Chapter 34

Conceive such a one thrown into the democratic current by chances of birth, and you will realize the contrasts of environment and character which have led M. Renan to the conception of an ideal so unusual. Democracy seems at a first glance very favorable to talent, for it opens all doors to all efforts. But at the same time it strengthens the hard law of competition. Therefore it requires a greater specialization. Then, democracy is founded upon equality, of which the logical consequence is universal suffrage. It needs little analysis to know that universal suffrage is hostile to the superior man. The mental attitudes resulting from advanced study are usually--multiplicity of points of view; a taste for nice distinctions; a disdain for absolute statement; and search for intricate solutions;--all of which are refinements antagonistic to the popular love of positive assertion. Therefore a superior man finds the morals of a democracy unfavorable to his development, while its laws hold him back from public affairs. So, many distinguished minds in France to-day are excluded from government; or if they have triumphed over the ostracism to which their divorce from common passions condemns them, it is because they disguise this divorce under professions which are void of intellectual impartiality. The superior man exiled in what Sainte-Beuve calls "the ivory tower" watches the drama of national life as one who sees its future possibilities. Is it necessary to recall that one of this class of élite has shown a veritable gift of prophecy? To cite only one example, were not the disasters of 1870 predicted with surprising exactness in the 'France nouvelle' of Prévost-Paradol, victim like Renan of universal suffrage? It is evident that a strange melancholy oppresses these lofty minds, weighed down under the conviction of their ideal strength and their real weakness. The insolent triumph of the mediocre adds to this sadness. But it is not quite without sweetness. It has something of the pleasure extolled by Lucretius in the famous verses on those temples of the calm faith from which the sage regards the wild struggle of the passions. But the superior man of to-day will never know the full enjoyment which the nervous systems of the ancients permitted them. The mind can do a great deal, but it is powerless to remodel our native faculties. Whether we hate or venerate the democracy, we are its sons and inherit its imperious need of combat. The obscure and revolutionary nineteenth century is in our blood, and prohibits the inner immobility, the mental quiet, celebrated by the Epicureans of Greece and Rome. There is agitation in our serenities, as in our submissions. Catholics or atheists, monarchists or republicans, all the offspring of this age of anguish have the anxious look, the quaking heart, the trembling hands of the great battle of the time. Even those who try to stand aloof share the common anxiety. They too are revolutionists like the others, but they oppose human stupidity, and their mute rebellion is called disdain.

It would be interesting to study among contemporary scholars the different forms of this disdain. Does not the exaggeration of technical beauties, which is a feature of the school of poets ironically called Parnassians, proceed from this sentiment of _Odi profanum vulgus_? Did not Gustave Flaubert compose 'Bouvard et Péchuchet' under this inspiration? Would Taine have undertaken his 'Histoire des origines de la France contemporaine' if he had not been tormented by a longing to understand the democratic tide which was sweeping him away? But no writer has felt more strongly than M. Renan the antithesis of the superior man and democracy. One must read and re-read those pages of the 'Dialogues' where Theoctiste imagines the victory of a future oligarchy, to appreciate the intensity of passion employed in the examination of these problems. He conceives that the learned will secure formidable destructive agents, requiring the most delicate calculations and much abstract knowledge. Then, exulting in their power, the dreamer exclaims:--"Thus the forces of humanity would some day be held in a few hands, and would be possessed by a league which could rule the existence of the planet and terrorize the whole world. If those most endowed with reason had ability to destroy the planet, their sovereignty would be established. The privileged class would reign by absolute terror, since they would have the existence of all in their hands. They would be almost gods, and then would be realized the theological state dreamed by the poet for primitive humanity: 'Primus in orbe Deos fecit timor.'" We must not attach more reality to this tragic fancy than the author intended, but it shows an incurably wounded heart; and proves that the scholar who drew this gloomy picture has no great tenderness for the favorite Utopias of the age.

An open break is possible between democracy and science, the two great forces of modern society. Certainly while the tendency of the first is to level, that of the second is to create differences. "Knowledge is power," said the inductive philosopher. To know ten times as much as another is to be ten times as capable; and as intellectual inequality forbids a uniform degree of information, there is increasing opposition between democratic tendencies and the social results of science. There are several solutions, as in nearly all the complicated problems as to the future. In formulating the hypothesis of the 'Dialogues,' M. Renan indicates one of them. Another may be simply an application of science to the organization of societies. An unprejudiced consideration of the principles upon which our nineteenth-century society is founded proves their Cartesian character, very different already from modern philosophy. But there is a secret movement of minds. The conceptions of Darwin and Herbert Spencer permeate the new ones. We must have faith in the worth of the doctrines which will eventually overthrow politics, as well as natural science and literature. A time is coming when a society will not seem to the philosophers of evolution as it did to the last inheritors of the classic spirit. It will appear, not the operation of a logical contract, but the action of a confederation of organisms of which the cell is the unit. This is very different from the reigning idea. It is exclusive of any difference between democrat and aristocrat, for such difference means an arbitrary classification of the different social elements. If this consoling vision is not a simple chimera, it may be remembered that the great scorners like M. Renan are active workmen for its accomplishment, in that they formulate it very exactly, and face the coming conflict with sorrowfully keen relief.

These summary notes upon one of our most remarkable men only indicate the three or four states of conscience which he represents to the young people who read his books and meditate upon their eloquent, disquieting pages. No other author offers more that is fresh in thought and feeling, for no other employs greater sincerity in thought and in exposition of sentiment. Whoever studies the springs of moral life in the rising generation, meets everywhere his influence. Not before a hundred years hence can his achievement be measured. If there are any who do not worship sincerity and reverence, they should devote themselves to the books of M. Renan; for no one has practiced these qualities with greater constancy than he, who on the first page of his 'Vie de Jésus' invokes the pure spirit of the venerated Dead, and who prayed to him in a melancholy petition to the unattainable--"O good Genius, reveal to me whom you love, the truths which govern death, keep one from fearing and make one almost love it!"

SIR JOHN BOWRING

(1792-1872)

"It will be the height of my ambition," once wrote Sir John Bowring to a friend, "to do something which may connect my name with the literature of the age."

This desire was accomplished; for the distinguished linguist, scholar, and diplomat of England rendered genuine service to literature by his translations of Slavonic and Oriental verses into the English tongue. These were more than translations: they were studies of the national song. Bowring was one of the first scholars to appreciate the beauty, the importance, and the charm of the traditional ballad and lyric; those faithful records of the joys, sorrows, superstitions, and history of a people. In the various East-European languages wherein Bowring's researches bore such valuable fruit,--embracing Bohemian, Polish, Russian, Hungarian, Servian, and Bulgarian,--the race-soul of these nations is preserved: their wild mythology, their bizarre Oriental color, their impassioned thought, their affections and traditions, and often the sorrows and ideals learned during centuries of vain wanderings and heavy oppressions. In this rich and romantic field, which has been assiduously cultivated since his time, Bowring was a pioneer.

John Bowring, born on October 17th, 1792, came of an old Puritan family, long identified with the woolen trade. "In the early days," he tells us, "the Exeter merchants were mostly traveled men with a practical knowledge of other tongues, and the quay at Exeter was crowded with the ships of all nations." Thus his imagination was kindled by the visible links to far-away countries, and from intercourse with the emigrants of various nations he acquired the foundation of his brilliant linguistic attainments.

In 1811 he went to London as clerk to a commercial house, which sent him to Spain in 1813, and subsequently to France, Belgium, Holland, Russia, and Sweden. Immediately on his return to London he published the first of his translations, "Specimens of the Russian Poets" (1820). In 1822 he published a second volume of Russian verse and a translation of Chamisso's whimsical tale 'Peter Schlemihl'; and when in 1824 his friend Jeremy Bentham founded the Westminster Review, Bowring became one of its editors. He contributed to it numerous essays on political and literary topics, one of which, on the literature of Finland, published in 1827, first brought the poetry of that country into notice. In 1849 he was sent on a mission to China; in 1854 was made plenipotentiary and knighted, and remained in China during the Taeping insurrection, being made governor of Hong Kong. In 1859 he resigned the post.

With the exception of negotiating commercial treaties for England between the Hawaiian court and various European States, the remainder of his life was spent quietly in the pursuit of literary pleasures. Even in his old age he translated fugitive poetry, wrote essays on political, literary, and social questions of the hour, and frequently delivered lectures. He died November 23d, 1872, in Exeter, within sight of his birthplace under the shadows of the massive cathedral. "In my travels," he said, "I have never been very ambitious of the society of my countrymen, but have always sought that of the natives; and there are few men, I believe, who can bear a stronger or a wider testimony to the general kindness and hospitality of the human family when the means of intercourse exist. My experiences of foreign lands are everywhere connected with the most pleasing and the most grateful remembrances." In 1873 Lady Bowring published a 'Memorial Volume of Sacred Poetry,' containing many of his popular hymns; and in 1877 his 'Autobiographical Recollections' were published, with a memoir by his son.

Sir John Bowring was a natural linguist of the first order. He knew and spoke over a hundred languages, and affirmed that he often dreamed in foreign tongues. His friend Tom Hood humorously referred to his gifts in the following verse:--

"To Bowring! man of many tongues, (All over tongues, like rumor) This tributary verse belongs To paint his learned humor. All kinds of gab he knows, I wis, From Latin down to Scottish-- As fluent as a parrot is, But far more Polly-glottish. No grammar too abstruse he meets, However dark and verby; He gossips Greek about the streets And often Russ--in urbe. Strange tongues--whate'er you do them call; In short, the man is able To tell you what o'clock in all The dialects of Babel. Take him on Change--in Portuguese, The Moorish and the Spanish, Polish, Hungarian, Tyrolese, The Swedish and the Danish: Try him with these, and fifty such, His skill will ne'er diminish; Although you should begin in Dutch, And end (like me) in Finnish."

Bowring was a member of many learned societies, and had honors and decorations without stint, including the Order of the White Elephant, the Swedish Order of the Northern Star, and the Order of Kamehameha I. His publications are a 'Russian Anthology,' 'Matins and Vespers,' 'Batavian Anthology,' 'Ancient Poetry and Romances of Spain,' 'Peter Schlemihl,' 'Servian Popular Poetry,' 'Specimens of the Polish Poets,' 'Sketch of the Language and Literature of Holland,' 'Poetry of the Magyars,' 'Cheskian Anthology,' 'Minor Morals,' 'Observations on Oriental Plague and Quarantines,' Manuscript of the Queen's Court: a Collection of Old Bohemian Lyrico-Epic Songs,' 'Kingdom and People of Siam,' 'A Visit to the Philippine Islands,' 'Translations from Petöfi,' 'The Flowery Scroll' (translation of a Chinese novel), and 'The Oak' (a collection of original tales and sketches). He also edited the works of Jeremy Bentham. Of his translations, the 'Servian Anthology' has been the most admired for the skill and ease with which the wild beauty of the poems, and their national spirit, has been preserved. At the time of its publication, the collection of Servian popular poetry called 'Narodne srpske pjesme' had just appeared, and was the first attempt to put into literary form the ballads and lyric songs sung by the wandering minstrels and the people.

THE CROSS OF CHRIST

In the Cross of Christ I glory, Tow'ring o'er the wrecks of time; All the light of sacred story Gathers round its head sublime.

When the woes of life o'ertake me, Hopes deceive and fears annoy, Never shall the Cross forsake me-- Lo! it glows with peace and joy.

When the sun of bliss is beaming Light and love upon my way, From the Cross the radiance streaming Adds more lustre to the day.

Bane and blessing, pain and pleasure, By the Cross are sanctified; Peace is there that knows no measure, Joys that through all time abide.

In the Cross of Christ I glory, Tow'ring o'er the wrecks of time; All the light of sacred story Gathers round its head sublime.

WATCHMAN! WHAT OF THE NIGHT?

Watchman! tell us of the night, What its signs of promise are: Traveler! o'er yon mountain's height See that glory-beaming star! Watchman! doth its beauteous ray Aught of hope or joy foretell? Traveler! yes, it brings the day, Promised day of Israel.

Watchman! tell us of the night; Higher yet that star ascends: Traveler! blessedness and light, Peace and truth, its course portends. Watchman! will its beams alone Gild the spot that gave them birth? Traveler! ages are its own, And it bursts o'er all the earth.

Watchman! tell us of the night, For the morning seems to dawn: Traveler! darkness takes its flight, Doubt and terror are withdrawn. Watchman! let thy wanderings cease; Hie thee to thy quiet home: Traveler! lo! the Prince of Peace, Lo! the Son of God is come!

HYMN

From the recesses of a lowly spirit My humble prayer ascends--O Father! hear it! Upsoaring on the wings of fear and meekness, Forgive its weakness.

I know, I feel, how mean and how unworthy The trembling sacrifice I pour before Thee; What can I offer in Thy presence holy, But sin and folly?

For in Thy sight who every bosom viewest, Cold are our warmest vows, and vain our truest; Thoughts of a harrying hour, our lips repeat them, Our hearts forget them.

We see Thy hand--it leads us, it supports us; We hear Thy voice--it counsels and it courts us; And then we turn away--and still thy kindness Pardons our blindness.

And still Thy rain descends, Thy sun is glowing, Fruits ripen round, flowers are beneath us blowing, And, as if man were some deserving creature, Joys cover nature.

Oh, how long-suffering, Lord!--but Thou delightest To win with love the wandering; Thou invitest By smiles of mercy, not by frowns or terrors, Man from his errors.

Who can resist Thy gentle call--appealing To every generous thought and grateful feeling? That voice paternal--whispering, watching ever: My bosom?--never.

Father and Savior! plant within that bosom These seeds of holiness, and bid them blossom In fragrance and in beauty bright and vernal, And spring eternal.

Then place them in those everlasting gardens Where angels walk, and seraphs are the wardens; Where every flower that creeps through death's dark portal Becomes immortal.

FROM LUIS DE GONGORA--NOT ALL NIGHTINGALES

They are not all sweet nightingales, That fill with songs the flowery vales; But they are little silver bells, Touched by the winds in smiling dells; Magic bells of gold in the grove, Forming a chorus for her I love.

Think not the voices in the air Are from the winged Sirens fair, Playing among the dewy trees, Chanting their morning mysteries; Oh! if you listen, delighted there, To their music scattered o'er the dales, They are not all sweet nightingales, That fill with songs the flowery vales; But they are the little silver bells Touched by the winds in the smiling dells; Magic bells of gold in the grove, Forming a chorus for her I love.

Oh! 'twas a lovely song--of art To charm--of nature to touch the heart; Sure 'twas some Shepherd's pipe, which, played By passion, fills the forest shade: No! 'tis music's diviner part Which o'er the yielding spirit prevails. They are not all sweet nightingales, That fill with songs the flowery vales; But they are the little silver bells Touched by the winds in the smiling dells; Magic bells of gold in the grove, Forming a chorus for her I love.

In the eye of love, which all things sees, The fragrance-breathing jasmine trees-- And the golden flowers--and the sloping hill-- And the ever-melancholy rill-- Are full of holiest sympathies, And tell of love a thousand tales. They are not all sweet nightingales, That fill with songs the flowery vales, But they are the little silver bells Touched by the winds in the smiling dells; Magic bells of gold in the grove, Forming a chorus for her I love.

From 'Ancient Poetry and Romances of Spain.'

FROM JOHN KOLLAR--SONNET

There came three minstrels in the days of old To the Avaric savage--in their hands Their own Slavonian citharas they hold: "And who are ye!" the haughty Khan demands, Frowning from his barbaric throne; "and where-- Say where your warriors--where your sisters be." "We are Slavonians, monarch! and come here From the far borders of the Baltic sea: We know no wars--no arms to us belong-- We cannot swell your ranks--'tis our employ Alone to sing the dear domestic song." And then they touched their harps in doubtful joy. "Slaves!" said the tyrant--"these to prison lead. For they are precious hostages indeed!"

From the 'Cheskian Anthology.'

FROM BOGDANOVICH (OLD RUSSIAN)--SONG

What to the maiden has happened? What to the gem of the village? Ah! to the gem of the village.

Seated alone in her cottage, Tremblingly turned to the window; Ah! ever turned to the window.

Like the sweet bird in its prison, Pining and panting for freedom; Ah! how 'tis pining for freedom!

Crowds of her youthful companions Come to console the loved maiden; Ah! to console the loved maiden.

"Smile then, our sister, be joyful; Clouds of dust cover the valley; Ah! see, they cover the valley.

"Smile then, our sister, be joyful; List to the hoof-beat of horses; Oh! to the hoof-beat of horses."

Then the maid looked through the window. Saw the dust-clouds in the valley; Oh! the dust-clouds in the valley.

Heard the hoof-beat of the horses, Hurried away from the cottage; Oh! to the valley she hurries.

"Welcome, O welcome! thou loved one." See, she has sunk on his bosom; Oh! she has sunk on his bosom.

Now all her grief has departed: She has forgotten the window; Oh! quite forgotten the window.

Now her eye looks on her loved one, Beaming with brightness and beauty; Oh! 'tis all brightness and beauty.

From 'Specimens of the Russian Poets.'

FROM BOBROV--THE GOLDEN PALACE

[Sung at midnight in the Greek churches the last week before Easter.]

The golden palace of my God Tow'ring above the clouds I see Beyond the cherubs' bright abode, Higher than angels' thoughts can be: How can I in those courts appear Without a wedding garment on? Conduct me, Thou life-giver, there; Conduct me to Thy glorious throne: And clothe me with thy robes of light, And lead me through sin's darksome night, My Savior and my God!

From 'Specimens of the Russian Poets.'

FROM DMITRIEV--THE DOVE AND THE STRANGER

STRANGER

Why mourning there so sad, thou gentle dove?

DOVE

I mourn, unceasing mourn, my vanished love.

STRANGER

What, has thy love then fled, or faithless proved?

DOVE

Ah no! the sportsman murdered him I loved!

STRANGER

Unhappy one! beware! that sportsman's nigh!

DOVE

Oh, let him come--or else of grief I die.

From 'Specimens of the Russian Poets.'

FROM SARBIEWSKI--SAPPHICS TO A ROSE

[Intended to be used in the garlands for decorating the head of the Virgin Mary.]

Rose of the morning, in thy glowing beauty Bright as the stars, and delicate and lovely, Lift up thy head above thy earthly dwelling, Daughter of heaven!

Wake! for the watery clouds are all dispersing; Zephyr invites thee.--frosts and snows of winter All are departed, and Favonian breezes Welcome thee smiling.

Rise in thy beauty;--wilt thou form a garland Round the fair brow of some belovèd maiden? Pure though she be, unhallowed temple never, Flow'ret! shall wear thee.

Thou shouldst be wreathed in coronal immortal-- Thou shouldst be flung upon a shrine eternal-- Thou shouldst be twined among the golden ringlets Of the pure Virgin.

From 'Specimens of the Polish Poets.'

HJALMAR HJORTH BOYESEN

(1848-1895)

Boyesen had thoroughly assimilated the spirit of his native Norway before he left it. In the small southern seaport of Friedricksværn he had lived the happy adventurous boyhood depicted in those loving reminiscences 'Boyhood in Norway.' He knew the rugged little land and the sparkling fiords; his imagination had delighted in Necken and Hulder and trolls, and all the charming fantastic sprites of the Northland. So when he was far away, during his bread-winning struggles in America, they grew clearer and dearer in perspective; and in 'Gunnar,' 'A Norseman's Pilgrimage,' 'Ilka on the Hilltop,' and other delightful books, he bequeathed these memories to his adopted land.