At the outset of the Intellectual Life, perhaps it may be as well to guard the young aspirant to the portals of Knowledge against a very common deformity beheld there, the Intellectual Dandy; the spirit of the Fop is not confined to clothes and fashion; there are the Beau Brummels of the Literary Institute as well as of the tailor’s shop. The Literary Fop is, indeed, but a very small affair, as innocent and tame an animal, my friend, as you could well meet. The danger, therefore, is not in anything he can do to you, but the creature is contagious; you may possibly become like him; for this Fop is “a very attractive and agreeable young man,” or, rather, to adopt the patois which such persons use, ” a very attractive agreeable young man.” It is one of the characteristics of this class of characters that they mutilate the English language most barbarously. Very few words are pronounced with any degree of correctness; their information is supposed to be most extensive, since, travelling from street to street, they have picked up a vast hodge-podge, a kind of “Omnium gatherum,” without any reference to quality, but with great reference to quantity; and there is no book, no science, no paper, no person, upon which or whom they are not prepared to pronounce dogmatic strictures. They are a kind of gad-fly dancing about in all the pools, and over all the fields of life. Everything of body and mind is arranged to strike with surprise; those books, therefore, are read, which all people are talking about. It may safely be questioned whether any of the motley group ever read a really serious book, or a book that had a serious purpose. The life of such persons is an everlasting offering upon the altar of Sensuality and Selfishness; everything in the world is made to reflect the character of self; they truly deserve the character of the poet; they are, wherever found,

A reasoning, self-sufficing thing,
An intellectual all-in-all.

Such persons belong to the large family, the Turveydrops. They are always studying deportment; learned in the art of a well-bred stare; learned in the art of fixing an eye-glass discreetly , the art of speaking mother-tongue so that the poor old lady, dear old mother, don’t know herself, but fancies herself in some barbarous country; the art of making not the most of time but the moral dissipation, a shallowness and emptiness fatal to advancement in worth or intelligence. And the lives of even eminent men sometimes only create the impression of desultoriness and vanity. Thomas Moore, the poet and historian of Ireland, was not an ordinary man; but the perusal of his life leaves contempt as one of the most abiding emotions in the mind.

These characters are not rare. They are the Literary Commons of the Senate of which Chesterfield, if we judged him by his letters to his son, was a Peer. In some instances, they possess a larger average of intelligence than in the above lines we give them credit for; but the real substratum of the character is vanity. In this age, the propensity of the village clown to decorate his person, and to appear occasionally to the best advantage, is not sufficient for those who occupy the same position in their sphere which the clown occupies in his; they are desirous of ranging above him. Head, therefore, they must; but their reading is confined to the pages of worthless sensation novels. And, as such books are very generally read, and they have read them with the same avidity as other persons, their criticisms are very cheaply won, and very well received. They belong in this age precisely to the class of persons to which, in the days of the Vicar of Wakefield, “Georgiana Carolina Wilhelmina Amelia Skeggs” belonged; they have learned the name of Shakspeare, whom they always call “the gifted, the universal, and the immortal;” and they are qualified to talk upon the merits and the meaning of Shakspeare with Miss Skeggs. Their scorn of mediocrity is amusing; they have confidence in their own powers; they have picked up the slang of charlatans and mountebanks, and of course can talk about “the spirit of the age;” about ” the mighty thoughts heaving in the breast of the future;” about “the scintillations, hallucinations, &c. &c. brightening in the eye of Humanity.” Nothing is more sickening than the euphuistic verbiage of this disgusting and meaningless common-place in their minds and on their tongues. It means nothing! it is innocent! for it is lifeless; words are used which, to their minds, never had a meaning; and thus their characters present an everlasting lie. For here is, indeed, the sadness of all this hollowness, Who that has thought at all does not know the danger of moral sentiment, unaccompanied by active virtue? The remarks of the Rev. Archibald Alison are worthy of some pondering, when he insists that the faithful parent, or the wise instructor, will ever endeavour assiduously to accommodate the ideas of excellence to the actual circumstances, and the probable scenes, in which their future years are to be engaged. If the life is not thus prepared, what a melancholy failure does it usually exhibit!

“It is the fine-drawn scenes of visionary Alison’s distress to which they have been accustomed, not the plain circumstance of common wretchedness; it is the momentary exertions of generosity or greatness which have elevated their fancy, not the long and patient study of pious duty; it is before an admiring world that they have hitherto conceived themselves to act, not in solitude and obscurity amid the wants of poverty, the exigencies of disease, or the deep silence of domestic sorrow. Is it wonderful that characters of this enfeebled kind should recoil from the duties to which they are called, and which appear to them in colours so unexpected ?, that they should consider the world as a gross and a vulgar scene, unworthy of their interest, and its common obligations as something beneath them to perform; and that, with an affectation of proud superiority, they should wish to retire from a field in which they have the presumption to think it is only fit for vulgar minds to combat?

“From hence come many classes of character with which the world presents us, in what we call its higher scenes, and which it is impossible to behold without a sentiment of pity as well as of indignation. In some, the perpetual affectation of sentiment, and the perpetual absence of its reality; in others, the warm admiration of goodness, and the cold and indignant performance of their own most sacred duties; in some, that childish belief of their own superior refinement, which leads them to withdraw from the common scenes of life and of business, and to distinguish themselves only by capricious opinions and fantastic manners; and, in others of a bolder spirit, the proud rejection of all the duties and decencies which belong only to common men, the love of that distinction in vice which they feel themselves unable to attain in virtue, and the gradual but too certain advance to the last stages of guilt, impiety, and wretchedness. Amid these delusions of fancy, life, meanwhile, with all its plain and serious business, is passing; their contemporaries in every line are starting before them in the road of honour, of fortune, or of usefulness; and nothing is now left them but to concentrate all the vigour of their minds to recover the ground which they have lost. But if this last energy be wanting, if what they ‘would, they yet fail to ‘do, what, alas, can be the termination of the once ardent and inspiring mind, but ignominy and disgrace?

A heart dissatisfied with mankind and with itself; a conscience sickening at the review of what is passed; a failing fortune, a degraded character, and, what I fear is ever the last and the most frantic refuge of selfish and disappointed ambition, infidelity and despair.”

Seneca, the moralist, is an eminent illustration, unless his character is grossly traduced, of the possession of fine theoretical views of virtue, the power to utter glittering sentences, words, scintillations, without any love for virtue or truth in the heart, or, at any rate, without any fulfilment of them in the life. How easy it was to pen those fine and fanciful sentiments on contentment and happiness, and the pleasure of virtuous emotion, while avariciously accumulating his hoards of wealth, banqueting at ease in his magnificent gardens and palaces, pandering to the wild and licentious enjoyments of a corrupt and cruel prince, conniving at the parricidal murder of the mother of the Emperor by the son she had raised to empire and to dignity. All this appears to be true of Seneca, and, therefore, he may be appropriately held up, rather to the execration than the admiration of mankind; and it should be a warning to the people of every age, never to divorce magnanimity of sentiment from magnanimity of action; life is only real when they are combined.

There dwelt in Athens, as Xenophon tells us, in the time of Socrates, a young man named Euthedemus; he was also surnamed the Fair. He was sufficiently wealthy to purchase a great number of manuscripts and books upon all subjects, and his wealth also allowed him to lounge his time away in various parts of the city of famous resort, in a kind of elegant laziness. His appearance was attractive. His exterior was the cause of the vanity of his mind. Finding so much praise bestowed upon his body, the fair proportions of which had caused him no labour or pain, he arrived at the belief that he might obtain a mental reputation on the same easy terms. He affected rather, therefore, to patronize knowledge than to be a disciple. He mentioned with condescension the great names of the poets, and teachers, and generals of Greece. He had no real ambition to be wise, but a great ambition to be thought so. He had no great yearnings after excellence, but he greatly desired the honour of excelling. What books he had were, for the most part, unread. His knowledge was superficial and crude. He did not, of course, perceive it to be so: on the contrary, he aimed to be thought rather the teacher of other men, the setter-to-rights of opinions. He had books upon his shelves: was not that knowledge? He heard wise men talk: was he not therefore wise? and he walked about in the streets of Athens, head full of immense ideas of his own power an importance. He affected elegance in dress, too, and altogether sought as far as possible to impose the appearance of a most fashionable decorum upon the literary citizens. He was, in brief, a
kind of literary dandy; and he paraded the titles of books, and his criticisms upon them, and upon
men and things in general, just as an exquisite in our age might parade his rings or studs.

Indeed, the modern Euthedemus might be witnout the sketched very well by the side of the Athenian one. Knowledge. The modern Euthedemus lounges still through our literary saloons and circles, himself the impersonation of a savant, a poet, a moralist, a theologian, with a jaunty fashionable air, priding himself very much, too, upon a fashionable exterior and free and easy bearing. He, too, has heard of all books, ‘and is quite able to weigh the merits of them all. He holds in his hand the gaugingrod of all sciences, and can measure the figures of all poetry. He talks familiarly of all poets, as one who could do all that kind of thing quite easily, but will not be put out of the way to perform such trifles. It is the inevitable result of certain states of civilization to produce men who desire to receive some of the reflected light of literature; for all professions and all ages have their amateurs and dandies, men of the Euthedemus class, who wear the star of hereditary nobility, but are yet utterly powerless to make themselves noble. For worth and fame generate the ideas of vanity in other minds; and hence there must be ‘foplings,, ignorant pretenders, in every walk of life and society. So Euthedemus wrapt his fashionable robe around him, and priding himself much on the admiring glances of the maidens of Athens, as he stepped along upon his way, sought the company of the literati of the city. Into the public assemblies he was, as yet, too young to be admitted; but there was a harnessmakers, whither he was in the habit of resorting , a kind of bazaar, or meeting-place of the most wealthy and talkative persons of the city. There were no booksellers, shops, no circulating libraries; but the Athenians would pride themselves on the furniture and the housings of their horses and chariots; and there the young man gathered a company round him to whom his word was a kind of oracle, the staple matter of his discourse being the deficiency of the Sophists and philosophers, and the innate power of man to develop himself without culture, or education, or reliance upon the previous discoveries and teachings of men. But Socrates perceived beneath all this depth of vanity and conceit, a foundation of ingenuousness, and, perhaps, capacity for wisdom; his mind was filled with compassion for the young man without a leader, and he determined to attempt the correction of his follies; and on one occasion he followed him to the harness makers, and, accompanied by some of his friends, the topic was started by one of them, “Whether Themistocles had been much advantaged by conversing with philosophers; or, whether it were not chiefly the strength of his own natural talents which had raised him so far above the rest of his fellow citizens, as made them not fail to turn their eyes towards him whenever the State stood in need of and awakens a person of uncommon ability?” Socrates, willing to pique Euthedemus, made answer, “It was monstrous folly for any one to imagine, that whilst the knowledge of the very lowest mechanic art was not to be obtained without a master, the science of governing the Republic, which required for the right discharge of it all that human prudence could perform, was to be had by intuition.” This does not appear to have been said to Euthedemus, but in his hearing. It filled the young man with uneasiness; it was a word of common sense, unlike what he had heard and believed; and how uneasy it made him he showed by avoiding Socrates, cautiously. He feared to be taken for one of his followers, for the sayings of Socrates clove right down through the heart of all his vanity. He had supposed himself superior to all the teachers of his age; and here, brought into contact with one, and the most despised one, he found himself worsted in the very first few words. His vanity was alarmed. He drew a circle round himself from which he attempted to exclude Socrates.

But Socrates would not be excluded; he followed Euthedemus, and designed to attack him openly; and once they were brought opportunely together, and Socrates, turning to some who were present, “May we not expect,” said he, “from the manner in which this young man pursues his studies, that he will not fail to speak his opinion even the very first time he appears in the assembly, should there be any business of importance then in debate? I should suppose, too, that the proem to his speech, if he begins with letting them know that he hath never received any instruction, must have something in it not unpleasant. ‘Be it known to you, will he say, ‘O ye men of Athens! I never learnt anything of any man; I never associated with persons of parts or experience; never sought out for people who could instruct me; but, on the contrary, have steadily persisted in avoiding all such, as not only holding in abhorrence the being taught by others, but careful to keep clear of even the least suspicion of it; but I am ready, notwithstanding, to give you such advice as chance shall suggest to me., Not unlike the man,” continued Socrates, “who should tell the people, while soliciting their voices, ‘It is true, gentlemen, I never once thought of making physic my study; I never once applied to any one for instruction; and so far was I from desiring to be well versed in this science, I even wished not to have the reputation of it; but, gentlemen, be so kind as to choose me your physician, and I will gain knowledge by making experiments upon you.” Of course, loud was the laughter at this humorous sally. Euthedemus, after this, never avoided the company of Socrates, but attempted to impose upon him by the affectation of a modesty he was far from feeling. But Socrates desired to rouse and stimulate him to the pursuit of knowledge and wisdom by active habits of self-denial and virtue; he spoke in hints, and constantly, while he spoke, he made his words turn in this direction. To govern men, to piaster science, to be able to discourse with others, can only be obtained by the improvement of our mind by a regular apprenticeship to knowledge. Said Socrates: “Is it not strange, sirs, that while such as wish to play well on the lute, or mount dexterously on horseback, are not content with practising in private as often as may be, but look out for masters, and submit willingly to their commands, as the only way to become proficients and gain fame, the man whose aim is to govern the Republic, or speak before the people, shall deem himself aptly qualified for either without the trouble of any previous instruction? Yet surely the last must be owned the most difficult; since, out of the many who force themselves into office, so few are seen to succeed therein; and therefore it should seem that diligence and study are here the most needful.”

And thus Socrates prepared the way for a more definite discourse, and a more conclusive grappling with the peculiarities of the character of Euthedemus. By hints and hits like those we have quoted, he would lead the young man to suspect himself; he would lead the young man to infer that his mind needed training, that the work of governing men was not so easy as he had anticipated; that the world had wiser men than himself. In self-suspicion is the foundation of much knowledge, nay, the commencement of all wisdom. He who has not distrusted himself is, as yet, in the very cloud-land of ignorance. As we watch Socrates moving about among his fellow-citizens, we are struck with this as the chief characteristic of his teaching: that he leads men to a distrustfulness of their own opinions, their own powers, their own knowledge, certain that the mind fully occupied with ideas of its own importance and its own worth, must be closed against the entrance of all truth, all other knowledge. And in the next conversation he proceeded to give shape to his ideas of the method of education to be pursued by the youthful Euthedemus.

We have always thought the conversations with Euthedemus among the most affecting and influential recorded by Xenophon. When he so cleverly rebuked the mere book collector, who yet had no purpose to serve but his own vanity in the collection, till the bated spirit exclaimed, full of emotion, “O, Socrates, I will not deny to you that I have hitherto believed I was no stranger to philosophy, but had already gained that knowledge so necessary for a man who aspires after virtue. What, then, must be my concern to find, after ‘all my labours, I am not able to answer those questions which most importeth me to know? and the more as I see not what method to pursue whereby I may render myself capable?”

“Have you ever been to Deiphos?”

“I have been there twice.”

“Did you observe this inscription somewhere on the front of the temple, Know thyself?”

“Yes, I read it.”

“But it seems scarcely sufficient to have read it, Euthedemus. Consider it, and, in consequence of the admonition, set yourself diligently to find out what you are?”

From: Paxton Hood: “Self-Formation, or, Aids and Help to Mind-Life.” London, 1865.