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BOSTON 
PUBLIC 
UBRARY 


j^-^^Hfcc — ;jT"tiT~t^:5v^ 


\X-  ^'•ihi". 


MY   COMMONPLACE    BOOK 


MACMILLAN  AND  CO.,  Limited 

LONDON  •  BOMBAY  •  CALCUTTA  •  MADRAS 
MELBOURNE 

THE    MACMILLAN    COMPANY 

NEW  YORK  •  BOSTON  •  CHICAGO 
DALLAS  •  SAN  FRANCISCO 

THE  MACMILLAN  CO.   OF  CANADA,  Ltd. 

TORONTO 


MY 
COMMONPLACE  BOOK 


BY 

J.  T.   HACKETT 


■Omne  meum,  nihil  meum." 


MACMILLAN   AND   CO.,  LIMITED 

ST.   MARTIN'S   STREET,  LONDON 

1923 


COPYRIGHT 

First  publication  in  Great  Britain,  September  igig. 

Second  English  Edition,  September  1920. 

Third  English  Edition,  Jatiuary  1921. 

Fourth  English  Edition,  1923. 


^fffc^' 


\ 


PRINTED    IN   GREAT   BRITAIN 


O  Memories  ! 
O  Past  that  is  ! 

George  Eliot. 


DEDICATED 
TO 


MY  DEAR  FRIEND  h  X  3  ^ 


RICHARD    HODGSON 

WHO   HAS   PASSED   OVER 
TO   THE   OTHER   SIDE 


Of  wounds  and  sore  defeat 

I  made  my  battle-stay  ; 

Winged  sandals  for  my  feet 

I  wove  of  my  delay  ; 

Of  weariness  and  fear 

I  made  my  shouting  spear  ; 

Of  loss,  and  doubt,  and  dread, 

And  swift  oncoming  doom 

I  made  a  helmet  for  my  head 

And  a  floating  plume. 

From  the  shutting  mist  of  death, 

From  the  failure  of  the  breath 

I  made  a  battle-horn  to  blow 

Across  the  vales  of  overthrow. 

O  hearken,  love,  the  battle-horn  ! 

The  triumph  clear,  the  silver  scorn  I 

O  hearken  where  the  echoes  bring, 

Dozvn  the  grey  disastrous  morn, 

Laughter  and  rallying  !  * 

William  Vaughn  Moody, 

From  Richard  Hodgson's  Christmas  Card,  1904  (the  Christmas  before  his  death). 


Vll 


I  cannot  hut  remember  such  things  were 
That  were  most  precious  to  me. 

Macbeth,  iv.  3. 


vui 


PREFACE   TO   THE 
FOURTH   ENGLISH   EDITION 


This  edition  is  the  first  in  which  the  book  has  been  ade- 
quately revised. 

I  compiled  the  book  in  19 17  (while  the  war  was  still 
raging),  but  through  various  long  delays  it  was  not  published 
until  September  19 19.  When  I  then  saw  it  in  print,  I 
realized  that  I  had  made  several  errors  of  judgment.  For 
example,  the  longest  by  far  of  the  quotations  v/as  John 
Payne's  "  Rime  of  Redemption."  I  thought  Payne  was 
remembered  only  as  a  translator  and  was  forgotten  as  a 
minor  poet.  To  my  surprise  I  learnt  that  he  was  the  object 
of  a  special  cult,  and  that  a  John  Payne  Society  had  been 
actually  formed  in  his  lifetime  I  In  any  case,  although  the 
poem  has  merit,  it  v/as  an  error  of  judgment  to  include  it  in 
this  book.  I  also  saw  that  fragments  from  narrative  poems 
are  unsatisfactory,  as  in  the  case  of  Buchanan,  that  there 
was  too  much  of  Swinburne  in  the  book,  and  that  some 
other  quotations  were  too  long  to  justify  their  inclusion.  For 
these  and  other  reasons  I  have  cut  out  some  poems,  few  in 
number  but  occupying  a  disproportionate  amount  of  space. 

I  could  not  do  this  when  the  second  and  third  editions 
were  issued.  I  was  ill  and  away  from  my  books  and  notes. 
Even  if  I  had  been  well  enough,  I  had  not  the  material  with 
me  to  replace  the  omitted  pages,  and,  without  this  material, 
the  book  would  have  had  to  be  set  up  again.  However,  I 
have  now  had  it  set  up  again,  and  this  has  given  me  the 
opportunity  of  revising  and  adding  to  it. 

Besides  the  poems  now  omitted,  there  were  others  which 
I  also  wished  to  replace.  Copyright- owners  were  on  the 
whole  exceedingly  good  to  me,  but  nevertheless  I  was 
refused  permission  to  publish  some  of  my  best  quotations. 
As  permission  was  readily  granted  to  publish  everything  of 

ix  b 


X  PREFACE  TO  THE  FOURTH  EDITION 

inferior  importance  and  interest,  the  general  average  of  the 
book  necessarily  suffered.  (I  was  on  the  other  side  of  the 
world  and  could  do  nothing  to  remedy  this.)  However, 
everything  that  I  have  omitted  or  was  not  allowed  to  publish 
has  been  now  replaced  by  a  much  larger  number  of  quota- 
tions that  will  probably  be  found  interesting. 

As  regards  the  comments,  I  have  allowed  myself  much 
more  latitude  than  in  the  original  book.  That  was  my 
first  literary  effort,  and  I  did  not  know  whether  my  comments 
would  be  found  acceptable.  I  have  now  revised  the  original 
notes  and  added  many  others  of  a  literary  character. 

But  besides  those  literary  notes,  I  wrote  others  of  a 
scientific,  psychological,  or  philosophic  nature.  Here,  how- 
ever, Mr.  George  F.  Hassell,  who  has  continued  to  confer 
with  me  regarding  the  contents  of  this  book,  called  my 
attention  to  the  fact  that  I  was  entirely  altering  its  character. 
This  warning  was  very  necessary,  for  with  the  scores  of 
subjects  referred  to  in  a  thousand  quotations  one  is  tempted 
to  write  on  indefinitely.  Therefore  I  put  a  stop  to  such 
notes  and  withdrew  much  that  I  had  written. 

But  I  decided  to  retain  one  series  of  those  notes.  On 
p.  170  I  have  put  together  some  of  the  main  facts  we  now 
know  about  the  Unconscious  ;  as  an  addendum  to  that 
note  I  have  on  pp.  183-4  given  reasons  for  dissenting  from 
the  current  theory  concerning  primitive  man  and  savages  ; 
on  p.  282  a  criticism  of  eugenics  is  practically  another 
addendum  to  that  note  ;  and  on  pp.  41,  67,  and  elsewhere  I 
have  referred  to  materialism.  I  see  no  need  to  apologize  for 
retaining  this  series.  This  book  is  neither  an  anthology  nor 
a  purely  literary  work.  It  is  a  "  commonplace  book,"  that  is 
to  say,  a  note-hook,  dealing  with  all  questions  that  occupied 
our  thoughts  in  the  seventies  and  eighties  or  thereabouts, 
including  especially  the  subjects  dealt  with  in  those  notes. 
But  also,  even  from  a  literary  point  of  view,  the  notes  seem 
to  me  rightly  included.  Without  a  true  sense  of  the  great- 
ness of  the  soul  in  man,  I  do  not  think  any  one  can  properly 
appreciate  fine  literature.  I  do  not  see  how,  for  example, 
a  thorough-going  materialist  could  possibly  understand  or 
appreciate  such  literature.  Merely  through  his  absorption 
in  the  mechanical  aspects  of  biology,  Darwin,  who  was  not 
a  materialist,  lost  his  aesthetic  faculties  so  that  even  Shake- 
speare "  nauseated  "  him  (see  p.  363).  Therefore,  it  seems 
essentially  important  to  the  literary  student  to  pay  attention 
to  the  subjects  referred  to. 


PREFACE  TO  THE  FOURTH  EDITION         xi 

With  the  larger  number  of  quotations  and  the  increase 
in  number  and  length  of  the  comments,  this  book  is  materially 
enlarged. 

I  undertook  personally  the  preparation  of  the  indexes 
for  this  edition — little  realizing  the  extraordinary  amount 
of  work  involved.  It  was,  however,  interesting  to  see  what 
a  curious  medley  of  quotations  would  come  together  under 
a  particular  heading  in  the  Subject- Index.  I  should  think 
that  those  quotations  might  often  be  found  suggestive  and 
useful  to  any  one  writing  on  the  particular  subject.  In  the 
Index  of  Authors  I  have  put  the  dates  of  the  respective 
authors,  so  that  it  also  may  be  occasionally  useful  for  handy 
reference. 

I  have  to  thank  Messrs.  Macmillan  as  publishers  and 
Messrs.  R.  &  R.  Clark  as  printers  for  the  improved  format 
of  the  book.  To  Messrs.  Clark  is  due  the  excellent  arrange- 
ment of  the  quotations  and  notes  on  each  page.  This  was 
a  difficult  matter  requiring  close,  unremitting  attention,  and 
literary  taste.     I  am  very  greatly  indebted  to  them. 

In  the  original  edition  I  was  careful  to  acknowledge  any 
assistance  given  me  by  friends — yet  I  omitted  to  do  justice 
to  my  dear  wife.  She  read  through  the  whole  of  the  manu- 
script, gave  me  some  apt  quotations,  and  made  many  useful 
suggestions.  It  was  entirely  due  to  her  admirable  judgment, 
for  instance,  that  I  did  not  spoil  the  book  for  general  reading 
by  being  too  outspoken  on  certain  subjects.  The  book  was 
originally  intended  as  a  memorial  to  Richard  Hodgson  and 
was  properly  dedicated  to  him  ;  otherwise,  it  would  have 
been  dedicated  to  my  wife. 

In  another  instance  I  could  not  know  how  much  I  was 
indebted — or  whether  I  was  indebted  at  all — when  the 
original  preface  was  written.  But  for  my  friend,  Sir  Lang- 
don  Bonython,  this  book  would  probably  have  never  seen 
the  light.  So  gloomy  were  the  forebodings  of  my  other 
friends  in  Australia  that,  time  and  again,  I  would  have 
consigned  my  manuscript  to  the  waste-paper  basket,  but  for 
Sir  Langdon's  strenuous  and  most  determined  resistance. 
(Mr.  Hassell,  of  course,  also  thought  well  of  the  book,  but 
he  was  closely  identified  with  it  and  could  no  more  form  an 
unbiased  opinion  than  I  myself  could.). 

To  me — an  Australian,  without  previous  experience  in 
literary  work,  and  strongly  affected  by  the  depressing  views 
of  my  friends,  and  also  knowing  that  authors  are  usually  the 
worst  judges  of  their  own  work — there  was  a  great  dread 


xii       PREFACE  TO  THE  FOURTH  EDITION 

that  I  might  be  acting  very  fooHshly  in  pubUshing  the  book 
in  London.  Therefore  I  sent  a  full  copy  of  my  manuscript 
to  a  gentleman  whom  I  am  proud  to  call  my  friend,  Professor 
A.  H.  Sayce,  who  was  then  in  Cairo.  Besides  his  great 
genius  as  an  orientalist  and  archaeologist,  Professor  Sayce 
has  the  finest  taste  in  literature.  Fortunately,  before  I  reached 
London  and  met  on  every  hand  far  worse,  because  much 
more  authoritative,  predictions  that  the  book  would  be  an 
absolute  failure,  I  received  Professor  Sayce 's  reassuring 
advice  to  unhesitatingly  proceed  with  its  publication. 

It  may  be  unusual  to  do  so,  but  I  must  express  my  thanks 
to  the  many  reviewers  who  prevented  the  disaster  that  had 
been  predicted  for  this,  my  only  book. 

I  am  indebted  to  the  following  for  permission  to  use 
quotations  :  Mr.  Wilfrid  Meynell,  for  Mrs.  Meynell's  "  Re- 
nouncement "  and  Francis  Thompson's  "  Messages  "  ;  Mr. 
Denys  de  Saumarez  Bray,  for  his  daughter's  poem  "  Cad- 
mus "  ;  Mr.  Samuel  Waddington,  for  "  The  Lost  Cipher  "  ; 
G.  Bell  &  Sons,  Ltd.,  for  Coventry  Patmore's  "  The  Toys  "  ; 
the  Earl  of  Balfour,  for  an  extract  from  "  The  Foundations 
of  Belief"  ;  Professor  A.  Seth  Pringle-Pattison,  for  a  quota- 
tion from  "  The  Idea  of  God  "  ;  Sir  William  Watson,  for 
his  "  Shelley  and  Harriet " ;  Mr.  Edward  Garnett,  for 
Richard  Garnett's  "  Nocturne  "  ;  Mr.  Arthur  Symons,  for 
"  The  Return  "  ;  Professor  W.  H.  Carruth  of  Stanfield 
University,  California,  for  "  Each  in  His  Own  Tongue  "  ; 
Dr.  A.  C.  Bradley,  for  an  extract  from  "  Oxford  Lectures 
on  Poetry  "  ;  Mr.  Thomas  Hardy,  for  a  quotation  from 
"  The  Dynasts  "  ;  the  late  Herbert  Trench,  for  "  Lindis- 
farne  "  ;  Messrs.  Chatto  &  Windus,  on  behalf  of  Mr. 
Lloyd  Osbourne,  and  also  Charles  Scribner's  Sons,  for^^R.  L. 
Stevenson's  "  Requiem  "  ;  and  Messrs.  Chatto  &  Windus, 
the  Estate  of  Samuel  L.  Clemens,  the  Mark  Twain  Company 
and  Harper  &  Brothers,  for  an  extract  from  "  The  Stolen 
White  Elephant." 

J.  T.  HACKETT. 

London, 
August  ist,  1923. 


PREFACE  TO   THE 
FIRST   ENGLISH   EDITION* 


A  LARGE  proportion  of  the  most  interesting  quotations  in 
this  book  was  collected  between  1874  and  1886.  During 
that  period  I  was  under  the  influence  of  Richard  Hodgson, 
who  was  my  close  friend  from  childhood.  To  him  directly 
and  indirectly  this  book  is  largely  indebted, 

Hodgson  (1855-1905)  had  a  remarkably  pure,  noble, 
and  lovable  character,  and  was  one  of  the  most  gifted  men 
Australia  has  produced.  He  is  known  in  philosophic  circles 
from  some  early  contributions  to  Mind  and  other  journals, 
but  is  mainly  known  from  his  work  in  psychical  research, 
to  which  he  devoted  the  best  years  of  his  life.  Apart  from 
his  great  ability  in  other  directions,  he  was  endowed,  even 
in  youth,  with  fine  taste  and  a  clear  and  mature  literary 
judgment.  This  will  appear  to  some  extent  in  the  quota- 
tions over  his  name,  and  the  note  on  p.  235  will  give  further 
particulars  of  his  career.  He  was  from  two  to  three  years 
older  than  myself,  and  guided  me  in  my  early  reading. 
Therefore,  indirectly,  he  has  to  do  with  most  of  the  contents 
of  this  book. 

But,  more  than  this,  about  one-third  of  the  main  quota- 
tions (not  including  the  notes  which  I  have  only  now  added) 
came  direct  from  Hodgson.     He  left  Australia  in  1877,  but 

*  To  the  readers  of  the  Adelaide  edition  (which  was  issued  only  in  Australia)  I  should 
explain  why  the  book  is  now  so  much  enlarged.  The  first  issue  was  prepared  hastily  and 
without  sufficient  care.  (The  proceeds  were  to  go  to  the  Australian  Repatriation  Fund,  and 
the  book  was  hurriedly  put  together  and  printed  to  be  ready  for  a  Repatriation  Day  which 
was  announced  but  actually  was  never  held.)  It  was  my  first  experience  in  pubUshing,  and 
I  did  not  realize  the  care  and  consideration  required  in  issuing  a  book  even  ot  this  character. 
Hence  (i)  part  of  my  manuscript  was  entirely  overlooked  ;  (2)  I  failed  to  see  that  many 
quotations  would  be  improved  by  adding  their  content  ;  (3)  I  did  not  go  properly  through 
the  great  mass  of  Hodgson's  correspondence  ;  and  (4)  I,  wrongly,  as  I  now  think,  excluded 
many  quotations  because  I  thought  certain  subjects  were  unsuitable  for  the  book.  Besides 
extending  the  scope  of  the  collection  by  including  those  subjects,  I  now  have  no  longer 
restricted  myself  to  the  seventy-eighty  period.  The  notes  also  add  materially  to  the  size  of 
this  volume. 

xiii 


xiv  PREFACE 

we  maintained  a  voluminous  correspondence  until  1886. 
This  correspondence  contained  most  of  the  quotations 
referred  to,  and  the  remainder  Hodgson  gave  me  in  London 
on  the  only  occasion  I  met  him  after  he  left  Australia. 
(After  1886  he  became  so  immersed  in  psychical  research, 
and  I  in  legal  work,  that  our  correspondence  ceased  to  be 
of  a  literary  character.)  Thus  directly  and  indirectly 
Hodgson  has  much  to  do  with  the  book — and,  if  it  had  been 
practicable,  I  would  have  placed  his  name  on  the  title-page. 

This  book  is  simply  one  to  be  taken  up  at  odd  moments, 
like  any  other  collection  of  quotations.  But  there  are  two 
reasons  why  it  may  have  some  special  interest.  One  reason 
is  that  it  includes  passages  from  a  number  of  authors  who 
appear  to  have  become  forgotten,  or,  at  any  rate,  to  be 
passing  Lethe-wards.  We,  who  dwell  in  the  underworld,* 
cannot,  of  course,  have  a  complete  knowledge  of  what  is 
known  or  forgotten  in  the  inner  literary  circles  of  England. 
We  can  depend  only  on  the  books  and  periodicals  that 
happen  to  come  to  our  hands,  and  perhaps  should  not 
rely  too  much  on  such  sources  of  information.  But  some 
of  the  authors  quoted  in  this  volume  must  be  generally 
forgotten. 

It  must  be  remembered  that  this  book  is  not  an  anthology. 
A  commonplace  book  is  usually  a  collection  of  reminders 
made  by  a  young  man  who  cannot  afford  an  extensive 
library.  There  is  no  system  in  such  a  collection.  A  book 
is  borrowed  and  extracts  made  from  it  ;  another  book  by 
the  same  author  is  bought  and  no  extract  made  from  it. 
On  the  one  hand  a  favourite  verse,  although  well  known, 
is  written  out  for  some  reason  or  other  ;  on  the  other  hand 
hundreds  of  beautiful  poems  are  omitted.  So  far  from 
this  being  an  anthology,  I  have,  as  a  matter  of  course, 
omitted  many  poems  that  since  the  seventy-eighty  period 
have  become  general  favourites  ;  and,  as  regards  the  most 
beautiful  gems  of  our  literature,  they  are  almost  all  excluded. 
There  are,  for  example,  only  a  few  lines  from  Shakespeare. 

Some  exceptions  have,  however,  been  made.  In  a  series 
of  word-pictures,  a  few  of  the  best-known  passages  will  be 
found.     A  few  others  have  been  included  for  reasons  that 

*  See  Tennyson's  "  Princess  "  : — 

Fresh  as  the  first  beam  glittering  on  a  sail 
That  brings  our  friends  up  from  the  underworld. 


PREFACE  XV 

will  readily  appear  ;  they  either  form  part  of  a  series  or 
the  reason  is  apparent  from  the  notes.  Apart  from  these  I 
have  retained  Blanco  White's  great  sonnet  and  Bourdillon's 
"  The  Night  has  a  Thousand  Eyes,"  because  with  regard 
to  these  I  had  an  interesting  and  instructive  experience. 
I  accidentally  discovered  that  of  four  well-read  men  (two 
at  least  of  them  more  thorough  students  of  poetry  than 
myself)  two  were  ignorant  of  the  one  poem  and  two  of  the 
other.  Seeking  an  explanation,  I  turned  to  the  anthologies. 
I  could  not  find  in  any  of  them  Bourdillon's  little  gem  until 
I  came  to  the  comparatively  recent  Oxford  Book  of  Victorian 
Verse  and  The  Spirit  of  Man.  The  Blanco  White  sonnet 
I  could  find  nowhere  except  in  collections  of  sonnets,  which 
in  my  opinion  are  little  read.  It  will  be  observed  that  in 
anthologies  alone  can  Blanco  White's  one  and  only  poem 
be  kept  alive. 

The  second  reason  why  this  book  may  have  a  special 
interest  is  that  it  may  serve  as  a  reminder  to  my  contempo- 
raries of  our  stirring  thoughts  and  experiences  in  the 
seventies  and  eighties.  How  interesting  this  period  was 
it  is  difficult  to  show  in  a  few  lines.  In  pure  literature, 
books  of  value  simply  poured  from  the  press.  In  the 
closing  year,  1889,  "  One  who  never  turned  his  back,  but 
marched  breast  forward  "  died  on  the  day  that  his  last  book, 
Asolando,  was  published,  leaving  Tennyson,  an  old  man  of 
eighty,  the  sole  survivor  of  the  poets  of  a  great  period. 
At  almost  the  same  moment  "  Crossing  the  Bar  "  was 
published. 

Apart  from  literature,  the  seventies  and  eighties  were  an 
eventful  period  in  science  and  religion.  Darwinism  was 
still  causing  its  tremendous  upheaval,  and  the  supposed 
conflict  between  religion  and  science  exercised  an  enormous 
effect  on  the  minds  of  men.  Evolution  had  explained  so 
much  of  the  processes  in  the  history  of  life,  that  the  majority 
of  thinkers  at  that  time  imagined  that  no  room  was  left  for 
the  supernatural.  Science  was  supposed  to  have  given  a 
death-blow  to  religion,  and  the  greatest  wave  of  materialism 
ever  known  in  the  history  of  the  world  swept  over  England 
and  Europe.  It  is  strange  how  many  great  thinkers  missed 
what  now  appears  so  obvious  a  fact,  that  causality  still 
stood  behind  all  law,  and  that  Darwin,  like  Newton,  had 
merely  helped  to  show  the  method  by  which  the  universe 


xvi  PREFACE 

is  governed.  (It  seems  to  me  that  James  Martineau  stood 
supreme  at  that  time  as  a  man  of  genius  who  saw  clearly 
the  inherent  defect  of  the  whole  materialist  movement.) 

However,  agnosticism,  materialism,  positivism  flourished 
and  triumphed.  Science,  whose  dignity  had  been  so  long 
unrecognized,  came  into  her  own,  and,  in  her  turn,  usurped 
the  same  dogmatic,  superior  attitude  she  had  resented  in 
ecclesiasticism.  On  the  one  hand  pessimistic  literature 
and  philosophy  poured  from  the  press  ;  on  the  other  hand 
new  religions  arose  to  take  the  place  of  the  old.  Theosophy 
and  spiritualism  were  in  evidence  everywhere  (leading  in 
1882  to  the  happy  result  that  the  Society  for  Psychical 
Research  was  founded).  Harrison,  Clifford,  Swinburne 
and  others  preached  the  deification  of  man.  There  were 
discords  within,  as  well  as  foes  without  the  Church.  The 
severely  orthodox  fought  against  the  revelations  of  Colenso 
and  the  higher  criticism  ;  Seeley's  Ecce  Homo  and  a  host 
of  other  works  aroused  fierce  antagonism  ;  Pius  IX.,  who 
had  in  1864  published  his  Syllabus  which  would  have 
destroyed  modern  civilization,  proclaimed  the  infallibility 
of  the  Pope  in  1870 — and  in  1872  was  deprived  of  temporal 
power.  Such  questions  as  the  literal  interpretation  and 
inerrancy  of  the  Bible  were  the  subjects  of  intense  conflict 
— and  especially  strange  is  it  to  remember  the  dire  struggle 
of  well-intentioned  men  to  maintain  the  horrible  doctrine 
of  eternal  punishment.  I  imagine  that  this  book  will  assist 
to  some  extent  in  recalling  the  atmosphere  and  aroma  of 
that  remarkable  period. 

I  have  made  very  little  attempt  to  arrange  my  quotations 
— and  now  wish  I  had  done  less  in  that  direction.  The 
book  is  intended  for  casual  reading,  and  to  arrange  it  under 
headings  would  tend  to  make  it  heavy.  The  element  of 
surprise  is  more  calculated  to  make  the  book  attractive. 

I  began  the  notes  that  are  appended  to  some  of  the 
quotations  with  the  intention  of  giving  only  such  short, 
necessary  explanations  as  would  be  of  assistance  to  the 
inexperienced  reader.  When,  however,  I  began  to  write, 
I  found  my  pen  running  away  with  me.  Apart  from  the 
usual,  ineff^ectual  eff"orts  of  one's  youth,  I  had  never  before 
attempted  literary  work,  and  for  the  first  time  experienced 
the  great  pleasure  there  is  in  such  writing.  With  the 
immense  variety  of  subjects  in  a  collection  of  quotations. 


PREFACE  xvii 

one  could  continue  to  write  over  a  series  of  years  ;  but  it 
was  necessary  to  keep  the  book  within  reasonable  bounds, 
and,  therefore,  I  had  arbitrarily  to  come  to  a  stop.  In 
these  notes  I  do  not  claim  that  there  is  much,  if  any,  origin- 
ality,* they  are  mostly  recollections  of  old  reading.  Still 
they  may  serve  the  important  purpose  of  revivifying  old 
truths  (see  p.  82). 

I  have  been  astonished  at  the  great  deal  of  work  this 
book  has  involved — and  also  how  much  I  have  needed  the 
assistance  of  my  friends.  There  were  some  sixty  or  seventy 
quotations  in  respect  to  which  I  had  neglected  to  give  any 
reference  to  the  authors  (for  the  same  reason  as  one  did  not 
put  the  names  on  photographs  of  old  friends — it  seemed 
impossible  that  the  names  could  be  forgotten).  The  diffi- 
culty of  finding  even  one  such  quotation  is  enormous, 
and  we  have  no  British  Museum  in  Adelaide,  but  only 
some  limited  public  libraries.  However,  with  the  help 
of  my  friends  I  have  succeeded  in  tracing  the  paternity  of 
most  of  these  "  orphans."  In  this  and  other  directions  I 
have  had  the  kind  assistance  of  many  gentlemen.  Of  these 
first  and  foremost  comes  Mr.  G.  F.  Hassell,  the  pubHsher 
of  the  Adelaide  edition,  who,  in  his  devotion  to  literature 
as  well  as  to  his  own  art  of  printing,  is  a  worthy  representa- 
tive of  the  old  Renaissance  printers.  He  has  given  me 
every  assistance,  has  gone  through  every  line,  and,  as  he 
is  both  an  exceedingly  well-read  man  and  also  of  a  younger 
generation  than  myself,  I  have  left  it  to  him  to  decide  what 
should  be  omitted  and  what  retained  in  this  book.  Professor 
Mitchell  has  also  been  so  kind  as  to  revise  and  make  sugges- 
tions concerning  a  number  of  notes  on  philosophic  and 
other  subjects.  Professor  Darnley  Naylor  has  been  uni- 
formly good  in  revising  any  notes  of  a  classical  nature — 
though  he  takes  no  responsibility  whatever  for  the  views 
I  express.  Dr.  E.  Harold  Davies  has  also  helped  me  with 
two  notes  on  music,  in  one  instance  correcting  a  serious 
mistake  I  had  made.  Sir  Langdon  Bonython,  my  friend 
of  many  years,  has  assisted  me  with  practical  as  well  as 
literary  suggestions,  and  has  thrown  open  his  library  to 
me.  Mr.  Francis  Edwards,  of  High  Street,  Marylebone, 
has   assisted   in  my  search   for  references  to    quotations. 

*  I  occasionally  thought  I  had  hit  on  something  new,  but  usually  discovered  that  I  had 
been  anticipated — and  then  deeply  sympathized  with  St.  Jerome's  old  tutor,  Donatus. 
It  will  be  remembered  that  Jerome,  in  his  commentary  on  "  There  is  no  new  thing  under  the 
sun,"  tells  us  that  Donatus  used  to  say,  "  Pereant  qui  ante  nos  nostra  dixenmt,"  "  Confound 
the  fellows  who  anticipated  us  !  " 


xviii  PREFACE 

Mr.  H.  Rutherford  Purnell,  Public  Librarian  of  Adelaide,  and 
his  staff  have  helped  me  throughout,  and  Mr.  E.  La  Touche 
Armstrong,  Public  Librarian  of  Melbourne,  has  gone  to 
great  trouble  on  my  account.  Others  who  have  helped 
me  in  one  way  or  another  are  two  English  friends,  Mrs. 
Caroline  Sidgwick  and  Mrs.  Rachel  Bray,  Miss  M.  R. 
Walker,  Messrs.  Sydney  Temple  Thomas,  J.  R.  Fowler, 
H.  W.  Uffindell,  and  S.  Talbot  Smith. 

For  permission  to  include  quotations  from  their  works 
I  thank  the  following  authors  :  Rev.  F.  W.  Boreham, 
Mr.  F.  W.  Bourdillon,  Mr.  A.  J.  Edmunds,  Mr.  Edmund 
Gosse,  Mr.  Thomas  Hardy,  Professor  Hobhouse,  Mr. 
Rudyard  Kipling,  Mr.  E.  F.  Knight,  Mr.  R.  Le  GalHenne, 
Mr.  W.  S.  Lilly,  Mr.  Robert  Loveman,  Sir  Frederick 
Pollock,  Sir  Arthur  Quiller-Couch,  Professor  A.  H.  Sayce, 
Mrs.  Cronwright  Schreiner,  Mr.  J.  C.  Squire,  Mr.  Herbert 
Trench,  Mr.  Samuel  Waddington,  Mr.  F.  A.  Westbury, 
Mr.  F.  S.  Williamson,  and  Sir  Francis  Younghusband. 

For  extracts  from  the  writings  of  their  relatives  I  am 
grateful  to  Sir  Francis  Darwin,  Mr.  Henry  James,  the 
Earl  of  Lytton,  Dr.  Greville  McDonald,  Miss  Martineau, 
Miss  Massey,  Mr.  W.  M.  Meredith,  Mrs.  F.  W.  H.  Myers, 
the  Rev.  Conrad  Noel,  Mr.  William  M.  Rossetti,  Sir  Herbert 
Stephen,  and  Lord  Tennyson.  Mr.  Piddington  has  also 
given  much  assistance. 

I  am  indebted  to  the  following  for  quotations  from  the 
works  of  the  authors  named  :  of  Ruskin,  to  the  Ruskin 
Literary  Trustees  and  their  publishers,  Messrs.  George 
Allen  &  Unwin  ;  of  Brunton  Stephens,  to  Messrs.  Angus 
&  Robertson  of  Sydney  ;  of  C.  S.  Calverley,  to  Messrs. 
G.  Bell  &  Sons  ;  of  George  Eliot,  to  Messrs.  William  Black- 
wood &  Sons  ;  of  James  Kenneth  Stephen,  to  Messrs. 
Bowes  &  Bowes ;  of  Francis  Thompson,  to  Messrs. 
Burns  &  Gates ;  of  R.  L.  Stevenson,  to  Messrs.  Chatto  & 
Windus  and  to  Messrs.  Charles  Scribner's  Sons  ;  of  Robert 
Buchanan,  to  Messrs.  Chatto  &  Windus  and  to  Mr.  W.  E. 
Martyn  ;  of  James  Thomson  ("  B.V."),  to  Messrs.  P.  J. 
&  A.  E.  Dobell  ;  of  D.  G.  Rossetti,  to  Messrs.  Ellis  ;  of 
Swinburne,  to  Mr.  W.  Heinemann  ;  of  Mr.  Le  Gallienne, 
H.  D.  Lowry,  Stephen  Phillips,  and  J.  B.  Tabb,  to  Mr.  John 
Lane  ;  of  R.  Loveman,  to  the  J.  B.  Lippincott  Co.  ;  of 
A.  K.  H.  Boyd,  R.  Jefferies,  W.  E.  H.  Lecky,  and  James 


PREFACE  xlx 

Martineau,  to  Messrs.  Longmans,  Green  &  Co. ;   of  Alfred 
Austin,  T.  E.  Brown,  Lewis  Carroll,  Edward  FitzGerald, 
F.  W.  H.  Myers,  Walter  Pater,  Lord  Tennyson,  and  Charles 
Tennyson  Turner,  to   Messrs.  Macmillan   &   Co.  ;    of  V. 
O'Sullivan,  to    Mr.  Elkin   Matthews  ;    of   Mrs.  Elizabeth 
Waterhouse,    to    Messrs.    Methuen    &    Co.  ;    of    Robert 
Browning,  to  Mr.  John  Murray  ;   of  Moncure  Conway  and 
Sir  Alfred  Lyall,to  Messrs.  Paul  (Kegan),  Trench,  Triibner, 
&  Co.  ;   of  George  Gissing,  to  Mr.  James  B.  Pinker  ;  of 
John   Payne,   to   Mr.  O.  M.  Pritchard,  his  executor,  and 
to   Mr.    Thomas   Wright  ;    of  P.   J.    Bailey   (Festus)   and 
Coventry  Patmore,  to  Messrs.  George  Routledge  &  Sons  ; 
of    G.   Whyte- Melville,   to   Messrs.   Ward    Lock    &   Co. 
(songs  and   verses)  ;    of   George  MacDonald,   to   Messrs. 
A.  P.  Watt  &  Son  ;   Mr.  Rudyard  Kipling's  "  L'Envoi  "  is 
reprinted   from  Departmental  Ditties,  by  kind  permission 
of  the  author  and  Messrs.  Methuen  &  Co.  ;   "  To  the  True 
Romance  "  is  published  by  Messrs.  Macmillan  &  Co.,  to 
whom  I  am  deeply  indebted,  not  only  for  this  and  the 
permissions  mentioned  above,  but  also  for  much  assistance 
in  tracing  copyrights.     Messrs.  Longmans,  Green  &  Co., 
Mr.  John  Murray,  and  Messrs.  A.  P.  Watt  &  Son  have  been 
most  helpful  in  this  direction,  as  have  also  been  Messrs. 
T.  B.  Lippincott,  the  Oxford  University  Press,  and  Messrs. 
Watts  &  Co.     Messrs.  Constable  &  Co.  have  generously 
granted  permission  for  the  quotations  from  George  Meredith 
and,  as  the  representatives  in   London  of  the  Houghton 
Mifflin  Co.  of  Boston,  Mass.,  have  secured  the  quotations 
from  the  works   of  American  authors  published  by  that 
firm,  viz.  T.  B.  Aldrich,  R.  W.  Gilder,  W.  V.  Moody, 
E.    M.    Thomas,    C.    D.    Warner,    Emerson,    Longfellow, 
Lowell,  and  Whittier.     Messrs.  G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons  have 
also  given  much  help  ;   the  lines  from  Anna  Reeve  Aldrich 
and  R.  C.  Rogers  are  published  by  their  New  York  House. 
Mr.  Martin  Seeker  joins  in  the  consent  given  by  Mr.  Squire 
for  the  extract  from  his  poems.     I  thank  the  Editor  of  the 
Contemporary  Review  for  quotations  from  the  writings  of 
Alexander  Bain  and  the  Rev.  R.  F.  Littledale  ;    and  the 
Editor  of  the  Nineteenth  Century  for  some  paraphrases  of 
epigrams  from  the  Greek  Anthology  by  W.  M.  Hardinge, 
and  an  extract  from  an  article  by  F.  W.  H.  Myers  on  Multi- 
plex Personality.     I  thank  also  the  Society  for  Psychical 
Research  for  an  obituary  article  by  F.  W.  H.  Myers  on 
Gladstone,  printed  in  the  Journal  of  that  Society. 


XX  PREFACE 

For  any  unintentional  omissions,  oversights,  or  failures 
to  trace  rights  I  beg  to  tender  my  apologies.  The  distance 
of  Adelaide  from  the  centre  of  publication  may,  in  some 
measure,  serve  as  an  excuse  for  such  shortcomings.* 

All  profits  derived  from  the  sale  of  this  book  will  be  paid 
to  the  Red  Cross  Fund. 

J.  T.  HACKETT. 

Adelaide. 

*  In  reprinting  this  preface  for  the  Fourth  Edition  I  have  struck  out  references  to  any 
material  now  omitted.    Such  references  would  be  misleading. 


PREFACE   TO   THE 
SECOND   ENGLISH   EDITION 


In  preparing  this  edition  I  have  made  a  great  number  of 
more  or  less  important  corrections,  alterations,  and  additions. 
Most  of  these  occupy  only  a  few  lines  apiece  and,  although 
none  call  for  special  mention,  they  should  together  add  to 
the  interest  and  usefulness  of  this  book.  For  a  number  of 
them  I  am  indebted  to  Mr.  Vernon  Rendall,  formerly 
editor  of  the  Athenceiim  and  Notes  and  Queries.  With  his 
wonderfully  wide  and  exact  knowledge  of  English  and 
Classical  literature,  he  gave  me  much  assistance  and  I  am 
grateful  to  him. 

The  issue  of  a  Second  Edition  enables  me  to  thank  my 
friend,  Sir  John  Cockburn,  for  his  truly  remarkable  kindness 
to  me.  When  I  sent  this  book  home  from  Adelaide  to  be 
published,  he  undertook  the  heavy  work  of  seeking  the 
consent  of  the  numerous  copyright  owners,  negotiating 
with  publishers,  and  seeing  the  book  through  the  press. 
Only  those  who  are  experienced  in  such  matters  can  realize 
the  enormous  amount  of  time  and  labour  that  all  this  involved. 
It  is  impossible  for  me  to  express  adequately  my  obligations 
to  my  friend.  He  did  not  include  any  reference  to  himself 
in  the  original  Preface,  in  spite  of  my  insistence  by  letter 
and  cable. 

In  associating  his  name  with  this  book,  I  am  bound  to 
add  that  Sir  John  disagrees  with  and,  therefore,  disapproves 
of  much  that  I  have  said  in  some  notes  on  the  Ancient 
Greeks. 

J.  T.  HACKETT. 

London, 
Septefnber  1920. 


XXI 


PREFACE   TO   THE 
THIRD   ENGLISH   EDITION 

This  has  presumably  to  be  called  a  new  edition,  rather  than 
a  new  issue,  seeing  that  there  are  revisions  and  alterations. 
But  these  are  not  numerous,  and  the  only  ones  to  which  I 
need  call  special  attention  are  the  substituted  verses  on 
PP-  I53-5-* 

I  am  indebted  to  Mr.  Denys  Bray  for  permission  to 
include  his  daughter's  verses. 

J.  T.  HACKETT. 

Mentone, 
December  1920. 

*  Now  pp.  186-8. 


XXll 


YOUTH  AND  AGE 

Verse,  a  breeze  'mid  blossoms  straying. 
Where  Hope  clung  feeding,  like  a  bee — 

Both  were  mine  !    Life  zvent  a-maying 
With  Nature,  Hope,  and  Poesy, 
When  I  was  young  I 

When  /  was  young  ? — Ah,  woful  When  ! 
Ah  !  for  the  change  'twixt  Now  and  Then  I 
This  breathing  house  not  built  with  hands, 
This  body  that  does  me  grievous  wrong, 
O'er  aery  cliffs  and  glittering  sands 
How  lightly  then  it  flashed  along  : — 
Like  those  trim  skiffs,  unknown  of  yore, 
On  zcinding  lakes  and  rivers  wide, 
That  ask  no  aid  of  sail  or  oar. 
That  fear  no  spite  of  wind  or  tide  ! 
Nought  cared  this  body  for  wind  or  weather 
When  Youth  and  I  lived  in't  together. 

Flowers  are  lovely  :  Love  is  flower-like  ; 
Frie?idship  is  a  sheltering  tree  ; 
O  I  the  joys,  that  came  down  shower-like. 
Of  Friendship,  Love,  and  Liberty, 
Ere  I  was  old  ! 

Ere  /  was  old  ?  Ah,  woful  Ere, 
Which  tells  me,  Youth's  no  longer  here  I 
O  Youth  !  for  years  so  many  and  sweet 
'Tis  known  that  Thou  and  I  were  one, 
ril  think  it  but  a  fond  conceit — 
It  cannot  be,  that  thou  art  gone  I 
xxiii 


xxiv  YOUTH  AND  AGE 

Thy  vesper-bell  hath  not  yet  tolVd  : — 
And  thou  wert  aye  a  masker  bold  ! 
What  strange  disguise  hast  now  put  on 
To  make  believe  that  Thou  art  gone  ? 
I  see  these  locks  in  silvery  slips, 
This  drooping  gait,  this  alter' d  size  : 
But  Spring-tide  blossoms  o?i  thy  lips. 
And  tears  take  sunshine  from  thine  eyes  I 
Life  is  but  Thought  :  so  think  I  will 
That  Youth  and  I  are  house-mates  still. 

Dew-drops  are  the  gems  of  morning. 
But  the  tears  of  mournful  eve  ! 
Where  no  hope  is,  life's  a  warning 
That  only  serves  to  make  us  grieve 

When  we  are  old  : 
— That  only  serves  to  make  us  grieve 
With  oft  and  tedious  taking-leave, 
Like  some  poor  nigh-related  guest 
That  may  not  rudely  be  dismist. 
Yet  hath  outstay'd  his  welcome  while. 
And  tells  the  jest  without  the  smile. 

S.  T.  Coleridge. 


MY   COMMONPLACE   BOOK 


ENGLAND 

When  I  have  borne  in  memory  what  has  tamed 

Great  Nations,  how  ennobUng  thoughts  depart 

When  men  change  swords  for  ledgers,  and  desert 

The  student's  bower  for  gold,  some  fears  unnamed 

I  had,  my  Country — am  I  to  be  blamed  ? 

Now,  when  I  think  of  thee,  and  what  thou  art, 

Verily,  in  the  bottom  of  my  heart. 

Of  those  unfiHal  fears  I  am  ashamed. 

For  dearly  must  we  prize  thee  ;  we  who  find 

In  thee  a  bulwark  for  the  cause  of  men  ; 

And  I  by  my  affection  was  beguiled  : 

What  wonder  if  a  Poet  now  and  then, 

Among  the  many  movements  of  his  mind, 

Felt  for  thee  as  a  lover  or  a  child  ! 

Wordsworth  (1803). 


In  an  age  of  fops  and  toys. 
Wanting  wisdom,  void  of  right, 
Who  shall  nerve  heroic  boys 
To  hazard  all  in  Freedom's  fight  ?  .  .  ^ 

So  nigh  is  grandeur  to  our  dust, 
So  near  is  God  to  man, 
When  Duty  whispers  low.  Thou  must. 
The  youth  replies,  /  can. 

R.  W.  Emerson. 
Voluntaries. 

Although  through  various  delays  this  book  was  not  published  until 
1919,  it  was  compiled  in  1917,  tuhile  the  war  was  still  raging. 

I  B 


WHITTIER— LOWELL 

The  future's  gain 
Is  certain  as  God's  truth  ;  but,  meanwhile,  pain 
Is  bitter,  and  tears  are  salt  :   our  voices  take 
A  sober  tone  ;   our  very  household  songs 
Are  heavy  with  a  nation's  griefs  and  wrongs  ; 
And  innocent  mirth  is  chastened  for  the  sake 
Of  the  brave  hearts  that  nevermore  shall  beat, 
The  eyes  that  smile  no  more,  the  unreturning  feet  ! 

J.  G.  Whittier. 
In  War  Time. 


Careless  seems  the  great  Avenger  ;    history's  pages  but 

record 
One  death  struggle  in  the  darkness  'twixt  old  systems  and 

the  Word  ; 
Truth    forever    on    the    scaifold,    Wrong    forever    on    the 

throne, — 
Yet  that  scaffold  sways  the  future,  and,  behind  the  dim 

unknown, 
Standeth   God  within  the  shadow,  keeping  watch  above 

^'^  «^"-  J.  R.  Lowell. 

The  Present  Crisis, 


Many  loved  Truth,  and  lavished  life's  best  oil 

Amid  the  dust  of  books  to  find  her. 
Content  at  last,  for  guerdon  of  their  toil, 

With  the  cast  mantle  she  hath  left  behind  her. 
Many  in  sad  faith  sought  for  her, 
Many  with  crossed  hands  sighed  for  her  ; 
But  these,  our  brothers,  fought  for  her, 
At  life's  dear  peril  wrought  for  her. 
So  loved  her  that  they  died  for  her.  .  .  . 
They  saw  her  plumed  and  mailed. 
With  sweet,  stern  face  unveiled, 
And  all-repaying  eyes,  look  proud  on  them  in  death. 

J.  R.  Lowell. 
Ode  at  Harvard  Commemoration,  1865. 

This  Ode  was  written  in  memory  of  the  Harvard  University  men  who 
had  died  in  the  Secession  war.  Our  own  brave  men  are  also  fighting 
in  the  cause  of  Truth,  against  the  hideous  falsity  of  German  teaching 
and  morals. 


QUARLES— BUCHANAN 

Our  God  and  soldier  we  alike  adore, 
When  at  the  brink  of  ruin,  not  before  ; 
After  deliv'rance  both  ahke  requited, 
Our  God  forgotten,  and  our  soldiers  slighted. 

Francis  Quarles  (i 592-1 644). 


PRIEST 

"  The  glory  of  Man  is  his  strength, 

And  the  weak  man  must  die,"  said  the  Lord. 

CHORUS 

Hark  to  the  Song  of  the  Sword  ! 

PRIEST 

Uplift  !   let  it  gleam  in  the  sun — 
Uplift  in  the  name  of  the  Lord  ! 

KAISER 

Lo  !   how  it  gleams  in  the  light, 
Beautiful,  bloody,  and  bright. 
Yea,  I  uplift  the  Sword 
Thus  in  the  name  of  the  Lord  ! 

THE    CHIEFS 

Form  ye  a  circle  of  fire 
Around  him,  our  King  and  our  Sire — 
While  in  the  centre  he  stands. 
Kneel  with  your  swords  in  your  hands. 
Then  with  one  voice  deep  and  free 
Echo  like  waves  of  the  sea — 
"  In  the  name  of  the  Lord  !  " 

VOICES   WITHOUT 

Where  is  he  ? — he  fades  from  our  sight  ! 
Where  the  Sword  ? — all  is  blacker  than  night. 
Is  it  finish'd,  that  loudly  ye  cry  ? 
Doth  he  sheathe  the  great  Sword  while  we  die  } 
O  bury  us  deep,  most  deep  ; 
Write  o'er  us,  wherever  we  sleep, 
"  In  the  name  of  the  Lord  !  " 


BUCHANAN— MORRIS 

KAISER 

While  I  uplift  the  Sword, 

Thus  in  the  name  of  the  Lord, 

Why,  with  mine  eyes  full  of  tears. 

Am  I  sick  of  the  song  in  mine  ears  ? 

God  of  the  Israelite,  hear  ; 

God  of  the  Teuton,  be  near  ; 

Strengthen  my  pulse  lest  I  fail. 

Shut  out  these  slain  while  they  wail — 

For  they  come  with  the  voice  of  the  grave 

On  the  glory  they  give  me  and  gave. 

CHORUS 

In  the  name  of  the  Lord  ?     Of  what  Lord  ? 
Where  is  He,  this  God  of  the  Sword  ? 
Unfold  Him  ;  where  hath  He  His  throne  } 
Is  He  Lord  of  the  Teuton  alone  ? 
Doth  He  walk  on  the  earth  ?     Doth  He  tread 
On  the  limbs  of  the  dying  and  dead  ? 
Unfold  Him  !     We  sicken,  and  long 
To  look  on  this  God  of  the  strong  ! 

PRIEST 

Hush  !     In  the  name  of  the  Lord, 
Kneel  ye,  and  bless  ye  the  Sword  ! 

R.  Buchanan. 
The  Apotheosis  of  the  Sword, 
Versailles,  1871. 


Short  is  mine  errand  to  tell,  and  the  end  of  my  desire  : 
For  peace  I  bear  unto  thee,  and  to  all  the  kings  of  the  earth, 
Who  bear  the  sword  aright,  and  are  crowned  with  the  crown 

of  worth  ; 
But  unpeace  to  the  lords  of  evil,  and  the  battle  and  the 

death  ; 
And  the  edge  of  the  sword  to  the  traitor  and  the  flame  to 

the  slanderous  breath  : 
And  I  would  that  the  loving  were  loved,  and  I  would  that 

the  weary  should  sleep. 

And  that  man  should  hearken  to  man,  and  that  he  that 

soweth  should  reap.  ,,,    -^ 

^  W.  Morris. 

Sigurd  the  Volsung,  Book  III. 


THUCYDIDES 


GREEKS  OR  GERMANS  ? 

Do  not  imagine  that  you  are  fighting  about  a  single  issue, 
freedom  or  slavery.  You  have  an  empire  to  lose,  and  are 
exposed  to  danger  by  reason  of  the  hatred  which  your 
imperial  rule  has  inspired  in  other  states.  And  you  cannot 
resign  your  power,  although  some  timid  or  unambitious 
spirits  want  you  to  act  justly.  For  now  your  empire  has 
become  a  despotism,  a  thing  which  in  the  opinion  of  mankind 
has  been  unjustly  acquired  yet  cannot  be  safely  relinquished. 
The  men  of  whom  I  speak,  if  they  could  find  followers, 
would  soon  ruin  the  state,  and,  if  they  were  to  found  a 
state  of  their  own,  would  just  as  soon  ruin  that. 

Thucydides. 
Speech  by  Pericles. 


I  HAVE  observed  again  and  again  that  a  democracy  cannot 
govern  an  empire  ;  and  never  more  clearly  than  now,  when 
I  see  you  regretting  the  sentence  you  pronounced  on  the 
Mityleneans.  Having  no  fear  or  suspicion  of  one  another, 
you  deal  with  your  allies  on  the  same  principle.  You  do 
not  realize  that,  whenever  you  yield  to  them  out  of  pity, 
or  are  prevailed  on  by  their  pleas,  you  are  guilty  of  a  weak- 
ness dangerous  to  yourselves  and  receive  no  gratitude  from 
them.  You  need  to  bear  in  mind  that  your  empire  is  a 
despotism  exercised  over  unwilling  subjects  who  are  ever 
conspiring  against  you.  They  do  not  obey  because  of  any 
kindness  you  show  them  :  they  obey  just  so  far  as  you 
show  yourselves  their  masters.  They  have  no  love  for 
you,  but  are  held  down  by  force.  .  .  . 

You  must  not  be  misled  by  pity,  or  eloquent  pleading 
or  by  generosity.  There  are  no  three  things  more  fatal 
to  empire. 

Thucydides. 
Speech  by  Clean. 

It  will  be  seen  that  these  odious  sentiments  are  attributed  by  the 
impartial  Thucydides  to  his  hero  Pericles  as  well  as  to  the  demagogue 
Cleon.  The  Greeks  were  fervent  supporters  of  Democracy  and  Equality, 
but  not  when  it  came  to  dealing  either  with  foreign  states  or  with  their 
own  women  or  slaves.     (See  also  Socrates  and  Aristotle,  p.  412.) 


6  PAINE 

These  are  the  times  that  try  men's  souls.  The  summer 
soldier  and  the  sunshine  patriot  will,  in  this  crisis,  shrink 
from  the  service  of  their  country  ;  but  he,  that  stands  it 
now,  deserves  the  love  and  thanks  of  man  and  woman. 
Tyranny,  like  hell,  is  not  easily  conquered  ;  j^et  we  have 
this  consolation  with  us,  that  the  harder  the  conflict,  the 
more  glorious  the  triumph.  What  we  obtain  too  cheap, 
we  esteem  too  lightly  :  it  is  dearness  only  that  gives  any- 
thing its  value.  Heaven  knows  how  to  put  a  proper  price 
upon  its  goods  ;  and  it  would  be  strange  indeed  if  so  celestial 
an  article  as  freedom  should  not  be  highly  rated. 

Thomas  Paine  (1776). 

Outside  the  Bible  and  other  books  of  religion,  I  think  it  would  be 
difficult  to  find  any  single  passage  in  the  world's  literature  that  produced 
so  wonderful  a  result  as  the  above  passage  of  Tom  Paine's.  It  was  the 
opening  paragraph  of  the  first  number  of  The  Crisis,  and  was  written  by 
miserable,  flaring  candle-light,  when  Paine  was  a  private  in  Washington's 
ill-clad,  worn-out  army  at  Trenton.  The  soldiers,  who  were  then 
despairing  from  hardship  and  defeat,  were  roused  by  these  words  to 
such  enthusiasm  that  next  day  they  rushed  bravely  in  and  won  the  first 
American  victory,  which  turned  the  tide  of  the  War  of  Independence. 

Previously  to  this,  it  was  through  Paine's  pamphlet,  Com7non  Sense, 
that  the  Americans  first  saw  that  separation  was  the  only  remedy  for 
their  grievances.  Conway  tells  an  amusing  story  about  Common  Sense 
and  The  Rights  of  Man.  When  the  Bolton  town  crier  was  sent  round 
to  seize  these  prohibited  books,  he  reported  that  he  could  not  find  any 
Rights  of  Man  or  Common  Sense  anywhere  ! 

For  trying  to  save  the  life  of  Louis  XVI.  during  the  revolution, 
Paine  was  thrown  into  the  Bastille,  and  only  escaped  death  by  a  curious 
accident.  It  was  customary  for  chalk-marks  to  be  made  on  the  cell- 
doors  of  those  to  be  guillotined  the  following  morning,  and  these  doors 
opened  outwards.  When  Paine's  door  was  marked,  it  happened  to  be 
open,  and  the  mark  was  made  on  the  inside,  so  that,  when  the  door 
was  shut,  the  mark  was  not  visible.  If  Paine  had  not  been  a  sceptic, 
this  would  have  been  described  in  those  days  as  a  wonderful  interposition 
of  Providence  ! 

Conway  lays  a  terrible  indictment  against  Washington.  When  Paine, 
whose  services  to  America,  and  to  Washington  himself,  had  been  so 
magnificent,  was  thrown  into  the  Bastille,  Washington  could  have  saved 
him  by  a  word — but  remained  silent  !  This  was  no  doubt  the  reason 
why  Paine,  after  his  liberation,  was  led  to  make  an  unjust  attack  on 
Washington's  military  and  Presidential  work.  It  was  due  to  this  attack 
on  Washington,  and  the  bigotry  of  the  time  against  the  author  of  The 
Age  of  Reason,  that  Paine  fell  utterly  into  disrepute. 

When  the  Centenary  of  American  independence  was  celebrated  by 
an  Exhibition  at  Philadelphia,  a  bust  of  Paine  was  offered  to  the  city 
by  his  admirers,  but  was  promptly  declined  !  And  yet  Conway  says 
that  on  the  day,  whose  centenary  was  then  being  celebrated,  Paine  was 
idolized  in  America  above  all  other  men,  Washington  included. 


EMERSON— PASCAL  7 

The  foregoing  notes  were  made  on  reading  an  article  on  Paine  by 
Moncure  D.  Conway  in  The  Fortnightly,  March,  1879.  I  think  the 
fact  mentioned  in  the  last  paragraph  and  the  town-crier  story  do  not 
appear  in  Conway's  subsequent  Life  of  Paine. 

Even  at  the  present  day  bigotry  seems  to  prevent  any  proper  recog- 
nition of  Paine 's  fine  character  and  important  work.  (The  unpleasant 
flippancy  *  with  which  he  dealt  with  serious  religious  questions  is  no 
doubt  partly  the  cause  of  this.)  I  find  very  inadequate  appreciation  of 
him  in  The  Americana  and  The  Biographical  Dictionary  of  America — 
and  also  in  our  own  Dictionary  of  National  Biography.  The  general 
impression  among  the  public  still  probably  is  that  Paine  was  an  atheist  ; 
as  a  matter  of  fact,  he  was  a  Theist,  and  his  will  ends  with  the  words, 
"  I  die  in  perfect  composure  and  resignation  to  the  will  of  my  Creator, 
God." 

Carlyle's  reference  to  Paine  is  amusing :  "  Nor  is  our  England 
without  her  missionaries.  She  has  her  Paine  :  rebellious  staymaker  ; 
unkempt  ;  who  feels  that  he,  a  single  needleman,  did,  by  his  Common- 
Sense  Pamphlet,  free  America — that  he  can  and  will  free  all  this  World  ; 
perhaps  even  the  other."     (French  Revolution.) 


SACRIFICE 

Though  love  repine,  and  reason  chafe, 
There  came  a  voice  without  reply, — 
"  'Tis  man's  perdition  to  be  safe. 
When  for  the  truth  he  ought  to  die." 

R.  W.  Emerson. 


When  I  consider  the  shortness  of  my  life,  lost  in  an 
eternity  before  and  behind,  "  passing  away  as  the  remem- 
brance of  a  guest  who  tarrieth  but  a  day,"  the  little  space  I 
fill  or  behold  in  the  infinite  immensity  of  spaces,  of  which 
I  know  nothing  and  which  know  nothing  of  me — when  I 
reflect  this,  I  am  filled  with  terror,  and  wonder  why  I  am 
here  and  not  there,  for  there  was  no  reason  why  it  should 
be  the  one  rather  than  the  other  ;  why  now  rather  than 
then.  Who  set  me  here  }  By  whose  command  and  rule 
were  this  time  and  place  appointed  me  ?  How  many 
kingdoms   know  nothing   of  us  !     The   eternal   silence   of 

those  infinite  spaces  terrifies  me.  t^ 

^  Pascal. 

Pensees. 

*  The  flippancy  is  at  times  amusing,  as  when  he  says  :  "  The  account  of  the  whale 
swallowing  Jonah,  though  the  whale  may  have  been  large  enough  to  do  so,  borders  greatly 
on  the  marvellous  ;  but  it  would  have  approached  nearer  to  the  just  idea  of  a  miracle  if 
Jonah  had  swallowed  the  whale." 


GREEK  ANTHOLOGY 


FROM  THE  GREEK  ANTHOLOGY 

RUFINUS 

Here  lilies,  here  the  rosebud,  and  here  too 

The  windflower  with  her  petals  drenched  in  dew, 

And  daffodillies  cool,  and  violets  blue. 

MELEAGER 

It's  oh  !   to  be  a  wild  wind — when  my  lady's  in  the  sun — 
She'd  just  unbind  her  neckerchief  and  take  me  breathing 
in, 
It's  oh  !   to  be  a  red  rose — just  a  faintly  blushing  one — 
So  she'd  pull  me  with  her  hand  and  to  her  snowy  breast 
I'd  win. 

PLATO   TO   ASTER 

Thou  gazest  on  the  stars— a  star  to  me 

Thou  *  art—but  oh  !  that  I  the  heavens  might  be 

And  with  a  thousand  eyes  still  gaze  on  thee  ! 

PALLADAS 

Breathing  the  thin  breath  through  our  nostrils,  we 
Live,  and  a  little  space  the  sunlight  see — 
Even  all  that  live — each  being  an  instrument 
To  which  the  generous  air  its  life  has  lent. 
If  with  the  hand  one  quench  our  draught  of  breath. 
He  sends  the  stark  soul  shuddering  down  to  death. 
We,  that  are  nothing,  on  our  pride  are  fed. 
Seeing,  but  for  a  little  air,  we  are  as  dead. 

AESOPUS 

Is  there  no  help  from  life  save  only  death  ? 
"  Life  that  such  myriad  sorrows  harboureth 
I  dare  not  break,  I  cannot  bear  " — one  saith. 

"  Sweet  are  stars,  sun,  and  moon,  and  sea,  and  earth. 
For  service  and  for  beauty  these  had  birth. 
But  all  the  rest  of  life  is  little  worth — 

*  Altered  from  "  That,"  which  may  be  a  misprint.     "  Thou  "  gives  the  same  meaning 
and  runs  more  smoothly. 


GREEK  ANTHOLOGY  9 

"  Yea,  all  the  rest  is  pain  and  grief,"  saith  he, 
"  For  if  it  hap  some  good  thing  come  to  me 
An  evil  end  befalls  it  speedily  !  "  * 

PHILODEMUS 

I  loved — and  you.     I  played — who  hath  not  been 
Steeped  in  such  play  ?     If  I  was  mad,  I  ween 
'Twas  for  a  god  and  for  no  earthly  queen. 

Hence  with  it  all  !     Then  dark  my  youthful  head. 
Where  now  scant  locks  of  whitening  hair  instead. 
Reminders  of  a  grave  old  age,  are  shed. 

I  gathered  roses  while  the  roses  blew. 
Playtime  is  past,  my  play  is  ended  too. 
Awake,  my  heart  !  and  worthier  aims  pursue. 

W.  M.  Hardinge. 
Nineteenth  Century,  Nov.  1878. 

My  notes  tell  me  nothing  of  Hardinge,  except  that  he  was  the  "  Leslie ' ' 
in  Mallock's  New  Republic.  Another  version  of  Plato's  beautiful  epigram 
(which  was  addressed  to  "  Aster,"  or  "  Star  ")  is  the  following  by 
Professor  Darnley  Naylor  : 

Thou  gazest  on  the  stars,  my  Star  ; 

Oh  !  might  I  be 
The  starry  sky  with  myriad  eyes 

To  gaze  on  thee  ! 

The  Greek  Anthology  is  a  collection  of  about  4500  short  poems  by 
about  300  Greek  writers,  extending  over  a  period  of  one  thousand  seven 
hundred  years,  from,  say,  700  B.C.  to  A.D.  1000.  At  first  these  poems 
were  epigrams — using  the  Vv'ord  "  epigram  "  in  its  original  sense,  as  a 
verse  intended  to  be  inscribed  on  a  tomb  or  tablet  in  memory  of  some 
dead  person  or  important  event.  Later  they  included  poems  on  any 
subject,  so  long  as  they  contained  one  fine  thought  couched  in  concise 
language.     Still  later  any  short  lyric  was  included. 

This  wonderful  collection  forms  a  great  treasure-house  of  poetry, 
which  gives  much  insight  into  the  Greek  life  of  the  time  ;  and  it  also 
largely  influenced  English  and  European  literature.  For  instance,  the 
first  verse  of  Ben  Jonson's  "  Drink  to  me  only  with  thine  eyes  "  is  taken 
direct  from  the  Anthology  (Agathias,  Anth.  Pal.  v.  261).  I  may  add 
that  the  second  verse,  in  which  the  poet  sends  the  wreath,  not  as  a  com- 
pliment to  the  lady  but  as  a  kindness  to  the  roses,  which  could  not  wither 
if  worn  by  her,  is  also  borrowed  from  a  Greek  source.  (Philostratus, 
Epistolai  Erotikai.) 

Numberless  English  and  European  scholars  have  attempted  the 
difficult  task  of  translating  or  paraphrasing  these  little  poetic  gems  into 
correspondingly  poetic  and  concise  language,  but  the  beauty  of  the 
original  can  never  be  fully  retained. 

*  Compare  "  I  never  nursed  a  dear  gazelle  "  (p.  208). 


10  GREEK  ANTHOLOGY 

HERACLEITUS 

They  told  me,  Heracleitus,  they  told  me  you  were  dead, 
They  brought  me  bitter  news  to  hear  and  bitter  tears  to  shed. 
I  wept,  as  I  remembered,  how  often  you  and  I 
Had  tired  the  sun  with  talking  and  sent  him  down  the  sky. 

And  now  that  thou  art  lying,  my  dear  old  Carian  guest, 
A  handful  of  grey  ashes,  long,  long  ago  at  rest. 
Still  are  thy  pleasant  voices,  thy  nightingales,  awake  ; 
For  Death,  he  taketh  all  away,  but  them  he  cannot  take. 

William  (Johnson)  Cory. 

This  is  a  paraphrase  of  verses  written  by  Callimachus  on  hearing  of 
the  death  of  his  friend,  the  poet  Heracleitus  (not  the  philosopher  of  that 
name). 

Francis  Thompson  (Sister  Songs)  hoped  that  his  "  nightingales  "  would 
continue  to  sing  after  his  death,  just  as  light  would  come  from  a  star 
long  after  it  had  ceased  to  exist  : 

Oh  !  may  this  treasure-galleon  of  my  verse, 
Fraught  with  its  golden  passion,  oared  with  cadent  rhyme, 
Set  with  a  towering  press  of  fantasies, 
Drop  safely  down  the  time, 
Leaving  mine  isled  self  behind  it  far 
Soon  to  be  sunk  in  the  abysm  of  seas, 
(As  down  the  years  the  splendour  voyages 

From  some  long  ruined  and  night-submerged  star). 


PLATO  TO  STELLA 

Thou  wert  the  morning  star  among  the  living. 

Ere  thy  fair  light  had  fled  : — 
Now,  having  died,  thou  art  as  Hesperus,  giving 

New  splendour  to  the  dead. 

Shelley's  Version. 


PTOLEMY 

I  KNOW  that  we  are  mortal,  the  children  of  a  day  ; 
But  when  I  scan  the  circling  spires,  the  serried  stars'  array, 
1  tread  the  earth  no  longer  and  soar  where  none  hath  trod, 
To  feast  in  Heaven's  banquet-hall  and  drink  the  wine  of  God. 

H.  Darnley  Naylor's  Version. 

Although  there  cannot  be  absolute  certainty,  this  Ptolemy  is  no  doubt 
the  great  Greek  astronomer ;  and  the  epigram  would  date  from  about 
A.D.  140. 


KIPLING— ELIOT  ii 

Buy  my  English  posies  ! 

You  that  will  not  turn — 
Buy  my  hot-wood  clematis, 

Buy  a  frond  o'  fern 
Gather'd  where  the  Erskine  leaps 

Down  the  road  to  Lome — 
Buy  my  Christmas  creeper 

And  I'll  say  where  you  were  born  ! 
West  away  from  Melbourne  dust  holidays  begin — 
They  that  mock  at  Paradise  woo  at  Cora  Lynn — 
Through  the  great  South  Otway  gums  sings  the  great  South 

Main- 
Take  the  flower  and  turn  the  hour,  and  kiss  your  love 
again  ! 

Buy  my  English  posies  ! 

Ye  that  have  your  own 
Buy  them  for  a  brother's  sake 

Overseas,  alone. 
Weed  ye  trample  underfoot 
Floods  his  heart  abrim — 
Bird  ye  never  heeded, 

O,  she  calls  his  dead  to  him  ! 
Far  and  far  our  homes  are  set  round  the  Seven  Seas  ; 
Woe  for  us  if  we  forget,  we  that  hold  by  these  ! 
Unto  each  his  mother-beach,  bloom  and  bird  and  land — 
Masters  of  the  Seven  Seas,  O,  love  and  understand  ! 

RuDYARD  Kipling. 
The  Flowers. 

Of  the  verses  in  this  fine  poem  which  speak  for  the  various  British 
Dominions  I  take  only  the  one  that  represents  my  own  country.  At 
the  time  KipHng  wrote,  the  inhabitants  of  our  beloved  mother-country 
did  not  seem  to  fully  realize  that  we  were  also  English  and  their  kindred 
— that  our  fern  and  clematis  made  English  posies — but  no  doubt  that 
feeling  has  altered  since  we  have  fought  side  by  side  in  mutual  defence. 
However,  to  us  England  was  always  "  home,"  and  when  Kipling  wrote 
this  poem  he  entered  straight  into  our  hearts. 


Our  deeds  are  like  children  that  are  born  to  us  ;  they 
live  and  act  apart  from  our  own  will.  Nay,  children  may 
be  strangled,  but  deeds  never  :  they  have  an  indestructible 
life  both  in  and  out  of  our  consciousness. 

George  Eliot. 
Romola. 


13  NOEL  AND  OTHERS 

Room  in  all  the  ages 
For  our  love  to  grow, 

Prayers  of  both  demanded 
A  little  while  ago  : 

And  now  a  few  poor  moments, 

Between  life  and  death. 
May  be  proven  all  too  ample 
For  love's  breath. 

RoDEN  Noel. 
The  Pity  of  It. 


Ye  weep  for  those  who  weep  ?  she  said. 
Ah,  fools  !   I  bid  you  pass  them  by. 

Go  weep  for  those  whose  hearts  have  bled 
What  time  their  eyes  were  dry. 

Whom  sadder  can  I  say  ?   she  said. 

E.  B.  Browning. 
The  Mask. 

See    also    Seneca    (Hipp.),    Curae    leves    loquuntur,    ingentes   stupent. 
Light  sorrows  speak,  but  deeper  ones  are  dumb." 


O  LOVE,  my  love  !   if  I  no  more  should  see 
Thyself,  nor  on  the  earth  the  shadow  of  thee, 

Nor  image  of  thine  eyes  in  any  spring, — 
How  then  should  sound  upon  Life's  darkening  slope 
The  ground- whirl  of  the  perished  leaves  of  Hope, 

The  wind  of  Death's  imperishable  wing  ! 

D.    G.    ROSSETTI. 

Lovesight. 

For  while  a  youth  is  lost  in  soaring  thought. 
And  while  a  maid  grows  sweet  and  beautiful. 
And  while  a  spring- tide  coming  lights  the  earth, 
And  while  a  child,  and  while  a  flower  is  born, 
And  while  one  wrong  cries  for  redress  and  finds 
A  soul  to  answer,  still  the  world  is  young  ! 

Lewis  Morris. 
Epic  of  Hades. 


R.  BROWNING  13 

There  !     See  our  roof,  its  gilt  moulding  and  groining 
Under  those  spider-webs  lying  !  .  .  , 

Is  it  your  moral  of  Life  ? 

Such  a  web,  simple  and  subtle. 
Weave  we  on  earth  here  in  impotent  strife, 

Backward  and  forward  each  throwing  his  shuttle, 
Death  ending  all  with  a  knife  ? 

Over  our  heads  truth  and  nature — 

Still  our  life's  zigzags  and  dodges. 
Ins  and  outs,  weaving  a  new  legislature — 

God's  gold  just  showing  its  last  where  that  lodges, 
Palled  beneath  man's  usurpature. 

So  we  o'ershroud  stars  and  roses, 

Cherub  and  trophy  and  garland  ; 
Nothings  grow  something  which  quietly  closes 

Heaven's  earnest  eye  ;   not  a  glimpse  of  the  far  land 
Gets  through  our  comments  and  glozes. 

R.  Browning, 
Master  Hugues  of  Saxe-Gotha. 

Hugues  of  Saxe-Gotha  is  an  imaginary  name,  but  it  probably  indicates 
the  great  Sebastian  Bach,  who  came  from  that  part  of  Germany.  The 
"  masterpiece,  hard  number  twelve,"  referred  to  in  the  poem,  may  be 
(Dr.  E.  Harold  Davies  tells  me)  the  great  Organ  Fugue  in  F  Minor, 
which  is  in  five-part  counterpoint. 

This  very  interesting  poem  is  written  in  a  half-humorous  fashion, 
but  its  intention  is  quite  serious.  In  a  wonderfully  imitative  manner  * 
it  describes  the  wrangling  and  disputing  in  a  five-voiced  fugue  (where 
five  persons  appear  to  be  taking  part)  : 

One  is  incisive,  corrosive  ; 

Two  retorts,  nettled,  curt,  crepitant  ; 
Three  makes  rejoinder,  expansive,  explosive  ; 

Four  overbears  them  all,  strident  and  strepitant  : 
Five  .  .   .  O  Danaides,  O  Sieve  ! 

(For  killing  their  husbands  the  fifty  Danaides  were  doomed  to  pour 
water  everlastingly  into  a  sieve.) 

"  Where  in  all  this  is  the  music  ?  "  asks  Browning.  And,  although 
he  is  writing  humorously,  yet,  however  rank  the  heresy,  he  finds  that 
the  fugue,  with  its  elaborate  counterpoint,  is  wanting  in  the  essentials 
of  true  art.  He  prefers  Palestrina's  simpler  and  more  emotional  mode 
of  expression  : 

*  See  Milton's  imitation  of  a  fugue.    Par.  Lost,  XI. 


14  R.  BROWNING 

Hugues  !  I  advise  med  poena  * 

(Counterpoint  glares  like  a  Gorgon) 
Bid  One,  Two,  Three,  Four,  Five,  clear  the  arena  ! 

Say  the  word,  straight  I  unstop  the  full-organ. 
Blare  out  the  mode  Palestrina. 

In  the  poem,  where  occurs  the  passage  quoted,  one  can  vividly 
follow  the  poet's  thought.  Music  is  essentially  the  language  of  feeling, 
of  emotioti  ;  the  fugue  is  a  triumph  of  invention,  and,  therefore,  the 
result  of  intellect.  Feeling  is  elemental,  simple,  and  unanalysable.  The 
subtleties  of  pure  harmony  are  the  expression  of  deepness  and  richness 
of  feeling  ;  the  intricacies  of  the  fugue  are  artificially  constructed  and, 
therefore,  unsuited  to  the  expression  of  pure  emotion.  They  represent 
intellect  as  against  feeling.  And  essentially  in  the  moral  world,  but  also 
in  our  general  outlook  upon  truth  and  nature,  the  spiritual  perception 
is  derived  from  simple  human  emotion  rather  than  intellect  ;  "  Thou 
hast  hid  these  things  from  the  wise  and  prudent,  and  hast  revealed  them 
unto  babes."  (The  whole  of  Browning's  poetry  teaches  that  love,  not 
intellect,  is  the  solution  of  all  moral  problems,  and  the  goal  of  the 
universe.) 

In  the  poem  the  organist  has  been  playing  on  the  organ  in  an  old 
church  ;  and,  as  shown  in  the  lines  quoted,  the  poet  sees  an  illustration 
of  his  thought  in  the  fine  gilded  ceiling  covered  by  thick  cobwebs.  The 
cobwebs  that  obscure  the  gold  of  the  ceiling  are  the  intellectual  wranglings 
that  destroy  music  in  the  fugue — and  both  are  symbolical  of  what  occurs 
in  our  lives.  Truth  and  Nature,  "  God's  gold  " — the  pure,  simple 
truths  of  the  higher  life — are  over  us,  bright  and  clear  as  the  noon-day 
sun.  But  by  doubts  and  disputations,  warring  philosophies  and  con- 
tending creeds,  by  strife  over  non-essentials,  casuistries,  self-deceptions, 
by  questions  of  dogma  (often  as  fine  as  any  spider's  web),  by  endless 
"comments  and  glozes,"  we  lose  sight  of  the  elemental  truths  and  clear 
principles  that  should  guide  our  lives.  The  pure  and  simple-hearted 
reach  the  Mount  of  Vision  :  to  them  comes  the  clear  sense  of  Love  and 
Duty.  Those  of  us  who  turn  our  intellects  to  a  perverse  use  and  exclude 
the  spiritual  perception  of  the  soul  are  like  the  spiders  who  cover  up 
"  stars  and  roses.  Cherub  and  trophy  and  garland."  We  obscure  and 
forget  all  noble  ideals,  abolish  God's  high  "  legislature,"  and  follow 
a  lawless  life  of  selfish  passion  and  sordid  ambitions.  The  Good  and 
Beautiful  and  True  have  been  obliterated  and  forgotten  ;  "  God's  gold  " 
is  tarnished,  His  harmonies  lost  in  discord ;  and  we  become  morally  dead. 

So,  in  its  lovely  moonlight,  lives  the  soul. 
Mountains  surround  it,  and  sweet  virgin  air  ; 
Cold  plashing  past  it,  crystal  waters  roll  ; 
We  visit  it  by  moments,  ah,  too  rare  !  .  .  . 

Still  doth  the  soul,  from  its  lone  fastness  high, 
Upon  our  life  a  ruling  effluence  send  ; 
And  when  it  fails,  fight  as  we  will,  we  die, 
And  while  it  lasts,  we  cannot  wholly  end. 

Matthew  Arnold. 
Palladium. 


"  I  take  the  risk,"  or  "  Mine  the  risk.' 


MARTINEAU  15 

[Referring  to  the  Gorham  case.]  The  future  historian 
of  opinion  will  write  of  us  in  this  strain  :  "  The  people  who 
spoke  the  language  of  Shakespeare  were  great  in  the  con- 
structive arts  :  the  remains  of  their  vast  works  evince  an 
extraordinary  power  of  combining  and  economizing  labour  : 
their  colonies  were  spread  over  both  hemispheres,  and  their 
industry  penetrated  to  the  remotest  tribes  :  they  knew  how 
to  subjugate  nature  and  to  govern  men  :  but  the  weakness 
of  their  thought  presented  a  strange  contrast  to  the  vigour 
of  their  arm  ;  and  though  they  were  an  earnest  people, 
their  conceptions  of  human  life  and  its  Divine  Author  seem 
to  have  been  of  the  most  puerile  nature.  Some  orations 
have  been  handed  down — apparently  delivered  before  one 
of  their  most  dignified  tribunals — in  which  the  question 
is  discussed  :  '  In  what  way  the  washing  of  new-born  babes 
according  to  certain  rules  prevented  God's  hating  them.' 
The  curious  feature  is,  that  the  discussion  turns  entirely 
upon  the  manner  in  which  this  wetting  operated  ;  and  no 
doubt  seems  to  have  been  entertained  by  disputants,  judges, 
or  audience,  that,  without  it,  a  child  or  other  person  dying 
would  fall  into  the  hands  of  an  angry  Deity,  and  be  kept 
alive  for  ever  to  be  tortured  in  a  burning  cave.  Now,  all 
researches  into  the  contemporary  institutions  of  the  island 
show  that  its  religion  found  its  chief  support  among  the 
classes  possessing  no  mean  station  or  culture,  and  that  the 
education  for  the  priesthood  was  the  highest  which  the 
country  afforded.  This  strange  belief  must  be  taken, 
therefore,  as  the  measure,  not  of  popular  ignorance,  but  of 
their  most  intellectual  faith.  A  philosophy  and  worship 
embodying  such  a  superstition  can  present  nothing  to 
reward  the  labour  of  research." 

James  Martineau. 
Essay  on  "  The  Church  of  England" 

In  the  Gorham  case,  which  went  on  appeal  to  the  Privy  Council, 
it  was  decided  that  Mr.  Gorham's  beliefs,  although  unusual,  were  not 
repugnant  to  the  doctrines  of  the  Church  of  England.  His  views  were 
that  baptism  is  generally  necessary  to  salvation,  that  it  is  a  sign  of  grace 
by  v/hich  God  works  in  us,  but  only  in  those  who  worthily  receive  it. 
In  others  it  is  not  effectual.  Infants  baptized  who  die  before  actual 
sin  are  certainly  saved,  but  regeneration  does  not  necessarily  follow  on 
baptism. 

In  such  matters  one  question  stands  out  very  prominently.  The 
priest  is  consecrated  to  the  high  office  of  teaching  the  eternal  truths  of 
Christ — -Love  and  Duty  and  Moral  Aspiration.  How  can  he  keep  those 
truths  in  due  perspective  when  his  intellect  is  engaged  in  warfare  over 
miserable  casuistries  ? 


i6  BLAND-SUTTON  AND  OTHERS 

And  as  the  strife  waxes  fiercer  among  the  priests  of  the  Most  High, 
they  call  in  the  aid  of  hired  mercenaries.  Think  of  the  lawyers  paid 
by  one  side  or  the  other  to  argue  questions  of  baptism  and  prevenient 
grace  !  It  was  precisely  this  introduction  into  religion  of  legal  formalism 
and  technicality,  the  arguing  from  texts  and  ancient  commentaries, 
the  verbal  quibbling  and  hair-splitting,  the  "  letter  "  that  "  killeth  "  as 
against  the  "  spirit  "  that  "  giveth  life,"  which  led  to  Christ's  bitter 
invectives  against  the  "  Scribes  "  or  lawyers  of  His  day. 

Seeley,  in  Ecce  Homo,  points  out  that  when  Christ  summoned  the 
disciples  to  him,  he  required  from  them  only  Faith,  and  not  belief  in 
any  specific  doctrines.  As  it  was  not  until  later  that  they  learnt  He 
was  to  suffer  death  and  rise  again,  they  could  at  first  have  held  no 
belief  in  the  Atonement  or  the  Resurrection.  "  Nor,"  says  Seeley,  "  do 
we  find  Him  frequently  exainining  His  followers  in  their  creed,  and 
rejecting  one  as  a  sceptic  and  another  as  an  infidel.  .  .  .  Assuredly 
those  who  represent  Christ  as  presenting  to  man  an  abstruse  theology, 
and  saying  to  them  peremptorily,  '  Believe  or  be  damned,'  have  the 
coarsest  conception  of  the  Saviour  of  the  World." 

As  I  have  read  somewhere,  "  From  all  barren  Orthodoxy,  good  Lord, 
deliver  us."  * 


An  ostrich  in  the  menagerie  at  Clifton  swallowed  a  Book 
of  Common  Prayer,  and  died  soon  afterwards.  Dr.  Harrison 
examined  the  bird  and  found  the  remnants  of  the  book. 
Nearly  the  whole  of  the  Prayer-Book  had  been  destroyed, 
but  the  Thirty-nine  Articles  were  intact  ;  even  an  ostrich 
found  them  indigestible. 

Sir  John  Bland-Sutton. 
Selected  Lectures  and  Essays. 

This  statement  could  not  be  reproduced  in  a  serious  work,  if  it  were 
not  vouched  for  by  so  eminent  an  authority. 


Star  unto  star  speaks  light. 

P.  J.  Bailey. 
Festus,  Scene  i,  Heaven. 


It  is  as  necessary,  or  rather  more  necessary,  for  most 
men  to  know  how  to  take  Mice,  than  how  to  take  Elephants. 

Edward  Topsell. 
The  History  of  Four-footed  Beasts. 

*  The  above  is  a  concrete  illustration  of  Brovraing's  meaning  in  the  preceding  quotation, 
but  a  far  wider  illustration  is  seen  in  the  terrible  cruelties  inflicted  on  the  one  side  by  the 
Inquisition  and  on  the  other  by  the  Protestants.  This  was  again  due  to  the  introduction 
of  intellectualism,  which  distorted  the  Religion  of  Love  into  a  Religion  of  Hate. 


QUILLER-COUCH  17 

DE  TEA  FABULA 

Do  I  sleep  ?     Do  I  dream  ? 
Am  I  hoaxed  by  a  scout  ? 
Are  things  what  they  seem, 
Or  is  Sophists  about  ? 
Is  our  TO   ri   rjv  elvai  a  failure,   or  is   Robert   Browning 
played  out  ? 

Which  expressions  like  these 

May  be  fairly  applied 
By  a  party  who  sees 
A  Society  skied 
Upon  tea  that  the  Warden  of  Keble  had  biled  with  legitimate 
pride. 

'Twas  November  the  third, 

And  I  says  to  Bill  Nye, 
"  Which  it's  true  what  I've  heard  : 
If  you're,  so  to  speak,  fly. 
There's  a  chance  of  some  tea  and  cheap  culture,  the  sort 
recommended  as  High." 

Which  I  mentioned  its  name 
And  he  ups  and  remarks  : 
"  If  dress-coats  is  the  gam.e 
And  pow-wow  in  the  Parks, 
Then  I'm  nuts  on  Sordello  and  Hohensteil-Schwangau  and 
similar  Snarks." 

Now  the  pride  of  Bill  Nye 

Cannot  well  be  express'd  ; 
For  he  wore  a  white  tie 
And  a  cut-away  vest  : 
Says  I  :   "  Solomon's  liUes  ain't  in  it,  and  they  was  reputed 
well  dress'd." 

But  not  far  did  we  wend, 

When  we  saw  Pippa  pass 
On  the  arm  of  a  friend 
— Dr.  Furnivall  'twas. 
And  he  wore  in  his  hat  two  half- tickets  for  London,  return, 
second-class. 

c 


1 8  QUILLER-COUCH 

"  Well,"  I  thought,  "  this  is  odd." 

But  we  came  pretty  quick 
To  a  sort  of  a  quad 

That  was  all  of  red  brick, 
And  I  says  to  the  porter  :    "  R.  Browning  :    free  passes  ; 
and  kindly  look  slick." 

But  says  he,  dripping  tears 

In  his  check  handkerchief, 
"  That  symposium's  career's 
Been  regrettably  brief, 
For  it  went  all  its  pile  upon  crumpets  and  busted  on  gun- 
powder leaf  !  " 

Then  we  tucked  up  the  sleeves 

Of  our  shirts  (that  were  biled). 
Which  the  reader  perceives 
That  our  feelings  were  riled, 
And  we  went  for  that  man  till  his  mother  had  doubted  the 
traits  of  her  child. 

Which  emotions  like  these 
Must  be  freely  indulged 
By  a  party  who  sees 
A  Society  bulged 
On  a  reef  the  existence  of  which  its  prospectus  had  never 
divulged. 

But  I  ask  :   Do  I  dream  } 

Has  it  gone  up  the  spout  ; 
Are  things  what  they  seem. 
Or  is  Sophists  about  ? 
Is   our  TO    Tt   rjv   etvac  a  failure,   or  is   Robert  Browning 
played  out  ? 

Sir  Arthur  Quiller- Couch. 

This  parody  on  Bret  Harte's  "  Plain  Language  from  Truthful  James  " 
was  written  at  the  time  when  the  Browning  Society  at  Keble  College, 
Oxford,  came  to  an  end — apparently,  according  to  these  verses,  because 
its  funds  had  been  exhausted  in  afternoon  teas  ! 

TO  Ti  7jv  elvaL  (pronounced  toe  tee  ane  einai).  In  Oxford  special  attention 
is  paid  to  Aristotle  ;  and  Quiller-Couch,  being  an  Oxford  man,  assumes 
that  his  readers  are  familiar  with  this  phrase.  It  means  "  the  essential 
nature  of  a  thing,"  or,  literally,  "  the  question  what  a  thing  really  is." 
Such  a  Society  would  be  engaged  in  discovering  the  true  meaning  of 


GOETHE— MACDONALD  19 

Browning's  difficult  poems,  so  that  the  phrase  is  as  appropriate  as  it 
is  amusing  in  its  application. 

The  title  "  De  Tea  Fabula  " — "  a  story  concerning  tea  " — is  a  pun 
on  Horace's  "  Quid  rides  ?  Mutato  nomine  de  te  Fabula  narratur  " 
(Sat.  I.  69).  "  Wherefore  do  you  laugh  ?  Change  but  the  name,  of 
thee  the  tale  is  told."  Oxford,  which  Matthew  Arnold  called  the  home 
of  lost  causes,  still  refuses  to  pronounce  Latin  correctly,  and  makes  te 
rhyme  with  fee,  see,  bee.  It  ought,  of  course,  to  rhyme  with  fay,  say, 
bay.  Or  possibly  Sir  Arthur  has  reverted  to  the  pronunciation  of  ea 
which  prevailed  until  the  end  of  the  Eighteenth  Century.  See  Pope's 
"  Rape  of  the  Lock  "  : 

Here  thou,  great  Anna,  whom  three  realms  obey, 
Dost  sometimes  counsel  take — and  sometimes  tea. 

Dr.  Funiivall  (1825-1910),  an  eminent  philologist,  was  the  founder  of 
the  society,  the  first  society  ever  formed  to  study  the  works  of  a  living 
poet.  From  the  context  he  may  have  specially  admired,  as  he  certainly 
threw  special  light  upon,  Browning's  Pippa  Passes. 

Scout  at  Oxford  is  a  (male)  college  servant. 


Poems  are  painted  window  panes. 

If  one  looks  from  the  square  into  the  church, 

Dusk  and  dimness  are  his  gains — 

Sir  PhiHstine  is  left  in  the  lurch  ! 

The  sight,  so  seen,  may  well  enrage  him, 

Nor  anything  henceforth  assuage  him. 

But  come  just  inside  what  conceals  ; 
Cross  the  holy  threshold  quite — 
All  at  once  'tis  rainbow-bright, 
Device  and  story  flash  to  light, 
A  gracious  splendour  truth  reveals. 
This  to  God's  children  is  full  measure, 
It  edifies  and  gives  you  pleasure  ! 

Goethe. 

This  is  George  MacDonald's  translation  (but  never  can  a  translation 
of  poetry  reproduce  the  original).  MacDonald  says  of  the  poem  :  "  This 
is  true  concerning  every  form  in  which  truth  is  embodied,  whether  it 
be  sight  or  sound,  geometric  diagram  or  scientific  formula.  Unintelligible, 
it  may  be  disnial  enough  regarded  from  the  outside  ;  prismatic  in  its 
revelation  of  truth  from  within."  Among  the  arts  this  statement  is 
especially  applicable  to  poetry,  and  hence  the  reason  why  notes  are 
sometimes  required  to  assist  the  reader  to  "  come  inside  "  and  see  the 
poem  in  its  true  aspect. 


God  is  easy  to  please  but  hard  to  satisfy. 

George  MacDonald. 


20  STEVENSON— SHAKESPEARE 

REQUIEM 

Under  the  wide  and  starry  sky, 
Dig  the  grave  and  let  me  lie. 
Glad  did  I  live  and  gladly  die, 

And  I  laid  me  down  with  a  will. 

This  be  the  verse  you  grave  for  me  : 
Here  he  lies  where  he  longed  to  be  ; 
Home  is  the  sailor,  home  from  sea, 

And  the  hunter  home  from  the  MIL 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson. 


Nature  is  made  better  by  no  mean, 

But  nature  makes  that  mean  :  so  o'er  [?  e'en]  that  art. 

Which  you  say  adds  to  nature,  is  an  art 

That  nature  makes.     You  see,  sweet  maid,  we  marry 

A  gentler  scion  to  the  wildest  stock. 

And  make  conceive  a  bark  of  baser  kind 

B)^  bud  of  nobler  race  :  this  is  an  art 

Which  does  mend  nature,  change  it  rather,  but 

The  art  itself  is  nature.  <-, 

Shakespeare. 

The  Winter's  Tale. 

"  Mean  "  =  means. 

This  is  one  of  the  many  passages  that  show  Shakespeare's  trans- 
cendent genius.  Here  it  will  be  seen  how  greatly  in  advance  of  Bacon's 
intellect  was  the  poet's  i?mght  in  Bacon's  own  subject,  philosophy. 

It  is  necessary  to  bear  in  mind  that  facts  which  are  very  familiar  to 
us  were  exceedingly  novel,  or  entirely  unknown,  to  the  men  of  Shake- 
speare's day.  For  example,  the  Copernican  system  was  then  only 
beginning  to  influence  man's  thought — so  that  we  find  the  following 
lines  in  Hamlet  : 

Doubt  thou  the  stars  are  fire  ; 

Doubt  that  the  sun  doth  move  ; 
Doubt  truth  to  be  a  liar  ; 
But  never  doubt  I  love. 

So  also  the  Elizabethans  had  not  arrived  at  the  idea  of  the  umversality 
of  nature — that  man  with  all  his  great  faculties  was  as  much  a  creature 
of  nature  as  any  star  or  clod,  cr>'stal  or  gas,  fly  or  flower.  He  was 
regarded  as  an  independent  personality  who  "  aided  "  or  "  restrained  " 
nature.  Men  then  thought  of  themselves  as  observing  nature  from  the 
outside,  as  though  looking  at  a  cinema-picture— not  as  being  themselves 
part  of  the  picture.  The  old  Aristotelian  distinction  was  still  drawn 
between  art  and  nature — "  art  "  being  the  work  done  by  man. 


SHAKESPEARE 


21 


In  The  Winter's  Tale  Perdita  says  she  will  not  have  carnations  or 
gilly-flowers  (pinks)  in  her  garden  because  they  are  unnatural,  not 
formed  by  nature  alone  but  with  the  assistance  of  art.  Man  had  added 
to  the  processes  of  nature  by  grafting  or  cross-fertilization.  Therefore, 
the  carnations  and  pinks  are  not  natural  but  artificial  :  she,  indeed, 
compares  them  to  a  painted  woman. 

Polixenes  answers  her  in  the  lines  quoted  above,  that  man  and  his 
art  are  themselves  part  of  nature.  Nature  is  universal — it  cannot  be 
helped  by  any  means  that  is  not  itself  produced  by  nature.  So,  he  says 
to  Perdita,  the  art  of  man  which  you  say  "  adds  to  nature  "  is  itself  a 
creation  of  nature.  ("  O'er  "  is  evidently  a  misprint  for  "  e'en.") 
Man  by  his  art  grafts  one  stock  on  another,  and  so  improves  or  changes 
nature,  but  "  The  art  itself  is  nature." 

Shakespeare  had  in  fact  discovered — and  was,  so  far  as  we  know, 
the  first  of  all  inen  to  discover — the  great  fact  of  the  universality  of 
nature.*  But  he  apparently  realized  that  this  truth  was  in  advance  of 
the  time  and  would  make  no  impression,  for  he  sardonically  makes 
Perdita  adhere  to  her  opinion  : 

I'll  not  put 
The  dibble  [pointed  stick]  in  earth  to  set  one  slip  of  them  ; 
No  more  than,  were  I  painted,  I  would  wish 
This  youth  to  say  'twere  well. 

In  Montaigne  and  Shakespeare  Mr.  J.  M.  Robertson  gives  very  good 
reasons  for  believing  that,  wherever  a  resemblance  appears  in  the 
writings  of  Shakespeare  and  Bacon,  Shakespeare  preceded  Bacon,  who 
must  have  borrowed  from  him.  (London  was  then  a  town  of  only 
about  150,000  inhabitants,  the  great  majority  of  whom  were  uneducated. 
The  few  cultured  persons  would  be  thrown  much  more  together  than 
in  our  large  cities  of  more  or  less  educated  people — and  all  would  either 
see,  or  know  all  about,  Shakespeare's  plays.) 

In  this  particular  case  Bacon  never  at  any  time  realized  the  universality 
of  nature — that  nature  included  man.  He  could  not  get  away  from 
the  old  distinction  between  art  and  nature  :  man  "  assists  "  or  "  binds  ' 
nature  or  has  certain  powers  over  it.  After  The  Wititer's  Tale  had  been 
played,  some  expressions  appeared  in  his  Descriptio  Globi  Intellectualis 
from  which  he  seemed  to  be  drawing  near  to  the  true  conception  ;  but 
in  his  later  works  he  clearly  has  no  other  notion  than  that  of  man  as 
distinct  from  nature. 

Mr.  Robertson  mentions  the  curious  fact  that  Bacon  never  refers 
to  Harvey's  great  discovery  of  the  circulation  of  the  blood,  although, 
as  Harvey  was  the  Court  physician,  he  must  have  had  his  attention 
specially  directed  to  it  ;  and  also  he  paid  no  attention  to  Kepler's  new 
astronomical  discoveries.  He,  therefore,  failed  in  the  claim  that  he 
"  took  all  knowledge  to  be  his  province,"  and  it  is  not  at  all  surprising 
that  he  did  not  recognize  the  importance  and  truth  of  Shakespeare's 
statement.  Yet  he  still  holds  in  popular  opinion  the  exaggerated  im- 
portance attributed  to  him  by  Macaulay. 

*  His  mind  had  been  previously  occupied  on  the  subject.  The  Winter's  Tale  was  written 
in  1610-11.     In  A  Midsummer  Night's  Dream,  II.  2,  written  about  1594,  Lysander  says  : 

Transparent  Helena  !     Nature  shows  art, 

That  through  thy  bosom  makes  me  see  thy  heart. 

As  he  can  read  Helena's  inmost  feelings,  nature  has  made  her  "  transparent  "  ;  thus 
exercising  the  function  of  art,  which  makes  glass  transparent. 

In  King  Lear,  IV.  6,  wTitten  in  1G05,  the  king  says,  "  No,  they  cannot  touch  me  for 
coining  ;  I  am  the  king  himself.  Nature's  above  art  in  that  respect."  He  is  the  king  by 
nature  (by  birth),  and,  as  king,  is  above  the  law — which  is  the  work  of  man  and  therefore  art. 


22  E.  B.  BROWNING  AND  OTHER 

There  is  no  short  cut,  no  patent  tramroad,  to  wisdom  : 

after  all  the   centuries   of  invention,   the  soul's   path  lies 

through  the  thorny  wilderness  which  must  be  still  trodden 

in  solitude,  with  bleeding  feet,  with  sobs  for  help,  as  it  was 

trodden  by  them  of  old  time.  ^  -r, 

^  George  Eliot. 

The  Lifted  Veil. 

Knowledge  by  suffering  entereth, 
And  life  is  perfected  by  death. 

E.  B.  Browning. 
A  Vision  of  Poets. 

Most  wretched  men 
Are  cradled  into  poetry  by  wrong  : 
They  learn  in  suffering  what  they  teach  in  song. 

Shelley. 
Julian  and  Maddalo. 

Let  us  think  less  of  men  and  more  of  God. 

Sometimes  the  thought  comes  swiftening  over  us, 

Like  a  small  bird  winging  the  still  blue  air  ; 

And  then  again,  at  other  times,  it  rises 

Slow,  like  a  cloud,  which  scales  the  skies  all  breathless. 

And  just  overhead  lets  itself  down  on  us. 

Sometimes  we  feel  the  wish  across  the  mind 

Rush  like  a  rocket  tearing  up  the  sky. 

That  we  should  join  with  God,  and  give  the  world 

The  slip  :   but,  while  we  wish,  the  world  turns  round 

And  peeps  us  in  the  face — the  wanton  world  ; 

We  feel  it  gently  pressing  down  our  arm— 

The  arm  we  had  raised  to  do  for  truth  such  wonders  ; 

We  feel  it  softly  bearing  on  our  side — 

We  feel  it  touch  and  thrill  us  through  the  body, — 

And  we  are  fools,  and  there's  the  end  of  us. 

P.  J.  Bailey. 
Festus. 

It  is  lucky  to  see  a  wolf :   it  is  lucky  also  not  to  see  one. 

Proverb. 


BUCHANAN  23 


TO  THE  MOON 

The  wind  is  shrill  on  the  hills,  and  the  plover 

Wheels  up  and  down  with  a  windy  scream  ; 
The  birch  has  loosen'd  her  bright  locks  over 

The  nut-brown  pools  of  the  mountain  stream  : 
Yet  here  I  linger  in  London  City, 

Thinking  of  meadows  where  I  was  born — 
And  over  the  roofs,  like  a  face  of  pity. 

Up  comes  the  Moon,  with  her  dripping  horn. 

0  Moon,  pale  Spirit,  with  dim  eyes  drinking 
The  sheen  of  the  Sun  as  he  sweepeth  by, 

1  am  looking  long  in  those  eyes,  and  thinking 

Of  one  who  hath  loved  thee  longer  than  I  ; 
I  am  asking  my  heart  if  ye  Spirits  cherish 

The  souls  that  ye  witch  with  a  harvest  call  ? — 
If  the  dreams  must  die  when  the  dreamer  perish  ?- 

If  it  be  idle  to  dream  at  all  ? 

The  waves  of  the  world  roll  hither  and  thither. 

The  tumult  deepens,  the  days  go  by. 
The  dead  men  vanish — we  know  not  whither, 

The  live  men  anguish — we  know  not  why  ; 
The  cry  of  the  stricken  is  smothered  never. 

The  Shadow  passes  from  street  to  street  ; 
And — o'er  us  fadeth,  for  ever  and  ever. 

The  still  white  gleam  of  thy  constant  feet. 

The  hard  men  struggle,  the  students  ponder. 

The  world  rolls  round  on  its  westward  way  ; 
The  gleam  of  the  beautiful  night  up  yonder 

Is  dim  on  the  dreamer's  cheek  all  day  ; 
The  old  earth's  voice  is  a  sound  of  weeping, 

Round  her  the  waters  wash  wild  and  vast, 
There  is  no  calm,  there  is  little  sleeping, — 

Yet  nightly,  brightly,  thou  glimmerest  past  ! 

Another  summer,  new  dreams  departed, 
And  yet  we  are  lingering,  thou  and  I  ; 

I  on  the  earth,  with  my  hope  proud-hearted, 
Thou,  in  the  void  of  a  violet  sky  ! 


24  BUCHANAN  AND  OTHERS 

Thou  art  there  !   I  am  here  !  and  the  reaping  and  mowing 

Of  the  harvest  year  is  over  and  done, 
And  the  hoary  snow-drift  will  soon  be  blowing 

Under  the  wheels  of  the  whirling  Sun. 

While  tower  and  turret  He  silver'd  under, 

When  eyes  are  closed  and  lips  are  dumb, 
In  the  nightly  pause  of  the  human  wonder, 

From  dusky  portals  I  see  thee  come  ; 
And  whoso  wakes  and  beholds  thee  yonder. 

Is  witch'd  like  me  till  his  days  shall  cease, — 
For  in  his  eyes,  wheresoever  he  wander, 

Flashes  the  vision  of  God's  white  Peace. 

R.  Buchanan. 

In  the  second  verse  Buchanan  refers  to  the  then  recent  death  of  his 
friend,  the  promising  young  poet  David  Gray,  who  died  at  twenty- 
three  in  I 86 I. 


He  knows  with  what  strange  fires  He  mixed  this  dust. 

Hereditary  bent 

That  hedges  in  intent 
He  knows,  be  sure,  the  God  who  shaped  thy  brain. 

He  loves  the  souls  He  made. 

He  knows  His  own  hand  laid 
On  each  the  mark  of  some  ancestral  stain. 

Anna  Reeve  Aldrich. 


I  HAVE  lost  the  dream  of  Doing, 
And  the  other  dream  of  Done, 
The  first  spring  in  the  pursuing, 
The  first  pride  in  the  Begun, — 
First  recoil  from  incompletion,  in  the  face  of  what  is  won. 

E.  B.  Browning. 
The  Lost  Bower. 
It  is  the  saddest  of  things  that  we  lose  our  early  enthusiasms. 

We  needs  must  love  the  highest  when  we  see  it. 

Tennyson. 
Idylls  of  the  King — Guinevere. 


SPENSER  AND  OTHERS  25 

The  other  [maiden]  up  arose 

And  her  fair  lockes,  which  formerly  were  bound 

Up  in  one  knot,  she  low  adowne  did  loose  : 

Which,  flowing  long  and  thick  her  clothed  around, 

And  the  ivorie  in  golden  mantle  gowned  : 

So  that  fair  spectacle  from  him  was  reft, 

Yet  that,  which  reft  it,  no  less  faire  was  found  : 

So,  hid  in  lockes  and  waves  from  looker's  theft. 

Nought  but  her  lovely  face  she  for  his  looking  left. 

Withall  she  laughed,  and  she  blushed  withall, 
That  blushing  to  her  laughter  gave  more  grace. 
And  laughter  to  her  blushing. 

Spenser. 
Faerie  Queene  2,  xii.  67. 

The  girl  is  bathing,  and  her  long,  fair  hair  covers  with  a  golden 
mantle  the  ivory  of  her  body. 


I  LOVE  and  honour  Epaminondas,  but  I  do  not  wish  to 
be  Epaminondas.  Nor  can  you  excite  me  to  the  least  un- 
easiness by  saying,  "  He  acted,  and  thou  sittest  still."  I 
see  action  to  be  good,  when  the  need  is,  and  sitting  still  to 
be  also  good.  One  piece  of  the  tree  is  cut  for  a  weather- 
cock, and  one  for  the  sleeper  of  a  bridge  ;  the  virtue  of  the 
wood  is  apparent  in  both. 

R.  W.  Emerson. 
Spiritual  Laws. 

He,  who  is  with  himself  dissatisfied, 
Though  all  the  world  find  satisfaction  in  him. 
Is  like  a  rainbow-coloured  bird  gone  blind. 
That  gives  delight  it  shares  not. 

Thomas  Hardy. 
The  Dynasts,  Part  I.  Act  H.  Sc.  i. 


That  best  portion  of  a  good  man's  life, 
His  little,  nameless,  unremembered  acts 
Of  kindness  and  of  love. 

Wordsv^orth. 

Tintern  Abbey. 


26  MASSEY 

It  fell  upon  a  merry  May  morn, 

r  the  perfect  prime  of  that  sweet  time 
When  daisies  whiten,  woodbines  climb ,- 

The  dear  Babe  Christabel  was  born. 


Look  how  a  star  of  glory  swims 
Down  aching  silences  of  space, 
Flushing  the  Darkness  till  its  face 

With  beating  heart  of  light  o'erbrims  ! 

So  brightening  came  Babe  Christabel, 
To  touch  the  earth  with  fresh  romance, 
And  light  a  Mother's  countenance 

With  looking  on  her  miracle. 

With  hands  so  flower-like  soft,  and  fair. 
She  caught  at  life,  with  words  as  sweet 
As  first  spring  violets,  and  feet 

As  faery-light  as  feet  of  air. 


She  grew,  a  sweet  and  sinless  Child, 

In  shine  and  shower, — calm  and  strife — 
A  Rainbow  on  our  dark  of  Life 

From  Love's  own  radiant  heaven  down-smiled  ! 

In  lonely  loveliness  she  grew, — 
A  shape  all  music,  light,  and  love, 
With  startling  looks,  so  eloquent  of 

The  spirit  burning  into  view. 

Such  mystic  lore  was  in  her  eyes, 
And  light  of  other  worlds  than  ours, 
She  looked  as  she  had  fed  on  flowers, 

And  drunk  the  dews  of  Paradise.* 


Ah  !  she  was  one  of  those  who  come 
With  pledged  promise  not  to  stay 
Long,  ere  the  Angels  let  them  stray 

To  nestle  down  in  earthly  home  : 

*  Compare  with  "  Kubia  Khan" — see  p.  356. 


MASSEY  27 


She  came — like  music  in  the  night 
Floating  as  heaven  in  the  brain, 
A  moment  oped,  and  shut  again. 

And  all  is  dark  where  all  was  light. 


In  this  dim  world  of  clouding  cares, 
We  rarely  know,  till  wildered  eyes 
See  white  wings  lessening  up  the  skies, 

The  Angels  with  us  unawares. 

Our  beautiful  Bird  of  Light  hath  fled  ; 

Awhile  she  sat  with  folded  wings — 

Sang  round  us  a  few  hoverings — 
Then  straightway  into  glory  sped. 

And  white-wing'd  Angels  nurture  her  ; 

With  heaven's  white  radiance  robed  and  crown'd. 

And  all  Love's  purple  glory  round. 
She  summers  on  the  Hills  of  Myrrh. 

Thro'  Childhood's  morning-land,  serene 
She  walked  betwixt  us  twain,  like  Love  ; 
While,  in  a  robe  of  light  above. 

Her  better  Angel  walked  unseen, — 

Till  Life's  highway  broke  bleak  and  wild  ; 
Then,  lest  her  starry  garments  trail 
In  mire,  heart  bleed,  and  courage  fail, 

The  Angel's  arms  caught  up  the  child. 

Her  wave  of  life  hath  backward  roll'd 
To  the  great  ocean  ;  on  whose  shore 
We  wander  up  and  down,  to  store 

Some  treasures  of  the  times  of  old  : 

And  aye  we  seek  and  hunger  on 

For  precious  pearls  and  relics  rare. 

Strewn  on  the  sands  for  us  to  wear 
At  heart,  for  love  of  her  that's  gone. 

Gerald  Massey. 
The  Ballad  of  Babe  Christabel. 


28  KINGLAKE 

You  know  what  a  sad  and  sombre  decorum  it  is  that 
outwardly  reigns  through  the  lands  oppressed  by  Moslem 
sway.  By  a  strange  chance  in  these  latter  days,  it  happened 
that,  alone  of  all  the  places  in  the  land,  this  Bethlehem,  the 
native  village  of  our  Lord,  escaped  the  moral  yoke  of  the 
Mussulmans,  and  heard  again,  after  ages  of  dull  oppression, 
the  cheering  clatter  of  social  freedom,  and  the  voices  of 
laughing  girls.  When  I  was  at  Bethlehem,  though  long 
after  the  flight  of  the  Mussulmans,  the  cloud  of  Moslem 
propriety  had  not  yet  come  back  to  cast  its  cold  shadow 
upon  life.  When  you  reach  that  gladsome  village,  pray 
heaven  there  still  may  be  heard  there  the  voice  of  free 
innocent  girls.  Distant  at  first,  and  then  nearer  and  nearer 
the  timid  flock  will  gather  round  you  with  their  large  burning 
eyes  gravely  fixed  against  yours,  so  that  they  see  into  your 
brain  ;  and  if  you  imagine  evil  against  them  they  will  know 
of  your  ill-thought  before  it  is  yet  well  born,  and  will  fly 
and  be  gone  in  the  moment.  But  presently  if  you  will  only 
look  virtuous  enough  to  prevent  alarm,  and  vicious  enough 
to  avoid  looking  silly,  the  blithe  maidens  will  draw  nearer 
and  nearer  to  you  ;  and  soon  there  will  be  one,  the  bravest 
of  the  sisters,  who  will  venture  right  up  to  your  side,  and 
touch  the  hem  of  your  coat  in  playful  defiance  of  the  danger  ; 
and  then  the  rest  will  follow  the  daring  of  their  youthful  leader, 
and  gather  close  round  you,  and  hold  a  shrill  controversy 
on  the  wondrous  formation  that  you  call  a  hat,  and  the 
cunning  of  the  hands  that  clothed  you  with  cloth  so  fine  ; 
and  then,  growing  more  profound  in  their  researches,  they 
will  pass  from  the  study  of  your  mere  dress  to  a  serious 
contemplation  of  your  stately  height,  and  your  nut-brown 
hair,  and  the  ruddy  glow  of  your  English  cheeks.  And  if 
they  catch  a  ghmpse  of  your  ungloved  fingers,  then  again 
will  they  make  the  air  ring  with  their  sweet  screams  of 
delight  and  amazement,  as  they  compare  the  fairness  of 
your  hand  with  the  hues  of  your  sunburnt  face,  or  with  their 
own  warmer  tints.  Instantly  the  ringleader  of  the  gentle 
rioters  imagines  a  new  sin  ;  with  tremulous  boldness  she 
touches,  then  grasps  your  hand,  and  smooths  it  gently 
betwixt  her  own,  and  pries  curiously  into  its  make  and 
colour,  as  though  it  were  silk  of  Damascus  or  shawl  of 
Cashmere.  And  when  they  see  you,  even  then  still  sage 
and  gentle,  the  joyous  girls  will  suddenly,  and  screamingly, 
and  all  at  once,  explain  to  each  other  that  you  are  surely 
quite  harmless  and  innocent — a  lion  that  makes  no  spring 


KINGLAKE  AND  OTHERS  29 

— a  bear  that  never  hugs  ;  and  upon  this  faith,  one  after  the 
other,  they  will  take  your  passive  hand,  and  strive  to  explain 
it,  and  make  it  a  theme  and  a  controversy.  But  the  one — 
the  fairest  and  the  sweetest  of  all — is  yet  the  most  timid  : 
she  shrinks  from  the  daring  deeds  of  her  playmates,  and 
seeks  shelter  behind  their  sleeves,  and  strives  to  screen  her 
glowing  consciousness  from  the  eyes  that  look  upon  her. 
But  her  laughing  sisters  will  have  none  of  this  cowardice  ; 
they  vow  that  the  fair  one  shall  be  their  complice — shall  share 
their  dangers — shall  touch  the  hand  of  the  stranger  ;  they 
seize  her  small  wTist  and  draw  her  forward  by  force,  and  at 
last,  whilst  yet  she  strives  to  turn  away,  and  to  cover  up  her 
whole  soul  under  the  folds  of  downcast  eyelids,  they  vanquish 
her  utmost  strength,  they  vanquish  her  utmost  modesty  and 
marry  her  hand  to  yours.  The  quick  pulse  springs  from 
her  fingers  and  throbs  like  a  whisper  upon  your  listening 
palm.  For  an  instant  her  large  timid  eyes  are  upon  you — 
in  an  instant  they  are  shrouded  again,  and  there  comes  a 
blush  so  burning,  that  the  frightened  girls  stay  their  shrill 
laughter  as  though  they  had  played  too  perilously  and  harmed 
their  gentle  sister.  A  moment,  and  all  with  a  sudden 
intelligence  turn  away  and  fly  like  deer  ;  yet  soon  again  like 
deer  they  wheel  round,  and  return,  and  stand,  and  gaze 
upon  the  danger,  until  they  grow  brave  once  more. 

A.   W.    KiNGLAKE. 

Eothen. 

Let  us  hope  that  the  present  war  will  be  a  successful  "  Crusade  " 
and  that  the  Turks  will  disappear  from  the  land  which  is  sacred  to  the 
memory  of  our  Lord. 


DiscEDANT  nunc  amores  ;  maneat  Amor. 

(Loves,  farewell  ;  let  Love,  the  sole,  remain.) 

Author  not  traced. 

SHELLEY  AND  HARRIET 

A  star  looked  down  from  heaven  and  loved  a  flower, 
Grown  in  earth's  garden — -loved  it  for  an  hour. 
Let  eyes  that  trace  his  orbit  in  the  spheres 
Refuse  not,  to  a  ruined  rosebud,  tears. 

William  Watson. 


30  C.  ROSSETTI  AND  OTHERS 

Remember  me  when  I  am  gone  away, 
Gone  far  away  into  the  silent  land  ; 
When  you  can  no  more  hold  me  by  the  hand, 

Nor  I  half  turn  to  go  yet  turning  stay. 

Remember  me  when  no  more  day  by  day 
You  tell  me  of  our  future  that  you  planned  : 
Only  remember  me  ;  you  understand 

It  will  be  late  to  counsel  then  or  pray. 

Yet  if  you  should  forget  me  for  a  while 
And  afterwards  remember,  do  not  grieve  : 
For  if  the  darkness  and  corruption  leave 
A  vestige  of  the  thoughts  that  once  I  had. 

Better  by  far  you  should  forget  and  smile 
Than  that  you  should  remember  and  be  sad. 

Christina  Rossetti. 

Compare  Shakespeare's  sonnet  LXXI.  : 

No  longer  mourn  for  me  when  I  am  dead, 
.   .   .  for  I  love  you  so 

That  I  in  your  sweet  thoughts  would  be  forgot, 
If  thinking  on  me  then  should  make  you  woe. 


I  SAW  a  son  weep  o'er  a  mother's  grave  : 

"  Ay,  weep,  poor  boy — weep  thy  most  bitter  tears 

That  thou  shalt  smile  so  soon.     We  bury  Love, 

Forgetfulness  grows  over  it  like  grass  ; 

That  is  the  thing  to  weep  for,  not  the  dead." 

Alexander  Smith. 
A  Boy's  Poem. 


UNTIL  DEATH 

If  thou  canst  love  another,  be  it  so. 
I  would  not  reach  out  of  my  quiet  grave 
To  bind  thy  heart,  if  it  should  choose  to  go. 
Love  shall  not  be  a  slave.  .  .  . 

It  would  not  make  me  sleep  more  peacefully. 
That  thou  wert  waiting  all  thy  life  in  woe 
For  my  poor  sake.     What  love  thou  hast  for  me 
Bestow  it  ere  I  go.  .  .  . 


WESTBURY— WHITTIER  31 

Forget  me  when  I  die.     The  violets 
Above  my  rest  will  blossom  just  as  blue 
Nor  miss  thy  tears — E'en  Nature's  self  forgets — 
But  while  I  live  be  true. 

F.  A.  Westbury. 

These  verses  are  by  a  South  Australian  writer.     "  Forget  me  when 
I  die  "  is  an  unpleasing  sentiment  ;   yet  see  Christina  Rossetti's  poem  : 

When  I  aiTi  dead,  my  dearest, 

Sing  no  sad  songs  for  me  ; 
Plant  thou  no  roses  at  my  head, 

Nor  shady  cypress  tree  : 
Be  the  green  grass  above  me 

With  showers  and  dewdrops  wet  ; 
And  if  thou  wilt,  remember, 

And  if  thou  wilt,  forget. 

I  shall  not  see  the  shadows, 

I  shall  not  feel  the  rain  ; 
I  shall  not  hear  the  nightingale 

Sing  on,  as  if  in  pain  ; 
And  dreaming  through  the  twilight 

That  doth  not  rise  nor  set, 
Haply  I  may  remember. 

And  haply  may  forget. 

As  regards  this  latter  poem,  the  curious  fact  is  that  it  is  read  as  an  ex- 
quisite piece  of  music,  and  not  for  any  poetic  thought  it  contains.  If  it 
has  any  coherent  meaning,  it  is  that  the  speaker  is  indifferent  whether 
or  not  "  her  dearest  "  will  remember  her  or  she  will  remember  him. 
Yet  the  haunting  music  of  the  lines  has  inade  it  a  favourite  poem, 
and  it  finds  a  place  in  all  the  anthologies.  Christina  Rossetti  is  by  no 
means  a  great  poet  (Mr.  Gosse's  estimate  in  the  Encyc.  Brit,  is 
exaggerated),  but  she  had  a  wonderful  gift  of  language  and  metre. 
Take,  for  example,  the  pretty  lilt  contained  in  the  simplest  words  in 
"  Maiden-Song  "  : 

Long  ago  and  long  ago, 

And  long  ago  still. 
There  dwelt  three  merry  maidens 

Upon  a  distant  hill. 
One  was  tall  Meggan, 

And  one  was  dainty  May, 
But  one  was  fair  Margaret, 

More  fair  than  I  can  say, 
Long  ago  and  long  ago. 


And  yet,  dear  heart  !   remembering  thee, 

Am  I  not  richer  than  of  old  .'' 
Safe  in  thy  immortality. 

What  change  can  reach  the  wealth  I  hold 
What  chance  can  mar  the  pearl  and  gold 

Thy  love  hath  left  in  trust  for  me  ? 


32  WHITTIER  AND  OTHERS 

And  while  in  life's  long  afternoon, 

Where  cool  and  long  the  shadows  grow, 
I  walk  to  meet  the  night  that  soon 

Shall  shape  and  shadow  overflow, 
I  cannot  feel  that  thou  art  far. 
Since  near  at  need  the  angels  are  ; 
And  when  the  sunset  gates  unbar, 

Shall  I  not  see  thee  waiting  stand. 
And,  white  against  the  evening  star. 

The  welcome  of  thy  beckoning  hand  ? 

J.  G.  Whittier. 
Snow-Bound. 


I  HAVE  a  dream — that  some  day  I  shall  go 

At  break  of  dawn  adown  a  rainy  street, 

A  grey  old  street,  and  I  shall  come  in  the  end 

To  the  little  house  I  have  known,  and  stand  ;  and  you. 

Mother  of  mine,  who  watch  and  wait  for  me. 

Will  you  not  hear  my  footstep  in  the  street. 

And,  as  of  old,  be  ready  at  the  door. 

To  give  me  rest  again  ?  .  .  .  I  shall  come  home. 

H.  D.  LowRY. 


DEATH 

It  is  not  death,  that  sometime  in  a  sigh 

This  eloquent  breath  shall  take  its  speechless  flight  ; 

That  sometime  these  bright  stars,  that  now  reply 

In  sunlight  to  the  sun,  shall  set  in  night  ; 

That  this  warm  conscious  flesh  shall  perish  quite. 

And  all  life's  ruddy  springs  forget  to  flow  ; 

That  thoughts  shall  cease,  and  the  immortal  spright 

Be  lapp'd  in  alien  clay  and  laid  below  ; 

It  is  not  death  to  know  this, — but  to  know 

That  pious  thoughts,  which  visit  at  new  graves 

In  tender  pilgrimage,  will  cease  to  go 

So  duly  and  so  oft — and  when  grass  waves 

Over  the  passed-away,  there  may  be  then 

No  resurrection  in  the  minds  of  men. 

Thomas  Hood. 


WORDSWORTH  AND  OTHERS  33 

Surprised  by  joy — impatient  as  the  Wind 

I  turned  to  share  the  transport — Oh  !  with  whom 

But  Thee,  deep  buried  in  the  silent  tomb, 

That  spot  which  no  vicissitude  can  find  ? 

Love,  faithful  love,  recalled  thee  to  my  mind — 

But  how  could  I  forget  thee  ?     Through  what  power, 

Even  for  the  least  division  of  an  hour, 

Have  I  been  so  beguiled  as  to  be  blind 

To  my  most  grievous  loss  ! — ^That  thought's  return 

Was  the  worst  pang  that  sorrow  ever  bore. 

Save  one,  one  only,  when  I  stood  forlorn. 

Knowing  my  heart's  best  treasure  was  no  more  ; 

That  neither  present  time,  nor  years  unborn 

Could  to  my  sight  that  heavenly  face  restore. 

Wordsworth. 

Written  of  the  poet's  child  Catherine,  who  died  in  1812  at  three 
years  of  age,  and  of  whom  Wordsworth  had  also  written,  "  Loving  she 
is,  and  tractable,  though  wild."  Forty  years  after  the  death  of  this 
child  and  her  brother,  who  died  about  the  same  time,  the  poet  spoke 
of  them  to  Aubrey  de  Vere  with  the  same  acute  sense  of  bereavement 
as  if  they  had  only  recently  died. 


By  rose-hung  river  and  light-foot  rill 
There  are  who  rest  not  ;  who  think  long 

Till  they  discern  as  from  a  hill 

At  the  sun's  hour  of  morning  song, 

Known  of  souls  only,  and  those  souls  free. 
The  sacred  spaces  of  the  sea. 

Swinburne. 
Prelude — Songs  before  Sunrise. 

The  sea  typifies  the  wider,  nobler  life  of  the  soul. 

One  fine  frosty  day, 
My  stomach  being  empty  as  your  hat. 

R.  Browning. 
Fra  Lippo  Lippi. 

The  "  cheekiest  "  line  I  know. 


It  is  the  glory  and  merit  of  some  men  to  write  well,  and 

of  others  not  to  write  at  all.  ^      ^        . 

La  Bruyere. 


34  COLERIDGE 

O  NEVER  rudely  will  I  blame  his  faith 
In  the  might  of  stars  and  angels  !  .  .  . 
.  .  .  For  the  stricken  heart  of  Love 
This  visible  nature,  and  this  common  world, 
Is  all  too  narrow  :  yea,  a  deeper  import 
Lurks  in  the  legend  told  my  infant  years 
Than  lies  upon  that  truth,  we  live  to  learn. 
For  fable  is  Love's  world,  his  home,  his  birth-place  : 
Delightedly  dwells  he  'mong  fays  and  talismans, 
And  spirits  ;  and  delightedly  believes 
Divinities,  being  himself  divine. 
The  intelligible  forms  of  ancient  poets, 
The  fair  humanities  of  old  religion. 
The  Power,  the  Beauty,  and  the  Majesty, 
That  had  their  haunts  in  dale,  or  piny  mountain. 
Or  forest,  by  slow  stream,  or  pebbly  spring. 
Or  chasms  and  watr'y  depths  ;  all  these  have  vanished. 
They  live  no  longer  in  the  faith  of  reason  ! 
But  still  the  heart  doth  need  a  language,  still 
Doth  the  old  instinct  bring  back  the  old  names. 
And  to  yon  starry  world  they  now  are  gone. 
Spirits  or  gods,  that  used  to  share  this  earth 
With  man  as  with  their  friend  ;   and  to  the  lover 
Yonder  they  move,  from  yonder  visible  sky 
Shoot  influence  down  :   and  even  at  this  day 
'Tis  Jupiter  who  brings  whate'er  is  great, 
And  Venus  who  brings  everything  that's  fair. 

S.  T.  Coleridge. 
Wallenstein,  "  The  Piccolomini." 

His  faith. — Wallenstein,  the  great  German  soldier  and  statesman 
(1583-1634),  believed  in  astrology. 

The  "  intelligible  forms  of  ancient  poets  "  and  "  fair  humanities  of 
old  religion  "  are  the  gods  and  inferior  divinities  that  please  our  fancy. 
Thus  the  Greeks  peopled  the  heavens  (not  very  distant  heavens  to  them) 
with  their  gods,  who  visited  earth  and  mingled  with  men.  There  were 
also  the  lesser  deities,  as  the  Hours  and  the  Graces  ;  and  also  the 
Nymphs — the  Nereids,  Naiads,  Orcades,  and  Dryads — who  inhabited 
seas,  springs,  rivers,  and  trees  respectively.  The  Nymphs  would  corre- 
spond somewhat  to  the  elves,  gnomes,  and  fairies  of  Northern  religions. 

Coleridge's  translation  of  "  Wallenstein  "  (of  which  "  The  Piccolo- 
mini  "  is  a  portion)  is  considered  a  masterpiece.  Schiller  was  fortunate 
in  having  a  finer  poet  than  himself  to  translate  his  drama.  In  the  above 
passage  Coleridge  greatly  improved  on  the  original  ;  the  seven  splendid 
lines  beginning  "  The  intelligible  forms  of  ancient  poets  "  are  his  and 
not  Schiller's  ;  and,  therefore,  this  passage  may  fairly  be  ascribed  to 
him  as  author. 


DE  QUINCEY— MOLIERE  35 

If  once  a  man  indulges  himself  in  murder,  very  soon  he 
comes  to  think  little  of  robbing  ;  and  from  robbing  he 
comes  next  to  drinking  and  Sabbath-breaking,  and  from 
that  to  incivility  and  procrastination.  Once  begin  upon 
this  downward  path,  you  never  know  where  you  are  to  stop. 
Many  a  man  has  dated  his  ruin  from  some  murder  or  other 
that  perhaps  he  thought  little  of  at  the  time. 

De  Quincey. 
Murder,  as  one  of  the  Fine  Arts. 


Je  prends  mon  bien  ou  je  le  trouve. 
(I  take  my  property  wherever  I  find  it.) 

MOLIERE. 

An  interesting  question  arises  with  regard  to  this  famous  saying. 

The  story  is  as  follows.  In  1671  Moliere  produced  his  Comedy 
Les  Fourberies  de  Scapin,  in  which  he  had  used  t\\o  scenes  from  Cyrano 
de  Bergerac's  Le  Pedant  Jou6.  They  are  the  amusing  scenes  where 
Geronte  repeatedly  says  "  Que  diable  allait-il  faire  dans  cette  galere  ?  " 
"  What  the  deuce  was  he  doing  in  that  Turkish  galley?"  Grimarest, 
the  first  biographer  of  the  great  dramatist,  says  that  Cyrano  had  originally 
appropriated  those  scenes  from  Moliere,  and  that  the  latter,  when 
taxed  with  this  wholesale  plagiarism,  replied  "  Je  reprends  mon  bien 
ou  je  le  trouve."  "  I  take  back  my  property,  where  I  find  it."  That 
is  to  say,  he  claimed  the  scenes  as  his  own  property  and  denied  the 
plagiarism. 

The  curious  fact  is  that  the  precisely  opposite  meaning  is  now  given 
to  this  saying  in  French  literature — see,  for  example,  Larousse's  great 
encyclopaedia-dictionary  under  "  Bien."  Moliere  is  now  taken  to  have 
said,  "  /  admit  the  plagiarism,  but  I  so  improve  upon  what  I  borrow 
that  it  becomes  my  own  property." 

Tho'  old  the  thought  and  oft  expressed, 
'Tis  his  at  last  who  says  it  best.* 

The  question  is,  Which  is  the  right  interpretation  ? 

Voltaire,  in  a  "  Life  of  Moliere,"  makes  a  general  assertion  (not 
referring  specially  to  this  incident)  that  all  Grimarest's  stories  are  false. 
This  must,  of  course,  be  far  too  sweeping  an  assertion,  and  Grimarest 
is  in  fact  quoted  as  an  authority.  Voltaire  himself  (1694-1778)  uses 
the  saying  in  the  sense  given  by  Grimarest  {La  Pucelle,  Chant  III.)  : 

Cette  culotte  est  mienne  ;  et  je  prendrai 
Ce  que  fut  mien  ou  je  le  trouverai. 

"  Those  breeches  are  mine,  and  I  shall  take  what  was  mine  wherever 
I  find  it."  Agnes  Sorel  had  been  captured  dressed  as  a  man  and 
wearing  the  garment  in  question,  which  had  been  previously  stolen  from 
the  speaker. 

It  seems  clear  that  Grimarest's  story  must  be  accepted,  that  Moliere 
claimed  the  scenes  as  originally  his  and  denied  plagiarism.     There  is 

*  J.  R.  Lowell,  "  For  an  Autograph." 


36 


MOLIERE 


no  evidence  to  the  contrary,  and  the  saying  is  given  its  obvious  meaning. 
(It  is  word  for  word  as  in  the  Digest,  Ubi  rem  meam  invenio,  ibi  vindico, 
"  Where  I  find  my  own  property,  I  appropriate  it.")  But  the  question 
then  arises,  Why  should  so  commonplace  a  statement  have  attained  such 
notoriety  ? 

The  explanation  appears  simple.  Moliere  had  many  jealous  and 
bitter  enemies,  who  laid  every  charge  they  could  against  him.  He  was 
well  known  to  have  borrowed  ideas,  characters,  and  scenes  in  all  direc- 
tions— and  his  enemies  constantly  and  persistently  attacked  him  on  this 
ground.  Then  came  his  most  glaring  plagiarism  from  a  comparatively 
recent  play,  written  by  a  man  whose  dare-devil  exploits  had  made  him 
a  perfect  hero  of  romance.  Moliere's  story  that  Cyrano  had  previously 
stolen  the  scenes  from  him  would  not  have  been  accepted  for  a  moment. 
Cyrano  had  never  been  known  to  plagiarize,  nor  would  it  have  been 
natural  for  a  man  of  his  character  to  do  anything  clandestine.  Also 
Moliere  would  have  had  nothing  to  support  his  statement — and  Cyrano 
was  not  alive  to  contradict  and  kill  him.  The  conclusion,  therefore, 
seems  to  be  that  the  dramatist's  statement  was  received  in  Paris  with 
such  incredulity,  indignation,  and  ridicule  that  it  became  a  byword. 

But  if  this  is  so,  why  have  the  words  been  given  the  fictitious  mean- 
ing that  Moliere  admitted  the  plagiarism  and  justified  it  ?  The  answer 
seems  to  lie  in  the  fact  that,  as  Moliere's  great  genius  became  realized, 
the  desire  arose  to  remove  a  blemish  from  his  reputation.  His  is  the 
greatest  name  in  French  literature,  and  almost  anything  would  be  excused 
in  him.  (We  ourselves  pass  lightly  over  plagiarisnis  by  Shakespeare.) 
Also,  whether  morally  justified  or  not,  Moliere  enriched  the  world's 
literature  by  his  borrowings.  It  was,  therefore,  no  serious  matter  to 
Frenchmen  that  he  should  have  borrowed  from  Cyrano,  but  it  was  a 
distinct  blemish  on  his  character  that  he  should  have  denied  the  fact 
and  also  slandered  a  dead  hero.  Ordinarily,  in  such  a  case,  the  story  is 
ignored  and  forgotten,  just  as  the  one  seriously  wrong  act  of  Sir  Walter 
Scott,  his  borrowing  from  Coleridge  of  the  "  Christabel  "  metre,  is 
usually  ignored  or  slurred  over.  But  the  saying  had  become  rooted  in 
literature  and  this  course  was  not  practicable.  However,  there  is  little 
that  enthusiasm  cannot  accomplish  by  some  means  or  other,  and  the 
object  in  this  instance  has  been  achieved  by  reversing  the  meaning  of 
Moliere's  words. 

What  I  find  particularly  interesting  in  the  above  is  that  it  illustrates 
the  perversion  of  truth  that  has  taken  place  on  a  far  greater  scale  regarding 
the  ancient  Greeks.  Several  of  my  notes  deal  with  that  subject  (see 
Subject- Index). 

As  regards  the  meaning  now  given  to  the  saying,  Seneca  claimed  the 
same  right  to  borrow  at  will.  Quidquid  bene  dictum  est  ab  ullo,  tneu?n  est 
{Ep.  XVI.).  After  advising  his  reader  to  consider  the  Epistle  carefully 
and  see  what  value  it  had  for  him,  he  says,  "  You  need  not  be  surprised 
if  I  am  still  free  with  other  people's  property.  But  why  do  I  say  '  other 
people's  property  '  ?  Whatever  has  been  well  said  by  any  one  belongs 
to  me." 

So  also  the  late  Samuel  Butler  said,  "  Appropriate  passages  are 
intended  to  be  appropriated  "  {Life  of  Butler,  by  Jones,  ii.  p.  3). 


The  stars  make  no  noise. 

Irish  Proverb. 


MARTINEAU  AND  OTHERS  37 

The  disposition  to  judge  every  enterprise  by  its  event, 
and  believe  in  no  wisdom  that  is  not  endorsed  by  success, 
is  apt  to  grow  upon  us  with  years,  till  we  sympathize  with 
nothing  for  which  we  cannot  take  out  a  policy  of  assurance. 

James  Martineau. 
Hours  of  Thought,  i.  87. 


For  when  the  mellow  autumn  flushed 
The  thickets,  where  the  chestnut  fell. 
And  in  the  vales  the  maple  blushed, 
Another  came  who  knew  her  well, 

Who  sat  with  her  below  the  pine 
And  with  her  through  the  meadow  moved, 
And  underneath  the  purpling  vine 
She  sang  to  him  the  song  I  loved. 

N.  G.  Shepherd, 


This  losing  is  true  dying  ; 
This  is  lordly  man's  down-lying, 
This  his  slow  but  sure  reclining, 
Star  by  star  his  world  resigning. 

R.  W.  Emerson. 
Threnody. 

Referring  to  the  death  of  his  son. 


Our  finest  hope  is  finest  memory, 

As  they  who  love  in  age  think  youth  is  blest 

Because  it  has  a  life  to  fill  with  love, 

George  Eliot. 
A  Minor  Poet. 


A  little  pain,  a  little  fond  regret, 

A  little  shame,  and  we  are  living  yet. 

While  love,  that  should  outlive  us,  lieth  dead. 

W.  Morris. 


38  DICKENS  AND  OTHERS 

Mrs.  Crupp  had  indignantly  assured  him  that  there 
wasn't  room  to  swing  a  cat  there  ;  but,  as  Mr.  Dick  justly 
observed  to  me,  sitting  down  on  the  foot  of  the  bed,  nursing 
his  leg,  "  You  know,  Trotwood,  I  don't  want  to  swing  a 
cat.  I  never  do  swing  a  cat.  Therefore,  what  does  that 
signify  to  me  !  " 

Charles  Dickens. 

David  Copperfield. 


"  They  were  learning  to  draw,"  the  Dormouse  went 
on,  "  and  they  drew  all  manner  of  things — everything  that 
begins  with  an  M " 

"  Why  with  an  M  .?  "  said  AHce. 

"  Why  not  ?  "  said  the  March  Hare. 

Alice  was  silent.  t  /-. 

Lewis  Carroll. 

Alice  in  Wonderland. 


In  a  Dublin  lunatic  asylum  one  of  the  inmates 
peremptorily  ordered  a  visitor  to  take  off  his  hat.  Defer- 
entially obeying  the  order,  the  visitor  asked  why  he  should 
remove  his  hat.  The  lunatic  replied  :  "  Do  you  not  know, 
sir,  that  I  am  the  Crown  Prince  of  Prussia  ?  "  Having  duly 
made  his  apologies,  the  visitor  proceeded  on  his  round  ; 
but,  coming  again  upon  the  same  lunatic,  was  met  with 
the  same  demand.  Again  obeying  the  order,  he  repeated 
the  question  :  "  May  I  ask  why  you  wish  me  to  take  off  my 
hat  ?  "  The  lunatic  replied  :  "  Are  you  not  aware,  sir, 
that  I  am  the  Prince  of  Wales  ?  "  "  But,"  said  the  visitor, 
"  you  told  me  just  now  you  were  the  Crown  Prince  of 
Prussia."  The  lunatic,  after  scratching  his  head  and 
deliberating  for  a  moment,  replied  :  "  Ah,  but  that  was  by 
a  different  mother." 

(Another  Irish  lunatic  always  lost  himself  and  insisted 
on  looking  for  himself  under  the  bed.) 

Author  not  traced. 

These  are  true  stories  but  localized — perhaps  another  injustice  to 
Ireland  !  In  a  recent  book,  Echoes  of  the  Eighties,  the  first  incident  is 
said  to  have  happened  to  a  friend  of  Lord  Goschen's  at  a  Philadelphia 
asylum — but  nevertheless  the  lunatic  must  surely  have  been  Irish  ! 


CARROLL  AND  OTHERS  39 

[After  looking  at  his  watch]  "  Two  days  wrong  !  " 
sighed  the  Hatter.  "  I  told  you  butter  would  not  suit 
the  works  !  "  he  added,  looking  angrily  at  the  March  Hare. 

"  It  was  the  best  butter,"  the  March  Hare  replied. 

Lewis  Carroll. 
Alice  in  Wonderland. 


Perhaps,  as  two  negatives  make  one  affirmative,  it  may 
be  thought  that  two  layers  of  moonshine  might  coalesce 
into  one  pancake  ;  and  two  Barmecide  banquets  might  be 
the  square  root  of  one  poached  egg. 

Author  not  traced. 


When  I  said  I  would  die  a  bachelor,  I  did  not  think  I 
should  live  till  I  were  married. 

Shakespeare. 
Much  Ado  About  Nothing. 


Some  say  that  the  King  of  England  [George  HL]  is 
dead,  others  say  he  is  not  dead.  As  for  me,  I  do  not  believe 
either  one  or  the  other.  I  tell  you  this  in  confidence,  and 
for  heaven's  sake  do  not  give  me  away. 

Talleyrand. 
Album  Perdu. 


Johnson  was  present  when  a  tragedy  was  read,  in  which 
there  occurred  this  line  : 

"  Who  rules  o'er  freemen  should  himself  be  free." 

The  company  having  admired  it  much,  "  I  cannot  agree 
with  you,"  said  Johnson,  "  it  might  as  well  be  said  : 

'  Who  drives  fat  oxen  should  himself  be  fat.'  " 

Boswell's  Lije  of  Johnson  (1784). 

Johnson  here  seems  to  show  a  flippant  smartness,  but  not  his  usual 
good  sense.  Yet  his  saying  has  been  found  useful  ;  see,  for  instance, 
the  quotation  from  Bain,  p.  io8. 


40  SWIFT  AND  OTHERS 

No  man  will  take  counsel,  but  every  man  will  take  money. 
Therefore  money  is  better  than  counsel. 

Swift. 


If  the  man,  who  turnips  cries, 
Cry  not  when  his  father  dies, 
'Tis  a  proof  that  he  had  rather 
Have  a  turnip  than  his  father. 

Johnson. 


One  swore  that  Homer,  Aristotle,  and  all  the  host  of 
the  Antient  Greeks  were  such  Ignorant  Fellows  that  they 
did  not  understand  one  word  of  Latin. 

Samuel  Butler. 


Pointz.  Come,  your  reason,  Jack,— your  reason. 
Falstaff.  Give  you  a  reason  on  compulsion  !     If  reasons 
were  as  plenty  as  blackberries,  I  v/ould  give  no  man  a  reason 
upon  compulsion,  I. 

Shakespeare. 
I  Henry  IV.,  ii.  4. 

Reason  needs  to  be  given  its  old  pronunciation,  "  raison  "  (or  raisin) 
in  order  to  understand  Falstaff 's  pun. 


I  MET  a  man  in  Oregon  who  hadn't  any  teeth — not  a 
tooth  in  his  head — yet  that  man  could  play  on  the  bass 
drum  better  than  any  man  I  ever  met  ! 

Artemus  Ward. 
Lecture. 


Still  I  cannot  believe  in  clairvoyance — because  the  thing 
is  impossible. 

Samuel  Rogers. 
Table  Talk. 

I  might  follow  the  fifteen  preceding  quotations  (which  illustrate  "  the 
art  of  reasoning  ")  with  the  well-known  story  of  Charles  Lamb,  who, 
when  blamed  for  coming  late  to  the  office,  excused  himself  on  the  ground 
that  he  always  left  early.     (He  also  said,  "  A  man  could  not  have  too 


ROGERS  41 

little  to  do  and  too  much  time  to  do  it  in.")  There  is  also  the  reply 
of  Lord  Rothschild,  when  the  cabman  told  him  that  his  son  paid  better 
fares  than  he  did,  "  Yes,  but  he  has  a  rich  father,  and  I  haven't." 


I  am  tempted  by  the  quotation  from  Rogers  to  add  some  remarks 
in  a  more  serious  vein.  The  grotesque  assumption,  that  he  understood 
the  nature  of  the  universe  and,  without  investigation,  could  declare 
what  is  or  is  not  possible,  is  one  that  is  common  even  among  intellectual 
men.  Indeed,  all  of  us  are  more  or  less  disposed  to  make  the  same 
assumption.  Doubtless  Rogers  would  have  said  that  wireless  telegraphy 
was  impossible.  The  belief  that  stones  fell  from  the  sky  was  ridiculed 
until  a  shower  of  meteorites  chanced  to  fall  near  Paris.  Comte  said 
that  the  chemical  composition  of  the  heavenly  bodies  must  be  for  ever 
unknowable  to  man  ;  but  only  a  few  years  later  the  spectroscope  was 
invented,  and  we  now  know  what  the  stars  are  made  of.  So  also  most 
of  us  would,  a  few  years  ago,  have  jeered  at  a  suggestion  that  matter 
consisted  of  electricity,  or  that  the  most  solidly  fixed  of  all  "  natural 
laws,"  gravitation,  was  founded  on  an  erroneous  conception.  So  also, 
as  regards  other  deductions  from  Einstein's  theory,  that  the  world  is 
four-dimensional,  time  being  the  fourth  dimension  ;  that  Euclidean 
geometry  is  fictitious  as  applied  to  reality  ;  that  there  is  no  absolute 
space  or  absolute  time,  both  space  and  time  being  abstractions  made  by 
the  mind  ;  that  the  universe  is  probably  spherical  or  elliptical,  and  is 
also  probably  finite.  Again  how  "  impossible  "  would  have  appeared 
what  we  now  know  regarding  the  Unconscious  (see  p.  170).  We  all 
need  to  keep  constantly  impressed  on  our  minds  that  we  have  as  yet 
learnt  practically  nothing  of  the  universe  : 

Nay,  come  up  hither.     From  this  wave-washed  mound 

Unto  the  furthest  flood-brim  look  with  me  ; 
Then  reach  on  with  thy  thought  till  it  be  drowned. 

Miles  and  miles  distant  though  the  last  line  be. 
And  though  thy  soul  sail  leagues  and  leagues  beyond — 

Still,  leagues  beyond  those  leagues,  there  is  more  sea. 

D.    G.    ROSSETTI. 

The  Choice. 

We  readily  abandon  this  "  know-all  "  attitude,  so  soon  as  the  physicist 
asserts  a  fact  which  was  previously  incredible — and  which  we  have  to 
take  on  trust,  seeing  that  we  cannot  understand  the  evidence  on  which 
it  is  founded.  But  when  a  fact  of  a  psychical  nature  is  asserted,  although 
such  a  fact  is  more  important  to  us  than  any  physical  discovery,  and 
although  the  evidence  in  its  support  can  be  easily  followed  and  appreci- 
ated, then  even  able  men  refuse  to  pay  any  attention  to  it. 

Bergson's  explanation  of  this  tendency  is  that  the  scientist  begins 
with  mathematics,  and  is  interested  only  in  what  is,  or  is  likely  to  become, 
subject  to  TJieasiirement  (see  his  Presidential  Address  to  the  Society  for 
Psychical  Research,  republished  in  Mind-Energy).  But  I  think  it  can 
be  explained  much  more  simply  on  the  ground  that  our  habits  of  thought 
are  coloured  by  the  materialism  of  last  century.  This  is  so  even  with 
men  who  absolutely  reject  the  materialist  creed.  We  all,  more  or  less, 
have  an  inherited  "  materialism-complex  "  which  is  opposed  to  the 
recognition  of  anything  psychical.  And  this  has  been  greatly  strength- 
ened by  the  exhibition  of  widespread  imbecility  and  fraud  in  spiritualism, 
theosophy,  and  like  directions.  It  is  due  to  this  state  of  things  that 
most  thinkers  make  the  fatal  mistake  of  ignoring  the  great  work  done 


42  WORDSWORTH— ELIOT 

by  the  most  important  in  human  interest  of  all  societies,  the  Society  for 
Psychical  Research  (see  pp.  382-3). 

The  war  produced  at  least  one  good  result  in  compelling  medical 
men  to  recognize  psychical  facts,  which  practically  the  whole  profession 
had  ignored  for  fifty  years.  They  could  no  longer  do  this  when  faced 
with  innumerable  so-called  "  shell-shock  "  cases,  that  could  be  cured 
only  by  psychical  methods.  Some  of  them  now,  but  only  a  small  pro- 
portion, recognize  in  their  practice  hypnotism  and  other  methods  of 
cure  by  suggestion.  But  still  the  materialism-complex  exerts  its  domin- 
ating influence  against  other  psychical  facts,  and  few  scientists  and 
thinkers  generally  pay  any  attention  to  them. 

As  regards  clairvoyance,  which  Rogers  declared  impossible,  and 
various  other  psychical  matters,  see  long  note  on  p.  170. 


WHO  FANCIED  WHAT  A  PRETTY  SIGHT 

Who  fancied  what  a  pretty  sight 
This  rock  would  be  if  edged  around 
With  Hving  snow-drops  ?   circlet  bright  ! 
How  glorious  to  this  orchard  ground  ! 
Who  loved  the  little  rock,  and  set 
Upon  its  head  this  coronet  ? 

Was  it  the  humour  of  a  child  ? 

Or  rather  of  some  gentle  maid, 

Whose  brows,  the  day  that  she  was  styled 

The  Shepherd- queen,  were  thus  arrayed  ? 

Of  man  mature,  or  matron  sage  } 

Or  old  man  toying  with  his  age  ? 

I  asked — 'twas  whispered,  "  The  device 
To  each  and  all  might  well  belong  : 
It  is  the  Spirit  of  Paradise 
That  prompts  such  work,  a  Spirit  strong 
That  gives  to  all  the  self-same  bent 
Where  life  is  wise  and  innocent." 

Wordsworth, 


We  are  on  a  perilous  margin  when  we  begin  to  look 

passively  at   our  future   selves,   and   see   our   own  figures 

led  with   dull   consent  into  insipid  misdoing  and  shabby 

achievement.  ^  „ 

George  Eliot, 

Middlemarch. 


MACDONALD  AND  OTHERS  43 

They  who  believe  in  the  influences  of  the  stars  over  the 
fates  of  men  are,  in  feeling  at  least,  nearer  the  truth  than 
they  who  regard  the  heavenly  bodies  as  related  to  them 
merely  by  a  common  obedience  to  an  external  law.  All 
that  man  sees  has  to  do  with  man.  Worlds  cannot  be 
without  an  intermundane  relationship.  The  community  of 
the  centre  of  all  creation  suggests  an  inter-radiating  con- 
nection and  dependence  of  the  parts.  Else  a  grander 
idea  is  conceivable  than  that  which  is  already  embodied. 
The  blank,  which  is  only  a  forgotten  life  lying  behind  the 
consciousness,  and  the  misty  splendour,  which  is  an  unde- 
veloped life  lying  before  it,  may  be  full  of  mysterious 
revelations  of  other  connections  with  the  worlds  around  us 
than  those  of  science  and  poetry.  No  shining  belt  or 
gleaming  moon,  no  red  and  green  glory  in  a  self-encircling 
twin-star,  but  has  a  relation  with  the  hidden  things  of  a 
man's  soul,  and,  it  may  be,  with  the  secret  history  of  his 
body  as  well.     They  are  portions  of  the  living  house  within 

which  he  abides.  ^  ni/r     t-n 

George  MacDonald. 

Phantasies. 


O  WEARY  time,  O  hfe, 
Consumed  in  endless,  useless  strife 
To  wash  from  out  the  hopeless  clay 
Of  heavy  day  and  heavy  day 
Some  specks  of  golden  love,  to  keep 
Our  hearts  from  madness  ere  we  sleep  ! 

W.  Morris. 
The  Earthly  Paradise. 

To   an  Australian,  a  metaphor   taken  from   alluvial  gold-mining   is 
interesting. 


Hope,  whose  eyes 
Can  sound  the  seas  unsoundable,  the  skies 
Inaccessible  of  eyesight  ;  that  can  see 
What  earth  beholds  not,  hear  what  wind  and  sea 
Hear  not,  and  speak  what  all  these  crying  in  one 
Can  speak  not  to  the  sun. 

Swinburne. 
Thalassius. 


44  STERNE  AND  OTHERS 

[Dr.  Slop  has  been  uttering  terrible  curses  against 
Obadiah]  I  declare,  quoth  my  Uncle  Toby,  my  heart  would 
not  let  me  curse  the  devil  himself  with  so  much  bitterness. — 
He  is  the  father  of  curses,  replied  Dr.  Slop.— So  am  not  I, 
rephed  my  uncle. — But  he  is  cursed  and  damned  already  to 
all  eternity,  replied  Dr.  Slop. 

I  am  sorry  for  it,  quoth  my  Uncle  Toby.        o 

Tristram  Shandy. 


Faust.  If  heaven  was  made  for  man,  'twas  made  for  me. 
Good  Angel.  Faustus,  repent  ;   yet  heaven  will  pity  thee. 
Bad  Angel.  Thou  art  a  spirit,  God  cannot  pity  thee. 
Faust.  Be  I  a  devil,  yet  God  may  pity  me. 

Marlowe. 
Doctor  Faustus. 


But  fare-you-well,  Auld  Nickie-Ben  ! 
O,  wad  ye  tak  a  thought  and  men'  ! 
Ye  aiblins  might — I  dinna  ken — 

Still  hae  a  stake  : 
I'm  wae  to  think  upo'  yon  den, 

Ev'n  for  your  sake  ! 

Robert  Burns. 

Address  to  the  Deil. 


"  Shargar,  what  think  ye  ?  Gin  the  deil  war  to  repent, 
wad  God  forgie  him  ?  " 

"  There's  no  sayin'  what  folk  wad  dae  till  ance  they're 
tried,"  returned  Shargar  cautiously. 

George  MacDonald. 
Robert  Falconer,  chap.  xii. 

There  is  a  passage,  I  think  in  one  of  MacDonald's  novels,  where 
the  question  is  again  put,  "  Gin  the  de'il  war  to  repent  ?  "  The  reply 
is  to  the  effect,  "  Do  not  wish  even  him  anything  so  dreadful.  The 
agony  of  his  repentance  would  be  far  worse  than  anything  he  can  suffer 
in  hell." 

Scotus  Erigena,  a  very  able  Irish  theologian  and  philosopher  of  the 
Qth  century,  believed  that  Satan  himself  must  ultimately  be  reclaimed, 
since  otherwise  God  could  not  in  the  end  conquer  and  extinguish  sin. 
He  cites  Origen  and  others  in  support  of  his  contention.  These  old  and 
very  serious  discussions  seem  more  remote  than  Plato,  but  the  belief  in  a 
personal  devil  was  not  uncommon  even  in  my  young  days. 


MARSTON— E.  B.  BROWNING  45 

O  WIND,  a  word  with  you  before  you  pass  ; 
What  did  you  to  the  Rose  that  on  the  grass 
Broken  she  hes  and  pale,  who  loved  you  so  ? 

THE   WIND 

Roses  must  live  and  love,  and  winds  must  blow. 

Philip  Bourke  Marston, 
The  Rose  and  the  Wind. 


I  THOUGHT  once  how  Theocritus  had  sung 

Of  the  sweet  years,  the  dear  and  wished-for  years, 

Who  each  one  in  a  gracious  hand  appears 

To  bear  a  gift  for  mortals,  old  or  young  : 

And,  as  I  mused  it  in  his  antique  tongue, 

I  saw,  in  gradual  vision  through  my  tears, 

The  sweet,  sad  years,  the  melancholy  years. 

Those  of  my  own  life,  who  by  turns  had  flung 

A  shadow  across  me.     Straightway  I  was  'ware, 

So  weeping,  how  a  mystic  Shape  did  move 

Behind  me,  and  drew  me  backward  by  the  hair  ; 

And  a  voice  said  in  mastery,  while  I  strove, — 

"  Guess  now  who  holds  thee  ?  " — "  Death,"  I  said.     But 

there. 
The  silver  answer  rang. — "  Not  Death,  but  Love." 

E.  B.  Browning. 
Sonnets  from  the  Portuguese. 

This  is  the  first  of  the  chain  of  sonnets,  which  Mrs.  Browning  called 
"  Sonnets  from  the  Portuguese."  They  tell  her  own  love-story,  and 
were  written  in  secret  and  without  thought  of  publication.  Robert 
Browning  learnt  of  them  only  the  year  after  the  marriage,  and  then 
insisted  on  their  being  published.  They  include  some  of  the  finest 
sonnets  in  our  language. 

The  love-story  of  the  two  poets  is  very  beautiful.  Mrs.  Browning 
was  six  years  older  than  her  husband  and  a  life-long  invalid,  expecting, 
as  she  says  in  this  sonnet.  Death  rather  than  Love.  Their  mari-iage 
was  supremely  happy,  and  the  great  poet,  when  in  England,  used  to 
visit  the  church  in  which  they  were  married  to  express  his  thankfulness. 

In  these  sonnets  Mrs.  Browning  laid  bare  her  innermost  feelings. 

Robert  Browning,  however,  in  several  poems  says  the  privacy  of  a 
poet's  life  and  feelings  should  not  be  bared  to  the  public.  Wordsworth 
had  written  in  1827  : 

Scorn  not  the  Sonnet.  .  .  .  With  this  key 
Shakespeare  unlocked  his  heart. 


46 


E.  B.  BROWNING 


Browning  in  1876  (thirty  years  after  the  "  Sonnets  from  the 
Portuguese  "  were  written)  wrote  in  his  poem  called  House  : 

"  With  this  same  key 
Shakespeare  unlocked  his  heart  "... 
Did  Shakespeare  ?     If  so,  the  less  Shakespeare  he  ! 

Swinburne  comments  on  these  lines  :  "  No  whit  the  less  like  Shake- 
speare, but  undoubtedly  the  less  like  Browning." 

Yet  Browning  was  undoubtedly  right.  Shakespeare  simply  presents 
to  us  the  world  as  it  exists,  with  all  its  conflicts  and  problems,  introducing 
nothing  of  his  personal  experiences  or  emotions.  He  does  not  "  unlock 
his  heart  "  ;  if  he  had  done  so,  he  could  not  have  given  us  so  uncoloured 
and  true  a  presentation  of  life.  Yet  Shakespeare's  world  corresponds 
to  the  actual  world,  and  we  see  in  it  that  good  is  good,  virtue  is  virtue  : 
Cordelia  and  Desdemona  shine  foith  radiantly,  however  sad  their  destiny. 
Shakespeare  would  realize  this,  but  there  was  no  "  unlocking  of  his 
heart,"  no  expression  of  his  personal  attitude  towards  the  universe. 
He  simply  drew  a  true  picture  of  life,  and  left  us  to  deduce  from  it  the 
only  possible  conclusions. 

If,  when  depicting  in  his  plays  all  the  phases  and  all  the  horrors  of 
human  life  Shakespeare  stood  as  aloof  as  a  god,  giving  no  indication  of 
his  own  views  or  emotions,  is  it  in  the  least  degree  likely  that  he  "  un- 
locked his  heart  "  in  the  sonnets  ?  Are  we  to  iinagine  that  there  were 
two  entirely  different  Shakespeares,  one  of  the  plays  and  one  of  the 
sonnets  ?  The  many  fantastic  and  absurd  theories  that  have  been 
deduced  from  the  sonnets  are  based  mainly  on  ignorance  of  the  language, 
literary  practices,  conventions,  conceits,  affectations,  and  extravagances 
of  all  the  many  sonneteers  of  that  peculiar  sonnet-period  from  1591  to 
1596.  Shakespeare  afterwards  in  his  plaj^s  ridiculed  the  sonnets  of 
that  time.  He  himself  was  always  the  dramatist,  and  where  (very 
occasionally)  he  introduces  a  personal  note  in  the  sonnets  he  is  simply 
using  it  for  a  dramatic  purpose.  There  is  no  serious  personal  emotion — 
except  that  there  was  no  doubt  some  real  feeling  of  gratitude  underlying 
the  extravagant  flattery  of  his  patron,  the  Earl  of  Southampton.  How- 
ever, I  must  refer  the  reader  for  fuller  particulars  to  the  admirable 
discussion  of  this  subject  in  Sir  Sidney  Lee's  Life  of  the  poet. 

Croce  points  out  (Ariosto,  Shakespeare,  and  Corneille)  that,  although 
it  would  be  absorbingly  interesting  to  know  Shakespeare's  real  experi- 
ences and  thoughts,  it  would  not  be  an  assistance,  but  rather  a  hindrance, 
to  our  artistic  appreciation  of  his  poetry.  It  is,  indeed,  necessary  to 
forget  biographical  details  in  reading  poetry.  So,  it  seems  to  me,  we 
would  appreciate  the  works  of  many  a  poet  far  more  if  we  knew  less  of 
his  history.  The  inner  aesthetic  life  of  a  poet,  or  indeed  of  any  man, 
is  not  truly  reflected  in  his  practical  life — and  this  explains  why  "  A 
prophet  is  not  without  honour,  save  in  his  own  country,  and  in  his  own 
house  "  (Matthew  xiii.  57).  Nor  would  it  help  us  to  understand  a  poem 
if  we  knew  the  experiences  that  immediately  led  up  to  it.  The  imagina- 
tion is  creative,  and  efitirely  transforms  the  material  it  works  on — and 
we  must  contemplate  only  the  actual  poem  as  it  exists.  For  example, 
it  would  only  distract  our  attention  if  we  had  before  us  the  play  of 
Hamlet  that  Shakespeare  knew  before  he  wrote  his  own  play.  All  we 
have  to  consider  is  the  actual  product  of  his  imagination,  and  not  the 
baser  material  which  he  has  transformed.  It  is  the  aesthetic  of  the 
poet  that  concerns  us  and  nothing  else. 

Going  back  to  Mrs.  Browning's  sonnet,  Robert  Browning  in  his 
turn  tells  their  love-story  in  the  next  quotation. 


R.  BROWNING  47 

....  Come  back  with  me  to  the  first  of  all, 

Let  us  lean  and  love  it  over  again, 
Let  us  now  forget  and  now  recall. 

Break  the  rosary  in  a  pearly  rain. 
And  gather  what  we  let  fall  !  .  .  . 

Hither  we  walked  then,  side  by  side. 

Arm  in  arm  and  cheek  to  cheek, 
And  still  I  questioned  or  replied. 

While  my  heart,  convulsed  to  really  speak. 
Lay  choking  in  its  pride. 

Silent  the  crumbling  bridge  we  cross, 

And  pity  and  praise  the  chapel  sweet, 
And  care  about  the  fresco's  loss, 

And  wish  for  our  souls  a  like  retreat, 
And  wonder  at  the  moss. 


We  stoop  and  look  in  through  the  grate, 
See  the  little  porch  and  rustic  door, 

Read  duly  the  dead  builder's  date  ; 

Then  cross  the  bridge  that  we  crossed  before, 

Take  the  path  again — but  wait  ! 

Oh  moment,  one  and  infinite  ! 

The  water  slips  o'er  stock  and  stone  ; 
The  West  is  tender,  hardly  bright  : 

How  grey  at  once  is  the  evening  grown — 
One  star,  its  chrysolite  ! 

We  two  stood  there  with  never  a  third, 
But  each  by  each,  as  each  knew  well  : 

The  sights  we  saw  and  the  sounds  we  heard, 
The  lights  and  the  shades  made  up  a  spell 

Till  the  trouble  grew  and  stirred. 

Oh,  the  little  more,  and  how  much  it  is  ! 

And  the  little  less,  and  what  worlds  away  ! 
How  a  sound  shall  quicken  content  to  bliss, 

Or  a  breath  suspend  the  blood's  best  play, 
And  life  be  a  proof  of  this  !  .  .  . 


48  R.  BROWNING— ADDISON 

A  moment  after,  and  hands  unseen 

Were  hanging  the  night  around  us  fast  ; 

But  we  knew  that  a  bar  was  broken  between 
Life  and  hfe  :  we  were  mixed  at  last 

In  spite  of  the  mortal  screen,  .  .  . 

How  the  world  is  made  for  each  of  us  ! 

How  all  we  perceive  and  know  in  it 
Tends  to  some  moment's  product  thus, 

When  a  soul  declares  itself — to  wit. 
By  its  fruit,  the  thing  it  does  !  .  .  . 

I  am  named  and  known  by  that  moment's  feat ; 

There  took  my  station  and  degree  ; 
So  grew  my  own  small  life  complete, 

As  nature  obtained  her  best  of  me— 
One  born  to  love  you,  sweet  ! 

And  to  watch  you  sink  by  the  fire-side  now 

Back  again,  as  you  mutely  sit 
Musing  by  fire-light,  that  great  brow 

And  the  spirit-small  hand  propping  it. 
Yonder,  my  heart  knows  how  ! 

R.  Browning. 
By  the  Fireside. 

The  last  verse,  describing  Mrs.  Browning,  makes  it  clear  that  the  poet 
is  speaking  of  his  own  love-story,  although  the  scene  is  imaginary.  The 
last  two  verses  are  to  be  read  literally,  as  an  expression  of  the  poet's 
firm  belief,  and  not  as  poetical  exaggeration. 

Perhaps  the  most  admired  of  these  verses  are  the  fifth  to  the  seventh. 


If  we  look  into  the  profession  of  physic,  we  shall  find  a 
most  formidable  body  of  men.  The  sight  of  them  is  enough 
to  make  a  man  serious,  for  we  may  lay  it  down  as  a  maxim 
that,  when  a  nation  abounds  in  physicians,  it  grows  thin 
of  people.  This  body  of  men  in  our  own  country  may  be 
described  like  the  British  army  in  Caesar's  time.  Some 
of  them  slay  in  chariots,  and  some  on  foot.  If  the  infantry 
do  less  execution  than  the  charioteers,  it  is  because  they 
cannot  be  carried  so  soon  into  all  quarters  of  the  town, 
and  despatch  so  much  business  in  so  short  a  time. 

Addison. 


ROSSETTI  49 

THE  DARK  GLASS 

Not  I  myself  know  all  my  love  for  thee  : 

How  should  I  reach  so  far,  who  cannot  weigh 
To-morrow's  dower  by  gage  of  yesterday  ? 

Shall  birth  and  death,  and  all  dark  names  that  be 

As  doors  and  windows  bared  to  some  loud  sea, 

Lash  deaf  mine  ears  and  blind  my  face  with  spray  ; 
And  shall  my  sense  pierce  love, — the  last  relay 

And  ultimate  outpost  of  eternity  ? 

Lo  !  what  am  I  to  Love,  the  lord  of  all  ? 

One  murmuring  shell  he  gathers  from  the  sand, — 
One  little  heart-flame  sheltered  in  his  hand. 

Yet  through  thine  eyes  he  grants  me  clearest  call 

And  veriest  touch  of  powers  primordial 
That  any  hour-girt  life  may  understand. 

D.    G.    ROSSETTI. 

"  The  Dark  Glass  "  refers  to  i  Cor.  xiii.  12,  "  Now  we  see  as  through 
a  glass  darkly  "• — we  know  love  only  imperfectly. 


You  must  not  say  that  this  cannot  be,  or  that  that  is 
contrary  to  nature.  You  do  not  know  what  Nature  is,  or 
what  she  can  do  ;  and  nobody  knows.  Wise  men  are 
afraid  to  say  that  there  is  anything  contrary  to  nature,  except 
what  is  contrary  to  mathematical  truth,  as  that  two  and 
two  cannot  make  five.  There  are  dozens  and  hundreds 
of  things  in  the  world  which  we  should  certainly  have  said 
were  contrary  to  nature,  if  we  did  not  see  them  going  on 
under  our  eyes  all  day  long.  If  people  had  never  seen 
little  seeds  grow  into  great  plants  and  trees,  of  quite  different 
shapes  from  themselves,  and  these  trees  again  produce 
fresh  seeds,  they  would  have  said,  "  The  thing  cannot  be." 
.  .  .  Suppose  that  no  human  being  had  ever  seen  or  heard 
of  an  elephant.  And  suppose  that  you  described  him  to 
people,  and  said,  "  This  is  the  shape,  and  plan,  and  anatomy 
of  the  beast  .  .  .  and  this  is  the  section  of  his  skull,  more 
like  a  mushroom  than  a  reasonable  skull  of  a  reasonable 
or  unreasonable  beast ;  yet  he  is  the  wisest  of  all  beasts, 
and  can  do  everything  save  read,  write,  and  cast  accounts." 
People  would  surely  have  said,  "  Nonsense  ;  your  elephant 
is  contrary  to  nature,"  and  have  thought  you  were  telling 

E 


50  KINGSLEY- TACITUS 

stories — as  the  French  thought  of  Le  Vaillant  when  he  came 
back  to  Paris  and  said  that  he  had  shot  a  giraffe  ;  and  as 
the  King  of  the  Cannibal  Islands  thought  of  the  English 
sailor,  when  he  said  that  in  his  country  water  turned  to 
marble,  and  rain  fell  as  feathers.  The  truth  is  that  folks' 
fancy  that  such  and  such  things  cannot  be,  simply  because 
they  have  not  seen  them,  is  worth  no  more  than  a  savage's 
fancy  that  there  cannot  be  such  a  thing  as  a  locomotive, 
because  he  never  saw  one  running  wild  in  the  forest. 

Charles  Kingsley. 
Water- Babies. 

This  passage  interested  us  greatly  in  the  old  days,  and  also  another 
passage  drawing  a  not  very  satisfactory  analogy  between  the  transforma- 
tion of  insects  and  our  probable  transformation  at  death. 

As  regards  the  elephant's  brain,  Kingsley  had  no  doubt  been  looking 
at  a  disarticulated  skull  of  a  young  elephant.  The  upper  part  of  this 
(the  supra-occipital)  does  somewhat  resemble  a  large  mushroom,  because 
of  its  shape  and  colour,  and  because  of  the  air-spaces  beneath,  which 
appear  like  the  radiating  gills  on  the  under  side  of  the  cap  of  the  mush- 
room. This  honeycomb  structure  is,  however,  common  to  all  large 
bones — reducing  their  weight  without  lessening  their  strength — although 
it  is  remarkably  conspicuous  in  the  elephant's  skull.  Such  a  charac- 
teristic of  the  bone  is,  of  course,  no  indication  of  the  nature  of  the  brain 
beneath,  and,  therefore,  Kingsley's  remarks  are  quite  unwarranted. 

This  book,  published  in  1863,*  had  a  considerable  effect  in  doing 
away  with  the  barbarous  employment  of  young  children  in  mines, 
factories,  brickfields,  etc.  It  called  attention  particularly  to  the  chimney- 
sweep boys  of  four  or  five  years  of  age  who  had  to  climb  up  the  narrow 
chimneys,  and  who  w-ere  simply  slaves,  neglected  and  ill-treated  by  their 
drunken  masters.  We  are  apt  to  forget  how  recently  we  emerged  from 
barbarism,  if,  indeed,  we  can  be  said  to  have  yet  emerged. 


The  gods  are  on  the  side  of  the  strongest. 

Tacitus. 
Hist.  iv.  17. 

De  Rabutin,  Comte  de  Bussy,  said  in  1677,  "  God  is  on  the  side  of 
the  heaviest  battalions."  Voltaire  again  said,  in  1770,  that  there  are 
far  more  fools  than  wise  men,  "  and  they  say  that  God  always  favours 
the  heaviest  battalions  "  (Letter  to  Le  Riche).  Gibbon  wrote,  "  The 
winds  and  waves  are  always  on  the  side  of  the  ablest  navigators  "  (chap. 
Ixviii.). 

*  In  1843  Mrs.  Browning's  fine  appeal,  "The  Cry  of  the  Children,"  appeared  in 
Blackwood,  but  I  presume  had  little  effect.  So  also  Hood's  "Song  ot  the  Shirt,"  "  Bridge  of 
Sighs,"  and  "Song  of  the  Labourer"  were  written  about  the  same  time,  but  could  have 
made  little  real  impression. 


COLERIDGE  AND  OTHERS  51 

He  seemed  to  me  to  be  one  of  those  men  who  have  not 
very  extended  minds,  but  who  know  what  they  know  very 
well— shallow  streams,  and  clear  because  they  are  shallow. 

S.  T.  Coleridge. 
Table  Talk. 


To  know  what  you  prefer,  instead  of  humbly  saying 

Amen  to  what  the  world  tells  you  you  ought  to  prefer,  is 

to  have  kept  your  soul  alive.  t^    t     o 

^  •'  R.  L.  Stevenson. 

Virginibus  Puerisque. 

THE  OCTOPUS 

By  Algernon  Sin  burn 

Strange  beauty,  eight-limbed  and  eight-handed, 

Whence  camest  to  dazzle  our  eyes. 
With  thy  bosom  bespangled  and  banded, 

With  the  hues  of  the  seas  and  the  skies  ? 
Is  thy  name  European  or  Asian, 

O  mystical  monster  marine. 
Part  molluscous  and  partly  crustacean. 
Betwixt  and  between  } 

Wast  thou  born  to  the  sound  of  sea-trumpets  ? 

Hast  thou  eaten  and  drunk  to  excess 
Of  the  sponges — thy  muffins  and  crumpets — 

Of  the  sea-weed — thy  mustard  and  cress  ? 
Wast  thou  nurtured  in  caverns  of  coral, 

Remote  from  reproof  or  restraint  ? 
Art  thou  innocent,  art  thou  immoral, 
Sinburnian  or  Saint  ? 

Lithe  limbs  curling  free  as  a  creeper, 

That  creeps  in  a  desolate  place, 
To  enrol  and  envelop  the  sleeper 

In  a  silent  and  stealthy  embrace  ; 
Cruel  beak  craning  forward  to  bite  us, 

Our  juices  to  drain  and  to  drink. 
Or  to  whelm  us  in  waves  of  Cocytus, 
Indelible  ink  ! 


52  HILTON 

O  breast  that  'twere  rapture  to  writhe  on  ! 

O  arms  'twere  deHcious  to  feel 
CHnging  close  with  the  crush  of  the  Python, 

When  she  maketh  her  murderous  meal  ! 
In  thy  eight-fold  embraces  enfolden 

Let  our  empty  existence  escape  : 
Give  us  death  that  is  glorious  and  golden, 
Crushed  all  out  of  shape  ! 

Ah,  thy  red  limbs  lascivious  and  luscious. 

With  death  in  their  amorous  kiss  ! 
Cling  round  us  and  clasp  us  and  crush  us, 

With  bitings  of  agonized  bliss  ! 
We  are  sick  with  the  poison  of  pleasure. 

Dispense  us  the  potion  of  pain  ; 
Ope  thy  mouth  to  its  uttermost  measure. 
And  bite  us  again  ! 

A.  C.  Hilton. 

This  extraordinarily  clever  parody  of  Swinburne's  "  Dolores  "  was 
written  by  Arthur  Clement  Hilton  when  he  was  an  undergraduate  at 
St.  John's,  Cambridge.  It  appeared  in  The  Light  Green,  a  clever  but 
short-lived  magazine  published  in  Cambridge  in  the  early  'seventies  as  a 
rival  to  The  Dark  Blue,  published  in  London  by  Oxford  men.  Hilton 
was  the  main  contributor  to  The  Light  Green.  He  died  when  only 
twenty-six  years  of  age.  This  brilliant  young  author  is  not  included  in 
The  Dictionary  of  National  Biography. 

He  wrote  the  closest  and  most  ingenious  parody  I  know  of  : 

Bret  Harte's  "  Heathen  Chinee  "  had  cards  up  his  sleeve — 

And  we  found  on  his  nails,  which  were  taper, 
What  is  frequent  in  tapers — that's  wax. 

Hilton's  "  Heathen  Pass-ee  "  entered  the  examination-room  with 
concealed  notes — 

And  we  found  in  his  palms,  which  were  hollow, 
What  are  frequent  in  palms — that  is,  dates. 


A  CENTURY  ago  men  were  following,  with  bated  breath, 
the  march  of  Napoleon,  and  waiting  with  feverish  im- 
patience for  the  latest  news  of  the  wars.  And  all  the  while, 
in  their  own  homes,  babies  were  being  born.  But  who 
could  think  about  babies  ?  Everybody  was  thinking  about 
battles.  In  one  year,  lying  midway  between  Trafalgar  and 
Waterloo,  there  stole  into  the  v/orld  a  host  of  heroes  ! 
During  that  one  year,  1809,  Mr.  Gladstone  was  born  in 
Liverpool  ;    Alfred  Tennyson  was  born  at  the  Somersby 


BOREHAM— MILL  53 

rectory  ;  and  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes  made  his  first  appear- 
ance in  Massachusetts.  On  the  very  self-same  day  of  that 
self-same  year  Charles  Darwin  made  his  debut  at  Shrews- 
bury, and  Abraham  Lincoln  drew  his  first  breath  in  old 
Kentucky.  Music  was  enriched  by  the  advent  of  Frederic 
Chopin  at  Warsaw,  and  of  Felix  Mendelssohn  at  Hamburg. 
Within  the  same  year,  too,  Samuel  Morley  was  born  in 
Homerton,  Edward  Fitzgerald  in  Woodbridge,  Elizabeth 
Barrett  Browning  in  Durham,  and  Frances  Kemble  in 
London.  But  nobody  thought  of  babies.  Everybody 
was  thinking  of  battles.  Yet,  viewing  that  age  in  the 
truer  perspective  which  the  distance  of  a  hundred  years 
enables  us  to  command,  we  may  well  ask  ourselves,  "  Which 
of  the  battles  of  1809  mattered  more  than  the  babies  of 
1809  ? "  .  .  . 

We  fancy  that  God  can  only  manage  Flis  world  by  big 
battalions  abroad,  when  all  the  while  He  is  doing  it  by 
beautiful  babies  at  home.  When  a  wrong  wants  righting, 
or  a  truth  wants  preaching,  or  a  continent  wants  opening, 
God  sends  a  baby  into  the  world  to  do  it.  That  is  why, 
long,  long  ago,  a  babe  was  born  in  Bethlehem. 

Frank  W.  Boreham. 
Mountains  in  the  Mist. 

Mr.  Boreham  has  made  a  mistake  about  Mrs.  Browning,  who  was 
born  in  1806  ;  and  it  is  now  known  that  Chopin  was  born  in  18 10,  not 
1809. 


Continuing  the  work  of  creation,  i.e.  co-operating  as 
instruments  of  Providence  in  bringing  order  out  of  disorder 
...  is  only  a  part  of  the  mission  of  mankind,  and  the  time 
will  come  again  when  its  due  rank  will  be  assigned  to  con- 
templation and  the  calm  culture  of  reverence  and  love. 
Then  poetry  will  resume  her  equality  with  prose.  .  .  .  But 
that  time  is  not  yet,  and  the  crowning  glory  of  Wordsworth 
is  that  he  has  borne  witness  to  it  and  kept  alive  its  traditions 
in  an  age,  which,  but  for  him,  would  have  lost  sight  of  it 

'=""■■'='>'•  J.  S.  Mill. 

In  that  utilitarian  period  the  figure  of  the  great  poet  stands  out  in 
sheer  sublimity.  Apart  from  the  depressing  atmosphere  of  the  time, 
one  needs  to  remember  how  serenely  he  continued  to  deliver  his  high 
message  in  spite  of  the  most  deadly  want  of  appreciation.  At  thirty 
he  received  £100  from  his  poems  and  nothing  more  until  he  was  sixty- 
five  1     The  quotation  is  from  a  letter  in  Caroline  Fox's  Journals. 


54  MARTINEAU  AND  OTHERS 

The  true  life  of  the  human  community  is  planted  deep 
in  the  private  affections  of  its  members  ;  in  the  greatness 
of  its  individual  minds  ;  in  the  pure  severities  of  its  domestic 
conscience  ;  in  the  noble  and  transforming  thoughts  that 
fertilize  its  sacred  nooks.  Who  can  observe,  without 
astonishment,  the  durable  action  of  men  truly  great  on  the 
history  of  the  world,  and  the  evanescence  of  vast  military 
revolutions,  once  threatening  all  things  with  destruction  ? 
How  often  is  it  the  fate  of  the  former  to  be  invisible  for  an 
age,  and  then  live  for  ever  ;  of  the  latter,  to  sweep  a  genera- 
tion from  the  earth,  and  then  vanish  with  slight  trace  ? 

James  Martineau. 
The  Outer  and  the  Imier  Temple. 

Wars  seem  to  leave  little  trace  except  where  they  result  in  the  im- 
migration and  settlement  of  a  tribe  or  nation.  Otherwise  they  appear 
to  cancel  one  another.  The  present  war  will  probably  destroy  the  only 
trace  of  the  Franco-Prussian  war,  and,  with  respect  to  Turkey,  Poland, 
and  other  countries,  will  no  doubt  cancel  the  effects  of  many  tremendous 
conflicts  of  past  centuries. 


Tout  comprendre  c'est  tout  pardonner. 

(To  know  all  is  to  forgive  all.) 

French  Proverb. 

This  proverb  is  said  to  have  originated  from  a  sentence  in  Mme.  de 
Stael's  Cormne,  Tout  comprendre  rend  tres-indidgetit ,  "  Understanding 
everything  makes  one  very  forgiving." 


My  sarcastic  friend  says,  with  the  utmost  gravity,  that 
no  man  with  less  than  a  thousand  pounds  a  year  can  afford 
to  have  private  opinions  upon  certain  important  subjects. 
He  admits  that  he  has  known  it  done  upon  eight  hundred 
a  year  ;  but  only  by  very  prudent  people  with  small  families. 

Sir  a.  Helps. 
Companions  of  my  Solitude. 


The  worst  way  to  improve  the  world 
Is  to  condemn  it. 

P.  J.  Bailey. 
Festus. 


CONWAY— STEPHENS  55 

'Tis  an  old  theme,  this  Divine  Love,  and  it  cannot  be 
exhausted.  Men  have  not  outHved  it,  angels  cannot  out- 
learn  it.  It  swayed  the  ancient  world  by  many  a  fair  god 
and  goddess  ;  its  light  has  been  cast  over  ages  of  Christian 
controversy  and  warfare  ;  it  is  still  the  guiding  Star  of  the 
Sea  to  each  voyager  after  the  nobler  faith.  The  youth 
leaves  the  old  shore  of  belief,  only  because  love  has  left  it. 
His  starved  affections  will  no  longer  accept  stone,  though 
pulverized  flour-like  and  artfully  kneaded,  for  bread. 
Their  white  sails  fill  the  purple  and  the  sombre  seas,  and 
they  hail  each  other  to  ask  for  the  summer-land,  where  faith 
climbs  to  beauty,  and  the  lost  bowers  of  childhood's  trust 

may  be  found  again.  ,,  ^^  ^ 

•'  ^  MoNCURE  Daniel  Conway. 

An  Earthward  Pilgrimage. 

This  fine  writer  was  a  Unitarian  minister,  but  afterwards  became  a 
free-thinker. 


THE  DARK  COMPANION 

There  is  an  orb  that  mocked  the  lore  of  sages 
Long  time  with  mystery  of  strange  unrest  ; 

The  steadfast  law  that  rounds  the  starry  ages 
Gave  doubtful  token  of  supreme  behest ; 

But  they,  who  knew  the  ways  of  God  unchanging. 
Concluded  some  far  influence  unseen — - 

Some  kindred  sphere  through  viewless  others  ranging, 
Whose  strong  persuasions  spanned  the  void  between  ; 

And  knowing  it  alone  through  perturbation 

And  vague  disquiet  of  another  star. 
They  named  it,  till  the  day  of  revelation, 

"  The  Dark  Companion  " — darkly  guessed  afar. 

But  when,  through  new  perfection  of  appliance, 
Faith  merged  at  length  in  undisputed  sight. 

The  mystic  mover  was  revealed  to  science. 
No  Dark  Companion,  but — a  speck  of  light : 

No  Dark  Companion,  but  a  sun  of  glory  : 
No  fell  disturber,  but  a  bright  compeer  : 

The  shining  complement  that  crowned  the  story  : 
The  golden  link  that  made  the  meaning  clear. 


56  STEPHENS 

O  Dark  Companion,  journeying  ever  by  us, 
O  grim  Perturber  of  our  works  and  ways, 

O  potent  Dread,  unseen,  yet  ever  nigh  us. 
Disquieting  all  the  tenor  of  our  days — 

O  Dark  Companion,  Death,  whose  wide  embraces 
O'ertake  remotest  change  of  clime  and  skies — 

0  Dark  Companion,  Death,  whose  grievous  traces 
Are  scattered  shreds  of  riven  enterprise — 

Thou,  too,  in  this  wise,  when,  our  eyes  unsealing. 
The  clearer  day  shall  change  our  faith  to  sight, 

Shalt  show  thyself,  in  that  supreme  revealing, 
No  Dark  Companion,  but  a  thing  of  light : 

No  ruthless  wrecker  of  harmonious  order  : 

No  alien  heart  of  discord  and  caprice  : 
A  beckoning  light  upon  the  BHssful  Border  : 

A  kindred  element  of  law  and  peace. 

So,  too,  our  strange  unrest  in  this  our  dwelling. 
The  trembling  that  thou  joinest  with  our  mirth, 

Are  by  thy  magnet-communings  compelling 
Our  spirits  farther  from  the  scope  of  earth. 

So,  doubtless,  when  beneath  thy  potence  swerving, 
'Tis  that  thou  lead'st  us  by  a  path  unknown. 

Our  seeming  deviations  all  subserving 

The  perfect  orbit  round  the  central  throne. 

The  night  wind  moans.     The  Austral  wilds  are  round  me. 
The  loved  who  live — ah,  God  !  how  few  they  are  I 

1  looked  above  ;  and  Heaven  in  mercy  found  me 

This  parable  of  comfort  in  a  star. 

J.  Brunton  Stephens. 
Convict  Once  and  other  Poems. 

The  "  Dark  Companion  "  is  no  doubt  the  star  known  as  the  "  Com- 
panion of  Sirius."  Certain  peculiarities  in  the  motion  of  Sirius  led 
Bessel  in  1844  to  the  behef  that  it  had  an  obscure  companion,  with  which 
it  was  in  revolution.  The  position  of  the  companion  having  been 
ascertained  by  calculation,  it  was  at  last  found  in  1862.  It  is  equal  in 
mass  to  our  sun,  but  is  obscured  by  the  brilliancy  of  Sirius,  which  is 
the  brightest  of  the  fixed  stars.  Brunton  Stephens'  poem  was  published 
in  Melbourne  in  1873. 


LE  GALLIENNE— GARNETT  57 

WHAT  OF  THE  DARKNESS  ? 

What  of  the  Darkness  ?     Is  it  very  fair  ? 

Are  there  great  calms,  and  find  ye  silence  there  ? 

Like  soft-shut  lilies  all  your  faces  glow 

With  some  strange  peace  our  faces  never  know, 

With  some  great  faith  our  faces  never  dare  : 

Dwells  it  in  Darkness  ?     Do  ye  find  it  there  ? 

Is  it  a  Bosom  where  tired  heads  may  lie  ? 

Is  it  a  Mouth  to  kiss  our  weeping  dry  ? 

Is  it  a  Hand  to  still  the  pulse's  leap  ? 

Is  it  a  Voice  that  holds  the  runes  of  sleep  ? 

Day  shows  us  not  such  comfort  anywhere  : 

Dwells  it  in  Darkness  ?     Do  ye  find  it  there  ? 

Out  of  the  Day's  deceiving  light  we  call, 

Day,  that  shows  man  so  great  and  God  so  small, 

That  hides  the  stars  and  magnifies  the  grass, 

O  is  the  Darkness  too  a  lying  glass, 

Or,  undistracted,  do  ye  find  truth  there  ? 

What  of  the  Darkness  ?     Is  it  very  fair  ? 

R.  Le  Gallienne. 

These  lines  were  written  of  the  blind,  but  become  even  more  beautiful 
and  true  if  applied  to  a  different  subject,  the  dead.  I  am  half-disposed 
to  think  that,  although  the  poet's  conscious  intention  was  to  write  on 
the  former  subject,  his  imagination  preferred  he  should  write  on  the 
dead,  and  inspired  him  accordingly.  That  this  is  not  so  absurd  a  con- 
jecture as  it  appears  will  be  seen  from  the  note  on  p.  170  ;  but,  if  it  is 
correct,  the  case  is  an  extraordinary  one. 

NOCTURNE 

Keen  winds  of  cloud  and  vaporous  drift 
Disrobe  yon  star,  as  ghosts,  that  lift 
A  snowy  curtain  from  its  place, 
To  scan  a  pillowed  beauty's  face. 

They  see  her  slumbering  splendours  lie 
Bedded  on  blue  unfathomed  sky  ; 
And  swoon  for  love  and  deep  delight. 
And  stillness  falls  on  all  the  night. 

Richard  Garnett. 


58  LYNCH  AND  OTHERS 

REINFORCEMENTS 

When  little  boys  with  merry  noise 

In  the  meadows  shout  and  run  ; 
And  little  girls,  sweet  woman  buds, 

Brightly  open  in  the  sun  ; 
I  may  not  of  the  world  despair. 

Our  God  despaireth  not,  I  see  ; 
For  blithesomer  in  Eden's  air 

These  lads  and  maidens  could  not  be. 

Why  were  they  born,  if  Hope  must  die  ? 

Wherefore  this  health,  if  Truth  should  fail  ? 
And  why  such  Joy,  if  Misery 

Be  conquering  us  and  must  prevail  ? 
Arouse  !   our  spirit  may  not  droop  ! 

These  young  ones  fresh  from  Heaven  are  ; 
Our  God  hath  sent  another  troop. 

And  means  to  carry  on  the  war. 

Thomas  Toke  Lynch. 


There  are  in  this  loud  stunning  tide 

Of  human  care  and  crime. 
With  whom  the  melodies  abide 

Of  the  everlasting  chime  ; 
Who  carry  music  in  their  heart 

Through  dusky  lane  and  wrangling  mart, 
Plying  their  daily  task  v/ith  busier  feet. 
Because  their  secret  souls  a  holy  strain  repeat. 

John  Keble. 

The  Christian  Year,  "St.  Matthew." 


True  wit  consists  in  the  resemblance  of  ideas  .  .  .  but 
it  must  be  such  that  gives  delight  and  surprise  to  the  reader. 
Where  the  likeness  is  obvious  it  creates  no  surprise,  and  is 
not  wit.  Thus  when  a  poet  tells  us  that  the  bosom  of  his 
mistress  is  as  white  as  snow,  there  is  no  wit  in  the  comparison 
— but,  when  he  adds  with  a  sigh,  it  is  as  cold  too,  it  then 
grows  into  wit. 

Dryden. 


LYALL  59 

SEQUEL  TO  "  MY  QUEEN  " 

"  When  and  where  shall  I  earliest  meet  her,"  etc. 

Yes,  but  the  years  run  circling  fleeter, 

Ever  they  pass  me — I  watch,  I  wait — 
Ever  I  dream,  and  awake  to  meet  her  ; 

She  Cometh  never,  or  comes  too  late. 

Should  I  press  on  ?   for  the  day  grows  shorter — 

Ought  I  to  linger  ?  the  far  end  nears  ; 
Ever  ahead  have  I  looked,  and  sought  her 

On  the  bright  sky-line  of  the  gathering  years. 

Now  that  the  shadows  are  eastward  sloping, 
As  I  screen  mine  eyes  from  the  slanting  sun, 

Cometh  a  thought — It  is  past  all  hoping, 
Look  not  ahead,  she  is  missed  and  gone. 

Here  on  the  ridge  of  my  upward  travel. 

Ere  the  life-line  dips  to  the  darkening  vales, 

Sadly  I  turn,  and  would  fain  unravel 
The  entangled  maze  of  a  search  that  fails. 

When  and  where  have  I  seen  and  passed  her  ? 

What  are  the  words  I  forgot  to  say  ? 
Should  we  have  met  had  a  boat  rowed  faster  ? 

Should  we  have  loved,  had  I  stayed  that  day  ? 

Was  it  her  face  that  I  saw,  and  started, 

Gliding  away  in  a  train  that  crossed  ? 
Was  it  her  form  that  I  once,  faint-hearted, 

Followed  awhile  in  a  crowd  and  lost  } 

Was  it  there  she  lived,  when  the  train  went  sweeping 
Under  the  moon  through  the  landscape  hushed  ? 

Somebody  called  me,  I  woke  from  sleeping. 
Saw  but  a  hamlet — and  on  we  rushed. 

Listen  and  linger— She  yet  may  find  me 
In  the  last  faint  flush  of  the  waning  light — 

Never  a  step  on  the  path  behind  nie  ; 
I  must  journey  alone,  to  the  lonely  night. 


6o  ROSSETTI— LANDOR 

But  is  there  somewhere  on  earth,  I  wonder, 
A  fading  figure,  with  eyes  that  wait. 

Who  says,  as  she  stands  in  the  distance  yonder, 
"  He  Cometh  never,  or  comes  too  late  "  ? 

Sir  Alfred  Lyall. 


Too  late  for  love,  too  late  for  joy, 

Too  late,  too  late  ! 
You  loitered  on  the  road  too  long. 

You  trifled  at  the  gate  : 
The  enchanted  dove  upon  her  branch 

Died  without  a  mate  ; 
The  enchanted  princess  in  her  tower 

Slept,  died,  behind  the  grate  ; 
Her  heart  was  starving  all  this  while 

You  made  it  wait. 

Ten  years  ago,  five  years  ago, 

One  year  ago. 
Even  then  you  had  arrived  in  time. 

Though  somewhat  slow  ; 
Then  you  had  known  her  living  face 

Which  now  you  cannot  know  : 
The  frozen  fountain  would  have  leaped. 

The  buds  gone  on  to  blow, 
The  warm  south  wind  would  have  awaked 

To  melt  the  snow. 

Christina  Rossetti. 
The  Prince's  Progress. 


Mild  is  the  parting  year,  and  sweet 

The  odour  of  the  falling  spray  ; 
Life  passes  on  more  rudely  fleet. 

And  balmless  is  its  closing  day. 

I  wait  its  close,  I  court  its  gloom. 
But  mourn  that  never  must  there  fall 

Or  on  my  breast  or  on  my  tomb 

The  tear  that  would  have  sooth'd  it  all. 

W.  S.  Landor. 


HOLMES  6i 

I  THINK,  I  said,  I  can  make  it  plain  that  there  are  at  least 
six  personalities  distinctly  to  be  recognized  as  taking  part 
in  a  dialogue  between  John  and  Thomas. 

Three  Johns  :  The  real  John — known  only  to  his  Maker. 

■    John's  ideal  John — never  the  real  one,  and  often  very 

unlike  him,     Thomas's  ideal  John — never  the  real 

John,   nor    John's    John,    but    often    very    unlike 

either. 

Three  Thomases  :    The  real  Thomas.     Thomas's  ideal 
Thomas.     John's  ideal  Thomas. 

Only  one  of  the  three  Johns  is  taxed  ;  only  one  can  be 
weighed  on  a  platform  balance  ;  but  the  other  two  are  just 
as  important  in  the  conversation.  Let  us  suppose  the  real 
John  to  be  old,  dull,  and  ill-looking.  But  as  the  Higher 
Powers  have  not  conferred  on  men  the  gift  of  seeing  them- 
selves in  the  true  light,  John  very  possibly  conceives  himself 
to  be  youthful,  witty,  and  fascinating,  and  talks  from  the 
point  of  view  of  this  ideal.  Thomas,  again,  beheves  him  to 
be  an  artful  rogue,  we  will  say  ;  therefore  he  is,  so  far  as 
Thomas's  attitude  in  the  conversation  is  concerned,  an 
artful  rogue,  though  really  simple  and  stupid.  The  same 
conditions  apply  to  the  three  Thomases.  It  follows  that, 
until  a  man  can  be  found  who  knows  himself  as  his  Maker 
knows  him,  or  who  sees  himself  as  others  see  him,  there 
must  be  at  least  six  persons  engaged  in  every  dialogue 
between  two.  Of  these  the  least  important,  philosophically 
speaking,  is  the  one  that  we  have  called  the  real  person. 
No  wonder  two  disputants  often  get  angr}^  when  there  are 
six  of  them  talking  and  listening  all  at  the  same  time. 

(A  very  unphilosophical  application  of  the  above  remarks 
was  made  by  a  young  fellow,  answering  to  the  name  of  John, 
who  sits  near  me  at  table.  A  certain  basket  of  peaches,  a 
rare  vegetable  little  known  to  boarding-houses,  was  on  its 
way  to  me  via  this  unlettered  Johannes.  He  appropriated 
the  three  that  remained  in  the  basket,  remarking  that  there 
was  just  one  apiece  for  him.  I  convinced  him  that  his 
practical  inference  was  hasty  and  illogical,  but  in  the  mean- 
time he  had  eaten  the  peaches.) 

O.  W.  Holmes. 
Autocrat  of  the  Breakfast  Table. 


62  DONNE— ELIOT 

A  HYMN  TO  GOD  THE  FATHER 

Wilt  Thou  forgive  that  sin  where  I  begun, 

Which  was  my  sin,  though  it  were  done  before  ? 
Wih  Thou  forgive  that  sin,  through  which  I  run, 
And  do  run  still,  though  still  I  do  deplore  ? — 
When  Thou  hast  done,  Thou  hast  not  done  ; 
For  I  have  more. 

Wilt  Thou  forgive  that  sin  which  I  have  won 

Others  to  sin,  and  made  my  sins  their  door  ? 
Wilt  Thou  forgive  that  sin  which  I  did  shun 
A  year  or  two,  but  wallowed  in  a  score  ? — 
When  Thou  hast  done.  Thou  hast  not  done  ; 
For  I  have  more. 

I  have  a  sin  of  fear,  that  when  Fve  spun 

My  last  thread,  I  shall  perish  on  the  shore  ; 
But  swear  by  Thyself,  that  at  my  death  Thy  Son 
Shall  shine,  as  He  Shines  now  and  heretofore  ; 
And  having  done  that.  Thou  hast  done  : 
I  fear  no  more. 

John  Donne. 

In  line  (i)  the  reference  is  to  the  old  doctrine  that  the  guilt  of  Adam 
and  Eve's  "  original  sin  "  tainted  all  generations  of  man  ;  (3)  "  run," 
ran  ;  (8)  his  sin — the  example  he  has  set — is  the  door  which  opened  to 
others  the  way  of  sin. 

In  this  fine  poem  there  are  puns.  In  the  last  verse  one  pun  is  on  the 
words  "  Son  "  and  "  Sun,"  Christ  being  the  "  Sun  of  righteousness  who 
arises  with  healing  in  his  wings  "  (Malachi  iv.  2).  Also  in  the  fifth, 
eleventh,  and  seventeenth  lines,  the  play  is  on  the  last  word  "  done  " 
and  the  poet's  name  Donne,  which  was  pronounced  dun.  (It  was 
occasionally  written  Dun,  Dunne,  or  Done  :  see  Grierson's  Poems  of 
John  Donne,  vol.  ii.  pp.  Ivii,  Ixxvii,  Ixxxvii,  8  and  12.  Contrariwise, 
the  adjective  "  dun,"  dull-brown,  was  spelt  donne  in  the  poet's  time.) 
We  are  accustomed  only  to  the  jocular  use  of  puns,  but  here  there  is  a 
serious  intention  to  give  two  meanings  to  one  expression.  Such  a  use 
of  puns  was  one  of  the  "  quaint  conceits  "  of  that  period  of  our  literature 
and  it  is  found  also  in  serious  Persian  poetry. 


The  golden  moments  in  the  stream  of  life  rush  past  us, 
and  we  see  nothing  but  sand  ;  the  angels  come  to  visit  us 
and  we  only  know  them  when  they  are  gone. 

George  Eliot. 
Felix  Holt. 


WESTWOOD  63 

LET  IT  BE  THERE 

Not  there,  not  there  ! 
Not  in  that  nook,  that  ye  deem  so  fair  ;— 
Little  reck  I  of  the  bright,  blue  sky. 
And  the  stream  that  floweth  so  murmiiringly, 
And  the  bending  boughs,  and  the  breezy  air — 

Not  there,  good  friends,  not  there  ! 

In  the  city  churchyard,  where  the  grass 
Groweth  rank  and  black,  and  where  never  a  ray 
Of  that  self-same  sun  doth  find  its  way 
Through  the  heaped-up  houses'  serried  mass — 
Where  the  only  sounds  are  the  voice  of  the  throng, 
And  the  clatter  of  wheels  as  they  rush  along — 
Or  the  plash  of  the  rain,  or  the  wind's  hoarse  cry, 
Or  the  busy  tramp  of  the  passer-by, 
Or  the  toll  of  the  bell  on  the  heavy  air — 
Good  friends,  let  it  be  there  ! 

I  am  old,  my  friends — I  am  very  old — 

Fourscore  and  five — and  bitter  cold 

Were  that  air  on  the  hill-side  far  away  ; 

Eighty  full  years,  content,  I  trow, 

Have  I  lived  in  the  home  where  ye  see  me  now, 

And  trod  those  dark  streets  day  by  day. 

Till  my  soul  doth  love  them  ;   I  love  them  all, 

Each  battered  pavement,  and  blackened  wall, 

Each  court  and  corner.     Good  sooth  !   to  me 

They  are  all  comely  and  fair  to  see — 

They  have  old  faces— each,  one  doth  tell 
A  tale  of  its  own,  that  doth  like  me  well. 
Sad  or  merry,  as  it  may  be. 
From  the  quaint  old  book  of  my  history. 
And,  friends,  when  this  weary  pain  is  past. 
Fain  would  I  lay  me  to  rest  at  last 
In  their  very  midst  ;    full  sure  am  I, 
How  dark  soever  be  earth  and  sky, 
I  shall  sleep  softly — I  shall  know 
That  the  things  I  loved  so  here  below 
Are  about  me  still — so  never  care 
That  my  last  home  looketh  all  bleak  and  bare — 
Good  friends,  let  it  be  there  ! 

Thomas  Westwood. 


64  HERBERT  AND  OTHERS 

THE  PULLEY 

When  God  at  first  made  man, 
Having  a  glass  of  blessings  standing  by, 
"  Let  us,"  said  He,  "  pour  on  him  all  we  can  ; 
Let  the  world's  riches,  which  dispersed  lie. 

Contract  into  a  span." 

So  strength  first  made  a  way, 
Then  beauty  flowed,  then  wisdom,  honour,  pleasure  ; 
When  almost  all  was  out,  God  made  a  stay, 
Perceiving  that,  alone  of  all  His  treasure, 

Rest  in  the  bottom  lay. 

"  For  if  I  should,"  said  He, 
"  Bestow  this  jewel  also  on  My  creature, 
He  would  adore  My  gifts  instead  of  Me, 
And  rest  in  Nature,  not  the  God  of  Nature  : 

So  both  should  losers  be. 

"  Yet  let  him  keep  the  rest. 
But  keep  them  with  repining  restlessness  ; 
Let  him  be  rich  and  weary,  that  at  least, 
If  goodness  lead  him  not,  yet  weariness 

May  toss  him  to  My  breast." 

George  Herbert. 

"  The  Pulley  "  because  by  the  desire  for  rest  after  toil  and  tribulation 
God  draws  man  up  to  Himself. 


Very  likely  female  pelicans  like  so  to  bleed  under  the 
selfish  little  beaks  of  their  young  ones  :  it  is  certain  that 
women  do.  There  must  be  some  sort  of  pleasure,  which 
we  men  don't  understand,  which  accompanies  the  pain  of 
being  scarified.  Thackeray. 

Pendennis. 


The  devil  could  drive  woman  out  of  Paradise  ;   but  the 
devil  himself  cannot  drive  the  Paradise  out  of  a  woman. 

George  MacDonald. 
Robert  Falconer. 


HUXLEY  65 

[Darwin's  Origin  of  Species  was  published  in  November 
1859.]  At  the  Oxford  meeting  of  the  British  Association 
in  i860  Huxley  had  on  Thursday,  June  28,  directly  con- 
tradicted Professor  Owen's  statement  that  a  gorilla's  brain 
differed  more  from  a  man's  than  it  did  from  the  brain  of 
the  lowest  of  the  Quadrumana  (apes,  monkeys,  and  lemurs). 
He  was  thus  marked  out  as  the  champion  of  evolution. 
On  the  Saturday,  although  the  public  were  not  admitted, 
the  members  crowded  the  room  to  suffocation,  anxious  to 
hear  the  brilliant  controversialist.  Bishop  Wilberforce,  take 
part  in  the  debate.  An  unimportant  paper  was  read  bearing 
upon  Darwinism,  and  a  discussion  followed.  The  Bishop, 
inspired  by  Owen,  began  his  speech.  He  spoke  in  dulcet 
tones,  persuasive  manner,  and  with  well-turned  periods, 
but  ridiculing  Darwin  badly  and  Huxley  savagely.  "  In 
a  light,  scoffing  tone,  florid  and  fluent,  he  assured  us  there 
was  nothing  in  the  idea  of  evolution  :  rock-pigeons  were 
what  rock-pigeons  had  always  been.  Then,  turning  to 
Huxley,  with  a  smiling  insolence,  he  begged  to  know,  was 
it  through  his  grandfather  or  his  grandmother  that  he  claimed 
his  descent  from  a  monkey  y 

As  he  said  this,  Huxley  turned  to  his  neighbour  and  said, 
"  The  Lord  hath  delivered  him  into  mine  hands  !  "  On 
rising  to  speak,  he  first  gave  a  forcible  and  eloquent  reply  to 
the  scientific  part  of  the  Bishop's  argument.  Then  "  he 
stood  before  us  and  spoke  those  tremendous  words — words, 
which  no  one  seems  sure  of  now,  nor,  I  think,  could  re- 
member just  after  they  were  spoken,  for  their  meaning  took 
away  our  breath,  though  it  left  us  in  no  doubt  as  to  what 
it  was.  *  He  was  not  ashamed  to  have  a  monkey  for  his 
ancestor  :  but  he  would  be  ashamed  to  be  connected  with 
a  man  who  used  great  gifts  to  obscure  the  truth.'  No  one 
doubted  his  meaning,  and  the  effect  was  tremendous.  One 
lady  fainted  and  had  to  be  carried  out  :  I,  for  one,  jumped 
out  of  my  seat,"  {Macmillan's,  1898.)  There  is  no 
verbatim  report  of  this  incident,  but  the  varying  accounts 
agree  in  outline. 

Extracted  from  "  Life  of  Huxley  .'^ 

One  object  of  this  book  is  to  bring  back  the  memories  of  the  seventy- 
eighties — and  of  overwhelming  interest  at  the  time  was  the  alleged  con- 
flict between  religion  and  science.  Through  Darwin's  great  researches 
and  Herbert  Spencer's  world-wide  extension  of  the  evolution  theory, 
so  much  appeared  to  be  covered  by  law  that  men  were  blinded  to  the 

F 


66  TYNDALL 

fact  that  the  essential  question  of  causality,  lying  behind  all  law,  was 
still  untouched. 

The  important  and  thrilling  incident  referred  to  above  took  place 
in  i860,  when  I  was  two  years  old,  but  it  was  still  an  absorbing  topic 
thirteen  or  fourteen  years  later,  and  is  one  of  my  most  vivid  recollections. 

Wilberforce  (i 805-1 873)  was  a  great  Churchman  and,  indeed,  has 
been  said  to  be  the  greatest  prelate  of  his  age,  although  his  nickname 
"  Soapy  Sam  "  led  to  a  popular  depreciation  of  his  merits.  (This 
epithet  originally  meant  that  he  was  evasive  on  certain  questions,  but  it 
took  a  further  nieaning  from  his  persuasive  eloquence.)  In  this  instance 
he  meddled  with  a  subject  of  which  he  was  ignorant.  Owen,  who 
instigated  him  to  make  this  attack  on  Darwin  and  Huxley,  had  at  first 
welcomed  the  theory  of  evolution,  but  quailed  before  the  orthodox 
indignation  against  the  necessary  extension  of  that  theory  to  the  origin 
of  man.  Huxley  (i  825-1 895)  was  thirty-five  years  of  age  when  he  thus 
showed  himself  a  strong  debater  and  a  power  in  the  scientific  world. 


On  tracing  the  line  of  life  backwards,  we  see  it  approach- 
ing more  and  more  to  what  we  call  the  purely  physical 
condition.  We  come  at  length  to  those  organisms  which 
I  have  compared  to  drops  of  oil  suspended  in  a  mixture  of 
alcohol  and  water.  We  reach  the  protogenes  of  Haeckel, 
in  which  we  have  "  a  type  distinguishable  from  a  fragment 
of  albumen  only  by  its  finely  granular  character."  Can  we 
pause  here  "i  We  break  a  magnet  and  find  two  poles  in 
each  of  its  fragments.  We  continue  the  process  of  breaking  ; 
but  however  small  the  parts,  each  carries  with  it,  though 
enfeebled,  the  polarity  of  the  whole.  And  when  we  can 
break  no  longer,  we  prolong  the  intellectual  vision  to  the 
polar  molecules.  Are  we  not  urged  to  do  something  similar 
in  the  case  of  life  ?  .  .  .  Believing,  as  I  do,  in  the  con- 
tinuity of  nature,  I  cannot  stop  abruptly  where  our  micro- 
scopes cease  to  be  of  use.  Here  the  vision  of  the  mind 
authoritatively  supplements  the  vision  of  the  eye.  By  a 
necessity  engendered  and  justified  by  science  I  cross  the 
boundary  of  the  experimental  evidence,  and  discern  in  that 
Matter  which  we,  in  our  ignorance  of  its  latent  powers, 
and  notwithstanding  our  professed  reverence  for  its  Creator, 
have  hitherto  covered  with  opprobrium,  the  promise  and 
potency  of  all  terrestrial  Life. 


[Referring  to  the  question  of  inquiring  into  the  mystery 
of  our  origin.]  Here,  however,  I  touch  a  theme  too  great 
for  me  to  handle,  but  which  will  assuredly  be  handled  by 


TYNDALL  67 

the  loftiest  minds,  when  you  and  I,  like  streaks  of  morning 
cloud,  shall  have  tnelted  into  the  infinite  azure  of  the  past. 

John  Tyndall. 

The  italics  are  mine. 

As  in  the  preceding  quotation  the  subject  is  the  alleged  conflict 
between  religion  and  science,  which  occupied  so  large  a  space  in  our  life 
and  thought  in  the  seventies  and  eighties.  The  above  are  the  two 
passages  from  Tyndall 's  presidential  address  at  the  Belfast  meeting  of 
the  British  Association  in  1874,  which  caused  an  immense  sensation. 
The  Belfast  Address,  like  Huxley's  smashing  reply  to  Bishop  Wilberforce, 
was  useful  in  showing  that  all  scientific  questions  must  be  considered 
with  an  open  mind,  free  of  theological  bias,  and  also  in  adding  testimony 
to  the  importance  and  value  of  Darwin's  investigation.  Although 
fifteen  years  had  passed  since  The  Origin  of  Species  was  published,  this 
was  still  necessary.  (At  that  very  time  Professor  McCoy,  afterwards 
Sir  Frederick  McCoy,  F.R.S.,  when  lecturing  at  the  Melbourne  Univer- 
sity to  his  students,  of  whom  I  was  one,  was  still  making  inane  jokes 
about  evolution  and  our  monkey  cousins.) 

But,  while  the  world  was  in  ferment  over  the  question  of  man's 
alleged  kinship  with  the  monkey,  there  canie  the  further  startling  fact 
that  the  President  of  the  British  Association  also  proclaimed  his  belief 
in  materialism  and,  inferentially,  that  there  was  no  life  after  death. 
Englishmen  had  not  before  realized  how  widely  materialism  had  spread 
through  England  and  Europe.  I  do  not  think  it  is  an  exaggeration  to 
say  that  a  majority  at  least  of  the  leading  thinkers  had  become  materialists. 

In  travelling  outside  science  into  metaphysics,  Tyndall  betrayed  a 
lamentable  ignorance  of  the  latter — a  parallel  case  to  that  of  Bishop 
Wilberforce  when  he  attempted  to  meddle  with  science.  Martineau, 
referring  to  the  first  quotation  above,  wrote  :  "  There  is  no  magic  in  the 
superlatively  little  to  draw  from  the  universe  its  last  secret.  Size  is  but 
relative,  magnified  or  dwindled  by  a  glass,  variable  with  the  organ  of 
perception  :  to  one  being,  the  speck  which  only  tlie  microscope  can  show 
us  may  be  a  universe  ;  to  another,  the  solar  system  but  a  molecule  ;  and 
in  the  passing  from  the  latter  to  the  former  you  reach  no  end  of  search 
or  beginning  of  things.  You  merely  substitute  a  miniature  of  nature 
for  its  life-size  without  at  all  showing  whence  the  features  arise." 


Materialism  or  naturalism  is  the  theory  that  the  universe  is  merely 
a  machine,  and  that  nothing  exists  but  matter  and  motion  acting  by 
blind  necessity  in  accordance  with  natural  law.  Mind  is  simply  a 
cerebral  process  and  there  is  no  purpose  in  the  world.  Not  only  is  mind 
merely  a  function  of  matter,  but  also  free  will  is  non-existent  ;  there 
can  be  no  God,  no  soul,  no  survival  after  death,  no  ground  for  inorality 
and  no  moral  responsibility,  and  (weirdly  enough)  no  reliance  on  the 
validity  of  our  intellectual  processes.  We  are,  in  fact,  left  in  a  hopeless 
quagmire.  We  cannot  believe  that  we  know  anything,  or  that  we  know 
nothing  ;  that  we  are  real  beings,  or  only  "  such  stuff  as  dreams  are 
made  on  " — since  we  need  a  mind  to  have  any  belief.  It  seems  strange 
to  us  to-day  that  any  such  creed  could  have  been  accepted  by  the  majority 
of  thinkers  so  recently  as,  say,  forty  years  ago.  As  Professor  Eddington 
says  (Space,  Time  and  Gravitation),  filling  space  with  the  hum  of 
machinery  was  a  procedure  curiously  popular  in  the  nineteenth  century. 

It  was  a  period,  great  in  science,  but  very  poor  in  philosophy.  Most 
thinkers  of  Darwin  and  Tyndall's  time  seemed  unable  to  grasp  the  fact 


68  TYNDALL 

that  causality  lies  behind  all  natural  law.  They  failed  to  see,  in  particular, 
that  behind  evolution  there  was  necessarily  some  cause  of  evolution^- 
and  that  that  cause  showed  purposive,  creative  intelligence.  Nor  did 
they  realize  that  they  were  using  ftiind,  not  physical  or  chemical  processes, 
to  prove  that  mind  did  not  exist.  It  was  only  through  mind  that  they 
could  understand  those  processes,  and  the  facts  of  evolution,  and  all 
other  operations  of  the  physical  universe  ;  yet  they  were  engaged  in 
the  curious  occupation  of  employing  mind  to  disprove  its  own  existence. 
It  was  a  near  approach  to  lunacy  that  the  makers  of  machines  should 
argue  that  they  were  machines  themselves. 

However,  in  this  note  it  is  not  proposed  to  discuss  the  position  as  it 
then  was,  and  the  many  facts  that  were  overlooked  or  misunderstood  ; 
I  propose  only  to  point  out  that  the  ?iezu  advances  in  our  knowledge  during 
the  last  twenty-five  years  have  in  themselves  made  it  impossible  for  any 
intelligent  man  to  hold  the  materialist  creed, 

Herbert  Spencer,  the  greatest  thinker  of  last  century,  was  the  first 
to  realize  that  scientific  knowledge  was  incompatible  with  materialism. 
In  1898,  in  the  revised  edition  of  Principles  of  Biology,  he  made  his  great 
confession  that  "  the  processes  which  go  on  in  living  things  are  in- 
comprehensible as  results  of  any  physical  actions  known  to  us.  .  .  .  We 
are  obliged  to  confess  that  life  in  its  essence  cannot  be  conceived  in 
physico-chemical  terms."  Since  then  progress  has  been  rapid  ;  the 
whole  aspect  of  the  universe  has  been  changed  ;  and  each  fresh  discovery 
has  not  only  failed  to  lessen,  but  has  so  far  vastly  increased 

The  burden  of  the  mystery 
Of  all  this  unintelligible  world. 

Wordsworth. 

Tintern  Abbey. 

Instead  of  a  universe  consisting  of  a  small  fixed  number  of  irreducible, 
unchangeable  atoms  of  matter,  we  now  know  that  matter  itself  consists 
of  electricity.  The  atom  is  a  kind  of  minute  solar  system,  held  together 
by  prodigious  force  ;  and  one  atom  is  convertible  into  another  as  they 
all  consist  of  similar  charges  of  electricity.  As  to  the  mysterious  "  ether  " 
that  fills  the  relatively  vast  spaces  between  those  particles  of  electricity, 
we  know  nothing  about  it,  except  that  it  is  not  matter.  The  two  sup- 
posed constituents  of  the  universe,  matter  and  motion,  have  been  resolved 
into  one,  motion  ;  and  motion — as  we  know  from  the  theory  of  relativity 
— is  not  absolute,  but  relative  to  the  mind. 

Other  facts  have  also  appeared,  each  one  of  which  suflliciently  demon- 
strates the  futility  of  a  materialist  theory.  One  is  the  immensely  im- 
portant discovery  of  the  Unconscious,  as  to  which  I  have  written  at 
considerable  length  on  p.  170,  and  need  say  nothing  more  here,  except 
that  it  shows  materialism  to  be  a  monstrous  absurdity. 

Another  great  physical  discovery,  which  is  also  essentially  psychical, 
is  that  of  Einstein,  which  alters  our  whole  conception  of  the  physical 
universe,  and  proves  that  it  is  not  something  foreign  to  mind,  but  essenti- 
ally one  with  mind.  Space,  time  and  matter  are  simply  forms  which 
the  mind  has  constructed  out  of  its  own  experience  ;  and  time  is  not  an 
"  independent  variable  "  to  be  considered  apart  from  space,  but  is  a 
"  fourth  dimension."  It  also  demonstrates  the  wonderful  fact  that  the 
purely  ittental  results  of  the  non-Euclidean  geometries,  hitherto  supposed 
to  be  merely  imaginary,  actually  correspond  with  the  facts  of  the  physical 
universe,  and  give  us  knowledge  that  we  failed  to  obtain  from  the  observed 
phenomena.  And  it  further  shows  that  philosophy  also  by  a  purely 
mental  process  was  right  in  its  conclusion  that  space  and  time  are,  as 


SAYCE  69 

Kant  said,  merely  forms  of  experience.  In  other  words,  the  mind  can 
evolve  by  its  ozv7i  iniier  powers,  and  zvithoiit  refereiice  to  physical  phenomena, 
true  conceptions  of  the  nature  of  the  universe.  This  important  fact 
alone  puts  an  end  to  materialism. 

Also  opposed  to  materialism  are  numbers  of  other  facts  in  biology 
and  kindred  sciences,  and  in  psychology,  anthropology,  etc.,  which,  as 
is  now  realized,  show  the  omnipresence  of  intelligence.  Take,  for 
example,  the  statement  quoted  above  from  Herbert  Spencer.  It  can 
hardly  now  be  questioned  that  in  the  actions  of  every  living  organism 
there  is  present  the  idea  of  "  end  "  or  purpose.  This  concerns  biology, 
which  deals  with  all  living  organisms  ;  when  we  ascend  from  this 
science  to  spheres  of  knowledge  which  are  peculiar  to  man,  we  rise 
not  only  above  the  physico-chemical,  but  above  and  beyond  the  reach 
of  biological  laws.  This  is  seen  in  mathematics,  ethics,  assthetics, 
psychology,  sociology,  metaphysics,  and,  above  all,  religion.  We,  in 
fact,  become  entirely  removed  into  the  realm  of  mind. 

On  the  other  hand,  take  an  example  of  a  different  character — the 
evidence  of  survival  after  death  investigated  by  able  men  and  women, 
using  proper  scientific  methods,  during  the  forty  years  the  Society  for 
Psychical  Research  has  been  at  work. 

It  results  from  these  recent  discoveries  alone  that  mind  not  only 
exists,  but  is  the  one  fundamental  and  supreme  fact  in  the  universe. 

With  this  note  should  be  read  the  note  on  p.  170. 


THE  NEW  GOSPEL 

HAECKELIUS  loquitur  : 

The  ages  have  passed  and  come  with  the  beat  of  a  measure- 
less tread 
And  piled  up  their  palace-dome  on  the  dust  of  the  ageless 

dead, 
Since  the  atom  of  life  first  glowed  in  the  breast  of  eternal 

time, 
And  shaped  for  itself  its  abode  in  the  womb  of  the  shapeless 

slime  ; 
And  the  years  matured  its  form  with  slow,  unwearying  toil. 
Moulded  by  sun  and  storm,  and  rich  with  the  centuries'  spoil, 
Till  the  face  of  the  earth  was  fair,  and  life  grew  up  into  mind. 
And  breathed  its  earliest  prayer  to  its  god  in  the  dawn  or 

wind. 
And  called  itself  by  the  name  of  man,  the  master  and  lord, 
Who  conquers  the  strength  of  flame  and  tempers  the  spear 

and  sword  ; 
For  the  world  grows  wiser  by  war,  and  death  is  the  law  of 

life, 
The  lowermost  rock  in  the  scar  is  red  with  the  stains  of  strife. 


70  SAYCE 

Burst  thro'  the  bounds  of  sight,  and  measure  the  least  of 

things, 
Plummet  the  infinite  and  make  to  thy  fancy  wings  ; 
From  crystal,  and  coral,  and  weed,  up  to  man  in  his  noblest 

race, 
The  weaker  shall  fail  in  his  need,  and  the  stronger  shall  hold 

his  place  ! 

RENANUS  loquitur  : 

Ah  !  leave  me  yet  a  little  while,  to  watch 

The  golden  glory  of  the  dying  day. 
Till  all  the  purple  mountains  gleam  and  catch 

The  last  faint  light  that  slowly  steals  away. 

Too  soon  the  night  is  on. us  ;  ay,  too  soon 
We  know  the  cloud  is  born  of  bUnding  mist  : 

The  throne,  whereon  the  gods  sat  crowned  at  noon 
With  ruby  rays  and  liquid  amethyst. 

Is  but  a  vapour,  dim  and  grey,  a  streak 

Of  hollow  rain  that  freezes  in  its  fall, 
A  dull,  cold  shape  that  settles  on  the  peak. 

Icy  and  stifling  as  a  dead  man's  pall. 

The  world's  old  faith  is  fairest  in  its  death, 
For  death  is  fairer  oftentimes  than  life  ; 

No  vulgar  passion  quivers  in  the  breath  : 
The  dead  forget  their  weariness  and  strife. 

Say  not  that  death  is  even  as  decay, 

A  hideous  charnel  choked  with  rotting  dust  ; 

The  cold  white  lips  are  beautiful  as  spray 
Cast  on  an  iceberg  by  the  northern  gust. 

The  memories  of  the  past  are  diadem'd 
About  the  brow  and  folded  on  the  eyes  ; 

The  weary  lids  beneath  are  bent  and  gemm'd 
With  charmed  dreams  and  mystic  reveries. 

Once  more  she  sits  in  her  imperial  chair. 
And  kings  and  Csesars  kneel  before  her  feet. 

And  clouds  of  incense  fill  the  heavy  air, 

And  shouts  of  homage  echo  thro'  the  street. 


SAYCE  71 

Or  yet,  again,  she  stretches  forth  the  hand. 
And  men  are  done  to  death  at  her  desire  ; 

The  smoke  of  burning  cities  dims  the  land, 
And  limbs  are  torn  or  shrivelled  in  the  fire. 

Once  more  the  scene  is  shifted,  and  the  gleam 
Of  eastern  suns  about  her  brow  is  curled  ; 

Once  more  she  roams  a  maiden  by  the  stream, 
Despised  of  men,  the  Magdalen  of  the  world. 

So  scene  on  scene  floats  lightly,  as  a  haze 

That  comes  and  goes  with  sudden  gust  and  lull  : 

Limned  with  the  sunset  hues  of  other  days. 

They  are  but  dreams  ;  yet  dreams  are  beautiful. 

Archibald  Henry  Sayce. 
Academy,  Dec.  5,  1885. 

As  in  the  two  preceding  quotations,  the  subject  is  the  supposed  conflict 
of  religion  and  science.  Haeckel  (born  1834,  recently  dead)  was  the 
most  ruthless  of  all  the  biologists  in  accounting  for  evolution  and  all 
progress  by  a  struggle  for  existence.  This  is  finely  expressed  in  the 
six  lines  beginning,  "  For  the  world  grows  wiser  by  war."  Renan 
(1823-1892),  the  French  writer,  whose  love  of  Christianity  survived 
his  belief  in  it,  speaks  of  the  passing  away  of  the  old  faith  as  "  the  golden 
glory  of  the  dying  day,"  and  says  that  in  its  death  it  will  be  more  beautiful 
than  in  its  life,  when  it  led  to  passion,  persecution  and  war.  The  pen- 
ultimate verse  refers  to  the  time  when  temporal  power  was  removed 
from  the  church,  and  she  reverted  to  the  humility,  and  also  the  beauty, 
of  primitive  Christianity  when  it  came  in  its  morning  glory  from  the 
East. 

The  fact  that  these  fine  verses  are  by  the  great  philologist  and  archaeo- 
logist, Professor  Sayce,  who  has  not  publicly  appeared  in  the  role  of  a 
poet,  adds  greatly  to  their  interest.  The  few  verses  he  has  published 
have  mostly  appeared  over  the  initials  "  A.  H.  S."  in  the  old  Academy, 
and  he  was  not  known  to  the  public  as  the  author. 

Anything  about  Professor  Sayce  must  be  interesting  to  the  reader, 
and  I,  therefore,  need  not  apologize  for  mentioning  the  following  in- 
cidents, which,  I  imagine,  are  known  only  among  his  friends.  In  1870, 
during  the  Franco-German  War,  Mr.  Sayce  was  ordered  to  be  shot  at 
Nantes  as  a  German  spy,  and  only  escaped  "  by  the  skin  of  his  teeth." 
It  was  just  before  Gambetta  had  flown  in  his  balloon  out  of  Paris,  and 
there  was  no  recognized  Government  in  the  country.  Nantes  was  full 
of  fugitives,  and  bands  of  Uhlans  were  in  the  neighbourhood.  Mr. 
Sayce  was  arrested  when  walking  round  the  old  citadel  examining  its 
walls — not  realizing  that  it  was  occupied  by  French  troops.  Fortunately, 
some  ladies  of  the  garrison  came  in  during  his  examination  to  see  the 
interesting  young  prisoner  and,  after  Mr.  Sayce  had  been  placed  against 
the  wall  and  a  soldier  told  off  to  shoot  him,  they  prevailed  upon  the 
Commandant  to  give  him  a  second  examination,  which  ended  in  his 
acquittal. 

Mr.  Sayce  was  also  among  the  Carlists  in  the  Carlist  war  of  1873, 


72  BYRON— CALVERLEY 

and  was  present  at  some  of  the  so-called  battles  which,  he  says,  were 
dangerous  only  to  the  onlookers.  He  also  once  had  a  pitched  battle 
with  Bedouins  in  Syria. 

Professor  Sayce  (he  became  Professor  in  1876)  has  also  the  proud 
distinction  of  being  the  only  person  known  to  have  survived  the  bite 
of  the  Egyptian  cerastes  asp,  which  is  supposed  to  have  killed  Cleopatra. 
He  accidentally  trod  on  the  reptile  in  the  desert  some  three  or  four  miles 
north  of  Assouan  and  was  bitten  in  the  leg.  Luckily,  he  happened  to 
be  just  outside  the  dahabieh  in  which  he  was  travelling  with  three  Oxford 
friends,  one  of  them  the  late  Master  of  Balliol.  The  cook  had  a  small 
pair  of  red-hot  tongs,  with  which  he  had  been  preparing  lunch,  and 
Professor  Sayce  was  able  to  burn  the  bitten  leg  down  to  the  bone  within 
two  ininutes  after  the  accident  ;  thus  saving  his  life  at  the  expense  of  a 
few  weeks'  lameness. 


That  all-softening,  overpowering  knell, 
The  tocsin  of  the  soul — the  dinner  bell. 

Byron. 
Don  Juan. 

But  hark  !  a  sound  is  stealing  on  my  ear — 
A  soft  and  silvery  sound — I  know  it  well. 

Its  tinkling  tells  me  that  a  time  is  near 
Precious  to  me — it  is  the  Dinner  Bell. 

0  blessed  Bell  !     Thou  bringest  beef  and  beer. 

Thou  bringest  good  things  more  than  tongue  may  tell : 
Seared  is,  of  course,  my  heart — but  unsubdued 
Is,  and  shall  be,  my  appetite  for  food. 

1  go.     Untaught  and  feeble  is  my  pen  : 

But  on  one  statement  I  may  safely  venture  : 
That  few  of  our  most  highly  gifted  men 

Have  more  appreciation  of  the  trencher. 
I  go.     One  pound  of  British  beef,  and  then 

What  Mr.  Swiveller  called  a  "  modest  quencher  "  ; 
That,  "  home-returning,"  I  may  "  soothly  say," 
"  Fate  cannot  touch  me  :    I  have  dined  to-day." 

C.  S.  Calverley. 
Beer. 

These  are  the  two  last  verses  of  a  parody  of  Byron's  "  Don  Juan  " 
(see  preceding  quotation).  In  each  of  the  last  three  lines  there  is  a 
literary  reference.  The  first,  of  course,  is  to  the  happy-go-lucky  Dick 
Swiveller  of  Dickens's  Old  Curiosity  Shop. 

The  next  reference  is  to  the  amusing  story  about  Sir  Walter  Scott 
that  became  known  about  the  time  Calverley  was  writing  (1862).     Scott, 


"  OWEN  MEREDITH  "—CARROLL  73 

in  his  description  of  Melrose  Abbey  by  moonlight  ("  Lay  of  the  Last 
Minstrel  "),  says  : 

If  thou  wouldst  view  fair  Melrose  aright, 

Go  visit  it  by  the  pale  moonlight  ; 

For  the  gay  beams  of  lightsome  day 

Gild,  but  to  flout,  the  ruins  grey.   .   .   . 

Yet  there  can  be  no  doubt  that  he  himself  had  never  seen  the  Abbey  by 
moonlight  !     He  further  tells  his  readers  that  they  can 

Home  returning,  soothly  swear 

Was  never  scene  so  sad  and  fair. 

They,  having  seen  it,  can  "  soothly  "  (i.e.  truthfully)  swear  to  its  moon- 
light beauty,  which  was  more  than  he  himself  could  ! 

Calverley's  last  line  is  from  Sydney  Smith's  "  Recipe  for  a  Salad  "  : 
Oh,  herbaceous  treat  ! 
'Twould  tempt  the  dying  anchorite  to  eat  ; 
Back  to  the  world  he'd  turn  his  fleeting  soul, 
And  plunge  his  fingers  in  the  salad  bowl  ; 
Serenely  full  the  epicure  v.ould  say, 
"  Fate  cannot  harm  me — I  have  dined  to-day." 

This  again  is  an  adaptation  of  Dryden's   "  Imitation  of  Horace  " 
(Book  III.,  Ode  29)  : 

Happy  the  man,  and  happy  he  alone, 

He  who  can  call  to-day  his  own  ; 

He  who,  secure  within,  can  say, 

To-morrow,  do  thy  worst,  for  I  have  liv'd  to-day. 


We  may  live  without  poetry,  music  and  art ; 
We  may  live  without  conscience,  and  live  without  heart  : 
We  may  live  without  friends  ;  we  may  live  without  books  ; 
But  civilized  man  can  not  live  without  cooks. 

He  may  live  without  books — what  is  knowledge  but  grieving  ? 
He  may  live  without  hope — what  is  hope  but  deceiving  ? 
He  may  live  without  love — what  is  passion  but  pining  ? 
But  where  is  the  man  that  can  live  without  dining  } 

Earl  of  Lytton,  "  Owen  Meredith." 
Lucile. 


"  A  LOAF  of  bread,"  the  Walrus  said, 

"  Is  what  we  chiefly  need  : 
Pepper  and  vinegar  besides 

Are  very  good  indeed — 
Now  if  you're  ready.  Oysters  dear. 

We  can  begin  to  feed." 

Lewis  Carroll. 
The  Walrus  and  the  Carpenter. 


74  SWIFT  AND  OTHERS 

He  had  been  eight  years  upon  a  project  for  extracting 
sunbeams  out  of  cucumbers,  which  were  to  be  put  in  phials 
hermetically  sealed  and  let  out  to  warm  the  air  in  raw, 
inclement  summers.  o 

Gullwer's  Travels. 


What  is  experience  ?     A  little  cottage  made  with  the 

debris  of  those  palaces  of  gold  and  marble  which  we  call 

our  illusions.  . 

Author  not  traced. 


First  of  the  first, 
Such  I  pronounce  Fompilia,  then  as  now 
Perfect  in  whiteness  :  stoop  thou  down,  my  child.  .  .  . 
My  rose,  I  gather  for  the  breast  of  God.  .  .  . 
And  surely  not  so  very  much  apart. 
Need  I  place  thee,  my  warrior-priest.  .  .  . 

In  thought,  word  and  deed. 
How  throughout  all  thy  warfare  thou  wast  pure, 
I  find  it  easy  to  believe  :   and  if 
At  any  fateful  moment  of  the  strange 
Adventure,  the  strong  passion  of  that  strait, 
Fear  and  surprise  may  have  revealed  too  much, — 
As  when  a  thundrous  midnight,  with  black  air 
That  burns,  rain-drops  that  blister,  breaks  a  spell. 
Draws  out  the  excessive  virtue  of  some  sheathed 
Shut  unsuspected  flower  that  hoards  and  hides 
Immensity  of  sv/eetness, — so,  perchance. 
Might  the  surprise  and  fear  release  too  much 
The  perfect  beauty  of  the  body  and  soul 
Thou  savedst  in  thy  passion  for  God's  sake. 
He  who  is  Pity.     Was  the  trial  sore  ? 
Temptation  sharp  ?     Thank  God  a  second  time  ! 
Why  comes  temptation  but  for  man  to  meet 
And  master  and  make  crouch  beneath  his  feet, 
And  so  be  pedestalled  in  triumph  ? 

R.  Browning, 
The  Ring  and  the  Book,  X. 

A  young  handsome  priest,  who  had  led  a  gay  life,  was  moved  by  pure 
motives  to  rescue  a  beautiful  young  wife  from  a  dreadful  husband,  and  he 
travelled  with  her  for  three  days  to  Rome.     The  husband  was  following 


HAFIZ  AND  OTHERS  75 

with  an  armed  band,  the  priest  was  risking  disgrace,  and  the  girl  was 
risking  death.  The  mutual  danger  would  in  itself  tend  to  draw  the 
fugitives  too  closely  together  ;  but  also  the  girl  had  shown  herself  doubly 
lovable,  for  the  strain  and  stress  had  revealed  in  her  a  very  beautiful 
nature — just  as  a  midnight  thunderstorm  opens  and  draws  rich  scent 
from 

Some  sheathed 

Shut  unsuspected  flower  that  hoards  and  hides 

Immensity  of  sweetness. 

Coleridge  has  a  similar  illustration,  "  Quarrels  of  anger  ending  in 
tears  are  favourable  to  love  in  its  spring  tide,  as  plants  are  found  to  grow 
very  rapidly  after  a  thunderstorm  with  rain  "  (Allsop's  Letters,  etc., 
of  Coleridge).  Coleridge  died  in  1834,  and  The  Ring  and  the  Book  was 
published  in  1 868-1 869  :  it  is  curious  that  both  poets  should  have  been 
impressed  with  a  fact  that  appears  to  have  been  only  recently  recognized. 
In  the  seventies  Lemstrom  proved  that  plants  thrive  under  electricity  ; 
but  it  was  only  of  recent  years  that  in  some  agricultural  experiments  in 
Germany  it  was  found  that  electricity  was  of  no  benefit  to  the  crops 
without  rain  or  other  fuoisture. 

The  quotation  is  from  the  fine  judgment  which  the  Pope  delivers. 


Every  man  hath  his  gift,  one  a  cup  of  wine,  another 
heart's  blood. 

Hafiz. 

Some  poets  sing  of  wine  or  sensuous  enjoyment,  but  Hafiz  pours  out 
his  heart's  blood  in  song.  Wine  and  blood  are  contrasted  because  of 
their  similar  appearance. 


As  perchance  carvers  do  not  faces  make, 
But  that  away,  which  hid  them  there,  do  take  :  * 
Let  crosses  so  take  what  hid  Christ  in  thee, 
And  be  his  Image,  or  not  his,  but  He. 

John  Donne. 
The  Cross. 

As  sculptors  chisel  away  the  marble  that  hides  the  statue  within, 
so  let  "  crosses  "  or  afflictions  remove  the  impurities  which  hide  the 
Christ  in  us,  so  that  we  shall  become  His  image,  or  not  His  image,  but 
Himself. 


Old  friends  are  best.     King  James  used  to  call  for  his 
old  shoes — they  were  easiest  for  his  feet. 

Selden. 

*  Never  did  sculptor's  dream  unfold 
A  form  which  marble  doth  not  hold 
In  its  white  block. 

Michel  Angelo. 


76  SHAKESPEARE  AND  OTHERS 

A  CHILD  of  our  grandmother  Eve,  a  female,  or,  for  thy 
more  sweet  understanding,  a  woman. 

Shakespeare. 
Love's  Labour's  Lost,  I.  i. 


The  whole  World  was  made  for  man,  but  the  twelfth 
part  of  man  for  woman  :  Man  is  the  whole  World,  and  the 
Breath  of  God  ;  Woman  the  rib  and  crooked  piece  of  man. 

Sir  Thomas  Browne. 
Religio  Medici. 

Give  me  but  what  this  ribband  bound. 
Take  all  the  rest  the  sun  goes  round  ! 

Edmund  Waller. 
On  a  Girdle. 


A  WOMAN  is  the  most  inconsistent  compound  of  obstinacy 
and  self-sacrifice  that  I  am  acquainted  with. 

Jean  Paul  Richter. 
Flower,  Fruit  and  Thorn  Pieces. 


If  she  be  made  of  white  and  red 
Her  faults  will  ne'er  be  known. 

Shakespeare. 
Love's  Labour's  Lost,  I.  2. 

God  made  the  world  in  six  days,  and  then  he  rested.     He 

then  made  man  and  rested  again.     He  then  made  woman 

and,  since  then,  neither  man,  woman,  nor  anything  else 

has  rested.  . 

Author  not  traced. 

Thou  art  my  life,  my  love,  my  heart, 

The  very  eyes  of  me.  „  ^t 

•^    ■^  Robert  Herrick, 

To  Anthea. 


SHELLEY  AND  OTHERS  •         77 

He  has  outsoared  the  shadow  of  our  night  ; 
Envy  and  cahimny  and  hate  and  pain, 
And  that  unrest  which  men  miscall  delight, 
Can  touch  him  not  and  torture  not  again  ; 
From  the  contagion  of  the  world's  slow  stain. 
He  is  secure,  and  now  can  never  mourn 
A  heart  grown  cold,  a  head  grown  gray  in  vain  ; 
Nor,  when  the  spirit's  self  has  ceased  to  burn. 
With  sparkless  ashes  load  an  unlamented  urn. 

Shelley. 
Adonais,  an  Elegy  on  Keats,  XL. 

This  verse  is  engraved  on  Shelley's  own  monument  in  the  Priory 
Church  at  Christchurch,  Hampshire. 


A  LOOSE,  slack,  not  well-dressed  youth  met  Mr.  Green 
and  myself  in  a  lane  near  Highgate.  Green  knew  him  and 
spoke.  It  was  Keats.  He  was  introduced  to  me,  and 
stayed  a  minute  or  so.  After  he  had  left  us  a  little  way,  he 
came  back  and  said,  "  Let  me  carry  away  the  memory, 
Coleridge,  of  having  pressed  your  hand  !  "  "  There  is 
death  in  that  hand,"  I  said  to  Green,  when  Keats  was  gone  ; 
yet  this  was,  I  believe,  before  the  consumption  showed 
itself  distinctly. 

S.  T.  Coleridge. 
Table  Talk. 

Keats  gives  a  somewhat  different  version  of  this  meeting  (see  Buxton 
Forman's  Poetry  and  Prose  by  John  Keats,  p.  147).  He  says  he  walked 
with  Coleridge  "  at  his  alderman-after-dinner  pace  "  for  nearly  two 
miles.  "  In  those  two  miles  he  broached  a  thousand  things  [nightin- 
gales, poetry,  metaphysics,  nightmen,  volition,  monsters,  mermaids, 
etc.].  I  heard  his  voice  as  he  came  towards  me — I  heard  it  as  he  moved 
away — I  had  heard  it  all  the  interval.  [As  to  Coleridge's  monologue- 
habit,  which  Keats  apparently  did  not  appreciate,  see  p.  356.]  He 
was  civil  enough  to  ask  me  to  call  on  him  at  Highgate." 

This  was  about  1819.  It  is  pathetic,  this  meeting  of  two  great  poets, 
Keats,  who  was  to  die  two  years  afterwards  at  the  early  age  of  twenty- 
six,  and  Coleridge,  whose  few  brilliant  years  of  poetic  life  had  long 
previously  ended  in  slavery  to  the  opium-habit. 


The  eyes  of  other  people  are  the  eyes  that  ruin  us.  If 
all  but  myself  were  blind,  I  should  want  neither  fine  clothes, 
fine  houses,  nor  fine  furniture. 

Benjamin  Franklin. 


78  BUCHANAN 

THE  BALLAD  OF  JUDAS  ISCARIOT 

'TwAS  the  body  of  Judas  Iscariot 

Lay  in  the  Field  of  Blood  ; 
'Twas  the  soul  of  Judas  Iscariot 

Beside  the  body  stood. 

Black  was  the  earth  by  night, 

And  black  was  the  sky  ; 
Black,  black  were  the  broken  clouds, 

Tho'  the  red  Moon  went  by.  .  .  . 

'Twas  the  soul  of  Judas  Iscariot, 
So  grim,  and  gaunt,  and  gray. 

Raised  the  body  of  Judas  Iscariot, 
And  carried  it  away. 


For  days  and  nights  he  wandered  on 

Upon  an  open  plain. 
And  the  days  went  by  like  blinding  mist. 

And  the  nights  like  rushing  rain. 

He  wandered  east,  he  wandered  west. 
And  heard  no  human  sound  ; 

For  months  and  years,  in  grief  and  tears. 
He  wandered  round  and  round.  .  .  . 


'Twas  the  soul  of  Judas  Iscariot, 

Strange,  and  sad,  and  tall, 
Stood  all  alone  at  dead  of  night 

Before  a  lighted  hall. 

And  the  wold  was  white  with  snow. 
And  his  foot-marks  black  and  damp, 

And  the  ghost  of  the  silvern  Moon  arose, 
Holding  her  yellow  lamp. 

And  the  icicles  were  on  the  eaves. 
And  the  walls  were  deep  with  white. 

And  the  shadows  of  the  guests  within 
Pass'd  on  the  window  light. 


BUCHANAN  79 

The  shadows  of  the  wedding  guests 

Did  strangely  come  and  go, 
And  the  body  of  Judas  Iscariot 

Lay  stretch 'd  along  the  snow. 

The  body  of  Judas  Iscariot 

Lay  stretched  along  the  snow  ; 
'Twas  the  soul  of  Judas  Iscariot 

Ran  swiftly  to  and  fro. 

To  and  fro,  and  up  and  down. 

He  ran  so  swiftly  there. 
As  round  and  round  the  frozen  Pole 

Glideth  the  lean  white  bear. 

'Twas  the  Bridegroom  sat  at  the  table-head. 
And  the  lights  burnt  bright  and  clear — 

"  Oh,  who  is  that,"  the  Bridegroom  said, 
"  Whose  weary  feet  I  hear  ?  " 

'Twas  one  look'd  from  the  hghted  hall, 

And  answered  soft  and  slow, 
"  It  is  a  wolf  runs  up  and  down 

With  a  black  track  in  the  snow." 

The  Bridegroom  in  his  robe  of  white 

Sat  at  the  table-head — 
"  Oh,  who  is  that  who  moans  without  ?  " 

The  blessed  Bridegroom  said. 

'Twas  one  looked  from  the  lighted  hall, 

And  answered  fierce  and  low 
"  'Tis  the  soul  of  Judas  Iscariot 

Gliding  to  and  fro." 

'Twas  the  soul  of  Judas  Iscariot 

Did  hush  itself  and  stand. 
And  saw  the  Bridegroom  at  the  door 

With  a  light  in  his  hand. 

The  Bridegroom  stood  in  the  open  door. 

And  he  was  clad  in  white, 
And  far  within  the  Lord's  Supper 

Was  spread  so  broad  and  bright. 


8o  BUCHANAN 

The  Bridegroom  shaded  his  eyes  and  look'd, 

And  his  face  was  bright  to  see — 
"  What  dost  thou  here  at  the  Lord's  Supper 

With  thy  body's  sins  ?  "  said  he. 

'Twas  the  soul  of  Judas  Iscariot 

Stood  black,  and  sad,  and  bare — 
"  I  have  wandered  many  nights  and  days  ; 

There  is  no  light  elsewhere." 

'Twas  the  wedding  guests  cried  out  within, 
And  their  eyes  were  fierce  and  bright — 

"  Scourge  the  soul  of  Judas  Iscariot 
Away  into  the  night  !  " 

The  Bridegroom  stood  in  the  open  door, 
And  he  waved  hands  still  and  slow, 

And  the  third  time  that  he  waved  his  hands 
The  air  was  thick  with  snow. 

And  of  every  flake  of  falling  snow, 

Before  it  touched  the  ground. 
There  came  a  dove,  and  a  thousand  doves 

Made  sweet  sound. 

'Twas  the  body  of  Judas  Iscariot 

Floated  away  full  fleet, 
And  the  wings  of  the  doves  that  bare  it  off 

Were  like  its  winding-sheet. 

'Twas  the  Bridegroom  stood  at  the  open  door, 

And  beckon'd,  smiling  sweet  ; 
'Twas  the  soul  of  Judas  Iscariot 

Stole  in,  and  fell  at  his  feet. 

"  The  Holy  Supper  is  spread  within. 

And  the  many  candles  shine, 
And  I  have  waited  long  for  thee 

Before  I  poured  the  wine  !  " 

The  supper  wine  is  poured  at  last. 

The  lights  burn  bright  and  fair, 
Iscariot  washes  the  Bridegroom's  feet. 

And  dries  them  with  his  hair. 

R.  Buchanan. 


CHOLMONDELEY  AND  OTHERS  8i 

Now,  as  of  old, 
Man  by  himself  is  priced  : 

For  thirty  pieces  Judas  sold 
Himself,  not  Christ. 

Hester  Cholmondeley. 

I  learn  from  the  New  Statesman  reviewer  of  the  first  English  Edition 
that  these  lines  were  by  Hester,  a  gifted  sister  of  Mary  Cholmondeley. 
She  died  at  23. 


THE  RETURN 

A  LITTLE  hand  is  knocking  at  my  heart, 
And  I  have  closed  the  door. 
"  I  pray  thee,  for  the  love  of  God,  depart : 
Thou  shalt  come  in  no  more." 

"  Open,  for  I  am  weary  of  the  way. 

The  night  is  very  black  ; 

I  have  been  wandering  many  a  night  and  day, 

Open — I  have  come  back." 

The  little  hand  is  knocking  patiently  ; 
I  listen,  dumb  with  pain. 
"  Wilt  thou  not  open  any  more  to  me  ? 
I  have  come  back  again." 

"  I  will  not  open  any  more.     Depart. 

I,  that  once  lived,  am  dead." 

The  hand  that  had  been  knocking  at  my  heart 

Was  still.     "  And  I  .?  "  she  said. 

There  is  no  sound,  save  in  the  v/inter  air 
The  sound  of  wind  and  rain. 
All  that  I  loved  in  all  the  world  stands  there. 
And  will  not  knock  again. 

Arthur  Symons. 


Man  must  and  will  have  Some  Religion,  and  if  he  has 
not  the  Religion  of  Jesus,  he  will  have  the  ReHgion  of  Satan. 

William  Blake. 
Jerusalem. 


82  A.  SMITH  AND  OTHERS 

The  world  is  not  so  much  in  need  of  new  thoughts  as 
that  when  thought  grows  old  and  worn  with  usage  it  should, 
like  current  coin,  be  called  in,  and,  from  the  mint  of  genius, 
reissued  fresh  and  new. 

Alexander  Smith. 
On  the  Writing  of  Essays. 


It  is  the  calling  of  great  men,  not  so  much  to  preach 
new  truths,  as  to  rescue  from  oblivion  those  old  truths 
which  it  is  our  wisdom  to  remember  and  our  weakness  to 
forget. 

Sydney  Smith. 


In  philosophy  equally  as  in  poetry  it  is  the  highest  and 
most  useful  prerogative  of  genius  to  produce  the  strongest 
impressions  of  novelty,  while  it  rescues  admitted  truths 
from  the  neglect  caused  by  the  very  circumstances  of  their 
universal  admission.  Extremes  meet.  Truths,  of  all  others 
the  most  awful  and  interesting,  are  too  often  considered  as 
so  true,  that  they  lose  all  the  power  of  truth,  and  lie  bed- 
ridden in  the  dormitory  of  the  soul,  side  by  side  v/ith  the 
most  despised  and  exploded  errors. 

S.  T.  Coleridge. 

Aids  to  Reflection. 


Social  and  moral  truth  is  like  one  of  those  inscriptions  on 
tombs,  v/hich  every  one  passes  by,  concerned  only  with 
business  matters,  and  which  daily  become  more  and  more 
effaced,  until  some  rescuing  chisel  comes  to  cut  it  more 
deeply  into  the  worn  stone,  so  that  all  are  compelled  to  see 
and  read  it.  This  chisel  is  in  the  hands  of  a  small  number 
of  men,  who  with  great  determination  continue  stooping  at 
work  on  the  old  inscription,  at  the  risk  of  being  knocked 
about  and  crushed  against  the  marble  by  the  careless  feet 
of  the  passers-by. 

Alexandre  Vinet. 

Vinet  (1797-1847)  was  an  important  French  literary  man  and  theo- 
logian, born  in  Switzerland. 


H.  SMITH  83 

ADDRESS  TO  THE  MUMMY  AT 
BELZONI'S  EXHIBITION 

And  thou  hast  walked  about  (how  strange  a  story  !) 
In  Thebes 's  streets,  three  thousand  years  ago, 

When  the  Memnonium  was  in  all  its  glory. 
And  time  had  not  begun  to  overthrow 

Those  temples,  palaces  and  piles  stupendous, 

Of  which  the  very  ruins  are  tremendous.  .  .  . 

Tell  us — for  doubtless  thou  canst  recollect — 
To  whom  should  we  assign  the  Sphinx's  fame  ? 

Was  Cheops  or  Cephrenes  architect 

Of  either  pyramid  that  bears  his  name  ? 

Is  Pompey's  pillar  really  a  misnomer  ? 

Had  Thebes  a  hundred  gates,  as  sung  by  Homer  ?  .  .  . 

Perchance  that  very  hand,  now  pinioned  flat. 
Has  hob-a-nobbed  with  Pharaoh,  glass  to  glass  ; 

Or  dropped  a  halfpenny  in  Homer's  hat, 

Or  doffed  thine  own  to  let  Queen  Dido  pass  ; 

Or  held,  by  Solomon's  own  invitation, 

A  torch  at  the  great  Temple's  dedication.  .  .  . 

Since  first  thy  form  was  in  this  box  extended 

We  have,  above-ground,  seen  some  strange  mutations  ; 

The  Roman  Empire  has  begun  and  ended. 

New  worlds  have  risen — we  have  lost  old  nations  ; 

And  countless  kings  have  into  dust  been  humbled. 

While  not  a  fragment  of  thy  flesh  has  crumbled. 

Didst  thou  not  hear  the  pother  o'er  thy  head 
When  the  great  Persian  conqueror,  Cambyses, 

Marched  armies  o'er  thy  tomb  with  thundering  tread, 
O'erthrew  Osiris,  Orus,  Apis,  Isis, 

And  shook  the  pyramids  with  fear  and  wonder, 

When  the  gigantic  Memnon  fell  asunder  ? 

If  the  tomb's  secrets  may  not  be  confessed, 

The  nature  of  thy  private  life  unfold  ; — 
A  heart  has  throbbed  beneath  that  leathern  breast. 

And  tears  adown  that  dusky  cheek  have  rolled  : — 
Have  children  climbed  those  knees,  and  kissed  that  face  ? 
What  was  thy  name  and  station,  age  and  race  ?  .  .  . 


84  H.  SMITH— ROSSETTI 

Why  should  this  worthless  tegument  endure, 
If  its  undying  guest  be  lost  for  ever  ? 

O  let  us  keep  the  soul  embalmed  and  pure 
In  living  virtue,  that  when  both  must  sever, 

Although  corruption  may  our  frame  consume, 

Th'  immortal  spirit  in  the  skies  may  bloom  ! 

Horace  Smith. 


But  she  is  far  away 
Now  ;  nor  the  hours  of  night  grown  hoar 
Bring  yet  to  me,  long  gazing  from  the  door, 

The  wind-stirred  robe  of  roseate  grey 
And  rose-crown  of  the  hour  that  leads  the  day 
When  we  shall  meet  once  more. 


Oh  sweet  her  bending  grace 
Then  when  I  kneel  beside  her  feet  ; 
And  sweet  her  eyes  o'erhanging  heaven  ;  and  sweet 

The  gathering  folds  of  her  embrace  ; 
And  her  fall'n  hair  at  last  shed  round  my  face 
W^hen  breaths  and  tears  shall  m.eet.  .  .  . 


Ah  !  by  a  colder  wave 
On  deathlier  airs  the  hour  must  come 
Which  to  thy  heart,  my  love,  shall  call  me  home. 

Between  the  lips  of  the  low  cave 
Against  that  night  the  lapping  waters  lave. 
And  the  dark  lips  are  dumb. 

But  there  Love's  self  doth  stand. 
And  with  Life's  weary  wings  far-flown. 
And  with  Death's  eyes  that  make  the  water  moan, 

Gathers  the  water  in  his  hand  : 
And  they  that  drink  know  nought  of  sky  or  land 
But  only  love  alone. 

D.    G.    ROSSETTI. 

The  Stream's  Secret. 

These  are  only  a  few  verses  from  the  poem  where  the  lover  is  thinking 
of  the  time  when  he  will  rejoin  his  lost  love  in  the  other  world.  The 
last  verse  is  particularly  beautiful. 


GASCOIGNE  AND  OTHERS  85 

Behold,  my  lord,  what  monsters  muster  here, 
With  Angels'  faces,  and  harmful,  hellish  hearts. 
With  smiling  looks,  and  deep  deceitful  thoughts, 
With  tender  skins,  and  stony  cruel  minds.  .  .  . 
The  younger  sort  come  piping  on  apace 
In  whistles  made  of  fine  enticing  wood, 
Till  they  have  caught  the  birds  for  whom  they  brided.* 
The  elder  sort  go  stately  stalking  on. 
And  on  their  backs  they  bear  both  land  and  fee. 
Castles  and  Towers,  revenues  and  receipts. 
Lordships  and  manors,  fines,  yea  farms  and  all. 
What  should  these  be  ?     (Speak  you,  my  lovely  lord  !) 
They  be  not  men  :  for  why  ?  they  have  no  beards. 
They  be  no  boys,  which  wear  such  side-long  gowns. 
What  be  they  ?     Women,  masking  in  men's  weeds, 
With  dutchkin  doublets  and  with  jerkins  jagged, 
With  Spanish  spangs  and  ruffs  set  out  of  France. 
They  be  so  sure  even  Wo  to  Men  indeed. 
High  time  it  were  for  my  poor  muse  to  wink. 
Since  all  the  hands,  all  paper,  pen  and  ink. 
Which  ever  yet  this  wretched  world  possessed, 
Cannot  describe  this  Sex  in  colours  due. 

George  Gascoigne. 

The  Steele  Glas,  1576. 


I'm  not  denying  the  women  are  foolish  :    God  Almighty 
made  'em  to  match  the  men.  ^^^^^^  ^^^^^^ 

Adam  Bede. 


They  are  slaves  who  fear  to  speak 

For  the  fallen  and  the  weak  ; 

They  are  slaves  who  will  not  choose 

Hatred,  scoffing  and  abuse, 

Rather  than  in  silence  shrink 

From  the  truth  they  needs  must  think  ; 

They  are  slaves  v/ho  dare  not  be 

In  the  right  with  two  or  three. 

J.  R.  Lov^ELL. 
Stanzas  on  Freedom. 

*  Minced,  or  practised  their  affectations. 


86  THACKERAY 

The  Baptist  might  be  in  the  Wilderness  shouting  to  the 
poor,  who  were  hstening  with  all  their  might  and  faith  to 
the  preacher's  awful  accents  and  denunciations  of  wrath 
or  woe  or  salvation  ;  and  our  friend  the  Sadducee  would 
turn  his  sleek  mule  with  a  shrug  and  a  smile  from  the  crowd, 
and  go  home  to  the  shade  of  his  terrace,  and  muse  over 
preacher  and  audience  ;  and  turn  to  his  roll  of  Plato,  or 
his  pleasant  Greek  song-book  babbhng  of  honey  and  Hybla 
and  nymphs  and  fountains  and  love.  To  what,  we  say, 
does  this  scepticism  lead  ?  It  leads  a  man  to  a  shameful 
loneliness  and  selfishness,  so  to  speak — the  more  shameful, 
because  it  is  so  good-humoured  and  conscienceless  and 
serene.  Conscience  !  What  is  conscience  ?  Why  accept 
remorse  ?  What  is  public  or  private  faith  ?  Myths  alike 
enveloped  in  enormous  tradition.  If  seeing  and  acknow- 
ledging the  lies  of  the  world,  Arthur,  as  see  them  you  can 
with  only  too  fatal  a  clearness,  you  submit  to  them  without 
any  protest  farther  than  a  laugh  :  if,  plunged  yourself  in 
easy  sensuality,  you  allow  the  whole  wretched  world  to 
pass  groaning  by  you  unmoved  :  if  the  fight  for  the  truth 
is  taking  place,  and  all  men  of  honour  are  on  the  ground 
armed  on  the  one  side  or  the  other — and  you  alone  are  to 
He  on  your  balcony  and  smoke  your  pipe  out  of  the  noise 
and  the  danger — you  had  better  have  died,  or  never  have 
been  at  all,  than  such  a  sensual  coward. 

Thackeray. 
Pendennis,  XXIII. 


What  a  monstrous  spectre  is  this  man,  the  disease  of  the 
agglutinated  dust,  hfting  alternate  feet  or  lying  drugged 
with  slumber  ;  killing,  feeding,  growing,  bringing  forth 
small  copies  of  himself ;  grown  upon  with  hair  like  grass, 
fitted  with  eyes  that  move  and  glitter  in  his  face  ;  a  thing 
to  set  children  screaming  ; — and  yet  looked  at  nearher, 
known  as  his  fellows  know  him,  how  surprising  are  his 
attributes  !  Poor  soul,  here  for  so  little,  cast  among  so 
many  hardships,  filled  with  desires  so  incommensurate 
and  so  inconsistent,  savagely  surrounded,  savagely  descended, 
irremediably  condemned  to  prey  upon  his  fellow  lives  : 
who  should  have  blamed  him  had  he  been  of  a  piece  with 
his  destiny  and  a  being  merely  barbarous  }  And  we  look 
and    behold    him    instead    filled    v/ith    imperfect   virtues : 


STEVENSON— TRENCH  87 

infinitely  childish,  often  admirably  valiant,  often  touchingly 
kind  ;  sitting  down,  amidst  his  momentary  life,  to  debate 
of  right  and  wrong  and  the  attributes  of  the  deity  ;  rising 
up  to  do  battle  for  an  egg  or  die  for  an  idea  ;  singling  out 
his  friends  and  his  mate  with  cordial  affection  ;  bringing 
forth  in  pain,  rearing  with  long-suffering  solicitude,  his 
young.  To  touch  the  heart  of  his  mystery,  we  find  in  him 
one  thought,  strange  to  the  point  of  lunacy  :  the  thought 
of  duty  ;  the  thought  of  something  owing  to  himself,  to  his 
neighbour,  to  his  God  ;  an  ideal  of  decency,  to  which  he 
would  rise  if  it  were  possible  ;  a  limit  of  shame,  below 
which,  if  it  be  possible,  he  will  not  stoop. 

R.  L.  Stevenson. 
Pulvis  et  Umbra. 


A  CHARGE 

If  thou  hast  squander'd  years  to  grave  a  gem 
Commission'd  by  thy  absent  Lord,  and  while 
'Tis  incomplete. 

Others  would  bribe  thy  needy  skill  to  them — 
Dismiss  them  to  the  street  ! 

Should'st  thou  at  last  discover  Beauty's  grove, 
At  last  be  panting  on  the  fragrant  verge, 
But  in  the  track. 

Drunk  with  divine  possession,  thou  meet  Love — 
Turn  at  her  bidding  back. 

When  round  thy  ship  in  tempest  Hell  appears, 
And  every  spectre  mutters  up  more  dire 
To  snatch  control 

And  loose  to  madness  thy  deep-kennell'd  Fears — 
Then  to  the  helm,  O  Soul  ! 

Last ;  if  upon  the  cold  green-mantling  sea 
Thou  cling,  alone  with  Truth,  to  the  last  spar, 
Both  castaway, 

And  one  must  perish — let  it  not  be  he 
Whom  thou  art  sworn  to  obey  ! 

Herbert  Trench. 


88  WORDSWORTH— MARTINEAU 

Stern  Lawgiver  !  yet  thou  dost  wear 
The  Godhead's  most  benignant  grace  ; 
Nor  know  we  anything  so  fair 
As  is  the  smile  upon  thy  face  : 
Flowers  laugh  before  thee  on  their  beds 
And  fragrance  in  thy  footing  treads  ; 
Thou  dost  preserve  the  stars  from  wrong  ; 
And  the  most  ancient  heavens,  through  Thee,  are  fresh 
and  strong. 

Wordsworth. 
Ode  to  Duty. 


Human  nature,  trained  in  the  School  of  Christianity, 
throws  away  as  false  the  delineation  of  piety  in  the  disguise 
of  Hebe,  and  declares  that  there  is  something  higher  than 
happiness — that  thought  which  is  ever  full  of  care  and 
trouble  is  better  far — that  all  true  and  disinterested  affection, 
which  often  is  called  to  mourn,  is  better  still — that  the 
devoted  allegiance  of  conscience  to  duty  and  to  God — which 
ever  has  in  it  more  of  penitence  than  of  joy — is  noblest  of  all. 

James  Martineau. 
Endeavours  after  the  Christian  Life,  p.  42. 


There  is  in  man  a  Higher  than  Love  of  Happiness  ;  he 
can  do  without  Happiness,  and  instead  thereof  find  Blessed- 
ness !  Was  it  not  to  preach  forth  this  same  Higher  that 
sages  and  martyrs,  the  poet  and  the  priest,  in  all  times  have 
spoken  and  suffered  ;  bearing  testimony,  through  life  and 
through  death,  of  the  God-like  that  is  in  Man,  and  how  in 
the  Godlike  only  has  he  Strength  and  Freedom  ?  Which 
God-inspired  Doctrine  art  thou  also  honoured  to  be  taught  ; 
O  Heavens  !  and  broken  vv^ith  manifold  merciful  Afflictions, 
even  till  thou  become  contrite  and  learn  it  !  O  thank  thy 
Destiny  for  these  ;  thankfully  bear  what  yet  remain  ;  thou 
hadst  need  of  them  ;  the  Self  in  thee  needed  to  l3e  an- 
nihilated. .  .  .  Love  not  Pleasure  ;  love  God,  This  is 
the  everlasting  yea,  wherein  all  contradiction  is  solved  ; 
wherein  whoso  walks  and  works,  it  is  well  with  him.  .  .  . 
To  the  Worship  of  Sorrow,  ascribe  what  origin  and  genesis 
thou  pleasest,  has  not  that  Worship  originated,  and  been 


CARLYLE  AND  OTHERS  89 

generated  ?  Is  it  not  here  ?  Feel  it  in  thy  heart,  and  then 
say  whether  it  is  of  God  !  This  is  BeHef  ;  all  else  is  Opinion. 
,  .  .  Do  the  Duty  which  liest  nearest  thee,  which  thou 
knowest  to  be  a  Duty.  The  Situation  that  has  not  its 
Duty,  its  Ideal,  was  never  yet  occupied  by  man.  Yes  here, 
in  this  poor,  miserable,  hampered,  despicable  Actual,  where- 
in thou  even  now  standest,  here  or  nowhere  is  thy  Ideal  : 
work  it  out  therefrom  ;  and  working,  believe,  live,  be  free. 
The  Ideal  is  in  thyself.  Carlyle. 

Sartor  Resartus. 

The  belief  that  the  sense  of  duty  and  moral  aspiration  arises  from 
within  ourselves,  and  is  the  cause  rather  than  the  result  of  sociological 
evolution  is  far  more  widespread  to-day  than  in  v/hat  Carlyle  calls  his 
"  atheistical  century."  The  "  Everlasting  Yea  "  is  opposed  to  the 
"  Everlasting  No  "  of  nescience. 


He  that  hath  found  some  fledged  bird's  nest  may  know 

At  first  sight,  if  the  bird  be  flown  ; 
But  what  fair  well  or  grove  he  sings  in  now 

That  is  to  him  unknown.  ^^^^^  Vaughan. 

Friends  Departed. 
For  the  subject  of  the  verse  see  title  of  poem. 


I  HAVE  seen 

A  curious  child,  who  dwelt  upon  a  tract 

Of  inland  ground,  applying  to  his  ear 

The  convolutions  of  a  smooth-lipped  shell ; 

To  which,  in  silence  hushed,  his  very  soul 

Listened  intensely  ;  and  his  countenance  soon 

Brightened  with  joy  ;  for  from  within  were  heard 

Murmurings,  whereby  the  monitor  expressed 

Mysterious  union  with  its  native  sea. 

Even  such  a  shell  the  universe  itself 

Is  to  the  ear  of  Faith  ;  and  there  are  times, 

I  doubt  not,  when  to  you  it  doth  impart 

Authentic  tidings  of  invisible  things  ; 

Of  ebb  and  flow,  and  ever-during  power  ; 

And  central  peace,  subsisting  at  the  heart 

Of  endless  agitation.  ,j. 

^  Wordsworth. 

The  Excursion. 


90  R.  BROWNING  AND  OTHERS 

What  would  one  have  ? 
In  heaven,  perhaps,  new  chances,  one  more  chance — - 
Four  great  walls  in  the  New  Jerusalem, 
Meted  on  each  side  by  the  angel's  reed. 
For  Leonard,  Rafael,  Angelo  and  me 
To  cover. 

R.  Browning. 
Andrea  del  Sarto. 

Andrea  del  Sarto  says  that,  but  for  certain  unfortunate  circumstances, 
he  might  have  reached  the  high  eminence  of  Leonardo  da  Vinci,  Raphael, 
and  Michael  Angelo.  In  heaven  he  may  have  another  chance  to  compete 
with  them. 


FAME 

Their  noon-day  never  knows 
What  names  immortal  are  : 

'Tis  night  alone  that  shows 
How  star  surpasseth  star. 

J.  B.  Tabs. 


Beneath  a  summer  tree, 
Her  maiden  reverie 

Has  a  charm  ; 
Her  ringlets  are  in  taste  ; 
What  an  arm  !  and  what  a  waist 

For  an  arm  ! 

With  her  bridal-wreath,  bouquet, 
Lace  farthingale,  and  gay 

Falbala — 
If  Romney's  touch  be  true. 
What  a  lucky  dog  were  you. 

Grandpapa  ! 

Frederick  Locker-Lampson. 
To  my  Gra?idmother. 

The  title  adds,  "  Suggested  by  a  picture  by  Mr.  Romney." 
The  farthingale  was  a  hooped  petticoat  of  the  kind  we  see  in  portraits 
of  Queen  Elizabeth.     In  Romney's  time,  the  eighteenth  century,  the 
farthingale  had  disappeared   and  the   "  hoop,"   which  was  practically 
a  crinoline,  was  in  fashion.     Falbala  is  a  furbelow  or  flounce. 


COLERIDGE  AND  OTHERS  91 

But  O,  that  deep  romantic  chasm  which  slanted 
Down  the  green  hill  athwart  a  ccdarn  cover  ! 
A  savage  place  !  as  holy  and  enchanted 
As  e'er  beneath  a  waning  moon  was  haunted 
By  woman  wailing  for  her  demon-lover  ! 

S.  T,  Coleridge. 
Kiihla  Khan. 

This  and  the  five  following  quotations  and  others  through  the  book 
are  from  a  small  collection  of  word-pictures,  that  I  had  begun  to  put 
together. 


Behold  the  Nereids  under  the  green  sea, 
Their  wavering  limbs  borne  on  the  wind-like  stream, 
Their  white  arms  lifted  o'er  their  streaming  hair, 
With  garlands  pied  and  starry  sea-flower  crowns, 
Hastening  to  grace  their  mighty  sister's  joy. 

Shelley, 
Prometheus  Unbound. 

Ah,  sad  and  strange  as  in  dark  summer  dawns 

The  earliest  pipe  of  half-awakened  birds 

To  dying  ears,  when  unto  dying  eyes 

The  casement  slowly  grows  a  glimmering  square  : 

So  sad,  so  strange,  the  days  that  are  no  more. 

Tennyson. 
The  Princess. 

"  But  show  me  the  child  thou  callest  mine. 
Is  she  out  to-night  in  the  ghost's  sunshine  ?  " 

"  In  St.  Peter's  Church  she  is  playing  on, 
At  hide-and-seek,  with  Apostle  John. 

"  When  the  moonbeams  right  through  the  window  go. 
Where  the  twelve  are  standing  in  glorious  show, 

"  She  says  the  rest  of  them  do  not  stir. 
But  one  comes  down  to  play  with  her." 

George  MacDonald. 
Phantasies. 

It  is  a  ghost-child  who  is  playing  in  the  great  cathedral. 


92  C.  ROSSETTI— THEOCRITUS 

Golden  head  by  golden  head, 
Like  two  pigeons  in  one  nest 
Folded  in  each  other's  wings, 
They  lay  down  in  their  curtained  bed. 

Christina  Rossetti. 
Goblin  Market. 


Little  Boy  Blue,  come  blow  your  horn  ; 

The  cow's  in  the  meadow,  the  sheep  in  the  corn  ; 

Is  this  the  way  you  mind  your  sheep. 

Under  the  haycock  fast  asleep  ? 

Nursery  Rhyme. 

Edward  FitzGerald,  quoting  this  in  Euphranor,  says  the  "  meadow  ' 
the  grass  reserved  for  meadowing,  or  mowing. 


THE  FEAST  OF  ADONIS 

Gorgo.  Is  Praxinoe  at  home  } 

Praxinoe.  My  dear  Gorgo,  at  last  !  Yes,  here  I  am. 
Eunoe,  find  a  chair — get  a  cushion  for  it. 

Gorgo.  It  will  do  beautifully  as  it  is. 

Praxinoe.  Do  sit  down. 

Gorgo.  Oh,  this  gad-about  spirit !  I  could  hardly  get 
to  you,  Praxinoe,  through  all  the  crowd  and  ail  the  carriages. 
Nothing  but  heavy  boots,  nothing  but  men  in  uniform. 
And  what  a  journey  it  is  !  My  dear  child,  you  really  live 
too  far  off. 

Praxinoe.  It  is  all  that  insane  husband  of  mine.  He  has 
chosen  to  come  out  here  to  the  end  of  the  world,  and  take 
a  hole  of  a  place — for  a  house  it  is  not — on  purpose  that 
you  and  I  might  not  be  neighbours.  He  is  alv/ays  just  the 
same — anything  to  quarrel  with  one  !  anything  for  spite  ! 

Gorgo.  My  dear,  don't  talk  so  of  your  husband  before 
the  little  fellow.  Just  see  how  astonished  he  looks  at  you. 
{Talking  to  the  child)  Never  mind,  Zopyrio  my  pet,  she  is 
not  talking  about  papa.  (Good  heavens,  the  child  does 
really  understand.)     Pretty  papa  ! 


THEOCRITUS  93 

Praxinoe.  That  "  pretty  papa  "  of  his  the  other  day 
(though  I  told  him  beforehand  to  mind  what  he  was  about), 
when  I  sent  him  to  a  shop  to  buy  soap  and  rouge,  brought 
me  home  salt  instead  ;  stupid,  great,  big,  interminable 
animal  ! 

Gorgo.  Mine  is  just  the  fellow  to  him.  But  never  mind 
now,  get  on  your  things  and  let  us  be  off  to  the  palace  to 
see  the  Adonis.  I  hear  the  Queen's  decorations  are  some- 
thing splendid. 

Praxinoe,  "  In  grand  people's  houses  everything  is 
grand."  What  things  you  have  seen  in  Alexandria  !  What 
a  deal  you  will  have  to  tell  to  anybody  who  has  never  been 
there  ! 

Gorgo.  Come,  we  ought  to  be  going, 

Praxinoe.  "  Every  day  is  a  holiday  to  people  who  have 
nothing  to  do,"  Eunoe,  pick  up  your  work  ;  and  take  care, 
you  lazy  girl,  how  you  leave  it  lying  about  again  ;  the  cats 
find  it  just  the  bed  they  like.  Come,  stir  yourself,  fetch 
me  some  water,  quick  !  I  wanted  the  water  first,  and  the 
girl  brings  me  the  soap.  Never  mind  ;  give  it  me.  Not 
all  that,  extravagant  !  Now  pour  out  the  water,  stupid  ! 
Why  don't  you  take  care  of  my  dress  ?  That  will  do.  I 
have  got  my  hands  washed  as  it  pleased  God.  Where  is 
the  key  of  the  large  wardrobe  ?     Bring  it  here — quick  ! 

Gorgo.  Praxinoe,  you  can't  think  how  well  that  dress, 
made  full,  as  you  have  got  it,  suits  you.  Tell  me,  how  much 
did  it  cost — the  dress  by  itself,  I  mean  ? 

Praxinoe.  Don't  talk  of  it,  Gorgo  :  more  than  eight 
guineas  of  good  hard  money.  And  about  the  work  on  it,  I 
have  almost  worn  my  life  out. 

Gorgo.  Well,  you  couldn't  have  done  better. 

Praxinoe.  Thank  you.  Bring  me  my  shawl,  and  put 
my  hat  properly  on  my  head — properly.  No,  child  {to  her 
little  boy)  I  am  not  going  to  take  you  ;  there's  a  bogey  on 
horseback  v/ho  bites.  Cry  as  much  as  you  like  ;  I'm  not 
going  to  have  you  lamed  for  life.  Now  we'll  start.  Nurse, 
take  the  little  one  and  amuse  him  ;  call  the  dog  in,  and  shut 
the  street  door.  {They  go  out.)  Good  heavens  !  what  a 
crowd  of  people  !  How  on  earth  are  we  ever  to  get  through 
all  this  ?     They  are  like  ants  :   you  can't  count  them.     My 


94  THEOCRITUS 

dearest  Gorgo,  what  will  become  of  us  ?  Here  are  the 
Royal  Horse  Guards.  My  good  man,  don't  ride  over  me  ! 
Look  at  that  bay  horse  rearing  bolt  upright  ;  what  a  vicious 
one  !  Eunoe,  you  mad  girl,  do  take  care  ! — that  horse  will 
certainly  be  the  death  of  the  man  on  his  back.  How  glad 
I  am  now,  that  I  left  the  child  safe  at  home. 

Gorgo.  All  right,  Praxinoe,  we  are  safe  behind  them  ; 
and  they  have  gone  on  to  where  they  are  stationed. 

Praxinoe.  Well,  yes,  I  begin  to  revive  again.  From  the 
time  I  was  a  little  girl  I  have  had  more  horror  of  horses  and 
snakes  than  of  anything  else  in  the  world.  Let  us  get  on  ; 
here's  a  great  crowd  coming  this  way  upon  us. 

Gorgo  {to  an  old  woman).  Mother,  are  you  from  the 
palace  } 

Old  Woman.  Yes,  my  dears. 

Gorgo.  Has  one  a  tolerable  chance  of  getting  there  ? 

Old  Woman.  My  pretty  young  lady,  the  Greeks  got  to 
Troy  by  dint  of  trying  hard  ;  trying  will  do  anything  in 
this  world. 

Gor^o.  The  old  creature  has  delivered  an  oracle  and 
disappeared. 

Praxinoe.  Women  can  tell  you  everything  about  every- 
thing, even  about  Jupiter's  marriage  with  Juno  ! 

Gorgo.  Look,  Praxinoe,  what  a  squeeze  at  the  palace 
gates  ! 

Praxinoe.  Tremendous  !  Take  hold  of  me,  Gorgo  ; 
and  you,  Eunoe,  take  hold  of  Eutychis  ! — tight  hold,  or 
you'll  be  lost.  Here  we  go  in  all  together.  Hold  tight  to 
us,  Eunoe  !  Oh,  dear  !  oh,  dear  !  Gorgo,  there's  my  scarf 
torn  right  in  two.  For  heaven's  sake,  my  good  man,  as 
you  hope  to  be  saved,  take  care  of  my  dress  ! 

Stranger.  Fll  do  what  I  can,  but  it  doesn't  depend 
upon  me. 

Praxinoe.  What  heaps  of  people  !  They  push  like  a 
drove  of  pigs. 

Stranger.  Don't  be  frightened,  ma'am,  we  are  all  right. 

Praxinoe.  May  you  be  all  right,  my  dear  sir,  to  the  last 
day  you  live,  for  the  care  you  have  taken  of  us  !    What  a 


THEOCRITUS  95 

kind,  considerate  man  !  There  is  Eunoe  jammed  in  a 
squeeze.  Push,  you  goose,  push  !  Capital  !  We  are  all 
of  us  the  right  side  of  the  door,  as  the  bridegroom  said  when 
he  had  locked  himself  in  with  the  bride. 

Gorgo.  Praxinoe,  come  this  way.  Do  but  look  at  that 
work,  how  delicate  it  is  ! — how  exquisite  !  Why,  the  gods 
might  wear  it  in  heaven. 

Praxinoe.  Goddess  of  Spinning  !  what  hands  were  hired 
to  do  that  work  ?  Who  designed  those  beautiful  patterns  ? 
They  seem  to  stand  up  and  move  about,  as  if  they  were 
real— as  if  they  were  living  things,  and  not  needlework. 
Well,  man  is  a  wonderful  creature  !  And  look,  look,  how 
charming  he  lies  there  on  his  silver  couch,  with  just  a  soft 
down  on  his  cheeks,  that  beloved  Adonis — Adonis,  whom 
one  loves  even  though  he  is  dead  ! 

Another  Stranger.  You  wretched  women,  do  stop  your 
incessant  chatter  !     Like  turtles,  you  go  on  for  ever. 

Gorgo.  Lord,  where  does  the  man  come  from  ?  What 
is  it  to  you  if  we  are  chatterboxes  ?  Order  about  your 
own  servants  ! 

Praxinoe.  Oh,  honey-sweet  Proserpine,  let  us  have  no 
more  masters  than  the  one  we've  got  !  We  don't  the  least 
care  for  you  ;  pray  don't  trouble  yourself  for  nothing. 

Gorgo.  Be  quiet,  Praxinoe  !  That  first-rate  singer,  the 
Argive  woman's  daughter,  is  going  to  sing  the  Adonis  hymn. 
She  is  the  same  who  was  chosen  to  sing  the  dirge  last  year. 
We  are  sure  to  have  something  first-rate  from  her.  She  is 
going  through  her  airs  and  graces  ready  to  begin. 

Theocritus. 
Fifteenth  Idyll. 

This  is  Matthew  Arnold's  prose  translation  of  a  poem  by  Theocritus, 
who  Uved  in  the  Third  Century  B.C.,  2200  years  ago  (see  Arnold's 
Essay  on  Pagan  and  Mediaeval  Religious  Sentimeiit).  I  have  altered  a 
few  words  and  also  omitted  part  because  of  its  length. 

Gorgo,  a  lady  of  Alexandria,  calls  on  her  friend  Praxinoe,  to  take 
her  to  the  Festival  of  Adonis.  Greek  ladies  were  allowed  to  go  out  on 
Festival  days  if  veiled  and  attended,  and,  therefore,  Gorgo  and  Praxinoe 
take  with  them  their  respective  maids,  Eutychis  and  Eunoe,  who  would 
no  doubt  be  slave-girls. 

Some  curious  facts  may  be  noted.  The  wife  is  kept  in  seclusion  and 
the  husband  does  the  marketing,  buying  among  other  things  her  rouge. 
Observe  how  perfunctory  are  the  pretty  lady's  ablutions  (the  soap,  by  the 


96  W.  C.  SMITH  AND  OTHERS 

way,  is  in  the  form  of  paste).  The  little  boy  represents  the  ruling  sex 
and  will  be  removed  at  an  early  age  from  her  control.  She  is  disposed 
to  rebel  against  her  lord  and  master,  but  takes  the  utmost  care  of  the 
important  boy-child.  W^hile  the  ladies  with  their  slaves  make  up  their 
own  dresses,  the  designs  and  the  finest  needlework  are  done  by  men.  The 
Greek  woman  in  Athens  was  practically  uneducated  and  regarded  as  an 
inferior  being  ;  but  these  ladies  were  Dorian  Greeks  and  would  no  doubt 
be  better  treated  and  have  somewhat  more  freedom — especially  in  Alex- 
andria, which  was  a  colony  and,  therefore,  probably  less  conservative. 
Although  no  doubt  veiled,  their  eyes  would  be  visible  and,  as  seen  in  the 
East  to-day,  a  pretty  woman  can  always  manage  to  show  her  beauty,  if 
she  chooses.  It  will  be  seen  that  one  man  is  polite  to  the  two  young, 
pretty,  richly-dressed  ladies,  and  saves  them  from  being  crushed  by  the 
crowd,  while  another  is  a  crusty,  grumpy  person,  who  treats  them  with 
some  rudeness  and,  in  the  original,  ridicules  their  Dorian  pronunciation. 
Praxinoe  is  most  grateful  to  the  polite  man  for  what  would  now  be  an 
ordinary  act  of  courtesy. 

As  regards  the  conversation,  Andrew  Lang  says  :  "  Nothing  can  be 
more  gay  and  natural  than  the  chatter  of  the  women,  which  has  changed 
no  more  in  two  thousand  years  than  the  song  of  birds." 


For  there  is  not  a  lie,  spite  of  God's  high  decree, 

But  has  made  its  nest  sure  on  some  branch  of  our  tree, 

And  has  some  vested  right  to  exist  in  the  land  ; 

And  many  will  have  it  the  tree  could  not  stand. 

If  the  sticks,  straws,  and  feathers,  that  sheltered  the  wrong. 

Were  swept  from  the  boughs  they  have  cumbered  so  long. 

W.  C.  Smith. 
Borlatid  Hall. 

y 

I  SHALL  be  old  and  ugly  one  day,  and  I  shall  look  for  man's 
chivalrous  help,  but  I  shall  not  find  it.  The  bees  are  very 
attentive  to  the  flowers  till  their  honey  is  done,  and  then 
they  fly  over  them. 

Olive  Schreiner. 
The  Story  of  an  African  Farm. 


You  can't  turn  curds  to  milk  again. 
Nor  Now,  by  wishing,  back  to  Then  ; 
And,  having  tasted  stolen  honey, 
You  can't  buy  innocence  for  money. 

George  Eliot. 
Felix  Holt. 


SELDEN  AND  OTHERS  97 

Marriage  is  a  desperate  thing  ;  the  Frogs  in  Aesop 
were  extreme  wise  :  they  had  a  great  mind  to  some  Water, 
but  they  would  not  leap  into  the  Well,  because  they  could 
not  get  out  again. 


'Tis  reason  a  Man  that  will  have  a  Wife  should  be  at 
the  Charge  of  her  Trinkets,  and  pay  all  the  Scores  she 
sets  on  him.  He  that  will  keep  a  Monkey,  'tis  fit  he  should 
pay  for  the  Glasses  he  breaks. 

Selden. 
Table  Talk. 


When  you're  a  married  man,  Samivel,  you'll  understand 
a  good  many  things  as  you  don't  understand  now  ;  but 
vether  it's  worth  while  goin'  through  so  much  to  learn  so 
little,  as  the  charity-boy  said  wen  he  got  to  the  end  of  the 
alphabet,  is  a  matter  o'  taste.     /  rayther  think  it  isn't. 

Charles  Dickens. 

Pickwick  Papers. 


A  MAN,  who  admires  a  fine  woman,  has  yet  no  more 
reason  to  wish  himself  her  husband,  than  one,  who  admired 
the  Hesperian  fruit,  would  have  had  to  wish  himself  the 
dragon  that  kept  it. 

Pope. 


You,  Paula,  wish  to  marry  Priscus.  I  am  not  surprised  : 
you  are  wise.  Priscus  does  not  want  to  marry  you  :  he  is 
also  wise. 

Martial,  ix.  5. 


The  reason  why  so  few  marriages  are  happy  is  because 
young  ladies  spend  their  time  in  making  nets,  not  in  making 
cages. 

Swift. 

H 


98  WEBSTER  AND  OTHERS 

[Marriage]  is  just  like  a  summer  bird-cage  in  a  garden  : 
the  birds  without  despair  to  get  in,  and  the  birds  that  are 
within  despair  and  are  in  a  consumption  for  fear  they  shall 
never  get  out. 

John  Webster. 

The  White  Divel. 

This  is  not  original  with  Webster.  It  goes  back  before  him  to 
Montaigne,  Quitard,  and  Sir  John  Davies— and  was  perhaps  a  French 
proverb. 


Matrimony  is  the  only  game  of  chance  the  clergy  favour. 

Author  not  traced. 


He  who  marries  a  wife  and  he  who  goes  to  war  must 
necessarily  submit  to  everything  that  may  happen. 

Italian  Proverb. 


The  man  who,  married  once,  seeks  a  second  wife,  is  like 
a  sailor  who,  after  shipwreck,  puts  off  again  on  the  same 
perilous  sea. 

Greek  Anthology. 

Dr.  Johnson,  speaking  of  a  man  who  was  unhappy  in  his  first  marriage 
and  was  marrying  again,  described  it  as  "  the  triumph  of  Hope  over 
Experience  "  (Boswell's  Life,  year  1770).  In  H.  F.  Jones'  Life  of  Samuel 
Butler,  i.  378,  Miss  Savage  writes  to  Butler,  "  I  agree  with  the  proverb 
that  a  man  who  marries  again  does  not  deserve  to  have  lost  his  first 
wife."     This  carries  the  joke  to  a  revolting  extreme. 

It  is  a  curious  paradox  that,  although  man  adores  woman  and  is  her 
willing  and  devoted  slave,  he  enjoys  such  cynical  statements  as  those 
I  have  put  together  above. 


Seek  Love  in  the  pity  of  others'  woe. 

In  the  gentle  relief  of  another's  care. 

In  the  darkness  of  night  and  the  winter's  snow. 

In  the  naked  and  outcast,  seek  Love  there  ! 

William  Blake. 
William  Bond. 


LOWELL 


IN  THE  TWILIGHT 

Men  say  the  sullen  instrument, 
That,  from  the  Master's  bow. 
With  pangs  of  joy  or  woe, 
Feels  music's  soul  through  every  fibre  sent, 

Whispers  the  ravished  strings 
More  than  he  knew  or  meant  ; 

Old  summers  in  its  memory  glow  ; 
The  secrets  of  the  wind  it  sings  ; 
It  hears  the  April-loosened  springs  ; 
And  mixes  with  its  mood 
All  it  dreamed  when  it  stood 
In  the  murmurous  pine-wood. 
Long  ago  ! 


The  magical  moonlight  then 

Steeped  every  bough  and  cone  ; 
The  roar  of  the  brook  in  the  glen 

Came  dim  from  the  distance  blown  ; 
The  wind  through  its  glooms  sang  low, 
And  it  swayed  to  and  fro 
With  delight  as  it  stood 
In  the  wonderful  wood. 
Long  ago  ! 


O  my  life,  have  we  not  had  seasons 
That  only  said,  Live  and  rejoice  ? 
That  asked  not  for  causes  and  reasons. 

But  made  us  all  feeling  and  voice  ? 
When  we  went  with  the  winds  in  their  blowing, 

When  Nature  and  we  were  peers, 
And  we  seemed  to  share  in  the  flowing 
Of  the  inexhaustible  years  ? 

Have  we  not  from  the  earth  drawn  juices 
Too  fine  for  earth's  sordid  uses  ? 
Have  I  heard,  have  I  seen 
All  I  feel  and  I  know  ? 
Doth  my  heart  overween  ? 
Or  could  it  have  been 
Long  ago  ? 


99 


100  LOWELL 

Sometimes  a  breath  floats  by  me, 

An  odour  from  Dreamland  sent, 
That  makes  the  ghost  seem  nigh  me 

Of  a  splendour  that  came  and  went, 
Of  a  life  lived  somewhere,  I  know  not 

In  what  diviner  sphere. 
Of  memories  that  stay  not  and  go  not. 
Like  music  heard  once  by  an  ear 
That  cannot  forget  or  reclaim  it, 
A  something  so  shy,  it  would  shame  it 

To  make  it  a  show, 
A  something  too  vague,  could  I  name  it, 

For  others  to  know. 
As  if  I  had  lived  it  or  dreamed  it, 
As  if  I  had  acted  or  schemed  it, 
Long  ago  ! 

And  yet,  could  I  live  it  over. 

This  life  that  stirs  in  my  brain, 
Could  I  be  both  maiden  and  lover. 
Moon  and  tide,  bee  and  clover. 

As  I  seem  to  have  been,  once  again, 
Could  I  but  speak  and  show  it, 

This  pleasure  more  sharp  than  pain, 
That  baffles  and  lures  me  so. 
The  world  should  not  lack  a  poet. 
Such  as  it  had 
In  the  ages  glad. 
Long  ago  ! 

J.  R.  Lowell. 

Poetry,  as  the  result  of  imagination,  involves  a  certain  amount  of 
mysticism,  for  mysticism  seems  to  shadow  a  higher  truth  than  is  known 
to  the  intellect.  In  this  charming  poem  the  poet,  phantasy-dreaming  in 
the  twilight,  thinks  of  those  experiences  which  we  all  seem  to  have  at 
times,  and  which  appear  like  memories  of  a  past  existence.  He  begins 
with  that  mysterious  instrument  of  a  mysterious  art,  the  violin,  and 
pictures  in  beautiful  language  its  past  life  as  it  stood  in  the  forest.  He 
sees  in  the  marvellous  music  that  it  gives  forth  in  the  hands  of  a  master, 
not  only  an  expression  of  the  artist's  soul,  but  also  an  enrichment  of 
that  expression  by  the  violin's  own  memories  of  its  forest  life.* 

In  this  respect  there  is  a  curious  coincidence  between  this  poem, 
which  was  published  in  1869,  and  Leigh  Hunt's  "  Paganini,"  published 

*  H.  R.  Haweis,  himself  a  fine  violinist,  says  o£  this  strangely  human  instrument,  "  It  wiU 
often  seem  as  if  the  player  found  quite  as  much  power  as  he  brought  ;  and,  if  at  times  he 
dictates  to  the  violin,  the  violin  at  other  times  seems  to  subdue  him,  and  carry  him  away 
with  its  own  sweetness,  until  he  forgets  his  own  mind  and  follows  the  lead  and  suggestion 
of  his  marvellous  companion  "  [Music  and  Morals,  p.  394). 


BRADLEY  loi 

in  1834.     In  the  latter  poem  Leigh  Hunt  gives  a  wonderfully  fine  descrip- 
tion of  Paganini's  violin-playing,  in  which  the  following  lines  occur  : 

Or  he  would  fly  as  if  from  all  the  v/orld 

To  be  alone  and  happy,  and  you  should  hear 

His  iiistniment  become  a  tree  far  ojj, 

A  nest  of  birds  and  sunbeams,  sparkling  both. 

The  third  verse  should  appeal  to  all  who  remember  their  experiences 
before  "  the  years  had  brought  the  inevitable  yoke."  We  have  all  had 
times  in  our  youth  when  we  seemed  to  be  carried  back  to  a  former 
primeval  unity  with  nature  (as  the  violin  to  its  original  tree  in  the  forest), 
and  to  be  one  with  mother-earth  : 

When  we  went  with  the  winds  in  their  blowing, 

When  Nature  and  we  were  peers, 
And  we  seemed  to  share  in  the  flowing 

Of  the  inexhaustible  years. 

Then  come  other  dim  memories  of  past  existences,  which  the  poet 
feels  he  has  lived  somewhere — even  as 

Maiden  and  lover. 
Moon  and  tide,  bee  and  clover. 

Although  such  strange  phantasies  seem  quite  unfamiliar  and,  indeed, 
wildly  extravagant,  yet  they  are  all  delightful  as  the  outcome  of  poetic 
imagination. 


And  now,  when  all  is  said,  the  question  will  still  recur, 
though  now  in  quite  another  sense,  What  does  poetry  mean  ? 
This  unique  expression,  which  cannot  be  replaced  by  any 
other,  still  seems  to  be  trying  to  express  something  beyond 
itself.  And  this,  we  feel,  is  also  what  the  other  arts,  and 
religion,  and  philosophy  are  trying  to  express  :  and  that 
is  what  impels  us  to  seek  in  vain  to  translate  the  one  into 
the  other.  About  the  best  poetry,  and  not  only  the  best, 
there  floats  an  atmosphere  of  infinite  suggestion.  The 
poet  speaks  to  us  of  one  thing,  but  in  this  one  thing  there 
seems  to  lurk  the  secret  of  all.  He  said  what  he  meant, 
but  his  meaning  seems  to  beckon  away  beyond  itself,  or 
rather  to  expand  into  something  boundless  which  is  only 
focussed  in  it  ;  something  also  which,  we  feel,  would  satisfy 
not  only  the  imagination,  but  the  whole  of  us  ;  that  some- 
thing within  us,  and  without,  which  everywhere 

.  .  .  makes  us  seem 
To  patch  up  fragments  of  a  dream. 
Part  of  which  comes  true,  and  part 
Beats  and  trembles  in  the  heart.* 

*  From  a  fragment  of  Shelley's,  published  in  Gamett's  Relics  of  Shelley. 


102  BRADLEY  AND  OTHERS 

Those  who  are  susceptible  to  this  effect  of  poetry  find  it 
not  only,  perhaps  not  most,  in  the  ideals  which  she  has 
sometimes  described,  but  in  a  child's  song  by  Christina 
Rossetti  about  a  mere  crown  of  wind-flowers,  and  in  tragedies 
like  Lear,  v/here  the  sun  seems  to  have  set  for  ever.  They 
hear  this  spirit  murmuring  its  undertone  through  the 
Aeneid,  and  catch  its  voice  in  tlie  song  of  Keats's  nightingale, 
and  its  light  upon  the  figures  on  the  Urn,  and  it  pierces 
them  no  less  in  Shelley's  hopeless  lament,  "  O  world, 
O  life,  O  time,"  than  in  the  rapturous  ecstasy  of  his  "  Life 
of  Life."  This  all-embracing  perfection  cannot  be  expressed 
in  poetic  words  or  words  of  any  kind,  nor  yet  in  music  or 
in  colour,  but  the  suggestion  of  it  is  in  much  poetry,  if  not 
all  ;  and  poetry  has  in  this  suggestion,  this  "  meaning,"  a 
great  part  of  its  value.  We  do  it  wrong,  and  we  defeat  our 
own  purposes  when  we  try  to  bend  it  to  them  : 

We  do  it  wrong,  being  so  majestical, 
To  offer  it  the  show  of  violence  ; 
For  it  is  as  the  air  invulnerable. 
And  our  vain  blows  malicious  mockery. 

It  is  a  spirit.  It  comes  we  know  not  whence.  It  will  not 
speak  at  our  bidding,  nor  answer  in  our  language.  It  is 
not  our  servant  ;  it  is  our  master. 

A.  C.  Bradley. 
Oxford  Lectures  on  Poetry. 


We  Men,  who  in  our  morn  of  youth  defied 
The  elements,  must  vanish  ; — be  it  so  ! 

Enough,  if  something  from  our  hands  have  power 
To  live,  and  act,  and  serve  the  future  hour  : 
And  if,  as  toward  the  silent  tomb  we  go. 

Through  love,  through  hope,  and  faith's  transcendent 
dower. 
We  feel  that  we  are  greater  than  we  know. 

Wordsworth. 
After-Thought. 


There  are  more  Fools  than  Knaves  in  the  World.     Else 
the  Knaves  would  not  have  enough  to  live  upon. 

Samuel  Butler. 


COLERIDGE— THOMPSON  103 

I  AM  especially  pleased  with  their  freundin  [the  German 
word  meaning  a  female  friend],  which  unlike  the  arnica 
of  the  Romans,  is  seldom  used  but  in  its  best  and  purest 
sense.  Now  I  know  it  will  be  said  that  a  friend  is  already 
something  more  than  a  friend,  when  a  man  feels  an  anxiety 
to  express  to  himself  that  this  friend  is  a  female  ;  but  this 
I  deny — in  that  sense  at  least  in  which  the  objection  will 
be  made.  I  would  hazard  the  impeachment  of  heresy, 
rather  than  abandon  my  belief  that  there  is  a  sex  in  our 
souls  as  well  as  in  their  perishable  garments  ;  and  he  who 
does  not  feel  it,  never  truly  loved  a  sister — nay,  is  not 
capable  even  of  loving  a  wife  as  she  deserves  to  be  loved, 
if  she  indeed  be  worthy  of  that  holy  name. 

S.  T.  Coleridge. 
Biographia  Liter  aria,  "  Letter  to  a  Lady." 

Coleridge  also  says  :  "  The  qualities  of  the  sexes  correspond.  The 
man's  courage  is  loved  by  the  woman,  whose  fortitude  again  is  coveted 
by  the  man.  His  vigorous  intellect  is  answered  by  her  infallible  tact. 
Can  it  be  true  what  is  so  constantly  affirmed,  that  there  is  no  sex  in  souls  ? 
— I  doubt  it,  I  doubt  it  exceedingly." — Table  Talk. 

But  surely  Coleridge  might  have  found  the  best  proof  of  his  contention 
in  the  nature  of  children,  the  small  boy  who  fights  with  his  fists,  plays 
with  tin  soldiers  and  despises  "  girls,"  and  the  girl-child  who  loves  her 
doll  and  her  pretty  clothes.     See  next  quotation. 


O  Thou  most  dear  ! 

Who  art  thy  sex's  complex  harmony 

God-set  more  facilely  ; 

To  thee  may  love  draw  near 

Without  one  blame  or  fear, 
Unchidden  save  by  his  humility  : 
Thou  Perseus'  Shield  wherein  I  view  secure 
The  mirrored  Woman's  fateful-fair  allure  ! 
Whom  Heaven  still  leaves  a  twofold  dignity, 
As  girlhood  gentle,  and  as  boyhood  free  ; 
With  whom  no  most  diaphanous  webs  enwind 
The  bared  limbs  of  the  rebukeless  mind. 
Wild  Dryad,  all  unconscious  of  thy  tree. 

With  which  indissolubly 
The  tyrannous  time  shall  one  day  make  thee  whole  ; 
Whose  frank  arms  pass  unfretted  through  its  bole. 

Who  wear'st  thy  femineity 
Light  as  entrailed  blossoms,  that  shalt  find 
It  erelong  silver  shackles  unto  thee. 


I04  THOMPSON— POPE 

Thou  whose  young  sex  is  yet  but  in  thy  soul  ; — 

As  hoarded  in  the  vine 
Hang  the  gold  skins  of  undelirious  wine, 
As  air  sleeps,  till  it  toss  its  limbs  in  breeze  : — 

In  whom  the  mystery  which  lures  and  sunders  ; 

Grapples  and  thrusts  apart  ;  endears,  estranges, 
— The  dragon  to  its  own  Hesperides — 

Is  gated  under  slow-revolving  changes. 
Manifold  doors  of  heavy-hinged  years. 

So  once,  ere  Heaven's  eyes  were  filled  with  wonders 
To  see  Laughter  rise  from  Tears, 
Lay  in  beauty  not  yet  mighty, 
Couched  in  translucencies, 
The  antenatal  Aphodrite, 
Caved  magically  under  magic  seas  ; 
Caved  dreamlessly  beneath  the  dreamful  seas. 

Francis  Thompson. 
Sister  Songs. 

Francis  Thompson  is  one  of  the  "  difficult  "  poets  who  repay  study. 
Here  he  says  that,  in  the  young  girl,  sex  appears  in  a  less  complex  form 
than  in  the  woman.  Just  as  Perseus  could  safely  look  at  the  reflection 
on  his  shield  of  the  fatal  Medusa's  head,  so — mirrored  in  the  girl — we  can 
view  without  risk  the  fateful  attractiveness  of  womanhood.  Nothing 
conceals  her  open,  innocent  nature,  gentle  as  a  girl,  free  as  a  boy.  She  is 
the  Dryad,  the  Nymph  who  lives  in  the  tree  and  is  born  and  dies  with 
it,  but  is  as  yet  unconscious  of  the  tree,  that  is,  of  her  sex.  Her  "  young 
sex  is  yet  but  in  her  soul,"  and  is  like  the  juice  of  the  grape  which  has 
not  yet  fermented  into  wine,  or  the  calm  air  which  sleeps  undisturbed. 
The  m^'stery  of  womanhood,  which  attracts  and  yet,  in  its  own  protection, 
repulses  man,  will  not  come  to  her  until  after  the  changes  of  years.  It  is 
the  Aphrodite  lying  in  unawakened  beauty  before  she  rises  as  a  goddess 
from  the  sea.  ("  Facilely  "  appears  to  have  the  strained  meaning  "  easy 
to  understand  "  or  "  simply  "  ;  the  word  "  gated,"  "  confined,"  is  a 
curious  use  of  a  university  word  :  the  Oxford  or  Cambridge  under- 
graduate, who  has  misbehaved,  may  be  "  gated  "  for  a  period,  i.e.  con- 
fined to  the  precincts  of  his  own  college.  "  The  dragon  to  its  own 
Hesperides  " — the  Hesperides  were  maidens  who  guarded  the  golden 
apples  of  love  and  fruitfulness,  which  Earth  had  given  to  Hera  on  her 
marriage  to  Zeus.  The  maidens  were  protected  by  a  dragon.  Here 
the  dragon  is  the  maiden's  own  sensitive  reserve  and  self-protecting 
nature,  which  enable  her  to  guard  herself.  "  Conched,"  Aphrodite  is 
lying  in  her  shell.) 


Women,  as  they  are  like  riddles  in  being  unintelligible, 
so  generally  resemble  them  in  this,  that  they  please  us  no 
longer  when  once  we  know  them. 

Pope. 


THOMSON— SEELEY  105 


DAY 

Waking  one  morning 
In  a  pleasant  land, 
By  a  river  flowing 
Over  golden  sand  : — 

Whence  flow  ye,  waters, 
O'er  your  golden  sand  ? 
We  come  flowing 
From  the  Silent  Land. 

Whither  flow  ye,  waters, 
O'er  your  golden  sand  ? 
We  go  flowing 
To  the  Silent  Land, 

And  what  is  this  fair  realm  ? 
A  grain  of  golden  sand 
In  the  great  darkness 
Of  the  Silent  Land. 

James  Thomson  ("  B.V."). 

This  is  a  version  of  an  old  theme,  which  many  of  us  first  learnt  in 
our  school-days  from  Green's  Short  History  of  the  English  People.  There 
we  read  how  the  Wise  Men  of  Northumbria  met  together  in  a.d.  627 
to  consider  whether  they  would  adopt  the  new  faith  of  Christianity, 
which  King  Edwin  had  already  accepted.  The  narrative  continues  : 
"  So  seems  the  life  of  man,  O  King,"  burst  forth  an  aged  Ealdorman, 
"  as  a  sparrow's  flight  through  the  hall  when  you  are  sitting  at  meat  in 
winter-tide,  with  the  warm  fire  lighted  on  the  hearth  but  the  icy  rain- 
storm without.  The  sparrow  flies  in  at  one  door,  and  tarries  for  a 
moment  in  the  light  and  heat  of  the  hearth-fire,  and  then,  flying  forth 
from  the  other,  vanishes  into  the  wintry  darkness  whence  it  came.  So 
tarries  for  a  moment  the  life  of  man  in  our  sight  ;  but  what  is  before  it. 
what  after  it,  we  know  not." 


Compare  the  ancient  with  the  modern  world  ;  "  Look 
on  this  picture,  and  on  that."  One  broad  distinction  in 
the  characters  of  men  forces  itself  into  prominence.  Among 
all  the  men  of  the  ancient  heathen  world  there  were  scarcely 
one  or  two  to  whom  we  might  venture  to  apply  the  epithet 
"  holy."  In  other  words,  there  were  not  more  than  one 
or  two,  if  any,  who  besides  being  virtuous  in  their  actions 
were  possessed  with  an  unaff"ected  enthusiasm  of  goodness, 
and  besides  abstaining  from  vice  regarded  even  a  vicious 


io6  SEELEY  AND  OTHERS 

thought  with  horror.  Probably  no  one  will  deny  that  in 
Christian  countries  this  higher-toned  goodness,  which  we 
call  holiness,  has  existed.  Few  will  maintain  that  it  has  been 
exceedingly  rare.  Perhaps  the  truth  is,  that  there  has 
scarcely  been  a  town  in  any  Christian  country  since  the 
time  of  Christ  where  a  century  has  passed  without  exhibiting 
a  character  of  such  elevation  that  his  mere  presence  has 
shamed  the  bad  and  made  the  good  better,  and  has  been 
felt  at  times  like  the  presence  of  God  Himself.  And  if 
this  be  so,  has  Christ  failed  ?  or  can  Christianity  die  ? 

Sir  J.  R.  Seeley. 
Ecce  Homo. 

The  quotation  from  Hamlet  should  read,   "  Look  here,  upon  this 
picture,  and  on  this." 


There  are  some  of  us  who  in  after  years  say  to  Fate, 
"  Now  deal  us  your  hardest  blow,  give  us  what  you  will  ; 
but  let  us  never  again  suffer  as  we  suffered  when  we  were 
children," 

Olive  Schreiner. 
The  Story  of  an  African  Farm. 


.  .  .  That  pleasureless  yielding  to  the  small  solicitations 
of  circumstance,  which  is  a  coimnoner  history  of  perdition 
than  any  single  momentous  bargain. 

George  Eliot. 
Middlemarch. 


What  is  the  life  of  man  ?  Is  it  not  to  turn  from  side 
to  side  ?  From  sorrow  to  sorrow  ?  To  button  up  one 
cause  of  vexation  and  unbutton  another  ? 

Sterne. 
Tristram  Shandy. 


I  KNOW  thy  heart  by  heart. 

P.  J.  Bailey. 
Festus. 


ELIOT  AND  OTHERS  107 

If  there  are  two  things  not  to  be  hidden^ — love  and  a 
cough — I  say  there  is  a  third,  and  that  is  ignorance,  when 
one  is  obUged  to  do  something  besides  wagging  his  head. 

George  Eliot. 
Romola. 

In  George  Eliot's  story  Nello  is  quoting  the  Latin  proverb,  Amor 
tussisqiie  iion  celantur.  It  is  also  found  in  George  Herbert's  Jacula 
Prudentian,  1640.  The  same  proverb  appears  with  all  sorts  of  variations, 
"  love  and  a  sneeze,"  "  love  and  snioke,"  "  love  and  a  red  nose,"  "  love 
and  poverty,"  etc.,  being  the  things  that  cannot  be  hidden.  "  Love 
and  murder  will  out  "  (Congreve,  The  Double  Dealer,  Act  IV.  2). 


The  gods  are  brethren.     Wheresoe'er 
They  set  their  shrines  of  love  or  fear, 
In  Grecian  woods,  by  banks  of  Nile, 
Where  cold  snows  sleep  or  roses  smile, 
The  gods  are  brethren.     Zeus  the  Sire 
Was  fashioned  of  the  self-same  fire 
As  Odin  ;  He,  whom  Ind  brought  forth, 
Hath  his  pale  kinsman  east  and  north  ; 
And  more  than  one,  since  life  began. 
Hath  known  Christ's  agony  for  Man. 
The  gods  are  brethren.     Kin  by  fate. 
In  gentleness  as  well  as  hate, 
'Mid  heights  that  only  Thought  may  climb 

They  come,  they  go  ;  they  are,  or  seem  ; 
Each,  rainbow'd  from  the  rack  of  Time, 

Casts  broken  lights  across  God's  Dream. 

R.  Buchanan. 
Balder  the  Beautiful. 


I  KNOW,  of  late  experience  taught,  that  him 

Who  is  my  foe  I  must  but  hate  as  one 

Whom  I  may  yet  call  Friend  :   and  him  who  loves  me 

Will  I  but  serve  and  cherish  as  a  man 

Whose  love  is  not  abiding.     Few  be  they 

Who,  reaching  friendship's  port,  have  there  found  rest. 

Sophocles. 
Ajax. 

This  is  from  C.  S.  Calverley's  fine  translation  of  the  speech  of  Ajax. 


io8  MAINE  AND  OTHERS 

[Referring  to  those  who  insist  on  the  practical  as  against 
the  theoretical^  This  soHtary  term  ["  practical  "]  serves  a 
large  number  of  persons  as  a  substitute  for  all  patient  and 
steady  thought  ;  and,  at  all  events,  instead  of  meaning 
that  which  is  useful  as  opposed  to  that  which  is  useless,  it 
constantly  signifies  that  of  which  the  use  is  grossly  and 
immediately  palpable,  as  distinguished  from  that  of  which 
the  usefulness  can  only  be  discerned  after  attention  and 
exertion. 

Sir  Henry  Maine. 


As  psychology  comprises  all  our  sensibilities,  pleasures, 
affections,  aspirations,  capacities,  it  is  thought  on  that 
ground  to  have  a  special  nobility  and  greatness,  and  a  special 
power  of  evoking  in  the  student  the  feelings  themselves. 
The  mathematician,  dealing  with  conic  sections,  spirals, 
and  differential  equations,  is  in  danger  of  being  ultimately 
resolved  into  a  function  or  a  co-efficient  :  the  metaphysician, 
by  investigating  conscience,  must  become  conscientious  ; 
driving  fat  oxen  is  the  way  to  grow  fat, 

Alexander  Bain. 
Contemporary  Review,  April  1877. 


There  is  a  crude  absurd  materialism  abroad  which 
hasn't  yet  learned  the  fundamental  difference  between  Mind 
and  Matter.  It  is  altogether  incomprehensible  how  any 
material  processes  can  beget  sensations  and  feelings  and 
thoughts  ;  it  is  altogether  incomprehensible  how  you  arose 
or  /  arose.  Listen  to  Spencer  : — "  Were  we  compelled 
to  choose  between  the  alternatives  of  translating  mental 
phenomena  into  physical  phenomena,  or  of  translating 
physical  phenomena  into  mental  phenomena,  the  latter 
alternative  would  seem  the  more  preferable  of  the  two. 
,  ,  .  Hence  though  of  the  two  it  seems  easier  to  translate 
so-called  Matter  into  so-called  Spirit,  than  to  translate 
so-called  Spirit  into  so-called  Matter  (which  latter  is, 
indeed,  wholly  impossible),  yet  no  translation  can  carry 
us  beyond  our  symbols." 

Richard  Hodgson. 
Letter,  March  21,  1880. 


MARTINEAU  AND  OTHERS  109 

[Men  are]  dragged  along  the  physiological  history, 
because  easy  to  conceive,  and  baffled  by  the  spiritual, 
because  it  has  no  pictures  to  help  it. 

James  Martineau. 
Hours  of  Thought,  i.  100. 


Clown.  What  is  the  opinion  of  Pythagoras  concerning 
wild-fowl  ? 

Malvolio.  That  the  soul  of  our  grandam  might  haply 
inhabit  a  bird. 

Clown.  What  thinkest  thou  of  his  opinion  ? 

Malvolio.  I  think  nobly  of  the  soul,  and  no  way  approve 
his  opinion. 

Clown.  Fare  thee  well.     Remain  thou  still  in  darkness. 

Shakespeare. 
Tzvelfth  Night,  IV.  2. 


As  the  old  hermit  of  Prague,  that  never  saw  pen  and  ink, 
very  wittily  said  to  a  niece  of  King  Gorboduc,  "  That, 
that  is,  is." 

Shakespeare. 
Tzvelfth  Night,  IV.  2. 


WHAT  AM  I  ? 

The  aggregate  of  feelings  and  ideas,  constituting  the 
mental  /,  have  not  in  themselves  the  principle  of  cohesion 
holding  them  together  as  a  whole  ;  but  the  /,  which  con- 
tinuously survives  as  the  subject  of  these  changing  states, 
is  that  portion  of  the  Unknowable  Power,  which  is  statically 
conditioned  in  [my  particular  one  of  those]  special  nervous 
structures  pervaded  by  a  dynamically-conditioned  portion 
of  the  Unknowable  Power  called  energy. 

Herbert  Spencer. 
Principles  of  Psychology,  3rd  ed.,  ii.  504. 

The  heading  and  words  in  brackets  are  mine.  As  the  reader  may 
at  any  time  be  asked,  "  What  are  you  ?  "  it  would  be  well  to  be  ready 
with  a  simple  reply. 


no  SPENCER 


WHAT  IS  LOVE  ? 


The  passion  which  unites  the  sexes  ...  is  the  most 
compound,  and  therefore  the  most  powerful  of  all  the 
feehngs.  Added  to  the  purely  physical  elements  of  it  are, 
first,  those  highly  complex  impressions  produced  by  per- 
sonal beauty.  .  .  .  With  this  there  is  united  the  complex 
sentiment  which  we  term  affection — a  sentiment  which, 
as  it  can  exist  between  those  of  the  same  sex,  must  be  re- 
garded as  an  independent  sentiment.  .  .  .  Then  there  is 
the  sentiment  of  admiration,  respect,  or  reverence.  .  .  . 
There  comes  next  the  feeHng  called  love  of  approbation. 
To  be  preferred  above  all  the  world,  and  that  by  one  admired 
above  all  others,  is  to  have  the  love  of  approbation  gratified 
in  a  degree  passing  every  previous  experience.  .  .  .  Further, 
the  allied  emotion  of  self-esteem  comes  into  play.  To 
have  succeeded  in  gaining  such  attachment  from,  and  sway 
over,  another  is  a  proof  of  power  which  cannot  fail  agreeably 
to  excite  the  amour  propre.  Yet  again,  the  proprietary 
feeling  has  its  share  in  the  general  activity  :  there  is  the 
pleasure  of  possession — the  two  belong  to  each  other.  Once 
more,  the  relation  allows  of  an  extended  liberty  of  action. 
Towards  other  persons  a  restrained  behaviour  is  requisite. 
Round  each  there  is  a  subtle  boundary  that  may  not  be 
crossed — an  individuality  on  which  none  may  trespass. 
But  in  this  case  the  barriers  are  thrown  down  ;  and  thus 
the  love  of  unrestrained  activity  is  gratified.  Finally  there 
is  an  exaltation  of  the  sympathies.  Egoistic  pleasures  of 
all  kinds  are  doubled  by  another's  sympathetic  participation  ; 
and  the  pleasures  of  another  are  added  to  the  egoistic 
pleasures.  Thus,  round  the  physical  feehng,  forming  the 
nucleus  of  the  whole,  are  gathered  the  feelings  produced  by 
personal  beauty,  that  constituting  simple  attachment,  those 
of  reverence,  of  love  of  approbation,  of  self-esteem,  of 
property,  of  love  of  freedom,  of  sympathy.  These,  all 
greatly  exalted,  and  severally  tending  to  reflect  their  excite- 
ments on  one  another,  unite  to  form  the  mental  state  we 
call  Love. 

Herbert  Spencer. 

Principles  of  Psychology,  3rd  ed.,  vol.  i.  487. 
The  heading  is,  of  course,  mine — not  Spencer's. 


R.  BROWNING  AND  OTHERS  iii 

New  truths,  old  truths  !  sirs,  there  is  nothing  new 
possible  to  be  revealed  to  us  in  the  moral  world  ;  we  know 
all  we  shall  ever  know  :  and  it  is  for  simply  reminding  us, 
by  their  various  respective  expedients,  how  we  do  know 
this  and  the  other  matter,  that  men  get  called  prophets, 
poets,  and  the  like,  A  philosopher's  life  is  spent  in  dis- 
covering that,  of  the  half-dozen  truths  he  knew  when  a 
child,  such  an  one  is  a  lie,  as  the  world  states  it  in  set  terms  ; 
and  then,  after  a  weary  lapse  of  years,  and  plenty  of  hard- 
thinking,  it  becomes  a  truth  again  after  all,  as  he  happens 
to  newly  consider  it  and  view  it  in  a  different  relation  with 
the  others  :  and  so  he  restates  it,  to  the  confusion  of  some- 
body else  in  good  time.  As  for  adding  to  the  original 
stock  of  truths, — impossible  !  ^    tj 

A  Soul's  Tragedy. 


When  Bishop  Berkeley  said  there  was  no  matter, 
And  proved  it,  'twas  no  matter  what  he  said. 

Byron. 
Don  Juan,  Canto  XI. 


The  law  of  equal  freedom  which  Herbert  Spencer 
deduces  is  binding  only  upon  those  who  admit  both  that 
human  happiness  is  the  Divine  Will,  and  that  we  should 
act  in  accordance  with  the  Divine  Will.  Why  should  I 
obey  this  law  ?  Because  without  such  obedience  human 
happiness  cannot  be  complete.  Why  should  I  aim  at 
human  happiness  ?  Because  human  happiness  is  the 
Divine  Will,  The  inexorable  why  pursues  us  here — Why 
should  I  aim  at  the  fulfilment  of  the  Divine  Will  }  To  this 
question  there  seems  no  satisfactory  reply  but  that  it  is 
for  my  own  happiness  to  do  so.        ^^^^^^^  Hodgson. 

Unpublished  Essay,  1879. 


He  knew  what's  what,  and  that's  as  high 

As  metaphysic  wit  can  fly.        g^^^^  ^^^^^^ 

Hudibras,  I.  i.  149. 


112  HODGSON  AND  OTHERS 

I  HAVE  no  ambition  to  wander  into  the  inane  and  usurp 
the  sceptre  of  the  dim  Hegel,  situated  Nowhere,  with  pure 
Nothing  behind  him,  and  pure  Being  before  him,  stead- 
fastly and  vainly  endeavouring  with  his  Werden  to  stop 
the  sand-flowing  of  smiling  Time. 

Richard  Hodgson. 
Early  Unpublished  Essay. 

Werden  in  Hegel  is  usually  translated  "  Becoming."  To  Hegel  the 
truth  of  the  world  is  found  in  life  or  movement,  not  in  Being  which  is 
changeless,  but  tells  and  does  nothing. 


The  very  law  which  moulds  a  tear 
And  bids  it  trickle  from  its  source, — 
That  law  preserves  the  earth  a  sphere, 
And  guides  the  planets  in  their  course. 

Samuel  Rogers. 
On  a  Tear. 


"  You  remember  Tom  Martin,  Neddy  ?  Bless  my  dear 
eyes,"  said  Mr.  Roker,  shaking  his  head  slowly  from  side 
to  side,  and  gazing  abstractedly  out  of  the  grated  window 
before  him,  as  if  he  were  fondly  recalling  some  peaceful 
scene  of  his  early  youth  ;  "  it  seems  but  yesterday  that  he 
whopped  the  coal-heaver  down  Fox-under-the-hill,  by  the 
wharf  there.  I  think  I  can  see  him  now,  a-coming  up  the 
Strand  between  the  two  street-keepers,  a  little  sobered  by 
his  bruising,  with  a  patch  o'  winegar  and  brown  paper  over 
his  right  eyelid,  and  that  'ere  lovely  bull-dog,  as  pinned 
the  little  boy  arterwards,  a-following  at  his  heels.  What  a 
rum  thing  Time  is,  ain't  it,  Neddy  ?  " 

Charles  Dickens. 
Pickwick  Papers. 

Mr.  Roker  is  a  turnkey  in  the  Fleet  prison. 


There  is  not  so  poor  a  book  in  the  world  that  would  not 
be  a  prodigious  effort,  were  it  wrought  out  entirely  by  a 
single  mind,  without  the  aid  of  prior  investigators. 

Samuel  Johnson. 


THOMSON— BLAKE  113 


WILLIAM  BLAKE 

He  came  to  the  desert  of  London  town 

Grey  miles  long  ; 
He  wander'd  up  and  he  wander'd  down, 

Singing  a  quiet  song. 

He  came  to  the  desert  of  London  Town, 

Mirk  miles  broad  ; 
He  wandered  up  and  he  wandered  down, 

Ever  alone  with  God. 

There  were  thousands  and  thousands  of  human  kind 

In  this  desert  of  brick  and  stone  : 
But  some  were  deaf  and  some  were  blind. 

And  he  was  there  alone. 

At  length  the  good  hour  came  ;  he  died 

As  he  had  lived,  alone  : 
He  was  not  miss'd  from  the  desert  wide, — 

Perhaps  he  was  found  at  the  Throne. 

James  Thomson  ("  B.V."). 

The  desert  of  London  Town — Magna  civitas,  magna  solitudo  :  "  a  great 
city  is  a  great  solitude." 

It  is  strange  to  think  that  these  verses  (and  especially  the  last  verse) 
were  written  bv  the  pessimist  who  wrote  in  all  sincerity  the  terrible  lines 
in  Pt.  VIII.  of"  The  City  of  Dreadful  Night." 


Farewell,  green  fields  and  happy  grove, 
Where  flocks  have  ta'en  delight  ; 
Where  lambs  have  nibbled,  silent  move 
The  feet  of  angels  bright  ; 

Unseen,  they  pour  blessing 

And  joy  without  ceasing, 

On  each  bud  and  blossom, 

And  each  sleeping  bosom. 

They  look  in  every  thoughtless  nest, 
Where  birds  are  covered  warm  ; 
They  visit  caves  of  every  beast, 
To  keep  them  all  from  harm  : 


114  BLAKE— HODGSON 

If  they  see  any  weeping 
That  should  have  been  sleeping, 
They  pour  sleep  on  their  head, 
And  sit  down  by  their  bed. 

When  wolves  and  tigers  howl  for  prey, 
They  pitying  stand  and  weep, 
Seeking  to  drive  their  thirst  away, 
And  keep  them  from  the  sheep. 

But  if  they  rush  dreadful. 

The  angels,  most  heedful, 

Receive  each  mild  spirit, 

New  worlds  to  inherit. 

And  there  the  lion's  ruddy  eyes 
Shall  flow  with  tears  of  gold, 
And  pitying  the  tender  cries, 
And  walking  round  the  fold. 

Saying,  "  Wrath,  by  His  meekness. 

And,  by  His  health,  sickness 

Is  driven  away 

From  our  immortal  day." 

William  Blake. 
Night. 


[Speaking  of  an  Essay  on  Wordsworth  he  is  about  to 
write  for  some  Melbourne  society.]  I  purpose  describing 
briefly  the  poetic  tendencies,  or  rather  the  unpoetic  tend- 
encies, of  the  1 8th  Century,  and  the  new  school  beginning 
to  manifest  itself  in  Cowper.  I  shall  then  refer  to  W.'s 
principles — shall  banish  to  a  future  time  the  working  out 
of  the  psychological  connection  between  forms  of  nature 
and  the  human  soul — shall  banish  also  the  feelings,  the 
elementary  feelings,  of  humanity,  which  W.  drew  powerful 
attention  to,  and  confine  myself  to  pointing  out  those 
characteristics  in  external  nature  which  he  took  note  of. 
These  produce  corresponding  feelings  in  the  "  human," 
and  some  of  them  are  beauty,  silence  and  calm,  joyousness, 
generosity,  freedom,  grandeur,  and  Spirituality.  These  are 
found  in  Nature,  and  W.  saw  them,  and  in  the  growing 
familiarity  with  them  a  man's  soul  becomes  beautiful,  calm, 
joyous,  generous,  free,  grand,  and  spiritual.  The  first  ones, 
of  course,  all  depend  on  and  grow  from  the  last,  and  the 


HODGSON— BLAKE  115 

Spirituality  is  God  immanent.  This  last,  as  the  root  of 
all  the  others,  will  merit  special  attention — it  exhibits  W.'s 
poetico-philosophy  so  far  as  it  regards  the  work  of  Nature 
upon  man  ;  and  includes  too  the  Platonic  Reminiscence 
business.  [Here  follows  personal  chit-chat.]  I  think  we 
might  add  the  "  supreme  loftiness  of  labour  "  to  the  fore- 
going elements  in  Nature.  In  the  Gipsies  (I  give  both 
readings)  : 

O  better  wrong  and  strife, 
Better  vain  deeds  or  evil  than  such  life  ! 

The  silent  heavens  have  goings-on  ; 

The  stars  have  tasks — but  these  have  none  !  ^ 

Oh,  better  wrong  and  strife 
(By  nature  transient)  than  this  torpid  life  : 
Life  which  the  very  stars  reprove 
As  on  their  silent  tasks  they  move. 

R.  Hodgson. 
Letter,  1877. 

In  1877  Blake  was  little  appreciated.  (I  remember  only  that  in 
our  children's  books  we  had  "  Tiger,  Tiger  burning  bright  " — and  it 
was  a  strange  thing  to  include  in  such  books  a  poem  which  raises  the 
problems  of  the  existence  of  evil  and  the  nature  of  God.)  Hence  it 
will  be  evident  why  so  keen  a  student  of  poetry  as  Hodgson  did  not 
couple  Blake  with  Cowper  as  a  precursor  of  the  Romantic  Revival.  As 
a  matter  of  fact,  Blake  had  more  of  the  "  Romantic  "  spirit  than  Cowper, 
and  really  preceded  him,  for  the  poor  verse  that  Cowper  published  the 
year  before  Blake's  Poetical  Sketches  need  not  be  considered.  While 
still  in  his  teens  Blake  wrote  ("  To  the  Muses  ")  : 

.  .  .  Fair  Nine,  forsaking  Poetry, 

How  have  you  left  the  ancient  love 

That  bards  of  old  enjoyed  in  you  ! 
The  languid  strings  do  scarcely  move. 

The  sound  is  forced,  the  notes  are  few. 

Curiously  enough,  Gray  also  had  in  him  an  element  of  the  Romantic 
which  he  suppressed.  It  is  very  remarkable  that  in  his  "  Elegy  "  (published 
175 1)  he  cut  out  the  following  verse  : 

There  scattered  oft,  the  earliest  of  the  year. 

By  hands  unseen  are  showers  of  violets  found  ; 

The  redbreast  loves  to  build  and  warble  there. 
And  little  footsteps  lightly  print  the  ground. 


A  FOOL  sees  not  the  same  tree  as  a  wise  man  sees. 

William  Blake. 
The  Marriage  of  Heaven  and  Hell. 


ii6  PATMORE— SOUTH 


THE  TOYS 


My  little  son,  who  looked  from  thoughtful  eyes 

And  moved  and  spoke  in  quiet  grown-up  wise, 

Having  my  law  the  seventh  time  disobeyed, 

I  struck  him,  and  dismissed 

With  hard  words  and  unkissed, 

— His  mother,  who  was  patient,  being  dead. 

Then,  fearing  lest  his  grief  should  hinder  sleep, 

I  visited  his  bed, 

But  found  him  slumbering  deep. 

With  darkened  eyelids,  and  their  lashes  yet 

From  his  late  sobbing  wet. 

And  I,  with  moan. 

Kissing  away  his  tears,  left  others  of  my  own  ; 

For,  on  a  table  drawn  beside  his  head, 

He  had  put,  within  his  reach, 

A  box  of  counters  and  a  red-veined  stone, 

A  piece  of  glass  abraded  by  the  beach. 

And  six  or  seven  shells, 

A  bottle  with  bluebells. 

And  two  French  copper  coins,  ranged  there  with  careful  art, 

To  comfort  his  sad  heart. 

So  when  that  night  I  prayed 

To  God,  I  wept,  and  said  : 

Ah  !  when  at  last  we  lie  with  tranced  breath. 

Not  vexing  Thee  in  death. 

And  Thou  rememberest  of  what  toys 

We  made  our  joys. 

How  weakly  understood 

Thy  great  commanded  good, 

Then,  fatherly  not  less 

Than  I  whom  Thou  hast  moulded  from  the  clay, 

Thou 'It  leave  Thy  wrath,  and  say, 

"  I  will  be  sorry  for  their  childishness." 

Coventry  Fatmore. 


We  may  compare  the  soul  to  a  linen  cloth.  It  must  be 
first  washed  to  take  off  its  native  hue  and  colour,  and  to 
make  it  white  ;  and  afterwards  it  must  be  ever  and  anon 
washed  to  preserve  and  to  keep  it  white. 

Robert  South. 


VIRGIL  AND  OTHERS  117 

Sic  vos  non  vobis  nidificatis,  aves, 
Sic  vos  non  vobis  vellera  fertis,  oves, 
Sic  vos  non  vobis  mellificatis,  apes, 
Sic  vos  non  vobis  fertis  aratra,  boves. 

(So  you,  birds,  build  nests — not  for  yourselves, 
So  you,  sheep,  grow  fleeces — not  for  yourselves, 
So  you,  bees,  make  honey — not  for  yourselves, 
So  you,  oxen,  draw  the  plough — not  for  yourselves.) 

Virgil. 

According  to  Donatus,  Virgil  wrote  a  couplet  in  praise  of  Caesar  and 
posted  it  anonymously  on  the  portals  of  the  palace  (31  B.C.).  Bathyllus 
gave  himself  out  as  the  author  of  this  couplet,  and  on  that  account 
received  a  present  from  Caesar.  Next  night  Sic  vos  non  vobis  ("  So  you, 
not  for  you  ")  was  found  written  four  times  in  the  same  place.  The 
Romans  were  puzzled  as  to  what  was  meant  by  these  words,  until  Virgil 
came  forward  and  completed  the  verse — adding  a  preliminary  line, 
Hos  ego  versiculos  feci,  tulit  alter  honor es,  "  I  wrote  the  lines,  another 
wears  the  bays." 

Shelley  in  "  Song  to  the  Men  of  England  "  wrote  as  a  socialist  : 

The  seed  ye  sow,  another  reaps  ; 
The  wealth  ye  find,  another  keeps  ; 
The  robes  ye  weave,  another  wears  ; 
The  arms  ye  forge,  another  bears. 

In  previous  verses  he  refers  to  bees,  and,  of  course,  the  above  quotation 
was  in  his  mind. 


A    maiden's    heart   is    as    champagne,    ever    aspiring    and 

struggling  upwards, 
And  it  needeth  that  its  motions  be  checked  by  the  silvered 

cork  of  Propriety  : 

He  that  can  afford  the  price,  his  be  the  precious  treasure, 

Let  him  drink  deeply  of  its  sweetness,  nor  grumble  if  it 

tasteth  of  the  cork.  ^    o    ^ 

C.  S.  Calverley. 

Imitating  the  now-forgotten  Martin  Tupper.     The  reference  is  to  the 
artificial,  affected  behaviour  imposed  upon  girls  at  that  time. 


Love  had  he  found  in  huts  where  poor  men  lie  ; 
His  daily  teachers  had  been  woods  and  rills, 
The  silence  that  is  in  the  starry  sky, 
The  sleep  that  is  among  the  lonely  hills. 

Wordsworth. 
Song  at  the  Feast  of  Brougham  Castle. 


ii8  LYALL 

MEDITATIONS  OF  A  HINDU  PRINCE 

All  the  world  over,  I  wonder,  in  lands  that  I  never  have  trod, 
Are  the  people  eternally  seeking  for  the  signs  and  steps  of 

a  God  ? 
Westward  across  the  ocean,  and  Northward  across  the  snow. 
Do  they  all  stand  gazing,  as  ever,  and  what  do  the  wisest 

know  ? 

Here,  in  this  mystical  India,  the  deities  hover  and  swarm 
Like  the  wild  bees  heard  in  the  tree-tops,  or  the  gusts  of  a 

gathering  storm  ; 
In  the  air  men  hear  their  voices,  their  feet  on  the  rocks  are 

seen. 
Yet  we  all  say,  "  Whence  is  the  message,  and  what  may  the 

wonders  mean  ?  " 

A  million  shrines  stand  open,  and  ever  the  censer  swings, 
As  they  bow  to  a  mystic  symbol,  or  the  figures  of  ancient 

kings  ; 
And  the  incense  rises  ever,  and  rises  the  endless  cry 
Of  those  who  are  heav}'-laden,  and  of  cowards  loth  to  die. 

For  the  Destiny  drives  us  together,  like  deer  in  a  pass  of 

the  hills. 
Above  is  the  sky,  and  around  us  the  sound  of  the  shot  that 

kills  ; 
Pushed  by  a  Power  we  see  not,  and  struck  by  a  hand  unknown. 
We  pray  to  the  trees  for  shelter,  and  press  our  lips  to  a  stone. 

The  trees  wave  a  shadowy  answer,  and  the  rock  frowns 

hollow  and  grim. 
And  the  form  and  the  nod  of  the  demon  are  caught  in  the 

twilight  dim  ; 
And  we  look  to  the  sunlight  falling  afar  on  the  mountain  crest, 
Is  there  never  a  path  runs  upward  to  a  refuge  there  and 

a  rest  ? 

The  path,  ah  !  who  has  shown  it,  and  which  is  the  faithful 
guide  ? 

The  haven,  ah  !  who  has  known  it  }  for  steep  is  the  moun- 
tain side. 

Forever  the  shot  strikes  surely,  and  ever  the  wasted  breath 

Of  the  praying  multitude  rises,  whose  answer  is  only  death. 


LYALL  119 

Here  are  the  tombs  of  my  kinsfolk,  the  fruit  of  an  ancient 

name, 
Chiefs  who  were  slain  on  the  war-field,  and  women  who  died 

in  flame  ; 
They  are  gods,  these  kings  of  the  foretime,  they  are  spirits 

who  guard  our  race. 
Ever    I    watch    and    worship  —  they    sit    with    a    marble 

face. 

And  the  myriad  idols  around  me,  and  the  legion  of  muttering 

priests, 
The  revels  and  rites  unholy,  the  dark,  unspeakable  feasts  ! 
What  have  they  wrung  from  the  Silence  ?     Hath  even  a 

whisper  come 
Of  the  secret.  Whence  and  Whither  ?     Alas  !   for  the  gods 

are  dumb. 

Shall  I  list  to  the  word  of  the  English,  who  come  from  the 

uttermost  sea  } 
"  The   Secret,  hath  it  been  told  you,  and  what  is  your 

message  to  me  ?  " 
It  is  nought  but  the  wide-world  story  how  the  earth  and  the 

heavens  began, 
How  the  gods  are  glad  and  angry,  and  a  Deity  once  was 

man. 

I  had  thought,  "  Perchance  in  the  cities  where  the  rulers 

of  India  dwell. 
Whose  orders  flash  from  the  far  land,  who  girdle  the  earth 

with  a  spell. 
They  have  fathomed  the  depths  we  float  on,  or  measured 

the  unknown  main —  " 
Sadly  they  turn  from  the  venture,  and  say  that  the  quest 

is  vain. 

Is  life,  then,  a  dream  and  delusion,  and  where  shall  the 

dreamer  awake  ? 
Is  the  world  seen  like  shadows  on  water,  and  what  if  the 

mirror  break  ? 
Shall  it  pass  as  a  camp  that  is  struck,  as  a  tent  that  is  gathered 

and  gone 
From  the  sands  that  were  lamp-lit  at  eve,  and  at  morning 

are  level  and  lone  ? 


120  LYALL— HODGSON 

Is  there  nought  in  the  heaven  above,  whence  the  hail  and 

the  levin  are  hurled, 
But  the  wind  that  is  swept  around  us  by  the  rush  of  the 

rolling  world  ? 
The  wind  that  shall  scatter  my  ashes,  and  bear  me  to  silence 

and  sleep 
With  the  dirge,  and  the  sounds  of  lamenting,  and  the  voices 

of  women  who  weep. 

Sir  Alfred  Lyall. 

This  poem  appeared  in  Cornhill,  Sept.  1877,  with  the  title,  "  Medita- 
tions of  a  Hindu  Prince  and  Sceptic  "  (see  next  quotation). 


MEDITATIONS  OF  A  HINDU  PRINCE 
AND  SCEPTIC 

I  THINK  till  I  weary  with  thinking,  said  the  sad-eyed  Hindu 

King, 
But  I  see  but  shadows  around  me,  illusion  in  everything. 

How  knowest  thou  aught  of  God,  of  his  favour  or  his  wrath  ? 
Can  the  little  fish  tell  what  the  lion  thinks,  or  map  out  the 
eagle's  path  ? 

Can  the  finite  the  infinite  search, — did  the  blind  discover  the 

stars  ? 
Is  the  thought  that  I  think  a  thought,  or  a  throb  of  the 

brain  in  its  bars  ? 

For  aught  that  my  eye  can  discern,  your  god  is  what  you 

think  good. 
Yourself  flashed  back  from  the  glass  when  the  light  pours  on 

it  in  flood  ! 

You  preach  to  me  of  his  justice,  and  this  is  his  realm,  you  say, 
Where  the  good  are  dying  of  hunger,  and  the  bad  gorge 
every  day. 

You  tell  me  he  loveth  mercy,  but  the  famine  is  not  yet  gone, — 
That  he  hateth  the  shedder  of  blood,  yet  he  slayeth  us, 
every  one. 


HODGSON  AND  OTHERS  121 

You  tell  me  the  soul  must  live,  that  spirit  can  never  die, 
If  he  was  content  when  I  was  not,  why  not  when  I've  passed 
by? 

You  say  that  I  must  have  a  meaning  !     So  has  dung, — and 

its  meaning  is  flowers  : 
What  if  our  lives  are  but  nurture  for  souls  that  are  higher 

than  ours  ? 

When  the  fish  swims  out  of  the  water,  when  the  bird  soars 

out  of  the  blue, 

Man's  thought  shall  transcend  man's  knowledge,  and  your 

God  be  no  reflex  of  you  !  t^  tt 

^  Richard  Hodgson. 

In  the  former  editions  I  did  not  ascribe  these  verses  to  Hodgson 
because,  as  I  explained,  Mrs.  Piper,  the  trance-medium,  believed  he 
was  not  the  author.  She  says  he  gave  her  a  copy  (which  she  has  since 
lost)  signed  with  some  one  else's  initials.  To  explain  why  I  am  satisfied 
she  is  mistaken,  I  would  require  to  set  out  at  length  facts  of  a  private 
nature,  but  I  may  say  that  I  have  a  copy  of  the  verses  in  Hodgson's 
writing,  with  no  signature — and,  therefore,  presumably  his  own. 


Whosoever  is  harmonically  composed  delights  in 
harmony.  .  .  .  Even  that  vulgar  and  Tavern  Musick, 
which  makes  one  man  merry,  another  mad,  strikes  in  me  a 
deep  fit  of  devotion,  and  a  profound  contemplation  of  the 
First  Composer.  .  .  .  There  is  something  in  it  of  Divinity 
more  than  the  ear  discovers  :  it  is  an  Hieroglyphical  and 
shadowed  lesson  of  the  whole  World,  and  creatures  of  God  ; 
such  a  melody  to  the  ear  as  the  whole  World,  well  under- 
stood, would  afl^ord  the  understanding.  In  brief,  it  is  a 
sensible  fit   of  that  harmony  which  intellectually  sounds 

in  the  ears  of  God.  o      rn  t> 

Sir  Thomas  Browne. 

Religio  Medici. 

Ambition  tempts  to  rise, 
Then  whirls  the  wretch  from  high 
To  bitter  Scorn  a  sacrifice 
And  grinning  Infamy. 

Thomas  Gray. 
On  a  Distant  Prospect  of  Eton  College. 

Slightly  altered  verbally  to  admit  of  quotation. 


122  A.  SMITH 

The  present  writer  .  .  .  was  seated  in  a  railway- carriage, 
five  minutes  or  so  before  starting,  and  had  time  to  con- 
template certain  waggons  or  trucks  filled  with  cattle,  drawn 
up  on  a  parallel  line,  and  quite  close  to  the  window  at  which 
he  sat.     The  cattle  wore  a  much-enduring  aspect  ;    and, 
as  he  looked  into  their  large,  patient,  melancholy  eyes, — 
for,  as  before  mentioned,  there  was  no  space  to  speak  of 
intervening, — a  feeling  of  puzzlement  arose  in  his  mind. 
.  .  .  The  much-enduring  animals  in  the  trucks  opposite 
had  unquestionably  some  rude  twilight  of  a  notion  of  a 
world  ;    of  objects  they  had  some  unknown  cognizance  ; 
but  he  could  not  get  behind  the  melancholy  eye  within  a 
yard  of  him  and  look  through  it.     How,  from  that  window, 
the  world  shaped  itself,  he  could  not  discover,  could  not 
even  fancy  ;  and  yet,  staring  on  the  animals,  he  was  conscious 
of  a  certain  fascination  in  which  there  lurked  an  element  of 
terror.     These  wild,  unkempt  brutes,  with  slavering  muzzles, 
penned  together,  lived,  could  choose  between  this  thing 
and  the  other,  could  be  frightened,  could  be  enraged,  could 
even  love  and  hate  ;  and  gazing  into  a  placid,  heavy  counte- 
nance, and  the  depths  of  a  patient  eye,  not  a  yard  away,  he 
was  conscious  of  an  obscure  and  shuddering  recognition 
of  a  life  akin  so  far  with  his  own.     But  to  enter  into  that 
life  imaginatively,  and  to  conceive  it,  he  found  impossible. 
Eye  looked  upon  eye,  but  the  one  could  not  flash  recognition 
on  the  other  ;    and,  thinking  of  this,  he  remembers,  with 
what  a  sense  of  ludicrous  horror,  the  idea  came, — what,  if 
looking  on  one  another  thus,  some  spark  of  recognition 
could  be  elicited  ;    if  some  rudiment  of  thought  could  be 
detected  ;    if  there  were  indeed  a  point  at  which  man  and 
ox  could  meet  and  compare  notes  ?     Suppose  some  gleam 
or  scintillation  of  humour  had  lighted  up  the  unwinking, 
amber   eye  ?     Heavens,    the    bellow    of   the   weaning    calf 
would  be   pathetic,   shoe-leather  would   be   forsworn,  the 
eating  of  roast  meat,  hot  or  cold,  would  be  cannibalism, 
the  terrified  world  would  make  a  sudden  dash  into  vege- 
tarianism  !  Alexander  Smith. 

On  the  Importance  of  Man  to  Himself. 

Does  not  this  give  the  reason  why  we  do  not  eat  dogs  and  horses  ? 
We,  more  than  other  nations,  recognize  in  the  horse,  as  well  as  in  the  dog, 
a  life  and  intelligence  akin  to  our  own.  We  also  believe  that  both  animals 
reciprocate  the  affection  we  feel  towards  them.  (Coleridge  in  Table 
Talk  says  :  "  The  dog  alone,  of  all  brute  animals,  has  a  CTopyq  or 
affection  upwards  to  man.") 


MONTAIGNE  AND  OTHERS  123 

When  I  am  playing  with  my  Cat,  who  knowes  whether 

she  have  more  sport  in  dallying  with  me,  than  I  have  in 

gaming  with  her  ?     We  entertaine  one  another  with  mutual 

apish  trickes  :    If  I  have  my  houre  to  begin  or  to  refuse, 

so  hath  she  hers.  ,;, 

Montaigne. 

Bk.  II.,  ch.  12. 

THE  LAMB 

Little  lamb,  who  made  thee  ? 

Dost  thou  know  who  made  thee, 
Gave  thee  life,  and  bade  thee  feed 
By  the  stream  and  o'er  the  mead  ; 
Gave  thee  clothing  of  delight. 
Softest  clothing,  woolly,  bright  ; 
Gave  thee  such  a  tender  voice, 
Making  all  the  vales  rejoice  ? 

Little  lamb,  who  made  thee  ? 

Dost  thou  know  who  made  thee  ? 

Little  lamb,  I'll  tell  thee  ; 

Little  lamb,  I'll  tell  thee  ; 
He  is  called  by  thy  name. 
For  He  calls  Himself  a  Lamb. 
He  is  meek,  and  He  is  mild, 
He  became  a  little  child. 
I  a  child,  and  thou  a  lamb, 
We  are  called  by  His  name. 

Little  lamb,  God  bless  thee  ! 

Little  lamb,  God  bless  thee  ! 

William  Blake. 


Who  can  wrestle  against  Sleep  ?     Yet  is  that  giant  very 

gentleness.  ,;,  -t. 

^  Martin  Tupper. 

Of  Beauty. 

Without  the  smile  from  partial  beauty  won, 
Oh,  what  were  man  ?   a  world  without  a  sun  ! 

Thomas  Campbell. 
Pleasures  of  Hope,  Pt.  II. 


124  LOWELL  AND  OTHERS 

One  summer  hour  abides,  what  time  I  perched, 
Dappled  with  noon-day,  under  simmering  leaves, 
And  pulled  the  pulpy  oxhearts,  while  aloof 
An  oriole  clattered  and  the  robins  shrilled, 
Denouncing  me  an  alien  and  a  thief. 

J.  R.  Lowell. 

The  Cathedral. 


O  WHAT  are  these  Spirits  that  o'er  us  creep. 
And  touch  our  eyelids  and  drink  our  breath  ? 

The  first,  with  a  flower  in  his  hand,  is  Sleep  ; 
The  next,  with  a  star  on  his  brow,  is  Death. 

R.  Buchanan, 
Balder  the  Beautiful. 


ON  A  FINE  MORNING 

Whence  comes  Solace  ? — Not  from  seeing 

What  is  doing,  sufl^ering,  being. 

Not  from  noting  Life's  conditions. 

Nor  from  heeding  Time's  monitions  ; 
But  in  cleaving  to  the  Dream, 
And  in  gazing  at  the  Gleam 
Whereby  gray  things  golden  seem. 

Thus  do  I  this  heyday,  holding 
Shadows  but  as  lights  unfolding, 
As  no  specious  show  this  moment 
With  its  iridized  embowment  *  ; 

But  as  nothing  other  than 

Part  of  a  benignant  plan  ; 

Proof  that  earth  was  made  for  man. 

Thomas  Hardy. 

This  poem  is  interesting  as  showing  Mr.  Hardy  in  an  optimistic 
mood.  It  is  also  in  my  opinion  one  of  the  best  of  his  lyrics — yet  he 
has  omitted  it  from  the  Selected  Poems  and  also  from  Late  Lyrics  and 
Earlier  Poems. 

It  is  a  true  statement  (although  Mr.  Hardy  presumably  does  not 
now  approve  of  it)  that  the  earth  was  made  for  man.     It  expresses 

*  In  the  Mellstock  edition  "  iris6d  embowment."  It  means  the  rainbow-hued  framing 
or  atmosphere  of  a  beautiful  morning. 


HARDY  AND  OTHERS  125 

the  oneness  of  the  universe,  which  is  not  complete  until  it  includes  a 
sentient  and  rational  being.  Man  (as  also  any  other  intelligent  beings 
that  may  exist)  is  organic  to  the  universe.  He  is,  as  it  were,  an  organ 
of  the  w'orld,  through  which  it  beholds  itself.  Nature  has,  in  fact, 
developed  an  organ  out  of  her  own  substance,  namely  man,  by  which 
she  comes  to  life  and  becomes  conscious  of  herself  and  enters  into  the 
joy  of  her  ozvn  being  (see  Pringle-Pattison's  The  Idea  of  God,  chap.  vi.). 
"  Where  man  is  not,  nature  is  barren  "  (William  Blake,  "  The  Marriage 
of  Heaven  and  Hell  "). 

"  The  Dream  .  .  .  the  Gleam  "  :  Mr.  Hardy  had  in  his  mind  Words- 
worth's lines  in  "  Peele  Castle  "  : 

The  gleam. 
The  light  that  never  was,  on  sea  or  land, 
The  consecration,  and  the  Poet's  dream. 

And  also  the  great  Ode  on  "  Intimations  of  Immortality  from  Recollec- 
tions of  Early  Childhood  "  : 

There  was  a  time  when  meadow,  grove,  and  stream, 
The  earth,  and  every  common  sight, 
To  me  did  seem 
Apparell'd  in  celestial  light. 
The  glory  and  the  freshness  of  a  dream. 

Whither  is  fled  the  visionary  gleam  ? 
W^here  is  it  now,  the  glory  and  the  dream  ? 

The  Oxford  Dictionary  under  "  Gleam  "  quotes  from  Tryon's  Way 
to  Health  :  "  The  white  clear  bright  Gleam  in  every  Creature  .  .  .  does 
arise  and  proceed  from  the  divine  Principle." 


Peace,  peace  !  he  is  not  dead,  he  doth  not  sleep — ■ 
He  hath  awakened  from  the  dream  of  Hfe — 
'Tis  we,  who  lost  in  stormy  visions,  keep 
With  phantoms  an  unprofitable  life. 

Shelley. 
Adonais,  XXXIX. 


That's  the  wise  thrush  ;  he  sings  each  song  twice  over, 
Lest  you  should  think  he  never  could  recapture 
The  first  fine  careless  rapture  ! 

R.  Browning. 
Home-  Thoughts  from  Abroad. 


The  world  may  be  divided  into  people  that  read,  people 
that  write,  people  that  think,  and  fox-hunters. 

Shenstone. 


126  BENTHAM 

Of  two  opposite  methods  of  action,  do  you  desire  to  know 
which  should  have  the  preference  ?  Calculate  their  effects 
in  pleasures  and  pains,  and  prefer  that  which  promises  the 
greater  sum  of  pleasures. 


Think  not  that  a  man  will  so  much  as  lift  up  his  little 
finger  on  your  behalf,  unless  he  sees  his  advantage  in  it. 

Jeremy  Bentham. 

These  cold-blooded  and  repulsive  aphorisms  are  typical  of  Bentham's 
Utilitarian  philosophy,  from  which  all  sense  of  duty  and  moral  aspiration 
were  excluded.  It  is  strange  that  these  views  should  be  held  by  a  great 
thinker  who  was  himself  of  benevolent  character.  Such  a  doctrine 
could  not  have  survived  to  my  time,  had  it  not  been  supplemented  by 
John  Stuart  Mill  (i 806-1 873),  who  gave  a  different  place  to  the  humanist 
element.  While  still  adhering  to  Bentham's  doctrine  that  there  is  no 
good  but  pleasure  and  no  evil  but  pain,  he  introduced  as  the  higher 
forms  of  pleasure  those  derived  from  the  wish  for  self-culture  and  the 
desire  to  satisfy  our  mental  and  moral  aims.  He  gave  priority  to  all 
the  sympathetic  and  altruistic  motives  that  govern  our  actions.  Whereas 
Bentham  held  that  all  pleasures  were  equal  and  could  be  counted  in  one 
column,  Mill  said  that  they  differed  in  quality,  that  they  could  no  more 
be  added  up  in  one  column  than  pounds,  shillings  and  pence  ;  that, 
in  fact,  there  is  no  equivalent  for  a  higher  pleasure  in  any  quantity  of  a 
lower  one. 

This  was  typical  of  Mill's  sincerity  ;  but  he  did  not  see  that  his  addi- 
tions were  fatal  to  Bentham's  doctrine  and  to  hedonism  generally. 
How,  for  instance,  is  a  higher  pleasure  to  be  known  for  a  higher  ?  In 
what  respect  is  an  intellectual  pleasure  or  the  satisfaction  of  doing  one's 
duty  of  higher  quality  than  the  gratification  of  the  senses  ?  To  ascertain 
this  it  is  necessary  to  pass  from  the  pleasure  itself  to  the  thing  that  gives 
the  pleasure,  or,  in  other  words,  to  the  character  that  finds  the  pleasure. 
Many  illustrations  of  this  might  be  given.  In  one  of  Sir  Alfred  Lyall's 
poems,  which  is  founded  on  fact,  an  Englishman  who  has  been  captured 
by  Arabs  has  no  religious  belief  ;  his  loved  ones  are  waiting  his  return  ; 
he  can  save  his  life  if  he  will  only  repeat  the  Mahomedan  formula  ;  if 
he  dies  no  one  will  know  of  his  self-sacrifice  :  yet  he  decides  to  die  for 
the  honour  of  England. 

However,  Bentham's  careful  calculus  of  equal  pleasures  and  pains, 
"  push-pin  "  being  "  worth  as  much  as  poetry,"  *  came  to  an  end 
through  Mill,  and  Mill  at  once  made  way  for  Spencer  on  the  one  hand, 
and  T.  H.  Green  on  the  other  ;  both  of  these  rejected  the  calculation 
of  pleasures  or  happiness  as  the  standard  of  right  either  for  the  individual 
or  the  greatest  number.  In  all  directions  the  low  moral  stage  of  philo- 
sophic thought  represented  by  Benthamism  has  been  passed  through 
and  forgotten.  We  no  longer  hold  the  belief  that  the  only  sphere  of 
Government  is  to  protect  our  persons  and  property,  but  follow  loftier 
ideals  ;  and  in  art  and  poetry  we  look  for  higher  aims  than  mere  luxury 
and  sensuous  pleasure. 

*  Was  a  phrase  of  Cowper's  in  Bentham's  nund  ?  The  latter  WTote  to  Christopher  Rowley, 
"  We  are  strange  creatures,  my  little  friend  ;  everything  that  we  do  is  in  reality  important, 
though  half  that  we  do  seems  to  be  push-pin." 


PROCTER— KEATS  127 


LIFE 


We  are  born  ;  we  laugh  ;  we  weep  ; 

We  love  ;  we  droop  ;  we  die  ! 
Ah  !  wherefore  do  we  laugh,  or  weep  ? 

Why  do  we  live,  or  die  ? 
Who  knows  that  secret  deep 
Alas,  not  I  ! 


? 


Why  doth  the  violet  spring 

Unseen  by  human  eye  ? 
Why  do  the  radiant  seasons  bring 

Sweet  thoughts  that  quickly  fly  ? 
Why  do  our  fond  hearts  cling 
To  things  that  die  ? 

We  toil, — through  pain  and  wrong  ; 

We  fight, — and  fly  ; 
We  love  ;  we  lose  ;  and  then,  ere  long, 

Stone  dead  we  lie. 
Life  !   is  all  thy  song 

Endure  and — die  ? 

B.  W.  Procter,  "  Barry  Cornwall." 


Stop  and  consider  !     Life  is  but  a  day  ; 
A  fragile  dewdrop  on  its  perilous  way 
From  a  tree's  summit  ;  a  poor  Indian's  sleep 
While  his  boat  hastens  to  the  monstrous  steep 
Of  Montmorenci, — Why  so  sad  a  moan  ? 
Life  is  the  rose's  hope  while  yet  unblown  ; 
The  reading  of  an  ever-changing  tale  ; 
The  light  uplifting  of  a  maiden's  veil  ; 
A  pigeon  tumbling  in  clear  summer  air  ; 
A  laughing  school-boy,  without  grief  or  care. 
Riding  the  springy  branches  of  an  elm. 

Keats. 
Sleep  and  Poetry. 

Life  is  compared  to  the  brief  fall  of  a  dewdrop,  the  Indian's  un- 
conscious sleep  while  his  boat  hastens  to  destruction  ;  but  life  also  is 
Hope,  Experience,  Love,  Beauty,  and  Joy. 


128  DRYDEN  AND  OTHERS 

When  I  consider  life,  'tis  all  a  cheat ; 
Yet,  fooled  with  hope,  men  favour  the  deceit, 
Trust  on,  and  think  to-morrow  will  repay — - 
To-morrow's  falser  than  the  former  day — , 
Lies  worse  and,  while  it  says  we  shall  be  blessed 
With  some  new  joys,  cuts  off  what  we  possesst. 
Strange  cozenage  !   none  would  live  past  years  again, 
Yet  all  hope  pleasure  in  what  yet  remain  ; 
And,  from  the  dregs  of  life,  think  to  receive 
What  the  first  sprightly  running  would  not  give. 
I'm  tired  with  waiting  for  this  chymic  gold, 
Which  fools  us  young,  and  beggars  us  when  old. 

Dryden, 

Aureng-zebe. 
"  Cozenage  "  cheating. 


Some  of  your  griefs  you  have  cured. 

And  the  sharpest  you  still  have  survived  ; 

But  what  torments  of  pain  you  endured 
From  evils  that  never  arrived  ! 

R.  W.  Emerson. 
From  the  French. 

This  sentiment  has  been  expressed  by  many  different  authors.  Some 
friends  of  mine  have  as  their  favourite  motto,  "  I  have  had  many  troubles 
in  my  life,  and  most  of  them  never  happened." 

Let  to-morrow  take  care  of  to-morrow, 

Leave  things  of  the  future  to  fate  : 
What  is  the  use  to  anticipate  sorrow  ? 

Life's  troubles  come  never  too  late. 
If  to  hope  overmuch  be  an  error, 

'Tis  one  that  the  wise  have  preferred  ; 
And  hovv'  often  have  hearts  been  in  terror 

Of  evils — that  never  occurred  ! 

Charles  Swain. 


A  VERY  Strange,  fantastic  world — where  each  one  pur- 
sues his  own  golden  bubble,  and  laughs  at  his  neighbour 
for  doing  the  same.  I  have  been  thinking  how  a  moral 
Linnaeus  would  classify  our  race. 

Author  not  traced. 


MONTENAEKEN  129 

PEU  DE  CHOSE  ET  PRESQUE  TROP 

La  vie  est  vaine  : 

Un  peu  d'amour, 
Un  peu  de  haine  .  .  . 

Et  puis — bonjour  ! 

La  vie  est  breve  : 

Un  peu  d'espoir, 
Un  peu  de  reve  .  .  . 

Et  puis — bonsoir  ! 

(Life  is  vain  :  A  little  love,  A  little  hate,  .  .  .  And  then — good-day  ! 
Life  is  short :    A  little  hope,  A  little  dream,   .  .  .  And  then — good- 


night !) 


Ll^ON    MONTENAEKEN. 


This  haunting  little  lyric  is  a  literary  curiosity  from  one  point  of 
view.  In  spite  of  expostulations  from  the  author  (a  Belgian  poet),  and 
repeated  public  statements  by  others  from  time  to  time,  the  poem  is 
constantly  being  wrongly  attributed  to  one  or  other  of  the  French  poets. 
It  appeared  in  Le  Parnasse  de  la  Jeune  Belgique,  1887,  but  had  probably 
been  written  and  published  some  years  before  that  date.  In  the  Nine- 
teenth Century,  September  1893,  William  Sharp  pointed  out  that  the 
poem  was  always  being  attributed  to  the  wrong  author — even  Andrew 
Lang  being  one  of  the  culprits.  The  author  himself  wrote  to  the 
Literary  World  of  June  3,  1904,  to  the  same  effect.  The  subject  was 
again  spoken  of  in  Notes  and  Queries,  January  5,  1907,  when  the  author's 
letter  was  republished.  London  Truth  also  brought  the  matter  up  at 
one  time,  and  probably  the  same  fact  has  been  publicly  pointed  out 
elsewhere  a  hundred  times — but  the  poem  continues  to  be  attributed 
to  the  wrong  author  !  In  the  Dictionary  of  Foreign  Phrases  and  Classical 
Quotations,  by  H.  P.  Jones,  published  so  recently  as  1913,  the  verses 
are  ascribed  to  Alfred  de  Musset. 

There  is  a  third  verse,  which  reads  like  an  answer  or  retort  to  the 
other  two  : 

La  vie  est  telle, 

Que  Dieu  la  fit  ; 
Et  telle,  quelle  .  .  . 
Elle  suffit  ! 

(Life  is  such  As  God  made  it,  And,  just  as  it  is,   .  .  .  It  suffices  !) 

Compare  with  the  first  two  verses  : 

On  entre,  on  crie, 
Et  c'est  la  vie  ! 
On  bailie,  on  sort, 
Et  c'est  la  mort  ! 

AusoNE  DE  Chancel,  1836. 

(You  enter,  you  cry,  and  that  is  life  ;   3'ou  yawn,  you  go  out,  and  that 
is  death.) 

Curiously  enough  De  Chancel's  verse  was  also  wrongly  attributed 
(to  Edmond  Texier)  when  first  published  in  Figaro,  Oct.  29,  1863. 

K 


130  LOWELL 

He  did  but  float  a  little  way, 
Adown  the  stream  of  time, 
With  dreamy  eyes  watching  the  ripples  play 
Or  listening  to  their  fairy  chime  ; 
His  slender  sail 
Ne'er  felt  the  gale  ; 
He  did  but  float  a  little  way, 
And,  putting  to  the  shore 
While  yet  'twas  early  day, 
Went  calmly  on  his  way. 
To  dwell  with  us  no  more  ! 
No  jarring  did  he  feel. 
No  grating  on  his  vessel's  keel — 
A  strip  of  silver  sand 
Mingled  the  waters  with  the  land 
Where  he  was  seen  no  more  : 
O  stern  word — Nevermore  ! 


Full  short  his  journey  was.     No  dust 

Of  earth  unto  his  sandals  clave. 

The  weary  weight  that  old  men  must. 

He  bore  not  to  the  grave. 

He  seemed  a  cherub  who  had  lost  his  way 

And  wandered  hither  ;  so  his  stay 

With  us  was  short.     And  'twas  most  meet 

That  he  should  be  no  delver  in  earth's  clod, 

Nor  need  to  pause  and  cleanse  his  feet 

To  stand  before  his  God  : 

O  blest  word — Evermore  ! 

J.  R.  Lowell. 
Threnodia. 

These  are  the  last  two  stanzas  of  a  poem  written  in  1839  on  the 
death  of  an  infant.  These  verses  seem  to  have  had  an  experience  not 
unlike  that  of  the  preceding  poem.  In  L.  S.  Wood's  English  Verse  for 
Infancy  and  Childhood  (Golden  Treasury  Series,  1921),  the  verses  are 
quoted  under  the  title  "  The  Child's  Death,"  and  are  ascribed  to  an 
anonymous  seventeenth -century  author  !  Mr.  Wood  says  that  they 
were  reprinted  from  Emily  Taylor's  Flowers  and  Fruits  from  Old  English 
Gardens  in  the  first  edition  of  Beeching's  Lyra  Sacra,  but  omitted  by 
Beeching  in  the  second  edition.  Beeching  probably  learnt  from  some 
one  of  his  critics — as,  I  suppose,  Mr.  Wood  has  by  this  time  also  learnt — 
that  his  ascription  was  incorrect,  and  he  omitted  the  verses  altogether 
from  his  second  edition.  The  mistake  is  however  curious,  for 
"  Threnodia  "  is  the  first  poem  in  the  usual  edition  of  Lowell's 
poetical  works,  and  Beeching  had  made  a  special  study  of  sixteenth  and 
seventeenth  century  poets  and  had  edited  the  works  of  several  of  them. 


GEORGE  ELIOT  131 


TWO  LOVERS 


Two  lovers  by  a  moss-grown  spring  : 
They  leaned  soft  cheeks  together  there, 
Mingled  the  dark  and  sunny  hair, 
And  heard  the  wooing  thrushes  sing. 
O  budding  time  ! 
O  love's  blest  prime  ! 

Two  wedded  from  the  portal  stept  : 
The  bells  made  happy  caroUings, 
The  air  was  soft  as  fanning  wings, 
White  petals  on  the  pathway  slept. 
O  pure-eyed  bride  ! 
O  tender  pride  ! 

Two  faces  o'er  a  cradle  bent  : 

Two  hands  above  the  head  were  locked  ; 
These  pressed  each  other  while  they  rocked, 
Those  watched  a  life  that  love  had  sent. 
O  solemn  hour  ! 
O  hidden  power  ! 

Two  parents  by  the  evening  fire  : 
The  red  light  fell  about  their  knees 
On  heads  that  rose  by  slow  degrees 
Like  buds  upon  the  lily  spire. 
O  patient  life  ! 
O  tender  strife  ! 

The  two  still  sat  together  there, 

The  red  light  shone  about  their  knees  : 
But  all  the  heads  by  slow  degrees 
Had  gone  and  left  that  lonely  pair. 
O  voyage  fast  ! 
O  vanished  past ! 

The  red  light  shone  upon  the  floor 

And  made  the  space  between  them  wide  ; 
They  drew  their  chairs  up  side  by  side, 
Their  pale  cheeks  joined,  and  said,  "  Once  more  !  " 
O  memories  ! 
O  past  that  is  !  George  Eliot. 


132  CHAUCER  AND  OTHERS 

With  him  ther  was  his  son,  a  yong  Squyer,*         Squire 
A  lovyere  and  a  lusty  bachelor,  lover 

With  lokkes  crulle,  as  they  were  leyd  in  presse.     curly  locks 
Of  twenty  yeer  of  age  he  was,  I  gesse.  .  .  . 
Singinge  he  was,  or  floy tinge,  al  the  day  ;  playing  the 

He  was  as  fresh  as  is  the  month  of  May.  ^"*^ 

Short  was  his  goune,  with  sieves  long  and  wide, 
Well  coude  he  sitte  on  hors  and  faire  ride, 

Chaucer. 
Canterbury  Tales — Prologue. 

This  and  the  next  five  quotations  and  others  through  the  book  are 
word-pictures. 


The  blessed  Damozel  leaned  out 

From  the  gold  bar  of  Heaven  ; 
Her  eyes  were  deeper  than  the  depth 

Of  waters  stilled  at  even  ; 
She  had  three  lilies  in  her  hand, 

And  the  stars  in  her  hair  were  seven. 

Her  robe,  ungirt  from  clasp  to  hem. 

No  wrought  flowers  did  adorn. 
But  a  white  rose  of  Mary's  gift, 

For  service  meetly  worn  ; 
Her  hair  that  lay  along  her  back 

Was  yellow  like  ripe  corn. 

D.    G.   ROSSETTI. 

The  Blessed  Damozel. 


Stepping  down  the  hill  with  her  fair  companions, 
Arm  in  arm,  all  against  the  raying  West, 

Boldly  she  sings,  to  the  merry  tune  she  marches, 
Brave  is  her  shape,  and  sweeter  unpossess'd. 

George  Meredith. 
Love  in  the  Valley. 

*  "  SquycT  "  is  a  dissyllable.  The  final  e  at  the  end  of  a  line  is  always  sounded  like  a  in 
"  China."  "  Lokkes,"  "  sieves,"  and  "  faire  "  are  also  dissyllables,  because  e,  ed,  en,  es  are 
sounded  as  syllables,  except  before  vowels  and  certain  words  beginning  with  h. 


KEATS  AND  OTHERS  133 

With  a  waist  and  with  a  side 
White  as  Hebe's,  when  her  zone 
SHpt  its  golden  clasp,  and  down 
Fell  her  kirtle  to  her  feet, 
While  she  held  her  goblet  sweet. 
And  Jove  grew  languid.  „ 

Fancy. 


Like  Angels  stopped  upon  the  wing  by  sound 
Of  harmony  from  heaven's  remotest  spheres. 

Wordsworth. 
The  Prelude,  Bk.  XIV. 

Whenas  in  silk  my  JuHa  goes. 

Then,  then,  methinks,  how  sweetly  flows 

The  liquefaction  of  her  clothes  ! 

Robert  H^errick. 
Upon  Julia's  Clothes. 


When  thou  must  home  to  shades  of  underground, 
And  there  arrived,  a  new  admired  guest, 

The  beauteous  spirits  do  engirt  thee  round, 
White  lope,  blithe  Helen,  and  the  rest. 

To  hear  the  stories  of  thy  finished  love 

From  that  smooth  tongue  whose  music  hell  can  move : 

Then  wilt  thou  speak  of  banqueting  delights. 

Of  masques  and  revels  which  sweet  youth  did  make, 

Of  tourneys  and  great  challenges  of  knights. 
And  all  these  triumphs  for  thy  beauty's  sake  : 

When  thou  hast  told  these  honours  done  to  thee, 

Then  tell,  O  tell,  how  thou  didst  murder  me. 

Thomas  Campion. 


The  busy  bee  has  no  time  for  sorrow. 

William  Blake. 
The  Marriage  of  Heaven  and  Hell. 


134  BROWN  AND  OTHERS 

Whatever  else  may  or  may  not  work  on  through  eternity, 
we  are  bound  to  beHeve  that  the  love,  which  moved  the 
Father  to  redeem  the  world  at  such  infinite  cost,  must  work 
on,  while  there  is  one  pang  in  the  universe,  born  of  sin, 
which  can  touch  the  Divine  pity,  or  one  wretched  prodigal 
in  rags  and  hunger  far  from  the  home  and  the  heart  of  God. 

Rev.  Baldwin  Brown. 


Canon  Farrar  is  not  happy  in  his  rejoinder  to  the 
argument  that  to  cast  a  doubt  on  the  endlessness  of  punish- 
ment is  to  invalidate  the  argument  for  the  endlessness  of 
bliss,  since  both  rest  on  exactly  the  same  Biblical  sanction. 
There  are  three  replies,  cumulatively  exhaustive,  which  he 
has  failed  to  adduce.  [Firstly,  evil  and  temptation  are 
banished  from  heaven  ;  Second,  the  two  arguments  do  7iot 
rest  on  the  same  Biblical  sanction.]  Thirdly,  the  difference 
of  the  two  eternities,  heaven  and  hell,  consists  in  the  presence 
or  absence  of  God.  Let  us  put  a  for  each  of  those  eternities 
or  aeons,  and  d  to  denote  Him.  The  assertion  of  the 
equality  of  the  two,  then,  is  that  a  +  6  =  a-d,  which  can 
stand  only  if  0  =  0,  the  postulate  of  atheism. 

Rev.  R.  F.  Littledale,  D.C.L. 

Both  these  passages  come  from  an  Article  in  the  Contemporary  for 
April  1878. 

As  this  book  is  partly  intended  to  revive  the  memories  of  forty  years 
ago,  I  include  these  out  of  the  passages  in  my  commonplace  book  which 
refer  to  the  intense  struggle  that  then  raged  over  the  question  of  Eternal 
Punishment.  Surely  no  other  word,  since  the  world  began,  raised  so 
tremendous  an  issue,  created  such  conflict  and  caused  so  much  heart- 
burning as  the  one  word  aidbvios. 

(Liddell  and  Scott,  1901,  gives  the  following  meanings  for  aUbmos  : 
lasting  for  an  age,  perpetual,  everlasting,  eternal.) 


Ne  nous  imaginons  pas  que  I'enfer  consiste  dans  ces 
etangs  de  feu  et  de  soufre,  dans  ces  flammes  eternellement 
devorantes,  dans  cette  rage,  dans  ce  desespoir,  dans  cet 
horrible  grincement  de  dents.  L'enfer,  si  nous  I'entendons, 
c'est  peche  meme  :  l'enfer,  c'est  d'etre  eloigne  de  Dieu. 

BOSSUET. 

(Let  us  not  imagine  that  hell  consists  in  those  lakes  of  fire  and  brim- 
stone, in  those  eternally-devouring  flames,  in  that  rage,  in  that  despair, 
in  that  horrible  gnashing  of  teeth.  Hell,  if  we  understand  it  aright, 
is  sin  itself  :    hell  consists  in  being  banished  from  God.) 


BROWNE  AND  OTHERS  135 

I  THANK  God,  and  with  joy  I  mention  it,  I  was  never 
afraid  of  Hell,  nor  never  grew  pale  at  the  description  of 
that  place.  I  have  so  fixed  my  contemplations  on  Heaven, 
that  I  have  almost  forgot  the  Idea  of  Hell,  and  am  afraid 
rather  to  lose  the  joys  of  the  one,  than  endure  the  misery 
of  the  other  :  to  be  deprived  of  them  is  a  perfect  Hell,  and 
needs,  methinks,  no  addition  to  compleat  our  afflictions. 
That  terrible  term  hath  never  detained  me  from  sin,  nor  do 
I  owe  any  good  action  to  the  name  thereof.  I  fear  God, 
yet  am  not  afraid  of  Him  :  His  Mercies  make  me  ashamed 
of  my  sins,  before  His  Judgments  afraid  thereof. 

Sir  Thomas  Browne. 
Religio  Medici. 


A  HUNDRED  times  when,  roving  high  and  low, 
I  have  been  harassed  with  the  toil  of  verse. 
Much  pains  and  little  progress,  and  at  once 
Some  lovely  Image  in  the  song  rose  up 
Full-formed  like  Venus  rising  from  the  sea. 

Wordsworth. 
Prelude,  Bk.  IV. 

Apart  from  the  many  beautiful  passages  it  contains,  "  The  Prelude  " 
is  extremely  interesting  as  a  poet's  autobiography. 


Hark  !  the  raven  flaps  his  wing 
In  the  brier'd  dell  below  ; 
Hark  !  the  death-owl  loud  doth  sing 
To  the  nightmares,  as  they  go  : 

My  love  is  dead, 

Gone  to  his  death-bed 
All  under  the  willow-tree. 

See  !   the  white  moon  shines  on  high  ; 
Whiter  is  my  true-love's  shroud  : 
Whiter  than  the  morning  sky. 
Whiter  than  the  evening  cloud  : 

My  love  is  dead. 

Gone  to  his  death-bed 
All  under  the  willow- tree. 


136  CHATTERTON— BRYANT 

Here  upon  my  true-love's  grave 
Shall  the  barren  flowers  be  laid  ; 
Not  one  holy  saint  to  save 
All  the  coldness  of  a  maid  : 

My  love  is  dead, 

Gone  to  his  death-bed 
All  under  the  willow- tree.  .  .  . 

Come  with  acorn-cup  and  thorn, 
Drain  my  heartes  blood  away  ; 
Life  and  all  its  good  I  scorn. 
Dance  by  night  or  feast  by  day  : 

My  love  is  dead, 

Gone  to  his  death-bed 

All  under  the  willow-tree.        ^ 

Chatterton. 

Song  from  Aella. 

Nightmares  were  female  monsters  supposed  to  settle  on  people  when 
asleep,  suffocating  them  by  their  weight. 

There  is  a  curious  unconscious  plagiarisin  of  the  first  verse  in  a  juvenile 
fragment  of  Shelley's  : — 

Hark  !  the  owlet  flaps  his  wings, 

In  the  pathless  dell  beneath  ; 
Hark  !  'tis  the  night-raven  sings, 

Tidings  of  approaching  death. 

The  precocious  maturity  of  the  boy-poet,  Chatterton,  is  seen  in  the 
apposite  expression  "  barren  flowers  "  in  the  third  verse.  The  flowers 
laid  on  the  tomb,  like  the  maid  who  will  remain  true  to  her  dead  lover, 
can  have  no  offspring. 

It  is  sad  to  think  of  this  child-genius  who,  living  in  a  world  of  romance, 
was  driven  by  destitution  to  commit  suicide  at  seventeen  years  of  age. 


So  live,  that  when  thy  summons  comes  to  join 

The  innumerable  caravan,  which  moves 

To  that  mysterious  realm,  where  each  shall  take 

His  chamber  in  the  silent  halls  of  death, 

Thou  go  not,  like  the  quarry-slave  at  night 

Scourged  to  his  dungeon  ;  but,  sustained  and  soothed 

By  an  unfaltering  trust,  approach  thy  grave. 

Like  one  who  wraps  the  drapery  of  his  couch 

About  him,  and  lies  down  to  pleasant  dreams. 

W.  C.  Bryant. 
Thanatopsis. 

Bryant  wrote  this  poem  when  seventeen  years  of  age.  But,  as  it  did 
not  appear  in  the  North  American  Revieiv  until  1817,  five  years  after- 
wards, its  superb  diction  may  be  partly  due  to  revision  in  the  meantime. 


BOSWELL  AND  OTHERS  137 

.  .  .  Sir  Henry  Wotton's  celebrated  answer  to  a  priest 
in  Italy,  who  asked  him,  "  Where  was  your  religion  to  be 
found  before  Luther  ?  "  "  My  religion  was  to  be  found 
there — where  yours  is  not  to  be  found  now — in  the  written 
word  of  God."  In  Selden's  Table  Talk  we  have  the  follow- 
ing more  witty  reply  made  to  the  same  question  :  "  Where 
was  America  an  hundred  or  six  score  years  ago  ?  " 

BoswELL. 
Life  of  Johnson. 

I  do  not  wish  to  introduce  sectarian  questions,  but  these  answers 
are  interesting  and  clever.     The  next  quotation  is  pro-Catholic. 


During  the  horrible  time  of  the  Borgia  Pope,  Alexander 
VI.,  a  French  priest  and  a  Jew  became  very  intimate  friends. 
The  priest,  very  anxious  for  the  future  welfare  of  his  friend, 
urged  him  to  be  received  into  the  church  :  and  the  Jew 
promised  to  earnestly  consider  this  advice.  The  priest, 
however,  gave  up  all  hope  on  learning  that  the  Jew  was 
called  by  his  business  to  Rome,  where  he  would  see  the 
unutterably  monstrous  life  of  the  Pope  and  clergy.  To 
his  surprise  the  Jew  on  his  return  announced  that  he  wished 
to  be  baptized,  saying  that  a  religion,  which  could  still 
exist  in  spite  of  such  abominations,  must  be  the  true  religion. 

Author  not  traced. 

I  noted  this  from  an  old  French  book,  but  the  real  story  must  be  the 
earlier  one  of  Boccaccio  (1315-1375).  Alexander  Borgia  was  Pope, 
1492-1503. 


I  VERILY  believe  that,  if  the  knife  were  put  into  my  hand, 

I  should  not  have  strength  and  energy  enough  to  stick  it 

into  a  Dissenter.  „  „ 

Sydney  Smith. 

Shortly  before  his  death  in  1844  he  gave  this  as  a  singular  proof  of  his 
declining  strength  !     (See  Memoir  by  his  daughter,  Lady  Holland.) 


A  MAN  cannot  possess  anything  that  is  better  than  a  good 
woman,  nor  anything  that  is  worse  than  a  bad  one. 

SiMONIDES    OF   AmORGOS. 
Sophocles  later  makes  the  same  statement  (Fr.  608). 


138  CLOUGH 

"  Come  back,  come  back  "  ;  behold  with  straining  mast 
And  swelling  sail,  behold  her  steaming  fast  ; 
With  one  new  sun  to  see  her  voyage  o'er, 
With  morning  light  to  touch  her  native  shore, 
"  Come  back,  come  back." 

"  Come  back,  come  back  "  ;  across  the  flying  foam, 
We  hear  faint  far-off  voices  call  us  home, 
"  Come  back,"  ye  seem  to  say  ;  "  Ye  seek  in  vain  ; 
We  went,  we  sought,  and  homeward  turned  again. 
Come  back,  come  back." 

"  Come  back,  come  back  "  ;  and  whither  back  or  why  } 
To  fan  quenched  hopes,  forsaken  schemes  to  try  ; 
Walk  the  old  fields  ;  pace  the  familiar  street  ; 
Dream  with  the  idlers,  with  the  bards  compete. 
"  Come  back,  come  back." 

"  Come  back,  come  back  "  ;  and.  whither  and  for  what  ? 
To  finger  idly  some  old  Gordian  knot, 
Unskilled  to  sunder,  and  too  weak  to  cleave, 
And  with  much  toil  attain  to  half-believe. 
"  Come  back,  come  back." 

"  Come  back,  come  back  "  ;  yea  back,  indeed,  do  go 
Sighs  panting  thick,  and  tears  that  want  to  flow  ; 
Fond  fluttering  hopes  upraise  their  useless  wings, 
And  wishes  idly  struggle  in  the  strings  ; 
"  Come  back,  come  back.".  .  . 

"  Come  back,  come  back  !  " 

Back  flies  the  foam  ;  the  hoisted  flag  streams  back  ; 
The  long  smoke  wavers  on  the  homeward  track, 
Back  fly  with  winds  things  which  the  winds  obey — 
The  strong  ship  follows  its  appointed  way. 

A.  H.  Clough. 
Songs  in  Absence. 

In  the  seventy-eighty  period  with  which  this  book  is  mainly  con- 
cerned, a  barbarous  theology  had  taken  the  place  of  Christ's  religion  of 
love.  Yet  men  needed  a  strong  resolution  to  abandon  their  early  beliefs, 
and  pursue  a  path  which  their  dearest  friends  believed  would  lead  to 
their  eternal  damnation.  In  the  poem  the  ship,  or  soul,  is  nearing  its 
"  native  shore  "  of  truth.  (I  have  inserted  the  quotation-inarks  in  the 
poem.) 


ARNOLD— ELIOT  139 


TO  FAUSTA 

Joy  comes  and  goes  :  hope  ebbs  and  flows, 

Like  the  wave  ; 
Change  doth  unknit  the  tranquil  strength  of  men. 
Love  lends  life  a  little  grace, 
A  few  sad  smiles  :   and  then. 
Both  are  laid  in  one  cold  place, 
In  the  grave. 

Dreams  dawn  and  fly  :  friends  smile  and  die. 

Like  spring  flowers. 
Our  vaunted  life  is  one  long  funeral. 
Men  dig  graves,  with  bitter  tears. 
For  their  dead  hopes  ;  and  all. 
Mazed  with  doubts  and  sick  with  fears, 
Count  the  hours. 

We  count  the  hours  :  these  dreams  of  ours. 

False  and  hollow. 

Shall  we  go  hence  and  find  they  are  not  dead  ? 

Joys  we  dimly  apprehend. 

Faces  that  smiled  and  fled, 

Hopes  born  here,  and  born  to  end. 

Shall  we  follow  ? 

Matthew  Arnold. 

This  poem  was  written  in  1849.  The  sad  note  in  so  much  poetry 
of  that  period  shows  that  the  time  was  only  too  ripe  for  the  materiaUsm 
that  broke  out  after  Darwin's  proof  of  evolution.  But  Arnold  did  not 
give  himself  up  to  pessimism,  as  we  learn  from  his  note-books.  Here, 
although 

Men  dig  graves,  with  bitter  tears, 

For  their  dead  hopes, 

he  nevertheless  questions  : 

Shall  we  go  hence  and  find  they  are  not  dead  ? 

Shall  we  find  our  dreams  realized,  our  lost  friends  restored  to  us  and  all 
that  was  obscure  here  made  clear  in  the  life  after  death  .'' 


Has  any  one  ever  pinched  into  its  pillulous  smallness  the 
cobweb  of  pre-matrimonial  acquaintanceship  ? 

George  Eliot. 
Middlemarch. 


140      XENOPHANES  OF  COLOPHON 

Dead  !   that  is  the  word 
That  rings  through  my  brain  till  it  crazes  ! 

Dead,  while  the  mayflowers  bud  and  blow, 
While  the  green  creeps  over  the  white  of  the  snow. 
While  the  wild  woods  ring  with  the  song  of  the  bird. 
And  the  fields  are  a-bloom  with  daisies. 

See  !   even  the  clod 

Thrills,  with  life's  glad  passion  shaken  ! 

The  vagabond  weeds,  with  their  vagrant  train. 
Laugh  in  the  sun,  and  weep  in  the  rain, 

The  blue  sky  smiles  like  the  eye  of  God, 
Only  my  dead  do  not  waken. 

Dead  !     There  is  the  word 
That  I  sit  in  the  darkness  and  ponder  ! 

Why  should  the  river,  the  sky  and  the  sea 

Babble  of  summer  and  joy  to  me. 
While  a  strong,  true  heart,  with  its  pulse  unstirred, 

Lies  hushed  in  the  silence  yonder  ? 

Author  not  traced. 


There  is  one   God  supreme  over  all  gods,  diviner  than 

mortals. 
Whose  form  is  not  like  unto  man's,  and  as  unlike  his  nature  ; 
But  vain   mortals  imagine   that  gods   like  themselves   are 

begotten. 
With  human  sensations  and  voice  and  corporeal  members  ; 
So,  if  oxen  or  lions  had  hands  and  could  work  in  man's 

fashion, 
And  trace  out  with  chisel  or  brush  their  conception   of 

Godhead, 
Then  would  horses  depict  gods  like  horses,  and  oxen  like 

oxen. 
Each  kind  the  divine  with  its  own  form  and  nature  endowing. 

Xenophanes  of  Colophon. 

I  do  not  know  whose  paraphrase  this  is  ;  it  was  prefixed  by  Tyndall 
to  his  Belfast  Address,  1874.  He  probably  imagined  that  these  lines 
contained  an  argument  in  favour  of  materialism  ;  but  on  the  contrary 
the  Greek  philosopher  affirms  the  existence  of  a  supreme  God.  All 
that  he  says  is  that  the  conception  of  him  as  resembling  a  mortal  in  his 
physical  attributes  is  wrong. 

At  the  back  of  Tyndall's  mind  was  no  doubt  the  prevalent  idea  that 


PLATO  141 

any  "  anthropomorphic  "  conception  of  the  nature  of  the  Deity  is  neces- 
sarily absurd.  But  there  is  nothing  unreasonable  in  beHeving  that  His 
nature,  though  immeasurably  superior,  is  nevertheless  akin  to  our  own. 
The  source  or  power  of  the  world  must  be  greater  than  the  highest 
thing  it  has  produced,  the  mind  of  man  ;  and  it  must  more  nearly 
resemble  the  higher  than  the  lower  of  its  products.  In  particular  it  is 
impossible  for  us  to  believe  that  our  moral  ideas  of  truth,  justice,  right 
and  wrong,  etc.,  can  differ  at  all  in  kind,  however  much  in  degree,  from 
those  of  God.  So  also  our  reason  must  be  akin  to  His  insight.  Such  a 
belief  should  be  regarded,  not  as  "  anthropomorphic,"  but  as  (in  a  sense 
different  from  that  of  Clifford  and  Harrison)  a  "  deification  of  man  " — 
the  recognition  of  the  Divine  that  is  in  him.  As  Sir  Thomas  Browne 
saj's,  "  There  is  surely  a  piece  of  Divinity  in  us,  something  that  was 
before  the  Elements,  and  owes  no  homage  under  the  sun." 

For  Mercy,  Pity,  Peace,  and  Love 
Is  God,  our  Father  dear  ; 
And  Mercy,  Pity,  Peace,  and  Love 
Is  man,  His  child  and  care. 

For  Mercy  has  a  human  heart, 
Pity  a  human  face. 
And  Love,  the  human  form  divine, 
And  Peace,  the  human  dress. 

William  Blake. 

The  Divine  Image. 


To  see  the  soul  as  she  really  is,  not  as  we  now  behold  her, 
marred  by  communion  with  the  body  and  other  miseries, 
you  must  contemplate  her  with  the  eye  of  reason,  in  her 
original  purity — and  then  her  beauty  will  be  revealed.  .  .  . 
We  must  remember  that  we  have  seen  her  only  in  a  condition 
which  may  be  compared  to  that  of  the  sea-god  Glaucus, 
whose  original  image  can  hardly  be  discerned  because  his 
natural  members  are  broken  off  and  crushed  and  damaged 
by  the  waves  in  all  sorts  of  ways,  and  incrustations  have 
grown  over  them  of  seaweed  and  shells  and  stones,  so  that 
he  is  more  like  some  monster  than  his  own  natural  form. 
And  the  soul  which  we  behold  is  in  a  similar  condition, 
disfigured  by  ten  thousand  ills.  But  not  there,  Glaucon, 
not  there  must  we  look. 

Where  then  ! 

At  her  love  of  wisdom.  Let  us  see  whom  she  affects, 
and  what  society  and  converse  she  seeks  in  virtue  of  her 
near  kindred  with  the  immortal  and  eternal  and  divine  ; 
also  how  different  she  would  become  if  wholly  following 
this  superior  principle,  and  borne  by  a  divine  impulse  out 
of  the  ocean  in  which  she  now  is,  and  disengaged  from  the 


142  PLATO  AND  OTHERS 

stones  and  shells  and  things  of  earth  and  rock  which  in 
wild  variety  spring  up  around  her  because  she  feeds  upon 
earth,  and  is  overgrown  by  the  good  things  of  this  life  as 
they  are  termed  :  then  you  would  see  her  as  she  is,  and 
know  .  .  .  what  her  nature  is. 

Plato. 
Republic,  Bk.  lo,  Jowett's  translation. 

Apart  from  the  intrinsic  interest  of  such  a  passage,  the  picture  of  the 
old  sea-god,  with  long  hair  and  long  beard,  his  body  ending  in  a  scaly 
tail,  battered  about  by  the  waves,  and  overgrown  with  seaweed  and  shells, 
is  very  curious.  Without  discussing  how  far  the  great  philosopher 
himself  or  some  other  advanced  thinkers  believed  in  such  divinities,  it 
must  be  remembered  that  to  the  Greeks  generally  the  gods  were  very 
real  personages. 


Our  voices  one  by  one 
Fail  in  the  hymn  begun  ; 
Our  last  sad  song  of  Life  is  done, 
Our  first  sweet  song  of  Death. 

Edmund  Gosse. 
Encomium  Mortis. 

This  poem  appeared  in  early  editions  of  On  Viol  and  Flute,  but  is  now 
omitted  from  Mr.  Gosse's  poems. 


Youth's  quick  and  warm,  old  age  is  slow  and  tame, 
And  only  Heaven  can  fairly  halve  their  blame. 
To-day  the  passionate  roses  breathe  and  blow 
And  ask  no  counsel  from  to-morrow's  snow, 
Whose  fretwork  sparkles  to  the  winter  moon 
White,  as  if  roses  never  flushed  in  June. 

Author  not  traced. 


Veil  not  thy  mirror,  sweet  Amine, 
Till  night  shall  also  veil  each  star  ! 
Thou  seest  a  tv/ofold  marvel  there  : 
The  only  face  so  fair  as  thine, 
The  only  eyes  that,  near  or  far, 
Can  gaze  on  thine  without  despair. 

J.  C.  Mangan. 


ALDRICH  AND  OTHERS  143 

IDENTITY 

Somewhere — in  desolate  wind-swept  space — 
In  Twilight-land — in  No-Man's  land — 

Two  hurrying  Shapes  met  face  to  face, 
And  bade  each  other  stand. 

"  And  who  are  you  ?  "  cried  one  a-gape, 

Shuddering  in  the  gloaming  light. 
"  I  know  not,"  said  the  second  Shape, 

"  I  only  died  last  night  !  " 

Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich. 


Full  knee-deep  lies  the  winter  snow, 

And  the  winter  winds  are  wearily  sighing  : 
Toll  ye  the  church-bell  sad  and  slow. 
And  tread  softly  and  speak  low. 
For  the  old  year  lies  a- dying.  .  .  . 

Close  up  his  eyes  :  tie  up  his  chin  : 
Step  from  the  corpse,  and  let  him  in 
That  standeth  there  alone, 
And  waiteth  at  the  door. 
There's  a  new  foot  on  the  floor,  my  friend, 
And  a  new  face  at  the  door,  my  friend, 
A  new  face  at  the  door. 

Tennyson. 
The  Death  of  the  Old  Year. 


Time  and  the  ocean  and  some  fostering  star 
In  high  cabal  have  made  us  what  we  are. 

William  Watson. 
Ode  on  the  Coronation  of  Edward  VII. 


The  best  way  to  prove  the  clearness  of  our  mind  is  by 
showing  its  faults  :  as,  when  a  stream  discovers  the  dirt 
at  the  bottom,  it  convinces  us  of  the  transparency  and 
purity  of  the  water.  _ 

^      ^  Pope. 


144  STEPHEN 


TO  R.  K. 


As  long  I  dwell  on  some  stupendous 

And  tremendous  (Heaven  defend  us  !) 

Monstr'-inform'-ingens-horrendous 

Demonfaco-seraphic 

Penman's  latest  piece  of  graphic.      „ 

^  ^    ^  Browning. 

Will  there  never  come  a  season 

Which  shall  rid  us  from  the  curse 
Of  a  prose  which  knows  no  reason 

And  an  unmelodious  verse  : 
When  the  world  shall  cease  to  wonder 

At  the  genius  of  an  Ass, 
And  a  boy's  eccentric  blunder 

Shall  not  bring  success  to  pass  : 

When  mankind  shall  be  delivered, 

From  the  clash  of  magazines. 
And  the  inkstand  shall  be  shivered 

Into  countless  smithereens  : 
When  there  stands  a  muzzled  stripling. 

Mute,  beside  a  muzzled  bore  : 
When  the  Rudyards  cease  from  Kipling 

And  the  Haggards  Ride  no  more. 

James  Kenneth  Stephen. 

"  R.  K."  is  Rudyard  Kipling,  but  what  was  the  "  boy's  eccentric 
blunder  "  that  brought  him  success  I  do  not  know.  Stephen  in  this 
instance  showed  a  want  of  judgment.  The  books  Kipling  had  then 
produced,  Plain  Tales  from  the  Hills,  Departmental  Ditties,  and  the  six 
little  books,  Soldiers  Three,  etc.,  all  written  before  the  age  of  twenty-four, 
should  have  been  sufficient  to  show  that  the  author  was  certainly  not 
a  stripling  to  be  "  muzzled."  Stephen's  niisjudgment  was,  however, 
trivial  when  we  remember  how  many  important  writers  have  failed  to 
understand  and  appreciate  the  most  beautiful  poems.  Jeffrey  (1773- 
1850)  thought  to  the  end  of  his  days  that  of  the  poets  of  his  time  Keats 
and  Shelley  would  die  and  Campbell  and  Rogers  alone  survive  !  Shelley 
was  very  unfortunate  in  his  critics.  Matthew  Arnold,  Carlyle  and  many 
others  besides  Jeffrey  disparaged  him  ;  Theodore  Hook  said  "  Pro- 
metheus Unbound  "  was  properly  named  as  no  one  would  think  of 
binding  it  ;  and  worst  of  all  was  Emerson.  He  said  Shelley  was  not  a 
poet,  had  no  imagination  and  his  muse  was  uniformly  imitative 
("  Thoughts  on  Modern  Literature  ")  ;  his  poetry  was  "  rhymed 
English  "  which  "  had  no  charm  "  ("  Poetry  and  Imagination  ").  Just 
as  amazing  was  the  article  in  the  Edinburgh  Review,  181 6,  on  Coleridge's 
little  book  containing  "  Christabel,"  "  Kubla  Khan,"  etc.  This  article, 
usually  attributed   to   Hazlitt,   and   certainly  having  Jeffrey's   sanction, 


RUSKIN  145 

said  :  "  We  look  upon  this  publication  as  one  of  the  most  notable  pieces 
of  impertinence  of  which  the  press  has  lately  been  guilty  ;  and  one  of 
the  boldest  experiments  that  have  as  yet  been  made  upon  the  patience 
or  understanding  of  the  public."  De  Quincey  said  the  style  of  Keats 
"  belonged  essentially  to  the  vilest  collections  of  waxwork  filigree  or  gilt 
gingerbread."  Other  instances  are  Swinburne's  abuse  of  George  Eliot 
and  Walt  Whitman,  Carlyle's  brutality  towards  Lamb,  Jeffrey's  savage 
attack  on  Wordsworth  (the  famous  "  This  will  never  do  "  article  on 
"  The  Excursion  " — although  it  was  not  so  very  inexcusable),  Edward 
FitzGerald's  letter  that  Mrs.  Browning's  death  was  a  relief  to  him  ("  No 
more  Aurora  Leighs,  thank  God  !  "),  Samuel  Rogers'  statement  that  he 
"  could  not  relish  Shakespeare's  sonnets,"  and  Steevens'  far  worse 
condemnation  of  them,  and  indeed  the  list  could  be  extended  indefinitely. 
On  the  other  hand,  unmerited  praise  was  given  by  whole  generations 
of  writers  to  poems  which  are  now  properly  forgotten.  In  face  of  such 
facts  it  is  somewhat  of  a  mystery  why  the  best  things  do  survive.  See 
next  quotation. 


If  it  be  true,  and  it  can  scarcely  be  disputed,  that  nothing 
has  been  for  centuries  consecrated  by  pubHc  admiration, 
without  possessing  in  a  high  degree  some  kind  of  sterhng 
excellence,  it  is  not  because  the  average  intellect  and  feeling 
of  the  majority  of  the  public  are  competent  in  any  way  to 
distinguish  what  is  really  excellent,  but  because  all  erroneous 
opinion  is  inconsistent,  and  all  ungrounded  opinion  tran- 
sitory ;  so  that  while  the  fancies  and  feelings  which  deny 
deserved  honour,  and  award  what  is  undue,  have  neither 
root  nor  strength  sufficient  to  maintain  consistent  testimony 
for  a  length  of  time,  the  opinions  formed  on  right  grounds 
by  those  few  who  are  in  reality  competent  judges,  being 
necessarily  stable,  communicate  themselves  gradually  from 
mind  to  mind,  descending  lower  as  they  extend  wider, 
until  they  leaven  the  whole  lump,  and  rule  by  absolute 
authority,  even  where  the  grounds  and  reasons  for  them 
cannot  be  understood.  On  this  gradual  victory  of  Vv^hat  is 
consistent  over  what  is  vacillating,  depends  the  reputation 
of  all  that  is  highest  in  art  and  literature. 

John  Ruskin. 
Modern  Painters,  I,  i. 

This  is  an  excellent  suggestion  in  explanation  of  the  question  raised 
in  the  preceding  note.  It  is  also  interesting  because  of  the  youth  of  this 
great  writer  at  the  time.  Ruskin  was  born  in  181 9,  and  the  volume  was 
published  in  1843,  when  he  was  twenty-four.  Because  of  his  youth,  it 
was  thought  inadvisable  to  give  his  name  as  author,  and,  therefore,  the 
book  was  published  as  "  by  an  Oxford  Graduate." 

Ruskin's  fine  style  is  sadly  spoilt  by  his  interminable  sentences. 

L 


146  POE— TRENCH 


TO  ONE  IN  PARADISE 

Thou  wast  that  all  to  me,  love, 
For  which  my  soul  did  pine — 

A  green  isle  in  the  sea,  love, 
A  fountain,  and  a  shrine, 

All  wreathed  with  fairy  fruits  and  flowers, 
And  all  the  flowers  were  mine. 


Now  all  my  days  are  trances. 

And  all  my  nightly  dreams 
Are  where  thy  grey  eye  glances. 

And  where  thy  footstep  gleams — 
In  what  ethereal  dances  ! 

By  what  eternal  streams  ! 

E.  A.  PoE. 


LINDISFARNE 

O  ROCKY  the  islet 
And  narrozv  the  sand 
That  twice  a  day  only 
Leads  back  to  the  land  !  .  .  . 
Our  Seer,  the  net-mxnder. 
The  day  that  he  died 
Looked  out  to  the  seaward 
At  ebb  of  the  tide. 
Gulls  drove  like  the  snow 
Over  bight,  over  barn. 
As  he  sang  to  the  ebb 
On  the  rock  Lindisfarne  : 
"  Twain  and  twain  only, 
At  Death  and  at  Birth, 
Are  the  tides  of  the  day 
That  man  spends  upon  Earth. 
Hail,  thou  blue  ebbing  ! 
The  breakers  are  gone 
From  the  stormy  coast-islet 
Bethundered  and  lone  ! 


TRENCH  147 

Hail,  thou  wide  shrinking 
Of  foam  and  of  bubble — 
The  reefs  are  laid  bare 
And  far  off  is  the  trouble  ! 
For  through  this  retreating 
As  soft  as  a  smile, 
The  isle  of  the  flood 
Is  no  longer  an  isle.  .  .  . 

"  By  the  silvery  isthmus 
Of  the  sands  that  uncover, 
Now  feet  as  of  angels 
Come  delicate  over — ■ 
The  fluttering  children 
Flee  happily  over  ! 
To  the  beach  of  the  mainland 
Return  is  now  clear, 
The  old  travel  thither 
Dry-shod,  without  fear.  .  .  . 

'*  And  now,  at  the  wane, 
When  foundations  expand. 
Doth  the  isle  of  my  soul, 
Lindisfarne,  understand 
She  stretches  to  vastness 
Made  one  with  the  land  !  " 

Herbert  Trench. 

Lindisfarne  is  perhaps  better  known  as  Holy  Island,  a  name  derived 
from  the  monastery  founded  in  a.d.  635  by  the  Irish  saint  Aidan,  who 
was  sent  on  a  mission  to  Northumbria.  It  is  a  rocky  islet,  two  miles 
from  Northumberland,  and  at  ebb-tide  tivice  a  day  it  is  joined  to  the 
mainland  by  a  pathway  of  sand. 

Here  the  dying  net-mender,  looking  at  the  ebbing  tide,  compares 
man  to  the  islet.  Like  the  islet  he  stands  alone,  buffeted  by  storms 
and  breakers  and  his  world  one  of  foam  and  bubble.  But  on  two  occa- 
sions in  the  day  of  his  life,  at  Birth  and  at  Death,  he  is  connected  with  the 
spiritual  mainland.  When  the  tide  ebbs  and  the  pathway  appears,  "  feet 
as  of  angels  " — the  children  arriving — "  come  happily  over  "  ;  while 
the  old  can  travel  back  home  "  dry-shod,  without  fear."  He  himself, 
being  about  to  die,  hails  the  ebbing  of  the  tide.  The  stormy  breakers 
are  gone,  and  the  foam  and  bubble  of  life  disappeared.  The  trouble 
that  caused  all  the  disquietude  has  removed  far  away,  for  his  soul  is 
no  longer  a  lonely  isle  in  the  waters,  but  has  expanded  its  foundations 
and  been  made  one  with  the  spiritual  world. 

There  is  nothing  omitted  from  the  poem  :  the  pauses  (dots)  are  in 
the  original. 


148  NEWTON  AND  OTHERS 

I  DO  not  know  what  I  may  appear  to  the  world  ;  but  to 
myself  I  seem  to  have  been  only  like  a  boy  playing  on  the 
sea-shore,  and  diverting  myself  in  now  and  then  finding  a 
smoother  pebble  or  a  prettier  shell  than  ordinary,  whilst 
the  great  ocean  of  truth  lay  all  undiscovered  before  me. 

Sir  Isaac  Newton. 

Newton  said  this  a  short  time  before  his  death. 


We  too  say  that  she  [England]  now, 
Scarce  comprehending  the  voice 
Of  her  greatest  golden-mouthed  sons 
Of  a  former  age  any  more. 
Stupidly  travels  her  round 
Of  mechanic  business,  and  lets 
Slow  die  out  of  her  life 
Glory,  and  genius,  and  joy. 

So  thou  arraign 'st  her,  her  foe  : 
So  we  arraign  her,  her  sons. 

Yes  we  arraign  her  !     But  she — 
The  weary  Titan — with  deaf 
Ears,  and  labour-dimmed  eyes, 
Regarding  neither  to  right 
Nor  left,  goes  passively  by 
Staggering  on  to  her  goal  ; 
Bearing  on  shoulders  immense, 
Atlantean,  the  load, 
Wellnigh  not  to  be  borne. 
Of  the  too  vast  orb  of  her  fate. 

Matthew  Arnold. 
Heine's  Grave. 

Heine  had  declaimed  against  England  because  of  its  sordid  commercial 
spirit.  This  poem  was  written  in  1867,  when  the  growth  of  modern 
industrialism  began  to  manifest  itself  still  more  strongly  to  men  like 
Arnold  and  Ruskin. 

Note  the  fine  description  of  England,  "  the  weary  Titan." 


The  stoical  scheme  of  supplying  our  wants  by  lopping 
off  our  desires  is  like  cutting  off  our  feet  when  we  want 

'^«^^-  Swift. 


EMERSON  AND  OTHERS  149 

The  ages  have  exulted  in  the  manners  of  a  youth,  who 
owed  nothing  to  fortune,  and  who  was  hanged  at  the  Tyburn 
of  his  nation,  who,  by  the  pure  quahty  of  his  nature,  shed 
an  epic  splendour  around  the  facts  of  his  death,  which  has 
transfigured  every  particular  into  an  universal  symbol  for 
the  eyes  of  mankind.     This  great  defeat  is  hitherto  our 


highest  fact. 


R.  W.  Emerson. 
Essay  on  Character. 


Thou  with  strong  prayer  and  very  much  entreating 
Wiliest  be  asked,  and  Thou  shalt  answer  then. 

Show  the  hid  heart  beneath  creation  beating. 
Smile  with  kind  eyes,  and  be  a  man  with  men. 

Were  it  not  thus,  O  King  of  my  salvation. 
Many  v/ould  curse  to  Thee,  and  I  for  one, 

Fling  Thee  thy  bliss  and  snatch  at  thy  damnation. 
Scorn  and  abhor  the  shining  of  the  sun. 

Ring  with  a  reckless  shivering  of  laughter 

Wroth  at  the  woe  which  Thou  hast  seen  so  long  ; 

Question  if  any  recompense  hereafter 
Waits  to  atone  the  intolerable  wrong. 

F.  W.  H.  Myers. 
Saint  Paul. 

Wiliest  be  asked,  "  requirest  to  be  asked,"  as  in  "  God  willeth  Samuel 
to  yield  unto  the  importunity  of  the  people  "  (i  Sam.  viii.,  in  margin). 

Saint  Paul  was  written  for  the  Seatonian  prize  for  religious  English 
verse,  Cambridge,  about  1866,  but  failed  to  secure  the  prize  ! 


In  the  Eighth  Century  B.C.,  in  the  heart  of  a  world  of 

idolatrous   polytheists,  the   Hebrew  prophets   put  forth   a 

conception  of  religion  which  appears  to  be  as  wonderful 

an  inspiration  of  genius  as  the  art  of  Pheidias  or  the  science 

of  Aristotle.     "  And  what  doth  the  Lord  require  of  thee, 

but  to  do  justly,  and  to  love  mercy,  and  to  walk  humbly 

with  thy  God  ?  "  r^.    tt    tt 

^  T.  H.  Huxley. 


Essays,  IV.  161, 


Huxley's  quotation  is  from  Micah  vi.  8. 


150 


PAINE  AND  OTHERS 


[Speaking  of  future  state]  "  Those  who  are  neither  good 
nor  bad,  or  are  too  insignificant  for  notice,  will  be  dropt 
entirely.  This  is  my  opinion.  It  is  consistent  with  my 
idea  of  God's  justice,  and  with  the  reason  that  God  has 
given  me,  and  I  gratefully  know  that  He  has  given  me  a 
large  share  of  that  Divine  gift  "  (!) 

Thomas  Paine. 
Age  of  Reason. 


SIXTEEN  CHARACTERISTICS  OF 
LOVE  (AEAnH) 


It  is  long-suffering.  9 

is  kind.  10 

envieth  not.  11 

vaunteth  not  itself.  12 

is  not  puffed  up.  13 

doth  not  behave  itself  14 

unseemly.  15 

seeketh  not  its  own.  16 
is  not  easily  provoked. 


It  thinketh  no  evil. 

rejoiceth  not  in  iniquity, 
rejoiceth  in  the  truth, 
beareth  all  things, 
believeth  all  things, 
hopeth  all  things, 
endureth  all  things, 
never  faileth. 

St.  Paul. 
I  Cor.  xiii. 


'A7a7r77,  brotherly  love,  "  Though  I  have  all  knoioledge  and  all  faith, 
though  I  bestow  all  my  goods  to  feed  the  poor,  and  though  I  give  my  body  to 
be  burned,  and  have  not  love,  it  profiteth  me  nothing  "  (i  Cor.  xiii.  2). 


The  best  of  men 
That  e'er  wore  earth  about  him  was  a  sufferer  ; 
A  soft,  meek,  patient,  humble,  tranquil  spirit  ; 
The  first  true  gentleman  that  ever  breathed. 

Thomas  Dekker. 


CoNSOLE-toi !    Tu  ne  me  chercherais  pas,  si  tu  ne  m 'avals 
pas  deja  trouve. 

(Console  thyself !     Thou  wouldst  not  be  seeking  Me,  if  thou  hadst 
not  already  found  Me.) 

Pascal. 


WORDSWORTH  AND  OTHERS  151 

The  best  of  all  we  do  and  are, 
Just  God,  forgive, 

Wordsworth. 
Thoughts  near  the  Residence  of  Burns. 


RENOUNCEMENT 

I  MUST  not  think  of  thee  ;   and,  tired  yet  strong, 
I  shun  the  love  that  lurks  in  all  delight 
— The  love  of  thee — and  in  the  blue  heaven's  height 

And  in  the  dearest  passage  of  a  song. 

Oh,  just  beyond  the  fairest  thoughts  that  throng 

This  breast,  the  thought  of  thee  waits  hidden  yet  bright  ; 
But  it  must  never,  never  come  in  sight  ; 
I  must  stop  short  of  thee  the  whole  day  long. 

But  when  sleep  comes  to  close  each  difficult  day, 
When  night  gives  pause  to  the  long  watch  I  keep. 
And  all  my  bonds  I  needs  must  loose  apart, 
Must  doff  my  will  as  raiment  laid  away, — 

With  the  first  dream  that  comes  with  the  first  sleep 
I  run,  I  run,  I  am  gathered  to  thy  heart. 

Alice  Meynell. 

This  was  considered  by  Rossetti  to  be  one  of  the  three  best  sonnets 
written  by  women. 


Tears  for  the  passionate  hearts  I  might  have  won, 

Tears  for  the  age  with  which  I  might  have  striven. 

Tears  for  a  hundred  years  of  work  undone. 

Crying  like  blood  to  Heaven.  -.j.       a 

^    ^  Wm.  Alexander. 


My  life,  my  beautiful  life,  all  wasted  : 

The  gold  days,  the  blue  days,  to  darkness  sunk  ; 

The  bread  was  here,  and  I  have  not  tasted  : 
The  wine  was  here,  and  I  have  not  drunk. 

Richard  Middleton. 

I  do  not  find  these  lines  in  Middleton's  collected  works,  but  they 
appear  as  his  in  my  notes. 


I  s2  ROSSETTI— LECKY 


LOST  DAYS 

The  lost  days  of  my  life  until  to-day, 

What  were  they,  could  I  see  them  on  the  street 
Lie  as  they  fell  ?     Would  they  be  ears  of  wheat 

Sown  once  for  food  but  trodden  into  clay  ? 

Or  golden  coins  squandered  and  still  to  pay  ? 
Or  drops  of  blood  dabbling  the  guilty  feet  ? 
Or  such  spilt  water  as  in  dreams  must  cheat 

The  undying  throats  of  Hell,  athirst  alway  ? 

I  do  not  see  them  there  ;  but  after  death 
God  knows  I  know  the  faces  I  shall  see, 

Each  one  a  murdered  self,  with  low  last  breath  : 
"  I  am  thyself, — what  hast  thou  done  to  me  ?  " 

"  And  I — and  I — thyself,"  (lo  !   each  one  saith,) 
"  And  thou  thyself  to  all  eternity  !  " 

D.    G.    ROSSETTI. 


BIRTHDAYS 

"  Time  is  the  stuff  of  life  " — then  spend  not  thy  days  while 

they  last 
In  dreams  of  an  idle  future,  regrets  for  a  vanished  past  ; 
The  tombstones  lie  thickly  behind  thee,  but  the  stream  still 

hurries  thee  on, 
New  worlds  of  thought  to  be  traversed,  new  fields  to  be 

fought  and  won. 
Let  work  be  thy  measure  of  life— then  only  the  end  is  well — 
The  birthdays  we  hail  so  blithely  are  strokes  of  the  passing 

bell. 

W.  E.  H.  Lecky. 

"  Dost  thou  love  life  ?  Then  do  not  squander  time,  for  that  is  the 
stuff  life  is  made  of  "  (Franklin,  Poor  Richard's  Ahnanack,  1757). 

I  retain  the  two  above  quotations,  because  they  are  typical  of  the 
"  copybook  "  aphorisms  of  my  youth.  Now  we  would  ask  what  con- 
stitutes a  "  lost  day,"  and  we  would  certainly  deny  that  life  was  to  be 
spent  in  work  that  was  distasteful — or  wholly  in  work  at  all.  Life 
consists  of  much  more  than  work  ;  it  includes,  for  instance,  love,  the 
sense  of  beauty  or  aesthetic  enjoyment,  worship,  philanthropy  and  social, 
physical,  and  other  pleasures  of  many  kinds.  A  day  is  not  necessarily 
"  lost,"  because  it  is  entirely  spent  in  leisure  or  enjoyment. 


THACKERAY  AND  OTHERS  153 

Ah,  gracious  powers  !     I  wish  you  would  send  me  an  old 

aunt — a  maiden  aunt— an  aunt  with  a  lozenge  on  her  carriage 

and  a  front  of  light,  coffee-coloured  hair — how  my  children 

should  work  work-bags  for  her,  and  my  Julia  and  I  would 

make  her  comfortable  !     Sweet — sweet  vision  !     Foolish — 

foolish  dream  !  „ 

Thackeray. 

Vanity  Fair. 


And  the  nightingale  thought,  "  I  have  sung  many  songs 

But  never  a  one  so  gay, 

For  he  sings  of  what  the  world  will  be 

When  the  years  have  died  away."  „ 

■^  -^  Tennyson. 

The  Poet's  Song. 

This  often-quoted  verse  does  not  give  the  highest  view  of  poetry,  as 
Tennyson's  own  poems  show.     The  poet  sings  of  a  Universe, 

Which  moves  with  Hght  and  Hfe  informed, 
Actual,  divine  and  true. 

He  sings  of  Nature,  Man,  God,  ImmortaHty.     (This  note  is  from  an 
early  letter  of  Hodgson's.     His  quotation  is  from  The  Prelude,  Bk.  XIV.) 


TuER  le  mandarin. 

French  proverbial  expression. 

"  To  kill  the  mandarin  "  means  to  do  a  bad  action,  being  certain  it 
will  not  be  found  out.  Rousseau  in  Entile  had  said  :  "If,  in  order  to 
become  the  wealthy  heir  of  a  man  we  have  never  seen  or  heard  of,  and 
who  dwells  in  the  remote  end  of  China,  it  sufficed  to  push  a  button  and 
make  him  die,  which  of  us  would  not  push  the  button  and  bring  about 
the  death  of  the  mandarin  ?  " 

But  Chateaubriand  in  Le  Genie  dii  Christianisme  said  in  his  turn  : 
"  I  look  into  my  mind  and  ask  myself  this  question  :  If  you  could,  by 
a  mere  desire,  kill  a  man  in  China  and  inherit  his  fortune  in  Europe,  with 
an  absolute,  supernatural  certainty  that  no  one  would  ever  know  anything 
about  it,  would  you  consent  to  form  that  desire  in  your  mind  ?  " 


What  does  the  Right  hand  gaine  by  being  more  active 
and   useful   than   the    Left — but   only   more    Labour   and 

Samuel  Butler. 
Contradictions. 


154  HILTON 

THE  VULTURE  AND  THE  HUSBANDMAN 

The  rain  was  raining  cheerfully, 

As  if  it  had  been  May, 
The  Senate-house  appeared  inside 

Unusually  gay  ; 
And  this  was  strange,  because  it  was 

A  Viva- Voce  day. 

The  men  were  sitting  sulkily, 

Their  paper  work  was  done. 
They  wanted  much  to  go  away 

To  ride  or  row  or  run  ; 
"  It's  very  rude,"  they  said,  "  to  keep 

Us  here  and  spoil  our  fun." 

The  papers  they  had  finished  lay 

In  piles  of  blue  and  white  ; 
They  answered  everything  they  could 

And  wrote  with  all  their  might. 
But  tho'  they  wrote  it  all  by  rote 

They  did  not  write  aright. 

The  Vulture  and  the  Husbandman 

Beside  these  piles  did  stand  ; 
They  wept  like  anything  to  see 

The  work  they  had  in  hand  : 
"  If  this  were  only  finished  up," 

Said  they,  "  it  would  be  grand  !  " 

"  If  seven  D's  or  seven  C's 

We  give  to  all  the  crowd. 
Do  you  suppose,"  the  Vulture  said, 

"  That  we  could  get  them  ploughed  ?  " 
"  I  think  so,"  said  the  Husbandman, 

"  But  pray  don't  talk  so  loud." 

"  Oh,  Undergraduates,  come  up," 

The  Vulture  did  beseech, 
"  And  let  us  see  if  you  can  learn 

As  well  as  we  can  teach  ; 
We  cannot  do  with  more  than  two 

To  have  a  word  with  each." 


HILTON  155 

Two  Undergraduates  came  up 

And  slowly  took  a  seat  ; 
They  knit  their  brows  and  bit  their  thumbs 

As  if  they  found  them  sweet  ; 
And  this  was  odd,  because  you  know 

Thumbs  are  not  good  to  eat, 

"  The  time  has  come,"  the  Vulture  said, 

"  To  talk  of  many  things, 
Of  Accidence  and  Adjectives 

And  names  of  Jewish  kings, 
How  many  notes  a  sackbut  has. 

And  whether  shawms  have  strings." 

"  Please,  Sir,"  the  Undergraduates  said, 

Turning  a  little  blue, 
"  We  did  not  know  that  was  the  sort 

Of  thing  we  had  to  do." 
"  We  thank  you  much,"  the  Vulture  said, 

"  Send  up  another  two." 

Two  more  came  up,  and  then  two  more, 

And  more,  and  more,  and  more  ; 
And  some  looked  upwards  at  the  roof, 

Some  down  upon  the  floor. 
But  none  were  any  wiser  than 

The  pair  that  went  before. 

"  I  weep  for  you,"  the  Vulture  said, 

"  I  deeply  sympathize  !  " 
With  sobs  and  tears  he  gave  them  all 

D's  of  the  largest  size. 
While  at  the  Husbandman  he  winked 

One  of  his  streaming  eyes. 

"  I  think,"  observed  the  Husbandman, 

"  We're  getting  on  too  quick  ; 
Are  we  not  putting  down  the  D's 

A  little  bit  too  thick  ?  " 
The  Vulture  said  with  much  disgust, 

"  Their  answers  make  me  sick." 


156  HILTON  AND  OTHERS 

"  Now,  Undergraduates,"  he  said, 

"  Our  fun  is  nearly  done  ; 
Will  anybody  else  come  up  ?  " 

But  answer  came  there  none. 
And  this  was  scarcely  odd,  because 

They'd  ploughed  them  every  one  ! 

A.  C.  Hilton. 

Vulture — one  who  plucks  ;  Husbandman — one  who  ploughs.  The 
Senate-house  at  Cambridge  was  the  examination-room. 

The  above  will  be  readily  recognized  as  a  parody  of  "  The  Walrus 
and  the  Carpenter  "  in  Lewis  Carroll's  Through  the  Looking  Glass.  I 
do  not  know,  but  it  may  have  been  partly  due  to  this  parody  that  viva- 
voce  examination  was  abolished  at  Cambridge. 


Who  is  the  most  dihgent  bishop  and  prelate  in  all  England, 
that  passeth  all  the  rest  in  doing  his  office  ?  It  is  the  Devil. 
He  is  the  most  dihgent  preacher  of  all  other,  he  is  never  out 
of  his  diocese,  ye  shall  never  find  him  unoccupied,  ye  shall 
never  find  him  out  of  the  way,  call  for  him  when  you  will  ; 
he  is  ever  at  home,  the  diligentest  preacher  in  all  the  Realm  ; 
ye  shall  never  find  him  idle,  I  warrant  you.  .  .  .  He  is  no 
lordly  loiterer,  but  a  busy  ploughman,  so  that  among  all 
the  pack  of  them  the  Devil  shall  go  for  my  money  !  There- 
fore, ye  prelates,  learn  of  the  Devil  to  be  diligent  in  doing 
of  your  office.  If  you  will  not  learn  of  God  nor  good  men  : 
for  shame  learn  of  the  Devil.  ^^^^^^  Latimer. 

Sermon  on  the  Ploughers,  1549. 


APPRECIATION 

To  the  sea-shell's  spiral  round 
'Tis  your  heart  that  brings  the  sound  : 
The  soft  sea-murmurs,  that  you  hear 
Within,  are  captured  from  your  ear. 

You  do  poets  and  their  song 

A  grievous  wrong. 
If  your  own  soul  does  not  bring 
To  their  high  imagining 
As  much  beauty  as  they  sing. 

Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich. 


RUSKIN  157 

In  the  present  day  it  is  not  easy  to  find  a  well-meaning 
man  among  our  more  earnest  thinkers,  who  will  not  take 
upon  himself  to  dispute  the  whole  system  of  redemption, 
because  he  cannot  unravel  the  mystery  of  the  punishment 
of  sin.  But  can  he  unravel  the  mystery  of  the  punishment 
of  NO  sin  ?  Can  he  entirely  account  for  all  that  happens 
to  a  cab-horse  ?  Has  he  ever  looked  fairly  at  the  fate  of 
one  of  those  beasts  as  it  is  dying — measured  the  work  it 
has  done,  and  the  reward  it  has  got— put  his  hand  upon  the 
bloody  wounds  through  which  its  bones  are  piercing,  and 
so  looked  up  to  Heaven  with  an  entire  understanding  of 
Heaven's  ways  about  the  horse  ?  Yet  the  horse  is  a  fact — 
no  dream — no  revelation  among  the  myrtle  trees  by  night  ; 
and  the  dust  it  dies  upon,  and  the  dogs  that  eat  it,  are  facts  ; 
and  yonder  happy  person,  whose  the  horse  was,  till  its  knees 
were  broken  over  the  hurdles  ;  who  had  an  immortal  soul 
to  begin  with,  and  wealth  and  peace  to  help  forward  his 
immortality  ;  who  has  also  devoted  the  powers  of  his  soul, 
and  body,  and  wealth,  and  peace,  to  the  spoiling  of  houses, 
the  corruption  of  the  innocent,  and  the  oppression  of  the 
poor  ;  and  has,  at  this  actual  moment  of  his  prosperous 
life,  as  many  curses  waiting  round  about  him  in  calm 
shadow,  with  their  death-eyes  fixed  upon  him,  biding  their 
time,  as  ever  the  poor  cab-horse  had  launched  at  him  in 
meaningless  blasphemies,  when  his  failing  feet  stumbled 
at  the  stones, — this  happy  person  shall  have  no  stripes, — 
shall  have  only  the  horse's  fate  of  annihilation  !  Or,  if 
other  things  are  indeed  reserved  for  him,  Heaven's  kindness 
or  omnipotence  is  to  be  doubted  therefore  ! 

We  cannot  reason  of  these  things.  But  this  I  know — 
and  this  may  by  all  men  be  known — that  no  good  or  lovely 
thing  exists  in  this  world  without  its  correspondent  darkness  ; 
and  that  the  universe  presents  itself  continually  to  mankind 
under  the  stern  aspect  of  warning,  or  of  choice,  the  good 
and  the  evil  set  on  the  right  hand  and  the  left. 

John  Ruskin. 
Modem  Painters,  V.  19. 

It  is  one  of  the  arguments  in  Plato's  Phaedo  that  the  soul  must  survive, 
since  otherwise  terribly  wicked  and  cruel  men  would  escape  retribution  ; 
annihilation  would  be  a  good  thing  for  them. 


Why  are  Time's  feet  so  swift  and  ours  so  slow  ! 

Author  not  traced. 


158  BROWNE  AND  OTHERS 

Every  man  is  not  a  proper  Champion  for  Truth,  nor  fit 
to  take  up  the  Gauntlet  in  the  cause  of  Verity  :  many,  from 
the  ignorance  of  these  Maximes,  and  an  inconsiderate  Zeal 
unto  Truth,  have  too  rashly  charged  the  troops  of  Error, 
and  remain  as  Trophies  unto  the  enemies  of  Truth.  A  man 
may  be  in  as  just  possession  of  Truth  as  of  a  City  and  yet 
be  forced  to  surrender  ;  'tis  therefore  far  better  to  enjoy 
her  with  peace  than  to  hazzard  her  on  a  battle. 

Sir  Thomas  Browne. 
Religio  Medici. 


"  Very  well,"  cried  I,  "  that's  a  good  girl  ;  I  find  you  are 
perfectly  qualified  for  making  converts,  and  so  go  help  your 
mother  to  make  a  gooseberry  pye." 

Goldsmith. 
The  Vicar  of  Wakefield. 


All  creatures  and  all  objects,  in  degree, 

Are  friends  and  patrons  of  humanity. 

There  are  to  whom  the  garden,  grove  and  field 

Perpetual  lessons  of  forbearance  yield  ; 

Who  would  not  lightly  violate  the  grace 

The  lowliest  flower  possesses  in  its  place, 

Nor  shorten  the  sweet  life,  too  fugitive, 

Which  nothing  less  than  Infinite  Power  could  give. 

Wordsworth. 
Humanity. 


'Tis  weary  watching  wave  by  wave. 

And  yet  the  Tide  heaves  onward  ; 
We  chmb,  like  Corals,  grave  by  grave, 

That  pave  a  pathway  sunward  ; 

We  are  driven  back,  for  our  next  fray 

A  newer  strength  to  borrow. 
And,  where  the  Vanguard  camps  To-day, 

The  Rear  shall  rest  To-morrow. 

Gerald  Massey. 
To-day  and  To-morrow. 


MILTON  AND  OTHERS  159 

White-handed  Hope, 
Thou  hovering  Angel  girt  with  golden  wings. 

Milton. 
Comus. 

Hope,  folding  her  wings,  looked  backward  and  became 

°     *  George  Eliot, 

Silas  Marner,  ch.  xv. 


By  desiring  what  is  perfectly  good,  even  when  we  don't 
quite  know  what  it  is  and  cannot  do  what  we  would,  we  are 
part  of  the  divine  power  against  evil — widening  the  skirts 
of  light  and  making  the  struggle  with  darkness  narrower. 

George  Eliot. 
Middlemarch,  ch.  xxxix. 

GROWN  UP 

My  son  is  straight  and  strong, 

Ready  of  lip  and  limb  ; 
'Twas  the  dream  of  my  whole  life  long 

To  bear  a  son  like  him. 

He  has  griefs  I  cannot  guess, 

He  has  joys  I  cannot  know  : 
I  love  him  none  the  less — 

With  a  man  it  should  be  so. 

But  where,  where,  where 

Is  the  child  so  dear  to  me. 
With  the  silken-golden  hair 

Who  sobbed  upon  my  knee  ? 

Elizabeth  Waterhouse. 


All  the  Gallantry  of  Cloaths  began  with  Fig  leaves  and 
was  brought  to  Perfection  with  Mulberry  leaves. 

Samuel  Butler. 
Contradictions. 


1 60  TENNYSON— NO  VALIS 

Wrinkled  ostler,  grim  and  thin  ! 

Here  is  custom  come  your  way  ; 
Take  my  brute,  and  lead  him  in. 

Stuff  his  ribs  with  mouldy  hay.  .  .  . 

I  am  old,  but  let  me  drink  ; 

Bring  me  spices,  bring  me  wine  ; 
I  remember,  when  I  think. 

That  my  youth  was  half  divine.  .  .  . 

Fill  the  cup,  and  fill  the  can  : 
Have  a  rouse  before  the  morn  : 

Every  moment  dies  a  man, 

Every  moment  one  is  born.  .  .  . 

Chant  me  now  some  wicked  stave. 
Till  thy  drooping  courage  rise. 

And  the  glow-worm  of  the  grave 
Glimmer  in  thy  rheumy  eyes.  .  .  . 

Change,  reverting  to  the  years. 

When  thy  nerves  could  understand 

What  there  is  in  loving  tears. 

And  the  warmth  of  hand  in  hand.  .  .  . 

Fill  the  can,  and  fill  the  cup  : 
All  the  windy  ways  of  men 
Are  but  dust  that  rises  up. 

And  is  lightly  laid  again.       ry. 

^     ■'  °  Tennyson. 

The  Vision  of  Sin. 

Change,  that  is,  change  the  subject. 

These  are  a  few  verses  from  what  Edward  FitzGerald  called  "  The 
Old  Sinner's  Lyric."  The  last  three  famous  lines  refer,  of  course,  to 
"  Dust  thou  art,  and  unto  dust  shalt  thou  return  "  (Gen.  iii.  19). 


Where  gods  are  not,  spectres  rule. 


Where  children  are  is  a  golden  age. 


A  people,  like  a  child,  is  a  separate  educational  problem. 

NOVALIS. 


MARTINEAU  i6i 

A  WORLD  without  a  contingency  or  an  agony  could  have 
no  hero  and  no  saint,  and  enable  no  Son  of  Man  to  discover 
that  he  was  a  Son  of  God.  But  for  the  suspended  plot, 
that  is  folded  in  every  life,  history  is  a  dead  chronicle  of 
what  was  known  before  as  well  as  after  ;  art  sinks  into  the 
photograph  of  a  moment,  that  hints  at  nothing  else  ;  and 
poetry  breaks  the  cords  and  throws  the  lyre  away.  There 
is  no  Epic  of  the  certainties  ;  and  no  lyric  without  the 
surprise  of  sorrow  and  the  sigh  of  fear.  Whatever  touches 
and  ennobles  us  in  the  lives  and  in  the  voices  of  the  past 
is  a  divine  birth  from  human  doubt  and  pain.  Let  then  the 
shadows  lie,  and  the  perspective  of  the  light  still  deepen 
beyond  our  view  ;  else,  while  we  walk  together,  our  hearts 
will  never  burn  within  us  as  we  go,  and  the  darkness  as  it 
falls,  will  deliver  us  into  no  hand  that  is  Divine. 

James  Martineau. 
Hours  of  Thought,  i.  328, 

The  subject  of  the  sermon  is  the  uncertainties  of  life,  the  perils  and 
catastrophes  that  cannot  be  foreseen  or  provided  for,  death,  disease,  and 
other  ills  which  may  fall  upon  us  at  any  moment,  the  crises  that  arise  in 
the  history  of  men  and  nations.  It  is  by  reason  of  these  that  character 
or  soul  is  developed.  If  everything  happened  by  known  rule,  and  could 
be  predicted  as  surely  as  the  movements  of  the  stars,  we  should  have  no 
affections  or  em.otions  and  would  be  mere  creatures  of  habit. 

In  one  of  his  letters  Keats  says  :  "  The  common  cognomen  of  this 
world  among  the  misguided  and  superstitious  is  '  a  vale  of  tears.'  Call 
the  world,  if  you  please.  The  Vale  of  Soul-making.  Do  you  not  see 
how  necessary  a  world  of  pains  and  troubles  is  to  school  an  intelligence 
and  make  it  a  soul  ?  A  place  where  the  heart  must  feel  and  suffer  in  a 
thousand  diverse  ways.  As  various  as  the  lives  of  men  are,  so  various 
become  their  souls,  and  thus  does  God  make  individual  beings,  Souls, 
of  the  sparks  of  his  own  essence." 

So  also,  Browning  says  in  "  Rabbi  Ben  Ezra  "  : 

He  fixed  thee  mid  this  dance 

Of  plastic  circumstance. 
This  Present,  thou  forsooth  would  fain  arrest  : 

Machinery  just  meant 

To  give  thy  soul  its  bent, 
Try  thee  and  turn  thee  forth,  sufficiently  impressed. 

Also  Mr.  J.  C.  Squire  in  his  poem  "  The  Stronghold  "  (a  place 
where  there  is  "  no  tear  or  heart-ache  ")  says  in  musical  verse  : 

But  O,  if  you  find  that  castle, 

Draw  back  your  foot  from  the  gateway. 

Let  not  its  peace  invite  you. 

Let  not  its  offerings  tempt  you. 
For  faded  and  decayed  like  a  garment. 
Love  to  a  dust  will  have  fallen, 

M 


1 62  MARTINEAU— STEELE 

And  song  and  laughter  will  have  gone  with  sorrow, 
And  hope  will  have  gone  with  pain  ; 
And  of  all  the  throbbing  heart's  high  courage 
Nothing  will  remain. 

Martineau  not  only  did  important  work  in  philosophy,  but  he  was 
also  eminent  as  a  moral  teacher.  Taking  together  his  originality, 
sublimity  of  soul,  and  beauty  of  expression,  the  sermons  in  Hours  of 
Thought  and  other  similar  writings  are  the  finest  product  of  modern 
religious  thought.  They  indeed  stand  among  the  best  productions  of 
our  literature,  and  should  be  read  even  by  those  (if  there  are  any  such 
persons)  who  love  literature  and  thought  but  are  indifferent  to  religion. 
To  illustrate  this,  I  choose — almost  at  random — a  passage  where  the 
thought  itself  has  no  interest  outside  religion  {Hours  of  Thought,  ii.  334)  : 

Worship  is  the  free  offering  of  ourselves  to  God  ;  ever  renewed, 
because  ever  imperfect.  It  expresses  the  consciousness  that  we  are 
His  by  right,  yet  have  not  duly  passed  into  His  hand  ;  that  the  soul 
has  no  true  rest  but  in  Him,  yet  has  wandered  in  strange  flights  until 
her  wing  is  tired.  It  is  her  effort  to  return  home,  the  surrender 
again  of  her  narrow  self-will,  her  prayer  to  be  merged  in  a  life 
diviner  than  her  own.  It  is  at  once  the  lowliest  and  loftiest  attitude 
of  her  nature  :  we  never  hide  ourselves  in  ravine  so  deep  ;  yet 
overhead  we  never  see  the  stars  so  clear  and  high.  The  sense  of 
saddest  estrangement,  yet  the  sense  also  of  eternal  affinity  between 
us  and  God  meet  and  mingle  in  the  act  ;  breaking  into  the  strains, 
now  penitential  and  now  jubilant,  that,  to  the  critic's  reason,  may 
sound  at  variance  but  melt  into  harmony  in  the  ear  of  a  higher  love. 
This  twofold  aspect  devotion  must  ever  have,  pale  with  weeping, 
flushed  with  joy  ;  deploring  the  past,  trusting  for  the  future  ; 
ashamed  of  what  is,  kindled  by  what  is  meant  to  be  ;  shadow  behind, 
and  light  before.  Were  we  haunted  by  no  presence  of  sin  and  want, 
we  should  only  browse  on  the  pasture  of  nature  ;  were  we  stirred 
by  no  instinct  of  a  holier  kindred,  we  should  not  be  drawn  towards 
the  life  of  God. 


For  her  alone  the  sea-breeze  seemed  to  blow, 
For  her  in  music  did  the  white  surf  fall, 
For  her  alone  the  wheeling  birds  did  call 
Over  the  shallows,  and  the  sky  for  her 
Was  set  with  white  clouds  far  away  and  clear. 
E'en  as  her  love,  this  strong  and  lovely  one. 
Who  held  her  hand,  was  but  for  her  alone. 

Author  not  traced. 
Perseus  and  Andromeda. 


There  are  women  who  do  not  let  their  husbands  see 
their  faces  till  they  are  married  ;  not  to  keep  you  in  suspense, 
I  mean  that  part  of  the  sex  who  paint. 

Steele. 


WHITTIER— LICHTENBERG  163 

He  Cometh  not  a  king  to  reign  ; 

The  world's  long  hope  is  dim  ; 
The  weary  centuries  watch  in  vain 

The  clouds  of  heaven  for  Him. 

And  not  for  sign  in  heaven  above 

Or  earth  below  they  look, 
Who  know  with  John  His  smile  of  love, 

With  Peter  His  rebuke. 

In  joy  of  inward  peace,  or  sense 

Of  sorrow  over  sin. 
He  is  His  own  best  evidence — 

His  witness  is  within. 

The  healing  of  His  seamless  dress 

Is  by  our  beds  of  pain  ; 
We  touch  Him  in  life's  throng  and  press, 

And  we  are  whole  again. 

O  Lord  and  Master  of  us  all  ! 

Whate'er  our  name  or  sign, 
We  own  Thy  sway,  we  hear  Thy  call. 

We  test  our  lives  by  Thine.  .  .  . 

Our  Friend,  our  Brother,  and  our  Lord, 

What  may  Thy  service  be  ?— 
Nor  name,  nor  form,  nor  ritual  word. 

But  simply  following  Thee. 

We  faintly  hear,  we  dimly  see, 

In  differing  phrase  we  pray  ; 
But,  dim  or  clear,  we  own  in  Thee, 

The  Light,  the  Truth,  the  Way  ! 

J.  G.  Whittier. 
Our  Master. 

Many  verses  are  omitted  from  this  poem  for  want  of  space,  and  the 
last  two  are  transposed  in  order. 


We  live  in  a  world,  where  one  fool  makes  many  fools, 
but  one  wise  man  only  a  few  wise  men. 

Lichtenberg. 


i64  STOWE— E.  B.  BROWNING 

Once  in  an  age,  God  sends  to  some  of  us  a  friend  who 
loves  in  us,  not  a  false  imagining,  an  unreal  character — but, 
looldng  through  all  the  rubbish  of  our  imperfections,  loves 
in  us  the  divine  ideal  of  our  nature — loves,  not  the  man  that 
we  are,  but  the  angel  that  we  may  be.  Such  friends  seem 
inspired  by  a  divine  gift  of  prophecy— like  the  mother  of 
St.  Augustine,  who,  in  the  midst  of  the  wayward,  reckless 
youth  of  her  son,  beheld  him  in  a  vision,  standing,  clothed 
in  white,  a  ministering  priest  at  the  right  hand  of  God — 
as  he  has  stood  for  long  ages  since.  Could  a  mysterious 
foresight  unveil  to  us  this  resurrection  form  of  the  friends 
with  whom  we  daily  walk,  compassed  about  with  mortal 
infirmity,  we  should  follow  them  with  faith  and  reverence 
through  all  the  disguises  of  human  faults  and  weaknesses, 
"  waiting  for  the  manifestation  of  the  sons  of  God." 

Harriet  Beecher  Stowe. 
The  Minister's  Wooing. 


Because  thou  hast  the  power  and  own'st  the  grace 
To  look  through  and  behind  this  mask  of  me, 
(Against  which  years  have  beat  thus  blanchingly 
With  their  rains)  and  behold  my  soul's  true  face. 
The  dim  and  weary  witness  of  life's  race, — 
Because  thou  hast  the  faith  and  love  to  see, 
Through  that  same  soul's  distracting  lethargy, 
The  patient  angel  waiting  for  a  place 
In  the  new  Heavens, — because  nor  sin  nor  woe, 
Nor  God's  infliction,  nor  death's  neighbourhood, 
Nor  all  which  others  viewing,  turn  to  go. 
Nor  all  which  makes  me  tired  of  all,  self- viewed, — 
Nothing  repels  thee,  .  .  .  Dearest,  teach  me  so 
To  pour  out  gratitude,  as  thou  dost,  good  ! 

E.  B.  Browning. 
Sonnets  from  the  Portuguese. 

Here  two  fine  thoughts  of  Mrs.  Stowe  and  Mrs.  Browning  are  in- 
spired by  the  vision  of  Monica,  the  saintly  mother  of  the  great  St. 
Augustine  (354-430). 

This  is  a  good  illustration  of  the  need  of  notes.  Without  a  reference 
to  St.  Monica's  vision,  I  think  that  readers  would  be  repelled,  rather 
than  attracted,  by  Mrs.  Browning's  sonnet.  It  does  not  accord  with 
one's  sense  of  modesty  that  a  lady  should  say  to  her  lover,  "  My  un- 
attractive person  and  incurable  illness  turned  other  men  away,  but  you 
saw  that,  behind  all  this,  I  was  '  a  patient  angel  waiting  for  a  place  in 


POPE  AND  OTHERS  165 

the  new  Heavens.'  "  I  myself  could  not  understand  how  Mrs.  Browning 
could  write  and  her  husband  could  publish  this  poem,  until  Hodgson, 
in  one  of  his  letters  to  me,  referred  to  "  the  use  made  by  Mrs.  Browning 
of  St.  Monica's  vision  in  one  of  her  sonnets." 

The  sonnet  is  not  quoted  as  one  of  the  finest  of  the  series. 

I  have  placed  Mrs.  Stowe's  quotation  first  for  an  obvious  reason  ; 
but  The  Minister's  Wooing  was  published  in  1859,  while  the  sonnet 
appeared  in  1847. 


Et  in  Arcadia  ego. 

(I  too  have  been  in  Arcady.) 

Anon. 

Arcadia  was  a  mountainous  district  in  Greece  which  was  taken  to  be 
the  ideal  of  pastoral  simplicity  and  rural  happiness — as  in  Sir  Philip 
Sidney's  Arcadia  and  other  literature.  It  was  famous  for  its  musicians 
and  a  favourite  haunt  of  Pan. 

The  saying  is  best  known  from  the  fine  landscape  in  the  Louvre  by 
N.  Poussin  (1594-1665).  In  part  of  the  landscape  is  a  tomb  on  which 
these  words  are  written,  and  some  young  people  are  seen  reading  them. 
I  learn,  however,  from  King's  Classical  and  Foreign  Quotations  that  the 
words  had  been  previously  written  on  a  picture  by  Bart.  Schidone  (1570- 
161 5),  where  two  young  shepherds  are  looking  at  a  skull. 

The  meaning  intended  was  that  death  came  even  to  the  joyous  shep- 
herds of  Arcady.  But  the  quotation  is  now  used  in  a  more  general 
sense :  "  I  too  had  my  golden  days  of  youth  and  love  and  happiness." 


It  often  happens  that  those  are  the  best  people,  whose 
characters  have  been  most  injured  by  slanderers  ;  as  we 
usually  find  that  to  be  the  sweetest  fruit  which  the  birds 
have  been  pecking  at.  p 


ON  DYING 

I  ALWAYS  made  an  awkward  bow. 

Keats. 

On  n'a  pas  d'antecedent  pour  cela.     II  faut  improviser 
— c'est  done  si  difficile.     (Death  admits  of  no  rehearsal.) 

Amiel. 

C'est  le  maitre  jour  ;  c'est  le  jour  juge  de  tous  les  autres. 
(It  is  the  master-day  ;  the  day  that  judges  all  the  others.) 

Montaigne. 


i66  COLERIDGE— LOWRY 

O  LADY  !  We  receive  but  what  we  give, 
And  in  our  life  alone  does  Nature  live  : 
Ours  is  her  wedding-garment,  ours  her  shroud  ! 

And  would  we  aught  behold,  of  higher  worth, 
Than  that  inanimate  cold  world  allowed 
To  the  poor  loveless  ever-anxious  crowd, 

Ah,  from  the  soul  itself  must  issue  forth 
A  light,  a  glory,  a  fair  luminous  cloud 

Enveloping  the  Earth — 
And  from  the  soul  itself  must  there  be  sent 

A  sweet  and  potent  voice,  of  its  own  birth. 
Of  all  sweet  sounds  the  life  and  element  ! 

S.  T.  Coleridge. 

See  note  to  next  quotation. 


TELLING  STORIES 

A  LITTLE  child  He  took  for  sign 

To  them  that  sought  the  way  Divine. 

And  once  a  flower  sufficed  to  show 
The  whole  of  that  we  need  to  know. 

Now  here  we  lie,  the  child  and  I, 
And  watch  the  clouds  go  floating  by, 

Just  telling  stories  turn  by  turn.  .  .  . 
Lord,  which  is  teacher,  which  doth  learn  ? 

H.  D.  LowRY. 

As  Coleridge  says  in  the  last  quotation,  "  We  receive  but  what  we 
give."  In  order  to  realize  the  beauty  that  exists  in  nature  we  must 
bring  with  us  the  mind  that  sees  ;  and,  so  far  as  use,  habit,  and  other 
causes  still  the  activity  and  lessen  the  receptivity  of  the  mind  and  spirit, 
the  world  around  us  becomes  less  instinct  with  life  and  beauty. 

Putting  aside  the  question  whether,  as  Wordsworth  says  in  his  great 
Ode, 

Trailing  clouds  of  glory  do  we  come 
From  God,  who  is  our  home, 

it  will  be  familiar  to  any  one  who  has  a  sympathetic,  appreciative  sense 
that  the  child's  outlook  on  the  world  around  him  is  very  different  from 
our  own.  It  has  in  him  a  more  intense  emotional  reaction.  He  sees 
it  with  a  freshness  and  wonder  unfelt  by  us,  because  our  sensibility  is 
blunted  and  less  vivid.     And  for  the  same  reason  that  we  trust  our 


LOWRY— PATMORE  167 

faculties  in  their  prime  rather  than  in  their  degeneration,  so  the  fresh 
and  clear  emotional  response  of  a  child's  nature  represents  more  truthful 
appreciation  than  our  own.  Our  sensibility  is  blunted,  not  only  by  use 
and  habit,  but  also  by  the  hardening  and  coarsening  experiences  of  our 
lives  ;  and  also  again  by  the  development  of  intellect,  which  grows 
largely  at  the  expense  of  the  emotions.  We  lose  the  transparent  soul 
of  the  child,  his  simple  faith  and  trusting  nature.  To  any  one  who 
cannot  feel  the  difference  between  the  child's  outlook  and  his  owri,  this 
will  convey  no  meaning — and  words  cannot  assist  him.  It  is  as  if  one 
tried  to  describe  love  to  a  person  who  has  never  loved,  or  a  religious 
experience  to  one  who  has  never  had  such  an  experience  ;  indeed,  in 
both  love  and  religious  experience,  there  is  the  same  child-like  attitude 
of  pure  emotion — and  hence  Christ's  comparison  of  His  true  followers 
to  "  little  children."  Poetry,  music,  love  of  nature,  and  the  highest  art 
produce  in  us  at  times  the  same  indefinable  feeling  and  give  us  back  for 
evanescent  periods  the  fresh,  clear,  emotional  sensibility  of  a  child. 

In  Edward  FitzGerald's  Euphranor,  at  the  point  where  Wordsworth's 
ode  is  being  discussed,  the  following  passage  is  interesting  : 

"  I  have  heard  tell  of  another  poet's  saying  that  he  knew  of  no  human 
outlook  so  solemn  as  that  from  an  infant's  eyes  ;  and  how  it  was  from 
those  of  his  own  he  learned  that  those  of  the  Divine  Child  in  Raffaelle's 
Sistine  Madonna  were  not  overcharged  with  expression,  as  he  had 
previously  thought  they  might  be." 

"  Yes,"  said  I,  "  that  was  on  the  occasion,  I  think,  of  his  having 
watched  his  child  one  morning  worshipping  the  sunbeam  on  the  bedpost — 
I  suppose  the  worship  of  wonder.  ...  If  but  the  philosopher  or  poet 
could  live  in  the  child's  brain  for  a  while  1  " 

(The  poet  referred  to  was  Tennyson ;  see  Memoir  by  his  son,  who 
was  the  baby  in  question,  vol.  i.  357.) 


THE  REVELATION 

An  idle  poet,  here  and  there, 

Looks  round  him  ;  but,  for  all  the  rest. 
The  world,  unfathomably  fair, 

Is  duller  than  a  witling's  jest. 

Love  wakes  men,  once  a  life-time  each  ; 

They  lift  their  heavy  heads  and  look  ; 
And,  lo,  what  one  sweet  page  can  teach 

They  read  with  joy,  then  shut  the  book. 

And  some  give  thanks,  and  some  blaspheme. 

And  most  forget  :  but,  either  way. 
That,  and  the  Child's  unheeded  dream. 

Is  all  the  light  of  all  their  day. 

Coventry  Patmore. 


i68  JAMES 

The  normal  process  of  life  contains  moments  as  bad  as 
any  of  those  which  insane  melancholy  is  filled  with.  The 
lunatic's  visions  of  horror  are  all  drawn  from  the  material 
of  daily  fact.  Our  civilization  is  founded  on  the  shambles, 
and  every  individual  existence  goes  out  in  a  lonely  spasm 
of  helpless  agony.  If  you  protest,  my  friend,  wait  till  you 
arrive  there  yourself !  To  believe  in  the  carnivorous 
reptiles  of  geologic  times  is  hard  for  our  imagination — 
they  seem  too  much  like  mere  museum  specimens.  Yet 
there  is  no  tooth  in  any  one  of  those  museum-skulls  that 
did  not  daily,  through  long  years  of  the  foretime,  hold  fast 
to  the  body  struggling  in  despair  of  some  fated  living 
victim.  Forms  of  horror  just  as  dreadful  to  their  victims, 
if  on  a  smaller  spatial  scale,  fill  the  world  about  us  to-day. 
Here  on  our  very  hearths  and  in  our  gardens  the  infernal 
cat  plays  with  the  panting  mouse,  or  holds  the  hot  bird 
fluttering  in  her  jaws.  Crocodiles  and  rattlesnakes  and 
pythons  are  at  this  moment  vessels  of  life  as  real  as  we  are  ; 
their  loathsome  existence  fills  every  minute  of  every  day 
that  drags  its  length  along,  and  whenever  they  or  other 
wild  beasts  clutch  their  living  prey,  the  deadly  horror  which 
an  agitated  melancholiac  feels  is  the  literally  right  reaction 
on  the  situation. 

William  James. 

The  Varieties  of  Religious  Experience. 

"  If  you  protest  " — one  certainly  protests.  There  is  a  great  mass 
of  medical  and  other  evidence  to  the  contrary.  Sir  William  Osier  made 
notes  of  about  five  hundred  cases  and  says  :  "  To  the  great  majority  their 
death,  like  their  birth,  vi^as  but  a  sleep  and  a  forgetting." 

So  too  the  reference  to  the  domesticated  cat  playing  with  a  mouse 
gives  a  wrong  impression.  In  a  state  of  nature  the  carnivora  hunt  and 
kill  to  satisfy  hunger,  not  for  amusement.  It  is  onlj^  man  who  kills  for 
sport.     (It  is  only  man  also  who  kills  his  own  species.) 

The  "  cruelty  "  is  very  largely  imaginary  :  we  exaggerate  because 
c?;  of  our  anthropomorphic  tendency.  The  intensity  of  pain  varies  with 
the  development  or  decay  of  mind  and  its  nervous  system,  so  that 
even  a  negro  suffers  less  than  we  do — and  the  lower  animals  far  less  and 
less  again  than  the  negro.  This  subject  has  been  discussed  by  many 
writers,  beginning  with  A.  R.  Wallace  in  The  World  of  Life.  The 
biological  function  of  pain,  and  the  reason  why  it  has  been  evolved,  is 
to  compel  us  to  take  precautions  against  disease  or  wounds,  and  also  to 
ensure  the  rest  and  attention  necessary  for  a  cure.  It  follovv's  from 
this  that  the  pain  must  be  more  intense,  as  intelligence  rises  in  the 
animal  scale.  Actually,  among  ourselves,  anticipation  is  often  far 
worse  than  the  reality — and  it  is  this  purely  mental  factor  which  we 
attribute  to  the  mouse  ! 


NOVALIS  AND  OTHERS  169 

There  are  many  flowers  of  heavenly  origin  in  this  world  ; 
they  do  not  flourish  in  this  climate  but  are  properly  heralds, 
clear-voiced  messengers  of  a  better  existence  :  Religion  is 
one  ;   Love  is  another. 

NOVALIS. 


Will  she  return,  my  lady  ?     Nay  : 
Love's  feet,  that  once  have  learned  to  stray, 
Turn  never  to  the  olden  way. 

Ah,  heart  of  mine,  where  lingers  she  ? 
By  what  live  stream  or  saddened  sea  ? 
What  wild-flowered  swath  of  sungilt  lea 

Do  her  feet  press,  and  are  her  days 
Sweet  with  new  stress  of  love  and  praise, 
Or  sad  with  echoes  of  old  lays  ? 

John  Payne. 

Light  0'  Love. 


I  SEARCH  but  cannot  see 
What  purpose  serves  the  soul  that  strives,  or  world  it  tries 
Conclusions  with,  unless  the  fruit  of  victories 
Stay,  one  and  all,  stored  up  and  guaranteed  its  own 
For  ever,  by  some  mode  whereby  shall  be  made  known 
The  gain  of  every  life.  .  .  . 

I  say,  I  cannot  think  that  gains — which  will  not  be 
Except  a  special  soul  had  gained  them — that  such  gain 
Can  ever  be  estranged,  do  aught  but  appertain 
Immortally,  by  right  firm,  indefeasible, 
To  who  performed  the  feat,  through  God's  grace  and  man's 

^^^^-  R.  Browning. 

Fifine  at  the  Fair. 


Die  when  I  may,  I  want  it  said  of  me  by  those  who  knew 
me  best,  that  I  always  plucked  a  thistle  and  planted  a  flower, 
v/here  I  thought  a  flower  would  grow. 

Abraham  Lincoln. 


170  MYERS 

Why  describe  our  life-history  as  a  state  of  waking  rather 
than  of  sleep  ?  Why  assume  that  sleep  is  the  acquired, 
vigilance  the  normal  condition  ?  It  would  not  be  hard  to 
defend  the  opposite  thesis.  The  newborn  infant  might 
urge  with  cogency  that  his  habitual  state  of  slumber  was 
primary,  as  regards  the  individual,  ancestral  as  regards  the 
race  ;  resembling  at  least,  far  more  closely  than  does  our 
adult  life,  a  primitive  or  protozoic  habit.  "  Mine,"  he 
might  say,  "  is  a  centrally  stable  state.  It  would  need  only 
some  change  in  external  conditions  (as  the  permanent 
immersion  in  a  nutritive  fluid)  to  be  safely  and  indefinitely 
maintained.  Your  waking  state,  on  the  other  hand,  is 
centrally  unstable.  While  you  talk  and  bustle  around  me 
you  are  living  on  your  physiological  capital,  and  the  mere 
prolongation  of  vigilance  is  torture  and  death." 

A  paradox  such  as  this  forms  no  part  of  my  argument ; 
but  it  may  remind  us  that  physiology  at  any  rate  hardly 
warrants  us  in  speaking  of  our  waking  state  as  if  that  alone 
represented  our  true  selves,  and  every  deviation  from  it 
must  be  at  best  a  mere  interruption.  Vigilance  in  reality 
is  but  one  of  two  co-ordinate  phases  of  our  personality, 
which  we  have  acquired  or  differentiated  from  each  other 
during  the  stages  of  our  long  evolution. 

F.  W.  H.  Myers. 
Multiplex  Personality. 

This  is  from  an  article  in  the  Nineteenth  Century,  November  1886, 
in  which  Myers  urged  the  study  of  the  trance-personalities  that  manifest 
themselves  under  hypnotism.  In  his  great  work,  Himia?i  Personality 
and  its  Survival  of  Bodily  Death,  he  develops  a  theory  that  the  waking 
life  is  evolved  by  practical  needs  from  the  prenatal  and  earliest  infantile 
state,  which  is  neither  sleep  nor  waking.  The  faculties  necessary  for 
those  practical  needs  are  retained  and  intensified  in  the  waking  life,  but 
other  faculties  and  sensations  are  withdrawn  and  dropped  into  the 
unconscious.  These  unconscious  faculties  and  sensations  manifest 
themselves  in  dreams — frequently  to  a  less  extent,  but  at  times  in  great 
activity — lost  memories  being  revived,  problems  being  unexpectedly 
solved,  such  a  poem  as  "  Kubla  Khan  "  composed  and  many  intense 
sensations  and  emotions  experienced.  Myers  also  finds  in  dreams 
evidence  of  higher  powers,  which  connect  us  with  the  spiritual  world, 
but  which  have  dropped  into  the  unconscious. 

It  seems  to  me  that  the  theory,  that  the  unconscious  is  made  up  of 
memories  and  faculties  dropped  from  the  conscious,  is  erroneous.  I 
propose  to  outline,  very  brief!}',  some  of  the  facts  which  appear  to  be 
fully  established,  and  which  show  that  the  unconscious  is  different  from 
and  superior  to  the  conscious.  From  these  facts  I  also  draw  the  deduc- 
tion that  the  unconscious  controls  the  bodily  organism,  but  that  it  itself 
is  not  embodied.  That  is  to  say,  it  exists  independently  of  the  body, 
and  its  processes  and  activities  have  no  correlative  structures  in  the 


NOTE  ON  MYERS  171 

brain.  There  can,  therefore,  be  no  presumption  that  it  dies  with  the 
body — or  dies  at  all.  The  conclusion  will  be  found  inevitable,  that 
it  is  the  Soul. 

The  facts  I  mention  will  appear  strange  to  those  who  are  unfamiliar 
with  the  subject,  but  they  are  nevertheless  reliable  ;  my  deductions 
are,  of  course,  open  to  question.  Some  of  them  depend  on  neurology, 
of  which  I  have  only  a  very  elementary  knowledge.  Needless  to  say, 
they  appear  to  me  to  be  correct. 

/  noio  drop  the  expression,  "  the  unconscious,"  which  is  ambiguous, 
misleading  and  most  troublesome  to  handle,  and  I  substitute  the  less  un- 
satisfactory expression,  "  the  superconscious."  Yet  the  use  of  this  expres- 
sion is  not  intended  to  suggest  the  idea  of  something  superhuman  or 
supernatural.  The  superconscious  is  human,  limited  in  knowledge 
and  capacity,  and  varying  in  both  in  each  individual. 

A.  The  superconscious  memory  is  imineasurably  greater  in  extent 
and  quality  than  the  conscious  memory.  It  remembers  every  event  in 
our  lives.  (Bergson  came  to  this  conclusion  as  to  memory  generally 
as  long  ago  as  1896,  when  the  evidence  was  far  less  complete.)  The 
hypnotized  subject  can  live  over  again  periods  of  his  past  life,  even  as  far 
back  as  when  he  was  an  infant  a  few  mottths  old.  This  is  by  no  means 
an  extreme  statement — there  is  evidence  that  seems  to  point  to  the 
existence  of  even  prenatal  memories,  but  I  do  not  wish  to  introduce 
debatable  questions.  Not  only  under  hypnotism,  but  also  in  dreams 
and  the  delirium  of  fever  and  in  periods  of  intense  excitement,  those 
long-lost,  far-distant  memories  reappear.  Where  persons  have  been 
resuscitated  after  drowning  or  hanging,  or  Alpine  climbers  have  slipped 
down  crevasses,  or  soldiers  have  stood  before  the  firing-party,  they  have 
had  all  the  forgotten  events  of  their  lives  pass  before  them  in  swift 
panoi-ama,  with  every  detail  and  in  their  due  order.  That  these  are 
superconscious  memories  will  be  more  clearly  seen  as  the  reader  proceeds 
with  this  note. 

Even  facts  to  which  no  attention  was  paid  at  the  time  by  the  conscious 
mind  are  found  recorded  in  this  wonderful  memory.  An  ignorant 
woman  in  the  delirium  of  fever  talked  Latin,  Greek  and  Hebrew  ;  on 
inquiry  it  was  found  that  as  a  girl  she  had  been  a  servant  to  an  old 
professor,  who  was  in  the  habit  of  reading  aloud  passages  in  those 
languages.*  Another  woman  had  been  a  peasant  child  speaking  only 
in  a  dialect,  v/hich  she  since  had  entirely  forgotten  :  when  hypnotized 
and  told  to  go  back  to  her  childhood,  she  speaks  in  the  forgotten  dialect 
and  (so  absolutely  is  she  living  again  in  that  period  of  her  life)  she  cannot 
speak  in  her  present  town-language.  On  the  other  hand,  when  the 
hypnotized  subject  is  not  sent  back  to  a  previous  period,  it  is  seen  that 
the  superconscious  memory  contains  also  everything  that  the  conscious 
memory  contains,  and  far  more  vividly  than  the  latter,  so  that  it  canttot 
consist  of  memories  "  dropped  from  the  conscious."  Later  on  it  will 
be  found  perfectly  clear  that  the  superconscious  could  not  exercise  its 
various  functions  if  its  memory  did  not  include  everything  that  is  still 
retained  in  the  conscious  memory. 

So  far  I  have  shown  the  vast  extent  of  the  superconscious  memory 
as  compared  with  the  very  limited  conscious  memory.  But  also  the 
former  is  of  a  much  superior  quality  to  that  of  the  latter  :  the  one  is 
clear,  distinct  and  permanently  indelible  ;   the  other,  needing  note-books 

*  At  the  last  moment,  as  this  book  is  passing  through  the  press,  I  am  reminded  that 
Andrew  Lang  threw  some  doubt  on  this  story.  However,  there  is  an  abundance  of  similar 
evidence.  See,  for  instance,  Floumoy's  Des  Indes  a  la  Planite  Mars  (which  is  published  also 
in  translation). 


172  NOTE  ON  MYERS 

and  memoranda  for  even  what  happened  yesterday,  is  evanescent,  elusive 
and  ephemeral. 

The  question  now  arises  whether  the  superconscious  is  embodied  or 
is  independent  of  the  body.  To  those  who  have  paid  attention  to  the 
important  evidence  adduced  by  the  S.P.R.  (Society  for  Psychical  Re- 
search) there  is  no  need  to  ask  this  question.  It  is  quite  certain  that  the 
dead,  who  have  ceased  to  be  embodied,  retain  the  whole  of  their  memories. 
However — such  is  the  absurd  state  of  things — this  invaluable  evidence 
is  neglected  by  the  majority  of  thinkers,  and  I  therefore  proceed  to 
other  facts. 

Seeing  that  the  ephemeral  conscious  memory  is  associated  with  the 
brain-cells,  which  are  also  ephemeral,  the  inference  is  that  the  permanent 
and  indelible  superconscious  meinory  is  not  so  associated — and  this 
inference  is  borne  out  in  at  least  two  important  directions.  There  is, 
first,  the  fact  that  the  superconscious  memory  begins,  as  shown  above, 
at  earliest  infancy  when  the  child's  brain  is  not  fully  co-ordinated  and 
developed.  The  other  fact  is  seen  in  observed  cases,  of  which  an 
immense  number  occurred  during  the  war.  The  typical  case  is  that 
of  the  Rev.  Thomas  Hanna,  who  through  an  accident  had  lost  every 
memory  of  the  past  to  an  extraordinary  extent,  so  that  he  had  to  begin 
learning  everything  again,  as  if  he  were  an  infant.  Yet  in  his  dreams 
there  was  found  clear  evidence  of  memory  of  the  past,  and  by  a  hypnoidal 
process  Boris  Sidis  discovered  that  the  whole  of  the  lost  memories 
remained  intact  in  the  superconscious.  The  injury  to  the  brain,  which 
had  completely  effaced  the  conscious  memory,  had  not  affected  the 
superconscious  to  the  slightest  extent.  Therefore  in  regard  to  memory, 
the  superconscious  does  not  appear  to  be  embodied. 

B.  Again  the  superconscious  apparently  has  control  over  every  cell 
and  every  function  of  the  body.  The  evidence  of  this  is  enormous, 
but  I  shall  confine  myself  to  two  effects  of  suggestion,  namely,  stigmatiza- 
tion  and  cure  of  disease. 

(i)  As  regards  the  former,  St.  Francis  of  Assisi  and  a  number  of 
others,  even  in  recent  times,  are  said  to  have  received  the  stigmata, 
definite,  open  bleeding  wounds  in  hands,  feet  and  side  resembling  those 
of  Our  Lord.  Under  hypnotic  suggestion  many  similar  results  can  be 
produced.  A  design  is  drawn  on  the  skin,  and  by  suggestion  the  lines 
will  become  bleeding  wheals.  If  it  is  suggested  that  a  cold  iron  placed 
against  the  skin  is  red-hot,  an  actual  burn  will  appear.  On  the  other 
hand  the  skin  can  be  really  burned,  but,  if  it  is  so  suggested,  no  blister 
will  arise,  the  inflamed  area  will  not  extend  and  will  rapidly  heal,  and  no 
pain  whatever  will  be  felt.  Therefore,  the  stigmata  stories  are  no  doubt 
true,  but  thej'^  are  due  to  autosuggestion.  (This,  however,  does  not 
disprove  supernatural  influence,  for  we  have  no  knowledge  of  what 
this  mysterious  "  suggestion  "  really  is  or  how  it  operates,  and  we  know 
practically  nothing  of  the  nature  and  relations  of  the  superconscious. 
Autosuggestion  appears  to  be  of  the  nature  of  faith,  prayer  and  self- 
surrender.) 

However,  here  we  have  clear-cut,  definite  facts  of  fundamental 
importance  proved  beyond  possible  doubt.  The  superconscious 
certainly  has  control  over  myriads  of  body-cells,  including  at  least 
portion  of  the  nervous  system.  Until  w'e  can  see  the  interior  of  the 
body  with  something  better  than  the  X-ray  process,  our  direct  experi- 
ments are  limited  to  the  cells  at  or  near  the  surface  of  the  body  ;  but 
it  would,  indeed,  be  a  fatuous  argument  that  the  area  controlled  by  the 
superconscious  is  limited  to  the  area  within  the  range  of  our  vision. 
Plainly  the  inference  is  that  it  controls  every  cell  in  the  body,  and  it  will 
be  seen  that  this  is  confirmed  by  the  curative  effects  of  suggestion. 


NOTE  ON  MYERS  173 

In  the  latter  group  of  cases,  as  in  the  stigmata  phenomena,  it  will 
appear  later  that  the  superconscious  does  not  act,  as  it  were,  in  opposition 
to  our  conscious  selves  ;  and  must  be  invited  to  intervene  by  suggestion. 
It  can  cure  the  bad  habits  by  which  we  injure  the  tissues  of  the  body 
(and  which  also  make  it  a  prey  to  certain  diseases)  ;  but  it  must  be 
asked  to  do  so — and,  to  be  fully  effective,  the  invitation  must  come  before 
repair  has  become  impossible. 

(2)  As  regards  the  curative  effect  of  suggestion,  it  has  been  much  in 
evidence  during  the  last  twenty  years  in  the  work  of  M.  Coue  and  his 
New  Nancy  School,  but  it  was  known  long  before  his  time  by  those  who 
took  an  interest  in  psj-chical  research.  Suggestion  cures  organic  as 
well  as  functional  disease,  with  certain  limitations,  which  are  much  the 
same  in  the  one  as  in  the  other.  (The  view  is  now  generally  held  that 
both  functional  and  organic  diseases  are  structural,  but  in  the  former 
the  changes  are  molecular,  and  therefore  not  visible  to  the  eye  or  under 
the  microscope.)  The  cure  of  functional  disease  by  suggestion  is 
universally  admitted  ;  and  the  evidence  is  ample  and  undoubted  as 
regards  organic  disease  also.  But  I  may  perhaps  quote  the  following 
from  Dr.  T.  W.  Mitchell's  paper  read  at  the  Annual  Meeting  of  the 
British  Medical  Association  in  1922  : 

"  Let  us  take  an  example  :  there  is  perhaps  no  more  common  instance 
of  faulty  bodily  functioning  than  habitual  constipation  ;  and  the  cure 
of  this  condition,  by  material  remedies  alone,  is  perhaps  impossible. 
On  the  other  hand,  almost  every  case  of  habitual  constipation,  in  which 
hypnosis  can  be  induced,  may  be  cured  by  suggestion,  without  the  use 
of  any  material  remedies  whatever.  Or  take  another  example  :  an 
apparently  healthy  young  woman  gets  badly  scalded  by  the  upsetting 
of  a  kettle  of  boiling  water.  The  wound  is  appropriately  dressed  and, 
during  hypnosis,  absence  of  pain  and  rapid  healing  are  suggested.  There 
follows  a  sequence  of  events  frequently  recorded  in  experimental  work 
on  hypnotic  suggestion  :  no  pain  is  experienced,  no  inflammatory  area 
develops,  and  the  injured  part  heals  with  unusual  rapidity."  In  the 
discussion  that  followed,  these  statements  were  not  questioned. 

The  most  conservative  medical  men  admit  that  suggestion  at  least 
"  stimulates  "  recovery  in  organic  disease  and,  more  often  than  not, 
attach  greater  importance  to  the  suggestion  that  goes  with  the  medicine 
or  treatment  than  to  the  medicine  or  treatment  itself.  Hence  the 
importance  to  a  doctor  of  "  a  good  bedside  manner."  Or,  as  Professor 
G.  A4.  Robertson  put  it  at  the  meeting  above  referred  to,  "  the  successful 
medical  man  is  the  successful  psychotherapeutist,  though  he  may  not 
know  it." 

On  the  other  hand,  an  injurious  suggestion  caused  by  anxiety  or 
depression  will  hinder  recovery.  Suggestion  will  even  stop  all  the 
bodily  functions  and  cause  death,  as  when  persons,  especially  savages, 
believe  they  are  dying,  or  by  witchcraft  or  through  breach  of  tribal 
observance  doomed  to  die.  When  under  savage  tradition  a  definite 
time  is  fixed,  death  comes  punctually  to  the  moment. 

Now  to  produce  stigmatization,  to  prevent  inflam.mation,  to  cause 
anaesthesia,  to  be  able  to  cure,  or  even  to  "  stimulate  "  the  cure  of  organic 
disease,  and  to  prevent  recovery,  and  to  stop  all  the  processes  of  the 
body  at  one  moment,  and  cause  death,  the  superconscious  must  pre- 
sumably have  power  to  direct  and  control  all  the  cells  and  organs  of 
the  body. 

From  this  it  seems  necessarily  to  follow  that  the  superconscious 
directs  growth,  so  that  it  is  probablj'  the  primary  factor  in  evolution — 
selection  and  adaptation  being  secondary  processes.     I  have  no  space 


174  NOTE  ON  MYERS 

to  enlarge  upon  this,  and  must  leave  it  as  a  suggestion.  (But  the  reader, 
who  finds  an  initial  difficulty  in  the  notion  that  something  in  the  nature 
of  a  superconscious  may  exist  in  the  lower  forms  of  plant  and  animal 
life,  might  read  William  Janies'  essay  on  "  Human  Immortality  "  and 
Bergson's  essay  on  "  Life  and  Consciousness.")  * 

Now  again  in  regard  to  these  curative  and  other  activities,  does  the 
superconscious  appear  to  be  embodied  ?  Are  there  any  concomitant 
processes  in  the  brain  ?  In  some  cases,  as  in  the  action  of  the  free  cells 
or  in  manufacturing  or  using  antitoxins,  no  part  whatever  of  the  nervous 
system  seems  to  be  employed.  When  the  body  is  cut  or  bruised,  and 
the  phagocytes  and  antitoxins  are  despatched  to  the  injured  locality 
to  wage  war  on  the  invading  germs,  no  neural  function  appears  at  work, 
and  there  can  surely  be  no  correlative  process  in  the  brain.  Not  only 
so,  but  in  causing  anaesthesia  the  superconscious  appears  to  control  the 
brain  and  nervous  system,  so  that  surgical  operations  can  be  performed 
under  hypnosis.  See  also  the  case  mentioned  by  Dr.  Mitchell.  Again, 
the  most  remarkable  of  all  curative  processes  is  the  restitution  of  functions 
of  the  brain  itself.  When  through  some  accident  or  disease,  some 
function,  sensory,  motor  or  intellectual,  of  the  brain  is  destroyed,  the 
superconscious  is  often  able  to  teach  other  nervous  centres  to  carry  on 
the  lost  functions,  so  that  they  perform  tasks  previously  unknown  to 
them.  (It  can  only  be  the  superconscious  that  does  this,  for  it  is  certainly 
not  the  conscious  mind — and  one  part  of  the  brain  cannot  so  direct  and 
educate  another  part  automatically.)  In  carrying  out  this  work  in  the 
brain,  can  it  possibly  be  suggested  that  there  is  any  corresponding  process 
in  the  brain  itself  ? 

C.  Most  important  of  all  the  faculties  of  the  superconscious  is  imagina- 
tion— that  great  creative  faculty,  superior  to  the  intellect,  the  source 
of  inspiration  and  genius  in  art,  music,  poetry,  religion,  science, 
philosophy,  war,  statesmanship,  invention  and  all  other  mental  activities  ; 
even  in  "  business  "  and  the  conduct  of  one's  ordinary  life.  It  is, 
indeed,  the  essential  source  of  human  progress.  Its  supreme  value  is 
attested  by  numberless  poets,  philosophers  and  others.  I  might  refer 
to  a  few  classic  instances  :  Newton  and  the  apple,  Galileo  and  the  lamp, 
Socrates  and  his  Dtemon,  William  Blake  and  his  "  spirits,"  Coleridge 
and  "  Kubla  Khan,"  Joan  of  Arc  and  her  Voices,  R.  L.  Stevenson  and 
his  Brov>?nies,  and  one  we  heard  of  recently,  Sir  J.  M.  Barrie  and  his 
"  M'Connachie."  Many  persons  appear  to  think  that  imagination  is 
confined  to  art  and  poetry,  but  even  these  instances  show  that  it  is  not 
so.  Its  sway  is  universal.  Tyndall  said  that  imagination  was  "  the 
greatest  of  scientific  instruments."  Maudsley  {Body  and  Wilt)  said, 
"  It  performs  the  initial  and  essential  functions  in  every  branch  of 
human  development."  Sir  W.  R.  Hamilton  tells  us  that  his  method 
of  quaternians  burst  upon  him,  completely  finished,  while  he  was  near 
a  bridge  in  Dublin.  "  In  a  conversation  concerning  the  place  of  imagina- 
tion in  scientific  work,"  says  Liebig,  "  a  great  French  mathematician 
expressed  the  opinion  to  me  that  the  greater  part  of  mathematical  truth 
is  acquired  not  through  deduction,  but  through  the  imagination.  He 
might  have  said  '  all  the  mathematical  truths  '  zvithout  being  ivrong." 
(Another  important  testimony  to  this  fact  will  be  seen  later  on.)  BuflFon, 
the  great  naturalist,  said,  "  You  feel  a  little  electric  shock  striking  you 
on  the  head,  seizing  your  heart  at  the  same  time— that  is  the  moment  of 
genius."  Puttenham  has  an  interesting  statement  in  The  Art  of  English 
Poesie,  1589  :  "  The  phantastical  [imaginative]  part  of  men  is  a  repre- 
senter  of  the  best,  most  coinely  and  bewtifuU  images  or  appearances 
of  thinges  to  the  soule  and  according  to  their  very  truth.  Of  this  sort 
of  Phantasie  are  all  good  Poets,  notable  Captaires  stratagematique,  all 

•  See  note  since  added,  p.  283. 


NOTE  ON  MYERS  175 

cunning  artificers  and  Enginers,  all  Legislators,  Politiciens  and  Coun- 
sellours  of  estate,  in  whose  exercises  the  inventive  part  is  most  employed, 
and  is  to  the  sound  and  true  judgement  of  man  most  needful."  Other 
statements  will  appear  in  the  course  of  this  note. 

The  all-important  fact  is  that  imagination  is  not  only  superior  to  the 
intellect,  but  is  a  different,  independent  faculty.  It  is  the  source  of 
originality  and  invention,  the  framer  of  hypotheses  and  cause  of  dis- 
coveries in  science  and  philosophy,  and  the  inspiration  of  art  and  poetry. 
It  is  the  "  divine  afflatus  "  of  the  ancients,  v.'ithout  which,  as  Cicero 
said,  no  man  could  be  truly  great.  (William  Blake  thought  it  the  essential 
attribute  of  God  ;  see  p.  351.)  It  is  clearly  differentiated  from  intellect, 
since  it  acts  independently  of  the  conscious  mind  and  will.  An  artist  will 
consciously  plan  out  his  work,  but,  as  it  proceeds,  he  finds  his  scheme 
so  altered  (and  improved)  that  he  is  startled  at  the  ultimate  result.  In 
an  illustration  to  be  given  presently,  a  scientist  starts  to  demonstrate 
a  conclusion  he  had  arrived  at  consciously,  but  his  superconscious 
intervenes  and  sets  him  to  work  out  the  precisely  reverse  theory.  Geley 
{From  the  Unconscious  to  the  Conscious)  speaks  of  "  Rousseau  in  a  state 
of  rapture  and  tears,  covering  pages  of  writing  without  reflection  or  effort, 
Alfred  de  Musset  listening  to  the  '  genius  '  who  dictated  his  poems, 
Socrates  listening  to  his  daemon,  Schopenhauer  refusing  to  believe 
that  his  unsought  and  unexpected  postulates  were  his  oivn  work."  Du 
Bois-Reymond,  the  physiologist,  said  "  he  had  often  noted  that  his 
happy  thoughts  came  to  him  involuntarily  and  zvhen  he  was  not  thinking 
of  the  subject."  George  Sand  said,  "  With  Chopin  creation  was  spon- 
taneous, miraculous  ;  he  wrought  without  foreseeing.  It  would  come 
complete,  sudden,  sublime."  Jacob  Boehme,  the  great  mystic,  said : 
"  I  declare  before  God  that  I  do  not  myself  know  how  the  thing  arises 
within  me,  without  the  participation  of  my  will.  I  do  not  even  know  that 
which  I  am  impelled  to  write."  Ribot  says :  "  Inspiration  reveals  a 
power  superior  to  the  conscious  individual,  and  strange  to  him  although 
acting  through  him — a  state  which  many  inventors  [original  artists, 
scientists,  etc.]  have  expressed  by  saying,  '  /  had  no  art  or  part  in  the 
work.'  "  Darwin  {Descent  of  Man)  says  :  "  The  imagination  is  one  of 
the  highest  prerogatives  of  man.  By  this  faculty  he  unites  former 
images  and  ideas,  independently  of  the  will,  and  thus  creates  brilliant 
and  novel  results.  '  A  poet,'  as  Jean  Paul  Richter  remarks,  '  who  must 
reflect  whether  he  shall  make  a  character  say  yes  or  no— to  the  devil 
with  him  !  He  is  only  a  stupid  corpse.'  "  (The  italics  above  are  mine.) 
See  also  quotations  from  Niebuhr  and  Shelley,  pp.  240-41.* 

The  difference  between  intellect  and  imagination  is  that  between 
reason  and  insight.  In  the  state  of  knowledge  of  Newton's  time  no 
amount  of  conscious  intellectual  work  would  have  given  him  the  idea 
that  the  universe  was  balanced  by  gravitation.  When  Shelley  wrote 
those  marvellous  lines  in  "  Adonais," 

Life,  like  a  dome  of  many- coloured  glass, 
Stains  the  white  radiance  of  Eternity, 

he  rose  as  high  as  the  stars  above  mere  intellect,  and  gave  us  a  sublime 
truth  whose  meaning  it  would  take  volumes  to  adequately  express. 
On  pp.  20-21  the  imaginative  insight  of  the  poet  Shakespeare  is  seen  to 
transcend  by  far  the  intellect  of  the  philosopher  Bacon  in  his  own  subject, 
philosophy.  So  in  this  curious  "  poetic  "  period  there  must  be  at  least 
two  thousand  writers  of  the  present  generation  in  the  British  Empire, 
each  of  whom  has  published  one  or  more  books  of  verse  ;    yet,  as  they 

*  In  those  remarkable  cases  of  "  calculating  boys  "  the  conscious  mind  is  clearly  not  at 
work — and  this  is  probably  so  with  "  infant  prodigies  "  generally. 


176 


NOTE  ON  MYERS 


seem  to  have  little  true  poetic  imagination,  the  result  of  this  huge  in- 
tellectual output  will  probably  not  equal  in  poetic  value  the  woi^k  of 
Keats,  who  died  at  twenty- five,  or  Shelley,  who  died  at  twenty-nine. 
Again,  in  this  greatest  of  all  periods  in  physics,  inathematics,  psychology 
and  invention  there  are  thousands  of  highly  educated  and  efficient  men, 
but  only  a  few  who  are  gifted  with  great  imagination.  However,  it  is 
a  recognized  fact  that  without  imagination  we  could  have  no  genius, 
and  therefore  no  great  achievements  in  art,  science  or  other  directions. 

Yet  to  make  this  note  clear  I  must  find  room  for  an  illustration  show- 
ing that  this  superconscious  imagination  (i)  is  superior  to  the  intellect 
and  (2)  works  independently  of  the  conscious  mind  and  will.  An 
excellent  instance  is  given  in  Poincar^'s  Science  and  Method.  I  may 
mention  that  Poincare  (1854-1912)  was  a  man  of  extraordinary  genius, 
who  did  great  work,  not  in  one  subject  only,  but  over  a  remarkably 
wide  range  of  subjects,  including  philosophy,  mathematics,  astronomy 
and  physics.  Bertrand  Russell,  in  his  preface  to  the  English  translation 
of  this  book  (published  in  1914),  says  :  "  Henri  Poincare  was,  by  general 
agreement,  the  most  eminent  scientific  man  of  his  generation — more 
eminent,  one  is  tempted  to  think,  than  any  man  of  science  now  living." 

In  a  chapter  on  "  Mathematical  Discovery,"  Poincar^  states  that 
all  his  discoveries  came  from  the  "  subliminal  ego,"  that  is  to  say,  the 
superconscious.  There  is  nothing  remarkable  about  this,  as  it  is  the 
common  experience  of  all  men  of  genius  ;  but  he  also  gives  us  a  detailed 
account  of  one  of  his  discoveries — that  of  the  Fuchsian  functions  in 
mathematics — as  an  illustration  of  what  occurred  in  every  case. 

To  begin  with,  he  was  on  the  wrong  track,  and  had  been  trying  for 
a  fortnight  to  prove  that  no  such  functions  were  possible.  But  one  morning 
he  woke  with  the  fact  clearly  demonstrated  to  him  that  one  (hyper- 
geometrical)  series  of  Fuchsian  functions  did  certainly  exist.  It  was 
the  superconscious,  as  of  course  he  saw  himself,  that  had  established 
this  fact  for  him.* 

He  proceeded  to  work  out  the  results  of  what  had  been  thus  demon- 
strated. He  then  had  to  leave  his  home  at  Caen  to  take  part  in  a  geologi- 
cal conference,  and  the  incidents  of  the  journey  made  him  forget  his 
mathematical  work.  "  At  Coutances  we  got  into  a  break  to  go  for  a 
drive  and,  just  as  I  put  my  foot  on  the  step,"  there  came  to  him  another 
brilliant  idea  that  shed  new  and  important  light  on  the  nature  of  the 
Fuchsian  functions.  Nothing  in  his  former  thoughts  seemed  to  have 
prepared  him  for  this  new  development.  "  I  made  no  verification  and 
had  no  time  to  do  so,  since  I  took  up  the  conversation  again  as  soon  as 
I  sat  down  in  the  break,  but  I  felt  absolutely  certain  at  once."  On 
returning  to  Caen  he  verified  the  facts. 

He  then  began  to  study  some  arithmetical  questions,  not  in  connection 
with  the  Fuchsian  functions,  which  he  knew  only  as  referable  to  geometry. 
He  could  make  no  headway  with  these  arithmetical  questions  and, 
disgusted  at  his  failure,  went  away  for  a  few  days  to  the  seaside.  There 
his  thoughts  were  occupied  in  entirely  different  matters.  But  one  day, 
as  he  was  walking  on  the  cliff,  another  conception  of  enormous  importance 
came  to  him  "  with  the  same  characteristics  of  conciseness,  suddenness, 
and  immediate  certainty."  This  conception  identified  certain  arith- 
metical results  with  those  of  the  higher  geometry,  and  was  therefore  of 
wide  significance  ;    and  it  disclosed  in  particular  the  existence  of  other 

*  Poincare  had  taken  coffee  before  going  to  bed,  and  was  unable  to  sleep.  He  says  a 
host  of  ideas  kept  surging  in  his  head  ;  and  he  apparently  thought  this  brain-disturbance 
had  to  do  with  the  fact  he  found  established  in  the  morning.  But  this  could  be  only  a  co- 
incidence. As  will  be  seen  later  on,  no  brain-action  takes  place  when  the  imagination  is 
at  work.  And,  in  fact,  in  the  three  other  cases,  where  the  imagination  came  to  Poincare's 
assistance,  it  will  be  seen  that  the  brain  is  not  at  work  on  the  subject. 


NOTE  ON  MYERS  177 

series  of  Fuchsian  functions  in  addition  to  the  one  series  he  had  known 
of  up  to  that  time. 

He  returned  home  to  Caen  and  worked  out  the  results  of  this  third 
great  discovery.  He  tried  hard  to  form  all  the  new  functions  which 
he  now  knew  to  exist.  But  he  met  with  a  difficulty  that  all  his  efforts 
failed  to  surmount  (this  work  of  course  was  conscious).  At  this  tirne 
he  had  to  leave  home  and  serve  his  time  in  the  army — and  naturally  his 
mind  became  fully  occupied  with  very  different  matters.  But  "  one 
day,  as  I  was  crossing  the  street,  the  solution  of  the  difficulty  which  had 
brought  me  to  a  standstill  came  to  me  all  at  once."  This  ended  the 
research  and,  when  he  had  completed  his  service  in  the  army,  he  was  able 
to  compose  at  a  single  sitting  the  treatise  on  the  Fuchsian  functions 
which  made  him  renowned. 

Poincard  then  considers  the  fact  that  throughout  the  whole  period 
the  superconscious  had  been  working  out  step  by  step  this  profound 
mathematical  problem.  And  it  had  done  this  voluntarily  and  not 
through  the  conscious  mind.  And  it  had  succeeded  time  after  time 
when  the  conscious  mind  had  failed.  Therefore,  it  was  apparently 
clear  that  the  superconscious  was  superior  to  the  conscious.  But  Poincare 
confesses  that  he  is  loth  to  admit  this.  The  philosopher,  Boutroux 
(1845-1921),  had  also  found  the  same  result  appearing  in  quite  different 
matters,  and  he  also  disliked  coming  to  the  conclusion  that  the  super- 
conscious  w^as  superior  to  the  conscious.  However,  it  is  not  necessary 
to  discuss  the  very  nebulous  and  wholly  unsatisfactory  hypotheses,  by 
which  these  eminent  men  endeavoured  to  escape  from  an  inevitable 
conclusion.  They  themselves  were  clearly  not  satisfied  with  their 
own  far-fetched  suggestions.  And  they  had  both  failed  to  put  together 
and  consider  as  a  whole  the  facts  relating  to  the  superconscious,  or  even 
the  facts  relating  to  the  imagination  alone. 

So  far  I  have  spoken  only  of  the  achievements  of  genius,  but  imagina- 
tion enters  into  all  human  activities.  As  I  write  these  lines  I  remember 
an  incident  that  happened  a  few  hours  ago.  I  went  to  the  Melbourne 
Public  Library  to  read  Condillac's  Traite  des  sensations,  which  I  had 
never  looked  at.  I  put  down  my  umbrella  to  search  for  the  reference 
in  the  card-catalogue,  then  received  the  book  from  the  librarian,  and, 
forgetting  the  umbrella,  went  to  the  reading-room.  There  I  soon  became 
completely  absorbed  in  this  very  interesting  book.  Suddenly  the  fact 
that  I  had  left  my  umbrella  startled  me,  and  I  went  back  and  fortunately 
found  it.  Here  my  conscious  mind  was  occupied  to  its  fullest  extent — ■ 
and  it  was  surely  the  superconscious  that  had  given  me  the  reminder. 
Take  another  familiar,  but  more  important,  experience.  A  man  finds 
himself  confronted  with  some  serious  and  critical  situation  of  business 
or  private  concern.  He  sees  only  one  decision  to  come  to,  and  embodies 
that  decision  in  a  letter  which  will  bind  him  irrevocably.  If  he  is  a 
sensible  man  he  will  withhold  his  ultimatum  until  he  has  "  slept  on 
it."  This  is  really,  although  he  does  not  know  it,  an  invitation  to  his 
superconscious  to  assist  him,  when  his  tired  brain  is  at  rest.  How  often 
does  he  find  on  waking  next  morning  that  his  attitude  to  the  situation 
is  entirely  changed  and  that  his  decision  was  wrong — and  how  thankful 
he  is  that  he  did  not  send  the  letter  !  He  may  attribute  this  to  "  un- 
conscious cerebration,"  the  old,  absurd  idea  that  the  brain  can  auto- 
matically carry  out  a  train  of  intelligent  thought  :  but  certainly  neither 
intellect  nor  brain  had  been  at  work.  If  they  had,  the  man  would  not 
have  waked  fresh  and  vigorous  to  begin  another  day's  work.  It  was 
imagination  that  came  to  inform,  advise  and  direct  the  intellect. 

Now  again  comes  the  question  whether  the  superconscious  is 
embodied.     It  seems  sufficient  to  point  out  that  imagination  is  spon- 

N 


178 


NOTE  ON  MYERS 


taneous  and  independent  of  conscious  thought,  that  it  operates  when 
the  brain  is  inactive  as  in  sleep,  or  quiescent  as  in  phantasy-dreaming, 
or  when  the  conscious  mind  and  the  brain  are  fully  and  actively  at  work 
on  other  matters.  Moreover,  the  brain  becomes  worn  out  with  fatigue 
and  needs  rest  and  recuperation,  but  no  fatigue  resuhs  from  the  work 
of  the  imagination.  (I  must  again  state  that  it  is  at  work  while  the  brain 
is  recovering  its  energy  in  sleep.)  Therefore,  it  cannot  apparently  have 
any  correlative  process  in  the  brain. 

There  is  also  another  point  which  is  perhaps  even  stronger  in  this 
connection.  We  know  that  physical  resemblance  is  inherited  ;  and  so 
also  is  no  doubt  intellect  (although  a  vast  deal  attributed  to  heredity 
is  simply  due  to  environment).  But  it  is  clear  that  genius  is  not 
inherited.*  If  it  were,  instances  would  have  occurred  of  two  or  more 
indisputable  geniuses  being  closely  allied  in  blood  ;  and  among  all  the 
many  men  of  genius  in  art,  poetry,  religion,  science,  philosophy,  inven- 
tion, etc.,  not  one  instance  has  been  established.  There  are,  on  the 
contrary,  many  cases  like  that  of  Newton,  where  there  were  no  men  of 
any  note  whatever  among  their  kindred  ;  and  when  two  fine  poets,  the 
Brownings,  intermarry,  the  son  (although  he  is  said  to  have  had  some 
moderate  success  as  an  artist)  is  quite  unknown  to  fame.  As  genius 
is  not  inherited,  it  obviously  follows  that  this  must  be  the  case  with 
imagination  generally,  and  that  the  latter  is  not  embodied.  If  it  were 
embodied,  it  would  be  subject  to  heredity  as  intellect  is. 

D.  Telepathy  and  clairvoyance.  Both  of  these  indicate  the  existence 
of  mind  independent  of  the  body.  One  means  that  mind  can  communicate 
with  mind  independently  of  the  senses  of  the  body,  the  other  that  the 
mind  can  perceive  objects  that  are  inaccessible  to  sight  or  other  senses. 
(In  many  cases  they  are  indistinguishable.) 

With  regard  to  both  these  subjects  I  can  make  only  general  state- 
ments, for  the  evidence  is  enormous.  As  regards  clairvoyance  we  have 
such  a  volume  of  evidence  from  reliable  sources  that  there  can  be  no 
doubt  that  it  is  founded  on  fact.  A  new  body  of  "  book-test  "  evidence 
has  recently  appeared  and  it  is  most  remarkable.  (See  Mrs.  Henry 
Sidgwick's  article  in  Proc.  of  the  S.P.R.  for  April  1921,  and  The  Earthen 
Vessel  by  Lady  Glenconner,  1921.) 

Telepathy  is  in  a  still  stronger  position,  because  it  is  amenable  to 
experiment  as  well  as  to  observation.  It  is  now  thirty-four  years  since 
telepathy  was  established  by  the  Society  for  Psychical  Research  after 
six  years  of  exhaustive  inquiry  and  experiment  by  an  able  committee  ; 
and  the  evidence  has  been  enormously  increased  since  that  time.  I 
have  no  hesitation  in  saying  that  no  intelligent,  unbiased  man  can  examine 
that  overwhelming  mass  of  evidence  without  being  absolutely  convinced 
that  telepathy  is  a  fact. 

I  am  even  disposed  to  think  that  telepathy  is  the  primary  source  of 
communication  between  mind  and  mind  among  animals  and  men — the 
cries  and  calls  and  other  methods  of  animals  and  our  own  speaking  and 
writing  being  later  additional  mechanisms.  There  are  many  facts  that 
seem  to  indicate  this.  What,  to  begin  with,  is  the  origin  of  language 
itself  ?  It  must  have  been  a  joint  process,  the  result  of  an  agreement 
between  a  tribe  or  other  group  as  to  the  signs  to  be  used.  How  could 
such  a  mutual  understanding — in  the  absence  of  language  itself — have 
been  arrived  at  except  by  telepathy  ?  How  again  do  babies  understand 
what  is  said  to  them  ?     What  is  the  origin  of  the  proverb,  "  Think  of 

*  See  on  this  subject  James  Ward's  Psychological  Principles,  chap,  xviii.  Gallon,  in  the 
second  edition  of  Hereditary  Genius,  admits  that  the  title  should  have  been  "  Hereditary 
Ability."  Schopenhauer,  Carlyle,  Nietzsche  and. other  writers  say  that  the  "  great  man  " 
is  a  demigod  who  stands  by  himself  and  cannot  be  explained  by  heredity  or  otherwise. 


NOTE  ON  MYERS  179 

the  devil,  etc."  ?  Who  has  not  repeatedly  had  the  experience  of  thinking 
of  some  long-absent  and  forgotten  person  just  before  he  turns  a  corner 
and  comes  into  view,  or  just  before  one  finds  a  letter  from  him  lying  on 
the  breakfast-table  ?  How  otherwise  are  to  be  explained  the  numerous 
instances  where  Indians  or  savages  have  known  in  every  detail  events 
that  had  occurred  at  great  distances  away,  when  there  was  no  possibility 
of  news  having  reached  them  by  any  other  means  ?  Are  not  all  the 
facts  on  which  M'Dougall  bases  his  artificial  conception  of  a  "  group 
mind  "  explicable  by  telepathy  ?  How  extraordinarily  often  do  man 
and  wife  or  any  two  closely  intimate  friends,  without  look  or  sign,  know 
what  each  other  is  thinking  of  ?  Surely  far  too  often  to  be  accounted 
for  by  coincidence,  or  as  the  result  of  similar  trains  of  thought.  This 
may  well  be  the  explanation  of  many  curious  facts,  as,  for  example, 
how  what  is  called  "the  spirit  of  the  age"  arises  (see  p.  308),  or  the 
remarkable  way  in  which  children  change  their  games  together  at  one 
time.  As  regards  animals,  there  are  numbers  of  instances  where  they 
act  together  at  the  same  moment  under  the  influence  apparently  of 
telepathy  ;  the  sudden  lighting  up  and  darkening  of  innumerable  fire- 
flies and  other  light-producing  organisms,  the  stampeding  and  other 
combined  movements  of  flocks  and  herds,  the  concerted,  duly  marshalled 
and  orderly  marching  and  other  proceedings  of  countless  myriads  of  ants, 
the  migration  of  birds  simultaneously  and  ivith  remarkable  precision  in  the 
marshalling  of  their  ranks  and  the  order  of  their  flight  are  a  few  instances.* 
Without  my  enlarging  further  on  this  subject,  the  reader  himself  will 
find  many  other  facts  in  his  own  experience  if  he  thinks  over  the  matter. 

It  should,  however,  be  borne  in  mind  that  the  strong  tendency  of 
our  social  civilization,  especially  in  the  competitive  strife  of  modern 
industrialism,  is  to  make  us  conceal  our  thoughts,  and  therefore  to  inhibit 
telepathy.  Also,  we  do  not  need  telepathy  so  much  since  we  developed 
speaking  and  writing.  Presumably,  like  any  other  faculty,  telepathy 
can  decay  through  disuse.  These  are  probably  the  reasons  why  we 
usually  fail  to  see  it  in  active  operation. 

Telepathy  also  is  not  confined  to  the  living.  I,  in  common  with 
many  other  members  of  the  Society  for  Psychical  Research,  am  satisfied 
that  telepathy  also  occurs  between  the  dead  and  the  living  (including 
the  projection  of  mental  images  or  apparitions).  It  is  probably  due  to 
telepathy  from  the  dead  that  primitive  man  believed  in  survival  after 
death,  but  a  discussion  of  this  subject  would  add  enormously  to  this 
over-long  note.     Yet  see  generally  as  to  primitive  man,  p.  183. 

There  is  no  need  to  ask  the  question  whether  as  regards  telepathy 
and  clairvoyance  the  superconscious  appears  to  be  embodied.  Plainly 
it  is  not.  They  even  seem  to  involve  a  power  in  the  superconscious  of 
travelling  and  acting  outside  the  body. 

E.  I  must  hurry  through  the  remaining  points,  although  they  are 
equally  important.  I  shall  merely  mention  the  phenomena  of  medium- 
ship  and  omit  all  other  alleged  supernormal  phenomena,  for  which  the 
evidence  is  not  equally  strong.  It  is  clear  that  the  superconscious  is 
the  dramatic  author,  and  also  the  "  producer,"  of  our  dreams,  of  which 
the  dreamer  is  the  spectator  or  the  helpless  victim.  We  have  also 
learnt  that,  although  we  remember  so  little  of  our  dreams,  we  are  dream- 
ing constantly  through  the  night.     If  then  dreaming  were  associated 

*  There  is  an  enormous  number  of  stories  in  Fabre's  and  a  thousand  otiier  books  that 
indicate  the  existence  of  telepathy,  clairvoyance,  somnambulism,  presentiment  of  death  and 
other  supernormal  phenomena  in  animals  ;  and  I  should  think  every  one  who  has  had  much 
to  do  with  horses,  dogs,  elephants  and  other  animals  could  add  to  the  evidence.  There  are 
also  cases  of  telepathy  between  animals  and  man  (see  Proc.  of  the  S.P.R.,  Oct.  1922,  and 
also  accounts  of  Indian  snake-charmers,  etc.).  It  should  be  remembered  also  that  dogs  and 
other  animals  have  vivid  dreams. 


1 8c  NOTE  ON  MYERS 

with  brain-action,  we  would  wake  up  more  fatigued  than  when  we  went 
to  sleep,  and  life  could  not  possibly  continue. 

On  this  latter  point  it  seems  to  me  probable  that  our  conscious  mind 
obtains  its  fresh  energy  from  the  superconscious  during  sleep.  As 
Myers  points  out,  the  waking  time  can  exist  only  for  brief  periods  con- 
tinuously ;  we  cannot  continue  to  live  without  resort  to  the  fuller  vitality 
which  sleep  brings  to  us.  No  length  of  time  lying  down  awake  in  dark- 
ness and  silence  will  give  the  recuperative  effect  that  even  a  few  moments 
of  sleep  will  produce.  Does  this  not  indicate  that,  acting  as  it  does  in 
its  curative  work,  it  is  this  tireless,  ever-awake  superconscious  that 
recuperates  the  conscious  mind,  supplying  it  with  new  energy  ? 

One  very  important  point  I  must  not  pass  over.  The  superconscious 
appears  to  be  the  source  of  our  intuitions,  including  our  ideals  and 
"  judgments  of  value."  These  are  not  deducible  by  any  intellectual 
process,  and  are,  indeed,  opposed  to  what  we  call  common-sense.  But 
the  superconscious  has  a  great  knowledge  of  the  facts  of  human  life  by 
reason  of  its  retentive  memory,  and  a  clearer  perception  of  the  truths 
underlying  and  explaining  those  facts  ;  and  it  compels  the  conscious 
to  accept  and  act  upon  ideals,  which  are  opposed  to  its  own  reasoned 
conclusions.     (See  quotation  from  Menzies,  p.  314.) 

I  have  had  to  confine  myself  to  these  few  facts  relating  to  the  super- 
conscious.  The  subject  is  a  vast  one  and  has  ramifications  in  every 
direction.*  We  have  still  to  consider  whether  any,  and  what,  general 
conclusions  can  be  arrived  at. 

F.  We  are  only  at  the  beginning  of  knowledge,  but  one  fact  seems 
to  be  quite  clear,  namely,  that  the  superconscious  is  superior  to  the 
conscious  mind.  This  is  seen  in  its  memory,  its  curative  and  other 
powers  over  the  body,  its  imagination,  telepathy,  etc.  But,  as  men- 
tioned before,  it  is  not  superhuman.  Although,  by  its  more  extensive 
memory,  it  has  a  greater  knowledge  of  the  facts,  and  it  also  has  a  finer 
appreciation  of  them,  yet  it  knows  nothing  in  advance  of  the  conscious. 
It  could  not,  for  instance,  tell  Dalton  that  his  "  atoms  "  were  complex 
formations,  or  tell  Newton  of  four-dimensional  space-time.  It  is 
human,  and  liable  to  err,  and  it  grows  in  knowledge.  It  may  even  grow 
in  faculty,  for  our  sense  of  beauty  in  nature  seems  to  be  a  recent  acquisi- 
tion. Apparently  it  can  also  decay,  since  the  aesthetic  and  other  faculties 
are  known  to  decay  (see  p.  363).  It  of  course  varies  in  every  individual 
from  the  savage  to  the  average  civilized  man,  and  from  the  average  man 
to  the  genius. 

Again,  the  superconscious  appears  to  be  independent  of  the  body, 
and  to  use  it  simply  as  an  instrument,  so  that  there  is  no  reason  to  suppose 
that  it  perishes  with  the  body.  Also,  it  is  through  the  superconscious 
that  we  are  in  touch  with  the  spiritual  world.  The  evidence  collected 
by  the  Society  for  Psychical  Research,  which  has  in  my  opinion  estab- 
lished the  fact  of  survival  after  death,  comes  through  telepathy  fro  in  the 
dead.  And  it  is  from  the  superconscious  and  not  from  the  conscious 
mind  that  we  place  the  highest  value  upon  those  ideals,  love,  duty,  self- 
abnegation,  moral  principle  and  the  cause  of  truth,  for  which  nien  lay 
down  their  lives. 

What  then  is  the  superconscious  ?     Here,  I  think,  we  can  come  to 

*  Take  as  an  illustration  the  sense  of  humour,  which  shows  us  things  in  their  due  propor- 
tion, saving  us  from  unwholesome  pessimism  on  one  hand  and  childish  self-conceit  on  the 
other — and  keeps  an  old  man  young.  This  seems  to  belong  to  the  superconscious  and  not 
the  intellect.  Many  highly  intellectual  men  (Gladstone  is  a  well-known  instance)  have  been 
devoid  of  any  sense  of  humour.  The  Prussians  are  not  wanting  in  intellect,  but  are  wanting 
in  humour — and  hence  their  grotesque  notion  of  their  own  world-superiority,  and  their 
disastrous  inroad  upon  civilization. 


NOTE  ON  MYERS  i8i 

a  definite  conclusion.     It  is  the  true  self  or  Soul.*     As  the  spectrum  is 
not  limited  to  visible  light,  so 

(fl)  The  Soul  is  not  liinited  to  its  conscious  functions. 

(b)  It   has   "  superconscious  "   functions,   superior   to   those   of  the 

conscious.     How  far  they  extend,  we  have  only  begun  to  explore. 

(c)  In  those  functions  it  acts  independently  of  the  body,  but  it  employs 

the  conscious  mind  with  its  brain  to  do  subsidiary  work. 

The  real  difficulty  appears  to  be,  not  what  is  the  superconscious,  but 
what  is  the  conscious  mind,  and  what  are  the  relations  between  the  two. 
It  is  a  mystery,  and  we  can  only  conjecture.  As  I  said  above,  I  am  in- 
clined to  think  that  the  superconscious  is  the  cause  of  evolution,  and, 
therefore,  has  developed  the  brain  and  nervous  system.  That  is  to  say, 
it  appears  to  form  the  machinery  for  the  use  of  the  conscious  mind.  Does 
it  also  form  the  conscious  mind  itself  ?  I  cannot  think  that  this  is 
possible  for  several  reasons,  chiefly  because  the  conscious  mind  has 
volition.  But,  if  I  inay  hazard  a  conjecture,  the  conscious  may  be  a 
branch  or  specialized  part  of  the  superconscious  or  Soul.  This  is  a 
vague  statement,  but  at  present  we  cannot  form  clear  conceptions. 

In  this  conjecture  I  am  in  the  first  place  influenced  by  the  fact  that 
the  superconscious  or  Soul  is  plainly  superior  to  the  conscious.  But  it 
may  be  desirable  that  it  should  detach  a  portion  of  itself  to  be  in  contact 
with  the  outside  world,  to  acquire  knowledge,  to  carry  into  effect  aesthetic 
conceptions  or,  as  in  such  a  case  as  Poincare's,  to  work  out  with  pen  and 
paper  scientific  hypotheses  that  the  superconscious  has  formed. 

Let  us  consider  what  happens  in  a  particular  instance.  Take  the  case 
of  an  infant  before  its  brain,  the  machinery  of  the  conscious  mind,  is 
co-ordinated  and  developed.  The  infant  undoubtedly  reasons  ;  its 
reasoning  extends  over  a  very  wide  area,  and  it  arrives  at  a  multitude  of 
conclusions.  We  also  know  that,  although  it  spends  most  of  its  time 
asleep,  it  acquires  knowledge  at  a  prodigious  rate.  Taking  one  only  of 
its  many  acquirements,  it  learns  a  language.  And  it  does  not  matter  in 
the  least  what  language  it  is,  for,  if  the  infant  is  adopted  early  enough 
by  alien  foster-parents,  any  English  baby  will  as  readily  learn  French, 
Arabic,  Hindustanee,  or  Chinese  as  it  will  learn  English.  This  seems 
to  mean  that,  until  the  superconscious  has  developed  the  brain,  it  does 
not  detach  the  conscious  mind,  but  works  directly  as  a  whole.  When 
it  has  formed  the  necessary  machinery,  the  brain,  it  then  delegates  certain 
subordinate  functions  to  the  conscious. 

But  what  mainly  appeals  to  me  is  that  the  disembodied  dead  retain 
their  intelligence  to  the  fullest  extent.  In  their  case  we  see  no  dis- 
tinction between  the  superconscious  and  the  conscious.  But  here  I 
am  again  dealing  with  the  evidence  furnished  by  the  S.P.R.,  which  is 
so  strangely  neglected  by  the  majority  of  thinkers. 

However,  my  conjecture  is  only  a  conjecture  and  is  faced  with  serious 
difficulties.  It  seems  to  make  far  too  little  of  the  conscious  volitional 
mind  which  occupies  so  great  a  part  in  our  lives.  And  we  also  find  a 
number  of  perplexing  facts,  some  of  which  seem  incompatible  with 
the  conjecture,  and  some  that  seem  favourable  to  it.  Although  the 
superconscious  or  Soul  can  apparently  restrain  the  conscious  from  acts 
which  cause  disease  or  death  (as  when  a  man  is  cured  of  the  drinking 
habit  by  suggestion),  it  will  not  intervene  unless  the  conscious  mind 
"  suggests,"  which  seems  to  mean,  asks  it  to  do  so.     But  it  will  not 

*  The  use  of  the  term  "mind  "  in  such  a  connection  is,  as  a  friend  writes  me,  a  "  timorous 
academic  compromise." 


1 82  NOTE  ON  MYERS 

obey  a  conmiand  from  the  conscious  ;  the  will  must  be  absolutely  in 
abeyance,  or  the  superconscious  will  not  lend  its  assistance.  Cou^ 
discovered  this  in  his  curative  work,  but,  as  shown  above,  it  has  long 
been  recognized  in  connection  with  the  imagination.  Although  the 
superconscious  can  control  the  body,  yet,  to  quote  a  neurological  fact 
mentioned  in  Sir  C.  S.  Sherrington's  address  to  the  British  Association 
in  1922,  it  allows  the  severed  nerves  in  an  amputated  limb  to  sprout 
uselessly  and  cause  great  unnecessary  suffering.  And,  worst  of  all,  it 
will  apparently  carry  out  an  injurious  suggestion  of  the  conscious  mind, 
and  even  cause  death. 

Again,  the  superconscious  or  Soul  comes  only  to  assist  the  conscious 
in  matters  which  the  conscious  has  been  previously  considering.  It 
was  to  explain  problems  that  had  arisen  in  Newton's  conscious  mind 
that  the  superconscious  conceived  and  brought  to  him  the  idea  of  gravita- 
tion ;  it  did  not  bring  it  to  an  artist  or  poet  who  had  not  concerned 
himself  with  problems  in  physics.  But  where  the  superconscious  does 
operate,  it  volunteers  its  assistance.  This  adds  to  the  mystery.  Why 
should  it  voluntarily  intervene  to  help  the  poet,  artist  and  scientist  in 
his  work,  and  yet  not  intervene  to  save  them  froin  suffering  or  death  ? 

Then,  again,  Poincar^'s  case  shows  that  it  does  not  acquire  its  own 
knowledge,  but  depends  on  information  obtained  by  the  conscious. 
It  was  only  when  Poincare  had  worked  at  arithmetical  problems,  v^hich 
apparently  had  nothing  to  do  with  the  geometrical  Fuchsian  functions, 
that  the  superconscious  arrived  at  the  important  truth  that  certain  arith- 
metical results  corresponded  with  those  of  the  higher  geometry.  That 
the  superconscious  should  thus  depend  on  facts  brought  to  its  knowledge 
by  the  conscious  mind  seems  to  be  consistent  with  my  conjecture — 
that  the  superconscious  has  specialized  the  conscious  and  formed  the 
brain  for  that  express  purpose.  This  would  also  explain  why  it  assists 
the  conscious  only  in  matters  that  the  latter  has  been  previously  investi- 
gating— it  has  only  the  facts  acquired  by  the  conscious  to  work  on.  As 
the  artist  or  poet  provides  no  scientific  facts,  unless  in  such  a  case  as 
Leonardo  da  Vinci  or  Goethe,  his  superconscious  cannot  build  up  any 
scientific  hypothesis. 

In  the  last  paragraph  I  have  not  fully  set  out  the  position  as  it  appears 
to  me.  I  think  the  superconscious  directs  the  intellect,  and  probably 
directed  Poincar^'s  conscious  mind  to  work  at  the  arithmetical  problems 
referred  to.  It  may  have  had  some  indication  of  the  truth  from  the 
arithmetical  work  Poincar^  had  previously  done.  Its  profound  memory 
would  have  all  that  work  vividly  before  it.  Even  from  my  own  humble 
experience  I  arrived  at  the  conclusion  that  the  superconscious  directs 
the  conscious.  It  is  unfortunate  that  we  have  not  other  accounts  like 
Poincare's.  If  only,  for  instance,  Einstein  could  and  would  narrate 
his  experiences  in  similar  detail,  it  would  probably  be  of  the  greatest 
value  to  psychology. 

As  regards  the  objections  which  seem  opposed  to  my  conjecture, 
they  may  disappear  when  we  learn  more  of  the  subject.  We  need  to 
remember,  for  instance,  that  the  superconscious  or  Soul  is  human  and 
liable  to  error  ;  and  that  it  pursues  its  own  course,  actuated  by  motives 
that  we  cannot  as  yet  fully  comprehend.  It  no  doubt  experiments, 
and  all  experimenting  is  "  at  random  "  to  begin  with.  Again,  we  have 
no  idea  whatever  as  to  what  this  wonderful  "  suggestion  "  really  is. 
There  are  several  more  or  less  plausible  explanations  that  offer  them- 
selves, but  I  have  to  bring  to  an  end  this  enormously  long  note.* 

*  In  putting  together  the  above  facts,  apart  from  Ribot  and  other  authorities,  I  derived 
much  assistance  from  Dr.  Geley's  From  the  Unconscious  to  the  Conscious.  But  unfortunately 
in  this  very  suggestive  book,  in  addition  to  recognized  facts.  Dr.  Geley  relies  for  liis  own 


NOTE  ON  MYERS  183 


Addendum  to  Note 

On  further  consideration  I  think  I  must  refer  to  one  subject  which 
bears  on  the  above  note  generally,  and  in  particular  on  the  question 
why  primitive  man  believed  in  survival  after  death  (see  p.  179).  Accord- 
ing to  the  generally  accepted  theory,  earliest  man  was  of  brutally  low 
intelligence,  far  inferior  to  the  most  bestial  of  savages.  As  it  was  recently 
put  in  Nature,  the  savage  is  as  much  superior  to  him  as  he  was  to  the 
ape.  Also,  according  to  the  current  theory,  savages  are  tribes  that  have 
advanced  considerably  beyond  primitive  man  but,  nevertheless,  have 
reached  only  a  comparatively  low  stage  of  development.  It  seems  to 
me  on  the  contrary  that  primitive  man  was  equal,  if  not  superior, 
to  ourselves  in  mentality  (although,  of  course,  not  in  accumulated 
knowledge)  ;  and  that  savages  are  degenerates  from  superior  ancestors 
and  far  inferior  to  primitive  man.  I  put  forward  this  view  with  great 
diffidence,  because  on  such  subjects  I  am  not  a  student,  but  only  a 
casual  reader.  Also,  I  can  give  only  the  briefest  possible  statement  of 
the  main  evidence  that  appears  to  support  my  contention. 

If  man  originally  was  such  an  inconceivably  degraded  human  being 
as  the  current  theory  alleges,  and  has  since  made  such  stupendous 
intellectual  progress,  we  ought  to  find,  on  tracing  his  history  backwards, 
a  clear  and  continuous  decline  in  intelligence.  Let  us  first  consider 
the  evidence  from 

(i)  Anthropology.  (I  should  first  mention  that,  as  Marcellin  Boule 
has  clearly  demonstrated,  "  Neanderthal  man  "  and  his  probable  pro- 
genitor, "  Heidelberg  man,"  do  not  belong  to  our  species.  Homo  sapiens, 
but  are  of  a  different  species,  if  not  a  different  genus.)  Although  the 
anthropological  evidence  is  scanty,  we  learn  from  it  that  primitive  man 
invented  tools,  weapons,  clothing  and  ornaments,  that  he  made  the 
greatest  of  all  discoveries,  how  to  produce  fire,  and,  presumably,  he  also 
invented  language.  All  these  are  the  work  of  the  highest  genius,  un- 
surpassed by  anything  that  man  has  since  done.  There  are  also  other 
facts,  such  as  the  perfection  of  art  shown  in  the  cave  paintings 
and  carvings  of  the  Aurignacian  race.  Therefore,  the  earliest  known 
records  prove  that  man  was  at  least  equal  in  mentality  to  ourselves. 

(2)  Archaeology  also  shows  that  great  races  existed,  who  were  equal, 
if  not  superior,  to  modern  peoples  : — the  Sumerians,  Babylonians, 
Cretans,  Egyptians,  Phoenicians,  Mayas  and  others. 

(3)  So  ancient  history  with  its  record  of  the  Greeks,  Chinese,  Hindus, 
Persians,  Egyptians,  Saracens,  Jews  and  other  great  nations. 

(4)  There  appears  to  be  also  a  strong  argument  from  biology,  which 
I  offer  with  much  hesitation  because  of  the  tangled  and  conflicting 
theories  that  are  held,  and  because  of  my  own  insufficient  knowledge 
of  the  subject.  From  my  point  of  view,  however,  it  seems  immaterial 
to  consider  whether  one  species  arises  from  another  through  a  long 
series  of  small  mutations  or  by  one  definite  advance,  or  what  constitutes 
a  species,  or  any  of  the  other  questions.  We  actually  know  of  hundreds 
of  thousands  of  clearly  defined,  separate  and  distinct  species  that  have 
arisen,  many  of  which  have  persisted  through  vast  geological  periods. 
In  not  one  of  these  species  have  we  detected  any  increase  of  intelligence 
during  its  history.  Whatever  may  be  the  answer  to  the  questions  above 
referred  to,  biologists  have  not  found  any  evidence  that  intelligence 
increases  in  the  life  history  of  any  species.     If,  therefore,  our  species, 

theories  upon  other  alleged  evidence  of  the  most  improbable  nature, — "  ectoplasm  "  material- 
izations, cases  where  intelligence  is  said  to  have  been  fully  manifested  when  the  brain  was 
destroyed,  the  Elberfeld  "  calculating  "  horses,  prophecies  of  the  war  and  so  on. 


IS4 


NOTE  ON  MYERS— KEATS 


Homo  sapiens,  has  in  its  history  made  the  truly  enormous  intellectual 
advance  alleged  by  the  current  theory,  then  it  appears  to  be  contrary 
to  all  other  biological  facts. 

(5)  As  regards  savages,  there  seems  to  be  the  same  unanimous  testi- 
mony that  they  are  not  tribes  that,  although  progressing,  have  reached 
only  an  early  stage  of  development,  but  that  they  are  degenerates  from 
superior  ancestors.  It  appears  to  me  that  ethnologists  make  the  same 
mistake  that  biologists  made  before  Anton  Dohrn  in  1875  opened  their 
eyes  to  the  vast  extent  to  which  degeneration  takes  place.  Knowing 
only  of  parasites  as  degenerates,  they  supposed  that  all  other  animals 
were  wz  a  state  of  upzvard  evolution.  They  thought  that  all  simpler  and 
lower  forms  of  life  represented  early  stages  in  evolution,  instead  of,  in 
an  immense  number  of  cases,  being  degenerates  from  higher  organisms. 

But  also  they  seem  to  me  to  again  make  the  fundamental  mistake 
referred  to  in  paragraph  (4).  Man  is  only  one  species,  and  evolution 
does  not  take  place  within  a  species  but  only  when  a  new  species  arises. 
The  individuals  of  any  species  can  only  maintain  the  original  body  and 
the  original  intelligence  of  that  species,  or  decay.     See  p.  283. 

Just  as  degeneration  covers  an  enormous  area  in  the  biologic  world, 
so  also  it  does  in  the  case  of  man.  Archaeology  is  one  long  record  of 
the  decay  of  great  nations — and  so,  indeed,  is  history.  Man  is,  as  it 
were,  a  vast  smouldering  crust  on  the  surface  of  the  earth,  with  light 
occasionally  flickering  up  and  dying  down  here  and  there,  but  never 
wholly  extinguished,  although  the  great  mass  consists  only  of  dying 
embers. 

Every  savage  race  shows  degeneracy.  In  many  cases  there  is  direct 
evidence  of  this.  The  Boskop  and  other  skulls  of  ancestors  of  savage 
tribes  that  have  been  discovered  with  even  greater  brain  capacity  than 
our  own,  the  artistic,  architectural  and  other  remains  of  the  ancestors 
of  many  savages,  the  clear  evidence  that  many  tribes  had  possessed  arts 
which  they  have  since  lost,  and  their  own  traditions  and  a  thousand  other 
facts  point  to  the  same  conclusion. 

However,  it  seems  hardly  necessary  to  go  into  such  details.  We 
need  ask  only  one  question,  which  applies  to  practically  all  savages  : 
Could  such  savages  in  their  present  state  of  intelligence  have  invented 
their  language,  or  their  tools  and  weapons,  or  composed  their  mj'ths 
and  songs,  or  devised  their  intricate  rules  against  intermarriage,  or  their 
social  laws  and  ritual  observances,  or  formulated  their  beliefs  ?  There 
can  surely  be  only  one  answer  to  this  question. 

This  is  an  utterly  inadequate  summary  of  facts,  which  it  would  require 
one  or  more  volumes  to  set  out  properly.  The  question  is  one  of 
primary  and  funda7ne7ital  importance  in  all  departments  of  knowledge 
that  have  to  do  with  Man  (including  the  Freudian  theories). 


Blissfully  haven'd  both  from  joy  and  pain  : 

Blinded  alike  from  sunshine  and  from  rain  : 

As  though  a  rose  should  shut  and  be  a  bud  again. 

Keats. 
The  Eve  of  St.  Agnes. 

Madeline  is  lying  asleep  in  bed — but  the  last  line  could  be  used  in 
quite  another  sense  as  prettily  expressing  rejuvenation. 


CLOUGH  AND  OTHERS  185 

Where  lies  the  land  to  which  the  ship  would  go  ? 
Far,  far  ahead,  is  all  her  seamen  know. 
And  where  the  land  she  travels  from  ?     Away, 
Far,  far  behind,  is  all  that  they  can  say. 

On  sunny  noons  upon  the  deck's  smooth  face, 
Linked  arm  in  arm,  how  pleasant  here  to  pace  ; 
Or,  o'er  the  stern  reclining,  watch  below 
The  foaming  wake  far  widening  as  we  go. 

On  stormy  nights  when  wild  north- westers  rave, 
How  proud  a  thing  to  fight  with  wind  and  wave  ! 
The  dripping  sailor  on  the  reeling  mast 
Exults  to  hear,  and  scorns  to  wish  it  past. 

Where  lies  the  land  to  which  the  ship  would  go  ? 
Far,  far  ahead,  is  all  her  seamen  know. 
And  where  the  land  she  travels  from  ?     Away, 
Far,  far  behind,  is  all  that  they  can  say. 

A.  H.  Clough. 
Songs  in  Absence. 

The  Ship  is  the  ship  of  life.     The  first  line  is  taken  from  Words- 
worth's sonnet,  "  Where  lies  the  land  to  which  yon  Ship  must  go." 


Learn  to  win  a  lady's  faith 

Nobly  as  the  thing  is  high, 
Bravely  as  for  life  and  death. 

With  a  loyal  gravity. 

E.  B.  Browtvting. 
The  Lady's  Yes. 


Without  good  nature  man  is  but  a  better  kind  of  vermin. 


Extreme  self-lovers  will  set  a  man's  house  on  fire,  though 
it  were  but  to  roast  their  eggs. 

Bacon. 


i86  BRAY 


THE  CORAL  REEF 

In  my  dreams  I  dreamt 

Of  a  coral  reef- 
Far  away,  far,  far  away. 
Where  seas  were  lulled  and  calm, 
A  place  of  silver  sand. 

Truly  a  lovely  land, 

Truly  a  lovely  dream. 

Truly  a  peaceful  scene — 
When,  like  a  flash,  through  all  the  sea 

There  shone  a  gleam. 
Rising  like  Venus  from  her  wat'ry  bed 
Rose  a  young  mermaid  with  her  hair  unkempt, 
Beautiful  hair  !   light  as  a  golden  leaf, 
Shining  like  Phoebus  at  the  break  of  day. 

And  she  tossed  and  shook  her  lovely  head. 
Shook  off  drops  more  precious,  far,  than  pearls. 

To  a  coral  rock  she  slowly  went. 

Slowly  floated  like  a  graceful  swan  ; 

Combed  her  hair  that  hung  in  yellow  curls 
Till  the  evening  shadows  'gan  to  fall  ; 
Then  she  gave  one  look  round,  that  was  all. 
Rose — and  then,  her  figure  curved,  arms  bent 
Above  her  head — a  flash  !   and  she  was  gone  ; 
And  ripples  in  wide  circles  rise  and  fall. 
Spreading  and  spreading  still,  where  she  has  been. 

Betty  Biuy,  January  19  li 
Aged  II. 


BENEATH  MY  WINDOW 

Beneath  my  window,  roses  red  and  white 
Nod  like  a  host  of  flitting  butterflies  ; 
But,  faded  by  the  day,  one  ev'ry  night 
Shakes  its  soft  petals  to  the  ground,  and  dies. 
And  that  is  why  I  see,  when  night  doth  pass. 
Tears  in  her  sisters'  eyes,  and  on  the  grass, 

Betty  Bray,  1920. 
Aged  13. 

See  note  on  p.  i88. 


BRAY  187 


MUSIC 


Three  wondrous  things  there  are  upon  the  earth, 
Three  gentle  spirits,  that  I  love  full  well, 
Three  glorious  voices,  which  by  far  excel 
Even  the  silver-throated  Philomel. 


For  not  in  sound  alone  lies  music's  worth, 
But  rather  in  the  feeling  that  it  brings, 
Whether  of  joy,  or  peace,  or  dreaminess. 


And  when  I  hear  the  rain  soft,  softly  beat, 
Singing  with  low,  sweet  voice,  and  musical, 
I  think  of  all  the  tears  that  ever  fell 
In  perfect  happiness,  or  deep  distress. 
And  so  it  brings  a  pang,  half  sad,  half  sweet, 
Into  my  heart. 


Then,  when  the  sparkling  rill 
Dances  between  the  sunny  banks,  and  sings 
For  very  joy,  all  dimpling  with  delight, 

O  all  the  happy  laughter  'neath  the  sky 

Rings  sweet  and  clear,  and  makes  the  world  more  bright. 


And,  when  the  sun  has  sunk  beneath  the  sea 
And  vanished  from  the  glory  of  the  west, 
Leaving  the  peaceful  eve  to  melt  to  night. — 

O  then  it  is  the  loveliest  voice  of  all. 

The  gentle  night-wind  softly  sings  to  me. 

Tender  and  low,  as  sweetest  lullaby 

As  ever  hushed  a  weary  head  to  rest  : 

On,  on  it  sings,  until  from  drowsiness 

My  tired  eyes  softly  close,  and  all  is  still. 

Betty  Bray,  1920. 
Aged  13. 

See  note  on  p.  188. 


BRAY 


THE  MARTYR 

When  night  fell  softly  on  the  silent  city, 
A  little  white  moth  thro'  my  window  came 
Out  of  the  darkness  and  the  shadows  dim, 
Seeking  the  brightness  of  my  candle's  flame. 
Around  and  round  the  lighted  wick  he  flew, 
Winging  his  wonderful  and  curious  flight  ; 
And  near,  and  still  more  near,  the  circles  grew  .  .  . 
And  then — the  flame  no  more  was  bright  for  him. 
Then  all  my  heart  went  out  in  sudden  pity 
To  that  small  martyr,  who  had  sought  for  light. 
And  found — his  death.     O  he  was  fair  to  die. 
I  rose  and  snuffed  the  candle  with  a  sigh. 

Betty  Bray,  1920. 
Aged  14  years. 

CADMUS 

Down  in  my  garden,  in  the  deep  black  mould, 

I  planted  little  bulbs.     The  winter  came 

And  went,  blown  by  the  north  wind's  mighty  breath. 

And  then,  beneath  the  trees  there  came  four  score 

Small,  green-clad,  faery  forms.     And  each  one  bore 

A  torch  that  lit  my  garden  with  its  flame. 

When  I  beheld  them  there  before  my  eyes, 

I  stared — Old  Cadmus  never  wondered  more, 

When  he  had  planted  those  few  dragon's  teeth 

And  saw  ...  a  hundred  thousand  men  arise 

Full  armed  to  battle,  in  the  days  of  old. 

Betty  Bray,  1920. 
Aged  14. 

These  fresh,  spontaneous  verses  bring  us  a  Promise  of  Spring — the 
message  that  we  may  still  hope  for  a  revival  of  English  Poetry.  This 
induced  me  to  insert  them,  although  they  are  outside  the  scope  of  the 
book. 

Miss  Betty  Bray  has  been  writing  since  she  was  seven  years  old. 
Her  parents  are  careful  to  make  no  suggestion  or  interfere  in  any  way 
with  what  she  writes.  Imagination  appears  to  come  very  readily  to 
her  assistance,  for  "  Cadmus "  was  set  as  a  subject  in  a  school- 
examination. 

She  was  born  on  June  ii,  1906,  and  is  the  daughter  of  Mr.  Denys  de 
Saumarez  Bray,  C.S.I.,  and  the  grand-niece  of  my  late  partner.  Sir 
John  Cox  Bray,  K.C.M.G.     Her  grandfather  was  born  in  Adelaide. 


MILTON  AND  OTHERS  189 

Thus  with  the  year 
Seasons  return  ;  but  not  to  me  returns 
Day,  or  the  sweet  approach  of  even  or  morn, 
Or  sight  of  vernal  bloom,  or  summer's  rose. 
Or  flocks,  or  herds,  or  human  face  divine  ; 
But  cloud  instead,  and  ever-during  dark 
Surrounds  me,  from  the  cheerful  ways  of  men 
Cut  off,  and  for  the  book  of  knowledge  fair 
Presented  with  a  universal  blank 
Of  nature's  works  to  me  expunged  and  rased, 
And  wisdom  at  one  entrance  quite  shut  out. 

Milton. 
Paradise  Lost. 

Milton  refers  to  his  blindness  in  this  and  other  passages — as  in  the 
well-knovv'n  sonnet. 


THE  ATTAINMENT 

You  love  ?     That's  high  as  you  shall  go  ; 

For  'tis  as  true  as  Gospel  text, 
Not  noble  then  is  never  so. 

Either  in  this  world  or  the  next. 

Coventry  Patmore. 
The  Angel  in  the  House. 


The  dull,  wearisome  crowd  puts  genius  to  sleep  ;  they 
do  not  corrupt  or  vitiate  it.  But  the  world  !  the  world  ! 
it  makes  us  like  itself :  it  unceasingly  pursues  us  with  its 
sarcasm,  it  penetrates  to  the  heart,  its  unbelief  envelops  us, 
its  frivolity  shrivels  us  up,  it  looks  with  stony  coldness  on 
our  enthusiasm  and  chills  it  to  death,  it  drags  out  our  dreams 
one  by  one  and  scatters  them,  it  despoils  us  of  everything — 
and  when  it  sees  us  wretched  objects  like  itself,  made  in 
its  own  image,  disenchanted,  without  heart,  without  virtue, 
without  belief,  without  passion  and  frozen  with  its  own  icy 
coldness,  then  it  places  us  among  the  elect  and  tells  us 
proudly,  "  You  are  nov/  all  right— you  are  one  of  us." 

Delphine  Corinne  de  Girardin. 
Napoline. 

This  is  quoted  in  Sainte-Beuve's  article  on  Madame  de  Girardin  in 
Causeries  du  Lundi. 


I90  BEDDOES 


LOVE'S  LAST  MESSAGES 

Merry,  merry  little  stream, 

Tell  me,  hast  thou  seen  my  dear  ? 
I  left  him  with  an  azure  dream, 

Calmly  sleeping  on  his  bier — 
But  he  has  fled  ! 

"  I  passed  him  in  his  churchyard  bed — 

A  yew  is  sighing  o'er  his  head, 

And  grass-roots  mingle  with  his  hair." 

What  doth  he  there  ? 
O  cruel,  can  he  lie  alone  ? 
Or  in  the  arms  of  one  more  dear  ? 
Or  hides  he  in  that  bower  of  stone. 

To  cause,  and  kiss  away  my  fear  ? 

"  He  doth  not  speak,  he  doth  not  moan- 
Blind,  motionless,  he  lies  alone  ; 
But,  ere  the  grave-snake  fleshed  his  sting, 
This  one  warm  tear  he  bade  me  bring 

And  lay  it  at  thy  feet 

Among  the  daisies  sweet." 

Moonlight  whisperer,  summer  air. 

Songster  of  the  groves  above. 
Tell  the  maiden  rose  I  wear 

Whether  thou  hast  seen  my  love. 

"  This  night  in  heaven  I  saw  him  lie. 

Discontented  with  his  bliss  ; 

And  on  my  lips  he  left  this  kiss. 
For  thee  to  taste  and  then  to  die." 

T.  L.  Beddoes. 

Beddoes  intended  to  destroy  this  poem,  but  it  was  published  without 
his  knowledge.  This  is  one  of  the  cases  where  artists  have  shown  them- 
selves incapable  critics  of  their  own  work. 


PERCY  AND  OTHERS  191 

King  Stephen  was  a  worthy  peere, 

His  breeches  cost  him  but  a  crowne  ; 
He  held  them  sixpence  all  too  deare 

Therefore  he  called  the  taylor  lowne,         rascal 
He  was  a  wight  of  high  renowne 

And  thouse  but  of  a  low  degree,  thou  art 

It's  pride  that  putts  the  countrye  downe, 

Man,  take  thine  old  cloake  about  thee. 

Percy's  Reliques. 

The  poor  man  wants  a  new  cloak,  but  his  wife  objects. 

The  verse  is  sung  by  lago  {Othello,  Act  II.,  Sc.  3),  the  words  being 
a  little  different. 


Beneath  the  moonlight  and  the  snow 

Lies  dead  my  latest  year  ; 
The  winter  winds  are  wailing  low 

Its  dirges  in  my  ear. 

I  grieve  not  with  the  moaning  wind 

As  if  a  loss  befell ; 
Before  me,  even  as  behind, 
God  is,  and  all  is  well  ! 

J.  G.  Whittier. 
My  Birthday. 


O  earth  so  full  of  dreary  noises  ! 
O  men  with  wailing  in  your  voices  ! 
O  delved  gold,  the  wailers  heap  ! 
O  strife,  O  curse  that  o'er  it  fall  ! 
God  strikes  a  silence  through  you  all 
And  giveth  His  beloved  sleep. 

E.  B.  Browning. 
The  Sleep. 


Geometry,  the  only  Science  that  it  hath  pleased  God 

hitherto  to  bestow  on  mankind.  tt 

Hobbes. 

Leviathan,  1651. 


192  EMERSON— A.  SMITH 

Give  all  to  love  ; 

Obey  thy  heart  ; 

Friends,  kindred,  days. 

Estate,  good-fame. 

Plans,  credit,  and  the  Muse, — 

Nothing  refuse.  .  .  . 

Cling  with  life  to  the  maid  ; 

But  when  the  surprise. 

First  vague  shadow  of  surmise 

Flits  across  her  bosom  young 

Of  a  joy  apart  from  thee. 

Free  be  she,  fancy-free  ; 

Nor  thou  detain  her  vesture's  hem 

Nor  the  palest  rose  she  flung 

From  her  summer  diadem. 

Though  thou  loved  her  as  thyself, 
As  a  self  of  purer  clay, 
Though  her  parting  dims  the  day. 
Stealing  grace  from  all  alive  ; 

Heartily  know, 

When  half-gods  go 

The  gods  arrive.  t-,    ,,.    ^^ 

^  R.  W.  Emerson. 

Give  all  to  Love. 


On  Dreamthorp  centuries  have  fallen,  and  have  left 
no  more  trace  than  have  last  winter's  snowflakes.  This 
commonplace  sequence  and  flowing  on  of  life  is  immeasur- 
ably afi^ecting.  That  winter  morning  when  Charles  lost 
his  head  in  front  of  the  banqueting-hall  of  his  own  palace, 
the  icicles  hung  from  the  eaves  of  the  houses  here,  and  the 
clown  kicked  the  snowballs  from  his  clouted  shoon,  and 
thought  but  of  his  supper  when,  at  three  o'clock,  the  red  sun 
set  in  the  purple  mist.  .  .  .  Battles  have  been  fought, 
kings  have  died,  history  has  transacted  itself ;  but,  all 
unheeding  and  untouched,  Dreamthorp  has  watched 
apple-trees  redden,  and  wheat  ripen,  and  sm_oked  its  pipe, 
and  quaffed  its  mug  of  beer,  and  rejoiced  over  its  newborn 
children,  and  with  proper  solemnity  carried  its  dead  to  the 

churchyard.  .  o 

^  Alexander  Smith. 

Dreamthorp. 


RUSKIN  AND  OTHERS  193 

Quixotism,  or  Utopianism  :  that  is  another  of  the  devil's 
pet  words.  I  beheve  the  quiet  admission  which  we  are  all 
of  us  so  ready  to  make,  that,  because  things  have  long  been 
wrong,  it  is  impossible  they  should  ever  be  right,  is  one  of 
the  most  fatal  sources  of  misery  and  crime  from  which  this 
world  suffers.  Whenever  you  hear  a  man  dissuading  you 
from  attempting  to  do  well,  on  the  ground  that  perfection 
is  "  Utopian,"  beware  of  that  man.  Cast  the  word  out  of 
your  dictionary  altogether. 

John  Ruskin. 
Lectures  on  Architecture  and  Painting. 


O  MOON,  tell  me, 
Is  constant  love  deemed  there  but  want  of  wit  ? 
Are  beauties  there  as  proud  as  here  they  be  } 
Do  they  above  love  to  be  loved,  and  yet 
Those  lovers  scorn,  whom  that  love  doth  possess  ? 
Do  they  call  virtue  there  ungratefulness  } 

Sir  p.  Sidney. 

"  Do  they  call  ungratefulness  a  virtue  ?  " 


Two  angels  guide 
The  path  of  man,  both  aged  and  yet  young, 
As  angels  are,  ripening  through  endless  years. 
On  one  he  leans  :  some  call  her  Memory, 
And  some  Tradition  ;   and  her  voice  is  sweet. 
With  deep  mysterious  accord  :  the  other, 
Floating  above,  holds  down  a  lamp  which  streams 
A  light  divine  and  searching  on  the  earth, 
CompeUing  eyes  and  footsteps.     Memory  yields. 
Yet  clings  with  loving  check,  and  shines  anew 
Reflecting  all  the  rays  of  that  bright  lamp 
Our  angel  Reason  holds.     We  had  not  walked 
But  for  Tradition  ;  we  walk  evermore 
To  higher  paths,  by  brightening  Reason's  lamp. 

George  Eliot. 
Spanish  Gypsy. 

"  Tradition  "  is  reIi<?ion. 


194  LAMB  AND  OTHERS 

Coleridge,  I  have  not  one  truly  elevated  character 
among  my  acquaintance  :  not  one  Christian  :  not  one  but 
undervalues  Christianity — singly,  what  am  I  to  do  ?  Wesley 
(have  you  read  his  life  ?)  was  he  not  an  elevated  character  ? 
Wesley  has  said  "  Religion  is  not  a  solitary  thing."  Alas  ! 
it  necessarily  is  so  with  me,  or  next  to  solitary. 

Charles  Lamb. 
Letter  to  Coleridge,  Jan.  lo,  1797. 

Poor  lovable  Charles  Lamb  !  When  he  wrote  this  he  was  only 
twenty-one  years  of  age,  he  had  already  been  himself  confined  in  an 
asylum,  and  now  his  sister  in  a  moment  of  madness  had  killed  her  mother. 
When  afterwards  he  was  allowed  to  take  care  of  Mary,  he  had  still  to 
take  her  back  to  the  asylum  from  time  to  time,  as  a  fresh  attack  of  mania 
began  to  m.anifest  itself.  The  picture  of  the  weeping  brother  and  sister 
hand-in-hand  on  their  way  to  the  asylum  is  dreadfully  sad.  The 
passage  seems  interesting  because  of  Lamb's  reference  to  Wesley. 


If  on  my  theme  I  rightly  think. 
There  are  five  reasons  why  men  drink  : — 
Good  wine  ;   a  friend  ;  or  being  dry  ; 
Or  lest  we  should  be  by  and  by  ; 
Or — any  other  reason  why. 

Henry  Aldrich. 

Autres  temps,  autres  mceurs  !     Aldrich  was  Dean  of  Christ  Church, 
Oxford,  when  he  wrote  these  lines. 


INSCRIPTION  FOR  A  BUST  OF  CUPID 

Qui  que  tu  sois,  voici  ton  maitre  ; 
II  Test,  le  fut,  ou  le  doit  etre. 

(Whatso'er  thou  art,  thy  master  see  ! 
He  was,  or  is,  or  is  to  be.) 

Voltaire. 


A  PEBBLE  in  the  streamlet  scant 

Has  turned  the  course  of  many  a  river, 

A  dewdrop  in  the  baby  plant 

Has  warped  the  giant  oak  for  ever. 

Author  not  traced. 


C.  ROSSETTI  AND  OTHERS  195 


UP-HILL 

Does  the  road  wind  up-hill  all  the  way  ? 

Yes,  to  the  very  end. 
Will  the  day's  journey  take  the  whole  long  day  ? 

From  morn  to  night,  my  friend. 

But  is  there  for  the  night  a  resting-place  ? 

A  roof  for  when  the  slow  dark  hours  begin. 
May  not  the  darkness  hide  it  from  my  face  ? 

You  cannot  miss  that  inn. 

Shall  I  meet  other  wayfarers  at  night  ? 

Those  who  have  gone  before. 
Then  must  I  knock,  or  call  when  just  in  sight  ? 

They  will  not  keep  you  standing  at  that  door. 

Shall  I  find  comfort,  travel-sore  and  weak  ? 

Of  labour  you  shall  find  the  sum. 
Will  there  be  beds  for  me  and  all  who  seek  ? 

Yea,  beds  for  all  who  come. 

Christina  Rossetti. 

"  The  sum,"  the  "  summit,"  completion  or  end. 


"  Beauty  is  truth,  truth  beauty," — that  is  all 
Ye  know  on  earth,  and  all  ye  need  to  know  ! 

Keats. 
Ode  on  a  Grecian  Urn. 

Matthew  Arnold  says  of  this  :  "  No,  it  is  not  all  ;  but  it  is  true, 
deeply  true,  and  we  have  deep  need  to  know  it.  .  .  .  To  see  things  in 
their  beauty  is  to  see  things  in  their  truth,  and  Keats  knew  it.  '  What 
the  Imagination  seizes  on  as  Beauty  must  be  Truth,'  he  says  in  prose." 


Aux  coeurs  blesses — I'ombre  et  le  silence. 
(For  the  wounded  heart — shade  and  silence.) 

Balzac. 
Le  Medecin  de  Campagne. 


196  HOLMES— PAYNE 

But  now  he  walks  the  streets, 
And  he  looks  at  all  he  meets 

Sad  and  wan, 
And  he  shakes  his  feeble  head, 
That  it  seems  as  if  he  said, 

"  They  are  gone." 


The  mossy  marbles  rest 
On  the  lips  that  he  has  prest 

In  their  bloom, 
And  the  names  he  loved  to  hear 
Have  been  carved  for  many  a  year 

On  the  tomb. 

My  grandmamma  has  said — 
Poor  old  lady,  she  is  dead 

Long  ago,— 
That  he  had  a  Roman  nose, 
And  his  cheek  was  like  a  rose 

In  the  snow. 

But  now  his  nose  is  thin. 
And  it  rests  upon  his  chin 

Like  a  staff. 
And  a  crook  is  in  his  back. 
And  a  melancholy  crack 

In  his  laugh.  .  .  . 

O.  W.  Holmes. 
The  Last  Leaf. 


Were  it  not  sadder,  in  the  years  to  com.e, 
To  feel  the  hand-clasp  slacken  for  long  use, 
The  untuned  heart-strings  for  long  stress  refuse 

To  yield  old  harmonies,  the  songs  grow  dumb 
For  weariness,  and  all  the  old  spells  lose 

The  first  enchantment  ?     Yet  this  they  must  be  : 

Love  is  but  mortal,  save  in  memory. 

John  Payne. 
A  Farewell. 


KNIGHT  197 

The  huge  mass  of  black  crags  that  towered  at  the  head  of 
the  gloomy  defile  was  exactly  what  one  would  picture  as 
the  enchanted  castle  of  the  evil  magician,  within  sight  of 
which  all  vegetation  withered,  looking  from  over  the  desolate 
valley  of  ruins  to  the  barren  shore  strewed  with  its  sad 
wreckage,  and  the  wild  ocean  beyond.  .  ,  . 

The  land-crabs  certainly  looked  their  part  of  goblin 
guardians  of  the  approaches  to  the  wicked  magician's 
fastness.  They  were  fearful  as  the  firelight  fell  on  their 
yellow  cynical  faces,  fixed  as  that  of  the  sphinx,  but  fixed 
in  a  horrid  grin.  Those  who  have  observed  this  foulest 
species  of  crab  will  know  my  meaning.  Smelling  the  fish 
we  were  cooking  they  came  down  the  mountains  in  thousands 
upon  us.  We  threw  them  lumps  of  fish,  which  they 
devoured  with  crab-like  slowness,  yet  perseverance. 

It  is  a  ghastly  sight,  a  land-crab  at  his  dinner.  A  huge 
beast  was  standing  a  yard  from  me  ;  I  gave  him  a  portion 
of  fish,  and  watched  him.  He  looked  at  me  straight  in 
the  face  with  his  outstarting  eyes,  and  proceeded  with  his 
two  front  claws  to  tear  up  his  food,  bringing  bits  of  it  to 
his  mouth  with  one  claw,  as  with  a  fork.  But  ail  this  while 
he  never  looked  at  what  he  was  doing  ;  his  face  was  fixed 
in  one  position,  staring  at  me.  And  when  I  looked  around, 
lo !  there  were  half-a-dozen  others  all  steadily  feeding, 
but  with  immovable  heads  turned  to  me  with  that  fixed 
basilisk  stare.  It  was  indeed  horrible,  and  the  effect  was 
nightmarish  in  the  extreme.  While  we  slept  that  night 
they  attacked  us,  and  would  certainly  have  devoured  us, 
had  we  not  awoke  ;  and  did  eat  holes  in  our  clothes.  One 
of  us  had  to  keep  watch,  so  as  to  drive  them  from  the  other 
two,  otherwise  we  should  have  had  no  sleep. 

Imagine  a  sailor  cast  alone  on  this  coast,  weary,  yet 
unable  to  sleep  a  moment  on  account  of  these  ferocious 
creatures.  After  a  few  days  of  an  existence  full  of  horror 
he  would  die  raving  mad,  and  then  be  consumed  in  an  hour 
by  his  foes.  In  all  Dante's  Inferno  there  is  no  more  horrible 
a  suggestion  of  punishment  than  this. 

E.  F.  Knight. 
The  Cruise  of  the  "  Falcon." 

The  scene  is  in  the  Island  of  Trinidad,  off  the  coast  oc  Brazil — one 
of  the  many  islands  so  named. 


198  DE  STAEL  AND  OTHERS 


LOVE 


Get  egoisme  a  deux. 

De  Stael. 


It  is  the  torment  of  one,  the  fehcity  of  two,  the  strife 
and  enmity  of  three. 

Washington  Irving. 


.  .  .  Nor  the  end  of  love  is  sure, 
(Alas  !   how  much  less  sure  than  anything  !) 

Whether  the  little  love-light  shall  endure 
In  the  clear  eyes  of  her  we  loved  in  Spring, 
Or  if  the  faint  flowers  of  remembering 

Shall  blow,  we  know  not  :   only  this  we  know, — 
Afar  Death  comes  with  silent  steps  and  slow. 

John  Payne. 
Salvestra. 


The  stars  of  midnight  shall  be  dear 

To  her  ;  and  she  shall  lean  her  ear 

In  many  a  secret  place 

Where  rivulets  dance  their  wayward  round, 

And  beauty  born  of  murmuring  sound 

Shall  pass  into  her  face. 

Wordsworth. 
Three  Years  She  Grew. 


Alas  !   the  long  gray  years  have  vanquished  me. 

The  shadow  of  the  inexorable  days  ! 
I  am  grown  sad  and  silent  :   for  the  sea 

Of  Time  has  swallowed  all  my  pleasant  ways. 
I  am  grown  weary  of  the  years  that  flee 
And  bring  no  light  to  set  my  bound  hope  free, 

No  sun  to  fill  the  promise  of  old  Mays. 

Author  not  traced. 


RUSKIN— JAMES  199 

As  the  art  of  life  is  learned,  it  will  be  found  at  last  that 

all  lovely  things  are  also  necessary  :   the  wild  flower  by  the 

wayside,  as  well  as  the  tended  corn  ;    and  the  wild  birds 

and  creatures  of  the  forest,  as  well  as  the  tended  cattle  : 

because  man  doth  not  live  by  bread  alone,  but  also  by  the 

desert  manna  ;    by  every  wondrous  word  and  unknowable 

work  of  God.  t  t» 

John  Ruskin. 


I  CONFESS  that  I  do  not  see  why  the  very  existence  of  an 
invisible  world  may  not  in  part  depend  on  the  personal 
response  which  any  one  of  us  may  make  to  the  religious 
appeal.  God  himself,  in  short,  may  draw  vital  strength 
and  increase  of  very  being  from  our  fidelity.  For  my  own 
part,  I  do  not  know  what  the  sweat  and  blood  and  tragedy 
of  this  life  mean,  if  they  mean  anything  short  of  this.  If 
this  life  be  not  a  real  fight,  in  which  something  is  eternally 
gained  for  the  universe  by  success,  it  is  no  better  than  a  game 
of  private  theatricals  from  which  one  may  withdraw  at  will. 
But  it  feels  like  a  real  fight, — as  if  there  were  something 
really  wild  in  the  universe  which  we,  with  all  our  idealities 
and  faithfulnesses,  are  needed  to  redeem  ;  and  first  of  all 
to  redeem  our  own  hearts  from  atheisms  and  fears.  For 
such  a  half- wild,  half-saved  universe  our  nature  is  adapted. 
The  deepest  thing  in  our  nature  is  this  dumb  region  of  the 
heart  in  which  we  dwell  alone  with  our  willingnesses  and 
unwillingnesses,  our  faiths  and  fears.  ...  In  these  depths 
of  personality  the  sources  of  all  our  outer  deeds  and  decisions 
take  their  rise.  Here  is  our  deepest  organ  of  communication 
with  the  nature  of  things  ;  and  compared  with  these  con- 
crete movemxcnts  of  our  soul  all  abstract  statements  and 
scientific  arguments — the  veto,  for  example,  which  the 
strict  positivist  pronounces  upon  our  faith — sound  to  us 
like  mere  chatterings  of  the  teeth. 

William  James. 
Is  Life  Worth  Living  ? 

(Mr.  T.  R.  Glover  in  The  Jesus  of  History  points  out  that  when  Christ 
said,  "  Ye  are  they  that  have  continued  with  me  in  my  temptations," 
Luke  xxii.  26,  He  meant  that  the  disciples  had  helped  Him  by  their 
fidelity.) 

The  following  is  from  Professor  Hobhouse's  Questions  of  War  and 
Peace,  repeating  what  he  had  set  out  at  length  in  his  Development  and 
Purpose  : 

"  I  think,  therefore,  that  we  must  go  back  into  ourselves  for  faith,  and 


200  HOBHOUSE  AND  OTHERS 

away  from  ourselves  into  the  world  for  reason.  The  deeper  we  go  into 
ourselves  the  more  we  throw  off  forms  and  find  the  assurance  not  only 
that  the  great  things  exist,  but  that  they  are  the  heart  of  our  lives,  and, 
since  after  all  we  are  of  one  stock,  they  must  be  at  the  heart  of  your  lives 
as  well  as  mine.  You  say  there  are  bad  men  and  wars  and  cruelties  and 
wrong,  I  say  ail  these  are  the  collision  of  undeveloped  forms.  What  is 
the  German  suffering  from  but  a  great  illusion  that  the  State  is  something 
more  than  man,  and  that  power  is  more  than  justice  ?  Strip  him  of  this 
and  he  is  a  man  like  yourself,  pouring  out  his  blood  for  the  cause  that  he 
loves,  and  that  you  and  I  detest.  Probe  inwards,  then,  and  you  find  the 
same  spring  of  life  everyw'here  and  it  is  good.  Look  outwards,  and  you 
find,  as  you  yourself  admit,  the  slow  movement  towards  a  harmony — 
which  just  means  that  these  impulses  of  primeval  energy  come,  so  to 
say,  to  understand  one  another.  Every  form  they  take  as  they  grow 
will  provoke  conflict,  perish,  and  be  cast  aside  until  the  whole  unites, 
and  there  you  have  the  secret  of  your  successive  eflforts  and  failures 
which  yet  leave  something  behind  them.  God  is  not  the  creator  who 
made  the  world  in  six  days,  rested  on  the  seventh  and  saw  that  it  was 
good.     He  is  growing  in  the  actual  evolution  of  the  world." 


And  since  [man]  cannot  spend  and  use  aright 

The  Httle  time  here  given  him  in  trust, 
But  wasteth  it  in  weary  undelight 

Of  foohsh  toil  and  trouble,  strife  and  lust, 
He  naturally  claimeth  to  inherit 
The  everlasting  Future,  that  his  merit 

May  have  full  scope  ;  as  surely  is  most  just. 

James  Thomson  ("  B.V."). 
The  City  of  Dreadful  Night. 


Dead  years  have  yet  the  fire  of  life 

In  Memory's  holy  urn  ; 
Her  altars,  heaped  with  frankincense 

Of  bygone  summers,  burn  ; 
And,  when  in  everlasting  night 

We  see  yon  sun  decline. 
Deep  in  the  soul  his  purple  flames 

Eternally  will  shine. 

Albert  Joseph  Edmunds. 
The  Living  Past. 


Some  things  are  of  that  Nature  as  to  make  One's  fancy 
checkle,  while  his  Heart  doth  ake.  ^^^^  Bunyan. 

Checkle  =  chuckle. 


BLAKE  AND  OTHERS  201 

With  sweet  May  dews  my  wings  were  wet, 

And  Phoebus  fired  my  vocal  rage  : 
Love  caught  me  in  his  silken  net, 

And  shut  me  in  his  golden  cage. 

He  loves  to  sit  and  hear  me  sing. 

Then,  laughing,  sports  and  plays  with  me  ; 
Then  stretches  out  my  golden  wing. 
And  mocks  my  loss  of  liberty. 

William  Blake. 
Song. 

This  poem  was  written  before  Blake  v^^ls  fourteen  years  of  age. 

This  and  the  four  following  quotations  and  others  through  the  book 
are  word-pictures. 


When  the  fight  was  done, 
When  I  was  dry  with  rage  and  extreme  toil, 
Breathless  and  faint,  leaning  upon  my  sword, 
Came  there  a  certain  lord,  neat,  trimly  dressed. 
Fresh  as  a  bridegroom.  .  .  . 
He  was  perfumed  like  a  milliner  ; 
And  'twixt  his  finger  and  his  thumb  he  held 
A  pouncet-box.     And  still  he  smiled  and  talked  ; 
And  as  the  soldiers  bore  dead  bodies  by. 
He  called  them  untaught  knaves,  unmannerly. 
To  bring  a  slovenly  unhandsome  corse 
Betwixt  the  wind  and  his  nobility. 

Shakespeare. 
I  Henry  IV.,  I.  iii. 


As.  I  came  through  the  desert  thus  it  was. 
As  I  came  through  the  desert  :   Eyes  of  fire 
Glared  at  me  throbbing  with  a  starved  desire  ; 
The  hoarse  and  heavy  and  carnivorous  breath 
Was  hot  upon  me  from  deep  jaws  of  death  ; 
Sharp  claws,  swift  talons,  fleshless  fingers  cold 
Plucked  at  me  from  the  bushes,  tried  to  hold  : 

But  I  strode  on  austere  ; 

No  hope  could  have  no  fear. 

James  Thomson  ("  B.V."). 
The  City  of  Dreadful  Night. 


202  CLOUGH— WILLIAMSON 

High-kilted  perhaps,  as  once  at  Dundee  I  saw  them, 
Petticoats  up  to  the  knees,  or  even,  it  might  be,  above  them 
Matching  their  hly-white  legs  with  the  clothes  that  they 
trod  in  the  wash-tub  ! 


In  a  blue  cotton  print  tucked  up  over  striped  linsey-woolsey. 
Barefoot,  barelegged  he  beheld  her,  with  arms  bare  up  to 

the  elbows, 
Bending   with   fork   in   her   hand   in   a   garden   uprooting 

potatoes  ! 

A.  H.  Clough. 

The  Bothie  of  Toher-na-Vuolich. 


SHE  COMES  AS  COMES  THE  SUMMER  NIGHT 

She  comes  as  comes  the  summer  night, 

Violet,  perfumed,  clad  with  stars, 
To  heal  the  eyes  hurt  by  the  light 

Flung  by  Day's  brandish'd  scimitars. 
The  parted  crimson  of  her  lips 

Like  sunset  clouds  that  slowly  die 
When  twilight  with  cool  finger-tips 

Unbraids  her  tresses  in  the  sky. 

The  melody  of  waterfalls 

Is  in  the  music  of  her  tongue, 
Low  chanted  in  dim  forest  halls 

Ere  Dawn's  loud  bugle-call  has  rung. 
And  as  a  bird  with  hovering  wings 

Halts  o'er  her  young  one  in  the  nest. 
Then  droops  to  still  his  flutterings. 

She  takes  me  to  her  fragrant  breast. 

O  star  and  bird  at  once  thou  art. 

And  Night,  witli  purple-petall'd  charm, 
Shining  and  singing  to  my  heart. 

And  soothing  with  a  dewy  calm. 
Let  Death  assume  this  lovely  guise, 

So  darkly  beautiful  and  sweet. 
And,  gazing  with  those  starry  eyes. 

Lead  far  away  my  weary  feet ; 


WILLIAMSON  AND  OTHERS  203 

And  that  strange  sense  of  valleys  fair 

With  birds  and  rivers  making  song 
To  lull  the  blossoms  gleaming  there, 

Be  with  me  as  I  pass  along. 
Ah  !   lovely  sisters,  Night  and  Death, 

And  lovelier  Woman — wondrous  three, 
"  Givers  of  Life,"  my  spirit  saith, 

Unfolders  of  the  mystery. 

Ah  !   only  Love  could  teach  me  this. 

In  memoried  springtime  long  since  flown  ; 
Red  lips  that  trembled  to  my  kiss. 

That  sighed  farewell,  and  left  me  lone. 
O  Joy  and  Sorrow  intertwined, — ■ 

A  kiss,  a  sigh,  and  blinding  tears, — 
Yet  ever  after  in  the  wind, 

The  bird-like  music  of  the  spheres  ! 

Frank  S.  Williamson. 

This  is  from  the  author's  Purple  and  Gold,  a  book  of  poems  pub- 
lished in  Melbourne  (Thomas  C.  Lothian,  publisher). 


'Tis  a  very  good  world  to  live  in. 

To  spend,  and  to  lend,  and  to  give  in  ; 

But  to  beg,  or  to  borrow,  or  ask  for  our  own 

'Tis  the  very  worst  world  that  ever  was  known. 

J.  Bromfield. 

Often  ascribed  to  the  Earl  of  Rochester.     See  Notes  and  Queries, 
July  18,  1896. 


Cato  said  "  he  had  rather  people  should  inquire  why  he 
had  not  a  statue  erected  to  his  memory,  than  why  he  had." 

Plutarch. 
Political  Precepts. 


No  indulgence  of  passion  destroys  the  spiritual  nature 
so  much  as  respectable  selfishness. 

George  MacDonald. 
Robert  Falconer. 


204  BROWN— NOVALIS 

WHEN  LOVE  MEETS  LOVE 

When  love  meets  love,  breast  urged  to  breast, 

God  interposes, 
An  unacknowledged  guest. 

And  leaves  a  little  child  among  our  roses. 

O,  gentle  hap  ! 

O,  sacred  lap  ! 

O,  brooding  dove  ! 

But  when  he  grows 

Himself  to  be  a  rose, 

God  takes  him— Where  is  then  our  love  ? 

O,  where  is  all  our  love  ? 

T.  E.  Brown. 


BETWEEN  OUR  FOLDING  LIPS 

Between  our  folding  lips 

God  slips 

An  embryon  life,  and  goes  ; 

And  this  becomes  your  rose. 

We  love,  God  makes  :  in  our  sweet  mirth 

God  spies  occasion  for  a  birth. 

Then  is  it  His,  or  is  it  ours  ? 

I  know  not — He  is  fond  of  flowers. 

T.  E.  Brown. 

Compare  the  well-known  lines  by  George  MacDonald  : 
Where  did  you  come  from,  baby  dear  ? 

God  thought  about  me,  and  so  I  grew. 

The   suggestion  that  we  are  the  result  of  God's  thought  appears 
elsewhere  in  MacDonald,  as  in  Robert  Falconer  : 

If  God  were  thinking  me — ah  !     But  if  He  be  only  dreaming 
me,  I  shall  go  mad. 

And  in  The  Marquis  of  Lassie  : 

I  want  to  help  you  to  grow  as  beautiful  as  God  meant  you  to  be 
when  He  thought  of  you  first. 


Love  is  the  Amen  of  the  Universe. 

NOVALIS. 


EDMUNDS  AND  OTHERS  205 

SPIRITUALISM 

Only  a  rising  billow, 

Only  a  deep  sigh  drawn 
By  the  great  sea  of  chaos 

Before  Creation's  dawn. 

Only  a  little  princess 

Spelling  the  words  of  kings  ; 

Only  the  Godhead's  prattle 
In  Sinai  mutterings  ! 

The  crowd  mistakes  and  fears  it, 

And  Aaron  has  ignored. 
But  Moses,  far  above  them. 

Is  talking  with  the  Lord  ! 

Albert  Joseph  Edmunds. 

Although  I  preserved  these  verses  (which  were  written  in  1883),  I 
had  no  interest  whatever  in  spiritualism,  permeated  as  it  was  with  childish- 
ness and  fraud.  But,  nevertheless,  it  (together  with  the  so-called 
"  Theosophy  ")  led  to  the  happy  result  that  the  Society  for  Psychical 
Research  was  founded  in  1882.  Although  spiritualism  did  good  in 
this  way,  its  unhappy  associations  do  harm  to  the  Society  and  hamper 
it  in  the  important  work  it  has  carried  on  during  the  last  forty  years. 
Popular  prejudice  continues  to  associate  it  with  the  old  spiritualism, 
and  in  consequence  no  proper  attention  is  paid  to  its  intensely  interesting 
and  most  valuable  investigations.     See  pp.  382-3. 


He  had  catched  a  great  cold,  had  he  had  no  other  clothes 
to  wear  than  the  skin  of  a  bear  not  yet  killed. 

Thomas  Fuller. 

This  refers  to  the  French  proverb,  "  //  we  faut  pas  vendre  la  peau  de 
I'ours  avant  de  V avoir  tui"  "  Until  you  have  killed  the  bear  don't  sell 
its  skin,"  or,  as  we  say,  "  Do  not  count  your  chickens  before  they  are 
hatched." 


Underneath  this  stone  doth  lie 
As  much  beauty  as  could  die  ; 
Which  in  life  did  harbour  give 
To  more  virtue  than  doth  live. 

Ben  Jonson. 

As  Dr.  Johnson  said  :    "In  lapidary  inscriptions  a  man  is  not  upon 
oath." 


2o6  SEELEY 

Habit  dulls  the  senses  and  puts  the  critical  faculty  to 
sleep.  The  fierceness  and  hardness  of  ancient  manners  is 
apparent  to  us,  but  the  ancients  themselves  v/ere  not  shocked 
by  sights  which  were  familiar  to  them.  To  us  it  is  sickening 
to  think  of  the  gladiatorial  show,  of  the  massacres  common 
in  Roman  warfare,  of  the  infanticide  practised  by  grave 
and  respectable  citizens,  who  did  not  merely  condemn  their 
children  to  death,  but  often  in  practice,  as  they  well  knew, 
to  what  was  still  worse — a  life  of  prostitution  and  beggary. 
The  Roman  regarded  a  gladiatorial  show  as  we  regard  a 
hunt  ;  the  news  of  the  slaughter  of  two  hundred  thousand 
Helvetians  by  Caesar  or  half  a  million  Jews  by  Titus  excited 
in  his  mind  a  thrill  of  triumph  ;  infanticide  committed 
by  a  friend  appeared  to  him  a  prudent  measure  of  household 

^^^^^^y-  Sir  J.  R.  Seeley. 

It  is  still  more  important  to  realize  that  the  exposure  of  children  was 
a  recognized  practice  also  among  the  Greeks,  and  that  no  one,  not  even 
Plato,  their  noblest  philosopher,  saw  anything  wrong  in  it.  It  is  onl}' 
by  letting  the  mind  dwell  on  such  facts  as  these,  until  their  significance 
is  fully  appreciated,  that  we  can  realize  the  width  and  depth  of  the  great 
gulf  that  separates  the  Pagan  and  the  Christian,  the  ancient  and  the 
modern  world.  Take  this  one  fact  only  :  imagine  the  Greek  father 
looking  at  his  helpless  babe  and  coldly  deciding  that  to  rear  it  will  be 
inconvenient,*  or  that  there  are  already  enough  children  to  divide  the 
inheritance,  or  that  the  child  is  sickly  or  deformed,  or  that  its  person 
offends  his  idea  of  beauty — and  then  consigning  his  own  offspring  to 
slavery,  prostitution,  or  death  !  (The  child  would  either  die  or  be 
picked  up  to  be  reared  for  some  such  purpose.)  Even  in  the  very  im- 
perfect state  of  our  own  civilization,  we  at  least  have  children's  hospitals 
and  crfeches,  and  are  inflamed  with  righteous  rage  when  even  an  utiknozcm 
baby  is  ill-treated.  We,  indeed,  go  further,  and  have  laws  and  societies 
for  prevention  of  cruelty  to  animals. 

The  consideration  of  such  a  fact  leads  us  also  to  inquire  as  to  the 
relations  of  husband  and  wife,  seeing  that  the  woman  would  have  at  least 
the  affection  for  her  offspring  that  is  common  among  the  lower  animals. 
We  then  find  that  the  modern  chivalrous  idea  of  womanhood  was  un- 
known to  the  Greeks  ;  the  wife  was  not  educated,  and  was  considered 
an  inferior  being  ;  she  was  married  mainly  in  order  to  provide  sons  to 
carry  out  certain  ritual  observances  necessary  for  the  father's  welfare 
after  death  ;  she  was  kept  in  an  almost  Eastern  seclusion  (and  therefore 
had  to  improve  her  pallid  complexion  by  paint)  ;  she  would  associate 
mainly  with  the  children  and  slaves.  We  also  find  that  fidelity  of  the 
husband  to  the  wife  was  neither  required  nor  esteemed  ;  and  that  there 
was  little  marital  love  or  family  life.  (Plato  in  his  model  Republic 
would  abolish  both  the  latter,  for  there  was  to  be  promiscuity  of  women, 
and  all  children  were  to  be  brought  up  by  the  State.) 

Considering  further  this  practice  of  exposing  children,  we  realize 
that  it  indicates  the  want  of  pity  for  the  helpless  and  suffering,  which  is 

*  No  doubt  one  reason  would  be  that  given  by  the  Australian  black  woman  for  leaving  her 
baby  in  the  bush,  "  him  too  much  cry."  The  Greeks  had  numerous  slaves,  and  were  fond  of 
comfort ;  and  their  houses  were,  of  course,  small  and  cramped  compared  with  our  own. 


SEELEY— PAINE  207 

seen  among  the  lower  animals  (but  with  exceptions  even  among  them). 
From  this  we  may  reasonably  infer  that  the  Greeks  would  show  little 
humanity  in  treating  other  helpless  or  suffering  people,  the  sick  or 
distressed,  dependents  or  slaves,  conquered  enemies  or  others  in  their 
power.  (In  this  respect,  however,  they,  as  an  intellectual  people,  would 
subject  themselves  to  and  be  controlled  by  necessary  social  laws  and 
practical  considerations  ;  and  also,  as  a  fact,  they  at  times  showed 
generosity  to  a  valiant  foe.)  Again  we  can  infer  that,  where  even  the 
spirit  of  mercy  was  so  wanting,  the  gospel  of  love  could  not  possibly 
exist,  and  that  the  Greeks  lived  on  a  far  lower  moral  plane  than  ours. 

But,  even  from  this  very  small  portion  of  the  available  evidence,  we 
can  arrive  at  three  resulting  facts  :  First,  that  when  in  translations  from 
the  Greek  we  find  such  words  as  "  kindness,"  "  love,"  "  morality," 
"  purity,"  "  virtue,"  "  religion,"  etc.,  they  have  for  us  a  far  larger  and 
higher  content  than  the  Greek  words  in  the  original  ;  secondly,  that 
therefore  the  reader  must  get  incorrect  impressions  of  Greek  literature 
and  thought  ;  and,  thirdly,  that  truly  marvellous  as  the  Greeks  were  in 
art  and  literature,  the  current  conception  of  them  as  a  noble-minded 
and  refined  people  is  erroneous. 


In  referring  to  the  Greeks,  one  needs  to  limit  the  people  and  period, 
and  I  am  referring  to  the  great  age  of  the  Attic  or  Athenian  Greeks,  say 
the  Fifth  Century,  B.C.  There  would,  of  course,  be  gradations  of 
character  among  them,  and,  no  doubt,  some  would  be  kind-hearted, 
others  would  have  affection  for  their  wives,  and  so  on.  But  this  can 
only  be  assumption,  for  there  is  little  in  their  literature  to  support  it. 
This  will  be  seen  if  the  evidence  adduced  by  Mr.  Livingstone  {The 
Greek  Genius,  pp.  1 17-122)  is  carefully  and  critically  examined.  His 
references  to  Homer,  who  lived  in  a  far  distant  age,  must  be  omitted. 
Also  the  fact  that  Herodotus,  in  the  course  of  his  narrative,  tells  us 
that  some  men  of  another  state  had  a  moment  of  compassion  for  a  baby 
whom  they  were  about  to  slay,  does  not  prove  in  the  slightest  degree 
that  he  was  himself  humane.  The  wording  of  Mr.  Livingstone's  trans- 
lation, p.  118,  "  It  happened  by  a  divine  chance  that  the  baby  smiled, 
etc.,"  would  appear  to  confirm  this  view  of  his  ;  but  the  Greek  words 
simply  mean  that  a  god  by  chance  intervened.  Knowing  what  we  do 
of  the  Greek  gods,  that  intervention  would  certainly  not  be  actuated  by 
any  kindly  feeling  towards  the  infant — the  object  presumably  was  that 
the  child  should  live  to  fulfil  the  destiny  prophesied  by  the  Delphic 
Oracle.  (Herodotus  was  a  typical  Greek  to  whom  the  world  was  peopled 
with  gods,  and  he  sees  them  constantly  interposing  in  human  affairs.) 
As  regards  the  exposure  of  children,  the  point  is  that  it  was  a  recognized 
and  common  practice,  duly  sanctioned  by  lazv,  and  never  condemned  by  any 
loriter.  Indeed  Plato  and  Aristotle  definitely  approve  of  it,  and  in  Plato's 
Ideal  Republic  the  weakly  and  deformed  children  were  to  be  killed  by 
the  State. 

As  regards  the  current  conception  of  the  Greeks,  Shelley  in  his 
Preface  to  "  Hellas  "  describes  them  as  "  those  glorious  beings  whom 
the  imagination  almost  refuses  to  figure  to  itself  as  belonging  to  our 
kind."  Similar  statements  could  be  gathered  from  innumerable  English 
and  European  writers. 


Reputation   is   what   men   and   women   think   of   us 
Character  is  what  God  and  the  angels  know  of  us. 

Thomas  Paine. 


2o8  BACON  AND  OTHERS 

He  that  dies  in  an  earnest  pursuit  is  like  one  that  is 
wounded  in  hot  blood,  who  for  the  time  scarce  feels  the 
hurt ;  and  therefore  a  mind,  fixed  and  bent  upon  somewhat 
that  is  good,  doth  best  avert  the  dolours  of  death. 

Bacon. 


"  En  Angleterre,"  said  a  cynical  Dutch  diplomatist, 
"  numero  deux  va  chez  numero  un,  pour  s'en  glorifier 
aupres  de  numero  trois." 

(In  England,  Number  Two  goes  to  visit  Number  One  in  order  to 
boast  about  it  to  Number  Three.) 

Laurence  Oliphant. 


INDWELLING 

If  thou  couldst  empty  all  thyself  of  self, 

Like  to  a  shell  dishabited, 

Then  might  He  find  thee  on  the  Ocean  shelf, 

And  say,  "  This  is  not  dead," 

And  fill  thee  with  Himself  instead  : 

But  thou  art  all  replete  with  very  thou, 

And  hast  such  shrewd  activity. 

That,  when  He  comes,  He  says,  "  This  is  enow 

Unto  itself — 'Twere  better  let  it  be  : 

It  is  so  small  and  full,  there  is  no  room  for  Me." 

T.  E.  Brown. 


Oh  !   ever  thus  from  childhood's  hour, 

I've  seen  my  fondest  hopes  decay  ; 
I  never  loved  a  tree  or  flower. 

But  'twas  the  first  to  fade  away. 
I  never  nursed  a  dear  gazelle 

To  glad  me  with  its  soft  black  eye, 
But  when  it  came  to  know  me  well. 

And  love  me,  it  was  sure  to  die  ! 

Thomas  Moore. 
Lalla  Rookh. 

As  in  other  cases  mentioned  in  the  Preface,  I  find  that  these  lines,  so 
familiar  in  my  day,  appear  to  be  unknown  to  younger  men. 


LOCKE— MILTON  209 

Our  ideas,  like  the  children  of  our  youth,  often  die  before 

us,  and  our  minds  represent  to  us  those  tombs  to  which 

we  are  fast  approaching — where,  though  the  brass  and  marble 

may  remain,  the  inscriptions  are  effaced  by  time  and  the 

imagery  moulders  away.  ,  -^ 

^    -^  ■'  John  Locke. 

What  makes  such  a  passage  attractive  is  its  use  of  poetic  imagery  ; 
and  yet  Locke  had  no  regard  for  poetry.     See  next  quotation. 


If  these  may  be  any  reasons  against  children's  making 
Latin  themes  at  school,  I  have  much  more  to  say,  and  of 
more  weight,  against  their  making  verses — verses  of  any 
sort.  For  if  he  has  no  genius  to  Poetry,  'tis  the  most  un- 
reasonable thing  in  the  world  to  torment  a  child  and  waste 
his  time  about  that  which  can  never  succeed  ;  and  if  he 
have  a  poetic  vein,  'tis  to  me  the  strangest  thing  in  the  world 
that  the  father  should  desire  or  suffer  it  to  be  cherished 
or  improved.  Methinks  the  parents  should  labour  to  have 
it  stifled  and  suppressed  as  much  as  may  be  ;  and  I  know 
not  what  reason  a  father  can  have  to  wish  his  son  a  poet, 
who  does  not  desire  to  have  him  bid  defiance  to  all  other 
callings  and  business.  .  .  .  For  it  is  very  seldom  seen  that 
any  one  discovers  mines  of  gold  or  silver  in  Parnassus.  .  .  . 
Poetry  and  Gaming  usually  go  together.  ...  If,  therefore, 
you  would  not  have  your  son  the  fiddle  to  every  jovial 
company,  without  whom  the  Sparks  could  not  relish  their 
wine,  nor  know  how  to  pass  an  afternoon  idly  ;  if  you 
would  not  have  him  to  waste  his  time  and  estate  to  divert 
others,  and  contemn  the  dirty  acres  left  him  by  his  ancestors, 
I  do  not  think  you  will  very  much  care  he  should  be  a  Poet. 

John  Locke. 
Some  Thoughts  Concerning  Education,  1693. 

Locke  was  writing  during  the  dreary  Dryden  period,  when  poetry 
had  so  greatly  degenerated  since  the  brilliant  Elizabethan  epoch.  He 
himself  evidently  had  no  interest  in  poetry.  We  know  that  he  did  not 
appreciate  Milton  (whose  Paradise  Lost  appeared  in  1667,  when  Locke 
was  in  his  prime). 

See  also  as  to  the  Elizabethan  period,  p.  399. 

Smiles  from  reason  flow 
To  brute  denied,  and  are  of  love  the  food. 

Milton. 
Paradise  Lost,  IX.  239. 
p 


2 1  o  BENTH  AM— M  AULE 


ON  BLACKSTONE'S  COMMENTARIES 

In  taking  leave  of  our  Author  [Sir  William  Blackstone] 
I  finish  gladly  with  this  pleasing  peroration  :  a  scrutinizing 
judgment,  perhaps,  would  not  be  altogether  satisfied  with 
it  ;  but  the  ear  is  soothed  by  it,  and  the  heart  is  warmed. 

Jeremy  Bentham. 
A  Fragment  of  Government. 

I  think  it  worth  while  quoting  from  my  notes  this  amusing  piece  of 
sarcasm  aimed  by  a  young  man  of  twenty-eight  at  the  most  renowned 
legal  writer  of  the  time.  A  Fragment  of  Government  (1776),  the  first  of 
Bentham's  works,  not  only  showed  the  utter  folly  of  Blackstone's  praise 
of  the  English  constitution,  but  also  laid  the  foundation  of  political  science. 
(The  passage,  which  the  quotation  refers  to,  is  in  Sec.  2  of  the  Introduc- 
tion to  the  Commentaries,  "  Thus  far  as  to  the  right  of  the  supreme  power 
to  make  law  .  .   .  public  tranquillity.") 

Not  only  was  the  English  constitution  a  subject  of  eulogy  in  Bentham's 
day,  but  also  English  law,  then  in  a  most  barbarous  state,  was  alleged  to 
be  the  perfection  of  human  reason  !  Through  the  efforts  of  this  great 
and  original  thinker  many  dreadful  abuses  were  removed,  but  it  is  a 
remarkable  illustration  of  the  blind  strength  of  English  conservatism  that 
his  wise  counsel  has  not  yet  been  followed  in  many  exceedingly  important 
directions. 

In  the  seventy-eighty  period,  with  which  this  book  mainly  deals,  there 
was  a  strong  agitation  for  law  reform,  which  had  some  results. 


[The  wife  of  a  poor  man  deserted  him  for  another  man, 
and  he  married  again.  On  being  convicted  for  bigamy 
Mr.  Justice  Maule  sentenced  him  as  follows  :]  Prisoner  at 
the  bar  :  You  have  been  convicted  of  the  offence  of  bigamy, 
that  is  to  say,  of  marrying  a  woman  while  you  had  a  wife 
still  alive  ;  though  it  is  true  she  has  deserted  you  and  is 
living  in  adultery  with  another  man.  You  have,  therefore, 
committed  a  crime  against  the  laws  of  your  country,  and 
you  have  also  acted  under  a  very  serious  misapprehension 
of  the  course  which  you  ought  to  have  pursued.  You 
should  have  gone  to  the  ecclesiastical  court  and  there 
obtained  against  your  wife  a  decree  a  mensa  et  thoro.  You 
should  then  have  brought  an  action  in  the  courts  of  common 
law  and  recovered,  as  no  doubt  you  would  have  recovered, 
damages  against  your  wife's  paramour.  Armed  with  these 
decrees,  you  should  have  approached  the  legislature  and 
obtained  an  Act  of  Parliament,  which  would  have  rendered 
you  free  and  legally  competent  to  marry  the  person  whom 


MAULE  AND  OTHERS  211 

you  have  taken  on  yourself  to  marry  with  no  such  sanction. 
It  is  quite  true  that  these  proceedings  would  have  cost  you 
many  hundreds  of  pounds,  whereas  you  probably  have 
not  as  many  pence.  But  the  law  knows  no  distinction  between 
rich  and  poor.  The  sentence  of  the  court  upon  you,  there- 
fore, is  that  you  be  imprisoned  for  one  day,  which  period 
has  already  been  exceeded,  as  you  have  been  in  custody 
since  the  commencement  of  the  assizes. 

Sir  W.  H.  Maule. 

This  fine  piece  of  irony,  well  known  to  lawyers,  materially  helped  to 
end  the  old  bad  state  of  the  law  of  divorce.  We  need  more  men  of  the 
same  stamp  to  draw  attention  to  other  abuses. 


It  was  the  boast  of  Augustus,  that  he  found  Rome  of 
brick  and  left  it  of  marble.  But  how  much  nobler  will 
be  our  Sovereign's  boast  when  he  shall  have  it  to  say  that 
he  found  law  dear,  and  left  it  cheap  ;  found  it  a  sealed  book 
— left  it  a  living  letter  ;  found  it  the  patrimony  of  the  rich — 
left  it  the  inheritance  of  the  poor  ;  found  it  the  two-edged 
sword  of  craft  and  oppression — left  it  the  staff  of  honesty 
and  the  shield  of  innocence  ! 

Lord  Brougham. 
Speech  in  Parliament,  1828. 

It  would  indeed  be  a  proud  boast — but  not  one  of  these  objects  has 
vet  been  achieved. 


When  Lord  EUenborough  was  trying  one  of  the  Govern- 
ment charges  against  Home  Tooke,  he  found  occasion  to 
praise  the  impartial  manner  in  which  justice  is  administered. 
"  In  England,  Mr.  Tooke,  the  law  is  open  to  all  men,  rich 
or  poor."  "  Yes,  my  lord,"  answered  the  prisoner,  "  and 
so  is  the  London  Tavern." 

Henry  S.  Leigh. 
Jeux  d^ Esprit. 

The  same  story  is  told  in  Rogers'  Table  Talk,  but  a  different  judge  is 
named.  (Probably  both  are  wrong,  but  it  is  immaterial.)  The  London 
Tavern  was  where  Home  Tooke's  Constitutional  Society  met,  and  must 
have  been  often  referred  to  during  the  trial  ;  but  of  course  the  meaning 
simply  is  that  the  throne  of  justice  cannot  be  approached  with  an  empty 
purse. 


212  MARTIAL 

Revenons  a  nos  moutons. 

(Let  us  return  to  our  sheep.) 
La  Farce  de  Maistre  Pierre  Patelin,  1464. 

In  this  mediaeval  farce  by  an  unknown  writer,  a  cloth  merchant,  who 
is  suing  his  shepherd  for  stolen  sheep,  discovers  also  that  the  attorney 
on  the  other  side  is  a  man  who  had  robbed  him  of  some  cloth.  Dropping 
the  charge  against  the  shepherd,  he  begins  accusing  the  lawyer  of  his 
offence  ;  and,  to  recall  him  to  the  point,  the  judge  impatiently  interrupts 
him  with  Sus  revenons  d  nos  tnoutotis,  "  Come,  let  us  get  back  to  our 
sheep." 

Compare  Martial,  vi.  19  :  "  My  suit  has  nothing  to  do  with  assault, 
or  battery,  or  poisoning,  but  is  about  three  goats,  which,  I  complain,  have 
been  stolen  by  my  neighbour.  This  the  judge  desires  to  have  proved  to 
him  ;  but  you,  with  swelling  words  and  extravagant  gestures,  dilate  on 
the  Battle  of  Cannae,  the  Mithridatic  war,  and  the  perjuries  of  the  in- 
sensate Carthaginians,  the  Syllae,  the  Marii,  and  the  Mucii.  It  is  time, 
Postumus,  to  say  something  about  my  three  goats." 


Is  this  pleading  causes,  Cinna  ?  Is  this  speaking 
eloquently  to  say  nine  words  in  ten  hours  ?  Just  now  you 
asked  with  a  loud  voice  for  four  more  clepsydrae.  What 
a  long  time  you  take  to  say  nothing,  Cinna  ! 

Martial,  viii.  7, 

Clepsydrae,  water-clocks  used  like  an  hour-glass. 

In  Racine's  comedy,  Les  Plaideurs,  Act  III.  Sc.  iii.,  a  prolix  advocate 
begins  his  speech  by  referring  to  the  Creation  of  the  world.  "  Avocat, 
passons  au  deluge  "  (Let  us  get  along  to  the  Deluge),  says  the  judge.  See 
also  The  Merchant  of  Venice,  Act  I.  Sc.  i.  : 

Gratiano  speaks  an  infinite  deal  of  nothing  ;  more  than  any  man  in 
all  Venice.  His  reasons  are  as  two  grains  of  wheat  hid  in  two  bushels 
of  chaff  :  you  shall  seek  all  day  ere  you  find  them  ;  and,  when  you  have 
them,  they  are  not  worth  the  search. 


"  There's  nae  place  like  hame,"  quoth  the  de'il,  when 
he  found  himself  in  the  Court  o'  Session. 

Scottish  Proverb. 

I  understand  that  the  original  wording  was  "  '  Hame's  hamely,'  quoth 
the  de'il,"  etc. 

Perhaps  the  only  English  institution  which  the  Hindu  appreciates  is 
that  of  English  Law — but  not  as  a  system  of  Justice.  To  his  acute  mind 
it  is  a  remarkably  clever  and  most  ingenious  gambling  ga?ne.  It  is  said 
that  two  Hindus  v/ill  even  fabricate  mutual  complaints,  the  one  against 
the  other,  to  bring  before  the  Courts — and  that  it  is  almost  equivalent 


TABB  AND  OTHERS  213 

to  a  patent  of  nobility  to  have  had  a  case  taken  to  the  Privy  Council. 
The  following  incident  actually  happened  to  a  friend  of  mine  who  was 
Resident  in  a  Native  State.  Sitting  in  his  judicial  capacity  he  reproved 
a  Hindu  gentleman  for  his  excessive  litigiousness.  The  latter  retorted 
that  it  was  a  case  of  the  pot  calling  the  kettle  black  ;  that  he  had  seen  the 
Resident  put  his  rupees  on  the  totalisator  the  day  before  ;  and  the 
British  race-course  wasn't  a  bit  more  of  a  gamble  than  the  British  Law 
Courts.     For  his  part  he  preferred  to  have  his  flutter  on  the  latter. 


COMPENSATION 

How  many  an  acorn  falls  to  die 

For  one  that  makes  a  tree  ! 
How  many  a  heart  must  pass  me  by 

For  one  that  cleaves  to  me  ! 

How  many  a  suppliant  wave  of  sound 

Must  still  unheeded  roll, 
For  one  low  utterance  that  found 

An  echo  in  my  soul. 

John  Banister  Tabb. 

The  title  to  this  little  poem  is  hardly  satisfactory.  If  a  man  passes 
through  life  unrecognized  by  kindred  souls,  it  is  the  reverse  of  "  com- 
pensation "  to  him,  if  he  also  fails  to  recognize  other  sympathetic  natures. 

The  author  was  an  American  Catholic  priest. 


What  we  gave,  we  have  ; 
What  we  spent,  we  had  ; 
What  we  left,  we  lost. 

Epitaph  on  Earl  of  Devonshire,  about  a.d.  1200. 


Weeping,  we  hold  Him  fast,  who  wept 

For  us,  we  hold  Him  fast. 
And  will  not  let  Him  go,  except 

He  bless  us  first  or  last. 

Christina  Rossetti. 


The  best  wine  is  the  oldest,  the  best  water  the  newest. 

William  Blake. 
The  Marriage  of  Heaven  and  Hell. 


214  MASNAIR— EMERSON 

First  man  appeared  in  the  class  of  inorganic  things, 

Next  he  passed  therefrom  into  that  of  plants, 

For  years  he  lived  as  one  of  the  plants, 

Remembering  nought  of  his  inorganic  state  so  different  ; 

And,  when  he  passed  from  the  vegetive  to  the  animal  state, 

He  had  no  remembrance  of  his  state  as  a  plant. 

Except  the  inclination  he  felt  to  the  world  of  plants. 

Especially  at  the  time  of  spring  and  sweet  flowers  ; 

Like  the  inclination  of  infants  towards  their  mothers. 

Which  know  not  the  cause  of  their  inclination  to  the  breast. 

Again,  the  great  Creator,  as  you  know. 

Drew  man  out  of  the  animal  into  the  human  state. 

Thus  man  passed  from  one  order  of  nature  to  another. 

Till  he  became  wise  and  knowing  and  strong  as  he  is  now. 

Of  his  first  souls  he  has  now  no  remembrance. 

And  he  will  be  again  changed  from  his  present  soul.* 

Masnair  (Bk.  IV.)  of  Jalal  ad  Din  (13th  century). 


The  gases  gather  to  the  solid  firmament  ;  the  chemic 
lump  arrives  at  the  plant  and  grows  ;  arrives  at  the 
quadruped  and  walks  ;  arrives  at  the  man  and  thinks. 

R.  W,  Emerson. 
Uses  of  Great  Men. 


Go  out  into  the  woods  and  valleys,  when  your  heart  is 
rather  harassed  than  bruised,  and  when  you  suffer  from 
vexation  more  than  grief.  Then  the  trees  all  hold  out 
their  arms  to  you  to  relieve  you  of  the  burthen  of  your 
heavy  thoughts  ;  and  the  streams  under  the  trees  glance 
at  you  as  they  run  by,  and  will  carry  away  your  trouble 
along  with  the  fallen  leaves  ;  and  the  sweet-breathing  air 
will  draw  it  off  together  with  the  silver  multitudes  of  the 
dew.  But  let  it  be  with  anguish  or  remorse  in  your  heart 
that  you  go  forth  into  Nature,  and  instead  of  your  speaking 
her  language,  you  make  her  speak  yours.  Your  distress 
is  then  infused  through  all  things  and  clothes  all  things, 
and  Nature  only  echoes  and  seems  to  authenticate  your 
self-loathing  or  your  hopelessness.  Then  you  find  the 
device  of  your  sorrow  on  the  argent  shield  of  the  moon, 

*  Quoted  in  E.  Clodd's  Story  of  Creation. 


VAUGHAN  AND  OTHERS  215 

and  see  all  the  trees  of  the  field  weeping  and  wringing  their 
hands  with  you,  while  the  hills,  seated  at  your  side  in  sack- 
cloth, look  down  upon  you  prostrate,  and  reprove  you  like 
the  comforters  of  Job. 

Robert  Alfred  Vaughan. 
Hours  with  the  Mystics. 

If  this  fine  writer  had  lived,  much  might  have  been  expected  of  him. 
He  is  one  of  the  manj'  instances  of  "  the  fatal  thirty-fours  and  thirty- 
sevens." 


ALL  SUNG 

What  shall  I  sing  when  all  is  sung 

And  every  tale  is  told. 
And  in  the  world  is  nothing  young 

That  was  not  long  since  old  } 

Why  should  I  fret  unwilling  ears 

With  old  things  sung  anew 
While  voices  from  the  old  dead  years 

Still  go  on  singing  too  ? 

A  dead  man  singing  of  his  maid 

Makes  all  my  rhymes  in  vain, 
Yet  his  poor  lips  must  fade  and  fade, 

And  mine  shall  sing  again. 

Why  should  I  strive  thro'  weary  moons 

To  make  my  music  true  } 
Only  the  dead  men  know  the  tunes 

The  live  world  dances  to. 

R.  Le  Gallienne. 

Mr.  Le  Gallienne  was  not  the  first  to  complain  that  poetic  subjects 
were  exhausted.  Choerilus,  a  Samian  poet  of  the  Fifth  Century,  B.C. 
(2000  years  before  Shakespeare),  wrote :  "  Happy  was  the  follower  of 
the  muses  in  that  time,  when  the  field  was  still  virgin  soil.  But  now 
when  all  has  been  divided  up  and  the  arts  have  reached  their  limits,  we 
are  left  behind  in  the  race,  and,  look  where'er  we  may,  there  is  no  room 
anywhere  for  a  new-yoked  chariot  to  make  its  way  to  the  front  "  (St.  John 
Thackeray,  Anthologia  Graeca). 


Thinking  is  only  a  dream  of  feeling  ;  a  dead  feeling  ;  a 
pale-grey,  feeble  life.  ^ 


2i6  •  CARROLL 


HIAWATHA'S  PHOTOGRAPHING 

From  his  shoulder  Hiawatha 
Took  the  camera  of  rosewood, 
Made  of  shding,  folding  rosewood  ; 
This  he  perched  upon  a  tripod — 
Crouched  beneath  its  dusky  cover — 
Stretched  his  hand,  enforcing  silence — 
Said,  "  Be  motionless,  I  beg  you  !  " 
Mystic,  awful  was  the  process. 

All  the  family  in  order 
Sat  before  him  for  their  pictures  : 
Each  in  turn,  as  he  was  taken, 
Volunteered  his  own  suggestions, 
His  ingenious  suggestions. 

First  the  Governor,  the  Father  : 
He  suggested  velvet  curtains 
Looped  about  a  massy  pillar  ; 
And  the  corner  of  a  table. 
Of  a  rosewood  dining-table. 
He  would  hold  a  scroll  of  something. 
Hold  it  firmly  in  his  left-hand  ; 
He  would  keep  his  right-hand  buried 
(Like  Napoleon)  in  his  waistcoat ; 
He  would  contemplate  the  distance 
With  a  look  of  pensive  meaning. 
As  of  ducks  that  die  in  tempests. 

Grand,  heroic  was  the  notion  : 
Yet  the  picture  failed  entirely  : 
Failed,  because  he  moved  a  little, 
Moved,  because  he  couldn't  help  it. 

Next,  his  better  half  took  courage  ; 
She  would  have  her  picture  taken. 
She  came  dressed  beyond  description, 
Dressed  in  jewels  and  in  satin 
Far  too  gorgeous  for  an  empress. 
Gracefully  she  sat  down  sideways, 
With  a  simper  scarcely  human. 
Holding  in  her  hand  a  bouquet 
Rather  larger  than  a  cabbage. 
All  the  while  that  she  was  sitting, 
Still  the  lady  chattered,  chattered, 


CARROLL  217 

Like  a  monkey  in  the  forest. 
"  Am  I  sitting  still  ?  "  she  asked  him, 
"  Is  my  face  enough  in  profile  ? 
Shall  I  hold  the  bouquet  higher  ? 
Will  it  come  into  the  picture  ?  " 
And  the  picture  failed  completely. 

Next  the  Son,  the  Stunning-Cantab  : 
He  suggested  curves  of  beauty. 
Curves  pervading  all  his  figure, 
Which  the  eye  might  follow  onward. 
Till  they  centered  in  the  breast-pin. 
Centered  in  the  golden  breast-pin. 
He  had  learnt  it  all  from  Ruskin 
And  perhaps  he  had  not  fully 
Understood  his  author's  meaning  ; 
But,  whatever  was  the  reason, 
All  was  fruitless,  as  the  picture 
Ended  in  an  utter  failure. 

Next  to  him  the  eldest  daughter  : 
She  suggested  very  little, 
Only  asked  if  he  would  take  her 
With  her  look  of  "  passive  beauty." 

Her  idea  of  passive  beauty 
Was  a  squinting  of  the  left-eye. 
Was  a  drooping  of  the  right-eye. 
Was  a  smile  that  went  up  sideways 
To  the  corner  of  the  nostrils. 

Hiawatha,  when  she  asked  him, 
Took  no  notice  of  the  question. 
Looked  as  if  he  hadn't  heard  it  ; 
But,  when  pointedly  appealed  to. 
Smiled  in  his  peculiar  manner. 
Coughed  and  said  it  "  didn't  matter," 
Bit  his  lip  and  changed  the  subject. 

Nor  in  this  was  he  mistaken, 
As  the  picture  failed  completely. 

So  in  turn  the  other  sisters. 

Last,  the  youngest  son  was  taken  : 
Very  rough  and  thick  his  hair  was, 
Very  round  and  red  his  face  was. 
Very  dusty  was  his  jacket, 
Very  fidgety  his  manner. 
And  his  overbearing  sisters 
Called  him  names  he  disapproved  of  : 


2i8  CARROLL 

Called  him  Johnny,  "  Daddy's  Darling," 
Called  him  Jacky,"  Scrubby  School-boy." 
And,  so  awful  was  the  picture, 
In  comparison  the  others 
Seemed,  to  his  bewildered  fancy, 
To  have  partially  succeeded. 

Finally  my  Hiawatha 
Tumbled  all  the  tribe  together, 
("  Grouped  "  is  not  the  right  expression) ; 
And,  as  happy  chance  would  have  it, 
Did  at  last  obtain  a  picture 
Where  the  faces  all  succeeded  : 
Each  came  out  a  perfect  likeness. 

Then  they  joined  and  all  abused  it. 
Unrestrainedly  abused  it. 
As  "  the  worst  and  ughest  picture 
They  could  possibly  have  dreamed  of. 

Giving  one  such  strange  expressions- 
Sullen,  stupid,  pert  expressions. 

Really  any  one  would  take  us 

(Any  one  that  did  not  know  us) 

For  the  most  unpleasant  people  !  " 

(Hiawatha  seemed  to  think  so. 

Seemed  to  think  it  not  unlikely). 

All  together  rang  their  voices, 

Angry,  loud,  discordant  voices, 

As  of  dogs  that  howl  in  concert, 

As  of  cats  that  wail  in  chorus. 
But  my  Hiawatha's  patience, 

His  politeness  and  his  patience, 

Unaccountably  had  vanished. 

And  he  left  that  happy  party. 

Neither  did  he  leave  them  slowly, 

With  the  calm  deliberation. 

The  intense  deliberation 

Of  a  photographic  artist  : 

But  he  left  them  in  a  hurry, 

Left  them  in  a  mighty  hurry. 

Stating  that  he  would  not  stand  it. 

Stating  in  emphatic  language 

What  he'd  be  before  he'd  stand  it. 

Thus  departed  Hiawatha. 

Lewis  Carroll. 


RUSKIN— TAYLOR  219 

It  has  been  said  by  Schiller,  in  his  letters  on  aesthetic 
culture,  that  the  sense  of  beauty  never  furthered  the  per- 
formance of  a  single  duty. 

Although  this  gross  and  inconceivable  falsity  will  hardly 

be  accepted  by  any  one  in  so  many  terms,  seeing  that  there 

are  few  so  utterly  lost  but  that  they  receive,  and  know  that 

they  receive,  at  certain  moments,  strength  of  some  kind,  or 

rebuke  from  the  appealings  of  outward  things  ;    and  that 

it  is  not  possible  for  a  Christian  man  to  walk  across  so  much 

as  a  rood  of  the  natural  earth,  with  mind  unagitated  and 

rightly  poised,  without  receiving  strength  and   hope  from 

stone,  flower,  leaf  or  sound,  nor  without  a  sense  of  a  dew 

falling  upon  him  out  of  the  sky  ;    though  I  say  this  falsity 

is  not  wholly  and  in  terms  admitted,  yet  it  seems  to  be  partly 

and  practically  so  in  much  of  the  doing  and  teaching  even 

of  holy  men,  who  in  the  recommending  of  the  love  of  God 

to  us,  refer  but  seldom  to  those  things  in  which  it  is  most 

abundantly  and  immediately  shown  ;    though  they  insist 

much  on  his  giving  of  bread,  and  raiment,  and  health  (which 

he  gives  to  all  inferior  creatures),  they  require  us  not  to 

thank  him  for  that  glory  of  his  works  which  he  has  permitted 

us  alone  to  perceive  :    they  tell  us  often  to  meditate  in  the 

closet,  but  they  send  us  not,  like  Isaac,  into  the  fields  at 

even  ;    they   dwell   on   the   duty   of  self-denial,   but   they 

exhibit  not  the  duty  of  delight.  r  r, 

•^  •'       ^  John  Ruskin. 

Modern  Painters,  III.  i.  xv. 

The  italics  are  mine. 


God  is  present  by  His  essence  ;    which,  because  it  is 

infinite,  cannot  be  contained  within  the  limits  of  any  place  ; 

and  because  He  is  of  an  essential  purity  and  spiritual  nature. 

He  cannot  be  undervalued  by  being  supposed  present  in  the 

places    of   unnatural    uncleanness  :     because,    as    the    sun, 

reflecting  upon  the  mud  of  strands  and  shores,  is  unpolluted 

in  its  beams,  so  is  God  not  dishonoured  when  we  suppose 

Him  in  every  one  of  His  creatures,  and  in  every  part  of 

every  one  of  them.  t  rn 

•^  Jeremy  Taylor. 

Holy  Living,  Ch.  i.  Sec.  3. 

There  is  an  old  Scottish  proverb,  "  The  sun  is  nae  waur  for  shinin* 
on  the  midden." 


220  BROWNING 

Not  on  the  vulgar  mass 

Called  "  work  "  must  sentence  pass, 
Things  done,  that  took  the  eye  and  had  the  price  ; 

O'er  which,  from  level  stand. 

The  low  world  laid  its  hand, 
Found  straightway  to  its  mind,  could  value  in  a  trice  : 

But  all,  the  world's  coarse  thumb 

And  finger  failed  to  plumb. 
So  passed  in  making  up  the  main  account  ; 

All  instincts  immature, 

All  purposes  unsure. 
That  weighed  not  as  his  work,  yet  swelled  the  man's  amount  : 

Thoughts  hardly  to  be  packed 

Into  a  narrow  act. 
Fancies  that  broke  through  language  and  escaped  ; 

All,  I  could  never  be. 

All,  men  ignored  in  me, 
This,  I  was  worth  to  God,  whose  wheel  the  pitcher  shaped. 

So,  take  and  use  thy  work  : 

Amend  what  flaws  may  lurk. 
What  strain  o'  the  stuff,  what  warpings  past  the  aim  ! 

My  times  be  in  Thy  hand  ! 

Perfect  the  cup  as  planned  ! 
Let  age  approve  of  youth,  and  death  complete  the  same. 

R.  Browning. 
Rabbi  ben  Ezra. 

"  All  (that)  I  could  never  be,  All  (that)  man  ignored  in  me."  All 
that  the  world  could  not  know,  a  man's  thoughts,  desires,  and  intentions, 
all  that  he  wished  or  tried  to  be  or  do,  although  unknown  to  his  fellows, 
have  their  value  in  God's  eyes.  Man  is  the  Cup,  whose  shape  {i.e. 
character  or  soul)  has  been  formed  by  the  wheel  of  the  great  Potter,  God. 
See  further  as  to  this  Eastern  metaphor. 

The  late  Mrs.  A.  W.  Verrall,  widow  of  Doctor  Verrall  and  herself  a 
classical  scholar,  pointed  out  in  the  Proceedings  of  the  Society  for  Psychical 
Research,  June  1911,  a  probable  connection  between  "Rabbi  ben  Ezra" 
and  FitzGerald's  "  Omar  Khayyam,"  and  I  do  not  think  that  her  in- 
teresting views  have  been  published  elsewhere. 

Both  poems  centre  round  the  idea  of  man  as  a  Cup,  but  treat  the 
metaphor  from  very  different  standpoints.  In  Omar  the  cup  is  simply 
a  wine-cup.  Omar's  cup  (quoting  from  the  first  edition)  is  to  be  filled 
with  "  Life's  Liquor  "  (ii.),  with  "  Wine  !  Red  Wine  !  "  (vi.),  with  what 
"  clears  To-Day  of  past  regrets  "  (xx.)  ;  the  object  is  to  drown  the 
memory  of  the  fact  that  "  without  asking  "  we  are  "  hurried  hither  " 


BROWNING  221 

and  "  hurried  hence  "  (xxx.)  ;  the  "  Ruby  Vintage  "  is  to  be  drunk  "  with 
old  Khayyam,"  and  "  when  the  Angel  with  his  darker  Draught  draws 
up  "  to  us  we  are  to  take  that  draught  without  shrinking  (xlviii.).  On 
the  other  hand,  in  "  Rabbi  ben  Ezra  "  man  is  a  Cup  made  for  the  use  of 
the  great  Potter.  We  are  told  to  look  "  not  down  but  up  !  to  uses  of  a 
cup  "  (30).  The  Rabbi  asks  "  God  who  mouldest  men  ...  to  take 
and  use  His  work  "  (32)  and  the  ultimate  purpose  of  the  Cup,  when  it 
has  been  made  "  perfect  as  planned,"  is  to  slake  the  thirst  of  the  Master. 

The  comparison  of  man  to  the  Clay  of  the  Potter  in  both  poems  is 
not  sufficient  in  itself  to  show  any  connection  between  them.  Such  a 
comparison  is  found,  as  FitzGerald  reminds  us,  "  in  the  Literature  of  the 
World  from  the  Hebrew  Prophets  to  the  present  time  "  *  ;  and  it  is  as 
appropriately  employed  by  the  Hebrew  as  by  the  Persian  thinker.  But 
Mrs.  Verrall  has  other  grounds  : 

The  little  pamphlet  in  its  brown  wrapper  containing  the  Rubdiydt  of 
Omar  Khayyam  was  first  published  by  Edward  FitzGerald  in  1859,  and, 
as  is  well  known,  attracted  so  little  attention  that,  although  there  were 
only  250  copies,  it  found  its  way  into  the  two-penny  boxes  of  the  book- 
sellers. (It  now  sells  for  about  £so  !)  But,  nevertheless,  the  poem  was 
eagerly  read  and  enthusiastically  praised  by  a  small  group,  among  whom 
were  Swinburne  and  Rossetti.  In  1861  Robert  Browning  came  to  live 
in  London,  and  often  saw  Rossetti,  who  was  his  friend.  It  is,  therefore, 
very  improbable  that  he  did  not  learn  of  the  poem,  which  had  so  impressed 
Rossetti.  In  1864  "  Rabbi  ben  Ezra  "  was  published  in  the  volume 
called  Dramatis  Personae. 

Again,  there  is  intrinsic  evidence  that  Browning  intended  a  direct 
refutation  of  Omar's  theory  of  life.  Com.pare  verses  26  and  27  of 
"  Rabbi  ben  Ezra  "  with  verses  xxxvi.  and  xxxvii.  of  "  Omar  Khayyam  " 
(first  edition). 

Omar  says  that  he  "  watched  the  Potter  thumping  his  wet  clay,"  and 
thereupon  advises  : 

Ah,  fill  the  Cup  ; — what  boots  it  to  repeat 
How  Time  is  slipping  underneath  our  Feet  : 
Unborn  To-morrow  and  dead  Yesterday, 
Why  fret  about  them  if  To-day  be  sweet  ! 

Rabbi  ben  Ezra  says  : 

.  .  .  Note  that  Potter's  wheel, 
That  metaphor  ! 

and  proceeds  : 

Thou,  to  whom  fools  propound. 
When  the  wine  makes  its  round, 
"  Since  life  fleets,  all  is  change  ;  the  Past  gone,  seize  To-day  !  " 

Fool  !  all  that  is,  at  all. 
Lasts  ever,  past  recall  ; 
Earth  changes,  but  thy  soul  and  God  stand  sure. 

Although  the  "  carpe  diem  "  ("  seize  to-day  ")  theory  of  life  is  no 
doubt  common  to  all  literatures,  the  cumulative  effect  of  Mrs.  Verrall's 
argument  is  strong,  although  not  conclusive. 

As  regards  the  above  verses,  compare  the  next  quotation. 

*  See,  for  instance,  Kipling's  poem  "  A  Dedication  " : 

Tlie  depth  and  dream  of  my  desire, 

The  bitter  paths  wherein  I  stray, 
Thou  knowest  Who  hast  made  the  Fire, 

Thou  knowest  Who  hast  made  the  Clay. 


222  BROWNING  AND  OTHERS 

From  Thy  will  stream  the  worlds,  life  and  nature,  Thy  dread 

Sabaoth  : 
/  will  ? — the  mere  atoms  despise  me  !     Why  am  I  not  loth 
To  look  that,  even  that,  in  the  face  too  ?     Why  is  it  I  dare 
Think  but  lightly  of  such  impuissance  ?     What  stops  my 

despair  ? 
This  : — 'tis  not  what  man  Does  which  exalts  him,  but  what 

man  Would  do  ! 

R.  Browning. 
Saul. 

Sabaoth,  armies,  hosts.     "  Holy,  Holy,  Holy,  Lord  God  of  Sabaoth." 


Let  the  thick  curtain  fall  ; 
I  better  know  than  all 
How  little  I  have  gained, 
How  vast  the  unattained. 

Not  by  the  page  word-painted 
Let  life  be  banned  or  sainted  ; 
Deeper  than  written  scroll 
The  colours  of  the  soul. 

Sweeter  than  any  sung 

My  songs  that  found  no  tongue  ; 

Nobler  than  any  fact 

My  wish  that  failed  of  act. 

J.  G.  Whittier. 
My  Triumph. 


It  is  a  sad  weakness  in  us,  after  all,  that  the  thought  of  a 
man's  death  hallows  him  anew  to  us  ;  as  if  life  were  not 
sacred  too, — as  if  it  were  comparatively  a  light  thing  to  fail 
in  love  and  reverence  to  the  brother  who  has  to  climb  the 
whole  toilsome  steep  with  us,  and  all  our  tears  and  tenderness 
were  due  to  the  one  who  is  spared  that  hard  journey. 

George  Eliot. 
Janefs  Repentance. 


BOSWELL— CLEVELAND  223 

He  [Dr.  Johnson]  would  not  allow  Scotland  to  derive  any 
credit  from  Lord  Mansfield,  for  he  was  educated  in  England. 
"  Much,"  said  he,  "  may  be  made  of  a  Scotchman,  if  he  be 
caught  young."  Boswell. 

Life  of  Johnson. 


[A  Mr.  Strahan,  a  Scot,  asked  Dr.  Johnson  what  he 
thought  of  Scotland]  "  That  it  is  a  very  vile  country  to 
be  sure,  Sir,"  returned  for  answer  Dr.  Johnson.  "  Well, 
Sir  !  "  replied  the  other,  somewhat  mortified,  "  God  made 
it."  "  Certainly  He  did,"  answered  Mr.  Johnson  again, 
"  but  we  must  always  remember  that  he  made  it  for  Scotch- 
men.^' T\/r         r. 

Mrs.  Piozzi. 
Johnsoniana. 

These  are  the  two  best  of  Johnson's  chaffing  jibes  against  the  Scots. 
The  neatness  of  the  latter  is,  to  my  mind,  spoilt  by  the  words  at  the  end, 
which  I  have  omitted  :  "  and — comparisons  are  odious,  Mr.  Strahan, — - 
but  God  made  hell."  The  following  may  also  be  quoted  as  showing  both 
Johnson  and  that  clever  charlatan,  Wilkes,  quizzing  Boswell  (year  1781)  : 

Wilkes  :  "  Pray,  Boswell,  how  much  may  be  got  in  a  year  by  an 
advocate  at  the  Scotch  bar  ?  " 

Boswell  :  "  I  believe  two  thousand  pounds." 

Wilkes  :  "  How  can  it  be  possible  to  spend  that  money  in  Scotland  ?  " 

Johnson  :  "  Why,  Sir,  the  money  may  be  spent  in  England  ;  but  there 
is  a  harder  question.  If  one  man  in  Scotland  gets  possession  of  two 
thousand  pounds,  what  remains  for  all  the  rest  of  the  nation  ?  " 

Many  Scots  undoubtedly  enjoy  chaff  against  themselves  and  their 
country,  and  I  think  this  was  so  with  Boswell.  It  is  a  phase  of  social 
psychology  that  needs  explaining. 

In  these  jokes  Johnson,  himself  a  very  strong  Jacobite,  was,  consciously 
or  not,  influenced  by  the  fine  Royalist  poet  John  Cleveland  (1613-1658) ; 
but  the  latter  belonged  to  the  time  of  Charles  I.  and  was  deadly  in 
earnest.  He  detested  the  Scots  for  fighting  against  Charles  I.  His 
references  to  Scotland  in  "  The  Rebel  Scot  "  are  terse  and  witty  : 


A  land  that  brings  in  question  and  suspense 
God's  omnipresence. 


And  again 


Had  Cain  been  Scot,  God  would  have  changed  his  doom  ; 
Not  forced  him  wander,  but  confined  him  home  ! 

Johnson  had  many  quotations  from  Cleveland  in  his  dictionary. 

Whether  Johnson  truly  disliked  the  Scots  or  not,  he  certainly  hated 
the  Nonconformists.  He  loved  the  Church  of  England,  and  also  the 
University  of  Oxford,  the  great  nursery  and  stronghold  of  the  Church — 
from  which  Nonconformists  were  excluded.     Hence  a  clever  Johnsonese 


224  BOYD— LOWELL 

story   has    been    invented    in    connection   with    Murray's    New   English 
Dictionary : 

Boswell :  "  They  say^  Sir,  that  your  Dictionary  has  been  superseded 
by  another  written  by  a  Scotch  Nonconformist,  and  also  that  he  is  in 
residence  in  Oxford  !  " 

Johnson  :    "  Sir,  to  be  facetious  it  is  not  necessary  to  be  indecent.^' 


I  DARE  say  Alexander  the  Great  was  somewhat  staggered 
in  his  plans  of  conquest  by  Parmenio's  way  of  putting 
things.  "  After  you  have  conquered  Persia  what  will  you 
do  ?  "  ''  Then  I  shall  conquer  India."  "  After  you  have 
conquered  India,  what  will  you  do  ?  "  "  Conquer  Scythia." 
"  And  after  you  have  conquered  Scythia,  what  will  you  do  ?  " 
"  Sit  down  and  rest."  "  Well,"  said  Parmenio  to  the  con- 
queror, '*  why  not  sit  down  and  rest  now  ?  " 

A.  K.  H.  Boyd. 
The  Recreations  of  a  Country  Parson, 

I  include  this  because  it  is  a  good  short  paraphrase  of  the  actual  story 
of  Pyrrhus  and  Cineas  {Plutarch's  Lives — "  Pyrrhus  ")  and  because  of  the 
curious  absurdity  of  attributing  such  philosophic  advice  to  the  warrior, 
Parmenio.  This  general  was  the  only  one  of  Alexander's  old  advisers 
who  urged  him  to  invade  Asia  !     {Plutarch's  Lives — "Alexander"). 


Sorrow  and  care  and  anxiety  may  quite  well  live  in 
Elizabethan  cottages,  grown  over  with  honeysuckle  and 
jasmine  ;  and  very  sad  eyes  may  look  forth  from  windows 
around  which  roses  twine. 

A.  K.  H.  Boyd. 
The  Recreations  of  a  Country  ParsoJi. 

This  book  had  a  great  vogue,  but  not  sufficient  merit  to  preserve  it 
from  oblivion. 


Nature,  they  say,  doth  dote 

And  cannot  make  a  man 

Save  on  some  worn-out  plan 
Repeating  us  by  rote. 

J.    R.    LOW^ELL. 

Ode  at  Harvard  Commemoration. 


MYERS  225 

If  thou  wouldst  have  high  God  thy  soul  assure 

That  she  herself  shall  as  herself  endure, 

Shall  in  no  alien  semblance,  thine  and  wise, 

Fulfil  her  and  be  young  in  Paradise, 

One  way  I  know  ;  forget,  forswear,  disdain 

Thine  own  best  hopes,  thine  utmost  loss  and  gain. 

Till  when  at  last  thou  scarce  rememberest  now 

If  on  the  earth  be  such  a  man  as  thou, 

Nor  hast  one  thought  of  self-surrender, — no. 

For  self  is  none  remaining  to  forego, — 

If  ever,  then  shall  strong  persuasion  fall 

That  in  thy  giving  thou  hast  gained  thine  all. 

Given  the  poor  present,  gained  the  boundless  scope. 

And  kept  thee  virgin  for  the  further  hope.  .  .  . 

When  all  base  thoughts  like  frighted  harpies  flown 

In  her  own  beauty  leave  the  soul  alone  ; 

When  Love, — not  rosy-flushed  as  he  began, 

But  Love,  still  Love,  the  prisoned  God  in  man, — 

Shows  his  face  glorious,  shakes  his  banner  free, 

Cries  like  a  captain  for  Eternity  : — 

O  halcyon  air  across  the  storms  of  youth, 

O  trust  him,  he  is  true,  he  is  one  with  Truth  ! 

Nay,  is  he  Christ  ?     I  know  not  ;  no  man  knows 

The  right  name  of  the  heavenly  Anteros, — 

But  here  is  God,  whatever  God  may  be. 

And  whomsoe'er  we  worship,  this  is  He. 

F.  W.  H.  Myers. 
The  Implicit  Promise  of  Immortality. 


Anteros  is  the  god  of  mutual  love,  who  punishes  those  who  do  not 
return  the  love  of  others,  as  otherwise  his  brother  Eros,  god  of  love,  will 
be  unhappy. 

The  fine  poem  from  which  this  is  quoted  represents  one  of  the  phases 
of  Myers'  experience.  It  was  published  in  1882,  but  written  about  ten 
years  before.  He  had  then  lost  his  faith  in  Christianity,  but  believed  in 
a  future  life  on  grounds  based  partly  upon  philosophy  and  partly  on 
"  vision."     He  had  those  moments  of  exaltation  when,  as  he  says  : 

The  open  secret  flashes  on  the  brain, 
As  if  one  almost  guessed  it,  almost  knew 
Whence  we  have  sailed  and  voyage  whereunto. 

For  entrance  into  the  future  life,  Love  and  Self-surrender  are  the  best 
equipment  for  the  soul.     God,  "  whatever  God  may  be,"  is  Love. 

Q 


226  TENNYSON  AND  OTHERS 

Love  took  up  the  harp  of  Life,  and  smote  on  all  the  chords 

with  might  ; 
Smote  the  chord  of  Self,  that,  trembling,  passed  in  music 
out  of  sight. 

Tennyson. 
Locksley  Hall. 

But  all  through  life  I  see  a  Cross, 

Where  sons  of  God  yield  up  their  breath  : 
There  is  no  gain  except  by  loss, 

There  is  no  life  except  by  death, 

There  is  no  vision  but  by  Faith, 
Nor  glory  but  by  bearing  shame. 
Nor  Justice  but  by  taking  blame  ; 

And  that  Eternal  Passion  saith, 
"Be  emptied  of  glory  and  right  and  name." 

W.  C.  Smith. 
Olrig  Grange. 

Life  is  short,  and  we  have  not  too  much  time  for  gladden- 
ing the  lives  of  those  who  are  travelling  the  dark  road  with 
us.     Oh,  be  swift  to  love,  make  haste  to  be  kind. 

Amiel's  Journal. 

SELF-SACRIFICE. 

What  though  thine  arm  hath  conquered  in  the  fight, — 
What  though  the  vanquished  yield  unto  thy  sway, 
Or  riches  garnered  pave  thy  golden  way, — 

Not  therefore  hast  thou  gained  the  sovran  height 

Of  man's  nobility  !     No  halo's  light 

From  these  shall  round  thee  shed  its  sacred  ray  ; 
If  these  be  all  thy  joy, — then  dark  thy  day. 

And  darker  still  thy  swift  approaching  night  ! 

But  if  in  thee  more  truly  than  in  others 

Hath  dwelt  Love's  charity  ; — if  by  thine  aid 
Others  have  passed  above  thee,  and  if  thou. 

Though  victor,  yieldest  victory  to  thy  brothers, 

Though  conquering  conquered,  and  a  vassal  made — 
Then  take  thy  crown,  well  mayst  thou  wear  it  now. 

Samuel  Waddington.    . 


ROSSETTI  AND  OTHERS  227 

SOUL'S  BEAUTY 

Under  the  arch  of  Life,  where  love  and  death, 
Terror  and  mystery  guard  her  shrine,  I  saw 
Beauty  enthroned  ;  and  though  her  gaze  struck  awe, 

I  drew  it  in  as  simply  as  my  breath. 

Hers  are  the  eyes  which,  over  and  beneath, 

The  sky  and  sea  bend  on  thee, — which  can  draw. 
By  sea  or  sky  or  woman,  to  one  law, 

The  allotted  bondman  of  her  palm  and  wreath. 

This  is  that  Lady  Beauty,  in  whose  praise 

Thy  voice  and  hand  shake  still, — long  known  to  thee 
By  flying  hair  and  fluttering  hem, — the  beat 
Following  her  daily  of  thy  heart  and  feet. 
How  passionately  and  irretrievably. 
In  what  fond  flight,  how  many  ways  and  days  ! 

D.   G.   ROSSETTI. 

Although  Rossetti  was  not  a  classical  student,  he  seems  here  to  have 
arrived  at  the  Platonic  idea  of  an  abstract  Beauty,  of  whose  essence  are  all 
beautiful  things,  "  sea  or  sky  or  wonian."  Love  and  death,  terror  and 
mystery  guard  her,  as  a  goddess  on  her  throne,  and  ail  lovers  of  the 
beautiful  are  worshippers  at  her  shrine. 


We  bury  decay  in  the  earth  ;  we  plant  in  it  the  perishing  ; 
we  feed  it  with  offensive  refuse  :  but  nothing  grows  out  of 
it  that  is  not  clean  ;  it  gives  us  back  life  and  beauty. 

Charles  Dudley  Warner. 
My  Summer  in  a  Garden. 


A  WHETSTONE  Cannot  cut,  but  it  makes  iron  sharp,  and 

gives  it  a  keen  edge.  t 

^  ^  Isocrates. 

This  is  quoted  in  Plutarch's  Lives.  Isocrates  (436-338  B.C.)  was 
asked  why  he  taught  rhetoric  so  much  and  yet  spoke  so  rarely  ;  and  this 
was  his  reply.  Horace  {Ars  Poetica)  playfully  says  that  he  is  no  longer 
able  to  write  verses,  but  he  will  teach  others  to  write,  adding,  "  A  whetstone 
is  not  used  for  cutting,  but  is  used  for  sharpening  steel  nevertheless  " — 
a  reference,  of  course,  to  the  saying  of  Isocrates. 

The  career  of  Isocrates,  "  that  old  man  eloquent  "  (see  Milton's 
sonnet,  "  To  the  Lady  Margaret  Ley  "),  is  extremely  interesting.  He 
preserved  his  energy  and  his  influence  to  the  end  of  his  long  life  of 
ninety-eight  years. 


228  SWINBURNE 

From  too  much  love  of  living, 
From  hope  and  fear  set  free, 
We  thank  with  brief  thanksgiving 

Whatever  gods  there  be 
That  no  life  lives  for  ever  ; 
That  dead  men  rise  up  never  ; 
That  even  the  weariest  river 
Winds  somewhere  safe  to  sea. 

Swinburne, 
The  Garden  of  Proserpine. 
A  very  musical  expression  of  a  very  ugly  thought. 


CANADIAN  BOAT-SONG 
From  the  Gaelic 

Listen  to  me,  as  when  ye  heard  our  fathers 

Sing  long  ago  the  song  of  other  shores — 
Listen  to  me,  and  then  in  chorus  gather 

All  your  deep  voices,  as  ye  pull  your  oars  : 

CHORUS 

Fair  these  broad  meads — these  hoary  woods  are  grand  ; 
But  we  are  exiles  from  our  fathers^  land. 

From  the  lone  sheiling  of  the  misty  island 
Mountains  divide  us,  and  the  waste  of  seas — 

Yet  still  the  blood  is  strong,  the  heart  is  Highland, 
And  we  in  dreams  behold  the  Hebrides  : 

Fair  these  broad  meads,  etc. 

We  ne'er  shall  tread  the  fancy-haunted  valley, 

Where  'tween  the  dark  hills  creeps  the  small  clear  stream, 

In  arms  around  the  patriarch  banner  rally, 

Nor  see  the  moon  on  royal  tombstones  gleam  : 

Fair  these  broad  meads,  etc. 

When  the  bold  kindred,  in  the  time  long  vanish'd, 
Conquered  the  soil  and  fortified  the  keep, — 

No  seer  foretold  the  children  would  be  banish 'd, 
That  a  degenerate  Lord  might  boast  his  sheep  ; 

Fair  these  broad  meads,  etc. 


BAIN— S.  SMITH  229 

Come  foreign  rage — let  Discord  burst  in  slaughter  ! 

O  then  for  clansmen  true,  and  stern  claymore — 
The  hearts  that  would  have  given  their  blood  like  water, 

Beat  heavily  beyond  the  Atlantic  roar. 

Fair  these  broad  meads — these  hoary  woods  are  grand  ; 

But  zve  are  exiles  from  our  fathers^  land. 

•'  •'  Anon. 

The  authorship  of  these  verses  is  uncertain,  but  it  probably  lies 
between  John  Gait,  author  of  Annals  of  the  Parish,  and  Lockhart,  son-in- 
law  of  Sir  Walter  Scott.  The  verses  were  quoted  by  Professor  Wilson 
(Christopher  North)  in  his  Nodes  Arnbrosianae  in  Blackwood,  Sept.  1829, 
but,  because  Wilson  was  not  the  author,  they  are  not  reproduced  in  his 
collected  works  (Blackwood,  1855). 

A  degenerate  Lord,  etc.  This  refers  to  the  eviction  of  the  Highland 
crofters  and  cottars.  In  1829  the  Duke  of  Hamilton  had  just  cleared  the 
population  out  of  the  Isle  of  Arran. 

Sheiling  or  Shealing,  a  hut  used  by  shepherds,  fishermen,  or  others 
for  shelter  when  at  work  at  a  distance  from  home. 


My  closing  remark  is  as  to  avoiding  debates  that  are  in 
their  very  nature  interminable.  .  .  .  There  is  a  certain 
intensity  of  emotion,  interest,  bias  or  prejudice  if  you  will, 
that  can  neither  reason  nor  be  reasoned  with.  On  the  purely 
intellectual  side,  the  disqualifying  circumstances  are  com- 
plexity and  vagueness.  If  a  topic  necessarily  hauls  in 
numerous  other  topics  of  difficulty,  the  essay  may  do  some- 
thing for  it,  but  not  the  debate.  Worst  of  all  is  the  presence 
of  several  large,  ill-defined,  and  unsettled  terms.  A  not 
unfrequent  case  is  a  combination  of  the  several  defects, 
each,  perhaps,  in  a  small  degree.  A  tinge  of  predilection  or 
party,  a  double  or  triple  complication  of  doctrines,  and  one 
or  two  hazy  terms  will  make  a  debate  that  is  pretty  sure  to 
end  as  it  began.  Thus  it  is  that  a  question,  plausible  to 
appearance,  may  contain  within  it  capacities  of  misunder- 
standing, cross-purposes,  and  pointless  issues,  sufficient  to 
occupy  the  long  night  of  Pandemonium,  or  beguile  the 
journey  to  the  nearest  fixed  star. 

Alexander  Bain. 
Contemporary  Reviezv,  April  1877. 
From  an  address  to  the  Edinburgh  University  Philosophical  Society. 


A  MAN  should  be  able  to  render  a  reason  for  the  faith  that 

is  in  him.  o  o 

Sydney  Smith. 


230  SPENSER— BOREHAM 

Our  daies  are  full  of  dolor  and  disease, 
Our  life  afflicted  with  incessant  paine, 
That  nought  on  earth  may  lessen  or  appease. 
Why  then  should  I  desire  here  to  remaine  ? 
Or  why  should  he  that  loves  me,  sorie  bee 
For  my  deliverance,  or  at  all  complaine 
My  good  to  hear,  and  toward  joyes  to  see  ? 

Edmund  Spenser. 
Daphnaida. 

TSzvard,  "  approaching." 


In  life,  Love  comes  first.  Indeed,  zve  only  come  because 
Love  calls  for  us.  We  find  it  waiting  with  outstretched 
arms  on  arrival.     Love  is  the  beginning  of  everything. 

F.   W.    BOREHAM. 

Faces  in  the  Fire. 


THE  RETREAT 

Happy  those  early  days,  when  I 
Shined  in  my  Angel-infancy  ! 
Before  I  understood  this  place 
Appointed  for  my  second  race, 
Or  taught  my  soul  to  fancy  aught 
But  a  white  celestial  thought : 
When  yet  I  had  not  walk'd  above 
A  mile  or  two  from  my  first  Love, 
And  looking  back,  at  that  short  space. 
Could  see  a  glimpse  of  His  bright  face 
When  on  some  gilded  cloud  or  flower 
My  gazing  soul  v/ould  dwell  an  hour. 
And  in  those  weaker  glories  spy 
Some  shadows  of  eternity  : 
Before  I  taught  my  tongue  to  wound 
My  Conscience  with  a  sinful  sound. 
Or  had  the  black  art  to  dispense 
A  several  sin  to  ev'ry  sense. 
But  felt  through  all  this  fleshly  dress 
Bright  shoots  of  everlastingness. 


VAUGHAN  AND  OTHERS  231 

O  how  I  long  to  travel  back, 
And  tread  again  that  ancient  track  ! 
That  I  might  once  more  reach  that  plain 
Where  first  I  left  my  glorious  train  ; 
From  whence  th'  enlighten'd  spirit  sees 
That  shady  City  of  Palm-trees  ! 
But  ah  !  my  soul  with  too  much  stay 
Is  drunk,  and  staggers  in  the  way  ! 
Some  men  a  forward  motion  love. 
But  I  by  backward  steps  would  move  ; 
And  when  this  dust  falls  to  the  urn, 
In  that  state  I  came,  return. 

Henry  Vaughan. 

This  is  the  precursor  of  the  greatest  ode  ever  written,  Wordsworth's 
Ode  on  "  Intimations  of  Immortality  from  Recollections  of  Early  Child- 
hood." Wordsworth,  Vaughan,  and  many  others  believed,  as  Buddha  and 
Plato  also  did,  that  we  had  a  separate  existence  before  we  came  into  this 
world  (and  there  is  much  in  the  experience  of  each  of  us  to  warrant  that 
belief). 

But  in  order  to  appreciate  either  Wordsworth's  or  Vaughan's  poem 
it  is  not  necessary  to  have  this  belief  in  a  past  separate  existence — it  is 
enough  to  realize  that 

Trailing  clouds  of  glory  do  we  come 
From  God,  who  is  our  home. 

Vaughan  desires  to  go  back  to  his  original  state  of  innocence,  and 
therefore  entitles  his  poem  "  The  Retreat." 


Ah  !   not  the  nectarous  poppy  lovers  use. 
Not  daily  labour's  dull,  Lethaean  spring, 
Oblivion  in  lost  angels  can  infuse 
Of  the  soil'd  glory,  and  the  trailing  wing. 

Matthew  Arnold. 
To  a  Gipsy  Child. 

Between  the  great  things  that  we  cannot  do,  and  the 
small  things  we  zvill  not  do,  the  danger  is  that  we  shall  do 

^'  Adolphe  Monod. 


Diogenes,  seeing  Neptune's  temple  with  votive  pictures 
of  those  saved  from  wreck,  says,  "  Yea,  but  where  are  they 
painted,  that  have  been  drowned  ?  "  ^ 


232  R.  BROWNING— POPE 

There's  a  fancy  some  lean  to  and  others  hate — 
That,  when  this  Hfe  is  ended,  begins 
New  work  for  the  soul  in  another  state, 
Where  it  strives  and  gets  weary,  loses  and  wins  : 
Where  the  strong  and  the  weak,  this  world's  congeries, 
Repeat  in  large  what  they  practised  in  small, 
Through  life  after  life  in  unlimited  series  ; 
Only  the  scale's  to  be  changed,  that's  all. 

Yet  I  hardly  know.     When  a  soul  has  seen 

By  the  means  of  Evil  that  Good  is  best. 

And,  through  earth  and  its  noise,  what  is  heaven's  serene, — 

When  our  faith  in  the  same  has  stood  the  test — 

Why,  the  child  grown  man,  you  burn  the  rod, 

The  uses  of  labour  are  surely  done  ; 

There  remaineth  a  rest  for  the  people  of  God  : 

And  I  have  had  troubles  enough,  for  one. 

R.  Browning. 
Old  Pictures  in  Florence. 

Browning  in  his  last  poem,  the  well-known  "  Epilogue,"  speaks  with 
another  voice.  He  wishes  his  friends  to  think  of  him  after  death  as  he 
was  when  alive  : 

One  v/ho  never  turned  his  back  but  marched  breast-forward. 

Held  we  fall  to  rise,  are  baffled  to  fight  better, 
Sleep  to  wake. 

No,  at  noonday  in  the  bustle  of  man's  work-time 

Greet  the  unseen  with  a  cheer  ! 
Bid  him  forward,  breast  and  back  as  either  should  be, 
"  Strive  and  thrive  !  "  cry,  "  Speed, — fight  on,  fare  ever, 

There  as  here  !  " 

F.  W.  FI.  Myers  wrote  : 

We  need  a  summons  to  no  houri-haunted  paradise,  no  passionless 
contemplation,  no  monotony  of  prayer  and  praise  ;  but  to  endless 
advance  by  endless  effort,  and,  if  need  be,  by  endless  pain.  Be  it  mine, 
then,  to  plunge  among  the  unknown  Destinies — to  dare  and  still  to 
dare  ! 

Emerson's  heaven  also  was 

Built  of  furtherance  and  pursuing. 
Not  of  spent  deeds,  but  of  doing. 

Threnody. 


One  may  see  the  small  value  God  has  for  riches  by  the 
people  He  gives  them  to.  Phpf 


PRAED  233 


THE  BELLE  OF  THE  BALL-ROOM 

I  SAW  her  at  the  County  Ball  : 

There,  when  the  sounds  of  flute  and  fiddle 
Gave  signal  sweet  in  that  old  hall 

Of  hands  across  and  down  the  middle, 
Hers  was  the  subtlest  spell  by  far 

Of  all  that  set  young  hearts  romancing  ; 
She  was  our  queen,  our  rose,  our  star  ; 

And  then  she  danced — O  Heaven,  her  dancing 

Through  sunny  May,  through  sultry  June, 

I  loved  her  with  a  love  eternal  ; 
I  spoke  her  praises  to  the  moon, 

I  wrote  them  to  the  Sunday  Journal  : 
My  mother  laugh'd  :  I  soon  found  out 

That  ancient  ladies  have  no  feeling  ; 
My  father  frown'd  :  but  how  should  gout 

See  any  happiness  in  kneeling  ?  .  .  . 

She  smiled  on  many,  just  for  fun, — 

I  knew  that  there  was  nothing  in  it  ; 
I  was  the  first— the  only  one 

Her  heart  had  thought  of  for  a  minute. — 
I  knew  it,  for  she  told  me  so. 

In  phrase  which  was  divinely  moulded  ; 
She  wrote  a  charming  hand, — and  oh  ! 

How  sweetly  all  her  notes  were  folded  ! 


We  parted  ;  months  and  years  roll'd  by. 

We  met  again  four  summers  after  : 
Our  parting  was  all  sob  and  sigh  ; 

Our  meeting  was  all  mirth  and  laughter  : 
For  in  my  heart's  most  secret  cell 

There  had  been  many  other  lodgers  ; 
And  she  was  not  the  ball-room's  Belle, 

But  only — Mrs.  Something  Rogers  ! 

W.  M.  Praed. 

"  I  knew  it,  for  she  told  me  so  "  is  a  delicious  line. 


234  LILLY  AND  OTHERS 

A  CANON  of  my  own  in  judging  verses  is  that  no  man  has 
a  right  to  put  into  metre  what  he  can  as  v/ell  say  out  of  metre. 
To  which  I  may  add,  as  a  corollary,  that  afortiore  he  has  no 
right  to  put  into  metre  what  he  can  better  say  out  of  metre. 

W.  S.  Lilly. 
Essay  on  George  Eliot. 


Aujourd'hui,  ce  qui  ne  vaut  pas  la  peine  d'etre  dit,  on  le 
chante. 

(Nowadaj's,  when  a  thing  is  not  worth  saying  they  sing  it — i.e.  put 
it  in  a  song  or  poem.) 

Beaumarchais. 
Le  Barhier  de  Seville,  Act  L  Sc.  i. 


I  DO  not  know  whether  I  gave  you  at  any  time  the  details 
of  my  work  here,  or  the  principles  upon  which  I  have  been 
proceeding.  .  .  .  Some  of  the  work  set  down  includes 
Ancient  Ethics — which  is  almost  entirely  grossly  wrong  and 
great  rubbish  also.  This  part  I  have  persistently  refused  to 
get  up,  not  because  I  disliked  it,  but  because  it  is  decidedly 
injurious  to  v/arp  and  twist  the  brain  by  impressing  it  with 
wrong  thoughts  and  systems — just  as  it  would  be  insane  in 
the  polisher  of  a  mirror  to  think  it  would  reflect  the  external 
world  more  truly  if  he  gave  it  a  dint  here,  a  scratch  there, 
a  bulge  in  another  place,  and  so  forth.  It  would  take  me 
too  long  to  describe  the  details.  Suffice  it  to  say  that  one 
of  the  examiners  in  Mental  Philosophy  and  in  Moral  and 
Political  Philosophy  is  an  old,  hli?id  (literally)  man  of  the 
old  school,  who  gave  a  very  abnormally  large  amount  of 
questions  relating  to  Ancient  Ethics,  and  an  abnormally 
large  amount  to  the  early  part  of  English  Ethics — leaving 
hardly  any  marks  to  be  scored  by  thorough  understanding 
and  abihty  to  use  the  principles  of  the  subjects. 

The  consequence  was  that  those,  who  had  crammed  up 
the  earlier  text-books  and  could  reproduce  them,  had  an 
enormous  advantage.  This  old  fogey  moreover  is  strongly 
anti-Spencerian.  Indeed  I  heard  that  he  had  objected  to 
my  answers  because  "  there  was  too  much  of  Spencer  and 
myself  "  !  So  that  instead  of  criticism  and  originality,  he 
avowedly  preferred  mere  reproduction,  a  good  example  of 


HODGSON  235 

the  slavishness  of  that  method  of  examination  predominant 
mostly,  which,  as  Spencer  wrote  to  me  some  time  ago,  is 
devised  for  testing  a  man's  "  power  of  acquisition  instead  of 
using  that  which  has  been  acquired." 

Richard  Hodgson. 
Letter,  Dec.  1881. 

This  letter  was  written  to  nie  from  Cambridge,  when  Hodgson  (see 
Preface)  had  found  his  immediate  prospects  blasted  by  the  results  of  the 
Moral  Science  Tripos.  No  one  was  placed  in  the  First  Class,  and  he 
(although  at  the  head  of  the  Tripos)  only  in  the  Second  Class.  This 
meant  that  he  had  no  hope  of  a  Fellowship,  which  would  have  enabled 
him  to  go  on  with  original  work  in  philosophy,  and  he  would  have  to 
employ  his  time  in  earning  a  livelihood.  Added  to  this  was  the  cruel 
disappointment  to  his  family  and  friends. 

Hodgson  was  one  of  the  most  gifted  men  that  Australia  has  produced. 
He  had  completed  his  M.A.  and  LL.D.  courses  in  Melbourne  by  1877, 
when  he  was  twenty-two  years  of  age,  and  then,  discarding  the  profession 
of  the  law,  left  for  Cambridge  to  read  Mental  and  Moral  Science.  While 
still  an  undergraduate  there  he  had  wi-itten  an  article  in  reply  to  T.  H. 
Green,  and  submitted  it  to  Herbert  Spencer,  who  highly  approved  of  it, 
and  sent  it  to  the  Contemporary .  However,  as  stated  above,  Hodgson's 
immediate  future  depended  on  the  result  of  the  examination.  (He  was  at 
the  time  preparing  one  of  the  articles  he  contributed  to  Mind,  and  had  in 
view  further  original  work.) 

When  the  result  of  the  Tripos  appeared,  Henry  Sidgwick  and  Venn, 
Vv^ho  were  then  Lecturers  and  by  far  the  best  Moral  Science  men  in  Cam- 
bridge, came  to  sympathize  with  Hodgson  on  the  unfair  result.  They 
urged  him  to  go  to  Germany  so  that  he  might  acquire  that  perfect  com- 
mand of  the  German  language  which  was  necessary  for  his  philosophic 
work.  On  learning  that  he  was  not  in  a  position  to  do  this,  Sidgwick 
insisted — as  he  said,  "  in  the  interests  of  philosophy  " — on  defraying  tke 
whole  of  the  expenses  of  Hodgson's  residence  in  Germany.  As  he  insisted 
strongly,  Hodgson  accepted  the  offer,  and  went  to  Jena,  armed  with  a  very 
flattering  letter  of  introduction  from  Herbert  Spencer  to  Haeckel. 

Almost  immediately  after  his  return  from  Germany  the  Society  for 
Psychical  Research  was  founded,  and  Hodgson  joined  it.  He  came  to 
the  conclusion  that  the  v/ork  of  this  Society  was  more  important  than 
any  other  study,  while  probably  it  would  also  be  of  fundamental  assistance 
to  philosophy.  He  went  out  to  India  in  1884,  and  thoroughly  exposed 
Madame  Blavatsky  and  her  "  Theosophy,"  and,  from  about  1886,  devoted 
the  rest  of  his  life  to  Psychical  Research.  Although  maintaining  his 
reading  and  his  intimacy  with  Henry  Sidgwick,  William  James,  and 
others,  his  services  practically  became  lost  to  philosophy.  This,  however, 
does  not  affect  the  important  fact  illustrated  by  the  Tripos  incident.  We 
learn  what  ineptitude  can  exist  in  a  great  university,  and  what  grave 
results  must  necessarily  follow  therefrom. 

Although  Hodgson  was  writing  under  stress  of  a  grievous  calamity 
(yet  with  a  dauntless  heart — see  verse  on  Dedication  page),  his  remarks 
on  Ancient  Ethics  are  not,  in  my  opinion,  exaggerated. 

Herbert  Spencer's  remark  to  Hodgson  about  examinations  may  also 
be  noted. 


236  SHELLEY— WORDSWORTH 

Prometheus.    And  thou,  O  Mother  Earth  ! 

Earth.     I  hear,  I  feel 
Thy  Hps  are  on  me,  and  their  touch  runs  down 
Even  to  the  adamantine  central  gloom 
Along  these  marble  nerves  ;  'tis  life,  'tis  joy. 
And,  through  my  withered,  old,  and  icy  frame. 
The  warmth  of  an  immortal  youth  shoots  down 
Circling.     Henceforth  the  many  children  fair 
Folded  in  my  sustaining  arms  ;  all  plants. 
And  creeping  forms,  and  insects  rainbow- winged. 
And  birds,  and  beasts,  and  fish,  and  human  shapes, 
Which  drew  disease  and  pain  from  my  wan  bosom 
Draining  the  poison  of  despair,  shall  take 
And  interchange  sweet  nutriment. 

Shelley. 
Prometheus  Unbound,  HL  3. 

In  Shelley's  great  poem,  Prometheus  is  not  merely  the  Titan  who, 
having  stolen  fire  from  heaven  to  benefit  man,  was  chained  to  a  pillar 
while  an  eagle  tore  at  his  vitals  ;  he  is  the  spirit  of  humanity.  Man  has 
(through  superstition)  given  the  god,  Zeus,  great  powers  which  he  uses 
to  enslave  and  oppress  man's  own  mind  and  body.  Ultimately  the  god 
is  overthrown,  Prometheus,  the  spirit  of  man,  is  released,  and  the  world 
enters  upon  its  progress  towards  perfection. 

This  and  the  following  quotations  are  from  a  collection  of  references 
to  Mother-Earth,  which  I  had  begun  to  put  together. 


From  my  wings  are  shaken  the  dews  that  waken 

The  sweet  buds  every  one. 
When  rocked  to  rest  on  their  mother's  breast. 
As  she  dances  about  the  sun. 

Shelley. 
The  Cloud. 


Long  have  I  loved  what  I  behold, 

The  night  that  calms,  the  day  that  cheers  ; 

The  common  growth  of  mother-earth 

Suffices  me — her  tears,  her  mirth. 

Her  humblest  mirth  and  tears. 

Wordsworth. 
Peter  Bell. 


COLERIDGE  AND  OTHERS  237 

Say,  mysterious  Earth  !     O  say,  great  mother  and  goddess, 
Was  it  not  well  with  thee  then,  when  first  thy  lap  was  un- 

girdled. 
Thy  lap  to  the  genial  Heaven,  the  day  that  he  wooed  thee 

and  won  thee  !  .  .  . 
Myriad  myriads  of  lives  teemed  forth  from  the  mighty 

embracement ; 
Thousand-fold  tribes  of  dwellers,  impelled  by  thousand-fold 

instincts, 
Filled,  as  a  dream,  the  wide  waters  ;  the  rivers  sang  on  their 

channels  ; 
Laughed  on  their  shores  the  wide  seas  ;  the  yearning  ocean 

swelled  upward  ; 
Young  life  lowed  through  the  meadows,  the  woods,  and  the 

echoing  mountains. 
Wandered  bleating  in  valleys,  and  warbled  on  blossoming 

branches. 

S.  T.  Coleridge. 
Hytnn  to  the  Earth. 

An  imitation  of  Stolberg's  Hymne  an  die  Erde. 


For  Nature  ever  faithful  is 

To  such  as  trust  her  faithfulness. 

When  the  forest  shall  mislead  me. 

When  the  night  and  morning  lie, 

When  sea  and  land  refuse  to  feed  me, 

'Twill  be  time  enough  to  die. 

Then  will  yet  my  mother  yield 

A  pillow  in  her  greenest  field 

Nor  the  June  flowers  scorn  to  cover 

The  clay  of  their  departed  lover. 

R.  W.  Emerson. 
Woodnotes. 


So  mayst  thou  live,  till  like  ripe  fruit  thou  drop 
Into  thy  mother's  lap. 

Milton. 
Paradise  Lost,  XL  535. 


238  SHELLEY  AND  OTHERS 

SONG  OF  PROSERPINE 

Sacred  Goddess,  Mother  Earth 
Thou  from  whose  immortal  bosom 

Gods,  and  men,  and  beasts  have  birth. 
Leaf  and  blade,  and  bud  and  blossom. 

Breathe  thine  influence  most  divine 

On  thine  own  child,  Proserpine. 

If  with  mists  of  evening  dew 

Thou  dost  nourish  these  young  flowers 

Till  they  grow,  in  scent  and  hue. 
Fairest  children  of  the  Hours, 

Breathe  thine  influence  most  divine 

On  thine  own  child,  Proserpine.        ^ 

oHELLEY. 

Proserpine,  daughter  of  Ceres,  whilst  gathering  flowers  with  her  play- 
mates at  Enna  in  Sicily,  was  carried  off  by  Pluto,  also  called  Dis,  god  of 
the  dead.  (For  two-thirds,  or,  according  to  later  writers,  one-half  of 
each  year,  she  returns  to  the  earth,  bringing  spring  and  summer.) 

That  fair  field 
Of  Enna,  where  Proserpine  gathering  flowers, 
Herself  a  fairer  flower,  by  gloomy  Dis 
Was  gathered  ;  which  cost  Ceres  all  that  pain 
To  seek  her  through  the  world. 

Paradise  Lost,  IV.  269. 


Like  a  shadow  thrown 
Softly  and  lightly  from  a  passing  cloud. 
Death  fell  upon  him,  Vv^hile  reclined  he  lay 
For  noontide  solace  on  the  summer  grass, 
The  warm  lap  of  his  mother  earth. 

Wordsworth. 
Excursion,  VII.  286. 


And  O  green  bounteous  Earth  ! 
Bacchante  Mother  !  stern  to  those 
V/ho  live  not  in  thy  heart  of  mirth  ; 
Death  shall  I  shrink  from,  loving  thee  ? 
Into  the  breast  that  gives  the  rose 
Shall  I  with  shuddering  fall  ? 

George  Meredith. 
Ode  to  the  Spirit  of  Earth  in  Autumn. 


MACDONALD  AND  OTHERS  239 

And  .  .  .  the  rich  winds  blow, 

And  .  .  .  the  waters  go, 

And  the  birds  for  joy,  and  the  trees  for  prayer. 

Bowing  their  heads  in  the  sunny  air  ... 

All  make  a  music,  gentle  and  strong, 

Bound  by  the  heart  into  one  sweet  song  ; 

And  amidst  them  all,  the  mother  Earth 

Sits  with  the  children  of  her  birth  .  .  . 

Go  forth  to  her  from  the  dark  and  the  dust 

And  weep  beside  her,  if  weep  thou  must  ; 

If  she  may  not  hold  thee  to  her  breast. 

Like  a  weary  infant,  that  cries  for  rest  ; 

At  least  she  will  press  thee  to  her  knee 

And  tell  a  low,  sweet  tale  to  thee, 

Till  the  hue  to  thy  cheek,  and  the  light  to  thine  eye, 

Strength  to  thy  limbs,  and  courage  high 

To  thy  fainting  heart  return  amain. 

George  MacDonald. 
Phantastes. 

Hold  thee  to  her  breast,  give  rest  in  death. 


Ne  deeth,  alias  !  ne  wol  nat  han  my  life  ;  will  not  take 

Thus  walke  I,  lyk  a  restelees  caityf,  restless  wretch 

And  on  the  ground,  which  is  my  modres  gate,  mother's 
I  knokke  with  my  staf,  both  erly  and  late, 
And  seye,  "  leve  moder,  leet  me  in  !                say,  "  Dear  mother 

Lo,  how  I  vanish,  flesh,  and  blood,  and  skin  !  waste  away" 
Alias  !  whan  shul  my  bones  be  at  reste  ?  " 

Chaucer. 
The  Pardoner's  Tale. 


Who  would  loose. 
Though  full  of  pain,  this  intellectual  being. 
Those  thoughts  that  wander  through  eternity, 
To  perish  rather,  swallowed  up  and  lost 
In  the  wide  womb  of  uncreated  night  ? 

Milton. 
Paradise  Lost,  II.  146. 

"  Loose  " — by  committing  suicide. 


240  E.  B.  BROWNING 


THE  MUSICAL  INSTRUMENT 

He  tore  out  a  reed,  the  great  god  Pan, 
From  the  deep  cool  bed  of  the  river  : 

The  limpid  water  turbidly  ran, 

And  the  broken  lilies  a-dying  lay, 

And  the  dragon-fly  had  fled  away. 
Ere  he  brought  it  out  of  the  river. 

High  on  the  shore  sat  the  great  god  Pan, 

While  turbidly  flowed  the  river  ; 
And  hacked  and  hewed  as  a  great  god  can, 
With  his  hard  bleak  steel  at  the  patient  reed, 
Till  there  was  not  a  sign  of  a  leaf  indeed 

To  prove  it  fresh  from  the  river.  .  .  . 

"  This  is  the  way,"  laughed  the  great  god  Pan, 

(Laughed  while  he  sat  by  the  river), 
"  The  only  way,  since  gods  began 
To  make  sweet  music,  they  could  succeed." 
Then,  dropping  his  mouth  to  a  hole  in  the  reed, 
He  blew  in  power  by  the  river. 

Sweet,  sweet,  sweet,  O  Pan  ! 

Piercing  sweet  by  the  river  ! 
Blinding  sweet,  O  great  god  Pan  ! 
The  sun  on  the  hill  forgot  to  die. 
And  the  lilies  revived,  and  the  dragon-fly 

Came  back  to  dream  on  the  river. 

Yet  half  a  beast  is  the  great  god  Pan, 

To  laugh  as  he  sits  by  the  river. 
Making  a  poet  out  of  a  man  : 
The  true  gods  sigh  for  the  cost  and  pain, — 
For  the  reed  which  grows  nevermore  again 

As  a  reed  with  the  reeds  in  the  river. 

E.  B.  Browning. 


There  is  little  merit  in  inventing  a  happy  idea,  or  attrac- 
tive situation,  so  long  as  it  is  only  the  author's  voice  which 
we  hear.     As  a  being  whom  we  have  called  into  life  by  magic 


NIEBUHR  AND  OTHERS  241 

arts,  as  soon  as  it  has  received  existence,  acts  independently 
of  the  master's  impulse,  so  the  poet  creates  his  persons,  and 
then  watches  and  relates  what  they  do  and  say.  Such 
creation  is  poetry  in  the  literal  sense  of  the  term,  and  its 
possibility  is  an  unfathomable  enigma.  The  gushing  full- 
ness of  speech  belongs  to  the  poet,  and  it  flows  from  the  lips 
of  each  of  his  magic  beings  in  the  thoughts  and  words 
peculiar  to  its  nature.  t^t 

^  NiEBUHR. 

Letters,  etc.,  vol.  iii.  196. 


Poetry  is  not  like  reasoning,  a  power  to  be  exerted 

according  to  the  determination  of  the  will.     A  man  cannot 

say,  "  I   will  compose   poetry."     The  greatest   poet  even 

cannot  say  it  ;   for  the  mind  in  creation  is  as  a  fading  coal, 

which  some  invisible  influence,  like  an  inconstant  wind, 

awakens  to  transitory  brightness  ;    this  power  arises  from 

within,  like  the  colour  of  a  flower  which  fades  and  changes 

as  it  is  developed  ;  and  the  conscious  portions  of  our  nature 

are  unprophetic  either  of  its   approach   or  its   departure. 

Could  this  influence  be  durable  in  its  original  purity  and 

force,  it  is  impossible  to  predict  the  greatness  of  the  results  ; 

but,  when  composition  begins,  inspiration  is  already  on  the 

decline — and  the  most  glorious  poetry  that  has  ever  been 

communicated  to  the  world  is  probably  a  feeble  shadow  of 

the  original  conceptions  of  the  poet.  ^^ 

^  ^  ^  Shelley. 

A  Defence  of  Poetry. 


I  AM  thankful  for  small  mercies.  I  compared  notes  with 
one  of  my  friends  who  expects  everything  of  the  universe, 
and  is  disappointed  when  anything  is  less  than  the  best  ;  and 
I  found  that  I  begin  at  the  other  extreme,  expecting  nothing, 
and  am  ahvays  full  of  thanks  for  moderate  goods.  ...  In 
the  morning  I  awake,  and  find  the  old  v/orld,  wife,  babes  and 
mother.  Concord  and  Boston,  the  dear  old  spiritual  world, 
and  even  the  dear  old  devil  not  far  oflF.  If  we  will  take  the 
good  we  find,  asking  no  questions,  v;e  shall  have  heaping 
measures.  The  great  gifts  are  not  got  by  analysis.  Every- 
thing  good  is  on  the  highway.  ^   ^^   Emerson. 

Essay  on  Experience. 

R 


242  OUIDA— ARNOLD 

When  the  white  block  of  marble  shines  so  solid  and  so 

costly,  who  remembers  that  it  was  once  made  up  of  decaying 

shell  and  rotting  bones  and  millions  of  dying  insect-lives, 

pressed  to  ashes  ere  the  rare  stone  was  ?  ^,      , 

Lnandos. 


The  madness  that  starves  and  is  silent  for  an  idea  is  an 
insanity,  scouted  by  the  world  and  the  gods.  For  it  is  an 
insanity  unfruitful — except  to  the  future.  And  for  the 
future,  who  cares — save  those  madmen  themselves  ? 


.  .  .  The  gods  that  most  of  all  have  pity  on  man,  the  gods 
of  the  Night  and  of  the  Grave. 


Our  eyes  are  set  to  the  light,  but  our  feet  are  fixed  in  the  mire. 
Folle-Farine. 

"  If  the  cucumber  be  bitter,  throw  it  away,"  says 
Antoninus  :  do  the  same  with  a  thought.  .  .  .  There  is 
no  cucumber  so  heavy  that  one  cannot  throw  it  over  som.e 

wall.  rp    '       .    . 

I  ncotnn. 
OuiDA. 

Marcus  Aurelius  Antoninus,  A.D.  120-180,  the  Roman  emperor  and 
Stoic  philosopher,  is  the  author  of  the  well-known  Meditations.  The 
quotation  is  from  Bk.  VIII.:  "The  gourd  is  bitter;  drop  it,  then! 
There  are  brambles  in  the  path  ;  then  turn  aside  !  It  is  enough.  Do 
not  go  on  to  argue,  Why  pray  have  these  things  a  place  in  the  world  ?  " 
etc. 

These  quotations  from  Ouida  (Marie  Louise  de  la  Ram6e)  may  serve 
to  illustrate  the  saying  of  Pliny  the  Elder,  "  No  book  is  so  bad  but  some 
good  may  be  got  out  of  it"  (Pliny  the  Younger's  Letters,  III.  io)^a 
saying  which  was  no  doubt  true  until  printing  let  loose  on  the  world  such 
a  multitude  of  worthless  writers. 


Is  the  calm  thine  of  stoic  souls,  who  weigh 
Life  well,  and  find  it  wanting,  nor  deplore  ; 
But  in  disdainful  silence  turn  away, 
Stand  mute,  self-centred,  stern,  and  dream  no  more  ? 

Matthev/  Arnold. 
To  a  Gipsy  Child. 


BUCHANAN— SWINBURNE  243 

WHEN  WE  ALL  ARE  ASLEEP 

When  He  returns,  and  finds  the  World  so  drear — 

All  sleeping, — young  and  old,  unfair  and  fair, 
Will  He  stoop  down  and  whisper  in  each  ear, 

"  Awaken  !  "  or  for  pity's  sake  forbear, — 

Saying,  "  How  shall  I  meet  their  frozen  stare 
Of  wonder,  and  their  eyes  so  full  of  fear  ? 

How  shall  I  comfort  them  in  their  despair. 
If  they  cry  out,  '  Too  late  !  let  us  sleep  here  '  ?  " 
Perchance  He  will  not  wake  us  up,  but  when 

He  sees  us  look  so  happy  in  our  rest. 
Will  murmur,  "  Poor  dead  women  and  dead  men  ! 

Dire  was  their  doom,  and  weary  was  their  quest. 
Wherefore  awake  them  into  life  again  ? 

Let  them  sleep  on  untroubled — it  is  best." 

R.  Buchanan. 


Before  the  beginning  of  years 

There  came  to  the  making  of  man 
Time,  with  a  gift  of  tears  ; 

Grief,  with  a  glass  that  ran  ; 
Pleasure,  with  pain  for  leaven  ; 

Summer,  with  flowers  that  fell  ; 
Remembrance  fallen  from  heaven. 

And  madness  risen  from  hell  ; 
Strength  without  hands  to  smite  ; 

Love  that  endures  for  a  breath  ; 
Night,  the  shadow  of  light. 

And  life,  the  shadow  of  death. 

And  the  high  gods  took  in  hand 

Fire,  and  the  falling  of  tears. 
And  a  measure  of  sliding  sand 

From  under  the  feet  of  the  years  ; 
And  froth  and  drift  of  the  sea  ; 

And  dust  of  the  labouring  earth  ; 
And  bodies  of  things  to  be 

In  the  houses  of  death  and  of  birth  ; 
And  wrought  with  weeping  and  laughter, 

And  fashioned  with  loathing  and  love. 
With  life  before  and  after 

And  death  beneath  and  above, 


244  SWINBURNE— ODYSSEY 

For  a  day  and  a  night  and  a  morrow, 

That  his  strength  might  endure  for  a  span 

With  travail  and  heavy  sorrow, 
The  holy  spirit  of  man. 

From  the  winds  of  the  north  and  the  south 

They  gathered  as  unto  strife  ; 
They  breathed  upon  his  mouth. 

They  filled  his  body  with  life  ; 
Eyesight  and  speech  they  wrought 

For  the  veils  of  the  soul  therein, 
A  time  for  labour  and  thought, 

A  time  to  serve  and  to  sin  ; 
They  gave  him  light  in  his  ways. 

And  love,  and  a  space  for  delight. 
And  beauty  and  length  of  days, 

And  night,  and  sleep  in  the  night. 
His  speech  is  a  burning  fire  ; 

With  his  lips  he  travaileth  ; 
In  his  heart  is  a  blind  desire, 

In  his  eyes  foreknowledge  of  death  ; 
He  weaves,  and  is  clothed  with  derision  ; 

Sows,  and  he  shall  not  reap  ; 
His  life  is  a  watch  or  a  vision 

Between  a  sleep  and  a  sleep. 

SV^INBURNE. 

Atalanta  in  Calydon. 

In  the  first  stanza  "  Time  "  and  "  Grief  "  would  seem  to  have  been 
transposed — thus  meaning  that  Time  brings  tears  and  Grief  comes  to 
an  end. 


She  [the  ship  of  Odysseus]  came  to  the  limits  of  the 
world,  to  the  deep  flowing  Oceanus.  There  is  the  land  and 
the  city  of  the  Cimmerians,  shrouded  in  mist  and  cloud ; 
and  never  does  the  shining  sun  look  down  on  them  with  his 
rays,  neither  when  he  climbs  up  the  starry  heavens,  nor 
when  again  he  turns  earthward  from  the  firmament,  but 
deadly  night  is  outspread  over  miserable  mortals.  Thither 
we  came  and  ran  the  ship  ashore  and  took  out  the  sheep  ; 
but  for  our  part  we  held  on  our  way  along  the  stream  of 
Oceanus,  till  we  came  to  the  place  v/hich  Circe  had  declared 
to  us. 

There  Perimedes  and  Eurylochus  held  the  victims,  but 


ODYSSEY  245 

I  drew  my  sharp  sword  from  my  thigh,  and  dug  a  pit,  as  it 
were  a  cubit  in  length  and  breadth,  and  about  it  poured  a 
drink-offering  to  all  the  dead,  first  with  mead  and  thereafter 
with  sweet  wine  and  for  the  third  time  with  water.  .  .  . 
When  I  had  besought  the  tribes  of  the  dead  with  vows  and 
prayers,  I  took  the  sheep  and  cut  their  throats  over  the 
trench,  and  the  dark  blood  flowed  forth :  and  lo,  the  spirits 
of  the  dead  that  be  departed  gathered  them  from  out  of 
Erebus.  Brides  and  youths  unwed,  and  old  men  of  many 
and  evil  days,  and  tender  maidens  with  grief  yet  fresh  at 
heart  ;  and  many  there  were,  wounded  with  bronze-shod 
spears,  men  slain  in  fight  with  their  bloody  mail  about  them. 
And  these  many  ghosts  flocked  together  from  every  side 
about  the  trench  with  a  wondrous  cry,  and  pale  fear  gat  hold 
on  me.  ...  I  drew  the  sharp  sword  from  my  thigh  and 
sat  there,  suff'ering  not  the  strengthless  heads  of  the  dead 
to  draw  nigh  to  the  blood,  ere  I  had  word  of  Teiresias.  .  .  . 

Anon  came  up  the  soul  of  my  mother  dead,  Anticleia,  the 
daughter  of  Autolycus  the  great-hearted,  whom  I  left  alive 
when  I  departed  for  sacred  llios.  At  the  sight  of  her  I  wept, 
and  was  moved  with  compassion,  yet  even  so,  for  all  my  sore 
grief,  I  suffered  her  not  to  draw  nigh  to  the  blood,  ere  I  had 
word  of  Teiresias. 

Anon  came  the  soul  of  Theban  Teiresias,  with  a  golden 

sceptre  in  his  hand,  and  he  knew  me  and  spake  unto  me  : 

"  Son  of  Laertes,  of  the  seed  of  Zeus,  Odysseus  of  many 

devices,  what  seekest  thou  now,  wretched  man — wherefore 

hast  thou  left  the  sunlight  and  come  hither  to  behold  the 

dead  and  a  land  desolate  of  joy  ?     Nay,  hold  off  from  the 

ditch  and  draw  back  thy  sharp  sword,  that  I  may  drink  of 

the  blood  and  tell  thee  sooth."     So  spake  he,  and  I  put  up 

my  silver-studded  sword  into  the  sheath,  and  when  he  had 

drunk  the  dark  blood,  even  then  did  the  noble  seer  speak 

unto  me.  ...  ^  th    vt 

Odyssey,  Bk.  XI. 

Butcher  and  Lang's  translation. 

In  this  weird  scene  Odysseus  is  summoning  the  shade  of  Teiresias 
from  the  under- world.  He  has  with  his  sword  to  keep  off  the  host  of 
spirits,  including  that  of  his  own  mother,  whom  the  spilt  blood  has 
attracted — and  the  hero  is  himself  terrified  at  the  awful  spectacle. 

What  adds  to  the  interest  of  such  a  passage  is  that  to  the  ancient 
Greeks  this  was  no  imaginary  picture  but  a  statement  of  actual  facts. 
Homer  was,  indeed,  their  Bible.  It  will  be  observed  that  the  dead  live 
in  a  dark  land,  "  desolate  of  joy." 

To  the  little-travelled  Greeks  the  ocean  was  a  river. 


246  R.  BROWNING— SWINBURNE 

For — see  your  cellarage  ! 

There  are  forty  barrels  with  Shakespeare's  brand, 
Some  five  or  six  are  abroach  :  the  rest 
Stand  spigoted,  fauceted.     Try  and  test 
What  yourselves  call  best  of  the  very  best  ! 

How  comes  it  that  still  untouched  they  stand  ? 
Why  don't  you  try  tap,  advance  a  stage 
With  the  rest  in  cellarage  ? 

For — see  your  cellarage  ! 

There  are  four  big  butts  of  Milton's  brew, 
How  comes  it  you  make  old  drips  and  drops 
Do  duty,  and  there  devotion  stops  ? 
Leave  such  an  abyss  of  malt  and  hops 

Embellied  in  butts  which  bungs  still  glue  ? 
You  hate  your  bard  !     A  fig  for  your  rage  ! 
Free  him  from  cellarage  ! 

R,  Browning. 
Epilogue  to  Pacchiarotto  and  other  Poems. 


Though  the  seasons  of  man  full  of  losses 

Make  empty  the  years  full  of  youth. 
If  but  one  thing  be  constant  in  crosses. 

Change  lays  not  her  hand  upon  truth  ; 
Hopes  die,  and  their  tombs  are  for  token 

That  the  grief  as  the  joy  of  them  ends 
Ere  time  that  breaks  all  men  has  broken 

The  faith  between  friends. 

Though  the  many  lights  dwindle  to  one  light, 
There  is  help  if  the  heaven  has  one  ; 

Though  the  skies  be  discrowned  of  the  sunlight 
And  the  earth  dispossessed  of  the  sun, 

They  have  moonlight  and  sleep  for  repayment, 
When,  refreshed  as  a  bride  and  set  free, 

With  stars  and  sea-winds  in  her  raiment, 

Night  sinks  on  the  sea.  ^ 

^  Swinburne. 

Dedication,  1865. 

It  is  hardly  possible  for  a  younger  generation  to  realize  the  almost 
intoxicating  effect  produced  upon  us  by  Swinburne's  new  melodies. 
Although  the  Poems  and  Ballads  were  largely  erotic,  the  curious  fact  is 


SWINBURNE  247 

that  we  were  too  much  carried  away  by  the  beauty  and  swing  of  his  verse 
to  trouble  about  the  sensual  element  in  it.  That  element  was  in  itself 
an  artificial  production  and  not  a  reflection  of  the  poet's  own  emotions, 
for  he  was  free  from  sensuality.  It  was  with  us  more  a  question  of 
music.  Swinburne  himself  preferred  a  musical  word  or  line  to  one  that 
would  more  aptly  express  his  meaning  ;  and  in  the  "  Dedication,"  from 
which  the  above  verses  are  quoted,  several  lines  will  not  bear  analysis. 
However,  this  was  one  of  our  favourites  among  his  poems  : 

O  daughters  of  dreams  and  of  stories 

That  life  is  not  wearied  of  yet, 
Faustine,  Fragoletta,  Dolores, 

Felise  and  Yolande  and  Juliette, 
Shall  I  find  you  not  still,  shall  I  miss  you, 

When  sleep,  that  is  true  or  that  seems, 
Comes  back  to  me  hopeless  to  kiss  you, 

O  daughters  of  dreams  ? 

They  are  past  as  a  slumber  that  passes, 

As  the  dew  of  a  dawn  of  old  time  ; 
More  frail  than  the  shadov.s  on  glasses, 

More  fleet  than  a  wave  or  a  rhyme. 
As  the  waves  after  ebb  drawing  seaward, 

When  their  hollows  are  full  of  the  night. 
So  the  birds  that  flew  singing  to  me-ward 

Recede  out  of  sight. 

He  asks  that  his  wild  "  storm-birds  of  passion  "  may  find  a  home  in 
our  calmer  world  : 

In  their  wings  though  the  sea-wind  yet  quivers, 

Will  you  spare  not  a  space  for  them  there 
Made  green  with  the  running  of  rivers 

And  gracious  with  temperate  air  ; 
In  the  fields  and  the  turreted  cities. 

That  cover  from  sunshine  and  rain 
Fair  passions  and  bountiful  pities 

And  loves  without  stain  ? 

In  a  land  of  clear  colours  and  stories, 

In  a  region  of  shadowless  hours. 
Where  earth  has  a  garment  of  glories 

And  a  murmur  of  musical  flowers  ; 
In  woods  where  the  spring  half  uncovers 

The  flush  of  her  amorous  face. 
By  the  waters  that  listen  for  lovers 

For  these  is  there  place  ? 

Though  the  world  of  your  hands  be  more  gracious 

And  lovelier  in  lordship  of  things. 
Clothed  round  by  sweet  art  with  the  spacious 

Warm  heaven  of  her  imminent  wings. 
Let  them  enter,  unfledged  and  nigh  fainting, 

For  the  love  of  old  loves  and  lost  times  ; 
And  receive  in  your  palace  of  painting 

This  revel  of  rhymes. 

Then  come   the   final  verses   quoted   above.     These   are   somewhat 


4 

248  SWINBURNE^HEINE 

detached  in  meaning  from  the  rest,  and  form  a  sort  of  Envoi  :  "  Whatever 
changes  or  passes,  there  is  always  some  beautiful  thing  that  survives." 

Swinburne's  place  in  the  great  world  of  English  poetry  is  a  very 
peculiar  one.  He  had  no  important  message  to  deliver.  It  was  he  v/ho 
introduced  the  new  Hellenism  or  paganism,  which  was  followed  by 
Pater  and  J.  A.  Symonds,  and  ended  with  Oscar  Wilde  (see  p.  354). 
On  the  other  hand,  by  his  wonderful  mastery  of  metre  and  language,  the 
magical  efi^ct  of  his  new  melodies,  he  was  of  tremendous  service  in 
transforming  all  later  poetry.  Yet  here  again  he  was  wanting  in  the  art 
(of  which  Milton  is  the  supreme  example)  of  varying  his  rhythm  and 
accents.  Notwithstanding  the  fine  language  and  the  splendid  swing 
of  his  verses,  the  extreme  regularity  produces  in  his  longer  poems  a 
certain  effect  of  monotony.  Swinburne  spoke  of  the  "  spavined  and 
spur-galled  Pegasus  "  of  George  Eliot,  but,  although  she  lacked  his 
great  lyrical  melody,  she  Vv'as  more  artistic  and  effective  than  he  in 
varying  the  rhythm  of  her  verse.  However,  his  immense  influence  on 
all  subsequent  poetry  should  never  be  forgotten.  Even  the  dreary 
iambic  couplet  he  made  musical. 

As  might  be  expected,  Swinburne  was  much  parodied  (and  indeed  in 
the  Heptalogia  and  in  the  poems  lately  published  he  parodied  himself). 
The  above  poem  has  been  cleverly  parodied  by  a  lawyer.  Sir  Frederick 
Pollock.  (Although  parodies  go  as  far  back  as  the  Fifth  Century  B.C. 
I  know  of  no  other  la^vyer  who,  qua  law^^er,  has  successfully  taken  a  hand 
in  the  game.)  In  his  parody  Pollock's  subject  was  the  great  changes 
effected  by  the  Judicature  Act,  when  the  old  Courts  of  Common  Law, 
Chancery,  and  others  were  consolidated  into  one  Supreme  Court,  and 
the  various  classes  of  business  assigned  to  different  "  Divisions."  Also 
owing  to  changes  in  procedure,  much  of  the  old  technical  learning 
became  obsolete.  His  last  verse  is  as  follows  (compare  with  the  second 
verse  quoted  above)  : 

Though  the  Courts  that  were  manifold  dwindle 

To  divers  Divisions  of  one. 
And  no  fire  from  your  face  may  rekindle 

The  light  of  old  learning  undone. 
We  have  suitors  and  briefs  for  our  pa^-ment, 

While,  so  long  as  a  Court  shall  hold  pleas. 
We  talk  moonshine  with  wigs  for  our  raiment, 

Not  sinking  the  fees. 


A  PINE-TREE  Stands  all  lonely 

On  a  northern  hill-top  bare, 
And,  wrapped  in  its  snowy  mantle. 

It  slumbers  peacefully  there. 

Its  dream.s  are  of  a  palm-tree, 

Far-off  in  the  morning  land, 
Which  in  lone  silence  sorrows 

On  a  burning,  rocky  strand. 

Heinrich  Heine. 


KINGSLEY  AND  OTHERS  249 

WuLF  died,  as  he  had  Hved,  a  heathen.  Placidia,  who 
loved  him  well,  as  she  loved  ail  righteous  and  noble  souls, 
had  succeeded  once  in  persuading  him  to  accept  baptism. 
Adolf  himself  acted  as  one  of  his  sponsors  ;  and  the  old 
warrior  v/as  in  the  act  of  stepping  into  the  font,  when  he 
turned  suddenly  to  the  bishop  and  asked,  "  Where  were  the 
souls  of  his  heathen  ancestors  ?  "  "  In  hell,"  replied  the 
v/orthy  prelate.  Wulf  drev/  back  from  the  font,  and  threw 
his  bearskin  cloak  around  him — "  He  would  prefer,  if  Adolf 
had  no  objection,  to  go  to  his  ov/n  people."  And  so  he  died 
unbaptized,  and  went  to  his  ov/n  place. 

Charles  Kingsley. 
Hypatia. 

This  story  appears  in  several  old  chronicles  (Notes  and  Queries,  7th 
Ser.  X.  33),  but  the  name  should  be  Radbod.  He  was  Duke  or  Chief  of 
the  Frisians,  and  the  episode  probably  occurred  in  Heligoland,  from 
which  island  he  ruled  his  people. 


The  bee  draws  forth  from  fruit  and  flower 
Sweet  dews,  that  swell  his  golden  dower  ; 
But  never  injures  by  his  kiss 
Those  who  have  made  him  rich  in  bliss. 

The  moth,  though  tortured  by  the  flame. 
Still  hovers  round  and  loves  the  same  : 
Nor  is  his  fond  attachment  less  : 

"  Alas  !  "  he  whispers,  "  can  it  be. 
Spite  of  my  ceaseless  tenderness. 

That  I  am  doomed  to  death  by  thee  ?  " 

AzY  Eddin  Elmogadessi. 
L.  S.  Costello's  translation. 

These  are  two  of  several  verses — one  referring  to  love  betrayed,  the 
other  to  love  rejected. 


We  are  scratched,  or  we  are  bitten 
By  the  pets  to  whom  we  cling  ; 

Oh,  my  Love  she  is  a  kitten, 
And  my  heart's  a  ball  of  string. 

Author  not  traced. 


250  CANNING 

THE  FRIEND  OF  HUMANITY  AND  THE 
KNIFE-GRINDER 

FRIEND   OF   HUMANITY 

"  Needy  Knife-grinder  !  whither  are  you  going  ? 
Rough  is  the  road,  your  wheel  is  out  of  order  ; 
Bleak  blows  the  blast — your  hat  has  got  a  hole  in't, 
So  have  your  breeches  ! 

"  Weary  Knife-grinder  !   little  think  the  proud  ones, 
Who  in  their  coaches  roll  along  the  turnpike- 
-road,  what  hard  work  'tis  crying  all  day  '  Knives  and 
Scissors  to  grind  O  !  ' 

"  Tell  me.  Knife-grinder,  how  you  came  to  grind  knives  ? 
Did  some  rich  man  tyrannically  use  you  ? 
Was  it  the  squire  ?  or  parson  of  the  parish  ? 
Or  the  attorney  ? 

"  Was  it  the  squire,  for  killing  of  his  game  ?  or 
Covetous  parson,  for  his  tithes  distraining  ? 
Or  roguish  lawyer,  made  you  lose  your  little 
All  in  a  lawsuit  ? 

(*'  Have  you  not  read  the  '  Rights  of  Man,'  by  Tom  Paine  ?) 
Drops  of  compassion  tremble  on  my  eyelids, 
Ready  to  fall,  as  soon  as  you  have  told  your 
Pitiful  story." 


KNIFE-GRINDER 

*'  Story  !  God  bless  you  !  I  have  none  to  tell,  sir. 
Only  last  night  a-drinking  at  the  Chequers, 
This  poor  old  hat  and  breeches,  as  you  see,  were 
Torn  in  a  scuffle. 

"  Constables  came  up,  for  to  take  me  into 
Custody  ;  they  took  me  before  the  justice  ; 
Justice  Oldmixon  put  me  in  the  parish- 
-stocks  for  a  vagrant. 


CANNING  251 

"  I  should  be  glad  to  drink  your  Honour's  health  in 
A  pot  of  beer,  if  you  will  give  me  sixpence  ; 
But  for  my  part,  I  never  love  to  meddle 
With  politics,  sir." 


FRIEND   OF   HUMANITY 

"  /  give  thee  sixpence  !  I  will  see  thee  damn'd  first — 
Wretch  !  whom  no  sense  of  wrongs  can  rouse  to  vengeance — 
Sordid,  unfeeling,  reprobate,  degraded. 
Spiritless  outcast  !  " 

{Kicks  the  Knife-grinder,  overturns  his  wheel,  and  exit  in  a 
transport  of  Republican  enthusiasm  and  universal  philan- 
thropy.) 

George  Canning. 
The  Anti-Jacobin. 

This  famous  poem  was  written  by  Canning  in  collaboration  with  John 
Hookham  Frere  for  the  Anti-Jacobin,  a  journal  intended  to  ridicule  and 
counteract  the  frothy  teachings  of  the  Jacobins  of  the  French  Revolution. 
Southey  at  first  had  Republican  views,  and  wrote  poems  which  he  sup- 
pressed when  he  becanae  a  staunch  Tory.  Canning's  verses,  written 
in  Sapphics,  are  a  parody  of  one  of  those  poems,  "  The  Widow,"  which 
was  written  in  the  same  metre  by  Southey  at  the  age  of  twenty-two. 
Froin  our  point  of  view  there  was  not  the  least  reason  why  Canning  should 
have  attacked  the  poem,  or  why  Southey  should  have  suppressed  it. 
It  is  a  pathetic  poem  of  a  poor,  ill-clad,  homeless  woman  struggling 
across  the  downs  at  night  in  a  pitiless  snowstorm,  until 

Worn  out  with  anguish,  toil  and  cold  and  hunger. 
Down  sunk  the  wanderer  ;  sleep  had  seized  her  senses. 
There  did  the  traveller  find  her  in  the  morning  ; 
God  had  released  her. 

But  there  was  little  sympathy  for  the  poor  in  those  days  ;  and 
Southey's  poem  would  have  been  considered  highly  dangerous  as  tending 
to  increase  the  discontent  created  by  the  French  Revolution,  and  to  lead 
to  a  similar  outbreak  in  England. 

Usually  there  is  no  need  to  look  for  a  reason  why  a  poem  is  parodied — 
it  is  sufficient  that  the  poem  is  very  well  known.  To  the  parodist  nothing 
is  sacred.  My  friend,  Mr.  Alfred  S.  West,  tells  me  that  even  the  lines 
which  are  said  to  be  the  most  beautiful  in  English  poetry  have  not 
escaped.  When  the  air  raids  were  occurring  nightly  in  London  there 
appeared  an  article  in  The  Times,  headed  "  Magic  Basements  "  :  "  Up- 
stairs there  is  a  chilly  propriety,  but  down  here  there  is  colour,  movement, 
excitement,  an  alluring  dash  of  strangeness — in  a  word,  Romance.  We 
have  found  it  at  last,  the  land  of  Romance — the 

Magic  basement,  opening  up  a  home 
For  perilous  folk  in  airy  raids  forlorn." 

(See  next  quotation.) 


252  KEATS  AND  OTHERS 

Thou  wast  not  born  for  death,  immortal  Bird  ! 

No  hungry  generations  tread  thee  down  ; 
The  voice  I  hear  this  passing  night  was  heard 

In  ancient  days  by  emperor  and  clown  : 
Perhaps  the  self-same  song  that  found  a  path 

Through  the  sad  heart  of  Ruth,  when,  sick  for  home, 
She  stood  in  tears  amid  the  alien  corn  ; 
The  same  that  oft-times  hath 
Charmed  magic  casements,  opening  on  the  foam 
Of  perilous  seas,  in  faery  lands  forlorn. 

Keats. 
Ode  to  a  Nightingale. 

This  is  a  wonderful  verse,  and  the  last  two  lines  are  said  to  be  the 
most  beautiful  in  English  poetry.  It  was,  I  think,  either  William  Morris 
or  Rossetti  v/ho  first  expressed  this  opinion. 


I  LOVED  him  ;  but  my  reason  bade  prefer 

Duty  to  love,  reject  the  tempter's  bribe 

Of  rose  and  lily  when  each  path  diverged, 

And  either  I  must  pace  to  life's  far  end 

As  love  should  lead  me,  or,  as  duty  urged. 

Plod  the  worn  causeway  arm-in-arm  v/ith  friend.  .  .  . 

But  deep  within  my  heart  of  hearts  there  hid 

Ever  the  confidence,  amends  for  all, 

That  heaven  repairs  what  wrong  earth's  journey  did. 

When  love  from  life-long  exile  comes  at  call. 

R,  Browning. 
Bifurcation,  1876. 

The  lady  prefers  Duty  to  Love,  but  she  will  remain  constant  to  her 
lover,  and  reunion  with  him  in  heaven  will  make  amends  for  all.  (In  the 
remainder  of  the  poem  Browning  puts  the  case  of  the  lover  who,  although 
deserted,  is  expected  to  remain  constant  through  life — and  who  falls. 
The  lady  had  disobeyed  Love,  because  of  the  hardship  and  trouble  that 
would  follow,  and  Browning,  whose  own  married  life  had  been  a  most 
happy  one,  says  this  was  no  excuse.) 


Women  never  betray  themselves  to  men  as  they  do  to 

each  other. 

George  Eliot. 

Middle  march. 


R.  BROV/NING  AND  OTHERS  253 

Some  man  of  quality 
Who — breathing  musk  from  lace-work  and  brocade, 
His  solitaire  amid  the  flow  of  frill, 
Powdered  peruke  on  nose,  and  bag  at  back. 
And  cane  dependent  from  the  ruffled  wrist, — 
Harangues  in  silvery  and  selectest  phrase, 
'Neath  waxlight  in  a  glorified  saloon 
Where  mirrors  multiply  the  girandole, 

R,  Browning. 
The  Ring  ojid  the  Book,  I. 

This  and  the  next  six  quotations  and  others  through  the  book  are 
word-pictures. 


"  Oh,  what  are  you  waiting  for  here,  young  man  ? 

What  are  you  looking  for  over  the  bridge  ?  " 
A  little  straw  hat  with  streaming  blue  ribbons  ; 

— And  here  it  comes  dancing  over  the  bridge  ! 

James  Thomson  ("  B.V."). 
Sunday  up  the  River. 


They  see  the  Heroes 

Sitting  in  the  dark  ship 

On  the  foamless,  long-heaving, 

Violet  sea, 

At  sunset  nearing 

The  Happy  Islands. 

Matthew  Arnold. 

The  Strayed  Reveller. 


Like  one,  that  on  a  lonesome  road 

Doth  walk  in  fear  and  dread. 
And  having  once  turned  round,  v/alks  on 

And  turns  no  more  his  head  : 

Because  he  knows  a  frightful  fiend 

Doth  close  behind  him  tread. 

S.  T.  Coleridge. 
The  Ancient  Mariner. 


254      BUCHANAN— WORDSWORTH 

Down  in  yonder  greene  field 
There  lies  a  knight  slain  under  his  shield  ; 
His  hounds  they  lie  down  at  his  feet, 
So  well  do  they  their  master  keep. 

Anon. 
The  Three  Ravens. 


When  we  cam'  in  by  Glasgow  toun, 
We  were  a  comely  sight  to  see  ; 

My  Love  was  clad  in  the  black  velvet, 
And  I  mysel'  in  cramasie.  crims 

Anon. 
O  waly,  waly,  up  the  bank. 


He  sat  down  in  a  lonely  land 

Of  mountain,  moor  and  mere. 
And  watched,  with  chin  upon  his  hand. 
Dark  maids  that  milked  the  deer. 

R.  Buchanan. 
Balder  the  Beautiful. 

Balder,  son  of  Odin,  is  the  god  who  loves  man  and  comes  down  from 
heaven  to  live  with  him  on  earth. 


Many  a  time 
At  evening,  when  the  earliest  stars  began 
To  move  along  the  edges  of  the  hills, 
Rising  or  setting,  would  he  stand  alone 
Beneath  the  trees  or  by  the  ghmmering  lake. 
.  .  .  Then  in  that  silence,  while  he  hung 
Listening,  a  gentle  shock  of  mild  surprise 
Has  carried  far  into  his  heart  the  voice 
Of  mountain  torrents  ;  or  the  visible  scene 
Would  enter  unawares  into  his  mind, 
With  all  its  solemn  imagery,  its  rocks, 
Its  woods,  and  that  uncertain  heaven,  received 
Into  the  bosom  of  the  steady  lake. 

Wordsworth. 
The  Prelude,  Bk.  V. 


BACON  AND  OTHERS  255 

We  take  cunning  for  a  sinister  or  crooked  wisdom  ;  and 
certainly  there  is  a  great  difference  between  a  cunning  man 
and  a  wise  man — not  only  in  point  of  honesty,  but  in  point 
of  ability. 

Bacon. 


Cunning,  being  the  ape  of  wisdom,  is  the  most  distant 
from  it  that  can  be.  And  as  an  ape  for  the  likeness  it  has 
to  a  man— wanting  what  really  should  make  him  so — is  by 
so  much  the  uglier,  cunning  is  only  the  want  of  understand- 
ing, which,  because  it  cannot  compass  its  ends  by  direct 
ways,  would  do  it  by  a  trick  and  circumvention. 

John  Locke. 
Some  Thoughts  Concerning  Education,  1693. 


A  rogue  is  a  roundabout  fool  ;  a  fool  in  circumbendibus. 

S.  T.  Coleridge. 


Let  its  teaching  [the  teaching  of  scientific  and  other  books 
of  information,  the  "  literature  of  knowledge  "]  be  even 
partially  revised,  let  it  be  expanded,  nay,  even  let  its  teaching 
be  but  placed  in  a  better  order,  and  instantly  it  is  superseded. 
¥/hereas  the  feeblest  works  in  the  literature  of  power  [poetry 
and  what  is  generally  known  as  literature],  surviving  at  all, 
survive  as  finished  and  unalterable  amongst  men.  .  .  .  The 
Iliad,  the  Prometheus  of  Aeschylus — the  Othello  or  King 
Lear — the  Hamlet  or  Macbeth — and  the  Paradise  Lost,  are 
triumphant  for  ever,  as  long  as  the  languages  exist  in  which 
they  speak  or  can  be  taught  to  speak.  They  never  can 
transmigrate  into  new  incarnations.  To  reproduce  these 
in  new  forms,  or  variations,  even  if  in  some  things  they 
should  be  improved,  would  be  to  plagiarize.  A  good  steam 
engine  is  properly  superseded  by  a  better.  But  one  lovely 
pastoral  valley  is  not  superseded  by  another,  nor  a  statue  of 
Praxiteles  by  a  statue  of  Michael  Angelo. 

De  Quincey. 
Alexander  Pope. 

De  Quincey's  division  of  literature  into  "  literature  of  power  "  and 
"  literature  of  knowledge  "  still  remains  a  useful  classification. 


256  FOOTE  AND  OTHERS 

She  went  into  the  garden  to  cut  a  cabbage  to  make  an 
apple  pie.  Just  then,  a  great  she-bear  coming  down  the 
street  poked  its  nose  into  the  shop-window.  "  What  !  no 
soap  ?  "  So  he  died,  and  she  (very  imprudently)  married 
the  barber.  And  there  were  present  at  the  wedding  the 
Joblillies,  and  the  Piccannies,  and  the  Gobelites,  and  the 
great  Panjandrum  himself,  with  the  little  button  on  top. 
So  they  all  set  to  playing  Catch- who-catch-can,  till  the 
gunpowder  ran  out  at  the  heels  of  their  boots. 

Samuel  Foote. 

Charles  Macklin  (1699-1797),  actor  and  playwright,  said  in  a  lecture 
on  oratory  that  by  practice  he  had  brought  his  memory  to  such  perfection 
that  he  could  learn  anything  by  rote  on  once  hearing  or  reading  it. 
Foote  (1720-1777),  a  more  important  dramatist  and  actor,  wrote  out  the 
above  and  handed  it  up  to  Macklin  to  read  and  then  repeat  from  memory  1 
The  passage  was  very  familiar  to  us  from  Miss  Edgeworth's  Harry  and 
Lucy  ;  and  also  from  Verdant  Green,  by  Cuthbert  Bede  (Edward  Bradley), 
where  it  was  set  in  the  bogus  examination  paper  "  To  be  turned  into 
Latin  after  the  manner  of  the  Animals  of  Tacitus." 


How  brew  the  brave  drink.  Life  ? 
Take  of  the  herb  hight  morning  joy. 

Take  of  the  herb  hight  evening  rest. 
Pour  in  pain,  lest  bliss  should  cloy. 
Shake  in  sin  to  give  it  zest — 
Then  down  with  the  brave  drink.  Life  ! 

Author  not  traced. 

I  had  this  attributed  to  Robert  Burton,  but  cannot  find  it  in  the 
Anatomy  of  Melancholy.  It  may  possibly  be  by  Richard  Brathwaite, 
whose  works  were  often  attributed  to  Burton. 


I  EXPECT  to  pass  through  this  world  but  once.  Any  good 
v»^ork,  therefore,  I  can  do  or  show  to  any  fellow  creature,  let 
me  do  it  now  !  Let  me  not  defer  or  neglect  it,  for  I  shall  not 
pass  this  way  again. 

William  Penn. 

There  has  been  much  discussion  in  Notes  and  Queries  and  elsewhere 
as  to  the  origin  of  this  quotation,  and  it  is  now  usually  attributed  to  the 
French-American  Quaker,  Stephen  Grellet.  As,  however,  Bartlett's 
Familiar  Quotations  gives  "  I  shall  not  pass  this  way  again  "  as  a  favourite 
saying  of  William  Penn's,  it  seems  more  reasonable  to  consider  him  the 
author. 


PRINGLE-PATTISON  257 

The  aspects  of  beauty  and  sublimity  which  we  recognize 
in  nature,  and  the  finer  spirit  of  sense  revealed  by  the  insight 
of  the  poet  and  the  artist,  are  not  subjective  imaginings. 
They  give  us  a  deeper  truth  than  ordinary  vision,  just  as 
the  more  developed  eye  or  ear  carries  us  farther  into  nature's 
refinements  and  beauties.  The  truth  of  the  poetic  imagina- 
tion is  perhaps  the  profoundest  doctrine  of  a  true  philosophy. 
"  I  am  certain  of  nothing,"  said  Keats,  "  but  of  the  holiness 
of  the  heart's  affections  and  the  truth  of  Imagination."  It 
is  with  the  second  of  these  far-reaching  certainties  that  we 
are  here  concerned.  The  poet,  it  has  been  often  said,  is  a 
revealer  ;  he  teaches  us  to  see,  and  what  he  shows  us  is 
really  in  the  facts.  It  is  not  put  into  them,  but  elicited 
from  them  by  his  intenser  sympathy.  Did  Wordsworth 
spread  the  fictitious  glamour  of  an  individual  fancy  over 
the  hills  and  vales  of  his  beloved  Lakeland,  or  was  he  not 
rather  the  voice  by  which  they  uttered  their  inmost  spirit 
to  the  world  ?  Remember  his  own  noble  claim  for  poetry 
as  "  the  breath  and  finer  spirit  of  all  knowledge,  the  im- 
passioned expression  which  is  on  the  face  of  all  science." 
"  Of  genius  in  the  fine  arts,"  he  says,  "  the  only  infallible 
sign  is  the  widening  of  the  sphere  of  human  sensibility  for 
the  delight,  honour,  and  benefit  of  human  nature.  Genius 
is  the  introduction  of  a  new  element  into  the  intellectual 
universe  :  it  is  an  advance  or  a  conquest  made  by  the  soul 
of  the  poet."  But,  again,  the  new  element  is  not  imported  ; 
the  advance  is  an  advance  in  the  interpretation  of  the  real 
world,  a  new  insight  v/hich  brings  us  nearer  to  the  truth  of 
things. 

Hence,  when  Coleridge  says  in  a  well-known  passage, 

O  Lady,  we  receive  but  what  we  give. 
And  in  our  life  alone  doth  Nature  live, 

the  statement  is  exactly  the  reverse  of  the  truth,  if  it  be 
taken  to  mean  that  the  beauty  of  nature  is  reflected  upon  it 
from  the  subjective  spirit  of  the  observer  and  does  not 
express  what  Wordsworth  calls  "  the  spirit  of  the  place." 
Coleridge's  lines  are  only  true  if  they  are  understood,  as 
they  may  be  understood,  to  mean  that,  unless  we  bring  the 
seeing  eye,  we  shall  not  see  the  vision.  All  idealism  teaches 
the  correlativity  of  subject  and  object  ;  they  develop  pari 
passu,  keeping  step  together,  inasmuch  as  the  objective 
world  seems  to  grow  in  richness  as  we  develop  faculties  to 

S 


258  PRINGLE-PATTISON— MOZLEY 

apprehend  it.  But  all  sane  idealism  teaches  that,  in  such 
advance,  the  subject  is  not  creating  new  worlds  of  knowledge 
and  appreciation  for  himself,  but  learning  to  see  more  of  the 
one  world,  "  which  is  the  world  of  all  of  us." 

A.  Seth  Pringle-Pattison. 
The  Idea  of  God. 

In  Kant's  Critique  of  Pure  Reason,  he  thought  that  nature  was  to  be 
considered  purely  as  mechanism.  But  in  his  Critique  of  Judgme?it  he 
deals  with  two  factors  in  nature,  which  cannot  come  under  "  mechanism," 
one  of  which  is  beaut>'.  But  he  added  a  suspicion  that,  though  beauty 
is  in  nature,  it  is  not  so  firmly  fixed  there  as  mechanism,  and  it  may 
possibly  be  due  to  our  idiosyncrasy  or  mental  constitution — to  be  in 
fact  subjective  only.  Pringle-Pattison's  argument  is  directed  against 
this  suggestion  generally,  although  he  refers  only  to  the  Lake  Poets. 


Nature  has  two  great  revelations — that  of  use  and  that  of 
beauty.  She  is  beautifid  by  the  self-same  material  and  laws 
by  which  she  is  useful.  The  beauty  is  just  as  much  a  part 
of  nature  as  the  use  ;  they  are  only  different  aspects  of  the 
self-same  facts.  Take  a  gorgeous  sunset, — what  is  the 
substance  of  it  ?  Only  a  combination  of  atmospheric  laws 
and  laws  of  light  and  heat  ;  the  same  laws  by  which  we  are 
enabled  to  live,  see,  and  breathe.  The  usefulness  on  one 
side  is,  on  the  other,  beauty.  It  is  not  that  the  mechanism  is 
painted  over,  in  order  to  disguise  the  deformity  of  machinery, 
but  the  machinery  is  itself  the  painting  ;  the  useful  laws 
compose  the  spectacle.  All  the  colours  of  the  landscape, 
the  tints  of  spring  and  autumn,  the  hues  of  twilight  and  dawn 
— all  that  might  seem  the  superfluities  of  nature — are  only 
her  most  necessary  operations  under  another  view  ;  her 
ornament  is  but  another  aspect  of  her  work  ;  and,  in  the 
very  act  of  labouring  as  a  machine,  she  also  sleeps  as  a 
picture. 

These  two  effects  of  nature  are  as  totally  different  and 
distinct  facts  as  can  be  conceived.  Who  could  possibly 
have  told  beforehand  that  those  physical  laws  which  fed  us, 
clothed  us,  gave  us  breath  and  motion,  the  use  of  our  organs, 
and  all  the  means  of  life,  would  also  create  a  picture  ?  These 
two  results  are  divided  toto  coelo  from  each  other.  The 
picture  does  not  feed  us,  clothe  us,  fill  our  lungs,  nourish 
our  nerves  and  centres  of  motion.  The  beauty  of  nature 
is  a  distinct  revelation  made  to  the  human  mind,  apart  from 


MOZLEY— YOUNGHUSBAND  Z59 

that  of  its  use.  When  the  materialist  has  exhausted  himself 
in  efforts  to  explain  utility  in  nature,  it  would  appear  to  be 
the  peculiar  office  of  beauty  to  rise  up  suddenly  as  a  con- 
founding and  baffling  extra,  which  was  not  even  formally 
provided  for  in  his  scheme.  The  glory  of  nature  resides 
in  the  mind  of  man.  We  cannot  explain  why  material 
objects  impress  the  imagination.  The  whole  of  what  any 
scene  of  earth  or  sky  is  materially  is  stamped  upon  the 
retina  of  the  brute,  just  as  it  is  upon  the  man's  ;  the  brute 
sees  all  the  same  objects  which  are  beautiful  to  man — only 
without  their  beauty  ;  which  aspect  is  inherent  in  man,  and 
part  of  his  reason. 

J.  B.  MoZLEY. 
University  Sermons. 

This  is  a  much-condensed  quotation  from  Mozley's  fine  sermon  on 
"  Nature,"  delivered  in  1871. 

The  sermon  was  probably  suggested  by  Emerson's  Nature  (the 
treatise  in  eight  chapters,  not  the  essay)  published  in  1836.  The  latter 
would  again  have  its  origin  in  Kant's  great  Critique  of  Judgtnent  (1790). 
Mozley  distinguishes  between  use  and  beauty,  Kant  between  mechanism 
and  beauty.     See  previous  quotation. 


There  came  upon  me  this  thought,  which  doubtless  has 
occurred  to  many  another  besides  myself — why  the  scene 
should  so  influence  me  and  yet  make  no  impression  on  the 
men  about  me.  Here  were  men  with  far  keener  eyesight 
than  my  own,  and  around  me  were  animals  with  eyesight 
keener  still.  .  .  .  Clearly  it  is  not  the  eye,  but  the  soul  that 
sees.  But  then  comes  the  still  further  reflection  :  what 
may  there  not  be  staring  me  straight  in  the  face  which  I  am 
as  blind  to  as  the  Kashmir  stags  are  to  the  beauties  amidst 
which  they  spend  their  entire  lives  ?  The  whole  panorama 
may  be  vibrating  with  beauties  man  has  not  yet  the  soul  to 
see.  Some  already  living,  no  doubt,  see  beauties  that  we 
ordinary  men  cannot  appreciate.  It  is  only  a  century  ago 
that  mountains  were  looked  upon  as  hideous.  And  in  the 
long  centuries  to  come  may  we  not  develop  a  soul  for 
beauties  unthought  of  now  ?  Undoubtedly  we  must.  And 
often  in  reverie  on  the  mountains  I  have  tried  to  imagine 
what  still  further  loveliness  they  may  yet  possess  for  men. 

Sir  F.  Younghusband. 
Kashmir. 


26o  SHELLEY— GIBBON 


To 


One  word  is  too  often  profaned 

For  me  to  profane  it, 
One  feeling  too  falsely  disdained 

For  thee  to  disdain  it, 
One  hope  is  too  like  despair 

For  prudence  to  smother, 
And  pity  from  thee  more  dear 

Than  that  from  another. 


I  can  give  not  what  men  call  love, 

But  wilt  thou  accept  not 
The  worship  the  heart  lifts  above 

And  the  Heavens  reject  not, — 
The  desire  of  the  moth  for  the  star, 

Of  the  night  for  the  morrow, 
The  devotion  to  something  afar 

From  the  sphere  of  our  sorrow  ? 

Shelley. 

One  cannot  be  absolutely  sure  of  the  poet's  meaning  in  the  first  verse. 
But  apparently  the  "  one  word  so  often  profaned  "  is  love,  and  with  this 
is  contrasted  the  "  one  feeling "  which  the  lady  should  not  disdain, 
worship-  The  "  one  hope  too  like  despair  "  is  the  hope  for  compassion 
and  sympathy  from  the  object  of  worship  to  the  humble  worshipper. 

F.  W.  Robertson  ("  Robertson  of  Brighton  ")  had  an  intense  admira- 
tion for  the  beautiful  line,  "  The  desire  of  the  moth  for  the  star  "  (see 
his  Life  and  Letters).  He  saw  in  it  a  symbol  of  Resignation — the  homage 
of  resignation  from  "  the  solitary  inhabitant  of  air  and  night  below  "  to 
the  pure,  bright,  perfect  star  looking  down  from  the  infinite  and  eternal 
heavens. 

Seeing  that  the  simile  typifies  the  devotion  of  the  soul  to  an  unattain- 
able ideal,  Robertson  rightly  finds  in  it  the  sense  of  resignation.  Probably 
this  was  not  conscious  to  Shelley's  mind  ;  but  imagination  transcends 
the  intellect,  and  inspired  poetry  often  has  more  aspects  and  higher 
meanings  than  are  present  to  the  poet's  conscious  mind. 


It  is  more  easy  to  forgive  490  times  than  once  to  ask 
pardon  of  an  inferior. 

Gibbon. 
Decline  and  Fall,  Ch.  68,  n. 

Gibbon  multiplies  the  "  seventy  times  seven." 


MONTAIGNE  AND  OTHERS  261 

Truly  it  is  to  be  noted,  that  children's  plays  are  not 
sports,  and  should  be  regarded  as  their  most  serious  actions. 

Montaigne. 


Boys  and  their  pastimes  are  swayed  by  periodic  forces 
inscrutable  to  man  ;  so  that  tops  and  marbles  reappear  in 
their  due  season,  regular  like  the  sun  and  moon  ;  and  the 
harmless  art  of  knucklebones  has  seen  the  fall  of  the  Roman 
Empire  and  the  rise  of  the  United  States. 

R.  L.  Stevenson. 
The  Lantern-Bearers. 


Says  Chloe,  "  Though  tears  it  may  cost, 
It  is  time  we  should  part,  my  dear  Sue  ; 

For  your  character's  totally  lost, 
And  Fve  not  sufficient  for  two  !  " 

Anon. 

I  took  this  from  a  poor  collection  of  epigrams  by  C.  S.  Carey  (1872), 
no  author  being  given.  Andrew  Lang  quoted  it  in  his  Presidential 
address  to  the  Society  for  Psychical  Research,  and  it  was  duly  inscribed 
in  the  Proceedings.  I,  with  some  diffidence,  follow  an  illustrious 
example. 


You  feel  o'er  you  stealing 
The  old  familiar,  warm,  champagny,  brandy-punchy  feeling. 

J.  R.  Lowell. 
Old  College  Rooms. 


The  first  and  worst  of  all  frauds  is  to  cheat 
One's  self. 

P.  J.  Bailey. 
Festus,  "  Anywhere." 


Youth  is  a  blunder,  Manhood  a  struggle,  Old  Age  a  regret. 

Disraeli. 
Coningsby. 


262  A.  SMITH 

I  CANNOT  say,  in  Eastern  style, 
Where'er  she  treads  the  pansy  blows  ; 
Nor  call  her  eyes  twin-stars,  her  smile 
A  sunbeam,  and  her  mouth  a  rose. 
Nor  can  I,  as  your  bridegrooms  do, 
Talk  of  my  raptures.     Oh,  how  sore 
The  fond  romance  of  twenty-two 
Is  parodied  ere  thirty-four  ! 

To-night  I  shake  hands  with  the  past, — 

Famihar  years,  adieu,  adieu  ! 

An  unknown  door  is  open  cast. 

An  empty  future  wide  and  new 

Stands  waiting.     O  ye  naked  rooms. 

Void,  desolate,  without  a  charm. 

Will  Love's  smile  chase  your  lonely  glooms. 

And  drape  your  walls,  and  make  them  warm  ? 

Alexander  Smith. 
The  Night  before  the  Wedding. 

In  my  notes,  this  strange  poem  is  stated  to  have  been  actually  written 
by  Smith  on  the  night  before  his  wedding  ;  it  was  certainly  published 
shortly  after  that  event.  The  poet  sits  until  dawn  thinking  of  the 
"  long-lost  passions  of  his  youth  "  (he  was  then  only  twenty-six,  not 
thirty-Jour),  and  comparing  them  with  his  calm  and  unimpassioned  love, 
"  pale  blossom  of  the  snow,"  for  the  bride  of  the  morrow.  He  even 
fears  that  his  wife's  tenderness  will  keep  alive  the  memories  of  his 
youthful  loves  : 

It  may  be  that  your  loving  wiles 
Will  call  a  sigh  from  far-off  years  ; 
It  may  be  that  your  happiest  smiles 
Will  brim  my  eyes  with  hopeless  tears  ; 
It  may  be  that  my  sleeping  breath 
Will  shake  with  painful  visions  wrung  ; 
And,  in  the  awful  trance  of  death, 
A  stranger's  name  be  on  my  tongue. 

This  is  sufficiently  gruesome.  However  he  finally  comes  to  the  con- 
clusion (although  it  seems  dragged  in  to  save  a  very  difficult  situation) 
that  his  love  for  his  future  bride  may  become  more  satisfactory'  to  him  : 

For,  as  the  dawning  sweet  and  fast 
Through  all  the  heaven  spreads  and  flows. 
Within  life's  discord  rude  and  vast 
Love's  subtle  music  grows  and  grows. 

My  love,  pale  blossom  of  the  snow, 

Has  pierced  earth,  wet  with  wintry  showers — 

O  may  it  drink  the  sun,  and  blow, 

And  be  followed  by  all  the  year  of  flowers  1 

Smith,  with  P.  J.  Bailey,  Sydney  Dobell  and  others,  belonged  to  what 
was  called  the  "  Spasmodic  "  school  which  the  Britannica  says  is  "  now 


A.  SMITH  AND  OTHERS  263 

fallen  into  oblivion."  I  do  not  know  what  this  means.  Smith,  Bailey, 
and  Dobell  no  doubt  wrote  extravagantly,  but  they  have  all  written  good 
verses.  Take  for  example  the  following  from  Smith's  first  poem,  "  A 
Life  Drama,"  written  at  twenty-two  years  of  age  : 

All  things  have  something  more  than  barren  use  ; 

There  is  a  scent  upon  the  brier, 
A  tremulous  splendour  in  the  autumn  dews. 

Cold  morns  are  fringed  with  fire  ; 

The  clodded  earth  goes  up  in  sweet-breath'd  flowers, 

In  music  dies  poor  human  speech, 
And  into  beauty  blow  those  hearts  of  ours. 

When  Love  is  born  in  each. 

Daisies  are  white  upon  the  churchyard  sod, 
Sweet  tears  the  clouds  lean  down  and  give, 

The  world  is  very  lovely  !  O  my  God 
I  thank  thee  that  I  live. 

Smith  was  also  a  charming  essayist.     See  quotations  elsewhere. 


And  so  on  to  the  end  (and  the  end  draws  nearer) 
When  our  souls  may  be  freer,  our  senses  clearer, 

('Tis  an  old-world  creed  which  is  nigh  forgot), 
When  the  eyes  of  the  sleepers  may  waken  in  wonder. 
And  hearts  may  be  joined  that  were  riven  asunder. 

And  Time  and  Love  shall  be  merged — in  what  ? 

Author  not  traced. 


Soft  music  came  to  mine  ear.  It  was  like  the  rising 
breeze,  that  whirls,  at  first,  the  thistle's  beard  ;  then  flies, 
dark-shadowy,  over  the  grass.  It  was  the  maid  of  Fiiarfed 
wild  :  she  raised  the  nightly  song  ;  for  she  knew  that  my 
soul  was  a  stream,  that  flowed  at  pleasant  sounds. 

James  Macpherson. 

Macpherson  (173 6-1796)  alleged  that  he  had  discovered  poems  by 
the  Gaelic  bard,  Ossian,  who  lived  in  the  third  century,  and  he  pub- 
lished translations  of  them.  Actually  the  poems  were  his  own,  but  they 
were  beautiful  and  had  a  considerable  effect  upon  literature. 


He  first  deceas'd  ;  she  for  a  little  tried 

To  live  without  him  :  liked  it  not,  and  died. 

Sir  Henry  Wotton. 
Reliquiae  Woitonianae,  1685. 


264  SHELLEY  AND  OTHERS 

I  DARE  not  guess  :  but  in  this  life 
Of  error,  ignorance,  and  strife, 
Where  nothing  is,  but  all  things  seem. 
And  we  the  shadows  of  the  dream. 
It  is  a  modest  creed,  and  yet 
Pleasant  if  one  considers  it, 
To  own  that  death  itself  must  be, 
Like  all  the  rest,  a  mockery. 

Shelley. 
The  Sensitive  Plant. 


I  SHOULD  like  to  make  every  man,  woman,  and  child 
discontented  with  themselves,  even  as  I  am  discontented 
with  myself.  I  should  like  to  waken  in  them,  about  their 
physical,  their  intellectual,  their  moral  condition,  that  divine 
discontent  which  is  the  parent,  first  of  upward  aspiration 
and  then  of  self-control,  thought,  effort  to  fulfil  that  aspira- 
tion even  in  part.  For  to  be  discontented  with  the  divine 
discontent,  and  to  be  ashamed  with  the  noble  shame,  is  the 
very  germ  and  first  upgrowth  of  all  virtue. 

Charles  Kingsley. 
The  Science  of  Health,  1872. 

The  origin  of  the  expression  "  divine  discontent." 


Be  not  afraid,  ye  waiting  hearts  that  weep  ; 
For  still  He  giveth  His  beloved  sleep. 
And,  if  an  endless  sleep  He  wills,  so  best. 

Henrietta  Anne  Huxley. 

By  Huxley's  special  direction,  these  curious  lines  from  one  of  his 
wife's  poems  were  inscribed  on  his  tombstone.  To  this  clear  thinker 
it  was  not  incompatible  with  God's  love  for  the  souls  He  has  created 
that  He  should  destroy  them  ! 

Huxley,  like  Spencer  and  Darwin,  the  other  two  great  leaders  in  that 
great  Victorian  age,  was  not  a  materialist.  Apart  from  other  passages 
in  his  works  he  made  an  explicit  disavowal  of  materialism  in  Evolutio?t 
and  Ethics,  p.  129.  I  do  not  know  about  the  physicist,  Tyndall.  Huxley, 
writing  of  him  to  Spencer  says,  "  A  favourite  problem  of  his  is — Given 
the  molecular  forces  in  a  mutton  chop,  deduce  Hamlet  or  Faust  there- 
from. He  is  confident  that  the  Physics  of  the  Future  will  solve  this 
easily  "  (Life  and  Letters  of  Huxley,  i.  231).  On  the  other  hand,  in  an 
essay  on  "  The  late  Professor  Tyndall  "  in  the  Huxley  Memorial  volume, 
Spencer  says  that  Tyndall  held  "  the  belief  that  the  known  is  surrounded 


BALFOUR— BACON  265 

by  an  unknown,  which  he  recognized  as  something  more  than  a  negation." 
Possibly  he  had  changed  his  views  since  the  Belfast  Address  (see  p.  66)  and 
come  into  line  with  other  leading  physicists.  It  is  a  noteworthy  fact, 
as  McDougall  points  out  in  Body  and  Mind,  that  while  biologists  in  that 
materialist  period  dogmatically  insisted  that  the  organic  world  could 
be  explained  in  terms  of  physical  science,  many  physicists  of  the  highest 
standing,  who  best  knew  the  limits  of  science  (and  had  taught  the 
biologists)  were  of  the  opposite  opinion.  He  mentions  several  :  Lord 
Kelvin,  Sir  G.  Stokes,  Clerk  Maxwell,  P,  G.  Tait,  Balfour  Stewart, 
Sir  W.  Crookes,  Sir  O.  Lodge,  Sir  J.  J.  Thomson,  Sir  J.  J.  Larmor, 
Professor  Poynting. 


Man's  very  existence  is  an  accident,  his  story  a  brief  and 
transitory  episode  in  the  Hfe  of  one  of  the  meanest  of  the 
planets.  .  .  .  We  survey  the  past,  and  see  that  its  history 
is  of  blood  and  tears,  of  helpless  blundering,  of  wild  revolt, 
of  stupid  acquiescence,  of  empty  aspirations.  We  sound 
the  future,  and  learn  that  after  a  period,  long  compared 
with  the  individual  life,  but  short  indeed  compared  with  the 
divisions  of  time  open  to  our  investigation,  the  energies  of 
our  system  will  decay,  the  glory  of  the  sun  will  be  dimmed, 
and  the  earth,  tideless  and  inert,  will  no  longer  tolerate  the 
race  which  has  for  a  moment  disturbed  its  solitude.  Man 
will  go  down  into  the  pit,  and  all  his  thoughts  will  perish. 
The  uneasy  consciousness,  which  in  this  obscure  corner  has 
for  a  brief  space  broken  the  contented  silence  of  the  universe, 
will  be  at  rest.  Matter  will  know  itself  no  longer.  "  Im- 
perishable monuments  "  and  "  immortal  deeds,"  death 
itself,  and  love  stronger  than  death,  will  be  as  though  they 
had  never  been.  Nor  will  anything  that  is  be  better  or  be 
worse  for  all  that  the  labour,  genius,  devotion,  and  suffering 
of  man  have  striven  through  countless  generations  to  effect. 

Earl  of  Balfour. 
The  Foundations  of  Belief. 

In  this  eloquent  passage,  written  in  1894,  Mr.  A.  J.  Balfour  (as  he 
then  was)  depicted  the  result  of  the  materialistic  belief  which  was  so 
prevalent  last  century,  but  which  is  no  longer  held  by  men  who  have 
kept  themselves  abreast  of  modern  knowledge  (see  p.  67). 


My  Lord  St.  Albans  said  that  wise  nature  did  never  put 
her  precious  jewels  into  a  garret  four  stories  high  ;  and, 
therefore,  that  exceeding  tall  men  had  ever  empty  heads. 

Bacon. 
Apothegms. 


266  DOUGLAS  AND  OTHERS 

Is  the  yellow  bird  dead  ? 

Lay  your  dear  little  head 
Close,  close  to  my  heart,  and  weep,  precious  one,  there, 

While  your  beautiful  hair 
On  my  bosom  lies  light,  like  a  sun-lighted  cloud  ; 

No,  you  need  not  keep  still, 

You  may  sob  as  you  will  ; 
There  is  some  little  comfort  in  crying  aloud. 

But  the  days  they  must  come, 

When  your  grief  will  be  dumb  : 
Grown  women  like  me  must  take  care  how  they  cry. 

You  will  learn  by  and  by 
'Tis  a  womanly  art  to  hide  pain  out  of  sight. 

To  look  round  with  a  smile. 

Though  your  heart  aches  the  while, 
And  to  keep  back  your  tears  till  you've  blown  out  the  light. 

Marian  Douglas, 
Picture  Poems  for  Young  Folks. 

That  low  man  seeks  a  little  thing  to  do, 

Sees  it  and  does  it  : 
This  high  man,  with  a  great  thing  to  pursue. 

Dies  ere  he  knows  it. 
That  low  man  goes  on  adding  one  to  one. 

His  hundred's  soon  hit  : 
This  high  man,  aiming  at  a  million, 

Misses  a  unit. 
That,  has  the  world  here — should  he  need  the  next, 

Let  the  world  mind  him  ! 
This,  throws  himself  on  God,  and  unperplexed 

Seeking  shall  find  Him. 

R.  Browning. 

A  Grammarian's  Funeral. 

See  The  Inn  Album  (iv.)  where  Browning  makes  his  heroine  say  : 

Better  have  failed  in  the  high  aim,  as  I, 
Than  vulgarly  in  the  low  aim  succeed 
As,  God  be  thanked,  I  do  not  ! 


A  WOMAN  needs  to  be  wooed  long  after  she  is  won,  and 
the  husband  who  ceases  to  court  his  wife  is  courting  disaster. 

Author  not  traced. 


THOMSON  AND  OTHERS  267 

A  REQUIEM 

Thou  hast  lived  in  pain  and  woe, 

Thou  hast  hved  in  grief  and  fear  ; 
Now  thine  heart  can  dread  no  blow, 

Now  thine  eyes  can  shed  no  tear  : 
Storms  round  us  shall  beat  and  rave  ; 
Thou  art  sheltered  in  the  grave. 

Thou  for  long,  long  years  hast  borne. 
Bleeding  through  Life's  wilderness, 

Heavy  loss  and  wounding  scorn  : 
Now  thine  heart  is  burdenless  : 

Vainly  rest  for  ours  we  crave  ; 

Thine  is  quiet  in  the  grave. 

James  Thomson  ("  B.V."). 


O  ELOQUENT,  just,  and  mightie  Death  !  whom  none  could 
advise,  thou  hast  persuaded  ;  what  none  hath  dared,  thou 
hast  done  ;  and  whom  all  the  world  hath  flattered,  thou 
only  hast  cast  out  of  the  world  and  despised.  Thou  hast 
drawne  together  all  the  farre  stretched  greatnesse,  all  the 
pride,  crueltie,  and  ambition  of  man,  and  covered  it  all  over 
with  these  two  narrow  words.  Hie  jacet  ! 

Sir  Walter  Raleigh. 
Historie  of  the  World. 


There  is  a  secret  belief  among  some  men  that  God  is 
displeased  with  man's  happiness  ;  and  in  consequence  they 
slink  about  creation,  ashamed  and  afraid  to  enjoy  anything. 

Sir  a.  Helps. 
Companions  of  my  Solitude. 


It  is  only  by  a  wide  comparison  of  facts  that  the  wisest 

full-grown   men   can   distinguish   well-rolled   barrels   from 

more  supernal  thunder.  ^  „ 

^  George  Eliot. 

Mill  on  the  Floss. 


268  R.  BROWNING 


AMPHIBIAN 

The  fancy  I  had  to-day, 
Fancy  which  turned  a  fear  ! 

I  swam  far  out  in  the  bay, 

Since  waves  laughed  warm  and  clear. 

I  lay  and  looked  at  the  sun. 
The  noon-sun  looked  at  me  : 

Between  us  two,  no  one 

Live  creature,  that  I  could  see. 

Yes  !     There  came  floating  by 

Me,  who  lay  floating  too, 
Such  a  strange  butterfly  ! 

Creature  as  dear  as  new  : 

Because  the  membraned  wings 

So  wonderful,  so  wide. 
So  sun-suff"used,  were  things 

Like  soul  and  nought  beside.  .  .  . 

What  if  a  certain  soul 

Which  early  slipped  its  sheath. 
And  has  for  its  home  the  whole 

Of  heaven,  thus  look  beneath, 

Thus  watch  one  who,  in  the  world, 
Both  lives  and  likes  life's  way, 

Nor  wishes  the  wings  unfurled 
That  sleep  in  the  worm,  they  say  ? 

But  sometimes  when  the  weather 
Is  blue,  and  warm  waves  tempt 

To  free  oneself  of  tether. 
And  try  a  life  exempt 

From  worldly  noise  and  dust, 
In  the  sphere  which  overbrims 

With  passion  and  thought, — why,  just 
Unable  to  fly,  one  swims  !  .  .  . 


R.  BROWNING  269 

Emancipate  through  passion 

And  thought,  with  sea  for  sky, 
We  substitute,  in  a  fashion, 

For  heaven — poetry  : 

Which  sea,  to  all  intent. 

Gives  flesh  such  noon-disport 
As  a  finer  element 

Affords  the  spirit  sort. 

Whatever  they  are,  we  seem  : 

Imagine  the  thing  they  know  ; 
All  deeds  they  do,  we  dream  ; 

Can  heaven  be  else  but  so  ? 

And  meantime,  yonder  streak 

Meets  the  horizon's  verge  ; 
That  is  the  land,  to  seek 

If  we  tire  or  dread  the  surge  : 

Land  the  solid  and  safe — 

To  welcome  again  (confess  !) 
When,  high  and  dry,  we  chafe 

The  body,  and  don  the  dress. 

Does  she  look,  pity,  wonder 

At  one  who  mimics  flight. 
Swims — heaven  above,  sea  under. 

Yet  always  earth  in  sight  ? 

R.  Browning. 
Prologue  to  Fifine  at  the  Fair. 

This  is  not  one  of  Browning's  finest  poems,  but  it  is  very  interesting, 
as  giving  his  view  of  the  nature  of  poetic  imagination. 

In  Greek  art  and  Hterature  the  butterfly  was  emblematic  of  the 
departed  soul,  because  it  had,  as  it  were,  passed  through  death  in  the 
chrysaHs  stage  and  risen  in  a  more  spiritual  form.  The  word  "  psuche  " 
(psyche)  had  both  meanings,  "  soul  "  and  "  butterfly."  Here  the  poet 
swimming  in  the  sea  is  reminded,  by  the  ethereal  butterfly  floating  above 
him,  of  the  soul  of  his  wife  looking  down  on  him  from  heaven.  It 
troubles  him  that  she  sees  that  he  "  Both  lives  and  likes  life's  way,"  that 
he  is  content  with  his  earthly  existence,  and  does  not  wish  to  "  unfurl 
his  wings  "  and  enter  the  spiritual  life. 

Yet,  he  says,  in  moments  of  poetic  imagination,  when  he  gets  away 
"  from  worldly  noise  and  dust  "  and  lives  "  in  the  sphere  which  over- 
brims with  passion  and  thought,"  he  does  approach  some  way  towards  the 


270  R.  BROWNING— KING 

spiritual  life.  Although  he  cannot  "  fly  "  in  the  pure  celestial  regions, 
he  does  at  least  "  swim  "  away  from  earth.  But  he  confesses  that  earth 
must  always  be  in  sight,  and  that  he  gladly  returns  to  it  when  the  period 
of  poetic  inspiration  is  over.  He  fears  that  his  wife  looks  down  with 
pity  and  wonder  that  he  should  be  content  with  such  occasional  flights 
from  earth,  that  only  ?nimic  the  higher  life  of  the  soul. 

However,  the  essential  point  of  the  poem  is  that  the  poetic  imagination 
is  a  reflex  of  the  spiritual  life  : 

Whatever  they  are,  we  seem  : 

Imagine  the  thing  they  know  ; 
All  deeds  they  do,  we  dream  ; 

Can  heaven  be  else  but  so  ? 

Amphibian  is  the  title  of  the  poem,  because  the  poet  is  of  earth  and 
yet  can  "  swim  "  in  the  sea  of  imagination.  Charles  Lamb  speaks  of  his 
charming  Child  Angel,  half-angel,  half-human,  as  Amphibium.  Brown- 
ing's poem  may  have  been  an  unconscious  development  of  a  passage 
from  Sir  Thomas  Browne's  Religio  Medici  :  "  Thus  is  Man  that  great 
and  true  Amphibium,  whose  nature  is  disposed  to  live,  not  only  like  other 
creatures  in  divers  elements,  but  in  divided  and  distinguished  worlds  : 
for  though  there  be  but  one  to  sense,  there  are  two  to  reason,  the  one 
visible,  the  other  invisible." 


Have  you  found  your  life  distasteful  ? 

My  life  did — and  does — smack  sweet. 
Was  your  youth  of  pleasure  wasteful  ? 

Mine  I  saved  and  hold  complete. 
Do  your  joys  with  age  diminish  ? 

When  mine  fails  me,  I'll  complain. 
Must  in  death  your  daylight  finish  ? 

My  sun  sets  to  rise  again. 

R.  Browning. 
At  the  Mermaid. 

Here,  as  in  the  preceding  poem.  Browning  "  both  lives  and  likes  life's 
way." 


Sleep  on,  my  Love,  in  thy  cold  bed 

Never  to  be  disquieted  ! 

My  last  good-night  !     Thou  wilt  not  wake 

Till  I  thy  fate  shall  overtake  : 

Till  age,  or  grief,  or  sickness  must 

Marry  my  body  to  that  dust 

It  so  much  loves  ;  and  fill  the  room 

My  heart  keeps  empty  in  thy  tomb. 

Stay  for  me  there  :  I  will  not  fail 

To  meet  thee  in  that  hollow  vale. 


KING  AND  OTHERS  271 

And  think  not  much  of  my  delay  : 

I  am  already  on  the  way, 

And  follow  thee  with  all  the  speed 

Desire  can  make,  or  sorrows  breed. 

Each  minute  is  a  short  degree 

And  every  hour  a  step  towards  thee.  .  .  . 

The  thought  of  this  bids  me  go  on 
And  wait  my  dissolution 
With  hope  and  comfort.     Dear — forgive 
The  crime — I  am  content  to  live 
Divided,  with  but  half  a  heart, 
Till  we  shall  meet  and  never  part. 

Henry  King. 
Exequy  on  his  Wife. 

Bishop  King,  in  this  fine  poem,  laments  the  death  of  his  young  wife, 
twenty-four  years  of  age. 

Compare  the  last  four  lines  with  the  two  preceding  quotations. 


We  work  so  hard,  we  age  so  soon, 

We  live  so  swiftly,  one  and  all. 
That  ere  our  day  be  fairly  noon. 

The  shadows  eastward  seem  to  fall. 
Some  tender  light  may  gild  them  yet, 

As  yet,  'tis  not  so  very  cold. 
And,  on  the  whole,  I  won't  regret 

My  slender  chance  of  growing  old. 

W.  J.  Prowse. 
My  Lost  Old  Age. 

Prowse  (1836-1870)  wrote  good  verse  before  he  was  twenty  and  died 
at  thirty-four. 


Here  now  I  am  :  the  house  is  fast ; 
I  am  shut  in  from  all  but  Thee  ; 
Great  witness  of  my  privacy. 
Dare  I  unshamed  my  soul  undress, 
And,  like  a  child,  seek  Thy  caress. 
Thou  Ruler  of  a  realm  so  vast  ? 

T.  T.  Lynch. 


272  ARNOLD  AND  OTHERS 

Calm  Soul  of  all  things  !  make  it  mine 

To  feel,  amid  the  city's  jar, 
That  there  abides  a  peace  of  thine 

Man  did  not  make,  and  cannot  mar. 

Matthew  Arnold. 
Lines  written  in  Kensington  Gardens. 


Animula,  vagula,  blandula, 
Hospes,  comesque  corporis. 
Quae  nunc  abibis  in  loca, 
Pallidula,  frigida,  nudula  ; 
Nee,  ut  soles,  dabis  jocos  ! 

Hadrian. 

There  is  a  wonderful  pathos  and  charm  in  this  poem.  It  was 
written  in  a.d.  138  by  the  dying  Emperor  Hadrian,  as  he  contemplated 
the  pale,  shadowy  existence  which  he  expected  after  death.  It  has  been 
translated  by  Vaughan,  Prior,  Byron  and  others.  Mr.  Clodd  {The 
Question — If  a  Mmi  Die)  gives  this  version,  without  naming  the  trans- 
lator : 

Soul  of  mine,  thou  fleeting,  clinging  thing, 

Long  my  body's  mate  and  guest. 

Ah  1  now  whither  wilt  thou  wing. 

Pallid,  naked,  shivering, 

Never  more  to  speak  and  jest. 

In  all  these  versions  pallidula,  etc.,  are  applied  to  animida,  but,  as 
Mr.  Alfred  S.  West  points  out  to  me,  they  appear  to  be  epithets  of  loca, 
thus  :  "  Fleeting,  winsome  soul,  my  body's  guest  and  comrade,  that  art 
now  about  to  set  out  for  regions  wan,  cold,  and  bare,  no  more  to  jest 
according  to  thy  wont." 


This  wretched  Inn,  where  we  scarce  stay  to  bait. 

We  call  our  Dwelling-place  : 
But  angels  in  their  full  enlightened  state. 
Angels,  who  Live,  and  know  what  'tis  to  Be, 
Who  all  the  nonsense  of  our  language  see. 
Who  speak  things,  and  our  words — their  ill-drawn  pictures 
— scorn, 

When  we,  by  a  foolish  figure,  say, 

"  Behold  an  old  man  dead  !  "  then  they 
Speak  properly,  and  cry,  "  Behold  a  man-child  born  !  " 

Abraham  Cowley. 
Life. 


SHELLEY  AND  OTHERS  273 

As  the  moon's  soft  splendour 
O'er  the  faint  cold  starlight  of  Heaven 
Is  thrown, 
So  your  voice  most  tender 
To  the  strings  without  soul  had  then  given 
Its  own.  .  .  . 

Though  the  sound  overpowers, 
Sing  again,  with  your  dear  voice  revealing 
A  tone 
Of  some  world  far  from  ours, 
Where  music  and  moonlight  and  feeling 
Are  one. 

Shelley. 
To  Jane. 

While  I  listen  to  thy  voice, 

Chloris  !     I  feel  my  life  decay  : 
That  pow'rful  noise 

Calls  my  fleeting  soul  away. 
Oh  !  suppress  that  magic  sound. 
Which  destroys  without  a  wound. 

Peace,  Chloris,  peace  !  or  singing  die  ; 
That,  together,  you  and  I 

To  heaven  may  go  : 

For  all  we  know 
Of  what  the  Blessed  do  above 
Is,  that  they  sing,  and  that  they  love. 

Edmund  Waller. 


GRACE  FOR  A  CHILD 

Here  a  little  child  I  stand. 

Heaving  up  my  either  hand  ; 
Cold  as  Paddocks  though  they  be,  frogs 

Here  I  lift  them  up  to  Thee, 

For  a  benison  to  fall  blessing 

On  our  meat,  and  on  us  all.     Amen. 

Robert  Herrick. 

T 


274  HOLMES  AND  OTHERS 

To  be  seventy  years  young  is  sometimes  far  more  cheerful 
and  hopeful  than  to  be  forty  years  old. 

O.  W.  Holmes. 

From  a  letter  to  Julia  Ward  Howe  in  1889  on  her  seventieth  birthday. 
Mrs.  Howe  wrote  the  fine  "  Battle  Hymn  of  the  American  Republic," 
beginning  : — 

Mine  eyes  have  seen  the  glory  of  the  coming  of  the  Lord  : 
He  is  trampling  out  the  vintage  where  the  grapes  of  wrath  are  stored  : 
He  hath  loosed  the  fateful  lightning  of  His  terrible  swift  sword  : 
His  truth  is  marching  on. 


The  dog  walked  off  to  play  with  a  black  beetle.     The 

beetle  was  hard  at  work  trying  to  roll  home  a  great  ball  of 

dung  it  had  been  collecting  all  the  morning  ;    but  Doss 

broke  the  ball,  and  ate  the  beetle's  hind  legs,  and  then  bit 

off  its  head.     And  it  was  all  play,  and  no  one  could  tell  what 

it  had  lived  and  worked  for.     A  striving,  and  a  striving,  and 

an  ending  in  nothing.  ^  c^ 

°  ^  Olive  Schreiner. 

The  Story  of  an  African  Farm. 

The  author  is  depicting  the  sadness  of  life. 


INSOMNIA 

A  HOUSE  of  sleepers,  I  alone  unblest 

Am  still  awake  and  empty  vigil  keep  : 

When  those  who  share  Life's  day  with  me  find  rest, 

Oh,  let  me  not  be  last  to  fall  asleep. 

Anna  Reeve  Aldrich. 

She  did  "  fall  asleep  "  at  the  early  age  of  twenty-six  in  June  1892. 


The  world  is  full  of  willing  people  :    some  willing  to 
work,  and  the  rest  willing  to  let  them. 

Author  not  traced. 


Il  y  a  toujours  I'un  qui  baise,  et  I'autre  qui  tend  la  joue. 
(There  is  always  one  who  kisses  and  the  other  who  offers  the  cheek.) 

Author  not  traced. 


CLOUGH— LYTTON  275 

THROUGH  A  GLASS  DARKLY  " 

What  we,  when  face  to  face  we  see 
The  Father  of  our  souls,  shall  be, 
John  tells  us,  doth  not  yet  appear  ; 
Ah  !  did  he  tell  what  we  are  here  ! 

A  mind  for  thoughts  to  pass  into, 

A  heart  for  loves  to  travel  through, 

Five  senses  to  detect  things  near. 

Is  this  the  whole  that  we  are  here  ?  .  .  . 

Ah  yet,  when  all  is  thought  and  said, 
The  heart  still  overrules  the  head  ; 
Still  what  we  hope  we  must  believe, 
And  what  is  given  us  receive  ; 

Must  still  believe,  for  still  we  hope 
That  in  a  world  of  larger  scope. 
What  here  is  faithfully  begun 
Will  be  completed,  not  undone. 

My  child,  we  still  must  think,  when  we 
That  ampler  life  together  see. 
Some  true  result  will  yet  appear 
Of  what  we  are,  together,  here. 

A.  H.  Clough. 


He  who  doth  not  smoke  hath  either  known  no  great 
griefs,  or  refuseth  himself  the  softest  consolation  next  to  that 
which  Cometh  from  heaven.  "  What,  softer  than  woman  ?  " 
whispers  the  young  reader.  Young  reader,  woman  teases 
as  well  as  consoles.  Woman  makes  half  the  sorrows  which 
she  boasts  the  privilege  of  soothing.  On  the  whole,  then, 
woman  in  this  scale,  the  weed  in  that — Jupiter  !  hang  out 
thy  balance  and  weigh  them  both  ;  and,  if  thou  give  the 
preference  to  woman,  all  I  can  say  is,  the  next  time  Juno 
ruffles  thee,  O  Jupiter,  try  the  weed  ! 

BuLWER  Lytton. 
What  will  He  do  with  It  ? 

Compare  Kipling  in  "  The  Betrothed  "  : 

A  woman  is  only  a  woman,  but  a  good  cigar  is  a  smoke. 


276  PATMORE  AND  OTHERS 

Ah,  wasteful  woman,  she  who  may 

On  her  sweet  self  set  her  own  price. 
Knowing  he  cannot  choose  but  pay, 

How  has  she  cheapen'd  paradise  ; 
How  given  for  nought  her  priceless  gift, 

How  spoiled  the  bread  and  spilled  the  wine, 
Which,  spent  with  due  respective  thrift. 

Had  made  brutes  men,  and  men  divine  ! 

Coventry  Patmore. 
The  Angel  in  the  House. 


Nay,  Love,  you  did  give  all  I  asked,  I  think — 

More  than  I  merit,  yes,  by  many  times. 

But  had  you — oh,  with  the  same  perfect  brow. 

And  perfect  eyes,  and  more  than  perfect  mouth, 

And  the  low  voice  my  soul  hears,  as  a  bird 

The  fowler's  pipe  and  follows  to  the  snare — 

Had  you,  with  these  the  same,  but  brought  a  mind  ! 

Some  women  do  so.     Had  the  mouth  there  urged 

"  God  and  the  glory  !   never  care  for  gain," 

I  might  have  done  it  for  you. 

R.  Browning. 
Andrea  del  Sarto. 

The  painter  says  that  his  wife,  instead  of  urging  him  to  work  for 
immediate  gain,  might  have  incited  him  to  nobler  efforts. 


Alas,  how  easily  things  go  wrong  ! 

A  sigh  too  much,  or  a  kiss  too  long. 

And  there  follows  a  mist  and  a  weeping  rain. 

And  life  is  never  the  same  again. 

George  MacDonald. 
Phantasies. 


Plus  je  vois  les  hommes,  plus  j 'admire  les  chiens. 

(The  more  I  see  of  men,  the  more  I  admire  dogs.) 

Author  not  traced. 


PRAED  277 


CHILDHOOD  AND  HIS  VISITORS 

Once  on  a  time,  when  sunny  May 

Was  kissing  up  the  April  showers, 
I  saw  fair  Childhood  hard  at  play 

Upon  a  bank  of  blushing  flowers  ; 
Happy — he  knew  not  whence  or  how — 

And  smiling,— who  could  choose  but  love  him  ? 
For  not  more  glad  than  Childhood's  brow 

Was  the  blue  heaven  that  beamed  above  him. 

Old  Time,  in  most  appalling  wrath. 

That  valley's  green  repose  invaded  ; 
The  brooks  grew  dry  upon  his  path, 

The  birds  were  mute,  the  lilies  faded. 
But  Time  so  swiftly  winged  his  flight, 

In  haste  a  Grecian  tomb  to  batter. 
That  Childhood  watched  his  paper  kite. 

And  knew  just  nothing  of  the  matter.  .  .  . 

Then  stepped  a  gloomy  phantom  up. 

Pale,  cypress-crowned,  Night's  awful  daughter, 
And  proffered  him  a  fearful  cup 

Full  to  the  brim  of  bitter  water  : 
Poor  Childhood  bade  her  tell  her  name  ; 

And  when  the  beldame  muttered,  "  Sorrow," 
He  said,  "  Don't  interrupt  my  game  ; 

I'll  taste  it,  if  I  must,  to-morrow."  .  .  . 

Then  Wisdom  stole  his  bat  and  ball. 

And  taught  him  with  most  sage  endeavour, 
Why  bubbles  rise  and  acorns  fall. 

And  why  no  toy  may  last  for  ever. 
She  talked  of  all  the  wondrous  laws 

Which  Nature's  open  book  discloses. 
And  Childhood,  ere  she  made  a  pause, 

Was  fast  asleep  among  the  roses. 

Sleep  on,  sleep  on  !     Oh  !  Manhood's  dreams 

Are  all  of  earthly  pain  or  pleasure. 
Of  Glory's  toils.  Ambition's  schemes. 

Of  cherished  love,  or  hoarded  treasure  : 


278  WORDSWORTH  AND  OTHERS 

But  to  the  couch  where  Childhood  Hes 
A  more  deHcious  trance  is  given, 

Lit  up  by  rays  from  seraph  eyes, 

And  glimpses  of  remembered  Heaven  ! 

W.  M.  Praed. 


Wisdom  and  Spirit  of  the  universe  ! 
Thou  soul  that  art  the  eternity  of  thought. 
That  givest  to  forms  and  images  a  breath 
And  everlasting  motion  !     Not  in  vain 
By  day  or  star-light  thus,  from  my  first  dawn 
Of  childhood,  didst  thou  intertwine  for  me 
The  passions  that  build  up  our  human  soul  ; — 
Not  with  the  mean  and  vulgar  works  of  man. 
But  with  high  objects,  with  enduring  things— 
With  life  and  nature — purifying  thus 
The  elements  of  feeling  and  of  thought : 
And  sanctifying,  by  such  discipline, 
Both  pain  and  fear,  until  we  recognize 
A  grandeur  in  the  beatings  of  the  heart. 

Wordsworth, 
The  Prelude,  Bk.  I. 


The  brooding  East  with  awe  beheld 
Her  impious  younger  world. 
The  Roman  tempest  swell'd  and  swell'd. 
And  on  her  head  was  hurled. 

The  East  bowed  low  before  the  blast 
In  patient,  deep  disdain  ; 
She  let  the  legions  thunder  past, 
And  plunged  in  thought  again. 

Matthew  Arnold. 
Obermann  Once  More. 


The  light  of  every  soul  burns  upward.     Let  us  allow  for 
atmospheric  disturbance.  ^^^^^^  Meredith. 

Diana  of  the  Crossways. 


KIPLING  279 


THE  LONG  TRAIL 

There's  a  whisper  down  the  field  where  the  year  has  shot 
her  yield, 
And  the  ricks  stand  grey  to  the  sun, 
Singing  : — "  Over  then,  come  over,  for  the  bee  has  quit  the 
clover. 
And  your  English  summer's  done." 

You  have  heard  the  beat  of  the  off-shore  wind. 
And  the  thresh  of  the  deep-sea  rain  ; 
You  have  heard  the  song — how  long  !  how  long  ! 
Pull  out  on  the  trail  again  ! 

Ha'  done  with  the  Tents  of  Shem,  dear  lass. 

We've  seen  the  seasons  through, 

And  it's  time  to  turn  on  the  old  trail,  our  own  trail,  the 

out  trail. 
Pull  out,  pull  out,  on  the  Long  Trail — the  trail  that  is 

always  new. 

It's  North  you  may  run  to  the  rime-ringed  sun 

Or  South  to  the  blind  Horn's  hate  ; 
Or  East  all  the  way  into  Mississippi  Bay, 
Or  West  to  the  Golden  Gate  ; 

Where  the  blindest  bluffs  hold  good,  dear  lass, 

And  the  wildest  tales  are  true. 

And  the  men  bulk  big  on  the  old  trail,  our  own  trail,  the 

out  trail, 
And  life  runs  large  on  the  Long  Trail — the  trail  that  is 
always  new. 

The  days  are  sick  and  cold,  and  the  skies  are  gray  and 
old, 
And  the  twice-breathed  airs  blow  damp  ; 
And  I'd  sell  my  tired  soul  for  the  bucking  beam-sea  roll 
Of  a  black  Bilbao  tramp  ; 

With  her  load-hne  over  her  hatch,  dear  lass, 

And  a  drunken  Dago  crew, 

And  her  nose  held  down  on  the  old  trail,  our  own  trail, 

the  out  trail 
From  Cadiz  Bar  on  the  Long  Trail — the  trail  that  is 
always  new. 


28o  KIPLING 

There  be  triple  ways  to  take,  of  the  eagle  or  the  snake 

Or  the  way  of  a  man  with  a  maid  ; 
But  the  sweetest  way  to  me  is  a  ship's  upon  the  sea 
In  the  heel  of  the  North-East  trade. 

Can  you  hear  the  crash  on  her  bows,  dear  lass, 

And  the  drum  of  the  racing  screw. 

As  she  ships  it  green  on  the  old  trail,  our  own  trail,  the 

out  trail. 
As  she  lifts  and  'scends  on  the  Long  Trail — the  trail  that 
is  always  new  ? 

See  the  shaking  funnels  roar,  with  the  Peter  at  the  fore, 

And  the  fenders  grind  and  heave, 
And  the  derricks  clack  and  grate,  as  the  tackle  hooks  the  crate, 
And  the  fall-rope  whines  through  the  sheave  ; 
It's  "  Gang-plank  up  and  in,"  dear  lass, 
It's  "  Hawsers  warp  her  through  !  " 
And  it's  "  All  clear  aft  "  on  the  old  trail,  our  own  trail, 

the  out  trail. 
We're  backing  down  on  the  Long  Trail — the  trail  that 
is  always  new,  .  .  . 

O  the  mutter  overside,  when  the  port-fog  holds  us  tied, 

And  the  sirens  hoot  their  dread  ! 
When  foot  by  foot  we  creep  o'er  the  hueless  viewless  deep 
To  the  sob  of  the  questing  lead  ! 

It's  down  by  the  Lower  Hope,  dear  lass. 

With  the  Gunfleet  Sands  in  view, 

Till  the  Mouse  swings  green  on  the  old  trail,  our  own 

trail,  the  out  trail, 
And  the  Gull  Light  lifts  on  the  Long  Trail — the  trail 
that  is  always  new. 

O  the  blazing  tropic  night,  when  the  wake's  a  welt  of  light 

That  holds  the  hot  sky  tame. 
And  the  steady  fore-foot  snores  through  the  planet-powder'd 
floors 
Where  the  scared  whale  flukes  in  flame  ! 
Her  plates  are  scarr'd  by  the  sun,  dear  lass, 
And  her  ropes  are  taut  with  the  dew. 
For  we're  booming  down  on  the  old  trail,  our  own  trail, 

the  out  trail, 
We're  sagging  south  on  the  Long  Trail — the  trail  that 
is  always  new. 


KIPLING  AND  OTHERS  281 

Then  home,  get  her  home,  when  the  drunken  rollers  comb. 

And  the  shouting  seas  drive  by, 
And  the  engines  stamp  and  ring,  and  the  wet  bows  reel  and 
swing, 
And  the  Southern  Cross  rides  high  ! 

Yes,  the  old  lost  stars  wheel  back,  dear  lass, 

That  blaze  in  the  velvet  blue. 

They're  all  old  friends  on  the  old  trail,  our  own  trail, 

the  out  trail. 
They're  God's  own  guides  on  the  Long  Trail — the  trail 
that  is  always  new. 

Fly  forward,  O  my  heart,  from  the  Foreland  to  the  Start — 

We're  steaming  all  too  slow, 
And  it's  twenty  thousand  mile  to  our  little  lazy  isle 
Where  the  trumpet-orchids  blow  ! 

You  have  heard  the  call  of  the  off-shore  wind 
And  the  voice  of  the  deep-sea  rain  ; 
You  have  heard  the  song — how  long  ?  how  long  ? 
Pull  out  on  the  trail  again  ! 

The  Lord  knows  what  we  may  find,  dear  lass, 

And  The  Deuce  knows  what  we  may  do — 

But  we're  back  once  more  on  the  old  trail,  our  own  trail, 

the  out  trail. 
We're  down,  hull  down  on  the  Long  Trail — the  trail  that 

is  always  new. 

RuDYARD  Kipling. 

A  great  sea-song  ;   we  are  on  board  passing  through  scene  after  scene 
and  feeling  the  very  movement  of  the  ship  and  its  gear. 


Some  prize  his  blindfold  sight ;  and  there  be  they 
Who  kissed  his  wings  which  brought  him  yesterday 
And  thank  his  wings  to-day  that  he  is  flown. 

D.   G.   ROSSETTI. 

Lovers  Lovers. 


I  NEVER  knew  any  man  in  my  life  who  could  not  bear 
another's  misfortunes  perfectly  like  a  Christian. 

Pope. 


282  PAINE 

The  Quakers  have  contracted  themselves  too  much  by 
leaving  the  works  of  God  out  of  their  system.  Though  I 
reverence  their  philanthropy,  I  cannot  help  smiling  at  the 
conceit,  that,  if  the  taste  of  a  Quaker  could  have  been  con- 
sulted at  the  creation,  what  a  silent  and  drab-coloured 
creation  it  would  have  been  !  Not  a  flower  would  have 
blossomed  its  gaieties,  nor  a  bird  been  permitted  to  sing. 

Thomas  Paine. 
The  Age  of  Reason. 

This  quotation  reminds  me  of  an  interesting  passage  in  Professor 
Bateson's  Presidential  Address  to  the  British  Association  at  Melbourne 
in  1914  : 

"  Every  one  must  have  a  preliminary  sympathy  with  the  aims  of 
eugenists  both  abroad  and  at  home.  Their  efforts  at  the  least  are  doing 
something  to  discover  and  spread  truth  as  to  the  physiological  structure 
of  society.  The  spread  of  such  organizations,  however,  almost  of 
necessity  suffers  from  a  bias  towards  the  accepted  and  the  ordinary,  and 
if  they  had  power  it  would  go  hard  with  many  ingredients  of  society  that 
could  be  ill-spared.  I  notice  an  ominous  passage  in  which  even  Galton, 
the  founder  of  eugenics,  feeling  perhaps  soine  twinge  of  his  Quaker 
ancestry,  remarks  that  '  as  the  Bohemianism  in  the  nature  of  our  race  is 
destined  to  perish,  the  sooner  it  goes,  the  happier  for  mankind.'  It  is 
not  the  eugenists  who  will  give  us  what  Plato  has  called  '  divine  releases 
from  the  common  ways.'  If  some  fancier  with  the  catholicity  of  Shake- 
speare would  take  us  in  hand,  well  and  good  ;  but  I  would  not  trust 
Shakespeares,  meeting  as  a  committee.  Let  us  remember  that  Beethoven's 
father  was  an  habitual  drunkard  and  that  his  mother  died  of  consumption. 
From  the  genealogy  of  the  patriarchs  also  we  learn — what  may  very  well 
be  the  truth — that  the  fathers  of  such  as  dwell  in  tents,  and  of  all  such 
as  handle  the  harp  or  organ,  and  the  instructor  of  every  artificer  in  brass 
or  iron — the  founders,  that  is  to  say,  of  the  arts  and  the  sciences — came 
in  direct  descent  from  Cain,  and  not  in  the  posterity  of  the  irreproachable 
Seth,  who  is  to  us,  as  he  probably  was  also  in  the  narrow  circle  of  his 
own  contemporaries,  what  naturalists  call  a  nomen  nudum." 

Nonien  nudum  is  a  bare  name  without  further  particulars,  but  Donne, 
no  doubt  on  the  authority  of  Josephus  (I.  2.  3),  attributes  Astronomy  to 
Seth  ("  The  Progresse  of  the  Soule  ")  : 

Wonder  with  mee 
Why  plowing,  building,  ruling  and  the  rest, 
Or  most  of  those  Arts  whence  our  lives  are  blest, 
By  cursed  Cain's  race  invented  be, 
And  blest  Seth  vext  us  with  Astronomic. 

Donne  (1573-1631)  is  "  vext  "  with  Astronomy,  presumably  because 
at  that  time  Kepler  (1571-1630)  and  Galileo  (1564-1642)  were  affirming 
the  Copernican  system  and  making  other  discoveries  supposed  to  be 
dangerous  to  religion. 

The  object  of  eugenics  is  to  improve  the  human  race  physically  and 
mentally.  The  eugenists  tell  us  that,  if  we  believe  in  evolution,  we  must 
also  believe  that  man  can  be  "  developed." 


NOTE  ON  PAINE  283 

They  appear  to  have  overlooked  the  fact  that  homo  sapiens  is  not  a 
series  of  genera  and  species,  but  only  one  single  species.  One  does  not 
speak  of  "evolution,"  when  referring  to  a  single  species  which  has  remained 
unaltered.  Evolution  manifests  itself  only  when  certain  mysterious 
variations  suddenly  and  unaccountably  appear  and  give  rise  to  new 
species.  By  a  marvellous  succession  of  such  variations  through  millions 
or  billions  of  years,  some  one-celled,  jelly-like,  amoeba-like,  living  speck 
of  protoplasm  evolved  ultimately  into  a  Shakespeare — but,  until  the  first 
mysterious  variation  happened,  it  remained  the  same  primordial  speck 
of  protoplasm.  There  can  be  no  evolution  or  development  in  any  species 
until  the  variation  arises  that  transforms  it  into  another  species.  This 
so  far  has  not  happened  to  man.  On  p.  183  I  give  reasons  for  believing 
that  earliest  man  was  mentally  equal,  and  quite  possibly  superior,  to 
ourselves.     This  would  also  be  the  case  as  regards  his  body. 

Therefore,  so  long  as  man  remains  unchanged,  his  innate  physical 
and  mental  constitution  cannot  be  improved.  But  by  the  exercise  of 
his  normal  mental  faculties,  man  can  and  does  add  greatly  to  his  know- 
ledge. Each  accession  of  knowledge  gives  his  mind  further  data  to  work 
upon,  so  that  knowledge  increases  in  geometrical  progression.  (I  am 
using  the  term  "  mind  "  in  its  popular  sense,  as  including  the  Uncon- 
scious or  Soul  with  its  Imagination.)  Through  this  purely  mental 
process,  man  has  already  added  enormously  to  his  physical  powers. 
He  can,  for  example,  see  and  investigate  the  constitution  of  worlds  many 
billions  of  miles  distant  from  him,  or  observe  the  behaviour  of  incon- 
ceivably minute  electrons  within  an  inconceivably  minute  atom.  This 
is  not  due  to  any  "  development  "  in  the  eye  or  in  the  mental  faculties 
which  man  originally  had,  but  simply  to  the  continued  exercise  of  those 
faculties.  (This  is  one  of  the  reasons  that  lead  me  to  believe  that  the 
mind — or  rather  the  Unconscious  or  Soul — is  the  essential  cause  of 
evolution,  as  stated  on  p.  173.)  On  the  other  hand,  although  man's 
faculties  cannot  be  improved,  those  faculties  can  decay,  see  p.  184.  The 
eugenists  deal  also  with  the  question  of  decay,  but  we  are  at  present  dis- 
cussing their  proposal  to  "  develop  "  or  improve  the  human  race. 

Assuming  this  can  be  done,  there  is  only  one  way  in  which  the  eugenists 
can  set  about  it,  namely,  by  adopting  the  methods  of  the  stock-breeder. 
They  know  that  the  world  will  not  trust  them  with  the  compulsory 
powers  of  the  stock-breeder,  but,  having  a  faith  that  should  remove 
mountains,  they  hope  to  educate  the  world  to  submit  themselves 
voluntarily  to  a  similar  process. 

To  begin  with,  the  stock-breeder  "  breeds  for  points,"  and  the 
eugenists  admit  that  after  fifty  years  they  do  not  yet  know  what  points 
to  breed  for.  But  let  us  further  assume  that  they  have  fixed  upon  the 
necessary  congenital  elements  and  isolated  them,  so  that  they  can  begin 
their  breeding.  In  the  first  place  we  know  that  the  breeder  can  produce 
results  only  within  very  narrozv  and  strictly  fixed  limits.  We  also  know 
that,  if  he  once  ceases  his  work  of  selection,  the  animal  reverts  to  its 
original  (normal)  condition  and  the  results  disappear. 

But  also  the  breeder  does  not  aim  at  improving  the  aftitnal.  His 
object  is  to  increase  certain  physical  characters  at  the  expense  of  others 
for  the  benefit,  Jiot  of  the  animal  but  of  man.  In  other  words  his  object 
is  to  produce  artificial  monstrosities.  It  is  not  an  improvement  of  a 
sheep,  qua  sheep,  to  grow  an  excessive  load  of  wool,  or  of  a  bullock,  qua 
bullock,  to  become  an  unwieldy  mass  of  flesh.  (Nor  is  it  an  improvement 
of  a  rose,  qua  rose,  to  give  up  its  reproductive  organs  in  exchange  for  a 
number  of  useless  petals.)  If  the  stock-breeder  were  to  try  to  make  a 
superior  animal,  he  would  utterly  fail — and  he  also  cannot  add  to  the 
innate  intelligence  of  any  animal.     Therefore,  after  making  all  manner 


284 


NOTE  ON  PAINE 


of  unwarranted  assumptions,  we  still  find  that  eugenics  must  turn  out 
a  failure  in  this  respect. 

Let  us  now  proceed  to  the  next  question.  The  eugenists  say  emphatic- 
ally that  the  human  race  is  rapidly  decaying,  and  they  propose  to  arrest 
that  decay.  Here  there  is  one  fact  that  we  must  all  admit.  Defectives 
and  other  abnormals  should  not — in  the  present  state  of  rnedical  know- 
ledge— be  allowed  to  produce  tainted  offspring.  So  far  as  the  eugenists 
assist  in  promoting  this  object,  they  are  to  be  commended  ;  but  it  was 
not  necessary  to  found  a  new  "  science  "  for  this  one  object. 

However,  the  eugenists  do  not  rely  only  on  this  comparatively  minor 
point,  when  they  say  that  the  human  race  is  rapidly  decaying.  They 
have  a  very  remarkable  theory.  This  theory  is  that  man  is  divided  into 
upper  and  lower  classes  which  are  respectively  possessed  of  a  higher  and 
lower  order  of  intelligence,  and  transmit  the  same  to  their  respective 
descendants.  These  classes  have  also  another  distinguishing  feature  in 
that  the  upper  class  have  a  far  less  birth-rate  than  the  lower  class.  There- 
fore the  human  race  is  being  fast  denuded  of  its  intelligent  class,  and 
becoming  degenerate. 

These  classes  are  not  fixed  and  definite,  for  there  is  a  constant  transfer 
of  members  going  on  from  one  class  to  another.  But  when  such  in- 
dividuals so  transfer  themselves  or  become  transferred,  they  find  them- 
selves on  an  average  subject  to  the  law  of  their  new  class,  and  produce 
more  or  less  offspring  as  the  case  may  be. 

As  regards  this  theory,  it  may  be  noted  that  no  such  division  into 
classes,  with  higher  and  lower  intelligence  and  different  birth-rates,  is 
to  be  found  in  any  other  biological  species.  Also  it  must  be  a  late 
development  in  man  himself  for,  as  John  Ball  preached  in  1381, 

When  Adam  delved  and  Eve  span 
Who  was  then  the  gentleman  ? 

Also  this  theory  of  classes  which  interchange  but  still  remain  distinct 
has  not  the  characteristics  of  a  genuine  scientific  hypothesis. 

The  question  is  whether  the  two  classes  do  actually  differ  in  innate 
intelligence.  The  eugenists,  of  course,  admit  that  men  of  exceptional 
ability  appear  in  the  lower  class,  but  this  does  not  affect  their  view  that 
this  class  is  mentally  inferior  to  the  upper  class.  The  popular  view  that 
ability  will  always  come  to  the  surface — is  bound  to  manifest  itself — 
seems  to  be  implicit  in  all  eugenist  literature.  That  is  to  say,  the  excep- 
tional cases  where  men  have  risen  from  the  lower  class  are  to  be  taken 
as  practically  the  only  cases  where  ability  exists  in  that  class.  It  should 
not  be  necessary  to  argue  against  this  absurd  theory.  No  ability,  or  even 
genius,  can  manifest  itself,  unless  it  has  an  opportunity  to  do  so.  When 
it  is  combined  with  an  indomitable  energy,  which  is  by  no  means  a 
usual  combination,  it  will  occasionally  be  able,  as  it  were,  to  make  an 
opportunity  by  sheer  force.  But  not  even  such  a  combination  can  work 
impossibilities.  A  hundred  Einsteins' may  have  been  lost  to  the  world 
through,  for  example,  mere  lack  of  elementary  education,  or  the  incessant 
struggle  for  a  bare  existence. 

In  past  history,  it  is  scarcely  inaccurate  to  say  that  it  was  not  possible 
for  ability  in  the  lower  class  to  assert  itself.  There  were  extremely  few 
exceptions.  Hence  all  great  men  appeared  only  in  the  upper  class  ; 
and  hence  the  notion  arose  that  this  class  was  innately  superior.  But 
throughout  all  history  the  aristocracies,  Greek  and  Roman  nobles,  the 
Venetian  oligarchy,  and  so  on,  died  out.  All  kinds  of  reasons  are 
given  for  these  happenings,  but  the  true  reason  seems  to  be  the  rise  of 
able  men  among  the  proletariat.     The  signal  case  is  that  of  France. 


NOTE  ON  PAINE  285 

There  the  aristocracy  were  either  exterminated  or  banished  or  deprived 
of  their  property  and  privileges  ;  yet  the  nation  was  quickly  renewed 
from  the  lower  class  and  soon  stood,  as  it  now  stands,  in  the  forefront 
of  civilization.  In  England,  even  so  recently  as  sixty  years  ago,  there 
was  practically  no  opportunity  for  ability  to  manifest  itself  among  the 
lower  classes.  And,  although  the  state  of  things  has  greatly  improved, 
there  is  very  little  such  opportunity  to-day.  What  possible  chance  have 
"  the  ragged,  screaming,  verminous  children  "  of  the  slums  described  by 
Mr.  Sampson  in  English  for  the  English  ? 

In  Australia  things  are  happily  very  different,  and  there  is  far  more 
opportunity  for  the  lower  class  (see  p.  421).  Consequently  we  are  so 
familiar  with  instances  of  important  men  rising  from  the  ranks  that  it 
excites  not  the  least  comment,  and  is  taken  as  a  matter  of  course.  It  is 
so  obvious  that  there  are  no  different  strata  of  intelligence  in  children 
of  one  class  or  another,  that  I  do  not  think  any  Australian  has  ever 
imagined  anything  to  the  contrary.  But  there  is  also  direct  evidence 
that  no  such  difference  exists  among  English  children.  There  is,  for 
example,  the  remarkable  testimony  of  Mr.  Edmond  Holmes  (see  What 
Is  and  What  Might  Be  and  his  other  books).  Or  take  the  results  obtained 
by  that  genius,  the  late  Miss  Charlotte  Mason,  in  the  schools  of  the 
Parents'  National  Educational  Union,  which  she  founded.  That  Union 
has  about  250  primary  or  elementary  schools  all  over  England.  They 
are  Government /ree  schools  attended  by  the  children  of  the  lower  class. 
But  the  Union  also  has  about  150  private  and  secondary  schools  which 
are  not  free,  and  (except  for  a  few  in  the  secondary  schools  that  have 
obtained  scholarships  in  the  primary  schools)  are  attended  by  children 
of  the  leisured  and  cultured  classes.  They  have  also  about  3000  children 
being  educated  by  the  same  methods  in  their  own  homes.  They  have, 
therefore,  a  unique  opportunity  of  comparing  the  mentality  of  children 
of  every  description,  from  those  of  the  higher  aristocracy  to  those  of  the 
very  lowest  classes.  The  conclusion,  in  which  the  leaders  of  the  Union 
all  agree,  is  expressed  as  follows  by  Mr.  H.  W.  Household,  Government 
Education  Secretary  for  Gloucestershire  {English  Literature  and  the 
Teaching  Methods  of  Miss  Mason)  : 

We  have  learned  that  the  children  of  Labour  are  not  inferior  to  the 
children  of  Capital,  that  their  average  of  capacity  is  at  least  as  high  ; 
and  we  have  proved  that,  given  the  opportunity,  they  show  a  greater 
eagerness  and  will  to  learn.  The  best  brains  of  a  Secondary  School 
will  generally  be  found  among  those  who  have  come  there  with  free 
places. 

We  may  well  ask  what  evidence  the  eugenists  have  to  set  against  this. 

There  is  another  point  on  which  the  eugenists  rely.  The  Americans 
during  the  war  applied  to  their  conscripts  certain  "  mental  tests,"  and 
discovered  to  their  surprise  and  disgust  that  those  conscripts  (who  fully 
represented  the  young  men  of  the  nation)  were  on  an  average  of  the 
"  mental  age  "  of  thirteen.  This  meant  that  the  majority  of  the  popula- 
tion were  "  morons,"  that  is  to  say  feeble-minded.  On  this  the  eugenists 
greatly  rely  as  proving  that  the  human  race  is  rapidly  decaying.  As  a 
matter  of  fact  it  does  7tot  prove  this. 

In  the  first  place  those  "  mental  tests  "  have  been  considered  by  many 
psychologists,  and  the  general  opinion  (outside  the  ranks  of  the  eugenists) 
is  that  they  are  very  unreliable  as  tests  of  intelligence.  It  is  pointed  out 
that  even  the  elaborate  and  carefully  prepared  University  and  Civil 
Service  examinations  have  been  condemned  by  Royal  Commissions 
and  other  authorities  as  insufficient  tests  of  intelligence.  Some  writers 
go  so  far  as  to  say  that  the  mental  tests  are  wholly  unreliable.     But  this 


286  NOTE  ON  PAINE 

is  plainly  an  exaggeration  ;  and  the  true  conclusion  probably  is  that 
a  comparatively  low  average  state  of  intelligence  was  shown  in  the 
American  people,  but  not  so  low  as  the  figures  indicate. 

This,  however,  applies  only  to  the  Americans  and  not  to  other  nations. 
We  meet  here  a  delicate  matter  that  one  would  prefer  not  to  discuss, 
but  delicacy  must  be  left  out  of  the  question.  For  two  reasons  the 
Americans  are  necessarily  inferior  on  the  average  to  other  civilized 
nations.  Their  population  consists  largely  of  ignorant  alien  labourers 
who  have  immigrated,  in  addition  to  their  own  negroes.  They  also  are 
the  most  subject  of  all  nations  to  that  curse  of  modern  civilization, 
industrialism,  which  destroys  the  higher  imaginative  and  spiritual 
faculties,  and  makes  man's  life  a  mean  and  sordid  one.  From  these  two 
causes  their  contribution  to  art,  literature,  science,  and  philosophy  is 
inferior  to  that  of,  say,  the  French  or  the  British,  although  in  numbers 
they  exceed  the  combined  total  of  both  those  nations.  From  the  same  two 
causes  they  exceed  in  corruption  and  crime  other  civilized  races.  So  also 
in  the  war  their  perceptions  of  principle  and  duty  were  submerged  by 
industrialism — and  this  still  appears  in  their  attitude  towards  the  war- 
debts.  In  each  case  the  "  dollar  "  was  and  is  the  all-powerful  factor. 
But  this  phase  can  only  be  considered  as  temporary — we  are  not  likely  to 
see  a  "  darkest  America  " — and  probably  a  great  spiritual  revival  will  alter 
the  whole  position.  But  in  the  meantime  this  nation  is  bound  to  show 
the  inferior  average  of  intelligence,  which  their  mixture  of  races  and 
an  undue  absorption  in  money-making  must  necessarily  involve. 

There  is  a  still  more  important  objection  to  eugenics  than  anything 
I  have  hitherto  mentioned.  If  the  views  I  express  in  the  long  note  on 
p.  170  are  v/ell  founded,  the  proposals  of  the  eugenists  are  not  only 
unwarranted  but  are  positively  penncioiis.  This  is  also  the  case  if  only 
one  statement  in  that  note  is  correct,  namely,  that  genius  is  not  inherited. 
For  it  means  that  imagination,  the  essential  source  of  human  progress,  is 
not  subject  to  heredity.  It  appears  indiscriminately  in  all  classes.  If, 
therefore,  the  eugenists  Vv'ere  to  carry  out  their  proposals  (which  depend 
upon  heredity),  this,  the  supreme  of  all  faculties,  would  of  necessity  be 
ignored.  The  result  would  be,  first,  a  dead-level  of  unprogressive 
humanity  and,  next,  the  decay  of  civilization.  Their  eflforts  to  improve 
the  human  race  would  reduce  civilized  man  to  the  level  of  savages  ! 

To  put  this  in  other  words,  the  eugenists  omit  from  their  programme 
the  greatest  of  all  factors,  the  soul  of  man.  It  was  this  that  was  at  the 
back  of  Bateson's  mind  in  the  remarks  quoted  above. 

For  fifty  years  Galton  and  his  followers  have  predicted  that,  unless 
we  mend  our  ways,  civilization  is  doomed  to  rapid  decay,  and  Professor 
McDougall  now  joins  in  the  outcry  (National  Welfare  and  National  Decay). 
Yet  the  world  still  rolls  on  placid  and  undisturbed  !  Notwithstanding 
those  gloomy  prophecies,  the  present  is  the  greatest  period  in  the  world's 
history  in  all  the  physical  sciences,  in  mathematics,  in  biology  and  all 
its  allied  sciences,  in  psychology  and  in  invention,  and  it  is  also  a  great 
period  in  philosophy  and  other  departments  of  knowledge. 

Therefore  the  vievv's  of  the  eugenists  do  not  appear  to  be  founded 
on  a  scientific  basis  or  to  correspond  with  existing  facts.  In  Nature, 
June  16,  1923,  Karl  Pearson,  the  head  of  the  eugenists,  ridicules  "the 
wholly  unwarranted  belief  that  man  is  an  animal  for  whom  other  laws 
hold  than  for  his  humbler  mammalian  kindred."  As  it  seems  to  me,  it 
is  precisely  upon  this  '"vvhoUy  unwarranted  belief"  that  his  "science" 
of  eugenics  is  based. 


STEPHEN— LOWRY  287 

A  SONNET 

Two  voices  are  there  :  one  is  of  the  deep  ; 

It  learns  the  storm-cloud's  thunderous  melody, 

Now,  roars,  now  murmurs  with  the  changing  sea. 

Now  bird-like  pipes,  now  closes  soft  in  sleep  : 

And  one  is  of  an  old  half-witted  sheep 

Which  bleats  articulate  monotony. 

And  indicates  that  two  and  one  are  three. 

That  grass  is  green,  lakes  damp,  and  mountains  steep  : 

And,  Wordsworth,  both  are  thine  :  at  certain  times 

Forth  from  the  heart  of  thy  melodious  rhymes. 

The  form  and  pressure  of  high  thoughts  v/ill  burst  : 

At  other  times — good  Lord  !  I'd  rather  be 

Quite  unacquainted  with  the  A. B.C. 

Than  write  such  hopeless  rubbish  as  thy  worst. 

James  Kenneth  Stephen. 

"  Two  Voices  are  there  ;  one  is  of  the  sea,"  is  Wordsworth's  fine 
sonnet  on  the  subjugation  of  Switzerland. 

It  is  certainly  extraordinary  how  the  great  poet  at  times  dropped 
into  the  most  prosaic  language  and  commonplace  verse.  This,  however, 
was  only  in  his  earlier  poems  and  only  in  a  few  of  those  poems.  His 
theory  at  that  time  was  that  poetic  language  should  be  natural,  such  as 
used  by  ordinary  men,  and  not  essentially  different  from  prose.  Actually, 
however,  at  the  root  of  the  matter  was  his  want  of  any  sense  of  humour. 
Only  so  can  we  account  for  his  beginning  a  poem  "  Spade  !  with  which 
Wilkinson  hath  tilled  his  lands,"  or  writing  absurdly  babyish  verses. 
The  one  instance  on  record  in  which  he  did  apparently  exhibit  a  grotesque 
kind  of  humour  was  in  a  verse  of  "  Peter  Bell  "  : 

Is  it  a  party  in  a  parlour  ? 
Cramm'd  just  as  they  on  earth  were  cramm'd — 
Some  sipping  punch,  some  sipping  tea. 
But,  as  you  by  their  faces  see, 
All  silent  and  all  damn'd. 

But  this  he  no  doubt  wrote  quite  seriously  and  without  any  idea  that  the 
verse  was  humorous.  Shelley  placed  this  verse  at  the  head  of  his  parody 
of  "  Peter  Bell,"  and  Wordsworth  omitted  it  from  the  poem  after  1819. 


O  THE  Spring  will  come, 
And  once  again  the  wind  be  in  the  West, 
Breathing  the  odour  of  the  sea  ;  and  life, 
Life  that  was  ugly,  and  work  that  grew  a  curse, 
Be  God's  best  gifts  again,  and  in  your  heart 
You'll  find  once  more  the  dreams  you  thought  were  dead. 

H.  D.  LowRY. 
In  Cove  fit  Garden. 


288  ELIOT— R.  BROWNING 

Day  is  dying  !  Float,  O  Song, 
Down  the  westward  river, 

Requiem  chanting  to  the  Day — 
Day,  the  mighty  Giver. 

Pierced  by  shafts  of  Time  he  bleeds, 

Melted  rubies  sending 
Through  the  river  and  the  sky. 

Earth  and  heaven  blending  ; 

All  the  long-drawn  earthy  banks 
Up  to  cloud-land  lifting  : 

Slow  between  them  drifts  the  swan, 
'Twixt  two  heavens  drifting, 

Wings  half  open,  like  a  flow'r 

Inly  deeper  flushing. 
Neck  and  breast  as  virgin's  pure — 

Virgin  proudly  blushing. 

Day  is  dying  !     Float,  O  swan, 

Down  the  ruby  river  ; 
Follow,  song,  in  requiem 

To  the  mighty  Giver. 

George  Eliot. 
The  Spanish  Gypsy. 


And,  were  I  not,  as  a  man  may  say,  cautious 

How  I  trench,  more  than  needs,  on  the  nauseous, 

I  could  favour  you  with  sundry  touches 

Of  the  paint-smutches  with  which  the  Duchess 

Heightened  the  mellowness  of  her  cheek's  yellowness 

(To  get  on  faster)  until  at  last  her 

Cheek  grew  to  be  one  master-plaster 

Of  mucus  and  fucus  from  mere  use  of  ceruse  ; 

In  short,  she  grew  from  scalp  to  udder 

Just  the  object  to  make  you  shudder. 

R.  Browning. 
The  Flight  of  the  Duchess, 


TENNYSON— LESSING  289 

Whatever  crazy  sorrow  saith, 

No  life  that  breathes  with  human  breath 

Has  ever  truly  longed  for  death. 

'Tis  life,  whereof  our  nerves  are  scant, 
Oh,  life,  not  death,  for  which  we  pant  ; 
More  life,  and  fuller,  that  we  want. 

Tennyson. 
The  Two  Voices. 

Tennyson  differs  from  Job  (iii.  20)  :  "  Wherefore  is  light  given  to 
him  that  is  in  misery,  and  life  unto  the  bitter  in  soul  ;  which  long  for 
death  but  it  cometh  not  :  and  dig  for  it  more  than  for  hid  treasures  ; 
which  rejoice  exceedingly  and  are  glad,  when  they  can  find  the  grave  ?  " 

It  is  a  familiar  fact  that  many  men  have  desired  death,  mostly  because 
life  ineant  a  continuous  torture  to  themselves  and  mental  distress  to 
their  families.  When  I  met  Richard  Hodgson  in  London  in  1897,  he 
told  me  that  he  definitely  wished  to  die.  He  was  free  from  ill-health 
or  trouble  of  any  kind,  but  his  one  desire  was  to  "  pass  over"  and  be 
with  the  friends  with  whom  for  years  he  had  been  in  communication. 
Hodgson  was  incapable  of  saying  anything  insincere. 

"  More  life,  and  fuller  "  :  "I  am  come  that  they  might  have  life, 
and  that  they  might  have  it  more  abundantly  "  (John  x.  10). 


Not  the  truth  of  which  a  man  is  or  believes  himself  to  be 
possessed,  but  the  earnest  efforts,  which  he  has  made  to 
attain  truth,  make  the  worth  of  the  man.  For  it  is  not 
through  the  possession  of,  but  through  the  search  for  truth, 
that  he  develops  those  powers  in  which  alone  consists  his 
ever-growing  perfection.  Possession  makes  the  mind  stag- 
nant, indolent,  proud. 

If  God  held  in  His  right  hand  all  truth,  and  in  His  left 
the  ever-living  desire  for  truth — although  with  the  condition 
that  I  should  remain  in  error  for  ever — and  if  He  said  to  me, 
"  Choose,"  I  should  humbly  bow  before  His  left  hand,  and 
say,  "  Father,  give  ;   pure  truth  is  for  Thee  alone." 

Lessing. 
Wolfenbuttel  Fragments. 

When  Lessing  wrote  this  famous  passage  he  was  contending  that 
criticism  should  be  absolutely  free  in  regard  to  religious,  as  to  all  other, 
subjects.  "  The  argument  on  which  he  chiefly  relies  is  that  the  Bible 
cannot  be  considered  necessary  to  a  belief  in  Christianity,  since  Chris- 
tianity was  a  living  and  conquering  power  before  the  New  Testament  in 
its  present  form  was  recognized  by  the  Church.  The  true  evidence  for 
what  is  essential  in  Christianity,  he  contends,  is  its  adaptation  to  the 
wants  of  human  nature  ;  hence  the  religious  spirit  is  undisturbed  by  the 
speculations  of  the  boldest  thinkers  "  {Encyclopcedia  Britannica). 

U 


290  SCHREINER  AND  OTHERS 

Human  life  may  be  painted  according  to  two  methods. 
There  is  the  stage  method.  According  to  that,  each  char- 
acter is  duly  marshalled  at  first,  and  ticketed  ;  we  know 
with  an  immutable  certainty  that,  at  the  right  crises,  each 
one  will  reappear  and  act  his  part,  and,  when  the  curtain 
falls,  all  will  stand  before  it  bowing.  There  is  a  sense  of 
satisfaction  in  this — and  of  completeness.  But  there  is 
another  method — the  method  of  the  life  we  all  lead.  Here 
nothing  can  be  prophesied.  There  is  a  strange  coming  and 
going  of  feet.  Men  appear,  act  and  re-act  upon  each  other, 
and  pass  away.  When  the  crisis  comes,  the  man  who  would 
fit  it  does  not  return.  When  the  curtain  falls,  no  one  is 
ready.  When  the  footlights  are  brightest  they  are  blown 
out  ;  and  what  the  name  of  the  play  is  no  one  knows.  If 
there  sits  a  spectator  who  knows,  he  sits  so  high  that  the 
players  in  the  gaslight  cannot  hear  his  breathing. 

Olive  Schreiner. 
The  Story  of  an  African  Farm. 

This  is  from  the  preface  to  the  second  edition.  This  book  must  be 
unique,  for  surely  no  other  girl  in  her  teens  has  written  a  book  so  brilliant 
in  itself  and  indicating  such  originality  and  genius.  It  is  a  great  loss  to 
literature  that  the  writer  became  entirely  absorbed  in  South  African 
politics  and  controversy. 


I  SLEEP,  I  eat  and  drink,  I  read  and  meditate,  I  walk  in  my 

neighbour's  pleasant  fields  and  see  the  varieties  of  natural 

beauties,  and  delight  in  all  that  in  which  God  delights — 

that  is,  in  virtue  and  wisdom,  in  the  whole  creation,  and  in 

God  Himself.     And  he,  that  hath  so  many  causes  of  joy,  and 

so  great,  is  very  much  in  love  with  sorrow  and  peevishness, 

who  loses  all  these  pleasures,  and  chooses  to  sit  down  upon 

his  little  handful  of  thorns.  -,  rr. 

Jeremy  Taylor. 


In  my  Progress  travelling  Northward, 
Taking  farewell  of  the  Southward, 
To  Banbury  came  I,  O  prophane-One  ! 
Where  I  saw  a  Puritane-One 
Hanging  of  his  Cat  on  Monday, 
For  kilhng  of  a  Mouse  on  Sunday. 

R.  Brathwaite. 
Drunken  Barnaby. 


WHITE— PLUTARCH  291 

NIGHT  AND  DEATH 

Mysterious  Night !  when  our  first  parent  knew 
Thee  from  report  divine,  and  heard  thy  name, 
Did  he  not  tremble  for  this  lovely  frame, 

This  glorious  canopy  of  light  and  blue  ? 

Yet  'neath  a  curtain  of  translucent  dew, 

Bathed  in  the  rays  of  the  great  setting  flame, 
Hesperus  with  the  host  of  heaven  came. 

And  lo  !   creation  widened  in  man's  view. 

Who  could  have  thought  such  darkness  lay  concealed 
Within  thy  beams,  O  Sun  !  or  who  could  find, 

Whilst  fly  and  leaf  and  insect  stood  revealed. 

That  to  such  countless  orbs  thou  mad'st  us  blind  ! 
Why  do  we  then  shun  Death  with  anxious  strife  ? 
If  Light  can  thus  deceive,  wherefore  not  Life  ? 

J.  Blanco  White. 

(See  preface.)  This  sonnet,  apart  from  its  great  excellence,  is  a 
remarkable  literary  curiosity.  By  this  one  poem  alone  Blanco  White 
achieved  a  lasting  reputation  as  a  poet.  The  point  is  that  this  is  his  only 
poem.  He  had  previously  written  a  sonnet  of  little  merit  on  survival 
after  death,  but  "  Night  and  Death  "  was  an  inspired  transfiguration  of 
this  earlier  effort.  It  is  a  startling  instance  of  inspiration  coming  to  a 
man  once  only  in  his  life — and  then  coming  in  its  very  highest  form. 
There  are  other  poets,  whose  work  is  generally  of  poor  quality,  but  who 
have  each  produced  one  surprisingly  good  poena  which  alone  keeps  their 
memory  alive.  An  instance  of  this  is  Christopher  Smart  (1722-1771), 
who  wrote  several  volumes  of  verse  but  only  one  fine  poem,  the  "  Song 
to  David."  Charles  Wolfe  (1791-1823)  is  also  known  only  by  his 
"  Burial  of  Sir  John  Moore,"  but  his  other  poems,  though  forgotten, 
are  said  to  have  had  some  nierit. 

The  sonnet  is  also  interesting  for  another  reason.  White's  family 
had  settled  in  Spain  for  two  generations,  his  grandfather  having  changed 
his  name  to  Blanco.  His  mother  was  Spanish,  he  was  educated  in  Spain, 
and  became  a  Spanish  priest,  and  he  did  not  leave  for  England  until  1810, 
when  thirty-five  years  of  age.  Yet  White's  beautiful  thought  could 
hardly  be  expressed  in  finer  language.  There  is,  however,  one  defect 
in  the  words  "  fly  and  leaf  and  insect."  (William  Sharp  courageously 
altered  "  fly  "  to  "  flower.") 

Coleridge  thought  this  "  the  finest  and  most  grandly  conceived  sonnet 
in  our  language."  Leigh  Hunt  said  that  in  point  of  thought  it  "  stands 
supreme,  perhaps,  above  all  in  any  language  :  nor  can  we  ponder  it  too 
deeply,  or  with  too  hopeful  a  reverence." 


Remember  what  Simonides  said — that  he  never  repented 
that  he  had  held  his  tongue,  but  often  that  he  had  spoken. 

Plutarch. 
Morals. 


292  LEIGH 

ONLY  SEVEN 
{A  Pastoral  Story,  after  Wordsworth) 

I  MARVELLED  why  a  simple  child 
That  lightly  draws  its  breath 

Should  utter  groans  so  very  wild, 
And  look  as  pale  as  Death. 

Adopting  a  parental  tone, 
I  asked  her  why  she  cried  ; 

The  damsel  answered,  with  a  groan, 
"  I've  got  a  pain  inside. 

"  I  thought  it  would  have  sent  me  mad 
Last  night  about  eleven." 

Said  I,  "  What  is  it  makes  you  bad  ? 

How  many  apples  have  you  had  ?  " 
She  answered,  "  Only  seven  !  " 

"  And  are  you  sure  you  took  no  more, 
My  little  maid  ?  "  quoth  I. 

"  Oh  !  please  sir,  mother  gave  me  four, 
But  they  were  in  a  pie  !  " 

"  If  that's  the  case,"  I  stammered  out, 
"  Of  course  you've  had  eleven." 

The  maiden  answered,  with  a  pout, 
"  I  ain't  had  more  nor  seven  !  " 

I  wondered  hugely  what  she  meant. 
And  said,  "  I'm  bad  at  riddles, 

But  I  know  where  little  girls  are  sent 
For  telling  tarrididdles. 

"  Now,  if  you  don't  reform,"  said  I, 

"  You'll  never  go  to  heaven." 
But  all  in  vain  ;  each  time  I  try. 
That  little  idiot  makes  reply, 
"  I  ain't  had  more  nor  seven  "  ! 


LEIGH  AND  OTHERS  293 

POSTSCRIPT 

To  borrow  Wordsworth's  name  was  wrong, 

Or  slightly  misapplied  ; 
And  so  I'd  better  call  my  song, 

"  Lines  after  Ache-inside.^^ 

Henry  Sambrooke  Leigh. 

It  seems  wicked  to  travesty  Wordsworth's  tender  little  poem,  but 
Leigh's  verses  amused  us  greatly  when  they  appeared.  Mark  Akenside 
(1721-1770)  is  a  poet  now  almost  forgotten. 


Of  such  as  he  was,  there  be  few  on  Earth  ; 
Of  such  as  he  is,  there  are  many  in  Heaven  ; 
And  Life  is  all  the  sweeter  that  he  lived. 
And  all  he  loved  more  sacred  for  his  sake  : 
And  Death  is  all  the  brighter  that  he  died. 
And  Heaven  is  all  the  happier  that  he's  there. 

Gerald  Massey. 
In  Memoriam. 


The  hour,  which  might  have  been,  yet  might  not  be. 
Which  man's  and  woman's  heart  conceived  and  bore, 
Yet  whereof  life  was  barren, — on  what  shore 

Bides  it  the  breaking  of  Time's  weary  sea  ? 

D.    G.    ROSSETTI. 

Stillborn  Love. 


I  ALWAYS  wanted  to  make  a  clean  breast  of  it  ; 

And  now  it  is  made — why,  my  heart's  blood,  that  went  trickle, 

Trickle,  but  anon,  in  such  muddy  driblets. 

Is  pumped  up  brisk  now,  through  the  main  ventricle, 

And  genially  floats  me  about  the  giblets. 

R.  Browning. 
The  Flight  of  the  Duchess. 


Get  thee  behind  the  man  I  am  now. 

You  man  that  I  used  to  be,        r»    ti 

R.  Browning. 

Martin  Relph. 


294  ELIOT— STEVENSON 

Our  delight  in  the  sunshine  on  the  deep-bladed  grass 

to-day  might  be  no  more  than  the  faint  perception  of  wearied 

souls,  if  it  were  not  for  the  sunshine  and  the  grass  in  those 

far-off  days  which  live  in  us,  and  transform  our  perception 

into  love.  ^  -r, 

George  Eliot. 

Mill  on  the  Floss. 

The  firmaments  of  daisies  since  to  me 
Have  had  those  mornings  in  their  opening  eyes  ; 
The  bunched  cowslip's  pale  transparency 
Carries  that  sunshine  of  sweet  memories, 
And  wild-rose  branches  take  their  finest  scent 
From  those  blest  hours  of  infantine  content. 

George  Eliot. 
Brother  and  Sister. 

It  will  be  observed  that  the  thought  is  the  same  in  both  passages. 


For  my  own  part,  I  could  not  look  but  with  wonder  and 
respect  on  the  Chinese.  Their  forefathers  watched  the 
stars  before  mine  had  begun  to  keep  pigs.  Gunpowder  and 
printing,  which  the  other  day  we  imitated,  and  a  school  of 
manners  which  we  never  had  the  delicacy  so  much  as  to 
desire  to  imitate,  were  theirs  in  a  long-past  antiquity.  They 
walk  the  earth  with  us,  but  it  seems  they  must  be  of  dift'erent 
clay.  They  hear  the  clock  strike  the  same  hour,  yet  surely 
of  a  diff"erent  epoch.  They  travel  by  steam  conveyance, 
yet  with  such  baggage  of  old  Asiatic  thoughts  and  supersti- 
tions as  might  check  the  locomotive  in  its  course.  Whatever 
is  thought  within  the  circuit  of  the  Great  Wall  ;  what  the 
wry-eyed,  spectacled  schoolmaster  teaches  in  the  hamlets 
round  Pekin  ;  religions  so  old  that  our  language  looks  a 
halfling  boy  alongside  ;  philosophy  so  wise  that  our  best 
philosophers  find  things  therein  to  wonder  at  ;  all  this 
travelled  alongside  of  me  for  thousands  of  miles  over  plain 
and  mountain.  Heaven  knows  if  we  had  one  common 
thought  or  fancy  all  that  way,  or  whether  our  eyes,  which 
yet  were  formed  upon  the  same  design,  beheld  the  same 
world  out  of  the  railway  windows.  And  when  either  of  us 
turned  his  thoughts  to  hom.e  and  childhood,  what  a  strange 
dissimilarity  must  there  not  have  been  in  these  pictures  of 
the  mind — when  I  beheld  that  old,  gray,  castled  city,  high 


STEVENSON  AND  OTHERS  295 

throned  above  the  firth,  with  the  flag  of  Britain  flying,  and 
the  red-coat  sentry  pacing  over  ah  ;  and  the  man  in  the  next 
car  to  me  would  conjure  up  some  junks  and  a  pagoda  and  a 
fort  of  porcelain,  and  call  it,  with  the  same  aff"ection,  home. 

R.  L.  Stevenson. 
Across  the  Plains. 


SAY  NOT  THE  STRUGGLE  NOUGHT  AVAILETH 

Say  not,  the  struggle  nought  availeth, 
The  labour  and  the  wounds  are  vain, 

The  enemy  faints  not,  nor  faileth. 
And  as  things  have  been  they  remain. 

If  hopes  were  dupes,  fears  may  be  Hars  ; 

It  may  be,  in  yon  smoke  concealed, 
Your  comrades  chase  e'en  now  the  fliers. 

And,  but  for  you,  possess  the  field. 

For  while  the  tired  waves,  vainly  breaking, 
Seem  here  no  painful  inch  to  gain. 

Far  back,  through  creeks  and  inlets  making, 
Comes  silent,  flooding  in,  the  main  ; 

And  not  by  eastern  windows  only. 

When  dayhght  comes,  comes  in  the  light  ; 

In  front,  the  sun  climbs  slow,  how  slowly  ! 
But  westward,  look,  the  land  is  bright  ! 

A.  H.  Clough. 


.  .  .  Fear 
No  petty  customs  nor  appearances  ; 
But  think  what  others  only  dreamed  about  ; 
And  say  what  others  did  but  think  ;  and  do 
What  others  did  but  say  ;  and  glory  in 
What  others  dared  but  do. 

P.  J.  Bailey. 
My  Lady. 


296  POPE  AND  OTHERS 

A  MAN  should  never  be  ashamed  to  own  that  he  has  been 
in  the  wrong,  which  is  but  saying  that  he  is  wiser  to-day  than 
he  was  yesterday.  p 

We  have  all  of  us  considerable  regard  for  our  past  self, 
and  are  not  fond  of  casting  reflections  on  that  respected 
individual  by  a  total  negation  of  his  opinions. 

George  Eliot. 
Scenes  from  Clerical  Life. 


The  man  who  never  alters  his  opinion  is  like  standing 
water,  and  breeds  reptiles  of  the  mind. 

William  Blake. 
The  Marriage  of  Heaven  and  Hell. 


Now,  for  myself,  when  once  the  wick  is  crushed, 
I  ask  not  where  the  light  is,  which  is  not. 
Nor  where  the  music,  when  the  harp  is  hushed, 
Nor  where  the  memory,  which  is  clean  forgot. 

W.  C.  Smith. 
Borland  Hall. 


My  tantalized  spirit 
Here  blandly  reposes. 

Forgetting,  or  never 
Regretting,  its  roses. 

E.  A.  PoE. 
For  Annie. 


And  there's  none  of  them,  but  would  as  soon 

Criticize  the  Almighty  as  not. 
And  see  that  the  angels  kept  tune 
And  watch  that  the  sun  and  the  moon 

Did  not  squander  the  light  they  have  got. 

W.  C.  Smith. 
Borland  Hall. 


MARTINEAU— MEREDITH  297 

The  Cynic  in  society  becomes  the  Pessimist  in  religion. 
The  large  embrace  of  sympathy,  which  fails  him  as  inter- 
preter of  human  life,  will  no  less  be  wanting  when  he  reads 
the  meaning  of  the  universe.  The  harmony  of  the  great 
whole  escapes  him  in  his  hunt  for  little  discords  here  and 
there.  He  is  blind  to  the  august  balance  of  nature,  in  his 
preoccupation  with  some  creaking  show  of  defect.  He 
misses  the  comprehensive  march  of  advancing  purpose, 
because,  while  he  himself  is  in  it,  he  has  found  some  halting 
member  that  seems  to  lag  behind.  He  picks  holes  in  the 
universal  order  ;  he  winds  through  its  tracks  as  a  detective, 
and  makes  scandals  of  all  that  is  not  to  his  mind.  He  trusts 
nothing  that  he  cannot  see  :  and  he  sees  chiefly  the  excep- 
tional, the  dubious,  the  harsh.  The  glory  of  the  midnight 
heavens  affects  him  not,  for  thinking  of  a  shattered  planet 
or  the  uninhabitable  moon.  He  makes  more  of  the  flood 
which  sweeps  the  crop  away,  than  of  the  perpetual  river  that 
feeds  it  year  by  year.  For  him  the  purple  bloom  upon  the 
hills,  peering  through  the  young  green  woods,  does  but  dress 
up  a  stony  desert  with  deceitful  beauty  ;  and  in  the  new 
birth  of  summer,  he  cannot  yield  himself  to  the  exuberance 
of  glad  existence  for  wonder  why  insects  tease  and  nettles 
sting.  Nothing  is  so  fair,  nothing  so  imposing,  as  to  beguile 
him  into  faith  and  hope.  ...  In  selfish  minds  the  same 
temper  resorts  to  the  pettiest  reasons  for  the  most  desolating 
thoughts  :  "  If  God  were  good,  why  should  I  be  born  with 
a  club-foot  ?  If  the  world  were  justly  governed,  how  could 
my  merits  be  so  long  overlooked  ?  " 

James  Martineau. 
Hours  of  Thought,  I.  97. 

Reverting  to  this  subject  later,  Martineau  says  {Hours  of  Thought,  ii. 
354) :  "  Wherever  he  moves,  he  empties  the  space  around  him  of  its 
purest  elements  ;  with  his  low  thought  he  roofs  it  over  from  the  heavenly 
light  and  the  sweet  air  ;  and  then  complains  of  the  world  as  a  close- 
breathed  and  stifling  place." 


Cynicism  is  intellectual  dandyism  without  the  coxcomb's 
feathers  ;  and  it  seems  to  me  that  cynics  are  only  happy  in 
making  the  world  as  barren  to  others  as  they  have  made  it 
for  themselves. 

George  Meredith. 
The  Egoist. 


298  CARRUTH 


EACH  IN  HIS  OWN  TONGUE 

A  FIRE  mist  and  a  planet, 

A  crystal  and  a  cell, 
A  jelly-fish  and  a  saurian, 

And  caves  where  the  cave-men  dwell 
Then  a  sense  of  law  and  beauty, 

And  a  face  turned  from  the  clod, — 
Some  call  it  Evolution, 

And  others  call  it  God. 


A  haze  on  the  far  horizon. 

The  infinite,  tender  sky, 
The  ripe,  rich  tint  of  the  cornfields. 

And  the  wild  geese  sailing  high  ; 
And  all  over  upland  and  lowland 

The  charm  of  the  golden-rod, — 
Some  of  us  call  it  Autumn, 

And  others  call  it  God. 


Like  tides  on  a  crescent  sea-beach. 

When  the  moon  is  new  and  thin. 
Into  our  hearts  high  yearnings 

Come  welling  and  surging  in  ; 
Come  from  the  mystic  ocean 

Whose  rim  no  foot  has  trod, — 
Some  of  us  call  it  Longing, 

And  others  call  it  God. 


A  picket  frozen  on  duty, 

A  mother  starved  for  her  brood, 
Socrates  drinking  the  hemlock. 

And  Christ  upon  the  rood  ; 
And  millions  who,  humble  and  nameless, 

The  straight,  hard  pathway  plod, — 
Some  call  it  Consecration, 

And  others  call  it  God. 

William  Herbert  Carrutii. 

Professor  Carruth  of  Stanford  University,  California,  published  these 
verses  in  Each  in  His  Own  Tongue,  and  Other  Poems  (G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons, 
New  York).     It  is  an  interesting  fact  that  many  persons  have  tried  to 


CARRUTH  299 

expand  and  revise  the  poenn,  and  my  own  first  acquaintance  with  it  was 
in  the  following  version  (I  do  not  know  the  author)  : 

A  fire  mist,  and  a  planet, 

A  crystal,  and  a  cell, 
A  jelly-fish,  and  a  saurian, 

And  caves  where  cave-men  dwell  ; 
Then,  a  sense  of  love  and  duty. 

And  a  face  turned  from  the  clod, — 
Some  call  it  Evolution  : 

And  others  call  it  God. 

A  haze  on  the  far  horizon, 

An  infinite,  tender  sky, 
The  living  gold  of  the  cornfields, 

And  the  lark  soaring  up  on  high, 
The  bright  procession  of  flowers 

From  primrose  to  golden-rod, — 
Some  call  it  Summer  and  Nature  : 

And  others  say  it  is  God. 

The  echo  of  ancient  chanting, 

The  gleam  of  altar  flames. 
The  stones  of  a  hundred  temples. 

Graven  with  sacred  names, 
Man's  patient  quest  for  the  Secret 

In  soul,  in  star,  in  sod, — 
Some  deem  it  Superstition  : 

And  others  believe  it  is  God. 

A  picket  frozen  on  duty, 

A  mother  starved  for  her  brood, 
Socrates  drinking  the  hemlock. 

And  Jesus  on  the  rood  ; 
The  millions  who,  humble  and  nameless, 

The  straight  hard  path  have  trod,— 
Some  call  it  Social  Instinct  : 

And  others  feel  it  is  God. 

Like  the  tide  on  crescent  sea-beach, 

When  the  moon  is  new  and  thin. 
They  come,  our  soul's  deep  yearnings, 

Welling  and  surging  in — 
They  come  from  the  mystic  ocean, 

Whose  rim  no  foot  has  trod, — 
Some  hold  it  Idle  Dreaming  : 

We  know  that  it  is  God. 

In  this  version  I  have  taken  the  liberty  of  substituting  "  Social 
Instinct  "  for  the  inappropriate  word  "  Consecration  "  in  the  second- 
last  verse.  This  conforms  to  the  widely-accepted  views  of  the  McDougall 
school  of  psychology.  (With  those  views  I  do  not  agree,  for  the  reasons 
well  set  out  in  AUport  and  Dunlap's  articles  in  The  Journal  of  Abnortnal 
Psychology,  Dec.  1921.) 

The  interpolated  third  verse  seems  reminiscent  of  the  second  verse 
on  p.  1 19  of  this  book. 


300  THOMPSON 


MESSAGES 

What  shall  I  your  true-love  tell 

Earth-forsaking  maid  ? 
What  shall  I  your  true-love  tell, 

When  life's  spectre's  laid  ? 

"  Tell  him  that,  our  side  the  grave, 

Maid  may  not  conceive 
Life  should  be  so  sad  to  have, 

That's  so  sad  to  leave  !  " 

What  shall  I  your  true-love  tell, 

When  I  come  to  him  ? 
What  shall  I  your  true-love  tell — 

Eyes  growing  dim  ! 

"  Tell  him  this,  when  you  shall  part 

From  a  maiden  pined  : 
That  I  see  him  with  my  heart, 

Now  m)^  eyes  are  blind." 

What  shall  I  your  true-love  tell  ? 

Speaking-while  is  scant. 
What  shall  I  your  true-love  tell. 

Death's  white  postulant  ? 

"  Tell  him  :  Love,  with  speech  at  strife, 

For  last  utterance  saith  : 
I,  who  loved  with  all  my  life. 

Love  with  all  my  death." 

Francis  Thompson. 


The  gravest  fish  is  an  oyster, 
The  gravest  bird  is  an  owl, 
The  gravest  beast  is  a  donkey. 
And  the  gravest  man  is  a  fool. 

Scotch  Proverb. 


SWINBURNE  AND  OTHERS  301 

Love,  that  is  first  and  last  of  all  things  made, 

The  light  that  has  the  living  world  for  shade. 

The  spirit  that  for  temporal  veil  has  on 

The  souls  of  all  men  woven  in  unison, 

One  fiery  raiment  with  all  lives  inwrought 

And  lights  of  sunny  and  starry  deed  and  thought  .  .  . 

Love,  that  keeps  all  the  choir  of  lives  in  chime  ; 

Love,  that  is  blood  within  the  veins  of  time.  .  .  . 

Love,  that  sounds  loud  or  light  in  all  men's  ears, 

Whence  all  men's  eyes  take  fire  from  sparks  of  tears. 

That  binds  on  all  men's  feet  or  chains  or  wings  ; 

Love,  that  is  root  and  fruit  of  terrene  things  ; 

Love,  that  the  whole  world's  waters  shall  not  drown, 

The  whole  world's  fiery  forces  not  burn  down  ; 

Love,  that  what  time  his  own  hands  guard  his  head 

The  whole  world's  wrath  and  strength  shall  not  strike  dead  ; 

Love,  that  if  once  his  own  hands  make  his  grave 

The  whole  world's  pity  and  sorrow  shall  not  save  .  .  . 

Love  that  is  fire  within  thee  and  light  above, 

And  lives  by  grace  of  nothing  but  of  love. 

Swinburne. 
Tristram  of  Lyonesse. 


Goethe  says  somewhere  there  is  something  in  every  man 
for  which,  if  we  only  knew  it,  we  would  hate  him.  I  would 
prefer  to  say  that  there  is  something  in  every  man  for  which, 
if  we  only  knew  it,  we  would  love  him. 

Richard  Hodgson. 
Letter. 


For  us  no  shadow  on  Life's  solemn  dial 

Goes  back  to  give  us  peace  ; 
There  is  no  resting-place  in  the  stern  trial 

Until  the  heart-throbs  cease  ; 
We  cannot  hold  Time  fast,  and  bid  him  bless  us, 

And  not  for  us  the  sun, 
When  shades  fall  fast,  and  doubts  and  woes  oppress  us, 

Stands  still  in  Gibeon. 

E.  H.  Sears. 


302  R.  BROWNING  AND  OTHERS 

Here's  my  case.     Of  old  I  used  to  love  him 
This  same  unseen  friend,  before  I  knew  : 

Dream  there  was  none  like  him,  none  above  him, — 
Wake  to  hope  and  trust  my  dream  was  true.  .  .  . 

All  my  days,  I'll  go  the  softlier,  sadlier, 

For  that  dream's  sake  !     How  forget  the  thrill 

Through  and  through  me  as  I  thought  "  The  gladlier 
Lives  my  friend  because  I  love  him  still  !  " 

R.  Brov^ning. 
Fears  mid  Scruples. 

The  "  Friend  "  is  God.  The  lines  "  All  my  days,  I'll  go  the  softlier, 
sadlier,  For  that  dream's  sake,"  seem  to  me  very  beautiful.  In  so  few 
words  Browning,  with  dramatic  insight,  expresses  the  feeling  of  a  Renan 
or  George  Eliot  after  they  had  lost  their  faith  in  Christianity. 


The  world  is  his,  who  can  see  through  its  pretension. 
What  deafness,  what  stone-blind  custom,  what  overgrown 
error  you  behold,  is  there  only  by  sufferance — by  your 
sufferance.  See  it  to  be  a  lie,  and  you  have  already  dealt  it 
its  mortal  blow.  .  .  . 

In  proportion  as  a  man  has  anything  in  him  divine,  the 
firmament  flows  before  him  and  takes  his  signet  and  form. 
Not  he  is  great  who  can  alter  matter,  but  he  who  can  alter 
my  state  of  mind.  They  are  the  kings  of  the  world  who  give 
the  colour  of  their  present  thought  to  all  nature  and  all  art. 
.  .  .  The  great  man  makes  the  great  thing.  .  .  .  Linnaeus 
makes  botany  the  most  alluring  of  studies,  and  wins  it  from 
the  farmer  and  the  herb-woman  ;  Davy,  chemistry  ;  and 
Cuvier,  fossils.  The  day  is  always  his,  who  works  in  it  with 
serenity  and  great  aims.  The  unstable  estimates  of  men 
crowd  to  him  whose  mind  is  filled  with  a  truth,  as  the  heaped 
waves  of  the  Atlantic  follow  the  moon, 

R.  W.  Emerson. 
The  American  Scholar. 


Cantat  Deo,  qui  vivit  Deo. 
(He  sings  to  God,  who  lives  to  God.) 

Author  not  traced. 


STETSON  303 

A  CONSERVATIVE 

The  garden  beds  I  wandered  by 

One  bright  and  cheerful  morn, 
When  I  found  a  new-fledged  butterfly, 

A-sitting  on  a  thorn, 
A  black  and  crimson  butterfly, 

All  doleful  and  forlorn. 

I  thought  that  life  could  have  no  sting 

To  infant  butterflies, 
So  I  gazed  on  this  unhappy  thing 

With  wonder  and  surprise. 
While  sadly  with  his  waving  wing 

He  wiped  his  weeping  eyes. 

Said  I,  "  What  can  the  matter  be  ? 

Why  weepest  thou  so  sore. 
With  garden  fair  and  sunlight  free 

And  flowers  in  goodly  store  ?  " — 
But  he  only  turned  away  from  me 

And  burst  into  a  roar. 

Cried  he,  "  My  legs  are  thin  and  few 

Where  once  I  had  a  swarm  ! 
Soft  fuzzy  fur — a  joy  to  view — 

Once  kept  my  body  warm, 
Before  these  flapping  wing-things  grew, 

To  hamper  and  deform  !  " 

At  that  outrageous  bug  I  shot 

The  fury  of  mine  eye  ; 
Said  I,  in  scorn  all  burning  hot, 

In  rage  and  anger  high, 
"  You  ignominious  idiot  ! 

Those  wings  are  made  to  fly  !  " 

"  I  do  not  want  to  fly,"  said  he, 

"  I  only  want  to  squirm  !  " 
And  he  dropped  his  wings  dejectedly, 

But  still  his  voice  was  firm  : 
"  I  do  not  want  to  be  a  fly  ! 

I  want  to  be  a  worm  !  " 


304  BEDDOES  AND  OTHERS 

0  yesterday  of  unknown  lack  ! 
To-day  of  unknown  bliss  ! 

1  left  my  fool  in  red  and  black, 
The  last  I  saw  was  this, — 

The  creature  madly  climbing  back 
Into  his  chrysalis. 

Charlotte  Perkins  Stetson. 


In  the  old  times  Death  was  a  feverish  sleep, 
In  which  men  walked.     The  other  world  was  cold 
And  thinly-peopled,  so  life's  emigrants 
Came  back  to  mingle  with  the  crowds  of  earth  : 
But  now  great  cities  are  transplanted  thither, 
Memphis,  and  Babylon,  and  either  Thebes, 
And  Priam's  towery  town  with  its  one  beech. 
The  dead  are  most  and  merriest  :  so  be  sure 
There  will  be  no  more  haunting,  till  their  towns 
Are  full  to  the  garret  ;  then  they'll  shut  their  gates 
To  keep  the  living  out,  and  perhaps  leave 
A  dead  or  two  between  both  kingdoms. 

T.  L.  Beddoes. 
Death's  Jest-Book,  III.  3. 
This  is  one  of  the  queer  fancies  in  a  curious  poem. 

There,  on  the  fields  around. 

All  men  shall  till  the  ground, 
Corn  shall  wave  yellow,  and  bright  rivers  stream  ; 

Daily,  at  set  of  sun. 

All,  when  their  work  is  done. 

Shall  watch  the  heavens  yearn  down  and  the  strange 

starlight  gleam.  ^i    -n 

^     ^  R.  Buchanan, 

The  City  of  Man. 

This  is  the  poet's  vision  of  the  city  of  the  future,  and  will  be  interesting 
to  the  allotment- holders  in  English  cities  to-day. 


The  very  fiends  weave  ropes  of  sand 
Rather  than  taste  pure  hell  in  idleness. 

R.  Browning, 
A  Forgiveness. 


ST.  AUGUSTINE  AND  OTHERS  305 

De   vitiis   nostris   scalam   nobis   facimus,   si   vitia   ipsa 
calcamus. 

(We  make  for  ourselves  a  ladder  of  our  vices,  when  we  tread  under 
foot  the  vices  themselves.) 

St.  Augustine. 
De  Ascensione. 


I  HELD  it  truth,  with  him  who  sings 
To  one  clear  harp  in  divers  tones, 
That  men  may  rise  on  stepping-stones 

Of  their  dead  selves  to  higher  things. 

Tennyson. 
In  Memoriam 


Saint  Augustine  !  well  hast  thou  said, 

That  of  our  vices  we  can  frame 
A  ladder,  if  we  will  but  tread 

Beneath  our  feet  each  deed  of  shame  ! 

Longfellow. 
The  Ladder  of  St.  Augustine. 


The  trials  that  beset  you, 

The  sorrows  ye  endure. 
The  manifold  temptations 

That  death  alone  can  cure. 

What  are  they  but  His  jewels 

Of  right  celestial  worth  ? 
What  are  they  but  the  ladder 

Set  up  to  Heav'n  on  earth  ? 

J.  M.  Neale. 
O  Happy  Band  of  Pilgrims. 


Every  ship  is  a  romantic  object,  except  that  we  sail  in. 

Embark,  and  the  romance  quits  our  vessel,  and  hangs  on 

every  other  sail  in  the  horizon.  ^    ,,^    ^ 

R.  W.  Emerson. 

Essay  on  Experience. 

X 


3o6  LOWELL  AND  OTHERS 

Earth  gets  its  price  for  what  Earth  gives  us  ; 

The  beggar  is  taxed  for  a  corner  to  die  in, 
The  priest  hath  his  fee  who  comes  and  shrives  us, 

We  bargain  for  the  graves  we  He  in  ; 
At  the  devil's  booth  are  all  things  sold, 
Each  ounce  of  dross  costs  its  ounce  of  gold  ; 

For  a  cap  and  bells  our  lives  we  pay. 
Bubbles  we  buy  with  a  whole  soul's  tasking  : 

'Tis  heaven  alone  that  is  given  away, 
'Tis  only  God  may  be  had  for  the  asking. 

J.  R.  Lowell. 
The  Vision  of  Sir  Launfal. 


.  .  .  The  too  susceptible  Tupman,  who,  to  the  wisdom 
and  experience  of  maturer  years,  superadded  the  enthusiasm 
and  ardour  of  a  boy,  in  the  most  interesting  and  pardonable 
of  human  weaknesses,  love.  Time  and  feeding  had  ex- 
panded that  once  romantic  form  ;  the  black  silk  waistcoat 
had  become  more  and  more  developed  ;  inch  by  inch  had 
the  gold  watch-chain  beneath  it  disappeared  from  within 
the  range  of  Tupman's  vision  ;  and  gradually  had  the 
capacious  chin  encroached  upon  the  borders  of  the  white 
cravat  ;  but  the  soul  of  Tupman  had  known  no  change. 

Charles  Dickens. 
Pickwick  Papers. 


So,  then,  as  darkness  had  no  beginning,  neither  will  it 

ever  have  an  end.     So,  then,  is  it  eternal.     The  negation  of 

aught  else,  is  its  affirmation.     Where  the  light  cannot  come, 

there  abideth  the  darkness.     The  light  doth  but  hollow  a 

mine  out  of  the  infinite  extension  of  the  darkness.     And  ever 

upon  the  steps  of  the  light  treadeth  the  darkness  ;    yea, 

springeth  in  fountains  and  wells  amidst  it,  from  the  secret 

channels  of  its  mighty  sea.     Truly,  man  is  but  a  passing 

flame,  moving  unquietly  amid  the  surrounding  rest  of  night ; 

without  which  he  yet  could  not  be,  and  whereof  he  is  in  part 

compounded.  ^  tx/t     r\ 

^  George  MacDonald. 

Phantasies. 

In  the  story  an  ogre  is  reading  this  passage  from  a  book.     Phantasies 
is  MacDonald's  finest  work. 


ARNOLD  307 


ISOLATION 

Yes  !  in  the  sea  of  life  enisled, 

With  echoing  straits  between  us  thrown, 

Dotting  the  shoreless  watery  wild, 

We  mortal  millions  live  alone. 

The  islands  feel  the  enclasping  flow, 

And  then  their  endless  bounds  they  know. 

But  when  the  moon  their  hollows  lights, 
And  they  are  swept  by  balms  of  spring, 
And  in  their  glens,  on  starry  nights, 
The  nightingales  divinely  sing  ; 
And  lovely  notes,  from  shore  to  shore. 
Across  the  sounds  and  channels  pour — 

Oh  !  then  a  longing  like  despair 

Is  to  their  farthest  caverns  sent  ; 

For  surely  once,  they  feel,  we  were 

Parts  of  a  single  continent  1 

Now  round  us  spreads  the  watery  plain — 

Oh  might  our  marges  meet  again  ! 

Who  ordered,  that  their  longing's  fire 
Should  be,  as  soon  as  kindled,  cooled  ? 
Who  renders  vain  their  deep  desire  ? — 
A  God,  a  God  their  severance  ruled  ! 
And  bade  betwixt  their  shores  to  be 
The  unplumb'd,  salt,  estranging  sea. 

Matthew  Arnold. 

This  fine  poem  is  one  of  a  series  called  "  Switzerland,"  which  was 
written  as  the  result  of  Arnold's  meeting  and  falling  in  love  with  a  lady  at 
Berne.  The  poem  immediately  preceding  it  in  the  series  is  entitled 
"  Isolation  :  To  Marguerite,"  while  this  is  called  "  To  Marguerite, 
Continued  "  ;  but  as  it  is  now  quoted  separately,  it  is  better  entitled 
"  Isolation." 

In  the  preceding  poems  the  lady  has  lost  her  affection  while  her  lover 
is  still  devoted  ;  and  this  leads  to  the  subject  of  our  isolation  from  each 
other  in  our  inner  lives.  In  the  third  verse  the  poet  describes  the 
moments  when  we  most  crave  for  love,  sympathy,  and  mutual  spiritual 
understanding  and  union. 

For  an  interesting  fact  connected  with  this  poem,  see  next  quotation 
and  note. 


3o8  THACKERAY 

[Thackeray  has  been  describing  how  husband,  wife, 
mother,  son — each  of  the  inmates  of  a  household — is 
interested  in  his  or  her  own  separate  world  and  looking  at 
the  same  things  from  a  different  point  "of  view.]  How 
lonely  we  are  in  the  world  !  You  and  your  wife  have  pressed 
the  same  pillow  for  forty  years  and  fancy  yourselves  united  : 
pshaw  !  does  she  cry  out  when  you  have  the  gout,  or  do 
you  lie  awake  when  she  has  the  toothache  ?  ...  As  for 
your  wife — O  philosophic  reader,  answer  and  say,  Do  you 
tell  her  all  ?  Ah,  sir,  a  distinct  universe  walks  about  under 
your  hat  and  under  mine — all  things  in  nature  are  different 
to  each — the  woman  we  look  at  has  not  the  same  features, 
the  dish  we  eat  from  has  not  the  same  taste  to  the  one  and 
the  other — you  and  I  are  but  a  pair  of  infinite  isolations, 
with  some  fellow-islands  a  little  more  or  less  near  to  us. 

Thackeray. 
Pendennis,  ch.  xvi. 

The  similarity  between  this  passage  and  the  preceding  poem,  written 
at  about  the  same  time,  is  very  curious.  Arnold's  poem  appeared  in 
1852  but  was  composed  some  years  earlier,  while  Peftdennis  was  published 
in  monthly  parts  in  1849-50.  Therefore,  neither  author  would  con- 
sciously know  at  the  time  what  the  other  had  written. 

The  incident  is  probably  an  illustration  of  the  mysterious  way  in 
which  minds  influence  one  another  and  create  the  spirit  of  the  particular 
age.  There  is,  I  believe,  a  Chinese  proverb  to  the  effect  that  we  are  more 
the  product  of  our  age  than  of  our  parents.  This  permeating  quality  of 
thought  and  feeling  is,  no  doubt,  the  explanation  why  the  highest  art  and 
literature,  though  often  unappreciated  at  the  time,  become  ultimately 
recognized.  It  appears  not  to  be  sufficiently  taken  into  account  in  other 
directions.  For  instance,  it  is  repeatedly  stated  that  Blake,  because  of 
the  limited  circulation  of  his  poems,  exercised  no  influence  on  the 
Romantic  Revival — see  for  example  The  Cambridge  History  of  English 
Literature,  vol.  xi.  201.  Yet  we  know  that  his  work  was  known  to  and 
appreciated  by  Wordsworth,  Coleridge,  Lamb,  Southey,  and  Hayley. 
Although  little  regarded  now,  Hayley 's  fame  was  then  so  great  that  he 
was  offered  and  refused  the  poet-laureateship.  He  appears  to  have  been 
the  one  man  who  was  an  intimate  friend  of  both  Blake  and  Cowper,  the 
two  earliest  Romantics.*  While  a  very  long  period  went  by  before 
Blake's  poems  became  generally  known,  their  influence  may  well  have 
been  very  great,  permeating  unconsciously  through  other  minds.  See 
reference  on  p.  221  to  the  similar  case  of  FitzGerald's  "  Omar  Khaj^yam." 

Even  if  a  poem  were  read  by  only  one  person,  it  might  conceivably 
influence  a  generation  of  authors.  Suppose,  if  that  had  been  possible,  a 
page  of  Swinburne's  "  Tristram  of  Lyonesse  "  or  F.  W.  H.  Myers' 
"  Implicit  Promise  "  (both  quoted  elsewhere)  had  been  read  by  Pope 
or  Dryden  ;  how  the  monotonous  heroic  couplet  of  their  time  might  have 
been  marvellously  transformed  ! 

*  We  have  recently  learnt  from  the  Farington  Diary  that  Stothard,  West,  Cosway,  and 
Humphry  were  enthusiastic  over  Blake's  "  extraordinary  genius  and  imagination  "  as  an 
artist. 


GISSING  AND  OTHERS  309 

I  THINK  sometimes  how  good  it  were  had  I  some  one  by 
me  to  Hsten  when  I  am  tempted  to  read  a  passage  aloud. 
Yes,  but  is  there  any  mortal  in  the  whole  world  upon  whom 
I  could  invariably  depend  for  sympathetic  understanding — 
nay,  who  would  even  generally  be  at  one  with  me  in  my 
appreciation  ?  Such  harmony  of  intelligences  is  the  rarest 
thing.  All  through  life  we  long  for  it  .  .  .  and,  after  all, 
we  learn  that  the  vision  is  illusory.  To  every  man  is  it 
decreed  :  Thou  shalt  live  alone. 

George  Gissing. 
The  Private  Papers  of  Henry  Ryecroft. 


The  globe  has  been  circumnavigated,  but  no  man  ever 
yet  has  ;  you  may  survey  a  kingdom  and  note  the  result  in 
maps,  but  all  the  savants  in  the  world  could  not  produce  a 
reliable  map  of  the  poorest  human  personality.  And  the 
worst  of  all  this  is,  that  love  and  friendship  may  be  the  out- 
come of  a  certain  condition  of  knowledge  ;  increase  the 
knowledge,  and  love  and  friendship  beat  their  wings  and  go. 
Every  man's  road  in  life  is  marked  by  the  graves  of  his 
personal  likings.  Intimacy  is  frequently  the  road  to  in- 
difference ;  and  marriage  a  parricide. 

Alexander  Smith. 
The  Importance  of  a  Man  to  Himself. 


QuAND  on  n'a  pas  ce  que  Ton  aime, 
II  faut  aimer  ce  que  Ton  a. 

(When  you  have  not  what  you  love, 
You  must  love  what  you  have.) 

Thomas  Corneille. 
Ulnconnu. 


On  parent  knees,  a  naked,  new-born  child. 
Weeping  thou  sat'st,  while  all  around  thee  smiled  : 
So  live,  that  sinking  to  thy  life's  last  sleep 
Calm  thou  mayst  smile,  while  all  around  thee  weep. 

Sir  William  Jones. 
From  the  Persian. 


310  HODGSON— SEELEY 

A  CHILD  was  playing  on  a  summer  strand 

That  fringed  the  wavelets  of  a  sunny  sea  : 

The  mother  looked  in  love.     "  Now  build,"  said  she, 

"  Your  splendid  golden  castles  where  you  stand  ; 

But  when  the  wave  has  beaten  all  to  sand, 

You  must  go  home."     **  Ah,  not  so  soon,"  said  he. 

And  now  the  night  has  darkened  out  his  glee, 
And  sad-eyed  Grief  has  grasped  him  by  the  hand. 
No  more  the  years  shall  find  him  free  and  wild 
And  madly  merry  as  a  bright  brave  bird  : 
For  earth  has  nothing  like  the  home  he  craves 
And  pauseless  Time  is  beating  bitter  waves 
On  all  his  palaces.     He  waits  the  word 
Away  beyond  the  blue,  "  Come  home,  my  child." 

Richard  Hodgson,  1879, 

An  impromptu  written  in  1879  when  the  mother  and  child  incident 
happened,  and  not  revised. 


Humanity  is  neither  a  love  for  the  whole  human  race, 

nor  a  love  for  each  individual  of  it,  but  a  love  for  the  race,  or 

for  the  ideal  of  man,  in  each  individual.     In  other  and  less 

pedantic  words,  he  who  is  truly  humane  considers  every 

human  being  as  such  interesting  and  important,  and  without 

waiting  to  criticize  each  individual  specimen,  pays  in  advance 

to  all  alike  the  tribute  of  good  wishes  and  sympathy,  ...  If 

some  human  beings  are  abject  and  contemptible,  if  it  be 

incredible  to  us  that  they  can  have  any  high  dignity  or 

destiny,  do  we  regard  them  from  so  great  a  height  as  Christ  ? 

Are  we  likely  to  be  more  pained  by  their  faults  and  deficiencies 

than  he  was  ?     Is  our  standard  higher  than  his  ?     And  yet 

he  associated  by  preference  with  these  meanest  of  the  race  ; 

no  contempt  for  them  did  he  ever  express,  no  suspicion  that 

they  might  be  less  dear  than  the  best  and  wisest  to  the 

common  Father,  no  doubt  that  they  were  naturally  capable 

of  rising  to  a  moral  elevation  like  his  own.     There  is  nothing 

of  which  a  man  may  be  prouder  than  of  this  ;  it  is  the  most 

hopeful  and  redeeming  fact  in  history  ;   it  is  precisely  what 

was  wanting  to  raise  the  love  of  man  as  man  to  enthusiasm. 

An  eternal  glory  has  been  shed  upon  the  human  race  by  the 

love  Christ  bore  to  it.  o       t    t^    o 

Sir  J.  R,  Seeley. 

Ecce  Homo. 


SWINBURNE  AND  OTHERS  311 

But  his  wings  will  not  rest  and  his  feet  will  not  stay  for  us  ; 

Morning  is  here  in  the  joy  of  its  might  ; 
With  his  breath  has  he  sweetened  a  night  and  a  day  for  us  ; 
Now  let  him  pass  and  the  myrtles  make  way  for  us  ; 
Love  can  but  last  in  us  here  at  his  height 
For  a  day  and  a  night. 

Swinburne. 
At  Parthw. 


Can  the  earth  where  the  harrow  is  driven 

The  sheaf  of  the  furrow  foresee  ? 
Or  thou  guess  the  harvest  for  heaven 

When  iron  has  entered  in  thee  ? 

Author  not  traced. 

This  was  quoted  by  Lord  Lytton  in  an  essay  on  The  Influence  of  Love 
upon  Literature  and  Real  Life. 


These  pearls  of  thought  in  Persian  gulfs  were  bred, 

Each  softly  lucent  as  a  rounded  moon  ; 
The  diver,  Omar,  plucked  them  from  their  bed, 
FitzGerald  strung  them  on  an  English  thread. 

J.  R.  Lowell. 
On  Omar  Khayyam. 


It  is  hard  for  us  to  live  up  to  our  own  eloquence,  and 
keep  pace  with  our  winged  words,  while  we  are  treading  the 
solid  earth  and  are  liable  to  heavy  dining. 

George  Eliot. 
Daniel  Deronda. 


Dear  dead  women,  with  such  hair,  too— what's  become  of 

all  the  gold 
Used  to  hang  and  brush  their  bosoms  ?     I  feel  chilly  and 

grown  old. 

R,  Brov^ning. 

A  Toccata  of  Galuppi's. 


312  TENNYSON  AND  OTHERS 

At  last  methought  that  I  had  wandered  far 
In  an  old  wood  :  fresh-washed  in  coolest  dew 

The  maiden  splendours  of  the  morning  star 
Shook  in  the  steadfast  blue.  .  .  . 

At  length  I  saw  a  lady  within  call, 

Stiller  than  chiselled  marble,  standing  there  ; 

A  daughter  of  the  gods,  divinely  tall, 
And  most  divinely  fair. 


I  turning  saw,  throned  on  a  flowery  rise. 
One  sitting  on  a  crimson  scarf  unrolled  ; 

A  queen,  with  swarthy  cheeks  and  bold  black  eyes, 
Brow-bound  with  burning  gold.  .  .  . 

*'  I  died  a  Queen.     The  Roman  soldier  found 
Me  lying  dead,  my  crown  about  my  brov\^s, 
A  name  for  ever  ! — lying  robed  and  crowned, 
Worthy  a  Roman  spouse." 

Tennyson. 
A  Dream  of  Fair  Women. 

Helen  of  Troy  and  Cleopatra — but,  as  Peacock  mentioned  in  Gryll 
Grange,  Cleopatra  was  of  pure  Greek  descent  and  could  not  have  been  a 
"  swarthy  "  lady. 

These  and  the  four  following  quotations  and  others  through  the  book 
are  word-pictures. 


One  pond  of  water  gleams  ; 

.  .  .  the  trees  bend 

O'er  it  as  wild  men  watch  a  sleeping  girl. 

R.  Browning. 
Pauline. 

He  put  the  hawthorn  twigs  apart, 
And  yet  saw  no  more  wondrous  thing 

Than  seven  white  swans,  who  on  wide  wing 
Went  circling  round,  till  one  by  one 
They  dropped  the  dewy  grass  upon. 

W.  Morris. 
The  Earthly  Paradise. 


KEATS  AND  OTHERS  313 

I  MET  a  lady  in  the  meads, 

Full  beautiful,  a  faery's  child  ; 
Her  hair  was  long,  her  foot  was  light, 

And  her  eyes  were  wild. 

I  set  her  on  my  pacing  steed, 

And  nothing  else  saw  all  day  long  ; 

For  sideways  would  she  lean,  and  sing 

A  faery's  song.  ^^ 

•^  °  Keats. 

La  Belle  Dame  sans  Merci. 


Quoth  Christabel, — So  let  it  be  ! 
And,  as  the  lady  bade,  did  she. 
Her  gentle  limbs  did  she  undress 
And  lay  down  in  her  loveliness. 

S.  T.  Coleridge. 
Christabel. 


Our  sweet  illusions  are  half  of  them  conscious  illusions — 

like  effects  of  colour  that  we  know  to  be  made  up  of  tinsel, 

broken  glass,  and  rags.  „  „ 

*  *  George  Eliot. 

The  Lifted  Veil. 


My  Galligaskins  that  have  long  withstood 

The  Winter's  Fury,  and  incroaching  Frosts, 

By  Time  subdued,  (what  will  not  Time  subdue  !) 

An  horrid  Chasm  disclose,  with  Orifice 

Wide,  discontinuous.  t  t^ 

John  Phillips. 

The  Splendid  Shilling. 

Galligaskins,  trunk-hose.     "  The  Splendid  Shilling  "  is  a  famous  and 
very  clever  parody  on  Milton,  written  some  time  before  1701. 


Man  that  passes  by 
So  like  to  God,  so  like  the  beasts  that  die. 

W.  Morris. 
The  Earthly  Paradise. 


314  '  MENZIES 

It  is  a  mistake  into  which  spiritually-minded  men  have 
fallen,  that  God  is  apprehended  and  known  by  a  special 
faculty.  The  fact  is  that  every  faculty  is  serviceable  in  this 
noble  work.  We  reach  the  Divine  through  our  aesthetic 
faculties  when  our  soul  is  stirred  by  a  grand  burst  of  music, 
or  by  the  contemplation  of  a  magnificent  landscape.  We 
reach  the  Divine  through  our  purely  intellectual  faculties, 
when,  by  true  reasoning,  founded  on  sound  observation, 
we  master  any  great  law  by  which  God  governs  the  world. 
We  reach  the  Divine  through  our  emotional  nature  when 
pure  grief  or  pure  love,  holy  longing,  unselfish  hope, 
righteous  indignation,  elevate  us  above  the  prosaic  level  of 
customary  equanimity,  and  help  us  to  realize  the  incom- 
parable beauty  of  holiness. 


Just  as  the  weeping  Magdalene  *  stood  bewailing  the  loss 
of  what  even  to  her  was  only  sacred  clay,  all  unconscious 
that  her  Saviour  had  been  given  back  to  her  without  seeing 
corruption,  in  a  glorified  and  eternal  form,  not  dead,  but 
alive  for  evermore,  whom  she  could  love  with  ever  increasing 
ardour  of  devotion  :  so,  we  say,  there  are  not  a  few  in  our 
time  whose  lot  it  is  to  wring  their  hands  over  the  grave  of 
lost  ideas,  which  they  loved  and  their  fathers  loved,  but  for 
which  God  himself  is  substituting  ideas  nobler  and  better 
far,  which  earlier  ages  failed  to  grasp  only  because  they  were 
not  in  circumstances  to  feel  their  higher  worth. 


One  cannot  demonstrate  on  any  physical  or  visible  basis 
whatever,  that  it  is  a  nobler  thing  to  suffer  injustice  than 
to  commit  it,  that  truth-speaking  is  honourable,  forgiveness 
of  injuries  magnanimous,  and  loving  self-sacrifice  for  others 
sublime.  Honour,  purity,  humility,  reverence,  tenderness, 
courtesy,  patience,  these  things  cannot  be  weighed  on 
physical  scales,  cannot  be  handled  or  touched,  or  melted  or 
frozen  in  any  mechanical  or  chemical  laboratory.  They 
belong  to  a  different  order  of  realities  from  acids  and  vapours  : 
they  are  denizens  of  what,  for  want  of  any  more  definite  or 

*  "  They  say  unto  her,  Woman,  why  weepest  thou  ?  She  saith  unto  them,  Because  they 
have  taken  away  my  Lord,  and  I  know  not  where  they  have  laid  him  "  (John  xx.  13).  The 
sermon  is  on  the  subject  of  the  growth  of  religious  ideas. 


MENZIES  315 

accurate  expression,  we  are  accustomed  to  call  the  spiritual 
world. 


One  can  see  how  religion  should,  to  a  young  person,  be 
associated  with  repressive  and  prohibitive  laws.  Youth  is 
the  time  for  the  luxuriating  of  newborn  and,  therefore, 
delicious  vital  forces.  But  its  very  luxuriance  is  disorderly, 
and  religion  cannot  co-exist  with  disorder.  Therefore,  that 
which  is  so  continually  warning  the  young  against  impulse, 
and  passion,  and  irregularity,  ought  not  to  be  too  greatly 
displeased  if  it  should,  by  and  by,  come  to  be  regarded  by 
the  young  as  a  synonym  for  mere  repressive  force,  and, 
therefore,  as  an  unpleasant  and  unpopular  thing.  I  believe, 
too,  that  there  is  no  exception  to  the  uniformity  of  the 
experience,  that  all  young  countries  adopt  freer  systems  of 
religion,  and  divest  religious  bodies  more  completely  of  all 
political  and  properly  coercive  power,  than  older  countries. 
It  is  all  an  illustration  of  the  same  thing.  Young  life,  which 
most  needs  regulation,  most  dislikes  it.* 


As  the  genius  of  the  bard  is  in  the  poem,  as  the  wisdom 
of  the  legislator  is  in  the  law,  as  the  skill  of  the  mechanician 
is  in  the  engine,  as  the  soul  of  the  musician  is  in  the  harmony 
and  melody,  as  the  words  of  a  man's  lips  issue  from  the  inner 
world  of  his  mental  and  spiritual  character — so  every  work 
of  God,  and  conspicuously  man,  as  the  noblest  of  God's 
works,  may  truly  be  said  to  shadow  forth  a  portion  of  the 
mind  of  God. 


We  talk  of  creation  as  a  past  thing.  But  the  truth  is, 
creation  is  eternal.  Creation  never  ceases.  Every  time  the 
clouds  drop  in  rain,  every  time  the  waters  freeze  into  new 
ice,  every  time  the  juices  of  nature  gather  into  another  violet, 
every  time  a  new  wail  of  life  is  heard  upon  a  mother's  breast, 
every  time  you  breathe  another  sigh,  or  shed  another  tear, 
there  is  God  as  truly  present  in  His  miraculous  creative 

*  This  standing  by  itself  may  give  a  somewhat  wrong  impression  of  Menzies'  thought.  As 
a  matter  of  fact,  the  text  of  the  sermon  is  :  "I  am  come  that  they  might  have  life,  and  that 
they  might  have  it  more  abundantly  "  (John  x.  10). 


3i6  MENZIES  AND  OTHERS 

capacity  as  on  the  day  when  He  said,  "  Let  there  be  light," 
and  there  was  Hght.  p    g    menzies. 

Sennons. 

Apart  from  their  intrinsic  value,  the  above  extracts  are  given  because 
this  book  of  sermons  is  of  special  interest  to  Australians  and  because  it 
has  passed  into  oblivion.     There  are  few  copies  in  existence. 

Menzies  came  from  Glasgow  to  Scots  Church,  Melbourne,  in  1868,  and 
died  at  the  early  age  of  thirty-four  in  1874.  At  the  Glasgow  University 
he  had  been  largely  influenced  mentally  and  spiritually  by  Principal  Caird. 

The  sermons  published  in  this  book  were  selected  by  his  widow  after 
his  death.  Although  not  revised  by  their  gifted  young  author,  the  fine 
thoughts  expressed  in  chaste  and  beautiful  language  remind  one  of  James 
Martineau. 

That  element  of  tragedy  which  hes  in  the  very  fact  of 
frequency,  has  not  yet  wrought  itself  into  the  coarse  emotion 
of  mankind  ;  and  perhaps  our  frames  could  hardly  bear 
much  of  it.  If  we  had  a  keen  vision  and  feehng  of  all 
ordinary  human  life,  it  would  be  Uke  hearing  the  grass  grow 
and  the  squirrel's  heart  beat,  and  we  should  die  of  that  roar 
which  Ues  on  the  other  side  of  silence.  As  it  is,  the  quickest 
of  us  walk  about  well  wadded  with  stupidity. 

George  Eliot. 
Middlemarch. 

In  the  story  Dorothea  has  found  her  husband  to  be  a  man  of  narrow 
mind  and  unsympathetic  nature.  Such  a  disillusionment  after  marriage 
frequently  happens,  and  we  are  not  deeply  moved  by  what  is  not  unusual, 
although  it  may  mean  a  real  life-tragedy.  Ruskin  says,  "  God  gives  the 
disposition  to  every  healthy  human  mind  in  some  degree  to  pass  over  or 
even  harden  itself  against  evil  things,  else  the  suffering  would  be  too  great 
to  be  borne  "  {Modern  Painters,  V.  xix.  32).  Only  thus  could  we  have 
lived  through  the  horrors  of  the  present  war. 

George  Eliot's  analogy  between  intensity  of  the  emotions  and  acute- 
ness  of  the  senses  reminds  one  of  Pope's  lines  ("  Essay  on  Man,"  Ep.  I.) 
where  he  says  life  would  be  insupportable,  if  we  had  the  acute  hearing, 
smell,  and  other  senses  of  insects  and  other  animals  ;   we  should 
Die  of  a  rose  in  aromatic  pain. 


We  would  not  pray  that  sorrow  ne'er  may  shed 
Her  dews  along  the  pathway  they  must  tread  ; 
The  sweetest  flowers  would  never  bloom  at  all, 
If  no  least  rain  of  tears  did  ever  fall. 

Gerald  Massey. 
Via  Crucis,  Via  Lucis. 


R.  BROWNING  317 

There  shall  never  be  one  lost  good  !     What  was,  shall  live 
as  before  ; 
The  evil  is  null,  is  nought,  is  silence  implying  sound  ; 
What  was  good  shall  be  good,  with,  for  evil,  so  much  good 
more  ; 
On  the  earth  the  broken  arcs  ;    in  the  heaven  a  perfect 
round. 

All  we  have  willed  or  hoped  or  dreamed  of  good  shall  exist  ; 

Not  in  semblance,  but  itself ;    no  beauty,  nor  good,  nor 
power. 
Whose  voice  has   gone  forth,   but  each  survives  for  the 
melodist 

When  eternity  affirms  the  conception  of  an  hour. 
The  high  that  proved  too  high,  the  heroic  for  earth  too  hard. 

The  passion  that  left  the  ground  to  lose  itself  in  the  sky. 
Are  music  sent  up  to  God  by  the  lover  and  the  bard  ; 

Enough  that  He  heard  it  once  :  we  shall  hear  it  by  and  bye. 

R.  Browning. 
Abt  Vogler. 

Abt — or  Abb^ — Georg  Joseph  Vogler,  1749-1814,  a  German  organist 
and  composer,  is  probably  chosen  by  Browning  because,  although  an 
important  musician,  his  compositions  have  perished.  In  this  fine  poem 
Vogler  has  been  extemporizing,  and  his  inspired  music  has  lifted  him  in 
ecstasy  to  heaven.  The  sounds  are  his  slaves  who  have  built  palaces  of 
music,  as  in  the  Arab  legends  angels  and  demons  built  magic  structures 
for  Solomon.  He  grieves  that  this  wonderful  music  should  apparently 
have  vanished  for  ever  ;  but  is  comforted  by  the  thought  that  no  good 
thing,  no  fine  aspiration,  no  great  effort  or  noble  impulse  can  really  die, 
but  must  continue  to  exist  for  ever. 

The  quotation  reminds  one  of  Wordsworth's  sonnet  on  the  "  Inside 
of  King's  College  Chapel,  Cambridge." 

Where  music  dwells 
Lingering — and  wandering  on  as  loth  to  die  ; 
Like  thoughts  whose  very  sweetness  yieldeth  proof 
That  they  were  born  for  immortality. 


.  .  .  Had  I  painted  the  whole, 
Why,  there  it  had  stood  to  see,  nor  the  process  so  wonder- 
worth  : 
Had  I  written  the  same,  made  verse — still,  effect  proceeds 
from  cause. 
Ye  know  why  the  forms  are  fair,  ye  hear  how  the  tale  is  told ; 
It  is  all  triumphant  art,  but  art  in  obedience  to  laws. 
Painter  and  poet  are  proud  in  the  artist-list  enrolled  : — 


3i8  R.  BROWNING 

But  here  is  the  finger  of  God,  a  flash  of  the  will  that  can, 

Existent  behind  all  laws,  that  made  them  and,  lo,  they  are  ! 
And  I  know  not  if,  save  in  this,  such  gift  be  allowed  to  man, 
That  out  of  three  sounds  he  frame,  not  a  fourth  sound,  but 
a  star. 
Consider  it  well  :  each  tone  of  our  scale  in  itself  is  nought  ; 
It  is  everywhere  in  the  world — loud,  soft,  and  all  is  said  : 
Give  it  to  me  to  use  !     I  mix  it  with  two  in  my  thought  : 
And,  there  !     Ye  have  heard  and  seen  :    consider  and  bow 
the  head  ! 

R.  Browning. 
Abt  Vogler. 

See  the  preceding  note.  The  poet  says  that  Painting  and  Poetry  are 
"  art  in  obedience  to  laws,"  but  the  musician  exerts  a  higher  creative 
power  akin  to  that  of  God.  The  painter  has  before  him  the  pictures  he 
reproduces,  the  poet  borrows  his  imagery  from  visible  things  and  has  apt 
words  in  which  to  express  his  thoughts  :  the  musician  has  nothing  visible, 
nothing  outside  his  own  soul,  to  assist  him,  and  can  use  only  the  meaning- 
less sounds  which  we  hear  everj^where  around  us.  By  combining, 
however,  three  of  those  empty  sounds  (in  a  chord)  he  evolves  a  fourth 
sound,  which  so  transcends  all  that  other  arts  can  do  in  expressing 
emotion  that  Browning  compares  it  to  a  "  star." 

But  this  expresses  only  part  of  the  poet's  meaning.  In  using  this 
tremendous  comparison  to  a  star,  as  also  in  enthroning  music  supreme 
above  art  and  poetry,  he  means  that  it  transcends  their  loftiest  flights  and 
rises  above  our  world  to  the  heavens  above.  In  the  earlier  part  of  the 
poem  the  "  pinnacled  glory,"  built  by  the  slaves  of  sound  at  the  bidding 
of  the  musician's  soul,  is  based  "  broad  on  the  roots  of  things  "  and 
ascends  until  it  "  attains  to  heaven." 

F.  W.  H.  Myers,  in  The  Re?7ezval  of  Youth,  has  a  passage  on  music. 
His  theme  is  that  while  music  (as  in  Mozart's  operas)  may  express  human 
passion,  it  also  (as  in  Beethoven)  rises  to  greater  heights  and  appears  to 
voice  the  emotions  of  a  world  beyond  our  senses.  In  the  lines  I  have 
italicized  in  the  following  passage  he  no  doubt  refers  to  Browning's  line, 
"  That  out  of  three  sounds  he  frame,  not  a  fourth  sound,  but  a  star  1  " — 
the  "  star  "  meaning  that  music  ascends  to  a  higher  world  than  our  own  : 

.   .   .  Music  is  a  creature  bound, 
A  voice  not  ours,  the  imprisoned  soul  of  sound, — 
Who  fain  would  bend  down  hither  and  find  her  part 
In  the  strong  passion  of  a  hero's  heart, 
Or  one  great  hour  constrains  herself  to  sing 
Pastoral  peace  and  waters  wandering  ; — 
Then  hark  how  on  a  chord  she  is  rapt  and  flown 
To  that  true  ivorld  thou  seest  not  nor  hast  known, 
Nor  speech  of  thine  can  her  strange  thought  unfold, 
The  bars'  wild  beat,  and  ripple  of  running  gold. 

Not  only  does  Browning  unselfishly  assert  that  the  sister-art  is  superior 
to  his  own,  but  he  goes  further,  and  doubts  if  music  is  not  the  greatest 
of  all  man's  gifts.  I  do  not  discuss  either  contention — leaving  musicians 
to  rejoice  in  the  tribute  of  a  great  poet. 


WORDSWORTH  AND  OTHERS  319 

A  GRACIOUS  spirit  o'er  this  earth  presides 

And  o'er  the  heart  of  man  :  invisibly 

It  comes,  to  works  of  unreproved  dehght 

And  tendency  benign,  directing  those 

Who  care  not,  know  not,  think  not  what  they  do. 

The  tales  that  charm  away  the  wakeful  night 

In  Araby  ;  romances  ;  legends  penned 

For  solace  by  dim  light  of  monkish  lamps  ; 

Fictions,  for  ladies  of  their  love,  devised 

By  youthful  squires  ;  adventures  endless,  spun 

By  the  dismantled  warrior  in  old  age, 

Out  of  the  bowels  of  those  very  schemes 

In  which  his  youth  did  first  extravagate  ; 

These  spread  like  day,  and  something  in  the  shape 

Of  these  will  live  till  man  shall  be  no  more. 

Dumb  yearnings,  hidden  appetites,  are  ours. 

And  they  must  have  their  food.     Our  childhood  sits. 

Our  simple  childhood,  sits  upon  a  throne 

That  hath  more  power  than  all  the  elements. 

Wordsworth. 
The  Prelude,  Bk.  V. 


Death  closes  all  :  but  something  ere  the  end. 
Some  work  of  noble  note,  may  yet  be  done  .  .  . 
Tho'  much  is  taken,  much  abides  ;  and  tho' 
We  are  not  now  that  strength  which  in  old  days 
Moved  earth  and  heaven  ;  that  which  we  are,  we  are  ; 
One  equal  temper  of  heroic  hearts. 
Made  weak  by  time  and  fate,  but  strong  in  will 
To  strive,  to  seek,  to  find,  and  not  to  yield. 

Tennyson. 
Ulysses. 

Jenny  kissed  me  when  we  met. 

Jumping  from  the  chair  she  sat  in  ; 
Time,  you  thief,  who  love  to  get 

Sweets  upon  your  list,  put  that  in  ! 
Say  I'm  weary,  say  I'm  sad. 

Say  that  health  and  wealth  have  missed  me. 
Say  I'm  growing  old,  but  add 

Jenny  kissed  me.  Leiqh  Hunt. 

"  Jenny  "  was  Mrs.  Carlyle. 


320  BERANGER  AND  OTHERS 

Ce  n'est  que  lorsqu'il  expira 
Que  le  peuple  qui  I'enterra 
Pleura. 

(Only  at  his  death,  when  they  came  to  bury  him,  did  his  people  shed 
a  tear.) 

BERANGER. 

Le  Rot  a"  Yvetot. 

In  this  famous  song  B^ranger  satirized  Napoleon  by  drawing  a  picture 
of  a  homely,  happy  king,  beloved  of  his  people  and  free  from  Napoleon's 
ambition,  which  had  submerged  France  in  an  ocean  of  tears.  It  was  a 
very  daring  poem  for  Beranger  to  write.  It  was  circulated  in  manuscript 
in  1813,  and  quickly  spread  far  and  wide.  (In  1815  came  the  battle  of 
Waterloo.) 

Petion  (1770-18 1 8)  was  a  quadroon  who  bravely  won  the  independence 
of  Haiti  from  the  French.  (That  chivalrous  nation  nevertheless  honoured 
him  as  a  hero.)  He  became  President  of  his  liberated  country  in  1815, 
and  died  in  181 8.  B.  Seebohm  in  his  Life  of  Grellet  mentions  that  the 
epitaph  on  Petion's  tombstone  was  : 

II  n'a  jamais  fait  couler  larmes  ^  personne  sauf  ^  sa  m.ort. 
(He  never  caused  any  one  to  shed  tears  except  at  his  death.) 

Thus  Beranger's  words,  which  were  then  in  everybody's  mouth,  were 
turned  into  a  beautiful  epitaph. 


Although  a  gem  be  cast  away, 
And  lie  obscured  in  heaps  of  clay, 

Its  precious  worth  is  still  the  same  ; 
Although  vile  dust  be  whirled  to  heaven, 
To  it  no  dignity  is  given, 

Still  base  as  when  from  earth  it  came. 

Sadi. 
L.  S.  Costello's  translation. 


"  My  other  piece  of   advice,    Copperfield,"    said    Mr. 

Micawber,  "  you  know.     Annual  income  twenty  pounds, 

annual  expenditure  nineteen  nineteen  six,  result  happiness. 

Annual  income  twenty  pounds,  annual  expenditure  twenty 

pounds   ought   and    six,    result   miseiy.     The    blossom   is 

blighted,  the  leaf  is  withered,  the  God  of  day  goes  down  upon 

the  dreary  scene,  and — and  in  short,  you  are  for  ever  floored. 

As  I  am_  !  "  r.  t^ 

Charles  Dickens. 

David  Copperfield. 


WADDINGTON  321 


THE  LOST  CIPHER 

The  Night  her  occult  manuscript 

Unrolls  along  the  sky, 
And  with  her  mystic  words  equipt 

The  racing  winds  rush  by  : 
They  bear  her  message, — what  is  it  ? 
Go,  ask  the  winds  what  she  hath  writ. 


The  radiant  Morn  once  more  returns, 

Once  more  the  golden  dawn 
Illumes  the  scroll  each  eye  discerns 

On  meadow-land  and  lawn  ; 
Each  flower  a  word  dropt  from  above, — 
What  is  the  message, — is  it  Love  ? 

Yet  shalt  thou  see,  ere  sets  the  day 

And  all  its  splendours  pass, 
The  hawk  descending  on  its  prey. 

The  adder  in  the  grass  ; 
Far  ofi^  the  thunder  muttereth, — 
What  is  the  message, — is  it  Death  ? 

O  Spirit  of  the  Universe, 

That  hast  been  and  shalt  be. 
Here  still  thy  riddle  we  rehearse 

Yet  cannot  find  the  key  ; 
Lost  is  the  cipher  that  we  need 
Who  fain  thy  manuscript  would  read. 

Samuel  Waddington, 

In  the  closing  years  of  last  century  there  happened  to  be  at  the  Board 
of  Trade  a  group  of  poets  which  was  known  as  the  "  Nest  of  Singing 
Birds."  Mr.  Samuel  Waddington  was  one  of  this  group,  which  also 
included  Austin  Dobson,  Edmund  Gosse,  and  Cosmo  Monkhouse.  Of 
these  Cosmo  Monkhouse  died  in  1901,  and  Austin  Dobson,  his  most 
intimate  friend,  in  1921.  Mr.  Gosse  and  Mr  Waddington  are  happily 
still  with  us,  but  of  course  have  long  retired  from  the  Board  of  Trade. 

Mr.  Le  Gallienne  in  Miles'  Poets  and  Poetry  of  the  Century  speaks 
of  this  group  as  "  that  charming  Whitehall  coterie  destined,  one  must 
think,  to  live  in  literary  history  beside  that  other  famous  one  at  the  India 
House."  The  latter  reference  is  to  Charles  Lamb,  Thomas  Love 
Peacock,  James  Mill,  and  John  Hoole  (the  translator  of  Tasso),  who 
happened  to  be  associated  together  in  the  India  House. 

Y 


322  BLAKE— TWAIN 

First  the  Wild  Thyme 
And  Meadow-sweet,  downy  and  soft,  waving  among  the 

reeds. 
Light  springing  on  the  air,  lead  the  sweet  dance  ;  they  wake 
The  Honeysuckle  sleeping  on  the  oak  ;  the  flaunting  beauty 
Revels  along  upon  the  wind  ;  the  White-thorn,  lovely  May, 
Opens  her  many  lovely  eyes  ;  listening  the  Rose  still  sleeps — 
None  dare  to  wake  her  ;    soon  she  bursts  her  crimson- 
curtained  bed 
And  comes  forth  in  the  majesty  of  beauty.     Every  flower. 
The  Pink,  the  Jessamine,  the  Wallflower,  the  Carnation, 
The  Jonquil,  the  mild  Lily  opes  her  heavens  ;  every  Tree 
And  Flower  and  Herb  soon  fill  the  air  with  an  innumerable 

dance. 
Yet  all  in  order  sweet  and  lovely.     Men  are  sick  with  love. 

William  Blake. 
Milton,  Bk.  H. 

This  beautiful  "  dance  of  flowers  "  begins  at  sunrise. 


[A  press  interviewer  is  seeking  information,  and  asks  the 
following  questions.] 

Q.  Who  is  this  a  picture  of  on  the  wall  ?  Isn't  that  a 
brother  of  yours  ? 

A.  Oh  !  yes,  yes,  yes  !  Now  you  remind  me  of  it  ;  that 
was  a  brother  of  mine.  That's  William — Bill  we  called 
him.     Poor  old  Bill  ! 

Q.  Why  ?     Is  he  dead  then  ? 

A.  Ah!  well,  I  suppose  so.  We  never  could  tell.  There 
was  a  great  mystery  about  it. 

Q.  That  is  sad,  very  sad.     He  disappeared  then  ? 

A.  Well,  yes,  in  a  sort  of  general  way.     We  buried  him. 

Q.  Buried  him  !  Buried  him,  without  knowing  whether 
he  was  dead  or  not  ! 

A.  Oh,  no  !     Not  that.     He  was  dead  enough. 

Q.  Well,  I  confess  that  I  can't  understand  this.  If  you 
buried  him,  and  you  knew  he  was  dead 

A.  No  !  no  !     We  only  thought  he  was. 


TWAIN  AND  OTHERS  323 

O,  Oh,  I  see  !     He  came  to  life  again  ? 

A.  I  bet  he  didn't. 

Q.  Well,  I  never  heard  anything  like  this.  Somebody 
was  dead.  Somebody  was  buried.  Now,  where  was  the 
mystery  ? 

A.  Ah,  that's  just  it  !  That's  it  exactly.  You  see  we 
were  twins — defunct  and  I — and  we  got  mixed  in  the  bath- 
tub when  we  were  only  two  weeks  old,  and  one  of  us  was 
drowned.  But  we  didn't  know  which.  Some  think  it  was 
Bill.     Some  think  it  was  me. 

Q.  Well,  that  is  remarkable.     What  do  you  think  ? 

A.  Goodness  knows  !  I  would  give  whole  worlds  to 
know.  This  solemn,  this  awful  mystery  has  cast  a  gloom 
over  my  whole  life.  But  I  will  tell  you  a  secret  now,  which 
I  have  never  revealed  to  any  creature  before.  One  of  us  had 
a  peculiar  mark — a  large  mole  on  the  back  of  his  left  hand  ; 
that  was  me.     That  child  was  the  one  that  was  drowned. 

Mark  Twain. 
An  Encounter  with  an  Interviewer. 

Bergson  quoted  this  passage  in  his  book  on  Humour.  It  appeared 
in  the  Stolen  White  Elephant  volume,  published  in  1882.  Compare  with 
it  one  of  Samuel  Butler's  Contradictions,  written  about  250  years  ago, 
but  first  published  from  his  MSS.  in  the  British  Museum  in  1908.  (As 
an  additional  coincidence  "  Q."  and  "  A."  are  used  for  Question  and 
Answer)  : — 

"  Sir,  are  you  you  or  your  Brother  ?  A.  Sir,  I  am  my  Brother. 
Q.  Your  pardon  !     Pray  tell  your  Brother  I  would  speak  with  you." 


The  world  is  so  inconveniently  constituted,  that  the  vague 
consciousness  of  being  a  fine  fellow  is  no  guarantee  of  success 
in  any  line  of  business. 

George  Eliot. 
Brother  Jacob. 


The  world  is  full  of  Woodmen  who  expel 
Love's  gentle  Dryads  from  the  haunts  of  life, 
And  vex  the  nightingales  in  every  dell. 

Shelley, 
The  Woodman  and  the  Nightingale. 


324  SCOTT  AND  OTHERS 

Wasted,  weary, — wherefore  stay 
Wrestling  thus  with  earth  and  clay  ! 
From  the  body  pass  away  ! — 
Hark  !  the  mass  is  singing. 

From  thee  doff  thy  mortal  weed, 
Mary  Mother  be  thy  speed. 
Saints  to  help  thee  at  thy  need  ! 
Hark  !  the  knell  is  ringing. 

Fear  not  snow-drift  driving  past, 
Sleet,  or  hail,  or  levin  blast  ; 
Soon  the  shroud  shall  lap  thee  fast. 
And  the  sleep  be  on  thee  cast 
That  shall  know  no  waking. 

Haste  thee,  haste  thee  to  be  gone, 
Earth  flits  past,  and  time  draws  on, — - 
Gasp  thy  gasp,  and  groan  thy  groan. 
Day  is  near  the  breaking. 

Sir  Walter  Scott. 

From  Guy  Mannering.  Scott  says  it  is  a  prayer  or  spell,  which  was 
used  in  Scotland  or  Northern  England  to  speed  the  passage  of  a  parting 
spirit,  like  the  tolling  of  a  bell  in  Catholic  days. 


.  .  .  The  trial-test 
Appointed  to  all  flesh  at  some  one  stage 
Of  soul's  achievement — when  the  strong  man  doubts 
His  strength,  the  good  man  whether  goodness  be, 
The  artist  in  the  dark  seeks,  fails  to  find 
Vocation,  and  the  saint  forswears  his  shrine. 

R.  Browning. 
The  Inn  Album. 


And  yet,  as  Angels  in  some  brighter  dreams 
Call  to  the  soul,  when  man  doth  sleep. 

So  some  strange  thoughts  transcend  our  wonted  themes, 
And  into  glory  peep. 

Henry  Vaughan. 

Friends  Departed. 
This  is  Vision. 


MARTINEAU  AND  OTHERS  325 

Evil  of  every  kind,  being  familiar  to  us  as  an  object  of 
apprehension,  appears  to  be  external  to  ourselves.  And  yet 
it  is  invested  v/ith  the  greater  part  of  its  severity  by  the  mind  : 
it  acts  upon  us  by  the  ideas  it  awakens,  the  affections  it 
wounds,  the  aspirations  it  disappoints.  If  its  outward 
pressure  were  all,  and  it  dealt  with  us  as  beings  of  sense  alone, 
it  would  lose  most  of  its  poignancy  and  would  dwindle  down 
into  a  few  animal  pangs.  ...  It  is  our  higher  nature  that 
creates  immeasurably  the  greater  part  of  the  ills  we  endure  : 
they  are  ideal,  not  sensible  :  and  it  is  the  privilege  of  reason 
to  have  tears  instead  of  groans  ;  of  love  to  know  grief  instead 
of  pain  ;  of  conscience  to  replace  uneasiness  with  remorse. 
.  .  .  Penury,  disgrace,  bereavement,  guilt,  are  evils  which 
we  must  be  human  in  order  to  feel ;  and  it  is  the  penalty 
of  our  nobleness,  not  only  to  be  v/eighed  down  by  their 
occasional  burthen,  but  to  be  perpetually  haunted  by  the 
phantom  of  their  approach. 

James  Martineau. 
Hours  of  Thought,  II.  150. 


Oh,  the  little  birds  sang  east,  and  the  Httle  birds  sang  west, 
And  I  said  in  underbreath, — all  our  life  is  mixed  with  death, 
And  who  knoweth  which  is  best  ? 

Oh,  the  little  birds  sang  east,  and  the  little  birds  sang  west, 
And  I  smiled  to  think  God's  greatness  flowed  around  our 
incompleteness — • 

Round  our  restlessness,  His  rest. 

E.  B.  Brov/ning. 
Rhyme  of  the  Duchess  May. 


0  Lord,  it  broke  my  heart  to  see  his  pain  ! 

1  thought — I  dared  to  think — if  /  were  God, 
Poor  Caird  should  never  gang  so  dark  a  road ; 

I  thought — ay,  dared  to  think,  the  Lord  forgie  ! — 
The  Lord  was  crueller  than  I  could  be  ; 
Forgetting  God  is  just  and  knoweth  best 
What  folk  should  burn  in  fire,  what  folk  be  blest. 

R.  Buchanan. 
A  Scottish  Eclogue. 


326  CLOUGH 


QUA  CURSUM  VENTUS 

As  ships,  becalmed  at  eve,  that  lay 

With  canvas  drooping,  side  by  side, 
Tv^^o  towers  of  sail  at  dawn  of  day 

Are  scarce  long  leagues  apart  descried  ; 

When  fell  the  night,  upsprung  the  breeze, 
And  all  the  darkling  hours  they  pHed, 

Nor  dreamt  but  each  the  self-same  seas 
By  each  was  cleaving,  side  by  side  : 

E'en  so — but  why  the  tale  reveal 

Of  those,  whom  year  by  year  unchanged, 

Brief  absence  joined  anew  to  feel 
Astounded,  soul  from  soul  estranged  ? 

At  dead  of  night  their  sails  were  filled. 
And  onward  each  rejoicing  steered — 

Ah,  neither  blame,  for  neither  willed. 
Or  wist,  what  first  with  dawn  appeared  ! 

To  veer,  how  vain  !     On,  onward  strain. 
Brave  barks  !     In  light,  in  darkness  too. 

Through  winds  and  tides  one  compass  guides — 
To  that,  and  your  own  selves,  be  true. 

But  O  blithe  breeze  !  and  O  great  seas. 
Though  ne'er,  that  earliest  parting  past, 

On  your  wide  plain  they  join  again, 
Together  lead  them  home  at  last. 

One  port,  methought,  alike  they  sought. 
One  purpose  hold  where'er  they  fare, — 

O  bounding  breeze,  O  rushing  seas  ! 
At  last,  at  last,  unite  them  there  ! 

A.  H.  Clough. 

Two  friends,  who  through  absence  have  become  "  soul  from  soul 
estranged,"  are  compared  to  two  ships,  which  unconsciously  draw  apart 
during  the  night  and  must  continue  a  diverging  course  ;  but,  being  both 
bound  for  the  same  port,  will  at  the  end  of  their  life- voyage  be  re-united. 


LONGFELLOW  AND  OTHERS  327 

Ships  that  pass  in  the  night,  and  speak  each  other  in  passing, 
Only  a  signal  shown  and  a  distant  voice  in  the  darkness  ; 
So  on  the  ocean  of  life  we  pass  and  speak  one  another, 
Only  a  look  and  a  voice,  then  darkness  again  and  a  silence. 

Longfellow. 
Tales  of  a  Wayside  Inn. 

This  was  written  in  1863,  but  ten  years  earlier  Alexander  Smith,  in 
"  A  Life  Drama,"  had  written  : 

We  twain  have  met  like  the  ships  upon  the  sea. 
Who  hold  an  hour's  converse,  so  short,  so  sweet  ; 
One  little  hour  !   and  then  away  they  speed 
On  lonely  paths,  through  mist,  and  cloud,  and  foam, 
To  meet  no  more. 

Others  writers  have  also  used  the  same  simile.     See  preceding  poem. 


Two  or  three  of  them  got  round  me,  and  begged  me  for 
the  twentieth  time  to  tell  them  the  name  of  my  country. 
Then,  as  they  could  not  pronounce  it  satisfactorily,  they 
insisted  that  I  was  deceiving  them,  and  that  it  was  a  name 
of  my  own  invention.  One  funny  old  man,  who  bore  a 
ludicrous  resemblance  to  a  friend  of  mine  at  home,  was 
almost  indignant.  "  Unglung  !  "  said  he,  "  who  ever  heard 
of  such  a  name  ? — anglang,  angerlang — that  can't  be  the 
name  of  your  country  ;  you  are  playing  with  us."  Then  he 
tried  to  give  a  convincing  illustration.  "  My  country  is 
Wanumbai — anybody  can  say  Wanumbai.  I'm  an  orang- 
Wanumbai  ;  but  N-glung  !  who  ever  heard  of  such  a  name  ? 
Do  tell  us  the  real  name  of  your  country,  and  when  you  are 
gone  we  shall  know  how  to  talk  about  you."  To  this 
luminous  argument  and  remonstrance  I  could  oppose 
nothing  but  assertion,  and  the  whole  party  remained  firmly 
convinced  that  I  was  for  some  reason  or  other  deceiving  them. 

A.  R.  Wallace. 
The  Malay  Archipelago. 


A  man's  body  and  his  mind,  with  the  utm.ost  reverence  to 
both  I  speak  it,  are  exactly  like  a  jerkin  and  a  jerkin's  lining  : 
rumple  the  one,  you  rumple  the  other. 

Sterne. 
Tristram  Shandy. 


328  TENNYSON  AND  OTHERS 

Speak  to  Him  thou,  for  He  hears — and  Spirit  with  Spirit  can 

meet — 
Closer  is  He  than  breathing,  and  nearer  than  hands  and  feet. 

Tennyson. 
0  The  Higher  Pantheism. 

Tennyson,  here  and  elsewhere  (see,  for  example,  the  king's  beautiful 
speech  in  "  The  Passing  of  Arthur  ")  urges  us  to  prayer,  and  adds  his 
belief  in  a  personal  intercourse  with  an  ever-present  and  loving  God. 
Innumerable  men  of  the  highest  character  during  nineteen  centuries 
have  testified  to  the  same  direct  communion  with  the  Almighty. 


Thou  canst  not  in  hfe's  city 

Rule  thy  course  as  in  a  cell  : 
There  are  others,  all  thy  brothers, 

Who  have  work  to  do  as  well. 

Some  events  that  mar  thy  purpose 

May  light  them  upon  their  way  ; 
Our  sun-shining  in  dechning 

Gives  earth's  other  side  the  day. 

R.  A.  Vaughan. 
Hours  with  the  Mystics. 


My  little  craft  sails  not  alone  ; 
A  thousand  fleets  from  every  zone 
Are  out  upon  a  thousand  seas  ; 
And  what  for  me  were  favouring  breeze 
Might  dash  another,  with  the  shock 
Of  doom,  upon  some  hidden  rock. 
And  so  I  do  not  dare  to  pray 
For  winds  to  waft  me  on  my  way. 

Catherine  Atherton  Mason. 


I  SITS  with  my  toes  in  a  brook  ; 

If  any  one  asks  me  for  why, 
I  hits  him  a  rap  with  my  crook — 

'Tis  sentiment  kills  me,  says  I. 

Horace  Walpole. 

This  was  written  in  a  game  of  bouts  rimes  (rhymed  ends).     Four  lines 
had  to  be  composed  ending  with  "  brook,"  "  why,"  "  crook,"  "  I." 


BLANC— RUSKIN  329 

II  [Boucher]  trouvait  la  nature  trop  verte  et  mal  eclairee. 
Et  son  ami,  Lancret,  le  peintre  des  salons  a  la  mode,  lui 
repondait  :  "  Je  suis  de  votre  sentiment,  la  nature  manque 
d'harmonie  et  de  seduction." 

(He,  Boucher,  found  nature  too  green  and  badly  lit.  And  his  friend, 
Lancret,  the  fashionable  painter  of  the  day,  replied  to  him,  "  I  arn  of  your 
opinion,  nature  is  wanting  in  harmony  and  seductiveness.") 

Charles  Blanc. 

See  following  quotation. 


If  you  examine  the  literature  of  the  seventeenth  and 
eighteenth  centuries,  you  will  find  that  nearly  all  its  expres- 
sions, having  reference  to  the  country,  show  .  .  .  either  a 
fooHsh  sentimentality,  or  a  morbid  fear,  both  of  course  coupled 
with  the  most  curious  ignorance.  Nothing  is  more  remark- 
able than  the  general  conception  of  the  country  merely  as  a 
series  of  green  fields,  and  the  combined  ignorance  and  dread  of 
more  sublime  scenery.  The  love  of  fresh  air  and  green  grass 
forced  itself  upon  the  animal  natures  of  men  ;  but  that  of 
the  sublimer  features  of  scenery  had  no  place  in  minds 
whose  chief  powers  had  been  repressed  by  the  formalisms 
of  the  age.  And  although  in  the  second-rate  writers  con- 
tinually, and  in  the  first-rate  ones  occasionally,  you  find  an 
affectation  of  interest  in  mountains,  clouds,  and  forests,  yet 
whenever  they  write  from  their  heart,  you  will  find  an  utter 
absence  of  feeling  respecting  anything  beyond  gardens  and 
grass.  Examine,  for  instance,  the  novels  of  Smollett, 
Fielding,  and  Sterne,  the  comedies  of  Moliere,  and  the 
writings  of  Johnson  and  Addison,  and  I  do  not  think  you 
will  find  a  single  expression  of  true  delight  in  sublime  nature 
in  any  one  of  them.  Perhaps  Sterne's  Sentimental  Journey, 
in  its  total  absence  of  sentiment  on  any  subject  but  humanity, 
and  its  entire  want  of  notice  of  anything  at  Geneva  which 
might  not  as  well  have  been  seen  at  Coxwold,  is  the  most 
striking  instance  I  could  give  you  ;  and  if  you  compare  with 
this  negation  of  feeling  on  one  side,  the  interludes  of  Moliere, 
in  which  shepherds  and  shepherdesses  are  introduced  in 
court  dress,  you  will  have  a  very  accurate  conception  of  the 
general  spirit  of  the  age. 

John  Ruskin. 
Architecture  and  Paintitis. 


330  HUGO— DONNE 

SouvENT  femme  varie, 
Bien  fol  est  qui  s'y  fie  ! 

(Woman  is  very  fickle, 

A  madman  he  who  trusts  in  her  !) 

Victor  Hugo. 
Le  Rot  s' amuse. 

Francis  I.  (i 494-1 547),  King  of  France,  wrote  on  the  walls  of  the 
royal  apartments  at  Chambord  Toute  femme  varie,  "  All  women  are 
fickle."  In  Victor  Hugo's  play  Francis  enters  singing  the  above  lines. 
One  finds  this  never-ending  theme  of  poets  and  cynics  in  Virgil's  varium 
et  Jtmtabile  semper  femina,  "  Woman  is  a  fickle  and  changeable  thing  " 
(Aeneid,  iv.  569),  La  donna  k  mobile  {Rigoletto),  and  countless  other 
passages. 


Crowned  with  flowers  I  saw  fair  Amaryllis 
By  Thyrsis  sit,  hard  by  a  fount  of  Chrystal, 

And  with  her  hand  more  white  than  snow  or  lilies, 
On  sand  she  wrote  "  My  faith  shall  be  immortal  " 

And  suddenly  a  storm  of  wind  and  weather 

Blew  all  her  faith  and  sand  away  together. 

Anon. 

If  Thou  be'st  born  to  strange  sights, 

Things  invisible  to  see, 
Ride  ten  thousand  days  and  nights 

Till  Age  snow  white  hairs  on  thee  ; 
Thou,  when  thou  return'st,  will  tell  me 
All  strange  wonders  that  befell  thee, 
And  swear 
No  where 
Lives  a  woman  true,  and  fair. 

If  thou  find'st  one,  let  me  know  : 
Such  a  pilgrimage  were  sweet. 
Yet  do  not  ;  I  would  not  go. 

Though  at  next  door  we  might  meet. 
Though  she  were  true  when  you  met  her. 
And  last  till  you  write  your  letter, 
Yet  she 
Will  be 
False,  ere  I  come,  to  two  or  three. 

John  Donne. 
Song. 


SHAKESPEARE  AND  OTHERS  331 

For,  boy,  however  we  do  praise  ourselves, 

Our  fancies  are  more  giddy  and  infirm, 

More  longing,  wavering,  sooner  lost  and  won, 

Than  women's  are.  o 

Shakespeare, 

Twelfth  Night,  H.  iv. 


I  GO  to  prove  my  soul  ! 
I  see  my  way  as  birds  their  trackless  way. 
I  shall  arrive  !  what  time,  what  circuit  first, 
I  ask  not  :  but  unless  God  send  his  hail 
Or  bUnding  fireballs,  sleet  or  stifling  snow. 
In  some  time,  his  good  time,  I  shall  arrive  : 
He  guides  me  and  the  bird.     In  his  good  time  ! 

R.  Browning. 
Paracelsus. 

Browning  was  twenty-two  when  in  1835  he  wrote  "  Paracelsus." 
The  last  line  quoted  above  refers  to  the  beautiful  poem,  "  To  a  Water- 
fowl," which  Bryant  had  written  in  1814  at  twenty  years  of  age  : — 

He  who  from  zone  to  zone 
Guides  through  the  boundless  sky  thy  certain  flight, 
In  the  long  way  that  I  must  tread  alone, 
Will  lead  my  steps  aright. 


Here  lie  I,  Martin  Elginbrodde  : 
Hae  mercy  o'  my  soul.  Lord  God  ; 
As  I  vv'ad  do,  were  I  Lord  God, 
And  ye  were  Martin  Elginbrodde. 

George  MacDonald. 
David  Elginbrod. 


DiEU  me  pardonnera  ;  c'est  son  metier. 

(God  will  pardon  me  ;  that  is  His  business.) 


Heine. 


A  third  in  sugar  with  unscriptural  hand 
Traffics  and  builds  a  lasting  house  on  sand. 

Alfred  Austin. 
The  Golden  Age. 


332  MELVILLE— HODGSON 

In  his  broken  fashion  Queequeg  gave  me  to  understand 
that,  in  his  land,  owing  to  the  absence  of  settees  and  sofas  of 
all  sorts,  the  king,  chiefs,  and  great  people  generally  were  in 
the  custom  of  fattening  some  of  the  lower  orders  for  otto- 
mans ;  and  to  furnish  a  house  comfortably  in  that  respect, 
you  had  only  to  buy  up  eight  or  ten  lazy  fellows,  and  lay 
them  round  in  the  piers  and  alcoves.  Besides  it  was  very 
convenient  on  an  excursion — much  better  than  those  garden- 
chairs  which  are  convertible  into  walking-sticks.  Upon 
occasion  a  chief  v/ould  call  his  attendant,  and  desire  him 
to  make  a  settee  of  himself  under  a  spreading  tree — perhaps 

in  some  damp  marshy  place.  ^t  n/r 

^  •'  ^  Herman  Melville. 

Moby  Dick. 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  SEA 

Thoughts  and  tears  as  I  turn  away, 

Tears  for  a  long  ago  : 
She  looks  out  on  a  summer  day, 

I  on  a  night  of  snow. 
But  I  see  some  ferns  and  a  rushing  rill 

And  my  love  that  promised  Jiie, 
And  a  day  we  spent  on  God's  great  hill 

On  the  other  side  of  the  sea. 
My  heart. 

On  the  other  side  of  the  sea. 

Ay  !  the  hill  was  green  and  the  sky  was  blue, 

And  the  path  was  dappled  fair. 
And  a  light  from  loving  eyes  shone  through 

Beyond  the  sunlight  there. 
And  I  gave  my  life — and  Vv^ho's  to  blame  ? — 

As  over  the  hill  went  we  : 
But  the  sky  and  the  hill  and  the  way  we  came 

Are  the  other  side  of  the  sea, 
Sad  heart. 

Are  the  other  side  of  the  sea.  .  .  . 

'Mid  trees  and  grass  and  a  tangled  v\^all 

We  wandered  merrily  down. 
Through  the  homeless  boughs  and  the  forest  fall 

Of  the  dead  leaves  thick  and  brown. 


HODGSON  AND  OTHERS  333 

But  faith  is  broken  and  life  is  pain 

And  oh  !  it  can  never  be 
That  I  gather  those  golden  hours  again 

On  the  other  side  of  the  sea, 
Poor  heart, 

On  the  other  side  of  the  sea. 

Though  the  sea  is  wild  and  the  sea  is  dark, 

It  v/ill  sink  and  slip  away 
At  the  bounding  scorn  of  my  speeding  bark 

To  the  land  of  that  dear  day  ; 
But  never  the  Love  of  my  soul  be  seen. 

The  light  of  that  day  to  me. 
For  I  know  there  is  lying  our  hearts  between 

A  wilder  and  darker  sea, 
O  God! 

The  depth  of  a  bitterer  sea. 

Richard  Hodgson. 

This  was  written  in  March,  1879,  after  Hodgson  had  left  Australia 
for  England.     The  love-episode  is  imaginary. 


They  eat,  and  drink,  and  scheme,  and  plod. 

And  go  to  church  on  Sunday  ; 
And  many  are  afraid  of  God — ■ 

And  more  of  Mrs.  Grundy. 

F.  Locker- Lampson. 
The  Jester's  Plea. 


The  triumph  of  machinery  is  when  man  wonders  at  his 
own  works  ;  thus,  says  Derwent  Coleridge,  all  science  begins 
in  wonder  and  ends  in  wonder,  but  the  first  is  the  wonder 
of  ignorance,  the  last  that  of  adoration. 

Caroline  Fox's  Journals. 

Derwent  Coleridge  was  evidently  discussing  his  father,  S.  T.  Cole- 
ridge's Aphorism  on  Spiritual  Religion  {Aids  to  Reflection)  :  "  In  Wonder 
all  Philosophy  began  :  in  Wonder  it  ends  :  and  Admiration  fills  up  the 
interspace.  But  the  first  Wonder  is  the  Offspring  of  Ignorance  :  the 
last  is  the  Parent  of  Adoration.  The  first  is  the  birth-throe  of  our 
knowledge  :    the  last  is  its  euthanasy  and  apotheosis." 

Plato  says  (Theaet.  155  d),  "  Philosophy  begins  in  wonder.  He  was 
not  a  bad  genealogist  who  said  that  Iris  (the  messenger  of  heaven)  is 
the  child  of  Thaumas  (wonder)." 


334  SHELLEY 

Greece  and  her  foundations  are 
Built  below  the  tide  of  war, 
Based  on  the  crystalline  sea 
Of  thought  and  its  eternity. 

Shelley. 
Hellas. 

It  is  very  true  that  the  amazing  intellectual  power  of  the  Greeks  in  a 
primitive  age  ensures  them  an  immortality  of  fame  ;  and  this  is  finely 
expressed  in  the  last  tzvo  lines.  But  those  two  splendid  lines  are  utterly 
spoilt  by  the  two  that  precede  them.  One  asks,  Why  "  Greece  and  her 
foundations  "  ?  One  does  not  say  "  a  house  and  its  foundations  "  are 
built  somewhere  or  other.  This  by  itself  would  be  trivial,  but  next 
comes  the  question,  What  is  the  meaning  of  the  second  line  ?  We  know 
what  Shelley  intended — that  the  memory  and  influence  of  Greece  will 
withstand  its  destruction  by  war — but  why  in  that  case  should  she  not 
be  built  above,  instead  of  submerged  belozv  the  tide  of  war  ?  Later  on, 
in  lines  836-7,  the  Emperor  Palaeologus,  at  the  siege  of  Constantinople, 
is  said  to  have  cast  himself  "  beneath  the  stream  of  war  "  ;  that  is  to  say, 
he  was  overwhelmed  and  killed.  The  words,  in  fact,  do  not  express  the 
poet's  meaning.  The  third  and  fatal  defect  of  the  lines  is  the  juxta- 
position of  "  tide  "  and  "  sea  " — the  city  is  built  belozv  a  tide,  and  also 
based  on  a  sea.  Not  only  is  this  combination  absurd  in  itself,  but  it  also 
destroys  the  beauty  of  the  last  two  magnificent  lines.  The  moving  un- 
stable water  is  scarcely  a  foundation  to  build  upon,  yet  this  meaning  is 
forcibly  impressed  upon  the  word  "  sea  "  by  the  previous  mention  of  a 
"  tide."  What  Shelley  meant  was  an  immense,  broad,  deep  expanse  of 
solid  crystal — the  "  sea  of  glass  like  unto  crystal  "  of  Revelation  (iv.  6) 
and  the  Mer  de  Glace  ("  sea  of  ice  "),  the  great  Alpine  glacier.*  There- 
fore, any  one  who  had  exactness  of  thought  or  perception  of  poetry 
would  omit  the  first  two  lines  and  give  only  the  last  two  as  a  quotation. 

Mrs.  Shelley  in  her  note  on  "  Hellas  "  specially  refers  to  this  verse 
as  a  beautiful  example  of  Shelley's  style,  and  she  quotes  all  four  lines. 
We  may  assume,  therefore,  that  Shelley  himself  thought  highly  of  the 
verse,  and  we  thus  have  an  illustration  of  the  curious  fact  that  a  great 
poet  is  often  a  poor  judge  of  his  own  poetry.  (Almost  certainly  Shake- 
speare himself  did  not  realize  how  god-like  he  stood  above  all  other 
poets.)  However,  it  is  not  only  for  this  reason  that  I  have  included  the 
above  quotation,  but  because  with  it  I  propose  to  make  a  flank  attack 
upon  Mr.  R.  W.  Livingstone,  the  author  of  The  Greek  Genius  and  its 
Meaning  to  us.     I  do  this,  of  course,  with  a  special  object  in  view. 

Mr.  Livingstone's  book  is  important,  valuable,  and  highly  interesting 
— and  is  especially  admirable  because  the  author  does  not  envelop  his 
subject  in  the  usual  glamour,  born  of  enthusiasm.  He  is,  indeed,  most 
exceptional  in  this  respect,  that  he  endeavours  to  look  at  the  Greeks  from 
an  ordinary  common-sense  point  of  view.  But  he  makes  the  mistake, 
not  unusual  with  classical  men,  of  supposing  that  he  is  a  qualified  critic 
of  poetry  ;  and  he,  therefore,  gives  us  a  special  dissertation  upon  the 
comparative  values  of  English  and  Greek  poetry. 

Apart  from  this  dissertation,  he  quotes  three  or  four  passages  from 
English  poets  in  the  course  of  the  book.  Of  these  the  most  prominent 
is  the  above  verse  of  Shelley's,  and  he  quotes  all  four  lines  without 
comment.     Thus  we  see  an  able  man,  in  whom  classical  study  should 

*  So  we  speak  of  a  "  sea  of  heads,"  "  sea  of  faces,"  "  sea  of  sand,"  "  sea  of  clouds,"  "  sea 
of  vegetation,"  etc. 


SHELLEY  335 

have  induced  exactness  of  thought,  failing  to  analyse  and  understand 
what  he  is  quoting.  But,  more  than  this,  the  question  is  one  of  poetic 
perception.  The  imagery  in  the  last  tivo  lines  is  sublime — in  the  four 
lines  it  is  ludicrous.  Therefore,  we  begin  with  the  fact  that  our  literary 
critic  was  unable  to  see  palpable  and  grave  defects  in  one  of  the  few 
verses  he  himself  quotes.  (I  might  give  other  illustrations,  as  where  he 
admires  poor  verse  of  Dryden's,  but  I  must  be  brief.) 

Mr.  Livingstone's  point  is  that  the  "  direct  "  and  "  truthful  "  char- 
acter of  Greek  poetry  is  superior  to  the  "  imaginative  "  quality  of  English 
verse.  He  goes  so  far  as  to  say  that  "  Sappho  and  Simonides  with  four 
words  make  him  see  a  nightingale  and  give  him  a  greater  and  far  saner 
pleasure  "  than  Shelley's  poem  "  To  a  Skylark."  I  take  his  quotation 
from  Simonides,  as  it  involves  less  discussion  than  that  from  Sappho.* 
It  is  drjodfes  woXvkwtlXoi.  x^wpai'Xfes  elapival,  "  The  warbling  nightingales 
v/ith  olive  necks,  the  birds  of  spring." 

As  Mr.  Livingstone  is  not  discussing  beauty  of  expression,  we  can 
leave  this  out  of  consideration.  (We  can,  however,  agree  that  the 
language  of  all  three  poets,  Shelley,  Sappho,  and  Simonides,  is  very 
beautiful.)  He  is  discussing  the  substance  of  poetry,  comparing  the 
"  directness  "  and  "  truthfulness  "  of  Simonides  with  the  imaginative 
element  in  Shelley's  poem.  He  would  apparently  discard  the  latter 
element  altogether,  and  prefers  a  simple  description  of  the  nightingale — 
that  it  sings,  has  an  olive  neck,  and  appears  in  spring.  The  first  sug- 
gestion that  occurs  to  one  is  that  if,  say,  an  auctioneer's  catalogue  of  farm 
stock — without  any  addition  whatever  to  its  contents— could  be  worded 
prettily  and  made  metrical,  it  would  afford  huge  enjoyment  to  our 
hterary  critic. 

The  whole  question  is  as  to  the  value  of  the  imaginative  element,  which 
to  our  minds  makes  Shelley's  poem  one  of  the  inost  beautiful  lyrics  in  all 
literature.  In  sweeping  away  this  elenient,  Mr.  Livingstone  tells  us 
how  much  of  English  poetry  must  be  cast  aside.  But  he  does  not  realize 
that  much  else  has  also  to  be  fiung  on  the  scrap-heap.  Imagination, 
in  its  true  sense,  includes  all  those  aesthetic,  moral,  and  spiritual  faculties 
which  are  higher  than  the  intellect — all,  in  fact,  that  raises  man  above 
his  material  existence.  With  the  immense  deal  of  English  poetry  which 
Mr.  Livingstone  proposes  to  "  scrap  "  must  go  all  our  most  beautiful 
music,  all  that  is  great  in  painting  (which  is  never  "  direct  "  and  "  truth- 
ful "  in  this  sense,  or  it  would  not  be  great),  all  Greek  statuary,  and  all 
that  expresses  the  noblest  truths  in  Greek  or  any  other  literature.  I  do 
not  think  that  Mr.  Livingstone  will  find  many  adherents  to  his  new  creed. 

This  critic  also  discusses  style,  and  we  find  that  he  speaks  of  Pope 
as  a  "  great  poet,"  and  apparently  revels  in  his  monotonous  verse  ! 
When  pointing  out  that  English  verse,  unlike  what  we  have  left  of  Greek 
poetry,  includes  much  unequal  and  ill-finished  work,  he  says,  "  Of  all  our 
great  poets,  perhaps  only  Milton  and  Pope  can  boast  unfailing  excellence 
of  style." 

As  regards  this  inequality  in  the  work  of  English  poets  the  answer 
is  very  simple.  Mr.  Livingstone  forgets  the  fact — a  very  important  fact 
in  any  speculation  upon  the  scheme  of  the  universe — that  only  the  good 
things  ultimately  survive.  How  very  little  we  have  left  of  many  Greek 
poets  !  Of  Sophocles  only  seven  plays  remain  out  of  one  hundred  and 
twenty-seven,  and  the  Fragments  collected  are  said  to  be  very  poor  (many, 
of  course,  are  only  grammatical  illustrations) — and  more  than  half  of 
Homer  must  have  been  dropped.  We  probably  still  have  everything 
that  is  best  in  Greek  literature.     Again,  it  is  not  in  fact  desirable  to  restrict 

*  See  supplementary  remarks  at  the  end  of  this  note. 


336 


SHELLEY 


publication  to  work  of  the  highest  importance,  and  the  facilities  afforded 
by  printing  have  made  it  unnecessary  thus  to  restrict  it — so  that  even  My 
Commonplace  Book  is  now,  at  least  temporarily,  part  of  English  literature  ! 
Greatly  as  I  admire  Mr.  Livingstone's  book,  I  feel  bound  to  call 
attention  to  a  view  of  poetry  that  must  do  great  harm  to  University 
students  and  others.  I  am  also  bound  to  mention  him  as  an  illustration 
of  the  fact  that  classical  men  usually  imagine  that  their  study  of  the  Greek 
and  Latin  languages  and  literature  qualifies  them  to  become  literary 
critics.*  This  fact  has  impressed  itself  upon  me  from  youth  upwards. 
One  of  my  teachers,  a  man  of  some  weight  in  the  classical  world,  was  in 
the  habit  of  saying  that  only  through  study  of  Latin  and  Greek  could  a 
man  learn  to  write  good  English  !     His  own  English  was  execrable. f 

I  will  give  another  instance  where  a  classical  enthusiast,  as  in  Mr. 
Livingstone's  case,  exaggerates  the  value  of  his  favourite  literature-;- 
truly  wonderful  as  it  is.  Gissing's  Private  Papers  of  Henry  Ryecroft  is 
an  interesting  book  of  wide  circulation,  in  which  the  author  displays 
great  admiration  for  and  familiarity  with  the  classics.  Speaking  of 
Xenophon's  Anabasis,  he  says,  "  Were  it  the  sole  book  existing  in  Greek, 
it  would  be  abundantly  worth  while  to  learn  the  language  in  order  to  read 
it."  That  is  to  say,  it  would  be  worth  while  expending,  out  of  our  short 
lives,  some  years  of  study  for  the  sole  purpose  of  reading  in  the  original 
an  extremely  simple,  prose  historical  narrative,  which  has  been  excellently 
translated  !  (If  Gissing  had  said  Homer  instead  of  Xenophon,  no  one 
would  have  quarrelled  with  him.)  Again,  he  says,  "  Many  a  single  line 
presents  a  picture  which  deeply  stirs  the  emotions  "  ;  and  he  gives  us 
what  he  calls  "  a  good  instante  of  such  a  line."  A  guide,  who  has  led 
the  Greeks  through  hostile  country,  has  to  return  through  the  same 
perilous  district,  and  the  wonderful  line  is  "Eiirel  ea-wipa  iyfvero,  vx^to 
TTis  vvKTos  diTLthv.  This  Hue  Gissing  translates,  "  When  evening  came 
he  took  leave  of  us  and  went  away  by  night  " — a  sentence  which  only  by 
inadvertence  could  have  appeared  in,  say,  a  Ti^nes  leader,  seeing  that  the 
words  "  by  night  "  are  redundant.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  translation 
is  incorrect  ,  there  is  nothing  about  "  taking  leave  of  us,"  and  the  meaning 
is,  "  As  soon  as  evening  came,  he  had  slipped  away  into  the  darkness." 

(Professor  Naylor  points  out  to  me  that  the  woi-d  ^x^'^"  in  this  line  is 
interesting.  It  conveys  the  idea  of  a  swift  or  abrupt  departure  or  dis- 
appearance. It  is  used  in  connection  with  that  most  interesting  rnan 
Alcibiades  (Xen.  Hell.  ii.  i.  26),  and  gives  a  fine  impression  of  his  quick, 
insolent  temper.  The  Greek  admirals  had  put  themselves  in  a  position 
of  extreme  danger,  and  he  came  to  warn  them  of  their  peril.  Their  reply 
was  the  usual  expression  of  ineptitude,  "  We  are  the  admirals,  not 
you  "  ;  and  immediately  follows  the  one  word  vx^to,  "  he  turned  on 
his  heels  and  left  " — and  with  this  word  Alcibiades  disappears  from 
contemporary  history.) 

In  referring  to  Mr.  Livingstone's  remarks  above  I  could  not  use  the 
Sappho  quotation,  because  there  are  certain  initial  questions  that  need  to 
be   first  settled. 

Sappho's  line  is  '^Hpo;  li^yyeKos  Ifiepocpujvo^   drjduii',  which   Mr.  Living- 

*  As  Professor  Damley  Naylor's  name  appears  at  times  in  this  book,  it  is  necessary  to 
mention  that  he  is  so  qualified  and,  therefore,  is  not  one  of  the  gentlemen  referred  to. 

I  may  mention  here  that  Mr.  Livingstone  deserves  censure  for  not  giving  us  an  index  to  his 
valuable  book.  This  neglect,  being  greatly  provocative  of  profanity,  is  an  offence  against 
morality.  Much  loss  of  time  and  irritation  have  been  caused  to  me  in  looking  up  passages  I 
remembered  in  his  book — and  I  have  at  times  given  up  the  search  in  despair. 

t  See  interesting  remarks  on  Matthew  Arnold  and  Addison  in  Herbert  Spencer's  Study  of 
Sociology,  Note  20  to  Ch.  10. 


SHELLEY  337 

stone  translates  "  The  messenger  of  spring,  the  lovely- voiced  nightingale." 
Now  i'^epos  (himeros)  means  animal  passion,  so  that  tp.epocpwvos  {himero- 
phonos)  is  a  strong  word  meaning  singing  of,  or  with,  passion — in  this 
case  the  passion  of  the  pairing-time.  Why  then  does  Mr.  Livingstone, 
following  Liddell  and  Scott,  give  the  totally  different  meaning  "  lovely- 
voiced  "  ?  Apparently  it  is  because  Theocritus  (xxviii.  7)  applies  the 
expression  "  himerophonos  "  to  the  Charites  or  Graces,  and,  according 
to  the  current  conception,  those  deities  were  pure  unimpassionate 
beings.* 

In  questions  of  this  character,  seeing  that  the  Greek  gods  were  guilty 
of  every  form  of  immorality  and  the  Greeks  themselves  were  the  most 
sensual  of  civilized  nations  that  ever  existed,  the  presumption  is  in  favour 
of  impurity  :  the  onus  of  proof  is  on  those  who  allege  pvirity.  I  have  not 
undertaken  the  heavy  work  of  looking  up  the  innumerable  references 
to  the  Charites  in  Greek  literature,  but  I  know  of  nothing  that  supports 
the  prevalent  conception  of  those  deities.  Apart  from  the  fact  that 
Theocritus  uses  the  word  himerophonos,  Meleager  (Atith.  Pal.  v.  195) 
speaks  of  himeros  as  conferred  by  the  Charites.  There  is  nothing  in  the 
meaning  of  charis,  or  the  verb  charizesthai,  to  support  the  current  idea 
(both  being  even  used  in  an  immodest  sense)  ;  Homer  identifies  Charis 
with  Aphrodite,  with  whom  Hesiod  also  identifies  Aglaia,  since  each  is 
made  the  wife  of  Hephaestus  ;  the  Charites  are  constantly  associated  with 
Aphrodite  and  Eros  (and  consequently  with  Himeros,  the  personification 
of  passion),  so  that  the  maxim  Noscitur  a  sociis  applies  ;  Sappho  repeatedly 
claims  them  as  her  patrons  ;  as  regards  the  representation  of  the  Charites 
in  art,  girl  friendship  would  be  a  subject  quite  alien  to  the  Greek  mind. 

If  the  view  suggested  is  correct,  our  authorities  with  their  preconceived 
ideas  presume  to  correct  Theocritus  and  Sappho  !  They  not  only  give  a 
wrong  view  of  the  Charites,  but  also  hide  the  coarseness  of  the  compli- 
ment paid  by  Theocritus  to  his  lady  friend — in  each  case  distorting  the 
truth. 

Mr.  Livingstone  may  have  another  reason  for  altering  the  meaning  of 
"  himerophonos."  He  appears  to  hold  the  opinion  that  a  Greek  writer 
would  not  ascribe  intelligence  or  emotion  to  a  bird,  as  Mrs.  Browning  does 
in  "  To  a  Seamew."  (I  quite  agree  with  him  as  to  the  false,  feminine 
sentiment  in  this  poem.  It  is  mainly  the  "  Sonnets  from  the  Portuguese  " 
that  raise  Mrs.  Browning  above  the  minor  poets.)  Mr.  Livingstone, 
for  example,  translates  rip-epbcpoiv'  dXeKTup,  "  O  cock  that  criest  at  dawn." 
This  should  surely  mean  "  that  announceth  the  dawn  "  ;  the  attitude 
and  the  very  crow  of  the  bird  would  suggest  this  to  the  Greeks  ;  and  the 
fowl  did,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  serve  in  place  of  an  alarm-clock  to  them 
(see,  for  instance,  Aristophanes'  Birds,  488).  Does  not  Mr.  Livingstone 
forget  that  the  Greeks  attributed  not  only  intelligence  but  also  miraculous 
powers  to  animals  (see  p.  415)  ?  If  so,  this  illustrates  another  fact 
noticeable  among  classical  authorities.  They  often  fail  to  consider  all 
the  premises  before  arriving  at  a  conclusion.  Taking  another  illustration 
from  Mr.  Livingstone,  he  says  that  the  Greeks  had  little  of  the  feeling 
of  wonder,  did  not  "  muse  on  the  strangeness  of  the  world,"  and  would 
not  have  experienced  the  emotion  Pascal  felt  when  viewing  the  starry 
heavens,  "  The  eternal  silence  of  those  infinite  spaces  terrifies  me." 
The  premise  he  appears  to  omit  here  is  the  fact  of  the  intense  ignorance 
of  the  Greeks.  Their  world  was  a  very  limited  one,  with  its  flat  earth 
and  solid  lid,  certain  bright  objects  conceived  as  gods  or  otherwise  nioving 

•  For  example  :  Miss  Jane  Harrison  {Mythology  of  Ancient  Athens)  says  "  all  sweetness  and 
love  "  come  to  mortals  from  the  "  holy  "  Charites,  who  "  were  in  the  fullest  sense  '  givers  of 
all  grace.'  "  (That  is  to  say,  these  deities  have  the  attributes  of  God,  who  is,  of  course,  the 
sole  giver  of  all  grace !  Compare  with  this  Professor  Gilbert  Murray  on  the  god  Dionysus, 
p.  419O 

z 


338  SHELLEY— COLERIDGE 

in  the  intermediate  space.  To  illustrate  this,  Herodotus  (ii.  24)  believes 
that  the  sun-god  is  forced  by  the  cold  winds  in  winter  to  move  to  the 
warm  sky  above  Libya  ;  and  in  434  B.C.  (about  the  same  time)  Anax- 
agoras  was  arrested  for  blasphemy  and  exiled  because  he  taught  that  the 
sun  must  be  a  mass  of  blazing  metal  larger  than  the  Peloponnesus  ! 
Everything  in  nature  had  its  god,  whose  action  explained  whatever 
happened.  If  the  Greeks  had  once  realized  the  awful  infinity  of  the 
universe,  their  whole  outlook  on  nature  would  have  changed,  and  I 
cannot  think  that  so  highly  intellectual  a  people  would  not  have  been 
moved  by  wonder.  I  cannot  see  any  element  in  "  the  Greek  genius  " 
that  would  justify  such  a  conclusion — and  see  the  later  epigram  by 
Ptolemy  on  p.  10. 

Returning  to  the  Sappho  quotation,  Mr.  Livingstone  translates 
r/pos  dyyeXos  literally  as  "  the  messenger  of  spring."  Does  he  mean  the 
messenger  "  sent  by  spring  "  or  "  announcing  spring  "  ?  Presumably 
he  does  not  mean  the  latter,  as  it  would  impute  intelligence  or  emotion 
to  the  bird.  But,  if  we  accept  the  former  interpretation,  it  leads  to  the 
curious  result  that  the  poet,  not  content  with  a  Goddess  of  Spring  and 
the  Hours  who  represent  the  seasons,  intends  still  further  to  personify 
spring.  Is  not  the  true  meaning  of  Sappho's  words  "  the  nightingale 
with  its  passionate  song  sent  (by  Proserpine)  to  let  men  know  that  spring 
is  approaching  "  ?  This  is  not  mere  captious  criticism.  To  Sappho  the 
goddess  Proserpine  was  a  concrete  being  with  some  sort  of  corporeal 
form,  who  brings  a  thing  called  spring,  and  who  actually  does  send  the 
nightingale  ahead  to  sing  of  the  passion  of  the  pairing-time,  and  thus 
let  men  know  that  spring  is  coming.  There  is  no  poetic  imagery,  no 
imaginative  picture,  in  the  poet's  mind,  but  the  statement  of  an  actual  fact. 
See  also  the  reference  to  the  halcyon,  p.  415.  It  seems  to  me  that,  in 
this  as  in  other  cases,  our  classical  authorities /«//  to  place  themselves  in  the 
position  of  the  Greeks.  Here  they  interpret  as  imagination  what  was 
meant  as  reality.  (Plowever,  until  we  knew  exactly  what  Sappho's  verse 
meant,  it  could  not  be  properly  brought  into  the  discussion  of  Mr. 
Livingstone's  views.) 


Alas  !  they  had  been  friends  in  youth  ; 

But  whispering  tongues  can  poison  truth  ; 

And  constancy  hves  in  realms  above  ; 

And  Hfe  is  thorny  ;  and  youth  is  vain  ; 

And  to  be  wroth  with  one  we  love 

Doth  work  like  madness  in  the  brain. 

They  parted — ne'er  to  meet  again  ! 

But  never  either  found  another 

To  free  the  hollow  heart  from  paining — 

They  stood  aloof,  the  scars  remaining, 

Like  cliffs  which  had  been  reft  asunder  ; 

A  dreary  sea  now  flows  between. 

But  neither  heat,  nor  frost,  nor  thunder, 

Shall  wholly  do  away,  I  ween, 

The  marks  of  that  which  once  hath  been. 

S.  T.  Coleridge. 
Christabel. 


ARNOLD  339 

It  irked  him  to  be  here,  he  could  not  rest. 
He  loved  each  simple  joy  the  country  yields, 

He  loved  his  mates  ;  but  yet  he  could  not  keep. 
For  that  a  shadow  lower'd  on  the  fields, 

Here  with  the  shepherds  and  the  silly  sheep. 
Some  life  of  men  unblest 
He  knew,  which  made  him  droop,  and  fill'd  his  head. 

He  went  ;  his  piping  took  a  troubled  sound 

Of  storms  that  rage  outside  our  happy  ground  ; 
He  could  not  wait  their  passing,  he  is  dead  ! 

So,  some  tempestuous  morn  in  early  June, 
When  the  year's  primal  burst  of  bloom  is  o'er. 

Before  the  roses  and  the  longest  day— 
When  garden-walks  and  all  the  grassy  floor. 

With  blossoms  red  and  white  of  fallen  May 
And  chestnut-flowers  are  strewn — 
So  have  I  heard  the  cuckoo's  parting  cry, 

From  the  wet  field,  through  the  vext  garden-trees, 

Come  with  the  volleying  rain  and  tossing  breeze  : 
The  bloom  is  gone,  and  with  the  bloom  go  I ! 

Too  quick  despairer,  wherefore  wilt  thou  go  ? 
Soon  will  the  high  Midsummer  pomps  come  on. 

Soon  will  the  musk  carnations  break  and  swell, 
Soon  shall  we  have  gold-dusted  snapdragon. 

Sweet- William  with  its  homely  cottage -smell, 
And  stocks  in  fragrant  blow  ; 
Roses  that  down  the  alleys  shine  afar. 

And  open,  jasmine-muflSed  lattices. 

And  groups  under  the  dreaming  garden-trees, 
And  the  full  moon,  and  the  white  evening-star. 

Matthew  Arnold. 
Thy  r sis. 

The  exquisite  poem  from  which  these  verses  are  taken  is  a  lament 
for  Arthur  Hugh  Clough,  the  poet,  and  Arnold's  friend.  Clough 
(1819-1861)  was  much  disturbed  over  the  religious  and  social  questions 
of  the  period.  Arnold  says  in  these  verses  that  he  should  have  trusted 
that  the  tempestuous  sceptical  time  would  pass  away. 

The  last  two  verses  give  a  beautiful  picture  of  the  English  late  Spring 
and  Midsummer. 


340  DRAYTON  AND  OTHERS 

LOVE'S  FAREWELL 

Since  there's  no  help,  come  let  us  kiss  and  part,— 
Nay  I  have  done,  you  get  no  more  of  me  ; 
And  I  am  glad,  yea  glad  with  all  my  heart, 
That  thus  so  cleanly  I  myself  can  free  ; 

Shake  hands  for  ever,  cancel  all  our  vows. 
And  when  we  meet  at  any  time  again. 
Be  it  not  seen  in  either  of  our  brows 
That  we  one  jot  of  former  love  retain. 

Now  at  the  last  gasp  of  Love's  latest  breath, 
When,  his  pulse  failing,  passion  speechless  lies, 
When  faith  is  kneeling  by  his  bed  of  death, 
And  innocence  is  closing  up  his  eyes, 

— Now  if  thou  wouldst,  when  all  have  given  him  over, 
From  death  to  life  thou  might'st  him  yet  recover  ! 

Michael  Drayton. 


Cold  as  a  mountain  in  its  star-pitched  tent 
Stood  high  Philosophy,  less  friend  than  foe  : 
Whom  self-caged  Passion,  from  its  prison-bars. 
Is  always  watching  with  a  wondering  hate. 
Not  till  the  fire  is  dying  in  the  grate 
Look  we  for  any  kinship  with  the  stars. 

George  Meredith. 
Modern  Love,  IV. 

A  poetic  expression  of  a  familiar  fact.  Under  the  influence  of  love, 
anger,  or  other  strong  passion,  a  man  becomes  an  unreasoning  animal, 
and  actually  hates  to  be  told  the  truth.  Wild  Passion  glares  through 
the  bars  of  its  self-constituted  cage  at  Philosophy  standing  calm,  lofty, 
and  serene.  Only  "  when  the  fire  is  dying  in  the  grate  "  —  when 
passion  cools  —  do  we  again  become  akin  to  cold,  dispassionate,  star- 
like Philosophy. 


No  one  of  himself  can  rise  out  of  the  depths,  but  must 

clasp  some  outstretched  hand.  -^ 

^  Seneca. 

Epistle  Hi. 


WORDSWORTH  AND  OTHERS  341 

One  there  is,  the  loveliest  of  them  all, 

Some  sweet  lass  of  the  valley,  looking  out 

For  gains,  and  who  that  sees  her  would  not  buy  ? 

Fruits  of  her  father's  orchard  are  her  wares. 

And  with  the  ruddy  produce  she  walks  round 

Among  the  crowd,  half  pleased  with,  half  ashamed 

Of  her  new  office,  blushing  restlessly. 

Wordsworth. 
The  Prelude,  Bk.  VHI. 

This  and  the  next  five  quotations  and  others  through  the  book  are 
word-pictures. 

Out  came  the  children  running — 

All  the  little  boys  and  girls, 

With  rosy  cheeks  and  flaxen  curls 

And  sparkling  eyes  and  teeth  like  pearls, 

Tripping  and  skipping,  ran  merrily  after 

The  wonderful  music  with  shouting  and  laughter. 

R.  Browning. 
The  Pied  Piper  of  Hamelin. 

Even  such  a  man,  so  faint,  so  spiritless, 

So  dull,  so  dead  in  look,  so  woe-begone. 

Drew  Priam's  curtain  in  the  dead  of  night. 

And  would  have  told  him  half  his  Troy  was  burnt. 

Shakespeare. 
2  Henry  IV. 

That  strange  song  I  heard  Apollo  sing, 
While  Ilion  like  a  mist  rose  into  towers. 

Tennyson. 
Tithonus. 

Full  on  this  casement  shone  the  wintry  moon. 
And  threw  warm  gules  on  Madeline's  fair  breast, 
As  down  she  knelt  for  heaven's  grace  and  boon  ; 
Rose-bloom  fell  on  her  hands,  together  prest. 
And  on  her  silver  cross  soft  amethyst, 
And  on  her  hair  a  glory,  like  a  saint. 

Keats. 
The  Eve  of  St.  Agnes. 


342  MEREDITH  AND  OTHERS 

Cool  was  the  woodside  ;  cool  as  her  white  dairy 

Keeping  sweet  the  cream-pan  ;   and  there  the  boys  from 
school, 
Cricketing  below,  rush'd  brown  and  red  with  sunshine  ; 

O  the  dark  translucence  of  the  deep-eyed  cool  ! 
Spying  from  the  farm,  herself  she  fetched  a  pitcher 
Full  of  milk,  and  tilted  for  each  in  turn  the  beak. 
Then  a  little  fellow,  mouth  up  and  on  tiptoe, 

Said,  "  I  will  kiss  you  "  :    she  laughed  and  lean'd  her 
cheek. 

G.  Meredith. 

Love  in  the  Valley. 


A  ciBO  biscocto, 
A  medico  indocto, 
Ab  inimico  reconciliato, 
A  mala  muliere 

Libera  nos,  Domine. 

(From  twice-cooked  food,  from  an  ignorant  doctor,  from  a  reconciled 
enemy,  from  a  wicked  woman,  Lord,  deliver  us.) 


Old  Monkish  Litany. 


CONSTANCY  REWARDED 

I  VOWED  unvarying  faith,  and  she, 

To  whom  in  full  I  pay  that  vow. 
Rewards  me  with  variety 

Which  men  who  change  can  never  know. 

Coventry  Patmore. 
The  Angel  in  the  House. 


Life  is  mostly  froth  and  bubble  ; 

Two  things  stand  like  stone  : — 
Kindness  in  another's  trouble. 

Courage  in  your  own, 

Adam  Lindsay  Gordon. 
Ye  Weary  Wayfarer. 


MARTINEAU 


343 


If  the  collective  energies  of  the  universe  are  identified 
with  Divine  Will,  and  the  system  is  thus  animate  with  an 
eternal  consciousness  as  its  moulding  life,  the  conception 
we  frame  of  its  history  will  conform  itself  to  our  experience 
of  intellectual  volition.  .  .  .  It  is  in  origination,  in  disposing 
of  new  conditions,  in  setting  up  order  by  differentiation,  that 
the  mind  exercises  its  highest  function.  When  the  product 
has  been  obtained,  and  a  definite  method  of  procedure 
established,  the  strain  upon  us  is  relaxed,  habit  relieves  the 
constant  demand  for  creation,  and  at  length  the  rules  of  a 
practised  art  almost  execute  themselves.  As  the  intensely 
voluntary  thus  works  itself  ofl:"  into  the  automatic,  thought, 
liberated  from  this  reclaimed  and  settled  province,  breaks 
into  new  regions,  and  ascends  to  ever  higher  problems  : 
its  supreme  life  being  beyond  the  conquered  and  legislated 
realm,  while  a  lower  consciousness,  if  any  at  all,  suffices  for 
the  maintenance  of  its  ordered  mechanism.  Yet  all  the 
while  it  is  one  and  the  same  mind  that,  under  different  modes 
of  activity,  thinks  the  fresh  thoughts  and  carries  on  the  old 
usages.  Does  anything  forbid  us  to  conceive  similarly  of 
the  cosmical  development  ;  that  it  started  from  the  freedom 
of  indefinite  possibilities  and  the  ubiquity  of  universal 
consciousness  ;  that,  as  intellectual  exclusions  narrowed  the 
field,  and  traced  the  definite  lines  of  admitted  movement, 
the  tension  of  purpose,  less  needed  on  these,  left  them  as  the 
habits  of  the  universe,  and  operated  rather  for  higher  and 
ever  higher  ends  not  yet  provided  for  ;  that  the  more 
mechanical,  therefore,  a  natural  law  may  be,  the  further  is 
it  from  its  source  ;  and  that  the  inorganic  and  unconscious 
portion  of  the  world,  instead  of  being  the  potentiality  of  the 
organic  and  conscious,  is  rather  its  residual  precipitate, 
formed  as  the  Indwelling  Mind  of  all  concentrates  an  intenser 
aim  on  the  upper  margin  of  the  ordered  whole,  and  especially 
on  the  inner  life  of  natures  that  can  resemble  him  ? 

James  Martineau. 
Modern  Materialism. 

The  remarkably  fine  essay  in  which  this  striking  passage  occurs  was 
written  in  1876  in  reply  to  a  weak  article  by  Tyndall  against  Martineau 
(see  Fragments  of  Science).  It  is  not  possible  to  condense  Martineau's 
argument,  in  which  every  word  is  given  full  effect,  and  I  can  only  set  out 
in  bald  outline  the  portion  of  the  essay  in  which  the  passage  occurs. 

The  notion  of  power  or  causation  is  not  derived  from  observation. 
All  that  we  see  taking  place  around  us  consists  of  certain  co-existences 
and  sequences.     We  see  a  stone  fall  to  the  ground,  or  a  flash  of  lightning 


344 


MARTINEAU 


split  a  tree.  We  see  mechanical  energy  become  heat,  and  heat  become 
electricity.  The  chemical  union  of  carbon  and  oxygen  in  the  furnace 
is  followed  by  heat,  which  is  succeeded  by  the  molecular  separation  of 
water  into  steam,  the  expansion  of  which  lifts  a  piston  and  institutes 
mechanical  operations.  We  see  a  chain  of  movements,  but  nothing  that 
would  have  given  us  the  notion  of  power  or  causation.  If  we  were 
observing  all  these  happenings  as  disembodied  spirits,  that  notion  would 
never  have  arisen  in  our  minds.  But  we  find  that  we  ourselves  can  move 
matter,  and  it  is  from  this  we  discover  that  energy  means  not  merely 
succession,  but  pozver.  Knowing  that  when  we  exercise  energy  we  are 
using  power,  we  are  bound  by  the  laws  of  our  thought  to  believe  that, 
outside  ourselves  also,  all  energy  means  an  effort,  or  power  and  causation. 

Power  or  causality  is,  therefore,  not  something  seen— it  is  something 
thought.  It  is  due  to  an  intuition  within  ourselves  that  all  phenornena 
appear  to  us  as  the  result  of  Power.  The  important  question  then  arises, 
What  is  the  nature  of  that  One  Power  which  includes  so  many  forms  and 
degrees  of  energy  ?  The  materialist  says  that  it  is  identical  with  the 
simplest  and  lowest,  namely,  purely  mechanical  energy,  and  that  from 
this  would  be  derived  chemical  affinity,  magnetic  and  electrical  pheno- 
mena, and  finally  those  of  life  and  consciousness.  Here  Martineau's 
argument  to  the  contrary  is  very  effective  but  too  long  to  set  out.  How- 
ever, he  establishes  the  important  point  that  the  nature  of  Power  in  the 
world  must  be  judged  from  the  best  thing  it  has  done— the  minds  it  has 
produced.  A  blind,  unconscious,  mechanical  Power  is  inconceivable, 
seeing  that  the  Power  has  produced  conscious  minds.  It  is  the  same 
argument  that  the  Psalmist  uses:  "  He  that  planted  the  ear,  shall  he  not 
hear  ?  He  that  formed  the  eye,  shall  he  not  see  ?  He  that  teacheth 
man  knowledge,  shall  not  he  know  ?  "  (Ps.  xciv.  9,  10). 

Martineau  further  shows  that  causality  in  our  own  acts  means  Will — 
and  the  Universal  Power,  as  it  is  best  understood  by  reference  to  man 
who  most  resembles  it,  means  a  Universal  Will  and  therefore  God. 
Here  again  I  must  not  attempt  to  set  out  the  argument  in  detail.  But 
he  next  proceeds  to  discuss  the  point  that  he  is  taking  an  anthropomorphic 
view  of  God.  He  not  only  maintains  that  he  is  right  in  doing  so  ;  but, 
in  the  passage  quoted,  suggests  that  the  analogy  might  be  pressed  still 
further. 

He  says,  "  If  the  collective  energies  of  the  universe  are  identified  with 
Divine  Will  and  the  system  is  thus  animate  with  an  eternal  consciousness 
as  its  moulding  life,"  our  conception  of  the  history  of  the  world  should 
conform  to  what  we  ourselves  experience  in  our  own  history.  To  take 
a  simple  example,  a  baby  learning  to  walk  has  at  first  to  consciously  use 
its  muscles  and  balance  its  body.  Later,  having  formed  the  habit,  it 
does  all  this  unconsciously,  and  can  attend  to  other  and  higher  matters. 
This  procedure  continues  throughout  our  mental  history.  The  work 
that  is  at  first  intensely  voluntary  becomes  automatic  ;  and  thought, 
liberated  from  this  work,  breaks  into  new  regions  and  rises  to  ever  higher 
problems.  Yet  it  is  one  and  the  same  mind  that  thinks  the  fresh  thoughts 
and  carries  on  the  old  usages.  Does  anything  forbid  us,  says  Martineau, 
to  conceive  similarly  of  the  development  of  the  universe  ?  First  you 
would  have  a  universal  consciousness — everything  would  be  done  by 
the  Universal  Will  consciously.  Gradually  definite  lines  of  movement 
would  be  separated  and  become  "  laws  of  nature,"  that  is  to  say,  habits 
of  the  universe.  The  more  mechanical  a  natural  law  may  be,  the  earlier 
it  has  split  off.  Relieved  of  attention  to  these  matters,  the  Divine  Will 
operates  for  higher  and  ever  higher  ends  "  not  yet  provided  for."  The 
inorganic  and  unconscious  portion  of  the  world  is  the  residual  precipitate 
formed  as  the  Indwelling  Mind  of  all  concentrates  more  intensely  upon 


BEDDOES  AND  OTHERS  345 

higher  aims,  "  and  especially  on  the  inner  life  of  natures  that  can  resemble 
him." 

In  this  curious  speculation,  everything  seems  to  be  turned  upside 
down.  The  inorganic  and  unconscious,  from  which  the  evolutionist 
(which  now  means  practically  every  scientist)  believes  the  organic  and 
conscious  has  been  evolved,  is  simply  a  residuum  cast  aside  as  the  Divine 
Mind  paid  attention  to  higher  things.  The  doctrine  of  Special  Creation 
is  also  restated  to  its  fullest  extent  (and,  indeed,  a  fact  to  be  accounted 
for  in  any  theory  is  that  a  higher  form  of  existence  appears  whenever  the 
environment  is  suitable).  God  does  all  the  work  of  the  world  either 
consciously  or,  as  habits,  subconsciously.  However,  Martineau  meant 
this  purely  as  a  speculation,  and  we  do  not  know  whether  he  attached 
great  importance  to  it,  or  whether  as  a  fact  it  contains — as  it  may  contain 
— some  important  element  of  truth.  It  certainly  interested  students  in 
the  seventies  and  eighties. 


There's  lifeless  matter  ;  add  the  power  of  shaping, 
And  you've  the  crystal  :  add  again  the  organs, 
Wherewith  to  subdue  sustenance  to  the  form 
And  manner  of  one's  self,  and  you've  the  plant  : 
Add  power  of  motion,  senses,  and  so  forth, 
And  you've  all  kind  of  beasts  ;  suppose  a  pig  : 
To  pig  add  reason,  foresight,  and  such  stuff, 
Then  you  have  man.     What  shall  we  add  to  man, 
To  bring  him  higher  ? 

T.  L.  Beddoes. 
Death's  Jest-Book,  V.  2. 

Death's  jfest-Book  was  published  in  1850,  after  Beddoes'  death  ;  The 
Origin  of  Species  appeared  in  1859  :  the  passage  is,  therefore,  curious. 
In  suggesting,  however,  development  by  the  addition  of  faculties,  it 
affords  no  explanation  how  those  faculties  came  to  be  added. 


Out  of  his  surname  they  have  coined  an  epithet  for  a 
knave,  and  out  of  his  Christian  name  a  synonym  for  the 
Devil. 

Macaulay. 
On  Niccolo  Machiavelli. 

A  wonderful  record   if  it  were  correct,  but  "  Old  Nick  "  is  said  to  be 
derived  from  Scandinavian  mythology. 


I  SPEAK  truth,  not  so  much  as  I  would,  but  as  much  as  I 
dare  ;  and  I  dare  a  little  the  more  as  I  grow  older. 

Montaigne. 
Essay,  Of  Repentance. 


346  HERBERT 

"  OUTLANDISH  PROVERBS  " 

Love  rules  his  kingdom  without  a  sword. 

He  plays  well  that  wins. 

The  offender  never  pardons. 

Nothing  dries  sooner  than  a  tear. 

Three  women  can  hold  their  peace — if  two  are  away. 

A  woman  conceals  what  she  knows  not. 

Saint  Luke  was  a  Saint  and  a  Physician,  yet  is  dead.* 

Were  there  no  hearers,  there  would  be  no  backbiters. 

He  will  burn  his  house  to  warm  his  hands. 

The  buyer  needs  a  hundred  eyes,  the  seller  not  one. 

Ill  ware  is  never  cheap. 

Punishment  is  lame — but  it  comes. 

Gluttony  kills  more  than  the  sword.f 

The  filth  under  the  white  snow  the  sun  discovers. 

You  cannot  know  wine  by  the  barrel. 

At  length  the  fox  is  brought  to  the  furrier. 

Love  your  neighbour,  yet  pull  not  down  your  hedge. 

None  is  a  fool  always,  every  one  sometimes.  J 

In  a  great  river  great  fish  are  found,  but  take  heed  lest  you 

be  drowned. 
I  wept  when  I  was  born,  and  every  day  shows  why. 
The  honey  is  sweet,  but  the  bee  stings. 
Gossips  are  frogs,  they  drink  and  talk. 
He  is  a  fool  that  thinks  not  that  another  thinks. 
He  that  sows,  trusts  in  God. 
He  that  hath  one  hog  makes  him  fat,  and  he  that  hath  one 

son  makes  him  a  fool. 
Where  your  will  is  ready,  your  feet  are  light. 
A  fair  death  honours  the  whole  life. 
To  a  good  spender  God  is  the  treasurer. 
The  choleric  man  never  wants  woe. 
Love  makes  a  good  eye  squint. 
He  that  would  have  what  he  hath  not  should  do  what  he 

doth  not. 
A  wise  man  cares  not  for  what  he  cannot  have. 

•  "  Physician,  heal  thyself,"  Luke  iv.  23.     Also  see  the  following  from  Nicharchus  in  the 
Greek  Anthology  (G.  B.  Grundy's  translation)  : — 

MEDICAL  ATTENDANCE 
Yesterday  the  Zeus  of  stone  from  the  doctor  had  a  call : 
Though  he's  Zeus,  and  though  he's  stone,  yet  to-day's  his  funeral. 

t  Compare  : — 

"  Bacchus  hath  drowned  more  men  than  Neptune." 

t  Lincoln  is  alleged  to  have  said,  "  You  can  fool  some  of  the  people  all  of  the  time,  and  all 
of  the  people  some  of  the  time,  but  you  cannot  fool  all  of  the  people  all  of  the  time." 


HERBERT— ROGERS  347 

The  fat  man  knoweth  not  what  the  lean  thinketh. 

In  every  country  dogs  bite. 

None  says  his  garner  is  full. 

To  a  close-shorn  sheep,  God  gives  wind  b)?^  measure.* 

Silks  and  satins  put  out  the  fire  in  the  chimney. 

Lawyers'  houses  are  built  on  the  heads  of  fools. 

It  is  better  to  have  wings  than  horns. 

We  have  more  to  do  when  we  die  than  we  have  done. 

George  Herbert, 
Jaciila  Priidentum . 

The  reader  may  not  know  of  the  "  saintly  Herbert's  "  collection  of 
"  Outlandish  Proverbs,  Sentences,  etc."  from  which  the  few  examples 
above  are  taken. 


AVALON 

We  seek  a  land  beneath  the  early  beams 
Of  stars  that  rise  beyond  the  sunset  gate, 
Where  all  the  year  the  twilight  lingers  late, 
Athwart  whose  coast  the  last-born  sunray  gleams. 
Fair  are  the  fields  and  full  of  pleasant  streams, 
Far  sound  the  hedge-rows  with  the  burgher  bees, 
Soft  are  the  winds  and  taste  of  southern  seas, 
Night  brings  no  longing  there,  and  sleep  no  dreams. 
O  tillerman,  steer  true,  while  we,  who  bow 
Above  the  oar-shafts,  sing  the  land  we  seek, 
Land  of  the  past,  its  rapture  and  its  ruth  ; 
Future  we  ask  none,  we  are  memories  now. 
We  bear  the  years  whose  lips  no  longer  speak. 
And  round  our  galley's  prow  the  name  is  Youth. 
Robert  Cameron  Rogers. 

An  American  author  who  wrote  the  well-known  song,  "  The  Rosary." 
Avalon  or  Avilion  "  is  in  Welsh  mythology  the  kingdom  of  the  dead, 
afterwards  an  earthly  paradise  in  the  western  seas,  and  finally  in  the 
Arthurian  romances  the  abode  of  heroes  to  which  King  Arthur  was 
conveyed  after  his  last  battle  "  {Ency.  Brit.).  Tennyson  wrote  in  "  The 
Passing  of  Arthur  "  : 

But  now  farewell.     I  am  going  a  long  way 
To  the  island-valley  of  Avilion  ; 
Where  falls  not  hail,  or  rain,  or  any  snow. 
Nor  ever  wind  blows  loudly  ;  but  it  lies 
Deep-meadowed,  happy,  fair  with  orchard-lawns 
And  bowery  hollows  crowned  with  summer  sea. 
Where  I  will  heal  me  of  my  grievous  wound. 

*  Showing  that  Sterne's  "  God  tempers  the  wind  to  the  shorn  lamb  "  (Sentimental 
Journey)  was  his  rendering  of  an  older  saying.  The  French  have  the  same  saying,  "  A  brebis 
tondue  Dieu  mesure  le  vent." 


348  KIPLING 


TO  THE  TRUE  ROMANCE 

Thy  face  is  far  from  this  our  war, 

Our  call  and  counter-cry, 
I  shall  not  find  Thee  quick  and  kind. 

Nor  know  Thee  till  I  die. 
Enough  for  me  in  dreams  to  see 

And  touch  Thy  garments  hem  : 
Thy  feet  have  trod  so  near  to  God 

I  may  not  follow  them. 

Through  wantonness  if  men  profess 

They  weary  of  Thy  parts, 
E'en  let  them  die  at  blasphemy 

And  perish  with  their  arts  ; 
But  we  that  love,  but  we  that  prove 

Thine  excellence  august, 
While  we  adore  discover  more 

Thee  perfect,  wise,  and  just. 

Since  spoken  word  Man's  Spirit  stirred 

Beyond  his  belly-need, 
What  is  is  Thine  of  fair  design 

In  thought  and  craft  and  deed  ; 
Each  stroke  aright  of  toil  and  fight, 

That  was  and  that  shall  be. 
And  hope  too  high,  wherefore  we  die. 

Has  birth  and  worth  in  Thee. 

Who  holds  by  Thee  hath  Heaven  in  fee 

To  gild  his  dross  thereby, 
And  knowledge  sure  that  he  endure 

A  child  until  he  die — 
For  to  make  plain  that  man's  disdain 

Is  but  new  Beauty's  birth — 
For  to  possess  in  loneliness 

The  joy  of  all  the  earth. 

As  thou  didst  teach  all  lovers  speech 

And  Life  all  mystery, 
So  shalt  Thou  rule  by  every  school 

Till  love  and  longing  die. 


KIPLING  349 

Who  wast  or  yet  the  Lights  were  set 

A  whisper  in  the  Void, 
Who  shalt  be  sung  through  planets  young 

When  tliis  is  clean  destroyed. 

Beyond  the  bounds  our  staring  rounds, 

Across  the  pressing  dark, 
The  children  wise  of  outer  skies 

Look  hitherward  and  mark 
A  light  that  shifts,  a  glare  that  drifts, 

Rekindling  thus  and  thus, 
Not  all  forlorn,  for  Thou  hast  borne 

Strange  tales  to  them  of  us. 

Time  hath  no  tide  but  must  abide 

The  servant  of  Thy  will  ; 
Tide  hath  no  time,  for  to  Thy  rhyme 

The  ranging  stars  stand  still — 
Regent  of  spheres  that  lock  our  fears 

Our  hopes  invisible. 
Oh  !  'twas  certes  at  Thy  decrees 

We  fashioned  Heaven  and  Hell  ! 

Pure  Wisdom  hath  no  certain  path 

That  lacks  thy  morning-eyne, 
And  captains  bold  by  Thee  controlled 

Most  like  to  God's  design  ; 
Thou  art  the  Voice  to  kingly  boys 

To  lift  them  through  the  fight, 
And  Comfortress  of  Unsuccess, 

To  give  the  dead  good-night. 

A  veil  to  draw  'twixt  God,  His  law, 

And  Man's  infirmity, 
A  shadow  kind  to  dumb  and  blind 

The  shambles  where  we  die  ; 
A  rule  to  trick  th'  arithmetic 

Too  base  of  leaguing  odds — 
The  spur  of  trust,  the  curb  of  lust. 

Thou  handmaid  of  the  Gods  ! 

O  Charity,  all  patiently 
Abiding  wrack  and  scaith  ! 


350  KIPLING 

0  Faith,  that  meets  ten  thousand  cheats 
Yet  drops  no  jot  of  faith  ! 

Devil  and  brute  Thou  dost  transmute 

To  higher,  lordher  show, 
Who  art  in  sooth  that  lovely  Truth 

The  careless  angels  know  ! 

Thy  face  is  far  from  this  our  war, 
Our  call  and  counter-cry , 

1  may  not  find  Thee  quick  and  kind. 
Nor  know  Thee  till  I  die. 

Yet  may  I  look  with  heart  iinshook 
On  blow  brought  home  or  missed — 

Yet  7nay  I  hear  with  equal  ear 
The  clarions  down  the  List  ; 

Yet  set  my  lance  above  mischance 

And  ride  the  barriere — 
Oh,  hit  or  miss,  how  little  'tis. 

My  Lady  is  not  there  ! 

RuDYARD  Kipling. 


In  a  note  on  p.  170  I  have  written  at  some  length  on  the  subject  of 
the  imagination,  and  my  remarks  might  be  read  in  connection  with  this 
poem. 

Mr.  Kipling  has  here  essayed  a  more  ambitious  flight  than  usual  with 
him,  and  it  is  an  interesting  and  important  poem.  But  in  some  respects 
it  seems  to  go  too  far — and  in  others  not  far  enough.  In  order  to  explain 
this  fully  I  would  need  to  repeat  a  good  deal  of  what  I  have  said  in  the 
note  referred  to,  and  I  shall  give  only  one  or  two  instances.  In  the 
second  verse  he  limits  imagination  to  the  province  of  aesthetics,  for  he 
refers  to  the  present-day  neglect  of  art,  poetry,  music,  and  literature. 
But  on  the  other  hand  imagination  is  conspicuous  in  the  present  period 
in  the  physical  and  other  sciences,  mathematics,  invention,  etc.  Else- 
where he  arrives  at  the  wider  conception,  as  in  the  third  verse  : 

What  is  is  Thine  of  fair  design 
In  thought  and  craft  and  deed ; 

and  in  the  eighth  verse  : 

Pure  Wisdom  hath  no  certain  path 
That  lacks  thy  morning-eyne. 

Also  the  italicized  verses  presumably  mean  that  imagination  is  of  the 
essence  of  the  soul  (which  is  immortal),  and  this  I  think  is  a  true  statement. 

Again,  in  the  sixth  verse  imagination  appears  to  be  confused  with 
mere  fancy,  instead  of  being,  as  it  is,  the  essential  source  of  knowledge. 
In  other  lines  he  raises  it  to  an  infinite  height  ;   yet  where  his  utterances 


THACKERAY  351 

appear  extravagant  they  may  contain  an  element  of  truth,  for  we  as  yet 
know  little  of  this  great  subject.  Blake,  indeed,  who  is  the  very  high- 
priest  of  imagination,  goes  far  beyond  Mr.  Kipling.  In  his  prophetic 
poems  he  declares  imagination  to  be  the  essential  attribute  of  God  and 
Christ  (see  for  example  "  A  Memorable  Fancy  "  in  The  Marriage  of 
Heaven  and  Hell).  However,  to  the  general  contents  of  this  poem  there 
can  be  no  objection.  It  is  imagination  that  gives  us  the  vision  of  glory 
in  earth  and  sky,  the  sense  of  mystery  in  life  and  love,  the  feeling  of 
wonder  and  worship,  the  belief  in  our  ideals,  the  heroism  that  springs 
from  duty  and  self-sacrifice,  and  the  faith  in  the  inherent  and  ultimate 
rightness  and  righteousness  of  the  scheme  of  things. 


Love  not  me  for  comely  grace, 
For  my  pleasing  eye  or  face, 
Nor  for  any  outward  part, 
No,  nor  for  a  constant  heart  : 
For  these  may  fail  or  turn  to  ill. 
So  thou  and  I  shall  sever. 
Keep,  therefore,  a  true  woman's  eye, 
And  love  me  still  but  know  not  why — 
So  hast  thou  the  same  reason  still 
To  doat  upon  me  ever  ! 

Anon. 

This  was  published  in  John  Wilbye's  Second  Set  of  Madrigals,  1609. 


The  more  unintelligent  a  man  is,  the  less  mysterious 
existence  seems  to  him.  Everything  appears  to  him  to  carry 
in  itself  the  explanation  of  its  How  and  Why. 

Schopenhauer. 

This  is  not  only  true  of  the  unintelligent  man  :  all  of  us  are  apt  to 
forget  that  the  "  usual  "  is  just  as  mysterious  as  the  "  unusual."  The 
familiar  physical  and  mental  phenomena  that  we  call  "  normal  "  or 
"  natural  "  are  as  inexplicable  as  what  we  call  "  supernormal  "  or  even 
"  supernatural."  We  know  that  there  is  the  same  cause  for  the  falling 
of  a  stone  as  for  an  eclipse  of  the  sun,  but,  as  Sir  Oliver  Lodge  reminds 
us,  we  still  do  not  know  why  a  stone  falls  to  the  ground. 


Flower  in  the  crannied  wall, 
I  pluck  you  out  of  the  crannies  ; 
Hold  you  here,  root  and  all,  in  my  hand, 
Little  flovv^er — but  if  I  could  understand 
What  you  are,  root  and  all,  and  all  in  all, 
I  should  know  what  God  and  man  is. 

Tennyson. 


352  BLAKE  AND  OTHERS 

SORROWS  OF  WERTHER 

Werther  had  a  love  for  Charlotte, 
Such  as  words  could  never  utter  ; 

Would  you  knov^  how^  first  he  met  her  ? 
She  was  cutting  bread  and  butter. 

Charlotte  was  a  married  lady, 
And  a  moral  man  was  Werther, 

And  for  all  the  v/ealth  of  Indies 
Would  do  nothing  for  to  hurt  her. 

So  he  sighed  and  pined  and  ogled, 
And  his  passion  boiled  and  bubbled. 

Till  he  blew  his  silly  brains  out. 
And  no  more  was  by  it  troubled. 

Charlotte,  having  seen  his  body 

Borne  before  her  on  a  shutter. 
Like  a  well-conducted  person 

Went  on  cutting  bread  and  butter. 

Thackeray. 

The  Sorrows  of  Wertlier  was  one  of  those  tiresome  novels  by  Goethe 
which  in  our  young  days  we  thought  it  our  duty  to  struggle  through, 
and  try  to  admire. 

The  blood  red  ran  from  the  Grey  Monk's  side, 
His  hands  and  feet  were  wounded  wide. 
His  body  bent,  his  arms  and  knees 
Like  to  the  roots  of  ancient  trees. 

Titus  !  Constantine  !  Charlemaine  ! 
O  Voltaire  !  Rousseau  !  Gibbon  !     Vain 
Your  Grecian  mocks  and  Roman  sword 
Against  this  image  of  his  Lord  ; 

For  a  Tear  is  an  Intellectual  thing  ; 
And  a  Sigh  is  the  sword  of  an  angel  King  ; 
And  the  bitter  groan  of  a  Martyr's  woe 
Is  an  arrow  from  the  Almighty's  bow. 

William  Blake. 
Jerusalem. 
'      The  image  of  Christ  is,  of  course,  the  martyred  monk. 


PATER 


353 


The  service  of  philosophy,  of  speculative  culture,  towards 
the  human  spirit  is  to  rouse,  to  startle  it  into  sharp  and  eager 
observation.  Every  moment  some  form  grows  perfect  in 
hand  or  face  ;  some  tone  on  the  hills  or  the  sea  is  choicer 
than  the  rest ;  some  mood  of  passion  or  insight  or  intel- 
lectual excitement  is  irresistibly  real  and  attractive  for  us 
— for  that  moment  only.  Not  the  fruit  of  experience, 
but  experience  itself,  is  the  end.  A  counted  number  of 
pulses  only  is  given  to  us  of  a  variegated,  dramatic  life. 
How  may  we  see  in  them  all  that  is  to  be  seen  in  them 
by  the  finest  senses  ?  How  shall  we  pass  most  swiftly 
from  point  to  point,  and  be  present  always  at  the  focus 
where  the  greatest  number  of  vital  forces  unite  in  their 
purest  energy  ? 

To  burn  always  with  this  hard,  gemlike  flame,  to  maintain 
this  ecstasy,  is  success  in  life.  In  a  sense  it  might  even  be 
said  that  our  failure  is  to  form  habits  :  for,  after  all,  habit 
is  relative  to  a  stereotyped  world,  and  meantime  it  is  only  the 
roughness  of  the  eye  that  makes  any  two  persons,  things, 
situations,  seem  ahke.  While  all  melts  under  our  feet,  we 
may  well  catch  at  any  exquisite  passion,  or  any  contribution 
to  knowledge  that  seems  by  a  lifted  horizon  to  set  the  spirit 
free  for  a  moment,  or  any  stirring  of  the  senses,  strange  dyes, 
strange  colours,  and  curious  odours,  or  work  of  the  artist's 
hands,  or  the  face  of  one's  friend.  Not  to  discriminate  every 
moment  some  passionate  attitude  in  those  about  us,  and  in 
the  brilliancy  of  their  gifts  some  tragic  dividing  of  forces  on 
their  ways,  is,  on  this  short  day  of  frost  and  sun,  to  sleep 
before  evening.  .  .  . 

We  are  all  under  sentence  of  death  but  with  a  sort  of 
indefinite  reprieve  :  we  have  an  interval,  and  then  our  place 
knows  us  no  more.  Some  spend  this  interval  in  listless- 
ness,  some  in  high  passions,  the  wisest,  at  least  among 
"  the  children  of  this  world,"  in  art  and  song.  For  our 
one  chance  lies  in  expanding  that  interval,  in  getting  as 
many  pulsations  as  possible  into  the  given  time.  Great 
passions  may  give  us  this  quickened  sense  of  life,  ecstasy 
and  sorrow  of  love,  the  various  forms  of  enthusiastic 
activity,  disinterested  or  otherwise,  which  come  naturally 
to  many  of  us.  Only  be  sure  it  is  passion — that  it  does 
yield  you  this  fruit  of  a  quickened,  multiplied  conscious- 
ness. Of  this  wisdom,  the  poetic  passion,  the  desire  of 
beauty,  the  love  for  art's  sake,  has  most ;  for  art  comes 
to  you  professing  frankly  to  give  nothing  but  the  highest 

2A 


354  PATER  AND  OTHERS 

quality  to  your  moments  as  they  pass,  and  simply  for  those 
moments'  sake. 

Walter  Pater. 

The  Renaissance. 

This  is  the  famous  "  pulsation  "  passage  as  Pater  altered  it  in  his 
second  edition. 

Pater  was  a  Hellenist  and  preached  the  new  paganism  of  last  century. 
The  Greek  ideal  life  was  supposed  to  be  one  of  purely  aesthetic  enjoyment, 
divorced  from  religious  problems  or  from  any  sense  of  the  higher  in  our 
nature.  Pater,  however,  altered  his  views,  Marius  the  Epicurean  being 
intended  as  a  recantation,  and  he  became  in  effect  an  Anglo-Catholic. 

Pater  was  "  Rose  "  in  Mallock's  New  Republic. 


A  CHILD 

is  a  man  in  a  small  Letter,  yet  the  best  copy  of  Adam 
before  he  tasted  of  the  Apple.  ...  He  is  nature's  fresh 
picture,  newly  drawn  in  oil,  which  time  and  much  handling 
dims  and  defaces.  His  soul  is  yet  a  white  paper,  un- 
scribbled  with  observations  of  the  world,  wherewith  at 
length  it  becomes  a  blurred  note-book.  He  is  purely  happy, 
because  he  knows  no  evil,  nor  hath  made  means  by  sin  to  be 
acquainted  with  misery.  He  kisses  and  loves  all,  and  when 
the  smart  of  the  rod  is  past,  smiles  on  his  beater.  .  .  .  His 
hardest  labour  is  his  tongue,  as  if  he  were  loth  to  use  so 
deceitful  an  organ.  .  .  .  We  laugh  at  his  foolish  sports,  but 
his  game  is  our  earnest  :  and  his  drums,  rattles  and  hobby- 
horses but  the  emblems  and  mocking  of  man's  business. 
His  father  hath  writ  him  as  his  own  little  story,  wherein  he 
reads  those  days  of  his  life  that  he  cannot  remember  ;  and 
sighs  to  see  what  innocence  he  has  outlived.  The  older  he 
grows,  he  is  a  stair  lower  from  God  ;  and,  like  his  first 
father,  much  worse  in  his  breeches.  .  .  .  Could  he  put  off 
his  body  with  his  little  Coat,  he  had  got  eternity  without  a 
burthen,  and  exchanged  but  one  Heaven  for  another. 

John  Earle. 
Micro-Cosmographie,  1628. 


Advice,  like  snow,  the  softer  it  falls,  the  longer  it  dwells 
upon  and  the  deeper  it  sinks  into  the  mind. 

S.  T.  Coleridge. 


GILDER 


A  WOMAN'S  THOUGHT 

I  AM  a  woman — therefore  I  may  not 

Call  to  him,  cry  to  him, 

Fly  to  him. 

Bid  him  delay  not  ! 


Then  when  he  comes  to  me,  I  must  sit  quiet  ; 

Still  as  a  stone — 

All  silent  and  cold. 

If  my  heart  riot — 

Crush  and  defy  it  ! 

Should  I  grow  bold, 

Say  one  dear  thing  to  him, 

All  my  life  fling  to  him. 

Cling  to  him — 

What  to  atone 

Is  enough  for  my  sinning  ? 

This  were  the  cost  to  me, 

This  were  my  winning — 

That  he  were  lost  to  me. 

Not  as  a  lover 
At  last  if  he  part  from  me, 
Tearing  my  heart  from  me, 
Hurt  beyond  cure — 
Calm  and  demure 
Then  must  I  hold  me, 
In  myself  fold  me. 
Lest  he  discover  ; 
Showing  no  sign  to  him 
By  look  of  mine  to  him 
What  he  has  been  to  me — 
How  my  heart  turns  to  him, 
Follows  him,  yearns  to  him. 
Prays  him  to  love  me. 


355 


Pity  me,  lean  to  me. 
Thou  God  above  me  ! 


Richard  Watson  Gilder. 


356  FOX— BEAUMONT 

Coleridge  was  holding  forth  on  the  effects  produced  by 
his  preaching,  and  appealed  to  Lamb  :  "  You  have  heard  me 
preach,  I  think  ?  "  "I  have  never  heard  you  do  anything 
else,"  was  the  urbane  reply. 


[John  Sterling  said]  Coleridge  is  best  described  in  his 
own  words  : 

His  flashing  eyes,  his  floating  hair  ! 
Weave  a  circle  round  him  thrice, 
And  close  your  eyes  with  holy  dread. 
For  he  on  honey-dew  hath  fed. 
And  drunk  the  milk  of  Paradise.* 


Madame  de  Stael  was  by  no  means  pleased  with  her 
intercourse  with  him,  saying  spitefully  and  feelingly,  "  M. 
Coleridge  a  un  grand  talent  pour  le  monologue  "  (Mr. 
Coleridge  has  a  great  talent  for  monologue  "). 

Caroline  Fox's  Journals. 

Here  we  have  different  views  of  Coleridge's  monologues.  Mme.  de 
Stael  objected  to  his  monopolizing  the  conversation,  but  his  friends  loved 
to  hear  him.     Lamb,  of  course,  had  to  have  his  joke. 


What  things  have  we  seen 
Done  at  the  Mermaid  !  heard  words  that  have  been 
So  nimble  and  so  full  of  subtle  flame, 
As  if  that  every  one  from  whence  they  came 
Had  meant  to  put  his  whole  wit  in  a  jest, 
And  had  resolved  to  live  a  fool  the  rest 
Of  his  dull  life. 

Francis  Beaumont. 
Epistle  to  Ben  Jonson. 

What  would  one  not  give  to  have  been  present  at  the  Mermaid  Tavern 
with  the  wonderful  Elizabethans  who  met  there  ?  Among  them  were 
Shakespeare,  Ben  Jonson,  Sir  Walter  Raleigh,  Beaumont,  Fletcher, 
Donne,  Carew,  and  John  Selden.  One  is  reminded  of  the  Symposium 
of  Plato. 

The  poem  of  Keats  is  well  known  : 

Souls  of  Poets  dead  and  gone. 
What  Elysium  have  ye  known, 
Happy  field  or  mossy  cavern, 
Choicer  than  the  Mermaid  Tavern  ? 

*  "  Kubla  Khan." 


MARTINEAU  AND  OTHERS  357 

If  we  cannot  find  God  in  your  house  or  in  mine  ;  upon  the 
roadside  or  the  margin  of  the  sea  ;  in  the  bursting  seed  or 
opening  flower  ;  in  the  day  duty  or  the  night  musing  ;  in 
the  general  laugh  and  the  secret  grief ;  in  the  procession 
of  life,  ever  entering  afresh,  and  solemnly  passing  by  and 
dropping  off" ;  I  do  not  think  we  should  discern  Him  any 
more  on  the  grass  of  Eden,  or  beneath  the  moonlight  of 
Gethsemane.  Depend  upon  it,  it  is  not  the  want  of  greater 
miracles,  but  of  the  soul  to  perceive  such  as  are  allowed  us 
still,  that  makes  us  push  all  the  sanctities  into  the  far  spaces 
we  cannot  reach.  The  devout  feel  that  wherever  God's 
hand  is,  there  is  miracle  ;  and  it  is  simply  undevoutness 
which  imagines  that  only  where  miracle  is,  can  there  be  the 
real  hand  of  God,  The  customs  of  Heaven  ought  surely  to 
be  more  sacred  in  our  eyes  than  its  anomalies  ;  the  dear  old 
ways,  of  which  the  Most  High  is  never  tired,  than  the  strange 
things  which  He  does  not  love  well  enough  ever  to  repeat. 
And  he  who  will  but  discern  beneath  the  sun,  as  he  rises  any 
morning,  the  supporting  finger  of  the  Almighty,  may  recover 
the  sweet  and  reverent  surprise  with  which  Adam  gazed  on 
the  first  dawn  in  Paradise. 

James  Martineau. 

Endeavours  after  the  Christian  Life. 


Where  is  the  use  of  the  lip's  red  charm. 
The  heaven  of  hair,  the  pride  of  the  brow. 
And  the  blood  that  blues  the  inside  arm — 
Unless  we  turn,  as  the  soul  knows  how. 
The  earthly  gift  to  an  end  divine  ? 
A  lady  of  clay  is  as  good,  I  trow. 

R.  Browning. 


On  a  day  Hke  this,  when  the  sun  is  hid, 

And  you  and  your  heart  are  housed  together, 
If  memories  come  to  you  all  unbid, 
And  something  suddenly  wets  your  lid. 
Like  a  gust  of  the  out-door  weather. 
Why,  who  is  in  fault  but  the  dim  old  day, 
Too  dark  for  labour,  too  dull  for  play  ? 

Author  not  traced. 


358  MASSEY  AND  OTHERS 

My  burden  bows  me  to  the  knee  ; 

O  Lord,  'tis  more  than  I  can  bear. 

Didst  Thou  not  come  our  load  to  share  ? 
My  burden  bows  me  to  the  knee  : 
Dear  Jesus,  let  me  lean  on  Thee  !  .  .  . 

Far  off,  so  far,  the  Heavens  be, 

With  their  wide  arms  !  and  I  would  prove 
The  close,  warm-beating  heart  of  Love. 

But  so  far-off  the  Heavens  be  : 

Dear  Jesus,  let  me  lean  on  Thee  ! 

Gerald  Massey. 
Out  of  the  Depths. 

This  poem  is  omitted  from  My  Lyrical  Life,  Massey's  collected  poems. 


A  MAN  can  never  do  anything  at  variance  with  his  own 
nature.  He  carries  with  him  the  germ  of  his  most  excep- 
tional actions  ;  and,  if  we  wise  people  make  fools  of  ourselves 
on  any  particular  occasion,  we  must  endure  the  legitimate 
conclusion  that  we  carry  a  few  grains  of  folly  to  our  ounce  of 
wisdom. 

George  Eliot. 


I  UNDERSTAND  thosc  women  who  say  they  don't  want  the 
ballot.  They  purpose  to  hold  the  real  power,  while  we  go 
through  the  mockery  of  making  laws.  They  want  the  power 
without  the  responsibility. 

Charles  Dudley  Warner. 

My  Summer  in  a  Gardeti. 


Hearts  do  not  break  ! 
They  sting  and  ache 
For  old  love's  sake. 
But  do  not  die  ! 

Sir  W.  Gilbert. 

Mikado. 


ARNOLD— BROWNE  359 

Spare  me  the  whispering,  crowded  room, 
The  friends  who  come,  and  gape,  and  go  ; 
The  ceremonious  air  of  gloom — 
All  that  makes  death  a  hideous  show  !  .  .  . 

Bring  none  of  these  !  but  let  me  be. 
While  all  around  in  silence  lies. 
Moved  to  the  window  near,  and  see 
Once  more  before  my  dying  eyes 

Bathed  in  the  sacred  dews  of  morn 

The  wide  aerial  landscape  spread — 

The  world  which  was  ere  I  was  born, 

The  world  which  lasts  when  I  am  dead.  .  .  . 

There  let  me  gaze,  till  I  become 
In  soul  with  what  I  gaze  on  wed  ! 
To  feel  the  universe  my  home  ; 
To  have  before  my  mind — instead 

Of  the  sick-room,  the  mortal  strife. 
The  turmoil  for  a  little  breath — 
The  pure  eternal  course  of  life. 
Not  human  combatings  with  death. 

Thus  feeling,  gazing,  let  me  grow 
Composed,  refreshed,  ennobled,  clear  ; 
Thus  willing  let  my  spirit  go 
To  work  or  wait  elsewhere  or  here  ! 

Matthew  Arnold. 
A  Wish. 


We  are  somewhat  more  than  ourselves  in  our  sleeps  ;  and 
the  slumber  of  the  body  seems  to  be  but  the  waking  of  the 
soul.  It  is  the  ligation  [binding]  of  sense,  but  the  liberty  of 
reason  ;  and  our  waking  conceptions  do  not  match  the 
fancies  of  our  sleeps.  At  my  nativity,  my  ascendant  was 
the  watery  sign  of  Scorpius.  I  was  born  in  the  planetary 
hour  of  Saturn,  and  I  think  I  have  a  piece  of  that  leaden 
planet  in  me.  I  am  no  way  facetious,  nor  disposed  for  the 
mirth  and  galliardise  [revelry]  of  company  ;  yet  in  one 
dream  I  can  compose  a  whole  comedy,  behold  the  action, 


360  BROWNE  AND  OTHERS 

apprehend  the  jests,  and  laugh  myself  awake  at  the  conceits 
thereof.  Were  my  memory  as  faithful  as  my  reason  is  then 
fruitful,  I  would  never  study  but  in  my  dreams,  and  this 
time  also  would  I  choose  for  my  devotions  ;  but  our  grosser 
memories  have  then  so  little  hold  of  our  abstracted  under- 
standings, that  they  forget  the  story,  and  can  only  relate  to 
our  awaked  souls  a  confused  and  broken  tale  of  that  that 
hath  passed. 

Sir  Thomas  Brov\ts[e. 
Religio  Medici. 
Here  "  reason  "  is  imagination. 


God's  works — paint  any  one,  and  count  it  crime 

To  let  a  truth  slip.     Don't  object,  "  His  works 

"  Are  here  already  ;  nature  is  complete  : 

"  Suppose  you  reproduce  her  (which  you  can't) 

"  There's  no  advantage  !     You  must  beat  her  then." 

For,  don't  you  mark  ?  we're  made  so  that  we  love 

First  when  we  see  them  painted,  things  we  have  passed 

Perhaps  a  hundred  times  nor  cared  to  see  ; 

And  so  they  are  better,  painted — better  to  us 

Which  is  the  same  thing.     Art  Vv^as  given  for  that  ; 

God  uses  us  to  help  each  other  so. 

Lending  our  minds  out. 

R.  Browning. 
Fra  Lippo  Lippi. 

We  actually  prefer  a  painting  to  the  original,  because  the  former 
is  endued  with  the  imagination  of  the  artist.  His  personality,  his 
thoughts  and  emotions,  create  a  work  of  art  in  the  painting ;  otherwise 
it  would  not  equal  in  value  even  a  photograph. 


Night  dreams  of  day,  and  winter  seems 
In  sleep  to  breathe  the  balm  of  May. 
Their  dreams  are  true  anon  ;  but  they, 

The  dreamers,  then,  alas,  are  dreams. 

Thus,  while  our  days  the  dreams  renew 

Of  some  forgotten  sleeper,  we. 

The  dreamers  of  futurity, 
Shall  vanish  when  our  own  are  true. 

J.  B.  Tabb. 


THOMAS  AND  OTHERS  361 


THE  MOTHER  WHO  DIED  TOO 

She  was  so  little — little  in  her  grave, 

The  wide  earth  all  around  so  hard  and  cold — 
She  was  so  little  !  therefore  did  I  crave 

My  arms  might  still  her  tender  form  enfold. 
She  was  so  little,  and  her  cry  so  weak 

When  she  among  the  heavenly  children  came — 
She  was  so  little — ^I  alone  might  speak 

For  her  who  knew  no  word  nor  her  own  name. 

Edith  Matilda  Thomas. 


The  economy  of  Heaven  is  dark  ; 
And  wisest  clerks  have  miss'd  the  mark. 
Why  human  buds,  like  this,  should  fall. 
More  brief  than  fly  ephemeral 
That  has  his  day  ;  while  shrivell'd  crones 
Stiff'en  with  age  to  stocks  and  stones  ; 
And  crabbed  use  the  conscience  sears 
In  sinners  of  an  hundred  years. 

Charles  Lamb. 
On  an  infant  dying  as  soon  as  horn. 


For  the  folk  through  the  fretful  hours  are  hurled 
On  the  ruthless  rush  of  the  wondrous  world, 

And  none  has  leisure  to  lie  and  cull 

The  blossoms,  that  made  life  beautiful 
In  that  old  season  when  men  could  sing 
For  dear  delight  in  the  risen  Spring 

And  Summer  ripening  fruit  and  flower. 

Now  carefulness  cankers  every  hour  ; 
We  are  too  weary  and  sad  to  sing  ; 
Our  pastime's  poisoned  with  thought-taking. 

John  Payne, 
Tournesol. 


All  our  life  is  a  meeting  of  cross-roads,  where  the  choice 
of  directions  is  perilous. 

Victor  Hugo. 


362  MYERS— BROWNING 

Oh  dreadful  thought,  if  all  our  sires  and  we 

Are  but  foundations  of  a  race  to  be, — 

Stones  which  one  thrusts  in  earth,  and  builds  thereon 

A  white  delight,  a  Parian  Parthenon, 

And  thither,  long  thereafter,  youth  and  maid 

Seek  with  glad  brows  the  alabaster  shade, 

And  in  processions'  pomp  together  bent 
Still  interchange  their  sweet  words  innocent, — 
Not  caring  that  those  mighty  columns  rest 
Each  on  the  ruin  of  a  human  breast, — 
That  to  the  shrine  the  victor's  chariot  rolls 
Across  the  anguish  of  ten  thousand  souls  ! 

"  Well  was  it  that  our  fathers  suffered  thus," 
I  hear  them  say,  "  that  all  might  end  in  us  ; 
Well  was  it  here  and  there  a  bard  should  feel 
Pains  premature  and  hurt  that  none  could  heal  ; 
These  were  their  preludes,  thus  the  race  began  ; 
So  hard  a  matter  was  the  birth  of  Man." 

And  yet  these  too  shall  pass  and  fade  and  flee. 
And  in  their  death  shall  be  as  vile  as  we. 
Nor  much  shall  profit  with  their  perfect  powers 
To  have  lived  a  so  much  sweeter  life  than  ours. 
When  at  the  last,  with  all  their  bliss  gone  by. 
Like  us  those  glorious  creatures  come  to  die, 
With  far  worse  woe,  far  more  rebellious  strife 
Those  mighty  spirits  drink  the  dregs  of  life. 

F.  W.  H.  Myers. 
The  Implicit  Promise  of  Immortality. 

It  will  be  observed  that  Myers,  like  Swinburne,  handled  the  old  heroic 
couplet  in  a  masterly  manner,  undreamt  of  by  Pope,  Dryden,  and  their 
generation.     This  is  still  more  remarkable  in  another  quotation,  p.  225. 


God  be  thanked,  the  meanest  of  his  creatures 
Boasts  two  soul-sides,  one  to  face  the  world  with. 
One  to  show  a  woman  when  he  loves  her  ! 

R.  Browning. 
One  Word  More. 


DARWIN  363 

I  AM  much  engaged,  an  old  man  and  out  of  health,  and 
I  cannot  spare  time  to  answer  your  questions  fully, — nor 
indeed  can  they  be  answered.  Science  has  nothing  to  do 
with  Christ,  except  in  so  far  as  the  habit  of  scientific  research 
makes  a  man  cautious  in  admitting  evidence.  For  myself, 
I  do  not  believe  that  there  ever  has  been  any  Revelation. 
As  for  a  future  life  every  man  must  judge  for  himself  between 
conflicting  vague  probabilities.  Wishing  you  happiness, 
I  remain,  etc.  Charles  Darwin. 

Letter  to  von  Miiller,  Jmie  5,  1879. 

This  letter  is  reproduced  in  the  Life  and  Letters,  but  evidently  Francis 
Darwin  did  not  know  that  the  "  German  youth  "  to  whom  he  says  it  was 
written  was  Baron  Ferdinand  von  Muller,  K.C.M.G.  (1825-1896),  then 
fifty-three  years  of  age  !  Von  Muller  was  director  of  the  Melbourne 
Botanical  Gardens  from  1857  to  1873,  and  died  in  Melbourne  in  1896. 
He  did  important  work  in  Australian  botany. 

As  regards  Darwin's  letter,  it  seems  to  me  that  a  sufficient  reason 
why  a  great  and  lovable  man,  who  was  at  first  a  convinced  believer  in  the 
immortality  of  the  soul,  became  an  agnostic  is  given  in  the  next  quotation. 
His  higher  aesthetic  faculties  had  become  atrophied. 

Darwin  himself  thought  that  he  had  not  given  sufficient  consideration 
to  religious  questions,  and  was  exceedingly  anxious  that  his  own  agnostic 
views  should  not  influence  others. 

I  HAVE  said  that  in  one  respect  my  mind  has  changed 
during  the  last  twenty  or  thirty  years.  Up  to  the  age  of 
thirty,  or  beyond  it,  poetry  of  many  kinds,  such  as  the 
works  of  Milton,  Gray,  Byron,  Wordsworth,  Coleridge,  and 
Shelley,  gave  me  great  pleasure,  and  even  as  a  school-boy 
I  took  intense  delight  in  Shakespeare,  especially  in  the 
historical  plays.  I  have  also  said  that  formerly  pictures 
gave  me  considerable,  and  music  very  great  delight.  But 
now  for  many  years  I  cannot  endure  to  read  a  line  of  poetry  : 
I  have  tried  lately  to  read  Shakespeare  and  found  it  so 
intolerably  dull  that  it  nauseates  me.  I  have  also  almost  lost 
my  taste  for  pictures  or  music.  .  .  .  My  mind  seems  to 
have  become  a  kind  of  machine  for  grinding  general  laws  out 
of  large  collections  of  facts,  but  why  this  should  have  caused 
the  atrophy  of  that  [aesthetic]  part  of  the  brain  alone,  on  which 
the  higher  tastes  depend,  I  cannot  conceive.  .  .  .  The  loss 
of  these  tastes  is  a  loss  of  happiness,  and  may  possibly  be 
injurious  to  the  intellect,  and  more  probably  to  the  moral 
character,  by  enfeebling  the  emotional  part  of  our  nature. 

Charles  Darwin. 

This  is  from  autobiographical  notes  made  by  Darwin  for  his  children 
and  not  intended  for  publication. 


364  O'SULLIVAN— SMITH 

CHILDREN'S  HYMN  ON  THE  COAST 
OF  BRITTANY 

At  length  has  come  the  twihght  dim, 
The  sun  has  set,  the  day  has  died  ; 

And  now  we  sing  Thy  holy  hymn, 
O  Mary  maid,  at  eventide. 

To  Jewry,  to  that  far-off  land, 

Erstwhile  there  came  a  little  Child  : 

You  led  Him  softly  by  the  hand. 
He  was  so  very  small  and  mild. 

Like  us.  He  could  not  find  his  way, 
Although  He  was  Our  Lord,  the  King  : 

And  so  we  beg  we  may  not  stray. 
Nor  do  a  sad  or  foolish  thing. 

Teach  us  the  prayer  that  Jesus  said. 

The  words  you  sang  and  murmured  low. 

When  He  was  in  His  tiny  bed. 

And  all  the  earth  was  dark  and  slow. 

Hushed  are  the  trees,  and  the  small  wise  bees, 

Our  fathers  are  on  the  deep, — 
Little  Mother,  be  good  to  us,  please  ! 

It  is  time  to  go  asleep. 

Vincent  O'Sullivan. 


The  Toucan  has  an  enormous  bill,  makes  a  noise  like  a 
puppy  dog,  and  lays  his  eggs  in  hollow  trees.  How  astonish- 
ing are  the  freaks  and  fancies  of  nature  !  To  what  purpose, 
we  say,  is  a  bird  placed  in  the  woods  of  Cayenne  with  a  bill 
a  yard  long,  making  a  noise  like  a  puppy  dog,  and  laying  eggs 
in  hollow  trees  ?  The  Toucans,  to  be  sure,  might  retort, 
to  what  purpose  were  gentlemen  in  Bond  Street  created  ? 
To  what  purpose  were  certain  foolish  prating  Members  of 
Parliament  created  ? — pestering  the  House  of  Commons 
with  their  ignorance  and  folly,  and  impeding  the  business 
of  the  country  ?  There  is  no  end  of  such  questions.  So 
we  will  not  enter  into  the  metaphysics  of  the  Toucan. 

Sydney  Smith. 
Reviezv  of  ^'  Water  ton's  Travels  in  South  America  ^ 


WESLEY— LANDOR  365 


WESLEY'S  MEDICAL  PRESCRIPTIONS 

For  an  Ague  : — Make  six  middling  pills  of  cobwebs. 
Take  one  a  little  before  the  cold  fit  ;  two  a  little  before  the 
next  fit  (suppose  the  next  day)  ;  the  other  three,  if  need  be, 
a  little  before  the  third  fit.     This  seldom  fails. 

A  Cut  : — Bind  on  toasted  cheese.  This  will  cure  a  deep 
cut. 

A  Fistula  : — Grind  an  ounce  of  sublimate  mercury  as  fine 
as  possible.  .  .  .  [Two  quarts  of  water  to  be  added,  then 
half  a  spoonful  with  two  spoonfuls  of  water  to  be  taken 
fasting  every  other  day].  ...  In  forty  days  this  will  also 
cure  any  cancer,  any  old  sore  or  King's  evil. 

The  Iliac  Passion  : — Hold  a  live  puppy  constantly  on  the 
belly. 

John  Wesley. 

Primitive  Physic. 

The  iliac  passion,  now  known  as  ileus,  is  a  severe  colic  due  to  intestinal 
obstruction. 

It  seems  strange  that  so  eminent  a  man  should  have  believed  in  these 
absurd  prescriptions,  but  as  a  matter  of  fact  the  book  generally  is  much 
more  sane  and  sound  than  one  would  expect  from  the  habits  and  state  of 
knowledge  of  the  time.  For  example,  in  his  rules  of  health  Wesley 
strongly  advises  the  practice  of  cold  bathing,  cleanliness,  open-air  exercise, 
moderation  of  food,  etc.  Also  these  prescriptions  are  chosen  for  their 
absurdity — in  each  case  other  more  sensible  remedies  are  offered.  But 
Wesley  in  his  preface  says  that  he  has  omitted  altogether  from  his  book 
Cinchona  bark,  because  it  is  "  extremely  dangerous."  This  means  that 
in  regard  to  ague  he  omitted  the  only  efficient  remedy — which  was  much 
more  unfortunate  than  his  prescribing  cobweb  pills. 

This  book  went  to  thirty-six  editions  between  1747  and  1840. 


Alas,  how  soon  the  hours  are  over 

Counted  us  out  to  play  the  lover  ! 

And  how  much  narrower  is  the  stage 

Allotted  us  to  play  the  sage  ! 

But  when  we  play  the  fool,  how  wide 

The  theatre  expands  !  beside. 

How  long  the  audience  sits  before  us  ! 

How  many  prompters  !     What  a  chorus  ! 

W.  S.  Landor. 


366  CAMPION— ELIOT 

Rose-cheeked  Laiira,  come  ; 

Sing  thou  smoothly  with  thy  beauty's 

Silent  music,  either  other 

Sweetly  gracing. 
Lovely  forms  do  flow 
From  concent  divinely  framed  ; 
Heaven  is  music,  and  thy  beauty's 

Birth  is  heavenly. 
These  dull  notes  we  sing 
Discords  need  for  helps  to  grace  them, 
Only  beauty  purely  loving 

Knows  no  discord. 
But  still  moves  delight. 
Like  clear  springs  renewed  by  flowing, 
Ever  perfect,  ever  in  them- 

Selves  eternal. 

Thomas  Campion. 

Richard  Lovelace  (1618-1655)  subsequently  wrote  (Orpheus  to  Beasts) 

O,  could  you  view  the  melodic 

Of  ev'ry  grace, 

And  musick  of  her  face, 

You'd  drop  a  teare, 

Seeing  more  harmonic 

In  her  bright  eye, 

Then  now  you  heare. 

Then  =  than.     See  next  quotation. 


I  THINK  the  deep  love  he  had  for  that  sweet,  rounded, 
blossom-like  dark-eyed  Hetty,  of  whose  inward  self  he  was 
really  very  ignorant,  came  out  of  the  very  strength  of  his 
nature,  and  not  out  of  any  inconsistent  weakness.  Is  it 
any  weakness,  pray,  to  be  wrought  on  by  exquisite  music  ? 
— to  feel  its  wondrous  harmonies  searching  the  subtlest 
windings  of  your  soul,  the  delicate  fibres  of  life  where  no 
memory  can  penetrate,  and  binding  together  your  whole 
being  past  and  present  in  one  unspeakable  vibration  :  melt- 
ing you  in  one  moment  with  all  the  tenderness,  all  the  love 
that  has  been  scattered  through  the  toilsome  years  :  con- 
centrating in  one  emotion  of  heroic  courage  or  resignation 
all  the  hard-learnt  lessons  of  self-renouncing  sympathy  : 
blending  your  present  joy  with  past  sorrow,  and  your  present 
sorrow  with  all  your  past  joy  ?  If  not,  then  neither  is  it  a 
weakness  to  be  so  wrought  upon  by  the  exquisite  curves  of  a 
woman's  cheek  and  neck  and  arms,  by  the  liquid  depths  of 


ELIOT— LANDOR  367 

her  beseeching  eyes,  or  the  sweet  childish  pout  of  her  Hps. 
For  the  beauty  of  a  lovely  woman  is  like  music  :  what  can 
one  say  more  ?  Beauty  has  an  expression  beyond  and  far 
above  the  one  woman's  soul  that  it  clothes,  as  the  words  of 
genius  have  a  wider  meaning  than  the  thought  that  prompted 
them  :  it  is  more  than  a  woman's  love  that  moves  us  in  a 
woman's  eyes — it  seems  to  be  a  far-off  mighty  love  that  has 
come  near  to  us,  and  made  speech  for  itself  there  ;  the 
rounded  neck,  the  dimpled  arm,  move  us  by  something  more 
than  their  prettiness — by  their  close  kinship  with  all  we  have 
known  of  tenderness  and  peace.  The  noblest  nature  sees 
the  most  of  this  impersonal  expression  in  beauty,  and  for 
this  reason,  the  noblest  nature  is  often  the  most  bhnded  to 
the  character  of  the  woman's  soul  that  the  beauty  clothes. 
Whence,  I  fear,  the  tragedy  of  human  life  is  likely  to  continue 
for  a  long  time  to  come  in  spite  of  mental  philosophers  who 
are  ready  with  the  best  receipts  for  avoiding  all  mistakes  of 
the  kind.  George  Eliot. 

Adam  Bede. 

Here  we  have  three  writers  speaking  of  beauty  as  being  like  music. 
Besides  these  Sir  Thomas  Browne  says  in  Religio  Medici  that  "  there  is 
music  even  in  beauty  "  and  Byron  ("The  Bride  of  Abydos,"  I.  vi.)  speaks 
of  "  the  music  breathing  from  her  face."  In  all  these  cases  the  question 
arises  whether  there  is  unconscious  memory.  Take  George  Eliot,  for 
example  :  she  would  not  know  of  Campion's  poem,  for  his  verses  had 
been  forgotten  until  A.  H.  Bullen  revived  them  in  1889  ;  and  Lovelace 
is  only  remembered  by  two  or  three  lyrics,  of  which  this  is  not  one.  But 
she  might  have  read  and  retained  in  her  unconscious  memory  either  the 
passage  from  Religio  Medici  or  "  The  Bride  of  Abydos."  Evidently  she  did 
not  think  she  was  echoing  something  previously  said — nor,  as  the  records 
show,  did  Byron.  Thus  we  have  five  authors  expressing  the  same  poetic 
thought,  and  we  do  not  know  whether  it  was  original  to  each  of  them,  or 
was  due  to  unconscious  memory. 


I  STROVE  with  none,  for  none  was  worth  my  strife. 
Nature  I  loved  and,  next  to  Nature,  Art  : 

I  warm'd  both  hands  before  the  fire  of  Life  ; 
It  sinks,  and  I  am  ready  to  depart. 

W.  S.  Landor. 


Death  stands  above  me,  whispering  low 

I  know  not  what  into  my  ear  : 
Of  his  strange  language  all  I  know 

Is,  there  is  not  a  word  of  fear. 

W.  S.  Landor. 


368  PHILLIPS  AND  OTHERS 

A  LITTLE  I  will  speak.     I  love  thee  then 
Not  only  for  thy  body  packed  with  sweet 
Of  all  this  world.  .  .  . 
Not  for  this  only  do  I  love  thee,  but 
Because  Infinity  upon  thee  broods  ; 
And  thou  art  full  of  whispers  and  of  shadows. 
Thou  meanest  what  the  sea  has  striven  to  say 
So  long,  and  yearned  up  the  cUffs  to  tell  ; 
Thou  art  what  all  the  winds  have  uttered  not, 
What  the  still  night  suggesteth  to  the  heart. 
Thy  voice  is  like  to  music  heard  ere  birth. 
Some  spirit  lute  touched  on  a  spirit  sea  ; 
Thy  face  remembered  is  from  other  worlds. 
It  has  been  died  for,  though  I  know  not  when, 
It  has  been  sung  of,  though  I  know  not  where. 

Stephen  Phillips. 
Marpessa. 


Sometimes  thou  seem'st  not  as  thyself  alone. 
But  as  the  meaning  of  all  things  that  are. 

D.    G.    ROSSETTI. 

Heart's  Compass. 


"  When  shall  our  prayers  end  ?  " 
I  tell  thee,  priest,  when  shoemakers  make  shoes, 
That  are  well  sewed,  with  never  a  stitch  amiss. 
And  use  no  craft  in  uttering  of  the  same  ; 
When  tinkers  make  no  more  holes  than  they  found, 
When  thatchers  think  their  wages  worth  their  work, 
When  Davie  Diker  digs  and  dallies  not. 
When  horsecorsers  beguile  no  friends  with  jades, 
When  printers  pass  no  errors  in  their  books. 
When  pewterers  infect  no  tin  with  lead, 
When  silver  sticks  not  on  the  Teller's  fingers, 
When  sycophants  can  find  no  place  in  Court,  .  .  . 
When  Lais  lives  not  like  a  lady's  peer 
Nor  useth  art  in  dyeing  of  her  hair.  .  .  . 

George  Gascoigne. 
The  Steele  Glas. 


WHYTE-MELVILLE  369 

"  IMBUTA " 

The  new  wine,  the  new  wine, 

It  tasteth  like  the  old. 
The  heart  is  all  athirst  again. 

The  drops  are  all  of  gold  ; 
We  thought  the  cup  was  broken. 

And  we  thought  the  tale  was  told. 
But  the  new  wine,  the  new  wine. 

It  tasteth  like  the  old  ! 

The  flower  of  life  had  faded. 

The  leaf  was  in  its  fall, 
The  winter  seemed  so  early 

To  have  reached  us,  once  for  all  ; 
But  now  the  buds  are  breaking. 

There  is  grass  above  the  mould. 
And  the  new  wine,  the  new  wine. 

It  tasteth  like  the  old  ! 

The  earth  had  grown  so  dreary. 

The  sky  so  dull  and  grey  ; 
One  was  weeping  in  the  darkness. 

One  was  sorrowing  through  the  day  : 
But  a  light  from  heaven  gleams  again. 

On  water,  wood,  and  wold, 
And  the  new  wine,  the  new  wine, 

It  tasteth  like  the  old  ! 

For  the  loving  lips  are  laughing, 

And  the  loving  face  is  fair, 
Though  a  phantom  hand  is  on  the  board. 

And  phantom  eyes  are  there  ; 
The  phantom  eyes  are  soft  and  sad. 

The  phantom  hand  is  cold, 
But  the  new  wine,  the  new  wine, 

It  tasteth  like  the  old  ! 

We  dare  not  look,  we  turn  away, 

The  precious  draught  to  drain, 
'Twere  worse  than  madness  surely  now 

To  lose  it  all  again  ; 
To  quivering  lip,  with  clinging  grasp, 

The  fatal  cup  we  hold, 

2B 


370  WHYTE-MELVILLE  AND  OTHERS 

For  the  new  wine,  the  new  wine, 

It  tasteth  Hke  the  old  ! 
And  Hfe  is  short,  and  love  is  life. 

And  so  the  tale  is  told, 
Though  the  new  wine,  the  new  wine, 

It  tasteth  like  the  old. 

G.  J.  Whyte-Melville. 

The  title  evidently  refers  to  Horace,  Ep.  i.  2.  69,  70,  Quo  semel  est 
imbuta  recens  servabit  odorem  testa  diu.  "  The  scent  which  once  has 
flavoured  the  fresh  jar  will  be  preserved  in  it  for  many  a  day."  Moore 
no  doubt  had  the  same  passage  in  his  mind  when,  speaking  of  the 
memories  of  past  joys,  he  wrote  : 

You  may  break,  you  may  ruin  the  vase  if  you  will. 
But  the  scent  of  the  roses  will  hang  round  it  still. 

So  Whyte-Melville  says  that  when  love  is  poured  again  into  the  heart  of  a 
man  who  has  lost  his  first  love,  "  The  new  wine,  the  new  wine.  It  tasteth 
like  the  old." 


LETTY'S  GLOBE 

When  Letty  had  scarce  passed  her  third  glad  year. 
And  her  young  artless  words  began  to  flow. 

One  day  we  gave  the  child  a  coloured  sphere 

Of  the  wide  earth,  that  she  might  mark  and  know, 

By  tint  and  outline,  all  its  sea  and  land. 

She  patted  all  the  world  ;  old  empires  peeped 

Between  her  baby  fingers  ;  her  soft  hand 
Was  welcome  at  all  frontiers.     How  she  leaped 
And  laughed  and  prattled  in  her  world-wide  bliss  ; 

But  v/hen  we  turned  her  sweet  unlearned  eye 

On  our  own  isle,  she  raised  a  joyous  cry — 

"  Oh  !  yes,  I  see  it,  Letty's  home  is  there  1  " 
And,  while  she  hid  all  England  with  a  kiss, 

Bright  over  Europe  fell  her  golden  hair. 

Charles  Tennyson  Turner. 

Charles  Tennyson,  a  brother  of  Lord  Tennyson  and  author  with  him 
of  Poems  by  Two  Brothers,  took  the  name  of  Turner. 


Any  sort  of  meaning  looks  intense 

When  all  beside  itself  means  and  looks  nought. 

R.  Browning. 
Fra  Lippo  Lippi, 


MEREDITH  371 

Above  green-flashing  plunges  of  a  weir,  and  shaken  by 
the  thunder  below,  lilies,  golden  and  white,  were  swaying  at 
anchor  among  the  reeds.  Meadow-sweet  hung  from  the 
banks  thick  with  weed  and  trailing  bramble  ;  and  there  also 
hung  a  daughter  of  earth.  Her  face  was  shaded  by  a  broad 
straw  hat  with  a  flexible  brim  that  left  her  lips  and  chin 
in  the  sun,  and,  sometim.es  nodding,  sent  forth  a  light  of 
promising  eyes.  Across  her  shoulders,  and  behind,  flowed 
large  loose  curls,  brown  in  shadow,  almost  golden  where 
the  ray  touched  them.  She  was  simply  dressed,  befitting 
decency  and  the  season.  On  a  closer  inspection  you  might 
see  that  her  lips  were  stained.  This  blooming  young  person 
was  regaling  on  dewberries.  They  grew  between  the  bank 
and  the  water.  Apparently  she  found  the  fruit  abundant, 
for  her  hand  was  making  pretty  progress  to  her  mouth. 
Fastidious  youth,  which  revolts  at  woman  plumping  her 
exquisite  proportions  on  bread-and-butter,  and  would  (we 
must  suppose)  joyfully  have  her  scraggy  to  have  her  poetical, 
can  hardly  object  to  dewberries.  Indeed  the  act  of  eating 
them  is  dainty  and  induces  musing.  The  dewberry  is  a 
sister  to  the  lotus,  and  an  innocent  sister.  You  eat  :  mouth, 
eye,  and  hand  are  occupied,  and  the  undrugged  mind  free 
to  roam.  And  so  it  was  with  the  damsel  who  knelt  there. 
The  little  skylark  went  up  above  her,  all  song,  to  the  smooth 
southern  cloud  lying  along  the  blue  :  from  a  dewy  copse 
dark  over  her  nodding  hat  the  blackbird  fluted,  calling  to 
her  with  thrice  mellow  note  :  the  kingfisher  flashed  emerald 
out  of  green  osiers  :  a  bow-winged  heron  travelled  aloft, 
seeking  solitude  :  a  boat  slipped  toward  her,  containing  a 
dreamy  youth  ;  and  still  she  plucked  the  fruit,  and  ate,  and 
mused,  as  if  no  fairy  prince  were  invading  her  territories, 
and  as  if  she  wished  not  for  one,  or  knew  not  her  wishes. 
Surrounded  by  the  green  shaven  meadows,  the  pastoral 
summer  buzz,  the  weirfall's  thundering  white,  amid  the 
breath  and  beauty  of  wild  flov>^ers,  she  was  a  bit  of  lovely 
human  life  in  a  fair  setting  ;  a  terrible  attraction.  The 
Magnetic  Youth  leaned  round  to  note  his  proximity  to  the 
weirpiles,  and  beheld  the  sweet  vision.  Stiller  and  stiller 
grew  nature,  as  at  the  meeting  of  two  electric  clouds.  Her 
posture  was  so  graceful,  that  though  he  was  making  straight 
for  the  weir,  he  dared  not  dip  a  scufl.  Just  then  one  enticing 
dewberry  caught  her  eyes.  He  was  floating  by  unheeded, 
and  saw  that  her  hand  stretched  low,  and  could  not  gather 
what  it  sought.     A  stroke  from  his  right  brought  him  beside 


372  MEREDITH— ROSSETTI 

her.  The  damsel  glanced  up  dismayed,  and  her  whole 
shape  trembled  over  the  brink.  Richard  sprang  from  his 
boat  into  the  water.  Pressing  a  hand  beneath  her  foot, 
which  she  had  thrust  against  the  crumbling  wet  sides  of  the 
bank  to  save  herself,  he  enabled  her  to  recover  her  balance, 
and  gain  safe  earth,  whither  he  followed  her.  .  .  . 

To-morrow  this  place  will  have  a  memory — the  river  and 
the  meadow,  and  the  white  falling  weir  :  his  heart  will  build 
a  temple  here  ;  and  the  skylark  will  be  its  high-priest,  and 
the  old  blackbird  its  glossy-gowned  chorister,  and  there  will 
be  a  sacred  repast  of  dewberries. 

George  Meredith. 
The  Ordeal  of  Richard  Feverel. 


LOVE-SWEETNESS 

Sweet  dimness  of  her  loosened  hair's  downfall 
About  thy  face  ;  her  sweet  hands  round  thy  head 
In  gracious  fostering  union  garlanded  ; 

Her  tremulous  smiles  ;  her  glances'  sweet  recall 

Of  love  ;  her  murmuring  sighs  mem.orial  ; 

Her  mouth's  culled  sweetness  by  thy  kisses  shed 
On  cheeks  and  neck  and  eyelids,  and  so  led 

Back  to  her  mouth  which  ansv/ers  there  for  all : — 

What  sweeter  than  these  things,  except  the  thing 
In  lacking  which  all  these  would  lose  their  sweet  :- 
The  confident  heart's  still  fervour  :  the  swift  beat 
And  soft  subsidence  of  the  spirit's  wing. 
Then  when  it  feels,  in  cloud-girt  wayfaring. 
The  breath  of  kindred  plum.es  against  its  feet  ? 

D.    G.   ROSSETTI. 


Jesus  saith.  Wherever  there  are  two,  they  are  not  without 
God  ;  and  wherever  there  is  one  alone,  I  say,  I  am  with  him. 
Raise  the  stone  and  there  thou  shalt  find  me  ;  cleave  the  wood 
and  there  am  I. 

Logia  of  Jesus. 

This  is  one  of  the  Logia  or  Sayings  of  Jesus  written  on  papyrus  in  the 
third  century  and  discovered  in  Egypt  by  Grenfell  and  Hunt  in  1897. 
The  itaHcs,  of  course,  are  mine. 


ELIOT  373 

O  MAY  I  join  the  choir  invisible 

Of  those  immortal  dead  who  live  again 

In  minds  made  better  by  their  presence  :  live 

In  pulses  stirred  to  generosity, 

In  deeds  of  daring  rectitude,  in  scorn 

For  miserable  aims  that  end  with  self, 

In  thoughts  sublime  that  pierce  the  night  like  stars, 

And  with  their  mild  persistence  urge  man's  search 

To  vaster  issues. 

So  to  live  is  heaven  : 
To  make  undying  music  in  the  world  .  ,  . 

This  is  life  to  come, 
Which  martyr'd  men  have  made  more  glorious 
For  us  who  strive  to  follow.     May  I  reach 
That  purest  heaven,  be  to  other  souls 
The  cup  of  strength  in  some  great  agony, 
Enkindle  generous  ardour,  feed  pure  love. 
Beget  the  smiles  that  have  no  cruelty — 
Be  the  sweet  presence  of  a  good  diffused. 
And  in  diffusion  ever  more  intense, 
So  shall  I  join  the  choir  invisible 
Whose  music  is  the  gladness  of  the  world. 

George  Eliot. 

There  is  an  infinite  pathos  in  these  lines.  Having  lost  her  faith  in  a 
future  life,  George  Eliot  tries  to  find  consolation  in  the  thought  that,  when 
she  has  passed  into  nothingness — when  she  "  joins  the  choir  invisible  " — 
she  will  have  done  something  to  ennoble  the  minds  of  those  who  come 
after  her.  But  why  should  generation  after  generation  of  insect-lives 
waste  themselves  in  raising  and  purifying  the  minds  of  the  generations 
that  follow,  if  all  in  turn  pass  into  nothingness  ?  The  higher  and  purer 
men  became,  the  more  they  would  love  their  fellow-beings  and  the  more 
they  would  shudder  at  the  insensate  pain  and  cruelty  in  the  world — the 
physical  torture  they  themselves  endure,  and  the  mental  torture  both  of 
losing  for  ever  those  they  love  and  of  seeing  the  sufferings  of  others.  One 
should  act  in  conformity  with  one's  belief.  Instead  of  thus  adding 
greater  pain  and  sorrow  to  each  succeeding  generation,  the  effort  should 
be  to  coarsen  and  brutalize  our  natures.  Only  when  all  sense  of  love, 
duty,  and  moral  aspiration  have  disappeared  shall  we  and  our  descendants 
cease  to  be  saddened  by  the  hateful  scheme  of  things — a  world  of  useless 
effort  and  undeserved  pain.  Our  lives  should,  in  fact,  correspond  with 
the  brutal,  ugly,  and  stupid  scheme  of  the  universe. 

This  is  the  direct  answer  to  George  Eliot,  allowing  her  very  important 
assumption  that  we  have  a  duty  towards  others,  including  those  who  come 
after  us.  But  this  assumption  is  logically  unwarranted,  if  at  the  end  of 
our  brief  years  we  pass  into  nothingness  and  have  no  further  concern 
with  any  living  being.  This  brings  us  to  a  familiar  train  of  argument. 
Why  should  we  be  irresistibly  impelled  to  sacrifice  ourselves  for  the  good 
of  others  ?  And,  apart  from  altruism,  why  should  we  develop  our  own 
higher  attributes — why  seek  to  ennoble  our  own  selves,  since  those  selves 


374  ELIOT— TENNYSON 

disappear  ?  Why  fill  with  jewels  the  hollow  log  that  is  to  be  thrown  on 
the  fire  ?  Why  are  we  swayed  by  a  sense  of  honour,  a  desire  for  justice, 
a  love  of  purity  and  truth  and  beauty,  a  craving  for  affection,  a  thirst  for 
knowledge,  which  persist  up  to  the  very  gates  of  death  ?  To  take  an 
illustration  of  Edward  Caird's,  is  not  the  path  of  life  which  is  so  traversed 
like  the  path  of  a  star  to  the  astronomer,  which  enables  him  to  prophesy 
its  future  course — beyond  the  end  which  hides  it  from  our  eyes  ?  Other- 
wise, to  use  another  simile,  it  is  as  though  Pheidias  spent  his  life  sculp- 
turing in  snow. 

(This  does  not  mean,  as  the  sceptic  usually  argues,  that  the  virtuous 
man  merely  desires  a  reward  for  his  virtuous  conduct.  It  is  an  inquiry 
why  he  is  virtuous — what  is  a  sane  view  of  the  scheme  of  the  universe. 
Are  our  ideals  foolish  imaginings  and  our  lives  absurdly  illogical  ?) 

In  forming  the  conclusion  that  there  was  no  possible  future  for  man, 
George  Eliot  and  an  immense  number  of  other  thinkers  of  her  time  made 
the  vast  assumption  that  there  was  nothing  left  to  discover.  Blanco 
White's  sonnet  alone  might  have  taught  them  the  folly  of  such  premature 
judgments.  Or  we  may  take  an  illustration,  used  by  F.  W.  H.  Mj'ers, 
namely,  the  discovery  that,  far  beyond  the  red  and  the  violet  of  the 
spectrum  or  the  rainbow,  extend  rays  that  are  invisible  to  our  eyes. 
Since  George  Eliot's  time  the  Society  for  Psychical  Research  has  during 
the  last  forty  years  accumulated  unanswerable  evidence  of  survival  after 
death. 


Why  are  we  weigh 'd  upon  with  heaviness, 

And  utterly  consumed  with  sharp  distress, 

While  all  things  else  have  rest  from  weariness  ? 

All  things  have  rest  :  why  should  we  toil  alone, 

We  only  toil,  who  are  the  first  of  things, 

And  make  perpetual  moan, 

Still  from  one  sorrow  to  another  thrown  : 

Nor  ever  fold  our  wings, 

And  cease  from  wanderings, 

Nor  steep  our  brows  in  slumber's  holy  balm  ; 

Nor  harken  what  the  inner  spirit  sings, 

"  There  is  no  joy  but  calm  !  " 

Why  should  we  only  toil,  the  roof  and  crown  of  things  ? 

Hateful  is  the  dark-blue  sky. 
Vaulted  o'er  the  dark-blue  sea. 
Death  is  the  end  of  life  ;  ah,  why 
Should  life  all  labour  be  ? 
Let  us  alone.     Time  driveth  onward  fast, 
And  in  a  little  while  our  lips  are  dumb. 
Let  us  alone.     What  is  it  that  will  last  ? 
All  things  are  taken  from  us,  and  become 
Portions  and  parcels  of  the  dreadful  Past. 
Let  us  alone.     What  pleasure  can  we  have 


TENNYSON  AND  OTHERS  375 

To  war  with  evil  ?     Is  there  any  peace 
In  ever  climbing  up  the  climbing  wave  ? 
All  things  have  rest,  and  ripen  toward  the  grave 
In  silence  ;  ripen,  fall  and  cease  : 

Give  us  long  rest  or  death,  dark  death,  or  dreamful  ease. 

Tennyson. 
The  Lotos-Eaters. 

See  preceding  quotation. 

We  may  well  begin  to  doubt  whether  the  known  and  the 
natural  can  suffice  for  human  life.  No  sooner  do  we  try  to 
think  so  than  pessimism  raises  its  head.  The  more  our 
thoughts  widen  and  deepen,  as  the  universe  grows  upon  us 
and  we  become  accustomed  to  boundless  space  and  time, 
the  more  petrifying  is  the  contrast  of  our  own  insignificance, 
the  more  contemptible  become  the  pettiness,  shortness, 
fragility  of  the  individual  life.  A  moral  paralysis  creeps 
upon  us.  For  awhile  we  comfort  ourselves  with  the  notion 
of  self-sacrifice  ;  we  say,  What  matter  if  I  pass,  let  me  think 
of  others  !  But  the  others  have  become  contemptible  no 
less  than  the  self ;  all  human  griefs  alike  seem  little  worth 
assuaging,  human  happiness  too  paltry  at  the  best  to  be 
worth  increasing.  The  whole  moral  world  is  reduced  to  a 
point ;  good  and  evil,  right  and  wrong  become  infinitesimal 
ephemeral  matters,  while  eternity  and  infinity  remain  attri- 
butes of  that  only  which  is  outside  the  sphere  of  morality. 
Life  becomes  more  intolerable  the  more  we  know  and  dis- 
cover, so  long  as  everything  widens  and  deepens  except  our 
own  duration,  and  that  remains  as  pitiful  as  ever.  The 
aff"ections  die  away  in  a  world  where  everything  great  and 
enduring  is  cold  ;  they  die  of  their  own  conscious  feebleness 
and  bootlessness. 

Sir  J.  R.  Seeley. 
Natural  Religion. 

See  the  two  preceding  quotations. 

The  best  of  us  are  but  poor  wretches  just  saved  from  ship- 
wreck :  can  we  feel  anything  but  awe  and  pity  when  we  see 
a  fellow-passenger  swallowed  by  the  waves  ? 

George  Eliot. 
Janefs  Repentance. 
"  But  for  the  grace  of  God,  there  goes  John  Bunyan  !  " 


376  CARLYLE 

The  first  of  all  Gospels  is  this,  that  a  Lie  cannot  endure 
for  ever. 

Meanwhile  it  is  singular  how  long  the  rotten  will  hold 
together,  provided  you  do  not  handle  it  roughly. 


There  are  quarrels  in  which  even  Satan,  bringing  help, 
were  not  unwelcome  ;  even  Satan,  fighting  stiffly,  might 
cover  himself  with  glory — of  a  temporary  nature. 


.  .  .  Nothing  but  two  clattering  jaw-bones,  and  a  head 
vacant,  sonorous,  of  the  drum  species. 


Thou  art  bound  hastily  for  the  City  of  Nowhere  ;  and 
wilt  arrive  ! 

Carlyle. 
French  Revolution. 

It  is  interesting  to  learn  from  a  correspondent  of  The  Spectator  (Feb. 
17,  1917)  that  Carlyle  wrote  two  verses  which  he  combined  with  Shake- 
speare's "  Fear  no  more  the  heat  o'  the  sun  "  {Cymbeline,  iv.  2)  to  make  a 
requiem,  of  which  he  was  very  fond  : 

Fear  no  more  the  heat  o'  the  sun, 

Nor  the  furious  winter's  rages  ; 
Thou  thy  worldly  task  hast  done, 

Home  art  gone,  and  ta'en  thy  wages. 

Hurts  thee  now  no  harsh  behest, 

Toil,  or  shame,  or  sin,  or  danger  ; 
Trouble's  storm  has  got  to  rest, 

To  his  place  the  wayworn  stranger. 

Want  is  done,  and  grief  and  pain, 

Done  is  all  thy  bitter  weeping  ; 
Thou  art  safe  from  wind  and  rain 

In  the  Mother's  bosom  sleeping. 

Fear  no  more  the  heat  o'  the  sun, 

Nor  the  furious  winter's  rages  : 
Thou  thy  worldly  task  hast  done, 

Home  art  gone  and  ta'en  thy  wages. 

The  lines  from  Cymbeline  are  often  echoed  in  pi-ose  and  poetry,  as  in 
Henley's  verse  : 

So  be  my  passing  1 

My  task  accomplished  and  the  long  day  done, 

My  wages  taken,  and  in  my  heart 

Some  late  lark  singing, 

Let  me  be  gathered  to  the  quiet  west. 

The  sundown  splendid  and  serene, 

Death. 


KNOWLES  AND  OTHERS  377 

It  takes  two  for  a  kiss, 

Only  one  for  a  sigh  ; 
Twain  by  twain  we  marry, 

One  by  one  we  die. 
Joy  has  its  partnerships, 

Grief  weeps  alone  ; 
Cana  had  many  guests, 

Gethsemane  had  none. 

Frederick  Lawrence  Knowles. 

Byron  in  Don  Juan  says  : 

All  who  joy  would  win  must  share  it, 
Happiness  was  born  a  twin. 

FIoLD,  Time,  a  little  while  thy  glass. 

And,  Youth,  fold  up  those  peacock  wings  ! 

More  rapture  fills  the  years  that  pass 
Than  any  hope  the  future  brings  ; 
•    Some  for  to-morrow  rashly  pray. 

And  some  desire  to  hold  to-day. 

But  I  am  sick  for  yesterday.  .  .  . 

Ah  !  who  will  give  us  back  the  past  ? 

Ah  1  woe,  that  youth  should  love  to  be 
Like  this  swift  Thames  that  speeds  so  fast. 

And  so  is  fain  to  find  the  sea, — 
That  leaves  this  maze  of  shadow  and  sleep, 
These  creeks  down  which  blown  blossoms  creep. 
For  breakers  of  the  homeless  deep. 

Edmund  Gosse. 
Desideriiim. 

The  night  has  a  thousand  eyes, 

And  the  day  but  one  ; 
Yet  the  light  of  the  bright  world  dies 

With  the  dying  sun. 

The  mind  has  a  thousand  eyes, 

And  the  heart  but  one  ; 
Yet  the  light  of  a  whole  life  dies. 

When  love  is  done. 

F.   W.   BOURDILLON. 

See  reference  to  this  poem  in  Preface.  It  was  written  by  Mr.  Bour- 
dillon  when  an  Oxford  undergraduate,  and  appeared  in  The  Spectator^ 
Oct.  25,  1873. 


378  PLINY 

But  to  come  again  unto  Apelles,  this  was  his  manner  and 
custom  besides,  which  he  perpetually  observed,  that  no  day 
went  over  his  head,  but  what  businesse  soever  he  had  other- 
wise to  call  him  away,  he  would  make  one  draught  or  other 
(and  never  misse)  for  to  exercise  his  hand  and  keepe  it  in 
use,  inasmuch  as  from  him  grew  the  proverb e,  Nulla  dies 
sine  tinea,  i.e.  Be  alwaies  doing  somewhat,  though  you  doe 
but  draw  a  line.  His  order  was  when  he  had  finished  a 
piece  of  work  or  painted  table,  and  layd  it  out  of  his  hand, 
to  set  it  forth  in  some  open  gallerie  or  thorowfare,  to  be  seen 
of  folke  that  passed  by,  and  himselfe  would  lie  close  behind 
it  to  hearken  what  faults  were  found  therewith  ;  preferring 
the  judgment  of  the  common  people  before  his  owne,  and 
imagining  they  would  spy  more  narrowly,  and  censure  his 
doings  sooner  than  himselfe  :  and  as  the  tale  is  told,  it  fell 
out  upon  a  time,  that  a  shoomaker  as  he  went  by  seemed  to 
controlle  his  workmanship  about  the  shoo  or  pantofle  that 
he  had  made  to  a  picture,  and  namely,  that  there  was  one 
latchet  fewer  than  there  should  be  :  Apelles,  acknowledging 
that  the  man  said  true  indeed,  mended  that  fault  by  the  next 
morning,  and  set  forth  his  table  as  his  manner  was.  The 
same  shoomaker  comming  again  the  morrow  after,  and 
finding  the  want  supplied  which  he  noted  the  day  before, 
took  some  pride  unto  himselfe,  that  his  former  admonition 
had  sped  so  well,  and  was  so  bold  as  to  cavil  at  somewhat 
about  the  leg.  Apelles  could  not  endure  that,  but  putting 
forth  his  head  from  behind  the  painted  table,  and  scorning 
thus  to  be  checked  and  reproved,  Sirrha  (quoth  hee)  remem- 
ber you  are  but  a  shoomaker,  and  therefore  meddle  no  higher 
I  advise  you,  than  with  shoos.  Which  words  also  of  his 
came  afterwards  to  be  a  common  proverbe,  Ne  sutor  ultra 
crepidam. 

Pliny. 

Natural  History. 

Apelles,  the  greatest  painter  of  antiquity.  The  two  proverbs  mean  : 
"  No  day  without  a  line,"  "  A  cobbler  should  stick  to  his  last."  Pantofle, 
sandal  ;  latchet,  the  thong  fastening  the  sandal  ;  painted  table,  panel 
picture  ;   controlle,  find  fault  with. 


In  the  hum  of  the  market  there  is  money,  but  under  the 
cherry-tree  there  is  rest. 

Japanese  Proverb. 


ELIOT— JONSON  379 

[Speaking  of  the  rare  and  exalted  nature  of  Dorothea, 
who  has  adopted  the  normal,  domestic  married  life.]  Her 
finely  touched  spirit  had  still  its  fine  issues,  though  they  were 
not  widely  visible.  Her  full  nature,  like  that  river  of  which 
Cyrus  broke  the  stren'gth,  spent  itself  in  channels  which  had 
no  great  name  on  the  earth.  But  the  effect  of  her  being  on 
those  around  her  was  incalculably  diffusive  ;  for  the  growing 
good  of  the  world  is  partly  dependent  on  unhistoric  acts  ; 
and  that  things  are  not  so  ill  with  you  and  me,  as  they  might 
have  been,  is  half  owing  to  the  number  who  lived  faithfully 
a  hidden  life,  and  rest  in  un visited  tombs. 

George  Eliot. 
Middlemarch. 

This  passage,  which  finely  expresses  an  important  truth,  is  at  the 
end  oi  Middlemarch.  The  reference  is  to  a  story  of  Herodotus.  He  says 
that  Cyrus,  the  Persian,  was  angry  with  the  river  Gyndes  (Diyalah), 
because  it  had  drowned  one  of  the  white  horses,  which,  as  being  sacred 
to  the  sun,  accompanied  the  expedition.  He,  therefore,  employed  his 
army  to  divert  the  river  into  360  channels  (representing  the  number  of 
days  in  the  year).  The  story  was  probably  told  to  Herodotus  as  explain- 
ing the  great  irrigation  system  that  existed  in  Mesopotamia.  The 
Diyalah  flows  into  the  Tigris  not  far  from  Baghdad. 


Have  you  seen  but  a  bright  lily  grow. 
Before  rude  hands  have  touched  it  ? 
Have  you  marked  but  the  fall  of  the  snow. 

Before  the  soil  hath  smutched  it  ? 
Have  you  felt  the  wool  of  the  beaver  ? 

Or  swan's  down  ever  ? 
Or  have  smelt  o'  the  bud  of  the  briar. 

Or  the  nard  in  the  fire  ? 
Or  have  tasted  the  bag  of  the  bee  ? 
O,  so  white  !     O,  so  soft  !     O,  so  sweet  is  she  ! 

Ben  Jonson. 
A  Celebration  of  Charts. 


Imperfection  is  in  some  sort  essential  to  all  that  we  know 
of  life.  It  is  the  sign  of  life  in  a  mortal  body,  that  is  to  say, 
of  a  state  of  progress  and  change.  Nothing  that  lives  is,  or 
can  be,  rigidly  perfect  ;  part  of  it  is  decaying,  part  nascent. 
The  foxglove  blossom — a  third  part  bud,  a  third  part  past, 
a  third  part  in  full  bloom — is  a  type  of  the  life  of  this  world. 
And  in  all  things  that  live  there  are  certain  irregularities  and 


38o  RUSKIN  AND  OTHERS 

deficiencies  which  are  not  only  signs  of  Hfe,  but  sources  of 
beauty.  No  human  face  is  exactly  the  same  in  its  lines  on 
each  side,  no  leaf  perfect  in  its  lobes,  no  branch  in  its  sym- 
metry. All  admit  irregularity  as  they  imply  change  ;  and  to 
banish  imperfection  is  to  destroy  expression,  to  check  exer- 
tion, to  paralyze  vitality.  All  things  are  literally  better, 
lovelier,  and  more  beloved  for  the  imperfections  which  have 
been  divinely  appointed,  that  the  law  of  human  life  may  be 
Effort,  and  the  law  of  human  judgment,  Mercy. 

John  Ruskin. 
Stones  of  Venice,  II.  vi.  25. 


The  barge  she  sat  in,  like  a  burnished  throne, 
Burn'd  on  the  water  :  the  poop  was  beaten  gold  ; 
Purple  the  sails,  and  so  perfumed  that 
The  winds  were  love-sick  with  them  ;  the  oars  were  silver, 
Which  to  the  tune  of  flutes  kept  stroke.     She  did  lie 
In  her  pavilion  :   on  each  side  her 
Stood  pretty  dimpled  boys,  like  smiling  Cupids, 
With  divers-coloured  fans.  .  .  . 
Her  gentlewomen,  like  the  Nereides, 
So  many  mermaids  tended  her.     At  the  helm 
A  seeming  mermaid  steers  :  the  silken  tackle 
Swell  with  the  touches  of  those  flower-soft  hands. 

Shakespeare. 
Antony  and  Cleopatra. 

This  and  the  next  three  quotations,  and  others  through  the  book,  are 
word-pictures. 


Little  round  Pepita,  blondest  maid 

In  all  Bedmar — Pepita,  fair  yet  flecked, 

Saucy  of  lip  and  nose,  of  hair  as  red 

As  breasts  of  robins  stepping  on  the  snow — 

Who  stands  in  front  with  little  tapping  feet, 

And  baby-dimpled  hands  that  hide  enclosed 

Those  sleeping  crickets,  the  dark  castanets. 

George  Eliot. 
The  Spanish  Gypsy. 


COLERIDGE  AND  OTHERS  381 

And  how  then  was  the  Devil  drest  ? 

Oh  !  he  was  in  his  Sunday's  best  : 

His  jacket  was  red  and  his  breeches  were  blue, 

And  there  was  a  hole  where  the  tail  came  through. 

Over  the  hill  and  over  the  dale, 

And  he  went  over  the  plain, 

And  backward  and  forward  he  swished  his  long  tail, 

As  a  gentleman  swishes  his  cane. 

S.  T.  Coleridge. 
The  DeviVs  Thoughts. 

The  stanzas  are  reversed  in  order. 


We  walked  abreast  all  up  the  street, 

Into  the  market  up  the  street  ; 
Our  hair  with  marigolds  was  wound, 
Our  bodices  with  love-knots  laced. 
Our  merchandise  with  tansy  *  bound.  .  .  . 

And  when  our  chaffering  all  was  done, 

All  was  paid  for,  sold  and  done, 
We  drew  a  glove  on  ilka  hand, 
We  sweetly  curtsied,  each  to  each. 
And  deftly  danced  a  saraband. 

William  Bell  Scott. 
The  Witch's  Ballad. 


Mere  verbal  insults  [to  a  Roman  Emperor]  were  not 
considered  treason  ;  for,  said  the  Emperors  Theodosius, 
Arcadius,  and  Honorius,  in  language  that  is  a  standing 
rebuke  to  pusillanimous  tyrants,  if  the  words  are  uttered  in 
a  spirit  of  frivolity,  the  attack  merits  contempt ;  if  from  mad- 
ness, they  excite  pity  ;  if  from  malice,  they  are  to  be  forgiven. 

William  A.  Hunter. 
Roman  Law,  Appendix. 

This  recalls  to  mind  the  numerous  cases  of  lese-majesti  for  words 
spoken  against  the  Kaiser  before  the  war.  The  passage  would  make  a 
pleasant  retort  to  a  rude  opponent  (a  "  pusillanimous  tyrant  ")  in  a  debate. 

*  An  aromatic  herb  with  yellow  flowers. 


382  MYERS 

GLADSTONE  AND  THE  SOCIETY  FOR 
PSYCHICAL  RESEARCH 

Mr.  Gladstone's  relation  to  Psychical  Research  affords 
one  more  illustration  of  the  width  and  force  of  his  intellectual 
sympathies.  Many  men,  even  of  high  ability,  if  convinced 
as  Mr.  Gladstone  was  of  the  truth  and  sufficiency  of  the 
Christian  revelation,  permit  themselves  to  ignore  these  ex- 
perimental approaches  to  spiritual  knowledge,  as  at  best 
superfluous.  They  do  not  realize  how  profoundly  the 
evidence,  the  knowledge,  which  we  seek  and  which  in  some 
measure  we  find,  must  ultimately  influence  men's  views  as  to 
both  the  credibility  and  the  adequacy  of  all  forms  of  faith, 
Mr.  Gladstone's  broad  intellectual  purview, — aided  perhaps 
in  this  instance  by  something  of  the  practical  foresight  of 
the  statesman, — placed  him  in  a  quite  diff^erent  attitude 
towards  our  quest.  "  It  is  the  most  important  work  which  is 
being  done  in  the  world,"  he  said  in  a  conversation  in  1885. 
"  By  far  the  most  important,"  he  repeated,  with  a  grave  em- 
phasis which  suggested  previous  trains  of  thought,  to  which 
he  did  not  care  to  give  expression.  He  went  on  to  apologize, 
in  his  courteous  fashion,  for  his  inability  to  render  active 
help  ;  and  ended  by  saying,  "  If  you  will  accept  sympathy 
without  service,  I  shall  be  glad  to  join  your  ranks."  He 
became  an  Honorary  Member,  and  followed  with  attention, 
— I  know  not  with  how  much  of  study — the  successive  issues 
of  our  Proceedings.  Towards  the  close  of  his  life  he  desired 
that  the  Proceedings  should  be  sent  to  St.  Deiniol's  Library, 
which  he  had  founded  at  Hawarden  ;  thus  giving  final 
testimony  to  his  sense  of  the  salutary  nature  of  our  work. 
From  a  man  so  immersed  in  other  thought  and  labour  that 
work  could  assuredly  claim  no  more  ;  from  men  profoundly 
and  primarily  interested  in  the  spiritual  world  it  ought,  I 

think,  to  claim  no  less.  t-    xir    tt    ht 

'  F.  W.  H.  Myers. 

S.P.R.  Journal^  June  1898. 

Apart  from  the  interesting  glimpse  of  Gladstone,  this  shows  the 
importance  he  attached  to  the  work  of  the  Society  for  Psychical  Research. 
This  Society  has  been  forty  years  in  existence,  but  its  valuable  work  is 
not  realized  by  the  public.  They  confuse  it  with  spiritualist  and  other 
associations,  and  attribute  to  it  lectures  and  publications  by  Sir  Conan 
Doyle  and  other  persons. 

It  was  formed  by  Myers,  Gurney,  Henry  Sidgwick  and  others  at  the 
beginning  of  1882  to  inquire  into,  and  ascertain  if  there  were  any  truth 
in,  the  alleged  psychical  phenomena  of  hypnotism,  telepathy,  clairvoyance, 
spiritualism,  theosophy,  apparitions,  haunted  houses,  and  so  on.     They 


MYERS— WORDSWORTH  383 

declared  at  the  outset  that  they  would  approach  those  subjects  without 
prejudice  or  prepossession  of  any  kind,  and  would  investigate  the  evidence 
in  a  strictly  scientific  spirit.  During  the  forty  years  that  have  since 
elapsed,  the  investigation  has  been  conducted  in  the  same  spirit  of  exact 
and  unimpassioned  inquiry  by  able  members  of  the  Society,  who  have 
devoted  their  lives  to  this  important  work.  (Hodgson  was  one  of  those 
members.) 

The  critical  ability  displayed  by  these  investigators  is  remarkable. 
For  example,  quite  early  in  the  history  of  the  Society  they  discovered 
sources  of  error  in  testimonj'  that  all  the  past  generations  of  lawyers  had 
failed  to  detect  (S.P.R.  Proceedings,  vi.  381  ;  viii.  253).  They  showed 
Madame  Blavatsky  and  her  "  Theosophy  "  to  be  a  fraud.  They  un- 
masked more  spiritualist  impostors  than  probably  all  the  rest  of  the 
world  has  done.  They  have  gone  to  endless  trouble  in  investigating 
alleged  cases  of  haunted  houses,  poltergeist,  and  similar  phenomena, 
and  shown  they  were  often  due  to  normal  causes.  Their  patient,  careful, 
and  judicial  examination  of  evidence,  their  methods  of  testing  such 
evidence,  their  stringent  rules,  such  as  the  refusal  to  publish  any  state- 
ment whatever  unless  it  is  confirmed  by  extraneous  evidence,  their 
employment  of  professional  conjurers  and  other  adepts  to  assist  them  and 
provide  against  any  possibility  of  fraud,  in  fact  all  their  methods  of 
investigation  are  such  as  could  only  be  devised  by  astute,  highly  experi- 
enced persons,  impartially  seeking  after  truth.  I  do  not  know  of  any 
instance  in  their  whole  history  of  facts  being  loosely  admitted.  On  the 
other  hand,  I  know  of  instances  where,  under  their  strict  rules,  they  have 
rejected  evidence  wliich  would  carry  weight  with  myself,  a  lawyer  of 
forty  years'  experience  ;  but  I  fully  agree  that  in  matters  of  such 
tremendous  significance  the  severest  precautions  are  necessary  and  must 
be  adhered  to. 

Apart  from  what  are  called  "  occult  "  matters,  the  S.P.R.  has  done 
splendid  work  in  other  directions.  They  were  practically  the  sole 
supporters  of  hypnotism  from  the  outset.  Also  its  members  had  not 
to  wait  for  the  war  to  learn  of  psychotherapy.  So  far  back  as  1894  this 
subject  was  introduced  by  Myers  in  an  article  on  Breuer's  method  of 
abreaction.  And  they  have  been  throughout  the  leaders  in  all  questions 
of  the  Unconscious  and  in  telepathy  and  other  subjects,  which  are  only 
now  becoming  gradually  known  to  persons  outside  the  Society. 

As  I  have  stated  before  in  this  book,  the  evidence  collected  (with  the 
same  strict  methods)  by  this  Society  satisfies  a  large  number  of  the 
members,  including  myself,  that  survival  after  death  is  established  as  a 
fact.* 


Like  clouds  that  rake  the  mountain-summits, 
Or  waves  that  own  no  curbing  hand, 
How  fast  has  brother  followed  brother. 
From  sunshine  to  the  sunless  land  ! 

Wordsworth. 
On  the  Death  of  James  Hogg. 

*  Perhaps  the  briefest  way  of  showing  the  importance  of  this  Society  is  to  give  the  names 
of  its  Presidents  : — Henry  Sidgwick,  Balfour  Stewart,  F.R.S.,  Earl  of  Balfour,  CM.,  F.R.S., 
William  James,  Sir  William  Crookes,  CM.,  F.R.S.,  F.  W.  H.  Myers,  Sir  Oliver  Lodge,  F.R.S., 
Sir  William  Barrett,  F.R.S.,  Charles  Richet,  Rt.  Hon.  G.  W.  Balfour,  Mrs.  Henry  Sidgwick, 
H.  Arthur  Smith,  Andrew  Lang,  Boyd  Carpenter,  Henri  Bergson,  Dr.  F.  C.  S.  Schiller,  Gilbert 
Murray,  L.  T.  Jacks,  Lord  Rayleigh,  CM.,  F.R.S.,  William  McDougall,  F.R.S.,  and  Dr.  T.  W. 
MitcheU. 


384  HUGO  AND  OTHERS 

Le  roi  disait,  en  la  voyant  si  belle, 

A  son  neveu  : 
"  Pour  un  baiser,  pour  un  sourire  d'elle, 

Pour  un  cheveu, 
Infant  Don  Ruy,  je  donnerais  I'Espagne 

Et  le  Perou  !  " 
Le  vent  qui  vient  a  travers  la  montagne 

Me  rendrafou. 

(The  King,  seeing  her  so  beautiful,  said  to  his  nephew,  "  For  one  kiss, 
for  a  smile,  for  one  hair  of  her  head,  Infante  Don  Ruy,  I  would  give  Spain 
and  Peru."  Refrain  :  "  The  wind  that  blows  over  the  inountain  will  drive 
tne  mad.") 

Victor  Hugo. 
Gastibelza. 


This  charmingly  extravagant  praise  of  a  lady's  beauty  recalls  the 
story  of  another  poet.  The  Eastern  conqueror,  Timur  (or  Tamerlane), 
sent  for  the  Persian  poet  Hafiz  and  very  angrily  asked  him,  "  Art  thou 
he  who  offered  to  give  my  two  great  cities,  Samarkand  and  Bokhara, 
for  the  black  mole  on  thy  mistress's  cheek  ?  "  Hafiz,  however,  cleverly 
escaped  trouble  by  replying,  "  Yes,  sire,  I  always  give  freely,  and  in 
consequence  am  now  reduced  to  poverty.  May  I  crave  your  kind 
assistance  !  "  Timur  was  amused  at  the  reply  and  made  the  poet  a 
present.  The  story,  however,  is  considered  doubtful,  because  Timur 
did  not  conquer  Persia  until  some  years  after  1388,  which  is  supposed 
to  be  the  date  of  the  poet's  death. 


I  HAVE  discovered  that  a  feigned  familiarity  in  great  ones, 
is  a  note  of  certain  usurpation  on  the  less.  For  great  and 
popular  men  feign  themselves  to  be  servants  of  others,  to 
make  these  slaves  to  them.  So  the  fisher  provides  bait  for 
the  trout,  roach,  dace,  etc.,  that  they  may  be  food  for  him. 

Ben  Jonson. 
Mores  Aulici. 


Ci-ctT  ma  femme,  ah  !   qu'elle  est  bien, 
Pour  son  repos — et  pour  le  mien. 

DU   LORENS. 
Paraphrased  as  : 

Here  Abigail  my  wife  doth  lie  ; 
She's  at  peace  and  so  am  I. 


COLENSO— COLERIDGE  385 

God  is  my  witness,  what  hours  of  wretchedness  I  have 
spent  at  times,  while  reading  the  Bible  devoutly  from  day  to 
day,  and  reverencing  every  word  of  it  as  the  Word  of  God, 
when  petty  contradictions  met  me  which  seemed  to  my 
reason  to  conflict  with  the  notion  of  the  absolute  historical 
veracity  of  every  part  of  Scripture,  and  which,  as  I  felt,  in 
the  study  of  any  other  book  we  should  honestly  treat  as  errors 
or  mis-statements,  without  in  the  least  detracting  from  the 
real  value  of  the  book  !  But  in  those  days,  I  was  taught  that 
it  was  my  duty  to  fling  the  suggestion  from  me  at  once,  "  as 
if  it  were  a  loaded  shell  shot  into  the  fortress  of  my  soul,"  or 
to  stamp  out  desperately,  as  with  an  iron  heel,  each  spark  of 
honest  doubt,  which  God's  own  gift,  the  love  of  truth,  had 
kindled  in  my  bosom  ...  I  thank  God  that  I  was  not  able 
long  to  throw  dust  in  the  eyes  of  my  own  mind,  and  do 
violence  to  the  love  of  truth  in  this  way. 

Bishop  Colenso. 
Pentateuch. 

(See  G.  W.  Cox's  Life  of  Colenso,  i.  493.)  Colenso 's  quotation,  "  as 
if  it  were  a  loaded  shell,"  etc.,  is  from  Bishop  Wilberforce.  Cox  mentions 
elsewhere  that  in  one  of  Wilberforce 's  published  sermons  he  speaks  of  a 
young  man  of  great  promise  dying  in  darkness  and  despair,  because  he 
had  indulged  in  doubt  as  to  whether  the  sun  and  moon  stood  still  at 
Joshua's  bidding  !  Who,  that  went  through  the  experiences  of  those 
days,  can  ever  forget  them  ?  We  had  been  taught  that  we  "  must 
believe  "  every  word  of  the  Bible  to  be  divinely  inspired  or  else  be 
eternally  damned.  And  yet  we  realized  that  such  belief  was  absolutely 
impossible  ! 

The  horror  with  which  Bishop  Colenso's  revelations  were  received  in 
orthodox  circles  would  to-day  be  scarcely  credible,  and  not  until  after 
the  eighties  were  the  results  of  the  Higher  Criticism  generally  accepted. 


Let  a  man  be  once  fully  persuaded  that  there  is  no  differ- 
ence between  the  two  positions,  "  The  Bible  contains  the 
religion  revealed  by  God,"  and  "  Whatever  is  contained  in 
the  Bible  is  religion,  and  was  revealed  by  God  "  ;  and  that 
whatever  can  be  said  of  the  Bible,  collectively  taken,  may  and 
must  be  said  of  each  and  every  sentence  of  the  Bible,  taken 
for  and  by  itself, — and  I  no  longer  wonder  at  these  paradoxes. 
I  only  object  to  the  inconsistency  of  those  who  profess  the 
same  belief,  and  yet  affect  to  look  down  with  a  contemptuous 
or  compassionate  smile  on  John  Wesley  for  rejecting  the 
Copernican  system  as  incompatible  therewith  ;  or  who  ex- 
claim, "  Wonderful  !  "  when  they  hear  that  Sir  Matthew 
Hale  sent  a  crazy  old  woman  to  the  gallows  in  honour  of  the 

2  c 


386  COLERIDGE  AND  OTHERS 

Witch  of  Endor.  ...  I  challenge  these  divines  and  their 
adherents  to  establish  the  compatibility  of  a  belief  in  the 
modern  astronomy  and  natural  philosophy  with  their  and 
Wesley's  doctrine  respecting  the  inspired  Scriptures. 

S.  T.  Coleridge. 


There  is  the  love  of  the  good  for  the  good's  sake,  and  the 
love  of  the  truth  for  the  truth's  sake.  I  have  known  many, 
especially  women,  love  the  good  for  the  good's  sake  ;  but 
very  few  indeed — -and  scarcely  one  woman — love  the  truth 
for  the  truth's  sake.  Yet  without  the  latter,  the  former  may 
become,  as  it  has  a  thousand  times  been,  the  source  of  the 
persecution  of  the  truth — the  pretext  and  motive  of  in- 
quisitorial cruelty  and  party  zealotry.  To  see  clearly  that 
the  love  of  the  good  and  the  true  is  ultimately  identical  is 
given  only  to  those  who  love  both  sincerely  and  without  any 
foreign  ends. 

S.  T.  Coleridge. 

Table  Talk. 


The  old  creeds  grew  out  of  human  nature  as  genuinely  as 
weeds  and  flowers  out  of  the  earth.  It  is  well  enough  that 
the  gardener,  whose  business  it  is  to  pull  them  up,  should 
despise  them  as  pigweed,  wormwood,  chickweed,  shad- 
blossom  ;  so  they  are,  out  of  their  place  ;  but  the  botanist 
picks  up  the  same  and  recognizes  them  as  Ambrosia,  Stel- 
laria,  Amelanchalia,  Amaranth.  Natura  nihil  agit  frustra. 
Let  us  coax  each  to  yield  its  last  bud. 

Moncure  D.  Conway. 


Car,  voyez-vous,  la  femme  est,  comme  on  dit,  mon  maitre, 
Un  certain  animal  difficile  a  connoitre, 
Et  de  qui  la  nature  est  fort  encline  au  mal. 

(A  woman,  look  you,  is  a  certain  animal  hard  to  understand  and  much 
inclined  to  mischief.) 

Moliere. 
Le  Depit  amour eux. 


BLAKE— SHAKESPEARE  387 

THE  LAND  OF  DREAMS 

Awake,  awake,  my  little  boy  ! 
Thou  wast  thy  mother's  only  joy  ; 
Why  dost  thou  weep  in  thy  gentle  sleep  ? 
Awake  !  thy  father  does  thee  keep. 

"  O,  what  land  is  the  Land  of  Dreams  ? 

What  are  its  mountains,  and  what  are  its  streams  ? 

0  father  !   I  saw  my  mother  there, 
Among  the  lilies  by  waters  fair. 

"  Among  the  lambs,  clothed  in  white. 

She  walked  with  her  Thomas  in  sweet  delight. 

1  wept  for  joy,  like  a  dove  I  mourn  ; 

0  !  when  shall  I  again  return  ?  " 

Dear  child,  I  also  by  pleasant  streams 

Have  wandered  all  night  in  the  Land  of  Dreams  ; 

But,  though  calm  and  warm  the  waters  wide, 

1  could  not  get  to  the  other  side. 

*'  Father,  O  Father  !  what  do  we  here 
In  this  land  of  unbelief  and  fear  ? 
The  Land  of  Dreams  is  better  far 
Above  the  light  of  the  morning  star." 

William  Blake. 


Heaven  doth  with  us  as  we  with  torches  do, 

Not  light  them  for  themselves  ;  for  if  our  virtues 

Did  not  go  forth  of  us,  'twere  all  alike 

As  if  we  had  them  not.     Spirits  are  not  finely  touched 

But  to  fine  issues  ;  nor  Nature  never  lends 

The  smallest  scruple  of  her  excellence, 

But,  like  a  thrifty  goddess,  she  determines 

Herself  the  glory  of  a  creditor, 

Both  thanks  and  use. 

Shakespeare. 
Measure  for  Measure. 

"  Issues,"  purposes  ;  "  scruple,"  the  least  possible  quantity  ; 
"  determines,"  assigns  to  ;  "  use,"  interest — here  the  "  interest  "  on 
Nature's  "  loan  "  is  the  spiritual  good  arising  from  the  exercise  by  the 
debtor  of  the  virtue  lent  to  him. 


388  EMERSON— SMITH 

BRAHMA 

If  the  red  slayer  think  he  slays, 

Or  if  the  slain  think  he  is  slain, 
They  know  not  well  the  subtle  ways 

I  keep,  and  pass,  and  turn  again. 

Far  or  forgot  to  me  is  near  ; 

Shadow  and  sunlight  are  the  same  ; 
The  vanished  gods  to  me  appear  ; 

And  one  to  me  are  shame  and  fame. 

They  reckon  ill  who  leave  me  out  ; 

When  me  they  fly,  I  am  the  wings  ; 
I  am  the  doubter  and  the  doubt, 

And  I  the  hymn  the  Brahmin  sings. 

The  strong  gods  pine  for  my  abode, 
And  pine  in  vain  the  sacred  Seven  ; 

But  thou,  meek  lover  of  the  good  ! 

Find  me,  and  turn  thy  back  on  heaven. 

R.  W.  Emerson. 

It  seems  impossible  for  a  Western  mind  to  clearly  comprehend  Hindu 
religion  and  philosophy,  but  they  must  contain  elements  of  truth.  Even 
as  regards  metempsychosis,  the  more  limited  theory  that  we  have  had 
a  previous  existence — the  subject  of  Wordsworth's  ode  on  "  Intimations 
of  Immortality  " — seems  to  correspond  with  certain  of  our  own  experi- 
ences. Also  as  Professor  Davids  pointed  out,  a  belief  held  by  Buddha  and 
Plato,  the  two  greatest  ethical  thinkers  of  antiquity,  cannot  be  summarily 
dismissed  as  inherently  absurd. 


For  the  Parsons  are  dumb  dogs,  turning  round. 
And  scratching  their  hole  in  the  warmest  ground. 
And  laying  them  down  in  the  sun  to  wink. 
Drowsing,  and  dreaming,  and  thinking  they  think. 
As  they  mumble  the  marrowless  bones  of  morals, 
Like  toothless  children  gnawing  their  corals. 
Gnawing  their  corals  to  soothe  their  gums 
With  a  kind  of  watery  thought  that  comes. 

W.  C.  Smith. 
Borland  Hall. 


WARNER— SMITH  389 

Why  do  we  respect  some  vegetables,  and  despise  others  ? 
The  bean  is  a  graceful,  confiding,  engaging  vine  ;  but  you 
never  can  put  beans  in  poetry,  nor  into  the  highest  sort  of 
prose.  Corn — which,  in  my  garden,  grows  alongside  the 
bean,  and,  so  far  as  I  can  see,  with  no  affectation  of  superior- 
ity— is,  however,  the  child  of  song.  It  "  waves  "  in  all 
literature. 

Charles  Dudley  Warner. 
My  Summer  in  a  Garden. 

Mr.  Yeats  has,  however,  rescued  the  bean  from  its  invidious  position 
(The  Lake  Isle  of  Innisfree)  : — 

I  will  arise  and  go  now,  and  go  to  Innisfree, 
And  a  small  cabin  build  there,  of  clay  and  wattles  made  ; 
Nine  bean  rows  will  I  have  there,  a  hive  for  the  honey  bee, 
And  live  alone  in  the  bee-loud  glade. 

Lady  Middleton,  a  friend  of  old  days  in  Adelaide  and  now  in  England, 
reminded  me  of  these  lines.  But  in  preparing  this  (fourth)  edition 
I  thought  so  serious  a  subject  should  have  more  attention.  I  have 
accordingly  looked  up  the  Nezv  English  Dictionary  and  obtained  good 
results.  I  learn  that  an  unknown  poet  writing  about  1325  says,  "  No 
rich  man  dredeth  God  The  worth  of  a  bean  "  ;  and  Langland  in  Piers 
Plowtnan  says  of  wicked  woman,  "  To  be  corsed  in  consistorie  "  (cursed 
in  the  Bishop's  Court)  "  she  counted  noght  a  bene."  In  Chaucer's 
Merchant's  Tale  we  learn  that  a  "  woman  thirty  yere  of  age  ...  is  but 
bene-straw  " — such  a  shrivelled  old  witch  she  must  have  been  at  that 
age  in  those  days  !  The  bean  is  also  found  in  poetry,  quoted  in  Cotgrave 
and  appearing  in  Lydgate's  poems,  Thomson's  Seasons,  and  Morris's 
Earthly  Paradise.  As  regards  "  the  highest  sort  of  prose  "  Warner  must 
have  forgotten  Jack  and  the  Beanstalk  !  Haliburton  {Sam  Slick)  also 
describes  a  man  as  "  a  bean-pole  of  a  lawyer  "  (just  as  we  used  to  call 
people  in  New  South  Wales  "  Cornstalks  ").  When  we  further  re- 
member that  it  is  a  test  of  intellectual  ability  "  to  know  how  many  blue 
beans  make  five,"  it  becomes  finally  conclusive  that  the  bean  needed  no 
such  rehabilitation  as  Warner  supposed. 


It  is  not  the  essayist's  duty  to  inform,  to  build  pathways 
through  metaphysical  morasses,  to  cancel  abuses,  any  more 
than  it  is  the  duty  of  the  poet  to  do  these  things.  Incident- 
ally he  may  do  something  in  that  way,  just  as  the  poet  may, 
but  it  is  not  his  duty,  and  should  not  be  expected  of  him. 
Skylarks  are  primarily  created  to  sing,  although  a  whole 
choir  of  them  may  be  baked  in  pies  and  brought  to  table  ; 
they  were  born  to  make  music,  although  they  may  incident- 
ally stay  the  pangs  of  vulgar  hunger.  .  .  .  The  essay  should 
be  pure  hterature  as  the  poem  is  pure  literature. 

Alexander  Smith. 
On  the  Writing  of  Essays. 


390  MYERS 

Yet  in  my  hid  soul  must  a  voice  reply 

Which  knows  not  which  may  seem  the  viler  gain. 
To  sleep  for  ever  or  be  born  again, 

The  blank  repose  or  drear  eternity. 

A  solitary  thing  it  were  to  die 

So  late  begotten  and  so  early  slain, 

With  sweet  life  withered  to  a  passing  pain. 

Till  nothing  anywhere  should  still  be  I. 
Yet  if  for  evermore  I  must  convey 
These  weary  senses  thro'  an  endless  day 

And  gaze  on  God  with  these  exhausted  eyes, 
I  fear  that  howsoe'er  the  seraphs  play 
My  life  shall  not  be  theirs  nor  I  as  they. 

But  homeless  in  the  heart  of  Paradise. 

F.  W.  H.  Myers. 
Immortality. 

This  is  from  Myers'  Poems,  1870,  and  is  one  of  a  pair  of  sonnets.  I  do 
not  quote  the  first  in  full  because  its  meaning  seems  obscure,  but  the  last 
six  lines  on  the  shortness  of  life  as  compared  with  eternity  are  as  follow  : 

Lo,  all  that  age  is  as  a  speck  of  sand 

Lost  on  the  long  beach  where  the  tides  are  free, 

And  no  man  metes  it  in  his  hollow  hand 
Nor  cares  to  ponder  it,  how  small  it  be  ; 

At  ebb  it  lies  forgotten  on  the  land 
And  at  full  tide  forgotten  in  the  sea. 

In  the  second  sonnet  quoted  above,  Myers  is  not  m.erely  referring  to 
the  Biblical  account  of  the  future  life  in  heaven  as  consisting  in  endless 
worship — which,  if  taken  literally  instead  of  symbolically,  would  certainly 
mean  a  "  drear  eternity."  The  suggestion  is  that  there  miust  be  some 
equivalent  to  work,  thought,  activity,  progress,  and  definite  aims  to  make 
eternal  life  preferable  to  annihilation.  (I  am  reminded  here  of  a  curious 
statement  made  by  the  great  Adam  Smith,  "  What  can  be  added  to  the 
happiness  of  the  man  who  is  in  health,  who  is  out  of  debt,  and  has  a  clear 
conscience  !  ")  Myers  ultimately  came  to  the  definite  conclusion  that  the 
future  life  will  be  one  of  continued  progress. 

His  name,  Myers,  is  purely  English,  not  Jewish.  This  gifted  man 
was  not  only  a  fine  poet,  but  also  an  important  essayist  and  a  remarkable 
classical  scholar.  He,  Hodgson,  and  others  formed  the  small  band  of 
able  men  who  threw  everything  else  aside  and  devoted  their  lives  to 
Psychical  Research.  Myers'  best  poems  appeared  in  The  Renewal  of 
Youth  and  other  Poems,  1882,  and  it  was  no  doubt  a  loss  to  poetry  that 
during  the  remaining  eighteen  years  of  his  life  he  added  little,  if  anything, 
more.  However,  he  and  Hodgson  considered  that  the  work  to  which 
they  had  devoted  themselves  was  of  the  very  highest  importance.  His 
monumental  work,  Human  Personality  and  its  Survival  of  Bodily  Death, 
was  left  incomplete  at  his  death,  but  Hodgson,  with  Miss  Alice  Johnson's 
assistance,  completed  and  edited  it. 

Myers  was  quite  satisfied  before  his  death,  in  1901,  that  the  evidence 
collected  by  the  Society  for  Psychical  Research  had  already  established  in 


WADDINGTON— COLERIDGE  391 

itself  the  fact  of  survival  after  death.  But  the  interesting  fact  is  that 
during  nineteen  years  since  he  "  passed  over  to  the  other  side  "  he  has 
apparently  been  the  principal  agent  in  adding  greatly  to  that  evidence. 
There  is  ever}'  reason  to  believe  that  Myers  has  personally  been  com- 
municating and  arranging  and  directing  much  of  the  evidence  that  has 
since  been  given. 


MORS  ET  VITA 

We  know  not  yet  what  life  shall  be, 

What  shore  beyond  earth's  shore  be  set  ; 
What  grief  awaits  us,  or  what  glee, 
We  know  not  yet. 

Still,  somewhere  in  sweet  converse  met, 

Old  friends,  we  say,  beyond  death's  sea 
Shall  meet  and  greet  us,  nor  forget 

Those  days  of  yore,  those  years  when  we 

Were  loved  and  true — but  will  death  let 
Our  eyes  the  longed-for  vision  see  ? 
We  know  not  yet. 

Samuel  Waddington. 

There  is  abundant  evidence  collected  by  the  Society  for  Psychical 
Research  that  friends  do  constantly  meet  on  the  other  side.  In  one  of 
their  many  convincing  cases,  The  Ear  of  Dionysius,  the  late  Dr.  A.  W. 
Verrall  and  Professor  Butcher  are  clearly  seen  working  out  together  an 
exceedingly  clever  and  intricate  scheme  to  prove  their  personal  identity 
and  survival.  (It  is  a  mistake  to  suppose  that  Sir  Oliver  Lodge's  Raymond 
is  in  any  way  typical  of  the  best  evidence  collected  by  the  Society. 
Although  naturally  very  convincing  to  Sir  Oliver  and  the  family,  it 
has  no  great  evidential  value  for  the  outside  world — and  in  this  respect  is 
far  inferior  to  such  water-tight  cases  as,  for  example,  Yhe  Ear  oj 
Dionysius.) 


( )  is  one  of  those  men  who  go  far  to  shake  my  faith 

in  a  future  state  of  existence  ;  I  mean,  on  account  of  the 
difficulty  of  knowing  where  to  place  him.  I  could  not  bear 
to  roast  him  ;  he  is  not  so  bad  as  that  comes  to  ;  but  then, 
on  the  other  hand,  to  have  to  sit  down  with  such  a  fellov/  in 
the  very  lowest  pothouse  of  heaven  is  utterly  inconsistent 
with  the  belief  of  that  place  being  a  place  of  happiness  for  me. 

S.  T.  Coleridge. 
Table  Talk. 


392  CORY— SWINBURNE 


MIMNERMUS  IN  CHURCH 

You  promise  heavens  free  from  strife, 
Pure  truth,  and  perfect  change  of  will  ; 

But  sweet,  sweet  is  this  human  life. 
So  sweet,  I  fain  would  breathe  it  still  ; 

Your  chilly  stars  I  can  forgo. 

This  warm  kind  world  is  all  I  know. 

You  say  there  is  no  substance  here, 

One  great  reality  above  : 
Back  from  that  void  I  shrink  in  fear, 

And  child-like  hide  myself  in  love  : 
Show  me  what  angels  feel.     Till  then, 
I  cling,  a  mere  weak  man,  to  men. 

You  bid  me  lift  my  mean  desires 
From  faltering  lips  and  fitful  veins 

To  sexless  souls,  ideal  quires. 

Unwearied  voices,  wordless  strains  : 

My  mind  with  fonder  welcome  owns 

One  dear  dead  friend's  remembered  tones. 

Forsooth  the  present  we  must  give 
To  that  which  cannot  pass  away  ; 

All  beauteous  things  for  which  we  live 
By  laws  of  time  and  space  decay. 

But  oh,  the  very  reason  why 

I  clasp  them,  is  because  they  die. 

William  (Johnson)  Cory. 

Mimnermus  was  a  fine  Greek  elegiac  poet— about  630-600  B.C. 


Time  takes  them  home  that  we  loved,  fair  names  and  famous. 
To  the  soft  long  sleep,  to  the  broad  sweet  bosom  of  death  ; 

But  the  flower  of  their  souls  he  shall  not  take  away  to  shame  us, 
Nor  the  lips  lack  song  for  ever  that  now  lack  breath  ; 

For  with  us  shall  the  music  and  perfume  that  die  not  dwell. 

Though  the  dead  to  our  dead  bid  welcome,  and  we  farewell. 

Swinburne. 
In  Memory  of  Barry  Cornwall. 


KANT— JEFFERIES  393 

There  are  two  things  that  fill  my  soul  with  a  holy  rever- 
ence and  an  ever-growing  wonder  :  the  spectacle  of  the 
starry  sky,  that  virtually  annihilates  us  as  physical  beings  ; 
and  the  moral  law  which  raises  us  to  infinite  dignity  as 
intelligent  agents. 


The  ought  expresses  a  kind  of  necessity,  a  kind  of  connec- 
tion of  actions  with  their  grounds  or  reasons,  such  as  is  to  be 
found  nowhere  else  in  the  whole  natural  world.  For  of  the 
natural  world  our  understanding  can  know  nothing  except 
what  is,  what  has  been,  or  what  will  be.  We  cannot  say  that 
anything  in  it  ought  to  be  other  than  it  actually  was,  is,  or 
will  be.  In  fact,  so  long  as  we  are  considering  the  course  of 
nature,  the  ought  has  no  meaning  whatever.  We  can  as 
little  inquire  what  ought  to  happen  in  nature  as  we  can 
inquire  what  properties  a  circle  ought  to  have. 

Immanuel  Kant. 

The  first  quotation  (from  the  Kritik  of  Practical  Reason)  is  often 
rendered  in  such  words  as  these  :  "  Two  things  fill  my  soul  with  awe — 
the  starry  heavens  in  the  still  night,  and  the  sense  of  duty  in  man." 


One  summer  evening  sitting  by  my  window  I  watched  for 
the  first  star  to  appear,  knowing  the  position  of  the  brightest 
in  the  southern  sky.  The  dusk  came  on,  grew  deeper,  but 
the  star  did  not  shine.  By  and  by,  other  stars  less  bright 
appeared,  so  that  it  could  not  be  the  sunset  which  obscured 
the  expected  one.  Finally,  I  considered  that  I  must  have 
mistaken  its  position,  when  suddenly  a  puff  of  air  blew 
through  the  branch  of  a  pear  tree  which  overhung  the  window, 
a  leaf  moved,  and  there  was  the  star  behind  the  leaf. 

At  present  the  endeavour  to  make  discoveries  is  like 
gazing  at  the  sky  up  through  the  boughs  of  an  oak.  Here  a 
beautiful  star  shines  clearly  ;  here  a  constellation  is  hidden 
by  a  branch  ;  a  universe  by  a  leaf.  Some  mental  instrument 
or  organon  is  required  to  enable  us  to  distinguish  between  the 
leaf  which  may  be  removed  and  a  real  void  ;  when  to  cease 
to  look  in  one  direction,  and  to  work  in  another.  .  .  .  There 
are  infinities  to  be  known,  but  they  are  hidden  by  a  leaf. 

Richard  Jefferies. 
The  Story  of  my  Heart. 


394  TENNYSON  AND  OTHERS 

And  here  the  Singer  for  his  Art 

Not  all  in  vain  may  plead 
"  The  song  that  nerves  a  nation's  heart 
Is  in  itself  a  deed." 

Tennyson. 
Charge  of  the  Heavy  Brigade. 


I  KNEW  a  very  wise  man  that  believed  that,  if  a  man  were 
permitted  to  make  all  the  ballads,  he  need  not  care  who 
should  make  the  laws  of  a  nation. 

Fletcher  of  Saltoun. 
Letter  to  Montrose  and  others. 

What  would  the  wise  man  have  said  of  "  It's  a  long,  long  way  to 
Tipperary  "  ? 


De  par  le  Roy  defense  a  Dieu 
De  faire  miracle  en  ce  lieu. 

(By  order  of  the  King,  God  is  forbidden 
To  work  miracles  in  this  place.) 

Anon. 

The  teaching  of  Cornelius  Jansen  (1585-1638)  led  to  an  important 
evangelical  movement  in  the  Roman  Catholic  Church.  When,  however, 
the  Jansenists  became  subjected  to  persecution,  the  usual  result  followed 
that  numbers  of  them  became  fanatics.  The  more  corrupt  the  French 
Court  and  Society  became,  the  more  frenzied  became  this  fanaticism. 
In  1727  the  Jansenist  deacon,  Paris,  a  man  of  very  holy  life,  was  buried 
in  the  St.  Medard  churchyard,  and  shortly  afterwards  miracles  were  said 
to  take  place  at  his  tomb.  In  consequence  large  crowds  of  convidsion- 
naires  assembled  there  and  very  shocking  scenes  were  enacted,  men  and 
women  in  hysterical  and  epileptic  fits  and  ecstatic  delirium,  eating  the 
earth  of  the  grave  and  inflicting  frightful  tortures  on  themselves  and  each 
other.  When  in  1732  the  Court  interposed  and  closed  the  churchyard 
some  wit  wrote  the  above  couplet  on  the  gate. 


Art — which  I  may  style  the  love  of  loving,  rage 
Of  knowing,  seeing,  feeling  the  absolute  truth  of  things 
For  truth's  sake,  whole  and  sole — nor  any  good,  truth  brings 
The  knowcr,  seer,  feeler  beside. 

R.  Browning. 
Fifine  at  the  Fair. 


CALVERLEY  395 


FIRST*  LOVE 


O  MY  earliest  love,  who,  ere  I  number'd 

Ten  sweet  summers,  made  my  bosom  thrill  ! 

Will  a  swallow — or  a  swift,  or  some  bird — 
Fly  to  her  and  say,  I  love  her  still  ? 

Say  my  life's  a  desert  drear  and  arid. 

To  its  one  green  spot  I  aye  recur  : 
Never,  never — although  three  times  married — 

Have  I  cared  a  jot  for  aught  but  her. 

No,  mine  own  !   though  early  forced  to  leave  you. 
Still  my  heart  was  there  where  first  we  met  ; 

In  those  "  Lodgings  with  an  ample  sea-view," 
Which  were,  forty  years  ago,  "  To  Let," 

There  I  saw  her  first,  our  landlord's  oldest 
Little  daughter.     On  a  thing  so  fair 

Thou,  O  Sun, — who  (so  they  say)  beholdest 
Everything, — hast  gazed,  I  tell  thee,  ne'er. 

There  she  sat — so  near  me,  yet  remoter 
Than  a  star — a  blue-eyed  bashful  imp  : 

On  her  lap  she  held  a  happy  bloater, 

'Twixt  her  lips  a  yet  more  happy  shrimp. 

And  I  loved  her,  and  our  troth  we  plighted 
On  the  morrow  by  the  shingly  shore  : 

In  a  fortnight  to  be  disunited 
By  a  bitter  fate  for  evermore. 

O  my  own,  my  beautiful,  my  blue-eyed  ! 

To  be  young  once  more,  and  bite  my  thumb 
At  the  world  and  all  its  cares  with  you,  I'd 

Give  no  inconsiderable  sum. 

Hand  in  hand  we  tramp'd  the  golden  seaweed. 
Soon  as  o'er  the  gray  cliff  peep'd  the  dawn  : 

Side  by  side,  when  came  the  hour  for  tea,  we'd 
Crunch  the  mottled  shrimp  and  hairy  prawn  : — 


396  CALVERLEY  AND  OTHERS 

Has  she  wedded  some  gigantic  shrimper, 

That  sweet  mite  with  whom  I  loved  to  play  ? 

Is  she  girt  with  babes  that  whine  and  whimper, 
That  bright  being  who  was  always  gay  ? 

Yes — she  has  at  least  a  dozen  wee  things  ! 

Yes — I  see  her  darning  corduroys, 
Scouring  floors,  and  setting  out  the  tea-things 

For  a  howling  herd  of  hungry  boys, 

In  a  home  that  reeks  of  tar  and  sperm-oil  ! 

But  at  intervals  she  thinks,  I  know, 
Of  those  days  which  we,  afar  from  turmoil, 

Spent  together  forty  years  ago. 

O  my  earliest  love,  still  unforgotten. 

With  your  downcast  eyes  of  dreamy  blue  ! 

Never,  somehow,  could  I  seem  to  cotton 
To  another  as  I  did  to  you  ! 

C.  S.  Calverley. 


It  isn't  raining  rain  to  me, 

It's  raining  daffodils. 
In  every  dimpled  drop  I  see 

Wild  flowers  on  the  hills. 
The  clouds  of  grey  engulf  the  day 

And  overwhelm  the  town  : 
It  isn't  raining  rain  to  me. 

It's  raining  roses  down. 

Robert  Loveman. 


Over  the  winter  glaciers 

I  see  the  summer  glow. 
And  through  the  wild-piled  snowdrift 

The  warm  rosebuds  below. 

R.  W.  Emerson. 
The  World- Soul. 

Fmcrson  is  always  an  optimist. 


OLDYS— ELIOT  397 


ON  A  FLY  DRINKING  OUT  OF  A  CUP  OF  ALE 

Busy,  curious,  thirsty  fly. 
Drink  with  me,  and  drink  as  I, 
Freely  welcome  to  my  cup  ; 
Couldst  thou  sip  and  sip  it  up, 
Make  the  most  of  life  you  may  ; 
Life  is  short  and  wears  away. 

Both  alike,  both  thine  and  mine. 
Hasten  quick  to  their  decline  ; 
Thine's  a  summer,  mine's  no  more. 
Though  repeated  to  three-score  : 
Three-score  summers,  when  they're  gone. 
Will  appear  as  short  as  one. 

William  Oldys. 

This  was  first  published  in  1732  as  "  The  Fly — An  Anachreontick  " 
and  Mr.  Gosse  in  the  Eticy.  Brit,  gave  the  first  six  Hnes  as  an  example 
of  an  Anacreontic.  He  attributed  the  poem  to  Oldys,  but  the  authorship 
is  doubtful.  (See  Notes  and  Queries,  3rd  ser.  i.  21.)  Vincent  Bourne, 
in  a  copy  of  his  Poeniatia,  1734,  in  my  possession,  has  written  out  and 
signed  the  two  verses,  entitling  them  "  A  Song,"  the  last  line  of  each 
verse  being  repeated  as  a  refrain.  From  this  it  might  appear  that  he 
claimed  the  authorship.  In  1743  he  published  a  Latin  version  of  the 
poem.  Vincent  Bourne,  a  beautiful  Latinist,  was  much  loved  by  his 
pupils,  Charles  Lamb  and  Cowper,  who  each  translated  into  English 
some  of  his  fine  Latin  verses. 

"  Go,  go,  poor  devil,"  quoth  my  Uncle  Toby  [addressing  a  fly  that 
had  buzzed  about  his  nose  all  dinner-time],  "  get  thee  gone, — why  should 
I  hurt  thee  ?  This  world  is  surely  wide  enough  to  hold  both  thee  and 
me  "  {Tristram  Shandy,  ch.  xlviii.). 

But,  alas,  hygiene  says,  "  Kill  that  Ry  !  " 


It  takes  very  little  water  to  make  a  perfect  pool  for  a  tiny 
fish,  where  it  will  find  its  world  and  paradise  all  in  one,  and 
never  have  a  presentiment  of  the  dry  bank.  The  fretted 
summer  shade,  and  stillness,  and  the  gentle  breathing  of 
some  loved  life  near — it  would  be  paradise  to  us  all,  if  eager 
thought,  the  strong  angel  with  the  implacable  brow,  had  not 
long  since  closed  the  gates. 

George  Eliot. 
Romola. 


398.  LONGFELLOW  AND  OTHERS 

Nature,  the  old  nurse,  took 

The  child  upon  her  knee, 
Saying  :   "  Here  is  a  story  book 

Thy  Father  has  written  for  thee." 

"  Come,  wander  with  me,"  she  said, 

"  Into  regions  yet  untrod  ; 
And  read  what  is  still  unread 

In  the  manuscripts  of  God." 

And  he  wandered  away  and  away 
With  Nature,  the  dear  old  nurse, 

Who  sang  to  him  night  and  day 
The  rhymes  of  the  universe. 

And  whenever  the  way  seemed  long, 

Or  his  heart  began  to  fail. 
She  would  sing  a  more  wonderful  song. 

Or  tell  a  more  marvellous  tale. 

Longfellow 
Agassiz. 

Place  thyself,  O  lovely  fair  ! 
Where  a  thousand  mirrors  are  ; 
Though  a  thousand  faces  shine, 
'Tis  but  one — and  that  is  thine. 

Then  the  Painter's  skill  allow, 
Who  could  frame  so  fair  a  brow. 
What  are  lustrous  eyes  of  flame. 
What  are  cheeks,  the  rose  that  shame, 
What  are  glances  wild  and  free. 
Speech,  and  shape,  and  voice — but  He  .'' 

MOASI. 

L.  S.  Costello's  translation. 


And  Christians  love  in  the  turf  to  lie, 

Not  in  watery  graves  to  be — 
Nay,  the  very  fishes  would  sooner  die 

On  the  land  than  in  the  sea. 

Thomas  Hood. 


PUTTENHAM  399 

As  well  Poets  as  Poesie  are  despised,  and  the  name  become, 
of  honourable  infamous,  subject  to  scorne  and  derision,  and 
rather  a  reproach  than  a  prayse  to  any  that  useth  it  :  for 
commonly  whoso  is  studious  in  the  Arte  or  shewes  himselfe 
excellent  in  it,  they  call  him  in  disdayne  a.  phantasticall :  and 
a  light-headed  or  phantasticall  man  (by  conversion)  they  call 
a  Poet.  ...  Of  such  among  the  Nobilitie  or  gentrie  as  be 
very  well  scene  in  many  laudable  sciences,  and  especially  in 
Poesie,  it  is  so  come  to  passe  that  they  have  no  courage  to 
write ;  and  if  they  have,  yet  are  they  loath  to  be  a-known  of 
their  skill.  So  as  I  know  very  many  notable  Gentlemen  in 
the  Court  that  have  written  commendably  and  suppressed  it 
agayne,  or  else  suffred  it  to  be  publisht  without  their  owne 
names  to  it  :  as  if  it  were  a  discredit  for  a  gentleman  to 
seeme  learned,  and  to  shew  himselfe  amorous  of  any  good 
Arte. 

George  Puttenham. 

The  Arte  of  English  Poesie,  1589. 

We  do  not  always  remember  in  what  disheartening  conditions  the 
great  EHzabethan  Hterature  was  produced — the  inferior  position  of  the 
writer,  his  wretched  remuneration  and  his  dependence  on  patrons.  It  is 
strange  to  think  that  it  was  considered  beneath  the  dignity  of  a  gentleman 
to  write  poetry  or  to  acknowledge  its  authorship — or  apparently  to  show 
proficiency  in  other  arts  or  sciences.  Such  men  as  Sir  Philip  Sidney  and 
Sir  Walter  Raleigh  were  exceptions.  The  curious  fact  is  that  Puttenham 
himself  (assuming,  as  is  probable,  that  he  was  the  author)  issued  this 
important  book  anonymously.  He  had,  however,  acknowledged  his 
Partheniades  ten  years  before. 

As  Arber  points  out,  the  above  passage,  and  another  reference  by 
Puttenham  to  the  same  subject,  indicate  that,  at  least  in  the  earlier  Eliza- 
bethan period,  much  talent  inust  have  been  lost  and  much  literature 
never  reached  the  printing  press.  The  same  feeling  that  then  existed  is 
seen  again  in  Locke's  time  (see  p.  209),  and,  if  we  consider  a  moment,  we 
shall  find  that  it  has  persisted  to  some  extent  to  the  present  day.  Think  how 
miserably  inadequate  is  the  attention  paid  to  poetry  in  our  educational 
system,  the  methods  employed  being,  indeed,  calculated  to  make  the 
student  loathe  the  subject.  When  I  was  young  we  had  as  a  school  text- 
book Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury — a  divine  gift  to  us  in  those  days.  As 
we  had  a  sympathetic  teacher,  we  read  it  as  poetry,  and  the  consequence 
was  that  I  and  other  boys  loved  the  book  and  knew  it  practically  by  heart 
from  cover  to  cover. 

It  is  surprising  that  Englishmen  neglect  the  one  great  talent  which 
they  possess.  What  distinguishes  them  above  all  other  nations  is  their 
superiority  in  the  higher  imaginative  faculties.  Curiously  enough,  they  do 
not  recognize  this,  but  pride  themselves  upon  being  shrewd,  common- 
sense,  practical  business-men,  "  a  nation  of  shopkeepers  " — although 
their  entire  history  shows  the  contrary.  That  history  is  epitomized  in 
such  an  expression  as  "  England  the  Unready,"  or,  in  the  King's  appeal, 
"  Wake  up,  England  !  "  That  they  are  idealists  and  dreamers  can  be 
shown  by  numberless  facts.  For  example,  what  have  they  supported  in 
the  sacred  name  of  Liberty  ?     The  laissez-faire  doctrine,  that  law  is  an 


400  E.  B.  BROWNING 

infringement  of  freedom,  and,  therefore,  that  cruelty,  abuses,  and 
absurdities  must  not  be  interfered  with  ;  the  theory  that  England  should 
be  the  home  of  freedom,  and,  therefore,  that  the  scum  of  Europe  shall 
infect  the  nation  ;  the  "  Palladium  of  English  Liberty,"  Trial  by  Jury, 
which  means  the  appointment  of  sets  of  inexperienced,  irresponsible,  and 
easily-biased  judges,  one  or  more  of  each  set  being  quite  often  open 
to  corruption  ;  the  economic  policy,  which,  because  it  is  falsely  labelled 
Free  Trade,  becomes  a  fetish  against  which  no  practical  objection  must 
be  urged  and  no  lesson  learned  from  the  experience  of  other  countries. 
On  the  other  hand,  our  experience  in  the  present  war  is  a  proof  that  the 
imaginative  faculties  are  more  powerful  than  mere  intellect  :  for,  when 
the  Englishman  bends  his  energies  to  the  business  of  war,  he  soon  sur- 
passes the  German  for  all  his  fifty  years'  preparation. 

That  the  English  are  essentially  an  imaginative  race  is  shown  in  their 
initiative  and  enterprise,  their  love  of  travel  and  adventure  which  have 
created  the  British  Empire  ;  and  is  proved  concretely  by  the  fact  that 
England  has  produced  the  greatest  wealth  of  poetry  which  the  world  has 
ever  seen.  This  great  treasure,  which  should  be  employed  for  encourag- 
ing the  highest  of  all  faculties,  is  allowed  to  lie  idle.  The  fact  seems  to  be 
overlooked  that  the  study  of  poetry  is  not  only  of  enormous  intrinsic 
value  in  knowledge  and  culture,  but  that  it  is  the  finest  of  all  mental 
training.  It  provides  the  main  advantages  claimed  for  the  study  of  the 
classics.  By  analysis  and  paraphrase  it  gives  knowledge  of  language, 
appreciation  of  style,  practice  in  literary  expression,  and,  above  all  things, 
precision  of  thought.  In  my  opinion,  poetry  should  form  an  essential 
part  of  education,  beginning  in  childhood  and  continuing  throughout 
the  Arts  course.  It  may  be  found  that  there  are  intelligentpersons  who 
are  incapable  of  appreciating  poetry,  and  the  subject  may,  therefore,  not 
be  made  a  compulsory  one.  But  my  conviction  is  that,  where  men 
imagine  themselves  to  be  thus  deficient,  it  is  the  result  of  a  bad  system  of 
education.  There  is  great  truth  in  Stevenson's  fine  essay,  "  The  Lantern- 
Bearers." 


The  Earth  goeth  on  the  Earth,  glistening  like  gold, 
The  Earth  goeth  to  the  Earth,  sooner  than  it  wold. 
The  Earth  builds  on  the  Earth  castles  and  towers — 
The  Earth  says  to  the  Earth,  all  shall  be  ours. 

Epitaph^  17th  Century, 

An  inscription  on  a  tomb  in  Melrose  Abbey,  but  said  to  be  a  version 
of  lines  by  a  fourteenth  century  poet,  William  Billing. 


She  never  found  fault  with  you,  never  implied 
Your  wrong  by  her  right ;  and  yet  men  at  her  side 
Grew  nobler,  girls  purer  .  .  . 
None  knelt  at  her  feet  confessed  lovers  in  thrall  ; 
They  knelt  more  to  God  than  they  used — that  was  all. 

E.  B.  Browning. 
My  Kate. 


CARLYLE  AND  OTHERS  401 

All  true  Work  is  religion  ;  and  whatsoever  religion  is  not 
Work  may  go  and  dwell  among  the  Brahmins,  Antinomians, 
Spinning  Dervishes,  or  where  it  will  ;  with  me  it  shall  have 
no  harbour. 

Carlyle. 

Reward. 


Deep,  deep  are  loving  eyes, 
Flowed  with  naphtha  fiery  sweet  ; 
And  the  point  is  paradise 
Where  their  glances  meet. 

R.  W.  Emerson. 
The  Daemonic  and  the  Celestial  Love. 


The  whole  earth 
The  beauty  wore  of  promise — that  which  sets 
The  budding  rose  above  the  rose  full-blown. 

Wordsworth. 
The  Prelude,  Bk.  XI. 


Let  us  reflect  that  the  highest  path  is  pointed  out  by  the 
pure  Ideal  of  those,  who  look  up  to  us,  and  who,  if  we  tread 
less  loftily,  may  never  look  so  high  again. 

Nathaniel  Hawthorne. 
Transformation . 


Go,  wing  thy  flight  from  star  to  star, 
From  world  to  luminous  world,  as  far 
As  the  universe  spreads  its  flaming  wall  : 
Take  all  the  pleasures  of  all  the  spheres. 
And  multiply  each  through  endless  years, 
One  minute  of  Heaven  is  worth  them  all. 

Thomas  Moore, 
Lalla  Rookh. 

A  Celtic  flight  of  imagination. 

2D 


402  BROWNING  AND  OTHERS 

.  .  .  As  I  lie  here,  hours  of  the  dead  night, 

Dying  in  state  and  by  such  slow  degrees, 

I  fold  my  arms  as  if  they  clasped  a  crook, 

And  stretch  my  feet  forth,  straight  as  stone  can  point, 

And  let  the  bed-clothes,  for  a  mortcloth,  drop 

Into  great  laps  and  folds  of  sculptor's  work. 

R.  Browning. 
The  Bishop  orders  his  Tomb. 

This  and  the  next  four  quotations  and  others  through  the  book  are 
word-pictures. 


Fair  Margaret,  in  her  tidy  kirtle. 
Led  the  lorn  traveller  up  the  path. 

Through  clean-clipt  rows  of  box  and  myrtle  ; 
And  Don  and  Sancho,  Tramp  and  Tray, 

Upon  the  parlour  steps  collected, 
Wagged  all  their  tails,  and  seemed  to  say, — 

"  Our  master  knows  you — you're  expected." 

W.  M.  Praed. 
The  Vicar. 


As  when  a  Gryphon  through  the  wilderness 
With  winged  course,  o'er  hill  and  moory  dale, 
Pursues  the  Arimaspian,  who  by  stealth 
Had  from  his  wakeful  custody  purloined 
The  guarded  gold. 

Milton. 
Paradise  Lost. 

The  Griffin,  with  head  and  wings  of  a  bird  and  body  of  a  Hon,  is 
pursuing,  "  half  on  foot,  half  flying,"  the  one-eyed  Arimaspian,  who  is 
fleeing  on  horseback  with  the  purloined  gold.  The  Griffins  guarded 
mines  of  gold  and  hidden  treasure  (Herodotus,  iv.  27). 


.  .  .  Earth  and  ocean, 
Space,  and  the  isles  of  Hfe  or  light  that  gem 
The  sapphire  floods  of  interstellar  air, 
This  firmament  pavilioned  upon  chaos, 
With  all  its  cressets  of  immortal  fire. 

Shelley. 
Hellas. 


TENNYSON  AND  OTHERS  403 

Sometimes  a  troop  of  damsels  glad, 
An  abbot  on  an  ambling  pad, 
Sometimes  a  curly  shepherd-lad, 
Or  long-haired  page  in  crimson  clad, 
Goes  by  to  towered  Camelot. 

Tennyson. 
The  Lady  of  Shalott. 


And  on  we  roll — the  year  goes  by 

As  year  by  year  must  ever  go, 
And  castles  built  of  bits  of  sky 

Must  fall  and  lose  their  wondrous  glow  ; 

But  Hope  with  his  wings  is  not  yet  old. 
While  every  year  like  a  summer  day 

Ends  and  begins  with  grey  and  gold, 
Begins  and  ends  with  gold  and  grey. 

Richard  Hodgson. 


When  none  need  broken  meat. 
How  can  our  cake  be  sweet  ? 
When  none  want  flannel  and  coals, 
How  shall  we  save  our  souls  ? 

Oh  dear  !   oh  dear  ! 
The  Christian  virtues  will  disappear. 

Charlotte  Perkins  Stetson, 

Since  we  parted  yester  eve, 

I  do  love  thee,  love,  believe. 
Twelve  times  dearer,  twelve  hours  longer. 
One  dream  deeper,  one  night  stronger. 
One  sun  surer — thus  much  more 

Than  I  loved  thee,  love,  before. 

Owen  Meredith  (Earl  of  Lytton). 
Love  Fancies. 

Beauty  is  worse  than  wine — it  intoxicates  both  the  holder 
and  the  beholder. 

J.  G.  Zimmermann. 


404  WREN 


Wonder  of  highest  Art  !     He  that  will  reach 

A  Streine  for  thee,  had  need  his  Muse  should  stretch, 

Till  flying  to  the  Shades,  she  learne  what  Veine 

Of  Orpheus  call'd  Eurydice  againe  ; 

Or  learne  of  her  Apollo,  'till  she  can, 

As  well  as  Singer,  prove  Physitian  : 

And  then  she  may  without  suspension  sing, 

And,  authorised,  harp  upon  thy  String. 

Discordant  string  !  for  sure  thy  soule  (unkind 

To  its  own  Bowells  Issue)  could  not  find 

One  Breast  in  Consort  to  its  jarring  stroake 

'Mongst  piteous  Femall  Organs,  therefore  broke 

Translations  due  [to]  Law,  from  fate  repriev'd, 

And  struck  a  Unison  to  her  selfe,  and  liv'd. 

Was't  this  ?  or  was  it,  that  the  Goatish  Flow 
Of  thy  Adulterous  veines  (from  thence  let  goe 
By  second  Aesculapius  his  hand) 
Dissolv'd  the  Parcae's  Adamantine  Band, 

And  made  Thee  Artist's  Glory,  Shame  of  Fate, 
Triumph  of  Nature,  Virbius  his  Mate. 

Christ.  Wren,  Gent.  Com.  of  Wad.  Coll. 


These  lines  are  particularly  interesting  because  we  know  so  little 
of  that  great  genius,  Sir  Christopher  Wren  (1632-1723).  We  do  know, 
however,  that,  apart  from  his  architecture,  he  was  a  boy-prodigy  in 
geometr}',  astronomy,  and  ph^^sics,  and  continued  to  do  important 
scientific  work  until  i656.  He  was  the  leading  scientist  of  his  generation 
except,  of  course,  Newton — who  spoke  very  highly  of  him  in  his 
Principia.  The  Great  Fire  of  1666  diverted  the  rest  of  Wren's  life  to 
architecture  ;  otherwise  he  would  have  been  perhaps  a  greater  scientist 
than  he  was  an  architect. 

A  curious  fact,  in  face  of  what  we  now  know  about  the  propagandist 
Germans,  is  that  they  stole  Wren's  discoveries  and  inventions  and 
passed  them  off  as  their  own  ! 

In  1 65 1,  when  Wren  wrote  this  poem  at  eighteen  or  nineteen  years 
of  age,  he  was  a  Gentleman  Commoner  at  Wadham  College,  Oxford, 
and  had  already  done  important  work  in  science.  On  December  14, 
1650,  Anne  Greene,  a  girl  twenty-two  years  of  age,  was  hanged  at 
Oxford  for  the  murder  of  her  new-born  child.  At  the  hanging  the 
women  present  threw  themselves  on  the  body,  pulling  and  jerking  it. 
This  was  done,  of  course,  in  execration  of  the  girl's  crime,  but  the 
Diet,  of  Nat.  Biog.  accepts  the  absurd  story  that  it  was  done  at  the 
girl's  request  in  order  to  expedite  her  death  !  However,  the  girl  when 
taken  down  was  found  to  show  signs  of  life,  and  after  long  and  careful 
attention  frona  the  physicians  recovered  and  was  pardoned.  The 
episode  caused  a  sensation,  and  a  pamphlet,  Newes  from  the  Dead,  was 


WREN— BLAKE  405 

published  at  Oxford  in   1651,  containing  a  number  of  verses  on  the 
subject,  including  this  one  of  Wren's. 

The  poem  is  not  easy  to  follow,  but  the  outstanding  feature  is  its 
grim  play  of  words  on  the  hanging-rope.  "  Wonder  of  highest  Art  " 
refers  to  the  success  of  the  physicians  in  resuscitating  the  girl.  The 
distinction  was  drawn  at  that  time  between  Art  and  Nature,  Art  being 
the  work  of  man  (see  pp.  20-21).  "  Streine  "  and  "stretch"  are  two 
puns  on  the  hanging.  The  Muse  is  to  learn  by  what  music  Orpheus 
brought  Eurydice  back  from  the  underworld  as  Anne  Greene  also  had 
been  recovered  from  death. 

The  next  four  lines  seem  to  me  obscure.  "  Suspension"  is  another 
musical  term,  meaning  the  discord  caused  by  prolonging  a  note  or 
chord  into  the  following  chord  —  and  it  is,  of  course,  a  pun  on  the 
"  suspension  "  or  hanging  of  the  girl.  And  in  "  harp  upon  thy  string," 
the  string  is  the  hanging-rope.  But  why  the  Muse,  learning  froin 
Apollo  the  art  of  physic,  will  be  able  without  "  suspension  "  to  "  harp 
upon  thy  string,"  I  cannot  clearly  understand. 

The  remainder  is,  however,  fairly  plain.  The  rope  is  called  a 
"  discordant  string,"  because  it  could  not  wake  sympathy  among  the 
woinen  "  by  its  jarring  stroake."  The  soul  of  the  girl,  who  had  killed 
her  baby,  is  "  unkind  to  its  own  Bowells  Issue."  "  Translations  "  is 
probably  another  musical  term  with  some  sense  of  "  removal,"  the 
translating  or  removal  of  the  girl  to  Hades.  Having  failed  to  wake 
pity  in  the  breasts  of  the  women,  her  soul  escapes  from  the  judgment 
pronounced  by  law  and  effects  a  "  unison  "  (another  musical  term)  with 
herself  and  lives. 

Or,  says  the  poem,  was  it  that  the  girl's  "  goatish  "  blood  was  too 
strong  for  the  Fates  ?  The  goddess  of  prostitutes  was  Aphrodite 
Pandemos,  whose  symbol  was  the  goat — and  the  goat's  blood  was 
supposed  to  be  exceedingly  strong. 

"  Artist's  Glory,"  the  physicians  being  the  "  Artists  "  ;  "  Shame  of 
Fate,"  because  Fate  had  been  overcome  ;  "  Triumph  of  Nature," 
Nature  (again  distinguished  from  Art)  was  the  innate  strength  of  the 
girl's  blood  ;  "  Virbius  his  Mate,"  Virbius,  whom  Sir  J.  G.  Frazer 
has  introduced  to  us  in  his  Golden  Bough,  was  a  King  of  Aricia  whom 
Diana  had  restored  to  life. 


O  Rose,  thou  art  sick  ! 
The  invisible  worm, 
That  flies  in  the  night, 
In  the  howUng  storm, 

Has  found  out  thy  bed 
Of  crimson  joy  ; 
And  his  dark  secret  love 
Does  thy  life  destroy. 

William  Blake. 


4o6  CRASHAW— SUCKLING 

Nympha  pudica  Deum  vidit,  et  erubuit. 

(The  modest  Nymph  saw  her  God  and  blushed.) 


The  conscious  water  saw  its  God  and  blushed. 

Richard  Crashaw. 

Referring  to  the  miracle  of  Cana.     Both  Latin  and  English  epigrams 
are  by  Crashaw.     In  the  former  the  water  is  personified  by  its  Nymph. 


The  maid  (and  thereby  hangs  a  tale) 
For  such  a  maid  no  Whitsun-ale 

Could  ever  yet  produce  : 
No  grape,  that's  kindly  ripe,  could  be 
So  round,  so  plump,  so  soft  as  she, 

Nor  half  so  full  of  juice. 

Her  feet  beneath  her  petticoat 
Like  little  mice  stole  in  and  out, 

As  if  they  feared  the  light  : 
But  O,  she  dances  such  a  way  ! 
No  sun  upon  an  Easter-day 

Is  half  so  fine  a  sight. 

Her  cheeks  so  rare  a  white  was  on, 
No  daisy  makes  comparison 

(Who  sees  them  is  undone)  ; 
For  streaks  of  red  were  mingled  there. 
Such  as  are  on  a  Catherine  pear. 

The  side  that's  next  the  sun. 

Her  lips  were  red,  and  one  was  thin 
Compar'd  to  that  was  next  her  chin, 

(Some  bee  had  stung  it  newly), 
But,  Dick,  her  eyes  so  guard  her  face 
I  durst  no  more  upon  them  gaze 

Than  on  the  sun  in  July. 

Sir  John  Suckling. 
Ballad  upon  a  Wedding. 

"  Some  bee  had  stung  it."     //,  of  course,  means  the  full  underlip,  as 
against  the  less  full  upperlip. 


WHITMAN  AND  OTHERS  407 

A  NOISELESS,  PATIENT  SPIDER 

A  NOISELESS,  patient  spider, 

I  mark'd,  where,  on  a  little  promontory,  it  stood,  isolated  ; 

Mark'd  how,  to  explore  the  vacant,  vast  surrounding. 

It  launched  forth  filament,  filament,  filament,  out  of  itself  ; 

Ever  unreeling  them^ever  tirelessly  speeding  them. 

And  you,  O  my  Soul,  where  you  stand, 

Surrounded,  surrounded,  in  measureless  oceans  of  space. 

Ceaselessly     musing,     venturing,     throwing, — seeking    the 

spheres,  to  connect  them  ; 
Till  the  bridge  you  will  need,  be  form'd — till  the  ductile 

anchor  hold  ; 
Till  the  gossamer  thread  you  fling,  catch  somewhere,  O  my 

Soul. 

Walt  Whitman. 
Leaves  of  Grass. 

The  Dahlia  you  brought  to  our  Isle 
Your  praises  for  ever  shall  speak 
'Mid  gardens  as  sweet  as  your  smile 
And  colours  as  bright  as  your  cheek. 

Lord  Holland. 

A  pretty  compliment  to  his  wife,  who  in  1814  had  introduced  the  dahlia 
into  England  from  Spain.  Previous  attempts  had  failed  (Liechtenstein's 
Holland  House). 


C'est  imiter  quelqu'un  que  de  planter  des  choux. 

A.  DE  Musset. 

Quoted  by  Austin  Dobson  : — 

.  .  ,  And  you,  whom  we  all  so  admire, 
Dear  Critics,  whose  verdicts  are  always  so  new  ! 
One  word  in  your  ear  :   There  were  Critics  before  .   .  . 
And  the  man  who  plants  cabbages  imitates,  too  ! 


The  Future,  that  bright  land  which  swims 
In  western  glory,  isles  and  streams  and  bays. 
Where  hidden  pleasures  float  in  golden  haze. 

George  Eliot. 
Jubal. 


4o8  BROWN  AND  OTHERS 

Vox,  et  praeterea  nihil. 

(Voice  and  nothing  more.) 


Proverb. 


Plutarch,  in  his  Apophthegm,  Lacon.  Incert.  xiii.,  says  that  a  man 
after  plucking  a  nightingale  and  finding  little  flesh  on  it,  said  (pdiva  r6  ris 
eaal,  Kai  ov^ev  aXXo,  "  Thou  art  voice  and  nothing  more." 

No  doubt  this  was  the  origin  of  the  saying  ;  but  there  is  also  the  story 
from  Ovid  (Met.  iii.  365-401).  The  mountain  nymph,  Echo,  used  to 
engage  Hera  in  talk,  while  Zeus  played  with  the  other  nymphs.  Hera 
discovered  this,  and  changed  her  into  an  echo,  a  being  who  had  no 
control  over  her  tongue  ;  so  that  she  could  not  speak  until  some  one  else 
had  spoken,  and  could  not  keep  silent  when  some  one  else  spoke.  Echo 
fell  in  love  with  Narcissus,  and,  as  her  love  was  not  returned,  she  pined 
away  until  nothing  remained  of  her  but  her  voice. 

The  saying  is  now  used  in  Hamlet's  sense,  "  Words,  words,  words  !  " 

(I  owe  the  reference  to  Plutarch  to  King's  Classical  and  Foreign 
Quotations.) 


Campbell  the  poet,  v/ho  had  always  a  bad  razor,  I  suppose, 
and  was  late  of  rising,  said  he  believed  the  man  of  civilization 
who  lived  to  be  sixty  had  suffered  more  pain  in  littles  in 
shaving  every  day  than  a  woman  with  a  large  family  had  from 
her  lyings-in. 

John  Brown. 
Horae  Subsecivae,  i.  457. 

See  also  Don  jfuafi,  XIV.  23,  24 — but  whether  Campbell  or   Byron 
was  the  originator  of  this  profound  observation  I  do  not  know. 


Called  on  the  W.  Molesworths.  He  is  threatened  with 
total  blindness,  and  his  excellent  wife  is  learning  to  work  in 
the  dark  in  preparation  for  a  darkened  chamber.  What 
things  wives  are  !  What  a  spirit  of  joyous  suffering,  con- 
fidence, and  love  was  incarnated  in  Eve  !  'Tis  a  pity  they 
should  eat  apples. 

Caroline  Fox's  Journals. 


Nature,  and  nature's  laws,  lay  hid  in  night : 
God  said,  "  Let  Newton  be  !  "  and  all  was  light. 

Pope. 


MYERS  409 

Such  is  the  ascendancy  which  the  great  works  of  the  Greek 
imagination  have  estabHshed  over  the  mind  of  man  that  .  .  . 
he  is  tempted  to  ignore  the  real  superiority  of  our  own 
reHgion,  morahty,  civiHzation,  and  to  re-shape  in  fancy  an 
adult  world  on  an  adolescent  ideal, 

F.  W.  H.  Myers. 
Essay  on  Greek  Oracles. 


That  early  burst  of  admiration  for  Virgil  of  which  I  have 
already  spoken  was  followed  by  a  growing  passion  for  one 
after  another  of  the  Greek  and  Latin  poets.  From  ten  to 
sixteen  I  lived  much  in  the  inward  recital  of  Homer,  Aeschy- 
lus, Lucretius,  Horace,  and  Ovid.  The  reading  of  Plato's 
Gorgias  at  fourteen  was  a  great  event  ;  but  the  study  of  the 
Phaedo  at  sixteen  effected  upon  me  a  kind  of  conversion. 
At  that  time,  too,  I  returned  to  my  worship  of  Virgil,  whom 
Homer  had  for  some  years  thrust  into  the  background. 
I  gradually  wrote  out  Bucolics,  Georgics,  Aeneid  from 
memory.  .  .  . 

The  discovery  at  seventeen,  in  an  old  school  book,  of  the 
poems  of  Sappho,  whom  till  then  I  had  only  known  by  name, 
brought  an  access  of  intoxicating  joy.  Later  on,  the  solitary 
decipherment  of  Pindar  made  another  epoch  of  the  same 
kind.  From  the  age  of  sixteen  to  twenty-three  there  was  no 
influence  in  my  life  comparable  to  Helle7iism  in  the  fullest 
sense  of  the  word.  That  tone  of  thought  came  to  me  natur- 
ally ;  the  classics  were  but  intensifications  of  my  own  being. 
They  drew  from  me  and  fostered  evil  as  well  as  good  ;  they 
might  aid  imaginative  impulse  and  detachment  from  sordid 
interests,  but  they  had  no  check  for  pride. 

When  pushed  thus  far,  the  "  Passion  of  the  Past  "  must 
needs  wear  away  sooner  or  later  into  an  unsatisfied  pain.  In 
1864  I  travelled  in  Greece.  I  was  mainly  alone  ;  nor  were 
the  traveller's  facts  and  feelings  mapped  out  for  him  then  as 
now.  Ignorant  as  I  was,  according  to  modern  standards, 
yet  my  emotions  were  all  my  own  :  and  few  men  can  have 
drunk  that  departed  loveliness  into  a  more  passionate  heart. 
It  was  the  life  of  about  the  sixth  century  before  Christ,  on 
the  isles  of  the  Aegean,  which  drew  me  most  ; — that  intensest 
and  most  unconscious  bloom  of  the  Hellenic  spirit.  Here 
alone  in  the  Greek  story  do  women  play  their  due  part  with 
men.     What  might  the  Greeks  have  made  of  the  female  sex 


410  MYERS 

had  they  continued  to  care  for  it  !     Then  it  was  that  Mim- 
nermus  sang  : — 

Tts  Be  /Bios,  Ti  SI  Tepiri'ov  arep  ^(^pvaeij'i  ' A(jjpo8iT ij'i  ; 
TiOvati^v,  ore  /xoi  fxrjKeTt.  ravra  /xeAot.  * 

Then  it  was  that  Praxilla's  cry  rang  out  across  the  narrow 
seas,  that  call  to  fellowship,  reckless  and  lovely  with  stirring 
joy.  "  Drink  with  me  !  "  she  cried,  "  be  young  along  with 
me  !  Love  with  me  !  wear  with  me  the  garland  crown  ! 
Mad  be  thou  with  my  madness  ;  be  wise  when  I  am  wise  !  " 

I  looked  through  my  open  porthole  close  upon  the  Lesbian 
shore.  There  rose  the  heathery  promontories,  and  waves 
lapped  upon  the  rocks  in  dawning  day  : — lapped  upon  those 
rocks  where  Sappho's  feet  had  trodden  ;  broke  beneath  the 
heather  on  which  had  sat  that  girl  unknown,  nearness  to  whom 
made  a  man  the  equal  of  the  gods.  I  sat  in  Mytilene,  to  me  a 
sacred  city,  between  the  hill-crest  and  the  sunny  bay.  .  .  . 

Gazing  thence  on  Delos,  on  the  Cyclades,  and  on  those 
straits  and  channels  of  purple  sea,  I  felt  that  nowise  could  I 
come  closer  still  ;  never  more  intimately  than  thus  could 
embrace  that  vanished  beauty.  Alas  for  an  ideal  which 
roots  itself  in  the  past  !     That  longing  cannot  be  allayed. 

F.  W.  H.  Myers. 
Fragments  of  Prose  and  Poetry. 

In  the  second  of  these  quotations,  the  wonderful  record  of  Myers  in 
classical  study  will  first  be  observed.  If  we  did  not  know  him  to  be 
absolutely  trustworthy,  we  would  find  it  practically  impossible  to  believe 
his  statement.  Imagine,  for  instance,  a  boy  of  sixteen  learning  by  heart 
the  whole  of  Virgil  for  his  own  pleasure  !  However,  anything  vouched 
for  by  Myers  must  be  accepted  as  literally  true. 

Extraordinary  as  this  is,  the  above  quotations  introduce  us  to  a  subject 
quite  as  extraordinary  and  far  more  interesting  and  important,  namely, 
the  distortion  of  truth  caused  by  extreme  classical  enthusiasm. f  It  is 
perfectly  easy  to  see  how  such  enthusiasm  arises.  Greek  art  and  litera- 
ture are  not  only  intrinsically  wonderful  and  valuable,  but,  seeing  that 
they  were  produced  by  a  comparatively  small  population  in  a  barbaric 
age,  they  constitute  the  greatest  marvel  in  the  history  of  the  world.  Every- 
thing tends  to  excite  enthusiasm  for  this  remote,  alien,  primitive,  but 

*  "  What  is  life,  what  gladness  without  the  golden  Aphrodite  ?  May  death  be  mine  when 
these  joys  no  longer  please  me  !  " 

t  In  the  notes  on  the  Greeks  in  this  book  it  was  necessary  to  keep  to  one  State  and  a 
particular  period.  Greece  consisted  of  a  number  of  States  of  which  Attica  was  one,  with 
Athens  as  its  centre.  It  comprised  only  seven  hundred  square  miles,  and,  allowing  for  its 
colonies,  would  be  about  half  the  size  of  Lancashire.  Its  great  and  brilliant  period  corre- 
sponded roughly  with  the  middle  half  of  the  fifth  century  B.C.  A  large  proportion  of  the 
finest  Greek  art  and  literature  was  produced  by  this  tiny  state  in  that  short  period.  This  is 
the  miracle  of  antiquity.     It  is  to  Attica  during  this  period  that  my  remarks  mainly  refer. 

The  reader  will  not  be  able  to  follow  this  note  properly,  unless  he  has  read  the  other  notes 
on  the  Greeks  (see  Subject-Index). 


MYERS  411 

most  remarkable  people.  I  need  not  speak  of  the  art  in  which  they  stand 
unrivalled  throughout  the  ages.  As  regards  their  literature,  apart  from 
its  intrinsic  excellence  and  the  beauty  of  the  language  in  which  it  is 
written,  it  has  an  additional  fascination  and  charm,  because  it  is  the  speech 
and  song  of  the  infancy  of  the  world.  Through  it  we  see  into  the  mind 
and  realize  the  life  of  the  most  interesting  race  that  ever  lived.  Possess- 
ing astounding  intellect  and  intense  originality,  they  were  nevertheless  the 
children  of  nature.  Their  earth  was  peopled  with  fauns  and  nymphs, 
their  gods  lived  and  moved  and  had  their  being  in  every  natural  object — 
and  they  had  very  little  of  our  ideas  of  right  and  wrong.  They  had 
nothing  of  our  wide  knowledge  and  experience,  yet  they  constructed  a 
world  of  life  and  thought  for  themselves.  It  is  absorbingly  interesting  to 
read  their  beautiful  poetry,  fine  literature,  and  philosophic  thought, 
bearing  in  mind  that  it  was  produced  in  the  ignorant  childhood  and 
paganism  of  the  human  race,  over  two  thousand  years  ago.  And  one  of 
the  most  astonishing  things  about  them  is  that  essential  product  of 
civilization,  a  keen  sense  of  humour.  So  curiously  "  modern  "  is  their 
literature  that  the  writers  speak  to  us  across  the  ages  with  as  vivid  a 
voice  as  if  they  were  still  alive.  No  other  primitive  race  has  been  able 
to  leave  us  any  such  adequate  conception  of  its  life  and  thought.  More- 
over, we  can  never  forget  how  the  Greek  arose  out  of  the  tomb,  where  he 
had  slept  for  many  centuries,  to  preside  at  the  re-birth  of  our  own  modern 
world — that  emergence  of  Europe  from  medieval  darkness  which  we  call 
the  Renaissance.  It  was  largely  Greek  art  and  literature  that  stimulated 
the  mental  activity  of  the  world  and  made  us  what  we  are  to-day. 

Very  great  enthusiasm  is,  therefore,  warranted  in  the  Greek  student — 
but  there  comes  a  point  where  enthusiasm  may  become  pure  fanaticism, 
and  lead  to  that  most  deadly  of  all  things,  the  perversion  of  the  truth. 

In  the  above  quotations  two  Greek  poems  are  quoted,  and  another  is 
referred  to  in  the  lines  I  have  italicized.  The  first  two  *  refer  to  vice, 
which  to  us  is  revolting  and  criminal,  but  to  the  whole  Greek  nation  was 
natural,  and  recognized  by  law.  The  third  expresses  even  more  revolt- 
ing passion.  It  will  be  seen,  therefore,  that  Myers,  in  order  to  illustrate 
the  "  departed  loveliness  "  of  Greek  life  made  a  strange  choice  of  quota- 
tions (which  also,  standing  alone,  would  give  a  false  notion  of  classic 
Greek  poetry). 

Seeing  that  Myers  was  one  of  the  purest-minded  of  men,  what  is  the 
explanation  of  this  very  remarkable  fact  .''  The  explanation  is  simply 
that  Myers  was  a  classical  enthusiast.  He  had  forgotten  the  warning  he 
himself  gave  in  the  first  quotation.  It  is  absolutely  amazing  how  such 
an  enthusiast,  however  brilliant  a  scholar  and  capable  a  man  in  other 
respects,  can  blind  himself  to  the  most  obvious  facts  where  anything 
Greek  is  concerned.  It  is  very  certain  that  Myers  read  into  each  poem  a 
perfectly  innocent  meaning — and  he  would  not  be  alone  in  that  respect. 
Take,  for  instance,  the  third  quotation,  which  is  from  Sappho.  In  my 
youth  the  great  majority  of  classical  men  appeared  to  have  convinced 
thetnselves  that  a  poem  of  terribly  fierce  passion  was  an  expression  of 
pure  friendship  !  Even  our  leading  reference-book.  Smith's  Dictionary 
of  Greek  and  Roman  Biography,  gave  the  same  absurd  view  until  about 
1877.^  However,  we  must  get  away  from  this  ugly  subject  and  seek 
further  illustrations  elsewhere. 

This  perverted  enthusiasm  seems  to  permeate  all  books  of  the  last 

♦  The  second  is  not  by  Praxilla.  It  is  to  be  found  in  Atlienaeus  (xv.  695),  and  is  written 
in  the  masculine.  Most  curiously  tlie  same  mistake  is  made  in  Itie  Parnasse  des  Dames,  an 
eighteenth  century  French  book  in  which  Myers  would  not  have  been  in  the  least  interested. 

t  One  at  least  of  the  Sappho  enthusiasts  still  survives.  See  Professor  T.  G.  Tucker's 
Sappho. 


412  MYERS 

fifty  or  sixty  years  dealing  with  Greek  life,  art,  and  literature  that  I  have 
met  with.  This  is  a  very  large  statement  to  make,  and,  of  course,  I  do  not 
mean  that  such  flagrant  instances  as  those  above  referred  to  are  the  rule. 
But  to  me  there  seems  always  to  be  sofne  bias  which  tends  to  exaggerate 
or  falsify  the  facts  to  so?ne  extent.  We  can  trace  this  tendency  back  more 
than  eighteen  hundred  years  to  Plutarch  {Oti  the  Malice  of  Herodotus). 
He,  as  Mr.  Livingstone  *  says,  "  took  the  view  that  the  Greeks  of  the 
great  age  could  do  no  wrong,  and  rates  the  historian  for  '  needlessly  de- 
scribing evil  actions.'  "  And  it  is  largely  in  this  way  that  the  enthusiast 
works — by  omitting  facts.  I  should  think  few  readers  unfamiliar  with  the 
classics  will  have  known  all  the  facts  already  put  before  them  in  these 
notes— because  such  facts,  although  known  to  all  classical  scholars,  are 
kept  in  the  background  as  much  as  possible.  Again  the  tendency  is  to 
judge  the  Greeks  by  their  greatest  men — to  imagine  every  Greek  to  have 
been  a  Plato  ! 

I  might  add  greatly  to  what  I  have  already  said  about  the  Greeks, 
but  I  must  confine  myself  to  a  few  matters,  repeating  nothing  that  has 
been  said  in  previous  notes.  The  Greeks  had  very  little  regard  for  truth- 
fulness. An  oath  was  a  matter  of  religion  and  was  supposed  to  be  binding 
upon  them,  but  it  was  excusable  to  twist  out  of  it.  They  also  saw  nothing 
immoral  in  theft.  Hermes  was  the  god  of  thieves,  and  "  the  wily 
Odysseus  "  was  a  favourite  hero  of  the  Greeks.  Autolycus,  the  grand- 
father of  Odysseus,  was  taught  by  Hermes  himself  to  surpass  all  men  in 
stealing  and  perjury  {Od.  xix.  395).  Hence  it  was  thought  quite  a 
proper  thing  to  make  war  for  the  purpose  of  robbing  neighbours  of  terri- 
tory or  property.  I  need  quote  only  the  truly  "  German  "  opinions  of 
Socrates  and  Aristotle  placed  by  Mr.  Zimmern  at  the  head  of  his  chapter 
on  Warfare  in  The  Greek  Commonzvealth.  "  But,  Socrates,  it  is  possible 
to  procure  wealth  for  the  State  from  our  foreign  enemies."  "  Yes, 
certainly  you  may,  if  you  are  the  stronger  power  "  (Xen.  Alem.  iii.  6,  7). 
"  War  is  strictly  a  means  of  acquisition,  to  be  employed  against  wild 
animals  and  against  inferior  races  of  men  who,  though  intended  by  nature 
to  be  in  subjection  to  us,  are  unwilling  to  submit  [!],  for  war  of  such  a 
kind  is  just  by  nature  "  (Aristotle,  Politics,  1256).  On  considering  that 
such  sentiments  are  expressed  by  their  greatest  philosophers,  we  are  not 
surprised  to  find  that  the  history  of  the  Greeks  is  one  of  lies,  perfidy,  and 
cruelty. '\  It  further  illustrates  their  unsympathetic  pagan  character  when 
we  find  the  Greek  mother  mourning  for  her  dead  son  because  he  will  not 
"  feed  her  old  age,"  and  Socrates  valuing  friendship  because  friends  were 
useful. J 

When  the  enthusiast  is  confronted  with  the  debased  Greek  religion  he 
tells  us,  or  leads  us  to  think,  that  the  people  did  not  believe  in  their  dis- 
solute gods.  As  regards  this  I  cannot  do  better  than  quote  the  terse 
statement  of  Mr.  Livingstone.  After  pointing  out  that  there  were  some 
advanced  thinkers  among  the  Greeks  who  were  more  or  less  sceptics  (and 
that  there  were  also  some  small  sects  who  are  said  to  have  had  higher 
moral  beliefs  than  their  countrymen  §)  he  says,  "  We  are  concerned 
with  the  state  religion,  which  Athenians  learnt  to  reverence  as  children, 
which  permeated  the  national  literature,  which  crowned  the  high  places 
of  the  city  with  its  temples,  which  consecrated  peace  and  war  and  every- 
thing solemn  and  ceremonial  in  civil  life,  which  by  its  intimate  connec- 
tion with  these  things  acquired  that  support  of  instinctive  sentiment  which 

*  "  The  Greek  Genius  and  its  Meaning  to  us." 

t  It  should  be  remembered,  however,  that  this  is  largely  the  history  of  Prussia  also. 

t  See  Mr.  Livingstone's  book. 

S  But  see  p.  418  as  to  Dionysiac  sect. 


MYERS  413 

is  stronger  than  any  moral  or  intellectual  sanction."  *  Something  may 
be  added  to  this.  Why  was  the  Greek  so  greatly  concerned  about  his 
tomb  and  his  burial  rites  ?  The  main  reason  why  he  burdened  himself 
with  a  wife  and  household  was  that  a  son  should  be  left  to  see  to  those 
rites  and  look  after  his  tomb.  He  did  not  see  his  M'ife  before  marriage, 
and,  however  beautiful  he  found  her  to  be,  the  uneducated  girl  would  be 
no  companion  for  him  ;  and  her  beauty  would  soon  fade  in  the  unwhole- 
some confined  life  she  led.  Fler  office  was  fulfilled  when  she  had  borne 
him  sons — and  he  looked  for  his  pleasures  elsewhere.  Surely  this  one 
fact  alone  proves  that  the  Greeks  had  a  very  real  belief  in  their  religion. 
Again  why  do  we  find  that  only  Socrates  and  a  few  other  thinkers  appear 
to  have  been  charged  with  impiety  ?  Mr.  Livingstone,  curiously  enough, 
argues  from  this  that  there  was  greater  freedom  of  thought  among  the 
Greeks.  Surely  the  simple  and  natural  explanation  is  far  preferable, 
namely,  that  there  were  no  other  pronounced  sceptics  than  those  few  ad- 
vanced thinkers.  Imagine  the  danger  of  declaring  anything  against  the 
gods  which  would  throw  in  doubt  the  divinity  of  the  patron  goddess 
Athena  !  f 

It  is  often  argued  that  the  intelligent  Greeks  could  no  more  have 
believed  the  monstrous  stories  of  their  gods,  than  we  believe  some  of  the 
Old  Testament  stories  of  Jehovah.  But  the  position  is  entirely  different. 
We  disbelieve  stories  that  offend  our  moral  sense  :  the  gods  of  the  Greeks 
had  a  character  similar  to  their  own,  and  acted  as  they  themselves  would 
have  acted  if  they  had  been  gods.  Also  they  had  no  ethnology,  no  know- 
ledge of  purer  religions  to  teach  them  the  falsity  and  depravity  of  their 
own — nor,  indeed,  would  the  proud  Greeks  have  condescended  to  learn 
from  barbarians  (especially  as  they  believed  themselves  descended  from 
heroes  who  were  sprung  from  the  gods).  Finally  one  has  only  to  read 
the  accounts  of  travellers  in  Greece  to  learn  that  the  religion  even  lingers 
on  to-day — see,  for  instance,  S.  C.  Kaines  Smith's  Greek  Art  and  National 
Life  (pp.  153,  172),  where  the  woodcutters,  when  a  tree  is  falling,  throw 
themselves  on  the  ground  and  hide  their  faces  in  deadly  fear  of  the 
Dryads,;]:  and  an  eminent  Greek  gentleman  crosses  himself  at  the  name  of 
the  Nereids.  (See  also  W.  H.  D.  Rouse's  Tales  fro?n  the  Isles  of  Greece 
and  Balkan  Home  Life,  by  Lucy  M.J.  Garnett.) 

My  statement  has  been  very  one-sided  so  far,  as  I  have  said  very  little 
of  the  virtues  of  the  Greeks.  These  virtues  were  those  of  intelligent 
primitive  people,  love  of  freedom,  justice,  and  equality  (but  confined  to 
their  own  nation  and  not  including  their  own  zvomen  and  slaves),  personal 
courage,  great  patriotism,  fidelity  to  kinsfolk  and  guests  ;  they  showed 
at  times  generosity  to  a  valiant  enemy  and  recognized  some  such  duties 
as  burying  the  dead.  While  I  do  not  think  we  can  carry  the  national 
virtues  much  further  than  this,  there  would  be  gradations  of  character 
among  the  Greeks,  and  probably  many  would  be  more  or  less  kindly, 
others  have  a  true  affection  for  their  wives,  others  show  private  virtues 

*  See  an  interesting  passage  in  Plato's  Republic,  i.  330.     See  also  p.  207  as  to  Herodotus. 

t  This  should  be  taken  into  account  in  interpreting  the  plays  of  Euripides,  who  was  prob- 
ably a  sceptic.  The  case  of  Aristophanes  was  different — he  was  known  to  be  orthodox  and 
almost  any  licence  was  permitted  on  the  Comic  Stage. 

%  Perhaps  these  woodcutters  would  not  have  entirely  appreciated  what  Mr.  G.  Lowes 
Dickinson  (The  Greek  View  of  Life)  says  of  the  Greek  divinities.  He  tells  us  that  the  Greek 
originally  felt  "  bewilderment  and  terror  in  the  presence  of  the  powers  of  nature,"  but  his 
religion  developed  "  till  at  last  from  the  womb  of  the  dark  enigma  that  haunted  him  in  the 
beginning  there  emerged  into  the  charmed  light  of  a  world  of  ideal  grace  a  pantheon  of  fair  and 
concrete  personalities."  (The  italics  are  mine.)  The  classical  enthusiast  always  pictures  the 
Greeks  as  living  in  fairyland  :  actually  the  gods  and  lesser  divinities  were  to  them  for  the  most 
part  objects  of  awe  and  dread.  In  this  "  world  of  ideal  grace  "  there  would  be,  for  example, 
the  horrible  Furies  who  dwelt  in  their  grotto  in  Athens  ! 


414  MYERS 

in  various  directions — we  can  only  conjecture  as  to  something  of  which 
there  is  very  little  evidence  in  their  literature.  On  the  one  hand,  we  know 
that  Socrates  suffered  martyrdom  for  the  truth,*  and  we  may  surmise  that 
there  were  other  fine  characters  ;  on  the  other  hand,  we  know  that  this 
highly  intellectual  nation  put  the  philosopher  to  death  as  a  blasphemer 
against  their  profligate  gods. 

But  while  we  can  give  the  Greeks  credit  for  little  of  the  morality  of 
modern  civilization,  on  the  other  hand  we  would  be  thinking  very 
absurdly  if  we  regarded  their  vices  as  though  the  people  were  on  the  same 
moral  plane  as  ourselves.  (This  is  the  fact  to  be  recognized.  The 
ridiculous  tendency  of  the  modern  enthusiast  is  to  depict  the  Greeks  as  a 
highly  moral  nation  striving  for  righteousness  !)  Strictly  speaking,  the 
Greek  practices  and  habits  should  not  be  called  vices,  because  the  Greeks 
had  no  reason  to  believe  that  they  were  doing  anything  wrong.  Their 
virtues  and  their  vices  were  those  of  ordinary  primitive  life.f  The  moral 
principle,  that  highest  product  of  creation,  had  not  yet  developed  itself 
among  the  people  to  any  appreciable  extent  ;  but  we  see  it  gradually 
emerging  in  the  growing  disbelief  in  the  national  religion  among  thinking 
men,  and  reaching  an  advanced  stage  in  Plato,  the  greatest  philosopher  of 
antiquity.  But  to  the  average  Greek,  apart  from  religion  (including 
respect  for  parents),  the  patriotism  which  they  had  learnt  from  Homer, 
their  one  great  book,  covered  much  of  what  they  meant  b}^  "  virtue."  % 
Whatever  was  good  for  the  State  was  a  virtue,  whatever  bad  for  the  State 
a  vice.  We  can  hardly  realize  what  Athens  stood  for  in  the  Greek  mind. 
For  instance,  Aeschylus  tells  us  that  the  patron  goddess  Athena  came  to 
Athens  to  preside  over  the  balloting  of  the  jurors  and  conduct  the  trial 
of  Orestes,  and  also  that  the  Furies  lived  among  the  citizens  in  a  sacred 
grotto.  The  Greeks  saw  that  they  were  immensely  superior  to  the  sur- 
rounding "  barbarians,"  and  they  regarded  their  State  practically  as  an 
object  of  zvorship  (as  Rome  was  also  regarded  by  the  Romans). 

It  would  have  been  interesting  to  discuss  here  the  ethical  views  of 
the  philosophers,  but  the  subject  is  far  too  intricate  for  this  note — and 
in  any  case  they  and  their  followers  formed  only  a  few  exceptions  among 
the  Greeks.  It  will  be  seen  later  that  the  use  of  such  words  as  "  virtue," 
"  holiness,"  etc.,  causes  a  vast  deal  of  meaning  to  be  read  into  Plato  which 
never  entered  that  philosopher's  mind. 

The  great  outstanding  fact  about  the  Greeks  is  their  astonishing 
intellect,  combined  with  sound  common  sense  {awcppoavvri)  and  a  quite 
modern  gift  of  humour.  Their  powerful  intellect,  however,  had  very 
poor  material  to  work  upon.  In  a  previous  note  I  have  mentioned  their 
remarkably  limited  idea  of  the  world — but,  while  knowing  this  to  be  a 
fact,  we  still  cannot  realize  the  mental  attitude  of  men  who  had  even  one 
false  conception  of  such  magnitude  as  regards  their  general  outlook  and 
thought.  Let  us  take  an  instance  of  a  different  kind  from  the  great 
philosopher  Aristotle  (384-322  B.C.),  who  came  after  Plato — bearing  in 
mind  that  the  average  Greeks  would  be  vastly  more  ignorant  and  super- 
stitious than  their  greatest  thinkers.  In  his  Mechanica  Aristotle  explains 
the  power  of  a  lever  to  make  a  small  weight  lift  a  larger  one.  His  ex- 
planation is  that  a  circle  has  a  certain  magical  character.  A  very  wonder- 
ful thing  is  a  circle,  because  it  is  both  convex  and  concave  ;  it  is  made  by 

*  I  think  it  correct  to  say  this,  altliough  there  were  political  reasons  also  for  prosecuting 
Socrates,  and,  if  he  had  shown  less  contempt  for  his  judges,  he  might  have  been  acquitted. 

t  I  do  not  know  how  far  unnatural  vice  extended  among  other  peoples  ;  but  the  statement 
in  Plato's  Symposium  that  the  lonians  and  most  of  the  barbarians  held  it  in  evil  repute  is 
strongly  condemnatory  of  the  Greeks. 

J  See  how  this  idea  pervades  the  whole  of  the  famous  Funeral  Speech  of  Pericles,  and  how 
he  defines  what  is  "  the  good  life  "  of  a  citizen. 


MYERS  415 

a  fixed  point  and  a  moving  line,  which  are  contradictory  to  each  other  ; 
and  whatever  has  a  circular  movement  moves  m  opposite  directiotis.  Also, 
Aristotle  says,  movement  in  a  circle  is  the  most  natural  movement  1 
Hence  we  get  the  result  :  the  long  arm  of  the  lever  moves  in  the  larger 
circle,  and  has  the  greater  amount  of  this  magical  natural  motion,  and  so 
requires  the  lesser  force  !  Again,  let  us  take  a  story  which  was  as  firmly 
believed  by  Aristotle  as  the  most  ignorant  of  his  countrymen.  Our 
word  "  halcyon  "  is  the  Greek  word  Alkuon,  meaning  a  bird,  probably  of 
the  kingfisher  species.  The  Greeks  supposed  the  word  to  be  formed 
of  two  words,  hah  kuon,  meaning  "  conceived  in  the  sea  " —  therefore 
they  believed  the  bird  tvas  so  conceived  and  that  it  was  bred  in  a  nest 
floating  on  the  sea — and,  as  the  sea  must  then  be  smooth,  they  further 
believed  that  a  period  of  fourteen  days'  calm  necessarily  occurred  about 
Christmas — finding  there  was  no  such  period  of  calm  around  their  own 
coasts  they  either  thought  that  it  must  occur  (and  the  birds  breed)  else- 
where, or,  like  Theocritus,  that  the  bird  could  charm  the  sea  into  tran- 
quillity.* 

The  Greeks  believed  queer  things  about  animals.  I  take  the  following 
instances  of  birds  alone  from  Mr.  Rogers'  Introduction  to  his  Birds  of 
Aristophanes,  so  that  I  need  not  give  references.  By  looking  at  a  plover, 
who  returns  the  look,  a  man  is  cured  of  jaundice.  Penelope,  the  wife  of 
Odysseus,  was  said  to  have  been  so  named  because,  having  been  cast  into 
the  sea,  she  was  rescued  by  widgeons  (Greek,  penelops).  The  song  of  the 
dying  swan  was  a  belief  of  the  Greeks.  The  raven  was  the  bird  of  augury 
and  had  mysterious  knowledge.  The  cranes  fought  the  pygmies  and 
swallowed  stones  for  ballast.  The  young  storks  fed  their  aged  parents. 
The  siskin  foresees  the  winter  and  snowstorms.  Mr.  Rogers  has  no  need 
to  discuss  the  yet  more  extravagant  stories  of  the  phoenix,  sirens,  harpies, 
etc.  Plutarch  {De  Is.  and  Os.  Ixxi.)  tells  us  how  the  Greeks  regarded 
birds  and  other  animals  in  relation  to  the  gods  ;  he  says  that  while  they 
did  not,  like  the  Egyptians,  worship  animals,  "  they  said  and  believed 
rightly  that  the  dove  was  the  sacred  animal  of  Aphrodite,  the  raven  of 
Apollo,  the  dog  of  Artemis,  and  so  on."  (Possibly  Aristophanes'  comedy 
did  not  win  the  prize,  because  the  audience  saw  little  humour  in  exaggerat- 
ing the  powers  which  they  really  believed  the  birds  to  have.  To  the 
Greeks  the  birds  were  greater  and  the  gods  smaller  than  we  ourselves 
picture  them.  Ruskin's  translation  of  Od.  v.  67, f  the  seabirds  which 
"  have  care  of  the  works  of  the  sea,"  seems  much  more  likely  to  be  correct 
than  the  accepted  version  that  the  birds  live  by  diving  and  fishing.  Con- 
sider how  the  Greeks  would  regard  the  birds  that  flew  round  and  over 
their  ships  or  fishing-nets  and  over  the  waves  and  rocks,  where  the  sea- 
gods  lay  beneath — and  compare  //.  ii.  614.)^ 

All  that  has  been  said  about  the  Greeks  in  this  and  previous  notes  is 
intended,  not  so  much  to  exhibit  the  character  of  that  nation  as  for  other 
reasons.  In  one  instance  the  intention  was  to  indicate  how  vast  a  gulf 
exists    between    Christianity    and    the    ancient    world.     Many    classical 

*  See  Theoc.  vii.  57,  and  what  the  Scholiast  says.  As  to  the  subject  generally  see  the 
references  given  by  Mr.  Rogers  in  The  Birds  of  Aristophanes. 

t  Modern  Painters,  iv.,  xiii.  17. 

X  A  few  days  after  writing  the  above  I  was  walking  along  the  sea-beach  with  friends,  and 
we  came  to  a  man  and  boy  who  were  drawing  in  a  net.  It  was  a  beautifully  clear  day,  and 
no  seagull  or  other  bird  could  be  seen  anywhere.  I  pointed  this  out  to  my  friends,  and  said, 
"  You'll  see  the  patrol-bird  arrive  presently."  In  a  few  minutes  a  gull  appeared  from  nowhere, 
flew  round  the  net  and  then,  as  though  the  business  was  unimportant,  flew  away.  The  net 
when  drawn  in  was  empty  !  This  is  how  the  bird  probably  appeared  to  the  Greeks.  When 
the  net  brought  in  a  haul,  and  the  birds  clamoured  round  it  for  their  share,  how  very  reasonable 
would  this  again  appear  to  the  Greeks. 


4i6 


MYERS 


enthusiasts  do  not  seem  to  realize  this,  and  a  definitely  paga?i  tendency  is 
very  apparent  in  their  habits  of  thought. 

But  the  main  object  of  pointing  out  the  inferior  state  of  civilization 
among  the  Greeks,  their  non-moral  character  in  certain  respects,  their 
ignorance  and  superstition,  and  their  low  standard  of  morality  generally, 
has  to  do  with  the  important  question  of  interpreting  Greek  literature  and 
philosophy.  It  would  matter  very  little  that  the  enthusiast  should  picture 
the  Greeks  as  a  race  of  saints  and  demigods,  if  there  were  no  beautiful  and 
valuable  literature  to  be  coloured  and  falsified  by  reason  of  such  views. 
It  is  only  by  realizing  the  actual  life  and  thought  of  this  primitive  race  that 
zue  can  understand  their  lafigiiage,  that  is  to  say,  we  can  learn  what  meanings 
should  be  attached  to  the  words  they  use.  Only  thus  can  we  interpret 
their  literature.  We  have  already  had  two  simple  illustrations  of  this. 
In  one  case  what  appears  to  be  a  poetic  fancy  in  Theocritus,  when  the 
voyager  hopes  the  halcyons  will  calm  the  sea  for  hiin,  is  seen  to  be  a  wish 
that  the  birds  will  actually  exercise  the  power  that  they  possess.  The  other 
instance  appears  on  page  338.  But  much  more  important  is  it  that,  in 
reading  words  of  knowledge  such  as  references  to  the  starry  heavens  or 
the  constitution  of  matter,  or  mental  or  moral  phenomena,  we  should  not 
attribute  to  the  Greek  writer  conceptions  far  larger  and  higher  than  he 
had  in  his  mind.  To  amplify  what  I  have  said  in  a  previous  note,  let 
us  take  the  words  in  Plato,  Aristotle,  or,  say,  Euripides  which  are  trans- 
lated by  such  English  words  as  "  morality,"  "  purity,"  "  virtue," 
"  honour,"  "  religion,"  etc.  It  is  clear  that  the  original  Greek  expres- 
sions cannot  signify,  for  instance,  either  purity  as  we  know  it,  or  even 
abstention  from  unnatural  vice  or  from  infanticide.*  We  are,  therefore, 
mistranslating  when  we  use  such  English  words,  and  this  fact  needs  to  be 
steadily  borne  in  mind.  Again  when  interpreting,  say,  a  Greek  play,  it  is 
necessary  to  bear  in  mind,  not  only  the  supposed  character  of  the  dramatist, 
but  also  the  actual,  known  character  of  the  audience  to  whom  the  play  was 
addressed.     I  now  propose  to  give  an  illustration  of  this. 

Is  it  reasonable  to  ask  if  the  Athenians,  some  few  of  whose  character- 
istics have  been  outlined  in  these  notes,  would  have  flocked  to  hear,  and 
have  greatly  enjoyed,  a  play  replete  with  high  moral  teaching,  and  con- 
taining hymns  that  might  have  come  out  of  a  Church  Hymnal  ?  Now  the 
Bacchae  of  Euripides,  one  of  the  most  popular  of  Greek  plays,  and  the 
Hippolytus  of  the  same  dramatist,  have  been  translated  by  one  Greek 
scholar.  Professor  Gilbert  Murray,  in  a  manner  that  (at  any  rate,  as 
regards  the  Bacchae)  received  the  "  hearty  admiration  and  approval  "  of 
another  Greek  scholar,  Dr  Verrall.  In  this  version,  one  after  another  of 
the  debased  Greek  gods  is  called  "  God."  We  also  find  such  expres- 
sions as  (note  the  capitals)  "  God's  grace,"  "  Virgin  of  God/'  "  Babe  of 
God,"  "  God's  son,"  and  even  "  God's  true  son  "  (who  is  Dionysus 
or  Bacchus),  "Spirit  of  God,"  "Child  of  the  Highest,"  "Heaven," 
"  Purity,"  "  Saints  "  (who  are  the  Maenads  !),  "  righteous,"  "  divine," 
"  holy,"  and  so  on. 

Professor  Murray  is  put  in  a  difficulty  when  two  or  more  gods  are 
referred  to.  In  some  cases  he  becomes  illogical  (and  reminds  us  of  the 
Kaiser),  as  when  Dionysus  has  to  say  "  God  and  me."  In  others  he  has 
to  use  the  Greek  name  for  one  god,  and  then  the  words  sound  blasphem- 
ous, as  when  he  speaks  of  Dionysus  who  was  "  born  from  the  thigh  of 
Zeus  and  now  is  God."  These  instances  are  taken  quite  at  random  and 
there  must  be  many  others. 

*  See  also  as  to  the  so-called  "  purification  rites  "  in  the  mysteries,  p.  418. 


MYERS  417 

Take  the  following,  which  are  probably  the  most  admired  lines  in 
Professor  Murray's  versions  of  Euripides  : 

Where  a  voice  of  living  waters  never  ceaseth 
In  God's  quiet  garden  by  the  sea. 

The  original  reads  :  "  Where  the  ambrosial  fountains  stream  forth  by 
the  couches  of  the  palaces  of  Zeus,"  or,  to  give  them  a  more  musical  turn, 
Mr.  A.  S.  Way's  version  is  : 

Where  the  fountains  ambrosial  sunward  are  leaping 
By  the  couches  where  Zeus  in  his  halls  lieth  sleeping. 

In  Professor  Murray's  two  lines  Zeus  becomes  "  God,"  "  living  waters  " 
is  taken  from  the  Song  of  Solomon,  and  "  God's  quiet  garden  "  from 
Isaiah  and  Ezekiel.  Such  expressions,  with  their  tender  and  beautiful 
associations,  do  not  in  the  least  convey  the  sense  of  the  original  Greek. 
Used  to  describe  the  palace  of  a  vicious,  barbaric  deity,  they  are  an 
atrocious  mistranslation.  Also  every  one  of  the  expressions  referred  to 
above  is,  wherever  used,  another  mistranslation  (although  some  may 
be  necessitated  by  the  limitation  of  language).  Again  there  are  other 
more  pronounced  mistranslations,  some  of  which  are  pointed  out  by 
Verrall  {Bacchants  of  Euripides).  "Thus  where  the  very  old  man  Cadmus, 
setting  out  on  an  unusual  journey,,  merely  says  to  his  ancient  comrade, 
"  We  have  pleasantly  forgotten  that  we  are  old  "  (Bacchae,  184-9), 
Professor  Murray  interpolates  a  stage  direction,  "  A  mysterious  strength 
and  exaltation  "  (from  the  god  Dionysus)  "  enters  into  him  " — and  he  alters 
the  words  of  Cadmus  to  conform  with  the  miracle  : 

Sweetly  and  forgetfully 
The  dim  years  fall  from  off  me  1 

Here,  therefore,  we  find  an  important  episode  deliberately  inserted  into 
the  play. 

Take  another  instance  which  Verrall  does  not  mention.  In  the  very 
enthusiastic  "  Introductory  Essay,"  Professor  Murray  tells  us  that 
Euripides  longed  to  escape  from  the  bad,  hard,  irreligious  Athenians  of 
that  day  (the  same  pious  Greeks  who  would  so  enjoy  his  Church  Hyynnal  !) 
and  proceeds  as  follows  : 

"  What  else  is  wisdom  ?  "  he  asks,  in  a  marvellous  passage  : — 
What  else  is  wisdom  ?     What  of  man's  endeavour 
Or  God's  high  grace  so  lovely  and  so  great  ? 
To  stand  from  fear  set  free,  to  breathe  and  wait  ; 
To  hold  a  hand  uplifted  over  Hate  ; 

And  shall  not  loveliness  be  loved  for  ever  ? 

There  is  nothing  here,  nor  in  the  translation  that  follows,  to  indicate 
that  there  has  been  any  interference  with  the  text.  It  is  only  upon  turning 
to  the  notes  at  the  end  of  the  translation  (which  the  average  reader  would 
hardly  study)  that  we  find  the  third  line  is  "  practically  interpolated." 
He  gives  reasons  for  this  that  are  not  easy  to  follow,  and  says,  "  If  I  am 
wrong,  the  refrain  is  probably  a  mere  cry  for  revenge  "  ;  I  add  that  the 
latter  is  the  generally  accepted  meaning,  and  the  only  meaning  in  the 
original  Greek. 

Now  Professor  Murray's  object  in  all  this  is  to  convey  in  words  that 
appeal  to  our  minds  his  conception  of  the  devout,  religious  and,  therefore, 
highly  moral  attitude  of,  not  only  Euripides,  but  also  his  Athenian  audience. 
The  attitude  of  mind  must  be  that  of  the  audience,  as  well  as  the  dramatist, 
because  none  but  devout,  religious  people  go  to  a  "  Service  of  Song," 
and,  as  stated  above,  the  Bacchae  was  a  very  popular  play  among  the 

2  E 


4i8 


MYERS 


Greeks.  If,  however,  Professor  Murray  thought  that,  by  colouring, 
altering,  and  adding  to  the  play,  he  gave  a  more  correct  impression  of  it 
as  it  appeared  to  the  Greeks,  he  was  perfectly  at  liberty  with  that  object 
to  mistranslate  as  much  as  he  pleased — provided  he  told  his  readers  and 
hearers  that  they  were  not  reading  or  hearing  the  zvords  that  Euripides  zvrote. 

Has  he  told  them  this  ?  The  book  is  entitled  "  Euripides  translated 
into  English  rhyming  verse."  In  the  Preface  he  also  begins  by  telling  us 
definitely  that  it  is  a  translation  ;  later  on  he  says  :  "  As  to  the  method 
of  this  translation  .  .  .  my  aim  has  been  to  build  up  something  as  like 
the  original  as  I  possibly  could,  in  form  and  what  one  calls  '  Spirit.'  To 
do  this,  the  first  thing  needed  was  a  work  of  painstaking  scholarship,  a 
work  in  which  there  should  be  no  7ieglect  of  the  letter  in  an  attempt  to 
snatch  at  the  spirit."  He  then  goes  on  to  tell  us  that  "  the  remaining 
task  "  was  to  reproduce  the  poetry  of  the  original  and  (here  is  the  only 
admission  that  he  has  varied  from  the  text)  he  "  has  often  changed  meta- 
phors, altered  the  shapes  of  sentences,  and  the  like.  .  .  .  On  one  occasion 
he  has  even  omitted  a  line  and  a  half"  (because  unnecessary)  and  he  says, 
he  "  has  added,  of  course  by  conjecture,  a  few  stage  directions."  Let  the 
reader  look  back  over  what  has  been  said  above  and  ask  himself  whether 
such  words — however  carefully  studied — would  have  given  him  the  least 
impression  of  what  this  "  translation  "  actually  amounts  to. 

The  plain  fact  is  that  the  whole  thing  is  Gilbert  Murray  and  not 
Euripides.  Let  us  simply  ask  the  question,  Does  this  pious,  fervently- 
religious  version  represent  the  actual  play  that  the  cruel,  lying, 
treacherous,  and  unspeakably  sensual  Greeks  flocked  to  see  and  enjoy .' 
Further  comes  a  much  more  important  question.  Would  such  a  "  trans- 
lation," put  before  English  readers,  or  staged  before  an  English  audience, 
give  them  a  true  or  a  false  idea  of  the  character  of  the  Greeks  ? 

I  might  compare  with  this  Ruskin's  view  of  the  Greek  character  {The 
Crown  of  Wild  Olive).  This  is  what  he  says  the  Greeks  won  from  their 
lives  :  "  Free-heartedness,  and  graciousness,  and  undisturbed  trust,  and 
requited  love,  and  the  sight  of  the  peace  of  others,  and  the  ministry  to  their 
pain."  (Italics  mine.)  This  is  truly  amazing !  I  am  tempted  to  go 
back  again  to  Professor  Murray's  Euripides  (p.  Ixiii)  and  quote  a  like 
passage  : 

"  Love  thou  the  day  and  the  night,"  he  (Euripides)  says  in  another 
place.  "  It  is  only  so  that  Life  can  be  made  what  it  really  is,  a  Joy  : 
by  loving  not  only  your  neighbour — he  is  so  vivid  an  element  in  life 
that,  unless  you  do  love  him,  he  will  spoil  all  the  rest  ! — but  the 
actual  details  and  processes  of  living,  etc.,  etc." 

The  italics  are  again  mine — but  here  it  will  be  seen  that  Euripides 
has,  as  a  matter  of  course,  anticipated  the  great  evangel  of  Christ  !  He  has 
even  gone  a  step  further — but  I  must  leave  Professor  Murray  to  his  love 
of  the  "  details  and  processes  of  living,"  whatever  that  may  mean. 

Finally,  in  this  extraordinary  essay,  I  come  to  something  which  is 
absolutely  repulsive.  I  must  first  briefly  premise  that  the  Dionysiac  mys- 
tery cult  was  not  sectarian.  It  was  orthodox,  believing  in  the  plurality' 
and  the  profligacy  of  the  gods.  Its  adherents  had  no  more  idea  of 
morality  or  purity  than  other  Greeks.  Its  rites  were  indecent.  The  so- 
called  "  purification  rites,"  including  regulations  regarding  continence, 
were  simply  trai?iing  rules  preparatory  to  their  hideous  orgies.  The 
essential  rite  of  the  cult  was  practised  by  the  Maenads  or  Bacchantes. 
They  tore  to  pieces  live  animals  (and  at  one  time  human  beings)  and  de- 
voured their  raw,  quivering  flesh.     As  stated  above,  these  horrible  women 


MYERS  419 

are  Professor  Murray's  "  Saints."  He  now  proceeds  to  draw  an  analogy 
between  their  loathsome  god  Dionysus  and  jesits  Christ  I  Thus  Dionysus  is 
born  of  God  (Zeus)  and  a  human  mother.  He  is  also  the  "  twice-born  " — 
having  been  hidden  in  Zeus's  thigh  after  birth  !  He  "  comes  to  his 
own  people  of  Thebes,  and — his  own  receive  him  not."  Again  "  It 
seemed  to  Euripides  in  that  favourite  metaphor  of  his,  which  was  always 
a  little  more  than  a  metaphor,  that  a  God  had  been  rejected  by  the  zuorld 
that  he  came  from."  Dionysus  "  gives  his  Wine  to  all  ?nen.  ...  It  is  a 
mysticism  which  includes  democracy,  as  it  includes  the  love  of  your  tieigh- 
bour."  Dionysus  "  has  given  man  Wine,  zvhich  is  his  Blood  and  a  religious 
symbol."  In  the  translation  Dionysus  is  called  "  God's  son  "  and  even 
"  God's  true  son."  Reading  this  and  such  statements  as  Miss  Jane 
Harrison's  (see  p.  337),  one  stands  amazed.  Apparently  this  fanatical 
enthusiasm  destroys  the  critical  faculties,  so  that  the  enthusiast  becomes 
utterly  incapable  of  appreciating  the  beauty  and  value  of  Our  Lord's 
ethical  teaching  and  its  exemplification  in  His  life. 

For  my  last  illustration  of  how  enthusiasm  affects  our  leading 
classical  authorities  (and,  therefore,  leads  to  perversion  of  the  truth)  I  take 
Mr.  A.  E.  Zimmern's  Greek  Commomvealth.  This,  like  Mr.  Living- 
stone's work,  is  a  very  excellent  book,  which  should  be  in  all  libraries. 

Mr.  Zimmern  quotes  and  definitely  endorses  the  well-known  statement 
in  Galton's  Hereditary  Genius  (1869),  which  is  as  follows  :  "  The 
average  ability  of  the  Athenian  race  is,  on  the  lowest  possible  estimate,  very 
nearly  two  grades  higher  than  our  own,  that  is,  about  as  much  as  our  race 
is  above  that  of  the  African  Negro."  (The  italics  are  mine.)  Here  I 
have  happened  by  chance  *  upon  an  excellent  illustration  of  classical 
enthusiasm,  which  is  worth  while  dwelling  upon  at  some  length. 
In  the  first  place  Galton's  statement  is  perhaps  the  most  absurd  utter- 
ance ever  made  by  an  important  thinker  ;  in  the  second  place  it  appears 
to  have  been  accepted  by  English  and  European  authorities  for  nearly  half 
a  century. 

Galton's  argument  is  a  mathematical  one,  and  is  based  on  the  number 
of  great  men  produced  by  a  nation  in  proportion  to  its  population.  He 
states  that  between  530  and  430  B.C.  the  Athenian  Greeks  produced 
fourteen  highly  illustrious  men  :  Themistocles,  Miltiades,  Aristides, 
Cimon,  and  Pericles  (statesmen  and  commanders)  ;  Thucydides,  Socrates, 
Xenophon,  and  Plato  (literary  and  scientific  men) ;  Aeschylus,  Sophocles, 
Euripides,  and  Aristophanes  (poets)  ;  and  Pheidias  (sculptor).  I  take  the 
minor  objections  to  his  statement  first. 

He  estimates  the  population  of  free-born  Greeks  in  Attica  at  90,000. 
In  this  instance  he  was  misled  by  the  authorities  of  his  time  and  is  not  to 
blame  ;  but  I  take  Mr.  Zimmern  s  ozvn  figures,  as  he  endorses  Galton's  state- 
ment. The  90,000  should  have  been,  according  to  Mr.  Zimmern's  more 
correct  figures,  180,000  to  200,000.  This  alone  cuts  dozen  Galton's  esti- 
mate of  the  "  average  ability  "  of  the  Greeks  to  at  least  one-half.  Galton 
also  excludes  the  resident  aliens  who,  according  to  him,  numbered 
40,000,  but  according  to  Mr.  Zimmern  96,000.  Yet  both  these  and  the 
outside  aliens  must  be  considered,  for  there  were  intermarriages.  Themi- 
stocles and  Cimon  had  alien  mothers,  Thucydides  also  probably  had  an 
alien  mother,  or  at  any  rate  was  partly  of  Thracian  descent,  and  there 

*  It  is  necessary  to  emphasize  this,  lest  the  reader  should  think  that  these  illustrations  are 
exceptional  and  the  result  of  prolonged  research.  Actually  I  had  no  memoranda  or  other 
material  when  I  began  the  many  notes  to  the  first  edition  of  this  book,  and  those  notes  were 
all  completed  in  ten  months.  For  this  note  I  simply  took  two  books,  Professor  Murray's  and 
Mr.  Zimmern's,  to  illustrate  my  thesis.  I  might  have  chosen  far  more  "  enthusiastic  "  works 
than  Mr.  Zimmern's  excellent  book. 


420  MYERS 

would  be  some  ground  for  the  charge  of  usurping  citizenship  repeatedly 
made  by  Cleon  against  Aristophanes.  Galton  also  takes  no  account  of 
the  slaves,  the  number  of  whom  he  estimates  at  400,000,  but  Zimmern  at 
about  112,000.  These  cannot  be  entirely  omitted  when  we  consider  the 
life  of  the  Greek  women  and  the  habits  of  the  men.  It  should  be  remem- 
bered that  the  slaves  were  often  Greeks  of  other  States  and  also  by  reason 
of  the  practice  of  exposing  children  some  would  be  Athenians  and  even 
of  the  best  families  (Plato's  Laws,  930,  deals  with  children  of  slaves  and 
Greek  men  and  women).  However,  on  these  figures,  it  will  be  seen  that 
Galton's  estimate  has  to  be  enormously  reduced. 

Next,  the  greatest  of  all  the  names  in  his  list,  Plato,  has  to  be  struck  out. 
There  can  be  no  reasonable  doubt  that  he  was  not  born  until  428  or  427  B.C. 
However,  there  is  some  evidence  that  he  was  born  in  430,  and  let  us  assume 
that  this  is  so.  But,  if  we  are  to  include  in  the  100  (or  rather  loi)  years 
every  one  who  is  born  or  died  in  that  time,  we  are  actually  taking  a  period 
of  200,  not  100,  years,  and  doubling  the  proper  estimate  !  Besides  Plato, 
I  may  mention  that  Aristophanes  and  Xenophon  could  have  been  only 
about  fourteen  years  of  age  in  430,  Thucydides  had  not  then  begun  to 
write,  and  of  the  eighteen  plays  extant  of  Euripides  two  only  were  written 
before  430.  Here  again  is  another  enormous  reduction  of  Galton's 
estimate. 

Again  let  us  take  Galton's  opinion  of  the  ability  of  these  fourteen  men. 
It  is  amazingly  high.  It  will  be  seen  that  there  are  only  tivo  grades 
between  ourselves  and  the  African  negro.  Again,  in  Galton's  table, 
"  eminent  men  "  are  two  grades  above  "  the  mass  of  men  who  obtain  the 
ordinary  prizes  of  life."  He  nozv  places  the  whole  of  these  fourteen  Greeks 
two  grades  above  the  eminent  men  !  To  what  starry  height  he  means  to 
raise  them,  it  is  impossible  to  say,  for  the  whole  statement  is  exceedingly 
vague  ;  but  he  tells  us  that  two  of  the  fourteen,  Socrates  and  Pheidias, 
stand  alone  as  the  greatest  men  that  ever  lived. 

It  is  clear  then  that  the  fourteen  Greeks  have  to  be  placed  at  a  tremend- 
ous height  in  our  estimation.  It  is  impossible  here  to  take  each  man  and 
discuss  his  ability,  but  let  us  inquire  what  qualifications  Galton  had  as 
a  critic.  We  turn  to  his  list  of  great  modern  English  and  European  liter- 
ary men.  Although  he  goes  back  as  far  as  the  fifteenth  century  and  his 
list  comprises  only  fifty-two  writers,  he  finds  room  among  them  for  such 
names  as  John  Aikin  and  Maria  Edgeworth !  Again,  his  ten  great 
English  poets  are  Milton,  Byron,  Chaucer,  Milman,  Cowper,  Dihdin  (!), 
Dryden,  Hook,  Coleridge,  and  Wordsworth.  (Some  names  would  no 
doubt  be  omitted  because  they  did  not  throw  light  on  questions  of 
heredity,  but  these  lists  in  any  case  are  highly  absurd.) 

We  need  not  greatly  prolong  this  part  of  the  discussion.  We  might 
ask,  however,  what  ground  had  Galton,  for  example,  to  place  such  men  as 
Miltiades,  Aristides,  or  Cimon  even  on  an  equality  with,  say,  Caesar,  Alex- 
ander, or  Marlborough.  How  can  he  class  Xenophon  as  even  equal  to 
our  great  writers  ?  It  is  the  interesting /aci5  he  tells  us  of,  not  his  literary 
ability',  that  makes  this  somewhat  monotonous  writer  so  very  interesting. 
Also  Plato's  Dialogues  include  the  teaching  of  Socrates,  and  we  do  not 
know  how  much  to  attribute  to  the  one  or  the  other.  But  the  whole 
value  of  these  immortal  works  cannot  be  credited  to  each  one  of  them. 

Now  take  another  point  which  I  might  illustrate  from  Galton's  own 
pages.  He  tells  us  (in  another  connection)  that  about  sixty  years  before 
the  time  he  is  writing  (1869)  there  were  Senior  Wranglers  in  Cambridge 
who  also  obtained  first  classes  in  the  Classical  Tripos — and  even  at  a  later 
date  men  could  take  high  rank  in  both  departments.     Is  it  then  to  be 


MYERS  421 

argued  that  the  earlier  men  were  the  greater  ?  Not  so,  but,  as  Galton 
himself  says,  knowledge  had  become  so  far  advanced  that  it  was  no  longer 
possible  for  a  man  to  gain  such  a  distinction  in  more  than  one  of  the  two 
subjects.  Here  we  have  the  point — the  world  of  knowledge  and  activity 
is  infinitely  wider  to-day  than  when  it  formed  the  subject  of  Greek 
speculation.  Their  great  men  were  very  original  thinkers-^but  in  a  very 
feiv  subjects.  Moreover,  they  had  no  books  to  read,  no  foreign  languages 
to  learn.  Even  their  social  and  political  life  was  far  less  complicated  and 
involved  than  our  own. 

Again,  where  we  speak  of  "  average  ability,"  it  is  not  correct  to  com- 
pare large  populous  countries,  where  great  talents  are  often  submerged 
(see  Gray's  "Elegy"),  with  smaller  communities  that  afford  far  ampler 
scope.  Take  South  Australia  with  its  population  of  under  half  a  million, 
less  than  that  of  one  of  the  larger  English  towns.  We  are  practically  an 
independent  State  with  an  immense  territory.  We  have  our  two  Houses 
of  Parliament  and  our  Civil  Service  with  its  many  important  depart- 
ments ;  Town  Councils,  County  Councils,  Boards  of  Health,  Road  Boards, 
Forestry,  Lighthouses,  Customs,  Boards  dealing  with  the  aborigines,  etc. ; 
Railwi3^s,  Irrigation,  Alining,  Drainage  and  other  important  works  with 
their  engineering  and  managing  staffs  ;  Educational,  Post  and  Telegraph 
and  Police  systems  that  have  to  cover  this  vast  area ;  a  Supreme  Court 
and  numerous  inferior  courts.  Bishops  and  clergy,  Hospitals  and  doctors, 
Banks  and  Insurance  Companies,  that  all  have  to  serve  the  same  area  ; 
a  University  with  Arts,  Laws,  Science,  Medicine  and  other  Schools, 
Public  Library,  Museum,  Art  Gallery,  School  of  Mines,  Agricultural 
College,  etc.  ;  our  production  of  Books  and  Journals,  including  excellent 
newspapers  ;  all  manner  of  Scientific,  Charitable  and  other  Societies  ; 
many  Manufactures  of  all  kinds  employing  thousands  of  men  and  girls  ; 
financiers,  merchants,  pastoralists,  farmers,  vignerons,  brewers,  naval 
and  military  men  and  others,  many  of  considerable  importance.  This  is 
only  a  very  rough  and  imperfect  statement,  but  it  will  give  sorne  idea 
of  the  large  number  of  men  of  ability  and  resource  that  this  tiny 
community  produces.  If  we  compare  ourselves  with  an  average  half- 
million  of  Englishmen,  how  great  our  superiority  would  apparently  be! 
And  yet,  we  know  that  we  are  not  actually  more  capable — our  ability  had 
been  simply  brought  into  play.  The  explanation  is  that  there  is  far 
greater  opportunity  for  all  classes  in  South  Australia  than  in  England. 
Mr.  W.  M.  Hughes  might  himself  have  been  a  "  flower  to  blush  unseen," 
if  he  had  not  emigrated  to  Australia. 

We  have  so  far  dealt  with  minor  matters,  which  have  nevertheless 
reduced  Galton's  arithmetical  estimate  by,  say,  80  or  90  per  cent.  Let 
us  now  take  the  one  great  misrepresentation  that  must  have  immediately 
flashed  upon  the  minds  of  all  reviewers  of  Galton's  book,  if  they  had  not 
been  blinded  by  classical  enthusiasm.  It  is  truly  remarkable  that  not 
a  single  one  of  them  seems  to  have  called  attention  to  the  obvious  fact 
that  Galton  takes  the  one  great  Athenian  period,  as  though  it  were  an 
average  period  in  their  history  !  From  Homer's  time  to  the  fifth  century 
B.C.  would  probably  be  about  as  long  as  from  the  Norman  Conquest  to 
the  present  time,  or  from  King  Alfred  to  Shakespeare — and  there  are  again 
the  many  centuries  that  followed.  Is  the  "  average  ability  "  of  the  Greeks 
during  hundreds  or  thousands  of  years  to  be  estimated  on  their  one  most 
brilliant  period  ?  The  question  needs  no  discussion.  Galton  might  in 
the  same  way  have  taken  our  Elizabethan  period  when  London  had  a 
population  of  150,000,  and  Great  Britain  of  about  three  millions — and 
proved  that  our  own  ancestors  were  as  far  above  ourselves  as  we  are  above 
the  negro. 

Mr.  C.  T.  Whiting,  of  the  Adelaide  Public  Library,  knowing  how  my 


422  MYERS 

time  was  limited,  very  kindly  volunteered  to  make  an  extensive  search 
for  references  to  Galton's  statement  in  such  of  the  literature  of  the  time 
as  is  available  in  Adelaide.  In  addition  to  a  number  of  books,  he  has 
searched  through  thirty-eight  journals.  He  finds  reviews  of  Galton's 
book  in  the  following  :  Athenceum,  British  Quarterly,  Saturday  Review, 
Edinburgh  Reviezv,  Fortnightly  Review,  Chambers's  Journal,  Journal  of 
Anthropology,  Atlantic  Monthly,  Frazer's  Magazine,  Nature,  Times,  and 
Westminister  Review.  The  first  seven  do  not  refer  at  all  to  the  statement — 
they  apparently  accept  it  as  a  matter  of  course.  Of  the  last  five  Frazer's 
mentions  the  statement,  and  says  vaguely  that  the  chapter  in  which  it  is 
contained  "  offers  several  vulnerable  points  to  the  critic  "  ;  the  West- 
minster states  the  fact  without  taking  any  exception  to  it  ;  the  Atlantic 
Monthly  raises  the  question  whether  Miltiades,  Aristides,  Cimon,  and 
Xenophon  were  so  very  illustrious,  and  enters  into  an  argument  on 
Galton's  figures  ;  the  Times  considers  that  we  have  had  other  men  in 
different  fields  of  human  effort,  who  could  be  named  with  Socrates  and 
Pheidias,  and  lays  stress  on  the  enormous  increase  of  knowledge  and 
activity  in  modern  life  ;  in  Nature  A.  R.  Wallace,  misreading  Galton  as 
referring  only  to  the  age  of  Pericles,  admits  the  truth  of  the  statement 
as  applied  to  the  Athenians  of  that  time.  None  of  them  refer  to  the 
fact  that  Galton  takes  the  most  brilliant  period  of  Greek  history  as  a 
normal  period — and  the  arguments,  taken  together,  amount  to  very 
little.  As  regards  the  twenty-six  journals  which  appear  to  have  takerv 
no  notice  of  so  startling  a  statement  in  an  important  book,  the  fact  seems 
to  indicate  that  to  the  writers  for  those  journals  the  statement  contained 
nothing  of  a  remarkable  or  dubious  character  !  (Even  Punch  missed  the 
chance  of  an  amusing  cartoon  !) 

It  may  be  objected  that  the  reviewers  of  the  book  would  not  be  classical 
men.  'But  first  it  must  be  remembered  that  the  writers  of  1869  would 
practically  all  have  had  a  classical  education,  and  secondly  it  needed  no 
special  classical  knowledge  to  see  the  absurdity  of  the  statement.  Every 
one  without  exception  would  know,  for  example,  that  the  period  taken 
by  Galton  was  the  one  great  Greek  period.  The  statement  must  also  have 
excited  interest  on  all  sides.  I  myself  remember  how  it  was  talked  of 
when  I  was  a  boy  in  Melbourne,  and  I  have  heard  it  repeated  as  an 
acknowledged  fact  up  to  the  present  time — and,  therefore,  comment 
would  have  been  expected  in  every  direction.  But  apparently  the  state- 
ment was  generally  accepted.  Mr.  Whiting  finds  that  in  1892,  twenty- 
three  years  after,  Galton  calmly  repeated  the  statement  word  for  word, 
without  reference  to  any  criticisms.  Again  we  find  Mr.  Zimmern  accepting 
it  as  a  matter  of  course  in  his  second  edition  in  191 5.  As  it  was  in  his  first 
edition,  which  would  be  reviewed  in  the  classical  journals,  it  must  pre- 
sumably have  met  with  no  adverse  comments. 

But  we  have  to  go  even  further  than  this.  Galton's  was  one  of  those 
important  books  that  are  studied  by  all  Europe.  Seeing  that  he  makes 
no  mention  of  adverse  criticisrri  in  his  second  edition,  and  Mr.  Zimmern 
sees  no  reason  to  qualify  the  statement,  it  is  fair  to  assume  that  no 
serious  objection  has  been  made  in  England  or  Europe  during  nearly 
half  a  century.  So  amazingly  does  classical  enthusiasm  pervade  the 
thought  of  the  world  !  I  do  not  think  I  need  say  anything  further  on 
this  subject. 

Mr.  Zimmern  heads  one  of  his  chapters  "  Happiness  or  the  Rule  of 
Love,"  the  "  Rule  of  Love  "  being  his  translation  of  evdai/xoria  !  This 
chapter  is  occupied  exclusively  by  the  famous  Funeral  Speech  of  Pericles. 
I  invite  the  reader  to  look  through  that  terribly  hard  speech,  and  see 
how  much  love  it  contains  !     Again  to  another  chapter  the  heading  is 


MYERS  423 

"  Gentleness  or  the  Rule  of  Religion,"  followed  by  two  quotations  which 
are  evidently  intended  to  be  read  as  parallel  passages  : 

(TTipyot  bi  fie  <rix]cf>poavva., 

diiprj/jta  KaWiffTov  deibv* — Eur.  Medea,  635. 

Give  unto  us  made  lowly  wise 

The  spirit  of  self-sacrifice. — Wordsworth. 

xA.part  from  the  question  whether  the  proud  Greek  could  ever  by  any 
possibility  have  become  "  lowly  wise,"  the  word  awtppoavvq  "  temper- 
ance," "moderation" — or  perhaps  better  still,  "common  sense" — 
becomes  not  only  a  "  Rule  of  Religion  "  but  even  the  highest  conception 
of  Christianity,  self-sacrifice  —  which  is  entirely  opposed  to  "  common 
sense."  It  is  very  extraordinary.  Imagine  the  Greeks — as  we  know 
them,  and  as  Mr.  Zimmern  knows  them — having  the  faintest  conception 
of  what  we  mean  b}^  self-sacrifice  !  It  reminds  one  very  inuch  of 
Humpty  Dumpty  in  Through  the  Looking  Glass  :  "When  /  use  a  word  " 
(evSai./j.oi'ia  or  autppoffvvri)  "  it  means  just  what  I  choose  it  to  mean — 
neither  more  nor  less." 

As  this  is  my  last  note  I  am  giving  myself  great  latitude,  but  I  must 
not  prolong  it  into  a  treatise.  I  shall,  as  briefly  as  I  can,  refer  to  only  one 
other  matter,  the  Greek  sense  of  beauty.  I  do  not  think  it  is  an  exaggera- 
tion to  say  that  we  are  given  to  believe  that  in  this  respect  the  Greeks  are 
exalted  high  as  gods  above  the  rest  of  mankind.  What  is  the  fact  ?  They 
saw  beauty  in  only  one  natural  object,  the  human  body.  In  a  land  of  clear 
skies,  wonderful  sunsets,  starry  nights,  remarkable  for  its  ranges  of  moun- 
tains and  extent  of  sea-coast,  they  were  (with  some  tiny  exceptions  not 
worth  mentioning)  absolutely  blind  to  any  beauty  in  inanimate  nature. 
Nor  did  any  bird  or  beast  or  insect,  tree  or  flower  appeal  to  them  to  any 
appreciable  extent  as  a  thing  of  beauty.  They  admired  only  what  was 
useful  or  added  to  their  comfort — the  laden  fruit  tree,  the  shady  grove, 
the  clear  spring,  the  soft  water-meadows. 

Various  explanations  have  been  given  for  the  Greek  failure  to  appre- 
ciate beauty  in  nature.  Ruskin's  theory  is  most  often  quoted,  that  the 
Greeks  were  so  familiar  with  beautiful  scenes  that  they  could  not  appre- 
ciate them.  In  the  first  place  he  forgot  that  it  was  not  always  the  bright 
tourist-season  in  Greece  ;  they  had  their  dark  and  wintry  times.  In  the 
second  place,  I  have  lived  all  my  life  in  the  southern  part  of  Australia, 
which  has  much  the  same  climate  as  Greece,  and  I  do  not  think  there  are 
any  greater  lovers  of  nature  than  the  Australians. 

Is  not  the  love  of  nature,  as  it  came  later,  also  higher  than  love  of  the 
human  form  (omitting  that  facial  expression  which  is  an  index  of  the 
soul)  ?  Our  ideals  of  human  beauty  appear  to  be  purely  relative  and 
depend  on  our  surroundings,  while  the  same  beauty  in  nature  appeals  to 
the  most  diverse  nations.  Take  for  example  the  Japanese  and  Dutch 
artists  who  both  loved  nature  much  as  we  do — yet  they  admired  very 
different  types  of  the  human  figure.  I  understand  that  the  Japanese, 
originally  at  least,  regarded  with  positive  disgust  our  tall  English  beauties. 
Also  our  highly  artistic  Aurignacian  ancestors  of  the  post-glacial  period 
admired  the  Hottentot  type  of  beauty  ! 

The  beauty  the  Greeks  saw  in  one  object  only,  the  human  body,  they 
reproduced  in  statues,  which  have  never  been  equalled  in  grace  and  charm, 
and  are  the  admiration  of  the  world.  Their  pure  white  marble  statues 
and  temples  seem  to  be  always  present  in  our  minds  and  to  transfigure 
our  conceptions  of  the  Greeks.     We  unconsciously  picture  them  as  a 

•  "  May  moderation  befriend  me,  the  finest  gift  of  the  gods." 


424  MYERS 

race  of  glorious  men  and  beautiful  women  moving  in  a  city  of  beautiful 
white  marble.*  We  find  ourselves  forgetting  what  we  know  of  their 
character  and  habits — and  also  forgetting  the  fact  that  both  statues  and 
temples  were  painted. 

With  the  disappearance  of  colour  through  the  effect  of  time,  the  flesh 
effect  has  disappeared  from  their  statues,  and  the  chaste  white  marble 
gives  an  idealized  and  spiritual  conception  of  the  utmost  purity.  As 
stated  before,  this  would  be  a  conception  quite  alien  to  the  Greek  mind, 
which  saw  no  beauty  in  purity.  If,  when  we  stand  in  admiring  awe 
before  that  calm,  majestic,  and  exceedingly  graceful  and  beautiful  Venus 
of  Milo,  we  imagine  her  as  the  Greeks  saw  her,  how  different  is  the 
picture  !  To  begin  with,  the  Greeks  had  little  sense  of  colour,  as  is  seen 
from  their  limited  colour- vocabulary.  For  example,  one  word  por- 
phureos  was  used  for  dark-purple,  red,  rose,  sea-blue,  violet,  and  other 
shades  even  to  a  shimmery  white.  Their  colours  were  harsh,  glaring, 
and  put  together  in  shockingly  bad  taste.  In  temples  and  sculpture  reds 
and  blues  were  the  main  colours  used.  In  the  Venus  of  Milo  we  must, 
therefore,  picture  the  hair  painted  red  or  red-brown,  the  lips  a  hard  red, 
eyebrows  black,  the  eyes  red  or  red-brown  with  black  pupils,  the  dress 
with  borders  and  patterns  of  crude  reds  and  greens  or  reds  and  blues.  As 
regards  the  flesh  surfaces,  we  know  they  were  wax-polished,  but  there 
is  no  literary  record  or  actual  trace  of  any  tinting  or  colouring.  Yet  the 
effect  of  the  white  marble  would  have  been  so  horrible  against  the  living 
eyes  and  face,  that  Mr.  Kaines  Smith  (being  one  of  our  enthusiasts) 
suggests  that  the  artist  "  might  quite  well  "  have  used  some  colouring 
matter  for  the  nude  parts  of  the  figure  !  We  must  further  picture  the 
statue  standing  in  a  temple,  which  was  also  painted.  The  structure 
would  have  its  borders  generally  of  harsh  reds  and  blues,  and  the  decora- 
tive sculpture  of  the  pediments,  metopes,  and  friezes  would  be  painted 
in  most  inconceivable  colours.  Thus  in  the  metope  relief  of  the  slaying 
of  the  Hydra  at  Olympia,  the  hydra  is  blue,  the  background  red,  and  the 
hair,  lips,  and  eyes  of  Hercules  are  coloured.  I  might  go  on  to  the  Elgin 
marbles,  the  greatest  sculptures  that  we  possess  in  the  world,  and  show 
them  gorgeous  in  bronze  and  colour.  (Armour,  horse-trappings,  etc., 
were  attached  to  the  marble  in  bronze  or  other  metal.)  The  two  master- 
pieces of  Pheidias,  forty  and  sixty  feet  high  respectively,  which  have  not 
survived  to  us,  were  much  more  admired  by  the  Greeks  than  the  sculp- 
tures of  the  Parthenon.  These  were  in  barbaric  ivory  and  gold,  with  the 
same  living  eyes,  red  lips,  and  so  on.  The  fact  is  that  the  Greek 
"  builded  better  than  he  knew."  He  unintentionally  produced  objects 
whose  spiritual  beauty  he  was  incapable  of  appreciating,  and,  therefore, 
he  gave  thein  a  grosser  form  that  appealed  to  his  own  primitive  sensual 
nature. 

(Apart  from  this  the  Greek  sculptor  was  very  limited  by  the  paucity 
of  his  subjects.  How  tiresome  are  the  never-ending  Centaurs  and 
Amazons  !)t 

As  regards  Greek  architecture,  its  ornament  is  a  question  of  sculpture, 
its  structure  is  the  result  of  intellect  combined  with  a  certain  amount  of 
design  due  to  their  artistic  sense  of  proportion.  The  Greeks  did  great 
service  to  humanity  in  working  out  the  principles  of  building— but,  there- 

•  Their  actual  life  was  of  course  indescribably  squalid  and  filthy,  as  could  only  be  expected 
in  a  primitive  race. 

t  Even  as  regards  the  human  form  Greek  art  is  limited,  as  is  seen  in  the  Laocoon,  where 
the  boys  are  simply  miniature  men.  (The  Laocoon,  although  of  very  late  date,  is  nevertheless 
Greek,  with  all  the  traditions  of  the  art  behind  it.)  The  Greeks  also  saw  no  beauty  in  a  baby 
and  could  not  reproduce  one  in  sculpture.  It  seems  to  me  that  something  of  much  importance 
yet  remains  to  be  discovered  about  Greek  sculpture. 


MYERS  425 

after,  there  was  no  scope  for  originality.  Apart  from  its  sculptural  orna- 
ment, nothing  more  monotonous  could  well  be  imagined  than  a  series  of 
Greek  temples,  all  of  the  same  type  and  subject  to  definite,  rigid  rules  of 
measurement.  An  excessive  importance  is  attached  to  the  cold,  con- 
ventional, foliated  designs. 

Finally  there  are  two  matters  I  am  bound  to  refer  to  in  connection  with 
these  rough  notes.  First,  in  merely  enumerating  the  salient  features  of 
a  nation's  character,  one  gives  no  picture  whatever  of  the  life  they  led. 
The  Greek  men  led  a  highly  intellectual,  artistic,  and  on  the  whole  a  very 
gay  life.  If  we  look  around  us  to-day,  we  shall  find  among  ourselves 
Greeks,  intellectual  men  who  are  moral  sceptics,  who  simply  do  not  under- 
stand that  moral  motives  exist,  who  do  no  act  in  their  lives  from  a  sense 
of  principle,  and  who  live  a  purely  material  life  (unless  perhaps  some  great 
crisis,  the  arrival  of  the  angel  of  Death,  or  some  other  overwhelming  event, 
awakens  them  to  a  sense  of  higher  things).  We  can  see  something  like  a 
parallel  to  the  Greeks  in  the  gay,  immoral,  artistic  French  aristocracy  who 
lived  in  the  midst  of  a  starving  peasantry  before  the  Revolution — or  in 
George  Eliot's  fascinating  Renaissance  story  in  Romola  of  the  young  Greek, 
Tito  Melema.  A  man  may  be  cruel,  faithless,  and  immoral,  and  yet  live  a 
gay,  artistic,  and  intellectual  life — but  it  is  not  such  a  life  as  would  have 
appealed  to  Myers  or  to  ourselves.  Secondly,  a  clear  knowledge  of  the 
truth  about  the  Greek  character  does  in  no  way  detract  from  the  miracle 
of  their  literature  or  of  their  art.  It  adds  to  the  wonder  of  it  all.  (If  one 
may  with  the  utmost  reverence  make  another  comparison,  how  can  we 
fully  appreciate  the  wonder  and  beauty  of  Christ's  teaching,  if  we  forget 
the  conditions  of  the  time  ?)  To  find  most  beautiful  poetry,  fine  litera- 
ture, deep  philosophic  thought,  amazing  grace  and  charm  in  art  emanating 
from  this  primitive  race  is  purely  astounding  in  itself.  And  it  needs  to 
be  borne  in  mind  that  even  the  men  who  took  part  in  Plato's  Symposium 
lived  in  a  different  atmosphere  from  our  own,  and  had  a  very  different 
conception  of  the  physical  universe  and  the  moral  law.  But  this  should 
add  to  our  admiration,  our  veneration,  for  a  Plato  who  could  rise  to  so 
great  a  sublimity  of  thought  in  spite  of  such  semi-barbarous  conditions 
and  surroundings.  These  men  also  looked  upon  the  world  with  younger 
and  fresher  eyes.  We  are  two  thousand  three  hundred  years  older  than 
they  are.  They  knew  very  little  of  the  past  history  of  the  world  and  had 
only  an  insignificant  fraction  of  our  scientific  knowledge.  If  any  religious 
doubts  had  begun  to  arise  in  their  minds,  they  still  could  not  possibly 
have  rid  themselves  of  the  beliefs  instilled  into  them  since  childhood — and 
they  lived  among  Nymphs  and  Fauns,  and  saw  a  god  in  every  star  and 
under  every  wave.  Never  had  they  heard  or  dreamt  of  any  Love  of  God, 
or  Love  of  Man.  It  is  only  the  enthusiast  who,  by  picturing  the  Greeks 
as  a  modern  moral  nation,  detracts  from  our  real  interest  in  them  and 
robs  their  literature  of  its  fascination.  If  knowledge  of  the  true  Greek 
character  were  to  destroy  all  our  enjoyment  in  their  art  and  literature, 
even  then  truth  must  prevail  "  though  the  heavens  fall "  ;  but  the  fact 
is  far  otherwise.  The  fuller  our  knowledge  the  more  we  shall  enjoy  the 
greatness  and  beauty  of  their  art  and  poetry  and  the  more  absorbing  will 
be  our  interest  in  their  literature. 

Cras  amet  qui  nunquam  amavit,  quique  amavit  eras  amet. 

Anon. 

This  is  the  refrain  of  an  old  Latin  song.  Pervigilium  Vetieris.  Thomas 
Parnell  paraphrased  it  as  follows  : 

Let  those  love  now  who  never  loved  before. 
Let  those,  who  always  loved,  now  love  the  more. 


SUBJECT-INDEX 


"  A  cibo  biscocto,"  343 

"  A  Woman's  Thought,"  355 

Acting  and  sitting  still,  25 

Acts,  our,  II,  96,  358 

"  Address  to  a  Mummy,"  83 

Advice,  354 

Aesthetic  faculties,  decay  of,  363 

Aims,  high,  266,  302 

Akenside,  Mark,  293 

"  Alas,     how     easily     things     go 

wrong,"  276 
Alcibiades,  336 
Allotment-holders,  304 
Ambition,  121,  224 
American  intelligence,  285-6 
Amphibium,  270 
Andrea  del  Sarto,  90 
Animals,  mind  in,   122,   123,   168, 

179 
Anteros,  225 

Anthropomorphism,  140-41,  344 
Anti-Jacobin,  the,  251 
Anticipating  trouble,  128 
Apelles,  378 
Aristotle,  412,  414,  415 
Arnold,  Matthew,  139,  144,  307 
Art,  360,  394 

Art  of  reasoning,  the,  38-40 
Associations,  early,  294 
Attributions,  wrong,  129,  130 
Auto-suggestion,  172-3 
Avalon,  347 

Babies,  26,  52,  204.     See  Children 

Bacon,  Francis,  21 

Balder,  son  of  Odin,  254 

Baptism,  15 

Bean  in  poetry,  the,  389 

Beauties,  proud,  193 

Beautiful   necessary   to   man,   the, 

199 
Beauty,  198,  379,  384,  403 
Beauty  of  promise,  401 
Beauty  is  truth,  195 
Beeching,  H.  C,  130 


Belfast  Address,  the,  66 

"  Beneath  my  Window,"  186 

Bentham,  Jeremy,  126,  210 

Bergson,  41,  171 

Bible,    literal    interpretation,    xvi, 

385 
Blake,  113,  115,  133,  175,  201,  308 
Blanco  White,  291 
Blindness,  189 
Body  and  mind,  311,  327 
Bombast,  empty,  267 
Bourne,  Vincent,  397 
Bouts  rimis,  328 
Brahma,  388 
Bride,  the,  406 

Browning,  E.  B.,  45-8,  50  n.,  164 
Browning,  R.,  45-8,  318 
Browning  Society,  the,  17 
Burial-place,  choice  of,  63,  398 
"  Buy  my  English  posies,"  11 

Cadmus  and  daffodils,  188 
Cain  and  Seth,  282 
"  Canadian  Boat-song,"  228 
Carlyle,  89,  144,  145,  376 
Carpe  diem,  220-21 
Catholicism,  Roman,  137 
Cause  and  effect,  194 
Chatterton,  136 
Child-poets,  136,  186-8,  201 
Child's  outlook,  the,  166-7 
Children,  37,  52,  58,  130,  277,  354, 

361.     See  Babies 
Children,  cruelty  to,  50,  106 
Children's  games,  261 
Children's  h^Tnn,  364 
Chinese,  the,  294 
Christianity,  105,  206 
Clairvoyance,  40,  41,  178-9 
Classical  enthusiasm,  410-35 
Classical  men,  336,  337 
Cleopatra,  312,  380 
Clergymen,  388 
Clothes,  159 
Clough,  A.  H.,  339 


427 


428 


SUBJECT-INDEX 


Coleridge,  Derwent,  333 
Coleridge,  S.  T.,  34,  77,  103,  144, 

333,  356 
Compensation,  213 
Confession,  293 
"  Conservative,  A,"  303 
Constipation,  habitual,  173 
Creation,  315 
Cunning,  255 
Cupid,  194 
Cynicism,  297 
Cyrano  de  Bergerac,  35,  36 

Dahlia,  the,  407 
Dance  of  flowers,  a,  322 
Dancing,  406 

"  Dark  Companion,  The,"  55 
Darkness  and  light,  306 
Darwin,  xv,  65,  67,  264,  363 
Day's  requiem,  288 
Dead,  the,  30-33,  55,  304,  392 
Death,  32,  55,  77,  125,  136,  140, 
142,  267,  272  (2),  289,  296,  367, 

383 
Death,  desire  for,  274 
Death,  doomed  to  early,  271 
Debates,  229 

Depression  pass,  periods  of,  287 
De  Quincey,  145 
Devil,  the,  44,  156,  212,  241,  381 
Dick  Swiveller,  72 
Dining,  on,  72-3 
Discontent,  290 
Discontent,  divine,  264 
Divine  in  man,  the,  141,  278,  301, 

313 
Dogs  versus  men,  276 
"  Don't  count  your  chickens,"  205 
Dreams,  170,  179 
Dreamthorp,  192 
Drift,  letting  oneself,  42 
Drink,  why  men,  194 
Duty,  85-9,  151,  319,  393 
Dying,  165,  359 
Dying,  spell  for  the,  324 

Earth  made  for  man,  the,  125 

Earth  the  purifier,  227 

East  and  the  West,  the,  278 

Economics,  320 

Eliot,  George,  373-4 

Emerson,  144,  259 

England,  i,  148 

"  England,"  the  word,  327 

English,     characteristics     of     the, 

399-400 
English  Law,  210-13 
Enthusiasm,  loss  of  early,  24,  37 
Epigrams,  160,  261,  406 


Epitaphs,  205,  213,  263,  384,  400 

Epitaphs,  extravagant,  205 

Essays,  389 

Eternal  punishment,  134 

Eternal  silence  of  infinite  space,  7 

"  Et  in  Arcadia  ego,"  165 

Eugenics,  282-6 

Evolution,    65-71,    173,    214,    283, 

343-5 
Evolution,  main  factor  in,  173 
Example,  400,  401 
Expecting  too  much,  241 

Fame,  90 

Familiarity  destroys  emotion,  316 

Familiarity  kills  romance,  305 

Familiarity,  pretended,  384 

Fearlessness,  295 

"  Feast  of  Adonis,"  92 

Fidelity,  249 

FitzGerald,  Edward,  145,  i6o,  220- 
221,  311 

Flies,  397 

Fools  and  knaves,  102 

Forgiving,  Knowing  means,  54 

Fox-hunters,  125 

Free  Trade,  400 

Freedom,  6,  85,  399-400 

"  Friend  of  Humanity,"  250 

Friends  and  foes,  107 

"  Friends  departed,"  89 

Friends,  quarrels  between,  338 

Fugues,  13 

Furnivall,  F.  J.,  19 

Future  life,  90,  230,  232,  362,  363, 
373-5,  390,  391,  392.  See  Sur- 
vival of  death. 

Galton,  282,  419 

Geometry,  191 

Girl  bathing,  25 

Girl  and  dewberries,  371 

Girls  of  Bethlehem,  28 

Gissing,  336 

Gladstone,  382 

Gleam,  the,  124-5 

God,  191,  219,  302,  314,  315,  325 

(2),  331  (2) 
Gods  favour  the  strongest,  the,  50 
Good,  desiring  the,  159 
Good  life,  a,  169,  320 
Good    survives,    everything,    145, 

317, 335 
Grace  for  a  child,  273 
Gray,  David,  24 
Greek  anthology,  9 
Greek  beliefs  about  animals,  337, 

415 
Greek  character,  412 


SUBJECT-INDEX 


429 


Greek  democracy,  5 

Greek  glamour,  410-35 

Greek  gods,  the,  142,  337 

Greek  infamicide,  206 

Greek  literature,  335-8,  415-16 

Greek  morality,  414 

Greek  religion,  412-13 

Greek  sense  of  beauty,  423-4 

Greek  statuary,  424 

Greek,  translations  from,  207,  416 

Greek  underworld,  the,  244-5,  272 

Greek  vice,  411 

Greek  women,  5,  92-6,  206,  413 

Greeks,   ignorance   of  the,  337-8, 

414 
"  Greeks  or  Germans  ?     5 
Grief  solitary,  joy  gregarious,  377 
"  Grown  Up,"  159 

Haeckel,  69-71 

Hafiz  and  Timur,  384 

Happiness  thought  wicked,  267 

Hardy,  Thomas,  124 

Hazlitt,  William,  144 

Heaven,    273,    401.     See    Future 

life. 
Heaven  only  free  of  cost,  306 
Hegel,  112 
Hell,  134-S 

Hellenism,  the  new,  248,  354 
Hereafter,  the,  139,  275 
Hereditary  defect,  24 
Highest,  love  of  the,  24 
Highland  crofters,  evicted,  228-9 
Hilton,  A.  C,  52 
Hodgson,  R.,  vii,  xiii,  234-5,  390 
Holmes,  Edmond,  285 
Hood,  Thomas,  50  n. 
Hope,  37,  43,  159,  403,  407 
Humour,  sense  of,  180  71. 
Huxley,  65,  66,  264 
Huxley  and  Wilberforce,  65 
"  Hymn  to  God  the  Father,  A,"  62 

"  I  never  nursed  a  dear  gazelle," 

208 
Ideals,  314 
"  Identity,"  143 
Idleness,  304 
Ignorance,  our,  41,  148 
Illusions  often  conscious,  our,  313 
Imagination,  57,   135,   174-8,  286, 

348-51,  359.  399-400,  401 
Imagination,  poetic,  174-6,  240-41, 

257,  268-9,  335 
"  Imbuta,"  369 
Imperfection  essential,  379 
"  Impossible,"  the,  40,  41,  49 
India  House  coterie,  the,  321 


Industrialism,  148,  286 
Isolation  of  souls,  307-9 

Jansenists,  The,  394 

"  Jenny  kissed  me,"  319 

Jesus  Christ,  123,  149,  150,  163 

Johnson,  Dr.,  223 

Judas  Iscariot,  78-81 

Kant,  258,  259,  393 
Keats,  77,  144,  145 
Kepler  and  Galileo,  282 
Killing  the  mandarin,  153 
Kingsley,  Charles,  50 
Kipling,  Rudyard,  11,  144 
Knowledge,  pursuit  of,  393 

Lamb,  Charles,  194,  270 

Land-crabs,  197 

"  Land  of  Dreams,  The,"  387 

Lang,  Andrew,  261 

lyate  spring  and  summer,  339 

Le  Roi  d'Yvetot,  320 

Leisure,  need  of,  152,  361 

Lese-tnajestCy  38 1 

"  Let  it  be  there,"  63 

"  Letty's  Globe,"  370 

Lies,  ancient,  96 

L  fe,  25,  105,  106,  127-8,  129,  131, 
139,  169,  175,  184,  256,  261, 
274, 275, 290, 301,  302,  309,  310, 
320,  325,  342,  353,  361^(2),  367, 
392 

Life  and  after,  195 

Lindisfarne,  147 

Literature,  33,   112,  162,  255,335 

Little  Boy  Blue,  92 

"  Lives  and  likes  life's  way,"  268, 
269,  270-71 

Livingstone,  R.  W.,  207,  334-S 

Logia  of  Jesus,  372 

Lost  days,  151,  152 

Lotos-eaters,  the,  374 

Love,  12,  29,  37,  43,  49,  98,  no, 
133,  162,  185,  189,  192,  193, 
196,  198,  230,  281,  293,  301, 
309  (2),  311,  340,  351,  355,  358, 
368,  371,  372,  395,  401,  403 

Love  and  a  cough,  107 

Love  and  duty,  252 

Love  betrayed,  249 

Love,  brevity  of,  196,  198 

Love,  brotherly,  25,  98,  150,  225, 
226,  256,  310 

Love,  divine,  55,  225 

Love,  early  and  later,  262 

Love  rejected,  249 

Love,  second,  369 

Love  strayed,  169 


430 


SUBJECT-INDEX 


Love's  cruelty,  133,  193,  249 
"  Love's  Farewell,"  340 
Love's  last  messages,  190,  300 
Lovelight  and  sunlight,  377 
Lover  dead,  the,  135 

M'Dougall,  William,  179,  286,  299 

Machiavelli,  345 

Magic  casements,  251,  252 

Man  credited  with  his  own  work, 

169 
Man  innately  good,  199-200,  301 
Man  necessary  to  God,  199 
Man,  primitive    183 
Man,  the  making  of,  243 
Man's  relation  to  the  universe,  43, 

Man's  value  in  God's  sight,  220, 

222 
Man's  various  aspects,  61,  362 
Marriage,  97-8,  185 
Martineau,  J.,  xvi,  162 
"  Martyr,  The,"  188 
Marvel,  a  two-fold,  142 
Mason,  Charlotte,  285 
Materialism,    41,    66-9,    108,    140, 

264-5,  298-9 
Memories,  357 
Memory,  171 

Memory  after  death,  172,  200 
Menzies,  P.  S.,  316 
Aiermaid  Tavern,  the,  356 
Mice  and  elephants,  16 
"  Mimnermus  in  Church,"  392 
Miracles,  357,  394,  406 
Moliere,  35 
Moon,  the,  23 
Mother  Earth,  236-9 
Mrs.  Grundy,  333 
Murder,  35 

Murray,  Gilbert,  337,  416-19 
Music,    13-14,    31,    99,    100,    121, 

187,  263,  273,  317-18,  366-7 
"  Music,  Beauty's  silent,"  366-7 
Myers,  F.  W.  H.,  149,  170,  225, 

232,  318,  390,  410-11 
Mysterious,   the   simplest   fact   is, 

351 

Nation's  songs,  a,  394 
Nature,  214,  219,  254,  277,  398 
Nature,  love  of,  329,  423 
Nature,  universality  of,  20 
Nature's   beauty  actual,   not   sub- 
jective, 257-8,  259 
Nature's  teachings,  89,  114,  398 
Nature — use  and  beaut)',  258 
Night,  Death,  and  Woman,  202 
NocturnC;  57 


Nomen  nudum,  282 

Nonsense,  clever,  256 

No  "  ought  "  in  Nature,  393 

"  O,    may    I    join    the    choir    in- 
visible," 373 
"  Octopus,  The,"  51 
Old  age,  xxiii,  196,  209 
Old  friends,  63,  75 
"  Old  Sinner's  Lyric,  The,"  160 
Only  one  of  a  pair  loves,  274 
Opinions,  altering  one's,  296 
Opinions,  forming  one's  own,  51 

Optimism,  vii,  396  (2) 

Ossian,  263 

"  Outlandish  Proverbs,"  346-7 

Paine,  Thomas,  6 

Painted  women,  162,  288 

Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury,  399 

Paradise,  spirit  of.  42 

Parodies,    51,    72,    117,    154,    248, 

250-51,  292,  313.  395 
Passion,  bias  of,  340 
Pater,  W.,  354 
Payne,  John,  ix 
Peace  of  God,  the,  272 
Petion  (1770-18 1 8),  320 
Philosophy,  scraps  of,  108-112 
Physicians,  42,  48,  173,  346,  365 
Pity  for  the  fallen,  375 
Plagiarism,  35,  136,  367,  407 
Playing  the  fool,  365 
Poet,  the,  240,  268-9 
Poetry,  10,  19,  53,  58,  75,  100,  loi- 

IC2,    135,    153,    156,    175,    209, 

215, 234, 240, 241, 252, 257, 260, 

269-70,  334-6,  399-400 
Poetry  a  valuable  study,  399-400 
Poetry,  mysticism  in,  99-101 
Pope,  Alexander,  335  f 

"  Practical,"  the,  108  ^ 

Prayer,  149,  271,  328  (3) 
Prescriptions,  medical,  173,  365 
Previous  existence,  230-31,  388 
Pride,  191,  260,  409 
Progress,  158,  295 
Prosaic  persons,  323 
Psychical    Research,    Society    for, 

xvi,   41-2,    69,    180,    205,    374, 

382-3,  390,  391 
Psychotherapy,  383 
"  Pulley,  The,"  64 
"  Pulsation  "  life,  354 
Punishment  of  sin,  157 
Puns  in  poetry,  62,  64,  398,  404 
Puritans,  290 
Pyrrhus  and  Cineas,  224 


SUBJECT-INDEX 


431 


Qua  cursurn  7:entus,  326 
Quakers,  282 

Rabbi  ben  Ezra  and  Omar  Khay- 
yam, 220-21 

Reasoning,  the  art  of,  38-40 

Rejuvenation,  184 

Religion,  14-16,  58,  81,  149,  150, 
302,  315,  401 

Religion  and  love,  169,  225 

Religion  and  science,  65-71,  193 

Religious  ideas,  growth  of,  314 

Renan,  70 

Renunciation,  151 

Reputation  and  character,  207,  261 

Requiem,  20,  267,  293,  376 

Reunion  after  death,  84 

"  Revenons  h.  nos  moutons,"  212 

Robertson,  J.  M.,  21 

Rogers,  Samuel,  144,  145 

Romance,  spirit  of,  42,  319 

Roman  cruelt\',  206 

Romantic  revival,  the,  115 

Rossetti,  Christina,  30,  31 

Ruskin ,  145 

St.  Augustine,  164 

St.  Monica's  vision,  164 

Sanded  sugar,  331 

Savages,  184 

Sayce,  A.  H.,  71 

"  Say    not,    the    struggle   nought 

availeth,"  295 
Scots,  the,  223 
Scott,  Sir  Walter,  36,  72-3 
Sea-song,  a  great,  279 
Sectarianism,  137 
Self-centred,  208 
Self-conceit,  296,  323 
Self-deceit,  261 
Self-sacrifice,  7,  225-6,  408 
Selfishness,  185,  203 
'Sense  and  emotion,  316 
Sentimental  Journey,  Sterne's,  329 
Seventy-eighty  period,  the,  xv 
Seventy  years  young,  274 
Sex  in  the  soul,  103-4 
Shakespeare  and  Bacon,  20-21 
Shakespeare        "  unlocking        his 

heart,"  45-6 
Shaving  and  childbirth,  408 
Shelley,  29,  117,  136,  144,  287 
Ships  that  pass  in  the  night,  326-7 
"  Sic  vos  non  vobis,"  117 
Sidgwick,  Henry,  235 
Silence,  291 
Singing,  273 

Slandered,  best  people,  165 
Sleep  and  waking  life,  170,  180 


Smiles  are  human,  209 
Snobbishness,  208 
Socialism,  117 
Socrates  on  war,  412 
Sofa,  a  living,  332 
Sorrow,  12,  37,  133,  224 
"  Sorrows  of  Werther,"  352 
Soul,    the,   X,    14,   33,     103,    116, 

141,  146-7,  i8i,  272,  286,  407 
Soul-making,  161 
Soul's  beaut>%  227 
South  Australia,  421 
Southey,  251 

"  Spasmodic  School,  The,"  262-3 
Special  creation,  343-5 
Spencer,  Herbert,  65,  68,  235,  264 
Spirit  of  the  age,  308 
Spiritualism,  205 
Stars  and  duty,  393 
Stevenson,  R.  L.,  400 
Stigmatization,  172 
Stoicism,  148,  242 
Style,  144,  145 
SuflFering,  22,  75,  161-2,  311,  316, 

325. 
Suffering  of  animals  exaggerated, 

168 
Suffering  mainly  mental,  man's,  325 
Suicide.  239 

Superconscious,  the,  170-82 
Survival  of  death,  228,  296 
Swinburne,  145,  246-8 

Tall  men,  265 

Telepathy,  178-9 

Temptation,  74 

"  The  Belle  of  the  Ball-room,"  233 

"  The  gods  are  brethren,"  107 

"  The  Other  Side  of  the  Sea,"  332 

"  The  Retreat,"  230 

"  The  Return,"  81 

"  The  Revelation,"  167 

"  The  Toys,"  116 

Theology  not  Christianitv,   14-16, 

138 
Theosophy,  383 
Thinkers    die    before    their    views 

recognized,  360 
Thompson,  Francis,  104 
Thomson,  James  ("  B.V."),  113 
Thought  prevents  simple  life,  397 
Thrush,  the,  125 
Time  too  fast,  157 
"  'Tis  a  very  good  world  to  live  in," 

203 
Tobacco,  275 

"  To  my  Grandmother,"  90 
"  Too  late  for  love,"  59-60 
Toucan,  the,  364 


432 


SUBJECT-INDEX 


Tradesmen,  dishonest.  331,  368 
Trial  by  jury,  400 
Trial-test,  the,  324 
Truth,  champions  of,  158 
Truth,  love  of,  386 
Truth,  pursuit  of,  289 
Truths,  revivifying,  82,  iii 
Truth-speaking,  345 
Tupman  the  lover,  306 
"  Two  Lovers,"  131 
Tyndall,  John,  67,  264 

Unconscious,  the,  170-82 
Universal  power,  nature  of,  344 
Useful   penalty  of  being,  153 
Utilitarianism,  126 
Utopianism,  193 

"  Value,"  judgments  of    54,   180, 

320 
Vices,  a  ladder  of  our,  305 
Violin,  the,  99,  100 
Virgil,  117 

Virtues  like  torches,  387 
Vision,  225,  324 
Vox  et  praeterea  nihil,  408 
"  Vulture   and   the   Husbandman, 

The,"  154 

War,  1-4,  54,  412 

Wesley,  John,  194,  365 

"  What  am  I  ?  "  109 

"  What  is  Love  ?  "  no 

"  What  of  the  Darkness  ?  "  55 


"  When  Love  meets  Love,"  204 

"  When  we  all  are  asleep,"  243 

Whence  and  whither  ?  105,  185 

Whetstone,  the,  227 

Whitehall  coterie,  the,  321 

Wilberforce,  Samuel,  65 

Willing  people,  274 

Witches,  381 

Woman,  37,  64,  76,  85,  96,  103, 
104,  123,  137,  162,  252,  263, 
266  (2),  275,  276,  288,  311,  330- 
331,342,351,355,358,361,  368, 
379,  384,  386,  389,  403,  408 

Woman — woe  to  man,  85 

Woman's  duty  to  elevate  man,  276 

(2) 
Women  —  and    men  —  fickle,    37, 

330-31 
Wonder,  333 
Word-pictures,  91-2,  132-3,  201-2, 

253-4,    312-13,    341-2.    380-81. 

402-3 
Wordsworth,  33,  53,  135,  145,  231, 

2S7 
World,  the,  22,  128,  189 
World  is  beautiful,  the,  263 
World  is  young,  the,  12 
Wren,  Sir  Christopher,  404-5 

"  Yesterday,  sick  for,"  377 
Youth  and  age,  xxiii,  142 

Zimmern's  Greek  Commonwealth^ 
419,  422 


INDEX   OF  AUTHORS 


Addison  (1672-1719),  48 
Aldrich,  Anna  Reeve  (1866-1892), 

24,  274 
Aldrich,  Flenry  (1647-1710),  194 
Aldrich,  T.  B.  (1836-1907),   143, 

156 
Alexander,  Wm.  (1824-1911),  151 
Amiel  (1821-1881),  165,  226 
Anon,  (see  Author  not  traced),  92, 

165,    212,    228,   254,    261,    320, 

330,  351,  394,  410,  425 
Apelles,  378 

Aristotle  (384-322  n.c),  412,  414 
Arnold,  Matthew  (1822-1888),  14, 
19.  95)  139.  148,  195,  231,  242, 
253,  272,  278,  307,  339,  359 
Austin,  Alfred  (1835-1913),  331 
Author  not  traced  (see  Anon.),  38, 
39,  74.  76,  98,   128,   140,   142, 
157,    162,    194,    198,    256,   263, 
266,   272,   274,    276,   299,    302, 
311,  357 

Bacon,    Francis    (1561-1626),    21, 

185,  208,  231,  255,  265 
Bailey,  P.  J.  (1816-1902),  16,  22, 

54,  106,  261,  295 
Bain,  Alex.  (1818-1903),  108,  229 
Balfour,  Earl  of  (b.  1848),  265 
Ball,  John  (d.  1381),  284 
Balzac  (1799-1850),  195 
Bateson,  William  (b.  1861),  282 
Beaumarchais  (1732-1799),  234 
Beaumont,    Francis    (1584-1616), 

356 
Beddoes,  T.  L.  (1803-1849),  190, 

304,  345 
Bentham,     Jeremy     (1748-1832), 

126,  210 
B^ranger  (1780-1857),  320 
Billing,  Wm.  (fourteenth  century), 

400 
Blackstone,    Sir    William    (1723- 

1780),  210 
Blake,    William    (1757-1827),    81, 


98,  113,  115,  123,  125,  133, 141, 

201,   213,   296,    322,   351,    352, 

387,  405 
Blanc,  Charles  (1811-1882),  329 
Bland-Sutton,  Sir  J.  (b.  1855),  16 
Boccaccio  (1315-1375),  137 
Boehme,  Jacob  (1575-1624),  175 
Boreham,  F.  W.  (b.  1871),  52 
Bossuet  (1627-1704),  134 
Boswell  ( 1 740-1 795),  137 
Bourdillon,  F.  W.  (b.  1852),  377 
Bovd,  A.  K.  H.  (1825-1899),  224 
Bradley,  A.  C.  (b.  1851),  loi 
Brathwaite,  R.  (?  1588-1673),  290 
Bray,  Betty  (b.  1906),  186-8 
Bromfield,  J.  (dates  unknown),  203 
Brougham,  Lord  (1778-1868),  211 
Brown,  Baldwin,  134 
Brown,  John  (1810-1882),  408 
Brown,  T.  E.  (i 830-1 897),  204,  208 
Browne,  Sir  Thomas  (i 605-1 682), 

76,  121,  141,  158,  270,  359,  367 
Browning,  E.  B.  (1806-1861),  12, 

22,  24,  45,  164,   185,  191,  240, 

325,  400 

Browning,  R.  (1812-1889),  13,  33, 
46, 47, 74, 90, III, 125, 144, 161, 
169,  220,  221,  222,  232,  252, 
253,  266,  268-9,  270,  276,  288, 
293.  302,  304,  311,  312,  317- 
318,  324,  331,  341,  357,  360, 
362,  370,  394,  402 

Bryant,  W.  C.  (1794-1878),   136, 

331 
Buchanan,  R.  (1841-1901),  3,  23, 

78-80,  107,  124,  243,  254,  304, 

32s 
BufTon  (1707-1788),  174 
Bunyan,    John    (1628-1688),    200, 

375 
Burns  (1759-1796),  44 
Bussy-Rabutin  (1618-1693),  50 
Butler,    Samuel   (1612-1680),    40, 

102,  III,  153,  159,  323 
Butler,  Samuel  (1835-1902),  36 

433  2F 


434 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS 


Bvron  (1788-1824),  72.  in,  367, 
'377 

Calverley,  C.  S.  (1831-1884),  72, 

"7,395  „     ^ 

Campbell,    Thomas    (1777-1844), 

123 
Campion,  Thomas  (?  1567-1619), 

133,  366 
Camiing,  George  (1770-1827),  250 
Carlyle  (1795-1881),  7,  88,  376,  401 
"  Carroll,  Lewis,"  C.  L.  Dodgson 

(1832-1898),  38,  39,  73,  216-18, 

423 
Carruth,  W.  H.  (b.  1859),  298 
Chatterton  (1752-1770),  135 
Chaucer  (?  1340-1400),  132,  239 
Cholmondeley,  Hester,  81 
Cleveland,  John  (1613-1658),  223 
Clough,  A.  H.  (1819-1861),   138, 

185,  202,  275,  295,  326 
Colenso,  T.  W.  (1814-1883),  385 
Coleridge,     S.     T.     (1772-1834), 

xxiii,  34,  51,  75,  77,  82,  91,  103, 

166,   237,   253,   255,   257,   291, 

313, 338, 354, 356, 381,  385,  386, 

391 
Conway,  M.  D.  (1832-1907),  6,  55, 

386 
Corneille,    Thomas     (1625-1709), 

309 
Cory,  Wm.  (Johnson)  (i  823-1 892), 

10,  393 
Cowley  (1618-1667),  272 
Cowper  (173 1 -1 800),  126  n. 
Crashaw,  Richard  (1616-1650),  406 
Croce,  Benedetto  (b.  1866),  46 
"  Cuthbert         Bede,"         Edward 

Bradley  (1827-1889),  256 

Darwin  (1809-1882),  175,  363 
De  Chancel,  Ausone  (1808-1878), 

129 
De     Girardin,     Delphine     (1804- 

1855),  189 
De  Musset,  A.  (1810-1857),  407 
De  Quincey  (1785-1859),  35,  255 
De  Stael,  Mme.  (1766-1817),  54, 

198, 356 
Dickens  (1812-1870),  38,  97,  112, 

306,  320 
Dickinson,  G.  Lowes,  413 
Dictionary,  Nezu  Etjglish,  389 
DisraeU  (1804-1881),  261 
Dobson,  Austin  (1840-1921),  407 
Donatus,  Aelius  (fourth  century), 

xvii 
Donne,  John  (1573-1631),  62,  75, 

282,  330 


"  Douglas,         Marian,"        Annie 
Douglas  Robinson  {b.  1842),  266 
Drayton  (1563-1631),  340 
Dryden  (1631-1700),  58,  73,  128 
Du   Bois-Reymond   (1818-1896), 

175 
Du  Lorens  (1583-1658),  384 

Earle,  John  (?  1601-1665),  354 
Edmunds,  A.  J.  {b.  1857),  200,  205 
Eliot,  George  (1819-1880),  v,  11, 
22,  37,  42,  62,  85,  96,  106,  107, 
131, 139, 159, 193, 222,  252,  267, 
288, 294, 296, 311, 313,  316,  323, 
358,    366,    373,    375,   379,    380, 

397,  407 
Emerson,   R.  W.  (1803-1882),    1, 

7,   25,   37,   128,   149,   192,   214, 

232,    237,    241,   302,   305,    388, 

396,  401 
Euripides  (480-406  B.C.),  423 

FitzGerald,   Edward  (1809-1883), 

145,  160,  167,  221 
Fletcher  of  Saltoun   (1655-1716), 

394 
Foote,  Samuel  (1720-1777),  256 
Fox,     Caroline     (1819-1871),     53, 

333,  356,  408 
Franklin,    Benjamm    (1706-1790), 

77,  152 
Fuller,  Thomas  (1608-1661),  205 

Galton  (1822-1911),  282,  419-22 
Garnett,  Richard  (1S35-1906),  57 
Gascoigne,  George  (?  1525-1577), 

85,  368 
Geley,  W.,  175 
Gibbon  (1737-1794),  50,  260 
Gilbert,  Sir  Wm.  (1836-191 1),  358 
Gissing,  George  (1857-1903),  309 
Glover,  T.  R.  (6.  1869),  199 
Goethe  (1749-1832),  19 
Goldsmith  (1728-1774),  158 
Gordon,  A.  L.  (1833-1870),  342 
Gosse,  Edmund  {b.  1849),  142,  377 
Gray,  Thomas   (1716-1771),   115, 

121 
GreekAnthoIogy,  8-10,  98,215,  346 
Green.  J.  R.  (1837-1883),  105 

Hadrian  (76-138)  272 

Hafiz  (died  about  1388),  75,  384 

Hamilton,  Sir  W.  R.  (1805-1865), 

174 
Hardinge,  W.  M.,  8-9 
Hardy,  Thomas  {b.  1840),  25,  124 
Harrison,  Jane  {b.  1850),  337,  419 
Haweis,  H.  R.  (1838-1901),  100  n. 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS 


435 


Hawthorne,  Nathaniel  (1804-1864), 

401 
Hazlitt,  William  (1778-1830),  144 
Heine  (1797-1856),  248,  331 
Helps,  Sir  A.  (1813-1875),  54,  267 
Henley,  W.  E.  (1849-1903),  376 
Herbert,  George  (i  593-1 633),  64, 

346 
Herrick  (1591-1674),  76,  133.  273 
Hilton,  A.  C.  (1851-1877),  51,  154 
Hobbes  (1588-1679),  191 
Hobhouse,  L.  T.  (b.  1864).  199 
Hodgson,     Richard     (1855-1905), 
•   ^y,,         108,  III,  112,  120,  234-5,  301, 
'  y        310,  332,  340  / 
J.' D       Holland,  Lord  (1773-1840),  407 

Holmes,  O.  W.  (1809-1894),  61, 

196,  274 
Homer,  244 
Hood,    Thomas    (1799-1845),    32, 

398 
Hook,  Theodore  (1788-1841),  144 
Horace  (64-8    B.C.),   19,  73,   227, 

370 
Household,  H.  W.  {h.  1870),  285 
Howe,  Julia  Ward  (1819-1910),  274 
Hugo,    Victor    (1802-1885),    330, 

361,  384 
Hunt,  Leigh  (1784-1859),  101,  291, 

319 
Hunter,  W.  A.  (1844-1898),  381 
Huxley,  Henrietta  A.,  264 
Huxley,   T.   H.   (1825-1895),   65, 

149 

Irving,   Washington    (1783-1859), 

198 
Isocrates  (436-338  B.C.),  227 

James,  William  (1842-1910),  168, 

199 
Jefferies,  R.  (1848-1887),  393 
Jeffrey,  Francis,  Lord  (1773-1850), 

144 
Johnson,  Samuel  (1709-1784),  39, 

40,  112,  205, 222 
Jones,  Sir  William  (1746-1794),  309 
Jonson,  Ben  (?  1573-1637),  9,  379. 

384 

Kant  (1724-1804),  393 

Keats  (1795-1821),  77,   127,   133, 

161, 165, 184, 195, 252, 257, 313, 

341,  356 
Keble -(1792-1866),  58 
King,  Henry  (1592-1669),  270 
Kinglake,  A.  W.  (1809-1891),  28 
Kingsley,  Charles  (1819-1875),  49, 

249, 264 


Kipling,    Rudyard    (6.    1865),    11, 

221  n.,  275,  279-81,  348-50 
Knight,  E.  F.  {h.  1852),  197 
Knowles,  F.  L.  (1869-1905),  377 

La  Bruyfere  (i 645-1 696),  33 
Lamb,    Charles   (1775-1834),    40, 

194.  356,  361 
Landor,   W.   S.   (1775-1864),   60, 

365,  367 
Lang,    Andrew    (1844-1912),    96, 

171  n. 
Latimer,  Hugh  (?  1485-1555),  156 
Lecky,  W.  E.  H.  (1838-1903),  152 
Le  GalHenne,  R.  {b.  1866),  57,  215 
Leigh,  H.  S.  (1837-1883),  211,  292 
Lessing  (1729-1781),  289 
Lichtenberg,   G.   C.   (1742-1799), 

163 
Liebig  (1803-1873),  174 
Lilly,  W.  S.  {h.  1840),  234 
Lincoln,     Abraham     (1809-1865), 

169,  346 
Litany,  Old  Monkish,  342 
Littledale,  R.  F.  (1833-1896),  134 
Livingstone,  R.  W.  (6.  1880),  207, 

334-8,  412,  413 
Locke,  John  (1632-1704),  209,  255 
Locker-Lampson,  F.  (1821-1895), 

90, 333 
Logia  of  Jesus,  372 
Longfellow  (1807-1882),  305,  327, 

398 
Lovelace,     Richard     (1618-1655), 

366 
Loveman,  R.  (6.  1864),  396 
Lowell,  J.  R.  (1819-1891),  2,  35, 

85,  99-100,  124,  130,  150,  261, 

306,  311 
Lowry,  H.  D.  (1869-1906),  32,  166, 

287 
Lyall,  Sir  Alfred  (1835-1911),  59, 

118 
Lynch,  Thomas  Toke  (181 8-1 871), 

58, 271 
Lytton,  Bulwer  (1803-1873),  275 
Lytton,  Earl  of,  "  Owen  Meredith  " 

(1831-1891),  70,  403 

Macaulay,  (1800-1859),  345 
MacDonald,  George  (1824-1905), 

19,  43,  44,  64,  91,  203,  204,  239, 

276,  306, 331 
Macpherson,    James    (1736-1796), 

263 
Maine,  Sir  Henry  (1822-1888),  108 
Mangan,  J.  C.  (1803-1849),  142 
Marcus  Aurelius  (120-180),  242 
Marlowe  (1564-1593),  44 


436 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS 


Marston,  P.  B.  (1850-1887),  45 
Martial  (?  40-?  103),  97,  212 
Martineau,     James     (1805-1900), 

15.  37,  54.  67,  88,  109,  161,  162, 

297,  325,  343, 357 
Masnair  (thirteenth  century),  214 
Mason,  Catherine  A.,  328 
Massey,  Gerald   (1828-1907),   26, 

158,  293,  316,  358 
Maudsley,  Henry  (1835-1918),  174 
Maule,  Sir  W.  H.  (1788-1858),  210 
Melville,  Herman  (1819-1891),  332 
Menzies,  P.  S.  (1840-1874),  314-16 
Meredith,  George  ( 1 828-1 909)  ,132, 

238,  278,  297,  340,  342,  371 
Meynell,  Alice  (1852-1922),  151 
Michel  Angelo  (1475-1564),  75 
Middleton,  R.  (1882-1911),  151 
Mill,  J.  S.  (1806-1873),  53 
Milton  (1608-1674),  159,  189,  209, 

237,  239,  402 
Mimnermus  (?  630-?  600  B.C.),  410 
Mitchell,  T.  W.  {b.  1869),  173 
Moasi,  398 

Molifere  (1622-1673),  35,  386 
Monod,  Adolph  (1802-1856),  231 
Montaigne  (1533-1592),  123,  165, 

261,  345 
Montenaeken,  Lfen,  129 
Moody,  W.  V.  (1869-1910),  vii 
Moore,  Thomas  (1779-1852),  208, 

370,  401 
Morris,  Lewis  (183 3-1 907),  12 
Morris,  W.  (1834-1896),  4,  37,  43, 

312,  313 
Mozley,  J.  B.  (1813-1878),  258 
Murray,  Gilbert  {b.  1866),  416-19 
Myers,  F.  W.  H.  (1843-1901),  149, 

170,  225,  318,  362,  382,  390, 409 

Naylor,  H.  Darnley  (Jb.  1872),  9,  10 
Neale,  J.  M.  (1818-1866),  305 
Newton,  Sir  Isaac  (1642-1727),  148 
Niebuhr  (1776-1831),  240 
Noel,  Roden  (1834-1894),  12 
Novalis,F.L.  (1772-1801),  160, 169 
Nursery  Rhyme,  92 

Oldys,  William  (1696-1761),  397 
Oliphant,  L.  (1829-1888),  208 
Osier,  Sir  W.  (1849-1919),  168 
O'Sullivan,  V.,  364 
Ouida  (1839-1908),  242 
Ovid  (43  B.c.-A.D.  18),  408 

Paine,    Thomas    (1737-1809),    6, 

150,  207,  282 
Parnell,  Thos.  (1679-1717),  425 
Pascal,  Blaise  (1623-1662),  7,  150 


Pater,  Walter  (1839-1894),  353 
Patmore,    Coventry    (1823-1896), 

116,  167,  189,  276,  342 
Payne,  John  (1841-1920),  169,  196, 

198,  361 

Pearson,  Karl  {b.  1857),  286 
Penn,  William  (1644-1718),  228 
Percy's  Reliques,  191 
Phillips,  John  (1676-1709),  313 
Phillips,  Stephen  (1868-1915),  368 
Plato   (427-347   B.C.),   8,    10,   141, 

157,  333 
Pliny  the  Elder  (?  23-79),  242,  378 
Pliny  the  Younger  (?  61-?  113),  242 
Plutarch  (?  46-120),  203,  291,  408, 

412,  415 
Poe,  E.  A.  (1809-1849),  296 
Poincar^,  Henri  (1854-1912),  176 
Pollock.  Sir  F.  {b.  1845),  248 
Pope  ( 1 688-1 744),  19,  97,  104,  143, 

165,  232,  281,  296,  316,  408 
Praed,  W.   M.   (1802-1839),   233, 

277,  402 
Pringle-Pattison,  A.  Seth  {b.  1856), 

125,  257 
Procter,    B.    W.,    "  Barry    Corn- 
wall "  (1787-1874),  127 
Proverbs,  22,  36,  54,  98,  107,  153, 

205,  212,  219,  300,  346-7,  378, 

408 
Prowse,  W.  J.  (1836-1870),  271 
Ptolemy  (second  century  a.d.),  10 
Puttenham,  George  {d.  1590),  174, 

399 

Quarles,  Francis  (1592-1644),  3 
Quiller-Couch,  Sir  A.  {b.  1863),  17 

Racine  (1639-1699),  212 

Raleigh,  Sir  Walter  (?  1552-1618), 

267 
Ribot  (1839-1903),  175 
Richter,    Jean    Paul    (1763-1825), 

76,  175 
Robertson,  F.  W.  (1816-1853),  260 
Robertson,  J.  M.  {b.  1856),  21 
Rogers,  R.  C.  (1862-1912),  347 
Rogers,  Samuel  (1763-1855),  40, 

112 
Rossetti,     Christina     (1830-1894), 

30,  31,  60,  92,  195,  213 
Rossetti,   D.   G.   (1828-1882),   12, 

41,  49,  84,  132,  152,  227,  281, 

293,  368,  372 
Ruskin  (1819-1900),  145,  157,  193, 

199,  219,  316,  329,  379,  418 

Sadi  (?  1184-1292),  320 

St.  Augustine  (354-430),  305 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS 


437 


St.  Jerome  (?  340-420),  xvii 

St.  Paul,  150 

Sampson,  George  (b.  1873),  285 

Sayce,  A.  H.  (b.  1846),  69 

Schopenhauer  (1788-1860),  351 

Schreiner,  Olive  (b.  1862),  96,  106, 

274,  290 
Scott,  Sir  Walter  (1771-1832),  73, 

324 
Scott,  Wm.  Bell  (1812-1890),  381 
Sears,  E.  H.  (1810-1876),  301 
Seeley,  J.  R.  (1834-1895).  16,  105, 

375 
Selden,  John  (1584-1654),  75,  97 
Seneca  (4  b.c.-a.d.  65),  12,  36,  340 
Shakespeare  (1564-1616),  viii,  20- 

21,  30,  39,  40,  76,  102,  106,  109, 

201,  212,  331,  341,  376,  380,  387 
Shelley,  P.  B.  (1792-1822),  10,  22, 

77,  91,  loi,  117,  125,  136,  175, 

207,    236,   238,   241,    260,    264, 

273,  323,  334,  402 
Shenstone  (1714-1760),  125 
Shepherd,  N.  G.  (1835-1869),  37 
Sidney,  Sir  Philip  (1554-1586),  193 
Simonides  of  Amorgos,  137 
Smith,  Alexander  (1830-1867),  30, 

82, 122, 192, 262-3,  309,  327,  389 
Smith,  Horace  (1779-1849),  83 
Smith,  S.  C.  Kaines,  424 
Smith,    Sydney    (1771-1845),    73 

82,  137,  229,  364 
Smith,  Walter  C.  (1824-1908),  96, 

226,  296,  388 
Socrates  (?  469-399),  412 
Sophocles  (495-406  B.C.),  107,  137 
South,  Robert  (1634-1716),  116 
Southey,  Robert  (1774-1843),  251 
Spencer,  Herbert  (1820-1903),  68, 

108,  109,  no 
Spenser,    Edmund    (?  1552-1599), 

25,  230 
Squire,  J.  C.  (b.  1884),  161 
Steele  (1672-1729),  162 
Stephen,  J.  K.  (1859-1892),   144, 

287 
SterHng,  John  (1806-1844),  356 
Sterne  (1713-1768),  44,  106,  327, 

347,  397 
Stetson,    Charlotte    P.    {b.    i860), 

303,  403 
Stephens,  J.  Brunton  (1835-1902), 

55 
Stevenson,  R.  L.  (1850-1894),  20, 

51,  86,  261,  294 
Stowe,    Harriet    Beecher    (1811- 

1896),  164 
Suckling,    Sir    John    (1609-1642), 

406 


Swain,  Charles  (1801-1874),  128 
Swift  (1667-1745).  40,  74,  97,  148 
Swinburne    (1837-1909),    33,    43, 
46, 228, 243, 246-7,  301,  311,  392 
Symons,  Arthur  {b.  1865),  81 

Tabb,  J.  B.  (1845-1909),  90,  213, 

360 
Tacitus  (?  55-120),  50 
Talleyrand  (1776-1839),  39 
Taylor,  Jeremy  (1613-1667),  219, 

290 
Tennyson    (1809- 1892),    xiv,    24, 

91,    143,    153,    160,    226,    289, 

305,    312,    319,    328,    341,    347, 

351,  374,  394,  403 
Thackeray    (1811-1863),    64,    86, 

153,  308, 352 
Theocritus  (third  century  B.C.),  92 
Thomas,    Edith   M.    (1854-1921), 

361 
Thompson,    Francis    (1859-1907), 

10,  103,  300 
Thomson,  James,  "  B.V."  (1834- 

1882),  105,  113,  200,  201,  253, 

267 
Thucydides  (?  460-395  B.C.),  5 
Topsell,  Edward  (d.  ?  1638),  i'6 
Tooke,  Home  (1736-1812),  211 
Trench,  Herbert  (1865-1923),  87, 

146 
Tryon,  Thomas  (1634-1703),  125 
Tupper,  Martin  (1810-1889),  123 
Turner,  Charles  Tennyson  (1803- 

1879),  370 
"  Twain,   Mark,"   S.  L.   Clemens 

(1835-1910),  322 
Tyndall,  John  (1820-1893),  66,  174 

Vaughan,  Henry  (1622-1695),  89, 

230,  324 
Vaughan,  R.  A.  (1823-1857),  214, 

328 
Verrall,    Margaret    de    G.    (1857- 

1912),  220-21 
Vinet,  Alexandre  (1797-1847),  82 
Virgil  (70-19  B.C.),  117 
Vogler,  G.  J.,  317 
Voltaire  (1694-1778),  35,  5°,  1 94 

Waddington,    Samuel    (b.    1844), 

226,  321,  391 
Wallace,  A.  R.  (1823-1913),  327 
Waller,  Edmund  (1606-1687),  76, 

273 
Walpole,  Horace  (1717-1797),  328 
"  Ward,  Artemus,"  C.  F.  Browne 

(1834-1867),  40 


438 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS 


Warner,    Charles    Dudley    (1829- 

1900),  227,  358,  389 
Waterhouse,      Elizabeth      (1834- 

1918),   159 
Watson,  Sir  William  {b.  1858),  29, 

143 
Webster,  John  (?  1580-?  1625),  98 
Wesley,    John    (1703-1791),    194, 

365 
West,  A.  S.  {b.  1846),  272 
Westbury,  F.  A.,  30 
Westwood,   Thomas   (1814-1888), 

63 
White,  Blanco  (1775-1841),  291 
Whitman,  Walt  (1819-1892),  407 
Whittier,  J.  G.  (1807-1892),  2,  31, 

163,  191,  222 
Whyte-Melville  (1821-1878),  369 
Wilberforce,  Samuel  (1805-1873), 

6S,  385 
Wilkes,  John  (1727-1797),  223 


Williamson,  F.  S.  {b.  1865),  202 

Wordsworth    (1770-1850),    i,    33, 

42,  45,  68,  88,  89,  102,  117,  125, 

i33>  135, 151, 153, 158, 166,  198, 

231, 236, 238, 254, 257, 278, 287, 

317,  319,  341,  383,  401.  423 
Wotton,    Sir   Henry   (1568-1639), 

263 
Wren,     Sir     Christopher     (1632- 

1723),  404 

Xenophanes  of  Colophon  {c.  570 
B.C.),  140 

Yeats,  W.  B.  (6.  1865),  389 
Younghusband,   Sir  F.  (6.   1863), 
259 

Zimmermann,  J.  G.  (1728-1795), 

403 
Zimmern,  A.  E.  {b.  1879),  419,  422 


THE   END 


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