Reflections 9788131767887, 9788131797686, 8131767884

Citation preview

Reflections

This page is intentionally left blank.

Chapter 11, ‘The Diary of a Young Girl’ taken from The Diary of a Young Girl: The Definitive Edition by Anne Frank; edited by Otto H. Frank and Mirjam Pressler, translatedby Susan Massotty (Viking, 1997); copyright © Anne Frank Fonds, Basel, Switzerland, 1991. English translation copyright © Doubleday, a division of Bantam Doubleday Dell PublishingGroup Inc., 1995. Reproduced with permission from Penguin Books Ltd. Cover photograph by Chris Wightman. Accessed at http://commons.wikimedia.org/ wiki/File:All%27s_well_that_inks_well.jpg on 21 September 2011 Copyright © 2012 Dorling Kindersley (India) Pvt. Ltd. Licensees of Pearson Education in South Asia No part of this eBook may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the publisher’s prior written consent. This eBook may or may not include all assets that were part of the print version. The publisher reserves the right to remove any material in this eBook at any time. ISBN 9788131767887 eISBN 9788131797686 Head Office: A-8(A), Sector 62, Knowledge Boulevard, 7th Floor, NOIDA 201 309, India Registered Office: 11 Local Shopping Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi 110 017, India

Contents Preface

vii

About the Editor

ix

Introduction to the English Essay

xi

1. On Studies Francis Bacon

1

2. The Diary of Samuel Pepys Samuel Pepys

7

3. Sir Roger at the Assizes Joseph Addison

19

4. Life of Samuel Johnson James Boswell

28

5. Dream Children: A Reverie Charles Lamb

40

6. On Familiar Style William Hazlitt

50

7. On Books and Reading John Ruskin

61

8. Walking Tours Robert Louis Stevenson

72

vi

Contents

9. Nationalism in India Rabindranath Tagore

85

10. Indifference Robert Lynd

110

11. The Diary of a Young Girl Anne Frank

119

12. Politics and the English Language George Orwell

134

Preface The essay is the earliest form of writing that most students become familiar with. It has taken several forms over the centuries, from learned arguments, literary criticisms and political manifestos to personal reflections by authors. The present selection has been compiled to introduce the English essay as a literary form to undergraduate students of English literature. No attempt has been made to make it representative of the different types of essays. The stress has, instead, been on tracing the evolution of this genre over the centuries. Most of the essays in the anthology belong to the genre called the familiar essay. And, a brief history of the English essay introduces this anthology to students to help them locate the pieces in their proper historical contexts. As with all literature, the essay was shaped by the times during which it was used as a vehicle for expression. The essays in this anthology have been selected to reflect this evolution. For example, in a time of political upheaval in Europe, the essay by George Orwell comes across as a forceful plea for a simple and vigorous style, which demands honesty of thought and directness of expression of ideas, attitudes and sentiments. Other pieces, like the 1916 lecture by Rabindranath Tagore, whose 150th birthday was celebrated in 2011 across the country, assumes significance as a timely reminder of the perils of narrow-minded nationalism. I have also included extracts from two of the most oft-read diaries in literature, that of Samuel Pepys and Anne Frank. Both

viii Preface

these diarists, writing at vastly different points in their lives, vividly and engagingly capture the milieu they lived in. I hope that students will find the selection of essays put together in this anthology enlightening and enjoyable to read. Keeping in mind the requirements of students, each chapter includes, apart from the essay, a brief introduction to the author, a summary of the chapter, lucid annotations as well as questions for students to test their comprehension. I express my heartfelt gratitude to Romila Saha and Yajnaseni Das for editing the text. I also thank Pearson for undertaking the publication of this book. G. B. Mohan Thampi

About the Editor Dr G. B. Mohan Thampi is a former Professor of English literature at Banaras Hindu University (BHU). He has a Ph.D. in English literature from BHU and a post-doctoral degree in literary theory from Humboldt University, Berlin. Dr Thampi has held the post of Vice-Chancellor of the University of Kerala and also served as the Director of the Institute of Management in Government, Thiruvananthapuram. He has published numerous research papers, reviews and newspaper articles in the areas of literary criticism and cultural studies in English and Malayalam.

This page is intentionally left blank.

Introduction to the English Essay The essay as a literary form appeared in English in the last decade of the sixteenth century with the publication of Francis Bacon’s Essays. The word itself is of French origin and comes from the word essayer, meaning ‘to try to do’ or ‘to attempt’. Originally, the essay had some tentativeness, flexibility and incompleteness about it. But in the course of literary history, it has assumed diverse forms. Now, it can mean anything from a brief newspaper article on any subject to a closely-argued, voluminous philosophical dissertation. However, in order to qualify as a literary form, the essay requires aesthetic qualities like emotional colouring, intellectual curiosity and a sense of style. The essay can be divided into two broad types: the formal and the informal. The former conveys objective information, establishes philosophical propositions and may advance scientific doctrines. The latter expresses a personality, entertains the readers and refines their sensibility, as any creative work is expected to do. The informal essay is primarily concerned with the subjective world of the author. The tone of such essays is light-hearted, conversational and humorous. The essays of Joseph Addison and Charles Lamb, two of which feature in this selection, may be called the ideal specimens of the familiar essay in English. It was the French writer Michel de Montaigne who created and named the genre called the essay. In 1580, he published his Essays, a collection of 107 pieces, which are short, subjective treatments on various topics. Their personal, subjective nature was unique in Montaigne’s time. In the Essays, he attempts to

xii Introduction to the English Essay

examine the world using only his own judgement. Comprising anecdotes, quotations and rambling observations, they reveal his moods, beliefs and perspectives. He had a tremendous impact on European non-fiction writers like René Descartes, Jean-Jacques Rousseau and Friedrich Nietzsche. Like Montaigne, Francis Bacon too called his brief articles ‘essays’. But they were considerably different from the creations of the French author. They were primarily intellectual explorations of a specific subject in an aphoristic style. Bacon wanted to subvert the Aristotelian authority in the domain of knowledge, which had been passed down from medieval scholars. He argued for the application of reason to observed facts of experience, so that by understanding the ways of nature, man can dominate it and make it serve his interests. It would be a mistake to indulge in a comparison between Montaigne and Bacon. While Montaigne lays the highest emphasis on the self, Bacon does exactly the opposite. As Sukanta Chaudhuri says in his introduction to Bacon’s Essays—A Selection, ‘To Bacon this world have appeared a lamentable surrender to ... a man’s personal limitations and idiosyncrasies. He extracts from his commonplace-book its content of impersonal wisdom, and builds upon that. Nothing could be further from the personal or Lambian essay than these discursive intellectual exercises.’* In the 17th century, writers like Sir Thomas Browne, John Milton, Robert Burton and John Locke used the the formal essay to convey their ideas. Their essays engaged in the critical treatment of subjects which were of common interest. For example, Milton wrote Areopagitica, a plea for the freedom of the press. Browne wrote Religio Medici, an essay reconciling the medical profession and Christian faith. Apart from the argumentative and meditative prose which dominated the period, character sketches, i.e., descriptions of social or literary stereotypes, were *Sukanta Chaudhuri, ed., Bacon’s Essays—A Selection (New Delhi: Oxford University Press, 1977), xxivv

Introduction to the English Essay

xiii

also popular. Joseph Hall and Sir Thomas Overbury were some of the well-known practitioners of this style. Their prototypes could be found in the works of Greek writer Theophrastus, a pupil of Aristotle. The century also produced two great diarists, John Evelyn and Samuel Pepys. A prolific author with links across the spectrum of political and cultural life in Stuart England, Evelyn was a witness to the most significant events of his time. His entries are of great historical value. Pepys’ work, on the other hand, stands out for its literary qualities, besides being a chronicle of the times. He had a talent for vivid description. His record of the Great Plague of London and the Fire of London are striking in their human details. He did not care to embellish his own character; his public career and private pursuits are revealed without any attempt to idealize. The texture of everyday life, including what people ate, the books Pepys read, the plays he watched, the sermons he heard, the things he bought, his frequent quarrels with his wife—all of these are presented with unusual candour in his entries. At the close of the century, John Dryden introduced what was known as the critical essay. In his prefaces and dialogues, he dealt with the principles and doctrines of literary criticism, advocating lucidity, brevity and preciseness. He paved the way for later writers like Joseph Addison. His preface to Fables Ancient and Modern and his essay, Of Dramatic Poesy earned him the title of ‘father of English criticism’ from none other than Samuel Johnson. In the beginning of the eighteenth century, Addison, catering to the intellectual needs of an increasingly literate middle-class audience, declared that his ambition was to bring philosophy from the cloisters to the coffee-houses. The periodical essay came into its full vigour in the creations of Addison and his collaborator Richard Steele. Their periodical The Spectator became immensely popular, with sixty thousand readers in London alone. After the rampant corruption and immorality of the Restoration court circles, an effort to reform the morals and

xiv

Introduction to the English Essay

manners of the populace was called for. The Spectator had twin goals: one, to amuse urban readers and, two, to reform country manners. They achieved their goals by creating a group of characters, who, while entertaining the readers with their eccentricities, served as vehicles of subtle messages of mild reforms in manners. In the early eighteenth century, the emergence of the bourgeoisie in England led to the evolution of a public sphere. A great deal of the writing in this period addressed the social and moral concerns of this new class of readers. The most eminent periodical essayist of this century was Samuel Johnson. He dealt with moral ideas of universal significance in an authoritarian manner. It was Johnson who, in his A Dictionary of the English Language, defined the essay as ‘a loose sally of the mind; an irregular indigested piece; not a regular or orderly composition’. His essays have an overt didactic purpose. Published in the periodical The Rambler, they are narrated by a wry, knowledgeable, moral narrator. He is different from the narrator of The Spectator, whose main aim is to entertain. The narrator of Johnson’s essays speaks from painful personal experience. Another popular essayist of the time was the author of the novel, The Vicar of Wakefield, Oliver Goldsmith, who belonged to Johnson’s circle. He could communicate his vision of men and ideas in an inimitable style. He continued the tradition of character sketches in ‘The Man in Black’ and ‘Beau Tibbs’. Like Addison, he also attributed many of his essays to a persona created by himself. The Romantic movement, with its stress on the emotional apprehension of reality, glorification of the imagination and individual creative genius, as well as the feeling of affinity with the spirit of nature, was perfectly congenial to the evolution of the personal familiar essay. Charles Lamb, Thomas de Quincey and William Hazlitt can be counted as the most popular representatives of the familiar essay in that period. Of these, Charles Lamb can undoubtedly claim to have written the greatest number of such essays, many of whose themes are taken from his own

Introduction to the English Essay

xv

experience. He often mixes humour with pathos, as we find in the essay ‘Dream Children’ from Essays of Elia. Lamb’s style is enjoyed by readers even today. He often imitated the manner of Elizabethan prose writers, with his use of archaic expressions and quotations from seventeenth century masters of prose, and infused his essays with a rare charm. Many of his essays are close to poetry by virtue of their being excellent expressions of a creative imagination. His Essays is one of the most commonly read works by students of English literature. Writing at the same time, William Hazlitt, unlike Lamb, was passionately involved in the political upheavals that followed the French Revolution of 1789. Some of his finest essays are collected in the book, Table Talk. They are marked by vigour, vitality and a commitment to radical social goals. Hazlitt tried to combine the literary and the conversational in his essays. He advocated a familiar style free from cant and vulgarity. In his own words: ‘To write a genuine familiar or truly English style is to write as anyone would speak in common conversation, who had a thorough command and choice of words, or who could discourse with ease, force, and perspicuity, setting aside all pedantic and oratorical flourishes’. He himself did not always follow this excellent maxim, but on the whole, his essays embody the gusto—great energy and enthusiasm—which is associated with his personality. In the Victorian age, the essay assumed many new forms. Advances in science and technology had tremendous impact upon the thinking of the public. Academics and intellectuals were confronted with new doctrines which challenged traditional religious beliefs. Issues like freedom, equality, justice, progress and revolution called for discussions from varied perspectives. The kind of familiar essay which had a wide appreciative audience earlier was supplanted by polemical and propagandist treatises. For example, the Oxford academician and priest John Henry Newman, whose life spans almost the whole of the century, mixed autobiographical details with doctrinal assertions in his religious essays. Another prominent essayist of the time, T. B. Macaulay

xvi

Introduction to the English Essay

wrote a series of essays on literary and historical subjects which brought out his talent for adopting an aesthetic approach towards personalities and problems. It was in the Victorian period that the seeds of cultural criticism were sown by poet and critic Matthew Arnold in his essays and lectures. He called upon Englishmen to give up their philistinism and provincial insularity and adopt a comparative vision which would assimilate the greatest achievements of the European civilization. Another impressive figure was Thomas Carlyle, a social critic and thinker who wrote essays which mixed autobiography, criticism and fictional elements. In the second half of the century, John Ruskin emerged as a major art critic. He was not an aesthete, a votary of art for art’s sake, but a visionary who intervened with prophetic zeal in the social and ideological debates going on in England. He tried to integrate his sociological insights into his aesthetic explorations. Robert Louis Stevenson is widely known as a novelist of distinction; but he also wrote a number of pieces which belong to the genre of the familiar essay. Unlike the impersonal, objective treatises of many of his contemporaries, his essays exude a personal charm which link them to his predecessors, like Lamb and Hazlitt. When we come to the 20th century, the diversity of the forms the essay takes becomes truly bewildering. The print media and the publishing industry encouraged great experimentation with the form of the essay during this period. With the inclusion of English literature in the curriculum of universities, scholarly essays on critical themes were produced on such a vast scale that the period came to be known as the Age of Criticism. Essayists from Aldous Huxley to George Orwell wrote learned and delightful essays to alert the reading public to the dangers inherent in ignoring the principles of democracy, tolerance and rational thought. Many of these essays cannot be classified as either personal or impersonal. They are expressions born of private experience, but deal with momentous public issues. Against the background of these scholarly expositions, we can place the light-hearted essays of writers like G. K. Chesterton, E. V. Lucas, A. G. Gardiner, Hilaire

Introduction to the English Essay

xvii

Belloc and Robert Lynd. They could write an engaging essay on any subject, however trifling it might be. They remind us of the earlier familiar essay, with its stress on revealing the personality of the author by adopting a humorous, informal and conversational mode of communication. When we classify the essay into the subjective and the objective or the formal and the informal, we should not make these divisions absolute. The essay is a mixed genre, which has been oscillating between these poles and is likely to continue to do so.

1 Of Studies Francis Bacon Francis Bacon (1561–1626) was an outstanding thinker of the Renaissance period, which inaugurated the modern epoch. As a young scholar at Trinity College, Cambridge, he wanted to take all knowledge to be his province. Though he found it difficult to advance his career in the courts of Queen Elizabeth I and King James I, he succeeded in getting appointed as the Lord Chancellor in 1618. In 1621, he was accused of accepting bribes, convicted, fined and imprisoned in the Tower of London. However, the King condoned his punishment and allowed him to retire to a life of study and contemplation. The contradictions in his character invited the jibes of the poet Alexander Pope, who called him the “wisest, brightest, meanest of mankind”. Bacon’s principal works—Advancement of Learning, Novum Organum, New Atlantis and Essays—assure him a permanent place among English philosophers. His essays “come home to men’s business and bosoms”, as Bacon remarked in his dedication of the Essays to the Duke of Buckingham, because of the practical wisdom they contain. ‘Of Studies’ is a typical specimen from Bacon’s Essays. In it, Bacon specifies the three uses of studies; for delight, ornament and ability. He advises the readers about books of different types and from various disciplines. He also shows how reading shapes personality by complementing life’s experiences and by correcting intellectual deficiencies.

2

Reflections

Bacon is a master of the aphoristic style used in the essay. This style employs aphorisms, which are brief sentences containing rich ideas, written or spoken in a laconic manner. For example, “Reading maketh a full man; conference a ready man and writing an exact man.” is an aphorism. His style may also be called epigrammatic, which comes from epigram, meaning a statement which expresses an idea in a clever and memorable way. Bacon’s preferred medium for scientific discourse was Latin. His essays contain many Latin phrases, such as “abeunt studia in mores” from ‘Of Studies’, which have passed into common usage. Bacon also uses figures of speech to make his ideas more effective. When he compares “distilled books” to tasteless “distilled waters”, he employs the figure of speech called the simile.

——— Studies serve for delight, for ornament, and for ability. Their chief use for delight is in privateness and retiring; for ornament, is in discourse; and for ability, is in the judgment, and disposition of business. For expert men can execute, and perhaps judge of particulars, one by one; but the general counsels, and the plots and marshalling of affairs, come best, from those that are learned. To spend too much time in studies is sloth; to use them too much for ornament, is affectation; to make judgment wholly by their rules, is the humour of a scholar. They perfect nature, and are perfected by experience: for natural abilities are like natural plants, that need proyning, by study; and studies themselves, do give forth directions too much at large, except they be bounded in by experience. Crafty men contemn studies, simple men admire them, and wise men use them; for they teach not their own use; but that is a wisdom without them, and above them, won by observation. Read not to contradict and confute; nor to believe and take for granted; nor to find talk and discourse; but to weigh and consider. Some books are to be tasted, others to be swallowed,

Of Studies

3

and some few to be chewed and digested; that is, some books are to be read only in parts; others to be read, but not curiously; and some few to be read wholly, and with diligence and attention. Some books also may be read by deputy, and extracts made of them by others; but that would be only in the less important arguments, and the meaner sort of books, else distilled books are like common distilled waters, flashy things. Reading maketh a full man; conference a ready man; and writing an exact man. And therefore, if a man write little, he had need have a great memory; if he confer little, he had need have a present wit: and if he read little, he had need have much cunning, to seem to know, that he doth not. Histories make men wise; poets witty; the mathematics subtle; natural philosophy deep; moral grave; logic and rhetoric able to contend. Abeunt studia in mores. Nay, there is no stond or impediment in the wit, but may be wrought out by fit studies; like as diseases of the body, may have appropriate exercises. Bowling is good for the stone and reins; shooting for the lungs and breast; gentle walking for the stomach; riding for the head; and the like. So if a man’s wit be wandering, let him study the mathematics; for in demonstrations, if his wit be called away never so little, he must begin again. If his wit be not apt to distinguish or find differences, let him study the schoolmen; for they are cymini sectores. If he be not apt to beat over matters, and to call up one thing to prove and illustrate another, let him study the lawyers’ cases. So every defect of the mind may have a special receipt.

Summary Studies serve three purposes; pleasure, ornamentation and ability. It can be a source of great joy to a retired or private scholar. It adds charm to a person’s conversation and speech. And the knowledge gained enables him to manage his practical affairs competently. But there must be moderation in the pursuit of book learning. If a person spends too much time reading, he will become lazy.

4

Reflections

The excessive use of learning in decorating one’s speech will make him showy. And only eccentric scholars decide everything on the basis of knowledge obtained from books. Knowledge gained from studies alone is too general and vague. Therefore it should be corrected and complemented by insights gained from experience. We should not read only to contradict others. Nor should we believe in everything we read. Instead, we should critically consider the significance of what we have read. All books need not be read with the same thoroughness. Only parts of some books are worth reading. Some others can be read through quickly. But the really valuable books should be read carefully and with full attention. If the books do not deal with important subjects, we may read their summaries prepared by assistants. Quoting the first century Roman poet Ovid, Bacon says that reading enriches a man’s mind. Discussions make him quickwitted. The habit of note-taking make him exact and precise in his thought and expressions. Different disciplines impact students in different ways. For example, history makes a man wise; poetry makes him imaginative and philosophy makes him profound. The disciplines we choose for study will subtly influence our character. Just as bodily disease can be cured by exercises, mental faculties can be improved by studies. For example, mathematics strengthens the powers of concentration. Medieval philosophy sharpens a person’s discrimination. Legal knowledge enables a man to examine a case carefully and find suitable past examples. Thus, every defect of man has a solution.

Notes Privateness: Seclusion from the public eye. Retiring: Retirement.

Of Studies

5

Discourse: Serious discussion; formal writing. In modern critical theory, the term refers to the use of language in a specific context, which is governed by certain conventions and rules. Disposition: Handling. Expert men: Men whose knowledge is based on their experience. Plots: Plans. Marshalling: Arranging ideas effectively. Sloth: Laziness. Affectation: Insincere or unnatural behaviour. Humour: Eccentricity; strange or unusual behaviour. Proyning: Pruning; trimming. Too much at large: Too general and therefore, vague. Bounded in: Limited by. Knowledge gained from books should be complemented and corrected by experience. Crafty: Cunning. Bacon refers to men who have practical skill. Contemn: Despise; scorn. The modern word ‘condemn’ means to express strong disapproval. Simple: Unlearned; unskilled. Without: Outside. Wisdom based on experience beyond bookish learning is necessary for the proper use of knowledge. Curiously: With full attention. It is an archaic meaning. Arguments: Subjects. Distilled: Abridged. A summary is not interesting and unlikely to capture the reader’s interest. Distilled waters: Spirits. Flashy: Tasteless. Writing: Taking notes. It helps a man reproduce exactly what he has read. Present: Ready. Witty: Imaginative. Subtle: Able to make fine discrimination; acute. Natural philosophy: Physical sciences.

6

Reflections

Rhetoric: The art of effective and persuasive expression. Abeunt studia in mores: Studies pass into character. (From Ovid’s Heroides Libri). Stond or impediment: Obstacle; hurdle. Wrought out: Removed. Bowling: An indoor game in which a ball is rolled to knock down pins (wooden objects shaped like bottles). Stone: Bladder. Reins: Kidneys. Wit: Mind. Schoolmen: Medieval scholars. Cymini sectores: Literally, splitters of cumin seeds; hair-splitters. Here, it refers to philosophers, as they tend to argue over minor details. Beat over matters: Consider matters fast. Receipt: Recipe; remedy.

Questions 1. Annotate the following: a) Crafty men contemn studies; simple men admire them; and wise men use them: for they teach not their own use, but that is a wisdom without them and above them, won by observation. b) Reading maketh a full man; conference a ready man; and writing an exact man. c) Histories make men wise; poets witty; the mathematics subtle; natural philosophy deep; moral grave; logic and rhetoric able to contend. 2. Answer each of the following questions in a paragraph. a) What, according to Bacon, are the chief uses of studies? b) What is the main purpose of reading? c) How do different subjects shape the character of men? 3. Write an essay on the role of learning in life.

2 The Diary of Samuel Pepys Samuel Pepys Samuel Pepys (1633–1703) was an English naval administrator and Member of Parliament best remembered today for the detailed private diary he maintained, which is one of the primary sources of information about the English Restoration period. Born in London in a tailor’s family, Pepys was educated at St Paul’s School and the University of Cambridge. He began his career as an assistant of his father’s cousin Lord Sandwich, who was a commander in the English Navy. Clever enough to find the right contacts in high society, Pepys became a supplier of food and drink to the Navy and thus secured his finances. He went on to become the Secretary to the Admiralty, a Member of Parliament and the President of the Royal Society. In 1679, he was accused of giving naval information to the French and served a short term in prison. Pepys kept a private diary from 1660 to 1669 covering the momentous period after the restoration of Charles II to the English throne. After the death of Oliver Cromwell, the Lord Protector, in 1658, the Parliamentary forces had weakened considerably. In 1660, Charles II became King. The arts, particularly the theatre, revived and flourished during this period. The time is also noted for its lack of morality in the court circles. The Diary of Samuel Pepys, the most famous diary in English literature written in private shorthand, was deciphered and

8

Reflections

published a hundred years after his death. It is a graphic eyewitness record of public events of the time, such as the Great Plague of London (1665) and the Great Fire of London (1666) as well as an invaluable source of information on the inside story of the Anglo-Dutch war (1665–67). It is also an honest expression of the author’s private thoughts and feelings. The colourful, decadent and energetic life of Restoration England comes alive in its pages. It is peopled by a cross-section of society, from the nobility of the Court to the man in the street. The value of the diary is enhanced by the honesty and candour with which Pepys reveals his personality. He does not try to suppress unflattering aspects of his character, nor does he exaggerate and embellish his virtues. His jealousies, marital infidelities and the frequent recriminations with his wife are recorded in detail. The diary also reveals the texture of everyday life in late seventeenth century England. Pepys enjoyed good food and drink, frequented theatres and taverns, mingled with people from all walks of life, gossiped about friends and foes and attended entertainments like bear baiting, cock fights and even executions. He emerges from the pages of the diary as a person who was diligent, shrewd, inquisitive, sexually promiscuous, a man as comfortable in the dressing room of a theatre as the Royal Society laboratory.

——— Monday, 9 January 1660 For these two or three days I have been much troubled with thoughts how to get money to pay them that I have borrowed money of, by reason of my money being in my uncle’s hands. I rose early this morning, and looked over and corrected my brother John’s speech, which he is to make the next apposition, and after that I went towards my office, and in my way met with W. Simons, Muddiman, and Jack Price, and went with them to Harper’s and in many sorts of talk I stayed till two of the clock in the afternoon. I found Muddiman a good scholar, an

The Diary of Samuel Pepys

9

arch rogue; and owns that though he writes new books for the Parliament, yet he did declare that he did it only to get money; and did talk very basely of many of them. Among other things, W. Simons told me how his uncle Scobel was on Saturday last called to the bar, for entering in the journal of the House, for the year 1653, these words: ‘This day his Excellence the Lord General Cromwell dissolved this House;’ which words the Parliament voted a forgery, and demanded of him how they came to be entered. He answered that they were his own handwriting, and that he did it by virtue of his office, and the practice of his predecessor; and that the intent of the practice was to let posterity know how such and such a Parliament was dissolved, whether by the command of the King, or by their own neglect, as the last House of Lords was; and that to this end, he had said and writ that it was dissolved by his Excellence the Lord G[eneral]; and that for the word dissolved, he never at the time did hear of any other term; and desired pardon if he would not dare to make a word himself when it was six years after, before they came themselves to call it an interruption; but they were so little satisfied with this answer, that they did choose a committee to report to the House, whether this crime of Mr Scobel’s did come within the act of indemnity or no. Thence I went with Muddiman to the Coffee-House, and gave 18d. to be entered of the Club. Thence into the Hall, where I heard for certain that Monk was coming to London, and that Bradshaw’s 2 lodgings were preparing for him. Thence to Mrs Jem’s, and found her in bed, and she was afraid that it would prove the small-pox. Thence back to Westminster Hall, where I heard how Sir H. Vane was this day voted out of the House, and to sit no more there; and that he would retire himself to his house at Raby, as also all the rest of the nine officers that had their commissions formerly taken away from them, were commanded to their farthest houses from London during the pleasure of the Parliament. Here I met with the Quarter Master of my Lord’s troop, and his clerk Mr Jenings, and took them home, and gave them a bottle of wine, and the remainder of my collar of brawn; and

10

Reflections

so good night. After that came in Mr Hawley, who told me that I was missed this day at my office, and that tomorrow I must pay all the money that I have, at which I was put to a great loss how I should get money to make up my cash, and so went to bed in great trouble. Friday, 3 February 1660 Drank my morning draft at Harper’s, and was told there that the soldiers were all quiet upon promise of pay. Thence to St James’s Park, and walked there to my place for my flageolet and then played a little, it being a most pleasant morning and sunshine. Back to Whitehall, where in the guard-chamber I saw about thirty or forty ’prentices of the City, who were taken at twelve o’clock last night and brought prisoners hither. Thence to my office, where I paid a little more money to some of the soldiers under Lieut.-Col. Miller (who held out the Tower against the Parliament after it was taken away from Fitch by the Committee of Safety, and yet he continued in his office). About noon Mrs Turner came to speak with me, and Joyce, and I took them and showed them the manner of the Houses sitting, the doorkeeper very civilly opening the door for us. Thence with my cousin Roger Pepys, it being term time, we took him out of the Hall to Priors, the Rhenish wine-house, and there had a pint or two of wine and a dish of anchovies, and bespoke three or four dozen bottles of wine for him against his wedding. After this done he went away, and left me order to call and pay for all that Mrs Turner would have. So we called for nothing more there, but went and bespoke a shoulder of mutton at Wilkinson’s to be roasted as well as it could be done, and sent a bottle of wine home to my house. In the meantime she and I and Joyce went walking all over Whitehall, whither General Monk was newly come, and we saw all his forces march by in very good plight and stout officers. Thence to my house where we dined, but with a great deal of patience, for the mutton came in raw, and so we were fain to stay the stewing of it. In the meantime we sat studying a

The Diary of Samuel Pepys

11

posy for a ring for her which she is to have at Roger Pepys his wedding. After dinner I left them and went to hear news, but only found that the Parliament House was most of them with Monk at Whitehall, and that in his passing through the town he had many calls to him for a free Parliament, but little other welcome. I saw in the Palace yard how unwilling some of the old soldiers were yet to go out of town without their money, and swore if they had it not in three days, as they were promised, they would do them more mischief in the country than if they had stayed here; and that is very likely, the country being all discontented. The town and guards are already full of Monk’s soldiers. I returned, and it growing dark I and they went to take a turn in the park, where Theoph. (who was sent for to us to dinner) outran my wife and another poor woman, that laid a pot of ale with me that she would outrun her. After that I set them as far as Charing Cross, and there left them and my wife, and I went to see Mrs Ann, who began very high about a flock bed I sent her, but I took her down. Here I played at cards till 9 o’clock. So home and to bed. Thursday, 31 August 1665 Up and, after putting several things in order to my removal, to Woolwich; the plague having a great increase this week, beyond all expectation of almost 2,000, making the general bill 7,000, odd 100; and the plague above 6,000. I down by appointment to Greenwich, to our office, where I did some business, and there dined with our company and Sir W. Boreman, and Sir The. Biddulph, at Mr Boreman’s, where a good venison pasty, and after a good merry dinner I to my office, and there late writing letters, and then to Woolwich by water, where pleasant with my wife and people, and after supper to bed. Thus this month ends with great sadness upon the public, through the greatness of the plague everywhere through the kingdom almost. Everyday sadder and sadder news of its increase. In the City died this week 7,496 and of them 6,102 of the plague. But it is feared

12

Reflections

that the true number of the dead, this week is near 10,000; partly from the poor that cannot be taken notice of, through the greatness of the number, and partly from the Quakers and others that will not have any bell ring for them. Our fleet gone out to find the Dutch, we having about 100 sail in our fleet, and in them the Sovereign one; so that it is a better fleet than the former with the Duke was. All our fear is that the Dutch should be got in before them; which would be a very great sorrow to the public, and to me particularly, for my Lord Sandwich’s sake. A great deal of money being spent, and the kingdom not in a condition to spare, nor a Parliament without much difficulty to meet to give more. And to that; to have it said, what hath been done by our late fleets? As to myself I am very well, only in fear of the plague, and as much of an ague by being forced to go early and late to Woolwich, and my family to lie there continually. My late gettings have been very great to my great content, and am likely to have yet a few more profitable jobs in a little while; for which Tangier, and Sir W. Warren I am wholly obliged to. Sunday, 5 November 1665 (Lord’s day). Up, and after being trimmed, by boat to the Cockpitt, where I heard the Duke of Albemarle’s chaplin make a simple sermon: among other things, reproaching the imperfection of human learning, he cried: ‘All our physicians cannot tell what an ague is, and all our arithmetique is not able to number the days of a man;’ which, God knows, is not the fault of arithmetique, but that our understandings reach not the thing. To dinner, where a great deal of silly discourse, but the worst is I hear that the plague increases much at Lambeth, St Martin’s and Westminster, and fear it will all over the city. Thence I to the Swan, thinking to have seen Sarah but she was at church, and so I by water to Deptford, and there made a visit to Mr Evelyn, who, among other things, showed me most excellent painting in little; in distemper, Indian ink, water colours: graving; and, above all, the whole secret of mezzo-tinto, and the manner of

The Diary of Samuel Pepys

13

it, which is very pretty, and good things done with it. He read to me very much also of his discourse, he hath been many years and now is about, about Guardenage; which will be a most noble and pleasant piece. He read me part of a play or two of his making, very good, but not as he conceits them, I think, to be. He showed me his Hortus Hyemalis; leaves laid up in a book of several plants kept dry, which preserve colour, however, and look very finely, better than any Herball. In fine, a most excellent person he is, and must be allowed a little for a little conceitedness; but he may well be so, being a man so much above others. He read me, though with too much gusto, some little poems of his own, that were not transcendent, yet one or two very pretty epigrams; among others, of a lady looking in at a grate, and being pecked at by an eagle that was there. Here comes in, in the middle of our discourse Captain Cocke, as drunk as a dog, but could stand, and talk and laugh. He did so joy himself in a brave woman that he had been with all the afternoon, and who should it be but my Lady Robinson, but very troublesome he is with his noise and talk, and laughing, though very pleasant. With him in his coach to Mr Glanville’s, where he sat with Mrs Penington and myself a good while talking of this fine woman again and then went away. Then the lady and I to very serious discourse and, among other things, of what a bonny lass my Lady Robinson is, who is reported to be kind to the prisoners, and has said to Sir G. Smith, who is her great crony, ‘Look! There is a pretty man, I would be content to break a commandment with him,’ and such loose expressions she will have often. After an hour’s talk we to bed, the lady mightily troubled about a pretty little bitch she hath, which is very sick, and will eat nothing, and the worst was, I could hear her in her chamber bemoaning the bitch, and by and by taking her into bed with her. The bitch pissed and shit a bed, and she was fain to rise and had coals out of my chamber to dry the bed again. This night I had a letter that Sir G. Carteret would be in town tomorrow, which did much surprise me.

14

Reflections

Summary Monday, 9 January 1660 Pepys worries about repaying his debts because his money is with his uncle, Robert Pepys. He corrects the speech his brother John will deliver at his school. Then he leaves for his office; gossips with his friends; visits the Parliament House; returns home with friends whom he entertains; but he goes to bed with a troubled mind. Friday, 3 February 1660 Pepys wakes up to a bright and pleasant day. He plays on the flageolet and goes to the Whitehall offices where he sees many prisoners. Then he goes to his office to distribute payments to soldiers. He takes some friends to Parliament to show them the sessions; goes to a wine shop with his cousin, Roger Pepys to order four dozen bottles for the latter’s wedding; witnesses aggrieved soldiers clamouring for their promised payment and visits Mrs Ann to play cards with her. Finally, he returns home. Thursday, 31 August 1665 The dreaded plague has been raging in London. More than 6,000 people are dead. Pepys plans to move to Woolwich with his wife. He goes to his office, has an enjoyable dinner and takes his wife to Woolwich. He worries about the plight of the English Navy, as the government is short of funds. Except for the fear of the plague, he is quite happy and hopes that things would improve. Sunday, 5 November 1665 Pepys listens to a sermon in church in which the preacher remarks that no doctor can say what causes illness and no science can say how long a man will live. He then visits the writer John Evelyn who shows him his paintings and reads aloud from his works. Pepys thinks that he is a fine person, though somewhat conceited. He goes on to record the antics of a drunken captain and trivial gossip about some ladies.

The Diary of Samuel Pepys

15

Notes Monday, 9 January 1660 and Friday, 3 February 1660 My uncle: Robert Pepys. Brother John: John Pepys. Samuel helped him in his education. Apposition: Declamations at St Paul’s School; set speech in public. W. Simons: William Simons, nephew of Henry Scobel, clerk of the House of Commons and House of Lords. Muddiman: Henry Muddiman, an English journalist and publisher active after the 1660 restoration of the English monarchy. He founded the London Gazette, the oldest surviving English newspaper. Harper’s: A tavern just outside the gate of Whitehall Palace, the main residence of the English monarch in London until 1698, when it was almost entirely destroyed in a fire. Uncle Scobel: Henry Scobel. He authored tracts on parliamentary procedure. Cromwell: Oliver Cromwell, a military and political leader who overthrew the English monarchy and temporarily turned England into a republican commonwealth and served as Lord Protector of England, Scotland and Ireland. Posterity: Future generations. Parliament: The British Parliament comprises the Sovereign, the House of Commons and the House of Lords. It was abolished in 1649 and restored in 1660. Coffee-House: Will’s Coffee House in Covent Garden. Wellknown literary figures of the day, including writers John Dryden and Jonathan Swift, frequented the place. Monk: George Monk, Duke of Albemarle. A soldier and politician, he played a key note in the restoration of King Charles II to the throne. Mrs Jem: Jemima Carteret, daughter of Lord Sandwich.

16

Reflections

Westminster Hall: The oldest building (built in 1037) on the Parliament premises. It is used for important state ceremonies. Sir H. Vane: Sir Henry Vane was a Member of Parliament and Counsel of State. An inflexible Republican, he was executed on the charge of conspiring for the death of King Charles I. Quarter Master: An army officer who provides clothing and supplies for soldiers; in the navy, the officer in charge of signalling on a ship. Mr Jenings: A clerk in Lord Sandwich’s army. Lord Sandwich was a relative and a generous benefactor and patron of Pepys. Collar: A piece of meat from a pig’s neck. Brawn: Also known as headcheese, it is pre-cooked meat comprising parts of the feet, the tongue and the heart of a pig or cow. Mr Hawley: John Hawley, a fellow clerk of Pepys. St James’s Park: The oldest royal park in London, situated in Westminster. Flageolet: A kind of flute. Mrs Turner: Jane Turner, Pepys’ cousin. Her daughter Theophila is later mentioned in the diary entry as Theoph. Roger Pepys: Pepys’ cousin, barrister and M.P. Posy: A brief verse or phrase inscribed on a ring. Anchovy: A small salt water fish. Thursday, 31 August 1665 Woolwich: A town in south-east London where Pepys and his wife stayed during the Great Plague. The plague: The Great Plague of London (1665–66), which killed nearly one lakh people, one-fifth of the population of London at that time. Sir W. Boreman: An officer of the royal household of King Charles I. Venison pasty: A pie containing deer meat.

The Diary of Samuel Pepys

17

The City: The central part of London. Quakers: Members of the Religious Society of Friends, a Christian religious movement started in the 1650s by a group of itinerant preachers. They were called Quakers because they were thought to quake or shake with religious devotion. The Sovereign: The Sovereign of the Seas. Built in 1637, it was the world’s first true three-decker ship. It caught fire from an overturned candle and was destroyed in 1697. Lord Sandwich: Sir Edward Montagu, Pepys’ benefactor. Tangier: A port in Morocco, a British colony till 1684. Victuals: Old-fashioned word for food and drink. Sunday, 5 November 1665 Cockpitt: Ground near the Whitehall Palace. It was redesigned as a private theatre for Charles I. Pepys attended several plays here. Duke of Albemarle: George Monk. The Swan: a popular inn in Westminster. Sarah was a serving maid at the inn, in whom Pepys was interested. Mr Evelyn: John Evelyn, an English writer, traveller, diarist and gardener who was a friend of Pepys. Distemper: Paint made by mixing pigments with water and a binder. Mezzo-tinto: A method of copper plate engraving. Guardenage: Guardianship. Hortus Hyemalis: Evelyn’s Winter Garden; a large folio manuscript with dried herbs affixed. Captain Cocke: George Cocke, a navy contractor. Mrs Penington: Judith Penington, daughter of a Parliamentarian and sister of a Quaker leader, Isaac. Sir G. Smith: Sir George Smith, a merchant. He was a friend of Pepys and a “crony” of Lady Robinson. Sir G. Carteret: Sir George Carteret was the treasurer of the Navy and an M.P. He was a Royalist.

18

Reflections

Questions 1. Annotate the following. a) Here I met with the Quarter Master of my lord’s troop and his clerk Mr Jennings, and took them home, and gave them a bottle of wine, and the remainder of my collar of brawn; and so good night. b) Thus this month ends with great sadness upon the public, through the greatness of the plague everywhere through the kingdom almost. c) All our physicians cannot tell what an ague is and all our arithmetique is not able to number the days of a man. 2. Answer the following in a paragraph. a) How did Pepys spend a typical day? b) How does Pepys react to the London plague? c) What is Pepys’s impression of Evelyn? 3. “Pepys’ diary records the public events of the time and also expresses his private concerns and feelings.” Write an essay on this theme.

3 Sir Roger at the Assizes Joseph Addison Joseph Addison (1672–1719) was educated at Oxford and was later employed as a Commissioner of Excise and as the Chief Secretary for Ireland. He also served as a Member of Parliament. As an eminent classical scholar, Addison wrote a tragedy called Cato, which was a success in England as well as in its American colonies. In collaboration with his friend Richard Steele, Addison published the periodical The Spectator from 1711 to 1714. The Spectator published the essays that secured for both Addison and Steele an enduring place in the history of English prose. They were collected into eight volumes and published as The Roger de Coverley Papers from The Spectator. Addison’s ambition was to bring philosophy from colleges and libraries to clubs and coffee houses. The paper catered to England’s emerging middle class, primarily comprising the merchants and traders who gathered at these public places. Most readers were not subscribers themselves, but would read the paper at the coffee houses, which subscribed to it. In addressing this social class, The Spectator contributed to the emerging concept of the public sphere. In the beginning of the eighteenth century, this new phenomenon emerged in western Europe, aided by newspapers, clubs and coffee houses, which played a significant role in its formation. With the spread of literacy, there was increasing hunger for political news, information on financial matters and literary works. The periodicals of

20

Reflections

the time carried essays on all such topics of general interest. The tradition of the periodical essay, as such essays came to be known, was continued in the eighteenth century by authors like Henry fielding, Samuel Johnson and Oliver Goldsmith. While writing for The Spectator, Addison adopted the persona of the fictional Mr Spectator, a detached and amended observer of the manners of his contemporaries. As Mr Spectator, Addison comments on a cross-section of people drawn from various walks of life with mild irony and amused tolerance. These friends of the narrator comprise the Spectator Club. Of them, the best known is the old country squire, Sir Roger de Coverley; a city merchant, Sir Andrew Freeport; an army officer, Captain Sentry and a man about town, Willy Honeycomb. As a publication whose aim was to “enliven morality with wit”, The Spectator dealt with subjects that could serve as topical talking points for its readership and gave advice on how to carry on conversations and social interactions in a polite manner. Family, marriage and courtesy were promoted as prized virtues, in keeping with the Enlightenment philosophies of the time. In the essays, Sir Roger is presented in diverse contexts to reveal the character traits which make him the object of affection and respect of all those who know him. He exemplifies the values of the church-going gentleman who is simple, whimsical, compassionate and charitable. ‘Sir Roger at the Assizes’ begins with the dictum that a man enjoys peace of mind when his conscience is clear and when his community appreciates his conduct. The narrator illustrates this maxim with the actions of Sir Roger at a country sessions court. He concludes the picture with the episode at the inn which exposes a slightly ridiculous aspect of his character.

——— A man’s first care should be to avoid the reproaches of his own heart; his next, to escape the censures of the world: if the last interferes with the former, it ought to be entirely neglected; but

Sir Roger at the Assizes

21

otherwise there cannot be a greater satisfaction to an honest mind, than to see those approbations which it gives itself seconded by the applauses of the public: a man is more sure of his conduct, when the verdict which he passes upon his own behaviour is thus warranted and confirmed by the opinion of all that know him. My worthy friend Sir Roger is one of those who is not only at peace within himself, but beloved and esteemed by all about him. He receives a suitable tribute for his universal benevolence to mankind, in the returns of affection and good-will which are paid him by everyone that lives within his neighbourhood. I lately met with two or three odd instances of that general respect which is shown to the good old knight. He would needs carry Will Wimble and myself with him to the country assizes: as we were upon the road. Will Wimble joined a couple of plain men who rid before us, and conversed with them for some time; during which my friend Sir Roger acquainted me with their characters. The first of them, says he, that hath a spaniel by his side, is a yeoman of about a hundred pounds a year, an honest man: he is just within the Game Act, and qualified to kill an hare or a pheasant: he knocks down a dinner with his gun twice or thrice a week; and by that means lives much cheaper than those who have not so good an estate as himself. He would be a good neighbour if he did not destroy so many partridges: in short, he is a very sensible man; shoots flying; and has been several times foreman of the petty. The other that rides with him is Tom Touchy, a fellow famous for taking the law of everybody. There is not one in the town where he lives that he has not sued at a quarter-sessions. The rogue had once the impudence to go to law with the widow. His head is full of costs, damages, and ejectments: he plagued a couple of honest gentlemen so long for a trespass in breaking one of his hedges, till he was forced to sell the ground it enclosed to defray the charges of the prosecution. His father left him fourscore pounds a year; but he has cast and been cast so often, that he is

22

Reflections

not now worth thirty. I suppose he is going upon the old business of the willow-tree. As Sir Roger was giving me this account of Tom Touchy, Will Wimble and his two companions stopped short till we came up to them. After having paid their respects to Sir Roger, Will told him that Mr Touchy and he must appeal to him upon a dispute that arose between them. Will, it seems, had been giving his fellow-travellers an account of his angling one day in such a hole; when Tom Touchy, instead of hearing out his story, told him, that Mr such an one, if he pleased, might take the law of him for fishing in that part of the river. My friend Sir Roger heard them both, upon a round trot, and after having paused some time, told them, with an air of a man who would not give his judgment rashly, that much might be said on both sides. They were neither of them dissatisfied with the knight’s determination, because neither of them found himself in the wrong by it: upon which we made the best of our way to the assizes. The court was sat before Sir Roger came, but notwithstanding all the justices had taken their places upon the bench, they made room for the old knight at the head of them; who, for his reputation in the country, took occasion to whisper in the judge’s ear, that he was glad his lordship had met with so much good weather in his circuit. I was listening to the proceedings of the court with much attention, and infinitely pleased with that great appearance of solemnity which so properly accompanies such a public administration of our laws; when, after about an hour’s sitting, I observed, to my great surprise, in the midst of a trial, that my friend Sir Roger was getting up to speak. I was in some pain for him, till I found he had acquitted himself of two or three sentences, with a look of much business and great intrepidity. Upon his first rising the court was hushed, and a general whisper ran among the country people that Sir Roger was up. The speech he made was so little to the purpose that I shall not trouble my readers with an account of it; and I believe was not

Sir Roger at the Assizes

23

so much designed by the knight himself to inform the court, as to give him a figure in my eye, and keep up his credit in the country. I was highly delighted, when the court rose, to see the gentlemen of the country gathering about my old friend, and striving who should compliment him most; at the same time that the ordinary people gazed upon him at a distance, not a little admiring his courage, that was not afraid to speak to the judge. In our return home we met with a very odd accident; which I cannot forbear relating, because it shows how desirous all who know Sir Roger are of giving him marks of their esteem. When we were arrived upon the verge of his estate, we stopped at a little inn to rest ourselves and our horses. The man of the house had, it seems, been formerly a servant in the knight’s family; and to do honour to his old master, had some time since, unknown to Sir Roger, put him up in a signpost before the door; so that the knight’s head had hung out upon the road about a week before he himself knew anything of the matter. As soon as Sir Roger was acquainted with it, finding that his servant’s indiscretion proceeded wholly from affection and good-will, he only told him that he had made him too high a compliment: and when the fellow seemed to think that could hardly be, added with a more decisive look, that it was too great an honour for any man under a duke; but told him at the same time, that it might be altered with a very few touches, and that he himself would be at the charge of it. Accordingly they got a painter by the knight’s directions to add a pair of whiskers to the face, and by a little aggravation of the features to change it into the Saracen’s head. I should not have known this story, had not the innkeeper, upon Sir Roger’s alighting, told him in my hearing that his Honour’s head was brought back last night, with the alterations that he had ordered to be made in it. Upon this my friend, with his usual cheerfulness, related the particulars above mentioned, and ordered the head to be brought into the room. I could not forbear discovering greater expressions of mirth than ordinary

24

Reflections

upon the appearance of this monstrous face, under which, notwithstanding it was made to frown and stare in the most extraordinary manner, I could still discover a distant resemblance of my old friend. Sir Roger, upon seeing me laugh, desired me to tell him truly if I thought it possible for people to know him in that disguise, I at first kept my usual silence; but upon the knight’s conjuring me to tell him whether it was not still more like himself than a Saracen, I composed my countenance in the best manner I could, and replied, “That much might be said on both sides.” These several adventures, with the knight’s behaviour in them, gave me as pleasant a day as ever I met with in any of my travels.

Summary The essay begins with an explanation of how Sir Roger is the best kind of man in his situation in life. He has endeared himself to all his neighbours by his kindness and pleasing behaviour. A man is at peace with himself when he has a clear conscience and the approval of the public. Sir Roger is one who has both. The narrator then recalls an incident when the old knight took him and Will Wimble, a man about town, to attend a court sitting in the country. They meet two gentlemen on the way and as they ride; Sir Roger tells the narrator about them. While Will Wimble and the two gentlemen ride a little ahead, Sir Roger explains that one of them is a farmer. The latter would have been a good neighbour, except that he shoots down too many partridges for food. The other man, Tom Touchy, is notorious for his habit of taking legal action against everybody. He prosecuted two honest men for something as trivial as trespassing and destroying some of his hedges. He had to sell the land the hedges enclosed to meet the cost of the lengthy prosecution. His obsession with litigation has ruined him financially, but he refuses to desist.

Sir Roger at the Assizes

25

Will Wimble and Tom Touchy wanted Sir Roger’s opinion on a point of law regarding a trivial incident about Wimble fishing in the river. The men had opposing opinions, but Sir Roger pronounced with an air of judicial solemnity that “much might be said on both sides”. This verdict, not holding either person guilty, satisfied them. The proceedings of the court had already started by the time Sir Roger and his companions reached. When the session were about to end, the knight stood up and made a short speech. The speech was insignificant, but its purpose had not been to inform the court about anything, but only to impress the author and the assembly. On the way back, the group stopped at an inn to refresh themselves. The inn was owned by a former servant of Sir Roger. As a mark of respect to his master, this man had painted Sir Roger’s head on the inn’s sign post without informing him. When he came to know of it, Sir Roger had arranged the features on this painting to be altered to resemble a frowning Saracen. The altered painting was brought in, but it still resembled him. When Sir Roger wanted the author to tell him whether or not the monstrous picture looked like his, the narrator, exercising the same diplomacy that the knight had employed earlier, said, ‘Much might be said on both sides.’

Notes Reproaches: Blame or disapproval. Censures: Criticisms. Approbation: Approval or agreement. Warranted: Justified. He would needs carry: Sir Roger insisted on taking the narrator and his friend along with him. Will Wimble: A friend of Sir Roger who lives with his elder brother, a baronet, and looks after his estate.

26

Reflections

Assizes: One of the periodic court sessions formerly held in each of the counties of England and Wales for the trial of serious civil or criminal cases. They were abolished in 1972. Rid: Rode. Yeoman: Land-owning farmer. Game Act: A law enacted in 1671 which permitted only those who possessed land worth at least £100 annually or were tenants of land worth at least £150 a year, to hunt hares, partridges, pheasants and moor fowl. Shoots flying: Shoots flying birds. Taking the law of everybody: Taking legal action against everyone. Quarter-sessions: The Court of Quarter Sessions. These were criminal courts held quarterly in England and the rest of the British Empire by justices of the peace. Impudence: Rudeness. Widow: A beautiful lady whom Sir Roger had wooed for over 30 years. But she did not reciprocate his love for her. She is mentioned in other essays of The Coverley Papers as well. Ejectments: Evictions. Cast: Won and lost cases. Business of the willow-tree: A petty case regarding the possession of a willow tree. Round trot: Trotting briskly. Circuit: A round trip made by the judges. Intrepidity: Boldness. Figure in my eye: Importance in my estimation. Cannot forbear: Cannot help. Aggravation: Worsening. Saracen: In Europe, the term used for Arabs or Muslims in the Middle Ages. Conjuring: Requesting earnestly.

Sir Roger at the Assizes

27

Questions 1. Annotate the following. a) The other that rides along with him is Tom Touchy, a fellow famous for taking the law of everybody. b) The speech he made was so little to the purpose that I shall not trouble my readers with an account of it; and I believe was not so much designed by the knight himself to inform the court, as to give him a figure in my eye and to keep up his credit in the country. c) I at first kept my usual silence; but upon the knight’s conjuring me to tell him whether it was not still more like himself than a Saracen, I composed my countenance in the best manner I could, and replied that ‘much might be said on both sides.’ 2. Answer each of the following questions in a paragraph. a) How does Sir Roger present the character of Tom Touchy and his companion? b) Describe the performance of Sir Roger at the sessions court. c) Narrate the episode of the Saracen’s head. 3. Bring out the salient features of Addison’s essays as illustrated in ‘Sir Roger at the Assizes’.

4 Life of Samuel Johnson James Boswell James Boswell (1740–1795) was a writer remembered today as the biographer of the great author and critic Samuel Johnson. Born in Edinburgh, Scotland, he studied law in Edinburgh and Utrecht, Holland. When he was 22, he met Johnson in London. Boswell’s meeting with Johnson in 1763 proved momentous. It was the beginning of a long friendship, in the course of which Boswell noted down in meticulous detail everything about his encounters with the eminent author. Boswell travelled widely in Europe and on his return, decided to practise law. After many affairs and courtships, he married his cousin Margaret Montgomerie and settled down in Edinburgh. Boswell visited London frequently where he spent much time with Johnson and his circle of eminent intellectuals. He could not resist the temptations of the city with its opportunities for travel, theatres and women of ill-repute. A prolific diarist, he published several travelogues and memoirs, but his fame chiefly rests upon his biography of Johnson, called Life of Samuel Johnson, L.L.D, which he published in 1791. He died four years after the book was published.

Life of Samuel Johnson

29

Samuel Johnson’s A Dictionary of the English Language Samuel Johnson, a poet, essayist and critic, is known best as the author of the first comprehensive dictionary of the English language. Yet, Johnson’s A Dictionary of The English Language was not the first of its kind, nor was it unique. In the 150 years before it was published, about 20 general purpose English dictionaries had already been produced. But these earlier works were concerned only with difficult words. John Bullokar published An English Expositor in 1616. In 1623, Henry Cockeram brought out the English Dictionary, the first to have the word dictionary in its title. A more inclusive work—The New World of English Words by Edward Phillips— appeared in 1658. Later, technical and scientific words also came to be included in dictionaries. Of these, the most widely used reference work in the eighteenth century was Nathan Bailey’s Universal Etymological English Dictionary (published in 1721). In 1746, Samuel Johnson was commissioned to compile a dictionary by a group of London booksellers for £1,575, equivalent to approximately £230,000 today. It took him nine years to complete. He worked in his garret in conditions of extreme poverty and hardship, with half a dozen clerks who painstakingly copied out quotations from books for the dictionary. He himself said, “The English Dictionary was written with little assistance of the learned and without any patronage of the great; not in the soft obscurities of retirement or under the shelter of academic bowers, but amid inconvenience and distraction, in sickness and in sorrow.” (Preface to the Dictionary). Johnson began with the hope of establishing rigorous standards of correct usage, but later realized that changes were inevitable and concluded that the role of a lexicographer was mainly to record usage. He used quotations from classical English and contemporary writers. He differentiated among the many meanings of words and arranged the meanings and illustrations

30

Reflections

chronologically. In the matter of spellings, he was somewhat conservative. He also added a section on grammar. The dictionary was large, heavy and expensive. It contained 42,773 entries and 1,14,500 illustrative quotations. Its size and price discouraged sales. It sold only 200 copies a year for 30 years. There were a few detractors, but on the whole, the dictionary met with universal acclaim.

——— The Dictionary, we may believe, afforded Johnson full occupation this year. As it approached to its conclusion, he probably worked with redoubled vigour, as seamen increase their exertion and alacrity when they have a near prospect of their haven. Lord Chesterfield, to whom Johnson had paid the high compliment of addressing to his Lordship the Plan of his Dictionary, had behaved to him in such a manner as to excite his contempt and indignation. The world has been for many years amused with a story confidently told, and as confidently repeated with additional circumstances, that a sudden disgust was taken by Johnson upon occasion of his having been one day kept long in waiting in his Lordship’s antechamber, for which the reason assigned was, that he had company with him; and that at last, when the door opened, out walked Colley Cibber; and that Johnson was so violently provoked when he found for whom he had been so long excluded, that he went away in a passion, and never would return. I remember having mentioned this story to George Lord Lyttelton, who told me, he was very intimate with Lord Chesterfield; and holding it as a well-known truth, defended Lord Chesterfield, by saying, that ‘Cibber, who had been introduced familiarly by the back-stairs, had probably not been there above ten minutes.’ It may seem strange even to entertain a doubt concerning a story so long and so widely current, and thus implicitly adopted, if not sanctioned, by the authority which I have mentioned; but Johnson himself

Life of Samuel Johnson

31

assured me, that there was not the least foundation for it. He told me, that there never was any particular incident which produced a quarrel between Lord Chesterfield and him; but that his Lordship’s continued neglect was the reason why he resolved to have no connection with him. When the Dictionary was upon the eve of publication, Lord Chesterfield, who, it is said, had flattered himself with expectations that Johnson would dedicate the work to him, attempted, in a courtly manner, to soothe, and insinuate himself with the Sage, conscious, as it should seem, of the cold indifference with which he had treated its learned author; and further attempted to conciliate him, by writing two papers in The World, in recommendation of the work; and it must be confessed, that they contain some studied compliments, so finely turned, that if there had been no previous offence, it is probable that Johnson would have been highly delighted. Praise, in general, was pleasing to him; but by praise from a man of rank and elegant accomplishments, he was peculiarly gratified. His Lordship says, ‘I think the public in general, and the republic of letters in particular, are greatly obliged to Mr Johnson, for having undertaken and executed so great and desirable a work. Perfection is not to be expected from man; but if we are to judge by the various works of Mr Johnson, already published, we have good reason to believe that he will bring this as near to perfection as any one man could do. The Plan of it, which he published some years ago, seems to me to be a proof of it. Nothing can be more rationally imagined, or more accurately and elegantly expressed. I therefore recommend the previous perusal of it to all those who intend to buy the Dictionary, and who, I suppose, are all those who can afford it. … ‘It must be owned that our language is at present, in a state of anarchy; and hitherto, perhaps, it may not have been the worse for it. During our free and open trade, many words and expressions have been imported, adopted and naturalized from other languages, which have greatly enriched our own. Let it still preserve what real strength and beauty it may have borrowed from

32

Reflections

others, but let it not, like the Tarpeian maid, be overwhelmed and crushed by unnecessary foreign ornaments. The time for discrimination seems to be now come. Toleration, adoption and naturalization have run their lengths. Good order and authority are now necessary. But where shall we find them, and at the same time, the obedience due to them? We must have recourse to the old Roman expedient in times of confusion, and choose a dictator. Upon this principle I give my vote for Mr Johnson to fill that great and arduous post. And I hereby declare that I make a total surrender of all my rights and privileges in the English language, as a free-born British subject, to the said Mr Johnson, during the term of his dictatorship. Nay more; I will not only obey him, like an old Roman, as my dictator, but, like a modern Roman, I will implicitly believe in him as my Pope, and hold him to be infallible while in the chair; but no longer. More than this he cannot well require; for I presume that obedience can never be expected when there is neither terror to enforce, nor interest to invite it. … ‘But a grammar, a dictionary, and a history of our language through its several stages were still wanting at home, and importunately called for from abroad. Mr Johnson’s labours will now, and, I dare say, very fully, supply that want, and greatly contribute to the farther spreading of our language in other countries. Learners were discouraged by finding no standard to resort to, and consequently thought it incapable of any. They will now be undeceived and encouraged.’ This courtly device failed of its effect. Johnson, who thought that ‘all was false and hollow,’ despised the honeyed words, and was even indignant that Lord Chesterfield should, for a moment, imagine that he could be the dupe of such an artifice. His expression to me concerning Lord Chesterfield, upon this occasion, was, ‘Sir, after making great professions, he had, for many years, taken no notice of me; but when my Dictionary was coming out, he fell a scribbling in The World about it. Upon which, I wrote him a letter expressed in civil terms, but such as might show him that I did not mind what he said or wrote, and that I had done with him.’

Life of Samuel Johnson

33

This is that celebrated letter of which so much has been said, and about which curiosity has been so long excited, without being gratified. I for many years solicited Johnson to favour me with a copy of it, that so excellent a composition might not be lost to posterity. He delayed from time to time to give it me; till at last in 1781, when we were on a visit at Mr Dilly’s, at Southill in Bedfordshire, he was pleased to dictate it to me from memory. He afterwards found among his papers a copy of it, which he had dictated to Mr Baretti, with its title and corrections, in his own handwriting. This he gave to Mr Langton; adding that if it were to come into print, he wished it to be from that copy. By Mr Langton’s kindness, I am enabled to enrich my work with a perfect transcript of what the world has so eagerly desired to see. To The Right Honourable the Earl of Chesterfield. February 7, 1755. My Lord, I have been lately informed, by the proprietor of The World, that two papers, in which my Dictionary is recommended to the public, were written by your Lordship. To be so distinguished, is an honour, which, being very little accustomed to favours from the great, I know not well how to receive, or in what terms to acknowledge. When, upon some slight encouragement, I first visited your Lordship, I was overpowered, like the rest of mankind, by the enchantment of your address; and could not forbear to wish that I might boast myself Le vainqueur du vainqueur de la terre;— that I might obtain that regard for which I saw the world contending; but I found my attendance so little encouraged, that neither pride nor modesty would suffer me to continue it. When I had once addressed your Lordship in public, I had exhausted all the art of pleasing which a retired and uncourtly scholar can possess. I had done all that I could; and no man is well pleased to have his all neglected, be it ever so little.

34

Reflections

Seven years, my Lord, have now passed, since I waited in your outward rooms, or was repulsed from your door; during which time I have been pushing on my work through difficulties, of which it is useless to complain, and have brought it, at last, to the verge of publication, without one act of assistance, one word of encouragement, or one smile of favour. Such treatment I did not expect, for I never had a patron before. The shepherd in Virgil grew at last acquainted with love, and found him a native of the rocks. Is not a patron, my Lord, one who looks with unconcern on a man struggling for life in the water, and, when he has reached ground, encumbers him with help? The notice which you have been pleased to take of my labours, had it been early, had been kind; but it has been delayed till I am indifferent, and cannot enjoy it; till I am solitary, and cannot impart it; till I am known, and do not want it. I hope it is no very cynical asperity not to confess obligations where no benefit has been received, or to be unwilling that the public should consider me as owing that to a patron, which providence has enabled me to do for myself. Having carried on my work thus far with so little obligation to any favourer of learning, I shall not be disappointed though I should conclude it, if less be possible, with less; for I have been long wakened from that dream of hope, in which I once boasted myself with so much exultation, my Lord, your Lordship’s most humble, most obedient servant, SAM JOHNSON. ‘While this was the talk of the town, (says Dr Adams, in a letter to me) I happened to visit Dr Warburton, who finding that I was acquainted with Johnson, desired me earnestly to carry his compliments to him, and to tell him that he honoured him for his manly behaviour in rejecting these condescensions of Lord Chesterfield, and for resenting the treatment he had received from him, with a proper spirit. Johnson was visibly

Life of Samuel Johnson

35

pleased with this compliment, for he had always a high opinion of Warburton. Indeed, the force of mind which appeared in this letter was congenial with that which Warburton himself amply possessed.’ There is a curious minute circumstance which struck me, in comparing the various editions of Johnson’s imitations of Juvenal. In the tenth Satire, one of the couplets upon the vanity of wishes even for literary distinction stood thus: ‘Yet think what ills the scholar’s life assail, Pride, envy, want, the garret, and the jail’. But after experiencing the uneasiness which Lord Chesterfield’s fallacious patronage made him feel, he dismissed the word garret from the sad group, and in all the subsequent editions the line stands— ‘Pride, envy, want, the patron, and the jail.’ ... Johnson having now explicitly avowed his opinion of Lord Chesterfield, did not refrain from expressing himself concerning that nobleman with pointed freedom: ‘This man (said he) I thought had been a Lord among wits; but, I find, he is only a wit among Lords!’ And when his letters to his natural son were published, he observed, that ‘they teach the morals of a whore, and the manners of a dancing master.’

Summary When Samuel Johnson felt that his grand dictionary was nearing completion, he redoubled his efforts. Johnson had dedicated the Plan of his dictionary to the writer and politician Lord Chesterfield who was a well-known patron of letters. But the nobleman did not render any help to Johnson when the latter was toiling hard in poverty. A story was in circulation that Lord Chesterfield had kept the illustrious author waiting in his anteroom and treated him

36

Reflections

dismissively when they met. Johnson reportedly resented this insulting behaviour and never called on him in future. But Johnson told Boswell that the story was untrue. He did not care for the nobleman because the latter, despite being his patron, had neglected to help him all through the seven years when he was struggling to complete the dictionary. On the eve of its publication, Lord Chesterfield, in an opportunistic attempt to placate Johnson, paid him glowing tributes in two articles published in the periodical, The World. In one of these articles, he said that the public should be grateful to Johnson for compiling a near-perfect dictionary of the English language. English has borrowed and adopted thousands of words from other languages, thus enriching itself. But the present state of anarchy had to be ended by imposing order and authority. There was no person more qualified to undertake this task than Johnson. Chesterfield said that as the author of the dictionary, Johnson was the only one fit to be a dictator with absolute powers in the matter. Chesterfield would follow his rules the way Catholics believed in the Pope. When the dictionary succeeded in establishing a standard for the English language, it would spread in other countries too. Chesterfield also recommended the dictionary to everyone. But Johnson was not pleased by this endorsement from the nobleman. He thought that Chesterfield was a hypocrite. He wrote a stinging letter of remonstrance, which created some furore in the literary community of the time and has since become a significant document in English cultural history. The letter explains that as Johnson was not used to receiving favours from the great, he did not know how to acknowledge Lord Chesterfield’s recommendation of his dictionary. When he expected encouragement from his patron, he met with disappointment. During that difficult period, Johnson laboured hard and completed the dictionary “without one act of assistance, one word of encouragement, or one smile of favour”. Chesterfield

Life of Samuel Johnson

37

is compared to a person who looks upon a drowning man with indifference and offers him first aid after he has managed to reach the shore. Johnson says that Chesterfield’s notice had come too late for him to value it. He was grateful only to providence and was not obliged to any person. When the great scholar Dr Warburton heard of this, he approved of Johnson’s spirited rejoinder to Chesterfield. Johnson persisted in his criticism of Chesterfield in later years. When the latter’s letters to his son were published, Johnson disparaged them by saying that they taught the “morals of a whore and the manners of a dancing master”.

Notes Alacrity: Briskness; readiness. Antechamber: A small room leading to a main room. Insinuate: To win approval by dishonest behaviour. Perusal: Careful reading. Naturalization: Using foreign words with familiarity in a language. Dictator: (In Roman history) a chief magistrate with absolute powers appointed in an emergency. What he said was the law. Arduous: Difficult. Infallible: Incapable of error. Roman Catholics believed that the Pope could not make mistakes. Importunately: Persistently. Repulsed: Rudely rejected. Encumber: Burden. Cynical asperity: Harsh speech. Exultation: Happy excitement. Condescension: Arrogant behaviour of people who think that they are superior to others.

38

Reflections

Fallacious: False; dishonest. Lord Chesterfield: Philip Stanhope, writer, diplomat and politician. Colley Cibber: Actor, dramatist and poet. He was the Poet Laureate of England from 1730 to 1757. George Lord Lyttelton: A politician, writer and patron of the arts. Tarpeian maid: In Roman legend, Tarpeia was the daughter of a city governor who betrayed her people by opening Rome’s gates to the enemy army for the gold ornaments (bracelets) the soldiers wore. After they entered Rome, they crushed her to death with their shields. Mr Dilly: Charles Dilly was a famous bookseller and publisher in London. He was a friend of Johnson. Mr Langton: Bennet Langton was a writer and a member of Johnson’s circle. He shared Johnson’s conservative political ideas. Le vainqueur du vainqueur de la terre: (French) the conqueror of the conquerors of the world. (From Nicolas Boileau’s L’Art poetique.) Virgil: Roman poet who composed several pastoral poems known as the Eclogues. In Virgil’s eighth eclogue, the shepherd Damon realizes that his feelings have been abused. Till I am solitary: Johnson alludes to the loss of his wife, Elizabeth, who died in 1872. He means that he has none to share the joy of his achievement. Dr Adams: Dr William Adams, a churchman. He tried to reconcile Johnson to Chesterfield but failed. Dr William Warburton: A clergyman and scholar who edited Shakespeare’s plays in eight volumes. Juvenal: Roman satirical poet.

Life of Samuel Johnson

39

Questions 1. Annotate the following. a) Let it still preserve what real strength and beauty it may have borrowed from others but let it not, like the Tarpeian maid, be overwhelmed and crushed by unnecessary ornaments. b) Is not a patron, my Lord, one who looks with unconcern on a man struggling for life in the water and when he has reached ground, encumbers him with help? c) This man (said he) I thought had been a Lord among wits but, I find, he is only a wit among Lords! 2. Answer the following in a paragraph. a) How was Johnson reportedly insulted by Lord Chesterfield? b) On what grounds did Lord Chesterfield recommend Johnson’s dictionary? c) How does Johnson expose the hypocrisy of Lord Chesterfield? 3. Narrate the episode of Lord Chesterfield’s recommendation of Johnson’s dictionary and the latter’s rejoinder to him.

5 Dream Children: A Reverie Charles Lamb Charles Lamb (1755–1834) was born in a poor family in London and was educated at the famous school, Christ’s Hospital, where he befriended the future poet Samuel Taylor Coleridge. He worked as a clerk all his life, first in a trading company called South Sea House and later in the East India Company which administered large parts of India. His personal life was unhappy. Mary, his sister, stabbed their mother to death in a fit of madness. Lamb undertook her guardianship, which ultimately implied lifelong bachelorhood for him. Despite facing many setbacks in his life, Lamb was a tender-hearted, genial and sociable person, and his London home attracted some of the most famous intellectuals of the day. One reason for this could have been his ability to mask his chronic melancholy with a benign and cheerful attitude before his friends. Lamb began his literary career by writing poems and critical pieces, later going on to pen a series of essays under the pseudonym Elia, which were published in the London Magazine. One of these was ‘Dream Children: A Reverie’. Published later in book form as Essays of Elia, they established his reputation as one of the most eminent essayists in English literature. Charles also collaborated with his sister Mary to produce Tales from Shakespeare, which is still enormously popular. In the eighteenth century, writers Joseph Addison and Richard Steele had set the standard for the familiar essay, which

Dream Children: A Reverie

41

is characterized by the informal tone of narration and the distinctive voice or persona of the essayist. Lamb and his contemporaries, William Hazlitt and Thomas De Quincey, continued the familiar tradition in the nineteenth century. They enriched the genre by making it a vehicle for the expression of the writer’s personality. Lamb’s essays deal with everyday topics evoking universal interest. He could effortlessly invoke a tone of intimacy which his middle-class readers found reassuring. Though he often used archaic expressions and the mannerisms of a bygone age, the conversational ease with which he conveyed his sentiments endeared him to them. Many of his essays are autobiographical pieces which provide insight into his melancholic personality. In ‘Dream Children’, we find him invoking incidents from his past in order to make them playthings of his fancy. The humour in the essay is also tinged with pathos. The essay revives his memories of childhood in a vivid manner, only to reveal the underlying sadness of a life which could not find fulfilment in love and parenthood.

——— Children love to listen to stories about their elders, when they were children; to stretch their imagination to the conception of a traditionary great-uncle, or grandame, whom they never saw. It was in this spirit that my little ones crept about me the other evening to hear about their great-grandmother Field, who lived in a great house in Norfolk (a hundred times bigger than that in which they and papa lived) which had been the scene—so at least it was generally believed in that part of the country—of the tragic incidents which they had lately become familiar with from the ballad of the Children in the Wood. Certain it is that the whole story of the children and their cruel uncle was to be seen fairly carved out in wood upon the chimney-piece of the great hall, the whole story down to the Robin Redbreasts, till

42

Reflections

a foolish rich person pulled it down to set up a marble one of modern invention in its stead, with no story upon it. Here Alice put out one of her dear mother’s looks, too tender to be called upbraiding. Then I went on to say, how religious and how good their great-grandmother Field was, how beloved and respected by everybody, though she was not indeed the mistress of this great house, but had only the charge of it (and yet in some respects she might be said to be the mistress of it too) committed to her by the owner, who preferred living in a newer and more fashionable mansion which he had purchased somewhere in the adjoining county; but still she lived in it in a manner as if it had been her own, and kept up the dignity of the great house in a sort while she lived, which afterwards came to decay, and was nearly pulled down, and all its old ornaments stripped and carried away to the owner’s other house, where they were set up, and looked as awkward as if someone were to carry away the old tombs they had seen lately at the Abbey, and stick them up in Lady C.’s tawdry gilt drawing-room. Here John smiled, as much as to say, ‘that would be foolish indeed’. And then I told how, when she came to die, her funeral was attended by a concourse of all the poor, and some of the gentry too, of the neighbourhood for many miles round, to show their respect for her memory, because she had been such a good and religious woman; so good indeed that she knew all the Psaltery by heart, ay, and a great part of the Testament besides. Here little Alice spread her hands. Then I told what a tall, upright, graceful person their greatgrandmother Field once was; and how in her youth she was esteemed the best dancer—here Alice’s little right foot played an involuntary movement, till, upon my looking grave, it desisted— the best dancer, I was saying, in the county, till a cruel disease, called a cancer, came, and bowed her down with pain; but it could never bend her good spirits, or make them stoop, but they were still upright, because she was so good and religious. Then I told how she was used to sleep by herself in a lone chamber of the great lone house; and how she believed that an apparition of two

Dream Children: A Reverie

43

infants was to be seen at midnight gliding up and down the great staircase near where she slept, but she said those innocents would do her no harm; and how frightened I used to be, though in those days I had my maid to sleep with me, because I was never half so good or religious as she—and yet I never saw the infants. Here John expanded all his eyebrows and tried to look courageous. Then I told how good she was to all her grandchildren, having us to the great house in the holidays, where I in particular used to spend many hours by myself, in gazing upon the old busts of the Twelve Caesars, that had been Emperors of Rome, till the old marble heads would seem to live again, or I to be turned into marble with them; how I never could be tired with roaming about that huge mansion, with its vast empty rooms, with their worn-out hangings, fluttering tapestry, and carved oaken panels, with the gilding almost rubbed out—sometimes in the spacious old-fashioned gardens, which I had almost to myself, unless when now and then a solitary gardening man would cross me and how the nectarines and peaches hung upon the walls, without my ever offering to pluck them, because they were forbidden fruit, unless now and then—and because I had more pleasure in strolling about among the old melancholy-looking yew trees, or the firs, and picking up the red berries, and the fir apples, which were good for nothing but to look at—or in lying about upon the fresh grass, with all the fine garden smells around me—or basking in the orangery, till I could almost fancy myself ripening too along with the oranges and the limes in that grateful warmth—or in watching the dace that darted to and fro in the fish pond, at the bottom of the garden, with here and there a great sulky pike hanging midway down the water in silent state, as if it mocked at their impertinent friskings—I had more pleasure in these busy-idle diversions than in all the sweet flavours of peaches, nectarines, oranges, and such like common baits of children. Here John slyly deposited back upon the plate a bunch of grapes, which, not unobserved by Alice, he had meditated dividing with her, and both seemed willing to relinquish them for the present as irrelevant.

44

Reflections

Then in somewhat a more heightened tone, I told how, though their great-grandmother Field loved all her grandchildren, yet in an especial manner she might be said to love their uncle, John L—, because he was so handsome and spirited a youth, and a king to the rest of us; and, instead of moping about in solitary corners, like some of us, he would mount the most mettlesome horse he could get, when but an imp no bigger than themselves, and make it carry him half over the county in a morning, and join the hunters when there were any out—and yet he loved the old great house and gardens too, but had too much spirit to be always pent up within their boundaries—and how their uncle grew up to man’s estate as brave as he was handsome, to the admiration of everybody, but of their great-grandmother Field most especially; and how he used to carry me upon his back when I was a lame-footed boy—for he was a good bit older than me—many a mile when I could not walk for pain—and how in after life he became lame-footed too, and I did not always (I fear) make allowances enough for him when he was impatient, and in pain, nor remember sufficiently how considerate he had been to me when I was lame-footed; and how when he died, though he had not been dead an hour, it seemed as if he had died a great while ago, such a distance there is betwixt life and death; and how I bore his death as I thought pretty well at first, but afterwards it haunted and haunted me; and though I did not cry or take it to heart as some do, and as I think he would have done if I had died, yet I missed him all day long, and knew not till then how much I had loved him. I missed his kindness, and I missed his crossness, and wished him to be alive again, to be quarrelling with him (for we quarrelled sometimes), rather than not have him again, and was as uneasy without him, as he their poor uncle must have been when the doctor took off his limb. Here the children fell a crying, and asked if their little mourning which they had on was not for uncle John, and they looked up, and prayed me not to go on about their uncle, but to tell them, some stories about their pretty dead mother. Then I told how for seven long years,

Dream Children: A Reverie

45

in hope sometimes, sometimes in despair, yet persisting ever, I courted the fair Alice W—n; and, as much as children could understand, I explained to them what coyness, and difficulty, and denial meant in maidens—when suddenly, turning to Alice, the soul of the first Alice looked out at her eyes with such a reality of re-presentment, that I became in doubt which of them stood there before me, or whose that bright hair was; and while I stood gazing, both the children gradually grew fainter to my view, receding, and still receding till nothing at last but two mournful features were seen in the uttermost distance, which, without speech, strangely impressed upon me the effects of speech; ‘We are not of Alice, nor of thee, nor are we children at all. The children of Alice called Bartrum father. We are nothing; less than nothing, and dreams. We are only what might have been, and must wait upon the tedious shores of Lethe millions of ages before we have existence, and a name’— and immediately awaking, I found myself quietly seated in my bachelor arm-chair, where I had fallen asleep, with the faithful Bridget unchanged by my side—but John L. (or James Elia) was gone forever.

Summary In the essay, Elia narrates a daydream in which he amuses his imaginary children John and Alice with stories about his greatgrandmother, Mrs Field. Mrs Field looked after the mansion of a rich nobleman in Norfolk. This mansion was believed to be the location of the cruel murder narrated in the ballad of the Children in the Wood. The story of the murder had been carved out in wood upon the chimney-piece which hung in the great hall. But later, it was pulled down by a foolish person to make place for a marble piece without the rich history of the earlier one. When the narrator’s daughter Alice heard this, she became very unhappy. Elia felt that her expression of annoyance was just like her mother’s.

46

Reflections

After Mrs Field’s death, the owner of the mansion removed its ornamental fittings to his new residence. But they looked as out of place there as the tombs in Westminster Abbey would be in a cheap, modern drawing room. At this, Elia’s son John smiled approvingly, seeming to agree. When Mrs Field died, both poor and rich neighbours attended her funeral, for she had been respected as a good and pious woman. In her youth, she had also been an elegant dancer. Alice was very impressed to hear this and unconsciously moved her right feet as if dancing. Mrs Field used to sleep alone in the big mansion without any fear, though she believed that the children in the ballad haunted it and could be seen climbing up and down the great staircase at midnight. John was scared by the story, but he put up a brave face. Lamb told the children that as a boy, he used to visit the mansion during his holidays. He would gaze on the statues of the Caesars or watch the fish in the pond. Sometimes, he would stroll among the orange and nectarine trees. But he would never pluck the fruits, as it was not allowed. Here, John slyly replaced the grapes he had taken from the plate in front and which he had intended to share with Alice, seeming to hint that he was not tempted by fruits either. Mrs Field was fond of all her grandchildren, but she had a special place in her heart for their uncle John. John was handsome, smart and brave. His death had been a great loss for Elia. The children became very upset to be told about his death and began crying. They didn’t want to hear about John any more and asked their father to tell them about their mother. The narrator told them how he had courted Alice W—n for seven years, sometimes hoping, at other times, despairing. He told them how she had been bashful and had denied his love, as befitted young women. Then, Elia looked at his daughter who, at that moment, appeared to be the reincarnation of her mother.

Dream Children: A Reverie

47

He suddenly felt doubtful whether the girl Alice who stood in front of him was his daughter, when the scene before him dissolved to reveal the harsh reality, making all that had happened before no more than a pleasant reverie. The children faded away, receding further and further. From a great distance, they seemed to tell him that they were not his children nor Alice’s, but mere apparitions, a dream of what could have been. The author woke up to realize he had been dreaming. He was in his bachelor armchair, with his faithful sister, Bridget nearby.

Notes Reverie: Daydream. Traditionary: (Rare old use) traditional. Grandame: An old woman who is highly admired and respected. My little ones: The children in the daydream. Grandmother Field: Refers to Lamb’s grandmother Mary Field, who was a housekeeper in Norfolk. Ballad of the Children in the Wood: A ballad is a poem that narrates a story. This ballad told the story of two innocent children murdered by two ruffians with the consent of their uncle. Robin Redbreasts: Common English bird (that in the ballad covered the graves of the children with leaves). Upbraiding: Scolding. Tawdry: Cheap and ugly. Psaltery: Psalter, a volume containing the Book of Psalms, or songs of worship which form a part of The Bible. The psaltery was an ancient, musical string instrument. Twelve Caesars: Julius Caesar and the first 11 Emperors of Rome, from Caesar Augustus to Domitian. Nectarine: A fruit similar to a peach. Orangery: A building for growing oranges in a cool climate.

48

Reflections

John L: Refers to John Lamb, Charles Lamb’s brother, who had recently died. The Abbey: The Church of St Peter in Westminster, London. It is the coronation as well as the burial site of British monarchs. Well-known poets, writers and musicians are also buried there. Dace: A small river fish. Pike: A freshwater fish. Sulky: Bad-tempered. Impertinent: Disrespectful. Frisking: Leaping playfully. Slyly: Cleverly (used disapprovingly). Busy-idle diversions: Games that keep children busy. Moping about: Walking around unhappily. Mettlesome: Full of energy. Imp: A mischievous child; a little devil in children’s stories. Alice W_n: Refers to Alice Winterton, the name by which Lamb refers to Ann Simmons, whom he loved in his youth. Coyness: Shyness. Difficulty: Unwillingness to respond to a lover’s advances. Re-presentment: Reincarnation; reproduction. Bartum: The pawnbroker whom Ann Simmons married. Lethe: The river of the underworld in Greek mythology; it caused forgetfulness in all those who drank from its waters. Faithful Bridget: Refers to Mary Lamb, Charles’ sister.

Questions 1. Annotate the following. a) Certain it is that the whole story of the children and their cruel uncle was to be seen fairly carved out in wood upon the chimney-piece of the great hall, the whole story down to the Robin Redbreasts.

Dream Children: A Reverie

49

b) Here John smiled, as much as to say, ‘that would be foolish indeed’. c) ‘We are not of Alice, nor of thee, nor are we children at all. The children of Alice call Bartrum father’. 2. Answer the following in a paragraph. a) How does Lamb portray his great-grandmother as the keeper of the mansion in Norfolk? b) How does Lamb portray his brother John? c) How do the children express their reactions to their father’s narrative? 3. How does Lamb portray his great-grandmother to the children? 4. Bring out the humour and pathos in the essay ‘Dream Children’.

6 On Familiar Style William Hazlitt William Hazlitt (1778–1830) was an English literary critic and author of humanistic essays. Born at Maidstone in Kent, England, he was educated at the Hackney Theological College. He was intended for a career in the church. But he disliked theology, left college and came under the influence of radical philosophical and political thought. He believed in the Enlightenment ideal of progress through reason. While poets like William Wordsworth and Samuel Taylor Coleridge gave up their initial enthusiasm for the French Revolution, Hazlitt remained loyal to its ideals. He even wrote a multi-volume biography of his hero Napoleon Bonaparte. His personal life was unhappy because of marital discord and frustration in love. He died in 1830 at the age of 52. Hazlitt’s reputation as the foremost literary critic of the early nineteenth century rests on books like The Round Table, Characters of Shakespeare’s Plays, Table Talk, Lectures on the English Comic Writers and The Spirit of the Age. His essays deal with an enormous variety of subjects and are characterized by their vigorous and clear style. They are personal and analytical at the same time. ‘On Familiar Style’ was originally published in the London Magazine and reprinted in Table Talk.

———

On Familiar Style

51

It is not easy to write a familiar style. Many people mistake a familiar for a vulgar style, and suppose that to write without affectation is to write at random. On the contrary, there is nothing that requires more precision, and, if I may so say, purity of expression, than the style I am speaking of. It utterly rejects not only all unmeaning pomp, but all low, cant phrases, and loose, unconnected, slipshod allusions. It is not to take the first word that offers, but the best word in common use; it is not to throw words together in any combinations we please, but to follow and avail ourselves of the true idiom of the language. To write a genuine familiar or truly English style, is to write as any one would speak in common conversation who had a thorough command and choice of words, or who could discourse with ease, force, and perspicuity, setting aside all pedantic and oratorical flourishes. Or, to give another illustration, to write naturally is the same thing in regard to common conversation as to read naturally is in regard to common speech. It does not follow that it is an easy thing to give the true accent and inflection to the words you utter, because you do not attempt to rise above the level of ordinary life and colloquial speaking. You do not assume, indeed, the solemnity of the pulpit, or the tone of stage declamation; neither are you at liberty to gabble on at a venture, without emphasis or discretion, or to resort to a vulgar dialect or clownish pronunciation. You must steer a middle course. You are tied down to a given and appropriate articulation, which is determined by the habitual associations between sense and sound, and which you can only hit by entering into the author’s meaning, as you must find the proper words and style to express yourself by fixing your thoughts on the subject you have to write about. Any one may mouth out a passage with a theatrical cadence, or get upon stilts to tell his thoughts; but to write or speak with propriety and simplicity is a more difficult task. Thus it is easy to affect a pompous style, to use a word twice as big as the thing you want to express: it is not so easy to pitch upon the very word that exactly fits it. Out of eight or ten words equally common, equally intelligible, with nearly equal

52

Reflections

pretensions, it is a matter of some nicety and discrimination to pick out the very one the preferableness of which is scarcely perceptible, but decisive. The reason why I object to Dr Johnson’s style is that there is no discrimination, no selection, no variety in it. He uses none but ‘tall, opaque words,’ taken from the ‘first row of the rubric’—words with the greatest number of syllables, or Latin phrases with merely English terminations. If a fine style depended on this sort of arbitrary pretension, it would be fair to judge of an author’s elegance by the measurement of his words and the substitution of foreign circumlocutions (with no precise associations) for the mother tongue. How simple is it to be dignified without ease, to be pompous without meaning! Surely, it is but a mechanical rule for avoiding what is low, to be always pedantic and affected. It is clear you cannot use a vulgar English word if you never use a common English word at all. A fine tact is shown in adhering to those which are perfectly common, and yet never falling into any expressions which are debased by disgusting circumstances, or which owe their signification and point to technical or professional allusions. A truly natural or familiar style can never be quaint or vulgar, for this reason, that it is of universal force and applicability, and that quaintness and vulgarity arise out of the immediate connection of certain words with coarse and disagreeable, or with confined ideas. The last form what we understand by cant or slang phrases. To give an example of what is not very clear in the general statement, I should say that the phrase ‘to cut with a knife,’ or ‘to cut a piece of wood,’ is perfectly free from vulgarity, because it is perfectly common; but to cut an acquaintance is not quite unexceptionable, because it is not perfectly common or intelligible, and has hardly yet escaped out of the limits of slang phraseology. I should hardly, therefore, use the word in this sense without putting it in italics as a licence of expression, to be received cum grano salis. All provincial or by-phrases come under the same mark of reprobation—all such as the writer transfers to the page from his fireside or a particular coterie, or that he invents for his own sole use and convenience. I conceive that words are like money, not

On Familiar Style

53

the worse for being common, but that it is the stamp of custom alone that gives them circulation or value. I am fastidious in this respect, and would almost as soon coin the currency of the realm as counterfeit the King’s English. I never invented or gave a new and unauthorized meaning to any words but one single one (the term impersonal applied to feelings), and that was in an abstruse metaphysical discussion to express a very difficult distinction. I have been (I know) loudly accused of revelling in vulgarisms and broken English. I cannot speak to that point; but so far I plead guilty to the determined use of acknowledged idioms and common elliptical expressions. I am not sure that the critics in question know the one from the other, that is, can distinguish any medium between formal pedantry and the most barbarous solecism. As an author I endeavour to employ plain words and popular modes of construction, as, were I a chapman and dealer, I should common weights and measures. The proper force of words lies not in the words themselves, but in their application. A word may be a fine-sounding word, of an unusual length, and very imposing from its learning and novelty, and yet in the connection in which it is introduced may be quite pointless and irrelevant. It is not pomp or pretension, but the adaptation of the expression to the idea, that clenches a writer’s meaning:—as it is not the size of glossiness of the materials, but their being fitted each to its place, that gives strength to the arch; or as the pegs and nails are as necessary to the support of the building as the larger timber, and more so than the mere showy, unsubstantial ornaments. I hate anything that occupies more space than it is worth. I hate to see a load of band boxes go along the street, and I hate to see a parcel of big words without anything in them. A person who does not deliberately dispose of all his thoughts alike in cumbrous draperies and flimsy disguises, may strike out twenty varieties of familiar everyday language, each coming somewhat nearer to the feeling he wants to convey, and at last not hit upon that particular and only one which may be said to be identical with the exact impression in

54

Reflections

his mind. This would seem to show that Mr Cobbet is hardly right in saying that the first word that occurs is always the best. It may be a very good one; and yet a better may present itself on reflection or from time to time. It should be suggested naturally, however, and spontaneously, from a fresh and lively conception of the subject. We seldom succeed by trying at improvement, or by merely substituting one word for another that we are not satisfied with, as we cannot recollect the name of a place or person by merely plaguing ourselves about it. We wander farther from the point by persisting in a wrong scent; but it starts up accidentally in the memory when we least expect it, by touching some link in the chain of previous association. There are those who hoard up and make a cautious display of nothing but rich and rare phraseology—ancient medals, obscure coins, and Spanish pieces of eight. They are very curious to inspect, but I myself would neither offer not take them in the course of exchange. A sprinkling of archaisms is not amiss, but a tissue of obsolete expressions is more fit for keep than wear. I do not say I would not use any phrase that had been brought into fashion before the middle or the end of the last century, but I should be shy of using any that had not been employed by any approved author during the whole of that time. Words, like clothes, get old-fashioned, or mean and ridiculous, when they have been for some time laid aside. Mr Lamb is the only imitator of old English style I can read with pleasure; and he is so thoroughly imbued with the spirit of his authors that the idea of imitation is almost done away. There is an inward unction, a marrowy vein, both in the thought and feeling, an intuition, deep and lively, of his subject, that carries off any quaintness or awkwardness arising from an antiquated style and dress. The matter is completely his own, though the manner is assumed. Perhaps his ideas are altogether so marked and individual as to require their point and pungency to be neutralised by the affectation of a singular but traditional form of conveyance. Tricked out in the prevailing costume, they would probably seem more

On Familiar Style

55

startling and out of the way. The old English authors, Burton, Fuller, Coryate, Sir Thomas Browne, are a kind of mediators between us and the more eccentric and whimsical modern, reconciling us to his peculiarities. I do not, however, know how far this is the case or not, till he condescends to write like one of us. I must confess that what I like best of his papers under the signature of Elia (still I do not presume amidst such excellence, to decide what is most excellent) is the account of ‘Mrs Battle’s Opinions on Whist’, which is also the most free from obsolete allusions and turns of expression— ‘A well of native English undefiled.’ To those acquainted with his admired prototypes, these Essays of the ingenious and highly gifted author have the same sort of charm and relish that Erasmus’s Colloquies or a fine piece of modern Latin have to the classical scholar. Certainly, I do not know any borrowed pencil that has more power or felicity of execution than the one of which I have here been speaking. It is as easy to write a gaudy style without ideas as it is to spread a pallet of showy colours or to smear in a flaunting transparency. ‘What do you read?’ ‘Words, words, words.’—‘What is the matter?’ ‘Nothing,’ it might be answered. The florid style is the reverse of the familiar. The last is employed as an unvarnished medium to convey ideas; the first is resorted to as a spangled veil to conceal the want of them. When there is nothing to be set down but words, it costs little to have them fine. Look through the dictionary and cull out a florilegium, rival the tulippomania. Rouge high enough, and never mind the natural complexion. The vulgar, who are not in the secret, will admire the look of preternatural health and vigour; and the fashionable, who regard only appearances, will be delighted with the imposition. Keep to your sounding generalities, your tinkling phrases, and all will be well. Swell out an unmeaning truism to a perfect tympany of style. A thought, a distinction is the rock on which all this brittle cargo of verbiage splits at once. Such writers have merely verbal imaginations, that retain nothing but words. Or their

56

Reflections

puny thoughts have dragon wings, all green and gold. … If they criticise actor and actresses, a huddled phantasmagoria of feathers, spangles, floods of light, and oceans of sounds float before their morbid sense, which they paint in the style of Ancient Pistol. Not a glimpse can you get of the merits or defects of the performers: they are hidden in a profusion of barbarous epithets and wilful rhodomontade.

Summary Hazlitt explains that a familiar style is plain, but not vulgar. It requires precision and purity of expression. It avoids pompous words and irrelevant allusions. It is the language of common conversation of a person who avoids all pedantry and speaks with ease, force and clarity. When one uses the plain style, one neither assumes the solemnity of a preacher nor stoops to the level of the uneducated and vulgar man. One steers a middle course between them. Hazlitt feels that it is easy to write in a pompous style, but to choose the exact word to fit the context is difficult. He does not like the writer Samuel Johnson’s style because he uses too many polysyllabic and Latinized words. A truly familiar style has universal appeal. It is never vulgar, which is generally the result of disagreeable associations. Words used by small groups of people amongst themselves or those coined for private use are also the targets of Hazlitt’s censure. The merit of a word lies not in itself but in its appropriate usage. The expression through the use of correct words, must be suitably adapted to the idea so that the writer’s meaning becomes clear. The strength of a book’s binding depends not on the glossiness of the materials but on their fitting in place correctly. In the same way, good style depends not on the length and showiness of the words used, but on their being appropriate to the writer’s intentions.

On Familiar Style

57

Hazlitt does not disapprove of the occasional use of archaisms. But he dislikes the use of too many obsolete or old-fashioned words. The single exception he makes is for Charles Lamb. He says that Lamb identifies himself with earlier writers so deeply that even his awkward and old-fashioned style appears natural and spontaneous. His essays are models of pure idiomatic English. His ideas are so radical that if they were expressed in the prevailing style, they might have appeared out of place. The use of an archaic style neutralizes their impact. In fact, Hazlitt thinks that they have the same charm as the work of the renowned Renaissance scholar, Erasmus. The opposite of the familiar style is what Hazlitt calls the gaudy or florid style, where words are employed to conceal the absence of substance. This style is characterized by the use of pompous and pedantic expressions. But it does not appeal to the heart of the reader.

Characteristics of the Familiar Style              

Precise and pure in expression. Avoids cant and slang. Does not evoke vulgar associations. Has ease, force and clarity. Steers clear of the solemnity employed in sermons. No vulgarity. Avoids pomp and pedantry. Employs simplicity and propriety. Avoids unfamiliar words used only in small cliques. Does not coin new words, using only those which are in currency. Avoids obsolete expressions. Not gaudy or florid. Plain and direct. Does not use roundabout expressions.

58

Reflections

Notes Affectation: Unnatural, insincere speech. At random: Without a plan. Cant: Dishonest speech. Slipshod: Careless. Perspicuity: Clarity (not to be confused with perspicacity, which refers to the quality of having a ready insight into things). Pedantic: A person who parades his knowledge. Flourishes: Showy, ornamental expressions. Solemnity: Seriousness. Cadence: The rise and fall of the voice while speaking. Get upon stilts: To use high-flying and artificial language. Opaque: Difficult to understand. Circumlocution: Roundabout way of speaking. Quaint: Old-fashioned. Slang: Informal speech. Unexceptionable: Acceptable; correct. Cum grano salis: (Latin) with a grain of salt. It means to not believe something completely. Coterie: Clique; a small group of people with the same interests. Fastidious: Being careful about small details. King’s English: (Or Queen’s English) the English language as written and spoken correctly in England. Revelling: Getting great pleasure from something. Elliptical: Deliberate omission of words. Solecism: A grammatical mistake in speech or writing. Abstruse: Hard to understand. Chapman: Merchant; peddler. Clench: Clinch; confirm. Cumbrous draperies and flimsy disguises: Awkward and unclear expressions.

On Familiar Style

59

Cobbett: William Cobbett. Writer, English civil rights activist and Member of Parliament. He argued for a vigorous and plain style. Archaisms: Old words not in current use. Burton: Robert Burton, author of The Anatomy of Melancholy. Coryate: Thomas Coryate, traveller and writer. He visited the Mughal court in Agra in 1616 and died in Surat on his way back to England. He recorded his experiences in Traveller for the English Wits: Greetings from the Court of the Great Mogul. Fuller: Thomas Fuller, clergyman and historian. He was the author of The History of the Worthies of England. Sir Thomas Browne: An author and physician, whose Religio Medici is a fascinating account of his religious beliefs. A well of native English undefiled: The poet John Dryden’s praise of the pure, poetic language of the fourteenth century English poet Geoffrey Chaucer. Erasmus: Desidarius Erasmus, the greatest humanist scholar of the European Renaissance. A Dutch writer, he spent several years in England, where he wrote In Praise of Folly. ‘Words, words, words’: From William Shakespeare’s Hamlet, Prince of Denmark. This is Hamlet’s response when Polonius asks the prince what he is reading. Florilegium: A collection of flowers; a compilation of excerpts from other writings. Tulippomania: A craze for tulips. It refers to a period in Dutch history when the contract prices for the bulbs of the recently introduced tulip reached an extraordinarily high level and then suddenly collapsed. Phantasmagoria: A sequence of fantastic, dreamlike images. Ancient Pistol: A character in Shakespeare’s plays Henry IV, Henry V and The Merry Wives of Windsor. A companion of the famous comic character Falstaff. Spangles: Small, shiny metal pieces used to decorate cloth. Rhodomontade: Boastful language (after the boasting of Rodomonte in Ludovico Ariosto’s Italian epic Orlando Furioso).

60

Reflections

Questions 1. Annotate the following. a) I am fastidious in this respect, and would almost as soon coin in the currency of the realm as counterfeit the King’s English. b) This would seem to show that Mr Cobbett is hardly right in saying that the first word that occurs is always the best. c) The florid style is the reverse of the familiar. The last is employed as an unvarnished medium to convey ideas; the first is resorted to as a spangled veil to conceal the want of them. 2. Answer the following questions. a) Comment on Hazlitt’s statement that the familiar style steers a middle course between stage declamation and vulgar dialect. b) Why does Hazlitt dislike Samuel Johnson’s style? c) How does Hazlitt praise Charles Lamb’s style? 3. What, according to Hazlitt, are the characteristics of the familiar style?

7 On Books and Reading John Ruskin John Ruskin (1819–1900) was a leading art critic of the Victorian era, who wrote on subjects as wide-ranging as geology, architecture, myth, ornithology, literature, education, botany and political economy. Born in a wealthy family of wine merchants, he was educated at home and at Oxford. His extensive travels in England and Europe enabled him to cultivate his interest in the classics and the arts. The publication of his works Modern Painters, The Seven Lamps of Architecture and The Stones of Venice quite early in life, cemented Ruskin’s position as an influential art critic. His social criticism attacked the evils of capitalism and motivated thinkers to search for an effective alternative to the capitalist forms of community organization. It is well known that Mahatma Gandhi was inspired by Ruskin’s work, Unto This Last in formulating his own principles of sarvodaya (progress for all). Convinced that one cannot be a Socialist and wealthy at the same time, Ruskin liberally contributed to charities and philanthropic causes. His social thought anticipates modern environmental concerns and alternative, popular non-governmental administrative structures. Ruskin’s coinage of the term ‘pathetic fallacy’, which means the attribution of human feelings to inanimate natural phenomena, has passed into current rhetoric. The following essay is a

62

Reflections

condensed resin of his lecture, ‘Of King’s Treasuries’, published in his book Sesame and Lilies. The lecture explored the practice of reading, literature, cultural values and public education. Here, he distinguishes between valuable and useless books and urges young readers to cultivate the habit of careful and thorough reading, which will shape their character and personality.

——— Life being very short, and the quiet hours of it few, we ought to waste none of them in reading valueless books; and valuable books should, in a civilized country, be within the reach of everyone, printed in excellent form, for a just price; but not in any vile, vulgar, or, by reason of smallness of type, physically injurious form, at a vile price. For we none of us need many books, and those which we need ought to be clearly printed, on the best paper, and strongly bound. And though we are, indeed, now, a wretched and poverty-stricken nation, and hardly able to keep soul and body together, still, as no person in decent circumstances would put on his table confessedly bad wine, or bad meat, without being ashamed, so he need not have on his shelves ill-printed or loosely and wretchedly stitched books. I would urge upon every young man, as the beginning of his due and wise provision for his household, to obtain as soon as he can, by the severest economy, a restricted, serviceable, and steadily— however slowly—increasing, series of books for use through life; making his little library, of all the furniture in his room, the most studied and decorative piece; every volume having its assigned place, like a little statue in its niche, and one of the earliest and strictest lessons to the children of the house being how to turn the pages of their own literary possessions lightly and deliberately, with no chance of tearing or dog’s ears. Now, I want to speak to you about the way we read books, or could, or should read them. A grave subject, you will say; and a wide one! Yes; so wide that I shall make no effort to touch

On Books and Reading

63

the compass of it. I will try only to bring before you a few simple thoughts about reading, which press themselves upon me every day more deeply, as I watch the course of the public mind with respect to our daily enlarging means of education, and the answeringly wider spreading, on the levels, of the irrigation of literature. It happens that I have practically some connection with schools for different classes of youth; and I receive many letters from parents respecting the education of their children. In the mass of these letters, I am always struck by the precedence which the idea of a ‘position in life’ takes above all other thoughts in the parents’—more especially in the mothers’—minds. ‘The education befitting such and such a station in life’—this is the phrase, this the object, always. They never seek, as far as I can make out, an education good in itself: the conception of abstract rightness in training rarely seems reached by the writers. But an education ‘which shall keep a good coat on my son’s back; an education which shall enable him to ring with confidence the visitors’ bell at double-belled doors; which shall result ultimately in establishment of a double-belled door to his own house; in a word, which shall lead to ‘advancement in life’;—this we pray for on bent knees—and this is all we pray for’. It never seems to occur to the parents that there may be an education which, in itself, is advancement in life;—that any other than that may perhaps be advancement in death; and that this essential education might be more easily got, or given, than they fancy, if they set about it in the right way; while it is for no price, and by no favour, to be got, if they set about it in the wrong. … A book is essentially not a talked thing, but a written thing; and written, not with the view of mere communication, but of permanence. The book of talk is printed only because its author cannot speak to thousands of people at once; if he could, he would—the volume is mere multiplication of his voice. You cannot talk to your friend in India; if you could, you would; you write instead: that is mere conveyance of voice. But a book is written, not to multiply the voice merely, not to carry it merely, but to preserve it. The author has something to say which he

64

Reflections

perceives to be true and useful, or helpfully beautiful. So far as he knows, no one has yet said it; so far as he knows, no one else can say it. He is bound to say it, clearly and melodiously if he may; clearly, at all events. In the sum of his life he finds this to be the thing, or group of things, manifest to him;—this the piece of true knowledge, or sight, which his share of sunshine and earth has permitted him to seize. He would fain set it down for ever; engrave it on rock, if he could; saying, ‘This is the best of me; for the rest, I ate, and drank, and slept, loved, and hated, like another; my life was as the vapour, and is not; but this I saw and knew: this, if anything of mine, is worth your memory.’ That is his ‘writing’; it is, in his small human way, and with whatever degree of true inspiration is in him, his inscription or scripture. That is a ‘Book’. ... [We should have] a true desire to be taught by them, and to enter into their thoughts. To enter into theirs, observe; not to find your own expressed by them. If the person who wrote the book is not wiser than you, you need not read it; if he be, he will think differently from you in many respects. Very ready we are to say of a book, ‘How good this is—that’s exactly what I think!’ But the right feeling is, ‘How strange that is! I never thought of that before, and yet I see it is true; or if I do not now, I hope I shall, some day.’ But whether thus submissively or not, at least be sure that you go to the author to get at his meaning, not to find yours. Judge it afterwards, if you think yourself qualified to do so; but ascertain it first. And be sure also, if the author is worth anything, that you will not get at his meaning all at once—nay, that at his whole meaning you will not for a long time arrive in any wise. Not that he does not say what he means, and in strong words too: but he cannot say it all; and what is more strange, will not, but in a hidden way and in parables, in order that he may be sure you want it. I cannot quite see the reason of this, nor analyze that cruel reticence in the breasts of wise men which makes them always hide their deeper thought. They do not give it to you by way of help, but of reward, and will make themselves

On Books and Reading

65

sure that you deserve it before they allow you to reach it. But it is the same with the physical type of wisdom, gold. There seems, to you and me, no reason why the electric forces of the earth should not carry whatever there is of gold within it at once to the mountain tops, so that kings and people might know that all the gold they could get was there; and without any trouble of digging, or anxiety, or chance, or waste of time, cut it away, and coin as much as they needed. But Nature does not manage it so. She puts it in little fissures in the earth, nobody knows where: you may dig long and find none; you must dig painfully to find any. ... And, therefore, first of all, I tell you, earnestly and authoritatively, (I know I am right in this), you must get into the habit of looking intensely at words, and assuring yourself of their meaning, syllable by syllable—nay, letter by letter. For though it is only by reason of the opposition of letters in the function of signs, to sounds in function of signs, that the study of books is called ‘literature’, and that a man versed in it is called, by the consent of nations, a man of letters instead of a man of books, or of words, you may yet connect with that accidental nomenclature this real principle;—that you might read all the books in the British Museum (if you could live long enough), and remain an utterly ‘illiterate’, uneducated person; but that if you read ten pages of a good book, letter by letter,—that is to say, with real accuracy,—you are for evermore in some measure an educated person. The entire difference between education and noneducation (as regards the merely intellectual part of it), consists in this accuracy. A well-educated gentleman may not know many languages,—may not be able to speak any but his own,—may have read very few books. But whatever language he knows, he knows precisely; whatever word he pronounces, he pronounces rightly; above all, he is learned in the peerage of words; knows the words of true descent and ancient blood at a glance, from words of modern canaille; remembers all their ancestry—their inter-marriages, distantest relationships, and the extent to which

66

Reflections

they were admitted, and offices they held, among the national noblesse of words at any time, and in any country. But an uneducated person may know by memory any number of languages, and talk them all, and yet truly know not a word of any,—not a word even of his own. An ordinarily clever and sensible seaman will be able to make his way ashore at most ports; yet he has only to speak a sentence of any language to be known for an illiterate person: so also the accent, or turn of expression of a single sentence will at once mark a scholar. ... Now, in order to deal with words rightly, this is the habit you must form. Nearly every word in your language has been first a word of some other language—of Saxon, German, French, Latin, or Greek (not to speak of eastern and primitive dialects). And many words have been all these;—that is to say, have been Greek first, Latin next, French or German next, and English last: undergoing a certain change of sense and use on the lips of each nation; but retaining a deep vital meaning which all good scholars feel in employing them, even at this day. If you do not know the Greek alphabet, learn it; young or old—girl or boy—whoever you may be, if you think of reading seriously (which, of course, implies that you have some leisure at command), learn your Greek alphabet; then get good dictionaries of all these languages, and whenever you are in doubt about a word, hunt it down patiently. Read Max Müller’s lectures thoroughly, to begin with; and, after that, never let a word escape you that looks suspicious. It is severe work; but you will find it, even at first, interesting, and at last, endlessly amusing. And the general gain to your character, in power and precision, will be quite incalculable. ... Having then faithfully listened to the great teachers, that you may enter into their thoughts, you have yet this higher advance to make;—you have to enter into their hearts. As you go to them first for clear sight, so you must stay with them that you may share at last their just and mighty passion. Passion, or ‘sensation’. I am not afraid of the word; still less of the thing. You have

On Books and Reading

67

heard many outcries against sensation lately; but, I can tell you, it is not less sensation we want, but more. The ennobling difference between one man and another,—between one animal and another,—is precisely this, that one feels more than another. If we were sponges, perhaps sensation might not be easily got for us; if we were earthworms, liable at every instant to be cut in two by the spade, perhaps too much sensation might not be good for us. But, being human creatures, it is good for us; nay, we are only human in so far as we are sensitive, and our honour is precisely in proportion to our passion. You know I said of that great and pure society of the dead, that it would allow ‘no vain or vulgar person to enter there’. What do you think I meant by a ‘vulgar’ person? What do you yourselves mean by ‘vulgarity’? You will find it a fruitful subject of thought; but, briefly, the essence of all vulgarity lies in want of sensation. Simple and innocent vulgarity is merely an untrained and undeveloped bluntness of body and mind; but in true inbred vulgarity, there is a deathful callousness, which, in extremity, becomes capable of every sort of bestial habit and crime, without fear, without pleasure, without horror, and without pity. It is in the blunt hand and the dead heart, in the diseased habit, in the hardened conscience, that men become vulgar; they are forever vulgar, precisely in proportion as they are incapable of sympathy,—of quick understanding,—of all that, in deep insistence on the common, but most accurate term, may be called the ‘tact’ or ‘touch-faculty’ of body and soul; that tact which the Mimosa has in trees, which the pure woman has above all creatures;—fineness and fullness of sensation, beyond reason;— the guide and sanctifier of reason itself. Reason can but determine what is true:—it is the God-given passion of humanity which alone can recognize what God has made good. We come then to the great concourse of the dead not merely to know from them what is true, but chiefly to feel with them what is righteous. Now, to feel with them, we must be like them; and none of us can become that without pains. As the

68

Reflections

true knowledge is disciplined and tested knowledge,—not the first thought that comes,—so the true passion is disciplined and tested passion—not the first passion that comes. The first that come are the vain, the false, the treacherous; if you yield to them they will lead you wildly and far, in vain pursuit, in hollow enthusiasm, till you have no true purpose and no true passion left. Not that any feeling possible to humanity is in itself wrong, but only wrong when undisciplined. Its nobility is in its force and justice; it is wrong when it is weak, and felt for paltry cause. There is a mean wonder as of a child who sees a juggler tossing golden balls, and this is base, if you will. But do you think that the wonder is ignoble, or the sensation less, with which every human soul is called to watch the golden balls of heaven tossed through the night by the Hand that made them? There is a mean curiosity, as of a child opening a forbidden door, or a servant prying into her master’s business;—and a noble curiosity, questioning, in the front of danger, the source of the great river beyond the sand—the place of the great continents beyond the sea;—a nobler curiosity still, which questions of the source of the River of Life, and of the space of the Continent of Heaven,— things which ‘the angels desire to look into’. So the anxiety is ignoble, with which you linger over the course and catastrophe of an idle tale; but do you think the anxiety is less, or greater, with which you watch, or ought to watch, the dealings of fate and destiny with the life of an agonized nation? Alas! it is the narrowness, selfishness, minuteness, of your sensation that you have to deplore in England at this day;—sensation which spends itself in bouquets and speeches; in revellings and junketings; in sham fights and gay puppet shows, while you can look on and see noble nations murdered, man by man, without an effort or a tear. ... Above all, a nation cannot last as a money-making mob: it cannot with impunity,—it cannot with existence,—go on despising literature, despising science, despising art, despising nature, despising compassion, and concentrating its soul on Pence.

On Books and Reading

69

Do you think these are harsh or wild words? Have patience with me but a little longer. I will prove their truth to you, clause by clause.

Summary Ruskin begins the passage by discussing the virtue of reading as a way to build character. Life being short and time precious, he says that we should read only the best books. Every young person should build a library of books which will be of use to him through his life. Parents often ask Ruskin what type of books their children should read in order to succeed in life. But they should realize that getting a genuine education itself is a mark of success and that it can be had by reading good books. A book is a permanent record of a writer’s most valuable and beautiful thoughts. Ruskin feels that we should learn from the writer; merely finding the echoes of our thoughts in the author’s words is a waste of time. An author’s most profound thoughts cannot be expressed simply and directly. His wisdom is like precious gold. Nature hides its gold deep within mines. In order to extract this gold from the ores, people have to dig deep. In the same way, the reader too will have to exercise his intellect and imagination in order to understand the meaning hidden between the lines of a good book. Ruskin says that a thorough reading involves paying attention to every letter in the text. That is why a scholar is called “a man of letters”. A person might know several languages, but a single spoken sentence usually reveals the level of his education. Ruskin believes that it is far more useful to read a few books thoroughly than to read a large number of books superficially. A good reader should also spend time in finding out the origin, history and value of every word he uses. To this end, he should learn other

70

Reflections

languages, use dictionaries and read the works of noted scholars like Max Müller. It will be hard work, but the person who undertakes it will reap its benefits. Good reading enables us to enter not only the thoughts of great authors, but also their hearts. Despite the outcries against passion, the truth is that men are distinguished by their ability to feel and imagine, and by their sensibilities. It distinguishes humans from beasts. Without sensitivity and passion, we cannot claim to be humans. Therefore, we read great authors to discover the truth and to refine ourselves. Just as we discipline and test our knowledge, we also have to learn to control our passions. We have to realize that the feelings of wonder and curiosity are base or noble according to the meanness or grandeur of their objects. Sadly, people seem more interested in cheap sensation today. Ruskin concludes that a nation interested only in moneymaking, which does not know the value of literature and science, as England is now, can never last.

Notes Niche: A recess in a wall to place a statue. Double-belled: Houses of wealthy persons in England had two bells, one for visitors and the other for persons calling on business. Parables: Stories with a moral. Reticence: Silence. Nomenclature: System of naming. Peerage of words: Ancient origins of words. Canaille: (French) the rabble. Noblesse: Nobility. Max Müller: German-born English scholar who translated the Rig veda and other Sanskrit works into English.

On Books and Reading

71

Inbred: Inborn. Callousness: Lack of concern or sympathy. Mimosa: A tropical bush or tree with balls of yellow flowers and leaves that are sensitive to touch and light. Revellings: Noisy celebrations. Junketings: Free trips. Impunity: Freedom from harm or punishment.

Questions 1. Annotate the following. a) A book is essentially not a talked thing, but a written, not with the view of mere communication but of permanence. b) Read Max Muller’s lectures thoroughly, to begin with; and after that, never let a word escape you that looks suspicious. c) We come then to the great concourse of the Dead, not merely to know from them what is true, but chiefly to feel with them what is righteous. 2. Answer the following in a paragraph. a) What kind of education, according to Ruskin, is wanted by parents for their children? b) What is the difference between oral communication and a book? c) What, according to Ruskin, is the ideal way to read? 3. How does Ruskin defend reading as an essential part of the civilizing process?

8 Walking Tours Robert Louis Stevenson Robert Louis Stevenson (1850–94) was a Scottish novelist, poet, essayist and travel writer. Born in Edinburgh, Scotland, he trained for the legal profession, but never practised. Despite his poor health, he travelled widely in Europe and America and described his experiences vividly in his colourful travelogues, including Travels with a Donkey in the Cevennes, An Inland Voyage about his travels in Belgium and France on a canoe, and In the South Seas. In addition to his essays, collected in Virginibus Puerisque and Familiar Studies of Men and Books, he authored some of the most popular novels in English, like Treasure Island, Kidnapped and The Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde. The last years of his life were spent in the Pacific island of Samoa. He severely criticized the European colonial exploitation to which the islanders were subjected. Stevenson’s confessional tone, sense of style and subtle humour are reflected in the essay ‘Walking Tours’, taken from Virginibus Puerisque.

——— It must not be imagined that a walking tour, as some would have us fancy, is merely a better or worse way of seeing the country. There are many ways of seeing landscape quite as good; and none more vivid, in spite of canting dilettantes, than from a

Walking Tours 73

railway train. But landscape on a walking tour is quite accessory. He who is indeed of the brotherhood does not voyage in quest of the picturesque, but of certain jolly humours—of the hope and spirit with which the march begins at morning, and the peace and spiritual repletion of the evening’s rest. He cannot tell whether he puts his knapsack on, or takes it off, with more delight. The excitement of the departure puts him in key for that of the arrival. Whatever he does is not only a reward in itself, but will be further rewarded in the sequel; and so pleasure leads on to pleasure in an endless chain. It is this that so few can understand; they will either be always lounging or always at five miles an hour; they do not play off the one against the other, prepare all day for the evening, and all evening for the next day. And, above all, it is here that your overwalker fails of comprehension. His heart rises against those who drink their curaçao in liqueur glasses, when he himself can swill it in a brown John. He will not believe that the flavour is more delicate in the smaller dose. He will not believe that to walk this unconscionable distance is merely to stupefy and brutalise himself, and come to his inn, at night, with a sort of frost on his five wits, and a starless night of darkness in his spirit. Not for him the mild luminous evening of the temperate walker! He has nothing left of man but a physical need for bedtime and a double nightcap; and even his pipe, if he be a smoker, will be savourless and disenchanted. It is the fate of such an one to take twice as much trouble as is needed to obtain happiness, and miss the happiness in the end; he is the man of the proverb, in short, who goes further and fares worse. Now, to be properly enjoyed, a walking tour should be gone upon alone. If you go in a company, or even in pairs, it is no longer a walking tour in anything but name; it is something else and more in the nature of a picnic. A walking tour should be gone upon alone, because freedom is of the essence; because you should be able to stop and go on, and follow this way or that, as the freak takes you; and because you must have your own pace, and neither trot alongside a champion walker, nor mince in time with a girl. And then you must be open to all impressions and

74

Reflections

let your thoughts take colour from what you see. You should be as a pipe for any wind to play upon. ‘I cannot see the wit,’ says Hazlitt, ‘of walking and talking at the same time. When I am in the country I wish to vegetate like the country’—which is the gist of all that can be said upon the matter. There should be no cackle of voices at your elbow, to jar on the meditative silence of the morning. And so long as a man is reasoning he cannot surrender himself to that fine intoxication that comes of much motion in the open air, that begins in a sort of dazzle and sluggishness of the brain, and ends in a peace that passes comprehension. During the first day or so of any tour there are moments of bitterness, when the traveller feels more than coldly towards his knapsack, when he is half in a mind to throw it bodily over the hedge and, like Christian on a similar occasion, ‘give three leaps and go on singing’. And yet it soon acquires a property of easiness. It becomes magnetic; the spirit of the journey enters into it. And no sooner have you passed the straps over your shoulder than the lees of sleep are cleared from you, you pull yourself together with a shake, and fall at once into your stride. And surely, of all possible moods, this, in which a man takes the road, is the best. Of course, if he will keep thinking of his anxieties, if he will open the merchant Abudah’s chest and walk arm-in-arm with the hag—why, wherever he is, and whether he walk fast or slow, the chances are that he will not be happy. And so much the more shame to himself! There are perhaps thirty men setting forth at that same hour, and I would lay a large wager there is not another dull face among the thirty. It would be a fine thing to follow, in a coat of darkness, one after another of these wayfarers, some summer morning, for the first few miles upon the road. This one, who walks fast, with a keen look in his eyes, is all concentrated in his own mind; he is up at his loom, weaving and weaving, to set the landscape to words. This one peers about, as he goes, among the grasses; he waits by the canal to watch the dragonflies; he leans on the gate of the pasture, and cannot look enough upon the complacent kine. And here

Walking Tours 75

comes another, talking, laughing, and gesticulating to himself. His face changes from time to time, as indignation flashes from his eyes or anger clouds his forehead. He is composing articles, delivering orations, and conducting the most impassioned interviews, by the way. A little farther on, and it is as like as not he will begin to sing. And well for him, supposing him to be no great master in that art, if he stumble across no stolid peasant at a corner; for on such an occasion, I scarcely know which is the more troubled, or whether it is worse to suffer the confusion of your troubadour, or the unfeigned alarm of your clown. A sedentary population, accustomed, besides, to the strange mechanical bearing of the common tramp, can in no wise explain to itself the gaiety of these passers-by. I knew one man who was arrested as a runaway lunatic, because, although a full-grown person with a red beard, he skipped as he went like a child. And you would be astonished if I were to tell you all the grave and learned heads who have confessed to me that, when on walking tours, they sang—and sang very ill—and had a pair of red ears when, as described above, the inauspicious peasant plumped into their arms from round a corner. And here, lest you should think I am exaggerating, is Hazlitt’s own confession, from his essay ‘On Going a Journey’, which is so good that there should be a tax levied on all who have not read it: ‘Give me the clear blue sky over my head,’ says he, ‘and the green turf beneath my feet, a winding road before me, and a three hours’ march to dinner—and then to thinking! It is hard if I cannot start some game on these lone heaths. I laugh, I run, I leap, I sing for joy.’ Bravo! After that adventure of my friend with the policeman, you would not have cared, would you, to publish that in the first person? But we have no bravery nowadays, and, even in books, must all pretend to be as dull and foolish as our neighbours. It was not so with Hazlitt. And notice how learned he is (as, indeed, throughout the essay) in the theory of walking tours. He is none of your athletic men in purple stockings, who walk

76

Reflections

their fifty miles a day: three hours’ march is his ideal. And then he must have a winding road, the epicure! Yet there is one thing I object to in these words of his, one thing in the great master’s practice that seems to me not wholly wise. I do not approve of that leaping and running. Both of these hurry the respiration; they both shake up the brain out of its glorious open-air confusion; and they both break the pace. Uneven walking is not so agreeable to the body, and it distracts and irritates the mind. Whereas, when once you have fallen into an equable stride, it requires no conscious thought from you to keep it up, and yet it prevents you from thinking earnestly of anything else. Like knitting, like the work of a copying clerk, it gradually neutralises and sets to sleep the serious activity of the mind. We can think of this or that, lightly and laughingly, as a child thinks, or as we think in a morning doze; we can make puns or puzzle out acrostics, and trifle in a thousand ways with words and rhymes; but when it comes to honest work, when we come to gather ourselves together for an effort, we may sound the trumpet as loud and long as we please; the great barons of the mind will not rally to the standard, but sit, each one, at home, warming his hands over his own fire and brooding on his own private thought! In the course of a day’s walk, you see, there is much variance in the mood. From the exhilaration of the start, to the happy phlegm of the arrival, the change is certainly great. As the day goes on, the traveller moves from the one extreme towards the other. He becomes more and more incorporated with the material landscape, and the open-air drunkenness grows upon him with great strides, until he posts along the road, and sees everything about him, as in a cheerful dream. The first is certainly brighter, but the second stage is the more peaceful. A man does not make so many articles towards the end, nor does he laugh aloud; but the purely animal pleasures, the sense of physical well-being, the delight of every inhalation, of every time the muscles tighten down the thigh, console him for the absence of the others, and bring him to his destination still content.

Walking Tours 77

Nor must I forget to say a word on bivouacs. You come to a milestone on a hill, or some place where deep ways meet under trees; and off goes the knapsack, and down you sit to smoke a pipe in the shade. You sink into yourself, and the birds come round and look at you; and your smoke dissipates upon the afternoon under the blue dome of heaven; and the sun lies warm upon your feet, and the cool air visits your neck and turns aside your open shirt. If you are not happy, you must have an evil conscience. You may dally as long as you like by the roadside. It is almost as if the millennium were arrived, when we shall throw our clocks and watches over the housetop, and remember time and seasons no more. Not to keep hours for a lifetime is, I was going to say, to live forever. You have no idea, unless you have tried it, how endlessly long is a summer’s day, that you measure out only by hunger, and bring to an end only when you are drowsy. I know a village where there are hardly any clocks, where no one knows more of the days of the week than by a sort of instinct for the fête on Sundays, and where only one person can tell you the day of the month, and she is generally wrong; and if people were aware how slow Time journeyed in that village, and what armfuls of spare hours he gives, over and above the bargain, to its wise inhabitants, I believe there would be a stampede out of London, Liverpool, Paris, and a variety of large towns, where the clocks lose their heads, and shake the hours out each one faster than the other, as though they were all in a wager. And all these foolish pilgrims would each bring his own misery along with him, in a watch-pocket! It is to be noticed, there were no clocks and watches in the much-vaunted days before the flood. It follows, of course, there were no appointments, and punctuality was not yet thought upon. ‘Though ye take from a covetous man all his treasure,’ says Milton, ‘he has yet one jewel left; ye cannot deprive him of his covetousness.’ And so I would say of a modern man of business, you may do what you will for him, put him in Eden, give him the elixir of life—he has still a flaw at heart, he still has his business habits. Now, there is no time when business habits are

78

Reflections

more mitigated than on a walking tour. And so during these halts, as I say, you will feel almost free. But it is at night, and after dinner, that the best hour comes. There are no such pipes to be smoked as those that follow a good day’s march; the flavour of the tobacco is a thing to be remembered, it is so dry and aromatic, so full and so fine. If you wind up the evening with grog, you will own there was never such grog; at every sip a jocund tranquillity spreads about your limbs, and sits easily in your heart. If you read a book—and you will never do so save by fits and starts—you find the language strangely racy and harmonious; words take a new meaning; single sentences possess the ear for half an hour together; and the writer endears himself to you, at every page, by the nicest coincidence of sentiment. It seems as if it were a book you had written yourself in a dream. To all we have read on such occasions we look back with special favour. ‘It was on the 10th of April, 1798,’ says Hazlitt, with amorous precision, ‘that I sat down to a volume of the new Heloise, at the Inn at Llangollen, over a bottle of sherry and a cold chicken.’ I should wish to quote more, for though we are mighty fine fellows nowadays, we cannot write like Hazlitt. And, talking of that, a volume of Hazlitt’s essays would be a capital pocket book on such a journey; so would a volume of Heine’s songs; and for Tristram Shandy I can pledge a fair experience. If the evening be fine and warm, there is nothing better in life than to lounge before the inn door in the sunset, or lean over the parapet of the bridge, to watch the weeds and the quick fishes. It is then, if ever, that you taste joviality to the full significance of that audacious word. Your muscles are so agreeably slack, you feel so clean and so strong and so idle, that whether you move or sit still, whatever you do is done with pride and a kingly sort of pleasure. You fall in talk with anyone, wise or foolish, drunk or sober. And it seems as if a hot walk purged you, more than of anything else, of all narrowness and pride, and left curiosity to play its part freely, as in a child or a man of science. You lay aside all your own hobbies, to watch provincial humours

Walking Tours 79

develop themselves before you, now as a laughable farce, and now grave and beautiful like an old tale. Or perhaps you are left to your own company for the night, and surly weather imprisons you by the fire. You may remember how Burns, numbering past pleasures, dwells upon the hours when he has been ‘happy thinking’. It is a phrase that may well perplex a poor modern, girt about on every side by clocks and chimes, and haunted, even at night, by flaming dial plates. For we are all so busy, and have so many far-off projects to realise, and castles in the fire to turn into solid habitable mansions on a gravel soil, that we can find no time for pleasure trips into the Land of Thought and among the Hills of Vanity. Changed times, indeed, when we must sit all night, beside the fire, with folded hands; and a changed world for most of us, when we find we can pass the hours without discontent, and be happy thinking. We are in such haste to be doing, to be writing, to be gathering gear, to make our voice audible a moment in the derisive silence of eternity, that we forget that one thing, of which these are but the parts—namely, to live. We fall in love, we drink hard, we run to and fro upon the earth like frightened sheep. And now you are to ask yourself if, when all is done, you would not have been better to sit by the fire at home, and be happy thinking. To sit still and contemplate—to remember the faces of women without desire, to be pleased by the great deeds of men without envy, to be everything and everywhere in sympathy, and yet content to remain where and what you are—is not this to know both wisdom and virtue, and to dwell with happiness? After all, it is not they who carry flags, but they who look upon it from a private chamber, who have the fun of the procession. And once you are at that, you are in the very humour of all social heresy. It is no time for shuffling, or for big, empty words. If you ask yourself what you mean by fame, riches, or learning, the answer is far to seek; and you go back into that kingdom of light imaginations, which seem so vain in the eyes of philistines perspiring after wealth, and so momentous to those who are stricken with the disproportions of the world, and, in the face of the gigantic

80

Reflections

stars, cannot stop to split differences between two degrees of the infinitesimally small, such as a tobacco pipe or the Roman Empire, a million of money or a fiddlestick’s end. You lean from the window, your last pipe reeking whitely into the darkness, your body full of delicious pains, your mind enthroned in the seventh circle of content; when suddenly the mood changes, the weathercock goes about, and you ask yourself one question more: whether, for the interval, you have been the wisest philosopher or the most egregious of donkeys? Human experience is not yet able to reply; but at least you have had a fine moment, and looked down upon all the kingdoms of the earth. And whether it was wise or foolish, tomorrow’s travel will carry you, body and mind, into some different parish of the infinite.

Summary Stevenson believes that a genuine walking tourist does not go on a tour in order to see the landscape. He is more interested in his mental state at the start and at the end of his journey. Some walkers walk too fast. They find it hard to understand that a slow walk can be an extremely rewarding experience. These walkers may cover a longer distance, but by evening, their senses are numb. A walking tour yields the greatest enjoyment if undertaken alone, because its essence is freedom. The walker can set the pace of the walk himself and his meditative silence is not disturbed by the silly talk of others. At the start of the tour, the walker may feel that his knapsack is a burden. But slowly he feels at ease and the bag sits lightly on his back. However, if the tourist allows himself to be nagged by worries and anxieties, he cannot be happy. It would be amusing to observe the variety of walkers under the cloak of invisibility. One type is always absorbed in oneself. Another looks at everything—the grass, dragonflies and even the contented cows. A third one talks to himself, imagining

Walking Tours 81

himself giving speeches or interviews. Then, the walker might break into a song, alarming a passing peasant, which might lead to unfortunate consequences for the former. An acquaintance of the author was once mistaken for a lunatic for this reason and even arrested as, getting carried away, he had been skipping along a village road. The writer William Hazlitt was an ideal walker, according to Stevenson. But leaping and running, which Hazlitt says that he is sometimes tempted to do while walking, is not advisable. It distracts and disturbs the mind. A slow and steady walk, which has a soothing effect on our minds, is more preferable. Moods change in the course of a walk, from the excitement at the start and the calm on arrival. When the walker sits down to smoke his pipe at a temporary shelter, he feels serene happiness and loses the sense of time, something that busy town dwellers find difficult to do. They are acutely time-conscious. Most modern businessmen can never experience the happiness a walker enjoys because of their constant concern about the passage of time. At dusk, after a long day’s walk, the walker can enjoy his drink, a pipe and a book. His muscles are relaxed, his mind is cheerful and he can converse with the villagers openly, frankly and light-heartedly. As he is alone, he has time to be happy, thinking of people who are so busy doing many different things that they forget to live. The walking tourist knows that the ability for quiet contemplation, which he now enjoys, is a valuable experience.

Notes Canting: Using fashionable words. Dilettantes: People whose knowledge is superficial. Accessory: Extra attraction. Repletion: Fullness; total contentment. Curaçao: A liqueur, flavoured with bitter orange peel.

82

Reflections

Brown John: An earthen vessel. Unconscionable: Unreasonably long. Stupefy: To make insensible. Frost on his five wits: Extremely tired; numb. Five wits: Five senses (also, common sense; imagination, fantasy, estimation and memory). Nightcap: A hot or alcoholic drink taken before going to bed. Disenchanted: Without magical effect. Freak: Mood; whim. Peace that passes comprehension: Recalling the lines ‘peace that passeth understanding’ from the King James Bible (Philippians 4:7). Christian: In John Bunyan’s allegorical novel, The Pilgrim’s Progress, the burden of sin strapped to the back of the protagonist, Christian, fell from his back when he reached the ‘place of deliverance’, called the Cross of Calvary. Lees: The last portion; dregs. Abudah’s chest: In a fairytale in James Ridley’s Tales of the Genii, Abudah was a merchant of Baghdad who was haunted by an ugly, old woman who rose from a chest he carried. Coat of darkness: In the fairytale of Jack the Giant Killer, the hero puts on a coat which makes him invisible to his enemies. Troubadour: Wandering singer in medieval Europe. Complacent: Contented. Stolid: Showing no emotion. Unfeigned: Not pretended Clown: A rustic. Epicure: A person with refined taste. Acrostics: Word puzzles. Phlegm: A calm state of mind. Bivouacs: Temporary shelters. Millennium: A period of great prosperity and happiness. It refers to millennialism, a Christian belief that there will be a

Walking Tours 83

Golden Age or Paradise on Earth in which Jesus Christ will reign for 1000 years before the Final Judgment and future eternal state. The flood: The Great Flood referred to in The Bible, in which the whole world, except those who took shelter in Noah’s Ark, was destroyed. Though ye take from a covetous man all his treasure: From John Milton’s pamphlet Areopagitica, written in defence of the freedom of expression. New Heloise: La Nouvelle Heloise, a romance by the Enlightenment philosopher, Jean-Jacques Rousseau. Llangollen: A town in Wales noted for its natural beauty. Heine: Heinrich Heine, one of the most well-known 19th century German poets. Tristram Shandy: A novel by Lawrence Sterne. Provincial humours: The oddities of villagers. Flaming dial plates: Illuminated dials of the clock. Elixir of life: The legendary potion that would make man immortal. Mitigated: Moderated. Gear: Possessions. Happy thinking: Both mentions of this phrase are from The Rigs of Barley, a poem by Scottish poet Robert Burns. Seventh circle: The seventh sphere of heaven, the abode of great joy. Egregious: Outstandingly bad.

Questions 1. Annotate the following. a) It would be a fine thing to follow, in a coat of darkness, one after another of these wayfarers, some summer morning for the first few miles upon the road.

84

Reflections

b) And so I would say of a modern man of business, you may do what you will do for him, put him in Eden, give him the elixir of life—he has still a flaw at heart, he still has his business habits. c) To sit still and contemplate—to remember the faces of women without desire, to be pleased by the great deeds of men without envy, to be everything and everywhere in sympathy, and yet content to remain where and what you are—is not this to know both wisdom and virtue, and to dwell with happiness? 2. Answer the following in a paragraph. a) How does Stevenson criticize the ‘overwalkers’? b) Why does Stevenson insist that one should go on a walking tour alone? c) How does Stevenson describe the memories of some walkers? 3. What, according to Stevenson, are the chief benefits of a walking tour?

9 Nationalism in India Rabindranath Tagore Rabindranath Tagore (1861–1941) was born in Kolkata, West Bengal to a family of spiritual seekers and religious reformers. His schooling in India and England was irregular. Very early in life, he began to compose poetry and write short stories. He spent about ten years in east Bengal looking after his family estates. His close identification with the common people and the tenants of his estate enriched his understanding of life, enabling him to incorporate the local folk rhythms into his poetry and music. After returning to Kolkata in 1901, he established a school in Shantiniketan where he experimented with an alternative curriculum and teaching methods. Later, this school evolved into the world-renowned university called Visva-Bharati. In 1913, Tagore won the Nobel Prize in Literature for his collection of poetry, called Gitanjali. He was the first non-European to win the prize. He travelled widely in Europe, the USA and the Far East to spread his ideal of universal humanism. He has the unique distinction of being the author of the national anthems of two countries—India and Bangladesh. His social philosophy found expression in his novels like The Home and the World, The Wreck and Gora. His non-fiction works include Sadhana, The Religion of Man and Nationalism. He wrote over two thousand songs, known as Rabindrasangeet. Tagore created a distinct style of music, blending classical ragas with folk melodies. At sixty, he took to painting and astonished the world with his strikingly

86

Reflections

original ideas. No other writer has had a comparable impact on the literary and cultural life of India in the 20th century. Tagore was also an ardent patriot, but not a bigoted nationalist. His wide travels confirmed his firmly-held conviction that the political boundaries dividing the people of the world are artificial and arbitrary and that they are an obstacle to the realization of the noble ideal of universal humanism. In the context of globalization, when India attempts to remake itself in the image of the affluent West, Tagore’s admonitions are salutary. In the essay ‘Nationalism in India’, written in 1916, Rabindranath Tagore criticized the concept of nationalism at a time when it was one of the dominant political doctrines in the world. Tagore had been initially involved in the Swadeshi movement, a part of the Indian independence struggle, but he moved away from mainstream politics around 1907. From 1916 to 1917, in the course of his travels around the world, Tagore delivered lectures in Japan and the USA on the cult of nationalism, which offered penetrating critical insights into the ideology of nation-building. These were collected and published in a book called Nationalism, of which the present essay is a part.

——— Our real problem in India is not political. It is social. This is a condition not only prevailing in India, but among all nations. I do not believe in an exclusive political interest. Politics in the West have dominated Western ideals, and we in India are trying to imitate you. We have to remember that in Europe, where peoples had their racial unity from the beginning, and where natural resources were insufficient for the inhabitants, the civilization has naturally taken the character of political and commercial aggressiveness. For on the one hand they had no internal complications, and on the other they had to deal with neighbours who were strong and rapacious. To have perfect combination among themselves and a watchful attitude of animosity against

Nationalism in India

87

others was taken as the solution of their problems. In former days they organized and plundered, in the present age the same spirit continues—and they organize and exploit the whole world. But from the earliest beginnings of history, India has had her own problem constantly before her—it is the race problem. Each nation must be conscious of its mission and we, in India, must realize that we cut a poor figure when we are trying to be political, simply because we have not yet been finally able to accomplish what was set before us by our providence. This problem of race unity which we have been trying to solve for so many years has likewise to be faced by you here in America. Many people in this country ask me what is happening as to the caste distinctions in India. But when this question is asked me, it is usually done with a superior air. And I feel tempted to put the same question to our American critics with a slight modification, ‘What have you done with the Red Indian and the Negro? For you have not got over your attitude of caste toward them. You have used violent methods to keep aloof from other races, but until you have solved the question here in America, you have no right to question India. In spite of our great difficulty, however, India has done something. She has tried to make an adjustment of races, to acknowledge the real differences between them where these exist, and yet seek for some basis of unity. This basis has come through our saints, like Nanak, Kabir, Chaitanya and others, preaching one God to all races of India. In finding the solution of our problem we shall have helped to solve the world problem as well. What India has been, the whole world is now. The whole world is becoming one country through scientific facility. And the moment is arriving when you also must find a basis of unity which is not political. If India can offer to the world her solution, it will be a contribution to humanity. There is only one history—the history of man. All national histories are merely chapters in the larger one. And we are content in India to suffer for such a great cause.

88

Reflections

Each individual has his self love. Therefore his brute instinct leads him to fight with others in the sole pursuit of his selfinterest. But man has also his higher instincts of sympathy and mutual help. The people who are lacking in this higher moral power and who therefore cannot combine in fellowship with one another must perish or live in a state of degradation. Only those peoples have survived and achieved civilization who have this spirit of cooperation strong in them. So we find that from the beginning of history men had to choose between fighting with one another and combining, between serving their own interest or the common interest of all. In our early history when the geographical limits of each country and also the facilities of communication were small, this problem was comparatively small in dimension. It was sufficient for men to develop their sense of unity within their area of segregation. In those days they combined among themselves and fought against others. But it was this moral spirit of combination which was the true basis of their greatness, and this fostered their art, science and religion. At that early time the most important fact that man had to take count of was the fact of the members of one particular race of men coming in close contact with one another. Those who truly grasped this fact through their higher nature made their mark in history. The most important fact of the present age is that all the different races of men have come close together. And again we are confronted with two alternatives. The problem is whether the different groups of peoples shall go on fighting with one another or find out some true basis of reconciliation and mutual help; whether it will be interminable competition or cooperation. I have no hesitation in saying that those who are gifted with the moral power of love and vision of spiritual unity, who have the least feeling of enmity against aliens, and the sympathetic insight to place themselves in the position of others will be the fittest to take their permanent place in the age that is lying before us, and those who are constantly developing their instinct of

Nationalism in India

89

fight and intolerance of aliens will be eliminated. For this is the problem before us, and we have to prove our humanity by solving it through the help of our higher nature. The gigantic organizations for hurting others and warding off their blows, for making money by dragging others back, will not help us. On the contrary, by their crushing weight, their enormous cost and their deadening effect upon the living humanity they will seriously impede our freedom in the larger life of a higher civilization. During the evolution of the Nation, the moral culture of brotherhood was limited by geographical boundaries, because at that time those boundaries were true. Now they have become imaginary lines of tradition divested of the qualities of real obstacles. So the time has come when man’s moral nature must deal with this great fact with all seriousness or perish. The first impulse of this change of circumstance has been the churning up of man’s baser passions of greed and cruel hatred. If this persists indefinitely and armaments go on exaggerating themselves to unimaginable absurdities, and machines and storehouses envelop this fair earth with their dirt and smoke and ugliness, then it will end in a conflagration of suicide. Therefore, man will have to exert all his power of love and clarity of vision to make another great moral adjustment which will comprehend the whole world of men and not merely the fractional groups of nationality. The call has come to every individual in the present age to prepare himself and his surroundings for this dawn of a new era when man shall discover his soul in the spiritual unity of all human beings. If it is given at all to the West to struggle out of these tangles of the lower slopes to the spiritual summit of humanity, then I cannot but think that it is the special mission of America to fulfil this hope of God and man. You are the country of expectation, desiring something else than what is. Europe has her subtle habits of mind and her conventions. But America, as yet, has come to no conclusions. I realize how much America is untrammelled by the traditions of the past, and I can appreciate that

90

Reflections

experimentalism is a sign of America’s youth. The foundation of her glory is in the future, rather than in the past; and if one is gifted with the power of clairvoyance, one will be able to love the America that is to be. America is destined to justify Western civilization to the East. Europe has lost faith in humanity, and has become distrustful and sickly. America, on the other hand, is not pessimistic or blasé. You know, as a people, that there is such a thing as a better and a best; and that knowledge drives you on. There are habits that are not merely passive but aggressively arrogant. They are not like mere walls but are like hedges of stinging nettles. Europe has been cultivating these hedges of habits for long years till they have grown round her dense and strong and high. The pride of her traditions has sent its roots deep into her heart. I do not wish to contend that it is unreasonable. But pride in every form breeds blindness at the end. Like all artificial stimulants its first effect is a heightening of consciousness and then with the increasing dose it muddles it and brings in exultation that is misleading. Europe has gradually grown hardened in her pride of all her outer and inner habits. She not only cannot forget that she is Western, but she takes every opportunity to hurl this fact against others to humiliate them. This is why she is growing incapable of imparting to the East what is best in herself, and of accepting in a right spirit the wisdom that the East has stored for centuries. In America national habits and traditions have not had time to spread their clutching roots round your hearts. You have constantly felt and complained of its disadvantages when you compared your nomadic restlessness with the settled traditions of Europe—the Europe which can show her picture of greatness to the best advantage because she can fix it against the background of the past. But in this present age of transition, when a new era of civilization is sending its trumpet call to all peoples of the world across an unlimited future, this very freedom of detachment will enable you to accept its invitation and to achieve the goal for

Nationalism in India

91

which Europe began her journey but lost herself midway. For she was tempted out of her path by her pride of power and greed of possession. Not merely your freedom from habits of mind in the individuals but also the freedom of your history from all unclean entanglements fits you in your career of holding the banner of civilization of the future. All the great nations of Europe have their victims in other parts of the world. This not only deadens their moral sympathy but also their intellectual sympathy, which is so necessary for the understanding of races which are different from one’s own. Englishmen can never truly understand India because their minds are not disinterested with regard to that country. If you compare England with Germany or France, you will find she has produced the smallest number of scholars who have studied Indian literature and philosophy with any amount of sympathetic insight or thoroughness. This attitude of apathy and contempt is natural where the relationship is abnormal and founded upon national selfishness and pride. But your history has been disinterested and that is why you have been able to help Japan in her lessons in Western civilization and that is why China can look upon you with her best confidence in this her darkest period of danger. In fact you are carrying all the responsibility of a great future because you are untrammelled by the grasping miserliness of a past. Therefore of all countries of the earth, America has to be fully conscious of this future, her vision must not be obscured and her faith in humanity must be strong with the strength of youth. A parallelism exists between America and India—the parallelism of welding together into one body various races. In my country, we have been seeking to find out something common to all races, which will prove their real unity. No nation looking for a mere political or commercial basis of unity will find such a solution sufficient. Men of thought and power will discover the spiritual unity, will realize it, and preach it. India has never had a real sense of nationalism. Even though from childhood I had been taught that the idolatry of Nation

92

Reflections

is almost better than reverence for God and humanity, I believe I have outgrown that teaching, and it is my conviction that my countrymen will gain truly their India by fighting against that education which teaches them that a country is greater than the ideals of humanity. The educated Indian at present is trying to absorb some lessons from history contrary to the lessons of our ancestors. The East, in fact, is attempting to take unto itself a history which is not the outcome of its own living. Japan, for example, thinks she is getting powerful through adopting Western methods, but, after she has exhausted her inheritance, only the borrowed weapons of civilization will remain to her. She will not have developed herself from within. Europe has her past. Europe’s strength therefore lies in her history. We, in India, must make up our minds that we cannot borrow other people’s history, and that if we stifle our own, we are committing suicide. When you borrow things that do not belong to your life, they only serve to crush your life. And therefore I believe that it does India no good to compete with Western civilization in its own field. But we shall be more than compensated if, in spite of the insults heaped upon us, we follow our own destiny. There are lessons which impart information or train our minds for intellectual pursuits. These are simple and can be acquired and used with advantage. But there are others which affect our deeper nature and change our direction of life. Before we accept them and pay their value by selling our own inheritance, we must pause and think deeply. In man’s history, there come ages of fireworks which dazzle us by their force and movement. They laugh not only at our modest household lamps but also at the eternal stars. But let us not for that provocation be precipitate in our desire to dismiss our lamps. Let us patiently bear our present insult and realize that these fireworks have splendour but not permanence, because of the extreme explosiveness which is the cause of their power, and also of their exhaustion. They are

Nationalism in India

93

spending a fatal quantity of energy and substance compared to their gain and production. Anyhow our ideals have been evolved through our own history and even if we wished we could only make poor fireworks of them, because their materials are different from yours, as is also their moral purpose. If we cherish the desire of paying our all for buying a political nationality, it will be as absurd as if Switzerland had staked her existence in her ambition to build up a navy powerful enough to compete with that of England. The mistake that we make is in thinking that man’s channel of greatness is only one—the one which has made itself painfully evident for the time being by its depth of insolence. We must know for certain that there is a future before us and that future is waiting for those who are rich in moral ideals and not in mere things. And it is the privilege of man to work for fruits that are beyond his immediate reach, and to adjust his life not in slavish conformity to the examples of some present success or even to his own prudent past, limited in its aspiration, but to an infinite future bearing in its heart the ideals of our highest expectations. We must, however, know it is providential that the West has come to India. Yet, someone must show the East to the West, and convince the West that the East has her contribution to make in the history of civilization. India is no beggar of the West. And yet even though the West may think she is, I am not for thrusting off Western civilization and becoming segregated in our independence. Let us have a deep association. If Providence wants England to be the channel of that communication, of that deeper association, I am willing to accept it with all humility. I have great faith in human nature, and I think the West will find its true mission. I speak bitterly of Western civilization when I am conscious that it is betraying its trust and thwarting its own purpose. The West must not make herself a curse to the world by using her power for her own selfish needs, but by teaching the ignorant and helping the weak, by saving herself from the worst

94

Reflections

danger that the strong is liable to incur by making the feeble to acquire power enough to resist her intrusion. And also she must not make her materialism to be the final thing, but must realize that she is doing a service in freeing the spiritual being from the tyranny of matter. I am not against one nation in particular, but against the general idea of all nations. What is the Nation? It is the aspect of a whole people as an organized power. This organization incessantly keeps up the insistence of the population on becoming strong and efficient. But this strenuous effort after strength and efficiency drains man’s energy from his higher nature where he is self-sacrificing and creative. For thereby man’s power of sacrifice is diverted from his ultimate object, which is moral, to the maintenance of this organization, which is mechanical. Yet, in this he feels all the satisfaction of moral exaltation and therefore becomes supremely dangerous to humanity. He feels relieved of the urging of his conscience when he can transfer his responsibility to this machine which is the creation of his intellect and not of his complete moral personality. By this device, the people which loves freedom perpetuates slavery in a large portion of the world with the comfortable feeling of pride of having done its duty; men who are naturally just can be cruelly unjust both in their act and their thought, accompanied by a feeling that they are helping the world in receiving its deserts; men who are honest can blindly go on robbing others of their human rights for self-aggrandizement, all the while abusing the deprived for not deserving better treatment. We have seen in our everyday life even small organizations of business and profession produce callousness of feeling in men who are not naturally bad, and we can well imagine what a moral havoc it is causing in a world where whole peoples are furiously organizing themselves for gaining wealth and power. Nationalism is a great menace. It is the particular thing which for years has been at the bottom of India’s troubles. And inasmuch as we have been ruled and dominated by a nation that is

Nationalism in India

95

strictly political in its attitude, we have tried to develop within ourselves, despite our inheritance from the past, a belief in our eventual political destiny. There are different parties in India, with different ideals. Some are struggling for political independence. Others think that the time has not arrived for that, and yet believe that India should have the rights that the English colonies have. They wish to gain autonomy as far as possible. In the beginning of our history of political agitation in India, there was not that conflict between parties which there is today. In that time, there was a party known as the Indian Congress; it had no real programme. They had a few grievances for redress by the authorities. They wanted larger representation in the Council House, and more freedom in the municipal government. They wanted scraps of things, but they had no constructive ideal. Therefore, I was lacking in enthusiasm for their methods. It was my conviction that what India most needed was constructive work coming from within herself. In this work, we must take all risks and go on doing our duties which by right are ours, though in the teeth of persecution; winning moral victory at every step, by our failure, and suffering. We must show those who are over us that we have the strength of moral power in ourselves, the power to suffer for truth. Where we have nothing to show, we only have to beg. It would be mischievous if the gifts we wish for were granted to us right now, and I have told my countrymen, time and time again, to combine for the work of creating opportunities to give vent to our spirit of self sacrifice, and not for the purpose of begging. The party, however, lost power because the people soon came to realize how futile was the half policy adopted by them. The party split, and there arrived the Extremists, who advocated independence of action, and discarded the begging method,— the easiest method of relieving one’s mind from his responsibility towards his country. Their ideals were based on Western history. They had no sympathy with the special problems of India.

96

Reflections

They did not recognize the patent fact that there were causes in our social organization which made the Indian incapable of coping with the alien. What would we do if, for any reason, England was driven away? We should simply be victims for other nations. The same social weaknesses would prevail. The thing we, in India, have to think of is this—to remove those social customs and ideals which have generated a want of self respect and a complete dependence on those above us,—a state of affairs which has been brought about entirely by the domination in India of the caste system, and the blind and lazy habit of relying upon the authority of traditions that are incongruous anachronisms in the present age. Once again I draw your attention to the difficulties India has had to encounter and her struggle to overcome them. Her problem was the problem of the world in miniature. India is too vast in its area and too diverse in its races. It is many countries packed in one geographical receptacle. It is just the opposite of what Europe truly is, namely one country made into many. Thus, Europe, in its culture and growth, has had the advantage of the strength of the many, as well as the strength of the one. India, on the contrary, being naturally many, yet adventitiously one, has all along suffered from the looseness of its diversity and the feebleness of its unity. A true unity is like a round globe, it rolls on, carrying its burden easily; but diversity is a many-cornered thing which has to be dragged and pushed with all force. Be it said to the credit of India that this diversity was not her own creation; she has had to accept it as a fact from the beginning of her history. In America and Australia, Europe has simplified her problem by almost exterminating the original population. Even in the present age, this spirit of extermination is making itself manifest, by inhospitably shutting out aliens, through those who themselves were aliens in the lands they now occupy. But India tolerated difference of races from the first, and that spirit of toleration has acted all through her history. Her caste system is the outcome of this spirit of toleration. For India has all along been trying experiments in evolving a

Nationalism in India

97

social unity within which all the different peoples could be held together, yet fully enjoying the freedom of maintaining their own differences. The tie has been as loose as possible, yet as close as the circumstances permitted. This has produced something like a United States of a social federation, whose common name is Hinduism. India had felt that diversity of races there must be and should be whatever may be its drawback, and you can never coerce nature into your narrow limits of convenience without paying one day very dearly for it. In this, India was right; but what she failed to realize was that in human beings differences are not like the physical barriers of mountains, fixed forever—they are fluid with life’s flow, they are changing their courses and their shapes and volume. Therefore, in her caste regulations, India recognized differences, but not the mutability which is the law of life. In trying to avoid collisions she set up boundaries of immovable walls, thus giving to her numerous races the negative benefit of peace and order but not the positive opportunity of expansion and movement. She accepted nature where it produces diversity, but ignored it where it uses that diversity for its world game of infinite permutations and combinations. She treated life in all truth where it is manifold, but insulted it where it is ever moving. Therefore, life departed from her social system and in its place she is worshipping with all ceremony the magnificent cage of countless compartments that she has manufactured. The same thing happened where she tried to ward off the collisions of trade interests. She associated different trades and professions with different castes. It had the effect of allaying for good the interminable jealousy and hatred of competition—the competition which breeds cruelty and makes the atmosphere thick with lies and deception. In this also India laid all her emphasis upon the law of heredity, ignoring the law of mutation, and thus gradually reduced arts into crafts and genius into skill. However, what Western observers fail to discern is that in her caste system, India in all seriousness accepted her responsibility

98

Reflections

to solve the race problem in such a manner as to avoid all friction, and yet to afford each race freedom within its boundaries. Let us admit, in this India has not achieved a full measure of success. But this you must also concede, that the West, being more favourably situated as to homogeneity of races, has never given her attention to this problem, and whenever confronted with it, she has tried to make it easy by ignoring it altogether. And this is the source of her anti-Asiatic agitations for depriving the aliens of their right to earn their honest living on these shores. In most of your colonies you only admit them on condition of their accepting the menial position of hewers of wood and drawers of water. Either you shut your doors against the aliens or reduce them into slavery. And this is your solution of the problem of race conflict. Whatever may be its merits you will have to admit that it does not spring from the higher impulses of civilization, but from the lower passions of greed and hatred. You say this is human nature—and India also thought she knew human nature when she strongly barricaded her race distinctions by the fixed barriers of social gradations. But we have found out to our cost that human nature is not what it seems, but what it is in truth; which is in its infinite possibilities. And when we in our blindness insult humanity for its ragged appearance it sheds its disguise to disclose to us that we have insulted our God. The degradation which we cast upon others in our pride or self interest degrades our own humanity—and this is the punishment which is most terrible because we do not detect it till it is too late. Not only in your relation with aliens but also with the different sections of your own society you have not brought harmony of reconciliation. The spirit of conflict and competition is allowed the full freedom of its reckless career. And because its genesis is the greed of wealth and power it can never come to any other end but a violent death. In India the production of commodities was brought under the law of social adjustments. Its basis was cooperation having for its object the perfect satisfaction of social needs. But in the West it is guided by the impulse

Nationalism in India

99

of competition whose end is the gain of wealth for individuals. But the individual is like the geometrical line; it is length without breadth. It has not got the depth to be able to hold anything permanently. Therefore its greed or gain can never come to finality. In its lengthening process of growth it can cross other lines and cause entanglements, but will ever go on missing the ideal of completeness in its thinness of isolation. In all our physical appetites we recognize a limit. We know that to exceed that limit is to exceed the limit of health. But has this lust for wealth and power no bounds beyond which is death’s dominion? In these national carnivals of materialism are not the Western peoples spending most of their vital energy in merely producing things and neglecting the creation of ideals? And can a civilization ignore the law of moral health and go on in its endless process of inflation by gorging upon material things? Man in his social ideals naturally tries to regulate his appetites, subordinating them to the higher purpose of his nature. But in the economic world our appetites follow no other restrictions but those of supply and demand which can be artificially fostered, affording individuals opportunities for indulgence in an endless feast of grossness. In India our social instincts imposed restrictions upon our appetites,—maybe it went to the extreme of repression,—but in the West, the spirit of the economic organization having no moral purpose goads the people into the perpetual pursuit of wealth;—but has this no wholesome limit? The ideals that strive to take form in social institutions have two objects. One is to regulate our passions and appetites for harmonious development of man, and the other is to help him in cultivating disinterested love for his fellow creatures. Therefore society is the expression of moral and spiritual aspirations of man which belong to his higher nature. Our food is creative, it builds our body; but not so wine, which stimulates. Our social ideals create the human world, but when our mind is diverted from them to greed of power then in that state of intoxication we live in a world of abnormality where

100

Reflections

our strength is not health and our liberty is not freedom. Therefore political freedom does not give us freedom when our mind is not free. An automobile does not create freedom of movement, because it is a mere machine. When I myself am free I can use the automobile for the purpose of my freedom. We must never forget in the present day that those people who have got their political freedom are not necessarily free, they are merely powerful. The passions which are unbridled in them are creating huge organizations of slavery in the disguise of freedom. Those who have made the gain of money their highest end are unconsciously selling their life and soul to rich persons or to the combinations that represent money. Those who are enamoured of their political power and gloat over their extension of dominion over foreign races gradually surrender their own freedom and humanity to the organizations necessary for holding other peoples in slavery. In the so-called free countries the majority of the people are not free, they are driven by the minority to a goal which is not even known to them. This becomes possible only because people do not acknowledge moral and spiritual freedom as their object. They create huge eddies with their passions and they feel dizzily inebriated with the mere velocity of their whirling movement, taking that to be freedom. But the doom which is waiting to overtake them is as certain as death—for man’s truth is moral truth and his emancipation is in the spiritual life. The general opinion of the majority of the present day nationalists in India is that we have come to a final completeness in our social and spiritual ideals, the task of the constructive work of society having been done several thousand years before we were born, and that now we are free to employ all our activities in the political direction. We never dream of blaming our social inadequacy as the origin of our present helplessness, for we have accepted as the creed of our nationalism that this social system has been perfected for all time to come by our ancestors who had the superhuman vision of all eternity, and supernatural power for making infinite provision for future ages. Therefore for all

Nationalism in India

101

our miseries and shortcomings we hold responsible the historical surprises that burst upon us from outside. This is the reason why we think that our one task is to build a political miracle of freedom upon the quicksand of social slavery. In fact we want to dam up the true course of our own historical stream and only borrow power from the sources of other peoples’ history. Those of us in India who have come under the delusion that mere political freedom will make us free have accepted their lessons from the West as the gospel truth and lost their faith in humanity. We must remember whatever weakness we cherish in our society will become the source of danger in politics. The same inertia which leads us to our idolatry of dead forms in social institutions will create in our politics prison houses with immovable walls. The narrowness of sympathy which makes it possible for us to impose upon a considerable portion of humanity the galling yoke of inferiority will assert itself in our politics in creating tyranny of injustice. When our nationalists talk about ideals, they forget that the basis of nationalism is wanting. The very people who are upholding these ideals are themselves the most conservative in their social practice. Nationalists say, for example, look at Switzerland, where, in spite of race differences, the peoples have solidified into a nation. Yet, remember that in Switzerland the races can mingle, they can intermarry, because they are of the same blood. In India there is no common birthright. And when we talk of Western nationality we forget that the nations there do not have that physical repulsion, one for the other, that we have between different castes. Have we an instance in the whole world where a people who are not allowed to mingle their blood shed their blood for one another except by coercion or for mercenary purposes? And can we ever hope that these moral barriers against our race amalgamation will not stand in the way of our political unity? Then again we must give full recognition to this fact that our social restrictions are still tyrannical, so much so as to make

102

Reflections

men cowards. If a man tells me he has heterodox ideas, but that he cannot follow them because he would be socially ostracised, I excuse him for having to live a life of untruth, in order to live at all. The social habit of mind which impels us to make the life of our fellow beings a burden to them where they differ from us even in such a thing as their choice of food is sure to persist in our political organization and result in creating engines of coercion to crush every rational difference which, is the sign of life. And tyranny will only add to the inevitable lies and hypocrisy in our political life. Is the mere name of freedom so valuable that we should be willing to sacrifice for its sake our moral freedom? The intemperance of our habits does not immediately show its effects when we are in the vigour of our youth. But it gradually consumes that vigour, and when the period of decline sets in then we have to settle accounts and pay off our debts, which leads us to insolvency. In the West you are still able to carry your head high though your humanity is suffering every moment from its dipsomania of organizing power. India also in the heyday of her youth could carry in her vital organs the dead weight of her social organizations stiffened to rigid perfection, but it has been fatal to her, and has produced a gradual paralysis of her living nature. And this is the reason why the educated community of India has become insensible of her social needs. They are taking the very immobility of our social structures as the sign of their perfection,—and because the healthy feeling of pain is dead in the limbs of our social organism they delude themselves into thinking that it needs no ministration. Therefore they think that all their energies need their only scope in the political field. It is like a man whose legs have become shrivelled and useless, trying to delude himself that these limbs have grown still because they have attained their ultimate salvation, and all that is wrong about him is the shortness of his sticks. So much for the social and the political regeneration of India. Now we come to her industries, and I am very often asked whether there is in India any industrial regeneration since the advent of the British government. It must be remembered that

Nationalism in India

103

at the beginning of the British rule in India our industries were suppressed and since then we have not met with any real help or encouragement to enable us to make a stand against the monster commercial organizations of the world. The nations have decreed that we must remain purely an agricultural people, even forgetting the use of arms for all time to come. Thus India in being turned into so many predigested morsels of food ready to be swallowed at any moment by any nation which has even the most rudimentary set of teeth in its head. India, therefore has very little outlet for her industrial originality. I personally do not believe in the unwieldy organizations of the present day. The very fact that they are ugly shows that they are in discordance with the whole creation. The vast powers of nature do not reveal their truth in hideousness, but in beauty. Beauty is the signature which the Creator stamps upon his works when he is satisfied with them. All our products that insolently ignore the laws of perfection and are unashamed in their display of ungainliness bear the perpetual weight of God’s displeasure. So far as your commerce lacks the dignity of grace it is untrue. Beauty and her twin brother Truth require leisure, and self control for their growth. But the greed of gain has no time or limit to its capaciousness. Its one object is to produce and consume. It has neither pity for beautiful nature, nor for living human beings. It is ruthlessly ready without a moment’s hesitation to crush beauty and life out of them, moulding them into money. It is this ugly vulgarity of commerce which brought upon it the censure of contempt in our earlier days when men had leisure to have an unclouded vision of perfection in humanity. Men in those times were rightly ashamed of the instinct of mere money making. But in this scientific age money, by its very abnormal bulk, has won its throne. And when from its eminence of piled-up things it insults the higher instincts of man, banishing beauty and noble sentiments from its surroundings, we submit. For we in our meanness have accepted bribes from its hands and our imagination has grovelled in the dust before its immensity of flesh.

104

Reflections

But its unwieldiness itself and its endless complexities are its true signs of failure. The swimmer who is an expert does not exhibit his muscular force by violent movements, but exhibits some power which is invisible and which shows itself in perfect grace and reposefulness. The true distinction of man from animals is in his power and worth which are inner and invisible. But the present day commercial civilization of man is not only taking too much time and space but killing time and space. Its movements are violent, its noise is discordantly loud. It is carrying its own damnation because it is trampling into distortion the humanity upon which it stands. It is strenuously turning out money at the cost of happiness. Man is reducing himself to his minimum, in order to be able to make amplest room for his organizations. He is deriding his human sentiments into shame because they are apt to stand in the way of his machines. In our mythology we have the legend that the man who performs penances for attaining immortality has to meet with temptations sent by Indra, the Lord of the immortals. If he is lured by them he is lost. The West has been striving for centuries after its goal of immortality. Indra has sent her the temptation to try her. It is the gorgeous temptation of wealth. She has accepted it and her civilization of humanity has lost its path in the wilderness of machinery. This commercialism with its barbarity of ugly decorations is a terrible menace to all humanity. Because it is setting up the ideal of power over that of perfection. It is making the cult of selfseeking exult in its naked shamelessness. Our nerves are more delicate than our muscles. Things that are the most precious in us are helpless as babes when we take away from them the careful protection which they claim from us for their very preciousness. Therefore when the callous rudeness of power runs amuck in the broad way of humanity it scares away by its grossness the ideals which we have cherished with the martyrdom of centuries. The temptation which is fatal for the strong is still more so for the weak. And I do not welcome it in our Indian life even

Nationalism in India

105

though it be sent by the lord of the Immortals. Let our life be simple in its outer aspect and rich in its inner gain. Let our civilization take its firm stand upon its basis of social cooperation and not upon that of economic exploitation and conflict. How to do it in the teeth of the drainage of our life-blood by the economic dragons is the task set before the thinkers of all oriental nations who have faith in the human soul. It is a sign of laziness and impotency to accept conditions imposed upon us by others who have other ideals than ours. We should actively try to adapt the world powers to guide our history to its own perfect end. From the above you will know that I am not an economist. I am willing to acknowledge that there is a law of demand and supply and an infatuation of man for more things than are good for him. And yet I will persist in believing that there is such a thing as the harmony of completeness in humanity, where poverty does not take away his riches, where defeat may lead him to victory, death to immortality, and in the compensation of Eternal Justice those who are the last may yet have their insult transmuted into a golden triumph.

Summary In this essay, Tagore argues that the idea of the nation cannot surpass that of Indian civilization. He is not against any one nation in particular; the very idea of the nation is unacceptable to him. For after all, the nation is an aspect of a people as an organized power. In order to acquire strength and efficiency, every nation gives greater importance to accumulating weapons of mass killing than to working according to its moral conscience. They become hypocritical, deprive people of their freedom and practise slavery. Hence, nationalism is a menace for mankind. Tagore feels that Europe as a civilization has become politically aggressive and commercially exploitative. It is Indians who have the noble mission of establishing universal brotherhood. India and America are similar, in that they are both made up of

106

Reflections

various races, whom they must unify into one nation. Just as we have not yet overcome our caste divisions and discriminations, the Americans too have not yet succeeded in integrating the Red Indian and the Negro into their society. On this issue, they have no right to feel superior to India. Tagore adds that we should view problems from an international perspective. Modern science and technology have brought the people of the world closer. Individuals can rise above their selfish interests and cooperate with others in order to solve the common problems facing all humanity. Indians too have to choose between competition, which drives all of Europe, and cooperation. The future belongs to those who have love and sympathy for others and who can unite people on the basis of higher moral and spiritual values. In order to achieve these high spiritual goals, Indians must rise above artificial national divisions and realize their common humanity. America has a great advantage in this, as it is not weighed down by the burden of its past. It does not have a long history. Europe has, through several centuries, built a wall around itself. It takes pride in its superiority and humiliates other civilizations. It is because America is an open civilization, untainted by the arrogance of power, that it holds the promise of becoming a leading civilization of the future. European countries have always dominated other nations. A nation that dominates another has no interest in understanding the latter’s problems. But America is free from this kind of imperialism. Tagore feels that India should draw strength from her own rich history instead of trying to imitate Europe. The future belongs to those who are inwardly rich; external wealth hardly matters. Instead of dominating other countries, the West too should teach the ignorant and help the weak. In India, many political parties have struggled for political independence and autonomy. The Indian National Congress, in the beginning of the political agitation for independence, was not successful in mobilizing people. Therefore, it split into the

Nationalism in India

107

Moderate and the Extremist factions. But the solution suggested by the Extremists, of driving the British away altogether, will not help India, as the country would then suffer the same treatment at the hand of other nations. While India’s social system has its merits, it has disadvantages too. The system is loose, which enabled it to tolerate differences; but it did not permit change and growth. This has resulted in the rigidity of the caste system, where people look down on lower castes. But by degrading other castes, people only degrade themselves. Talking about industrialization in the West, Tagore writes that physical desire has a limit, but the lust for wealth and power, driven by industry, is limitless. The Western methods of production are based on competition and therefore, can promote only greed and consumerism. India’s goal should be to achieve the harmonious development of man, with the cultivation of disinterested love for one’s fellow beings. Indians might agitate for political freedom, but such freedom, devoid of moral conscience, cannot help them in achieving their lofty goal. Tagore argues that the freedom of which powerful nations boast of is, in reality, only masked slavery. In these countries, wealth is worshipped as God. A small minority drives the majority towards a goal which, ultimately, will not benefit the latter. Indians should not delude themselves by thinking that political freedom will solve all their social conflicts. Many nationalists are conservatives in their thinking, believing there is nothing wrong with our social system, and therefore, feel no need to change it. But unless the present social conflicts are resolved, political freedom will only weaken the system further. When the British conquered India, they suppressed whatever industry we had. Advanced nations want India to remain an agricultural nation so that its people continue to depend on them for the industrial products they need. Tagore feels that modern industrial organizations are ugly; they lack dignity and grace.

108

Reflections

Nature reveals its truth in beauty. In modern times, people’s greed for money has banished beauty from their surroundings and truth from their hearts. Commercialization and the hunger for power have forced them to give up the ideals which they have cherished through the centuries as well. But Indians should not let themselves be misguided by the West’s ways of economic exploitation. On the contrary, they should adapt the West’s ideals to go ahead along the path shown by their own traditions and history.

Notes Rapacious: Greedy. Nanak: Guru Nanak, the founder of Sikhism. Kabir: A fifteenth century poet and mystic, Kabir lived in Varanasi. He synthesized the spiritual elements of Hinduism and Islam. Chaitanya: Shri Krishna Chaitanya, a sixteenth century Vaishnava saint of Bengal and the founder of the Gaudiya Sampradaya branch of Vaishnavism. Segregation: Separation. Conflagration: A large fire. Untrammelled: Unlimited; not restricted. Clairvoyance: The ability to see future events. Blasé: Indifference born of overfamiliarity. Nomadic: Moving from place to place. Callousness: Lack of concern or sympathy. Incongruous: Out of place. Anachronism: A thing out of harmony with its period. Adventitiously: Accidentally. Exterminate: Destroy utterly. Inebriated: Intoxicated.

Nationalism in India

109

Heterodox: Not orthodox; not agreeing with established beliefs and customs. Ostracised: Banished; excluded. Dipsomania: Excessive desire for alcohol. Here, it refers to the insatiable desire for power. Exult: Feel great joy. Run amuck: (Also amok) to behave uncontrollably and disruptively.

Questions 1. Annotate the following. a) This basis has come through our saints, like Nanak, Kabir, Chaitanya and others, preaching one God to all races of India. b) Beauty is the signature which the creator stamps upon his works when he is satisfied with them. c) India has sent her the temptation to try her. It is the gorgeous temptation of wealth. She has accepted it, and her civilization of humanity has lost its path in the wildness of machinery. 2. Answer the following. a) What, according to Tagore, is the social problem which India has not yet resolved? b) Why does Tagore think America is more qualified than Europe to hold the banner of civilization in the future? c) Why does Tagore disapprove of the idea of the nation? 3. Examine Tagore’s concept of nationalism in the light of contemporary politics.

10 Indifference Robert Lynd Robert Lynd (1879–1949) was born in Belfast, Ireland and educated at Queen’s University. He moved to London and began his literary career by writing a weekly article for the Daily News and the News Chronicle. He also wrote for the New Statesman, a newspaper with a radical orientation. Having experienced poverty in youth, Lynd became a writer of Socialist convictions. Some of his popular works include Essays on Life and Literature, Books and Writers, The Pleasures of Ignorance and Selected Essays Chosen by the Author. Lynd had the rare talent of writing on any topic in an engaging and relaxed manner. The subject might appear trivial, but Lynd found in it some significance worth writing about. His tolerance of different and even opposing points of view enables him to adopt an easy, urbane, humorous style in his essays. His literary and historical references assure a common culture shared with his readers. He may be called a true representative of the English familiar essay in the twentieth century.

——— I was taking tea in the rooms of a fine scholar in King’s College, Cambridge, the week before the Oxford and Cambridge rugby match, when, in order to bring the conversation—or the lack of

Indifference 111

it—a little nearer my own intellectual level, I asked a brilliant novelist who was present: ‘Are you going to the match next Tuesday?’ He looked as sincerely puzzled as if I had addressed him in Gaelic. ‘What match?’ he asked gently. I explained to him that a football match was to take place in the following week—a match in which the fate of his beloved university would be involved, or at least seem to be involved, for about an hour and a half. Honestly, he said, with a look of surprise, ‘I hadn’t heard about it—Had you?’ he asked, turning to our host. Our host declared that the news came as a complete surprise to him also. Another scholar who was present, on being questioned on the matter, admitted that he had gathered in the course of a recent conversation that some important match was going to be played somewhere, but he did not know that it was to be against Oxford, or that it was a rugby match, or that it was to be played at Twickenham, or that it was to take place on Tuesday. It astonished me to find that men who were learned in every detail of the struggles between Athens and Sparta, between Rome and Carthage, could be indifferent to a struggle almost at their own doors—a struggle, too, in which the prizes were not the sordid gains of political warfare, but the magnificently empty honours of sport. All present were pacifists, yet bloody battles fascinated their intellects far more than the bloodless battles of the football field—the battles, so to speak, of the future. Such indifference to an exciting phase of contemporary life shocked me. I could have understood a stockbroker’s being indifferent to the result of a great football match, but a university man, a fine mind trained in the humanities—that was a very different affair. I left Cambridge a little saddened over the prospects of the human race. And yet, I reflected, as I sat in the London-bound train, each of us must be indifferent to something. Each of us must have a talent for indifference if we are to have power to concentrate on the things that we were sent into the world to do. The missionary to the heathen, for example, must cultivate a fine indifference

112

Reflections

to that fine thing, money. He cannot convert cannibals very efficiently if his mind is continually preoccupied with the rise and fall of grey-hound-racing-track shares. He is unlikely, again, to put his whole heart into his work if he cares as much as M. Boulestin about sauces and the perfect way of cooking trout. As regards the world and half its pleasures, he must live in the spirit of Horace’s Nil admirari. The philosopher, too, cannot afford not to be indifferent to many of the things we ordinary mortals prize. Even if he shares our appetites, he must indulge in them, as Socrates indulged in drinking, in a mood of fundamental indifference. He cares no more for half our pleasures than a highbrow cares for a sentimental love story in a woman’s paper. I do not suggest that indifference is always, or even as a rule, a virtue, but it is our indifference that limits and so helps to create our personality. Nihil humanum and so forth, said the Latin dramatist, or one of his characters in a play that I never read. It is a saying of which I doubt the wisdom. Much that is human must be alien to—or from—us, if we are to get through the day’s work. Savonarola would never have become an immortal figure if he had not been indifferent to beautiful ornaments. Garibaldi would never have liberated Italy if he had not been indifferent to comfort, safety, and even the pleasure of being alive. All the great men of history have been indifferent to much that their fellow human beings treasured. Nihil humanum—is there a single man of genius from Diogenes to Mr Bernard Shaw, who could have honestly taken that text for his motto? In any case, there is no escape from indifference. Nature implanted our indifferences in us before we were born. Consider how many people one knows who are born indifferent to music. It seems almost incredible to anyone who loves Mozart that people—quite likeable people—should exist to whom the songs of Mozart give no more pleasure than the noise of a buzzer or the harsh cry of a jay. Yet experience tells us that indifference to music is a fairly common characteristic of the great and the good. Dr Johnson had no love for music, and who would have had him otherwise? Should we have liked

Indifference 113

Dr Johnson better if he had been a confirmed concert goer? Do we not like him almost as much because of the things to which he was indifferent or hostile as because of the things he loved? Even poets have been known to be indifferent to all music but the music of words. Tennyson and William Morris had no ear, and it is said that Mr W. B. Yeats could not tell the difference between the national anthem of Great Britain and that of the Irish Free State. It is difficult to be sure whether some people are born indifferent to poetry as others are born indifferent to music. In idealistic moments we are tempted to think that all men are born with the capacity of enjoying poetry, but that most of them gradually grow out of it. In ordinary life, however, indifference to poetry is one of the most conspicuous characteristics of the human race. Scarcely anybody denies that great poetry is the greatest achievement of the human mind, and scarcely anybody reads it. Will the importance of poetry be one day questioned as the importance of religion is widely questioned today? Or will poetry continue to be held in honour as the proper business of men of talent with private means? In youth, we are impatient of those who are indifferent to our own tastes. As a boy, I could scarcely help feeling hostile to anyone who was indifferent to the things about which I was enthusiastic in politics and literature. I could lose my temper easily in an argument about Stevenson and Kipling. Even my favourite seaside resort was a sacred place, and those who cared nothing for it I regarded as, at best, fools. Many food lovers, I believe, continue throughout life to feel a similar abhorrence for those who are indifferent to food. The gourmet who, having prepared a perfect meal for his guest, finds that the man is suffering from indigestion and is unable to touch his choicest dishes, seethes inwardly with hatred. I have met a host of this kind. Before the third course arrived, he asked me, ‘Do you like duck?’ Seeing how the land lay, I pretended to a somewhat exaggerated passion for duck. ‘I am glad to hear it,’ he said, and added in a tone of profound sincerity: ‘I hate a man that

114

Reflections

doesn’t love duck.’ Music I might have been indifferent to, or poetry, or the world state, or even the flowers in his beautiful garden and he would have forgiven me. But I had to be careful about duck. I myself have lost most of my resentment at other people’s indifference. I have friends who are indifferent to birds, others who are indifferent to the sea, others who are indifferent to the country in which they were born and who take no more interest in it than in any other country. I know likeable men who are indifferent to cats, and others who are indifferent to everything sold in a bottle except medicine. How lovable Arnold Bennett was, and yet he was indifferent to Dickens! The truth is, there is not enough room in the human spirit to like everything, if we are to like anything very much. And so it may be that those King’s men were wise in their apathetic attitude to rugby football. The football grounds on great occasions are crowded enough already without the addition of new converts. Yet, I think even the King’s men would have lost some of their indifference if they had been at Twickenham on Tuesday to see Cambridge running through and over an Oxford team that was almost their equal. To see Wooller kicking that drop-goal with a leg a mile long from the middle of the field was to behold a marvel. The Cambridge forward rushes too, broken time and again by Oxford players who, heedless of the furious feet of oncoming giants, flung themselves on the ball, were the achievement of men inspired to something above the common level of physical skill and courage. And that last half in which the Cambridge backs, having found a breach in the Oxford defence, swung the game towards it, and time after time by the perfect use of body and brain in running and passing the ball, sent their man through the breach to score yet another try, was sport that Pindar would not have disdained to celebrate. And yet, who knows? Plato, if he had been alive, might not have gone out of his way to see the march. Rugby, after all, is only a game, though it was difficult at some moments to feel this at Twickenham on Tuesday.

Indifference 115

Summary The author once asked a group of Cambridge scholars whether they would go to watch the rugby match between Oxford and Cambridge to be played the following week. But their negative reply astonished him. He found it extraordinary that the scholars were interested in bloody battles fought long ago in faraway lands, but were unconcerned with harmless matches in their own neighbourhood. But later, the author reflected that after all, everyone is indifferent to something. We cannot concentrate on things of interest to us without our being indifferent to other things. For example, if a missionary wants to convert unbelievers, he has to be indifferent to stock market shares and dog races. A philosopher must ignore and avoid pleasures which common people value. Our indifference is a factor that shapes our personality. After all, we cannot be interested in everything under the sun. Famous men like Savonarola, Garibaldi, Diogenes and Shaw became what they were by ignoring many things that others prized. For instance, some people are born insensitive to the charm of music. Even great men like Samuel Johnson, William Morris and Lord Tennyson had no ear for music. In the same way, even though great poetry is the greatest achievement of the human spirit, most people do not have interest in it. All of us want other people to share our tastes. The author has observed that lovers of food strongly dislike those who are indifferent to good food. But he himself has outgrown his dislike for other people’s indifference. He accepts that if you like something, you are bound to dislike certain other things.

Notes Rugby: A game played by two teams of 13 or 15 players, using an oval ball which may be kicked or carried. It was named

116

Reflections

after Rugby School, an English boarding school where the game was developed. Gaelic: The Celtic language of Ireland. Twickenham: A large suburban town in the district of Greater London. Athens and Sparta: City states in ancient Greece. Athens was defeated by Sparta in the 28-year-long Peloponnesian War in 404 B.C. Rome and Carthage: Carthage was an ancient city in north Africa. The Romans destroyed it after the Third Punic War in 146 B.C. Sordid: Mean; filthy. Pacifists: People who do not support wars and refuse to fight in them. Heathen: Non-believer; term used by a person with strong religious beliefs to refer to someone who does not believe in religion. M. Boulestin: Xavier Marcel Boulestin, French chef, restaurateur and author of cookery books who popularized French cuisine in the English-speaking world. Horace’s Nil Admirari: (Latin) to marvel at nothing. ‘To marvel at nothing is the only thing that can keep a man happy’ is a quotation attributed to Horace, a Roman poet whose odes and satires were widely imitated by English poets. Socrates: A Greek philosopher who was charged with corrupting the youth and sentenced to death by drinking hemlock. Nihil humanum: (Latin) nothing human. ‘Nothing human is alien to me’ is a quotation from a play by the Roman dramatist Terence. Savonarola: Girolamo Savonarola was a fifteenth century Italian religious reformer who was vocal in denouncing corruption in the Catholic Church. He was hanged and burned as a heretic. Garibaldi: An Italian patriot and military leader who unified Italy. Diogenes: Diogenes was a Greek philosopher who was one of the founders of Cynic philosophy. He was notorious for his

Indifference 117

philosophical stunts, like living in a tub and walking about the streets of Athens, a lantern in hand in the daytime, claiming he was looking for an honest man. Mr Bernard Shaw: An Irish dramatist and writer who was awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1925. Mozart: Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, the Austrian composer who has been the most enduringly popular of all composers of Western classical music. Tennyson: Alfred, Lord Tennyson, one of the most popular English poets. He was the Poet Laureate of the United Kingdom during much of Queen Victoria’s reign. William Morris: An English poet and Socialist writer. W. B. Yeats: William Butler Yeats, Irish poet and dramatist who was awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1923. Conspicuous: Easy to notice. Stevenson: Robert Louis Stevenson, Scottish novelist, poet and travel writer. Kipling: Rudyard Kipling, English novelist and poet. He won the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1907. Abhorrence: Strong dislike or hatred. Gourmet: A person who enjoys and knows a lot about fine food and drink. Resentment: Strong dislike or anger. Seethe: To be extremely angry without expressing it. Arnold Bennett: An English novelist, dramatist and critic. Dickens: Charles Dickens, the most popular English novelist of the nineteenth century. He was the author of novels like Oliver Twist and David Copperfield. Apathetic: Showing no interest or enthusiasm. Wooller: Wilfred Wooller was a Welsh cricketer, rugby player and journalist. Pindar: An ancient Greek lyric poet. Plato: One of the most widely-read Greek philosophers. He founded the Academy in Athens.

118

Reflections

Questions 1. Annotate the following. a) Savonarola would never have become an immortal figure if he had not been indifferent to beautiful ornaments. b) Will the importance of poetry be one day questioned as the importance of religion is widely questioned today? c) Plato, if he had been alive, might not have gone out of his way to see the match. 2. Answer the following in a paragraph. a) How did the Cambridge scholars respond to the author when he asked them whether they would attend the rugby match between Cambridge and Oxford? b) How does Lynd justify indifference? c) How does a man’s indifference contribute to the formation of his personality? 3. How does Lynd demonstrate his belief that interest in some areas necessarily implies indifference in others?

11 T he Diary of a Young Girl Anne Frank Anne Frank (1929–1945), a Jewish victim of the Holocaust, is known for the diary she maintained while in hiding during the German occupation of Holland during World War II. She was born in Frankfurt, Germany in a Jewish family, but her father, businessman Otto Frank, migrated to Holland after the Nazi takeover of Germany. When the Nazi persecution of Jews intensified after the German invasion of the country in 1940, the Frank family went into hiding, taking shelter in a secret annex of Otto’s office building. They were later joined by the van Pels family (referred to as the van Daan family in the diary) and a dentist, Fritz Pfeffer. On her thirteenth birthday, shortly before the family went into hiding, Anne received a diary in which she decided to pen down her thoughts. She addressed each entry in it to ‘Kitty’, a fictional character in Cissy van Marxveldt’s Joop ter Heul novels that she enjoyed reading. She maintained the diary from June 1942 to August 1944. In August 1944, a year before the war ended, the Nazi secret police raided the annex following an anonymous tip-off, arrested the inmates and deported them to concentration camps, where most of them perished in inhuman conditions. Anne and her elder sister Margot died of typhus in March 1945, two month

120

Reflections

before the war ended. Otto Frank survived. In1947, he published an edited version of Anne’s diary, which went on to become an international bestseller. The Diary of a Young Girl is a moving document of life under Nazi rule. It gives us an authentic picture of the difficult life led by the inhabitants of the annex in times of war and oppression. Anne writes about the everyday events in the shelter, including the strains that inevitably appear in the overcrowded residence. Food is rationed, movement is restricted and individual freedom is suppressed. Anne’s relations with her mother are strained; she dislikes some of the inmates and often quarrels with them. She falls in love with Peter, the son of Hans van Daan, which her parents disapprove of. She herself later becomes indifferent to him, considering him weak-minded. Anne’s descriptions of better times, the humdrum of daily life, the constant threat of imminent arrest and deportation, are remarkable for their vividness, realism and authenticity. The Diary remains popular and has now been published in more than 60 languages. The Anne Frank–Fonds (Anne Frank Foundation) has preserved the ‘secret annex’ as a museum in her memory.

The Holocaust The Holocaust refers to the diabolical and systematic statesponsored extermination of six million Jews and millions of other religious, social and ethnic groups in Europe by Nazi Germany, led by Adolf Hitler, during World War II. The word holocaust, of Greek origin, means ‘complete burning’. For the Nazis, it was the ‘Final Solution to the Jewish problem’. The Nazis projected the Jews as a race conspiring to dominate the world and blamed them for all the ills suffered by Germans. Discrimination against the Jews had existed for centuries in Europe, but the persecution

T he Diary of a Young Girl 121

intensified after Hitler came to power. Many Jews, including prominent members of the community, like scientist Albert Einstein and poet and playwright Bertolt Brecht fled Germany during this time. All opposition political parties, including Communists and Socialists were ruthlessly suppressed by the Nazis. Millions of Jews were forcibly deported to labour camps and concentration camps where they died of hunger, illness and exhaustion. Hundreds of thousands were sent to gas chambers in which hydrogen cyanide gas was released, killing them within minutes.

——— Saturday, 20 June 1942 Writing in a diary is a really strange experience for someone like me. Not only because I’ve never written anything before, but also because it seems to me that later on neither I nor anyone else will be interested in the musings of a thirteen-year-old schoolgirl. Oh well, it doesn’t matter. I feel like writing, and I have an even greater need to get all kinds of things off my chest. ‘Paper has more patience than people.’ I thought of this saying on one of those days when I was feeling a little depressed and was sitting at home with my chin in my hands, bored and listless, wondering whether to stay in or go out. I finally stayed where I was, brooding. Yes, paper does have more patience, and since I’m not planning to let anyone else read this stiff-backed notebook grandly referred to as a ‘diary’, unless I should ever find a real friend, it probably won’t make a bit of difference. Now I’m back to the point that prompted me to keep a diary in the first place: I don’t have a friend. Let me put it more clearly, since no one will believe that a thirteen-year-old girl is completely alone in the world. And I’m not. I have loving parents and a sixteen-year-old sister, and there are about thirty people I can call friends. I have a throng of admirers who can’t keep their

122

Reflections

adoring eyes off me and who sometimes have to resort to using a broken pocket mirror to try and catch a glimpse of me in the classroom. I have a family, loving aunts and a good home. No, on the surface I seem to have everything, except my one true friend. All I think about when I’m with friends is having a good time. I can’t bring myself to talk about anything but ordinary everyday things. We don’t seem to be able to get any closer, and that’s the problem. Maybe it’s my fault that we don’t confide in each other. In any case, that’s just how things are, and unfortunately they’re not liable to change. This is why I’ve started the diary. To enhance the image of this long-awaited friend in my imagination, I don’t want to jot down the facts in this diary the way most people would do, but I want the diary to be my friend, and I’m going to call this friend Kitty. Since no one would understand a word of my stories to Kitty if I were to plunge right in, I’d better provide a brief sketch of my life, much as I dislike doing so. My father, the most adorable father I’ve ever seen, didn’t marry my mother until he was thirty-six and she was twenty-five. My sister Margot was born in Frankfurt am Main in Germany in 1926. I was born on June 12, 1929. I lived in Frankfurt until I was four. Because we’re Jewish, my father immigrated to Holland in 1933, when he became the Managing Director of the Dutch Opekta Company, which manufactures products used in making jam. My mother, Edith Hollander Frank, went with him to Holland in September, while Margot and I were sent to Aachen to stay with our grandmother. Margot went to Holland in December, and I followed in February, when I was plunked down on the table as a birthday present for Margot. I started right away at the Montessori nursery school. I stayed there until I was six, at which time I started first grade. In sixth grade, my teacher was Mrs Kuperus, the principal. At the end of the year, we were both in tears as we said a heartbreaking farewell, because I’d been accepted at the Jewish Lyceum, where Margot also went to school.

T he Diary of a Young Girl 123

Our lives were not without anxiety, since our relatives in Germany were suffering under Hitler’s anti-Jewish laws. After the pogroms in 1938, my two uncles (my mother’s brothers) fled Germany, finding safe refuge in North America. My elderly grandmother came to live with us. She was seventy-three years old at the time. After May 1940, the good times were few and far between: first there was the war, then the capitulation and then the arrival of the Germans, which is when the trouble started for the Jews. Our freedom was severely restricted by a series of anti-Jewish decrees: Jews were required to wear a yellow star; Jews were required to turn in their bicycles; Jews were forbidden to use street-cars; Jews were forbidden to ride in cars, even their own; Jews were required to do their shopping between 3 and 5 p.m.; Jews were required to frequent only Jewishowned barbershops and beauty parlours; Jews were forbidden to be out on the streets between 8 p.m. and 6 a.m.; Jews were forbidden to attend theatres, movies or any other forms of entertainment; Jews were forbidden to use swimming pools, tennis courts, hockey fields or any other athletic fields; Jews were forbidden to go rowing; Jews were forbidden to take part in any athletic activity in public; Jews were forbidden to sit in their gardens or those of their friends after 8 p.m.; Jews were forbidden to visit Christians in their homes; Jews were required to attend Jewish schools, etc. You couldn’t do this and you couldn’t do that, but life went on. Jacque always said to me, ‘I don’t dare do anything anymore,’ cause I’m afraid it’s not allowed.’ In the summer of 1941, Grandma got sick and had to have an operation, so my birthday passed with little celebration. In the summer of 1940, we didn’t do much for my birthday either, since the fighting had just ended in Holland. Grandma died in January 1942. No one knows how often I think of her and still love her. This birthday celebration in 1942 was intended to make up for the others, and Grandma’s candle was lit along with the rest.

124

Reflections

The four of us are still doing well, and that brings me to the present date of June 20, 1942, and the solemn dedication of my diary. Friday, 9 October 1942 Dearest Kitty, Today I have nothing but dismal and depressing news to report. Our many Jewish friends and acquaintances are being taken away in droves. The Gestapo is treating them very roughly and transporting them in cattle cars to Westerbork, the big camp in Drenthe to which they’re sending all the Jews. Miep told us about someone who’d managed to escape from there. It must be terrible in Westerbork. The people get almost nothing to eat, much less to drink, as water is available only one hour a day, and there’s only one toilet and sink for several thousand people. Men and women sleep in the same room, and women and children often have their heads shaved. Escape is almost impossible; many people look Jewish, and they’re branded by their shorn heads. If it’s that bad in Holland, what must it be like in those faraway and uncivilized places where the Germans are sending them? We assume that most of them are being murdered. The English radio says they’re being gassed. Perhaps that’s the quickest way to die. I feel terrible. Miep’s accounts of these horrors are so heartrending, and Miep is also very distraught. The other day, for instance, the Gestapo deposited an elderly, crippled Jewish woman on Miep’s doorstep while they set off to find a car. The old woman was terrified of the glaring searchlights and the guns firing at the English planes overhead. Yet Miep didn’t dare let her in. Nobody would. The Germans are generous enough when it comes to punishment. Bep is also very subdued. Her boyfriend is being sent to Germany. Every time the planes fly over, she’s afraid they’re going to drop their entire bomb load on Bertus’s head. Jokes like ‘Oh, don’t worry, they can’t all fall on him’ or ‘One bomb is all it takes’ are hardly appropriate in this situation. Bertus is not the only one being forced to work in Germany. Trainloads of

T he Diary of a Young Girl 125

young men depart daily. Some of them try to sneak off the train when it stops at a small station, but only a few manage to escape unnoticed and find a place to hide. But that’s not the end of my lamentations. Have you ever heard the term ‘hostages’? That’s the latest punishment for saboteurs. It’s the most horrible thing you can imagine. Leading citizens—innocent people—are taken prisoner to await their execution. If the Gestapo can’t find the saboteur, they simply grab five hostages and line them up against the wall. You read the announcements of their death in the paper, where they’re referred to as ‘fatal accidents’. Fine specimens of humanity, those Germans, and to think I’m actually one of them! No, that’s not true, Hitler took away our nationality long ago. And besides, there are no greater enemies on earth than the Germans and the Jews. Yours, Anne Wednesday, 13 January 1943 Dearest Kitty, This morning I was constantly interrupted, and as a result I haven’t been able to finish a single thing I’ve begun. We have a new pastime, namely, filling packages with powdered gravy. The gravy is one of Gies & Co.’s products. Mr Kugler hasn’t been able to find anyone else to fill the packages, and besides, it’s cheaper if we do the job. It’s the kind of work they do in prisons. It’s incredibly boring and makes us dizzy and giggly. Terrible things are happening outside. At any time of night and day, poor helpless people are being dragged out of their homes. They’re allowed to take only a knapsack and a little cash with them, and even then, they’re robbed of these possessions on the way. Families are torn apart; men, women and children are separated. Children come home from school to find that their parents have disappeared. Women return from shopping to find their houses sealed, their families gone. The Christians in Holland are also living in fear because their sons are being sent to Germany.

126

Reflections

Everyone is scared. Every night hundreds of planes pass over Holland on their way to German cities, to sow their bombs on German soil. Every hour, hundreds, or maybe even thousands of people are being killed in Russia and Africa. No one can keep out of the conflict, the entire world is at war, and even though the Allies are doing better, the end is nowhere in sight. As for us, we’re quite fortunate. Luckier than millions of people. It’s quiet and safe here, and we’re using our money to buy food. We’re so selfish that we talk about ‘after the war’ and look forward to new clothes and shoes, when actually we should be saving every penny to help others when the war is over, to salvage whatever we can. The children in this neighbourhood run around in thin shirts and wooden shoes. They have no coats, no caps, no stockings and no one to help them. Gnawing on a carrot to still their hunger pangs, they walk from their cold houses through cold streets to an even colder classroom. Things have gotten so bad in Holland that hordes of children stop passersby in the streets to beg for a piece of bread. I could spend hours telling you about the suffering the war has brought, but I’d only make myself more miserable. All we can do is wait, as calmly as possible, for it to end. Jews and Christians alike are waiting, the whole world is waiting, and many are waiting for death. Yours, Anne Monday, 27 March 1944 Dearest Kitty, At least one long chapter on our life in hiding should be about politics, but I’ve been avoiding the subject, since it interests me so little. Today, however, I’ll devote an entire letter to politics. Of course, there are many different opinions on this topic, and it’s not surprising to hear it frequently discussed in times of war, but arguing so much about politics is just plain stupid! Let them laugh, swear, make bets, grumble and do whatever

T he Diary of a Young Girl 127

they want as long as they stew in their own juice. But don’t let them argue, since that only makes things worse. The people who come from outside bring us a lot of news that later proves to be untrue; however, up to now our radio has never lied. Jan, Miep, Mr Kleiman, Bep and Mr Kugler go up and down in their political moods, though Jan least of all. Here in the Annex the mood never varies. The endless debates over the invasion, air raids, speeches, etc., etc., are accompanied by countless exclamations such as ‘Eempossible!, Urn Gottes Willen [Oh, for heaven’s sake]. If they’re just getting started now, how long is it going to last!, It’s going splendidly, But, great!’ Optimists and pessimists—not to mention the realists—air their opinions with unflagging energy, and as with everything else, they’re all certain that they have a monopoly on the truth. It annoys a certain lady that her spouse has such supreme faith in the British, and a certain husband attacks his wife because of her teasing and disparaging remarks about his beloved nation! And so it goes from early in the morning to late at night; the funny part is that they never get tired of it. I’ve discovered a trick, and the effect is overwhelming, just like pricking someone with a pin and watching them jump. Here’s how it works: I start talking about politics. All it takes is a single question, a word or a sentence, and before you know it, the entire family is involved! As if the German ‘Wehrmacht News’ and the English BBC weren’t enough, they’ve now added special air-raid announcements. In a word, splendid. But the other side of the coin is that the British Air Force is operating around the clock. Not unlike the German propaganda machine, which is cranking out lies twenty-four hours a day! So the radio is switched on every morning at eight (if not earlier) and is listened to every hour until nine, ten or even eleven at night. This is the best evidence yet that the adults have infinite patience, but also that their brains have turned to mush (some of them, I mean, since I wouldn’t want to insult anyone). One broadcast, two at the most, should be enough to last the entire day. But no, those

128

Reflections

old nincompoops... never mind, I’ve already said it all! ‘Music While You Work,’ the Dutch broadcast from England, Frank Phillips or Queen Wilhelmina, they each get a turn and find a willing listener. If the adults aren’t eating or sleeping, they’re clustered around the radio talking about eating, sleeping and politics. Whew! It’s getting to be a bore, and it’s all I can do to keep from turning into a dreary old crone myself! Though with all the old folks around me, that might not be such a bad idea! Here’s a shining example, a speech made by our beloved Winston Churchill. Nine o’clock, Sunday evening. The teapot, under its cozy, is on the table, and the guests enter the room. Dussel sits to the left of the radio, Mr van D. in front of it and Peter to the side. Mother is next to Mr van D., with Mrs van D. behind them. Margot and I are sitting in the last row and Pim at the table. I realize this isn’t a very clear description of our seating arrangements, but it doesn’t matter. The men smoke, Peter’s eyes close from the strain of listening, Mama is dressed in her long, dark negligee, Mrs van D. is trembling because of the planes, which take no notice of the speech but fly blithely on toward Essen, Father is slurping his tea, and Margot and I are united in a sisterly way by the sleeping Mouschi, who has taken possession of both our knees. Margot’s hair is in curlers and my nightgown is too small, too tight and too short. It all looks so intimate, cozy and peaceful, and for once it really is. Yet I await the end of the speech with dread. They’re impatient, straining at the leash to start another argument! Pst, pst, like a cat luring a mouse from its hole, they goad each other into quarrels and dissent. Yours, Anne Friday, 4 May 1944 Dear Kitty, Father’s unhappy with me. After our talk on Sunday he thought I’d stop going upstairs every evening. He won’t have any of that ‘knutscherej’ [necking] going on. I can’t stand that word. Talking

T he Diary of a Young Girl 129

about it was bad enough—why does he have to make me feel bad too! I’ll have a word with him today. Margot gave me some good advice. Here’s more or less what I’d like to say: I think you expect an explanation from me, Father, so I’ll give you one. You’re disappointed in me, you expected more restraint from me, you no doubt want me to act the way a fourteen-yearold is supposed to. But that’s where you’re wrong! Since we’ve been here, from July 1942 until a few weeks ago, I haven’t had an easy time. If only you knew how much I used to cry at night, how unhappy and despondent I was, how lonely I felt, you’d understand my wanting to go upstairs! I’ve now reached the point where I don’t need the support of Mother or anyone else. It didn’t happen overnight. I’ve struggled long and hard and shed many tears to become as independent as I am now. You can laugh and refuse to believe me, but I don’t care. I know I’m an independent person, and I don’t feel I need to account to you for my actions. I’m only telling you this because I don’t want you to think I’m doing things behind your back. But there’s only one person I’m accountable to, and that’s me. When I was having problems, everyone—and that includes you—closed their eyes and ears and didn’t help me. On the contrary, all I ever got were admonitions not to be so noisy. I was noisy only to keep myself from being miserable all the time. I was overconfident to keep from having to listen to the voice inside me. I’ve been putting on an act for the last year and a half, day in, day out. I’ve never complained or dropped my mask, nothing of the kind, and now... now the battle is over. I’ve won! I’m independent, in both body and mind. I don’t need a mother anymore, and I’ve emerged from the struggle a stronger person. Now that it’s over, now that I know the battle has been won, I want to go my own way, to follow the path that seems right to me. Don’t think of me as a fourteen-year-old, since all these troubles have made me older; I won’t regret my actions, I’ll behave the way I think I should!

130

Reflections

Gentle persuasion won’t keep me from going upstairs. You’ll either have to forbid it, or trust me through thick and thin. Whatever you do, just leave me alone! Yours, Anne M. Frank

Summary Saturday, 20 June 1942 Anne starts her diary on this date, wondering whether anyone in the future would be interested in her thoughts and impressions. She says that her parents and sister love her; her schoolmates admire her; but she has no intimate friend in whom she can confide. She says that her reason for writing in her diary is that she has no friends who she could speak freely to. The diary would be the friend in which she would confide to find mental relief. She first records some information about her family and then goes on to describe the cruel and unjust persecution of the Jews by the Nazis. The entry closes with a reference to the death of her grandmother, whom she loved very much. Friday, 9 October 1942 Many Jewish friends of Anne’s family have been arrested by the Nazi secret police and deported to concentration camps. At these camps, Jews are treated brutally and are gassed to death. She writes that their helpers, Miep and Bep feel frightened and desperate. Miep didn’t dare to help an old Jewish woman outside her door as anyone showing kindness to Jews is severely punished. Anne remarks that Germany has deprived Jews of their nationality. Germans are heaping atrocities on people, yet she too was one of them. Wednesday, 13 January 1943 Anne and the other inmates in the shelter are engaged in filling packets with powdered gravy, even though it is usually a task

T he Diary of a Young Girl 131

for prison inmates. Meanwhile, Jews continue to be persecuted. Thousands of them are caught and transported to concentration camps. Jewish children have no clothes and can be seen begging for food from passersby. There is nothing anyone can do except patiently wait for death, which is the only way the suffering will end. Monday, 27 March 1944 Though Anne is not interested in politics, she finds that people argue about it constantly and believe that only their opinion is correct. Anne feels that the older people in the annex spend too much time listening to the radio. The German radio broadcasts only lies. For reliable news, they have to listen to the Dutch broadcasts from England. Anne has only to ask a question to provoke a furious discussion about politics and war among the others. She refers to a speech made by the British Prime Minister Winston Churchill, which is listened to intently by all of them in easy comfort, but she knows that once it is over, they will resume their quarrels. Friday, 5 May 1944 Anne’s love for Peter van Daan is disapproved of by her parents. She decides that she will talk to her father about it. She addresses an imaginary note to him reminding him of her independence. She has undergone much stress without getting any sympathy or understanding from anyone. She is particularly upset with her mother for being cold towards her. She feels that she does not have to account for her behaviour to others. She will do what she likes, and no one should interfere.

Notes Brooding: Thinking a lot about something that makes one angry, anxious or upset. Margot: Anne’s elder sister. Montessori: Maria Montessori was an Italian educationist who evolved a child-centred instruction method which is followed in schools the world over even today.

132

Reflections

Lyceum: A type of secondary school, mainly in Europe. Originally, the garden in Athens where Aristotle taught. Pogroms: Organized mass killings. Capitulation: Surrender. Gestapo: The official secret police of Nazi Germany. Miep: Miep Gies, Otto Frank’s former employee at Opekta. She helped Anne’s family in their shelter and gave her diary to Otto after the war. Distraught: Extremely sad and upset. Hostages: People who are captured and kept prisoners until certain demands are met. Saboteurs: People who deliberately destroy something to prevent an enemy from using it, or to protest about something. Wehrmacht: (German) defence forces. Here, the unified armed forces of Nazi Germany from 1935 to 1945. Nincompoops: Fools. Crone: An ugly old woman. Dussel: The dentist who stays with Anne’s family. Mr van D: Hans Van Daan. He and his family stay with the Franks in the annex. Peter: The fifteen-year-old son of van Daan. Anne falls in love with him. Mouschi: Van Daan’s cat. Despondent: Dejected; in low spirits. Admonitions: Warnings.

Questions 1. Annotate the following. a) Fine specimens of humanity, those Germans, and to think I’m actually one of them! No, that’s not true, Hitler took away our nationality long ago.

T he Diary of a Young Girl 133

b) All we can do is wait, as calmly as possible, for it to end. Jews and Christians alike are waiting, the whole world is waiting, and many are waiting for death. c) If only you knew how much I used to cry at night, how unhappy and despondent I was, how lonely I felt, you’d understand my wanting to go upstairs! 2. Answer the following questions in a paragraph. a) How does Anne describe the Nazi persecution of the Jews? b) Why did Anne decide to maintain a diary? c) How does Anne express her frustrations to her father? 3. Write an essay on the self-portrait of Anne against the background of the Nazi persecution of the Jews.

12 Politics and the English Language George Orwell George Orwell (1903–1950) was an English author and journalist best known for his searing satire of Russian Socialism in his novel Animal Farm. Born in Motihari, Bihar, in the family of a British excise official, his real name was Eric Arthur Blair. His early schooling in England was a period of loneliness and penury. But when he joined Eton on a scholarship, he found the atmosphere congenial to his wide reading habits and the development of an independent personality. After school, Orwell accepted a job in the Imperial Police in Burma. But he was ashamed of the atrocities the police committed there. After returning to England, Orwell lived with destitutes in London and Paris in order to experience at first-hand how the poor lived. He gave a graphic description of his experience in Down and Out in London and Paris. His Socialist sympathies prompted him to join the Republican forces in the Spanish Civil War, but because of differences with the Communists, he returned to England and eventually settled down to a career of writing essays, novels and reviews. His novels include Burmese Days, A Clergyman’s Daughter and Keep the Aspidistra Flying. After the war, his novels, Animal Farm and 1984, a pessimistic projection of an authoritarian world, became immensely popular. He died of tuberculosis in 1950.

Politics and the English Language

135

The essay ‘Politics and the English Language’ expresses Orwell’s profound concern for honest politics and clear English. In his view, dishonest politicians and careless writers employ language in order to mask reality and mislead people. He advocates a simple vigorous style, of which he was a master.

——— Most people who bother with the matter at all would admit that the English language is in a bad way, but it is generally assumed that we cannot by conscious action do anything about it. Our civilization is decadent and our language—so the argument runs—must inevitably share in the general collapse. It follows that any struggle against the abuse of language is a sentimental archaism, like preferring candles to electric light or hansom cabs to aeroplanes. Underneath this lies the half-conscious belief that language is a natural growth and not an instrument which we shape for our own purposes. Now, it is clear that the decline of a language must ultimately have political and economic causes: it is not due simply to the bad influence of this or that individual writer. But an effect can become a cause, reinforcing the original cause and producing the same effect in an intensified form, and so on indefinitely. A man may take to drink because he feels himself to be a failure, and then fail all the more completely because he drinks. It is rather the same thing that is happening to the English language. It becomes ugly and inaccurate because our thoughts are foolish, but the slovenliness of our language makes it easier for us to have foolish thoughts. The point is that the process is reversible. Modern English, especially written English, is full of bad habits which spread by imitation and which can be avoided if one is willing to take the necessary trouble. If one gets rid of these habits one can think more clearly, and to think clearly is a necessary first step toward political regeneration: so that the fight against bad English is not frivolous and is not the exclusive concern

136

Reflections

of professional writers. I will come back to this presently, and I hope that by that time the meaning of what I have said here will have become clearer. Meanwhile, here are five specimens of the English language as it is now habitually written. These five passages have not been picked out because they are especially bad—I could have quoted far worse if I had chosen—but because they illustrate various of the mental vices from which we now suffer. They are a little below the average, but are fairly representative examples. I number them so that I can refer back to them when necessary: 1. I am not, indeed, sure whether it is not true to say that the Milton who once seemed not unlike a seventeenth-century Shelley had not become, out of an experience ever more bitter in each year, more alien [sic] to the founder of that Jesuit sect which nothing could induce him to tolerate. Professor Harold Laski (Essay in Freedom of Expression) 2. Above all, we cannot play ducks and drakes with a native battery of idioms which prescribes egregious collocations of vocables as the basic put up with for tolerate, or put at a loss for bewilder . Professor Lancelot Hogben (Interglossa) 3. On the one side we have the free personality: by definition it is not neurotic, for it has neither conflict nor dream. Its desires, such as they are, are transparent, for they are just what institutional approval keeps in the forefront of consciousness; another institutional pattern would alter their number and intensity; there is little in them that is natural, irreducible, or culturally dangerous. But on the other side, the social bond itself is nothing but the mutual reflection of these self-secure integrities. Recall the definition of love. Is not this the very picture of a small academic? Where is there a place in this hall of mirrors for either personality or fraternity? Essay on psychology in Politics (New York)

Politics and the English Language

137

4. All the ‘best people’ from the gentlemen’s clubs, and all the frantic fascist captains, united in common hatred of Socialism and bestial horror at the rising tide of the mass revolutionary movement, have turned to acts of provocation, to foul incendiarism, to medieval legends of poisoned wells, to legalize their own destruction of proletarian organizations, and rouse the agitated petty-bourgeoisie to chauvinistic fervour on behalf of the fight against the revolutionary way out of the crisis. Communist pamphlet 5. If a new spirit is to be infused into this old country, there is one thorny and contentious reform which must be tackled, and that is the humanization and galvanization of the B.B.C. Timidity here will bespeak canker and atrophy of the soul. The heart of Britain may be sound and of strong beat, for instance, but the British lion’s roar at present is like that of Bottom in Shakespeare’s Midsummer Night’s Dream—as gentle as any sucking dove. A virile new Britain cannot continue indefinitely to be traduced in the eyes or rather ears, of the world by the effete languors of Langham Place, brazenly masquerading as ‘standard English’. When the Voice of Britain is heard at nine o’clock, better far and infinitely less ludicrous to hear aitches honestly dropped than the present priggish, inflated, inhibited, schoolma’amish arch braying of blameless bashful mewing maidens! Letter in Tribune Each of these passages has faults of its own, but, quite apart from avoidable ugliness, two qualities are common to all of them. The first is staleness of imagery; the other is lack of precision. The writer either has a meaning and cannot express it, or he inadvertently says something else, or he is almost indifferent as to whether his words mean anything or not. This mixture of vagueness and sheer incompetence is the most marked characteristic of modern English prose, and especially of any kind of political writing. As soon as certain topics are raised, the concrete melts into the abstract and no one seems able to think of turns

138

Reflections

of speech that are not hackneyed: prose consists less and less of words chosen for the sake of their meaning, and more and more of phrases tacked together like the sections of a prefabricated henhouse. I list below, with notes and examples, various of the tricks by means of which the work of prose construction is habitually dodged: Dying Metaphors A newly invented metaphor assists thought by evoking a visual image, while on the other hand a metaphor which is technically ‘dead’ (e.g. iron resolution) has in effect reverted to being an ordinary word and can generally be used without loss of vividness. But in between these two classes, there is a huge dump of worn-out metaphors which have lost all evocative power and are merely used because they save people the trouble of inventing phrases for themselves. Examples are: Ring the changes on, take up the cudgel for, toe the line, ride roughshod over, stand shoulder to shoulder with, play into the hands of, no axe to grind, grist to the mill, fishing in troubled waters, on the order of the day, Achilles’ heel, swan song, hotbed. Many of these are used without knowledge of their meaning (what is a rift, for instance?), and incompatible metaphors are frequently mixed, a sure sign that the writer is not interested in what he is saying. Some metaphors now current have been twisted out of their original meaning without those who use them even being aware of the fact. For example, toe the line is sometimes written as tow the line. Another example is the hammer and the anvil, now always used with the implication that the anvil gets the worst of it. In real life it is always the anvil that breaks the hammer, never the other way about: a writer who stopped to think what he was saying would avoid perverting the original phrase. Operators or Verbal False Limbs These save the trouble of picking out appropriate verbs and nouns, and at the same time pad each sentence with extra syllables which give it an appearance of symmetry. Characteristic

Politics and the English Language

139

phrases are render inoperative, militate against, make contact with, be subjected to, give rise to, give grounds for, have the effect of, play a leading part (role) in, make itself felt, take effect, exhibit a tendency to, serve the purpose of, etc., etc. The keynote is the elimination of simple verbs. Instead of being a single word, such as break, stop, spoil, mend, kill, a verb becomes a phrase, made up of a noun or adjective tacked on to some general-purpose verb such as prove, serve, form, play, render. In addition, the passive voice is wherever possible used in preference to the active, and noun constructions are used instead of gerunds (by examination of instead of by examining). The range of verbs is further cut down by means of the -ize and de- formations, and the banal statements are given an appearance of profundity by means of the not un- formation. Simple conjunctions and prepositions are replaced by such phrases as with respect to, having regard to, the fact that, by dint of, in view of, in the interests of, on the hypothesis that; and the ends of sentences are saved from anticlimax by such resounding commonplaces as greatly to be desired, cannot be left out of account, a development to be expected in the near future, deserving of serious consideration, brought to a satisfactory conclusion, and so on and so forth. Pretentious Diction Words like phenomenon, element, individual (as noun), objective, categorical, effective, virtual, basic, primary, promote, constitute, exhibit, exploit, utilize, eliminate, liquidate, are used to dress up a simple statement and give an air of scientific impartiality to biased judgements. Adjectives like epoch-making, epic, historic, unforgettable, triumphant, age-old, inevitable, inexorable, veritable, are used to dignify the sordid process of international politics, while writing that aims at glorifying war usually takes on an archaic colour, its characteristic words being: realm, throne, chariot, mailed fist, trident, sword, shield, buckler, banner, jackboot, clarion. Foreign words and expressions such as cul de sac, ancien régime, deus ex machina, mutatis mutandis, status

140

Reflections

quo, gleichschaltung, weltanschauung, are used to give an air of culture and elegance. Except for the useful abbreviations i.e., e.g., and etc., there is no real need for any of the hundreds of foreign phrases now current in the English language. Bad writers, and especially scientific, political, and sociological writers, are nearly always haunted by the notion that Latin or Greek words are grander than Saxon ones, and unnecessary words like expedite, ameliorate, predict, extraneous, deracinated, clandestine, subaqueous, and hundreds of others constantly gain ground from their Anglo-Saxon opposite numbers. The jargon peculiar to Marxist writing (hyena, hangman, cannibal, petty bourgeois, these gentry, lackey, flunkey, mad dog, White Guard, etc.) consists largely of words translated from Russian, German, or French; but the normal way of coining a new word is to use a Latin or Greek root with the appropriate affix and, where necessary, the -ize formation. It is often easier to make up words of this kind (deregionalize, impermissible, extramarital, non-fragmentary and so forth) than to think up the English words that will cover one’s meaning. The result, in general, is an increase in slovenliness and vagueness. Meaningless Words In certain kinds of writing, particularly in art criticism and literary criticism, it is normal to come across long passages which are almost completely lacking in meaning. Words like romantic, plastic, values, human, dead, sentimental, natural, vitality, as used in art criticism, are strictly meaningless, in the sense that they not only do not point to any discoverable object, but are hardly ever expected to do so by the reader. When one critic writes, ‘The outstanding feature of Mr X’s work is its living quality,’ while another writes, ‘The immediately striking thing about Mr X’s work is its peculiar deadness,’ the reader accepts this as a simple difference of opinion. If words like black and white were involved, instead of the jargon words dead and living, he would see at once that language was being used in an improper way. Many political words are similarly abused. The word Fascism has

Politics and the English Language

141

now no meaning except in so far as it signifies ‘something not desirable.’ The words democracy, socialism, freedom, patriotic, realistic, justice have each of them several different meanings which cannot be reconciled with one another. In the case of a word like democracy, not only is there no agreed definition, but the attempt to make one is resisted from all sides. It is almost universally felt that when we call a country democratic we are praising it: consequently the defenders of every kind of regime claim that it is a democracy, and fear that they might have to stop using that word if it were tied down to any one meaning. Words of this kind are often used in a consciously dishonest way. That is, the person who uses them has his own private definition, but allows his hearer to think he means something quite different. Statements like Marshal Pétain was a true patriot, The Soviet press is the freest in the world, The Catholic Church is opposed to persecution, are almost always made with intent to deceive. Other words used in variable meanings, in most cases more or less dishonestly, are: class, totalitarian, science, progressive, reactionary, bourgeois, equality. Now that I have made this catalogue of swindles and perversions, let me give another example of the kind of writing that they lead to. This time it must of its nature be an imaginary one. I am going to translate a passage of good English into modern English of the worst sort. Here is a well-known verse from Ecclesiastes: I returned and saw under the sun, that the race is not to the swift, nor the battle to the strong, neither yet bread to the wise, nor yet riches to men of understanding, nor yet favour to men of skill; but time and chance happeneth to them all. Here it is in modern English: Objective considerations of contemporary phenomena compel the conclusion that success or failure in competitive activities exhibits no tendency to be commensurate with innate capacity, but that a considerable element of the unpredictable must invariably be taken into account.

142

Reflections

This is a parody, but not a very gross one. Exhibit 3. above, for instance, contains several patches of the same kind of English. It will be seen that I have not made a full translation. The beginning and ending of the sentence follow the original meaning fairly closely, but in the middle the concrete illustrations— race, battle, bread—dissolve into the vague phrases ‘success or failure in competitive activities’. This had to be so, because no modern writer of the kind I am discussing—no one capable of using phrases like ‘objective considerations of contemporary phenomena’—would ever tabulate his thoughts in that precise and detailed way. The whole tendency of modern prose is away from concreteness. Now analyze these two sentences a little more closely. The first contains forty-nine words but only sixty syllables, and all its words are those of everyday life. The second contains thirty-eight words of ninety syllables: eighteen of those words are from Latin roots, and one from Greek. The first sentence contains six vivid images, and only one phrase (‘time and chance’) that could be called vague. The second contains not a single fresh, arresting phrase, and in spite of its ninety syllables it gives only a shortened version of the meaning contained in the first. Yet without a doubt it is the second kind of sentence that is gaining ground in modern English. I do not want to exaggerate. This kind of writing is not yet universal, and outcrops of simplicity will occur here and there in the worst-written page. Still, if you or I were told to write a few lines on the uncertainty of human fortunes, we should probably come much nearer to my imaginary sentence than to the one from Ecclesiastes. As I have tried to show, modern writing at its worst does not consist in picking out words for the sake of their meaning and inventing images in order to make the meaning clearer. It consists in gumming together long strips of words which have already been set in order by someone else, and making the results presentable by sheer humbug. The attraction of this way of writing is that it is easy. It is easier—even quicker, once you have the habit—to say In my opinion it is not an unjustifiable assumption that than

Politics and the English Language

143

to say I think. If you use ready-made phrases, you not only don’t have to hunt about for the words; you also don’t have to bother with the rhythms of your sentences since these phrases are generally so arranged as to be more or less euphonious. When you are composing in a hurry—when you are dictating to a stenographer, for instance, or making a public speech—it is natural to fall into a pretentious, Latinized style. Tags like a consideration which we should do well to bear in mind or a conclusion to which all of us would readily assent will save many a sentence from coming down with a bump. By using stale metaphors, similes, and idioms, you save much mental effort, at the cost of leaving your meaning vague, not only for your reader but for yourself. This is the significance of mixed metaphors. The sole aim of a metaphor is to call up a visual image. When these images clash—as in The Fascist octopus has sung its swan song, the jackboot is thrown into the melting pot—it can be taken as certain that the writer is not seeing a mental image of the objects he is naming; in other words he is not really thinking. Look again at the examples I gave at the beginning of this essay. Professor Laski 1. uses five negatives in fifty three words. One of these is superfluous, making nonsense of the whole passage, and in addition there is the slip—alien for akin—making further nonsense, and several avoidable pieces of clumsiness which increase the general vagueness. Professor Hogben 2. plays ducks and drakes with a battery which is able to write prescriptions, and, while disapproving of the everyday phrase put up with, is unwilling to look egregious up in the dictionary and see what it means; 3., if one takes an uncharitable attitude towards it, is simply meaningless: probably one could work out its intended meaning by reading the whole of the article in which it occurs. In 4., the writer knows more or less what he wants to say, but an accumulation of stale phrases chokes him like tea leaves blocking a sink. In 5., words and meaning have almost parted company. People who write in this manner usually have a general emotional meaning—they dislike one thing and want to express solidarity with another—but they are

144

Reflections

not interested in the detail of what they are saying. A scrupulous writer, in every sentence that he writes, will ask himself at least four questions, thus: 1. What am I trying to say? 2. What words will express it? 3. What image or idiom will make it clearer? 4. Is this image fresh enough to have an effect? And he will probably ask himself two more: 1. Could I put it more shortly? 2. Have I said anything that is avoidably ugly? But you are not obliged to go to all this trouble. You can shirk it by simply throwing your mind open and letting the ready-made phrases come crowding in. They will construct your sentences for you—even think your thoughts for you, to a certain extent—and at need they will perform the important service of partially concealing your meaning even from yourself. It is at this point that the special connection between politics and the debasement of language becomes clear. In our time it is broadly true that political writing is bad writing. Where it is not true, it will generally be found that the writer is some kind of rebel, expressing his private opinions and not a ‘party line’. Orthodoxy, of whatever colour, seems to demand a lifeless, imitative style. The political dialects to be found in pamphlets, leading articles, manifestos, white papers and the speeches of undersecretaries do, of course, vary from party to party, but they are all alike in that one almost never finds in them a fresh, vivid, homemade turn of speech. When one watches some tired hack on the platform mechanically repeating the familiar phrases—bestial atrocities, iron heel, bloodstained tyranny, free peoples of the world, stand shoulder to shoulder— one often has a curious feeling that one is not watching a live human being but some kind of dummy: a feeling which suddenly becomes stronger at moments when the light catches the speaker’s spectacles and turns them into blank discs which seem to have no eyes behind them. And this is not altogether fanciful. A speaker who uses that kind of phraseology has gone some distance toward turning himself into a machine. The appropriate noises are coming out of his larynx, but his brain is not involved as it would be if he were choosing his words for himself. If the

Politics and the English Language

145

speech he is making is one that he is accustomed to make over and over again, he may be almost unconscious of what he is saying, as one is when one utters the responses in church. And this reduced state of consciousness, if not indispensable, is at any rate favourable to political conformity. In our time, political speech and writing are largely the defence of the indefensible. Things like the continuance of British rule in India, the Russian purges and deportations, the dropping of the atom bombs on Japan, can indeed be defended, but only by arguments which are too brutal for most people to face, and which do not square with the professed aims of the political parties. Thus political language has to consist largely of euphemism, question-begging and sheer cloudy vagueness. Defenceless villages are bombarded from the air, the inhabitants driven out into the countryside, the cattle machine-gunned, the huts set on fire with incendiary bullets: this is called pacification. Millions of peasants are robbed of their farms and sent trudging along the roads with no more than they can carry: this is called transfer of population or rectification of frontiers. People are imprisoned for years without trial, or shot in the back of the neck or sent to die of scurvy in Arctic lumber camps: this is called elimination of unreliable elements. Such phraseology is needed if one wants to name things without calling up mental pictures of them. Consider for instance some comfortable English professor defending Russian totalitarianism. He cannot say outright, ‘I believe in killing off your opponents when you can get good results by doing so’. Probably, therefore, he will say something like this: ‘While freely conceding that the Soviet regime exhibits certain features which the humanitarian may be inclined to deplore, we must, I think, agree that a certain curtailment of the right to political opposition is an unavoidable concomitant of transitional periods, and that the rigours which the Russian people have been called upon to undergo have been amply justified in the sphere of concrete achievement.’

146

Reflections

The inflated style itself is a kind of euphemism. A mass of Latin words falls upon the facts like soft snow, blurring the outline and covering up all the details. The great enemy of clear language is insincerity. When there is a gap between one’s real and one’s declared aims, one turns as it were instinctively to long words and exhausted idioms, like a cuttlefish spurting out ink. In our age there is no such thing as ‘keeping out of politics’. All issues are political issues, and politics itself is a mass of lies, evasions, folly, hatred, and schizophrenia. When the general atmosphere is bad, language must suffer. I should expect to find—this is a guess which I have not sufficient knowledge to verify—that the German, Russian and Italian languages have all deteriorated in the last ten or fifteen years, as a result of dictatorship. But if thought corrupts language, language can also corrupt thought. A bad usage can spread by tradition and imitation even among people who should and do know better. The debased language that I have been discussing is in some ways very convenient. Phrases like a not unjustifiable assumption, leaves much to be desired, would serve no good purpose, a consideration which we should do well to bear in mind, are a continuous temptation, a packet of aspirins always at one’s elbow. Look back through this essay, and for certain you will find that I have again and again committed the very faults I am protesting against. By this morning’s post I have received a pamphlet dealing with conditions in Germany. The author tells me that he ‘felt impelled’ to write it. I open it at random, and here is almost the first sentence I see: ‘[The Allies] have an opportunity not only of achieving a radical transformation of Germany’s social and political structure in such a way as to avoid a nationalistic reaction in Germany itself, but at the same time of laying the foundations of a co-operative and unified Europe.’ You see, he ‘feels impelled’ to write—feels, presumably, that he has something new to say—and yet his words, like cavalry horses answering the bugle, group themselves automatically into the familiar dreary pattern. This invasion of one’s mind by ready-made phrases (lay the foundations, achieve a

Politics and the English Language

147

radical transformation) can only be prevented if one is constantly on guard against them, and every such phrase anaesthetizes a portion of one’s brain. I said earlier that the decadence of our language is probably curable. Those who deny this would argue, if they produced an argument at all, that language merely reflects existing social conditions, and that we cannot influence its development by any direct tinkering with words and constructions. So far as the general tone or spirit of a language goes, this may be true, but it is not true in detail. Silly words and expressions have often disappeared, not through any evolutionary process but owing to the conscious action of a minority. Two recent examples were explore every avenue and leave no stone unturned, which were killed by the jeers of a few journalists. There is a long list of flyblown metaphors which could similarly be got rid of if enough people would interest themselves in the job; and it should also be possible to laugh the not un-formation out of existence, to reduce the amount of Latin and Greek in the average sentence, to drive out foreign phrases and strayed scientific words, and, in general, to make pretentiousness unfashionable. But all these are minor points. The defence of the English language implies more than this, and perhaps it is best to start by saying what it does not imply. To begin with it has nothing to do with archaism, with the salvaging of obsolete words and turns of speech, or with the setting up of a ‘standard English’ which must never be departed from. On the contrary, it is especially concerned with the scrapping of every word or idiom which has outworn its usefulness. It has nothing to do with correct grammar and syntax, which are of no importance so long as one makes one’s meaning clear, or with the avoidance of Americanisms, or with having what is called a ‘good prose style’. On the other hand, it is not concerned with fake simplicity and the attempt to make written English colloquial. Nor does it even imply in every case preferring the Saxon word to the Latin one, though it does imply using the

148

Reflections

fewest and shortest words that will cover one’s meaning. What is above all needed is to let the meaning choose the word, and not the other way around. In prose, the worst thing one can do with words is surrender to them. When you think of a concrete object, you think wordlessly, and then, if you want to describe the thing you have been visualizing you probably hunt about until you find the exact words that seem to fit it. When you think of something abstract you are more inclined to use words from the start, and unless you make a conscious effort to prevent it, the existing dialect will come rushing in and do the job for you, at the expense of blurring or even changing your meaning. Probably it is better to put off using words as long as possible and get one’s meaning as clear as one can through pictures and sensations. Afterward one can choose—not simply accept—the phrases that will best cover the meaning, and then switch round and decide what impressions one’s words are likely to make on another person. This last effort of the mind cuts out all stale or mixed images, all prefabricated phrases, needless repetitions, and humbug and vagueness generally. But one can often be in doubt about the effect of a word or a phrase, and one needs rules that one can rely on when instinct fails. I think the following rules will cover most cases: (i) Never use a metaphor, simile, or other figure of speech which you are used to seeing in print. (ii) Never use a long word where a short one will do. (iii) If it is possible to cut a word out, always cut it out. (iv) Never use the passive where you can use the active. (v) Never use a foreign phrase, a scientific word, or a jargon word if you can think of an everyday English equivalent. (vi) Break any of these rules sooner than say anything outright barbarous. These rules sound elementary, and so they are, but they demand a deep change of attitude in anyone who has grown used to writing in the style now fashionable. One could keep all of them and still write bad English, but one could not write the

Politics and the English Language

149

kind of stuff that I quoted in those five specimens at the beginning of this article. I have not here been considering the literary use of language, but merely language as an instrument for expressing and not for concealing or preventing thought. Stuart Chase and others have come near to claiming that all abstract words are meaningless, and have used this as a pretext for advocating a kind of political quietism. Since you don’t know what Fascism is, how can you struggle against Fascism? One need not swallow such absurdities as this, but one ought to recognize that the present political chaos is connected with the decay of language, and that one can probably bring about some improvement by starting at the verbal end. If you simplify your English, you are freed from the worst follies of orthodoxy. You cannot speak any of the necessary dialects, and when you make a stupid remark its stupidity will be obvious, even to yourself. Political language—and with variations this is true of all political parties, from Conservatives to Anarchists—is designed to make lies sound truthful and murder respectable, and to give an appearance of solidity to pure wind. One cannot change this all in a moment, but one can at least change one’s own habits, and from time to time one can even, if one jeers loudly enough, send some worn-out and useless phrase—some jackboot, Achilles’ heel, hotbed, melting pot, acid test, veritable inferno, or other lump of verbal refuse—into the dustbin, where it belongs.

Summary Orwell says that people are conscious that the English language is decaying; but they feel helpless about arresting it. He believes that linguistic carelessness and intellectual confusion go together. Our expressions lack clarity and precision because our thoughts are confused. Orwell selects five passages to show that modern English prose is characterized by vagueness and incompetence. He says

150

Reflections

that instead of evoking concrete imagery, language now expresses meaningless abstractions. As people do not want to think independently, they resort to ready-made phrases, clichés and dead metaphors. Orwell shows how high-sounding words are use to hide trite ideas and dishonest motives. He says that in art and literary criticism, long passages without any meaning are common. For example, words like Fascism have lost their meaning, but are used liberally. He mentions other words, like democracy, free press and patriotism which are used to deceive people. Another occasion when a writer uses ready-made phrases is when he is in a hurry. He does not care to choose the right words which will make his ideas clear. Careful writers, on the other hand, always find fresh and vivid images to effectively express their ideas. They usually prefer short sentences. Government reports are known to be invariably dull as they are all alike, for there is never room for any original thought. Political speakers tend to mechanically repeat worn out phrases. Such speakers are in the process of turning themselves into machines as they have long stopped thinking about what they say. Orwell says that this intellectual somnolence is the first step to political conformism. In modern times, political writing has found a new use. It is used to defend what is indefensible. British imperialism, the Russian purges and the dropping of the atom bomb on Japan cannot be defended except by perverting ideals and logic. Such inhuman practices are covered up using innocent-looking words and deliberate vagueness. Man cannot escape from politics. But politics itself is made up of lies, folly and hatred. So, language has suffered. Dictatorship, whether in Germany, Russia or Italy, has led to the degeneration of language. Orwell believes that the decay of English can be arrested if conscious efforts are undertaken to observe the following rules: (i) Never use worn-out figures of speech. (ii) Use short words.

Politics and the English Language

151

(iii) Avoid using more words than necessary. (iv) Use the active voice rather than the passive. (v) Avoid foreign words. Writers need not be dogmatic about these rules. The important thing is to write precise, simple and clear English. Such rules will introduce some order into politics which is, at present, chaotic.

Notes Hansom cabs: Two-wheeled horse-drawn cabs. Slovenliness: Carelessness. Sic: (Latin) so thus. It is written after a word copied from a source where it is wrongly spelled or wrong in some other way. It indicates that the error was made by the original writer. Jesuit: A member of the Society of Jesus, founded in the 16th century by St Ignatius Loyola for missionary work. Ducks and drakes: A game of making a flat stone bounce across the surface of water; to squander money recklessly. Bewilder: To confuse. Incendiarism: Act of setting things on fire. Chauvinistic: Aggressively patriotic Galvanization: Rousing people to do something. Atrophy: To become weak. Traduced: Spoken ill of. Effete: Weak or exhausted. Languor: Dullness; lack of energy. Inadvertently: Unintentionally. Hackneyed: Made trite by overuse. Achilles’ heel: A weakness or vulnerable point. Achilles was a Greek epic hero and one of the central characters of Homer’s The Iliad. When he was an infant, his mother dipped his body into the river Styx to make him invulnerable. To do so, she held him by his heel, which did not become wet and hence

152

Reflections

remained vulnerable. In the battle of Troy, the Trojan prince Paris shot an arrow into his heel and killed him. Swan song: Swans are supposed to sing only at the time of death; the last work of an artist. Inexorable: Something that cannot be stopped or changed. Veritable: True or real. Sordid: Very bad; filthy. Cul de sac: A passage closed at one end; a state where no further progress is possible. Ancien régime: (French) old order. It refers to the political and social system in France before the French Revolution of 1789. Deus ex machina: An unexpected power or event that saves a situation that seems without hope, especially in a play or novel. It means ‘God out of the machine’ in Latin and refers to the crane by which actors playing gods were lowered on to the stage in Greek theatre. Mutatis mutandis: (Latin) making necessary changes. Status quo: Existing state of affairs. Gleichschaltung: (German) making all things same. It refers to the standardization of all institutions in Fascist states. It is a Nazi term. Weltanschauung: (German) world outlook. Ameliorate: Improve. Deracinated: Torn up by the roots. Subaqeous: Underwater. Petty bourgeois: Middle class. White Guard: A loose confederation of anti-Communist counterrevolutionary forces in Russia who fought the Soviet Red Guards. Marshal Pétain: French general who established a puppet regime in France during World War II, which was controlled by the Nazis.

Politics and the English Language

153

Commensurate: Proportionate. White paper: (In the U.K.) a government report on a particular problem with proposals for legislative changes. Euphonious: Sounding pleasant. Octopus: A sea creature with eight arms. Euphemism: An indirect word or phrase used to refer to something embarrassing or unpleasant. Concomitant: Associated; happening together. Schizophrenia: A mental illness in which a person cannot behave rationally, leading to withdrawal from reality and personal relationships.

Questions 1. Annotate the following. a) A man may take to drink because he feels himself to be a failure, and then fail all the more completely because he drinks. It is rather the same thing that is happening to the English language. b) When these images clash—as in The Fascist octopus has sung its swan song, the jackboot is thrown into the melting pot—it can be taken that the writer is not seeing a mental image of the object he is naming; in other words he is not really thinking. c) In our time, political speech and writing are largely the defence of the indefensible. 2. Answer the following. a) Why does Orwell disapprove of dead metaphors? b) What kind of diction should be avoided by those who want to write good English? c) How does bad language promote political conformity? 3. How does Orwell correlate dishonest politics with defective language?