"The Education of Henry Adams\n\nby Henry Adams\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE EDUCATION OF HENRY ADAMS\n\n        CONTENTS\n        EDITOR'S PREFACE\n        PREFACE\n     I. QUINCY (1838-1848)\n    II. BOSTON (1848-1854)\n   III. WASHINGTON (1850-1854)\n    IV. HARVARD COLLEGE (1854-1858)\n     V. BERLIN (1858-1859)\n    VI. ROME (1859-1860)\n   VII. TREASON (1860-1861)\n  VIII. DIPLOMACY (1861)\n    IX. FOES OR FRIENDS (1862)\n     X. POLITICAL MORALITY (1862)\n    XI. THE BATTLE OF THE RAMS (1863)\n   XII. ECCENTRICITY (1863)\n  XIII. THE PERFECTION OF HUMAN SOCIETY (1864)\n   XIV. DILETTANTISM (1865-1866)\n    XV. DARWINISM (1867-1868)\n   XVI. THE PRESS (1868)\n  XVII. PRESIDENT GRANT (1869)\n XVIII. FREE FIGHT (1869-1870)\n   XIX. CHAOS (1870)\n    XX. FAILURE (1871)\n   XXI. TWENTY YEARS AFTER (1892)\n  XXII. CHICAGO (1893)\n XXIII. SILENCE (1894-1898)\n  XXIV. INDIAN SUMMER (1898-1899)\n   XXV. THE DYNAMO AND THE VIRGIN (1900)\n  XXVI. TWILIGHT (1901)\n XXVII. TEUFELSDROCKH (1901)\nXXVIII. THE HEIGHT OF KNOWLEDGE (1902)\n  XXIX. THE ABYSS OF IGNORANCE (1902)\n   XXX. VIS INERTIAE (1903)\n  XXXI. THE GRAMMAR OF SCIENCE (1903)\n XXXII. VIS NOVA (1903-1904)\nXXXIII. A DYNAMIC THEORY OF HISTORY (1904)\n XXXIV. A LAW OF ACCELERATION (1904)\n  XXXV. NUNC AGE (1905)\n\n\nEDITOR'S PREFACE\n\n  THIS volume, written in 1905 as a sequel to the same author's\n\"Mont Saint Michel and Chartres,\" was privately printed, to the number\nof one hundred copies, in 1906, and sent to the persons interested, for\ntheir assent, correction, or suggestion. The idea of the two books was\nthus explained at the end of Chapter XXIX: --\n\n  \"Any schoolboy could see that man as a force must be measured\nby motion from a fixed point. Psychology helped here by suggesting a\nunit--the point of history when man held the highest idea of himself as\na unit in a unified universe. Eight or ten years of study had led Adams\nto think he might use the century 1150-1250, expressed in Amiens\nCathedral and the Works of Thomas Aquinas, as the unit from which he\nmight measure motion down to his own time, without assuming anything as\ntrue or untrue, except relation. The movement might be studied at once\nin philosophy and mechanics. Setting himself to the task, he began a\nvolume which he mentally knew as 'Mont-Saint-Michel and Chartres: a\nStudy of Thirteenth-Century Unity.' From that point he proposed to fix\na position for himself, which he could label: 'The Education of Henry\nAdams: a Study of Twentieth-Century Multiplicity.' With the help of\nthese two points of relation, he hoped to project his lines forward and\nbackward indefinitely, subject to correction from any one who should\nknow better.\"\n\n  The \"Chartres\" was finished and privately printed in 1904. The\n\"Education\" proved to be more difficult. The point on which the author\nfailed to please himself, and could get no light from readers or\nfriends, was the usual one of literary form. Probably he saw it in\nadvance, for he used to say, half in jest, that his great ambition was\nto complete St. Augustine's \"Confessions,\" but that St. Augustine, like\na great artist, had worked from multiplicity to unity, while he, like a\nsmall one, had to reverse the method and work back from unity to\nmultiplicity. The scheme became unmanageable as he approached his end.\n\n  Probably he was, in fact, trying only to work into it his\nfavorite theory of history, which now fills the last three or four\nchapters of the \"Education,\" and he could not satisfy himself with his\nworkmanship. At all events, he was still pondering over the problem in\n1910, when he tried to deal with it in another way which might be more\nintelligible to students. He printed a small volume called \"A Letter to\nAmerican Teachers,\" which he sent to his associates in the American\nHistorical Association, hoping to provoke some response. Before he\ncould satisfy himself even on this minor point, a severe illness in the\nspring of 1912 put an end to his literary activity forever.\n\n  The matter soon passed beyond his control. In 1913 the\nInstitute of Architects published the \"Mont-Saint-Michel and Chartres.\"\nAlready the \"Education\" had become almost as well known as the\n\"Chartres,\" and was freely quoted by every book whose author requested\nit. The author could no longer withdraw either volume; he could no\nlonger rewrite either, and he could not publish that which he thought\nunprepared and unfinished, although in his opinion the other was\nhistorically purposeless without its sequel. In the end, he preferred\nto leave the \"Education\" unpublished, avowedly incomplete, trusting\nthat it might quietly fade from memory. According to his theory of\nhistory as explained in Chapters XXXIII and XXXIV, the teacher was at\nbest helpless, and, in the immediate future, silence next to\ngood-temper was the mark of sense. After midsummer, 1914, the rule was\nmade absolute.\n\n  The Massachusetts Historical Society now publishes the\n\"Education\" as it was printed in 1907, with only such marginal\ncorrections as the author made, and it does this, not in opposition to\nthe author's judgment, but only to put both volumes equally within\nreach of students who have occasion to consult them.\n\nHENRY CABOT LODGE\n\nSeptember, 1918\n\n\n\nPREFACE\n\n  JEAN JACQUES ROUSSEAU began his famous Confessions by a\nvehement appeal to the Deity: \"I have shown myself as I was;\ncontemptible and vile when I was so; good, generous, sublime when I was\nso; I have unveiled my interior such as Thou thyself hast seen it,\nEternal Father! Collect about me the innumerable swarm of my fellows;\nlet them hear my confessions; let them groan at my unworthiness; let\nthem blush at my meannesses! Let each of them discover his heart in his\nturn at the foot of thy throne with the same sincerity; and then let\nany one of them tell thee if he dares: 'I was a better man!'\"\n\n  Jean Jacques was a very great educator in the manner of the\neighteenth century, and has been commonly thought to have had more\ninfluence than any other teacher of his time; but his peculiar method\nof improving human nature has not been universally admired. Most\neducators of the nineteenth century have declined to show themselves\nbefore their scholars as objects more vile or contemptible than\nnecessary, and even the humblest teacher hides, if possible, the faults\nwith which nature has generously embellished us all, as it did Jean\nJacques, thinking, as most religious minds are apt to do, that the\nEternal Father himself may not feel unmixed pleasure at our thrusting\nunder his eyes chiefly the least agreeable details of his creation.\n\n  As an unfortunate result the twentieth century finds few recent\nguides to avoid, or to follow. American literature offers scarcely one\nworking model for high education. The student must go back, beyond Jean\nJacques, to Benjamin Franklin, to find a model even of self-teaching.\nExcept in the abandoned sphere of the dead languages, no one has\ndiscussed what part of education has, in his personal experience,\nturned out to be useful, and what not. This volume attempts to discuss\nit.\n\n  As educator, Jean Jacques was, in one respect, easily first; he\nerected a monument of warning against the Ego. Since his time, and\nlargely thanks to him, the Ego has steadily tended to efface itself,\nand, for purposes of model, to become a manikin on which the toilet of\neducation is to be draped in order to show the fit or misfit of the\nclothes. The object of study is the garment, not the figure. The tailor\nadapts the manikin as well as the clothes to his patron's wants. The\ntailor's object, in this volume, is to fit young men, in universities\nor elsewhere, to be men of the world, equipped for any emergency; and\nthe garment offered to them is meant to show the faults of the\npatchwork fitted on their fathers.\n\n  At the utmost, the active-minded young man should ask of his\nteacher only mastery of his tools. The young man himself, the subject\nof education, is a certain form of energy; the object to be gained is\neconomy of his force; the training is partly the clearing away of\nobstacles, partly the direct application of effort. Once acquired, the\ntools and models may be thrown away.\n\n  The manikin, therefore, has the same value as any other\ngeometrical figure of three or more dimensions, which is used for the\nstudy of relation. For that purpose it cannot be spared; it is the only\nmeasure of motion, of proportion, of human condition; it must have the\nair of reality; must be taken for real; must be treated as though it\nhad life. Who knows? Possibly it had!\n\nFebruary 16, 1907\n\n\n\n\nTHE EDUCATION OF HENRY ADAMS\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I\n\nQUINCY (1838-1848)\n\n  UNDER the shadow of Boston State House, turning its back on the\nhouse of John Hancock, the little passage called Hancock Avenue runs,\nor ran, from Beacon Street, skirting the State House grounds, to Mount\nVernon Street, on the summit of Beacon Hill; and there, in the third\nhouse below Mount Vernon Place, February 16, 1838, a child was born,\nand christened later by his uncle, the minister of the First Church\nafter the tenets of Boston Unitarianism, as Henry Brooks Adams.\n\n  Had he been born in Jerusalem under the shadow of the Temple\nand circumcised in the Synagogue by his uncle the high priest, under\nthe name of Israel Cohen, he would scarcely have been more distinctly\nbranded, and not much more heavily handicapped in the races of the\ncoming century, in running for such stakes as the century was to offer;\nbut, on the other hand, the ordinary traveller, who does not enter the\nfield of racing, finds advantage in being, so to speak, ticketed\nthrough life, with the safeguards of an old, established traffic.\nSafeguards are often irksome, but sometimes convenient, and if one\nneeds them at all, one is apt to need them badly. A hundred years\nearlier, such safeguards as his would have secured any young man's\nsuccess; and although in 1838 their value was not very great compared\nwith what they would have had in 1738, yet the mere accident of\nstarting a twentieth-century career from a nest of associations so\ncolonial,--so troglodytic--as the First Church, the Boston State House,\nBeacon Hill, John Hancock and John Adams, Mount Vernon Street and\nQuincy, all crowding on ten pounds of unconscious babyhood, was so\nqueer as to offer a subject of curious speculation to the baby long\nafter he had witnessed the solution. What could become of such a child\nof the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, when he should wake up to\nfind himself required to play the game of the twentieth? Had he been\nconsulted, would he have cared to play the game at all, holding such\ncards as he held, and suspecting that the game was to be one of which\nneither he nor any one else back to the beginning of time knew the\nrules or the risks or the stakes? He was not consulted and was not\nresponsible, but had he been taken into the confidence of his parents,\nhe would certainly have told them to change nothing as far as concerned\nhim. He would have been astounded by his own luck. Probably no child,\nborn in the year, held better cards than he. Whether life was an honest\ngame of chance, or whether the cards were marked and forced, he could\nnot refuse to play his excellent hand. He could never make the usual\nplea of irresponsibility. He accepted the situation as though he had\nbeen a party to it, and under the same circumstances would do it again,\nthe more readily for knowing the exact values. To his life as a whole\nhe was a consenting, contracting party and partner from the moment he\nwas born to the moment he died. Only with that understanding--as a\nconsciously assenting member in full partnership with the society of\nhis age--had his education an interest to himself or to others.\n\n  As it happened, he never got to the point of playing the game\nat all; he lost himself in the study of it, watching the errors of the\nplayers; but this is the only interest in the story, which otherwise\nhas no moral and little incident. A story of education--seventy years\nof it--the practical value remains to the end in doubt, like other\nvalues about which men have disputed since the birth of Cain and Abel;\nbut the practical value of the universe has never been stated in\ndollars. Although every one cannot be a Gargantua-Napoleon-Bismarck and\nwalk off with the great bells of Notre Dame, every one must bear his\nown universe, and most persons are moderately interested in learning\nhow their neighbors have managed to carry theirs.\n\n  This problem of education, started in 1838, went on for three\nyears, while the baby grew, like other babies, unconsciously, as a\nvegetable, the outside world working as it never had worked before, to\nget his new universe ready for him. Often in old age he puzzled over\nthe question whether, on the doctrine of chances, he was at liberty to\naccept himself or his world as an accident. No such accident had ever\nhappened before in human experience. For him, alone, the old universe\nwas thrown into the ash-heap and a new one created. He and his\neighteenth-century, troglodytic Boston were suddenly cut\napart--separated forever--in act if not in sentiment, by the opening of\nthe Boston and Albany Railroad; the appearance of the first Cunard\nsteamers in the bay; and the telegraphic messages which carried from\nBaltimore to Washington the news that Henry Clay and James K. Polk were\nnominated for the Presidency. This was in May, 1844; he was six years\nold; his new world was ready for use, and only fragments of the old met\nhis eyes.\n\n  Of all this that was being done to complicate his education, he\nknew only the color of yellow. He first found himself sitting on a\nyellow kitchen floor in strong sunlight. He was three years old when he\ntook this earliest step in education; a lesson of color. The second\nfollowed soon; a lesson of taste. On December 3, 1841, he developed\nscarlet fever. For several days he was as good as dead, reviving only\nunder the careful nursing of his family. When he began to recover\nstrength, about January 1, 1842, his hunger must have been stronger\nthan any other pleasure or pain, for while in after life he retained\nnot the faintest recollection of his illness, he remembered quite\nclearly his aunt entering the sickroom bearing in her hand a saucer\nwith a baked apple.\n\n  The order of impressions retained by memory might naturally be\nthat of color and taste, although one would rather suppose that the\nsense of pain would be first to educate. In fact, the third\nrecollection of the child was that of discomfort. The moment he could\nbe removed, he was bundled up in blankets and carried from the little\nhouse in Hancock Avenue to a larger one which his parents were to\noccupy for the rest of their lives in the neighboring Mount Vernon\nStreet. The season was midwinter, January 10, 1842, and he never forgot\nhis acute distress for want of air under his blankets, or the noises of\nmoving furniture.\n\n  As a means of variation from a normal type, sickness in\nchildhood ought to have a certain value not to be classed under any\nfitness or unfitness of natural selection; and especially scarlet fever\naffected boys seriously, both physically and in character, though they\nmight through life puzzle themselves to decide whether it had fitted or\nunfitted them for success; but this fever of Henry Adams took greater\nand greater importance in his eyes, from the point of view of\neducation, the longer he lived. At first, the effect was physical. He\nfell behind his brothers two or three inches in height, and\nproportionally in bone and weight. His character and processes of mind\nseemed to share in this fining-down process of scale. He was not good\nin a fight, and his nerves were more delicate than boys' nerves ought\nto be. He exaggerated these weaknesses as he grew older. The habit of\ndoubt; of distrusting his own judgment and of totally rejecting the\njudgment of the world; the tendency to regard every question as open;\nthe hesitation to act except as a choice of evils; the shirking of\nresponsibility; the love of line, form, quality; the horror of ennui;\nthe passion for companionship and the antipathy to society--all these\nare well-known qualities of New England character in no way peculiar to\nindividuals but in this instance they seemed to be stimulated by the\nfever, and Henry Adams could never make up his mind whether, on the\nwhole, the change of character was morbid or healthy, good or bad for\nhis purpose. His brothers were the type; he was the variation.\n\n  As far as the boy knew, the sickness did not affect him at all,\nand he grew up in excellent health, bodily and mental, taking life as\nit was given; accepting its local standards without a difficulty, and\nenjoying much of it as keenly as any other boy of his age. He seemed to\nhimself quite normal, and his companions seemed always to think him so.\nWhatever was peculiar about him was education, not character, and came\nto him, directly and indirectly, as the result of that\neighteenth-century inheritance which he took with his name.\n\n  The atmosphere of education in which he lived was colonial,\nrevolutionary, almost Cromwellian, as though he were steeped, from his\ngreatest grandmother's birth, in the odor of political crime.\nResistance to something was the law of New England nature; the boy\nlooked out on the world with the instinct of resistance; for numberless\ngenerations his predecessors had viewed the world chiefly as a thing to\nbe reformed, filled with evil forces to be abolished, and they saw no\nreason to suppose that they had wholly succeeded in the abolition; the\nduty was unchanged. That duty implied not only resistance to evil, but\nhatred of it. Boys naturally look on all force as an enemy, and\ngenerally find it so, but the New Englander, whether boy or man, in his\nlong struggle with a stingy or hostile universe, had learned also to\nlove the pleasure of hating; his joys were few.\n\n  Politics, as a practice, whatever its professions, had always\nbeen the systematic organization of hatreds, and Massachusetts politics\nhad been as harsh as the climate. The chief charm of New England was\nharshness of contrasts and extremes of sensibility--a cold that froze\nthe blood, and a heat that boiled it--so that the pleasure of\nhating--one's self if no better victim offered--was not its rarest\namusement; but the charm was a true and natural child of the soil, not\na cultivated weed of the ancients. The violence of the contrast was\nreal and made the strongest motive of education. The double exterior\nnature gave life its relative values. Winter and summer, cold and heat,\ntown and country, force and freedom, marked two modes of life and\nthought, balanced like lobes of the brain. Town was winter confinement,\nschool, rule, discipline; straight, gloomy streets, piled with six feet\nof snow in the middle; frosts that made the snow sing under wheels or\nrunners; thaws when the streets became dangerous to cross; society of\nuncles, aunts, and cousins who expected children to behave themselves,\nand who were not always gratified; above all else, winter represented\nthe desire to escape and go free. Town was restraint, law, unity.\nCountry, only seven miles away, was liberty, diversity, outlawry, the\nendless delight of mere sense impressions given by nature for nothing,\nand breathed by boys without knowing it.\n\n  Boys are wild animals, rich in the treasures of sense, but the\nNew England boy had a wider range of emotions than boys of more equable\nclimates. He felt his nature crudely, as it was meant. To the boy Henry\nAdams, summer was drunken. Among senses, smell was the strongest--smell\nof hot pine-woods and sweet-fern in the scorching summer noon; of\nnew-mown hay; of ploughed earth; of box hedges; of peaches, lilacs,\nsyringas; of stables, barns, cow-yards; of salt water and low tide on\nthe marshes; nothing came amiss. Next to smell came taste, and the\nchildren knew the taste of everything they saw or touched, from\npennyroyal and flagroot to the shell of a pignut and the letters of a\nspelling-book--the taste of A-B, AB, suddenly revived on the boy's\ntongue sixty years afterwards. Light, line, and color as sensual\npleasures, came later and were as crude as the rest. The New England\nlight is glare, and the atmosphere harshens color. The boy was a full\nman before he ever knew what was meant by atmosphere; his idea of\npleasure in light was the blaze of a New England sun. His idea of color\nwas a peony, with the dew of early morning on its petals. The intense\nblue of the sea, as he saw it a mile or two away, from the Quincy\nhills; the cumuli in a June afternoon sky; the strong reds and greens\nand purples of colored prints and children's picture-books, as the\nAmerican colors then ran; these were ideals. The opposites or\nantipathies, were the cold grays of November evenings, and the thick,\nmuddy thaws of Boston winter. With such standards, the Bostonian could\nnot but develop a double nature. Life was a double thing. After a\nJanuary blizzard, the boy who could look with pleasure into the violent\nsnow-glare of the cold white sunshine, with its intense light and\nshade, scarcely knew what was meant by tone. He could reach it only by\neducation.\n\n  Winter and summer, then, were two hostile lives, and bred two\nseparate natures. Winter was always the effort to live; summer was\ntropical license. Whether the children rolled in the grass, or waded in\nthe brook, or swam in the salt ocean, or sailed in the bay, or fished\nfor smelts in the creeks, or netted minnows in the salt-marshes, or\ntook to the pine-woods and the granite quarries, or chased muskrats and\nhunted snapping-turtles in the swamps, or mushrooms or nuts on the\nautumn hills, summer and country were always sensual living, while\nwinter was always compulsory learning. Summer was the multiplicity of\nnature; winter was school.\n\n  The bearing of the two seasons on the education of Henry Adams\nwas no fancy; it was the most decisive force he ever knew; it ran\nthough life, and made the division between its perplexing, warring,\nirreconcilable problems, irreducible opposites, with growing emphasis\nto the last year of study. From earliest childhood the boy was\naccustomed to feel that, for him, life was double. Winter and summer,\ntown and country, law and liberty, were hostile, and the man who\npretended they were not, was in his eyes a schoolmaster--that is, a man\nemployed to tell lies to little boys. Though Quincy was but two hours'\nwalk from Beacon Hill, it belonged in a different world. For two\nhundred years, every Adams, from father to son, had lived within sight\nof State Street, and sometimes had lived in it, yet none had ever taken\nkindly to the town, or been taken kindly by it. The boy inherited his\ndouble nature. He knew as yet nothing about his great-grandfather, who\nhad died a dozen years before his own birth: he took for granted that\nany great-grandfather of his must have always been good, and his\nenemies wicked; but he divined his great-grandfather's character from\nhis own. Never for a moment did he connect the two ideas of Boston and\nJohn Adams; they were separate and antagonistic; the idea of John Adams\nwent with Quincy. He knew his grandfather John Quincy Adams only as an\nold man of seventy-five or eighty who was friendly and gentle with him,\nbut except that he heard his grandfather always called \"the President,\"\nand his grandmother \"the Madam,\" he had no reason to suppose that his\nAdams grandfather differed in character from his Brooks grandfather who\nwas equally kind and benevolent. He liked the Adams side best, but for\nno other reason than that it reminded him of the country, the summer,\nand the absence of restraint. Yet he felt also that Quincy was in a way\ninferior to Boston, and that socially Boston looked down on Quincy. The\nreason was clear enough even to a five-year old child. Quincy had no\nBoston style. Little enough style had either; a simpler manner of life\nand thought could hardly exist, short of cave-dwelling. The\nflint-and-steel with which his grandfather Adams used to light his own\nfires in the early morning was still on the mantelpiece of his study.\nThe idea of a livery or even a dress for servants, or of an evening\ntoilette, was next to blasphemy. Bathrooms, water-supplies, lighting,\nheating, and the whole array of domestic comforts, were unknown at\nQuincy. Boston had already a bathroom, a water-supply, a furnace, and\ngas. The superiority of Boston was evident, but a child liked it no\nbetter for that.\n\n  The magnificence of his grandfather Brooks's house in Pearl\nStreet or South Street has long ago disappeared, but perhaps his\ncountry house at Medford may still remain to show what impressed the\nmind of a boy in 1845 with the idea of city splendor. The President's\nplace at Quincy was the larger and older and far the more interesting\nof the two; but a boy felt at once its inferiority in fashion. It\nshowed plainly enough its want of wealth. It smacked of colonial age,\nbut not of Boston style or plush curtains. To the end of his life he\nnever quite overcame the prejudice thus drawn in with his childish\nbreath. He never could compel himself to care for nineteenth-century\nstyle. He was never able to adopt it, any more than his father or\ngrandfather or great-grandfather had done. Not that he felt it as\nparticularly hostile, for he reconciled himself to much that was worse;\nbut because, for some remote reason, he was born an eighteenth-century\nchild. The old house at Quincy was eighteenth century. What style it\nhad was in its Queen Anne mahogany panels and its Louis Seize chairs\nand sofas. The panels belonged to an old colonial Vassall who built the\nhouse; the furniture had been brought back from Paris in 1789 or 1801\nor 1817, along with porcelain and books and much else of old diplomatic\nremnants; and neither of the two eighteenth-century styles--neither\nEnglish Queen Anne nor French Louis Seize--was comfortable for a boy,\nor for any one else. The dark mahogany had been painted white to suit\ndaily life in winter gloom. Nothing seemed to favor, for a child's\nobjects, the older forms. On the contrary, most boys, as well as\ngrown-up people, preferred the new, with good reason, and the child\nfelt himself distinctly at a disadvantage for the taste.\n\n  Nor had personal preference any share in his bias. The Brooks\ngrandfather was as amiable and as sympathetic as the Adams grandfather.\nBoth were born in 1767, and both died in 1848. Both were kind to\nchildren, and both belonged rather to the eighteenth than to the\nnineteenth centuries. The child knew no difference between them except\nthat one was associated with winter and the other with summer; one with\nBoston, the other with Quincy. Even with Medford, the association was\nhardly easier. Once as a very young boy he was taken to pass a few days\nwith his grandfather Brooks under charge of his aunt, but became so\nviolently homesick that within twenty-four hours he was brought back in\ndisgrace. Yet he could not remember ever being seriously homesick again.\n\n  The attachment to Quincy was not altogether sentimental or\nwholly sympathetic. Quincy was not a bed of thornless roses. Even there\nthe curse of Cain set its mark. There as elsewhere a cruel universe\ncombined to crush a child. As though three or four vigorous brothers\nand sisters, with the best will, were not enough to crush any child,\nevery one else conspired towards an education which he hated. From\ncradle to grave this problem of running order through chaos, direction\nthrough space, discipline through freedom, unity through multiplicity,\nhas always been, and must always be, the task of education, as it is\nthe moral of religion, philosophy, science, art, politics, and economy;\nbut a boy's will is his life, and he dies when it is broken, as the\ncolt dies in harness, taking a new nature in becoming tame. Rarely has\nthe boy felt kindly towards his tamers. Between him and his master has\nalways been war. Henry Adams never knew a boy of his generation to like\na master, and the task of remaining on friendly terms with one's own\nfamily, in such a relation, was never easy.\n\n  All the more singular it seemed afterwards to him that his\nfirst serious contact with the President should have been a struggle of\nwill, in which the old man almost necessarily defeated the boy, but\ninstead of leaving, as usual in such defeats, a lifelong sting, left\nrather an impression of as fair treatment as could be expected from a\nnatural enemy. The boy met seldom with such restraint. He could not\nhave been much more than six years old at the time--seven at the\nutmost--and his mother had taken him to Quincy for a long stay with the\nPresident during the summer. What became of the rest of the family he\nquite forgot; but he distinctly remembered standing at the house door\none summer morning in a passionate outburst of rebellion against going\nto school. Naturally his mother was the immediate victim of his rage;\nthat is what mothers are for, and boys also; but in this case the boy\nhad his mother at unfair disadvantage, for she was a guest, and had no\nmeans of enforcing obedience. Henry showed a certain tactical ability\nby refusing to start, and he met all efforts at compulsion by\nsuccessful, though too vehement protest. He was in fair way to win, and\nwas holding his own, with sufficient energy, at the bottom of the long\nstaircase which led up to the door of the President's library, when the\ndoor opened, and the old man slowly came down. Putting on his hat, he\ntook the boy's hand without a word, and walked with him, paralyzed by\nawe, up the road to the town. After the first moments of consternation\nat this interference in a domestic dispute, the boy reflected that an\nold gentleman close on eighty would never trouble himself to walk near\na mile on a hot summer morning over a shadeless road to take a boy to\nschool, and that it would be strange if a lad imbued with the passion\nof freedom could not find a corner to dodge around, somewhere before\nreaching the school door. Then and always, the boy insisted that this\nreasoning justified his apparent submission; but the old man did not\nstop, and the boy saw all his strategical points turned, one after\nanother, until he found himself seated inside the school, and obviously\nthe centre of curious if not malevolent criticism. Not till then did\nthe President release his hand and depart.\n\n  The point was that this act, contrary to the inalienable rights\nof boys, and nullifying the social compact, ought to have made him\ndislike his grandfather for life. He could not recall that it had this\neffect even for a moment. With a certain maturity of mind, the child\nmust have recognized that the President, though a tool of tyranny, had\ndone his disreputable work with a certain intelligence. He had shown no\ntemper, no irritation, no personal feeling, and had made no display of\nforce. Above all, he had held his tongue. During their long walk he had\nsaid nothing; he had uttered no syllable of revolting cant about the\nduty of obedience and the wickedness of resistance to law; he had shown\nno concern in the matter; hardly even a consciousness of the boy's\nexistence. Probably his mind at that moment was actually troubling\nitself little about his grandson's iniquities, and much about the\niniquities of President Polk, but the boy could scarcely at that age\nfeel the whole satisfaction of thinking that President Polk was to be\nthe vicarious victim of his own sins, and he gave his grandfather\ncredit for intelligent silence. For this forbearance he felt\ninstinctive respect. He admitted force as a form of right; he admitted\neven temper, under protest; but the seeds of a moral education would at\nthat moment have fallen on the stoniest soil in Quincy, which is, as\nevery one knows, the stoniest glacial and tidal drift known in any\nPuritan land.\n\n  Neither party to this momentary disagreement can have felt\nrancor, for during these three or four summers the old President's\nrelations with the boy were friendly and almost intimate. Whether his\nolder brothers and sisters were still more favored he failed to\nremember, but he was himself admitted to a sort of familiarity which,\nwhen in his turn he had reached old age, rather shocked him, for it\nmust have sometimes tried the President's patience. He hung about the\nlibrary; handled the books; deranged the papers; ransacked the drawers;\nsearched the old purses and pocket-books for foreign coins; drew the\nsword-cane; snapped the travelling-pistols; upset everything in the\ncorners, and penetrated the President's dressing-closet where a row of\ntumblers, inverted on the shelf, covered caterpillars which were\nsupposed to become moths or butterflies, but never did. The Madam bore\nwith fortitude the loss of the tumblers which her husband purloined for\nthese hatcheries; but she made protest when he carried off her best\ncut-glass bowls to plant with acorns or peachstones that he might see\nthe roots grow, but which, she said, he commonly forgot like the\ncaterpillars.\n\n  At that time the President rode the hobby of tree-culture, and\nsome fine old trees should still remain to witness it, unless they have\nbeen improved off the ground; but his was a restless mind, and although\nhe took his hobbies seriously and would have been annoyed had his\ngrandchild asked whether he was bored like an English duke, he probably\ncared more for the processes than for the results, so that his grandson\nwas saddened by the sight and smell of peaches and pears, the best of\ntheir kind, which he brought up from the garden to rot on his shelves\nfor seed. With the inherited virtues of his Puritan ancestors, the\nlittle boy Henry conscientiously brought up to him in his study the\nfinest peaches he found in the garden, and ate only the less perfect.\nNaturally he ate more by way of compensation, but the act showed that\nhe bore no grudge. As for his grandfather, it is even possible that he\nmay have felt a certain self-reproach for his temporary role of\nschoolmaster--seeing that his own career did not offer proof of the\nworldly advantages of docile obedience--for there still exists\nsomewhere a little volume of critically edited Nursery Rhymes with the\nboy's name in full written in the President's trembling hand on the\nfly-leaf. Of course there was also the Bible, given to each child at\nbirth, with the proper inscription in the President's hand on the\nfly-leaf; while their grandfather Brooks supplied the silver mugs.\n\n  So many Bibles and silver mugs had to be supplied, that a new\nhouse, or cottage, was built to hold them. It was \"on the hill,\" five\nminutes' walk above \"the old house,\" with a far view eastward over\nQuincy Bay, and northward over Boston. Till his twelfth year, the child\npassed his summers there, and his pleasures of childhood mostly centred\nin it. Of education he had as yet little to complain. Country schools\nwere not very serious. Nothing stuck to the mind except home\nimpressions, and the sharpest were those of kindred children; but as\ninfluences that warped a mind, none compared with the mere effect of\nthe back of the President's bald head, as he sat in his pew on Sundays,\nin line with that of President Quincy, who, though some ten years\nyounger, seemed to children about the same age. Before railways entered\nthe New England town, every parish church showed half-a-dozen of these\nleading citizens, with gray hair, who sat on the main aisle in the best\npews, and had sat there, or in some equivalent dignity, since the time\nof St. Augustine, if not since the glacial epoch. It was unusual for\nboys to sit behind a President grandfather, and to read over his head\nthe tablet in memory of a President great-grandfather, who had \"pledged\nhis life, his fortune, and his sacred honor\" to secure the independence\nof his country and so forth; but boys naturally supposed, without much\nreasoning, that other boys had the equivalent of President\ngrandfathers, and that churches would always go on, with the\nbald-headed leading citizens on the main aisle, and Presidents or their\nequivalents on the walls. The Irish gardener once said to the child:\n\"You'll be thinkin' you'll be President too!\" The casuality of the\nremark made so strong an impression on his mind that he never forgot\nit. He could not remember ever to have thought on the subject; to him,\nthat there should be a doubt of his being President was a new idea.\nWhat had been would continue to be. He doubted neither about Presidents\nnor about Churches, and no one suggested at that time a doubt whether a\nsystem of society which had lasted since Adam would outlast one Adams\nmore.\n\n  The Madam was a little more remote than the President, but more\ndecorative. She stayed much in her own room with the Dutch tiles,\nlooking out on her garden with the box walks, and seemed a fragile\ncreature to a boy who sometimes brought her a note or a message, and\ntook distinct pleasure in looking at her delicate face under what\nseemed to him very becoming caps. He liked her refined figure; her\ngentle voice and manner; her vague effect of not belonging there, but\nto Washington or to Europe, like her furniture, and writing-desk with\nlittle glass doors above and little eighteenth-century volumes in old\nbinding, labelled \"Peregrine Pickle\" or \"Tom Jones\" or \"Hannah More.\"\nTry as she might, the Madam could never be Bostonian, and it was her\ncross in life, but to the boy it was her charm. Even at that age, he\nfelt drawn to it. The Madam's life had been in truth far from Boston.\nShe was born in London in 1775, daughter of Joshua Johnson, an American\nmerchant, brother of Governor Thomas Johnson of Maryland; and Catherine\nNuth, of an English family in London. Driven from England by the\nRevolutionary War, Joshua Johnson took his family to Nantes, where they\nremained till the peace. The girl Louisa Catherine was nearly ten years\nold when brought back to London, and her sense of nationality must have\nbeen confused; but the influence of the Johnsons and the services of\nJoshua obtained for him from President Washington the appointment of\nConsul in London on the organization of the Government in 1790. In 1794\nPresident Washington appointed John Quincy Adams Minister to The Hague.\nHe was twenty-seven years old when he returned to London, and found the\nConsul's house a very agreeable haunt. Louisa was then twenty.\n\n  At that time, and long afterwards, the Consul's house, far more\nthan the Minister's, was the centre of contact for travelling\nAmericans, either official or other. The Legation was a shifting point,\nbetween 1785 and 1815; but the Consulate, far down in the City, near\nthe Tower, was convenient and inviting; so inviting that it proved\nfatal to young Adams. Louisa was charming, like a Romney portrait, but\namong her many charms that of being a New England woman was not one.\nThe defect was serious. Her future mother-in-law, Abigail, a famous New\nEngland woman whose authority over her turbulent husband, the second\nPresident, was hardly so great as that which she exercised over her\nson, the sixth to be, was troubled by the fear that Louisa might not be\nmade of stuff stern enough, or brought up in conditions severe enough,\nto suit a New England climate, or to make an efficient wife for her\nparagon son, and Abigail was right on that point, as on most others\nwhere sound judgment was involved; but sound judgment is sometimes a\nsource of weakness rather than of force, and John Quincy already had\nreason to think that his mother held sound judgments on the subject of\ndaughters-in-law which human nature, since the fall of Eve, made Adams\nhelpless to realize. Being three thousand miles away from his mother,\nand equally far in love, he married Louisa in London, July 26, 1797,\nand took her to Berlin to be the head of the United States Legation.\nDuring three or four exciting years, the young bride lived in Berlin;\nwhether she was happy or not, whether she was content or not, whether\nshe was socially successful or not, her descendants did not surely\nknow; but in any case she could by no chance have become educated there\nfor a life in Quincy or Boston. In 1801 the overthrow of the Federalist\nParty drove her and her husband to America, and she became at last a\nmember of the Quincy household, but by that time her children needed\nall her attention, and she remained there with occasional winters in\nBoston and Washington, till 1809. Her husband was made Senator in 1803,\nand in 1809 was appointed Minister to Russia. She went with him to St.\nPetersburg, taking her baby, Charles Francis, born in 1807; but\nbroken-hearted at having to leave her two older boys behind. The life\nat St. Petersburg was hardly gay for her; they were far too poor to\nshine in that extravagant society; but she survived it, though her\nlittle girl baby did not, and in the winter of 1814-15, alone with the\nboy of seven years old, crossed Europe from St. Petersburg to Paris, in\nher travelling-carriage, passing through the armies, and reaching Paris\nin the Cent Jours after Napoleon's return from Elba. Her husband next\nwent to England as Minister, and she was for two years at the Court of\nthe Regent. In 1817 her husband came home to be Secretary of State, and\nshe lived for eight years in F Street, doing her work of entertainer\nfor President Monroe's administration. Next she lived four miserable\nyears in the White House. When that chapter was closed in 1829, she had\nearned the right to be tired and delicate, but she still had fifteen\nyears to serve as wife of a Member of the House, after her husband went\nback to Congress in 1833. Then it was that the little Henry, her\ngrandson, first remembered her, from 1843 to 1848, sitting in her\npanelled room, at breakfast, with her heavy silver teapot and\nsugar-bowl and cream-jug, which still exist somewhere as an heirloom of\nthe modern safety-vault. By that time she was seventy years old or\nmore, and thoroughly weary of being beaten about a stormy world. To the\nboy she seemed singularly peaceful, a vision of silver gray, presiding\nover her old President and her Queen Anne mahogany; an exotic, like her\nSevres china; an object of deference to every one, and of great\naffection to her son Charles; but hardly more Bostonian than she had\nbeen fifty years before, on her wedding-day, in the shadow of the Tower\nof London.\n\n  Such a figure was even less fitted than that of her old\nhusband, the President, to impress on a boy's mind, the standards of\nthe coming century. She was Louis Seize, like the furniture. The boy\nknew nothing of her interior life, which had been, as the venerable\nAbigail, long since at peace, foresaw, one of severe stress and little\npure satisfaction. He never dreamed that from her might come some of\nthose doubts and self-questionings, those hesitations, those rebellions\nagainst law and discipline, which marked more than one of her\ndescendants; but he might even then have felt some vague instinctive\nsuspicion that he was to inherit from her the seeds of the primal sin,\nthe fall from grace, the curse of Abel, that he was not of pure New\nEngland stock, but half exotic. As a child of Quincy he was not a true\nBostonian, but even as a child of Quincy he inherited a quarter taint\nof Maryland blood. Charles Francis, half Marylander by birth, had\nhardly seen Boston till he was ten years old, when his parents left him\nthere at school in 1817, and he never forgot the experience. He was to\nbe nearly as old as his mother had been in 1845, before he quite\naccepted Boston, or Boston quite accepted him.\n\n  A boy who began his education in these surroundings, with\nphysical strength inferior to that of his brothers, and with a certain\ndelicacy of mind and bone, ought rightly to have felt at home in the\neighteenth century and should, in proper self-respect, have rebelled\nagainst the standards of the nineteenth. The atmosphere of his first\nten years must have been very like that of his grandfather at the same\nage, from 1767 till 1776, barring the battle of Bunker Hill, and even\nas late as 1846, the battle of Bunker Hill remained actual. The tone of\nBoston society was colonial. The true Bostonian always knelt in\nself-abasement before the majesty of English standards; far from\nconcealing it as a weakness, he was proud of it as his strength. The\neighteenth century ruled society long after 1850. Perhaps the boy began\nto shake it off rather earlier than most of his mates.\n\n  Indeed this prehistoric stage of education ended rather\nabruptly with his tenth year. One winter morning he was conscious of a\ncertain confusion in the house in Mount Vernon Street, and gathered,\nfrom such words as he could catch, that the President, who happened to\nbe then staying there, on his way to Washington, had fallen and hurt\nhimself. Then he heard the word paralysis. After that day he came to\nassociate the word with the figure of his grandfather, in a\ntall-backed, invalid armchair, on one side of the spare bedroom\nfireplace, and one of his old friends, Dr. Parkman or P. P. F. Degrand,\non the other side, both dozing.\n\n  The end of this first, or ancestral and Revolutionary, chapter\ncame on February 21, 1848--and the month of February brought life and\ndeath as a family habit--when the eighteenth century, as an actual and\nliving companion, vanished. If the scene on the floor of the House,\nwhen the old President fell, struck the still simple-minded American\npublic with a sensation unusually dramatic, its effect on a\nten-year-old boy, whose boy-life was fading away with the life of his\ngrandfather, could not be slight. One had to pay for Revolutionary\npatriots; grandfathers and grandmothers; Presidents; diplomats; Queen\nAnne mahogany and Louis Seize chairs, as well as for Stuart portraits.\nSuch things warp young life. Americans commonly believed that they\nruined it, and perhaps the practical common-sense of the American mind\njudged right. Many a boy might be ruined by much less than the emotions\nof the funeral service in the Quincy church, with its surroundings of\nnational respect and family pride. By another dramatic chance it\nhappened that the clergyman of the parish, Dr. Lunt, was an unusual\npulpit orator, the ideal of a somewhat austere intellectual type, such\nas the school of Buckminster and Channing inherited from the old\nCongregational clergy. His extraordinarily refined appearance, his\ndignity of manner, his deeply cadenced voice, his remarkable English\nand his fine appreciation, gave to the funeral service a character that\nleft an overwhelming impression on the boy's mind. He was to see many\ngreat functions--funerals and festival--in after-life, till his only\nthought was to see no more, but he never again witnessed anything\nnearly so impressive to him as the last services at Quincy over the\nbody of one President and the ashes of another.\n\n  The effect of the Quincy service was deepened by the official\nceremony which afterwards took place in Faneuil Hall, when the boy was\ntaken to hear his uncle, Edward Everett, deliver a Eulogy. Like all Mr.\nEverett's orations, it was an admirable piece of oratory, such as only\nan admirable orator and scholar could create; too good for a\nten-year-old boy to appreciate at its value; but already the boy knew\nthat the dead President could not be in it, and had even learned why he\nwould have been out of place there; for knowledge was beginning to come\nfast. The shadow of the War of 1812 still hung over State Street; the\nshadow of the Civil War to come had already begun to darken Faneuil\nHall. No rhetoric could have reconciled Mr. Everett's audience to his\nsubject. How could he say there, to an assemblage of Bostonians in the\nheart of mercantile Boston, that the only distinctive mark of all the\nAdamses, since old Sam Adams's father a hundred and fifty years before,\nhad been their inherited quarrel with State Street, which had again and\nagain broken out into riot, bloodshed, personal feuds, foreign and\ncivil war, wholesale banishments and confiscations, until the history\nof Florence was hardly more turbulent than that of Boston? How could he\nwhisper the word Hartford Convention before the men who had made it?\nWhat would have been said had he suggested the chance of Secession and\nCivil War?\n\n  Thus already, at ten years old, the boy found himself standing\nface to face with a dilemma that might have puzzled an early Christian.\nWhat was he?--where was he going? Even then he felt that something was\nwrong, but he concluded that it must be Boston. Quincy had always been\nright, for Quincy represented a moral principle--the principle of\nresistance to Boston. His Adams ancestors must have been right, since\nthey were always hostile to State Street. If State Street was wrong,\nQuincy must be right! Turn the dilemma as he pleased, he still came\nback on the eighteenth century and the law of Resistance; of Truth; of\nDuty, and of Freedom. He was a ten-year-old priest and politician. He\ncould under no circumstances have guessed what the next fifty years had\nin store, and no one could teach him; but sometimes, in his old age, he\nwondered--and could never decide--whether the most clear and certain\nknowledge would have helped him. Supposing he had seen a New York\nstock-list of 1900, and had studied the statistics of railways,\ntelegraphs, coal, and steel--would he have quitted his\neighteenth-century, his ancestral prejudices, his abstract ideals, his\nsemi-clerical training, and the rest, in order to perform an expiatory\npilgrimage to State Street, and ask for the fatted calf of his\ngrandfather Brooks and a clerkship in the Suffolk Bank?\n\n  Sixty years afterwards he was still unable to make up his mind.\nEach course had its advantages, but the material advantages, looking\nback, seemed to lie wholly in State Street.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II\n\nBOSTON (1848-1854)\n\n  PETER CHARDON BROOKS, the other grandfather, died January 1,\n1849, bequeathing what was supposed to be the largest estate in Boston,\nabout two million dollars, to his seven surviving children: four\nsons--Edward, Peter Chardon, Gorham, and Sydney; three\ndaughters--Charlotte, married to Edward Everett; Ann, married to\nNathaniel Frothingham, minister of the First Church; and Abigail Brown,\nborn April 25, 1808, married September 3, 1829, to Charles Francis\nAdams, hardly a year older than herself. Their first child, born in\n1830, was a daughter, named Louisa Catherine, after her Johnson\ngrandmother; the second was a son, named John Quincy, after his\nPresident grandfather; the third took his father's name, Charles\nFrancis; while the fourth, being of less account, was in a way given to\nhis mother, who named him Henry Brooks, after a favorite brother just\nlost. More followed, but these, being younger, had nothing to do with\nthe arduous process of educating.\n\n  The Adams connection was singularly small in Boston, but the\nfamily of Brooks was singularly large and even brilliant, and almost\nwholly of clerical New England stock. One might have sought long in\nmuch larger and older societies for three brothers-in-law more\ndistinguished or more scholarly than Edward Everett, Dr. Frothingham,\nand Mr. Adams. One might have sought equally long for seven\nbrothers-in-law more unlike. No doubt they all bore more or less the\nstamp of Boston, or at least of Massachusetts Bay, but the shades of\ndifference amounted to contrasts. Mr. Everett belonged to Boston hardly\nmore than Mr. Adams. One of the most ambitious of Bostonians, he had\nbroken bounds early in life by leaving the Unitarian pulpit to take a\nseat in Congress where he had given valuable support to J. Q. Adams's\nadministration; support which, as a social consequence, led to the\nmarriage of the President's son, Charles Francis, with Mr. Everett's\nyoungest sister-in-law, Abigail Brooks. The wreck of parties which\nmarked the reign of Andrew Jackson had interfered with many promising\ncareers, that of Edward Everett among the rest, but he had risen with\nthe Whig Party to power, had gone as Minister to England, and had\nreturned to America with the halo of a European reputation, and\nundisputed rank second only to Daniel Webster as the orator and\nrepresentative figure of Boston. The other brother-in-law, Dr.\nFrothingham, belonged to the same clerical school, though in manner\nrather the less clerical of the two. Neither of them had much in common\nwith Mr. Adams, who was a younger man, greatly biassed by his father,\nand by the inherited feud between Quincy and State Street; but personal\nrelations were friendly as far as a boy could see, and the innumerable\ncousins went regularly to the First Church every Sunday in winter, and\nslept through their uncle's sermons, without once thinking to ask what\nthe sermons were supposed to mean for them. For two hundred years the\nFirst Church had seen the same little boys, sleeping more or less\nsoundly under the same or similar conditions, and dimly conscious of\nthe same feuds; but the feuds had never ceased, and the boys had always\ngrown up to inherit them. Those of the generation of 1812 had mostly\ndisappeared in 1850; death had cleared that score; the quarrels of John\nAdams, and those of John Quincy Adams were no longer acutely personal;\nthe game was considered as drawn; and Charles Francis Adams might then\nhave taken his inherited rights of political leadership in succession\nto Mr. Webster and Mr. Everett, his seniors. Between him and State\nStreet the relation was more natural than between Edward Everett and\nState Street; but instead of doing so, Charles Francis Adams drew\nhimself aloof and renewed the old war which had already lasted since\n1700. He could not help it. With the record of J. Q. Adams fresh in the\npopular memory, his son and his only representative could not make\nterms with the slave-power, and the slave-power overshadowed all the\ngreat Boston interests. No doubt Mr. Adams had principles of his own,\nas well as inherited, but even his children, who as yet had no\nprinciples, could equally little follow the lead of Mr. Webster or even\nof Mr. Seward. They would have lost in consideration more than they\nwould have gained in patronage. They were anti-slavery by birth, as\ntheir name was Adams and their home was Quincy. No matter how much they\nhad wished to enter State Street, they felt that State Street never\nwould trust them, or they it. Had State Street been Paradise, they must\nhunger for it in vain, and it hardly needed Daniel Webster to act as\narchangel with the flaming sword, to order them away from the door.\n\n  Time and experience, which alter all perspectives, altered this\namong the rest, and taught the boy gentler judgment, but even when only\nten years old, his face was already fixed, and his heart was stone,\nagainst State Street; his education was warped beyond recovery in the\ndirection of Puritan politics. Between him and his patriot grandfather\nat the same age, the conditions had changed little. The year 1848 was\nlike enough to the year 1776 to make a fair parallel. The parallel, as\nconcerned bias of education, was complete when, a few months after the\ndeath of John Quincy Adams, a convention of anti-slavery delegates met\nat Buffalo to organize a new party and named candidates for the general\nelection in November: for President, Martin Van Buren; for\nVice-President, Charles Francis Adams.\n\n  For any American boy the fact that his father was running for\noffice would have dwarfed for the time every other excitement, but even\napart from personal bias, the year 1848, for a boy's road through life,\nwas decisive for twenty years to come. There was never a side-path of\nescape. The stamp of 1848 was almost as indelible as the stamp of 1776,\nbut in the eighteenth or any earlier century, the stamp mattered less\nbecause it was standard, and every one bore it; while men whose lives\nwere to fall in the generation between 1865 and 1900 had, first of all,\nto get rid of it, and take the stamp that belonged to their time. This\nwas their education. To outsiders, immigrants, adventurers, it was\neasy, but the old Puritan nature rebelled against change. The reason it\ngave was forcible. The Puritan thought his thought higher and his moral\nstandards better than those of his successors. So they were. He could\nnot be convinced that moral standards had nothing to do with it, and\nthat utilitarian morality was good enough for him, as it was for the\ngraceless. Nature had given to the boy Henry a character that, in any\nprevious century, would have led him into the Church; he inherited\ndogma and a priori thought from the beginning of time; and he scarcely\nneeded a violent reaction like anti-slavery politics to sweep him back\ninto Puritanism with a violence as great as that of a religious war.\n\n  Thus far he had nothing to do with it; his education was\nchiefly inheritance, and during the next five or six years, his father\nalone counted for much. If he were to worry successfully through life's\nquicksands, he must depend chiefly on his father's pilotage; but, for\nhis father, the channel lay clear, while for himself an unknown ocean\nlay beyond. His father's business in life was to get past the dangers\nof the slave-power, or to fix its bounds at least. The task done, he\nmight be content to let his sons pay for the pilotage; and it mattered\nlittle to his success whether they paid it with their lives wasted on\nbattle-fields or in misdirected energies and lost opportunity. The\ngeneration that lived from 1840 to 1870 could do very well with the old\nforms of education; that which had its work to do between 1870 and 1900\nneeded something quite new.\n\n  His father's character was therefore the larger part of his\neducation, as far as any single person affected it, and for that\nreason, if for no other, the son was always a much interested critic of\nhis father's mind and temper. Long after his death as an old man of\neighty, his sons continued to discuss this subject with a good deal of\ndifference in their points of view. To his son Henry, the quality that\ndistinguished his father from all the other figures in the family\ngroup, was that, in his opinion, Charles Francis Adams possessed the\nonly perfectly balanced mind that ever existed in the name. For a\nhundred years, every newspaper scribbler had, with more or less obvious\nexcuse, derided or abused the older Adamses for want of judgment. They\nabused Charles Francis for his judgment. Naturally they never attempted\nto assign values to either; that was the children's affair; but the\ntraits were real. Charles Francis Adams was singular for mental\npoise--absence of self-assertion or self-consciousness--the faculty of\nstanding apart without seeming aware that he was alone--a balance of\nmind and temper that neither challenged nor avoided notice, nor\nadmitted question of superiority or inferiority, of jealousy, of\npersonal motives, from any source, even under great pressure. This\nunusual poise of judgment and temper, ripened by age, became the more\nstriking to his son Henry as he learned to measure the mental faculties\nthemselves, which were in no way exceptional either for depth or range.\nCharles Francis Adams's memory was hardly above the average; his mind\nwas not bold like his grandfather's or restless like his father's, or\nimaginative or oratorical--still less mathematical; but it worked with\nsingular perfection, admirable self-restraint, and instinctive mastery\nof form. Within its range it was a model.\n\n  The standards of Boston were high, much affected by the old\nclerical self-respect which gave the Unitarian clergy unusual social\ncharm. Dr. Channing, Mr. Everett, Dr. Frothingham. Dr. Palfrey,\nPresident Walker, R. W. Emerson, and other Boston ministers of the same\nschool, would have commanded distinction in any society; but the\nAdamses had little or no affinity with the pulpit, and still less with\nits eccentric offshoots, like Theodore Parker, or Brook Farm, or the\nphilosophy of Concord. Besides its clergy, Boston showed a literary\ngroup, led by Ticknor, Prescott, Longfellow, Motley, O. W. Holmes; but\nMr. Adams was not one of them; as a rule they were much too Websterian.\nEven in science Boston could claim a certain eminence, especially in\nmedicine, but Mr. Adams cared very little for science. He stood alone.\nHe had no master--hardly even his father. He had no scholars--hardly\neven his sons.\n\n  Almost alone among his Boston contemporaries, he was not\nEnglish in feeling or in sympathies. Perhaps a hundred years of acute\nhostility to England had something to do with this family trait; but in\nhis case it went further and became indifference to social distinction.\nNever once in forty years of intimacy did his son notice in him a trace\nof snobbishness. He was one of the exceedingly small number of\nAmericans to whom an English duke or duchess seemed to be indifferent,\nand royalty itself nothing more than a slightly inconvenient presence.\nThis was, it is true, rather the tone of English society in his time,\nbut Americans were largely responsible for changing it, and Mr. Adams\nhad every possible reason for affecting the manner of a courtier even\nif he did not feel the sentiment. Never did his son see him flatter or\nvilify, or show a sign of envy or jealousy; never a shade of vanity or\nself-conceit. Never a tone of arrogance! Never a gesture of pride!\n\n  The same thing might perhaps have been said of John Quincy\nAdams, but in him his associates averred that it was accompanied by\nmental restlessness and often by lamentable want of judgment. No one\never charged Charles Francis Adams with this fault. The critics charged\nhim with just the opposite defect. They called him cold. No doubt, such\nperfect poise--such intuitive self-adjustment--was not maintained by\nnature without a sacrifice of the qualities which would have upset it.\nNo doubt, too, that even his restless-minded, introspective,\nself-conscious children who knew him best were much too ignorant of the\nworld and of human nature to suspect how rare and complete was the\nmodel before their eyes. A coarser instrument would have impressed them\nmore. Average human nature is very coarse, and its ideals must\nnecessarily be average. The world never loved perfect poise. What the\nworld does love is commonly absence of poise, for it has to be amused.\nNapoleons and Andrew Jacksons amuse it, but it is not amused by perfect\nbalance. Had Mr. Adams's nature been cold, he would have followed Mr.\nWebster, Mr. Everett, Mr. Seward, and Mr. Winthrop in the lines of\nparty discipline and self-interest. Had it been less balanced than it\nwas, he would have gone with Mr. Garrison, Mr. Wendell Phillips, Mr.\nEdmund Quincy, and Theodore Parker, into secession. Between the two\npaths he found an intermediate one, distinctive and characteristic--he\nset up a party of his own.\n\n  This political party became a chief influence in the education\nof the boy Henry in the six years 1848 to 1854, and violently affected\nhis character at the moment when character is plastic. The group of men\nwith whom Mr. Adams associated himself, and whose social centre was the\nhouse in Mount Vernon Street, numbered only three: Dr. John G. Palfrey,\nRichard H. Dana, and Charles Sumner. Dr. Palfrey was the oldest, and in\nspite of his clerical education, was to a boy often the most agreeable,\nfor his talk was lighter and his range wider than that of the others;\nhe had wit, or humor, and the give-and-take of dinner-table exchange.\nBorn to be a man of the world, he forced himself to be clergyman,\nprofessor, or statesman, while, like every other true Bostonian, he\nyearned for the ease of the Athenaeum Club in Pall Mall or the\nCombination Room at Trinity. Dana at first suggested the opposite; he\naffected to be still before the mast, a direct, rather bluff, vigorous\nseaman, and only as one got to know him better one found the man of\nrather excessive refinement trying with success to work like a\nday-laborer, deliberately hardening his skin to the burden, as though\nhe were still carrying hides at Monterey. Undoubtedly he succeeded, for\nhis mind and will were robust, but he might have said what his lifelong\nfriend William M. Evarts used to say: \"I pride myself on my success in\ndoing not the things I like to do, but the things I don't like to do.\"\nDana's ideal of life was to be a great Englishman, with a seat on the\nfront benches of the House of Commons until he should be promoted to\nthe woolsack; beyond all, with a social status that should place him\nabove the scuffle of provincial and unprofessional annoyances; but he\nforced himself to take life as it came, and he suffocated his longings\nwith grim self-discipline, by mere force of will. Of the four men, Dana\nwas the most marked. Without dogmatism or self-assertion, he seemed\nalways to be fully in sight, a figure that completely filled a\nwell-defined space. He, too, talked well, and his mind worked close to\nits subject, as a lawyer's should; but disguise and silence it as he\nliked, it was aristocratic to the tenth generation.\n\n  In that respect, and in that only, Charles Sumner was like him,\nbut Sumner, in almost every other quality, was quite different from his\nthree associates--altogether out of line. He, too, adored English\nstandards, but his ambition led him to rival the career of Edmund\nBurke. No young Bostonian of his time had made so brilliant a start,\nbut rather in the steps of Edward Everett than of Daniel Webster. As an\norator he had achieved a triumph by his oration against war; but Boston\nadmired him chiefly for his social success in England and on the\nContinent; success that gave to every Bostonian who enjoyed it a halo\nnever acquired by domestic sanctity. Mr. Sumner, both by interest and\ninstinct, felt the value of his English connection, and cultivated it\nthe more as he became socially an outcast from Boston society by the\npassions of politics. He was rarely without a pocket-full of letters\nfrom duchesses or noblemen in England. Having sacrificed to principle\nhis social position in America, he clung the more closely to his\nforeign attachments. The Free Soil Party fared ill in Beacon Street.\nThe social arbiters of Boston--George Ticknor and the rest--had to\nadmit, however unwillingly, that the Free Soil leaders could not mingle\nwith the friends and followers of Mr. Webster. Sumner was socially\nostracized, and so, for that matter, were Palfrey, Dana, Russell,\nAdams, and all the other avowed anti-slavery leaders, but for them it\nmattered less, because they had houses and families of their own; while\nSumner had neither wife nor household, and, though the most socially\nambitious of all, and the most hungry for what used to be called polite\nsociety, he could enter hardly half-a-dozen houses in Boston.\nLongfellow stood by him in Cambridge, and even in Beacon Street he\ncould always take refuge in the house of Mr. Lodge, but few days passed\nwhen he did not pass some time in Mount Vernon Street. Even with that,\nhis solitude was glacial, and reacted on his character. He had nothing\nbut himself to think about. His superiority was, indeed, real and\nincontestable; he was the classical ornament of the anti-slavery party;\ntheir pride in him was unbounded, and their admiration outspoken.\n\n  The boy Henry worshipped him, and if he ever regarded any older\nman as a personal friend, it was Mr. Sumner. The relation of Mr. Sumner\nin the household was far closer than any relation of blood. None of the\nuncles approached such intimacy. Sumner was the boy's ideal of\ngreatness; the highest product of nature and art. The only fault of\nsuch a model was its superiority which defied imitation. To the\ntwelve-year-old boy, his father, Dr. Palfrey, Mr. Dana, were men, more\nor less like what he himself might become; but Mr. Sumner was a\ndifferent order--heroic.\n\n  As the boy grew up to be ten or twelve years old, his father\ngave him a writing-table in one of the alcoves of his Boston library,\nand there, winter after winter, Henry worked over his Latin Grammar and\nlistened to these four gentlemen discussing the course of anti-slavery\npolitics. The discussions were always serious; the Free Soil Party took\nitself quite seriously; and they were habitual because Mr. Adams had\nundertaken to edit a newspaper as the organ of these gentlemen, who\ncame to discuss its policy and expression. At the same time Mr. Adams\nwas editing the \"Works\" of his grandfather John Adams, and made the boy\nread texts for proof-correction. In after years his father sometimes\ncomplained that, as a reader of Novanglus and Massachusettensis, Henry\nhad shown very little consciousness of punctuation; but the boy\nregarded this part of school life only as a warning, if he ever grew up\nto write dull discussions in the newspapers, to try to be dull in some\ndifferent way from that of his great-grandfather. Yet the discussions\nin the Boston Whig were carried on in much the same style as those of\nJohn Adams and his opponent, and appealed to much the same society and\nthe same habit of mind. The boy got as little education, fitting him\nfor his own time, from the one as from the other, and he got no more\nfrom his contact with the gentlemen themselves who were all types of\nthe past.\n\n  Down to 1850, and even later, New England society was still\ndirected by the professions. Lawyers, physicians, professors, merchants\nwere classes, and acted not as individuals, but as though they were\nclergymen and each profession were a church. In politics the system\nrequired competent expression; it was the old Ciceronian idea of\ngovernment by the best that produced the long line of New England\nstatesmen. They chose men to represent them because they wanted to be\nwell represented, and they chose the best they had. Thus Boston chose\nDaniel Webster, and Webster took, not as pay, but as honorarium, the\ncheques raised for him by Peter Harvey from the Appletons, Perkinses,\nAmorys, Searses, Brookses, Lawrences, and so on, who begged him to\nrepresent them. Edward Everett held the rank in regular succession to\nWebster. Robert C. Winthrop claimed succession to Everett. Charles\nSumner aspired to break the succession, but not the system. The Adamses\nhad never been, for any length of time, a part of this State\nsuccession; they had preferred the national service, and had won all\ntheir distinction outside the State, but they too had required State\nsupport and had commonly received it. The little group of men in Mount\nVernon Street were an offshoot of this system; they were statesmen, not\npoliticians; they guided public opinion, but were little guided by it.\n\n  The boy naturally learned only one lesson from his saturation\nin such air. He took for granted that this sort of world, more or less\nthe same that had always existed in Boston and Massachusetts Bay, was\nthe world which he was to fit. Had he known Europe he would have\nlearned no better. The Paris of Louis Philippe, Guizot, and de\nTocqueville, as well as the London of Robert Peel, Macaulay, and John\nStuart Mill, were but varieties of the same upper-class bourgeoisie\nthat felt instinctive cousinship with the Boston of Ticknor, Prescott,\nand Motley. Even the typical grumbler Carlyle, who cast doubts on the\nreal capacity of the middle class, and who at times thought himself\neccentric, found friendship and alliances in Boston--still more in\nConcord. The system had proved so successful that even Germany wanted\nto try it, and Italy yearned for it. England's middle-class government\nwas the ideal of human progress.\n\n  Even the violent reaction after 1848, and the return of all\nEurope to military practices, never for a moment shook the true faith.\nNo one, except Karl Marx, foresaw radical change. What announced it?\nThe world was producing sixty or seventy million tons of coal, and\nmight be using nearly a million steam-horsepower, just beginning to\nmake itself felt. All experience since the creation of man, all divine\nrevelation or human science, conspired to deceive and betray a\ntwelve-year-old boy who took for granted that his ideas, which were\nalone respectable, would be alone respected.\n\n  Viewed from Mount Vernon Street, the problem of life was as\nsimple as it was classic. Politics offered no difficulties, for there\nthe moral law was a sure guide. Social perfection was also sure,\nbecause human nature worked for Good, and three instruments were all\nshe asked--Suffrage, Common Schools, and Press. On these points doubt\nwas forbidden. Education was divine, and man needed only a correct\nknowledge of facts to reach perfection:\n\n  \"Were half the power that fills the world with terror,\n    Were half the wealth bestowed on camps and courts,\n  Given to redeem the human mind from error,\n    There were no need of arsenals nor forts.\"\n\nNothing quieted doubt so completely as the mental calm of the Unitarian\nclergy. In uniform excellence of life and character, moral and\nintellectual, the score of Unitarian clergymen about Boston, who\ncontrolled society and Harvard College, were never excelled. They\nproclaimed as their merit that they insisted on no doctrine, but\ntaught, or tried to teach, the means of leading a virtuous, useful,\nunselfish life, which they held to be sufficient for salvation. For\nthem, difficulties might be ignored; doubts were waste of thought;\nnothing exacted solution. Boston had solved the universe; or had\noffered and realized the best solution yet tried. The problem was\nworked out.\n\n  Of all the conditions of his youth which afterwards puzzled the\ngrown-up man, this disappearance of religion puzzled him most. The boy\nwent to church twice every Sunday; he was taught to read his Bible, and\nhe learned religious poetry by heart; he believed in a mild deism; he\nprayed; he went through all the forms; but neither to him nor to his\nbrothers or sisters was religion real. Even the mild discipline of the\nUnitarian Church was so irksome that they all threw it off at the first\npossible moment, and never afterwards entered a church. The religious\ninstinct had vanished, and could not be revived, although one made in\nlater life many efforts to recover it. That the most powerful emotion\nof man, next to the sexual, should disappear, might be a personal\ndefect of his own; but that the most intelligent society, led by the\nmost intelligent clergy, in the most moral conditions he ever knew,\nshould have solved all the problems of the universe so thoroughly as to\nhave quite ceased making itself anxious about past or future, and\nshould have persuaded itself that all the problems which had convulsed\nhuman thought from earliest recorded time, were not worth discussing,\nseemed to him the most curious social phenomenon he had to account for\nin a long life. The faculty of turning away one's eyes as one\napproaches a chasm is not unusual, and Boston showed, under the lead of\nMr. Webster, how successfully it could be done in politics; but in\npolitics a certain number of men did at least protest. In religion and\nphilosophy no one protested. Such protest as was made took forms more\nsimple than the silence, like the deism of Theodore Parker, and of the\nboy's own cousin Octavius Frothingham, who distressed his father and\nscandalized Beacon Street by avowing scepticism that seemed to solve no\nold problems, and to raise many new ones. The less aggressive protest\nof Ralph Waldo Emerson, was, from an old-world point of view, less\nserious. It was naif.\n\n  The children reached manhood without knowing religion, and with\nthe certainty that dogma, metaphysics, and abstract philosophy were not\nworth knowing. So one-sided an education could have been possible in no\nother country or time, but it became, almost of necessity, the more\nliterary and political. As the children grew up, they exaggerated the\nliterary and the political interests. They joined in the dinner-table\ndiscussions and from childhood the boys were accustomed to hear, almost\nevery day, table-talk as good as they were ever likely to hear again.\nThe eldest child, Louisa, was one of the most sparkling creatures her\nbrother met in a long and varied experience of bright women. The oldest\nson, John, was afterwards regarded as one of the best talkers in Boston\nsociety, and perhaps the most popular man in the State, though apt to\nbe on the unpopular side. Palfrey and Dana could be entertaining when\nthey pleased, and though Charles Sumner could hardly be called light in\nhand, he was willing to be amused, and smiled grandly from time to\ntime; while Mr. Adams, who talked relatively little, was always a good\nlistener, and laughed over a witticism till he choked.\n\n  By way of educating and amusing the children, Mr. Adams read\nmuch aloud, and was sure to read political literature, especially when\nit was satirical, like the speeches of Horace Mann and the \"Epistles\"\nof \"Hosea Biglow,\" with great delight to the youth. So he read\nLongfellow and Tennyson as their poems appeared, but the children took\npossession of Dickens and Thackeray for themselves. Both were too\nmodern for tastes founded on Pope and Dr. Johnson. The boy Henry soon\nbecame a desultory reader of every book he found readable, but these\nwere commonly eighteenth-century historians because his father's\nlibrary was full of them. In the want of positive instincts, he drifted\ninto the mental indolence of history. So too, he read shelves of\neighteenth-century poetry, but when his father offered his own set of\nWordsworth as a gift on condition of reading it through, he declined.\nPope and Gray called for no mental effort; they were easy reading; but\nthe boy was thirty years old before his education reached Wordsworth.\n\n  This is the story of an education, and the person or persons\nwho figure in it are supposed to have values only as educators or\neducated. The surroundings concern it only so far as they affect\neducation. Sumner, Dana, Palfrey, had values of their own, like Hume,\nPope, and Wordsworth, which any one may study in their works; here all\nappear only as influences on the mind of a boy very nearly the average\nof most boys in physical and mental stature. The influence was wholly\npolitical and literary. His father made no effort to force his mind,\nbut left him free play, and this was perhaps best. Only in one way his\nfather rendered him a great service by trying to teach him French and\ngiving him some idea of a French accent. Otherwise the family was\nrather an atmosphere than an influence. The boy had a large and\noverpowering set of brothers and sisters, who were modes or replicas of\nthe same type, getting the same education, struggling with the same\nproblems, and solving the question, or leaving it unsolved much in the\nsame way. They knew no more than he what they wanted or what to do for\nit, but all were conscious that they would like to control power in\nsome form; and the same thing could be said of an ant or an elephant.\nTheir form was tied to politics or literature. They amounted to one\nindividual with half-a-dozen sides or facets; their temperaments\nreacted on each other and made each child more like the other. This was\nalso education, but in the type, and the Boston or New England type was\nwell enough known. What no one knew was whether the individual who\nthought himself a representative of this type, was fit to deal with\nlife.\n\n  As far as outward bearing went, such a family of turbulent\nchildren, given free rein by their parents, or indifferent to check,\nshould have come to more or less grief. Certainly no one was strong\nenough to control them, least of all their mother, the queen-bee of the\nhive, on whom nine-tenths of the burden fell, on whose strength they\nall depended, but whose children were much too self-willed and\nself-confident to take guidance from her, or from any one else, unless\nin the direction they fancied. Father and mother were about equally\nhelpless. Almost every large family in those days produced at least one\nblack sheep, and if this generation of Adamses escaped, it was as much\na matter of surprise to them as to their neighbors. By some happy\nchance they grew up to be decent citizens, but Henry Adams, as a brand\nescaped from the burning, always looked back with astonishment at their\nluck. The fact seemed to prove that they were born, like birds, with a\ncertain innate balance. Home influences alone never saved the New\nEngland boy from ruin, though sometimes they may have helped to ruin\nhim; and the influences outside of home were negative. If school\nhelped, it was only by reaction. The dislike of school was so strong as\nto be a positive gain. The passionate hatred of school methods was\nalmost a method in itself. Yet the day-school of that time was\nrespectable, and the boy had nothing to complain of. In fact, he never\ncomplained. He hated it because he was here with a crowd of other boys\nand compelled to learn by memory a quantity of things that did not\namuse him. His memory was slow, and the effort painful. For him to\nconceive that his memory could compete for school prizes with machines\nof two or three times its power, was to prove himself wanting not only\nin memory, but flagrantly in mind. He thought his mind a good enough\nmachine, if it were given time to act, but it acted wrong if hurried.\nSchoolmasters never gave time.\n\n  In any and all its forms, the boy detested school, and the\nprejudice became deeper with years. He always reckoned his school-days,\nfrom ten to sixteen years old, as time thrown away. Perhaps his needs\nturned out to be exceptional, but his existence was exceptional.\nBetween 1850 and 1900 nearly every one's existence was exceptional. For\nsuccess in the life imposed on him he needed, as afterwards appeared,\nthe facile use of only four tools: Mathematics, French, German, and\nSpanish. With these, he could master in very short time any special\nbranch of inquiry, and feel at home in any society. Latin and Greek, he\ncould, with the help of the modern languages, learn more completely by\nthe intelligent work of six weeks than in the six years he spent on\nthem at school. These four tools were necessary to his success in life,\nbut he never controlled any one of them.\n\n  Thus, at the outset, he was condemned to failure more or less\ncomplete in the life awaiting him, but not more so than his companions.\nIndeed, had his father kept the boy at home, and given him half an\nhour's direction every day, he would have done more for him than school\never could do for them. Of course, school-taught men and boys looked\ndown on home-bred boys, and rather prided themselves on their own\nignorance, but the man of sixty can generally see what he needed in\nlife, and in Henry Adams's opinion it was not school.\n\n  Most school experience was bad. Boy associations at fifteen\nwere worse than none. Boston at that time offered few healthy resources\nfor boys or men. The bar-room and billiard-room were more familiar than\nparents knew. As a rule boys could skate and swim and were sent to\ndancing-school; they played a rudimentary game of baseball, football,\nand hockey; a few could sail a boat; still fewer had been out with a\ngun to shoot yellow-legs or a stray wild duck; one or two may have\nlearned something of natural history if they came from the neighborhood\nof Concord; none could ride across country, or knew what shooting with\ndogs meant. Sport as a pursuit was unknown. Boat-racing came after\n1850. For horse-racing, only the trotting-course existed. Of all\npleasures, winter sleighing was still the gayest and most popular. From\nnone of these amusements could the boy learn anything likely to be of\nuse to him in the world. Books remained as in the eighteenth century,\nthe source of life, and as they came out--Thackeray, Dickens, Bulwer,\nTennyson, Macaulay, Carlyle, and the rest--they were devoured; but as\nfar as happiness went, the happiest hours of the boy's education were\npassed in summer lying on a musty heap of Congressional Documents in\nthe old farmhouse at Quincy, reading \"Quentin Durward,\" \"Ivanhoe,\" and\n\"The Talisman,\" and raiding the garden at intervals for peaches and\npears. On the whole he learned most then.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III\n\nWASHINGTON (1850-1854)\n\n  EXCEPT for politics, Mount Vernon Street had the merit of\nleaving the boy-mind supple, free to turn with the world, and if one\nlearned next to nothing, the little one did learn needed not to be\nunlearned. The surface was ready to take any form that education should\ncut into it, though Boston, with singular foresight, rejected the old\ndesigns. What sort of education was stamped elsewhere, a Bostonian had\nno idea, but he escaped the evils of other standards by having no\nstandard at all; and what was true of school was true of society.\nBoston offered none that could help outside. Every one now smiles at\nthe bad taste of Queen Victoria and Louis Philippe--the society of the\nforties--but the taste was only a reflection of the social slack-water\nbetween a tide passed, and a tide to come. Boston belonged to neither,\nand hardly even to America. Neither aristocratic nor industrial nor\nsocial, Boston girls and boys were not nearly as unformed as English\nboys and girls, but had less means of acquiring form as they grew\nolder. Women counted for little as models. Every boy, from the age of\nseven, fell in love at frequent intervals with some girl--always more\nor less the same little girl--who had nothing to teach him, or he to\nteach her, except rather familiar and provincial manners, until they\nmarried and bore children to repeat the habit. The idea of attaching\none's self to a married woman, or of polishing one's manners to suit\nthe standards of women of thirty, could hardly have entered the mind of\na young Bostonian, and would have scandalized his parents. From women\nthe boy got the domestic virtues and nothing else. He might not even\ncatch the idea that women had more to give. The garden of Eden was\nhardly more primitive.\n\n  To balance this virtue, the Puritan city had always hidden a\ndarker side. Blackguard Boston was only too educational, and to most\nboys much the more interesting. A successful blackguard must enjoy\ngreat physical advantages besides a true vocation, and Henry Adams had\nneither; but no boy escaped some contact with vice of a very low form.\nBlackguardism came constantly under boys' eyes, and had the charm of\nforce and freedom and superiority to culture or decency. One might fear\nit, but no one honestly despised it. Now and then it asserted itself as\neducation more roughly than school ever did. One of the commonest\nboy-games of winter, inherited directly from the eighteenth-century,\nwas a game of war on Boston Common. In old days the two hostile forces\nwere called North-Enders and South-Enders. In 1850 the North-Enders\nstill survived as a legend, but in practice it was a battle of the\nLatin School against all comers, and the Latin School, for snowball,\nincluded all the boys of the West End. Whenever, on a half-holiday, the\nweather was soft enough to soften the snow, the Common was apt to be\nthe scene of a fight, which began in daylight with the Latin School in\nforce, rushing their opponents down to Tremont Street, and which\ngenerally ended at dark by the Latin School dwindling in numbers and\ndisappearing. As the Latin School grew weak, the roughs and young\nblackguards grew strong. As long as snowballs were the only weapon, no\none was much hurt, but a stone may be put in a snowball, and in the\ndark a stick or a slungshot in the hands of a boy is as effective as a\nknife. One afternoon the fight had been long and exhausting. The boy\nHenry, following, as his habit was, his bigger brother Charles, had\ntaken part in the battle, and had felt his courage much depressed by\nseeing one of his trustiest leaders, Henry Higginson--\"Bully Hig,\" his\nschool name--struck by a stone over the eye, and led off the field\nbleeding in rather a ghastly manner. As night came on, the Latin School\nwas steadily forced back to the Beacon Street Mall where they could\nretreat no further without disbanding, and by that time only a small\nband was left, headed by two heroes, Savage and Marvin. A dark mass of\nfigures could be seen below, making ready for the last rush, and rumor\nsaid that a swarm of blackguards from the slums, led by a grisly terror\ncalled Conky Daniels, with a club and a hideous reputation, was going\nto put an end to the Beacon Street cowards forever. Henry wanted to run\naway with the others, but his brother was too big to run away, so they\nstood still and waited immolation. The dark mass set up a shout, and\nrushed forward. The Beacon Street boys turned and fled up the steps,\nexcept Savage and Marvin and the few champions who would not run. The\nterrible Conky Daniels swaggered up, stopped a moment with his\nbody-guard to swear a few oaths at Marvin, and then swept on and chased\nthe flyers, leaving the few boys untouched who stood their ground. The\nobvious moral taught that blackguards were not so black as they were\npainted; but the boy Henry had passed through as much terror as though\nhe were Turenne or Henri IV, and ten or twelve years afterwards when\nthese same boys were fighting and falling on all the battle-fields of\nVirginia and Maryland, he wondered whether their education on Boston\nCommon had taught Savage and Marvin how to die.\n\n  If violence were a part of complete education, Boston was not\nincomplete. The idea of violence was familiar to the anti-slavery\nleaders as well as to their followers. Most of them suffered from it.\nMobs were always possible. Henry never happened to be actually\nconcerned in a mob, but he, like every other boy, was sure to be on\nhand wherever a mob was expected, and whenever he heard Garrison or\nWendell Phillips speak, he looked for trouble. Wendell Phillips on a\nplatform was a model dangerous for youth. Theodore Parker in his pulpit\nwas not much safer. Worst of all, the execution of the Fugitive Slave\nLaw in Boston--the sight of Court Square packed with bayonets, and his\nown friends obliged to line the streets under arms as State militia, in\norder to return a negro to slavery--wrought frenzy in the brain of a\nfifteen-year-old, eighteenth-century boy from Quincy, who wanted to\nmiss no reasonable chance of mischief.\n\n  One lived in the atmosphere of the Stamp Act, the Tea Tax, and\nthe Boston Massacre. Within Boston, a boy was first an\neighteenth-century politician, and afterwards only a possibility;\nbeyond Boston the first step led only further into politics. After\nFebruary, 1848, but one slight tie remained of all those that, since\n1776, had connected Quincy with the outer world. The Madam stayed in\nWashington, after her husband's death, and in her turn was struck by\nparalysis and bedridden. From time to time her son Charles, whose\naffection and sympathy for his mother in her many tribulations were\nalways pronounced, went on to see her, and in May, 1850, he took with\nhim his twelve-year-old son. The journey was meant as education, and as\neducation it served the purpose of fixing in memory the stage of a\nboy's thought in 1850. He could not remember taking special interest in\nthe railroad journey or in New York; with railways and cities he was\nfamiliar enough. His first impression was the novelty of crossing New\nYork Bay and finding an English railway carriage on the Camden and\nAmboy Railroad. This was a new world; a suggestion of corruption in the\nsimple habits of American life; a step to exclusiveness never\napproached in Boston; but it was amusing. The boy rather liked it. At\nTrenton the train set him on board a steamer which took him to\nPhiladelphia where he smelt other varieties of town life; then again by\nboat to Chester, and by train to Havre de Grace; by boat to Baltimore\nand thence by rail to Washington. This was the journey he remembered.\nThe actual journey may have been quite different, but the actual\njourney has no interest for education. The memory was all that\nmattered; and what struck him most, to remain fresh in his mind all his\nlifetime, was the sudden change that came over the world on entering a\nslave State. He took education politically. The mere raggedness of\noutline could not have seemed wholly new, for even Boston had its\nragged edges, and the town of Quincy was far from being a vision of\nneatness or good-repair; in truth, he had never seen a finished\nlandscape; but Maryland was raggedness of a new kind. The railway,\nabout the size and character of a modern tram, rambled through unfenced\nfields and woods, or through village streets, among a haphazard variety\nof pigs, cows, and negro babies, who might all have used the cabins for\npens and styes, had the Southern pig required styes, but who never\nshowed a sign of care. This was the boy's impression of what slavery\ncaused, and, for him, was all it taught. Coming down in the early\nmorning from his bedroom in his grandmother's house--still called the\nAdams Building in--F Street and venturing outside into the air reeking\nwith the thick odor of the catalpa trees, he found himself on an\nearth-road, or village street, with wheel-tracks meandering from the\ncolonnade of the Treasury hard by, to the white marble columns and\nfronts of the Post Office and Patent Office which faced each other in\nthe distance, like white Greek temples in the abandoned gravel-pits of\na deserted Syrian city. Here and there low wooden houses were scattered\nalong the streets, as in other Southern villages, but he was chiefly\nattracted by an unfinished square marble shaft, half-a-mile below, and\nhe walked down to inspect it before breakfast. His aunt drily remarked\nthat, at this rate, he would soon get through all the sights; but she\ncould not guess--having lived always in Washington--how little the\nsights of Washington had to do with its interest.\n\n  The boy could not have told her; he was nowhere near an\nunderstanding of himself. The more he was educated, the less he\nunderstood. Slavery struck him in the face; it was a nightmare; a\nhorror; a crime; the sum of all wickedness! Contact made it only more\nrepulsive. He wanted to escape, like the negroes, to free soil. Slave\nStates were dirty, unkempt, poverty-stricken, ignorant, vicious! He had\nnot a thought but repulsion for it; and yet the picture had another\nside. The May sunshine and shadow had something to do with it; the\nthickness of foliage and the heavy smells had more; the sense of\natmosphere, almost new, had perhaps as much again; and the brooding\nindolence of a warm climate and a negro population hung in the\natmosphere heavier than the catalpas. The impression was not simple,\nbut the boy liked it: distinctly it remained on his mind as an\nattraction, almost obscuring Quincy itself. The want of barriers, of\npavements, of forms; the looseness, the laziness; the indolent Southern\ndrawl; the pigs in the streets; the negro babies and their mothers with\nbandanas; the freedom, openness, swagger, of nature and man, soothed\nhis Johnson blood. Most boys would have felt it in the same way, but\nwith him the feeling caught on to an inheritance. The softness of his\ngentle old grandmother as she lay in bed and chatted with him, did not\ncome from Boston. His aunt was anything rather than Bostonian. He did\nnot wholly come from Boston himself. Though Washington belonged to a\ndifferent world, and the two worlds could not live together, he was not\nsure that he enjoyed the Boston world most. Even at twelve years old he\ncould see his own nature no more clearly than he would at twelve\nhundred, if by accident he should happen to live so long.\n\n  His father took him to the Capitol and on the floor of the\nSenate, which then, and long afterwards, until the era of tourists, was\nfreely open to visitors. The old Senate Chamber resembled a pleasant\npolitical club. Standing behind the Vice-President's chair, which is\nnow the Chief Justice's, the boy was presented to some of the men whose\nnames were great in their day, and as familiar to him as his own. Clay\nand Webster and Calhoun were there still, but with them a Free Soil\ncandidate for the Vice-Presidency had little to do; what struck boys\nmost was their type. Senators were a species; they all wore an air, as\nthey wore a blue dress coat or brass buttons; they were Roman. The type\nof Senator in 1850 was rather charming at its best, and the Senate,\nwhen in good temper, was an agreeable body, numbering only some sixty\nmembers, and affecting the airs of courtesy. Its vice was not so much a\nvice of manners or temper as of attitude. The statesman of all periods\nwas apt to be pompous, but even pomposity was less offensive than\nfamiliarity--on the platform as in the pulpit--and Southern pomposity,\nwhen not arrogant, was genial and sympathetic, almost quaint and\nchildlike in its simple-mindedness; quite a different thing from the\nWebsterian or Conklinian pomposity of the North. The boy felt at ease\nthere, more at home than he had ever felt in Boston State House, though\nhis acquaintance with the codfish in the House of Representatives went\nback beyond distinct recollection. Senators spoke kindly to him, and\nseemed to feel so, for they had known his family socially; and, in\nspite of slavery, even J. Q. Adams in his later years, after he ceased\nto stand in the way of rivals, had few personal enemies. Decidedly the\nSenate, pro-slavery though it were, seemed a friendly world.\n\n  This first step in national politics was a little like the walk\nbefore breakfast; an easy, careless, genial, enlarging stride into a\nfresh and amusing world, where nothing was finished, but where even the\nweeds grew rank. The second step was like the first, except that it led\nto the White House. He was taken to see President Taylor. Outside, in a\npaddock in front, \"Old Whitey,\" the President's charger, was grazing,\nas they entered; and inside, the President was receiving callers as\nsimply as if he were in the paddock too. The President was friendly,\nand the boy felt no sense of strangeness that he could ever recall. In\nfact, what strangeness should he feel? The families were intimate; so\nintimate that their friendliness outlived generations, civil war, and\nall sorts of rupture. President Taylor owed his election to Martin Van\nBuren and the Free Soil Party. To him, the Adamses might still be of\nuse. As for the White House, all the boy's family had lived there, and,\nbarring the eight years of Andrew Jackson's reign, had been more or\nless at home there ever since it was built. The boy half thought he\nowned it, and took for granted that he should some day live in it. He\nfelt no sensation whatever before Presidents. A President was a matter\nof course in every respectable family; he had two in his own; three, if\nhe counted old Nathaniel Gorham, who, was the oldest and first in\ndistinction. Revolutionary patriots, or perhaps a Colonial Governor,\nmight be worth talking about, but any one could be President, and some\nvery shady characters were likely to be. Presidents, Senators,\nCongressmen, and such things were swarming in every street.\n\n  Every one thought alike whether they had ancestors or not. No\nsort of glory hedged Presidents as such, and, in the whole country, one\ncould hardly have met with an admission of respect for any office or\nname, unless it were George Washington. That was--to all appearance\nsincerely--respected. People made pilgrimages to Mount Vernon and made\neven an effort to build Washington a monument. The effort had failed,\nbut one still went to Mount Vernon, although it was no easy trip. Mr.\nAdams took the boy there in a carriage and pair, over a road that gave\nhim a complete Virginia education for use ten years afterwards. To the\nNew England mind, roads, schools, clothes, and a clean face were\nconnected as part of the law of order or divine system. Bad roads meant\nbad morals. The moral of this Virginia road was clear, and the boy\nfully learned it. Slavery was wicked, and slavery was the cause of this\nroad's badness which amounted to social crime--and yet, at the end of\nthe road and product of the crime stood Mount Vernon and George\nWashington.\n\n  Luckily boys accept contradictions as readily as their elders\ndo, or this boy might have become prematurely wise. He had only to\nrepeat what he was told--that George Washington stood alone. Otherwise\nthis third step in his Washington education would have been his last.\nOn that line, the problem of progress was not soluble, whatever the\noptimists and orators might say--or, for that matter, whatever they\nmight think. George Washington could not be reached on Boston lines.\nGeorge Washington was a primary, or, if Virginians liked it better, an\nultimate relation, like the Pole Star, and amid the endless restless\nmotion of every other visible point in space, he alone remained steady,\nin the mind of Henry Adams, to the end. All the other points shifted\ntheir bearings; John Adams, Jefferson, Madison, Franklin, even John\nMarshall, took varied lights, and assumed new relations, but Mount\nVernon always remained where it was, with no practicable road to reach\nit; and yet, when he got there, Mount Vernon was only Quincy in a\nSouthern setting. No doubt it was much more charming, but it was the\nsame eighteenth-century, the same old furniture, the same old patriot,\nand the same old President.\n\n  The boy took to it instinctively. The broad Potomac and the\ncoons in the trees, the bandanas and the box-hedges, the bedrooms\nupstairs and the porch outside, even Martha Washington herself in\nmemory, were as natural as the tides and the May sunshine; he had only\nenlarged his horizon a little; but he never thought to ask himself or\nhis father how to deal with the moral problem that deduced George\nWashington from the sum of all wickedness. In practice, such trifles as\ncontradictions in principle are easily set aside; the faculty of\nignoring them makes the practical man; but any attempt to deal with\nthem seriously as education is fatal. Luckily Charles Francis Adams\nnever preached and was singularly free from cant. He may have had views\nof his own, but he let his son Henry satisfy himself with the simple\nelementary fact that George Washington stood alone.\n\n  Life was not yet complicated. Every problem had a solution,\neven the negro. The boy went back to Boston more political than ever,\nand his politics were no longer so modern as the eighteenth century,\nbut took a strong tone of the seventeenth. Slavery drove the whole\nPuritan community back on its Puritanism. The boy thought as\ndogmatically as though he were one of his own ancestors. The Slave\npower took the place of Stuart kings and Roman popes. Education could\ngo no further in that course, and ran off into emotion; but, as the boy\ngradually found his surroundings change, and felt himself no longer an\nisolated atom in a hostile universe, but a sort of herring-fry in a\nshoal of moving fish, he began to learn the first and easier lessons of\npractical politics. Thus far he had seen nothing but eighteenth-century\nstatesmanship. America and he began, at the same time, to become aware\nof a new force under the innocent surface of party machinery. Even at\nthat early moment, a rather slow boy felt dimly conscious that he might\nmeet some personal difficulties in trying to reconcile\nsixteenth-century principles and eighteenth-century statesmanship with\nlate nineteenth-century party organization. The first vague sense of\nfeeling an unknown living obstacle in the dark came in 185l.\n\n  The Free Soil conclave in Mount Vernon Street belonged, as\nalready said, to the statesman class, and, like Daniel Webster, had\nnothing to do with machinery. Websters or Sewards depended on others\nfor machine work and money--on Peter Harveys and Thurlow Weeds, who\nspent their lives in it, took most of the abuse, and asked no reward.\nAlmost without knowing it, the subordinates ousted their employers and\ncreated a machine which no one but themselves could run. In 1850 things\nhad not quite reached that point. The men who ran the small Free Soil\nmachine were still modest, though they became famous enough in their\nown right. Henry Wilson, John B. Alley, Anson Burlingame, and the other\nmanagers, negotiated a bargain with the Massachusetts Democrats giving\nthe State to the Democrats and a seat in the Senate to the Free\nSoilers. With this bargain Mr. Adams and his statesman friends would\nhave nothing to do, for such a coalition was in their eyes much like\njockeys selling a race. They did not care to take office as pay for\nvotes sold to pro-slavery Democrats. Theirs was a correct, not to say\nnoble, position; but, as a matter of fact, they took the benefit of the\nsale, for the coalition chose Charles Sumner as its candidate for the\nSenate, while George S. Boutwell was made Governor for the Democrats.\nThis was the boy's first lesson in practical politics, and a sharp one;\nnot that he troubled himself with moral doubts, but that he learned the\nnature of a flagrantly corrupt political bargain in which he was too\ngood to take part, but not too good to take profit. Charles Sumner\nhappened to be the partner to receive these stolen goods, but between\nhis friend and his father the boy felt no distinction, and, for him,\nthere was none. He entered into no casuistry on the matter. His friend\nwas right because his friend, and the boy shared the glory. The\nquestion of education did not rise while the conflict lasted. Yet every\none saw as clearly then as afterwards that a lesson of some sort must\nbe learned and understood, once for all. The boy might ignore, as a\nmere historical puzzle, the question how to deduce George Washington\nfrom the sum of all wickedness, but he had himself helped to deduce\nCharles Sumner from the sum of political corruption. On that line, too,\neducation could go no further. Tammany Hall stood at the end of the\nvista.\n\n  Mr. Alley, one of the strictest of moralists, held that his\nobject in making the bargain was to convert the Democratic Party to\nanti-slavery principles, and that he did it. Henry Adams could rise to\nno such moral elevation. He was only a boy, and his object in\nsupporting the coalition was that of making his friend a Senator. It\nwas as personal as though he had helped to make his friend a\nmillionaire. He could never find a way of escaping immoral conclusions,\nexcept by admitting that he and his father and Sumner were wrong, and\nthis he was never willing to do, for the consequences of this admission\nwere worse than those of the other. Thus, before he was fifteen years\nold, he had managed to get himself into a state of moral confusion from\nwhich he never escaped. As a politician, he was already corrupt, and he\nnever could see how any practical politician could be less corrupt than\nhimself.\n\n  Apology, as he understood himself, was cant or cowardice. At\nthe time he never even dreamed that he needed to apologize, though the\npress shouted it at him from every corner, and though the Mount Vernon\nStreet conclave agreed with the press; yet he could not plead\nignorance, and even in the heat of the conflict, he never cared to\ndefend the coalition. Boy as he was, he knew enough to know that\nsomething was wrong, but his only interest was the election. Day after\nday, the General Court balloted; and the boy haunted the gallery,\nfollowing the roll-call, and wondered what Caleb Cushing meant by\ncalling Mr. Sumner a \"one-eyed abolitionist.\" Truly the difference in\nmeaning with the phrase \"one-ideaed abolitionist,\" which was Mr.\nCushing's actual expression, is not very great, but neither the one nor\nthe other seemed to describe Mr. Sumner to the boy, who never could\nhave made the error of classing Garrison and Sumner together, or\nmistaking Caleb Cushing's relation to either. Temper ran high at that\nmoment, while Sumner every day missed his election by only one or two\nvotes. At last, April 24, 1851, standing among the silent crowd in the\ngallery, Henry heard the vote announced which gave Sumner the needed\nnumber. Slipping under the arms of the bystanders, he ran home as hard\nas he could, and burst into the dining-room where Mr. Sumner was seated\nat table with the family. He enjoyed the glory of telling Sumner that\nhe was elected; it was probably the proudest moment in the life of\neither.\n\n  The next day, when the boy went to school, he noticed numbers\nof boys and men in the streets wearing black crepe on their arm. He\nknew few Free Soil boys in Boston; his acquaintances were what he\ncalled pro-slavery; so he thought proper to tie a bit of white silk\nribbon round his own arm by way of showing that his friend Mr. Sumner\nwas not wholly alone. This little piece of bravado passed unnoticed; no\none even cuffed his ears; but in later life he was a little puzzled to\ndecide which symbol was the more correct. No one then dreamed of four\nyears' war, but every one dreamed of secession. The symbol for either\nmight well be matter of doubt.\n\n  This triumph of the Mount Vernon Street conclave capped the\npolitical climax. The boy, like a million other American boys, was a\npolitician, and what was worse, fit as yet to be nothing else. He\nshould have been, like his grandfather, a protege of George Washington,\na statesman designated by destiny, with nothing to do but look directly\nahead, follow orders, and march. On the contrary, he was not even a\nBostonian; he felt himself shut out of Boston as though he were an\nexile; he never thought of himself as a Bostonian; he never looked\nabout him in Boston, as boys commonly do wherever they are, to select\nthe street they like best, the house they want to live in, the\nprofession they mean to practise. Always he felt himself somewhere\nelse; perhaps in Washington with its social ease; perhaps in Europe;\nand he watched with vague unrest from the Quincy hills the smoke of the\nCunard steamers stretching in a long line to the horizon, and\ndisappearing every other Saturday or whatever the day might be, as\nthough the steamers were offering to take him away, which was precisely\nwhat they were doing.\n\n  Had these ideas been unreasonable, influences enough were at\nhand to correct them; but the point of the whole story, when Henry\nAdams came to look back on it, seemed to be that the ideas were more\nthan reasonable; they were the logical, necessary, mathematical result\nof conditions old as history and fixed as fate--invariable sequence in\nman's experience. The only idea which would have been quite\nunreasonable scarcely entered his mind. This was the thought of going\nwestward and growing up with the country. That he was not in the least\nfitted for going West made no objection whatever, since he was much\nbetter fitted than most of the persons that went. The convincing reason\nfor staying in the East was that he had there every advantage over the\nWest. He could not go wrong. The West must inevitably pay an enormous\ntribute to Boston and New York. One's position in the East was the best\nin the world for every purpose that could offer an object for going\nwestward. If ever in history men had been able to calculate on a\ncertainty for a lifetime in advance, the citizens of the great Eastern\nseaports could do it in 1850 when their railway systems were already\nlaid out. Neither to a politician nor to a business-man nor to any of\nthe learned professions did the West promise any certain advantage,\nwhile it offered uncertainties in plenty.\n\n  At any other moment in human history, this education, including\nits political and literary bias, would have been not only good, but\nquite the best. Society had always welcomed and flattered men so\nendowed. Henry Adams had every reason to be well pleased with it, and\nnot ill-pleased with himself. He had all he wanted. He saw no reason\nfor thinking that any one else had more. He finished with school, not\nvery brilliantly, but without finding fault with the sum of his\nknowledge. Probably he knew more than his father, or his grandfather,\nor his great-grandfather had known at sixteen years old. Only on\nlooking back, fifty years later, at his own figure in 1854, and\npondering on the needs of the twentieth century, he wondered whether,\non the whole the boy of 1854 stood nearer to the thought of 1904, or to\nthat of the year 1. He found himself unable to give a sure answer. The\ncalculation was clouded by the undetermined values of twentieth-century\nthought, but the story will show his reasons for thinking that, in\nessentials like religion, ethics, philosophy; in history, literature,\nart; in the concepts of all science, except perhaps mathematics, the\nAmerican boy of 1854 stood nearer the year 1 than to the year 1900. The\neducation he had received bore little relation to the education he\nneeded. Speaking as an American of 1900, he had as yet no education at\nall. He knew not even where or how to begin.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV\n\nHARVARD COLLEGE (1854-1858)\n\n  ONE day in June, 1854, young Adams walked for the last time\ndown the steps of Mr. Dixwell's school in Boylston Place, and felt no\nsensation but one of unqualified joy that this experience was ended.\nNever before or afterwards in his life did he close a period so long as\nfour years without some sensation of loss--some sentiment of habit--but\nschool was what in after life he commonly heard his friends denounce as\nan intolerable bore. He was born too old for it. The same thing could\nbe said of most New England boys. Mentally they never were boys. Their\neducation as men should have begun at ten years old. They were fully\nfive years more mature than the English or European boy for whom\nschools were made. For the purposes of future advancement, as\nafterwards appeared, these first six years of a possible education were\nwasted in doing imperfectly what might have been done perfectly in one,\nand in any case would have had small value. The next regular step was\nHarvard College. He was more than glad to go. For generation after\ngeneration, Adamses and Brookses and Boylstons and Gorhams had gone to\nHarvard College, and although none of them, as far as known, had ever\ndone any good there, or thought himself the better for it, custom,\nsocial ties, convenience, and, above all, economy, kept each generation\nin the track. Any other education would have required a serious effort,\nbut no one took Harvard College seriously. All went there because their\nfriends went there, and the College was their ideal of social\nself-respect.\n\n  Harvard College, as far as it educated at all, was a mild and\nliberal school, which sent young men into the world with all they\nneeded to make respectable citizens, and something of what they wanted\nto make useful ones. Leaders of men it never tried to make. Its ideals\nwere altogether different. The Unitarian clergy had given to the\nCollege a character of moderation, balance, judgment, restraint, what\nthe French called mesure; excellent traits, which the College attained\nwith singular success, so that its graduates could commonly be\nrecognized by the stamp, but such a type of character rarely lent\nitself to autobiography. In effect, the school created a type but not a\nwill. Four years of Harvard College, if successful, resulted in an\nautobiographical blank, a mind on which only a water-mark had been\nstamped.\n\n  The stamp, as such things went, was a good one. The chief\nwonder of education is that it does not ruin everybody concerned in it,\nteachers and taught. Sometimes in after life, Adams debated whether in\nfact it had not ruined him and most of his companions, but,\ndisappointment apart, Harvard College was probably less hurtful than\nany other university then in existence. It taught little, and that\nlittle ill, but it left the mind open, free from bias, ignorant of\nfacts, but docile. The graduate had few strong prejudices. He knew\nlittle, but his mind remained supple, ready to receive knowledge.\n\n  What caused the boy most disappointment was the little he got\nfrom his mates. Speaking exactly, he got less than nothing, a result\ncommon enough in education. Yet the College Catalogue for the years\n1854 to 1861 shows a list of names rather distinguished in their time.\nAlexander Agassiz and Phillips Brooks led it; H. H. Richardson and O.\nW. Holmes helped to close it. As a rule the most promising of all die\nearly, and never get their names into a Dictionary of Contemporaries,\nwhich seems to be the only popular standard of success. Many died in\nthe war. Adams knew them all, more or less; he felt as much regard, and\nquite as much respect for them then, as he did after they won great\nnames and were objects of a vastly wider respect; but, as help towards\neducation, he got nothing whatever from them or they from him until\nlong after they had left college. Possibly the fault was his, but one\nwould like to know how many others shared it. Accident counts for much\nin companionship as in marriage. Life offers perhaps only a score of\npossible companions, and it is mere chance whether they meet as early\nas school or college, but it is more than a chance that boys brought up\ntogether under like conditions have nothing to give each other. The\nClass of 1858, to which Henry Adams belonged, was a typical collection\nof young New Englanders, quietly penetrating and aggressively\ncommonplace; free from meannesses, jealousies, intrigues, enthusiasms,\nand passions; not exceptionally quick; not consciously skeptical;\nsingularly indifferent to display, artifice, florid expression, but not\nhostile to it when it amused them; distrustful of themselves, but\nlittle disposed to trust any one else; with not much humor of their\nown, but full of readiness to enjoy the humor of others; negative to a\ndegree that in the long run became positive and triumphant. Not harsh\nin manners or judgment, rather liberal and open-minded, they were still\nas a body the most formidable critics one would care to meet, in a long\nlife exposed to criticism. They never flattered, seldom praised; free\nfrom vanity, they were not intolerant of it; but they were\nobjectiveness itself; their attitude was a law of nature; their\njudgment beyond appeal, not an act either of intellect or emotion or of\nwill, but a sort of gravitation.\n\n  This was Harvard College incarnate, but even for Harvard\nCollege, the Class of 1858 was somewhat extreme. Of unity this band of\nnearly one hundred young men had no keen sense, but they had equally\nlittle energy of repulsion. They were pleasant to live with, and above\nthe average of students--German, French, English, or what not--but\nchiefly because each individual appeared satisfied to stand alone. It\nseemed a sign of force; yet to stand alone is quite natural when one\nhas no passions; still easier when one has no pains.\n\n  Into this unusually dissolvent medium, chance insisted on\nenlarging Henry Adams's education by tossing a trio of Virginians as\nlittle fitted for it as Sioux Indians to a treadmill. By some further\naffinity, these three outsiders fell into relation with the Bostonians\namong whom Adams as a schoolboy belonged, and in the end with Adams\nhimself, although they and he knew well how thin an edge of friendship\nseparated them in 1856 from mortal enmity. One of the Virginians was\nthe son of Colonel Robert E. Lee, of the Second United States Cavalry;\nthe two others who seemed instinctively to form a staff for Lee, were\ntown-Virginians from Petersburg. A fourth outsider came from Cincinnati\nand was half Kentuckian, N. L. Anderson, Longworth on the mother's\nside. For the first time Adams's education brought him in contact with\nnew types and taught him their values. He saw the New England type\nmeasure itself with another, and he was part of the process.\n\n  Lee, known through life as \"Roony,\" was a Virginian of the\neighteenth century, much as Henry Adams was a Bostonian of the same\nage. Roony Lee had changed little from the type of his grandfather,\nLight Horse Harry. Tall, largely built, handsome, genial, with liberal\nVirginian openness towards all he liked, he had also the Virginian\nhabit of command and took leadership as his natural habit. No one cared\nto contest it. None of the New Englanders wanted command. For a year,\nat least, Lee was the most popular and prominent young man in his\nclass, but then seemed slowly to drop into the background. The habit of\ncommand was not enough, and the Virginian had little else. He was\nsimple beyond analysis; so simple that even the simple New England\nstudent could not realize him. No one knew enough to know how ignorant\nhe was; how childlike; how helpless before the relative complexity of a\nschool. As an animal, the Southerner seemed to have every advantage,\nbut even as an animal he steadily lost ground.\n\n  The lesson in education was vital to these young men, who,\nwithin ten years, killed each other by scores in the act of testing\ntheir college conclusions. Strictly, the Southerner had no mind; he had\ntemperament. He was not a scholar; he had no intellectual training; he\ncould not analyze an idea, and he could not even conceive of admitting\ntwo; but in life one could get along very well without ideas, if one\nhad only the social instinct. Dozens of eminent statesmen were men of\nLee's type, and maintained themselves well enough in the legislature,\nbut college was a sharper test. The Virginian was weak in vice itself,\nthough the Bostonian was hardly a master of crime. The habits of\nneither were good; both were apt to drink hard and to live low lives;\nbut the Bostonian suffered less than the Virginian. Commonly the\nBostonian could take some care of himself even in his worst stages,\nwhile the Virginian became quarrelsome and dangerous. When a Virginian\nhad brooded a few days over an imaginary grief and substantial whiskey,\nnone of his Northern friends could be sure that he might not be\nwaiting, round the corner, with a knife or pistol, to revenge insult by\nthe dry light of delirium tremens; and when things reached this\ncondition, Lee had to exhaust his authority over his own staff. Lee was\na gentleman of the old school, and, as every one knows, gentlemen of\nthe old school drank almost as much as gentlemen of the new school; but\nthis was not his trouble. He was sober even in the excessive violence\nof political feeling in those years; he kept his temper and his friends\nunder control.\n\n  Adams liked the Virginians. No one was more obnoxious to them,\nby name and prejudice; yet their friendship was unbroken and even warm.\nAt a moment when the immediate future posed no problem in education so\nvital as the relative energy and endurance of North and South, this\nmomentary contact with Southern character was a sort of education for\nits own sake; but this was not all. No doubt the self-esteem of the\nYankee, which tended naturally to self-distrust, was flattered by\ngaining the slow conviction that the Southerner, with his slave-owning\nlimitations, was as little fit to succeed in the struggle of modern\nlife as though he were still a maker of stone axes, living in caves,\nand hunting the bos primigenius, and that every quality in which he was\nstrong, made him weaker; but Adams had begun to fear that even in this\nrespect one eighteenth-century type might not differ deeply from\nanother. Roony Lee had changed little from the Virginian of a century\nbefore; but Adams was himself a good deal nearer the type of his\ngreat-grandfather than to that of a railway superintendent. He was\nlittle more fit than the Virginians to deal with a future America which\nshowed no fancy for the past. Already Northern society betrayed a\npreference for economists over diplomats or soldiers--one might even\ncall it a jealousy--against which two eighteenth-century types had\nlittle chance to live, and which they had in common to fear.\n\n  Nothing short of this curious sympathy could have brought into\nclose relations two young men so hostile as Roony Lee and Henry Adams,\nbut the chief difference between them as collegians consisted only in\ntheir difference of scholarship: Lee was a total failure; Adams a\npartial one. Both failed, but Lee felt his failure more sensibly, so\nthat he gladly seized the chance of escape by accepting a commission\noffered him by General Winfield Scott in the force then being organized\nagainst the Mormons. He asked Adams to write his letter of acceptance,\nwhich flattered Adams's vanity more than any Northern compliment could\ndo, because, in days of violent political bitterness, it showed a\ncertain amount of good temper. The diplomat felt his profession.\n\n  If the student got little from his mates, he got little more\nfrom his masters. The four years passed at college were, for his\npurposes, wasted. Harvard College was a good school, but at bottom what\nthe boy disliked most was any school at all. He did not want to be one\nin a hundred--one per cent of an education. He regarded himself as the\nonly person for whom his education had value, and he wanted the whole\nof it. He got barely half of an average. Long afterwards, when the\ndevious path of life led him back to teach in his turn what no student\nnaturally cared or needed to know, he diverted some dreary hours of\nfaculty-meetings by looking up his record in the class-lists, and found\nhimself graded precisely in the middle. In the one branch he most\nneeded--mathematics--barring the few first scholars, failure was so\nnearly universal that no attempt at grading could have had value, and\nwhether he stood fortieth or ninetieth must have been an accident or\nthe personal favor of the professor. Here his education failed\nlamentably. At best he could never have been a mathematician; at worst\nhe would never have cared to be one; but he needed to read mathematics,\nlike any other universal language, and he never reached the alphabet.\n\n  Beyond two or three Greek plays, the student got nothing from\nthe ancient languages. Beyond some incoherent theories of free-trade\nand protection, he got little from Political Economy. He could not\nafterwards remember to have heard the name of Karl Marx mentioned, or\nthe title of \"Capital.\" He was equally ignorant of Auguste Comte. These\nwere the two writers of his time who most influenced its thought. The\nbit of practical teaching he afterwards reviewed with most curiosity\nwas the course in Chemistry, which taught him a number of theories that\nbefogged his mind for a lifetime. The only teaching that appealed to\nhis imagination was a course of lectures by Louis Agassiz on the\nGlacial Period and Paleontology, which had more influence on his\ncuriosity than the rest of the college instruction altogether. The\nentire work of the four years could have been easily put into the work\nof any four months in after life.\n\n  Harvard College was a negative force, and negative forces have\nvalue. Slowly it weakened the violent political bias of childhood, not\nby putting interests in its place, but by mental habits which had no\nbias at all. It would also have weakened the literary bias, if Adams\nhad been capable of finding other amusement, but the climate kept him\nsteady to desultory and useless reading, till he had run through\nlibraries of volumes which he forgot even to their title-pages. Rather\nby instinct than by guidance, he turned to writing, and his professors\nor tutors occasionally gave his English composition a hesitating\napproval; but in that branch, as in all the rest, even when he made a\nlong struggle for recognition, he never convinced his teachers that his\nabilities, at their best, warranted placing him on the rank-list, among\nthe first third of his class. Instructors generally reach a fairly\naccurate gauge of their scholars' powers. Henry Adams himself held the\nopinion that his instructors were very nearly right, and when he became\na professor in his turn, and made mortifying mistakes in ranking his\nscholars, he still obstinately insisted that on the whole, he was not\nfar wrong. Student or professor, he accepted the negative standard\nbecause it was the standard of the school.\n\n  He never knew what other students thought of it, or what they\nthought they gained from it; nor would their opinion have much affected\nhis. From the first, he wanted to be done with it, and stood watching\nvaguely for a path and a direction. The world outside seemed large, but\nthe paths that led into it were not many and lay mostly through Boston,\nwhere he did not want to go. As it happened, by pure chance, the first\ndoor of escape that seemed to offer a hope led into Germany, and James\nRussell Lowell opened it.\n\n  Lowell, on succeeding Longfellow as Professor of\nBelles-Lettres, had duly gone to Germany, and had brought back whatever\nhe found to bring. The literary world then agreed that truth survived\nin Germany alone, and Carlyle, Matthew Arnold, Renan, Emerson, with\nscores of popular followers, taught the German faith. The literary\nworld had revolted against the yoke of coming capitalism--its\nmoney-lenders, its bank directors, and its railway magnates. Thackeray\nand Dickens followed Balzac in scratching and biting the unfortunate\nmiddle class with savage ill-temper, much as the middle class had\nscratched and bitten the Church and Court for a hundred years before.\nThe middle class had the power, and held its coal and iron well in\nhand, but the satirists and idealists seized the press, and as they\nwere agreed that the Second Empire was a disgrace to France and a\ndanger to England, they turned to Germany because at that moment\nGermany was neither economical nor military, and a hundred years behind\nwestern Europe in the simplicity of its standard. German thought,\nmethod, honesty, and even taste, became the standards of scholarship.\nGoethe was raised to the rank of Shakespeare--Kant ranked as a\nlaw-giver above Plato. All serious scholars were obliged to become\nGerman, for German thought was revolutionizing criticism. Lowell had\nfollowed the rest, not very enthusiastically, but with sufficient\nconviction, and invited his scholars to join him. Adams was glad to\naccept the invitation, rather for the sake of cultivating Lowell than\nGermany, but still in perfect good faith. It was the first serious\nattempt he had made to direct his own education, and he was sure of\ngetting some education out of it; not perhaps anything that he\nexpected, but at least a path.\n\n  Singularly circuitous and excessively wasteful of energy the\npath proved to be, but the student could never see what other was open\nto him. He could have done no better had he foreseen every stage of his\ncoming life, and he would probably have done worse. The preliminary\nstep was pure gain. James Russell Lowell had brought back from Germany\nthe only new and valuable part of its universities, the habit of\nallowing students to read with him privately in his study. Adams asked\nthe privilege, and used it to read a little, and to talk a great deal,\nfor the personal contact pleased and flattered him, as that of older\nmen ought to flatter and please the young even when they altogether\nexaggerate its value. Lowell was a new element in the boy's life. As\npractical a New Englander as any, he leaned towards the Concord faith\nrather than towards Boston where he properly belonged; for Concord, in\nthe dark days of 1856, glowed with pure light. Adams approached it in\nmuch the same spirit as he would have entered a Gothic Cathedral, for\nhe well knew that the priests regarded him as only a worm. To the\nConcord Church all Adamses were minds of dust and emptiness, devoid of\nfeeling, poetry or imagination; little higher than the common scourings\nof State Street; politicians of doubtful honesty; natures of narrow\nscope; and already, at eighteen years old, Henry had begun to feel\nuncertainty about so many matters more important than Adamses that his\nmind rebelled against no discipline merely personal, and he was ready\nto admit his unworthiness if only he might penetrate the shrine. The\ninfluence of Harvard College was beginning to have its effect. He was\nslipping away from fixed principles; from Mount Vernon Street; from\nQuincy; from the eighteenth century; and his first steps led toward\nConcord.\n\n  He never reached Concord, and to Concord Church he, like the\nrest of mankind who accepted a material universe, remained always an\ninsect, or something much lower--a man. It was surely no fault of his\nthat the universe seemed to him real; perhaps--as Mr. Emerson justly\nsaid--it was so; in spite of the long-continued effort of a lifetime,\nhe perpetually fell back into the heresy that if anything universal was\nunreal, it was himself and not the appearances; it was the poet and not\nthe banker; it was his own thought, not the thing that moved it. He did\nnot lack the wish to be transcendental. Concord seemed to him, at one\ntime, more real than Quincy; yet in truth Russell Lowell was as little\ntranscendental as Beacon Street. From him the boy got no revolutionary\nthought whatever--objective or subjective as they used to call it--but\nhe got good-humored encouragement to do what amused him, which\nconsisted in passing two years in Europe after finishing the four years\nof Cambridge.\n\n  The result seemed small in proportion to the effort, but it was\nthe only positive result he could ever trace to the influence of\nHarvard College, and he had grave doubts whether Harvard College\ninfluenced even that. Negative results in plenty he could trace, but he\ntended towards negation on his own account, as one side of the New\nEngland mind had always done, and even there he could never feel sure\nthat Harvard College had more than reflected a weakness. In his opinion\nthe education was not serious, but in truth hardly any Boston student\ntook it seriously, and none of them seemed sure that President Walker\nhimself, or President Felton after him, took it more seriously than the\nstudents. For them all, the college offered chiefly advantages vulgarly\ncalled social, rather than mental.\n\n  Unluckily for this particular boy, social advantages were his\nonly capital in life. Of money he had not much, of mind not more, but\nhe could be quite certain that, barring his own faults, his social\nposition would never be questioned. What he needed was a career in\nwhich social position had value. Never in his life would he have to\nexplain who he was; never would he have need of acquaintance to\nstrengthen his social standing; but he needed greatly some one to show\nhim how to use the acquaintance he cared to make. He made no\nacquaintance in college which proved to have the smallest use in after\nlife. All his Boston friends he knew before, or would have known in any\ncase, and contact of Bostonian with Bostonian was the last education\nthese young men needed. Cordial and intimate as their college relations\nwere, they all flew off in different directions the moment they took\ntheir degrees. Harvard College remained a tie, indeed, but a tie little\nstronger than Beacon Street and not so strong as State Street.\nStrangers might perhaps gain something from the college if they were\nhard pressed for social connections. A student like H. H. Richardson,\nwho came from far away New Orleans, and had his career before him to\nchase rather than to guide, might make valuable friendships at college.\nCertainly Adams made no acquaintance there that he valued in after life\nso much as Richardson, but still more certainly the college relation\nhad little to do with the later friendship. Life is a narrow valley,\nand the roads run close together. Adams would have attached himself to\nRichardson in any case, as he attached himself to John LaFarge or\nAugustus St. Gaudens or Clarence King or John Hay, none of whom were at\nHarvard College. The valley of life grew more and more narrow with\nyears, and certain men with common tastes were bound to come together.\nAdams knew only that he would have felt himself on a more equal footing\nwith them had he been less ignorant, and had he not thrown away ten\nyears of early life in acquiring what he might have acquired in one.\n\n  Socially or intellectually, the college was for him negative\nand in some ways mischievous. The most tolerant man of the world could\nnot see good in the lower habits of the students, but the vices were\nless harmful than the virtues. The habit of drinking--though the mere\nrecollection of it made him doubt his own veracity, so fantastic it\nseemed in later life--may have done no great or permanent harm; but the\nhabit of looking at life as a social relation--an affair of\nsociety--did no good. It cultivated a weakness which needed no\ncultivation. If it had helped to make men of the world, or give the\nmanners and instincts of any profession--such as temper, patience,\ncourtesy, or a faculty of profiting by the social defects of\nopponents--it would have been education better worth having than\nmathematics or languages; but so far as it helped to make anything, it\nhelped only to make the college standard permanent through life. The\nBostonian educated at Harvard College remained a collegian, if he stuck\nonly to what the college gave him. If parents went on generation after\ngeneration, sending their children to Harvard College for the sake of\nits social advantages, they perpetuated an inferior social type, quite\nas ill-fitted as the Oxford type for success in the next generation.\n\n  Luckily the old social standard of the college, as President\nWalker or James Russell Lowell still showed it, was admirable, and if\nit had little practical value or personal influence on the mass of\nstudents, at least it preserved the tradition for those who liked it.\nThe Harvard graduate was neither American nor European, nor even wholly\nYankee; his admirers were few, and critics his many; perhaps his worst\nweakness was his self-criticism and self-consciousness; but his ambitions,\nsocial or intellectual, were necessarily cheap even though they might\nbe negative. Afraid of such serious risks, and still more afraid of\npersonal ridicule, he seldom made a great failure of life, and nearly\nalways led a life more or less worth living. So Henry Adams, well aware\nthat he could not succeed as a scholar, and finding his social position\nbeyond improvement or need of effort, betook himself to the single\nambition which otherwise would scarcely have seemed a true outcome of\nthe college, though it was the last remnant of the old Unitarian\nsupremacy. He took to the pen. He wrote.\n\n  The College Magazine printed his work, and the College\nSocieties listened to his addresses. Lavish of praise the readers were\nnot; the audiences, too, listened in silence; but this was all the\nencouragement any Harvard collegian had a reasonable hope to receive;\ngrave silence was a form of patience that meant possible future\nacceptance; and Henry Adams went on writing. No one cared enough to\ncriticise, except himself who soon began to suffer from reaching his\nown limits. He found that he could not be this--or that--or the other;\nalways precisely the things he wanted to be. He had not wit or scope or\nforce. Judges always ranked him beneath a rival, if he had any; and he\nbelieved the judges were right. His work seemed to him thin,\ncommonplace, feeble. At times he felt his own weakness so fatally that\nhe could not go on; when he had nothing to say, he could not say it,\nand he found that he had very little to say at best. Much that he then\nwrote must be still in existence in print or manuscript, though he\nnever cared to see it again, for he felt no doubt that it was in\nreality just what he thought it. At best it showed only a feeling for\nform; an instinct of exclusion. Nothing shocked--not even its weakness.\n\n  Inevitably an effort leads to an ambition--creates it--and\nat that time the ambition of the literary student, which almost took\nplace of the regular prizes of scholarship, was that of being chosen as\nthe representative of his class--Class Orator--at the close of their\ncourse. This was political as well as literary success, and precisely\nthe sort of eighteenth-century combination that fascinated an\neighteenth century boy. The idea lurked in his mind, at first as a\ndream, in no way serious or even possible, for he stood outside the\nnumber of what were known as popular men. Year by year, his position\nseemed to improve, or perhaps his rivals disappeared, until at last, to\nhis own great astonishment, he found himself a candidate. The habits of\nthe college permitted no active candidacy; he and his rivals had not a\nword to say for or against themselves, and he was never even consulted\non the subject; he was not present at any of the proceedings, and how\nit happened he never could quite divine, but it did happen, that one\nevening on returning from Boston he received notice of his election,\nafter a very close contest, as Class Orator over the head of the first\nscholar, who was undoubtedly a better orator and a more popular man. In\npolitics the success of the poorer candidate is common enough, and\nHenry Adams was a fairly trained politician, but he never understood\nhow he managed to defeat not only a more capable but a more popular\nrival.\n\n  To him the election seemed a miracle. This was no mock-modesty;\nhis head was as clear as ever it was in an indifferent canvass, and he\nknew his rivals and their following as well as he knew himself. What he\ndid not know, even after four years of education, was Harvard College.\nWhat he could never measure was the bewildering impersonality of the\nmen, who, at twenty years old, seemed to set no value either on\nofficial or personal standards. Here were nearly a hundred young men\nwho had lived together intimately during four of the most\nimpressionable years of life, and who, not only once but again and\nagain, in different ways, deliberately, seriously, dispassionately,\nchose as their representatives precisely those of their companions who\nseemed least to represent them. As far as these Orators and Marshals\nhad any position at all in a collegiate sense, it was that of\nindifference to the college. Henry Adams never professed the smallest\nfaith in universities of any kind, either as boy or man, nor had he the\nfaintest admiration for the university graduate, either in Europe or in\nAmerica; as a collegian he was only known apart from his fellows by his\nhabit of standing outside the college; and yet the singular fact\nremained that this commonplace body of young men chose him repeatedly\nto express his and their commonplaces. Secretly, of course, the\nsuccessful candidate flattered himself--and them--with the hope that\nthey might perhaps not be so commonplace as they thought themselves;\nbut this was only another proof that all were identical. They saw in\nhim a representative--the kind of representative they wanted--and he\nsaw in them the most formidable array of judges he could ever meet,\nlike so many mirrors of himself, an infinite reflection of his own\nshortcomings.\n\n  All the same, the choice was flattering; so flattering that it\nactually shocked his vanity; and would have shocked it more, if\npossible, had he known that it was to be the only flattery of the sort\nhe was ever to receive. The function of Class Day was, in the eyes of\nnine-tenths of the students, altogether the most important of the\ncollege, and the figure of the Orator was the most conspicuous in the\nfunction. Unlike the Orators at regular Commencements, the Class Day\nOrator stood alone, or had only the Poet for rival. Crowded into the\nlarge church, the students, their families, friends, aunts, uncles and\nchaperones, attended all the girls of sixteen or twenty who wanted to\nshow their summer dresses or fresh complexions, and there, for an hour\nor two, in a heat that might have melted bronze, they listened to an\nOrator and a Poet in clergyman's gowns, reciting such platitudes as\ntheir own experience and their mild censors permitted them to utter.\nWhat Henry Adams said in his Class Oration of 1858 he soon forgot to\nthe last word, nor had it the least value for education; but he\nnaturally remembered what was said of it. He remembered especially one\nof his eminent uncles or relations remarking that, as the work of so\nyoung a man, the oration was singularly wanting in enthusiasm. The\nyoung man--always in search of education--asked himself whether,\nsetting rhetoric aside, this absence of enthusiasm was a defect or a\nmerit, since, in either case, it was all that Harvard College taught,\nand all that the hundred young men, whom he was trying to represent,\nexpressed. Another comment threw more light on the effect of the\ncollege education. One of the elderly gentlemen noticed the orator's\n\"perfect self-possession.\" Self-possession indeed! If Harvard College\ngave nothing else, it gave calm. For four years each student had been\nobliged to figure daily before dozens of young men who knew each other\nto the last fibre. One had done little but read papers to Societies, or\nact comedy in the Hasty Pudding, not to speak of regular exercises, and\nno audience in future life would ever be so intimately and terribly\nintelligent as these. Three-fourths of the graduates would rather have\naddressed the Council of Trent or the British Parliament than have\nacted Sir Anthony Absolute or Dr. Ollapod before a gala audience of the\nHasty Pudding. Self-possession was the strongest part of Harvard\nCollege, which certainly taught men to stand alone, so that nothing\nseemed stranger to its graduates than the paroxysms of terror before\nthe public which often overcame the graduates of European universities.\nWhether this was, or was not, education, Henry Adams never knew. He was\nready to stand up before any audience in America or Europe, with nerves\nrather steadier for the excitement, but whether he should ever have\nanything to say, remained to be proved. As yet he knew nothing.\nEducation had not begun.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V\n\nBERLIN (1858-1859)\n\n  A FOURTH child has the strength of his weakness. Being of no\ngreat value, he may throw himself away if he likes, and never be\nmissed. Charles Francis Adams, the father, felt no love for Europe,\nwhich, as he and all the world agreed, unfitted Americans for America.\nA captious critic might have replied that all the success he or his\nfather or his grandfather achieved was chiefly due to the field that\nEurope gave them, and it was more than likely that without the help of\nEurope they would have all remained local politicians or lawyers, like\ntheir neighbors, to the end. Strictly followed, the rule would have\nobliged them never to quit Quincy; and, in fact, so much more timid are\nparents for their children than for themselves, that Mr. and Mrs. Adams\nwould have been content to see their children remain forever in Mount\nVernon Street, unexposed to the temptations of Europe, could they have\nrelied on the moral influences of Boston itself. Although the parents\nlittle knew what took place under their eyes, even the mothers saw\nenough to make them uneasy. Perhaps their dread of vice, haunting past\nand present, worried them less than their dread of daughters-in-law or\nsons-in-law who might not fit into the somewhat narrow quarters of\nhome. On all sides were risks. Every year some young person alarmed the\nparental heart even in Boston, and although the temptations of Europe\nwere irresistible, removal from the temptations of Boston might be\nimperative. The boy Henry wanted to go to Europe; he seemed well\nbehaved, when any one was looking at him; he observed conventions, when\nhe could not escape them; he was never quarrelsome, towards a superior;\nhis morals were apparently good, and his moral principles, if he had\nany, were not known to be bad. Above all, he was timid and showed a\ncertain sense of self-respect, when in public view. What he was at\nheart, no one could say; least of all himself; but he was probably\nhuman, and no worse than some others. Therefore, when he presented to\nan exceedingly indulgent father and mother his request to begin at a\nGerman university the study of the Civil Law--although neither he nor\nthey knew what the Civil Law was, or any reason for his studying\nit--the parents dutifully consented, and walked with him down to the\nrailway-station at Quincy to bid him good-bye, with a smile which he\nalmost thought a tear.\n\n  Whether the boy deserved such indulgence, or was worth it, he\nknew no more than they, or than a professor at Harvard College; but\nwhether worthy or not, he began his third or fourth attempt at\neducation in November, 1858, by sailing on the steamer Persia, the\npride of Captain Judkins and the Cunard Line; the newest, largest and\nfastest steamship afloat. He was not alone. Several of his college\ncompanions sailed with him, and the world looked cheerful enough until,\non the third day, the world--as far as concerned the young man--ran\ninto a heavy storm. He learned then a lesson that stood by him better\nthan any university teaching ever did--the meaning of a November gale\non the mid-Atlantic--which, for mere physical misery, passed endurance.\nThe subject offered him material for none but serious treatment; he\ncould never see the humor of sea-sickness; but it united itself with a\ngreat variety of other impressions which made the first month of travel\naltogether the rapidest school of education he had yet found. The\nstride in knowledge seemed gigantic. One began a to see that a great\nmany impressions were needed to make very little education, but how\nmany could be crowded into one day without making any education at all,\nbecame the pons asinorum of tourist mathematics. How many would turn\nout to be wrong whether any could turn out right, was ultimate wisdom.\n\n  The ocean, the Persia, Captain Judkins, and Mr. G. P. R. James,\nthe most distinguished passenger, vanished one Sunday morning in a\nfurious gale in the Mersey, to make place for the drearier picture of a\nLiverpool street as seen from the Adelphi coffee-room in November murk,\nfollowed instantly by the passionate delights of Chester and the\nromance of red-sandstone architecture. Millions of Americans have felt\nthis succession of emotions. Possibly very young and ingenuous tourists\nfeel them still, but in days before tourists, when the romance was a\nreality, not a picture, they were overwhelming. When the boys went out\nto Eaton Hall, they were awed, as Thackeray or Dickens would have felt\nin the presence of a Duke. The very name of Grosvenor struck a note of\ngrandeur. The long suite of lofty, gilded rooms with their gilded\nfurniture; the portraits; the terraces; the gardens, the landscape; the\nsense of superiority in the England of the fifties, actually set the\nrich nobleman apart, above Americans and shopkeepers. Aristocracy was\nreal. So was the England of Dickens. Oliver Twist and Little Nell\nlurked in every churchyard shadow, not as shadow but alive. Even\nCharles the First was not very shadowy, standing on the tower to see\nhis army defeated. Nothing thereabouts had very much changed since he\nlost his battle and his head. An eighteenth-century American boy fresh\nfrom Boston naturally took it all for education, and was amused at this\nsort of lesson. At least he thought he felt it.\n\n  Then came the journey up to London through Birmingham and the\nBlack District, another lesson, which needed much more to be rightly\nfelt. The plunge into darkness lurid with flames; the sense of unknown\nhorror in this weird gloom which then existed nowhere else, and never\nhad existed before, except in volcanic craters; the violent contrast\nbetween this dense, smoky, impenetrable darkness, and the soft green\ncharm that one glided into, as one emerged--the revelation of an\nunknown society of the pit--made a boy uncomfortable, though he had no\nidea that Karl Marx was standing there waiting for him, and that sooner\nor later the process of education would have to deal with Karl Marx\nmuch more than with Professor Bowen of Harvard College or his Satanic\nfree-trade majesty John Stuart Mill. The Black District was a practical\neducation, but it was infinitely far in the distance. The boy ran away\nfrom it, as he ran away from everything he disliked.\n\n  Had he known enough to know where to begin he would have seen\nsomething to study, more vital than the Civil Law, in the long, muddy,\ndirty, sordid, gas-lit dreariness of Oxford Street as his dingy\nfour-wheeler dragged its weary way to Charing Cross. He did notice one\npeculiarity about it worth remembering. London was still London. A\ncertain style dignified its grime; heavy, clumsy, arrogant,\npurse-proud, but not cheap; insular but large; barely tolerant of an\noutside world, and absolutely self-confident. The boys in the streets\nmade such free comments on the American clothes and figures, that the\ntravellers hurried to put on tall hats and long overcoats to escape\ncriticism. No stranger had rights even in the Strand. The eighteenth\ncentury held its own. History muttered down Fleet Street, like Dr.\nJohnson, in Adams's ear; Vanity Fair was alive on Piccadilly in yellow\nchariots with coachmen in wigs, on hammer-cloths; footmen with canes,\non the footboard, and a shrivelled old woman inside; half the great\nhouses, black with London smoke, bore large funereal hatchments; every\none seemed insolent, and the most insolent structures in the world were\nthe Royal Exchange and the Bank of England. In November, 1858, London\nwas still vast, but it was the London of the eighteenth century that an\nAmerican felt and hated.\n\n  Education went backward. Adams, still a boy, could not guess\nhow intensely intimate this London grime was to become to him as a man,\nbut he could still less conceive himself returning to it fifty years\nafterwards, noting at each turn how the great city grew smaller as it\ndoubled in size; cheaper as it quadrupled its wealth; less imperial as\nits empire widened; less dignified as it tried to be civil. He liked it\nbest when he hated it. Education began at the end, or perhaps would end\nat the beginning. Thus far it had remained in the eighteenth century,\nand the next step took it back to the sixteenth. He crossed to Antwerp.\nAs the Baron Osy steamed up the Scheldt in the morning mists, a\ntravelling band on deck began to play, and groups of peasants, working\nalong the fields, dropped their tools to join in dancing. Ostade and\nTeniers were as much alive as they ever were, and even the Duke of Alva\nwas still at home. The thirteenth-century cathedral towered above a\nsixteenth-century mass of tiled roofs, ending abruptly in walls and a\nlandscape that had not changed. The taste of the town was thick, rich,\nripe, like a sweet wine; it was mediaeval, so that Rubens seemed\nmodern; it was one of the strongest and fullest flavors that ever\ntouched the young man's palate; but he might as well have drunk out his\nexcitement in old Malmsey, for all the education he got from it. Even\nin art, one can hardly begin with Antwerp Cathedral and the Descent\nfrom the Cross. He merely got drunk on his emotions, and had then to\nget sober as he best could. He was terribly sober when he saw Antwerp\nhalf a century afterwards. One lesson he did learn without suspecting\nthat he must immediately lose it. He felt his middle ages and the\nsixteenth century alive. He was young enough, and the towns were dirty\nenough--unimproved, unrestored, untouristed--to retain the sense of\nreality. As a taste or a smell, it was education, especially because it\nlasted barely ten years longer; but it was education only sensual. He\nnever dreamed of trying to educate himself to the Descent from the\nCross. He was only too happy to feel himself kneeling at the foot of\nthe Cross; he learned only to loathe the sordid necessity of getting up\nagain, and going about his stupid business.\n\n  This was one of the foreseen dangers of Europe, but it vanished\nrapidly enough to reassure the most anxious of parents. Dropped into\nBerlin one morning without guide or direction, the young man in search\nof education floundered in a mere mess of misunderstandings. He could\nnever recall what he expected to find, but whatever he expected, it had\nno relation with what it turned out to be. A student at twenty takes\neasily to anything, even to Berlin, and he would have accepted the\nthirteenth century pure and simple since his guides assured him that\nthis was his right path; but a week's experience left him dazed and\ndull. Faith held out, but the paths grew dim. Berlin astonished him,\nbut he had no lack of friends to show him all the amusement it had to\noffer. Within a day or two he was running about with the rest to\nbeer-cellars and music-halls and dance-rooms, smoking bad tobacco,\ndrinking poor beer, and eating sauerkraut and sausages as though he\nknew no better. This was easy. One can always descend the social\nladder. The trouble came when he asked for the education he was\npromised. His friends took him to be registered as a student of the\nuniversity; they selected his professors and courses; they showed him\nwhere to buy the Institutes of Gaius and several German works on the\nCivil Law in numerous volumes; and they led him to his first lecture.\n\n  His first lecture was his last. The young man was not very\nquick, and he had almost religious respect for his guides and advisers;\nbut he needed no more than one hour to satisfy him that he had made\nanother failure in education, and this time a fatal one. That the\nlanguage would require at least three months' hard work before he could\ntouch the Law was an annoying discovery; but the shock that upset him\nwas the discovery of the university itself. He had thought Harvard\nCollege a torpid school, but it was instinct with life compared with\nall that he could see of the University of Berlin. The German students\nwere strange animals, but their professors were beyond pay. The mental\nattitude of the university was not of an American world. What sort of\ninstruction prevailed in other branches, or in science, Adams had no\noccasion to ask, but in the Civil Law he found only the lecture system\nin its deadliest form as it flourished in the thirteenth century. The\nprofessor mumbled his comments; the students made, or seemed to make,\nnotes; they could have learned from books or discussion in a day more\nthan they could learn from him in a month, but they must pay his fees,\nfollow his course, and be his scholars, if they wanted a degree. To an\nAmerican the result was worthless. He could make no use of the Civil\nLaw without some previous notion of the Common Law; but the student who\nknew enough of the Common Law to understand what he wanted, had only to\nread the Pandects or the commentators at his ease in America, and be\nhis own professor. Neither the method nor the matter nor the manner\ncould profit an American education.\n\n  This discovery seemed to shock none of the students. They went\nto the lectures, made notes, and read textbooks, but never pretended to\ntake their professor seriously. They were much more serious in reading\nHeine. They knew no more than Heine what good they were getting, beyond\nthe Berlin accent--which was bad; and the beer--which was not to\ncompare with Munich; and the dancing--which was better at Vienna. They\nenjoyed the beer and music, but they refused to be responsible for the\neducation. Anyway, as they defended themselves, they were learning the\nlanguage.\n\n  So the young man fell back on the language, and being slow at\nlanguages, he found himself falling behind all his friends, which\ndepressed his spirits, the more because the gloom of a Berlin winter\nand of Berlin architecture seemed to him a particular sort of gloom\nnever attained elsewhere. One day on the Linden he caught sight of\nCharles Sumner in a cab, and ran after him. Sumner was then recovering\nfrom the blows of the South Carolinian cane or club, and he was pleased\nto find a young worshipper in the remote Prussian wilderness. They\ndined together and went to hear \"William Tell\" at the Opera. Sumner\ntried to encourage his friend about his difficulties of language: \"I\ncame to Berlin,\" or Rome, or whatever place it was, as he said with his\ngrand air of mastery, \"I came to Berlin, unable to say a word in the\nlanguage; and three months later when I went away, I talked it to my\ncabman.\" Adams felt himself quite unable to attain in so short a time\nsuch social advantages, and one day complained of his trials to Mr.\nRobert Apthorp, of Boston, who was passing the winter in Berlin for the\nsake of its music. Mr. Apthorp told of his own similar struggle, and\nhow he had entered a public school and sat for months with\nten-year-old-boys, reciting their lessons and catching their phrases.\nThe idea suited Adams's desperate frame of mind. At least it ridded him\nof the university and the Civil Law and American associations in\nbeer-cellars. Mr. Apthorp took the trouble to negotiate with the\nhead-master of the Friedrichs-Wilhelm-Werdersches Gymnasium for\npermission to Henry Adams to attend the school as a member of the\nOber-tertia, a class of boys twelve or thirteen years old, and there\nAdams went for three months as though he had not always avoided high\nschools with singular antipathy. He never did anything else so foolish\nbut he was given a bit of education which served him some purpose in\nlife.\n\n  It was not merely the language, though three months passed in\nsuch fashion would teach a poodle enough to talk with a cabman, and\nthis was all that foreign students could expect to do, for they never\nby any chance would come in contact with German society, if German\nsociety existed, about which they knew nothing. Adams never learned to\ntalk German well, but the same might be said of his English, if he\ncould believe Englishmen. He learned not to annoy himself on this\naccount. His difficulties with the language gradually ceased. He\nthought himself quite Germanized in 1859. He even deluded himself with\nthe idea that he read it as though it were English, which proved that\nhe knew little about it; but whatever success he had in his own\nexperiment interested him less than his contact with German education.\n\n  He had revolted at the American school and university; he had\ninstantly rejected the German university; and as his last experience of\neducation he tried the German high school. The experiment was\nhazardous. In 1858 Berlin was a poor, keen-witted, provincial town,\nsimple, dirty, uncivilized, and in most respects disgusting. Life was\nprimitive beyond what an American boy could have imagined. Overridden\nby military methods and bureaucratic pettiness, Prussia was only\nbeginning to free her hands from internal bonds. Apart from discipline,\nactivity scarcely existed. The future Kaiser Wilhelm I, regent for his\ninsane brother King Friedrich Wilhelm IV, seemed to pass his time\nlooking at the passers-by from the window of his modest palace on the\nLinden. German manners, even at Court, were sometimes brutal, and\nGerman thoroughness at school was apt to be routine. Bismarck himself\nwas then struggling to begin a career against the inertia of the German\nsystem. The condition of Germany was a scandal and nuisance to every\nearnest German, all whose energies were turned to reforming it from top\nto bottom; and Adams walked into a great public school to get educated,\nat precisely the time when the Germans wanted most to get rid of the\neducation they were forced to follow. As an episode in the search for\neducation, this adventure smacked of Heine.\n\n  The school system has doubtless changed, and at all events the\nschoolmasters are probably long ago dead; the story has no longer a\npractical value, and had very little even at the time; one could at\nleast say in defence of the German school that it was neither very\nbrutal nor very immoral. The head-master was excellent in his Prussian\nway, and the other instructors were not worse than in other schools; it\nwas their system that struck the systemless American with horror. The\narbitrary training given to the memory was stupefying; the strain that\nthe memory endured was a form of torture; and the feats that the boys\nperformed, without complaint, were pitiable. No other faculty than the\nmemory seemed to be recognized. Least of all was any use made of\nreason, either analytic, synthetic, or dogmatic. The German government\ndid not encourage reasoning.\n\n  All State education is a sort of dynamo machine for polarizing\nthe popular mind; for turning and holding its lines of force in the\ndirection supposed to be most effective for State purposes. The German\nmachine was terribly efficient. Its effect on the children was\npathetic. The Friedrichs-Wilhelm-Werdersches Gymnasium was an old\nbuilding in the heart of Berlin which served the educational needs of\nthe small tradesmen or bourgeoisie of the neighborhood; the children\nwere Berliner-kinder if ever there were such, and of a class suspected\nof sympathy and concern in the troubles of 1848. None was noble or\nconnected with good society. Personally they were rather sympathetic\nthan not, but as the objects of education they were proofs of nearly\nall the evils that a bad system could give. Apparently Adams, in his\nrigidly illogical pursuit, had at last reached his ideal of a viciously\nlogical education. The boys' physique showed it first, but their\nphysique could not be wholly charged to the school. German food was bad\nat best, and a diet of sauerkraut, sausage, and beer could never be\ngood; but it was not the food alone that made their faces white and\ntheir flesh flabby. They never breathed fresh air; they had never heard\nof a playground; in all Berlin not a cubic inch of oxygen was admitted\nin winter into an inhabited building; in the school every room was\ntightly closed and had no ventilation; the air was foul beyond all\ndecency; but when the American opened a window in the five minutes\nbetween hours, he violated the rules and was invariably rebuked. As\nlong as cold weather lasted, the windows were shut. If the boys had a\nholiday, they were apt to be taken on long tramps in the Thiergarten or\nelsewhere, always ending in over-fatigue, tobacco-smoke, sausages, and\nbeer. With this, they were required to prepare daily lessons that would\nhave quickly broken down strong men of a healthy habit, and which they\ncould learn only because their minds were morbid. The German university\nhad seemed a failure, but the German high school was something very\nnear an indictable nuisance.\n\n  Before the month of April arrived, the experiment of German\neducation had reached this point. Nothing was left of it except the\nghost of the Civil Law shut up in the darkest of closets, never to\ngibber again before any one who could repeat the story. The derisive\nJew laughter of Heine ran through the university and everything else in\nBerlin. Of course, when one is twenty years old, life is bound to be\nfull, if only of Berlin beer, although German student life was on the\nwhole the thinnest of beer, as an American looked on it, but though\nnothing except small fragments remained of the education that had been\nso promising--or promised--this is only what most often happens in\nlife, when by-products turn out to be more valuable than staples. The\nGerman university and German law were failures; German society, in an\nAmerican sense, did not exist, or if it existed, never showed itself to\nan American; the German theatre, on the other hand, was excellent, and\nGerman opera, with the ballet, was almost worth a journey to Berlin;\nbut the curious and perplexing result of the total failure of German\neducation was that the student's only clear gain--his single step to a\nhigher life--came from time wasted; studies neglected; vices indulged;\neducation reversed;--it came from the despised beer-garden and\nmusic-hall; and it was accidental, unintended, unforeseen.\n\n  When his companions insisted on passing two or three afternoons\nin the week at music-halls, drinking beer, smoking German tobacco, and\nlooking at fat German women knitting, while an orchestra played dull\nmusic, Adams went with them for the sake of the company, but with no\npretence of enjoyment; and when Mr. Apthorp gently protested that he\nexaggerated his indifference, for of course he enjoyed Beethoven, Adams\nreplied simply that he loathed Beethoven; and felt a slight surprise\nwhen Mr. Apthorp and the others laughed as though they thought it\nhumor. He saw no humor in it. He supposed that, except musicians, every\none thought Beethoven a bore, as every one except mathematicians\nthought mathematics a bore. Sitting thus at his beer-table, mentally\nimpassive, he was one day surprised to notice that his mind followed\nthe movement of a Sinfonie. He could not have been more astonished had\nhe suddenly read a new language. Among the marvels of education, this\nwas the most marvellous. A prison-wall that barred his senses on one\ngreat side of life, suddenly fell, of its own accord, without so much\nas his knowing when it happened. Amid the fumes of coarse tobacco and\npoor beer, surrounded by the commonest of German Haus-frauen, a new\nsense burst out like a flower in his life, so superior to the old\nsenses, so bewildering, so astonished at its own existence, that he\ncould not credit it, and watched it as something apart, accidental, and\nnot to be trusted. He slowly came to admit that Beethoven had partly\nbecome intelligible to him, but he was the more inclined to think that\nBeethoven must be much overrated as a musician, to be so easily\nfollowed. This could not be called education, for he had never so much\nas listened to the music. He had been thinking of other things. Mere\nmechanical repetition of certain sounds had stuck to his unconscious\nmind. Beethoven might have this power, but not Wagner, or at all events\nnot the Wagner later than \"Tannhauser.\" Near forty years passed before\nhe reached the \"Gotterdammerung.\"\n\n  One might talk of the revival of an atrophied sense--the\nmechanical reaction of a sleeping consciousness--but no other sense\nawoke. His sense of line and color remained as dull as ever, and as far\nas ever below the level of an artist. His metaphysical sense did not\nspring into life, so that his mind could leap the bars of German\nexpression into sympathy with the idealities of Kant and Hegel.\nAlthough he insisted that his faith in German thought and literature\nwas exalted, he failed to approach German thought, and he shed never a\ntear of emotion over the pages of Goethe and Schiller. When his father\nrashly ventured from time to time to write him a word of common sense,\nthe young man would listen to no sense at all, but insisted that Berlin\nwas the best of educations in the best of Germanies; yet, when, at\nlast, April came, and some genius suggested a tramp in Thuringen, his\nheart sang like a bird; he realized what a nightmare he had suffered,\nand he made up his mind that, wherever else he might, in the infinities\nof space and time, seek for education, it should not be again in Berlin.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI\n\nROME (1859-1860)\n\n  THE tramp in Thuringen lasted four-and-twenty hours. By the end\nof the first walk, his three companions--John Bancroft, James J.\nHigginson, and B. W. Crowninshield, all Boston and Harvard College like\nhimself--were satisfied with what they had seen, and when they sat down\nto rest on the spot where Goethe had written--\n\n                \"Warte nur! balde\n          Rubest du auch!\"--\n\nthe profoundness of the thought and the wisdom of the advice affected\nthem so strongly that they hired a wagon and drove to Weimar the same\nnight. They were all quite happy and lighthearted in the first fresh\nbreath of leafless spring, and the beer was better than at Berlin, but\nthey were all equally in doubt why they had come to Germany, and not\none of them could say why they stayed. Adams stayed because he did not\nwant to go home, and he had fears that his father's patience might be\nexhausted if he asked to waste time elsewhere.\n\n  They could not think that their education required a return to\nBerlin. A few days at Dresden in the spring weather satisfied them that\nDresden was a better spot for general education than Berlin, and\nequally good for reading Civil Law. They were possibly right. There was\nnothing to study in Dresden, and no education to be gained, but the\nSistine Madonna and the Correggios were famous; the theatre and opera\nwere sometimes excellent, and the Elbe was prettier than the Spree.\nThey could always fall back on the language. So he took a room in the\nhousehold of the usual small government clerk with the usual plain\ndaughters, and continued the study of the language. Possibly one might\nlearn something more by accident, as one had learned something of\nBeethoven. For the next eighteen months the young man pursued\naccidental education, since he could pursue no other; and by great good\nfortune, Europe and America were too busy with their own affairs to\ngive much attention to his. Accidental education had every chance in\nits favor, especially because nothing came amiss.\n\n  Perhaps the chief obstacle to the youth's education, now that\nhe had come of age, was his honesty; his simple-minded faith in his\nintentions. Even after Berlin had become a nightmare, he still\npersuaded himself that his German education was a success. He loved, or\nthought he loved the people, but the Germany he loved was the\neighteenth-century which the Germans were ashamed of, and were\ndestroying as fast as they could. Of the Germany to come, he knew\nnothing. Military Germany was his abhorrence. What he liked was the\nsimple character; the good-natured sentiment; the musical and\nmetaphysical abstraction; the blundering incapacity of the German for\npractical affairs. At that time everyone looked on Germany as incapable\nof competing with France, England or America in any sort of organized\nenergy. Germany had no confidence in herself, and no reason to feel it.\nShe had no unity, and no reason to want it. She never had unity. Her\nreligious and social history, her economical interests, her military\ngeography, her political convenience, had always tended to eccentric\nrather than concentric motion. Until coal-power and railways were\ncreated, she was mediaeval by nature and geography, and this was what\nAdams, under the teachings of Carlyle and Lowell, liked.\n\n  He was in a fair way to do himself lasting harm, floundering\nbetween worlds passed and worlds coming, which had a habit of crushing\nmen who stayed too long at the points of contact. Suddenly the Emperor\nNapoleon declared war on Austria and raised a confused point of morals\nin the mind of Europe. France was the nightmare of Germany, and even at\nDresden one looked on the return of Napoleon to Leipsic as the most\nlikely thing in the world. One morning the government clerk, in whose\nfamily Adams was staying, rushed into his room to consult a map in\norder that he might measure the distance from Milan to Dresden. The\nthird Napoleon had reached Lombardy, and only fifty or sixty years had\npassed since the first Napoleon had begun his military successes from\nan Italian base.\n\n  An enlightened young American, with eighteenth-century tastes\ncapped by fragments of a German education and the most excellent\nintentions, had to make up his mind about the moral value of these\nconflicting forces. France was the wicked spirit of moral politics, and\nwhatever helped France must be so far evil. At that time Austria was\nanother evil spirit. Italy was the prize they disputed, and for at\nleast fifteen hundred years had been the chief object of their greed.\nThe question of sympathy had disturbed a number of persons during that\nperiod. The question of morals had been put in a number of\ncross-lights. Should one be Guelph or Ghibelline? No doubt, one was\nwiser than one's neighbors who had found no way of settling this\nquestion since the days of the cave-dwellers, but ignorance did better\nto discard the attempt to be wise, for wisdom had been singularly\nbaffled by the problem. Better take sides first, and reason about it\nfor the rest of life.\n\n  Not that Adams felt any real doubt about his sympathies or\nwishes. He had not been German long enough for befogging his mind to\nthat point, but the moment was decisive for much to come, especially\nfor political morals. His morals were the highest, and he clung to them\nto preserve his self-respect; but steam and electricity had brought\nabout new political and social concentrations, or were making them\nnecessary in the line of his moral principles--freedom, education,\neconomic development and so forth--which required association with\nallies as doubtful as Napoleon III, and robberies with violence on a\nvery extensive scale. As long as he could argue that his opponents were\nwicked, he could join in robbing and killing them without a qualm; but\nit might happen that the good were robbed. Education insisted on\nfinding a moral foundation for robbery. He could hope to begin life in\nthe character of no animal more moral than a monkey unless he could\nsatisfy himself when and why robbery and murder were a virtue and duty.\nEducation founded on mere self-interest was merely Guelph and\nGhibelline over again--Machiavelli translated into American.\n\nLuckily for him he had a sister much brighter than he ever was--though\nhe thought himself a rather superior person--who after marrying Charles\nKuhn, of Philadelphia, had come to Italy, and, like all good Americans\nand English, was hotly Italian. In July, 1859, she was at Thun in\nSwitzerland, and there Henry Adams joined them. Women have, commonly, a\nvery positive moral sense; that which they will, is right; that which\nthey reject, is wrong; and their will, in most cases, ends by settling\nthe moral. Mrs. Kuhn had a double superiority. She not only adored\nItaly, but she cordially disliked Germany in all its varieties. She saw\nno gain in helping her brother to be Germanized, and she wanted him\nmuch to be civilized. She was the first young woman he was ever\nintimate with--quick, sensitive, wilful, or full of will, energetic,\nsympathetic and intelligent enough to supply a score of men with\nideas--and he was delighted to give her the reins--to let her drive him\nwhere she would. It was his first experiment in giving the reins to a\nwoman, and he was so much pleased with the results that he never wanted\nto take them back. In after life he made a general law of\nexperience--no woman had ever driven him wrong; no man had ever driven\nhim right.\n\n  Nothing would satisfy Mrs. Kuhn but to go to the seat of war as\nsoon as the armistice was declared. Wild as the idea seemed, nothing\nwas easier. The party crossed the St. Gothard and reached Milan,\npicturesque with every sort of uniform and every sign of war. To young\nAdams this first plunge into Italy passed Beethoven as a piece of\naccidental education. Like music, it differed from other education in\nbeing, not a means of pursuing life, but one of the ends attained.\nFurther, on these lines, one could not go. It had but one defect--that\nof attainment. Life had no richer impression to give; it offers barely\nhalf-a-dozen such, and the intervals seem long. Exactly what they teach\nwould puzzle a Berlin jurist; yet they seem to have an economic value,\nsince most people would decline to part with even their faded memories\nexcept at a valuation ridiculously extravagant. They were also what men\npay most for; but one's ideas become hopelessly mixed in trying to\nreduce such forms of education to a standard of exchangeable value,\nand, as in political economy, one had best disregard altogether what\ncannot be stated in equivalents. The proper equivalent of pleasure is\npain, which is also a form of education.\n\n  Not satisfied with Milan, Mrs. Kuhn insisted on invading the\nenemy's country, and the carriage was chartered for Innsbruck by way of\nthe Stelvio Pass. The Valtellina, as the carriage drove up it, showed\nwar. Garibaldi's Cacciatori were the only visible inhabitants. No one\ncould say whether the pass was open, but in any case no carriage had\nyet crossed. At the inns the handsome young officers in command of the\ndetachments were delighted to accept invitations to dinner and to talk\nall the evening of their battles to the charming patriot who sparkled\nwith interest and flattery, but not one of them knew whether their\nenemies, the abhorred Austrian Jagers, would let the travellers through\ntheir lines. As a rule, gaiety was not the character failing in any\nparty that Mrs. Kuhn belonged to, but when at last, after climbing what\nwas said to be the finest carriage-pass in Europe, the carriage turned\nthe last shoulder, where the glacier of the Ortler Spitze tumbled its\nhuge mass down upon the road, even Mrs. Kuhn gasped when she was driven\ndirectly up to the barricade and stopped by the double line of sentries\nstretching on either side up the mountains, till the flash of the gun\nbarrels was lost in the flash of the snow. For accidental education the\npicture had its value. The earliest of these pictures count for most,\nas first impressions must, and Adams never afterwards cared much for\nlandscape education, except perhaps in the tropics for the sake of the\ncontrast. As education, that chapter, too, was read, and set aside.\n\n  The handsome blond officers of the Jagers were not to be beaten\nin courtesy by the handsome young olive-toned officers of the\nCacciatori. The eternal woman as usual, when she is young, pretty, and\nengaging, had her way, and the barricade offered no resistance. In\nfifteen minutes the carriage was rolling down to Mals, swarming with\nGerman soldiers and German fleas, worse than the Italian; and German\nlanguage, thought, and atmosphere, of which young Adams, thanks to his\nglimpse of Italy, never again felt quite the old confident charm.\n\n  Yet he could talk to his cabman and conscientiously did his\ncathedrals, his Rhine, and whatever his companions suggested. Faithful\nto his self-contracted scheme of passing two winters in study of the\nCivil Law, he went back to Dresden with a letter to the Frau Hofrathin\nvon Reichenbach, in whose house Lowell and other Americans had pursued\nstudies more or less serious. In those days, \"The Initials\" was a new\nbook. The charm which its clever author had laboriously woven over\nMunich gave also a certain reflected light to Dresden. Young Adams had\nnothing to do but take fencing-lessons, visit the galleries and go to\nthe theatre; but his social failure in the line of \"The Initials,\" was\nhumiliating and he succumbed to it. The Frau Hofrathin herself was\nsometimes roused to huge laughter at the total discomfiture and\nhelplessness of the young American in the face of her society. Possibly\nan education may be the wider and the richer for a large experience of\nthe world; Raphael Pumpelly and Clarence King, at about the same time,\nwere enriching their education by a picturesque intimacy with the\nmanners of the Apaches and Digger Indians. All experience is an arch,\nto build upon. Yet Adams admitted himself unable to guess what use his\nsecond winter in Germany was to him, or what he expected it to be. Even\nthe doctrine of accidental education broke down. There were no\naccidents in Dresden. As soon as the winter was over, he closed and\nlocked the German door with a long breath of relief, and took the road\nto Italy. He had then pursued his education, as it pleased him, for\neighteen months, and in spite of the infinite variety of new\nimpressions which had packed themselves into his mind, he knew no more,\nfor his practical purposes, than the day he graduated. He had made no\nstep towards a profession. He was as ignorant as a schoolboy of\nsociety. He was unfit for any career in Europe, and unfitted for any\ncareer in America, and he had not natural intelligence enough to see\nwhat a mess he had thus far made of his education.\n\n  By twisting life to follow accidental and devious paths, one\nmight perhaps find some use for accidental and devious knowledge, but\nthis had been no part of Henry Adams's plan when he chose the path most\nadmired by the best judges, and followed it till he found it led\nnowhere. Nothing had been further from his mind when he started in\nNovember, 1858, than to become a tourist, but a mere tourist, and\nnothing else, he had become in April, 1860, when he joined his sister\nin Florence. His father had been in the right. The young man felt a\nlittle sore about it. Supposing his father asked him, on his return,\nwhat equivalent he had brought back for the time and money put into his\nexperiment! The only possible answer would be: \"Sir, I am a tourist!\"\n\n  The answer was not what he had meant it to be, and he was not\nlikely to better it by asking his father, in turn, what equivalent his\nbrothers or cousins or friends at home had got out of the same time and\nmoney spent in Boston. All they had put into the law was certainly\nthrown away, but were they happier in science? In theory one might say,\nwith some show of proof, that a pure, scientific education was alone\ncorrect; yet many of his friends who took it, found reason to complain\nthat it was anything but a pure, scientific world in which they lived.\n\n  Meanwhile his father had quite enough perplexities of his own,\nwithout seeking more in his son's errors. His Quincy district had sent\nhim to Congress, and in the spring of 1860 he was in the full confusion\nof nominating candidates for the Presidential election in November. He\nsupported Mr. Seward. The Republican Party was an unknown force, and\nthe Democratic Party was torn to pieces. No one could see far into the\nfuture. Fathers could blunder as well as sons, and, in 1860, every one\nwas conscious of being dragged along paths much less secure than those\nof the European tourist. For the time, the young man was safe from\ninterference, and went on his way with a light heart to take whatever\nchance fragments of education God or the devil was pleased to give him,\nfor he knew no longer the good from the bad.\n\n  He had of both sorts more than he knew how to use. Perhaps the\nmost useful purpose he set himself to serve was that of his pen, for he\nwrote long letters, during the next three months, to his brother\nCharles, which his brother caused to be printed in the Boston Courier;\nand the exercise was good for him. He had little to say, and said it\nnot very well, but that mattered less. The habit of expression leads to\nthe search for something to express. Something remains as a residuum of\nthe commonplace itself, if one strikes out every commonplace in the\nexpression. Young men as a rule saw little in Italy, or anywhere else,\nand in after life when Adams began to learn what some men could see, he\nshrank into corners of shame at the thought that he should have\nbetrayed his own inferiority as though it were his pride, while he\ninvited his neighbors to measure and admire; but it was still the\nnearest approach he had yet made to an intelligent act.\n\n  For the rest, Italy was mostly an emotion and the emotion\nnaturally centred in Rome. The American parent, curiously enough, while\nbitterly hostile to Paris, seemed rather disposed to accept Rome as\nlegitimate education, though abused; but to young men seeking education\nin a serious spirit, taking for granted that everything had a cause,\nand that nature tended to an end, Rome was altogether the most violent\nvice in the world, and Rome before 1870 was seductive beyond\nresistance. The month of May, 1860, was divine. No doubt other young\nmen, and occasionally young women, have passed the month of May in Rome\nsince then, and conceive that the charm continues to exist. Possibly it\ndoes--in them--but in 1860 the lights and shadows were still mediaeval,\nand mediaeval Rome was alive; the shadows breathed and glowed, full of\nsoft forms felt by lost senses. No sand-blast of science had yet\nskinned off the epidermis of history, thought, and feeling. The\npictures were uncleaned, the churches unrestored, the ruins\nunexcavated. Mediaeval Rome was sorcery. Rome was the worst spot on\nearth to teach nineteenth-century youth what to do with a\ntwentieth-century world. One's emotions in Rome were one's private\naffair, like one's glass of absinthe before dinner in the Palais Royal;\nthey must be hurtful, else they could not have been so intense; and\nthey were surely immoral, for no one, priest or politician, could\nhonestly read in the ruins of Rome any other certain lesson than that\nthey were evidence of the just judgments of an outraged God against all\nthe doings of man. This moral unfitted young men for every sort of\nuseful activity; it made Rome a gospel of anarchy and vice; the last\nplace under the sun for educating the young; yet it was, by common\nconsent, the only spot that the young--of either sex and every\nrace--passionately, perversely, wickedly loved.\n\n  Boys never see a conclusion; only on the edge of the grave can\nman conclude anything; but the first impulse given to the boy is apt to\nlead or drive him for the rest of his life into conclusion after\nconclusion that he never dreamed of reaching. One looked idly enough at\nthe Forum or at St. Peter's, but one never forgot the look, and it\nnever ceased reacting. To a young Bostonian, fresh from Germany, Rome\nseemed a pure emotion, quite free from economic or actual values, and\nhe could not in reason or common sense foresee that it was mechanically\npiling up conundrum after conundrum in his educational path, which\nseemed unconnected but that he had got to connect; that seemed\ninsoluble but had got to be somehow solved. Rome was not a beetle to be\ndissected and dropped; not a bad French novel to be read in a railway\ntrain and thrown out of the window after other bad French novels, the\nmorals of which could never approach the immorality of Roman history.\nRome was actual; it was England; it was going to be America. Rome could\nnot be fitted into an orderly, middle-class, Bostonian, systematic\nscheme of evolution. No law of progress applied to it. Not even\ntime-sequences--the last refuge of helpless historians--had value for\nit. The Forum no more led to the Vatican than the Vatican to the Forum.\nRienzi, Garibaldi, Tiberius Gracchus, Aurelian might be mixed up in any\nrelation of time, along with a thousand more, and never lead to a\nsequence. The great word Evolution had not yet, in 1860, made a new\nreligion of history, but the old religion had preached the same\ndoctrine for a thousand years without finding in the entire history of\nRome anything but flat contradiction.\n\n  Of course both priests and evolutionists bitterly denied this\nheresy, but what they affirmed or denied in 1860 had very little\nimportance indeed for 1960. Anarchy lost no ground meanwhile. The\nproblem became only the more fascinating. Probably it was more vital in\nMay, 1860, than it had been in October, 1764, when the idea of writing\nthe Decline and Fall of the city first started to the mind of Gibbon,\n\"in the close of the evening, as I sat musing in the Church of the\nZoccolanti or Franciscan Friars, while they were singing Vespers in the\nTemple of Jupiter, on the ruins of the Capitol.\" Murray's Handbook had\nthe grace to quote this passage from Gibbon's \"Autobiography,\" which\nled Adams more than once to sit at sunset on the steps of the Church of\nSanta Maria di Ara Coeli, curiously wondering that not an inch had been\ngained by Gibbon--or all the historians since--towards explaining the\nFall. The mystery remained unsolved; the charm remained intact. Two\ngreat experiments of Western civilization had left there the chief\nmonuments of their failure, and nothing proved that the city might not\nstill survive to express the failure of a third.\n\n  The young man had no idea what he was doing. The thought of\nposing for a Gibbon never entered his mind. He was a tourist, even to\nthe depths of his sub-consciousness, and it was well for him that he\nshould be nothing else, for even the greatest of men cannot sit with\ndignity, \"in the close of evening, among the ruins of the Capitol,\"\nunless they have something quite original to say about it. Tacitus\ncould do it; so could Michael Angelo; and so, at a pinch, could Gibbon,\nthough in figure hardly heroic; but, in sum, none of them could say\nvery much more than the tourist, who went on repeating to himself the\neternal question:--Why! Why!! Why!!!--as his neighbor, the blind\nbeggar, might do, sitting next him, on the church steps. No one ever\nhad answered the question to the satisfaction of any one else; yet\nevery one who had either head or heart, felt that sooner or later he\nmust make up his mind what answer to accept. Substitute the word\nAmerica for the word Rome, and the question became personal.\n\n  Perhaps Henry learned something in Rome, though he never knew\nit, and never sought it. Rome dwarfs teachers. The greatest men of the\nage scarcely bore the test of posing with Rome for a background.\nPerhaps Garibaldi--possibly even Cavour--could have sat \"in the close\nof the evening, among the ruins of the Capitol,\" but one hardly saw\nNapoleon III there, or Palmerston or Tennyson or Longfellow. One\nmorning, Adams happened to be chatting in the studio of Hamilton Wilde,\nwhen a middle-aged Englishman came in, evidently excited, and told of\nthe shock he had just received, when riding near the Circus Maximus, at\ncoming unexpectedly on the guillotine, where some criminal had been put\nto death an hour or two before. The sudden surprise had quite overcome\nhim; and Adams, who seldom saw the point of a story till time had\nblunted it, listened sympathetically to learn what new form of grim\nhorror had for the moment wiped out the memory of two thousand years of\nRoman bloodshed, or the consolation, derived from history and\nstatistics, that most citizens of Rome seemed to be the better for\nguillotining. Only by slow degrees, he grappled the conviction that the\nvictim of the shock was Robert Browning; and, on the background of the\nCircus Maximus, the Christian martyrs flaming as torches, and the\nmorning's murderer on the block, Browning seemed rather in place, as a\nmiddle-aged gentlemanly English Pippa Passes; while afterwards, in the\nlight of Belgravia dinner-tables, he never made part of his background\nexcept by effacement. Browning might have sat with Gibbon, among the\nruins, and few Romans would have smiled.\n\n  Yet Browning never revealed the poetic depths of Saint Francis;\nWilliam Story could not touch the secret of Michael Angelo, and Mommsen\nhardly said all that one felt by instinct in the lives of Cicero and\nCaesar. They taught what, as a rule, needed no teaching, the lessons of\na rather cheap imagination and cheaper politics. Rome was a bewildering\ncomplex of ideas, experiments, ambitions, energies; without her, the\nWestern world was pointless and fragmentary; she gave heart and unity\nto it all; yet Gibbon might have gone on for the whole century, sitting\namong the ruins of the Capitol, and no one would have passed, capable\nof telling him what it meant. Perhaps it meant nothing.\n\n  So it ended; the happiest month of May that life had yet\noffered, fading behind the present, and probably beyond the past,\nsomewhere into abstract time, grotesquely out of place with the Berlin\nscheme or a Boston future. Adams explained to himself that he was\nabsorbing knowledge. He would have put it better had he said that\nknowledge was absorbing him. He was passive. In spite of swarming\nimpressions he knew no more when he left Rome than he did when he\nentered it. As a marketable object, his value was less. His next step\nwent far to convince him that accidental education, whatever its\neconomical return might be, was prodigiously successful as an object in\nitself. Everything conspired to ruin his sound scheme of life, and to\nmake him a vagrant as well as pauper. He went on to Naples, and there,\nin the hot June, heard rumors that Garibaldi and his thousand were\nabout to attack Palermo. Calling on the American Minister, Chandler of\nPennsylvania, he was kindly treated, not for his merit, but for his\nname, and Mr. Chandler amiably consented to send him to the seat of war\nas bearer of despatches to Captain Palmer of the American sloop of war\nIroquois. Young Adams seized the chance, and went to Palermo in a\ngovernment transport filled with fleas, commanded by a charming Prince\nCaracciolo.\n\n  He told all about it to the Boston Courier; where the narrative\nprobably exists to this day, unless the files of the Courier have\nwholly perished; but of its bearing on education the Courier did not\nspeak. He himself would have much liked to know whether it had any\nbearing whatever, and what was its value as a post-graduate course.\nQuite apart from its value as life attained, realized, capitalized, it\nhad also a certain value as a lesson in something, though Adams could\nnever classify the branch of study. Loosely, the tourist called it\nknowledge of men, but it was just the reverse; it was knowledge of\none's ignorance of men. Captain Palmer of the Iroquois, who was a\nfriend of the young man's uncle, Sydney Brooks, took him with the\nofficers of the ship to make an evening call on Garibaldi, whom they\nfound in the Senate House towards sunset, at supper with his\npicturesque and piratic staff, in the full noise and color of the\nPalermo revolution. As a spectacle, it belonged to Rossini and the\nItalian opera, or to Alexandre Dumas at the least, but the spectacle\nwas not its educational side. Garibaldi left the table, and, sitting\ndown at the window, had a few words of talk with Captain Palmer and\nyoung Adams. At that moment, in the summer of 1860, Garibaldi was\ncertainly the most serious of the doubtful energies in the world; the\nmost essential to gauge rightly. Even then society was dividing between\nbanker and anarchist. One or the other, Garibaldi must serve. Himself a\ntypical anarchist, sure to overshadow Europe and alarm empires bigger\nthan Naples, his success depended on his mind; his energy was beyond\ndoubt.\n\n  Adams had the chance to look this sphinx in the eyes, and, for\nfive minutes, to watch him like a wild animal, at the moment of his\ngreatest achievement and most splendid action. One saw a\nquiet-featured, quiet-voiced man in a red flannel shirt; absolutely\nimpervious; a type of which Adams knew nothing. Sympathetic it was, and\none felt that it was simple; one suspected even that it might be\nchildlike, but could form no guess of its intelligence. In his own eyes\nGaribaldi might be a Napoleon or a Spartacus; in the hands of Cavour he\nmight become a Condottiere; in the eyes of history he might, like the\nrest of the world, be only the vigorous player in the game he did not\nunderstand. The student was none the wiser.\n\n  This compound nature of patriot and pirate had illumined\nItalian history from the beginning, and was no more intelligible to\nitself than to a young American who had no experience in double\nnatures. In the end, if the \"Autobiography\" tells truth, Garibaldi saw\nand said that he had not understood his own acts; that he had been an\ninstrument; that he had served the purposes of the class he least\nwanted to help; yet in 1860 he thought himself the revolution anarchic,\nNapoleonic, and his ambition was unbounded. What should a young\nBostonian have made of a character like this, internally alive with\nchildlike fancies, and externally quiet, simple, almost innocent;\nuttering with apparent conviction the usual commonplaces of popular\npolitics that all politicians use as the small change of their\nintercourse with the public; but never betraying a thought?\n\n  Precisely this class of mind was to be the toughest problem of\nAdams's practical life, but he could never make anything of it. The\nlesson of Garibaldi, as education, seemed to teach the extreme\ncomplexity of extreme simplicity; but one could have learned this from\na glow-worm. One did not need the vivid recollection of the low-voiced,\nsimple-mannered, seafaring captain of Genoese adventurers and Sicilian\nbrigands, supping in the July heat and Sicilian dirt and revolutionary\nclamor, among the barricaded streets of insurgent Palermo, merely in\norder to remember that simplicity is complex.\n\n  Adams left the problem as he found it, and came north to\nstumble over others, less picturesque but nearer. He squandered two or\nthree months on Paris. From the first he had avoided Paris, and had\nwanted no French influence in his education. He disapproved of France\nin the lump. A certain knowledge of the language one must have; enough\nto order dinner and buy a theatre ticket; but more he did not seek. He\ndisliked the Empire and the Emperor particularly, but this was a\ntrifle; he disliked most the French mind. To save himself the trouble\nof drawing up a long list of all that he disliked, he disapproved of\nthe whole, once for all, and shut them figuratively out of his life.\nFrance was not serious, and he was not serious in going there.\n\n  He did this in good faith, obeying the lessons his teachers had\ntaught him; but the curious result followed that, being in no way\nresponsible for the French and sincerely disapproving them, he felt\nquite at liberty to enjoy to the full everything he disapproved. Stated\nthus crudely, the idea sounds derisive; but, as a matter of fact,\nseveral thousand Americans passed much of their time there on this\nunderstanding. They sought to take share in every function that was\nopen to approach, as they sought tickets to the opera, because they\nwere not a part of it. Adams did like the rest. All thought of serious\neducation had long vanished. He tried to acquire a few French idioms,\nwithout even aspiring to master a subjunctive, but he succeeded better\nin acquiring a modest taste for Bordeaux and Burgundy and one or two\nsauces; for the Trois Freres Provencaux and Voisin's and Philippe's and\nthe Cafe Anglais; for the Palais Royal Theatre, and the Varietes and\nthe Gymnase; for the Brohans and Bressant, Rose Cheri and Gil Perez,\nand other lights of the stage. His friends were good to him. Life was\namusing. Paris rapidly became familiar. In a month or six weeks he\nforgot even to disapprove of it; but he studied nothing, entered no\nsociety, and made no acquaintance. Accidental education went far in\nParis, and one picked up a deal of knowledge that might become useful;\nperhaps, after all, the three months passed there might serve better\npurpose than the twenty-one months passed elsewhere; but he did not\nintend it--did not think it--and looked at it as a momentary and\nfrivolous vacation before going home to fit himself for life.\nTherewith, after staying as long as he could and spending all the money\nhe dared, he started with mixed emotions but no education, for home.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII\n\nTREASON (1860-1861)\n\n  WHEN, forty years afterwards, Henry Adams looked back over his\nadventures in search of knowledge, he asked himself whether fortune or\nfate had ever dealt its cards quite so wildly to any of his known\nantecessors as when it led him to begin the study of law and to vote\nfor Abraham Lincoln on the same day.\n\n  He dropped back on Quincy like a lump of lead; he rebounded\nlike a football, tossed into space by an unknown energy which played\nwith all his generation as a cat plays with mice. The simile is none\ntoo strong. Not one man in America wanted the Civil War, or expected or\nintended it. A small minority wanted secession. The vast majority\nwanted to go on with their occupations in peace. Not one, however\nclever or learned, guessed what happened. Possibly a few Southern\nloyalists in despair might dream it as an impossible chance; but none\nplanned it.\n\n  As for Henry Adams, fresh from Europe and chaos of another\nsort, he plunged at once into a lurid atmosphere of politics, quite\nheedless of any education or forethought. His past melted away. The\nprodigal was welcomed home, but not even his father asked a malicious\nquestion about the Pandects. At the utmost, he hinted at some shade of\nprodigality by quietly inviting his son to act as private secretary\nduring the winter in Washington, as though any young man who could\nafford to throw away two winters on the Civil Law could afford to read\nBlackstone for another winter without a master. The young man was\nbeyond satire, and asked only a pretext for throwing all education to\nthe east wind. November at best is sad, and November at Quincy had been\nfrom earliest childhood the least gay of seasons. Nowhere else does the\nuncharitable autumn wreak its spite so harshly on the frail wreck of\nthe grasshopper summer; yet even a Quincy November seemed temperate\nbefore the chill of a Boston January.\n\n  This was saying much, for the November of 1860 at Quincy stood\napart from other memories as lurid beyond description. Although no one\nbelieved in civil war, the air reeked of it, and the Republicans\norganized their clubs and parades as Wide-Awakes in a form military in\nall things except weapons. Henry reached home in time to see the last\nof these processions, stretching in ranks of torches along the\nhillside, file down through the November night; to the Old House, where\nMr. Adams, their Member of Congress, received them, and, let them\npretend what they liked, their air was not that of innocence.\n\n  Profoundly ignorant, anxious, and curious, the young man packed\nhis modest trunk again, which had not yet time to be unpacked, and\nstarted for Washington with his family. Ten years had passed since his\nlast visit, but very little had changed. As in 1800 and 1850, so in\n1860, the same rude colony was camped in the same forest, with the same\nunfinished Greek temples for work rooms, and sloughs for roads. The\nGovernment had an air of social instability and incompleteness that\nwent far to support the right of secession in theory as in fact; but\nright or wrong, secession was likely to be easy where there was so\nlittle to secede from. The Union was a sentiment, but not much more,\nand in December, 1860, the sentiment about the Capitol was chiefly\nhostile, so far as it made itself felt. John Adams was better off in\nPhiladelphia in 1776 than his great-grandson Henry in 1860 in\nWashington.\n\n  Patriotism ended by throwing a halo over the Continental\nCongress, but over the close of the Thirty-sixth Congress in 1860-61,\nno halo could be thrown by any one who saw it. Of all the crowd\nswarming in Washington that winter, young Adams was surely among the\nmost ignorant and helpless, but he saw plainly that the knowledge\npossessed by everybody about him was hardly greater than his own. Never\nin a long life did he seek to master a lesson so obscure. Mr. Sumner\nwas given to saying after Oxenstiern: \"Quantula sapientia mundus\nregitur!\" Oxenstiern talked of a world that wanted wisdom; but Adams\nfound himself seeking education in a world that seemed to him both\nunwise and ignorant. The Southern secessionists were certainly\nunbalanced in mind--fit for medical treatment, like other victims of\nhallucination--haunted by suspicion, by idees fixes, by violent morbid\nexcitement; but this was not all. They were stupendously ignorant of\nthe world. As a class, the cotton-planters were mentally one-sided,\nill-balanced, and provincial to a degree rarely known. They were a\nclose society on whom the new fountains of power had poured a stream of\nwealth and slaves that acted like oil on flame. They showed a young\nstudent his first object-lesson of the way in which excess of power\nworked when held by inadequate hands.\n\n  This might be a commonplace of 1900, but in 1860 it was\nparadox. The Southern statesmen were regarded as standards of\nstatesmanship, and such standards barred education. Charles Sumner's\nchief offence was his insistence on Southern ignorance, and he stood a\nliving proof of it. To this school, Henry Adams had come for a new\neducation, and the school was seriously, honestly, taken by most of the\nworld, including Europe, as proper for the purpose, although the Sioux\nIndians would have taught less mischief. From such contradictions among\nintelligent people, what was a young man to learn?\n\n  He could learn nothing but cross-purpose. The old and typical\nSouthern gentleman developed as cotton-planter had nothing to teach or\nto give, except warning. Even as example to be avoided, he was too\nglaring in his defiance of reason, to help the education of a\nreasonable being. No one learned a useful lesson from the Confederate\nschool except to keep away from it. Thus, at one sweep, the whole field\nof instruction south of the Potomac was shut off; it was overshadowed\nby the cotton planters, from whom one could learn nothing but bad\ntemper, bad manners, poker, and treason.\n\n  Perforce, the student was thrown back on Northern precept and\nexample; first of all, on his New England surroundings. Republican\nhouses were few in Washington, and Mr. and Mrs. Adams aimed to create a\nsocial centre for New Englanders. They took a house on I Street,\nlooking over Pennsylvania Avenue, well out towards Georgetown--the\nMarkoe house--and there the private secretary began to learn his social\nduties, for the political were confined to committee-rooms and lobbies\nof the Capitol. He had little to do, and knew not how to do it rightly,\nbut he knew of no one who knew more.\n\n  The Southern type was one to be avoided; the New England type\nwas one's self. It had nothing to show except one's own features.\nSetting aside Charles Sumner, who stood quite alone and was the boy's\noldest friend, all the New Englanders were sane and steady men,\nwell-balanced, educated, and free from meanness or intrigue--men whom\none liked to act with, and who, whether graduates or not, bore the\nstamp of Harvard College. Anson Burlingame was one exception, and\nperhaps Israel Washburn another; but as a rule the New Englander's\nstrength was his poise which almost amounted to a defect. He offered no\nmore target for love than for hate; he attracted as little as he\nrepelled; even as a machine, his motion seemed never accelerated. The\ncharacter, with its force or feebleness, was familiar; one knew it to\nthe core; one was it--had been run in the same mould.\n\n  There remained the Central and Western States, but there the\nchoice of teachers was not large and in the end narrowed itself to\nPreston King, Henry Winter Davis, Owen Lovejoy, and a few other men\nborn with social faculty. Adams took most kindly to Henry J. Raymond,\nwho came to view the field for the New York Times, and who was a man of\nthe world. The average Congressman was civil enough, but had nothing to\nask except offices, and nothing to offer but the views of his district.\nThe average Senator was more reserved, but had not much more to say,\nbeing always excepting one or two genial natures, handicapped by his\nown importance.\n\n  Study it as one might, the hope of education, till the arrival\nof the President-elect, narrowed itself to the possible influence of\nonly two men--Sumner and Seward.\n\n  Sumner was then fifty years old. Since his election as Senator\nin 1851 he had passed beyond the reach of his boy friend, and, after\nhis Brooks injuries, his nervous system never quite recovered its tone;\nbut perhaps eight or ten years of solitary existence as Senator had\nmost to do with his development. No man, however strong, can serve ten\nyears as schoolmaster, priest, or Senator, and remain fit for anything\nelse. All the dogmatic stations in life have the effect of fixing a\ncertain stiffness of attitude forever, as though they mesmerized the\nsubject. Yet even among Senators there were degrees in dogmatism, from\nthe frank South Carolinian brutality, to that of Webster, Benton, Clay,\nor Sumner himself, until in extreme cases, like Conkling, it became\nShakespearian and bouffe--as Godkin used to call it--like Malvolio.\nSumner had become dogmatic like the rest, but he had at least the merit\nof qualities that warranted dogmatism. He justly thought, as Webster\nhad thought before him, that his great services and sacrifices, his\nsuperiority in education, his oratorical power, his political\nexperience, his representative character at the head of the whole New\nEngland contingent, and, above all, his knowledge of the world, made\nhim the most important member of the Senate; and no Senator had ever\nsaturated himself more thoroughly with the spirit and temper of the\nbody.\n\n  Although the Senate is much given to admiring in its members a\nsuperiority less obvious or quite invisible to outsiders, one Senator\nseldom proclaims his own inferiority to another, and still more seldom\nlikes to be told of it. Even the greatest Senators seemed to inspire\nlittle personal affection in each other, and betrayed none at all.\nSumner had a number of rivals who held his judgment in no high esteem,\nand one of these was Senator Seward. The two men would have disliked\neach other by instinct had they lived in different planets. Each was\ncreated only for exasperating the other; the virtues of one were the\nfaults of his rival, until no good quality seemed to remain of either.\nThat the public service must suffer was certain, but what were the\nsufferings of the public service compared with the risks run by a young\nmosquito--a private secretary--trying to buzz admiration in the ears of\neach, and unaware that each would impatiently slap at him for belonging\nto the other? Innocent and unsuspicious beyond what was permitted even\nin a nursery, the private secretary courted both.\n\n  Private secretaries are servants of a rather low order, whose\nbusiness is to serve sources of power. The first news of a professional\nkind, imparted to private secretary Adams on reaching Washington, was\nthat the President-elect, Abraham Lincoln, had selected Mr. Seward for\nhis Secretary of State, and that Seward was to be the medium for\ncommunicating his wishes to his followers. Every young man naturally\naccepted the wishes of Mr. Lincoln as orders, the more because he could\nsee that the new President was likely to need all the help that several\nmillion young men would be able to give, if they counted on having any\nPresident at all to serve. Naturally one waited impatiently for the\nfirst meeting with the new Secretary of State.\n\n  Governor Seward was an old friend of the family. He professed\nto be a disciple and follower of John Quincy Adams. He had been Senator\nsince 1849, when his responsibilities as leader had separated him from\nthe Free Soil contingent, for, in the dry light of the first Free Soil\nfaith, the ways of New York politics Thurlow Weed had not won favor;\nbut the fierce heat which welded the Republican Party in 1856 melted\nmany such barriers, and when Mr. Adams came to Congress in December,\n1859, Governor Seward instantly renewed his attitude of family friend,\nbecame a daily intimate in the household, and lost no chance of forcing\nhis fresh ally to the front.\n\n  A few days after their arrival in December, 1860, the Governor,\nas he was always called, came to dinner, alone, as one of the family,\nand the private secretary had the chance he wanted to watch him as\ncarefully as one generally watches men who dispose of one's future. A\nslouching, slender figure; a head like a wise macaw; a beaked nose;\nshaggy eyebrows; unorderly hair and clothes; hoarse voice; offhand\nmanner; free talk, and perpetual cigar, offered a new type--of western\nNew York--to fathom; a type in one way simple because it was only\ndouble--political and personal; but complex because the political had\nbecome nature, and no one could tell which was the mask and which the\nfeatures. At table, among friends, Mr. Seward threw off restraint, or\nseemed to throw it off, in reality, while in the world he threw it off,\nlike a politician, for effect. In both cases he chose to appear as a\nfree talker, who loathed pomposity and enjoyed a joke; but how much was\nnature and how much was mask, he was himself too simple a nature to\nknow. Underneath the surface he was conventional after the conventions\nof western New York and Albany. Politicians thought it\nunconventionality. Bostonians thought it provincial. Henry Adams\nthought it charming. From the first sight, he loved the Governor, who,\nthough sixty years old, had the youth of his sympathies. He noticed\nthat Mr. Seward was never petty or personal; his talk was large; he\ngeneralized; he never seemed to pose for statesmanship; he did not\nrequire an attitude of prayer. What was more unusual--almost singular\nand quite eccentric--he had some means, unknown to other Senators, of\nproducing the effect of unselfishness.\n\n  Superficially Mr. Seward and Mr. Adams were contrasts;\nessentially they were much alike. Mr. Adams was taken to be rigid, but\nthe Puritan character in all its forms could be supple enough when it\nchose; and in Massachusetts all the Adamses had been attacked in\nsuccession as no better than political mercenaries. Mr. Hildreth, in\nhis standard history, went so far as to echo with approval the charge\nthat treachery was hereditary in the family. Any Adams had at least to\nbe thick-skinned, hardened to every contradictory epithet that virtue\ncould supply, and, on the whole, armed to return such attentions; but\nall must have admitted that they had invariably subordinated local to\nnational interests, and would continue to do so, whenever forced to\nchoose. C. F. Adams was sure to do what his father had done, as his\nfather had followed the steps of John Adams, and no doubt thereby\nearned his epithets.\n\n  The inevitable followed, as a child fresh from the nursery\nshould have had the instinct to foresee, but the young man on the edge\nof life never dreamed. What motives or emotions drove his masters on\ntheir various paths he made no pretence of guessing; even at that age\nhe preferred to admit his dislike for guessing motives; he knew only\nhis own infantile ignorance, before which he stood amazed, and his\ninnocent good-faith, always matter of simple-minded surprise. Critics\nwho know ultimate truth will pronounce judgment on history; all that\nHenry Adams ever saw in man was a reflection of his own ignorance, and\nhe never saw quite so much of it as in the winter of 1860-61. Every one\nknows the story; every one draws what conclusion suits his temper, and\nthe conclusion matters now less than though it concerned the merits of\nAdam and Eve in the Garden of Eden; but in 1861 the conclusion made the\nsharpest lesson of life; it was condensed and concentrated education.\n\n  Rightly or wrongly the new President and his chief advisers in\nWashington decided that, before they could administer the Government,\nthey must make sure of a government to administer, and that this chance\ndepended on the action of Virginia. The whole ascendancy of the winter\nwavered between the effort of the cotton States to drag Virginia out,\nand the effort of the new President to keep Virginia in. Governor\nSeward representing the Administration in the Senate took the lead; Mr.\nAdams took the lead in the House; and as far as a private secretary\nknew, the party united on its tactics. In offering concessions to the\nborder States, they had to run the risk, or incur the certainty, of\ndividing their own party, and they took this risk with open eyes. As\nSeward himself, in his gruff way, said at dinner, after Mr. Adams and\nhe had made their speeches: \"If there's no secession now, you and I are\nruined.\"\n\n  They won their game; this was their affair and the affair of\nthe historians who tell their story; their private secretaries had\nnothing to do with it except to follow their orders. On that side a\nsecretary learned nothing and had nothing to learn. The sudden arrival\nof Mr. Lincoln in Washington on February 23, and the language of his\ninaugural address, were the final term of the winter's tactics, and\nclosed the private secretary's interest in the matter forever. Perhaps\nhe felt, even then, a good deal more interest in the appearance of\nanother private secretary, of his own age, a young man named John Hay,\nwho lighted on LaFayette Square at the same moment. Friends are born,\nnot made, and Henry never mistook a friend except when in power. From\nthe first slight meeting in February and March, 1861, he recognized Hay\nas a friend, and never lost sight of him at the future crossing of\ntheir paths; but, for the moment, his own task ended on March 4 when\nHay's began. The winter's anxieties were shifted upon new shoulders,\nand Henry gladly turned back to Blackstone. He had tried to make\nhimself useful, and had exerted energy that seemed to him portentous,\nacting in secret as newspaper correspondent, cultivating a large\nacquaintance and even haunting ballrooms where the simple,\nold-fashioned, Southern tone was pleasant even in the atmosphere of\nconspiracy and treason. The sum was next to nothing for education,\nbecause no one could teach; all were as ignorant as himself; none knew\nwhat should be done, or how to do it; all were trying to learn and were\nmore bent on asking than on answering questions. The mass of ignorance\nin Washington was lighted up by no ray of knowledge. Society, from top\nto bottom, broke down.\n\n  From this law there was no exception, unless, perhaps, that of\nold General Winfield Scott, who happened to be the only military figure\nthat looked equal to the crisis. No one else either looked it, or was\nit, or could be it, by nature or training. Had young Adams been told\nthat his life was to hang on the correctness of his estimate of the new\nPresident, he would have lost. He saw Mr. Lincoln but once; at the\nmelancholy function called an Inaugural Ball. Of course he looked\nanxiously for a sign of character. He saw a long, awkward figure; a\nplain, ploughed face; a mind, absent in part, and in part evidently\nworried by white kid gloves; features that expressed neither\nself-satisfaction nor any other familiar Americanism, but rather the\nsame painful sense of becoming educated and of needing education that\ntormented a private secretary; above all a lack of apparent force. Any\nprivate secretary in the least fit for his business would have thought,\nas Adams did, that no man living needed so much education as the new\nPresident but that all the education he could get would not be enough.\n\n  As far as a young man of anxious temperament could see, no one\nin Washington was fitted for his duties; or rather, no duties in March\nwere fitted for the duties in April. The few people who thought they\nknew something were more in error than those who knew nothing.\nEducation was matter of life and death, but all the education in the\nworld would have helped nothing. Only one man in Adams's reach seemed\nto him supremely fitted by knowledge and experience to be an adviser\nand friend. This was Senator Sumner; and there, in fact, the young\nman's education began; there it ended.\n\n  Going over the experience again, long after all the great\nactors were dead, he struggled to see where he had blundered. In the\neffort to make acquaintances, he lost friends, but he would have liked\nmuch to know whether he could have helped it. He had necessarily\nfollowed Seward and his father; he took for granted that his business\nwas obedience, discipline, and silence; he supposed the party to\nrequire it, and that the crisis overruled all personal doubts. He was\nthunderstruck to learn that Senator Sumner privately denounced the\ncourse, regarded Mr. Adams as betraying the principles of his life, and\nbroke off relations with his family.\n\n  Many a shock was Henry Adams to meet in the course of a long\nlife passed chiefly near politics and politicians, but the profoundest\nlessons are not the lessons of reason; they are sudden strains that\npermanently warp the mind. He cared little or nothing about the point\nin discussion; he was even willing to admit that Sumner might be right,\nthough in all great emergencies he commonly found that every one was\nmore or less wrong; he liked lofty moral principle and cared little for\npolitical tactics; he felt a profound respect for Sumner himself; but\nthe shock opened a chasm in life that never closed, and as long as life\nlasted, he found himself invariably taking for granted, as a political\ninstinct, with out waiting further experiment--as he took for granted\nthat arsenic poisoned--the rule that a friend in power is a friend lost.\n\n  On his own score, he never admitted the rupture, and never\nexchanged a word with Mr. Sumner on the subject, then or afterwards,\nbut his education--for good or bad--made an enormous stride. One has to\ndeal with all sorts of unexpected morals in life, and, at this moment,\nhe was looking at hundreds of Southern gentlemen who believed\nthemselves singularly honest, but who seemed to him engaged in the\nplainest breach of faith and the blackest secret conspiracy, yet they\ndid not disturb his education. History told of little else; and not one\nrebel defection--not even Robert E. Lee's--cost young Adams a personal\npang; but Sumner's struck home.\n\n  This, then, was the result of the new attempt at education,\ndown to March 4, 1861; this was all; and frankly, it seemed to him\nhardly what he wanted. The picture of Washington in March, 1861,\noffered education, but not the kind of education that led to good. The\nprocess that Matthew Arnold described as wandering between two worlds,\none dead, the other powerless to be born, helps nothing. Washington was\na dismal school. Even before the traitors had flown, the vultures\ndescended on it in swarms that darkened the ground, and tore the\ncarrion of political patronage into fragments and gobbets of fat and\nlean, on the very steps of the White House. Not a man there knew what\nhis task was to be, or was fitted for it; every one without exception,\nNorthern or Southern, was to learn his business at the cost of the\npublic. Lincoln, Seward, Sumner, and the rest, could give no help to\nthe young man seeking education; they knew less than he; within six\nweeks they were all to be taught their duties by the uprising of such\nas he, and their education was to cost a million lives and ten thousand\nmillion dollars, more or less, North and South, before the country\ncould recover its balance and movement. Henry was a helpless victim,\nand, like all the rest, he could only wait for he knew not what, to\nsend him he knew not where.\n\n  With the close of the session, his own functions ended. Ceasing\nto be private secretary he knew not what else to do but return with his\nfather and mother to Boston in the middle of March, and, with childlike\ndocility, sit down at a desk in the law-office of Horace Gray in Court\nStreet, to begin again: \"My Lords and Gentlemen\"; dozing after a two\no'clock dinner, or waking to discuss politics with the future Justice.\nThere, in ordinary times, he would have remained for life, his attempt\nat education in treason having, like all the rest, disastrously failed.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII\n\nDIPLOMACY (1861)\n\n  HARDLY a week passed when the newspapers announced that\nPresident Lincoln had selected Charles Francis Adams as his Minister to\nEngland. Once more, silently, Henry put Blackstone back on its shelf.\nAs Friar Bacon's head sententiously announced many centuries before:\nTime had passed! The Civil Law lasted a brief day; the Common Law\nprolonged its shadowy existence for a week. The law, altogether, as\npath of education, vanished in April, 1861, leaving a million young men\nplanted in the mud of a lawless world, to begin a new life without\neducation at all. They asked few questions, but if they had asked\nmillions they would have got no answers. No one could help. Looking\nback on this moment of crisis, nearly fifty years afterwards, one could\nonly shake one's white beard in silent horror. Mr. Adams once more\nintimated that he thought himself entitled to the services of one of\nhis sons, and he indicated Henry as the only one who could be spared\nfrom more serious duties. Henry packed his trunk again without a word.\nHe could offer no protest. Ridiculous as he knew himself about to be in\nhis new role, he was less ridiculous than his betters. He was at least\nno public official, like the thousands of improvised secretaries and\ngenerals who crowded their jealousies and intrigues on the President.\nHe was not a vulture of carrion--patronage. He knew that his father's\nappointment was the result of Governor Seward's personal friendship; he\ndid not then know that Senator Sumner had opposed it, or the reasons\nwhich Sumner alleged for thinking it unfit; but he could have supplied\nproofs enough had Sumner asked for them, the strongest and most\ndecisive being that, in his opinion, Mr. Adams had chosen a private\nsecretary far more unfit than his chief. That Mr. Adams was unfit might\nwell be, since it was hard to find a fit appointment in the list of\npossible candidates, except Mr. Sumner himself; and no one knew so well\nas this experienced Senator that the weakest of all Mr. Adams's proofs\nof fitness was his consent to quit a safe seat in Congress for an\nexceedingly unsafe seat in London with no better support than Senator\nSumner, at the head of the Foreign Relations Committee, was likely to\ngive him. In the family history, its members had taken many a dangerous\nrisk, but never before had they taken one so desperate.\n\n  The private secretary troubled himself not at all about the\nunfitness of any one; he knew too little; and, in fact, no one, except\nperhaps Mr. Sumner, knew more. The President and Secretary of State\nknew least of all. As Secretary of Legation the Executive appointed the\neditor of a Chicago newspaper who had applied for the Chicago\nPost-Office; a good fellow, universally known as Charley Wilson, who\nhad not a thought of staying in the post, or of helping the Minister.\nThe Assistant Secretary was inherited from Buchanan's time, a hard\nworker, but socially useless. Mr. Adams made no effort to find\nefficient help; perhaps he knew no name to suggest; perhaps he knew too\nmuch of Washington, but he could hardly have hoped to find a staff of\nstrength in his son.\n\n  The private secretary was more passive than his father, for he\nknew not where to turn. Sumner alone could have smoothed his path by\ngiving him letters of introduction, but if Sumner wrote letters, it was\nnot with the effect of smoothing paths. No one, at that moment, was\nengaged in smoothing either paths or people. The private secretary was\nno worse off than his neighbors except in being called earlier into\nservice. On April 13 the storm burst and rolled several hundred\nthousand young men like Henry Adams into the surf of a wild ocean, all\nhelpless like himself, to be beaten about for four years by the waves\nof war. Adams still had time to watch the regiments form ranks before\nBoston State House in the April evenings and march southward, quietly\nenough, with the air of business they wore from their cradles, but with\nfew signs or sounds of excitement. He had time also to go down the\nharbor to see his brother Charles quartered in Fort Independence before\nbeing thrown, with a hundred thousand more, into the furnace of the\nArmy of the Potomac to get educated in a fury of fire. Few things were\nfor the moment so trivial in importance as the solitary private\nsecretary crawling down to the wretched old Cunard steamer Niagara at\nEast Boston to start again for Liverpool. This time the pitcher of\neducation had gone to the fountain once too often; it was fairly\nbroken; and the young man had got to meet a hostile world without\ndefence--or arms.\n\n  The situation did not seem even comic, so ignorant was the\nworld of its humors; yet Minister Adams sailed for England, May 1,\n1861, with much the same outfit as Admiral Dupont would have enjoyed if\nthe Government had sent him to attack Port Royal with one cabin-boy in\na rowboat. Luckily for the cabin-boy, he was alone. Had Secretary\nSeward and Senator Sumner given to Mr. Adams the rank of Ambassador and\nfour times his salary, a palace in London, a staff of trained\nsecretaries, and personal letters of introduction to the royal family\nand the whole peerage, the private secretary would have been cabin-boy\nstill, with the extra burden of many masters; he was the most fortunate\nperson in the party, having for master only his father who never\nfretted, never dictated, never disciplined, and whose idea of American\ndiplomacy was that of the eighteenth century. Minister Adams remembered\nhow his grandfather had sailed from Mount Wollaston in midwinter, 1778,\non the little frigate Boston, taking his eleven-year-old son John\nQuincy with him, for secretary, on a diplomacy of adventure that had\nhardly a parallel for success. He remembered how John Quincy, in 1809,\nhad sailed for Russia, with himself, a baby of two years old, to cope\nwith Napoleon and the Czar Alexander single-handed, almost as much of\nan adventurer as John Adams before him, and almost as successful. He\nthought it natural that the Government should send him out as an\nadventurer also, with a twenty-three-year-old son, and he did not even\nnotice that he left not a friend behind him. No doubt he could depend\non Seward, but on whom could Seward depend? Certainly not on the\nChairman of the Committee of Foreign Relations. Minister Adams had no\nfriend in the Senate; he could hope for no favors, and he asked none.\nHe thought it right to play the adventurer as his father and\ngrandfather had done before him, without a murmur. This was a lofty\nview, and for him answered his objects, but it bore hard on cabin-boys,\nand when, in time, the young man realized what had happened, he felt it\nas a betrayal. He modestly thought himself unfit for the career of\nadventurer, and judged his father to be less fit than himself. For the\nfirst time America was posing as the champion of legitimacy and order.\nHer representatives should know how to play their role; they should\nwear the costume; but, in the mission attached to Mr. Adams in 1861,\nthe only rag of legitimacy or order was the private secretary, whose\nstature was not sufficient to impose awe on the Court and Parliament of\nGreat Britain.\n\n  One inevitable effect of this lesson was to make a victim of\nthe scholar and to turn him into a harsh judge of his masters. If they\noverlooked him, he could hardly overlook them, since they stood with\ntheir whole weight on his body. By way of teaching him quickly, they\nsent out their new Minister to Russia in the same ship. Secretary\nSeward had occasion to learn the merits of Cassius M. Clay in the\ndiplomatic service, but Mr. Seward's education profited less than the\nprivate secretary's, Cassius Clay as a teacher having no equal though\npossibly some rivals. No young man, not in Government pay, could be\nasked to draw, from such lessons, any confidence in himself, and it was\nnotorious that, for the next two years, the persons were few indeed who\nfelt, or had reason to feel, any sort of confidence in the Government;\nfewest of all among those who were in it. At home, for the most part,\nyoung men went to the war, grumbled and died; in England they might\ngrumble or not; no one listened.\n\n  Above all, the private secretary could not grumble to his\nchief. He knew surprisingly little, but that much he did know. He never\nlabored so hard to learn a language as he did to hold his tongue, and\nit affected him for life. The habit of reticence--of talking without\nmeaning--is never effaced. He had to begin it at once. He was already\nan adept when the party landed at Liverpool, May 13, 1861, and went\ninstantly up to London: a family of early Christian martyrs about to be\nflung into an arena of lions, under the glad eyes of Tiberius\nPalmerston. Though Lord Palmerston would have laughed his peculiar\nPalmerston laugh at figuring as Tiberius, he would have seen only\nevident resemblance in the Christian martyrs, for he had already\narranged the ceremony.\n\n  Of what they had to expect, the Minister knew no more than his\nson. What he or Mr. Seward or Mr. Sumner may have thought is the affair\nof history and their errors concern historians. The errors of a private\nsecretary concerned no one but himself, and were a large part of his\neducation. He thought on May 12 that he was going to a friendly\nGovernment and people, true to the anti-slavery principles which had\nbeen their steadiest profession. For a hundred years the chief effort\nof his family had aimed at bringing the Government of England into\nintelligent cooperation with the objects and interests of America. His\nfather was about to make a new effort, and this time the chance of\nsuccess was promising. The slave States had been the chief apparent\nobstacle to good understanding. As for the private secretary himself,\nhe was, like all Bostonians, instinctively English. He could not\nconceive the idea of a hostile England. He supposed himself, as one of\nthe members of a famous anti-slavery family, to be welcome everywhere\nin the British Islands.\n\n  On May 13, he met the official announcement that England\nrecognized the belligerency of the Confederacy. This beginning of a new\neducation tore up by the roots nearly all that was left of Harvard\nCollege and Germany. He had to learn--the sooner the better--that his\nideas were the reverse of truth; that in May, 1861, no one in\nEngland--literally no one--doubted that Jefferson Davis had made or\nwould make a nation, and nearly all were glad of it, though not often\nsaying so. They mostly imitated Palmerston who, according to Mr.\nGladstone, \"desired the severance as a diminution of a dangerous power,\nbut prudently held his tongue.\" The sentiment of anti-slavery had\ndisappeared. Lord John Russell, as Foreign Secretary, had received the\nrebel emissaries, and had decided to recognize their belligerency\nbefore the arrival of Mr. Adams in order to fix the position of the\nBritish Government in advance. The recognition of independence would\nthen become an understood policy; a matter of time and occasion.\n\n  Whatever Minister Adams may have felt, the first effect of this\nshock upon his son produced only a dullness of comprehension--a sort of\nhazy inability to grasp the missile or realize the blow. Yet he\nrealized that to his father it was likely to be fatal. The chances were\ngreat that the whole family would turn round and go home within a few\nweeks. The horizon widened out in endless waves of confusion. When he\nthought over the subject in the long leisure of later life, he grew\ncold at the idea of his situation had his father then shown himself\nwhat Sumner thought him to be--unfit for his post. That the private\nsecretary was unfit for his--trifling though it were--was proved by his\nunreflecting confidence in his father. It never entered his mind that\nhis father might lose his nerve or his temper, and yet in a subsequent\nknowledge of statesmen and diplomats extending over several\ngenerations, he could not certainly point out another who could have\nstood such a shock without showing it. He passed this long day, and\ntedious journey to London, without once thinking of the possibility\nthat his father might make a mistake. Whatever the Minister thought,\nand certainly his thought was not less active than his son's, he showed\nno trace of excitement. His manner was the same as ever; his mind and\ntemper were as perfectly balanced; not a word escaped; not a nerve\ntwitched.\n\n  The test was final, for no other shock so violent and sudden\ncould possibly recur. The worst was in full sight. For once the private\nsecretary knew his own business, which was to imitate his father as\nclosely as possible and hold his tongue. Dumped thus into Maurigy's\nHotel at the foot of Regent Street, in the midst of a London season,\nwithout a friend or even an acquaintance, he preferred to laugh at his\nfather's bewilderment before the waiter's \"'amhandheggsir\" for\nbreakfast, rather than ask a question or express a doubt. His\nsituation, if taken seriously, was too appalling to face. Had he known\nit better, he would only have thought it worse.\n\n  Politically or socially, the outlook was desperate, beyond\nretrieving or contesting. Socially, under the best of circumstances, a\nnewcomer in London society needs years to establish a position, and\nMinister Adams had not a week or an hour to spare, while his son had\nnot even a remote chance of beginning. Politically the prospect looked\neven worse, and for Secretary Seward and Senator Sumner it was so; but\nfor the Minister, on the spot, as he came to realize exactly where he\nstood, the danger was not so imminent. Mr. Adams was always one of the\nluckiest of men, both in what he achieved and in what he escaped. The\nblow, which prostrated Seward and Sumner, passed over him. Lord John\nRussell had acted--had probably intended to act--kindly by him in\nforestalling his arrival. The blow must have fallen within three\nmonths, and would then have broken him down. The British Ministers were\na little in doubt still--a little ashamed of themselves--and certain to\nwait the longer for their next step in proportion to the haste of their\nfirst.\n\n  This is not a story of the diplomatic adventures of Charles\nFrancis Adams, but of his son Henry's adventures in search of an\neducation, which, if not taken too seriously, tended to humor. The\nfather's position in London was not altogether bad; the son's was\nabsurd. Thanks to certain family associations, Charles Francis Adams\nnaturally looked on all British Ministers as enemies; the only public\noccupation of all Adamses for a hundred and fifty years at least, in\ntheir brief intervals of quarrelling with State Street, had been to\nquarrel with Downing Street; and the British Government, well used to a\nliberal unpopularity abroad, even when officially rude liked to be\npersonally civil. All diplomatic agents are liable to be put, so to\nspeak, in a corner, and are none the worse for it. Minister Adams had\nnothing in especial to complain of; his position was good while it\nlasted, and he had only the chances of war to fear. The son had no such\ncompensations. Brought over in order to help his father, he could\nconceive no way of rendering his father help, but he was clear that his\nfather had got to help him. To him, the Legation was social ostracism,\nterrible beyond anything he had known. Entire solitude in the great\nsociety of London was doubly desperate because his duties as private\nsecretary required him to know everybody and go with his father and\nmother everywhere they needed escort. He had no friend, or even enemy,\nto tell him to be patient. Had any one done it, he would surely have\nbroken out with the reply that patience was the last resource of fools\nas well as of sages; if he was to help his father at all, he must do it\nat once, for his father would never so much need help again. In fact he\nnever gave his father the smallest help, unless it were as a footman,\nclerk, or a companion for the younger children.\n\n  He found himself in a singular situation for one who was to be\nuseful. As he came to see the situation closer, he began to doubt\nwhether secretaries were meant to be useful. Wars were too common in\ndiplomacy to disturb the habits of the diplomat. Most secretaries\ndetested their chiefs, and wished to be anything but useful. At the St.\nJames's Club, to which the Minister's son could go only as an invited\nguest, the most instructive conversation he ever heard among the young\nmen of his own age who hung about the tables, more helpless than\nhimself, was: \"Quel chien de pays!\" or, \"Que tu es beau aujourd'hui,\nmon cher!\" No one wanted to discuss affairs; still less to give or get\ninformation. That was the affair of their chiefs, who were also slow to\nassume work not specially ordered from their Courts. If the American\nMinister was in trouble to-day, the Russian Ambassador was in trouble\nyesterday, and the Frenchman would be in trouble to-morrow. It would\nall come in the day's work. There was nothing professional in worry.\nEmpires were always tumbling to pieces and diplomats were always\npicking them up.\n\n  This was his whole diplomatic education, except that he found\nrich veins of jealousy running between every chief and his staff. His\nsocial education was more barren still, and more trying to his vanity.\nHis little mistakes in etiquette or address made him writhe with\ntorture. He never forgot the first two or three social functions he\nattended: one an afternoon at Miss Burdett Coutts's in Stratton Place,\nwhere he hid himself in the embrasure of a window and hoped that no one\nnoticed him; another was a garden-party given by the old anti-slavery\nDuchess Dowager of Sutherland at Chiswick, where the American Minister\nand Mrs. Adams were kept in conversation by the old Duchess till every\none else went away except the young Duke and his cousins, who set to\nplaying leap-frog on the lawn. At intervals during the next thirty\nyears Henry Adams continued to happen upon the Duke, who, singularly\nenough, was always playing leap-frog. Still another nightmare he\nsuffered at a dance given by the old Duchess Dowager of Somerset, a\nterrible vision in castanets, who seized him and forced him to perform\na Highland fling before the assembled nobility and gentry, with the\ndaughter of the Turkish Ambassador for partner. This might seem\nhumorous to some, but to him the world turned to ashes.\n\n  When the end of the season came, the private secretary had not\nyet won a private acquaintance, and he hugged himself in his solitude\nwhen the story of the battle of Bull Run appeared in the Times. He felt\nonly the wish to be more private than ever, for Bull Run was a worse\ndiplomatic than military disaster. All this is history and can be read\nby public schools if they choose; but the curious and unexpected\nhappened to the Legation, for the effect of Bull Run on them was almost\nstrengthening. They no longer felt doubt. For the next year they went\non only from week to week, ready to leave England at once, and never\nassuming more than three months for their limit. Europe was waiting to\nsee them go. So certain was the end that no one cared to hurry it.\n\n  So far as a private secretary could see, this was all that saved\nhis father. For many months he looked on himself as lost or finished in\nthe character of private secretary; and as about to begin, without\nfurther experiment, a final education in the ranks of the Army of the\nPotomac where he would find most of his friends enjoying a much\npleasanter life than his own. With this idea uppermost in his mind, he\npassed the summer and the autumn, and began the winter. Any winter in\nLondon is a severe trial; one's first winter is the most trying; but\nthe month of December, 1861, in Mansfield Street, Portland Place, would\nhave gorged a glutton of gloom.\n\n  One afternoon when he was struggling to resist complete nervous\ndepression in the solitude of Mansfield Street, during the absence of\nthe Minister and Mrs. Adams on a country visit, Reuter's telegram\nannouncing the seizure of Mason and Slidell from a British mail-steamer\nwas brought to the office. All three secretaries, public and private\nwere there--nervous as wild beasts under the long strain on their\nendurance--and all three, though they knew it to be not merely their\norder of departure--not merely diplomatic rupture--but a declaration of\nwar--broke into shouts of delight. They were glad to face the end. They\nsaw it and cheered it! Since England was waiting only for its own\nmoment to strike, they were eager to strike first.\n\n  They telegraphed the news to the Minister, who was staying with\nMonckton Milnes at Fryston in Yorkshire. How Mr. Adams took it, is told\nin the \"Lives\" of Lord Houghton and William E. Forster who was one of\nthe Fryston party. The moment was for him the crisis of his diplomatic\ncareer; for the secretaries it was merely the beginning of another\nintolerable delay, as though they were a military outpost waiting\norders to quit an abandoned position. At the moment of sharpest\nsuspense, the Prince Consort sickened and died. Portland Place at\nChristmas in a black fog was never a rosy landscape, but in 1861 the\nmost hardened Londoner lost his ruddiness. The private secretary had\none source of comfort denied to them--he should not be private\nsecretary long.\n\n  He was mistaken--of course! He had been mistaken at every\npoint of his education, and, on this point, he kept up the same mistake\nfor nearly seven years longer, always deluded by the notion that the\nend was near. To him the Trent Affair was nothing but one of many\naffairs which he had to copy in a delicate round hand into his books,\nyet it had one or two results personal to him which left no trace on\nthe Legation records. One of these, and to him the most important, was\nto put an end forever to the idea of being \"useful.\" Hitherto, as an\nindependent and free citizen, not in the employ of the Government, he\nhad kept up his relations with the American press. He had written\npretty frequently to Henry J. Raymond, and Raymond had used his letters\nin the New York Times. He had also become fairly intimate with the two\nor three friendly newspapers in London, the Daily News, the Star, the\nweekly Spectator; and he had tried to give them news and views that\nshould have a certain common character, and prevent clash. He had even\ngone down to Manchester to study the cotton famine, and wrote a long\naccount of his visit which his brother Charles had published in the\nBoston Courier. Unfortunately it was printed with his name, and\ninstantly came back upon him in the most crushing shape possible--that\nof a long, satirical leader in the London Times. Luckily the Times did\nnot know its victim to be a part, though not an official, of the\nLegation, and lost the chance to make its satire fatal; but he\ninstantly learned the narrowness of his escape from old Joe Parkes, one\nof the traditional busy-bodies of politics, who had haunted London\nsince 1830, and who, after rushing to the Times office, to tell them\nall they did not know about Henry Adams, rushed to the Legation to tell\nAdams all he did not want to know about the Times. For a moment Adams\nthought his \"usefulness\" at an end in other respects than in the press,\nbut a day or two more taught him the value of obscurity. He was totally\nunknown; he had not even a club; London was empty; no one thought twice\nabout the Times article; no one except Joe Parkes ever spoke of it; and\nthe world had other persons--such as President Lincoln, Secretary\nSeward, and Commodore Wilkes--for constant and favorite objects of\nridicule. Henry Adams escaped, but he never tried to be useful again.\nThe Trent Affair dwarfed individual effort. His education at least had\nreached the point of seeing its own proportions. \"Surtout point de\nzele!\" Zeal was too hazardous a profession for a Minister's son to\npursue, as a volunteer manipulator, among Trent Affairs and rebel\ncruisers. He wrote no more letters and meddled with no more newspapers,\nbut he was still young, and felt unkindly towards the editor of the\nLondon Times.\n\n  Mr. Delane lost few opportunities of embittering him, and he\nfelt little or no hope of repaying these attentions; but the Trent\nAffair passed like a snowstorm, leaving the Legation, to its surprise,\nstill in place. Although the private secretary saw in this delay--which\nhe attributed to Mr. Seward's good sense--no reason for changing his\nopinion about the views of the British Government, he had no choice but\nto sit down again at his table, and go on copying papers, filing\nletters, and reading newspaper accounts of the incapacity of Mr.\nLincoln and the brutality of Mr. Seward--or vice versa. The heavy\nmonths dragged on and winter slowly turned to spring without improving\nhis position or spirits. Socially he had but one relief; and, to the\nend of life, he never forgot the keen gratitude he owed for it. During\nthis tedious winter and for many months afterwards, the only gleams of\nsunshine were on the days he passed at Walton-on-Thames as the guest of\nMr. and Mrs. Russell Sturgis at Mount Felix.\n\n  His education had unfortunately little to do with bankers,\nalthough old George Peabody and his partner, Junius Morgan, were strong\nallies. Joshua Bates was devoted, and no one could be kinder than\nThomas Baring, whose little dinners in Upper Grosvenor Street were\ncertainly the best in London; but none offered a refuge to compare with\nMount Felix, and, for the first time, the refuge was a liberal\neducation. Mrs. Russell Sturgis was one of the women to whom an\nintelligent boy attaches himself as closely as he can. Henry Adams was\nnot a very intelligent boy, and he had no knowledge of the world, but\nhe knew enough to understand that a cub needed shape. The kind of\neducation he most required was that of a charming woman, and Mrs.\nRussell Sturgis, a dozen years older than himself, could have\ngood-naturedly trained a school of such, without an effort, and with\ninfinite advantage to them. Near her he half forgot the anxieties of\nPortland Place. During two years of miserable solitude, she was in this\nsocial polar winter, the single source of warmth and light.\n\n  Of course the Legation itself was home, and, under such\npressure, life in it could be nothing but united. All the inmates made\ncommon cause, but this was no education. One lived, but was merely\nflayed alive. Yet, while this might be exactly true of the younger\nmembers of the household, it was not quite so with the Minister and\nMrs. Adams. Very slowly, but quite steadily, they gained foothold. For\nsome reason partly connected with American sources, British society had\nbegun with violent social prejudice against Lincoln, Seward, and all\nthe Republican leaders except Sumner. Familiar as the whole tribe of\nAdamses had been for three generations with the impenetrable stupidity\nof the British mind, and weary of the long struggle to teach it its own\ninterests, the fourth generation could still not quite persuade itself\nthat this new British prejudice was natural. The private secretary\nsuspected that Americans in New York and Boston had something to do\nwith it. The Copperhead was at home in Pall Mall. Naturally the\nEnglishman was a coarse animal and liked coarseness. Had Lincoln and\nSeward been the ruffians supposed, the average Englishman would have\nliked them the better. The exceedingly quiet manner and the\nunassailable social position of Minister Adams in no way conciliated\nthem. They chose to ignore him, since they could not ridicule him. Lord\nJohn Russell set the example. Personally the Minister was to be kindly\ntreated; politically he was negligible; he was there to be put aside.\nLondon and Paris imitated Lord John. Every one waited to see Lincoln\nand his hirelings disappear in one vast debacle. All conceived that the\nWashington Government would soon crumble, and that Minister Adams would\nvanish with the rest.\n\n  This situation made Minister Adams an exception among\ndiplomats. European rulers for the most part fought and treated as\nmembers of one family, and rarely had in view the possibility of total\nextinction; but the Governments and society of Europe, for a year at\nleast, regarded the Washington Government as dead, and its Ministers as\nnullities. Minister Adams was better received than most nullities\nbecause he made no noise. Little by little, in private, society took\nthe habit of accepting him, not so much as a diplomat, but rather as a\nmember of opposition, or an eminent counsel retained for a foreign\nGovernment. He was to be received and considered; to be cordially\ntreated as, by birth and manners, one of themselves. This curiously\nEnglish way of getting behind a stupidity gave the Minister every\npossible advantage over a European diplomat. Barriers of race,\nlanguage, birth, habit, ceased to exist. Diplomacy held diplomats apart\nin order to save Governments, but Earl Russell could not hold Mr. Adams\napart. He was undistinguishable from a Londoner. In society few\nLondoners were so widely at home. None had such double personality and\ncorresponding double weight.\n\n  The singular luck that took him to Fryston to meet the shock of\nthe Trent Affair under the sympathetic eyes of Monckton Milnes and\nWilliam E. Forster never afterwards deserted him. Both Milnes and\nForster needed support and were greatly relieved to be supported. They\nsaw what the private secretary in May had overlooked, the hopeless\nposition they were in if the American Minister made a mistake, and,\nsince his strength was theirs, they lost no time in expressing to all\nthe world their estimate of the Minister's character. Between them the\nMinister was almost safe.\n\n  One might discuss long whether, at that moment, Milnes or\nForster were the more valuable ally, since they were influences of\ndifferent kinds. Monckton Milnes was a social power in London, possibly\ngreater than Londoners themselves quite understood, for in London\nsociety as elsewhere, the dull and the ignorant made a large majority,\nand dull men always laughed at Monckton Milnes. Every bore was used to\ntalk familiarly about \"Dicky Milnes,\" the \"cool of the evening\"; and of\ncourse he himself affected social eccentricity, challenging ridicule\nwith the indifference of one who knew himself to be the first wit in\nLondon, and a maker of men--of a great many men. A word from him went\nfar. An invitation to his breakfast-table went farther. Behind his\nalmost Falstaffian mask and laugh of Silenus, he carried a fine, broad,\nand high intelligence which no one questioned. As a young man he had\nwritten verses, which some readers thought poetry, and which were\ncertainly not altogether prose. Later, in Parliament he made speeches,\nchiefly criticised as too good for the place and too high for the\naudience. Socially, he was one of two or three men who went everywhere,\nknew everybody, talked of everything, and had the ear of Ministers; but\nunlike most wits, he held a social position of his own that ended in a\npeerage, and he had a house in Upper Brook Street to which most clever\npeople were exceedingly glad of admission. His breakfasts were famous,\nand no one liked to decline his invitations, for it was more dangerous\nto show timidity than to risk a fray. He was a voracious reader, a\nstrong critic, an art connoisseur in certain directions, a collector of\nbooks, but above all he was a man of the world by profession, and loved\nthe contacts--perhaps the collisions--of society. Not even Henry\nBrougham dared do the things he did, yet Brougham defied rebuff. Milnes\nwas the good-nature of London; the Gargantuan type of its refinement\nand coarseness; the most universal figure of May Fair.\n\n  Compared with him, figures like Hayward, or Delane, or\nVenables, or Henry Reeve were quite secondary, but William E. Forster\nstood in a different class. Forster had nothing whatever to do with May\nFair. Except in being a Yorkshireman he was quite the opposite of\nMilnes. He had at that time no social or political position; he never\nhad a vestige of Milnes's wit or variety; he was a tall, rough,\nungainly figure, affecting the singular form of self-defense which the\nYorkshiremen and Lancashiremen seem to hold dear--the exterior\nroughness assumed to cover an internal, emotional, almost sentimental\nnature. Kindly he had to be, if only by his inheritance from a Quaker\nancestry, but he was a Friend one degree removed. Sentimental and\nemotional he must have been, or he could never have persuaded a\ndaughter of Dr. Arnold to marry him. Pure gold, without a trace of base\nmetal; honest, unselfish, practical; he took up the Union cause and\nmade himself its champion, as a true Yorkshireman was sure to do,\npartly because of his Quaker anti-slavery convictions, and partly\nbecause it gave him a practical opening in the House. As a new member,\nhe needed a field.\n\n  Diffidence was not one of Forster's weaknesses. His practical\nsense and his personal energy soon established him in leadership, and\nmade him a powerful champion, not so much for ornament as for work.\nWith such a manager, the friends of the Union in England began to take\nheart. Minister Adams had only to look on as his true champions, the\nheavy-weights, came into action, and even the private secretary caught\nnow and then a stray gleam of encouragement as he saw the ring begin to\nclear for these burly Yorkshiremen to stand up in a prize-fight likely\nto be as brutal as ever England had known. Milnes and Forster were not\nexactly light-weights, but Bright and Cobden were the hardest hitters\nin England, and with them for champions the Minister could tackle even\nLord Palmerston without much fear of foul play.\n\n  In society John Bright and Richard Cobden were never seen, and\neven in Parliament they had no large following. They were classed as\nenemies of order,--anarchists,--and anarchists they were if hatred of\nthe so-called established orders made them so. About them was no sort\nof political timidity. They took bluntly the side of the Union against\nPalmerston whom they hated. Strangers to London society, they were at\nhome in the American Legation, delightful dinner-company, talking\nalways with reckless freedom. Cobden was the milder and more\npersuasive; Bright was the more dangerous to approach; but the private\nsecretary delighted in both, and nourished an ardent wish to see them\ntalk the same language to Lord John Russell from the gangway of the\nHouse.\n\n  With four such allies as these, Minister Adams stood no longer\nquite helpless. For the second time the British Ministry felt a little\nashamed of itself after the Trent Affair, as well it might, and\ndisposed to wait before moving again. Little by little, friends\ngathered about the Legation who were no fair-weather companions. The\nold anti-slavery, Exeter Hall, Shaftesbury clique turned out to be an\nannoying and troublesome enemy, but the Duke of Argyll was one of the\nmost valuable friends the Minister found, both politically and\nsocially, and the Duchess was as true as her mother. Even the private\nsecretary shared faintly in the social profit of this relation, and\nnever forgot dining one night at the Lodge, and finding himself after\ndinner engaged in instructing John Stuart Mill about the peculiar\nmerits of an American protective system. In spite of all the\nprobabilities, he convinced himself that it was not the Duke's claret\nwhich led him to this singular form of loquacity; he insisted that it\nwas the fault of Mr. Mill himself who led him on by assenting to his\npoint of view. Mr. Mill took no apparent pleasure in dispute, and in\nthat respect the Duke would perhaps have done better; but the secretary\nhad to admit that though at other periods of life he was sufficiently\nand even amply snubbed by Englishmen, he could never recall a single\noccasion during this trying year, when he had to complain of rudeness.\n\n  Friendliness he found here and there, but chiefly among his\nelders; not among fashionable or socially powerful people, either men\nor women; although not even this rule was quite exact, for Frederick\nCavendish's kindness and intimate relations made Devonshire House\nalmost familiar, and Lyulph Stanley's ardent Americanism created a\ncertain cordiality with the Stanleys of Alderley whose house was one of\nthe most frequented in London. Lorne, too, the future Argyll, was\nalways a friend. Yet the regular course of society led to more literary\nintimacies. Sir Charles Trevelyan's house was one of the first to which\nyoung Adams was asked, and with which his friendly relations never\nceased for near half a century, and then only when death stopped them.\nSir Charles and Lady Lyell were intimates. Tom Hughes came into close\nalliance. By the time society began to reopen its doors after the death\nof the Prince Consort, even the private secretary occasionally saw a\nface he knew, although he made no more effort of any kind, but silently\nwaited the end. Whatever might be the advantages of social relations to\nhis father and mother, to him the whole business of diplomacy and\nsociety was futile. He meant to go home.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX\n\nFOES OR FRIENDS (1862)\n\n  OF the year 1862 Henry Adams could never think without a\nshudder. The war alone did not greatly distress him; already in his\nshort life he was used to seeing people wade in blood, and he could\nplainly discern in history, that man from the beginning had found his\nchief amusement in bloodshed; but the ferocious joy of destruction at\nits best requires that one should kill what one hates, and young Adams\nneither hated nor wanted to kill his friends the rebels, while he\nwanted nothing so much as to wipe England off the earth. Never could\nany good come from that besotted race! He was feebly trying to save his\nown life. Every day the British Government deliberately crowded him one\nstep further into the grave. He could see it; the Legation knew it; no\none doubted it; no one thought of questioning it. The Trent Affair\nshowed where Palmerston and Russell stood. The escape of the rebel\ncruisers from Liverpool was not, in a young man's eyes, the sign of\nhesitation, but the proof of their fixed intention to intervene. Lord\nRussell's replies to Mr. Adams's notes were discourteous in their\nindifference, and, to an irritable young private secretary of\ntwenty-four, were insolent in their disregard of truth. Whatever forms\nof phrase were usual in public to modify the harshness of invective, in\nprivate no political opponent in England, and few political friends,\nhesitated to say brutally of Lord John Russell that he lied. This was\nno great reproach, for, more or less, every statesman lied, but the\nintensity of the private secretary's rage sprang from his belief that\nRussell's form of defence covered intent to kill. Not for an instant\ndid the Legation draw a free breath. The suspense was hideous and\nunendurable.\n\n  The Minister, no doubt, endured it, but he had support and\nconsideration, while his son had nothing to think about but his friends\nwho were mostly dying under McClellan in the swamps about Richmond, or\nhis enemies who were exulting in Pall Mall. He bore it as well as he\ncould till midsummer, but, when the story of the second Bull Run\nappeared, he could bear it no longer, and after a sleepless night,\nwalking up and down his room without reflecting that his father was\nbeneath him, he announced at breakfast his intention to go home into\nthe army. His mother seemed to be less impressed by the announcement\nthan by the walking over her head, which was so unlike her as to\nsurprise her son. His father, too, received the announcement quietly.\nNo doubt they expected it, and had taken their measures in advance. In\nthose days, parents got used to all sorts of announcements from their\nchildren. Mr. Adams took his son's defection as quietly as he took Bull\nRun; but his son never got the chance to go. He found obstacles\nconstantly rising in his path. The remonstrances of his brother\nCharles, who was himself in the Army of the Potomac, and whose opinion\nhad always the greatest weight with Henry, had much to do with delaying\naction; but he felt, of his own accord, that if he deserted his post in\nLondon, and found the Capuan comforts he expected in Virginia where he\nwould have only bullets to wound him, he would never forgive himself\nfor leaving his father and mother alone to be devoured by the wild\nbeasts of the British amphitheatre. This reflection might not have\nstopped him, but his father's suggestion was decisive. The Minister\npointed out that it was too late for him to take part in the actual\ncampaign, and that long before next spring they would all go home\ntogether.\n\n\n  The young man had copied too many affidavits about rebel\ncruisers to miss the point of this argument, so he sat down again to\ncopy some more. Consul Dudley at Liverpool provided a continuous\nsupply. Properly, the affidavits were no business of the private\nsecretary, but practically the private secretary did a second\nsecretary's work, and was glad to do it, if it would save Mr. Seward\nthe trouble of sending more secretaries of his own selection to help\nthe Minister. The work was nothing, and no one ever complained of it;\nnot even Moran, the Secretary of Legation after the departure of\nCharley Wilson, though he might sit up all night to copy. Not the work,\nbut the play exhausted. The effort of facing a hostile society was bad\nenough, but that of facing friends was worse. After terrific disasters\nlike the seven days before Richmond and the second Bull Run, friends\nneeded support; a tone of bluff would have been fatal, for the average\nmind sees quickest through a bluff; nothing answers but candor; yet\nprivate secretaries never feel candid, however much they feel the\nreverse, and therefore they must affect candor; not always a simple act\nwhen one is exasperated, furious, bitter, and choking with tears over\nthe blunders and incapacity of one's Government. If one shed tears,\nthey must be shed on one's pillow. Least of all, must one throw extra\nstrain on the Minister, who had all he could carry without being\nfretted in his family. One must read one's Times every morning over\none's muffin without reading aloud--\"Another disastrous Federal\nDefeat\"; and one might not even indulge in harmless profanity.\nSelf-restraint among friends required much more effort than keeping a\nquiet face before enemies. Great men were the worst blunderers. One day\nthe private secretary smiled, when standing with the crowd in the\nthrone-room while the endless procession made bows to the royal family,\nat hearing, behind his shoulder, one Cabinet Minister remark gaily to\nanother: \"So the Federals have got another licking!\" The point of the\nremark was its truth. Even a private secretary had learned to control\nhis tones and guard his features and betray no joy over the \"lickings\"\nof an enemy--in the enemy's presence.\n\n  London was altogether beside itself on one point, in especial;\nit created a nightmare of its own, and gave it the shape of Abraham\nLincoln. Behind this it placed another demon, if possible more\ndevilish, and called it Mr. Seward. In regard to these two men, English\nsociety seemed demented. Defence was useless; explanation was vain; one\ncould only let the passion exhaust itself. One's best friends were as\nunreasonable as enemies, for the belief in poor Mr. Lincoln's brutality\nand Seward's ferocity became a dogma of popular faith. The last time\nHenry Adams saw Thackeray, before his sudden death at Christmas in\n1863, was in entering the house of Sir Henry Holland for an evening\nreception. Thackeray was pulling on his coat downstairs, laughing\nbecause, in his usual blind way, he had stumbled into the wrong house\nand not found it out till he shook hands with old Sir Henry, whom he\nknew very well, but who was not the host he expected. Then his tone\nchanged as he spoke of his--and Adams's--friend, Mrs. Frank Hampton, of\nSouth Carolina, whom he had loved as Sally Baxter and painted as Ethel\nNewcome. Though he had never quite forgiven her marriage, his warmth of\nfeeling revived when he heard that she had died of consumption at\nColumbia while her parents and sister were refused permission to pass\nthrough the lines to see her. In speaking of it, Thackeray's voice\ntrembled and his eyes filled with tears. The coarse cruelty of Lincoln\nand his hirelings was notorious. He never doubted that the Federals\nmade a business of harrowing the tenderest feelings of\nwomen--particularly of women--in order to punish their opponents. On\nquite insufficient evidence he burst into violent reproach. Had Adams\ncarried in his pocket the proofs that the reproach was unjust, he would\nhave gained nothing by showing them. At that moment Thackeray, and all\nLondon society with him, needed the nervous relief of expressing\nemotion; for if Mr. Lincoln was not what they said he--was what were\nthey?\n\n  For like reason, the members of the Legation kept silence, even\nin private, under the boorish Scotch jibes of Carlyle. If Carlyle was\nwrong, his diatribes would give his true measure, and this measure\nwould be a low one, for Carlyle was not likely to be more sincere or\nmore sound in one thought than in another. The proof that a philosopher\ndoes not know what he is talking about is apt to sadden his followers\nbefore it reacts on himself. Demolition of one's idols is painful, and\nCarlyle had been an idol. Doubts cast on his stature spread far into\ngeneral darkness like shadows of a setting sun. Not merely the idols\nfell, but also the habit of faith. If Carlyle, too, was a fraud, what\nwere his scholars and school?\n\n  Society as a rule was civil, and one had no more reason to\ncomplain than every other diplomatist has had, in like conditions, but\none's few friends in society were mere ornament. The Legation could not\ndream of contesting social control. The best they could do was to\nescape mortification, and by this time their relations were good enough\nto save the Minister's family from that annoyance. Now and then, the\nfact could not be wholly disguised that some one had refused to\nmeet--or to receive--the Minister; but never an open insult, or any\nexpression of which the Minister had to take notice. Diplomacy served\nas a buffer in times of irritation, and no diplomat who knew his\nbusiness fretted at what every diplomat--and none more commonly than\nthe English--had to expect; therefore Henry Adams, though not a\ndiplomat and wholly unprotected, went his way peacefully enough, seeing\nclearly that society cared little to make his acquaintance, but seeing\nalso no reason why society should discover charms in him of which he\nwas himself unconscious. He went where he was asked; he was always\ncourteously received; he was, on the whole, better treated than at\nWashington; and he held his tongue.\n\n  For a thousand reasons, the best diplomatic house in London was\nLord Palmerston's, while Lord John Russell's was one of the worst. Of\nneither host could a private secretary expect to know anything. He\nmight as well have expected to know the Grand Lama. Personally Lord\nPalmerston was the last man in London that a cautious private secretary\nwanted to know. Other Prime Ministers may perhaps have lived who\ninspired among diplomatists as much distrust as Palmerston, and yet\nbetween Palmerston's word and Russell's word, one hesitated to decide,\nand gave years of education to deciding, whether either could be\ntrusted, or how far. The Queen herself in her famous memorandum of\nAugust 12, 1850, gave her opinion of Palmerston in words that differed\nlittle from words used by Lord John Russell, and both the Queen and\nRussell said in substance only what Cobden and Bright said in private.\nEvery diplomatist agreed with them, yet the diplomatic standard of\ntrust seemed to be other than the parliamentarian. No professional\ndiplomatists worried about falsehoods. Words were with them forms of\nexpression which varied with individuals, but falsehood was more or\nless necessary to all. The worst liars were the candid. What\ndiplomatists wanted to know was the motive that lay beyond the\nexpression. In the case of Palmerston they were unanimous in warning\nnew colleagues that they might expect to be sacrificed by him to any\nmomentary personal object. Every new Minister or Ambassador at the\nCourt of St. James received this preliminary lesson that he must, if\npossible, keep out of Palmerston's reach. The rule was not secret or\nmerely diplomatic. The Queen herself had emphatically expressed the\nsame opinion officially. If Palmerston had an object to gain, he would\ngo down to the House of Commons and betray or misrepresent a foreign\nMinister, without concern for his victim. No one got back on him with a\nblow equally mischievous--not even the Queen--for, as old Baron Brunnow\ndescribed him: \"C'est une peau de rhinocere!\" Having gained his point,\nhe laughed, and his public laughed with him, for the usual British--or\nAmerican--public likes to be amused, and thought it very amusing to see\nthese beribboned and bestarred foreigners caught and tossed and gored\non the horns of this jovial, slashing, devil-may-care British bull.\n\n  Diplomatists have no right to complain of mere lies; it is\ntheir own fault, if, educated as they are, the lies deceive them; but\nthey complain bitterly of traps. Palmerston was believed to lay traps.\nHe was the enfant terrible of the British Government. On the other\nhand, Lady Palmerston was believed to be good and loyal. All the\ndiplomats and their wives seemed to think so, and took their troubles\nto her, believing that she would try to help them. For this reason\namong others, her evenings at home--Saturday Reviews, they were\ncalled--had great vogue. An ignorant young American could not be\nexpected to explain it. Cambridge House was no better for entertaining\nthan a score of others. Lady Palmerston was no longer young or\nhandsome, and could hardly at any age have been vivacious. The people\none met there were never smart and seldom young; they were largely\ndiplomatic, and diplomats are commonly dull; they were largely\npolitical, and politicians rarely decorate or beautify an evening\nparty; they were sprinkled with literary people, who are notoriously\nunfashionable; the women were of course ill-dressed and middle-aged;\nthe men looked mostly bored or out of place; yet, beyond a doubt,\nCambridge House was the best, and perhaps the only political house in\nLondon, and its success was due to Lady Palmerston, who never seemed to\nmake an effort beyond a friendly recognition. As a lesson in social\neducation, Cambridge House gave much subject for thought. First or\nlast, one was to know dozens of statesmen more powerful and more\nagreeable than Lord Palmerston; dozens of ladies more beautiful and\nmore painstaking than Lady Palmerston; but no political house so\nsuccessful as Cambridge House. The world never explains such riddles.\nThe foreigners said only that Lady Palmerston was \"sympathique.\"\n\n  The small fry of the Legations were admitted there, or\ntolerated, without a further effort to recognize their existence, but\nthey were pleased because rarely tolerated anywhere else, and there\nthey could at least stand in a corner and look at a bishop or even a\nduke. This was the social diversion of young Adams. No one knew\nhim--not even the lackeys. The last Saturday evening he ever attended,\nhe gave his name as usual at the foot of the staircase, and was rather\ndisturbed to hear it shouted up as \"Mr. Handrew Hadams!\" He tried to\ncorrect it, and the footman shouted more loudly: \"Mr. Hanthony Hadams!\"\nWith some temper he repeated the correction, and was finally announced\nas \"Mr. Halexander Hadams,\" and under this name made his bow for the\nlast time to Lord Palmerston who certainly knew no better.\n\n  Far down the staircase one heard Lord Palmerston's laugh as he\nstood at the door receiving his guests, talking probably to one of his\nhenchmen, Delane, Borthwick, or Hayward, who were sure to be near. The\nlaugh was singular, mechanical, wooden, and did not seem to disturb his\nfeatures. \"Ha! ... Ha! ... Ha!\" Each was a slow, deliberate\nejaculation, and all were in the same tone, as though he meant to say:\n\"Yes! ... Yes! ... Yes!\" by way of assurance. It was a laugh of 1810\nand the Congress of Vienna. Adams would have much liked to stop a\nmoment and ask whether William Pitt and the Duke of Wellington had\nlaughed so; but young men attached to foreign Ministers asked no\nquestions at all of Palmerston and their chiefs asked as few as\npossible. One made the usual bow and received the usual glance of\ncivility; then passed on to Lady Palmerston, who was always kind in\nmanner, but who wasted no remarks; and so to Lady Jocelyn with her\ndaughter, who commonly had something friendly to say; then went through\nthe diplomatic corps, Brunnow, Musurus, Azeglio, Apponyi, Van de Weyer,\nBille, Tricoupi, and the rest, finally dropping into the hands of some\nliterary accident as strange there as one's self. The routine varied\nlittle. There was no attempt at entertainment. Except for the desperate\nisolation of these two first seasons, even secretaries would have found\nthe effort almost as mechanical as a levee at St. James's Palace.\n\n  Lord Palmerston was not Foreign Secretary; he was Prime\nMinister, but he loved foreign affairs and could no more resist scoring\na point in diplomacy than in whist. Ministers of foreign powers,\nknowing his habits, tried to hold him at arms'-length, and, to do this,\nwere obliged to court the actual Foreign Secretary, Lord John Russell,\nwho, on July 30, 1861, was called up to the House of Lords as an earl.\nBy some process of personal affiliation, Minister Adams succeeded in\npersuading himself that he could trust Lord Russell more safely than\nLord Palmerston. His son, being young and ill-balanced in temper,\nthought there was nothing to choose. Englishmen saw little difference\nbetween them, and Americans were bound to follow English experience in\nEnglish character. Minister Adams had much to learn, although with him\nas well as with his son, the months of education began to count as\naeons.\n\n  Just as Brunnow predicted, Lord Palmerston made his rush at\nlast, as unexpected as always, and more furiously than though still a\nprivate secretary of twenty-four. Only a man who had been young with\nthe battle of Trafalgar could be fresh and jaunty to that point, but\nMinister Adams was not in a position to sympathize with octogenarian\nyouth and found himself in a danger as critical as that of his numerous\npredecessors. It was late one after noon in June, 1862, as the private\nsecretary returned, with the Minister, from some social function, that\nhe saw his father pick up a note from his desk and read it in silence.\nThen he said curtly: \"Palmerston wants a quarrel!\" This was the point\nof the incident as he felt it. Palmerston wanted a quarrel; he must not\nbe gratified; he must be stopped. The matter of quarrel was General\nButler's famous woman-order at New Orleans, but the motive was the\nbelief in President Lincoln's brutality that had taken such deep root\nin the British mind. Knowing Palmerston's habits, the Minister took for\ngranted that he meant to score a diplomatic point by producing this\nnote in the House of Commons. If he did this at once, the Minister was\nlost; the quarrel was made; and one new victim to Palmerston's passion\nfor popularity was sacrificed.\n\n  The moment was nervous--as far as the private secretary knew,\nquite the most critical moment in the records of American\ndiplomacy--but the story belongs to history, not to education, and can\nbe read there by any one who cares to read it. As a part of Henry\nAdams's education it had a value distinct from history. That his father\nsucceeded in muzzling Palmerston without a public scandal, was well\nenough for the Minister, but was not enough for a private secretary who\nliked going to Cambridge House, and was puzzled to reconcile\ncontradictions. That Palmerston had wanted a quarrel was obvious; why,\nthen, did he submit so tamely to being made the victim of the quarrel?\nThe correspondence that followed his note was conducted feebly on his\nside, and he allowed the United States Minister to close it by a\nrefusal to receive further communications from him except through Lord\nRussell. The step was excessively strong, for it broke off private\nrelations as well as public, and cost even the private secretary his\ninvitations to Cambridge House. Lady Palmerston tried her best, but the\ntwo ladies found no resource except tears. They had to do with American\nMinister perplexed in the extreme. Not that Mr. Adams lost his temper,\nfor he never felt such a weight of responsibility, and was never more\ncool; but he could conceive no other way of protecting his Government,\nnot to speak of himself, than to force Lord Russell to interpose. He\nbelieved that Palmerston's submission and silence were due to Russell.\nPerhaps he was right; at the time, his son had no doubt of it, though\nafterwards he felt less sure. Palmerston wanted a quarrel; the motive\nseemed evident; yet when the quarrel was made, he backed out of it; for\nsome reason it seemed that he did not want it--at least, not then. He\nnever showed resentment against Mr. Adams at the time or afterwards. He\nnever began another quarrel. Incredible as it seemed, he behaved like a\nwell-bred gentleman who felt himself in the wrong. Possibly this change\nmay have been due to Lord Russell's remonstrances, but the private\nsecretary would have felt his education in politics more complete had\nhe ever finally made up his mind whether Palmerston was more angry with\nGeneral Butler, or more annoyed at himself, for committing what was in\nboth cases an unpardonable betise.\n\n  At the time, the question was hardly raised, for no one doubted\nPalmerston's attitude or his plans. The season was near its end, and\nCambridge House was soon closed. The Legation had troubles enough\nwithout caring to publish more. The tide of English feeling ran so\nviolently against it that one could only wait to see whether General\nMcClellan would bring it relief. The year 1862 was a dark spot in Henry\nAdams's life, and the education it gave was mostly one that he gladly\nforgot. As far as he was aware, he made no friends; he could hardly\nmake enemies; yet towards the close of the year he was flattered by an\ninvitation from Monckton Milnes to Fryston, and it was one of many acts\nof charity towards the young that gave Milnes immortality. Milnes made\nit his business to be kind. Other people criticised him for his manner\nof doing it, but never imitated him. Naturally, a dispirited,\ndisheartened private secretary was exceedingly grateful, and never\nforgot the kindness, but it was chiefly as education that this first\ncountry visit had value. Commonly, country visits are much alike, but\nMonckton Milnes was never like anybody, and his country parties served\nhis purpose of mixing strange elements. Fryston was one of a class of\nhouses that no one sought for its natural beauties, and the winter\nmists of Yorkshire were rather more evident for the absence of the\nhostess on account of them, so that the singular guests whom Milnes\ncollected to enliven his December had nothing to do but astonish each\nother, if anything could astonish such men. Of the five, Adams alone\nwas tame; he alone added nothing to the wit or humor, except as a\nlistener; but they needed a listener and he was useful. Of the\nremaining four, Milnes was the oldest, and perhaps the sanest in spite\nof his superficial eccentricities, for Yorkshire sanity was true to a\nstandard of its own, if not to other conventions; yet even Milnes\nstartled a young American whose Boston and Washington mind was still\nfresh. He would not have been startled by the hard-drinking,\nhorse-racing Yorkshireman of whom he had read in books; but Milnes\nrequired a knowledge of society and literature that only himself\npossessed, if one were to try to keep pace with him. He had sought\ncontact with everybody and everything that Europe could offer. He knew\nit all from several points of view, and chiefly as humorous.\n\n  The second of the party was also of a certain age; a quiet,\nwell-mannered, singularly agreeable gentleman of the literary class.\nWhen Milnes showed Adams to his room to dress for dinner, he stayed a\nmoment to say a word about this guest, whom he called Stirling of Keir.\nHis sketch closed with the hint that Stirling was violent only on one\npoint--hatred of Napoleon III. On that point, Adams was himself\nsensitive, which led him to wonder how bad the Scotch gentleman might\nbe. The third was a man of thirty or thereabouts, whom Adams had\nalready met at Lady Palmerston's carrying his arm in a sling. His\nfigure and bearing were sympathetic--almost pathetic--with a certain\ngrave and gentle charm, a pleasant smile, and an interesting story. He\nwas Lawrence Oliphant, just from Japan, where he had been wounded in\nthe fanatics' attack on the British Legation. He seemed exceptionally\nsane and peculiarly suited for country houses, where every man would\nenjoy his company, and every woman would adore him. He had not then\npublished \"Piccadilly\"; perhaps he was writing it; while, like all the\nyoung men about the Foreign Office, he contributed to The Owl.\n\n  The fourth was a boy, or had the look of one, though in fact a\nyear older than Adams himself. He resembled in action--and in this\ntrait, was remotely followed, a generation later, by another famous\nyoung man, Robert Louis Stevenson--a tropical bird, high-crested,\nlong-beaked, quick-moving, with rapid utterance and screams of humor,\nquite unlike any English lark or nightingale. One could hardly call him\na crimson macaw among owls, and yet no ordinary contrast availed.\nMilnes introduced him as Mr. Algernon Swinburne. The name suggested\nnothing. Milnes was always unearthing new coins and trying to give them\ncurrency. He had unearthed Henry Adams who knew himself to be worthless\nand not current. When Milnes lingered a moment in Adams's room to add\nthat Swinburne had written some poetry, not yet published, of really\nextraordinary merit, Adams only wondered what more Milnes would\ndiscover, and whether by chance he could discover merit in a private\nsecretary. He was capable of it.\n\n  In due course this party of five men sat down to dinner with\nthe usual club manners of ladyless dinner-tables, easy and formal at\nthe same time. Conversation ran first to Oliphant who told his dramatic\nstory simply, and from him the talk drifted off into other channels,\nuntil Milnes thought it time to bring Swinburne out. Then, at last, if\nnever before, Adams acquired education. What he had sought so long, he\nfound; but he was none the wiser; only the more astonished. For once,\ntoo, he felt at ease, for the others were no less astonished than\nhimself, and their astonishment grew apace. For the rest of the evening\nSwinburne figured alone; the end of dinner made the monologue only\nfreer, for in 1862, even when ladies were not in the house, smoking was\nforbidden, and guests usually smoked in the stables or the kitchen; but\nMonckton Milnes was a licensed libertine who let his guests smoke in\nAdams's bedroom, since Adams was an American-German barbarian ignorant\nof manners; and there after dinner all sat--or lay--till far into the\nnight, listening to the rush of Swinburne's talk. In a long experience,\nbefore or after, no one ever approached it; yet one had heard accounts\nof the best talking of the time, and read accounts of talkers in all\ntime, among the rest, of Voltaire, who seemed to approach nearest the\npattern.\n\n  That Swinburne was altogether new to the three types of\nmen-of-the-world before him; that he seemed to them quite original,\nwildly eccentric, astonishingly gifted, and convulsingly droll, Adams\ncould see; but what more he was, even Milnes hardly dared say. They\ncould not believe his incredible memory and knowledge of literature,\nclassic, mediaeval, and modern; his faculty of reciting a play of\nSophocles or a play of Shakespeare, forward or backward, from end to\nbeginning; or Dante, or Villon, or Victor Hugo. They knew not what to\nmake of his rhetorical recitation of his own unpublished\nballads--\"Faustine\"; the \"Four Boards of the Coffin Lid\"; the \"Ballad\nof Burdens\"--which he declaimed as though they were books of the Iliad.\nIt was singular that his most appreciative listener should have been\nthe author only of pretty verses like \"We wandered by the brook-side,\"\nand \"She seemed to those that saw them meet\"; and who never cared to\nwrite in any other tone; but Milnes took everything into his\nsympathies, including Americans like young Adams whose standards were\nstiffest of all, while Swinburne, though millions of ages far from\nthem, united them by his humor even more than by his poetry. The story\nof his first day as a member of Professor Stubbs's household was\nprofessionally clever farce, if not high comedy, in a young man who\ncould write a Greek ode or a Provençal chanson as easily as an English\nquatrain.\n\n  Late at night when the symposium broke up, Stirling of Keir\nwanted to take with him to his chamber a copy of \"Queen Rosamund,\" the\nonly volume Swinburne had then published, which was on the library\ntable, and Adams offered to light him down with his solitary bedroom\ncandle. All the way, Stirling was ejaculating explosions of wonder,\nuntil at length, at the foot of the stairs and at the climax of his\nimagination, he paused, and burst out: \"He's a cross between the devil\nand the Duke of Argyll!\"\n\n  To appreciate the full merit of this description, a judicious\ncritic should have known both, and Henry Adams knew only one--at least\nin person--but he understood that to a Scotchman the likeness meant\nsomething quite portentous, beyond English experience, supernatural,\nand what the French call moyenageux, or mediaeval with a grotesque\nturn. That Stirling as well as Milnes should regard Swinburne as a\nprodigy greatly comforted Adams, who lost his balance of mind at first\nin trying to imagine that Swinburne was a natural product of Oxford, as\nmuffins and pork-pies of London, at once the cause and effect of\ndyspepsia. The idea that one has actually met a real genius dawns\nslowly on a Boston mind, but it made entry at last.\n\n  Then came the sad reaction, not from Swinburne whose genius\nnever was in doubt, but from the Boston mind which, in its uttermost\nflights, was never moyenageux. One felt the horror of Longfellow and\nEmerson, the doubts of Lowell and the humor of Holmes, at the wild\nWalpurgis-night of Swinburne's talk. What could a shy young private\nsecretary do about it? Perhaps, in his good nature, Milnes thought that\nSwinburne might find a friend in Stirling or Oliphant, but he could\nhardly have fancied Henry Adams rousing in him even an interest. Adams\ncould no more interest Algernon Swinburne than he could interest\nEncke's comet. To Swinburne he could be no more than a worm. The\nquality of genius was an education almost ultimate, for one touched\nthere the limits of the human mind on that side; but one could only\nreceive; one had nothing to give--nothing even to offer.\n\n  Swinburne tested him then and there by one of his favorite\ntests--Victor Hugo for to him the test of Victor Hugo was the surest\nand quickest of standards. French poetry is at best a severe exercise\nfor foreigners; it requires extraordinary knowledge of the language and\nrare refinement of ear to appreciate even the recitation of French\nverse; but unless a poet has both, he lacks something of poetry. Adams\nhad neither. To the end of his life he never listened to a French\nrecitation with pleasure, or felt a sense of majesty in French verse;\nbut he did not care to proclaim his weakness, and he tried to evade\nSwinburne's vehement insistence by parading an affection for Alfred de\nMusset. Swinburne would have none of it; de Musset was unequal; he did\nnot sustain himself on the wing.\n\n  Adams would have given a world or two, if he owned one, to\nsustain himself on the wing like de Musset, or even like Hugo; but his\neducation as well as his ear was at fault, and he succumbed. Swinburne\ntried him again on Walter Savage Landor. In truth the test was the\nsame, for Swinburne admired in Landor's English the qualities that he\nfelt in Hugo's French; and Adams's failure was equally gross, for, when\nforced to despair, he had to admit that both Hugo and Landor bored him.\nNothing more was needed. One who could feel neither Hugo nor Landor was\nlost.\n\n  The sentence was just and Adams never appealed from it. He knew\nhis inferiority in taste as he might know it in smell. Keenly mortified\nby the dullness of his senses and instincts, he knew he was no\ncompanion for Swinburne; probably he could be only an annoyance; no\nnumber of centuries could ever educate him to Swinburne's level, even\nin technical appreciation; yet he often wondered whether there was\nnothing he had to offer that was worth the poet's acceptance. Certainly\nsuch mild homage as the American insect would have been only too happy\nto bring, had he known how, was hardly worth the acceptance of any one.\nOnly in France is the attitude of prayer possible; in England it became\nabsurd. Even Monckton Milnes, who felt the splendors of Hugo and\nLandor, was almost as helpless as an American private secretary in\npersonal contact with them. Ten years afterwards Adams met him at the\nGeneva Conference, fresh from Paris, bubbling with delight at a call he\nhad made on Hugo: \"I was shown into a large room,\" he said, \"with women\nand men seated in chairs against the walls, and Hugo at one end\nthroned. No one spoke. At last Hugo raised his voice solemnly, and\nuttered the words: 'Quant a moi, je crois en Dieu!' Silence followed.\nThen a woman responded as if in deep meditation: 'Chose sublime! un\nDieu qui croft en Dieu!\"'\n\n  With the best of will, one could not do this in London; the\nactors had not the instinct of the drama; and yet even a private\nsecretary was not wholly wanting in instinct. As soon as he reached\ntown he hurried to Pickering's for a copy of \"Queen Rosamund,\" and at\nthat time, if Swinburne was not joking, Pickering had sold seven\ncopies. When the \"Poems and Ballads\" came out, and met their great\nsuccess and scandal, he sought one of the first copies from Moxon. If\nhe had sinned and doubted at all, he wholly repented and did penance\nbefore \"Atalanta in Calydon,\" and would have offered Swinburne a solemn\nworship as Milnes's female offered Hugo, if it would have pleased the\npoet. Unfortunately it was worthless.\n\n  The three young men returned to London, and each went his own\nway. Adams's interest in making friends was something desperate, but\n\"the London season,\" Milnes used to say, \"is a season for making\nacquaintances and losing friends\"; there was no intimate life. Of\nSwinburne he saw no more till Monckton Milnes summoned his whole array\nof Frystonians to support him in presiding at the dinner of the\nAuthors' Fund, when Adams found himself seated next to Swinburne,\nfamous then, but no nearer. They never met again. Oliphant he met\noftener; all the world knew and loved him; but he too disappeared in\nthe way that all the world knows. Stirling of Keir, after one or two\nefforts, passed also from Adams's vision into Sir William\nStirling-Maxwell. The only record of his wonderful visit to Fryston may\nperhaps exist still in the registers of the St. James's Club, for\nimmediately afterwards Milnes proposed Henry Adams for membership, and\nunless his memory erred, the nomination was seconded by Tricoupi and\nendorsed by Laurence Oliphant and Evelyn Ashley. The list was a little\nsingular for variety, but on the whole it suggested that the private\nsecretary was getting on.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X\n\nPOLITICAL MORALITY (1862)\n\n  ON Moran's promotion to be Secretary, Mr. Seward inquired\nwhether Minister Adams would like the place of Assistant Secretary for\nhis son. It was the first--and last--office ever offered him, if indeed\nhe could claim what was offered in fact to his father. To them both,\nthe change seemed useless. Any young man could make some sort of\nAssistant Secretary; only one, just at that moment, could make an\nAssistant Son. More than half his duties were domestic; they sometimes\nrequired long absences; they always required independence of the\nGovernment service. His position was abnormal. The British Government\nby courtesy allowed the son to go to Court as Attache, though he was\nnever attached, and after five or six years' toleration, the decision\nwas declared irregular. In the Legation, as private secretary, he was\nliable to do Secretary's work. In society, when official, he was\nattached to the Minister; when unofficial, he was a young man without\nany position at all. As the years went on, he began to find advantages\nin having no position at all except that of young man. Gradually he\naspired to become a gentleman; just a member of society like the rest.\nThe position was irregular; at that time many positions were irregular;\nyet it lent itself to a sort of irregular education that seemed to be\nthe only sort of education the young man was ever to get.\n\n  Such as it was, few young men had more. The spring and summer\nof 1863 saw a great change in Secretary Seward's management of foreign\naffairs. Under the stimulus of danger, he too got education. He felt,\nat last, that his official representatives abroad needed support.\nOfficially he could give them nothing but despatches, which were of no\ngreat value to any one; and at best the mere weight of an office had\nlittle to do with the public. Governments were made to deal with\nGovernments, not with private individuals or with the opinions of\nforeign society. In order to affect European opinion, the weight of\nAmerican opinion had to be brought to bear personally, and had to be\nbacked by the weight of American interests. Mr. Seward set vigorously\nto work and sent over every important American on whom he could lay his\nhands. All came to the Legation more or less intimately, and Henry\nAdams had a chance to see them all, bankers or bishops, who did their\nwork quietly and well, though, to the outsider, the work seemed wasted\nand the \"influential classes\" more indurated with prejudice than ever.\nThe waste was only apparent; the work all told in the end, and\nmeanwhile it helped education.\n\n  Two or three of these gentlemen were sent over to aid the\nMinister and to cooperate with him. The most interesting of these was\nThurlow Weed, who came to do what the private secretary himself had\nattempted two years before, with boyish ignorance of his own powers.\nMr. Weed took charge of the press, and began, to the amused\nastonishment of the secretaries, by making what the Legation had\nlearned to accept as the invariable mistake of every amateur diplomat;\nhe wrote letters to the London Times. Mistake or not, Mr. Weed soon got\ninto his hands the threads of management, and did quietly and smoothly\nall that was to be done. With his work the private secretary had no\nconnection; it was he that interested. Thurlow Weed was a complete\nAmerican education in himself. His mind was naturally strong and\nbeautifully balanced; his temper never seemed ruffled; his manners were\ncarefully perfect in the style of benevolent simplicity, the tradition\nof Benjamin Franklin. He was the model of political management and\npatient address; but the trait that excited enthusiasm in a private\nsecretary was his faculty of irresistibly conquering confidence. Of all\nflowers in the garden of education, confidence was becoming the rarest;\nbut before Mr. Weed went away, young Adams followed him about not only\nobediently--for obedience had long since become a blind instinct--but\nrather with sympathy and affection, much like a little dog.\n\n  The sympathy was not due only to Mr. Weed's skill of\nmanagement, although Adams never met another such master, or any one\nwho approached him; nor was the confidence due to any display of\nprofessions, either moral or social, by Mr. Weed. The trait that\nastounded and confounded cynicism was his apparent unselfishness.\nNever, in any man who wielded such power, did Adams meet anything like\nit. The effect of power and publicity on all men is the aggravation of\nself, a sort of tumor that ends by killing the victim's sympathies; a\ndiseased appetite, like a passion for drink or perverted tastes; one\ncan scarcely use expressions too strong to describe the violence of\negotism it stimulates; and Thurlow Weed was one of the exceptions; a\nrare immune. He thought apparently not of himself, but of the person he\nwas talking with. He held himself naturally in the background. He was\nnot jealous. He grasped power, but not office. He distributed offices\nby handfuls without caring to take them. He had the instinct of empire:\nhe gave, but he did not receive. This rare superiority to the\npoliticians he controlled, a trait that private secretaries never met\nin the politicians themselves, excited Adams's wonder and curiosity,\nbut when he tried to get behind it, and to educate himself from the\nstores of Mr. Weed's experience, he found the study still more\nfascinating. Management was an instinct with Mr. Weed; an object to be\npursued for its own sake, as one plays cards; but he appeared to play\nwith men as though they were only cards; he seemed incapable of feeling\nhimself one of them. He took them and played them for their face-value;\nbut once, when he had told, with his usual humor, some stories of his\npolitical experience which were strong even for the Albany lobby, the\nprivate secretary made bold to ask him outright: \"Then, Mr. Weed, do\nyou think that no politician can be trusted?\" Mr. Weed hesitated for a\nmoment; then said in his mild manner: \"I never advise a young man to\nbegin by thinking so.\"\n\n  This lesson, at the time, translated itself to Adams in a moral\nsense, as though Mr. Weed had said: \"Youth needs illusions!\" As he grew\nolder he rather thought that Mr. Weed looked on it as a question of how\nthe game should be played. Young men most needed experience. They could\nnot play well if they trusted to a general rule. Every card had a\nrelative value. Principles had better be left aside; values were\nenough. Adams knew that he could never learn to play politics in so\nmasterly a fashion as this: his education and his nervous system\nequally forbade it, although he admired all the more the impersonal\nfaculty of the political master who could thus efface himself and his\ntemper in the game. He noticed that most of the greatest politicians in\nhistory had seemed to regard men as counters. The lesson was the more\ninteresting because another famous New Yorker came over at the same\ntime who liked to discuss the same problem. Secretary Seward sent\nWilliam M. Evarts to London as law counsel, and Henry began an\nacquaintance with Mr. Evarts that soon became intimate. Evarts was as\nindividual as Weed was impersonal; like most men, he cared little for\nthe game, or how it was played, and much for the stakes, but he played\nit in a large and liberal way, like Daniel Webster, \"a great advocate\nemployed in politics.\" Evarts was also an economist of morals, but with\nhim the question was rather how much morality one could afford. \"The\nworld can absorb only doses of truth,\" he said; \"too much would kill\nit.\" One sought education in order to adjust the dose.\n\n  The teachings of Weed and Evarts were practical, and the\nprivate secretary's life turned on their value. England's power of\nabsorbing truth was small. Englishmen, such as Palmerston, Russell,\nBethell, and the society represented by the Times and Morning Post, as\nwell as the Tories represented by Disraeli, Lord Robert Cecil, and the\nStandard, offered a study in education that sickened a young student\nwith anxiety. He had begun--contrary to Mr. Weed's advice--by taking\ntheir bad faith for granted. Was he wrong? To settle this point became\nthe main object of the diplomatic education so laboriously pursued, at\na cost already stupendous, and promising to become ruinous. Life\nchanged front, according as one thought one's self dealing with honest\nmen or with rogues.\n\n  Thus far, the private secretary felt officially sure of\ndishonesty. The reasons that satisfied him had not altogether satisfied\nhis father, and of course his father's doubts gravely shook his own\nconvictions, but, in practice, if only for safety, the Legation put\nlittle or no confidence in Ministers, and there the private secretary's\ndiplomatic education began. The recognition of belligerency, the\nmanagement of the Declaration of Paris, the Trent Affair, all\nstrengthened the belief that Lord Russell had started in May, 1861,\nwith the assumption that the Confederacy was established; every step he\nhad taken proved his persistence in the same idea; he never would\nconsent to put obstacles in the way of recognition; and he was waiting\nonly for the proper moment to interpose. All these points seemed so\nfixed--so self-evident--that no one in the Legation would have doubted\nor even discussed them except that Lord Russell obstinately denied the\nwhole charge, and persisted in assuring Minister Adams of his honest\nand impartial neutrality.\n\n  With the insolence of youth and zeal, Henry Adams jumped at once to the\nconclusion that Earl Russell--like other statesmen--lied; and, although\nthe Minister thought differently, he had to act as though Russell were\nfalse. Month by month the demonstration followed its mathematical\nstages; one of the most perfect educational courses in politics and\ndiplomacy that a young man ever had a chance to pursue. The most costly\ntutors in the world were provided for him at public expense--Lord\nPalmerston, Lord Russell, Lord Westbury, Lord Selborne, Mr. Gladstone,\nLord Granville, and their associates, paid by the British Government;\nWilliam H. Seward, Charles Francis Adams, William Maxwell Evarts,\nThurlow Weed, and other considerable professors employed by the\nAmerican Government; but there was only one student to profit by this\nimmense staff of teachers. The private secretary alone sought education.\n\n  To the end of his life he labored over the lessons then taught.\nNever was demonstration more tangled. Hegel's metaphysical doctrine of\nthe identity of opposites was simpler and easier to understand. Yet the\nstages of demonstration were clear. They began in June, 1862, after the\nescape of one rebel cruiser, by the remonstrances of the Minister\nagainst the escape of \"No. 290,\" which was imminent. Lord Russell\ndeclined to act on the evidence. New evidence was sent in every few\ndays, and with it, on July 24, was included Collier's legal opinion:\n\"It appears difficult to make out a stronger case of infringement of\nthe Foreign Enlistment Act, which, if not enforced on this occasion, is\nlittle better than a dead letter.\" Such language implied almost a\ncharge of collusion with the rebel agents--an intent to aid the\nConfederacy. In spite of the warning, Earl Russell let the ship, four\ndays afterwards, escape.\n\n  Young Adams had nothing to do with law; that was business of\nhis betters. His opinion of law hung on his opinion of lawyers. In\nspite of Thurlow Weed's advice, could one afford to trust human nature\nin politics? History said not. Sir Robert Collier seemed to hold that\nLaw agreed with History. For education the point was vital. If one\ncould not trust a dozen of the most respected private characters in the\nworld, composing the Queen's Ministry, one could trust no mortal man.\n\n  Lord Russell felt the force of this inference, and undertook to\ndisprove it. His effort lasted till his death. At first he excused\nhimself by throwing the blame on the law officers. This was a\npolitician's practice, and the lawyers overruled it. Then he pleaded\nguilty to criminal negligence, and said in his \"Recollections\":--\"I\nassent entirely to the opinion of the Lord Chief Justice of England\nthat the Alabama ought to have been detained during the four days I was\nwaiting for the opinion of the law officers. But I think that the fault\nwas not that of the commissioners of customs, it was my fault as\nSecretary of State for Foreign Affairs.\" This concession brought all\nparties on common ground. Of course it was his fault! The true issue\nlay not in the question of his fault, but of his intent. To a young\nman, getting an education in politics, there could be no sense in\nhistory unless a constant course of faults implied a constant motive.\n\n  For his father the question was not so abstruse; it was a\npractical matter of business to be handled as Weed or Evarts handled\ntheir bargains and jobs. Minister Adams held the convenient belief\nthat, in the main, Russell was true, and the theory answered his\npurposes so well that he died still holding it. His son was seeking\neducation, and wanted to know whether he could, in politics, risk\ntrusting any one. Unfortunately no one could then decide; no one knew\nthe facts. Minister Adams died without knowing them. Henry Adams was an\nolder man than his father in 1862, before he learned a part of them.\nThe most curious fact, even then, was that Russell believed in his own\ngood faith and that Argyll believed in it also.\n\n  Argyll betrayed a taste for throwing the blame on Bethell, Lord\nWestbury, then Lord Chancellor, but this escape helped Adams not at\nall. On the contrary, it complicated the case of Russell. In England,\none half of society enjoyed throwing stones at Lord Palmerston, while\nthe other half delighted in flinging mud at Earl Russell, but every one\nof every party united in pelting Westbury with every missile at hand.\nThe private secretary had no doubts about him, for he never professed\nto be moral. He was the head and heart of the whole rebel contention,\nand his opinions on neutrality were as clear as they were on morality.\nThe private secretary had nothing to do with him, and regretted it, for\nLord Westbury's wit and wisdom were great; but as far as his authority\nwent he affirmed the law that in politics no man should be trusted.\n\n  Russell alone insisted on his honesty of intention and\npersuaded both the Duke and the Minister to believe him. Every one in\nthe Legation accepted his assurances as the only assertions they could\nventure to trust. They knew he expected the rebels to win in the end,\nbut they believed he would not actively interpose to decide it. On\nthat--on nothing else--they rested their frail hopes of remaining a day\nlonger in England. Minister Adams remained six years longer in England;\nthen returned to America to lead a busy life till he died in 1886 still\nholding the same faith in Earl Russell, who had died in 1878. In 1889,\nSpencer Walpole published the official life of Earl Russell, and told a\npart of the story which had never been known to the Minister and which\nastounded his son, who burned with curiosity to know what his father\nwould have said of it.\n\n  The story was this: The Alabama escaped, by Russell's confessed\nnegligence, on July 28, 1862. In America the Union armies had suffered\ngreat disasters before Richmond and at the second Bull Run, August\n29-30, followed by Lee's invasion of Maryland, September 7, the news of\nwhich, arriving in England on September 14, roused the natural idea\nthat the crisis was at hand. The next news was expected by the\nConfederates to announce the fall of Washington or Baltimore.\nPalmerston instantly, September 14, wrote to Russell: \"If this should\nhappen, would it not be time for us to consider whether in such a state\nof things England and France might not address the contending parties\nand recommend an arrangement on the basis of separation?\"\n\n  This letter, quite in the line of Palmerston's supposed\nopinions, would have surprised no one, if it had been communicated to\nthe Legation; and indeed, if Lee had captured Washington, no one could\nhave blamed Palmerston for offering intervention. Not Palmerston's\nletter but Russell's reply, merited the painful attention of a young\nman seeking a moral standard for judging politicians:--\n\nGOTHA, September, 17, 1862\n\n  MY DEAR PALMERSTON:--\n\n    Whether the Federal army is destroyed or not, it is clear\n  that it is driven back to Washington and has made no progress\n  in subduing the insurgent States. Such being the case, I agree\n  with you that the time is come for offering mediation to the\n  United States Government with a view to the recognition of the\n  independence of the Confederates. I agree further that in case\n  of failure, we ought ourselves to recognize the Southern States\n  as an independent State. For the purpose of taking so important\n  a step, I think we must have a meeting of the Cabinet. The 23d\n  or 30th would suit me for the meeting.\n\n    We ought then, if we agree on such a step, to propose it\n  first to France, and then on the part of England and France, to\n  Russia and other powers, as a measure decided upon by us.\n\n    We ought to make ourselves safe in Canada, not by sending\n  more troops there, but by concentrating those we have in a few\n  defensible posts before the winter sets in....\n\n  Here, then, appeared in its fullest force, the practical\ndifficulty in education which a mere student could never overcome; a\ndifficulty not in theory, or knowledge, or even want of experience, but\nin the sheer chaos of human nature. Lord Russell's course had been\nconsistent from the first, and had all the look of rigid determination\nto recognize the Southern Confederacy \"with a view\" to breaking up the\nUnion. His letter of September 17 hung directly on his encouragement of\nthe Alabama and his protection of the rebel navy; while the whole of\nhis plan had its root in the Proclamation of Belligerency, May 13,\n1861. The policy had every look of persistent forethought, but it took\nfor granted the deliberate dishonesty of three famous men: Palmerston,\nRussell, and Gladstone. This dishonesty, as concerned Russell, was\ndenied by Russell himself, and disbelieved by Argyll, Forster, and most\nof America's friends in England, as well as by Minister Adams. What the\nMinister would have thought had he seen this letter of September 17,\nhis son would have greatly liked to know, but he would have liked still\nmore to know what the Minister would have thought of Palmerston's\nanswer, dated September 23:--\n\n   ... It is evident that a great conflict is taking place to\n  the northwest of Washington, and its issue must have a great\n  effect on the state of affairs. If the Federals sustain a great\n  defeat, they may be at once ready for mediation, and the iron\n  should be struck while it is hot. If, on the other hand, they\n  should have the best of it, we may wait a while and see what\n  may follow...\n\n  The roles were reversed. Russell wrote what was expected from\nPalmerston, or even more violently; while Palmerston wrote what was\nexpected from Russell, or even more temperately. The private\nsecretary's view had been altogether wrong, which would not have much\nsurprised even him, but he would have been greatly astonished to learn\nthat the most confidential associates of these men knew little more\nabout their intentions than was known in the Legation. The most trusted\nmember of the Cabinet was Lord Granville, and to him Russell next\nwrote. Granville replied at once decidedly opposing recognition of the\nConfederacy, and Russell sent the reply to Palmerston, who returned it\nOctober 2, with the mere suggestion of waiting for further news from\nAmerica. At the same time Granville wrote to another member of the\nCabinet, Lord Stanley of Alderley, a letter published forty years\nafterwards in Granville's \"Life\" (I, 442) to the private secretary\naltogether the most curious and instructive relic of the whole lesson\nin politics:\n\n  ... I have written to Johnny my reasons for thinking it\n  decidedly premature. I, however, suspect you will settle to do\n  so. Pam., Johnny, and Gladstone would be in favor of it, and\n  probably Newcastle. I do not know about the others. It appears\n  to me a great mistake....\n\n  Out of a Cabinet of a dozen members, Granville, the best\ninformed of them all, could pick only three who would favor\nrecognition. Even a private secretary thought he knew as much as this,\nor more. Ignorance was not confined to the young and insignificant, nor\nwere they the only victims of blindness. Granville's letter made only\none point clear. He knew of no fixed policy or conspiracy. If any\nexisted, it was confined to Palmerston, Russell, Gladstone, and perhaps\nNewcastle. In truth, the Legation knew, then, all that was to be known,\nand the true fault of education was to suspect too much.\n\n  By that time, October 3, news of Antietam and of Lee's retreat\ninto Virginia had reached London. The Emancipation Proclamation\narrived. Had the private secretary known all that Granville or\nPalmerston knew, he would surely have thought the danger past, at least\nfor a time, and any man of common sense would have told him to stop\nworrying over phantoms. This healthy lesson would have been worth much\nfor practical education, but it was quite upset by the sudden rush of a\nnew actor upon the stage with a rhapsody that made Russell seem sane,\nand all education superfluous.\n\n  This new actor, as every one knows, was William Ewart\nGladstone, then Chancellor of the Exchequer. If, in the domain of the\nworld's politics, one point was fixed, one value ascertained, one\nelement serious, it was the British Exchequer; and if one man lived who\ncould be certainly counted as sane by overwhelming interest, it was the\nman who had in charge the finances of England. If education had the\nsmallest value, it should have shown its force in Gladstone, who was\neducated beyond all record of English training. From him, if from no\none else, the poor student could safely learn.\n\n  Here is what he learned! Palmerston notified Gladstone,\nSeptember 24, of the proposed intervention: \"If I am not mistaken, you\nwould be inclined to approve such a course.\" Gladstone replied the next\nday: \"He was glad to learn what the Prime Minister had told him; and\nfor two reasons especially he desired that the proceedings should be\nprompt: the first was the rapid progress of the Southern arms and the\nextension of the area of Southern feeling; the second was the risk of\nviolent impatience in the cotton-towns of Lancashire such as would\nprejudice the dignity and disinterestedness of the proffered mediation.\"\n\n  Had the puzzled student seen this letter, he must have\nconcluded from it that the best educated statesman England ever\nproduced did not know what he was talking about, an assumption which\nall the world would think quite inadmissible from a private\nsecretary--but this was a trifle. Gladstone having thus arranged, with\nPalmerston and Russell, for intervention in the American war, reflected\non the subject for a fortnight from September 25 to October 7, when he\nwas to speak on the occasion of a great dinner at Newcastle. He decided\nto announce the Government's policy with all the force his personal and\nofficial authority could give it. This decision was no sudden impulse;\nit was the result of deep reflection pursued to the last moment. On the\nmorning of October 7, he entered in his diary: \"Reflected further on\nwhat I should say about Lancashire and America, for both these subjects\nare critical.\" That evening at dinner, as the mature fruit of his long\nstudy, he deliberately pronounced the famous phrase:--\n\n  ... We know quite well that the people of the Northern States\n  have not yet drunk of the cup--they are still trying to hold\n  it far from their lips--which all the rest of the world see\n  they nevertheless must drink of. We may have our own opinions\n  about slavery; we may be for or against the South; but there is\n  no doubt that Jefferson Davis and other leaders of the South\n  have made an army; they are making, it appears, a navy; and\n  they have made, what is more than either, they have made a\n  nation....\n\n  Looking back, forty years afterwards, on this episode, one\nasked one's self painfully what sort of a lesson a young man should\nhave drawn, for the purposes of his education, from this world-famous\nteaching of a very great master. In the heat of passion at the moment,\none drew some harsh moral conclusions: Were they incorrect? Posed\nbluntly as rules of conduct, they led to the worst possible practices.\nAs morals, one could detect no shade of difference between Gladstone\nand Napoleon except to the advantage of Napoleon. The private secretary\nsaw none; he accepted the teacher in that sense; he took his lesson of\npolitical morality as learned, his notice to quit as duly served, and\nsupposed his education to be finished.\n\n  Every one thought so, and the whole City was in a turmoil. Any\nintelligent education ought to end when it is complete. One would then\nfeel fewer hesitations and would handle a surer world. The\nold-fashioned logical drama required unity and sense; the actual drama\nis a pointless puzzle, without even an intrigue. When the curtain fell\non Gladstone's speech, any student had the right to suppose the drama\nended; none could have affirmed that it was about to begin; that one's\npainful lesson was thrown away.\n\n  Even after forty years, most people would refuse to believe it;\nthey would still insist that Gladstone, Russell, and Palmerston were\ntrue villains of melodrama. The evidence against Gladstone in special\nseemed overwhelming. The word \"must\" can never be used by a responsible\nMinister of one Government towards another, as Gladstone used it. No\none knew so well as he that he and his own officials and friends at\nLiverpool were alone \"making\" a rebel navy, and that Jefferson Davis\nhad next to nothing to do with it. As Chancellor of the Exchequer he\nwas the Minister most interested in knowing that Palmerston, Russell,\nand himself were banded together by mutual pledge to make the\nConfederacy a nation the next week, and that the Southern leaders had\nas yet no hope of \"making a nation\" but in them. Such thoughts occurred\nto every one at the moment and time only added to their force. Never in\nthe history of political turpitude had any brigand of modern\ncivilization offered a worse example. The proof of it was that it\noutraged even Palmerston, who immediately put up Sir George Cornewall\nLewis to repudiate the Chancellor of the Exchequer, against whom he\nturned his press at the same time. Palmerston had no notion of letting\nhis hand be forced by Gladstone.\n\n  Russell did nothing of the kind; if he agreed with Palmerston,\nhe followed Gladstone. Although he had just created a new evangel of\nnon-intervention for Italy, and preached it like an apostle, he\npreached the gospel of intervention in America as though he were a\nmouthpiece of the Congress of Vienna. On October 13, he issued his call\nfor the Cabinet to meet, on October 23, for discussion of the \"duty of\nEurope to ask both parties, in the most friendly and conciliatory\nterms, to agree to a suspension of arms.\" Meanwhile Minister Adams,\ndeeply perturbed and profoundly anxious, would betray no sign of alarm,\nand purposely delayed to ask explanation. The howl of anger against\nGladstone became louder every day, for every one knew that the Cabinet\nwas called for October 23, and then could not fail to decide its policy\nabout the United States. Lord Lyons put off his departure for America\ntill October 25 expressly to share in the conclusions to be discussed\non October 23. When Minister Adams at last requested an interview,\nRussell named October 23 as the day. To the last moment every act of\nRussell showed that, in his mind, the intervention was still in doubt.\n\n  When Minister Adams, at the interview, suggested that an\nexplanation was due him, he watched Russell with natural interest, and\nreported thus:\n\n   ... His lordship took my allusion at once, though not\n  without a slight indication of embarrassment. He said that Mr.\n  Gladstone had been evidently much misunderstood. I must have\n  seen in the newspapers the letters which contained his later\n  explanations. That he had certain opinions in regard to the\n  nature of the struggle in America, as on all public questions,\n  just as other Englishmen had, was natural enough. And it was\n  the fashion here for public men to express such as they held in\n  their public addresses. Of course it was not for him to disavow\n  anything on the part of Mr. Gladstone; but he had no idea that\n  in saying what he had, there was a serious intention to justify\n  any of the inferences that had been drawn from it of a\n  disposition in the Government now to adopt a new policy....\n\n  A student trying to learn the processes of politics in a free\ngovernment could not but ponder long on the moral to be drawn from this\n\"explanation\" of Mr. Gladstone by Earl Russell. The point set for study\nas the first condition of political life, was whether any politician\ncould be believed or trusted. The question which a private secretary\nasked himself, in copying this despatch of October 24, 1862, was\nwhether his father believed, or should believe, one word of Lord\nRussell's \"embarrassment.\" The \"truth\" was not known for thirty years,\nbut when published, seemed to be the reverse of Earl Russell's\nstatement. Mr. Gladstone's speech had been drawn out by Russell's own\npolicy of intervention and had no sense except to declare the\n\"disposition in the Government now to adopt\" that new policy. Earl\nRussell never disavowed Gladstone, although Lord Palmerston and Sir\nGeorge Cornewall Lewis instantly did so. As far as the curious student\ncould penetrate the mystery, Gladstone exactly expressed Earl Russell's\nintent.\n\n  As political education, this lesson was to be crucial; it would\ndecide the law of life. All these gentlemen were superlatively\nhonorable; if one could not believe them, Truth in politics might be\nignored as a delusion. Therefore the student felt compelled to reach\nsome sort of idea that should serve to bring the case within a general\nlaw. Minister Adams felt the same compulsion. He bluntly told Russell\nthat while he was \"willing to acquit\" Gladstone of \"any deliberate\nintention to bring on the worst effects,\" he was bound to say that\nGladstone was doing it quite as certainly as if he had one; and to this\ncharge, which struck more sharply at Russell's secret policy than at\nGladstone's public defence of it, Russell replied as well as he could:--\n\n  ... His lordship intimated as guardedly as possible that Lord\n  Palmerston and other members of the Government regretted the\n  speech, and Mr. Gladstone himself was not disinclined to\n  correct, as far as he could, the misinterpretation which had\n  been made of it. It was still their intention to adhere to the\n  rule of perfect neutrality in the struggle, and to let it come\n  to its natural end without the smallest interference, direct or\n  otherwise. But he could not say what circumstances might happen\n  from month to month in the future. I observed that the policy\n  he mentioned was satisfactory to us, and asked if I was to\n  understand him as saying that no change of it was now proposed.\n  To which he gave his assent....\n\nMinister Adams never knew more. He retained his belief that Russell\ncould be trusted, but that Palmerston could not. This was the\ndiplomatic tradition, especially held by the Russian diplomats.\nPossibly it was sound, but it helped in no way the education of a\nprivate secretary. The cat's-paw theory offered no safer clue, than the\nfrank, old-fashioned, honest theory of villainy. Neither the one nor\nthe other was reasonable.\n\n  No one ever told the Minister that Earl Russell, only a few\nhours before, had asked the Cabinet to intervene, and that the Cabinet\nhad refused. The Minister was led to believe that the Cabinet meeting\nwas not held, and that its decision was informal. Russell's biographer\nsaid that, \"with this memorandum [of Russell's, dated October 13] the\nCabinet assembled from all parts of the country on October 23; but ...\nmembers of the Cabinet doubted the policy of moving, or moving at that\ntime.\" The Duke of Newcastle and Sir George Grey joined Granville in\nopposition. As far as known, Russell and Gladstone stood alone.\n\"Considerations such as these prevented the matter being pursued any\nfurther.\"\n\n  Still no one has distinctly said that this decision was formal;\nperhaps the unanimity of opposition made the formal Cabinet\nunnecessary; but it is certain that, within an hour or two before or\nafter this decision, \"his lordship said [to the United States Minister]\nthat the policy of the Government was to adhere to a strict neutrality\nand to leave this struggle to settle itself.\" When Mr. Adams, not\nsatisfied even with this positive assurance, pressed for a categorical\nanswer: \"I asked him if I was to understand that policy as not now to\nbe changed; he said: Yes!\"\n\n  John Morley's comment on this matter, in the \"Life of\nGladstone,\" forty years afterwards, would have interested the Minister,\nas well as his private secretary: \"If this relation be accurate,\" said\nMorley of a relation officially published at the time, and never\nquestioned, \"then the Foreign Secretary did not construe strict\nneutrality as excluding what diplomatists call good offices.\" For a\nvital lesson in politics, Earl Russell's construction of neutrality\nmattered little to the student, who asked only Russell's intent, and\ncared only to know whether his construction had any other object than\nto deceive the Minister.\n\n  In the grave one can afford to be lavish of charity, and\npossibly Earl Russell may have been honestly glad to reassure his\npersonal friend Mr. Adams; but to one who is still in the world even if\nnot of it, doubts are as plenty as days. Earl Russell totally deceived\nthe private secretary, whatever he may have done to the Minister. The\npolicy of abstention was not settled on October 23. Only the next day,\nOctober 24, Gladstone circulated a rejoinder to G. C. Lewis, insisting\non the duty of England, France, and Russia to intervene by\nrepresenting, \"with moral authority and force, the opinion of the\ncivilized world upon the conditions of the case.\" Nothing had been\ndecided. By some means, scarcely accidental, the French Emperor was led\nto think that his influence might turn the scale, and only ten days\nafter Russell's categorical \"Yes!\" Napoleon officially invited him to\nsay \"No!\" He was more than ready to do so. Another Cabinet meeting was\ncalled for November 11, and this time Gladstone himself reports the\ndebate:\n\n  Nov. 11. We have had our Cabinet to-day and meet again\n  tomorrow. I am afraid we shall do little or nothing in the\n  business of America. But I will send you definite intelligence.\n  Both Lords Palmerston and Russell are right.\n\n  Nov. 12. The United States affair has ended and not well. Lord\n  Russell rather turned tail. He gave way without resolutely\n  fighting out his battle. However, though we decline for the\n  moment, the answer is put upon grounds and in terms which leave\n  the matter very open for the future.\n\n  Nov. 13. I think the French will make our answer about America\n  public; at least it is very possible. But I hope they may not\n  take it as a positive refusal, or at any rate that they may\n  themselves act in the matter. It will be clear that we concur\n  with them, that the war should cease. Palmerston gave to\n  Russell's proposal a feeble and half-hearted support.\n\n  Forty years afterwards, when every one except himself, who\nlooked on at this scene, was dead, the private secretary of 1862 read\nthese lines with stupor, and hurried to discuss them with John Hay, who\nwas more astounded than himself. All the world had been at\ncross-purposes, had misunderstood themselves and the situation, had\nfollowed wrong paths, drawn wrong conclusions, had known none of the\nfacts. One would have done better to draw no conclusions at all. One's\ndiplomatic education was a long mistake.\n\n  These were the terms of this singular problem as they presented\nthemselves to the student of diplomacy in 1862: Palmerston, on\nSeptember 14, under the impression that the President was about to be\ndriven from Washington and the Army of the Potomac dispersed, suggested\nto Russell that in such a case, intervention might be feasible. Russell\ninstantly answered that, in any case, he wanted to intervene and should\ncall a Cabinet for the purpose. Palmerston hesitated; Russell insisted;\nGranville protested. Meanwhile the rebel army was defeated at Antietam,\nSeptember 17, and driven out of Maryland. Then Gladstone, October 7,\ntried to force Palmerston's hand by treating the intervention as a fait\naccompli. Russell assented, but Palmerston put up Sir George Cornewall\nLewis to contradict Gladstone and treated him sharply in the press, at\nthe very moment when Russell was calling a Cabinet to make Gladstone's\nwords good. On October 23, Russell assured Adams that no change in\npolicy was now proposed. On the same day he had proposed it, and was\nvoted down. Instantly Napoleon III appeared as the ally of Russell and\nGladstone with a proposition which had no sense except as a bribe to\nPalmerston to replace America, from pole to pole, in her old dependence\non Europe, and to replace England in her old sovereignty of the seas,\nif Palmerston would support France in Mexico. The young student of\ndiplomacy, knowing Palmerston, must have taken for granted that\nPalmerston inspired this motion and would support it; knowing Russell\nand his Whig antecedents, he would conceive that Russell must oppose\nit; knowing Gladstone and his lofty principles, he would not doubt that\nGladstone violently denounced the scheme. If education was worth a\nstraw, this was the only arrangement of persons that a trained student\nwould imagine possible, and it was the arrangement actually assumed by\nnine men out of ten, as history. In truth, each valuation was false.\nPalmerston never showed favor to the scheme and gave it only \"a feeble\nand half-hearted support.\" Russell gave way without resolutely fighting\nout \"his battle.\" The only resolute, vehement, conscientious champion\nof Russell, Napoleon, and Jefferson Davis was Gladstone.\n\n  Other people could afford to laugh at a young man's blunders,\nbut to him the best part of life was thrown away if he learned such a\nlesson wrong. Henry James had not yet taught the world to read a volume\nfor the pleasure of seeing the lights of his burning-glass turned on\nalternate sides of the same figure. Psychological study was still\nsimple, and at worst--or at best--English character was never subtile.\nSurely no one would believe that complexity was the trait that confused\nthe student of Palmerston, Russell, and Gladstone. Under a very strong\nlight human nature will always appear complex and full of\ncontradictions, but the British statesman would appear, on the whole,\namong the least complex of men.\n\n  Complex these gentlemen were not. Disraeli alone might, by\ncontrast, be called complex, but Palmerston, Russell, and Gladstone\ndeceived only by their simplicity. Russell was the most interesting to\na young man because his conduct seemed most statesmanlike. Every act of\nRussell, from April, 1861, to November, 1862, showed the clearest\ndetermination to break up the Union. The only point in Russell's\ncharacter about which the student thought no doubt to be possible was\nits want of good faith. It was thoroughly dishonest, but strong.\nHabitually Russell said one thing and did another. He seemed\nunconscious of his own contradictions even when his opponents pointed\nthem out, as they were much in the habit of doing, in the strongest\nlanguage. As the student watched him deal with the Civil War in\nAmerica, Russell alone showed persistence, even obstinacy, in a\ndefinite determination, which he supported, as was necessary, by the\nusual definite falsehoods. The young man did not complain of the\nfalsehoods; on the contrary, he was vain of his own insight in\ndetecting them; but he was wholly upset by the idea that Russell should\nthink himself true.\n\n  Young Adams thought Earl Russell a statesman of the old school,\nclear about his objects and unscrupulous in his methods--dishonest but\nstrong. Russell ardently asserted that he had no objects, and that\nthough he might be weak he was above all else honest. Minister Adams\nleaned to Russell personally and thought him true, but officially, in\npractice, treated him as false. Punch, before 1862, commonly drew\nRussell as a schoolboy telling lies, and afterwards as prematurely\nsenile, at seventy. Education stopped there. No one, either in or out\nof England, ever offered a rational explanation of Earl Russell.\n\n  Palmerston was simple--so simple as to mislead the student\naltogether--but scarcely more consistent. The world thought him\npositive, decided, reckless; the record proved him to be cautious,\ncareful, vacillating. Minister Adams took him for pugnacious and\nquarrelsome; the \"Lives\" of Russell, Gladstone, and Granville show him\nto have been good-tempered, conciliatory, avoiding quarrels. He\nsurprised the Minister by refusing to pursue his attack on General\nButler. He tried to check Russell. He scolded Gladstone. He discouraged\nNapoleon. Except Disraeli none of the English statesmen were so\ncautious as he in talking of America. Palmerston told no falsehoods;\nmade no professions; concealed no opinions; was detected in no\ndouble-dealing. The most mortifying failure in Henry Adams's long\neducation was that, after forty years of confirmed dislike, distrust,\nand detraction of Lord Palmerston, he was obliged at last to admit\nhimself in error, and to consent in spirit--for by that time he was\nnearly as dead as any of them--to beg his pardon.\n\n  Gladstone was quite another story, but with him a student's\ndifficulties were less because they were shared by all the world\nincluding Gladstone himself. He was the sum of contradictions. The\nhighest education could reach, in this analysis, only a reduction to\nthe absurd, but no absurdity that a young man could reach in 1862 would\nhave approached the level that Mr. Gladstone admitted, avowed,\nproclaimed, in his confessions of 1896, which brought all reason and\nall hope of education to a still-stand:--\n\n  I have yet to record an undoubted error, the most singular and\n  palpable, I may add the least excusable of them all, especially\n  since it was committed so late as in the year 1862 when I had\n  outlived half a century ... I declared in the heat of the\n  American struggle that Jefferson Davis had made a nation....\n  Strange to say, this declaration, most unwarrantable to be made\n  by a Minister of the Crown with no authority other than his\n  own, was not due to any feeling of partisanship for the South\n  or hostility to the North.... I really, though most\n  strangely, believed that it was an act of friendliness to all\n  America to recognize that the struggle was virtually at an end.\n  ... That my opinion was founded upon a false estimate of the\n  facts was the very least part of my fault. I did not perceive\n  the gross impropriety of such an utterance from a Cabinet\n  Minister of a power allied in blood and language, and bound to\n  loyal neutrality; the case being further exaggerated by the\n  fact that we were already, so to speak, under indictment before\n  the world for not (as was alleged) having strictly enforced the\n  laws of neutrality in the matter of the cruisers. My offence\n  was indeed only a mistake, but one of incredible grossness, and\n  with such consequences of offence and alarm attached to it,\n  that my failing to perceive them justly exposed me to very\n  severe blame. It illustrates vividly that incapacity which my\n  mind so long retained, and perhaps still exhibits, an\n  incapacity of viewing subjects all round....\n\n  Long and patiently--more than patiently--sympathetically,\ndid the private secretary, forty years afterwards in the twilight of a\nlife of study, read and re-read and reflect upon this confession. Then,\nit seemed, he had seen nothing correctly at the time. His whole theory\nof conspiracy--of policy--of logic and connection in the affairs of\nman, resolved itself into \"incredible grossness.\" He felt no rancor,\nfor he had won the game; he forgave, since he must admit, the\n\"incapacity of viewing subjects all round\" which had so nearly cost him\nlife and fortune; he was willing even to believe. He noted, without\nirritation, that Mr. Gladstone, in his confession, had not alluded to\nthe understanding between Russell, Palmerston, and himself; had even\nwholly left out his most \"incredible\" act, his ardent support of\nNapoleon's policy, a policy which even Palmerston and Russell had\nsupported feebly, with only half a heart. All this was indifferent.\nGranting, in spite of evidence, that Gladstone had no set plan of\nbreaking up the Union; that he was party to no conspiracy; that he saw\nnone of the results of his acts which were clear to every one else;\ngranting in short what the English themselves seemed at last to\nconclude--that Gladstone was not quite sane; that Russell was verging\non senility; and that Palmerston had lost his nerve--what sort of\neducation should have been the result of it? How should it have\naffected one's future opinions and acts?\n\n  Politics cannot stop to study psychology. Its methods are\nrough; its judgments rougher still. All this knowledge would not have\naffected either the Minister or his son in 1862. The sum of the\nindividuals would still have seemed, to the young man, one\nindividual--a single will or intention--bent on breaking up the Union\n\"as a diminution of a dangerous power.\" The Minister would still have\nfound his interest in thinking Russell friendly and Palmerston hostile.\nThe individual would still have been identical with the mass. The\nproblem would have been the same; the answer equally obscure. Every\nstudent would, like the private secretary, answer for himself alone.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI\n\nTHE BATTLE OF THE RAMS (1863)\n\n  MINISTER ADAMS troubled himself little about what he did not\nsee of an enemy. His son, a nervous animal, made life a terror by\nseeing too much. Minister Adams played his hand as it came, and seldom\ncredited his opponents with greater intelligence than his own. Earl\nRussell suited him; perhaps a certain personal sympathy united them;\nand indeed Henry Adams never saw Russell without being amused by his\ndroll likeness to John Quincy Adams. Apart from this shadowy personal\nrelation, no doubt the Minister was diplomatically right; he had\nnothing to lose and everything to gain by making a friend of the\nForeign Secretary, and whether Russell were true or false mattered\nless, because, in either case, the American Legation could act only as\nthough he were false. Had the Minister known Russell's determined\neffort to betray and ruin him in October, 1862, he could have scarcely\nused stronger expressions than he did in 1863. Russell must have been\ngreatly annoyed by Sir Robert Collier's hint of collusion with the\nrebel agents in the Alabama Case, but he hardened himself to hear the\nsame innuendo repeated in nearly every note from the Legation. As time\nwent on, Russell was compelled, though slowly, to treat the American\nMinister as serious. He admitted nothing so unwillingly, for the\nnullity or fatuity of the Washington Government was his idee fixe; but\nafter the failure of his last effort for joint intervention on November\n12, 1862, only one week elapsed before he received a note from Minister\nAdams repeating his charges about the Alabama, and asking in very plain\nlanguage for redress. Perhaps Russell's mind was naturally slow to\nunderstand the force of sudden attack, or perhaps age had affected it;\nthis was one of the points that greatly interested a student, but young\nmen have a passion for regarding their elders as senile, which was only\nin part warranted in this instance by observing that Russell's\ngeneration were mostly senile from youth. They had never got beyond\n1815. Both Palmerston and Russell were in this case. Their senility was\ncongenital, like Gladstone's Oxford training and High Church illusions,\nwhich caused wild eccentricities in his judgment. Russell could not\nconceive that he had misunderstood and mismanaged Minister Adams from\nthe start, and when after November 12 he found himself on the\ndefensive, with Mr Adams taking daily a stronger tone, he showed mere\nconfusion and helplessness.\n\n  Thus, whatever the theory, the action of diplomacy had to be\nthe same. Minister Adams was obliged to imply collusion between Russell\nand the rebels. He could not even stop at criminal negligence. If, by\nan access of courtesy, the Minister were civil enough to admit that the\nescape of the Alabama had been due to criminal negligence, he could\nmake no such concession in regard to the ironclad rams which the Lairds\nwere building; for no one could be so simple as to believe that two\narmored ships-of-war could be built publicly, under the eyes of the\nGovernment, and go to sea like the Alabama, without active and\nincessant collusion. The longer Earl Russell kept on his mask of\nassumed ignorance, the more violently in the end, the Minister would\nhave to tear it off. Whatever Mr. Adams might personally think of Earl\nRussell, he must take the greatest possible diplomatic liberties with\nhim if this crisis were allowed to arrive.\n\n  As the spring of 1863 drew on, the vast field cleared itself\nfor action. A campaign more beautiful--better suited for training the\nmind of a youth eager for training--has not often unrolled itself for\nstudy, from the beginning, before a young man perched in so commanding\na position. Very slowly, indeed, after two years of solitude, one began\nto feel the first faint flush of new and imperial life. One was\ntwenty-five years old, and quite ready to assert it; some of one's\nfriends were wearing stars on their collars; some had won stars of a\nmore enduring kind. At moments one's breath came quick. One began to\ndream the sensation of wielding unmeasured power. The sense came, like\nvertigo, for an instant, and passed, leaving the brain a little dazed,\ndoubtful, shy. With an intensity more painful than that of any\nShakespearean drama, men's eyes were fastened on the armies in the\nfield. Little by little, at first only as a shadowy chance of what\nmight be, if things could be rightly done, one began to feel that,\nsomewhere behind the chaos in Washington power was taking shape; that\nit was massed and guided as it had not been before. Men seemed to have\nlearned their business--at a cost that ruined--and perhaps too late. A\nprivate secretary knew better than most people how much of the new\npower was to be swung in London, and almost exactly when; but the\ndiplomatic campaign had to wait for the military campaign to lead. The\nstudent could only study.\n\n  Life never could know more than a single such climax. In that\nform, education reached its limits. As the first great blows began to\nfall, one curled up in bed in the silence of night, to listen with\nincredulous hope. As the huge masses struck, one after another, with\nthe precision of machinery, the opposing mass, the world shivered. Such\ndevelopment of power was unknown. The magnificent resistance and the\nreturn shocks heightened the suspense. During the July days Londoners\nwere stupid with unbelief. They were learning from the Yankees how to\nfight.\n\n  An American saw in a flash what all this meant to England, for\none's mind was working with the acceleration of the machine at home;\nbut Englishmen were not quick to see their blunders. One had ample time\nto watch the process, and had even a little time to gloat over the\nrepayment of old scores. News of Vicksburg and Gettysburg reached\nLondon one Sunday afternoon, and it happened that Henry Adams was asked\nfor that evening to some small reception at the house of Monckton\nMilnes. He went early in order to exchange a word or two of\ncongratulation before the rooms should fill, and on arriving he found\nonly the ladies in the drawing-room; the gentlemen were still sitting\nover their wine. Presently they came in, and, as luck would have it,\nDelane of the Times came first. When Milnes caught sight of his young\nAmerican friend, with a whoop of triumph he rushed to throw both arms\nabout his neck and kiss him on both cheeks. Men of later birth who knew\ntoo little to realize the passions of 1863--backed by those of\n1813--and reenforced by those of 1763--might conceive that such\npublicity embarrassed a private secretary who came from Boston and\ncalled himself shy; but that evening, for the first time in his life,\nhe happened not to be thinking of himself. He was thinking of Delane,\nwhose eye caught his, at the moment of Milnes's embrace. Delane\nprobably regarded it as a piece of Milnes's foolery; he had never heard\nof young Adams, and never dreamed of his resentment at being ridiculed\nin the Times; he had no suspicion of the thought floating in the mind\nof the American Minister's son, for the British mind is the slowest of\nall minds, as the files of the Times proved, and the capture of\nVicksburg had not yet penetrated Delane's thick cortex of fixed ideas.\nEven if he had read Adams's thought, he would have felt for it only the\nusual amused British contempt for all that he had not been taught at\nschool. It needed a whole generation for the Times to reach Milnes's\nstandpoint.\n\n  Had the Minister's son carried out the thought, he would surely\nhave sought an introduction to Delane on the spot, and assured him that\nhe regarded his own personal score as cleared off--sufficiently\nsettled, then and there--because his father had assumed the debt, and\nwas going to deal with Mr. Delane himself. \"You come next!\" would have\nbeen the friendly warning. For nearly a year the private secretary had\nwatched the board arranging itself for the collision between the\nLegation and Delane who stood behind the Palmerston Ministry. Mr. Adams\nhad been steadily strengthened and reenforced from Washington in view\nof the final struggle. The situation had changed since the Trent\nAffair. The work was efficiently done; the organization was fairly\ncomplete. No doubt, the Legation itself was still as weakly manned and\nhad as poor an outfit as the Legations of Guatemala or Portugal.\nCongress was always jealous of its diplomatic service, and the Chairman\nof the Committee of Foreign Relations was not likely to press\nassistance on the Minister to England. For the Legation not an\nadditional clerk was offered or asked. The Secretary, the Assistant\nSecretary, and the private secretary did all the work that the Minister\ndid not do. A clerk at five dollars a week would have done the work as\nwell or better, but the Minister could trust no clerk; without express\nauthority he could admit no one into the Legation; he strained a point\nalready by admitting his son. Congress and its committees were the\nproper judges of what was best for the public service, and if the\narrangement seemed good to them, it was satisfactory to a private\nsecretary who profited by it more than they did. A great staff would\nhave suppressed him. The whole Legation was a sort of improvised,\nvolunteer service, and he was a volunteer with the rest. He was rather\nbetter off than the rest, because he was invisible and unknown. Better\nor worse, he did his work with the others, and if the secretaries made\nany remarks about Congress, they made no complaints, and knew that none\nwould have received a moment's attention.\n\n  If they were not satisfied with Congress, they were satisfied\nwith Secretary Seward. Without appropriations for the regular service,\nhe had done great things for its support. If the Minister had no\nsecretaries, he had a staff of active consuls; he had a well-organized\npress; efficient legal support; and a swarm of social allies permeating\nall classes. All he needed was a victory in the field, and Secretary\nStanton undertook that part of diplomacy. Vicksburg and Gettysburg\ncleared the board, and, at the end of July, 1863, Minister Adams was\nready to deal with Earl Russell or Lord Palmerston or Mr. Gladstone or\nMr. Delane, or any one else who stood in his way; and by the necessity\nof the case, was obliged to deal with all of them shortly.\n\n  Even before the military climax at Vicksburg and Gettysburg,\nthe Minister had been compelled to begin his attack; but this was\nhistory, and had nothing to do with education. The private secretary\ncopied the notes into his private books, and that was all the share he\nhad in the matter, except to talk in private.\n\n  No more volunteer services were needed; the volunteers were in\na manner sent to the rear; the movement was too serious for\nskirmishing. All that a secretary could hope to gain from the affair\nwas experience and knowledge of politics. He had a chance to measure\nthe motive forces of men; their qualities of character; their\nforesight; their tenacity of purpose.\n\n  In the Legation no great confidence was felt in stopping the\nrams. Whatever the reason, Russell seemed immovable. Had his efforts\nfor intervention in September, 1862, been known to the Legation in\nSeptember, 1863 the Minister must surely have admitted that Russell\nhad, from the first, meant to force his plan of intervention on his\ncolleagues. Every separate step since April, 1861, led to this final\ncoercion. Although Russell's hostile activity of 1862 was still\nsecret--and remained secret for some five-and-twenty years--his animus\nseemed to be made clear by his steady refusal to stop the rebel\narmaments. Little by little, Minister Adams lost hope. With loss of\nhope came the raising of tone, until at last, after stripping Russell\nof every rag of defence and excuse, he closed by leaving him loaded\nwith connivance in the rebel armaments, and ended by the famous\nsentence: \"It would be superfluous in me to point out to your lordship\nthat this is war!\"\n\nWhat the Minister meant by this remark was his own affair; what the\nprivate secretary understood by it, was a part of his education. Had\nhis father ordered him to draft an explanatory paragraph to expand the\nidea as he grasped it, he would have continued thus:--\n\n  \"It would be superfluous: 1st. Because Earl Russell not only\nknows it already, but has meant it from the start. 2nd Because it is\nthe only logical and necessary consequence of his unvarying action. 3d.\nBecause Mr. Adams is not pointing out to him that 'this is war,' but is\npointing it out to the world, to complete the record.\"\n\n  This would have been the matter-of-fact sense in which the\nprivate secretary copied into his books the matter-of-fact statement\nwith which, without passion or excitement, the Minister announced that\na state of war existed. To his copying eye, as clerk, the words, though\non the extreme verge of diplomatic propriety, merely stated a fact,\nwithout novelty, fancy, or rhetoric. The fact had to be stated in order\nto make clear the issue. The war was Russell's war--Adams only accepted\nit.\n\n  Russell's reply to this note of September 5 reached the\nLegation on September 8, announcing at last to the anxious secretaries\nthat \"instructions have been issued which will prevent the departure of\nthe two ironclad vessels from Liverpool.\" The members of the modest\nLegation in Portland Place accepted it as Grant had accepted the\ncapitulation of Vicksburg. The private secretary conceived that, as\nSecretary Stanton had struck and crushed by superior weight the rebel\nleft on the Mississippi, so Secretary Seward had struck and crushed the\nrebel right in England, and he never felt a doubt as to the nature of\nthe battle. Though Minister Adams should stay in office till he were\nninety, he would never fight another campaign of life and death like\nthis; and though the private secretary should covet and attain every\noffice in the gift of President or people, he would never again find\neducation to compare with the life-and-death alternative of this\ntwo-year-and-a-half struggle in London, as it had racked and\nthumb-screwed him in its shifting phases; but its practical value as\neducation turned on his correctness of judgment in measuring the men\nand their forces. He felt respect for Russell as for Palmerston because\nthey represented traditional England and an English policy, respectable\nenough in itself, but which, for four generations, every Adams had\nfought and exploited as the chief source of his political fortunes. As\nhe understood it, Russell had followed this policy steadily, ably, even\nvigorously, and had brought it to the moment of execution. Then he had\nmet wills stronger than his own, and, after persevering to the last\npossible instant, had been beaten. Lord North and George Canning had a\nlike experience. This was only the idea of a boy, but, as far as he\never knew, it was also the idea of his Government. For once, the\nvolunteer secretary was satisfied with his Government. Commonly the\nself-respect of a secretary, private or public, depends on, and is\nproportional to, the severity of his criticism, but in this case the\nEnglish campaign seemed to him as creditable to the State Department as\nthe Vicksburg campaign to the War Department, and more decisive. It was\nwell planned, well prepared, and well executed. He could never discover\na mistake in it. Possibly he was biassed by personal interest, but his\nchief reason for trusting his own judgment was that he thought himself\nto be one of only half a dozen persons who knew something about it.\nWhen others criticised Mr. Seward, he was rather indifferent to their\nopinions because he thought they hardly knew what they were talking\nabout, and could not be taught without living over again the London\nlife of 1862. To him Secretary Seward seemed immensely strong and\nsteady in leadership; but this was no discredit to Russell or\nPalmerston or Gladstone. They, too, had shown power, patience and\nsteadiness of purpose. They had persisted for two years and a half in\ntheir plan for breaking up the Union, and had yielded at last only in\nthe jaws of war. After a long and desperate struggle, the American\nMinister had trumped their best card and won the game.\n\n  Again and again, in after life, he went back over the ground to\nsee whether he could detect error on either side. He found none. At\nevery stage the steps were both probable and proved. All the more he\nwas disconcerted that Russell should indignantly and with growing\nenergy, to his dying day, deny and resent the axiom of Adams's whole\ncontention, that from the first he meant to break up the Union. Russell\naffirmed that he meant nothing of the sort; that he had meant nothing\nat all; that he meant to do right; that he did not know what he meant.\nDriven from one defence after another, he pleaded at last, like\nGladstone, that he had no defence. Concealing all he could\nconceal--burying in profound secrecy his attempt to break up the Union\nin the autumn of 1862--he affirmed the louder his scrupulous good\nfaith. What was worse for the private secretary, to the total derision\nand despair of the lifelong effort for education, as the final result\nof combined practice, experience, and theory--he proved it.\n\n  Henry Adams had, as he thought, suffered too much from Russell\nto admit any plea in his favor; but he came to doubt whether this\nadmission really favored him. Not until long after Earl Russell's death\nwas the question reopened. Russell had quitted office in 1866; he died\nin 1878; the biography was published in 1889. During the Alabama\ncontroversy and the Geneva Conference in 1872, his course as Foreign\nSecretary had been sharply criticised, and he had been compelled to see\nEngland pay more than L3,000,000 penalty for his errors. On the other\nhand, he brought forward--or his biographer for him--evidence tending\nto prove that he was not consciously dishonest, and that he had, in\nspite of appearances, acted without collusion, agreement, plan, or\npolicy, as far as concerned the rebels. He had stood alone, as was his\nnature. Like Gladstone, he had thought himself right.\n\n  In the end, Russell entangled himself in a hopeless ball of\nadmissions, denials, contradictions, and resentments which led even his\nold colleagues to drop his defence, as they dropped Gladstone's; but\nthis was not enough for the student of diplomacy who had made a certain\ntheory his law of life, and wanted to hold Russell up against himself;\nto show that he had foresight and persistence of which he was unaware.\nThe effort became hopeless when the biography in 1889 published papers\nwhich upset all that Henry Adams had taken for diplomatic education;\nyet he sat down once more, when past sixty years old, to see whether he\ncould unravel the skein.\n\n  Of the obstinate effort to bring about an armed intervention,\non the lines marked out by Russell's letter to Palmerston from Gotha,\n17 September, 1862, nothing could be said beyond Gladstone's plea in\nexcuse for his speech in pursuance of the same effort, that it was \"the\nmost singular and palpable error,\" \"the least excusable,\" \"a mistake of\nincredible grossness,\" which passed defence; but while Gladstone threw\nhimself on the mercy of the public for his speech, he attempted no\nexcuse for Lord Russell who led him into the \"incredible grossness\" of\nannouncing the Foreign Secretary's intent. Gladstone's offence,\n\"singular and palpable,\" was not the speech alone, but its cause--the\npolicy that inspired the speech. \"I weakly supposed ... I really,\nthough most strangely, believed that it was an act of friendliness.\"\nWhatever absurdity Gladstone supposed, Russell supposed nothing of the\nsort. Neither he nor Palmerston \"most strangely believed\" in any\nproposition so obviously and palpably absurd, nor did Napoleon delude\nhimself with philanthropy. Gladstone, even in his confession, mixed up\npolicy, speech, motives, and persons, as though he were trying to\nconfuse chiefly himself.\n\n  There Gladstone's activity seems to have stopped. He did not\nreappear in the matter of the rams. The rebel influence shrank in 1863,\nas far as is known, to Lord Russell alone, who wrote on September 1\nthat he could not interfere in any way with those vessels, and thereby\nbrought on himself Mr. Adams's declaration of war on September 5. A\nstudent held that, in this refusal, he was merely following his policy\nof September, 1862, and of every step he had taken since 1861.\n\n  The student was wrong. Russell proved that he had been feeble,\ntimid, mistaken, senile, but not dishonest. The evidence is convincing.\nThe Lairds had built these ships in reliance on the known opinion of\nthe law-officers that the statute did not apply, and a jury would not\nconvict. Minister Adams replied that, in this case, the statute should\nbe amended, or the ships stopped by exercise of the political power.\nBethell rejoined that this would be a violation of neutrality; one must\npreserve the status quo. Tacitly Russell connived with Laird, and, had\nhe meant to interfere, he was bound to warn Laird that the defect of\nthe statute would no longer protect him, but he allowed the builders to\ngo on till the ships were ready for sea. Then, on September 3, two days\nbefore Mr. Adams's \"superfluous\" letter, he wrote to Lord Palmerston\nbegging for help; \"The conduct of the gentlemen who have contracted for\nthe two ironclads at Birkenhead is so very suspicious,\"--he began, and\nthis he actually wrote in good faith and deep confidence to Lord\nPalmerston, his chief, calling \"the conduct\" of the rebel agents\n\"suspicious\" when no one else in Europe or America felt any suspicion\nabout it, because the whole question turned not on the rams, but on the\ntechnical scope of the Foreign Enlistment Act,--\"that I have thought it\nnecessary to direct that they should be detained,\" not, of course,\nunder the statute, but on the ground urged by the American Minister, of\ninternational obligation above the statute. \"The Solicitor General has\nbeen consulted and concurs in the measure as one of policy though not\nof strict law. We shall thus test the law, and, if we have to pay\ndamages, we have satisfied the opinion which prevails here as well as\nin America that that kind of neutral hostility should not be allowed to\ngo on without some attempt to stop it.\"\n\n  For naivete that would be unusual in an unpaid attache of\nLegation, this sudden leap from his own to his opponent's ground, after\ntwo years and a half of dogged resistance, might have roused Palmerston\nto inhuman scorn, but instead of derision, well earned by Russell's old\nattacks on himself, Palmerston met the appeal with wonderful loyalty.\n\"On consulting the law officers he found that there was no lawful\nground for meddling with the ironclads,\" or, in unprofessional\nlanguage, that he could trust neither his law officers nor a Liverpool\njury; and therefore he suggested buying the ships for the British Navy.\nAs proof of \"criminal negligence\" in the past, this suggestion seemed\ndecisive, but Russell, by this time, was floundering in other troubles\nof negligence, for he had neglected to notify the American Minister. He\nshould have done so at once, on September 3. Instead he waited till\nSeptember 4, and then merely said that the matter was under \"serious\nand anxious consideration.\" This note did not reach the Legation till\nthree o'clock on the afternoon of September 5--after the \"superfluous\"\ndeclaration of war had been sent. Thus, Lord Russell had sacrificed the\nLairds: had cost his Ministry the price of two ironclads, besides the\nAlabama Claims--say, in round numbers, twenty million dollars--and had\nput himself in the position of appearing to yield only to a threat of\nwar. Finally he wrote to the Admiralty a letter which, from the\nAmerican point of view, would have sounded youthful from an Eton\nschoolboy:--\n\nSeptember 14, 1863.\n  MY DEAR DUKE:--\n\n    It is of the utmost importance and urgency that the ironclads\n  building at Birkenhead should not go to America to break the\n  blockade. They belong to Monsieur Bravay of Paris. If you will\n  offer to buy them on the part of the Admiralty you will get\n  money's worth if he accepts your offer; and if he does not, it\n  will be presumptive proof that they are already bought by the\n  Confederates. I should state that we have suggested to the\n  Turkish Government to buy them; but you can easily settle that\n  matter with the Turks....\n\n  The hilarity of the secretaries in Portland Place would have\nbeen loud had they seen this letter and realized the muddle of\ndifficulties into which Earl Russell had at last thrown himself under\nthe impulse of the American Minister; but, nevertheless, these letters\nupset from top to bottom the results of the private secretary's\ndiplomatic education forty years after he had supposed it complete.\nThey made a picture different from anything he had conceived and\nrendered worthless his whole painful diplomatic experience.\n\n  To reconstruct, when past sixty, an education useful for any\npractical purpose, is no practical problem, and Adams saw no use in\nattacking it as only theoretical. He no longer cared whether he\nunderstood human nature or not; he understood quite as much of it as he\nwanted; but he found in the \"Life of Gladstone\" (II, 464) a remark\nseveral times repeated that gave him matter for curious thought. \"I\nalways hold,\" said Mr. Gladstone, \"that politicians are the men whom,\nas a rule, it is most difficult to comprehend\"; and he added, by way of\nstrengthening it: \"For my own part, I never have thus understood, or\nthought I understood, above one or two.\"\n\n  Earl Russell was certainly not one of the two.\n\n  Henry Adams thought he also had understood one or two; but the\nAmerican type was more familiar. Perhaps this was the sufficient result\nof his diplomatic education; it seemed to be the whole.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XII\n\nECCENTRICITY (1863)\n\n  KNOWLEDGE of human nature is the beginning and end of political\neducation, but several years of arduous study in the neighborhood of\nWestminster led Henry Adams to think that knowledge of English human\nnature had little or no value outside of England. In Paris, such a\nhabit stood in one's way; in America, it roused all the instincts of\nnative jealousy. The English mind was one-sided, eccentric,\nsystematically unsystematic, and logically illogical. The less one knew\nof it, the better.\n\n  This heresy, which scarcely would have been allowed to\npenetrate a Boston mind--it would, indeed, have been shut out by\ninstinct as a rather foolish exaggeration--rested on an experience\nwhich Henry Adams gravely thought he had a right to think\nconclusive--for him. That it should be conclusive for any one else\nnever occurred to him, since he had no thought of educating anybody\nelse. For him--alone--the less English education he got, the better!\n\n  For several years, under the keenest incitement to\nwatchfulness, he observed the English mind in contact with itself and\nother minds. Especially with the American the contact was interesting\nbecause the limits and defects of the American mind were one of the\nfavorite topics of the European. From the old-world point of view, the\nAmerican had no mind; he had an economic thinking-machine which could\nwork only on a fixed line. The American mind exasperated the European\nas a buzz-saw might exasperate a pine forest. The English mind disliked\nthe French mind because it was antagonistic, unreasonable, perhaps\nhostile, but recognized it as at least a thought. The American mind was\nnot a thought at all; it was a convention, superficial, narrow, and\nignorant; a mere cutting instrument, practical, economical, sharp, and\ndirect.\n\n  The English themselves hardly conceived that their mind was\neither economical, sharp, or direct; but the defect that most struck an\nAmerican was its enormous waste in eccentricity. Americans needed and\nused their whole energy, and applied it with close economy; but English\nsociety was eccentric by law and for sake of the eccentricity itself.\n\n  The commonest phrase overheard at an English club or\ndinner-table was that So-and-So \"is quite mad.\" It was no offence to\nSo-and-So; it hardly distinguished him from his fellows; and when\napplied to a public man, like Gladstone, it was qualified by epithets\nmuch more forcible. Eccentricity was so general as to become hereditary\ndistinction. It made the chief charm of English society as well as its\nchief terror.\n\n  The American delighted in Thackeray as a satirist, but\nThackeray quite justly maintained that he was not a satirist at all,\nand that his pictures of English society were exact and good-natured.\nThe American, who could not believe it, fell back on Dickens, who, at\nall events, had the vice of exaggeration to extravagance, but Dickens's\nEnglish audience thought the exaggeration rather in manner or style,\nthan in types. Mr. Gladstone himself went to see Sothern act Dundreary,\nand laughed till his face was distorted--not because Dundreary was\nexaggerated, but because he was ridiculously like the types that\nGladstone had seen--or might have seen--in any club in Pall Mall.\nSociety swarmed with exaggerated characters; it contained little else.\n\n  Often this eccentricity bore all the marks of strength; perhaps\nit was actual exuberance of force, a birthmark of genius. Boston\nthought so. The Bostonian called it national character--native\nvigor--robustness--honesty--courage. He respected and feared it.\nBritish self-assertion, bluff, brutal, blunt as it was, seemed to him a\nbetter and nobler thing than the acuteness of the Yankee or the polish\nof the Parisian. Perhaps he was right.\n\n  These questions of taste, of feeling, of inheritance, need no\nsettlement. Every one carries his own inch-rule of taste, and amuses\nhimself by applying it, triumphantly, wherever he travels. Whatever\nothers thought, the cleverest Englishmen held that the national\neccentricity needed correction, and were beginning to correct it. The\nsavage satires of Dickens and the gentler ridicule of Matthew Arnold\nagainst the British middle class were but a part of the rebellion, for\nthe middle class were no worse than their neighbors in the eyes of an\nAmerican in 1863; they were even a very little better in the sense that\none could appeal to their interests, while a university man, like\nGladstone, stood outside of argument. From none of them could a young\nAmerican afford to borrow ideas.\n\n  The private secretary, like every other Bostonian, began by\nregarding British eccentricity as a force. Contact with it, in the\nshape of Palmerston, Russell, and Gladstone, made him hesitate; he saw\nhis own national type--his father, Weed, Evarts, for instance--deal\nwith the British, and show itself certainly not the weaker; certainly\nsometimes the stronger. Biassed though he were, he could hardly be\nbiassed to such a degree as to mistake the effects of force on others,\nand while--labor as he might--Earl Russell and his state papers seemed\nweak to a secretary, he could not see that they seemed strong to\nRussell's own followers. Russell might be dishonest or he might be\nmerely obtuse--the English type might be brutal or might be only\nstupid--but strong, in either case, it was not, nor did it seem strong\nto Englishmen.\n\nEccentricity was not always a force; Americans were deeply interested\nin deciding whether it was always a weakness. Evidently, on the\nhustings or in Parliament, among eccentricities, eccentricity was at\nhome; but in private society the question was not easy to answer. That\nEnglish society was infinitely more amusing because of its\neccentricities, no one denied. Barring the atrocious insolence and\nbrutality which Englishmen and especially Englishwomen showed to each\nother--very rarely, indeed, to foreigners--English society was much\nmore easy and tolerant than American. One must expect to be treated\nwith exquisite courtesy this week and be totally forgotten the next,\nbut this was the way of the world, and education consisted in learning\nto turn one's back on others with the same unconscious indifference\nthat others showed among themselves. The smart of wounded vanity lasted\nno long time with a young man about town who had little vanity to\nsmart, and who, in his own country, would have found himself in no\nbetter position. He had nothing to complain of. No one was ever brutal\nto him. On the contrary, he was much better treated than ever he was\nlikely to be in Boston--let alone New York or Washington--and if his\nreception varied inconceivably between extreme courtesy and extreme\nneglect, it merely proved that he had become, or was becoming, at home.\nNot from a sense of personal griefs or disappointments did he labor\nover this part of the social problem, but only because his education\nwas becoming English, and the further it went, the less it promised.\n\n  By natural affinity the social eccentrics commonly sympathized\nwith political eccentricity. The English mind took naturally to\nrebellion--when foreign--and it felt particular confidence in the\nSouthern Confederacy because of its combined attributes--foreign\nrebellion of English blood--which came nearer ideal eccentricity than\ncould be reached by Poles, Hungarians, Italians or Frenchmen. All the\nEnglish eccentrics rushed into the ranks of rebel sympathizers, leaving\nfew but well-balanced minds to attach themselves to the cause of the\nUnion. None of the English leaders on the Northern side were marked\neccentrics. William E. Forster was a practical, hard-headed\nYorkshireman, whose chief ideals in politics took shape as working\narrangements on an economical base. Cobden, considering the one-sided\nconditions of his life, was remarkably well balanced. John Bright was\nstronger in his expressions than either of them, but with all his\nself-assertion he stuck to his point, and his point was practical. He\ndid not, like Gladstone, box the compass of thought; \"furiously\nearnest,\" as Monckton Milnes said, \"on both sides of every question\";\nhe was rather, on the whole, a consistent conservative of the old\nCommonwealth type, and seldom had to defend inconsistencies. Monckton\nMilnes himself was regarded as an eccentric, chiefly by those who did\nnot know him, but his fancies and hobbies were only ideas a little in\nadvance of the time; his manner was eccentric, but not his mind, as any\none could see who read a page of his poetry. None of them, except\nMilnes, was a university man. As a rule, the Legation was troubled very\nlittle, if at all, by indiscretions, extravagances, or contradictions\namong its English friends. Their work was largely judicious, practical,\nwell considered, and almost too cautious. The \"cranks\" were all rebels,\nand the list was portentous. Perhaps it might be headed by old Lord\nBrougham, who had the audacity to appear at a July 4th reception at the\nLegation, led by Joe Parkes, and claim his old credit as \"Attorney\nGeneral to Mr. Madison.\" The Church was rebel, but the dissenters were\nmostly with the Union. The universities were rebel, but the university\nmen who enjoyed most public confidence--like Lord Granville, Sir George\nCornewall Lewis, Lord Stanley, Sir George Grey--took infinite pains to\nbe neutral for fear of being thought eccentric. To most observers, as\nwell as to the Times, the Morning Post, and the Standard, a vast\nmajority of the English people seemed to follow the professional\neccentrics; even the emotional philanthropists took that direction;\nLord Shaftesbury and Carlyle, Fowell Buxton, and Gladstone, threw their\nsympathies on the side which they should naturally have opposed, and\ndid so for no reason except their eccentricity; but the \"canny\" Scots\nand Yorkshiremen were cautious.\n\n  This eccentricity did not mean strength. The proof of it was\nthe mismanagement of the rebel interests. No doubt the first cause of\nthis trouble lay in the Richmond Government itself. No one understood\nwhy Jefferson Davis chose Mr. Mason as his agent for London at the same\ntime that he made so good a choice as Mr. Slidell for Paris. The\nConfederacy had plenty of excellent men to send to London, but few who\nwere less fitted than Mason. Possibly Mason had a certain amount of\ncommon sense, but he seemed to have nothing else, and in London society\nhe counted merely as one eccentric more. He enjoyed a great\nopportunity; he might even have figured as a new Benjamin Franklin with\nall society at his feet; he might have roared as lion of the season and\nmade the social path of the American Minister almost impassable; but\nMr. Adams had his usual luck in enemies, who were always his most\nvaluable allies if his friends only let them alone. Mason was his\ngreatest diplomatic triumph. He had his collision with Palmerston; he\ndrove Russell off the field; he swept the board before Cockburn; he\noverbore Slidell; but he never lifted a finger against Mason, who\nbecame his bulwark of defence.\n\n  Possibly Jefferson Davis and Mr. Mason shared two defects in\ncommon which might have led them into this serious mistake. Neither\ncould have had much knowledge of the world, and both must have been\nunconscious of humor. Yet at the same time with Mason, President Davis\nsent out Slidell to France and Mr. Lamar to Russia. Some twenty years\nlater, in the shifting search for the education he never found, Adams\nbecame closely intimate at Washington with Lamar, then Senator from\nMississippi, who had grown to be one of the calmest, most reasonable\nand most amiable Union men in the United States, and quite unusual in\nsocial charm. In 1860 he passed for the worst of Southern fire-eaters,\nbut he was an eccentric by environment, not by nature; above all his\nSouthern eccentricities, he had tact and humor; and perhaps this was a\nreason why Mr. Davis sent him abroad with the others, on a futile\nmission to St. Petersburg. He would have done better in London, in\nplace of Mason. London society would have delighted in him; his stories\nwould have won success; his manners would have made him loved; his\noratory would have swept every audience; even Monckton Milnes could\nnever have resisted the temptation of having him to breakfast between\nLord Shaftesbury and the Bishop of Oxford.\n\n  Lamar liked to talk of his brief career in diplomacy, but he\nnever spoke of Mason. He never alluded to Confederate management or\ncriticised Jefferson Davis's administration. The subject that amused\nhim was his English allies. At that moment--the early summer of\n1863--the rebel party in England were full of confidence, and felt\nstrong enough to challenge the American Legation to a show of power.\nThey knew better than the Legation what they could depend upon: that\nthe law officers and commissioners of customs at Liverpool dared not\nprosecute the ironclad ships; that Palmerston, Russell, and Gladstone\nwere ready to recognize the Confederacy; that the Emperor Napoleon\nwould offer them every inducement to do it. In a manner they owned\nLiverpool and especially the firm of Laird who were building their\nships. The political member of the Laird firm was Lindsay, about whom\nthe whole web of rebel interests clung--rams, cruisers, munitions, and\nConfederate loan; social introductions and parliamentary tactics. The\nfirm of Laird, with a certain dignity, claimed to be champion of\nEngland's navy; and public opinion, in the summer of 1863, still\ninclined towards them.\n\n  Never was there a moment when eccentricity, if it were a force,\nshould have had more value to the rebel interest; and the managers must\nhave thought so, for they adopted or accepted as their champion an\neccentric of eccentrics; a type of 1820; a sort of Brougham of\nSheffield, notorious for poor judgment and worse temper. Mr. Roebuck\nhad been a tribune of the people, and, like tribunes of most other\npeoples, in growing old, had grown fatuous. He was regarded by the\nfriends of the Union as rather a comical personage--a favorite subject\nfor Punch to laugh at--with a bitter tongue and a mind enfeebled even\nmore than common by the political epidemic of egotism. In all England\nthey could have found no opponent better fitted to give away his own\ncase. No American man of business would have paid him attention; yet.\nthe Lairds, who certainly knew their own affairs best, let Roebuck\nrepresent them and take charge of their interests.\n\n  With Roebuck's doings, the private secretary had no concern\nexcept that the Minister sent him down to the House of Commons on June\n30, 1863, to report the result of Roebuck's motion to recognize the\nSouthern Confederacy. The Legation felt no anxiety, having Vicksburg\nalready in its pocket, and Bright and Forster to say so; but the\nprivate secretary went down and was admitted under the gallery on the\nleft, to listen, with great content, while John Bright, with\nastonishing force, caught and shook and tossed Roebuck, as a big\nmastiff shakes a wiry, ill-conditioned, toothless, bad-tempered\nYorkshire terrier. The private secretary felt an artistic sympathy with\nRoebuck, for, from time to time, by way of practice, Bright in a\nfriendly way was apt to shake him too, and he knew how it was done. The\nmanner counted for more than the words. The scene was interesting, but\nthe result was not in doubt.\n\n  All the more sharply he was excited, near the year 1879, in\nWashington, by hearing Lamar begin a story after dinner, which, little\nby little, became dramatic, recalling the scene in the House of\nCommons. The story, as well as one remembered, began with Lamar's\nfailure to reach St. Petersburg at all, and his consequent detention in\nParis waiting instructions. The motion to recognize the Confederacy was\nabout to be made, and, in prospect of the debate, Mr. Lindsay collected\na party at his villa on the Thames to bring the rebel agents into\nrelations with Roebuck. Lamar was sent for, and came. After much\nconversation of a general sort, such as is the usual object or resource\nof the English Sunday, finding himself alone with Roebuck, Lamar, by\nway of showing interest, bethought himself of John Bright and asked\nRoebuck whether he expected Bright to take part in the debate: \"No,\nsir!\" said Roebuck sententiously; \"Bright and I have met before. It was\nthe old story--the story of the sword-fish and the whale! NO, sir! Mr.\nBright will not cross swords with me again!\"\n\n  Thus assured, Lamar went with the more confidence to the House\non the appointed evening, and was placed under the gallery, on the\nright, where he listened to Roebuck and followed the debate with such\nenjoyment as an experienced debater feels in these contests, until, as\nhe said, he became aware that a man, with a singularly rich voice and\nimposing manner, had taken the floor, and was giving Roebuck the most\ndeliberate and tremendous pounding he ever witnessed, \"until at last,\"\nconcluded Lamar, \"it dawned on my mind that the sword-fish was getting\nthe worst of it.\"\n\n  Lamar told the story in the spirit of a joke against himself\nrather than against Roebuck; but such jokes must have been unpleasantly\ncommon in the experience of the rebel agents. They were surrounded by\ncranks of the worst English species, who distorted their natural\neccentricities and perverted their judgment. Roebuck may have been an\nextreme case, since he was actually in his dotage, yet this did not\nprevent the Lairds from accepting his lead, or the House from taking\nhim seriously. Extreme eccentricity was no bar, in England, to extreme\nconfidence; sometimes it seemed a recommendation; and unless it caused\nfinancial loss, it rather helped popularity.\n\n  The question whether British eccentricity was ever strength\nweighed heavily in the balance of education. That Roebuck should\nmislead the rebel agents on so strange a point as that of Bright's\ncourage was doubly characteristic because the Southern people\nthemselves had this same barbaric weakness of attributing want of\ncourage to opponents, and owed their ruin chiefly to such ignorance of\nthe world. Bright's courage was almost as irrational as that of the\nrebels themselves. Every one knew that he had the courage of a\nprize-fighter. He struck, in succession, pretty nearly every man in\nEngland that could be reached by a blow, and when he could not reach\nthe individual he struck the class, or when the class was too small for\nhim, the whole people of England. At times he had the whole country on\nhis back. He could not act on the defensive; his mind required attack.\nEven among friends at the dinner-table he talked as though he were\ndenouncing them, or someone else, on a platform; he measured his\nphrases, built his sentences, cumulated his effects, and pounded his\nopponents, real or imagined. His humor was glow, like iron at dull\nheat; his blow was elementary, like the thrash of a whale.\n\n  One day in early spring, March 26, 1863, the Minister requested\nhis private secretary to attend a Trades-Union Meeting at St. James's\nHall, which was the result of Professor Beesly's patient efforts to\nunite Bright and the Trades-Unions on an American platform. The\nsecretary went to the meeting and made a report which reposes somewhere\non file in the State Department to this day, as harmless as such\nreports should be; but it contained no mention of what interested young\nAdams most--Bright's psychology. With singular skill and oratorical\npower, Bright managed at the outset, in his opening paragraph, to\ninsult or outrage every class of Englishman commonly considered\nrespectable, and, for fear of any escaping, he insulted them repeatedly\nunder consecutive heads. The rhetorical effect was tremendous:--\n\n  \"Privilege thinks it has a great interest in the American\ncontest,\" he began in his massive, deliberate tones; \"and every morning\nwith blatant voice, it comes into our streets and curses the American\nRepublic. Privilege has beheld an afflicting spectacle for many years\npast. It has beheld thirty million of men happy and prosperous, without\nemperors--without king (cheers)--without the surroundings of a court\n(renewed cheers)--without nobles, except such as are made by eminence\nin intellect and virtue--without State bishops and State priests, those\nvendors of the love that works salvation (cheers)--without great armies\nand great navies--without a great debt and great taxes--and Privilege\nhas shuddered at what might happen to old Europe if this great\nexperiment should succeed.\"\n\n  An ingenious man, with an inventive mind, might have managed,\nin the same number of lines, to offend more Englishmen than Bright\nstruck in this sentence; but he must have betrayed artifice and hurt\nhis oratory. The audience cheered furiously, and the private secretary\nfelt peace in his much troubled mind, for he knew how careful the\nMinistry would be, once they saw Bright talk republican principles\nbefore Trades-Unions; but, while he did not, like Roebuck, see reason\nto doubt the courage of a man who, after quarrelling with the\nTrades-Unions, quarreled with all the world outside the Trades-Unions,\nhe did feel a doubt whether to class Bright as eccentric or\nconventional. Every one called Bright \"un-English,\" from Lord\nPalmerston to William E. Forster; but to an American he seemed more\nEnglish than any of his critics. He was a liberal hater, and what he\nhated he reviled after the manner of Milton, but he was afraid of no\none. He was almost the only man in England, or, for that matter, in\nEurope, who hated Palmerston and was not afraid of him, or of the press\nor the pulpit, the clubs or the bench, that stood behind him. He\nloathed the whole fabric of sham religion, sham loyalty, sham\naristocracy, and sham socialism. He had the British weakness of\nbelieving only in himself and his own conventions. In all this, an\nAmerican saw, if one may make the distinction, much racial\neccentricity, but little that was personal. Bright was singularly well\npoised; but he used singularly strong language.\n\n  Long afterwards, in 1880, Adams happened to be living again in\nLondon for a season, when James Russell Lowell was transferred there as\nMinister; and as Adams's relations with Lowell had become closer and\nmore intimate with years, he wanted the new Minister to know some of\nhis old friends. Bright was then in the Cabinet, and no longer the most\nradical member even there, but he was still a rare figure in society.\nHe came to dinner, along with Sir Francis Doyle and Sir Robert\nCunliffe, and as usual did most of the talking. As usual also, he\ntalked of the things most on his mind. Apparently it must have been\nsome reform of the criminal law which the Judges opposed, that excited\nhim, for at the end of dinner, over the wine, he took possession of the\ntable in his old way, and ended with a superb denunciation of the\nBench, spoken in his massive manner, as though every word were a\nhammer, smashing what it struck:--\n\n  \"For two hundred years, the Judges of England sat on the Bench,\ncondemning to the penalty of death every man, woman, and child who\nstole property to the value of five shillings; and, during all that\ntime, not one Judge ever remonstrated against the law. We English are a\nnation of brutes, and ought to be exterminated to the last man.\"\n\n  As the party rose from table and passed into the drawing-room,\nAdams said to Lowell that Bright was very fine. \"Yes!\" replied Lowell,\n\"but too violent!\"\n\n  Precisely this was the point that Adams doubted. Bright knew\nhis Englishmen better than Lowell did--better than England did. He knew\nwhat amount of violence in language was necessary to drive an idea into\na Lancashire or Yorkshire head. He knew that no violence was enough to\naffect a Somersetshire or Wiltshire peasant. Bright kept his own head\ncool and clear. He was not excited; he never betrayed excitement. As\nfor his denunciation of the English Bench, it was a very old story, not\noriginal with him. That the English were a nation of brutes was a\ncommonplace generally admitted by Englishmen and universally accepted\nby foreigners; while the matter of their extermination could be treated\nonly as unpractical, on their deserts, because they were probably not\nvery much worse than their neighbors. Had Bright said that the French,\nSpaniards, Germans, or Russians were a nation of brutes and ought to be\nexterminated, no one would have found fault; the whole human race,\naccording to the highest authority, has been exterminated once already\nfor the same reason, and only the rainbow protects them from a\nrepetition of it. What shocked Lowell was that he denounced his own\npeople.\n\n  Adams felt no moral obligation to defend Judges, who, as far as\nhe knew, were the only class of society specially adapted to defend\nthemselves; but he was curious--even anxious--as a point of education,\nto decide for himself whether Bright's language was violent for its\npurpose. He thought not. Perhaps Cobden did better by persuasion, but\nthat was another matter. Of course, even Englishmen sometimes\ncomplained of being so constantly told that they were brutes and\nhypocrites, although they were told little else by their censors, and\nbore it, on the whole, meekly; but the fact that it was true in the\nmain troubled the ten-pound voter much less than it troubled Newman,\nGladstone, Ruskin, Carlyle, and Matthew Arnold. Bright was personally\ndisliked by his victims, but not distrusted. They never doubted what he\nwould do next, as they did with John Russell, Gladstone, and Disraeli.\nHe betrayed no one, and he never advanced an opinion in practical\nmatters which did not prove to be practical.\n\n  The class of Englishmen who set out to be the intellectual\nopposites of Bright, seemed to an American bystander the weakest and\nmost eccentric of all. These were the trimmers, the political\neconomists, the anti-slavery and doctrinaire class, the followers of de\nTocqueville, and of John Stuart Mill. As a class, they were timid--with\ngood reason--and timidity, which is high wisdom in philosophy, sicklies\nthe whole cast of thought in action. Numbers of these men haunted\nLondon society, all tending to free-thinking, but never venturing much\nfreedom of thought. Like the anti-slavery doctrinaires of the forties\nand fifties, they became mute and useless when slavery struck them in\nthe face. For type of these eccentrics, literature seems to have chosen\nHenry Reeve, at least to the extent of biography. He was a bulky figure\nin society, always friendly, good-natured, obliging, and useful; almost\nas universal as Milnes and more busy. As editor of the Edinburgh Review\nhe had authority and even power, although the Review and the whole Whig\ndoctrinaire school had begun--as the French say--to date; and of course\nthe literary and artistic sharpshooters of 1867--like Frank\nPalgrave--frothed and foamed at the mere mention of Reeve's name.\nThree-fourths of their fury was due only to his ponderous manner.\nLondon society abused its rights of personal criticism by fixing on\nevery too conspicuous figure some word or phrase that stuck to it.\nEvery one had heard of Mrs. Grote as \"the origin of the word\ngrotesque.\" Every one had laughed at the story of Reeve approaching\nMrs. Grote, with his usual somewhat florid manner, asking in his\nliterary dialect how her husband the historian was: \"And how is the\nlearned Grotius?\" \"Pretty well, thank you, Puffendorf!\" One winced at\nthe word, as though it were a drawing of Forain.\n\n  No one would have been more shocked than Reeve had he been\ncharged with want of moral courage. He proved his courage afterwards by\npublishing the \"Greville Memoirs,\" braving the displeasure of the\nQueen. Yet the Edinburgh Review and its editor avoided taking sides\nexcept where sides were already fixed. Americanism would have been bad\nform in the liberal Edinburgh Review; it would have seemed eccentric\neven for a Scotchman, and Reeve was a Saxon of Saxons. To an American\nthis attitude of oscillating reserve seemed more eccentric than the\nreckless hostility of Brougham or Carlyle, and more mischievous, for he\nnever could be sure what preposterous commonplace it might encourage.\n\n  The sum of these experiences in 1863 left the conviction that\neccentricity was weakness. The young American who should adopt English\nthought was lost. From the facts, the conclusion was correct, yet, as\nusual, the conclusion was wrong. The years of Palmerston's last\nCabinet, 1859 to 1865, were avowedly years of truce--of arrested\ndevelopment. The British system like the French, was in its last stage\nof decomposition. Never had the British mind shown itself so\ndecousu--so unravelled, at sea, floundering in every sort of historical\nshipwreck. Eccentricities had a free field. Contradictions swarmed in\nState and Church. England devoted thirty years of arduous labor to\nclearing away only a part of the debris. A young American in 1863 could\nsee little or nothing of the future. He might dream, but he could not\nforetell, the suddenness with which the old Europe, with England in its\nwake, was to vanish in 1870. He was in dead-water, and the\nparti-colored, fantastic cranks swam about his boat, as though he were\nthe ancient mariner, and they saurians of the prime.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIII\n\nTHE PERFECTION OF HUMAN SOCIETY (1864)\n\n  MINISTER ADAMS'S success in stopping the rebel rams fixed his\nposition once for all in English society. From that moment he could\nafford to drop the character of diplomatist, and assume what, for an\nAmerican Minister in London, was an exclusive diplomatic advantage, the\ncharacter of a kind of American Peer of the Realm. The British never\ndid things by halves. Once they recognized a man's right to social\nprivileges, they accepted him as one of themselves. Much as Lord Derby\nand Mr. Disraeli were accepted as leaders of Her Majesty's domestic\nOpposition, Minister Adams had a rank of his own as a kind of leader of\nHer Majesty's American Opposition. Even the Times conceded it. The\nyears of struggle were over, and Minister Adams rapidly gained a\nposition which would have caused his father or grandfather to stare\nwith incredulous envy.\n\n  This Anglo-American form of diplomacy was chiefly undiplomatic,\nand had the peculiar effect of teaching a habit of diplomacy useless or\nmischievous everywhere but in London. Nowhere else in the world could\none expect to figure in a role so unprofessional. The young man knew no\nlonger what character he bore. Private secretary in the morning, son in\nthe afternoon, young man about town in the evening, the only character\nhe never bore was that of diplomatist, except when he wanted a card to\nsome great function. His diplomatic education was at an end; he seldom\nmet a diplomat, and never had business with one; he could be of no use\nto them, or they to him; but he drifted inevitably into society, and,\ndo what he might, his next education must be one of English social\nlife. Tossed between the horns of successive dilemmas, he reached his\ntwenty-sixth birthday without the power of earning five dollars in any\noccupation. His friends in the army were almost as badly off, but even\narmy life ruined a young man less fatally than London society. Had he\nbeen rich, this form of ruin would have mattered nothing; but the young\nmen of 1865 were none of them rich; all had to earn a living; yet they\nhad reached high positions of responsibility and power in camps and\nCourts, without a dollar of their own and with no tenure of office.\n\n  Henry Adams had failed to acquire any useful education; he\nshould at least have acquired social experience. Curiously enough, he\nfailed here also. From the European or English point of view, he had no\nsocial experience, and never got it. Minister Adams happened on a\npolitical interregnum owing to Lord Palmerston's personal influence\nfrom 1860 to 1865; but this political interregnum was less marked than\nthe social still-stand during the same years. The Prince Consort was\ndead; the Queen had retired; the Prince of Wales was still a boy. In\nits best days, Victorian society had never been \"smart.\" During the\nforties, under the influence of Louis Philippe, Courts affected to be\nsimple, serious and middle class; and they succeeded. The taste of\nLouis Philippe was bourgeois beyond any taste except that of Queen\nVictoria. Style lingered in the background with the powdered footman\nbehind the yellow chariot, but speaking socially the Queen had no style\nsave what she inherited. Balmoral was a startling revelation of royal\ntaste. Nothing could be worse than the toilettes at Court unless it\nwere the way they were worn. One's eyes might be dazzled by jewels, but\nthey were heirlooms, and if any lady appeared well dressed, she was\neither a foreigner or \"fast.\" Fashion was not fashionable in London\nuntil the Americans and the Jews were let loose. The style of London\ntoilette universal in 1864 was grotesque, like Monckton Milnes on\nhorseback in Rotten Row.\n\n  Society of this sort might fit a young man in some degree for\nediting Shakespeare or Swift, but had little relation with the society\nof 1870, and none with that of 1900. Owing to other causes, young Adams\nnever got the full training of such style as still existed. The\nembarrassments of his first few seasons socially ruined him. His own\nwant of experience prevented his asking introductions to the ladies who\nruled society; his want of friends prevented his knowing who these\nladies were; and he had every reason to expect snubbing if he put\nhimself in evidence. This sensitiveness was thrown away on English\nsociety, where men and women treated each others' advances much more\nbrutally than those of strangers, but young Adams was son and private\nsecretary too; he could not be as thick-skinned as an Englishman. He\nwas not alone. Every young diplomat, and most of the old ones, felt\nawkward in an English house from a certainty that they were not\nprecisely wanted there, and a possibility that they might be told so.\n\n  If there was in those days a country house in England which had\na right to call itself broad in views and large in tastes, it was\nBretton in Yorkshire; and if there was a hostess who had a right to\nconsider herself fashionable as well as charming, it was Lady Margaret\nBeaumont; yet one morning at breakfast there, sitting by her side--not\nfor his own merits--Henry Adams heard her say to herself in her languid\nand liberal way, with her rich voice and musing manner, looking into\nher tea-cup: \"I don't think I care for foreigners!\" Horror-stricken,\nnot so much on his own account as on hers, the young man could only\nexecute himself as gaily as he might: \"But Lady Margaret, please make\none small exception for me!\" Of course she replied what was evident,\nthat she did not call him a foreigner, and her genial Irish charm made\nthe slip of tongue a happy courtesy; but none the less she knew that,\nexcept for his momentary personal introduction, he was in fact a\nforeigner, and there was no imaginable reason why she should like him,\nor any other foreigner, unless it were because she was bored by\nnatives. She seemed to feel that her indifference needed a reason to\nexcuse itself in her own eyes, and she showed the subconscious sympathy\nof the Irish nature which never feels itself perfectly at home even in\nEngland. She, too, was some shadowy shade un-English.\n\n  Always conscious of this barrier, while the war lasted the\nprivate secretary hid himself among the herd of foreigners till he\nfound his relations fixed and unchangeable. He never felt himself in\nsociety, and he never knew definitely what was meant as society by\nthose who were in it. He saw far enough to note a score of societies\nwhich seemed quite independent of each other. The smartest was the\nsmallest, and to him almost wholly strange. The largest was the\nsporting world, also unknown to him except through the talk of his\nacquaintances. Between or beyond these lay groups of nebulous\nsocieties. His lawyer friends, like Evarts, frequented legal circles\nwhere one still sat over the wine and told anecdotes of the bench and\nbar; but he himself never set eyes on a judge except when his father\ntook him to call on old Lord Lyndhurst, where they found old Lord\nCampbell, both abusing old Lord Brougham. The Church and the Bishops\nformed several societies which no secretary ever saw except as an\ninterloper. The Army; the Navy; the Indian Service; the medical and\nsurgical professions; City people; artists; county families; the\nScotch, and indefinite other subdivisions of society existed, which\nwere as strange to each other as they were to Adams. At the end of\neight or ten seasons in London society he professed to know less about\nit, or how to enter it, than he did when he made his first appearance\nat Miss Burdett Coutts's in May, 1861.\n\n  Sooner or later every young man dropped into a set or circle,\nand frequented the few houses that were willing to harbor him. An\nAmerican who neither hunted nor raced, neither shot nor fished nor\ngambled, and was not marriageable, had no need to think of society at\nlarge. Ninety-nine houses in every hundred were useless to him, a\ngreater bore to him than he to them. Thus the question of getting\ninto--or getting out of--society which troubled young foreigners\ngreatly, settled itself after three or four years of painful\nspeculation. Society had no unity; one wandered about in it like a\nmaggot in cheese; it was not a hansom cab, to be got into, or out of,\nat dinner-time.\n\n  Therefore he always professed himself ignorant of society; he\nnever knew whether he had been in it or not, but from the accounts of\nhis future friends, like General Dick Taylor or George Smalley, and of\nvarious ladies who reigned in the seventies, he inclined to think that\nhe knew very little about it. Certain great houses and certain great\nfunctions of course he attended, like every one else who could get\ncards, but even of these the number was small that kept an interest or\nhelped education. In seven years he could remember only two that seemed\nto have any meaning for him, and he never knew what that meaning was.\nNeither of the two was official; neither was English in interest; and\nboth were scandals to the philosopher while they scarcely enlightened\nmen of the world.\n\n  One was at Devonshire House, an ordinary, unpremeditated\nevening reception. Naturally every one went to Devonshire House if\nasked, and the rooms that night were fairly full of the usual people.\nThe private secretary was standing among the rest, when Mme. de\nCastiglione entered, the famous beauty of the Second Empire. How\nbeautiful she may have been, or indeed what sort of beauty she was,\nAdams never knew, because the company, consisting of the most refined\nand aristocratic society in the world, instantly formed a lane, and\nstood in ranks to stare at her, while those behind mounted on chairs to\nlook over their neighbors' heads; so that the lady walked through this\npolite mob, stared completely out of countenance, and fled the house at\nonce. This was all!\n\n  The other strange spectacle was at Stafford House, April 13,\n1864, when, in a palace gallery that recalled Paolo Veronese's pictures\nof Christ in his scenes of miracle, Garibaldi, in his gray capote over\nhis red shirt, received all London, and three duchesses literally\nworshipped at his feet. Here, at all events, a private secretary had\nsurely caught the last and highest touch of social experience; but what\nit meant--what social, moral, or mental development it pointed out to\nthe searcher of truth--was not a matter to be treated fully by a leader\nin the Morning Post or even by a sermon in Westminster Abbey. Mme. de\nCastiglione and Garibaldi covered, between them, too much space for\nsimple measurement; their curves were too complex for mere arithmetic.\nThe task of bringing the two into any common relation with an ordered\nsocial system tending to orderly development--in London or\nelsewhere--was well fitted for Algernon Swinburne or Victor Hugo, but\nwas beyond any process yet reached by the education of Henry Adams, who\nwould probably, even then, have rejected, as superficial or\nsupernatural, all the views taken by any of the company who looked on\nwith him at these two interesting and perplexing sights.\n\n  From the Court, or Court society, a mere private secretary got\nnothing at all, or next to nothing, that could help him on his road\nthrough life. Royalty was in abeyance. One was tempted to think in\nthese years, 1860-65, that the nicest distinction between the very best\nsociety and the second-best, was their attitude towards royalty. The\none regarded royalty as a bore, and avoided it, or quietly said that\nthe Queen had never been in society. The same thing might have been\nsaid of fully half the peerage. Adams never knew even the names of half\nthe rest; he never exchanged ten words with any member of the royal\nfamily; he never knew any one in those years who showed interest in any\nmember of the royal family, or who would have given five shillings for\nthe opinion of any royal person on any subject; or cared to enter any\nroyal or noble presence, unless the house was made attractive by as\nmuch social effort as would have been necessary in other countries\nwhere no rank existed. No doubt, as one of a swarm, young Adams\nslightly knew various gilded youth who frequented balls and led such\ndancing as was most in vogue, but they seemed to set no value on rank;\ntheir anxiety was only to know where to find the best partners before\nmidnight, and the best supper after midnight. To the American, as to\nArthur Pendennis or Barnes Newcome, the value of social position and\nknowledge was evident enough; he valued it at rather more than it was\nworth to him; but it was a shadowy thing which seemed to vary with\nevery street corner; a thing which had shifting standards, and which no\none could catch outright. The half-dozen leaders and beauties of his\ntime, with great names and of the utmost fashion, made some of the\npoorest marriages, and the least showy careers.\n\n  Tired of looking on at society from the outside, Adams grew to\nloathe the sight of his Court dress; to groan at every announcement of\na Court ball; and to dread every invitation to a formal dinner. The\ngreatest social event gave not half the pleasure that one could buy for\nten shillings at the opera when Patti sang Cherubino or Gretchen, and\nnot a fourth of the education. Yet this was not the opinion of the best\njudges. Lothrop Motley, who stood among the very best, said to him\nearly in his apprenticeship that the London dinner and the English\ncountry house were the perfection of human society. The young man\nmeditated over it, uncertain of its meaning. Motley could not have\nthought the dinner itself perfect, since there was not then--outside of\na few bankers or foreigners--a good cook or a good table in London, and\nnine out of ten of the dinners that Motley ate came from Gunter's, and\nall were alike. Every one, especially in young society, complained\nbitterly that Englishmen did not know a good dinner when they ate it,\nand could not order one if they were given carte blanche. Henry Adams\nwas not a judge, and knew no more than they, but he heard the\ncomplaints, and he could not think that Motley meant to praise the\nEnglish cuisine.\n\n  Equally little could Motley have meant that dinners were good\nto look at. Nothing could be worse than the toilettes; nothing less\nartistic than the appearance of the company. One's eyes might be\ndazzled by family diamonds, but, if an American woman were present, she\nwas sure to make comments about the way the jewels were worn. If there\nwas a well-dressed lady at table, she was either an American or \"fast.\"\nShe attracted as much notice as though she were on the stage. No one\ncould possibly admire an English dinner-table.\n\n  Least of all did Motley mean that the taste or the manners were\nperfect. The manners of English society were notorious, and the taste\nwas worse. Without exception every American woman rose in rebellion\nagainst English manners. In fact, the charm of London which made most\nimpression on Americans was the violence of its contrasts; the extreme\nbadness of the worst, making background for the distinction,\nrefinement, or wit of a few, just as the extreme beauty of a few superb\nwomen was more effective against the plainness of the crowd. The result\nwas mediaeval, and amusing; sometimes coarse to a degree that might\nhave startled a roustabout, and sometimes courteous and considerate to\na degree that suggested King Arthur's Round Table; but this artistic\ncontrast was surely not the perfection that Motley had in his mind. He\nmeant something scholarly, worldly, and modern; he was thinking of his\nown tastes.\n\n  Probably he meant that, in his favorite houses, the tone was\neasy, the talk was good, and the standard of scholarship was high. Even\nthere he would have been forced to qualify his adjectives. No German\nwould have admitted that English scholarship was high, or that it was\nscholarship at all, or that any wish for scholarship existed in\nEngland. Nothing that seemed to smell of the shop or of the\nlecture-room was wanted. One might as well have talked of Renan's\nChrist at the table of the Bishop of London, as talk of German\nphilology at the table of an Oxford don. Society, if a small literary\nclass could be called society, wanted to be amused in its old way.\nSydney Smith, who had amused, was dead; so was Macaulay, who instructed\nif he did not amuse; Thackeray died at Christmas, 1863; Dickens never\nfelt at home, and seldom appeared, in society; Bulwer Lytton was not\nsprightly; Tennyson detested strangers; Carlyle was mostly detested by\nthem; Darwin never came to town; the men of whom Motley must have been\nthinking were such as he might meet at Lord Houghton's breakfasts:\nGrote, Jowett, Milman, or Froude; Browning, Matthew Arnold, or\nSwinburne; Bishop Wilberforce, Venables, or Hayward; or perhaps\nGladstone, Robert Lowe, or Lord Granville. A relatively small class,\ncommonly isolated, suppressed, and lost at the usual London dinner,\nsuch society as this was fairly familiar even to a private secretary,\nbut to the literary American it might well seem perfection since he\ncould find nothing of the sort in America. Within the narrow limits of\nthis class, the American Legation was fairly at home; possibly a score\nof houses, all liberal, and all literary, but perfect only in the eyes\nof a Harvard College historian. They could teach little worth learning,\nfor their tastes were antiquated and their knowledge was ignorance to\nthe next generation. What was altogether fatal for future purposes,\nthey were only English.\n\n  A social education in such a medium was bound to be useless in\nany other, yet Adams had to learn it to the bottom. The one thing\nneedful for a private secretary, was that he should not only seem, but\nshould actually be, at home. He studied carefully, and practised\npainfully, what seemed to be the favorite accomplishments of society.\nPerhaps his nervousness deceived him; perhaps he took for an ideal of\nothers what was only his reflected image; but he conceived that the\nperfection of human society required that a man should enter a\ndrawing-room where he was a total stranger, and place himself on the\nhearth-rug, his back to the fire, with an air of expectant benevolence,\nwithout curiosity, much as though he had dropped in at a charity\nconcert, kindly disposed to applaud the performers and to overlook\nmistakes. This ideal rarely succeeded in youth, and towards thirty it\ntook a form of modified insolence and offensive patronage; but about\nsixty it mellowed into courtesy, kindliness, and even deference to the\nyoung which had extraordinary charm both in women and in men.\nUnfortunately Adams could not wait till sixty for education; he had his\nliving to earn; and the English air of patronage would earn no income\nfor him anywhere else.\n\n  After five or six years of constant practice, any one can\nacquire the habit of going from one strange company to another without\nthinking much of one's self or of them, as though silently reflecting\nthat \"in a world where we are all insects, no insect is alien; perhaps\nthey are human in parts\"; but the dreamy habit of mind which comes from\nsolitude in crowds is not fitness for social success except in London.\nEverywhere else it is injury. England was a social kingdom whose social\ncoinage had no currency elsewhere.\n\n  Englishwomen, from the educational point of view, could give\nnothing until they approached forty years old. Then they become very\ninteresting--very charming--to the man of fifty. The young American was\nnot worth the young Englishwoman's notice, and never received it.\nNeither understood the other. Only in the domestic relation, in the\ncountry--never in society at large--a young American might accidentally\nmake friends with an Englishwoman of his own age, but it never happened\nto Henry Adams. His susceptible nature was left to the mercy of\nAmerican girls, which was professional duty rather than education as\nlong as diplomacy held its own.\n\n  Thus he found himself launched on waters where he had never\nmeant to sail, and floating along a stream which carried him far from\nhis port. His third season in London society saw the end of his\ndiplomatic education, and began for him the social life of a young man\nwho felt at home in England--more at home there than anywhere else.\nWith this feeling, the mere habit of going to garden-parties, dinners,\nreceptions, and balls had nothing to do. One might go to scores without\na sensation of home. One might stay in no end of country houses without\nforgetting that one was a total stranger and could never be anything\nelse. One might bow to half the dukes and duchesses in England, and\nfeel only the more strange. Hundreds of persons might pass with a nod\nand never come nearer. Close relation in a place like London is a\npersonal mystery as profound as chemical affinity. Thousands pass, and\none separates himself from the mass to attach himself to another, and\nso make, little by little, a group.\n\n  One morning, April 27, 1863, he was asked to breakfast with Sir\nHenry Holland, the old Court physician who had been acquainted with\nevery American Minister since Edward Everett, and was a valuable social\nally, who had the courage to try to be of use to everybody, and who,\nwhile asking the private secretary to breakfast one day, was too\ndiscreet to betray what he might have learned about rebel doings at his\nbreakfast-table the day before. He had been friendly with the Legation,\nin the teeth of society, and was still bearing up against the weight of\nopinion, so that young Adams could not decline his invitations,\nalthough they obliged him to breakfast in Brook Street at nine o'clock\nin the morning, alternately with Mr. James M. Mason. Old Dr. Holland\nwas himself as hale as a hawk, driving all day bare-headed about\nLondon, and eating Welsh rarebit every night before bed; he thought\nthat any young man should be pleased to take his early muffin in Brook\nStreet, and supply a few crumbs of war news for the daily peckings of\neminent patients. Meekly, when summoned, the private secretary went,\nand on reaching the front door, this particular morning, he found there\nanother young man in the act of rapping the knocker. They entered the\nbreakfastroom together, where they were introduced to each other, and\nAdams learned that the other guest was a Cambridge undergraduate,\nCharles Milnes Gaskell, son of James Milnes Gaskell, the Member for\nWenlock; another of the Yorkshire Milneses, from Thornes near\nWakefield. Fate had fixed Adams to Yorkshire. By another chance it\nhappened that young Milnes Gaskell was intimate at Cambridge with\nWilliam Everett who was also about to take his degree. A third chance\ninspired Mr. Evarts with a fancy for visiting Cambridge, and led\nWilliam Everett to offer his services as host. Adams acted as courier\nto Mr. Evarts, and at the end of May they went down for a few days,\nwhen William Everett did the honors as host with a kindness and\nattention that made his cousin sorely conscious of his own social\nshortcomings. Cambridge was pretty, and the dons were kind. Mr. Evarts\nenjoyed his visit but this was merely a part of the private secretary's\nday's work. What affected his whole life was the intimacy then begun\nwith Milnes Gaskell and his circle of undergraduate friends, just about\nto enter the world.\n\n  Intimates are predestined. Adams met in England a thousand\npeople, great and small; jostled against every one, from royal princes\nto gin-shop loafers; attended endless official functions and private\nparties; visited every part of the United Kingdom and was not quite a\nstranger at the Legations in Paris and Rome; he knew the societies of\ncertain country houses, and acquired habits of Sunday-afternoon calls;\nbut all this gave him nothing to do, and was life wasted. For him\nnothing whatever could be gained by escorting American ladies to\ndrawing-rooms or American gentlemen to levees at St. James's Palace, or\nbowing solemnly to people with great titles, at Court balls, or even by\nawkwardly jostling royalty at garden-parties; all this was done for the\nGovernment, and neither President Lincoln nor Secretary Seward would\never know enough of their business to thank him for doing what they did\nnot know how to get properly done by their own servants; but for Henry\nAdams--not private secretary--all the time taken up by such duties was\nwasted. On the other hand, his few personal intimacies concerned him\nalone, and the chance that made him almost a Yorkshireman was one that\nmust have started under the Heptarchy.\n\n  More than any other county in England, Yorkshire retained a\nsort of social independence of London. Scotland itself was hardly more\ndistinct. The Yorkshire type had always been the strongest of the\nBritish strains; the Norwegian and the Dane were a different race from\nthe Saxon. Even Lancashire had not the mass and the cultivation of the\nWest Riding. London could never quite absorb Yorkshire, which, in its\nturn had no great love for London and freely showed it. To a certain\ndegree, evident enough to Yorkshiremen, Yorkshire was not English--or\nwas all England, as they might choose to express it. This must have\nbeen the reason why young Adams was drawn there rather than elsewhere.\nMonckton Milnes alone took the trouble to draw him, and possibly Milnes\nwas the only man in England with whom Henry Adams, at that moment, had\na chance of calling out such an un-English effort. Neither Oxford nor\nCambridge nor any region south of the Humber contained a considerable\nhouse where a young American would have been sought as a friend.\nEccentricity alone did not account for it. Monckton Milnes was a\nsingular type, but his distant cousin, James Milnes Gaskell, was\nanother, quite as marked, in an opposite sense. Milnes never seemed\nwilling to rest; Milnes Gaskell never seemed willing to move. In his\nyouth one of a very famous group--Arthur Hallam, Tennyson, Manning,\nGladstone, Francis Doyle--and regarded as one of the most promising; an\nadorer of George Canning; in Parliament since coming of age; married\ninto the powerful connection of the Wynns of Wynstay; rich according to\nYorkshire standards; intimate with his political leaders; he was one of\nthe numerous Englishmen who refuse office rather than make the effort\nof carrying it, and want power only to make it a source of indolence.\nHe was a voracious reader and an admirable critic; he had forty years\nof parliamentary tradition on his memory; he liked to talk and to\nlisten; he liked his dinner and, in spite of George Canning, his dry\nchampagne; he liked wit and anecdote; but he belonged to the generation\nof 1830, a generation which could not survive the telegraph and\nrailway, and which even Yorkshire could hardly produce again. To an\nAmerican he was a character even more unusual and more fascinating than\nhis distant cousin Lord Houghton.\n\n  Mr. Milnes Gaskell was kind to the young American whom his son\nbrought to the house, and Mrs. Milnes Gaskell was kinder, for she\nthought the American perhaps a less dangerous friend than some\nEnglishman might be, for her son, and she was probably right. The\nAmerican had the sense to see that she was herself one of the most\nintelligent and sympathetic women in England; her sister, Miss\nCharlotte Wynn, was another; and both were of an age and a position in\nsociety that made their friendship a compliment as well as a pleasure.\nTheir consent and approval settled the matter. In England, the family\nis a serious fact; once admitted to it, one is there for life. London\nmight utterly vanish from one's horizon, but as long as life lasted,\nYorkshire lived for its friends.\n\n  In the year 1857, Mr. James Milnes Gaskell, who had sat for\nthirty years in Parliament as one of the Members for the borough of\nWenlock in Shropshire, bought Wenlock Abbey and the estate that\nincluded the old monastic buildings. This new, or old, plaything amused\nMrs. Milnes Gaskell. The Prior's house, a charming specimen of\nfifteenth-century architecture, had been long left to decay as a\nfarmhouse. She put it in order, and went there to spend a part of the\nautumn of 1864. Young Adams was one of her first guests, and drove\nabout Wenlock Edge and the Wrekin with her, learning the loveliness of\nthis exquisite country, and its stores of curious antiquity. It was a\nnew and charming existence; an experience greatly to be envied--ideal\nrepose and rural Shakespearian peace--but a few years of it were likely\nto complete his education, and fit him to act a fairly useful part in\nlife as an Englishman, an ecclesiastic, and a contemporary of Chaucer.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIV\n\nDILETTANTISM (1865-1866)\n\n  THE campaign of 1864 and the reelection of Mr. Lincoln in\nNovember set the American Minister on so firm a footing that he could\nsafely regard his own anxieties as over, and the anxieties of Earl\nRussell and the Emperor Napoleon as begun. With a few months more his\nown term of four years would come to an end, and even though the\nquestions still under discussion with England should somewhat prolong\nhis stay, he might look forward with some confidence to his return home\nin 1865. His son no longer fretted. The time for going into the army\nhad passed. If he were to be useful at all, it must be as a son, and as\na son he was treated with the widest indulgence and trust. He knew that\nhe was doing himself no good by staying in London, but thus far in life\nhe had done himself no good anywhere, and reached his twenty-seventh\nbirthday without having advanced a step, that he could see, beyond his\ntwenty-first. For the most part, his friends were worse off than he.\nThe war was about to end and they were to be set adrift in a world they\nwould find altogether strange.\n\n  At this point, as though to cut the last thread of relation,\nsix months were suddenly dropped out of his life in England. The London\nclimate had told on some of the family; the physicians prescribed a\nwinter in Italy. Of course the private secretary was detached as their\nescort, since this was one of his professional functions; and he passed\nsix months, gaining an education as Italian courier, while the Civil\nWar came to its end. As far as other education went, he got none, but\nhe was amused. Travelling in all possible luxury, at some one else's\nexpense, with diplomatic privileges and position, was a form of travel\nhitherto untried. The Cornice in vettura was delightful; Sorrento in\nwinter offered hills to climb and grottoes to explore, and Naples near\nby to visit; Rome at Easter was an experience necessary for the\neducation of every properly trained private secretary; the journey\nnorth by vettura through Perugia and Sienna was a dream; the Splugen\nPass, if not equal to the Stelvio, was worth seeing; Paris had always\nsomething to show. The chances of accidental education were not so\ngreat as they had been, since one's field of experience had grown\nlarge; but perhaps a season at Baden Baden in these later days of its\nbrilliancy offered some chances of instruction, if it were only the\nsight of fashionable Europe and America on the race-course watching the\nDuke of Hamilton, in the middle, improving his social advantages by the\nconversation of Cora Pearl.\n\n  The assassination of President Lincoln fell on the party while\nthey were at Rome, where it seemed singularly fitting to that nursery\nof murderers and murdered, as though America were also getting\neducated. Again one went to meditate on the steps of the Santa Maria in\nAra Coeli, but the lesson seemed as shallow as before. Nothing\nhappened. The travellers changed no plan or movement. The Minister did\nnot recall them to London. The season was over before they returned;\nand when the private secretary sat down again at his desk in Portland\nPlace before a mass of copy in arrears, he saw before him a world so\nchanged as to be beyond connection with the past. His identity, if one\ncould call a bundle of disconnected memories an identity, seemed to\nremain; but his life was once more broken into separate pieces; he was\na spider and had to spin a new web in some new place with a new\nattachment.\n\n  All his American friends and contemporaries who were still\nalive looked singularly commonplace without uniforms, and hastened to\nget married and retire into back streets and suburbs until they could\nfind employment. Minister Adams, too, was going home \"next fall,\" and\nwhen the fall came, he was going home \"next spring,\" and when the\nspring came, President Andrew Johnson was at loggerheads with the\nSenate, and found it best to keep things unchanged. After the usual\nmanner of public servants who had acquired the habit of office and lost\nthe faculty of will, the members of the Legation in London continued\nthe daily routine of English society, which, after becoming a habit,\nthreatened to become a vice. Had Henry Adams shared a single taste with\nthe young Englishmen of his time, he would have been lost; but the\ncustom of pounding up and down Rotten Row every day, on a hack, was not\na taste, and yet was all the sport he shared. Evidently he must set to\nwork; he must get a new education; he must begin a career of his own.\n\n  Nothing was easier to say, but even his father admitted two\ncareers to be closed. For the law, diplomacy had unfitted him; for\ndiplomacy he already knew too much. Any one who had held, during the\nfour most difficult years of American diplomacy, a position at the\ncentre of action, with his hands actually touching the lever of power,\ncould not beg a post of Secretary at Vienna or Madrid in order to bore\nhimself doing nothing until the next President should do him the honor\nto turn him out. For once all his advisers agreed that diplomacy was\nnot possible.\n\n  In any ordinary system he would have been called back to serve\nin the State Department, but, between the President and the Senate,\nservice of any sort became a delusion. The choice of career was more\ndifficult than the education which had proved impracticable. Adams saw\nno road; in fact there was none. All his friends were trying one path\nor another, but none went a way that he could have taken. John Hay\npassed through London in order to bury himself in second-rate Legations\nfor years, before he drifted home again to join Whitelaw Reid and\nGeorge Smalley on the Tribune. Frank Barlow and Frank Bartlett carried\nMajor-Generals' commissions into small law business. Miles stayed in\nthe army. Henry Higginson, after a desperate struggle, was forced into\nState Street; Charles Adams wandered about, with brevet-brigadier rank,\ntrying to find employment. Scores of others tried experiments more or\nless unsuccessful. Henry Adams could see easy ways of making a hundred\nblunders; he could see no likely way of making a legitimate success.\nSuch as it was, his so-called education was wanted nowhere.\n\n  One profession alone seemed possible--the press. In 1860 he\nwould have said that he was born to be an editor, like at least a\nthousand other young graduates from American colleges who entered the\nworld every year enjoying the same conviction; but in 1866 the\nsituation was altered; the possession of money had become doubly\nneedful for success, and double energy was essential to get money.\nAmerica had more than doubled her scale. Yet the press was still the\nlast resource of the educated poor who could not be artists and would\nnot be tutors. Any man who was fit for nothing else could write an\neditorial or a criticism. The enormous mass of misinformation\naccumulated in ten years of nomad life could always be worked off on a\nhelpless public, in diluted doses, if one could but secure a table in\nthe corner of a newspaper office. The press was an inferior pulpit; an\nanonymous schoolmaster; a cheap boarding-school but it was still the\nnearest approach to a career for the literary survivor of a wrecked\neducation. For the press, then, Henry Adams decided to fit himself, and\nsince he could not go home to get practical training, he set to work to\ndo what he could in London.\n\n  He knew, as well as any reporter on the New York Herald, that\nthis was not an American way of beginning, and he knew a certain number\nof other drawbacks which the reporter could not see so clearly. Do what\nhe might, he drew breath only in the atmosphere of English methods and\nthoughts; he could breathe none other. His mother--who should have been\na competent judge, since her success and popularity in England exceeded\nthat of her husband--averred that every woman who lived a certain time\nin England came to look and dress like an Englishwoman, no matter how\nshe struggled. Henry Adams felt himself catching an English tone of\nmind and processes of thought, though at heart more hostile to them\nthan ever. As though to make him more helpless and wholly distort his\nlife, England grew more and more agreeable and amusing. Minister Adams\nbecame, in 1866, almost a historical monument in London; he held a\nposition altogether his own. His old opponents disappeared. Lord\nPalmerston died in October, 1865; Lord Russell tottered on six months\nlonger, but then vanished from power; and in July, 1866, the\nconservatives came into office. Traditionally the Tories were easier to\ndeal with than the Whigs, and Minister Adams had no reason to regret\nthe change. His personal relations were excellent and his personal\nweight increased year by year. On that score the private secretary had\nno cares, and not much copy. His own position was modest, but it was\nenough; the life he led was agreeable; his friends were all he wanted,\nand, except that he was at the mercy of politics, he felt much at ease.\nOf his daily life he had only to reckon so many breakfasts; so many\ndinners; so many receptions, balls, theatres, and country-parties; so\nmany cards to be left; so many Americans to be escorted--the usual\nroutine of every young American in a Legation; all counting for nothing\nin sum, because, even if it had been his official duty--which it was\nnot--it was mere routine, a single, continuous, unbroken act, which led\nto nothing and nowhere except Portland Place and the grave.\n\n  The path that led somewhere was the English habit of mind which\ndeepened its ruts every day. The English mind was like the London\ndrawing-room, a comfortable and easy spot, filled with bits and\nfragments of incoherent furnitures, which were never meant to go\ntogether, and could be arranged in any relation without making a whole,\nexcept by the square room. Philosophy might dispute about innate ideas\ntill the stars died out in the sky, but about innate tastes no one,\nexcept perhaps a collie dog, has the right to doubt; least of all, the\nEnglishman, for his tastes are his being; he drifts after them as\nunconsciously as a honey-bee drifts after his flowers, and, in England,\nevery one must drift with him. Most young Englishmen drifted to the\nrace-course or the moors or the hunting-field; a few towards books; one\nor two followed some form of science; and a number took to what, for\nwant of a better name, they called Art. Young Adams inherited a certain\ntaste for the same pursuit from his father who insisted that he had it\nnot, because he could not see what his son thought he saw in Turner.\nThe Minister, on the other hand, carried a sort of aesthetic rag-bag of\nhis own, which he regarded as amusement, and never called art. So he\nwould wander off on a Sunday to attend service successively in all the\ncity churches built by Sir Christopher Wren; or he would disappear from\nthe Legation day after day to attend coin sales at Sotheby's, where his\nson attended alternate sales of drawings, engravings, or water-colors.\nNeither knew enough to talk much about the other's tastes, but the only\ndifference between them was a slight difference of direction. The\nMinister's mind like his writings showed a correctness of form and line\nthat his son would have been well pleased had he inherited.\n\n  Of all supposed English tastes, that of art was the most\nalluring and treacherous. Once drawn into it, one had small chance of\nescape, for it had no centre or circumference, no beginning, middle, or\nend, no origin, no object, and no conceivable result as education. In\nLondon one met no corrective. The only American who came by, capable of\nteaching, was William Hunt, who stopped to paint the portrait of the\nMinister which now completes the family series at Harvard College. Hunt\ntalked constantly, and was, or afterwards became, a famous teacher, but\nHenry Adams did not know enough to learn. Perhaps, too, he had\ninherited or acquired a stock of tastes, as young men must, which he\nwas slow to outgrow. Hunt had no time to sweep out the rubbish of\nAdams's mind. The portrait finished, he went.\n\n  As often as he could, Adams ran over to Paris, for sunshine,\nand there always sought out Richardson in his attic in the Rue du Bac,\nor wherever he lived, and they went off to dine at the Palais Royal,\nand talk of whatever interested the students of the Beaux Arts.\nRichardson, too, had much to say, but had not yet seized his style.\nAdams caught very little of what lay in his mind, and the less,\nbecause, to Adams, everything French was bad except the restaurants,\nwhile the continuous life in England made French art seem worst of all.\nThis did not prove that English art, in 1866, was good; far from it;\nbut it helped to make bric-a-brac of all art, after the manner of\nEngland.\n\n  Not in the Legation, or in London, but in Yorkshire at Thornes,\nAdams met the man that pushed him furthest in this English garden of\ninnate disorder called taste. The older daughter of the Milnes Gaskells\nhad married Francis Turner Palgrave. Few Americans will ever ask\nwhether any one has described the Palgraves, but the family was one of\nthe most describable in all England at that day. Old Sir Francis, the\nfather, had been much the greatest of all the historians of early\nEngland, the only one who was un-English; and the reason of his\nsuperiority lay in his name, which was Cohen, and his mind which was\nCohen also, or at least not English. He changed his name to Palgrave in\norder to please his wife. They had a band of remarkable sons: Francis\nTurner, Gifford, Reginald, Inglis; all of whom made their mark. Gifford\nwas perhaps the most eccentric, but his \"Travels\" in Arabia were\nfamous, even among the famous travels of that generation. Francis\nTurner--or, as he was commonly called, Frank Palgrave--unable to work\noff his restlessness in travel like Gifford, and stifled in the\natmosphere of the Board of Education, became a critic. His art\ncriticisms helped to make the Saturday Review a terror to the British\nartist. His literary taste, condensed into the \"Golden Treasury,\"\nhelped Adams to more literary education than he ever got from any taste\nof his own. Palgrave himself held rank as one of the minor poets; his\nhymns had vogue. As an art-critic he was too ferocious to be liked;\neven Holman Hunt found his temper humorous; among many rivals, he may\nperhaps have had a right to claim the much-disputed rank of being the\nmost unpopular man in London; but he liked to teach, and asked only for\na docile pupil. Adams was docile enough, for he knew nothing and liked\nto listen. Indeed, he had to listen, whether he liked or not, for\nPalgrave's voice was strident, and nothing could stop him. Literature,\npainting, sculpture, architecture were open fields for his attacks,\nwhich were always intelligent if not always kind, and when these\nfailed, he readily descended to meaner levels. John Richard Green, who\nwas Palgrave's precise opposite, and whose Irish charm of touch and\nhumor defended him from most assaults, used to tell with delight of\nPalgrave's call on him just after he had moved into his new Queen Anne\nhouse in Kensington Square: \"Palgrave called yesterday, and the first\nthing he said was, 'I've counted three anachronisms on your front\ndoorstep.'\"\n\n  Another savage critic, also a poet, was Thomas Woolner, a type\nalmost more emphatic than Palgrave in a society which resounded with\nemphasis. Woolner's sculpture showed none of the rough assertion that\nWoolner himself showed, when he was not making supernatural effort to\nbe courteous, but his busts were remarkable, and his work altogether\nwas, in Palgrave's clamorous opinion, the best of his day. He took the\nmatter of British art--or want of art--seriously, almost ferociously,\nas a personal grievance and torture; at times he was rather terrifying\nin the anarchistic wrath of his denunciation. As Henry Adams felt no\nresponsibility for English art, and had no American art to offer for\nsacrifice, he listened with enjoyment to language much like Carlyle's,\nand accepted it without a qualm. On the other hand, as a third member\nof this critical group, he fell in with Stopford Brooke whose tastes\nlay in the same direction, and whose expression was modified by\nclerical propriety. Among these men, one wandered off into paths of\neducation much too devious and slippery for an American foot to follow.\nHe would have done better to go on the race-track, as far as concerned\na career.\n\n  Fortunately for him he knew too little ever to be an\nart-critic, still less an artist. For some things ignorance is good,\nand art is one of them. He knew he knew nothing, and had not the\ntrained eye or the keen instinct that trusted itself; but he was\ncurious, as he went on, to find out how much others knew. He took\nPalgrave's word as final about a drawing of Rembrandt or Michael\nAngelo, and he trusted Woolner implicitly about a Turner; but when he\nquoted their authority to any dealer, the dealer pooh-poohed it, and\ndeclared that it had no weight in the trade. If he went to a sale of\ndrawings or paintings, at Sotheby's or Christie's, an hour afterwards,\nhe saw these same dealers watching Palgrave or Woolner for a point, and\nbidding over them. He rarely found two dealers agree in judgment. He\nonce bought a water-color from the artist himself out of his studio,\nand had it doubted an hour afterwards by the dealer to whose place he\ntook it for framing. He was reduced to admit that he could not prove its\nauthenticity; internal evidence was against it.\n\n  One morning in early July, 1867, Palgrave stopped at the\nLegation in Portland Place on his way downtown, and offered to take\nAdams to Sotheby's, where a small collection of old drawings was on\nshow. The collection was rather a curious one, said to be that of Sir\nAnthony Westcomb, from Liverpool, with an undisturbed record of a\ncentury, but with nothing to attract notice. Probably none but\ncollectors or experts examined the portfolios. Some dozens of these\nwere always on hand, following every sale, and especially on the\nlookout for old drawings, which became rarer every year. Turning\nrapidly over the numbers, Palgrave stopped at one containing several\nsmall drawings, one marked as Rembrandt, one as Rafael; and putting his\nfinger on the Rafael, after careful examination; \"I should buy this,\"\nhe said; \"it looks to me like one of those things that sell for five\nshillings one day, and fifty pounds the next.\" Adams marked it for a\nbid, and the next morning came down to the auction. The numbers sold\nslowly, and at noon he thought he might safely go to lunch. When he\ncame back, half an hour afterwards, the drawing was gone. Much annoyed\nat his own stupidity, since Palgrave had expressly said he wanted the\ndrawing for himself if he had not in a manner given it to Adams, the\nculprit waited for the sale to close, and then asked the clerk for the\nname of the buyer. It was Holloway, the art-dealer, near Covent Garden,\nwhom he slightly knew. Going at once to the shop he waited till young\nHolloway came in, with his purchases under his arm, and without attempt\nat preface, he said: \"You bought to-day, Mr. Holloway, a number that I\nwanted. Do you mind letting me have it?\" Holloway took out the parcel,\nlooked over the drawings, and said that he had bought the number for\nthe sake of the Rembrandt, which he thought possibly genuine; taking\nthat out, Adams might have the rest for the price he paid for the\nlot--twelve shillings.\n\n  Thus, down to that moment, every expert in London had probably\nseen these drawings. Two of them--only two--had thought them worth\nbuying at any price, and of these two, Palgrave chose the Rafael,\nHolloway the one marked as Rembrandt. Adams, the purchaser of the\nRafael, knew nothing whatever on the subject, but thought he might\ncredit himself with education to the value of twelve shillings, and\ncall the drawing nothing. Such items of education commonly came higher.\n\n  He took the drawing to Palgrave. It was closely pasted to an\nold, rather thin, cardboard mount, and, on holding it up to the window,\none could see lines on the reverse. \"Take it down to Reed at the\nBritish Museum,\" said Palgrave; \"he is Curator of the drawings, and, if\nyou ask him, he will have it taken off the mount.\" Adams amused himself\nfor a day or two by searching Rafael's works for the figure, which he\nfound at last in the Parnasso, the figure of Horace, of which, as it\nhappened--though Adams did not know it--the British Museum owned a much\nfiner drawing. At last he took the dirty, little, unfinished red-chalk\nsketch to Reed whom he found in the Curator's room, with some of the\nfinest Rafael drawings in existence, hanging on the walls. \"Yes!\" said\nMr Reed; \"I noticed this at the sale; but it's not Rafael!\" Adams,\nfeeling himself incompetent to discuss this subject, reported the\nresult to Palgrave, who said that Reed knew nothing about it. Also this\npoint lay beyond Adams's competence; but he noted that Reed was in the\nemploy of the British Museum as Curator of the best--or nearly the\nbest--collection in the world, especially of Rafaels, and that he\nbought for the Museum. As expert he had rejected both the Rafael and\nthe Rembrandt at first-sight, and after his attention was recalled to\nthe Rafael for a further opinion he rejected it again.\n\n  A week later, Adams returned for the drawing, which Mr. Reed\ntook out of his drawer and gave him, saying with what seemed a little\ndoubt or hesitation: \"I should tell you that the paper shows a\nwater-mark, which I find the same as that of paper used by Marc\nAntonio.\" A little taken back by this method of studying art, a method\nwhich even a poor and ignorant American might use as well as Rafael\nhimself, Adams asked stupidly: \"Then you think it genuine?\" \"Possibly!\"\nreplied Reed; \"but much overdrawn.\"\n\n  Here was expert opinion after a second revise, with help of\nwater-marks! In Adams's opinion it was alone worth another twelve\nshillings as education; but this was not all. Reed continued: \"The\nlines on the back seem to be writing, which I cannot read, but if you\nwill take it down to the manuscript-room, they will read it for you.\"\n\n  Adams took the sheet down to the keeper of the manuscripts and\nbegged him to read the lines. The keeper, after a few minutes' study,\nvery obligingly said he could not: \"It is scratched with an artist's\ncrayon, very rapidly, with many unusual abbreviations and old forms. If\nany one in Europe can read it, it is the old man at the table yonder,\nLibri! Take it to him!\"\n\n  This expert broke down on the alphabet! He could not even judge\na manuscript; but Adams had no right to complain, for he had nothing to\npay, not even twelve shillings, though he thought these experts worth\nmore, at least for his education. Accordingly he carried his paper to\nLibri, a total stranger to him, and asked the old man, as deferentially\nas possible, to tell him whether the lines had any meaning. Had Adams\nnot been an ignorant person he would have known all about Libri, but\nhis ignorance was vast, and perhaps was for the best. Libri looked at\nthe paper, and then looked again, and at last bade him sit down and\nwait. Half an hour passed before he called Adams back and showed him\nthese lines:--\n\n  \"Or questo credo ben che una elleria\n   Te offende tanto che te offese il core.\n   Perche sei grande nol sei in tua volia;\n   Tu vedi e gia non credi il tuo valore;\n   Passate gia son tutte gelosie;\n   Tu sei di sasso; non hai piu dolore.\"\n\n  As far as Adams could afterwards recall it, this was Libri's\nreading, but he added that the abbreviations were many and unusual;\nthat the writing was very ancient; and that the word he read as\n\"elleria\" in the first line was not Italian at all.\n\n  By this time, one had got too far beyond one's depth to ask\nquestions. If Libri could not read Italian, very clearly Adams had\nbetter not offer to help him. He took the drawing, thanked everybody,\nand having exhausted the experts of the British Museum, took a cab to\nWoolner's studio, where he showed the figure and repeated Reed's\nopinion. Woolner snorted: \"Reed's a fool!\" he said; \"he knows nothing\nabout it; there may be a rotten line or two, but the drawing's all\nright.\"\n\n  For forty years Adams kept this drawing on his mantelpiece,\npartly for its own interest, but largely for curiosity to see whether\nany critic or artist would ever stop to look at it. None ever did,\nunless he knew the story. Adams himself never wanted to know more about\nit. He refused to seek further light. He never cared to learn whether\nthe drawing was Rafael's, or whether the verse was Rafael's, or\nwhether even the water-mark was Rafael's. The experts--some scores of\nthem including the British Museum,--had affirmed that the drawing was\nworth a certain moiety of twelve shillings. On that point, also, Adams\ncould offer no opinion, but he was clear that his education had\nprofited by it to that extent--his amusement even more.\n\n  Art was a superb field for education, but at every turn he met\nthe same old figure, like a battered and illegible signpost that ought\nto direct him to the next station but never did. There was no next\nstation. All the art of a thousand--or ten thousand--years had brought\nEngland to stuff which Palgrave and Woolner brayed in their mortars;\nderided, tore in tatters, growled at, and howled at, and treated in\nterms beyond literary usage. Whistler had not yet made his appearance\nin London, but the others did quite as well. What result could a\nstudent reach from it? Once, on returning to London, dining with\nStopford Brooke, some one asked Adams what impression the Royal Academy\nExhibition made on him. With a little hesitation, he suggested that it\nwas rather a chaos, which he meant for civility; but Stopford Brooke\nabruptly met it by asking whether chaos were not better than death.\nTruly the question was worth discussion. For his own part, Adams\ninclined to think that neither chaos nor death was an object to him as\na searcher of knowledge--neither would have vogue in America--neither\nwould help him to a career. Both of them led him away from his objects,\ninto an English dilettante museum of scraps, with nothing but a\nwall-paper to unite them in any relation of sequence. Possibly English\ntaste was one degree more fatal than English scholarship, but even this\nquestion was open to argument. Adams went to the sales and bought what\nhe was told to buy; now a classical drawing by Rafael or Rubens; now a\nwater-color by Girtin or Cotman, if possible unfinished because it was\nmore likely to be a sketch from nature; and he bought them not because\nthey went together--on the contrary, they made rather awkward spots on\nthe wall as they did on the mind--but because he could afford to buy\nthose, and not others. Ten pounds did not go far to buy a Michael\nAngelo, but was a great deal of money to a private secretary. The\neffect was spotty, fragmentary, feeble; and the more so because the\nBritish mind was constructed in that way--boasted of it, and held it to\nbe true philosophy as well as sound method.\n\n  What was worse, no one had a right to denounce the English as\nwrong. Artistically their mind was scrappy, and every one knew it, but\nperhaps thought itself, history, and nature, were scrappy, and ought to\nbe studied so. Turning from British art to British literature, one met\nthe same dangers. The historical school was a playground of traps and\npitfalls. Fatally one fell into the sink of history--antiquarianism.\nFor one who nourished a natural weakness for what was called history,\nthe whole of British literature in the nineteenth century was\nantiquarianism or anecdotage, for no one except Buckle had tried to\nlink it with ideas, and commonly Buckle was regarded as having failed.\nMacaulay was the English historian. Adams had the greatest admiration\nfor Macaulay, but he felt that any one who should even distantly\nimitate Macaulay would perish in self-contempt. One might as well\nimitate Shakespeare. Yet evidently something was wrong here, for the\npoet and the historian ought to have different methods, and Macaulay's\nmethod ought to be imitable if it were sound; yet the method was more\ndoubtful than the style. He was a dramatist; a painter; a poet, like\nCarlyle. This was the English mind, method, genius, or whatever one\nmight call it; but one never could quite admit that the method which\nended in Froude and Kinglake could be sound for America where passion\nand poetry were eccentricities. Both Froude and Kinglake, when one met\nthem at dinner, were very agreeable, very intelligent; and perhaps the\nEnglish method was right, and art fragmentary by essence. History, like\neverything else, might be a field of scraps, like the refuse about a\nStaffordshire iron-furnace. One felt a little natural reluctance to\ndecline and fall like Silas Wegg on the golden dust-heap of British\nrefuse; but if one must, one could at least expect a degree from Oxford\nand the respect of the Athenaeum Club.\n\n  While drifting, after the war ended, many old American friends\ncame abroad for a holiday, and among the rest, Dr. Palfrey, busy with\nhis \"History of New England.\" Of all the relics of childhood, Dr.\nPalfrey was the most sympathetic, and perhaps the more so because he,\ntoo, had wandered into the pleasant meadows of antiquarianism, and had\nforgotten the world in his pursuit of the New England Puritan. Although\nAmerica seemed becoming more and more indifferent to the Puritan except\nas a slightly rococo ornament, he was only the more amusing as a study\nfor the Monkbarns of Boston Bay, and Dr. Palfrey took him seriously, as\nhis clerical education required. His work was rather an Apologia in the\nGreek sense; a justification of the ways of God to Man, or, what was\nmuch the same thing, of Puritans to other men; and the task of\njustification was onerous enough to require the occasional relief of a\ncontrast or scapegoat. When Dr. Palfrey happened on the picturesque but\nunpuritanic figure of Captain John Smith, he felt no call to beautify\nSmith's picture or to defend his moral character; he became impartial\nand penetrating. The famous story of Pocahontas roused his latent New\nEngland scepticism. He suggested to Adams, who wanted to make a\nposition for himself, that an article in the North American Review on\nCaptain John Smith's relations with Pocahontas would attract as much\nattention, and probably break as much glass, as any other stone that\ncould be thrown by a beginner. Adams could suggest nothing better. The\ntask seemed likely to be amusing. So he planted himself in the British\nMuseum and patiently worked over all the material he could find, until,\nat last, after three or four months of labor, he got it in shape and\nsent it to Charles Norton, who was then editing the North American. Mr.\nNorton very civilly and even kindly accepted it. The article appeared\nin January, 1867.\n\n  Surely, here was something to ponder over, as a step in\neducation; something that tended to stagger a sceptic! In spite of\npersonal wishes, intentions, and prejudices; in spite of civil wars and\ndiplomatic education; in spite of determination to be actual, daily,\nand practical, Henry Adams found himself, at twenty-eight, still in\nEnglish society, dragged on one side into English dilettantism, which\nof all dilettantism he held the most futile; and, on the other, into\nAmerican antiquarianism, which of all antiquarianism he held the most\nfoolish. This was the result of five years in London. Even then he knew\nit to be a false start. He had wholly lost his way. If he were ever to\namount to anything, he must begin a new education, in a new place, with\na new purpose.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XV\n\nDARWINISM (1867-1868)\n\n  POLITICS, diplomacy, law, art, and history had opened no outlet\nfor future energy or effort, but a man must do something, even in\nPortland Place, when winter is dark and winter evenings are exceedingly\nlong. At that moment Darwin was convulsing society. The geological\nchampion of Darwin was Sir Charles Lyell, and the Lyells were intimate\nat the Legation. Sir Charles constantly said of Darwin, what Palgrave\nsaid of Tennyson, that the first time he came to town, Adams should be\nasked to meet him, but neither of them ever came to town, or ever cared\nto meet a young American, and one could not go to them because they\nwere known to dislike intrusion. The only Americans who were not\nallowed to intrude were the half-dozen in the Legation. Adams was\ncontent to read Darwin, especially his \"Origin of Species\" and his\n\"Voyage of the Beagle.\" He was a Darwinist before the letter; a\npredestined follower of the tide; but he was hardly trained to follow\nDarwin's evidences. Fragmentary the British mind might be, but in those\ndays it was doing a great deal of work in a very un-English way,\nbuilding up so many and such vast theories on such narrow foundations\nas to shock the conservative, and delight the frivolous. The atomic\ntheory; the correlation and conservation of energy; the mechanical\ntheory of the universe; the kinetic theory of gases, and Darwin's Law\nof Natural Selection, were examples of what a young man had to take on\ntrust. Neither he nor any one else knew enough to verify them; in his\nignorance of mathematics, he was particularly helpless; but this never\nstood in his way. The ideas were new and seemed to lead somewhere--to\nsome great generalization which would finish one's clamor to be\neducated. That a beginner should understand them all, or believe them\nall, no one could expect, still less exact. Henry Adams was Darwinist\nbecause it was easier than not, for his ignorance exceeded belief, and\none must know something in order to contradict even such triflers as\nTyndall and Huxley.\n\n  By rights, he should have been also a Marxist but some narrow\ntrait of the New England nature seemed to blight socialism, and he\ntried in vain to make himself a convert. He did the next best thing; he\nbecame a Comteist, within the limits of evolution. He was ready to\nbecome anything but quiet. As though the world had not been enough\nupset in his time, he was eager to see it upset more. He had his wish,\nbut he lost his hold on the results by trying to understand them.\n\n  He never tried to understand Darwin; but he still fancied he\nmight get the best part of Darwinism from the easier study of geology;\na science which suited idle minds as well as though it were history.\nEvery curate in England dabbled in geology and hunted for vestiges of\nCreation. Darwin hunted only for vestiges of Natural Selection, and\nAdams followed him, although he cared nothing about Selection, unless\nperhaps for the indirect amusement of upsetting curates. He felt, like\nnine men in ten, an instinctive belief in Evolution, but he felt no\nmore concern in Natural than in unnatural Selection, though he seized\nwith greediness the new volume on the \"Antiquity of Man\" which Sir\nCharles Lyell published in 1863 in order to support Darwin by wrecking\nthe Garden of Eden. Sir Charles next brought out, in 1866, a new\nedition of his \"Principles,\" then the highest text-book of geology; but\nhere the Darwinian doctrine grew in stature. Natural Selection led back\nto Natural Evolution, and at last to Natural Uniformity. This was a\nvast stride. Unbroken Evolution under uniform conditions pleased every\none--except curates and bishops; it was the very best substitute for\nreligion; a safe, conservative, practical, thoroughly Common-Law deity.\nSuch a working system for the universe suited a young man who had just\nhelped to waste five or ten thousand million dollars and a million\nlives, more or less, to enforce unity and uniformity on people who\nobjected to it; the idea was only too seductive in its perfection; it\nhad the charm of art. Unity and Uniformity were the whole motive of\nphilosophy, and if Darwin, like a true Englishman, preferred to back\ninto it--to reach God a posteriori--rather than start from it, like\nSpinoza, the difference of method taught only the moral that the best\nway of reaching unity was to unite. Any road was good that arrived.\nLife depended on it. One had been, from the first, dragged hither and\nthither like a French poodle on a string, following always the\nstrongest pull, between one form of unity or centralization and\nanother. The proof that one had acted wisely because of obeying the\nprimordial habit of nature flattered one's self-esteem. Steady,\nuniform, unbroken evolution from lower to higher seemed easy. So, one\nday when Sir Charles came to the Legation to inquire about getting his\n\"Principles\" properly noticed in America, young Adams found nothing\nsimpler than to suggest that he could do it himself if Sir Charles\nwould tell him what to say. Youth risks such encounters with the\nuniverse before one succumbs to it, yet even he was surprised at Sir\nCharles's ready assent, and still more so at finding himself, after\nhalf an hour's conversation, sitting down to clear the minds of\nAmerican geologists about the principles of their profession. This was\ngetting on fast; Arthur Pendennis had never gone so far.\n\n  The geologists were a hardy class, not likely to be much hurt\nby Adams's learning, nor did he throw away much concern on their\naccount. He undertook the task chiefly to educate, not them, but\nhimself, and if Sir Isaac Newton had, like Sir Charles Lyell, asked him\nto explain for Americans his last edition of the \"Principia,\" Adams\nwould have jumped at the chance. Unfortunately the mere reading such\nworks for amusement is quite a different matter from studying them for\ncriticism. Ignorance must always begin at the beginning. Adams must\ninevitably have begun by asking Sir Isaac for an intelligible reason\nwhy the apple fell to the ground. He did not know enough to be\nsatisfied with the fact. The Law of Gravitation was so-and-so, but what\nwas Gravitation? and he would have been thrown quite off his base if\nSir Isaac had answered that he did not know.\n\n  At the very outset Adams struck on Sir Charles's Glacial Theory\nor theories. He was ignorant enough to think that the glacial epoch\nlooked like a chasm between him and a uniformitarian world. If the\nglacial period were uniformity, what was catastrophe? To him the two or\nthree labored guesses that Sir Charles suggested or borrowed to explain\nglaciation were proof of nothing, and were quite unsolid as support for\nso immense a superstructure as geological uniformity. If one were at\nliberty to be as lax in science as in theology, and to assume unity\nfrom the start, one might better say so, as the Church did, and not\ninvite attack by appearing weak in evidence. Naturally a young man,\naltogether ignorant, could not say this to Sir Charles Lyell or Sir\nIsaac Newton; but he was forced to state Sir Charles's views, which he\nthought weak as hypotheses and worthless as proofs. Sir Charles himself\nseemed shy of them. Adams hinted his heresies in vain. At last he\nresorted to what he thought the bold experiment of inserting a sentence\nin the text, intended to provoke correction. \"The introduction [by\nLouis Agassiz] of this new geological agent seemed at first sight\ninconsistent with Sir Charles's argument, obliging him to allow that\ncauses had in fact existed on the earth capable of producing more\nviolent geological changes than would be possible in our own day.\" The\nhint produced no effect. Sir Charles said not a word; he let the\nparagraph stand; and Adams never knew whether the great Uniformitarian\nwas strict or lax in his uniformitarian creed; but he doubted.\n\n  Objections fatal to one mind are futile to another, and as far\nas concerned the article, the matter ended there, although the glacial\nepoch remained a misty region in the young man's Darwinism. Had it been\nthe only one, he would not have fretted about it; but uniformity often\nworked queerly and sometimes did not work as Natural Selection at all.\nFinding himself at a loss for some single figure to illustrate the Law\nof Natural Selection, Adams asked Sir Charles for the simplest case of\nuniformity on record. Much to his surprise Sir Charles told him that\ncertain forms, like Terebratula,  appeared to be identical from the\nbeginning to the end of geological time. Since this was altogether too\nmuch uniformity and much too little selection, Adams gave up the\nattempt to begin at the beginning, and tried starting at the\nend--himself. Taking for granted that the vertebrates would serve his\npurpose, he asked Sir Charles to introduce him to the first vertebrate.\nInfinitely to his bewilderment, Sir Charles informed him that the first\nvertebrate was a very respectable fish, among the earliest of all\nfossils, which had lived, and whose bones were still reposing, under\nAdams's own favorite Abbey on Wenlock Edge.\n\n  By this time, in 1867 Adams had learned to know Shropshire\nfamiliarly, and it was the part of his diplomatic education which he\nloved best. Like Catherine Olney in \"Northanger Abbey,\" he yearned for\nnothing so keenly as to feel at home in a thirteenth-century Abbey,\nunless it were to haunt a fifteenth-century Prior's House, and both\nthese joys were his at Wenlock. With companions or without, he never\ntired of it. Whether he rode about the Wrekin, or visited all the\nhistorical haunts from Ludlow Castle and Stokesay to Boscobel and\nUriconium; or followed the Roman road or scratched in the Abbey ruins,\nall was amusing and carried a flavor of its own like that of the Roman\nCampagna; but perhaps he liked best to ramble over the Edge on a summer\nafternoon and look across the Marches to the mountains of Wales. The\npeculiar flavor of the scenery has something to do with absence of\nevolution; it was better marked in Egypt: it was felt wherever\ntime-sequences became interchangeable. One's instinct abhors time. As\none lay on the slope of the Edge, looking sleepily through the summer\nhaze towards Shrewsbury or Cader Idris or Caer Caradoc or Uriconium,\nnothing suggested sequence. The Roman road was twin to the railroad;\nUriconium was well worth Shrewsbury; Wenlock and Buildwas were far\nsuperior to Bridgnorth. The shepherds of Caractacus or Offa, or the\nmonks of Buildwas, had they approached where he lay in the grass, would\nhave taken him only for another and tamer variety of Welsh thief. They\nwould have seen little to surprise them in the modern landscape unless\nit were the steam of a distant railway. One might mix up the terms of\ntime as one liked, or stuff the present anywhere into the past,\nmeasuring time by Falstaff's Shrewsbury clock, without violent sense of\nwrong, as one could do it on the Pacific Ocean; but the triumph of all\nwas to look south along the Edge to the abode of one's earliest\nancestor and nearest relative, the ganoid fish, whose name, according\nto Professor Huxley, was Pteraspis, a cousin of the sturgeon, and whose\nkingdom, according to Sir Roderick Murchison, was called Siluria. Life\nbegan and ended there. Behind that horizon lay only the Cambrian,\nwithout vertebrates or any other organism except a few shell-fish. On\nthe further verge of the Cambrian rose the crystalline rocks from which\nevery trace of organic existence had been erased.\n\n  That here, on the Wenlock Edge of time, a young American,\nseeking only frivolous amusement, should find a legitimate parentage as\nmodern as though just caught in the Severn below, astonished him as\nmuch as though he had found Darwin himself. In the scale of evolution,\none vertebrate was as good as another. For anything he, or any one\nelse, knew, nine hundred and ninety nine parts of evolution out of a\nthousand lay behind or below the Pteraspis. To an American in search of\na father, it mattered nothing whether the father breathed through\nlungs, or walked on fins, or on feet. Evolution of mind was altogether\nanother matter and belonged to another science, but whether one traced\ndescent from the shark or the wolf was immaterial even in morals. This\nmatter had been discussed for ages without scientific result. La\nFontaine and other fabulists maintained that the wolf, even in morals,\nstood higher than man; and in view of the late civil war, Adams had\ndoubts of his own on the facts of moral evolution:--\n\n  \"Tout bien considere, je te soutiens en somme,\n     Que scelerat pour scelerat,\n   Il vaut mieux etre un loup qu'un homme.\"\n\n  It might well be! At all events, it did not enter into the\nproblem of Pteraspis,  for it was quite certain that no complete proof\nof Natural Selection had occurred back to the time of Pteraspis,  and\nthat before Pteraspis was eternal void. No trace of any vertebrate had\nbeen found there; only starfish, shell-fish, polyps, or trilobites\nwhose kindly descendants he had often bathed with, as a child on the\nshores of Quincy Bay.\n\n  That Pteraspis and shark were his cousins, great-uncles, or\ngrandfathers, in no way troubled him, but that either or both of them\nshould be older than evolution itself seemed to him perplexing; nor\ncould he at all simplify the problem by taking the sudden\nback-somersault into Quincy Bay in search of the fascinating creature\nhe had called a horseshoe, whose huge dome of shell and sharp spur of\ntail had so alarmed him as a child. In Siluria, he understood, Sir\nRoderick Murchison called the horseshoe a Limulus, which helped\nnothing. Neither in the Limulus  nor in the Terebratula, nor in the\nCestracion Philippi, any more than in the Pteraspis,  could one\nconceive an ancestor, but, if one must, the choice mattered little.\nCousinship had limits but no one knew enough to fix them. When the\nvertebrate vanished in Siluria, it disappeared instantly and forever.\nNeither vertebra nor scale nor print reappeared, nor any trace of\nascent or descent to a lower type. The vertebrate began in the Ludlow\nshale, as complete as Adams himself--in some respects more so--at the\ntop of the column of organic evolution: and geology offered no sort of\nproof that he had ever been anything else. Ponder over it as he might,\nAdams could see nothing in the theory of Sir Charles but pure\ninference, precisely like the inference of Paley, that, if one found a\nwatch, one inferred a maker. He could detect no more evolution in life\nsince the Pteraspis than he could detect it in architecture since the\nAbbey. All he could prove was change. Coal-power alone asserted\nevolution--of power--and only by violence could be forced to assert\nselection of type.\n\n  All this seemed trivial to the true Darwinian, and to Sir\nCharles it was mere defect in the geological record. Sir Charles\nlabored only to heap up the evidences of evolution; to cumulate them\ntill the mass became irresistible. With that purpose, Adams gladly\nstudied and tried to help Sir Charles, but, behind the lesson of the\nday, he was conscious that, in geology as in theology, he could prove\nonly Evolution that did not evolve; Uniformity that was not uniform;\nand Selection that did not select. To other Darwinians--except\nDarwin--Natural Selection seemed a dogma to be put in the place of the\nAthanasian creed; it was a form of religious hope; a promise of\nultimate perfection. Adams wished no better; he warmly sympathized in\nthe object; but when he came to ask himself what he truly thought, he\nfelt that he had no Faith; that whenever the next new hobby should be\nbrought out, he should surely drop off from Darwinism like a monkey\nfrom a perch; that the idea of one Form, Law, Order, or Sequence had no\nmore value for him than the idea of none; that what he valued most was\nMotion, and that what attracted his mind was Change.\n\n  Psychology was to him a new study, and a dark corner of\neducation. As he lay on Wenlock Edge, with the sheep nibbling the grass\nclose about him as they or their betters had nibbled the grass--or\nwhatever there was to nibble--in the Silurian kingdom of Pteraspis, he\nseemed to have fallen on an evolution far more wonderful than that of\nfishes. He did not like it; he could not account for it; and he\ndetermined to stop it. Never since the days of his Limulus ancestry had\nany of his ascendants thought thus. Their modes of thought might be\nmany, but their thought was one. Out of his millions of millions of\nancestors, back to the Cambrian mollusks, every one had probably lived\nand died in the illusion of Truths which did not amuse him, and which\nhad never changed. Henry Adams was the first in an infinite series to\ndiscover and admit to himself that he really did not care whether truth\nwas, or was not, true. He did not even care that it should be proved\ntrue, unless the process were new and amusing. He was a Darwinian for\nfun.\n\n  From the beginning of history, this attitude had been branded\nas criminal--worse than crime--sacrilege! Society punished it\nferociously and justly, in self-defence. Mr. Adams, the father, looked\non it as moral weakness; it annoyed him; but it did not annoy him\nnearly so much as it annoyed his son, who had no need to learn from\nHamlet the fatal effect of the pale cast of thought on enterprises\ngreat or small. He had no notion of letting the currents of his action\nbe turned awry by this form of conscience. To him, the current of his\ntime was to be his current, lead where it might. He put psychology\nunder lock and key; he insisted on maintaining his absolute standards;\non aiming at ultimate Unity. The mania for handling all the sides of\nevery question, looking into every window, and opening every door, was,\nas Bluebeard judiciously pointed out to his wives, fatal to their\npractical usefulness in society. One could not stop to chase doubts as\nthough they were rabbits. One had no time to paint and putty the\nsurface of Law, even though it were cracked and rotten. For the young\nmen whose lives were cast in the generation between 1867 and 1900, Law\nshould be Evolution from lower to higher, aggregation of the atom in\nthe mass, concentration of multiplicity in unity, compulsion of anarchy\nin order; and he would force himself to follow wherever it led, though\nhe should sacrifice five thousand millions more in money, and a million\nmore lives.\n\n  As the path ultimately led, it sacrificed much more than this;\nbut at the time, he thought the price he named a high one, and he could\nnot foresee that science and society would desert him in paying it. He,\nat least, took his education as a Darwinian in good faith. The Church\nwas gone, and Duty was dim, but Will should take its place, founded\ndeeply in interest and law. This was the result of five or six years in\nEngland; a result so British as to be almost the equivalent of an\nOxford degree.\n\n  Quite serious about it, he set to work at once. While confusing\nhis ideas about geology to the apparent satisfaction of Sir Charles who\nleft him his field-compass in token of it, Adams turned resolutely to\nbusiness, and attacked the burning question of specie payments. His\nprinciples assured him that the honest way to resume payments was to\nrestrict currency. He thought he might win a name among financiers and\nstatesmen at home by showing how this task had been done by England,\nafter the classical suspension of 1797-1821. Setting himself to the\nstudy of this perplexed period, he waded as well as he could through a\nmorass of volumes, pamphlets, and debates, until he learned to his\nconfusion that the Bank of England itself and all the best British\nfinancial writers held that restriction was a fatal mistake, and that\nthe best treatment of a debased currency was to let it alone, as the\nBank had in fact done. Time and patience were the remedies.\n\n  The shock of this discovery to his financial principles was\nserious; much more serious than the shock of the Terebratula and\nPteraspis  to his principles of geology. A mistake about Evolution was\nnot fatal; a mistake about specie payments would destroy forever the\nlast hope of employment in State Street. Six months of patient labor\nwould be thrown away if he did not publish, and with it his whole\nscheme of making himself a position as a practical man-of-business. If\nhe did publish, how could he tell virtuous bankers in State Street that\nmoral and absolute principles of abstract truth, such as theirs, had\nnothing to do with the matter, and that they had better let it alone?\nGeologists, naturally a humble and helpless class, might not revenge\nimpertinences offered to their science; but capitalists never forgot or\nforgave.\n\n  With labor and caution he made one long article on British\nFinance in 1816, and another on the Bank Restriction of 1797-1821, and,\ndoing both up in one package, he sent it to the North American for\nchoice. He knew that two heavy, technical, financial studies thus\nthrown at an editor's head, would probably return to crush the author;\nbut the audacity of youth is more sympathetic--when successful--than\nhis ignorance. The editor accepted both.\n\n  When the post brought his letter, Adams looked at it as though\nhe were a debtor who had begged for an extension. He read it with as\nmuch relief as the debtor, if it had brought him the loan. The letter\ngave the new writer literary rank. Henceforward he had the freedom of\nthe press. These articles, following those on Pocahontas and Lyell,\nenrolled him on the permanent staff of the North American Review.\nPrecisely what this rank was worth, no one could say; but, for fifty\nyears the North American Review had been the stage coach which carried\nliterary Bostonians to such distinction as they had achieved. Few\nwriters had ideas which warranted thirty pages of development, but for\nsuch as thought they had, the Review alone offered space. An article\nwas a small volume which required at least three months' work, and was\npaid, at best, five dollars a page. Not many men even in England or\nFrance could write a good thirty-page article, and practically no one\nin America read them; but a few score of people, mostly in search of\nitems to steal, ran over the pages to extract an idea or a fact, which\nwas a sort of wild game--a bluefish or a teal--worth anywhere from\nfifty cents to five dollars. Newspaper writers had their eye on\nquarterly pickings. The circulation of the Review  had never exceeded\nthree or four hundred copies, and the Review  had never paid its\nreasonable expenses. Yet it stood at the head of American literary\nperiodicals; it was a source of suggestion to cheaper workers; it\nreached far into societies that never knew its existence; it was an\norgan worth playing on; and, in the fancy of Henry Adams, it led, in\nsome indistinct future, to playing on a New York daily newspaper.\n\n  With the editor's letter under his eyes, Adams asked himself\nwhat better he could have done. On the whole, considering his\nhelplessness, he thought he had done as well as his neighbors. No one\ncould yet guess which of his contemporaries was most likely to play a\npart in the great world. A shrewd prophet in Wall Street might perhaps\nhave set a mark on Pierpont Morgan, but hardly on the Rockefellers or\nWilliam C. Whitney or Whitelaw Reid. No one would have picked out\nWilliam McKinley or John Hay or Mark Hanna for great statesmen. Boston\nwas ignorant of the careers in store for Alexander Agassiz and Henry\nHigginson. Phillips Brooks was unknown; Henry James was unheard;\nHowells was new; Richardson and LaFarge were struggling for a start.\nOut of any score of names and reputations that should reach beyond the\ncentury, the thirty-years-old who were starting in the year 1867 could\nshow none that was so far in advance as to warrant odds in its favor.\nThe army men had for the most part fallen to the ranks. Had Adams\nforeseen the future exactly as it came, he would have been no wiser,\nand could have chosen no better path.\n\n  Thus it turned out that the last year in England was the\npleasantest. He was already old in society, and belonged to the\nSilurian horizon. The Prince of Wales had come. Mr. Disraeli, Lord\nStanley, and the future Lord Salisbury had thrown into the background\nthe memories of Palmerston and Russell. Europe was moving rapidly, and\nthe conduct of England during the American Civil War was the last thing\nthat London liked to recall. The revolution since 1861 was nearly\ncomplete, and, for the first time in history, the American felt himself\nalmost as strong as an Englishman. He had thirty years to wait before\nhe should feel himself stronger. Meanwhile even a private secretary\ncould afford to be happy. His old education was finished; his new one\nwas not begun; he still loitered a year, feeling himself near the end\nof a very long, anxious, tempestuous, successful voyage, with another\nto follow, and a summer sea between.\n\n  He made what use he could of it. In February, 1868, he was back\nin Rome with his friend Milnes Gaskell. For another season he wandered\non horseback over the campagna or on foot through the Rome of the\nmiddle ages, and sat once more on the steps of Ara Coeli, as had become\nwith him almost a superstition, like the waters of the fountain of\nTrevi. Rome was still tragic and solemn as ever, with its mediaeval\nsociety, artistic, literary, and clerical, taking itself as seriously\nas in the days of Byron and Shelley. The long ten years of accidental\neducation had changed nothing for him there. He knew no more in 1868\nthan in 1858. He had learned nothing whatever that made Rome more\nintelligible to him, or made life easier to handle. The case was no\nbetter when he got back to London and went through his last season.\nLondon had become his vice. He loved his haunts, his houses, his\nhabits, and even his hansom cabs. He loved growling like an Englishman,\nand going into society where he knew not a face, and cared not a straw.\nHe lived deep into the lives and loves and disappointments of his\nfriends. When at last he found himself back again at Liverpool, his\nheart wrenched by the act of parting, he moved mechanically, unstrung,\nbut he had no more acquired education than when he first trod the steps\nof the Adelphi Hotel in November, 1858. He could see only one great\nchange, and this was wholly in years. Eaton Hall no longer impressed\nhis imagination; even the architecture of Chester roused but a sleepy\ninterest; he felt no sensation whatever in the atmosphere of the\nBritish peerage, but mainly an habitual dislike to most of the people\nwho frequented their country houses; he had become English to the point\nof sharing their petty social divisions, their dislikes and prejudices\nagainst each other; he took England no longer with the awe of American\nyouth, but with the habit of an old and rather worn suit of clothes. As\nfar as he knew, this was all that Englishmen meant by social education,\nbut in any case it was all the education he had gained from seven years\nin London.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVI\n\nTHE PRESS (1868)\n\n  AT ten o'clock of a July night, in heat that made the tropical\nrain-shower simmer, the Adams family and the Motley family clambered\ndown the side of their Cunard steamer into the government tugboat,\nwhich set them ashore in black darkness at the end of some North River\npier. Had they been Tyrian traders of the year B.C. 1000 landing from a\ngalley fresh from Gibraltar, they could hardly have been stranger on\nthe shore of a world, so changed from what it had been ten years\nbefore. The historian of the Dutch, no longer historian but\ndiplomatist, started up an unknown street, in company with the private\nsecretary who had become private citizen, in search of carriages to\nconvey the two parties to the Brevoort House. The pursuit was arduous\nbut successful. Towards midnight they found shelter once more in their\nnative land.\n\n  How much its character had changed or was changing, they could\nnot wholly know, and they could but partly feel. For that matter, the\nland itself knew no more than they. Society in America was always\ntrying, almost as blindly as an earthworm, to realize and understand\nitself; to catch up with its own head, and to twist about in search of\nits tail. Society offered the profile of a long, straggling caravan,\nstretching loosely towards the prairies, its few score of leaders far\nin advance and its millions of immigrants, negroes, and Indians far in\nthe rear, somewhere in archaic time. It enjoyed the vast advantage over\nEurope that all seemed, for the moment, to move in one direction, while\nEurope wasted most of its energy in trying several contradictory\nmovements at once; but whenever Europe or Asia should be polarized or\noriented towards the same point, America might easily lose her lead.\nMeanwhile each newcomer needed to slip into a place as near the head of\nthe caravan as possible, and needed most to know where the leaders\ncould be found. One could divine pretty nearly where the force lay,\nsince the last ten years had given to the great mechanical\nenergies--coal, iron, steam--a distinct superiority in power over the\nold industrial elements--agriculture, handwork, and learning; but the\nresult of this revolution on a survivor from the fifties resembled the\naction of the earthworm; he twisted about, in vain, to recover his\nstarting-point; he could no longer see his own trail; he had become an\nestray; a flotsam or jetsam of wreckage; a belated reveller, or a\nscholar-gipsy like Matthew Arnold's. His world was dead. Not a Polish\nJew fresh from Warsaw or Cracow--not a furtive Yacoob or Ysaac still\nreeking of the Ghetto, snarling a weird Yiddish to the officers of the\ncustoms--but had a keener instinct, an intenser energy, and a freer\nhand than he--American of Americans, with Heaven knew how many Puritans\nand Patriots behind him, and an education that had cost a civil war. He\nmade no complaint and found no fault with his time; he was no worse off\nthan the Indians or the buffalo who had been ejected from their\nheritage by his own people; but he vehemently insisted that he was not\nhimself at fault. The defeat was not due to him, nor yet to any\nsuperiority of his rivals. He had been unfairly forced out of the\ntrack, and must get back into it as best he could.\n\n  One comfort he could enjoy to the full. Little as he might be\nfitted for the work that was before him, he had only to look at his\nfather and Motley to see figures less fitted for it than he. All were\nequally survivals from the forties--bric-a-brac from the time of Louis\nPhilippe; stylists; doctrinaires; ornaments that had been more or less\nsuited to the colonial architecture, but which never had much value in\nDesbrosses Street or Fifth Avenue. They could scarcely have earned five\ndollars a day in any modern industry. The men who commanded high pay\nwere as a rule not ornamental. Even Commodore Vanderbilt and Jay Gould\nlacked social charm. Doubtless the country needed ornament--needed it\nvery badly indeed--but it needed energy still more, and capital most of\nall, for its supply was ridiculously out of proportion to its wants. On\nthe new scale of power, merely to make the continent habitable for\ncivilized people would require an immediate outlay that would have\nbankrupted the world. As yet, no portion of the world except a few\nnarrow stretches of western Europe had ever been tolerably provided\nwith the essentials of comfort and convenience; to fit out an entire\ncontinent with roads and the decencies of life would exhaust the credit\nof the entire planet. Such an estimate seemed outrageous to a Texan\nmember of Congress who loved the simplicity of nature's noblemen; but\nthe mere suggestion that a sun existed above him would outrage the\nself-respect of a deep-sea fish that carried a lantern on the end of\nits nose. From the moment that railways were introduced, life took on\nextravagance.\n\n  Thus the belated reveller who landed in the dark at the\nDesbrosses Street ferry, found his energies exhausted in the effort to\nsee his own length. The new Americans, of whom he was to be one, must,\nwhether they were fit or unfit, create a world of their own, a science,\na society, a philosophy, a universe, where they had not yet created a\nroad or even learned to dig their own iron. They had no time for\nthought; they saw, and could see, nothing beyond their day's work;\ntheir attitude to the universe outside them was that of the deep-sea\nfish. Above all, they naturally and intensely disliked to be told what\nto do, and how to do it, by men who took their ideas and their methods\nfrom the abstract theories of history, philosophy, or theology. They\nknew enough to know that their world was one of energies quite new.\n\n  All this, the newcomer understood and accepted, since he could\nnot help himself and saw that the American could help himself as little\nas the newcomer; but the fact remained that the more he knew, the less\nhe was educated. Society knew as much as this, and seemed rather\ninclined to boast of it, at least on the stump; but the leaders of\nindustry betrayed no sentiment, popular or other. They used, without\nqualm, whatever instruments they found at hand. They had been obliged,\nin 1861, to turn aside and waste immense energy in settling what had\nbeen settled a thousand years before, and should never have been\nrevived. At prodigious expense, by sheer force, they broke resistance\ndown, leaving everything but the mere fact of power untouched, since\nnothing else had a solution. Race and thought were beyond reach. Having\ncleared its path so far, society went back to its work, and threw\nitself on that which stood first--its roads. The field was vast;\naltogether beyond its power to control offhand; and society dropped\nevery thought of dealing with anything more than the single fraction\ncalled a railway system. This relatively small part of its task was\nstill so big as to need the energies of a generation, for it required\nall the new machinery to be created--capital, banks, mines, furnaces,\nshops, power-houses, technical knowledge, mechanical population,\ntogether with a steady remodelling of social and political habits,\nideas, and institutions to fit the new scale and suit the new\nconditions. The generation between 1865 and 1895 was already mortgaged\nto the railways, and no one knew it better than the generation itself.\n\n  Whether Henry Adams knew it or not, he knew enough to act as\nthough he did. He reached Quincy once more, ready for the new start.\nHis brother Charles had determined to strike for the railroads; Henry\nwas to strike for the press; and they hoped to play into each other's\nhands. They had great need, for they found no one else to play with.\nAfter discovering the worthlessness of a so-called education, they had\nstill to discover the worthlessness of so-called social connection. No\nyoung man had a larger acquaintance and relationship than Henry Adams,\nyet he knew no one who could help him. He was for sale, in the open\nmarket. So were many of his friends. All the world knew it, and knew\ntoo that they were cheap; to be bought at the price of a mechanic.\nThere was no concealment, no delicacy, and no illusion about it.\nNeither he nor his friends complained; but he felt sometimes a little\nsurprised that, as far as he knew, no one, seeking in the labor market,\never so much as inquired about their fitness. The want of solidarity\nbetween old and young seemed American. The young man was required to\nimpose himself, by the usual business methods, as a necessity on his\nelders, in order to compel them to buy him as an investment. As Adams\nfelt it, he was in a manner expected to blackmail. Many a young man\ncomplained to him in after life of the same experience, which became a\nmatter of curious reflection as he grew old. The labor market of good\nsociety was ill-organized.\n\n  Boston seemed to offer no market for educated labor. A peculiar\nand perplexing amalgam Boston always was, and although it had changed\nmuch in ten years, it was not less perplexing. One no longer dined at\ntwo o'clock; one could no longer skate on Back Bay; one heard talk of\nBostonians worth five millions or more as something not incredible. Yet\nthe place seemed still simple, and less restless-minded than ever\nbefore. In the line that Adams had chosen to follow, he needed more\nthan all else the help of the press, but any shadow of hope on that\nside vanished instantly. The less one meddled with the Boston press,\nthe better. All the newspapermen were clear on that point. The same was\ntrue of politics. Boston meant business. The Bostonians were building\nrailways. Adams would have liked to help in building railways, but had\nno education. He was not fit.\n\n  He passed three or four months thus, visiting relations,\nrenewing friendships, and studying the situation. At thirty years old,\nthe man who has not yet got further than to study the situation, is\nlost, or near it. He could see nothing in the situation that could be\nof use to him. His friends had won no more from it than he. His brother\nCharles, after three years of civil life, was no better off than\nhimself, except for being married and in greater need of income. His\nbrother John had become a brilliant political leader on the wrong side.\nNo one had yet regained the lost ground of the war.\n\n  He went to Newport and tried to be fashionable, but even in the\nsimple life of 1868, he failed as fashion. All the style he had learned\nso painfully in London was worse than useless in America where every\nstandard was different. Newport was charming, but it asked for no\neducation and gave none. What it gave was much gayer and pleasanter,\nand one enjoyed it amazingly; but friendships in that society were a\nkind of social partnership, like the classes at college; not education\nbut the subjects of education. All were doing the same thing, and\nasking the same question of the future. None could help. Society seemed\nfounded on the law that all was for the best New Yorkers in the best of\nNewports, and that all young people were rich if they could waltz. It\nwas a new version of the Ant and Grasshopper.\n\n  At the end of three months, the only person, among the hundreds\nhe had met, who had offered him a word of encouragement or had shown a\nsign of acquaintance with his doings, was Edward Atkinson. Boston was\ncool towards sons, whether prodigals or other, and needed much time to\nmake up its mind what to do for them--time which Adams, at thirty years\nold, could hardly spare. He had not the courage or self-confidence to\nhire an office in State Street, as so many of his friends did, and doze\nthere alone, vacuity within and a snowstorm outside, waiting for\nFortune to knock at the door, or hoping to find her asleep in the\nelevator; or on the staircase, since elevators were not yet in use.\nWhether this course would have offered his best chance he never knew;\nit was one of the points in practical education which most needed a\nclear understanding, and he could never reach it. His father and mother\nwould have been glad to see him stay with them and begin reading\nBlackstone again, and he showed no very filial tenderness by abruptly\nbreaking the tie that had lasted so long. After all, perhaps Beacon\nStreet was as good as any other street for his objects in life;\npossibly his easiest and surest path was from Beacon Street to State\nStreet and back again, all the days of his years. Who could tell? Even\nafter life was over, the doubt could not be determined.\n\n  In thus sacrificing his heritage, he only followed the path\nthat had led him from the beginning. Boston was full of his brothers.\nHe had reckoned from childhood on outlawry as his peculiar birthright.\nThe mere thought of beginning life again in Mount Vernon Street lowered\nthe pulsations of his heart. This is a story of education--not a mere\nlesson of life--and, with education, temperament has in strictness\nnothing to do, although in practice they run close together. Neither by\ntemperament nor by education was he fitted for Boston. He had drifted\nfar away and behind his companions there; no one trusted his\ntemperament or education; he had to go.\n\n  Since no other path seemed to offer itself, he stuck to his\nplan of joining the press, and selected Washington as the shortest road\nto New York, but, in 1868, Washington stood outside the social pale. No\nBostonian had ever gone there. One announced one's self as an\nadventurer and an office-seeker, a person of deplorably bad judgment,\nand the charges were true. The chances of ending in the gutter were, at\nbest, even. The risk was the greater in Adams's case, because he had no\nvery clear idea what to do when he got there. That he must educate\nhimself over again, for objects quite new, in an air altogether hostile\nto his old educations, was the only certainty; but how he was to do\nit--how he was to convert the idler in Rotten Row into the lobbyist of\nthe Capital--he had not an idea, and no one to teach him. The question\nof money is rarely serious for a young American unless he is married,\nand money never troubled Adams more than others; not because he had it,\nbut because he could do without it, like most people in Washington who\nall lived on the income of bricklayers; but with or without money he\nmet the difficulty that, after getting to Washington in order to go on\nthe press, it was necessary to seek a press to go on. For large work he\ncould count on the North American Review, but this was scarcely a\npress. For current discussion and correspondence, he could depend on\nthe New York Nation; but what he needed was a New York daily, and no\nNew York daily needed him. He lost his one chance by the death of Henry\nJ. Raymond. The Tribune under Horace Greeley was out of the question\nboth for political and personal reasons, and because Whitelaw Reid had\nalready undertaken that singularly venturesome position, amid\ndifficulties that would have swamped Adams in four-and-twenty hours.\nCharles A. Dana had made the Sun a very successful as well as a very\namusing paper, but had hurt his own social position in doing it; and\nAdams knew himself well enough to know that he could never please\nhimself and Dana too; with the best intentions, he must always fail as\na blackguard, and at that time a strong dash of blackguardism was life\nto the Sun. As for the New York Herald,  it was a despotic empire\nadmitting no personality but that of Bennett. Thus, for the moment, the\nNew York daily press offered no field except the free-trade Holy Land\nof the Evening Post  under William Cullen Bryant, while beside it lay\nonly the elevated plateau of the New Jerusalem occupied by Godkin and\nthe Nation. Much as Adams liked Godkin, and glad as he was to creep\nunder the shelter of the Evening Post and the Nation, he was well aware\nthat he should find there only the same circle of readers that he\nreached in the North American Review.\n\n  The outlook was dim, but it was all he had, and at Washington,\nexcept for the personal friendship of Mr. Evarts who was then Attorney\nGeneral and living there, he would stand in solitude much like that of\nLondon in 1861. Evarts did what no one in Boston seemed to care for\ndoing; he held out a hand to the young man. Whether Boston, like Salem,\nreally shunned strangers, or whether Evarts was an exception even in\nNew York, he had the social instinct which Boston had not. Generous by\nnature, prodigal in hospitality, fond of young people, and a born\nman-of-the-world, Evarts gave and took liberally, without scruple, and\naccepted the world without fearing or abusing it. His wit was the least\npart of his social attraction. His talk was broad and free. He laughed\nwhere he could; he joked if a joke was possible; he was true to his\nfriends, and never lost his temper or became ill-natured. Like all New\nYorkers he was decidedly not a Bostonian; but he was what one might\ncall a transplanted New Englander, like General Sherman; a variety,\ngrown in ranker soil. In the course of life, and in widely different\ncountries, Adams incurred heavy debts of gratitude to persons on whom\nhe had no claim and to whom he could seldom make return; perhaps\nhalf-a-dozen such debts remained unpaid at last, although six is a\nlarge number as lives go; but kindness seldom came more happily than\nwhen Mr. Evarts took him to Washington in October, 1868.\n\n  Adams accepted the hospitality of the sleeper, with deep\ngratitude, the more because his first struggle with a sleeping-car made\nhim doubt the value--to him--of a Pullman civilization; but he was even\nmore grateful for the shelter of Mr. Evarts's house in H Street at the\ncorner of Fourteenth, where he abode in safety and content till he\nfound rooms in the roomless village. To him the village seemed\nunchanged. Had he not known that a great war and eight years of\nastonishing movement had passed over it, he would have noticed nothing\nthat betrayed growth. As of old, houses were few; rooms fewer; even the\nmen were the same. No one seemed to miss the usual comforts of\ncivilization, and Adams was glad to get rid of them, for his best\nchance lay in the eighteenth century.\n\n  The first step, of course, was the making of acquaintance, and\nthe first acquaintance was naturally the President, to whom an aspirant\nto the press officially paid respect. Evarts immediately took him to\nthe White House and presented him to President Andrew Johnson. The\ninterview was brief and consisted in the stock remark common to\nmonarchs and valets, that the young man looked even younger than he\nwas. The younger man felt even younger than he looked. He never saw the\nPresident again, and never felt a wish to see him, for Andrew Johnson\nwas not the sort of man whom a young reformer of thirty, with two or\nthree foreign educations, was likely to see with enthusiasm; yet,\nmusing over the interview as a matter of education, long years\nafterwards, he could not help recalling the President's figure with a\ndistinctness that surprised him. The old-fashioned Southern Senator and\nstatesman sat in his chair at his desk with a look of self-esteem that\nhad its value. None doubted. All were great men; some, no doubt, were\ngreater than others; but all were statesmen and all were supported,\nlifted, inspired by the moral certainty of rightness. To them the\nuniverse was serious, even solemn, but it was their universe, a\nSouthern conception of right. Lamar used to say that he never\nentertained a doubt of the soundness of the Southern system until he\nfound that slavery could not stand a war. Slavery was only a part of\nthe Southern system, and the life of it all--the vigor--the poetry--was\nits moral certainty of self. The Southerner could not doubt; and this\nself-assurance not only gave Andrew Johnson the look of a true\nPresident, but actually made him one. When Adams came to look back on\nit afterwards, he was surprised to realize how strong the Executive was\nin 1868--perhaps the strongest he was ever to see. Certainly he never\nagain found himself so well satisfied, or so much at home.\n\n  Seward was still Secretary of State. Hardly yet an old man,\nthough showing marks of time and violence, Mr. Seward seemed little\nchanged in these eight years. He was the same--with a difference.\nPerhaps he--unlike Henry Adams--had at last got an education, and all\nhe wanted. Perhaps he had resigned himself to doing without it.\nWhatever the reason, although his manner was as roughly kind as ever,\nand his talk as free, he appeared to have closed his account with the\npublic; he no longer seemed to care; he asked nothing, gave nothing,\nand invited no support; he talked little of himself or of others, and\nwaited only for his discharge. Adams was well pleased to be near him in\nthese last days of his power and fame, and went much to his house in\nthe evenings when he was sure to be at his whist. At last, as the end\ndrew near, wanting to feel that the great man--the only chief he ever\nserved even as a volunteer--recognized some personal relation, he asked\nMr. Seward to dine with him one evening in his rooms, and play his game\nof whist there, as he did every night in his own house. Mr. Seward came\nand had his whist, and Adams remembered his rough parting speech: \"A\nvery sensible entertainment!\" It was the only favor he ever asked of\nMr. Seward, and the only one he ever accepted.\n\n  Thus, as a teacher of wisdom, after twenty years of example,\nGovernor Seward passed out of one's life, and Adams lost what should\nhave been his firmest ally; but in truth the State Department had\nceased to be the centre of his interest, and the Treasury had taken its\nplace. The Secretary of the Treasury was a man new to politics--Hugh\nMcCulloch--not a person of much importance in the eyes of practical\npoliticians such as young members of the press meant themselves to\nbecome, but they all liked Mr. McCulloch, though they thought him a\nstop-gap rather than a force. Had they known what sort of forces the\nTreasury was to offer them for support in the generation to come, they\nmight have reflected a long while on their estimate of McCulloch. Adams\nwas fated to watch the flittings of many more Secretaries than he ever\ncared to know, and he rather came back in the end to the idea that\nMcCulloch was the best of them, although he seemed to represent\neverything that one liked least. He was no politician, he had no party,\nand no power. He was not fashionable or decorative. He was a banker,\nand towards bankers Adams felt the narrow prejudice which the serf\nfeels to his overseer; for he knew he must obey, and he knew that the\nhelpless showed only their helplessness when they tempered obedience by\nmockery. The world, after 1865, became a bankers' world, and no banker\nwould ever trust one who had deserted State Street, and had gone to\nWashington with purposes of doubtful credit, or of no credit at all,\nfor he could not have put up enough collateral to borrow five thousand\ndollars of any bank in America. The banker never would trust him, and\nhe would never trust the banker. To him, the banking mind was\nobnoxious; and this antipathy caused him the more surprise at finding\nMcCulloch the broadest, most liberal, most genial, and most practical\npublic man in Washington.\n\n  There could be no doubt of it. The burden of the Treasury at\nthat time was very great. The whole financial system was in chaos;\nevery part of it required reform; the utmost experience, tact, and\nskill could not make the machine work smoothly. No one knew how well\nMcCulloch did it until his successor took it in charge, and tried to\ncorrect his methods. Adams did not know enough to appreciate\nMcCulloch's technical skill, but he was struck at his open and generous\ntreatment of young men. Of all rare qualities, this was, in Adams's\nexperience, the rarest. As a rule, officials dread interference. The\nstrongest often resent it most. Any official who admits equality in\ndiscussion of his official course, feels it to be an act of virtue;\nafter a few months or years he tires of the effort. Every friend in\npower is a friend lost. This rule is so nearly absolute that it may be\ntaken in practice as admitting no exception. Apparent exceptions exist,\nand McCulloch was one of them.\n\n  McCulloch had been spared the gluttonous selfishness and\ninfantile jealousy which are the commoner results of early political\neducation. He had neither past nor future, and could afford to be\ncareless of his company. Adams found him surrounded by all the active\nand intelligent young men in the country. Full of faith, greedy for\nwork, eager for reform, energetic, confident, capable, quick of study,\ncharmed with a fight, equally ready to defend or attack, they were\nunselfish, and even--as young men went--honest. They came mostly from\nthe army, with the spirit of the volunteers. Frank Walker, Frank\nBarlow, Frank Bartlett were types of the generation. Most of the press,\nand much of the public, especially in the West, shared their ideas. No\none denied the need for reform. The whole government, from top to\nbottom, was rotten with the senility of what was antiquated and the\ninstability of what was improvised. The currency was only one example;\nthe tariff was another; but the whole fabric required reconstruction as\nmuch as in 1789, for the Constitution had become as antiquated as the\nConfederation. Sooner or later a shock must come, the more dangerous\nthe longer postponed. The Civil War had made a new system in fact; the\ncountry would have to reorganize the machinery in practice and theory.\n\n  One might discuss indefinitely the question which branch of\ngovernment needed reform most urgently; all needed it enough, but no\none denied that the finances were a scandal, and a constant, universal\nnuisance. The tariff was worse, though more interests upheld it.\nMcCulloch had the singular merit of facing reform with large\ngood-nature and willing sympathy--outside of parties, jobs, bargains,\ncorporations or intrigues--which Adams never was to meet again.\n\n  Chaos often breeds life, when order breeds habit. The Civil War\nhad bred life. The army bred courage. Young men of the volunteer type\nwere not always docile under control, but they were handy in a fight.\nAdams was greatly pleased to be admitted as one of them. He found\nhimself much at home with them--more at home than he ever had been\nbefore, or was ever to be again--in the atmosphere of the Treasury. He\nhad no strong party passion, and he felt as though he and his friends\nowned this administration, which, in its dying days, had neither\nfriends nor future except in them.\n\n  These were not the only allies; the whole government in all its\nbranches was alive with them. Just at that moment the Supreme Court was\nabout to take up the Legal Tender cases where Judge Curtis had been\nemployed to argue against the constitutional power of the Government to\nmake an artificial standard of value in time of peace. Evarts was\nanxious to fix on a line of argument that should have a chance of\nstanding up against that of Judge Curtis, and was puzzled to do it. He\ndid not know which foot to put forward. About to deal with Judge\nCurtis, the last of the strong jurists of Marshall's school, he could\nrisk no chances. In doubt, the quickest way to clear one's mind is to\ndiscuss, and Evarts deliberately forced discussion. Day after day,\ndriving, dining, walking he provoked Adams to dispute his positions. He\nneeded an anvil, he said, to hammer his ideas on.\n\n  Adams was flattered at being an anvil, which is, after all,\nmore solid than the hammer; and he did not feel called on to treat Mr.\nEvarts's arguments with more respect than Mr. Evarts himself expressed\nfor them; so he contradicted with freedom. Like most young men, he was\nmuch of a doctrinaire, and the question was, in any event, rather\nhistorical or political than legal. He could easily maintain, by way of\nargument, that the required power had never been given, and that no\nsound constitutional reason could possibly exist for authorizing the\nGovernment to overthrow the standard of value without necessity, in\ntime of peace. The dispute itself had not much value for him, even as\neducation, but it led to his seeking light from the Chief Justice\nhimself. Following up the subject for his letters to the Nation and his\narticles in the North American Review, Adams grew to be intimate with\nthe Chief Justice, who, as one of the oldest and strongest leaders of\nthe Free Soil Party, had claims to his personal regard; for the old\nFree Soilers were becoming few. Like all strong-willed and\nself-asserting men, Mr. Chase had the faults of his qualities. He was\nnever easy to drive in harness, or light in hand. He saw vividly what\nwas wrong, and did not always allow for what was relatively right. He\nloved power as though he were still a Senator. His position towards\nLegal Tender was awkward. As Secretary of the Treasury he had been its\nauthor; as Chief Justice he became its enemy. Legal Tender caused no\ngreat pleasure or pain in the sum of life to a newspaper correspondent,\nbut it served as a subject for letters, and the Chief Justice was very\nwilling to win an ally in the press who would tell his story as he\nwished it to be read. The intimacy in Mr. Chase's house grew rapidly,\nand the alliance was no small help to the comforts of a struggling\nnewspaper adventurer in Washington. No matter what one might think of\nhis politics or temper, Mr. Chase was a dramatic figure, of high\nsenatorial rank, if also of certain senatorial faults; a valuable ally.\n\n  As was sure, sooner or later, to happen, Adams one day met\nCharles Sumner on the street, and instantly stopped to greet him. As\nthough eight years of broken ties were the natural course of\nfriendship, Sumner at once, after an exclamation of surprise, dropped\nback into the relation of hero to the school boy. Adams enjoyed\naccepting it. He was then thirty years old and Sumner was fifty-seven;\nhe had seen more of the world than Sumner ever dreamed of, and he felt\na sort of amused curiosity to be treated once more as a child. At best,\nthe renewal of broken relations is a nervous matter, and in this case\nit bristled with thorns, for Sumner's quarrel with Mr. Adams had not\nbeen the most delicate of his ruptured relations, and he was liable to\nbe sensitive in many ways that even Bostonians could hardly keep in\nconstant mind; yet it interested and fascinated Henry Adams as a new\nstudy of political humanity. The younger man knew that the meeting\nwould have to come, and was ready for it, if only as a newspaper need;\nbut to Sumner it came as a surprise and a disagreeable one, as Adams\nconceived. He learned something--a piece of practical education worth\nthe effort--by watching Sumner's behavior. He could see that many\nthoughts--mostly unpleasant--were passing through his mind, since he\nmade no inquiry about any of Adams's family, or allusion to any of his\nfriends or his residence abroad. He talked only of the present. To him,\nAdams in Washington should have seemed more or less of a critic,\nperhaps a spy, certainly an intriguer or adventurer, like scores of\nothers; a politician without party; a writer without principles; an\noffice-seeker certain to beg for support. All this was, for his\npurposes, true. Adams could do him no good, and would be likely to do\nhim all the harm in his power. Adams accepted it all; expected to be\nkept at arm's length; admitted that the reasons were just. He was the\nmore surprised to see that Sumner invited a renewal of old relations.\nHe found himself treated almost confidentially. Not only was he asked\nto make a fourth at Sumner's pleasant little dinners in the house on La\nFayette Square, but he found himself admitted to the Senator's study\nand informed of his views, policy and purposes, which were sometimes\neven more astounding than his curious gaps or lapses of omniscience.\n\n  On the whole, the relation was the queerest that Henry Adams\never kept up. He liked and admired Sumner, but thought his mind a\npathological study. At times he inclined to think that Sumner felt his\nsolitude, and, in the political wilderness, craved educated society;\nbut this hardly told the whole story. Sumner's mind had reached the\ncalm of water which receives and reflects images without absorbing\nthem; it contained nothing but itself. The images from without, the\nobjects mechanically perceived by the senses, existed by courtesy until\nthe mental surface was ruffled, but never became part of the thought.\nHenry Adams roused no emotion; if he had roused a disagreeable one, he\nwould have ceased to exist. The mind would have mechanically rejected,\nas it had mechanically admitted him. Not that Sumner was more\naggressively egoistic than other Senators--Conkling, for instance--but\nthat with him the disease had affected the whole mind; it was chronic\nand absolute; while, with other Senators for the most part, it was\nstill acute.\n\n  Perhaps for this very reason, Sumner was the more valuable\nacquaintance for a newspaper-man. Adams found him most useful; perhaps\nquite the most useful of all these great authorities who were the\nstock-in-trade of the newspaper business; the accumulated capital of a\nSilurian age. A few months or years more, and they were gone. In 1868,\nthey were like the town itself, changing but not changed. La Fayette\nSquare was society. Within a few hundred yards of Mr. Clark Mills's\nnursery monument to the equestrian seat of Andrew Jackson, one found\nall one's acquaintance as well as hotels, banks, markets and national\ngovernment. Beyond the Square the country began. No rich or fashionable\nstranger had yet discovered the town. No literary or scientific man, no\nartist, no gentleman without office or employment, had ever lived\nthere. It was rural, and its society was primitive. Scarcely a person\nin it had ever known life in a great city. Mr. Evarts, Mr. Sam Hooper,\nof Boston, and perhaps one or two of the diplomatists had alone mixed\nin that sort of world. The happy village was innocent of a club. The\none-horse tram on F Street to the Capitol was ample for traffic. Every\npleasant spring morning at the Pennsylvania Station, society met to bid\ngood-bye to its friends going off on the single express. The State\nDepartment was lodged in an infant asylum far out on Fourteenth Street\nwhile Mr. Mullett was constructing his architectural infant asylum next\nthe White House. The value of real estate had not increased since 1800,\nand the pavements were more impassable than the mud. All this favored a\nyoung man who had come to make a name. In four-and-twenty hours he\ncould know everybody; in two days everybody knew him.\n\n  After seven years' arduous and unsuccessful effort to explore\nthe outskirts of London society, the Washington world offered an easy\nand delightful repose. When he looked round him, from the safe shelter\nof Mr. Evarts's roof, on the men he was to work with--or against--he\nhad to admit that nine-tenths of his acquired education was useless,\nand the other tenth harmful. He would have to begin again from the\nbeginning. He must learn to talk to the Western Congressman, and to\nhide his own antecedents. The task was amusing. He could see nothing to\nprevent him from enjoying it, with immoral unconcern for all that had\ngone before and for anything that might follow. The lobby offered a\nspectacle almost picturesque. Few figures on the Paris stage were more\nentertaining and dramatic than old Sam Ward, who knew more of life than\nall the departments of the Government together, including the Senate\nand the Smithsonian. Society had not much to give, but what it had, it\ngave with an open hand. For the moment, politics had ceased to disturb\nsocial relations. All parties were mixed up and jumbled together in a\nsort of tidal slack-water. The Government resembled Adams himself in\nthe matter of education. All that had gone before was useless, and some\nof it was worse.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVII\n\nPRESIDENT GRANT (1869)\n\n  THE first effect of this leap into the unknown was a fit of low\nspirits new to the young man's education; due in part to the\noverpowering beauty and sweetness of the Maryland autumn, almost\nunendurable for its strain on one who had toned his life down to the\nNovember grays and browns of northern Europe. Life could not go on so\nbeautiful and so sad. Luckily, no one else felt it or knew it. He bore\nit as well as he could, and when he picked himself up, winter had come,\nand he was settled in bachelor's quarters, as modest as those of a\nclerk in the Departments, far out on G Street, towards Georgetown,\nwhere an old Finn named Dohna, who had come out with the Russian\nMinister Stoeckel long before, had bought or built a new house.\nCongress had met. Two or three months remained to the old\nadministration, but all interest centred in the new one. The town began\nto swarm with office-seekers, among whom a young writer was lost. He\ndrifted among them, unnoticed, glad to learn his work under cover of\nthe confusion. He never aspired to become a regular reporter; he knew\nhe should fail in trying a career so ambitious and energetic; but he\npicked up friends on the press--Nordhoff, Murat Halstead, Henry\nWatterson, Sam Bowles--all reformers, and all mixed and jumbled\ntogether in a tidal wave of expectation, waiting for General Grant to\ngive orders. No one seemed to know much about it. Even Senators had\nnothing to say. One could only make notes and study finance.\n\n  In waiting, he amused himself as he could. In the amusements of\nWashington, education had no part, but the simplicity of the amusements\nproved the simplicity of everything else, ambitions, interests,\nthoughts, and knowledge. Proverbially Washington was a poor place for\neducation, and of course young diplomats avoided or disliked it, but,\nas a rule, diplomats disliked every place except Paris, and the world\ncontained only one Paris. They abused London more violently than\nWashington; they praised no post under the sun; and they were merely\ndescribing three-fourths of their stations when they complained that\nthere were no theatres, no restaurants, no monde, no demi-monde, no\ndrives, no splendor, and, as Mme. de Struve used to say, no grandezza.\nThis was all true; Washington was a mere political camp, as transient\nand temporary as a camp-meeting for religious revival, but the\ndiplomats had least reason to complain, since they were more sought for\nthere than they would ever be elsewhere. For young men Washington was\nin one way paradise, since they were few, and greatly in demand. After\nwatching the abject unimportance of the young diplomat in London\nsociety, Adams found himself a young duke in Washington. He had ten\nyears of youth to make up, and a ravenous appetite. Washington was the\neasiest society he had ever seen, and even the Bostonian became simple,\ngood-natured, almost genial, in the softness of a Washington spring.\nSociety went on excellently well without houses, or carriages, or\njewels, or toilettes, or pavements, or shops, or grandezza of any sort;\nand the market was excellent as well as cheap. One could not stay there\na month without loving the shabby town. Even the Washington girl, who\nwas neither rich nor well-dressed nor well-educated nor clever, had\nsingular charm, and used it. According to Mr. Adams the father, this\ncharm dated back as far as Monroe's administration, to his personal\nknowledge.\n\n  Therefore, behind all the processes of political or financial\nor newspaper training, the social side of Washington was to be taken\nfor granted as three-fourths of existence. Its details matter nothing.\nLife ceased to be strenuous, and the victim thanked God for it.\nPolitics and reform became the detail, and waltzing the profession.\nAdams was not alone. Senator Sumner had as private secretary a young\nman named Moorfield Storey, who became a dangerous example of\nfrivolity. The new Attorney-General, E. R. Hoar, brought with him from\nConcord a son, Sam Hoar, whose example rivalled that of Storey. Another\nimpenitent was named Dewey, a young naval officer. Adams came far down\nin the list. He wished he had been higher. He could have spared a world\nof superannuated history, science, or politics, to have reversed better\nin waltzing.\n\n  He had no adequate notion how little he knew, especially of\nwomen, and Washington offered no standard of comparison. All were\nprofoundly ignorant together, and as indifferent as children to\neducation. No one needed knowledge. Washington was happier without\nstyle. Certainly Adams was happier without it; happier than he had ever\nbeen before; happier than any one in the harsh world of strenuousness\ncould dream of. This must be taken as background for such little\neducation as he gained; but the life belonged to the eighteenth\ncentury, and in no way concerned education for the twentieth.\n\n  In such an atmosphere, one made no great pretence of hard work.\nIf the world wants hard work, the world must pay for it; and, if it\nwill not pay, it has no fault to find with the worker. Thus far, no one\nhad made a suggestion of pay for any work that Adams had done or could\ndo; if he worked at all, it was for social consideration, and social\npleasure was his pay. For this he was willing to go on working, as an\nartist goes on painting when no one buys his pictures. Artists have\ndone it from the beginning of time, and will do it after time has\nexpired, since they cannot help themselves, and they find their return\nin the pride of their social superiority as they feel it. Society\ncommonly abets them and encourages their attitude of contempt. The\nsociety of Washington was too simple and Southern as yet, to feel\nanarchistic longings, and it never read or saw what artists produced\nelsewhere, but it good-naturedly abetted them when it had the chance,\nand respected itself the more for the frailty. Adams found even the\nGovernment at his service, and every one willing to answer his\nquestions. He worked, after a fashion; not very hard, but as much as\nthe Government would have required of him for nine hundred dollars a\nyear; and his work defied frivolity. He got more pleasure from writing\nthan the world ever got from reading him, for his work was not amusing,\nnor was he. One must not try to amuse moneylenders or investors, and\nthis was the class to which he began by appealing. He gave three months\nto an article on the finances of the United States, just then a subject\ngreatly needing treatment; and when he had finished it, he sent it to\nLondon to his friend Henry Reeve, the ponderous editor of the Edinburgh\nReview. Reeve probably thought it good; at all events, he said so; and\nhe printed it in April. Of course it was reprinted in America, but in\nEngland such articles were still anonymous, and the author remained\nunknown.\n\n  The author was not then asking for advertisement, and made no\nclaim for credit. His object was literary. He wanted to win a place on\nthe staff of the Edinburgh Review, under the vast shadow of Lord\nMacaulay; and, to a young American in 1868, such rank seemed\ncolossal--the highest in the literary world--as it had been only\nfive-and-twenty years before. Time and tide had flowed since then, but\nthe position still flattered vanity, though it brought no other\nflattery or reward except the regular thirty pounds of pay--fifty\ndollars a month, measured in time and labor.\n\n  The Edinburgh article finished, he set himself to work on a\nscheme for the North American Review. In England, Lord Robert Cecil had\ninvented for the London Quarterly an annual review of politics which he\ncalled the \"Session.\" Adams stole the idea and the name--he thought he\nhad been enough in Lord Robert's house, in days of his struggle with\nadversity, to excuse the theft--and began what he meant for a permanent\nseries of annual political reviews which he hoped to make, in time, a\npolitical authority. With his sources of information, and his social\nintimacies at Washington, he could not help saying something that would\ncommand attention. He had the field to himself, and he meant to give\nhimself a free hand, as he went on. Whether the newspapers liked it or\nnot, they would have to reckon with him; for such a power, once\nestablished, was more effective than all the speeches in Congress or\nreports to the President that could be crammed into the Government\npresses.\n\n  The first of these \"Sessions\" appeared in April, but it could\nnot be condensed into a single article, and had to be supplemented in\nOctober by another which bore the title of \"Civil Service Reform,\" and\nwas really a part of the same review. A good deal of authentic history\nslipped into these papers. Whether any one except his press associates\never read them, he never knew and never greatly cared. The difference\nis slight, to the influence of an author, whether he is read by five\nhundred readers, or by five hundred thousand; if he can select the five\nhundred, he reaches the five hundred thousand. The fateful year 1870\nwas near at hand, which was to mark the close of the literary epoch,\nwhen quarterlies gave way to monthlies; letter-press to illustration;\nvolumes to pages. The outburst was brilliant. Bret Harte led, and\nRobert Louis Stevenson followed. Guy de Maupassant and Rudyard Kipling\nbrought up the rear, and dazzled the world. As usual, Adams found\nhimself fifty years behind his time, but a number of belated wanderers\nkept him company, and they produced on each other the effect or\nillusion of a public opinion. They straggled apart, at longer and\nlonger intervals, through the procession, but they were still within\nhearing distance of each other. The drift was still superficially\nconservative. Just as the Church spoke with apparent authority, or the\nquarterlies laid down an apparent law, and no one could surely say\nwhere the real authority, or the real law, lay. Science did not know.\nTruths a priori held their own against truths surely relative.\nAccording to Lowell, Right was forever on the scaffold, Wrong was\nforever on the Throne; and most people still thought they believed it.\nAdams was not the only relic of the eighteenth century, and he could\nstill depend on a certain number of listeners--mostly respectable, and\nsome rich.\n\n  Want of audience did not trouble him; he was well enough off in\nthat respect, and would have succeeded in all his calculations if this\nhad been his only hazard. Where he broke down was at a point where he\nalways suffered wreck and where nine adventurers out of ten make their\nerrors. One may be more or less certain of organized forces; one can\nnever be certain of men. He belonged to the eighteenth century, and the\neighteenth century upset all his plans. For the moment, America was\nmore eighteenth century than himself; it reverted to the stone age.\n\n  As education--of a certain sort--the story had probably a\ncertain value, though he could never see it. One seldom can see much\neducation in the buck of a broncho; even less in the kick of a mule.\nThe lesson it teaches is only that of getting out of the animal's way.\nThis was the lesson that Henry Adams had learned over and over again in\npolitics since 1860.\n\n  At least four-fifths of the American people--Adams among the\nrest--had united in the election of General Grant to the Presidency,\nand probably had been more or less affected in their choice by the\nparallel they felt between Grant and Washington. Nothing could be more\nobvious. Grant represented order. He was a great soldier, and the\nsoldier always represented order. He might be as partisan as he\npleased, but a general who had organized and commanded half a million\nor a million men in the field, must know how to administer. Even\nWashington, who was, in education and experience, a mere cave-dweller,\nhad known how to organize a government, and had found Jeffersons and\nHamiltons to organize his departments. The task of bringing the\nGovernment back to regular practices, and of restoring moral and\nmechanical order to administration, was not very difficult; it was\nready to do it itself, with a little encouragement. No doubt the\nconfusion, especially in the old slave States and in the currency, was\nconsiderable, but, the general disposition was good, and every one had\nechoed that famous phrase: \"Let us have peace.\"\n\n  Adams was young and easily deceived, in spite of his diplomatic\nadventures, but even at twice his age he could not see that this\nreliance on Grant was unreasonable. Had Grant been a Congressman one\nwould have been on one's guard, for one knew the type. One never\nexpected from a Congressman more than good intentions and public\nspirit. Newspaper-men as a rule had no great respect for the lower\nHouse; Senators had less; and Cabinet officers had none at all. Indeed,\none day when Adams was pleading with a Cabinet officer for patience and\ntact in dealing with Representatives, the Secretary impatiently broke\nout: \"You can't use tact with a Congressman! A Congressman is a hog!\nYou must take a stick and hit him on the snout!\" Adams knew far too\nlittle, compared with the Secretary, to contradict him, though he\nthought the phrase somewhat harsh even as applied to the average\nCongressman of 1869--he saw little or nothing of later ones--but he\nknew a shorter way of silencing criticism. He had but to ask: \"If a\nCongressman is a hog, what is a Senator?\" This innocent question, put\nin a candid spirit, petrified any executive officer that ever sat a\nweek in his office. Even Adams admitted that Senators passed belief.\nThe comic side of their egotism partly disguised its extravagance, but\nfaction had gone so far under Andrew Johnson that at times the whole\nSenate seemed to catch hysterics of nervous bucking without apparent\nreason. Great leaders, like Sumner and Conkling, could not be\nburlesqued; they were more grotesque than ridicule could make them;\neven Grant, who rarely sparkled in epigram, became witty on their\naccount; but their egotism and factiousness were no laughing matter.\nThey did permanent and terrible mischief, as Garfield and Blaine, and\neven McKinley and John Hay, were to feel. The most troublesome task of\na reform President was that of bringing the Senate back to decency.\n\n  Therefore no one, and Henry Adams less than most, felt hope\nthat any President chosen from the ranks of politics or politicians\nwould raise the character of government; and by instinct if not by\nreason, all the world united on Grant. The Senate understood what the\nworld expected, and waited in silence for a struggle with Grant more\nserious than that with Andrew Johnson. Newspaper-men were alive with\neagerness to support the President against the Senate. The\nnewspaper-man is, more than most men, a double personality; and his\nperson feels best satisfied in its double instincts when writing in one\nsense and thinking in another. All newspaper-men, whatever they wrote,\nfelt alike about the Senate. Adams floated with the stream. He was\neager to join in the fight which he foresaw as sooner or later\ninevitable. He meant to support the Executive in attacking the Senate\nand taking away its two-thirds vote and power of confirmation, nor did\nhe much care how it should be done, for he thought it safer to effect\nthe revolution in 1870 than to wait till 1920.\n\n  With this thought in his mind, he went to the Capitol to hear\nthe names announced which should reveal the carefully guarded secret of\nGrant's Cabinet. To the end of his life, he wondered at the suddenness\nof the revolution which actually, within five minutes, changed his\nintended future into an absurdity so laughable as to make him ashamed\nof it. He was to hear a long list of Cabinet announcements not much\nweaker or more futile than that of Grant, and none of them made him\nblush, while Grant's nominations had the singular effect of making the\nhearer ashamed, not so much of Grant, as of himself. He had made\nanother total misconception of life--another inconceivable false start.\nYet, unlikely as it seemed, he had missed his motive narrowly, and his\nintention had been more than sound, for the Senators made no secret of\nsaying with senatorial frankness that Grant's nominations betrayed his\nintent as plainly as they betrayed his incompetence. A great soldier\nmight be a baby politician.\n\n  Adams left the Capitol, much in the same misty mental condition\nthat he recalled as marking his railway journey to London on May 13,\n1861; he felt in himself what Gladstone bewailed so sadly, \"the\nincapacity of viewing things all round.\" He knew, without absolutely\nsaying it, that Grant had cut short the life which Adams had laid out\nfor himself in the future. After such a miscarriage, no thought of\neffectual reform could revive for at least one generation, and he had\nno fancy for ineffectual politics. What course could he sail next? He\nhad tried so many, and society had barred them all! For the moment, he\nsaw no hope but in following the stream on which he had launched\nhimself. The new Cabinet, as individuals, were not hostile.\nSubsequently Grant made changes in the list which were mostly welcome\nto a Bostonian--or should have been--although fatal to Adams. The name\nof Hamilton Fish, as Secretary of State, suggested extreme conservatism\nand probable deference to Sumner. The name of George S. Boutwell, as\nSecretary of the Treasury, suggested only a somewhat lugubrious joke;\nMr. Boutwell could be described only as the opposite of Mr. McCulloch,\nand meant inertia; or, in plain words, total extinction for any one\nresembling Henry Adams. On the other hand, the name of Jacob D. Cox, as\nSecretary of the Interior, suggested help and comfort; while that of\nJudge Hoar, as Attorney-General, promised friendship. On the whole, the\npersonal outlook, merely for literary purposes, seemed fairly cheerful,\nand the political outlook, though hazy, still depended on Grant\nhimself. No one doubted that Grant's intention had been one of reform;\nthat his aim had been to place his administration above politics; and\nuntil he should actually drive his supporters away, one might hope to\nsupport him. One's little lantern must therefore be turned on Grant.\nOne seemed to know him so well, and really knew so little.\n\n  By chance it happened that Adam Badeau took the lower suite of\nrooms at Dohna's, and, as it was convenient to have one table, the two\nmen dined together and became intimate. Badeau was exceedingly social,\nthough not in appearance imposing. He was stout; his face was red, and\nhis habits were regularly irregular; but he was very intelligent, a\ngood newspaper-man, and an excellent military historian. His life of\nGrant was no ordinary book. Unlike most newspaper-men, he was a\nfriendly critic of Grant, as suited an officer who had been on the\nGeneral's staff. As a rule, the newspaper correspondents in Washington\nwere unfriendly, and the lobby sceptical. From that side one heard\ntales that made one's hair stand on end, and the old West Point army\nofficers were no more flattering. All described him as vicious, narrow,\ndull, and vindictive. Badeau, who had come to Washington for a\nconsulate which was slow to reach him, resorted more or less to whiskey\nfor encouragement, and became irritable, besides being loquacious. He\ntalked much about Grant, and showed a certain artistic feeling for\nanalysis of character, as a true literary critic would naturally do.\nLoyal to Grant, and still more so to Mrs. Grant, who acted as his\npatroness, he said nothing, even when far gone, that was offensive\nabout either, but he held that no one except himself and Rawlins\nunderstood the General. To him, Grant appeared as an intermittent\nenergy, immensely powerful when awake, but passive and plastic in\nrepose. He said that neither he nor the rest of the staff knew why\nGrant succeeded; they believed in him because of his success. For\nstretches of time, his mind seemed torpid. Rawlins and the others would\nsystematically talk their ideas into it, for weeks, not directly, but\nby discussion among themselves, in his presence. In the end, he would\nannounce the idea as his own, without seeming conscious of the\ndiscussion; and would give the orders to carry it out with all the\nenergy that belonged to his nature. They could never measure his\ncharacter or be sure when he would act. They could never follow a\nmental process in his thought. They were not sure that he did think.\n\n  In all this, Adams took deep interest, for although he was not,\nlike Badeau, waiting for Mrs. Grant's power of suggestion to act on the\nGeneral's mind in order to germinate in a consulate or a legation, his\nportrait gallery of great men was becoming large, and it amused him to\nadd an authentic likeness of the greatest general the world had seen\nsince Napoleon. Badeau's analysis was rather delicate; infinitely\nsuperior to that of Sam Ward or Charles Nordhoff.\n\n  Badeau took Adams to the White House one evening and introduced\nhim to the President and Mrs. Grant. First and last, he saw a dozen\nPresidents at the White House, and the most famous were by no means the\nmost agreeable, but he found Grant the most curious object of study\namong them all. About no one did opinions differ so widely. Adams had\nno opinion, or occasion to make one. A single word with Grant satisfied\nhim that, for his own good, the fewer words he risked, the better. Thus\nfar in life he had met with but one man of the same intellectual or\nunintellectual type--Garibaldi. Of the two, Garibaldi seemed to him a\ntrifle the more intellectual, but, in both, the intellect counted for\nnothing; only the energy counted. The type was pre-intellectual,\narchaic, and would have seemed so even to the cave-dwellers. Adam,\naccording to legend, was such a man.\n\n  In time one came to recognize the type in other men, with\ndifferences and variations, as normal; men whose energies were the\ngreater, the less they wasted on thought; men who sprang from the soil\nto power; apt to be distrustful of themselves and of others; shy;\njealous; sometimes vindictive; more or less dull in outward appearance;\nalways needing stimulants, but for whom action was the highest\nstimulant--the instinct of fight. Such men were forces of nature,\nenergies of the prime, like the Pteraspis, but they made short work of\nscholars. They had commanded thousands of such and saw no more in them\nthan in others. The fact was certain; it crushed argument and intellect\nat once.\n\n  Adams did not feel Grant as a hostile force; like Badeau he saw\nonly an uncertain one. When in action he was superb and safe to follow;\nonly when torpid he was dangerous. To deal with him one must stand\nnear, like Rawlins, and practice more or less sympathetic habits.\nSimple-minded beyond the experience of Wall Street or State Street, he\nresorted, like most men of the same intellectual calibre, to\ncommonplaces when at a loss for expression: \"Let us have peace!\" or,\n\"The best way to treat a bad law is to execute it\"; or a score of such\nreversible sentences generally to be gauged by their sententiousness;\nbut sometimes he made one doubt his good faith; as when he seriously\nremarked to a particularly bright young woman that Venice would be a\nfine city if it were drained. In Mark Twain, this suggestion would have\ntaken rank among his best witticisms; in Grant it was a measure of\nsimplicity not singular. Robert E. Lee betrayed the same intellectual\ncommonplace, in a Virginian form, not to the same degree, but quite\ndistinctly enough for one who knew the American. What worried Adams was\nnot the commonplace; it was, as usual, his own education. Grant fretted\nand irritated him, like the Terebratula, as a defiance of first\nprinciples. He had no right to exist. He should have been extinct for\nages. The idea that, as society grew older, it grew one-sided, upset\nevolution, and made of education a fraud. That, two thousand years\nafter Alexander the Great and Julius Caesar, a man like Grant should be\ncalled--and should actually and truly be--the highest product of the\nmost advanced evolution, made evolution ludicrous. One must be as\ncommonplace as Grant's own commonplaces to maintain such an absurdity.\nThe progress of evolution from President Washington to President Grant,\nwas alone evidence enough to upset Darwin.\n\n  Education became more perplexing at every phase. No theory was\nworth the pen that wrote it. America had no use for Adams because he\nwas eighteenth-century, and yet it worshipped Grant because he was\narchaic and should have lived in a cave and worn skins. Darwinists\nought to conclude that America was reverting to the stone age, but the\ntheory of reversion was more absurd than that of evolution. Grant's\nadministration reverted to nothing. One could not catch a trait of the\npast, still less of the future. It was not even sensibly American. Not\nan official in it, except perhaps Rawlins whom Adams never met, and who\ndied in September, suggested an American idea.\n\n  Yet this administration, which upset Adams's whole life, was\nnot unfriendly; it was made up largely of friends. Secretary Fish was\nalmost kind; he kept the tradition of New York social values; he was\nhuman and took no pleasure in giving pain. Adams felt no prejudice\nwhatever in his favor, and he had nothing in mind or person to attract\nregard; his social gifts were not remarkable; he was not in the least\nmagnetic; he was far from young; but he won confidence from the start\nand remained a friend to the finish. As far as concerned Mr. Fish, one\nfelt rather happily suited, and one was still better off in the\nInterior Department with J. D. Cox. Indeed, if Cox had been in the\nTreasury and Boutwell in the Interior, one would have been quite\nsatisfied as far as personal relations went, while, in the\nAttorney-General's Office, Judge Hoar seemed to fill every possible\nideal, both personal and political.\n\n  The difficulty was not the want of friends, and had the whole\ngovernment been filled with them, it would have helped little without\nthe President and the Treasury. Grant avowed from the start a policy of\ndrift; and a policy of drift attaches only barnacles. At thirty, one\nhas no interest in becoming a barnacle, but even in that character\nHenry Adams would have been ill-seen. His friends were reformers,\ncritics, doubtful in party allegiance, and he was himself an object of\nsuspicion. Grant had no objects, wanted no help, wished for no\nchampions. The Executive asked only to be let alone. This was his\nmeaning when he said: \"Let us have peace!\"\n\n  No one wanted to go into opposition. As for Adams, all his\nhopes of success in life turned on his finding an administration to\nsupport. He knew well enough the rules of self-interest. He was for\nsale. He wanted to be bought. His price was excessively cheap, for he\ndid not even ask an office, and had his eye, not on the Government, but\non New York. All he wanted was something to support; something that\nwould let itself be supported. Luck went dead against him. For once, he\nwas fifty years in advance of his time.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVIII\n\nFREE FIGHT (1869-1870)\n\n  THE old New Englander was apt to be a solitary animal, but the\nyoung New Englander was sometimes human. Judge Hoar brought his son Sam\nto Washington, and Sam Hoar loved largely and well. He taught Adams the\ncharm of Washington spring. Education for education, none ever compared\nwith the delight of this. The Potomac and its tributaries squandered\nbeauty. Rock Creek was as wild as the Rocky Mountains. Here and there a\nnegro log cabin alone disturbed the dogwood and the judas-tree, the\nazalea and the laurel. The tulip and the chestnut gave no sense of\nstruggle against a stingy nature. The soft, full outlines of the\nlandscape carried no hidden horror of glaciers in its bosom. The\nbrooding heat of the profligate vegetation; the cool charm of the\nrunning water; the terrific splendor of the June thunder-gust in the\ndeep and solitary woods, were all sensual, animal, elemental. No\nEuropean spring had shown him the same intermixture of delicate grace\nand passionate depravity that marked the Maryland May. He loved it too\nmuch, as though it were Greek and half human. He could not leave it,\nbut loitered on into July, falling into the Southern ways of the summer\nvillage about La Fayette Square, as one whose rights of inheritance\ncould not be questioned. Few Americans were so poor as to question them.\n\n  In spite of the fatal deception--or undeception--about\nGrant's political character, Adams's first winter in Washington had so\nmuch amused him that he had not a thought of change. He loved it too\nmuch to question its value. What did he know about its value, or what\ndid any one know? His father knew more about it than any one else in\nBoston, and he was amused to find that his father, whose recollections\nwent back to 1820, betrayed for Washington much the same sentimental\nweakness, and described the society about President Monroe much as his\nson felt the society about President Johnson. He feared its effect on\nyoung men, with some justice, since it had been fatal to two of his\nbrothers; but he understood the charm, and he knew that a life in\nQuincy or Boston was not likely to deaden it.\n\n  Henry was in a savage humor on the subject of Boston. He saw\nBoutwells at every counter. He found a personal grief in every tree.\nFifteen or twenty years afterwards, Clarence King used to amuse him by\nmourning over the narrow escape that nature had made in attaining\nperfection. Except for two mistakes, the earth would have been a\nsuccess. One of these errors was the inclination of the ecliptic; the\nother was the differentiation of the sexes, and the saddest thought\nabout the last was that it should have been so modern. Adams, in his\nsplenetic temper, held that both these unnecessary evils had wreaked\ntheir worst on Boston. The climate made eternal war on society, and sex\nwas a species of crime. The ecliptic had inclined itself beyond\nrecovery till life was as thin as the elm trees. Of course he was in\nthe wrong. The thinness was in himself, not in Boston; but this is a\nstory of education, and Adams was struggling to shape himself to his\ntime. Boston was trying to do the same thing. Everywhere, except in\nWashington, Americans were toiling for the same object. Every one\ncomplained of surroundings, except where, as at Washington, there were\nno surroundings to complain of. Boston kept its head better than its\nneighbors did, and very little time was needed to prove it, even to\nAdams's confusion.\n\n  Before he got back to Quincy, the summer was already half over,\nand in another six weeks the effects of President Grant's character\nshowed themselves. They were startling--astounding--terrifying. The\nmystery that shrouded the famous, classical attempt of Jay Gould to\ncorner gold in September, 1869, has never been cleared up--at least so\nfar as to make it intelligible to Adams. Gould was led, by the change\nat Washington, into the belief that he could safely corner gold without\ninterference from the Government. He took a number of precautions,\nwhich he admitted; and he spent a large sum of money, as he also\ntestified, to obtain assurances which were not sufficient to have\nsatisfied so astute a gambler; yet he made the venture. Any criminal\nlawyer must have begun investigation by insisting, rigorously, that no\nsuch man, in such a position, could be permitted to plead that he had\ntaken, and pursued, such a course, without assurances which did satisfy\nhim. The plea was professionally inadmissible.\n\n  This meant that any criminal lawyer would have been bound to\nstart an investigation by insisting that Gould had assurances from the\nWhite House or the Treasury, since none other could have satisfied him.\nTo young men wasting their summer at Quincy for want of some one to\nhire their services at three dollars a day, such a dramatic scandal was\nHeaven-sent. Charles and Henry Adams jumped at it like salmon at a fly,\nwith as much voracity as Jay Gould, or his ame damnee Jim Fisk, had\never shown for Erie; and with as little fear of consequences. They\nrisked something; no one could say what; but the people about the Erie\noffice were not regarded as lambs.\n\n  The unravelling a skein so tangled as that of the Erie Railway\nwas a task that might have given months of labor to the most efficient\nDistrict Attorney, with all his official tools to work with. Charles\ntook the railway history; Henry took the so-called Gold Conspiracy; and\nthey went to New York to work it up. The surface was in full view. They\nhad no trouble in Wall Street, and they paid their respects in person\nto the famous Jim Fisk in his Opera-House Palace; but the New York side\nof the story helped Henry little. He needed to penetrate the political\nmystery, and for this purpose he had to wait for Congress to meet. At\nfirst he feared that Congress would suppress the scandal, but the\nCongressional Investigation was ordered and took place. He soon knew\nall that was to be known; the material for his essay was furnished by\nthe Government.\n\n  Material furnished by a government seldom satisfies critics or\nhistorians, for it lies always under suspicion. Here was a mystery, and\nas usual, the chief mystery was the means of making sure that any\nmystery existed. All Adams's great friends--Fish, Cox, Hoar, Evarts,\nSumner, and their surroundings--were precisely the persons most\nmystified. They knew less than Adams did; they sought information, and\nfrankly admitted that their relations with the White House and the\nTreasury were not confidential. No one volunteered advice. No one\noffered suggestion. One got no light, even from the press, although\npress agents expressed in private the most damning convictions with\ntheir usual cynical frankness. The Congressional Committee took a\nquantity of evidence which it dared not probe, and refused to analyze.\nAlthough the fault lay somewhere on the Administration, and could lie\nnowhere else, the trail always faded and died out at the point where\nany member of the Administration became visible. Every one dreaded to\npress inquiry. Adams himself feared finding out too much. He found out\ntoo much already, when he saw in evidence that Jay Gould had actually\nsucceeded in stretching his net over Grant's closest surroundings, and\nthat Boutwell's incompetence was the bottom of Gould's calculation.\nWith the conventional air of assumed confidence, every one in public\nassured every one else that the President himself was the savior of the\nsituation, and in private assured each other that if the President had\nnot been caught this time, he was sure to be trapped the next, for the\nways of Wall Street were dark and double. All this was wildly exciting\nto Adams. That Grant should have fallen, within six months, into such a\nmorass--or should have let Boutwell drop him into it--rendered the\noutlook for the next four years--probably eight--possibly\ntwelve--mysterious, or frankly opaque, to a young man who had hitched\nhis wagon, as Emerson told him, to the star of reform. The country\nmight outlive it, but not he. The worst scandals of the eighteenth\ncentury were relatively harmless by the side of this, which smirched\nexecutive, judiciary, banks, corporate systems, professions, and\npeople, all the great active forces of society, in one dirty cesspool\nof vulgar corruption. Only six months before, this innocent young man,\nfresh from the cynicism of European diplomacy, had expected to enter an\nhonorable career in the press as the champion and confidant of a new\nWashington, and already he foresaw a life of wasted energy, sweeping\nthe stables of American society clear of the endless corruption which\nhis second Washington was quite certain to breed.\n\n  By vigorously shutting one's eyes, as though one were an\nAssistant Secretary, a writer for the press might ignore the Erie\nscandal, and still help his friends or allies in the Government who\nwere doing their best to give it an air of decency; but a few weeks\nshowed that the Erie scandal was a mere incident, a rather vulgar Wall\nStreet trap, into which, according to one's point of view Grant had\nbeen drawn by Jay Gould, or Jay Gould had been misled by Grant. One\ncould hardly doubt that both of them were astonished and disgusted by\nthe result; but neither Jay Gould nor any other astute American\nmind--still less the complex Jew--could ever have accustomed itself to\nthe incredible and inexplicable lapses of Grant's intelligence; and\nperhaps, on the whole, Gould was the less mischievous victim, if\nvictims they both were. The same laxity that led Gould into a trap\nwhich might easily have become the penitentiary, led the United States\nSenate, the Executive departments and the Judiciary into confusion,\ncross-purposes, and ill-temper that would have been scandalous in a\nboarding-school of girls. For satirists or comedians, the study was\nrich and endless, and they exploited its corners with happy results,\nbut a young man fresh from the rustic simplicity of London noticed with\nhorror that the grossest satires on the American Senator and politician\nnever failed to excite the laughter and applause of every audience.\nRich and poor joined in throwing contempt on their own representatives.\nSociety laughed a vacant and meaningless derision over its own failure.\nNothing remained for a young man without position or power except to\nlaugh too.\n\n  Yet the spectacle was no laughing matter to him, whatever it\nmight be to the public. Society is immoral and immortal; it can afford\nto commit any kind of folly, and indulge in any sort of vice; it cannot\nbe killed, and the fragments that survive can always laugh at the dead;\nbut a young man has only one chance, and brief time to seize it. Any\none in power above him can extinguish the chance. He is horribly at the\nmercy of fools and cowards. One dull administration can rapidly drive\nout every active subordinate. At Washington, in 1869-70, every\nintelligent man about the Government prepared to go. The people would\nhave liked to go too, for they stood helpless before the chaos; some\nlaughed and some raved; all were disgusted; but they had to content\nthemselves by turning their backs and going to work harder than ever on\ntheir railroads and foundries. They were strong enough to carry even\ntheir politics. Only the helpless remained stranded in Washington.\n\n  The shrewdest statesman of all was Mr. Boutwell, who showed how\nhe understood the situation by turning out of the Treasury every one\nwho could interfere with his repose, and then locking himself up in it,\nalone. What he did there, no one knew. His colleagues asked him in\nvain. Not a word could they get from him, either in the Cabinet or out\nof it, of suggestion or information on matters even of vital interest.\nThe Treasury as an active influence ceased to exist. Mr. Boutwell\nwaited with confidence for society to drag his department out of the\nmire, as it was sure to do if he waited long enough.\n\n  Warned by his friends in the Cabinet as well as in the Treasury\nthat Mr. Boutwell meant to invite no support, and cared to receive\nnone, Adams had only the State and Interior Departments left to serve.\nHe wanted no better than to serve them. Opposition was his horror; pure\nwaste of energy; a union with Northern Democrats and Southern rebels\nwho never had much in common with any Adams, and had never shown any\nwarm interest about them except to drive them from public life. If Mr.\nBoutwell turned him out of the Treasury with the indifference or\ncontempt that made even a beetle helpless, Mr. Fish opened the State\nDepartment freely, and seemed to talk with as much openness as any\nnewspaper-man could ask. At all events, Adams could cling to this last\nplank of salvation, and make himself perhaps the recognized champion of\nMr. Fish in the New York press. He never once thought of his disaster\nbetween Seward and Sumner in 1861. Such an accident could not occur\nagain. Fish and Sumner were inseparable, and their policy was sure to\nbe safe enough for support. No mosquito could be so unlucky as to be\ncaught a second time between a Secretary and a Senator who were both\nhis friends.\n\n  This dream of security lasted hardly longer than that of 1861.\nAdams saw Sumner take possession of the Department, and he approved; he\nsaw Sumner seize the British mission for Motley, and he was delighted;\nbut when he renewed his relations with Sumner in the winter of 1869-70,\nhe began slowly to grasp the idea that Sumner had a foreign policy of\nhis own which he proposed also to force on the Department. This was not\nall. Secretary Fish seemed to have vanished. Besides the Department of\nState over which he nominally presided in the Infant Asylum on\nFourteenth Street, there had risen a Department of Foreign Relations\nover which Senator Sumner ruled with a high hand at the Capitol; and,\nfinally, one clearly made out a third Foreign Office in the War\nDepartment, with President Grant himself for chief, pressing a policy\nof extension in the West Indies which no Northeastern man ever\napproved. For his life, Adams could not learn where to place himself\namong all these forces. Officially he would have followed the\nresponsible Secretary of State, but he could not find the Secretary.\nFish seemed to be friendly towards Sumner, and docile towards Grant,\nbut he asserted as yet no policy of his own. As for Grant's policy,\nAdams never had a chance to know fully what it was, but, as far as he\ndid know, he was ready to give it ardent support. The difficulty came\nonly when he heard Sumner's views, which, as he had reason to know,\nwere always commands, to be disregarded only by traitors.\n\n  Little by little, Sumner unfolded his foreign policy, and Adams\ngasped with fresh astonishment at every new article of the creed. To\nhis profound regret he heard Sumner begin by imposing his veto on all\nextension within the tropics; which cost the island of St. Thomas to\nthe United States, besides the Bay of Samana as an alternative, and\nruined Grant's policy. Then he listened with incredulous stupor while\nSumner unfolded his plan for concentrating and pressing every possible\nAmerican claim against England, with a view of compelling the cession\nof Canada to the United States.\n\n  Adams did not then know--in fact, he never knew, or could\nfind any one to tell him--what was going on behind the doors of the\nWhite House. He doubted whether Mr. Fish or Bancroft Davis knew much\nmore than he. The game of cross-purposes was as impenetrable in Foreign\nAffairs as in the Gold Conspiracy. President Grant let every one go on,\nbut whom he supported, Adams could not be expected to divine. One point\nalone seemed clear to a man--no longer so very young--who had lately\ncome from a seven years' residence in London. He thought he knew as\nmuch as any one in Washington about England, and he listened with the\nmore perplexity to Mr. Sumner's talk, because it opened the gravest\ndoubts of Sumner's sanity. If war was his object, and Canada were worth\nit, Sumner's scheme showed genius, and Adams was ready to treat it\nseriously; but if he thought he could obtain Canada from England as a\nvoluntary set-off to the Alabama Claims, he drivelled. On the point of\nfact, Adams was as peremptory as Sumner on the point of policy, but he\ncould only wonder whether Mr. Fish would dare say it. When at last Mr.\nFish did say it, a year later, Sumner publicly cut his acquaintance.\nAdams was the more puzzled because he could not believe Sumner so mad\nas to quarrel both with Fish and with Grant. A quarrel with Seward and\nAndrew Johnson was bad enough, and had profited no one; but a quarrel\nwith General Grant was lunacy. Grant might be whatever one liked, as\nfar as morals or temper or intellect were concerned, but he was not a\nman whom a light-weight cared to challenge for a fight; and Sumner,\nwhether he knew it or not, was a very light weight in the Republican\nParty, if separated from his Committee of Foreign Relations. As a party\nmanager he had not the weight of half-a-dozen men whose very names were\nunknown to him.\n\n  Between these great forces, where was the Administration and\nhow was one to support it? One must first find it, and even then it was\nnot easily caught. Grant's simplicity was more disconcerting than the\ncomplexity of a Talleyrand. Mr. Fish afterwards told Adams, with the\nrather grim humor he sometimes indulged in, that Grant took a dislike\nto Motley because he parted his hair in the middle. Adams repeated the\nstory to Godkin, who made much play with it in the Nation, till it was\ndenied. Adams saw no reason why it should be denied. Grant had as good\na right to dislike the hair as the head, if the hair seemed to him a\npart of it. Very shrewd men have formed very sound judgments on less\nmaterial than hair--on clothes, for example, according to Mr. Carlyle,\nor on a pen, according to Cardinal de Retz--and nine men in ten could\nhardly give as good a reason as hair for their likes or dislikes. In\ntruth, Grant disliked Motley at sight, because they had nothing in\ncommon; and for the same reason he disliked Sumner. For the same reason\nhe would be sure to dislike Adams if Adams gave him a chance. Even Fish\ncould not be quite sure of Grant, except for the powerful effect which\nwealth had, or appeared to have, on Grant's imagination.\n\n  The quarrel that lowered over the State Department did not\nbreak in storm till July, 1870, after Adams had vanished, but another\nquarrel, almost as fatal to Adams as that between Fish and Sumner,\nworried him even more. Of all members of the Cabinet, the one whom he\nhad most personal interest in cultivating was Attorney General Hoar.\nThe Legal Tender decision, which had been the first stumbling-block to\nAdams at Washington, grew in interest till it threatened to become\nsomething more serious than a block; it fell on one's head like a\nplaster ceiling, and could not be escaped. The impending battle between\nFish and Sumner was nothing like so serious as the outbreak between\nHoar and Chief Justice Chase. Adams had come to Washington hoping to\nsupport the Executive in a policy of breaking down the Senate, but he\nnever dreamed that he would be required to help in breaking down the\nSupreme Court. Although, step by step, he had been driven, like the\nrest of the world, to admit that American society had outgrown most of\nits institutions, he still clung to the Supreme Court, much as a\nchurchman clings to his bishops, because they are his only symbol of\nunity; his last rag of Right. Between the Executive and the\nLegislature, citizens could have no Rights; they were at the mercy of\nPower. They had created the Court to protect them from unlimited Power,\nand it was little enough protection at best. Adams wanted to save the\nindependence of the Court at least for his lifetime, and could not\nconceive that the Executive should wish to overthrow it.\n\n  Frank Walker shared this feeling, and, by way of helping the\nCourt, he had promised Adams for the North American Review an article\non the history of the Legal Tender Act, founded on a volume just then\npublished by Spaulding, the putative father of the legal-tender clause\nin 1861. Secretary Jacob D. Cox, who alone sympathized with reform,\nsaved from Boutwell's decree of banishment such reformers as he could\nfind place for, and he saved Walker for a time by giving him the Census\nof 1870. Walker was obliged to abandon his article for the North\nAmerican in order to devote himself to the Census. He gave Adams his\nnotes, and Adams completed the article.\n\n  He had not toiled in vain over the Bank of England Restriction.\nHe knew enough about Legal Tender to leave it alone. If the banks and\nbankers wanted fiat money, fiat money was good enough for a\nnewspaper-man; and if they changed about and wanted \"intrinsic\" value,\ngold and silver came equally welcome to a writer who was paid half the\nwages of an ordinary mechanic. He had no notion of attacking or\ndefending Legal Tender; his object was to defend the Chief Justice and\nthe Court. Walker argued that, whatever might afterwards have been the\nnecessity for legal tender, there was no necessity for it at the time\nthe Act was passed. With the help of the Chief Justice's recollections,\nAdams completed the article, which appeared in the April number of the\nNorth American. Its ferocity was Walker's, for Adams never cared to\nabandon the knife for the hatchet, but Walker reeked of the army and\nthe Springfield Republican, and his energy ran away with Adams's\nrestraint. The unfortunate Spaulding complained loudly of this\ntreatment, not without justice, but the article itself had serious\nhistorical value, for Walker demolished every shred of Spaulding's\ncontention that legal tender was necessary at the time; and the Chief\nJustice told his part of the story with conviction. The Chief Justice\nseemed to be pleased. The Attorney General, pleased or not, made no\nsign. The article had enough historical interest to induce Adams to\nreprint it in a volume of Essays twenty years afterwards; but its\nhistorical value was not its point in education. The point was that, in\nspite of the best intentions, the plainest self-interest, and the\nstrongest wish to escape further trouble, the article threw Adams into\nopposition. Judge Hoar, like Boutwell, was implacable.\n\n  Hoar went on to demolish the Chief Justice; while Henry Adams\nwent on, drifting further and further from the Administration. He did\nthis in common with all the world, including Hoar himself. Scarcely a\nnewspaper in the country kept discipline. The New York Tribune was one\nof the most criminal. Dissolution of ties in every direction marked the\ndissolution of temper, and the Senate Chamber became again a scene of\nirritated egotism that passed ridicule. Senators quarrelled with each\nother, and no one objected, but they picked quarrels also with the\nExecutive and threw every Department into confusion. Among others they\nquarrelled with Hoar, and drove him from office.\n\n  That Sumner and Hoar, the two New Englanders in great position\nwho happened to be the two persons most necessary for his success at\nWashington, should be the first victims of Grant's lax rule, must have\nhad some meaning for Adams's education, if Adams could only have\nunderstood what it was. He studied, but failed. Sympathy with him was\nnot their weakness. Directly, in the form of help, he knew he could\nhope as little from them as from Boutwell. So far from inviting\nattachment they, like other New Englanders, blushed to own a friend.\nNot one of the whole delegation would ever, of his own accord, try to\nhelp Adams or any other young man who did not beg for it, although they\nwould always accept whatever services they had not to pay for. The\nlesson of education was not there. The selfishness of politics was the\nearliest of all political education, and Adams had nothing to learn\nfrom its study; but the situation struck him as curious--so curious\nthat he devoted years to reflecting upon it. His four most powerful\nfriends had matched themselves, two and two, and were fighting in pairs\nto a finish; Sumner-Fish; Chase-Hoar; with foreign affairs and the\njudiciary as prizes! What value had the fight in education?\n\n  Adams was puzzled, and was not the only puzzled bystander. The\nstage-type of statesman was amusing, whether as Roscoe Conkling or\nColonel Mulberry Sellers, but what was his value? The statesmen of the\nold type, whether Sumners or Conklings or Hoars or Lamars, were\npersonally as honest as human nature could produce. They trod with\nlofty contempt on other people's jobs, especially when there was good\nin them. Yet the public thought that Sumner and Conkling cost the\ncountry a hundred times more than all the jobs they ever trod on; just\nas Lamar and the old Southern statesmen, who were also honest in\nmoney-matters, cost the country a civil war. This painful moral doubt\nworried Adams less than it worried his friends and the public, but it\naffected the whole field of politics for twenty years. The newspapers\ndiscussed little else than the alleged moral laxity of Grant, Garfield,\nand Blaine. If the press were taken seriously, politics turned on jobs,\nand some of Adams's best friends, like Godkin, ruined their influence\nby their insistence on points of morals. Society hesitated, wavered,\noscillated between harshness and laxity, pitilessly sacrificing the\nweak, and deferentially following the strong. In spite of all such\ncriticism, the public nominated Grant, Garfield, and Blaine for the\nPresidency, and voted for them afterwards, not seeming to care for the\nquestion; until young men were forced to see that either some new\nstandard must be created, or none could be upheld. The moral law had\nexpired--like the Constitution.\n\n  Grant's administration outraged every rule of ordinary decency,\nbut scores of promising men, whom the country could not well spare,\nwere ruined in saying so. The world cared little for decency. What it\nwanted, it did not know; probably a system that would work, and men who\ncould work it; but it found neither. Adams had tried his own little\nhands on it, and had failed. His friends had been driven out of\nWashington or had taken to fisticuffs. He himself sat down and stared\nhelplessly into the future.\n\n  The result was a review of the Session for the July North\nAmerican into which he crammed and condensed everything he thought he\nhad observed and all he had been told. He thought it good history then,\nand he thought it better twenty years afterwards; he thought it even\ngood enough to reprint. As it happened, in the process of his devious\neducation, this \"Session\" of 1869-70 proved to be his last study in\ncurrent politics, and his last dying testament as a humble member of\nthe press. As such, he stood by it. He could have said no more, had he\ngone on reviewing every session in the rest of the century. The\npolitical dilemma was as clear in 1870 as it was likely to be in 1970.\nThe system of 1789 had broken down, and with it the eighteenth-century\nfabric of a priori, or moral, principles. Politicians had tacitly given\nit up. Grant's administration marked the avowal. Nine-tenths of men's\npolitical energies must henceforth be wasted on expedients to piece\nout--to patch--or, in vulgar language, to tinker--the political machine\nas often as it broke down. Such a system, or want of system, might last\ncenturies, if tempered by an occasional revolution or civil war; but as\na machine, it was, or soon would be, the poorest in the world--the\nclumsiest--the most inefficient.\n\n  Here again was an education, but what it was worth he could not\nguess. Indeed, when he raised his eyes to the loftiest and most\ntriumphant results of politics--to Mr. Boutwell, Mr. Conkling or even\nMr. Sumner--he could not honestly say that such an education, even when\nit carried one up to these unattainable heights, was worth anything.\nThere were men, as yet standing on lower levels--clever and amusing men\nlike Garfield and Blaine--who took no little pleasure in making fun of\nthe senatorial demi-gods, and who used language about Grant himself\nwhich the North American Review would not have admitted. One asked\ndoubtfully what was likely to become of these men in their turn. What\nkind of political ambition was to result from this destructive\npolitical education?\n\n  Yet the sum of political life was, or should have been, the\nattainment of a working political system. Society needed to reach it.\nIf moral standards broke down, and machinery stopped working, new\nmorals and machinery of some sort had to be invented. An eternity of\nGrants, or even of Garfields or of Conklings or of Jay Goulds, refused\nto be conceived as possible. Practical Americans laughed, and went\ntheir way. Society paid them to be practical. Whenever society cared to\npay Adams, he too would be practical, take his pay, and hold his\ntongue; but meanwhile he was driven to associate with Democratic\nCongressmen and educate them. He served David Wells as an active\nassistant professor of revenue reform, and turned his rooms into a\ncollege. The Administration drove him, and thousands of other young\nmen, into active enmity, not only to Grant, but to the system or want\nof system, which took possession of the President. Every hope or\nthought which had brought Adams to Washington proved to be absurd. No\none wanted him; no one wanted any of his friends in reform; the\nblackmailer alone was the normal product of politics as of business.\n\n  All this was excessively amusing. Adams never had been so busy,\nso interested, so much in the thick of the crowd. He knew Congressmen\nby scores and newspaper-men by the dozen. He wrote for his various\norgans all sorts of attacks and defences. He enjoyed the life\nenormously, and found himself as happy as Sam Ward or Sunset Cox; much\nhappier than his friends Fish or J. D. Cox, or Chief Justice Chase or\nAttorney General Hoar or Charles Sumner. When spring came, he took to\nthe woods, which were best of all, for after the first of April, what\nMaurice de Guerin called \"the vast maternity\" of nature showed charms\nmore voluptuous than the vast paternity of the United States Senate.\nSenators were less ornamental than the dogwood or even the judas-tree.\nThey were, as a rule, less good company. Adams astonished himself by\nremarking what a purified charm was lent to the Capitol by the greatest\npossible distance, as one caught glimpses of the dome over miles of\nforest foliage. At such moments he pondered on the distant beauty of\nSt. Peter's and the steps of Ara Coeli.\n\n  Yet he shortened his spring, for he needed to get back to\nLondon for the season. He had finished his New York \"Gold Conspiracy,\"\nwhich he meant for his friend Henry Reeve and the Edinburgh Review. It\nwas the best piece of work he had done, but this was not his reason for\npublishing it in England. The Erie scandal had provoked a sort of\nrevolt among respectable New Yorkers, as well as among some who were\nnot so respectable; and the attack on Erie was beginning to promise\nsuccess. London was a sensitive spot for the Erie management, and it\nwas thought well to strike them there, where they were socially and\nfinancially exposed. The tactics suited him in another way, for any\nexpression about America in an English review attracted ten times the\nattention in America that the same article would attract in the North\nAmerican. Habitually the American dailies reprinted such articles in\nfull. Adams wanted to escape the terrors of copyright, his highest\nambition was to be pirated and advertised free of charge, since in any\ncase, his pay was nothing. Under the excitement of chase he was\nbecoming a pirate himself, and liked it.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIX\n\nCHAOS (1870)\n\n  ONE fine May afternoon in 1870 Adams drove again up St. James's\nStreet wondering more than ever at the marvels of life. Nine years had\npassed since the historic entrance of May, 1861. Outwardly London was\nthe same. Outwardly Europe showed no great change. Palmerston and\nRussell were forgotten; but Disraeli and Gladstone were still much\nalive. One's friends were more than ever prominent. John Bright was in\nthe Cabinet; W. E. Forster was about to enter it; reform ran riot.\nNever had the sun of progress shone so fair. Evolution from lower to\nhigher raged like an epidemic. Darwin was the greatest of prophets in\nthe most evolutionary of worlds. Gladstone had overthrown the Irish\nChurch; was overthrowing the Irish landlords; was trying to pass an\nEducation Act. Improvement, prosperity, power, were leaping and\nbounding over every country road. Even America, with her Erie scandals\nand Alabama Claims, hardly made a discordant note.\n\n  At the Legation, Motley ruled; the long Adams reign was\nforgotten; the rebellion had passed into history. In society no one\ncared to recall the years before the Prince of Wales. The smart set had\ncome to their own. Half the houses that Adams had frequented, from 1861\nto 1865, were closed or closing in 1870. Death had ravaged one's circle\nof friends. Mrs. Milnes Gaskell and her sister Miss Charlotte Wynn were\nboth dead, and Mr. James Milnes Gaskell was no longer in Parliament.\nThat field of education seemed closed too.\n\n  One found one's self in a singular frame of mind--more\neighteenth-century than ever--almost rococo--and unable to catch\nanywhere the cog-wheels of evolution. Experience ceased to educate.\nLondon taught less freely than of old. That one bad style was leading\nto another--that the older men were more amusing than the younger--that\nLord Houghton's breakfast-table showed gaps hard to fill--that there\nwere fewer men one wanted to meet--these, and a hundred more such\nremarks, helped little towards a quicker and more intelligent activity.\nFor English reforms Adams cared nothing. The reforms were themselves\nmediaeval. The Education Bill of his friend W. E. Forster seemed to him\na guaranty against all education he had use for. He resented change. He\nwould have kept the Pope in the Vatican and the Queen at Windsor Castle\nas historical monuments. He did not care to Americanize Europe. The\nBastille or the Ghetto was a curiosity worth a great deal of money, if\npreserved; and so was a Bishop; so was Napoleon III. The tourist was\nthe great conservative who hated novelty and adored dirt. Adams came\nback to London without a thought of revolution or restlessness or\nreform. He wanted amusement, quiet, and gaiety.\n\n  Had he not been born in 1838 under the shadow of Boston State\nHouse, and been brought up in the Early Victorian epoch, he would have\ncast off his old skin, and made his court to Marlborough House, in\npartnership with the American woman and the Jew banker. Common-sense\ndictated it; but Adams and his friends were unfashionable by some law\nof Anglo-Saxon custom--some innate atrophy of mind. Figuring himself as\nalready a man of action, and rather far up towards the front, he had no\nidea of making a new effort or catching up with a new world. He saw\nnothing ahead of him. The world was never more calm. He wanted to talk\nwith Ministers about the Alabama Claims, because he looked on the\nClaims as his own special creation, discussed between him and his\nfather long before they had been discussed by Government; he wanted to\nmake notes for his next year's articles; but he had not a thought that,\nwithin three months, his world was to be upset, and he under it. Frank\nPalgrave came one day, more contentious, contemptuous, and paradoxical\nthan ever, because Napoleon III seemed to be threatening war with\nGermany. Palgrave said that \"Germany would beat France into scraps\" if\nthere was war. Adams thought not. The chances were always against\ncatastrophes. No one else expected great changes in Europe. Palgrave\nwas always extreme; his language was incautious--violent!\n\n  In this year of all years, Adams lost sight of education.\nThings began smoothly, and London glowed with the pleasant sense of\nfamiliarity and dinners. He sniffed with voluptuous delight the\ncoal-smoke of Cheapside and revelled in the architecture of Oxford\nStreet. May Fair never shone so fair to Arthur Pendennis as it did to\nthe returned American. The country never smiled its velvet smile of\ntrained and easy hostess as it did when he was so lucky as to be asked\non a country visit. He loved it all--everything--had always loved it!\nHe felt almost attached to the Royal Exchange. He thought he owned the\nSt. James's Club. He patronized the Legation.\n\n  The first shock came lightly, as though Nature were playing\ntricks on her spoiled child, though she had thus far not exerted\nherself to spoil him. Reeve refused the Gold Conspiracy. Adams had\nbecome used to the idea that he was free of the Quarterlies, and that\nhis writing would be printed of course; but he was stunned by the\nreason of refusal. Reeve said it would bring half-a-dozen libel suits\non him. One knew that the power of Erie was almost as great in England\nas in America, but one was hardly prepared to find it controlling the\nQuarterlies. The English press professed to be shocked in 1870 by the\nErie scandal, as it had professed in 1860 to be shocked by the scandal\nof slavery, but when invited to support those who were trying to abate\nthese scandals, the English press said it was afraid. To Adams, Reeve's\nrefusal seemed portentous. He and his brother and the North American\nReview were running greater risks every day, and no one thought of\nfear. That a notorious story, taken bodily from an official document,\nshould scare the Edinburgh Review into silence for fear of Jay Gould\nand Jim Fisk, passed even Adams's experience of English eccentricity,\nthough it was large.\n\n  He gladly set down Reeve's refusal of the Gold Conspiracy to\nrespectability and editorial law, but when he sent the manuscript on to\nthe Quarterly, the editor of the Quarterly also refused it. The\nliterary standard of the two Quarterlies was not so high as to suggest\nthat the article was illiterate beyond the power of an active and\nwilling editor to redeem it. Adams had no choice but to realize that he\nhad to deal in 1870 with the same old English character of 1860, and\nthe same inability in himself to understand it. As usual, when an ally\nwas needed, the American was driven into the arms of the radicals.\nRespectability, everywhere and always, turned its back the moment one\nasked to do it a favor. Called suddenly away from England, he\ndespatched the article, at the last moment, to the Westminster Review\nand heard no more about it for nearly six months.\n\n  He had been some weeks in London when he received a telegram\nfrom his brother-in-law at the Bagni di Lucca telling him that his\nsister had been thrown from a cab and injured, and that he had better\ncome on. He started that night, and reached the Bagni di Lucca on the\nsecond day. Tetanus had already set in.\n\n  The last lesson--the sum and term of education--began then.\nHe had passed through thirty years of rather varied experience without\nhaving once felt the shell of custom broken. He had never seen\nNature--only her surface--the sugar-coating that she shows to youth.\nFlung suddenly in his face, with the harsh brutality of chance, the\nterror of the blow stayed by him thenceforth for life, until repetition\nmade it more than the will could struggle with; more than he could call\non himself to bear. He found his sister, a woman of forty, as gay and\nbrilliant in the terrors of lockjaw as she had been in the careless fun\nof 1859, lying in bed in consequence of a miserable cab-accident that\nhad bruised her foot. Hour by hour the muscles grew rigid, while the\nmind remained bright, until after ten days of fiendish torture she died\nin convulsion.\n\n  One had heard and read a great deal about death, and even seen\na little of it, and knew by heart the thousand commonplaces of religion\nand poetry which seemed to deaden one's senses and veil the horror.\nSociety being immortal, could put on immortality at will. Adams being\nmortal, felt only the mortality. Death took features altogether new to\nhim, in these rich and sensuous surroundings. Nature enjoyed it, played\nwith it, the horror added to her charm, she liked the torture, and\nsmothered her victim with caresses. Never had one seen her so winning.\nThe hot Italian summer brooded outside, over the market-place and the\npicturesque peasants, and, in the singular color of the Tuscan\natmosphere, the hills and vineyards of the Apennines seemed bursting\nwith mid-summer blood. The sick-room itself glowed with the Italian joy\nof life; friends filled it; no harsh northern lights pierced the soft\nshadows; even the dying women shared the sense of the Italian summer,\nthe soft, velvet air, the humor, the courage, the sensual fulness of\nNature and man. She faced death, as women mostly do, bravely and even\ngaily, racked slowly to unconsciousness, but yielding only to violence,\nas a soldier sabred in battle. For many thousands of years, on these\nhills and plains, Nature had gone on sabring men and women with the\nsame air of sensual pleasure.\n\n  Impressions like these are not reasoned or catalogued in the\nmind; they are felt as part of violent emotion; and the mind that feels\nthem is a different one from that which reasons; it is thought of a\ndifferent power and a different person. The first serious consciousness\nof Nature's gesture--her attitude towards life--took form then as a\nphantasm, a nightmare, an insanity of force. For the first time, the\nstage-scenery of the senses collapsed; the human mind felt itself\nstripped naked, vibrating in a void of shapeless energies, with\nresistless mass, colliding, crushing, wasting, and destroying what\nthese same energies had created and labored from eternity to perfect.\nSociety became fantastic, a vision of pantomime with a mechanical\nmotion; and its so-called thought merged in the mere sense of life, and\npleasure in the sense. The usual anodynes of social medicine became\nevident artifice. Stoicism was perhaps the best; religion was the most\nhuman; but the idea that any personal deity could find pleasure or\nprofit in torturing a poor woman, by accident, with a fiendish cruelty\nknown to man only in perverted and insane temperaments, could not be\nheld for a moment. For pure blasphemy, it made pure atheism a comfort.\nGod might be, as the Church said, a Substance, but He could not be a\nPerson.\n\n  With nerves strained for the first time beyond their power of\ntension, he slowly travelled northwards with his friends, and stopped\nfor a few days at Ouchy to recover his balance in a new world; for the\nfantastic mystery of coincidences had made the world, which he thought\nreal, mimic and reproduce the distorted nightmare of his personal\nhorror. He did not yet know it, and he was twenty years in finding it\nout; but he had need of all the beauty of the Lake below and of the\nAlps above, to restore the finite to its place. For the first time in\nhis life, Mont Blanc for a moment looked to him what it was--a chaos of\nanarchic and purposeless forces--and he needed days of repose to see it\nclothe itself again with the illusions of his senses, the white purity\nof its snows, the splendor of its light, and the infinity of its\nheavenly peace. Nature was kind; Lake Geneva was beautiful beyond\nitself, and the Alps put on charms real as terrors; but man became\nchaotic, and before the illusions of Nature were wholly restored, the\nillusions of Europe suddenly vanished, leaving a new world to learn.\n\n  On July 4, all Europe had been in peace; on July 14, Europe was\nin full chaos of war. One felt helpless and ignorant, but one might\nhave been king or kaiser without feeling stronger to deal with the\nchaos. Mr. Gladstone was as much astounded as Adams; the Emperor\nNapoleon was nearly as stupefied as either, and Bismarck: himself\nhardly knew how he did it. As education, the out-break of the war was\nwholly lost on a man dealing with death hand-to-hand, who could not\nthrow it aside to look at it across the Rhine. Only when he got up to\nParis, he began to feel the approach of catastrophe. Providence set up\nno affiches to announce the tragedy. Under one's eyes France cut\nherself adrift, and floated off, on an unknown stream, towards a less\nknown ocean. Standing on the curb of the Boulevard, one could see as\nmuch as though one stood by the side of the Emperor or in command of an\narmy corps. The effect was lurid. The public seemed to look on the war,\nas it had looked on the wars of Louis XIV and Francis I, as a branch of\ndecorative art. The French, like true artists, always regarded war as\none of the fine arts. Louis XIV practiced it; Napoleon I perfected it;\nand Napoleon III had till then pursued it in the same spirit with\nsingular success. In Paris, in July, 1870, the war was brought out like\nan opera of Meyerbeer. One felt one's self a supernumerary hired to\nfill the scene. Every evening at the theatre the comedy was interrupted\nby order, and one stood up by order, to join in singing the\nMarseillaise to order. For nearly twenty years one had been forbidden\nto sing the Marseillaise under any circumstances, but at last regiment\nafter regiment marched through the streets shouting \"Marchons!\" while\nthe bystanders cared not enough to join. Patriotism seemed to have been\nbrought out of the Government stores, and distributed by grammes per\ncapita. One had seen one's own people dragged unwillingly into a war,\nand had watched one's own regiments march to the front without sign of\nenthusiasm; on the contrary, most serious, anxious, and conscious of\nthe whole weight of the crisis; but in Paris every one conspired to\nignore the crisis, which every one felt at hand. Here was education for\nthe million, but the lesson was intricate. Superficially Napoleon and\nhis Ministers and marshals were playing a game against Thiers and\nGambetta. A bystander knew almost as little as they did about the\nresult. How could Adams prophesy that in another year or two, when he\nspoke of his Paris and its tastes, people would smile at his dotage?\n\n  As soon as he could, he fled to England and once more took\nrefuge in the profound peace of Wenlock Abbey. Only the few remaining\nmonks, undisturbed by the brutalities of Henry VIII--three or four\nyoung Englishmen--survived there, with Milnes Gaskell acting as Prior.\nThe August sun was warm; the calm of the Abbey was ten times secular;\nnot a discordant sound--hardly a sound of any sort except the cawing of\nthe ancient rookery at sunset--broke the stillness; and, after the\nexcitement of the last month, one felt a palpable haze of peace\nbrooding over the Edge and the Welsh Marches. Since the reign of\nPteraspis, nothing had greatly changed; nothing except the monks. Lying\non the turf the ground littered with newspapers, the monks studied the\nwar correspondence. In one respect Adams had succeeded in educating\nhimself; he had learned to follow a campaign.\n\n  While at Wenlock, he received a letter from President Eliot\ninviting him to take an Assistant Professorship of History, to be\ncreated shortly at Harvard College. After waiting ten or a dozen years\nfor some one to show consciousness of his existence, even a Terebratula\nwould be pleased and grateful for a compliment which implied that the\nnew President of Harvard College wanted his help; but Adams knew\nnothing about history, and much less about teaching, while he knew more\nthan enough about Harvard College; and wrote at once to thank President\nEliot, with much regret that the honor should be above his powers. His\nmind was full of other matters. The summer, from which he had expected\nonly amusement and social relations with new people, had ended in the\nmost intimate personal tragedy, and the most terrific political\nconvulsion he had ever known or was likely to know. He had failed in\nevery object of his trip. The Quarterlies had refused his best essay.\nHe had made no acquaintances and hardly picked up the old ones. He\nsailed from Liverpool, on September 1, to begin again where he had\nstarted two years before, but with no longer a hope of attaching\nhimself to a President or a party or a press. He was a free lance and\nno other career stood in sight or mind. To that point education had\nbrought him.\n\n  Yet he found, on reaching home, that he had not done quite so\nbadly as he feared. His article on the Session in the July North\nAmerican had made a success. Though he could not quite see what\npartisan object it served, he heard with flattered astonishment that it\nhad been reprinted by the Democratic National Committee and circulated\nas a campaign document by the hundred thousand copies. He was\nhenceforth in opposition, do what he might; and a Massachusetts\nDemocrat, say what he pleased; while his only reward or return for this\npartisan service consisted in being formally answered by Senator\nTimothy Howe, of Wisconsin, in a Republican campaign document, presumed\nto be also freely circulated, in which the Senator, besides refuting\nhis opinions, did him the honor--most unusual and picturesque in a\nSenator's rhetoric--of likening him to a begonia.\n\n  The begonia is, or then was, a plant of such senatorial\nqualities as to make the simile, in intention, most flattering. Far\nfrom charming in its refinement, the begonia was remarkable for curious\nand showy foliage; it was conspicuous; it seemed to have no useful\npurpose; and it insisted on standing always in the most prominent\npositions. Adams would have greatly liked to be a begonia in\nWashington, for this was rather his ideal of the successful statesman,\nand he thought about it still more when the Westminster Review for\nOctober brought him his article on the Gold Conspiracy, which was also\ninstantly pirated on a great scale. Piratical he was himself henceforth\ndriven to be, and he asked only to be pirated, for he was sure not to\nbe paid; but the honors of piracy resemble the colors of the begonia;\nthey are showy but not useful. Here was a tour de force he had never\ndreamed himself equal to performing: two long, dry, quarterly, thirty\nor forty page articles, appearing in quick succession, and pirated for\naudiences running well into the hundred thousands; and not one person,\nman or woman, offering him so much as a congratulation, except to call\nhim a begonia.\n\n  Had this been all, life might have gone on very happily as\nbefore, but the ways of America to a young person of literary and\npolitical tastes were such as the so-called evolution of civilized man\nhad not before evolved. No sooner had Adams made at Washington what he\nmodestly hoped was a sufficient success, than his whole family set on\nhim to drag him away. For the first time since 1861 his father\ninterposed; his mother entreated; and his brother Charles argued and\nurged that he should come to Harvard College. Charles had views of\nfurther joint operations in a new field. He said that Henry had done at\nWashington all he could possibly do; that his position there wanted\nsolidity; that he was, after all, an adventurer; that a few years in\nCambridge would give him personal weight; that his chief function was\nnot to be that of teacher, but that of editing the North American\nReview which was to be coupled with the professorship, and would lead\nto the daily press. In short, that he needed the university more than\nthe university needed him.\n\n  Henry knew the university well enough to know that the\ndepartment of history was controlled by one of the most astute and\nideal administrators in the world--Professor Gurney--and that it was\nGurney who had established the new professorship, and had cast his net\nover Adams to carry the double load of mediaeval history and the\nReview. He could see no relation whatever between himself and a\nprofessorship. He sought education; he did not sell it. He knew no\nhistory; he knew only a few historians; his ignorance was mischievous\nbecause it was literary, accidental, indifferent. On the other hand he\nknew Gurney, and felt much influenced by his advice. One cannot take\none's self quite seriously in such matters; it could not much affect\nthe sum of solar energies whether one went on dancing with girls in\nWashington, or began talking to boys at Cambridge. The good people who\nthought it did matter had a sort of right to guide. One could not\nreject their advice; still less disregard their wishes.\n\n  The sum of the matter was that Henry went out to Cambridge and\nhad a few words with President Eliot which seemed to him almost as\nAmerican as the talk about diplomacy with his father ten years before.\n\"But, Mr. President,\" urged Adams, \"I know nothing about Mediaeval\nHistory.\" With the courteous manner and bland smile so familiar for the\nnext generation of Americans Mr. Eliot mildly but firmly replied, \"If\nyou will point out to me any one who knows more, Mr. Adams, I will\nappoint him.\" The answer was neither logical nor convincing, but Adams\ncould not meet it without overstepping his privileges. He could not say\nthat, under the circumstances, the appointment of any professor at all\nseemed to him unnecessary.\n\n  So, at twenty-four hours' notice, he broke his life in halves\nagain in order to begin a new education, on lines he had not chosen, in\nsubjects for which he cared less than nothing; in a place he did not\nlove, and before a future which repelled. Thousands of men have to do\nthe same thing, but his case was peculiar because he had no need to do\nit. He did it because his best and wisest friends urged it, and he\nnever could make up his mind whether they were right or not. To him\nthis kind of education was always false. For himself he had no doubts.\nHe thought it a mistake; but his opinion did not prove that it was one,\nsince, in all probability, whatever he did would be more or less a\nmistake. He had reached cross-roads of education which all led astray.\nWhat he could gain at Harvard College he did not know, but in any case\nit was nothing he wanted. What he lost at Washington he could partly\nsee, but in any case it was not fortune. Grant's administration wrecked\nmen by thousands, but profited few. Perhaps Mr. Fish was the solitary\nexception. One might search the whole list of Congress, Judiciary, and\nExecutive during the twenty-five years 1870 to 1895, and find little\nbut damaged reputation. The period was poor in purpose and barren in\nresults.\n\n  Henry Adams, if not the rose, lived as near it as any\npolitician, and knew, more or less, all the men in any way prominent at\nWashington, or knew all about them. Among them, in his opinion, the\nbest equipped, the most active-minded, and most industrious was Abram\nHewitt, who sat in Congress for a dozen years, between 1874 and 1886,\nsometimes leading the House and always wielding influence second to\nnone. With nobody did Adams form closer or longer relations than with\nMr. Hewitt, whom he regarded as the most useful public man in\nWashington; and he was the more struck by Hewitt's saying, at the end\nof his laborious career as legislator, that he left behind him no\npermanent result except the Act consolidating the Surveys. Adams knew\nno other man who had done so much, unless Mr. Sherman's legislation is\naccepted as an instance of success. Hewitt's nearest rival would\nprobably have been Senator Pendleton who stood father to civil service\nreform in 1882, an attempt to correct a vice that should never have\nbeen allowed to be born. These were the men who succeeded.\n\n  The press stood in much the same light. No editor, no political\nwriter, and no public administrator achieved enough good reputation to\npreserve his memory for twenty years. A number of them achieved bad\nreputations, or damaged good ones that had been gained in the Civil\nWar. On the whole, even for Senators, diplomats, and Cabinet officers,\nthe period was wearisome and stale.\n\n  None of Adams's generation profited by public activity unless\nit were William C. Whitney, and even he could not be induced to return\nto it. Such ambitions as these were out of one's reach, but supposing\none tried for what was feasible, attached one's self closely to the\nGarfields, Arthurs, Frelinghuysens, Blaines, Bayards, or Whitneys, who\nhappened to hold office; and supposing one asked for the mission to\nBelgium or Portugal, and obtained it; supposing one served a term as\nAssistant Secretary or Chief of Bureau; or, finally, supposing one had\ngone as sub-editor on the New York Tribune or Times--how much more\neducation would one have gained than by going to Harvard College? These\nquestions seemed better worth an answer than most of the questions on\nexamination papers at college or in the civil service; all the more\nbecause one never found an answer to them, then or afterwards, and\nbecause, to his mind, the value of American society altogether was\nmixed up with the value of Washington.\n\n  At first, the simple beginner, struggling with principles,\nwanted to throw off responsibility on the American people, whose bare and\ntoiling shoulders had to carry the load of every social or political\nstupidity; but the American people had no more to do with it than with\nthe customs of Peking. American character might perhaps account for it,\nbut what accounted for American character? All Boston, all New England,\nand all respectable New York, including Charles Francis Adams the\nfather and Charles Francis Adams the son, agreed that Washington was no\nplace for a respectable young man. All Washington, including\nPresidents, Cabinet officers, Judiciary, Senators, Congressmen, and\nclerks, expressed the same opinion, and conspired to drive away every\nyoung man who happened to be there or tried to approach. Not one young\nman of promise remained in the Government service. All drifted into\nopposition. The Government did not want them in Washington. Adams's\ncase was perhaps the strongest because he thought he had done well. He\nwas forced to guess it, since he knew no one who would have risked so\nextravagant a step as that of encouraging a young man in a literary\ncareer, or even in a political one; society forbade it, as well as\nresidence in a political capital; but Harvard College must have seen\nsome hope for him, since it made him professor against his will; even\nthe publishers and editors of the North American Review must have felt\na certain amount of confidence in him, since they put the Review in his\nhands. After all, the Review was the first literary power in America,\neven though it paid almost as little in gold as the United States\nTreasury. The degree of Harvard College might bear a value as ephemeral\nas the commission of a President of the United States; but the\ngovernment of the college, measured by money alone, and patronage, was\na matter of more importance than that of some branches of the national\nservice. In social position, the college was the superior of them all\nput together. In knowledge, she could assert no superiority, since the\nGovernment made no claims, and prided itself on ignorance. The service\nof Harvard College was distinctly honorable; perhaps the most honorable\nin America; and if Harvard College thought Henry Adams worth employing\nat four dollars a day, why should Washington decline his services when\nhe asked nothing? Why should he be dragged from a career he liked in a\nplace he loved, into a career he detested, in a place and climate he\nshunned? Was it enough to satisfy him, that all America should call\nWashington barren and dangerous? What made Washington more dangerous\nthan New York?\n\n  The American character showed singular limitations which\nsometimes drove the student of civilized man to despair. Crushed by his\nown ignorance--lost in the darkness of his own gropings--the scholar\nfinds himself jostled of a sudden by a crowd of men who seem to him\nignorant that there is a thing called ignorance; who have forgotten how\nto amuse themselves; who cannot even understand that they are bored.\nThe American thought of himself as a restless, pushing, energetic,\ningenious person, always awake and trying to get ahead of his\nneighbors. Perhaps this idea of the national character might be correct\nfor New York or Chicago; it was not correct for Washington. There the\nAmerican showed himself, four times in five, as a quiet, peaceful, shy\nfigure, rather in the mould of Abraham Lincoln, somewhat sad, sometimes\npathetic, once tragic; or like Grant, inarticulate, uncertain,\ndistrustful of himself, still more distrustful of others, and awed by\nmoney. That the American, by temperament, worked to excess, was true;\nwork and whiskey were his stimulants; work was a form of vice; but he\nnever cared much for money or power after he earned them. The amusement\nof the pursuit was all the amusement he got from it; he had no use for\nwealth. Jim Fisk alone seemed to know what he wanted; Jay Gould never\ndid. At Washington one met mostly such true Americans, but if one\nwanted to know them better, one went to study them in Europe. Bored,\npatient, helpless; pathetically dependent on his wife and daughters;\nindulgent to excess; mostly a modest, decent, excellent, valuable\ncitizen; the American was to be met at every railway station in Europe,\ncarefully explaining to every listener that the happiest day of his\nlife would be the day he should land on the pier at New York. He was\nashamed to be amused; his mind no longer answered to the stimulus of\nvariety; he could not face a new thought. All his immense strength, his\nintense nervous energy, his keen analytic perceptions, were oriented in\none direction, and he could not change it. Congress was full of such\nmen; in the Senate, Sumner was almost the only exception; in the\nExecutive, Grant and Boutwell were varieties of the type--political\nspecimens--pathetic in their helplessness to do anything with power\nwhen it came to them. They knew not how to amuse themselves; they could\nnot conceive how other people were amused. Work, whiskey, and cards\nwere life. The atmosphere of political Washington was theirs--or was\nsupposed by the outside world to be in their control--and this was the\nreason why the outside world judged that Washington was fatal even for\na young man of thirty-two, who had passed through the whole variety of\ntemptations, in every capital of Europe, for a dozen years; who never\nplayed cards, and who loathed whiskey.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XX\n\nFAILURE (1871)\n\nFAR back in childhood, among its earliest memories, Henry Adams could\nrecall his first visit to Harvard College. He must have been nine years\nold when on one of the singularly gloomy winter afternoons which\nbeguiled Cambridgeport, his mother drove him out to visit his aunt,\nMrs. Everett. Edward Everett was then President of the college and\nlived in the old President's House on Harvard Square. The boy\nremembered the drawing-room, on the left of the hall door, in which\nMrs. Everett received them. He remembered a marble greyhound in the\ncorner. The house had an air of colonial self-respect that impressed\neven a nine-year-old child.\n\n  When Adams closed his interview with President Eliot, he asked\nthe Bursar about his aunt's old drawing-room, for the house had been\nturned to base uses. The room and the deserted kitchen adjacent to it\nwere to let. He took them. Above him, his brother Brooks, then a law\nstudent, had rooms, with a private staircase. Opposite was J. R.\nDennett, a young instructor almost as literary as Adams himself, and\nmore rebellious to conventions. Inquiry revealed a boarding-table,\nsomewhere in the neighborhood, also supposed to be superior in its\nclass. Chauncey Wright, Francis Wharton, Dennett, John Fiske, or their\nequivalents in learning and lecture, were seen there, among three or\nfour law students like Brooks Adams. With these primitive arrangements,\nall of them had to be satisfied. The standard was below that of\nWashington, but it was, for the moment, the best.\n\n  For the next nine months the Assistant Professor had no time to\nwaste on comforts or amusements. He exhausted all his strength in\ntrying to keep one day ahead of his duties. Often the stint ran on,\ntill night and sleep ran short. He could not stop to think whether he\nwere doing the work rightly. He could not get it done to please him,\nrightly or wrongly, for he never could satisfy himself what to do.\n\n  The fault he had found with Harvard College as an undergraduate\nmust have been more or less just, for the college was making a great\neffort to meet these self-criticisms, and had elected President Eliot\nin 1869 to carry out its reforms. Professor Gurney was one of the\nleading reformers, and had tried his hand on his own department of\nHistory. The two full Professors of History--Torrey and Gurney,\ncharming men both--could not cover the ground. Between Gurney's\nclassical courses and Torrey's modern ones, lay a gap of a thousand\nyears, which Adams was expected to fill. The students had already\nelected courses numbered 1, 2, and 3, without knowing what was to be\ntaught or who was to teach. If their new professor had asked what idea\nwas in their minds, they must have replied that nothing at all was in\ntheir minds, since their professor had nothing in his, and down to the\nmoment he took his chair and looked his scholars in the face, he had\ngiven, as far as he could remember, an hour, more or less, to the\nMiddle Ages.\n\n  Not that his ignorance troubled him! He knew enough to be\nignorant. His course had led him through oceans of ignorance; he had\ntumbled from one ocean into another till he had learned to swim; but\neven to him education was a serious thing. A parent gives life, but as\nparent, gives no more. A murderer takes life, but his deed stops there.\nA teacher affects eternity; he can never tell where his influence\nstops. A teacher is expected to teach truth, and may perhaps flatter\nhimself that he does so, if he stops with the alphabet or the\nmultiplication table, as a mother teaches truth by making her child eat\nwith a spoon; but morals are quite another truth and philosophy is more\ncomplex still. A teacher must either treat history as a catalogue, a\nrecord, a romance, or as an evolution; and whether he affirms or denies\nevolution, he falls into all the burning faggots of the pit. He makes\nof his scholars either priests or atheists, plutocrats or socialists,\njudges or anarchists, almost in spite of himself. In essence incoherent\nand immoral, history had either to be taught as such--or falsified.\n\n  Adams wanted to do neither. He had no theory of evolution to\nteach, and could not make the facts fit one. He had no fancy for\ntelling agreeable tales to amuse sluggish-minded boys, in order to\npublish them afterwards as lectures. He could still less compel his\nstudents to learn the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle and the Venerable Bede by\nheart. He saw no relation whatever between his students and the Middle\nAges unless it were the Church, and there the ground was particularly\ndangerous. He knew better than though he were a professional historian\nthat the man who should solve the riddle of the Middle Ages and bring\nthem into the line of evolution from past to present, would be a\ngreater man than Lamarck or Linnaeus; but history had nowhere broken\ndown so pitiably, or avowed itself so hopelessly bankrupt, as there.\nSince Gibbon, the spectacle was almost a scandal. History had lost even\nthe sense of shame. It was a hundred years behind the experimental\nsciences. For all serious purpose, it was less instructive than Walter\nScott and Alexandre Dumas.\n\n  All this was without offence to Sir Henry Maine, Tyler,\nMcLennan, Buckle, Auguste Comte, and the various philosophers who, from\ntime to time, stirred the scandal, and made it more scandalous. No\ndoubt, a teacher might make some use of these writers or their\ntheories; but Adams could fit them into no theory of his own. The\ncollege expected him to pass at least half his time teaching the boys a\nfew elementary dates and relations, that they might not be a disgrace\nto the university. This was formal; and he could frankly tell the boys\nthat, provided they passed their examinations, they might get their\nfacts where they liked, and use the teacher only for questions. The\nonly privilege a student had that was worth his claiming, was that of\ntalking to the professor, and the professor was bound to encourage it.\nHis only difficulty on that side was to get them to talk at all. He had\nto devise schemes to find what they were thinking about, and induce\nthem to risk criticism from their fellows. Any large body of students\nstifles the student. No man can instruct more than half-a-dozen\nstudents at once. The whole problem of education is one of its cost in\nmoney.\n\n  The lecture system to classes of hundreds, which was very much\nthat of the twelfth century, suited Adams not at all. Barred from\nphilosophy and bored by facts, he wanted to teach his students\nsomething not wholly useless. The number of students whose minds were\nof an order above the average was, in his experience, barely one in\nten; the rest could not be much stimulated by any inducements a teacher\ncould suggest. All were respectable, and in seven years of contact,\nAdams never had cause to complain of one; but nine minds in ten take\npolish passively, like a hard surface; only the tenth sensibly reacts.\n\n  Adams thought that, as no one seemed to care what he did, he\nwould try to cultivate this tenth mind, though necessarily at the\nexpense of the other nine. He frankly acted on the rule that a teacher,\nwho knew nothing of his subject, should not pretend to teach his\nscholars what he did not know, but should join them in trying to find\nthe best way of learning it. The rather pretentious name of historical\nmethod was sometimes given to this process of instruction, but the name\nsmacked of German pedagogy, and a young professor who respected neither\nhistory nor method, and whose sole object of interest was his students'\nminds, fell into trouble enough without adding to it a German parentage.\n\n  The task was doomed to failure for a reason which he could not\ncontrol. Nothing is easier than to teach historical method, but, when\nlearned, it has little use. History is a tangled skein that one may\ntake up at any point, and break when one has unravelled enough; but\ncomplexity precedes evolution. The Pteraspis grins horribly from the\nclosed entrance. One may not begin at the beginning, and one has but\nthe loosest relative truths to follow up. Adams found himself obliged\nto force his material into some shape to which a method could be\napplied. He could think only of law as subject; the Law School as end;\nand he took, as victims of his experiment, half-a-dozen highly\nintelligent young men who seemed willing to work. The course began with\nthe beginning, as far as the books showed a beginning in primitive man,\nand came down through the Salic Franks to the Norman English. Since no\ntextbooks existed, the professor refused to profess, knowing no more\nthan his students, and the students read what they pleased and compared\ntheir results. As pedagogy, nothing could be more triumphant. The boys\nworked like rabbits, and dug holes all over the field of archaic\nsociety; no difficulty stopped them; unknown languages yielded before\ntheir attack, and customary law became familiar as the police court;\nundoubtedly they learned, after a fashion, to chase an idea, like a\nhare, through as dense a thicket of obscure facts as they were likely\nto meet at the bar; but their teacher knew from his own experience that\nhis wonderful method led nowhere, and they would have to exert\nthemselves to get rid of it in the Law School even more than they\nexerted themselves to acquire it in the college. Their science had no\nsystem, and could have none, since its subject was merely antiquarian.\nTry as hard as he might, the professor could not make it actual.\n\n  What was the use of training an active mind to waste its\nenergy? The experiments might in time train Adams as a professor, but\nthis result was still less to his taste. He wanted to help the boys to\na career, but not one of his many devices to stimulate the intellectual\nreaction of the student's mind satisfied either him or the students.\nFor himself he was clear that the fault lay in the system, which could\nlead only to inertia. Such little knowledge of himself as he possessed\nwarranted him in affirming that his mind required conflict,\ncompetition, contradiction even more than that of the student. He too\nwanted a rank-list to set his name upon. His reform of the system would\nhave begun in the lecture-room at his own desk. He would have seated a\nrival assistant professor opposite him, whose business should be\nstrictly limited to expressing opposite views. Nothing short of this\nwould ever interest either the professor or the student; but of all\nuniversity freaks, no irregularity shocked the intellectual atmosphere\nso much as contradiction or competition between teachers. In that\nrespect the thirteenth-century university system was worth the whole\nteaching of the modern school.\n\n  All his pretty efforts to create conflicts of thought among his\nstudents failed for want of system. None met the needs of instruction.\nIn spite of President Eliot's reforms and his steady, generous, liberal\nsupport, the system remained costly, clumsy and futile. The\nuniversity--as far as it was represented by Henry Adams--produced at\ngreat waste of time and money results not worth reaching.\n\n  He made use of his lost two years of German schooling to\ninflict their results on his students, and by a happy chance he was in\nthe full tide of fashion. The Germans were crowning their new emperor\nat Versailles, and surrounding his head with a halo of Pepins and\nMerwigs, Othos and Barbarossas. James Bryce had even discovered the\nHoly Roman Empire. Germany was never so powerful, and the Assistant\nProfessor of History had nothing else as his stock in trade. He imposed\nGermany on his scholars with a heavy hand. He was rejoiced; but he\nsometimes doubted whether they should be grateful. On the whole, he was\ncontent neither with what he had taught nor with the way he had taught\nit. The seven years he passed in teaching seemed to him lost.\n\n  The uses of adversity are beyond measure strange. As a\nprofessor, he regarded himself as a failure. Without false modesty he\nthought he knew what he meant. He had tried a great many experiments,\nand wholly succeeded in none. He had succumbed to the weight of the\nsystem. He had accomplished nothing that he tried to do. He regarded\nthe system as wrong; more mischievous to the teachers than to the\nstudents; fallacious from the beginning to end. He quitted the\nuniversity at last, in 1877, with a feeling, that, if it had not been\nfor the invariable courtesy and kindness shown by every one in it, from\nthe President to the injured students, he should be sore at his failure.\n\n  These were his own feelings, but they seemed not to be felt in\nthe college. With the same perplexing impartiality that had so much\ndisconcerted him in his undergraduate days, the college insisted on\nexpressing an opposite view. John Fiske went so far in his notice of\nthe family in \"Appleton's Cyclopedia,\" as to say that Henry had left a\ngreat reputation at Harvard College; which was a proof of John Fiske's\npersonal regard that Adams heartily returned; and set the kind\nexpression down to camaraderie. The case was different when President\nEliot himself hinted that Adams's services merited recognition. Adams\ncould have wept on his shoulder in hysterics, so grateful was he for\nthe rare good-will that inspired the compliment; but he could not allow\nthe college to think that he esteemed himself entitled to distinction.\nHe knew better, and his was among the failures which were respectable\nenough to deserve self-respect. Yet nothing in the vanity of life\nstruck him as more humiliating than that Harvard College, which he had\npersistently criticised, abused, abandoned, and neglected, should alone\nhave offered him a dollar, an office, an encouragement, or a kindness.\nHarvard College might have its faults, but at least it redeemed\nAmerica, since it was true to its own.\n\n  The only part of education that the professor thought a success\nwas the students. He found them excellent company. Cast more or less in\nthe same mould, without violent emotions or sentiment, and, except for\nthe veneer of American habits, ignorant of all that man had ever\nthought or hoped, their minds burst open like flowers at the sunlight\nof a suggestion. They were quick to respond; plastic to a mould; and\nincapable of fatigue. Their faith in education was so full of pathos\nthat one dared not ask them what they thought they could do with\neducation when they got it. Adams did put the question to one of them,\nand was surprised at the answer: \"The degree of Harvard College is\nworth money to me in Chicago.\" This reply upset his experience; for the\ndegree of Harvard College had been rather a drawback to a young man in\nBoston and Washington. So far as it went, the answer was good, and\nsettled one's doubts. Adams knew no better, although he had given\ntwenty years to pursuing the same education, and was no nearer a result\nthan they. He still had to take for granted many things that they need\nnot--among the rest, that his teaching did them more good than harm. In\nhis own opinion the greatest good he could do them was to hold his\ntongue. They needed much faith then; they were likely to need more if\nthey lived long.\n\n  He never knew whether his colleagues shared his doubts about\ntheir own utility. Unlike himself, they knew more or less their\nbusiness. He could not tell his scholars that history glowed with\nsocial virtue; the Professor of Chemistry cared not a chemical atom\nwhether society was virtuous or not. Adams could not pretend that\nmediaeval society proved evolution; the Professor of Physics smiled at\nevolution. Adams was glad to dwell on the virtues of the Church and the\ntriumphs of its art: the Professor of Political Economy had to treat\nthem as waste of force. They knew what they had to teach; he did not.\nThey might perhaps be frauds without knowing it; but he knew certainly\nnothing else of himself. He could teach his students nothing; he was\nonly educating himself at their cost.\n\n  Education, like politics, is a rough affair, and every\ninstructor has to shut his eyes and hold his tongue as though he were a\npriest. The students alone satisfied. They thought they gained\nsomething. Perhaps they did, for even in America and in the twentieth\ncentury, life could not be wholly industrial. Adams fervently hoped\nthat they might remain content; but supposing twenty years more to\npass, and they should turn on him as fiercely as he had turned on his\nold instructors--what answer could he make? The college had pleaded\nguilty, and tried to reform. He had pleaded guilty from the start, and\nhis reforms had failed before those of the college.\n\n  The lecture-room was futile enough, but the faculty-room was\nworse. American society feared total wreck in the maelstrom of\npolitical and corporate administration, but it could not look for help\nto college dons. Adams knew, in that capacity, both Congressmen and\nprofessors, and he preferred Congressmen. The same failure marked the\nsociety of a college. Several score of the best-educated, most\nagreeable, and personally the most sociable people in America united in\nCambridge to make a social desert that would have starved a polar bear.\nThe liveliest and most agreeable of men--James Russell Lowell, Francis\nJ. Child, Louis Agassiz, his son Alexander, Gurney, John Fiske, William\nJames and a dozen others, who would have made the joy of London or\nParis--tried their best to break out and be like other men in Cambridge\nand Boston, but society called them professors, and professors they had\nto be. While all these brilliant men were greedy for companionship, all\nwere famished for want of it. Society was a faculty-meeting without\nbusiness. The elements were there; but society cannot be made up of\nelements--people who are expected to be silent unless they have\nobservations to make--and all the elements are bound to remain apart if\nrequired to make observations.\n\n  Thus it turned out that of all his many educations, Adams\nthought that of school-teacher the thinnest. Yet he was forced to admit\nthat the education of an editor, in some ways, was thinner still. The\neditor had barely time to edit; he had none to write. If copy fell\nshort, he was obliged to scribble a book-review on the virtues of the\nAnglo-Saxons or the vices of the Popes; for he knew more about Edward\nthe Confessor or Boniface VIII than he did about President Grant. For\nseven years he wrote nothing; the Review lived on his brother Charles's\nrailway articles. The editor could help others, but could do nothing\nfor himself. As a writer, he was totally forgotten by the time he had\nbeen an editor for twelve months. As editor he could find no writer to\ntake his place for politics and affairs of current concern. The Review\nbecame chiefly historical. Russell Lowell and Frank Palgrave helped him\nto keep it literary. The editor was a helpless drudge whose successes,\nif he made any, belonged to his writers; but whose failures might\neasily bankrupt himself. Such a Review may be made a sink of money with\ncaptivating ease. The secrets of success as an editor were easily\nlearned; the highest was that of getting advertisements. Ten pages of\nadvertising made an editor a success; five marked him as a failure. The\nmerits or demerits of his literature had little to do with his results\nexcept when they led to adversity.\n\n  A year or two of education as editor satiated most of his\nappetite for that career as a profession. After a very slight\nexperience, he said no more on the subject. He felt willing to let any\none edit, if he himself might write. Vulgarly speaking, it was a dog's\nlife when it did not succeed, and little better when it did. A\nprofessor had at least the pleasure of associating with his students;\nan editor lived the life of an owl. A professor commonly became a\npedagogue or a pedant; an editor became an authority on advertising. On\nthe whole, Adams preferred his attic in Washington. He was educated\nenough. Ignorance paid better, for at least it earned fifty dollars a\nmonth.\n\n  With this result Henry Adams's education, at his entry into\nlife, stopped, and his life began. He had to take that life as he best\ncould, with such accidental education as luck had given him; but he\nheld that it was wrong, and that, if he were to begin again, he would\ndo it on a better system. He thought he knew nearly what system to\npursue. At that time Alexander Agassiz had not yet got his head above\nwater so far as to serve for a model, as he did twenty or thirty years\nafterwards; but the editorship of the North American Review had one\nsolitary merit; it made the editor acquainted at a distance with almost\nevery one in the country who could write or who could be the cause of\nwriting. Adams was vastly pleased to be received among these clever\npeople as one of themselves, and felt always a little surprised at\ntheir treating him as an equal, for they all had education; but among\nthem, only one stood out in extraordinary prominence as the type and\nmodel of what Adams would have liked to be, and of what the American,\nas he conceived, should have been and was not.\n\n  Thanks to the article on Sir Charles Lyell, Adams passed for a\nfriend of geologists, and the extent of his knowledge mattered much\nless to them than the extent of his friendship, for geologists were as\na class not much better off than himself, and friends were sorely few.\nOne of his friends from earliest childhood, and nearest neighbor in\nQuincy, Frank Emmons, had become a geologist and joined the Fortieth\nParallel Survey under Government. At Washington in the winter of\n1869-70, Emmons had invited Adams to go out with him on one of the\nfield-parties in summer. Of course when Adams took the Review he put it\nat the service of the Survey, and regretted only that he could not do\nmore. When the first year of professing and editing was at last over,\nand his July North American appeared, he drew a long breath of relief,\nand took the next train for the West. Of his year's work he was no\njudge. He had become a small spring in a large mechanism, and his work\ncounted only in the sum; but he had been treated civilly by everybody,\nand he felt at home even in Boston. Putting in his pocket the July\nnumber of the North American, with a notice of the Fortieth Parallel\nSurvey by Professor J. D. Whitney, he started for the plains and the\nRocky Mountains.\n\n  In the year 1871, the West was still fresh, and the Union\nPacific was young. Beyond the Missouri River, one felt the atmosphere\nof Indians and buffaloes. One saw the last vestiges of an old\neducation, worth studying if one would; but it was not that which Adams\nsought; rather, he came out to spy upon the land of the future. The\nSurvey occasionally borrowed troopers from the nearest station in case\nof happening on hostile Indians, but otherwise the topographers and\ngeologists thought more about minerals than about Sioux. They held\nunder their hammers a thousand miles of mineral country with all its\nriddles to solve, and its stores of possible wealth to mark. They felt\nthe future in their hands.\n\n  Emmons's party was out of reach in the Uintahs, but Arnold\nHague's had come in to Laramie for supplies, and they took charge of\nAdams for a time. Their wanderings or adventures matter nothing to the\nstory of education. They were all hardened mountaineers and surveyors\nwho took everything for granted, and spared each other the most\nwearisome bore of English and Scotch life, the stories of the big game\nthey killed. A bear was an occasional amusement; a wapiti was a\nconstant necessity; but the only wild animal dangerous to man was a\nrattlesnake or a skunk. One shot for amusement, but one had other\nmatters to talk about.\n\n  Adams enjoyed killing big game, but loathed the labor of\ncutting it up; so that he rarely unslung the little carbine he was in a\nmanner required to carry. On the other hand, he liked to wander off\nalone on his mule, and pass the day fishing a mountain stream or\nexploring a valley. One morning when the party was camped high above\nEstes Park, on the flank of Long's Peak, he borrowed a rod, and rode\ndown over a rough trail into Estes Park, for some trout. The day was\nfine, and hazy with the smoke of forest fires a thousand miles away;\nthe park stretched its English beauties off to the base of its\nbordering mountains in natural landscape and archaic peace; the stream\nwas just fishy enough to tempt lingering along its banks. Hour after\nhour the sun moved westward and the fish moved eastward, or disappeared\naltogether, until at last when the fisherman cinched his mule, sunset\nwas nearer than he thought. Darkness caught him before he could catch\nhis trail. Not caring to tumble into some fifty-foot hole, he \"allowed\"\nhe was lost, and turned back. In half-an-hour he was out of the hills,\nand under the stars of Estes Park, but he saw no prospect of supper or\nof bed.\n\n  Estes Park was large enough to serve for a bed on a summer\nnight for an army of professors, but the supper question offered\ndifficulties. There was but one cabin in the Park, near its entrance,\nand he felt no great confidence in finding it, but he thought his mule\ncleverer than himself, and the dim lines of mountain crest against the\nstars fenced his range of error. The patient mule plodded on without\nother road than the gentle slope of the ground, and some two hours must\nhave passed before a light showed in the distance. As the mule came up\nto the cabin door, two or three men came out to see the stranger.\n\n  One of these men was Clarence King on his way up to the camp.\nAdams fell into his arms. As with most friendships, it was never a\nmatter of growth or doubt. Friends are born in archaic horizons; they\nwere shaped with the Pteraspis in Siluria; they have nothing to do with\nthe accident of space. King had come up that day from Greeley in a\nlight four-wheeled buggy, over a trail hardly fit for a commissariat\nmule, as Adams had reason to know since he went back in the buggy. In\nthe cabin, luxury provided a room and one bed for guests. They shared\nthe room and the bed, and talked till far towards dawn.\n\n  King had everything to interest and delight Adams. He knew more\nthan Adams did of art and poetry; he knew America, especially west of\nthe hundredth meridian, better than any one; he knew the professor by\nheart, and he knew the Congressman better than he did the professor. He\nknew even women; even the American woman; even the New York woman,\nwhich is saying much. Incidentally he knew more practical geology than\nwas good for him, and saw ahead at least one generation further than\nthe text-books. That he saw right was a different matter. Since the\nbeginning of time no man has lived who is known to have seen right; the\ncharm of King was that he saw what others did and a great deal more.\nHis wit and humor; his bubbling energy which swept every one into the\ncurrent of his interest; his personal charm of youth and manners; his\nfaculty of giving and taking, profusely, lavishly, whether in thought\nor in money as though he were Nature herself, marked him almost alone\namong Americans. He had in him something of the Greek--a touch of\nAlcibiades or Alexander. One Clarence King only existed in the world.\n\n  A new friend is always a miracle, but at thirty-three years\nold, such a bird of paradise rising in the sage-brush was an avatar.\nOne friend in a lifetime is much; two are many; three are hardly\npossible. Friendship needs a certain parallelism of life, a community\nof thought, a rivalry of aim. King, like Adams, and all their\ngeneration, was at that moment passing the critical point of his\ncareer. The one, coming from the west, saturated with the sunshine of\nthe Sierras, met the other, drifting from the east, drenched in the\nfogs of London, and both had the same problems to handle--the same\nstock of implements--the same field to work in; above all, the same\nobstacles to overcome.\n\nAs a companion, King's charm was great, but this was not the quality\nthat so much attracted Adams, nor could he affect even distant rivalry\non this ground. Adams could never tell a story, chiefly because he\nalways forgot it; and he was never guilty of a witticism, unless by\naccident. King and the Fortieth Parallel influenced him in a way far\nmore vital. The lines of their lives converged, but King had moulded\nand directed his life logically, scientifically, as Adams thought\nAmerican life should be directed. He had given himself education all of\na piece, yet broad. Standing in the middle of his career, where their\npaths at last came together, he could look back and look forward on a\nstraight line, with scientific knowledge for its base. Adams's life,\npast or future, was a succession of violent breaks or waves, with no\nbase at all. King's abnormal energy had already won him great success.\nNone of his contemporaries had done so much, single-handed, or were\nlikely to leave so deep a trail. He had managed to induce Congress to\nadopt almost its first modern act of legislation. He had organized, as\na civil--not military--measure, a Government Survey. He had paralleled\nthe Continental Railway in Geology; a feat as yet unequalled by other\ngovernments which had as a rule no continents to survey. He was\ncreating one of the classic scientific works of the century. The\nchances were great that he could, whenever he chose to quit the\nGovernment service, take the pick of the gold and silver, copper or\ncoal, and build up his fortune as he pleased. Whatever prize he wanted\nlay ready for him--scientific social, literary, political--and he knew\nhow to take them in turn. With ordinary luck he would die at eighty the\nrichest and most many-sided genius of his day.\n\n  So little egoistic he was that none of his friends felt envy of\nhis extraordinary superiority, but rather grovelled before it, so that\nwomen were jealous of the power he had over men; but women were many\nand Kings were one. The men worshipped not so much their friend, as the\nideal American they all wanted to be. The women were jealous because,\nat heart, King had no faith in the American woman; he loved types more\nrobust.\n\n  The young men of the Fortieth Parallel had Californian\ninstincts; they were brothers of Bret Harte. They felt no leanings\ntowards the simple uniformities of Lyell and Darwin; they saw little\nproof of slight and imperceptible changes; to them, catastrophe was the\nlaw of change; they cared little for simplicity and much for\ncomplexity; but it was the complexity of Nature, not of New York or\neven of the Mississippi Valley. King loved paradox; he started them\nlike rabbits, and cared for them no longer, when caught or lost; but\nthey delighted Adams, for they helped, among other things, to persuade\nhim that history was more amusing than science. The only question left\nopen to doubt was their relative money value.\n\n  In Emmons's camp, far up in the Uintahs, these talks were\ncontinued till the frosts became sharp in the mountains. History and\nscience spread out in personal horizons towards goals no longer far\naway. No more education was possible for either man. Such as they were,\nthey had got to stand the chances of the world they lived in; and when\nAdams started back to Cambridge, to take up again the humble tasks of\nschoolmaster and editor he was harnessed to his cart. Education,\nsystematic or accidental, had done its worst. Henceforth, he went on,\nsubmissive.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXI\n\nTWENTY YEARS AFTER (1892)\n\n  ONCE more! this is a story of education, not of adventure! It\nis meant to help young men--or such as have intelligence enough to seek\nhelp--but it is not meant to amuse them. What one did--or did not\ndo--with one's education, after getting it, need trouble the inquirer\nin no way; it is a personal matter only which would confuse him.\nPerhaps Henry Adams was not worth educating; most keen judges incline\nto think that barely one man in a hundred owns a mind capable of\nreacting to any purpose on the forces that surround him, and fully half\nof these react wrongly. The object of education for that mind should be\nthe teaching itself how to react with vigor and economy. No doubt the\nworld at large will always lag so far behind the active mind as to make\na soft cushion of inertia to drop upon, as it did for Henry Adams; but\neducation should try to lessen the obstacles, diminish the friction,\ninvigorate the energy, and should train minds to react, not at\nhaphazard, but by choice, on the lines of force that attract their\nworld. What one knows is, in youth, of little moment; they know enough\nwho know how to learn. Throughout human history the waste of mind has\nbeen appalling, and, as this story is meant to show, society has\nconspired to promote it. No doubt the teacher is the worst criminal,\nbut the world stands behind him and drags the student from his course.\nThe moral is stentorian. Only the most energetic, the most highly\nfitted, and the most favored have overcome the friction or the\nviscosity of inertia, and these were compelled to waste three-fourths\nof their energy in doing it.\n\n  Fit or unfit, Henry Adams stopped his own education in 1871,\nand began to apply it for practical uses, like his neighbors. At the\nend of twenty years, he found that he had finished, and could sum up\nthe result. He had no complaint to make against man or woman. They had\nall treated him kindly; he had never met with ill-will, ill-temper, or\neven ill-manners, or known a quarrel. He had never seen serious\ndishonesty or ingratitude. He had found a readiness in the young to\nrespond to suggestion that seemed to him far beyond all he had reason\nto expect. Considering the stock complaints against the world, he could\nnot understand why he had nothing to complain of.\n\n  During these twenty years he had done as much work, in\nquantity, as his neighbors wanted; more than they would ever stop to\nlook at, and more than his share. Merely in print, he thought\naltogether ridiculous the number of volumes he counted on the shelves\nof public libraries. He had no notion whether they served a useful\npurpose; he had worked in the dark; but so had most of his friends,\neven the artists, none of whom held any lofty opinion of their success\nin raising the standards of society, or felt profound respect for the\nmethods or manners of their time, at home or abroad, but all of whom\nhad tried, in a way, to hold the standard up. The effort had been, for\nthe older generation, exhausting, as one could see in the Hunts; but\nthe generation after 1870 made more figure, not in proportion to public\nwealth or in the census, but in their own self-assertion. A fair number\nof the men who were born in the thirties had won names--Phillips\nBrooks; Bret Harte; Henry James; H. H. Richardson; John La Farge; and\nthe list might be made fairly long if it were worth while; but from\ntheir school had sprung others, like Augustus St. Gaudens, McKim,\nStanford White, and scores born in the forties, who counted as force\neven in the mental inertia of sixty or eighty million people. Among all\nthese Clarence King, John Hay, and Henry Adams had led modest\nexistences, trying to fill in the social gaps of a class which, as yet,\nshowed but thin ranks and little cohesion. The combination offered no\nvery glittering prizes, but they pursued it for twenty years with as\nmuch patience and effort as though it led to fame or power, until, at\nlast, Henry Adams thought his own duties sufficiently performed and his\naccount with society settled. He had enjoyed his life amazingly, and\nwould not have exchanged it for any other that came in his way; he was,\nor thought he was, perfectly satisfied with it; but for reasons that\nhad nothing to do with education, he was tired; his nervous energy ran\nlow; and, like a horse that wears out, he quitted the race-course, left\nthe stable, and sought pastures as far as possible from the old.\nEducation had ended in 1871; life was complete in 1890; the rest\nmattered so little!\n\n  As had happened so often, he found himself in London when the\nquestion of return imposed its verdict on him after much fruitless\neffort to rest elsewhere. The time was the month of January, 1892; he\nwas alone, in hospital, in the gloom of midwinter. He was close on his\nfifty-fourth birthday, and Pall Mall had forgotten him as completely as\nit had forgotten his elders. He had not seen London for a dozen years,\nand was rather amused to have only a bed for a world and a familiar\nblack fog for horizon. The coal-fire smelt homelike; the fog had a\nfruity taste of youth; anything was better than being turned out into\nthe wastes of Wigmore Street. He could always amuse himself by living\nover his youth, and driving once more down Oxford Street in 1858, with\nlife before him to imagine far less amusing than it had turned out to\nbe.\n\n  The future attracted him less. Lying there for a week he\nreflected on what he could do next. He had just come up from the South\nSeas with John La Farge, who had reluctantly crawled away towards New\nYork to resume the grinding routine of studio-work at an age when life\nruns low. Adams would rather, as choice, have gone back to the east, if\nit were only to sleep forever in the trade-winds under the southern\nstars, wandering over the dark purple ocean, with its purple sense of\nsolitude and void. Not that he liked the sensation, but that it was the\nmost unearthly he had felt. He had not yet happened on Rudyard\nKipling's \"Mandalay,\" but he knew the poetry before he knew the poem,\nlike millions of wanderers, who have perhaps alone felt the world\nexactly as it is. Nothing attracted him less than the idea of beginning\na new education. The old one had been poor enough; any new one could\nonly add to its faults. Life had been cut in halves, and the old half\nhad passed away, education and all, leaving no stock to graft on.\n\n  The new world he faced in Paris and London seemed to him\nfantastic. Willing to admit it real in the sense of having some kind of\nexistence outside his own mind, he could not admit it reasonable. In\nParis, his heart sank to mere pulp before the dismal ballets at the\nGrand Opera and the eternal vaudeville at the old Palais Royal; but,\nexcept for them, his own Paris of the Second Empire was as extinct as\nthat of the first Napoleon. At the galleries and exhibitions, he was\nracked by the effort of art to be original, and when one day, after\nmuch reflection, John La Farge asked whether there might not still be\nroom for something simple in art, Adams shook his head. As he saw the\nworld, it was no longer simple and could not express itself simply. It\nshould express what it was; and this was something that neither Adams\nnor La Farge understood.\n\n  Under the first blast of this furnace-heat, the lights seemed\nfairly to go out. He felt nothing in common with the world as it\npromised to be. He was ready to quit it, and the easiest path led back\nto the east; but he could not venture alone, and the rarest of animals\nis a companion. He must return to America to get one. Perhaps, while\nwaiting, he might write more history, and on the chance as a last\nresource, he gave orders for copying everything he could reach in\narchives, but this was mere habit. He went home as a horse goes back to\nhis stable, because he knew nowhere else to go.\n\n  Home was Washington. As soon as Grant's administration ended,\nin 1877, and Evarts became Secretary of State, Adams went back there,\npartly to write history, but chiefly because his seven years of\nlaborious banishment, in Boston, convinced him that, as far as he had a\nfunction in life, it was as stable-companion to statesmen, whether they\nliked it or not. At about the same time, old George Bancroft did the\nsame thing, and presently John Hay came on to be Assistant Secretary of\nState for Mr. Evarts, and stayed there to write the \"Life\" of Lincoln.\nIn 1884 Adams joined him in employing Richardson to build them\nadjoining houses on La Fayette Square. As far as Adams had a home this\nwas it. To the house on La Fayette Square he must turn, for he had no\nother status--no position in the world.\n\n  Never did he make a decision more reluctantly than this of\ngoing back to his manger. His father and mother were dead. All his\nfamily led settled lives of their own. Except for two or three friends\nin Washington, who were themselves uncertain of stay, no one cared\nwhether he came or went, and he cared least. There was nothing to care\nabout. Every one was busy; nearly every one seemed contented. Since\n1871 nothing had ruffled the surface of the American world, and even\nthe progress of Europe in her side-way track to dis-Europeaning herself\nhad ceased to be violent. After a dreary January in Paris, at last when\nno excuse could be persuaded to offer itself for further delay, he\ncrossed the channel and passed a week with his old friend, Milnes\nGaskell, at Thornes, in Yorkshire, while the westerly gales raved a\nwarning against going home. Yorkshire in January is not an island in\nthe South Seas. It has few points of resemblance to Tahiti; not many to\nFiji or Samoa; but, as so often before, it was a rest between past and\nfuture, and Adams was grateful for it.\n\n  At last, on February 3, he drove, after a fashion, down the\nIrish Channel, on board the Teutonic. He had not crossed the Atlantic\nfor a dozen years, and had never seen an ocean steamer of the new type.\nHe had seen nothing new of any sort, or much changed in France or\nEngland. The railways made quicker time, but were no more comfortable.\nThe scale was the same. The Channel service was hardly improved since\n1858, or so little as to make no impression. Europe seemed to have been\nstationary for twenty years. To a man who had been stationary like\nEurope, the Teutonic was a marvel. That he should be able to eat his\ndinner through a week of howling winter gales was a miracle. That he\nshould have a deck stateroom, with fresh air, and read all night, if he\nchose, by electric light, was matter for more wonder than life had yet\nsupplied, in its old forms. Wonder may be double--even treble. Adams's\nwonder ran off into figures. As the Niagara was to the Teutonic--as\n1860 was to 1890--so the Teutonic and 1890 must be to the next\nterm--and then? Apparently the question concerned only America. Western\nEurope offered no such conundrum. There one might double scale and\nspeed indefinitely without passing bounds.\n\n  Fate was kind on that voyage. Rudyard Kipling, on his wedding\ntrip to America, thanks to the mediation of Henry James, dashed over\nthe passenger his exuberant fountain of gaiety and wit--as though\nplaying a garden hose on a thirsty and faded begonia. Kipling could\nnever know what peace of mind he gave, for he could hardly ever need it\nhimself so much; and yet, in the full delight of his endless fun and\nvariety, one felt the old conundrum repeat itself. Somehow, somewhere,\nKipling and the American were not one, but two, and could not be glued\ntogether. The American felt that the defect, if defect it were, was in\nhimself; he had felt it when he was with Swinburne, and, again, with\nRobert Louis Stevenson, even under the palms of Vailima; but he did not\ncarry self-abasement to the point of thinking himself singular.\nWhatever the defect might be, it was American; it belonged to the type;\nit lived in the blood. Whatever the quality might be that held him\napart, it was English; it lived also in the blood; one felt it little\nif at all, with Celts, and one yearned reciprocally among Fiji\ncannibals. Clarence King used to say that it was due to discord between\nthe wave-lengths of the man-atoms; but the theory offered difficulties\nin measurement. Perhaps, after all, it was only that genius soars; but\nthis theory, too, had its dark corners. All through life, one had seen\nthe American on his literary knees to the European; and all through\nmany lives back for some two centuries, one had seen the European snub\nor patronize the American; not always intentionally, but effectually.\nIt was in the nature of things. Kipling neither snubbed nor patronized;\nhe was all gaiety and good-nature; but he would have been first to feel\nwhat one meant. Genius has to pay itself that unwilling self-respect.\n\n  Towards the middle of February, 1892, Adams found himself again\nin Washington. In Paris and London he had seen nothing to make a return\nto life worth while; in Washington he saw plenty of reasons for staying\ndead. Changes had taken place there; improvements had been made; with\ntime--much time--the city might become habitable according to some\nfashionable standard; but all one's friends had died or disappeared\nseveral times over, leaving one almost as strange as in Boston or\nLondon. Slowly, a certain society had built itself up about the\nGovernment; houses had been opened and there was much dining; much\ncalling; much leaving of cards; but a solitary man counted for less\nthan in 1868. Society seemed hardly more at home than he. Both\nExecutive and Congress held it aloof. No one in society seemed to have\nthe ear of anybody in Government. No one in Government knew any reason\nfor consulting any one in society. The world had ceased to be wholly\npolitical, but politics had become less social. A survivor of the Civil\nWar--like George Bancroft, or John Hay--tried to keep footing, but\nwithout brilliant success. They were free to say or do what they liked;\nbut no one took much notice of anything said or done.\n\n  A presidential election was to take place in November, and no\none showed much interest in the result. The two candidates were\nsingular persons, of whom it was the common saying that one of them had\nno friends; the other, only enemies. Calvin Brice, who was at that time\naltogether the wittiest and cleverest member of the Senate, was in the\nhabit of describing Mr. Cleveland in glowing terms and at great length,\nas one of the loftiest natures and noblest characters of ancient or\nmodern time; \"but,\" he concluded, \"in future I prefer to look on at his\nproceedings from the safe summit of some neighboring hill.\" The same\nremark applied to Mr. Harrison. In this respect, they were the greatest\nof Presidents, for, whatever harm they might do their enemies, was as\nnothing when compared to the mortality they inflicted on their friends.\nMen fled them as though they had the evil eye. To the American people,\nthe two candidates and the two parties were so evenly balanced that the\nscales showed hardly a perceptible difference. Mr. Harrison was an\nexcellent President, a man of ability and force; perhaps the best\nPresident the Republican Party had put forward since Lincoln's death;\nyet, on the whole, Adams felt a shade of preference for President\nCleveland, not so much personally as because the Democrats represented\nto him the last remnants of the eighteenth century; the survivors of\nHosea Biglow's Cornwallis; the sole remaining protestants against a\nbanker's Olympus which had become, for five-and-twenty years, more and\nmore despotic over Esop's frog-empire. One might no longer croak except\nto vote for King Log, or--failing storks--for Grover Cleveland; and\neven then could not be sure where King Banker lurked behind. The costly\neducation in politics had led to political torpor. Every one did not\nshare it. Clarence King and John Hay were loyal Republicans who never\nfor a moment conceived that there could be merit in other ideals. With\nKing, the feeling was chiefly love of archaic races; sympathy with the\nnegro and Indian and corresponding dislike of their enemies; but with\nHay, party loyalty became a phase of being, a little like the loyalty\nof a highly cultivated churchman to his Church. He saw all the failings\nof the party, and still more keenly those of the partisans; but he\ncould not live outside. To Adams a Western Democrat or a Western\nRepublican, a city Democrat or a city Republican, a W. C. Whitney or a\nJ. G. Blaine, were actually the same man, as far as their usefulness to\nthe objects of King, Hay, or Adams was concerned. They graded\nthemselves as friends or enemies not as Republicans or Democrats. To\nHay, the difference was that of being respectable or not.\n\n  Since 1879, King, Hay, and Adams had been inseparable. Step by\nstep, they had gone on in the closest sympathy, rather shunning than\ninviting public position, until, in 1892, none of them held any post at\nall. With great effort, in Hayes's administration, all King's friends,\nincluding Abram Hewitt and Carl Schurz, had carried the bill for\nuniting the Surveys and had placed King at the head of the Bureau; but\nKing waited only to organize the service, and then resigned, in order\nto seek his private fortune in the West. Hay, after serving as\nAssistant Secretary of State under Secretary Evarts during a part of\nHayes's administration, then also insisted on going out, in order to\nwrite with Nicolay the \"Life\" of Lincoln. Adams had held no office, and\nwhen his friends asked the reason, he could not go into long\nexplanations, but preferred to answer simply that no President had ever\ninvited him to fill one. The reason was good, and was also conveniently\ntrue, but left open an awkward doubt of his morals or capacity. Why had\nno President ever cared to employ him? The question needed a volume of\nintricate explanation. There never was a day when he would have refused\nto perform any duty that the Government imposed on him, but the\nAmerican Government never to his knowledge imposed duties. The point\nwas never raised with regard to him, or to any one else. The Government\nrequired candidates to offer; the business of the Executive began and\nended with the consent or refusal to confer. The social formula carried\nthis passive attitude a shade further. Any public man who may for years\nhave used some other man's house as his own, when promoted to a\nposition of patronage commonly feels himself obliged to inquire,\ndirectly or indirectly, whether his friend wants anything; which is\nequivalent to a civil act of divorce, since he feels awkward in the old\nrelation. The handsomest formula, in an impartial choice, was the\ngrandly courteous Southern phrase of Lamar: \"Of course Mr. Adams knows\nthat anything in my power is at his service.\" A la disposicion de\nUsted! The form must have been correct since it released both parties.\nHe was right; Mr. Adams did know all about it; a bow and a conventional\nsmile closed the subject forever, and every one felt flattered.\n\n  Such an intimate, promoted to power, was always lost. His\nduties and cares absorbed him and affected his balance of mind. Unless\nhis friend served some political purpose, friendship was an effort. Men\nwho neither wrote for newspapers nor made campaign speeches, who rarely\nsubscribed to the campaign fund, and who entered the White House as\nseldom as possible, placed themselves outside the sphere of usefulness,\nand did so with entirely adequate knowledge of what they were doing.\nThey never expected the President to ask for their services, and saw no\nreason why he should do so. As for Henry Adams, in fifty years that he\nknew Washington, no one would have been more surprised than himself had\nany President ever asked him to perform so much of a service as to\ncross the square. Only Texan Congressmen imagined that the President\nneeded their services in some remote consulate after worrying him for\nmonths to find one.\n\n  In Washington this law or custom is universally understood, and\nno one's character necessarily suffered because he held no office. No\none took office unless he wanted it; and in turn the outsider was never\nasked to do work or subscribe money. Adams saw no office that he\nwanted, and he gravely thought that, from his point of view, in the\nlong run, he was likely to be a more useful citizen without office. He\ncould at least act as audience, and, in those days, a Washington\naudience seldom filled even a small theatre. He felt quite well\nsatisfied to look on, and from time to time he thought he might risk a\ncriticism of the players; but though he found his own position regular,\nhe never quite understood that of John Hay. The Republican leaders\ntreated Hay as one of themselves; they asked his services and took his\nmoney with a freedom that staggered even a hardened observer; but they\nnever needed him in equivalent office. In Washington Hay was the only\ncompetent man in the party for diplomatic work. He corresponded in his\npowers of usefulness exactly with Lord Granville in London, who had\nbeen for forty years the saving grace of every Liberal administration\nin turn. Had usefulness to the public service been ever a question, Hay\nshould have had a first-class mission under Hayes; should have been\nplaced in the Cabinet by Garfield, and should have been restored to it\nby Harrison. These gentlemen were always using him; always invited his\nservices, and always took his money.\n\n  Adams's opinion of politics and politicians, as he frankly\nadmitted, lacked enthusiasm, although never, in his severest temper,\ndid he apply to them the terms they freely applied to each other; and\nhe explained everything by his old explanation of Grant's character as\nmore or less a general type; but what roused in his mind more rebellion\nwas the patience and good-nature with which Hay allowed himself to be\nused. The trait was not confined to politics. Hay seemed to like to be\nused, and this was one of his many charms; but in politics this sort of\ngood-nature demands supernatural patience. Whatever astonishing lapses\nof social convention the politicians betrayed, Hay laughed equally\nheartily, and told the stories with constant amusement, at his own\nexpense. Like most Americans, he liked to play at making Presidents,\nbut, unlike most, he laughed not only at the Presidents he helped to\nmake, but also at himself for laughing.\n\n  One must be rich, and come from Ohio or New York, to gratify an\nexpensive taste like this. Other men, on both political flanks, did the\nsame thing, and did it well, less for selfish objects than for the\namusement of the game; but Hay alone lived in Washington and in the\ncentre of the Ohio influences that ruled the Republican Party during\nthirty years. On the whole, these influences were respectable, and\nalthough Adams could not, under any circumstances, have had any value,\neven financially, for Ohio politicians, Hay might have much, as he\nshowed, if they only knew enough to appreciate him. The American\npolitician was occasionally an amusing object; Hay laughed, and, for\nwant of other resource, Adams laughed too; but perhaps it was partly\nirritation at seeing how President Harrison dealt his cards that made\nAdams welcome President Cleveland back to the White House.\n\n  At all events, neither Hay nor King nor Adams had much to gain\nby reelecting Mr. Harrison in 1892, or by defeating him, as far as he\nwas concerned; and as far as concerned Mr. Cleveland, they seemed to\nhave even less personal concern. The whole country, to outward\nappearance, stood in much the same frame of mind. Everywhere was\nslack-water. Hay himself was almost as languid and indifferent as\nAdams. Neither had occupation. Both had finished their literary work.\nThe \"Life\" of Lincoln had been begun, completed, and published hand in\nhand with the \"History\" of Jefferson and Madison, so that between them\nthey had written nearly all the American history there was to write.\nThe intermediate period needed intermediate treatment; the gap between\nJames Madison and Abraham Lincoln could not be judicially filled by\neither of them. Both were heartily tired of the subject, and America\nseemed as tired as they. What was worse, the redeeming energy of\nAmericans which had generally served as the resource of minds otherwise\nvacant, the creation of new force, the application of expanding power,\nshowed signs of check. Even the year before, in 1891, far off in the\nPacific, one had met everywhere in the East a sort of stagnation--a\ncreeping paralysis--complaints of shipping and producers--that spread\nthroughout the whole southern hemisphere. Questions of exchange and\nsilver-production loomed large. Credit was shaken, and a change of\nparty government might shake it even in Washington. The matter did not\nconcern Adams, who had no credit, and was always richest when the rich\nwere poor; but it helped to dull the vibration of society.\n\n  However they studied it, the balance of profit and loss, on the\nlast twenty years, for the three friends, King, Hay, and Adams, was\nexceedingly obscure in 1892. They had lost twenty years, but what had\nthey gained? They often discussed the question. Hay had a singular\nfaculty for remembering faces, and would break off suddenly the thread\nof his talk, as he looked out of the window on La Fayette Square, to\nnotice an old corps commander or admiral of the Civil War, tottering\nalong to the club for his cards or his cocktail: \"There is old Dash who\nbroke the rebel lines at Blankburg! Think of his having been a\nthunderbolt of war!\" Or what drew Adams's closer attention: \"There goes\nold Boutwell gambolling like the gambolling kid!\" There they went! Men\nwho had swayed the course of empire as well as the course of Hay, King,\nand Adams, less valued than the ephemeral Congressman behind them, who\ncould not have told whether the general was a Boutwell or Boutwell a\ngeneral. Theirs was the highest known success, and one asked what it\nwas worth to them. Apart from personal vanity, what would they sell it\nfor? Would any one of them, from President downwards, refuse ten\nthousand a year in place of all the consideration he received from the\nworld on account of his success?\n\n  Yet consideration had value, and at that time Adams enjoyed\nlecturing Augustus St. Gaudens, in hours of depression, on its\neconomics: \"Honestly you must admit that even if you don't pay your\nexpenses you get a certain amount of advantage from doing the best\nwork. Very likely some of the really successful Americans would be\nwilling you should come to dinner sometimes, if you did not come too\noften, while they would think twice about Hay, and would never stand\nme.\" The forgotten statesman had no value at all; the general and\nadmiral not much; the historian but little; on the whole, the artist\nstood best, and of course, wealth rested outside the question, since it\nwas acting as judge; but, in the last resort, the judge certainly\nadmitted that consideration had some value as an asset, though hardly\nas much as ten--or five--thousand a year.\n\n  Hay and Adams had the advantage of looking out of their windows\non the antiquities of La Fayette Square, with the sense of having all\nthat any one had; all that the world had to offer; all that they wanted\nin life, including their names on scores of title-pages and in one or\ntwo biographical dictionaries; but this had nothing to do with\nconsideration, and they knew no more than Boutwell or St. Gaudens\nwhether to call it success. Hay had passed ten years in writing the\n\"Life\" of Lincoln, and perhaps President Lincoln was the better for it,\nbut what Hay got from it was not so easy to see, except the privilege\nof seeing popular book-makers steal from his book and cover the theft\nby abusing the author. Adams had given ten or a dozen years to\nJefferson and Madison, with expenses which, in any mercantile business,\ncould hardly have been reckoned at less than a hundred thousand\ndollars, on a salary of five thousand a year; and when he asked what\nreturn he got from this expenditure, rather more extravagant in\nproportion to his means than a racing-stable, he could see none\nwhatever. Such works never return money. Even Frank Parkman never\nprinted a first edition of his relatively cheap and popular volumes,\nnumbering more than seven hundred copies, until quite at the end of his\nlife. A thousand copies of a book that cost twenty dollars or more was\nas much as any author could expect; two thousand copies was a visionary\nestimate unless it were canvassed for subscription. As far as Adams\nknew, he had but three serious readers--Abram Hewitt, Wayne McVeagh,\nand Hay himself. He was amply satisfied with their consideration, and\ncould dispense with that of the other fifty-nine million, nine hundred\nand ninety-nine thousand, nine hundred and ninety-seven; but neither he\nnor Hay was better off in any other respect, and their chief title to\nconsideration was their right to look out of their windows on great\nmen, alive or dead, in La Fayette Square, a privilege which had nothing\nto do with their writings.\n\n  The world was always good-natured; civil; glad to be amused;\nopen-armed to any one who amused it; patient with every one who did not\ninsist on putting himself in its way, or costing it money; but this was\nnot consideration, still less power in any of its concrete forms, and\napplied as well or better to a comic actor. Certainly a rare soprano or\ntenor voice earned infinitely more applause as it gave infinitely more\npleasure, even in America; but one does what one can with one's means,\nand casting up one's balance sheet, one expects only a reasonable\nreturn on one's capital. Hay and Adams had risked nothing and never\nplayed for high stakes. King had followed the ambitious course. He had\nplayed for many millions. He had more than once come close to a great\nsuccess, but the result was still in doubt, and meanwhile he was\npassing the best years of his life underground. For companionship he\nwas mostly lost.\n\n  Thus, in 1892, neither Hay, King, nor Adams knew whether they\nhad attained success, or how to estimate it, or what to call it; and\nthe American people seemed to have no clearer idea than they. Indeed,\nthe American people had no idea at all; they were wandering in a\nwilderness much more sandy than the Hebrews had ever trodden about\nSinai; they had neither serpents nor golden calves to worship. They had\nlost the sense of worship; for the idea that they worshipped money\nseemed a delusion. Worship of money was an old-world trait; a healthy\nappetite akin to worship of the Gods, or to worship of power in any\nconcrete shape; but the American wasted money more recklessly than any\none ever did before; he spent more to less purpose than any extravagant\ncourt aristocracy; he had no sense of relative values, and knew not\nwhat to do with his money when he got it, except use it to make more,\nor throw it away. Probably, since human society began, it had seen no\nsuch curious spectacle as the houses of the San Francisco millionaires\non Nob Hill. Except for the railway system, the enormous wealth taken\nout of the ground since 1840, had disappeared. West of the Alleghenies,\nthe whole country might have been swept clean, and could have been\nreplaced in better form within one or two years. The American mind had\nless respect for money than the European or Asiatic mind, and bore its\nloss more easily; but it had been deflected by its pursuit till it\ncould turn in no other direction. It shunned, distrusted, disliked, the\ndangerous attraction of ideals, and stood alone in history for its\nignorance of the past.\n\n  Personal contact brought this American trait close to Adams's\nnotice. His first step, on returning to Washington, took him out to the\ncemetery known as Rock Creek, to see the bronze figure which St.\nGaudens had made for him in his absence. Naturally every detail\ninterested him; every line; every touch of the artist; every change of\nlight and shade; every point of relation; every possible doubt of St.\nGaudens's correctness of taste or feeling; so that, as the spring\napproached, he was apt to stop there often to see what the figure had\nto tell him that was new; but, in all that it had to say, he never once\nthought of questioning what it meant. He supposed its meaning to be the\none commonplace about it--the oldest idea known to human thought. He\nknew that if he asked an Asiatic its meaning, not a man, woman, or\nchild from Cairo to Kamtchatka would have needed more than a glance to\nreply. From the Egyptian Sphinx to the Kamakura Daibuts; from\nPrometheus to Christ; from Michael Angelo to Shelley, art had wrought\non this eternal figure almost as though it had nothing else to say. The\ninterest of the figure was not in its meaning, but in the response of\nthe observer. As Adams sat there, numbers of people came, for the\nfigure seemed to have become a tourist fashion, and all wanted to know\nits meaning. Most took it for a portrait-statue, and the remnant were\nvacant-minded in the absence of a personal guide. None felt what would\nhave been a nursery-instinct to a Hindu baby or a Japanese\njinricksha-runner. The only exceptions were the clergy, who taught a\nlesson even deeper. One after another brought companions there, and,\napparently fascinated by their own reflection, broke out passionately\nagainst the expression they felt in the figure of despair, of atheism,\nof denial. Like the others, the priest saw only what he brought. Like\nall great artists, St. Gaudens held up the mirror and no more. The\nAmerican layman had lost sight of ideals; the American priest had lost\nsight of faith. Both were more American than the old, half-witted\nsoldiers who denounced the wasting, on a mere grave, of money which\nshould have been given for drink.\n\n  Landed, lost, and forgotten, in the centre of this vast plain\nof self-content, Adams could see but one active interest, to which all\nothers were subservient, and which absorbed the energies of some sixty\nmillion people to the exclusion of every other force, real or\nimaginary. The power of the railway system had enormously increased\nsince 1870. Already the coal output of 160,000,000 tons closely\napproached the 180,000,000 of the British Empire, and one held one's\nbreath at the nearness of what one had never expected to see, the\ncrossing of courses, and the lead of American energies. The moment was\ndeeply exciting to a historian, but the railway system itself\ninterested one less than in 1868, since it offered less chance for\nfuture profit. Adams had been born with the railway system; had grown\nup with it; had been over pretty nearly every mile of it with curious\neyes, and knew as much about it as his neighbors; but not there could\nhe look for a new education. Incomplete though it was, the system\nseemed on the whole to satisfy the wants of society better than any\nother part of the social machine, and society was content with its\ncreation, for the time, and with itself for creating it. Nothing new\nwas to be done or learned there, and the world hurried on to its\ntelephones, bicycles, and electric trams. At past fifty, Adams solemnly\nand painfully learned to ride the bicycle.\n\n  Nothing else occurred to him as a means of new life. Nothing\nelse offered itself, however carefully he sought. He looked for no\nchange. He lingered in Washington till near July without noticing a new\nidea. Then he went back to England to pass his summer on the Deeside.\nIn October he returned to Washington and there awaited the reelection\nof Mr. Cleveland, which led to no deeper thought than that of taking up\nsome small notes that happened to be outstanding. He had seen enough of\nthe world to be a coward, and above all he had an uneasy distrust of\nbankers. Even dead men allow themselves a few narrow prejudices.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXII\n\nCHICAGO (1893)\n\n  DRIFTING in the dead-water of the fin-de-siecle--and during\nthis last decade every one talked, and seemed to feel\nfin-de-siecle--where not a breath stirred the idle air of education or\nfretted the mental torpor of self-content, one lived alone. Adams had\nlong ceased going into society. For years he had not dined out of his\nown house, and in public his face was as unknown as that of an extinct\nstatesman. He had often noticed that six months' oblivion amounts to\nnewspaper-death, and that resurrection is rare. Nothing is easier, if a\nman wants it, than rest, profound as the grave.\n\n  His friends sometimes took pity on him, and came to share a\nmeal or pass a night on their passage south or northwards, but\nexistence was, on the whole, exceedingly solitary, or seemed so to him.\nOf the society favorites who made the life of every dinner-table and of\nthe halls of Congress--Tom Reed, Bourke Cockran, Edward Wolcott--he\nknew not one. Although Calvin Brice was his next neighbor for six\nyears, entertaining lavishly as no one had ever entertained before in\nWashington, Adams never entered his house. W. C. Whitney rivalled\nSenator Brice in hospitality, and was besides an old acquaintance of\nthe reforming era, but Adams saw him as little as he saw his chief,\nPresident Cleveland, or President Harrison or Secretary Bayard or\nBlaine or Olney. One has no choice but to go everywhere or nowhere. No\none may pick and choose between houses, or accept hospitality without\nreturning it. He loved solitude as little as others did; but he was\nunfit for social work, and he sank under the surface.\n\n  Luckily for such helpless animals as solitary men, the world is\nnot only good-natured but even friendly and generous; it loves to\npardon if pardon is not demanded as a right. Adams's social offences\nwere many, and no one was more sensitive to it than himself; but a few\nhouses always remained which he could enter without being asked, and\nquit without being noticed. One was John Hay's; another was Cabot\nLodge's; a third led to an intimacy which had the singular effect of\neducating him in knowledge of the very class of American politician who\nhad done most to block his intended path in life. Senator Cameron of\nPennsylvania had married in 1880 a young niece of Senator John Sherman\nof Ohio, thus making an alliance of dynastic importance in politics,\nand in society a reign of sixteen years, during which Mrs. Cameron and\nMrs. Lodge led a career, without precedent and without succession, as\nthe dispensers of sunshine over Washington. Both of them had been kind\nto Adams, and a dozen years of this intimacy had made him one of their\nhabitual household, as he was of Hay's. In a small society, such ties\nbetween houses become political and social force. Without intention or\nconsciousness, they fix one's status in the world. Whatever one's\npreferences in politics might be, one's house was bound to the\nRepublican interest when sandwiched between Senator Cameron, John Hay,\nand Cabot Lodge, with Theodore Roosevelt equally at home in them all,\nand Cecil Spring-Rice to unite them by impartial variety. The relation\nwas daily, and the alliance undisturbed by power or patronage, since\nMr. Harrison, in those respects, showed little more taste than Mr.\nCleveland for the society and interests of this particular band of\nfollowers, whose relations with the White House were sometimes comic,\nbut never intimate.\n\n  In February, 1893, Senator Cameron took his family to South\nCarolina, where he had bought an old plantation at Coffin's Point on\nSt. Helena Island, and Adams, as one of the family, was taken, with the\nrest, to open the new experience. From there he went on to Havana, and\ncame back to Coffin's Point to linger till near April. In May the\nSenator took his family to Chicago to see the Exposition, and Adams\nwent with them. Early in June, all sailed for England together, and at\nlast, in the middle of July, all found themselves in Switzerland, at\nPrangins, Chamounix, and Zermatt. On July 22 they drove across the\nFurka Pass and went down by rail to Lucerne.\n\n  Months of close contact teach character, if character has\ninterest; and to Adams the Cameron type had keen interest, ever since\nit had shipwrecked his career in the person of President Grant. Perhaps\nit owed life to Scotch blood; perhaps to the blood of Adam and Eve, the\nprimitive strain of man; perhaps only to the blood of the cottager\nworking against the blood of the townsman; but whatever it was, one\nliked it for its simplicity. The Pennsylvania mind, as minds go, was\nnot complex; it reasoned little and never talked; but in practical\nmatters it was the steadiest of all American types; perhaps the most\nefficient; certainly the safest.\n\n  Adams had printed as much as this in his books, but had never\nbeen able to find a type to describe, the two great historical\nPennsylvanians having been, as every one had so often heard, Benjamin\nFranklin of Boston and Albert Gallatin of Geneva. Of Albert Gallatin,\nindeed, he had made a voluminous study and an elaborate picture, only\nto show that he was, if American at all, a New Yorker, with a\nCalvinistic strain--rather Connecticut than Pennsylvanian. The true\nPennsylvanian was a narrower type; as narrow as the kirk; as shy of\nother people's narrowness as a Yankee; as self-limited as a Puritan\nfarmer. To him, none but Pennsylvanians were white. Chinaman, negro,\nDago, Italian, Englishman, Yankee--all was one in the depths of\nPennsylvanian consciousness. The mental machine could run only on what\nit took for American lines. This was familiar, ever since one's study\nof President Grant in 1869; but in 1893, as then, the type was\nadmirably strong and useful if one wanted only to run on the same\nlines. Practically the Pennsylvanian forgot his prejudices when he\nallied his interests. He then became supple in action and large in\nmotive, whatever he thought of his colleagues. When he happened to be\nright--which was, of course, whenever one agreed with him--he was the\nstrongest American in America. As an ally he was worth all the rest,\nbecause he understood his own class, who were always a majority; and\nknew how to deal with them as no New Englander could. If one wanted\nwork done in Congress, one did wisely to avoid asking a New Englander\nto do it. A Pennsylvanian not only could do it, but did it willingly,\npractically, and intelligently.\n\n  Never in the range of human possibilities had a Cameron\nbelieved in an Adams--or an Adams in a Cameron--but they had curiously\nenough, almost always worked together. The Camerons had what the\nAdamses thought the political vice of reaching their objects without\nmuch regard to their methods. The loftiest virtue of the Pennsylvania\nmachine had never been its scrupulous purity or sparkling professions.\nThe machine worked by coarse means on coarse interests, but its\npractical success had been the most curious subject of study in\nAmerican history. When one summed up the results of Pennsylvanian\ninfluence, one inclined to think that Pennsylvania set up the\nGovernment in 1789; saved it in 1861; created the American system;\ndeveloped its iron and coal power; and invented its great railways.\nFollowing up the same line, in his studies of American character, Adams\nreached the result--to him altogether paradoxical--that Cameron's\nqualities and defects united in equal share to make him the most useful\nmember of the Senate.\n\n  In the interest of studying, at last, a perfect and favorable\nspecimen of this American type which had so persistently suppressed his\nown, Adams was slow to notice that Cameron strongly influenced him, but\nhe could not see a trace of any influence which he exercised on\nCameron. Not an opinion or a view of his on any subject was ever\nreflected back on him from Cameron's mind; not even an expression or a\nfact. Yet the difference in age was trifling, and in education slight.\nOn the other hand, Cameron made deep impression on Adams, and in\nnothing so much as on the great subject of discussion that year--the\nquestion of silver.\n\n  Adams had taken no interest in the matter, and knew nothing\nabout it, except as a very tedious hobby of his friend Dana Horton; but\ninevitably, from the moment he was forced to choose sides, he was sure\nto choose silver. Every political idea and personal prejudice he ever\ndallied with held him to the silver standard, and made a barrier\nbetween him and gold. He knew well enough all that was to be said for\nthe gold standard as economy, but he had never in his life taken\npolitics for a pursuit of economy. One might have a political or an\neconomical policy; one could not have both at the same time. This was\nheresy in the English school, but it had always been law in the\nAmerican. Equally he knew all that was to be said on the moral side of\nthe question, and he admitted that his interests were, as Boston\nmaintained, wholly on the side of gold; but, had they been ten times as\ngreat as they were, he could not have helped his bankers or croupiers\nto load the dice and pack the cards to make sure his winning the\nstakes. At least he was bound to profess disapproval--or thought he\nwas. From early childhood his moral principles had struggled blindly\nwith his interests, but he was certain of one law that ruled all\nothers--masses of men invariably follow interests in deciding morals.\nMorality is a private and costly luxury. The morality of the silver or\ngold standards was to be decided by popular vote, and the popular vote\nwould be decided by interests; but on which side lay the larger\ninterest? To him the interest was political; he thought it probably his\nlast chance of standing up for his eighteenth-century principles,\nstrict construction, limited powers, George Washington, John Adams, and\nthe rest. He had, in a half-hearted way, struggled all his life against\nState Street, banks, capitalism altogether, as he knew it in old\nEngland or new England, and he was fated to make his last resistance\nbehind the silver standard.\n\n  For him this result was clear, and if he erred, he erred in\ncompany with nine men out of ten in Washington, for there was little\ndifference on the merits. Adams was sure to learn backwards, but the\ncase seemed entirely different with Cameron, a typical Pennsylvanian, a\npractical politician, whom all the reformers, including all the\nAdamses, had abused for a lifetime for subservience to moneyed\ninterests and political jobbery. He was sure to go with the banks and\ncorporations which had made and sustained him. On the contrary, he\nstood out obstinately as the leading champion of silver in the East.\nThe reformers, represented by the Evening Post and Godkin, whose\npersonal interests lay with the gold standard, at once assumed that\nSenator Cameron had a personal interest in silver, and denounced his\ncorruption as hotly as though he had been convicted of taking a bribe.\n\n  More than silver and gold, the moral standard interested Adams.\nHis own interests were with gold, but he supported silver; the Evening\nPost's and Godkin's interests were with gold, and they frankly said so,\nyet they avowedly pursued their interests even into politics; Cameron's\ninterests had always been with the corporations, yet he supported\nsilver. Thus morality required that Adams should be condemned for going\nagainst his interests; that Godkin was virtuous in following his\ninterests; and that Cameron was a scoundrel whatever he did.\n\nGranting that one of the three was a moral idiot, which was it:--Adams\nor Godkin or Cameron? Until a Council or a Pope or a Congress or the\nnewspapers or a popular election has decided a question of doubtful\nmorality, individuals are apt to err, especially when putting money\ninto their own pockets; but in democracies, the majority alone gives\nlaw. To any one who knew the relative popularity of Cameron and Godkin,\nthe idea of a popular vote between them seemed excessively humorous;\nyet the popular vote in the end did decide against Cameron, for Godkin.\n\n  The Boston moralist and reformer went on, as always, like Dr.\nJohnson, impatiently stamping his foot and following his interests, or\nhis antipathies; but the true American, slow to grasp new and\ncomplicated ideas, groped in the dark to discover where his greater\ninterest lay. As usual, the banks taught him. In the course of fifty\nyears the banks taught one many wise lessons for which an insect had to\nbe grateful whether it liked them or not; but of all the lessons Adams\nlearned from them, none compared in dramatic effect with that of July\n22, 1893, when, after talking silver all the morning with Senator\nCameron on the top of their travelling-carriage crossing the Furka\nPass, they reached Lucerne in the afternoon, where Adams found letters\nfrom his brothers requesting his immediate return to Boston because the\ncommunity was bankrupt and he was probably a beggar.\n\n  If he wanted education, he knew no quicker mode of learning a\nlesson than that of being struck on the head by it; and yet he was\nhimself surprised at his own slowness to understand what had struck\nhim. For several years a sufferer from insomnia, his first thought was\nof beggary of nerves, and he made ready to face a sleepless night, but\nalthough his mind tried to wrestle with the problem how any man could\nbe ruined who had, months before, paid off every dollar of debt he knew\nhimself to owe, he gave up that insoluble riddle in order to fall back\non the larger principle that beggary could be no more for him than it\nwas for others who were more valuable members of society, and, with\nthat, he went to sleep like a good citizen, and the next day started\nfor Quincy where he arrived August 7.\n\n  As a starting-point for a new education at fifty-five years\nold, the shock of finding one's self suspended, for several months,\nover the edge of bankruptcy, without knowing how one got there, or how\nto get away, is to be strongly recommended. By slow degrees the\nsituation dawned on him that the banks had lent him, among others, some\nmoney--thousands of millions were--as bankruptcy--the same--for which\nhe, among others, was responsible and of which he knew no more than\nthey. The humor of this situation seemed to him so much more pointed\nthan the terror, as to make him laugh at himself with a sincerity he\nhad been long strange to. As far as he could comprehend, he had nothing\nto lose that he cared about, but the banks stood to lose their\nexistence. Money mattered as little to him as to anybody, but money was\ntheir life. For the first time he had the banks in his power; he could\nafford to laugh; and the whole community was in the same position,\nthough few laughed. All sat down on the banks and asked what the banks\nwere going to do about it. To Adams the situation seemed farcical, but\nthe more he saw of it, the less he understood it. He was quite sure\nthat nobody understood it much better. Blindly some very powerful\nenergy was at work, doing something that nobody wanted done. When Adams\nwent to his bank to draw a hundred dollars of his own money on deposit,\nthe cashier refused to let him have more than fifty, and Adams accepted\nthe fifty without complaint because he was himself refusing to let the\nbanks have some hundreds or thousands that belonged to them. Each\nwanted to help the other, yet both refused to pay their debts, and he\ncould find no answer to the question which was responsible for getting\nthe other into the situation, since lenders and borrowers were the same\ninterest and socially the same person. Evidently the force was one; its\noperation was mechanical; its effect must be proportional to its power;\nbut no one knew what it meant, and most people dismissed it as an\nemotion--a panic--that meant nothing.\n\n  Men died like flies under the strain, and Boston grew suddenly\nold, haggard, and thin. Adams alone waxed fat and was happy, for at\nlast he had got hold of his world and could finish his education,\ninterrupted for twenty years. He cared not whether it were worth\nfinishing, if only it amused; but he seemed, for the first time since\n1870, to feel that something new and curious was about to happen to the\nworld. Great changes had taken place since 1870 in the forces at work;\nthe old machine ran far behind its duty; somewhere--somehow--it was\nbound to break down, and if it happened to break precisely over one's\nhead, it gave the better chance for study.\n\n  For the first time in several years he saw much of his brother\nBrooks in Quincy, and was surprised to find him absorbed in the same\nperplexities. Brooks was then a man of forty-five years old; a strong\nwriter and a vigorous thinker who irritated too many Boston conventions\never to suit the atmosphere; but the two brothers could talk to each\nother without atmosphere and were used to audiences of one. Brooks had\ndiscovered or developed a law of history that civilization followed the\nexchanges, and having worked it out for the Mediterranean was working\nit out for the Atlantic. Everything American, as well as most things\nEuropean and Asiatic, became unstable by this law, seeking new\nequilibrium and compelled to find it. Loving paradox, Brooks, with the\nadvantages of ten years' study, had swept away much rubbish in the\neffort to build up a new line of thought for himself, but he found that\nno paradox compared with that of daily events. The facts were\nconstantly outrunning his thoughts. The instability was greater than he\ncalculated; the speed of acceleration passed bounds. Among other\ngeneral rules he laid down the paradox that, in the social\ndisequilibrium between capital and labor, the logical outcome was not\ncollectivism, but anarchism; and Henry made note of it for study.\n\n  By the time he got back to Washington on September 19, the\nstorm having partly blown over, life had taken on a new face, and one\nso interesting that he set off to Chicago to study the Exposition\nagain, and stayed there a fortnight absorbed in it. He found matter of\nstudy to fill a hundred years, and his education spread over chaos.\nIndeed, it seemed to him as though, this year, education went mad. The\nsilver question, thorny as it was, fell into relations as simple as\nwords of one syllable, compared with the problems of credit and\nexchange that came to complicate it; and when one sought rest at\nChicago, educational game started like rabbits from every building, and\nran out of sight among thousands of its kind before one could mark its\nburrow. The Exposition itself defied philosophy. One might find fault\ntill the last gate closed, one could still explain nothing that needed\nexplanation. As a scenic display, Paris had never approached it, but\nthe inconceivable scenic display consisted in its being there at\nall--more surprising, as it was, than anything else on the continent,\nNiagara Falls, the Yellowstone Geysers, and the whole railway system\nthrown in, since these were all natural products in their place; while,\nsince Noah's Ark, no such Babel of loose and ill joined, such vague and\nill-defined and unrelated thoughts and half-thoughts and experimental\noutcries as the Exposition, had ever ruffled the surface of the Lakes.\n\n  The first astonishment became greater every day. That the\nExposition should be a natural growth and product of the Northwest\noffered a step in evolution to startle Darwin; but that it should be\nanything else seemed an idea more startling still; and even granting it\nwere not--admitting it to be a sort of industrial, speculative growth\nand product of the Beaux Arts artistically induced to pass the summer\non the shore of Lake Michigan--could it be made to seem at home there?\nWas the American made to seem at home in it? Honestly, he had the air\nof enjoying it as though it were all his own; he felt it was good; he\nwas proud of it; for the most part, he acted as though he had passed\nhis life in landscape gardening and architectural decoration. If he had\nnot done it himself, he had known how to get it done to suit him, as he\nknew how to get his wives and daughters dressed at Worth's or Paquin's.\nPerhaps he could not do it again; the next time he would want to do it\nhimself and would show his own faults; but for the moment he seemed to\nhave leaped directly from Corinth and Syracuse and Venice, over the\nheads of London and New York, to impose classical standards on plastic\nChicago. Critics had no trouble in criticising the classicism, but all\ntrading cities had always shown traders' taste, and, to the stern\npurist of religious faith, no art was thinner than Venetian Gothic. All\ntrader's taste smelt of bric-a-brac; Chicago tried at least to give her\ntaste a look of unity.\n\n  One sat down to ponder on the steps beneath Richard Hunt's dome\nalmost as deeply as on the steps of Ara Coeli, and much to the same\npurpose. Here was a breach of continuity--a rupture in historical\nsequence! Was it real, or only apparent? One's personal universe hung\non the answer, for, if the rupture was real and the new American world\ncould take this sharp and conscious twist towards ideals, one's\npersonal friends would come in, at last, as winners in the great\nAmerican chariot-race for fame. If the people of the Northwest actually\nknew what was good when they saw it, they would some day talk about\nHunt and Richardson, La Farge and St. Gaudens, Burnham and McKim, and\nStanford White when their politicians and millionaires were otherwise\nforgotten. The artists and architects who had done the work offered\nlittle encouragement to hope it; they talked freely enough, but not in\nterms that one cared to quote; and to them the Northwest refused to\nlook artistic. They talked as though they worked only for themselves;\nas though art, to the Western people, was a stage decoration; a diamond\nshirt-stud; a paper collar; but possibly the architects of Paestum and\nGirgenti had talked in the same way, and the Greek had said the same\nthing of Semitic Carthage two thousand years ago.\n\n  Jostled by these hopes and doubts, one turned to the exhibits\nfor help, and found it. The industrial schools tried to teach so much\nand so quickly that the instruction ran to waste. Some millions of\nother people felt the same helplessness, but few of them were seeking\neducation, and to them helplessness seemed natural and normal, for they\nhad grown up in the habit of thinking a steam-engine or a dynamo as\nnatural as the sun, and expected to understand one as little as the\nother. For the historian alone the Exposition made a serious effort.\nHistorical exhibits were common, but they never went far enough; none\nwere thoroughly worked out. One of the best was that of the Cunard\nsteamers, but still a student hungry for results found himself obliged\nto waste a pencil and several sheets of paper trying to calculate\nexactly when, according to the given increase of power, tonnage, and\nspeed, the growth of the ocean steamer would reach its limits. His\nfigures brought him, he thought, to the year 1927; another generation\nto spare before force, space, and time should meet. The ocean steamer\nran the surest line of triangulation into the future, because it was\nthe nearest of man's products to a unity; railroads taught less because\nthey seemed already finished except for mere increase in number;\nexplosives taught most, but needed a tribe of chemists, physicists, and\nmathematicians to explain; the dynamo taught least because it had\nbarely reached infancy, and, if its progress was to be constant at the\nrate of the last ten years, it would result in infinite costless energy\nwithin a generation. One lingered long among the dynamos, for they were\nnew, and they gave to history a new phase. Men of science could never\nunderstand the ignorance and naivete; of the historian, who, when he\ncame suddenly on a new power, asked naturally what it was; did it pull\nor did it push? Was it a screw or thrust? Did it flow or vibrate? Was\nit a wire or a mathematical line? And a score of such questions to\nwhich he expected answers and was astonished to get none.\n\n  Education ran riot at Chicago, at least for retarded minds\nwhich had never faced in concrete form so many matters of which they\nwere ignorant. Men who knew nothing whatever--who had never run a\nsteam-engine, the simplest of forces--who had never put their hands on\na lever--had never touched an electric battery--never talked through a\ntelephone, and had not the shadow of a notion what amount of force was\nmeant by a watt or an ampere or an erg, or any other term of\nmeasurement introduced within a hundred years--had no choice but to sit\ndown on the steps and brood as they had never brooded on the benches of\nHarvard College, either as student or professor, aghast at what they\nhad said and done in all these years, and still more ashamed of the\nchildlike ignorance and babbling futility of the society that let them\nsay and do it. The historical mind can think only in historical\nprocesses, and probably this was the first time since historians\nexisted, that any of them had sat down helpless before a mechanical\nsequence. Before a metaphysical or a theological or a political\nsequence, most historians had felt helpless, but the single clue to\nwhich they had hitherto trusted was the unity of natural force.\n\n  Did he himself quite know what he meant? Certainly not! If he\nhad known enough to state his problem, his education would have been\ncomplete at once. Chicago asked in 1893 for the first time the question\nwhether the American people knew where they were driving. Adams\nanswered, for one, that he did not know, but would try to find out. On\nreflecting sufficiently deeply, under the shadow of Richard Hunt's\narchitecture, he decided that the American people probably knew no more\nthan he did; but that they might still be driving or drifting\nunconsciously to some point in thought, as their solar system was said\nto be drifting towards some point in space; and that, possibly, if\nrelations enough could be observed, this point might be fixed. Chicago\nwas the first expression of American thought as a unity; one must start\nthere.\n\n  Washington was the second. When he got back there, he fell\nheadlong into the extra session of Congress called to repeal the Silver\nAct. The silver minority made an obstinate attempt to prevent it, and\nmost of the majority had little heart in the creation of a single gold\nstandard. The banks alone, and the dealers in exchange, insisted upon\nit; the political parties divided according to capitalistic\ngeographical lines, Senator Cameron offering almost the only exception;\nbut they mixed with unusual good-temper, and made liberal allowance for\neach others' actions and motives. The struggle was rather less\nirritable than such struggles generally were, and it ended like a\ncomedy. On the evening of the final vote, Senator Cameron came back\nfrom the Capitol with Senator Brice, Senator Jones, Senator Lodge, and\nMoreton Frewen, all in the gayest of humors as though they were rid of\na heavy responsibility. Adams, too, in a bystander's spirit, felt light\nin mind. He had stood up for his eighteenth century, his Constitution\nof 1789, his George Washington, his Harvard College, his Quincy, and\nhis Plymouth Pilgrims, as long as any one would stand up with him. He\nhad said it was hopeless twenty years before, but he had kept on, in\nthe same old attitude, by habit and taste, until he found himself\naltogether alone. He had hugged his antiquated dislike of bankers and\ncapitalistic society until he had become little better than a crank. He\nhad known for years that he must accept the regime, but he had known a\ngreat many other disagreeable certainties--like age, senility, and\ndeath--against which one made what little resistance one could. The\nmatter was settled at last by the people. For a hundred years, between\n1793 and 1893, the American people had hesitated, vacillated, swayed\nforward and back, between two forces, one simply industrial, the other\ncapitalistic, centralizing, and mechanical. In 1893, the issue came on\nthe single gold standard, and the majority at last declared itself,\nonce for all, in favor of the capitalistic system with all its\nnecessary machinery. All one's friends, all one's best citizens,\nreformers, churches, colleges, educated classes, had joined the banks\nto force submission to capitalism; a submission long foreseen by the\nmere law of mass. Of all forms of society or government, this was the\none he liked least, but his likes or dislikes were as antiquated as the\nrebel doctrine of State rights. A capitalistic system had been adopted,\nand if it were to be run at all, it must be run by capital and by\ncapitalistic methods; for nothing could surpass the nonsensity of\ntrying to run so complex and so concentrated a machine by Southern and\nWestern farmers in grotesque alliance with city day-laborers, as had\nbeen tried in 1800 and 1828, and had failed even under simple\nconditions.\n\n  There, education in domestic politics stopped. The rest was\nquestion of gear; of running machinery; of economy; and involved no\ndisputed principle. Once admitted that the machine must be efficient,\nsociety might dispute in what social interest it should be run, but in\nany case it must work concentration. Such great revolutions commonly\nleave some bitterness behind, but nothing in politics ever surprised\nHenry Adams more than the ease with which he and his silver friends\nslipped across the chasm, and alighted on the single gold standard and\nthe capitalistic system with its methods; the protective tariff; the\ncorporations and trusts; the trades-unions and socialistic paternalism\nwhich necessarily made their complement; the whole mechanical\nconsolidation of force, which ruthlessly stamped out the life of the\nclass into which Adams was born, but created monopolies capable of\ncontrolling the new energies that America adored.\n\n  Society rested, after sweeping into the ash-heap these cinders\nof a misdirected education. After this vigorous impulse, nothing\nremained for a historian but to ask--how long and how far!\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIII\n\nSILENCE (1894-1898)\n\nThe convulsion of 1893 left its victims in dead-water, and closed much\neducation. While the country braced itself up to an effort such as no\none had thought within its powers, the individual crawled as he best\ncould, through the wreck, and found many values of life upset. But for\nconnecting the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, the four years, 1893\nto 1897, had no value in the drama of education, and might be left out.\nMuch that had made life pleasant between 1870 and 1890 perished in the\nruin, and among the earliest wreckage had been the fortunes of Clarence\nKing. The lesson taught whatever the bystander chose to read in it; but\nto Adams it seemed singularly full of moral, if he could but understand\nit. In 1871 he had thought King's education ideal, and his personal\nfitness unrivalled. No other young American approached him for the\ncombination of chances--physical energy, social standing, mental scope\nand training, wit, geniality, and science, that seemed superlatively\nAmerican and irresistibly strong. His nearest rival was Alexander\nAgassiz, and, as far as their friends knew, no one else could be\nclassed with them in the running. The result of twenty years' effort\nproved that the theory of scientific education failed where most theory\nfails--for want of money. Even Henry Adams, who kept himself, as he\nthought, quite outside of every possible financial risk, had been\ncaught in the cogs, and held for months over the gulf of bankruptcy,\nsaved only by the chance that the whole class of millionaires were more\nor less bankrupt too, and the banks were forced to let the mice escape\nwith the rats; but, in sum, education without capital could always be\ntaken by the throat and forced to disgorge its gains, nor was it helped\nby the knowledge that no one intended it, but that all alike suffered.\nWhether voluntary or mechanical the result for education was the same.\nThe failure of the scientific scheme, without money to back it, was\nflagrant.\n\n  The scientific scheme in theory was alone sound, for science\nshould be equivalent to money; in practice science was helpless without\nmoney. The weak holder was, in his own language, sure to be frozen out.\nEducation must fit the complex conditions of a new society, always\naccelerating its movement, and its fitness could be known only from\nsuccess. One looked about for examples of success among the educated of\none's time--the men born in the thirties, and trained to professions.\nWithin one's immediate acquaintance, three were typical: John Hay,\nWhitelaw Reid, and William C. Whitney; all of whom owed their free hand\nto marriage, education serving only for ornament, but among whom, in\n1893, William C. Whitney was far and away the most popular type.\n\n  Newspapers might prate about wealth till commonplace print was\nexhausted, but as matter of habit, few Americans envied the very rich\nfor anything the most of them got out of money. New York might\noccasionally fear them, but more often laughed or sneered at them, and\nnever showed them respect. Scarcely one of the very rich men held any\nposition in society by virtue of his wealth, or could have been elected\nto an office, or even into a good club. Setting aside the few, like\nPierpont Morgan, whose social position had little to do with greater or\nless wealth, riches were in New York no object of envy on account of\nthe joys they brought in their train, and Whitney was not even one of\nthe very rich; yet in his case the envy was palpable. There was reason\nfor it. Already in 1893 Whitney had finished with politics after having\ngratified every ambition, and swung the country almost at his will; he\nhad thrown away the usual objects of political ambition like the ashes\nof smoked cigarettes; had turned to other amusements, satiated every\ntaste, gorged every appetite, won every object that New York afforded,\nand, not yet satisfied, had carried his field of activity abroad, until\nNew York no longer knew what most to envy, his horses or his houses. He\nhad succeeded precisely where Clarence King had failed.\n\n  Barely forty years had passed since all these men started in a\nbunch to race for power, and the results were fixed beyond reversal;\nbut one knew no better in 1894 than in 1854 what an American education\nought to be in order to count as success. Even granting that it counted\nas money, its value could not be called general. America contained\nscores of men worth five millions or upwards, whose lives were no more\nworth living than those of their cooks, and to whom the task of making\nmoney equivalent to education offered more difficulties than to Adams\nthe task of making education equivalent to money. Social position\nseemed to have value still, while education counted for nothing. A\nmathematician, linguist, chemist, electrician, engineer, if fortunate\nmight average a value of ten dollars a day in the open market. An\nadministrator, organizer, manager, with mediaeval qualities of energy\nand will, but no education beyond his special branch, would probably be\nworth at least ten times as much. Society had failed to discover what\nsort of education suited it best. Wealth valued social position and\nclassical education as highly as either of these valued wealth, and the\nwomen still tended to keep the scales even. For anything Adams could\nsee he was himself as contented as though he had been educated; while\nClarence King, whose education was exactly suited to theory, had\nfailed; and Whitney, who was no better educated than Adams, had\nachieved phenomenal success.\n\n  Had Adams in 1894 been starting in life as he did in 1854, he\nmust have repeated that all he asked of education was the facile use of\nthe four old tools: Mathematics, French, German, and Spanish. With\nthese he could still make his way to any object within his vision, and\nwould have a decisive advantage over nine rivals in ten. Statesman or\nlawyer, chemist or electrician, priest or professor, native or foreign,\nhe would fear none.\n\n  King's breakdown, physical as well as financial, brought the\nindirect gain to Adams that, on recovering strength, King induced him\nto go to Cuba, where, in January, 1894, they drifted into the little\ntown of Santiago. The picturesque Cuban society, which King knew well,\nwas more amusing than any other that one had yet discovered in the\nwhole broad world, but made no profession of teaching anything unless\nit were Cuban Spanish or the danza; and neither on his own nor on\nKing's account did the visitor ask any loftier study than that of the\nbuzzards floating on the trade-wind down the valley to Dos Bocas, or\nthe colors of sea and shore at sunrise from the height of the Gran\nPiedra; but, as though they were still twenty years old and revolution\nwere as young as they, the decaying fabric, which had never been solid,\nfell on their heads and drew them with it into an ocean of mischief. In\nthe half-century between 1850 and 1900, empires were always falling on\none's head, and, of all lessons, these constant political convulsions\ntaught least. Since the time of Rameses, revolutions have raised more\ndoubts than they solved, but they have sometimes the merit of changing\none's point of view, and the Cuban rebellion served to sever the last\ntie that attached Adams to a Democratic administration. He thought that\nPresident Cleveland could have settled the Cuban question, without war,\nhad he chosen to do his duty, and this feeling, generally held by the\nDemocratic Party, joined with the stress of economical needs and the\ngold standard to break into bits the old organization and to leave no\nchoice between parties. The new American, whether consciously or not,\nhad turned his back on the nineteenth century before he was done with\nit; the gold standard, the protective system, and the laws of mass\ncould have no other outcome, and, as so often before, the movement,\nonce accelerated by attempting to impede it, had the additional, brutal\nconsequence of crushing equally the good and the bad that stood in its\nway.\n\n  The lesson was old--so old that it became tedious. One had\nstudied nothing else since childhood, and wearied of it. For yet\nanother year Adams lingered on these outskirts of the vortex, among the\npicturesque, primitive types of a world which had never been fairly\ninvolved in the general motion, and were the more amusing for their\ntorpor. After passing the winter with King in the West Indies, he\npassed the summer with Hay in the Yellowstone, and found there little\nto study. The Geysers were an old story; the Snake River posed no vital\nstatistics except in its fordings; even the Tetons were as calm as they\nwere lovely; while the wapiti and bear, innocent of strikes and\ncorners, laid no traps. In return the party treated them with\naffection. Never did a band less bloody or bloodthirsty wander over the\nroof of the continent. Hay loved as little as Adams did, the labor of\nskinning and butchering big game; he had even outgrown the sedate,\nmiddle-aged, meditative joy of duck-shooting, and found the trout of\nthe Yellowstone too easy a prey. Hallett Phillips himself, who managed\nthe party loved to play Indian hunter without hunting so much as a\nfieldmouse; Iddings the geologist was reduced to shooting only for the\ntable, and the guileless prattle of Billy Hofer alone taught the simple\nlife. Compared with the Rockies of 1871, the sense of wildness had\nvanished; one saw no possible adventures except to break one's neck as\nin chasing an aniseed fox. Only the more intelligent ponies scented an\noccasional friendly and sociable bear.\n\n  When the party came out of the Yellowstone, Adams went on alone\nto Seattle and Vancouver to inspect the last American railway systems\nyet untried. They, too, offered little new learning, and no sooner had\nhe finished this debauch of Northwestern geography than with desperate\nthirst for exhausting the American field, he set out for Mexico and the\nGulf, making a sweep of the Caribbean and clearing up, in these six or\neight months, at least twenty thousand miles of American land and water.\n\n  He was beginning to think, when he got back to Washington in\nApril, 1895, that he knew enough about the edges of life--tropical\nislands, mountain solitudes, archaic law, and retrograde types.\nInfinitely more amusing and incomparably more picturesque than\ncivilization, they educated only artists, and, as one's sixtieth year\napproached, the artist began to die; only a certain intense cerebral\nrestlessness survived which no longer responded to sensual stimulants;\none was driven from beauty to beauty as though art were a\ntrotting-match. For this, one was in some degree prepared, for the old\nman had been a stage-type since drama began; but one felt some\nperplexity to account for failure on the opposite or mechanical side,\nwhere nothing but cerebral action was needed.\n\n  Taking for granted that the alternative to art was arithmetic, he\nplunged deep into statistics, fancying that education would find the\nsurest bottom there; and the study proved the easiest he had ever\napproached. Even the Government volunteered unlimited statistics,\nendless columns of figures, bottomless averages merely for the asking.\nAt the Statistical Bureau, Worthington Ford supplied any material that\ncuriosity could imagine for filling the vast gaps of ignorance, and\nmethods for applying the plasters of fact. One seemed for a while to be\nwinning ground, and one's averages projected themselves as laws into\nthe future. Perhaps the most perplexing part of the study lay in the\nattitude of the statisticians, who showed no enthusiastic confidence in\ntheir own figures. They should have reached certainty, but they talked\nlike other men who knew less. The method did not result in faith. Indeed,\nevery increase of mass--of volume and velocity--seemed to bring in new\nelements, and, at last, a scholar, fresh in arithmetic and ignorant of\nalgebra, fell into a superstitious terror of complexity as the sink of\nfacts. Nothing came out as it should. In principle, according to\nfigures, any one could set up or pull down a society. One could frame\nno sort of satisfactory answer to the constructive doctrines of Adam\nSmith, or to the destructive criticisms of Karl Marx or to the\nanarchistic imprecations of Elisee Reclus. One revelled at will in the\nruin of every society in the past, and rejoiced in proving the\nprospective overthrow of every society that seemed possible in the\nfuture; but meanwhile these societies which violated every law, moral,\narithmetical, and economical, not only propagated each other, but\nproduced also fresh complexities with every propagation and developed\nmass with every complexity.\n\n  The human factor was worse still. Since the stupefying\ndiscovery of Pteraspis in 1867, nothing had so confused the student as\nthe conduct of mankind in the fin-de-siecle. No one seemed very much\nconcerned about this world or the future, unless it might be the\nanarchists, and they only because they disliked the present. Adams\ndisliked the present as much as they did, and his interest in future\nsociety was becoming slight, yet he was kept alive by irritation at\nfinding his life so thin and fruitless. Meanwhile he watched mankind\nmarch on, like a train of pack-horses on the Snake River, tumbling from\none morass into another, and at short intervals, for no reason but\ntemper, falling to butchery, like Cain. Since 1850, massacres had\nbecome so common that society scarcely noticed them unless they summed\nup hundreds of thousands, as in Armenia; wars had been almost\ncontinuous, and were beginning again in Cuba, threatening in South\nAfrica, and possible in Manchuria; yet impartial judges thought them\nall not merely unnecessary, but foolish--induced by greed of the\ncoarsest class, as though the Pharaohs or the Romans were still robbing\ntheir neighbors. The robbery might be natural and inevitable, but the\nmurder seemed altogether archaic.\n\n  At one moment of perplexity to account for this trait of\nPteraspis, or shark, which seemed to have survived every moral\nimprovement of society, he took to study of the religious press.\nPossibly growth in human nature might show itself there. He found no\nneed to speak unkindly of it; but, as an agent of motion, he preferred\non the whole the vigor of the shark, with its chances of betterment;\nand he very gravely doubted, from his aching consciousness of religious\nvoid, whether any large fraction of society cared for a future life, or\neven for the present one, thirty years hence. Not an act, or an\nexpression, or an image, showed depth of faith or hope.\n\n  The object of education, therefore, was changed. For many years\nit had lost itself in studying what the world had ceased to care for;\nif it were to begin again, it must try to find out what the mass of\nmankind did care for, and why. Religion, politics, statistics, travel\nhad thus far led to nothing. Even the Chicago Fair had only confused\nthe roads. Accidental education could go no further, for one's mind was\nalready littered and stuffed beyond hope with the millions of chance\nimages stored away without order in the memory. One might as well try\nto educate a gravel-pit. The task was futile, which disturbed a student\nless than the discovery that, in pursuing it, he was becoming himself\nridiculous. Nothing is more tiresome than a superannuated pedagogue.\n\n  For the moment he was rescued, as often before, by a woman.\nTowards midsummer, 1895, Mrs. Cabot Lodge bade him follow her to Europe\nwith the Senator and her two sons. The study of history is useful to\nthe historian by teaching him his ignorance of women; and the mass of\nthis ignorance crushes one who is familiar enough with what are called\nhistorical sources to realize how few women have ever been known. The\nwoman who is known only through a man is known wrong, and excepting one\nor two like Mme. de Sevigne, no woman has pictured herself. The\nAmerican woman of the nineteenth century will live only as the man saw\nher; probably she will be less known than the woman of the eighteenth;\nnone of the female descendants of Abigail Adams can ever be nearly so\nfamiliar as her letters have made her; and all this is pure loss to\nhistory, for the American woman of the nineteenth century was much\nbetter company than the American man; she was probably much better\ncompany than her grandmothers. With Mrs. Lodge and her husband, Senator\nsince 1893, Adams's relations had been those of elder brother or uncle\nsince 1871 when Cabot Lodge had left his examination-papers on\nAssistant Professor Adams's desk, and crossed the street to Christ\nChurch in Cambridge to get married. With Lodge himself, as scholar,\nfellow instructor, co-editor of the North American Review, and\npolitical reformer from 1873 to 1878, he had worked intimately, but\nwith him afterwards as politician he had not much relation; and since\nLodge had suffered what Adams thought the misfortune of becoming not\nonly a Senator but a Senator from Massachusetts--a singular social\nrelation which Adams had known only as fatal to friends--a\nsuperstitious student, intimate with the laws of historical fatality,\nwould rather have recognized him only as an enemy; but apart from this\naccident he valued Lodge highly, and in the waste places of average\nhumanity had been greatly dependent on his house. Senators can never be\napproached with safety, but a Senator who has a very superior wife and\nseveral superior children who feel no deference for Senators as such,\nmay be approached at times with relative impunity while they keep him\nunder restraint.\n\nWhere Mrs. Lodge summoned, one followed with gratitude, and so it\nchanced that in August one found one's self for the first time at Caen,\nCoutances, and Mont-Saint-Michel in Normandy. If history had a chapter\nwith which he thought himself familiar, it was the twelfth and\nthirteenth centuries; yet so little has labor to do with knowledge that\nthese bare playgrounds of the lecture system turned into green and\nverdurous virgin forests merely through the medium of younger eyes and\nfresher minds. His German bias must have given his youth a terrible\ntwist, for the Lodges saw at a glance what he had thought unessential\nbecause un-German. They breathed native air in the Normandy of 1200, a\ncompliment which would have seemed to the Senator lacking in taste or\neven in sense when addressed to one of a class of men who passed life\nin trying to persuade themselves and the public that they breathed\nnothing less American than a blizzard; but this atmosphere, in the\ntouch of a real emotion, betrayed the unconscious humor of the\nsenatorial mind. In the thirteenth century, by an unusual chance, even\na Senator became natural, simple, interested, cultivated, artistic,\nliberal--genial.\n\n  Through the Lodge eyes the old problem became new and personal;\nit threw off all association with the German lecture-room. One could\nnot at first see what this novelty meant; it had the air of mere\nantiquarian emotion like Wenlock Abbey and Pteraspis; but it expelled\narchaic law and antiquarianism once for all, without seeming conscious\nof it; and Adams drifted back to Washington with a new sense of\nhistory. Again he wandered south, and in April returned to Mexico with\nthe Camerons to study the charms of pulque and Churriguerresque\narchitecture. In May he ran through Europe again with Hay, as far south\nas Ravenna. There came the end of the passage. After thus covering once\nmore, in 1896, many thousand miles of the old trails, Adams went home in\nOctober, with every one else, to elect McKinley President and start the\nworld anew.\n\n  For the old world of public men and measures since 1870, Adams\nwept no tears. Within or without, during or after it, as partisan or\nhistorian, he never saw anything to admire in it, or anything he wanted\nto save; and in this respect he reflected only the public mind which\nbalanced itself so exactly between the unpopularity of both parties as\nto express no sympathy with either. Even among the most powerful men of\nthat generation he knew none who had a good word to say for it. No\nperiod so thoroughly ordinary had been known in American politics since\nChristopher Columbus first disturbed the balance of American society;\nbut the natural result of such lack of interest in public affairs, in a\nsmall society like that of Washington, led an idle bystander to depend\nabjectly on intimacy of private relation. One dragged one's self down\nthe long vista of Pennsylvania Avenue, by leaning heavily on one's\nfriends, and avoiding to look at anything else. Thus life had grown\nnarrow with years, more and more concentrated on the circle of houses\nround La Fayette Square, which had no direct or personal share in power\nexcept in the case of Mr. Blaine whose tumultuous struggle for\nexistence held him apart. Suddenly Mr. McKinley entered the White House\nand laid his hand heavily on this special group. In a moment the whole\nnest so slowly constructed, was torn to pieces and scattered over the\nworld. Adams found himself alone. John Hay took his orders for London.\nRockhill departed to Athens. Cecil Spring-Rice had been buried in\nPersia. Cameron refused to remain in public life either at home or\nabroad, and broke up his house on the Square. Only the Lodges and\nRoosevelts remained, but even they were at once absorbed in the\ninterests of power. Since 1861, no such social convulsion had occurred.\n\n  Even this was not quite the worst. To one whose interests lay\nchiefly in foreign affairs, and who, at this moment, felt most strongly\nthe nightmare of Cuban, Hawaiian, and Nicaraguan chaos, the man in the\nState Department seemed more important than the man in the White House.\nAdams knew no one in the United States fit to manage these matters in\nthe face of a hostile Europe, and had no candidate to propose; but he\nwas shocked beyond all restraints of expression to learn that the\nPresident meant to put Senator John Sherman in the State Department in\norder to make a place for Mr. Hanna in the Senate. Grant himself had\ndone nothing that seemed so bad as this to one who had lived long\nenough to distinguish between the ways of presidential jobbery, if not\nbetween the jobs. John Sherman, otherwise admirably fitted for the\nplace, a friendly influence for nearly forty years, was notoriously\nfeeble and quite senile, so that the intrigue seemed to Adams the\nbetrayal of an old friend as well as of the State Department. One might\nhave shrugged one's shoulders had the President named Mr. Hanna his\nSecretary of State, for Mr. Hanna was a man of force if not of\nexperience, and selections much worse than this had often turned out\nwell enough; but John Sherman must inevitably and tragically break down.\n\n  The prospect for once was not less vile than the men. One can\nbear coldly the jobbery of enemies, but not that of friends, and to\nAdams this kind of jobbery seemed always infinitely worse than all the\npetty money bribes ever exploited by the newspapers. Nor was the matter\nimproved by hints that the President might call John Hay to the\nDepartment whenever John Sherman should retire. Indeed, had Hay been\neven unconsciously party to such an intrigue, he would have put an end,\nonce for all, to further concern in public affairs on his friend's\npart; but even without this last disaster, one felt that Washington had\nbecome no longer habitable. Nothing was left there but solitary\ncontemplation of Mr. McKinley's ways which were not likely to be more\namusing than the ways of his predecessors; or of senatorial ways, which\noffered no novelty of what the French language expressively calls\nembetement; or of poor Mr. Sherman's ways which would surely cause\nanguish to his friends. Once more, one must go!\n\n  Nothing was easier! On and off, one had done the same thing\nsince the year 1858, at frequent intervals, and had now reached the\nmonth of March, 1897; yet, as the whole result of six years' dogged\neffort to begin a new education, one could not recommend it to the\nyoung. The outlook lacked hope. The object of travel had become more\nand more dim, ever since the gibbering ghost of the Civil Law had been\nlocked in its dark closet, as far back as 1860. Noah's dove had not\nsearched the earth for resting-places so carefully, or with so little\nsuccess. Any spot on land or water satisfies a dove who wants and finds\nrest; but no perch suits a dove of sixty years old, alone and\nuneducated, who has lost his taste even for olives. To this, also, the\nyoung may be driven, as education, and the lesson fails in humor; but\nit may be worth knowing to some of them that the planet offers hardly a\ndozen places where an elderly man can pass a week alone without ennui,\nand none at all where he can pass a year.\n\n  Irritated by such complaints, the world naturally answers that\nno man of sixty should live, which is doubtless true, though not\noriginal. The man of sixty, with a certain irritability proper to his\nyears, retorts that the world has no business to throw on him the task\nof removing its carrion, and that while he remains he has a right to\nrequire amusement--or at least education, since this costs nothing to\nany one--and that a world which cannot educate, will not amuse, and is\nugly besides, has even less right to exist than he. Both views seem\nsound; but the world wearily objects to be called by epithets what\nsociety always admits in practice; for no one likes to be told that he\nis a bore, or ignorant, or even ugly; and having nothing to say in its\ndefence, it rejoins that, whatever license is pardonable in youth, the\nman of sixty who wishes consideration had better hold his tongue. This\ntruth also has the defect of being too true. The rule holds equally for\nmen of half that age Only the very young have the right to betray their\nignorance or ill-breeding. Elderly people commonly know enough not to\nbetray themselves.\n\n  Exceptions are plenty on both sides, as the Senate knew to its\nacute suffering; but young or old, women or men, seemed agreed on one\npoint with singular unanimity; each praised silence in others. Of all\ncharacteristics in human nature, this has been one of the most abiding.\nMere superficial gleaning of what, in the long history of human\nexpression, has been said by the fool or unsaid by the wise, shows\nthat, for once, no difference of opinion has ever existed on this.\n\"Even a fool,\" said the wisest of men, \"when he holdeth his peace, is\ncounted wise,\" and still more often, the wisest of men, when he spoke\nthe highest wisdom, has been counted a fool. They agreed only on the\nmerits of silence in others. Socrates made remarks in its favor, which\nshould have struck the Athenians as new to them; but of late the\nrepetition had grown tiresome. Thomas Carlyle vociferated his\nadmiration of it. Matthew Arnold thought it the best form of\nexpression; and Adams thought Matthew Arnold the best form of\nexpression in his time. Algernon Swinburne called it the most noble to\nthe end. Alfred de Vigny's dying wolf remarked:--\n\n    \"A voir ce que l'on fut sur terre et ce qu'on laisse,\n     Seul le silence est grand; tout le reste est faiblesse.\"\n    \"When one thinks what one leaves in the world when one dies,\n  Only silence is strong,--all the rest is but lies.\"\n\nEven Byron, whom a more brilliant era of genius seemed to have decided\nto be but an indifferent poet, had ventured to affirm that--\n\n  \"The Alp's snow summit nearer heaven is seen\n   Than the volcano's fierce eruptive crest;\"\n\nwith other verses, to the effect that words are but a \"temporary\ntorturing flame\"; of which no one knew more than himself. The evidence\nof the poets could not be more emphatic:--\n\n  \"Silent, while years engrave the brow!\n   Silent,--the best are silent now!\"\n\n  Although none of these great geniuses had shown faith in\nsilence as a cure for their own ills or ignorance, all of them, and all\nphilosophy after them, affirmed that no man, even at sixty, had ever\nbeen known to attain knowledge; but that a very few were believed to\nhave attained ignorance, which was in result the same. More than this,\nin every society worth the name, the man of sixty had been encouraged\nto ride this hobby--the Pursuit of Ignorance in Silence--as though it\nwere the easiest way to get rid of him. In America the silence was more\noppressive than the ignorance; but perhaps elsewhere the world might\nstill hide some haunt of futilitarian silence where content\nreigned--although long search had not revealed it--and so the\npilgrimage began anew!\n\n  The first step led to London where John Hay was to be\nestablished. One had seen so many American Ministers received in London\nthat the Lord Chamberlain himself scarcely knew more about it;\neducation could not be expected there; but there Adams arrived, April\n21, 1897, as though thirty-six years were so many days, for Queen\nVictoria still reigned and one saw little change in St. James's Street.\nTrue, Carlton House Terrace, like the streets of Rome, actually\nsqueaked and gibbered with ghosts, till one felt like Odysseus before\nthe press of shadows, daunted by a \"bloodless fear\"; but in spring\nLondon is pleasant, and it was more cheery than ever in May, 1897, when\nevery one was welcoming the return of life after the long winter since\n1893. One's fortunes, or one's friends' fortunes, were again in flood.\n\n  This amusement could not be prolonged, for one found one's self\nthe oldest Englishman in England, much too familiar with family jars\nbetter forgotten, and old traditions better unknown. No wrinkled\nTannhauser, returning to the Wartburg, needed a wrinkled Venus to show\nhim that he was no longer at home, and that even penitence was a sort\nof impertinence. He slipped away to Paris, and set up a household at\nSt. Germain where he taught and learned French history for nieces who\nswarmed under the venerable cedars of the Pavillon d'Angouleme, and\nrode about the green forest-alleys of St. Germain and Marly. From time\nto time Hay wrote humorous laments, but nothing occurred to break the\nsummer-peace of the stranded Tannhauser, who slowly began to feel at\nhome in France as in other countries he had thought more homelike. At\nlength, like other dead Americans, he went to Paris because he could go\nnowhere else, and lingered there till the Hays came by, in January,\n1898; and Mrs. Hay, who had been a stanch and strong ally for twenty\nyears, bade him go with them to Egypt.\n\n  Adams cared little to see Egypt again, but he was glad to see\nHay, and readily drifted after him to the Nile. What they saw and what\nthey said had as little to do with education as possible, until one\nevening, as they were looking at the sun set across the Nile from\nAssouan, Spencer Eddy brought them a telegram to announce the sinking\nof the Maine in Havana Harbor. This was the greatest stride in\neducation since 1865, but what did it teach? One leant on a fragment of\ncolumn in the great hall at Karnak and watched a jackal creep down the\ndebris of ruin. The jackal's ancestors had surely crept up the same\nwall when it was building. What was his view about the value of\nsilence? One lay in the sands and watched the expression of the Sphinx.\nBrooks Adams had taught him that the relation between civilizations was\nthat of trade. Henry wandered, or was storm-driven, down the coast. He\ntried to trace out the ancient harbor of Ephesus. He went over to\nAthens, picked up Rockhill, and searched for the harbor of Tiryns;\ntogether they went on to Constantinople and studied the great walls of\nConstantine and the greater domes of Justinian. His hobby had turned\ninto a camel, and he hoped, if he rode long enough in silence, that at\nlast he might come on a city of thought along the great highways of\nexchange.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIV\n\nINDIAN SUMMER (1898-1899)\n\n  The summer of the Spanish War began the Indian summer of life\nto one who had reached sixty years of age, and cared only to reap in\npeace such harvest as these sixty years had yielded. He had reason to\nbe more than content with it. Since 1864 he had felt no such sense of\npower and momentum, and had seen no such number of personal friends\nwielding it. The sense of solidarity counts for much in one's\ncontentment, but the sense of winning one's game counts for more; and\nin London, in 1898, the scene was singularly interesting to the last\nsurvivor of the Legation of 1861. He thought himself perhaps the only\nperson living who could get full enjoyment of the drama. He carried\nevery scene of it, in a century and a half since the Stamp Act, quite\nalive in his mind--all the interminable disputes of his disputatious\nancestors as far back as the year 1750--as well as his own\ninsignificance in the Civil War, every step in which had the object of\nbringing England into an American system. For this they had written\nlibraries of argument and remonstrance, and had piled war on war,\nlosing their tempers for life, and souring the gentle and patient\nPuritan nature of their descendants, until even their private\nsecretaries at times used language almost intemperate; and suddenly, by\npure chance, the blessing fell on Hay. After two hundred years of\nstupid and greedy blundering, which no argument and no violence\naffected, the people of England learned their lesson just at the moment\nwhen Hay would otherwise have faced a flood of the old anxieties. Hay\nhimself scarcely knew how grateful he should be, for to him the change\ncame almost of course. He saw only the necessary stages that had led to\nit, and to him they seemed natural; but to Adams, still living in the\natmosphere of Palmerston and John Russell, the sudden appearance of\nGermany as the grizzly terror which, in twenty years effected what\nAdamses had tried for two hundred in vain--frightened England into\nAmerica's arms--seemed as melodramatic as any plot of Napoleon the\nGreat. He could feel only the sense of satisfaction at seeing the\ndiplomatic triumph of all his family, since the breed existed, at last\nrealized under his own eyes for the advantage of his oldest and closest\nally.\n\n  This was history, not education, yet it taught something\nexceedingly serious, if not ultimate, could one trust the lesson. For\nthe first time in his life, he felt a sense of possible purpose working\nitself out in history. Probably no one else on this earthly planet--not\neven Hay--could have come out on precisely such extreme personal\nsatisfaction, but as he sat at Hay's table, listening to any member of\nthe British Cabinet, for all were alike now, discuss the Philippines as\na question of balance of power in the East, he could see that the\nfamily work of a hundred and fifty years fell at once into the grand\nperspective of true empire-building, which Hay's work set off with\nartistic skill. The roughness of the archaic foundations looked\nstronger and larger in scale for the refinement and certainty of the\narcade. In the long list of famous American Ministers in London, none\ncould have given the work quite the completeness, the harmony, the\nperfect ease of Hay.\n\n  Never before had Adams been able to discern the working of law\nin history, which was the reason of his failure in teaching it, for\nchaos cannot be taught; but he thought he had a personal property by\ninheritance in this proof of sequence and intelligence in the affairs\nof man--a property which no one else had right to dispute; and this\npersonal triumph left him a little cold towards the other diplomatic\nresults of the war. He knew that Porto Rico must be taken, but he would\nhave been glad to escape the Philippines. Apart from too intimate an\nacquaintance with the value of islands in the South Seas, he knew the\nWest Indies well enough to be assured that, whatever the American\npeople might think or say about it, they would sooner or later have to\npolice those islands, not against Europe, but for Europe, and America\ntoo. Education on the outskirts of civilized life teaches not very\nmuch, but it taught this; and one felt no call to shoulder the load of\narchipelagoes in the antipodes when one was trying painfully to pluck\nup courage to face the labor of shouldering archipelagoes at home. The\ncountry decided otherwise, and one acquiesced readily enough since the\nmatter concerned only the public willingness to carry loads; in London,\nthe balance of power in the East came alone into discussion; and in\nevery point of view one had as much reason to be gratified with the\nresult as though one had shared in the danger, instead of being\nvigorously employed in looking on from a great distance. After all,\nfriends had done the work, if not one's self, and he too serves a\ncertain purpose who only stands and cheers.\n\n  In June, at the crisis of interest, the Camerons came over, and\ntook the fine old house of Surrenden Dering in Kent which they made a\nsort of country house to the Embassy. Kent has charms rivalling those\nof Shropshire, and, even compared with the many beautiful places\nscattered along the Welsh border, few are nobler or more genial than\nSurrenden with its unbroken descent from the Saxons, its avenues, its\nterraces, its deer-park, its large repose on the Kentish hillside, and\nits broad outlook over what was once the forest of Anderida. Filled\nwith a constant stream of guests, the house seemed to wait for the\nchance to show its charms to the American, with whose activity the\nwhole world was resounding; and never since the battle of Hastings\ncould the little telegraph office of the Kentish village have done such\nwork. There, on a hot July 4, 1898, to an expectant group under the\nshady trees, came the telegram announcing the destruction of the\nSpanish Armada, as it might have come to Queen Elizabeth in 1588; and\nthere, later in the season, came the order summoning Hay to the State\nDepartment.\n\n  Hay had no wish to be Secretary of State. He much preferred to\nremain Ambassador, and his friends were quite as cold about it as he.\nNo one knew so well what sort of strain falls on Secretaries of State,\nor how little strength he had in reserve against it. Even at Surrenden\nhe showed none too much endurance, and he would gladly have found a\nvalid excuse for refusing. The discussion on both sides was earnest,\nbut the decided voice of the conclave was that, though if he were a\nmere office-seeker he might certainly decline promotion, if he were a\nmember of the Government he could not. No serious statesman could\naccept a favor and refuse a service. Doubtless he might refuse, but in\nthat case he must resign. The amusement of making Presidents has keen\nfascination for idle American hands, but these black arts have the old\ndrawback of all deviltry; one must serve the spirit one evokes, even\nthough the service were perdition to body and soul. For him, no doubt,\nthe service, though hard, might bring some share of profit, but for the\nfriends who gave this unselfish decision, all would prove loss. For\none, Adams on that subject had become a little daft. No one in his\nexperience had ever passed unscathed through that malarious marsh. In\nhis fancy, office was poison; it killed--body and soul--physically and\nsocially. Office was more poisonous than priestcraft or pedagogy in\nproportion as it held more power; but the poison he complained of was\nnot ambition; he shared none of Cardinal Wolsey's belated penitence for\nthat healthy stimulant, as he had shared none of the fruits; his poison\nwas that of the will--the distortion of sight--the warping of mind--the\ndegradation of tissue--the coarsening of taste--the narrowing of\nsympathy to the emotions of a caged rat. Hay needed no office in order\nto wield influence. For him, influence lay about the streets, waiting\nfor him to stoop to it; he enjoyed more than enough power without\noffice; no one of his position, wealth, and political experience,\nliving at the centre of politics in contact with the active party\nmanagers, could escape influence. His only ambition was to escape\nannoyance, and no one knew better than he that, at sixty years of age,\nsensitive to physical strain, still more sensitive to brutality,\nvindictiveness, or betrayal, he took office at cost of life.\n\n  Neither he nor any of the Surrenden circle made pretence of\ngladness at the new dignity for, with all his gaiety of manner and\nlightness of wit, he took dark views of himself, none the lighter for\ntheir humor, and his obedience to the President's order was the\ngloomiest acquiescence he had ever smiled. Adams took dark views, too,\nnot so much on Hay's account as on his own, for, while Hay had at least\nthe honors of office, his friends would share only the ennuis of it;\nbut, as usual with Hay, nothing was gained by taking such matters\nsolemnly, and old habits of the Civil War left their mark of military\ndrill on every one who lived through it. He shouldered his pack and\nstarted for home. Adams had no mind to lose his friend without a\nstruggle, though he had never known such sort of struggle to avail. The\nchance was desperate, but he could not afford to throw it away; so, as\nsoon as the Surrenden establishment broke up, on October 17, he\nprepared for return home, and on November 13, none too gladly, found\nhimself again gazing into La Fayette Square.\n\n  He had made another false start and lost two years more of\neducation; nor had he excuse; for, this time, neither politics nor\nsociety drew him away from his trail. He had nothing to do with Hay's\npolitics at home or abroad, and never affected agreement with his views\nor his methods, nor did Hay care whether his friends agreed or\ndisagreed. They all united in trying to help each other to get along\nthe best way they could, and all they tried to save was the personal\nrelation. Even there, Adams would have been beaten had he not been\nhelped by Mrs. Hay, who saw the necessity of distraction, and led her\nhusband into the habit of stopping every afternoon to take his friend\noff for an hour's walk, followed by a cup of tea with Mrs. Hay\nafterwards, and a chat with any one who called.\n\n  For the moment, therefore, the situation was saved, at least in\noutward appearance, and Adams could go back to his own pursuits which\nwere slowly taking a direction. Perhaps they had no right to be called\npursuits, for in truth one consciously pursued nothing, but drifted as\nattraction offered itself. The short session broke up the Washington\ncircle, so that, on March 22, Adams was able to sail with the Lodges\nfor Europe and to pass April in Sicily and Rome.\n\n  With the Lodges, education always began afresh. Forty years had\nleft little of the Palermo that Garibaldi had shown to the boy of 1860,\nbut Sicily in all ages seems to have taught only catastrophe and\nviolence, running riot on that theme ever since Ulysses began its study\non the eye of Cyclops. For a lesson in anarchy, without a shade of\nsequence, Sicily stands alone and defies evolution. Syracuse teaches\nmore than Rome. Yet even Rome was not mute, and the church of Ara Coeli\nseemed more and more to draw all the threads of thought to a centre,\nfor every new journey led back to its steps--Karnak, Ephesus, Delphi,\nMycenæ, Constantinople, Syracuse--all lying on the road to the\nCapitol. What they had to bring by way of intellectual riches could not\nyet be discerned, but they carried camel-loads of moral; and New York\nsent most of all, for, in forty years, America had made so vast a\nstride to empire that the world of 1860 stood already on a distant\nhorizon somewhere on the same plane with the republic of Brutus and\nCato, while schoolboys read of Abraham Lincoln as they did of Julius\nCaesar. Vast swarms of Americans knew the Civil War only by school\nhistory, as they knew the story of Cromwell or Cicero, and were as\nfamiliar with political assassination as though they had lived under\nNero. The climax of empire could be seen approaching, year after year,\nas though Sulla were a President or McKinley a Consul.\n\n  Nothing annoyed Americans more than to be told this simple and\nobvious--in no way unpleasant--truth; therefore one sat silent as ever\non the Capitol; but, by way of completing the lesson, the Lodges added\na pilgrimage to Assisi and an interview with St. Francis, whose\nsolution of historical riddles seemed the most satisfactory--or\nsufficient--ever offered; worth fully forty years' more study, and\nbetter worth it than Gibbon himself, or even St. Augustine, St.\nAmbrose, or St. Jerome. The most bewildering effect of all these fresh\ncross-lights on the old Assistant Professor of 1874 was due to the\nastonishing contrast between what he had taught then and what he found\nhimself confusedly trying to learn five-and-twenty years\nafterwards--between the twelfth century of his thirtieth and that of\nhis sixtieth years. At Harvard College, weary of spirit in the wastes\nof Anglo-Saxon law, he had occasionally given way to outbursts of\nderision at shedding his life-blood for the sublime truths of Sac and\nSoc:--\n\n     HIC JACET\nHOMUNCULUS SCRIPTOR\n DOCTOR BARBARICUS\n   HENRICUS ADAMS\n ADAE FILIUS ET EVAE\n   PRIMO EXPLICUIT\n       SOCNAM\n\n  The Latin was as twelfth-century as the law, and he meant as\nsatire the claim that he had been first to explain the legal meaning of\nSac and Soc, although any German professor would have scorned it as a\nshameless and presumptuous bid for immortality; but the whole point of\nview had vanished in 1900. Not he, but Sir Henry Maine and Rudolph\nSohm, were the parents or creators of Sac and Soc. Convinced that the\nclue of religion led to nothing, and that politics led to chaos, one\nhad turned to the law, as one's scholars turned to the Law School,\nbecause one could see no other path to a profession.\n\n  The law had proved as futile as politics or religion, or any\nother single thread spun by the human spider; it offered no more\ncontinuity than architecture or coinage, and no more force of its own.\nSt. Francis expressed supreme contempt for them all, and solved the\nwhole problem by rejecting it altogether. Adams returned to Paris with\na broken and contrite spirit, prepared to admit that his life had no\nmeaning, and conscious that in any case it no longer mattered. He\npassed a summer of solitude contrasting sadly with the last at\nSurrenden; but the solitude did what the society did not--it forced and\ndrove him into the study of his ignorance in silence. Here at last he\nentered the practice of his final profession. Hunted by ennui, he could\nno longer escape, and, by way of a summer school, he began a methodical\nsurvey--a triangulation--of the twelfth century. The pursuit had a\nsingular French charm which France had long lost--a calmness, lucidity,\nsimplicity of expression, vigor of action, complexity of local color,\nthat made Paris flat. In the long summer days one found a sort of\nsaturated green pleasure in the forests, and gray infinity of rest in\nthe little twelfth-century churches that lined them, as unassuming as\ntheir own mosses, and as sure of their purpose as their round arches;\nbut churches were many and summer was short, so that he was at last\ndriven back to the quays and photographs. For weeks he lived in silence.\n\n  His solitude was broken in November by the chance arrival of\nJohn La Farge. At that moment, contact with La Farge had a new value.\nOf all the men who had deeply affected their friends since 1850 John La\nFarge was certainly the foremost, and for Henry Adams, who had sat at\nhis feet since 1872, the question how much he owed to La Farge could be\nanswered only by admitting that he had no standard to measure it by. Of\nall his friends La Farge alone owned a mind complex enough to contrast\nagainst the commonplaces of American uniformity, and in the process had\nvastly perplexed most Americans who came in contact with it. The\nAmerican mind--the Bostonian as well as the Southern or Western--likes\nto walk straight up to its object, and assert or deny something that it\ntakes for a fact; it has a conventional approach, a conventional\nanalysis, and a conventional conclusion, as well as a conventional\nexpression, all the time loudly asserting its unconventionality. The\nmost disconcerting trait of John La Farge was his reversal of the\nprocess. His approach was quiet and indirect; he moved round an object,\nand never separated it from its surroundings; he prided himself on\nfaithfulness to tradition and convention; he was never abrupt and\nabhorred dispute. His manners and attitude towards the universe were\nthe same, whether tossing in the middle of the Pacific Ocean sketching\nthe trade-wind from a whale-boat in the blast of sea-sickness, or\ndrinking the cha-no-yu in the formal rites of Japan, or sipping his\ncocoanut cup of kava in the ceremonial of Samoan chiefs, or reflecting\nunder the sacred bo-tree at Anaradjpura.\n\n  One was never quite sure of his whole meaning until too late to\nrespond, for he had no difficulty in carrying different shades of\ncontradiction in his mind. As he said of his friend Okakura, his\nthought ran as a stream runs through grass, hidden perhaps but always\nthere; and one felt often uncertain in what direction it flowed, for\neven a contradiction was to him only a shade of difference, a\ncomplementary color, about which no intelligent artist would dispute.\nConstantly he repulsed argument: \"Adams, you reason too much!\" was one\nof his standing reproaches even in the mild discussion of rice and\nmangoes in the warm night of Tahiti dinners. He should have blamed\nAdams for being born in Boston. The mind resorts to reason for want of\ntraining, and Adams had never met a perfectly trained mind.\n\n  To La Farge, eccentricity meant convention; a mind really\neccentric never betrayed it. True eccentricity was a tone--a shade--a\nnuance--and the finer the tone, the truer the eccentricity. Of course\nall artists hold more or less the same point of view in their art, but\nfew carry it into daily life, and often the contrast is excessive\nbetween their art and their talk. One evening Humphreys Johnston, who\nwas devoted to La Farge, asked him to meet Whistler at dinner. La Farge\nwas ill--more ill than usual even for him--but he admired and liked\nWhistler, and insisted on going. By chance, Adams was so placed as to\noverhear the conversation of both, and had no choice but to hear that\nof Whistler, which engrossed the table. At that moment the Boer War was\nraging, and, as every one knows, on that subject Whistler raged worse\nthan the Boers. For two hours he declaimed against England--witty,\ndeclamatory, extravagant, bitter, amusing, and noisy; but in substance\nwhat he said was not merely commonplace--it was true! That is to say,\nhis hearers, including Adams and, as far as he knew, La Farge, agreed\nwith it all, and mostly as a matter of course; yet La Farge was silent,\nand this difference of expression was a difference of art. Whistler in\nhis art carried the sense of nuance and tone far beyond any point\nreached by La Farge, or even attempted; but in talk he showed, above or\nbelow his color-instinct, a willingness to seem eccentric where no real\neccentricity, unless perhaps of temper, existed.\n\n  This vehemence, which Whistler never betrayed in his painting,\nLa Farge seemed to lavish on his glass. With the relative value of La\nFarge's glass in the history of glass-decoration, Adams was too\nignorant to meddle, and as a rule artists were if possible more\nignorant than he; but whatever it was, it led him back to the twelfth\ncentury and to Chartres where La Farge not only felt at home, but felt\na sort of ownership. No other American had a right there, unless he too\nwere a member of the Church and worked in glass. Adams himself was an\ninterloper, but long habit led La Farge to resign himself to Adams as\none who meant well, though deplorably Bostonian; while Adams, though\nnear sixty years old before he knew anything either of glass or of\nChartres, asked no better than to learn, and only La Farge could help\nhim, for he knew enough at least to see that La Farge alone could use\nglass like a thirteenth-century artist. In Europe the art had been dead\nfor centuries, and modern glass was pitiable. Even La Farge felt the\nearly glass rather as a document than as a historical emotion, and in\nhundreds of windows at Chartres and Bourges and Paris, Adams knew\nbarely one or two that were meant to hold their own against a\ncolor-scheme so strong as his. In conversation La Farge's mind was\nopaline with infinite shades and refractions of light, and with color\ntoned down to the finest gradations. In glass it was insubordinate; it\nwas renaissance; it asserted his personal force with depth and\nvehemence of tone never before seen. He seemed bent on crushing rivalry.\n\n  Even the gloom of a Paris December at the Elysee Palace Hotel\nwas somewhat relieved by this companionship, and education made a step\nbackwards towards Chartres, but La Farge's health became more and more\nalarming, and Adams was glad to get him safely back to New York,\nJanuary 15, 1900, while he himself went at once to Washington to find\nout what had become of Hay. Nothing good could be hoped, for Hay's\ntroubles had begun, and were quite as great as he had foreseen. Adams\nsaw as little encouragement as Hay himself did, though he dared not say\nso. He doubted Hay's endurance, the President's firmness in supporting\nhim, and the loyalty of his party friends; but all this worry on Hay's\naccount fretted him not nearly so much as the Boer War did on his own.\nHere was a problem in his political education that passed all\nexperience since the Treason winter of 1860-61! Much to his\nastonishment, very few Americans seemed to share his point of view;\ntheir hostility to England seemed mere temper; but to Adams the war\nbecame almost a personal outrage. He had been taught from childhood,\neven in England, that his forbears and their associates in 1776 had\nsettled, once for all, the liberties of the British free colonies, and\nhe very strongly objected to being thrown on the defensive again, and\nforced to sit down, a hundred and fifty years after John Adams had\nbegun the task, to prove, by appeal to law and fact, that George\nWashington was not a felon, whatever might be the case with George III.\nFor reasons still more personal, he declined peremptorily to entertain\nquestion of the felony of John Adams. He felt obliged to go even\nfurther, and avow the opinion that if at any time England should take\ntowards Canada the position she took towards her Boer colonies, the\nUnited States would be bound, by their record, to interpose, and to\ninsist on the application of the principles of 1776. To him the\nattitude of Mr. Chamberlain and his colleagues seemed exceedingly\nun-American, and terribly embarrassing to Hay.\n\n  Trained early, in the stress of civil war, to hold his tongue,\nand to help make the political machine run somehow, since it could\nnever be made to run well, he would not bother Hay with theoretical\nobjections which were every day fretting him in practical forms. Hay's\nchance lay in patience and good-temper till the luck should turn, and\nto him the only object was time; but as political education the point\nseemed vital to Adams, who never liked shutting his eyes or denying an\nevident fact. Practical politics consists in ignoring facts, but\neducation and politics are two different and often contradictory\nthings. In this case, the contradiction seemed crude.\n\n  With Hay's politics, at home or abroad, Adams had nothing\nwhatever to do. Hay belonged to the New York school, like Abram Hewitt,\nEvarts, W. C. Whitney, Samuel J. Tilden--men who played the game for\nambition or amusement, and played it, as a rule, much better than the\nprofessionals, but whose aims were considerably larger than those of\nthe usual player, and who felt no great love for the cheap drudgery of\nthe work. In return, the professionals felt no great love for them, and\nset them aside when they could. Only their control of money made them\ninevitable, and even this did not always carry their points. The story\nof Abram Hewitt would offer one type of this statesman series, and that\nof Hay another. President Cleveland set aside the one; President\nHarrison set aside the other. \"There is no politics in it,\" was his\ncomment on Hay's appointment to office. Hay held a different opinion\nand turned to McKinley whose judgment of men was finer than common in\nPresidents. Mr. McKinley brought to the problem of American government\na solution which lay very far outside of Henry Adams's education, but\nwhich seemed to be at least practical and American. He undertook to\npool interests in a general trust into which every interest should be\ntaken, more or less at its own valuation, and whose mass should, under\nhis management, create efficiency. He achieved very remarkable results.\nHow much they cost was another matter; if the public is ever driven to\nits last resources and the usual remedies of chaos, the result will\nprobably cost more.\n\n  Himself a marvellous manager of men, McKinley found several\nmanipulators to help him, almost as remarkable as himself, one of whom\nwas Hay; but unfortunately Hay's strength was weakest and his task\nhardest. At home, interests could be easily combined by simply paying\ntheir price; but abroad whatever helped on one side, hurt him on\nanother. Hay thought England must be brought first into the combine;\nbut at that time Germany, Russia, and France were all combining against\nEngland, and the Boer War helped them. For the moment Hay had no ally,\nabroad or at home, except Pauncefote, and Adams always maintained that\nPauncefote alone pulled him through.\n\n  Yet the difficulty abroad was far less troublesome than the\nobstacles at home. The Senate had grown more and more unmanageable,\neven since the time of Andrew Johnson, and this was less the fault of\nthe Senate than of the system. \"A treaty of peace, in any normal state\nof things,\" said Hay, \"ought to be ratified with unanimity in\ntwenty-four hours. They wasted six weeks in wrangling over this one,\nand ratified it with one vote to spare. We have five or six matters now\ndemanding settlement. I can settle them all, honorably and\nadvantageously to our own side; and I am assured by leading men in the\nSenate that not one of these treaties, if negotiated, will pass the\nSenate. I should have a majority in every case, but a malcontent third\nwould certainly dish every one of them. To such monstrous shape has the\noriginal mistake of the Constitution grown in the evolution of our\npolitics. You must understand, it is not merely my solution the Senate\nwill reject. They will reject, for instance, any treaty, whatever, on\nany subject, with England. I doubt if they would accept any treaty of\nconsequence with Russia or Germany. The recalcitrant third would be\ndifferently composed, but it would be on hand. So that the real duties\nof a Secretary of State seem to be three: to fight claims upon us by\nother States; to press more or less fraudulent claims of our own\ncitizens upon other countries; to find offices for the friends of\nSenators when there are none. Is it worth while--for me--to keep up\nthis useless labor?\"\n\n  To Adams, who, like Hay, had seen a dozen acquaintances\nstruggling with the same enemies, the question had scarcely the\ninterest of a new study. He had said all he had to say about it in a\ndozen or more volumes relating to the politics of a hundred years\nbefore. To him, the spectacle was so familiar as to be humorous. The\nintrigue was too open to be interesting. The interference of the German\nand Russian legations, and of the Clan-na-Gael, with the press and the\nSenate was innocently undisguised. The charming Russian Minister, Count\nCassini, the ideal of diplomatic manners and training, let few days\npass without appealing through the press to the public against the\ngovernment. The German Minister, Von Holleben, more cautiously did the\nsame thing, and of course every whisper of theirs was brought instantly\nto the Department. These three forces, acting with the regular\nopposition and the natural obstructionists, could always stop action in\nthe Senate. The fathers had intended to neutralize the energy of\ngovernment and had succeeded, but their machine was never meant to do\nthe work of a twenty-million horse-power society in the twentieth\ncentury, where much work needed to be quickly and efficiently done. The\nonly defence of the system was that, as Government did nothing well, it\nhad best do nothing; but the Government, in truth, did perfectly well\nall it was given to do; and even if the charge were true, it applied\nequally to human society altogether, if one chose to treat mankind from\nthat point of view. As a matter of mechanics, so much work must be\ndone; bad machinery merely added to friction.\n\n  Always unselfish, generous, easy, patient, and loyal, Hay had\ntreated the world as something to be taken in block without pulling it\nto pieces to get rid of its defects; he liked it all: he laughed and\naccepted; he had never known unhappiness and would have gladly lived\nhis entire life over again exactly as it happened. In the whole New\nYork school, one met a similar dash of humor and cynicism more or less\npronounced but seldom bitter. Yet even the gayest of tempers succumbs\nat last to constant friction. The old friend was rapidly fading. The\nhabit remained, but the easy intimacy, the careless gaiety, the casual\nhumor, the equality of indifference, were sinking into the routine of\noffice; the mind lingered in the Department; the thought failed to\nreact; the wit and humor shrank within the blank walls of politics, and\nthe irritations multiplied. To a head of bureau, the result seemed\nennobling.\n\n  Although, as education, this branch of study was more familiar\nand older than the twelfth century, the task of bringing the two\nperiods into a common relation was new. Ignorance required that these\npolitical and social and scientific values of the twelfth and twentieth\ncenturies should be correlated in some relation of movement that could\nbe expressed in mathematics, nor did one care in the least that all the\nworld said it could not be done, or that one knew not enough\nmathematics even to figure a formula beyond the schoolboy s = gt^2/2.\nIf Kepler and Newton could take liberties with the sun and moon, an\nobscure person in a remote wilderness like La Fayette Square could take\nliberties with Congress, and venture to multiply half its attraction\ninto the square of its time. He had only to find a value, even\ninfinitesimal, for its attraction at any given time. A historical\nformula that should satisfy the conditions of the stellar universe\nweighed heavily on his mind; but a trifling matter like this was one in\nwhich he could look for no help from anybody--he could look only for\nderision at best.\n\n  All his associates in history condemned such an attempt as\nfutile and almost immoral--certainly hostile to sound historical\nsystem. Adams tried it only because of its hostility to all that he had\ntaught for history, since he started afresh from the new point that,\nwhatever was right, all he had ever taught was wrong. He had pursued\nignorance thus far with success, and had swept his mind clear of\nknowledge. In beginning again, from the starting-point of Sir Isaac\nNewton, he looked about him in vain for a teacher. Few men in\nWashington cared to overstep the school conventions, and the most\ndistinguished of them, Simon Newcomb, was too sound a mathematician to\ntreat such a scheme seriously. The greatest of Americans, judged by his\nrank in science, Willard Gibbs, never came to Washington, and Adams\nnever enjoyed a chance to meet him. After Gibbs, one of the most\ndistinguished was Langley, of the Smithsonian, who was more accessible,\nto whom Adams had been much in the habit of turning whenever he wanted\nan outlet for his vast reservoirs of ignorance. Langley listened with\noutward patience to his disputatious questionings; but he too nourished\na scientific passion for doubt, and sentimental attachment for its\navowal. He had the physicist's heinous fault of professing to know\nnothing between flashes of intense perception. Like so many other great\nobservers, Langley was not a mathematician, and like most physicists,\nhe believed in physics. Rigidly denying himself the amusement of\nphilosophy, which consists chiefly in suggesting unintelligible answers\nto insoluble problems, he still knew the problems, and liked to wander\npast them in a courteous temper, even bowing to them distantly as\nthough recognizing their existence, while doubting their\nrespectability. He generously let others doubt what he felt obliged to\naffirm; and early put into Adams's hands the \"Concepts of Modern\nScience,\" a volume by Judge Stallo, which had been treated for a dozen\nyears by the schools with a conspiracy of silence such as inevitably\nmeets every revolutionary work that upsets the stock and machinery of\ninstruction. Adams read and failed to understand; then he asked\nquestions and failed to get answers.\n\n  Probably this was education. Perhaps it was the only scientific\neducation open to a student sixty-odd years old, who asked to be as\nignorant as an astronomer. For him the details of science meant\nnothing: he wanted to know its mass. Solar heat was not enough, or was\ntoo much. Kinetic atoms led only to motion; never to direction or\nprogress. History had no use for multiplicity; it needed unity; it\ncould study only motion, direction, attraction, relation. Everything\nmust be made to move together; one must seek new worlds to measure; and\nso, like Rasselas, Adams set out once more, and found himself on May 12\nsettled in rooms at the very door of the Trocadero.\n\n\nCHAPTER XXV\n\nTHE DYNAMO AND THE VIRGIN (1900)\n\n  UNTIL the Great Exposition of 1900 closed its doors in\nNovember, Adams haunted it, aching to absorb knowledge, and helpless to\nfind it. He would have liked to know how much of it could have been\ngrasped by the best-informed man in the world. While he was thus\nmeditating chaos, Langley came by, and showed it to him. At Langley's\nbehest, the Exhibition dropped its superfluous rags and stripped itself\nto the skin, for Langley knew what to study, and why, and how; while\nAdams might as well have stood outside in the night, staring at the\nMilky Way. Yet Langley said nothing new, and taught nothing that one\nmight not have learned from Lord Bacon, three hundred years before; but\nthough one should have known the \"Advancement of Science\" as well as\none knew the \"Comedy of Errors,\" the literary knowledge counted for\nnothing until some teacher should show how to apply it. Bacon took a\nvast deal of trouble in teaching King James I and his subjects,\nAmerican or other, towards the year 1620, that true science was the\ndevelopment or economy of forces; yet an elderly American in 1900 knew\nneither the formula nor the forces; or even so much as to say to\nhimself that his historical business in the Exposition concerned only\nthe economies or developments of force since 1893, when he began the\nstudy at Chicago.\n\n  Nothing in education is so astonishing as the amount of\nignorance it accumulates in the form of inert facts. Adams had looked\nat most of the accumulations of art in the storehouses called Art\nMuseums; yet he did not know how to look at the art exhibits of 1900.\nHe had studied Karl Marx and his doctrines of history with profound\nattention, yet he could not apply them at Paris. Langley, with the ease\nof a great master of experiment, threw out of the field every exhibit\nthat did not reveal a new application of force, and naturally threw\nout, to begin with, almost the whole art exhibit. Equally, he ignored\nalmost the whole industrial exhibit. He led his pupil directly to the\nforces. His chief interest was in new motors to make his airship\nfeasible, and he taught Adams the astonishing complexities of the new\nDaimler motor, and of the automobile, which, since 1893, had become a\nnightmare at a hundred kilometres an hour, almost as destructive as the\nelectric tram which was only ten years older; and threatening to become\nas terrible as the locomotive steam-engine itself, which was almost\nexactly Adams's own age.\n\n  Then he showed his scholar the great hall of dynamos, and\nexplained how little he knew about electricity or force of any kind,\neven of his own special sun, which spouted heat in inconceivable\nvolume, but which, as far as he knew, might spout less or more, at any\ntime, for all the certainty he felt in it. To him, the dynamo itself\nwas but an ingenious channel for conveying somewhere the heat latent in\na few tons of poor coal hidden in a dirty engine-house carefully kept\nout of sight; but to Adams the dynamo became a symbol of infinity. As\nhe grew accustomed to the great gallery of machines, he began to feel\nthe forty-foot dynamos as a moral force, much as the early Christians\nfelt the Cross. The planet itself seemed less impressive, in its\nold-fashioned, deliberate, annual or daily revolution, than this huge\nwheel, revolving within arm's length at some vertiginous speed, and\nbarely murmuring--scarcely humming an audible warning to stand a\nhair's-breadth further for respect of power--while it would not wake\nthe baby lying close against its frame. Before the end, one began to\npray to it; inherited instinct taught the natural expression of man\nbefore silent and infinite force. Among the thousand symbols of\nultimate energy the dynamo was not so human as some, but it was the\nmost expressive.\n\n  Yet the dynamo, next to the steam-engine, was the most familiar\nof exhibits. For Adams's objects its value lay chiefly in its occult\nmechanism. Between the dynamo in the gallery of machines and the\nengine-house outside, the break of continuity amounted to abysmal\nfracture for a historian's objects. No more relation could he discover\nbetween the steam and the electric current than between the Cross and\nthe cathedral. The forces were interchangeable if not reversible, but\nhe could see only an absolute fiat in electricity as in faith. Langley\ncould not help him. Indeed, Langley seemed to be worried by the same\ntrouble, for he constantly repeated that the new forces were\nanarchical, and especially that he was not responsible for the new\nrays, that were little short of parricidal in their wicked spirit\ntowards science. His own rays, with which he had doubled the solar\nspectrum, were altogether harmless and beneficent; but Radium denied\nits God--or, what was to Langley the same thing, denied the truths of\nhis Science. The force was wholly new.\n\n  A historian who asked only to learn enough to be as futile as\nLangley or Kelvin, made rapid progress under this teaching, and mixed\nhimself up in the tangle of ideas until he achieved a sort of Paradise\nof ignorance vastly consoling to his fatigued senses. He wrapped\nhimself in vibrations and rays which were new, and he would have hugged\nMarconi and Branly had he met them, as he hugged the dynamo; while he\nlost his arithmetic in trying to figure out the equation between the\ndiscoveries and the economies of force. The economies, like the\ndiscoveries, were absolute, supersensual, occult; incapable of\nexpression in horse-power. What mathematical equivalent could he\nsuggest as the value of a Branly coherer? Frozen air, or the electric\nfurnace, had some scale of measurement, no doubt, if somebody could\ninvent a thermometer adequate to the purpose; but X-rays had played no\npart whatever in man's consciousness, and the atom itself had figured\nonly as a fiction of thought. In these seven years man had translated\nhimself into a new universe which had no common scale of measurement\nwith the old. He had entered a supersensual world, in which he could\nmeasure nothing except by chance collisions of movements imperceptible\nto his senses, perhaps even imperceptible to his instruments, but\nperceptible to each other, and so to some known ray at the end of the\nscale. Langley seemed prepared for anything, even for an indeterminable\nnumber of universes interfused--physics stark mad in metaphysics.\n\n  Historians undertake to arrange sequences,--called stories,\nor histories--assuming in silence a relation of cause and effect. These\nassumptions, hidden in the depths of dusty libraries, have been\nastounding, but commonly unconscious and childlike; so much so, that if\nany captious critic were to drag them to light, historians would\nprobably reply, with one voice, that they had never supposed themselves\nrequired to know what they were talking about. Adams, for one, had\ntoiled in vain to find out what he meant. He had even published a dozen\nvolumes of American history for no other purpose than to satisfy\nhimself whether, by severest process of stating, with the least\npossible comment, such facts as seemed sure, in such order as seemed\nrigorously consequent, he could fix for a familiar moment a necessary\nsequence of human movement. The result had satisfied him as little as\nat Harvard College. Where he saw sequence, other men saw something\nquite different, and no one saw the same unit of measure. He cared\nlittle about his experiments and less about his statesmen, who seemed\nto him quite as ignorant as himself and, as a rule, no more honest; but\nhe insisted on a relation of sequence, and if he could not reach it by\none method, he would try as many methods as science knew. Satisfied\nthat the sequence of men led to nothing and that the sequence of their\nsociety could lead no further, while the mere sequence of time was\nartificial, and the sequence of thought was chaos, he turned at last to\nthe sequence of force; and thus it happened that, after ten years'\npursuit, he found himself lying in the Gallery of Machines at the Great\nExposition of 1900, his historical neck broken by the sudden irruption\nof forces totally new.\n\n  Since no one else showed much concern, an elderly person\nwithout other cares had no need to betray alarm. The year 1900 was not\nthe first to upset schoolmasters. Copernicus and Galileo had broken\nmany professorial necks about 1600; Columbus had stood the world on its\nhead towards 1500; but the nearest approach to the revolution of 1900\nwas that of 310, when Constantine set up the Cross. The rays that\nLangley disowned, as well as those which he fathered, were occult,\nsupersensual, irrational; they were a revelation of mysterious energy\nlike that of the Cross; they were what, in terms of mediaeval science,\nwere called immediate modes of the divine substance.\n\n  The historian was thus reduced to his last resources. Clearly\nif he was bound to reduce all these forces to a common value, this\ncommon value could have no measure but that of their attraction on his\nown mind. He must treat them as they had been felt; as convertible,\nreversible, interchangeable attractions on thought. He made up his mind\nto venture it; he would risk translating rays into faith. Such a\nreversible process would vastly amuse a chemist, but the chemist could\nnot deny that he, or some of his fellow physicists, could feel the\nforce of both. When Adams was a boy in Boston, the best chemist in the\nplace had probably never heard of Venus except by way of scandal, or of\nthe Virgin except as idolatry; neither had he heard of dynamos or\nautomobiles or radium; yet his mind was ready to feel the force of all,\nthough the rays were unborn and the women were dead.\n\n  Here opened another totally new education, which promised to be\nby far the most hazardous of all. The knife-edge along which he must\ncrawl, like Sir Lancelot in the twelfth century, divided two kingdoms\nof force which had nothing in common but attraction. They were as\ndifferent as a magnet is from gravitation, supposing one knew what a\nmagnet was, or gravitation, or love. The force of the Virgin was still\nfelt at Lourdes, and seemed to be as potent as X-rays; but in America\nneither Venus nor Virgin ever had value as force--at most as sentiment.\nNo American had ever been truly afraid of either.\n\n  This problem in dynamics gravely perplexed an American\nhistorian. The Woman had once been supreme; in France she still seemed\npotent, not merely as a sentiment, but as a force. Why was she unknown\nin America? For evidently America was ashamed of her, and she was\nashamed of herself, otherwise they would not have strewn fig-leaves so\nprofusely all over her. When she was a true force, she was ignorant of\nfig-leaves, but the monthly-magazine-made American female had not a\nfeature that would have been recognized by Adam. The trait was\nnotorious, and often humorous, but any one brought up among Puritans\nknew that sex was sin. In any previous age, sex was strength. Neither\nart nor beauty was needed. Every one, even among Puritans, knew that\nneither Diana of the Ephesians nor any of the Oriental goddesses was\nworshipped for her beauty. She was goddess because of her force; she\nwas the animated dynamo; she was reproduction--the greatest and most\nmysterious of all energies; all she needed was to be fecund. Singularly\nenough, not one of Adams's many schools of education had ever drawn his\nattention to the opening lines of Lucretius, though they were perhaps\nthe finest in all Latin literature, where the poet invoked Venus\nexactly as Dante invoked the Virgin:--\n\n  \"Quae quondam rerum naturam sola gubernas.\"\n\nThe Venus of Epicurean philosophy survived in the Virgin of the\nSchools:--\n\n  \"Donna, sei tanto grande, e tanto vali,\n   Che qual vuol grazia, e a te non ricorre,\n   Sua disianza vuol volar senz' ali.\"\n\n  All this was to American thought as though it had never\nexisted. The true American knew something of the facts, but nothing of\nthe feelings; he read the letter, but he never felt the law. Before\nthis historical chasm, a mind like that of Adams felt itself helpless;\nhe turned from the Virgin to the Dynamo as though he were a Branly\ncoherer. On one side, at the Louvre and at Chartres, as he knew by the\nrecord of work actually done and still before his eyes, was the highest\nenergy ever known to man, the creator of four-fifths of his noblest art,\nexercising vastly more attraction over the human mind than all the\nsteam-engines and dynamos ever dreamed of; and yet this energy was\nunknown to the American mind. An American Virgin would never dare\ncommand; an American Venus would never dare exist.\n\n  The question, which to any plain American of the nineteenth\ncentury seemed as remote as it did to Adams, drew him almost violently\nto study, once it was posed; and on this point Langleys were as useless\nas though they were Herbert Spencers or dynamos. The idea survived only\nas art. There one turned as naturally as though the artist were himself\na woman. Adams began to ponder, asking himself whether he knew of any\nAmerican artist who had ever insisted on the power of sex, as every\nclassic had always done; but he could think only of Walt Whitman; Bret\nHarte, as far as the magazines would let him venture; and one or two\npainters, for the flesh-tones. All the rest had used sex for sentiment,\nnever for force; to them, Eve was a tender flower, and Herodias an\nunfeminine horror. American art, like the American language and\nAmerican education, was as far as possible sexless. Society regarded\nthis victory over sex as its greatest triumph, and the historian\nreadily admitted it, since the moral issue, for the moment, did not\nconcern one who was studying the relations of unmoral force. He cared\nnothing for the sex of the dynamo until he could measure its energy.\n\n  Vaguely seeking a clue, he wandered through the art exhibit,\nand, in his stroll, stopped almost every day before St. Gaudens's\nGeneral Sherman, which had been given the central post of honor. St.\nGaudens himself was in Paris, putting on the work his usual\ninterminable last touches, and listening to the usual contradictory\nsuggestions of brother sculptors. Of all the American artists who gave\nto American art whatever life it breathed in the seventies, St. Gaudens\nwas perhaps the most sympathetic, but certainly the most inarticulate.\nGeneral Grant or Don Cameron had scarcely less instinct of rhetoric\nthan he. All the others--the Hunts, Richardson, John La Farge, Stanford\nWhite--were exuberant; only St. Gaudens could never discuss or dilate\non an emotion, or suggest artistic arguments for giving to his work the\nforms that he felt. He never laid down the law, or affected the despot,\nor became brutalized like Whistler by the brutalities of his world. He\nrequired no incense; he was no egoist; his simplicity of thought was\nexcessive; he could not imitate, or give any form but his own to the\ncreations of his hand. No one felt more strongly than he the strength\nof other men, but the idea that they could affect him never stirred an\nimage in his mind.\n\n  This summer his health was poor and his spirits were low. For\nsuch a temper, Adams was not the best companion, since his own gaiety\nwas not folle; but he risked going now and then to the studio on Mont\nParnasse to draw him out for a stroll in the Bois de Boulogne, or\ndinner as pleased his moods, and in return St. Gaudens sometimes let\nAdams go about in his company.\n\n  Once St. Gaudens took him down to Amiens, with a party of\nFrenchmen, to see the cathedral. Not until they found themselves\nactually studying the sculpture of the western portal, did it dawn on\nAdams's mind that, for his purposes, St. Gaudens on that spot had more\ninterest to him than the cathedral itself. Great men before great\nmonuments express great truths, provided they are not taken too\nsolemnly. Adams never tired of quoting the supreme phrase of his idol\nGibbon, before the Gothic cathedrals: \"I darted a contemptuous look on\nthe stately monuments of superstition.\" Even in the footnotes of his\nhistory, Gibbon had never inserted a bit of humor more human than this,\nand one would have paid largely for a photograph of the fat little\nhistorian, on the background of Notre Dame of Amiens, trying to\npersuade his readers--perhaps himself--that he was darting a\ncontemptuous look on the stately monument, for which he felt in fact\nthe respect which every man of his vast study and active mind always\nfeels before objects worthy of it; but besides the humor, one felt also\nthe relation. Gibbon ignored the Virgin, because in 1789 religious\nmonuments were out of fashion. In 1900 his remark sounded fresh and\nsimple as the green fields to ears that had heard a hundred years of\nother remarks, mostly no more fresh and certainly less simple. Without\nmalice, one might find it more instructive than a whole lecture of\nRuskin. One sees what one brings, and at that moment Gibbon brought the\nFrench Revolution. Ruskin brought reaction against the Revolution. St.\nGaudens had passed beyond all. He liked the stately monuments much more\nthan he liked Gibbon or Ruskin; he loved their dignity; their unity;\ntheir scale; their lines; their lights and shadows; their decorative\nsculpture; but he was even less conscious than they of the force that\ncreated it all--the Virgin, the Woman--by whose genius \"the stately\nmonuments of superstition\" were built, through which she was expressed.\nHe would have seen more meaning in Isis with the cow's horns, at Edfoo,\nwho expressed the same thought. The art remained, but the energy was\nlost even upon the artist.\n\n  Yet in mind and person St. Gaudens was a survival of the 1500s\nhe bore the stamp of the Renaissance, and should have carried an image\nof the Virgin round his neck, or stuck in his hat, like Louis XI. In\nmere time he was a lost soul that had strayed by chance to the\ntwentieth century, and forgotten where it came from. He writhed and\ncursed at his ignorance, much as Adams did at his own, but in the\nopposite sense. St. Gaudens was a child of Benvenuto Cellini, smothered\nin an American cradle. Adams was a quintessence of Boston, devoured by\ncuriosity to think like Benvenuto. St. Gaudens's art was starved from\nbirth, and Adams's instinct was blighted from babyhood. Each had but\nhalf of a nature, and when they came together before the Virgin of\nAmiens they ought both to have felt in her the force that made them\none; but it was not so. To Adams she became more than ever a channel of\nforce; to St. Gaudens she remained as before a channel of taste.\n\n  For a symbol of power, St. Gaudens instinctively preferred the\nhorse, as was plain in his horse and Victory of the Sherman monument.\nDoubtless Sherman also felt it so. The attitude was so American that,\nfor at least forty years, Adams had never realized that any other could\nbe in sound taste. How many years had he taken to admit a notion of\nwhat Michael Angelo and Rubens were driving at? He could not say; but\nhe knew that only since 1895 had he begun to feel the Virgin or Venus\nas force, and not everywhere even so. At Chartres--perhaps at\nLourdes--possibly at Cnidos if one could still find there the divinely\nnaked Aphrodite of Praxiteles--but otherwise one must look for force to\nthe goddesses of Indian mythology. The idea died out long ago in the\nGerman and English stock. St. Gaudens at Amiens was hardly less\nsensitive to the force of the female energy than Matthew Arnold at the\nGrande Chartreuse. Neither of them felt goddesses as power--only as\nreflected emotion, human expression, beauty, purity, taste, scarcely\neven as sympathy. They felt a railway train as power, yet they, and all\nother artists, constantly complained that the power embodied in a\nrailway train could never be embodied in art. All the steam in the\nworld could not, like the Virgin, build Chartres.\n\n  Yet in mechanics, whatever the mechanicians might think, both\nenergies acted as interchangeable force on man, and by action on man\nall known force may be measured. Indeed, few men of science measured\nforce in any other way. After once admitting that a straight line was\nthe shortest distance between two points, no serious mathematician\ncared to deny anything that suited his convenience, and rejected no\nsymbol, unproved or unproveable, that helped him to accomplish work.\nThe symbol was force, as a compass-needle or a triangle was force, as\nthe mechanist might prove by losing it, and nothing could be gained by\nignoring their value. Symbol or energy, the Virgin had acted as the\ngreatest force the Western world ever felt, and had drawn man's\nactivities to herself more strongly than any other power, natural or\nsupernatural, had ever done; the historian's business was to follow the\ntrack of the energy; to find where it came from and where it went to;\nits complex source and shifting channels; its values, equivalents,\nconversions. It could scarcely be more complex than radium; it could\nhardly be deflected, diverted, polarized, absorbed more perplexingly\nthan other radiant matter. Adams knew nothing about any of them, but as\na mathematical problem of influence on human progress, though all were\noccult, all reacted on his mind, and he rather inclined to think the\nVirgin easiest to handle.\n\n  The pursuit turned out to be long and tortuous, leading at last\nto the vast forests of scholastic science. From Zeno to Descartes, hand\nin hand with Thomas Aquinas, Montaigne, and Pascal, one stumbled as\nstupidly as though one were still a German student of 1860. Only with\nthe instinct of despair could one force one's self into this old\nthicket of ignorance after having been repulsed a score of entrances\nmore promising and more popular. Thus far, no path had led anywhere,\nunless perhaps to an exceedingly modest living. Forty-five years of\nstudy had proved to be quite futile for the pursuit of power; one\ncontrolled no more force in 1900 than in 1850, although the amount of\nforce controlled by society had enormously increased. The secret of\neducation still hid itself somewhere behind ignorance, and one fumbled\nover it as feebly as ever. In such labyrinths, the staff is a force\nalmost more necessary than the legs; the pen becomes a sort of\nblind-man's dog, to keep him from falling into the gutters. The pen\nworks for itself, and acts like a hand, modelling the plastic material\nover and over again to the form that suits it best. The form is never\narbitrary, but is a sort of growth like crystallization, as any artist\nknows too well; for often the pencil or pen runs into side-paths and\nshapelessness, loses its relations, stops or is bogged. Then it has to\nreturn on its trail, and recover, if it can, its line of force. The\nresult of a year's work depends more on what is struck out than on what\nis left in; on the sequence of the main lines of thought, than on their\nplay or variety. Compelled once more to lean heavily on this support,\nAdams covered more thousands of pages with figures as formal as though\nthey were algebra, laboriously striking out, altering, burning,\nexperimenting, until the year had expired, the Exposition had long been\nclosed, and winter drawing to its end, before he sailed from Cherbourg,\non January 19, 1901, for home.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVI\n\nTWILIGHT (1901)\n\n  WHILE the world that thought itself frivolous, and submitted\nmeekly to hearing itself decried as vain, fluttered through the Paris\nExposition, jogging the futilities of St. Gaudens, Rodin, and Besnard,\nthe world that thought itself serious, and showed other infallible\nmarks of coming mental paroxysm, was engaged in weird doings at Peking\nand elsewhere such as startled even itself. Of all branches of\neducation, the science of gauging people and events by their relative\nimportance defies study most insolently. For three or four generations,\nsociety has united in withering with contempt and opprobrium the\nshameless futility of Mme. de Pompadour and Mme. du Barry; yet, if one\nbid at an auction for some object that had been approved by the taste\nof either lady, one quickly found that it were better to buy\nhalf-a-dozen Napoleons or Frederics, or Maria Theresas, or all the\nphilosophy and science of their time, than to bid for a cane-bottomed\nchair that either of these two ladies had adorned. The same thing might\nbe said, in a different sense, of Voltaire; while, as every one knows,\nthe money-value of any hand-stroke of Watteau or Hogarth, Nattier or\nSir Joshua, is out of all proportion to the importance of the men.\nSociety seemed to delight in talking with solemn conviction about\nserious values, and in paying fantastic prices for nothing but the most\nfutile. The drama acted at Peking, in the summer of 1900, was, in the\neyes of a student, the most serious that could be offered for his\nstudy, since it brought him suddenly to the inevitable struggle for the\ncontrol of China, which, in his view, must decide the control of the\nworld; yet, as a money-value, the fall of China was chiefly studied in\nParis and London as a calamity to Chinese porcelain. The value of a\nMing vase was more serious than universal war.\n\n  The drama of the Legations interested the public much as though\nit were a novel of Alexandre Dumas, but the bearing of the drama on\nfuture history offered an interest vastly greater. Adams knew no more\nabout it than though he were the best-informed statesman in Europe.\nLike them all, he took for granted that the Legations were massacred,\nand that John Hay, who alone championed China's \"administrative\nentity,\" would be massacred too, since he must henceforth look on, in\nimpotence, while Russia and Germany dismembered China, and shut up\nAmerica at home. Nine statesmen out of ten, in Europe, accepted this\nresult in advance, seeing no way to prevent it. Adams saw none, and\nlaughed at Hay for his helplessness.\n\n  When Hay suddenly ignored European leadership, took the lead\nhimself, rescued the Legations and saved China, Adams looked on, as\nincredulous as Europe, though not quite so stupid, since, on that\nbranch of education, he knew enough for his purpose. Nothing so\nmeteoric had ever been done in American diplomacy. On returning to\nWashington, January 30, 1901, he found most of the world as astonished\nas himself, but less stupid than usual. For a moment, indeed, the world\nhad been struck dumb at seeing Hay put Europe aside and set the\nWashington Government at the head of civilization so quietly that\ncivilization submitted, by mere instinct of docility, to receive and\nobey his orders; but, after the first shock of silence, society felt\nthe force of the stroke through its fineness, and burst into almost\ntumultuous applause. Instantly the diplomacy of the nineteenth century,\nwith all its painful scuffles and struggles, was forgotten, and the\nAmerican blushed to be told of his submissions in the past. History\nbroke in halves.\n\n  Hay was too good an artist not to feel the artistic skill of\nhis own work, and the success reacted on his health, giving him fresh\nlife, for with him as with most men, success was a tonic, and\ndepression a specific poison; but as usual, his troubles nested at\nhome. Success doubles strain. President McKinley's diplomatic court had\nbecome the largest in the world, and the diplomatic relations required\nfar more work than ever before, while the staff of the Department was\nlittle more efficient, and the friction in the Senate had become\ncoagulated. Hay took to studying the \"Diary\" of John Quincy Adams\neighty years before, and calculated that the resistance had increased\nabout ten times, as measured by waste of days and increase of effort,\nalthough Secretary of State J. Q. Adams thought himself very hardly\ntreated. Hay cheerfully noted that it was killing him, and proved it,\nfor the effort of the afternoon walk became sometimes painful.\n\n  For the moment, things were going fairly well, and Hay's unruly\nteam were less fidgety, but Pauncefote still pulled the whole load and\nturned the dangerous corners safely, while Cassini and Holleben helped\nthe Senate to make what trouble they could, without serious offence,\nand the Irish, after the genial Celtic nature, obstructed even\nthemselves. The fortunate Irish, thanks to their sympathetic qualities,\nnever made lasting enmities; but the Germans seemed in a fair way to\nrouse ill-will and even ugly temper in the spirit of politics, which\nwas by no means a part of Hay's plans. He had as much as he could do to\novercome domestic friction, and felt no wish to alienate foreign\npowers. Yet so much could be said in favor of the foreigners that they\ncommonly knew why they made trouble, and were steady to a motive.\nCassini had for years pursued, in Peking as in Washington, a policy of\nhis own, never disguised, and as little in harmony with his chief as\nwith Hay; he made his opposition on fixed lines for notorious objects;\nbut Senators could seldom give a reason for obstruction. In every\nhundred men, a certain number obstruct by instinct, and try to invent\nreasons to explain it afterwards. The Senate was no worse than the\nboard of a university; but incorporators as a rule have not made this\nclass of men dictators on purpose to prevent action. In the Senate, a\nsingle vote commonly stopped legislation, or, in committee, stifled\ndiscussion.\n\n  Hay's policy of removing, one after another, all irritations,\nand closing all discussions with foreign countries, roused incessant\nobstruction, which could be overcome only by patience and bargaining in\nexecutive patronage, if indeed it could be overcome at all. The price\nactually paid was not very great except in the physical exhaustion of\nHay and Pauncefote, Root and McKinley. No serious bargaining of\nequivalents could be attempted; Senators would not sacrifice five\ndollars in their own States to gain five hundred thousand in another;\nbut whenever a foreign country was willing to surrender an advantage\nwithout an equivalent, Hay had a chance to offer the Senate a treaty.\nIn all such cases the price paid for the treaty was paid wholly to the\nSenate, and amounted to nothing very serious except in waste of time\nand wear of strength. \"Life is so gay and horrid!\" laughed Hay; \"the\nMajor will have promised all the consulates in the service; the\nSenators will all come to me and refuse to believe me dis-consulate; I\nshall see all my treaties slaughtered, one by one, by the thirty-four\nper cent of kickers and strikers; the only mitigation I can foresee is\nbeing sick a good part of the time; I am nearing my grand climacteric,\nand the great culbute is approaching.\"\n\n  He was thinking of his friend Blaine, and might have thought of\nall his predecessors, for all had suffered alike, and to Adams as\nhistorian their sufferings had been a long delight--the solitary\npicturesque and tragic element in politics--incidentally requiring\ncharacter-studies like Aaron Burr and William B. Giles, Calhoun and\nWebster and Sumner, with Sir Forcible Feebles like James M. Mason and\nstage exaggerations like Roscoe Conkling. The Senate took the place of\nShakespeare, and offered real Brutuses and Bolingbrokes, Jack Cades,\nFalstaffs, and Malvolios--endless varieties of human nature nowhere\nelse to be studied, and none the less amusing because they killed, or\nbecause they were like schoolboys in their simplicity. \"Life is so gay\nand horrid!\" Hay still felt the humor, though more and more rarely, but\nwhat he felt most was the enormous complexity and friction of the vast\nmass he was trying to guide. He bitterly complained that it had made\nhim a bore--of all things the most senatorial, and to him the most\nobnoxious. The old friend was lost, and only the teacher remained,\ndriven to madness by the complexities and multiplicities of his new\nworld.\n\n  To one who, at past sixty years old, is still passionately\nseeking education, these small, or large, annoyances had no great value\nexcept as measures of mass and motion. For him the practical interest\nand the practical man were such as looked forward to the next election,\nor perhaps, in corporations, five or ten years. Scarcely half-a-dozen\nmen in America could be named who were known to have looked a dozen\nyears ahead; while any historian who means to keep his alignment with\npast and future must cover a horizon of two generations at least. If he\nseeks to align himself with the future, he must assume a condition of\nsome sort for a world fifty years beyond his own. Every\nhistorian--sometimes unconsciously, but always inevitably--must have\nput to himself the question: How long could such-or-such an outworn\nsystem last? He can never give himself less than one generation to show\nthe full effects of a changed condition. His object is to triangulate\nfrom the widest possible base to the furthest point he thinks he can\nsee, which is always far beyond the curvature of the horizon.\n\n  To the practical man, such an attempt is idiotic, and probably\nthe practical man is in the right to-day; but, whichever is right--if\nthe question of right or wrong enters at all into the matter--the\nhistorian has no choice but to go on alone. Even in his own profession\nfew companions offer help, and his walk soon becomes solitary, leading\nfurther and further into a wilderness where twilight is short and the\nshadows are dense. Already Hay literally staggered in his tracks for\nweariness. More worn than he, Clarence King dropped. One day in the\nspring he stopped an hour in Washington to bid good-bye, cheerily and\nsimply telling how his doctors had condemned him to Arizona for his\nlungs. All three friends knew that they were nearing the end, and that\nif it were not the one it would be the other; but the affectation of\nreadiness for death is a stage role, and stoicism is a stupid resource,\nthough the only one. Non doles, Paete! One is ashamed of it even in the\nacting.\n\n  The sunshine of life had not been so dazzling of late but that\na share of it flickered out for Adams and Hay when King disappeared\nfrom their lives; but Hay had still his family and ambition, while\nAdams could only blunder back alone, helplessly, wearily, his eyes\nrather dim with tears, to his vague trail across the darkening prairie\nof education, without a motive, big or small, except curiosity to\nreach, before he too should drop, some point that would give him a far\nlook ahead. He was morbidly curious to see some light at the end of the\npassage, as though thirty years were a shadow, and he were again to\nfall into King's arms at the door of the last and only log cabin left\nin life. Time had become terribly short, and the sense of knowing so\nlittle when others knew so much, crushed out hope.\n\n  He knew not in what new direction to turn, and sat at his desk,\nidly pulling threads out of the tangled skein of science, to see\nwhether or why they aligned themselves. The commonest and oldest toy he\nknew was the child's magnet, with which he had played since babyhood,\nthe most familiar of puzzles. He covered his desk with magnets, and\nmapped out their lines of force by compass. Then he read all the books\nhe could find, and tried in vain to makes his lines of force agree with\ntheirs. The books confounded him. He could not credit his own\nunderstanding. Here was literally the most concrete fact in nature,\nnext to gravitation which it defied; a force which must have radiated\nlines of energy without stop, since time began, if not longer, and\nwhich might probably go on radiating after the sun should fall into the\nearth, since no one knew why--or how--or what it radiated--or even\nwhether it radiated at all. Perhaps the earliest known of all natural\nforces after the solar energies, it seemed to have suggested no idea to\nany one until some mariner bethought himself that it might serve for a\npointer. Another thousand years passed when it taught some other\nintelligent man to use it as a pump, supply-pipe, sieve, or reservoir\nfor collecting electricity, still without knowing how it worked or what\nit was. For a historian, the story of Faraday's experiments and the\ninvention of the dynamo passed belief; it revealed a condition of human\nignorance and helplessness before the commonest forces, such as his\nmind refused to credit. He could not conceive but that some one,\nsomewhere, could tell him all about the magnet, if one could but find\nthe book--although he had been forced to admit the same helplessness in\nthe face of gravitation, phosphorescence, and odors; and he could\nimagine no reason why society should treat radium as revolutionary in\nscience when every infant, for ages past, had seen the magnet doing\nwhat radium did; for surely the kind of radiation mattered nothing\ncompared with the energy that radiated and the matter supplied for\nradiation. He dared not venture into the complexities of chemistry, or\nmicrobes, so long as this child's toy offered complexities that\nbefogged his mind beyond X-rays, and turned the atom into an endless\nvariety of pumps endlessly pumping an endless variety of ethers. He\nwanted to ask Mme. Curie to invent a motor attachable to her salt of\nradium, and pump its forces through it, as Faraday did with a magnet.\nHe figured the human mind itself as another radiating matter through\nwhich man had always pumped a subtler fluid.\n\n  In all this futility, it was not the magnet or the rays or the\nmicrobes that troubled him, or even his helplessness before the forces.\nTo that he was used from childhood. The magnet in its new relation\nstaggered his new education by its evidence of growing complexity, and\nmultiplicity, and even contradiction, in life. He could not escape it;\npolitics or science, the lesson was the same, and at every step it\nblocked his path whichever way he turned. He found it in politics; he\nran against it in science; he struck it in everyday life, as though he\nwere still Adam in the Garden of Eden between God who was unity, and\nSatan who was complexity, with no means of deciding which was truth.\nThe problem was the same for McKinley as for Adam, and for the Senate\nas for Satan. Hay was going to wreck on it, like King and Adams.\n\n  All one's life, one had struggled for unity, and unity had\nalways won. The National Government and the national unity had overcome\nevery resistance, and the Darwinian evolutionists were triumphant over\nall the curates; yet the greater the unity and the momentum, the worse\nbecame the complexity and the friction. One had in vain bowed one's\nneck to railways, banks, corporations, trusts, and even to the popular\nwill as far as one could understand it--or even further; the\nmultiplicity of unity had steadily increased, was increasing, and\nthreatened to increase beyond reason. He had surrendered all his\nfavorite prejudices, and foresworn even the forms of criticism--except\nfor his pet amusement, the Senate, which was a tonic or stimulant\nnecessary to healthy life; he had accepted uniformity and Pteraspis and\nice age and tramways and telephones; and now--just when he was ready to\nhang the crowning garland on the brow of a completed education--science\nitself warned him to begin it again from the beginning.\n\n  Maundering among the magnets he bethought himself that once, a\nfull generation earlier, he had begun active life by writing a\nconfession of geological faith at the bidding of Sir Charles Lyell, and\nthat it might be worth looking at if only to steady his vision. He read\nit again, and thought it better than he could do at sixty-three; but\nelderly minds always work loose. He saw his doubts grown larger, and\nbecame curious to know what had been said about them since 1870. The\nGeological Survey supplied stacks of volumes, and reading for steady\nmonths; while, the longer he read, the more he wondered, pondered,\ndoubted what his delightful old friend Sir Charles Lyell would have\nsaid about it.\n\n  Truly the animal that is to be trained to unity must be caught\nyoung. Unity is vision; it must have been part of the process of\nlearning to see. The older the mind, the older its complexities, and\nthe further it looks, the more it sees, until even the stars resolve\nthemselves into multiples; yet the child will always see but one. Adams\nasked whether geology since 1867 had drifted towards unity or\nmultiplicity, and he felt that the drift would depend on the age of the\nman who drifted.\n\n  Seeking some impersonal point for measure, he turned to see\nwhat had happened to his oldest friend and cousin the ganoid fish, the\nPteraspis of Ludlow and Wenlock, with whom he had sported when\ngeological life was young; as though they had all remained together in\ntime to act the Mask of Comus at Ludlow Castle, and repeat \"how\ncharming is divine philosophy!\" He felt almost aggrieved to find\nWalcott so vigorously acting the part of Comus as to have flung the\nganoid all the way off to Colorado and far back into the Lower Trenton\nlimestone, making the Pteraspis as modern as a Mississippi gar-pike by\nspawning an ancestry for him, indefinitely more remote, in the dawn of\nknown organic life. A few thousand feet, more or less, of limestone\nwere the liveliest amusement to the ganoid, but they buried the\nuniformitarian alive, under the weight of his own uniformity. Not for\nall the ganoid fish that ever swam, would a discreet historian dare to\nhazard even in secret an opinion about the value of Natural Selection\nby Minute Changes under Uniform Conditions, for he could know no more\nabout it than most of his neighbors who knew nothing; but natural\nselection that did not select--evolution finished before it\nbegan--minute changes that refused to change anything during the whole\ngeological record--survival of the highest order in a fauna which had\nno origin--uniformity under conditions which had disturbed everything\nelse in creation--to an honest-meaning though ignorant student who\nneeded to prove Natural Selection and not assume it, such sequence\nbrought no peace. He wished to be shown that changes in form caused\nevolution in force; that chemical or mechanical energy had by natural\nselection and minute changes, under uniform conditions, converted\nitself into thought. The ganoid fish seemed to prove--to him--that it\nhad selected neither new form nor new force, but that the curates were\nright in thinking that force could be increased in volume or raised in\nintensity only by help of outside force. To him, the ganoid was a huge\nperplexity, none the less because neither he nor the ganoid troubled\nDarwinians, but the more because it helped to reveal that Darwinism\nseemed to survive only in England. In vain he asked what sort of\nevolution had taken its place. Almost any doctrine seemed orthodox.\nEven sudden conversions due to mere vital force acting on its own lines\nquite beyond mechanical explanation, had cropped up again. A little\nmore, and he would be driven back on the old independence of species.\n\n  What the ontologist thought about it was his own affair, like\nthe theologist's views on theology, for complexity was nothing to them;\nbut to the historian who sought only the direction of thought and had\nbegun as the confident child of Darwin and Lyell in 1867, the matter of\ndirection seemed vital. Then he had entered gaily the door of the\nglacial epoch, and had surveyed a universe of unities and uniformities.\nIn 1900 he entered a far vaster universe, where all the old roads ran\nabout in every direction, overrunning, dividing, subdividing, stopping\nabruptly, vanishing slowly, with side-paths that led nowhere, and\nsequences that could not be proved. The active geologists had mostly\nbecome specialists dealing with complexities far too technical for an\namateur, but the old formulas still seemed to serve for beginners, as\nthey had served when new.\n\n  So the cause of the glacial epoch remained at the mercy of\nLyell and Croll, although Geikie had split up the period into\nhalf-a-dozen intermittent chills in recent geology and in the northern\nhemisphere alone, while no geologist had ventured to assert that the\nglaciation of the southern hemisphere could possibly be referred to a\nhorizon more remote. Continents still rose wildly and wildly sank,\nthough Professor Suess of Vienna had written an epoch-making work,\nshowing that continents were anchored like crystals, and only oceans\nrose and sank. Lyell's genial uniformity seemed genial still, for\nnothing had taken its place, though, in the interval, granite had grown\nyoung, nothing had been explained, and a bewildering system of huge\noverthrusts had upset geological mechanics. The textbooks refused even\nto discuss theories, frankly throwing up their hands and avowing that\nprogress depended on studying each rock as a law to itself.\n\n  Adams had no more to do with the correctness of the science\nthan the gar-pike or the Port Jackson shark, for its correctness in no\nway concerned him, and only impertinence could lead him to dispute or\ndiscuss the principles of any science; but the history of the mind\nconcerned the historian alone, and the historian had no vital concern\nin anything else, for he found no change to record in the body. In\nthought the Schools, like the Church, raised ignorance to a faith and\ndegraded dogma to heresy. Evolution survived like the trilobites\nwithout evolving, and yet the evolutionists held the whole field, and\nhad even plucked up courage to rebel against the Cossack ukase of Lord\nKelvin forbidding them to ask more than twenty million years for their\nexperiments. No doubt the geologists had always submitted sadly to this\nlast and utmost violence inflicted on them by the Pontiff of Physical\nReligion in the effort to force unification of the universe; they had\nprotested with mild conviction that they could not state the geological\nrecord in terms of time; they had murmured Ignoramus under their\nbreath; but they had never dared to assert the Ignorabimus that lay on\nthe tips of their tongues.\n\n  Yet the admission seemed close at hand. Evolution was becoming\nchange of form broken by freaks of force, and warped at times by\nattractions affecting intelligence, twisted and tortured at other times\nby sheer violence, cosmic, chemical, solar, supersensual,\nelectrolytic--who knew what?--defying science, if not denying known\nlaw; and the wisest of men could but imitate the Church, and invoke a\n\"larger synthesis\" to unify the anarchy again. Historians have got into\nfar too much trouble by following schools of theology in their efforts\nto enlarge their synthesis, that they should willingly repeat the\nprocess in science. For human purposes a point must always be soon\nreached where larger synthesis is suicide.\n\n Politics and geology pointed alike to the larger synthesis of\nrapidly increasing complexity; but still an elderly man knew that the\nchange might be only in himself. The admission cost nothing. Any\nstudent, of any age, thinking only of a thought and not of his thought,\nshould delight in turning about and trying the opposite motion, as he\ndelights in the spring which brings even to a tired and irritated\nstatesman the larger synthesis of peach-blooms, cherry-blossoms, and\ndogwood, to prove the folly of fret. Every schoolboy knows that this\nsum of all knowledge never saved him from whipping; mere years help\nnothing; King and Hay and Adams could neither of them escape\nfloundering through the corridors of chaos that opened as they passed\nto the end; but they could at least float with the stream if they only\nknew which way the current ran. Adams would have liked to begin afresh\nwith the Limulus and Lepidosteus in the waters of Braintree, side by\nside with Adamses and Quincys and Harvard College, all unchanged and\nunchangeable since archaic time; but what purpose would it serve? A\nseeker of truth--or illusion--would be none the less restless, though a\nshark!\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVII\n\nTEUFELSDROCKH (1901)\n\n  INEVITABLE Paris beckoned, and resistance became more and more\nfutile as the store of years grew less; for the world contains no other\nspot than Paris where education can be pursued from every side. Even\nmore vigorously than in the twelfth century, Paris taught in the\ntwentieth, with no other school approaching it for variety of direction\nand energy of mind. Of the teaching in detail, a man who knew only what\naccident had taught him in the nineteenth century, could know next to\nnothing, since science had got quite beyond his horizon, and\nmathematics had become the only necessary language of thought; but one\ncould play with the toys of childhood, including Ming porcelain, salons\nof painting, operas and theatres, beaux-arts and Gothic architecture,\ntheology and anarchy, in any jumble of time; or totter about with Joe\nStickney, talking Greek philosophy or recent poetry, or studying\n\"Louise\" at the Opera Comique, or discussing the charm of youth and the\nSeine with Bay Lodge and his exquisite young wife. Paris remained\nParisian in spite of change, mistress of herself though China fell.\nScores of artists--sculptors and painters, poets and dramatists,\nworkers in gems and metals, designers in stuffs and furniture--hundreds\nof chemists, physicists, even philosophers, philologists, physicians,\nand historians--were at work, a thousand times as actively as ever\nbefore, and the mass and originality of their product would have\nswamped any previous age, as it very nearly swamped its own; but the\neffect was one of chaos, and Adams stood as helpless before it as\nbefore the chaos of New York. His single thought was to keep in front\nof the movement, and, if necessary, lead it to chaos, but never fall\nbehind. Only the young have time to linger in the rear.\n\n  The amusements of youth had to be abandoned, for not even\npugilism needs more staying-power than the labors of the pale-faced\nstudent of the Latin Quarter in the haunts of Montparnasse or\nMontmartre, where one must feel no fatigue at two o'clock in the\nmorning in a beer-garden even after four hours of Mounet Sully at the\nTheatre Francais. In those branches, education might be called closed.\nFashion, too, could no longer teach anything worth knowing to a man\nwho, holding open the door into the next world, regarded himself as\nmerely looking round to take a last glance of this. The glance was more\namusing than any he had known in his active life, but it was\nmore--infinitely more--chaotic and complex.\n\n  Still something remained to be done for education beyond the\nchaos, and as usual the woman helped. For thirty years or there-abouts,\nhe had been repeating that he really must go to Baireuth. Suddenly Mrs.\nLodge appeared on the horizon and bade him come. He joined them,\nparents and children, alert and eager and appreciative as ever, at the\nlittle old town of Rothenburg-on-the Taube, and they went on to the\nBaireuth festival together.\n\n  Thirty years earlier, a Baireuth festival would have made an\nimmense stride in education, and the spirit of the master would have\nopened a vast new world. In 1901 the effect was altogether different\nfrom the spirit of the master. In 1876 the rococo setting of Baireuth\nseemed the correct atmosphere for Siegfried and Brunhilde, perhaps even\nfor Parsifal. Baireuth was out of the world, calm, contemplative, and\nremote. In 1901 the world had altogether changed, and Wagner had become\na part of it, as familiar as Shakespeare or Bret Harte. The rococo\nelement jarred. Even the Hudson and the Susquehanna--perhaps the\nPotomac itself--had often risen to drown out the gods of Walhalla, and\none could hardly listen to the \"Gotterdammerung\" in New York, among\nthrongs of intense young enthusiasts, without paroxysms of nervous\nexcitement that toned down to musical philistinism at Baireuth, as\nthough the gods were Bavarian composers. New York or Paris might be\nwhatever one pleased--venal, sordid, vulgar--but society nursed there,\nin the rottenness of its decay, certain anarchistic ferments, and\nthought them proof of art. Perhaps they were; and at all events, Wagner\nwas chiefly responsible for them as artistic emotion. New York knew\nbetter than Baireuth what Wagner meant, and the frivolities of Paris\nhad more than once included the rising of the Seine to drown out the\nEtoile or Montmartre, as well as the sorcery of ambition that casts\nspells of enchantment on the hero. Paris still felt a subtile flattery\nin the thought that the last great tragedy of gods and men would surely\nhappen there, while no one could conceive of its happening at Baireuth,\nor would care if it did. Paris coquetted with catastrophe as though it\nwere an old mistress--faced it almost gaily as she had done so often,\nfor they were acquainted since Rome began to ravage Europe; while New\nYork met it with a glow of fascinated horror, like an inevitable\nearthquake, and heard Ternina announce it with conviction that made\nnerves quiver and thrill as they had long ceased to do under the\naccents of popular oratory proclaiming popular virtue. Flattery had\nlost its charm, but the Fluch-motif went home.\n\n  Adams had been carried with the tide till Brunhilde had become\na habit and Ternina an ally. He too had played with anarchy; though not\nwith socialism, which, to young men who nourished artistic emotions\nunder the dome of the Pantheon, seemed hopelessly bourgeois, and lowest\nmiddle-class. Bay Lodge and Joe Stickney had given birth to the wholly\nnew and original party of Conservative Christian Anarchists, to restore\ntrue poetry under the inspiration of the \"Gotterdammerung.\" Such a\nparty saw no inspiration in Baireuth, where landscape, history, and\naudience were--relatively--stodgy, and where the only emotion was a\nmusical dilettantism that the master had abhorred.\n\n  Yet Baireuth still amused even a conservative Christian\nanarchist who cared as little as \"Grane, mein Ross,\" whether the\nsingers sang false, and who came only to learn what Wagner had supposed\nhimself to mean. This end attained as pleased Frau Wagner and the\nHeiliger Geist, he was ready to go on; and the Senator, yearning for\nsterner study, pointed to a haven at Moscow. For years Adams had taught\nAmerican youth never to travel without a Senator who was useful even in\nAmerica at times, but indispensable in Russia where, in 1901,\nanarchists, even though conservative and Christian, were ill-seen.\n\n  This wing of the anarchistic party consisted rigorously of but\ntwo members, Adams and Bay Lodge. The conservative Christian anarchist,\nas a party, drew life from Hegel and Schopenhauer rightly understood.\nBy the necessity of their philosophical descent, each member of the\nfraternity denounced the other as unequal to his lofty task and\ninadequate to grasp it. Of course, no third member could be so much as\nconsidered, since the great principle of contradiction could be\nexpressed only by opposites; and no agreement could be conceived,\nbecause anarchy, by definition, must be chaos and collision, as in the\nkinetic theory of a perfect gas. Doubtless this law of contradiction\nwas itself agreement, a restriction of personal liberty inconsistent\nwith freedom; but the \"larger synthesis\" admitted a limited agreement\nprovided it were strictly confined to the end of larger contradiction.\nThus the great end of all philosophy--the \"larger synthesis\"--was\nattained, but the process was arduous, and while Adams, as the older\nmember, assumed to declare the principle, Bay Lodge necessarily denied\nboth the assumption and the principle in order to assure its truth.\n\n  Adams proclaimed that in the last synthesis, order and anarchy\nwere one, but that the unity was chaos. As anarchist, conservative and\nChristian, he had no motive or duty but to attain the end; and, to\nhasten it, he was bound to accelerate progress; to concentrate energy;\nto accumulate power; to multiply and intensify forces; to reduce\nfriction, increase velocity and magnify momentum, partly because this\nwas the mechanical law of the universe as science explained it; but\npartly also in order to get done with the present which artists and\nsome others complained of; and finally--and chiefly--because a rigorous\nphilosophy required it, in order to penetrate the beyond, and satisfy\nman's destiny by reaching the largest synthesis in its ultimate\ncontradiction.\n\n  Of course the untaught critic instantly objected that this\nscheme was neither conservative, Christian, nor anarchic, but such\nobjection meant only that the critic should begin his education in any\ninfant school in order to learn that anarchy which should be logical\nwould cease to be anarchic. To the conservative Christian anarchist,\nthe amiable doctrines of Kropotkin were sentimental ideas of Russian\nmental inertia covered with the name of anarchy merely to disguise\ntheir innocence; and the outpourings of Elisee Reclus were ideals of\nthe French ouvrier, diluted with absinthe, resulting in a bourgeois\ndream of order and inertia. Neither made a pretence of anarchy except\nas a momentary stage towards order and unity. Neither of them had\nformed any other conception of the universe than what they had\ninherited from the priestly class to which their minds obviously\nbelonged. With them, as with the socialist, communist, or collectivist,\nthe mind that followed nature had no relation; if anarchists needed\norder, they must go back to the twelfth century where their thought had\nenjoyed its thousand years of reign. The conservative Christian\nanarchist could have no associate, no object, no faith except the\nnature of nature itself; and his \"larger synthesis\" had only the fault\nof being so supremely true that even the highest obligation of duty\ncould scarcely oblige Bay Lodge to deny it in order to prove it. Only\nthe self-evident truth that no philosophy of order--except the\nChurch--had ever satisfied the philosopher reconciled the conservative\nChristian anarchist to prove his own.\n\n  Naturally these ideas were so far in advance of the age that\nhardly more people could understand them than understood Wagner or\nHegel; for that matter, since the time of Socrates, wise men have been\nmostly shy of claiming to understand anything; but such refinements\nwere Greek or German, and affected the practical American but little.\nHe admitted that, for the moment, the darkness was dense. He could not\naffirm with confidence, even to himself, that his \"largest synthesis\"\nwould certainly turn out to be chaos, since he would be equally obliged\nto deny the chaos. The poet groped blindly for an emotion. The play of\nthought for thought's sake had mostly ceased. The throb of fifty or a\nhundred million steam horse-power, doubling every ten years, and\nalready more despotic than all the horses that ever lived, and all the\nriders they ever carried, drowned rhyme and reason. No one was to\nblame, for all were equally servants of the power, and worked merely to\nincrease it; but the conservative Christian anarchist saw light.\n\n  Thus the student of Hegel prepared himself for a visit to\nRussia in order to enlarge his \"synthesis\"--and much he needed it! In\nAmerica all were conservative Christian anarchists; the faith was\nnational, racial, geographic. The true American had never seen such\nsupreme virtue in any of the innumerable shades between social anarchy\nand social order as to mark it for exclusively human and his own. He\nnever had known a complete union either in Church or State or thought,\nand had never seen any need for it. The freedom gave him courage to\nmeet any contradiction, and intelligence enough to ignore it. Exactly\nthe opposite condition had marked Russian growth. The Czar's empire was\na phase of conservative Christian anarchy more interesting to history\nthan all the complex variety of American newspapers, schools, trusts,\nsects, frauds, and Congressmen. These were Nature--pure and anarchic as\nthe conservative Christian anarchist saw Nature--active, vibrating,\nmostly unconscious, and quickly reacting on force; but, from the first\nglimpse one caught from the sleeping-car window, in the early morning,\nof the Polish Jew at the accidental railway station, in all his weird\nhorror, to the last vision of the Russian peasant, lighting his candle\nand kissing his ikon before the railway Virgin in the station at St.\nPetersburg, all was logical, conservative, Christian and anarchic.\nRussia had nothing in common with any ancient or modern world that\nhistory knew; she had been the oldest source of all civilization in\nEurope, and had kept none for herself; neither Europe nor Asia had ever\nknown such a phase, which seemed to fall into no line of evolution\nwhatever, and was as wonderful to the student of Gothic architecture in\nthe twelfth century, as to the student of the dynamo in the twentieth.\nStudied in the dry light of conservative Christian anarchy, Russia\nbecame luminous like the salt of radium; but with a negative luminosity\nas though she were a substance whose energies had been sucked out--an\ninert residuum--with movement of pure inertia. From the car window one\nseemed to float past undulations of nomad life--herders deserted by\ntheir leaders and herds--wandering waves stopped in their\nwanderings--waiting for their winds or warriors to return and lead them\nwestward; tribes that had camped, like Khirgis, for the season, and had\nlost the means of motion without acquiring the habit of permanence.\nThey waited and suffered. As they stood they were out of place, and\ncould never have been normal. Their country acted as a sink of energy\nlike the Caspian Sea, and its surface kept the uniformity of ice and\nsnow. One Russian peasant kissing an ikon on a saint's day, in the\nKremlin, served for a hundred million. The student had no need to study\nWallace, or re-read Tolstoy or Tourguenieff or Dostoiewski to refresh\nhis memory of the most poignant analysis of human inertia ever put in\nwords; Gorky was more than enough: Kropotkin answered every purpose.\n\n  The Russian people could never have changed--could they ever\nbe changed? Could inertia of race, on such a scale, be broken up, or\ntake new form? Even in America, on an infinitely smaller scale, the\nquestion was old and unanswered. All the so-called primitive races, and\nsome nearer survivals, had raised doubts which persisted against the\nmost obstinate convictions of evolution. The Senator himself shook his\nhead, and after surveying Warsaw and Moscow to his content, went on to\nSt. Petersburg to ask questions of Mr. de Witte and Prince Khilkoff.\nTheir conversation added new doubts; for their efforts had been\nimmense, their expenditure enormous, and their results on the people\nseemed to be uncertain as yet, even to themselves. Ten or fifteen years\nof violent stimulus seemed resulting in nothing, for, since 1898,\nRussia lagged.\n\n  The tourist-student, having duly reflected, asked the Senator\nwhether he should allow three generations, or more, to swing the\nRussian people into the Western movement. The Senator seemed disposed\nto ask for more. The student had nothing to say. For him, all opinion\nfounded on fact must be error, because the facts can never be complete,\nand their relations must be always infinite. Very likely, Russia would\ninstantly become the most brilliant constellation of human progress\nthrough all the ordered stages of good; but meanwhile one might give a\nvalue as movement of inertia to the mass, and assume a slow\nacceleration that would, at the end of a generation, leave the gap\nbetween east and west relatively the same. This result reached, the\nLodges thought their moral improvement required a visit to Berlin; but\nforty years of varied emotions had not deadened Adams's memories of\nBerlin, and he preferred, at any cost, to escape new ones. When the\nLodges started for Germany, Adams took steamer for Sweden and landed\nhappily, in a day or two, at Stockholm.\n\nUntil the student is fairly sure that his problem is soluble, he gains\nlittle by obstinately insisting on solving it. One might doubt whether\nMr. de Witte himself, or Prince Khilkoff, or any Grand Duke, or the\nEmperor, knew much more about it than their neighbors; and Adams was\nquite sure that, even in America, he should listen with uncertain\nconfidence to the views of any Secretary of the Treasury, or railway\npresident, or President of the United States whom he had ever known,\nthat should concern the America of the next generation. The mere fact\nthat any man should dare to offer them would prove his incompetence to\njudge. Yet Russia was too vast a force to be treated as an object of\nunconcern. As inertia, if in no other way, she represented\nthree-fourths of the human race, and her movement might be the true\nmovement of the future, against the hasty and unsure acceleration of\nAmerica. No one could yet know what would best suit humanity, and the\ntourist who carried his La Fontaine in mind, caught himself talking as\nbear or as monkey according to the mirror he held before him. \"Am I\nsatisfied?\" he asked:--\n\n                          \"Moi? pourquoi non?\n  N'ai-je pas quatre pieds aussi bien que les autres?\n  Mon portrait jusqu'ici ne m'a rien reproche;\n  Mais pour mon frere l'ours, on ne l'a qu'ebauche;\n  Jamais, s'il me veut croire, il ne se fera peindre.\"\n\n  Granting that his brother the bear lacked perfection in\ndetails, his own figure as monkey was not necessarily ideal or\ndecorative, nor was he in the least sure what form it might take even\nin one generation. He had himself never ventured to dream of three. No\nman could guess what the Daimler motor and X-rays would do to him; but\nso much was sure; the monkey and motor were terribly afraid of the\nbear; how much,--only a man close to their foreign departments knew. As\nthe monkey looked back across the Baltic from the safe battlements of\nStockholm, Russia looked more portentous than from the Kremlin.\n\n  The image was that of the retreating ice-cap--a wall of\narchaic glacier, as fixed, as ancient, as eternal, as the wall of\narchaic ice that blocked the ocean a few hundred miles to the\nnorthward, and more likely to advance. Scandinavia had been ever at its\nmercy. Europe had never changed. The imaginary line that crossed the\nlevel continent from the Baltic to the Black Sea, merely extended the\nnorthern barrier-line. The Hungarians and Poles on one side still\nstruggled against the Russian inertia of race, and retained their own\nenergies under the same conditions that caused inertia across the\nfrontier. Race ruled the conditions; conditions hardly affected race;\nand yet no one could tell the patient tourist what race was, or how it\nshould be known. History offered a feeble and delusive smile at the\nsound of the word; evolutionists and ethnologists disputed its very\nexistence; no one knew what to make of it; yet, without the clue,\nhistory was a nursery tale.\n\n  The Germans, Scandinavians, Poles and Hungarians, energetic as\nthey were, had never held their own against the heterogeneous mass of\ninertia called Russia, and trembled with terror whenever Russia moved.\nFrom Stockholm one looked back on it as though it were an ice-sheet,\nand so had Stockholm watched it for centuries. In contrast with the\ndreary forests of Russia and the stern streets of St. Petersburg,\nStockholm seemed a southern vision, and Sweden lured the tourist on.\nThrough a cheerful New England landscape and bright autumn, he rambled\nnorthwards till he found himself at Trondhjem and discovered Norway.\nEducation crowded upon him in immense masses as he triangulated these\nvast surfaces of history about which he had lectured and read for a\nlife-time. When the historian fully realizes his ignorance--which\nsometimes happens to Americans--he becomes even more tiresome to\nhimself than to others, because his naivete is irrepressible. Adams\ncould not get over his astonishment, though he had preached the Norse\ndoctrine all his life against the stupid and beer-swilling Saxon boors\nwhom Freeman loved, and who, to the despair of science, produced\nShakespeare. Mere contact with Norway started voyages of thought, and,\nunder their illusions, he took the mail steamer to the north, and on\nSeptember 14, reached Hammerfest.\n\n  Frivolous amusement was hardly what one saw, through the\nequinoctial twilight, peering at the flying tourist, down the deep\nfiords, from dim patches of snow, where the last Laps and reindeer were\nwatching the mail-steamer thread the intricate channels outside, as\ntheir ancestors had watched the first Norse fishermen learn them in the\nsuccession of time; but it was not the Laps, or the snow, or the arctic\ngloom, that impressed the tourist, so much as the lights of an\nelectro-magnetic civilization and the stupefying contrast with Russia,\nwhich more and more insisted on taking the first place in historical\ninterest. Nowhere had the new forces so vigorously corrected the errors\nof the old, or so effectively redressed the balance of the ecliptic. As\none approached the end--the spot where, seventy years before, a futile\nCarlylean Teufelsdrockh had stopped to ask futile questions of the\nsilent infinite--the infinite seemed to have become loquacious, not to\nsay familiar, chattering gossip in one's ear. An installation of\nelectric lighting and telephones led tourists close up to the polar\nice-cap, beyond the level of the magnetic pole; and there the newer\nTeufelsdrockh sat dumb with surprise, and glared at the permanent\nelectric lights of Hammerfest.\n\n  He had good reason--better than the Teufelsdrockh of 1830, in\nhis liveliest Scotch imagination, ever dreamed, or mortal man had ever\ntold. At best, a week in these dim Northern seas, without means of\nspeech, within the Arctic circle, at the equinox, lent itself to\ngravity if not to gloom; but only a week before, breakfasting in the\nrestaurant at Stockholm, his eye had caught, across, the neighboring\ntable, a headline in a Swedish newspaper, announcing an attempt on the\nlife of President McKinley, and from Stockholm to Trondhjem, and so up\nthe coast to Hammerfest, day after day the news came, telling of the\nPresident's condition, and the doings and sayings of Hay and Roosevelt,\nuntil at last a little journal was cried on reaching some dim haven,\nannouncing the President's death a few hours before. To Adams the death\nof McKinley and the advent of Roosevelt were not wholly void of\npersonal emotion, but this was little in comparison with his depth of\nwonder at hearing hourly reports from his most intimate friends, sent\nto him far within the realm of night, not to please him, but to correct\nthe faults of the solar system. The electro-dynamo-social universe\nworked better than the sun.\n\n  No such strange chance had ever happened to a historian before,\nand it upset for the moment his whole philosophy of conservative\nanarchy. The acceleration was marvellous, and wholly in the lines of\nunity. To recover his grasp of chaos, he must look back across the gulf\nto Russia, and the gap seemed to have suddenly become an abyss. Russia\nwas infinitely distant. Yet the nightmare of the glacial ice-cap still\npressed down on him from the hills, in full vision, and no one could\nlook out on the dusky and oily sea that lapped these spectral islands\nwithout consciousness that only a day's steaming to the northward would\nbring him to the ice-barrier, ready at any moment to advance, which\nobliged tourists to stop where Laps and reindeer and Norse fishermen\nhad stopped so long ago that memory of their very origin was lost.\nAdams had never before met a ne plus ultra, and knew not what to make\nof it; but he felt at least the emotion of his Norwegian fishermen\nancestors, doubtless numbering hundreds of thousands, jammed with their\nfaces to the sea, the ice on the north, the ice-cap of Russian inertia\npressing from behind, and the ice a trifling danger compared with the\ninertia. From the day they first followed the retreating ice-cap round\nthe North Cape, down to the present moment, their problem was the same.\n\n  The new Teufelsdrockh, though considerably older than the old\none, saw no clearer into past or future, but he was fully as much\nperplexed. From the archaic ice-barrier to the Caspian Sea, a long line\nof division, permanent since ice and inertia first took possession,\ndivided his lines of force, with no relation to climate or geography or\nsoil.\n\n  The less a tourist knows, the fewer mistakes he need make, for\nhe will not expect himself to explain ignorance. A century ago he\ncarried letters and sought knowledge; to-day he knows that no one\nknows; he needs too much and ignorance is learning. He wandered south\nagain, and came out at Kiel, Hamburg, Bremen, and Cologne. A mere\nglance showed him that here was a Germany new to mankind. Hamburg was\nalmost as American as St. Louis. In forty years, the green rusticity of\nDusseldorf had taken on the sooty grime of Birmingham. The Rhine in\n1900 resembled the Rhine of 1858 much as it resembled the Rhine of the\nSalic Franks. Cologne was a railway centre that had completed its\ncathedral which bore an absent-minded air of a cathedral of Chicago.\nThe thirteenth century, carefully strained-off, catalogued, and locked\nup, was visible to tourists as a kind of Neanderthal, cave-dwelling,\ncuriosity. The Rhine was more modern than the Hudson, as might well be,\nsince it produced far more coal; but all this counted for little beside\nthe radical change in the lines of force.\n\n  In 1858 the whole plain of northern Europe, as well as the\nDanube in the south, bore evident marks of being still the prehistoric\nhighway between Asia and the ocean. The trade-route followed the old\nroutes of invasion, and Cologne was a resting-place between Warsaw and\nFlanders. Throughout northern Germany, Russia was felt even more\npowerfully than France. In 1901 Russia had vanished, and not even\nFrance was felt; hardly England or America. Coal alone was felt--its\nstamp alone pervaded the Rhine district and persisted to Picardy--and\nthe stamp was the same as that of Birmingham and Pittsburgh. The Rhine\nproduced the same power, and the power produced the same people--the\nsame mind--the same impulse. For a man sixty-three years old who had no\nhope of earning a living, these three months of education were the most\narduous he ever attempted, and Russia was the most indigestible morsel\nhe ever met; but the sum of it, viewed from Cologne, seemed reasonable.\nFrom Hammerfest to Cherbourg on one shore of the ocean--from Halifax to\nNorfolk on the other--one great empire was ruled by one great\nemperor--Coal. Political and human jealousies might tear it apart or\ndivide it, but the power and the empire were one. Unity had gained that\nground. Beyond lay Russia, and there an older, perhaps a surer, power,\nresting on the eternal law of inertia, held its own.\n\n  As a personal matter, the relative value of the two powers\nbecame more interesting every year; for the mass of Russian inertia was\nmoving irresistibly over China, and John Hay stood in its path. As long\nas de Witte ruled, Hay was safe. Should de Witte fall, Hay would\ntotter. One could only sit down and watch the doings of Mr. de Witte\nand Mr. de Plehve.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVIII\n\nTHE HEIGHT OF KNOWLEDGE (1902)\n\n  AMERICA has always taken tragedy lightly. Too busy to stop the\nactivity of their twenty-million-horse-power society, Americans ignore\ntragic motives that would have overshadowed the Middle Ages; and the\nworld learns to regard assassination as a form of hysteria, and death\nas neurosis, to be treated by a rest-cure. Three hideous political\nmurders, that would have fattened the Eumenides with horror, have\nthrown scarcely a shadow on the White House.\n\n  The year 1901 was a year of tragedy that seemed to Hay to\ncentre on himself. First came, in summer, the accidental death of his\nson, Del Hay. Close on the tragedy of his son, followed that of his\nchief, \"all the more hideous that we were so sure of his recovery.\" The\nworld turned suddenly into a graveyard. \"I have acquired the funeral\nhabit.\" \"Nicolay is dying. I went to see him yesterday, and he did not\nknow me.\" Among the letters of condolence showered upon him was one\nfrom Clarence King at Pasadena, \"heart-breaking in grace and\ntenderness--the old King manner\"; and King himself \"simply waiting till\nnature and the foe have done their struggle.\" The tragedy of King\nimpressed him intensely: \"There you have it in the face!\" he said--\"the\nbest and brightest man of his generation, with talents immeasurably\nbeyond any of his contemporaries; with industry that has often sickened\nme to witness it; with everything in his favor but blind luck; hounded\nby disaster from his cradle, with none of the joy of life to which he\nwas entitled, dying at last, with nameless suffering alone and\nuncared-for, in a California tavern. Ca vous amuse, la vie?\"\n\n  The first summons that met Adams, before he had even landed on\nthe pier at New York, December 29, was to Clarence King's funeral, and\nfrom the funeral service he had no gayer road to travel than that which\nled to Washington, where a revolution had occurred that must in any\ncase have made the men of his age instantly old, but which, besides\nhurrying to the front the generation that till then he had regarded as\nboys, could not fail to break the social ties that had till then held\nthem all together.\n\n  Ca vous amuse, la vie? Honestly, the lessons of education were\nbecoming too trite. Hay himself, probably for the first time, felt half\nglad that Roosevelt should want him to stay in office, if only to save\nhimself the trouble of quitting; but to Adams all was pure loss. On\nthat side, his education had been finished at school. His friends in\npower were lost, and he knew life too well to risk total wreck by\ntrying to save them.\n\n  As far as concerned Roosevelt, the chance was hopeless. To them\nat sixty-three, Roosevelt at forty-three could not be taken seriously\nin his old character, and could not be recovered in his new one. Power\nwhen wielded by abnormal energy is the most serious of facts, and all\nRoosevelt's friends know that his restless and combative energy was\nmore than abnormal. Roosevelt, more than any other man living within\nthe range of notoriety, showed the singular primitive quality that\nbelongs to ultimate matter--the quality that mediaeval theology\nassigned to God--he was pure act. With him wielding unmeasured power\nwith immeasurable energy, in the White House, the relation of age to\nyouth--of teacher to pupil--was altogether out of place; and no other\nwas possible. Even Hay's relation was a false one, while Adams's ceased\nof itself. History's truths are little valuable now; but human nature\nretains a few of its archaic, proverbial laws, and the wisest courtier\nthat ever lived--Lucius Seneca himself--must have remained in some\nshade of doubt what advantage he should get from the power of his\nfriend and pupil Nero Claudius, until, as a gentleman past sixty, he\nreceived Nero's filial invitation to kill himself. Seneca closed the\nvast circle of his knowledge by learning that a friend in power was a\nfriend lost--a fact very much worth insisting upon--while the\ngray-headed moth that had fluttered through many moth-administrations\nand had singed his wings more or less in them all, though he now slept\nnine months out of the twelve, acquired an instinct of\nself-preservation that kept him to the north side of La Fayette Square,\nand, after a sufficient habitude of Presidents and Senators, deterred\nhim from hovering between them.\n\n  Those who seek education in the paths of duty are always\ndeceived by the illusion that power in the hands of friends is an\nadvantage to them. As far as Adams could teach experience, he was bound\nto warn them that he had found it an invariable disaster. Power is\npoison. Its effect on Presidents had been always tragic, chiefly as an\nalmost insane excitement at first, and a worse reaction afterwards; but\nalso because no mind is so well balanced as to bear the strain of\nseizing unlimited force without habit or knowledge of it; and finding\nit disputed with him by hungry packs of wolves and hounds whose lives\ndepend on snatching the carrion. Roosevelt enjoyed a singularly direct\nnature and honest intent, but he lived naturally in restless agitation\nthat would have worn out most tempers in a month, and his first year of\nPresidency showed chronic excitement that made a friend tremble. The\neffect of unlimited power on limited mind is worth noting in Presidents\nbecause it must represent the same process in society, and the power of\nself-control must have limit somewhere in face of the control of the\ninfinite.\n\n  Here, education seemed to see its first and last lesson, but\nthis is a matter of psychology which lies far down in the depths of\nhistory and of science; it will recur in other forms. The personal\nlesson is different. Roosevelt was lost, but this seemed no reason why\nHay and Lodge should also be lost, yet the result was mathematically\ncertain. With Hay, it was only the steady decline of strength, and the\nnecessary economy of force; but with Lodge it was law of politics. He\ncould not help himself, for his position as the President's friend and\nindependent statesman at once was false, and he must be unsure in both\nrelations.\n\n  To a student, the importance of Cabot Lodge was great--much\ngreater than that of the usual Senator--but it hung on his position in\nMassachusetts rather than on his control of Executive patronage; and\nhis standing in Massachusetts was highly insecure. Nowhere in America\nwas society so complex or change so rapid. No doubt the Bostonian had\nalways been noted for a certain chronic irritability--a sort of\nBostonitis--which, in its primitive Puritan forms, seemed due to\nknowing too much of his neighbors, and thinking too much of himself.\nMany years earlier William M. Evarts had pointed out to Adams the\nimpossibility of uniting New England behind a New England leader. The\ntrait led to good ends--such as admiration of Abraham Lincoln and\nGeorge Washington--but the virtue was exacting; for New England\nstandards were various, scarcely reconcilable with each other, and\nconstantly multiplying in number, until balance between them threatened\nto become impossible. The old ones were quite difficult enough--State\nStreet and the banks exacted one stamp; the old Congregational clergy\nanother; Harvard College, poor in votes, but rich in social influence,\na third; the foreign element, especially the Irish, held aloof, and\nseldom consented to approve any one; the new socialist class, rapidly\ngrowing, promised to become more exclusive than the Irish. New power\nwas disintegrating society, and setting independent centres of force to\nwork, until money had all it could do to hold the machine together. No\none could represent it faithfully as a whole.\n\n  Naturally, Adams's sympathies lay strongly with Lodge, but the\ntask of appreciation was much more difficult in his case than in that\nof his chief friend and scholar, the President. As a type for study, or\na standard for education, Lodge was the more interesting of the two.\nRoosevelts are born and never can be taught; but Lodge was a creature\nof teaching--Boston incarnate--the child of his local parentage; and\nwhile his ambition led him to be more, the intent, though virtuous,\nwas--as Adams admitted in his own case--restless. An excellent talker,\na voracious reader, a ready wit, an accomplished orator, with a clear\nmind and a powerful memory, he could never feel perfectly at ease\nwhatever leg he stood on, but shifted, sometimes with painful strain of\ntemper, from one sensitive muscle to another, uncertain whether to pose\nas an uncompromising Yankee; or a pure American; or a patriot in the\nstill purer atmosphere of Irish, Germans, or Jews; or a scholar and\nhistorian of Harvard College. English to the last fibre of his\nthought--saturated with English literature, English tradition, English\ntaste--revolted by every vice and by most virtues of Frenchmen and\nGermans, or any other Continental standards, but at home and happy\namong the vices and extravagances of Shakespeare--standing first on the\nsocial, then on the political foot; now worshipping, now banning;\nshocked by the wanton display of immorality, but practicing the license\nof political usage; sometimes bitter, often genial, always\nintelligent--Lodge had the singular merit of interesting. The usual\nstatesmen flocked in swarms like crows, black and monotonous. Lodge's\nplumage was varied, and, like his flight, harked back to race. He\nbetrayed the consciousness that he and his people had a past, if they\ndared but avow it, and might have a future, if they could but divine it.\n\n  Adams, too, was Bostonian, and the Bostonian's uncertainty of\nattitude was as natural to him as to Lodge. Only Bostonians can\nunderstand Bostonians and thoroughly sympathize with the inconsequences\nof the Boston mind. His theory and practice were also at variance. He\nprofessed in theory equal distrust of English thought, and called it a\nhuge rag-bag of bric-a-brac, sometimes precious but never sure. For\nhim, only the Greek, the Italian or the French standards had claims to\nrespect, and the barbarism of Shakespeare was as flagrant as to\nVoltaire; but his theory never affected his practice. He knew that his\nartistic standard was the illusion of his own mind; that English\ndisorder approached nearer to truth, if truth existed, than French\nmeasure or Italian line, or German logic; he read his Shakespeare as\nthe Evangel of conservative Christian anarchy, neither very\nconservative nor very Christian, but stupendously anarchistic. He loved\nthe atrocities of English art and society, as he loved Charles Dickens\nand Miss Austen, not because of their example, but because of their\nhumor. He made no scruple of defying sequence and denying\nconsistency--but he was not a Senator.\n\n  Double standards are inspiration to men of letters, but they\nare apt to be fatal to politicians. Adams had no reason to care whether\nhis standards were popular or not, and no one else cared more than he;\nbut Roosevelt and Lodge were playing a game in which they were always\nliable to find the shifty sands of American opinion yield suddenly\nunder their feet. With this game an elderly friend had long before\ncarried acquaintance as far as he wished. There was nothing in it for\nhim but the amusement of the pugilist or acrobat. The larger study was\nlost in the division of interests and the ambitions of fifth-rate men;\nbut foreign affairs dealt only with large units, and made personal\nrelation possible with Hay which could not be maintained with Roosevelt\nor Lodge. As an affair of pure education the point is worth notice from\nyoung men who are drawn into politics. The work of domestic progress is\ndone by masses of mechanical power--steam, electric, furnace, or\nother--which have to be controlled by a score or two of individuals who\nhave shown capacity to manage it. The work of internal government has\nbecome the task of controlling these men, who are socially as remote as\nheathen gods, alone worth knowing, but never known, and who could tell\nnothing of political value if one skinned them alive. Most of them have\nnothing to tell, but are forces as dumb as their dynamos, absorbed in\nthe development or economy of power. They are trustees for the public,\nand whenever society assumes the property, it must confer on them that\ntitle; but the power will remain as before, whoever manages it, and\nwill then control society without appeal, as it controls its stokers\nand pit-men. Modern politics is, at bottom, a struggle not of men but\nof forces. The men become every year more and more creatures of force,\nmassed about central power-houses. The conflict is no longer between\nthe men, but between the motors that drive the men, and the men tend to\nsuccumb to their own motive forces.\n\n  This is a moral that man strongly objects to admit, especially\nin mediaeval pursuits like politics and poetry, nor is it worth while\nfor a teacher to insist upon it. What he insists upon is only that in\ndomestic politics, every one works for an immediate object, commonly\nfor some private job, and invariably in a near horizon, while in\nforeign affairs the outlook is far ahead, over a field as wide as the\nworld. There the merest scholar could see what he was doing. For\nhistory, international relations are the only sure standards of\nmovement; the only foundation for a map. For this reason, Adams had\nalways insisted that international relation was the only sure base for\na chart of history.\n\n  He cared little to convince any one of the correctness of his\nview, but as teacher he was bound to explain it, and as friend he found\nit convenient. The Secretary of State has always stood as much alone as\nthe historian. Required to look far ahead and round him, he measures\nforces unknown to party managers, and has found Congress more or less\nhostile ever since Congress first sat. The Secretary of State exists\nonly to recognize the existence of a world which Congress would rather\nignore; of obligations which Congress repudiates whenever it can; of\nbargains which Congress distrusts and tries to turn to its advantage or\nto reject. Since the first day the Senate existed, it has always\nintrigued against the Secretary of State whenever the Secretary has\nbeen obliged to extend his functions beyond the appointment of Consuls\nin Senators' service.\n\n  This is a matter of history which any one may approve or\ndispute as he will; but as education it gave new resources to an old\nscholar, for it made of Hay the best schoolmaster since 1865. Hay had\nbecome the most imposing figure ever known in the office. He had an\ninfluence that no other Secretary of State ever possessed, as he had a\nnation behind him such as history had never imagined. He needed to\nwrite no state papers; he wanted no help, and he stood far above\ncounsel or advice; but he could instruct an attentive scholar as no\nother teacher in the world could do; and Adams sought only\ninstruction--wanted only to chart the international channel for fifty\nyears to come; to triangulate the future; to obtain his dimension, and\nfix the acceleration of movement in politics since the year 1200, as he\nwas trying to fix it in philosophy and physics; in finance and force.\n\n  Hay had been so long at the head of foreign affairs that at\nlast the stream of events favored him. With infinite effort he had\nachieved the astonishing diplomatic feat of inducing the Senate, with\nonly six negative votes, to permit Great Britain to renounce, without\nequivalent, treaty rights which she had for fifty years defended tooth\nand nail. This unprecedented triumph in his negotiations with the\nSenate enabled him to carry one step further his measures for general\npeace. About England the Senate could make no further effective\nopposition, for England was won, and Canada alone could give trouble.\nThe next difficulty was with France, and there the Senate blocked\nadvance, but England assumed the task, and, owing to political changes\nin France, effected the object--a combination which, as late as 1901,\nhad been visionary. The next, and far more difficult step, was to bring\nGermany into the combine; while, at the end of the vista, most\nunmanageable of all, Russia remained to be satisfied and disarmed. This\nwas the instinct of what might be named McKinleyism; the system of\ncombinations, consolidations, trusts, realized at home, and realizable\nabroad.\n\n  With the system, a student nurtured in ideas of the eighteenth\ncentury, had nothing to do, and made not the least presence of\nmeddling; but nothing forbade him to study, and he noticed to his\nastonishment that this capitalistic scheme of combining governments,\nlike railways or furnaces, was in effect precisely the socialist scheme\nof Jaures and Bebel. That John Hay, of all men, should adopt a\nsocialist policy seemed an idea more absurd than conservative Christian\nanarchy, but paradox had become the only orthodoxy in politics as in\nscience. When one saw the field, one realized that Hay could not help\nhimself, nor could Bebel. Either Germany must destroy England and\nFrance to create the next inevitable unification as a system of\ncontinent against continent--or she must pool interests. Both schemes\nin turn were attributed to the Kaiser; one or the other he would have\nto choose; opinion was balanced doubtfully on their merits; but,\ngranting both to be feasible, Hay's and McKinley's statesmanship turned\non the point of persuading the Kaiser to join what might be called the\nCoal-power combination, rather than build up the only possible\nalternative, a Gun-power combination by merging Germany in Russia. Thus\nBebel and Jaures, McKinley and Hay, were partners.\n\n  The problem was pretty--even fascinating--and, to an old\nCivil-War private soldier in diplomacy, as rigorous as a geometrical\ndemonstration. As the last possible lesson in life, it had all sorts of\nultimate values. Unless education marches on both feet--theory and\npractice--it risks going astray; and Hay was probably the most\naccomplished master of both then living. He knew not only the forces\nbut also the men, and he had no other thought than his policy.\n\n  Probably this was the moment of highest knowledge that a\nscholar could ever reach. He had under his eyes the whole educational\nstaff of the Government at a time when the Government had just reached\nthe heights of highest activity and influence. Since 1860, education\nhad done its worst, under the greatest masters and at enormous expense\nto the world, to train these two minds to catch and comprehend every\nspring of international action, not to speak of personal influence; and\nthe entire machinery of politics in several great countries had little\nto do but supply the last and best information. Education could be\ncarried no further.\n\n  With its effects on Hay, Adams had nothing to do; but its\neffects on himself were grotesque. Never had the proportions of his\nignorance looked so appalling. He seemed to know nothing--to be groping\nin darkness--to be falling forever in space; and the worst depth\nconsisted in the assurance, incredible as it seemed, that no one knew\nmore. He had, at least, the mechanical assurance of certain values to\nguide him--like the relative intensities of his Coal-powers, and\nrelative inertia of his Gun-powers--but he conceived that had he known,\nbesides the mechanics, every relative value of persons, as well as he\nknew the inmost thoughts of his own Government--had the Czar and the\nKaiser and the Mikado turned schoolmasters, like Hay, and taught him\nall they knew, he would still have known nothing. They knew nothing\nthemselves. Only by comparison of their ignorance could the student\nmeasure his own.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIX\n\nTHE ABYSS OF IGNORANCE (1902)\n\n  THE years hurried past, and gave hardly time to note their\nwork. Three or four months, though big with change, come to an end\nbefore the mind can catch up with it. Winter vanished; spring burst\ninto flower; and again Paris opened its arms, though not for long. Mr.\nCameron came over, and took the castle of Inverlochy for three months,\nwhich he summoned his friends to garrison. Lochaber seldom laughs,\nexcept for its children, such as Camerons, McDonalds, Campbells and\nother products of the mist; but in the summer of 1902 Scotland put on\nfewer airs of coquetry than usual. Since the terrible harvest of 1879\nwhich one had watched sprouting on its stalks on the Shropshire\nhillsides, nothing had equalled the gloom. Even when the victims fled\nto Switzerland, they found the Lake of Geneva and the Rhine not much\ngayer, and Carlsruhe no more restful than Paris; until at last, in\ndesperation, one drifted back to the Avenue of the Bois de Boulogne,\nand, like the Cuckoo, dropped into the nest of a better citizen.\nDiplomacy has its uses. Reynolds Hitt, transferred to Berlin, abandoned\nhis attic to Adams, and there, for long summers to come, he hid in\nignorance and silence.\n\n  Life at last managed of its own accord to settle itself into a\nworking arrangement. After so many years of effort to find one's drift,\nthe drift found the seeker, and slowly swept him forward and back, with\na steady progress oceanwards. Such lessons as summer taught, winter\ntested, and one had only to watch the apparent movement of the stars in\norder to guess one's declination. The process is possible only for men\nwho have exhausted auto-motion. Adams never knew why, knowing nothing\nof Faraday, he began to mimic Faraday's trick of seeing lines of force\nall about him, where he had always seen lines of will. Perhaps the\neffect of knowing no mathematics is to leave the mind to imagine\nfigures--images--phantoms; one's mind is a watery mirror at best; but,\nonce conceived, the image became rapidly simple, and the lines of force\npresented themselves as lines of attraction. Repulsions counted only as\nbattle of attractions. By this path, the mind stepped into the\nmechanical theory of the universe before knowing it, and entered a\ndistinct new phase of education.\n\n  This was the work of the dynamo and the Virgin of Chartres.\nLike his masters, since thought began, he was handicapped by the\neternal mystery of Force--the sink of all science. For thousands of\nyears in history, he found that Force had been felt as occult\nattraction--love of God and lust for power in a future life. After\n1500, when this attraction began to decline, philosophers fell back on\nsome vis a tergo--instinct of danger from behind, like Darwin's\nsurvival of the fittest; and one of the greatest minds, between\nDescartes and Newton--Pascal--saw the master-motor of man in ennui,\nwhich was also scientific: \"I have often said that all the troubles of\nman come from his not knowing how to sit still.\" Mere restlessness\nforces action. \"So passes the whole of life. We combat obstacles in\norder to get repose, and, when got, the repose is insupportable; for we\nthink either of the troubles we have, or of those that threaten us; and\neven if we felt safe on every side, ennui would of its own accord\nspring up from the depths of the heart where it is rooted by nature,\nand would fill the mind with its venom.\"\n\n   \"If goodness lead him not, yet weariness\n          May toss him to My breast.\"\n\n  Ennui, like Natural Selection, accounted for change, but failed\nto account for direction of change. For that, an attractive force was\nessential; a force from outside; a shaping influence. Pascal and all\nthe old philosophies called this outside force God or Gods. Caring but\nlittle for the name, and fixed only on tracing the Force, Adams had\ngone straight to the Virgin at Chartres, and asked her to show him God,\nface to face, as she did for St. Bernard. She replied, kindly as ever,\nas though she were still the young mother of to-day, with a sort of\npatient pity for masculine dulness: \"My dear outcast, what is it you\nseek? This is the Church of Christ! If you seek him through me, you are\nwelcome, sinner or saint; but he and I are one. We are Love! We have\nlittle or nothing to do with God's other energies which are infinite,\nand concern us the less because our interest is only in man, and the\ninfinite is not knowable to man. Yet if you are troubled by your\nignorance, you see how I am surrounded by the masters of the schools!\nAsk them!\"\n\n  The answer sounded singularly like the usual answer of British\nscience which had repeated since Bacon that one must not try to know\nthe unknowable, though one was quite powerless to ignore it; but the\nVirgin carried more conviction, for her feminine lack of interest in\nall perfections except her own was honester than the formal phrase of\nscience; since nothing was easier than to follow her advice, and turn\nto Thomas Aquinas, who, unlike modern physicists, answered at once and\nplainly: \"To me,\" said St. Thomas, \"Christ and the Mother are one\nForce--Love--simple, single, and sufficient for all human wants; but\nLove is a human interest which acts even on man so partially that you\nand I, as philosophers, need expect no share in it. Therefore we turn\nto Christ and the Schools who represent all other Force. We deal with\nMultiplicity and call it God. After the Virgin has redeemed by her\npersonal Force as Love all that is redeemable in man, the Schools\nembrace the rest, and give it Form, Unity, and Motive.\"\n\n  This chart of Force was more easily studied than any other\npossible scheme, for one had but to do what the Church was always\npromising to do--abolish in one flash of lightning not only man, but\nalso the Church itself, the earth, the other planets, and the sun, in\norder to clear the air; without affecting mediaeval science. The\nstudent felt warranted in doing what the Church threatened--abolishing\nhis solar system altogether--in order to look at God as actual;\ncontinuous movement, universal cause, and interchangeable force. This\nwas pantheism, but the Schools were pantheist; at least as pantheistic\nas the Energetik of the Germans; and their deity was the ultimate\nenergy, whose thought and act were one.\n\n  Rid of man and his mind, the universe of Thomas Aquinas seemed\nrather more scientific than that of Haeckel or Ernst Mach.\nContradiction for contradiction, Attraction for attraction, Energy for\nenergy, St. Thomas's idea of God had merits. Modern science offered not\na vestige of proof, or a theory of connection between its forces, or\nany scheme of reconciliation between thought and mechanics; while St.\nThomas at least linked together the joints of his machine. As far as a\nsuperficial student could follow, the thirteenth century supposed mind\nto be a mode of force directly derived from the intelligent prime\nmotor, and the cause of all form and sequence in the\nuniverse--therefore the only proof of unity. Without thought in the\nunit, there could be no unity; without unity no orderly sequence or\nordered society. Thought alone was Form. Mind and Unity flourished or\nperished together.\n\n  This education startled even a man who had dabbled in fifty\neducations all over the world; for, if he were obliged to insist on a\nUniverse, he seemed driven to the Church. Modern science guaranteed no\nunity. The student seemed to feel himself, like all his predecessors,\ncaught, trapped, meshed in this eternal drag-net of religion.\n\n  In practice the student escapes this dilemma in two ways: the\nfirst is that of ignoring it, as one escapes most dilemmas; the second\nis that the Church rejects pantheism as worse than atheism, and will\nhave nothing to do with the pantheist at any price. In wandering\nthrough the forests of ignorance, one necessarily fell upon the famous\nold bear that scared children at play; but, even had the animal shown\nmore logic than its victim, one had learned from Socrates to distrust,\nabove all other traps, the trap of logic--the mirror of the mind. Yet\nthe search for a unit of force led into catacombs of thought where\nhundreds of thousands of educations had found their end. Generation\nafter generation of painful and honest-minded scholars had been content\nto stay in these labyrinths forever, pursuing ignorance in silence, in\ncompany with the most famous teachers of all time. Not one of them had\never found a logical highroad of escape.\n\n  Adams cared little whether he escaped or not, but he felt clear\nthat he could not stop there, even to enjoy the society of Spinoza and\nThomas Aquinas. True, the Church alone had asserted unity with any\nconviction, and the historian alone knew what oceans of blood and\ntreasure the assertion had cost; but the only honest alternative to\naffirming unity was to deny it; and the denial would require a new\neducation. At sixty-five years old a new education promised hardly more\nthan the old. Possibly the modern legislator or magistrate might no\nlonger know enough to treat as the Church did the man who denied unity,\nunless the denial took the form of a bomb; but no teacher would know\nhow to explain what he thought he meant by denying unity. Society would\ncertainly punish the denial if ever any one learned enough to\nunderstand it. Philosophers, as a rule, cared little what principles\nsociety affirmed or denied, since the philosopher commonly held that\nthough he might sometimes be right by good luck on some one point, no\ncomplex of individual opinions could possibly be anything but wrong;\nyet, supposing society to be ignored, the philosopher was no further\nforward. Nihilism had no bottom. For thousands of years every\nphilosopher had stood on the shore of this sunless sea, diving for\npearls and never finding them. All had seen that, since they could not\nfind bottom, they must assume it. The Church claimed to have found it,\nbut, since 1450, motives for agreeing on some new assumption of Unity,\nbroader and deeper than that of the Church, had doubled in force until\neven the universities and schools, like the Church and State, seemed\nabout to be driven into an attempt to educate, though specially\nforbidden to do it.\n\n  Like most of his generation, Adams had taken the word of\nscience that the new unit was as good as found. It would not be an\nintelligence--probably not even a consciousness--but it would serve. He\npassed sixty years waiting for it, and at the end of that time, on\nreviewing the ground, he was led to think that the final synthesis of\nscience and its ultimate triumph was the kinetic theory of gases; which\nseemed to cover all motion in space, and to furnish the measure of\ntime. So far as he understood it, the theory asserted that any portion\nof space is occupied by molecules of gas, flying in right lines at\nvelocities varying up to a mile in a second, and colliding with each\nother at intervals varying up to 17,750,000 times in a second. To this\nanalysis--if one understood it right--all matter whatever was\nreducible, and the only difference of opinion in science regarded the\ndoubt whether a still deeper analysis would reduce the atom of gas to\npure motion.\n\n  Thus, unless one mistook the meaning of motion, which might\nwell be, the scientific synthesis commonly called Unity was the\nscientific analysis commonly called Multiplicity. The two things were\nthe same, all forms being shifting phases of motion. Granting this\nocean of colliding atoms, the last hope of humanity, what happened if\none dropped the sounder into the abyss--let it go--frankly gave up\nUnity altogether? What was Unity? Why was one to be forced to affirm it?\n\n  Here everybody flatly refused help. Science seemed content with\nits old phrase of \"larger synthesis,\" which was well enough for\nscience, but meant chaos for man. One would have been glad to stop and\nask no more, but the anarchist bomb bade one go on, and the bomb is a\npowerful persuader. One could not stop, even to enjoy the charms of a\nperfect gas colliding seventeen million times in a second, much like an\nautomobile in Paris. Science itself had been crowded so close to the\nedge of the abyss that its attempts to escape were as metaphysical as\nthe leap, while an ignorant old man felt no motive for trying to\nescape, seeing that the only escape possible lay in the form of vis a\ntergo commonly called Death. He got out his Descartes again; dipped\ninto his Hume and Berkeley; wrestled anew with his Kant; pondered\nsolemnly over his Hegel and Schopenhauer and Hartmann; strayed gaily\naway with his Greeks--all merely to ask what Unity meant, and what\nhappened when one denied it.\n\n  Apparently one never denied it. Every philosopher, whether sane\nor insane, naturally affirmed it. The utmost flight of anarchy seemed\nto have stopped with the assertion of two principles, and even these\nfitted into each other, like good and evil, light and darkness.\nPessimism itself, black as it might be painted, had been content to\nturn the universe of contradictions into the human thought as one Will,\nand treat it as representation. Metaphysics insisted on treating the\nuniverse as one thought or treating thought as one universe; and\nphilosophers agreed, like a kinetic gas, that the universe could be\nknown only as motion of mind, and therefore as unity. One could know it\nonly as one's self; it was psychology.\n\n  Of all forms of pessimism, the metaphysical form was, for a\nhistorian, the least enticing. Of all studies, the one he would rather\nhave avoided was that of his own mind. He knew no tragedy so\nheartrending as introspection, and the more, because--as Mephistopheles\nsaid of Marguerite--he was not the first. Nearly all the highest\nintelligence known to history had drowned itself in the reflection of\nits own thought, and the bovine survivors had rudely told the truth\nabout it, without affecting the intelligent. One's own time had not\nbeen exempt. Even since 1870 friends by scores had fallen victims to\nit. Within five-and-twenty years, a new library had grown out of it.\nHarvard College was a focus of the study; France supported hospitals\nfor it; England published magazines of it. Nothing was easier than to\ntake one's mind in one's hand, and ask one's psychological friends what\nthey made of it, and the more because it mattered so little to either\nparty, since their minds, whatever they were, had pretty nearly ceased\nto reflect, and let them do what they liked with the small remnant,\nthey could scarcely do anything very new with it. All one asked was to\nlearn what they hoped to do.\n\n  Unfortunately the pursuit of ignorance in silence had, by this\ntime, led the weary pilgrim into such mountains of ignorance that he\ncould no longer see any path whatever, and could not even understand a\nsignpost. He failed to fathom the depths of the new psychology, which\nproved to him that, on that side as on the mathematical side, his power\nof thought was atrophied, if, indeed, it ever existed. Since he could\nnot fathom the science, he could only ask the simplest of questions:\nDid the new psychology hold that the IvXn--soul or mind--was or was not\na unit? He gathered from the books that the psychologists had, in a few\ncases, distinguished several personalities in the same mind, each\nconscious and constant, individual and exclusive. The fact seemed\nscarcely surprising, since it had been a habit of mind from earliest\nrecorded time, and equally familiar to the last acquaintance who had\ntaken a drug or caught a fever, or eaten a Welsh rarebit before bed;\nfor surely no one could follow the action of a vivid dream, and still\nneed to be told that the actors evoked by his mind were not himself,\nbut quite unknown to all he had ever recognized as self. The new\npsychology went further, and seemed convinced that it had actually\nsplit personality not only into dualism, but also into complex groups,\nlike telephonic centres and systems, that might be isolated and called\nup at will, and whose physical action might be occult in the sense of\nstrangeness to any known form of force. Dualism seemed to have become\nas common as binary stars. Alternating personalities turned up\nconstantly, even among one's friends. The facts seemed certain, or at\nleast as certain as other facts; all they needed was explanation.\n\n  This was not the business of the searcher of ignorance, who\nfelt himself in no way responsible for causes. To his mind, the\ncompound IvXn took at once the form of a bicycle-rider, mechanically\nbalancing himself by inhibiting all his inferior personalities, and\nsure to fall into the sub-conscious chaos below, if one of his inferior\npersonalities got on top. The only absolute truth was the sub-conscious\nchaos below, which every one could feel when he sought it.\n\n  Whether the psychologists admitted it or not, mattered little\nto the student who, by the law of his profession, was engaged in\nstudying his own mind. On him, the effect was surprising. He woke up\nwith a shudder as though he had himself fallen off his bicycle. If his\nmind were really this sort of magnet, mechanically dispersing its lines\nof force when it went to sleep, and mechanically orienting them when it\nwoke up--which was normal, the dispersion or orientation? The mind,\nlike the body, kept its unity unless it happened to lose balance, but\nthe professor of physics, who slipped on a pavement and hurt himself,\nknew no more than an idiot what knocked him down, though he did\nknow--what the idiot could hardly do--that his normal condition was\nidiocy, or want of balance, and that his sanity was unstable artifice.\nHis normal thought was dispersion, sleep, dream, inconsequence; the\nsimultaneous action of different thought-centres without central\ncontrol. His artificial balance was acquired habit. He was an acrobat,\nwith a dwarf on his back, crossing a chasm on a slack-rope, and\ncommonly breaking his neck.\n\nBy that path of newest science, one saw no unity ahead--nothing but a\ndissolving mind--and the historian felt himself driven back on thought\nas one continuous Force, without Race, Sex, School, Country, or Church.\nThis has been always the fate of rigorous thinkers, and has always\nsucceeded in making them famous, as it did Gibbon, Buckle, and Auguste\nComte. Their method made what progress the science of history knew,\nwhich was little enough, but they did at last fix the law that, if\nhistory ever meant to correct the errors she made in detail, she must\nagree on a scale for the whole. Every local historian might defy this\nlaw till history ended, but its necessity would be the same for man as\nfor space or time or force, and without it the historian would always\nremain a child in science.\n\n  Any schoolboy could see that man as a force must be measured by\nmotion, from a fixed point. Psychology helped here by suggesting a\nunit--the point of history when man held the highest idea of himself as\na unit in a unified universe. Eight or ten years of study had led Adams\nto think he might use the century 1150-1250, expressed in Amiens\nCathedral and the Works of Thomas Aquinas, as the unit from which he\nmight measure motion down to his own time, without assuming anything as\ntrue or untrue, except relation. The movement might be studied at once\nin philosophy and mechanics. Setting himself to the task, he began a\nvolume which he mentally knew as \"Mont-Saint-Michel and Chartres: a\nStudy of Thirteenth-Century Unity.\" From that point he proposed to fix\na position for himself, which he could label: \"The Education of Henry\nAdams: a Study of Twentieth-Century Multiplicity.\" With the help of\nthese two points of relation, he hoped to project his lines forward and\nbackward indefinitely, subject to correction from any one who should\nknow better. Thereupon, he sailed for home.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXX\n\nVIS INERTIAE (1903)\n\n  WASHINGTON was always amusing, but in 1900, as in 1800, its\nchief interest lay in its distance from New York. The movement of New\nYork had become planetary--beyond control--while the task of\nWashington, in 1900 as in 1800, was to control it. The success of\nWashington in the past century promised ill for its success in the next.\n\n  To a student who had passed the best years of his life in\npondering over the political philosophy of Jefferson, Gallatin, and\nMadison, the problem that Roosevelt took in hand seemed alive with\nhistorical interest, but it would need at least another half-century to\nshow its results. As yet, one could not measure the forces or their\narrangement; the forces had not even aligned themselves except in\nforeign affairs; and there one turned to seek the channel of wisdom as\nnaturally as though Washington did not exist. The President could do\nnothing effectual in foreign affairs, but at least he could see\nsomething of the field.\n\n  Hay had reached the summit of his career, and saw himself on\nthe edge of wreck. Committed to the task of keeping China \"open,\" he\nsaw China about to be shut. Almost alone in the world, he represented\nthe \"open door,\" and could not escape being crushed by it. Yet luck had\nbeen with him in full tide. Though Sir Julian Pauncefote had died in\nMay, 1902, after carrying out tasks that filled an ex-private secretary\nof 1861 with open-mouthed astonishment, Hay had been helped by the\nappointment of Michael Herbert as his successor, who counted for double\nthe value of an ordinary diplomat. To reduce friction is the chief use\nof friendship, and in politics the loss by friction is outrageous. To\nHerbert and his wife, the small knot of houses that seemed to give a\nvague unity to foreign affairs opened their doors and their hearts, for\nthe Herberts were already at home there; and this personal sympathy\nprolonged Hay's life, for it not only eased the effort of endurance,\nbut it also led directly to a revolution in Germany. Down to that\nmoment, the Kaiser, rightly or wrongly, had counted as the ally of the\nCzar in all matters relating to the East. Holleben and Cassini were\ntaken to be a single force in Eastern affairs, and this supposed\nalliance gave Hay no little anxiety and some trouble. Suddenly\nHolleben, who seemed to have had no thought but to obey with almost\nagonized anxiety the least hint of the Kaiser's will, received a\ntelegram ordering him to pretext illness and come home, which he obeyed\nwithin four-and-twenty hours. The ways of the German Foreign Office had\nbeen always abrupt, not to say ruthless, towards its agents, and yet\ncommonly some discontent had been shown as excuse; but, in this case,\nno cause was guessed for Holleben's disgrace except the Kaiser's wish\nto have a personal representative at Washington. Breaking down all\nprecedent, he sent Speck von Sternburg to counterbalance Herbert.\n\n  Welcome as Speck was in the same social intimacy, and valuable\nas his presence was to Hay, the personal gain was trifling compared\nwith the political. Of Hay's official tasks, one knew no more than any\nnewspaper reporter did, but of one's own diplomatic education the\nsuccessive steps had become strides. The scholar was studying, not on\nHay's account, but on his own. He had seen Hay, in 1898, bring England\ninto his combine; he had seen the steady movement which was to bring\nFrance back into an Atlantic system; and now he saw suddenly the\ndramatic swing of Germany towards the west--the movement of all others\nnearest mathematical certainty. Whether the Kaiser meant it or not, he\ngave the effect of meaning to assert his independence of Russia, and to\nHay this change of front had enormous value. The least was that it\nseemed to isolate Cassini, and unmask the Russian movement which became\nmore threatening every month as the Manchurian scheme had to be\nrevealed.\n\n  Of course the student saw whole continents of study opened to\nhim by the Kaiser's coup d'etat. Carefully as he had tried to follow\nthe Kaiser's career, he had never suspected such refinement of policy,\nwhich raised his opinion of the Kaiser's ability to the highest point,\nand altogether upset the centre of statesmanship. That Germany could be\nso quickly detached from separate objects and brought into an Atlantic\nsystem seemed a paradox more paradoxical than any that one's education\nhad yet offered, though it had offered little but paradox. If Germany\ncould be held there, a century of friction would be saved. No price\nwould be too great for such an object; although no price could probably\nbe wrung out of Congress as equivalent for it. The Kaiser, by one\npersonal act of energy, freed Hay's hands so completely that he saw his\nproblems simplified to Russia alone.\n\n  Naturally Russia was a problem ten times as difficult. The\nhistory of Europe for two hundred years had accomplished little but to\nstate one or two sides of the Russian problem. One's year of Berlin in\nyouth, though it taught no Civil Law, had opened one's eyes to the\nRussian enigma, and both German and French historians had labored over\nits proportions with a sort of fascinated horror. Germany, of all\ncountries, was most vitally concerned in it; but even a cave-dweller in\nLa Fayette Square, seeking only a measure of motion since the Crusades,\nsaw before his eyes, in the spring of 1903, a survey of future order or\nanarchy that would exhaust the power of his telescopes and defy the\naccuracy of his theodolites.\n\n  The drama had become passionately interesting and grew every\nday more Byzantine; for the Russian Government itself showed clear\nsigns of dislocation, and the orders of Lamsdorf and de Witte were\nreversed when applied in Manchuria. Historians and students should have\nno sympathies or antipathies, but Adams had private reasons for wishing\nwell to the Czar and his people. At much length, in several labored\nchapters of history, he had told how the personal friendliness of the\nCzar Alexander I, in 1810, saved the fortunes of J. Q. Adams, and\nopened to him the brilliant diplomatic career that ended in the White\nHouse. Even in his own effaced existence he had reasons, not altogether\ntrivial, for gratitude to the Czar Alexander II, whose firm neutrality\nhad saved him some terribly anxious days and nights in 1862; while he\nhad seen enough of Russia to sympathize warmly with Prince Khilkoff's\nrailways and de Witte's industries. The last and highest triumph of\nhistory would, to his mind, be the bringing of Russia into the Atlantic\ncombine, and the just and fair allotment of the whole world among the\nregulated activities of the universe. At the rate of unification since\n1840, this end should be possible within another sixty years; and, in\nforesight of that point, Adams could already finish--provisionally--his\nchart of international unity; but, for the moment, the gravest doubts\nand ignorance covered the whole field. No one--Czar or diplomat, Kaiser\nor Mikado--seemed to know anything. Through individual Russians one\ncould always see with ease, for their diplomacy never suggested depth;\nand perhaps Hay protected Cassini for the very reason that Cassini\ncould not disguise an emotion, and never failed to betray that, in\nsetting the enormous bulk of Russian inertia to roll over China, he\nregretted infinitely that he should have to roll it over Hay too. He\nwould almost rather have rolled it over de Witte and Lamsdorf. His\npolitical philosophy, like that of all Russians, seemed fixed in the\nsingle idea that Russia must fatally roll--must, by her irresistible\ninertia, crush whatever stood in her way.\n\n  For Hay and his pooling policy, inherited from McKinley, the\nfatalism of Russian inertia meant the failure of American intensity.\nWhen Russia rolled over a neighboring people, she absorbed their\nenergies in her own movement of custom and race which neither Czar nor\npeasant could convert, or wished to convert, into any Western\nequivalent. In 1903 Hay saw Russia knocking away the last blocks that\nheld back the launch of this huge mass into the China Sea. The vast\nforce of inertia known as China was to be united with the huge bulk of\nRussia in a single mass which no amount of new force could henceforward\ndeflect. Had the Russian Government, with the sharpest sense of\nenlightenment, employed scores of de Wittes and Khilkoffs, and borrowed\nall the resources of Europe, it could not have lifted such a weight;\nand had no idea of trying.\n\n  These were the positions charted on the map of political unity\nby an insect in Washington in the spring of 1903; and they seemed to\nhim fixed. Russia held Europe and America in her grasp, and Cassini\nheld Hay in his. The Siberian Railway offered checkmate to all possible\nopposition. Japan must make the best terms she could; England must go\non receding; America and Germany would look on at the avalanche. The\nwall of Russian inertia that barred Europe across the Baltic, would bar\nAmerica across the Pacific; and Hay's policy of the open door would\ninfallibly fail.\n\n  Thus the game seemed lost, in spite of the Kaiser's brilliant\nstroke, and the movement of Russia eastward must drag Germany after it\nby its mere mass. To the humble student, the loss of Hay's game\naffected only Hay; for himself, the game--not the stakes--was the chief\ninterest; and though want of habit made him object to read his\nnewspapers blackened--since he liked to blacken them himself--he was in\nany case condemned to pass but a short space of time either in Siberia\nor in Paris, and could balance his endless columns of calculation\nequally in either place. The figures, not the facts, concerned his\nchart, and he mused deeply over his next equation. The Atlantic would\nhave to deal with a vast continental mass of inert motion, like a\nglacier, which moved, and consciously moved, by mechanical gravitation\nalone. Russia saw herself so, and so must an American see her; he had\nno more to do than measure, if he could, the mass. Was volume or\nintensity the stronger? What and where was the vis nova that could hold\nits own before this prodigious ice-cap of vis inertiae? What was\nmovement of inertia, and what its laws?\n\n  Naturally a student knew nothing about mechanical laws, but he\ntook for granted that he could learn, and went to his books to ask. He\nfound that the force of inertia had troubled wiser men than he. The\ndictionary said that inertia was a property of matter, by which matter\ntends, when at rest, to remain so, and, when in motion, to move on in a\nstraight line. Finding that his mind refused to imagine itself at rest\nor in a straight line, he was forced, as usual, to let it imagine\nsomething else; and since the question concerned the mind, and not\nmatter, he decided from personal experience that his mind was never at\nrest, but moved--when normal--about something it called a motive, and\nnever moved without motives to move it. So long as these motives were\nhabitual, and their attraction regular, the consequent result might,\nfor convenience, be called movement of inertia, to distinguish it from\nmovement caused by newer or higher attraction; but the greater the bulk\nto move, the greater must be the force to accelerate or deflect it.\n\n  This seemed simple as running water; but simplicity is the most\ndeceitful mistress that ever betrayed man. For years the student and\nthe professor had gone on complaining that minds were unequally inert.\nThe inequalities amounted to contrasts. One class of minds responded\nonly to habit; another only to novelty. Race classified thought.\nClass-lists classified mind. No two men thought alike, and no woman\nthought like a man.\n\n  Race-inertia seemed to be fairly constant, and made the chief\ntrouble in the Russian future. History looked doubtful when asked\nwhether race-inertia had ever been overcome without destroying the race\nin order to reconstruct it; but surely sex-inertia had never been\novercome at all. Of all movements of inertia, maternity and\nreproduction are the most typical, and women's property of moving in a\nconstant line forever is ultimate, uniting history in its only unbroken\nand unbreakable sequence. Whatever else stops, the woman must go on\nreproducing, as she did in the Siluria of Pteraspis; sex is a vital\ncondition, and race only a local one. If the laws of inertia are to be\nsought anywhere with certainty, it is in the feminine mind. The\nAmerican always ostentatiously ignored sex, and American history\nmentioned hardly the name of a woman, while English history handled\nthem as timidly as though they were a new and undescribed species; but\nif the problem of inertia summed up the difficulties of the race\nquestion, it involved that of sex far more deeply, and to Americans\nvitally. The task of accelerating or deflecting the movement of the\nAmerican woman had interest infinitely greater than that of any race\nwhatever, Russian or Chinese, Asiatic or African.\n\n  On this subject, as on the Senate and the banks, Adams was\nconscious of having been born an eighteenth-century remainder. As he\ngrew older, he found that Early Institutions lost their interest, but\nthat Early Women became a passion. Without understanding movement of\nsex, history seemed to him mere pedantry. So insistent had he become on\nthis side of his subject that with women he talked of little else,\nand--because women's thought is mostly subconscious and particularly\nsensitive to suggestion--he tried tricks and devices to disclose it.\nThe woman seldom knows her own thought; she is as curious to understand\nherself as the man to understand her, and responds far more quickly\nthan the man to a sudden idea. Sometimes, at dinner, one might wait\ntill talk flagged, and then, as mildly as possible, ask one's liveliest\nneighbor whether she could explain why the American woman was a\nfailure. Without an instant's hesitation, she was sure to answer:\n\"Because the American man is a failure!\" She meant it.\n\n  Adams owed more to the American woman than to all the American\nmen he ever heard of, and felt not the smallest call to defend his sex\nwho seemed able to take care of themselves; but from the point of view\nof sex he felt much curiosity to know how far the woman was right, and,\nin pursuing this inquiry, he caught the trick of affirming that the\nwoman was the superior. Apart from truth, he owed her at least that\ncompliment. The habit led sometimes to perilous personalities in the\nsudden give-and-take of table-talk. This spring, just before sailing\nfor Europe in May, 1903, he had a message from his sister-in-law, Mrs.\nBrooks Adams, to say that she and her sister, Mrs. Lodge, and the\nSenator were coming to dinner by way of farewell; Bay Lodge and his\nlovely young wife sent word to the same effect; Mrs. Roosevelt joined\nthe party; and Michael Herbert shyly slipped down to escape the\nsolitude of his wife's absence. The party were too intimate for\nreserve, and they soon fell on Adams's hobby with derision which stung\nhim to pungent rejoinder: \"The American man is a failure! You are all\nfailures!\" he said. \"Has not my sister here more sense than my brother\nBrooks? Is not Bessie worth two of Bay? Wouldn't we all elect Mrs.\nLodge Senator against Cabot? Would the President have a ghost of a\nchance if Mrs. Roosevelt ran against him? Do you want to stop at the\nEmbassy, on your way home, and ask which would run it best--Herbert or\nhis wife?\" The men laughed a little--not much! Each probably made\nallowance for his own wife as an unusually superior woman. Some one\nafterwards remarked that these half-dozen women were not a fair\naverage. Adams replied that the half-dozen men were above all possible\naverage; he could not lay his hands on another half-dozen their equals.\n\n  Gay or serious, the question never failed to stir feeling. The\ncleverer the woman, the less she denied the failure. She was bitter at\nheart about it. She had failed even to hold the family together, and\nher children ran away like chickens with their first feathers; the\nfamily was extinct like chivalry. She had failed not only to create a\nnew society that satisfied her, but even to hold her own in the old\nsociety of Church or State; and was left, for the most part, with no\nplace but the theatre or streets to decorate. She might glitter with\nhistorical diamonds and sparkle with wit as brilliant as the gems, in\nrooms as splendid as any in Rome at its best; but she saw no one except\nher own sex who knew enough to be worth dazzling, or was competent to\npay her intelligent homage. She might have her own way, without\nrestraint or limit, but she knew not what to do with herself when free.\nNever had the world known a more capable or devoted mother, but at\nforty her task was over, and she was left with no stage except that of\nher old duties, or of Washington society where she had enjoyed for a\nhundred years every advantage, but had created only a medley where nine\nmen out of ten refused her request to be civilized, and the tenth bored\nher.\n\n  On most subjects, one's opinions must defer to science, but on\nthis, the opinion of a Senator or a Professor, a chairman of a State\nCentral Committee or a Railway President, is worth less than that of\nany woman on Fifth Avenue. The inferiority of man on this, the most\nimportant of all social subjects, is manifest. Adams had here no\noccasion to deprecate scientific opinion, since no woman in the world\nwould have paid the smallest respect to the opinions of all professors\nsince the serpent. His own object had little to do with theirs. He was\nstudying the laws of motion, and had struck two large questions of\nvital importance to America--inertia of race and inertia of sex. He had\nseen Mr. de Witte and Prince Khilkoff turn artificial energy to the\nvalue of three thousand million dollars, more or less, upon Russian\ninertia, in the last twenty years, and he needed to get some idea of\nthe effects. He had seen artificial energy to the amount of twenty or\nfive-and-twenty million steam horse-power created in America since\n1840, and as much more economized, which had been socially turned over\nto the American woman, she being the chief object of social\nexpenditure, and the household the only considerable object of American\nextravagance. According to scientific notions of inertia and force,\nwhat ought to be the result?\n\n  In Russia, because of race and bulk, no result had yet shown\nitself, but in America the results were evident and undisputed. The\nwoman had been set free--volatilized like Clerk Maxwell's perfect gas;\nalmost brought to the point of explosion, like steam. One had but to\npass a week in Florida, or on any of a hundred huge ocean steamers, or\nwalk through the Place Vendome, or join a party of Cook's tourists to\nJerusalem, to see that the woman had been set free; but these swarms\nwere ephemeral like clouds of butterflies in season, blown away and\nlost, while the reproductive sources lay hidden. At Washington, one saw\nother swarms as grave gatherings of Dames or Daughters, taking\nthemselves seriously, or brides fluttering fresh pinions; but all these\nshifting visions, unknown before 1840, touched the true problem\nslightly and superficially. Behind them, in every city, town, and\nfarmhouse, were myriads of new types--or type-writers--telephone and\ntelegraph-girls, shop-clerks, factory-hands, running into millions of\nmillions, and, as classes, unknown to themselves as to historians. Even\nthe schoolmistresses were inarticulate. All these new women had been\ncreated since 1840; all were to show their meaning before 1940.\n\n  Whatever they were, they were not content, as the ephemera\nproved; and they were hungry for illusions as ever in the fourth\ncentury of the Church; but this was probably survival, and gave no hint\nof the future. The problem remained--to find out whether movement of\ninertia, inherent in function, could take direction except in lines of\ninertia. This problem needed to be solved in one generation of American\nwomen, and was the most vital of all problems of force.\n\nThe American woman at her best--like most other women--exerted great\ncharm on the man, but not the charm of a primitive type. She appeared\nas the result of a long series of discards, and her chief interest lay\nin what she had discarded. When closely watched, she seemed making a\nviolent effort to follow the man, who had turned his mind and hand to\nmechanics. The typical American man had his hand on a lever and his eye\non a curve in his road; his living depended on keeping up an average\nspeed of forty miles an hour, tending always to become sixty, eighty,\nor a hundred, and he could not admit emotions or anxieties or\nsubconscious distractions, more than he could admit whiskey or drugs,\nwithout breaking his neck. He could not run his machine and a woman\ntoo; he must leave her; even though his wife, to find her own way, and\nall the world saw her trying to find her way by imitating him.\n\n  The result was often tragic, but that was no new thing in\nfeminine history. Tragedy had been woman's lot since Eve. Her problem\nhad been always one of physical strength and it was as physical\nperfection of force that her Venus had governed nature. The woman's\nforce had counted as inertia of rotation, and her axis of rotation had\nbeen the cradle and the family. The idea that she was weak revolted all\nhistory; it was a palaeontological falsehood that even an Eocene female\nmonkey would have laughed at; but it was surely true that, if her force\nwere to be diverted from its axis, it must find a new field, and the\nfamily must pay for it. So far as she succeeded, she must become\nsexless like the bees, and must leave the old energy of inertia to\ncarry on the race.\n\n  The story was not new. For thousands of years women had\nrebelled. They had made a fortress of religion--had buried themselves\nin the cloister, in self-sacrifice, in good works--or even in bad.\nOne's studies in the twelfth century, like one's studies in the fourth,\nas in Homeric and archaic time, showed her always busy in the illusions\nof heaven or of hell--ambition, intrigue, jealousy, magic--but the\nAmerican woman had no illusions or ambitions or new resources, and\nnothing to rebel against, except her own maternity; yet the rebels\nincreased by millions from year to year till they blocked the path of\nrebellion. Even her field of good works was narrower than in the\ntwelfth century. Socialism, communism, collectivism, philosophical\nanarchism, which promised paradise on earth for every male, cut off the\nfew avenues of escape which capitalism had opened to the woman, and she\nsaw before her only the future reserved for machine-made, collectivist\nfemales.\n\n  From the male, she could look for no help; his instinct of\npower was blind. The Church had known more about women than science\nwill ever know, and the historian who studied the sources of\nChristianity felt sometimes convinced that the Church had been made by\nthe woman chiefly as her protest against man. At times, the historian\nwould have been almost willing to maintain that the man had overthrown\nthe Church chiefly because it was feminine. After the overthrow of the\nChurch, the woman had no refuge except such as the man created for\nhimself. She was free; she had no illusions; she was sexless; she had\ndiscarded all that the male disliked; and although she secretly\nregretted the discard, she knew that she could not go backward. She\nmust, like the man, marry machinery. Already the American man sometimes\nfelt surprise at finding himself regarded as sexless; the American\nwoman was oftener surprised at finding herself regarded as sexual.\n\n  No honest historian can take part with--or against--the\nforces he has to study. To him even the extinction of the human race\nshould be merely a fact to be grouped with other vital statistics. No\ndoubt every one in society discussed the subject, impelled by President\nRoosevelt if by nothing else, and the surface current of social opinion\nseemed set as strongly in one direction as the silent undercurrent of\nsocial action ran in the other; but the truth lay somewhere unconscious\nin the woman's breast. An elderly man, trying only to learn the law of\nsocial inertia and the limits of social divergence could not compel the\nSuperintendent of the Census to ask every young woman whether she\nwanted children, and how many; he could not even require of an\noctogenarian Senate the passage of a law obliging every woman, married\nor not, to bear one baby--at the expense of the Treasury--before she\nwas thirty years old, under penalty of solitary confinement for life;\nyet these were vital statistics in more senses than all that bore the\nname, and tended more directly to the foundation of a serious society\nin the future. He could draw no conclusions whatever except from the\nbirth-rate. He could not frankly discuss the matter with the young\nwomen themselves, although they would have gladly discussed it, because\nFaust was helpless in the tragedy of woman. He could suggest nothing.\nThe Marguerite of the future could alone decide whether she were better\noff than the Marguerite of the past; whether she would rather be victim\nto a man, a church, or a machine.\n\n  Between these various forms of inevitable inertia--sex and\nrace--the student of multiplicity felt inclined to admit\nthat--ignorance against ignorance--the Russian problem seemed to him\nsomewhat easier of treatment than the American. Inertia of race and\nbulk would require an immense force to overcome it, but in time it\nmight perhaps be partially overcome. Inertia of sex could not be\novercome without extinguishing the race, yet an immense force, doubling\nevery few years, was working irresistibly to overcome it. One gazed\nmute before this ocean of darkest ignorance that had already engulfed\nsociety. Few centres of great energy lived in illusion more complete or\narchaic than Washington with its simple-minded standards of the field\nand farm, its Southern and Western habits of life and manners, its\nassumptions of ethics and history; but even in Washington, society was\nuneasy enough to need no further fretting. One was almost glad to act\nthe part of horseshoe crab in Quincy Bay, and admit that all was\nuniform--that nothing ever changed--and that the woman would swim about\nthe ocean of future time, as she had swum in the past, with the\ngar-fish and the shark, unable to change.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXI\n\nTHE GRAMMAR OF SCIENCE (1903)\n\n  OF all the travels made by man since the voyages of Dante, this\nnew exploration along the shores of Multiplicity and Complexity\npromised to be the longest, though as yet it had barely touched two\nfamiliar regions--race and sex. Even within these narrow seas the\nnavigator lost his bearings and followed the winds as they blew. By\nchance it happened that Raphael Pumpelly helped the winds; for, being\nin Washington on his way to Central Asia he fell to talking with Adams\nabout these matters, and said that Willard Gibbs thought he got most\nhelp from a book called the \"Grammar of Science,\" by Karl Pearson. To\nAdams's vision, Willard Gibbs stood on the same plane with the three or\nfour greatest minds of his century, and the idea that a man so\nincomparably superior should find help anywhere filled him with wonder.\nHe sent for the volume and read it. From the time he sailed for Europe\nand reached his den on the Avenue du Bois until he took his return\nsteamer at Cherbourg on December 26, he did little but try to find out\nwhat Karl Pearson could have taught Willard Gibbs.\n\n  Here came in, more than ever, the fatal handicap of ignorance\nin mathematics. Not so much the actual tool was needed, as the right to\njudge the product of the tool. Ignorant as one was of the finer values\nof French or German, and often deceived by the intricacies of thought\nhidden in the muddiness of the medium, one could sometimes catch a\ntendency to intelligible meaning even in Kant or Hegel; but one had not\nthe right to a suspicion of error where the tool of thought was\nalgebra. Adams could see in such parts of the \"Grammar\" as he could\nunderstand, little more than an enlargement of Stallo's book already\ntwenty years old. He never found out what it could have taught a master\nlike Willard Gibbs. Yet the book had a historical value out of all\nproportion to its science. No such stride had any Englishman before\ntaken in the lines of English thought. The progress of science was\nmeasured by the success of the \"Grammar,\" when, for twenty years past,\nStallo had been deliberately ignored under the usual conspiracy of\nsilence inevitable to all thought which demands new thought-machinery.\nScience needs time to reconstruct its instruments, to follow a\nrevolution in space; a certain lag is inevitable; the most active mind\ncannot instantly swerve from its path; but such revolutions are\nportentous, and the fall or rise of half-a-dozen empires interested a\nstudent of history less than the rise of the \"Grammar of Science,\" the\nmore pressingly because, under the silent influence of Langley, he was\nprepared to expect it.\n\n  For a number of years Langley had published in his Smithsonian\nReports the revolutionary papers that foretold the overthrow of\nnineteenth-century dogma, and among the first was the famous address of\nSir William Crookes on psychical research, followed by a series of\npapers on Roentgen and Curie, which had steadily driven the scientific\nlawgivers of Unity into the open; but Karl Pearson was the first to pen\nthem up for slaughter in the schools. The phrase is not stronger than\nthat with which the \"Grammar of Science\" challenged the fight:\n\"Anything more hopelessly illogical than the statements with regard to\nForce and Matter current in elementary textbooks of science, it is\ndifficult to imagine,\" opened Mr. Pearson, and the responsible author\nof the \"elementary textbook,\" as he went on to explain, was Lord Kelvin\nhimself. Pearson shut out of science everything which the nineteenth\ncentury had brought into it. He told his scholars that they must put up\nwith a fraction of the universe, and a very small fraction at that--the\ncircle reached by the senses, where sequence could be taken for\ngranted--much as the deep-sea fish takes for granted the circle of\nlight which he generates. \"Order and reason, beauty and benevolence,\nare characteristics and conceptions which we find solely associated\nwith the mind of man.\" The assertion, as a broad truth, left one's mind\nin some doubt of its bearing, for order and beauty seemed to be\nassociated also in the mind of a crystal, if one's senses were to be\nadmitted as judge; but the historian had no interest in the universal\ntruth of Pearson's or Kelvin's or Newton's laws; he sought only their\nrelative drift or direction, and Pearson went on to say that these\nconceptions must stop: \"Into the chaos beyond sense-impressions we\ncannot scientifically project them.\" We cannot even infer them: \"In the\nchaos behind sensations, in the 'beyond' of sense-impressions, we\ncannot infer necessity, order or routine, for these are concepts formed\nby the mind of man on this side of sense-impressions\"; but we must\ninfer chaos: \"Briefly chaos is all that science can logically assert of\nthe supersensuous.\" The kinetic theory of gas is an assertion of\nultimate chaos. In plain words, Chaos was the law of nature; Order was\nthe dream of man.\n\n  No one means all he says, and yet very few say all they mean,\nfor words are slippery and thought is viscous; but since Bacon and\nNewton, English thought had gone on impatiently protesting that no one\nmust try to know the unknowable at the same time that every one went on\nthinking about it. The result was as chaotic as kinetic gas; but with\nthe thought a historian had nothing to do. He sought only its\ndirection. For himself he knew, that, in spite of all the Englishmen\nthat ever lived, he would be forced to enter supersensual chaos if he\nmeant to find out what became of British science--or indeed of any\nother science. From Pythagoras to Herbert Spencer, every one had done\nit, although commonly science had explored an ocean which it preferred\nto regard as Unity or a Universe, and called Order. Even Hegel, who\ntaught that every notion included its own negation, used the negation\nonly to reach a \"larger synthesis,\" till he reached the universal which\nthinks itself, contradiction and all. The Church alone had constantly\nprotested that anarchy was not order, that Satan was not God, that\npantheism was worse than atheism, and that Unity could not be proved as\na contradiction. Karl Pearson seemed to agree with the Church, but\nevery one else, including Newton, Darwin and Clerk Maxwell, had sailed\ngaily into the supersensual, calling it:--\n\n  \"One God, one Law, one Element,\n   And one far-off, divine event,\n   To which the whole creation moves.\"\n\n  Suddenly, in 1900, science raised its head and denied.\n\n  Yet, perhaps, after all, the change had not been so sudden as\nit seemed. Real and actual, it certainly was, and every newspaper\nbetrayed it, but sequence could scarcely be denied by one who had\nwatched its steady approach, thinking the change far more interesting\nto history than the thought. When he reflected about it, he recalled\nthat the flow of tide had shown itself at least twenty years before;\nthat it had become marked as early as 1893; and that the man of science\nmust have been sleepy indeed who did not jump from his chair like a\nscared dog when, in 1898, Mme. Curie threw on his desk the metaphysical\nbomb she called radium. There remained no hole to hide in. Even\nmetaphysics swept back over science with the green water of the\ndeep-sea ocean and no one could longer hope to bar out the unknowable,\nfor the unknowable was known.\n\n  The fact was admitted that the uniformitarians of one's youth\nhad wound about their universe a tangle of contradictions meant only\nfor temporary support to be merged in \"larger synthesis,\" and had\nwaited for the larger synthesis in silence and in vain. They had\nrefused to hear Stallo. They had betrayed little interest in Crookes.\nAt last their universe had been wrecked by rays, and Karl Pearson\nundertook to cut the wreck loose with an axe, leaving science adrift on\na sensual raft in the midst of a supersensual chaos. The confusion\nseemed, to a mere passenger, worse than that of 1600 when the\nastronomers upset the world; it resembled rather the convulsion of 310\nwhen the Civitas Dei cut itself loose from the Civitas Romae, and the\nCross took the place of the legions; but the historian accepted it all\nalike; he knew that his opinion was worthless; only, in this case, he\nfound himself on the raft, personally and economically concerned in its\ndrift.\n\n  English thought had always been chaos and multiplicity itself,\nin which the new step of Karl Pearson marked only a consistent\nprogress; but German thought had affected system, unity, and abstract\ntruth, to a point that fretted the most patient foreigner, and to\nGermany the voyager in strange seas of thought alone might resort with\nconfident hope of renewing his youth. Turning his back on Karl Pearson\nand England, he plunged into Germany, and had scarcely crossed the\nRhine when he fell into libraries of new works bearing the names of\nOstwald, Ernst Mach, Ernst Haeckel, and others less familiar, among\nwhom Haeckel was easiest to approach, not only because of being the\noldest and clearest and steadiest spokesman of nineteenth-century\nmechanical convictions, but also because in 1902 he had published a\nvehement renewal of his faith. The volume contained only one paragraph\nthat concerned a historian; it was that in which Haeckel sank his voice\nalmost to a religious whisper in avowing with evident effort, that the\n\"proper essence of substance appeared to him more and more marvellous\nand enigmatic as he penetrated further into the knowledge of its\nattributes--matter and energy--and as he learned to know their\ninnumerable phenomena and their evolution.\" Since Haeckel seemed to\nhave begun the voyage into multiplicity that Pearson had forbidden to\nEnglishmen, he should have been a safe pilot to the point, at least, of\na \"proper essence of substance\" in its attributes of matter and energy:\nbut Ernst Mach seemed to go yet one step further, for he rejected\nmatter altogether, and admitted but two processes in nature--change of\nplace and interconversion of forms. Matter was Motion--Motion was\nMatter--the thing moved.\n\n  A student of history had no need to understand these scientific\nideas of very great men; he sought only the relation with the ideas of\ntheir grandfathers, and their common direction towards the ideas of\ntheir grandsons. He had long ago reached, with Hegel, the limits of\ncontradiction; and Ernst Mach scarcely added a shade of variety to the\nidentity of opposites; but both of them seemed to be in agreement with\nKarl Pearson on the facts of the supersensual universe which could be\nknown only as unknowable.\n\n  With a deep sigh of relief, the traveller turned back to\nFrance. There he felt safe. No Frenchman except Rabelais and Montaigne\nhad ever taught anarchy other than as path to order. Chaos would be\nunity in Paris even if child of the guillotine. To make this assurance\nmathematically sure, the highest scientific authority in France was a\ngreat mathematician, M. Poincare of the Institut, who published in 1902\na small volume called \"La Science et l'Hypothese,\" which purported to\nbe relatively readable. Trusting to its external appearance, the\ntraveller timidly bought it, and greedily devoured it, without\nunderstanding a single consecutive page, but catching here and there a\nperiod that startled him to the depths of his ignorance, for they\nseemed to show that M. Poincare was troubled by the same historical\nlandmarks which guided or deluded Adams himself: \"[In science] we are\nled,\" said M. Poincare, \"to act as though a simple law, when other\nthings were equal, must be more probable than a complicated law. Half a\ncentury ago one frankly confessed it, and proclaimed that nature loves\nsimplicity. She has since given us too often the lie. To-day this\ntendency is no longer avowed, and only as much of it is preserved as is\nindispensable so that science shall not become impossible.\"\n\n  Here at last was a fixed point beyond the chance of confusion\nwith self-suggestion. History and mathematics agreed. Had M. Poincare\nshown anarchistic tastes, his evidence would have weighed less heavily;\nbut he seemed to be the only authority in science who felt what a\nhistorian felt so strongly--the need of unity in a universe.\n\"Considering everything we have made some approach towards unity. We\nhave not gone as fast as we hoped fifty years ago; we have not always\ntaken the intended road; but definitely we have gained much ground.\"\nThis was the most clear and convincing evidence of progress yet offered\nto the navigator of ignorance; but suddenly he fell on another view\nwhich seemed to him quite irreconcilable with the first: \"Doubtless if\nour means of investigation should become more and more penetrating, we\nshould discover the simple under the complex; then the complex under\nthe simple; then anew the simple under the complex; and so on without\never being able to foresee the last term.\"\n\n  A mathematical paradise of endless displacement promised\neternal bliss to the mathematician, but turned the historian green with\nhorror. Made miserable by the thought that he knew no mathematics, he\nburned to ask whether M. Poincare knew any history, since he began by\nbegging the historical question altogether, and assuming that the past\nshowed alternating phases of simple and complex--the precise point that\nAdams, after fifty years of effort, found himself forced to surrender;\nand then going on to assume alternating phases for the future which,\nfor the weary Titan of Unity, differed in nothing essential from the\nkinetic theory of a perfect gas.\n\n  Since monkeys first began to chatter in trees, neither man nor\nbeast had ever denied or doubted Multiplicity, Diversity, Complexity,\nAnarchy, Chaos. Always and everywhere the Complex had been true and the\nContradiction had been certain. Thought started by it. Mathematics\nitself began by counting one--two--three; then imagining their\ncontinuity, which M. Poincare was still exhausting his wits to explain\nor defend; and this was his explanation: \"In short, the mind has the\nfaculty of creating symbols, and it is thus that it has constructed\nmathematical continuity which is only a particular system of symbols.\"\nWith the same light touch, more destructive in its artistic measure\nthan the heaviest-handed brutality of Englishmen or Germans, he went on\nto upset relative truth itself: \"How should I answer the question\nwhether Euclidian Geometry is true? It has no sense!... Euclidian\nGeometry is, and will remain, the most convenient.\"\n\nChaos was a primary fact even in Paris--especially in Paris--as it was\nin the Book of Genesis; but every thinking being in Paris or out of it\nhad exhausted thought in the effort to prove Unity, Continuity,\nPurpose, Order, Law, Truth, the Universe, God, after having begun by\ntaking it for granted, and discovering, to their profound dismay, that\nsome minds denied it. The direction of mind, as a single force of\nnature, had been constant since history began. Its own unity had\ncreated a universe the essence of which was abstract Truth; the\nAbsolute; God! To Thomas Aquinas, the universe was still a person; to\nSpinoza, a substance; to Kant, Truth was the essence of the \"I\"; an\ninnate conviction; a categorical imperative; to Poincare, it was a\nconvenience; and to Karl Pearson, a medium of exchange.\n\n  The historian never stopped repeating to himself that he knew\nnothing about it; that he was a mere instrument of measure, a\nbarometer, pedometer, radiometer; and that his whole share in the\nmatter was restricted to the measurement of thought-motion as marked by\nthe accepted thinkers. He took their facts for granted. He knew no more\nthan a firefly about rays--or about race--or sex--or ennui--or a bar of\nmusic--or a pang of love--or a grain of musk--or of phosphorus--or\nconscience--or duty--or the force of Euclidian geometry--or\nnon-Euclidian--or heat--or light--or osmosis--or electrolysis--or the\nmagnet--or ether--or vis inertiae--or gravitation--or cohesion--or\nelasticity--or surface tension--or capillary attraction--or Brownian\nmotion--or of some scores, or thousands, or millions of chemical\nattractions, repulsions or indifferences which were busy within and\nwithout him; or, in brief, of Force itself, which, he was credibly\ninformed, bore some dozen definitions in the textbooks, mostly\ncontradictory, and all, as he was assured, beyond his intelligence; but\nsummed up in the dictum of the last and highest science, that Motion\nseems to be Matter and Matter seems to be Motion, yet \"we are probably\nincapable of discovering\" what either is. History had no need to ask\nwhat either might be; all it needed to know was the admission of\nignorance; the mere fact of multiplicity baffling science. Even as to\nthe fact, science disputed, but radium happened to radiate something\nthat seemed to explode the scientific magazine, bringing thought, for\nthe time, to a standstill; though, in the line of thought-movement in\nhistory, radium was merely the next position, familiar and inexplicable\nsince Zeno and his arrow: continuous from the beginning of time, and\ndiscontinuous at each successive point. History set it down on the\nrecord--pricked its position on the chart--and waited to be led, or\nmisled, once more.\n\n  The historian must not try to know what is truth, if he values\nhis honesty; for, if he cares for his truths, he is certain to falsify\nhis facts. The laws of history only repeat the lines of force or\nthought. Yet though his will be iron, he cannot help now and then\nresuming his humanity or simianity in face of a fear. The motion of\nthought had the same value as the motion of a cannon-ball seen\napproaching the observer on a direct line through the air. One could\nwatch its curve for five thousand years. Its first violent acceleration\nin historical times had ended in the catastrophe of 310. The next\nswerve of direction occurred towards 1500. Galileo and Bacon gave a\nstill newer curve to it, which altered its values; but all these\nchanges had never altered the continuity. Only in 1900, the continuity\nsnapped.\n\n  Vaguely conscious of the cataclysm, the world sometimes dated\nit from 1893, by the Roentgen rays, or from 1898, by the Curie's\nradium; but in 1904, Arthur Balfour announced on the part of British\nscience that the human race without exception had lived and died in a\nworld of illusion until the last year of the century. The date was\nconvenient, and convenience was truth.\n\n  The child born in 1900 would, then, be born into a new world\nwhich would not be a unity but a multiple. Adams tried to imagine it,\nand an education that would fit it. He found himself in a land where no\none had ever penetrated before; where order was an accidental relation\nobnoxious to nature; artificial compulsion imposed on motion; against\nwhich every free energy of the universe revolted; and which, being\nmerely occasional, resolved itself back into anarchy at last. He could\nnot deny that the law of the new multiverse explained much that had\nbeen most obscure, especially the persistently fiendish treatment of\nman by man; the perpetual effort of society to establish law, and the\nperpetual revolt of society against the law it had established; the\nperpetual building up of authority by force, and the perpetual appeal\nto force to overthrow it; the perpetual symbolism of a higher law, and\nthe perpetual relapse to a lower one; the perpetual victory of the\nprinciples of freedom, and their perpetual conversion into principles\nof power; but the staggering problem was the outlook ahead into the\ndespotism of artificial order which nature abhorred. The physicists had\na phrase for it, unintelligible to the vulgar: \"All that we win is a\nbattle--lost in advance--with the irreversible phenomena in the\nbackground of nature.\"\n\n  All that a historian won was a vehement wish to escape. He saw\nhis education complete; and was sorry he ever began it. As a matter of\ntaste, he greatly preferred his eighteenth-century education when God\nwas a father and nature a mother, and all was for the best in a\nscientific universe. He repudiated all share in the world as it was to\nbe, and yet he could not detect the point where his responsibility\nbegan or ended.\n\n  As history unveiled itself in the new order, man's mind had\nbehaved like a young pearl oyster, secreting its universe to suit its\nconditions until it had built up a shell of nacre that embodied all its\nnotions of the perfect. Man knew it was true because he made it, and he\nloved it for the same reason. He sacrificed millions of lives to\nacquire his unity, but he achieved it, and justly thought it a work of\nart. The woman especially did great things, creating her deities on a\nhigher level than the male, and, in the end, compelling the man to\naccept the Virgin as guardian of the man's God. The man's part in his\nUniverse was secondary, but the woman was at home there, and sacrificed\nherself without limit to make it habitable, when man permitted it, as\nsometimes happened for brief intervals of war and famine; but she could\nnot provide protection against forces of nature. She did not think of\nher universe as a raft to which the limpets stuck for life in the surge\nof a supersensual chaos; she conceived herself and her family as the\ncentre and flower of an ordered universe which she knew to be unity\nbecause she had made it after the image of her own fecundity; and this\ncreation of hers was surrounded by beauties and perfections which she\nknew to be real because she herself had imagined them.\n\n  Even the masculine philosopher admired and loved and celebrated\nher triumph, and the greatest of them sang it in the noblest of his\nverses:--\n\n  \"Alma Venus, coeli subter labentia signa\n   Quae mare navigerum, quae terras frugiferenteis\n   Concelebras ...... .\n   Quae quondam rerum naturam sola gubernas,\n   Nec sine te quidquam dias in luminis oras\n   Exoritur, neque fit laetum neque amabile quidquam;\n   Te sociam studeo!\"\n\n  Neither man nor woman ever wanted to quit this Eden of their\nown invention, and could no more have done it of their own accord than\nthe pearl oyster could quit its shell; but although the oyster might\nperhaps assimilate or embalm a grain of sand forced into its aperture,\nit could only perish in face of the cyclonic hurricane or the volcanic\nupheaval of its bed. Her supersensual chaos killed her.\n\n  Such seemed the theory of history to be imposed by science on\nthe generation born after 1900. For this theory, Adams felt himself in\nno way responsible. Even as historian he had made it his duty always to\nspeak with respect of everything that had ever been thought\nrespectable--except an occasional statesman; but he had submitted to\nforce all his life, and he meant to accept it for the future as for the\npast. All his efforts had been turned only to the search for its\nchannel. He never invented his facts; they were furnished him by the\nonly authorities he could find. As for himself, according to Helmholz,\nErnst Mach, and Arthur Balfour, he was henceforth to be a conscious\nball of vibrating motions, traversed in every direction by infinite\nlines of rotation or vibration, rolling at the feet of the Virgin at\nChartres or of M. Poincare in an attic at Paris, a centre of\nsupersensual chaos. The discovery did not distress him. A solitary man\nof sixty-five years or more, alone in a Gothic cathedral or a Paris\napartment, need fret himself little about a few illusions more or less.\nHe should have learned his lesson fifty years earlier; the times had\nlong passed when a student could stop before chaos or order; he had no\nchoice but to march with his world.\n\n  Nevertheless, he could not pretend that his mind felt flattered\nby this scientific outlook. Every fabulist has told how the human mind\nhas always struggled like a frightened bird to escape the chaos which\ncaged it; how--appearing suddenly and inexplicably out of some unknown\nand unimaginable void; passing half its known life in the mental chaos\nof sleep; victim even when awake, to its own ill-adjustment, to\ndisease, to age, to external suggestion, to nature's compulsion;\ndoubting its sensations, and, in the last resort, trusting only to\ninstruments and averages--after sixty or seventy years of growing\nastonishment, the mind wakes to find itself looking blankly into the\nvoid of death. That it should profess itself pleased by this\nperformance was all that the highest rules of good breeding could ask;\nbut that it should actually be satisfied would prove that it existed\nonly as idiocy.\n\n  Satisfied, the future generation could scarcely think itself,\nfor even when the mind existed in a universe of its own creation, it\nhad never been quite at ease. As far as one ventured to interpret\nactual science, the mind had thus far adjusted itself by an infinite\nseries of infinitely delicate adjustments forced on it by the infinite\nmotion of an infinite chaos of motion; dragged at one moment into the\nunknowable and unthinkable, then trying to scramble back within its\nsenses and to bar the chaos out, but always assimilating bits of it,\nuntil at last, in 1900, a new avalanche of unknown forces had fallen on\nit, which required new mental powers to control. If this view was\ncorrect, the mind could gain nothing by flight or by fight; it must\nmerge in its supersensual multiverse, or succumb to it.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXII\n\nVIS NOVA (1903-1904)\n\nPARIS after midsummer is a place where only the industrious poor\nremain, unless they can get away; but Adams knew no spot where history\nwould be better off, and the calm of the Champs Elysees was so deep\nthat when Mr. de Witte was promoted to a powerless dignity, no one\nwhispered that the promotion was disgrace, while one might have\nsupposed, from the silence, that the Viceroy Alexeieff had reoccupied\nManchuria as a fulfilment of treaty-obligation. For once, the\nconspiracy of silence became crime. Never had so modern and so vital a\nriddle been put before Western society, but society shut its eyes.\nManchuria knew every step into war; Japan had completed every\npreparation; Alexeieff had collected his army and fleet at Port Arthur,\nmounting his siege guns and laying in enormous stores, ready for the\nexpected attack; from Yokohama to Irkutsk, the whole East was under war\nconditions; but Europe knew nothing. The banks would allow no\ndisturbance; the press said not a word, and even the embassies were\nsilent. Every anarchist in Europe buzzed excitement and began to\ncollect in groups, but the Hotel Ritz was calm, and the Grand Dukes who\nswarmed there professed to know directly from the Winter Palace that\nthere would be no war.\n\n  As usual, Adams felt as ignorant as the best-informed\nstatesman, and though the sense was familiar, for once he could see\nthat the ignorance was assumed. After nearly fifty years of experience,\nhe could not understand how the comedy could be so well acted. Even as\nlate as November, diplomats were gravely asking every passer-by for his\nopinion, and avowed none of their own except what was directly\nauthorized at St. Petersburg. He could make nothing of it. He found\nhimself in face of his new problem--the workings of Russian\ninertia--and he could conceive no way of forming an opinion how much\nwas real and how much was comedy had he been in the Winter Palace\nhimself. At times he doubted whether the Grand Dukes or the Czar knew,\nbut old diplomatic training forbade him to admit such innocence.\n\n  This was the situation at Christmas when he left Paris. On\nJanuary 6, 1904, he reached Washington, where the contrast of\natmosphere astonished him, for he had never before seen his country\nthink as a world-power. No doubt, Japanese diplomacy had much to do\nwith this alertness, but the immense superiority of Japanese diplomacy\nshould have been more evident in Europe than in America, and in any\ncase, could not account for the total disappearance of Russian\ndiplomacy. A government by inertia greatly disconcerted study. One was\nled to suspect that Cassini never heard from his Government, and that\nLamsdorf knew nothing of his own department; yet no such suspicion\ncould be admitted. Cassini resorted to transparent blague: \"Japan\nseemed infatuated even to the point of war! But what can the Japanese\ndo? As usual, sit on their heels and pray to Buddha!\" One of the oldest\nand most accomplished diplomatists in the service could never show his\nhand so empty as this if he held a card to play; but he never betrayed\nstronger resource behind. \"If any Japanese succeed in entering\nManchuria, they will never get out of it alive.\" The inertia of\nCassini, who was naturally the most energetic of diplomatists, deeply\ninterested a student of race-inertia, whose mind had lost itself in the\nattempt to invent scales of force.\n\n  The air of official Russia seemed most dramatic in the air of\nthe White House, by contrast with the outspoken candor of the\nPresident. Reticence had no place there. Every one in America saw that,\nwhether Russia or Japan were victim, one of the decisive struggles in\nAmerican history was pending, and any pretence of secrecy or\nindifference was absurd. Interest was acute, and curiosity intense, for\nno one knew what the Russian Government meant or wanted, while war had\nbecome a question of days. To an impartial student who gravely doubted\nwhether the Czar himself acted as a conscious force or an inert weight,\nthe straight-forward avowals of Roosevelt had singular value as a\nstandard of measure. By chance it happened that Adams was obliged to\ntake the place of his brother Brooks at the Diplomatic Reception\nimmediately after his return home, and the part of proxy included his\nsupping at the President's table, with Secretary Root on one side, the\nPresident opposite, and Miss Chamberlain between them. Naturally the\nPresident talked and the guests listened; which seemed, to one who had\njust escaped from the European conspiracy of silence, like drawing a\nfree breath after stifling. Roosevelt, as every one knew, was always an\namusing talker, and had the reputation of being indiscreet beyond any\nother man of great importance in the world, except the Kaiser Wilhelm\nand Mr. Joseph Chamberlain, the father of his guest at table; and this\nevening he spared none. With the usual abuse of the quos ego, common to\nvigorous statesmen, he said all that he thought about Russians and\nJapanese, as well as about Boers and British, without restraint, in\nfull hearing of twenty people, to the entire satisfaction of his\nlistener; and concluded by declaring that war was imminent; that it\nought to be stopped; that it could be stopped: \"I could do it myself; I\ncould stop it to-morrow!\" and he went on to explain his reasons for\nrestraint.\n\n  That he was right, and that, within another generation, his\nsuccessor would do what he would have liked to do, made no shadow of\ndoubt in the mind of his hearer, though it would have been folly when\nhe last supped at the White House in the dynasty of President Hayes;\nbut the listener cared less for the assertion of power, than for the\nvigor of view. The truth was evident enough, ordinary, even commonplace\nif one liked, but it was not a truth of inertia, nor was the method to\nbe mistaken for inert.\n\n  Nor could the force of Japan be mistaken for a moment as a\nforce of inertia, although its aggressive was taken as methodically--as\nmathematically--as a demonstration of Euclid, and Adams thought that as\nagainst any but Russians it would have lost its opening. Each day\ncounted as a measure of relative energy on the historical scale, and\nthe whole story made a Grammar of new Science quite as instructive as\nthat of Pearson.\n\n  The forces thus launched were bound to reach some new\nequilibrium which would prove the problem in one sense or another, and\nthe war had no personal value for Adams except that it gave Hay his\nlast great triumph. He had carried on his long contest with Cassini so\nskillfully that no one knew enough to understand the diplomatic\nperfection of his work, which contained no error; but such success is\ncomplete only when it is invisible, and his victory at last was victory\nof judgment, not of act. He could do nothing, and the whole country\nwould have sprung on him had he tried. Japan and England saved his\n\"open door\" and fought his battle. All that remained for him was to\nmake the peace, and Adams set his heart on getting the peace quickly in\nhand, for Hay's sake as well as for that of Russia. He thought then\nthat it could be done in one campaign, for he knew that, in a military\nsense, the fall of Port Arthur must lead to negotiation, and every one\nfelt that Hay would inevitably direct it; but the race was close, and\nwhile the war grew every day in proportions, Hay's strength every day\ndeclined.\n\n  St. Gaudens came on to model his head, and Sargent painted his\nportrait, two steps essential to immortality which he bore with a\ncertain degree of resignation, but he grumbled when the President made\nhim go to St. Louis to address some gathering at the Exposition; and\nMrs. Hay bade Adams go with them, for whatever use he could suppose\nhimself to serve. He professed the religion of World's Fairs, without\nwhich he held education to be a blind impossibility; and obeyed Mrs.\nHay's bidding the more readily because it united his two educations in\none; but theory and practice were put to equally severe test at St.\nLouis. Ten years had passed since he last crossed the Mississippi, and\nhe found everything new. In this great region from Pittsburgh through\nOhio and Indiana, agriculture had made way for steam; tall chimneys\nreeked smoke on every horizon, and dirty suburbs filled with\nscrap-iron, scrap-paper and cinders, formed the setting of every town.\nEvidently, cleanliness was not to be the birthmark of the new American,\nbut this matter of discards concerned the measure of force little,\nwhile the chimneys and cinders concerned it so much that Adams thought\nthe Secretary of State should have rushed to the platform at every\nstation to ask who were the people; for the American of the prime\nseemed to be extinct with the Shawnee and the buffalo.\n\n  The subject grew quickly delicate. History told little about\nthese millions of Germans and Slavs, or whatever their race-names, who\nhad overflowed these regions as though the Rhine and the Danube had\nturned their floods into the Ohio. John Hay was as strange to the\nMississippi River as though he had not been bred on its shores, and the\ncity of St. Louis had turned its back on the noblest work of nature,\nleaving it bankrupt between its own banks. The new American showed his\nparentage proudly; he was the child of steam and the brother of the\ndynamo, and already, within less than thirty years, this mass of mixed\nhumanities, brought together by steam, was squeezed and welded into\napproach to shape; a product of so much mechanical power, and bearing\nno distinctive marks but that of its pressure. The new American, like\nthe new European, was the servant of the powerhouse, as the European of\nthe twelfth century was the servant of the Church, and the features\nwould follow the parentage.\n\n  The St. Louis Exposition was its first creation in the\ntwentieth century, and, for that reason, acutely interesting. One saw\nhere a third-rate town of half-a-million people without history,\neducation, unity, or art, and with little capital--without even an\nelement of natural interest except the river which it studiously\nignored--but doing what London, Paris, or New York would have shrunk\nfrom attempting. This new social conglomerate, with no tie but its\nsteam-power and not much of that, threw away thirty or forty million\ndollars on a pageant as ephemeral as a stage flat. The world had never\nwitnessed so marvellous a phantasm by night Arabia's crimson sands had\nnever returned a glow half so astonishing, as one wandered among long\nlines of white palaces, exquisitely lighted by thousands on thousands\nof electric candles, soft, rich, shadowy, palpable in their sensuous\ndepths; all in deep silence, profound solitude, listening for a voice\nor a foot-fall or the plash of an oar, as though the Emir Mirza were\ndisplaying the beauties of this City of Brass, which could show nothing\nhalf so beautiful as this illumination, with its vast, white,\nmonumental solitude, bathed in the pure light of setting suns. One\nenjoyed it with iniquitous rapture, not because of exhibits but rather\nbecause of their want. Here was a paradox like the stellar universe\nthat fitted one's mental faults. Had there been no exhibits at all, and\nno visitors, one would have enjoyed it only the more.\n\n  Here education found new forage. That the power was wasted, the\nart indifferent, the economic failure complete, added just so much to\nthe interest. The chaos of education approached a dream. One asked\none's self whether this extravagance reflected the past or imaged the\nfuture; whether it was a creation of the old American or a promise of\nthe new one. No prophet could be believed, but a pilgrim of power,\nwithout constituency to flatter, might allow himself to hope. The\nprospect from the Exposition was pleasant; one seemed to see almost an\nadequate motive for power; almost a scheme for progress. In another\nhalf-century, the people of the central valleys should have hundreds of\nmillions to throw away more easily than in 1900 they could throw away\ntens; and by that time they might know what they wanted. Possibly they\nmight even have learned how to reach it.\n\n  This was an optimist's hope, shared by few except pilgrims of\nWorld's Fairs, and frankly dropped by the multitude, for, east of the\nMississippi, the St. Louis Exposition met a deliberate conspiracy of\nsilence, discouraging, beyond measure, to an optimistic dream of future\nstrength in American expression. The party got back to Washington on\nMay 24, and before sailing for Europe, Adams went over, one warm\nevening, to bid good-bye on the garden-porch of the White House. He\nfound himself the first person who urged Mrs. Roosevelt to visit the\nExposition for its beauty, and, as far as he ever knew, the last.\n\n  He left St. Louis May 22, 1904, and on Sunday, June 5, found\nhimself again in the town of Coutances, where the people of Normandy\nhad built, towards the year 1250, an Exposition which architects still\nadmired and tourists visited, for it was thought singularly expressive\nof force as well as of grace in the Virgin. On this Sunday, the Norman\nworld was celebrating a pretty church-feast--the Fete Dieu--and the\nstreets were filled with altars to the Virgin, covered with flowers and\nfoliage; the pavements strewn with paths of leaves and the spring\nhandiwork of nature; the cathedral densely thronged at mass. The scene\nwas graceful. The Virgin did not shut her costly Exposition on Sunday,\nor any other day, even to American senators who had shut the St. Louis\nExposition to her--or for her; and a historical tramp would gladly have\noffered a candle, or even a candle-stick in her honor, if she would\nhave taught him her relation with the deity of the Senators. The power\nof the Virgin had been plainly One, embracing all human activity; while\nthe power of the Senate, or its deity, seemed--might one say--to be\nmore or less ashamed of man and his work. The matter had no great\ninterest as far as it concerned the somewhat obscure mental processes\nof Senators who could probably have given no clearer idea than priests\nof the deity they supposed themselves to honor--if that was indeed\ntheir purpose; but it interested a student of force, curious to measure\nits manifestations. Apparently the Virgin--or her Son--had no longer\nthe force to build expositions that one cared to visit, but had the\nforce to close them. The force was still real, serious, and, at St.\nLouis, had been anxiously measured in actual money-value.\n\n  That it was actual and serious in France as in the Senate\nChamber at Washington, proved itself at once by forcing Adams to buy an\nautomobile, which was a supreme demonstration because this was the form\nof force which Adams most abominated. He had set aside the summer for\nstudy of the Virgin, not as a sentiment but as a motive power, which\nhad left monuments widely scattered and not easily reached. The\nautomobile alone could unite them in any reasonable sequence, and\nalthough the force of the automobile, for the purposes of a commercial\ntraveller, seemed to have no relation whatever to the force that\ninspired a Gothic cathedral, the Virgin in the twelfth century would\nhave guided and controlled both bag-man and architect, as she\ncontrolled the seeker of history. In his mind the problem offered\nitself as to Newton; it was a matter of mutual attraction, and he knew\nit, in his own case, to be a formula as precise as s = gt^2/2, if he\ncould but experimentally prove it. Of the attraction he needed no proof\non his own account; the costs of his automobile were more than\nsufficient: but as teacher he needed to speak for others than himself.\nFor him, the Virgin was an adorable mistress, who led the automobile\nand its owner where she would, to her wonderful palaces and chateaux,\nfrom Chartres to Rouen, and thence to Amiens and Laon, and a score of\nothers, kindly receiving, amusing, charming and dazzling her lover, as\nthough she were Aphrodite herself, worth all else that man ever\ndreamed. He never doubted her force, since he felt it to the last fibre\nof his being, and could not more dispute its mastery than he could\ndispute the force of gravitation of which he knew nothing but the\nformula. He was only too glad to yield himself entirely, not to her\ncharm or to any sentimentality of religion, but to her mental and\nphysical energy of creation which had built up these World's Fairs of\nthirteenth-century force that turned Chicago and St. Louis pale.\n\n  \"Both were faiths and both are gone,\" said Matthew Arnold of\nthe Greek and Norse divinities; but the business of a student was to\nask where they had gone. The Virgin had not even altogether gone; her\nfading away had been excessively slow. Her adorer had pursued her too\nlong, too far, and into too many manifestations of her power, to admit\nthat she had any equivalent either of quantity or kind, in the actual\nworld, but he could still less admit her annihilation as energy.\n\n  So he went on wooing, happy in the thought that at last he had\nfound a mistress who could see no difference in the age of her lovers.\nHer own age had no time-measure. For years past, incited by John La\nFarge, Adams had devoted his summer schooling to the study of her glass\nat Chartres and elsewhere, and if the automobile had one vitesse more\nuseful than another, it was that of a century a minute; that of passing\nfrom one century to another without break. The centuries dropped like\nautumn leaves in one's road, and one was not fined for running over\nthem too fast. When the thirteenth lost breath, the fourteenth caught\non, and the sixteenth ran close ahead. The hunt for the Virgin's glass\nopened rich preserves. Especially the sixteenth century ran riot in\nsensuous worship. Then the ocean of religion, which had flooded France,\nbroke into Shelley's light dissolved in star-showers thrown, which had\nleft every remote village strewn with fragments that flashed like\njewels, and were tossed into hidden clefts of peace and forgetfulness.\nOne dared not pass a parish church in Champagne or Touraine without\nstopping to look for its window of fragments, where one's glass\ndiscovered the Christ-child in his manger, nursed by the head of a\nfragmentary donkey, with a Cupid playing into its long ears from the\nbalustrade of a Venetian palace, guarded by a legless Flemish\nleibwache, standing on his head with a broken halbert; all invoked in\nprayer by remnants of the donors and their children that might have\nbeen drawn by Fouquet or Pinturicchio, in colors as fresh and living as\nthe day they were burned in, and with feeling that still consoled the\nfaithful for the paradise they had paid for and lost. France abounds in\nsixteenth-century glass. Paris alone contains acres of it, and the\nneighborhood within fifty miles contains scores of churches where the\nstudent may still imagine himself three hundred years old, kneeling\nbefore the Virgin's window in the silent solitude of an empty faith,\ncrying his culp, beating his breast, confessing his historical sins,\nweighed down by the rubbish of sixty-six years' education, and still\ndesperately hoping to understand.\n\n  He understood a little, though not much. The sixteenth century\nhad a value of its own, as though the ONE had become several, and Unity\nhad counted more than Three, though the Multiple still showed modest\nnumbers. The glass had gone back to the Roman Empire and forward to the\nAmerican continent; it betrayed sympathy with Montaigne and\nShakespeare; but the Virgin was still supreme. At Beauvais in the\nChurch of St. Stephen was a superb tree of Jesse, famous as the work of\nEngrand le Prince, about 1570 or 1580, in whose branches, among the\nfourteen ancestors of the Virgin, three-fourths bore features of the\nKings of France, among them Francis I and Henry II, who were hardly\nmore edifying than Kings of Israel, and at least unusual as sources of\ndivine purity. Compared with the still more famous Tree of Jesse at\nChartres, dating from 1150 or thereabouts, must one declare that\nEngrand le Prince proved progress? and in what direction? Complexity,\nMultiplicity, even a step towards Anarchy, it might suggest, but what\nstep towards perfection?\n\n  One late afternoon, at midsummer, the Virgin's pilgrim was\nwandering through the streets of Troyes in close and intimate\nconversation with Thibaut of Champagne and his highly intelligent\nseneschal, the Sieur de Joinville, when he noticed one or two men\nlooking at a bit of paper stuck in a window. Approaching, he read that\nM. de Plehve had been assassinated at St. Petersburg. The mad mixture\nof Russia and the Crusades, of the Hippodrome and the Renaissance,\ndrove him for refuge into the fascinating Church of St. Pantaleon near\nby. Martyrs, murderers, Caesars, saints and assassins--half in glass\nand half in telegram; chaos of time, place, morals, forces and\nmotive--gave him vertigo. Had one sat all one's life on the steps of\nAra Coeli for this? Was assassination forever to be the last word of\nProgress? No one in the street had shown a sign of protest; he himself\nfelt none; the charming Church with its delightful windows, in its\nexquisite absence of other tourists, took a keener expression of\ncelestial peace than could have been given it by any contrast short of\nexplosive murder; the conservative Christian anarchist had come to his\nown, but which was he--the murderer or the murdered?\n\n  The Virgin herself never looked so winning--so One--as in\nthis scandalous failure of her Grace. To what purpose had she existed,\nif, after nineteen hundred years, the world was bloodier than when she\nwas born? The stupendous failure of Christianity tortured history. The\neffort for Unity could not be a partial success; even alternating Unity\nresolved itself into meaningless motion at last. To the tired student,\nthe idea that he must give it up seemed sheer senility. As long as he\ncould whisper, he would go on as he had begun, bluntly refusing to meet\nhis creator with the admission that the creation had taught him nothing\nexcept that the square of the hypothenuse of a right-angled triangle\nmight for convenience be taken as equal to something else. Every man\nwith self-respect enough to become effective, if only as a machine, has\nhad to account to himself for himself somehow, and to invent a formula\nof his own for his universe, if the standard formulas failed. There,\nwhether finished or not, education stopped. The formula, once made,\ncould be but verified.\n\n  The effort must begin at once, for time pressed. The old\nformulas had failed, and a new one had to be made, but, after all, the\nobject was not extravagant or eccentric. One sought no absolute truth.\nOne sought only a spool on which to wind the thread of history without\nbreaking it. Among indefinite possible orbits, one sought the orbit\nwhich would best satisfy the observed movement of the runaway star\nGroombridge, 1838, commonly called Henry Adams. As term of a\nnineteenth-century education, one sought a common factor for certain\ndefinite historical fractions. Any schoolboy could work out the problem\nif he were given the right to state it in his own terms.\n\n  Therefore, when the fogs and frosts stopped his slaughter of\nthe centuries, and shut him up again in his garret, he sat down as\nthough he were again a boy at school to shape after his own needs the\nvalues of a Dynamic Theory of History.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXIII\n\nA DYNAMIC THEORY OF HISTORY (1904)\n\n  A DYNAMIC theory, like most theories, begins by begging the\nquestion: it defines Progress as the development and economy of Forces.\nFurther, it defines force as anything that does, or helps to do work.\nMan is a force; so is the sun; so is a mathematical point, though\nwithout dimensions or known existence.\n\n  Man commonly begs the question again taking for granted that he\ncaptures the forces. A dynamic theory, assigning attractive force to\nopposing bodies in proportion to the law of mass, takes for granted\nthat the forces of nature capture man. The sum of force attracts; the\nfeeble atom or molecule called man is attracted; he suffers education\nor growth; he is the sum of the forces that attract him; his body and\nhis thought are alike their product; the movement of the forces\ncontrols the progress of his mind, since he can know nothing but the\nmotions which impinge on his senses, whose sum makes education.\n\n  For convenience as an image, the theory may liken man to a\nspider in its web, watching for chance prey. Forces of nature dance\nlike flies before the net, and the spider pounces on them when it can;\nbut it makes many fatal mistakes, though its theory of force is sound.\nThe spider-mind acquires a faculty of memory, and, with it, a singular\nskill of analysis and synthesis, taking apart and putting together in\ndifferent relations the meshes of its trap. Man had in the beginning no\npower of analysis or synthesis approaching that of the spider, or even\nof the honey-bee; he had acute sensibility to the higher forces. Fire\ntaught him secrets that no other animal could learn; running water\nprobably taught him even more, especially in his first lessons of\nmechanics; the animals helped to educate him, trusting themselves into\nhis hands merely for the sake of their food, and carrying his burdens\nor supplying his clothing; the grasses and grains were academies of\nstudy. With little or no effort on his part, all these forces formed\nhis thought, induced his action, and even shaped his figure.\n\n  Long before history began, his education was complete, for the\nrecord could not have been started until he had been taught to record.\nThe universe that had formed him took shape in his mind as a reflection\nof his own unity, containing all forces except himself. Either\nseparately, or in groups, or as a whole, these forces never ceased to\nact on him, enlarging his mind as they enlarged the surface foliage of\na vegetable, and the mind needed only to respond, as the forests did,\nto these attractions. Susceptibility to the highest forces is the\nhighest genius; selection between them is the highest science; their\nmass is the highest educator. Man always made, and still makes,\ngrotesque blunders in selecting and measuring forces, taken at random\nfrom the heap, but he never made a mistake in the value he set on the\nwhole, which he symbolized as unity and worshipped as God. To this day,\nhis attitude towards it has never changed, though science can no longer\ngive to force a name.\n\n  Man's function as a force of nature was to assimilate other\nforces as he assimilated food. He called it the love of power. He felt\nhis own feebleness, and he sought for an ass or a camel, a bow or a\nsling, to widen his range of power, as he sought fetish or a planet in\nthe world beyond. He cared little to know its immediate use, but he\ncould afford to throw nothing away which he could conceive to have\npossible value in this or any other existence. He waited for the object\nto teach him its use, or want of use, and the process was slow. He may\nhave gone on for hundreds of thousands of years, waiting for Nature to\ntell him her secrets; and, to his rivals among the monkeys, Nature has\ntaught no more than at their start; but certain lines of force were\ncapable of acting on individual apes, and mechanically selecting types\nof race or sources of variation. The individual that responded or\nreacted to lines of new force then was possibly the same individual\nthat reacts on it now, and his conception of the unity seems never to\nhave changed in spite of the increasing diversity of forces; but the\ntheory of variation is an affair of other science than history, and\nmatters nothing to dynamics. The individual or the race would be\neducated on the same lines of illusion, which, according to Arthur\nBalfour, had not essentially varied down to the year 1900.\n\n  To the highest attractive energy, man gave the name of divine,\nand for its control he invented the science called Religion, a word\nwhich meant, and still means, cultivation of occult force whether in\ndetail or mass. Unable to define Force as a unity, man symbolized it\nand pursued it, both in himself, and in the infinite, as philosophy and\ntheology; the mind is itself the subtlest of all known forces, and its\nself-introspection necessarily created a science which had the singular\nvalue of lifting his education, at the start, to the finest, subtlest,\nand broadest training both in analysis and synthesis, so that, if\nlanguage is a test, he must have reached his highest powers early in\nhis history; while the mere motive remained as simple an appetite for\npower as the tribal greed which led him to trap an elephant. Hunger,\nwhether for food or for the infinite, sets in motion multiplicity and\ninfinity of thought, and the sure hope of gaining a share of infinite\npower in eternal life would lift most minds to effort.\n\n  He had reached this completeness five thousand years ago, and\nadded nothing to his stock of known forces for a very long time. The\nmass of nature exercised on him so feeble an attraction that one can\nscarcely account for his apparent motion. Only a historian of very\nexceptional knowledge would venture to say at what date between 3000\nB.C. and 1000 A.D., the momentum of Europe was greatest; but such\nprogress as the world made consisted in economies of energy rather than\nin its development; it was proved in mathematics, measured by names\nlike Archimedes, Aristarchus, Ptolemy, and Euclid; or in Civil Law,\nmeasured by a number of names which Adams had begun life by failing to\nlearn; or in coinage, which was most beautiful near its beginning, and\nmost barbarous at its close; or it was shown in roads, or the size of\nships, or harbors; or by the use of metals, instruments, and writing;\nall of them economies of force, sometimes more forceful than the forces\nthey helped; but the roads were still travelled by the horse, the ass,\nthe camel, or the slave; the ships were still propelled by sails or\noars; the lever, the spring, and the screw bounded the region of\napplied mechanics. Even the metals were old.\n\n  Much the same thing could be said of religious or supernatural\nforces. Down to the year 300 of the Christian era they were little\nchanged, and in spite of Plato and the sceptics were more apparently\nchaotic than ever. The experience of three thousand years had educated\nsociety to feel the vastness of Nature, and the infinity of her\nresources of power, but even this increase of attraction had not yet\ncaused economies in its methods of pursuit.\n\n  There the Western world stood till the year A.D. 305, when the\nEmperor Diocletian abdicated; and there it was that Adams broke down on\nthe steps of Ara Coeli, his path blocked by the scandalous failure of\ncivilization at the moment it had achieved complete success. In the\nyear 305 the empire had solved the problems of Europe more completely\nthan they have ever been solved since. The Pax Romana, the Civil Law,\nand Free Trade should, in four hundred years, have put Europe far in\nadvance of the point reached by modern society in the four hundred\nyears since 1500, when conditions were less simple.\n\n  The efforts to explain, or explain away, this scandal had been\nincessant, but none suited Adams unless it were the economic theory of\nadverse exchanges and exhaustion of minerals; but nations are not\nruined beyond a certain point by adverse exchanges, and Rome had by no\nmeans exhausted her resources. On the contrary, the empire developed\nresources and energies quite astounding. No other four hundred years of\nhistory before A.D. 1800 knew anything like it; and although some of\nthese developments, like the Civil Law, the roads, aqueducts, and\nharbors, were rather economies than force, yet in northwestern Europe\nalone the empire had developed three energies--France, England, and\nGermany--competent to master the world. The trouble seemed rather to be\nthat the empire developed too much energy, and too fast.\n\nA dynamic law requires that two masses--nature and man--must go on,\nreacting upon each other, without stop, as the sun and a comet react on\neach other, and that any appearance of stoppage is illusive. The theory\nseems to exact excess, rather than deficiency, of action and reaction\nto account for the dissolution of the Roman Empire, which should, as a\nproblem of mechanics, have been torn to pieces by acceleration. If the\nstudent means to try the experiment of framing a dynamic law, he must\nassign values to the forces of attraction that caused the trouble; and\nin this case he has them in plain evidence. With the relentless logic\nthat stamped Roman thought, the empire, which had established unity on\nearth, could not help establishing unity in heaven. It was induced by\nits dynamic necessities to economize the gods.\n\n  The Church has never ceased to protest against the charge that\nChristianity ruined the empire, and, with its usual force, has pointed\nout that its reforms alone saved the State. Any dynamic theory gladly\nadmits it. All it asks is to find and follow the force that attracts.\nThe Church points out this force in the Cross, and history needs only\nto follow it. The empire loudly asserted its motive. Good taste forbids\nsaying that Constantine the Great speculated as audaciously as a modern\nstock-broker on values of which he knew at the utmost only the volume;\nor that he merged all uncertain forces into a single trust, which he\nenormously overcapitalized, and forced on the market; but this is the\nsubstance of what Constantine himself said in his Edict of Milan in the\nyear 313, which admitted Christianity into the Trust of State\nReligions. Regarded as an Act of Congress, it runs: \"We have resolved\nto grant to Christians as well as all others the liberty to practice\nthe religion they prefer, in order that whatever exists of divinity or\ncelestial power may help and favor us and all who are under our\ngovernment.\" The empire pursued power--not merely spiritual but\nphysical--in the sense in which Constantine issued his army order the\nyear before, at the battle of the Milvian Bridge: In hoc signo vinces!\nusing the Cross as a train of artillery, which, to his mind, it was.\nSociety accepted it in the same character. Eighty years afterwards,\nTheodosius marched against his rival Eugene with the Cross for physical\nchampion; and Eugene raised the image of Hercules to fight for the\npagans; while society on both sides looked on, as though it were a\nboxing-match, to decide a final test of force between the divine\npowers. The Church was powerless to raise the ideal. What is now known\nas religion affected the mind of old society but little. The laity, the\npeople, the million, almost to a man, bet on the gods as they bet on a\nhorse.\n\n  No doubt the Church did all it could to purify the process, but\nsociety was almost wholly pagan in its point of view, and was drawn to\nthe Cross because, in its system of physics, the Cross had absorbed all\nthe old occult or fetish-power. The symbol represented the sum of\nnature--the Energy of modern science--and society believed it to be as\nreal as X-rays; perhaps it was! The emperors used it like gunpowder in\npolitics; the physicians used it like rays in medicine; the dying clung\nto it as the quintessence of force, to protect them from the forces of\nevil on their road to the next life.\n\n  Throughout these four centuries the empire knew that religion\ndisturbed economy, for even the cost of heathen incense affected the\nexchanges; but no one could afford to buy or construct a costly and\ncomplicated machine when he could hire an occult force at trifling\nexpense. Fetish-power was cheap and satisfactory, down to a certain\npoint. Turgot and Auguste Comte long ago fixed this stage of economy as\na necessary phase of social education, and historians seem now to\naccept it as the only gain yet made towards scientific history. Great\nnumbers of educated people--perhaps a majority--cling to the method\nstill, and practice it more or less strictly; but, until quite\nrecently, no other was known. The only occult power at man's disposal\nwas fetish. Against it, no mechanical force could compete except within\nnarrow limits.\n\n  Outside of occult or fetish-power, the Roman world was\nincredibly poor. It knew but one productive energy resembling a modern\nmachine--the slave. No artificial force of serious value was applied to\nproduction or transportation, and when society developed itself so\nrapidly in political and social lines, it had no other means of keeping\nits economy on the same level than to extend its slave-system and its\nfetish-system to the utmost.\n\nThe result might have been stated in a mathematical formula as early as\nthe time of Archimedes, six hundred years before Rome fell. The\neconomic needs of a violently centralizing society forced the empire to\nenlarge its slave-system until the slave-system consumed itself and the\nempire too, leaving society no resource but further enlargement of its\nreligious system in order to compensate for the losses and horrors of\nthe failure. For a vicious circle, its mathematical completeness\napproached perfection. The dynamic law of attraction and reaction\nneeded only a Newton to fix it in algebraic form.\n\n  At last, in 410, Alaric sacked Rome, and the slave-ridden,\nagricultural, uncommercial Western Empire--the poorer and less\nChristianized half--went to pieces. Society, though terribly shocked by\nthe horrors of Alaric's storm, felt still more deeply the\ndisappointment in its new power, the Cross, which had failed to protect\nits Church. The outcry against the Cross became so loud among\nChristians that its literary champion, Bishop Augustine of Hippo--a\ntown between Algiers and Tunis--was led to write a famous treatise in\ndefence of the Cross, familiar still to every scholar, in which he\ndefended feebly the mechanical value of the symbol--arguing only that\npagan symbols equally failed--but insisted on its spiritual value in\nthe Civitas Dei which had taken the place of the Civitas Romae in human\ninterest. \"Granted that we have lost all we had! Have we lost faith?\nHave we lost piety? Have we lost the wealth of the inner man who is\nrich before God? These are the wealth of Christians!\" The Civitas Dei,\nin its turn, became the sum of attraction for the Western world, though\nit also showed the same weakness in mechanics that had wrecked the\nCivitas Romae. St. Augustine and his people perished at Hippo towards\n430, leaving society in appearance dull to new attraction.\n\n  Yet the attraction remained constant. The delight of\nexperimenting on occult force of every kind is such as to absorb all\nthe free thought of the human race. The gods did their work; history\nhas no quarrel with them; they led, educated, enlarged the mind; taught\nknowledge; betrayed ignorance; stimulated effort. So little is known\nabout the mind--whether social, racial, sexual or heritable; whether\nmaterial or spiritual; whether animal, vegetable or mineral--that\nhistory is inclined to avoid it altogether; but nothing forbids one to\nadmit, for convenience, that it may assimilate food like the body,\nstoring new force and growing, like a forest, with the storage. The\nbrain has not yet revealed its mysterious mechanism of gray matter.\nNever has Nature offered it so violent a stimulant as when she opened\nto it the possibility of sharing infinite power in eternal life, and it\nmight well need a thousand years of prolonged and intense experiment to\nprove the value of the motive. During these so-called Middle Ages, the\nWestern mind reacted in many forms, on many sides, expressing its\nmotives in modes, such as Romanesque and Gothic architecture, glass\nwindows and mosaic walls, sculpture and poetry, war and love, which\nstill affect some people as the noblest work of man, so that, even\nto-day, great masses of idle and ignorant tourists travel from far\ncountries to look at Ravenna and San Marco, Palermo and Pisa, Assisi,\nCordova, Chartres, with vague notions about the force that created\nthem, but with a certain surprise that a social mind of such singular\nenergy and unity should still lurk in their shadows.\n\n  The tourist more rarely visits Constantinople or studies the\narchitecture of Sancta Sofia, but when he does, he is distinctly\nconscious of forces not quite the same. Justinian has not the\nsimplicity of Charlemagne. The Eastern Empire showed an activity and\nvariety of forces that classical Europe had never possessed. The navy\nof Nicephoras Phocas in the tenth century would have annihilated in\nhalf an hour any navy that Carthage or Athens or Rome ever set afloat.\nThe dynamic scheme began by asserting rather recklessly that between\nthe Pyramids (B.C. 3000), and the Cross (A.D. 300), no new force\naffected Western progress, and antiquarians may easily dispute the\nfact; but in any case the motive influence, old or new, which raised\nboth Pyramids and Cross was the same attraction of power in a future\nlife that raised the dome of Sancta Sofia and the Cathedral at Amiens,\nhowever much it was altered, enlarged, or removed to distance in space.\nTherefore, no single event has more puzzled historians than the sudden,\nunexplained appearance of at least two new natural forces of the\nhighest educational value in mechanics, for the first time within\nrecord of history. Literally, these two forces seemed to drop from the\nsky at the precise moment when the Cross on one side and the Crescent\non the other, proclaimed the complete triumph of the Civitas Dei. Had\nthe Manichean doctrine of Good and Evil as rival deities been orthodox,\nit would alone have accounted for this simultaneous victory of hostile\npowers.\n\n  Of the compass, as a step towards demonstration of the dynamic\nlaw, one may confidently say that it proved, better than any other\nforce, the widening scope of the mind, since it widened immensely the\nrange of contact between nature and thought. The compass educated. This\nmust prove itself as needing no proof.\n\n  Of Greek fire and gunpowder, the same thing cannot certainly be\nsaid, for they have the air of accidents due to the attraction of\nreligious motives. They belong to the spiritual world; or to the\ndoubtful ground of Magic which lay between Good and Evil. They were\nchemical forces, mostly explosives, which acted and still act as the\nmost violent educators ever known to man, but they were justly feared\nas diabolic, and whatever insolence man may have risked towards the\nmilder teachers of his infancy, he was an abject pupil towards\nexplosives. The Sieur de Joinville left a record of the energy with\nwhich the relatively harmless Greek fire educated and enlarged the\nFrench mind in a single night in the year 1249, when the crusaders were\ntrying to advance on Cairo. The good king St. Louis and all his staff\ndropped on their knees at every fiery flame that flew by, praying--\"God\nhave pity on us!\" and never had man more reason to call on his gods\nthan they, for the battle of religion between Christian and Saracen was\ntrifling compared with that of education between gunpowder and the\nCross.\n\n  The fiction that society educated itself, or aimed at a\nconscious purpose, was upset by the compass and gunpowder which dragged\nand drove Europe at will through frightful bogs of learning. At first,\nthe apparent lag for want of volume in the new energies lasted one or\ntwo centuries, which closed the great epochs of emotion by the Gothic\ncathedrals and scholastic theology. The moment had Greek beauty and\nmore than Greek unity, but it was brief; and for another century or\ntwo, Western society seemed to float in space without apparent motion.\nYet the attractive mass of nature's energy continued to attract, and\neducation became more rapid than ever before. Society began to resist,\nbut the individual showed greater and greater insistence, without\nrealizing what he was doing. When the Crescent drove the Cross in\nignominy from Constantinople in 1453, Gutenberg and Fust were printing\ntheir first Bible at Mainz under the impression that they were helping\nthe Cross. When Columbus discovered the West Indies in 1492, the Church\nlooked on it as a victory of the Cross. When Luther and Calvin upset\nEurope half a century later, they were trying, like St. Augustine, to\nsubstitute the Civitas Dei for the Civitas Romae. When the Puritans set\nout for New England in 1620, they too were looking to found a Civitas\nDei in State Street; and when Bunyan made his Pilgrimage in 1678, he\nrepeated St. Jerome. Even when, after centuries of license, the Church\nreformed its discipline, and, to prove it, burned Giordano Bruno in\n1600, besides condemning Galileo in 1630--as science goes on repeating\nto us every day--it condemned anarchists, not atheists. None of the\nastronomers were irreligious men; all of them made a point of\nmagnifying God through his works; a form of science which did their\nreligion no credit. Neither Galileo nor Kepler, neither Spinoza nor\nDescartes, neither Leibnitz nor Newton, any more than Constantine the\nGreat--if so much--doubted Unity. The utmost range of their heresies\nreached only its personality.\n\n  This persistence of thought-inertia is the leading idea of\nmodern history. Except as reflected in himself, man has no reason for\nassuming unity in the universe, or an ultimate substance, or a\nprime-motor. The a priori insistence on this unity ended by fatiguing\nthe more active--or reactive--minds; and Lord Bacon tried to stop it.\nHe urged society to lay aside the idea of evolving the universe from a\nthought, and to try evolving thought from the universe. The mind should\nobserve and register forces--take them apart and put them\ntogether--without assuming unity at all. \"Nature, to be commanded, must\nbe obeyed.\" \"The imagination must be given not wings but weights.\" As\nGalileo reversed the action of earth and sun, Bacon reversed the\nrelation of thought to force. The mind was thenceforth to follow the\nmovement of matter, and unity must be left to shift for itself.\n\n  The revolution in attitude seemed voluntary, but in fact was as\nmechanical as the fall of a feather. Man created nothing. After 1500,\nthe speed of progress so rapidly surpassed man's gait as to alarm every\none, as though it were the acceleration of a falling body which the\ndynamic theory takes it to be. Lord Bacon was as much astonished by it\nas the Church was, and with reason. Suddenly society felt itself\ndragged into situations altogether new and anarchic--situations which\nit could not affect, but which painfully affected it. Instinct taught\nit that the universe in its thought must be in danger when its\nreflection lost itself in space. The danger was all the greater because\nmen of science covered it with \"larger synthesis,\" and poets called the\nundevout astronomer mad. Society knew better. Yet the telescope held it\nrigidly standing on its head; the microscope revealed a universe that\ndefied the senses; gunpowder killed whole races that lagged behind; the\ncompass coerced the most imbruted mariner to act on the impossible idea\nthat the earth was round; the press drenched Europe with anarchism.\nEurope saw itself, violently resisting, wrenched into false positions,\ndrawn along new lines as a fish that is caught on a hook; but unable to\nunderstand by what force it was controlled. The resistance was often\nbloody, sometimes humorous, always constant. Its contortions in the\neighteenth century are best studied in the wit of Voltaire, but all\nhistory and all philosophy from Montaigne and Pascal to Schopenhauer\nand Nietzsche deal with nothing else; and still, throughout it all, the\nBaconian law held good; thought did not evolve nature, but nature\nevolved thought. Not one considerable man of science dared face the\nstream of thought; and the whole number of those who acted, like\nFranklin, as electric conductors of the new forces from nature to man,\ndown to the year 1800, did not exceed a few score, confined to a few\ntowns in western Europe. Asia refused to be touched by the stream, and\nAmerica, except for Franklin, stood outside.\n\n  Very slowly the accretion of these new forces, chemical and\nmechanical, grew in volume until they acquired sufficient mass to take\nthe place of the old religious science, substituting their attraction\nfor the attractions of the Civitas Dei, but the process remained the\nsame. Nature, not mind, did the work that the sun does on the planets.\nMan depended more and more absolutely on forces other than his own, and\non instruments which superseded his senses. Bacon foretold it: \"Neither\nthe naked hand nor the understanding, left to itself, can effect much.\nIt is by instruments and helps that the work is done.\" Once done, the\nmind resumed its illusion, and society forgot its impotence; but no one\nbetter than Bacon knew its tricks, and for his true followers science\nalways meant self-restraint, obedience, sensitiveness to impulse from\nwithout. \"Non fingendum aut excogitandum sed inveniendum quid Natura\nfaciat aut ferat.\"\n\n  The success of this method staggers belief, and even to-day can\nbe treated by history only as a miracle of growth, like the sports of\nnature. Evidently a new variety of mind had appeared. Certain men\nmerely held out their hands--like Newton, watched an apple; like\nFranklin, flew a kite; like Watt, played with a tea-kettle--and great\nforces of nature stuck to them as though she were playing ball.\nGovernments did almost nothing but resist. Even gunpowder and ordnance,\nthe great weapon of government, showed little development between 1400\nand 1800. Society was hostile or indifferent, as Priestley and Jenner,\nand even Fulton, with reason complained in the most advanced societies\nin the world, while its resistance became acute wherever the Church\nheld control; until all mankind seemed to draw itself out in a long\nseries of groups, dragged on by an attractive power in advance, which\neven the leaders obeyed without understanding, as the planets obeyed\ngravity, or the trees obeyed heat and light.\n\n  The influx of new force was nearly spontaneous. The reaction of\nmind on the mass of nature seemed not greater than that of a comet on\nthe sun; and had the spontaneous influx of force stopped in Europe,\nsociety must have stood still, or gone backward, as in Asia or Africa.\nThen only economies of process would have counted as new force, and\nsociety would have been better pleased; for the idea that new force\nmust be in itself a good is only an animal or vegetable instinct. As\nNature developed her hidden energies, they tended to become\ndestructive. Thought itself became tortured, suffering reluctantly,\nimpatiently, painfully, the coercion of new method. Easy thought had\nalways been movement of inertia, and mostly mere sentiment; but even\nthe processes of mathematics measured feebly the needs of force.\n\n  The stupendous acceleration after 1800 ended in 1900 with the\nappearance of the new class of supersensual forces, before which the\nman of science stood at first as bewildered and helpless as, in the\nfourth century, a priest of Isis before the Cross of Christ.\n\n  This, then, or something like this, would be a dynamic formula\nof history. Any schoolboy knows enough to object at once that it is the\noldest and most universal of all theories. Church and State, theology\nand philosophy, have always preached it, differing only in the\nallotment of energy between nature and man. Whether the attractive\nenergy has been called God or Nature, the mechanism has been always the\nsame, and history is not obliged to decide whether the Ultimate tends\nto a purpose or not, or whether ultimate energy is one or many. Every\none admits that the will is a free force, habitually decided by\nmotives. No one denies that motives exist adequate to decide the will;\neven though it may not always be conscious of them. Science has proved\nthat forces, sensible and occult, physical and metaphysical, simple and\ncomplex, surround, traverse, vibrate, rotate, repel, attract, without\nstop; that man's senses are conscious of few, and only in a partial\ndegree; but that, from the beginning of organic existence, his\nconsciousness has been induced, expanded, trained in the lines of his\nsensitiveness; and that the rise of his faculties from a lower power to\na higher, or from a narrower to a wider field, may be due to the\nfunction of assimilating and storing outside force or forces. There is\nnothing unscientific in the idea that, beyond the lines of force felt\nby the senses, the universe may be--as it has always been--either a\nsupersensuous chaos or a divine unity, which irresistibly attracts, and\nis either life or death to penetrate. Thus far, religion, philosophy,\nand science seem to go hand in hand. The schools begin their vital\nbattle only there. In the earlier stages of progress, the forces to be\nassimilated were simple and easy to absorb, but, as the mind of man\nenlarged its range, it enlarged the field of complexity, and must\ncontinue to do so, even into chaos, until the reservoirs of sensuous or\nsupersensuous energies are exhausted, or cease to affect him, or until\nhe succumbs to their excess.\n\n  For past history, this way of grouping its sequences may answer\nfor a chart of relations, although any serious student would need to\ninvent another, to compare or correct its errors; but past history is\nonly a value of relation to the future, and this value is wholly one of\nconvenience, which can be tested only by experiment. Any law of\nmovement must include, to make it a convenience, some mechanical\nformula of acceleration.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXIV\n\nA LAW OF ACCELERATION (1904)\n\n  IMAGES are not arguments, rarely even lead to proof, but the\nmind craves them, and, of late more than ever, the keenest\nexperimenters find twenty images better than one, especially if\ncontradictory; since the human mind has already learned to deal in\ncontradictions.\n\n  The image needed here is that of a new centre, or\npreponderating mass, artificially introduced on earth in the midst of a\nsystem of attractive forces that previously made their own equilibrium,\nand constantly induced to accelerate its motion till it shall establish\na new equilibrium. A dynamic theory would begin by assuming that all\nhistory, terrestrial or cosmic, mechanical or intellectual, would be\nreducible to this formula if we knew the facts.\n\n  For convenience, the most familiar image should come first; and\nthis is probably that of the comet, or meteoric streams, like the\nLeonids and Perseids; a complex of minute mechanical agencies, reacting\nwithin and without, and guided by the sum of forces attracting or\ndeflecting it. Nothing forbids one to assume that the man-meteorite\nmight grow, as an acorn does, absorbing light, heat, electricity--or\nthought; for, in recent times, such transference of energy has become a\nfamiliar idea; but the simplest figure, at first, is that of a perfect\ncomet--say that of 1843--which drops from space, in a straight line, at\nthe regular acceleration of speed, directly into the sun, and after\nwheeling sharply about it, in heat that ought to dissipate any known\nsubstance, turns back unharmed, in defiance of law, by the path on\nwhich it came. The mind, by analogy, may figure as such a comet, the\nbetter because it also defies law.\n\n  Motion is the ultimate object of science, and measures of\nmotion are many; but with thought as with matter, the true measure is\nmass in its astronomic sense--the sum or difference of attractive\nforces. Science has quite enough trouble in measuring its material\nmotions without volunteering help to the historian, but the historian\nneeds not much help to measure some kinds of social movement; and\nespecially in the nineteenth century, society by common accord agreed\nin measuring its progress by the coal-output. The ratio of increase in\nthe volume of coal-power may serve as dynamometer.\n\n  The coal-output of the world, speaking roughly, doubled every\nten years between 1840 and 1900, in the form of utilized power, for the\nton of coal yielded three or four times as much power in 1900 as in\n1840. Rapid as this rate of acceleration in volume seems, it may be\ntested in a thousand ways without greatly reducing it. Perhaps the\nocean steamer is nearest unity and easiest to measure, for any one\nmight hire, in 1905, for a small sum of money, the use of 30,000\nsteam-horse-power to cross the ocean, and by halving this figure every\nten years, he got back to 234 horse-power for 1835, which was accuracy\nenough for his purposes. In truth, his chief trouble came not from the\nratio in volume of heat, but from the intensity, since he could get no\nbasis for a ratio there. All ages of history have known high\nintensities, like the iron-furnace, the burning-glass, the blow-pipe;\nbut no society has ever used high intensities on any large scale till\nnow, nor can a mere bystander decide what range of temperature is now\nin common use. Loosely guessing that science controls habitually the\nwhole range from absolute zero to 3000 degrees Centigrade, one might\nassume, for convenience, that the ten-year ratio for volume could be\nused temporarily for intensity; and still there remained a ratio to be\nguessed for other forces than heat. Since 1800 scores of new forces had\nbeen discovered; old forces had been raised to higher powers, as could\nbe measured in the navy-gun; great regions of chemistry had been opened\nup, and connected with other regions of physics. Within ten years a new\nuniverse of force had been revealed in radiation. Complexity had\nextended itself on immense horizons, and arithmetical ratios were\nuseless for any attempt at accuracy. The force evolved seemed more like\nexplosion than gravitation, and followed closely the curve of steam;\nbut, at all events, the ten-year ratio seemed carefully conservative.\nUnless the calculator was prepared to be instantly overwhelmed by\nphysical force and mental complexity, he must stop there.\n\n  Thus, taking the year 1900 as the starting point for carrying\nback the series, nothing was easier than to assume a ten-year period of\nretardation as far back as 1820, but beyond that point the statistician\nfailed, and only the mathematician could help. Laplace would have found\nit child's-play to fix a ratio of progression in mathematical science\nbetween Descartes, Leibnitz, Newton, and himself. Watt could have given\nin pounds the increase of power between Newcomen's engines and his own.\nVolta and Benjamin Franklin would have stated their progress as\nabsolute creation of power. Dalton could have measured minutely his\nadvance on Boerhaave. Napoleon I must have had a distinct notion of his\nown numerical relation to Louis XIV. No one in 1789 doubted the\nprogress of force, least of all those who were to lose their heads by\nit.\n\n  Pending agreement between these authorities, theory may assume\nwhat it likes--say a fifty, or even a five-and-twenty-year period of\nreduplication for the eighteenth century, for the period matters little\nuntil the acceleration itself is admitted. The subject is even more\namusing in the seventeenth than in the eighteenth century, because\nGalileo and Kepler, Descartes, Huygens, and Isaac Newton took vast\npains to fix the laws of acceleration for moving bodies, while Lord\nBacon and William Harvey were content with showing experimentally the\nfact of acceleration in knowledge; but from their combined results a\nhistorian might be tempted to maintain a similar rate of movement back\nto 1600, subject to correction from the historians of mathematics.\n\n  The mathematicians might carry their calculations back as far\nas the fourteenth century when algebra seems to have become for the\nfirst time the standard measure of mechanical progress in western\nEurope; for not only Copernicus and Tycho Brahe, but even artists like\nLeonardo, Michael Angelo, and Albert Durer worked by mathematical\nprocesses, and their testimony would probably give results more exact\nthan that of Montaigne or Shakespeare; but, to save trouble, one might\ntentatively carry back the same ratio of acceleration, or retardation,\nto the year 1400, with the help of Columbus and Gutenberg, so taking a\nuniform rate during the whole four centuries (1400-1800), and leaving\nto statisticians the task of correcting it.\n\n  Or better, one might, for convenience, use the formula of\nsquares to serve for a law of mind. Any other formula would do as well,\neither of chemical explosion, or electrolysis, or vegetable growth, or\nof expansion or contraction in innumerable forms; but this happens to\nbe simple and convenient. Its force increases in the direct ratio of\nits squares. As the human meteoroid approached the sun or centre of\nattractive force, the attraction of one century squared itself to give\nthe measure of attraction in the next.\n\n  Behind the year 1400, the process certainly went on, but the\nprogress became so slight as to be hardly measurable. What was gained\nin the east or elsewhere, cannot be known; but forces, called loosely\nGreek fire and gunpowder, came into use in the west in the thirteenth\ncentury, as well as instruments like the compass, the blow-pipe, clocks\nand spectacles, and materials like paper; Arabic notation and algebra\nwere introduced, while metaphysics and theology acted as violent\nstimulants to mind. An architect might detect a sequence between the\nChurch of St. Peter's at Rome, the Amiens Cathedral, the Duomo at Pisa,\nSan Marco at Venice, Sancta Sofia at Constantinople and the churches at\nRavenna. All the historian dares affirm is that a sequence is\nmanifestly there, and he has a right to carry back his ratio, to\nrepresent the fact, without assuming its numerical correctness. On the\nhuman mind as a moving body, the break in acceleration in the Middle\nAges is only apparent; the attraction worked through shifting forms of\nforce, as the sun works by light or heat, electricity, gravitation, or\nwhat not, on different organs with different sensibilities, but with\ninvariable law.\n\n  The science of prehistoric man has no value except to prove\nthat the law went back into indefinite antiquity. A stone arrowhead is\nas convincing as a steam-engine. The values were as clear a hundred\nthousand years ago as now, and extended equally over the whole world.\nThe motion at last became infinitely slight, but cannot be proved to\nhave stopped. The motion of Newton's comet at aphelion may be equally\nslight. To evolutionists may be left the processes of evolution; to\nhistorians the single interest is the law of reaction between force and\nforce--between mind and nature--the law of progress.\n\n  The great division of history into phases by Turgot and Comte\nfirst affirmed this law in its outlines by asserting the unity of\nprogress, for a mere phase interrupts no growth, and nature shows\ninnumerable such phases. The development of coal-power in the\nnineteenth century furnished the first means of assigning closer values\nto the elements; and the appearance of supersensual forces towards 1900\nmade this calculation a pressing necessity; since the next step became\ninfinitely serious.\n\n  A law of acceleration, definite and constant as any law of\nmechanics, cannot be supposed to relax its energy to suit the\nconvenience of man. No one is likely to suggest a theory that man's\nconvenience had been consulted by Nature at any time, or that Nature\nhas consulted the convenience of any of her creations, except perhaps\nthe Terebratula. In every age man has bitterly and justly complained\nthat Nature hurried and hustled him, for inertia almost invariably has\nended in tragedy. Resistance is its law, and resistance to superior\nmass is futile and fatal.\n\n  Fifty years ago, science took for granted that the rate of\nacceleration could not last. The world forgets quickly, but even today\nthe habit remains of founding statistics on the faith that consumption\nwill continue nearly stationary. Two generations, with John Stuart\nMill, talked of this stationary period, which was to follow the\nexplosion of new power. All the men who were elderly in the forties\ndied in this faith, and other men grew old nursing the same conviction,\nand happy in it; while science, for fifty years, permitted, or\nencouraged, society to think that force would prove to be limited in\nsupply. This mental inertia of science lasted through the eighties\nbefore showing signs of breaking up; and nothing short of radium fairly\nwakened men to the fact, long since evident, that force was\ninexhaustible. Even then the scientific authorities vehemently resisted.\n\n  Nothing so revolutionary had happened since the year 300.\nThought had more than once been upset, but never caught and whirled\nabout in the vortex of infinite forces. Power leaped from every atom,\nand enough of it to supply the stellar universe showed itself running\nto waste at every pore of matter. Man could no longer hold it off.\nForces grasped his wrists and flung him about as though he had hold of\na live wire or a runaway automobile; which was very nearly the exact\ntruth for the purposes of an elderly and timid single gentleman in\nParis, who never drove down the Champs Elysees without expecting an\naccident, and commonly witnessing one; or found himself in the\nneighborhood of an official without calculating the chances of a bomb.\nSo long as the rates of progress held good, these bombs would double in\nforce and number every ten years.\n\n  Impossibilities no longer stood in the way. One's life had\nfattened on impossibilities. Before the boy was six years old, he had\nseen four impossibilities made actual--the ocean-steamer, the railway,\nthe electric telegraph, and the Daguerreotype; nor could he ever learn\nwhich of the four had most hurried others to come. He had seen the\ncoal-output of the United States grow from nothing to three hundred\nmillion tons or more. What was far more serious, he had seen the number\nof minds, engaged in pursuing force--the truest measure of its\nattraction--increase from a few scores or hundreds, in 1838, to many\nthousands in 1905, trained to sharpness never before reached, and armed\nwith instruments amounting to new senses of indefinite power and\naccuracy, while they chased force into hiding-places where Nature\nherself had never known it to be, making analyses that contradicted\nbeing, and syntheses that endangered the elements. No one could say\nthat the social mind now failed to respond to new force, even when the\nnew force annoyed it horribly. Every day Nature violently revolted,\ncausing so-called accidents with enormous destruction of property and\nlife, while plainly laughing at man, who helplessly groaned and\nshrieked and shuddered, but never for a single instant could stop. The\nrailways alone approached the carnage of war; automobiles and fire-arms\nravaged society, until an earthquake became almost a nervous\nrelaxation. An immense volume of force had detached itself from the\nunknown universe of energy, while still vaster reservoirs, supposed to\nbe infinite, steadily revealed themselves, attracting mankind with more\ncompulsive course than all the Pontic Seas or Gods or Gold that ever\nexisted, and feeling still less of retiring ebb.\n\n  In 1850, science would have smiled at such a romance as this,\nbut, in 1900, as far as history could learn, few men of science thought\nit a laughing matter. If a perplexed but laborious follower could\nventure to guess their drift, it seemed in their minds a toss-up\nbetween anarchy and order. Unless they should be more honest with\nthemselves in the future than ever they were in the past, they would be\nmore astonished than their followers when they reached the end. If Karl\nPearson's notions of the universe were sound, men like Galileo,\nDescartes, Leibnitz, and Newton should have stopped the progress of\nscience before 1700, supposing them to have been honest in the\nreligious convictions they expressed. In 1900 they were plainly forced\nback; on faith in a unity unproved and an order they had themselves\ndisproved. They had reduced their universe to a series of relations to\nthemselves. They had reduced themselves to motion in a universe of\nmotions, with an acceleration, in their own case of vertiginous\nviolence. With the correctness of their science, history had no right\nto meddle, since their science now lay in a plane where scarcely one or\ntwo hundred minds in the world could follow its mathematical processes;\nbut bombs educate vigorously, and even wireless telegraphy or airships\nmight require the reconstruction of society. If any analogy whatever\nexisted between the human mind, on one side, and the laws of motion, on\nthe other, the mind had already entered a field of attraction so\nviolent that it must immediately pass beyond, into new equilibrium,\nlike the Comet of Newton, to suffer dissipation altogether, like\nmeteoroids in the earth's atmosphere. If it behaved like an explosive,\nit must rapidly recover equilibrium; if it behaved like a vegetable, it\nmust reach its limits of growth; and even if it acted like the earlier\ncreations of energy--the saurians and sharks--it must have nearly\nreached the limits of its expansion. If science were to go on doubling\nor quadrupling its complexities every ten years, even mathematics would\nsoon succumb. An average mind had succumbed already in 1850; it could\nno longer understand the problem in 1900.\n\n  Fortunately, a student of history had no responsibility for the\nproblem; he took it as science gave it, and waited only to be taught.\nWith science or with society, he had no quarrel and claimed no share of\nauthority. He had never been able to acquire knowledge, still less to\nimpart it; and if he had, at times, felt serious differences with the\nAmerican of the nineteenth century, he felt none with the American of\nthe twentieth. For this new creation, born since 1900, a historian\nasked no longer to be teacher or even friend; he asked only to be a\npupil, and promised to be docile, for once, even though trodden under\nfoot; for he could see that the new American--the child of incalculable\ncoal-power, chemical power, electric power, and radiating energy, as\nwell as of new forces yet undetermined--must be a sort of God compared\nwith any former creation of nature. At the rate of progress since 1800,\nevery American who lived into the year 2000 would know how to control\nunlimited power. He would think in complexities unimaginable to an\nearlier mind. He would deal with problems altogether beyond the range\nof earlier society. To him the nineteenth century would stand on the\nsame plane with the fourth--equally childlike--and he would only wonder\nhow both of them, knowing so little, and so weak in force, should have\ndone so much. Perhaps even he might go back, in 1964, to sit with\nGibbon on the steps of Ara Coeli.\n\n  Meanwhile he was getting education. With that, a teacher who\nhad failed to educate even the generation of 1870, dared not interfere.\nThe new forces would educate. History saw few lessons in the past that\nwould be useful in the future; but one, at least, it did see. The\nattempt of the American of 1800 to educate the American of 1900 had not\noften been surpassed for folly; and since 1800 the forces and their\ncomplications had increased a thousand times or more. The attempt of\nthe American of 1900 to educate the American of 2000, must be even\nblinder than that of the Congressman of 1800, except so far as he had\nlearned his ignorance. During a million or two of years, every\ngeneration in turn had toiled with endless agony to attain and apply\npower, all the while betraying the deepest alarm and horror at the\npower they created. The teacher of 1900, if foolhardy, might stimulate;\nif foolish, might resist; if intelligent, might balance, as wise and\nfoolish have often tried to do from the beginning; but the forces would\ncontinue to educate, and the mind would continue to react. All the\nteacher could hope was to teach it reaction.\n\n  Even there his difficulty was extreme. The most elementary\nbooks of science betrayed the inadequacy of old implements of thought.\nChapter after chapter closed with phrases such as one never met in\nolder literature: \"The cause of this phenomenon is not understood\";\n\"science no longer ventures to explain causes\"; \"the first step towards\na causal explanation still remains to be taken\"; \"opinions are very\nmuch divided\"; \"in spite of the contradictions involved\"; \"science gets\non only by adopting different theories, sometimes contradictory.\"\nEvidently the new American would need to think in contradictions, and\ninstead of Kant's famous four antinomies, the new universe would know\nno law that could not be proved by its anti-law.\n\n  To educate--one's self to begin with--had been the effort\nof one's life for sixty years; and the difficulties of education had\ngone on doubling with the coal-output, until the prospect of waiting\nanother ten years, in order to face a seventh doubling of complexities,\nallured one's imagination but slightly. The law of acceleration was\ndefinite, and did not require ten years more study except to show\nwhether it held good. No scheme could be suggested to the new American,\nand no fault needed to be found, or complaint made; but the next great\ninflux of new forces seemed near at hand, and its style of education\npromised to be violently coercive. The movement from unity into\nmultiplicity, between 1200 and 1900, was unbroken in sequence, and\nrapid in acceleration. Prolonged one generation longer, it would\nrequire a new social mind. As though thought were common salt in\nindefinite solution it must enter a new phase subject to new laws. Thus\nfar, since five or ten thousand years, the mind had successfully\nreacted, and nothing yet proved that it would fail to react--but it\nwould need to jump.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXV\n\nNUNC AGE (1905)\n\n  NEARLY forty years had passed since the ex-private secretary\nlanded at New York with the ex-Ministers Adams and Motley, when they\nsaw American society as a long caravan stretching out towards the\nplains. As he came up the bay again, November 5, 1904, an older man\nthan either his father or Motley in 1868, he found the approach more\nstriking than ever--wonderful--unlike anything man had ever seen--and\nlike nothing he had ever much cared to see. The outline of the city\nbecame frantic in its effort to explain something that defied meaning.\nPower seemed to have outgrown its servitude and to have asserted its\nfreedom. The cylinder had exploded, and thrown great masses of stone\nand steam against the sky. The city had the air and movement of\nhysteria, and the citizens were crying, in every accent of anger and\nalarm, that the new forces must at any cost be brought under control.\nProsperity never before imagined, power never yet wielded by man, speed\nnever reached by anything but a meteor, had made the world irritable,\nnervous, querulous, unreasonable and afraid. All New York was demanding\nnew men, and all the new forces, condensed into corporations, were\ndemanding a new type of man--a man with ten times the endurance,\nenergy, will and mind of the old type--for whom they were ready to pay\nmillions at sight. As one jolted over the pavements or read the last\nweek's newspapers, the new man seemed close at hand, for the old one\nhad plainly reached the end of his strength, and his failure had become\ncatastrophic. Every one saw it, and every municipal election shrieked\nchaos. A traveller in the highways of history looked out of the club\nwindow on the turmoil of Fifth Avenue, and felt himself in Rome, under\nDiocletian, witnessing the anarchy, conscious of the compulsion, eager\nfor the solution, but unable to conceive whence the next impulse was to\ncome or how it was to act. The two-thousand-years failure of\nChristianity roared upward from Broadway, and no Constantine the Great\nwas in sight.\n\n  Having nothing else to do, the traveller went on to Washington\nto wait the end. There Roosevelt was training Constantines and battling\nTrusts. With the Battle of Trusts, a student of mechanics felt entire\nsympathy, not merely as a matter of politics or society, but also as a\nmeasure of motion. The Trusts and Corporations stood for the larger\npart of the new power that had been created since 1840, and were\nobnoxious because of their vigorous and unscrupulous energy. They were\nrevolutionary, troubling all the old conventions and values, as the\nscrews of ocean steamers must trouble a school of herring. They tore\nsociety to pieces and trampled it under foot. As one of their earliest\nvictims, a citizen of Quincy, born in 1838, had learned submission and\nsilence, for he knew that, under the laws of mechanics, any change,\nwithin the range of the forces, must make his situation only worse; but\nhe was beyond measure curious to see whether the conflict of forces\nwould produce the new man, since no other energies seemed left on earth\nto breed. The new man could be only a child born of contact between the\nnew and the old energies.\n\n  Both had been familiar since childhood, as the story has shown,\nand neither had warped the umpire's judgment by its favors. If ever\njudge had reason to be impartial, it was he. The sole object of his\ninterest and sympathy was the new man, and the longer one watched, the\nless could be seen of him. Of the forces behind the Trusts, one could\nsee something; they owned a complete organization, with schools,\ntraining, wealth and purpose; but of the forces behind Roosevelt one\nknew little; their cohesion was slight; their training irregular; their\nobjects vague. The public had no idea what practical system it could\naim at, or what sort of men could manage it. The single problem before\nit was not so much to control the Trusts as to create the society that\ncould manage the Trusts. The new American must be either the child of\nthe new forces or a chance sport of nature. The attraction of\nmechanical power had already wrenched the American mind into a\ncrab-like process which Roosevelt was making heroic efforts to restore\nto even action, and he had every right to active support and sympathy\nfrom all the world, especially from the Trusts themselves so far as\nthey were human; but the doubt persisted whether the force that\neducated was really man or nature--mind or motion. The mechanical\ntheory, mostly accepted by science, seemed to require that the law of\nmass should rule. In that case, progress would continue as before.\n\n  In that, or any other case, a nineteenth-century education was\nas useless or misleading as an eighteenth-century education had been to\nthe child of 1838; but Adams had a better reason for holding his\ntongue. For his dynamic theory of history he cared no more than for the\nkinetic theory of gas; but, if it were an approach to measurement of\nmotion, it would verify or disprove itself within thirty years. At the\ncalculated acceleration, the head of the meteor-stream must very soon\npass perihelion. Therefore, dispute was idle, discussion was futile,\nand silence, next to good-temper, was the mark of sense. If the\nacceleration, measured by the development and economy of forces, were\nto continue at its rate since 1800, the mathematician of 1950 should be\nable to plot the past and future orbit of the human race as accurately\nas that of the November meteoroids.\n\n  Naturally such an attitude annoyed the players in the game, as\nthe attitude of the umpire is apt to infuriate the spectators. Above\nall, it was profoundly unmoral, and tended to discourage effort. On the\nother hand, it tended to encourage foresight and to economize waste of\nmind. If it was not itself education, it pointed out the economies\nnecessary for the education of the new American. There, the duty\nstopped.\n\n  There, too, life stopped. Nature has educated herself to a\nsingular sympathy for death. On the antarctic glacier, nearly five\nthousand feet above sea-level, Captain Scott found carcasses of seals,\nwhere the animals had laboriously flopped up, to die in peace. \"Unless\nwe had actually found these remains, it would have been past believing\nthat a dying seal could have transported itself over fifty miles of\nrough, steep, glacier-surface,\" but \"the seal seems often to crawl to\nthe shore or the ice to die, probably from its instinctive dread of its\nmarine enemies.\" In India, Purun Dass, at the end of statesmanship,\nsought solitude, and died in sanctity among the deer and monkeys,\nrather than remain with man. Even in America, the Indian Summer of life\nshould be a little sunny and a little sad, like the season, and\ninfinite in wealth and depth of tone--but never hustled. For that\nreason, one's own passive obscurity seemed sometimes nearer nature than\nJohn Hay's exposure. To the normal animal the instinct of sport is\ninnate, and historians themselves were not exempt from the passion of\nbaiting their bears; but in its turn even the seal dislikes to be\nworried to death in age by creatures that have not the strength or the\nteeth to kill him outright.\n\n  On reaching Washington, November 14, 1904, Adams saw at a\nglance that Hay must have rest. Already Mrs. Hay had bade him prepare\nto help in taking her husband to Europe as soon as the Session should\nbe over, and although Hay protested that the idea could not even be\ndiscussed, his strength failed so rapidly that he could not effectually\ndiscuss it, and ended by yielding without struggle. He would equally\nhave resigned office and retired, like Purun Dass, had not the\nPresident and the press protested; but he often debated the subject,\nand his friends could throw no light on it. Adams himself, who had set\nhis heart on seeing Hay close his career by making peace in the East,\ncould only urge that vanity for vanity, the crown of peacemaker was\nworth the cross of martyrdom; but the cross was full in sight, while\nthe crown was still uncertain. Adams found his formula for Russian\ninertia exasperatingly correct. He thought that Russia should have\nnegotiated instantly on the fall of Port Arthur, January 1, 1905; he\nfound that she had not the energy, but meant to wait till her navy\nshould be destroyed. The delay measured precisely the time that Hay had\nto spare.\n\n  The close of the Session on March 4 left him barely the\nstrength to crawl on board ship, March 18, and before his steamer had\nreached half her course, he had revived, almost as gay as when he first\nlighted on the Markoe house in I Street forty-four years earlier. The\nclouds that gather round the setting sun do not always take a sober\ncoloring from eyes that have kept watch on mortality; or, at least, the\nsobriety is sometimes scarcely sad. One walks with one's friends\nsquarely up to the portal of life, and bids good-bye with a smile. One\nhas done it so often! Hay could scarcely pace the deck; he nourished no\nillusions; he was convinced that he should never return to his work,\nand he talked lightly of the death sentence that he might any day\nexpect, but he threw off the coloring of office and mortality together,\nand the malaria of power left its only trace in the sense of tasks\nincomplete.\n\n  One could honestly help him there. Laughing frankly at his\ndozen treaties hung up in the Senate Committee-room like lambs in a\nbutcher's shop, one could still remind him of what was solidly\ncompleted. In his eight years of office he had solved nearly every old\nproblem of American statesmanship, and had left little or nothing to\nannoy his successor. He had brought the great Atlantic powers into a\nworking system, and even Russia seemed about to be dragged into a\ncombine of intelligent equilibrium based on an intelligent allotment of\nactivities. For the first time in fifteen hundred years a true Roman\npax was in sight, and would, if it succeeded, owe its virtues to him.\nExcept for making peace in Manchuria, he could do no more; and if the\nworst should happen, setting continent against continent in arms--the\nonly apparent alternative to his scheme--he need not repine at missing\nthe catastrophe.\n\n  This rosy view served to soothe disgusts which every parting\nstatesman feels, and commonly with reason. One had no need to get out\none's notebook in order to jot down the exact figures on either side.\nWhy add up the elements of resistance and anarchy? The Kaiser supplied\nhim with these figures, just as the Cretic approached Morocco. Every\none was doing it, and seemed in a panic about it. The chaos waited only\nfor his landing.\n\n  Arrived at Genoa, the party hid itself for a fortnight at\nNervi, and he gained strength rapidly as long as he made no effort and\nheard no call for action. Then they all went on to Nanheim without\nrelapse. There, after a few days, Adams left him for the regular\ntreatment, and came up to Paris. The medical reports promised well, and\nHay's letters were as humorous and light-handed as ever. To the last he\nwrote cheerfully of his progress, and amusingly with his usual light\nscepticism, of his various doctors; but when the treatment ended, three\nweeks later, and he came on to Paris, he showed, at the first glance,\nthat he had lost strength, and the return to affairs and interviews\nwore him rapidly out. He was conscious of it, and in his last talk\nbefore starting for London and Liverpool he took the end of his\nactivity for granted. \"You must hold out for the peace negotiations,\"\nwas the remonstrance. \"I've not time!\" he replied. \"You'll need little\ntime!\" was the rejoinder. Each was correct.\n\n  There it ended! Shakespeare himself could use no more than the\ncommonplace to express what is incapable of expression. \"The rest is\nsilence!\" The few familiar words, among the simplest in the language,\nconveying an idea trite beyond rivalry, served Shakespeare, and, as\nyet, no one has said more. A few weeks afterwards, one warm evening in\nearly July, as Adams was strolling down to dine under the trees at\nArmenonville, he learned that Hay was dead. He expected it; on Hay's\naccount, he was even satisfied to have his friend die, as we would all\ndie if we could, in full fame, at home and abroad, universally\nregretted, and wielding his power to the last. One had seen scores of\nemperors and heroes fade into cheap obscurity even when alive; and now,\nat least, one had not that to fear for one's friend. It was not even\nthe suddenness of the shock, or the sense of void, that threw Adams\ninto the depths of Hamlet's Shakespearean silence in the full flare of\nParis frivolity in its favorite haunt where worldly vanity reached its\nmost futile climax in human history; it was only the quiet summons to\nfollow--the assent to dismissal. It was time to go. The three friends\nhad begun life together; and the last of the three had no motive--no\nattraction--to carry it on after the others had gone. Education had\nended for all three, and only beyond some remoter horizon could its\nvalues be fixed or renewed. Perhaps some day--say 1938, their\ncentenary--they might be allowed to return together for a holiday, to\nsee the mistakes of their own lives made clear in the light of the\nmistakes of their successors; and perhaps then, for the first time\nsince man began his education among the carnivores, they would find a\nworld that sensitive and timid natures could regard without a shudder.\n\n\n\nTHE END"