My old
knapsack
full of food!
Warner - World's Best Literature - v08 - Dah to Dra
Her eyes are sweet and subtile, wild and sleepy, by turns;
oftentimes rising to the clouds, oftentimes challenging the heav
ens. She wears a diadem round her head. And I knew by
childish memories that she could go abroad upon the winds,
when she heard that sobbing of litanies, or the thundering of
organs, and when she beheld the mustering of summer clouds.
This sister, the elder, it is that carries keys more than papal at
her girdle, which open every cottage and every palace. She, to
my knowledge, sate all last summer by the bedside of the blind
beggar, him that so often and so gladly I talked with; whose
pious daughter, eight years old, with the sunny countenance,
resisted the temptations of play and village mirth to travel all
day long on dusty roads with her afflicted father. For this did
God send her a great reward. In the springtime of the year,
## p. 4573 (#359) ###########################################
THOMAS DE QUINCEY
4573
and whilst yet her own spring was budding, he recalled her
to himself. But her blind father mourns forever over her; still
he dreams at midnight that the little guiding hand is locked
within his own; and still he wakens to a darkness that is now
within a second and a deeper darkness. This Mater Lachrymarum
also has been sitting all this winter of 1844-5 within the bed-
chamber of the Czar, bringing before his eyes a daughter (not
less pious) that vanished to God not less suddenly, and left
behind her a darkness not less profound. By the power of her
keys it is that Our Lady of Tears glides, a ghostly intruder,
into the chambers of sleepless men, sleepless women, sleepless
children, from Ganges to the Nile, from Nile to Mississippi.
And her, because she is the first-born of her house, and has the
widest empire, let us honor with the title of "Madonna. "
The second sister is called Mater Suspiriorum, Our Lady of
Sighs. She never scales the clouds, nor walks abroad upon the
winds. She wears no diadem. And her eyes, if they were ever
seen, would be neither sweet nor subtile; no man could read
their story; they would be found filled with perishing dreams,
and with wrecks of forgotten delirium. But she raises not her
eyes; her head, on which sits a dilapidated turban, droops for-
ever, forever fastens on the dust. She weeps not.
She groans
not. But she sighs inaudibly at intervals. Her sister Madonna
is oftentimes stormy and frantic, raging in the highest against
Heaven, and demanding back her darlings. But Our Lady of
Sighs never clamors, never defies, dreams not of rebellious aspira-
tions. She is humble to abjectness. Hers is the meekness that
belongs to the hopeless. Murmur she may, but it is in her sleep.
Whisper she may, but it is to herself in the twilight. Mutter
she does at times, but it is in solitary places that are desolate as
she is desolate, in ruined cities, and when the sun has gone down
to his rest. This sister is the visitor of the Pariah; of the Jew;
of the bondsman to the oar in the Mediterranean galleys; of the
English criminal in Norfolk Island, blotted out from the books
of remembrance in sweet far-off England; of the baffled penitent
reverting his eyes forever upon a solitary grave, which to him
seems the altar overthrown of some past and bloody sacrifice, on
which altar no oblations can now be availing, whether towards
pardon that he might implore, or towards reparation that he
might attempt. Every slave that at noonday looks up to the
tropical sun with timid reproach, as he points with one hand to
## p. 4574 (#360) ###########################################
4574
THOMAS DE QUINCEY
the earth, our general mother, but for him a stepmother,—as he
points with the other hand to the Bible, our general teacher, but
against him sealed and sequestered; every woman sitting in
darkness, without love to shelter her head or hope to illumine her
solitude, because the heaven-born instincts kindling in her nature
germs of holy affections, which God implanted in her womanly
bosom, having been stifled by social necessities, now burn sul-
lenly to waste like sepulchral lamps among the ancients; every
nun defrauded of her unreturning May-time by wicked kinsmen,
whom God will judge; every captive in every dungeon; all that
are betrayed, and all that are rejected; outcasts by traditionary
law, and children of hereditary disgrace:- all these walk with
Our Lady of Sighs. She also carries a key; but she needs it
little. For her kingdom is chiefly amongst the tents of Shem,
and the houseless vagrant of every clime. Yet in the very high-
est ranks of man she finds chapels of her own; and even in
glorious England there are some that, to the world, carry their
heads as proudly as the reindeer, who yet secretly have received
her mark upon their foreheads.
But the third sister, who is also the youngest! Hush!
whisper whilst we talk of her! Her kingdom is not large, or
else no flesh should live; but within that kingdom all power is
hers.
Her head, turreted like that of Cybele, rises almost be-
yond the reach of sight. She droops not; and her eyes rising
so high might be hidden by distance. But being what they are,
they cannot be hidden; through the treble veil of crape which
she wears, the fierce light of a blazing misery, that rests not for
matins or for vespers, for noon of day or noon of night, for
ebbing or for flowing tide, may be read from the very ground.
She is the defier of God. She also is the mother of lunacies,
and the suggestress of suicides. Deep lie the roots of her
power; but narrow is the nation that she rules. For she can
approach only those in whom a profound nature has been up-
heaved by central convulsions; in whom the heart trembles and
the brain rocks under conspiracies of tempest from without and
tempest from within. Madonna moves with uncertain steps, fast
or slow, but still with tragic grace. Our Lady of Sighs creeps
timidly and stealthily. But this youngest sister moves with incal-
culable motions, bounding, and with a tiger's leaps. She carries
no key; for though coming rarely amongst men, she storms all
doors at which she is permitted to enter at all. And her name is
Mater Tenebrarum,— Our Lady of Darkness.
## p. 4575 (#361) ###########################################
THOMAS DE QUINCEY
4575
These were the Semnai Theai, or Sublime Goddesses, these
were the Eumenides, or Gracious Ladies (so called by antiquity
in shuddering propitiation) of my Oxford dreams. Madonna
spoke. She spoke by her mysterious hand. Touching my head,
she beckoned to our Lady of Sighs; and what she spoke, trans-
lated out of the signs which (except in dreams) no man reads,
was this:
―――――
"Lo! here is he whom in childhood I dedicated to my altars.
This is he that once I made my darling. Him I led astray, him
I beguiled, and from heaven I stole away his young heart to
mine. Through me did he become idolatrous; and through me
it was, by languishing desires, that he worshiped the worm,
and prayed to the wormy grave. Holy was the grave to him;
lovely was its darkness; saintly its corruption. Him, this young
idolator, I have seasoned for thee, dear gentle Sister of Sighs!
Do thou take him now to thy heart, and season him for our
dreadful sister. And thou,"-turning to the Mater Tenebrarum,
she said, "wicked sister, that temptest and hatest, do thou take
.
him from her. See that thy sceptre lie heavy on his head.
Suffer not woman and her tenderness to sit near him in his
darkness. Banish the frailties of hope, wither the relenting of
love, scorch the fountains of tears, curse him as only thou canst
curse. So shall he be accomplished in the furnace, so shall he
see the things that ought not to be seen, sights that are abom-
inable, and secrets that are unutterable. So shall he read elder
truths, sad truths, grand truths, fearful truths. So shall he rise
again before he dies. And so shall our commission be accom-
plished which from God we had,-to plague his heart until he
had unfolded the capacities of his spirit. "
SAVANNAH-LA-MAR
From 'Confessions of an English Opium-Eater'
GOD
OD smote Savannah-la-mar, and in one night by earthquake
removed her, with all her towers standing and population
sleeping, from the steadfast foundations of the shore to the
coral floors of ocean. And God said:-"Pompeii did I bury and
conceal from men through seventeen centuries; this city I will
bury, but not conceal. She shall be a monument to men of my
mysterious anger, set in azure light through generations to come;
## p. 4576 (#362) ###########################################
4576
THOMAS DE QUINCEY
for I will enshrine her in a crystal dome of my tropic seas. "
This city therefore, like a mighty galleon with all her apparel
mounted, streamers flying, and tackling perfect, seems floating
along the noiseless depths of ocean; and oftentimes in glassy
calms, through the translucid atmosphere of water that now
stretches like an air-woven awning above the silent encampment,
mariners from every clime look down into her courts and ter-
races, count her gates, and number the spires of her churches.
She is one ample cemetery, and has been for many a year; but
in the mighty calms that brood for weeks over tropic latitudes,
she fascinates the eye with a Fata Morgana revelation as of
human life still subsisting, in submarine asylums sacred from
the storms that torment our upper air.
Thither, lured by the loveliness of cerulean depths, by the
peace of human dwellings privileged from molestation, by the
gleam of marble altars sleeping in everlasting sanctity, often-
times in dreams did I and the Dark Interpreter cleave the
watery veil that divided us from her streets. We looked into
the belfries, where the pendulous bells were waiting in vain for
the summons which should awaken their marriage peals; together
we touched the mighty organ keys, that sang no jubilates for the
ear of Heaven, that sang no requiems for the ear of human
sorrow; together we searched the silent nurseries, where the
children were all asleep, and had been asleep through five gen-
erations. "They are waiting for the heavenly dawn," whispered
the Interpreter to himself: "and when that comes, the bells and
the organs will utter a jubilate repeated by the echoes of Para-
dise. " Then turning to me he said: "This is sad, this is pit-
eous; but less would not have sufficed for the purpose of God.
Look here. Put into a Roman clepsydra one hundred drops of
water; let these run out as the sands in an hour-glass, every
drop measuring the hundredth part of a second, so that each
shall represent but the three-hundred-and-sixty-thousandth part of
an hour. Now count the drops as they race along; and when
the fiftieth of the hundred is passing, behold! forty-nine are not,
because already they have perished; and fifty are not, because
they are yet to come. You see therefore how narrow, how incal-
culably narrow, is the true and actual present. Of that time
which we call the present, hardly a hundredth part but belongs
either to a past which has fled, or to a future which is still on
the wing. It has perished, or it is not born. It was, or it is
―――――――――
## p. 4577 (#363) ###########################################
THOMAS DE QUINCEY
4577
not. Yet even this approximation to the truth is infinitely false.
For again subdivide that solitary drop, which only was found to
represent the present, into a lower series of similar fractions, and
the actual present which you arrest measures now but the thirty-
six-millionth of an hour; and so by infinite declensions the true
and very present, in which only we live and enjoy, will vanish
into a mote of a mote, distinguishable only by a heavenly vision.
Therefore the present, which only man possesses, offers less
capacity for his footing than the slenderest film that ever spider
twisted from her womb. Therefore also even this incalculable
shadow from the narrowest pencil of moonlight is more transitory
than geometry can measure, or thought of angel can overtake.
The time which is, contracts into a mathematic point; and even
that point perishes a thousand times before we can utter its
birth. All is finite in the present; and even that finite is infi-
nite in its velocity of flight towards death. But in God there
is nothing finite; but in God there is nothing transitory; but
in God there can be nothing that tends to death. Therefore it
follows that for God there can be no present. The future is
the present of God, and to the future it is that he sacrifices the
human present. Therefore it is that he works by earthquake.
Therefore it is that he works by grief. Oh, deep is the plow-
ing of earthquake! Oh, deep" — (and his voice swelled like a
sanctus rising from the choir of a cathedral) — "Oh, deep is the
plowing of grief! But oftentimes less would not suffice for the
agriculture of God. Upon a night of earthquake he builds a
thousand years of pleasant habitations for man. Upon the sorrow
of an infant he raises oftentimes from human intellects glorious
vintages that could not else have been. Less than these fierce
plowshares would not have stirred the stubborn soil. The one is
needed for earth, our planet,- for earth itself as the dwelling-
place of man; but the other is needed yet oftener for God's
mightiest instrument,-yes" (and he looked solemnly at myself),
"is needed for the mysterious children of the earth! "
VIII-287
## p. 4578 (#364) ###########################################
4578
THOMAS DE QUINCEY
THE BISHOP OF BEAUVAIS AND JOAN OF ARC
From Miscellaneous Essays'
B'
ISHOP OF BEAUVAIS! thy victim died in fire upon a scaffold
thou upon a down bed. But for the departing minutes of
life, both are oftentimes alike. At the farewell crisis, when
the gates of death are opening, and flesh is resting from its
struggles, oftentimes the tortured and torturer have the same
truce from carnal torment; both sink together into sleep; together
both, sometimes, kindle into dreams. When the mortal mists
were gathering fast upon you two, bishop and shepherd girl,—
when the pavilions of life were closing up their shadowy curtains
about you, let us try, through the gigantic glooms, to decipher
the flying features of your separate visions.
The shepherd girl that had delivered France-she from her
dungeon, she from her baiting at the stake, she from her duel
with fire, as she entered her last dream saw Domrémy, saw the
fountain of Domrémy, saw the pomp of forests in which her
childhood had wandered. That Easter festival which man had
denied to her languishing heart, that resurrection of springtime
which the darkness of dungeons had intercepted from her, hun-
gering after the glorious liberty of forests, were by God given
back into her hands, as jewels that had been stolen from her by
robbers. With those, perhaps (for the minutes of dreams can
stretch into ages), was given back to her by God the bliss of
childhood. By special privilege, for her might be created in this
farewell dream, a second childhood, innocent as the first; but
not, like that, sad with the gloom of a fearful mission in the
rear. The mission had now been fulfilled. The storm was
weathered, the skirts even of that mighty storm were drawing
off. The blood that she was to reckon for had been exacted; the
tears that she was to shed in secret had been paid to the last.
The hatred to herself in all eyes had been faced steadily, had
been suffered, had been survived.
Bishop of Beauvais! because the guilt-burdened man is in
dreams haunted and waylaid by the most frightful of his crimes;
and because upon that fluctuating mirror, rising from the fens
of death, most of all are reflected the sweet countenances which
the man has laid in ruins; therefore I know, bishop, that you
also, entering your final dream, saw Domrémy. That fountain.
of which the witnesses spoke so much, showed itself to your
eyes in pure morning dews; but neither dews nor the holy
## p. 4579 (#365) ###########################################
THOMAS DE QUINCEY
4579
dawn could cleanse away the bright spots of innocent blood upon
its surface. By the fountain, bishop, you saw a woman seated,
that hid her face. But as you draw near, the woman raises her
wasted features. Would Domrémy know them again for the
features of her child? Ah, but you know them, bishop, well!
Oh mercy! what a groan was that which the servants, waiting
outside the bishop's dream at his bedside, heard from his labor-
ing heart, as at this moment he turned away from the fountain
and the woman, seeking rest in the forests afar off. Yet not so
to escape the woman, whom once again he must behold before
he dies. In the forests to which he prays for pity, will he find
a respite? What a tumult, what a gathering of feet is there!
In glades where only wild deer should run, armies and nations
are assembling; towering in the fluctuating crowd are phantoms
that belong to departed hours. There is the great English
Prince, Regent of France. There is my lord of Winchester, the
princely cardinal that died and made no sign. There is the
Bishop of Beauvais, clinging to the shelter of thickets. What
building is that which hands so rapid are raising? Is it a mar-
tyr's scaffold? Will they burn the child of Domrémy a second
time? No; it is a tribunal that rises to the clouds; and two
nations stand around it, waiting for a trial. Shall my Lord of
Beauvais sit upon the judgment seat, and again number the
hours for the innocent? Ah! no; he is the prisoner at the bar.
Already all is waiting; the mighty audience is gathered, the
Court are hurrying to their seats, the witnesses are arrayed, the
trumpets are sounding, the judge is taking his place. Oh! but
this is sudden. My lord, have you no counsel ? - "Counsel I have
none; in heaven above, or on earth beneath, counselor there is
none now that would take a brief from me; all are silent. " Is
it indeed come to this? Alas! the time is short, the tumult is
wondrous, the crowd stretches away into infinity; but yet I will
search in it for somebody to take your brief: I know of some-
body that will be your counsel. Who is this that cometh from
Domrémy? Who is she in bloody coronation robes from Rheims?
Who is she that cometh with blackened flesh from walking the
furnaces of Rouen ? This is she, the shepherd girl, counselor
that had none for herself, whom I choose, bishop, for yours.
She it is, I engage, that shall take my lord's brief.
She it is,
bishop, that would plead for you: yes, bishop, SHE-when heaven
and earth are silent.
## p. 4580 (#366) ###########################################
4580
PAUL DÉROULÈDE
PAUL DÉROULÈDE
(1846-)
AUL DÉROULÈDE received his education in Paris, where he was
born. In accordance with the wishes of his friends, he was
An educated for the law; but before even applying for admis-
sion to the bar he yielded to the poetic instinct that had been strong
in him since boyhood, and began, under the name of Jean Rebel, to
send verses to the Parisian periodicals. When only twenty-three
years of age he wrote for the Académie Française a one-act drama
in verse, 'Juan Strenner,' which however was not a success. The
outbreak of the Franco-Prussian war in the
same year roused his martial spirit; he en-
listed, and at once entered active service, in
which he distinguished himself by acts of
signal bravery. A wound near the close of
the hostilities took him from the field; and it
was during the retirement thus enforced that
he wrote the lyrics, Songs of the Soldier,'
that first made him famous throughout his
native country.
(
Not since the days of the 'Marseillaise '
had the fighting spirit of the French people
found such sympathetic expression; his songs
were read and sung all over the country;
they received the highest honor of the Acad-
emy, and their popularity continued after peace was declared, nearly
one hundred and fifty editions having been exhausted up to 1895.
Déroulède now devoted himself to literature and politics. New
Songs of the Soldier' and a volume of Songs of the Peasant,'
almost as popular as the war songs, were interspersed with two more
dramatic works, also in verse, one of which, 'L'Hetman,' was re-
ceived on the stage with great favor. A cantata, Vive la France,'
written in 1880, was set to music by Gounod. He also wrote a novel
and some treatises dealing with armies and fighting, but his prose
works did not attract much attention.
Déroulède's best verses are distinguished for their inspiration and
genuine enthusiasm. Careless of form and finish, not always stop-
ping to make sure of his rhymes or perfect his metre, he gave the
freest vent to his emotions. Some of the heart-glow which makes
## p. 4581 (#367) ###########################################
PAUL DÉROULÈDE
4581
the exhilaration of Burns's poems infectious is found in his songs,
but they are generally so entirely French that its scope is limited in
a way that the Scotch poet's, despite his vernacular, was not. The
Frenchman's sympathy is always with the harder side of life. In the
'Songs of the Soldier' he plays on chords of steel. These verses
resound with the blast of the bugle, the roll of the drum, the flash
of the sword, the rattle of musketry, the boom of the cannon; and
even in the 'Songs of the Peasant' it is the corn and the wine, as
the fruit of toil, that appeal to him, rather than the grass and the
flowers embellishing the fields.
THE HARVEST
From Chants du Paysan'
TH
HE wheat, the hardy wheat is rippling on the breeze.
'Tis our great mother's sacred mantle spread afar,
Old Earth revered, who gives us life, in whom we are,
We the dull clay the living God molds as he please.
The wheat, the hardy wheat bends down its heavy head,
Blessed and consecrate by the Eternal hand;
The stalks are green although the yellow ears expand:
Keep them, O Lord, from 'neath the tempest's crushing tread!
The wheat, the hardy wheat spreads like a golden sea
Whose harvesters bent low beneath the sun's fierce light,
Stanch galley-slaves, whose oar is now the sickle bright —
Cleave down the waves before them falling ceaselessly.
-
The wheat, the hardy wheat ranged in its serried rows
Seems like some noble camp upon the distant plain.
Glory to God! - the crickets chirp their wide refrain;
From sheaf to sheaf the welcome bread-song sweeping goes.
Translated for A Library of the World's Best Literature,' by Thomas Walsh. .
## p. 4582 (#368) ###########################################
4582
PAUL DEROULEDE
IN GOOD QUARTERS
From Poèmes Militaires >
MIREBEAU, 1871
G
OOD old woman, bother not,
Or the place will be too hot:
You might let the fire grow old-
Save your fagots for the cold:
I am drying through and through.
But she, stopping not to hear,
Shook the smoldering ashes near:
"Soldier, not too warm for you! "
Good old woman, do not mind;
At the storehouse I have dined:
Save your vintage and your ham,
And this cloth-such as I am
Are not used to save it too.
But she heard not what I said-
Filled my glass and cut the bread:
"Soldier, it is here for you! "
Good old woman-sheets for me!
Faith, you treat me royally:
And your stable? on your hay ?
There at length my limbs to lay?
I shall sleep like monarchs true.
But she would not be denied
Of the sheets, and spread them wide:
"Soldier, it is made for you! "
Morning came the parting tear:
Well-good-by! What have we here?
My old knapsack full of food!
Dear old creature-hostess good-
Why indulge me as you do?
-
It was all that she could say,
Smiling in a tearful way:
-
"I have one at war like you! "
Translated for 'A Library of the World's Best Literature,' by Thomas
Walsh.
## p. 4583 (#369) ###########################################
PAUL DÉROULÈDE
4583
"GOOD FIGHTING! »
From Poèmes Militaires >
HE Kroumirs leave their mountain den;
Sing, bullets, sing! and bugles, blow!
Good fighting to our gallant men,
And happy they who follow, when,
Brothers in arms so dear, these go.
Yea, happy they who serve our France,
And neither pain nor danger fly;
But in the front of war's advance
Still deem it but a glorious chance,
To be among the brave who die!
No splendid war do we begin,
No glory waits us when 'tis past;
But marching through the fiery din,
We see our serried ranks grow thin,
And blood of Frenchmen welling fast.
French blood! -a treasure so august,
And hoarded with such jealous care,
To crush oppression's strength unjust,
With all the force of right robust,
And buy us back our honor fair;
We yield it now to duty's claim,
And freely pour out all our store;
Who judges, frees us still from blame;
The Kroumirs' muskets war proclaim;-
In answer let French cannon roar!
-
-
Good fighting! and God be your shield,
Our pride's avengers, brave and true!
France watches you upon the field.
Who wear her colors never yield,
For 'tis her heart ye bear with you!
Translated for A Library of the World's Best Literature,' by Katharine
Hillard.
## p. 4584 (#370) ###########################################
4584
PAUL DÉROULÈDE
A
LAST WISHES
From Poèmes Militaires >
GRAVE for me—a grave- and why?
I do not wish to sleep alone:
Let me within the trenches lie,
Side by side with my soldiers thrown.
Dear old comrades of wars gone by,
Come, 'tis our final "halt" is nigh:
Clasp your brave hearts to my own.
A sheet for me- a sheet - and why?
Such is for them on their beds who moan:
The field is the soldier's place to die,
The field of carnage, of blood and bone.
Dear old comrades of wars gone by,
This is the prayer of my soul's last sigh:
Clasp your brave hearts to my own.
Tears for me- these tears-and why?
Knells let the vanquished foe intone!
France delivered! -I still can cry,
France delivered-invaders flown!
Dear old comrades of wars gone by,
Pain is nothing, and death- -a lie!
Clasp your brave hearts to my own!
Translated for A Library of the World's Best Literature,' by Thomas Walsh.
## p. 4584 (#371) ###########################################
## p. 4584 (#372) ###########################################
RENÉ DESCARTES.
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## p. 4584 (#374) ###########################################
**NG
## p. 4585 (#375) ###########################################
4585
RENÉ DESCARTES
(1596-1650)
HE broad scope of literature is illustrated by its inclusion of
the writings of René Descartes (Latinized, Renatus Carte-
sius). Deliberately turning away from books, and making
naught alike of learned precedent and literary form, he yet could
not but avail himself unconsciously of the heritage which he had
discarded.
This notable figure in seventeenth-century philosophy was born of
ancient family at La Haye, in Touraine, France, March 31st, 1596;
and died at Stockholm, Sweden, February 11th, 1650. From a pleas-
ant student life of eight years in the Jesuit college at La Flèche, he
went forth in his seventeenth year with unusual acquirements in
mathematics and languages, but in deep dissatisfaction with the long
dominant scholastic philosophy and the whole method prescribed for
arriving at truth. In a strong youthful revolt, his first step was a
decision to discharge his mind of all the prejudices into which his
education had trained his thinking. As a beginning in this work he
went to Paris, for observation of facts and of men. There, having
drifted through a twelvemonth of moderate dissipation, he secluded
himself for nearly two years of mathematical study, as though pur-
posing to reduce his universe to an equation in order to solve it.
The laws of number he could trust, since their lines configured the
eternal harmony.
At the age of twenty-one he entered on a military service of two
years in the army of the Netherlands, and then of about two years
in the Bavarian army. From 1621, for about four years, he was
roaming as an observer of men and nature in Germany, Belgium,
and Italy, afterward sojourning in Paris about three and a half
years. In 1629 he began twenty years of study and authorship in
practical seclusion in Holland. His little work, 'Discours de la Méth-
ode' (Leyden, 1637), is often declared to have been the basis for a
reconstitution of the science of thought. It would now perhaps be
viewed by the majority of critics rather as a necessary clearing of
antiquated rubbish from the ground on which the new construction
was to rise. Next to it among his works are usually ranked 'Medi-
tationes de Prima Philosophia,' and 'Principia Philosophiæ. '
The long sojourn in Holland was ended in September 1649, in
response to an urgent invitation from the studious young Queen
## p. 4586 (#376) ###########################################
4586
RENE DESCARTES
Christina of Sweden, who wanted the now famous philosopher as an
ornament to her court. After some hesitancy he sailed for Stock-
holm, where only five months afterward he died.
It has been said of Descartes that he was a spectator rather than
an active worker in affairs. He was no hero, no patriot, no adherent
of any party. He entered armies, but not from love of a cause; the
army was a sphere in which he could closely observe the aspects of
human life. He was never married, and probably had little concern
with love. His attachment to a few friends seems to have been
sincere. For literature as such he cared little. Erudition, scholar-
ship, historic love, literary elegance, were nothing to him. Art and
æsthetics did not appeal to him. Probably he was not a great reader,
even of philosophic writers. He delighted in observing facts with a
view to finding, stating, and systematizing their relations in one all-
comprehending scheme. He never allowed himself to attack the
Church in either its doctrine or its discipline. As a writer, though
making no attempt at elegance in style, he is deemed remarkably
clear and direct when the abstruseness of his usual themes is con-
sidered.
Descartes's method in philosophy gives signs of formation on the
model of a process in mathematics. In all investigations he would
ascertain first what must exist by necessity; thus establishing axioms
evidenced in all experience, because independent of all experience.
The study of mathematics for use in other departments drew him
into investigations whose results made it a new science. He reformed
its clumsy nomenclature, also the algebraic use of letters for quan-
tities; he introduced system into the use of exponents to denote
the powers of a quantity, thus opening the way for the binomial
theorem; he was the first to throw clear light on the negative roots of
equations; his is the theorem by use of which the maximum number
of positive or negative roots of an equation can be ascertained.
Analytical geometry originated with his investigation of the nature
and origin of curves.
His mathematical improvements opened the way for the reform
of physical science and for its immense modern advance. In his
optical investigations he established the law of refraction of light.
His ingenious theory of the vortices-tracing gravity, magnetism,
light, and heat, to the whirling or revolving movements of the mol-
ecules of matter with which the universe is filled-was accepted as
science for about a quarter of a century.
In mental science Descartes's primary instrument for search of
truth was Doubt: everything was to be doubted until it had been
proved. This was provisional skepticism, merely to provide against
foregone conclusions. It was not to preclude belief, but to summon
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and assure belief as distinct from the inane submission to authority,
to prejudice, or to impulse. In this process of doubting everything,
the philosopher comes at last to one fact which he cannot doubt-
the fact that he exists; for if he did not exist he could not be think-
ing his doubt. Cogito, ergo sum is one point of absolute knowledge;
it is a clear and ultimate perception.
The first principle of his philosophy is, that our consciousness is
truthful in its proper sphere, also that our thought is truthful and
trustworthy under these two conditions-when the thought is clear
and vivid, and when it is held to a theme utterly distinct from every
other theme; since it is impossible for us to believe that either man
who thinks, or the universe concerning which he thinks, is organized
on the basis of a lie. There are "necessary truths," and they are
discoverable.
A second principle is, the inevitable ascent of our thought from
the fragmentary to the perfect, from the finite to the infinite. Thus
the thought of the infinite is an "innate idea," a part of man's poten-
tial consciousness. This principle (set forth in one of the selections
given herewith) is the Cartesian form of the a priori argument for
the Divine existence, which like other a priori forms is viewed by
critics not as a proof in pure logic, but as a commanding and lumin-
ous appeal to man's entire moral and intellectual nature.
A third principle is, that the material universe is necessarily re-
duced in our thought ultimately to two forms, extension and local
movement - extension signifying matter, local movement signifying
force. There is no such thing as empty space; there are no ultimate
indivisible atoms; the universe is infinitely full of matter.
A fourth principle is, that the soul and matter are subsistences so
fundamentally and absolutely distinct that they cannot act in recip-
rocal relations. This compelled Descartes to resort to his strained
supposition that all correspondence or synchronism between bodily
movements and mental or spiritual activities is merely reflex or auto-
matic, or else is produced directly by act of Deity. For relief from
this violent hypothesis, Leibnitz modified the Cartesian philosophy by
his famous theory of a pre-established harmony.
Descartes did a great work, but it was not an abiding reconstruc-
tion: indeed, it was not construction so much as it was a dream.
one of the grandest and most suggestive in the history of thought.
Its audacious disparagement of the whole scholastic method startled
Europe, upon the dead air of whose philosophy it came as a refresh-
ing breath of transcendental thought. Its suggestions and inspirations
are traceable as a permanent enrichment, though its vast fabric
swiftly dissolved. The early enthusiasm for it in French literary
circles and among professors in the universities of Holland scarcely
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outlasted a generation. Within a dozen years after the philosopher's
death, the Cartesian philosophy was prohibited by ecclesiastical
authorities and excluded from the schools. In the British Isles and
in Germany the system has been usually considered as an interesting
curiosity in the cabinet of philosophies. Yet the unity of all truth
through relations vital, subtle, firm, and universal, though seen only
in a vision of the night, abides when the night is gone.
With the impressive and noteworthy 'Discours de la Méthode'
(Leyden, 1637), were published three essays supporting it: La Diop-
trique,' 'Les Météores,' 'La Géométrie. ' Of his other works, the most
important are 'Meditationes de Prima Philosophia' (Paris, 1641; Am-
sterdam, 1642), and 'Principia Philosophia' (Amsterdam, 1644). A
useful English translation of his most important writings, with an
introduction, is by John Veitch, LL. D. ,-'The Method, Meditations,
and Selections from the Principles (Edinburgh, 1853; 6th ed. ,
Blackwoods, Edinburgh and London, 1879). See also, English trans-
lations of portions of his philosophical works, by W. Cunningham
(1877), Lowndes (1878), Mahaffy (1880), Martineau (1885), Henry Rogers,
Huxley, and L. Stephen.
For his Life, see Vie de Descartes,' by Baillet (2 vols. 1691);
'Descartes sa Vie,' etc. , by Millet (2 vols. 1867-71); 'Descartes and
his School,' by Kuno Fischer (English translation, 1887).
OF CERTAIN PRINCIPLES OF ELEMENTARY LOGICAL THOUGHT
From the Discourse on Method'
A$
SA multitude of laws often only hampers justice, so that a
State is best governed when, with few laws, these are
rigidly administered; in like manner, instead of the great
number of precepts of which Logic is composed, I believed that
the four following would prove perfectly sufficient for me, pro-
vided I took the firm and unwavering resolution never in a single
instance to fail in observing them.
The first was never to accept anything for true which I did
not clearly know to be such; that is to say, carefully to avoid
precipitancy and prejudice, and to comprise nothing more in my
judgment than what was presented to my mind so clearly and
distinctly as to exclude all ground of doubt.
The second, to divide each of the difficulties under examina-
tion into as many parts as possible, and as might be necessary
for its adequate solution.
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The third, to conduct my thoughts in such order that, by
commencing with objects the simplest and easiest to know, I
might ascend by little and little, and as it were step by step, to
the knowledge of the more complex; assigning in thought a cer-
tain order even to those objects which in their own nature do not
stand in a relation of antecedence and sequence.
And the last, in every case to make enumerations so complete,
and reviews so general, that it might be assured that nothing was
omitted.
The long chains of simple and easy reasonings by means of
which geometers are accustomed to reach the conclusions of their
most difficult demonstrations, had led me to imagine that all
things to the knowledge of which man is competent are mutu-
ally connected in the same way, and that there is nothing so far
removed from us as to be beyond our reach, or so hidden that
we cannot discover it, provided only we abstain from accepting
the false for the true, and always preserve in our thoughts the
order necessary for the deduction of one truth from another.
And I had little difficulty in determining the objects with which
it was necessary to commence, for I was already persuaded that
it must be with the simplest and easiest to know, and, consider.
ing that of all those who have hitherto sought truth in the
Sciences, the mathematicians alone have been able to find any
demonstrations,- that is, any certain and evident reasons, - I did
not doubt but that such must have been the rule of their inves-
tigations. I resolved to commence, therefore, with the examina-
tion of the simplest objects, not anticipating, however, from this
any other advantage than that to be found in accustoming my
mind to the love and nourishment of truth, and to a distaste for
all such reasonings as were unsound. But I had no intention on
that account of attempting to master all the particular sciences
commonly denominated Mathematics: but observing that however
different their objects, they all agree in considering only the vari
ous relations or proportions subsisting among those objects, I
thought it best for my purpose to consider these proportions in
the most general form possible; without referring them to any
objects in particular, except such as would most facilitate the
knowledge of them, and without by any means restricting them
to these, that afterwards I might thus be the better able to
apply them to every other class of objects to which they are
legitimately applicable. Perceiving, further, that in order to
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4590
understand these relations I should sometimes have to consider
them one by one, and sometimes only to bear them in mind,
or embrace them in the aggregate, I thought that in order the
better to consider them individually, I should view them as sub-
sisting between straight lines, than which I could find no objects
more simple, or capable of being more distinctly represented to
my imagination and senses; and on the other hand, that in order
to retain them in the memory, or embrace an aggregate of many,
I should express them by certain characters the briefest possible.
In this way I believed that I could borrow all that was best both
in geometrical analysis and in algebra, and correct all the defects
of the one by help of the other.
AN ELEMENTARY METHOD OF INQUIRY
From the Discourse on Method'
EEING that our
enses sometimes deceive us, I was willing to
suppose that there existed nothing really such as they pre-
sented to us; and because some men err in reasoning and
fall into paralogisms, even on the simplest matters of geometry,
I, convinced that I was as open to error as any other, rejected
as false all the reasonings I had hitherto taken for demonstra-
tions; and finally, when I considered that the very same thoughts
(presentations) which we experience when awake may also be
experienced when we are asleep, while there is at that time not
one of them true, I supposed that all the objects (presentations)
that had ever entered into my mind when awake had in them
no more truth than the illusions of my dreams. But immedi-
ately upon this I observed that whilst I thus wished to think
that all was false, it was absolutely necessary that I, who thus
thought, should be somewhat; and as I observed that this truth,
-"I think, hence I am,". was so certain and of such evidence
that no ground of doubt, however extravagant, could be alleged
by the skeptics capable of shaking it, I concluded that I might
without scruple accept it as the first principle of the philosophy
of which I was in search.
-
In the next place, I attentively examined what I was, and as
I observed that I could suppose that I had no body, and that
that there was no world nor any place in which I might be; but
that I could not therefore suppose that I was not; and that on
## p. 4591 (#381) ###########################################
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4591
the contrary, from the very circumstance that I thought to doubt
of the truth of other things, it most clearly and certainly fol-
lowed that I was; while on the other hand, if I had only ceased
to think, although all the other objects which I had ever im-
agined had been in reality existent, I would have had no reason
to believe that I existed; I thence concluded that I was a sub-
stance whose whole essence or nature consists only in thinking,
and which, that it may exist, has need of no place, nor is
dependent on any material thing; so that "I"-that is to say,
the mind by which I am what I am-is wholly distinct from
the body, and is even more easily known than the latter, and is
such that although the latter were not, it would still continue to
be all that it is.
After this I inquired in general into what is essential to the
truth and certainty of a proposition; for since I had discovered.
one which I knew to be true, I thought that I must likewise be
able to discover the ground of this certitude. And as I observed
that in the words "I think, hence I am," there is nothing at all
which gives me assurance of their truth beyond this, that I see
very clearly that in order to think it is necessary to exist,—I con-
cluded that I might take, as a general rule, the principle that all
the things which we very clearly and distinctly conceive are true;
only observing however that there is some difficulty in rightly
determining the objects which we distinctly conceive.
In the next place, from reflecting on the circumstance that I
doubted, and that consequently my being was not wholly perfect
(for I clearly saw that it was a greater perfection to know than
to doubt), I was led to inquire whence I had learned to think of
something more perfect than myself; and I clearly recognized
that I must hold this notion from some Nature which in reality
was more perfect. As for the thoughts of many other objects
external to me, as of the sky, the earth, light, heat, and a thou-
sand more, I was less at a loss to know whence these came; for
since I remarked in them nothing which seemed to render them
superior to myself, I could believe that if these were true, they
were dependences on my own nature in so far as it possessed a
certain perfection; and if they were false, that I held them from
nothing,— that is to say, that they were in me because of a cer-
tain imperfection of my nature. But this could not be the case
with the idea of a Nature more perfect than myself: for to re-
ceive it from nothing was a thing manifestly impossible; and
## p. 4592 (#382) ###########################################
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4592
because it is not less repugnant that the more perfect should be
an effect of and dependence on the less perfect, than that some-
thing should proceed from nothing, it was equally impossible
that I could hold it from myself: accordingly it but remained
that it had been placed in me by a Nature which was in reality
more perfect than mine, and which even possessed within itself
all the perfections of which I could form any idea,- that is to
say, in a single word, which was God.
the
I was disposed straightway to search for other truths; and
when I had represented to myself the object of the geometers,
which I conceived to be a continuous body, or a space indefi-
nitely extended in length, breadth, and height or depth, divisible
into divers parts which admit of different figures and sizes, and
of being moved or transposed in all manner of ways (for all this
the geometers suppose to be in the object they contemplate), I
went over some of their simplest demonstrations. And in
first place, I observed that the great certitude which by common
consent is accorded to these demonstrations is founded solely
upon this, that they are clearly conceived in accordance with the
rules I have already laid down. In the next place, I perceived
that there was nothing at all in these demonstrations which could
assure me of the existence of their object: thus, for example,
supposing a triangle to be given, I distinctly perceived that
three angles were necessarily equal to two right angles, but I did
not on that account perceive anything which could assure
that any triangle existed; while on the contrary, recurring to the
examination of the idea of a Perfect Being, I found that the
existence of the Being was comprised in the idea in the same
way that the equality of its three angles to two right angles is
comprised in the idea of a triangle, or as in the idea of a sphere,
the equidistance of all points on its surface from the centre,
even still more clearly; and that consequently it is at least
certain that God, who is this Perfect Being, is, or exists, as
demonstration of geometry can be.
its
Ine
or
as
any
## p. 4593 (#383) ###########################################
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――――
THE IDEA OF GOD
From the Meditations >
THER
HERE only remains, therefore, the idea of God, in which I
must consider whether there is anything that cannot be
supposed to originate with myself. By the name God I
understand a substance infinite, eternal, immutable, independent,
all-knowing, all-powerful, and by which I myself, and every other
thing that exists, if any such there be,-were created. But
these properties are so great and excellent, that the more atten-
tively I consider them, the less I feel persuaded that the idea I
have of them owes its origin to myself alone. And thus it is
absolutely necessary to conclude, from all that I have before
said, that God exists; for though the idea of substance be in my
mind owing to this,- that I myself am a substance,-I should
not however have the idea of an infinite substance, seeing I am
a finite being, unless it were given me by some substance in
reality infinite.
And I must not imagine that I do not apprehend the infinite
by a true idea, but only by the negation of the finite, in the
same way that I comprehend repose and darkness by the nega-
tion of motion and light: since, on the contrary, I clearly perceive
that there is more reality in the infinite substance than in the
finite, and therefore that in some way I possess the perception
(notion) of the infinite before that of the finite, that is, the per-
ception of God before that of myself; for how could I know that
I doubt, desire, or that something is wanting to me, and that I
am not wholly perfect, if I possessed no idea of a being more
perfect than myself, by comparison with which I knew the
deficiencies of my nature?
And it cannot be said that this idea of God is perhaps ma-
terially false, and consequently that it may have arisen from
nothing (in other words, that it may exist in me from my im-
perfection), as I before said of the ideas of heat and cold, and
the like; for on the contrary, as this idea is very clear and dis-
tinct, and contains in itself more objective reality than any other,
there can be no one of itself more true, or less open to the
suspicion of falsity.
The idea, I say, of a being supremely perfect and infinite, is
in the highest degree true; for although perhaps we may imagine
VIII-288
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4594
that such a being does not exist, we nevertheless cannot suppose
that this idea represents nothing real, as I have already said
of the idea of cold. It is likewise clear and distinct in the high-
est degree, since whatever the mind clearly and distinctly con-
ceives as real or true, and as implying any perfection, is
contained entire in this idea. And this is true, nevertheless,
although I do not comprehend the infinite, and although there
may be in God an infinity of things that I cannot comprehend,
nor perhaps even compass by thought in any way; for it is of
the nature of the infinite that it should not be comprehended by
the finite and it is enough that I rightly understand this, and
judge that all which I clearly perceive, and in which I know
there is some perfection, and perhaps also an infinity of proper-
ties of which I am ignorant, are formally or eminently in God,
in order that the idea I have of him may become the most true,
clear, and distinct of all the ideas in my mind.
But perhaps I am something more than I suppose myself to
be; and it may be that all those perfections which I attribute to
God in some way exist potentially in me, although they do not
yet show themselves and are not reduced to act. Indeed, I am
already conscious that my knowledge is being increased and per-
fected by degrees; and I see nothing to prevent it from thus
gradually increasing to infinity, nor any reason why, after such
increase and perfection, I should not be able thereby to acquire
all the other perfections of the Divine nature; nor in fine, why
the power I possess of acquiring those perfections, if it really
now exist in me, should not be sufficient to produce the ideas of
them. Yet on looking more closely into the matter I discover
that this cannot be; for in the first place, although it were true
that my knowledge daily acquired new degrees of perfection, and
although there were potentially in my nature much that was not
as yet actually in it, still all these excellences make not the
slightest approach to the idea I have of the Deity, in whom
there is no perfection merely potentially, but all actually exist-
ent; for it is even an unmistakable token of imperfection in my
knowledge, that it is augmented by degrees. Further, although
my knowledge increase more and more, nevertheless I am not
therefore induced to think that it will ever be actually infinite,
since it can never reach that point beyond which it shall be
incapable of further increase. But I conceive God as actually
infinite, so that nothing can be added to his perfection.
And in
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4595
fine, I readily perceive that the objective being of an idea cannot
be produced by a being that is merely potentially existent,-
which properly speaking is nothing, but only a being existing
formally or actually.
And truly, I see nothing in all that I have now said which it
is not easy for any one who shall carefully consider it, to dis-
cern by the natural light; but when I allow my attention in
some degree to relax, the vision of my mind being obscured and
as it were blinded by the images of sensible objects, I do not
readily remember the reason why the idea of a being more per-
fect than myself must of necessity have proceeded from a being
in reality more perfect. On this account I am here desirous to
inquire further whether I, who possess this idea of God, could
exist supposing there were no God. And I ask, from whom
could I in that case derive my existence? Perhaps from myself,
or from my parents, or from some other causes less perfect than
God; for anything more perfect, or even equal to God, cannot be
thought or imagined. But if I were independent of every other
existence, and were myself the author of my being, I should
doubt of nothing, I should desire nothing, and in fine, no per-
fection would be wanting to me; for I should have bestowed
upon myself every perfection of which I possess the idea, and I
should thus be God. And it must not be imagined that what is
now wanting to me is perhaps of more difficult acquisition than
that of which I am already possessed; for on the contrary, it is
quite manifest that it was a matter of much higher difficulty
that I, a thinking being, should arise from nothing, than it
would be for me to acquire the knowledge of many things of
which I am ignorant, and which are merely the accidents of a
thinking substance; and certainly, if I possessed of myself the
greater perfection of which I have now spoken,-in other words,
if I were the author of my own existence,-I would not at least
have denied to myself things that may be more easily obtained,
as that infinite variety of knowledge of which I am at present
destitute. I could not indeed have denied to myself any prop-
erty which I perceive is contained in the idea of God, because
there is none of these that seems to be more difficult to make
or acquire; and if there were any that should happen to be
more difficult to acquire, they would certainly appear so to me
(supposing that I myself were the source of the other things I
possess), because I should discover in them a limit to my power.
## p. 4596 (#386) ###########################################
4596
PAUL DESJARDINS
BY GRACE KING
HAT a man stands for, in the life and literature of his day, is
easily enough estimated when his name passes current in
his language for a hitherto undesignated shade of meaning.
One of the most acute and sensitive of contemporary French critics,
M. Jules Lemaître, in an article on an evolutionary phase in modern
literature, expresses its significant characteristic to be - "L'idéal de
vie intérieure, la morale absolue, si je puis m'exprimer ainsi, le
Desjardinisme" (The ideal of spiritual life, absolute morality,- if
I may so express myself, Desjardinism). The term, quickly appro-
priated by another French critic, and one of the remarkable women
of letters of her day,- the late Baronne Blaze de Bury,—is literally
interpreted as "summing up whatever is highest and purest and
of most rare attainment in the idealism of the present hour. " And
she further, with the intuition of her sex, feeling a pertinent ques-
tion before it is put, singles out the vital germ of difference which
distinguishes this young writer as typical of the idealism of the
hour, and makes him its name-giver:-"What is in other men the
indirect and hidden source of their public acts, is in Paul Desjardins
the direct source of life itself - the life to be lived; and also of the
mode in which that life is to be conceived and to be made apparent
to the world. " Of the life, "sincerity is its prime virtue. Each
leader proves his faith by his individual conduct, as by his judgments
on events and men. The pure passion of abstract thought fires each
to do the best that is his to do. His life is to be the word-for-word
translation of his own spirit. "
The death-bed repentance of a century, born skeptical, re ared
decadent, and professing practical materialism; the conversion of a
literature from the pure passion of the senses to the pure passion
of abstract thought; the assumption of an apostolic mission by jour-
nalists, novelists, playwrights, college professors, and scientific mas-
ters, will doubtless furnish the century to come with one of its
most curious and interesting fields of study. It is an episode in evo-
lution which may indeed be termed dramatic, this fifth act of the
nineteenth-century epic of France, or it might be called, of Paris;
the story of its pilgrimage from revolution to evolution. M. Melchior
de Voguë, himself one of the apostles of the new life, or of the new
-
## p. 4597 (#387) ###########################################
PAUL DESJARDINS
4597
work in the old life, of France, describes the preparation of the
national soil for the growth of Desjardinism. He says:-
"The French children who were born just before 1870 grew up in an
atmosphere of patriotic mourning and amidst the discouragement of defeat.
National life, such as it became reconstituted after that terrible shock, re-
vealed to them on all sides nothing but abortive hopes, paltry struggles of
interest, and a society without any other hierarchy but that of money, and
without other principle or ideal than the pursuit of material enjoyment.
Literature
reflected these same tendencies; it was dejected or vile,
and distressed the heart by its artistic dryness or disgusted it by its trivial
realism. Science itself .
began to appear to many what it is in reality,
namely, a means, not an end; its prestige declined and its infallibility was
questioned.
Above all, it was clear from too evident social symptoms
that if science can satisfy some very distinguished minds, it can do nothing
to moralize and discipline societies.
«For a hundred years after the destruction of the religious and political
dogmas of the past, France had lived as best she could on some few fragile
dogmas, which had in their turn been consecrated by a naïve superstition;
these dogmas were the principles of 1789 — the almightiness of reason, the
efficacy of absolute liberty, the sovereignty of the people—in a word, the
whole credo of the revolution.
In order to shake that faith [in these
principles] . . it was necessary that human reason, proclaimed infalli-
ble, should turn its arms against itself.
