Part 12

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 (About 570 B.C.).

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 any “anthropomorphic” conception of the _nature_ of the Deity is necessarily absurd. But there is nothing unreasonable in believing that His nature, though immeasurably superior, is nevertheless _akin_ to our own. The argument is that the source or power of the world must be greater than the highest thing it has produced, the mind of man; and that 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.

* * * * *

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_).

* * * * *

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 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. 10, 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.

* * * * *

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.

* * * * *

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_).

* * * * *

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.

* * * * *

Veil not thy mirror, sweet Amine, Till night shall also veil each star! Thou seeest a twofold 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.

* * * * *

Has anyone ever pinched into its pillulous smallness the cobweb of pre-matrimonial acquaintanceship?

GEORGE ELIOT (_Middlemarch_).

* * * * *

TO R.K.

As long I dwell on some stupendous And tremendous (Heaven defend us!) Monstr’-inform’-ingens-horrendous Demoniaco-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 misjudgment 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 and Carlyle also disparaged him, Theodore Hook said “Prometheus 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_, 1816, on Coleridge’s volume containing “Christabel,” “Kubla Khan,” etc. This article, usually attributed to Hazlitt, and certainly having Jeffrey’s sanction, 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—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 public admiration, without possessing in a high degree some kind of sterling 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 transitory; 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 what is consistent over what is vacillating, depends the reputation of all that is highest in art and literature.

JOHN RUSKIN (_Modern Painters_, I, 1).

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 1819, 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.”

* * * * *

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 quality 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.

EMERSON (_Essay on Character_).

* * * * *

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 (1570-1641).

* * * * *

Thou with strong prayer and very much entreating Willest 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 would 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 (1843-1901.) (_Saint Paul_).

_Willest be asked_, “requirest to be asked,” as in “God willeth Samuel to yield unto the importunity of the people” (1 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!

* * * * *

(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 (ΑΓΑΠΗ).

1. It is long-suffering. 2. is kind. 3. envieth not. 4. vaunteth not itself. 5. is not puffed up. 6. doth not behave itself unseemly. 7. seeketh not its own. 8. is not easily provoked. 9. thinketh no evil. 10. rejoiceth not in iniquity. 11. rejoiceth in the truth. 12. beareth all things. 13. believeth all things. 14. hopeth all things. 15. endureth all things. 16. never faileth.

ST. PAUL (_1 Cor._ xiii.)

Ἀγάπη, brotherly love, “_Though I have all knowledge 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 ἀγάπη, it profiteth me nothing._” (1 Cor. xiii, 2).

* * * * *

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?”[20]

T. H. HUXLEY (_Essays_, IV, 161).

* * * * *

The best of all we do and are, Just God, forgive.

WORDSWORTH (_Thoughts near the Residence of Burns_).

* * * * *

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.

* * * * *

Count that day lost, whose low descending sun Views from thy hand no worthy action done.

ANON.

* * * * *

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 Almanack_, 1757.)

* * * * *

Nothing is of greater value than a single day.

GOETHE (_Spruche im Prosa_).

* * * * *

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.

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 I think they are his.

* * * * *

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 light and life informed, Actual, divine and true.

He sings of Nature, Man, God, Immortality. (This note is from an early letter of Hodgson’s. His quotation is from _The Prelude_, Bk. XIV.)

* * * * *

Why are Time’s feet so swift and ours so slow!

AUTHOR NOT TRACED.

* * * * *

Who is the most diligent bishop and prelate in all England, that passeth all the rest in doing his office? It is the Devil. He is the most diligent 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! Therefore, 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.

BISHOP 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.

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 (_Modern 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.

* * * * *

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_).

* * * * *

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_).

* * * * *

White-handed Hope, Thou hovering Angel girt with golden wings.

MILTON (_Comus_).

* * * * *

Hope, folding her wings, looked backward and became Regret.

GEORGE ELIOT (_Silas Marner_, ch. 15).

* * * * *

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. 39).

* * * * *

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 days of men Are but dust that rises up, And is lightly laid again.

TENNYSON (_The Vision of Sin_).

_Change_—i.e., change the subject. Many verses are omitted for the sake of brevity.

* * * * *