Chapter 19

"It treats," said the Doctor, "of matters most profound and sublime, a little difficult perhaps for a common intellect or an unschooled capacity to fathom, but not the less important on that account, to all living beings."

"What does it teach?" asked the Schoolmaster.

"It is not applied so much to the operation of teaching," answered the Doctor, "as to that of inquiring; and the chief inquiry is, whether things are, or whether they are not."

"I don't understand the question," said Uncle Tim, taking the pipe out of his mouth.

"For example, whether this earth on which we tread," said the Doctor, giving a heavy stamp on the floor, and setting his foot on the cat's tail, "whether the earth does really exist, or whether it does not exist."

"That is a point of considerable consequence to settle," said my grandfather.

"Especially," added the schoolmaster, "to the holders of real estate."

"Now the earth," continued the Doctor, "may exist--"

"Why, who ever doubted that?" asked Uncle Tim.

"A great many men," said the Doctor, "and some very learned ones."

Uncle Tim stared a moment, and then began to fill his pipe, whistling the tune of "Heigh! Betty Martin," while the Doctor went on:

"The earth, I say, may exist, although Bishop Berkeley has proved beyond all possible gainsaying or denial, that it does not exist. The case is clear; the only difficulty is, to know whether we shall believe it or not."

"And how," asked Uncle Tim, "is all this to be found out?"

"By digging down to the first principles," answered the Doctor.

"Ay," interrupted Malachi, "there is nothing equal to the spade and pickaxe."

"That is true," said my grandfather, going on in Malachi's way, "'tis by digging for the foundation, that we shall find out whether the world exists or not; for, if we dig to the bottom of the earth and find the foundation--why then we are sure of it. But if we find no foundation, it is clear that the world stands upon nothing, or, in other words, that it does not stand at all; therefore, it stands to reason--"

"I beg your pardon," interrupted the Doctor, "but you totally mistake me; I used the word digging metaphorically, meaning the profoundest cogitation and research into the nature of things. That is the way in which we may ascertain whether things are, or whether they are not."

"But if a man can't believe his eyes," said Uncle Tim, "what signifies talking about it?"

"Our eyes," said the Doctor, "are nothing at all but the inlets of sensation, and when we see a thing, all we are aware of is, that we have a sensation of it: we are not aware that the thing exists. We are sure of nothing that we see with our eyes."

"Not without spectacles," said Aunt Judy.

"Plato, for instance, maintains that the sensation of any object is produced by a perpetual succession of copies, images, or counterfeits, streaming off from the object to the organ of sensation. Descartes, too, has explained the matter upon the principle of whirligigs."

"But does the world exist?" asked the Schoolmaster.

"A good deal may be said on both sides," replied the Doctor, "though the ablest heads are for non-existence."

"In common cases," said Uncle Tim, "those who utter nonsense are considered blockheads."

"But in metaphysics," said the Doctor, "the case is different."

"Now all this is hocus-pocus to me," said Aunt Judy, suspending her knitting-work, and scratching her forehead with one of the needles, "I don't understand a bit more of the business than I did at first."

"I'll be bound there is many a learned professor," said Uncle Tim, "could say the same after spinning a long yarn of metaphysics."

The Doctor did not admire this gibe at his favorite science.

"That is as the case may be," said he; "this thing or that thing may be dubious, but what then? Doubt is the beginning of wisdom."

"No doubt of that," said my grandfather, beginning to poke the fire, "and when a man has got through his doubting, what does he begin to build up in the metaphysical way?"

"Why, he begins by taking something for granted," said the Doctor.

"But is that a sure way of going to work?"

"'Tis the only thing he can do," replied the Doctor, after a pause, and rubbing his forehead as if he was not altogether satisfied that his foundation was a solid one. My grandfather might have posed him with another question, but he poked the fire and let him go on.

"Metaphysics, to speak exactly----"

"Ah," interrupted the Schoolmaster, "bring it down to vulgar fractions, and then we shall understand it."

"'Tis the consideration of immateriality, or the mere spirit and essence of things."

"Come, come," said Aunt Judy, taking a pinch of snuff, "now I see into it."

"Thus, man is considered, not in his corporeality, but in his essence or capability of being; for a man, metaphysically, or to metaphysical purposes, hath two natures, that of spirituality, and that of corporeality, which may be considered separate."

"What man?" asked Uncle Tim.

"Why, any man; Malachi there, for example; I may consider him as Malachi spiritual, or Malachi corporeal."

"That is true," said Malachi, "for when I was in the militia they made me a sixteenth corporal, and I carried grog to the drummer."

"That is another affair," said the Doctor in continuation; "we speak of man in his essence; we speak, also, of the essence of locality, the essence of duration--"

"And essence of peppermint," said Aunt Judy.

"Pooh!" said the Doctor, "the essence I mean is quite a different essence."

"Something too fine to be dribbled through the worm of a still," said my grandfather.

"Then I am all in the dark again," rejoined Aunt Judy.

"By the spirit and essence of things I mean things in the abstract."

"And what becomes of a thing when it goes into the abstract?" asked Uncle Tim.

"Why, it becomes an abstraction."

"There we are again," said Uncle Tim; "but what on earth is an abstraction?"

"It is a thing that has no matter: that is, it cannot be felt, seen, heard, smelt, or tasted; it has no substance or solidity; it is neither large nor small, hot nor cold, long nor short."

"Then what is the long and short of it?" asked the Schoolmaster.

"Abstraction," replied the Doctor.

"Suppose, for instance," said Malachi, "that I had a pitchfork----"

"Ay," said the Doctor, "consider a pitchfork in general; that is, neither this one nor that one, nor any particular one, but a pitchfork or pitchforks divested of their materiality--these are things in the abstract."

"They are things in the hay-mow," said Malachi.

"Pray," said Uncle Tim, "have there been many such things discovered?"

"Discovered!" returned the Doctor, "why, all things, whether in heaven, or upon the earth, or in the waters under the earth, whether small or great, visible or invisible, animate or inanimate; whether the eye can see, or the ear can hear, or the nose can smell, or the fingers touch; finally, whatever exists or is imaginable in the nature of things, past, present, or to come, all may be abstractions."

"Indeed!" said Uncle Tim, "pray, what do you make of the abstraction of a red cow?"

"A red cow," said the Doctor, "considered metaphysically or as an abstraction, is an animal possessing neither hide nor horns, bones nor flesh, but is the mere type, eidolon, and fantastical semblance of these parts of a quadruped. It has a shape without any substance, and no color at all, for its redness is the mere counterfeit or imagination of such. As it lacks the positive, so is it also deficient in the accidental properties of all the animals in its tribe, for it has no locomotion, stability, or endurance, neither goes to pasture, gives milk, chews the cud, nor performs any other function of the horned beast, but is a mere creation of the brain, begotten by a freak of the fancy and nourished by a conceit of the imagination."

"Pshaw!" exclaimed Aunt Judy. "All the metaphysics under the sun wouldn't make a pound of butter!"

"That's a fact," said Uncle Tim.

* * * * *

_There is no great and no small To the Soul that maketh all: And where it cometh, all things are:-- And it cometh everywhere._

EMERSON.

XLIX. INDIAN SUMMER.[J]

SAMUEL LOVER.--1797-1868.

When summer's verdant beauty flies, And autumn glows with richer dyes, A softer charm beyond them lies-- It is the Indian summer. Ere winter's snows and winter's breeze Bereave of beauty all the trees, The balmy spring renewal sees In the sweet Indian summer.

And thus, dear love, if early years Have drown'd the germ of joy in tears, A later gleam of hope appears-- Just like the Indian summer: And ere the snows of age descend, O trust me, dear one, changeless friend, Our falling years may brightly end-- Just like the Indian summer.

FOOTNOTES:

[J] The brief period which succeeds the autumnal close, called the "Indian Summer,"--a reflex, as it were, of the early portion of the year--strikes a stranger in America as peculiarly beautiful, and quite charmed me.--LOVER.

L. TO HELEN.[K]

JULY 7, 1839.

WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED.--1802-1839.

Dearest, I did not dream, four years ago, When through your veil I saw your bright tear shine, Caught your clear whisper, exquisitely low, And felt your soft hand tremble into mine,

That in so brief--so very brief a space, He, who in love both clouds and cheers our life, Would lay on you, so full of light, joy, grace, The darker, sadder duties of the wife,-- Doubts, fears, and frequent toil, and constant care For this poor frame, by sickness sore bested; The daily tendance on the fractious chair, The nightly vigil by the feverish bed.

Yet not unwelcom'd doth this morn arise, Though with more gladsome beams it might have shone: Strength of these weak hands, light of these dim eyes, In sickness, as in health,--bless you, My Own!

FOOTNOTES:

[K] Praed died on the 15th of July.

LI. HORATIUS.[L]

A LAY MADE ABOUT THE YEAR OF THE CITY CCCLX.

LORD MACAULAY.--1800-1859.

Lars Porsena of Clusium by the Nine Gods he swore That the great house of Tarquin should suffer wrong no more. By the Nine Gods he swore it, and named a trysting day, And bade his messengers ride forth, east and west and south and north, To summon his array.

East and west and south and north the messengers ride fast, And tower and town and cottage have heard the trumpet's blast. Shame on the false Etruscan who lingers in his home, When Porsena of Clusium is on the march for Rome.

The horsemen and the footmen are pouring in amain From many a stately market-place; from many a fruitful plain; From many a lonely hamlet, which, hid by beech and pine, Like an eagle's nest, hangs on the crest of purple Apennine; From lordly Volaterrae, where scowls the far-famed hold Piled by the hands of giants for godlike kings of old; From seagirt Populonia, whose sentinels descry Sardinia's snowy mountain-tops fringing the southern sky; From the proud mart of Pisae, queen of the western waves, Where ride Massilia's triremes heavy with fair-hair'd slaves; From where sweet Clanis wanders through corn and vines and flowers; From where Cortona lifts to heaven her diadem of towers.

Tall are the oaks whose acorns drop in dark Auser's rill; Fat are the stags that champ the boughs of the Ciminian hill; Beyond all streams Clitumnus is to the herdsman dear; Best of all pools the fowler loves the great Volsinian mere. But now no stroke of woodman is heard by Auser's rill; No hunter tracks the stag's green path up the Ciminian hill; Unwatch'd along Clitumnus grazes the milk-white steer; Unharm'd the waterfowl may dip in the Volsinian mere. The harvests of Arretium, this year, old men shall reap; This year, young boys in Umbro shall plunge the struggling sheep; And in the vats of Luna, this year, the must shall foam Round the white feet of laughing girls whose sires have march'd to Rome.

There be thirty chosen prophets, the wisest of the land, Who alway by Lars Porsena both morn and evening stand: Evening and morn the Thirty have turn'd the verses o'er, Traced from the right on linen white by mighty seers of yore. And with one voice the Thirty have their glad answer given: "Go forth, go forth, Lars Porsena; go forth, belov'd of heaven. Go, and return in glory to Clusium's royal dome; And hang round Nurscia's altars the golden shields of Rome."

And now hath every city sent up her tale of men: The foot are fourscore thousand, the horse are thousands ten. Before the gates of Sutrium is met the great array. A proud man was Lars Porsena upon the trysting day. For all the Etruscan armies were ranged beneath his eye, And many a banish'd Roman, and many a stout ally; And with a mighty following to join the muster came The Tusculan Mamilius, prince of the Latian name.

But by the yellow Tiber was tumult and affright: From all the spacious champaign to Rome men took their flight. A mile around the city, the throng stopp'd up the ways; A fearful sight it was to see through two long nights and days. For aged folks on crutches, and women great with child, And mothers sobbing over babes that clung to them and smiled, And sick men borne in litters high on the necks of slaves, And troops of sun-burn'd husbandmen with reaping-hooks and staves, And droves of mules and asses laden with skins of wine, And endless flocks of goats and sheep, and endless herds of kine, And endless trains of wagons that creak'd beneath the weight Of corn-sacks and of household goods, choked every roaring gate.

Now, from the rock Tarpeian, could the wan burghers spy The line of blazing villages red in the midnight sky. The Fathers of the City, they sat all night and day, For every hour some horseman came with tidings of dismay. To eastward and to westward have spread the Tuscan bands; Nor house, nor fence, nor dovecote in Crustumerium stands. Verbenna down to Ostia hath wasted all the plain; Astur hath storm'd Janiculum, and the stout guards are slain. I wis, in all the Senate, there was no heart so bold, But sore it ached, and fast it beat, when that ill news was told. Forthwith up rose the Consul, up rose the Fathers all; In haste they girded up their gowns, and hied them to the wall. They held a council standing, before the River-Gate; Short time was there, ye well may guess, for musing or debate. Out spake the Consul roundly: "The bridge must straight go down; For, since Janiculum is lost, nought else can save the town."

Just then a scout came flying, all wild with haste and fear: "To arms! to arms! Sir Consul: Lars Porsena is here." On the low hills to westward the Consul fix'd his eye, And saw the swarthy storm of dust rise fast along the sky. And nearer fast and nearer doth the red whirlwind come; And louder still and still more loud, from underneath that rolling cloud, Is heard the trumpet's war-note proud, the trampling, and the hum. And plainly and more plainly now through the gloom appears, Far to left and far to right, in broken gleams of dark-blue light, The long array of helmets bright, the long array of spears. And plainly and more plainly above that glimmering line, Now might ye see the banners of twelve fair cities shine; But the banner of proud Clusium was highest of them all, The terror of the Umbrian, the terror of the Gaul. And plainly and more plainly now might the burghers know, By port and vest, by horse and crest, each warlike Lucumo. There Cilnius of Arretium on his fleet roan was seen; And Astur of the four-fold shield, girt with the brand none else may wield, Tolumnius with the belt of gold, and dark Verbenna from the hold By reedy Thrasymene.

Fast by the royal standard, o'erlooking all the war, Lars Porsena of Clusium sat in his ivory car. By the right wheel rode Mamilius, prince of the Latian name; And by the left false Sextus, that wrought the deed of shame. But when the face of Sextus was seen among the foes, A yell that rent the firmament from all the town arose. On the house-tops was no woman but spat towards him and hiss'd, No child but scream'd out curses, and shook its little fist. But the Consul's brow was sad, and the Consul's speech was low, And darkly look'd he at the wall, and darkly at the foe. "Their van will be upon us before the bridge goes down; And if they once may win the bridge, what hope to save the town?"

Then out spake brave Horatius, the Captain of the Gate: "To every man upon this earth death cometh soon or late. And how can man die better than facing fearful odds, For the ashes of his fathers, and the temples of his Gods, And for the tender mother who dandled him to rest, And for the wife who nurses his baby at her breast, And for the holy maidens who feed the eternal flame, To save them from false Sextus that wrought the deed of shame? Hew down the bridge, Sir Consul, with all the speed ye may; I, with two more to help me, will hold the foe in play. In yon strait path a thousand may well be stopp'd by three. Now who will stand on either hand, and keep the bridge with me?"

Then out spake Spurius Lartius; a Ramnian proud was he: "Lo, I will stand at thy right hand, and keep the bridge with thee." And out spake strong Herminius; of Titian blood was he: "I will abide on thy left side, and keep the bridge with thee."

"Horatius," quoth the Consul, "as thou sayest, so let it be." And straight against that great array forth went the dauntless Three. For Romans in Rome's quarrel spared neither land nor gold, Nor son nor wife, nor limb nor life, in the brave days of old. Then none was for a party; then all were for the state; Then the great man help'd the poor, and the poor man lov'd the great: Then lands were fairly portion'd; then spoils were fairly sold: The Romans were like brothers in the brave days of old. Now Roman is to Roman more hateful than a foe, And the Tribunes beard the high, and the Fathers grind the low. As we wax hot in faction, in battle we wax cold: Wherefore men fight not as they fought in the brave days of old.

Now while the Three were tightening their harness on their backs, The Consul was the foremost man to take in hand an axe: And Fathers mix'd with Commons seized hatchet, bar, and crow, And smote upon the planks above, and loosed the props below.

Meanwhile the Tuscan army, right glorious to behold, Came flashing back the noonday light, rank behind rank, like surges bright Of a broad sea of gold. Four hundred trumpets sounded a peal of warlike glee, As that great host, with measured tread, and spears advanced, and ensigns spread, Roll'd slowly towards the bridge's head, where stood the dauntless Three.

The Three stood calm and silent, and look'd upon the foes, And a great shout of laughter from all the vanguard rose: And forth three chiefs came spurring before that deep array; To earth they sprang, their swords they drew, and lifted high their shields, and flew To win the narrow way; Aunus from green Tifernum, lord of the Hill of Vines; And Seius, whose eight hundred slaves sicken in Ilva's mines; And Picus, long to Clusium vassal in peace and war, Who led to fight his Umbrian powers from that gray crag where, girt with towers, The fortress of Nequinum lowers o'er the pale waves of Nar.

Stout Lartius hurled down Aunus into the stream beneath: Herminius struck at Seius, and clove him to the teeth: At Picus brave Horatius darted one fiery thrust; And the proud Umbrian's gilded arms clash'd in the bloody dust.

Then Ocnus of Falerii rush'd on the Roman Three; And Lausulus of Urgo, the rover of the sea; And Aruns of Volsinium, who slew the great wild boar, The great wild boar that had his den amidst the reeds of Cosa's fen, And wasted fields, and slaughter'd men, along Albinia's shore.

Herminius smote down Aruns: Lartius laid Ocnus low: Right to the heart of Lausulus Horatius sent a blow. "Lie there," he cried, "fell pirate! no more, aghast and pale, From Ostia's walls the crowd shall mark the track of thy destroying bark. No more Campania's hinds shall fly to woods and caverns when they spy. Thy thrice accursed sail."

But now no sound of laughter was heard among the foes. A wild and wrathful clamor from all the vanguard rose. Six spears' lengths from the entrance halted that deep array, And for a space no man came forth to win the narrow way.

But hark! the cry is Astur: and lo! the ranks divide; And the great Lord of Luna comes with his stately stride. Upon his ample shoulders clangs loud the four-fold shield, And in his hand he shakes the brand which none but he can wield.

He smiled on those bold Romans a smile serene and high; He eyed the flinching Tuscans, and scorn was in his eye. Quoth he, "The she-wolf's litter stand savagely at bay: But will ye dare to follow, if Astur clears the way?" Then, whirling up his broadsword with both hands to the height, He rush'd against Horatius, and smote with all his might. With shield and blade Horatius right deftly turn'd the blow. The blow, though turn'd, came yet too nigh; it miss'd his helm, but gash'd his thigh: The Tuscans raised a joyful cry to see the red blood flow. He reel'd, and on Herminius he lean'd one breathing-space; Then, like a wild-cat mad with wounds, sprang right at Astur's face. Through teeth, and skull, and helmet, so fierce a thrust he sped, The good sword stood a hand-breadth out behind the Tuscan's head. And the great Lord of Luna fell at that deadly stroke, As falls on Mount Alvernus a thunder-smitten oak. Far o'er the crashing forest the giant arms lie spread; And the pale augurs, muttering low, gaze on the blasted head. On Astur's throat Horatius right firmly press'd his heel, And thrice and four times tugg'd amain, ere he wrench'd out the steel. "And see," he cried, "the welcome, fair guests, that waits you here! What noble Lucumo comes next to taste our Roman cheer?"

But at his haughty challenge a sullen murmur ran, Mingled of wrath, and shame, and dread, along that glittering van. There lack'd not men of prowess, nor men of lordly race; For all Etruria's noblest were round the fatal place. But all Etruria's noblest felt their hearts sink to see On the earth the bloody corpses, in the path the dauntless Three: And, from the ghastly entrance where those bold Romans stood, All shrank, like boys who unaware, ranging the woods to start a hare, Come to the mouth of the dark lair where, growling low, a fierce old bear Lies amidst bones and blood. Was none who would be foremost to lead such dire attack: But those behind cried "Forward!" and those before cried "Back!" And backward now and forward wavers the deep array; And on the tossing sea of steel, to and fro the standards reel; And the victorious trumpet-peal dies fitfully away.