Part 7
On tracing the line of life backwards, we see it approaching more and more to what we call the purely physical condition. We come at length to those organisms which I have compared to drops of oil suspended in a mixture of alcohol and water. We reach the _protogenes_ of Haeckel, in which we have “a type distinguishable from a fragment of albumen only by its finely granular character.” Can we pause here? We break a magnet and find two poles in each of its fragments. We continue the process of breaking; but however small the parts, each carries with it, though enfeebled, the polarity of the whole. And when we can break no longer, we prolong the intellectual vision to the polar molecules. Are we not urged to do _something_ similar in the case of life?... Believing, as I do, in the continuity of nature, I cannot stop abruptly where our microscopes cease to be of use. Here the vision of the mind authoritatively supplements the vision of the eye. By a necessity engendered and justified by science I cross the boundary of the experimental evidence, and _discern in that Matter_ which we, in our ignorance of its latent powers, and notwithstanding our professed reverence for its Creator, have hitherto covered with opprobrium, _the promise and potency of all terrestrial Life_.
(Referring to the question of inquiring into the mystery of our origin). Here, however, I touch a theme too great for me to handle, but which will assuredly be handled by the loftiest minds, _when you and I, like streaks of morning cloud, shall have melted into the infinite azure of the past_.
JOHN TYNDALL.
The italics are mine.
As in the preceding quotation the subject is the alleged conflict between religion and science, which occupied so large a space in our life and thought in the seventies and eighties. The above are the two passages from Tyndall’s presidential address at the Belfast meeting of the British Association in 1874, which caused an immense sensation. The Belfast Address, like Huxley’s smashing reply to Bishop Wilberforce, was useful in showing that all scientific questions must be considered with an open mind, free of theological bias, and also in adding testimony to the importance and value of Darwin’s investigation. Although fifteen years had passed since _The Origin of Species_ was published, this was still necessary. (At that very time Professor McCoy, afterwards Sir Frederick McCoy, F.R.S., when lecturing at the Melbourne University to his students, of whom I was one, was still making inane jokes about evolution and our monkey cousins.)
But, while the world was in ferment over the question of man’s alleged kinship with the monkey, there came the further startling fact that the President of the British Association also proclaimed his belief in _materialism_ and, inferentially, that there was no life after death. Englishmen had not before realized how widely materialism had spread through England and Europe. I do not think it is an exaggeration to say that a _majority_ at least of the leading thinkers had become materialists.
In travelling outside science into metaphysics, Tyndall betrayed a lamentable ignorance of the latter—a parallel case to that of Bishop Wilberforce when he attempted to meddle with science. Martineau, referring to the first quotation above, wrote: “There is no magic in the superlatively little to draw from the universe its last secret. Size is but relative, magnified or dwindled by a glass, variable with the organ of perception: to one being, the speck which only the microscope can show us may be a universe; to another, the solar system but a molecule; and in the passing from the latter to the former you reach no end of search or beginning of things. You merely substitute a miniature of nature for its life-size without at all showing whence the features arise.”
* * * * *
THE NEW GOSPEL
_HAECKELIUS loquitur_:
The ages have passed and come with the beat of a measureless tread And piled up their palace-dome on the dust of the ageless dead, Since the atom of life first glowed in the breast of eternal time, And shaped for itself its abode in the womb of the shapeless slime; And the years matured its form with slow, unwearying toil. Moulded by sun and storm, and rich with the centuries’ spoil, Till the face of the earth was fair, and life grew up into mind, And breathed its earliest prayer to its god in the dawn or wind, And called itself by the name of man, the master and lord, Who conquers the strength of flame and tempers the spear and sword; For the world grows wiser by war, and death is the law of life, The lowermost rock in the scar is red with the stains of strife. Burst thro’ the bounds of sight, and measure the least of things, Plummet the infinite and make to thy fancy wings; From crystal, and coral, and weed, up to man in his noblest race, The weaker shall fail in his need, and the stronger shall hold his place!
_RENANUS loquitur_:
Ah! leave me yet a little while, to watch The golden glory of the dying day, Till all the purple mountains gleam and catch The last faint light that slowly steals away.
Too soon the night is on us; aye, too soon We know the cloud is born of blinding mist: The throne, whereon the gods sate crowned at noon With ruby rays and liquid amethyst,
Is but a vapour, dim and grey, a streak Of hollow rain that freezes in its fall, A dull, cold shape that settles on the peak, Icy and stifling as a dead man’s pall.
The world’s old faith is fairest in its death, For death is fairer oftentimes than life; No vulgar passion quivers in the breath: The dead forget their weariness and strife.
Say not that death is even as decay, A hideous charnel choked with rotting dust; The cold white lips are beautiful as spray Cast on an iceberg by the northern gust.
The memories of the past are diadem’d About the brow and folded on the eyes; The weary lids beneath are bent and gemm’d With charmèd dreams and mystic reveries.
Once more she sits in her imperial chair, And kings and Cæsars kneel before her feet, And clouds of incense fill the heavy air, And shouts of homage echo thro’ the street.
Or yet, again, she stretches forth the hand, And men are done to death at her desire; The smoke of burning cities dims the land, And limbs are torn or shrivelled in the fire.
Once more the scene is shifted, and the gleam Of eastern suns about her brow is curled; Once more she roams a maiden by the stream, Despised of men, the Magdalen of the world.
So scene on scene floats lightly, as a haze That comes and goes with sudden gust and lull: Limned with the sunset hues of other days, They are but dreams; yet dreams are beautiful.
ARCHIBALD HENRY SAYCE (_Academy, Dec. 5, 1885_).
As in the two preceding quotations, the subject is the supposed conflict of religion and science. Haeckel (born 1834, recently dead) was the most ruthless of all the biologists in accounting for evolution and all progress by a struggle for existence. Renan (1823-1892), the French writer, whose love of Christianity survived his belief in it, speaks of the passing away of the old faith as “the golden glory of the dying day,” and says that in its death it will be more beautiful than in its life, when it led to passion, persecution and war. The penultimate verse refers to the time when temporal power was removed from the church, and she reverted to the humility, and also the beauty, of primitive Christianity when it came in its morning glory from the East.
The fact that these fine verses are by the great philologist and archæologist, Professor Sayce, who has not publicly appeared in the rôle of a poet, adds greatly to their interest. The few verses he has published have mostly appeared over the initials “A.H.S.” in the old _Academy_ (the present periodical is a different concern), and he was not known to the public as the author.
Anything about Professor Sayce must be interesting to the reader, and I, therefore, need not apologize for mentioning the following incidents, which, I imagine, are known only among his friends. In 1870, during the Franco-German War, Mr. Sayce was ordered to be shot at Nantes as a German spy, and only escaped “by the skin of his teeth.” It was just before Gambetta had flown in his balloon out of Paris, and there was no recognized Government in the country. Nantes was full of fugitives, and bands of Uhlans were in the neighbourhood. Mr. Sayce was arrested when walking round the old citadel examining its walls—not realizing that it was occupied by French troops. Fortunately, some ladies of the garrison came in during his examination to see the interesting young prisoner and, after Mr. Sayce had been placed against the wall and a soldier told off to shoot him, they prevailed upon the Commandant to give him a second examination, which ended in his acquittal.
Mr. Sayce was also among the Carlists in the Carlist war of 1873, and was present at some of the so-called battles which, he says, were dangerous only to the onlookers. He also once had a pitched battle with Bedouins in Syria.
Professor Sayce (he became Professor in 1876) has also the proud distinction of being the only person known to have survived the bite of the Egyptian cerastes asp, which is supposed to have killed Cleopatra. He accidentally trod on the reptile in the desert some three or four miles north of Assouan and was bitten in the leg. Luckily, he happened to be just outside the dahabieh in which he was travelling with three Oxford friends, one of them the late Master of Balliol. The cook had a small pair of red-hot tongs, with which he had been preparing lunch, and Professor Sayce was able to burn the bitten leg down to the bone within two minutes after the accident; thus saving his life at the expense of a few weeks’ lameness.
* * * * *
But hark! a sound is stealing on my ear— A soft and silvery sound—I know it well. Its tinkling tells me that a time is near Precious to me—it is the Dinner Bell. O blessed Bell! Thou bringest beef and beer, Thou bringest good things more than tongue may tell: Seared is, of course, my heart—but unsubdued Is, and shall be, my appetite for food.
I go. Untaught and feeble is my pen; But on one statement I may safely venture: That few of our most highly gifted men Have more appreciation of the trencher. I go. One pound of British beef, and then What Mr. Swiveller called a “modest quencher”; That, “home-returning,” I may “soothly say,” “Fate cannot touch me: I have dined to-day.”
C. S. CALVERLEY (_Beer_).
These are the two last verses of a parody on Byron. In each of the last three lines there is a literary reference. The first, of course, is to the happy-go-lucky Dick Swiveller of Dickens’s _Old Curiosity Shop_.
The next reference is to the amusing story about Sir Walter Scott that became known about the time Calverley was writing (1862). Scott, in his description of Melrose Abbey by moonlight (“Lay of the Last Minstrel”) says:
If thou wouldst view fair Melrose aright, Go visit it by the pale moonlight; For the gay beams of lightsome day Gild, but to flout, the ruins grey....
Yet there can be no doubt that _he himself had never seen_ the Abbey by moonlight! He further tells his readers that they can
_Home returning, soothly_ swear Was never scene so sad and fair.
They, having seen it, can “soothly” (_i.e._, _truthfully_) swear to its beauty, which was more than he himself could!
Calverley’s last line is from Sydney Smith’s “Recipe for a Salad”:
Oh, herbaceous treat! ’Twould tempt the dying anchorite to eat; Back to the world he’d turn his fleeting soul, And plunge his fingers in the salad bowl; Serenely full the epicure would say, “Fate cannot harm me—I have dined to-day.”
This again is an adaptation of Dryden’s “Imitation of Horace” (Book III, Ode 29):
Happy the man, and happy he alone, He who can call to-day his own; He who, secure within, can say, To-morrow, do thy worst, for I have liv’d to-day.
* * * * *
We may live without poetry, music and art; We may live without conscience, and live without heart: We may live without friends; we may live without books; But civilized man can not live without cooks.
He may live without books—what is knowledge but grieving? He may live without hope—what is hope but deceiving? He may live without love—what is passion but pining? But where is the man that can live without dining?
EARL OF LYTTON, “OWEN MEREDITH” (1831-1891) (_Lucile_).
* * * * *
“A loaf of bread,” the Walrus said, “Is what we chiefly need: Pepper and vinegar besides Are very good indeed— Now if you’re ready, Oysters dear, We can begin to feed.”
LEWIS CARROLL (_The Walrus and the Carpenter_).
* * * * *
That all-softening, overpowering knell, The tocsin of the soul—the dinner bell.
BYRON (_Don Juan_).
* * * * *
First of the first, Such I pronounce Pompilia, then as now Perfect in whiteness: stoop thou down, my child.. My rose, I gather for the breast of God.. And surely not so very much apart, Need I place thee, my warrior-priest.. In thought, word and deed, How throughout all thy warfare thou wast pure, I find it easy to believe: and if At any fateful moment of the strange Adventure, the strong passion of that strait, Fear and surprise may have revealed too much,— As when a thundrous midnight, with black air That burns, rain-drops that blister, breaks a spell, Draws out the excessive virtue of some sheathed Shut unsuspected flower that hoards and hides Immensity of sweetness,—so, perchance, Might the surprise and fear release too much The perfect beauty of the body and soul Thou savedst in thy passion for God’s sake, He who is Pity. Was the trial sore? Temptation sharp? Thank God a second time! Why comes temptation but for man to meet And master and make crouch beneath his feet, And so be pedestaled in triumph?
R. BROWNING (_The Ring and the Book, X_).
A young handsome priest, who had led a gay life, was moved by pure motives to rescue a beautiful young wife from a dreadful husband, and he travelled with her for three days to Rome. The husband was following with an armed band, the priest was risking disgrace, and the girl was risking death. The mutual danger would in itself tend to draw the fugitives too closely together; but also the girl had shown herself doubly lovable, for the strain and stress had revealed in her a very beautiful nature—just as a midnight thunder-storm opens and draws rich scent from
Some sheathed Shut unsuspected flower that hoards and hides Immensity of sweetness.
Coleridge has a similar illustration, “Quarrels of anger ending in tears are favourable to love in its spring tide, as plants are found to grow very rapidly after a thunderstorm with rain”—(Allsop’s _Letters, etc., of Coleridge_). Coleridge died in 1834, and “The Ring and the Book” was published in 1868-9: it is curious that both poets should have been impressed with a fact that appears to have been only recently recognized. In the seventies Lemström proved that plants thrive under electricity; but I think it is only a few years ago that in some agricultural experiments in Germany it was found that electricity was of no benefit to the crops _without rain or other moisture_.
The quotation is from the fine judgment which the Pope delivers.
* * * * *
He had been eight years upon a project for extracting sun-beams out of cucumbers, which were to be put in phials hermetically sealed and let out to warm the air in raw, inclement summers.
SWIFT (_Gulliver’s Travels_).
* * * * *
A child of our grandmother Eve, a female, or, for thy more sweet understanding, a woman.
(_Love’s Labour Lost, I, 1._)
* * * * *
The whole World was made for man, but the twelfth part of man for woman: Man is the whole World, and the Breath of God; Woman the rib and crooked piece of man.
SIR THOMAS BROWNE (1605-1682) (_Religio Medici_).
* * * * *
Give me but what this ribband bound, Take all the rest the sun goes round!
EDMUND WALLER (1606-1687) (_On a Girdle_).
* * * * *
A woman is the most inconsistent compound of obstinacy and self-sacrifice that I am acquainted with.
J. P. F. RICHTER (_Flower, Fruit and Thorn Pieces_).
* * * * *
If she be made of white and red Her faults will ne’er be known.
(_Love’s Labour Lost, I, 2_).
* * * * *
God made the world in six days, and then he rested. He then made man and rested again. He then made woman and, since then, neither man, woman, nor anything else has rested.
AUTHOR NOT TRACED.
* * * * *
Thou art my life, my love, my heart, The very eyes of me.
ROBERT HERRICK (_To Anthea_).
* * * * *
As perchance carvers do not faces make, But that away, which hid them there, do take: Let crosses so take what hid Christ in thee, And be his Image, or not his, but He.
JOHN DONNE (_The Cross_).
As sculptors chisel away the marble that hides the statue within, so let “crosses” or afflictions remove the impurities which hide the Christ in us, so that we shall become His image, or not His _image_, but _Himself_.
* * * * *
What is experience? A little cottage made with the _débris_ of those palaces of gold and marble which we call our _illusions_.
AUTHOR NOT TRACED.
* * * * *
He has outsoared the shadow of our night; Envy and calumny and hate and pain, And that unrest which men miscall delight, Can touch him not and torture not again; From the contagion of the world’s slow stain. He is secure, and now can never mourn A heart grown cold, a head grown gray in vain; Nor, when the spirit’s self has ceased to burn, With sparkless ashes load an unlamented urn.
SHELLEY (_Adonaïs, an Elegy on Keats, XL_).
This verse is engraved on Shelley’s own monument in the Priory Church at Christchurch, Hampshire.
* * * * *
A loose, slack, not well-dressed youth met Mr. Green and myself in a lane near Highgate. Green knew him and spoke. It was Keats. He was introduced to me, and stayed a minute or so. After he had left us a little way, he came back and said, “Let me carry away the memory, Coleridge, of having pressed your hand!” “There is death in that hand,” I said to Green, when Keats was gone; yet this was, I believe, before the consumption showed itself distinctly.
S. T. COLERIDGE (_Table Talk_).
This was about 1819. It is pathetic, this meeting of two great poets, Keats who was to die two years afterwards at the early age of twenty-six, and Coleridge, whose few brilliant years of poetic life had long previously ended in slavery to the opium-habit.
* * * * *
THE BALLAD OF JUDAS ISCARIOT
’Twas the body of Judas Iscariot Lay in the Field of Blood; ’Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot Beside the body stood.
Black was the earth by night, And black was the sky; Black, black were the broken clouds, Tho’ the red Moon went by....
’Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot, So grim, and gaunt, and gray, Raised the body of Judas Iscariot, And carried it away.
...
For days and nights he wandered on Upon an open plain, And the days went by like blinding mist, And the nights like rushing rain.
He wandered east, he wandered west, And heard no human sound; For months and years, in grief and tears, He wandered round and round....
...
’Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot, Strange, and sad, and tall, Stood all alone at dead of night Before a lighted hall.
And the wold was white with snow, And his foot-marks black and damp, And the ghost of the silvern Moon arose, Holding her yellow lamp.
And the icicles were on the eaves, And the walls were deep with white, And the shadows of the guests within Pass’d on the window light.
The shadows of the wedding guests Did strangely come and go, And the body of Judas Iscariot Lay stretch’d along the snow.
The body of Judas Iscariot Lay stretched along the snow; ’Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot Ran swiftly to and fro.
To and fro, and up and down, He ran so swiftly there, As round and round the frozen Pole Glideth the lean white bear.
’Twas the Bridegroom sat at the table-head, And the lights burnt bright and clear— “Oh, who is that,” the Bridegroom said, “Whose weary feet I hear?”
’Twas one look’d from the lighted hall, And answered soft and slow, “It is a wolf runs up and down With a black track in the snow.”
The Bridegroom in his robe of white Sat at the table-head— “Oh, who is that who moans without?” The blessed Bridegroom said.
’Twas one looked from the lighted hall, And answered fierce and low “’Tis the soul of Judas Iscariot Gliding to and fro.”
’Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot Did hush itself and stand. And saw the Bridegroom at the door With a light in his hand.
The Bridegroom stood in the open door, And he was clad in white, And far within the Lord’s Supper Was spread so broad and bright.
The Bridegroom shaded his eyes and look’d, And his face was bright to see— “What dost thou here at the Lord’s Supper With thy body’s sins?” said he.
’Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot Stood black, and sad, and bare— “I have wandered many nights and days; There is no light elsewhere.”
’Twas the wedding guests cried out within, And their eyes were fierce and bright— “Scourge the soul of Judas Iscariot Away into the night!”
The Bridegroom stood in the open door, And he waved hands still and slow, And the third time that he waved his hands The air was thick with snow.
And of every flake of falling snow, Before it touched the ground, There came a dove, and a thousand doves Made sweet sound.
’Twas the body of Judas Iscariot Floated away full fleet, And the wings of the doves that bare it off Were like its winding-sheet.
’Twas the Bridegroom stood at the open door, And beckon’d, smiling sweet; ’Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot Stole in, and fell at his feet.
“The Holy Supper is spread within, And the many candles shine, And I have waited long for thee Before I poured the wine!”
The supper wine is poured at last, The lights burn bright and fair, Iscariot washes the Bridegroom’s feet, And dries them with his hair.
ROBERT BUCHANAN.
See reference to Buchanan in the Preface.
* * * * *
Now, as of old, Man by himself is priced: For thirty pieces Judas sold Himself, not Christ.
HESTER CHOLMONDELEY.
I learn from the _New Statesman_ reviewer of the first English Edition that these lines were by Hester, a gifted sister of Mary Cholmondeley. She died at 22.
* * * * *