No More Learning

Copyright, 1856, by Harper & Brothers
WHE
HEN Prue and I are most cheerful, and the world looks fair
-we talk of our cousin the curate. When the world
seems a little cloudy, and we remember that though we
have lived and loved together we may not die together-we talk
of our cousin the curate. When we plan little plans for the boys
and dream dreams for the girls-we talk of our cousin the
curate. When I tell Prue of Aurelia, whose character is every
day lovelier- we talk of our cousin the curate. There is no
subject which does not seem to lead naturally to our cousin the
curate. As the soft air steals in and envelops everything in the
world, so that the trees, and the hills, and the rivers, the cities,
the crops, and the sea, are made remote and delicate and beauti-
ful by its pure baptism, so over all the events of our little lives
-comforting, refining, and elevating-falls like a benediction the
remembrance of our cousin the curate.
He was my only early companion.
He had no brother, I
had none; and we became brothers to each other.
He was
always beautiful.
His face was symmetrical and delicate; his
figure was slight and graceful. He looked as the sons of kings.
ought to look; as I am sure Philip Sidney looked when he was
a boy. His eyes were blue, and as you looked at them they
seemed to let your gaze out into a June heaven. The blood ran
close to the skin, and his complexion had the rich transparency
of light. There was nothing gross or heavy in his expression or
texture; his soul seemed to have mastered his body. But he
had strong passions, for his delicacy was positive, not negative;
it was not weakness, but intensity.
There was a patch of ground about the house which we tilled
as a garden. I was proud of my morning-glories and sweet-
peas; my cousin cultivated roses. One day and we could.
scarcely have been more than six years old - we were digging
merrily and talking. Suddenly there was some kind of differ-
ence; I taunted him, and raising his spade he struck me upon
the leg. The blow was heavy for a boy, and the blood trickled
from the wound. I burst into indignant tears, and limped
toward the house. My cousin turned pale and said nothing; but
just as I opened the door he darted by me, and before I could


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4232
GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS
interrupt him he had confessed his crime and asked for punish-
ment.
From that day he conquered himself. He devoted a kind of
ascetic energy to subduing his own will, and I remember no
other outbreak. But the penalty he paid for conquering his will
was a loss of the gushing expression of feeling. My cousin
became perfectly gentle in his manner; but there was a want of
that pungent excess which is the finest flavor of character. His
views were moderate and calm. He was swept away by no boy-
ish extravagance; and even while I wished he would sin only a
very little, I still adored him as a saint. The truth is, as I tell
Prue, I am so very bad because I have to sin for two- for
myself and our cousin the curate. Often, when I returned pant-
ing and restless from some frolic which had wasted almost all
the night, I was rebuked as I entered the room in which he lay
peacefully sleeping. There was something holy in the profound
repose of his beauty; and as I stood looking at him, how many
a time the tears have dropped from my hot eyes upon his face
while I vowed to make myself worthy of such a companion,- for
I felt my heart owning its allegiance to that strong and imperial
nature.
-―――――――
My cousin was loved by the boys, but the girls worshiped
him. His mind, large in grasp and subtle in perception, natu-
rally commanded his companions, while the lustre of his character
allured those who could not understand him. The asceticism
occasionally showed itself in a vein of hardness, or rather of
severity, in his treatment of others. He did what he thought it
his duty to do; but he forgot that few could see the right so
clearly as he, and very few of those few could so calmly obey
the least command of conscience. I confess I was a little afraid
of him, for I think I never could be severe.
In the long winter evenings I often read to Prue the story of
some old father of the church, or some quaint poem of George
Herbert's; and every Christmas Eve I read to her Milton's
'Hymn of the Nativity. ' Yet when the saint seems to us most
saintly, or the poem most pathetic or sublime, we find ourselves.
talking of our cousin the curate. I have not seen him for many
years; but when we parted, his head had the intellectual symme-
try of Milton's, without the Puritanic stoop, and with the stately
grace of a Cavalier


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GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS
4233
THE CHARM OF PARIS
From The Potiphar Papers. Copyright, 1858, by Harper & Brothers
YES, my dear Madame," answered the Pacha, "this is indeed
"YES making the best of one's opportunities. This is well
worth coming to Europe for. It is in fact for this that
Europe is chiefly valuable to an American, as the experience of
an observer shows. Paris is notoriously the great centre of
historical and romantic interest. To be sure, Italy, Rome,
Switzerland, and Germany-yes, and even England-have some
few objects of interest and attention; but the really great things
of Europe, the superior interests, are all in Paris. Why, just
reflect. Here is the Café de Paris, the Trois Frères, and the
Maison Dorée. I don't think you can get such dinners elsewhere.
Then there is the Grand Opera, the Comic Opera, and now and
then the Italian-I rather think that is good music. Are there
any such theatres as the Vaudeville, the Variétés, and the
Montansier, where there is the most dexterous balancing on the
edge of decency that ever you saw? and when the balance is
lost, as it always is at least a dozen times every evening, the
applause is tremendous, showing that the audience have such a
subtle sense of propriety that they can detect the slightest devia-
tion from the right line. Is there not the Louvre, where, if
there is not the best picture of a single great artist, there are
good specimens of all? Will you please to show me such a
promenade as the Boulevards, such fêtes as those of the Champs.
Elysées, such shops as those of the Passages and the Palais
Royal? Above all, will you indicate to such students of mankind
as Mr. Boosey, Mr. Firkin, and I, a city more abounding in
piquant little women, with eyes, and coiffures and toilettes, and
je ne sais quoi, enough to make Diogenes a dandy, to obtain
their favor? I think, dear madame, you would be troubled to
do it. And while these things are Paris, while we are sure of
an illimitable allowance of all this in the gay capital, we do
right to remain here. Let who will, sadden in moldy old Rome,
or luxuriate in the orange groves of Sorrento and the South, or
wander among the ruins of the most marvelous of empires, and
the monuments of art of the highest human genius, or float about
the canals of Venice, or woo the Venus and the Apollo, and
learn from the silent lips of those teachers a lore sweeter than


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GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS
4234
the French novelists impart; let who will, climb the tremendous
Alps, and feel the sublimity of Switzerland as he rises from the
summer of Italian lakes and vineyards into the winter of the
glaciers, or makes the tour of all climates in a day by descending
those mountains towards the south; let those who care for it,
explore in Germany the sources of modern history, and the remote
beginnings of the American spirit;-ours be the boulevards, the
demoiselles, the operas, and the unequaled dinners. Decency
requires that we should see Rome, and climb an Alp. We will
devote a summer week to the one, and a winter month to the
other. They will restore us, renewed and refreshed, for the
manly, generous, noble, and useful life we lead in Paris. »
"PHARISAISM OF REFORM»
From Orations and Addresses. ' Copyright, 1893, by Harper & Brothers
N°
O AMERICAN, it seems to me, is so unworthy the name as he
who attempts to extenuate or defend any national abuse,
who denies or tries to hide it, or who derides as pessimists
and Pharisees those who indignantly disown it and raise the cry
of reform. If a man proposes the redress of any public wrong,
he is asked severely whether he considers himself so much wiser
and better than other men, that he must disturb the existing
order and pose as a saint. If he denounces an evil, he is
exhorted to beware of spiritual pride. If he points out a dan-
gerous public tendency or censures the action of a party, he is
advised to cultivate good-humor, to look on the bright side, to
remember that the world is a very good world, at least the best
going, and very much better than it was a hundred years ago.
Undoubtedly it is; but would it have been better if every-
body had then insisted that it was the best of all possible
worlds, and that we must not despond if sometimes a cloud
gathered in the sky, or a Benedict Arnold appeared in the
patriot army, or even a Judas Iscariot among the chosen twelve?
Christ, I think, did not doubt the beloved disciple nor the
coming of his kingdom, although he knew and said that the be-
trayer sat with him at the table. I believe we do not read that
Washington either thought it wiser that Arnold's treachery should
be denied or belittled, or that he or any other patriot despaired
although the treason was so grave. Julius Cæsar or Marlborough


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GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS
4235
or Frederick would hardly be called a great general if he had
rebuked the soldier who reported that the lines were beginning
to break. When the sea is pouring into the ship through an
open seam, everybody is aware of it. But then it is too late.
It is the watch who reports the first starting of the seam who
saves the ship.
It is an ill sign when public men find in exposure and
denunciation of public abuses evidence of the pharisaic disposi-
tion and a tendency in the critic to think himself holier than
other men. Was Martin Luther, cheerfully defending his faith
against the princes of Christendom, a Pharisee? Were the Eng-
lish Puritans, iconoclasts in Church and State but saviors of
liberty, pessimists? Were Patrick Henry demanding liberty or
death, and Wendell Phillips in the night of slavery murmuring
the music of the morning, birds of ill omen? Was Abraham
Lincoln saying of the American Union, "A house divided with
itself cannot stand," assuming to be holier than other Amer-
To win a cheap cheer, I have known even intelligent
men to sneer at the scholar in politics. But in a republic
founded upon the common school, such a sneer seems to me to
show a momentary loss of common-sense. It implies that the
political opinions of educated men are unimportant and that
ignorance is a safer counselor of the republic. If the gentleman
who in this very hall last stooped to that sneer, had asked him-
self what would have been the fortune of this State and this
country without its educated leadership, from Samuel Adams to
Charles Sumner,- both sons of Massachusetts, both scholars in
politics from Harvard College,- he might have spared his coun-
try, his party, and himself, the essential recreancy to America
and to manhood which lies in a sneer at education. To the cant
about the pharisaism of reform there is one short and final
answer. The man who tells the truth is a holier man than the
liar. The man who does not steal is a better man than the
thief.


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4236
GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS
THE CALL OF FREEDOM
From Orations and Addresses.
Copyright, 1893, by Harper & Brothers
IN
NTO how many homes along this lovely valley came the news
of Lexington and Bunker Hill eighty years ago; and young
men like us, studious, fond of leisure, young lovers, young
husbands, young brothers, and sons, knew that they must forsake
the wooded hillside, the river meadows golden with harvest, the
twilight walk along the river, the summer Sunday in the old
church, parents, wife, child, mistress, and go away to uncertain
Putnam heard the call at his plow, and turned to go
without waiting. Wooster heard it, and obeyed.
war.
Not less lovely in those days was this peaceful valley, not
less soft this summer air. Life was as dear and love as beauti-
ful to those young men as to us who stand upon their graves.
But because they were so dear and beautiful, those men went
out bravely to fight for them and fall. Through these very
streets they marched, who never returned. They fell and were
buried; but they never can die. Not sweeter are the flowers
that make your valley fair, not greener are the pines that give
your river its name, than the memory of the brave men who
died for freedom. And yet no victim of those days, sleeping
under the green sod of Connecticut, is more truly a martyr of
Liberty than every murdered man whose bones lie bleaching in
this summer sun upon the silent plains of Kansas.
Gentlemen, while we read history we make history. Because
our fathers fought in this great cause, we must not hope to escape
fighting. Because two thousand years ago Leonidas stood against
Xerxes, we must not suppose that Xerxes was slain, nor, thank
God! that Leonidas is not immortal. Every great crisis of human
history is a pass of Thermopylæ, and there is always a Leonidas
and his three hundred to die in it, if they cannot conquer.
And
so long as Liberty has one martyr, so long as one drop of blood
is poured out for her, so long from that single drop of bloody
sweat of the agony of humanity shall spring hosts as countless
as the forest leaves and mighty as the sea.
Brothers! the call has come to us. I bring it to you in these
calm retreats. I summon you to the great fight of Freedom. I
call upon you to say with your voices, whenever the occasion
offers, and with your votes when the day comes, that upon


## p. 4237 (#615) ###########################################

GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS
4237
these fertile fields of Kansas, in the very heart of the continent,
the upas-tree of slavery, dripping death-dews upon national pros-
perity and upon free labor, shall never be planted. I call upon
you to plant there the palm of peace, the wine and the olive of
a Christian civilization. I call upon you to determine whether
this great experiment of human freedom, which has been the
scorn of despotism, shall by our failure be also our sin and
shame. I call upon you to defend the hope of the world.
The voice of our brothers who are bleeding, no less than our
fathers who bled, summons us to this battle. Shall the children
of unborn generations, clustering over that vast western empire,
rise up and call us blessed or cursed? Here are our Marathon
and Lexington; here are our heroic fields. The hearts of all
good men beat with us. The fight is fierce- the issue is with
God. But God is good.
ROBERT BROWNING IN FLORENCE
From The Easy Chair. Copyright, 1891, by Harper & Brothers
IT
IS more than forty years since Margaret Fuller first gave
distinction to the literary notices and reviews of the New
York Tribune. Miss Fuller was a woman of extraordinary
scholarly attainments and intellectual independence, the friend of
Emerson and of the "Transcendental" leaders; and her criti-
cal papers were the best then published, and were fitly succeeded
by those of her scholarly friend, George Ripley. It was her
review in the Tribune of Browning's early dramas and the
'Bells and Pomegranates' that introduced him to such general
knowledge and appreciation among cultivated readers in this
country, that it is not less true of Browning than of Carlyle that
he was first better known in America than at home.
It was but about four years before the publication of Miss
Fuller's paper that the Boston issue of Tennyson's two volumes
had delighted the youth of the time with the consciousness of
the appearance of a new English poet. The eagerness and
enthusiasm with which Browning was welcomed soon after were
more limited in extent, but they were even more ardent; and
the devoted zeal of Mr. Levi Thaxter as a Browning missionary
and pioneer forecast the interest from which the Browning soci-
eties of later days have sprung. When Matthew Arnold was


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4238
GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS
told in a small and remote farming village in New England that
there had been a lecture upon Browning in the town the week
before, he stopped in amazement, and said, "Well, that is the
most surprising and significant fact I have heard in America. "
It was in those early days of Browning's fame, and in the
studio of the sculptor Powers in Florence, that the youthful
Easy Chair took up a visiting-card, and reading the name Mr.
Robert Browning, asked with eager earnestness whether it was
Browning the poet. Powers turned his large, calm, lustrous
eyes upon the youth, and answered, with some surprise at the
warmth of the question:-
-
"It is a young Englishman, recently married, who is here
with his wife, an invalid. He often comes to the studio. "
"Good Heaven! " exclaimed the youth, "it must be Browning
and Elizabeth Barrett. "
Powers, with the half-bewildered air of one suddenly made
conscious that he had been entertaining angels unawares, said
reflectively, “I think we must have them to tea. "
The youth begged to take the card which bore the poet's
address, and hastening to his room near the Piazza Novella, he
wrote a note asking permission for a young American to call
and pay his respects to Mr. and Mrs. Browning; but wrote it in
terms which, however warm, would yet permit it to be put aside
if it seemed impertinent, or if for any reason such a call were
not desired. The next morning betimes the note was dispatched,
and a half-hour had not passed when there was a brisk rap at
the Easy Chair's door. He opened it and saw a young man,
who briskly inquired:
-
"Is Mr. Easy Chair here? »
"That is my name. "
"I am Robert Browning. "
Browning shook hands heartily with his young American
admirer, and thanked him for his note. The poet was then
about thirty-five. His figure was not large, but compact, erect,
and active; the face smooth, the hair dark; the aspect that of
active intelligence, and of a man of the world. He was in no
way eccentric, either in manner or appearance. He talked
freely, with great vivacity, and delightfully, rising and walking
about the room as his talk sparkled on. He heard with evident
pleasure, but with entire simplicity and manliness, of the Ameri-
can interest in his works and in those of Mrs. Browning; and


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GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS
4239
the Easy Chair gave him a copy of Miss Fuller's paper in the
Tribune.
It was a bright, and to the Easy Chair a wonderfully happy
hour. As he went, the poet said that Mrs. Browning would cer-
tainly expect to give Mr. Easy Chair a cup of tea in the even-
ing; and with a brisk and gay good-by, Browning was gone.
The Easy Chair blithely hied him to the Café Doné, and
ordered of the flower-girl the most perfect of nosegays, with
such fervor that she smiled; and when she brought the flowers
in the afternoon, said with sympathy and meaning, "Eccola,
signore! per la donna bellissima! "
It was not in the Casa Guidi that the Brownings were then
living, but in an apartment in the Via della Scala, not far from
the place or square most familiar to strangers in Florence - the
Piazza Trinità. Through several rooms the Easy Chair passed,
Browning leading the way; until at the end they entered a
smaller room arranged with an air of English comfort, where at
a table, bending over a tea-urn, sat a slight lady, her long curls
drooping forward. "Here," said Browning, addressing her with a
tender diminutive, "here is Mr. Easy Chair. " And, as the bright
eyes but wan face of the lady turned towards him, and she put
out her hand, Mr. Easy Chair recalled the first words of her
verse he had ever known:
―――
"Onora, Onora! ' her mother is calling;
She sits at the lattice, and hears the dew falling,
Drop after drop from the sycamore laden
With dew as with blossom, and calls home the maiden:
'Night cometh, Onora! >»
The most kindly welcome and pleasant chat followed, Brown-
ing's gayety dashing and flashing in, with a sense of profuse
and bubbling vitality, glancing at a hundred topics; and when
there was some allusion to his 'Sordello,' he asked, quickly, with
an amused smile, "Have you read it? " The Easy Chair pleaded
that he had not seen it. "So much the better. Nobody under-
stands it. Don't read it, except in the revised form, which is
coming. " The revised form has come long ago, and the Easy
Chair has read, and probably supposes that he understands. But
Thackeray used to say that he did not read Browning, because he
could not comprehend him, adding ruefully, "I have no head
above my eyes. "


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4240
GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS
A few days later-
"O gift of God! O perfect day! "-
the Easy Chair went with Mr. and Mrs. Browning to Vallom-
brosa, and the one incident most clearly remembered is that of
Browning's seating himself at the organ in the chapel, and play.
ing, some Gregorian chant, perhaps, or hymn of Pergolesi's.
It was enough to the enchanted eyes of his young companion
that they saw him who was already a great English poet sitting
at the organ where the young Milton had sat, and touching the
very keys which Milton's hand had pressed.
-


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4241
ERNST CURTIUS
(1814-1896)
RNST CURTIUS, a noted German archæologist and historian,
was born at Lübeck September 2d, 1814. He studied phi-
lology at Bonn, Göttingen, and Berlin. When in 1837 Christ-
ian August Brandis was appointed confidential adviser to Prince
Otho of Bavaria, the newly elected king of Greece, Curtius accom-
panied Brandis's family to Athens as a private tutor. He remained
with the Brandises until 1840, when he joined Ottfried Müller's archæ-
ological expedition to Delphi. No sooner were the excavations well
under way, however, than Müller died.
Curtius thereupon returned to Germany,
stopping at Rome on the way; and in 1841
took his doctor's degree at Halle.
In 1844 he was appointed tutor to the
Crown Prince of Prussia (the late Emperor
Frederick), being at the same time made a
professor extraordinary at the University
of Berlin. He held his position as tutor to
the Crown Prince until 1850, when the lat-
ter matriculated at Bonn. In 1856 he suc-
ceeded Hermann as professor of classical
philology at Göttingen, but returned some
twelve years later to Berlin to occupy the
chair of classical archæology and to act as
director of the cabinet of antiquities in the Royal Museum
Curtius also much advanced the study of classical archæology as
presiding officer of the Archæological Society, as editor of the Archæ-
ological Journal, as perpetual secretary of the Royal Academy, and
as the founder of the German Archæological Institute at Athens. He
undertook a number of scientific missions in the service of the Prus-
sian government, and in 1874 concluded with the Greek government
a convention which secured to the German Empire for a term of
years the exclusive right to make excavations in the Greek kingdom.
The following year the first excavation was begun at Olympia in
Elis, the site of the ancient Olympic games, under the direction of
Curtius, who with others published the results in a voluminous and
most interesting report.
VII-266

ERNST CURTIUS


## p. 4242 (#620) ###########################################

4242
ERNST CURTIUS
Curtius's chief work is his 'History of Greece,' which appeared in
1867. It was originally published in three volumes as one of a series
of manuals for classical students issued by a Berlin house, and was
consequently intended for popular use; a circumstance that necessi-
tated the omission of the copious notes in which the text of a
German scientific work is commonly lost.
It showed a remarkable
familiarity with the climate, resources, and physical characteristics of
Greece; and interpreted ancient life with much eloquence from the
classical literature and from the monuments of ancient art. But the
monarchical leaning of the author prevented him from entering fully
into and appreciating the public life of the democratic communities
which he described; and his enthusiastic temperament led him some-
times to exaggerate and to be too eager a partisan, to accept
unproven hypotheses too readily and press them too hard.
Besides his 'History of Greece,' Curtius's most notable works are
'Peloponnesos (1850-51), which describes in detail
ancient
remains on the Peloponnesus; 'Die Stadtgeschichte von Athen'
(Municipal History of Athens: 1891), and 'Sieben Karten zur Topo-
graphie von Athen nebst erläuterndem Text' (Seven Maps of Athens:
1886). His life was a busy and eminently distinguished one, as an
archæologist, historian, and instructor, and his death in the summer
of 1896 was generally lamented by his associates.
THE CAUSES OF DISLIKE TOWARD SOCRATES
From the History of Greece ›
HE Athenians disliked men who wished to be different from
Tevery one else; particularly when these eccentrics, instead
of quietly pursuing their own path and withdrawing from
the world like Timon, forced themselves among their neighbors
and assumed towards them the attitude of pedagogues, as Soc-
rates did. For what could be more annoying to an Athenian of
repute than to find himself, on his way to the council meeting or
the law court, unexpectedly involved in a conversation intended
to confuse him, to shake his comfortable self-assurance, and to
end by making him ridiculous? In any other city such conver-
sation would have been altogether hard to manage; but at
Athens the love of talk was so great that many allowed them-
selves to be caught, and that gradually the number became very
large of those who had been the victims of this inconvenient
questioner, and who carried about with them the remembrance


## p. 4243 (#621) ###########################################

ERNST CURTIUS
4243
of a humiliation inflicted on them by him. And most of all was
he hated by those who had allowed themselves to be touched
and moved to tears of a bitter recognition of their own selves
by his words, but who had afterwards sunk back into their
former ways and were now ashamed of their hours of weakness.
Thus Socrates had daily to experience that the testing of men
was the most ungrateful of tasks which could be pursued at
Athens; nor could he, without the sacred resolution of an abso-
lutely unselfish devotion to his mission, have without ceasing
obeyed the divine voice which every morning anew bade him go
forth among men.
But that there were also more general and deep-seated grounds
for the sense of annoyance manifested by the Attic public, is
most clearly proved by the attacks of the comic stage. "To me
too," it is said in a comedy by Eupolis, "this Socrates is offens-
ive: this beggarly talker, who has considered everything with
hair-splitting ingenuity; the only matter which he has left uncon-
sidered is the question how he will get a dinner to-day. " Far
more serious were the attacks of Aristophanes. His standpoint,
as well as that of Eupolis and Cratinus, was the ancient Attic
view of life: he regarded the teachers of philosophy, round whom
the young men gathered, as the ruin of the State; and although
he could not possibly mistake the difference between Socrates
and the Sophists,—although moreover he by no means belonged
to the personal enemies of Socrates, with whom he rather seems
to have enjoyed a certain degree of intimacy,- yet he thought it
both his right and his duty, as a poet and a patriot, to combat
in Socrates the Sophist, nay, the most dangerous of Sophists.
The Athenian of the old school hated these conversations extend-
ing through whole hours of the broad daylight, during which the
young men were kept away from the palæstræ; these painful
discussions of topics of morality and politics, as to which it
behooved every loyal citizen to have made up his mind once for
all. If everything was submitted to examination, everything was
also exposed to rejection; and what was to become of the city, if
only that was to be allowed as valid which found gracious ac-
ceptance at the hands of this or that professor of talk? If
everything had to be learnt, if everything was to be acquired by
reflection, then there was an end of true civic virtue, which
ought to be a thing inborn in a citizen and secured by his train-
ing as such. In these days all action and capability of action.


## p. 4244 (#622) ###########################################

ERNST CURTIUS
4244
was being dissolved into an idle knowledge; the one-sided culti-
vation of the intellect was loosening the sinews of men, and
making them indifferent to their country and religion. From
this standpoint the poet rejects all such culture of youth as is
founded upon the testing of the mind, and leading it to perfect
knowledge, and lauds those young Athenians who do not care
for wasting their time by sitting and talking with Socrates.
The priestly party, again, was adverse to Socrates, although
the highest authority in religious matters which existed in Hel-
las, and had at all events not been superseded by any other,
had declared in his favor,- at the suggestion of Chærephon,
who from his youth up was attached with devoted affection to
his teacher. His was an enthusiastic nature; and he desired
nothing so ardently as that the beneficent influence which he
had experienced in his own soul might be shared by the largest
possible number of his fellow-citizens. For this reason he was
anxious for an outward recognition of the merits of his so fre-
quently misjudged friend; and he is said to have brought home
from Delphi the oracle which declared Socrates to be the wisest
of all men. Now, although this oracle was incapable of giving
a loftier assurance of his mission to the philosopher himself,
although it could not even remove the antipathy of the public,
yet it might be expected that it would disarm the calumny rep-
resenting Socrates as a teacher of dangerous heresies; and in
this sense he could not but personally welcome the Delphic
declaration. For it must be remembered that he continued to
regard the oracle as the reverend centre of the nation, as the
symbol of a religious communion among the Hellenes; and in
disallowing all presumptuous meditation on the right way of
venerating the gods, he entirely followed the precedent of the
Delphic oracle, which was in the habit of settling questions of
this kind by the answer that it was according to the usage of
their fathers that men should venerate the gods. At Delphi,
on the other hand, there could be no question as to the import-
ance of one who was leading the revolted world back to rever-
ence for things holy, and who, while his contemporaries were
derisively despising the obsolete ways of the past, and running
after the ignes fatui of the wisdom of the day, held up be-
fore their eyes the primitive sayings of the temples; a serious
consideration of which he declared to be sufficient to reveal
the treasure of immortal truth contained in them. If it was


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4245
confessedly impossible to put an end to the prevailing desire
for independent inquiry, then the priests could not but acknowl-
edge that this was the only way by which the old religion could.
be saved.
Even the recognition by Delphi, however, was unable to pro-
tect Socrates against the suspicion of heresy. The fanaticism of
the priestly party increased in inverse ratio to its prospects of
real success; it regarded any philosophical discussion of religious
truths as a desecration, and placed Socrates on the same level as
Diagoras. Finally, the democrats, who after the restoration of
the constitution were the ruling party, hated philosophy, because
out of its school had issued a large proportion of the oligarchs;
not only Critias and Theramenes, but also Pythodorus the archon
of the days of anarchy, Aristoteles one of the Four Hundred and
of the Thirty, Charmides, and others, were known as men of
philosophical culture. Philosophy and the tendency towards
political reaction accordingly seemed to be necessarily connected
with one another. In a word, Socrates found opposition every-
where: some deemed him too conservative and others too liberal;
he had against him both the Sophists and the enemies of the
Sophists, both rigid orthodoxy and infidelity, both the patriots of
the old school and the representatives of the renovated democ-
racy.
Notwithstanding all this hostile feeling, the personal security
of Socrates was not endangered, because he pursued his path as
a blameless man, and because it was a matter of conscience with
him to avoid every offense against the law. But after the res-
toration of the constitution a variety of circumstances continued
to imperil his position at Athens.
SOCRATES AS AN INFLUENCE AND AS A MAN
From the History of Greece ›
IF
WE Contemplate Socrates in his whole way of living and
being (and in truth no other personage of Greek antiquity is
so distinctly brought before our eyes), it seems to us in the
first place as if at Athens he were not in his natural place; so
foreign to Athens are his ways, and so dissociated from it is
his whole individuality. He cannot be fitted into any class of


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Athenian civil society, and is to be measured by no such stand-
ard as we apply to his fellow-citizens. He is one of the poorest
of all the Athenians, and yet he passes with a proud step
through the streets of the city and confronts the richest and
best born as their equal; his ungainly and neglected exterior
makes him an object of public derision, and yet he exercises an
unexampled influence upon high and low, upon learned and
unlearned alike. He is a master both of thought and of speech,
yet at the same time an opponent on principle of those who
were the instructors of the Athenians in both; he is a man of
free thought, who allows nothing to remain untested, and yet he
is more diligent in offering sacrifices than any of his neighbors,
he venerates the oracles, and reposes a simple faith in many
things which the age laughs at as nursery tales; he blames
without reticence the dominion of the multitude, and yet is an
adversary of oligarchs. Entirely his own master, he thinks dif-
ferently from all other Athenians; he goes his own path with-
out troubling himself about public opinion; and so long as he
remains in harmony with himself, no contradiction, no hostile
attack, no derision vexes his soul. Such a man as this seemed
in truth to have been transplanted into the midst of Athens as
it were from some other world.
And yet, unique in his kind as this Socrates was, we are
unable on closer examination to mistake him for aught but a
genuine Athenian. Such he was in his whole intellectual tend-
ency, in his love of talk and skill in talk,-growths impossible
in any but Athenian air,- in the delicate wit with which he con-
trived to combine the serious and the sportive, and in his
unflagging search after a deep connection between action and
knowledge. He was a genuine Athenian of the ancient stamp,
when with inflexible courage he stood forth as the champion of
the laws of the State against all arbitrary interference, and in
the field shrank from no danger or hardship. He knew and
loved the national poets; but above all it is in his indefatigable
impulse towards culture that we recognize the true son of his
native city. Herein lay a spiritual affinity between him and the
noblest among the Athenians, a Solon and a Pericles. Socrates,
like Solon, thought that no man is too old to learn; that to learn
and to know is not a schooling for life, but life itself, and that
which alone gives to life its value. To become by knowledge
better from day to day, and to make others better, appeared to


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4247
both to be the real duty of man.
Both found the one true hap-
piness in the health of the soul, whose greatest unhappiness they
held to lie in wrong and ignorance.
Thus with all his originality Socrates most decidedly stood on
the basis of Attic culture; and if it is taken into consideration
that the most celebrated representatives of Sophistry and the
tendencies akin to it all came from abroad,-e. g. , Protagoras
from Abdera, Prodicus from Ceos, Diagoras from Melos,—it may
fairly be affirmed that as against these foreign teachers the best
principles of Attic wisdom found their representative in Socrates.
Far, however, from merely recurring to the ancient foundations.
of patriotic sentiment,-fallen into neglect to the great loss of the
State,― and from opposing himself on an inflexible defensive to
the movement of the age, he rather stood in the very midst of
it; and merely sought to lead it to other and higher ends.
What he desired was not a turning back, but a progress in
knowledge beyond that which the most sagacious teachers of
wisdom offered. For this reason he was able to unite in himself
elements which seemed to others irreconcilably contradictory;
and upon this conception was based what most distinguished him
above all his fellow countrymen, the lofty freedom and inde-
pendence of his mind. Thus, without becoming disloyal to his
home, he was able to rise above the restrictions of customary
ideas; which he most notably achieved by making himself per-
fectly independent of all external things, in the midst of a
people which worshiped the beauty of outward appearance, and
by attaching value exclusively to the possessions which are
within, and to moral life. For this reason too his personal ugli
ness the broad face with the snub nose, thick lips and promi-
nent eyes—was a characteristic feature of his individuality;
because it testified against the traditional assumption of a neces-
sary union between physical and intellectual excellence; because
it proved that even in a form like that of Silenus there might
dwell a spirit like that of Apollo, and thus conduced to a loftier
conception of the being of man. Thus he belonged to his people
and to his age, but stood above both; and such a man the
Athenians needed, in order to find the path whereon it was
possible to penetrate through the conflict of opinions to a moral
assurance, and to reach a happiness containing its own warrant.
Socrates appears before us as an individuality complete and
perfect, of which the gradual development continues to remain
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4248
ERNST CURTIUS
a mystery. Its real germ, however, doubtless lies in the desire
for knowledge, which was innate in him with peculiar strength.
This desire would not allow him to remain under pupilage to
his father: it drove him forth out of the narrow workshop into
the streets and the open places of the city, where in those days
every kind of culture, art, and science, was offered in rich
abundance; for at the time when Socrates was in his twentieth
year, Pericles stood at the height of his splendid activity, which
the son of a sculptor might be supposed to have had occasion
fully to appreciate. The youthful Socrates however brought with
him out of his father's house a certain one-sided and so to
speak bourgeois tendency, -i. e. , a sober homely sense for the
practically useful, which would not allow itself to be dazzled by
splendor and magnificence. Accordingly he passed by with tol-
erable indifference the much admired works of art with which
the city was at that time filled; for the ideal efforts of the
Periclean age he lacked comprehension; nor do the tragedies of
a Sophocles appear to have exercised much attraction upon him.
If there was one-sidedness in this, on the other hand it bore
good fruit in so far as it confirmed the independence of his
judgment, and enabled him to recognize and combat the defects
and diseases from which Athens suffered even in the midst of
her glories.
But although the son of Sophroniscus carried the idea of the
practically useful into the domain of science, he gave to it in
this so deep and grand a significance that for him it again
became an impulse towards searching with unflagging zeal for
all real means of culture offered by Athens; for he felt the
impossibility of satisfactorily responding to the moral tasks which
most immediately await man, without the possession of a con-
nected knowledge. Thus he eagerly associated with men and
women esteemed as highly cultured; he listened to the lectures
of the Sophists; acquainted himself with the writings of the
earlier philosophers, which he found to be still of vital effect
upon his contemporaries; thoroughly studied with friends desirous
of self-improvement the works of Heraclitus and Anaxagoras;
and in this constant intercourse he gradually became himself
another man,-i. e. , he grew conscious of the unsatisfactory
standpoint of the wisdom of the teachers of the day, as well as
conscious of his own aims and mission. For in putting questions
of a kind which could meet with no reply, and in searching for


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ERNST CURTIUS
4249
deeper things than could be offered to him by his hearers, he
gradually became himself the person from whom the impulse
proceeded, and from whom in the end was expected an answer
to the questions which had remained unsolved. He, the seeker
after instruction, became the centre of a circle of younger men
who were enthusiastically attached to him. In how high a
degree that which he endeavored to supply corresponded to the
deeply felt needs of the age, is evident from the fact that men
of the most utterly different dispositions and stations in life gave
themselves up to him: youths of the highest class of society, full
of self-consciousness, buoyancy, and reckless high spirits, such
as Alcibiades; and again, men of a melancholy and timid turn of
mind, such as the well-known eccentric Apollodorus of Phalerus,
who, perpetually discontented with himself and others, led a
miserable existence until in Socrates he found the sole individu-
ality appeasing his wants, and in intercourse with him the satis-
faction for which he had longed. To him Socrates was all in
all, and every hour during which he was away from Socrates he
accounted as lost. Thus Socrates was able to re-awaken among
the Athenians-among whom personal intercourse between those
of the same age, as well as between men and youths, was dis-
turbed or desecrated either by party interests or by impure
sensuality the beneficent power of pure friendship and unselfish
devotion. Sober and calm himself, he excited the noblest enthu-
siasm, and by the simplest means obtained a far-reaching influ-
ence such as before him no man had possessed at Athens; even
before the Peace of Nicias, when Aristophanes made him the
principal character in his 'Clouds,' he was one of the best known
and most influential personages at Athens.
As Socrates gradually became a teacher of the people, so his
mode and habits of life, too, formed themselves in indissoluble
connection with his philosophical development. For this was the
most pre-eminent among his qualities: that his life and his teach-
ings were formed in the same mold, and that none of his dis-
ciples could say whether he had been more deeply affected by
the words or by the example of his master.
And this was con-
nected with the fact that from the first his philosophy directed
itself to that which might make man better and more pleasing
to Heaven, freer and happier at once. To this tendency he could
not devote himself without rising in his own consciousness to a
continuously loftier clearness and purity, and without subjecting
-


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4250
ERNST CURTIUS
to reason the elements inborn in him, of sensual impulses, of
inertia and passion. Thus he became a man in whom the
world found much to smile and mock at, but whom even those
who could not stomach his wisdom were obliged to acknowledge
as a morally blameless and just citizen. He was devoted with
absolute loyalty to his native city, and without desiring offices
and dignities, he was from an inner impulse indefatigably active
for her good.
For the rest, Socrates, with all his dislike of the pursuit of
profit and pleasure, was anything but a morose eccentric like
Euripides; from this he was kept by his love of humankind.
He was merry with the merry; and spoilt no festive banquet to
which he had been bidden. In the friendly circle he sat as a
man brave at his cups, and herein likewise offered an example to
his friends how the truly free can at one time suffer deprivation,
and at another enjoy abundance, without at any time losing his
full self-control. After a night of festivity his consciousness was
as clear and serene as ever; he had after a rare fashion made
his body an ever ready servant of his mind; even physically he
could do things impossible to others, and as if protected by some
magic charm, he passed unhurt through all the pestilences of
Athens without ever timidly keeping out of the way of danger.
Fully assured of the inner mission which animated him, he
allowed nothing to derange or to confound him. Hostile attacks
and derision touched him not; nay, he was known to laugh most
heartily of all the spectators when that sinner Aristophanes
exhibited him as a dreamer, abstracted from the world and hang-
ing in a hammock between heaven and earth; and when the
other comic poets made the public merry with his personal
appearance. For the same reason, lastly, he was inaccessible to
all the offers made to him by foreign princes, who would have
given much to attract the most remarkable man of the age to
their courts. The Thessalian grandees in particular, Scopas at
Crannon and Eurylochus at Larissa, emulated one another in
their endeavors to secure him. But he was no more tempted by
their gold than by that of Archelaus, the splendor of whose
throne, obtained by guile and murder, failed to dazzle Socrates.
He replied with the pride of a genuine republican that it ill
befitted any man to accept benefits which he had no power of
returning.


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4251
CUVIER
(1769-1832)
BY SPENCER TROTTER
M
ODERN zoological science is indebted, in a large measure, to
the mind and labor of the three French savants-Lamarck,
Saint-Hilaire, and Cuvier. Throughout the troubled times
of the French Revolution these three friends and co-laborers pursued
their studies, arranging and interpreting the facts which they accu-
mulated, and enriching the literature of the science to which they
devoted their lives. Of the three, Cuvier stands forth with greatest
prominence to-day as the one who by his studies in the structure and
classification of animals, and through
his reconstruction of the fossil ani-
mals of the Paris Basin, has left the
most enduring mark upon the litera-
ture of the subject.
George Leopold Christian Frederic
Dagobert Cuvier was born at Montbé-
liard in Alsace, on the 23d of August,
1769. His mother devoted herself to
the careful training and development
of his growing mind, and in very
early life he gave evidence of extraor-
dinary intellectual endowment. Nat-
urally in dustrious, and possessed of a
remarkable memory and the power
of concentration, young Cuvier by
the age of fourteen had mastered the
rudiments of several languages, both
ancient and modern, had acquired a considerable knowledge of math-
ematics, had read widely in history, and was proficient in drawing.
He very early showed a decided bent toward scientific pursuits,
and drew his first inspiration from the works of Buffon, who was
then at the zenith of his fame. While at school he formed a society
among his fellows for the reading and discussion of various subjects
of a scientific and literary nature. Cuvier's talents became known
to Prince Charles, the reigning Duke of Würtemberg, who gave him
a free education in the University of Stuttgart. After completing his

CUVIER


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CUVIER
4252
university course with honor he sought for a public office under the
government of Prince Charles, but his parents' circumstances (his
father being a retired officer of a Swiss regiment in the service of
France) forced him to abandon this idea, and at the age of nineteen
he accepted the position of a tutor in the family of a nobleman who
resided at Caen in Normandy.
This proved to be the determining event in Cuvier's life. He
found in the mollusk fauna of the near-by sea-coast a fascinating
subject for study, and devoted all of his spare time to the investiga-
tion of the structure and relations of the various forms that came to
his notice. The Abbé Tessier, a member of the Academy of Sciences,
who had fled to Normandy from Paris during the Reign of Terror,
made the acquaintance of the young naturalist, and introduced him
by correspondence to a number of the most eminent scientific men of
Paris. One of these men was Geoffroy Saint-Hilaire; and through his
influence Cuvier was invited to assist Mertrud, the professor of com-
parative anatomy in the Museum of Natural History at the Jardin des
Plantes. From this time on he threw all the energies of his re-
markable mind into the study of animals and the building up of the
Museum. The collections which he originated rank among the finest
in the world. In 1802 Cuvier was appointed one of six inspector-
generals to organize lyceums in a number of the French towns,
and ever after gave a great part of his time and thought to the
subject of education. The influence of his work in this direction is
felt to-day in every institution of public instruction throughout France.
On the annexation of Italy he made three different visits to that
country in order to reorganize the old academies, and although a
Protestant he was intrusted with the organization of the University
at Rome. In a similar manner he remodeled the educational systems
throughout Holland and Belgium; and his reports on these questions
are teeming with interest. Cuvier felt that the strength of a nation
lay in the sound education of all classes, the lower as well as the
upper; and to his enlightened views may be traced much of the
excellent system of primary education that prevails in these countries
to-day. Under the bigoted Bourbon government, the despotic rule of
Napoleon, and the liberal reign of Louis Philippe, Cuvier maintained
his post; and throughout the events of the Hundred Day of 1815 he
still held a high position in the Imperial University, of which he had
been made a life member of the council at its foundation in 1808.
He held a distinguished place as a member of the Council of State,
as Minister of the Interior, as Chancellor of the University, and
member of the Protestant faculty of theology. Louis Philippe con-
ferred on him the title of Baron. He lived at the Jardin des Plantes,
surrounded by his family and friends, and his home was the centre


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CUVIER
4253
of men of science from all parts of the world. On the 8th of May,
1832, after delivering an unusually eloquent introductory lecture at
the College of France, he was stricken with paralysis; and though he
rallied sufficiently to preside the next day at the Council of State, he
died on the following Sunday.
The chief value of Cuvier's work in general literature lies in the
philosophical deductions which he drew from his studies. Lamarck
had advanced the theory of the origin of species as a result of the
action of the natural conditions of existence impressing and molding
the plastic organism. Saint-Hilaire had advanced the doctrine of
"homology," i. e. , the same structure appearing in a different form
in different animals as a result of a difference of function. Cuvier
opposed both of these theories, holding that each animal was a sep-
arate and distinct result of a special creative act, and that each part
of its organization was expressly created to meet certain wants.
Though the point of view of these three friends differed, yet each
held the germ of truth. The action of the environment and the doc-
trine of homology are vital questions to-day; and Cuvier's deductions
are equally pregnant with the truth, only their author viewed the
facts as special creative acts of the Divine intelligence. Probably the
most wide-reaching effects of Cuvier's work came from his study and
restoration of the fossil animals of the Paris Basin, and the conse-
quent recognition of the Tertiary as a distinct geological age. From
his investigations in comparative anatomy he proved "that the parts
of an animal agree so exactly that from seeing one fragment the
whole can be known. " This recognition of the correlation of parts
was one of the grandest achievements of his master mind.
Cuvier's scientific publications were numerous. His best known
works are 'Le Règne Animal' (The Animal Kingdom), published in
four octavo volumes in 1817, and 'Recherches sur les Ossements Fos-
siles (Inquiry Concerning Fossil Bones). This latter work is prob-
ably the most enduring monument to his fame, as it laid the basis of
the present science of palæontology. The first volume of this work
is a masterpiece of scientific literature, and has been widely trans-
lated. The English translation by Professor Jameson of Edinburgh,
entitled 'Essay on the Theory of the Earth,' has passed through
several editions.
Frenser Frotter.
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## p. 4254 (#632) ###########################################

4254
CUVIER
OF CHANGES IN THE STRUCTURE OF THE EARTH
From The Theory of the Earth'
THE
HE lowest and most level parts of the earth, when penetrated
to a very great depth, exhibit nothing but horizontal strata
composed of various substances, and containing almost all
of them innumerable marine productions. Similar strata, with
the same kind of productions, compose the hills even to a great
height. Sometimes the shells are so numerous as to constitute
the entire body of the stratum. They are almost everywhere in
such a perfect state of preservation that even the smallest of
them retain their most delicate parts, their sharpest ridges, and
their finest and tenderest processes. They are found in eleva-
tions far above the level of every part of the ocean, and in
places to which the sea could not be conveyed by any existing
cause. They are not only inclosed in loose sand, but are often
incrusted and penetrated on all sides by the hardest stones.
Every part of the earth, every hemisphere, every continent, every
island of any size, exhibits the same phenomenon. We are there-
fore forcibly led to believe not only that the sea has at one
period or another covered all our plains, but that it must have
remained there for a long time, and in a state of tranquillity;
which circumstance was necessary for the formation of deposits
so extensive, so thick, in part so solid, and containing exuviæ
so perfectly preserved.
A
The time is past for ignorance to assert that these remains
of organized bodies are mere lusus naturæ,-productions gener-
ated in the womb of the earth by its own creative powers.
nice and scrupulous comparison of their forms, of their context-
ure, and frequently even of their composition, cannot detect the
slightest difference between these shells and the shells which
still inhabit the sea. They have therefore once lived in the sea,
and been deposited by it; the sea consequently must have rested
in the places where the deposition has taken place. Hence it is
evident the basin or reservoir containing the sea has undergone
some change at least, either in extent, or in situation, or in
both. Such is the result of the very first search, and of the
most superficial examination.
The traces of revolutions become still more apparent and de-
cisive when we ascend a little higher, and approach nearer to


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CUVIER
4255
the foot of the great chains of mountains. There are still found
many beds of shells; some of these are even larger and more
solid; the shells are quite as numerous and as entirely pre-
served: but they are not of the same species with those which
were found in the less elevated regions. The strata which con-
tain them are not so generally horizontal; they have various
degrees of inclination, and are sometimes situated vertically.
While in the plains and low hills it was necessary to dig deep
in order to detect the succession of the strata, here we perceive
them by means of the valleys which time or violence has pro-
duced, and which disclose their edges to the eye of the observer.
At the bottom of these declivities huge masses of their débris
are collected, and form round hills, the height of which is aug-
mented by the operation of every thaw and of every storm.
These inclined or vertical strata, which form the ridges of the
secondary mountains, do not rest on the horizontal strata of the
hills which are situated at their base and serve as their first
steps; but on the contrary are situated underneath them. The
latter are placed upon the declivities of the former. When we
dig through the horizontal strata in the neighborhood of the
inclined strata, the inclined strata are invariably found below.
Nay sometimes, when the inclined strata are not too much ele-
vated, their summit is surmounted by horizontal strata. The
inclined strata are therefore more ancient than the horizontal
strata. And as they must necessarily have been formed in a
horizontal position, they have been subsequently shifted into
their inclined or vertical position, and that too before the hori-
zontal strata were placed above them.
Thus the sea, previous to the formation of the horizontal
strata, had formed others which by some means have been
broken, lifted up, and overturned in a thousand ways. There
had therefore been also at least one change in the basin of that
sea which preceded ours; it had also experienced at least one
revolution: and as several of these inclined strata which it had
formed first are elevated above the level of the horizontal strata
which have succeeded and which surround them, this revolution,
while it gave them their present inclination, had also caused
them to project above the level of the sea so as to form islands,
or at least rocks and inequalities; and this must have happened
whether one of their edges was lifted up above the water, or the
depression of the opposite edge caused the water to subside.
•


## p. 4256 (#634) ###########################################

4256
CUVIER
This is the second result, not less obvious nor less clearly dem-
onstrated than the first, to every one who will take the trouble
of studying carefully the remains by which it is illustrated and
proved.
If we institute a more detailed comparison between the vari-
ous strata and those remains of animals which they contain, we
shall soon discover still more numerous differences among them,
indicating a proportional number of changes in their condition.
The sea has not always deposited stony substances of the same.
kind. It has observed a regular succession as to the nature of
its deposits: the more ancient the strata are, so much the more
uniform and extensive are they; and the more recent they are,
the more limited are they, and the more variation is observed in
them at small distances. Thus the great catastrophes which have
produced revolutions in the basin of the sea were preceded,
accompanied, and followed by changes in the nature of the fluid
and of the substances which it held in solution; and when the
surface of the seas came to be divided by islands and projecting
ridges, different changes took place in every separate basin.
Amidst these changes of the general fluid, it must have
been almost impossible for the same kind of animals to continue
to live; nor did they do so in fact. Their species, and even
their genera, change with the strata: and though the same spe-
cies occasionally recur at small distances, it is generally the
case that the shells of the ancient strata have forms peculiar to
themselves; that they gradually disappear, till they are not to be
seen
en at all in the recent strata, still less in the existing seas,
in which indeed we never discover their corresponding species,
and where several, even of their genera, are not to be found;
that on the contrary the shells of the recent strata resemble,
as respects the genus, those which still exist in the sea; and
that in the last formed and loosest of these strata there are
some species which the eye of the most expert naturalists can-
not distinguish from those which at present inhabit the ocean.
In animal nature, therefore, there has been a succession of
changes corresponding to those which have taken place in the
chemical nature of the fluid; and when the sea last receded from
our continent, its inhabitants were not very different from those
which it still continues to support.
Finally, if we examine with greater care these remains of
organized bodies, we shall discover, in the midst even of the


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CUVIER
4257
most ancient secondary strata, other strata that are crowded with
animal or vegetable productions, which belong to the land and
to fresh water; and amongst the most recent strata - that is, the
strata which are nearest the surface-there are some of them in
which land animals are buried under heaps of marine produc-
tions. Thus the various catastrophes of our planet have not only
caused the different parts of our continent to rise by degrees
from the basin of the sea, but it has also frequently happened
that lands which had been laid dry have been again covered by
the water, in consequence either of these lands sinking down
below the level of the sea, or of the sea being raised above the
level of the lands. The particular portions of the earth also,
which the sea has abandoned by its last retreat, had been laid
dry once before, and had at that time produced quadrupeds,
birds, plants, and all kinds of terrestrial productions; it had then
been inundated by the sea, which has since retired from it and
left it to be occupied by its own proper inhabitants.
The changes which have taken place in the productions of
the shelly strata, therefore, have not been entirely owing to a
gradual and general retreat of the waters, but to successive
irruptions and retreats, the final result of which, however, has
been an universal depression of the level of the sea.
These repeated irruptions and retreats of the sea have been
neither slow nor gradual; most of the catastrophes which have
occasioned them have been sudden: and this is easily proved,
especially with regard to the last of them, the traces of which
are most conspicuous. In the northern regions it has left the
carcasses of some large quadrupeds which the ice had arrested,
and which are preserved even to the present day with their skin,
their hair, and their flesh. If they had not been frozen as soon
as killed, they must quickly have been decomposed by putrefac-
tion. But this eternal frost could not have taken possession of
the regions which these animals inhabited except by the same
cause which destroyed them; this cause therefore must have
been as sudden as its effect. The breaking to pieces and over-
turnings of the strata, which happened in former catastrophes,
show plainly enough that they were sudden and violent like the
last; and the heaps of débris and rounded pebbles which are
found in various places among the solid strata demonstrate the
vast force of the motions excited in the mass of waters by these
overturnings. Life, therefore, has been often disturbed on this
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4258
CUVIER
earth by terrible events: calamities which, at their commence-
ment, have perhaps moved and overturned to a great depth the
entire outer crust of the globe, but which, since these first com-
motions, have uniformly acted at a less depth and less generally.
Numberless living beings have been the victims of these catas-
trophes; some have been destroyed by sudden inundations, others
have been laid dry in consequence of the bottom of the seas
being instantaneously elevated. Their races even have become
extinct, and have left no memorial of them except some small
fragment which the naturalist can scarcely recognize.
Such are the conclusions which necessarily result from the
objects that we meet with at every step of our inquiry, and which
we can always verify by examples drawn from almost every
country. Every part of the globe bears the impress of these
great and terrible events so distinctly, that they must be visible
to all who are qualified to read their history in the remains
which they have left behind.
But what is still more astonishing and not less certain, there
have not been always living creatures on the earth, and it is
easy for the observer to discover the period at which animal
productions began to be deposited.