Many are disposed to look upon optimism as a senseless refusal to recognise the existence of evil; to suppose that the optimist is to be confuted by an appeal to his own individual pains and sufferings. It was in this spirit that Voltaire attacked optimism in his famous "Candide"-a work admirable for its wit, humour, and fancy; but, philosophically considered, an absolute failure. The notion was, that by showering down all sorts of misfortunes upon the heroes of the book, optimism could be brought into contempt. The world could not be the best of all possible worlds," when Candide and Dr. Pangloss endured such manifold miseries. So meant Voltaire, but he had first to prove that it was for the exclusive benefit of Candide and Dr. Pangloss that the universe was made, and this was out of his power. No being with a set of sensitive nerves doubts the existence of pain in the world, but it does not follow that the philosopher, although he "cannot bear the toothache patiently," should consider the whole course of moral and social improvement checked by the twitch he feels in his maxillary region. These remarks may appear so many trivial truisms; but when a fallacy lies near the surface, the detector need not plunge deep; and if he can come off victorious with such a truism as shall make everybody exclaim: “Who did not know that?" so much the better for his cause. By the way, there are many truisms which, when uttered, mark an advance in knowledge. There are loads of truths lying close to everybody's eyes, and which, when discovered, will seem to have been accessible to everybody, but which, nevertheless, are not seen at present. There are questions which will be answered as soon as put, but nobody thinks of putting them. To know a question is an advance in knowledge, and perhaps there is a greater step to the question, than from the question to its solution. An ordinary book of scholastic logic looks to many as the merest bundle of truisms that pompous pedantry could dignify. If A is B, and B is C, who does not know that A is C? Yet, ages passed away, and many a dynasty rose and fell, before the form that we call a syllogism was perceived in its present clearness and simplicity. Often are the writings of Plato* hard to us, not from their profundity, but from a difficulty to adapt ourselves to a certain puerility of reasoning. The reader is requested not to take this assertion too generally, for there is much—very much in Plato-that is difficult on account of its profundity. This is a digression: let us go back again to optimism. Following the track so admirably laid down by Hegel, let us declare that optimism must be inseparably associated with the idea of progress. The dead unprogressive state of perfection belongs to the irrational world. The art of the beaver and the bee will furnish instances. Many writers, who wish to be edifying, point with especial admiration to the geometrical regularity of the honey-comb, and will venture to look down slightingly upon the works of humanity. This perfection of the bee, as far as it goes, is, in fact, an imperfection. The bee that stung Cupid in the times of paganism, was as far advanced as the bee that hums at the modern cottager's door. The bee knows no progress. It is the higher condition of humanity, not only that it does know progress, but that progress is essential to its being. True it is, that "whatever is, is right," but equally true is it, that much which is right now, will after a time be right no longer. Helvetius, after beating about for a definition of man, at last hit upon this: "Man is the only being that feels ennui." At the first glance this looks like one of the smart, but shallow apophthegms that were so common in the last century, but it is more profound than it seems. It declares that man's characteristic is weariness of a fixed condition; that he does not stop at a fixed point. Looking at the matter with something of a conventional eye, Helvetius called the quality ennui, but the proposition speaks much the same thought as another which sounds more sublime : The Divine idea of humanity is in a state of perpetual realisation. What a heap of rubbish and fallacy would be annihilated, if once it were clearly seen that movement is man's essential! Many views which are constantly obtruding themselves would at once cease to exist. A politician reads the history of the middle ages, and comes to the correct conclusion that the ecclesiastical power was a wholesome counterbalance to feudal oppression. But if he goes further, and maintains that because monks and convents were good then, they ought to be revived now, he has crossed the threshold of fallacy. The 13th century was no doubt the best possible 13th century, but it does not follow that it was the best possible 19th. It would be going too far to say that because an institution was right in the 13th century, it was wrong in the 19th, but such an assertion would be more in the direction of truth than the opposite. It may be observed that such a fallacy as that just mentioned was never uttered; that no one would seriously say, that because a thing was right in 1345, it was right in 1845. That is true. No one utters a fallacy in such perfect baldness. A peculiar stratagem of fallacy is, not to appear in the plain form of a proposition, but to clothe itself in a sentimental garb, to talk to the feelings rather than the head. The romantic view of some medieval epoch will induce many to wish for a return of tournaments and crusades, who would not dare look at their own doctrine, if plainly shown to them. A tournament, for instance, is a pretty thing in letter-press, or in copper-plate, or at Astley's Amphitheatre, but what was it when revived here a few years back? A mere gewgaw a strange plant, that had no root in the social soil, but which stuck in it, like a plucked flower in a new flower-pot. We may perhaps lay it down as a maxim, that any institution that does not involve a fallacy must have grown out of its age, and must not be brought into it. This is a passing remark, which we may develop on some future occasion. The poet and romancist should beware of furthering the cause of social fallacy, which they may do with the most harmless intentions. A stirring ballad, representing a state of primitive heroism, may do much in this way, and hence it is best for the poet not to assume too thoroughly the spirit of old chivalry or despotism, or if he does turn ancient minstrel for the nonce, to show that he does it as an artist, not as a man; that he can lay down the lyre as easily as he took it up. It is a splendid work of genius to revive the past with all its glories, and to soften some of the dark places; but let it always be borne in mind that such illustrations should be but like the heads of the kings in the "History of England," placed as representing a period, without any notion of resuscitation. All the sphere of nature and history is open to any artist, but let him be cautious as to polemics. The work of progress often has its difficulties; it is not all smooth sailing. A steady faith is often necessary to avoid despair. The world's maladies are not always treated with cooling draughts and mild medicaments, but the surgical process is often resorted to, and the anguish may be tremendous. Yet that does not show the case to be desperate. Those who inflicted martyrdom intended to destroy a religion; but as the matter turned out, they strengthened its bulwarks. The martyr did not look back upon the past, but steadily towards the future. AN OPTIMIST. NO. IX.-VOL. II. |