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in dark, forbidding colors. Much in Juvenal appears to us declamatory rhetoric, simply because imperial Rome seems so widely separated from modern society, but the leap is made and the vitality of his satire re-established when we remember that unchastity, thieving, cruelty, love of luxury are recurrent human vices to be hit at with all the moral venom at our command. Then there is philosophical satire, satire in the service of some comprehensive radical idea. It goes beyond the exposure of vices to an attack on conventional morality itself; much of Voltaire's is of this type. Again, there is splenetic satire, originating in an individual grievance, and ungenerous in its desire to cheapen things simply because they are held to be precious. Of this curious mixture of vanity and cruelty, there is much in Swift. The fourth variety is playful satire. Like the others it is fearless, but unlike them it is disengaged; it casts on life a sharp inquisitive light and throws it about from point to point with all the caprice of a playful and delighted fancy. Martial and Juvenal dealt with the same material but in a totally different spirit; Martial's work shows an utter lack of moral animus, and an enjoyment, sportive and malicious as well, of the many follies of human nature.

Butler's satire ranges from the philosophical to the playful. I confess that I like it best when it is most playful. There is then less of that forcing the note which is a weakness in "Erewhon Revisited" and in "The Way of All Flesh. There is little lightness of touch in the satiric handling of Theobald's character. Butler fastens his teeth in him and shakes him with terrier-like thoroughness. Christina is handled in the same fashion. Not that they merit our sympathy, for they are bores, and destructive ones at that, but they are small game, and it is rather wearisome to see them run down and dispatched in such downright fashion. The game lacks subtlety and suffers from overemphasis. There is a decided animus, an animus hardly separable from moral or philosophical satire. Butler's mind is active, but not always disengaged, strong but not always subtle or flexible, tolerant but always unbiassed. His satiric allusions to scientists are many; he often brackets the scientist and the

clergyman and distrusts them both. What he fears is the dogmatic temper, and there was certainly much in the intellectual situation of his time to justify that fear. But what he overlooks is the fact that the scientist is dogmatic when he becomes a system-builder, and that science carries within itself its own antidote in the shape of patient, self-denying cumulative work of experimentation. He also fails to see the touch of the dogmatic in his own position; the man who creates a Homer in his own image is no less vulnerable than the man who creates God in his own image. Only occasionally does Butler turn the satiric light on himself and his views. He is best when he is freest and most playful. When he characterizes the liturgy of the Church of England as a spiritual treadmill or when he compares a geologist to a linen-draper intent on a study of textile life and its families-"cotton, linen, hempen, woolen, silk, mohair, alpaca"-and a scientist to a man with two throats, one straining at a gnat and the other swallowing a camel, there is enough truth in the comparisons to give them a sting, but not enough to keep them from being misleading. There is some injustice in the idea, but then satire is not noted for a fine sense of justice. There is also a good deal of malice in Butler's satire, but with few exceptions it is a playful malice, a malice lacking personal, moral, and intellectual animus. It is then that it is most amusing and most satisfying. Butler at his best has a whimsical prodding malice which arouses the grotesque, lumbering, laughable shapes of life to activity and makes them exhibit themselves. From this point of view, the satiric portrait of Mrs. Jupp is as superior to that of Theobald as the prodding-stick is to the schoolmaster's pointer. Mrs. Jupp is of the kith and kin of Dame Quickly. Now Shakespeare, according to Butler, did not invent Dame Quickly, but found her among her many sisters in actual life; she literally called for satiric treatment. When Falstaff asks the time of day and is told that it could matter to him only if hours were cups of sack, minutes capons, clocks the tongues of bawds, and the sun a wench in flame-colored taffeta, the satire is perfect in its point and in its whimsical imaginative play. The note is not

forced, it is evocative of the satiric material implicit in life itself. Of such evocative satire there is much in Butler. If you know him only through "The Way of All Flesh," you will miss a good part of it; but follow him in his walks through medieval sanctuaries, in his Darwinian excursions, his comments and random talks, and you will see him amusing himself with a prodding-stick as another man might with a cane, and you will see life awakening to strange antics. Not every one enjoys the game. Many of us like serious matters to be taken seriously, and the most serious of all to be left severely alone. For Butler there is nothing too serious for critical inspection or for an amusing twist. As he drives his intellect over the ground he indulges in surprising quips and pranks.

This unusual mixture of earnest and unifying thought, of critical curiosity, and of an alert playfulness marks Butler throughout. It varies in its proportions, that is what makes him so stimulating and so provocative a writer. Those who look for finality of any sort will find him disappointing, and those who put a "No Trespassing" sign on their beliefs will find him irritating and will dislike him intensely. Yet there is much to be said for a hardy intellectual life in the open, and beliefs that cannot stand it had better die. Butler is often severe and not always generous, his sympathies are limited, and his satiric recoil is overly quick, but there is a great deal of solid strength in the man, and absolutely nothing of pose or trifling. The roots of that strength are honesty, devotion to his work, and a remarkable unity and simplicity of purpose beneath the satiric branchings of his mind.

I have not painted Butler all in black; not even the Devil ought to be painted thus. Nor have I given a black-and-white portrait. You cannot watch his tongue at its sharpest and his eyes at their hardest, and then seek sentimental satisfaction in the sharp contrast of eyes that soften, a whimsical and thoughtful smile, and a real, if somewhat ceremonious kindliness. Butler's is a complex personality with subtle and blended shadings; it calls for a complex reaction. If you are something of a gambler you will stake your beliefs and ideals on his

challenge-and what spiritual life except the most stagnant is not urged forward by the taking of such risks? But if you accept the risk, see to it that you come a little closer to his ideal of a blend of the single-minded and the urbane than he himself did, and be sure to be more critical of him than he was of himself.

A FRIEND OF CESAR'S

BY JOHN C. ROLFE

Professor of the Latin Language and Literature

A great man resembles the principal star of a constellation rather than an isolated luminary. His commanding personality attracts to his side a galaxy of lesser, or equal lights, in the form of men who are led to follow his fortunes either by a sincere and single-hearted devotion or by self-interest and personal ambition. The latter are more likely to be tempted by excess of confidence or by jealousy to desert their leader, and either to attach themselves to what they regard as more promising auspices or to essay an independent career. This temptation is the stronger when, as often happens, there are among the subordinates those who surpass their chief in certain qualities, and who do not realize that it is because of their lack either of the favor of fortune or of some innate and often obscure quality of leadership that he has reached a higher station than their own. Thus Augustus was by no means the equal of Agrippa as a military leader or of Maecenas as a statesman; yet in all probability neither Agrippa nor Maecenas could have become ruler of the world. And either a consciousness of this, or genuine devotion to their emperor, kept them from making the attempt.

On the other hand, a leader of men commonly owes no small part of his success to the sound judgment and foresight which enable him to surround himself with men of ability in various lines, as well as to the personal qualities by which he secures and retains their loyalty and allegiance. Julius Caesar, for example, made his way to power largely through his skill in judging men and winning their affections. The former quality kept him from involving himself in such rash ventures as the the conspiracies of Lepidus and Catiline and gave him competent and for the most part faithful officers; the latter ensured that attachment on the part of his soldiers which made them

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