THE Central Literary Magazine. It must be borne in mind that this Magazine is neutral in Politics and Religion; its pages are open to a free expression of all shades of opinion without leaning to any. No. 8. OCTOBER, 1882. IDEALS. VOL. V. M ANKIND has been supposed to be differentiated from the lower animals by the possession of Intellect and Imagination. Modern research, however, proves that many animals possess both these qualities in varying degrees. It is evident that they possess Memory, and inasmuch as memory can only work through the imagination, the proof of the existence of the former faculty involves the presence of the latter. The gift of Imagination amongst men is, however, perhaps more unequally distributed than any other of the higher faculties, for whilst, as before stated, the exercise of memory involves its presence, and consequently proves its possession by every sane man, none the less is its existence in a highly developed degree extremely rare. In many respects, indeed, it is the highest, whilst in some it is the most dangerous of gifts. In its most exalted form, if not actual Inspiration, it is certainly akin to it. Our greatest poets, though not necessarily great thinkers, have yet given voice to that which mankind recognizes as the highest truth, whilst evidences of the attainment of even prophetic truth through the imagination are not rare. Dr. Sebastian Evans, in a lecture delivered to the Central Literary Association, some years ago, pointed out how some of the principal mechanical discoveries of the present century were foreseen and foretold by Spenser. Twenty years before the publication of Darwin's origin of species startled the world by the announcement of the doctrine of Evolution, Emerson had stated and re-stated the theory in various forms in his earlier works. His motto to the Essay on Nature is as follows: "A subtle chain of countless rings This was no lucky guess of a moment; it was his habitual vision. In the Ode to Bacchus, he asks for "wine which music is," that drinking this," he "Shall hear far chaos talk with me, Kings unborn shall walk with me; Other poems, "Wood-Notes," "Monadnock," "The Song of Nature,' &c., contain distinct statements of this doctrine. The dangers attending an unbalanced over-development of the imagination, are instanced in the life of many a poet. The exaltation which enabled him to conceive and write the words which we now so treasure, often sadly unfitted him for the res angusta domi. Whilst star-gazing, it is proverbial that we are apt to stumble over meaner objects at our feet. The loss which we suffer, however, from the nondevelopment of this faculty, is far greater than any possible danger from the other extreme, and tends to dwarf our whole nature. We all realize though we cannot explain the feeling of comparative sordidness which attaches to the utterly unimaginative and commonplace man. Wordsworth's description of Peter Bell, of whom he says "A primrose by a river's brim is so often quoted because it brings before us, in a word, a difference which we all feel, but cannot readily describe or account for. One of the first and commonest developments of the imagination, and one too which is of the greatest moment to mankind, is the power it gives us of idealizing. In childhood we idealize the grown-up world around us, and write vivid pictures on our memory which last long after we have been disillusionized by greater experience. In youth, the glorious dream of Love often idealizes its object so completely, that the contrast between the way that object affects the lover and the ordinary mortals around him has given rise to the proverb that "Love is blind." In middle age, we idealize our children, and in old age, we idealize "the good old times when we were young." Now although we may incon tinently smile at what seem to us such patent illusions, we are obliged to recognise to how great an extent this idealizing tendency is an elevating influence. In a secondary sense, history and fiction provide us with the same effect. Next to the powerful humour of them, the great charm of Dickens' pictures of life, lies in his portrayal of domestic ideals-pictures which dwell with his readers as perpetual fountains of pleasure and elevation. The memory of Little Nell in "The Old Curiosity Shop," of Agnes in "David Copperfield," of Paul Dombey, and a crowd of others, with their innocence, simple-heartedness, and purity of motive, must ever tend to lead us in some sense to imitate that in them which makes us admire them. For the value and significance of an Ideal lies here, that whilst it is often mainly the outcome of ourselves, a figure clothed with the charms and virtues we most admire, it is the goal towards which we are ever moving, the type which we are always imitating. What we admire we must be growing towards. It does not often indeed seem so to us; we admire despairingly, but the very fact that we admire, involves a constant subtle attempt to be what we admire, and a constant grief that we are so different from our ideal. This is the principle of eternal growth. In the slow evolution of Eternal Life, we gradually assimilate to an ideal which grows more and more lofty as we advance. It is worth while enquiring for a moment into the causes which make it appear, that in proportion as we become familiar with things do they become prosaic. The fact itself can hardly be questioned. In our knowledge of our fellowmen, it is proverbial that although a man may have such conspicuously noble qualities, as to gain the esteem and admiration of a whole nation, still “no man is a hero to his own valet." The contact is too close-the familiarity with the flaws spoils the picture. The same principle is illustrated by the sense of commonplaceness which inheres to the Present, as compared with the Past on the one hand, and the Future on the other. With few exceptions, To-day is ever prosaic; the daily life is a drudgery to be got through, whereas, we look fondly back at days gone by, clothing them with sentiment and affection, which we little felt they deserved when they constituted our present. Epitaphs tell the same tale. The dead, unappreciated whilst living, are an epitome of the virtues when lost to us. It is a shallow explanation to attribute this change of attitude towards things and persons passed away, to insincerity or hypocrisy. A phenomenon so universal lies deeper, and calls for a more profound explanation. Such an explanation may I think be found in the conditions of our imperfection in the first place, and of our growth in the second. All progress and growth seem to involve conquest, but there can be no conquest without opposition and consequent strife, and these in their turn involve suffering, hence actual progress requires the presence of pain and difficulty, often directly caused by an effort to live more nearly to a high ideal, in the midst of what seem to us mean and unwholesome conditions. These conditions are necessary elements in the struggle, but they so fill our view at the moment as to cause the whole range of the immediate prospect to seem low and sordid. When, however, distance has cleared the atmosphere, these vanish like mists, and we see, standing out in memory, the pleasures and beauties that after all made up the bulk of the landscape. I have just been walking round my garden; it is in reality a fine, well-stocked garden, and one of which I can easily imagine myself envying the possessor. But as I went through it, I saw many weeds which I felt ought to have been cleared away. I noticed sundry weak places in the hedge, which sadly wanted filling, and many little things met my eye, which I keenly felt ought to be otherwise; these thoughts as they filled my mind, so differentiated the actual garden from the ideal garden of which I had a vision, that all my delight in it fled, and I was fain to get back to my books. If I were to lose the garden (being in reality very fond of one), I know that in recalling it I should forget all these things. I should remember the flowers and fruits, the singing birds and the sunshine, my children's voices and happy laughter, and the whole memory would be to me a pleasure and a poem. If however, I had not an appreciation of those defects which have just spoiled my morning's walk, the garden would permanently deteriorate, its deficiencies would not be remedied, and no progress would be made. Hence, in an imperfect condition, a strong (probably from a more extended view, an unduly strong) sense of the shortcomings of the present life is a necessary stimulus to improvement. Imagination is the very handmaid of Religion, and Religion on the other hand is the most universal stimulus to the imagination. It has been contended, indeed, that Religion is merely the outcome of an irrepressible imagination. Anyway, it is quite evident that the subject which involves our relationship to the Unseen must in the very largest measure work through the only faculty by which we can see, hear, and feel, without the aid of the physical senses. It is no disrespect to Religion to say, that one of its chiefest benefits to mankind, consists in supplying it with high and noble ideals. No one can realize the influence on the world of the ideal character of Jesus of Nazareth, who has not contrasted it with that extant in the Roman Empire at the time of his Advent. Philosophers may have indeed realized the truth, that "greater is he that ruleth his spirit, than he that taketh a city," but the idea of "coals of fire heaping on the heads of our enemies by means of loading them with benefits, was one that until then had not entered man's conception. It has indeed taken 2,000 years to plant itself there, even as an ideal. Who shall say how many more it will take for it to become the common practice? In pointing out the value of ideals, which are often merely subjective, I may be supposed to be giving support to Superstition. Superstition is indeed supposed to mean a belief, unsupported by reason, in an unseen power, or the attributing to a supernatural cause results which can be shown to arise from natural ones, and it is common to denounce superstition as degrading and enslaving its votaries. I confess this seems to me to be true in a limited sense only. So long as a nation's ideals are lower than themselves, as when a savage nation sacrifices to a vindictive God in order to propitiate him, so long must their superstition be injurious and |