 | CHAPTER IX. A volume from the life of Herbert Barclay |  |
9. CHAPTER IX.
The next day Alfred went to Mr. Barclay's,
accompanied by his friend Mr. Keppel,
who, as he expected, had arrived the
evening before.
Herbert had had in the morning with his
uncle a conversation relating to himself. He
will fully understand the impression made by
such a conversation, who has experienced
when in trouble, the influence of one whose
wish to serve does not defeat itself by over-heated
zeal; but who, uniting warm fellow-feeling
with self-possession, is as able as he is
willing to give his friend the benefit of a
clear judgment. Mr. Barclay was such a friend
to Herbert. The difference of their ages was
only felt by Herbert in the superiority of his
uncle's experience; while their relationship
Herbert was far, however, from believing
himself in trouble; nor did he apply to his
uncle for mere advice. But he found himself
suddenly in a new situation which, though full
of delight, perplexed him by its novelty; and
whenever any thing interested him, no matter
what was its nature or importance, to his uncle
he immediately went to talk of it and
hear his opinion.
This attractive power in Mr. Barclay was
the effect as much of the benevolence and
benign religious confidence, as of the intelligence
of his mind. His varied experience,—
in which constant active endeavor, while daily
accomplishing the practical ends of life, had
corrected and deepened the theoretical principles
of a meditative and comprehensive intellect,—was
enriched by a strong inborn reliance,
a confiding trust in the inscrutable
power, by whose law the deeds of man are
begun and ended. This inward faith, far
from causing distrust of the efficacy of human
observed results of the latter; for the connexion
between success and well-directed energy
was to him so obvious, as to establish the conviction,
that the existence of prosperity is
dependent upon wisdom and exertion,—as if
the decree for man's happiness (whatever
may be the other conditions of its fulfilment)
was not issued until he had been seen to labor.
Confidence in the future, therefore, although
there was in him a strong natural tendency to
it, had become so connected with the inferences
of reason, that it was a stimulant to activity,
instead of producing, as it is apt to do,
the contrary effect. He relied first upon
what he could understand and control—his
personal means; his reliance upon what he
could not, serving both to encourage his efforts
and to weaken the force of disappointment
when they were baffled.
Herbert could not anticipate what would
be the nature of his uncle's remarks: he
only felt sure that he should find satisfaction
realized. Indeed, the sympathy of such a
man was a support; and had the words of
his uncle conveyed nothing more definite
than the assurance of this, Herbert would
have been satisfied.
Joyful to both was the meeting between
Mr. Barclay and Mr. Keppel. The former
deluged the latter with questions about acquaintances;
for, from congeniality of tastes,
they had many in common, and in every country
he had visited, Mr. Barclay had wisely
established correspondences, which he still
kept up.
After an hour of pleasant chat the little
party went to dinner.
“Why Elizabeth,” said Mr. Barclay, “you
seem to have presumed that our friend has
returned an epicure.”
“Your table, Mrs. Barclay,” said Mr. Keppel,
“verifies a remark I once heard from one
of that class, that cooking was a type of refinement.”
“One of those remarks,” said Mr. Barclay,
“which having a semblance of truth, are
by many mistaken for true.”
“Yes,” said Mr. Keppel, “there is a connexion;
and though my epicurean friend did
know that it was collateral, several who
heard him did not. You recollect the anecdote
of the traveller who, journeying through
a region possessed by savages, rejoiced at the
sight of a gallows, as an assurance that he
had reached a civilized people:—the sight of
a truffled turkey would have authorized the
same agreeable inference.”
“There is however,” said Mr. Barclay, “a
serious error that has taken root even among
the cultivated, on which the playful remark
of your friend may be taken as satire—the
opinion, that the state of the fine arts is an
index of the degree of general refinement;
an opinion derived from the radical mistake
of believing the sense of the beautiful and
the sense of the moral to be dependent upon
one and the same element of mind.”
“And to the diffusion of this error,” said
Mr. Keppel, “I think the great German
Goethe has much contributed.”
“He himself, however,” said Mr. Barclay,
“does not entertain it.”
“No,” said Mr. Keppel; “and that he is
believed to be authority for it, proceeds from
a misapprehension of him. His works are
so strongly tinctured with his fondness for the
fine arts, and are so much indebted for excellence
to their spirit, that the means of successful
execution are mistaken for the end of
composition, and that which was secondary
and subordinate in the mind of the author,
appears to many to be primary in his works.”
“Do you think, Mr. Keppel,” said Alfred,
a short time after, giving another turn to the
conversation, “that a young man can receive
much benefit from travel?”
“A young man,” answered Mr. Keppel,
“may reap much good. But besides that he
is not so likely to use his means of improvement
so well as at a maturer age, these means
thirty. To learn by travel, a good deal must
already have been learnt. A stock of acquirement,
as well as a certain maturity of
thought, both of which presuppose some
years of manhood,—are needed, in order to
gather up the various knowledge that is to be
gathered; a perception, too, searching and
discriminating through exercise and self-examination,
and capacious from extensive
study. There must be a solid nucleus of
knowledge, to collect kindred stuff; otherwise,
many rich grains will be touched but not attracted,—much
will be seen and heard unheeded,
because its significance is unsuspected.
In answering your question, I suppose a
man eager for improvement, who can choose
his time.”
“The chief want of a young American
traveller,” said Mr. Barclay, “is the want of
knowledge of his own country. His memory
is burdened with a heap of dead fragments
of Greek and Roman doings and writings,
in, the nature of the institutions that
surround him in living entireness, acting
daily upon and interwoven with his individual
being; an acquaintance with whose conditions
and principles is to him more important, a
thousand fold, than the most thorough knowledge
(even could he obtain such) of the circumstances
and laws of all the nations of
antiquity; which, too, independently of the
practical value of acquaintance with them,
are in themselves, as subjects of abstract
study, far more fruitful of instruction than
ancient institutions, being, unlike the latter,
not approachable only through the imperfect
record of a foreign tongue, but visibly present
in moving fluctuating operation, directly
cognizable in their details, ramifications, beginnings
and consequences.”
“But, uncle,” said Herbert, “should not
the foundation of a liberal education be laid
with the knowledge of the history and literature
of the two nations who reached such a
exercised such an influence over the world?
Is not the study of them the best beginning?”
“But, Herbert,” answered Mr. Barclay,
“a beginning cannot be made with them; because
the young mind cannot reach them.
There is the great error. With much toil
you get little fruit. It is like trying to collect
water in a sieve. The history and literature
of a people are entirely beyond the capacity
of a school-boy. He is not instructed—he
is not educated, by learning by rote,
a meagre sketch of its existence, and the shell
of its language. The principle of adaptation
of means to the end is utterly disregarded: it
is attempted to make a beginning with that
which should be the conclusion; precious
time is thus wasted, and no substantial beginning—no
foundation is made. What might
be learnt best, and therefore should be learnt,
is neglected for the sake of that which cannot
be learnt. The young mind is translated to
a distant age on the heavy wings of verbal
moving the wings. And you are kept at
this barren labor, while rich materials, suit
able to your capacity, apt to exercise various
powers, and to fix in the mind useful facts
and distinct images, lie around you neglected.
Your attention is tasked to seize that which,
from its remoteness, its dissimilarity to all
that surrounds you, its foreignness to all that
interests you, and from the indirect way
(through books) that it is presented, you
cannot even realize to be a substantial existence.
The physically obvious, the teeming
present, inviting you with a living voice that
speaks to the affections as well as to the curiosity,
is uncommuned with; and you are toiled
in pursuit of the vague phantoms of extinct
existences that answer coldly and indistinctly
to your laborious appeals. Yourself,
Herbert, what have you learnt of the people
among whom you have lived for the last four
years? What do you know of the laws and
customs of the town whose streets were as
of the origin and operation of these; of its
political and social institutions and their principles—of
the differences between them and
those of your native place; of the constitution
and its framers, the history and the men who
moulded it, of the state under whose protection
you studied? Neither, of the spirit of the
community where you abode, nor even of the
forms of its organization, were you taught any
thing. As a student, you lived out of the precincts
of real life, pondering over the strange
signs of unintelligible ideas; as if a man who
had to provide food for his dinner, should, instead
of setting to work with his hands, spend
the morning in speculating on the phantasms
of his last night's dream.
“Language being the signs of things, ideas
and feelings, is subordinate to these, is dependent
upon them, grows out of them.
The manner of its formation points both to
the reason for acquiring it and to the method
of acquisition. As words come into existence,
should come into the mind of the learner.—
They are not knowledge, but the symbols of
knowledge; they should, therefore, follow not
precede it. The reverse of this natural
course is taken, as well in the branches of
instruction in the native language as in those
called classical. In the latter, not only is language
taught as if it were the creator of ideas,
instead of being created by them; but this
preposterous end is pursued by means in
which art, far from aiding nature, strives
against her; for, not only is the symbolic,
secondary character of words lost sight of it,
but the mistake thereby committed is doubled
by making words, themselves not recognized
as symbols, the symbols of other words.—
The boy of fourteen who translates Horace,
learns that certain Latin words, correspond
to certain English ones—and that is all that
he does learn. And what do his lessons of
ancient history teach him? That war is the
condition of humanity; that the first of warriors
pride are cardinal virtues; that ambition is
exalted; that power is the proper aim of
statesmen, and conquest of states. To you,
Herbert, ancient history has been only a tale
of war—the story of Jack the giant-killer of
childhood adapted to boyhood. All of it
that was intelligible to you was the movements
of fleets and armies, victory and defeat,
sieges and massacres—the most general
effects of the commonest passions. Too
few and isolated are the acts of virtue to give
a brighter color to the image painted on your
mind—unconsciously perhaps to yourself—
that man is a warfaring, treacherous, revengeful,
superstitious, tumultuous, animal.
“This false system—false in its aims, and
false in the mode to attain them—is as artificial
as if human ingenuity in building it up,
had striven to outdo nature by opposing her.
The course which she, ever simple and uniform,
prescribes, may be learnt from an infant.
In its unconscious development is legible
education. Every object within its reach it
examines earnestly: it is eager to look into
every thing it can put its hands on. To feed
its curiosity, it crawls and walks and climbs.
Its store of learning accumulating, and the
wants of its mind becoming more distinct
and multiplied, the need of signs to indicate,
to label as it were, their classification, calls
into action the innate power to create them;
and language displays her mirror, bright and
perfect, faithful to represent whatever is held
before it, but in itself, nothing—casting back
images, as images, complete, but only images—all
idea and significance being in that
which is imaged. To continue this process is
the duty of the educator: to lead, and not to
drive, is, as the word indicates, his vocation.
He should encourage the spontaneous tendency
of the young intellect, engaging it on
that which is immediately around, which is
tangible, which the senses, those natural instruments
of acquisition, can reach; exciting
with palpable results of its power; limiting
his agency to the facilitating and methodising
of its action. His function is, not to use his
own mind to make impressions upon that of
his pupil, but to make the latter develope itself.
He is not to pour into it, or rather on
it, the opinions and conclusions of others, but
to keep it in the way of imbibing knowledge at
the original sources thereof,—of self-instilling
knowledge from the fresh products of nature.
The space of a few miles square may embrace
all these,—the physical world with its
beauties and powers—living man in all the
conditions and relations of his being—a complete
theatre for instruction. Brooks and
fields and hills contain the geography of the
globe: the narration of a village's birth and
growth is history: its municipal organization
involves the principles of politics. Here the
learner earns knowledge instead of borrowing
it, and can realize that it is knowledge; for
what he learns is a reality—not a memory; is
upon its surface. Such knowledge is a foundation;
for it is adapted to a superstructure:
it is a proper beginning; because it invites
and facilitates continuance. From such a
centre the young intellect will expand with
its own growth eagerly to a wider sphere,
calling to its aid, with a distinct appreciation
of their legitimate purpose, books, as messengers
between the mind and its objects,
telescopes for the mind, to place before it
through the media of mute signs that which
on account of distance it cannot directly approach,—consulting
them to extend not to
originate information, and understanding
them clearly from already possessing absolute
definite knowledge similar to that which
they display, and obtained at the same source.
Acquirement thus made will feed itself: circle
will be added to circle by the strengthening
impulse of gratified curiosity: the conformity
to nature will make the acquisition more substantial
and the disposition to acquire more
to the latest results in science, and ascended
in the history of man to the remotest record,
shall have surveyed—as far as one mind can
survey,—the workings of nature and the doings
of man.
And yet, what is the grasping power of
intellect, thus beautifully taught to gather
and to hold all outward forms and subtilest
relations—what is it to the inward teaching—to
the education of the feelings? This
first want of a human being can by this process,
and only by this, be fully satisfied.
Self-knowledge can only be obtained—self-discipline
accomplished, by action; and in
childhood this course of action may and
should be entered on. What is done by telling
the pupil how he should act? Vain are
many words. Make his own feelings tell
him: make them their own instructors.—
Place before him the objects—lead him into
the situations, that shall move their deep
fountains to overflowing. Use your power
your art, only to add emphasis to the lessons
of nature. In the family circle and in the
little community around him, all these lessons
are written, and there and thus may be easily
learnt. Selfishness may be made to seem
what it is, and be shunned as a torture. In
the liquid flow of unchecked tenderness, love,
reverence, justice, may have their birth in
joy, not in pain: duty may be practised as
a pleasure, not as a law: self-sacrifice may
be felt as a giving to self, not as a taking
away.”
Mr. Barclay having been led into these
remarks by the question of Herbert, was encouraged
to express himself at such length
by the evident interest with which he was
listened to. When he paused, Mr. Keppel
returned to the subject Alfred had introduced.
“The traveller,” said Mr. Keppel, “who is
not furnished with knowledge of the social
usages and political institutions of his own
himself, from the want of a standard of comparison,
imperfectly qualified to judge of
those of others. Our countrymen sometimes
carry with them prejudices against the countries
they visit, instead of information on
their own; and sometimes, on the other
hand, the absence of theoretical knowledge
(the only substantial basis for conviction) of
the principles of the republicanism under
whose influence they have lived, exposes
them to be dazzled by the outward gorgeousness
of foreign aristocracy.”
“As travelling,” observed Alfred, “is said
to have the effect of curing prejudice, most
books of travels must be looked upon as transcripts
from the traveller's mind when in the
crisis of the process of cure; at which period,
as in cures of the body, the disease about
to be thrown off, rages with its greatest violence.”
“To depict a civilized people,” said Mr.
Keppel, “is a high literary and philosophical
all the circumstances of its birth, growth and
present being; insight into the spirit which is
partly the cause and partly the effect of
these; graphic skill, so as to paint picturesquely
the outward appearance, the physiognomy
of a nation—”
“Stop,”—cried Alfred, “what you have
said is quite enough to seal up all manuscript
journals.”
“By no means,” said Mr. Keppel. “But
to judge of what is done, we must have in
our mind a conception of what may be—an
ideal standard, with which to compare the
real production; and the more exalted that is,
and consequently, the more difficult of approach,
the more tolerant should we be of
failure.”
“That is a sound rule in morals, but not in
literature,” said Mr. Barclay. “A bad man
should be pitied and pardoned: a bad work
is out of the sphere of charity. Of taste the
fundamental law is severity—of morals, forgiveness.
as such, amenable to this law; for they are not
(with few exceptions) works of elegant literature.
They should be held in the light of
papers called for by a legislative body.—
They are documents and reports on manners,
customs, statistics, politics, laid before the
reading world by its order—drawn up with
various merit, but all answering, according to
their accuracy and fulness, the end of furnishing
facts, descriptions, and conclusions in relation
to far distant members of the human
family.”
“They follow,” said Mr. Keppel, “in the
footsteps of the great civilizer, Commerce.
And even one which betrays the mean spirit
and shallow intellect of its author, may have
a high value from its store of facts and its
graphic descriptions, the inferences and impressions
produced by these in the reader,
being the reverse of those recorded by the
industrious little-minded writer.”
“Those who do not or cannot visit other
“may, through the works of those who do,
in a measure share the benefits of travel, the
chief of which is the tolerance of spirit created,
in men capable of it, by learning how
opposite are the opinions entertained on the
same subjects by different communities. This
moral effect is more to be prized than the accompanying
enlargement of intellectual vision,
produced by beholding questions from new
points of view and through new modes of
thought.”
“It is with the traveller as with the student,”
said Mr. Keppel. “Although it is
both possible and profitable to obtain a considerable
acquaintance with many subjects;
thoroughly to master one, requires long and
assiduous attention to that one. He who
travels for the high object of instruction,
(which embraces, by the by, the highest and
most varied entertainment,) may learn much
of all the countries he shall visit; but to penetrate
deeply into the spirit of a people,—to
his mind a clear picture of its individuality,—
he must devote years to the study of it, and
pursue the study, not with industry only, but
with a genial zeal. I can speak here from
experience. Having spent many years in
different countries, I went to Italy with the
determination to carry fully into practice a
system I had partially followed every where.
I had no knowledge of its language, and a
superficial one of its history. I established
myself in an unfrequented middle-sized town,
and got admitted as lodger and boarder into
the house of a respectable tradesman, having
a large family. With this family I set out
with identifying myself: I made myself one
of it. From the children I learnt more of
the language than from my grammar and
dictionary. I played and talked with them,
went with them to their schools and read
their books. I entered into the feelings of
the family as if I had been born a member of
it. I shared its amusements and troubles and
cultivating intercourse with its
friends and relations. In a short time I learnt
with the language the history of half a dozen
families. I was soon a favorite, from listening
to every one's story, and taking an interest
in every one's little pains and pleasures.
In the mean time, I made daily progress in
the study of the literature and history of
Italy. I talked, read, wrote, thought, felt,
nothing but Italian. In this way a year
passed. I then removed to a large city.—
Here I associated with a different class. My
acquaintance with the language, customs, and
literature enabled me to take the fullest advantage
of the facilities for intimate association
which letters and my American birth
opened to me. I avoided foreigners and
foreign subjects. I moved freely through a
large circle, on the most familiar footing with
many, living the life of a native. I made excursions
to the country, spending weeks with
my Italian friends at their villas, and taking
peasantry. At the expiration of another
year I left this city, and set out to visit every
part of Italy, tarrying weeks or months in the
principal towns, and continuing to unite with
constant intercourse with the inhabitants, and
the collecting of every kind of statistical information,
the study of poetry and the fine
arts in the spirit of a native. This consumed
two years, making the entire term of my residence
four, every week of which had been
devoted intently to the study of the Italian
people.”
“And when you re-ascended the Alps,”
said Mr. Barclay, “and took your last look at
the Italian soil—”
“It was a look of longing,” interrupted Mr.
Keppel. “I wished to turn back and spend
another year. I felt as if I had left much
uncompleted.”
“You liked the Italians then?” asked Herbert.
“I have never known a people,” answered
Mr. Keppel, “that I did not like.”
“As, after what has been said, we have
all, no doubt, our ideal standard of what a
book of travels may be, pretty well elevated,
and are therefore prepared to judge of a real
production, suppose we have a specimen
from the manuscript of a traveller,” said Alfred,
drawing from his pocket a roll of paper.
“Come Alfred,” said Mr. Keppel, “no
treachery.”
“Of course not,” said Alfred: “trust to my
discrimination.”
“Now you are going to bore us, Alfred,”
said Mr. Keppel.
“Bore you! well, what if I do! Every
one should have his turn.”
| CHAPTER IX. A volume from the life of Herbert Barclay | |