papers. There he will get little harm, and, in the first at
least, some good.
Close upon the back of my discovery of Whitman, I came under
the influence of Herbert Spencer. No more
persuasive rabbi
exists, and few better. How much of his vast
structure will
bear the touch of time, how much is clay and how much brass,
it were too curious to inquire. But his words, if dry, are
always manly and honest; there dwells in his pages a spirit
of highly
abstract joy, plucked naked like an algebraic
symbol but still
joyful; and the reader will find there a
CAPUT MORTUUM of piety, with little indeed of its loveliness,
but with most of its
essentials; and these two qualities make
him a
wholesome, as his
intellectualvigour makes him a
bracing,
writer. I should be much of a hound if I lost my
gratitude to Herbert Spencer.
GOETHE'S LIFE, by Lewes, had a great importance for me when
it first fell into my hands - a strange
instance of the
partiality of man's good and man's evil. I know no one whom
I less admire than Goethe; he seems a very epitome of the
sins of
genius, breaking open the doors of private life, and
wantonly wounding friends, in that crowning offence of
WERTHER, and in his own
character a mere pen-and-ink
Napoleon,
conscious of the rights and duties of superior
talents as a Spanish inquisitor was
conscious of the rights
and duties of his office. And yet in his fine
devotion to
his art, in his honest and serviceable friendship for
Schiller, what lessons are contained! Biography, usually so
false to its office, does here for once perform for us some
of the work of
fiction, reminding us, that is, of the truly
mingled
tissue of man's nature, and how huge faults and
shining virtues cohabit and persevere in the same
character.
History serves us well to this effect, but in the originals,
not in the pages of the popular epitomiser, who is bound, by
the very nature of his task, to make us feel the difference
of epochs instead of the
essentialidentity of man, and even
in the originals only to those who can recognise their own
human virtues and defects in strange forms, often inverted
and under strange names, often interchanged. Martial is a
poet of no good
repute, and it gives a man new thoughts to
read his works dispassionately, and find in this unseemly
jester's serious passages the image of a kind, wise, and
self-respecting gentleman. It is
customary, I suppose, in
reading Martial, to leave out these pleasant verses; I never
heard of them, at least, until I found them for myself; and
this partiality is one among a thousand things that help to
build up our distorted and
hystericalconception of the great
Roman Empire.
This brings us by a natural
transition to a very noble book -
the MEDITATIONS of Marcus Aurelius. The dispassionate
gravity, the noble
forgetfulness of self, the
tenderness of
others, that are there expressed and were practised on so
great a scale in the life of its
writer, make this book a
book quite by itself. No one can read it and not be moved.
Yet it scarcely or
rarely appeals to the feelings - those
very mobile, those not very
trusty parts of man. Its address
lies further back: its lesson comes more deeply home; when
you have read, you carry away with you a memory of the man
himself; it is as though you had touched a loyal hand, looked
into brave eyes, and made a noble friend; there is another
bond on you thenceforward,
binding you to life and to the
love of virtue.
Wordsworth should perhaps come next. Every one has been
influenced by Wordsworth, and it is hard to tell precisely
how. A certain
innocence, a
rugged austerity of joy, a sight
of the stars, 'the silence that is in the
lonely hills,'