The literary festival which we are assembled to commemorate is called Commencement. To an interesting portion of my hearers it is the commencement of a new life. The ingenuous student, having completed his term of years—a classical Olympiad—amidst the restraints of the academy, in the daily pursuits of the lecture-room, observant of forms, obsequious to the college curfew, at length renounces these restraints, heeds no longer the summoning bell, throws off the youthful gown, and now, under the auspices of Alma Mater, assumes the robe of manhood. At such a change, the mind and heart open to impressions which may send an influence through remaining life. A seasonable word to-day may, peradventure, like the acorn dropped into propitious soil, shoot upward its invigorating growth, till its stately trunk, its multitudinous branches, and sheltering foliage become an ornament and protection of unspeakable beauty.

Feeling more than I can express the responsibility of the position in which I am now placed by your partial kindness, I trust that what I shall say may be not unworthy of careful meditation, and that it may ripen in this generous soil with no unwelcome growth. I address the literary societies of Amherst College, and my subject will naturally bear some relation to the occasion and to the assembly. But though addressing literary societies, I feel that I should inadequately perform my duty at this time, if I spoke on any topic of mere literature, without moralizing the theme; nor could I satisfy myself,—I think I should not satisfy you,—if I strove to excite merely a love of knowledge, of study, of books, or even of those classics which, like the ancient Roman roads, the Appian and Flaminian Ways, once trod by returning proconsuls and tributary kings, still continue the thoroughfares of nations. These things I may well leave to the lessons of your able instructors and to the influences of this place; nor, indeed, can I expect to touch upon any topic which, under the mingled teachings of the pulpit and the chair, has not been already impressed upon your minds with more force than I can command. Still, I may not vainly indulge the hope, by singling one special theme, to present it with distinctness and unity, so that it will be connected hereafter, in some humble measure, with the grave and the pleasant memories of this occasion.

To you now standing on the threshold of life, anxious for its honors,—more anxious, I hope, for its duties,—nothing can be more important or interesting than the inquiry, what should be your aims, and what your motives of conduct. The youthful bosom throbbing with historic examples is stirred by the praises lavished upon those who have gone before, and pants for fresh fields. The laurels of Miltiades would not suffer Themistocles to sleep. Perhaps a kindred sleeplessness consumes the early thoughts of our day, and, in those visions which it is said young men shall see, Fame and Glory too often absorb the sight. Turning the attention in this direction, we may, perhaps, ascertain the true nature of these potent attractions, and to what extent they can be justly regarded.

My subject is Fame and Glory. As I undertake this discussion, I feel that I enter upon a theme which has become a commonplace of declamation, while it has filled the aspirations of many of the noblest natures that have lived. The great Roman orator, whose essay De Gloria, surviving the wreck of antiquity, was lost in the darkness of the Middle Ages, cannot claim exclusive possession of the topic he had fondly made his own; nor is there enough in the chapter De Cupiditate GloriÆ, by the Roman historiographer,[186] to supersede inquiry, especially in a Christian age, when a speaker may hope to combine lights and illustrations which had not dawned upon the Heathen.

Three questions present themselves: First, What, in the more popular acceptation, are Fame and Glory? Secondly, To what extent, if any, are they proper motives of conduct or objects of regard? and, Thirdly, What are True Fame and Glory, and who are the men most worthy of honor? Already, in stating these questions, scenes and characters memorable in history rise before us, while from a distance we discern the dazzling heights of human ambition.

I.

What, in the more popular acceptation, are Fame and Glory? In considering this question we must look beyond the verses of poets, the eulogies of orators, and the discordant voices whether of history or philosophy. We must endeavor to observe these nimble-footed phantoms from a nearer point of view, to follow their movements, to note their principle of life, and to direct upon them the light of truth. Thus we may hope to arrive at a clear perception of their character, and perhaps do something by which to disenchant their pernicious power and break their unhappy sorcery.

Fame was portrayed by the poets of antiquity as a monster, with innumerable eyes to see, innumerable ears to hear, and innumerable tongues to declare what she had seen and heard:—

In this character her office was different from that commonly attached to Glory. She was the grand author and circulator of reports, news, tidings, good or bad, true or false. Glory seems to have escaped the unpleasing personification of her sister, Fame. These two names were often used in the same sense; but the former more exclusively designated that splendor of renown which was so great an object of heathen ambition. For the present purpose they may be regarded as synonymous, denoting, with different degrees of force, the reputation awarded on earth for human conduct.

Glory, in common acceptance, is a form or expression of public opinion. It is the judgment uttered by fellow-mortals upon our lives or acts. It is the product of their voices. It is the echo of their characters and minds. Its value and significance are, therefore, measured by the weight justly attached to this opinion. If those from whom it proceeds are enlightened, benevolent, and just, it may be the mark of honor. If, on the other hand, they are ignorant, heartless, or unjust, it must be an uncertain index, varying always in accordance with the elevation, mediocrity, or degradation of the intellectual and moral nature.

This explanation enables us to appreciate different foundations of Fame. In early and barbarous periods homage is rendered exclusively to achievements of physical strength, chiefly in slaying wild beasts or human beings termed "enemies." The feats of Hercules, filling the fable and mythology of early Greece, were triumphs of brute force. Conqueror of the Nemean lion and the many-headed hydra, strangler of the giant AntÆus, illustrious scavenger of the Augean stables, grand abater of contemporary nuisances, he was hailed as hero and commemorated as god. At a later time honor was still continued to mere muscular strength of arm. The most polite and eminent chief at the siege of Troy is distinguished by Homer for the ease with which he hurled a stone such as could not be lifted even by two strong men of his day:—

This was Glory in an age which had not learned to regard the moral and intellectual nature, or that which distinguishes man from the beast, as the only source of conduct worthy of just renown.

As we enter the polished periods of antiquity, ambition gleams in new forms, while we still discern the barbarism that slowly yields to advancing light. The Olympic games echoed to the Isthmian in shouts of praise. All Greece joined in competition for prizes awarded to successful charioteers and athletes; and victory was hailed as a great Glory. Poets did not disdain to sing these achievements; and the odes of Pindar—the Theban eagle, whose pride of place is still undisturbed in the Grecian firmament—are squandered in commemoration of these petty or vulgar contests. In Sparta honor was the monopoly of the soldier returning with his shield, or on it. The arts of peace yielded servile precedence to the toils of war, in which were absorbed life and education. Athens, instinct with the martial spirit, did not fail to cherish the owl with the spear that belonged to her patron goddess; poetry, eloquence, philosophy, history, art, held divided empire with arms; so that this city is wreathed with a Glory other and higher than that of Sparta. And yet this brilliant renown, admired through a long succession of ages, must fade and grow dull by the side of triumphs grander and holier than any achieved by force or intellect alone.

Rome slowly learned to recognize labors not employed in war. In her stately and imperatorial tongue, virtue, that word of highest import, was too often restricted to martial courage. Her much-prized crowns of honor were all awarded to the successful soldier. The title to a triumph, that highest object of ambition, was determined by the number of enemies destroyed, and at least five thousand must have been slain in battle without any considerable detriment to the Roman power. Her most illustrious characters cherished this barbarous spirit. Cato the Censor, that model Roman, hearing that the Athenian ambassadors had captivated the youth of Rome by the charms of philosophy, abruptly dismissed them, and, with the spirit of a Mohawk Indian, declared his reprehension of such corrupting influence on a people whose only profession was war. Even Cicero, in his work of beautiful, but checkered morals, where heathenism blends with truth almost Christian, commends to youth the Glory of war, while he congratulates his son Marcus on the great praise he had obtained from Pompey and the whole army, "by riding, hurling the javelin, and enduring every kind of military labor."[189]

The Roman, taught the Glory of war, was also told, as a last resort, to balk the evils of the world by taking his own life,—falling on his sword, like Brutus, or opening his veins, like Seneca. Suicide was honorable, glorious. A grave historian has recorded the melancholy end of Cato at Utica, whose philosophical suicide is so familiar to English readers from Addison's tragedy: first, the calm perusal of Plato's Dialogue on the Immortality of the Soul; then the plunging of the dagger into his body; the alarm of friends; the timely presence of aid, by which the wound was closed; and when the determined patriot was again left alone, a further ferocious persistence in his purpose till life was extinct: yet this recital is crowned by the annunciation, that Cato, "even by his death, gained great Glory."[190]

Other stages show other elements of renown. The Huns bestowed Glory upon the successful robber; the Scandinavians, upon the triumphant pirate; while in Wales petty larceny and grossness of conduct were the foundations of Fame. In the Welsh tale of "The Mabinogion," where are stories of King Arthur, so famous in song and legend, Peredur, whose dead father had owned "the earldom of the North," is sent by his mother to visit where lived "the best and the boldest and the most bountiful of men." As the son is about to leave, the mother instructs him how to secure an honorable name. "Now hear," says the ambitious mother to her child. "If by chance thou comest by a church, there chant thy paternoster. When thou seest victuals and drink to satisfy thy appetite, help thyself thereto. If thou shouldest hear a cry of distress, go and know the cause, but in particular if it is the voice of a female. Should any precious jewel attract thy eyes, take it; and bestow on others also. Thus shalt thou acquire Fame."[191] The processes of Fame thus rudely displayed were refined by chivalry; but the vivid page of Froissart shows, that, while courtesy became a fresh and grateful element, petty personal encounters with spear and sword were the honorable feats by which applause was won and a name extended after death. And we learn from old Michael Drayton, the poet who has pictured the Battle of Agincourt, something of the inhuman renown there obtained:—

From the early literature of Spain, where Chivalry found a favorite haunt, it appears that brutality, assassination, and murder were glorious, while adventure in robbery and promptitude in vengeance were favorite acts of heroism. "The Life of the Valiant Cespedes," a Spanish knight of renown, by Lope de Vega, reveals exploits which were little better than performances of a brawny porter and a bully. Passions of a rude nature were gratified at will. Sanguinary revenge and inhuman harshness were his honorable pursuits. A furious blow of his clenched fist, in the very palace of the Emperor at Augsburg, knocked out the teeth of a heretic,—an achievement hailed with honor and congratulation by the Duke of Alva, and by his master, Charles the Fifth. Thus did a Spanish gentleman acquire Fame in the sixteenth century![193]

Such, in other places and times, have been objects of praise. Such is the Glory achieved. Men have extolled what, according to their knowledge or ignorance, they could best appreciate. Nor does this rule fail in our day. The ends of pursuit vary in different parts of the globe and among different persons; and Fame is still awarded to conduct which reason condemns as barbarous. The North American savage commemorates the chief who hangs at the door of his wigwam a heavy string of scalps, the spoils of war. The New-Zealander honors the champion who slays and then eats his enemy. The cannibal of the Feejee Islands, only recently explored by an expedition from our shores, is praised for his adroitness in lying,—for the dozen men he has killed with his own hand,—for triumphant capture, in battle, of a piece of tapa-cloth attached to a staff, not unlike one of our flags; and when dead, his club is placed in his hand, and extended across the breast, to indicate in the next world that the deceased was a chief and a warrior.[194] This is barbarous Glory! But among nations professing Christianity, in our day, there is a powerful public opinion exulting in conduct from which we turn with disgust, as we discern it among the savages of our forest, or the cannibals of the Pacific. The triumphs of animal strength and of brutal violence are hailed as famous. With perverse insensibility to the relative value of human acts, the chances and incidents of war are exalted above the pursuits of peace. Victors from fields moistened with a brother's blood are greeted with grateful salutations, justly due to those only who have triumphantly fulfilled the grand commandments on which hang all the law and the prophets.

Such is controlling public opinion in our age and country. A people that regards success rather than those objects for which alone success is worthy of desire,—that has not yet discerned the beauty of humble and disinterested labor in the great causes by which mankind is advanced,—that has not yet admired the golden link of harmony by which all efforts of usefulness are bound together,—that has not yet recognized the peculiar Christian sentiment of Human Brotherhood, without difference of country, color, or race,—that does not feel, in the concerns of state, as of private life, the enkindling supremacy of those principles of Justice and Benevolence which send their heavenly radiance into the home of poverty, the darkness of ignorance, and the solitude of the prison, which exhibit the degradation of the slave and the wickedness of war, while they exalt scholarship, invigorate eloquence, extend science and all human knowledge,—such a people, not unnaturally, applauds conduct less in harmony with truth, virtue, goodness, than with its own imperfect spirit. And this is what is called Reputation, Fame, Glory,—fickle as a breeze, unsubstantial as a shadow. Well does the master poet of Italy say,—

II.

In determining that Glory is but a form or expression of public opinion, valuable only according to those from whom it proceeds, the way is prepared for the second question,—To what extent, if any, is it a proper motive of conduct or object of regard?

If we were ready to follow implicitly those simple precepts of Christianity which ordain exalted duties as the rule of life, this inquiry might be answered shortly. It is well to pursue it in other aspects.

Glory occupied the philosophers of antiquity, who disputed much on its value. Chrysippus and Diogenes held it in unbounded contempt, declaring that it was not worth extending a finger for.[196] Epicurus, under the natural guidance of principles enjoining repose and indifference to public affairs, inculcated a similar contempt. His views were expressed sententiously in the precept of his school, Conceal thy life; and he did not hesitate to warn against regulating conduct by the opinion of others or the reputation of the world. Montaigne has pleasantly remarked, that even this philosopher, when death was at hand, relaxed from the insensibility he had enjoined,—dwelling upon the memory of his teachings, and by his will ordering his heirs to provide, in every recurring January, a festival to honor the day of his birth.[197]

On the other hand, Carneades maintained that Glory is to be sought for its own sake,—an opinion which has not failed to find much sympathy and many followers.[198] Aristotle regarded it as the greatest and most invaluable of external goods, and warned against two extremes, both, in his opinion, equally vicious,—excess in seeking and in avoiding.[199] But it is to the Roman orator that we are to look for the most vivid defence of this, the master passion of his youth, manhood, and age.

The influence exerted by Cicero over the opinions of mankind renders this feature of his character important. Of a less solid understanding than Demosthenes and Aristotle,—the former of whom, in his most masterly oration, vindicated for himself a crown, the badge of Glory, while the latter, as we have already seen, was not insensible to its attractions,—he is more conspicuous than either for the earnestness and constancy with which he displays its influence, the frankness with which he recognizes it as a supreme motive and reward, and the seductive eloquence with which he commends it as an object of vehement and perpetual ambition. On his return from those studies in Athens by which his skill as an orator was so much enhanced, he consulted the Oracle at Delphi, not to learn how best his great powers and accomplishments might be devoted to the good of mankind, but by what means he might soonest arrive at the height of Glory. The answer of the Oracle, though imperfect and heathen, was in a higher mood than the inquiry. It was, "By making his own genius, and not the opinion of others, the guide of life." Arrived in Rome, he was fired by the fame of Hortensius at the bar, and commenced his forensic career in emulous rivalry of that illustrious lawyer. In all the manifold labors of subsequent life, as orator, statesman, general, rhetorician, poet, historian, critic, and philosopher, the aspiration for renown was the Labarum by which he was guided and inspired. It was to him the cloud by day and the pillar of fire by night.

In Cicero this sentiment was ennobled, so far as possible with a desire so selfish, by the eminent standard which he established for the Glory so much coveted. In one of his orations he characterizes it as "the illustrious and extended Fame of many and great deserts, either towards friends, or towards country, or towards the whole race of men."[200] And again, in the calmness of those philosophical speculations by which his name is exalted, not less than by the eloquence which crushed Catiline, won the clemency of CÆsar, and blasted the character of Antony, he declares that "Glory is the united praise of the good, the incorrupt voice of the true judges of eminent virtue, responding to virtue as an echo, and, being for the most part an attendant on good deeds, ought not to be disdained by good men."[201] This is the picture of True Glory; nor were there any occasion of criticism, if he had striven to do the good works to which Fame responds as an echo, without regard to his own advancement.

However elevated his conception of Glory, he sought it for its own sake. He wooed it with the ardor of a lover, and embraced it as the bride of his bosom. In that unsurpassed effort for his early teacher, the poet Archias, where the union of literary and professional studies is vindicated with a beauty equal to the cause, he makes public profession of his constant desire for Fame. In quoting his words on that occasion, I present a vindication of this sentiment which has exerted immeasurable influence over the educated world, and is, beyond question, the most eloquent and engaging that ever fell from mortal lips. "Nor is this," says he, "to be dissembled which cannot be concealed, but it is to be openly avowed: we are all influenced by the love of praise, and the best are chiefly moved by Glory. The philosophers themselves inscribe their names even in those little books which they write on contempt of Glory; in the very productions in which they express disdain of Praise and Fame they wish to gain Praise and Fame for themselves.... And now, O judges, I will declare myself to you, and confess to you my love of Glory, too strong, perhaps, but nevertheless honorable.... For virtue desires no other reward of its toils and dangers than Praise and Glory: this being withdrawn, what is there in our poor brief career of life that can induce us to undertake such great labors? Surely, if the soul did not look forward to posterity, if all its thoughts were confined within the bounds by which the span of life is circumscribed, it would neither waste its strength in labors so arduous, nor vex itself with so many cares and watchings, nor would it fight so often for life itself. But now there is in every good man a certain virtue, stirring the soul night and day with the incentive of Glory, and admonishing us that the remembrance of our name must not be suffered to pass away with our life, but should be made to endure through all futurity."[202] This certainly is frank. And in another oration Cicero sharply declares that no man exerts himself with praise and virtue in the perils of the republic who is not moved thereto by the hope of Glory and a regard to posterity.[203]

Thus distinctly recognizing human applause as an all-sufficient motive of conduct, and professing his own dependence upon it, we cannot be surprised at his sedulous efforts to fortify his Fame, nor even at the iterations of self-praise with which his productions abound. In that interesting collection of letters, so much of which is happily spared to us, disclosing the aims and aspirations of his life, there is melancholy evidence of the pernicious sway of this passion, even in his noble bosom. With an immodest freedom, which he vindicates to himself by the remarkable expression, that an epistle does not blush, he invites his friend Lucceius to undertake the history of that portion of his life rendered memorable by the overthrow of the Catilinarian conspiracy, his exile, and return to his country; and, not content with dwelling on the variety and startling nature of the incidents, with the scope they would naturally afford to the accomplished historian, whose Glory, he subtly suggests, may in this way be connected forever with his own, as is that of Apelles with the Glory of Alexander, he proceeds so far as to press his friend, if he does not think the facts worth the pains of adorning, yet to allow so much to friendship, to affection, and to that favor which he had so persuasively condemned in his prefaces, as not to confine himself scrupulously to the strict laws of history or the requirements of truth.[204] Thus, in the madness of his passion for Glory, would he suborn that sacred verity which is higher than friendship, affection, or any earthly favor!

A character like Cicero, compact of so many virtues, resplendent with a genius so lofty, standing on one of the most commanding pinnacles of classical antiquity, still admired by the wide world, hardly less than by the living multitudes that once chafed about the rostrum like a raging sea and were stilled by the music of his voice,—such a character cannot fail to exert a too magical charm over the young, especially where its lessons harmonize with the weakness rather than with the sternness of our nature,—with the instinctive promptings of selfishness, rather than with that disinterestedness which places duty, without hope of reward, without fear or favor, above all human consideration. It is most true that he has kindled in many bosoms something of his own inextinguishable ardors; and the American youth—child of a continent beyond the Atlantis of his imagination, and lifted by institutions he had never seen, even in his vision of a Republic—feels a glow of selfish ambition, as, in tasks of the school, he daily cons the writings of this great master.

His influence is easily discerned in the sentiments of those whose scholarly nurture has brought them within the fascination of his genius. I refer, by way of example, to Sir William Jones, a character of much purity, and of constant sympathy with freedom and humanity, not less than with various labors of learning and literature. In one of his early letters he said that he wished "absolutely to make Cicero his model";[205] while in another he shows himself a true disciple, by loyalty to the same motive of conduct which animated the Roman. "Do not imagine," says Jones, "that I despise the usual enjoyments of youth. No one can take more delight in singing and dancing than I do, nor in the moderate use of wine, nor in the exquisite beauty of the ladies, of whom London affords an enchanting variety; but I prefer Glory, my supreme delight, to all other gratifications, and I will pursue it through fire and water, by day and by night."[206] Here is frankness kindred to that of his Roman exemplar.

It will be proper to pause, in this review of opinion, and endeavor, by careful analysis, to comprehend the just office of this sentiment, which is elevated to be the guide of conduct and aim of life.

Unquestionably, as we are constituted, Glory does exert an imperious control. Its influence is widely and variously felt, though seeming to diminish with advancing years, with the growth of the moral and intellectual nature, with the development of the Christian character, and in proportion as the great realities of existence here and hereafter engross the soul. The child is sensitive to it in earliest dalliance on a parent's knee. Here is an element of that unamiable selfishness which pervades his crude nature, rendering him jealous and envious of caress and praise bestowed upon another. His little bosom palpitates with unrestrained ardors, which in children of a larger growth animate conquerors, and those whom the world calls "great." As he mingles with playmates, the same passion enters into his sports, and attends the exercises of the school. He is covetous of evanescent applause among his peers. He struggles for this fragile Glory,—a bubble blown by the breath of boys.

In maturer years a similar solicitude continues, modified by period and circumstance. The youth putting away childish things rarely forgets the sentiment of emulation; while not insensible to the desire of excellence, he is animated by the desire of excelling. I do not mention this for any austere criticism, but as a psychological fact. And when preparation gives place to action, then this same sentiment, which absorbed the child and animated the youth, reappears in the confirmed ambition of manhood. Now, under loftier name, and with mien of majesty, it beckons to competition with the masters of human thought and conduct, filling his bosom with a pleasing frenzy. He is aroused by

He burns to impress his name upon the age, and to challenge the gratitude of posterity. For this he enters the lists with voice, pen, or, it may be, the sword. Like Themistocles, he is sleepless from the laurels of those who have gone before; like Alexander, he sighs for some new world to conquer; like CÆsar, he pours fruitless tears, because, at the age of the dying Alexander, he has done nothing memorable; like Cicero, he dwells upon the applause of men, and draws from it fresh inspiration to labor; and even if he writes against Glory, it is, according to Pascal, for the Glory of writing well. This is the Love of Glory, a sentiment which lurks in every stage and sphere of life,—with the young, the middle-aged, and the old,—with the lowly, the moderate, and the great,—under as many aliases as a culprit,—but, in all its different forms and guises, having one simple animating essence, the passion for the approbation of our fellow-men.[208] By a touch of exquisite nature, Dante reveals the suffering spirits, in the penal gloom and terror of another world, clothed in the weakness of mortal passion, and, unconscious of the true glories of Paradise, still tormented by the desire to be spoken of on earth.[209] And Pascal echoes Dante, when, with that point which is so much his own, he says that "we lose life itself with joy, provided men speak of the loss."[210]

This desire lies deep in the human heart. It is a sentiment implanted at birth. It is kindred to other sentiments and appetites, whose office is to provide for our protection. It is like the love of wealth or the love of power, desires which all feel in a certain degree to be part of their being. Recognizing it, then, as an endowment from the hand of God, we may hesitate to condemn its influence at all times and under all circumstances. Implanted for some good, it is our duty to comprehend its true function. This is not difficult.

The Love of Glory, then, is a motive of human conduct. But the same Heavenly Father who endowed us with the love of approbation has placed in us other sentiments of a higher order, more kindred to his own divine nature. These are Justice and Benevolence, both of which, however imperfectly developed or ill directed, are elements of every human soul. The desire of Justice, filling us with the love of Duty, is the sentiment which fits us to receive and comprehend the sublime injunction of doing unto others as we would have them do unto us. In the predominance of this sentiment, enlightened by intelligence, injustice becomes impossible. The desire of Benevolence goes further. It leads all who are under its influence to those acts of kindness, disinterestedness, humanity, love to neighbor, which constitute the crown of the Christian character. Such sentiments are celestial, godlike, in their office.

In determining proper motives of conduct, it is easy to perceive that the higher are more commendable than the lower, and that even an act of Justice and Benevolence loses something of its charm when known to be inspired by the selfish desire of human applause. It was the gay poet of antiquity who said that concealed virtue differed little from sepulchred sluggishness:—

But this is a heathen sentiment, alien to reason and to truth. It is hoped that men will be honest, but from a higher motive than because honesty is the best policy. It is hoped that they will be humane, but for nobler cause than the Fame of humanity.

The love of approbation may properly animate the young, whose minds have not yet ascended to the appreciation of that virtue which is its own exceeding great reward.[212] It may justly strengthen those of maturer age who are not moved by the simple appeals of duty, unless the smiles of mankind attend them. It were churlish not to offer homage to those acts by which happiness is promoted, even though inspired by a sentiment of personal ambition, or by considerations of policy. But such motives must always detract from the perfect beauty even of good works. The Man of Ross, who was said to

"Do good by stealth, and blush to find it Fame,"

was a character of real life, and the example of his virtue may still be prized, like the diamond, for its surpassing rarity. It cannot be disguised, however, that much is gained where the desire of praise acts in conjunction with the higher sentiments. If ambition be our lure, it will be well for mankind, if it unite with Justice and Benevolence.

It may be demanded if we should be indifferent to the approbation of men. Certainly not. It is a proper source of gratification, and is one of the just rewards on earth. It may be enjoyed when virtuously won, though it were better, if not proposed as the object of desire. The great English magistrate, Lord Mansfield, while confessing a wish for popularity, added, in words which cannot be too often quoted, "But it is that popularity which follows, not that which is run after; it is that popularity which, sooner or later, never fails to do justice to the pursuit of noble ends by noble means."[213] And the historian of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, who was no stranger to the Love of Glory, has given expression to the satisfaction which he derived from the approbation of those whose opinions were valuable. "If I listened to the music of praise," says Gibbon, in his Autobiography, "I was more seriously satisfied with the approbation of my judges. The candor of Dr. Robertson embraced his disciple. A letter from Mr. Hume overpaid the labor of ten years."[214] It would be difficult to declare the self-gratulation of the successful author in language more sententious or expressive.

While recognising praise as an incidental reward, though not a commendable motive, we cannot disregard the evil which ensues when the desire for it predominates over the character, and fills the soul, as is too often the case, with a blind emulation chiefly solicitous for personal success. The world, which should be a happy scene of constant exertion and harmonious coÖperation, becomes a field of rivalry, competition, and hostile struggle. It is true that God has not given to all the same excellences of mind and heart; but he naturally requires more of the strong than of the many less blessed. The little we can do will not be cast vainly into his treasury; nor need the weak and humble be filled with any idle emulation of others. Let each act earnestly, according to the measure of his powers,—rejoicing always in the prosperity of his neighbor; and though we may seem to accomplish little, yet we shall do much, if we be true to the convictions of the soul, and give the example of unselfish devotion to duty. This of itself is success; and this is within the ambition of all. Life is no Ulyssean bow, to be bent only by a single strong arm. There is none so weak as not to use it.

In the growth of the individual the intellect advances before the moral powers; for it is necessary to know what is right before we can practise it; and this same order of progress is observed in the Human Family. Moral excellence is the bright, consummate flower of all progress. It is often the peculiar product of age. And it is then, among other triumphs of virtue, that Duty assumes her commanding place, while personal ambition is abased. Burke, in that marvellous passage of elegiac beauty where he mourns his only son, says, "Indeed, my Lord, I greatly deceive myself, if, in this hard season, I would give a peck of refuse wheat for all that is called Fame and Honor in the world."[215] And Channing, with a sentiment most unlike the ancient Roman orator, declares that he sees "nothing worth living for but the divine virtue which endures and surrenders all things for truth, duty, and mankind."[216]

Such an insensibility to worldly objects, and such an elevation of spirit, may not be expected at once from all men,—certainly not without something of the trials of Burke or the soul of Channing. But it is within the power of all to strive after that virtue which it may be difficult to reach; and just in proportion as duty becomes the guide and aim of life shall we learn to close the soul against the allurements of praise and the asperities of censure, while we find satisfactions and compensations such as man cannot give or take away. The world, with ignorant or intolerant judgment, may condemn; the countenance of companion may be averted; the heart of friend may grow cold; but the consciousness of duty done will be sweeter than the applause of the world, than the countenance of companion, or the heart of friend.

III.

From this survey of Glory, according to common acceptance, and of its influence as a motive of conduct, I advance to the third and concluding head,—What are True Fame and Glory, and who are the men most worthy of honor? The answer is already implied, if not expressed, in much of the discussion through which we have passed; but it may not be without advantage to dwell upon it more at length.

From the vicious and barbarous elements entering into past conceptions of Glory, it is evident that there must be a surer and higher standard. A degraded public opinion naturally fails to appreciate excellence not in harmony with its own prejudices, while it lavishes regard upon conduct we would gladly forget. Genius, too, in all ages, (such is the melancholy story of Humanity,) has stooped to be sycophant, apologist, or friend of characters never to be mentioned without disgust. Historian, poet, and philosopher, false to every sacred office, have pandered to the praise of those who should have been gibbeted to the condemnation of mankind. Lucan, the youthful poet of Freedom, offers in his "Pharsalia" the incense of adulation to the monster Nero; Quintilian, the instructor, pauses in his grave "Institutes of Oratory" to speak of the tyrant Domitian as most holy; Paterculus, the historian, extols Tiberius and Sejanus; Seneca, the philosopher, condescends, in his treatise on Consolation, to flatter the imbecile Claudius; while, not to multiply instances in modern times, Corneille, the grandest poet of France, prefaced one of his tragedies with a tribute to the crafty tyrant Mazarin; and our own English Dryden lent his glowing verse to welcome and commemorate a heartless, unprincipled monarch and a servile court.

Others, while refraining from eulogy, unconsciously surrender to sentiments and influences, the public opinion, of the age in which they Live,—investing barbarous characters and scenes, the struggles of selfishness and ambition, and even the movements of conquering robbers, with colors too apt to fascinate or mislead. Not content with that candor which should guide our judgment alike of the living and the dead, they yield sympathy even to injustice and wrong, when commended by genius or elevated by success, and especially if coupled with the egotism of a vicious patriotism. Not feeling practically the vital truth of Human Brotherhood, and the correlative duties it involves, they are insensible to the true character and the shame of transactions by which it is degraded or assailed, and in their estimate depart from that standard of Absolute Right which must be the only measure of true and permanent Fame.

Whatever may be temporary applause, or the expression of public opinion, it may be asserted without fear of contradiction, that no true and permanent Fame can be founded except in labors which promote the happiness of mankind. If these are by Christian means, with disinterested motives, and with the single view of doing good, they become that rare and precious virtue whose fit image is the spotless lily of the field, brighter than Solomon in all his Glory. Earth has nothing of such surpassing loveliness. Heaven may claim the lustre as its own. Such labors are the natural fruit of obedience to the great commandments. Reason, too, in harmony with these laws, shows that the true dignity of Humanity is in the moral and intellectual nature, and that the labors of Justice and Benevolence, directed by intelligence and abasing that part which is in common with beasts, are the highest forms of human conduct.

In determining the praise of actions, four elements may be regarded: first, the difficulties overcome; secondly, the means employed; thirdly, the motives; and, fourthly, the extent of good accomplished. If the difficulties are petty, or the means employed low, vulgar, barbarous, there can be little worthy of highest regard, although the motives are pure and the results beneficent. If the motives are selfish, if a desire of power or wealth or Fame intrude into the actions, they lose that other title to regard springing from beauty and elevation of purpose, even if the conduct be mistaken or weak, and the results pernicious. Horne Tooke claimed for himself no mean epitaph, when he asked for himself after death the praise of good intentions. Still further,—if little or no good arises, and the actions fail to be ennobled by high and generous motives, while the means employed are barbarous and unchristian, and the difficulties overcome are trivial, then surely there is little occasion for applause, although worldly success or the bloody eagle of victorious battle attend them.

Here we encounter the question, What measure of praise shall be accorded to war, or to the profession of arms? Thus far, great generals and conquerors have attracted the largest share of admiration. They swell the page of history. For them is inspiring music, the minute-gun, the flag at half-mast, the trophy, the monument. Fame is a plant whose most luxuriant shoots have grown on fields of blood. Are these vigorous and perennial, or are they destined to perish and fall to earth beneath the rays of the still ascending sun?

There are not a few who will join with Milton in his admirable judgment of martial renown:—

This interesting testimony finds echo in another of England's remarkable characters, Edmund Waller,—himself poet, orator, statesman, man of the world,—who has left on record his judgment of True Glory, in a valedictory poem, written at the age of eighty, when the passions of this world no longer obscured the clear perception of duty. At an earlier period of life he had sung of war. Mark the change in this swan-like note, which might disenchant even the eloquence of Cicero, covetous of Fame:—

Well does the poet give the palm to moral excellence! But it is from the lips of a successful soldier, cradled in war, the very pink of warlike heroism, that we are taught to appreciate the Fame of literature, which, though less elevated than that from disinterested beneficence, is truer and more permanent than any bloody Glory. I allude to Wolfe, conqueror of Quebec, who has attracted a larger share of romantic interest than any other of the gallant generals in English history. We behold him, yet young in years, at the head of an adventurous expedition, destined to prostrate the French empire in Canada,—guiding and encouraging the firmness of his troops in unaccustomed difficulties,—awakening their personal attachment by his kindly suavity, and their ardor by his own example,—climbing the precipitous steeps which conduct to the heights of the strongest fortress on the American continent,—there, under its walls, joining in deadly conflict,—wounded,—stretched upon the field,—faint from loss of blood,—with sight already dimmed,—his life ebbing rapidly,—cheered at last by the sudden cry, that the enemy is fleeing in all directions,—and then his dying breath mingling with the shouts of victory. An eminent artist has portrayed this scene of death in a much admired picture. History and Poetry have dwelt upon it with peculiar fondness. Such is the Glory of arms! Happily there is preserved to us a tradition of this day which affords the gleam of a truer Glory. As the commander, in his boat, floated down the current of the St. Lawrence, under cover of night, in the enforced silence of a military expedition, to effect a landing at an opportune promontory, he was heard repeating to himself, in subdued voice, that poem of exquisite charm,—then only recently given to mankind, now familiar as a household word wherever the mother tongue of Gray is spoken,—the "Elegy in a Country Churchyard." Strange and unaccustomed prelude to the discord of battle! As the ambitious warrior finished the recitation, he said to his companions, in low, but earnest tone, that he "would rather be the author of that poem than take Quebec."[219] He was right. The Glory of that victory is already dying out, like a candle in the socket. The True Glory of the poem still shines with star-bright, immortal beauty.

Passing from these testimonies, I would observe for a moment the nature of Military Glory. Its most conspicuous element is courage, placed by ancient philosophers among the four cardinal virtues: Aristotle seems to advance it foremost. But plainly, of itself, it is neither virtue nor vice. It is a quality in man possessed in common with a large number of animals. It becomes virtue, when exercised in obedience to the higher sentiments, with Justice and Benevolence as its objects. It is of humbler character, if these objects are promoted by Force, or by the beast in man. It is unquestionably vice, when, divorced from Justice and Benevolence, it lends itself to the passion for wealth, power, or Glory.

It is easy to determine that courage, though of the lion or tiger, when employed in an unrighteous cause, cannot be the foundation of true and permanent Fame. Mardonius and his Persian hosts in Greece, CÆsar and his Roman legions in Britain, CortÉs and his conquering companions in Mexico, Pizarro and his band of robbers in Peru, the Scandinavian Vikings in their adventurous expeditions of piracy, are all condemned without hesitation. Nor can applause attend hireling Swiss, or Italian chieftains of the Middle Ages, or bought Hessians of the British armies, who sold their spears and bayonets to the highest bidder. And it is difficult to see how those, in our own day, following the trade of arms, careless of the cause in which it is employed, can hope for better sympathy. An early English poet, of mingled gayety and truth, Sir John Suckling, himself a professor of war, makes the soldier confess the recklessness of his life:—

In such a spirit no True Glory can be achieved. And is not this plainly the spirit of the soldier, regarded as a "machine" only, and acting in unquestioning obedience to orders? No command of Government, or any human power, can sanctify wrong; nor can rules of military subordination, or prejudices of an unchristian patriotism, dignify conduct in violation of heaven-born sentiments. The inspiring inscription at ThermopylÆ said, "O stranger, tell the LacedÆmonians that we lie here in obedience to their commands";[221] but the three hundred LacedÆmonians who there laid down their lives were stemming, in those narrow straits, the mighty tide of Xerxes, as it rolled in upon Greece.

To all defenders of freedom or country the heart goes forth with cordial, spontaneous sympathy. May God defend the right! Their cause, whether in victory or defeat, is invested with the interest which from the time of Abel has attached to all who suffer from the violence of a brother-man. But their unhappy strife belongs to the DISHONORABLE BARBARISM of the age,—like the cannibalism of an earlier period, or the slavery of our own day.

Not questioning the right of self-defence, or undertaking to consider the sanctions of the Institution of War as an established Arbiter of Justice between nations, or its necessity in our age, all may join in regarding it as an unchristian institution, and a melancholy necessity, offensive in the sight of God, and hostile to the best interests of men. A field of battle is a scene of execution according to the laws of war,—without trial or judgment, but with a thousand Jack Ketches in the odious work.[222] And yet the acts of hardihood and skill here displayed are entitled "brilliant"; the movements of the executioners in gay apparel are praised as "brilliant"; the destruction of life is "brilliant"; the results of the auto da fÉ are "brilliant"; the day of this mournful tragedy is enrolled as "brilliant"; and Christians are summoned to commemorate with honor a scene which should rather pass from the recollection of men.

The example even of martial Rome may here teach us one great lesson. Recognizing the fellowship of a common country, conflicts between citizens were condemned as fratricidal. Civil war was branded as guilt and crime. The array of opposing forces, drawn from the bosom of the same community, knit together by the same political ties, was pronounced impious, even where they appeared under such cherished names as Pompey and CÆsar:—

"Impia concurrunt Pompeii et CÆsaris arma."[223]

As the natural consequence, victories in these fraternal feuds were held to be not only unworthy of praise, but never to be mentioned without blame. Even if countenanced by justice or dire necessity, they were none the less mournful. No success over brethren of the same country could be the foundation of honor. And so firmly was this principle embodied in the very customs and institutions of Rome, that no thanksgiving or religious ceremony was allowed by the Senate in commemoration of such success; nor was the triumph permitted to the conquering chief whose hands were red with the blood of fellow-citizens. CÆsar forbore even to send a herald of his unhappy victories, and looked upon them with shame.[224]

As we recognize the commanding truth, that God "hath made of one blood all nations of men," and that all his children are brethren, the distinctions of country disappear, ALL WAR BECOMES FRATRICIDAL, and victory is achieved only by shedding a brother's blood. The soul shrinks from contemplation of the scene, and, while refusing to judge the act, confesses its unaffected sadness.

"The pomp is darkened, and the day o'ercast."

It was natural that ancient Heathen, strangers to the sentiment of Human Brotherhood, should limit their regard to the narrow circle of country,—as if there were magical lines within which strife and bloodshed are shame and crime, while beyond this pale they are great Glory. Preparing for battle, the Spartans sacrificed to the Muses, anxious for the countenance of these divinities, to the end that their deeds might be fitly described, and deeming it a heavenly favor that witnesses should behold them. Not so the Christian. He would rather pray that the recording angel would blot with tears all recollection of the fraternal strife in which he was sorrowfully engaged.

This conclusion, however repugnant to the sentiment of Heathenism or the practice of Christian nations, stands on the Brotherhood of Man. Because this truth is imperfectly recognized, the Heathen distinction between civil war and foreign war is yet maintained. To the Christian, every fellow-man, whether remote or near, whether of our own country or of another, is "neighbor" and "brother"; nor can any battle, whether between villages or towns or states or countries, be deemed other than shame,—like the civil wars of Rome, which the poet aptly said could bear no triumphs:—

"Bella geri placuit nullos habitura triumphos."[225]

The same mortification and regret with which we regard the hateful contest between brothers of one household, kinsmen of one ancestry, citizens of one country, must attend every scene of strife; for are we not all, in a just and Christian sense, brethren of one household, kinsmen of one ancestry, citizens of one country,—the world? The inference is irresistible, that no success in arms against fellow-men, no triumph over brothers, flesh of our flesh and bone of our bone, no destruction of the life which God has given to his children, no assault upon his sacred image in the upright form and countenance of man, no effusion of human blood, under whatever apology of necessity vindicated, can be the foundation of Christian Fame.

Adverse to the prejudices of mankind as such conclusion may be, it must find sympathy in the refined soul and the inner heart of man, while it is in harmony with those utterances, in all ages, testifying to the virtue whose true parent is Peace. The loving admiration, so spontaneously offered to the Christian graces which adorned the Scipios, hesitates at those scenes of blood which gave to them the unwelcome eminence of "the two thunderbolts of war." The homage freely accorded to forbearance, generosity, or forgiveness, when seen in the spectral glare of battle, is a tacit rebuke to the hostile passions whose triumphant rage constitutes the Glory of arms. The wail of widows and orphans, and the sorrows of innumerable mourners refusing to be comforted, often check the gratulations of success. Stern warriors, too, in the paroxysm of victory, by unwilling tears vindicate humanity and condemn their own triumphs. More than one, in the dread extremities of life, has looked back with regret upon his career of battle, or perhaps, like Luxembourg of France, confessed that he would rather remember a cup of cold water given to a fellow-creature in poverty and distress than all his victories, with their blood, desolation, and death. Thus speaks the heart of man. No true Fame can flow from the fountain of tears.

The achievements of war and the characters of conquerors have been exposed by satire, under whose sharp touch we see their unsubstantial renown.

Nobody has done this more plainly than Rabelais, who, in an age when Peace was only a distant vision, gave expression to those sentiments, often vague and undefined, which have their origin in the depths of the human soul. In the Life of Pantagruel, that strange satire, compounded of indecency, humor, effrontery, and learning, one of the characters, after being very merry in hell, talking familiarly with Lucifer, and penetrating to the Elysian Fields, recognizes some of the world's great men, but changed after a very extraordinary manner. Alexander the Great is mending and patching old breeches and stockings, and thus obtains a very poor living. Achilles is a maker of hay-bundles; Hannibal, a kettle-maker, and seller of egg-shells. All the knights of the Round Table are poor day-laborers, employed to row over the rivers Cocytus, Phlegethon, Styx, Acheron, and Lethe, when, according to Rabelais, "my lords the devils have a mind to recreate themselves upon the water, as on like occasion one hires the boatmen at Lyons, the gondoliers of Venice, or oars of London,—but with this difference, that these poor knights have for their fare only a bob or flirt on the nose, and in the evening a morsel of coarse, mouldy bread."[226] Such is the wretched contrast between the judgment of earth and that other judgment, which cannot be arrested when earth has passed away.

Whatever the voice of poets, moralists, satirists, and even of soldiers, it is certain that the Glory of arms still exercises no mean influence over the human mind. The "red planet Mars" is still in the ascendant. The Art of War, which a French divine has happily termed "the baleful art of teaching men to exterminate one another,"[227] is yet held, even among Christians, an honorable pursuit; and the animal courage which it stimulates and develops is prized as transcendent virtue. It will be for another age and a higher civilization to appreciate the more exalted character of Beneficence as an Art,—the art of extending happiness and all good influences, by word or deed, to the largest number of mankind,—while, in blessed contrast with the misery, degradation, and wickedness of war, shines resplendent the True Grandeur of Peace. All then will be willing to join with the early poet in saying,—

Then shall the soul thrill with a nobler heroism than that of battle, while peaceful Industry, with untold multitudes of cheerful and beneficent laborers, takes the place of War and its works,—while Literature, full of comfort and sympathy for the heart of man, rejoices in happiest empire,—while Science, with extensive sceptre, advances the bounds of knowledge and power, adding unimaginable strength to the hands of men, opening immeasurable resources in the earth, and revealing new secrets and harmonies in the skies,—while Art, elevated and refined, lavishes fresh images of beauty and grace,—while Charity, in streams of milk and honey, diffuses itself through all the habitations of the world.

Does any one ask for signs of this coming era? The increasing knowledge and beneficence of our own day, the broad-spread sympathy with human suffering, the widening thoughts of men, the longings of the heart for a higher condition on earth, the unfulfilled promises of Christian Progress, are the auspicious auguries of this Happy Future. Not to the Great Navigator alone, but to all now toiling for the new and glorious future, may be addressed the inspiring verses of the German poet:—

As early voyagers over untried realms of waste, we have already observed the signs of land. The green twig and fresh red berry have floated by our bark; the odors of the shore fan our faces; nay, we descry the distant gleam of light, and hear from the more earnest watchers, as Columbus heard, after midnight, from the mast-head of the Pinta, the joyful cry of Land! Land! and, lo! a New World breaks upon our morning gaze.

A new order of heroes and of great men will then be recognized, while the history of the Past will be reviewed, to re-judge the Fame awarded or withheld. There are many, having high place in the world's praise, from whom a righteous Future will avert the countenance, so that they will know at last the neglect which has thus far been the lot of better men; but there are others, little regarded during life, sleeping in humble or unknown earth, who shall become the favorites of True Glory. At Athens there was an altar dedicated to the Unknown God. The time is at hand, when the company of good men whose lives are without record or monument will find at length an altar of praise.

Then will be cherished, not those who, from accident of birth, or by selfish struggle, have succeeded in winning the attention of mankind,—not those who have commanded armies in barbarous war,—not those who have exercised power or swayed empire,—not those who have made the world tributary to their luxury and wealth,—not those who have cultivated knowledge, regardless of their fellow-men. Not present Fame, nor war, nor power, nor wealth, nor knowledge, alone, can secure an entrance to this true and noble Valhalla. Here will be gathered those only who have toiled, each in his vocation, for the welfare of the race. Mankind will remember those only who have remembered mankind. Here, with the apostles, the prophets, and the martyrs, shall be joined the glorious company of the world's benefactors,—the goodly fellowship of truth and duty,—the noble army of statesmen, orators, poets, preachers, scholars, men in all walks of life, who have striven for the happiness of others. If the soldier finds a place in this sacred temple, it will be not because, but notwithstanding, he was a soldier.

"God alone is great!" Such was the admired and triumphant exclamation with which Massillon opened his funeral discourse on the deceased monarch of France, called in his own age Louis the Great. It is in the attributes of God that we find the elements of true greatness. Man is great by the godlike qualities of Justice, Benevolence, Knowledge, and Power. And as Justice and Benevolence are higher than Knowledge and Power, so are the just and benevolent higher than those who are intelligent and powerful only. Should all these qualities auspiciously concur in one person on earth, then might we look to behold a mortal, supremely endowed, reflecting the image of his Maker. But even Knowledge and Power, without those higher attributes, cannot constitute true greatness. It is by his Goodness that God is most truly known; so also is the Great Man. When Moses said unto the Lord, "Show me thy Glory," the Lord answered, "I will make all my Goodness pass before thee."[230]

It will be easy to distinguish between those merely memorable in the world's annals and those truly great. Reviewing the historic names to which flattery or a false appreciation of character has awarded this title, we find its painful inaptitude. Alexander, drunk with victory and with wine, whose remains, after early death at the age of thirty-two, were borne through conquered Asia on a funeral car glittering with massive gold and wonderful in magnificence, was not truly great. CÆsar, ravager of distant lands, and trampler upon the liberties of his own country, with an unsurpassed combination of intelligence and power, was not truly great. Louis the Fourteenth of France, magnificent spendthrift monarch, prodigal of treasure and of blood, always panting for renown, was not truly great. Peter of Russia, organizer of material prosperity in his vast empire, murderer of his own son, despotic, inexorable, unnatural, savage, was not truly great. Frederic of Prussia, heartless and consummate general, skilled in the barbarous art of war, who played the game of robbery with human lives for dice, was not truly great. There is little of true grandeur in any such career. None of the Beatitudes showered upon them a blessed influence. They were not poor in spirit, or meek, or merciful, or pure in heart. They were not peacemakers. They did not hunger and thirst after Justice. They did not suffer persecution for Justice's sake.

It is men like these, that the good AbbÉ St. Pierre, in works deserving well of mankind, has termed Illustrious, in contradistinction to Great. Their influence was extensive, their power mighty, their names famous; but they were barbarous, selfish, and inhuman in aim, with little of love to God and less to man.

There is another and a higher company that thought little of praise or power, whose lives shine before men with those good works which glorify their authors. There is Milton, poor and blind, but "bating not a jot of heart or hope,"—in an age of ignorance the friend of education, in an age of servility and vice the pure and uncontaminated friend of freedom, tuning his harp to those magnificent melodies which angels might stoop to hear, and confessing his supreme duties to Humanity in words of simplicity and power. "I am long since persuaded," was his declaration, "that, to say or do aught worth memory and imitation, no purpose or respect should sooner move us than simply the love of God and of mankind."[231] There is Vincent de Paul, of France, once a captive in Algiers. Obtaining freedom by happy escape, this fugitive slave devoted himself with divine success to works of Christian benevolence,—the establishment of hospitals, visiting those in prison, the spread of amity and peace. Unknown, he repairs to the galleys at Marseilles, and, touched by the story of a poor convict, takes the heavy chains upon himself, that this fellow-man may leave to visit his wife and children; and then, moved by the sorrows of France bleeding with war, hurries to her powerful minister, the Cardinal Richelieu, and on his knees entreats,—"Give us peace! have pity upon us! give peace to France!"[232] There is Howard, the benefactor of those on whom the world has placed its brand,—whose charity, like that of the Frenchman, inspired by the single desire of doing good, illumined the gloom of the dungeon as with angelic presence. "A person of more ability," he says, in sweet simplicity, "with my knowledge of facts, would have written better; but the object of my ambition was not the Fame of an author. Hearing the cry of the miserable, I devoted my time to their relief."[233] And, lastly, there is Clarkson, who, while yet a pupil of the University, commenced those life-long labors against slavery and the slave-trade which embalm his memory. Writing an essay on the subject as a college exercise, his soul warmed with the task, and, at a period when even the horrors of "the middle passage" did not excite condemnation, he entered the lists, the stripling champion of the Right. He has left a record of the moment when this supreme duty flashed upon him. He was horseback, on his way from Cambridge to London. "Coming in sight of Wade's Mill, in Hertfordshire," he says, "I sat down disconsolate on the turf by the roadside, and held my horse. Here a thought came into my mind, that, if the contents of the Essay were true, it was time some person should see these calamities to their end."[234] Pure and noble impulse to a beautiful career!

Such are exemplars of True Glory. Without rank, office, or the sword, they accomplished immortal good. While on earth, they labored for their fellow-men; and now, sleeping in death, by example and works they continue the same sacred office. To all, in every sphere or condition, they teach the universal lesson of magnanimous duty. From the heights of their virtue, they call upon us to cast out the lust of power, of office, of wealth, of praise, of a fleeting popular favor, which "a breath can make, as a breath has made,"—to subdue the constant, ever-present suggestions of self, in disregard of neighbors, near or remote, whose welfare should never be forgotten,—to check the madness of party, which so often, for the sake of success, renounces the very objects of success,—and, finally, to introduce into our lives those sentiments of Conscience and Charity which animated them to such labors. Nor should these be holiday virtues, marshalled on great occasions only. They must become part of us, and of our existence,—present on every occasion, small or great,—in those daily amenities which add so much to the charm of life, as also in those grander duties which require an ennobling self-sacrifice. The former are as flowers, whose odor is pleasant, though fleeting; the latter are like the costly spikenard poured from the box of alabaster upon the head of the Lord.

To the supremacy of these principles let us all consecrate our best purposes and strength. So doing, we must reverse the very poles of worship in the past. Thus far men have bowed down before stocks, stones, insects, crocodiles, golden calves,—graven images, of ivory, ebony, or marble, often of cunning workmanship, wrought with Phidian skill, but all false gods. Their worship in the future must be the true God, our Father, as he is in heaven, and in the beneficent labors of his children on earth. Then farewell to the Siren song of a worldly ambition! Farewell to the vain desire of mere literary success or oratorical display! Farewell to the distempered longing for office! Farewell to the dismal, blood-red phantom of martial renown! Fame and Glory may continue, as in times past, the reflection of public opinion,—but of an opinion sure and steadfast, without change or fickleness, illumined by those two eternal suns of Christian truth, love to God and love to man.

All things will bear witness to the change, while the busy forms of wrong and outrage disappear like evil spirits at the dawn. Then shall the happiness of the poor and lowly have uncounted friends. The cause of those in prison shall find fresh voices, the education of the ignorant kindly supporters, the majesty of Peace other vindicators, the sufferings of the slave new and gushing floods of sympathy. Then, at last, shall the Brotherhood of Man stand confessed, filling the souls of all with more generous life, prompting to deeds of beneficence, conquering the Heathen prejudices of country, color, and race, guiding the judgment of the historian, animating the verse of the poet and the eloquence of the orator, ennobling human thought and conduct, and inspiring those good works by which alone we attain the summits of True Glory. Good Works! Such even now is the Heavenly Ladder on which angels are ascending and descending, while weary Humanity, on pillows of stone, slumbers heavily at its feet.

ILLUSTRATIONS REFERRED TO ON PAGE 38.

Civil War a Crime.—The terms describing civil war, employed by Roman writers, implicate both sides in its guilt and dishonor. Such phrases as the following occur in the "Pharsalia" of Lucan: "civile nefas" (Lib. IV. 172); "civilis Erinnys" (IV. 187); "crimen civile" (VII. 398). Eutropius says: "Hinc jam bellum civile successit, exsecrandum et lacrimabile." (Brev. Hist. Rom., Lib. VI. c. 19.) Of the war between Sulla and Marius Florus says: "Hoc deerat unum populi Romani malis, jam ut ipse intra se parricidale bellum domi stringeret, et in urbe media ac foro, quasi harena, cives cum civibus suis gladiatorio more concurrerent. Æquiore animo utcumque ferrem, si plebeii duces, aut si nobiles, mali saltem, ducatum sceleri prÆbuissent; cum vero, pro facinus! qui viri! qui imperatores! decora et ornamenta sÆculi sui, Marius et Sulla, pessimo facinori suam etiam dignitatem prÆbuerunt." (Epit. Rerum Rom., Lib. III. c. 21.) The condemnation of the historian is aroused, not because of the wickedness of a contest among fellow-men, but among fellow-citizens, and because illustrious personages joined in it. But he is impartial in condemning both sides. Marius and Sulla alike are treated as criminals. The same judgment seems to be expressed with regard to CÆsar and Pompey. "CÆsaris furor atque Pompeii urbem, Italiam, gentes, nationes, totum denique qua patebat imperium, quodam quasi diluvio et inflammatione corripuit; adeo ut non recte tantum civile dicatur, ac ne sociale quidem, sed nec externum, sed potius commune quoddam ex omnibus, et plus quam bellum." (Ibid., Lib. IV. c. 2.) His description of what was called the Social War contains a principle which must condemn equally all strife among cognate nations or states: "Sociale bellum vocetur licet, ut extenuemus invidiam; si verum tamen volumus, illud civile bellum fuit. Quippe cum populus Romanus Etruscos, Latinos. Sabinosque miscuerit, et unum ex omnibus sanguinem ducat, corpus fecit ex membris, et ex omnibus unus est. Nec minore flagitio socii intra Italiam, quam intra urbem cives rebellabant." (Ibid., Lib. III. c. 18.)

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No triumph, thanksgiving, or holiday for a conqueror in Civil War.—Valerius Maximus, in his chapter on Triumphs, shows how the victories of civil war were regarded in Rome. "Although," he says, "any one should perform illustrious and highly useful acts to the Republic in civil war, he was not on this account hailed as Imperator; nor were any thanksgivings decreed; nor did he enjoy a triumph or oration: because, howsoever necessary these victories might be, they were always regarded as mournful, inasmuch as they were obtained, not by foreign, but by domestic blood. Therefore Nasica and Opimius sorrowfully slew, the one the faction of Tiberius Gracchus, and the other that of Caius Gracchus. Quintus Catulus, after overthrowing his colleague, Marcus Lepidus, with all his seditious forces, returned to the city, showing only a moderated joy. Even Caius Antonius, the conqueror of Catiline, made his soldiers wipe their swords before taking them back to the camp. Lucius Cinna and Caius Marius, after eagerly draining the blood of citizens, did not proceed immediately to the temples and altars of the gods. So, too, Lucius Sulla, who waged many civil wars, and whose successes were most cruel and insolent, at his triumph, on the establishment of his power, carried in his procession the representations of many Greek and Asiatic cities, but of no town occupied by Roman citizens. It were grievous and wearisome to dwell longer on the wounds of the Republic. The Senate never gave the laurel to any one, nor did any one ever desire that it should be given to himself, while a part of the state was in tears." These last words deserve to be repeated in the original text: "Lauream nec Senatus cuiquam dedit, nec quisquam sibi dari desideravit, civitatis parte lacrimante." (Valerius Maximus, Lib. II. c. 8, § 7.) Florus, at the close of his chapter on the War with Sertorius, says, that the victorious leaders wished this to be regarded as a foreign rather than a civil war, in order that they might triumph: "Victores duces externum id magis quam civile bellum videri voluerunt, ut triumpharent." (Epit. Rerum Rom., Lib. III. c. 22.) CÆsar did not triumph over Pompey, although at a later day he shocked his fellow-citizens by a triumph over the sons of that leader. "All the world," says Plutarch, in his Life of CÆsar, "condemned his triumphing in the calamities of his country, and rejoicing in things which nothing could excuse, either before the gods or men, but extreme necessity. And it was the more obvious to condemn it, because, before this, he had never sent any messenger or letter to acquaint the public with any victory he had gained in the civil wars, but was rather ashamed of such advantages." (Lives, tr. Langhorne, Vol. IV. p. 387.)

A similar judgment of contests and battles between citizens appears in other writers. Appian, speaking of Caius Gracchus, says, that "all averted their countenances from him, as a man polluted with the blood of a citizen." (De Bellis Civilibus, Lib. I. c. 25.) The same author, in describing the triumphs of CÆsar on his return from Africa, says, that "he took care that there should be no triumphal inscription of his victories over Romans, his fellow-citizens, as both unbecoming himself, and shameful and of evil omen to the Roman people." (Ibid., Lib. II. c. 101.) We may follow this sentiment in the History of Dion Cassius. After describing the victory over Catiline, he says, "The victors themselves greatly bewailed the loss to the Commonwealth of such and so many men, citizens and allies, although justly slain." (Hist. Rom., Lib. XXXVII. c. 40.) Thus the justice of the war did not make it a source of glory. Dion says, that Pompey, after his success over CÆsar at Dyrrachium, "did not speak of it boastfully, nor did he wreathe his fasces with laurel, feeling a repugnance to doing anything of this sort on account of a victory over citizens." (Ibid., Lib. XLI. c. 52.) The manner in which he refers to CÆsar's conduct, also, after the battle of Pharsalia, is in harmony with that of the other classical writers. "CÆsar," he says, "sent no announcement of it to the people, being unwilling to appear to rejoice publicly over such a victory; wherefore he did not celebrate any triumph on account of it." (Ibid., Lib. XLII. c. 18.) But he pursued a different course with regard to his victory over the foreigner Pharnaces, which he announced in that famous epigrammatic epistle, "Veni, vidi, vici." Dion says, "CÆsar was prouder of this than of any other of his victories, although it was not very splendid." (Ibid., Lib. XLII. c. 48.) The same historian alludes to his triumph over the sons of Pompey, "having conquered no foreign enemy, but destroyed so large a number of citizens." (Ibid., Lib. XLIII. c. 42.) Crowns and public thanksgivings were decreed to Octavius CÆsar, after his victories over Antony; "but," says Dion, "they did not expressly name Antony, and the other Romans conquered with him, either at first or then, as though it were right to celebrate festivities over them." (Ibid., Lib. LI. c. 19.)

"The Tatler," in considering the Roman triumph, notices that "it was not allowed in a civil war, lest one part should be in tears, while the other was making acclamations." (No. LXIII.) And Hudibras, in a most suggestive passage, uses language applicable to all civil war:—

"What towns, what garrisons, might you

With hazard of this blood subdue,

Which now ye're bent to throw away

In vain untriumphable fray!"

Part I. Canto II. 499-502.

International War criminal, and as little worthy of honor as Civil War.—Erasmus dealt a blow at the distinction, still preserved among Christians, between civil war and foreign war. "Plato civile bellum esse putat, quod GrÆci gerunt adversus GrÆcos. At Christianus Christiano propius junctus est quam civis civi, quam frater fratri." (Erasmi Epist., Lib. XXII. Ep. 16.) The same idea is found in the Byzantine Gregoras: "Indecorum esse Christianis tanta cum acerbitate inter se armis certare, cum rationes sint conveniendi ad pacem et communes vires in impios vertendi." (Gregoras, Lib. X., De Alexandro Bulgaro, quoted by Grotius, De Jure Belli ac Pacis, Lib. II. cap. 23, §8, No. 3, note.) Even here it is rather the Brotherhood of Christians than the Brotherhood of Man that is recognized. Assuming the latter, international war becomes criminal, and as little worthy of honor as civil war. It is a war among brothers.

Who can think of that contest between the two brothers Eteocles and Polynices without abhorrence? Who would think of awarding glory to Abel, if, in self-defence, he had succeeded in slaying his hostile brother, Cain? There is a play of Beaumont and Fletcher where two brothers are represented as drawing swords upon each other. When finally separated, they are addressed in words applicable to the contests of nations:—

"Clashing of swords

So near my house! Brother opposed to brother!

. . . . . . . Hold! hold!

Charles! Eustace!

. . . . . But these unnatural jars,

Arising between brothers, should you prosper,

Would shame your victory"

The Elder Brother, Act V. Sc. 1.

The unreasonableness of any True Glory in such a contest is felt by all at the present day, though there have been monsters or barbarians who gloried even in a kinsman's blood. Massinger, in his play of "The Unnatural Combat," has portrayed such a character. A father and son fight with each other. The father is victorious. His exultation in the death of his son is not unlike that which often attends the victories of Christian nations:—

"Were a new life hid in each mangled limb,

I would search and find it; and howe'er to some

I may seem cruel thus to tyrannize

Upon this senseless flesh, I glory in it,

. . . . . my falling glories

Being made up again, and cemented

With a son's blood."

The Unnatural Combat, Act II. Sc. 1.

The father, whose hands are wet with a son's blood, is thus addressed:—

"The conqueror that survives

Must reap the harvest of his bloody labor.

Sound all loud instruments of joy and triumph."

Ibid.

The soul revolts from such a triumph; but how does this differ from the triumphs of war? The enlightened morality of our age will yet confess that it is equally wrong to commemorate by thanksgiving or holiday any bloody success, even in a just contest, over our brother man.