Part 5

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 connection 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 undeveloped 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.

G. MACDONALD (_Phantastes_).

* * * * *

O weary time, O life, 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.

* * * * *

(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, replied my uncle.—But he is cursed and damned already to all eternity, replied Dr. Slop.

I am sorry for it, quoth my Uncle Toby.

LAURENCE STERNE (_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, ch. 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 9th 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.

* * * * *

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_).

* * * * *

AN EXCELENTE BALADE OF CHARITIE

In Virgo now the sultry sun did sheene, shine And hot upon the meads did cast his ray; The apple reddened from its paly green, And the soft pear did bend the leafy spray; The pied chelándry sang the livelong day; goldfinch ’Twas now the pride, the manhood of the year, And eke the ground was decked in its most deft aumere. apparel

The sun was gleaming in the midst of day. Dead-still the air, and eke the welkin blue, When from the sea arose in drear array A heap of clouds of sable sullen hue, The which full fast unto the woodland drew, Hiding at once the sunnès festive face, And the black tempest swelled, and gathered up apace.

Beneath a holm, fast by a pathway-side holm-oak Which did unto Saint Godwin’s convent lead, A hapless pilgrim moaning did abide, Poor in his view, ungentle in his weed, clothing Long brimful of the miseries of need. Where from the hailstorm could the beggar fly? He had no houses there, nor any convent nigh.

Look in his gloomèd face, his sprite there scan; How woe-begone, how withered, dwindled, dead! Haste to thy church-glebe-house, accursed man! grave Haste to thy shroud, thy only sleeping bed. Cold as the clay which will grow on thy head Are Charity and Love among high elves; For knights and barons live for pleasure and themselves.

The gathered storm is ripe; the big drops fall, The sunburnt meadows smoke, and drink the rain; The coming ghastness doth the cattle ’pall, gloom, appal And the full flocks are driving o’er the plain; Dashed from the clouds, the waters fly again; The welkin opes; the yellow lightning flies, And the hot fiery steam in the wide flashings dies.

List! now the thunder’s rattling noisy sound Moves slowly on, and then full-swollen clangs, Shakes the high spire, and lost, expended, drowned, Still on the frighted ear of terror hangs; The winds are up; the lofty elmtree swangs; swings Again the lightning, and the thunder pours, And the full clouds are burst at once in stony showers.

Spurring his palfrey o’er the watery plain, The Abbot of Saint Godwin’s convent came; His chapournette was drenched with the rain, small round hat His painted girdle met with mickle shame; He aynewarde told his bederoll at the same; told his beads The storm increases, and he drew aside, backwards, With the poor alms-craver near to the holm to bide. i.e., cursed

His cope was all of Lincoln cloth so fine, With a gold button fastened near his chin, His autremete was edged with golden twine, robe And his shoe’s peak a noble’s might have been; Full well it shewèd he thought cost no sin. The trammels of his palfrey pleased his sight, For the horse-milliner his head with roses dight.

“An alms, sir priest!” the drooping pilgrim said, “Oh! let me wait within your convent-door, Till the sun shineth high above our head, And the loud tempest of the air is o’er. Helpless and old am I, alas! and poor. No house, no friend, nor money in my pouch, All that I call my own is this my silver crouche.” crucifix

“Varlet!” replied the Abbot, “cease your din; This is no season alms and prayers to give. My porter never lets a beggar in; None touch my ring who not in honour live.” And now the sun with the black clouds did strive, And shot upon the ground his glaring ray; The abbot spurred his steed, and eftsoons rode away.

Once more the sky was black, the thunder rolled, Fast running o’er the plain a priest was seen; Not dight full proud, nor buttoned up in gold. His cope and jape were grey, and eke were clean; short surplice A Limitor he was of order seen; Begging Friar And from the pathway-side then turnèd he, Where the poor beggar lay beneath the holmen tree.

“An alms, sir priest!” the drooping pilgrim said, “For sweet Saint Mary and your order’s sake.” The Limitor then loosened his pouch-thread, And did thereout a groat of silver take: The needy pilgrim did for gladness shake, “Here, take this silver, it may ease thy care, We are God’s stewards all, naught of our own we bear.

“But ah! unhappy pilgrim, learn of me. Scarce any give a rent-roll to their lord; Here, take my semicope, thou’rt bare, I see. short cloak ’Tis thine; the saints will give me my reward.” He left the pilgrim, and his way aborde. went on his way Virgin and holy Saints, who sit in gloure, glory Or give the mighty will, or give the good man power!

THOMAS CHATTERTON (1752-1770).

The sun would conventionally be said to be in Virgo in August.

It is sad and strange to think of the amazing story of this child-genius, who lived in a world of romance but was driven by destitution to commit suicide at _seventeen_ years of age. The above was one of the “Rowley forgeries,” but, for the antique words which Chatterton used (often incorrectly) to imitate the language of the Fifteenth Century, modern words have been substituted where possible.

* * * * *

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.

To appreciate this and the other sonnets, it is necessary to know the beautiful story of the two poets. 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 marriage was supremely happy, and the great poet, when in England, used to visit the church in which they were married to express his thankfulness. He tells the love-story in the next quotation.

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.

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 Shakespeare, but undoubtedly the less like Browning.”

* * * * *

... 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!...

A moment after, and hands unseen Were hanging the night around us fast; But we knew that a bar was broken between Life and life: 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.

* * * * *

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 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 (1819-1875) (_Water-Babies_).

This passage interested us greatly in the old days, and also another passage drawing a not very satisfactory analogy between the transformation of insects and our probable transformation at death. I do not know whether the elephant’s brain warrants Kingsley’s deduction.

This book, published in 1863,[16] 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 were simply slaves, neglected and ill-treated by their drunken masters. We are apt to forget how recently we emerged from barbarism in many directions, and that we are only now becoming civilized in other respects, as, for instance, with regard to the poor, suffering, and ignorant.

* * * * *

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

P. J. BAILEY (_Festus_).

* * * * *

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 gods are on the side of the strongest.

TACITUS (_Hist._ 4, 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” (Ch. LXVIII). (I owe part of this note to _King’s Classical and Foreign Quotations_.)

* * * * *

THE OCTOPUS

BY ALGERNON _SINBURN_

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, Oh 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 as in waves of Cocytus, Indelible ink!

Oh, breast that ’twere rapture to writhe on! Oh, arms ’twere delicious to feel Clinging 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 (1851-1877)

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_.

“The Octopus” is one of the best of English parodies. I had not seen it for forty years, until I recently found it in Adam and White’s _Parodies and Imitations_ (1912). In that book, although the authors presumably had _The Light Green_ to print from, the punctuation is inferior to that in my copy, and the word “Dispose” instead of “Dispense” in the third last line must be a misprint.

* * * * *

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.

R. L. STEVENSON (_Virginibus Puerisque_).

* * * * *

Tout comprendre c’est tout pardonner.

(To know all is forgive all.)

FRENCH PROVERB.

This proverb is said to have originated from a sentence in Mme. de Staël’s _Corinne, Tout comprendre rend très-indulgent_, “Understanding everything makes one very forgiving.”

* * * * *

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 generation from the earth, and then vanish with slight trace?

JAMES MARTINEAU (_The Outer and the Inner Temple_).

Wars seem to leave little trace except where they result in the immigration 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.

* * * * *

A century ago men were following, with bated breath, the march of Napoleon, and waiting with feverish impatience 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 world a host of heroes! During that one year, 1809, Mr. Gladstone was born in Liverpool; Alfred Tennyson was born at the Somersby rectory and Oliver Wendell Holmes made his first appearance in Massachusetts. On the very self-same day of that self-same year Charles Darwin made his debut at Shrewsbury, 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?” ...