Part 16

Cease awhile, gentle scholar;--seek other thoughts and themes; Or dazzling Fame with wildfire light shall lure us on for ever. For look, all subjects of the mind may range beneath its banner, And time would fail and patience droop, to count that numerous host. The mine is deep, and branching wide,--and who can work it out? Years of thought would leave untold the boundless topic, Fame. Every matter in the universe is linked in suchwise unto others, That a deep full treatise upon one thing might reach to the history of all things: And before some single thesis had been followed out in all its branches, The wandering thinker would be lost in the pathless forest of existence. What were the matter or the spirit, that hath no part in Fame? Where were the fact irrelevant, or the fancy out of place? For the handling of that mighty theme should stretch from past to future, Catching up the present on its way, as a traveller burdened with time. All manner of men, their deeds, hopes, fortunes, and ambitions, All manner of events and things, climate, circumstance, and custom, Wealth and war, fear and hope, contentment, jealousy, devotion, Skill and learning, truth, falsehood, knowledge of things gone and things to come, Pride and praise, honour and dishonour, warnings, ensamples, emulations, The excellent in virtues, and the reprobate in vice, with the cloud of indifferent spectators,-- Wave on wave with flooding force throng the shoals of thought, Filling that immeasurable theme, the height and depth of Fame. With soul unsatisfied and mind dismayed, my feet have touched the threshold, Fain to pour these flowers and fruits an offering on that altar: Lo, how vast the temple,--there are clouds within the dome! Yet might the huge expanse be filled, with volumes writ on Fame.

OF FLATTERY.

Music is commended of the deaf:--but is that praise despised? I trow not: with flattered soul the musician heard him gladly. Beauty is commended of the blind:--but is that compliment misliking? I trow not: though false and insincere, woman listened greedily. Vacant Folly talketh high of Learning's deepest reason: Is she hated for her hollowness?--learning held her wiser for the nonce. The worldly and the sensual, to gain some end, did homage to religion: And the good man gave thanks as for a convert, where others saw the hypocrite.

Yet none of these were cheated at the heart, nor steadily believed those flatteries; They feared the core was rotten, while they hoped the skin was sound: But the fruits have so sweet fragrance, and are verily so pleasant to the eyes, It were an ungracious disenchantment to find them apples of Sodom. So they laboured to think all honest, winking hard with both their eyes; And hushed up every whisper that could prove that praise absurd: They willingly regard not the infirmities that make such worship vain, And palliate to their own fond hearts the faults they will not see. For the idol rejoiceth in his incense, and loveth not to shame his suppliants, Should he seek to find them false, his honours die with theirs: An offering is welcome for its own sake, set aside the giver, And praise is precious to a man, though uttered by the parrot or the mocking-bird.

The world is full of fools; and sycophancy liveth on the foolish: So he groweth great and rich, that fawning supple parasite. Sometimes he boweth like a reed, cringing to the pompousness of pride, Sometimes he strutteth as a gallant, pampering the fickleness of vanity; I have known him listen with the humble, enacting silent marveller, To hear some purse-proud dunce expose his poverty of mind; I have heard him wrangle with the obstinate, vowing that he will not be convinced, When some weak youth hath wisely feared the chance of ill success: Now, he will barely be a winner,--to magnify thy triumphs afterward; Now, he will hardly be a loser,--but cannot cease to wonder at thy skill: He laudeth his own worth, that the leader may have glory in his follower; He meekly confesseth his unworthiness, that the leader may have glory in himself. Many wiles hath he, and many modes of catching, But every trap is selfishness, and every bait is praise.

Come, I would forewarn thee and forearm thee; for keen are the weapons of his warfare; And, while my soul hath scorned him, I have watched his skill from far. His thoughts are full of guile, deceitfully combining contrarieties, And when he doeth battle in a man, he is leagued with traitorous Self-love. Strange things have I noted, and opposite to common fancy; We leave the open surface, and would plumb the secret depths. For he will magnify a lover, even to disparaging his mistress; So much wisdom, goodness, grace,--and all to be enslaved? Till the Narcissus, self-enamoured, whelmed in floods of flattery, Is cheated from the constancy and fervency of love by friendship's subtle praise. Moreover, he will glorify a parent, even to the censure of his child,-- O degenerate scion, of a stock so excellent and noble! Scant will he be in well-earned praise of a son before his father; And rarely commendeth to a mother her daughter's budding beauty: Yet shall he extol the daughter to her father, and be warm about the son before his mother; Knowing that self-love entereth not, to resist applause with jealousies. Wisely is he sparing of hyperbole where vehemence of praise would humble, For many a father liketh ill to be counted second to his son: And shrewdly the flatterer hath reckoned on a self still lurking in the mother, When his tongue was slow to speak of graces in the daughter. But if he descend a generation, to the grandsire his talk is of the grandson, Because in such high praise he hideth the honours of the son; And the daughter of a daughter may well exceed, in beauty, love, and learning, For unconsciously old age perceived--she cannot be my rival. These are of the deep things of flattery: and many a shallow sycophant Hath marvelled ill that praise of children seldom won their parents. This therefore note, unto detection: flattery can sneer as well as smile; And a master in the craft wotteth well, that his oblique thrust is surest.

Flattery sticketh like a burr, holding to the soil with anchors, A vital, natural, subtle seed, everywhere hardy and indigenous. Go to the storehouse of thy memory, and take what is readiest to thy hand,-- The noble deed, the clever phrase, for which thy pride was flattered: Oh, it hath been dwelt upon in solitude, and comforted thy heart in crowds, It hath made thee walk as in a dream, and lifted up the head above thy fellows; It hath compensated months of gloom, that minute of sweet sunshine, Drying up the pools of apathy, and kindling the fire of ambition: Yea, the flavour of that spice, mingled in the cup of life, Shall linger even to the dregs, and still be tasted with a welcome; The dame shall tell her grandchild of her coy and courted youth, And the grey-beard prateth of a stranger, who praised his task at school.

Oftimes to the sluggard and the dull, flattery hath done good service, Quickening the mind to emulation, and encouraging the heart that failed. Even so, a stimulating poison, wisely tendered by the leech, Shall speed the pulse, and rally life, and cheat astonished death. For, as a timid swimmer ventureth afloat with bladders, Until self-confidence and growth of skill have made him spurn their aid, Thus commendation may be prudent, where a child hath ill deserved it; But praise unmerited is flattery, and the cure will bring its cares: For thy son may find thee out, and thou shalt rue the remedy: Yea, rather, where thou canst not praise, be honest in rebuke.

I have seen the objects of a flatterer mirrored clearly on the surface, Where self-love scattereth praise, to gather praise again. This is a commodity of merchandize, words put out at interest: A scheme for canvassing opinions, and tinging them all with partiality. He is but a harmless fool; humour him with pitiful good-nature: If a poetaster quote thy song, be thou tender to his poem: Did the painter praise thy sketch? be kind, commend his picture; He looketh for a like return; then thank him with thy praise. In these small things with these small minds count thou the sycophant a courtier, And pay back, as blindly as ye may, the too transparent honour.

Also, where the flattery is delicate, coming unobtrusive and in season, Though thou be suspicious of its truth, be generous at least to its gentility. The skilful thief of Lacedæmon had praise before his judges, And many caitiffs win applause for genius in their callings. Moreover, his meaning may be kind,--and thou art a debtor to his tongue; Hasten well to pay the debt, with charity and shrewdness: He must not think thee caught, nor feel himself discovered, Nor find thine answering compliment as hollow as his own. Though he be a smiling enemy, let him heed thee as the fearless and the friendly; A searching look, a poignant word, may prove thou art aware: Still, with compassion to the frail, though keen to see his soul, Let him not fear for thy discretion: see thou keep his secret, and thine own.

However, where the flattery is gross, a falsehood clear and fulsome, Crush the venomous toad, and spare not for a jewel in its head. Tell the presumptuous in flattery, that or ever he bespatter thee with praise, It might be well to stop and ask how little it were worth: Thou hast not solicited his suffrage,--let him not force thee to refuse it; Look to it, man, thy fence is foiled,--and thus we spoil the plot. Self-knowledge goeth armed, girt with many weapons, But carrieth whips for flattery, to lash it like a slave: But the dunce in that great science goeth as a greedy tunny, To gorge both bait and hook, unheeding all but appetite: He smelleth praise and swalloweth,--yea, though it be palpable and plain, Say unto him, Folly, thou art Wisdom,--he will bless thee for thy lie.

Flatterer, thou shalt rue thy trade, though it have many present gains; Those varnished wares may sell apace, yet shall they spoil thy credit. Thine is the intoxicating cup, which whoso drinketh it shall nauseate: Thine is trickery and cheating; but deception never pleased for long. And though while fresh thy fragrance seemed even as the dews of charity, Yet afterward it fouled thy censer, as with savour of stale smoke. For the great mind detected thee at once, answering thine emptiness with pity, He saw thy self-interested zeal, and was not cozened by vain-glory: And the little mind is bloated with the praise, scorning him who gave it, A fool shall turn to be thy tyrant, an thou hast dubbed him great: And the medium mind of common men, loving first thy music, After, when the harmonies are done, shall feel small comfort in their echoes; For either he shall know thee false, conscious of contrary deservings, And, hating thee for falsehood, soon will scorn himself for truth, Or, if in aught to toilsome merit honest praise be due, Though for a season, belike, his weakness hath been raptured at thy witching, Shall he not speedily perceive, to the vexing of his disappointed spirit, That thine exaggerated tongue hath robbed him of fair fame? Thou hast paid in forger's coins, and he had earned true money: For the substance of just praise, thou hast put him off with shadows of the sycophant: Thou art all things to all men, for ends false and selfish, Therefore shalt be nothing unto any one, when those thine ends are seen.

Turn aside, young scholar, turn from the song of Flattery! She hath the Siren's musical voice, to ravish and betray. Her tongue droppeth honey, but it is the honey of Anticyra; Her face is a mask of fascination, but there hideth deformity behind; Her coming is the presence of a queen, heralded by courtesy and beauty, But, going away, her train is held by the hideous dwarf, Disgust.

Know thyself, thine evil as thy good, and flattery shall not harm thee: Yea, her speech shall be a warning, a humbling and a guide. For wherein thou lackest most, there chiefly will the sycophant commend thee, And then most warmly will congratulate, when a man hath least deserved. Behold, she is doubly a traitor; and will underrate her victim's best, That, to the comforting of conscience, she may plead his worse for better.

Therefore, is she dangerous,--as every lie is dangerous: Believe her tales, and perish: if thou act upon such counsel. Her aims are thine not thee, thy wealth and not thy welfare, Thy suffrage not thy safety, thine aid and not thine honour. Moreover, with those aims insured, ceaseth all her glozing; She hath used thee as a handle,--but her hand was wise to turn it; Thus will she glorify her skill, that it deftly caught thy kindness, Thus will she scorn thy kindness, so pliable and easy to her skill. And then, the flatterer will turn to be thy foe, the bitterest and hottest, Because he oweth thee much hate to pay off many humblings. Thinkest thou now that he is high, he loveth the remembrance of his lowliness, The servile manner, the dependent smile, the conscience self-abased? No, this hour is his own, and the flatterer will be found a busy mocker; He that hath salved thee with his tongue, shall now gnash upon thee with his teeth; Yea, he will be leader in the laugh,--silly one, to listen to thy loss, We scarce had hoped to lime and take another of the fools of flattery.

At the last; have charity, young scholar,--yea, to the sycophant convicted; Be not a Brutus to thyself, nor stern in thine own cause. Pardon exaggerated praise; for there is a natural impulse, Spurring on the nobler mind, to colour facts by feelings: Take an indulgent view of each man's interest in self, Be large and liberal in excuses; is not that infirmity thine own? Search thy soul and be humble; and mercy abideth with humility; So that, yea, the insincere may find thee pitiful, and love thee. Mildly put aside, without rudeness of repulse, the pampering hand of flattery, For courtesy and kindness have gone beneath its guise, and ill shouldst thou rebuke them.

Thou art incapable of theft: but flowers in the garden of a friend Are thine to pluck with confidence, and it were unfriendliness to hesitate: Thou abhorrest flattery: but a generous excess in praise Is thine to yield with honest heart, and false were the charity to doubt it: The difference lieth in thine aim; kindliness and good are of charity, But selfish, harmful, vile, and bad, is Flattery's evil end.

OF NEGLECT.

Generous and righteous is thy grief, slighted child of sensibility; For kindliness enkindleth love, but the waters of indifference quench it: Thy soul is athirst for sympathy, and hungereth to find affection, The tender scions of thy heart yearn for the sunshine of good feeling; And it is an evil thing and bitter, when the cheerful face of Charity, Going forth gaily in the morning to woo the world with smiles, Is met by those wayfaring men with coldness, suspicion, and repulse, And turneth into hard dead stone at the Gorgon visage of Neglect. O brother, warm and young, covetous of other's favour, I see thee checked and chilled, sorrowing for censure or forgetfulness: Let coarse and common minds despise--that wounding of thy vanity, Alas, I note a sorer cause, the blighting of thy love; Let the callous sensual deride thee,--disappointed of thy praise, Alas, thou hast a juster grief, defrauded of their kindness: It is a theme for tears to feel the soft heart hardening, The frozen breath of apathy sealing up the fountain of affection; It is a pang, keen only to the best, to be injured well-deserving, And slumbering Neglect is injury,--Could ye not watch one hour? When God Himself complained, it was that none regarded, And indifference bowed to the rebuke, Thou gavest Me no kiss when I came in.

Moreover, praise is good; honour is a treasure to be hoarded; A good man's praise foreshadoweth God's, and in His smile is heaven: But men walk on in hardihood, steeling their sinfulness to censure, And when rebuke is ridiculed, the love of praise were an infirmity; The judge thou heedest not in fear, cannot have deep homage of thy hope, And who then is the wise of this world, that will own he trembleth at his fellows? Calm, careless, and insensible, he mocketh blame or calumny, Neither should his dignity be humbled to some pittance of their praise: The rather, let false pride affect to trample on the treasure Which evermore in secret strength unconquered Nature prizeth; Rather, shall ye stifle now the rising bliss of triumph, Lest after, in the world's Neglect, he must acknowledge bitterness.

For lo, that world is wide, a huge and crowded continent, Its brazen sun is mammon, and its iron soil is care: A world full of men, where each man clingeth to his idol; A world full of men, where each man cherisheth his sorrow; A world full of men, multitude shoaling upon multitude; A surging sea, where every wave is burdened with an argosy of self; A boundless beach, where every stone is a separate microscopic world: A forest of innumerable trees, where every root is independent.

What then is the marvel or the shame, if units be lost among the million? Canst thou reasonably murmur, if a leaf drop off unnoticed? Wondrous in architecture, intricate and beautiful, delicately tinged and scented, Exquisite of feeling and mysterious in life, none cared for its growth, or its decay: None? yea,--no one of its fellows,--nor cedar, palm, nor bramble,-- None? its twin-born brother scarcely missed it from the spray: None?--if none indeed, then man's neglect were bitterness; And Life a land without a sun, a globe without a God! Yea, flowers in the desert, there be that love your beauty; Yea, jewels in the sea, there be that prize your brightness; Children of unmerited oblivion, there be that watch and woo you, And many tend your sweets, with gentle ministering care: Thronging spirits of the happy, and the ever-present Good One Yearning seek those precious things, man hath not heart to love, Gems of the humblest or the highest, pure and patient in their kind, The souls unhardened by ill usage, and uncorrupt by luxury.

And ye, poor desolates unsunned, toilers in the dark damp mine, Wearied daughters of oppression, crushed beneath the car of avarice, There be that count your tears,--He hath numbered the hairs of thy head,-- There be that can forgive your ill, with kind considerate pity: Count ye this for comfort, Justice hath her balances, And yet another world can compensate for all: The daily martyrdom of patience shall not be wanting of reward; Duty is a prickly shrub, but its flower will be happiness and glory.

Ye too, the friendless, yet dependent, that find nor home nor lover, Sad imprisoned hearts, captive to the net of circumstance,-- And ye, too harshly judged, noble unappreciated intellects, Who, capable of highest, lowlier fix your just ambition in content,-- And chiefest, ye, famished infants of the poor, toiling for your parents' bread, Tired, and sore, and uncomforted the while, for want of love and learning, Who struggle with the pitiless machine in dull continuous conflict, Tasked by iron men, who care for nothing but your labour,-- Be ye long-suffering and courageous: abide the will of Heaven; God is on your side; all things are tenderly remembered: His servants here shall help you; and where those fail you through Neglect, His kingdom still hath time and space for ample discriminative Justice: Yea, though utterly on this bad earth ye lose both right and mercy, The tears that we forgat to note, our God shall wipe away.

Nevertheless, kind spirit, susceptible and guileless, Meek uncherished dove, in a carrion flock of fowls, Sensitive mimosa, shrinking from the winds that help to root the fir, Fragile nautilus, shipwrecked in the gale whereat the conch is glad, Thy sharp peculiar grief is uncomforted by hope of compensation, For it is a delicate and spiritual wound, which the probe of pity bruiseth: Yet hear how many thoughts extenuate its pain; Even while a kindred heart can sorrow for its presence. For the sting of neglect is in this,--that such as we are all, forget us, That men and women, kith and kin, so lightly heed of other: Sympathy is lacking from the guilty such as we, even where angels minister, And souls of fine accord must prize a fellow-sinner's love; For the worst love those who love them, and the best claim heart for heart, And it is a holy thirst to long for love's requital: Hard it will be, hard and sad, to love and be unloved; And many a thorn is thrust into the side of him that is forgotten. The oppressive silence of reserve, the frost of failing friendship, Affection blighted by repulse, or chilled by shallow courtesy, The unaided struggle, the unconsidered grief, the unesteemed self-sacrifice, The gift, dear evidence of kindness, long due, but never offered, The glance estranged, the letter flung aside, the greeting ill received, The services of unobtrusive care unthanked, perchance unheeded, These things, which hard men mock at, rend the feelings of the tender, For the delicate tissue of a spiritual mind is torn by those sharp barbs; The coldness of a trusted friend, a plenitude ending in vacuity, Is as if the stable world had burst a hollow bubble.

But consider, child of sensibility; the lot of men is labour, Labour for the mouth, or labour in the spirit, labour stern and individual. Worldly cares and worldly hopes exact the thoughts of all, And there is a necessary selfishness, rooted in each mortal breast. The plans of prudence, or the whisperings of pride, or all-absorbing reveries of love, Ambition, grief, or fear, or joy, set each man for himself; Therefore, the centre of a circle, whereunto all the universe convergeth, Is seen in fallen solitude, the naked selfish heart: Stripped of conventional deceptions, untrammelled from the harness of society, We all may read one little word engraved on all we do; Other men, what are they unto us? the age, the mass, the million,-- We segregate, distinct from generalities, that isolated particle, a self: It is the very law of our life, a law for soul and body, An earthly law for earthly men, toiling in responsible probation. For each is the all unto himself, disguise it as we may, Each infinite, each most precious; yet even as a nothing to his neighbour. O consider, we be crowding up an avenue, trapped in the decoy of time, Behind us the irrevocable past, before us the illimitable future: What wonder is there, if the traveller, wayworn, hopeful, fearful, Burdened himself, so lightly heed the burden of his brother? How shouldst thou marvel and be sad, that the pilgrims trouble not to learn thee, When each hath to master for himself the lessons of life and immortality?