connections with the higher writings of the great Elizabethan school, which form the _main characteristic_ of this production. The fact, that this work was composed in the country in which the chief Elizabethan men attained their maturity, that it dates from the time in which Bacon was completing his education there, that it covers ostensibly not the period only, but the scenes and events of Raleigh’s six years campaigning there, as well as the fact alluded to by this author himself, in a passage already quoted,–the fact that there was a family then in England, _very well known_, who bore the surname of his ancestors, a family of the name of _Eyquem_, he tells us with whom, perhaps, he still kept up some secret correspondence and relations, the fact, too, which he mentions in his chapter on Names, that a surname in France is very easily acquired, and is not necessarily derived from one’s ancestors,–that same chapter in which he adduces so many instances of men who, notwithstanding that inveterate innate love of the honour of one’s own proper name, which is in men of genius still more inveterate,–have for one reason or another been willing to put upon anagrams, or synonyms, or borrowed names, all their honours, so that in the end it is William or Pierre who takes them into his possession, and bears them, or it’s the name of ‘an African slave’ perhaps, or the name of a ‘groom’ (promoted, it may be, to the rank of a jester, or even to that of a player,) that gets all the glory. All these facts, taken in connection with the conclusions already established, though insignificant in themselves, will be found anything but that for the philosophical student who has leisure to pursue the inquiry.
And though the latent meanings, in which the interior connections and identities referred to above are found, are not yet critically recognised, a latent national affinity and liking strong enough to pierce this thin, artificial, foreign exterior, appears to have been at work here from the first. For though the seed of the richer and bolder meanings from which the author anticipated his later harvest, could not yet be reached, that new form of popular writing, that effective, and vivacious mode of communication with the popular mind on topics of common concern and interest, not heretofore recognised as fit subjects for literature, which this work offered to the world on its surface, was not long in becoming fruitful. But it was on the English mind that it began to operate first. It was in England, that it began so soon to develop the latent efficacies it held in germ, in the creation of that new and widening department in letters–that so new, so vast, and living department of them, which it takes today all our reviews, and magazines, and journals, to cover. And the work itself has been from the first adopted, and appropriated here, as heartily as if it had been an indigenous production, some singularly distinctive product too, of the so deeply characterised English nationality.
But it is time to leave this wondrous Gascon, this new ‘Michael of the Mount,’ this man who is ‘consubstantial with his book,’–this ‘Man of the Mountain,’ as he figuratively describes it. Let us yield him this new ascent, this new triumphant peak and pyramid in science, which he claims to have been the first to master,–the unity of the universal man,–the historical unity,–the universal human form, collected from particulars, not contemplatively abstracted,–the inducted Man of the new philosophy. ‘_Authors_,’ he says, ‘have _hitherto_ communicated themselves to the people by some _particular_ and _foreign_ mark; _I, the first of any by my universal being_, as _Michael_ de Montaigne, I propose a life mean and without lustre: all moral philosophy is applied as well to a private life as to one of the greatest employment. _Every man_ carries _the entire form of the human condition_…I, the first of any by my universal being, as _Michael_,’–see the chapter on names,–‘as _Michael_ de Montaigne.’ Let us leave him for the present, or attempt to, for it is not very easy to do so, so long as we have our present subject in hand.
For, as we all know, it is from this idle, tattling, rambling old Gascon–it is from this outlandish looker-on of human affairs, that our Spectators and Ramblers and Idlers and Tattlers, trace their descent; and the Times, and the Examiners, and the Observers, and the Spectators, and the Tribunes, and Independents, and all the Monthlies, and all the Quarterlies, that exercise so large a sway in human affairs to-day, are only following his lead; and the best of them have not been able as yet to leave him in the rear. But how it came to pass, that a man of this particular turn of mind, who belonged to the old party, and the times that were then passing away, should have felt himself called upon to make this great signal for the human advancement, and how it happens that these radical connections with other works of that time, having the same general intention, are found in the work itself,–these are points which the future _biographers_ of this old gentleman will perhaps find it for their interest to look to. And a little of that more studious kind of reading which he himself so significantly solicited, and in so many passages, will inevitably tend to the elucidation of them.
PART II.
THE BACONIAN RHETORIC, OR THE METHOD OF PROGRESSION.
‘The secrets of nature have not more gift in taciturnity.’
_Troilus and Cressida_.
‘I did not think that Mr. Silence had been a man of this mettle.’
_Falstaff_.
CHAPTER I.
THE ‘BEGINNERS.’
‘PROSPERO.–Go bring THE RABBLE,
O’er whom I give thee power, here, to this place.’
_Tempest_.
But though a foreign philosopher may venture to give us the clue to it, perhaps, in the first instance, a little more roundly, it is not necessary that we should go the Mayor of Bordeaux, in order to ascertain on the highest possible authority, what kind of an art of communication, what kind of an art of delivery and tradition, men, in such circumstances, find themselves compelled to invent;–that is, if they would not be utterly foiled for the want of it, in their noblest purposes;–we need not go across the channel to find the men themselves, to whom this art is a necessity,–men so convinced that they have a mission of instruction to their kind, that they will permit no temporary disabilities to divert them from their end,–men who must needs open their school, no matter what oppositions there may be, to be encountered, no matter what imposing exhibitions of military weapons may be going on just then, in their vicinity; and though they should find themselves straitened in time, and not able to fit their words to their mouths as they have a mind to, though they should be obliged to accept the hint from the master in the Greek school, and take their tone _from the ear of those to whom they speak_, though many speeches which would spend their use among the men then living would have to be inserted in their most enduring works with a private hint concerning that necessity, and a private reading of them for those whom it concerned; though _the audience_ they are prepared to address _should be deferred_, though the benches of the inner school should stand empty for ages. We need not go abroad at all to discover men of this stamp, and their works and pastimes, and their arts of tradition;–men so filled with that which impels men to speak, that speak they must, and speak they will, in one form or another, by word or gesture, by word or deed, though they speak to the void waste, though they must speak till they reach old ocean in his unsunned caves, and bring him up with the music of their complainings, though the marble Themis fling back their last appeal, though they speak to the tempest in his wrath, to the wind and the rain, and the fire and the thunder,–men so impregnated with that which makes the human speech, that speak they will, though they have but a rusty nail, wherewith to etch their story, on their dungeon wall; though they dig in the earth and bury their secret, as one buried his of old–that same secret still; for it is still those EARS–those ‘ears’ that ‘Midas hath’ which makes the mystery.
They know that the days are coming when the light will enter their prison house, and flash in its dimmest recess; when the light they sought in vain, will be there to search out the secrets they are forbid. They know that the day is coming, when the disciple himself, all tutored in the art of their tradition, bringing with him the key of its delivery, shall be there to unlock those locked-up meanings, to spell out those anagrams, to read those hieroglyphics, to unwind with patient loving research to its minutest point, that text, that with such tools as the most watchful tyranny would give them, they will yet contrive to leave there. They know that their buried words are seeds, and though they lie long in the earth, they will yet spring up with their ‘richer and bolder meanings,’ and publish on every breeze, their boldest mystery.
For let not men of narrower natures fancy that such action is not proper to the larger one, and cannot be historical. For there are different _kinds_ of men, our _science_ of men tells us, and that is an unscientific judgment which omits ‘the _particular addition_, that bounteous nature hath closed in each,’–her ‘addition to the bill that writes them all alike.’ For there is a kind of men ‘whose minds are proportioned to that which may be dispatched at once, or within a short return of time, and there is another kind, whose minds are proportioned to that which begins afar off, and is to be won with length of pursuit,’–so the Coryphaeus of those choir that the latter kind compose, informs us, ‘so that there may be fitly said to be a _longanimity_, which is commonly also ascribed to God as a magnanimity.’
And our English philosophers had to light what this one calls a new ‘Lamp of Tradition,’ before they could make sure of transmitting their new science, through such mediums as those that their time gave them; and a very gorgeous many-branched lamp it is, that the great English philosopher brings out from that ‘secret school of living Learning and living Art’ to which he secretly belongs, for the admiration of the professionally learned of his time, and a very lustrous one too, as it will yet prove to be, when once it enters the scholar’s apprehension that it was ever meant be lighted, when once the little movement that turns on the dazzling jet is ordered.
For we have all been so taken up with the Baconian _Logic_ hitherto and its wonderful effects in the relief of the human estate, that the Baconian RHETORIC has all this time escaped our notice; and nobody appears to have suspected that there was anything in _that_ worth looking at; any more than they suspect that there is anything in some of those other divisions which the philosopher himself lays so much stress on his proposal for the Advancement of Learning,–in his proposal for the advancement of it into _all_ the fields of human activity. But we read this proposition still, as James the First was expected to read it, and all these departments which are brought into that general view in such a dry and formal and studiously scholastic manner, appear to be put there merely to fill up a space; and because the general plan of this so erudite performance happened to include them.
For inasmuch as the real scope and main bearing of this proposition, though it is in fact _there_, is of course _not_ there, in any such form as to attract the particular attention of the monarch to whose eye the work is commended; and inasmuch as the new art of a scientific Rhetoric is already put to its most masterly use in reserving that main design, for such as may find themselves able to receive it, of course, the need of any such invention is not apparent on the surface of the work, and the real significance of this new doctrine of Art and its radical relation to the new science, is also reserved for that class of readers who are able to adopt the rules of interpretation which the work itself lays down. Because the real applications of the New Logic could not yet be openly discussed, no one sees as yet, that there was, and had to be, a Rhetoric to match it.
For this author, who was not any less shrewd than the one whose methods we have just been observing a little, had also early discovered in the great personages of his time, a disposition to moderate his voice whenever he went to speak to them on matters of importance, in his natural key, for his voice too, was naturally loud, and high as he gives us to understand, though he ‘_could_ speak small like a woman’; he too had learned to take the tone _from the ear of him to whom he spake_, and he too had learned, that it was not enough merely to speak so as to make himself heard by those whom he wished to affect. He also had learned to speak according to the affair he had in hand, according to the purpose which he wished to accomplish. He also is of the opinion that different kinds of _audiences_ and different _times_, require different modes of speech, and though he found it necessary to compose his works in the style and language of his own time, he was confident that it was a language which would not remain in use for many ages; and he has therefore provided himself with another, more to his mind which he has taken pains to fold carefully within the other, and one which lie thinks will bear the wear and tear of those revolutions that he perceives to be imminent.
But in consequence of our persistent oversight of this Art of Tradition, on which he relies so much, (which is as fine an invention of his, as any other of his inventions which we find ourselves so much the better for), that appeal to ‘the times that are farther off,’ has not yet taken effect, and the audience for whom he chiefly laboured is still ‘deferred.’
This so noble and benign art which he calls, with his own natural modesty and simplicity, the Art of _Tradition_, this art which grows so truly noble and worthy, so distinctively human, in his clear, scientific treatment of it,–in his scientific clearance of it from the wildnesses and spontaneities of accident, or the superfluities and trickery of an art without science,–that stops short of the ultimate, the human principle,–this so noble art of speech or tradition is, indeed, an art which this great teacher and leader of men will think it no scorn to labour: it is one on which, even such a teacher can find time to stop; it is one which even such a teacher can stop to build from the foundation upwards, he will not care how splendidly; it is one on which he will spend without stint, and think it gain to spend, the wealth of his invention.
But, at the same time, it is with him a _subordinate_ art. It has no worth or substance in itself; it borrows all its worth from that which masters and rigorously subdues it to its end. Here, too, we find ourselves coming down on all its old ceremonial and observance, from that new height which we found our foreign philosopher in such quiet possession of,–taking his way at a puff through poor Cicero’s periods,–those periods which the old orator had taken so much pains with, and laughing at his pains:–but this English philosopher is more daring still, for it is he who disposes, at a word, without any comment, just in passing merely,–from his practical stand-point,–of ‘the flutes and trumpets of the Greeks,’ like the other making nothing at all in his theory of criticism of _mere_ elegance, though it is the Gascon, it is true, who undertakes the more lively and extreme practical demonstrations of this theoretical contempt of it,–setting it at nought, and flying in the face of it,–writing in as loquacious and homely a style as he possibly can, just for the purpose for setting it at nought, though not without giving us a glimpse occasionally, of a faculty that would enable him to mince the matter as fine as another if he should see occasion–as, perhaps, he may. For he talks very emphatically about his _poetry_ here and there, and seems to intimate that he has a gift that way; and that he has, moreover, some works of value in that department of letters, which he is anxious to ‘save up’ for posterity, if he can. But here, it is the scholar, and not the loquacious old gentleman at all, who is giving us in his choicest, selectest, courtliest phrase, in his most stately and condensed style, _his_ views of this subject; but that which is noticeable is, that _the art_ in its fresh, new upspringing from the secret of life and nature, from the soul of _things_, the art and that which it springs from, is in these two so different forms _identical_. Here, too, the point of its criticism and review is the same. ‘Away with that eloquence that so enchants us with _its harmony_ that we should more study it than _things_’; but here the old Roman masters the philosopher, for a moment, and he puts in a scholarly parenthesis, ‘unless you will affirm that of Cicero to be of so supreme perfection as to form _a body of itself_.’
But Hamlet, in his discourse with that wise reasoner, and unfortunate practitioner, who thought that brevity was the soul of wit, and tediousness the limbs and outward flourishes, puts it more briefly still.
_Polonius_. What do you read, my lord? _Hamlet_. Words, words, words!
‘More matter, and less art,’ another says in that same treatise on art and speculation. Now inasmuch as this art and science derives all its distinction and lustre from that new light on the human estate of which it was to be the vehicle, somebody must find the trick of it, so as to be able to bring out _that doctrine_ by its help, before we can be prepared to understand the real worth of this invention. It would be premature to undertake to set it forth fully, till that is accomplished. There must be a more elaborate exhibition of that science, before the art of its transmission can be fully treated; we cannot estimate it, till we see how it strikes to the root of the new doctrine, how it begins with its beginning, and reaches to its end: we cannot estimate it till we see its relation, its essential relation, to that new doctrine of the human nature, and that new doctrine of state, which spring from the doctrine of nature in general, which is _the_ doctrine, which is the beginning and the end of the new science.
We find here on the surface, as we find everywhere in this comprehensive treatise, much apparent parade of division and subdivision, and the author appears to lay much stress upon this, and seems disposed to pride himself upon his dexterity in chopping up the subject as finely as possible, and keeping the parts quite clear of one another; and sometimes, in his distributions, putting those points the farthest apart which are the most nearly related, though not so far, that they cannot ‘look towards each other,’ though it may be, as the other says, ‘_obliquely_.’ He evidently depends very much on his arrangement, and seems, indeed, to be chiefly concerned about that, when he comes to the more critical parts of his subject. But it is to _the continuities_ which underlie these separations, to which he directs the attention of those to whom he speaks in earnest, and not in particular cases only. ‘_Generally_,’ he says, ‘_let this be a rule_, that all partitions of knowledge be accepted rather for LINES and VEINS, than for _sections_ and _separations_, and that _the continuance and entireness of knowledge_ be preserved. For the _contrary hereof_,’ he says, ‘is that which has made PARTICULAR SCIENCES BARREN, SHALLOW, and ERRONEOUS, while they have not been nourished and maintained from the _common_ fountain.’ For this is the ONE SCIENCE, the deep, the true, the fruitful one, the fruitful because the ONE.
These lines, then, which he cautions us against regarding as divisions, which are brought in with such parade of scholasticism, with such a profound appearance of artifice, will always be found by those who have leisure to go below the surface, to be but the indications of those natural articulations and branches into which the subject divides and breaks itself, and the conducting lines to that trunk and heart of sciences, that common fountain from which all this new vitality, this sudden up-springing and new blossoming of learning proceeds, that fountain in which its flowers, as well as its fruits, and its thick leaves are nourished.
Here in this Art of Tradition, which comprehends the whole subject of the human speech from the new ground of the common nature in man–that _double_ nature which tends to isolation on the one hand, and which makes him a part and a member of society on the other; we find it treated, first, as a means by which men come simply to a common understanding with each other, by which that _common ground_, that ground of _community_, and _communication_, and _identity_, which a common _understanding_ in this kind makes, can be best reached; and next we find it treated as a means by which _more than the understanding_ shall be reached, by which _the sentiment_, the _common sentiment_, which also belongs to the larger nature, shall be strengthened and developed,–by which the counteracting and partial sentiments shall be put in their place, and the _will_ compelled; whereby that common human form, which in its perfection is the object of the human love and reverence shall be scientifically developed; by which the particular form with its diseases shall be artistically disciplined and treated. This Art of Tradition concerns, first, the understanding; and secondly, the affections and the will. As man is constituted, it is not enough to convince his understanding.
First, then, it is ‘the organ’ and ‘method’ of tradition; and next, it is what he calls the _illustration_ of it. First, the object is, to bring truth to the understanding in as clear and unobstructed a manner as the previous condition–as the diseases and pre-occupations of the mind addressed will admit of, and next to bring all the other helps and arts by which the sentiments are touched and the will mastered. First, he will speak true, or as true as they will let him; but it is not enough to speak true. He must be able to speak sharply too, perhaps–or humorously, or touchingly, or melodiously, or overwhelmingly, with words that burn. It is not enough, perhaps, to reach the ear of his auditor: ‘peradventure’ he too ‘will also pierce it.’ It is not enough to draw diagrams in chalk on a black board in this kind of mathematics, where the will and the affections are the pupils, and standing ready to defy axioms, prepared at any moment to demonstrate practically, that the part is greater than the whole, and face down the universe with it, ‘murdering impossibility to make what cannot be, slight work.’ It is not enough to have a tradition that is _clear_, or as clear a one as will pass muster with the government and with the preconceptions of the people themselves. He must have a pictured one–a pictorial, an illuminated one–a beautiful one,–he must have what he calls an ILLUSTRATED TRADITION.
‘Why not,’ he says. He runs his eye over the human instrumentalities, and this art which we call _art–par excellence_, which he sees setting up for itself, or ministering to ignorance and error, and feeding the diseased affections with ‘the sweet that is their poison,’ he seizes on at once, in behalf of his science, and declares that it is her lawful property, ‘her slave, born in her house,’ and fit for nothing in the world but to minister to her; and what is more, he suits the action to the word–he brings the truant home, and reforms her, and sets her about her proper business. That is what he proposes to have done in his theory of art, and it is what he tells us he has done himself; and he has: there is no mistake about it. That is what he means when he talks about his illustrated tradition of science–his illustrated tradition of the science of HUMAN NATURE and its _differences_, _original_ and _acquired_, and the _diseases_ to which it is liable, and the artificial growths which appertain to it. It is very curious, that no one has seen this tradition–this illustrated tradition, or anything else, indeed, that was at all worthy of this new interpreter of mysteries, who goes about to this day as the inventor of a method which he was not able himself to put to any practical use; an inventor who was obliged to leave his machine for men of a more quick and subtle genius, or to men of a more practical turn of mind to manage, men who had a closer acquaintance with nature.
That which is first to be noted in looking carefully at this draught of a new Art of Tradition which the plan of the Advancement of Learning includes,–that which the careful reader cannot fail to note, is the fact, that throughout all this most complete and radical exhibition of the subject (for brief and casual as that exhibition seems on the surface, the science and art from its root to its outermost branches, is there)–throughout all this exhibition, under all the superficial divisions and subdivisions of the subject, it is still the method of PROGRESSION which is set forth here: under all these divisions, there is still one point made; it is still the Art of a Tradition which is designed to reserve the _secrets_ of science, and the nobler arts of it, for the minds and ages that are able to receive them. This new art of tradition, with its new organs and methods, and its living and beautiful illustration, when once we look through the network of it to the unity within, this new rhetoric of science, is in fact the instrument which the philosopher would substitute, if he could, for those more cruel weapons which the men of his time were ready to take in hand; and it is the instrument with which he would forestall those yet more fearful political convulsions that already seemed to his eye to threaten from afar the social structures of Christendom; it is the beautiful and bloodless instrumentality whereby the mind of the world is to be wrenched insensibly from its old place without ‘breaking all.’
For neither does this author, any more than that other, who has been quoted here on this point, think it wise for the philosopher to rush madly out of his study with his EUREKA, and bawl to the first passer by in scientific terms the last result of his science, ‘lording it over his ignorance’ with what can be to him only a _magisterial_ announcement. For what else but that can it be, for instance, to tell the poor peasant, on his way to market, with his butter and eggs in his basket, planting his feet on the firm earth without any qualms or misgivings, and measuring his day by the sun’s great toil and rejoicing race in heaven, what but this same magisterial teaching is it, to stop him, and tell him to his bewildered face that the sun never rises or sets, and that the earth is but a revolving ball? Instead of giving him a truth you have given him a falsehood. You have brought him a truth out of a sphere with which he is not conversant, which he cannot ascend to–whose truths he cannot translate into his own, without jarring all. Either you have told him what must be to him a lie, or you have upset all his little world of beliefs with your magisterial doctrine, and confounded and troubled him to no purpose.
But the Method of Progression, as set forth by Lord Bacon, requires that the new scientific truth shall be, not nakedly and flatly, but artistically exhibited; because, as he tells us, ‘the great labour is with the people, and this people who knoweth not the law are cursed.’ He will not have it exhibited in bare propositions, but translated into the people’s dialect. He would not begin if he could–if there were no political or social restriction to forbid it–by overthrowing on all points the popular belief, or wherever it differs from the scientific conclusion. It is a very different kind of philosophy that proceeds in that manner. This is one which comprehends and respects all actualities. The popular belief, even to its least absurdity ‘is something more than nothing in nature’; and the popular belief with all its admixture of error, is better than the half-truths of a misunderstood, untranslated science; better than these would be in its place. That truth of nature which it contains for those who are able to receive it, and live by it, you would destroy for them, if you should attempt to make them read it _prematurely_, in your language. Any kind of organism which by means of those adjustments and compensations, with which nature is always ready to help out anything really hers,–any organism that is capable of serving as the means of an historical social continuance, is already some gain on chaos and social dissolution; and is, perhaps, better than a series of philosophical experiments. The difficulty is not to overthrow the popular errors, but to get something better in their place, he tells us; and that there are men who have succeeded in the first attempt, and very signally failed in the second. Beautiful and vigorous unions grew up under the classic mythologies, that dissolved and went down for ever, in the sunshine of the classic philosophies. For there were more things in heaven and earth than were included in those last, or dreamt of in them.
In your expurgation, of the popular errors, you must be sure that the truth they contain, is in some form as strongly, as _effectively_ composed in your text, or the popular error is truer and better than the truth with which you would replace it. This is a master who will have no other kind of teaching in his school. His scholars must go so far in their learning as to be able to come back to this popular belief, and account for it and understand it; they must be as wise as the peasant again, and be able to start with him, from his starting point, before they can get any diploma in this School of _Advancement_, or leave to practise in it. But when the old is already ruinous and decaying, and oppressing and keeping back the new,–when the vitality is gone out of it, and it has become deadly instead, when the new is struggling for new forms, the man of science though never so conservative from inclination and principle, will not be wanting to himself and to the state in this emergency. He ‘loves the _fundamental part of state_ more’ than in _such_ a crisis he will ‘doubt the change of it,’ and will not ‘fear to jump a body with a dangerous physic, that’s sure of death without it.’
First of all then, the condition of this lamp of tradition, that is to burn on for ages, is, that it shall be able to adapt itself to the successive stages of the advancement it lights. It is the inevitable condition of this school which begins with the present, which begins with the people, which descends to the lowest stage of the contemporary popular belief, and takes in the many-headed monster himself, without any trimming at all, for its audience,–it is the first condition of such a school, conducted by a man of science, that it shall have its proper grades of courts and platforms, its selecter and selectest audiences. There must be landing places in the ascent, points of rendezvous agreed on, where ‘the delicate collateral sounds’ are heard, which only those who ascend can hear. There is no jar,–there is no forced advancement in this school; there is no upward step for any, who have not first been taught to see it, who have not, indeed, already taken it. For it is an artist’s school, and not a pedant’s, or a vague speculator’s, who knows not how to converge his speculation, even upon his mode of tradition.
The founders of this school trust much in their general plan of instruction and relief, to the gradual advancement of a common intelligence, by means of a scientific, but _concealed_ historical teaching. They will teach their lower classes, their ‘beginners,’ as great nature teaches–insensibly;–as great nature teaches–in the concrete, ‘in easy instances.’ For the secret of her method is that which they have studied; that is the learning which they have mastered; the spirit of it, which is the poet’s gift, the quickest, subtlest, most searching, most analytic, most synthetic spirit of it, is that with which great nature has endowed them. They will speak, as they tell us, as the masters always have spoken from of old to them who are without; they will ‘open their mouths in parables,’ they will ‘utter their dark sayings on the harp.’ They know that men are already prepared by nature’s own instruction, to feel in a fact,–to receive in historical representations–truths which would startle them in the abstract, truths which they are not yet prepared to disengage from the historical combinations in which they receive them; though with every repetition, and especially with the pointed, selected, prolonged repetition of the teacher, where the ‘ILLUSTRIOUS INSTANCE’ is selected and cleared of its extraneous incident, and made to enter the mind alone, and pierce it with its principle,–with every such repetition, the step to that generalization and axiom becomes insensibly shorter and more easy. They know that men are already wiser than their teachers, in some–in many things; that they have all of them a great stock of incommunicative wisdom which all their teachers have not been able to make them give up, which they never will give up, till the strong man, who is stronger, enters with his larger learning out of the same book, with his mightier weapons out of the same armory, and spoils their goods, or makes them old and worthless, by the side of the new, resplendent, magic wealth he brings with him.
The new philosophy of nature has truths to teach which nature herself has already been teaching all men, with more or less effect, miscellaneously, and at odd hours, ever since they were born; and this philosopher gives a large place in his history, to that vulgar, practical human wisdom, which all the books till his time had been of too high a strain to glance at. But ‘art is a second nature, and imitateth that dextrously and compendiously, which nature performs by ambages and length of time.’ The scientific interpreter of nature will select, and unite, and teach continuously, and pointedly, in grand, ideal, representative fact, in ‘prerogative instances,’ that which nature has but faintly and unconsciously impressed with her method; for he has a scientific organum, and what is more,–a great deal more, a thousand times more,–he has the scientific genius that invented it. His soul is a Novum Organum–his mind is a table of rejections that sifts the historic masses, and brings out the instances that are to his purpose, the bright, bold instances that flame forth the doubtful truth, that tell their own story and need no interpreter, the high ideal instances that talk in verse because it is their native tongue and they can no other. He has found,–or rather nature lent it to him, the universal historic solvent, and the dull, formless, miscellaneous facts of the common human experience, spring up in magic orders, in beautiful, transparent, scientific continuities, as they arrange themselves by the laws of his thinking.
For the truth is, and it must be said here, and not here only, but everywhere, wherever there is a chance to say it,–that Novum Organum was not made to examine the legs of spiders with, or the toes of ‘the grandfather-long-legs,’ or any of their kindred; though of course it is susceptible of such an application, when it falls into the hands of persons whose genius inclines them in those directions; and it is a use, that the inventor would not have disdained to put it to himself, if he had had time, and if his attention had not been so much distracted by the habits and history of that ‘nobler kind of vermin,’ which he found feeding on the human weal in his time, and eating out the heart of it. This man was not a fool, but a man. He was a naturalist indeed, of the newest and highest style, but that did not hinder his being a man at the same time. He and his company were the first that set the example of going, deliberately, and on principle, out of the human nature for knowledge; but it was that they might re-return with better axioms for the culture, and nobility, and sway of _that form_, which, ‘though it be but a part in the continent of nature,’ is as this one openly declares, ‘_the end_ and _term_ of NATURAL PHILOSOPHY, _in the intention_ of MAN.’ His science included the humblest and least agreeable of nature’s performances; his Novum Organum was able to take up the smallest conceivable atom of existence, whether animate or not, and make a study of it. He has no disrespect for caterpillars or any kind of worm or insect; but he is not a caterpillar himself, or an insect of any kind, or a Saurian, or an Icthyosaurian, but a man; and it was for the sake of building up from a new basis a practical doctrine of human life, that he invented that instrument, and put so much fine work upon it.
With his ‘PREROGATIVE INSTANCES,’ he will build height after height, the solid, but imperceptible stair-way to his summit of knowledges, so that men shall tread its utmost floors without knowing what heights they are–even as they tread great nature’s own solidities, without inquiring her secret.
The shrewd unlearned man of practice shall take that great book of nature, that illustrated digest of it, on his knees, to while away his idle hours with, in rich pastime, and smile to see there, all written out, that which he faintly knew, and never knew that he knew before; he will find there in sharp points, in accumulations, and percussions, that which his own experience has at length wearily, dimly, worked and worn into him. It is his own experience, exalted indeed, and glorified, but it is that which beckons him on to that which is yet beyond it; he shall read on, and smile, and laugh, and weep, and wonder at the power; but never dream that it is science, the new science–the science of nature–the product of the new organum of it applied to _human_ nature, and _human_ life. The abstract statement of that which the concrete exhibition veils, is indeed always there, though it lie never so close, in never so snug a corner; but it is there so artistically environed, that the reader who is not ready for it, who has not learned to disengage the principle from the instance, who has had no hint of an _illustrated tradition_ in it, will never see it; or if he sees it, he will think it is there by accident, or inspiration, and pass on.
Here, in this open treatise upon the art of delivering and teaching of knowledge, the author lays down, in the most impressive terms, the necessity of a style which shall serve as a _veil_ of tradition, imperceptible or impenetrable to the uninitiated, and admitting ‘only such as have by the help of a master, attained to the interpretation of dark sayings, or are able by their own genius to enter within the veil’; and after having distributed under many heads, the secret of this method of scientific communication, he asserts distinctly that there is no other mode of dealing with the popular belief and preconception, but the one just described–that same method which the teachers of the people have always instinctively adopted, whenever that which was new and contrary to the received doctrines, was to be communicated. ‘For a man of judgment,’ he says, ‘must, of course, perceive, that there should be a difference in the teaching and delivery of knowledge, according to the _presuppositions, which he finds infused and impressed upon the mind of the learner_. For _that which is new and foreign from opinions received_, is to be delivered in ANOTHER FORM, from that which is _agreeable and familiar_. And, therefore, Aristotle, when he says to Democritus, “if we shall indeed _dispute_ and _not_ follow after _similitudes_,” as if he would tax Democritus with being too full of _comparisons_, where he thought to reprove, really commended him.’ There is no use in disputing in such a case, he thinks. ‘For those whose doctrines are already _seated_ in popular opinion, have only to dispute or prove; but those whose doctrines are beyond the popular opinions, have a _double labour_; the one to make themselves conceived, and the other to prove and demonstrate; so that it is of _necessity with them to have recourse to similitudes_ AND TRANSLATIONS _to express themselves_. And, therefore, in the _infancy of learning_, and in rude times, when those conceptions which are now trivial, were then new, _the world was full of parables and similitudes_, for else would men either have passed over _without mark, or else_ REJECTED FOR PARADOXES, that which was offered _before they had understood or judged_. So in divine learning, we see how frequent parables and tropes are, for it _is a rule in the doctrine of delivery, that every science_ which is _not consonant with presuppositions and prejudices_, must pray in aid of _similes_ and _allusions_.’
The true master of the art of teaching will vary his method too, he tells us according to the _subject_ which he handles,–and the reader should note particularly the illustration of this position, the instance of this general necessity, which the author selects for the sake of pointing his meaning here, for it is here–precisely here–that we begin to touch the heart of that new method which the new science itself prescribed,–‘the true teacher will vary his method according to the subject which he handles,’ for there is a great difference in the delivery of _mathematics_, which are the most abstracted of sciences, and POLICY, which is the _most immersed_, and the opinion that ‘uniformity of method, in multiformity of matter, is necessary,’ has proved very hurtful to learning, for it tends to reduce learning to certain _empty_ and _barren_–note it,–_barren_– ‘generalities;’–(so important is the method as _that_; that it makes the difference between the fruitful and the barren, between the old and the new) ‘being but the very _husks_ and _shells_ of sciences, all the _kernel_ being forced out and expressed with the torture and press of the method; and, _therefore_, as I did allow well of _particular topics_ for invention’–_therefore_–his science requires him to go into particulars, and as the necessary consequence of that, it requires freedom–_’therefore’_–as I did allow well of particular _topics of invention, ‘so_ do I allow likewise of _particular methods of tradition_.’ Elsewhere,–in his Novum Organum–he quotes the scientific outlines and divisions of this very book, he quotes the very draught and outline of the new human science, which is the principal thing in it, and tells us plainly that he is perfectly aware that those new divisions, those essential differences, those true and radical forms in nature, which he has introduced here, in his doctrine of _human_ nature, will have no practical effect at all, as they are exhibited _here_; because they _are_ exhibited in this method which he is here criticising, that is, in empty and barren abstractions,– because it was impossible for him to produce here anything but the _husks_ and _shells_ of that principal science, all the kernel being forced out and expulsed with the torture and press of the method. But, at the same time, he gives us to understand, that these same shells and husks may be found in another place, with the kernels and _nuts_ in them, and that he has not taken so much pains to let us see in so many places, what new forms of delivery the new philosophy will require, merely for the sake of letting us see, at the same time, that when it came to _practice_, he himself stood by the old ones, and contented himself with barren abstractions, and generalities, the husks and shells of sciences, instead of aiming at particulars, and availing himself of these ‘_particular methods of tradition_.’
He takes also this occasion to recommend a method which was found extremely serviceable at that time; namely, the method of teaching by aphorism, ‘without any _show_ of an art or method; not merely because it tries the author, since aphorisms being made out of the _pith_ and _heart_ of sciences, _no man can write them who is not sound and grounded_,’ who has not a system with its trunk and root, though he makes no show of it, but buries it and shows you here and there the points on the surface that are apt to look as if they had some underlying connection–not only because it tries the author, _but because they point to action_; for particulars being dispersed, do best agree with dispersed directions; and, moreover, aphorisms representing a BROKEN KNOWLEDGE, invite men _to inquire farther_, whereas methods, _carrying the show of a total_, do secure men as _if they were at farthest_, and it is the _advancement_ of learning that he is proposing.
He suggests again, distinctly here, the rule he so often claims he has himself put in practice, elsewhere, that the use of CONFUTATION in the delivery of science, ought to be very sparing; and to serve to remove strong _preoccupations_ and _prejudgments_, and not to minister and excite disputations and doubts. For he says in another place, ‘As Alexander Borgia was wont to say of the expedition of the French for Naples, that they came with _chalk_ in their hands, _to mark up their lodgings_, and not with _weapons to fight_, so _I_ like better that entry of truth which cometh peaceably, with chalk to mark up those minds, which are capable to lodge and harbour it, than that which cometh with pugnacity and contention.’
He alludes here too, in passing, to some other distinctions of method, which are already received, that of ANALYSIS and _synthesis_, or CONSTITUTION, that of _concealment_, or CRYPTIC, which he says ‘he allows well of, though he has himself stood upon those which are least handled and observed.’ He brings out his doctrine of the necessity of a method which shall include _particulars_ for _practical_ purposes also, under another head: here it is the limit of _rules_,–the propositions or precepts of _arts_ that he speaks of, and the _degree_ of particularity which these precepts ought to descend to. ‘For every knowledge,’ he says, ‘may be fitly said to have a latitude and longitude, accounting the latitude towards _other sciences_’ (for there are rules and propositions of such latitude as to include all arts, all sciences)–‘and the longitude towards action, that is, from the greatest generality, to the most particular precept: and as to the degree of particularity to which a knowledge should descend,’ though something must, of course, be left in all departments to the discretion of the practitioner, he thinks it is a question which will bear looking into in a general way; and that it might be possible to have rules in all departments, which would limit very much the necessity of individual experiment, and not leave us so much at the mercy of individual discretion in the most serious matters. Philosophy, as he finds it, does not appear to be very helpful to practice, on account of its keeping to those general propositions, so much, as well as on some other accounts, and has fallen into bad repute, it seems, among men who find it necessary to make, without science, as they best can, rules of some sort;–rules that are capable of dealing with that quality in particulars which is apt to be called _obstinacy_ in this aspect of it. ‘For we see remote and superficial generalities do but offer knowledge to scorn of practical men, and are no more aiding to practice, than an Ortelius’s _universal map_ is to direct the way between London and York.’ And what is this itself but a universal map, this map of the advancement of learning?
All this doctrine of the tradition of sciences, he produces under the head of the _method_ of their tradition, but in speaking of the _organ_ of it, he treats it _exclusively_ as the medium of tradition for _those sciences which require_ CONCEALMENT, or admit only of a suggestive exhibition. And as he makes, too, the claim that he has himself given practical proof, in passing, of his proficiency in this art, and appeals to the skilful for the truth of this statement, the passage, at least, in which this assertion is made, will be likely to repay the inquiry which it invites.
He begins by drawing our attention to the fact, that words are not the only representatives of things, and he says ‘this is not an inconsiderable thing, _for while we are treating of the coin of intellectual_ matters, _it is_ pertinent to observe, that as money may be made of other materials besides gold and silver, so other marks of things may be invented besides words and letters.’ And by way of illustrating the advantages of such a means of tradition, under certain disadvantages of position, he adduces as much in point, the case of Periander, who being consulted how to preserve a tyranny _newly usurped_, bid the messenger _attend_ and _report what he saw him do_, and went into his garden and _topped all the highest flowers_; signifying that it consisted in the cutting off and keeping low of the nobility and grandees. And thus other apparently trivial, purely purposeless and sportive actions, might have a traditionary character of no small consequence, if the messenger were only given to understand beforehand, that the acts thus performed were axiomatical, pointing to rules of practice, that the forms were representative forms, whose ‘_real_’ exhibition of the particular natures in question, was much more vivid and effective, much more memorable as well as _safe_, than any abstract statement of that philosophic truth, which is the truth of direction, could be.
As to the ‘_accidents_ of words, which are measure, sound, and elevation of accent, and the sweetness and harshness of them,’ even here the new science suggests a new rule, which is not without a remarkable relation to _that ‘particular method of tradition_,’ which the author tells us in another place, some parts of his new science required. ‘This subject,’ he says, ‘involves some curious observations in rhetoric, but chiefly POESY, as we consider it in respect of the verse, and _not of the argument_; wherein, though men in learned tongues do tie themselves to _the ancient measures_, yet in modern languages it seemeth to me as free to make _new measures of verses as of dances_.’ The spirit of the new philosophy had a chance to speak out there for once, without intending, of course, to transcend that particular limit just laid down, namely, the measure of _verses_, and with that literal limitation, to the form of the verse, the remark is sufficiently suggestive; for he brings out from it at the next step, in the way of formula, the new principle, the new Shaksperian principle of rhetoric: _In these things_ the sense is better judge than the art. And of the servile expressing antiquity in an unlike and an unfit subject, it is well said:–‘_Quod tempore antiquum videtur, id incongruitate est maxime novum_.”
But when he comes to speak specifically of _writing_ as a means of tradition, he confines his remarks to that particular kind of writing, which is agreed on betwixt particular persons, and called by the name of _cipher_, giving excellent reasons for this proceeding, impertinent as it may seem, to those who think that his only object is to make out a list and ‘muster-roll of the arts and sciences’;–stopping to tell us plainly that he knows what he is about, and that he has not brought in ‘_these private and retired arts_,’ with so much stress, and under so many heads, in connection with ‘the principal and supreme sciences,’ and _the mode of their tradition_, without having some occasion for it.
‘Ciphers are commonly in letters, or alphabets, but _may be_ in words,’ he says, proceeding to enumerate the different kinds, and furnishing on the spot, some pretty specimens of what may be done in the way of that kind which he calls ‘doubles,’ a kind which he is particularly fond of; one hears again the echo of those delicate, collateral sounds, which our friend, over the mountains, warned us of, declining to say any more about them in that place. In the later edition, he takes occasion to say, in this connection, ‘that as writing in the received manner no way obstructs the _manner of pronunciation_, but leaves that _free_, an innovation in it is of no purpose.’ And if a cipher be the proper name for a private method of writing, agreed on betwixt particular persons, it is certainly the name for the method which he proposes to adopt in _his_ tradition of the principal sciences; as he takes occasion to inform those whom it may concern, in an early portion of the work, and when he is occupied in the critical task of putting down some of the primary terms. ‘I doubt not,’ he says, by way of explanation, ‘but it will easily appear to men of judgment, that in _this_ and _other particulars_, wheresoever _my conception and notion may differ from the ancient, I am studious to keep the ancient terms_.’ Surely there is no want of frankness here, so far as the men of judgment are concerned at least. And after condemning those innovators who have taken a different course, he says again, ‘But to me on the other side that do desire as much as lieth in _my pen_, to ground a sociable intercourse between antiquity and _proficience_, it seemeth best to keep way with antiquity _usque ad aras_; and therefore to _retain the ancient_ TERMS, though I sometimes alter the _uses and definitions_, according to the moderate proceeding in civil government, where, although there be some alteration, yet that holdeth which Tacitus _wisely_ noteth ‘eadem magistratuum vocabula.’ Surely that is plain enough, especially if one has time to take into account the force and historic reach of that last illustration, ‘eadem magistratuum vocabula.’
In the later and enlarged edition of his work, he lays much stress upon the point that the cipher ‘should be free from suspicion,’ for he says, ‘if a letter should come into the hands of such as have a power over the writer or receiver, though the cipher itself be trusty and impossible to decipher, it is still subject to _examination_ and _question_, and (as he says himself), ‘to _avoid all suspicion_,’ he introduces there a cipher in _letters_, which he invented in his youth in Paris, ‘having the highest perfection of a cipher, that of signifying _omnia per omnia_;’ and for the same reason perhaps, that of ‘avoiding all suspicion,’ he quite omits there that very remarkable passage in the earlier work, in which he treats it as a medium of _tradition_, and takes pains to intimate his reasons for producing it in that connection, _with the principal and supreme sciences_. If it was, indeed, any object with him to avoid suspicion, and recent disclosures had then, perhaps, tended to sharpen somewhat the contemporary criticism; he _did well_, unquestionably, to omit that passage. But at the time when _that_ was written, he appears to be chiefly inclined to notice the remarkable facilities, which this style offers to an inventive genius. For he says, ‘in regard of the rawness and unskilfulness of _the hands through which they pass_, the greatest matters, are sometimes carried in the _weakest ciphers_.’ And that there may be no difficulty or mistake as to the reading of that passage, he immediately adds, ‘In the enumeration of these private and retired arts, it may be thought I _seek to make a great muster-roll of sciences_, naming them for _show_ and _ostentation_, and _to little other purpose_. But’–note it–‘But, let those which are _skilful in them judge, whether I bring them in only for appearance_, or whether, in that which I speak of them, though in few words, there be not _some seed of proficience_. And this must be remembered, that as there be many of great account in their countries and provinces, which, when they come up to the _seat of the estate_, are but of mean rank, and scarcely regarded; so these arts, (“these private and retired arts,”) being here placed _with the principal and supreme sciences, seem_ petty things, YET TO SUCH AS HAVE CHOSEN THEM TO SPEND THEIR LABOURS AND STUDIES IN THEM, THEY SEEM GREAT MATTERS. (“Let those which are skilful in them, judge (after that) whether I bring them in only for appearance” or to _little_ other purpose).’
That apology would seem sufficient, but we must know what these labours and studies are, before we can perceive the _depth_ of it. And if we have the patience to follow him but a step or two further, we shall find ourselves in the way of some very direct and accurate information, as to that. For we are coming now, in the order of the work we quote from, to that very part, which contains the point of all these labours and studies, the _end_ of them,–that part to which the science of nature in general, and the secret of this art of tradition, was a necessary _introduction_. [For this Art of Tradition makes the link between the new Logic and the application of it to _Human_ Nature and Human Life.]
Thus far, this art has been treated as a means of simply _transferring_ knowledge, in such forms as the conditions of the Advancement of Learning prescribe,–forms adapted to the different stages of mental advancement, commencing with the lowest range of the common opinion in his time,–starting with the contemporary opinions of the majority, and reserving ‘the secrets of knowledge,’ for such as are able to receive them. Thus far, it is the Method, and the Organ of the tradition of which he has spoken. But it is when he comes to speak of what he calls the _Illustration_ of it, that the convergency of his design begins to be laid open to us, for this work is not what it may seem on the surface, as he takes pains to intimate to us–a ‘mere muster-roll of sciences.’
It is when he comes to tell us that he will have his ‘truth in beauty dyed,’ that he does not propose to have the new learning left in the form of argument and logic, or in the form of bare scientific fact, that he does not mean to appeal with it to the _reason_ only; that he will have it in a form in which it will be able to attract and allure men, and make them in love with it, a form in which it will be able to force its way into the will and the affections, and make a lodgement in the hearts of men, long ere it is able to reach the judgment;–it is not till he begins to bring out here, his new doctrine of the true end of rhetoric, and the use to which it ought to be put in subordination to science, that we begin to perceive the significance of the arrangement which brings this theory of an Illustrated Art of Tradition into immediate connection with the new science of human nature and human life which the Author is about to constitute,–so as to serve as an introduction to it–the arrangement which interposes this art of Tradition, between the New Logic and its application to Human Nature and Human Life–to POLICY and MORALITY.
He will not consent to have this so _powerful_ engine of popular influence, which the aesthetic art seems, to his eye, to offer, left out, in his scheme of scientific instrumentalities: he will not pass it by scornfully, as some other philosophers have done, treating it merely as a voluptuary art. He will have of it, something which shall differ, not in degree only, but in kind, from the art of the confectioner.
He begins by stating frankly his reasons for making so much of it in this grave treatise, which is what it professes to be, a treatise on Learning and its Advancement. ‘For although,’ he says, ‘in true value, it is inferior to _wisdom_, as it is said by God to Moses, when he disabled himself for want of this faculty, “Aaron shall be thy _speaker_, and thou shalt be to him as God;” _yet with people_ it is the more _mighty_, and it is just that which is mighty with the people–which he tells us in another place–is wanting. “For this people who knoweth not _the law_ are cursed.”‘ But here he continues, ‘for so Solomon saith, “Sapiens corde appellabitur prudens, sed dulcis eloquio majora reperiet;” signifying that profoundness of wisdom will help a man to a name or admiration,’–(it is something more than that which he is proposing as _his_ end)–‘but that it is eloquence–which prevails in _active life_;’ so that the very movement which brought philosophy down to earth, and put her upon reforming the practical life of men, was the movement which led her to assume, not instinctively, only, but by theory, and on principle, this new and beautiful apparel, this deep disguise of pleasure. She comes into the court with her case, and claims that this Art, which has been treated hitherto as if it had some independent rights and laws of its own, is properly a subordinate of hers; a chattel gone astray, and setting up for itself as an art voluptuary.
Works on rhetorics are not wanting, the author reports. Antiquity has laboured much in this field. Notwithstanding, he says, there is something to be done here too, and the Elizabethan aesthetics must be begun also in the _prima philosophia_. ‘Notwithstanding,’ he continues, ‘to stir the earth a little about the _roots_ of this science, as we have done of the rest; the duty and office of Rhetoric is to apply _reason to imagination for the better moving of_ THE WILL; for we see reason is disturbed in the administration of the will by three means; by sophism, which pertains to logic; by imagination or impression, which pertains to rhetoric; and by passion or affection, which pertains to morality.’ So in this negotiation within ourselves, men are _undermined_ by inconsequences, _solicited and importuned_ by impressions and observations, and _transported_ by _passions_. Neither is the nature of man so unfortunately built, as that these _powers and arts_ should have force to _disturb_ reason and not to _establish_ and _advance_ it. For the end of logic is to teach a form of logic to secure reason, not to entrap it. The end of morality is to procure the affections to obey reason, and not to invade it. The _end_ of rhetoric is to _fill the imagination_ to second reason, and not to _oppress_ it. For these abuses of arts come in but _ex obliquo_ for caution.
That is the real original English doctrine of Art:–that is the doctrine of the age of Elizabeth, at least, as it stands in that queen’s English, and though it may be very far from being orthodox at present, it is the doctrine which must determine the rule of any successful interpretation of works of art composed on that theory. ‘And, therefore,’ he proceeds to say, ‘it was great injustice in Plato, though springing out of a just hatred of the rhetoricians of his time, to esteem of rhetoric but as a voluptuary art, resembling it to cookery that did mar wholesome meats, and help unwholesome, by variety of sauces _to the pleasure of the taste_.’ ‘And therefore, as Plato said eloquently, “That virtue, if she could be seen, would move great love and affection, so, seeing that she cannot be showed to the sense by corporal shape, the next degree is to show her to the imagination _in lively representation_”: _for_ to show her to _reason only_, in _subtilty of argument_ was a thing ever derided in–_Chrysippus and many of the Stoics–who thought to thrust virtue upon men_ by _sharp disputations and conclusions, which have no sympathy with the will of man_.’
‘Again, if the affections in themselves were pliant and obedient to reason, it were true there should be no great use of persuasions and injunctions to the will, more than of _naked propositions and proofs;_ but in regard of the continual mutinies and seditions of the affections,
Video meliora proboque
Deteriora sequor;
‘Reason would become captive and servile, if eloquence of persuasions did not practise and win the imagination from the affections part, and contract a confederacy between the reason and the imagination, against the affections; for _the affections themselves_ carry ever an appetite to _good_, as reason doth. _The difference is_’–mark it–‘the difference is, that the affection beholdeth merely _the present; reason_ beholdeth the future and _sum_ of time. And therefore the present _filling the imagination most_, reason is commonly vanquished; but after that force of eloquence and persuasion hath made things future and remote, _appear as present_, then, _upon the revolt of the imagination reason prevaileth_.’ Not less important than that is this art in his scheme of learning. No wonder that the department of learning which he refers to the imagination should take that prime place in his grand division of it, and be preferred deliberately and on principle to the two others.
‘Logic differeth from Rhetoric chiefly in this, that logic handleth reason exact and in truth, and rhetoric handleth it as it is planted in popular opinions and manners. And therefore _Aristotle_ doth _wisely_ place rhetoric as between logic on the one side, and moral or civil knowledge on the other, (and when we come to put together the works of this author, we shall find that _that_ and none other is the place it takes in _his_ system, that that is just the bridge it makes in his plan of operations.)’ The proofs and demonstrations of logic _are towards all men indifferent and the same_: but the proofs and persuasions of rhetoric _ought to differ according to the auditors_.
Orpheus in sylvis inter delphinas Arion.
Which application, in perfection of idea, ought to extend so far, that if a man should speak of _the same thing to several persons_, he should speak to them _all respectively, and several ways_; and there was a great folio written on this plan which came out in those days dedicated ‘to the Great Variety of Readers. From the most able to him that can but spell’; (this is just the doctrine, too, which the Continental philosopher sets forth we see);–though this ‘_politic_ part of eloquence in private speech,’ he goes on to say here, ‘it is easy for the greatest orators _to want; whilst by observing their well graced forms of speech, they lose the volubility_ of APPLICATION; and _therefore_ it shall not be _amiss_ to recommend this _to better inquiry_, not being curious whether we place it here, or in that part which concerneth _policy._’
Certainly one would not be apt to infer from that decided preference which the author himself manifests here for those stately and well-graced forms of speech, judging _merely_ from the style of this performance at least, one would not be inclined to suspect that he himself had ever been concerned in any literary enterprises, or was like to be, in which that _volubility_ of application which he appears to think desirable, was successfully put in practice. But we must remember, that he was just the man who was capable of conceiving of a _variety_ of _styles adapted to different exigencies_, if we would have the key to this style in particular.
But we must look a little at these labours and studies themselves, which required such elaborate and splendid arts of delivery, if we would fully satisfy ourselves, as to whether this author really had any purpose after all in bringing them in here beyond that of mere ostentation, and for the sake of completing his muster-roll of the sciences. Above, we see an intimation, that the divisions of the subject are, after all, not so ‘curious’ but that the inquiry might possibly be resumed again in other connections, and in the particular connection specified, namely, in that part which concerneth _Policy_.
In that which follows, the new science of human nature and human life–which is the end and term of this treatise, we are told–is brought out under the two heads of Morality and Policy; and it is necessary to look into _both_ these departments in order to find what application he was proposing to make of this art and science of Tradition and Delivery, and in order to see what place–what vital place it occupied in his system.
CHAPTER II.
THE SCIENCE OF POLICY.
‘Policy is the most immersed.’–_Advancement of Learning_.
Reversing the philosophic order, we glance first into that new department of science which the author is here boldly undertaking to constitute under the above name, because in this his own practical designs, and rules of proceeding, are more clearly laid open, and the place which is assigned in his system to that radical science, for which these arts of Delivery and Tradition are chiefly wanting, is distinctly pointed out.
And, moreover, in this department of Policy itself, in marking out one of the grand divisions of it, we find him particularly noticing, and openly insisting on, the form of delivery and inculcation which the new science must take here, that is, if it is going to be at all available as a science of practice.
In this so-called plan for the advancement of learning, the author proceeds, as we all know, by noticing _the deficiencies_ in human learning as he finds it; and everywhere it is that radical deficiency, which leaves human life and human conduct in the dark, while the philosophers are busied with their controversies and wordy speculations. And in that part of his inventory where he puts down as wanting a science of practice in those every-day affairs and incidents, in which the life of man is most conversant, embodying axioms of practice that shall save men the wretched mistakes and blunders of which the individual life is so largely made up; blunders which are inevitable, so long as men are left here, to natural human ignorance, to uncollected individual experience, or to the shrewdest empiricism;–in this so original and interesting part of the work, he takes pains to tell us at length, that that which he has before put down under the head of ‘_delivery_’ as a point of form and method, becomes here essential as a point of substance also. It is not merely that he will have his axioms and precepts of direction digested from the facts, instead of being made out of the teacher’s own brains, but he will have THE FACTS themselves, in all their stubbornness and opposition to the teacher’s preconceptions, for the body of the discourse, and the precepts accommodated thereto, instead of having the precepts for the body of the discourse, and the facts brought in to wait upon them. That is the form of the practical doctrine.
He regrets that this part of a true learning has not been collected hitherto into writing, to the great derogation of learning, and the professors of learning; for from this proceeds the popular opinion which has passed into an adage, that there is no great concurrence between wisdom and learning. The deficiency here is well nigh total he says: ‘but for the wisdom of business, wherein man’s life is most conversant, there be no books of it, except some few scattered advertisements, that have no proportion to the _magnitude of the subject_. For if books were written of this, as of the other, I doubt not but _learned men_ with _mean experience_ would far excel men of _long experience without learning_, and _outshoot them with their own bow_. Neither need it be thought that this knowledge is too variable to fall under precept,’ he says; and he mentions the fact, that in old Rome, so renowned for practical ability, in its wisest and saddest times, there were professors of this learning, that were known for GENERAL WISE MEN, who used to walk at certain hours in the place, and give _advice_ to private citizens, who came to consult with them of the _marriage_ of _a daughter_, for instance, or the _employing_ of _a son_, or of _an accusation_, or of a _purchase or bargain_, and _every other occasion incident to man’s life_. There is a pretty scheme laid out truly. Have _we_ any general wise man, or ghost of one, who walks up and down at certain hours and gives advice on such topics? However that may be, this philosopher does not despair of such a science. ‘So,’ he says, commenting on that Roman custom, ‘there is a wisdom of council and advice, even in private cases, arising out of a universal _insight into the affairs_ of _the world_, which is _used_ indeed upon _particular cases propounded_, but is gathered by general _observation_ of _cases_ of _like nature_.’ And fortifying himself with the example of Solomon, after collecting a string of texts from the Sacred Proverbs, he adds, ‘though they are capable, of course, of a more divine interpretation, taking them as instructions for life, they might have received large discourse, if he would have _broken them_ and _illustrated them_, by deducements and examples. Nor was this in use with the Hebrews only, but it is generally to be found in the wisdom of the more ancient times, that as men found out any observation that they thought was _good for life_, they would gather it, and express it in _parable_, or _aphorism_, or _fable_.’
But for _fables_, they were vicegerents and supplies, _where examples failed_. Now that the times abound with history, THE AIM IS BETTER WHEN THE MARK IS ALIVE. And, therefore, he recommends as the form of writing, ‘which is of all others fittest for this variable argument, discourses upon histories and examples: for knowledge drawn freshly, _and in our view_, out of particulars, _knoweth the way best to particulars again_; and it hath much greater life _for practice_, when _the discourse attendeth upon the example_, than when the example attendeth upon the discourse. For this is no point of order as it seemeth at first’ (indeed it is not, it is a point as substantial as the difference between the old learning of the world and the new)–‘this is no point of order, but of substance. For when the example is the _ground_ being set down in a history at large, it is set down with all circumstances, which may _sometimes control_ the discourse thereupon made, and sometimes supply it as _a very pattern for action_; whereas the examples which are alleged _for the discourse’s sake_, are cited succinctly and without _particularity_, and carry a _servile aspect_ towards the discourse which they are brought in to make good.’
The question of method is here, as we see, incidentally introduced; but it is to be noted, and it makes one of the rules for the interpretation of that particular kind of style which is under consideration, that in this casual and secondary introduction of a subject, we often get shrewder hints of the author’s real intention than we do in those parts of the work where it is openly and distinctly treated; at least, these scattered and apparently accidental hints,–these dispersed directions, often contain the key for the ‘second’ reading, which he openly bespeaks for the more open and elaborate discussion.
And thus we are able to collect, from every part of this proposal for a practical and progressive human learning, based on the defects of the unpractical and stationary learning which the world has hitherto been contented with, the author’s opinion as to the form of delivery and inculcation best adapted to effect the proposed object under the given conditions. This question of form runs naturally through the whole work, and comes out in specifications of a very particular and significant kind under some of its divisions, as we shall see. But everywhere we find the point insisted on, which we have just seen so clearly brought out, in the department which was to contain the axioms of success in private life. Whatever the particular form may be, everywhere we come upon this general rule. Whatever the particular form may be, everywhere it is to be one in which the facts shall have the precedence, and the conclusions shall follow; and not one in which the conclusions stand first, and the facts are brought in to make them good. And this very circumstance is enough of itself to show that the form of this new doctrine will be thus far new, as new as the doctrine itself; that the new learning will be found in some form very different, at least, from that which the philosophers and professed teachers were then making use of in their didactic discourses, in some form so much more lively than that, and so much less oracular, that it would, perhaps, appear at first, to those accustomed only to the other, not to be any kind of learning at all, but something very different from that.
But this is not the only point in the general doctrine of delivery which we find produced again in its specific applications. Through all the divisions of this discourse on Learning, and not in that part of it only in which the Art of its Tradition is openly treated, we find that the prescribed form of it is one which will adapt it to the popular preconceptions; and that it must be a form which will make it not only universally acceptable, but universally attractive; that it is not only a form which will throw open the gates of the new school to all comers, but one that will bring in mankind to its benches. Not under the head of Method only, or under the head of Delivery and Tradition, but in those parts of the work in which the substance of the new learning is treated, we find dispersed intimations and positive assertions, that the form of it is, at the same time, popular and enigmatical,–not openly philosophical, and not ‘magisterial,’– but insensibly didactic; and that it is, in its principal and higher departments–in those departments on which this plan for the human relief concentrates its forces–essentially POETICAL. That is what we find in the body of the work; and the author repeats in detail what he has before made a point of telling us, in general, under this head of Delivery and Tradition of knowledge, that he sees no reason why that same instrument, which is so powerful for delusion and error, should not be restored to its true uses as an instrument of the human advancement, and a vehicle, though a veiled _one_–a beautiful and universally-welcome vehicle–for bringing in on this Globe Theatre the knowledges that men are most in need of.
The doctrine which is to be conveyed in this so subtle and artistic manner is none other than the Doctrine of Human Nature and Human Life, or, as this author describes it here, the Scientific Doctrine of MORALITY and POLICY. It is that new doctrine of human nature and human life which the science of nature in general creates. It is the light which universal science, collected from the continent of nature, gives to that insular portion of it ‘which is the end and term of natural philosophy in the intention of man.’ Under these heads of _Morality_ and _Policy_, the whole subject is treated here. But to return to the latter.
The question of Civil Government is, in the light of this science, a very difficult one; and this philosopher, like the one we have already quoted on this subject, is disposed to look with much suspicion on propositions for violent and sudden renovations in the state, and immediate abolitions and cures of social evil. He too takes a naturalist’s estimate of those larger wholes, and their virtues, and faculties of resistance.
‘Civil knowledge is conversant about a subject,’ he says, ‘which is, of all others, _most immersed in matter_, and hardliest reduced to axiom. _Nevertheless_, as Cato, the censor, said, “that the Romans were like sheep, for that a man might better drive a flock of them than one of them, for, in a flock, if you could get SOME FEW to go right, the rest would follow;” _so_ in that respect, MORAL PHILOSOPHY _is more difficult than policy_. Again, moral philosophy propoundeth to itself the framing of _internal_ goodness, but civil knowledge requireth only an _external_ goodness, for that, as to society, sufficeth. Again, States, as great engines, move slowly, _and are not so soon put out of frame_;’ (that is what our foreign statist thought also) ‘for, as in Egypt the seven good years sustained the seven bad, so governments for a time, well grounded, do bear out errors following. But _the resolution of particular persons_ is _more suddenly subverted. These respects do somewhat qualify the extreme difficulty of civil knowledge_.’
This is the point of attack, then,–this is the point of scientific attack,–the resolution of particular persons. He has showed us where the extreme difficulty of this subject appears to lie in his mind, and he has quietly pointed, at the same time, to that place of resistance in the structure of the state, which is the key to the whole position. He has marked the spot exactly where he intends to commence his political operations. For he has discovered a point there, which admits of being operated on, by such engines as a feeble man like him, or a few such together, perhaps, may command. It is the new science that they are going to converge on that point precisely, namely the resolution of particular persons. It is the _novum organum_ that this one is bringing up, in all its finish, for the assault of that particular quarter. Hard as that old wall is, great as the faculty of conservation is in these old structures that hold by time, there is one element running all through it, these chemists find, which _is_ within their power, namely, the resolution of particular persons. It is the science of the conformation of the parts, it is the constitutional structure of the human nature, which, in its scientific development, makes men, naturally, members of communities, beautiful and felicitous parts of states,–it is that which the man of science will _begin_ with. If you will let him have that part of the field to work in undisturbed, he will agree not to meddle with the state. And beside those general reasons, already quoted, which tend to prevent him from urging the immediate application of his science to this ‘larger whole,’ for its wholesale relief and cure, he ventures upon some specifications and particulars, when he comes to treat distinctly of government itself, and assign to it its place in his new science of affairs. If one were to judge by the space he has openly given it on his paper in this plan for the human advancement and relief, one would infer that it must be a very small matter in his estimate of agencies; but looking a little more closely, we find that it is not that at all in his esteem, that it is anything but a matter of little consequence. It was enough for him, at such a time, to be allowed to put down the fact that the art of it was properly scientific, and included in his plan, and to indicate the kind of science that is wanting to it; for the rest, he gives us to understand that he has himself fallen on such felicitous times, and finds that affair in the hands of a person so extremely learned in it, that there is really nothing to be said. And being thrown into this state of speechless reverence and admiration, he considers that the most meritorious thing he can do, is to pass to the other parts of his discourse with as little delay as possible.
It is a very short paragraph indeed for so long a subject; but, short as it is, it is not less pithy, and it contains reasons why it should not be longer, and why that new torch of science which he is bringing in upon the human affairs generally, cannot be permitted to enter that department of them in his time. ‘The first is, that it is a part of knowledge secret and retired in _both_ those respects in which things are deemed secret; for some things are secret because they are hard to know, and _some_ because they are not fit to utter. Again, the wisdom of _antiquity_, the _shadows whereof are in the Poets_, in the description of torments and pains, _next unto the crime of rebellion_, which was the _giants_ offence, doth detest _the crime of futility_, as in Sisyphus and Tantalus. But this was meant of _particulars_. Nevertheless, _even unto the general rules and discourses_ of policy and government, [it extends; for even here] there is due a _reverent_ handling.’ And after having briefly indicated the comprehension ‘of this science,’ and shown that it is the thing he is treating under other heads, he concludes, ‘but considering that _I write to a king_ who is a _master_ of it, and is _so well assisted_, I think it decent to pass over _this part_ in silence, as willing to obtain the certificate which one of the ancient philosophers aspired unto; who being silent when others contended to make demonstration of their abilities by speech, desired it might be certified for _his part_ that there was one that knew how to hold his peace.’
And having thus distinctly cleared himself of any suspicion of a disposition to introduce scientific inquiry and innovation into departments not then open to a procedure of that sort, his proposal for an advancement of learning in other quarters was, of course, less liable to criticism. But even that part of the subject to which he limits himself involves, as we shall see, an incidental reference to this, from which he here so modestly retires, and affords no inconsiderable scope for that genius which was by nature so irresistibly impelled, in one way or another, to the criticism and reformation of the larger wholes. He retires from the open assault, but it is only to go deeper into his subject. He is constituting the science of that from which the state proceeds. He is analyzing the state, and searching out in the integral parts of it, that which makes true _states_ impossible. He has found the revolutionary forces in their simple forms, and is content to treat them in these. He is bestowing all his pains upon an art that will develop–on scientific principles, by simply attending to the natural laws, as they obtain in the human kind, royalties, and nobilities, and liege-men of all degrees–an art that will make all kinds of pieces that the structure of the state requires.
CHAPTER III.
THE SCIENCE OF MORALITY.
Section I.–THE EXEMPLAR OF GOOD.
‘Nature craves
All dues to be rendered to their owners.’
But this great innovator is busying himself here with drawing up a report of THE DEFICIENCIES IN LEARNING; and though he is the first to propose a plan and method by which men shall build up, systematically and scientifically, a knowledge of _Nature in general_, instead of throwing themselves altogether upon their own preconceptions and abstract controversial theories, after all, the principal deficiency which he has to mark–that to which, even in this dry report, he finds himself constrained to affix some notes of admiration–this principal deficiency is THE SCIENCE OF MAN–THE SCIENCE of _human nature_ itself. And the reason of this deficiency is, that very deficiency before named; it is that very act of shutting himself up to his own theories which leaves the thinker without a _science_ of himself. ‘For it is the greatest proof of want of skill, to investigate _the nature_ of any object in itself alone; and, in general, those very things which are considered as secret, are manifested and common in other objects, but will never be clearly seen if the contemplations and experiments of men be directed _to themselves alone_.’ It is this science of NATURE IN GENERAL which makes the SCIENCE of _Human Nature_ for the first time possible; and that is the end and term of the new philosophy,–so the inventor of it tells us. And the moment that he comes in with that new torch, which he has been out into ‘the continent of nature’ to light,–the moment that he comes back with it, into this old debateable ground of the schools, and begins to apply it to that element in the human life in which the scientific innovation appears to be chiefly demanded, ‘most of the controversies,’ as he tells us very simply–‘most of the controversies, wherein moral philosophy is conversant, are judged and determined by it.’
But here is the bold and startling criticism with which he commences his approach to this subject; here is the ground which he makes at the first step; this is the ground of his scientific innovation; not less important than this, is the field which he finds unoccupied. In the handling of this science he says, (the science of ‘the Appetite and Will of Man’), ‘those which have written seem to me to have done as if a man that _professed to teach to write_ did only exhibit _fair copies_ of alphabets _and_ letters joined, without giving any precepts or directions for the carriage of the hand, or the framing of the letters; so have they made good and fair _exemplars_ and _copies_, carrying the _draughts_ and _portraitures_ of _good, virtue, duty, felicity_; propounding them, well described, as the true _objects_ and _scopes_ of man’s will and designs; _but how to attain these excellent marks_, and _how_ to _frame_ and _subdue_ the _will_ of _man_ to become _true_ and _conformable_ to _these pursuits_, they _pass it over altogether_, or slightly and _unprofitably_; for it is not,’ he says, ‘certain scattered glances and touches that can excuse the _absence_ of this _part_ of–SCIENCE.
‘The reason of this omission,’ he supposes, ‘to be that hidden rock, whereupon both this and many other barks of knowledge have been cast away, which is, that men have despised to be conversant in _ordinary and common matters_, the _judicious direction whereof, nevertheless_, is the wisest doctrine; for life consisteth not in novelties nor _subtleties_, but, _contrariwise_, they have compounded sciences _chiefly_ of _a certain_ resplendent or lustrous mass of matter, _chosen to give glory_ either to the _subtlety_ of _disputations_, or to the _eloquence_ of _discourses_.’ But his theory of teaching is, that ‘Doctrine should be such as should make men in love with the _lesson_, and not with the teacher; being directed to the auditor’s benefit, and not to the author’s commendation.’ _Neither_ needed men of so excellent parts to have despaired of a fortune which the poet Virgil promised himself, and, indeed, obtained, who got as much glory of eloquence, wit, and learning, in the expressing of the observations of husbandry _as of the heroical acts of AEneas_.
‘Nec sum animi dubius, verbis ea vincere magnum Quam sit, et angustis hunc addere rebus honorum.’ _Georg_. iii. 289.
So, then, there is room for a new Virgil, but his theme is _here_;–one who need not despair, if he be able to bring to his subject those excellent parts this author speaks of, of getting as much glory of eloquence, wit, and learning, in the expressing of the _observations of this husbandry_, as those have had who have sketched the ideal forms of the human life, the dream of what should be. The copies and exemplars of good,–that vision of heaven,–that idea of felicity, and beauty, and goodness that the human soul brings with it, like a memory,–those celestial shapes that the thought and heart of man, by a law in nature, project,–that garden of delights that all men remember, and yearn for, and aspire to, and will have, in one form or another, in delicate air patterns, or gross deceiving images,–that large, intense, ideal good which men desire–that perfection and felicity, so far above the rude mocking realities which experience brings them,–that, _that_ has had its poets. No lack of these exemplars the historian finds, when he comes to make out his report of the condition of his kind–where he comes to bring in his inventory of the human estate: when so much is wanting, that good he reports ‘_not_ deficient.’ Edens in plenty,–gods, and demi-gods, and heroes, _not_ wanting; the purest abstract notions of virtue and felicity, the most poetic embodiments of them, are put down among the goods which the human estate, as it is, comprehends. This part of the subject appears, to the critical reviewer, to have been exhausted by the poets and artists that mankind has always employed to supply its wants in this field. No room for a poet here! The draught of the ideal Eden is finished;–the divine exemplar is finished; that which is wanting is,–_the husbandry thereunto_.
Till now, the philosophers and poetic teachers had always taken their stand at once, on the topmost peak of Olympus, pouring down volleys of scorn, and amazement, and reprehension, upon the vulgar nature they saw beneath, made out of the dust of the ground, and qualified with the essential attributes of that material,–kindled, indeed, with a breath of heaven, but made out of clay,–different kinds of clay,–with more or less of the Promethean spark in it; but always clay, of one kind or another, and always compelled to listen to the laws that are common to the kinds of that substance. And it was to this creature, thus bound by nature, thus _doubly_ bound,–‘crawling between earth and heaven,’ as the poet has it,–that these winged philosophers on the ideal cliffs, thought it enough to issue their mandates, commanding it to renounce its conditions, to ignore its laws, and come up thither at a word,–at a leap,–making no ado about it.
‘I can call spirits from the vasty deep.’ ‘And so can I, and so can any man;’
Says the new philosopher–
‘But will they _come?_
_Will they come_–when you do call for them?’
It was simply a command, that this dirty earth should convert itself straight into Elysian lilies, and bloom out, at a word, with roses of Paradise. Excellent patterns, celestial exemplars, of the things required were held up to it; and endless declamation and argument why it should be that, and not the other, were not wanting:–but as to any scientific inquiry into the nature of the thing on which this form was to be superinduced, as to any _scientific_ exhibition of the form itself which was to be superinduced, these so essential conditions of the proposed result, were in this case alike wanting. The position which these reformers occupy, is one so high, that the question of different kinds of soils, and chemical analyses and experiments, would not come within their range at all; and ‘the resplendent or lustrous mass of matter,’ of which their sciences are compounded, chosen to give glory either to the subtilty of disputations or to the eloquence of discourses, would not bear any such vulgar admixture. It would make a terrible jar in the rhythm, which those large generalizations naturally flow in, to undertake to introduce into them any such points of detail.
And the new teacher will have a mountain too; but it will be one that ‘overlooks the vale,’ and he will have a rock-cut-stair to its utmost summit. He is one who will undertake this despised unlustrous matter of which our ordinary human life consists, and make a science of it, building up its generalizations from its particulars, and observing the actual reality,–the thing as it is, freshly, for that purpose; and not omitting any detail,–the poorest. The poets who had undertaken this theme before had been so absorbed with the idea of what man should be, that they could only glance at him as he is: the idea of a science of him, was not of course, to be thought of. There was but one name for the creature, indeed, in their vocabulary and doctrine, and that was one which simply seized and embodied the general fact, the unquestionable historic fact, that he has not been able hitherto to attain to his ideal type in nature, or indeed to make any satisfactory approximation to it.
But when the Committee of Inquiry sits at last, and the business begins to assume a systematic form, even the science of that ideal good, that exemplar and pattern of good, which men have been busy on so long,–the _science_ of it,–is put down as ‘wanting,’ and the _science_ of the _husbandry thereunto_, ‘_wholly deficient_.’
And the report is, that this new argument, notwithstanding its every-day theme, is one that admits of being sung also; and that the Virgil who is able to compose ‘these Georgies of the Mind,’ may promise himself fame, though his end is one that will enable him to forego it. Let us see if we can find any further track of him and his great argument, whether in prose or verse;–this poet who cares not whether he has his ‘singing robes’ about him or not, so he can express and put upon record his new ‘observations of this husbandry.’
THE EXEMPLAR OF GOOD.–‘And surely,’ he continues, ‘if the purpose be in good earnest, _not to write at leisure that which men may read at leisure_’–note it–that which men may read at leisure–‘but really to _instruct_ and _suborn action and active life_, these GEORGICS of the MIND, concerning the husbandry and tillage thereof, are no less worthy than _the heroical descriptions of virtue, duty_, and _felicity_; therefore the _main and primitive division_ of MORAL KNOWLEDGE, seemeth to be into the EXEMPLAR or PLATFORM of GOOD, and THE REGIMEN or CULTURE OF THE MIND, the one describing the NATURE of GOOD, the other prescribing RULES _how_ to SUBDUE, APPLY, and ACCOMMODATE THE WILL OF MAN THEREUNTO.’
As to ‘_the nature of good_, positive or simple,’ the writers on this subject have, he says, ‘set it down excellently, in describing the forms of virtue and duty, with their situations, and postures, in distributing them into their kinds, parts, provinces, actions, and administrations, and the like: nay, farther, they have commended them to man’s nature and spirit, with great quickness of argument, and beauty of persuasions; yea, and fortified and entrenched them, _as much as discourse can do_, against corrupt and popular opinions. And for the degrees and comparative nature of good, they have excellently handled it also.’–That part deserveth to be reported for ‘excellently laboured.’
What is it that is wanting then? What radical, fatal defect is it that he finds even in the doctrine of the NATURE OF GOOD? What is the difficulty with this platform and exemplar of good as he finds it, notwithstanding the praise he has bestowed on it? The difficulty is, that it is not scientific. It is not broad enough. It is _special_, it is limited to the species, but it is not properly, it is not effectively, specific, because it is not connected with the doctrine of nature in general. It does not strike to those universal original principles, those simple powers which determine the actual historic laws and make the nature of things itself. This is the criticism, therefore, with which this critic of the learning of the world as he finds it, is constrained to qualify that commendation.
_Notwithstanding_, if before they had come to _the popular and received notions of ‘vice’_ and _’virtue,’ ‘pleasure’_ and _’pain,’_ and the rest, they had stayed a little longer upon the inquiry concerning THE ROOTS of GOOD and EVIL, and the strings to those roots, they had given, in my opinion, _a great light to that which followed_, and especially _if they had consulted with nature_, they had made their doctrines less prolix and more profound, which being by them in part omitted, and in part handled with much confusion, we will endeavour to resume and open in a more clear manner. Here then, is the preparation of the Platform or Exemplar of Good, the scientific platform of virtue and felicity; going behind the popular notion of vice and virtue, pain and pleasure, and the like, he strikes at once to the nature of good, as it is ‘formed in everything,’ for the foundation of this specific science. He lays the beams of it, in the axioms and definitions of his ‘_prima philosophia_’ ‘which do not fall within the compass of the special parts of science, but are more common and of a higher stage, for the distributions and partitions of knowledge are _not_ like several lines that meet in one angle, and so touch but in a point, but are like _branches of a tree that meet in a stem_ which hath a dimension and quantity of entireness and continuance before it comes to discontinue and break itself into arms and boughs,’ and it is not the narrow and specific observation on which the popular notions are framed, but the scientific, which is needed for the New Ethics,–the new knowledge, which here too, is POWER. He must detect and recognise here also, he must track even into the nature of man, those universal ‘footsteps’ which are but ‘the same footsteps of nature treading or printing in different substances.’ ‘There is formed in _everything_ a double nature of good, the one as everything is a total or substantive in itself, and the other, as it is a part or member of a greater body whereof the latter is in _degree_ the greater and the worthier, because it tendeth to the conservation of a more general form…. This double nature of good, and the comparison thereof, is much more engraven upon MAN, _if he degenerate not_, unto whom the conservation of duty to the public ought _to be much more precious_ than the conservation of _life and being_;’ and, by way of illustration, he mentions first the case of Pompey the Great, ‘who being in commission of purveyance for a famine at Rome, and being dissuaded with great vehemency by his friends, that he should not hazard himself to sea in an extremity of weather, he said only to them, “_Necesse est ut eam, non ut vivam_.”‘ But, he adds, ‘it may be _truly_ affirmed, that there was never any philosophy, religion, or other discipline, which did so plainly and highly _exalt_ the good which is _communicative_, and _depress_ the good which is private and particular, as the _holy faith_, well declaring that it was the _same God_ that gave the _Christian law to men_, who gave those laws of nature to inanimate creatures that we spake of before; for we read that the elected saints of God have wished themselves anathematised, and razed out of the book of life, in an ecstasy of charity, and infinite feeling of communion.’
And having first made good his assertion, that this being set down, and _strongly planted_, determines most of the _controversies_ wherein moral philosophy is conversant, he proceeds to develop still further these scientific notions of good and evil, which he has gone below the popular notions and into the nature of things to find, these scientific notions, which, because they are scientific, he has still to go out of the specific nature to define; and when he comes to nail down his scientific platform of the _human_ good with them, when he comes to strike their clear and simple lines, deep as the universal constitution of things, through the popular terms, and clear up the old confused theories with them, we find that what he said of them beforehand was true; they do indeed throw great light upon that which follows.
To that exclusive, incommunicative good which inheres in the private and particular nature,–and he does not call it any hard names at all from his scientific platform; indeed in the vocabulary of the Naturalist we are told, that these names are omitted, ‘for we call a nettle but a nettle, and the faults of fools their folly,’–that exclusive good he finds both passive and active, and this also is one of those primary distinctions which ‘is formed in all things,’ and so too is the _subdivision_ of passive good which follows. ‘For there is impressed upon _all things_ a triple desire, or appetite, proceeding from _love to themselves_; one, of preserving and continuing their form; another, of _advancing_ and perfecting their form; and a third, of multiplying and extending their form upon other things; whereof the multiplying or signature of it upon other things, is that which we handled by the name of active good.’ But passive good includes both conservation and perfection, or _advancement_, which latter is the highest degree of passive good. For to preserve in state is the less; to preserve with advancement is the greater. As to _man_, his approach or assumption to DIVINE or ANGELICAL NATURE is the perfection of _his_ form, the error or false imitation of which good is that which is the tempest of human life. So we have heard before; but in the doctrine which we had before, it was the dogma,–the dogma whose inspiration and divinity each soul recognized; to whose utterance each soul responded, as deep calleth unto deep,–it was the Law, the Divine Law, and not the _science of it_, that was given.
And having deduced ‘that good of man which is private and particular, as far as seemeth fit,’ he returns ‘to that good of man which respects and beholds society,’ which he terms DUTY, because the term of duty is more proper to a mind well framed and disposed towards others, as the term of VIRTUE is applied to a mind well formed and composed in itself; though neither can a man understand _virtue, without some relation to society_, nor _duty, without an inward disposition_.
But he wishes us to understand and remember, now that he comes out of the particular nature, and begins to look towards society with this term of Duty, that he is still dealing with ‘the will of particular persons,’ that it is still the science of _morals_, and not _politics_, that he is meddling with. ‘This part may seem at first,’ he says, ‘to pertain to science civil and politic, but not if it be well observed; for it concerneth the regiment and _government of every man over himself_, and not over others.’ And this is the plan which he has marked out in his doctrine of government as the most hopeful point in which to _commence_ political reformations; and one cannot but observe, that if this art and science should be successfully cultivated, the one which he dismisses so briefly would be cleared at once of some of those difficulties, which rendered any more direct treatment of it at that time unadvisable. This part of learning concerneth then ‘the regiment and government of every man over himself, and not over others.’ ‘_As_ in architecture _the direction_ of _the framing_ the _posts, beams_, and _other parts_ of _building_, is not the same with the manner of joining them and erecting the building; and in mechanicals, the direction _how_ to _frame_ AN INSTRUMENT OR ENGINE is not the same with the manner of _setting it on work_, and employing it; _and yet, nevertheless_, in expressing of the one, you _incidentally_ express the _aptness_ towards the other [hear] _so_ the doctrine of the conjugation of men in society differeth from _that_ of _their conformity thereunto_.’ The received doctrine of that conjugation certainly appeared to; and the more this scientific doctrine of the parts, and the conformity thereunto, is incidentally expressed,–the more the scientific direction _how to frame_ the instrument or engine, is opened, the more this difference becomes apparent.
But even in limiting himself to the individual human nature as it is developed in particular persons, regarding society only as it is incidental to that, even in putting down his new scientific platform of the good that the appetite and will of man naturally seeks, and in marking out scientifically its _degrees_ and _kinds_, he gives us an opportunity to perceive in passing, that he is not altogether without occasion for the use of that particular art, with its peculiar ‘organs’ and ‘methods’ and ‘illustration,’ which he recommends under so many heads in his treatise on that subject, for the delivery or tradition of knowledges, which tend to _innovation_ and _advancement_–knowledge which is ‘progressive’ and ‘foreign from opinions received.’
This doctrine of _duty_ is sub-divided into two parts; the _common_ duty of every man as a MAN, or A MEMBER of A STATE, which is that part of the platform and exemplar of good, he has before reported as ‘extant, and well laboured.’ The other is the _respective_ or _special_ duty of every man in his PROFESSION, VOCATION and PLACE; and it is under this head of the _special_ and _respective_ duties of places, vocations and professions, where the subject begins to grow narrow and pointed, where it assumes immediately, the most critical aspects,–it is here that his new arts of delivery and tradition come in to such good purpose, and stand him instead of other weapons. For this is one of those cases precisely, which the philosopher on the Mountain alluded to, where an argument is set on foot at the table of a man of prodigious fortune, when the man himself is present. Nowhere, perhaps,–in his freest forms of writing, does he give a better reason, for that so deliberate and settled determination, which he so openly declares, and everywhere so stedfastly manifests, not to put himself in an antagonistic attitude towards opinions, and vocations, and professions, as they stood authorized in his time. Nowhere does he venture on a more striking comparison or simile, for the purpose of setting forth that point vividly, and impressing it on the imagination of the reader.
‘The first of these [sub-divisions of duty] is extant, and well laboured, as hath been said. The second, likewise, I may report rather dispersed than deficient; which _manner of dispersed argument I acknowledge to be best_; [it is one he is much given to;] for who can take upon him to write of the proper duty, virtue, _challenge_ and _right_ of EVERY several vocation, profession and place? [–truly?–] For although sometimes a looker on, may see more than a gamester, and there be a proverb more arrogant than sound, ‘that the _vale_ best discovereth _the hill_,’ yet there is small doubt, that men can write best, and most really and materially of their own professions,’ and it is to be wished, he says, ‘as that which would make learning, indeed, solid and fruitful, that active men would, or could, become writers.’ And he proceeds to mention opportunely in that connection, a case very much in point, as far as he is concerned, but not on the face of it, so immediately to the purpose, as that which follows. It will, however, perhaps, repay that very careful reading of it, which will be necessary, in order to bring out its pertinence in this connection. And we shall, perhaps, not lose time ourselves, by taking, as we pass, the glimpse which this author sees fit to give us, of the facilities and encouragements which existed then, for the scientific treatment of this so important question of the duties and vices of vocations and professions.
‘In which I _cannot but_ mention, _honoris causa, your majesty’s_ excellent book, touching the _duty_ of A KING’ [and he goes on to give a description which applies, without much ‘forcing,’ to the work of another king, which he takes occasion to introduce, with a direct commendation, a few pages further on]–‘a work richly compounded of divinity, morality, and policy, with great _aspersion_ of all other arts; and being, in mine opinion, one of the most sound and healthful writings that I have read. Not sick of business, as those are who lose themselves in their order, nor of convulsions, as those which cramp in matters impertinent; not savoring of perfumes and paintings as those do, who seek to please the reader more than nature beareth, and chiefly _well disposed_ in the _spirits_ thereof, being _agreeable to truth_, and _apt for action_;’–[this passage contains some hints as to this author’s notion of what a book should be, in form, as well as substance, and, therefore, it would not be strange, if it should apply to some other books, as well]–‘and far removed from _that natural infirmity_, whereunto _I noted those that write in their own professions_, to be _subject_, which is that they _exalt it above measure_; for your majesty hath truly described, _not_ a king of Assyria or Persia, in their _external_ glory, [and not that kind of king, or kingly author is he talking of] but a _Moses_, or a _David, pastors of their people_.
‘Neither can I _ever lose out of my remembrance_, what I heard your majesty, in the same sacred spirit of government, deliver in a great cause of judicature, which was, that kings ruled by _their laws_, as God did by the laws of nature, and ought rarely to put in use their supreme prerogative, as God doth his power of working miracles. _And yet, notwithstanding_, in your book of _a free monarchy_, you do well give men to understand, that you know the plenitude of the _power_ and _right_ of a king, as well as _the circle of his office and duty. Thus have I presumed to _allege_ this excellent writing of your majesty, _as a prime_ or _eminent example_ of Tractates, concerning _special_ and _respective_ duties.’ [It is, indeed, an _exemplar_ that he talks of here.] ‘Wherein _I should have said as much, if it had been written a thousand years since_: neither am I moved with certain courtly decencies, which I esteem it flattery to praise in presence; no, it is flattery to _praise in absence: that is_, when _either_ the virtue is absent, _or–the occasion_ is absent, and so the praise is _not natural_, but _forced_, either in truth, _or–in time_. But let Cicero be read in his oration _pro Marcello_, which is nothing but an excellent TABLE of _Caesar’s_ VIRTUE, and _made to his face_; besides the _example_ of many other excellent persons, _wiser a great deal than such observers_, and we will never doubt upon a _full occasion_, to give _just_ praises to _present_ or _absent_.’
The reader who does not think that is, on the whole, a successful paragraph, considering the general slipperiness of the subject, and the state of the ice in those parts of it, in particular where the movements appear to be the most free and graceful; such a one has, probably, failed in applying to it, that key of ‘times,’ which a _full occasion_ is expected to produce for this kind of delivery. But if any doubt exists in any mind, in regard to this author’s opinion of the rights of his own profession and vocation, and _the circle_ of _its_ office and duties,–if any one really doubts what only allegiance this author professionally acknowledges, and what kingship it is to which this great argument is internally dedicated, it may be well to recall the statement on that subject, which he has taken occasion to insert in another part of the work, so that that point, at least, may be satisfactorily determined.
He is speaking of ‘certain base conditions and courses,’ in his criticism on the manners of learned men, which he says ‘he has no purpose to give allowance to, wherein divers professors of learning have wronged themselves and gone too far,’–glancing in particular at the trencher philosophers of the later age of the Roman state, ‘who were little better than parasites in the houses of the great. But above all the rest,’ he continues, ‘the _gross_ and _palpable flattery_, whereunto, many, not unlearned, have abased and abused their wits and pens, turning, as Du Bartas saith, Hecuba into Helena, and Faustina into Lucretia, hath most diminished the price and estimation of learning. Neither is the _modern dedication_, of books and writings _as to patrons_, to be commended: for that books–such as are _worthy the name of books_, ought to have _no patrons, but_–(hear) but–Truth and Reason. And the ancient custom was to dedicate them only to _private and equal friends_, or to _entitle_ the books with their names, or if to _kings_ and _great persons_, it was _some such_ as the argument of the book was fit and proper for: but these and the like courses may deserve rather _reprehension_ than defence.
‘Not that I can tax,’ he continues, however, ‘or condemn the application of learned men to men in fortune.’ And he proceeds to quote here, approvingly, a series of speeches on this very point, which appear to be full of pertinence; the first of the philosopher who, when he was asked in mockery, ‘How it came to pass that philosophers were followers of rich men, and not rich men of philosophers,’ answered soberly, and yet sharply, ‘Because the one sort knew what they had need of, and the other did not’. And then the speech of Aristippus, who, when some one, tender on behalf of philosophy, reproved him that he would offer the profession of philosophy such an indignity, as for a private suit to fall at a tyrant’s feet, replied, ‘It was not his fault, but it was the fault of Dionysius, that he had his ears in his feet’; and, lastly, the reply of another, who, yielding his point in disputing with Caesar, claimed, ‘That it was reason to yield to him who commanded thirty legions,’ and ‘these,’ he says, ‘these, and _the like_ applications, and stooping to points of necessity and convenience, cannot be disallowed; for, though they may have _some outward baseness_, yet, in a _judgment truly made_, they are to be accounted submissions _to the occasion_, and _not to the person_.’
And that is just _Volumnia’s_ view of the subject, as will be seen in another place.
Now, this no more dishonors you at all, Than to take in a town with gentle words, Which else would put you to your fortune, and The hazard of much blood.–
And you will rather show our general louts How you can frown, than spend a _fawn_ upon them, For the inheritance of their loves, and _safeguard_ Of _what that want might ruin_.
But then, in the dramatic exhibition, the other side comes in too:–
I will not do’t;
Lest I surcease to honor mine own truth, And by my body’s action, teach my mind
_A most inherent baseness._
It is the same poet who says in another place:–
Almost my nature is subdued to that it works in.
‘But to return,’ as our author himself says, after his complimentary notice of the king’s book, accompanied with that emphatic promise to give an account of himself upon a full occasion, and we have here, apparently, a longer digression to apologize for, and return from; but, in the book we are considering, it is, in fact, rather apparent than real, as are most of the author’s digressions, and casual introductions of impertinent matter; for, in fact, the exterior order of the discourse is often a submission to the _occasion_, and is not so essential as the author’s apparent concern about it would lead us to infer; indeed he has left dispersed directions to have this treatise broken up, and recomposed in a more lively manner, upon a full occasion, and when time shall serve; for, at present, this too is chiefly well disposed in the spirits thereof.
And in marking out the grounds in human life, then lying waste, or covered with superstitious and empirical arts and inventions, in merely showing the fields into which the inventor of this new instrument of observation and inference by rule, was then proposing to introduce it, and in presenting this new report, and this so startling proposition, in those differing aspects and shifting lights, and under those various divisions which the art of delivery and tradition under such circumstances appeared to prescribe; having come, in the order of his report, to that main ground of the good which the will and appetite of man aspires to, and the direction thereto,–this so labored ground of philosophy,–when it was found that the new scientific platform of good, included–not the exclusive good of the individual form only, but that of those ‘larger wholes,’ of which men are _constitutionally_ parts and members, and the special DUTY,–for that is the specific name of this principle of integrity in the _human_ kind, that is the name of that larger law, that spiritual principle, which informs and claims the parts, and conserves the larger form which is the worthier,–when it was found that this part included the particular duty of every man in his _place, vocation_, and _profession_, as well as the common duty of men as men, surely it was natural enough to glance here, at that _particular profession and vocation_ of authorship, and the claims of the respective _places_ of _king_ and _subject_ in that regard, as well as at the _duty_ of the _king_, and the superior advantages of a government of laws in general, as being more in accordance with the order of nature, than that other mode of government referred to. It was natural enough, since this subject lies always in abeyance, and is essentially involved in the work throughout, that it should be touched here, in its proper place, though never so casually, with a glance at those nice questions of conflicting claims, which are more fully debated elsewhere, distinguishing that which is forced in _time_, from that which is forced in _truth_, and the absence of the person, from the absence of the occasion.
But the approval of that man of prodigious fortune, to whom this work is openly dedicated, is always, with this author, who understands his ground here so well, that he hardly ever fails to indulge himself in passing, with a good humoured, side-long, glance at ‘the situation,’ this approval is the least part of the achievement. That which he, too, adores in kings, is ‘the throng of their adorers’. It is the sovereignty which makes kings, and puts them in its liveries, that he bends to; it is that that he reserves his art for. And this proposal to run the track of the science of nature through this new field of human nature and its higher and highest aims, and into the very field of _every man’s_ special place, and vocation, and profession, could not well be made without a glance at those difficulties, which the clashing claims of authorship, and _other professions_, would in this case create; without a glance at the imperious necessities which threaten the life of the new science, which here also imperiously prescribe the form of its TRADITION; he could not go by this place, without putting into the reader’s hands, with one bold stroke, the key of its DELIVERY.
For it is in the paragraph which follows the compliment to the king in his character as an author, in pursuing still further this subject of