Rienzi by Edward Bulwer-lytton

The situation of a Patrician who honestly loves the people is, in those evil times, when power oppresses and freedom struggles, -- when the two divisions of men are wrestling against each other, -- the most irksome and perplexing that destiny can possibly contrive. Shall he take part with the nobles? -- he betrays his conscience! With the people? -- he deserts his friends! But that consequence of the last alternative is not the sole -- nor, perhaps, to a strong mind, the most severe. All men are swayed and chained by public opinion -- it is the public judge; but public opinion is not the same for all ranks. The public opinion that excites or deters the plebeian, is the opinion of the plebeians, -- of those whom he sees, and meets, and knows; of those with whom he is brought in contact, -- those with whom he has mixed from childhood, -- those whose praises are daily heard, -- whose censure frowns upon him with every hour. (It is the same in still smaller divisions. The public opinion for lawyers is that of lawyers; of soldiers, that of the army; of scholars, it is that of men of literature and science. And to the susceptible amongst the latter, the hostile criticism of learning has been more stinging than the severest moral censures of the vulgar. Many a man has done a great act, or composed a great work, solely to please the two or three persons constantly present to him. Their voice was his public opinion. The public opinion that operated on Bishop, the murderer, was the opinion of the Burkers, his comrades. Did that condemn him? No! He knew no other public opinion till he came to be hanged, and caught the loathing eyes, and heard the hissing execrations of the crowd below his gibbet.) So, also, the public opinion of the great is the opinion of their equals, -- of those whom birth and accident cast for ever in their way. This distinction is full of important practical deductions; it is one which, more than most maxims, should never be forgotten by a politician who desires to be profound. It is, then, an ordeal terrible to pass -- which few plebeians ever pass, which it is therefore unjust to expect patricians to cross unfaulteringly -- the ordeal of opposing the public opinion which exists for them. They cannot help doubting their own judgment, -- they cannot help thinking the voice of wisdom or of virtue speaks in those sounds which have been deemed oracles from their cradle. In the tribunal of Sectarian Prejudice they imagine they recognise the court of the Universal Conscience. Another powerful antidote to the activity of a patrician so placed, is in the certainty that to the last the motives of such activity will be alike misconstrued by the aristocracy he deserts and the people he joins. It seems so unnatural in a man to fly in the face of his own order, that the world is willing to suppose any clue to the mystery save that of honest conviction or lofty patriotism. "Ambition! " says one. "Disappointment! " cries another. "Some private grudge! " hints a third. "Mob-courting vanity! " sneers a fourth. The people admire at first, but suspect afterwards. The moment he thwarts a popular wish, there is no redemption for him: he is accused of having acted the hypocrite, -- of having worn the sheep's fleece: and now, say they, -- "See! the wolf's teeth peep out! " Is he familiar with the people? -- it is cajolery! Is he distant? -- it is pride! What, then, sustains a man in such a situation, following his own conscience, with his eyes opened to all the perils of the path? Away with the cant of public opinion, -- away with the poor delusion of posthumous justice; he will offend the first, he will never obtain the last. What sustains him? HIS OWN SOUL! A man thoroughly great has a certain contempt for his kind while he aids them: their weal or woe are all; their applause -- their blame -- are nothing to him. He walks forth from the circle of birth and habit; he is deaf to the little motives of little men. High, through the widest space his orbit may describe, he holds on his course to guide or to enlighten; but the noises below reach him not! Until the wheel is broken, -- until the dark void swallow up the star, -- it makes melody, night and day, to its own ear: thirsting for no sound from the earth it illumines, anxious for no companionship in the path through which it rolls, conscious of its own glory, and contented, therefore, to be alone!

But minds of this order are rare. All ages cannot produce them. They are exceptions to the ordinary and human virtue, which is influenced and regulated by external circumstance. At a time when even to be merely susceptible to the voice of fame was a great pre-eminence in moral energies over the rest of mankind, it would be impossible that any one should ever have formed the conception of that more refined and metaphysical sentiment, that purer excitement to high deeds -- that glory in one's own heart, which is so immeasurably above the desire of a renown that lackeys the heels of others. In fact, before we can dispense with the world, we must, by a long and severe novitiate -- by the probation of much thought, and much sorrow -- by deep and sad conviction of the vanity of all that the world can give us, have raised our selves -- not in the fervour of an hour, but habitually -- above the world: an abstraction -- an idealism -- which, in our wiser age, how few even of the wisest, can attain! Yet, till we are thus fortunate, we know not the true divinity of contemplation, nor the all-sufficing mightiness of conscience; nor can we retreat with solemn footsteps into that Holy of Holies in our own souls, wherein we know, and feel, how much our nature is capable of the self-existence of a God!