Chapter VII (3)

Whether suicide be reasonable, or our compromise with life unreasonable, the former is certainly a horrible and inhuman action. It were better to follow Nature, and remain man, than act like a monster in following Reason. Besides, ought we not to give some thought to the friends, relatives, acquaintance, and people with whom we have been accustomed to live, and from whom we should thus separate for ever? And if the thought of such separation be nothing to us, ought we not to consider their feelings? They lose one whom they loved and respected; and the atrocity of his death enhances their grief. I know that the wise man is not easily moved, nor yields to pity and lamentation to a disquieting extent; he does not abase himself to the ground, shed tears immoderately, nor do other similar things unworthy of one who clearly understands the condition of humanity. But such fortitude of soul should be reserved for grievous circumstances that arise from nature, or are unavoidable; it is an abuse of fortitude to deprive ourselves for ever of the society and conversation of those who are dear to us. He is a barbarian, and not a wise man, who takes no account of the grief experienced by his friends, relations, and acquaintances. He who scarcely troubles himself about the grief his death would cause to his friends and family is selfish; he cares little for others, and all for himself. And truly, the suicide thinks only of himself. He desires nought but his personal welfare, and throws away all thought of the rest of the world. In short, suicide is an action of the most unqualified and sordid egotism, and is certainly the least attractive form of self-love that exists in the world.

Finally, my dear Porphyrius, the troubles and evils of life, although many and inevitable, when, as in your case, unaccompanied by grievous calamity or bodily infirmity, are after all easy to be borne, especially by a wise and strong man like yourself. And indeed, life itself is of so little importance, that man ought not to trouble himself much either to retain or abandon it; and, without thinking greatly about it, we ought to give the former instinct precedence over the latter.

If a friend begged you to do this, why should you not gratify him?

Now I earnestly entreat you, dear Porphyrius, by the memory of our long friendship, put away this idea. Do not grieve your friends, who love you with such warm affection, and your Plotinus,[2] who has no dearer nor better friend in the world. Help us to bear the burden of life, instead of leaving us without a thought. Let us live, dear Porphyrius,[3] and console each other. Let us not refuse our share of the sufferings of humanity, apportioned to us by destiny. Let us cling to each other with mutual encouragement, and hand in hand strengthen one another better to bear the troubles of life. Our time after all will be short; and when death comes, we will not complain. In the last hour, our friends and companions will comfort us, and we shall be gladdened by the thought that after death we shall still live in their memory, and be loved by them.

[Footnote 1: "Ennui is a state only experienced by the intelligent. The greater the mind, the more constant, painful, and terrible is the ennui it suffers. Ennui is in some respects the sublimest of human sentiments" (_Leopardi's "Pensieri_" Nos. lxvii. and lxviii.)]

[Footnote 2: _Plotinus_ was born 204 A.D. He began teaching philosophy in Rome, and was highly esteemed at court. Eunapius says of him, "The heavenly elevation of his mind, and his perplexed style, made him very tiresome and unpleasant." He was ascetic in his habits; disparaged patriotism; depreciated material things; purposely forgot his birthday; and acted altogether rather as a spectator of other men's lives than as a living man himself.]

[Footnote 3: _Porphyrius_ was born 233 A.D. He was a pupil of Plotinus, and like him established a school of philosophy at Rome. From study of the writings of Plotinus he fell into a state of disgust with life, and retiring from Rome, lived alone in a solitary and wild part of Sicily. Here he determined to put an end to his life by starvation. He was found by Plotinus, who had followed him from Rome, in a state of extreme weakness, and was, by his wise counsels, dissuaded from completing his intention.]

_COMPARISON OF THE LAST WORDS OF MARCUS BRUTUS AND THEOPHRASTUS._

I think, in all ancient history there can be found no words more lamentable and terrifying, yet withal, speaking humanly, more true, than those uttered by Marcus Brutus shortly before death, in disparagement of virtue. This is what, according to Dionysius Cassius, he is reported to have said:--

"O miserable virtue! Thou art but a mere phrase, and I have followed thee, as though thou wert a reality. Fate is stronger than thee."

Plutarch, in his life of Brutus, makes no mention of this, which has induced Pier Vettori to conclude that Cassius has here taken licence in prose often accorded to poetry. But its truth is confirmed by the witness of Florus, who states that Brutus, when at the point of death, exclaimed, that virtue was "an expression, and not a reality."

Many people are shocked at those words of Brutus, and blame him for uttering them. They infer from their meaning, either that virtue is a sealed book to them, or else that they have never experienced ill-fortune. The former inference alone is credible. In any case, it is certain they but slightly understand, and still less realise the unhappiness of human affairs, or else they stupidly wonder why the doctrines of Christianity were not in force before the time of Christ.

Other people interpret these words as demonstrating that Brutus was not after all the noble and pious man he was supposed to have been. They imagine that just before death he threw off the mask. But they are wrong; and if they give Brutus credit for sincerity in uttering these words in repudiation of virtue, let them consider how it were possible for him to abandon what he never possessed, or to disassociate himself from that with which he never had any association. If they think he was insincere, and spoke designedly and with ostentation, let them explain what object he could have in speaking vain and fallacious words, and immediately afterwards acting in accordance with them? Are facts deniable, simply because they are not in harmony with words?

Brutus was a man overwhelmed by a great and unavoidable catastrophe. He was disheartened, and wearied with life and fortune, and having abandoned all desires and hopes, the deceitfulness of which he had experienced, he determined to take his destiny into his own hands, and to put an end to his unhappiness. Why should he, at the very moment of eternal separation from his fellows, trouble to hunt the phantom of glory, and study to give forth words and thoughts to deceive those around him, and to gain human esteem, when he was about to leave humanity for ever? What was it to him that he might gain a reputation on that earth which appeared so hateful and contemptible to him?

These words of Brutus are well known to most of us. The following utterance of Theophrastus at the point of death is, I believe, less known, though very worthy of consideration. It forms a parallel with that of Brutus, both as to its substance and time of delivery. Diogenes Laertius mentions it, not, in my opinion, as original to himself, but as an extract from some more ancient and important work. He says that Theophrastus, just before death, being asked by his disciples whether he would leave them any token or words of advice, replied:

"None, except that man despises and rejects many pleasures for the sake of glory. But no sooner does he begin to live than death overtakes him. Hence the love of glory is as fatal a thing as possible. Strive to live happily: abandon studies, which are a weariness; or cultivate them only so that they may bring you fame. Life is more vain than useful. As for me, I have no time to think more about it; you must study what is most expedient." So saying, he died.

Other sayings of Theophrastus on this occasion are mentioned by Cicero and St. Jerome. These are better known, but have nothing to do with our subject.

It would seem that Theophrastus lived to the age of more than a hundred, having devoted all his lifetime to study and writing, and having been an unwearied pursuer of glory. Suidas says that his death was due to the excess of his studies, and that he died surrounded by about two thousand of his disciples and followers, reverenced for his wisdom throughout the whole of Greece, regretting his pursuit of glory, just as Brutus repented of virtue. These two words, glory and virtue, were by the ancients regarded as almost synonymous in meaning, though it is not so in the present day. Theophrastus did not indeed say that glory is more frequently a matter of fortune than merit, which is oftener true now than in former times; but had he said so, there would have been no difference between his idea and that of Brutus.

Such abjurations, or rather apostasies, of those noble errors which beautify, nay compose our very life, are of daily occurrence. They are due to the fact that the human intelligence in process of time discovers, not only the nakedness, but even the skeleton of things: wisdom also, which was regarded by the ancients as the consolation and chief cure for our unhappiness, has been obliged to impeach our condition, and almost requires a consolation for itself, since had not men followed it, they would not have known the greatness of their misfortune, or at least would have been able to remedy it with hope. But the ancients used to believe, according to the teaching of Nature, that things were things, and not appearances, and that human life was destined to partake of happiness as well as unhappiness. Consequently, such apostasies as these were very rare, and were the result not of passions and vices, but of a sentiment and realisation of the truth of things. Therefore they deserve careful and philosophical consideration.

The words of Theophrastus are the more surprising when we think of the circumstances in which he died. He was prosperous and successful; and it would seem as though he could not have a single cause for regret. His chief aim, glory, he had succeeded in acquiring long ago. The utterance of Brutus, on the other hand, was one of those inspirations of misfortune which sometimes open out a new world to our minds, and persuade us of truths that require a long time for the mere intelligence to discover. Misfortune may indeed be compared in its effect to the frenzy of lyric poets, who at a glance, as if situated in a lofty place, take in as much of the domain of human knowledge as requires many centuries before it be discerned by philosophers. In almost all ancient writings (whether philosophical, poetical, historical, or aught else), we meet with many very sorrowful expressions, common enough to us nowadays, but strange to the people of those times. These sentences, however, were mostly due to the innate or accidental misfortune of the writer, or the persons who spoke them, whether imaginary or real. And rarely we find on the monuments of the ancients any expression of the sadness or ennui which they felt because of the unreality of happiness, or their misfortunes, whether natural, or due to force of circumstances. For when they suffered, they lamented their sufferings as the only hindrance to their happiness, which they not only considered it possible to obtain, but even man's right, although Fate proved sometimes too strong.

Now, let us seek what could have placed in the mind of Theophrastus this sentiment about the vanity of glory and life, which, considering his epoch and nation, is an extraordinary one. In the first place, we find that the studies of this philosopher were not limited to one or two branches of science. The record of his writings, which are mostly lost, informs us that his knowledge included little less than everything then knowable. And this universal science was not like that of Plato, subordinated to his imagination, but conformed to the teaching of Aristotle in being the result of experience and reason; its aim, too, was not the discovery of the beautiful, but that which is its especial contrary, the useful. This being so, it is not wonderful that Theophrastus should attain to the height of human wisdom,--that is, a knowledge of the vanity of life, and wisdom itself. For it is a fact that the numerous discoveries made recently by philosophers about the nature of men and things, are chiefly the result of a comparison and synthesis of the different sciences and studies, whereby the mutual connection between the most distant parts of nature is demonstrated.

Besides, from his book of "Characters" we learn how clearly Theophrastus discerned the qualities and manners of men; indeed, with the exception of the poets, very few ancient writers equal him in this respect. And this faculty is the sure sign of a mind capable of numerous, diverse, and powerful sensations. For, to produce a keen representation of the moral qualities and passions of men, the writer relies less on what actual facts he may have collected, or observations made, about the manners of others, than on his own mind, even though his personal habits be very different from those of his subjects.

Massillon was asked one day what enabled him to describe so naturally the habits and feelings of men, who, like himself, lived more in solitude than society. He replied: "I contemplate myself." Dramatists and other poets do the same thing. Now a many-sided mind, subtle in discernment, cannot but feel the nakedness and absolute unhappiness of life; it acquires a tendency to sadness after meditation excited by numerous studies, especially such as are concerned with the very essence of things, like the speculative sciences.

It is certain that Theophrastus, who loved study and glory above everything, and was master or rather founder of a very numerous school, knew and formally announced the uselessness of human exertions, including his own teaching and that of others; the little affinity existing between virtue and happiness of life; and the superior power of fortune to merit in the acquirement of happiness, equally among the wise and others. In this respect, perhaps, he was superior to all the Greek philosophers, especially those preceding Epicurus, from whom both in manners and thought he was essentially different. This is owing partly to circumstances already mentioned, and is also due to other things referred to by ancient writers on the subject of his teaching It would seem as though his own fate has proved the truth of his doctrine. For he is not esteemed by modern philosophers as he ought to be, since all his moral writings are lost, with the exception of his "Characters." His writings, too, on the subjects of politics and laws, and almost all those relating to metaphysics, are also missing. Besides, the ancient philosophers were little inclined to give him credit for keener perception than they possessed; on the contrary, many of them, especially such as were shallow and conceited, blamed and ill-treated him. These men taught that the wise man is essentially happy, and that virtue and wisdom suffice to procure happiness; although they were only too well aware of the contrary, even supposing they had any real knowledge of either the one or the other. Philosophers will never be cured of this idea. Even the philosophy of the present day teaches the same thing; whereas, correctly speaking, it can only say that everything beautiful, delightful, and great, is mere falsity and nothingness.

But to return to Theophrastus. Most of the ancients were incapable of the profound and sorrowful sentiment that inspired him. "Theophrastus is roughly handled by all the philosophers in their writings and schools for having praised this saying of Callisthenes: 'Fortune, not wisdom, is the mistress of life.' They consider that no philosopher ever gave expression to a weaker sentiment." So says Cicero, who in another place remarks that Theophrastus in his book about "The Happy Life," attributed much influence to fortune, which he considered a most important factor of happiness. Again, he adds, "Let us make much use of Theophrastus; but give virtue more reality and value than he gave to it."

Perhaps it may be imagined from these remarks that Theophrastus had little sympathy with the weaknesses of human nature, and that he waged war against their influence in public and private life, both by his writings and actions. It might also be thought that he would restrict the empire of the imagination in favour of that of reason. As a matter of fact, he did just the contrary. Concerning his actions, we read in Plutarch's book against Colotes that our philosopher twice freed his country from a tyranny. As for his teachings, Cicero says that Theophrastus in a writing on the subject of "Wealth," dilated at considerable length on the advantages of magnificence and pomp at the shows and national festivals; indeed he considered the chief usefulness of riches to lie in the consequent power of expenditure that accompanied them. This idea is blamed and ridiculed by Cicero, with whom, however, I will not discuss the question, for his superficial knowledge of philosophy might have easily led him to a wrong conclusion. I imagine Cicero to have been a man rich in civil and domestic virtues, but ignorant of the greatest stimulants and bulwarks of virtue that the world possesses, namely, those things that are peculiarly adapted to excite and arouse the mind, and exercise the powers of the imagination.

I will merely say that those men among, the ancients and moderns who knew best and realised most strongly and deeply the nullity of everything, and the force of truth, have not only refrained from endeavouring to lead others to their condition, but have even laboured hard to conceal and disguise it from themselves. They acted like men who had learnt from experience the wretchedness that resulted from wisdom and knowledge. Many celebrated examples of this are furnished, especially in recent times. Truly, if our philosophers fully understood what they endeavour to teach, and realised in their own persons the consequences of their philosophy, instead of welcoming their knowledge, they would hate and abhor it. They would strive to forget what they know, and to shut' their eyes to that which they see. They would take refuge, as their best resource, in those sweet unrealities, which Nature herself has placed in all our minds; nor would they think it well to enforce on others the doctrine of the nothingness of all things. If, however, desire of glory should incite them to do this last, they will admit that in this part of the universe we can only live by putting faith in things that are non-existent.

There is another considerable difference between the circumstances of Theophrastus and Brutus, that of time. When Theophrastus lived, the influence of those fictions and phantoms which ruled the thoughts and actions of the ancients, had not departed. The epoch of Brutus, on the other hand, may be termed the last age of the imagination. Knowledge and experience of the truth prevailed amongst the people. Had it not been so, Brutus need not have fled from life as he did, and the Roman republic would not have died with him. And not only the republic, but also the whole of antiquity, that is, the old customs and characteristics of the civilised world, were at the point of death, together with the opinions which gave birth to, and supported them. Life had already lost its value, and wise men sought to console themselves not so much for their fate as for existence itself; because they regarded it as incredible that man should be born essentially and solely for misery. Thus they arrived at the conception of another life, which might explain the reason of virtue and noble actions. Such explanation had hitherto been found in life itself, but was so no longer, nor was it ever again to be found there.

To these ideas of futurity are due the noble sentiments often expressed by Cicero, especially in his oration for Archias.

_DIALOGUE BETWEEN TRISTANO AND A FRIEND._

_Friend_. I have read your book. It is as melancholy as usual.

_Tristano_. Yes, as usual.

_Friend_. Melancholy, disconsolate, hopeless. It is clear that this life appears to you an abominable thing.

_Tristano_. How can I excuse myself? I was then so firmly convinced of the truth of my notion about the unhappiness of life.

_Friend_. Unhappy it may be. But even then, what good ...

_Tristano_. No, no; on the contrary, it is very happy. I have changed my opinion now. But when I wrote this book I had that folly in my head, as I tell you. And I was so full of it, that I should have expected anything rather than to doubt the truth of what I wrote on the subject. For I thought the conscience of every reader would assuredly bear witness to the truth of my statements. I imagined there might be differences of opinion as to the use or harm of my writings, but none as to their truth. I also believed that my lamentations, since they were aroused by misfortunes common to all, would be echoed in the heart of every one who heard them. And when I afterwards felt impelled to deny, not merely some particular observation, but the whole fabric of my book, and to say that life is not unhappy, and that if it seemed so to me, it must have been the effect of illness, or some other misfortune peculiar to myself, I was at first amazed, astonished, petrified, and for several days as though transported into another world. Then I began to think, and was a little irritated with myself. Finally I laughed, and said to myself that the human race possesses a characteristic common to husbands. For a married man who wishes to live a quiet life, relies on the fidelity of his wife, even when half the world knows she is faithless. Similarly, when a man takes up his abode in any country, he makes up his mind to regard it as one of the best countries in the world, and he does so. For the same reason, men, desiring to live, agree to consider life a delightful and valuable thing; they therefore believe it to be so, and are angry with whoever is of the contrary opinion. Hence it follows, that in reality people always believe, not the truth, but what is, or appears to be, best for them. The human race, which has believed, and will continue to put faith in so many absurdities, will never acknowledge that it knows nothing, that it is nothing, and that it has nothing to hope. No philosopher teaching any one of these three things would be successful, nor would he have followers, and the populace especially would refuse to believe in him. For, apart from the fact that all three doctrines have little to recommend them to any one who wishes to live, the two first offend man's pride, and they all require courage and strength of mind in him who accepts them. Now, men are cowards, of ignoble and narrow minds, and always anticipating good, because always ready to vary their ideas of good according to the necessities of life. They are very willing, as Petrarch says, to surrender to fortune; very eager and determined to console themselves in any misfortune; and to accept any compensation in exchange for what is denied them, or for that which they have lost; and to accommodate themselves to any condition of life, however wicked and barbarous. When deprived of any desirable thing, they nourish themselves on illusions, from which they derive as much satisfaction as if their conceptions were the most genuine and real things in the world. As for me, I cannot refrain from laughing at the human race, enamoured of life, just as the people in the south of Europe laugh at husbands enamoured of faithless wives. I consider men show very little courage in thus allowing themselves to be deceived and deluded like fools; they are not only content to bear the greatest sufferings, but also are willing to be as it were puppets of Nature and Destiny. I here refer to the deceptions of the intellect, not the imagination. Whether these sentiments of mine are the result of illness, I do not know; but I do know that, well or ill, I despise men's cowardice, I reject every childish consolation and illusive comfort, and am courageous enough to bear the deprivation of every hope, to look steadily on the desert of life, to hide no part of our unhappiness, and to accept all the consequences of a philosophy, sorrowful but true. This philosophy, if of no other use, gives the courageous man the proud satisfaction of being able to rend asunder the cloak that conceals the hidden and mysterious cruelty of human destiny.

This I said to myself, almost as though I were the inventor of this bitter philosophy, which I saw rejected by every one as a new and unheard-of thing. But, on reflection, I found that it dated from the time of Solomon, Homer, and the most ancient poets and philosophers, who abound with fables and sayings which express the unhappiness of human life. One says that "man is the most miserable of the animals." Another that, "it were better not to be born, or, being born, to die in the cradle." Again, "whom the gods love, die young;" besides numberless other similar sayings. And I also remembered that from then even until now, all poets, philosophers, and writers, great and small, have in one way or another echoed and confirmed the same doctrines.

Then I began to think again, and spent a long time in a state of wonder, contempt, and laughter. At length I turned to study the matter more deeply, and came to the conclusion that man's unhappiness is one of the innate errors of the mind, and that the refutation of this idea, through the demonstration of the happiness of life, is one of the greatest discoveries of the nineteenth century. Now, therefore, I am at peace, and confess I was wrong to hold the views I previously held.

_Friend_. Then have you changed your opinion?

_Tristano_. Of course. Do you imagine I should oppose the discoveries of the nineteenth century?

_Friend_. Do you believe all the century believes?

_Tristano_. Certainly. Why not?

_Friend_. You believe then in the infinite perfectibility of the human race, do you not? _Tristano_. Undoubtedly.

_Friend_. Do you also believe that the human race actually progresses daily?

_Tristano_. Assuredly. It is true that sometimes I think one of the ancients was physically worth four of us. And the body is the man; because (apart from all else) high-mindedness, courage, the passions, capacity for action and enjoyment, and all that ennobles and vivifies life, depend on the vigour of the body, without which they cannot exist. The weak man is not a man, but a child, and less than a child, because it is his fate to stand aside and see others live. All he can do is to chatter. Life is not for him. Hence in olden times, and even in more enlightened ages, weakness of body was regarded as ignominious.

But with us, it is very long since education deigned to think of such a base and abject thing as the body. The mind is its sole care. Yet, in its endeavours to cultivate the mind, it destroys the body without perceiving that the former is also necessarily destroyed. And even if it were possible to remedy this false system of education, it would be impossible to discover, without a radical change in the state of modern society, any cure for the other inconveniences of life, whether public or private.

Everything that formerly tended to preserve and perfect the body, seems to-day to be in conspiracy for its destruction. The consequence is, that, compared with the ancients, we are little better than children, and they in comparison with us may indeed be termed perfect men. I refer equally to individuals in comparison with individuals, as to the masses (to use this most expressive modern term) compared to the masses.

I will add also that the superior vigour of the ancients is manifested in their moral and metaphysical systems.

But I do not allow myself to be influenced by such trifling objections, and I firmly believe that the human race is perpetually in a state of progression.

_Friend_. You believe also, if I rightly understand you, that knowledge, or, as, it is called, enlightenment, continually increases.

_Tristano_. Assuredly. Although I observe that the desire of knowledge grows in proportion as the appreciation for study diminishes. And, astonishing to say, if you count up the number of truly learned men who lived contemporaneously a hundred and fifty years ago, or even later, you will find them incomparably more numerous than at present. It may perhaps be said that learned people are rare nowadays because knowledge is more universally disseminated, instead of being confined to the heads of a few; and that the multitude of educated people compensate for the rarity of learned people. But knowledge is not like riches, which whether divided or accumulated, always make the same total. In a country where every one knows a little, the total knowledge is small; because knowledge begets knowledge, but will not bear dispersion. For superficial instruction cannot indeed be divided amongst many, though it may be common to many unlearned men. Genuine knowledge belongs only to the learned, and depth in knowledge to the few that are very learned. And, with rare exceptions, only the man who is very learned, and possessed of an immense fund of knowledge, is able to add materially to the sum of human science. Now, in the present time, it is daily more difficult to discover a really learned man, save perhaps in Germany, where science is not yet dethroned.

I utter these reflections simply for the sake of a little talk and philosophising, not because I doubt for a single moment the truth of what you say. Indeed, were I to see the world quite full of ignorant impostors on the one hand, and presumptuous fools on the other, I should still hold to my present belief that knowledge and enlightenment are on the increase.

_Friend_. Of course, then, you believe that this century is superior to all the preceding ones?

_Tristano_. Decidedly. All the centuries have had this opinion of themselves; even those of the most barbarous ages. The present century thinks so, and I agree with it. But if you asked me in what it is superior to the others, and whether in things pertaining to the body or the mind, I should refer you to what I said just now on the subject of progress.

_Friend_. In short, to sum it up in two words, do you agree with what the journals say about nature, and human destiny? We are not now talking of literature or politics, on which subjects their opinion is indisputable.

_Tristano_. Precisely. I bow before the profound philosophy of the journals, which will in time supersede every other branch of literature, and every serious and exacting study. The journals are the guides and lights of the present age. Is it not so?

_Friend_. Very true. Unless you are speaking ironically, you have become one of us.

_Tristano_. Yes. Certainly I have.

_Friend_. Then what shall you do with your book? Will you allow it to go down to posterity, conveying doctrines so contrary to the opinions you now hold?

_Tristano_. To posterity? Permit me to laugh, since you are no doubt joking; if I thought otherwise, I should laugh all the more. For it is not a personal matter, but one relating to the individuals and individual things of the nineteenth century; about whom and which there is no fear of the judgment of posterity, since they will know no more about the matter than their ancestors knew. "Individuals are eclipsed in the crowd," as our modern thinkers elegantly say; which means, that the individual need not put himself to any inconvenience, because, whatever his merit, he can neither hope for the miserable reward of glory, in reality, nor in his dreams.

Leave therefore the masses to themselves; although I would ask the wiseacres who illumine the world in the present day, to explain how the masses can do anything without the help of the individuals that compose them.

But to return to my book, and posterity. Books now are generally written in less time than is necessary for reading them. Their worth is proportioned to their cost, and their longevity to their value. It is my opinion that the twentieth century will make a very clean sweep of the immense bibliography of the nineteenth. Perhaps however it will say something to this effect: "We have here whole libraries of books which have cost some twenty, some thirty years of labour, and some less, but all have required very great exertion; let us read these first, because it is probable there is much to be learnt from them. These at an end, we will pass to lighter literature."

My friend, this is a puerile age, and the few men remaining are obliged to hide themselves for very shame, resembling, as they do, a well-formed man in a land of cripples. And these good youths of the century are desirous of doing all that their ancestors did. Like children they wish to act on the spur of the moment, without any laborious preparation. They would like the progress of the age to be such as to exempt them and their successors from all fatiguing study and application in the acquirement of knowledge. For instance, a commercial friend of mine told me the other day that even mediocrity has become very rare. Scarcely any one is fit to fulfil properly the duty which devolves upon him, either by necessity or choice. This seems to me to mark the true distinction between this century and the preceding ones. At all times greatness has been rare; but in former centuries mediocrity prevailed, whereas in our century nullity prevails. All people wish to be everything. Hence, there is such confusion and riot, that no attention is paid to the few great men who are still to be found, and who are unable to force a way through the vast multitude of rivals. Thus, whilst the lowest people believe themselves illustrious, obscurity and success in nothing is the common fate both of the highest and lowest.

But, long live statistics! Long live the sciences, economical, moral, and political; the pocket encyclopÊdias; the manuals of everything; and all the other fine creations of our age! And may the nineteenth century live for ever! For though poor in results, it is yet very rich and great in promise, which' is well known to be the best of signs. Let us therefore console ourselves that for sixty-six[1] more years this admirable century will have the talking to itself, and will be able to utter its own opinions.

_Friend_. You speak, it seems, somewhat ironically. But you ought at least to remember that this is a century of transition.

_Tristano_. What do you infer from that? All centuries have been, and will be, more or less transitional; because human society is never stationary, and will never at any time attain to a fixed condition. It follows therefore that this fine word is either no excuse for the nineteenth century, or is one common to all the centuries. It remains to be seen whether the transition now in progress is from good to better, or from bad to worse.

But perhaps you mean to say that the present age is especially transitional, inasmuch as it is a rapid passage from one state of civilisation to another, absolutely different. In which case I would ask your permission to laugh at this rapidity. Every transition requires a certain amount of time, and when too rapidly accomplished, invariably relapses, and the progress has to recommence from the very beginning. Thus it has always been. For nature does not advance by leaps; and when forced, no durable result is obtained. In short, precipitous transitions are only apparent transitions, and do not represent genuine progress.

_Friend_. I advise you not to talk in this fashion with every one, because if you do you will gain many enemies.

_Tristano_. What does it matter? Henceforth, neither enemies nor friends can do me much harm.

_Friend_. Very probably you will be despised as one incapable of comprehending the spirit of modern philosophy, and who cares little for the progress of civilisation and the sciences.

_Tristano_. I should be very sorry for that; but what can I do? If I am despised, I will endeavour to console myself.

_Friend_. But have you, or have you not, changed your opinions? And what is to be done about your book?

_Tristano_. It would be best to burn it. If it be not burnt, it may be preserved as a book full of poetic dreams, inventions, and melancholy caprices; or better, as an expression of the unhappiness of the writer. Because, I will tell you in confidence, my dear friend, that I believe you and every one else to be happy. As for myself, however, with your permission, and that of the century, I am very unhappy, and all the journals of both worlds cannot persuade me to the contrary.

_Friend_. I do not know the cause of this unhappiness of which you speak. But a man is the best judge of his own happiness or unhappiness, and his opinion cannot be wrong.

_Tristano_. Very true. And more, I tell you frankly that I do not submit to my unhappiness, nor bow the head, and come to terms with Destiny, like other men. I ardently wish for death above everything, with such warmth and sincerity as I firmly believe few have desired it.

I would not speak to you thus, if I were not sure that when the time came I should not belie my words. I may add that although I do not yet foresee the end of my life, I have an inward feeling that almost assures me the hour of which I speak is not far distant. I am more than ripe for death, and it seems to me too absurd and improbable, that being dead spiritually, as I am, and the tale of my life being told in every part, I should linger out the forty or fifty years with which Nature threatens me. I am terrified at the mere thought of such a thing. But, like all evils that exceed the power of imagination, this seems to me a dream and illusion, devoid of truth. So that if any one speaks to me about the distant future, as though I were to have a part in it, I cannot help smiling to myself, so sure am I that I have not long to live. This thought, I may say, alone supports me. Books and studies, which I often wonder I ever loved, great designs, and hopes of glory and immortality, are things now undeserving of even a smile. Nor do I now laugh at the projects and hopes of this century. I cordially wish them every possible success, and I praise, admire, and sincerely honour their good intentions. But I do not envy posterity, nor those who have still a long life before them. Formerly I used to envy fools, imbeciles, and people with a high opinion of themselves, and I would willingly have changed my lot with any one of them. Now, I envy neither fools, nor the wise, the great, the small, the weak, the powerful. I envy the dead, and with them alone would I exchange my lot. Every pleasurable fancy, every thought of the future that comes to me in my solitude, and with which I pass away the time, is allied with the thought of death, from which it is inseparable. And in this longing, neither the remembrance of my childish dreams, nor the thought of having lived in vain, disturbs me any more as formerly. When death comes to me, I shall die as peacefully and contentedly as if it were the only thing for which I had ever wished in the world. This is the sole prospect that reconciles me to Destiny.

If, on the one hand, I were offered the fortune and fame of CÊsar or Alexander, free from the least stain; and, on the other hand, death to-day, I should unhesitatingly choose to die to-day.

[Footnote 1: Written in 1834.]

THE END.