The shrewd saying of the Swedish Chancellor Oxenstiern, "An nescis, mi fili, quantilla prudentia regitur orbis?"—"Dost thou not know, my son, with how little wisdom the world is governed?" has been substantially true in every epoch in the world's history. Everything human must needs be imperfect, and in nothing is imperfection more plainly exhibited than in the successive schemes of government which men have attempted. Some have been broad-based and have lasted for what we, in our ordinary reckoning, call a long period of time. But most of them have been built on the sand; a few storms, shocks, convulsions, and they have fallen. Men have generally made but sorry work in trying to govern each other. The individual may govern himself after a fashion; but to govern wisely another man, or, still harder, great masses of men, even where there has been community of public interests, of language, religion and custom—aye, there has been the rub! Human history has often been called a great tragedy; but no tragic element is more ghastly or more overwhelming than the catastrophes in which most governments have collapsed. Ambitious attempts at world-power, the most splendid combinations to group nations into a civic unity, have tottered to their fall, as surely as the little systems which have had their day and ceased to be,—shifting, fleeting, impotent.
It is not difficult to see why this has been so. Social life is only one phase of the great organic life of the species; one scene of the human drama of which the earth has been "the wide and universal theatre." Change, transition, development, birth, growth, death, are universal elements in the cosmic order. Of the slow but inevitable changes in the physical history of the earth, Tennyson says:
"There rolls the deep, where stood the tree; O earth, what changes hast thou seen; There where the long street roars, has been The stillness of the central sea. The hills are shadows, and they flow From form to form; and nothing stands; They melt like mists, the solid lands; Like clouds they shape themselves and go."
If this mutation be true of organic changes in the physical earth, working through immeasurable æons, it is even as dramatically true of organized social life.
We are learning to take a new view of history. It is no longer regarded as a collection of isolated facts. Veracious history is a record of the orderly progression of events, developed by evolutionary processes. There is in it no break, no hiatus, excepting such temporary interruptions as come from what Emerson calls "the famous might that lurks in reaction recoil." Thus we learn the rationale of the events transcribed to the historical page. Until science lifted the curtain on "the eternal landscape of the past," man knew little of himself or of his kind. It is only with the enlarged vision that has come to us from the researches of the ethnologist, biologist, anthropologist, sociologist, that we have begun to learn what a creature man really is; to study his inner nature; to get at the deeper meanings of the history of the race.
Once the study of history was thought to be hardly more than learning a catalogue of royal dynasties; the names of famous generals and statesmen; of battles lost and won; of court intrigues; of the vicissitudes of kingdoms; of the prowess of pioneers and adventurers; of "hair-breadth 'scapes i' the imminent deadly breach;" of the pride, pomp and circumstance of glorious war! Such incidents have not lost, and never can lose, their interest. They are an integral part of the human document and must always be studied. When draped with myth and legend they minister to "the vision and faculty divine" of the poet; they visualize the possibilities of human courage; stimulate the affections; answer to the eternal cravings of the imagination. But they are only the phenomena of the real history of the race. Life is broader, larger, deeper, richer, fuller, than a mere transcript of happenings—externals, results important as they are. We must get at the causes, motives, inter-relations, the hidden causes from which events flow, before we can unravel the web in which they are woven, and thus interpret them.
The core of history is the element which the Greeks called toanthropeion; called by a modern poet "the bases of life;" called by us average folk, Human Nature. It is as constant a quality as anything can be in our moving life. We may not be able to agree with Middleton, who says in his life of Cicero, "Human nature has ever been the same in all ages and nations;" but it is probably true that nothing has changed less in primal qualities than the bases of life. Empires have perished, civilizations vanished, governments have rotted, languages, territorial lines, seeming sit-fast institutions, have passed into nothingness; but the human element has stood the shock of ages. "The one remains; the many change and pass," said Shelley. Man-character, man-life, is the one element, the colors of which seem fast. It is, like all other things, subject to evolutionary changes; it may be differentiated into a thousand forms; but the bases of life have never shifted.
Human history is a great tragedy indeed. But, like all tragedies, it has its spiritualizing, sanctifying, ennobling side. When the drama of the ages is unrolled we see much to make us weep; but we also see immeasurably more to make us glory that we are a part of the race. While its history reeks with blood, carnage, oppression, injustice, cruelty, in which sad facts the pessimist hears "the eternal note of sadness," and unwisely rushes into a denial of the moral order—it has its sun-bright triumphs of rectitude, and the illuminating picture of the steady and glorious advance of mankind from brutishness into an orderly, moralized life.
Readers of Matthew Arnold—an author whose intellectual vision was great, and whose style is one of the literary ornaments of the last century—will recall how he was taken with what he called "Mr. Darwin's famous proposition" that "our ancestor was a hairy quadruped, furnished with a tail and pointed ears, probably arboreal in his habits." Mr. Arnold, the apostle of culture, played again and again around this sonorous phrase. Far be it from me to enter upon any discussion of the Darwinian hypothesis of the genesis of the human race. On this large theme the last word has not been said. Knowledge must grow from more to more before we can posit anything definite on a subject veiled at present in inscrutable mystery. But, in its essence, the evolutionary theory has soaked into our modern thought. The literature and the progressive teaching of our latter day are drenched with it. It certainly can be said of it, that it explains many things which have heretofore seemed inexplicable, and marks a great advance in popular intelligence. But the most ambitious generalization is only a temporary expedient. Fact will merge in fact; law will melt into a larger law; one deep of knowledge will call unto another deep; much that the proudest scientist of our day calls knowledge will vanish away; many theories now popular will be dissected and pruned and will be found to be "such stuff as dreams are made on," before the most enlightened humanity of a future age catches any one phase of nature in its snare and compresses it into rigid laws.
Nevertheless, the ancestor of man was brutish, and his descendants are where they are. Whether or not primeval man was the rather unpicturesque creature described by Mr. Arnold, he was the norm from which has come "the heir of all the ages."