Part 3

THUS to his scholars once Confucius said: Better to die than not be rich: get wealth. He who has nothing, trust me, nothing is; Nay, tenfold worse than nothing. Not to be Is neither good nor bad; but to be poor!— ’Tis to be nothing with an envious wish, A zero conscious of nonentity. To get wealth, and to keep it—this is all, And the one rule of life, expediency. This was the lesson that the master taught, And then he gave some rules for getting wealth: Happy, who once can say, I have a thing. All things are given us, all things to be had, Except, alas! the faculty of having. If you are sated with one dish of fruit, Why, no more fruit have you, to call it having, Though a whole Autumn lay in heaps about you. How to _have_, this, my scholars, would I teach. Yet who can teach it? it is great and hard. This one thing dare I say. Be not deceived, Nor dream that those called rich _have_ anything; Who think that what the pocket treasures up, And jealous foldings of the robe, is theirs; Theirs all the plate the burglar cannot reach, Theirs all the land they warn the traveller off: Fools! Because we are poorer, are they rich? What is none other’s, is it therefore theirs? Endeavour, O my scholars, to be rich, Scheme to get riches when you wake from sleep, All day pursue them, pray for them at night. As when one leans long time upon his hand, Then, moving it, finds all its strength is gone And it can now grasp nothing, so the soul Loses in listlessness the grasping power, And in the midst of wealth, _has_ nothing still. I know not, O my scholars, how to bring The tingling blood through the soul’s palsied limbs, But when ’tis done how rich the soul may be How royal in possessions, I can tell,— One half of wisdom—seek elsewhere the other. The gods divorce knowledge of good from good. He who is happy and rich does seldom know it, And he who knows the true wealth seldom has it. Not only all this world of eye and ear Becomes his house and palace of delights Whose soul has grasping power; so that each form To him becomes a picture that is his, The light-stream as a fountain in his court, The murmur of all movement music to him, And time’s mere lapse rhythmical in his heart. Not only so; a greater treasure still, The lives of other men, by sympathy Incorporated with his own, are his. Get wealth, my scholars, this wealth first of all. One life is beggary; live a thousand lives. In those about you live and those remote; Live many lives at once and call it country, And call it kind; in the great future live And make it in your life rehearse its life, And make the pallid past repeat its life. Be public-hearted and be myriad-soul’d, So shall you noble be as well as rich, And as a king watch for the general good. Raised to a higher level, you shall find With large enjoyments vast constraints, vast cares. Be swayed by wider interests, be touched By wiser instincts of the experienced heart, And, since all greatness is a ponderous weight, Be capable of vaster sufferance. Your joys shall be as heaven, your griefs as hell. Rise early, O my scholars, to be rich, And make Expediency your rule of life. Then, when the utmost scale of wealth is gain’d, And other lives are to your own annex’d By the soul’s grasping power, this guide of life, This sure Expediency, shall suffer change. When appetites shall tame to prudences And Prudence purge herself to Sacred Law, When lusts shall sweeten into sympathies, And royal Justice out of Anger spring, When the expanding Self grows infinite, Then shall Expediency, the guide of life, In Virtue die, in Virtue rise again.

REST. {43}

DEAREST FRIEND,

THE subject of your meeting of to-morrow is so suggestive that I would gladly join you all, and write an essay on it, if I had health and time. I have neither, and, perhaps, better so. My essay, I candidly avow, would tend to prove that no essay ought to be written on the subject. It has no reality. A sort of intuitive instinct led you to couple “Ghosts and Rest” together.

There is, here down, and there ought to be, no Rest. Life is an _aim_; an aim which can be _approached_, not _reached_, here down. There is, therefore, no rest. Rest is immoral.

It is not mine now to give a definition of the _aim_; whatever it is, there is one, there _must_ be one. Without it, Life has no sense. It is atheistical; and, moreover, an irony and a deception.

I entertain all possible respect for the members of your Club; but I venture to say that any contribution on Rest which will not exhibit at the top a definition of Life will wander sadly between wild arbitrary intellectual display and commonplaces.

Life is no sinecure, no “_recherche du bonheur_” to be secured, as the promulgators of the theory had it, by guillotine, or, as their less energetic followers have it, by railway shares, selfishness, or contemplation. Life is, as Schiller said, “a battle and a march;” a battle for Good against Evil, for Justice against arbitrary privileges, for Liberty against Oppression, for associated Love against Individualism; a march onwards to Self, through collective Perfecting, to the progressive realization of an Ideal, which is only dawning to our mind and soul. Shall the battle be finally won during life-time? Shall it on Earth? are we believing in a Millennium? Don’t we feel that the spiral curve through which we ascend had its beginning elsewhere, and has its end, if any, beyond this terrestrial world of ours? Where is then a possible foundation for your essays and sketches?

Goethe’s “Contemplation” has created a multitude of little sects aiming at Rest, where is no Rest, falsifying art, the element of which is evolution, not re-production, transformation, not contemplation, and enervating the soul in self-abdicating Brahmanic attempts. For God’s sake let not your Club add one little sect to the fatally existing hundreds!

There is nothing to be looked for in life except the uninterrupted fulfilment of Duty, and, not Rest, but consolation and strengthening from Love. There is, not rest, but a promise, a shadowing forth of Rest in Love. Only there must be in Love absolute _trust_; and it is very seldom that this blessing depends on us. The child goes to sleep, a dreamless sleep, with unbounded trust, on the mother’s bosom; but _our_ sleep is a restless one, agitated by sad dreams and alarms.

You will smile at my lugubrious turn of mind; but if I was one of _your_ Artists, I would sketch a man on the scaffold going to die for a great Idea, for the cause of Truth, with his eye looking trustfully on a loving woman, whose finger would trustfully and smilingly point out to him the unbounded. Under the sketch I would write, not Rest, but “a Promise of Rest.” Addio: tell me one word about the point of view of your contributors.

Ever affectionately yours, JOSEPH MAZZINI.

REST.

POOR restless heart! still thy lament, Crave not for rest, refusèd still, There is some struggle,—discontent, That stays thy will.

Be brave to meet unrest, Nor seek from work release, Clasp struggle close unto thy breast, Until it brings thee peace.

Seek not in creed a resting-place From problems that around thee surge, But look doubt bravely in the face, Till truth emerge.

Work out the problem of thy life, To no convention chainèd be, Against self-love wage ceaseless strife, And thus be free.

Then, if in harmony thou livest, With all that’s in thy nature best, Who “Sleep to his beloved giveth,” Will give thee rest.

REST.

HIS Mother was a Prince’s child, His Father was a King; There wanted not to that proud lot What power or wealth could bring; Great nobles served him, bending low, Strong captains wrought his will; Fair fortune!—but it wearied him, His spirit thirsted still!

For him the glorious music roll’d Of singers, silent long; Grave histories told, in scrolls of old, The strife of right and wrong; For him Philosophy unveil’d Athenian Plato’s lore, Might these not serve to fill a life? Not this! he sigh’d for more!

He loved!—the truest, newest lip That ever lover pressed, The queenliest mouth of all the south Long love for him confess’d: Round him his children’s joyousness Rang silverly and shrill; Thrice blessed! save _that_ blessedness Lack’d something—something still!

To battle all his spears he led, In streams of winding steel; On breast and head of foeman dead His war-horse set its heel; The jewell’d housings of its flank Swung wet with blood of kings; Yet the rich victory seem’d rank With the blood taint it brings!

The splendid passion seized his soul To heal, by statutes sage, The ills that bind our hapless kind. And chafe to crime and rage; And dear the people’s blessing was, The praising of the poor; But evil stronger is than thrones, And hate no laws can cure!

He laid aside the sword and pen, And lit the lamp, to wrest From nature’s range the secrets strange, The treasures of her breast; And wisdom deep his guerdon was, And wondrous things he knew; Yet from each vanquish’d mystery Some harder marvel grew!

No pause! no respite! no sure ground, To stay the spirit’s quest! In all around not one thing found So good as to be “best;” Not even love proved quite divine; Therefore his search did cease, Lord of all gifts that life can give Save the one sweet gift—Peace!

Then came it!—crown, sword, wreath—each lay, An unregarded thing! The funeral sheet from head to feet, Was royal robe to that king! And strange!—Love, learning, statecraft, sway, Look’d always on before, But those pale, happy, lips of clay, Lack’d nothing!—nothing more!

GOSSIP.

I FEEL impelled to say a word, and it shall be but a word—and so more patiently endured—in defence of that much abused, much maligned thing—gossipry. Johnson, among many other designations, gives for “gossipred,” “spiritual affinity;” a very good definition, and the one I shall adopt; that is, sympathy, the need to give and to receive it; and I must say I know few things more charming than this sympathy in small things, this gossipry between kindly hearts and well filled heads. That light pouring out the thoughts and feelings and observations of the passing hour, which, while it commences with the external, is sure to touch, ever and anon, those deeper springs of thought, and feeling, and action, from which well up pleasant memories, apt thoughts, and pertinent reflections.

Poring over old letters and papers which chanced recently to come into my hands, I came upon an old leaf of yellow paper and faded ink, which caught my attention; it appeared to be either a scrap of an old diary, or of a letter; it seemed to me somewhat germane to our present subject, and being venerable from its antiquity, I venture to quote it. Its date is too indistinct to be sure of, but it seems to be 1700 and something. Thus it runs:—“My husband was bidden to dinner yesterday to our Rector’s, I with him; my husband was pleased thereat, because there was, he said, to be there a man of parts, from London; so I laid out my husband’s best coat and long flowered waistcoat, and his kerseys and silk stockings, which he did not often wear, for I desired him to be seemly in his attire, that he might do fitting honour to our Rector; I was a little flustered at first with the notion of this great man; but I noted that my husband bore himself towards him exactly as if he had been an ordinary man. At table I found myself set next to him. The gardens at the great house are very fine, and kept excellently well, as indeed is not wonderful, as there are two whole gardeners and a boy to do the work. Looking out of the large bay-window which looked upon the flower garden, and stood open, for it was mighty warm, I could not keep my eyes off the flowers, they were so exceeding gay; the sun shone out surprisingly; one spot in particular took my attention: a large clump of daffodils had been allowed on the lawn, the grass was high round them, and on the top of every blade there was a drop that sparkled like a diamond—for there had been a slight shower—and as I looked upon them, I thought of the description in holy writ of the gates of the temple of Jerusalem, all studded with sapphires and emeralds and diamonds; and I was so taken up that I forgot it was the great man that was sitting by me, and I asked him if it was not beautiful? ‘It is vastly fine indeed, ma’am,’ he said; but he looked at me with wonderment, I thought, and from the look in his eyes, I am sure he did not know a daffodil from a daisy, poor man. So I felt very much abashed, and sat still and said no more; and there was not much discourse, but everybody looked wise and silent; and I remembered that somewhere it is said, it is a grand thing to know how to be silent; but I thought a little talking would have been more agreeable, only perhaps not so wise-like, only of course I knew I was quite a common person, and had no parts at all; so when it was about three of the clock—the hour fixed for the dinner was rather late, as it was a bye common occasion—and we ladies left the gentlemen to settle down to their wine, I thought I would go home to my children, for I thought our lady Rector looked somewhat puffed up and stately with the great honour she had had, and done to us; and to say the very truth, I felt longing to speak and to hear in the ordinary way. So I took my leave in a beseeming and courteous manner, and stepped across to my own place; and my eldest daughter came running to me and said she had got so many things to tell me; and then out of her little heart she poured out all her little troubles and pleasures; and oh! she said, little brother had been so naughty, and had cried dreadfully for the pretty cup from China, and stamped and fought her when she would not let him have it, because dear mamma liked it so much, and would be sorry to have it broken. ‘But then, mamma,’ she said, ‘when he got a little quieter, I talked to him, and hushed him and kissed him, and so he was soon good, and we had a great game at horses.’ Then I kissed the little maid, and called her a ‘dear little mother,’ but she was greatly puzzled, and said, ‘Oh, mamma, I am only a little girl.’ Then she said I must tell her all about the gentleman that she had heard papa say had a great many parts—‘more, I suppose, mamma, than any of us.’ I only kissed her at this, and told her of the golden daffodils and many other flowers I had noticed; and of two great blackbirds I had seen hopping very lovingly together upon the lawn. She said she liked to hear of these extremely; and I told of the roast sucking-pig with an orange in its mouth, which was at the top of the table; but she did not like this; she said it would remind her of the little piggy running about, which that little pig would never do any more. Then she said she would tell me of one of her little misfortunes, which she thought was almost a big one: ‘the poor brown hen with ten little chicks had been shut up by themselves, because the little chicks would run about too far; and the boy had forgotten them, and they had been shut up without anything to eat for ever so many hours; and when we put some barley in, dear old browney clucked and clucked, and showed the grains to the chicks, but never touched one herself, mamma, and when the little chicks had eaten till they were quite full, she called them all under her wings, and they went fast asleep; but then, mamma, there was not one single barley left near the poor mother; and so I do believe mamma, she would have been quite starved to death, only we put some barley and some nice crumbs quite close to her; so she got them without moving a bit, or waking the chicks, and oh, mamma, she did gobble it up so fast; I know she was so hungry, for she did not eat one single barley-corn before, for I watched her all the time; wasn’t it sweet and good of her, mamma? I shall love that dear old browney for always.’ And so my little daughter and I chatted away and enjoyed ourselves hugely, till my dear good man, who I had thought was sitting over his wine, and perhaps his pipe—but I don’t know about that because of the company—came suddenly behind us. He kissed us both, saying, ‘My two sweet gossips, it does my heart good to hear you. It seems to me, my Margery,’ he said, ‘that our little one here hath both a sound heart and a wise head.’”

There the paper is torn, and I could see no other word. It appears to me that this, and many other gossipries, are, in their small way, good, and that when they are not good, it is because the heart is cankered, and the head empty; and so we come round to the conclusion on all subjects and on all difficulties, especially social difficulties—educate, educate, educate; teach the mind to find subjects for thought in all things, and purify the heart by enabling it to find “sermons in stones, and good in everything;” then will Gossip be the graceful unbending of the loving heart and well-filled head.

CHIPS.

CHIPS! chips! We had climb’d to the top of the cliff that day, Just where the brow look’d over the bay; And you stood, and you watch’d the shifting ships Till I found you a seat in the heather. As we reach’d the top you had touch’d me thrice; I had felt your hand on my shoulder twice, And once I had brush’d your feather. And I turn’d at last, and saw you stand, Looking down seaward hat in hand, At the shelving sweep of the scoop’d-out sand, And the great blue gem within it. The bright, sweet sky was over your head, Your cheek was aflame with the climber’s red, And a something leapt in my heart that said,— Happy or sorry, living or dead,— My fate had begun that minute. And we sat, and we watch’d the clouds go by (There were none but the clouds and you and I As we sat on the hill together); As you sketch’d the rack as it drifted by, Fleece upon fleece through the pathless sky, Did you wonder, Florence, whether, When you held me up your point to cut, I had kept the chips, when the knife was shut,— For none of them fell in the heather.

Chips! chips!— Yet what was I but the cousin, you know?— Only the boy that you favour’d so— And the word that stirr’d my lips I must hide away in my heart, and keep, For the road to you was dizzy and steep As the cliff we had climb’d together. There was many an older lover nigh, With the will and the right to seek your eye; And for me, I know not whether, If I chose to live, or I chose to die, It would matter to you a feather. But this I know, as the feather’s weight Will keep the poise of the balance straight, In the doubtful climb—in the day’s eclipse, In the stumbling steps, in the faults and trips, I have gain’d a strength from the tiniest scraps That ever were help to a man, perhaps,— Chips! chips!

Look, these are “the tiniest scraps,” you see, And this is their casket of filigree, That I bought that year “far over the sea,” With a volley of chaff, and a half-rupee, From a huckstering, fox-faced Bengalee, That set himself up for a dealer. They have slept with me by the jungle fires, They have watch’d with me under Indian spires, I have kept them safe in their gilded wires From the clutch of the coolie stealer; And when at last they relieved “the Nest,”— Alick, and Ellis, and all the rest,— March’d into Lucknow four abreast, That I had the chips still under my vest, That they pray’d with me, must be confess’d, Who never was much of a kneeler. And now that I come, and I find you free, You, that have waken’d this thing in me, Will you tell me, Florence, whether, When I kept your pencil’s chips that day, Was it better perhaps to have let them stay To be lost in the mountain heather!

CHIPS.

CHIPS! It may be well disputed If a word exists, less suited, Or more odd and uninviting As a theme for rhyme or writing; Coinage of that dull Max Müller, Title of a book still duller. Fill’d with words so cabalistic, That methought the German mystic Must have found the dialect Spoken ere man walk’d erect.

Never mind! what must be, must; Men must eat both crumb and crust. And the dodge of many a poet (Half the verses publish’d show it), When his Pegasus rides restive, Is to make his _rhymes_ suggestive. If in what you chance to seize on Rhyme and reason will not chime, Better rhyme without the reason Than the reason and no rhyme; Better anything than prose, So, as Milton says, “here goes.”

“When the Grecian chiefs in ships Sail’d on Argonautic trips!”

“When the Furies with their whips Flogg’d Orestes all to strips!

“When the sun in dim eclipse In the darken’d ocean dips!”

Still I see no clue to chips!

“Meadows where the lambkin skips, Where the dew from roses drips And the bee the honey sips . . . .”

Odd, that nothing leads to chips!

Then I thought of “cranks and quips,” Wanton wiles and laughing lips, Luring us to fatal slips, And leaving us in Satan’s grips.

Then I made a desperate trial, With the sixth and seventh vial— Thinking I could steal some Chips From St. John’s Apocalypse.

Then there came a long hiatus, While I kept repeating Chips, Feeling the divine afflatus Oozing through my finger-tips.

Gone and going hopelessly, So, in my accustom’d manner, Underneath my favourite tree, I began a mild havannah— ’Twas indeed my favourite station, For recruiting mind and body; Drinking draughts of inspiration, Alternate with whisky toddy. ’Twas an oak tree old and hoary. And my garden’s pride and glory; Hallow’d trunk and boughs in splinters, Mossy with a thousand winters.

Here I found the Muses’ fountain, And perceived my spirits mounting, And exclaim’d in accents burning, To the tree my eyes upturning, “Venerable tree and vast, Speak to me of ages past! Sylvan monarch of the wold, Tell me of the days of old! Did thy giant boughs o’er-arching View the Roman legions marching? Has the painted Briton stray’d Underneath thy hoary shade? Did some heathen oracle In thy knotty bosom dwell, As in groves of old Dodona, Or the Druid oaks of Mona? Dwelt the outlaw’d foresters Here in ‘otium cum dig.’ While the feather’d choristers In thy branches ‘hopp’d the twig?’ Help me, Nymph! Fawn! Hamadryad! One at once, or all the Triad.”

Lo! a voice to my invoking! ’Twas my stupid gardener croaking, “Please, Sir, mayn’t I fall this tree, ’Cos it spoils the crops, you see: And the grass it shades and lumbers, And we shan’t have no _cow_cumbers. Some time it will fall for good, And the Missis wants the wood.”

Shock’d at such a scheme audacious, Faint, I gasp’d out, “Goodness gracious!” “Yes,” I said, “the tree must fall, ’Tis, alas! the lot of all; But no mortal shall presume To accelerate its doom. Rescued from thy low desires, It shall warm my poet fires. Let the strokes of fate subdue it, Let the axe of Time cut through it; When it must fall, let it fall, But, oh! never let me view it.”