Art. VIII.-SOLITUDE AND GENIUS.

1. Some Fruits of Solitude. By William Penn. With an Introduction by Edmund Gosse. London: Freemantle, 1900.

2. Obermann. By De Sénancour. By De Sénancour. Avec une Préface par George Sand. New edition. Paris: Charpentier, 1901. 3. The Genius of Solitude. By William Rounseville Alger. Boston: Roberts Brothers, 1867.

4. Advantages and Disadvantages of Solitude.

Zimmermann. London: Suttaby, 1808.

By J. G.

5. Walden. By Henry David Thoreau. With an Introductory Note by Will. H. Dircks. London: Walter Scott, 1886.

THE genius of solitude has found many exponents, but few satisfactory interpreters. In its objective form, solitude is readily discernible: it is when viewed subjectively that its analysis betrays difficulties. This is largely due to the fact that the two words loneliness and lonesomeness have, in common parlance, been treated as its synonyms. A lonely life connotes segregation enforced by external circumstances, and coincident with a desire for society. Lonesomeness imports the idea of terror-the existence of those who are alone, and who cannot find in themselves what Zimmermann calls an antidote against dismay.' The essence of solitude, on the other hand, lies in deliberate choice-if that can be called choice which is due to the predominant influence of the tutelar divinity born with every child.

'An artist,' says Ruskin, 'should be fit for the best society, and should keep out of it'; and this may truthfully be averred of the born solitary. Many a hermit differs only in name from an outlaw. An imperious temper like that of Carlyle creates a solitude. Between such a disposition and the man of a detached life there is no analogy. In the world, but not of it, he takes not unfrequently his full share of its busy life. Milton and Bacon were shrewd men of the world, apt in affairs. But each was leading two lives-the one artificial, the other real. It was the true voice that said: 'Little do men perceive what solitude is or how far it extendeth, for a crowd is not company.' Nor would the casual observer

have seen the truth in Wordsworth's apostrophe to Milton :

'Thy soul was like a star, and dwelt apart.'

Unrestrained, physical solitude is, indeed, a state difficult of attainment. Of the authors cited above, only Thoreau enjoyed it, though all were deeply imbued with the solitary instinct, and capable of its analysis. The solitary spirit is often recognised by itself alone, and . passes unnoticed through the throng of life. That man is gregarious,' and, therefore, solitude unnatural, satisfies those only who speak without limitations. The 'sociable' man feels the animal craving for physical company so strongly that he disregards its quality. The solitary man, more fastidious and self-sufficing, prefers no companion to an uncongenial one. The poet of the one is Cowper :'O Solitude, where are the charms

That sages have seen in thy face?'

Of the other, Wordsworth :

'Now thanks to Heaven! that of its grace
Hath led me to this lonely place.'

Individuality is the true dividing line between the minority and the mass of mankind. Lowell merely enunciates a platitude when he says: 'Human nature has a much greater genius for sameness than for originality.' That characteristics divergent from the type tend towards solitude is obvious. Every original mind comes into the world antagonistic, by the law of its creation, to regulations which others accept because they find them in existence. Hence comes isolation. Nor can we fairly protest against the law. Mediocrity is the rule, originality the exception. The one finds a crowd of sympathisers, ever ready to give their own or take another's time: the other may search long, and sometimes fruitlessly, for that measure of congeniality which alone suffices. Conventionality is the unavoidable expression of social averages.' The revolt of any given mind against the world's bye-laws will be in proportion to its divergence from the average. Originality is slowly apprehended. It gains at times a faint admiration, but more often dislike born of the vague fear with which the inexplicable is

viewed. So sage and kindly a critic as F. W. Robertson recognised the existence of this sentiment in quoting Pope's lines:

'Truths would you teach or save a sinking land;

All fear, none aid you, and few understand.'

'Solitude is the home of the strong'; and self-sufficingness must be their armour. For it needs a fortitude beyond the average to relinquish that feeling of safety which is inherent in gregarious life. Indolent acquiescence is easy, for no danger can lurk in ethics and beliefs which lie ready to hand, consecrated by usage and tradition. The original mind acts from spontaneity, society from habit, seeking ever to economise that expenditure of force which is necessitated by individual impulse. Hence the desire to rid itself of an incalculable and disturbing factor.

Yet it remains true that the world's best work is that which bears the hall-mark of individuality. Not by continuous repression and perversion of inborn characteristics will true progress be attained. It is probable that Emerson won more converts to the better life by his solitary gleaning in the field than if he had kept his orthodoxy and his pulpit; nor would the fiery zeal of men like Huxley have been goaded into anger if they had met with the fair treatment they gave and asked for. The mind craves variety, and nature supplies it. The two foes of human happiness, says Schopenhauer, are pain and boredom. If boredom be in fact the world's bane, it is strange that society should seek to eliminate that element of individuality which is its surest corrective.

Between the genius of solitude and the solitude of genius there is, of course, an intimate relation. Schopenhauer draws attention to the fact when he describes a genius as one whose centre of gravity lies in himself. The solitude of genius is, in effect, the inevitable outcome of its enforced submission to the unwritten laws of the genius of solitude. Yet the record of the solitary bears melancholy testimony to the disabilities under which they have lived. In his 'Dialogue between Nature and a Soul' Leopardi makes the soul refuse the offer of the highest gifts of genius, on account of the inevitable suffering connected with them. Lavater adds his weighty testimony. 'Enquire after the sufferings of great men and you will Vol. 195.-No. 389.

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learn why they are great.' Goethe had learned the lesson well:

'Who never ate his bread with tears,
Nor through the sorrow-laden hours
Sat nightly face to face with fears,

He knows you not, ye heavenly powers.'

Yet how many of the martyrs in the ages which separate Socrates from Raleigh would exchange their place in the world's record for that of their judges? Am I a bitter gourd?' asks Confucius. It is alike with all-poets, painters, musicians, astronomers, men of science, and divines. The world took their work at its own valuation and repaid them with neglect and contumely. It was not they who repulsed the world: too often they evinced a yearning after sympathy which seems excessive. Robertson knew the meaning of his own words when he spoke of facing the keenest winds that blow over all lonely places.' 'I am alone,' he writes, sympathised with by none because I sympathise too much with all." was never weaned from his love of mankind. write:

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'There is no sport in hate where all the rage
Is on one side.'

Shelley He could

Yet he learned to take refuge in the 'Spirit of Solitude.' Some have playfully disarmed their detractors, as when Channing spoke of the harsh sounds of earth being unable to ascend to the upper air in which we visionaries' float; and some, like Dante, stood four-square against the world. But few, if any, can be cited whose lives were not embittered by ostracism. If, however, by a natural law, individuality-passing in its higher development into genius -inhabits the realms of solitude, various artificial causes contribute their quota. Among the circumstances which arrest the stream of life and turn it into a new channel, the most common are a sudden call to the religious life or an overwhelming grief. The deepest religious feeling has ever been the most lonely. Those who have had the capability of approaching nearest to the Great Alone' have had strength to bear the ordeal; but to those whose

*F. W. Robertson: Life and Letters,' pp. 101, 284.

emotions are superficial, the sense of awe and helplessness is terrifying, and they instinctively seek relief in the company of their fellows. Hence it comes that religion has been designated 'social,' though the word is applicable only to religious exercises. St Augustine, in the chamber of his friend Alypius, says: 'I was alone even in his presence.' And this has been the habitual experience. Marcus Aurelius knew it—that exemplar of all saints who had the world and its delights at his feet, but lived in self-denying holiness, with no support but his own lonely heart. So, too, some of the best of the pontiffs, such as Adrian and Hildebrand, groaning under the burden of trivial routine, longed for the peace which they never found. The call of Buddha at once suggests itself.

The monks who peopled the desert in the early days of the Christian Church yielded rather to a wave of popular enthusiasm than to individual conviction; nor has religious fervour been necessarily the compelling force with their imitators. Mixed motives have actuated them, some tearing themselves from life as from a dangerous companion, others leaving it with cheerful alacrity. Far better, however, would it have been if the special virtue and sanctity of retirement had never been preached. The fact that its inculcation should be deemed necessary belies its sincerity. With what a bound of relief the heart goes out to Emerson, Thoreau, and some others-free from every restraint save their inward compulsion. The world would be benefited if its captives were set free and its natural recluses permitted to follow their vocation exempt from persecution. Strange paradox that retirement should be both inculcated and reprehended-judged right when it is the outcome of man's tyrannous interference, wrong when it is the product of individual instincts. Retreat and meditation' are linked as a phrase; but meditation, like retreat, is a gift. The worldly can no more reap the harvest of retirement than he can acquire the power of meditation. St Simeon Stylites on his column was an object of interest to himself, but little else than an idle show to the multitude; and there the benefit of his selfimposed martyrdom ceased.

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It would be a sad page to fill with instances to prove that grief has its recluses. The deeper springs of life have ever flowed the same; and many a little love-token comes