Part 16

By all that yearns in art and song, By the vague dreams that make men strong, By memory’s penance, by the glow Of lifted mood poetic,—No!

No! by the stately forms that stand Like angels in yon snowy land; No! by the stars that, pure and pale, Look down each night on Rydal-vale.

J. TRUMAN.

Wordsworth lived at Rydal Mount. These verses were published in _Macmillan’s_, 1879.

“_Nor something fairer far._” In Sir F. Younghusband’s _Kashmir_ (1911) there is another suggestion, supplementary to this: “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.”

* * * * *

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.

* * * * *

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 (_Epigram_ CXXIV).

As Dr. Johnson said; “In lapidary inscriptions a man is not upon oath.”

* * * * *

“En Angleterre,” said a cynical Dutch diplomatist, “numéro deux va chez numéro un, pour s’en glorifier auprès de numéro trois.”

(In England, Number Two goes to Number One’s house in order to boast about it to Number Three.)

LAURENCE OLIPHANT (_Piccadilly_).

* * * * *

Lord Jesus Christ, I know not how— With this blue air, blue sea, This yellow sand, that grassy brow, All isolating me—

Thy thoughts to mine themselves impart, My thoughts to thine draw near; But thou canst fill who mad’st my heart, Who gay’st me words must hear.

Thou mad’st the hand with which I write, The eye that watches slow Through rosy gates that rosy light Across thy threshold go,

Those waves that bend in golden spray, As if thy foot they bore: I think I know thee, Lord, to-day, Shall know thee evermore.

I know thy father, thine and mine: Thou the great fact hast bared: Master, the mighty words are thine— Such I had never dared!

Lord, thou hast much to make me yet— Thy father’s infant still: Thy mind, Son, in my bosom set, That I may grow thy will.

My soul with truth clothe all about, And I shall question free: The man that feareth, Lord, to doubt, In that fear doubteth thee.

G. MACDONALD (_The Disciple_).

* * * * *

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 (1632-1704).

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 unreasonable 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 (1632-1704) (_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).

Compare with the above quotation p. 357.

* * * * *

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.

* * * * *

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 (1830-1897).

* * * * *

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.

* * * * *

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 (1748-1832) (_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 Introduction 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.

* * * * *

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 (1778-1868) (_Speech in Parliament_, 1828).

It would indeed be a proud boast—but not one of these objects has yet been achieved.

* * * * *

When Lord Ellenborough was trying one of the Government charges against Horne 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 Horne 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.

* * * * *

Revenons à nos moutons.

(Let us return to our sheep.)

(_La Farce de Maistre Pierre Patelin_, Anon. 15 Cent.).

In the farce, 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 à nos moutons_, “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 insensate Carthaginians, the Syllae, the Marii, and the Mucii. It is time, Postumus, to say something about my three goats.”

The reference to the French play I owe to _King’s Classical and Foreign Quotations_.

* * * * *

(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 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, therefore, 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 (1788-1858).

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.

* * * * *

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.[26] What a long time you take to say nothing, Cinna!

MARTIAL VIII, 7.

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 déluge_” (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 game_. It is said that two Hindus will even fabricate mutual complaints, the one against the other, to bring before the Courts—and that it is almost equivalent 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.

* * * * *

BALDER’S RETURN TO EARTH[27]

He sat down in a lonely land Of mountain, moor, and mere, And watch’d, with chin upon his hand, Dark maids that milk’d the deer.

And while the sun set in the skies, And stars shone in the blue, They sang sweet songs, till Balder’s eyes Were sad with kindred dew.

He passed along the hamlets dim With twilight’s breath of balm, And whatsoe’er was touch’d by him Grew beautiful and calm....

He came unto a hut forlorn As evening shadows fell, And saw the man among the corn, The woman at the well.

And entering the darken’d place, He found the cradled child; Stooping he lookt into its face, Until it woke and smiled!

Then Balder passed into the night With soft and shining tread, The cataract called upon the height, The stars gleam’d overhead.

He raised his eyes to those cold skies Which he had left behind,— And saw the banners of the gods Blown back upon the wind.

He watched them as they came and fled, Then his divine eyes fell. “I love the green Earth best,” he said, “And I on Earth will dwell!” ...

Then Balder said, “The Earth is fair, and fair Yea fairer than the stormy lives of gods, The lives of gentle dwellers on the Earth; For shapen are they in the likenesses Of goddesses and gods, and on their limbs Sunlight and moonlight mingle, and they lie Happy and calm in one another’s arms O’er-canopied with greenness; and their hands Have fashioned fire that springeth beautiful Straight as a silvern lily from the ground, Wondrously blowing; and they measure out Glad seasons by the pulses of the stars.”...

And Balder bends above them, glory-crown’d. Marking them as they creep upon the ground. Busy as ants that toil without a sound, With only gods to mark.

But list! O list! what is that cry of pain, Faint as the far-off murmur of the main? Stoop low and hearken, Balder! List again! “Lo! Death makes all things dark!”

Ay me, it is the earthborn souls that sigh, Coming and going underneath the sky; They move, they gather, clearer grows their cry— O Balder, bend, and hark!...

(Oh, listen! listen!) “Blessed is the light, We love the golden day, the silvern night, ...

“And yet though life is glad and love divine, This Shape we fear is here i’ the summer shine,— He blights the fruit we pluck, the wreath we twine, And soon he leaves us stark.

“He haunts us fleetly on the snowy steep, He finds us as we sow and as we reap, He creepeth in to slay us as we sleep,— Ah, Death makes all things dark.”

Bright Balder cried, “Curst be this thing Which will not let man rest, Slaying with swift and cruel sting The very babe at breast!

“On man and beast, on flower and bird, He creepeth evermore; Unseen he haunts the Earth; unheard He crawls from door to door.

“I will not pause in any land, Nor sleep beneath the skies, Till I have held him by the hand And gazed into his eyes!”...

He sought him on the mountains bleak and bare And on the windy moors; He found his secret footprints everywhere, Yea, ev’n by human doors.

All round the deerfold on the shrouded height The starlight glimmer’d clear; Therein sat Death, wrapt round with vapours white Touching the dove-eyed deer.

And thither Balder silent-footed flew, But found the Phantom not; The rain-wash’d moon had risen cold and blue Above that lonely spot.

Then as he stood and listen’d, gazing round In the pale silvern glow, He heard a wailing and a weeping sound From the wild huts below.

He marked the sudden flashing of the lights He heard cry answering cry— And lo! he saw upon the silent heights A shadowy form pass by.

Wan was the face, the eyeballs pale and wild, The robes like rain wind-blown, And as it fled it clasp’d a naked child Unto its cold breast-bone.

And Balder clutch’d its robe with fingers weak To stay it as it flew— A breath of ice blew chill upon his cheek, Blinding his eyes of blue.

’Twas Death! ’twas gone!—All night the shepherds sped, Searching the hills in fear; At dawn they found their lost one lying dead Up by the lone black mere.

...

R. BUCHANAN (_Balder the Beautiful_).

I retain this extract from Buchanan’s poem for the reason set out in the preface.

* * * * *

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 (b. 1845)

I have “Compensation” as the title of these verses, but it must surely be incorrect. If a man passes through life unrecognised by kindred souls, it is the reverse of ‘compensation’ to him if he also fails to recognise other sympathetic natures.

The author is, or 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 1200 A.D.)

* * * * *

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 year 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. A recent _Spectator_ quotes the following from Choerilus, a Samian poet of the Fifth Century, B.C. (2,000 years before Shakespeare): “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_).

* * * * *

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, and see all the trees of the field weeping and wringing their hands with you, while the hills, seated at your side in sackcloth, look down upon you prostrate, and reprove you like the comforters of Job.

ROBERT ALFRED VAUGHAN (1823-1857) (_Hours with the Mystics_).

If this fine writer had lived, much might have been expected of him. He is one of the many instances of “the fatal thirty-fours and thirty-sevens.”

* * * * *

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.[28]

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.

EMERSON (_Uses of Great Men_).

* * * * *

HIAWATHA’S PHOTOGRAPHING