on Nature's own laws, conformable to all Truth
whatsoever.  How much in Shakspeare lies hid; his sorrows, his silent
struggles known to himself; much that was not known at all, not speakable
at all:  like roots, like sap and forces working underground!  Speech is
great; but Silence is greater.

Withal the joyful tranquillity of this man is notable.  I will not blame
Dante for his misery:  it is as battle without victory; but true
battle,—the first, indispensable thing.  Yet I call Shakspeare greater
than Dante, in that he fought truly, and did conquer.  Doubt it not, he had
his own sorrows:  those Sonnets of his will even testify expressly in
what deep waters he had waded, and swum struggling for his life;—as what
man like him ever failed to have to do?  It seems to me a heedless notion,
our common one, that he sat like a bird on the bough; and sang forth, free
and off-hand, never knowing the troubles of other men.  Not so; with no man
is it so.  How could a man travel forward from rustic deer-poaching to such
tragedy-writing, and not fall in with sorrows by the way?  Or, still
better, how could a man delineate a Hamlet, a Coriolanus, a Macbeth, so
many suffering heroic hearts, if his own heroic heart had never
suffered?—And now, in contrast with all this, observe his mirthfulness,
his genuine overflowing love of laughter!  You would say, in no point does
he exaggerate but only in laughter.  Fiery objurgations, words that
pierce and burn, are to be found in Shakspeare; yet he is always in measure
here; never what Johnson would remark as a specially "good hater."  But his
laughter seems to pour from him in floods; he heaps all manner of
ridiculous nicknames on the butt he is bantering, tumbles and tosses him in
all sorts of horse-play; you would say, with his whole heart laughs.  And
then, if not always the finest, it is always a genial laughter.  Not at
mere weakness, at misery or poverty; never.  No man who can laugh, what
we call laughing, will laugh at these things.  It is some poor character
only desiring to laugh, and have the credit of wit, that does so.
Laughter means sympathy; good laughter is not "the crackling of thorns
under the pot."  Even at stupidity and pretension this Shakspeare does not
laugh otherwise than genially.  Dogberry and Verges tickle our very hearts;
and we dismiss them covered with explosions of laughter:  but we like the
poor fellows only the better for our laughing; and hope they will get on
well there, and continue Presidents of the City-watch.  Such laughter, like
sunshine on the deep sea, is very beautiful to me.

We have no room to speak of Shakspeare's individual works; though perhaps
there is much still waiting to be said on that head.  Had we, for instance,
all his plays reviewed as Hamlet, in Wilhelm Meister, is!  A thing
which might, one day, be done.  August Wilhelm Schlegel has a remark on his
Historical Plays, Henry Fifth and the others, which is worth remembering.
He calls them a kind of National Epic.  Marlborough, you recollect, said,
he knew no English History but what he had learned from Shakspeare.  There
are really, if we look to it, few as memorable Histories.  The great
salient points are admirably seized; all rounds itself off, into a kind of
rhythmic coherence; it is, as Schlegel says, epic;—as indeed all
delineation by a great thinker will be.  There are right beautiful things
in those Pieces, which indeed together form one beautiful thing.  That
battle of Agincourt strikes me as one of the most perfect things, in its
sort, we anywhere have of Shakspeare's.  The description of the two hosts:
the worn-out, jaded English; the dread hour, big with destiny, when the
battle shall begin; and then that deathless valor:  "Ye good yeomen, whose
limbs were made in England!"  There is a noble Patriotism in it,—far other
than the "indifference" you sometimes hear ascribed to Shakspeare.  A true
English heart breathes, calm and strong, through the whole business; not
boisterous, protrusive; all the better for that.  There is a sound in it
like the ring of steel.  This man too had a right stroke in him, had it
come to that!

But I will say, of Shakspeare's works generally, that we have no full
impress of him there; even as full as we have of many men.  His works are
so many windows, through which we see a glimpse of the world that was in
him.  All his works seem, comparatively speaking, cursory, imperfect,
written under cramping circumstances; giving only here and there a note of
the full utterance of the man.  Passages there are that come upon you like
splendor out of Heaven; bursts of radiance, illuminating the very heart of
the thing:  you say, "That is true, spoken once and forever; wheresoever
and whensoever there is an open human soul, that will be recognized as
true!"  Such bursts, however, make us feel that the surrounding matter is
not radiant; that it is, in part, temporary, conventional.  Alas,
Shakspeare had to write for the Globe Playhouse:  his great soul had to
crush itself, as it could, into that and no other mould.  It was with him,
then, as it is with us all.  No man works save under conditions.  The
sculptor cannot set his own free Thought before us; but his Thought as he
could translate it into the stone that was given, with the tools that were
given.  Disjecta membra are all that we find of any Poet, or of any man.

Whoever looks intelligently at this Shakspeare may recognize that he too
was a Prophet, in his way; of an insight analogous to the Prophetic,
though he took it up in another strain.  Nature seemed to this man also
divine; unspeakable, deep as Tophet, high as Heaven; "We are such stuff as
Dreams are made of!"  That scroll in Westminster Abbey, which few read with
understanding, is of the depth of any seer.  But the man sang; did not
preach, except musically.  We called Dante the melodious Priest of
Middle-Age Catholicism.  May we not call Shakspeare the still more
melodious Priest of a true Catholicism, the "Universal Church" of the
Future and of all times?  No narrow superstition, harsh asceticism,
intolerance, fanatical fierceness or perversion:  a Revelation, so far as
it goes, that such a thousand-fold hidden beauty and divineness dwells in
all Nature; which let all men worship as they can!  We may say without
offence, that there rises a kind of universal Psalm out of this Shakspeare
too; not unfit to make itself heard among the still more sacred Psalms.
Not in disharmony with these, if we understood them, but in harmony!—I
cannot call this Shakspeare a "Sceptic," as some do; his indifference to
the creeds and theological quarrels of his time misleading them.  No:
neither unpatriotic, though he says little about his Patriotism; nor
sceptic, though he says little about his Faith.  Such "indifference" was
the fruit of his greatness withal:  his whole heart was in his own grand
sphere of worship (we may call it such); these other controversies, vitally
important to other men, were not vital to him.

But call it worship, call it what you will, is it not a right glorious
thing, and set of things, this that Shakspeare has brought us?  For myself,
I feel that there is actually a kind of sacredness in the fact of such a
man being sent into this Earth.  Is he not an eye to us all; a blessed
heaven-sent Bringer of Light?—And, at bottom, was it not perhaps far
better that this Shakspeare, every way an unconscious man, was conscious
of no Heavenly message?  He did not feel, like Mahomet, because he saw into
those internal Splendors, that he specially was the "Prophet of God:"  and
was he not greater than Mahomet in that?  Greater; and also, if we compute
strictly, as we did in Dante's case, more successful.  It was intrinsically
an error that notion of Mahomet's, of his supreme Prophethood; and has come
down to us inextricably involved in error to this day; dragging along with
it such a coil of fables, impurities, intolerances, as makes it a
questionable step for me here and now to say, as I have done, that Mahomet
was a true Speaker at all, and not rather an ambitious charlatan,
perversity and simulacrum; no Speaker, but a Babbler!  Even in Arabia, as I
compute, Mahomet will have exhausted himself and become obsolete, while
this Shakspeare, this Dante may still be young;—while this Shakspeare may
still pretend to be a Priest of Mankind, of Arabia as of other places, for
unlimited periods to come!

Compared with any speaker or singer one knows, even with Aeschylus or
Homer, why should he not, for veracity and universality, last like them?
He is sincere as they; reaches deep down like them, to the universal and
perennial.  But as for Mahomet, I think it had been better for him not to
be so conscious!  Alas, poor Mahomet; all that he was conscious of was a
mere error; a futility and triviality,—as indeed such ever is.  The truly
great in him too was the unconscious:  that he was a wild Arab lion of the
desert, and did speak out with that great thunder-voice of his, not by
words which he thought to be great, but by actions, by feelings, by a
history which were great!  His Koran has become a stupid piece of prolix
absurdity; we do not believe, like him, that God wrote that! The Great Man
here too, as always, is a Force of Nature.  whatsoever is truly great in
him springs up from the inarticulate deeps.

Well:  this is our poor Warwickshire Peasant, who rose to be Manager of a
Playhouse, so that he could live without begging; whom the Earl of
Southampton cast some kind glances on; whom Sir Thomas Lucy, many thanks to
him, was for sending to the Treadmill!  We did not account him a god, like
Odin, while he dwelt with us;—on which point there were much to be said.
But I will say rather, or repeat:  In spite of the sad state Hero-worship
now lies in, consider what this Shakspeare has actually become among us.
Which Englishman we ever made, in this land of ours, which million of
Englishmen, would we not give up rather than the Stratford Peasant?  There
is no regiment of highest Dignitaries that we would sell him for.  He is
the grandest thing we have yet done.  For our honor among foreign nations,
as an ornament to our English Household, what item is there that we would
not surrender rather than him?  Consider now, if they asked us, Will you
give up your Indian Empire or your Shakspeare, you English; never have had
any Indian Empire, or never have had any Shakspeare?  Really it were a
grave question.  Official persons would answer doubtless in official
language; but we, for our part too, should not we be forced to answer:
Indian Empire, or no Indian Empire; we cannot do without Shakspeare!
Indian Empire will go, at any rate, some day; but this Shakspeare does not
go, he lasts forever with us; we cannot give up our Shakspeare!

Nay, apart from spiritualities; and considering him merely as a real,
marketable, tangibly useful possession.  England, before long, this Island
of ours, will hold but a small fraction of the English:  in America, in New
Holland, east and west to the very Antipodes, there will be a Saxondom
covering great spaces of the Globe.  And now, what is it that can keep all
these together into virtually one Nation, so that they do not fall out and
fight, but live at peace, in brotherlike intercourse, helping one another?
This is justly regarded as the greatest practical problem, the thing all
manner of sovereignties and governments are here to accomplish:  what is it
that will accomplish this?  Acts of Parliament, administrative
prime-ministers cannot.  America is parted from us, so far as Parliament
could part it.  Call it not fantastic, for there is much reality in it:
Here, I say, is an English King, whom no time or chance, Parliament or
combination of Parliaments, can dethrone!  This King Shakspeare, does not
he shine, in crowned sovereignty, over us all, as the noblest, gentlest,
yet strongest of rallying-signs; indestructible; really more valuable in
that point of view than any other means or appliance whatsoever?  We can
fancy him as radiant aloft over all the Nations of Englishmen, a thousand
years hence.  From Paramatta, from New York, wheresoever, under what sort
of Parish-Constable soever, English men and women are, they will say to one
another:  "Yes, this Shakspeare is ours; we produced him, we speak and
think by him; we are of one blood and kind with him."  The most
common-sense politician, too, if he pleases, may think of that.

Yes, truly, it is a great thing for a Nation that it get an articulate
voice; that it produce a man who will speak forth melodiously what the
heart of it means!  Italy, for example, poor Italy lies dismembered,
scattered asunder, not appearing in any protocol or treaty as a unity at
all; yet the noble Italy is actually one:  Italy produced its Dante;
Italy can speak!  The Czar of all the Russias, he is strong with so many
bayonets, Cossacks and cannons; and does a great feat in keeping such a
tract of Earth politically together; but he cannot yet speak.  Something
great in him, but it is a dumb greatness.  He has had no voice of genius,
to be heard of all men and times.  He must learn to speak.  He is a great
dumb monster hitherto.  His cannons and Cossacks will all have rusted into
nonentity, while that Dante's voice is still audible.  The Nation that has
a Dante is bound together as no dumb Russia can be.—We must here end what
we had to say of the Hero-Poet.

[May 15, 1840.]

Our present discourse is to be of the Great Man as Priest.  We have
repeatedly endeavored to explain that all sorts of Heroes are intrinsically
of the same material; that given a great soul, open to the Divine
Significance of Life, then there is given a man fit to speak of this, to
sing of this, to fight and work for this, in a great, victorious, enduring
manner; there is given a Hero,—the outward shape of whom will depend on
the time and the environment he finds himself in.  The Priest too, as I
understand it, is a kind of Prophet; in him too there is required to be a
light of inspiration, as we must name it.  He presides over the worship of
the people; is the Uniter of them with the Unseen Holy.  He is the
spiritual Captain of the people; as the Prophet is their spiritual King
with many captains:  he guides them heavenward, by wise guidance through
this Earth and its work.  The ideal of him is, that he too be what we can
call a voice from the unseen Heaven; interpreting, even as the Prophet did,
and in a more familiar manner unfolding the same to men.  The unseen
Heaven,—the "open secret of the Universe,"—which so few have an eye for!
He is the Prophet shorn of his more awful splendor; burning with mild
equable radiance, as the enlightener of daily life.  This, I say, is the
ideal of a Priest.  So in old times; so in these, and in all times.  One
knows very well that, in reducing ideals to practice, great latitude of
tolerance is needful; very great.  But a Priest who is not this at all, who
does not any longer aim or try to be this, is a character—of whom we had
rather not speak in this place.

Luther and Knox were by express vocation Priests, and did faithfully
perform that function in its common sense.  Yet it will suit us better here
to consider them chiefly in their historical character, rather as Reformers
than Priests.  There have been other Priests perhaps equally notable, in
calmer times, for doing faithfully the office of a Leader of Worship;
bringing down, by faithful heroism in that kind, a light from Heaven into
the daily life of their people; leading them forward, as under God's
guidance, in the way wherein they were to go.  But when this same way was
a rough one, of battle, confusion and danger, the spiritual Captain, who
led through that, becomes, especially to us who live under the fruit of his
leading, more notable than any other.  He is the warfaring and battling
Priest; who led his people, not to quiet faithful labor as in smooth times,
but to faithful valorous conflict, in times all violent, dismembered:  a
more perilous service, and a more memorable one, be it higher or not.
These two men we will account our best Priests, inasmuch as they were our
best Reformers.  Nay I may ask, Is not every true Reformer, by the nature
of him, a Priest first of all?  He appeals to Heaven's invisible justice
against Earth's visible force; knows that it, the invisible, is strong and
alone strong.  He is a believer in the divine truth of things; a seer,
seeing through the shows of things; a worshipper, in one way or the other,
of the divine truth of things; a Priest, that is.  If he be not first a
Priest, he will never be good for much as a Reformer.

Thus then, as we have seen Great Men, in various situations, building up
Religions, heroic Forms of human Existence in this world, Theories of Life
worthy to be sung by a Dante, Practices of Life by a Shakspeare,—we are
now to see the reverse process; which also is necessary, which also may be
carried on in the Heroic manner.  Curious how this should be necessary:
yet necessary it is.  The mild shining of the Poet's light has to give
place to the fierce lightning of the Reformer:  unfortunately the Reformer
too is a personage that cannot fail in History!  The Poet indeed, with his
mildness, what is he but the product and ultimate adjustment of Reform, or
Prophecy, with its fierceness?  No wild Saint Dominics and Thebaid
Eremites, there had been no melodious Dante; rough Practical Endeavor,
Scandinavian and other, from Odin to Walter Raleigh, from Ulfila to
Cranmer, enabled Shakspeare to speak.  Nay the finished Poet, I remark
sometimes, is a symptom that his epoch itself has reached perfection and is
finished; that before long there will be a new epoch, new Reformers needed.

Doubtless it were finer, could we go along always in the way of music; be
tamed and taught by our Poets, as the rude creatures were by their Orpheus
of old.  Or failing this rhythmic musical way, how good were it could we
get so much as into the equable way; I mean, if peaceable Priests,
reforming from day to day, would always suffice us!  But it is not so; even
this latter has not yet been realized.  Alas, the battling Reformer too is,
from time to time, a needful and inevitable phenomenon.  Obstructions are
never wanting:  the very things that were once indispensable furtherances
become obstructions; and need to be shaken off, and left behind us,—a
business often of enormous difficulty.  It is notable enough, surely, how a
Theorem or spiritual Representation, so we may call it, which once took in
the whole Universe, and was completely satisfactory in all parts of it to
the highly discursive acute intellect of Dante, one of the greatest in the
world,—had in the course of another century become dubitable to common
intellects; become deniable; and is now, to every one of us, flatly
incredible, obsolete as Odin's Theorem!  To Dante, human Existence, and
God's ways with men, were all well represented by those Malebolges,
Purgatorios; to Luther not well.  How was this?  Why could not Dante's
Catholicism continue; but Luther's Protestantism must needs follow?  Alas,
nothing will continue.

I do not make much of "Progress of the Species," as handled in these times
of ours; nor do I think you would care to hear much about it.  The talk on
that subject is too often of the most extravagant, confused sort.  Yet I
may say, the fact itself seems certain enough; nay we can trace out the
inevitable necessity of it in the nature of things.  Every man, as I have
stated somewhere, is not only a learner but a doer:  he learns with the
mind given him what has been; but with the same mind he discovers farther,
he invents and devises somewhat of his own.  Absolutely without originality
there is no man.  No man whatever believes, or can believe, exactly what
his grandfather believed:  he enlarges somewhat, by fresh discovery, his
view of the Universe, and consequently his Theorem of the Universe,—which
is an infinite Universe, and can never be embraced wholly or finally by
any view or Theorem, in any conceivable enlargement:  he enlarges somewhat,
I say; finds somewhat that was credible to his grandfather incredible to
him, false to him, inconsistent with some new thing he has discovered or
observed.  It is the history of every man; and in the history of Mankind we
see it summed up into great historical amounts,—revolutions, new epochs.
Dante's Mountain of Purgatory does not stand "in the ocean of the other
Hemisphere," when Columbus has once sailed thither!  Men find no such thing
extant in the other Hemisphere.  It is not there.  It must cease to be
believed to be there.  So with all beliefs whatsoever in this world,—all
Systems of Belief, and Systems of Practice that spring from these.

If we add now the melancholy fact, that when Belief waxes uncertain,
Practice too becomes unsound, and errors, injustices and miseries
everywhere more and more prevail, we shall see material enough for
revolution.  At all turns, a man who will do faithfully, needs to believe
firmly.  If he have to ask at every turn the world's suffrage; if he cannot
dispense with the world's suffrage, and make his own suffrage serve, he is
a poor eye-servant; the work committed to him will be misdone.  Every
such man is a daily contributor to the inevitable downfall.  Whatsoever
work he does, dishonestly, with an eye to the outward look of it, is a new
offence, parent of new misery to somebody or other.  Offences accumulate
till they become insupportable; and are then violently burst through,
cleared off as by explosion.  Dante's sublime Catholicism, incredible now
in theory, and defaced still worse by faithless, doubting and dishonest
practice, has to be torn asunder by a Luther, Shakspeare's noble Feudalism,
as beautiful as it once looked and was, has to end in a French Revolution.
The accumulation of offences is, as we say, too literally exploded,
blasted asunder volcanically; and there are long troublous periods, before
matters come to a settlement again.

Surely it were mournful enough to look only at this face of the matter, and
find in all human opinions and arrangements merely the fact that they were
uncertain, temporary, subject to the law of death!  At bottom, it is not
so:  all death, here too we find, is but of the body, not of the essence or
soul; all destruction, by violent revolution or howsoever it be, is but new
creation on a wider scale.  Odinism was Valor; Christianism was
Humility, a nobler kind of Valor.  No thought that ever dwelt honestly as
true in the heart of man but was an honest insight into God's truth on
man's part, and has an essential truth in it which endures through all
changes, an everlasting possession for us all.  And, on the other hand,
what a melancholy notion is that, which has to represent all men, in all
countries and times except our own, as having spent their life in blind
condemnable error, mere lost Pagans, Scandinavians, Mahometans, only that
we might have the true ultimate knowledge!  All generations of men were
lost and wrong, only that this present little section of a generation might
be saved and right.  They all marched forward there, all generations since
the beginning of the world, like the Russian soldiers into the ditch of
Schweidnitz Fort, only to fill up the ditch with their dead bodies, that we
might march over and take the place!  It is an incredible hypothesis.

Such incredible hypothesis we have seen maintained with fierce emphasis;
and this or the other poor individual man, with his sect of individual men,
marching as over the dead bodies of all men, towards sure victory but when
he too, with his hypothesis and ultimate infallible credo, sank into the
ditch, and became a dead body, what was to be said?—Withal, it is an
important fact in the nature of man, that he tends to reckon his own
insight as final, and goes upon it as such.  He will always do it, I
suppose, in one or the other way; but it must be in some wider, wiser way
than this.  Are not all true men that live, or that ever lived, soldiers of
the same army, enlisted, under Heaven's captaincy, to do battle against the
same enemy, the empire of Darkness and Wrong?  Why should we misknow one
another, fight not against the enemy but against ourselves, from mere
difference of uniform?  All uniforms shall be good, so they hold in them
true valiant men.  All fashions of arms, the Arab turban and swift
scimetar, Thor's strong hammer smiting down Jotuns, shall be welcome.
Luther's battle-voice, Dante's march-melody, all genuine things are with
us, not against us.  We are all under one Captain.  soldiers of the same
host.—Let us now look a little at this Luther's fighting; what kind of
battle it was, and how he comported himself in it.  Luther too was of our
spiritual Heroes; a Prophet to his country and time.

As introductory to the whole, a remark about Idolatry will perhaps be in
place here.  One of Mahomet's characteristics, which indeed belongs to all
Prophets, is unlimited implacable zeal against Idolatry.  It is the grand
theme of Prophets:  Idolatry, the worshipping of dead Idols as the
Divinity, is a thing they cannot away with, but have to denounce
continually, and brand with inexpiable reprobation; it is the chief of all
the sins they see done under the sun.  This is worth noting.  We will not
enter here into the theological question about Idolatry.  Idol is
Eidolon, a thing seen, a symbol.  It is not God, but a Symbol of God; and
perhaps one may question whether any the most benighted mortal ever took it
for more than a Symbol.  I fancy, he did not think that the poor image his
own hands had made was God; but that God was emblemed by it, that God was
in it some way or other.  And now in this sense, one may ask, Is not all
worship whatsoever a worship by Symbols, by eidola, or things seen?
Whether seen, rendered visible as an image or picture to the bodily eye;
or visible only to the inward eye, to the imagination, to the intellect:
this makes a superficial, but no substantial difference.  It is still a
Thing Seen, significant of Godhead; an Idol.  The most rigorous Puritan has
his Confession of Faith, and intellectual Representation of Divine things,
and worships thereby; thereby is worship first made possible for him.  All
creeds, liturgies, religious forms, conceptions that fitly invest religious
feelings, are in this sense eidola, things seen.  All worship whatsoever
must proceed by Symbols, by Idols:—we may say, all Idolatry is
comparative, and the worst Idolatry is only more idolatrous.

Where, then, lies the evil of it?  Some fatal evil must lie in it, or
earnest prophetic men would not on all hands so reprobate it.  Why is
Idolatry so hateful to Prophets?  It seems to me as if, in the worship of
those poor wooden symbols, the thing that had chiefly provoked the Prophet,
and filled his inmost soul with indignation and aversion, was not exactly
what suggested itself to his own thought, and came out of him in words to
others, as the thing.  The rudest heathen that worshipped Canopus, or the
Caabah Black-Stone, he, as we saw, was superior to the horse that
worshipped nothing at all!  Nay there was a kind of lasting merit in that
poor act of his; analogous to what is still meritorious in Poets:
recognition of a certain endless divine beauty and significance in stars
and all natural objects whatsoever.  Why should the Prophet so mercilessly
condemn him?  The poorest mortal worshipping his Fetish, while his heart is
full of it, may be an object of pity, of contempt and avoidance, if you
will; but cannot surely be an object of hatred.  Let his heart be
honestly full of it, the whole space of his dark narrow mind illuminated
thereby; in one word, let him entirely believe in his Fetish,—it will
then be, I should say, if not well with him, yet as well as it can readily
be made to be, and you will leave him alone, unmolested there.

But here enters the fatal circumstance of Idolatry, that, in the era of the
Prophets, no man's mind is any longer honestly filled with his Idol or
Symbol.  Before the Prophet can arise who, seeing through it, knows it to
be mere wood, many men must have begun dimly to doubt that it was little
more.  Condemnable Idolatry is insincere Idolatry.  Doubt has eaten out
the heart of it:  a human soul is seen clinging spasmodically to an Ark of
the Covenant, which it half feels now to have become a Phantasm.  This is
one of the balefulest sights.  Souls are no longer filled with their
Fetish; but only pretend to be filled, and would fain make themselves feel
that they are filled.  "You do not believe," said Coleridge; "you only
believe that you believe."  It is the final scene in all kinds of Worship
and Symbolism; the sure symptom that death is now nigh.  It is equivalent
to what we call Formulism, and Worship of Formulas, in these days of ours.
No more immoral act can be done by a human creature; for it is the
beginning of all immorality, or rather it is the impossibility henceforth
of any morality whatsoever:  the innermost moral soul is paralyzed thereby,
cast into fatal magnetic sleep!  Men are no longer sincere men.  I do not
wonder that the earnest man denounces this, brands it, prosecutes it with
inextinguishable aversion.  He and it, all good and it, are at death-feud.
Blamable Idolatry is Cant, and even what one may call Sincere-Cant.
Sincere-Cant:  that is worth thinking of!  Every sort of Worship ends with
this phasis.

I find Luther to have been a Breaker of Idols, no less than any other
Prophet.  The wooden gods of the Koreish, made of timber and bees-wax, were
not more hateful to Mahomet than Tetzel's Pardons of Sin, made of sheepskin
and ink, were to Luther.  It is the property of every Hero, in every time,
in every place and situation, that he come back to reality; that he stand
upon things, and not shows of things.  According as he loves, and
venerates, articulately or with deep speechless thought, the awful
realities of things, so will the hollow shows of things, however regular,
decorous, accredited by Koreishes or Conclaves, be intolerable and
detestable to him.  Protestantism, too, is the work of a Prophet:  the
prophet-work of that sixteenth century.  The first stroke of honest
demolition to an ancient thing grown false and idolatrous; preparatory afar
off to a new thing, which shall be true, and authentically divine!

At first view it might seem as if Protestantism were entirely destructive
to this that we call Hero-worship, and represent as the basis of all
possible good, religious or social, for mankind.  One often hears it said
that Protestantism introduced a new era, radically different from any the
world had ever seen before:  the era of "private judgment," as they call
it.  By this revolt against the Pope, every man became his own Pope; and
learnt, among other things, that he must never trust any Pope, or spiritual
Hero-captain, any more!  Whereby, is not spiritual union, all hierarchy and
subordination among men, henceforth an impossibility?  So we hear it
said.—Now I need not deny that Protestantism was a revolt against
spiritual sovereignties, Popes and much else.  Nay I will grant that
English Puritanism, revolt against earthly sovereignties, was the second
act of it; that the enormous French Revolution itself was the third act,
whereby all sovereignties earthly and spiritual were, as might seem,
abolished or made sure of abolition.  Protestantism is the grand root from
which our whole subsequent European History branches out.  For the
spiritual will always body itself forth in the temporal history of men; the
spiritual is the beginning of the temporal.  And now, sure enough, the cry
is everywhere for Liberty and Equality, Independence and so forth; instead
of Kings, Ballot-boxes and Electoral suffrages:  it seems made out that
any Hero-sovereign, or loyal obedience of men to a man, in things temporal
or things spiritual, has passed away forever from the world.  I should
despair of the world altogether, if so.  One of my deepest convictions is,
that it is not so.  Without sovereigns, true sovereigns, temporal and
spiritual, I see nothing possible but an anarchy; the hatefulest of things.
But I find Protestantism, whatever anarchic democracy it have produced, to
be the beginning of new genuine sovereignty and order.  I find it to be a
revolt against false sovereigns; the painful but indispensable first
preparative for true sovereigns getting place among us!  This is worth
explaining a little.

Let us remark, therefore, in the first place, that this of "private
judgment" is, at bottom, not a new thing in the world, but only new at that
epoch of the world.  There is nothing generically new or peculiar in the
Reformation; it was a return to Truth and Reality in opposition to
Falsehood and Semblance, as all kinds of Improvement and genuine Teaching
are and have been.  Liberty of private judgment, if we will consider it,
must at all times have existed in the world.  Dante had not put out his
eyes, or tied shackles on himself; he was at home in that Catholicism of
his, a free-seeing soul in it,—if many a poor Hogstraten, Tetzel, and Dr.
Eck had now become slaves in it.  Liberty of judgment?  No iron chain, or
outward force of any kind, could ever compel the soul of a man to believe
or to disbelieve:  it is his own indefeasible light, that judgment of his;
he will reign, and believe there, by the grace of God alone!  The sorriest
sophistical Bellarmine, preaching sightless faith and passive obedience,
must first, by some kind of conviction, have abdicated his right to be
convinced.  His "private judgment" indicated that, as the advisablest step
he could take.  The right of private judgment will subsist, in full
force, wherever true men subsist.  A true man believes with his whole
judgment, with all the illumination and discernment that is in him, and has
always so believed.  A false man, only struggling to "believe that he
believes," will naturally manage it in some other way.  Protestantism said
to this latter, Woe! and to the former, Well done!  At bottom, it was no
new saying; it was a return to all old sayings that ever had been said.  Be
genuine, be sincere:  that was, once more, the meaning of it.  Mahomet
believed with his whole mind; Odin with his whole mind,—he, and all true
Followers of Odinism.  They, by their private judgment, had "judged

And now I venture to assert, that the exercise of private judgment,
faithfully gone about, does by no means necessarily end in selfish
independence, isolation; but rather ends necessarily in the opposite of
that.  It is not honest inquiry that makes anarchy; but it is error,
insincerity, half-belief and untruth that make it.  A man protesting
against error is on the way towards uniting himself with all men that
believe in truth.  There is no communion possible among men who believe
only in hearsays.  The heart of each is lying dead; has no power of
sympathy even with things,—or he would believe them and not hearsays.
No sympathy even with things; how much less with his fellow-men!  He cannot
unite with men; he is an anarchic man.  Only in a world of sincere men is
unity possible;—and there, in the long-run, it is as good as certain.

For observe one thing, a thing too often left out of view, or rather
altogether lost sight of in this controversy:  That it is not necessary a
man should himself have discovered the truth he is to believe in, and
never so sincerely to believe in.  A Great Man, we said, was always
sincere, as the first condition of him.  But a man need not be great in
order to be sincere; that is not the necessity of Nature and all Time, but
only of certain corrupt unfortunate epochs of Time.  A man can believe, and
make his own, in the most genuine way, what he has received from
another;—and with boundless gratitude to that other!  The merit of
originality is not novelty; it is sincerity.  The believing man is the
original man; whatsoever he believes, he believes it for himself, not for
another.  Every son of Adam can become a sincere man, an original man, in
this sense; no mortal is doomed to be an insincere man.  Whole ages, what
we call ages of Faith, are original; all men in them, or the most of men in
them, sincere.  These are the great and fruitful ages:  every worker, in
all spheres, is a worker not on semblance but on substance; every work
issues in a result:  the general sum of such work is great; for all of it,
as genuine, tends towards one goal; all of it is additive, none of it
subtractive.  There is true union, true kingship, loyalty, all true and
blessed things, so far as the poor Earth can produce blessedness for men.

Hero-worship?  Ah me, that a man be self-subsistent, original, true, or
what we call it, is surely the farthest in the world from indisposing him
to reverence and believe other men's truth!  It only disposes, necessitates
and invincibly compels him to disbelieve other men's dead formulas,
hearsays and untruths.  A man embraces truth with his eyes open, and
because his eyes are open:  does he need to shut them before he can love
his Teacher of truth?  He alone can love, with a right gratitude and
genuine loyalty of soul, the Hero-Teacher who has delivered him out of
darkness into light.  Is not such a one a true Hero and Serpent-queller;
worthy of all reverence!  The black monster, Falsehood, our one enemy in
this world, lies prostrate by his valor; it was he that conquered the world
for us!—See, accordingly, was not Luther himself reverenced as a true
Pope, or Spiritual Father, being verily such?  Napoleon, from amid
boundless revolt of Sansculottism, became a King.  Hero-worship never dies,
nor can die.  Loyalty and Sovereignty are everlasting in the world:—and
there is this in them, that they are grounded not on garnitures and
semblances, but on realities and sincerities.  Not by shutting your eyes,
your "private judgment;" no, but by opening them, and by having something
to see!  Luther's message was deposition and abolition to all false Popes
and Potentates, but life and strength, though afar off, to new genuine

All this of Liberty and Equality, Electoral suffrages, Independence and so
forth, we will take, therefore, to be a temporary phenomenon, by no means a
final one.  Though likely to last a long time, with sad enough embroilments
for us all, we must welcome it, as the penalty of sins that are past, the
pledge of inestimable benefits that are coming.  In all ways, it behooved
men to quit simulacra and return to fact; cost what it might, that did
behoove to be done.  With spurious Popes, and Believers having no private
judgment,—quacks pretending to command over dupes,—what can you do?
Misery and mischief only.  You cannot make an association out of insincere
men; you cannot build an edifice except by plummet and level,—at
right-angles to one another!  In all this wild revolutionary work, from
Protestantism downwards, I see the blessedest result preparing itself:  not
abolition of Hero-worship, but rather what I would call a whole World of
Heroes.  If Hero mean sincere man, why may not every one of us be a Hero?
A world all sincere, a believing world:  the like has been; the like will
again be,—cannot help being.  That were the right sort of Worshippers for
Heroes:  never could the truly Better be so reverenced as where all were
True and Good!—But we must hasten to Luther and his Life.

Luther's birthplace was Eisleben in Saxony; he came into the world there on
the 10th of November, 1483.  It was an accident that gave this honor to
Eisleben.  His parents, poor mine-laborers in a village of that region,
named Mohra, had gone to the Eisleben Winter-Fair:  in the tumult of this
scene the Frau Luther was taken with travail, found refuge in some poor
house there, and the boy she bore was named MARTIN LUTHER.  Strange enough
to reflect upon it.  This poor Frau Luther, she had gone with her husband
to make her small merchandisings; perhaps to sell the lock of yarn she had
been spinning, to buy the small winter-necessaries for her narrow hut or
household; in the whole world, that day, there was not a more entirely
unimportant-looking pair of people than this Miner and his Wife.  And yet
what were all Emperors, Popes and Potentates, in comparison?  There was
born here, once more, a Mighty Man; whose light was to flame as the beacon
over long centuries and epochs of the world; the whole world and its
history was waiting for this man.  It is strange, it is great.  It leads us
back to another Birth-hour, in a still meaner environment, Eighteen Hundred
years ago,—of which it is fit that we say nothing, that we think only in
silence; for what words are there!  The Age of Miracles past?  The Age of
Miracles is forever here!—

I find it altogether suitable to Luther's function in this Earth, and
doubtless wisely ordered to that end by the Providence presiding over him
and us and all things, that he was born poor, and brought up poor, one of
the poorest of men.  He had to beg, as the school-children in those times
did; singing for alms and bread, from door to door.  Hardship, rigorous
Necessity was the poor boy's companion; no man nor no thing would put on a
false face to flatter Martin Luther.  Among things, not among the shows of
things, had he to grow.  A boy of rude figure, yet with weak health, with
his large greedy soul, full of all faculty and sensibility, he suffered
greatly.  But it was his task to get acquainted with realities, and keep
acquainted with them, at whatever cost:  his task was to bring the whole
world back to reality, for it had dwelt too long with semblance!  A youth
nursed up in wintry whirlwinds, in desolate darkness and difficulty, that
he may step forth at last from his stormy Scandinavia, strong as a true
man, as a god:  a Christian Odin,—a right Thor once more, with his
thunder-hammer, to smite asunder ugly enough Jotuns and Giant-monsters!

Perhaps the turning incident of his life, we may fancy, was that death of
his friend Alexis, by lightning, at the gate of Erfurt.  Luther had
struggled up through boyhood, better and worse; displaying, in spite of all
hindrances, the largest intellect, eager to learn:  his father judging
doubtless that he might promote himself in the world, set him upon the
study of Law.  This was the path to rise; Luther, with little will in it
either way, had consented:  he was now nineteen years of age.  Alexis and
he had been to see the old Luther people at Mansfeldt; were got back again
near Erfurt, when a thunder-storm came on; the bolt struck Alexis, he fell
dead at Luther's feet.  What is this Life of ours?—gone in a moment, burnt
up like a scroll, into the blank Eternity!  What are all earthly
preferments, Chancellorships, Kingships?  They lie shrunk together—there!
The Earth has opened on them; in a moment they are not, and Eternity is.
Luther, struck to the heart, determined to devote himself to God and God's
service alone.  In spite of all dissuasions from his father and others, he
became a Monk in the Augustine Convent at Erfurt.

This was probably the first light-point in the history of Luther, his purer
will now first decisively uttering itself; but, for the present, it was
still as one light-point in an element all of darkness.  He says he was a
pious monk, ich bin ein frommer Monch gewesen; faithfully, painfully
struggling to work out the truth of this high act of his; but it was to
little purpose.  His misery had not lessened; had rather, as it were,
increased into infinitude.  The drudgeries he had to do, as novice in his
Convent, all sorts of slave-work, were not his grievance:  the deep earnest
soul of the man had fallen into all manner of black scruples, dubitations;
he believed himself likely to die soon, and far worse than die.  One hears
with a new interest for poor Luther that, at this time, he lived in terror
of the unspeakable misery; fancied that he was doomed to eternal
reprobation.  Was it not the humble sincere nature of the man?  What was
he, that he should be raised to Heaven!  He that had known only misery, and
mean slavery:  the news was too blessed to be credible.  It could not
become clear to him how, by fasts, vigils, formalities and mass-work, a
man's soul could be saved.  He fell into the blackest wretchedness; had to
wander staggering as on the verge of bottomless Despair.

It must have been a most blessed discovery, that of an old Latin Bible
which he found in the Erfurt Library about this time.  He had never seen
the Book before.  It taught him another lesson than that of fasts and
vigils.  A brother monk too, of pious experience, was helpful.  Luther
learned now that a man was saved not by singing masses, but by the infinite
grace of God:  a more credible hypothesis.  He gradually got himself
founded, as on the rock.  No wonder he should venerate the Bible, which had
brought this blessed help to him.  He prized it as the Word of the Highest
must be prized by such a man.  He determined to hold by that; as through
life and to death he firmly did.

This, then, is his deliverance from darkness, his final triumph over
darkness, what we call his conversion; for himself the most important of
all epochs.  That he should now grow daily in peace and clearness; that,
unfolding now the great talents and virtues implanted in him, he should
rise to importance in his Convent, in his country, and be found more and
more useful in all honest business of life, is a natural result.  He was
sent on missions by his Augustine Order, as a man of talent and fidelity
fit to do their business well:  the Elector of Saxony, Friedrich, named the
Wise, a truly wise and just prince, had cast his eye on him as a valuable
person; made him Professor in his new University of Wittenberg, Preacher
too at Wittenberg; in both which capacities, as in all duties he did, this
Luther, in the peaceable sphere of common life, was gaining more and more
esteem with all good men.

It was in his twenty-seventh year that he first saw Rome; being sent
thither, as I said, on mission from his Convent.  Pope Julius the Second,
and what was going on at Rome, must have filled the mind of Luther with
amazement.  He had come as to the Sacred City, throne of God's High-priest
on Earth; and he found it—what we know!  Many thoughts it must have given
the man; many which we have no record of, which perhaps he did not himself
know how to utter.  This Rome, this scene of false priests, clothed not in
the beauty of holiness, but in far other vesture, is false:  but what is
it to Luther?  A mean man he, how shall he reform a world?  That was far
from his thoughts.  A humble, solitary man, why should he at all meddle
with the world?  It was the task of quite higher men than he.  His business
was to guide his own footsteps wisely through the world.  Let him do his
own obscure duty in it well; the rest, horrible and dismal as it looks, is
in God's hand, not in his.

It is curious to reflect what might have been the issue, had Roman Popery
happened to pass this Luther by; to go on in its great wasteful orbit, and
not come athwart his little path, and force him to assault it!  Conceivable
enough that, in this case, he might have held his peace about the abuses of
Rome; left Providence, and God on high, to deal with them!  A modest quiet
man; not prompt he to attack irreverently persons in authority.  His clear
task, as I say, was to do his own duty; to walk wisely in this world of
confused wickedness, and save his own soul alive.  But the Roman
High-priesthood did come athwart him:  afar off at Wittenberg he, Luther,
could not get lived in honesty for it; he remonstrated, resisted, came to
extremity; was struck at, struck again, and so it came to wager of battle
between them!  This is worth attending to in Luther's history.  Perhaps no
man of so humble, peaceable a disposition ever filled the world with
contention.  We cannot but see that he would have loved privacy, quiet
diligence in the shade; that it was against his will he ever became a
notoriety.  Notoriety:  what would that do for him?  The goal of his march
through this world was the Infinite Heaven; an indubitable goal for him:
in a few years, he should either have attained that, or lost it forever!
We will say nothing at all, I think, of that sorrowfulest of theories, of
its being some mean shopkeeper grudge, of the Augustine Monk against the
Dominican, that first kindled the wrath of Luther, and produced the
Protestant Reformation.  We will say to the people who maintain it, if
indeed any such exist now:  Get first into the sphere of thought by which
it is so much as possible to judge of Luther, or of any man like Luther,
otherwise than distractedly; we may then begin arguing with you.

The Monk Tetzel, sent out carelessly in the way of trade, by Leo
Tenth,—who merely wanted to raise a little money, and for the rest seems
to have been a Pagan rather than a Christian, so far as he was
anything,—arrived at Wittenberg, and drove his scandalous trade there.
Luther's flock bought Indulgences; in the confessional of his Church,
people pleaded to him that they had already got their sins pardoned.
Luther, if he would not be found wanting at his own post, a false sluggard
and coward at the very centre of the little space of ground that was his
own and no other man's, had to step forth against Indulgences, and declare
aloud that they were a futility and sorrowful mockery, that no man's sins
could be pardoned by them.  It was the beginning of the whole
Reformation.  We know how it went; forward from this first public challenge
of Tetzel, on the last day of October, 1517, through remonstrance and
argument;—spreading ever wider, rising ever higher; till it became
unquenchable, and enveloped all the world.  Luther's heart's desire was to
have this grief and other griefs amended; his thought was still far other
than that of introducing separation in the Church, or revolting against the
Pope, Father of Christendom.—The elegant Pagan Pope cared little about
this Monk and his doctrines; wished, however, to have done with the noise
of him:  in a space of some three years, having tried various softer
methods, he thought good to end it by fire.  He dooms the Monk's writings
to be burnt by the hangman, and his body to be sent bound to
Rome,—probably for a similar purpose.  It was the way they had ended with
Huss, with Jerome, the century before.  A short argument, fire.  Poor Huss:
he came to that Constance Council, with all imaginable promises and
safe-conducts; an earnest, not rebellious kind of man:  they laid him
instantly in a stone dungeon "three feet wide, six feet high, seven feet
long;" burnt the true voice of him out of this world; choked it in smoke
and fire.  That was not well done!

I, for one, pardon Luther for now altogether revolting against the Pope.
The elegant Pagan, by this fire-decree of his, had kindled into noble just
wrath the bravest heart then living in this world.  The bravest, if also
one of the humblest, peaceablest; it was now kindled.  These words of mine,
words of truth and soberness, aiming faithfully, as human inability would
allow, to promote God's truth on Earth, and save men's souls, you, God's
vicegerent on earth, answer them by the hangman and fire?  You will burn me
and them, for answer to the God's-message they strove to bring you?  You
are not God's vicegerent; you are another's than his, I think!  I take your
Bull, as an emparchmented Lie, and burn it.  You will do what you see
good next:  this is what I do.—It was on the 10th of December, 1520, three
years after the beginning of the business, that Luther, "with a great
concourse of people," took this indignant step of burning the Pope's
fire-decree "at the Elster-Gate of Wittenberg."  Wittenberg looked on "with
shoutings;" the whole world was looking on.  The Pope should not have
provoked that "shout"!  It was the shout of the awakening of nations.  The
quiet German heart, modest, patient of much, had at length got more than it
could bear.  Formulism, Pagan Popeism, and other Falsehood and corrupt
Semblance had ruled long enough:  and here once more was a man found who
durst tell all men that God's-world stood not on semblances but on
realities; that Life was a truth, and not a lie!

At bottom, as was said above, we are to consider Luther as a Prophet
Idol-breaker; a bringer-back of men to reality.  It is the function of
great men and teachers.  Mahomet said, These idols of yours are wood; you
put wax and oil on them, the flies stick on them:  they are not God, I tell
you, they are black wood!  Luther said to the Pope, This thing of yours
that you call a Pardon of Sins, it is a bit of rag-paper with ink.  It is
nothing else; it, and so much like it, is nothing else.  God alone can
pardon sins.  Popeship, spiritual Fatherhood of God's Church, is that a
vain semblance, of cloth and parchment?  It is an awful fact.  God's Church
is not a semblance, Heaven and Hell are not semblances.  I stand on this,
since you drive me to it.  Standing on this, I a poor German Monk am
stronger than you all.  I stand solitary, friendless, but on God's Truth;
you with your tiaras, triple-hats, with your treasuries and armories,
thunders spiritual and temporal, stand on the Devil's Lie, and are not so

The Diet of Worms, Luther's appearance there on the 17th of April, 1521,
may be considered as the greatest scene in Modern European History; the
point, indeed, from which the whole subsequent history of civilization
takes its rise.  After multiplied negotiations, disputations, it had come
to this.  The young Emperor Charles Fifth, with all the Princes of Germany,
Papal nuncios, dignitaries spiritual and temporal, are assembled there:
Luther is to appear and answer for himself, whether he will recant or not.
The world's pomp and power sits there on this hand:  on that, stands up for
God's Truth, one man, the poor miner Hans Luther's Son.  Friends had
reminded him of Huss, advised him not to go; he would not be advised.  A
large company of friends rode out to meet him, with still more earnest
warnings; he answered, "Were there as many Devils in Worms as there are
roof-tiles, I would on."  The people, on the morrow, as he went to the Hall
of the Diet, crowded the windows and house-tops, some of them calling out
to him, in solemn words, not to recant:  "Whosoever denieth me before men!"
they cried to him,—as in a kind of solemn petition and adjuration.  Was it
not in reality our petition too, the petition of the whole world, lying in
dark bondage of soul, paralyzed under a black spectral Nightmare and
triple-hatted Chimera, calling itself Father in God, and what not:  "Free
us; it rests with thee; desert us not!"

Luther did not desert us.  His speech, of two hours, distinguished itself
by its respectful, wise and honest tone; submissive to whatsoever could
lawfully claim submission, not submissive to any more than that.  His
writings, he said, were partly his own, partly derived from the Word of
God.  As to what was his own, human infirmity entered into it; unguarded
anger, blindness, many things doubtless which it were a blessing for him
could he abolish altogether.  But as to what stood on sound truth and the
Word of God, he could not recant it.  How could he?  "Confute me," he
concluded, "by proofs of Scripture, or else by plain just arguments:  I
cannot recant otherwise.  For it is neither safe nor prudent to do aught
against conscience.  Here stand I; I can do no other:  God assist me!"—It
is, as we say, the greatest moment in the Modern History of Men.  English
Puritanism, England and its Parliaments, Americas, and vast work these two
centuries; French Revolution, Europe and its work everywhere at present:
the germ of it all lay there:  had Luther in that moment done other, it had
all been otherwise!  The European World was asking him:  Am I to sink ever
lower into falsehood, stagnant putrescence, loathsome accursed death; or,
with whatever paroxysm, to cast the falsehoods out of me, and be cured and

Great wars, contentions and disunion followed out of this Reformation;
which last down to our day, and are yet far from ended.  Great talk and
crimination has been made about these.  They are lamentable, undeniable;
but after all, what has Luther or his cause to do with them?  It seems
strange reasoning to charge the Reformation with all this.  When Hercules
turned the purifying river into King Augeas's stables, I have no doubt the
confusion that resulted was considerable all around:  but I think it was
not Hercules's blame; it was some other's blame!  The Reformation might
bring what results it liked when it came, but the Reformation simply could
not help coming.  To all Popes and Popes' advocates, expostulating,
lamenting and accusing, the answer of the world is:  Once for all, your
Popehood has become untrue.  No matter how good it was, how good you say it
is, we cannot believe it; the light of our whole mind, given us to walk by
from Heaven above, finds it henceforth a thing unbelievable.  We will not
believe it, we will not try to believe it,—we dare not!  The thing is
untrue; we were traitors against the Giver of all Truth, if we durst
pretend to think it true.  Away with it; let whatsoever likes come in the
place of it:  with it we can have no farther trade!—Luther and his
Protestantism is not responsible for wars; the false Simulacra that forced
him to protest, they are responsible.  Luther did what every man that God
has made has not only the right, but lies under the sacred duty, to do:
answered a Falsehood when it questioned him, Dost thou believe me?—No!—At
what cost soever, without counting of costs, this thing behooved to be
done.  Union, organization spiritual and material, a far nobler than any
Popedom or Feudalism in their truest days, I never doubt, is coming for the
world; sure to come.  But on Fact alone, not on Semblance and Simulacrum,
will it be able either to come, or to stand when come.  With union grounded
on falsehood, and ordering us to speak and act lies, we will not have
anything to do.  Peace?  A brutal lethargy is peaceable, the noisome grave
is peaceable.  We hope for a living peace, not a dead one!

And yet, in prizing justly the indispensable blessings of the New, let us
not be unjust to the Old.  The Old was true, if it no longer is.  In
Dante's days it needed no sophistry, self-blinding or other dishonesty, to
get itself reckoned true.  It was good then; nay there is in the soul of it
a deathless good.  The cry of "No Popery" is foolish enough in these days.
The speculation that Popery is on the increase, building new chapels and so
forth, may pass for one of the idlest ever started.  Very curious:  to
count up a few Popish chapels, listen to a few Protestant
logic-choppings,—to much dull-droning drowsy inanity that still calls
itself Protestant, and say:  See, Protestantism is dead; Popeism is more
alive than it, will be alive after it!—Drowsy inanities, not a few, that
call themselves Protestant are dead; but Protestantism has not died yet,
that I hear of!  Protestantism, if we will look, has in these days produced
its Goethe, its Napoleon; German Literature and the French Revolution;
rather considerable signs of life!  Nay, at bottom, what else is alive
but Protestantism?  The life of most else that one meets is a galvanic
one merely,—not a pleasant, not a lasting sort of life!

Popery can build new chapels; welcome to do so, to all lengths.  Popery
cannot come back, any more than Paganism can,—which also still lingers
in some countries.  But, indeed, it is with these things, as with the
ebbing of the sea:  you look at the waves oscillating hither, thither on
the beach; for minutes you cannot tell how it is going; look in half an
hour where it is,—look in half a century where your Popehood is!  Alas,
would there were no greater danger to our Europe than the poor old Pope's
revival!  Thor may as soon try to revive.—And withal this oscillation has
a meaning.  The poor old Popehood will not die away entirely, as Thor has
done, for some time yet; nor ought it.  We may say, the Old never dies till
this happen, Till all the soul of good that was in it have got itself
transfused into the practical New.  While a good work remains capable of
being done by the Romish form; or, what is inclusive of all, while a pious
life remains capable of being led by it, just so long, if we consider,
will this or the other human soul adopt it, go about as a living witness of
it.  So long it will obtrude itself on the eye of us who reject it, till we
in our practice too have appropriated whatsoever of truth was in it.  Then,
but also not till then, it will have no charm more for any man.  It lasts
here for a purpose.  Let it last as long as it can.—

Of Luther I will add now, in reference to all these wars and bloodshed, the
noticeable fact that none of them began so long as he continued living.
The controversy did not get to fighting so long as he was there.  To me it
is proof of his greatness in all senses, this fact.  How seldom do we find
a man that has stirred up some vast commotion, who does not himself perish,
swept away in it!  Such is the usual course of revolutionists.  Luther
continued, in a good degree, sovereign of this greatest revolution; all
Protestants, of what rank or function soever, looking much to him for
guidance:  and he held it peaceable, continued firm at the centre of it.  A
man to do this must have a kingly faculty:  he must have the gift to
discern at all turns where the true heart of the matter lies, and to plant
himself courageously on that, as a strong true man, that other true men may
rally round him there.  He will not continue leader of men otherwise.
Luther's clear deep force of judgment, his force of all sorts, of
silence, of tolerance and moderation, among others, are very notable in
these circumstances.

Tolerance, I say; a very genuine kind of tolerance:  he distinguishes what
is essential, and what is not; the unessential may go very much as it will.
A complaint comes to him that such and such a Reformed Preacher "will not
preach without a cassock."  Well, answers Luther, what harm will a cassock
do the man?  "Let him have a cassock to preach in; let him have three
cassocks if he find benefit in them!"  His conduct in the matter of
Karlstadt's wild image-breaking; of the Anabaptists; of the Peasants' War,
shows a noble strength, very different from spasmodic violence.  With sure
prompt insight he discriminates what is what:  a strong just man, he speaks
forth what is the wise course, and all men follow him in that.  Luther's
Written Works give similar testimony of him.  The dialect of these
speculations is now grown obsolete for us; but one still reads them with a
singular attraction.  And indeed the mere grammatical diction is still
legible enough; Luther's merit in literary history is of the greatest:  his
dialect became the language of all writing.  They are not well written,
these Four-and-twenty Quartos of his; written hastily, with quite other
than literary objects.  But in no Books have I found a more robust,
genuine, I will say noble faculty of a man than in these.  A rugged
honesty, homeliness, simplicity; a rugged sterling sense and strength.  He
dashes out illumination from him; his smiting idiomatic phrases seem to
cleave into the very secret of the matter.  Good humor too, nay tender
affection, nobleness and depth:  this man could have been a Poet too!  He
had to work an Epic Poem, not write one.  I call him a great Thinker; as
indeed his greatness of heart already betokens that.

Richter says of Luther's words, "His words are half-battles."  They may be
called so.  The essential quality of him was, that he could fight and
conquer; that he was a right piece of human Valor.  No more valiant man, no
mortal heart to be called braver, that one has record of, ever lived in
that Teutonic Kindred, whose character is valor.  His defiance of the
"Devils" in Worms was not a mere boast, as the like might be if now spoken.
It was a faith of Luther's that there were Devils, spiritual denizens of
the Pit, continually besetting men.  Many times, in his writings, this
turns up; and a most small sneer has been grounded on it by some.  In the
room of the Wartburg where he sat translating the Bible, they still show
you a black spot on the wall; the strange memorial of one of these
conflicts.  Luther sat translating one of the Psalms; he was worn down with
long labor, with sickness, abstinence from food:  there rose before him
some hideous indefinable Image, which he took for the Evil One, to forbid
his work:  Luther started up, with fiend-defiance; flung his inkstand at
the spectre, and it disappeared!  The spot still remains there; a curious
monument of several things.  Any apothecary's apprentice can now tell us
what we are to think of this apparition, in a scientific sense:  but the
man's heart that dare rise defiant, face to face, against Hell itself, can
give no higher proof of fearlessness.  The thing he will quail before
exists not on this Earth or under it.—Fearless enough!  "The Devil is
aware," writes he on one occasion, "that this does not proceed out of fear
in me.  I have seen and defied innumerable Devils.  Duke George," of
Leipzig, a great enemy of his, "Duke George is not equal to one
Devil,"—far short of a Devil!  "If I had business at Leipzig, I would ride
into Leipzig, though it rained Duke Georges for nine days running."  What a
reservoir of Dukes to ride into!—

At the same time, they err greatly who imagine that this man's courage was
ferocity, mere coarse disobedient obstinacy and savagery, as many do.  Far
from that.  There may be an absence of fear which arises from the absence
of thought or affection, from the presence of hatred and stupid fury.  We
do not value the courage of the tiger highly!  With Luther it was far
otherwise; no accusation could be more unjust than this of mere ferocious
violence brought against him.  A most gentle heart withal, full of pity and
love, as indeed the truly valiant heart ever is.  The tiger before a
stronger foe—flies:  the tiger is not what we call valiant, only fierce
and cruel.  I know few things more touching than those soft breathings of
affection, soft as a child's or a mother's, in this great wild heart of
Luther.  So honest, unadulterated with any cant; homely, rude in their
utterance; pure as water welling from the rock.  What, in fact, was all
that down-pressed mood of despair and reprobation, which we saw in his
youth, but the outcome of pre-eminent thoughtful gentleness, affections too
keen and fine?  It is the course such men as the poor Poet Cowper fall
into.  Luther to a slight observer might have seemed a timid, weak man;
modesty, affectionate shrinking tenderness the chief distinction of him.
It is a noble valor which is roused in a heart like this, once stirred up
into defiance, all kindled into a heavenly blaze.

In Luther's Table-Talk, a posthumous Book of anecdotes and sayings
collected by his friends, the most interesting now of all the Books
proceeding from him, we have many beautiful unconscious displays of the
man, and what sort of nature he had.  His behavior at the death-bed of his
little Daughter, so still, so great and loving, is among the most affecting
things.  He is resigned that his little Magdalene should die, yet longs
inexpressibly that she might live;—follows, in awe-struck thought, the
flight of her little soul through those unknown realms.  Awe-struck; most
heartfelt, we can see; and sincere,—for after all dogmatic creeds and
articles, he feels what nothing it is that we know, or can know:  His
little Magdalene shall be with God, as God wills; for Luther too that is
all; Islam is all.

Once, he looks out from his solitary Patmos, the Castle of Coburg, in the
middle of the night:  The great vault of Immensity, long flights of clouds
sailing through it,—dumb, gaunt, huge:—who supports all that?  "None ever
saw the pillars of it; yet it is supported."  God supports it.  We must
know that God is great, that God is good; and trust, where we cannot
see.—Returning home from Leipzig once, he is struck by the beauty of the
harvest-fields:  How it stands, that golden yellow corn, on its fair taper
stem, its golden head bent, all rich and waving there,—the meek Earth, at
God's kind bidding, has produced it once again; the bread of man!—In the
garden at Wittenberg one evening at sunset, a little bird has perched for
the night:  That little bird, says Luther, above it are the stars and deep
Heaven of worlds; yet it has folded its little wings; gone trustfully to
rest there as in its home:  the Maker of it has given it too a
home!—Neither are mirthful turns wanting:  there is a great free human
heart in this man.  The common speech of him has a rugged nobleness,
idiomatic, expressive, genuine; gleams here and there with beautiful poetic
tints.  One feels him to be a great brother man.  His love of Music,
indeed, is not this, as it were, the summary of all these affections in
him?  Many a wild unutterability he spoke forth from him in the tones of
his flute.  The Devils fled from his flute, he says.  Death-defiance on the
one hand, and such love of music on the other; I could call these the two
opposite poles of a great soul; between these two all great things had

Luther's face is to me expressive of him; in Kranach's best portraits I
find the true Luther.  A rude plebeian face; with its huge crag-like brows
and bones, the emblem of rugged energy; at first, almost a repulsive face.
Yet in the eyes especially there is a wild silent sorrow; an unnamable
melancholy, the element of all gentle and fine affections; giving to the
rest the true stamp of nobleness.  Laughter was in this Luther, as we said;
but tears also were there.  Tears also were appointed him; tears and hard
toil.  The basis of his life was Sadness, Earnestness.  In his latter days,
after all triumphs and victories, he expresses himself heartily weary of
living; he considers that God alone can and will regulate the course things
are taking, and that perhaps the Day of Judgment is not far.  As for him,
he longs for one thing:  that God would release him from his labor, and let
him depart and be at rest.  They understand little of the man who cite this
in discredit of him!—I will call this Luther a true Great Man; great in
intellect, in courage, affection and integrity; one of our most lovable and
precious men.  Great, not as a hewn obelisk; but as an Alpine mountain,—so
simple, honest, spontaneous, not setting up to be great at all; there for
quite another purpose than being great!  Ah yes, unsubduable granite,
piercing far and wide into the Heavens; yet in the clefts of it fountains,
green beautiful valleys with flowers!  A right Spiritual Hero and Prophet;
once more, a true Son of Nature and Fact, for whom these centuries, and
many that are to come yet, will be thankful to Heaven.

The most interesting phasis which the Reformation anywhere assumes,
especially for us English, is that of Puritanism.  In Luther's own country
Protestantism soon dwindled into a rather barren affair:  not a religion or
faith, but rather now a theological jangling of argument, the proper seat
of it not the heart; the essence of it sceptical contention:  which indeed
has jangled more and more, down to Voltaireism itself,—through
Gustavus-Adolphus contentions onwards to French-Revolution ones!  But in
our Island there arose a Puritanism, which even got itself established as a
Presbyterianism and National Church among the Scotch; which came forth as a
real business of the heart; and has produced in the world very notable
fruit.  In some senses, one may say it is the only phasis of Protestantism
that ever got to the rank of being a Faith, a true heart-communication with
Heaven, and of exhibiting itself in History as such.  We must spare a few
words for Knox; himself a brave and remarkable man; but still more
important as Chief Priest and Founder, which one may consider him to be, of
the Faith that became Scotland's, New England's, Oliver Cromwell's.
History will have something to say about this, for some time to come!

We may censure Puritanism as we please; and no one of us, I suppose, but
would find it a very rough defective thing.  But we, and all men, may
understand that it was a genuine thing; for Nature has adopted it, and it
has grown, and grows.  I say sometimes, that all goes by wager-of-battle in
this world; that strength, well understood, is the measure of all worth.
Give a thing time; if it can succeed, it is a right thing.  Look now at
American Saxondom; and at that little Fact of the sailing of the Mayflower,
two hundred years ago, from Delft Haven in Holland!  Were we of open sense
as the Greeks were, we had found a Poem here; one of Nature's own Poems,
such as she writes in broad facts over great continents.  For it was
properly the beginning of America:  there were straggling settlers in
America before, some material as of a body was there; but the soul of it
was first this.  These poor men, driven out of their own country, not able
well to live in Holland, determine on settling in the New World.  Black
untamed forests are there, and wild savage creatures; but not so cruel as
Star-chamber hangmen.  They thought the Earth would yield them food, if
they tilled honestly; the everlasting heaven would stretch, there too,
overhead; they should be left in peace, to prepare for Eternity by living
well in this world of Time; worshipping in what they thought the true, not
the idolatrous way.  They clubbed their small means together; hired a ship,
the little ship Mayflower, and made ready to set sail.

In Neal's History of the Puritans [Neal (London, 1755), i. 490] is an
account of the ceremony of their departure:  solemnity, we might call it
rather, for it was a real act of worship.  Their minister went down with
them to the beach, and their brethren whom they were to leave behind; all
joined in solemn prayer, That God would have pity on His poor children, and
go with them into that waste wilderness, for He also had made that, He was
there also as well as here.—Hah!  These men, I think, had a work!  The
weak thing, weaker than a child, becomes strong one day, if it be a true
thing.  Puritanism was only despicable, laughable then; but nobody can
manage to laugh at it now.  Puritanism has got weapons and sinews; it has
firearms, war-navies; it has cunning in its ten fingers, strength in its
right arm; it can steer ships, fell forests, remove mountains;—it is one
of the strongest things under this sun at present!

In the history of Scotland, too, I can find properly but one epoch:  we may
say, it contains nothing of world-interest at all but this Reformation by
Knox.  A poor barren country, full of continual broils, dissensions,
massacrings; a people in the last state of rudeness and destitution; little
better perhaps than Ireland at this day.  Hungry fierce barons, not so much
as able to form any arrangement with each other how to divide what they
fleeced from these poor drudges; but obliged, as the Colombian Republics
are at this day, to make of every alteration a revolution; no way of
changing a ministry but by hanging the old ministers on gibbets:  this is a
historical spectacle of no very singular significance!  "Bravery" enough, I
doubt not; fierce fighting in abundance:  but not braver or fiercer than
that of their old Scandinavian Sea-king ancestors; whose exploits we have
not found worth dwelling on!  It is a country as yet without a soul:
nothing developed in it but what is rude, external, semi-animal.  And now
at the Reformation, the internal life is kindled, as it were, under the
ribs of this outward material death.  A cause, the noblest of causes
kindles itself, like a beacon set on high; high as Heaven, yet attainable
from Earth;—whereby the meanest man becomes not a Citizen only, but a
Member of Christ's visible Church; a veritable Hero, if he prove a true

Well; this is what I mean by a whole "nation of heroes;" a believing
nation.  There needs not a great soul to make a hero; there needs a
god-created soul which will be true to its origin; that will be a great
soul!  The like has been seen, we find.  The like will be again seen, under
wider forms than the Presbyterian:  there can be no lasting good done till
then.—Impossible! say some.  Possible?  Has it not been, in this world,
as a practiced fact?  Did Hero-worship fail in Knox's case?  Or are we made
of other clay now?  Did the Westminster Confession of Faith add some new
property to the soul of man?  God made the soul of man.  He did not doom
any soul of man to live as a Hypothesis and Hearsay, in a world filled with
such, and with the fatal work and fruit of such!—

But to return:  This that Knox did for his Nation, I say, we may really
call a resurrection as from death.  It was not a smooth business; but it
was welcome surely, and cheap at that price, had it been far rougher.  On
the whole, cheap at any price!—as life is.  The people began to live:
they needed first of all to do that, at what cost and costs soever.  Scotch
Literature and Thought, Scotch Industry; James Watt, David Hume, Walter
Scott, Robert Burns:  I find Knox and the Reformation acting in the heart's
core of every one of these persons and phenomena; I find that without the
Reformation they would not have been.  Or what of Scotland?  The Puritanism
of Scotland became that of England, of New England.  A tumult in the High
Church of Edinburgh spread into a universal battle and struggle over all
these realms;—there came out, after fifty years' struggling, what we all
call the "Glorious Revolution" a Habeas Corpus Act, Free Parliaments,
and much else!—Alas, is it not too true what we said, That many men in the
van do always, like Russian soldiers, march into the ditch of Schweidnitz,
and fill it up with their dead bodies, that the rear may pass over them
dry-shod, and gain the honor?  How many earnest rugged Cromwells, Knoxes,
poor Peasant Covenanters, wrestling, battling for very life, in rough miry
places, have to struggle, and suffer, and fall, greatly censured,
bemired,—before a beautiful Revolution of Eighty-eight can step over
them in official pumps and silk-stockings, with universal

It seems to me hard measure that this Scottish man, now after three hundred
years, should have to plead like a culprit before the world; intrinsically
for having been, in such way as it was then possible to be, the bravest of
all Scotchmen!  Had he been a poor Half-and-half, he could have crouched
into the corner, like so many others; Scotland had not been delivered; and
Knox had been without blame.  He is the one Scotchman to whom, of all
others, his country and the world owe a debt.  He has to plead that
Scotland would forgive him for having been worth to it any million
"unblamable" Scotchmen that need no forgiveness!  He bared his breast to
the battle; had to row in French galleys, wander forlorn in exile, in
clouds and storms; was censured, shot at through his windows; had a right
sore fighting life:  if this world were his place of recompense, he had
made but a bad venture of it.  I cannot apologize for Knox.  To him it is
very indifferent, these two hundred and fifty years or more, what men say
of him.  But we, having got above all those details of his battle, and
living now in clearness on the fruits of his victory, we, for our own sake,
ought to look through the rumors and controversies enveloping the man, into
the man himself.

For one thing, I will remark that this post of Prophet to his Nation was
not of his seeking; Knox had lived forty years quietly obscure, before he
became conspicuous.  He was the son of poor parents; had got a college
education; become a Priest; adopted the Reformation, and seemed well
content to guide his own steps by the light of it, nowise unduly intruding
it on others.  He had lived as Tutor in gentlemen's families; preaching
when any body of persons wished to hear his doctrine:  resolute he to walk
by the truth, and speak the truth when called to do it; not ambitious of
more; not fancying himself capable of more.  In this entirely obscure way
he had reached the age of forty; was with the small body of Reformers who
were standing siege in St. Andrew's Castle,—when one day in their chapel,
the Preacher after finishing his exhortation to these fighters in the
forlorn hope, said suddenly, That there ought to be other speakers, that
all men who had a priest's heart and gift in them ought now to
speak;—which gifts and heart one of their own number, John Knox the name
of him, had:  Had he not? said the Preacher, appealing to all the audience:
what then is his duty?  The people answered affirmatively; it was a
criminal forsaking of his post, if such a man held the word that was in him
silent.  Poor Knox was obliged to stand up; he attempted to reply; he could
say no word;—burst into a flood of tears, and ran out.  It is worth
remembering, that scene.  He was in grievous trouble for some days.  He
felt what a small faculty was his for this great work.  He felt what a
baptism he was called to be baptized withal.  He "burst into tears."

Our primary characteristic of a Hero, that he is sincere, applies
emphatically to Knox.  It is not denied anywhere that this, whatever might
be his other qualities or faults, is among the truest of men.  With a
singular instinct he holds to the truth and fact; the truth alone is there
for him, the rest a mere shadow and deceptive nonentity.  However feeble,
forlorn the reality may seem, on that and that only can he take his
stand.  In the Galleys of the River Loire, whither Knox and the others,
after their Castle of St. Andrew's was taken, had been sent as
Galley-slaves,—some officer or priest, one day, presented them an Image of
the Virgin Mother, requiring that they, the blasphemous heretics, should do
it reverence.  Mother?  Mother of God? said Knox, when the turn came to
him:  This is no Mother of God:  this is "a pented bredd,"—a piece of
wood, I tell you, with paint on it!  She is fitter for swimming, I think,
than for being worshipped, added Knox; and flung the thing into the river.
It was not very cheap jesting there:  but come of it what might, this thing
to Knox was and must continue nothing other than the real truth; it was a
pented bredd:  worship it he would not.

He told his fellow-prisoners, in this darkest time, to be of courage; the
Cause they had was the true one, and must and would prosper; the whole
world could not put it down.  Reality is of God's making; it is alone
strong.  How many pented bredds, pretending to be real, are fitter to
swim than to be worshipped!—This Knox cannot live but by fact:  he clings
to reality as the shipwrecked sailor to the cliff.  He is an instance to us
how a man, by sincerity itself, becomes heroic:  it is the grand gift he
has.  We find in Knox a good honest intellectual talent, no transcendent
one;—a narrow, inconsiderable man, as compared with Luther:  but in
heartfelt instinctive adherence to truth, in sincerity, as we say, he has
no superior; nay, one might ask, What equal he has?  The heart of him is of
the true Prophet cast.  "He lies there," said the Earl of Morton at his
grave, "who never feared the face of man."  He resembles, more than any of
the moderns, an Old-Hebrew Prophet.  The same inflexibility, intolerance,
rigid narrow-looking adherence to God's truth, stern rebuke in the name of
God to all that forsake truth:  an Old-Hebrew Prophet in the guise of an
Edinburgh Minister of the Sixteenth Century.  We are to take him for that;
not require him to be other.

Knox's conduct to Queen Mary, the harsh visits he used to make in her own
palace, to reprove her there, have been much commented upon.  Such cruelty,
such coarseness fills us with indignation.  On reading the actual narrative
of the business, what Knox said, and what Knox meant, I must say one's
tragic feeling is rather disappointed.  They are not so coarse, these
speeches; they seem to me about as fine as the circumstances would permit!
Knox was not there to do the courtier; he came on another errand.  Whoever,
reading these colloquies of his with the Queen, thinks they are vulgar
insolences of a plebeian priest to a delicate high lady, mistakes the
purport and essence of them altogether.  It was unfortunately not possible
to be polite with the Queen of Scotland, unless one proved untrue to the
Nation and Cause of Scotland.  A man who did not wish to see the land of
his birth made a hunting-field for intriguing ambitious Guises, and the
Cause of God trampled underfoot of Falsehoods, Formulas and the Devil's
Cause, had no method of making himself agreeable!  "Better that women
weep," said Morton, "than that bearded men be forced to weep."  Knox was
the constitutional opposition-party in Scotland:  the Nobles of the
country, called by their station to take that post, were not found in it;
Knox had to go, or no one.  The hapless Queen;—but the still more hapless
Country, if she were made happy!  Mary herself was not without sharpness
enough, among her other qualities:  "Who are you," said she once, "that
presume to school the nobles and sovereign of this realm?"—"Madam, a
subject born within the same," answered he.  Reasonably answered!  If the
"subject" have truth to speak, it is not the "subject's" footing that will
fail him here.—

We blame Knox for his intolerance.  Well, surely it is good that each of us
be as tolerant as possible.  Yet, at bottom, after all the talk there is
and has been about it, what is tolerance?  Tolerance has to tolerate the
unessential; and to see well what that is.  Tolerance has to be noble,
measured, just in its very wrath, when it can tolerate no longer.  But, on
the whole, we are not altogether here to tolerate!  We are here to resist,
to control and vanquish withal.  We do not "tolerate" Falsehoods,
Thieveries, Iniquities, when they fasten on us; we say to them, Thou art
false, thou art not tolerable!  We are here to extinguish Falsehoods, and
put an end to them, in some wise way!  I will not quarrel so much with the
way; the doing of the thing is our great concern.  In this sense Knox was,
full surely, intolerant.

A man sent to row in French Galleys, and such like, for teaching the Truth
in his own land, cannot always be in the mildest humor!  I am not prepared
to say that Knox had a soft temper; nor do I know that he had what we call
an ill temper.  An ill nature he decidedly had not.  Kind honest affections
dwelt in the much-enduring, hard-worn, ever-battling man.  That he could
rebuke Queens, and had such weight among those proud turbulent Nobles,
proud enough whatever else they were; and could maintain to the end a kind
of virtual Presidency and Sovereignty in that wild realm, he who was only
"a subject born within the same:"  this of itself will prove to us that he
was found, close at hand, to be no mean acrid man; but at heart a
healthful, strong, sagacious man.  Such alone can bear rule in that kind.
They blame him for pulling down cathedrals, and so forth, as if he were a
seditious rioting demagogue:  precisely the reverse is seen to be the fact,
in regard to cathedrals and the rest of it, if we examine!  Knox wanted no
pulling down of stone edifices; he wanted leprosy and darkness to be thrown
out of the lives of men.  Tumult was not his element; it was the tragic
feature of his life that he was forced to dwell so much in that.  Every
such man is the born enemy of Disorder; hates to be in it:  but what then?
Smooth Falsehood is not Order; it is the general sum-total of Disorder.
Order is Truth,—each thing standing on the basis that belongs to it:
Order and Falsehood cannot subsist together.

Withal, unexpectedly enough, this Knox has a vein of drollery in him; which
I like much, in combination with his other qualities.  He has a true eye
for the ridiculous.  His History, with its rough earnestness, is
curiously enlivened with this.  When the two Prelates, entering Glasgow
Cathedral, quarrel about precedence; march rapidly up, take to hustling one
another, twitching one another's rochets, and at last flourishing their
crosiers like quarter-staves, it is a great sight for him every way!  Not
mockery, scorn, bitterness alone; though there is enough of that too.  But
a true, loving, illuminating laugh mounts up over the earnest visage; not a
loud laugh; you would say, a laugh in the eyes most of all.  An
honest-hearted, brotherly man; brother to the high, brother also to the
low; sincere in his sympathy with both.  He had his pipe of Bourdeaux too,
we find, in that old Edinburgh house of his; a cheery social man, with
faces that loved him!  They go far wrong who think this Knox was a gloomy,
spasmodic, shrieking fanatic.  Not at all:  he is one of the solidest of
men.  Practical, cautious-hopeful, patient; a most shrewd, observing,
quietly discerning man.  In fact, he has very much the type of character we
assign to the Scotch at present:  a certain sardonic taciturnity is in him;
insight enough; and a stouter heart than he himself knows of.  He has the
power of holding his peace over many things which do not vitally concern
him,—"They? what are they?"  But the thing which does vitally concern him,
that thing he will speak of; and in a tone the whole world shall be made to
hear:  all the more emphatic for his long silence.

This Prophet of the Scotch is to me no hateful man!—He had a sore fight of
an existence; wrestling with Popes and Principalities; in defeat,
contention, life-long struggle; rowing as a galley-slave, wandering as an
exile.  A sore fight:  but he won it.  "Have you hope?" they asked him in
his last moment, when he could no longer speak.  He lifted his finger,
"pointed upwards with his finger," and so died.  Honor to him!  His works
have not died.  The letter of his work dies, as of all men's; but the
spirit of it never.

One word more as to the letter of Knox's work.  The unforgivable offence in
him is, that he wished to set up Priests over the head of Kings.  In other
words, he strove to make the Government of Scotland a Theocracy.  This
indeed is properly the sum of his offences, the essential sin; for which
what pardon can there be?  It is most true, he did, at bottom, consciously
or unconsciously, mean a Theocracy, or Government of God.  He did mean that
Kings and Prime Ministers, and all manner of persons, in public or private,
diplomatizing or whatever else they might be doing, should walk according
to the Gospel of Christ, and understand that this was their Law, supreme
over all laws.  He hoped once to see such a thing realized; and the
Petition, Thy Kingdom come, no longer an empty word.  He was sore grieved
when he saw greedy worldly Barons clutch hold of the Church's property;
when he expostulated that it was not secular property, that it was
spiritual property, and should be turned to true churchly uses,
education, schools, worship;—and the Regent Murray had to answer, with a
shrug of the shoulders, "It is a devout imagination!"  This was Knox's
scheme of right and truth; this he zealously endeavored after, to realize
it.  If we think his scheme of truth was too narrow, was not true, we may
rejoice that he could not realize it; that it remained after two centuries
of effort, unrealizable, and is a "devout imagination" still.  But how
shall we blame him for struggling to realize it?  Theocracy, Government
of God, is precisely the thing to be struggled for!  All Prophets, zealous
Priests, are there for that purpose.  Hildebrand wished a Theocracy;
Cromwell wished it, fought for it; Mahomet attained it.  Nay, is it not
what all zealous men, whether called Priests, Prophets, or whatsoever else
called, do essentially wish, and must wish?  That right and truth, or God's
Law, reign supreme among men, this is the Heavenly Ideal (well named in
Knox's time, and namable in all times, a revealed "Will of God") towards
which the Reformer will insist that all be more and more approximated.  All
true Reformers, as I said, are by the nature of them Priests, and strive
for a Theocracy.

How far such Ideals can ever be introduced into Practice, and at what point
our impatience with their non-introduction ought to begin, is always a
question.  I think we may say safely, Let them introduce themselves as far
as they can contrive to do it!  If they are the true faith of men, all men
ought to be more or less impatient always where they are not found
introduced.  There will never be wanting Regent Murrays enough to shrug
their shoulders, and say, "A devout imagination!"  We will praise the
Hero-priest rather, who does what is in him to bring them in; and wears
out, in toil, calumny, contradiction, a noble life, to make a God's Kingdom
of this Earth.  The Earth will not become too godlike!

[May 19, 1840.]

Hero-Gods, Prophets, Poets, Priests are forms of Heroism that belong to the
old ages, make their appearance in the remotest times; some of them have
ceased to be possible long since, and cannot any more show themselves in
this world.  The Hero as Man of Letters, again, of which class we are to
speak to-day, is altogether a product of these new ages; and so long as the
wondrous art of Writing, or of Ready-writing which we call Printing,
subsists, he may be expected to continue, as one of the main forms of
Heroism for all future ages.  He is, in various respects, a very singular

He is new, I say; he has hardly lasted above a century in the world yet.
Never, till about a hundred years ago, was there seen any figure of a Great
Soul living apart in that anomalous manner; endeavoring to speak forth the
inspiration that was in him by Printed Books, and find place and
subsistence by what the world would please to give him for doing that.
Much had been sold and bought, and left to make its own bargain in the
market-place; but the inspired wisdom of a Heroic Soul never till then, in
that naked manner.  He, with his copy-rights and copy-wrongs, in his
squalid garret, in his rusty coat; ruling (for this is what he does), from
his grave, after death, whole nations and generations who would, or would
not, give him bread while living,—is a rather curious spectacle!  Few
shapes of Heroism can be more unexpected.

Alas, the Hero from of old has had to cramp himself into strange shapes:
the world knows not well at any time what to do with him, so foreign is his
aspect in the world!  It seemed absurd to us, that men, in their rude
admiration, should take some wise great Odin for a god, and worship him as
such; some wise great Mahomet for one god-inspired, and religiously follow
his Law for twelve centuries:  but that a wise great Johnson, a Burns, a
Rousseau, should be taken for some idle nondescript, extant in the world to
amuse idleness, and have a few coins and applauses thrown him, that he
might live thereby; this perhaps, as before hinted, will one day seem a
still absurder phasis of things!—Meanwhile, since it is the spiritual
always that determines the material, this same Man-of-Letters Hero must be
regarded as our most important modern person.  He, such as he may be, is
the soul of all.  What he teaches, the whole world will do and make.  The
world's manner of dealing with him is the most significant feature of the
world's general position.  Looking well at his life, we may get a glance,
as deep as is readily possible for us, into the life of those singular
centuries which have produced him, in which we ourselves live and work.

There are genuine Men of Letters, and not genuine; as in every kind there
is a genuine and a spurious.  If hero be taken to mean genuine, then I
say the Hero as Man of Letters will be found discharging a function for us
which is ever honorable, ever the highest; and was once well known to be
the highest.  He is uttering forth, in such way as he has, the inspired
soul of him; all that a man, in any case, can do.  I say inspired; for
what we call "originality," "sincerity," "genius," the heroic quality we
have no good name for, signifies that.  The Hero is he who lives in the
inward sphere of things, in the True, Divine and Eternal, which exists
always, unseen to most, under the Temporary, Trivial:  his being is in
that; he declares that abroad, by act or speech as it may be in declaring
himself abroad.  His life, as we said before, is a piece of the everlasting
heart of Nature herself:  all men's life is,—but the weak many know not
the fact, and are untrue to it, in most times; the strong few are strong,
heroic, perennial, because it cannot be hidden from them.  The Man of
Letters, like every Hero, is there to proclaim this in such sort as he can.
Intrinsically it is the same function which the old generations named a man
Prophet, Priest, Divinity for doing; which all manner of Heroes, by speech
or by act, are sent into the world to do.

Fichte the German Philosopher delivered, some forty years ago at Erlangen,
a highly remarkable Course of Lectures on this subject:  "Ueber das Wesen
des Gelehrten, On the Nature of the Literary Man."  Fichte, in conformity
with the Transcendental Philosophy, of which he was a distinguished
teacher, declares first:  That all things which we see or work with in this
Earth, especially we ourselves and all persons, are as a kind of vesture or
sensuous Appearance:  that under all there lies, as the essence of them,
what he calls the "Divine Idea of the World;" this is the Reality which
"lies at the bottom of all Appearance."  To the mass of men no such Divine
Idea is recognizable in the world; they live merely, says Fichte, among the
superficialities, practicalities and shows of the world, not dreaming that
there is anything divine under them.  But the Man of Letters is sent hither
specially that he may discern for himself, and make manifest to us, this
same Divine Idea:  in every new generation it will manifest itself in a new
dialect; and he is there for the purpose of doing that.  Such is Fichte's
phraseology; with which we need not quarrel.  It is his way of naming what
I here, by other words, am striving imperfectly to name; what there is at
present no name for:  The unspeakable Divine Significance, full of
splendor, of wonder and terror, that lies in the being of every man, of
every thing,—the Presence of the God who made every man and thing.
Mahomet taught this in his dialect; Odin in his:  it is the thing which all
thinking hearts, in one dialect or another, are here to teach.

Fichte calls the Man of Letters, therefore, a Prophet, or as he prefers to
phrase it, a Priest, continually unfolding the Godlike to men:  Men of
Letters are a perpetual Priesthood, from age to age, teaching all men that
a God is still present in their life, that all "Appearance," whatsoever we
see in the world, is but as a vesture for the "Divine Idea of the World,"
for "that which lies at the bottom of Appearance."  In the true Literary
Man there is thus ever, acknowledged or not by the world, a sacredness:  he
is the light of the world; the world's Priest;—guiding it, like a sacred
Pillar of Fire, in its dark pilgrimage through the waste of Time.  Fichte
discriminates with sharp zeal the true Literary Man, what we here call
the Hero as Man of Letters, from multitudes of false unheroic.  Whoever
lives not wholly in this Divine Idea, or living partially in it, struggles
not, as for the one good, to live wholly in it,—he is, let him live where
else he like, in what pomps and prosperities he like, no Literary Man; he
is, says Fichte, a "Bungler, Stumper."  Or at best, if he belong to the
prosaic provinces, he may be a "Hodman; " Fichte even calls him elsewhere a
"Nonentity," and has in short no mercy for him, no wish that he should
continue happy among us!  This is Fichte's notion of the Man of Letters.
It means, in its own form, precisely what we here mean.

In this point of view, I consider that, for the last hundred years, by far
the notablest of all Literary Men is Fichte's countryman, Goethe.  To that
man too, in a strange way, there was given what we may call a life in the
Divine Idea of the World; vision of the inward divine mystery:  and
strangely, out of his Books, the world rises imaged once more as godlike,
the workmanship and temple of a God.  Illuminated all, not in fierce impure
fire-splendor as of Mahomet, but in mild celestial radiance;—really a
Prophecy in these most unprophetic times; to my mind, by far the greatest,
though one of the quietest, among all the great things that have come to
pass in them.  Our chosen specimen of the Hero as Literary Man would be
this Goethe.  And it were a very pleasant plan for me here to discourse of
his heroism:  for I consider him to be a true Hero; heroic in what he said
and did, and perhaps still more in what he did not say and did not do; to
me a noble spectacle:  a great heroic ancient man, speaking and keeping
silence as an ancient Hero, in the guise of a most modern, high-bred,
high-cultivated Man of Letters!  We have had no such spectacle; no man
capable of affording such, for the last hundred and fifty years.

But at present, such is the general state of knowledge about Goethe, it
were worse than useless to attempt speaking of him in this case.  Speak as
I might, Goethe, to the great majority of you, would remain problematic,
vague; no impression but a false one could be realized.  Him we must leave
to future times.  Johnson, Burns, Rousseau, three great figures from a
prior time, from a far inferior state of circumstances, will suit us better
here.  Three men of the Eighteenth Century; the conditions of their life
far more resemble what those of ours still are in England, than what
Goethe's in Germany were.  Alas, these men did not conquer like him; they
fought bravely, and fell.  They were not heroic bringers of the light, but
heroic seekers of it.  They lived under galling conditions; struggling as
under mountains of impediment, and could not unfold themselves into
clearness, or victorious interpretation of that "Divine Idea."  It is
rather the Tombs of three Literary Heroes that I have to show you.  There
are the monumental heaps, under which three spiritual giants lie buried.
Very mournful, but also great and full of interest for us.  We will linger
by them for a while.

Complaint is often made, in these times, of what we call the disorganized
condition of society:  how ill many forces of society fulfil their work;
how many powerful are seen working in a wasteful, chaotic, altogether
unarranged manner.  It is too just a complaint, as we all know.  But
perhaps if we look at this of Books and the Writers of Books, we shall find
here, as it were, the summary of all other disorganizations;—a sort of
heart, from which, and to which all other confusion circulates in the
world!  Considering what Book writers do in the world, and what the world
does with Book writers, I should say, It is the most anomalous thing the
world at present has to show.—We should get into a sea far beyond
sounding, did we attempt to give account of this:  but we must glance at it
for the sake of our subject.  The worst element in the life of these three
Literary Heroes was, that they found their business and position such a
chaos.  On the beaten road there is tolerable travelling; but it is sore
work, and many have to perish, fashioning a path through the impassable!

Our pious Fathers, feeling well what importance lay in the speaking of man
to men, founded churches, made endowments, regulations; everywhere in the
civilized world there is a Pulpit, environed with all manner of complex
dignified appurtenances and furtherances, that therefrom a man with the
tongue may, to best advantage, address his fellow-men.  They felt that this
was the most important thing; that without this there was no good thing.
It is a right pious work, that of theirs; beautiful to behold!  But now
with the art of Writing, with the art of Printing, a total change has come
over that business.  The Writer of a Book, is not he a Preacher preaching
not to this parish or that, on this day or that, but to all men in all
times and places?  Surely it is of the last importance that he do his
work right, whoever do it wrong;—that the eye report not falsely, for
then all the other members are astray!  Well; how he may do his work,
whether he do it right or wrong, or do it at all, is a point which no man
in the world has taken the pains to think of.  To a certain shopkeeper,
trying to get some money for his books, if lucky, he is of some importance;
to no other man of any.  Whence he came, whither he is bound, by what ways
he arrived, by what he might be furthered on his course, no one asks.  He
is an accident in society.  He wanders like a wild Ishmaelite, in a world
of which he is as the spiritual light, either the guidance or the

Certainly the Art of Writing is the most miraculous of all things man has
devised.  Odin's Runes were the first form of the work of a Hero; Books
written words, are still miraculous Runes, the latest form!  In Books
lies the soul of the whole Past Time; the articulate audible voice of the
Past, when the body and material substance of it has altogether vanished
like a dream.  Mighty fleets and armies, harbors and arsenals, vast cities,
high-domed, many-engined,—they are precious, great:  but what do they
become?  Agamemnon, the many Agamemnons, Pericleses, and their Greece; all
is gone now to some ruined fragments, dumb mournful wrecks and blocks:  but
the Books of Greece!  There Greece, to every thinker, still very literally
lives:  can be called up again into life.  No magic Rune is stranger than
a Book.  All that Mankind has done, thought, gained or been:  it is lying
as in magic preservation in the pages of Books.  They are the chosen
possession of men.

Do not Books still accomplish miracles, as Runes were fabled to do?
They persuade men.  Not the wretchedest circulating-library novel, which
foolish girls thumb and con in remote villages, but will help to regulate
the actual practical weddings and households of those foolish girls.  So
"Celia" felt, so "Clifford" acted:  the foolish Theorem of Life, stamped
into those young brains, comes out as a solid Practice one day.  Consider
whether any Rune in the wildest imagination of Mythologist ever did such
wonders as, on the actual firm Earth, some Books have done!  What built St.
Paul's Cathedral?  Look at the heart of the matter, it was that divine
Hebrew BOOK,—the word partly of the man Moses, an outlaw tending his
Midianitish herds, four thousand years ago, in the wildernesses of Sinai!
It is the strangest of things, yet nothing is truer.  With the art of
Writing, of which Printing is a simple, an inevitable and comparatively
insignificant corollary, the true reign of miracles for mankind commenced.
It related, with a wondrous new contiguity and perpetual closeness, the
Past and Distant with the Present in time and place; all times and all
places with this our actual Here and Now.  All things were altered for men;
all modes of important work of men:  teaching, preaching, governing, and
all else.

To look at Teaching, for instance.  Universities are a notable, respectable
product of the modern ages.  Their existence too is modified, to the very
basis of it, by the existence of Books.  Universities arose while there
were yet no Books procurable; while a man, for a single Book, had to give
an estate of land.  That, in those circumstances, when a man had some
knowledge to communicate, he should do it by gathering the learners round
him, face to face, was a necessity for him.  If you wanted to know what
Abelard knew, you must go and listen to Abelard.  Thousands, as many as
thirty thousand, went to hear Abelard and that metaphysical theology of
his.  And now for any other teacher who had also something of his own to
teach, there was a great convenience opened:  so many thousands eager to
learn were already assembled yonder; of all places the best place for him
was that.  For any third teacher it was better still; and grew ever the
better, the more teachers there came.  It only needed now that the King
took notice of this new phenomenon; combined or agglomerated the various
schools into one school; gave it edifices, privileges, encouragements, and
named it Universitas, or School of all Sciences:  the University of
Paris, in its essential characters, was there.  The model of all subsequent
Universities; which down even to these days, for six centuries now, have
gone on to found themselves.  Such, I conceive, was the origin of

It is clear, however, that with this simple circumstance, facility of
getting Books, the whole conditions of the business from top to bottom were
changed.  Once invent Printing, you metamorphosed all Universities, or
superseded them!  The Teacher needed not now to gather men personally round
him, that he might speak to them what he knew:  print it in a Book, and
all learners far and wide, for a trifle, had it each at his own fireside,
much more effectually to learn it!—Doubtless there is still peculiar
virtue in Speech; even writers of Books may still, in some circumstances,
find it convenient to speak also,—witness our present meeting here!  There
is, one would say, and must ever remain while man has a tongue, a distinct
province for Speech as well as for Writing and Printing.  In regard to all
things this must remain; to Universities among others.  But the limits of
the two have nowhere yet been pointed out, ascertained; much less put in
practice:  the University which would completely take in that great new
fact, of the existence of Printed Books, and stand on a clear footing for
the Nineteenth Century as the Paris one did for the Thirteenth, has not yet
come into existence.  If we think of it, all that a University, or final
highest School can do for us, is still but what the first School began
doing,—teach us to read.  We learn to read, in various languages, in
various sciences; we learn the alphabet and letters of all manner of Books.
But the place where we are to get knowledge, even theoretic knowledge, is
the Books themselves!  It depends on what we read, after all manner of
Professors have done their best for us.  The true University of these days
is a Collection of Books.

But to the Church itself, as I hinted already, all is changed, in its
preaching, in its working, by the introduction of Books.  The Church is the
working recognized Union of our Priests or Prophets, of those who by wise
teaching guide the souls of men.  While there was no Writing, even while
there was no Easy-writing, or Printing, the preaching of the voice was
the natural sole method of performing this.  But now with Books! —He that
can write a true Book, to persuade England, is not he the Bishop and
Archbishop, the Primate of England and of All England?  I many a time say,
the writers of Newspapers, Pamphlets, Poems, Books, these are the real
working effective Church of a modern country.  Nay not only our preaching,
but even our worship, is not it too accomplished by means of Printed Books?
The noble sentiment which a gifted soul has clothed for us in melodious
words, which brings melody into our hearts,—is not this essentially, if we
will understand it, of the nature of worship?  There are many, in all
countries, who, in this confused time, have no other method of worship.  He
who, in any way, shows us better than we knew before that a lily of the
fields is beautiful, does he not show it us as an effluence of the Fountain
of all Beauty; as the handwriting, made visible there, of the great Maker
of the Universe?  He has sung for us, made us sing with him, a little verse
of a sacred Psalm.  Essentially so.  How much more he who sings, who says,
or in any way brings home to our heart the noble doings, feelings, darings
and endurances of a brother man!  He has verily touched our hearts as with
a live coal from the altar.  Perhaps there is no worship more authentic.

Literature, so far as it is Literature, is an "apocalypse of Nature," a
revealing of the "open secret."  It may well enough be named, in Fichte's
style, a "continuous revelation" of the Godlike in the Terrestrial and
Common.  The Godlike does ever, in very truth, endure there; is brought
out, now in this dialect, now in that, with various degrees of clearness:
all true gifted Singers and Speakers are, consciously or unconsciously,
doing so.  The dark stormful indignation of a Byron, so wayward and
perverse, may have touches of it; nay the withered mockery of a French
sceptic,—his mockery of the False, a love and worship of the True.  How
much more the sphere-harmony of a Shakspeare, of a Goethe; the cathedral
music of a Milton!  They are something too, those humble genuine lark-notes
of a Burns,—skylark, starting from the humble furrow, far overhead into
the blue depths, and singing to us so genuinely there!  For all true
singing is of the nature of worship; as indeed all true working may be
said to be,—whereof such singing is but the record, and fit melodious
representation, to us.  Fragments of a real "Church Liturgy" and "Body of
Homilies," strangely disguised from the common eye, are to be found
weltering in that huge froth-ocean of Printed Speech we loosely call
Literature!  Books are our Church too.

Or turning now to the Government of men.  Witenagemote, old Parliament, was
a great thing.  The affairs of the nation were there deliberated and
decided; what we were to do as a nation.  But does not, though the name
Parliament subsists, the parliamentary debate go on now, everywhere and at
all times, in a far more comprehensive way, out of Parliament altogether?
Burke said there were Three Estates in Parliament; but, in the Reporters'
Gallery yonder, there sat a Fourth Estate more important far than they
all.  It is not a figure of speech, or a witty saying; it is a literal
fact,—very momentous to us in these times.  Literature is our Parliament
too.  Printing, which comes necessarily out of Writing, I say often, is
equivalent to Democracy:  invent Writing, Democracy is inevitable.  Writing
brings Printing; brings universal everyday extempore Printing, as we see at
present.  Whoever can speak, speaking now to the whole nation, becomes a
power, a branch of government, with inalienable weight in law-making, in
all acts of authority.  It matters not what rank he has, what revenues or
garnitures.  the requisite thing is, that he have a tongue which others
will listen to; this and nothing more is requisite.  The nation is governed
by all that has tongue in the nation:  Democracy is virtually there.  Add
only, that whatsoever power exists will have itself, by and by, organized;
working secretly under bandages, obscurations, obstructions, it will never
rest till it get to work free, unencumbered, visible to all.  Democracy
virtually extant will insist on becoming palpably extant.—

On all sides, are we not driven to the conclusion that, of the things which
man can do or make here below, by far the most momentous, wonderful and
worthy are the things we call Books!  Those poor bits of rag-paper with
black ink on them;—from the Daily Newspaper to the sacred Hebrew BOOK,
what have they not done, what are they not doing!—For indeed, whatever be
the outward form of the thing (bits of paper, as we say, and black ink), is
it not verily, at bottom, the highest act of man's faculty that produces a
Book?  It is the Thought of man; the true thaumaturgic virtue; by which
man works all things whatsoever.  All that he does, and brings to pass, is
the vesture of a Thought.  This London City, with all its houses, palaces,
steam-engines, cathedrals, and huge immeasurable traffic and tumult, what
is it but a Thought, but millions of Thoughts made into One;—a huge
immeasurable Spirit of a THOUGHT, embodied in brick, in iron, smoke, dust,
Palaces, Parliaments, Hackney Coaches, Katherine Docks, and the rest of it!
Not a brick was made but some man had to think of the making of that
brick.—The thing we called "bits of paper with traces of black ink," is
the purest embodiment a Thought of man can have.  No wonder it is, in all
ways, the activest and noblest.

All this, of the importance and supreme importance of the Man of Letters in
modern Society, and how the Press is to such a degree superseding the
Pulpit, the Senate, the Senatus Academicus and much else, has been
admitted for a good while; and recognized often enough, in late times, with
a sort of sentimental triumph and wonderment.  It seems to me, the
Sentimental by and by will have to give place to the Practical.  If Men of
Letters are so incalculably influential, actually performing such work
for us from age to age, and even from day to day, then I think we may
conclude that Men of Letters will not always wander like unrecognized
unregulated Ishmaelites among us!  Whatsoever thing, as I said above, has
virtual unnoticed power will cast off its wrappages, bandages, and step
forth one day with palpably articulated, universally visible power.  That
one man wear the clothes, and take the wages, of a function which is done
by quite another:  there can be no profit in this; this is not right, it is
wrong.  And yet, alas, the making of it right,—what a business, for long
times to come!  Sure enough, this that we call Organization of the Literary
Guild is still a great way off, encumbered with all manner of complexities.
If you asked me what were the best possible organization for the Men of
Letters in modern society; the arrangement of furtherance and regulation,
grounded the most accurately on the actual facts of their position and of
the world's position,—I should beg to say that the problem far exceeded my
faculty!  It is not one man's faculty; it is that of many successive men
turned earnestly upon it, that will bring out even an approximate solution.
What the best arrangement were, none of us could say.  But if you ask,
Which is the worst?  I answer:  This which we now have, that Chaos should
sit umpire in it; this is the worst.  To the best, or any good one, there
is yet a long way.

One remark I must not omit, That royal or parliamentary grants of money are
by no means the chief thing wanted!  To give our Men of Letters stipends,
endowments and all furtherance of cash, will do little towards the
business.  On the whole, one is weary of hearing about the omnipotence of
money.  I will say rather that, for a genuine man, it is no evil to be
poor; that there ought to be Literary Men poor,—to show whether they are
genuine or not!  Mendicant Orders, bodies of good men doomed to beg, were
instituted in the Christian Church; a most natural and even necessary
development of the spirit of Christianity.  It was itself founded on
Poverty, on Sorrow, Contradiction, Crucifixion, every species of worldly
Distress and Degradation.  We may say, that he who has not known those
things, and learned from them the priceless lessons they have to teach, has
missed a good opportunity of schooling.  To beg, and go barefoot, in coarse
woollen cloak with a rope round your loins, and be despised of all the
world, was no beautiful business;—nor an honorable one in any eye, till
the nobleness of those who did so had made it honored of some!

Begging is not in our course at the present time:  but for the rest of it,
who will say that a Johnson is not perhaps the better for being poor?  It
is needful for him, at all rates, to know that outward profit, that success
of any kind is not the goal he has to aim at.  Pride, vanity,
ill-conditioned egoism of all sorts, are bred in his heart, as in every
heart; need, above all, to be cast out of his heart,—to be, with whatever
pangs, torn out of it, cast forth from it, as a thing worthless.  Byron,
born rich and noble, made out even less than Burns, poor and plebeian.  Who
knows but, in that same "best possible organization" as yet far off,
Poverty may still enter as an important element?  What if our Men of
Letters, men setting up to be Spiritual Heroes, were still then, as they
now are, a kind of "involuntary monastic order;" bound still to this same
ugly Poverty,—till they had tried what was in it too, till they had
learned to make it too do for them!  Money, in truth, can do much, but it
cannot do all.  We must know the province of it, and confine it there; and
even spurn it back, when it wishes to get farther.

Besides, were the money-furtherances, the proper season for them, the fit
assigner of them, all settled,—how is the Burns to be recognized that
merits these?  He must pass through the ordeal, and prove himself.  This
ordeal; this wild welter of a chaos which is called Literary Life:  this
too is a kind of ordeal!  There is clear truth in the idea that a struggle
from the lower classes of society, towards the upper regions and rewards of
society, must ever continue.  Strong men are born there, who ought to stand
elsewhere than there.  The manifold, inextricably complex, universal
struggle of these constitutes, and must constitute, what is called the
progress of society.  For Men of Letters, as for all other sorts of men.
How to regulate that struggle?  There is the whole question.  To leave it
as it is, at the mercy of blind Chance; a whirl of distracted atoms, one
cancelling the other; one of the thousand arriving saved, nine hundred and
ninety-nine lost by the way; your royal Johnson languishing inactive in
garrets, or harnessed to the yoke of Printer Cave; your Burns dying
broken-hearted as a Gauger; your Rousseau driven into mad exasperation,
kindling French Revolutions by his paradoxes:  this, as we said, is clearly
enough the worst regulation.  The best, alas, is far from us!

And yet there can be no doubt but it is coming; advancing on us, as yet
hidden in the bosom of centuries:  this is a prophecy one can risk.  For so
soon as men get to discern the importance of a thing, they do infallibly
set about arranging it, facilitating, forwarding it; and rest not till, in
some approximate degree, they have accomplished that.  I say, of all
Priesthoods, Aristocracies, Governing Classes at present extant in the
world, there is no class comparable for importance to that Priesthood of
the Writers of Books.  This is a fact which he who runs may read,—and draw
inferences from.  "Literature will take care of itself," answered Mr. Pitt,
when applied to for some help for Burns.  "Yes," adds Mr. Southey, "it will
take care of itself; and of you too, if you do not look to it!"

The result to individual Men of Letters is not the momentous one; they are
but individuals, an infinitesimal fraction of the great body; they can
struggle on, and live or else die, as they have been wont.  But it deeply
concerns the whole society, whether it will set its light on high places,
to walk thereby; or trample it under foot, and scatter it in all ways of
wild waste (not without conflagration), as heretofore!  Light is the one
thing wanted for the world.  Put wisdom in the head of the world, the world
will fight its battle victoriously, and be the best world man can make it.
I called this anomaly of a disorganic Literary Class the heart of all other
anomalies, at once product and parent; some good arrangement for that would
be as the punctum saliens of a new vitality and just arrangement for all.
Already, in some European countries, in France, in Prussia, one traces some
beginnings of an arrangement for the Literary Class; indicating the gradual
possibility of such.  I believe that it is possible; that it will have to
be possible.

By far the most interesting fact I hear about the Chinese is one on which
we cannot arrive at clearness, but which excites endless curiosity even in
the dim state:  this namely, that they do attempt to make their Men of
Letters their Governors!  It would be rash to say, one understood how this
was done, or with what degree of success it was done.  All such things must
be very unsuccessful; yet a small degree of success is precious; the very
attempt how precious!  There does seem to be, all over China, a more or
less active search everywhere to discover the men of talent that grow up in
the young generation.  Schools there are for every one:  a foolish sort of
training, yet still a sort.  The youths who distinguish themselves in the
lower school are promoted into favorable stations in the higher, that they
may still more distinguish themselves,—forward and forward:  it appears to
be out of these that the Official Persons, and incipient Governors, are
taken.  These are they whom they try first, whether they can govern or
not.  And surely with the best hope:  for they are the men that have
already shown intellect.  Try them:  they have not governed or administered
as yet; perhaps they cannot; but there is no doubt they have some
Understanding,—without which no man can!  Neither is Understanding a
tool, as we are too apt to figure; "it is a hand which can handle any
tool."  Try these men:  they are of all others the best worth
trying.—Surely there is no kind of government, constitution, revolution,
social apparatus or arrangement, that I know of in this world, so promising
to one's scientific curiosity as this.  The man of intellect at the top of
affairs:  this is the aim of all constitutions and revolutions, if they
have any aim.  For the man of true intellect, as I assert and believe
always, is the noble-hearted man withal, the true, just, humane and valiant
man.  Get him for governor, all is got; fail to get him, though you had
Constitutions plentiful as blackberries, and a Parliament in every village,
there is nothing yet got!—

These things look strange, truly; and are not such as we commonly speculate
upon.  But we are fallen into strange times; these things will require to
be speculated upon; to be rendered practicable, to be in some way put in
practice.  These, and many others.  On all hands of us, there is the
announcement, audible enough, that the old Empire of Routine has ended;
that to say a thing has long been, is no reason for its continuing to be.
The things which have been are fallen into decay, are fallen into
incompetence; large masses of mankind, in every society of our Europe, are
no longer capable of living at all by the things which have been.  When
millions of men can no longer by their utmost exertion gain food for
themselves, and "the third man for thirty-six weeks each year is short of
third-rate potatoes," the things which have been must decidedly prepare to
alter themselves!—I will now quit this of the organization of Men of

Alas, the evil that pressed heaviest on those Literary Heroes of ours was
not the want of organization for Men of Letters, but a far deeper one; out
of which, indeed, this and so many other evils for the Literary Man, and
for all men, had, as from their fountain, taken rise.  That our Hero as Man
of Letters had to travel without highway, companionless, through an
inorganic chaos,—and to leave his own life and faculty lying there, as a
partial contribution towards pushing some highway through it:  this, had
not his faculty itself been so perverted and paralyzed, he might have put
up with, might have considered to be but the common lot of Heroes.  His
fatal misery was the spiritual paralysis, so we may name it, of the Age
in which his life lay; whereby his life too, do what he might, was half
paralyzed!  The Eighteenth was a Sceptical Century; in which little word
there is a whole Pandora's Box of miseries.  Scepticism means not
intellectual Doubt alone, but moral Doubt; all sorts of infidelity,
insincerity, spiritual paralysis.  Perhaps, in few centuries that one could
specify since the world began, was a life of Heroism more difficult for a
man.  That was not an age of Faith,—an age of Heroes!  The very
possibility of Heroism had been, as it were, formally abnegated in the
minds of all.  Heroism was gone forever; Triviality, Formulism and
Commonplace were come forever.  The "age of miracles" had been, or perhaps
had not been; but it was not any longer.  An effete world; wherein Wonder,
Greatness, Godhood could not now dwell;—in one word, a godless world!

How mean, dwarfish are their ways of thinking, in this time,—compared not
with the Christian Shakspeares and Miltons, but with the old Pagan Skalds,
with any species of believing men!  The living TREE Igdrasil, with the
melodious prophetic waving of its world-wide boughs, deep-rooted as Hela,
has died out into the clanking of a World-MACHINE.  "Tree" and "Machine:"
contrast these two things.  I, for my share, declare the world to be no
machine!  I say that it does not go by wheel-and-pinion "motives"
self-interests, checks, balances; that there is something far other in it
than the clank of spinning-jennies, and parliamentary majorities; and, on
the whole, that it is not a machine at all!—The old Norse Heathen had a
truer motion of God's-world than these poor Machine-Sceptics:  the old
Heathen Norse were sincere men.  But for these poor Sceptics there was no
sincerity, no truth.  Half-truth and hearsay was called truth.  Truth, for
most men, meant plausibility; to be measured by the number of votes you
could get.  They had lost any notion that sincerity was possible, or of
what sincerity was.  How many Plausibilities asking, with unaffected
surprise and the air of offended virtue, What! am not I sincere?  Spiritual
Paralysis, I say, nothing left but a Mechanical life, was the
characteristic of that century.  For the common man, unless happily he
stood below his century and belonged to another prior one, it was
impossible to be a Believer, a Hero; he lay buried, unconscious, under
these baleful influences.  To the strongest man, only with infinite
struggle and confusion was it possible to work himself half loose; and lead
as it were, in an enchanted, most tragical way, a spiritual death-in-life,
and be a Half-Hero!

Scepticism is the name we give to all this; as the chief symptom, as the
chief origin of all this.  Concerning which so much were to be said!  It
would take many Discourses, not a small fraction of one Discourse, to state
what one feels about that Eighteenth Century and its ways.  As indeed this,
and the like of this, which we now call Scepticism, is precisely the black
malady and life-foe, against which all teaching and discoursing since man's
life began has directed itself:  the battle of Belief against Unbelief is
the never-ending battle!  Neither is it in the way of crimination that one
would wish to speak.  Scepticism, for that century, we must consider as the
decay of old ways of believing, the preparation afar off for new better and
wider ways,—an inevitable thing.  We will not blame men for it; we will
lament their hard fate.  We will understand that destruction of old forms
is not destruction of everlasting substances; that Scepticism, as
sorrowful and hateful as we see it, is not an end but a beginning.

The other day speaking, without prior purpose that way, of Bentham's theory
of man and man's life, I chanced to call it a more beggarly one than
Mahomet's.  I am bound to say, now when it is once uttered, that such is my
deliberate opinion.  Not that one would mean offence against the man Jeremy
Bentham, or those who respect and believe him.  Bentham himself, and even
the creed of Bentham, seems to me comparatively worthy of praise.  It is a
determinate being what all the world, in a cowardly half-and-half manner,
was tending to be.  Let us have the crisis; we shall either have death or
the cure.  I call this gross, steam-engine Utilitarianism an approach
towards new Faith.  It was a laying-down of cant; a saying to oneself:
"Well then, this world is a dead iron machine, the god of it Gravitation
and selfish Hunger; let us see what, by checking and balancing, and good
adjustment of tooth and pinion, can be made of it!"  Benthamism has
something complete, manful, in such fearless committal of itself to what it
finds true; you may call it Heroic, though a Heroism with its eyes put
out!  It is the culminating point, and fearless ultimatum, of what lay in
the half-and-half state, pervading man's whole existence in that Eighteenth
Century.  It seems to me, all deniers of Godhood, and all lip-believers of
it, are bound to be Benthamites, if they have courage and honesty.
Benthamism is an eyeless Heroism:  the Human Species, like a hapless
blinded Samson grinding in the Philistine Mill, clasps convulsively the
pillars of its Mill; brings huge ruin down, but ultimately deliverance
withal.  Of Bentham I meant to say no harm.

But this I do say, and would wish all men to know and lay to heart, that he
who discerns nothing but Mechanism in the Universe has in the fatalest way
missed the secret of the Universe altogether.  That all Godhood should
vanish out of men's conception of this Universe seems to me precisely the
most brutal error,—I will not disparage Heathenism by calling it a Heathen
error,—that men could fall into.  It is not true; it is false at the very
heart of it.  A man who thinks so will think wrong about all things in
the world; this original sin will vitiate all other conclusions he can
form.  One might call it the most lamentable of Delusions,—not forgetting
Witchcraft itself!  Witchcraft worshipped at least a living Devil; but this
worships a dead iron Devil; no God, not even a Devil!  Whatsoever is noble,
divine, inspired, drops thereby out of life.  There remains everywhere in
life a despicable caput-mortuum; the mechanical hull, all soul fled out
of it.  How can a man act heroically?  The "Doctrine of Motives" will teach
him that it is, under more or less disguise, nothing but a wretched love of
Pleasure, fear of Pain; that Hunger, of applause, of cash, of whatsoever
victual it may be, is the ultimate fact of man's life.  Atheism, in
brief;—which does indeed frightfully punish itself.  The man, I say, is
become spiritually a paralytic man; this godlike Universe a dead mechanical
steam-engine, all working by motives, checks, balances, and I know not
what; wherein, as in the detestable belly of some Phalaris'-Bull of his own
contriving, he the poor Phalaris sits miserably dying!

Belief I define to be the healthy act of a man's mind.  It is a mysterious
indescribable process, that of getting to believe;—indescribable, as all
vital acts are.  We have our mind given us, not that it may cavil and
argue, but that it may see into something, give us clear belief and
understanding about something, whereon we are then to proceed to act.
Doubt, truly, is not itself a crime.  Certainly we do not rush out, clutch
up the first thing we find, and straightway believe that!  All manner of
doubt, inquiry, [Gr.] skepsis as it is named, about all manner of
objects, dwells in every reasonable mind.  It is the mystic working of the
mind, on the object it is getting to know and believe.  Belief comes out
of all this, above ground, like the tree from its hidden roots.  But now
if, even on common things, we require that a man keep his doubts silent,
and not babble of them till they in some measure become affirmations or
denials; how much more in regard to the highest things, impossible to speak
of in words at all!  That a man parade his doubt, and get to imagine that
debating and logic (which means at best only the manner of telling us
your thought, your belief or disbelief, about a thing) is the triumph and
true work of what intellect he has:  alas, this is as if you should
overturn the tree, and instead of green boughs, leaves and fruits, show
us ugly taloned roots turned up into the air,—and no growth, only death
and misery going on!

For the Scepticism, as I said, is not intellectual only; it is moral also;
a chronic atrophy and disease of the whole soul.  A man lives by believing
something; not by debating and arguing about many things.  A sad case for
him when all that he can manage to believe is something he can button in
his pocket, and with one or the other organ eat and digest!  Lower than
that he will not get.  We call those ages in which he gets so low the
mournfulest, sickest and meanest of all ages.  The world's heart is
palsied, sick:  how can any limb of it be whole?  Genuine Acting ceases in
all departments of the world's work; dexterous Similitude of Acting begins.
The world's wages are pocketed, the world's work is not done.  Heroes have
gone out; Quacks have come in.  Accordingly, what Century, since the end of
the Roman world, which also was a time of scepticism, simulacra and
universal decadence, so abounds with Quacks as that Eighteenth?  Consider
them, with their tumid sentimental vaporing about virtue, benevolence,—the
wretched Quack-squadron, Cagliostro at the head of them!  Few men were
without quackery; they had got to consider it a necessary ingredient and
amalgam for truth.  Chatham, our brave Chatham himself, comes down to the
House, all wrapt and bandaged; he "has crawled out in great bodily
suffering," and so on;—forgets, says Walpole, that he is acting the sick
man; in the fire of debate, snatches his arm from the sling, and
oratorically swings and brandishes it!  Chatham himself lives the strangest
mimetic life, half-hero, half-quack, all along.  For indeed the world is
full of dupes; and you have to gain the world's suffrage!  How the duties
of the world will be done in that case, what quantities of error, which
means failure, which means sorrow and misery, to some and to many, will
gradually accumulate in all provinces of the world's business, we need not

It seems to me, you lay your finger here on the heart of the world's
maladies, when you call it a Sceptical World.  An insincere world; a
godless untruth of a world!  It is out of this, as I consider, that the
whole tribe of social pestilences, French Revolutions, Chartisms, and what
not, have derived their being,—their chief necessity to be.  This must
alter.  Till this alter, nothing can beneficially alter.  My one hope of
the world, my inexpugnable consolation in looking at the miseries of the
world, is that this is altering.  Here and there one does now find a man
who knows, as of old, that this world is a Truth, and no Plausibility and
Falsity; that he himself is alive, not dead or paralytic; and that the
world is alive, instinct with Godhood, beautiful and awful, even as in the
beginning of days!  One man once knowing this, many men, all men, must by
and by come to know it.  It lies there clear, for whosoever will take the
spectacles off his eyes and honestly look, to know!  For such a man the
Unbelieving Century, with its unblessed Products, is already past; a new
century is already come.  The old unblessed Products and Performances, as
solid as they look, are Phantasms, preparing speedily to vanish.  To this
and the other noisy, very great-looking Simulacrum with the whole world
huzzaing at its heels, he can say, composedly stepping aside:  Thou art not
true; thou art not extant, only semblant; go thy way!—Yes, hollow
Formulism, gross Benthamism, and other unheroic atheistic Insincerity is
visibly and even rapidly declining.  An unbelieving Eighteenth Century is
but an exception,—such as now and then occurs.  I prophesy that the world
will once more become sincere; a believing world; with many Heroes in
it, a heroic world!  It will then be a victorious world; never till then.

Or indeed what of the world and its victories?  Men speak too much about
the world.  Each one of us here, let the world go how it will, and be
victorious or not victorious, has he not a Life of his own to lead?  One
Life; a little gleam of Time between two Eternities; no second chance to us
forevermore!  It were well for us to live not as fools and simulacra, but
as wise and realities.  The world's being saved will not save us; nor the
world's being lost destroy us.  We should look to ourselves:  there is
great merit here in the "duty of staying at home"!  And, on the whole, to
say truth, I never heard of "world's" being "saved" in any other way.  That
mania of saving worlds is itself a piece of the Eighteenth Century with its
windy sentimentalism.  Let us not follow it too far.  For the saving of the
world I will trust confidently to the Maker of the world; and look a
little to my own saving, which I am more competent to!—In brief, for the
world's sake, and for our own, we will rejoice greatly that Scepticism,
Insincerity, Mechanical Atheism, with all their poison-dews, are going, and
as good as gone.—

Now it was under such conditions, in those times of Johnson, that our Men
of Letters had to live.  Times in which there was properly no truth in
life.  Old truths had fallen nigh dumb; the new lay yet hidden, not trying
to speak.  That Man's Life here below was a Sincerity and Fact, and would
forever continue such, no new intimation, in that dusk of the world, had
yet dawned.  No intimation; not even any French Revolution,—which we
define to be a Truth once more, though a Truth clad in hell-fire!  How
different was the Luther's pilgrimage, with its assured goal, from the
Johnson's, girt with mere traditions, suppositions, grown now incredible,
unintelligible!  Mahomet's Formulas were of "wood waxed and oiled," and
could be burnt out of one's way:  poor Johnson's were far more difficult to
burn.—The strong man will ever find work, which means difficulty, pain,
to the full measure of his strength.  But to make out a victory, in those
circumstances of our poor Hero as Man of Letters, was perhaps more
difficult than in any.  Not obstruction, disorganization, Bookseller
Osborne and Fourpence-halfpenny a day; not this alone; but the light of his
own soul was taken from him.  No landmark on the Earth; and, alas, what is
that to having no loadstar in the Heaven!  We need not wonder that none of
those Three men rose to victory.  That they fought truly is the highest
praise.  With a mournful sympathy we will contemplate, if not three living
victorious Heroes, as I said, the Tombs of three fallen Heroes!  They fell
for us too; making a way for us.  There are the mountains which they hurled
abroad in their confused War of the Giants; under which, their strength and
life spent, they now lie buried.

I have already written of these three Literary Heroes, expressly or
incidentally; what I suppose is known to most of you; what need not be
spoken or written a second time.  They concern us here as the singular
Prophets of that singular age; for such they virtually were; and the
aspect they and their world exhibit, under this point of view, might lead
us into reflections enough!  I call them, all three, Genuine Men more or
less; faithfully, for most part unconsciously, struggling to be genuine,
and plant themselves on the everlasting truth of things.  This to a degree
that eminently distinguishes them from the poor artificial mass of their
contemporaries; and renders them worthy to be considered as Speakers, in
some measure, of the everlasting truth, as Prophets in that age of theirs.
By Nature herself a noble necessity was laid on them to be so.  They were
men of such magnitude that they could not live on unrealities,—clouds,
froth and all inanity gave way under them:  there was no footing for them
but on firm earth; no rest or regular motion for them, if they got not
footing there.  To a certain extent, they were Sons of Nature once more in
an age of Artifice; once more, Original Men.

As for Johnson, I have always considered him to be, by nature, one of our
great English souls.  A strong and noble man; so much left undeveloped in
him to the last:  in a kindlier element what might he not have been,—Poet,
Priest, sovereign Ruler!  On the whole, a man must not complain of his
"element," of his "time," or the like; it is thriftless work doing so.  His
time is bad:  well then, he is there to make it better!—Johnson's youth
was poor, isolated, hopeless, very miserable.  Indeed, it does not seem
possible that, in any the favorablest outward circumstances, Johnson's life
could have been other than a painful one.  The world might have had more of
profitable work out of him, or less; but his effort against the world's
work could never have been a light one.  Nature, in return for his
nobleness, had said to him, Live in an element of diseased sorrow.  Nay,
perhaps the sorrow and the nobleness were intimately and even inseparably
connected with each other.  At all events, poor Johnson had to go about
girt with continual hypochondria, physical and spiritual pain.  Like a
Hercules with the burning Nessus'-shirt on him, which shoots in on him dull
incurable misery:  the Nessus'-shirt not to be stript off, which is his own
natural skin!  In this manner he had to live.  Figure him there, with his
scrofulous diseases, with his great greedy heart, and unspeakable chaos of
thoughts; stalking mournful as a stranger in this Earth; eagerly devouring
what spiritual thing he could come at:   school-languages and other merely
grammatical stuff, if there were nothing better!  The largest soul that was
in all England; and provision made for it of "fourpence-halfpenny a day."
Yet a giant invincible soul; a true man's.  One remembers always that story
of the shoes at Oxford:  the rough, seamy-faced, rawboned College Servitor
stalking about, in winter-season, with his shoes worn out; how the
charitable Gentleman Commoner secretly places a new pair at his door; and
the rawboned Servitor, lifting them, looking at them near, with his dim
eyes, with what thoughts,—pitches them out of window!  Wet feet, mud,
frost, hunger or what you will; but not beggary:  we cannot stand beggary!
Rude stubborn self-help here; a whole world of squalor, rudeness, confused
misery and want, yet of nobleness and manfulness withal.  It is a type of
the man's life, this pitching away of the shoes.  An original man;—not a
second-hand, borrowing or begging man.  Let us stand on our own basis, at
any rate!  On such shoes as we ourselves can get.  On frost and mud, if you
will, but honestly on that;—on the reality and substance which Nature
gives us, not on the semblance, on the thing she has given another than

And yet with all this rugged pride of manhood and self-help, was there ever
soul more tenderly affectionate, loyally submissive to what was really
higher than he?  Great souls are always loyally submissive, reverent to
what is over them; only small mean souls are otherwise.  I could not find a
better proof of what I said the other day, That the sincere man was by
nature the obedient man; that only in a World of Heroes was there loyal
Obedience to the Heroic.  The essence of originality is not that it be
new:  Johnson believed altogether in the old; he found the old opinions
credible for him, fit for him; and in a right heroic manner lived under
them.  He is well worth study in regard to that.  For we are to say that
Johnson was far other than a mere man of words and formulas; he was a man
of truths and facts.  He stood by the old formulas; the happier was it for
him that he could so stand:  but in all formulas that he could stand by,
there needed to be a most genuine substance.  Very curious how, in that
poor Paper-age, so barren, artificial, thick-quilted with Pedantries,
Hearsays, the great Fact of this Universe glared in, forever wonderful,
indubitable, unspeakable, divine-infernal, upon this man too!  How he
harmonized his Formulas with it, how he managed at all under such
circumstances:  that is a thing worth seeing.  A thing "to be looked at
with reverence, with pity, with awe."  That Church of St. Clement Danes,
where Johnson still worshipped in the era of Voltaire, is to me a
venerable place.

It was in virtue of his sincerity, of his speaking still in some sort
from the heart of Nature, though in the current artificial dialect, that
Johnson was a Prophet.  Are not all dialects "artificial"?  Artificial
things are not all false;—nay every true Product of Nature will infallibly
shape itself; we may say all artificial things are, at the starting of
them, true.  What we call "Formulas" are not in their origin bad; they
are indispensably good.  Formula is method, habitude; found wherever man
is found.  Formulas fashion themselves as Paths do, as beaten Highways,
leading toward some sacred or high object, whither many men are bent.
Consider it.  One man, full of heartfelt earnest impulse, finds out a way
of doing somewhat,—were it of uttering his soul's reverence for the
Highest, were it but of fitly saluting his fellow-man.  An inventor was
needed to do that, a poet; he has articulated the dim-struggling thought
that dwelt in his own and many hearts.  This is his way of doing that;
these are his footsteps, the beginning of a "Path."  And now see:  the
second men travels naturally in the footsteps of his foregoer, it is the
easiest method.  In the footsteps of his foregoer; yet with improvements,
with changes where such seem good; at all events with enlargements, the
Path ever widening itself as more travel it;—till at last there is a
broad Highway whereon the whole world may travel and drive.  While there
remains a City or Shrine, or any Reality to drive to, at the farther end,
the Highway shall be right welcome!  When the City is gone, we will forsake
the Highway.  In this manner all Institutions, Practices, Regulated Things
in the world have come into existence, and gone out of existence.  Formulas
all begin by being full of substance; you may call them the skin, the
articulation into shape, into limbs and skin, of a substance that is
already there:  they had not been there otherwise.  Idols, as we said,
are not idolatrous till they become doubtful, empty for the worshipper's
heart.  Much as we talk against Formulas, I hope no one of us is ignorant
withal of the high significance of true Formulas; that they were, and
will ever be, the indispensablest furniture of our habitation in this

Mark, too, how little Johnson boasts of his "sincerity."  He has no
suspicion of his being particularly sincere,—of his being particularly
anything!  A hard-struggling, weary-hearted man, or "scholar" as he calls
himself, trying hard to get some honest livelihood in the world, not to
starve, but to live—without stealing!  A noble unconsciousness is in him.
He does not "engrave Truth on his watch-seal;" no, but he stands by
truth, speaks by it, works and lives by it.  Thus it ever is.  Think of it
once more.  The man whom Nature has appointed to do great things is, first
of all, furnished with that openness to Nature which renders him incapable
of being insincere!  To his large, open, deep-feeling heart Nature is a
Fact:  all hearsay is hearsay; the unspeakable greatness of this Mystery of
Life, let him acknowledge it or not, nay even though he seem to forget it
or deny it, is ever present to him,—fearful and wonderful, on this hand
and on that.  He has a basis of sincerity; unrecognized, because never
questioned or capable of question.  Mirabeau, Mahomet, Cromwell, Napoleon:
all the Great Men I ever heard of have this as the primary material of
them.  Innumerable commonplace men are debating, are talking everywhere
their commonplace doctrines, which they have learned by logic, by rote, at
second-hand:  to that kind of man all this is still nothing.  He must have
truth; truth which he feels to be true.  How shall he stand otherwise?
His whole soul, at all moments, in all ways, tells him that there is no
standing.  He is under the noble necessity of being true.  Johnson's way of
thinking about this world is not mine, any more than Mahomet's was:  but I
recognize the everlasting element of heart-sincerity in both; and see
with pleasure how neither of them remains ineffectual.  Neither of them is
as chaff sown; in both of them is something which the seedfield will

Johnson was a Prophet to his people; preached a Gospel to them,—as all
like him always do.  The highest Gospel he preached we may describe as a
kind of Moral Prudence:  "in a world where much is to be done, and little
is to be known," see how you will do it!  A thing well worth preaching.
"A world where much is to be done, and little is to be known:"  do not sink
yourselves in boundless bottomless abysses of Doubt, of wretched
god-forgetting Unbelief;—you were miserable then, powerless, mad:  how
could you do or work at all?  Such Gospel Johnson preached and
taught;—coupled, theoretically and practically, with this other great
Gospel, "Clear your mind of Cant!"  Have no trade with Cant:  stand on the
cold mud in the frosty weather, but let it be in your own real torn
shoes:  "that will be better for you," as Mahomet says!  I call this, I
call these two things joined together, a great Gospel, the greatest
perhaps that was possible at that time.

Johnson's Writings, which once had such currency and celebrity, are now as
it were disowned by the young generation.  It is not wonderful; Johnson's
opinions are fast becoming obsolete:  but his style of thinking and of
living, we may hope, will never become obsolete.  I find in Johnson's Books
the indisputablest traces of a great intellect and great heart;—ever
welcome, under what obstructions and perversions soever.  They are
sincere words, those of his; he means things by them.  A wondrous buckram
style,—the best he could get to then; a measured grandiloquence, stepping
or rather stalking along in a very solemn way, grown obsolete now;
sometimes a tumid size of phraseology not in proportion to the contents
of it:  all this you will put up with.  For the phraseology, tumid or not,
has always something within it.  So many beautiful styles and books, with
nothing in them;—a man is a malefactor to the world who writes such!
They are the avoidable kind!—Had Johnson left nothing but his
Dictionary, one might have traced there a great intellect, a genuine man.
Looking to its clearness of definition, its general solidity, honesty,
insight and successful method, it may be called the best of all
Dictionaries.  There is in it a kind of architectural nobleness; it stands
there like a great solid square-built edifice, finished, symmetrically
complete:  you judge that a true Builder did it.

One word, in spite of our haste, must be granted to poor Bozzy.  He passes
for a mean, inflated, gluttonous creature; and was so in many senses.  Yet
the fact of his reverence for Johnson will ever remain noteworthy.  The
foolish conceited Scotch Laird, the most conceited man of his time,
approaching in such awe-struck attitude the great dusty irascible Pedagogue
in his mean garret there:  it is a genuine reverence for Excellence; a
worship for Heroes, at a time when neither Heroes nor worship were
surmised to exist.  Heroes, it would seem, exist always, and a certain
worship of them!  We will also take the liberty to deny altogether that of
the witty Frenchman, that no man is a Hero to his valet-de-chambre.  Or if
so, it is not the Hero's blame, but the Valet's:  that his soul, namely, is
a mean valet-soul!  He expects his Hero to advance in royal
stage-trappings, with measured step, trains borne behind him, trumpets
sounding before him.  It should stand rather, No man can be a Grand-
Monarque to his valet-de-chambre.  Strip your Louis Quatorze of his
king-gear, and there is left nothing but a poor forked radish with a head
fantastically carved;—admirable to no valet.  The Valet does not know a
Hero when he sees him!  Alas, no:  it requires a kind of Hero to do
that;—and one of the world's wants, in this as in other senses, is for
most part want of such.

On the whole, shall we not say, that Boswell's admiration was well
bestowed; that he could have found no soul in all England so worthy of
bending down before?  Shall we not say, of this great mournful Johnson too,
that he guided his difficult confused existence wisely; led it well, like
a right valiant man?  That waste chaos of Authorship by trade; that waste
chaos of Scepticism in religion and politics, in life-theory and
life-practice; in his poverty, in his dust and dimness, with the sick body
and the rusty coat:  he made it do for him, like a brave man.  Not wholly
without a loadstar in the Eternal; he had still a loadstar, as the brave
all need to have:  with his eye set on that, he would change his course for
nothing in these confused vortices of the lower sea of Time.  "To the
Spirit of Lies, bearing death and hunger, he would in nowise strike his
flag."  Brave old Samuel:  ultimus Romanorum!

Of Rousseau and his Heroism I cannot say so much.  He is not what I call a
strong man.  A morbid, excitable, spasmodic man; at best, intense rather
than strong.  He had not "the talent of Silence," an invaluable talent;
which few Frenchmen, or indeed men of any sort in these times, excel in!
The suffering man ought really "to consume his own smoke;" there is no good
in emitting smoke till you have made it into fire,—which, in the
metaphorical sense too, all smoke is capable of becoming!  Rousseau has not
depth or width, not calm force for difficulty; the first characteristic of
true greatness.  A fundamental mistake to call vehemence and rigidity
strength!  A man is not strong who takes convulsion-fits; though six men
cannot hold him then.  He that can walk under the heaviest weight without
staggering, he is the strong man.  We need forever, especially in these
loud-shrieking days, to remind ourselves of that.  A man who cannot hold
his peace, till the time come for speaking and acting, is no right man.

Poor Rousseau's face is to me expressive of him.  A high but narrow
contracted intensity in it:  bony brows; deep, strait-set eyes, in which
there is something bewildered-looking,—bewildered, peering with
lynx-eagerness.  A face full of misery, even ignoble misery, and also of
the antagonism against that; something mean, plebeian there, redeemed only
by intensity:  the face of what is called a Fanatic,—a sadly
contracted Hero!  We name him here because, with all his drawbacks, and
they are many, he has the first and chief characteristic of a Hero:  he is
heartily in earnest.  In earnest, if ever man was; as none of these
French Philosophers were.  Nay, one would say, of an earnestness too great
for his otherwise sensitive, rather feeble nature; and which indeed in the
end drove him into the strangest incoherences, almost delirations.  There
had come, at last, to be a kind of madness in him:  his Ideas possessed
him like demons; hurried him so about, drove him over steep places!—

The fault and misery of Rousseau was what we easily name by a single word,
Egoism; which is indeed the source and summary of all faults and miseries
whatsoever.  He had not perfected himself into victory over mere Desire; a
mean Hunger, in many sorts, was still the motive principle of him.  I am
afraid he was a very vain man; hungry for the praises of men.  You remember
Genlis's experience of him.  She took Jean Jacques to the Theatre; he
bargaining for a strict incognito,—"He would not be seen there for the
world!"  The curtain did happen nevertheless to be drawn aside:  the Pit
recognized Jean Jacques, but took no great notice of him!  He expressed the
bitterest indignation; gloomed all evening, spake no other than surly
words.  The glib Countess remained entirely convinced that his anger was
not at being seen, but at not being applauded when seen.  How the whole
nature of the man is poisoned; nothing but suspicion, self-isolation,
fierce moody ways!  He could not live with anybody.  A man of some rank
from the country, who visited him often, and used to sit with him,
expressing all reverence and affection for him, comes one day; finds Jean
Jacques full of the sourest unintelligible humor.  "Monsieur," said Jean
Jacques, with flaming eyes, "I know why you come here.  You come to see
what a poor life I lead; how little is in my poor pot that is boiling
there.  Well, look into the pot!  There is half a pound of meat, one carrot
and three onions; that is all:  go and tell the whole world that, if you
like, Monsieur!"—A man of this sort was far gone.  The whole world got
itself supplied with anecdotes, for light laughter, for a certain
theatrical interest, from these perversions and contortions of poor Jean
Jacques.  Alas, to him they were not laughing or theatrical; too real to
him!  The contortions of a dying gladiator:  the crowded amphitheatre looks
on with entertainment; but the gladiator is in agonies and dying.

And yet this Rousseau, as we say, with his passionate appeals to Mothers,
with his contrat-social, with his celebrations of Nature, even of savage
life in Nature, did once more touch upon Reality, struggle towards Reality;
was doing the function of a Prophet to his Time.  As he could, and as the
Time could!  Strangely through all that defacement, degradation and almost
madness, there is in the inmost heart of poor Rousseau a spark of real
heavenly fire.  Once more, out of the element of that withered mocking
Philosophism, Scepticism and Persiflage, there has arisen in this man the
ineradicable feeling and knowledge that this Life of ours is true:  not a
Scepticism, Theorem, or Persiflage, but a Fact, an awful Reality.  Nature
had made that revelation to him; had ordered him to speak it out.  He got
it spoken out; if not well and clearly, then ill and dimly,—as clearly as
he could.  Nay what are all errors and perversities of his, even those
stealings of ribbons, aimless confused miseries and vagabondisms, if we
will interpret them kindly, but the blinkard dazzlement and staggerings to
and fro of a man sent on an errand he is too weak for, by a path he cannot
yet find?  Men are led by strange ways.  One should have tolerance for a
man, hope of him; leave him to try yet what he will do.  While life lasts,
hope lasts for every man.

Of Rousseau's literary talents, greatly celebrated still among his
countrymen, I do not say much.  His Books, like himself, are what I call
unhealthy; not the good sort of Books.  There is a sensuality in Rousseau.
Combined with such an intellectual gift as his, it makes pictures of a
certain gorgeous attractiveness:  but they are not genuinely poetical.  Not
white sunlight:  something operatic; a kind of rose-pink, artificial
bedizenment.  It is frequent, or rather it is universal, among the French
since his time.  Madame de Stael has something of it; St. Pierre; and down
onwards to the present astonishing convulsionary "Literature of
Desperation," it is everywhere abundant.  That same rose-pink is not the
right hue.  Look at a Shakspeare, at a Goethe, even at a Walter Scott!  He
who has once seen into this, has seen the difference of the True from the
Sham-True, and will discriminate them ever afterwards.

We had to observe in Johnson how much good a Prophet, under all
disadvantages and disorganizations, can accomplish for the world.  In
Rousseau we are called to look rather at the fearful amount of evil which,
under such disorganization, may accompany the good.  Historically it is a
most pregnant spectacle, that of Rousseau.  Banished into Paris garrets, in
the gloomy company of his own Thoughts and Necessities there; driven from
post to pillar; fretted, exasperated till the heart of him went mad, he had
grown to feel deeply that the world was not his friend nor the world's law.
It was expedient, if any way possible, that such a man should not have
been set in flat hostility with the world.  He could be cooped into
garrets, laughed at as a maniac, left to starve like a wild beast in his
cage;—but he could not be hindered from setting the world on fire.  The
French Revolution found its Evangelist in Rousseau.  His semi-delirious
speculations on the miseries of civilized life, the preferability of the
savage to the civilized, and such like, helped well to produce a whole
delirium in France generally.  True, you may well ask, What could the
world, the governors of the world, do with such a man?  Difficult to say
what the governors of the world could do with him!  What he could do with
them is unhappily clear enough,—guillotine a great many of them!  Enough
now of Rousseau.

It was a curious phenomenon, in the withered, unbelieving second-hand
Eighteenth Century, that of a Hero starting up, among the artificial
pasteboard figures and productions, in the guise of a Robert Burns.  Like a
little well in the rocky desert places,—like a sudden splendor of Heaven
in the artificial Vauxhall!  People knew not what to make of it.  They took
it for a piece of the Vauxhall fire-work; alas, it let itself be so
taken, though struggling half-blindly, as in bitterness of death, against
that!  Perhaps no man had such a false reception from his fellow-men.  Once
more a very wasteful life-drama was enacted under the sun.

The tragedy of Burns's life is known to all of you.  Surely we may say, if
discrepancy between place held and place merited constitute perverseness of
lot for a man, no lot could be more perverse then Burns's.  Among those
second-hand acting-figures, mimes for most part, of the Eighteenth
Century, once more a giant Original Man; one of those men who reach down to
the perennial Deeps, who take rank with the Heroic among men:  and he was
born in a poor Ayrshire hut.  The largest soul of all the British lands
came among us in the shape of a hard-handed Scottish Peasant.

His Father, a poor toiling man, tried various things; did not succeed in
any; was involved in continual difficulties.  The Steward, Factor as the
Scotch call him, used to send letters and threatenings, Burns says, "which
threw us all into tears."  The brave, hard-toiling, hard-suffering Father,
his brave heroine of a wife; and those children, of whom Robert was one!
In this Earth, so wide otherwise, no shelter for them.  The letters
"threw us all into tears:"  figure it.  The brave Father, I say always;—a
silent Hero and Poet; without whom the son had never been a speaking one!
Burns's Schoolmaster came afterwards to London, learnt what good society
was; but declares that in no meeting of men did he ever enjoy better
discourse than at the hearth of this peasant.  And his poor "seven acres of
nursery-ground,"—not that, nor the miserable patch of clay-farm, nor
anything he tried to get a living by, would prosper with him; he had a sore
unequal battle all his days.  But he stood to it valiantly; a wise,
faithful, unconquerable man;—swallowing down how many sore sufferings
daily into silence; fighting like an unseen Hero,—nobody publishing
newspaper paragraphs about his nobleness; voting pieces of plate to him!
However, he was not lost; nothing is lost.  Robert is there the outcome of
him,—and indeed of many generations of such as him.

This Burns appeared under every disadvantage:  uninstructed, poor, born
only to hard manual toil; and writing, when it came to that, in a rustic
special dialect, known only to a small province of the country he lived in.
Had he written, even what he did write, in the general language of England,
I doubt not he had already become universally recognized as being, or
capable to be, one of our greatest men.  That he should have tempted so
many to penetrate through the rough husk of that dialect of his, is proof
that there lay something far from common within it.  He has gained a
certain recognition, and is continuing to do so over all quarters of our
wide Saxon world:  wheresoever a Saxon dialect is spoken, it begins to be
understood, by personal inspection of this and the other, that one of the
most considerable Saxon men of the Eighteenth Century was an Ayrshire
Peasant named Robert Burns.  Yes, I will say, here too was a piece of the
right Saxon stuff:  strong as the Harz-rock, rooted in the depths of the
world;—rock, yet with wells of living softness in it!  A wild impetuous
whirlwind of passion and faculty slumbered quiet there; such heavenly
melody dwelling in the heart of it.  A noble rough genuineness; homely,
rustic, honest; true simplicity of strength; with its lightning-fire, with
its soft dewy pity;—like the old Norse Thor, the Peasant-god!

Burns's Brother Gilbert, a man of much sense and worth, has told me that
Robert, in his young days, in spite of their hardship, was usually the
gayest of speech; a fellow of infinite frolic, laughter, sense and heart;
far pleasanter to hear there, stript cutting peats in the bog, or such
like, than he ever afterwards knew him.  I can well believe it.  This basis
of mirth ("fond gaillard," as old Marquis Mirabeau calls it), a primal
element of sunshine and joyfulness, coupled with his other deep and earnest
qualities, is one of the most attractive characteristics of Burns.  A large
fund of Hope dwells in him; spite of his tragical history, he is not a
mourning man.  He shakes his sorrows gallantly aside; bounds forth
victorious over them.  It is as the lion shaking "dew-drops from his mane;"
as the swift-bounding horse, that laughs at the shaking of the
spear.—But indeed, Hope, Mirth, of the sort like Burns's, are they not the
outcome properly of warm generous affection,—such as is the beginning of
all to every man?

You would think it strange if I called Burns the most gifted British soul
we had in all that century of his:  and yet I believe the day is coming
when there will be little danger in saying so.  His writings, all that he
did under such obstructions, are only a poor fragment of him.  Professor
Stewart remarked very justly, what indeed is true of all Poets good for
much, that his poetry was not any particular faculty; but the general
result of a naturally vigorous original mind expressing itself in that way.
Burns's gifts, expressed in conversation, are the theme of all that ever
heard him.  All kinds of gifts:  from the gracefulest utterances of
courtesy, to the highest fire of passionate speech; loud floods of mirth,
soft wailings of affection, laconic emphasis, clear piercing insight; all
was in him.  Witty duchesses celebrate him as a man whose speech "led them
off their feet."  This is beautiful:  but still more beautiful that which
Mr. Lockhart has recorded, which I have more than once alluded to, How the
waiters and ostlers at inns would get out of bed, and come crowding to hear
this man speak!  Waiters and ostlers:—they too were men, and here was a
man!  I have heard much about his speech; but one of the best things I ever
heard of it was, last year, from a venerable gentleman long familiar with
him.  That it was speech distinguished by always having something in it.
"He spoke rather little than much," this old man told me; "sat rather
silent in those early days, as in the company of persons above him; and
always when he did speak, it was to throw new light on the matter."  I know
not why any one should ever speak otherwise!—But if we look at his general
force of soul, his healthy robustness every way, the rugged
downrightness, penetration, generous valor and manfulness that was in
him,—where shall we readily find a better-gifted man?

Among the great men of the Eighteenth Century, I sometimes feel as if Burns
might be found to resemble Mirabeau more than any other.  They differ
widely in vesture; yet look at them intrinsically.  There is the same burly
thick-necked strength of body as of soul;—built, in both cases, on what
the old Marquis calls a fond gaillard.  By nature, by course of breeding,
indeed by nation, Mirabeau has much more of bluster; a noisy, forward,
unresting man.  But the characteristic of Mirabeau too is veracity and
sense, power of true insight, superiority of vision.  The thing that he
says is worth remembering.  It is a flash of insight into some object or
other:  so do both these men speak.  The same raging passions; capable too
in both of manifesting themselves as the tenderest noble affections.  Wit;
wild laughter, energy, directness, sincerity:  these were in both.  The
types of the two men are not dissimilar.  Burns too could have governed,
debated in National Assemblies; politicized, as few could.  Alas, the
courage which had to exhibit itself in capture of smuggling schooners in
the Solway Frith; in keeping silence over so much, where no good speech,
but only inarticulate rage was possible:  this might have bellowed forth
Ushers de Breze and the like; and made itself visible to all men, in
managing of kingdoms, in ruling of great ever-memorable epochs!  But they
said to him reprovingly, his Official Superiors said, and wrote:  "You are
to work, not think."  Of your thinking-faculty, the greatest in this
land, we have no need; you are to gauge beer there; for that only are you
wanted.  Very notable;—and worth mentioning, though we know what is to be
said and answered!  As if Thought, Power of Thinking, were not, at all
times, in all places and situations of the world, precisely the thing that
was wanted.  The fatal man, is he not always the unthinking man, the man
who cannot think and see; but only grope, and hallucinate, and missee
the nature of the thing he works with?  He mis-sees it, mistakes it as we
say; takes it for one thing, and it is another thing,—and leaves him
standing like a Futility there!  He is the fatal man; unutterably fatal,
put in the high places of men.—"Why complain of this?" say some:
"Strength is mournfully denied its arena; that was true from of old."
Doubtless; and the worse for the arena, answer I!  Complaining profits
little; stating of the truth may profit.  That a Europe, with its French
Revolution just breaking out, finds no need of a Burns except for gauging
beer,—is a thing I, for one, cannot rejoice at!—

Once more we have to say here, that the chief quality of Burns is the
sincerity of him.  So in his Poetry, so in his Life.  The song he sings
is not of fantasticalities; it is of a thing felt, really there; the prime
merit of this, as of all in him, and of his Life generally, is truth.  The
Life of Burns is what we may call a great tragic sincerity.  A sort of
savage sincerity,—not cruel, far from that; but wild, wrestling naked with
the truth of things.  In that sense, there is something of the savage in
all great men.

Hero-worship,—Odin, Burns?  Well; these Men of Letters too were not
without a kind of Hero-worship:  but what a strange condition has that got
into now!  The waiters and ostlers of Scotch inns, prying about the door,
eager to catch any word that fell from Burns, were doing unconscious
reverence to the Heroic.  Johnson had his Boswell for worshipper.  Rousseau
had worshippers enough; princes calling on him in his mean garret; the
great, the beautiful doing reverence to the poor moon-struck man.  For
himself a most portentous contradiction; the two ends of his life not to be
brought into harmony.  He sits at the tables of grandees; and has to copy
music for his own living.  He cannot even get his music copied:  "By dint
of dining out," says he, "I run the risk of dying by starvation at home."
For his worshippers too a most questionable thing!  If doing Hero-worship
well or badly be the test of vital well-being or ill-being to a generation,
can we say that these generations are very first-rate?—And yet our
heroic Men of Letters do teach, govern, are kings, priests, or what you
like to call them; intrinsically there is no preventing it by any means
whatever.  The world has to obey him who thinks and sees in the world.  The
world can alter the manner of that; can either have it as blessed
continuous summer sunshine, or as unblessed black thunder and
tornado,—with unspeakable difference of profit for the world!  The manner
of it is very alterable; the matter and fact of it is not alterable by any
power under the sky.  Light; or, failing that, lightning:  the world can
take its choice.  Not whether we call an Odin god, prophet, priest, or what
we call him; but whether we believe the word he tells us:  there it all
lies.  If it be a true word, we shall have to believe it; believing it, we
shall have to do it.  What name or welcome we give him or it, is a point
that concerns ourselves mainly.  It, the new Truth, new deeper revealing
of the Secret of this Universe, is verily of the nature of a message from
on high; and must and will have itself obeyed.—

My last remark is on that notablest phasis of Burns's history,—his visit
to Edinburgh.  Often it seems to me as if his demeanor there were the
highest proof he gave of what a fund of worth and genuine manhood was in
him.  If we think of it, few heavier burdens could be laid on the strength
of a man.  So sudden; all common Lionism.  which ruins innumerable men,
was as nothing to this.  It is as if Napoleon had been made a King of, not
gradually, but at once from the Artillery Lieutenancy in the Regiment La
Fere.  Burns, still only in his twenty-seventh year, is no longer even a
ploughman; he is flying to the West Indies to escape disgrace and a jail.
This month he is a ruined peasant, his wages seven pounds a year, and these
gone from him:  next month he is in the blaze of rank and beauty, handing
down jewelled Duchesses to dinner; the cynosure of all eyes!  Adversity is
sometimes hard upon a man; but for one man who can stand prosperity, there
are a hundred that will stand adversity.  I admire much the way in which
Burns met all this.  Perhaps no man one could point out, was ever so sorely
tried, and so little forgot himself.  Tranquil, unastonished; not abashed,
not inflated, neither awkwardness nor affectation:  he feels that he
there is the man Robert Burns; that the "rank is but the guinea-stamp;"
that the celebrity is but the candle-light, which will show what man, not
in the least make him a better or other man!  Alas, it may readily, unless
he look to it, make him a worse man; a wretched inflated
wind-bag,—inflated till he burst, and become a dead lion; for whom, as
some one has said, "there is no resurrection of the body;" worse than a
living dog!—Burns is admirable here.

And yet, alas, as I have observed elsewhere, these Lion-hunters were the
ruin and death of Burns.  It was they that rendered it impossible for him
to live!  They gathered round him in his Farm; hindered his industry; no
place was remote enough from them.  He could not get his Lionism forgotten,
honestly as he was disposed to do so.  He falls into discontents, into
miseries, faults; the world getting ever more desolate for him; health,
character, peace of mind, all gone;—solitary enough now.  It is tragical
to think of!  These men came but to see him; it was out of no sympathy
with him, nor no hatred to him.  They came to get a little amusement; they
got their amusement;—and the Hero's life went for it!

Richter says, in the Island of Sumatra there is a kind of "Light-chafers,"
large Fire-flies, which people stick upon spits, and illuminate the ways
with at night.  Persons of condition can thus travel with a pleasant
radiance, which they much admire.  Great honor to the Fire-flies!  But—!

[May 22, 1840.]

We come now to the last form of Heroism; that which we call Kingship.  The
Commander over Men; he to whose will our wills are to be subordinated, and
loyally surrender themselves, and find their welfare in doing so, may be
reckoned the most important of Great Men.  He is practically the summary
for us of all the various figures of Heroism; Priest, Teacher, whatsoever
of earthly or of spiritual dignity we can fancy to reside in a man,
embodies itself here, to command over us, to furnish us with constant
practical teaching, to tell us for the day and hour what we are to do.
He is called Rex, Regulator, Roi:  our own name is still better; King,
Konning, which means Can-ning, Able-man.

Numerous considerations, pointing towards deep, questionable, and indeed
unfathomable regions, present themselves here:  on the most of which we
must resolutely for the present forbear to speak at all.  As Burke said
that perhaps fair Trial by Jury was the soul of Government, and that all
legislation, administration, parliamentary debating, and the rest of it,
went on, in "order to bring twelve impartial men into a jury-box;"—so, by
much stronger reason, may I say here, that the finding of your Ableman
and getting him invested with the symbols of ability, with dignity,
worship (worth-ship), royalty, kinghood, or whatever we call it, so that
he may actually have room to guide according to his faculty of doing
it,—is the business, well or ill accomplished, of all social procedure
whatsoever in this world!  Hustings-speeches, Parliamentary motions, Reform
Bills, French Revolutions, all mean at heart this; or else nothing.  Find
in any country the Ablest Man that exists there; raise him to the supreme
place, and loyally reverence him:  you have a perfect government for that
country; no ballot-box, parliamentary eloquence, voting,
constitution-building, or other machinery whatsoever can improve it a whit.
It is in the perfect state; an ideal country.  The Ablest Man; he means
also the truest-hearted, justest, the Noblest Man:  what he tells us to
do must be precisely the wisest, fittest, that we could anywhere or anyhow
learn;—the thing which it will in all ways behoove US, with right loyal
thankfulness and nothing doubting, to do!  Our doing and life were then,
so far as government could regulate it, well regulated; that were the ideal
of constitutions.

Alas, we know very well that Ideals can never be completely embodied in
practice.  Ideals must ever lie a very great way off; and we will right
thankfully content ourselves with any not intolerable approximation
thereto!  Let no man, as Schiller says, too querulously "measure by a scale
of perfection the meagre product of reality" in this poor world of ours.
We will esteem him no wise man; we will esteem him a sickly, discontented,
foolish man.  And yet, on the other hand, it is never to be forgotten that
Ideals do exist; that if they be not approximated to at all, the whole
matter goes to wreck!  Infallibly.  No bricklayer builds a wall perfectly
perpendicular, mathematically this is not possible; a certain degree of
perpendicularity suffices him; and he, like a good bricklayer, who must
have done with his job, leaves it so.  And yet if he sway too much from
the perpendicular; above all, if he throw plummet and level quite away from
him, and pile brick on brick heedless, just as it comes to hand—!  Such
bricklayer, I think, is in a bad way.  He has forgotten himself:  but the
Law of Gravitation does not forget to act on him; he and his wall rush down
into confused welter of ruin!—

This is the history of all rebellions, French Revolutions, social
explosions in ancient or modern times.  You have put the too Unable Man
at the head of affairs!  The too ignoble, unvaliant, fatuous man.  You have
forgotten that there is any rule, or natural necessity whatever, of putting
the Able Man there.  Brick must lie on brick as it may and can.  Unable
Simulacrum of Ability, quack, in a word, must adjust himself with quack,
in all manner of administration of human things;—which accordingly lie
unadministered, fermenting into unmeasured masses of failure, of indigent
misery:  in the outward, and in the inward or spiritual, miserable millions
stretch out the hand for their due supply, and it is not there.  The "law
of gravitation" acts; Nature's laws do none of them forget to act.  The
miserable millions burst forth into Sansculottism, or some other sort of
madness:  bricks and bricklayer lie as a fatal chaos!—

Much sorry stuff, written some hundred years ago or more, about the "Divine
right of Kings," moulders unread now in the Public Libraries of this
country.  Far be it from us to disturb the calm process by which it is
disappearing harmlessly from the earth, in those repositories!  At the same
time, not to let the immense rubbish go without leaving us, as it ought,
some soul of it behind—I will say that it did mean something; something
true, which it is important for us and all men to keep in mind.  To assert
that in whatever man you chose to lay hold of (by this or the other plan of
clutching at him); and claps a round piece of metal on the head of, and
called King,—there straightway came to reside a divine virtue, so that
he became a kind of god, and a Divinity inspired him with faculty and
right to rule over you to all lengths:  this,—what can we do with this but
leave it to rot silently in the Public Libraries?  But I will say withal,
and that is what these Divine-right men meant, That in Kings, and in all
human Authorities, and relations that men god-created can form among each
other, there is verily either a Divine Right or else a Diabolic Wrong; one
or the other of these two!  For it is false altogether, what the last
Sceptical Century taught us, that this world is a steam-engine.  There is a
God in this world; and a God's-sanction, or else the violation of such,
does look out from all ruling and obedience, from all moral acts of men.
There is no act more moral between men than that of rule and obedience.
Woe to him that claims obedience when it is not due; woe to him that
refuses it when it is!  God's law is in that, I say, however the
Parchment-laws may run:  there is a Divine Right or else a Diabolic Wrong
at the heart of every claim that one man makes upon another.

It can do none of us harm to reflect on this:  in all the relations of life
it will concern us; in Loyalty and Royalty, the highest of these.  I esteem
the modern error, That all goes by self-interest and the checking and
balancing of greedy knaveries, and that in short, there is nothing divine
whatever in the association of men, a still more despicable error, natural
as it is to an unbelieving century, than that of a "divine right" in people
called Kings.  I say, Find me the true Konning, King, or Able-man, and
he has a divine right over me.  That we knew in some tolerable measure
how to find him, and that all men were ready to acknowledge his divine
right when found:  this is precisely the healing which a sick world is
everywhere, in these ages, seeking after!  The true King, as guide of the
practical, has ever something of the Pontiff in him,—guide of the
spiritual, from which all practice has its rise.  This too is a true
saying, That the King is head of the Church.—But we will leave the
Polemic stuff of a dead century to lie quiet on its bookshelves.

Certainly it is a fearful business, that of having your Ableman to seek,
and not knowing in what manner to proceed about it!  That is the world's
sad predicament in these times of ours.  They are times of revolution, and
have long been.  The bricklayer with his bricks, no longer heedful of
plummet or the law of gravitation, have toppled, tumbled, and it all
welters as we see!  But the beginning of it was not the French Revolution;
that is rather the end, we can hope.  It were truer to say, the
beginning was three centuries farther back:  in the Reformation of
Luther.  That the thing which still called itself Christian Church had
become a Falsehood, and brazenly went about pretending to pardon men's sins
for metallic coined money, and to do much else which in the everlasting
truth of Nature it did not now do:  here lay the vital malady.  The
inward being wrong, all outward went ever more and more wrong.  Belief died
away; all was Doubt, Disbelief.  The builder cast away his plummet; said
to himself, "What is gravitation?  Brick lies on brick there!"  Alas, does
it not still sound strange to many of us, the assertion that there is a
God's-truth in the business of god-created men; that all is not a kind of
grimace, an "expediency," diplomacy, one knows not what!—

From that first necessary assertion of Luther's, "You, self-styled Papa,
you are no Father in God at all; you are—a Chimera, whom I know not how to
name in polite language!"—from that onwards to the shout which rose round
Camille Desmoulins in the Palais-Royal, "Aux armes!" when the people had
burst up against all manner of Chimeras,—I find a natural historical
sequence.  That shout too, so frightful, half-infernal, was a great matter.
Once more the voice of awakened nations;—starting confusedly, as out of
nightmare, as out of death-sleep, into some dim feeling that Life was real;
that God's-world was not an expediency and diplomacy!  Infernal;—yes,
since they would not have it otherwise.  Infernal, since not celestial or
terrestrial!  Hollowness, insincerity has to cease; sincerity of some
sort has to begin.  Cost what it may, reigns of terror, horrors of French
Revolution or what else, we have to return to truth.  Here is a Truth, as I
said:  a Truth clad in hell-fire, since they would not but have it so!—

A common theory among considerable parties of men in England and elsewhere
used to be, that the French Nation had, in those days, as it were gone
mad; that the French Revolution was a general act of insanity, a
temporary conversion of France and large sections of the world into a kind
of Bedlam.  The Event had risen and raged; but was a madness and
nonentity,—gone now happily into the region of Dreams and the
Picturesque!—To such comfortable philosophers, the Three Days of July,
183O, must have been a surprising phenomenon.  Here is the French Nation
risen again, in musketry and death-struggle, out shooting and being shot,
to make that same mad French Revolution good!  The sons and grandsons of
those men, it would seem, persist in the enterprise:  they do not disown
it; they will have it made good; will have themselves shot, if it be not
made good.  To philosophers who had made up their life-system, on that
"madness" quietus, no phenomenon could be more alarming.  Poor Niebuhr,
they say, the Prussian Professor and Historian, fell broken-hearted in
consequence; sickened, if we can believe it, and died of the Three Days!
It was surely not a very heroic death;—little better than Racine's, dying
because Louis Fourteenth looked sternly on him once.  The world had stood
some considerable shocks, in its time; might have been expected to survive
the Three Days too, and be found turning on its axis after even them!  The
Three Days told all mortals that the old French Revolution, mad as it might
look, was not a transitory ebullition of Bedlam, but a genuine product of
this Earth where we all live; that it was verily a Fact, and that the world
in general would do well everywhere to regard it as such.

Truly, without the French Revolution, one would not know what to make of an
age like this at all.  We will hail the French Revolution, as shipwrecked
mariners might the sternest rock, in a world otherwise all of baseless sea
and waves.  A true Apocalypse, though a terrible one, to this false
withered artificial time; testifying once more that Nature is
preternatural; if not divine, then diabolic; that Semblance is not
Reality; that it has to become Reality, or the world will take fire under
it,—burn it into what it is, namely Nothing!  Plausibility has ended;
empty Routine has ended; much has ended.  This, as with a Trump of Doom,
has been proclaimed to all men.  They are the wisest who will learn it
soonest.  Long confused generations before it be learned; peace impossible
till it be!  The earnest man, surrounded, as ever, with a world of
inconsistencies, can await patiently, patiently strive to do his work, in
the midst of that.  Sentence of Death is written down in Heaven against all
that; sentence of Death is now proclaimed on the Earth against it:  this he
with his eyes may see.  And surely, I should say, considering the other
side of the matter, what enormous difficulties lie there, and how fast,
fearfully fast, in all countries, the inexorable demand for solution of
them is pressing on,—he may easily find other work to do than laboring in
the Sansculottic province at this time of day!

To me, in these circumstances, that of "Hero-worship" becomes a fact
inexpressibly precious; the most solacing fact one sees in the world at
present.  There is an everlasting hope in it for the management of the
world.  Had all traditions, arrangements, creeds, societies that men ever
instituted, sunk away, this would remain.  The certainty of Heroes being
sent us; our faculty, our necessity, to reverence Heroes when sent:  it
shines like a polestar through smoke-clouds, dust-clouds, and all manner of
down-rushing and conflagration.

Hero-worship would have sounded very strange to those workers and fighters
in the French Revolution.  Not reverence for Great Men; not any hope or
belief, or even wish, that Great Men could again appear in the world!
Nature, turned into a "Machine," was as if effete now; could not any longer
produce Great Men:—I can tell her, she may give up the trade altogether,
then; we cannot do without Great Men!—But neither have I any quarrel with
that of "Liberty and Equality;" with the faith that, wise great men being
impossible, a level immensity of foolish small men would suffice.  It was a
natural faith then and there.  "Liberty and Equality; no Authority needed
any longer.  Hero-worship, reverence for such Authorities, has proved
false, is itself a falsehood; no more of it!  We have had such forgeries,
we will now trust nothing.  So many base plated coins passing in the
market, the belief has now become common that no gold any longer
exists,—and even that we can do very well without gold!"  I find this,
among other things, in that universal cry of Liberty and Equality; and find
it very natural, as matters then stood.

And yet surely it is but the transition from false to true.   Considered
as the whole truth, it is false altogether;—the product of entire
sceptical blindness, as yet only struggling to see.  Hero-worship exists
forever, and everywhere:  not Loyalty alone; it extends from divine
adoration down to the lowest practical regions of life.  "Bending before
men," if it is not to be a mere empty grimace, better dispensed with than
practiced, is Hero-worship,—a recognition that there does dwell in that
presence of our brother something divine; that every created man, as
Novalis said, is a "revelation in the Flesh."  They were Poets too, that
devised all those graceful courtesies which make life noble!  Courtesy is
not a falsehood or grimace; it need not be such.  And Loyalty, religious
Worship itself, are still possible; nay still inevitable.

May we not say, moreover, while so many of our late Heroes have worked
rather as revolutionary men, that nevertheless every Great Man, every
genuine man, is by the nature of him a son of Order, not of Disorder?  It
is a tragical position for a true man to work in revolutions.  He seems an
anarchist; and indeed a painful element of anarchy does encumber him at
every step,—him to whose whole soul anarchy is hostile, hateful.  His
mission is Order; every man's is.  He is here to make what was disorderly,
chaotic, into a thing ruled, regular.  He is the missionary of Order.  Is
not all work of man in this world a making of Order?  The carpenter finds
rough trees; shapes them, constrains them into square fitness, into purpose
and use.  We are all born enemies of Disorder:  it is tragical for us all
to be concerned in image-breaking and down-pulling; for the Great Man,
more a man than we, it is doubly tragical.

Thus too all human things, maddest French Sansculottisms, do and must work
towards Order.  I say, there is not a man in them, raging in the thickest
of the madness, but is impelled withal, at all moments, towards Order.  His
very life means that; Disorder is dissolution, death.  No chaos but it
seeks a centre to revolve round.  While man is man, some Cromwell or
Napoleon is the necessary finish of a Sansculottism.—Curious:  in those
days when Hero-worship was the most incredible thing to every one, how it
does come out nevertheless, and assert itself practically, in a way which
all have to credit.  Divine right, take it on the great scale, is found
to mean divine might withal!  While old false Formulas are getting
trampled everywhere into destruction, new genuine Substances unexpectedly
unfold themselves indestructible.  In rebellious ages, when Kingship itself
seems dead and abolished, Cromwell, Napoleon step forth again as Kings.
The history of these men is what we have now to look at, as our last phasis
of Heroism.  The old ages are brought back to us; the manner in which Kings
were made, and Kingship itself first took rise, is again exhibited in the
history of these Two.

We have had many civil wars in England; wars of Red and White Roses, wars
of Simon de Montfort; wars enough, which are not very memorable.  But that
war of the Puritans has a significance which belongs to no one of the
others.  Trusting to your candor, which will suggest on the other side what
I have not room to say, I will call it a section once more of that great
universal war which alone makes up the true History of the World,—the war
of Belief against Unbelief!  The struggle of men intent on the real essence
of things, against men intent on the semblances and forms of things.  The
Puritans, to many, seem mere savage Iconoclasts, fierce destroyers of
Forms; but it were more just to call them haters of untrue Forms.  I hope
we know how to respect Laud and his King as well as them.  Poor Laud seems
to me to have been weak and ill-starred, not dishonest an unfortunate
Pedant rather than anything worse.  His "Dreams" and superstitions, at
which they laugh so, have an affectionate, lovable kind of character.  He
is like a College-Tutor, whose whole world is forms, College-rules; whose
notion is that these are the life and safety of the world.  He is placed
suddenly, with that unalterable luckless notion of his, at the head not of
a College but of a Nation, to regulate the most complex deep-reaching
interests of men.  He thinks they ought to go by the old decent
regulations; nay that their salvation will lie in extending and improving
these.  Like a weak man, he drives with spasmodic vehemence towards his
purpose; cramps himself to it, heeding no voice of prudence, no cry of
pity:  He will have his College-rules obeyed by his Collegians; that first;
and till that, nothing.  He is an ill-starred Pedant, as I said.  He would
have it the world was a College of that kind, and the world was not that.
Alas, was not his doom stern enough?  Whatever wrongs he did, were they not
all frightfully avenged on him?

It is meritorious to insist on forms; Religion and all else naturally
clothes itself in forms.  Everywhere the formed world is the only
habitable one.  The naked formlessness of Puritanism is not the thing I
praise in the Puritans; it is the thing I pity,—praising only the spirit
which had rendered that inevitable!  All substances clothe themselves in
forms:  but there are suitable true forms, and then there are untrue
unsuitable.  As the briefest definition, one might say, Forms which grow
round a substance, if we rightly understand that, will correspond to the
real nature and purport of it, will be true, good; forms which are
consciously put round a substance, bad.  I invite you to reflect on this.
It distinguishes true from false in Ceremonial Form, earnest solemnity from
empty pageant, in all human things.

There must be a veracity, a natural spontaneity in forms.  In the commonest
meeting of men, a person making, what we call, "set speeches," is not he an
offence?  In the mere drawing-room, whatsoever courtesies you see to be
grimaces, prompted by no spontaneous reality within, are a thing you wish
to get away from.  But suppose now it were some matter of vital
concernment, some transcendent matter (as Divine Worship is), about which
your whole soul, struck dumb with its excess of feeling, knew not how to
form itself into utterance at all, and preferred formless silence to any
utterance there possible,—what should we say of a man coming forward to
represent or utter it for you in the way of upholsterer-mummery?  Such a
man,—let him depart swiftly, if he love himself!  You have lost your only
son; are mute, struck down, without even tears:  an importunate man
importunately offers to celebrate Funeral Games for him in the manner of
the Greeks!  Such mummery is not only not to be accepted,—it is hateful,
unendurable.  It is what the old Prophets called "Idolatry," worshipping of
hollow shows; what all earnest men do and will reject.  We can partly
understand what those poor Puritans meant.  Laud dedicating that St.
Catherine Creed's Church, in the manner we have it described; with his
multiplied ceremonial bowings, gesticulations, exclamations:  surely it is
rather the rigorous formal Pedant, intent on his "College-rules," than the
earnest Prophet intent on the essence of the matter!

Puritanism found such forms insupportable; trampled on such forms;—we
have to excuse it for saying, No form at all rather than such!  It stood
preaching in its bare pulpit, with nothing but the Bible in its hand.  Nay,
a man preaching from his earnest soul into the earnest souls of men:
is not this virtually the essence of all Churches whatsoever?  The
nakedest, savagest reality, I say, is preferable to any semblance, however
dignified.  Besides, it will clothe itself with due semblance by and by,
if it be real.  No fear of that; actually no fear at all.  Given the living
man, there will be found clothes for him; he will find himself clothes.
But the suit-of-clothes pretending that it is both clothes and man—!  We
cannot "fight the French" by three hundred thousand red uniforms; there
must be men in the inside of them!  Semblance, I assert, must actually
not divorce itself from Reality.  If Semblance do,—why then there must
be men found to rebel against Semblance, for it has become a lie!  These
two Antagonisms at war here, in the case of Laud and the Puritans, are as
old nearly as the world.  They went to fierce battle over England in that
age; and fought out their confused controversy to a certain length, with
many results for all of us.

In the age which directly followed that of the Puritans, their cause or
themselves were little likely to have justice done them.  Charles Second
and his Rochesters were not the kind of men you would set to judge what the
worth or meaning of such men might have been.  That there could be any
faith or truth in the life of a man, was what these poor Rochesters, and
the age they ushered in, had forgotten.  Puritanism was hung on
gibbets,—like the bones of the leading Puritans.  Its work nevertheless
went on accomplishing itself.  All true work of a man, hang the author of
it on what gibbet you like, must and will accomplish itself.  We have our
Habeas-Corpus, our free Representation of the People; acknowledgment,
wide as the world, that all men are, or else must, shall, and will become,
what we call free men;—men with their life grounded on reality and
justice, not on tradition, which has become unjust and a chimera!  This in
part, and much besides this, was the work of the Puritans.

And indeed, as these things became gradually manifest, the character of the
Puritans began to clear itself.  Their memories were, one after another,
taken down from the gibbet; nay a certain portion of them are now, in
these days, as good as canonized.  Eliot, Hampden, Pym, nay Ludlow,
Hutchinson, Vane himself, are admitted to be a kind of Heroes; political
Conscript Fathers, to whom in no small degree we owe what makes us a free
England:  it would not be safe for anybody to designate these men as wicked
now.  Few Puritans of note but find their apologists somewhere, and have a
certain reverence paid them by earnest men.  One Puritan, I think, and
almost he alone, our poor Cromwell, seems to hang yet on the gibbet, and
find no hearty apologist anywhere.  Him neither saint nor sinner will
acquit of great wickedness.  A man of ability, infinite talent, courage,
and so forth:  but he betrayed the Cause.  Selfish ambition, dishonesty,
duplicity; a fierce, coarse, hypocritical Tartuffe; turning all that
noble Struggle for constitutional Liberty into a sorry farce played for his
own benefit:  this and worse is the character they give of Cromwell.  And
then there come contrasts with Washington and others; above all, with these
noble Pyms and Hampdens, whose noble work he stole for himself, and ruined
into a futility and deformity.

This view of Cromwell seems to me the not unnatural product of a century
like the Eighteenth.  As we said of the Valet, so of the Sceptic:  He does
not know a Hero when he sees him!  The Valet expected purple mantles, gilt
sceptres, bodyguards and flourishes of trumpets:  the Sceptic of the
Eighteenth century looks for regulated respectable Formulas, "Principles,"
or what else he may call them; a style of speech and conduct which has got
to seem "respectable," which can plead for itself in a handsome articulate
manner, and gain the suffrages of an enlightened sceptical Eighteenth
century!  It is, at bottom, the same thing that both the Valet and he
expect:  the garnitures of some acknowledged royalty, which then they
will acknowledge!  The King coming to them in the rugged unformulistic
state shall be no King.

For my own share, far be it from me to say or insinuate a word of
disparagement against such characters as Hampden, Elliot, Pym; whom I
believe to have been right worthy and useful men.  I have read diligently
what books and documents about them I could come at;—with the honestest
wish to admire, to love and worship them like Heroes; but I am sorry to
say, if the real truth must be told, with very indifferent success!  At
bottom, I found that it would not do.  They are very noble men, these; step
along in their stately way, with their measured euphemisms, philosophies,
parliamentary eloquences, Ship-moneys, Monarchies of Man; a most
constitutional, unblamable, dignified set of men.  But the heart remains
cold before them; the fancy alone endeavors to get up some worship of them.
What man's heart does, in reality, break forth into any fire of brotherly
love for these men?  They are become dreadfully dull men!  One breaks down
often enough in the constitutional eloquence of the admirable Pym, with his
"seventhly and lastly."  You find that it may be the admirablest thing in
the world, but that it is heavy,—heavy as lead, barren as brick-clay;
that, in a word, for you there is little or nothing now surviving there!
One leaves all these Nobilities standing in their niches of honor:  the
rugged outcast Cromwell, he is the man of them all in whom one still finds
human stuff.  The great savage Baresark:  he could write no euphemistic
Monarchy of Man; did not speak, did not work with glib regularity; had no
straight story to tell for himself anywhere.  But he stood bare, not cased
in euphemistic coat-of-mail; he grappled like a giant, face to face, heart
to heart, with the naked truth of things!  That, after all, is the sort of
man for one.  I plead guilty to valuing such a man beyond all other sorts
of men.  Smooth-shaven Respectabilities not a few one finds, that are not
good for much.  Small thanks to a man for keeping his hands clean, who
would not touch the work but with gloves on!

Neither, on the whole, does this constitutional tolerance of the Eighteenth
century for the other happier Puritans seem to be a very great matter.  One
might say, it is but a piece of Formulism and Scepticism, like the rest.
They tell us, It was a sorrowful thing to consider that the foundation of
our English Liberties should have been laid by "Superstition."  These
Puritans came forward with Calvinistic incredible Creeds, Anti-Laudisms,
Westminster Confessions; demanding, chiefly of all, that they should have
liberty to worship in their own way.  Liberty to tax themselves:  that
was the thing they should have demanded!  It was Superstition, Fanaticism,
disgraceful ignorance of Constitutional Philosophy to insist on the other
thing!—Liberty to tax oneself?  Not to pay out money from your pocket
except on reason shown?  No century, I think, but a rather barren one would
have fixed on that as the first right of man!  I should say, on the
contrary, A just man will generally have better cause than money in what
shape soever, before deciding to revolt against his Government.  Ours is a
most confused world; in which a good man will be thankful to see any kind
of Government maintain itself in a not insupportable manner:  and here in
England, to this hour, if he is not ready to pay a great many taxes which
he can see very small reason in, it will not go well with him, I think!  He
must try some other climate than this.  Tax-gatherer?  Money?  He will say:
"Take my money, since you can, and it is so desirable to you; take
it,—and take yourself away with it; and leave me alone to my work here.  I
am still here; can still work, after all the money you have taken from me!"
But if they come to him, and say, "Acknowledge a Lie; pretend to say you
are worshipping God, when you are not doing it:  believe not the thing that
you find true, but the thing that I find, or pretend to find true!"  He
will answer:  "No; by God's help, no!  You may take my purse; but I cannot
have my moral Self annihilated.  The purse is any Highwayman's who might
meet me with a loaded pistol:  but the Self is mine and God my Maker's; it
is not yours; and I will resist you to the death, and revolt against you,
and, on the whole, front all manner of extremities, accusations and
confusions, in defence of that!"—

Really, it seems to me the one reason which could justify revolting, this
of the Puritans.  It has been the soul of all just revolts among men.  Not
Hunger alone produced even the French Revolution; no, but the feeling of
the insupportable all-pervading Falsehood which had now embodied itself
in Hunger, in universal material Scarcity and Nonentity, and thereby become
indisputably false in the eyes of all!  We will leave the Eighteenth
century with its "liberty to tax itself."  We will not astonish ourselves
that the meaning of such men as the Puritans remained dim to it.  To men
who believe in no reality at all, how shall a real human soul, the
intensest of all realities, as it were the Voice of this world's Maker
still speaking to us,—be intelligible?  What it cannot reduce into
constitutional doctrines relative to "taxing," or other the like material
interest, gross, palpable to the sense, such a century will needs reject as
an amorphous heap of rubbish.  Hampdens, Pyms and Ship-money will be the
theme of much constitutional eloquence, striving to be fervid;—which will
glitter, if not as fire does, then as ice does:  and the irreducible
Cromwell will remain a chaotic mass of "madness," "hypocrisy," and much

From of old, I will confess, this theory of Cromwell's falsity has been
incredible to me.  Nay I cannot believe the like, of any Great Man
whatever.  Multitudes of Great Men figure in History as false selfish men;
but if we will consider it, they are but figures for us, unintelligible
shadows; we do not see into them as men that could have existed at all.  A
superficial unbelieving generation only, with no eye but for the surfaces
and semblances of things, could form such notions of Great Men.  Can a
great soul be possible without a conscience in it, the essence of all
real souls, great or small?—No, we cannot figure Cromwell as a Falsity
and Fatuity; the longer I study him and his career, I believe this the
less.  Why should we?  There is no evidence of it.  Is it not strange that,
after all the mountains of calumny this man has been subject to, after
being represented as the very prince of liars, who never, or hardly ever,
spoke truth, but always some cunning counterfeit of truth, there should not
yet have been one falsehood brought clearly home to him?  A prince of
liars, and no lie spoken by him.  Not one that I could yet get sight of.
It is like Pococke asking Grotius, Where is your proof of Mahomet's
Pigeon?  No proof!—Let us leave all these calumnious chimeras, as chimeras
ought to be left.  They are not portraits of the man; they are distracted
phantasms of him, the joint product of hatred and darkness.

Looking at the man's life with our own eyes, it seems to me, a very
different hypothesis suggests itself.  What little we know of his earlier
obscure years, distorted as it has come down to us, does it not all betoken
an earnest, affectionate, sincere kind of man?  His nervous melancholic
temperament indicates rather a seriousness too deep for him.  Of those
stories of "Spectres;" of the white Spectre in broad daylight, predicting
that he should be King of England, we are not bound to believe
much;—probably no more than of the other black Spectre, or Devil in
person, to whom the Officer saw him sell himself before Worcester Fight!
But the mournful, oversensitive, hypochondriac humor of Oliver, in his
young years, is otherwise indisputably known.  The Huntingdon Physician
told Sir Philip Warwick himself, He had often been sent for at midnight;
Mr. Cromwell was full of hypochondria, thought himself near dying, and "had
fancies about the Town-cross."  These things are significant.  Such an
excitable deep-feeling nature, in that rugged stubborn strength of his, is
not the symptom of falsehood; it is the symptom and promise of quite other
than falsehood!

The young Oliver is sent to study Law; falls, or is said to have fallen,
for a little period, into some of the dissipations of youth; but if so,
speedily repents, abandons all this:  not much above twenty, he is married,
settled as an altogether grave and quiet man.  "He pays back what money he
had won at gambling," says the story;—he does not think any gain of that
kind could be really his.  It is very interesting, very natural, this
"conversion," as they well name it; this awakening of a great true soul
from the worldly slough, to see into the awful truth of things;—to see
that Time and its shows all rested on Eternity, and this poor Earth of ours
was the threshold either of Heaven or of Hell!  Oliver's life at St. Ives
and Ely, as a sober industrious Farmer, is it not altogether as that of a
true and devout man?  He has renounced the world and its ways; its prizes
are not the thing that can enrich him.  He tills the earth; he reads his
Bible; daily assembles his servants round him to worship God.  He comforts
persecuted ministers, is fond of preachers; nay can himself
preach,—exhorts his neighbors to be wise, to redeem the time.  In all this
what "hypocrisy," "ambition," "cant," or other falsity?  The man's hopes, I
do believe, were fixed on the other Higher World; his aim to get well
thither, by walking well through his humble course in this world.  He
courts no notice:  what could notice here do for him?  "Ever in his great
Taskmaster's eye."

It is striking, too, how he comes out once into public view; he, since no
other is willing to come:  in resistance to a public grievance.  I mean, in
that matter of the Bedford Fens.  No one else will go to law with
Authority; therefore he will.  That matter once settled, he returns back
into obscurity, to his Bible and his Plough.  "Gain influence"?  His
influence is the most legitimate; derived from personal knowledge of him,
as a just, religious, reasonable and determined man.  In this way he has
lived till past forty; old age is now in view of him, and the earnest
portal of Death and Eternity; it was at this point that he suddenly became
"ambitious"!  I do not interpret his Parliamentary mission in that way!

His successes in Parliament, his successes through the war, are honest
successes of a brave man; who has more resolution in the heart of him, more
light in the head of him than other men.  His prayers to God; his spoken
thanks to the God of Victory, who had preserved him safe, and carried him
forward so far, through the furious clash of a world all set in conflict,
through desperate-looking envelopments at Dunbar; through the death-hail of
so many battles; mercy after mercy; to the "crowning mercy" of Worcester
Fight:  all this is good and genuine for a deep-hearted Calvinistic
Cromwell.  Only to vain unbelieving Cavaliers, worshipping not God but
their own "love-locks," frivolities and formalities, living quite apart
from contemplations of God, living without God in the world, need it seem

Nor will his participation in the King's death involve him in condemnation
with us.  It is a stern business killing of a King!  But if you once go to
war with him, it lies there; this and all else lies there.  Once at war,
you have made wager of battle with him:  it is he to die, or else you.
Reconciliation is problematic; may be possible, or, far more likely, is
impossible.  It is now pretty generally admitted that the Parliament,
having vanquished Charles First, had no way of making any tenable
arrangement with him.  The large Presbyterian party, apprehensive now of
the Independents, were most anxious to do so; anxious indeed as for their
own existence; but it could not be.  The unhappy Charles, in those final
Hampton-Court negotiations, shows himself as a man fatally incapable of
being dealt with.  A man who, once for all, could not and would not
understand:—whose thought did not in any measure represent to him the
real fact of the matter; nay worse, whose word did not at all represent
his thought.  We may say this of him without cruelty, with deep pity
rather:  but it is true and undeniable.  Forsaken there of all but the
name of Kingship, he still, finding himself treated with outward respect
as a King, fancied that he might play off party against party, and smuggle
himself into his old power by deceiving both.  Alas, they both discovered
that he was deceiving them.  A man whose word will not inform you at all
what he means or will do, is not a man you can bargain with.  You must get
out of that man's way, or put him out of yours!  The Presbyterians, in
their despair, were still for believing Charles, though found false,
unbelievable again and again.  Not so Cromwell:  "For all our fighting,"
says he, "we are to have a little bit of paper?"  No!—

In fact, everywhere we have to note the decisive practical eye of this
man; how he drives towards the practical and practicable; has a genuine
insight into what is fact.  Such an intellect, I maintain, does not
belong to a false man:  the false man sees false shows, plausibilities,
expediences:  the true man is needed to discern even practical truth.
Cromwell's advice about the Parliament's Army, early in the contest, How
they were to dismiss their city-tapsters, flimsy riotous persons, and
choose substantial yeomen, whose heart was in the work, to be soldiers for
them:  this is advice by a man who saw.  Fact answers, if you see into
Fact!  Cromwell's Ironsides were the embodiment of this insight of his;
men fearing God; and without any other fear.  No more conclusively genuine
set of fighters ever trod the soil of England, or of any other land.

Neither will we blame greatly that word of Cromwell's to them; which was so
blamed:  "If the King should meet me in battle, I would kill the King."
Why not?  These words were spoken to men who stood as before a Higher than
Kings.  They had set more than their own lives on the cast.  The Parliament
may call it, in official language, a fighting "for the King;" but we, for
our share, cannot understand that.  To us it is no dilettante work, no
sleek officiality; it is sheer rough death and earnest.  They have brought
it to the calling-forth of War; horrid internecine fight, man grappling
with man in fire-eyed rage,—the infernal element in man called forth, to
try it by that!  Do that therefore; since that is the thing to be
done.—The successes of Cromwell seem to me a very natural thing!  Since he
was not shot in battle, they were an inevitable thing.  That such a man,
with the eye to see, with the heart to dare, should advance, from post to
post, from victory to victory, till the Huntingdon Farmer became, by
whatever name you might call him, the acknowledged Strongest Man in
England, virtually the King of England, requires no magic to explain it!—

Truly it is a sad thing for a people, as for a man, to fall into
Scepticism, into dilettantism, insincerity; not to know Sincerity when they
see it.  For this world, and for all worlds, what curse is so fatal?  The
heart lying dead, the eye cannot see.  What intellect remains is merely the
vulpine intellect.  That a true King be sent them is of small use; they
do not know him when sent.  They say scornfully, Is this your King?  The
Hero wastes his heroic faculty in bootless contradiction from the unworthy;
and can accomplish little.  For himself he does accomplish a heroic life,
which is much, which is all; but for the world he accomplishes
comparatively nothing.  The wild rude Sincerity, direct from Nature, is not
glib in answering from the witness-box:  in your small-debt pie-powder
court, he is scouted as a counterfeit.  The vulpine intellect "detects"
him.  For being a man worth any thousand men, the response your Knox, your
Cromwell gets, is an argument for two centuries whether he was a man at
all.  God's greatest gift to this Earth is sneeringly flung away.  The
miraculous talisman is a paltry plated coin, not fit to pass in the shops
as a common guinea.

Lamentable this!  I say, this must be remedied.  Till this be remedied in
some measure, there is nothing remedied.  "Detect quacks"?  Yes do, for
Heaven's sake; but know withal the men that are to be trusted!  Till we
know that, what is all our knowledge; how shall we even so much as
"detect"?  For the vulpine sharpness, which considers itself to be
knowledge, and "detects" in that fashion, is far mistaken.  Dupes indeed
are many:  but, of all dupes, there is none so fatally situated as he who
lives in undue terror of being duped.  The world does exist; the world has
truth in it, or it would not exist!  First recognize what is true, we shall
then discern what is false; and properly never till then.

"Know the men that are to be trusted:"  alas, this is yet, in these days,
very far from us.  The sincere alone can recognize sincerity.  Not a Hero
only is needed, but a world fit for him; a world not of Valets;—the Hero
comes almost in vain to it otherwise!  Yes, it is far from us:  but it must
come; thank God, it is visibly coming.  Till it do come, what have we?
Ballot-boxes, suffrages, French Revolutions:—if we are as Valets, and do
not know the Hero when we see him, what good are all these?  A heroic
Cromwell comes; and for a hundred and fifty years he cannot have a vote
from us.  Why, the insincere, unbelieving world is the natural property
of the Quack, and of the Father of quacks and quackeries!  Misery,
confusion, unveracity are alone possible there.  By ballot-boxes we alter
the figure of our Quack; but the substance of him continues.  The
Valet-World has to be governed by the Sham-Hero, by the King merely
dressed in King-gear.  It is his; he is its!  In brief, one of two
things:  We shall either learn to know a Hero, a true Governor and Captain,
somewhat better, when we see him; or else go on to be forever governed by
the Unheroic;—had we ballot-boxes clattering at every street-corner, there
were no remedy in these.

Poor Cromwell,—great Cromwell!  The inarticulate Prophet; Prophet who
could not speak.  Rude, confused, struggling to utter himself, with his
savage depth, with his wild sincerity; and he looked so strange, among the
elegant Euphemisms, dainty little Falklands, didactic Chillingworths,
diplomatic Clarendons!  Consider him.  An outer hull of chaotic confusion,
visions of the Devil, nervous dreams, almost semi-madness; and yet such a
clear determinate man's-energy working in the heart of that.  A kind of
chaotic man.  The ray as of pure starlight and fire, working in such an
element of boundless hypochondria, unformed black of darkness!  And yet
withal this hypochondria, what was it but the very greatness of the man?
The depth and tenderness of his wild affections:  the quantity of
sympathy he had with things,—the quantity of insight he would yet get
into the heart of things, the mastery he would yet get over things:  this
was his hypochondria.  The man's misery, as man's misery always does, came
of his greatness.  Samuel Johnson too is that kind of man.
Sorrow-stricken, half-distracted; the wide element of mournful black
enveloping him,—wide as the world.  It is the character of a prophetic
man; a man with his whole soul seeing, and struggling to see.

On this ground, too, I explain to myself Cromwell's reputed confusion of
speech.  To himself the internal meaning was sun-clear; but the material
with which he was to clothe it in utterance was not there.  He had lived
silent; a great unnamed sea of Thought round him all his days; and in his
way of life little call to attempt naming or uttering that.  With his
sharp power of vision, resolute power of action, I doubt not he could have
learned to write Books withal, and speak fluently enough;—he did harder
things than writing of Books.  This kind of man is precisely he who is fit
for doing manfully all things you will set him on doing.  Intellect is not
speaking and logicizing; it is seeing and ascertaining.  Virtue, Virtues,
manhood, herohood, is not fair-spoken immaculate regularity; it is first
of all, what the Germans well name it, Tugend (Taugend, dow-ing or
Dough-tinesS), Courage and the Faculty to do.  This basis of the matter
Cromwell had in him.

One understands moreover how, though he could not speak in Parliament, he
might preach, rhapsodic preaching; above all, how he might be great in
extempore prayer.  These are the free outpouring utterances of what is in
the heart:  method is not required in them; warmth, depth, sincerity are
all that is required.  Cromwell's habit of prayer is a notable feature of
him.  All his great enterprises were commenced with prayer.  In dark
inextricable-looking difficulties, his Officers and he used to assemble,
and pray alternately, for hours, for days, till some definite resolution
rose among them, some "door of hope," as they would name it, disclosed
itself.  Consider that.  In tears, in fervent prayers, and cries to the
great God, to have pity on them, to make His light shine before them.
They, armed Soldiers of Christ, as they felt themselves to be; a little
band of Christian Brothers, who had drawn the sword against a great black
devouring world not Christian, but Mammonish, Devilish,—they cried to God
in their straits, in their extreme need, not to forsake the Cause that was
His.  The light which now rose upon them,—how could a human soul, by any
means at all, get better light?  Was not the purpose so formed like to be
precisely the best, wisest, the one to be followed without hesitation any
more?  To them it was as the shining of Heaven's own Splendor in the
waste-howling darkness; the Pillar of Fire by night, that was to guide them
on their desolate perilous way.  Was it not such?  Can a man's soul, to
this hour, get guidance by any other method than intrinsically by that
same,—devout prostration of the earnest struggling soul before the
Highest, the Giver of all Light; be such prayer a spoken, articulate, or
be it a voiceless, inarticulate one?  There is no other method.
"Hypocrisy"?  One begins to be weary of all that.  They who call it so,
have no right to speak on such matters.  They never formed a purpose, what
one can call a purpose.  They went about balancing expediencies,
plausibilities; gathering votes, advices; they never were alone with the
truth of a thing at all.—Cromwell's prayers were likely to be
"eloquent," and much more than that.  His was the heart of a man who
could pray.

But indeed his actual Speeches, I apprehend, were not nearly so ineloquent,
incondite, as they look.  We find he was, what all speakers aim to be, an
impressive speaker, even in Parliament; one who, from the first, had
weight.  With that rude passionate voice of his, he was always understood
to mean something, and men wished to know what.  He disregarded
eloquence, nay despised and disliked it; spoke always without premeditation
of the words he was to use.  The Reporters, too, in those days seem to have
been singularly candid; and to have given the Printer precisely what they
found on their own note-paper.  And withal, what a strange proof is it of
Cromwell's being the premeditative ever-calculating hypocrite, acting a
play before the world, That to the last he took no more charge of his
Speeches!  How came he not to study his words a little, before flinging
them out to the public?  If the words were true words, they could be left
to shift for themselves.

But with regard to Cromwell's "lying," we will make one remark.  This, I
suppose, or something like this, to have been the nature of it.  All
parties found themselves deceived in him; each party understood him to be
meaning this, heard him even say so, and behold he turns out to have been
meaning that!  He was, cry they, the chief of liars.  But now,
intrinsically, is not all this the inevitable fortune, not of a false man
in such times, but simply of a superior man?  Such a man must have
reticences in him.  If he walk wearing his heart upon his sleeve for daws
to peck at, his journey will not extend far!  There is no use for any man's
taking up his abode in a house built of glass.  A man always is to be
himself the judge how much of his mind he will show to other men; even to
those he would have work along with him.  There are impertinent inquiries
made:  your rule is, to leave the inquirer uninformed on that matter; not,
if you can help it, misinformed, but precisely as dark as he was!  This,
could one hit the right phrase of response, is what the wise and faithful
man would aim to answer in such a case.

Cromwell, no doubt of it, spoke often in the dialect of small subaltern
parties; uttered to them a part of his mind.  Each little party thought
him all its own.  Hence their rage, one and all, to find him not of their
party, but of his own party.  Was it his blame?  At all seasons of his
history he must have felt, among such people, how, if he explained to them
the deeper insight he had, they must either have shuddered aghast at it, or
believing it, their own little compact hypothesis must have gone wholly to
wreck.  They could not have worked in his province any more; nay perhaps
they could not now have worked in their own province.  It is the inevitable
position of a great man among small men.  Small men, most active, useful,
are to be seen everywhere, whose whole activity depends on some conviction
which to you is palpably a limited one; imperfect, what we call an error.
But would it be a kindness always, is it a duty always or often, to disturb
them in that?  Many a man, doing loud work in the world, stands only on
some thin traditionality, conventionality; to him indubitable, to you
incredible:  break that beneath him, he sinks to endless depths!  "I might
have my hand full of truth," said Fontenelle, "and open only my little

And if this be the fact even in matters of doctrine, how much more in all
departments of practice!  He that cannot withal keep his mind to himself
cannot practice any considerable thing whatever.  And we call it
"dissimulation," all this?  What would you think of calling the general of
an army a dissembler because he did not tell every corporal and private
soldier, who pleased to put the question, what his thoughts were about
everything?—Cromwell, I should rather say, managed all this in a manner we
must admire for its perfection.  An endless vortex of such questioning
"corporals" rolled confusedly round him through his whole course; whom he
did answer.  It must have been as a great true-seeing man that he managed
this too.  Not one proved falsehood, as I said; not one!  Of what man that
ever wound himself through such a coil of things will you say so much?—

But in fact there are two errors, widely prevalent, which pervert to the
very basis our judgments formed about such men as Cromwell; about their
"ambition," "falsity," and such like.  The first is what I might call
substituting the goal of their career for the course and starting-point
of it.  The vulgar Historian of a Cromwell fancies that he had determined
on being Protector of England, at the time when he was ploughing the marsh
lands of Cambridgeshire.  His career lay all mapped out:  a program of the
whole drama; which he then step by step dramatically unfolded, with all
manner of cunning, deceptive dramaturgy, as he went on,—the hollow,
scheming [Gr.] Upokrites, or Play-actor, that he was!  This is a radical
perversion; all but universal in such cases.  And think for an instant how
different the fact is!  How much does one of us foresee of his own life?
Short way ahead of us it is all dim; an unwound skein of possibilities, of
apprehensions, attemptabilities, vague-looming hopes.  This Cromwell had
not his life lying all in that fashion of Program, which he needed then,
with that unfathomable cunning of his, only to enact dramatically, scene
after scene!  Not so.  We see it so; but to him it was in no measure so.
What absurdities would fall away of themselves, were this one undeniable
fact kept honestly in view by History!  Historians indeed will tell you
that they do keep it in view;—but look whether such is practically the
fact!  Vulgar History, as in this Cromwell's case, omits it altogether;
even the best kinds of History only remember it now and then.  To remember
it duly with rigorous perfection, as in the fact it stood, requires
indeed a rare faculty; rare, nay impossible.  A very Shakspeare for
faculty; or more than Shakspeare; who could enact a brother man's
biography, see with the brother man's eyes at all points of his course what
things he saw; in short, know his course and him, as few "Historians"
are like to do.  Half or more of all the thick-plied perversions which
distort our image of Cromwell, will disappear, if we honestly so much as
try to represent them so; in sequence, as they were; not in the lump, as
they are thrown down before us.

But a second error, which I think the generality commit, refers to this
same "ambition" itself.  We exaggerate the ambition of Great Men; we
mistake what the nature of it is.  Great Men are not ambitious in that
sense; he is a small poor man that is ambitious so.  Examine the man who
lives in misery because he does not shine above other men; who goes about
producing himself, pruriently anxious about his gifts and claims;
struggling to force everybody, as it were begging everybody for God's sake,
to acknowledge him a great man, and set him over the heads of men!  Such a
creature is among the wretchedest sights seen under this sun.  A great
man?  A poor morbid prurient empty man; fitter for the ward of a hospital,
than for a throne among men.  I advise you to keep out of his way.  He
cannot walk on quiet paths; unless you will look at him, wonder at him,
write paragraphs about him, he cannot live.  It is the emptiness of the
man, not his greatness.  Because there is nothing in himself, he hungers
and thirsts that you would find something in him.  In good truth, I believe
no great man, not so much as a genuine man who had health and real
substance in him of whatever magnitude, was ever much tormented in this

Your Cromwell, what good could it do him to be "noticed" by noisy crowds of
people?  God his Maker already noticed him.  He, Cromwell, was already
there; no notice would make him other than he already was.  Till his hair
was grown gray; and Life from the down-hill slope was all seen to be
limited, not infinite but finite, and all a measurable matter how it
went,—he had been content to plough the ground, and read his Bible.  He in
his old days could not support it any longer, without selling himself to
Falsehood, that he might ride in gilt carriages to Whitehall, and have
clerks with bundles of papers haunting him, "Decide this, decide that,"
which in utmost sorrow of heart no man can perfectly decide!  What could
gilt carriages do for this man?  From of old, was there not in his life a
weight of meaning, a terror and a splendor as of Heaven itself?  His
existence there as man set him beyond the need of gilding.  Death, Judgment
and Eternity:  these already lay as the background of whatsoever he thought
or did.  All his life lay begirt as in a sea of nameless Thoughts, which no
speech of a mortal could name.  God's Word, as the Puritan prophets of that
time had read it:  this was great, and all else was little to him.  To call
such a man "ambitious," to figure him as the prurient wind-bag described
above, seems to me the poorest solecism.  Such a man will say:  "Keep your
gilt carriages and huzzaing mobs, keep your red-tape clerks, your
influentialities, your important businesses.  Leave me alone, leave me
alone; there is too much of life in me already!"  Old Samuel Johnson, the
greatest soul in England in his day, was not ambitious.  "Corsica Boswell"
flaunted at public shows with printed ribbons round his hat; but the great
old Samuel stayed at home.  The world-wide soul wrapt up in its thoughts,
in its sorrows;—what could paradings, and ribbons in the hat, do for it?

Ah yes, I will say again:  The great silent men!  Looking round on the
noisy inanity of the world, words with little meaning, actions with little
worth, one loves to reflect on the great Empire of Silence.  The noble
silent men, scattered here and there, each in his department; silently
thinking, silently working; whom no Morning Newspaper makes mention of!
They are the salt of the Earth.  A country that has none or few of these is
in a bad way.  Like a forest which had no roots; which had all turned
into leaves and boughs;—which must soon wither and be no forest.  Woe for
us if we had nothing but what we can show, or speak.  Silence, the great
Empire of Silence:  higher than the stars; deeper than the Kingdoms of
Death!  It alone is great; all else is small.—I hope we English will long
maintain our grand talent pour le silence.  Let others that cannot do
without standing on barrel-heads, to spout, and be seen of all the
market-place, cultivate speech exclusively,—become a most green forest
without roots!  Solomon says, There is a time to speak; but also a time to
keep silence.  Of some great silent Samuel, not urged to writing, as old
Samuel Johnson says he was, by want of money, and nothing other, one
might ask, "Why do not you too get up and speak; promulgate your system,
found your sect?"  "Truly," he will answer, "I am continent of my thought
hitherto; happily I have yet had the ability to keep it in me, no
compulsion strong enough to speak it.  My 'system' is not for promulgation
first of all; it is for serving myself to live by.  That is the great
purpose of it to me.  And then the 'honor'?  Alas, yes;—but as Cato said
of the statue:  So many statues in that Forum of yours, may it not be
better if they ask, Where is Cato's statue?"—

But now, by way of counterpoise to this of Silence, let me say that there
are two kinds of ambition; one wholly blamable, the other laudable and
inevitable.  Nature has provided that the great silent Samuel shall not be
silent too long.  The selfish wish to shine over others, let it be
accounted altogether poor and miserable.  "Seekest thou great things, seek
them not:"  this is most true.  And yet, I say, there is an irrepressible
tendency in every man to develop himself according to the magnitude which
Nature has made him of; to speak out, to act out, what nature has laid in
him.  This is proper, fit, inevitable; nay it is a duty, and even the
summary of duties for a man.  The meaning of life here on earth might be
defined as consisting in this:  To unfold your self, to work what thing
you have the faculty for.  It is a necessity for the human being, the first
law of our existence.  Coleridge beautifully remarks that the infant learns
to speak by this necessity it feels.—We will say therefore:  To decide
about ambition, whether it is bad or not, you have two things to take into
view.  Not the coveting of the place alone, but the fitness of the man for
the place withal:  that is the question.  Perhaps the place was his;
perhaps he had a natural right, and even obligation, to seek the place!
Mirabeau's ambition to be Prime Minister, how shall we blame it, if he were
"the only man in France that could have done any good there"?  Hopefuler
perhaps had he not so clearly felt how much good he could do!  But a poor
Necker, who could do no good, and had even felt that he could do none, yet
sitting broken-hearted because they had flung him out, and he was now quit
of it, well might Gibbon mourn over him.—Nature, I say, has provided amply
that the silent great man shall strive to speak withal; too amply,

Fancy, for example, you had revealed to the brave old Samuel Johnson, in
his shrouded-up existence, that it was possible for him to do priceless
divine work for his country and the whole world.  That the perfect Heavenly
Law might be made Law on this Earth; that the prayer he prayed daily, "Thy
kingdom come," was at length to be fulfilled!  If you had convinced his
judgment of this; that it was possible, practicable; that he the mournful
silent Samuel was called to take a part in it!  Would not the whole soul of
the man have flamed up into a divine clearness, into noble utterance and
determination to act; casting all sorrows and misgivings under his feet,
counting all affliction and contradiction small,—the whole dark element of
his existence blazing into articulate radiance of light and lightning?  It
were a true ambition this!  And think now how it actually was with
Cromwell.  From of old, the sufferings of God's Church, true zealous
Preachers of the truth flung into dungeons, whips, set on pillories, their
ears crops off, God's Gospel-cause trodden under foot of the unworthy:  all
this had lain heavy on his soul.  Long years he had looked upon it, in
silence, in prayer; seeing no remedy on Earth; trusting well that a remedy
in Heaven's goodness would come,—that such a course was false, unjust, and
could not last forever.  And now behold the dawn of it; after twelve years
silent waiting, all England stirs itself; there is to be once more a
Parliament, the Right will get a voice for itself:  inexpressible
well-grounded hope has come again into the Earth.  Was not such a
Parliament worth being a member of?  Cromwell threw down his ploughs, and
hastened thither.

He spoke there,—rugged bursts of earnestness, of a self-seen truth, where
we get a glimpse of them.  He worked there; he fought and strove, like a
strong true giant of a man, through cannon-tumult and all else,—on and on,
till the Cause triumphed, its once so formidable enemies all swept from
before it, and the dawn of hope had become clear light of victory and
certainty.  That he stood there as the strongest soul of England, the
undisputed Hero of all England,—what of this?  It was possible that the
Law of Christ's Gospel could now establish itself in the world!  The
Theocracy which John Knox in his pulpit might dream of as a "devout
imagination," this practical man, experienced in the whole chaos of most
rough practice, dared to consider as capable of being realized.  Those
that were highest in Christ's Church, the devoutest wisest men, were to
rule the land:  in some considerable degree, it might be so and should be
so.  Was it not true, God's truth?  And if true, was it not then the
very thing to do?  The strongest practical intellect in England dared to
answer, Yes!  This I call a noble true purpose; is it not, in its own
dialect, the noblest that could enter into the heart of Statesman or man?
For a Knox to take it up was something; but for a Cromwell, with his great
sound sense and experience of what our world was,—History, I think,
shows it only this once in such a degree.  I account it the culminating
point of Protestantism; the most heroic phasis that "Faith in the Bible"
was appointed to exhibit here below.  Fancy it:  that it were made manifest
to one of us, how we could make the Right supremely victorious over Wrong,
and all that we had longed and prayed for, as the highest good to England
and all lands, an attainable fact!

Well, I must say, the vulpine intellect, with its knowingness, its
alertness and expertness in "detecting hypocrites," seems to me a rather
sorry business.  We have had but one such Statesman in England; one man,
that I can get sight of, who ever had in the heart of him any such purpose
at all.  One man, in the course of fifteen hundred years; and this was his
welcome.  He had adherents by the hundred or the ten; opponents by the
million.  Had England rallied all round him,—why, then, England might have
been a Christian land!  As it is, vulpine knowingness sits yet at its
hopeless problem, "Given a world of Knaves, to educe an Honesty from their
united action;"—how cumbrous a problem, you may see in Chancery
Law-Courts, and some other places!  Till at length, by Heaven's just anger,
but also by Heaven's great grace, the matter begins to stagnate; and this
problem is becoming to all men a palpably hopeless one.—

But with regard to Cromwell and his purposes:  Hume, and a multitude
following him, come upon me here with an admission that Cromwell was
sincere at first; a sincere "Fanatic" at first, but gradually became a
"Hypocrite" as things opened round him.  This of the Fanatic-Hypocrite is
Hume's theory of it; extensively applied since,—to Mahomet and many
others.  Think of it seriously, you will find something in it; not much,
not all, very far from all.  Sincere hero hearts do not sink in this
miserable manner.  The Sun flings forth impurities, gets balefully
incrusted with spots; but it does not quench itself, and become no Sun at
all, but a mass of Darkness!  I will venture to say that such never befell
a great deep Cromwell; I think, never.  Nature's own lionhearted Son;
Antaeus-like, his strength is got by touching the Earth, his Mother; lift
him up from the Earth, lift him up into Hypocrisy, Inanity, his strength is
gone.  We will not assert that Cromwell was an immaculate man; that he fell
into no faults, no insincerities among the rest.  He was no dilettante
professor of "perfections," "immaculate conducts."  He was a rugged Orson,
rending his rough way through actual true work,—doubtless with many a
fall therein.  Insincerities, faults, very many faults daily and hourly:
it was too well known to him; known to God and him!  The Sun was dimmed
many a time; but the Sun had not himself grown a Dimness.  Cromwell's last
words, as he lay waiting for death, are those of a Christian heroic man.
Broken prayers to God, that He would judge him and this Cause, He since man
could not, in justice yet in pity.  They are most touching words.  He
breathed out his wild great soul, its toils and sins all ended now, into
the presence of his Maker, in this manner.

I, for one, will not call the man a Hypocrite!  Hypocrite, mummer, the life
of him a mere theatricality; empty barren quack, hungry for the shouts of
mobs?  The man had made obscurity do very well for him till his head was
gray; and now he was, there as he stood recognized unblamed, the virtual
King of England.  Cannot a man do without King's Coaches and Cloaks?  Is it
such a blessedness to have clerks forever pestering you with bundles of
papers in red tape?  A simple Diocletian prefers planting of cabbages; a
George Washington, no very immeasurable man, does the like.  One would say,
it is what any genuine man could do; and would do.  The instant his real
work were out in the matter of Kingship,—away with it!

Let us remark, meanwhile, how indispensable everywhere a King is, in all
movements of men.  It is strikingly shown, in this very War, what becomes
of men when they cannot find a Chief Man, and their enemies can.  The
Scotch Nation was all but unanimous in Puritanism; zealous and of one mind
about it, as in this English end of the Island was always far from being
the case.  But there was no great Cromwell among them; poor tremulous,
hesitating, diplomatic Argyles and such like:  none of them had a heart
true enough for the truth, or durst commit himself to the truth.  They had
no leader; and the scattered Cavalier party in that country had one:
Montrose, the noblest of all the Cavaliers; an accomplished,
gallant-hearted, splendid man; what one may call the Hero-Cavalier.  Well,
look at it; on the one hand subjects without a King; on the other a King
without subjects!  The subjects without King can do nothing; the
subjectless King can do something.  This Montrose, with a handful of Irish
or Highland savages, few of them so much as guns in their hands, dashes at
the drilled Puritan armies like a wild whirlwind; sweeps them, time after
time, some five times over, from the field before him.  He was at one
period, for a short while, master of all Scotland.  One man; but he was a
man; a million zealous men, but without the one; they against him were
powerless!  Perhaps of all the persons in that Puritan struggle, from first
to last, the single indispensable one was verily Cromwell.  To see and
dare, and decide; to be a fixed pillar in the welter of uncertainty;—a
King among them, whether they called him so or not.

Precisely here, however, lies the rub for Cromwell.  His other proceedings
have all found advocates, and stand generally justified; but this dismissal
of the Rump Parliament and assumption of the Protectorship, is what no one
can pardon him.  He had fairly grown to be King in England; Chief Man of
the victorious party in England:  but it seems he could not do without the
King's Cloak, and sold himself to perdition in order to get it.  Let us see
a little how this was.

England, Scotland, Ireland, all lying now subdued at the feet of the
Puritan Parliament, the practical question arose, What was to be done with
it?  How will you govern these Nations, which Providence in a wondrous way
has given up to your disposal?  Clearly those hundred surviving members of
the Long Parliament, who sit there as supreme authority, cannot continue
forever to sit.  What is to be done?—It was a question which theoretical
constitution-builders may find easy to answer; but to Cromwell, looking
there into the real practical facts of it, there could be none more
complicated.  He asked of the Parliament, What it was they would decide
upon?  It was for the Parliament to say.  Yet the Soldiers too, however
contrary to Formula, they who had purchased this victory with their blood,
it seemed to them that they also should have something to say in it!  We
will not "for all our fighting have nothing but a little piece of paper."
We understand that the Law of God's Gospel, to which He through us has
given the victory, shall establish itself, or try to establish itself, in
this land!

For three years, Cromwell says, this question had been sounded in the ears
of the Parliament.  They could make no answer; nothing but talk, talk.
Perhaps it lies in the nature of parliamentary bodies; perhaps no
Parliament could in such case make any answer but even that of talk, talk!
Nevertheless the question must and shall be answered.  You sixty men there,
becoming fast odious, even despicable, to the whole nation, whom the nation
already calls Rump Parliament, you cannot continue to sit there:  who or
what then is to follow?  "Free Parliament," right of Election,
Constitutional Formulas of one sort or the other,—the thing is a hungry
Fact coming on us, which we must answer or be devoured by it!  And who are
you that prate of Constitutional Formulas, rights of Parliament?  You have
had to kill your King, to make Pride's Purges, to expel and banish by the
law of the stronger whosoever would not let your Cause prosper:  there are
but fifty or threescore of you left there, debating in these days.  Tell us
what we shall do; not in the way of Formula, but of practicable Fact!

How they did finally answer, remains obscure to this day.  The diligent
Godwin himself admits that he cannot make it out.  The likeliest is, that
this poor Parliament still would not, and indeed could not dissolve and
disperse; that when it came to the point of actually dispersing, they
again, for the tenth or twentieth time, adjourned it,—and Cromwell's
patience failed him.  But we will take the favorablest hypothesis ever
started for the Parliament; the favorablest, though I believe it is not the
true one, but too favorable.

According to this version:  At the uttermost crisis, when Cromwell and his
Officers were met on the one hand, and the fifty or sixty Rump Members on
the other, it was suddenly told Cromwell that the Rump in its despair was
answering in a very singular way; that in their splenetic envious despair,
to keep out the Army at least, these men were hurrying through the House a
kind of Reform Bill,—Parliament to be chosen by the whole of England;
equable electoral division into districts; free suffrage, and the rest of
it!  A very questionable, or indeed for them an unquestionable thing.
Reform Bill, free suffrage of Englishmen?  Why, the Royalists themselves,
silenced indeed but not exterminated, perhaps outnumber us; the great
numerical majority of England was always indifferent to our Cause, merely
looked at it and submitted to it.  It is in weight and force, not by
counting of heads, that we are the majority!  And now with your Formulas
and Reform Bills, the whole matter, sorely won by our swords, shall again
launch itself to sea; become a mere hope, and likelihood, small even as a
likelihood?  And it is not a likelihood; it is a certainty, which we have
won, by God's strength and our own right hands, and do now hold here.
Cromwell walked down to these refractory Members; interrupted them in that
rapid speed of their Reform Bill;—ordered them to begone, and talk there
no more.—Can we not forgive him?  Can we not understand him?  John Milton,
who looked on it all near at hand, could applaud him.  The Reality had
swept the Formulas away before it.  I fancy, most men who were realities in
England might see into the necessity of that.

The strong daring man, therefore, has set all manner of Formulas and
logical superficialities against him; has dared appeal to the genuine Fact
of this England, Whether it will support him or not?  It is curious to see
how he struggles to govern in some constitutional way; find some Parliament
to support him; but cannot.  His first Parliament, the one they call
Barebones's Parliament, is, so to speak, a Convocation of the Notables.
From all quarters of England the leading Ministers and chief Puritan
Officials nominate the men most distinguished by religious reputation,
influence and attachment to the true Cause:  these are assembled to shape
out a plan.  They sanctioned what was past; shaped as they could what was
to come.  They were scornfully called Barebones's Parliament:  the man's
name, it seems, was not Barebones, but Barbone,—a good enough man.  Nor
was it a jest, their work; it was a most serious reality,—a trial on the
part of these Puritan Notables how far the Law of Christ could become the
Law of this England.  There were men of sense among them, men of some
quality; men of deep piety I suppose the most of them were.  They failed,
it seems, and broke down, endeavoring to reform the Court of Chancery!
They dissolved themselves, as incompetent; delivered up their power again
into the hands of the Lord General Cromwell, to do with it what he liked
and could.

What will he do with it?  The Lord General Cromwell, "Commander-in-chief
of all the Forces raised and to be raised;" he hereby sees himself, at this
unexampled juncture, as it were the one available Authority left in
England, nothing between England and utter Anarchy but him alone.  Such is
the undeniable Fact of his position and England's, there and then.  What
will he do with it?  After deliberation, he decides that he will accept
it; will formally, with public solemnity, say and vow before God and men,
"Yes, the Fact is so, and I will do the best I can with it!"
Protectorship, Instrument of Government,—these are the external forms of
the thing; worked out and sanctioned as they could in the circumstances be,
by the Judges, by the leading Official people, "Council of Officers and
Persons of interest in the Nation:"  and as for the thing itself,
undeniably enough, at the pass matters had now come to, there was no
alternative but Anarchy or that.  Puritan England might accept it or not;
but Puritan England was, in real truth, saved from suicide thereby!—I
believe the Puritan People did, in an inarticulate, grumbling, yet on the
whole grateful and real way, accept this anomalous act of Oliver's; at
least, he and they together made it good, and always better to the last.
But in their Parliamentary articulate way, they had their difficulties,
and never knew fully what to say to it!—

Oliver's second Parliament, properly his first regular Parliament, chosen
by the rule laid down in the Instrument of Government, did assemble, and
worked;—but got, before long, into bottomless questions as to the
Protector's right, as to "usurpation," and so forth; and had at the
earliest legal day to be dismissed.  Cromwell's concluding Speech to these
men is a remarkable one.  So likewise to his third Parliament, in similar
rebuke for their pedantries and obstinacies.  Most rude, chaotic, all these
Speeches are; but most earnest-looking.  You would say, it was a sincere
helpless man; not used to speak the great inorganic thought of him, but
to act it rather!  A helplessness of utterance, in such bursting fulness of
meaning.  He talks much about "births of Providence:"  All these changes,
so many victories and events, were not forethoughts, and theatrical
contrivances of men, of me or of men; it is blind blasphemers that will
persist in calling them so!  He insists with a heavy sulphurous wrathful
emphasis on this.  As he well might.  As if a Cromwell in that dark huge
game he had been playing, the world wholly thrown into chaos round him, had
foreseen it all, and played it all off like a precontrived puppet-show by
wood and wire!  These things were foreseen by no man, he says; no man could
tell what a day would bring forth:  they were "births of Providence," God's
finger guided us on, and we came at last to clear height of victory, God's
Cause triumphant in these Nations; and you as a Parliament could assemble
together, and say in what manner all this could be organized, reduced
into rational feasibility among the affairs of men.  You were to help with
your wise counsel in doing that.  "You have had such an opportunity as no
Parliament in England ever had."  Christ's Law, the Right and True, was to
be in some measure made the Law of this land.  In place of that, you have
got into your idle pedantries, constitutionalities, bottomless cavillings
and questionings about written laws for my coming here;—and would send the
whole matter into Chaos again, because I have no Notary's parchment, but
only God's voice from the battle-whirlwind, for being President among you!
That opportunity is gone; and we know not when it will return.  You have
had your constitutional Logic; and Mammon's Law, not Christ's Law, rules
yet in this land.  "God be judge between you and me!"  These are his final
words to them:  Take you your constitution-formulas in your hand; and I my
informal struggles, purposes, realities and acts; and "God be judge between
you and me!"—

We said above what shapeless, involved chaotic things the printed Speeches
of Cromwell are.  Wilfully ambiguous, unintelligible, say the most:  a
hypocrite shrouding himself in confused Jesuitic jargon!  To me they do not
seem so.  I will say rather, they afforded the first glimpses I could ever
get into the reality of this Cromwell, nay into the possibility of him.
Try to believe that he means something, search lovingly what that may be:
you will find a real speech lying imprisoned in these broken rude
tortuous utterances; a meaning in the great heart of this inarticulate man!
You will, for thc first time, begin to see that he was a man; not an
enigmatic chimera, unintelligible to you, incredible to you.  The Histories
and Biographies written of this Cromwell, written in shallow sceptical
generations that could not know or conceive of a deep believing man, are
far more obscure than Cromwell's Speeches.  You look through them only
into the infinite vague of Black and the Inane.  "Heats and jealousies,"
says Lord Clarendon himself:  "heats and jealousies," mere crabbed whims,
theories and crotchets; these induced slow sober quiet Englishmen to lay
down their ploughs and work; and fly into red fury of confused war against
the best-conditioned of Kings!  Try if you can find that true.
Scepticism writing about Belief may have great gifts; but it is really
ultra vires there.  It is Blindness laying down the Laws of Optics.—

Cromwell's third Parliament split on the same rock as his second.  Ever the
constitutional Formula:  How came you there?  Show us some Notary
parchment!  Blind pedants:—"Why, surely the same power which makes you a
Parliament, that, and something more, made me a Protector!"  If my
Protectorship is nothing, what in the name of wonder is your
Parliamenteership, a reflex and creation of that?—

Parliaments having failed, there remained nothing but the way of Despotism.
Military Dictators, each with his district, to coerce the Royalist and
other gainsayers, to govern them, if not by act of Parliament, then by the
sword.  Formula shall not carry it, while the Reality is here!  I will go
on, protecting oppressed Protestants abroad, appointing just judges, wise
managers, at home, cherishing true Gospel ministers; doing the best I can
to make England a Christian England, greater than old Rome, the Queen of
Protestant Christianity; I, since you will not help me; I while God leaves
me life!—Why did he not give it up; retire into obscurity again, since the
Law would not acknowledge him?  cry several.  That is where they mistake.
For him there was no giving of it up!  Prime ministers have governed
countries, Pitt, Pombal, Choiseul; and their word was a law while it held:
but this Prime Minister was one that could not get resigned.  Let him
once resign, Charles Stuart and the Cavaliers waited to kill him; to kill
the Cause and him.  Once embarked, there is no retreat, no return.  This
Prime Minister could retire no-whither except into his tomb.

One is sorry for Cromwell in his old days.  His complaint is incessant of
the heavy burden Providence has laid on him.  Heavy; which he must bear
till death.  Old Colonel Hutchinson, as his wife relates it, Hutchinson,
his old battle-mate, coming to see him on some indispensable business, much
against his will,—Cromwell "follows him to the door," in a most fraternal,
domestic, conciliatory style; begs that he would be reconciled to him, his
old brother in arms; says how much it grieves him to be misunderstood,
deserted by true fellow-soldiers, dear to him from of old:  the rigorous
Hutchinson, cased in his Republican formula, sullenly goes his way.—And
the man's head now white; his strong arm growing weary with its long work!
I think always too of his poor Mother, now very old, living in that Palace
of his; a right brave woman; as indeed they lived all an honest God-fearing
Household there:  if she heard a shot go off, she thought it was her son
killed.  He had to come to her at least once a day, that she might see with
her own eyes that he was yet living.  The poor old Mother!—What had this
man gained; what had he gained?  He had a life of sore strife and toil, to
his last day.  Fame, ambition, place in History?  His dead body was hung in
chains, his "place in History,"—place in History forsooth!—has been a
place of ignominy, accusation, blackness and disgrace; and here, this day,
who knows if it is not rash in me to be among the first that ever ventured
to pronounce him not a knave and liar, but a genuinely honest man!  Peace
to him.  Did he not, in spite of all, accomplish much for us?  We walk
smoothly over his great rough heroic life; step over his body sunk in the
ditch there.  We need not spurn it, as we step on it!—Let the Hero rest.
It was not to men's judgment that he appealed; nor have men judged him
very well.

Precisely a century and a year after this of Puritanism had got itself
hushed up into decent composure, and its results made smooth, in 1688,
there broke out a far deeper explosion, much more difficult to hush up,
known to all mortals, and like to be long known, by the name of French
Revolution.  It is properly the third and final act of Protestantism; the
explosive confused return of mankind to Reality and Fact, now that they
were perishing of Semblance and Sham.  We call our English Puritanism the
second act:  "Well then, the Bible is true; let us go by the Bible!"  "In
Church," said Luther; "In Church and State," said Cromwell, "let us go by
what actually is God's Truth."  Men have to return to reality; they
cannot live on semblance.  The French Revolution, or third act, we may well
call the final one; for lower than that savage Sansculottism men cannot
go.  They stand there on the nakedest haggard Fact, undeniable in all
seasons and circumstances; and may and must begin again confidently to
build up from that.  The French explosion, like the English one, got its
King,—who had no Notary parchment to show for himself.  We have still to
glance for a moment at Napoleon, our second modern King.

Napoleon does by no means seem to me so great a man as Cromwell.  His
enormous victories which reached over all Europe, while Cromwell abode
mainly in our little England, are but as the high stilts on which the man
is seen standing; the stature of the man is not altered thereby.  I find in
him no such sincerity as in Cromwell; only a far inferior sort.  No
silent walking, through long years, with the Awful Unnamable of this
Universe; "walking with God," as he called it; and faith and strength in
that alone:  latent thought and valor, content to lie latent, then burst
out as in blaze of Heaven's lightning!  Napoleon lived in an age when God
was no longer believed; the meaning of all Silence, Latency, was thought to
be Nonentity:  he had to begin not out of the Puritan Bible, but out of
poor Sceptical Encyclopedies.  This was the length the man carried it.
Meritorious to get so far.  His compact, prompt, every way articulate
character is in itself perhaps small, compared with our great chaotic
inarticulate Cromwell's.  Instead of "dumb Prophet struggling to speak," we
have a portentous mixture of the Quack withal!  Hume's notion of the
Fanatic-Hypocrite, with such truth as it has, will apply much better to
Napoleon than it did to Cromwell, to Mahomet or the like,—where indeed
taken strictly it has hardly any truth at all.  An element of blamable
ambition shows itself, from the first, in this man; gets the victory over
him at last, and involves him and his work in ruin.

"False as a bulletin" became a proverb in Napoleon's time.  He makes what
excuse he could for it:  that it was necessary to mislead the enemy, to
keep up his own men's courage, and so forth.  On the whole, there are no
excuses.  A man in no case has liberty to tell lies.  It had been, in the
long-run, better for Napoleon too if he had not told any.  In fact, if a
man have any purpose reaching beyond the hour and day, meant to be found
extant next day, what good can it ever be to promulgate lies?  The lies
are found out; ruinous penalty is exacted for them.  No man will believe
the liar next time even when he speaks truth, when it is of the last
importance that he be believed.  The old cry of wolf!—A Lie is no-thing;
you cannot of nothing make something; you make nothing at last, and lose
your labor into the bargain.

Yet Napoleon had a sincerity:  we are to distinguish between what is
superficial and what is fundamental in insincerity.  Across these outer
manoeuverings and quackeries of his, which were many and most blamable, let
us discern withal that the man had a certain instinctive ineradicable
feeling for reality; and did base himself upon fact, so long as he had any
basis.  He has an instinct of Nature better than his culture was.  His
savans, Bourrienne tells us, in that voyage to Egypt were one evening
busily occupied arguing that there could be no God.  They had proved it, to
their satisfaction, by all manner of logic.  Napoleon looking up into the
stars, answers, "Very ingenious, Messieurs:  but who made all that?"  The
Atheistic logic runs off from him like water; the great Fact stares him in
the face:  "Who made all that?"  So too in Practice:  he, as every man that
can be great, or have victory in this world, sees, through all
entanglements, the practical heart of the matter; drives straight towards
that.  When the steward of his Tuileries Palace was exhibiting the new
upholstery, with praises, and demonstration how glorious it was, and how
cheap withal, Napoleon, making little answer, asked for a pair of scissors,
clips one of the gold tassels from a window-curtain, put it in his pocket,
and walked on.  Some days afterwards, he produced it at the right moment,
to the horror of his upholstery functionary; it was not gold but tinsel!
In St. Helena, it is notable how he still, to his last days, insists on the
practical, the real.  "Why talk and complain; above all, why quarrel with
one another?  There is no result in it; it comes to nothing that one can
do.  Say nothing, if one can do nothing!"  He speaks often so, to his
poor discontented followers; he is like a piece of silent strength in the
middle of their morbid querulousness there.

And accordingly was there not what we can call a faith in him, genuine so
far as it went?  That this new enormous Democracy asserting itself here in
the French Revolution is an unsuppressible Fact, which the whole world,
with its old forces and institutions, cannot put down; this was a true
insight of his, and took his conscience and enthusiasm along with it,—a
faith.  And did he not interpret the dim purport of it well?  "La
carriere ouverte aux talens, The implements to him who can handle them:"
this actually is the truth, and even the whole truth; it includes whatever
the French Revolution or any Revolution, could mean.  Napoleon, in his
first period, was a true Democrat.  And yet by the nature of him, fostered
too by his military trade, he knew that Democracy, if it were a true thing
at all, could not be an anarchy:  the man had a heart-hatred for anarchy.
On that Twentieth of June (1792), Bourrienne and he sat in a coffee-house,
as the mob rolled by:  Napoleon expresses the deepest contempt for persons
in authority that they do not restrain this rabble.  On the Tenth of August
he wonders why there is no man to command these poor Swiss; they would
conquer if there were.  Such a faith in Democracy, yet hatred of anarchy,
it is that carries Napoleon through all his great work.  Through his
brilliant Italian Campaigns, onwards to the Peace of Leoben, one would say,
his inspiration is:  "Triumph to the French Revolution; assertion of it
against these Austrian Simulacra that pretend to call it a Simulacrum!"
Withal, however, he feels, and has a right to feel, how necessary a strong
Authority is; how the Revolution cannot prosper or last without such.  To
bridle in that great devouring, self-devouring French Revolution; to tame
it, so that its intrinsic purpose can be made good, that it may become
organic, and be able to live among other organisms and formed things,
not as a wasting destruction alone:  is not this still what he partly aimed
at, as the true purport of his life; nay what he actually managed to do?
Through Wagrams, Austerlitzes; triumph after triumph,—he triumphed so far.
There was an eye to see in this man, a soul to dare and do.  He rose
naturally to be the King.  All men saw that he was such.  The common
soldiers used to say on the march:  "These babbling Avocats, up at Paris;
all talk and no work!  What wonder it runs all wrong?  We shall have to go
and put our Petit Caporal there!"  They went, and put him there; they and
France at large.  Chief-consulship, Emperorship, victory over Europe;—till
the poor Lieutenant of La Fere, not unnaturally, might seem to himself
the greatest of all men that had been in the world for some ages.

But at this point, I think, the fatal charlatan-element got the upper hand.
He apostatized from his old faith in Facts, took to believing in
Semblances; strove to connect himself with Austrian Dynasties, Popedoms,
with the old false Feudalities which he once saw clearly to be
false;—considered that he would found "his Dynasty" and so forth; that
the enormous French Revolution meant only that!  The man was "given up to
strong delusion, that he should believe a lie;" a fearful but most sure
thing.  He did not know true from false now when he looked at them,—the
fearfulest penalty a man pays for yielding to untruth of heart.  Self and
false ambition had now become his god:  self-deception once yielded to,
all other deceptions follow naturally more and more.  What a paltry
patchwork of theatrical paper-mantles, tinsel and mummery, had this man
wrapt his own great reality in, thinking to make it more real thereby!  His
hollow Pope's-Concordat, pretending to be a re-establishment of
Catholicism, felt by himself to be the method of extirpating it, "la
vaccine de la religion:"  his ceremonial Coronations, consecrations by the
old Italian Chimera in Notre-Dame,—"wanting nothing to complete the pomp
of it," as Augereau said, "nothing but the half-million of men who had died
to put an end to all that"!  Cromwell's Inauguration was by the Sword and
Bible; what we must call a genuinely true one.  Sword and Bible were
borne before him, without any chimera:  were not these the real emblems
of Puritanism; its true decoration and insignia?  It had used them both in
a very real manner, and pretended to stand by them now!  But this poor
Napoleon mistook:  he believed too much in the Dupability of men; saw no
fact deeper in man than Hunger and this!  He was mistaken.  Like a man that
should build upon cloud; his house and he fall down in confused wreck, and
depart out of the world.

Alas, in all of us this charlatan-element exists; and might be developed,
were the temptation strong enough.  "Lead us not into temptation"!  But it
is fatal, I say, that it be developed.  The thing into which it enters as
a cognizable ingredient is doomed to be altogether transitory; and, however
huge it may look, is in itself small.  Napoleon's working, accordingly,
what was it with all the noise it made?  A flash as of gunpowder
wide-spread; a blazing-up as of dry heath.  For an hour the whole Universe
seems wrapt in smoke and flame; but only for an hour.  It goes out:  the
Universe with its old mountains and streams, its stars above and kind soil
beneath, is still there.

The Duke of Weimar told his friends always, To be of courage; this
Napoleonism was unjust, a falsehood, and could not last.  It is true
doctrine.  The heavier this Napoleon trampled on the world, holding it
tyrannously down, the fiercer would the world's recoil against him be, one
day.  Injustice pays itself with frightful compound-interest.  I am not
sure but he had better have lost his best park of artillery, or had his
best regiment drowned in the sea, than shot that poor German Bookseller,
Palm!  It was a palpable tyrannous murderous injustice, which no man, let
him paint an inch thick, could make out to be other.  It burnt deep into
the hearts of men, it and the like of it; suppressed fire flashed in the
eyes of men, as they thought of it,—waiting their day!  Which day came:
Germany rose round him.—What Napoleon did will in the long-run amount to
what he did justly; what Nature with her laws will sanction.  To what of
reality was in him; to that and nothing more.  The rest was all smoke and
waste.  La carriere ouverte aux talens:  that great true Message, which
has yet to articulate and fulfil itself everywhere, he left in a most
inarticulate state.  He was a great ebauche, a rude-draught never
completed; as indeed what great man is other?  Left in too rude a state,

His notions of the world, as he expresses them there at St. Helena, are
almost tragical to consider.  He seems to feel the most unaffected surprise
that it has all gone so; that he is flung out on the rock here, and the
World is still moving on its axis.  France is great, and all-great:  and at
bottom, he is France.  England itself, he says, is by Nature only an
appendage of France; "another Isle of Oleron to France."  So it was by
Nature, by Napoleon-Nature; and yet look how in fact—HERE AM I!  He
cannot understand it:  inconceivable that the reality has not corresponded
to his program of it; that France was not all-great, that he was not
France.  "Strong delusion," that he should believe the thing to be which
is not!  The compact, clear-seeing, decisive Italian nature of him,
strong, genuine, which he once had, has enveloped itself, half-dissolved
itself, in a turbid atmosphere of French fanfaronade.  The world was not
disposed to be trodden down underfoot; to be bound into masses, and built
together, as he liked, for a pedestal to France and him:  the world had
quite other purposes in view!  Napoleon's astonishment is extreme.  But
alas, what help now?  He had gone that way of his; and Nature also had gone
her way.  Having once parted with Reality, he tumbles helpless in Vacuity;
no rescue for him.  He had to sink there, mournfully as man seldom did; and
break his great heart, and die,—this poor Napoleon:  a great implement too
soon wasted, till it was useless:  our last Great Man!

Our last, in a double sense.  For here finally these wide roamings of ours
through so many times and places, in search and study of Heroes, are to
terminate.  I am sorry for it:  there was pleasure for me in this business,
if also much pain.  It is a great subject, and a most grave and wide one,
this which, not to be too grave about it, I have named Hero-worship.  It
enters deeply, as I think, into the secret of Mankind's ways and vitalest
interests in this world, and is well worth explaining at present.  With six
months, instead of six days, we might have done better.  I promised to
break ground on it; I know not whether I have even managed to do that.  I
have had to tear it up in the rudest manner in order to get into it at all.
Often enough, with these abrupt utterances thrown out isolated,
unexplained, has your tolerance been put to the trial.  Tolerance, patient
candor, all-hoping favor and kindness, which I will not speak of at
present.  The accomplished and distinguished, the beautiful, the wise,
something of what is best in England, have listened patiently to my rude
words.  With many feelings, I heartily thank you all; and say, Good be with
you all!