His strength demanded a gigantic task, just [p83] as the nasal horn of the rhinoceros drives the animal who possesses it to uproot the soil. He could not help himself. Martin Luther likewise had no choice. Before the famous Diet of Worms, he openly avowed this lack of freedom. He said: “Here I stand. I cannot act otherwise. God help me.” Indeed the character of all strength is precisely that it gives those who possess it no choice, no “freedom.” The moment choice enters into the domain of action, the moment there is apparent freedom or self-determination, weakness, or a lack of native impetus may be suspected. Thomas de Quincey, that profound psychologist of the artist’s soul, explained the matter very well in his Autobiography. Discussing the nature of true poetry, he said: “By far the larger proportion of what is received in every age for poetry, and for a season usurps that consecrated name, is not the spontaneous overflow of real unaffected passion, deep, and at the same time original, and also forced into public manifestation of itself from the necessity which cleaves to all passion.”[17] It will be seen that de Quincey here speaks of a “spontaneous overflow” which is “forced into public manifestation of itself from the necessity which cleaves to all passion.” There is no freedom about it, no choice. It flows from an impetuous and imperious abundance. In the light which this throws on all human greatness or strength, what does the value of freedom appear to be? Does it not seem as if freedom and the apparent liberty to choose belong essentially to a lack of strength, to an absence of necessity in the characteristic action of man? To be able to weigh and select either one of two alternatives,--say action or inaction,--implies that no overwhelming native impetus forces a man to the one and blinds him to the other. Is it possible then that the very cry of “freedom” belongs essentially to weakness? to feebleness of character? Let another example be taken. A young man A. has just reached the age of one and twenty without having had a serious affair of the heart. His friends regard him as free to pursue any pastime, any sport. When once he has discharged the duties by means of which he earns his livelihood, he is always free to join a tennis party, a cricket team, a bridge party, or a debating circle. His mind can devote itself to the task of choosing what he shall do,--is it to be tennis, cricket, bridge, or argument? He has no overpowering inclination for anything particular, consequently he is free to choose.