No More Learning

Ce grand malheur, de ne pouvoir etre seul.

_La Bruyere_.

IT was well said of a certain German book that "_er lasst sich nicht
lesen_"--it does not permit itself to be read. There are some secrets
which do not permit themselves to be told. Men die nightly in their
beds, wringing the hands of ghostly confessors and looking them
piteously in the eyes--die with despair of heart and convulsion of
throat, on account of the hideousness of mysteries which will not suffer
themselves to be revealed. Now and then, alas, the conscience of man
takes up a burthen so heavy in horror that it can be thrown down only
into the grave. And thus the essence of all crime is undivulged.

Not long ago, about the closing in of an evening in autumn, I sat at the
large bow window of the D----- Coffee-House in London. For some months
I had been ill in health, but was now convalescent, and, with returning
strength, found myself in one of those happy moods which are so
precisely the converse of ennui--moods of the keenest appetency, when
the film from the mental vision departs--the [Greek phrase]--and the
intellect, electrified, surpasses as greatly its every-day condition,
as does the vivid yet candid reason of Leibnitz, the mad and flimsy
rhetoric of Gorgias. Merely to breathe was enjoyment; and I derived
positive pleasure even from many of the legitimate sources of pain. I
felt a calm but inquisitive interest in every thing. With a cigar in
my mouth and a newspaper in my lap, I had been amusing myself for the
greater part of the afternoon, now in poring over advertisements, now
in observing the promiscuous company in the room, and now in peering
through the smoky panes into the street.

This latter is one of the principal thoroughfares of the city, and had
been very much crowded during the whole day. But, as the darkness came
on, the throng momently increased; and, by the time the lamps were well
lighted, two dense and continuous tides of population were rushing past
the door. At this particular period of the evening I had never before
been in a similar situation, and the tumultuous sea of human heads
filled me, therefore, with a delicious novelty of emotion.
I gave up,
at length, all care of things within the hotel, and became absorbed in
contemplation of the scene without.

At first my observations took an abstract and generalizing turn.
I looked at the passengers in masses, and thought of them in their
aggregate relations. Soon, however, I descended to details, and regarded
with minute interest the innumerable varieties of figure, dress, air,
gait, visage, and expression of countenance.

By far the greater number of those who went by had a satisfied
business-like demeanor, and seemed to be thinking only of making their
way through the press. Their brows were knit, and their eyes rolled
quickly; when pushed against by fellow-wayfarers they evinced no symptom
of impatience, but adjusted their clothes and hurried on. Others, still
a numerous class, were restless in their movements, had flushed faces,
and talked and gesticulated to themselves, as if feeling in solitude
on account of the very denseness of the company around. When impeded in
their progress, these people suddenly ceased muttering, but re-doubled
their gesticulations, and awaited, with an absent and overdone smile
upon the lips, the course of the persons impeding them. If jostled,
they bowed profusely to the jostlers, and appeared overwhelmed with
confusion. --There was nothing very distinctive about these two large
classes beyond what I have noted. Their habiliments belonged to that
order which is pointedly termed the decent. They were undoubtedly
noblemen, merchants, attorneys, tradesmen, stock-jobbers--the Eupatrids
and the common-places of society--men of leisure and men actively
engaged in affairs of their own--conducting business upon their own
responsibility. They did not greatly excite my attention.

The tribe of clerks was an obvious one and here I discerned
two remarkable divisions. There were the junior clerks of flash
houses--young gentlemen with tight coats, bright boots, well-oiled hair,
and supercilious lips. Setting aside a certain dapperness of carriage,
which may be termed deskism for want of a better word, the manner of
these persons seemed to me an exact fac-simile of what had been the
perfection of bon ton about twelve or eighteen months before.