There is a poet in America named Walt Whitman, considered inspired by his friends, half insane by his enemies, and he has written a certain chaunt, called Salut au monde, in which he takes a most comprehensive, and at the same time, minute view of the world, and all its wonders of men, and salutes all at the same time as his brothers. I often wonder what he would feel, could he stand on the quays of Queenstown and see the floating cities that glide day after day into our port, and as silently depart, each with its freight of humanity gathered from every part of the civilised and even uncivilised world. To any reflective mind it is a strange and suggestive sight. What the mind of the poet conceived is brought directly under our eyes. Men of all nations under heaven are gathered together in those huge black vessels that steal into our harbours every morning, and as silently steal away at mid-day, or in the evening; and many of those visitors of ours represent not only their own individuality, but are the originators of ideas which are revolutionising the worldthe high priests of new philosophical systemsthe centres towards which thousands, ay, even millions, are looking, very often in vain, for inspiration and light. In fact, if we had time or taste for these things, our transatlantic steamers would give us a perfect panorama of all the leaders of thought in every department of science, art, philosophy, and even religion.
I will, therefore, take you, dear reader, in imagination on the deck of one of these ocean steamers; and on a little group of men we will make a brief meditation.
We move up in the tender and attach ourselves to the mighty ship which rises dark and gloomy from the waters, its black mass only broken by the small circular lights that speak suggestively of the terrible buffeting and drenching the good ship will have to bear before she anchors at her destination. And suddenly a sight breaks upon us which we cannot soon forget. For, as we touch the vessel, its dark profile is broken by the light of a thousand human faces, on each of which is written that strange, anxious look which you notice in persons who are leaving accustomed modes of life,
But we are moving. You can see the ridges fall away in white foam from the keen prow of the ship, as the screw churns and tosses the waters on the stern. Cast off comes from the bridge high over our heads; and whilst the noble vessel moves forward in silent dignity on her course, the little tender sheers off at an angle to make the circuit homewards. And now I become suddenly aware that whilst I am soliloquizing, I am in the midst of many tragedies, and probably, excepting the captain and the crew, the most unconcerned spectator on board. All around are very sad faces, filled with a yearning look towards the land they are leaving. Even the blue-black eyes of the merry Celt are filmed and clouded as they look for the last time, perhaps, on the green hills and purple mountains of Inisfail. Here is a lady whose society training in the most rigid conventionalism cannot withal prevent her hands from trembling, and her eyes from growing red with weeping. And here is a stalwart athlete trying to look supremely indifferent, but I notice some strange moisture gathering under his
However, it is not multitudes but individuals we have come to seenot races, but marked types and representatives of racesnot the hoi polloi who fret their little hour upon the stage and sink into obscure graves, but the anakes andronthe kings of men, they who are stirring the great heart of the world with impulses that issue in healthy reform or unhealthy revolution. And fortunately there are a few of these chosen minds here amongst our passengers. Men who, from the dark recesses of laboratories and museums have strengthened a hundredfold the hands of their fellow-men, have annihilated distance on the globe, and tamed the terrible agents that stand at the back of untamed Nature. Men, who from platforms, have thundered forth the ancient, but ever new, principle of a common humanity, and the right of every child of Adam to a place on this planet, with air enough to breathe, and room enough to swing his arms inmen who, by their words, have touched the great heart of the world, and made hoarse voices cheer, and brawny hands to strike approval, and tough hearts to vibrate with new emotions of revealed strength and power, and a possible happiness that may be far off and yet shall be reachedpoets and sages, patriots and dilettanti, political, scientific, and social revolutionists are hereand we shall just look at them, and then let them speak for themselves.
This age of ours is an age of revolutions. There is not a single branch, even of a single science, that has not been studied and investigated, with the result that our most carefully-formed ideas even on scientific subjects have been obliged to undergo a complete transformation. Another peculiarity is that there are specialists in every branch of science, art, and literature; and that certain branches of science and art become the fashion at certain periods, and exclude all others in the public mind as effectually as a new fashion in dress excludes those that are considered antiquated. And, again, as Solomon said, there is nothing new under the sun, so there is scarcely a fashion in art or a discovery in science that was not quite familiar to the ancient Hellenists, who, under the warm sky of Greece and by the pleasant waters of the Mediterranean, were making daily pleasure of things which in our days are the exclusive property of the highest circles of wealth and intelligencefor example, if there were one thing the ancient Greeks worshipped more than another, it was the Beautiful. What they called the to Kalon was the Divinity, whom they worshipped with all the passionate adoration of natures into which the Sun God had stricken his fire. The Beautiful in Naturethe Beautiful in mind and soulthe firmament glittering with stars, the meadows glittering with flowers, the wide levels of the sea glittering under the sunshaftsthe dark eyes of men and women glittering under darker eyebrows; all these to these children of Nature were feasted on and worshipped as types and symbols of some rarer Beauty, unseen but yet to be revealed. These wonderful old Greeks have passed away; but here in the midst of our nineteenth century civilisation is an apostle of aestheticism, and aesthetics or the science of the Beautiful is once more the fashion of men. You see over there leaning against the bulwarks of the vessel is a tall and dark young gentleman, with a huge sunflower in his button-hole. He is gazing on the setting sun as if this were his last evening upon earth, and his eyes are dazzled with the lane of light that stretches to the horizon. He its the son of a Dublin oculist, and of a lady who sang the fiercest and loveliest battle-odes of that sad, that glorious period in Irish history which we call '48. He is, without doubt, the best ridiculed young man that has come before this cynical age. He is now going to be dreadfully disappointed with the Atlantic, and his mission is to evangelise the Americans with two lectures on art that shall be repeated again
The next department in the ascending scale is social science; and here, walking arm in arm along the lee side of the ship, are two men whose ideas in some things are identical, and on others widely different, and who have said many things that have stirred many hearts. One is from San Francisco, and he used be called a prophet by his admirers: the other is from the County Mayo, and during the greater part of his life he has been styled a rebel and a felon; in physique they are not unlike. Dark and determined men, with deep eyes flashing under bushy eyebrows, but the right sleeve of the one hangs tenantlessthe arm was left some years ago in the steel meshes of an English factory. The education of the one was matured under the bright dazzling sun of California; the education of the other was finished in a convict's dress out on the bleak wastes of Dartmoor, and in the blinding quarries of Portland. He has seen some terrible things, and has studied the strange riddle of humanity deep down in awful depths of suffering. Of him it might be said what the people of Verona used say of Dante:
Eccovi l'uom ch'è stato all' Inferno.
And hence men listen to him as they listen to no other, for they know how true is that saying of Goethe's:
- Who never ate his bread in sorrow,
Who never spent the darksome hours
Weeping and watching for the morrow,
He knows you not, ye unseen powers.1
But lest it should be tedious to paint for you portraits of all the different representatives of human thought who paced the deck this spring afternoon, it will suffice to say that there was scarcely a single fantasy of modern thought, sensible or whimsical, reasonable or extravagant, that had not a disciple here. Followers of Herbert
It is growing chill, and we descend to the saloon. Just as we enter, a voice, with a foreign accent, exclaims in conclusion Of some interesting conversation: Vorwärts! Vorwärts! This is the watchword of our century. Does not your own poet-laureate proclaim it to youeven to you, conservative Englishmen, immovable as the pyramids, insensible as their granite:
Yes, said a deep, melodious voice that came floating down along the table. Yes! forward is the crybut whither?
- Yet in vain the distance beacons, forward, forward let us range,
Let the great world spin for ever down the ringing grooves of change.
This, the shadow of the globe, we sweep into the outer day,
Better fifty years of Europe than a cycle of Cathay.2
All looked up in amazement and saw a venerable man, whose high forehead, clad in the honours of seventy summers, betokened the very highest powers of thought. There was a hush for a moment. Then came a bustling and a shuffling of the feet, and a harsh, strident voice, pitched to the highest intonation, spoke. It was Mr. Verdun, scientist, Fellow of the Royal Society, London.
How can you ask such a question? he exclaimed. Whither should we go, but where the finger of science is pointing? With all the wonders we have shown you, why will you not
A deep silence followed the outburst of indignant eloquence. The scientist fidgeted and tossed about in his chair, and somehow everyone felt that science was a kind of criminal that, under pretence of doing a great deal of good, had in reality affected an infinity of evil. But the stream of the conversation had tended so much towards the lines within which Mr. George is working out his theories, that everyone looked to him to say something on the important subject they were discussing.
Mr. George rose slowly, and in a grave, methodical manner, he said:
You have raised the question of questionsthe one supreme problem that is stirring and agitating the world to its deepest depths. Forward is the cry; but the farther we go the deeper we sink into the sad complexity of a civilisation where wealth and want in sad companionship are seen side by side, where the few are glutted and the many are starving, and the gifts of the Creator, and the improvements of man, alike seem only to increase the misery of the multitude. I do not find fault with science; but I say that so long as society needs readjustment, as it does, so long as our social laws and systems are completely out of harmony with the eternal laws of justice and truth, science and all the other ministers to man will be angels of destruction, and not messengers of mercy. In the very centres of our civilisation to-day are want and suffering enough to make sick at heart whoever does not close his eyes or steel his nerves. We dare not put the blame on Mother Nature, or upon our great Father, God. Supposing that at our prayers, Nature assumed a mightier power than it possesses, supposing that at the behest by which the universe sprang into being there should glow in the sun a greater heat, new virtue fill the air, fresh vigour the soil; that for every blade of grass that now grows two should spring up, and the seed that now increases fiftyfold should increase a hundredfold. Would poverty be abated and want relieved? Manifestly no! The result would be in our present environments that the luxury of a few would be increased, the misery of the many would be deepened. This is no bare supposition. The conclusion comes from facts with which we are quite familiar. Within our own times, under our very eyes, that power which is above all, and in all, and through all; that power of which the whole world is but the manifestation; that power which maketh all things, and without which is made nothing that is made, has increased the bounty which men may enjoy as truly as though the fertility of Nature had been increased. So my friend here, Mr. Verdun, has declared. Into the mind of one came the
- I sing the hymn of the conquered who fell in the battle of life
The hymn of the wounded, the beaten, who died overwhelmed in the strife;
Not the jubilant song of the victors, for whom the resounding acclaim
Of the nations was lifted in chorus, whose brows wore the chaplet of fame
But the hymn of the low and the humble, the weary, the broken in heart
Who strove and who failed, acting bravely a silent and desperate part.
Whose youth bore no flower of its branches, whose hopes burned in ashes away;
From whose hands slipped the prize they had grasped at, who stood at the dying of day
With the work of their life all around them, unpitied, unheeded, alone,
With Death swooping down o'er their failure, and all but their faith overthrown.
- While the voice of the world shouts its chorus, its power for those who have won,
While the trumpet is sounding triumphant, and high to the breeze and the sun
Gay banners are waving, hands clapping, and hurrying feet
Thronging after the laurel-crowned victors, I stand on the field of defeat
In the shadows 'mongst those who are fallen, and wounded and dyingand there
Chant a requiem low, place my hand on their pain-knitted brow, breathe a prayer.
- Hold the hand that is helpless, and whisper: They only life's victory win
Who have fought the good fight and have vanquished the demon that tempts us within;
Who have held to their faith unseduced by the prize that the world holds on high,
Who have dared for a high cause to suffer, resist, fightif need be, to die.
- Say history, who are life's victors? Unroll thy long annals, and say
Are they those whom the world called the victors, who won the success of the day?
The martyr or hero? The Spartan, who fell at Thermopylae's tryst,
Or the Persians of Xerxes? His judges or Socrates? Pilate, or Christ?6
Would to heaven, that once and for ever this great gospel of humanity were accepted! If it were so, the possibilities of the future were unlimited! With want destroyed, with greed changed to noble passion, with the fraternity that is born of equality taking the place of the jealousy and fear that now array men against each other; with mental power loosed by conditions that give to the humblest comfort and leisure, and who shall measure the heights to which our civilisation may soar? Words fail the thought! It is the golden age which poets have sung, and high-raised seers have told in metaphor! It is the golden vision that has always haunted men with gleams of fitful splendour! It is what he saw whose eyes at Patmos were closed in a trance! It is the culmination of Christianitythe city of God upon earth, with its walls of jasper and its gates of pearl! It is the reign of the Prince of Peace.7
Fine talk! fine talk! said a young man whom I had not hitherto seen. He seemed scarcely more than a boy; yet there was a vehemence and earnestness about him which commanded respect. And the man that is in earnest about anything is always sure of a respectful hearing. Fine talk! said he again, if to-morrow were the millennium! You preach a doctrine of science, said he, turning to Mr. Verdun, but in the same breath you degrade humanity, and belie the sanctity of man's origin and the grandeur of his future destiny. And you, said he, turning to Mr. Ruskin, advocate culture and refinement as a salve for all our wounds, forgetting that the higher your cultured men and women advance, the nearer they are to barbarism as loathsome as Rousseau suggested. And you, Mr. George, preach a Gospel of Humanity. That is the best teaching yet. But so far as I can
- Science sits under her olive, and slurs at the days gone by!
When the poor are hovelled and hustled together each sex like swine,
When only the ledger lives, and when only not all men lie,
Peace in her vineyard, yes! but a company forges the wine.
And the vitriol madness flushes up to the ruffian's head,
Till the filthy bylane rings to the yell of the trampled wife,
And chalk and alum and plaster are sold to the poor for bread,
And the spirit of murder reeks in the very veins of life.
And sleep must lie down armed, for the villainous centrebits
Grind on the wakeful ear in the hush of the moonless nights,
While another is cheating the sick of a few last gasps as he sits
To pestle a poisoned poison behind the crimson lights.8
He wrote that fifty years ago when he was a young man. said Mr. Verdun. We have progressed since then.
Did he? said the young man with a sneer; did he? But what did he write yesterday, in his old age? Listen:
There is your Literature! Now here's your Progress!
- Pluck the mighty from their seat, but set us meek ones in their place,
Pillory wisdom in your markets, and pelt your offal in her face.
Tumble Nature heel over head, and yelling with the yelling street
Set the feet above the brain, and swear the brain is in the feet.
Feed the budding rose of boyhood with the drainage of your sewer,
Send the drain into the fountain, lest the stream should issue pure,
Set the maiden fancies wallowing in the troughs of Zolaism
Forward, forward, ay, and backward, downward too into the abysm.
Do your best to charm the worst, to lower the rising race of men.
Have we risen from out the beast? then back into the beast again.
- There among the glooming alleys Progress halts on palsied feet,
Crime and hunger cast our maidens by the thousand on the street.
There the master scrimps his haggard sempstress of her daily bread,
There a single sordid attic holds the living and the dead.
Nay, your pardon, cry your Forwards! yours are hope and youth, but I
Eighty winters leave the dog too lame to follow with the cry.
Lame and old, and past his time, and passing now into the night,
Yet I would the rising race were half as eager for the light.9
So would I! But the light won't come! And neither science nor culture, nor humanity will bring it! For my part, I have thought the whole thing over, and I agree with old Thomas Carlyle, when he declared, looking up at the splendours of heaven and down on the gloom of earth, Eh! it's a sad sight! I agree with George Eliot in that famous remark she made to her bosom friend in her old age: There is but one remedy, my child, for the sad race of menone grand simultaneous act of suicide!
This was rather too much, I thought; so I went on deck. It was a glorious night. Far, far down the horizon, great masses of cloud, their blackness softened into purple by the lingering light, overtopped each other, and built up their airy battlements high into the zenith. Everywhere beside the sky was a pale liquid azure, through which the dim stars shone, and peace, Nature's sublime peace, slept over all. I strolled up and down the deck, alone with my thoughts, and these thoughts were of the strange discussion I had heard. Who was right?or who was even nearest the truthapostles of humanity, of science, and of culture? Had they found the great central secret of the Universe, or were they, after all, but blind leaders of the blindmen puffed up with knowledge and pride, to whom the great Revelation should never come? I confess my sympathies were altogether with the prophet of humanity. Yet I knew, and knew well, that all the wealth of sterling probity and enthusiasm could never reduce his theories to; practiceit would be all in vain:
would still be heard, and still would the words of the poet continue:
- The still, sad music of humanity,
like moanings of a midnight sea,
- For morning never wore to eve,
But some poor human heart did break.
And yet how could the Almighty Creator have framed this marvellous universe, with all its splendours, for a race of splenetic and unhappy men? Look around! what a miracle of splendour! The great moon is lifting itself above the waste of waters, and flinging a rippling splendour over the waves. She is scarred and clothed with fleecy clouds, which she drops one by one, until now she looks forth the acknowledged empress of the night, and the stars grow pale and draw in their lights when they behold her.
Once more upon deck this time with some new sensations. Here I find myself right in the midst of two civilisations.
The civilisation of the saloon, though in concrete form it dates but from yesterday, is but a series of broken lights, caught from the suspended or rejected philosophies of the past. The mysticism of Plato, the doubtings of Epicurus, the blank materialism of Lucretius, have been revived in our time, and find issue in speculative and intellectual Atheism, and in such barren and hopeless solutions of the great problem of human happiness as those to which we have just listened. Science, groping with a thousand arms in every direction, finds itself even in the material world confronted by a wall of blackness, impenetrable, insurmountable; and somehow the wayward movements of humanity, which it hoped to bring under cosmical discipline, break away from its arbitrary laws, and rush into chaos and disorder. With every appliance that wealth can afford, with all the facilities that private patronage and governmental support can give, with all the enthusiasm with which the public follow each fresh advance, and hail each fresh revelation, modern pagan civilisation is inconsistent and illogical in its teachings, false in its professions, and a dismal failure in its attempts to meet the moral and intellectual needs of men. A teacher without knowledge, a prophet without inspiration, a magician who has lost his charm, its judgment is the reverse of that which fell on the Jewish prophet, for it curses where it seeks to bless.
Far different is the civilisation which is represented by the humble occupants of the steerage, far different the philosophy on which it unconsciously rests, far different the gigantic effects which it produces and will never cease to produce. These poor exiles do not know that the philosophy which they profess is the steady light of reason that burned in the mind of Aristotle centuries before Christ, and was afterwards incorporated into the scholastic teaching of the Church. They do not know
Whilst I am thus thinking of them, they are sunk in profound slumber. They are dreaming of the purple heather and the yellow gorse of the pattern and the dance of the white-haired mother who stretched her hands in a long farewell from the cabin door.
It is just striking twelve. I hear steps coming up the companionway from the saloon. Three men stand before me in the moonlight.
I tell you, said one, the kings of the future are the men of science.
No, said the second but the men of culture, education and refinement.
Nay, nay, said Mr. G., but they in whose hearts are found some deep echoes of the great voice of humanity.
Not even these, thought I, but the men of faith and prayer.