Chapter XII: Part 12

“O sacred innocence, that sweetly sleeps
On turtle’s feathers! whilst a guilty conscience
Is a perspective that foreshows us hell.”

_ONCE DENIED, THRICE DENIED._

ST. MATTHEW xxvi, 69, _sq._

Lie engenders lie. Once committed, the liar has to go on in his course of lying. It is the penalty of his transgression, or one of the penalties. To the habitual liar, bronzed and hardened in the custom, till custom becomes second nature, the penalty may seem no very terrible price to pay. To him, on the other hand, who, without deliberate intent, and against his innermost will, is overtaken with such a fault, the generative power of a first lie to beget others, the necessity of supporting the first by a second and a third, is a retribution keenly to be felt, while penitently owned to be most just.

Though it was afar off that Peter followed his Master to the high-priest’s house, yet he did follow; and, we may be sure, with little thought, and still less intention, of denying Him even once. But as he sat by the fire and warmed himself, the identification of him by a certain maid as certainly a disciple of Christ was boldly met by the affirmation, or negation, “Woman, I know Him not.” The lie was uttered; the winged word of falsehood was on its way. And there an end, he perhaps hoped. But after a little while, another bystander recognised him, and asserted the damaging recognition, “Thou art also of them.” Another denial was the consequence: “Man, I am not.” An hour passed away, and Peter, in sullen misery and bewilderment, self-consciously an abject coward and confirmed liar, had to deny for the third time Him he had denied once and again. “Of a truth,” affirmed another of the mixed company, “this fellow also was with Him; for he is a Galilean.” And Peter said, “Man, I know not what thou sayest.” And then the cock crew. And then the Lord turned and looked upon Peter. And at that look—so upbraidingly expressive, so pathetically recalling recent protestations of unfaltering allegiance, and the concurrent prediction of lapse and abandonment—what could Peter do, but with shame and confusion of face, and with a heart full to bursting, go out, and weep bitterly.

When he thought thereon, he wept: thought of the Master’s look, that recalled to him the vehement assurance of loyalty met by the foretelling of his fall. Thought, too, of the graduation of his denials; a first involving a second, and the second exacting yet a third. The third was the cost of the first. He had not counted the cost then. He had to pay it now.

It was part of the prophet’s burden of woes against the doomed city, that she had “wearied herself with lies.” Easily uttered, they may multiply at a rate to trouble the teller of them, and weary him, if only with the necessity of inventing new ones to back the old. He must ever be devising fresh vouchers for his impaired and imperilled credit. He must continually be endorsing his forged notes, and forging fresh ones that will stand inspection. _Fallacia alia aliam trudit._ And this is weary work.

“En quel gouffre de soins et de perplexité
Nous jette une action faite sans equité.”

And as with actions, so with words. The same speaker of the foregoing couplet utters elsewhere the lament,—

“Ma fourbe est découverte. Oh! que la vérité
Se peut cacher longtemps avec difficulté!”

So we read in Molière. And Corneille has a play (not original) entirely devoted to the illustration of this subject, showing _qu’il faut bonne mémoire acrès qu’on a menti_; the Menteur κατ’ ἐξοχὴν, being one who _entasse fourbe sur fourbe_, and is constrained by the law of his nature, at least of habit, which is second nature, to be ever adding to the heap of lies to which he has committed himself. A Spanish proverb—and _Le Menteur_ is from the Spanish—declares that “for an honest man half his wits is enough, while the whole are too little for a knave;” the ways, that is, as Archbishop Trench expounds the adage, of truth and uprightness are so simple and plain, that a little wit is abundantly sufficient for those who walk in them; whereas the ways of falsehood and fraud are so perplexed and tangled, that sooner or later all the wit of the cleverest rogue will not preserve him from being entangled therein—a truth often and wonderfully confirmed in the lives of evil men.

Among the aphorisms of Dean Swift we read: “He who tells a lie is not sensible how great a task he undertakes; for he must be forced to invent twenty more to maintain that one.”

It has been called the severe, but appropriate, punishment of historians who desert the paths of truth for those of paradox, to be compelled to defend the falsehood to which they have committed themselves against the ever-accumulating evidences of the truth. Mr. Robertson, of Brighton, feelingly sketches the case of one who, being unprepared and accosted suddenly, says hastily that which is irreconcileable with strict truth; then to substantiate and make it look probable, misrepresents or invents something else; and so has woven round himself a mesh which will entangle his conscience through many a weary day and many a sleepless night.[31] One burden laid on fault, he goes on to show, is that chain of entanglement which seems to drag down to fresh sins. “One step necessitates many others. One fault leads to another, and crime to crime. The soul gravitates downward beneath its burden. It was profound knowledge which prophetically refused to limit Peter’s sin to once. ‘Verily I say unto thee ... thou shalt deny me thrice.’”

Mr. Froude shows us Queen Elizabeth stooping to “a deliberate lie.” At times, he says, writing of her embarrassed policy in 1565, she “seemed to struggle with her ignominy, but it was only to flounder deeper into distraction and dishonour.” In October of that year she publicly denied that she had encouraged the rebellion in Scotland. In November, we read, “Never had Elizabeth been in greater danger; and the worst features of the peril were the creations of her own untruths.” Again, in May, 1566: “Meanwhile Elizabeth was reaping a harvest of inconveniences for her exaggerated demonstrations of friendliness” to the Queen of Scots. Mary taking her at her word, “Vainly Elizabeth struggled to extricate herself from her dilemma; resentment was still pursuing her for her treachery in the past autumn.... She could but shuffle and equivocate in a manner which had become too characteristic.”[32] She was but paying the price of lies—the being constrained to go on lying still. It is certain, affirms a popular essayist, that nobody yet ever did anything wrong in this world without having to tell one or more falsehoods to begin with: the embryo murderer has to tell a lie about the pistol or dagger, the would-be suicide about the poison he purchases; and in fine, “the ways down which the bad ship Wickedness slides to a shoreless ocean must be greased with lies.”[33]

English reviewers not long since were prompt to recognise in Balzac’s “La Marâtre,” as revived to Parisian popularity, what they rightly accounted wonderful, a moral immaculate and beyond reproach. And what is that moral? “The necessity of a life of lying as a punishment for the one great lie of a mercenary marriage.” One great lie is put out to interest, and the interest is compound. One great lie involves a ramification of others, great or small, if there be comparatives of magnitude in such matters; and memory, if not conscience, is for ever on the stretch. The sad expedient of renewed issues is a necessity. As with the involved victim in one of Crabbe’s Tales:—

“Such is his pain, who, by his debt oppress’d,
Seeks by new bonds a temporary rest.”

To another section, and with another starting-point from Holy Writ, may be referred some remaining illustrations of the subject.

_LINKED LIES._

GENESIS xxvii. 19-24.

Jacob in Esau’s goodly raiment, and his smooth skin overlaid with goatskins, was duly prepared for a consistent course of deception. But the lie upon lie he had to tell before his end was gained, must have sorely tried what of conscience he then had. The primary falsehood,—distinctly enounced in answer to his blind sire’s “Who art thou?” “I am Esau, thy firstborn,” come back from the chase with the venison Isaac had desired of his firstborn,—this initial lie had immediately to be backed by another. How had he found it so quickly? There is something revolting in the style of the unfaltering fabrication at once ready to hand, “Because the Lord thy God brought it to me.” Then ensued that solution of the old man’s misgivings by a manual examination of the disguised pretender; it was Esau’s hirsute skin, sure enough, though the voice was Jacob’s. But the blessing was given. And even after that eventful benediction, the patriarch, with a yet lingering apprehension, renewed the pointed question, in its directest form, “Art thou my very son Esau?” And Jacob said, “I am.” Lie linked to lie, in a concatenation accordingly.

_Solent mendaces luere pœnas malefici_, says Phædrus: liars usually pay the penalty of their guilt. And Mrs. Browning vigorously states one distinctive penalty, where she speaks of those who—

... “Pay the price
Of lies, by being constrained to lie on still.”

The author of “Romola” powerfully illustrates in that remarkable book the embarrassments involved in one cowardly departure from truth. In the chapter headed “Tito’s Dilemma,” the occasion arises for Tito to fabricate an ingenious lie; an occasion “which circumstance never fails to beget on tacit falsity.” Many chapters farther on we find him experiencing the inexorable law of human souls, that we prepare ourselves for sudden deeds by the reiterated choice of good or evil that gradually determines character; and it becomes a question whether all the resources of lying will save him from being crushed by the consequences of his habitual choice. At another juncture we read: “Tito felt more and more confidence as he went on; the lie was not so difficult when it was once begun; and as the words fell easily from his lips, they gave him a sense of power such as men feel when they have begun a muscular feat successfully.” The penalty is enforced a few pages later. “But he had borrowed from the terrible usurer Falsehood, and the loan had mounted and mounted with the years, till he belonged to the usurer, body and soul.” Again: “To-night he had paid a heavier price than ever to make himself safe.”[34]

In the American story of “The Gayworthys,” the like moral attaches to the course of one unhappy woman who lets herself slide, half involuntarily, into deeper wrong: she holds her peace; she makes herself passive. “Her very soul lied to itself in its false, bewildered reasonings; that is the inherent retribution of false souls.” There are some acts of folly, remarks the most popular, probably, of contemporary English penwomen, which carry falsehood and dissimulation at their heels as certainly as the shadows which follow us when we walk towards the evening sun; and we very rarely swerve from the severe boundary-line of right without being dragged ever so much farther than we calculated upon across the border.

Corneille’s celebrated play, “Le Menteur,”—but for reading which Molière asserts his belief that he would never have written a comedy himself,—is “conveyed” from a Spanish original, and has itself been Englished by Fielding; the ingenuity of the piece consisting in the manner in which one lie is made to call for another, until their wholesale employer is inextricably caught in the toils.

“This is the curse of every evil deed,—
That, propagating still, it brings forth evil,”

laments the elder Piccolomini, in Schiller’s trilogy. The commission of one wrong, says Owen Feltham, puts a man upon a thousand wrongs, perhaps, to maintain that one: injury, with injury is defended; and we commit a greater, to maintain a less. “A lie begets a lie, till generations succeed.” Mr. Carlyle sternly moralises on the growth of accumulated falsities,—“sad opulence descending by inheritance, always at compound interest, and always largely increased by fresh acquirement on such immensity of standing capital.” One lie, says Owen, must be thatched with another, or it will soon rain through.

Benvenuto Cellini records in his autobiography, the bitter experiences he endured in being tempted to lie to the duke, his patron, lest he should forfeit the favour of the duchess—he who “was always a lover of truth and an enemy to falsehood, being then under a necessity of telling lies.” “As I had begun to tell lies, I plunged deeper and deeper into the mire,”—till a very Slough of Despond it became to him.

Fool that he was, exclaims Mr. Trollope, of one of his characters in “Framley Parsonage:” “A man can always do right, even though he has done wrong before. But the previous wrong adds so much difficulty to the path—a difficulty which increases in tremendous ratio, till a man at last is choked in his struggling, and is drowned beneath the waters.” Mr. Thackeray sermonises to the same effect: “And so, my dear sir, seeing that after committing any infraction of the moral laws, you must tell lies in order to back yourself out of your scrape, let me ask you whether you had not better forego the crime, so as to avoid the unavoidable, and unpleasant, and daily-recurring necessity of the subsequent perjury?” And the cleverest character this master of social satire ever drew, confesses how it jarred on her to begin telling lies to a confiding, simple friend: “But that is the misfortune of beginning with this kind of forgery. When one fib becomes due as it were, you must forge another to take up the old acceptance; and so the stock of your lies in circulation inevitably multiplies, and the danger of detection increases every day.”

Jeremy Taylor quaintly says of the devil in the ancient oracles, “When he was put to it at his oracles, and durst not tell a downright lie, and yet knew not what was truth, many times he was put to the most pitiful shifts, and trifling equivocations, and acts of knavery, which, when they were discovered, ... it made him much more contemptible and ridiculous than if he had said nothing or confessed his ignorance.”

A lie has been called a two-edged sword without a hilt, which is sure to slip and cut the hand that holds it. “After telling one lie, we are sure to tell another; and usually, after spinning a silly, very complicated, and disgusting web, which entangles and chokes us, we find out that if we had told the truth, it would have been much the easier and better plan.” Lying is likened, again, to borrowing of money-lenders; for the credit which we get by it we have always to pay heavily for; and at last we find that the interest by far exceeds the principal, and we get so inextricably involved that we never fully recover. “He who tells a lie,” says Pope, “is not sensible how great a task he undertakes; for he must be forced to invent twenty more to maintain that one.” Johnson observes that nobody can live long without knowing that falsehoods of convenience or vanity are very lightly uttered, and when once uttered are sullenly supported. He reminds us that Boileau, who desired to be thought a rigorous and steady moralist, having told a petty lie to Lewis the Fourteenth, continued it afterwards by false dates, thinking himself obliged in honour to maintain what, when he said it, was so well received. Pope himself is taxed with similar mendacity by Mr. de Quincey, who charges him, on a certain literary question, with knowingly “preparing for himself a dire necessity of falsehood.... Once launched upon such a course, he became pledged and committed to all the difficulties which it might impose. Desperate necessities would arise, from which nothing but desperate lying and hard swearing could extricate him.” And at a subsequent stage in the _facilis descensus_ he is described, rather imaginatively, as feeling, and groaning as he felt, that fresh falsehoods were in peremptory demand. “This comes of telling lies,” is supposed to be his bitter reflection: “one lie makes a necessity for another.”

The Leucippus of Beaumont and Fletcher thus admonishes an intimate:—

“My sin, Ismenus, has wrought all this ill:
And I beseech thee to be warned by me,
And do not lie, if any man should ask thee
But how thou dost, or what o’clock ’tis now;
Be sure thou do not lie, make no excuse
For him that is most near thee; never let
The most officious falsehood ’scape thy tongue,
For they above (that are entirely Truth)
Will make the seed which thou hast sown of lies,
Yield miseries a thousand-fold
Upon thine head, as they have done on mine.”

_A TIME TO WEEP, AND A TIME TO LAUGH._

ECCLESIASTES iii. 4.

As to everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the sun,—for as Shakspeare words it, “How many things by season seasoned are to their right praise and true perfection!”—be sure that the Wise King includes laughter and weeping in the list. “A time to weep, and a time to laugh.” Acquainted with grief, he had also been familiar with merriment. He had said in his heart, Go to, now, I will prove thee with mirth; but the result was that he said of laughter, It is mad; and of mirth, What doeth it?—For all this, he freely recognises a time to laugh, so that one keep to the time. So much depends, here, on the due observance of times and seasons. It is with the frivolous habit of laughing out of season, and at all seasons, that the following notes are concerned.

The laureate’s is a good keynote to begin with:—

“Prythee weep, May Lilian!
Gaiety without eclipse
Wearieth me, May Lilian.”

So with Barry Cornwall and his Hermione:—

“Something thou dost want, O queen!
(As the gold doth ask alloy,)
Tears,—amidst thy laughter seen,
Pity,—mingling with the joy.”

Such a conjunction as the courtier records of Cordelia in “King Lear”—sunshine and rain at once: “her smiles and tears were like a better day: those happy smiles that played on her ripe lip, seemed not to know what guests were in her eyes:” “in brief, sorrow would be a rarity most beloved, if all could so become it.” Nothing, we often hear it said, is so tedious as uniformity; and under the bright sky of Italy one sometimes sighs for a cloud. “A gay writer, who,” says Horace Walpole, “should only express satisfaction without variety, would soon be nauseous.” Johnson’s Papilius winds up his confession, in the “Rambler,” with a whine on the melancholy necessity of supporting that character by study, which he gained by levity; having learned too late that gaiety must be recommended by higher qualities, and that mirth can never please long but as the efflorescence of a mind loved for its luxuriance, but esteemed for its usefulness. There must be fruitage as well as blossomy “efflorescence;” as Cowper is fain to enforce, when in the closing lines of the “Task,” he records how he once, when called to dress a sofa with the flowers of verse, played awhile with that light task, obedient to the fair:—

... “but soon, to please her more,
Whom flowers alone I knew would little please,
Let fall the unfinished wreath, and roved for fruit.”

Mark Mrs. Browning’s picture of the Lady Geraldine:—

“In her utmost lightness there is truth—and often she speaks lightly—
Has a grace in being gay, which even mournful souls approve,
For the root of some grave earnest thought is understruck so rightly
As to justify the foliage and the waving flowers above.”

So with Lord Lytton’s Helen Mainwaring, the sunny gladness of whose nature must have vent like a bird’s, though he forbids us to fancy that that gladness speaks the levity which comes from the absence of thought: “it is rather from the depth of thought that it springs, as from the depth of a sea comes its music.” Well and wisely Molière’s Cléonte exclaims, “Veux-tu de ces enjouements épanouis, de ces joies toujours ouvertes? et vois tu rien de plus impertinent que des femmes qui rient à tout propos?” Such a _femme_ as the same author’s Zerbinette, a self-convicted giggler in and out of season, yet whose confession may be twisted into an example the other way, when she says, “J’ai l’humeur enjouée, et sans cesse je ris: mais, tout en riant, je suis sérieuse sur de certains chapitres.”

Among the writings of M. de St. Evremond there is an essay on the Idea of a Woman that never was, nor ever will be found. Emilia he calls this all too perfect, impossible she. And amongst the foremost of Emilia’s fine qualities he reckons the co-existence of seriousness _au fond_ with vivacity of mien. “For we find that the gayest humour doth, at length, become tiresome; ... the most effervescent liveliness either disgusts or wearies you.” In the case of the celebrated Duchesse de Longueville, De Retz notices the exquisite effect of the sudden bursts of gaiety which would at times dispel her habitual but not inexpressive languor. Mdlle. de Scudéry, in her “Clélie,” was painting a well-known, perhaps too well-known, contemporary in the person of Clarice, when, “parmi toute cette disposition qu’elle a pour la joie,” she ascribes to this charmer, _qui rit si aisément_, a facile faculty of tear-shedding: _elle sait pleurer_, whenever occasion justifies weeping. As Lady Eastlake says, in her little treatise on Music, a change of key is the most powerful engine in the hands of a musician: we cannot bear the monotony of one key long, even the most joyful: “Gaiety without eclipse wearieth me, May Lilian.” We long for “a mournful muse, soft pity to infuse.” The Hon. Miss Byron takes the liberty of telling the sister of Sir Charles Grandison that “Your brother has hinted, Charlotte, that he loves you for your vivacity, and should still more, if you consulted time and occasion.” The affections are justly said to be more readily called into play by a mixture of mirth and melancholy; ours being a twofold life, the union of mortal with immortal, we covet happiness, yet turn back anon to the more majestic form of sorrow. There is a form of cheerfulness which, we are assured, nobody can stand:—

“Send me hence a thousand miles
From a face that always smiles;”

people ostentatiously and pretentiously cheerful being not unfrequently foolish people: their spirits of a brisk but thin quality—nothing about them in good working order. “For, in truth, the most fortunate existence has cares enough to make gravity our normal condition.” Roland Graeme, in the “Abbot,” earnestly assures his vivacious companion, “Ay, but, fair Catherine, there are moments of deep and true feeling, which are worth ten thousand years of liveliest mirth.” Melancholy Minna is a fine relief by contrast to laughter-loving Brenda; and it is suggestively told us of the old Udaller, their sire, that he liked his graver damsel better in the walk without doors, and his merry maiden better by the fireside; and that if he preferred Brenda after the glass circulated in the evening, he gave the preference to Minna before noon. So with Molly and Cynthia in “Wives and Daughters:” Molly always gentle, but very grave and silent; Cynthia merry, full of pretty mockeries, and hardly ever silent—only this constant brilliancy became a little tiresome in everyday life, being not the sunshiny rest of a placid lake, so much as the “glitter of the pieces of a broken mirror, which confuses and bewilders.” The union of what can be harmonized of the two distinctive characters, is sure to be engaging in no ordinary degree. As in the Beryl of “George Geith.” “You imagine,” says Beryl, on one occasion, “because it is necessary to my existence to laugh at people’s oddities, that I never feel for their woes. You think, because I have a quick sense of the ludicrous, that I have no eyes for grief. And there you do me an injustice.” Such as Beryl will be found to take exception to predominant levity in the masculine gender, after the manner of the fair tenant of Wildfell Hall: “I do wish he would be sometimes serious,” she writes of her endeared Arthur: “I cannot get him to write or speak in real, solid earnest. I don’t mind it now, but if it be always so, what shall I do with the serious part of myself?” Tired out with such companionship, a complainant in one of Lovell Beddoes’ tragedies exclaims,—

“I’m weary of their laughter’s empty din.
Methinks, these fellows, with their ready jests,
Are like to tedious bells, that ring alike
Marriage or death.”

Rather than have her uniformly saccharine and smiling, Ben Jonson’s Curius avowedly would have his mistress “angry sometimes, to sweeten off the rest of her behaviour.”

* * * * *

Sir Walter Scott, in one page of his Diary, noting the break-up of a hilarious group of guests at Abbotsford, adds the avowal, “I am not sorry, being one of those whom too much mirth always inclines to sadness.” Even the bright extremes of joy, as Thomas Hood the elder words it, bring on conclusions of disgust:—

“There is no music in the life
That sounds with idiot laughter solely;
There’s not a string attuned to mirth
But has its chord in melancholy.”

Leigh Hunt tenderly tells one of his grandchildren how, when _he_ was a child, and in excessive spirits, his dear mother would sometimes say to him, “Leigh, come and sit down here by me, and let us try to think a little.” Better that than _riant sans cesse_, even for a child. When I was a child, says the apostle, I thought as a child. Thinking was not out of the question even then, though it might, and by comparison with the man’s it must, be childish thinking. For children as for men, a time to laugh and a time to weep. True, there are differences of gifts and temperaments:—

“To some men God hath given laughter; but tears to some men He hath
given:
He bade us sow in tears, hereafter to harvest holier smiles in Heaven;
And tears and smiles, they are His gift: both good, to smite or to
uplift.
He knows His sheep: the wind and showers beat not too sharply the
shorn lamb:
His wisdom is more wise than ours: He knew my nature—what I am:
He tempers smiles with tears: both good, to bear in time the
Christian mood.”

_DISALLOWED DESIGNS._

PROVERBS xix. 21.

“There are many devices in a man’s heart; nevertheless, the counsel of the Lord, that shall stand.” Even the counsels of the prudent He bringeth to nought. “There is no wisdom, nor understanding, nor counsel, against the Lord,” nor any that prospers without Him. Without Him, where is the wise? where is the scribe? What, after all, is the wisdom of the children of this world, wiser in their generation than the children of light? Hath not God made foolish the wisdom of this world? For it is written, “I will destroy the wisdom of the wise.” Nay; unworldly wisdom, in its forming of plans, and elaboration of schemes, and devising of devices, enjoys no privileged immunity from failure, at the veto of Him who chargeth His angels with folly. “L’homme propose, Dieu dispose.” The Divine disposal of human proposals is ofttimes very summary and entire.

The proverb, “Man proposes, God disposes,” is believed by one learned in such lore to be naturalised in every nation of Europe:—thus the Spanish, “La gente pone, y Dios dispone;” the German, with its corresponding jingle, “Der Mensch denkt’s, Gott lenkt’s,” etc., so deeply upon all men is impressed the sense of Hamlet’s assertion of a Divinity that shapes our ends, rough-hew them how we will. Molière’s shrewd-spoken Dorine enounces a truism when reminding Damis that,—

“On n’exécute pas tout ce qui se propose;
Et le chemin est long du projet à la chose.”

A wise man endeavours, it has been said, by considering all circumstances, to make conjectures and form conclusions: but the smallest accident intervening (and in the course of affairs it is impossible to foresee all) often produces such turns and changes, that at last he is just as much in doubt of events as the most ignorant and inexperienced person. What Shakspeare in his sonnets calls “millioned accidents” creep in between design and result, between plan and performance, between scheme and issue, and “blunt the sharpest intents.” As the old moralising poet, modernised by Dryden, puts it—

“But see how Fortune can confound the wise,
And when they least expect it, turn the dice.”

Fortune, or fate, is the popularly recognised agent in these reversals and collapses; and subtile philosophers speculate curiously on the plenipotent character of this agency. One such, for example, predisposed to paradox may-be, yet no heedless or hasty penman, affirms, that if you look closely into the matter, it will be seen that whatever appears most vagrant, and utterly purposeless, turns out, in the end, to have been impelled the most surely on a preordained and unswerving track. Chance and change, he goes on to remark, love to deal with men’s unsettled plans, not with their idle vagaries. So that, as he argues the matter, if we desire unexpected and unimaginable events, we should contrive an iron framework, such as we fancy may compel the future to take one inevitable shape; for then comes in the unexpected, and shatters our design in fragments.

The biographer of Columbus, narrating the story of his shipwreck in 1492, describes him as passing, with his usual excitability, from a state of doubt and anxiety to one of sanguine anticipation, and thus coming to consider his present misfortune as a providential event mysteriously ordained by Heaven to work out the success of his enterprise. At once, therefore, he began to look forward to glorious fruits to be reaped from this seeming evil, and laid his plans accordingly. “Such was the visionary yet generous enthusiasm of Columbus, the moment that prospects of vast wealth broke upon his mind. What in some spirits would have awakened a grasping and sordid avidity to accumulate, immediately filled his imagination with plans of magnificent expenditure. But how vain are our attempts to interpret the inscrutable decrees of Providence! The shipwreck, which Columbus considered the act of Divine favour, to reveal to him the secrets of the land, shackled and limited all his after-discoveries.” For it is shown to have linked his fortunes, for the remainder of his life, to this island, which was doomed to be to him a source of cares and troubles, to involve him in a thousand perplexities, and to becloud his declining years with humiliation and disappointment.

“Le ciel agit sans nous en ces événements,
Et ne les régle point dessus nos sentiments.”

It is instructive to note in the memoirs of Gabriel Naudé, that great scholar’s exultant anticipation of the public opening of the library he had mainly helped to form. He must have reckoned on that day as a _beau jour_ for him, the happiest day of his life; and he arranged a fête accordingly, to be celebrated with his most intimate friends. But that very day broke out the public troubles of the Fronde; and barricades in the streets of Paris ill accorded with Gabriel Naudé’s cherished hopes. “Ainsi vont les projets humains sous l’œil d’en haut qui les déjoue.” The Scotch ploughman-poet, eyeing the mouse and its “wee bit housie, too, in ruin,” as turned up by his plough, gave racy utterance to but a trite reflection, when, apostrophising the “wee sleekit, cow’rin, tim’rous beastie,” he thus moralised his song:—

“But, mousie, thou art no thy lane,
In proving foresight may be vain:
The best-laid schemes o’ mice an’ men
Gang aft a-gley,
And leave us nought but grief an’ pain,
For promised joy.”

As the good friar in Shakspeare has it,—

“A greater power than we can contradict
Hath thwarted our intents,”

well laid and discreetly devised as they seemed to be.

And as with the seemingly laudable plans of the prudent, so with the arrogant designs of the self-confident. The enemy said, “I will pursue, I will overtake, I will divide the spoil; my lust shall be satisfied upon them; I will draw my sword; my hand shall destroy them.” Thus said the enemy, even Pharaoh’s host, on the shores of the Red Sea. But then sang Moses and the children of Israel this song unto the Lord: “Thou didst blow with Thy wind, the sea covered them; they sank as lead in the mighty waters.” It is but an emphasised reading of the standard text, that the Lord bringeth the counsel of the heathen to nought, and maketh the devices of the people of none effect, and casteth out the counsel of princes. Whereas, turning from man proposing to God disposing, “The counsel of the Lord shall endure for ever, and the thoughts of His heart from generation to generation.” The same is He of whom it is written that He turneth wise men backwards, and maketh their knowledge foolish.

Wordsworth, ever a moralist, moralised his song when, at a critical juncture in the legend of the “White Doe of Rylstone,” he interposed this reflection:—

“But quick the turns of chance and change,
And knowledge has a narrow range;
Whence idle fears, and needless pain,
And wishes blind, and efforts vain.”

For a closing variation on the present theme, a worse might be found than this from the play within the play of “Hamlet:”—

“But, orderly to end where I begun,—
Our wills, our fates, do so contrary run,
That our devices still are overthrown;
Our thoughts are ours, their ends none of our own.”

But, with a slight change of title and text, the same theme is pursued, in the section next ensuing, through another fugue-course of variations.

_MAN DEVISING, GOD DIRECTING._

PROVERBS xvi. 9.

“A man’s heart deviseth his way; but the Lord directeth his steps.” Man devises, God directs; man proposes, God disposes. There is a way that seemeth right unto a man, and practicable, plausible, easy of accomplishment, and sure of success. But the counsel of the Lord puts a veto on the scheme; and the counsel of the Lord, that shall stand.

Luther charges it against princes and potentates in his day, that when they take in hand an enterprise, they do not pray before they begin, but set to work calculating: three times three make nine, twice seven are fourteen—so-and-so will do so-and-so—in this manner will the business come to a prosperous issue: “but our Lord God says unto them, For whom then do ye hold me? for a cypher? Do I sit here above in vain, and to no purpose? Ye shall know, that I will twist your accounts about finely, and make them all false reckonings.”

Says old Alice, in “Mary Barton,” “I sometimes think the Lord is against planning. Whene’er I plan over much, He is sure to send and mar all my plans, as if He would ha’ me put the future into His hands. Afore Christmas-time I was as full as full could be of going home for good and all; yo has heard how I’ve wished it this terrible long time.... Many a winter’s night did I lie awake and think that, please God, come summer, I’d go home at last. Little did I think how God Almighty would baulk me for not leaving my days in His hands, who had led me through the wilderness hitherto.” It is very like Rousseau to say, in reference to a fully determined project of his, for the fulfilment of which nothing was wanting but “ce qui ne dépend pas des hommes dans les projets les mieux concertés,”—that “on dirait qu’il n’y a que les noirs complots des méchants qui réussissent; les projets innocents des bons n’ont presque jamais d’accomplissement.” But who can hope for anything like contentment, as Mr. Helps somewhere asks, so long as he continues to attach that ridiculous degree of importance to the events of this life which so many people are inclined to do? Observe, he bids us, the effect which it has upon them: they are most uncomfortable if their little projects do not turn out according to their fancy—nothing is to be angular to them—they regard external things as the only realities; and as they have fixed their abode here, they must have it arranged to their mind. Lady Mary Wortley Montagu assures one of her correspondents that never had she been so little mistress of her own time and actions as since she lived alone; and going on to account for this, she observes, “Mankind is placed in a state of dependency, not only on one another (which all are in some degree), but so many inevitable accidents thwart our designs and limit our best-laid projects.” The poor efforts of our utmost prudence, and political schemes, she fancies must appear in the eyes of some superior beings, like the pecking of a young linnet to break a wire cage, or the climbing of a squirrel in a hoop. If to this bit of morality from the greatest of lady letter-writers in England, a parallel passage may readily be cited from the greatest of lady letter-writers in France, there is a characteristic difference, in the tone of religious feeling, conspicuous generally by its absence in Lady Mary’s case, but a pervading, though underlying, force in that of Madame de Sévigné. The latter describes on one occasion the “cruel derangement” of her family plans, so nicely arranged, and so ripe for completion; then adds, if with a sigh, with a sigh of gentle resignation, “La Providence le veut ainsi. Elle est tellement maitresse de toutes nos actions, que nous n’exécutons rien que sous son bon plaisir, et je tache de ne faire de projets que le moins qu’il m’est possible, afin de n’être pas si souvent trompée; car qui compte sans elle compte deux fois.” How vain, exclaims the author of “Destiny,” are all our schemes for futurity! Human wisdom exhausts itself in devising what a higher Power shows to be vanity. We decide for to-day, and a passing moment scatters our decisions as chaff before the wind. We resolve for to-morrow, to-morrow comes but to root up our resolutions. We scheme for our works to remain monuments of our power and wisdom, and the most minute, the most trivial event is sufficient to overturn all our purposes, and cast down to the dust the thoughts and the labours of a life. Truly, “it is not in man that walketh to direct his steps.”

Were the affairs of this world to be guided implicitly by human wisdom, suggests one of Scott’s sententious doctors of divinity, or were they uniformly to fall out according to the conjectures of human foresight, events would no longer be under the domination of that time and chance which happen unto all men; since we should, in the one case, work out our own purposes to a certainty, by our own skill; and, in the other, regulate our conduct according to the views of unerring prescience. “But man is, while in this vale of tears, like an uninstructed bowler, so to speak, who thinks to attain the jack by delivering the bowl straightforward upon it, being ignorant that there is a concealed bias within the spheroid, which will make it, in all probability, swerve away, and lose the cast.” The future, in the words of a later fiction, is not a blank sheet of paper, for us to write any story we please upon, but a wonderful chart, mapped out by a Divine and unerring hand.

Ούδέ τις ἀνθρώπων ἐργάζεται, ἐν φρεσὶν εἰδὼς
Ἐς τέλος, εἴτ’ ἀγαθὸν γίγνεται εἴτε κακὸν.
Πολλάκι γαρ δοκέων θήσειν κακόν, ἐσθλὸν ἔθηκε,
Καί τε δοκῶν θήσειν ἐσθλόν, ἔθηκε κακόν.
Ὀυδέ τῳ ἀνθρώπων παραγίγνεται ὅσσ’ ἐθέλησεν.

When Mr. Thackeray propounds the query, Who can foresee everything, and always? and returns his own answer (a sufficiently safe one), Not the wisest amongst us,—he does so in reference to the counsels of the worldly woman who governed and directed the Newcome family; which counsels bore results so different from what that elderly lady desired, and foresaw. And he proceeds to point his moral by the tale of a French king’s fall. “When his majesty, Louis XIV., jockied his grandson on to the throne of Spain (founding thereby the present revered dynasty of that country), did he expect to peril his own, and bring all Europe about his royal ears? Could a late King of France, eager for the advantageous establishment of one of his darling sons, and anxious to procure a beautiful Spanish princess, with a crown and kingdom in reversion, for the simple and obedient youth, ever suppose that the welfare of his whole august race and reign would be upset by that smart speculation?” The master of irony professes to take only the most noble examples to illustrate the conduct of such a noble old personage as her ladyship of Kew, who brought a prodigious deal of trouble upon some of the innocent members of her family, whom no doubt she thought to better in life by her experienced guidance, and undoubted worldly wisdom. We may be as deep as Jesuits, he continues,—may know the world ever so well, lay the best ordered plans, and the profoundest combinations,—and by a certain not unnatural turn of fate, we, and our plans and combinations, are sent flying before the wind. “We may be as wise as Louis Philippe, that many counselled Ulysses whom the respectable world admired so; and after years of patient scheming, and prodigies of skill; after coaxing, wheedling, doubling, bullying wisdom, behold, yet stronger powers interpose: and schemes and skill and violence are nought.” As Schiller’s Wallenstein puts it, in his rather heathenish way—

“For jealous are the powers of destiny.
Joy premature, and shouts ere victory,
Encroach upon their rights and privileges.
We sow the seed, and they the growth determine.”

“Il y a,” in the words of a masterly French moralist, “je ne sais quelle _force cachée_, a dit Lucrèce (ce que d’autres avec Bossuet nommeront Providence), qui semble se plaire à briser les choses humaines, à faire manquer d’un coup l’appereil établi de la puissance, et à déjouer la pièce, juste au moment ou elle promettait de mieux aller.” O fate of fools! exclaims Zara, in the “Mourning Bride,”—“officious in contriving; in executing, puzzled, lame, and lost;” a rebuke which Selim deprecates in his reply:—

“Prescience is Heaven’s alone, not given to man.
If I have failed in what, as being man,
I needs must fail, impute not as a crime
My nature’s want.”

So with the resolute undertaking of Argantes, in Tasso, to slay Tancred, the slayer of his betrothed; all the people applauding his resolve, and rejoicing in the assurance that this—

“... boaster stout
Would kill the prince who late had slain his love.
O promise vain! it otherwise fell out.
Men purpose, but high gods dispose above;
For underneath his sword this boaster died,
Whom there he scorned and threatened in his pride.”

In Homer, again, how grieves Achilles, and, impetuous, vents to all his myrmidons his loud laments?

“By what vain promise, gods! did I engage,
When, to console Menætius’ feeble age,
I vowed his much-loved offspring to restore;
Charged with rich spoils to fair Opuntia’s shore.
But mighty Jove cuts short, with just disdain,
The long, long views of poor designing man!”

_A PURSEBEARER’S PROTEST AGAINST PURPOSELESS WASTE._

ST. JOHN xii. 5.

It was very costly ointment of spikenard that Mary took and anointed therewith the feet of Jesus, so that the house was filled with the odour of the ointment. So costly, that it set one of His apostles to work, counting the cost. Judas Iscariot was this ready reckoner. He was conversant with figures. He was the pursebearer of the apostolic circle, and knew, it seems, how and when and why to keep a tight finger on the purse-strings. The wasted contents—waste he accounted it—of that alabaster box might have been sold for three hundred denarii, and the proceeds given to the poor. As pursebearer he protested. And nominally his protest was in behalf of the poor.

Referring to that text in Exodus which tells how the people brought much more than enough for the service of the work which the Lord commanded to make, the question was put by a divine who, being dead, yet speaketh: When will the earth again hear that glad announcement? Yet, until we bring more than enough, he said, at least until there is kindled in us a spirit which will make us desire to do so, we shall never bring enough. “And ought we not? Your economists will say _No._ They who would think the sun a useful creature, if he would come down from the sky and light their fires, will gravely reprehend such wasteful extravagance.” This last figure of speech has its parallel in Mr. Carlyle’s estimate of “the uses of this Dante:” he declines to say much about his “uses;” he holds that an influence working, like Dante’s, into the depths of our existence, and feeding through long times the life-roots of all excellent things whatsoever, is not to be very satisfactorily computed by “utilities.” Dante shall therefore be invaluable, or of no value: “We will not estimate the sun by the quantity of gas-light it saves us.”

Judas the pursebearer was, as a French divine characterizes him, _exact_, _positif_, _calculateur_; one who habituated himself to compute everything by a ready-money standard, and to appraise every action by the rule of immediate utility. He might be accurate to a fraction in his reckoning of what that “wasted” ointment would have fetched in the market; but, had not his heart been already in some sort ossified, he would have comprehended that “au dessus de l’utile il y a le beau, et au dessus du calcul le dévouement, et qu’ à une âme qui déborde d’une joie extraordinaire il faut des moyens extraordinaires aussi pour exprimer ce qu’elle éprouve. Judas a perdu le sens des réalités purement spirituelles, qui lui paraissent vagues, parce que, comme l’infini, elles résistent aux chiffres.”

When Dr. Justus Jonas told Dr. Martin Luther of a certain potent landholder, who said to Duke John Frederic, when commending to him the gospel of Christ, “Sir, the gospel pays no interest,”—“Have you no grains?” was Luther’s interrogative comment,—citing the words of the swine at the lion’s feast, when invited to feast on recondite dainties. Even so, said Dr. Martin, there are inveterate worldlings who, when invited to the spiritual feast of fat things well refined, “turn up their snouts, and ask for guilders. Offer a cow nutmeg, and she will reject it for old hay.”

It is a too true bill of indictment against the mass of men, that, knowing that two and two make four, and that four is of a higher value than three, they practically conclude, carrying out into practice the conclusion, that to amass is to become wealthy, and that to bestow is to become the poorer. With this arithmetic the children of this world are wise in their generation, and add field to field, house to house, to some purpose. But by what right, asks a voice from the sanctuary, do they take upon themselves to pronounce on such qualities and realities as devotion and charity, as detachment from the “good things of this life” and renunciation of indulgence to the senses? If they witness a deed of noble self-sacrifice, they can but wag their heads, in shocked surprise and bewilderment at such a blunder in arithmetic, _une telle faute de calcul_. “Ils ne comprennent pas qu’on puisse soupirer après d’autres biens que ceux de la matière, après d’autres vérités que celles de l’arithmétique.” There are many, very many more things than are dreamt of in their philosophy; dreaming, indeed, is rather out of their way; and perhaps philosophy too, for the matter of that.

Coleridge, denouncing the “moral” consequences of Napoleon’s tyranny, as far more to be dreaded than the worst of those outward and calculable evils, which chiefly shock the imaginations of men, is out of all patience with such objections as, “What _good_ will the Tyrolese do themselves by their heroic resistance?” “What are the Spaniards fighting for?” etc.,—as if man were made only to eat above ground, and be eaten; as if we had no dignity to preserve, no conscience to obey, no immortality to expect.

What good can it do him? demands the vulgar fine lady in “Cecil,” who hears that a certain well-to-do man of genius has written a book. A man, she argues, writes for money or distinction: what can be this man’s object? he don’t want to be made a baronet, nor does he want to increase his income. Where can be the _use_ of writing? And where, she is (by cross-questioning) answered, can be the use to the aloe of its flower, to the mine of its gold? Oldbuck of Monkbarns might have done worse than parody, as he did, the “brutal ignorance” of your _cui bono_ querists of the baser sort, in the strain of Gray’s Bard,—

“Weave the warp and weave the woof,
The winding-sheet of wit and sense;
Dull garment of defensive proof
’Gainst all that does not gather pence.”

That a new machine, a new experiment, the discovery of a salt, or of a bone, should, in England, receive a wider homage, than the most profound speculation from which no obvious results are apprehended,—this way of contemplating affairs Mr. Buckle was prompt to own as certainly productive of great good. But he also took care to declare it to be, with equal certainty, a one-sided way, satisfying a part only of the human mind—many of the noblest intellects craving for something which it cannot supply. There are mortals who, as a clerical essayist has said, cannot understand or sympathise with the gratification arising from a study of graceful and beautiful objects; who think that the supply of animal necessities is all that any man (but themselves, perhaps) can need. What more can he want? they exclaim, if the man be well-fed, and well-dressed, and well-lodged. Why, if he had been a horse or a pig, is the answer, he would have wanted nothing more; but the possession of a rational soul brings with it pressing wants which are not of a material nature, not to be supplied by material things, and not felt by pigs and horses. And the craving for surrounding objects of grace and beauty is held to be one of these. Mr. Emerson, in his far-going way, goes so far as to say, as regards the “base rate at which the highest mental and moral gifts are held” in his country,—that let a man attain the highest and broadest culture that any American has possessed, then let him die by sea-storm, railroad collision, or other accident, “and all America will acquiesce that the best thing has happened to him; that, after the education has gone far, such is the expensiveness of America, that the best use to put a fine person to, is, to drown him to save his board.” M. de Tocqueville somewhere observes, that to cross almost impenetrable forests, to swim deep rivers, to encounter pestilential marshes, to sleep exposed to the damp air of the woods,—these are efforts which an American easily conceives, if a dollar is to be gained by them—that is the point; but that a man should take such journeys from curiosity, he cannot understand. The German poet is often cited for his remark, that the Cow of Isis is to some the divine symbol of knowledge, to others but the milch cow, only regarded for the pounds of butter she will yield. An English sympathiser exclaims, “O tendency of our age, to look on Isis as the milch cow! Gaze on the goddess,” he bids a sordid aspirant, “and get ready the churn and thy scales, and let us see what butter will fetch in the market.” When Judge Haliburton’s typical Yankee is asked by the old minister what he thinks of Niagara, and forthwith expatiates on the “grand spec” it offers for factory purposes—for carding mills, fulling mills, cotton mills, grain mills, saw mills, plaster mills, and never a want of water for any or all of them, his pastor upbraids him with almost sacrilege in that style of talk; exclaiming, “How that dreadful thirst of gain has absorbed all other feelings in our people, when such an idea could be entertained for a moment! It [Niagara] is a grand spectacle, it is the voice of nature in the wilderness, proclaiming to the untutored tribes there of the power and majesty and glory of God.... Talk not to me of mills, factories, and machinery, sir, nor of introducing the money-changers into the temple of the Lord.”

_LIGHT AT EVENING-TIME._

ZECHARIAH xiv. 7.